Ether-Touched (The Breaking Stone Trilogy Book 1)

by L. M. Coulson

  Thyrian felt Vylaena’s eyes on him, hot and urgent, but he didn’t dare turn to gauge her expression. “How convenient,” he replied.

  Prince Eyren appeared at Thyrian’s right side, reaching for Caeslin’s arm. Thyrian watched him, his gut twisting uncomfortably to see Eyren so close to his sister, even though he’d just cautioned Vylaena against judging the man. His instincts, it seemed, had other ideas now that they were in the same room.

  Was this man truly responsible for the disappearances of Enserion’s ether-touched? Thyrian had to admit that the evidence did not seem to be in the prince’s favor. But he could do nothing here; he had no physical proof. He could only grit his teeth and keep a sharp eye on the man.

  “Come,” Eyren said, beaming at Caeslin, “your brother’s had you to himself for twenty-odd years. Join us at the window; we want to hear all about you and your life in Galiff. I hear you’re an artist?”

  Eyren steered Thyrian’s sister away, the king following in rapt attention. Both appeared beguiled by the woman. Thyrian had grown used to that a long time ago, her Knack being what it was, but this time was different. He clenched a fist around the pommel of his sword and tried to keep breathing.

  Alaric hovered near Thyrian for a moment, looking mildly nervous. “Imagine my shock,” he said quietly, “when I realized that the woman my father had arranged for me to meet was none other than your sister.”

  “I don’t have to imagine it,” Thyrian snapped. “I’m living it.”

  “This is turning into a much more interesting evening than I’d anticipated,” Vylaena interjected with a cool smile, drifting past them.

  Thyrian could barely concentrate at dinner. He said very little, but it was just as well; Caeslin commanded much of the conversation, settling into her place as Object of Intrigue with the ease of a woman quite comfortable with attention. He’d seen her just before he’d left for Enserion, but for some reason she felt like a stranger to him now. She looked so happy, so endearing, so oblivious to the darkness that ran beneath this place like a poisoned river.

  Dinner was over before Thyrian realized, and Alaric invited Caeslin and him—and thus Vylaena—back to his rooms for a more private reception.

  “You’ve barely said two sentences all evening,” Caeslin said to him as they settled into Alaric’s sitting room, her painted lips curving into a slight pout. A page served them wine and then departed.

  “I’m sorry, Caesie. I’ve been distracted.” He attempted a smile and then abandoned it. He’d never been good at shielding his emotions. “Caeslin,” he continued, in a more somber tone, “can you tell me exactly how you got here? Who persuaded you to come?”

  His sister didn’t appear surprised by the question. Caeslin might’ve been the most carefree of his siblings, but she was still clever. She eyed him over her wine, sipping daintily. “I know you’re worried about the Desert Kingdoms, Thyrian. I’m just doing what I can to help. Galiff and Enserion must unite, and your last letter did not sound very hopeful.”

  “Who, Caeslin?”

  She sighed, setting her glass on the central table. “Lord Wroth invited me. He and his valet, I can’t recall his name—the one who had those travel-stone relics. They were both exceedingly amiable fellows. I’m quite put out that they weren’t at dinner.”

  The room fell silent as everyone stared at the princess in varying degrees of shock and disbelief.

  “Serk?” Vylaena said finally, from behind Thyrian. He had to turn to look at her; she stood at his left shoulder, arms free at her sides and just brushing her daggers. It was a position of defense, and he wondered idly if she was protecting him against his own sister. “And Lord Wroth? You’re certain?”

  Caeslin nodded, confusion wrinkling her brow. “I’m sorry, dear—we haven’t been introduced. You are . . . ?”

  Thyrian didn’t think Vylaena had ever been called “dear” in her life, but she took the token of affection with a calmer face than he’d expected. “Vylaena Azrel of the Shadowheart,” she said in a curt tone. “Or, if you’re into hollow titles, Protector of the Realm.”

  “Truly? Vylaena Azrel?” Caeslin’s emerald eyes went round and she leaned forward, confusion melting into a brilliant, grateful smile. Thyrian felt himself reflexively relaxing. “The same Vylaena who killed Cylon of Elska and gave his hoard of lynd to the orphanage there?”

