Ether-Touched (The Breaking Stone Trilogy Book 1)

by L. M. Coulson

  “At least it’s not my sword arm.”

  “Says the man who wields a two-handed blade,” Vylaena murmured. Her jaw hardened. “I failed to guard you. I am sorry.”

  Thyrian tried to chuckle but it turned into a wince as his chest protested. Even breathing was agony. “You saved my life there at the end. Just help me up—gently. I broke my arm, not my feet. We’ll walk back to Cyair and see the physician.”

  Vylaena’s lips tightened, but she nodded. She moved to Thyrian’s head and slid her hands beneath his shoulder blades, careful to minimize any jostling of his broken left arm. She stared down at him, an unreadable expression on her face. “You ready?”

  Thyrian nodded.

  Vylaena pulled him up into a seated position, not commenting as Thyrian let out a stifled groan, the pain in his arm threatening to rob him of consciousness. But then he was up, and she was there, holding him in a seated position with the solid, strong weight of her body. She allowed him to rest against her as he struggled to conquer his pain, patient and quiet despite the suffering she leeched from him.

  “Before I came to Enserion, I’d never had more than bruises and scrapes,” Thyrian confessed, his voice shaky. “I suppose that’s unfathomable to you.”

  “You’re a sun-crowned warrior,” Vylaena replied, her voice rumbling against his back. “And Enserion’s a violent place. Two reasons why I’m not surprised.” He felt her stiffen. “What do you think that is?”

  Only then did Thyrian notice it: a shadowed cave ringed in stacked stone, hunkered against the hill he’d slid down during his pursuit of the wight. He’d never seen a natural cave, however, with a perfectly rectangular entrance and a symbol carved into its lintel. He squinted, trying to make it out. It looked like a dagger, enclosed by a crescent moon.

  “It’s not quite time for that,” said a quiet, dry voice behind them.

  Thyrian felt Vylaena move—drawing a dagger, likely—but when he tried to turn and face the mysterious speaker himself his arm gave such a twinge that his vision threatened to blink out.

  “What are you?” Vylaena demanded.

  What, not who. Thyrian’s mouth went dry.

  “An observer,” the stranger spoke. “A keeper of time. A bearer of gifts. You know me, though you are not mine.”

  There was movement at the corner of Thyrian’s peripheral, and he swiveled his head toward it, finding a woman slowly circling them.

  But, no—not a woman. She was more shadow than substance, existing in sputters and ripples, her form not quite manifest; he could see the trees behind her as if her skin were made of window glass. She had a halcyon air about her, a serene sort of detachment he’d seen sometimes in Vylaena. But her face, when she turned, looked almost as if . . .

  Almost as if another face had replaced it. Every feature had changed, as if she wore two faces at once, switching between them on a whim.

  “Yrsa,” he breathed.

  “It’s the middle of the day,” Vylaena scoffed. “She can’t be.”

  The stranger continued to walk around them, aiming for the cave beyond. “I exist in the shades between day and night,” she replied. “Here, in the Elderwood, it is easy for me to slip into the shadows, where the sun cannot penetrate the treetops but night does not yet hold sway.”

  “The Elderwood is sacred to Ikna, not Yrsa,” Vylaena pressed, still holding her dagger, arm now outstretched over Thyrian’s shoulder as she tracked the ghostly woman’s steps.

  “Ikna has claimed this place, it is true. But sacred places are sacred to us all.” She stopped, turning to face them fully. “I do not come here to bother you, Vylaena Azrel, so you may lower your weapon. I come because time is slipping away from me, and I must act.”

  “What does that mean?” Vylaena demanded, arm still raised. “More cryptic warnings from another useless goddess?”

  Thyrian winced. “Vylaena—”

  “I am not like my sisters, mortal child,” the goddess continued, nonplussed. Her face rippled, morphing from one set of features to another and back. It happened so quickly that Thyrian wasn’t entirely sure it had happened. “They may walk this plane more often than I, but neither of them understands it as well as I do. For I am the custodian of time itself, and know everything that is or ever could be.”

