Ether-Touched (The Breaking Stone Trilogy Book 1)

by L. M. Coulson

  The manhole was hidden in an L-shaped alleyway, curving around the back of a crumbling warehouse that had been abandoned the last time Vylaena had been to the city. Two tramps, scraped and bruised from some street fight or minor turf war, occupied it now. She didn’t mind; so long as the sewer remained accessible she’d endure their minor injuries.

  Vylaena scaled a narrow ladder cleverly hidden behind a rusting drainpipe, climbing three stories up a solid stone building and sliding into a well-oiled window paned with thick, warped glass. The window latched only from inside; she locked it once she pulled herself through. It wasn’t the most convenient of entrances, but when one got into fights for a living, one made enemies. Without any doors, it was very difficult to sneak into the place.

  Vylaena made a swift sweep of the modest apartment, checking for signs of intruders: the giant sitting room and study, the small adjoining kitchen, the bathing room, the bedroom. The place occupied the entire third floor of the building, with the original staircase sheared off and covered with plaster and a shabby throw rug.

  The entrance window, and a slightly wider one in the bedroom—which she’d nailed shut—offered only the barest natural light. Vylaena sneezed as she stirred up dust, taking in the sparse, worn furniture and plain walls, the iron rack of pilfered weaponry she’d collected over the years, and the shelf of secondhand leather-bound books she’d bought with her spare lynd.

  She stood in the center of the sitting room and paused, waiting for everything to settle into place and for ease to flow back into her bones. But the stubborn disquiet was still there, lodged beneath her ribs, worming a hole into the soft flesh beneath.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about that six thousand lynd and that doomed caravan. Who was Thyrian of Galiff? Why had he been the target of such a heavy-handed attack? Who would have had the resources to engineer such a job? She paced the floor until she figured she might as well stop asking unanswerable questions and instead search for their answers.

  The moment Ikna laid her cloak of darkness across the city, Vylaena strapped her sword across her back and slid down the drainpipe, intent on learning the news. Surely word would have spread by now of the slaughter to the north. A man who’d orchestrated something like that was a man she was keen to identify and then avoid. Especially since he already seemed to know her too well for comfort.

  And when one wanted to hear the news—the real news, not that drivel in the King’s Paper—one went to the Deeps.

  The Deeps was only accessible via the sewers, nestled at the edge of the city, deep beneath the river docks. The place was packed by the time Vylaena arrived: lined wall to wall with scarred men in dirty tunics, red-lipped barmaids with tangled curls, armed figures in black leather with low hoods, gamblers, pickpockets, river pirates, and courtesans. Vylaena frowned at the bruises and scrapes of the clientele but conquered her aches and descended the chipped stone staircase into the noise and bustle of the main floor.

  Sickly yellow candlelight threw deep shadows over the cave-like tavern, pocketing the room in alternating splashes of deep honey and murky grey. The Deeps was always crammed this time of night, when the miscreants of Cyair ventured out for a bit of fun. Round, wooden card tables took up most of the floor, with private alcoves flanking the room on two sides and a fighting pit—unused, tonight—at the far back.

  Everything was a muted beige-grey, and if it wasn’t tarnished it was stained—and if it wasn’t stained it was broken. For all the lynd this place pulled in, the furnishings were woefully neglected. Maybe the proprietor thought—rightly, perhaps—that anything looking remotely new would be promptly stolen.

  Vylaena shoved her way through the crowd toward the long oak bar, discolored by old beer and trashed by spilt liquor, broken glassware, and abandoned bowls of what appeared to be brown mush.

  There were three bartenders attending to customers, but Vylaena had her eye on the tall, bald one with the black eye patch who looked as though he’d not eaten in ten years. He caught her gaze after a moment and one grizzled eyebrow rose in recognition. He waved away the man he’d been serving and stalked toward her, drawing interested glances from several nearby patrons, all eager to see who’d drawn the owner’s attention.

  “Knew you’d miss me too much to stay away for long,” the man said in a thin, gravelly voice, crossing his skeletal arms and fixing his good eye on Vylaena.