  Vylaena’s lips twitched; Thyrian wondered if that was as close as she got to a blush. “Not all of it,” she replied.

  “My old governess runs that orphanage,” Caeslin replied breathlessly, still looking at Vylaena as though the mercenary had just plucked a star from the sky. “We write to each other still. She almost died of happiness that day—said it was the best thing that had ever happened to those children.”

  “I had a debt to pay,” Vylaena said quietly.

  Thyrian turned and scanned her face, knowing exactly what debt that had been. And yet he couldn’t help but feel surprise over the gesture; it seemed entirely unlike the woman who’d claimed no act of selflessness could right the world’s wrongs. The fates of those Desert children had truly and deeply affected her.

  A small grin crept over his lips. So. Buried beneath all that unfeeling detachment and confident bravado, she had tried to fix things.

  “Regardless,” Caeslin said to Vylaena with a warm smile, “you have my earnest gratitude.”

  “Lord Wroth’s companion,” Alaric said, recapturing Caeslin’s attention. “What did he look like?”

  “Average height. Looked Iedan—straight black hair, pale complexion. Not handsome, but confident.”

  Vylaena and Thyrian shared a glance. That was Serk, all right.

  “And Lord Wroth,” Vylaena pressed. “What about him?”

  Caeslin’s brow wrinkled, and as her face fell, so too did the aura of comfort radiating from her. That was the limitation of her Knack—it only worked when she was at ease herself.

  “What’s going on here?” she asked. “Why do you all look like a wight just walked into the room? Surely you’ve met the man.”

  “No,” Thyrian replied, his tone grave. “We haven’t. To be honest, we believe it might be a false name.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Why would the king organize my visit through someone like that?”

  “Organize is not precisely the right term,” Alaric said, bitterness tingeing his inflection. “It was certainly his idea, but he wouldn’t have carried it out. Someone else would have organized the excursion to Galiff and persuaded you to come.”

  “Well,” Caeslin said, glancing at Alaric with a wry smile, “I’m still glad I’m here, no matter who planned it.”

  Thyrian swallowed the urge to get up and place himself between the two of them. “How are Mother and Father, Caesie? How did they take the news of . . . of Ardren’s death?”

  Caeslin turned to him. “Mother worse than Father, but he had been her childhood tutor. What happened, Thyrian?”

  He still wasn’t entirely sure. They’d hired more than enough guardsmen to get them through the dangerous backwater places of Enserion’s countryside and down the Etherway. There had been a few bands of cutthroats and bandits to deal with, but none had posed a serious threat. Until that night, just out of sight of Cyair, when they’d been ambushed in a flurry of flaming arrows . . .

  “Lord Wroth happened,” Vylaena answered for him. She shifted her weight slightly and her array of weapons clinked. “He’s been trying to kill Thyrian since he arrived here—setting up the attack on his caravan, commissioning mercenaries to ambush him on the king’s hunt . . .”

  She fixed her eyes on Alaric. “When we first told you, you said the name Lord Wroth was familiar—where did you learn it?”

  Alaric frowned, thinking. “Our old history tutor, I believe. He was a fanatic when it came to the Iedan Empire. It was too long ago for me to remember everything, but I do know we were definitely taught the name.”

  “We?”

  “Eyren and I. We shared tutors growi
ng up.”

  Vylaena’s eyes glinted dangerously. “And did you know that Lorist Rynley had been doing research for your brother before he was killed?

  “Flinx’s mentor?”

  “Yes. And not just any research—he was looking into the Breaking Stone. The relic that Emperor Tygnon—Lord Wroth—created.”

  “Wait, stop a moment,” Alaric said, holding out a hand. “Eyren is not Lord Wroth. He can’t be. I know my brother, and he would never dream of harming anyone, least of all Thyrian. It was Eyren who helped me draw up the plan to get Thyrian here in the first place!” Alaric shook his head. “No. Establishing this alliance is just as important to Eyren as it is to me.”

  “Thyrian?” Caeslin said, finally looking properly worried. “What’s going on?”

  He took a breath and met her alarmed gaze. “We aren’t entirely sure yet. But you must be careful here, Caeslin. Be yourself and have a . . .” he cleared his throat, glancing at Alaric, “. . . have a good time. But be careful. Don’t trust anyone outside this room. And don’t speak of this conversation to anyone. Understand?”

