Ether-Touched (The Breaking Stone Trilogy Book 1)

by L. M. Coulson

  Alaric gritted his teeth and abruptly turned his horse, retreating back down the column of riders. He smarted from his father’s words, but that wasn’t what angered him the most. How could a man at the head of a kingdom be so indifferent to its affairs? He knew, with an ache that came directly from his Marked brow, that any further plans would have to happen without his father’s approval. He’d made too much of a mess of things to try and bring the topic up again.

  “Bug fly into your mouth?” Thyrian commented as Alaric pulled up alongside him. “You look distressed.”

  Alaric glanced down at Vylaena, who wore her usual mask of quiet solemnity, managing to look bored and alert at the same time. The sun falling upon her hair made it glow a flattering azure blue, like the sky itself wound around her head. The sight fractured the anger in his heart, and he sighed.

  “No. Father just prefers not to mix business with pleasure.”

  They rode in silence for a while at the back of the column, keeping a leisurely pace that slowly separated them from the bulk of the party. Alaric didn’t care; he disliked most of the noblemen there and had no desire to prove himself a talented hunter or marksman like the others. He didn’t have the talent, or the drive.

  “Bows and spears,” Vylaena muttered from beside them, just barely audible over the clop of the horses’ hooves. “I am surrounded by yellow-bellied . . .”

  “What’s that you’re mumbling?” Alaric said, swiveling in his saddle.

  Vylaena tossed him a look that could strip bark from a tree. “This is how you people show your strength? By luring animals into traps and shooting them with bits of metal or ether that they have no hope of outrunning?”

  “Vylaena believes bows are a coward’s weapon,” Thyrian explained to him.

  “The Shadowheart still have to hunt for their meat,” Alaric pointed out, slowing his horse so he and Thyrian could flank the woman. “How do you do it?”

  “With dagger or sword,” she replied, “plunged into a beating heart. It’s part of the skill, to chase down your quarry. To lose your breath in the running, to feel the pounding intensity of the chase. To feel what it’s like to target a foe and become its fate. You take ownership that way, when you stare a creature in the eyes and take its life. None of this cold, distant playing, devoid of any responsibility.”

  Alaric shared an uneasy glance with Thyrian. He knew the Shadowheart had a very particular way of living; a code that not only encompassed daily life but also governed how they saw the world. And he knew the Shadowheart went to great lengths to train themselves to endure pain and suffering—he’d heard rumors of one childbirth ritual that still made him queasy—but no one really knew the particulars. It didn’t surprise him to learn that they liked close combat for the visceral nature of it, but to hear it described in such a way . . .

  “The daggers you made for Kyshiin,” Alaric said, eager to change the subject, “how do they work?”

  The abrupt change in topic didn’t appear to fluster Vylaena, who answered calmly, “They were forged to instill supreme loyalty. Plunging one of the knives into a man’s heart puts a claim on his honor. He’s bound thereafter to act in the service of whoever put the dagger there.”

  “So they could potentially be removed,” Thyrian pointed out, watching her.

  “I suppose.”

  “Would it kill the man, to remove the blade from his heart?”

  Vylaena glanced up to meet Thyrian’s gaze. “I don’t know. I didn’t think to address that when I made them. I was in a hurry.”

  Something twinged at Alaric’s brow, and he pressed a hand to his Mark. It burned, hot and intent. A warning. “I bet,” he said slowly, scanning the trees, “that it wasn’t a good idea for us to become separated from our party.”

  “We’re half a league from Cyair,” Thyrian replied, though he, too, peered into the surrounding trees, “would someone really—”

  Vylaena reached out and grasped Alaric’s forearm with an iron grip, dragging him right out of the saddle. He tumbled to the ground with a surprised protest just as an arrow whizzed past the place his shoulder had been.

  Thyrian was off his horse at once. He and Vylaena drew their swords, pinning Alaric between them, unconsciously following the same protocol.

  “Defend yourself,” Vylaena commanded as Alaric scrambled to his feet, drawing his own blade. He stood, completing their triangle, facing the ring of masked ruffians who’d appeared out of the trees, trapping them at the center of a rough circle.

