Ether-Touched (The Breaking Stone Trilogy Book 1)

by L. M. Coulson

  “No,” she finally replied, her voice quiet enough that it wouldn’t violate the scraps of song still wafting on the breeze. She tried to ignore the way Thyrian’s brow wrinkled in her direction.

  Alaric shrugged. “Just as well. I’ve some reading I want to do.”

  The trio entered the back doors of the castle, then made their way through the halls to the main staircase. They paused at its foot—Thyrian and Vylaena’s suites were easily accessible from here, but Alaric’s were closer to one of the more private back staircases to the west.

  “You’ll take breakfast in my rooms again tomorrow?” he asked, more to Thyrian than Vylaena but including them both.

  “Fine by me,” Thyrian replied.

  “Good. Until tomorrow, then.”

  Vylaena watched as Alaric continued on down the corridor, his hands resting easily in the pockets of his surcoat, until he was lost around a corner. Then she begrudgingly met Thyrian’s attentive gaze. “What?” she demanded.

  His expression was serene and composed; her sharp tone didn’t seem to have affected him. He simply examined her with those vigilant leaf-green eyes, the crease she’d seen at his brow nowhere to be found. There was a shadow of stubble forming in the hollows of his cheeks; it appeared he was one of those men whose hair grew in too quickly to ever maintain a clean-shaven look. She rather preferred him this way, over the bare-faced appearance he seemed to be preferential to.

  “I thought you might be interested in a spar,” he said, his voice low. “I’m not in the mood to spend another evening either pacing the length of my bedroom or running through exercises I could do in my sleep.” He shrugged. “There’s a spot out on the lawns where we could practice. Perhaps there’s something we could learn from each other.”

  Evidently she wasn’t the only one on whom palace life had taken its toll. Vylaena had been trapped in these walls for a week, sleeping in a room that was not her own, eating food she couldn’t choose, and forced to allow another man’s business to override her own. She wished to be away from here, traveling to the cathedral in pursuit of a cure for her affliction. But perhaps the palace lawns would have to do instead.

  At least she’d get to listen to that music again.

  “What could a cathedral-trained, sun-crowned warrior possibly learn from someone like me?” Vylaena asked, turning on her heel to head back outdoors. Thyrian moved to catch up with her, coming to walk with her side by side.

  “I’m always interested in new styles of fighting,” Thyrian replied. One of his hands rested easily on the pommel of his sword in what Vylaena was beginning to realize was a habitual gesture. “But the techniques of a Daigren would be especially interesting. I don’t expect there are many people outside Aeswic who know them.”

  He thought she was a . . . oh. It made sense, she supposed. An unwitting smile rose to her lips. So he thought her as good as a Daigren? High praise, from a man born to fight.

  “I’m not a Daigren,” she said, eyes meeting his.

  The crease returned. “You’re not?”

  “No. I was assigned to a different caste.”

  They continued outside, following the wide gravel path toward the far west side of the lawns, to a broad expanse of grass hedged in by the outer castle wall. Vylaena drew her sword instead of her daggers, sensing it would be a better choice against Thyrian’s long blade. But he didn’t move to unsheathe his own; he merely regarded her, arms crossed, eyes shadowed despite the bright moonlight overhead.

  “I’ve met a Daigren,” Thyrian said. “You fight exactly as he did. I don’t understand—if they didn’t teach you, how did you learn their techniques?”

  “They did teach me . . . in a way,” Vylaena replied, taking a few practice swings and then stepping back. “I watched them. Filed away what I saw. And then mimicked their movements night after night until they were second nature.” She held her sword up, admiring its sheen, then let it drop back to her side. “I started young. And I had something of a natural talent for it. But my first month out of the caves was still a bit of a shock.”

  Thyrian shook his head slowly. For a moment Vylaena was certain he was going to reply—to ask prodding questions about her childhood, perhaps, or comment on how she’d never actually been formally trained to fight. He continued to watch her in silence, that queer look on his face, recognizing there were things she wasn’t saying, even if he didn’t know what they were.