  “Why do you speak to us?” Thyrian asked, wishing Vylaena would lower her damned dagger. He knew she was audacious, but threatening a deity? Surely she had limits.

  Yrsa turned her eyes on him, and when she blinked, they shifted from grey to gold. “Time has eroded many of your world’s protections. There were once mortal men and women tasked with safeguarding this place, but they fell long ago. None have been sent to replace them.”

  Her features shifted again, becoming harder, more stern. “I have come to ensure you do not attempt to enter the Maekirnjol Cairn myself. And to offer this.”

  The goddess stepped forward, pulling from her sleeve a narrow vial filled with glowing red liquid. She offered to it Thyrian. “A gift. From my sister. Who cannot tread here so easily as I.”

  Thyrian accepted the vial with his good hand. “It’s some sort of tincture,” he told Vylaena.

  “It will heal your wounds,” Yrsa said, drawing back. “An offering, to prepare you for the coming dangers. Drink it.”

  Thyrian wasn’t sure he wanted to drink a mysterious potion offered to him by an entity that may or may not have been a goddess. But the Mark at his brow gave a warm, reassuring pulse. So he took a breath, wrenched the tiny cork out with his teeth, and downed the tincture in one swallow.

  His arm gave an audible crack.

  “Fucking Ether,” he shouted, grasping his left arm with his good hand. Stars glimmered at the corners of his vision. He felt Vylaena shudder behind him as she shared his pain, but she had enough of a grip on her composure to not cry out. It felt as if his arm was on fire, and it was itchy—goddesses, it was itchy. The sensation spread down into his fingers and over his shoulder, creeping into the sore spots on his ribs and sweeping them away.

  Stupefied, he lifted his left arm to find it entirely undamaged. He flexed his fingers, awestruck, then turned his attention back to the goddess. “Thank you,” he breathed.

  She inclined her head. “I bid you, return to Cyair now. Danger draws near.”

  “Why can’t we enter that cave?” Vylaena asked, rising to her feet.

  “Vylaena,” Thyrian hissed, “stop.”

  But Yrsa merely smiled. “It is the tomb of the Heart of Maekirnjol. Only a Master of Life and Death may enter there. As you are, you would perish.”

  “Yeah, that definitely clears it up,” Vylaena sniffed, shoving her dagger back into its sheath. But she didn’t press for further answers.

  “I’ve done what I must,” Yrsa said, her face twitching between two different sets of features. “I will leave you now, with one last sentiment each.”

  She turned to Thyrian. “The one with golden eyes keeps the keys,” she said. “He can give you what you need—you only need return home to find him.”

  He had no idea what she meant, but he inclined his head in thanks.

  Yrsa paused, fixing her eyes on Vylaena. “And you. Next time you’re in Aeswic, child,” she said, “ask Karthus to tell you the truth about your mother.”

  24 | The Friend

  Alaric arrived at Duke Taemon’s quarters at precisely one o’clock, just as the city bells tolled the time. He was admitted inside by a man in the standard gold livery of Enserion, with a navy blue patch sewn on his shoulder to indicate he was part of the duke’s personal retinue.

  The duke was waiting in his dining parlor, which overlooked the river, the large balcony doors flung open to put the grand view on full display.

  “Alaric,” the man said with a wide grin, clasping his nephew’s arm in a solid grip. “I am pleased you’ve come. Sit—make yourself welcome. The table’s already been set.”

  Alaric followed his uncle to a round table in front of the balcony windows, the war
m summer breeze flitting through his hair. It smelled of river water—an earthy, musky smell he would forever associate with the palace.

  Alaric settled into one of the two dining chairs, taking a long look at his uncle as the man poured them wine. Duke Taemon was a large man—not fat, but strong, with wide, muscled shoulders and the characteristic height of Alaric’s mother’s side. He was a soldier, Duke Taemon, having trained in the Royal Guard with every intention of becoming a lieutenant until his elder brother had unexpectedly died, leaving him responsible for the province of Kelmarsh.