  ✽✽✽

  That was all the warning they had. A dozen men bore down upon them, steel flashing beneath ribbons of sun that parted the branches above. Vylaena and Thyrian stepped forward to meet them, beginning two halves of the same dance, steel clashing against steel in a rain of sparks. Alaric was no great swordsman, but Vylaena knew he’d trained often enough to manage, and he held his ground behind her with muttered curses and grunts of exertion.

  Vylaena spun and sliced, grinning as she drew blood, her veins swollen with the thrill of the fight as men folded beneath her blades. She felt every wound she inflicted—felt the men’s flesh parting as if it were her own, embracing the pain with crazed, almost masochistic zeal. She drank in the frenzied hammering of their hearts; bathed in the panic surging through their veins. She cleaved a man’s hand from his arm and almost screamed from the raw intensity of it, finishing him off with a clean swipe of a second blade.

  And when she glanced over her shoulder to ensure Alaric was still standing, her eyes caught on Thyrian.

  If she was fire, cruel and agile, then he was water—fluid, serene, unwavering. He preferred a greatsword, held in both hands, and moved as if it were no weapon but some master painter’s brush. Every step was deliberate, every sweep of his blade connected with the next. He was a dancer, ducking smoothly beneath his opponents’ blades while fending off blows from behind and, in the same breath, striking a pass of his own. He seemed to know exactly where each enemy would be at any given moment, anticipating their attacks with uncanny accuracy. Not even the Daigren had fought so effortlessly.

  The sun glinted off his weapon, stunning Vylaena with its intensity, making it difficult to look directly at him. Sun-crowned indeed, she thought. It was as if his entire body was alight with raw energy, buzzing with white-hot power, lit from within to chase away the shadows swarming around him. The Mark at his brow did not precisely glow, but she felt a presence there, as if it were doing something—aiding his movements, perhaps, or fueling his strength. In the span of a breath he’d taken down six men.

  He turned, finding her gaze, and she quickly glanced away.

  One of the remaining men moved to run, but Vylaena reached him before he could bolt, slamming her hilt across his temple and knocking him to the ground. He struggled to rise, dazed from the blow, and held out a hand to ward her away.

  She held the tip of her blade to his neck. “Who sent you?” she demanded.

  He flinched, opened his mouth, and then choked, crumpling sideways. An arrow protruded from the back of his neck.

  Vylaena lifted her gaze, narrowing her eyes, and spotted a lone archer through the trees, lowering his bow. He grinned at her, turned on his heel, and ran.

  “Rutting bastard,” she spat.

  There were new shouts now as the rear of the king’s hunting party—who must’ve doubled back when they heard the sounds of battle and realized the prince was not among them—joined the melee. Vylaena moved to help Alaric, who struggled to parry the blows of the last remaining assailants, but Thyrian was already there. They fell like leaves beneath his blade.

  “Goddesses . . . are you alright?”

  Vylaena watched as Prince Eyren dropped from his horse before Alaric, lips tight with concern. His sword was in hand, but the danger had already passed.

  Alaric was safe enough amongst his fellows; the few mercenaries who’d survived had already run out of range. Vylaena left the princes with the hunting party and slunk into the trees to recover the
original arrow meant for Alaric. She tugged it from the trunk of a towering oak, examining the fletching.

  “Any clues?”

  She raised her head, finding Thyrian beside her. He had several inches on her, but they were of similar enough height that his elbow brushed hers as he peered at the arrow she held. She shook her head.

  “There won’t be any. I’ve seen some of these men before. Sell-swords. Fairly decent ones, actually, though today was a bad matchup for them. Did a run on a merchant’s train with that one”—she motioned over her shoulder to the nearest body—“about a year ago.”

  “So you know who they were. What they wanted.”

  “No.” She raised her chin, finding his eyes. “But I know someone who might.”

  20 | The Debt

  Skin was not normally around this time of day; he kept odd hours and was likely asleep in his apartment at the back of the Deeps. Vylaena led Thyrian along the abandoned bar and through a narrow, iron-reinforced door to a back hallway, wishing she’d been able to run this errand alone. But the prince was her charge now—however absurd it was to play bodyguard to a man who could fight like that—and he’d insisted upon joining her. Her threats, she’d been annoyed to find, hadn’t dissuaded him.