  But then he drew his own sword, swallowing whatever unspoken words he’d been muddling over. The sound of steel sliding against steel blended with the music still floating over the grounds as he freed his blade from its sheath.

  “So you’ve never had a teacher,” he said, taking his sword in both hands. He bent his knees, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet. “I don’t expect to change that. But if you ever desire a new perspective, I would gladly offer it.”

  Vylaena grinned, lifting her own blade. “Let’s see what you’ve got,” she challenged.

  ✽✽✽

  Alaric had only just cracked open his book when there was a knock at the door. He hesitated, wondering if he might get away with pretending he wasn’t in, but then he heard his brother’s voice through the wood:

  “It’s me, Alaric. I know you’re in there.”

  Alaric groaned, but snapped his tome shut and called out, “If you knew I was here why bother to knock?”

  The door opened and Eyren strode inside, carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses. “I’m not about to walk in on something I’d rather not see,” he replied. The door shut with a click behind him. “Especially after that Shadowheart of yours walked in like she was—”

  Alaric groaned louder. “Ugh, goddesses, no. Vylaena is not mine. She’s merely in my employ. And a friend. Kind of. Maybe.”

  Do not even jest that I have any hope of calling her more than that.

  Eyren smirked, placing the glasses on the low central table and pouring wine for them both before taking a seat on the couch opposite Alaric. “I didn’t think the Shadowheart were capable of making friends.”

  “I didn’t say the friendship went both ways.”

  Eyren just shook his head, still smiling, and reached for his glass. “Any luck getting Father to budge on the alliance?”

  “Not . . . in the way I’d hoped,” Alaric replied, nursing his own glass. “He wants me to marry one of Thyrian’s sisters.”

  Eyren’s eyebrows rose. “That could be a great idea.”

  “Not you, too.”

  “Really,” Eyren continued. “I met one of Prince Thyrian’s sisters at the cathedral once. The star-born one—what was her name? Caeslin.” He wiggled his brows. “You’d be lucky if she even considered you.”

  “I don’t want to marry a woman I’ve never met, just because her family is conveniently well-armed,” Alaric sniffed. “Does that even sound remotely like me?”

  “No,” Eyren replied, “but you’d also do anything for this kingdom, as would I. And marrying an intelligent, attractive woman seems a small price to pay for its security. Besides,” he added, “you seem to fall in love with any woman who happens to cross your path—”

  “I most certainly do not!”

  “—and so I’m sure you’d be perfectly happy in the end.” Eyren took a long draught of his wine and smiled. “We haven’t done this in awhile, have we?”

  “Picked out brides over a bottle of wine? No,” Alaric replied. But he knew what Eyren had really meant. They so rarely sat down and talked about anything. They saw each other now and then, and there were always their weekly sparring sessions, but now that Alaric thought about it, they hadn’t shared a drink together in months.

  “When did we get too busy for each other?” Alaric mused, sipping his wine. “And when did we stop talking about anything other than this mess of a kingdom?”

  “When we finally noticed it was a mess,” Eyren answered. He spread an arm over the back of the couch, relaxing into the cushions. “Do you miss them? The old days?” />
  “Do I miss being an ignorant adolescent with no concept of the world outside these walls?” Alaric asked. “Goddesses, no. The acne alone was horror enough.” He shrugged. “But I do miss my brother. You used to go on these grand adventures to faraway lands—adventures I wasn’t free to have. And you would always come running to my room the instant you returned, to tell me such fantastic stories of the things you’d seen. You used to share—everything. And now I don’t even know when your next trip is planned until you’re already gone.”

  Eyren shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t know you cared that much.”

  “Of course I do. Why would I not?”

  “You’d be the only one.” Eyren tipped his head back to drain his glass.

  “Father is a fool,” Alaric replied in a hard tone. “He might never have shown you the love you were due, but don’t ever think I’ll make the same mistake. You’re my brother. You always have me. Always.”

