Ether-Touched (The Breaking Stone Trilogy Book 1)

by L. M. Coulson

  “I suppose you’d have to figure it out yourself, rather than going along with what you’ve been told.”

  Thyrian’s frown deepened. “And is that what you’ve done? Taken this time to really figure out who you are?”

  “Once I lift my Curse, yes. That’s my aim.”

  “So you gave up your clan, your Mark, and now you want to escape your Curse.”

  Vylaena stared at him, not understanding the disdain in his tone.

  “You know,” Thyrian continued, fixing her in a solemn gaze, “you risk sloughing off so many layers that one day you’ll look at yourself and realize there’s nothing left but bones. You won’t be anything at all.”

  “Better nothing than the product of someone else’s choices. I had no say in any of that.”

  “None of us do, Vylaena. Not even the Unmarked, or those of us without blue hair. Life gives us what it gives us, and we make the best of it.”

  They stared at each other for a long time, the etherlamp scouring their faces with clear white light, burning away any shadows behind which to hide.

  Vylaena didn’t know how to reply. What could she say? Everything that came to mind was so intimate, so close to her heart, that even if she could overcome a lifetime of distancing herself from others, she didn’t think she could form the words. So she did the same thing she’d always done, when she couldn’t face what was before her.

  “It’s late,” Vylaena said, sweeping her legs back to the floor. She stood, giving the foreign prince a slight smile and a mock salute. “As you were, soldier.”

  She turned to the door, padding to her side of the wall. And with one last glance at the man still sitting on his bed, bathed in a cloud of light, she shut the door between them.

  16 | The Council

  Alaric had never been invited to a Meeting of State, a fact which had not occurred to him as odd until a few months past, when the youngest Prince of Galiff had begun sending letters that were less pleasant-conversation-between-friends and more nervous-warning-layered-with-grim-politics.

  Since then, Alaric had successfully—though certainly not smoothly—negotiated and planned Thyrian’s trip to Cyair, bringing a foreign ambassador-prince to the Enserionite Court and providing the perfect opportunity for his father to open discussions about an alliance.

  And yet . . . nothing.

  Despite Alaric’s pointed hints, King Arnyel had only spoken to Thyrian once, at a brief meeting where Alaric had presented the prince as found, again—a mere formal greeting—just before Vylaena’s arrival at court. In all, it amounted to a handful of generic words and hollow formality. Not what Alaric had hoped for—not in the slightest.

  And that morning, once again, Alaric waited patiently for an invitation to the Meeting of State, which he now understood was held over breakfast in the king’s chambers and consisted of the most high-ranking courtiers in Arnyel’s favor. He was certain a summons would come, since he’d pressed several of his father’s advisors for details and expressed a not-so-subtle desire to attend.

  With Thyrian’s arrival, Alaric had proven he was capable of negotiating with foreign kingdoms and navigating politics. Surely his father, if not the rest of the advisory council, would want to address the prince’s presence. And Alaric, as catalyst for the prince’s arrival, should be a part of that discussion.

  Alaric paced in front of his sitting-room window, glancing at the golden timepiece on the mantel every two seconds, as if keeping a constant eye on the time would make something happen. The clock quivered slightly, giving off threads of ether as it struggled to keep its shape.

  “Not you, too,” Alaric snapped at it.

  But the clock was past due for maintenance, and Alaric could only watch as it flickered into a mud-splattered boot, and then a hunk of moldy cheese, before bursting into flame and unraveling into a cloud of ether.

  “A fitting metaphor,” Alaric sighed, shooing the ether into the hearth and up the chimney. All his patient waiting, come to naught.

  Alaric straightened, and as he did so he found himself face-to-face with a small painting resting on the mantel beside a stack of his favorite books. He paused, a knot of pain settling into his stomach, and then reached out a finger to brush away the fine layer of dust that had settled atop the frame.

