She slipped through the window-door and strode into the kitchen, opening the squeaky pantry door to find something to eat. But she could only stare at the neat rows of vegetables and bread, unable to drum up a desire for anything. The gnawing feeling in her gut had stolen her hunger, and it wasn’t keen to move on.
“Fine,” she muttered, slamming the door shut. “I’ll just see what the problem is. He’s a damn peasant; surely the yellow-bands have better prospects to pick on.”
Out the window she went, down the drainpipe, and into the sewers. She broke into a jog as soon as her feet touched the tunnel floor—normally she preferred stealth over speed, but this was somehow urgent—and stopped only when she reached the section of pipe where she’d witnessed the altercation.
But there was no one there.
It was as if it had never happened; the woman was gone, the man was missing, and not even a drop of blood marred the slick stones beneath her feet. Perhaps the woman had taken him back to Oryn’s stronghold. Perhaps he’d gotten away. She’d never know for sure. Vylaena stared at the spot where he’d lain and she let out a long, shaky breath.
She was a fool. A mewling, softhearted fool.
Vylaena kicked the thin layer of stale water coating the bottom of the tunnel and cursed. She was glad, in a way, that the man was gone. She wasn’t quite sure what she might’ve done had she actually found him.
The thought haunted her as she walked back home. Maybe she was going crazy. Maybe it had been a mistake to come here, to settle down in the midst of all these people with their messy lives and their pain constantly prodding, prodding . . .
She ran a finger over her forehead, an old habit she thought she’d outgrown. The automatic movement sobered her, returning clarity to her mind.
Her Curse. She must lift her Curse. It was the last claim on her autonomy—break free from that, and she would finally belong to herself.
It was time to leave. Flinx’s research was helpful but slow; she had her own problems to deal with. Kaern was dead or out of reach. The only other option she had was to venture to Galiff—to Saensre—and see what they had in the archives of their famed Cathedral of Eternal Light. She hadn’t been outside Enserion in years, but the pain and loathing and dread that had once filled her at the prospect of leaving the kingdom had been eroded by time.
To Galiff, then. She’d never been to Galiff; it would be a welcome adventure. A worthy distraction. Vylaena pushed aside the sewer grate that marked her street and pulled herself back onto the cobbles.
Only to find a ring of swords pointed at her neck.
12 | The Guard
Vylaena dropped right back into the sewer and broke into a run.
Damnit!
Wet stone slapped against her boots as she sprinted down the tunnel, ignoring the shouts and scrapes of the Royal Guardsmen pursuing her. There was no time to ask why or how they’d found her; Vylaena centered every ounce of energy on escaping the squad at her back. She was not inclined to spend the rest of the night breaking out of a dungeon cell.
Vylaena ran full-tilt through the moonlit tunnels, iron mail and steel plate clanging and rustling behind her like thunder, echoing down the pipes to snatch at her cloak. A frightened citizen might’ve bolted in any direction, keen on losing the soldiers at whatever cost. But Vylaena was not frightened—she always kept her wits about her in a fight. She was annoyed. One quick turn might save her, yes, but not for long. There were men in these sewers much more dangerous than the Royal Guard. She’d be trading capture for death. Or worse—servitude. She had to be careful.
A scream sounded behind her, drawing closer—like the cry of a bird of prey. She flinched, lurching sideways, as something whizzed by her, just narrowly missing her ear. It smacked against the tunnel wall ahead of her, blackening it in a sizzle of blue fire and ebony smoke.
Ethershot.
She careened right, taking the fork, glancing over her shoulder as she sped into the next tunnel. The nearest guard fumbled a rod-like device, reloading it or recharging it or whatever it was that made the thing shoot. Was it forged to stun or kill her? Either way, she couldn’t afford to find out.
Right, left, left again. Vylaena’s boots barely skimmed the stones beneath her. Her heart thrilled at the chase; a dark smile tightened her lips. The roar of moving water sounded a warning ahead; she increased her speed and jumped—legs wide, arms flung out for balance—across the channel that opened beneath her feet.