  Eyren was silent a moment, his face unreadable. But then he turned a wicked smile on Alaric, moving to pour himself more wine. “You remember that when I finally snap and set this rutting castle on fire.”

  “I’ll be right there with you, brother. Holding a torch.”

  ✽✽✽

  Vylaena lay flat on the ground, the manicured grass of the castle lawn cradling her sore muscles in a cushion of soft blades. She stared up at the night sky, observing the stars, trying to calm her breathing back to its normal rhythm. The soft sound of a stringed instrument played somewhere across the grounds, sweetening the air with gentle chords.

  Thyrian lay beside her, a silent presence she might’ve forgotten had his shoulder not been carelessly pressed against her own. She would have moved away but she was too content; it had been an age since she’d allowed herself to enjoy the stars. The night was warm but not unpleasantly so, and a soft breeze kept skimming across her face, each touch reminding her, you’re alive, you’re alive, you’re alive . . .

  She’d just had the best spar of her life. Her heart still pounded with the thrill of it. And now, energy fully bled, muscles satisfied, and head brimming with dozens of new fighting moves, Vylaena—if only for this brief moment—allowed herself to relax.

  She took a deep breath and let it out, sinking into the grass. She felt herself open to the night, absorbing it, allowing it to pass through her as though she were grass herself, the breeze sliding through her jagged edges with a soothing caress.

  Feeling. It was not a habit she normally permitted herself to indulge in. But tonight, in this quiet corner of the palace grounds, away from the bustle of the city and the restlessness of the Elderwood, with the night swirling around her, she allowed herself to break open a crack and feel.

  And Thyrian remained silent, not finding it necessary to spoil the moment with idle talk. She . . . appreciated that. Despite the fact that he was the reason she was chained to this rutting castle in the first place. He might push her with his pointed eyes and his prodding questions, but he also knew when to keep quiet. It was a rare man who possessed such a gift.

  But then.

  He began to hum.

  It took her a moment to realize it, because he was humming along to the melody playing across the gardens. But then there it was, unmistakable, just loud enough to be heard over the whisper of the breeze.

  Vylaena froze, her stomach twisting, her lips parting to tell him to stop. But she didn’t.

  Part of it was shock—he wasn’t alone, wasn’t with friends of family. He was with her, a practical stranger. A Shadowheart. And he was humming. As if perfectly at ease. She’d never expected the burly sun-crowned warrior-prince to do something so . . . so . . .

  Soft? Intimate? No. They weren’t the right words. Maybe she didn’t have the right words. Maybe this was one of those things that other humans had, that the Shadowheart never learned. Maybe Thyrian would know what it was; be able to explain it. But goddesses knew, she’d never ask him.

  She listened to him hum, the deep rumble of his voice melting with the musician’s song, until the last notes died on the air and he fell silent once more.

  “You knew it,” she murmured, blinking up at the swath of stars above them.

  “It was a favorite,” Thyrian admitted, as the musician struck up the next tune. Another slow, sad one—the kind Vylaena liked best. “A lullaby from home. My mother used to sing it to me when I couldn’t sleep.”

  Vylaena had only a faint concept of mothers and the things they did for their children. Her own had died giving birth to her.

  Not that it would have changed anything had the woman lived, of course—the Shadowheart raised their young communally. And their concept of raising, she’d come to learn, was very different from the rest of Aethryl.

  “May I ask you something?” Thyrian asked, rising up on one elbow so he could see her face. The breeze tugged at his dark hair.

  Now it begins. But she was still too at ease to protest—still enjoying the night too much to get up and walk away. So she merely sighed. “You can always ask. I may not always answer.”

  “Fair enough. You said you weren’t a Daigren. But you never said what you were. To what caste were you assigned?”

  Vylaena turned her head, meeting his gaze. “Why does it matter? You don’t know what they all are anyway.”

  “I’d like to know.”