  His mother. Just a faded memory now, flesh lost to the earth and spirit lost to the Ether. He could remember her only faintly—mainly wordless impressions—for he’d been but five when she’d died. Alaric would probably have forgotten her face entirely had he not kept a copy of this painting in his rooms; King Arnyel had locked all official representations of her into his private vault, forbidding anyone from seeing them. But his father never visited here.

  Alaric had heard stories of that time—back when his mother was still alive. Whispers, mostly. Pieces of gossip painstakingly knitted together to reform the truth. That Theryssa had been the true king. That she’d guided Arnyel’s mind and hand, giving him wise counsel and suggesting his moves. And when she’d died, he’d not known how to continue without her.

  It may have been a valid excuse at first, but he couldn’t have expected to live that way forever, Alaric thought. He had a kingdom to run. King Arnyel should have recognized his shortcomings and strove to improve them. He should have tried. But instead he was content to sit there, believing all was fine and right. Content to hide behind his ignorance and be satisfied with the life his advisors presented for him.

  But Alaric was not.

  The prince stalked out of his chambers and down the hall, nodding an absentminded good morning to the courtiers he passed. His father’s suite was in the same wing, up one floor, and though Alaric had not been issued an invitation, he wasn’t about to become the next ineffective, idle monarch. It was past time he do something.

  “Your Highness,” one of King Arnyel’s guards said as Alaric reached his father’s suite and made to open the doors. “There’s a Meeting of State in progress, and—”

  “Precisely why I’m here,” Alaric agreed, ignoring the man’s hand, stretched out tentatively to stop him.

  “But you’re not—”

  “Not what, Sir Rorsyn? The future leader of this kingdom? If anyone should be in that room right now, it’s me.”

  Alaric pushed past the guards, and the doors to King Arnyel’s suite opened at his touch. The forechamber was empty; everyone was likely gathered in the dining room. Alaric strode across the chamber and down another corridor.

  There was a single guard posted outside the dining room, but he merely looked the prince over once before averting his gaze. Alaric took this as a sign of acceptance and pushed open the large, well-oiled doors.

  The room beyond was huge, featuring a long, glossy, carved table and an enormous window that took up almost the entire back wall. Alaric paused, letting the doors swing closed behind him with an echoing click, drawing the attention of the seven noblemen in attendance. Every man had a gold-rimmed plate before him and, telling by the mere crumbs that remained on each dish, had been at breakfast for some time.

  For a moment Alaric felt his cheeks grow hot, but he pushed the feeling away and strode directly to the head of the table. “Good morning, Father,” he said cheerfully, giving the king a low nod.

  “Alaric,” the king said, his eyebrows rising. “What are you doing here?”

  “Attending this meeting,” Alaric replied simply, eyeing the nobleman at Arnyel’s right with a pointed stare. When the man, blinking at him as if all coherent thought had left his mind, did not move to a more appropriate place, Alaric clenched his teeth and helped himself to a chair at the end of the row. He waved away the plate brought by a quick-footed servant, but helped himself to a small glass of wine. Goddesses help me, he thought.

  “Your Highness,” one of the noblemen across from Alaric sputtered, “this is a closed meeting, reserved for the king and his advisors. I can’t possibly imagine why—”

  “One day I will be king, Duke Gaeric, and I should like to have an
idea of the way of things before I arrive in that position,” Alaric cut in. “I have taken it upon myself to extend the invitation I am certain was merely forgotten beneath all the important matters you’ve been attending to since I came of age.”

  The noblemen were silent, but Alaric caught a few of them sharing glances he wasn’t sure he liked. Go ahead, glare, he thought. He was not going to be shoved away until needed, like a ceremonial cloak. They would just have to learn to deal with his presence.

  “My son makes a fair point,” King Arnyel said, slicing through a thick wedge of ham with a silver knife. “Gaeric, why was Alaric not included in Council meetings these past few years?”

  You could have extended the invitation yourself, Alaric couldn’t help but note. He drowned the thought with a drink of his wine.

  “My humble apologies,” the duke replied, though he gave no explanation. “The prince is, of course, welcome. We all know how very eager he is to jump right into matters of state. Perhaps, with our guidance, he might avoid another embarrassment like the fate of Prince Thyrian’s caravan.”

