Ether-Touched (The Breaking Stone Trilogy Book 1)

by L. M. Coulson

  She paused, shrugging. “Old Kings used it to get around the halls quickly, and find courtiers they needed to meet without having to search them out on foot.”

  Alaric’s brows tightened. “Why ‘Mercurial’?” he asked.

  Flinx’s sheepish look returned. “Because the thing was prone to flights of fancy,” she confessed. “It was a moving staircase. It might live in one corner for an afternoon before disappearing to the cellar for a week. And eventually, it was lost altogether. Which is why most scholars dismiss it as legend. Or at least a long-dead artifact.”

  Thyrian shifted in his seat. “That sounds intriguing, of course, but how does it help us? We don’t have time to go searching the palace for an etherial staircase that may no longer exist.”

  “But we have Alaric,” Flinx supplied, tilting her head sideways to capture Alaric in her clever gaze. “He has a Knack for betting, does he not? If he tells us it’s no use to try, and the Gate is gone, then so be it. But if it is still here . . .”

  Alaric’s Mark flickered with an urgent warmth and he pressed his fingers to it out of reflex. “Then we have a discreet and fast way to get Kaern out of the dungeon.”

  “Well?” Thyrian asked, his eyes flickering to Alaric’s forehead.

  Alaric let his fingers fall back to his side, his eyes fluttering closed. The warmth was still there, pulling him forward from within, as though he were hooked on a fisherman’s line. It was a sensation he’d felt before, but never quite as strongly this. It was sharp and intentional, a mental prodding toward the decision ahead. And he knew, with pure certainty, that making this decision would lead directly to the outcome he desired.

  His eyes opened to Flinx’s eager face, the first breaths of a smile waiting on the horizon of her lips.

  “We look for the Gate,” he replied.

  ✽✽✽

  A nagging feeling plagued Thyrian as he followed Alaric and Flinx down another series of abandoned halls, churning up dust from the neglected floorboards. He couldn’t stop wondering about Vylaena, despite the much larger issues at hand. She hovered at the back of his mind as a stern pair of silver eyes and a flash of azure hair.

  And a very unwelcome distraction.

  He pulled his attention back to the present, as Alaric increased his pace and led them into a cavernous room, darkened by shuttered windows. They slowed as they entered, the shadows settling around them like a quiet rain.

  Flinx—a clever one, that librarian—had thought to bring a small etherlamp, just small enough to fit into her skirt pocket. She lit it with a touch. A hard, white-blue light pooled around them, just barely strong enough to illuminate their path.

  She drew a sharp breath. “The Stone Knights,” she breathed.

  Thyrian followed her gaze to find a cluster of tall limestone statues lingering in the darkness, the curves of their shields and the strong lines of their outstretched swords throwing hard shadows across their carved armor. Something about them sent a chill up his spine, as though he’d stumbled into a cemetery where all the graves had been dug up. An eerie warning flooded his gut.

  Thyrian raised his head to look, but didn’t step closer. “They’re women,” he remarked with a sliver of surprise. Not unusual in Galiff, but here in Enserion it was rare to find a female soldier, much less a statue of one.

  “I thought the cathedral had them all under lock and key,” Flinx continued, holding her lamp high above her head to examine the statue closest to her. The Stone Knight was so tall that the librarian only came up to the statue’s waist. Observing her, Thyrian had the horrible feeling that if she drew any closer, the statue would wake up and plunge its sword into her heart.

  “I’ve heard some strange stories about the cathedral,” Alaric piped up, “but I never knew they were art collectors.”

  Flinx balked at him. “Not art—they’re ether-forged relics. Can you feel them sitting uneasily in Reality?”

  She was right. Thyrian had always been a little more sensitive to ether than anyone else he knew—apart from Vylaena. But this was nothing like the slight awareness he felt when too much of the stuff was nearby. This was like that night he’d awoken to find an ocean of it seeping out of Vylaena’s room, or the time she’d healed his hand. It was uncomfortable, and disarming, and wholly otherworldly. He’d unconsciously loosened his sword in its sheath.

  “Thought that was just my dinner disagreeing with me,” Alaric quipped, taking a deliberate step away from the statue he’d been about to touch.

  “They were used in the Emperor’s War,” Flinx breathed, her eyes wide. “Tygnon forged them for battle against the Desert clans. They would burrow beneath the sands and wait for passing warriors, then spring out of the earth to lay waste to whomever was unlucky enough to have strayed too close.”

  “How is it they’re still intact?” Alaric asked. “Surely if they’re that old, they would have dissolved by now.”

  “A common misconception—not all relics decay,” Flinx replied. “It depends on who made them, and with what potency of ether.”

  “A conversation for another time,” Thyrian pressed, eager to move on.

  Flinx paused a moment, still gazing up at the Knight before her, before finally stepping away herself. “This means we’re probably getting close,” she said. “Ether calls to ether. If the Mercurial Gate is still here, it’s probably hovering near its cousins.”

  Thyrian kept a hand on his sword as they continued on through the darkness.

  Two doors greeted them at the far wall, and Alaric paused a moment before choosing the left one. “I’m a human coin toss,” he said genially as they followed him through, “except I always come up heads.”

  The room beyond was equally dark, and Flinx held up the small crystalline ball of light she’d been balancing on her palm. This chamber was much smaller than the one before it, and devoid of any furnishings or ornamentation. It was empty, for all intents and purposes, except . . .