It was a long jump. She barely caught the lip of the opposite tunnel, scrambling into the adjoining pipe as several splashes sounded behind her. Another round of ethershot exploded near her left knuckle, singing her skin. She hissed, visceral anger sliding between her teeth, and sped into the darkness.
A clatter sounded above her—the metallic grind of iron on stone. Vylaena looked up; a grate above had been opened. Five soldiers in ring mail descended into the tunnel ahead, sliding down a thick rope, barring her way.
Vylaena skidded to a stop, struggling for purchase on the slippery stone. She whirled around, scowling as the first of the guardsmen behind her pulled himself up into the tunnel. The men behind him—the ones who hadn’t fallen into the black waters of the sewer—would be close at his heels.
She drew her daggers.
“Vylaena Azrel,” said the guard at her front, stretching out his hands as if to calm a frightened mare. Vylaena’s silver-blue eyes slid to him, flashing in the dim light. “We’re not here to hurt you.”
“Toss aside your weapons, then,” Vylaena growled.
The man frowned. “The king summons you. You’re wanted at the palace.”
Of course she was. She’d seen the posters. She’d read the papers. If the king wanted to blame her for the caravan, that was one thing, but she wasn’t about to pay the price for a crime she had no part in.
“On your own or by force, we’re taking you there,” the guard added.
There were three soldiers at her back now; she rotated sideways, keeping both sides at bay with twin flashes of steel. One of the men behind her had sprained his ankle when he’d fallen into the water; his pain bit at her foot. The others were relatively unharmed but appeared uneasy. They waited, swords drawn, for any sign of retaliation.
“You should know better,” Vylaena said in a low drawl, returning her attention to the guardsman who’d spoken. “We Shadowheart always choose force.”
She struck.
Her daggers seared the air as she moved, the steel an extension of her body. In the flash of moonlight they seemed almost to pulse, as if fused to her heartbeat.
She was a furtive shadow, evading blows and returning them, rolling and twisting like a cunning wind. The men could not touch her; she was too agile, too quick. It was as if she read their thoughts before their bodies acted.
Men shouted, bled. A sword clattered to the stones. Vylaena buried a dagger in the neck of a man who flanked her, drawing a replacement from the arsenal strapped to her body. She lost another knife deflecting a round of ethershot with a well-timed throw. The shot screamed as it ricocheted off the steel, striking a guard to her left.
But the guards continued to press in around her, more arriving with every passing moment. Each man she incapacitated was quickly replaced by two more, until the tunnel was crowded with bodies and steel. Sweat stung her eyes. The wounds she’d inflicted reflected back upon her, hammering at her bones. Blood was hot and sticky upon her skin, tangling the stray strands of her hair.
A hand grasped her forearm; she shrugged it off. Someone slammed against her side, nearly setting her off balance. She skidded, regained her feet, parried the offender. But someone caught her around the middle, impairing her movement. She just barely dodged another round of ethershot.
Then she fell—hard—as someone took her feet from under her.
“Alive!” someone shouted. “She’s to be taken alive!”
Vylaena snarled, tossing aside the man who’d tackled her. A hard kick in her back made her gasp. She g
rappled for a foothold, struggling to rise, ducking beneath a dozen swords and twice as many hands.
Then, pain—blinding, a shock of lightning across her scalp—and darkness swallowed her whole.
✽✽✽
Vylaena was stone.
A flat, circular stone. Lit from above by cold white light.
Moonlight?
Except there was nothing above but empty darkness, curving down at the sides to form a wide cage of glassy rock.
She was not alone.
The stone had a sentience of its own; Vylaena was merely a parasite, a visitor, an unwitting observer drawn here by the threads of a dream. The stone dozed in the quiet darkness, still and tranquil, its awareness grown limp from years of endless waiting.
