Ether-Touched (The Breaking Stone Trilogy Book 1)

by L. M. Coulson

  “When’s the next new moon?” Alaric asked, glancing between her and Thyrian.

  Flinx clenched her fists tighter, her mouth set in a deep frown. “Tonight.”

  32 | The Vanguard

  Pain.

  Vylaena reached for it, hanging on with the remaining tattered scraps of lucidity left in her shattered skull. She clung to it, an iron anchor to the battered, storm-tossed ship of her mind.

  She was broken. Fractured, somehow. Pieces of her had fallen away like unwanted refuse, cast out and forgotten, the spots where they’d lived now hollow and sore. What they’d been, she scoured her brain to recall—and found nothing but fading echoes.

  Pain. It was a little thing, more than bearable, but it was her entire world. Pain meant she was still alive. Still fighting to hang on. She could see it in her mind, playing over and over: that flash of metal, cutting through the air to find its home in her flesh. How had she survived it? How long did she have left?

  She managed to blink, opening crusty eyes to darkness. Goddesses, had she gone blind?

  A panicked terror took hold in her throat for the briefest of moments before she reined it in. No; not blind. She blinked again, and once more. There was a blush of orange at the edge of her vision. She turned her head and saw the silhouette of an iron brazier, its fire burning low, some fifty paces away.

  Her face felt odd as she turned it—tight and itchy. She lifted a hand and felt the dried blood that matted her skin, hissing as the motion irritated her left shoulder. She dropped her arm at once. Glancing down at the mess of bloody bandages wound haphazardly around the wounds beneath, she caught a glint of something metallic atop her breast.

  The hilt of an ether-forged dagger.

  It gleamed with hardened menace in the center of her chest, its plain silver-black grip as familiar and horrifying as a recurrent nightmare. She took a sharp breath as her spine turned to ice, and found herself unable to look away.

  Rutting Ether. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.

  And yet it was. There, stuck between her ribs, was one of the daggers she had forged for Kyshiin of Aughrin, all those years ago. The greatest mistake of her life had finally caught up with her.

  Vylaena pushed herself to a seated position as best she could with one arm, and then grasped the thing with her good hand. I will die before I’m a slave, she thought, pulling with all her strength.

  But the dagger did not budge.

  “It’s no use,” said a raspy voice, breaking through her panic.

  Vylaena dropped her hand and peered into the darkness, only then realizing she was not alone. All around her, darkened shapes huddled in the shadows of the brazier.

  She took a moment to survey the—was it a cave? It had the stale, earthy smell of a cave. The firelight did little to illuminate the space, but she could tell it was large. There were about thirty or so huddled figures spread around her, curled into balls on the stone floor.

  “I’m Ivariel,” continued the woman who’d spoken to her. “What’s your name?”

  Vylaena turned, noting that the woman bore her own chest-dagger. Fear and dread burned beneath the woman’s skeletal frame and mane of shaggy hair. Every other soul in this cave bore an identical version of the same pains. So similar they were, that upon waking, she’d mistaken them for her own.

  “Vylaena. Where am I?”

  The woman hesitated just outside Vylaena’s reach. She had an unlined, dirty face, with reddish hair enhanced by the soft glow of the central fire. A silver Mark danced over her brow, twin to Vylaena’s. She was ether-touched, too.

  “Somewhere beneath Cyair, we think,” the woman replied, her hoarse voice aging her beyond her years. There was a pale scar circling her throat; Vylaena knew the mark of a garrote when she saw one. She wasn’t surprised; many people felt that the ether-touched were too dangerous to keep around, and often took it upon themselves to dole out their version of justice.

  “Why?”

  The woman’s shadowed eyes darkened, and she seemed almost to choke as she replied, “To aid our prince.”

  There was a scraping sound at the back of the cavern, and the woman shuffled away from Vylaena like a mouse frightened into its hole. So much for answers. Vylaena craned her neck to see around the fire, spotting two hooded figures picking their way toward her.