  She frowned in reply. “I told you I was out of the business, Skin.”

  The bartender shrugged, and Vylaena almost expected to hear his bones grinding together. His elbows were sharper than some of her kitchen knives. “Man asked for a very particular kind of merc,” Skin continued. “You fit the bill, sweetheart, and there’re few alive nowadays who can handle that type of job. Figured you’d jump at the chance to earn a healthy cache of lynd.”

  Vylaena rested her hands on the bar, careful to avoid a puddle of spilt ale. “Six thousand?” she pressed, leaning closer. “You weren’t even a little curious?”

  Skin glanced down the bar. “Little unorthodox, sure. I asked around, but . . .” He shrugged, his eyes flicking back to her. “Whoever the man is, he knows how to cover his steps. You’d best be careful, ’specially with the Guard after you. Surprised you even risked coming down here.”

  Vylaena stared at the bartender with a hard eye, confusion twitching in her stomach. “What? Why’s the Guard after me now?”

  Skin held up a finger and then strode to the wall, where a mess of handbills were posted on a lopsided corkboard. He tugged a sheet off its nail and carried it back to her, sliding it across the bar. Vylaena looked down to find a crude drawing of her own face sketched upon the parchment.

  “That bastard,” she breathed.

  Skin snorted. “What’d you expect, after refusing a job like that? And I hear you took care of the assassin he sent—”

  “You only know that because you were the proxy who hired her.”

  Skin shrugged again, though he didn’t deny it. “I told him it was wasted lynd. But you know too much now, lass. He either needs you dead or as far from Cyair as possible.”

  Vylaena crumpled up the wanted flyer and shoved it into an abandoned tankard of beer. “So he’s blaming me for that massacre. Setting up a witch hunt to deflect any investigation.”

  “Why didn’t you just take the job in the first place? Might’ve saved you some trouble.”

  Vylaena paused, and then shook her head. “Seems he’s not too keen to leave loose ends hanging. He probably would’ve still tried to kill me after.”

  “Maybe.” Skin’s brows furrowed, making his eyepatch twitch. “You take care, you hear? I’d miss you if you got yourself killed.”

  “You’d just miss your commissions,” Vylaena replied, though one side of her mouth twitched upward.

  Skin grinned in response, exposing an alarming set of silver veneers. “Second you want work you come see me, alright?”

  Vylaena nodded, and Skin skittered back down the bar, meeting up with a blonde woman who looked rather vexed to have been kept waiting. Vylaena pushed away from the counter with a growing scowl, irritated that her name had been sullied—and for something she couldn’t even claim to have done. Wanted by the Royal Guard? Ugh. What a headache.

  And yet, wanted or not, there was someone she still had to see.

  6 | The Librarian

  It was the most important day of Atremidora Flinx’s life.

  The young woman could barely keep the eager grin off her face as she hastened through the back halls of Enserion’s Royal Library, trying her best to hold onto the shreds of decorum remaining to her. She clutched to her chest a thick volume bound in gleaming blue leather—if one were to peek inside, they’d find the pages neatly bound, written in a clear, even script. Meticulous. Flawless. The culmination of five—no, make that the full thirteen—years of demanding, dedicated study.

  She’d been obsessed with reaching this point ever since she’d been accepted to the Library, knowing that if she coul
d only complete the rigorous, almost-decade-long curriculum and the years of study beyond, she had the chance to make something of herself. She, who had once roamed the streets of Saensre with an empty head and an emptier belly, would be able to count herself among the elite of the academic world.

  Today, she would finally become a lorist.

  No more cleaning duty, no more library shifts, no more regimented schedules or assigned research on inane, trivial topics. Today, Flinx would be free to pursue her own passions—and be free of Rynley’s exasperating interference.

  Flinx had worn her red dress today. Sydren thought it made her look like a courtier, the way the color brought out the warmth in her dark skin and made it glow. Of course, the simple dyed wool would never be confused for a real noblewoman’s gown, but it was the nicest thing Flinx owned and much more formal than the crude librarian’s shift she wore most days. She’d donned the dress as both a private celebration and to show the presiding lorist that she could be just as esteemed and gentile as the rest of them. She’d even washed her hair.