There was something else, too—a shadow of possibility, like a trap poised to spring or a keg of black powder awaiting a spark. The stone had been here an age, she sensed, alone and forgotten. But it was brimming with a power that time had not been able to leech away. It brimmed with potential. The stale air practically rippled with it.
A man, hooded and cloaked, bearing an orb of silver-sapphire light, flickered into view.
The boulder tasted the light, basking in the harsh glow that washed over its smooth skin, and Vylaena felt it shift, blinking awake for the first time in centuries.
Cousins.
She felt the word press into her consciousness, knowing it came from the stone itself. Cousins. It saw the orb as kin.
“Finally,” the man breathed, drawing close. He dared not touch her/the stone, but ran a hand over the air above them, his face still shadowed beneath his cowl. “And to think, that you were here all along . . .”
The man withdrew his hand and it disappeared into the folds of his cloak. Vylaena felt the boulder’s awareness expand, poking curiously at the man’s chest. And through it, she sensed that the man carried none of the power residing in the orb or the stone itself—ether had never touched this man. And yet . . .
Dangerous, the stone thought. There was something in this man it had seen before, in another who had come here thousands of years ago: unchecked ambition.
“I will remake the world,” the man whispered, perhaps not knowing that in this place, in the stone’s presence, such promises held weight. “I will purge this world of its blemishes and cure its creatures of their wickedness.”
The man fell silent, his shoulders rounding, the hand holding the glowing orb drooping slightly. When he spoke again, it was as if the words came from another man—one with grief in his heart and a score to settle with fate.
“Someone has to fix things.”
13 | The Warlord
Vylaena jerked awake, her head knocking against something solid.
She hissed, righting herself, her skull ringing with the echoes of the blow that had put her under. Dreams? She never had dreams—not anymore.
She looked around to access her situation. She was moving, telling by the way her prison swayed slightly. It was some sort of box-like contraption with two tiny vents on the tops of the right and left walls—just wide enough to let in air and a narrow glimpse of her surroundings. Vylaena pushed herself forward to kneel, pressing a cheek against the wall to see what was outside. A shock, metallic and hot, pricked her skin.
She let out a sharp curse, falling sideways. Ether. Of course. She was in some sort of ether-forged carriage. That explained the movement. Likely she was being transferred to the palace dungeons.
She took a breath and risked another look, careful not to touch the metal wall with her bare skin. Goddesses, she hated ether-forged vehicles. It wasn’t like this was rutting Galiff; Enserionite ethersmiths were generally second-rate amateurs. At any moment, her prison might turn into a great bird or a ship or even the rutting moon. And goddesses only knew what that would do to her.
Vylaena’s view was marred by the glint of plate armor—soldiers to guard her transport. She grimaced, counting four on each side, and no telling how many at the front or back. She closed her eyes, quieted her pulse. The guards walked on hard ground—their greaves clinking against stone. But they walked in perfect formation, not a foot out of place, so it was impossible to count them by ear.
Her best guess was eight guards. Maybe more. Likely armed with more ethershot rods, considering they were escorting a competent swordsman like her. Goddess-damned cowards. When she got out of here, she’d take those damn rods and shove them right up their—
“By the Three,” someone exclaimed, interrupting her thought. The voice rang around her in long loops, as though she traveled through a monstrous cavern. “Is that really necessary?”
“She’s Shadowheart, Your Grace,” someone replied, closer this time—somewhere just in front of her prison. “Two men lost their lives getting her here, not to mention the half-dozen she maimed.”
Maimed? They were all of them mewling children. Cuts, bruises—that’s what she’d given them. Enough to stop them from driving a sword into her heart, but not enough to do long-lasting damage. And she’d not wanted to kill anyone, though she didn’t regret having to do so. There would likely be more casualties before she could mount an escape.
The moving prison stopped abruptly, and Vylaena roved her hiding places for overlooked weapons. She smiled when she found a tiny knife still in place between her breasts. Ah. So she’d actually met the few honorable men left in the Royal Guard. Bless their chivalrous hearts.