  She should have tried to run. She should have found a weapon—a rock, something—and defended herself. But there was something . . . missing inside her—one of those discarded pieces, perhaps—and she could only stare at the newcomers, slack-jawed and patient, as they approached.

  Both figures were cowled, but they lowered their hoods as they stepped within speaking distance, and she didn’t need much light to recognize their faces.

  Prince Eyren spoke before Vylaena had a chance to form a word against him, barking out orders like an efficient taskmaster. “You will obey my every command,” he told her. “You will not run away. You will not hurt yourself, the other ether-touched, or us. You will not rebel. You will not forge ether unless told, and only as told. Understood?”

  He could take his orders to the rutting Ether. She’d bash his head in with her bare hands. She’d pull this cursed dagger out of her chest and show him exactly what—

  “Yes,” she said, her tongue moving of its own accord. The voice that spoke was flat, listless—not her own. “I will obey you.”

  Oh, rutting Ether.

  A look of deep satisfaction curved up Eyren’s face, riding the crest of his gleeful smile. “Oh, I can’t wait to see what you can do for me, my lovely, obedient Shadowheart.”

  He turned to his companion. “Will she be enough to tip the scales in our favor this time?”

  Serk eyed Vylaena with a focused, cruel gaze. “She’s the one who made the daggers, Highness. Best bit of forging I’ve seen in my lifetime. She’s very powerful.”

  “We’ll put her at the vanguard, then,” Eyren replied. He swiveled on his heel, addressing the room. “The moon is new tonight! We try again at midnight. I want everyone rested and fed—you must be at your best. I can’t afford anyone burning out again.”

  The prince turned to Vylaena. “I hope you’re not too out of practice,” he told her, running a critical eye over her blood-speckled form. “Heal yourself.”

  Vylaena had no choice. There was a thin film of ether hovering throughout the room; she reached out and beckoned a bit of it closer. It obeyed her command, dancing toward her as she unwound the bandages from her shoulder, revealing the remains of her bloody cuirass and layers of skin that had been shredded by ethershot. Not well-forged ethershot, to have done that much damage when set to stun, she thought.

  She gathered the ether in one hand, and it nuzzled her skin as though greeting an old friend. As she’d done to Thyrian’s burned hand, she pressed the ether into her wounded shoulder, enduring the telltale itchiness of its healing, her eyes fluttering closed so she could concentrate fully on ordering the ether to do exactly as she willed it.

  When the shoulder was done, she moved on to her rib, easing the bruises she’d endured in the fighting ring. Her cheeks were next, and then her knuckles, and lastly, the sore spot on her thigh.

  “Perfect,” Eyren breathed as her eyes fluttered open and she shook off what remained of the ether in her hand. His face hardened and he swept his gaze across the room. “I’ll be back later,” he called out. “Be ready when I return.”

  Vylaena watched as Eyren and Serk departed, the edges of their cloaks disappearing around the edge of the entryway.

  “Was it really you who made these?” Ivariel demanded, immediately reappearing beside Vylaena. Her eyes were cold. “Was it?”

  Vylaena paused, feeling the sharp gazes of the gathered ether-touched pressing down upon her. “Yes,” she replied. “It was me. And I’ve regretted it ever since.”

  “You deserve a fate worse than death,” the woman spat, her voice breaking. “Do you know how many people you’ve killed? How many have suffered? This is exac
tly why people hate us so much. And now, their worst fears are about to come to life. Do you have any idea what the prince is trying to do?”

  “Steal Ikna’s power,” Vylaena replied coolly. “Using the Breaking Stone.”

  The woman fell back a little, her eyes going wide. “How did you . . . we didn’t think anyone knew what was going on down here.” She turned to her left. “Faedre... you said that no one was even looking for us.”

  A slight figure moved in the darkness, her features too shadowed for Vylaena to make out. “It’s true,” a girl’s voice replied. “king hasn’t done nothin’. Guard don’t care. ‘Fore I was taken, Mama said there ain’t no one in Enserion who thinks we worth liftin’ a finger over.”

