Ether-Touched (The Breaking Stone Trilogy Book 1)

by L. M. Coulson

  And then she saw his circlet.

  Like Alaric, Prince Eyren wore an artifact of his station, resting easily atop his freshly trimmed hair. It flashed as she glanced at it, curdling her innards, tasting of stale water and metal. The edges of her vision flickered with a rainbow-hued aura, sickening her with slippery colors.

  It was ether-forged.

  She blinked, and the sensations were gone.

  Wearing an ether-forged crown wasn’t exactly abnormal—especially for a man of his station. Many of the well-to-do wore pieces of ether-forged jewelry or clothing: rings that detected poison, bracelets that told time, cloaks that turned aside an assassin’s dagger. A few years ago it had been in vogue to wear elaborate hats that surrounded a person with a glowing, colored aura with no other purpose than to make one look like a rutting fey creature.

  What the prince’s circlet did, she had no idea. The possibilities were nearly endless. But having given up her ability to work ether, she had no way to sense its purpose.

  And no reason to care, besides. She glanced away, taking her seat at Thyrian’s right near the end of the high table, and instead directed her full attention to balancing atop the silk deathtrap now wound around her legs.

  Much to Vylaena’s dismay, being named Protector of the Realm seemed to have deluded the gathered nobility into thinking they could approach her chair and make idle conversation, as if she were a new plaything for their personal pleasure. As if they couldn’t see the blue in her hair and the ice in her eyes.

  They were very quickly disappointed.

  “You don’t even try,” Thyrian observed quietly, as the last in a string of stiff-necked courtiers excused himself from Vylaena’s presence and hastened back to his seat at one of the lower tables, glancing at her briefly before murmuring to his waiting companions.

  “Try what?” Vylaena asked without looking at him. “Forging false friendships? Kissing fingers?” She turned, fixing him in a dull stare. “Do they really expect that of me?”

  Thyrian shrugged. “Knowledge of the Shadowheart isn’t as prevalent outside Aeswic as you might think,” he replied. “People hear rumors, but they don’t always believe them.”

  “They’re fools.”

  A small smile sprung over Thyrian’s lips. “Because they don’t find you intimidating enough? Or because they don’t heed the warnings?”

  “Both.”

  Thyrian gave a muted laugh, reaching for his wine glass. He took a draught and then set it down, his smile fading into something more focused. He regarded her with that same singular attentiveness he always seemed to give her. “How do you do it?”

  “Sit in a dress? I’ve no rutting idea.”

  Another smile, weaker this time. “Endure life without friendship. Be alone, every single day of your life.”

  ✽✽✽

  Vylaena stared at him, a breath away from a scowl. For a moment he thought she might say something—he saw a flicker of . . . something pass through her eyes before sizzling out like a dying ember. But then she glanced away, her face unreadable once more.

  It seemed she was back to her usual steely self. Whatever psychosis had overcome her that night when they’d sparred—when she’d been content to lay beside him in the grass and tell him about her life in Aeswic—was gone now.

  Thyrian wasn’t the most charismatic of conversationalists; that was his older sister, Caeslin’s strength. He had no idea what to say to a brick-faced Shadowheart who obviously preferred to be left alone. As he picked at the food placed before him and felt the curious eyes of the Enserionite nobility inspecting every inch of him, he wished he was back in Galiff, camped on some leafy outcrop with his fellow soldiers. Somewhere he might not feel so damn out of place.

  Coming here had been your idea.

  That was true. But he’d also assumed he’d make the trip with a squadron of his own men. And Ardren, the Galiffan advisor who’d known so much more about politics and courtly life than Thyrian did. Thyrian had—naively, he admitted—assumed that Ardren would take care of the negotiations and meetings and whatever it was that made two kingdoms join together once they’d finally reached Cyair. He was just the figurehead—just a man of arms who happened to have an important name.

  Thyrian took another drink of wine. Now Ardren was dead, along with dozens of good, decent men—some of whom he’d fought beside back in Galiff. All gone back to the Ether. And his gift—Asta’s Blessing—had not been enough to save them.