  There were twitters; a muffled snort. So this is how the game is played, Alaric thought. Very well. His sword arm might be lacking, but his mind was sharper than any blade.

  “And has the perpetrator been found? Not the lackeys who carried out the atrocity, but their employer. It’s been over a week. Surely you have something to show of your investigation.”

  “That is a matter best left to the Guard,” Duke Gaeric replied with a hard smile. “This council does not personally inquire after every single murder in the kingdom.”

  “I should think not. If it did, it would have time for little else,” Alaric retorted. He turned to his father. “The duke seems assured that the Guard will put the matter to rest . . . eventually.” His gaze darted to Gaeric and back to the king. “In the meantime, now that Thyrian is finally here, we might consider his usefulness to the realm.”

  The king gave his son a fleeting glance before returning his attention to his plate. “What schemes have you cooked up now, Alaric?”

  Alaric paused a moment, studying the king in this rare moment of physical closeness; normally his relationship with his father consisted of mutual appearances at banquets or the occasional ride or hunt. His father had fine, noble features: warm skin, sharp cheekbones, golden hair in the midst of greying. Alaric had inherited all his father’s looks—all, except his mother’s smile. The king had once told him that when Alaric smiled it was as if she were still alive, looking back at him from his son’s face. The was the closest thing to “I love you” as his father would ever say, Alaric thought.

  “I don’t scheme,” he replied, pushing those thoughts aside. Be tactful, Alaric. Don’t scare him off. “I simply keep my eyes open for opportunities to improve Enserion. The prince and I already have a solid friendship. Why not take advantage of this and consider an alliance between our kingdoms?”

  “An alliance?” Duke Gaeric sputtered, as several of the other courtiers made noises of disbelief. “We’ve never needed to tie ourselves to other realms. What’s the point?”

  “Consider the boost to cross-border trade,” Alaric said quickly, addressing his father directly, before the idea was dismissed entirely. The king was always keen on ideas that might bolster the royal coffers. “The Greenstone flows directly from the Galiffan mountains. Cities along the shore—including Cyair—would prosper greatly from open trade. Some of the northern cities haven’t been able to pay their full share of taxes since the wheat blight last year. This could be an opportunity for them to get back on their feet by facilitating commerce.”

  King Arnyel paused, considering. “I suppose that’s true.”

  “At the expense of good, hardworking Enserionite tradesmen,” another duke spoke up, shaking his head at Alaric. “Imagine an influx of foreign goods! Our economy would suffocate!”

  “Galiff has medicinal herbs that won’t grow here,” Alaric countered. “And Enserion may not be rife with tradeable goods, but our cotton cloth is the envy of many. And we could revive the pearl farms of Elska, providing work for hundreds. These commodities are in demand outside our borders—we just need the opportunity to export them.”

  Duke Gaeric chuckled. “It is truly charming how enthusiastic you are, Prince Alaric. But there is just no real need to get ourselves involved with Galiff merely to revive a trade that died out years ago.”

  “That’s not what I—”

  “Moreover,” the duke continued, turning his attention to the king, “the people would balk at such an agreement. Foreign merchants, peddling their wares in our cities, taking their lynd back to Galiff once they’ve bled us dry? We can’t possibly allow this.”

  “The duke is merely concerned about the competitiveness of his province,” a third courtier spoke up. Alaric recognized the man as none other than Duke Taemon, his mother’s brother. The man held most of the southern lands of Enserion, and was one of the main reasons why Enserionite cotton cloth was so highly valued—it was in his province that the commodity was made.

  Duke Gaeric reddened. “As we all should be, Duke Taemon. Unless you have other plots in store that would make you immune?”

  “I am as loyal to this kingdom as any, Gaeric. Contrary to whatever ‘facts’ you’ve learnt listening at keyholes. Jealousy is not becoming in a duke.”

  Alaric was entirely lost. How quickly control of the conversation had been wrestled away, sliding into territory he had no idea how to navigate. He licked his lips; he’d have to pick it apart later. For now, he still had an agenda to press.