  “She’s right,” Vylaena said, “the king doesn’t give a damn about his people, and he’s too blind to realize what Eyren is doing. But there are others who do—Prince Alaric, for one. We figured it out. And I’m going . . . I’m . . . I’m going to . . . oh, rutting Ether.”

  “You can’t rebel,” Ivariel reminded her, all the anger leaving her in a single, drawn-out sigh. “That’s why you can’t say it. We’ve tried tricking it all kinds of ways. Some of us have been down here for months; we’ve had a lot of time to beat our heads against our cages.”

  Goddesses. She’d been an absolute fool to forge these daggers. She should have endured, gotten her hands out of those cuffs somehow . . .

  “You should eat,” Ivariel said, pushing herself to standing and beckoning for Vylaena to follow. “If you’re going to be at the vanguard . . .” She pressed her lips into a pitying line, leaving the rest of her thoughts unspoken.

  Vylaena obliged, allowing the woman to lead her to the far side of the cave, where a line was already forming in front of a flat slab of stone. A woven sack, like the kind used to carry potatoes, had been upended and a variety of foodstuffs strewn over the makeshift table. One by one, as orderly as a military squadron, the captive ether-touched claimed their evening meals.

  “What’s the vanguard?” Vylaena asked as they took their places at the back of the line. It didn’t appear that there were any guards keeping the ether-touched from leaving the cavern. She noted two different exits, but no one appeared inclined to make a run for freedom. And she understood why; even as she commanded her own feet to move in that direction, they remained locked in place.

  Rutting daggers.

  Ivariel eyed Vylaena with a look of mixed pity and relief. “New moon position in the ritual. Most powerful spot with the most responsibility and the highest risk.” They moved up as the line shortened. “Was going to be my place before they wrangled you up. Though I don’t envy you for it. Not one bit.”

  “Why?”

  Ivariel’s lips twitched and she glanced away, and for a moment Vylaena didn’t think she would reply. But then, in that hoarse drawl, she said, “Because everyone who has ever been in that position has died. Violently.”

  Vylaena had no time or patience for fear. Not right now. Not when she needed to figure out a way to circumvent the dagger in her chest and put an end to Eyren’s plans. “Explain,” she commanded.

  Ivariel eyed Vylaena with a critical gaze, likely noting her hair and the leather armor she wore. Warrior, she could almost hear the woman think.

  “Every month it’s been the same,” Ivariel said as they moved steadily through the line. “We are taken to the Stone room and placed in specific positions based on a lunar chart on the floor. We channel ether into the vanguard—the one at the new moon position—and he or she is supposed to hold that energy until the priestess—”

  “What priestess?”

  Ivariel took a breath. They each took a helping of bread and cheese and made their way back to the center of the room.

  “A priestess of Ikna kneels down on the bare Stone,” Ivariel explained. “She’s supposed to perform a Speaking at precisely midnight, and the vanguard is supposed to start channeling ether into her.

  “What we think is supposed to happen is that when Ikna answers the priestess’s summons, the proximity to the Stone and the channeled ether will keep her chained inside the priestess’s borrowed body. Then Eyren is free to absorb her power.”

  Vylaena processed this for a moment. “But he hasn’t been successful yet?”

  “The vanguards all explode before the priestess can complete the Speaking,” Ivariel answered with a weary shrug of her shoulders. They settled into seated positions beside the brazier. “No one seems to be able to hold that much ether without their thoughts going erratic and sending it into chaos. One month, half of us died when the vanguard accidentally let loose a ball of raw energy. I’ll never forget the sight; all those poor people, ripped to shreds and bleeding out on the floor, their families never knowing what became of them . . .”

  They ate their meals in silence. How do I break past this? Vylaena thought, trying to will the dagger out of her chest by sheer thought alone. But it felt . . . slippery, almost like the part of her attuned to ether just couldn’t grasp the shard of metal in her heart. It was useless, but she kept trying. Maybe, if only she worked at it long enough . . .

  “Don’t be afraid of death,” Ivariel spoke after a while, noting the darkness in Vylaena’s face. “It’s better than being stuck down here for the rest of eternity, a slave to the prince’s whims.”