The front of the box dissolved, flooding her prison with clear white light.
✽✽✽
The receiving hall was crowded; noblemen in studded brocade and ladies in jewel-toned silks filled the long oak benches that lined the room, twittering behind splayed fans and ringed fingers. Half a dozen peacocks, chosen from the royal stock for their vibrant colors, meandered across the polished marble floor like live gemstones. Alaric hated the birds. Haughty and mean, they served no purpose other than to stoke his father’s ego. Other kingdoms’ palaces might be strewn with rushes or embroidered rugs, but not here—no, in Enserion their floors were decorated with feathers.
Feathers and bird shit. Alaric watched from his father’s side as one of the guards before him slipped slightly, drawing a hard look from the silver-plated lieutenant, Sir Jyron.
The prison cell they escorted reminded Alaric of an upright coffin, made of hard black stone mottled with a curious silver sheen that didn’t appear to follow the light streaming in from the room’s ceiling-to-floor windows. It floated two feet off the ground, a wispy cloud of ether falling from its base like smoky rain.
The front door of the contraption dissolved in a cloud of grey at Sir Jyron’s touch, and a dirty boot appeared from the depths. A woman in black leather followed—leg, head, torso—and as she stepped out of the mobile cell and into the center of the hall, the courtiers to either side of the hall fell silent.
A new bird for the menagerie, Prince Alaric thought, suppressing the wry grin that threatened to wobble into existence on his lips. This was one creature his father would have trouble caging.
“You sent for me?” Vylaena asked, the words directed to King Arnyel, who sat beside Alaric in an identical high-backed chair. Her confident voice carried easily across the room, cutting through the air like a well-placed arrow. Alaric hoped that his father missed the touch of mockery in her tone.
King Arnyel shifted in his golden chair, gazing down with a curious expression at the blue-haired woman. The silver at his temples caught the light as he cocked his head to the side.
“It seems I owe you a boon, Mistress Azrel. You have done two kingdoms a great service.”
Vylaena’s eyes flickered sideways to meet Alaric’s, and the smirk he was warring against died on his lips. There was steel in her eyes, icy and potent, and it buffeted his insides like the blast of a winter wind. He noted the dried blood decorating her skin and shivered.
“She isn’t going to like this,” he murmured to the man sitting at his left, quiet enough that his father wouldn’t hear.
/> “Neither do I,” Thyrian whispered back.
“You returned Prince Thyrian of Galiff to us when we thought he’d been lost,” the king continued. “For this, I absolve you of any presumed connection to the attack on his caravan.”
Presumed. Right.
The guardsmen surrounding Vylaena bowed to the king, turned on their heels, and marched from the room, taking their ether-prison with them. Vylaena’s eyes narrowed.
“For your dutiful service to the kingdom,” the king continued, “I hereby name you a Protector of the Realm. As such, you will be charged with Prince Thyrian’s safety during his stay here in Cyair. To carry out this task you will be given a generous stipend and prime accommodation in the palace.”
Alaric could almost hear Vylaena’s teeth grinding. “I have done little more than deliver a man from one point to another,” she replied in a careful monotone. “I want nothing for that service other than the coin that was originally promised to me.” Her eyes flashed back to Alaric.
“The color of your hair gives you no special right to argue with your king,” Alaric’s father barked, his fingers tensing on the arms of his chair. “You will serve, and when the prince returns to his homeland, you are free to go. Refuse, and I’ll have you hung from the battlements. This arrangement is more than fair, considering what you did to the men in my service tonight.”
Vylaena stared at the king for a moment, and for the span of three heartbeats Alaric thought she might refuse. But then she inclined her head—an almost indiscernible nod. What other choice did she have but to agree? Even so, Alaric let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
Ether-Touched (The Breaking Stone Trilogy Book 1) Page 12