  Never before had he relied so heavily on his name. That was all he was to these people: a Lothar. A Galiffan prince. He’d never been in a situation where his status as a royal overrode that of his position as a soldier.

  There was movement at his peripheral, and he glanced over to meet Vylaena’s pointed gaze. “What?” he demanded.

  She inclined her head, her eyes flickering to his chest. “You’re leaking again.”

  “Out of the top or the bottom?”

  A ghost of a smile perched on Vylaena’s lips. “That mess of guilt and confusion eating at your ribs. It’s escaped your control again.” She paused, her mouth tightening. “It’s most potent when you’re asleep, and can’t shield it from me.”

  The image of Vylaena keeping vigil over Thyrian’s bed as he drooled into his pillows flashed through his mind and he grimaced. It was enough to inspire nightmares.

  “We share a wall,” Vylaena reminded him. “You’re always within my range.”

  Thyrian inclined his head in apology. “I’ll try to keep my uh . . . feelings to myself.”

  He prepared for her to prod further, to ask what precisely was bothering him. Anyone else would have. But Vylaena merely returned her gaze to her food, withdrawing her attention as if it had never been on him in the first place.

  Right. She had no reason to care.

  “What is your range?” he asked finally, still observing her. There were five piercings in the ear closest to him, each capped with a plain silver stud. They weren’t decoration; the Shadowheart were too austere for that. No, these were marks of honor—reminders that pain had been endured and conquered. The tattoo peeking over her shoulder, too.

  “About fifty feet in all directions,” she replied. She scowled at her plate. “What is this festering rubbish? Boiled leeches?”

  “Pickled beets. So you can feel everyone’s pain in this room?”

  Vylaena opened her mouth to speak, but then immediately closed it, her brows furrowing in one of the most dramatic expressions he’d ever seen her make. “Well . . . that’s odd.”

  “What is?”

  “It’s really . . . quiet in here. A few aching knees from the elderly, some lingering grief from a wife’s passing,”—her eyes flickered to the king—“but nothing... nothing real.”

  “That sounds real enough to me.”

  But she remained very still. Straight-backed. Pensive. “Ether,” she murmured.

  It took Thyrian a breath or two to understand. Oh. There was such little physical pain here, because the nobility could afford the services of an ether-touched—the best physicians in the world. Their ether-forged tinctures were legendary, and could even be made from the diluted, rogue ether that was common in Aethryl.

  And it was more than that—the nobility had the means to protect their ethersmiths, to ensure that whatever was happening to the ether-touched of Enserion would not happen to theirs.

  “In Galiff,” he explained, “the crown pays a special stipend to ethersmiths who can provide healing services. It’s an incentive of sorts. Many set up clinics and provide aid to anyone who needs it—they’re paid on a scale according to the number of patients they successfully assist.”

  Vylaena met Thyrian’s gaze, her irises—for once—as still as a frozen pond. “Surely that costs your family a fortune.”

  “Fewer sick people mean more workers. More workers mean more commerce, more harvest, more citizens able to pay their taxes. The crown pays a good deal of lynd for the service, yes, but the returns are worth
it. We have an obligation to our people, to provide for those unable to take care of themselves. When they return to society, we’re all stronger for it.”

  Vylaena was quiet for a long moment as she absorbed this, taking a careful bite of roasted chicken and dutifully avoiding the pickled beets. “I’ve never been to Galiff,” she said finally. “I wanted to go. But I never made it.”

  A thrill of excitement swept through Thyrian’s gut. “The Ring Mountains can be difficult to navigate,” he said carefully, afraid of scaring her into silence. “I’m not surprised.”

  “You think difficulty kept me away?”

  “What, then?”

  But there it was again—that taciturn, closed look. Like a door slammed in his face. Vylaena turned away, retreating from him, and he sighed, allowing her her silence. He understood her reservations. Conversations like this—the exchange of personal history—was frowned upon in her culture. It was the foundation of friendship.

  And she’s afraid of it.