  These back corridors of the library were normally empty, and today was no different. It was too early for acolytes to have finished their chores, and too far from the living quarters and offices for the lorists and her fellow librarians to be about. It was a shame, really, that these halls were so seldom used; the great, vaulted ceilings and narrow, arched windows hung with heavy velvet drapery reminded Flinx of a time long forgotten. There was a quiet reverence that hung in the air here, amongst the floating specks of dust and sculpted colonnades. If Flinx had been any less excited, she might’ve paused to give them the admiration they deserved.

  Flinx’s polished shoes tapped against the cool flagstones, echoing as she turned down an adjoining corridor and made her way to a pair of large, mahogany doors made all the more imposing by golden knobs molded in the shape of Asta’s sacred eagles.

  Flinx took a steadying breath, squeezing her tome closer. “This is it,” she told it, her smile brightening.

  The right door creaked open at her touch, and Flinx slipped inside, closing it carefully behind her. For a moment her eyes had to adjust to the sudden brilliance; the entire southern wall was inlaid with glass windows twice her height. She blinked at them, dazed, before tugging her gaze toward the center of the room.

  The head lorist’s office was charmingly disordered. Tall shelves held uneven lines of leather-bound books and scrolls. Stacks of castoff tomes stood precariously on every flat bit of furniture—tables, chair seats, storage chests. Even the loft that surrounded the room, accessible by a polished ladder half-hidden by an enormous telescope, was strewn with papers and shelves full of knicknacks.

  A long, equally messy desk stood at the center of the room, flanked by a set of wooden chairs padded with gold velvet cushions. A man in a sharp black surcoat edged in gold sat behind the desk, scratching away at a piece of parchment longer than Flinx’s arm.

  He looked up as the door swung closed behind her, a genial smile curving up his cheek. “Ah, Atremidora Flinx. Right on schedule. Please, take a seat.”

  “Flinx, if you would,” Flinx replied, returning the man’s grin as she hastened toward the proffered chair. “Saves you the breath of several syllables and me the pain of enduring them.”

  The man’s smile faded to something more thoughtful. The wrinkles of age and expression danced between his brows. “Your mother’s name, wasn’t it?” He tilted his head. “I seem to recall you having some relation to that Estrynite playwright so in vogue these days—ah, what’s his name...”

  “Rellion Wex.” Flinx fought to keep her smile steady. “Father. By blood, not duty.”

  “Ah, yes, that’s right. I remember hearing the story when Lorist Rynley applied for your admission. Well. All’s well that ends well, is it not? We’re glad to have you with us.”

  The man placed his quill in its holder and sat back in his seat, folding his hands over his ample belly. “So. You’ve completed your thesis. In record time, I must say. Congratulations are in order.”

  “Thank you, Lorist Vicmon,” Flinx replied, joy rising like a warm bubble in her chest. This was truly the happiest day of her life.

  Lorist Vicmon inclined his head. “Your application suggested a topic of etherlore. Is that true?”

  Flinx blinked, her smile faltering. Suggested? She’d stated it quite clearly in the introductory essay she’d sent to him.

  “Etherlore and its history of practical application,” Flinx confirmed. Finally remembering herself, she offered him the tome she carried. “It’s longer than the usual thesis, I believe, but there was so little compiled on the subject I thought it my duty to be thorough.”

  Lorist Vicmon accepted the book with a slight frown. “A strange subject to study, considering.”

  Flinx winced. Right. Considering that most Enserionites held lukewarm views of etherlore, especially raw ether and the ether-touched who manipulated it. But this was the esteemed Royal Library of Enserion. It was no Cathedral of Eternal Light, to be sure, but it was still a place of learning and scholarship.

  “Surely all knowledge, no matter how the common populace views it, is worth studying,” she replied, regaining her composure.

  Lorist Vicmon merely placed the tome on his desk, flipping open the cover. Flinx expected him to agree, to give her a wise smile and a knowing nod of the head—surely a natural inclination for pursuing the truths of the world was a prized trait of lorists. But he did not.