  She pursed her lips, frowning at him. But then she replied, “I was a special case. The Shadowheart had not counted one of the Marked in our ranks since the fall of the Empire. Before I turned two, several of the Elders had already put my name forward as a future Prime.”

  “That’s your leader?”

  Vylaena nodded. “My mother had been a Daigren, and I should have been allotted to the same caste. But since I was ether-touched, it was decided that I was the optimal apprentice to our Caden.”

  “Caden . . .?”

  Vylaena returned her gaze to the stars. “I told you you wouldn’t understand.” She licked her lips to moisten them. “The Caden is a spiritual guide of sorts, who keeps a record of the clan’s history and knowledge. They also serve as an intermediary to Ikna, and seek to guide the clan toward decisions that would please her.”

  “You were supposed to be a priestess?”

  “The Caden is more than that. They are a keeper of knowledge. A purveyor of wisdom. An anomaly, if you look at all the available roles in our clan. He—or she—is more like a lorist, with a bit of religion tossed in. The fact that I was supposed to be the next one is the only reason I can read and write, actually.”

  “And appreciate music?”

  Half a smile peeked over Vylaena’s lips. “No. That’s a quirk I picked up on my own.”

  She pushed herself to sitting, then rolled her neck to work out the kinks. “I’m going to sleep like the dead,” she said. And hopefully without any dreams.

  Thyrian rose with a grunt, picking his sword off the grass and sheathing it. “We should do that again,” he agreed. “That sleight of hand you showed me, with that hidden dagger—I want to practice it.”

  Vylaena was reluctant to leave this comfortable spot on the lawn and its quiet bubble of moonlight and song. But she carefully replaced her own weapons and pulled her inner shields close, sealing herself off from the world once more. “Maybe tomorrow,” she replied.

  They made their way back to the castle, up the stairs, and to Thyrian’s suite. Vylaena strode through his rooms to check for intruders and then followed him to his bedroom and the door linking their suites.

  “Vylaena,” Thyrian said, just as she was about to reach for the knob.

  She turned, wondering what he wanted now. Whatever energy she’d had on the grounds was quickly fading and goddesses was she exhausted.

  “I wanted to apologize,” he continued, standing an arm’s length behind her, one hand resting on his sword pommel. “I know we plucked you from your life and set you down here to deal with our troubles, without asking your permission.”

  “And yet I don�
��t see you changing your mind about that,” Vylaena replied coolly.

  Thyrian’s lips twitched. “No. I see why Alaric finds you a helpful ally, and I think you can still help us. But Vylaena, if you did want to leave—if helping us is too burdensome, and there are other matters you need to attend to–we won’t stop you.”

  “Except I’d never be able to show my face in Cyair again. Or anywhere near it.”

  Thyrian shrugged. “Pick another city at random and chances are you’d be happier there.”

  Vylaena pursed her lips, heat flooding her chest. “You think an offer of freedom with strings attached is just as good as the real thing?” she scoffed. “Are you actually being sincere or did you just say that to clear your conscience?”

  “Of course I’m being sincere, Vylaena! I made a mistake. Alaric and I, we made a mistake. And I’m trying to offer you a way out, in the only manner I can. This isn’t my court—this isn’t my kingdom. I can’t change the king’s mind, but goddesses if I could!”

  Vylaena stared at Thyrian, absorbing the hurt radiating from him. An alien discomfort curdled at the base of her stomach as she recognized it was she who’d caused it—she’d hurt him by doubting his intentions.

  “I’m not leaving,” she said finally, reaching out to rest a hand on the doorknob. “I gave my word. And I don’t break my promises.” She eyed him with a cool smile. “Besides, if I ran away, I’d miss out on the only sparring partner who ever presented me with a challenge.”

  She turned the knob and swung the door open. “Goodnight, Thyrian,” she said, stepping into her own chambers.

  “Goodnight, Vylaena” the prince replied, as she closed the door behind her.

  23 | The Wight