  The thought floored him. Glancing at her sideways without turning his head, he wondered if she knew it herself. She was afraid. The woman who’d marched into the Desert Kingdoms and tangled with Kyshiin of Aughrin—the woman who’d run straight at a wight without so much as a backward glance—was afraid. Of friendship.

  It wasn’t just her sticking to the code of her upbringing—not entirely. She’d left that life, she’d told him. And she hadn’t looked back. What she hadn’t been able to shake, though, was the fear they’d instilled in her.

  Or her Curse.

  She’d never experienced friendship or love herself, just its horrors—just the broken pieces, the aftermath, the pains. That was all she’d ever known of it. No wonder she retracted into herself when it came to anything personal.

  She didn’t understand that friendship, love—they had their good parts, too. There was so to much life that she was missing. So much joy she couldn’t see.

  And that, Thyrian thought, was a true shame. For if there was anyone he’d met who needed a little joy in their life, it was Vylaena Azrel.

  ✽✽✽

  Some time later Alaric came by to tug Thyrian to the dance floor, where a variety of couples were already weaving in and out of structured rows. It was time for them to mingle with the courtiers and sniff out any clues about Lord Wroth’s true identity, or find out if anyone had heard anything about the missing ether-touched. They left Vylaena at the table, where she watched, still as a marble pillar, for any sign of an attack forming against Thyrian.

  She was unexpectedly relieved when they left. Her conversations with Thyrian always seemed to land on topics she wasn’t used to speaking about, and she wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Annoyed, came to mind. But she wasn’t. Not really. Just . . . unwilling. There was a difference, wasn’t there?

  The sooner Alaric and Thyrian performed their duty here, the better. She was eager to return to her rooms and burn this cursed silk atrocity. She couldn’t move her arms properly and she felt dangerously close to ripping the sleeves off, no matter that she was sitting mere seats away from the King of Enserion. The pure thrill of open rebellion was almost tempting enough to . . .

  Someone slipped into Thyrian’s empty chair—Prince Eyren. He smiled at her, ignoring the cold glance of warning she gave him.

  “Evening,” he said in a light tone. “Enjoying the banquet?”

  “No.”

  His smile widened. “Ah, good. I thought it was just me. Now we can commiserate together.”

  Surely he was joking. She leveled a flat gaze at him and he let out a genial laugh. “Don’t worry; I’ll leave you alone in a moment. I just wanted to ask if you’d given any thought to what I said to you the other morning.”

  For a moment Vylaena had no idea what he was talking about. That seemed ages ago now. What had he said to her? Something about a different world . . .

  “I never had the same restraints on my time that Alaric did,” Eyren continued, before Vylaena had time to reply. “While he was mostly confined to the palace, I was able to pursue passions of my own choosing—one perk of being ignored, I suppose. I traveled extensively growing up. To all five foreign realms. And each time I’d return home to tell Alaric of the things I’d seen.”

  Vylaena remained silent.

  “Have you ever been out of Enserion, Vylaena Azrel?”

  She hesitated, and then replied, “Yes.”

  “Then you must have seen what I saw. The problems that plague this kingdom are not unique to Enserion. All over Aethryl, evil thrives. Cutthroats take innocent lives over an acre of contested land. Men trade children into slavery to pay off their debts. Lynd trades hands but always seems to end up in the pockets of the elite. And yes, I count myself partially responsible.”

  Vylaena listened in quiet contemplation. Eyren’s words were so akin to her own experiences, to her own deductions, that she allowed him to continue.

  Eyren paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was low and even. “I have a plan to change things. I just need allies who believe in the cause and are willing to donate their talents.”

  Vylaena looked at him then, eyes flashing. “What does Alaric think about this?”

  Eyren’s smile faltered slightly, then rebounded. “He agrees that things need to change. But he’s not much use when it comes to facilitating that change.”

  That was a surprise. “He’s star-born,” Vylaena pointed out. “Not to mention the future King of Enserion. Neither are useful?”

  “It’s not . . .” Eyren took a breath, and then started again. “I love my brother. He is one of the only people in this world I trust. But Alaric’s Knack is unreliable and oftentimes more of a barrier than an asset. And you must have realized by now that he doesn’t exactly hold much power at court. He’s weak-willed, in some ways, and he’s never going to be a strong ruler. I can’t count on his title alone to aid us.”