  Caeslin frowned at him, but nodded.

  “Lord Wroth,” Vylaena pressed, “what did he look like?”

  “A bit like Alaric, actually,” Caeslin said, turning. “A cousin, maybe? Much older, though. Grey hair, brown eyes . . . rather tall and wiry.”

  Thyrian could almost see the relief roll off Alaric’s shoulders. “Not Eyren. See?”

  Vylaena abandoned her post behind Thyrian and took a seat beside him on the couch. Though it was large enough for them both, she settled down so close that the dagger strapped to her thigh pressed into his own. She didn’t seem to notice, but Thyrian saw Alaric’s eyes dart to their adjoined hips before flicking back up.

  “You don’t know that,” Vylaena said to Alaric. “Eyren was wearing an ether-forged circlet at the king’s banquet. It’s not the easiest thing to forge a disguise good enough to fool someone up close, but it can potentially be done. Like a costume, tucked out of sight until it’s needed.”

  “Why would Prince Eyren need a disguise to meet me?” Caeslin pointed out, frowning. “We’ve met before—at the cathedral a few years ago.”

  “Why indeed,” Vylaena replied.

  “Eyren is not Lord Wroth,” Alaric pressed. “That’s absolutely ridiculous.”

  Thyrian gave his sister a cautionary look. “Caeslin, you can’t let on that we suspect him. Of any wrongdoing whatsoever.”

  “Of course,” she said, though there was a shadow of worry in her eyes. “I wouldn’t think of it. But would you please promise me, that once you do know what’s going on, you’ll fill me in? You don’t have to protect me all the time; I could be of help.”

  “I will, Caeslin,” Thyrian replied solemnly.

  “Let’s talk of something more pleasant,” Alaric suggested, throwing a sharp look at Vylaena and pouring himself more wine. “It’s not too late yet; we could go down to the gaming room and play Ryst. There should be a few courtiers lingering around to fill out teams.”

  “Only if I can be on yours,” Caeslin said, turning a brilliant smile on him. “I’ve heard about your Knack, Prince Alaric. I should like to see it in action.”

  “Ah! Did you both hear that? A lady impressed by my talents.”

  “Just don’t let him write you poetry,” Vylaena murmured.

  ✽✽✽

  Thyrian was in no mood to play games—this was hardly an appropriate time—but he relented for Caeslin’s sake. Vylaena stared daggers at him the whole walk to the gaming room; likely she’d hoped he would’ve declined and saved them both from a night of forced politeness.

  He wanted to enjoy his sister’s presence—to be fair, he got along better with Arythene, but Caeslin was still closer to him than his brothers were—but he just couldn’t. It was awkward, to stand by and watch as she flirted with Alaric. It wasn’t that he minded the possibility of calling the man brother one day—to be fair, he actually felt some relief in knowing his sister’s suitor was a decent man and a close friend—he just couldn’t help but feel protective of her despite the fact.

  But it went deeper than that. He was worried about the meaning behind her presence, which he couldn’t quite believe was as innocuous as it appeared. What part did she play in this tangled mess? Why had the king taken the initiative to seek her out? Why had Lord Wroth—Eyren?—and Serk gone personally to escort her here? Surely not just to tempt the prince with a pretty face; her arrival had been too secret and too sudden for that. The possibilities deeply unsettled him.

  “You don’t play it as well as he does,” Vylaena said to him in between games, as they waited for Alaric and Caeslin to reset the life-sized Ryst board for a new round. She lounged on a windowsill where she could take in the proceedings with a critical eye without being in the midst of the action, her skirt hitched up to expose long legs encased in black leather. Several of the noblewomen in their party glanced at her with thin, downturned lips, scandalized by her flippant posture.

  Thyrian eyed her. “You expect us to win Ryst against a man with a Knack for gambling?”

  “No, not that game. The game. This charade,” she waved a hand over the room. “Court. Politics. You put on a face like he does, but you get distracted. Sullen. It’s not just your expression that’s required to convince people, you know. Just look at Alaric. He’s hating every second of this just as much as you are, but you’d never guess it.”