  Vylaena stopped at a polished oak door, startling against the drab, neglected hall. She was in no mood to wait; she took a full fist to the door, and within a few seconds it swung open to reveal a red-faced and growling Skin.

  “What in the rutting black Ether do you want, girl?” he demanded, pointing a short knife to Vylaena’s chest. “You ever wake me like that again and I’ll gut you sternum to—”

  “The assassins. For Prince Alaric. Who sent them?”

  Skin sniffed, then shoved the knife into his belt. He truly must’ve been sleeping, for he wore no shirt or shoes and every bone of his ribcage was on full display beneath the pockmarked, tattooed flesh of his chest. He turned his good eye on Thyrian for a brief moment before returning his attention to Vylaena.

  “Weren’t after the crown prince. And was the same man as before. The one who wanted him,”—he cocked his head toward Thyrian—“dead at that caravan stop. Don’t know anything more.”

  “I swear to the Three, Skin,” Vylaena hissed, leaning forward, “I will make what they did to that caravan look like mercy if you don’t cut the bullshit. Tell me the man’s name.”

  Skin crossed his arms in defiance, though there was tension at his mouth that betrayed his unease. “I don’t know his name, sweetheart. Believe me, I’d tell you if I could.”

  She moved before anyone had time to blink. In the span of a heartbeat Vylaena had swung the man against the nearest wall, his sword arm wrenched behind his back and a dagger at his neck.

  “Rutting Ether,” Skin rasped, wheezing. “Why do you care?”

  “His name, Skin,” Vylaena pressed, her voice a growl.

  “Serk,” Skin spat. “I think his name’s Serk.”

  Vylaena released the man with a rough shove, and he stumbled as he regained his balance. He turned to her, rubbing the spot on the back of his neck where her knife had bitten him.

  “You think?”

  Skin nodded. “I asked around after he came to me with that ridiculous bounty. A few people told me they’ve played cards with him at the Rum House. Couple others said he practically lives at the Golden Orchid. Serk—that’s what they say he calls himself.”

  “And how much did he pay you to keep that a secret from me?” Vylaena held Skin’s gaze, her eyes a murky grey in the lamplight, making them impossible to read. She saw something she was looking for in his face and nodded. “You keep pocketing that lynd, Skin. Keep telling yourself your hands are clean. You don’t hold the sword, after all. You just deal in names.”

  Skin spat at her feet. “We all do what we can to survive. Don’t we, Vylaena? Or is what I heard about you and Kyshiin of Aughrin untrue?”

  * * *

  The air was so still it felt painfully dense, pressing against Thyrian’s skin and making it difficult to breathe. For a long, tense minute he was certain Vylaena would slit the man’s throat right there in his own apartment. And when a smile finally broke out across her cheeks, his insides froze solid. There was death in that smile.

  She turned to him and he braced himself. “So, prince,” she murmured, her words stinging his face like poisoned barbs, “ever been to a brothel?”

  “Not for pleasure.”

  Her grin deepened, but it was softer now—less threatening. “Then you’re doing it wrong.”

  Skin crossed his arms. “You kill that man and it’ll cost me more lynd than you’re worth. Don’t make me your enemy.”

  Thyrian watched as Vylaena’s eyes hardened, any hint of humor crushed beneath wild fury. She rounded on the bony man, stepping right into his face.

  “No,” she crooned, bleeding venom, her eyes glittering a black warning. “Don’t make me your enemy, Skin.”

  Vylaena whirled around, stalking back down the hall. “Come,” she snapped to Thyrian as she passed him.

  Thyrian eyed the proprietor of the Deeps, wondering if it was wise to stoke the ire of a man who commanded an entire network of cutthroats. He threw the man a look of apology—though he wasn’t sure it would do any good—and followed the furious blue-haired woman out.

  ✽✽✽

  The Golden Orchid smelled of lavender.

  Vylaena wasn’t certain why this bothered her more than the curvaceous women and spattering of statuesque men who lounged half-naked around the generous antechamber in various states of repose. Surely a place named for a specific flower should smell like that flower and not another. But, no, lavender it was. She’d always disliked this place because of it.