  “And what is it, exactly,” Vylaena pressed, her eyes hardening, “that you plan to do to ‘change things’?”

  The prince was silent for a long minute, gazing out over the crowd of courtiers below their table. Vylaena followed suit, her eyes catching on Thyrian, who was in the midst of a conversation with three eager-looking women in pastel satins, a strained grin painted on his face. She could feel his deep discomfort across the room and almost smiled.

  “Anything it might require,” Eyren finally replied, drawing Vylaena’s attention back. “Perhaps we might figure that out together, should you decide it a worthy cause.” He stood, rising gracefully to his feet—no doubt thanks to the fact that he was permitted to wear a proper pair of pants—and stared down at her one last time.

  “Please; seriously consider it,” he told her. “We will speak again.”

  Vylaena nodded to him and he returned the gesture, moving down to the dance floor to join the other courtiers.

  Only then did she notice the commotion outside the hall: raised voices and a cluster of guards just outside the main doors. She rose as quickly as she could manage, pushing through the crowded ballroom to investigate.

  A whole group of guardsmen had gathered. A few broke off into a run toward the north as Vylaena approached, one racing back inside the banquet hall. Vylaena forced herself into the melee, banging a knuckle on a soldier’s armored vambrace in order to catch his attention.

  “What’s going on?” she demanded.

  The man’s eyes flickered to her hair and he backed up half a step, his eyes going round. “Don’t know. Just got here. They’ve called for the lieutenant.”

  “Vylaena?”

  Vylaena glanced around at the sound of her name, finding Flinx, tearstained and disheveled, held in the grasp of a guardsman as though she were a limp apron on a kitchen hook.

  “Flinx.” Vylaena pushed her way to the woman, taking her arm from the guard. He let the woman go with unceremonious indifference. “What’s happened?”

  Flinx’s eyes were red and watery. “I don’t know. Merciful goddesses, I
don’t know. Vylaena—someone killed Lorist Rynley. With ether.”

  ✽✽✽

  Thyrian sensed the commotion, even though the guardsmen did their best not to disrupt the banquet. A soldier’s sense; one that had kept him alive. And when Vylaena appeared at his side, her eyes dark and somber, he had no reservations in excusing himself from the conversation he’d been in the midst of thoroughly muddling up.

  “What’s going on?” Alaric asked from behind them as they made their way out of the ballroom.

  “It’s Flinx,” Vylaena explained. “Her mentor was just murdered.”

  They met Flinx in the hall, where an exchange of words between Alaric and Lieutenant Jyron got them an escort to the library. The journey across the palace grounds was tense; the poor librarian seemed to be in shock, and Vylaena was barely keeping her frustration in check as she struggled to match their pace in her skirts. Alaric, who kept glancing at Flinx with a look of deep pity, wasn’t helping. Thyrian wanted to say something but didn’t know what—so he kept his mouth shut, hovering at Vylaena’s side to catch her in case she tripped. He hoped desperately that wouldn’t be necessary.

  There was a single guardsman outside Lorist Rynley’s office to keep a crowd of curious passersby at bay. At the sight of Prince Alaric and his entourage, the crowd only swelled, and Alaric snapped at their retinue to keep everyone away.

  The four of them entered the office, leaving the guards outside, and silence fell once more.

  Vylaena was the first to stride forward, crossing the room to examine the elderly lorist. He lay crumpled on the floor, his arms splayed to his sides, one shoulder crunched against the foot of his desk. She hitched her skirts dangerously high and squatted beside the man, searching his body for clues.

  Thyrian caught Alaric’s eye and motioned toward Flinx, who swayed on her feet as if she were about to be sick. Understanding, Alaric stepped forward and put a reassuring hand on her back. “I’m terribly sorry,” he told her. “You knew him well?”

  “He was like an uncle to me,” Flinx replied, going rigid beneath Alaric’s touch. She took a long, fortifying breath. “I can’t believe it. I talked to him only a few hours ago.”