  The duke had never been close to Alaric or his brother, though they were his only surviving family. Taemon’s older sister—Alaric’s mother—had died birthing Eyren, his younger brother’s family had perished in a peasant revolt three decades ago, and he had no wife or children of his own.

  A loner, people at court said. Taemon was a man who preferred his own company, or that of his personal guard. If he’d not been a member of the king’s advisory council and obligated to attend their monthly meetings, Alaric thought, he’d likely never leave his province.

  “That took some balls, what you did at the council meeting,” the duke said, once he’d finished pouring. He sat, fixing amused eyes on Alaric. “The looks on their faces when you sat down at the table . . . it still makes me laugh, remembering.”

  Alaric tried to mask his cringe with a jovial smile. “I’m glad it was entertaining for at least one of us,” he replied.

  The duke grunted, his full beard twitching. “It will only get harder for you, you know. You’ve established yourself as a threat to their control. Everything you say, or do, will be twisted back upon you.”

  “And you don’t count yourself among them, Uncle?”

  Taemon’s grin deepened. He began to fill his plate from the various containers and bowls at the center of the table. “We Denyels have always been of a different stock. We can trace our ancestry back to the origins of modern Enserion. And though we’ve lost the crown a few times to lesser men, we always seem to find our way back to it.” He eyed Alaric, his smile fading. “They are all actors, all children in false clothes, trying desperately to play a part that they will never fully satisfy. It is we who are the true leaders, Alaric. Our family. It has been so since the birth of this nation.”

  Alaric took a careful drink of his wine, combing through the tangle of thoughts growing in his mind. He still remembered what Duke Gaeric had said in that council meeting, about plots and loyalty. And he’d never thought of his uncle as ambitious, but perhaps that was his intention—perhaps he wanted people to see him as the unassuming recluse, perfectly content to hide away in his province.

  “You say ‘we,’ Taemon. And yet you did not offer support for my alliance proposal,” Alaric replied, setting down his glass. “Surely you understand the threat Kyshiin of Aughrin poses. Why not help me pass this agreement?”

  Taemon shook his head. “You don’t understand, do you? Of course not. You’ve always been content to sit back and allow your father to give away his power piece by piece.” A deep frown settled into his face. “You’ve been of age for years, Alaric. And yet it took you until now—when the threat finally started to feel tangible, when the danger finally felt real—to barge into the council and demand to be heard?”

  “I am the product of my circumstances, same as everyone else,” Alaric snapped. “I may be late, but I am trying now. So why not help me?”

  “You don’t understand,” Taemon repeated, his voice gruff. “Any support I might have offered would have killed your petition outright. The other dukes would never have stood for it.”

  Alaric gaped at his uncle, unable to fathom why. “Because they have some sort of petty vendetta against you?”

  “Because I am powerful,” Taemon spat. “Because they fear me. There’s a reason no one has dared kill you and your father and simply taken the crown, even though no one would grieve the passing of such an ineffective monarch. Because of me. And until you understand why, you don’t deserve to sit on that throne, either.”

  “That sounds strangely close to a threat,” Alaric said in a low tone, gripping the arms of his chair.

  “It’s a warning, boy,” Taemon replied. “We Denyels protect our own, but we also don’t abide blind ignorance. If your mother were still . . .” He ran a hand over his wrinkled face, weariness softening the hard lines permanently etched there. “You have to be better than this, Alaric,” he said in a softer tone. “I will not live forever. One day, the protection I offer you will fade. And when that day comes, you will have to hold the throne on your own merits. Do you think you can?”

  ✽✽✽

  Alaric wandered through the library corridors, ignoring the wide-eyed stares its inhabitants fixed on him, obviously stunned to see the crown prince roaming their sacred halls. He jogged down a stairwell and strode through the basement floor, stopping before Atremidora Flinx’s office and rapping on the door.

  “Flinx,” he called out. “Are you in?”

  “By the Three,” he heard a woman say behind him. “You’re Prince Alaric.”

  Alaric turned, spotting a white-faced woman in a grey shift, a silver librarian’s badge pinned to her breast. Ersylla, it read. She gaped at him, mouth wide, frozen in the middle of the hallway with a stack of books cradled in her hands.