  “I’m not afraid of dying,” Vylaena replied coolly, “I’m afraid I’m strong enough to carry the ritual forward.” She met Ivariel’s eyes and her tone hardened. “This time, Eyren is going to succeed.”

  33 | The Mercurial Gate

  Alaric paced across Thyrian’s sitting room, physically agitated. Of course Vylaena would disappear tonight, of all nights. When they needed her the most.

  “You have a plan?” Thyrian asked him in a cool tone, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. The Galiffan sat in his usual stiff manner, perched at the edge of his seat and prepared to jump up at the first sign of trouble. Flinx glanced between them with a levelheaded gaze marred only by the concerned wrinkle between her graceful brows, much calmer a presence than he could claim to be.

  “An inkling of one,” Alaric replied. “Nothing I particularly want to attempt, but as our time and options are limited, foolhardy is back on the table.”

  Alaric stopped near one of the narrow, thick-paned windows and checked the angle of the sun. Goddesses, if only they had just a little more time . . .

  “What are you thinking?” Thyrian pressed.

  Alaric turned his head. “That we need to break Kaern out of the dungeons ourselves.”

  “Your father—”

  “No.” Alaric shook his head with vehement force. “I’ve tried that path too many times. It’s time I take responsibility myself.”

  Alaric returned to the cluster of couches and leaned on the back of the chair he’d vacated, running a hand through his hair. “The problem is that the guards know I need official approval from Father in order to release Kaern; he’s the only one with the power to pass judgment on a prisoner of the crown. And I have no idea how to break him out without drawing their attention.”

  Thyrian frowned. “Vylaena was the one who found Kaern in the first place. How could she have gotten in undetected?”

  Alaric just shook his head. He had no idea how Vylaena did half the things she did, least of all sneaking into the palace dungeon.

  “There are ways to travel between two points in space without physically walking there,” Flinx spoke up, her voice cutting through the tension like a sunbeam through mist. “I know of a few relics that could help us.”

  “Anything kept in the castle?” Alaric asked, his interest piqued.

  One side of Flinx’s mouth twitched sideways as she thought. “Well . . . what I had in mind was . . .” She glanced up to meet Alaric’s eyes, a rueful expression painting her face. “Well. It’s considered something of a . . . of a legend.” She shrugged. “Most scholars believe it tremendously unlikely that the relic still exists, if it ever did.”

&n
bsp; “But you aren’t most, are you?”

  The librarian’s lips quirked upwards. “No. I’m not.”

  Alaric held the woman’s gaze, finding his own mouth twitching with a mirrored smile. A familiar warmth blossomed at his brow, signaling this path was true. No; not just that—it was more this time. Clearer, more focused—as if for a moment the threads of time parted to reveal a single strand, wrapped around his heart and stretching onwards into the future, as obvious and true as a compass held in his hand. A feeling of overwhelming rightness swelled in his chest.

  Sweet goddesses, it felt good.

  Alaric rounded the chair and took a seat closer to Flinx, leaning towards her with rapt eagerness. “Explain,” he commanded.

  She wasted no time. “It’s called the Mercurial Gate,” she replied. “A good portion of the palace’s foundation is built from raw ether infused into solid stone. Stone is powerful in itself; ether-forged stone even more so. And thus, when the castle was built, it had a few . . . quirks.”

  Flinx licked her lips. “Some people are more . . . attuned to ether than others—even if they aren’t Marked. My guess is that somehow, that stone foundation fed off one or more particularly sensitive builders—not literally, of course, but in much the same manner that an ether-touched forms ether with her intentions and her thoughts. A definite risk of handling such a powerful material.”

  “So what is it?” Thyrian asked, still assuming his straight-backed posture.

  “A stairwell, in layman’s terms. But not an ordinary one. It had the power to lead a person anywhere in the castle, so long as they concentrated on their destination or what they were trying to find. Or . . . sometimes, where other forces—namely the goddesses—decided they needed to go . . .”