  “There are other bonuses to an agreement with Galiff,” Alaric spoke up, drawing the dukes’ attention back to the matter at hand. “If Enserion is ever attacked—”

  “Don’t tell me you’re still moaning about that barbarian in the deserts who thinks himself a king,” Alaric’s father said, fixing the prince in a frown. Several of the noblemen chuckled.

  Alaric forced a smile onto his face. “I’m sure his actions are all posturing. But in the future, should Enserion’s borders ever be directly threatened . . .”

  “Galiff would step in,” the king finished, setting his knife onto his plate. “Duke Gaeric has told me they’re especially blessed with sun-crowned warriors in those parts.”

  Duke Gaeric frowned.

  Alaric gave a noncommittal shrug. “It’s such an easy thing, Father. Details can always be worked out, but won’t you at least consider it?”

  The king still stared at Alaric, scanning his face with an attentiveness Alaric couldn’t ever remember his father possessing. He wasn’t certain if that was a good thing.

  “This alliance,” Arnyel said, speaking the words as a boulder might roll downhill, gathering speed with each spoken syllable, “could open doors for you, Alaric. Thyrian has sisters, does he not?”

  “Two,” Alaric replied automatically, though his brain struggled to contend with where this was leading. “You aren’t suggesting—”

  “Why not? You should spend less time worrying about Enserion’s affairs—which are my task—and more time searching for a wife. You’re four-and-twenty, Alaric, and it’s time to—”

  “You married at thirty,” Alaric pointed out, his throat dry.

  The king took a breath. “At least you could start trying. These things can take time. Invite the Galiffan princesses to Cyair. See if one strikes your fancy. Marry one, and you’ll have your alliance.”

  Alaric was helpless; he’d not anticipated this turn of events, and despite his every desire to stay calm and spin the conversation back on track, his mind was too full of marriage and wife—how different from the words he expected to hear!—to form an intelligent retort.

  “And if I do not wish to marry a Galiffan princess?” he asked instead, ignoring Duke Gaeric’s smirk.

  The king held his gaze. “Then a small, restricted trade agreement is more than satisfactory to me.”

  Alaric wanted to lash out at his father, to tell him how bl
ind he was—how unconcerned with Enserion’s real problems and the world outside his plush breakfast chamber. But he was at a disadvantage. He couldn’t push his father too much at once, and the advisors were obviously keen on construing every word that came from his mouth as the talk of a naive child.

  And really, could he claim to be anything else? A few days ago he hadn’t even known where the castle wine was stored. How could he hope to successfully debate with the advisory council when he didn’t even understand what drove them, or why they were so keen on the viewpoints they pressed?

  So instead he bit his tongue, finished his wine, and endured the rest of the meeting in silence, striving to learn all that he could.

  17 | The Postlark

  Vylaena was in the middle of her morning workout when Thyrian knocked on the shared door between their rooms. She finished her last set of pushups and then sprung to her feet, striding to the door to open it.

  “I need to mail a letter,” Thyrian said to her, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He was dressed in a plain black surcoat, the last few days’ beard growth shaved clean. All very military-compliant.

  “Which means I need you to come, too.”

  Vylaena let out a breath. “Fine. Give me five minutes.”

  After a quick wash and a change, Vylaena met Thyrian at the front door of his suite. He glanced her over. “You appreciate a uniform, too, I see.”

  Uniform? She glanced down at her hard leather cuirass and then back at him. “What else would I possibly wear? A corset?”

  The expression on Thyrian’s face warred between mirthful and pained. “Ether, no. I’ve just never met someone who hated fashion as much as I do.”

  Vylaena took another look at his surcoat, finally understanding that a man in his position, in this place, would never stand to be caught in such a drab-looking thing. “Fashion is possibly the least sensible thing in the world,” she replied with a slight frown. “Though it’s not something to underestimate. Some men see a pretty dress and a lithe figure and forget all else—a handy trick when one must poke around places she ought not be.”