  “Excuse me,” Alaric said, “do you know where I can find Librarian Flinx?”

  Ersylla blinked at him. “Well, if she’s not in her office, she’ll either be at her school in town or the library proper.”

  “Her school?”

  “Yes,” the woman replied, adjusting her load. “She teaches classes once a week to children in the slums. I’ve told her she’s going to get herself killed by one gang or another one of these days. She never listens.”

  Alaric’s mouth went dry. “And if she’s in the library, do you know which section?”

  Ersylla shrugged. “I can’t keep up with that woman’s studies. It’s herbalism one day and etymology the next. Don’t know how she does it, even with her Mark.”

  “Thank you,” Alaric said, moving back to the stairwell. “I appreciate your assistance.”

  He jogged back up the stairs, returning to the main corridor, and then set off for the central library. The doors eased open at his touch, and he slipped inside.

  It was much busier in the library today than it had been on his last visit—though he supposed that’s what happened when the sun rose. Librarians in grey robes roamed the shelves or studied at paper-strewn tables. They all appeared so absorbed in their work that they didn’t even notice his presence.

  Good, he thought, ducking into a nearby row, eager to avoid drawing any attention.

  Alaric crept through the stacks, eyes open for a familiar figure with a plait of spiral curls and a golden crown. He ignored the stunned glances thrown his way when passing librarians glanced up to meet his gaze, though he did occasionally stop to ask: “Librarian Flinx—have you seen her?”

  “Sorry, Highness, no.”

  Alaric continued deeper into the library, hoping desperately that Flinx was actually here and not in town, where he had no way to find her. Goddesses. The idea of her walking down the worst streets of Cyair—a woman alone, with a sharpened pen likely her only weapon—sent a shard of dread into his stomach. Her Mark would offer some protection, for Enserionites were superstitious about harming the Marked, but it would only get her so far. She wasn’t Vylaena. She had no means to fight off a—

  “Are you stalking me, prince?”

  Alaric turned, relief sweeping away his thoughts. Flinx stood behind him, eyebrows raised, one arm curled around a slender volume bound in red leather. She eyed him, a shadow of a smile just barely visible on her lips, her eyes flashing a challenge.

  How he ever thought her incapable of defending herself, he had no idea. She’d disarmed him with one glance.

  “Why do you say that?” he asked, crossing his arms, a wry smile curving up one cheek. “Just becau
se I happen to be visiting the library does not mean I’m looking for you.”

  “Well, I’d barely gotten through the doors when three overexcited librarians jumped on me to tell me the crown prince was currently shouting my name through the stacks.”

  Alaric felt his ears go hot. “I wasn’t shouting it.” He cleared his throat; took a step closer. “So. You have time to do research for Vylaena Azrel, but not for me?”

  Flinx’s expression cooled. “Our bargain was struck at the beginning of the summer. And even had I been able to finish it before you asked me to . . .”

  She fell silent as an acolyte passed them, the boy’s eyes rounding as he recognized Alaric. Flinx tracked him with a frosty stare until he rounded the next stack, then she turned back to Alaric. “Can we continue this conversation in my office?”

  “Perhaps that would be prudent,” Alaric replied.

  He followed Flinx out of the library, noting that she took a different route back—which appeared to circle around the outermost edge of the shelves and thus kept them away from the eyes of any curious librarians. They darted out of the main doors and hurried to the nearest stairwell, neither speaking as they wound their way back to Flinx’s office.

  She closed the door behind them. “You’re getting almost as bad as she is,” the librarian said, whirling around to fix him in a pointed stare. “Though at least you don’t pick the lock on my door and lie in wait to ambush me the next time I come in.”

  “Unfortunately, lock picking isn’t part of a princely education,” Alaric replied, hovering at the edge of Flinx’s desk. He frowned. “What exactly are you researching for Vylaena?”

  “She hasn’t told you?”

  Alaric shook his head.

  “Well. Then I’m not sure it’s right for me to say.”

  “It’s not dangerous, is it?” Alaric asked. “She’s not . . . not plotting, is she?”