  Thyrian turned to examine the prince, who was laughing wholeheartedly at something Caeslin had just said. He appeared completely at ease: head thrown back, hands on his hips, enjoying himself more than Thyrian had seen since they’d first met.

  “He’s screaming inside,” Vylaena added, leaning over his shoulder. Her stray blue hairs tickled his ear.

  Thyrian frowned at her, batting them away. “I’m certain he is. He already has enough worries, especially with his brother appearing so suspicious. Throwing Caeslin at him doesn’t help.”

  “She’s a pawn in this. You think so, too.”

  Thyrian pursed his lips, watching his sister struggle to move a large wooden gaming piece. “I fear so. But I sincerely hope we’re wrong.”

  29 | The Mark

  Thyrian excused himself after the midnight bell, leaving Caeslin with Alaric and the other gathered courtiers. He and Vylaena walked back to their rooms in contemplative silence.

  “There’s something I need to mention,” Vylaena said in a muted tone, following Thyrian inside his suite to make a cursory search of his rooms. Satisfied no one was waiting to ambush them, she leaned against the door that linked their bedchambers.

  “There was ether on the king tonight.”

  Thyrian frowned at her, unbuckling his sword belt and tossing it on his bed. “What do you mean?”

  “It could have been nothing,” she replied, her eyes dark. “I’ve sensed similar echoes on people who’ve just taken ether-forged healing draughts. He might’ve simply been ill, and downed a tincture before dinner.”

  “Or . . .?” Thyrian pressed, sensing there was more to it.

  “Or . . . not,” Vylaena replied vaguely, shifting her weight to the other hip. “Could’ve been pretty much anything. Something to erase the grey from his hair, or to smooth his wrinkles, or to keep his hands steady when he poured wine. But he might’ve also . . . there’s the possibility he might’ve been actively manipulated. Against his will. I’ve seen it done many ways: a ring, a tonic, or even a forged thread sewn into someone’s underclothes. Something small and specific, something that would be relatively easy to forge. Like making him more open to the idea of inviting Caeslin to Enserion.”

  Thyrian considered this, wondering what the likelihood was that the king had been influenced by an etherial relic. Had the king merely tried to regain a little youthful vigor in the presence of a foreign princess, or was something more sinister at play?

  That wasn’t the only question on his mind. “How is it that you retain such a skill
, even without your Mark?” he asked Vylaena. “You knew how to track that wight in the Elderwood, and you identified Eyren’s ether-forged crown. Why are you still able to sense ether?”

  Vylaena paused before speaking, glancing away from him in a rare faltering of her usual confidence. Her lips, which he’d begun to realize she could never quite control as well as the rest of her expression, were hardened into a tense line.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “To my knowledge, I’m the only one who has ever rejected her Mark. There isn’t exactly another example I can reference.”

  Thyrian nodded, and a lengthy silence stretched between them. Vylaena looked atypically distracted, her eyes focused somewhere near Thyrian’s elbow, and he wondered where her thoughts lingered. Even with all he’d learned about her in their brief acquaintance, he couldn’t even begin to guess.

  “Ikna wants me to find the missing ether-touched.”

  Well. That was not what he’d been expecting.

  “She spoke to you?” he asked. The prospect didn’t seem as unlikely as it once might have, especially after their encounter with Yrsa in the Elderwood.

  Vylaena didn’t confirm, but he read the truth in her eyes as she lifted them back to his face. There was a vulnerability there that he’d caught a glimpse of when they’d spoken early that morning—something slightly exposed in her gaze, like a door opened to a slit.

  “With everything that’s been happening . . .” her expression darkened. “I’m beginning to think Ikna’s words were a clue. I think maybe the key to breaking my Curse is finding the lost ether-touched.”

  “How are they connected?”

  Vylaena paused, resolve slowly returning to her face. But it was different than her usual stern cockiness; there was something else there, in the tilt of her chin and the line of her mouth . . . hope. Determination. Somehow liberated of her usual single-mindedness and instead laced with something softer: awe.

  “Remember what Flinx said this afternoon?” Vylaena said. “That she feared what the kidnapped ether-touched might be forced to do?” Her eyes narrowed. “Ikna was . . . frightened. Fearful of what had happened to them, not just outraged. And I think I’ve finally realized why.”