  The Golden Orchid drew heavily from the aesthetic of Estryn—adobe walls, tiled mosaics, jewel-toned hangings, creamy stone fountains. Sheer, hanging silks obscured darkened alcoves and carved screens hid clusters of plush velvet cushions. Men were drawn to the exotic—things that were foreign were exciting. And the Golden Orchid made a killing off of excited men.

  Vylaena led Thyrian through the antechamber with a leisurely stride, peering over her shoulder to gauge his expression. He missed her gaze; he was too busy surveying the room with the sharp eye of a guardsman: careful, detached, absorbing the nearest exits and chokepoints and pieces of decor that might serve as a makeshift weapon. He did look at the women, who watched him with avid interest behind splayed fans or delicate scarves, but his eyes didn’t linger. Perhaps he had a woman of his own, back in Galiff. He seemed the honorable type—the type to remain faithful to a partner even kingdoms apart. Or perhaps he preferred a different type of excitement . . .

  “You’re disappointed that a brothel doesn’t unbalance the sheltered, highborn prince,” Thyrian said without meeting Vylaena’s eyes, as if knowing where her thoughts had flown.

  “Not disappointed,” she replied, returning her gaze forward. “Merely learning.”

  He did look at her then; she could feel his eyes lingering on the back of her neck.

  “Vylaena!”

  A tall, elegant woman with large, brown eyes and sharp cheekbones appeared from beneath an archway, her slender jeweled hands parting the silks that covered it. She smiled demurely at Vylaena, stepping forward as though moving through water, her gait as smooth and fluid as the silks fluttering in her wake.

  The woman was pure Estryn—deep, brown skin; willowy build; twisted locks of dark hair held up in a hammered gold clasp and cascading in a waterfall of braids down her back. A copper Mark swept across her delicate forehead; she had a Knack for drawing baths that took days to grow cold, a perk the patrons of the Golden Orchid very much enjoyed.

  “I’d heard you were back in town,” she crooned. “I’m so pleased you stopped by to see me.” The woman’s doe-like eyes slid to Thyrian, then lazed down his torso. Her smile grew. “And who is this?”

  “I’m here for information, Kaesra,” Vylaena said, recapturing the woman’s attention
. “We’re looking for a man named Serk. I’m told he’s a patron here.”

  “Aye,” Kaesra replied, motioning for the two of them to follow her beneath the archway. Her eyes lingered on Thyrian’s lower back as they passed. “He’s paid my ladies a fortune these past few months. A generous man, to be sure.”

  The room beyond the arch was some sort of office, with an ornate mahogany desk to complement the array of giant velvet cushions. Kaesra waved a hand to the pillows but Vylaena refused with a curt shake of her head.

  “What do you know of him?”

  Kaesra eyed the mercenary with a weighty expression as she rounded the desk, perching on the cushioned bench that served as a chair. “I don’t normally disclose information about my clientele, my dear. I am sorry.”

  “And I don’t normally take care of jealous stalkers for free,” Vylaena countered, resting a hand on the hilt of one of her daggers. “You still owe me a debt, Kaesra. I’ve come to collect it.”

  The woman heaved a dramatic sigh. “Very well. But you mustn’t say where you got this information. I have a business to run, and if the men knew I—”

  “You have our word.”

  Kaesra stared at Vylaena, then at Thyrian, and then back at Vylaena. Her full lips twitched. “Well. There’s not much to tell. The man is relatively new to the city; he only started coming to the Orchid at the beginning of the year.”

  “Is he a nobleman? A merchant?”

  “Neither. He has a regular—Opal—who mentioned he often boasts of working for Lord Wroth. I think he may be a secretary of sorts. Or perhaps a chamberlain in the Lord’s household.”

  Lord Wroth. Vylaena hadn’t heard the name before, but that was only to be expected. She didn’t bother with the nobility unless there was a sizable pouch of lynd involved. Even then such jobs usually involved killing off a rival’s son, stealing a newborn heir, or planting stolen property in another nobleman’s home. She hadn’t taken one of those marks in more than a year—she no longer wanted any part of their trivial squabbles.