  Flinx watched as the lorist leafed through the first few pages of her manuscript, his eyes scanning the text with such speed Flinx might’ve thought him sun-crowned. But no; there was no golden Mark upon his brow to claim him as one of Asta’s chosen. He was a scholar by choice, not by birth.

  Flinx resisted the urge to touch her own forehead and trace the outlines of her Mark, warm to the touch even on the cruelest of winter nights. Your own tiara, Sydren called it, in her usual way of viewing things in terms of wealth and beauty. But this gift was so much more. It was the one thing she’d always been proud of, no matter how poor her circumstances.

  “I have my first research project already planned,” Flinx said as she watched the lorist, unable to suppress her excitement. “I would like to journey to Ieda, to interview the remaining members of the Priesthood of Living Shadow. The knowledge they keep has never been recorded—ancient etherlore, lost to the rest of Aethryl after the fall of the Empire. I believe they may even be the caretakers of certain famous historic relics—Queen Aelstrid’s shield, perhaps. To have the honor of studying such a thing . . .”

  Lorist Vicmon continued to browse Flinx’s thesis, his face closed. He gave no indication that he’d heard her.

  “Of course I will contribute to ongoing projects as well,” Flinx added hastily, wondering if she’d wrongly assumed the level of autonomy new lorists were given. She thought they had the freedom to request such trips—the newest lorist, Otger, was already talking about the Silver Coast of Estryn—but perhaps she was mistaken.

  “If I can be of use to the—”

  “Etherlore can be a very dangerous science,” Lorist Vicmon said finally, lifting his head to meet Flinx’s gaze.

  Something hot twitched at the base of Flinx’s stomach and she struggled to keep a forced smile on her face. “Yes,” she replied, squashing her desire to take the book back and flip to the correct page, “I wrote about that extensively in chapter—”

  “I don’t understand the value in digging up barbaric rituals and dangerous artifacts,” Vicmon continued. “There’s a reason librarians are banned from researching etherlore for the citizenry. Even lorists tread carefully around the topic. There is a reason, Librarian Flinx, that most of our etherlore died with the Iedan Empire.”

  “But there are many reasons to consider a revival of the study, Lorist Vicmon,” Flinx countered. “The social implications are extensive—just turn to our neighbors in Galiff if you want real-world proof of the benefits. And healing is only the start.”
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  Flinx paused a moment, gathering her thoughts as she took a steadying breath. “I’m sorry, but I’m having trouble understanding . . . all of this was laid out in my application essay. Did you—”

  “I’m simply protecting the reputation of this esteemed institution,” Lorist Vicmon replied with a wide smile, sitting back in his seat. “Being a lorist is a very prestigious thing here, Librarian Flinx. We can’t just bestow the title on any would-be lorist, even if she does happen to bear the preference of a goddess.”

  Flinx’s face burned. “I am not asking for special treatment because I bear a Mark. And I understand that the—”

  “I am also surprised that you have so much time to plan research trips when we have a backlog of library projects to complete,” the lorist continued. “I should meet with your mentor to discuss an increased workload.”

  “I finish all of my work on time,” Flinx protested, so surprised and dismayed that she physically recoiled in her chair. “And I do not scoff at my duty to the library. I was merely planning for the inevitable—”

  “Inevitable?” Vicmon’s eyebrows lifted. Still smiling, he closed the cover of Flinx’s manuscript with the finality of a door slammed in her face. “We will review your work,” he said, lacing his fingers over the blue tome. “You can expect a decision to be made within the next few days. In the meantime, you should continue to aid your mentor with the research he has assigned to you.”

  Flinx sat there for a moment, her mind—for once—entirely blank. This was not what she’d expected. Not at all. Even that smug, detestable Otger had been named lorist at his thesis handoff on the merits of his application essay alone! And everyone knew he’d never written a word in his life that hadn’t been copied from someone else.

  “Good day, Librarian Flinx,” Lorist Vicmon added, the edges of his smile growing cold.