  “Here!” Alaric pressed, rushing to the side of the room that shared a wall with the Stone Knight chamber. A painted archway stood at the center of the wall, metallic markings catching the light of the etherlamp as they approached. And beyond, a set of stairs curved around a central stone post into darkness below.

  Flinx had her nose pressed to the archway in an instant, examining the painted voussoirs and murmuring incoherent exclamations under her breath. Alaric stood beside her, equally enraptured.

  “It’s pretty,” he remarked, voice soft with awe. “And you say it manifested itself? From a bit of errant thought?”

  “Some say that’s how the world itself was created,” Flinx replied, continuing her inspection. “That some divine being’s careless thought created Aethryl and everything on it.”

  A flash of silver and blue at the back of Thyrian’s mind made him stiffen. “We should probably leave our religious debates for after we find Kaern,” he reminded them.

  “You should stay behind,” Alaric said, turning to Flinx. “There’s no reason to implicate you in this should something go wrong. The best part about being royalty is that we can’t get into too much trouble, even if we should. And I’m afraid I don’t carry enough sway to clear your name should the need arise.”

  Flinx’s face hardened as she met his gaze, her lips downturned in defiance. “Of course I’m not staying behind. You need me,” she pointed out. “How else are you going to get Kaern’s cell unlocked?”

  Thyrian cursed. Of course. How could they have forgotten that detail?

  “Tell me,” Alaric said, staring the librarian down, “how an—admittedly very clever—scholar expects to break into a royal dungeon cell? What other relics do you have hidden in your skirt pockets, mm? Iron-melting paste? A key that fits every lock ever made?”

  An impish grin curled up Flinx’s cheek. “Or just an ordinary hair pin.”

  Alaric let out a disgruntled breath. His eyes flashed to Thyrian’s. “I don’t suppose you know how to pick a lock, do you?”

  Thy
rian shook his head.

  “Then I suppose you’re right,” Alaric sighed. “And we’ve spent enough time standing here already. Lead on, clever woman. And try not to look so smug.”

  The stairwell was black as night, and the moment they rounded the first length of stair, Flinx’s etherlamp flickered erratically and died.

  “It’s alright,” she assured them, though neither men had spoken the concerns that tightened their throats. “We’re just . . . uh . . . in between right now. Just concentrate on Kaern—on the dungeon—and we should...”

  The three of them clattered together as they hit a dead end, and after a splatter of muttered apologies and the rearrangement of dislodged weaponry, Thyrian pressed forward to grasp a hidden handle in the stone before them, easing it inwards.

  True to Flinx’s prediction, the dungeons appeared before them: a cell-lined hallway lit by torches clamped to the walls. Thyrian stepped out first, sweeping the area for guardsmen, but saw no one. “Come on,” he whispered. “Quietly.”

  They crept through the dungeon, following Alaric as he led them down a curved corridor. But when they turned into an adjoining hall, they found themselves at a dead end, their path blocked by solid stone. They crept forward, following Alaric as he turned to the last cell in the row, gripping the bars with white-knuckled fists.

  “I swear he should have been here,” Alaric breathed. “My Knack . . . it led me right here.”

  “Why would it have led you here if Kaern is gone?” Flinx asked, moving to Alaric’s side as though a second pair of eyes might see what wasn’t there.

  But Thyrian was already moving, abandoning the empty cell and drawing his sword as his soldier’s sense pricked a warning. He turned, blocking Alaric and Flinx from the threat he felt approaching from the corner of his awareness.

  Three men appeared at the opposite end of the corridor, wearing ring mail and padded leather, their swords drawn and their masked faces unreadable. Thyrian’s stomach dropped to his ankles as he saw a familiar glint of steel protruding from the center man’s chest.

  One of Vylaena’s ether-forged daggers.

  Rutting Ether, Thyrian thought, his mind racing.

  “Prince Thyrian,” a guttural voice sounded behind the central man’s mask. “How lucky.”

  Alaric had drawn his own sword behind Thyrian, but knew better than to move closer. “You have no reason to draw arms against us. Stand down at once.”

  The masked swordsman laughed. “Oh, we won’t hurt you, Your Highness. Your friends, though . . .”

  “If you won’t stand down, I will take that as a move of aggression,” Alaric warned. “I offer you one more chance. Drop your weapons.”

  The man turned to one of his companions. “The sun-crowned first,” he ordered.

  But Thyrian didn’t give him a chance to strike.

  Sometimes, he wasn’t entirely certain what he was doing before his body moved. It was as if his muscles were instantly enhanced, and his mind was merely an afterthought instead of a driving force. As a soldier he’d been taught to clear his mind of distractions, but this went beyond that—he seemed to slip into a trance, his movements accurate and certain even though his mind lagged behind, not precisely a spectator, but rather just less influential than the primal, blazing heat driving his decisions. He’d found that steering it—forcing it—caused it to act erratically and with less surety. And so he’d spent his entire life learning how to relax into that odd half-conscious state where instinct alone drove his body. To beautiful, terrifying result.

  The man who’d spoken hadn’t even raised his blade before Thyrian had reached him and landed a mortal blow. Thyrian barely saw the man crumple before he turned his attention to the other men who—finally—held their own swords up to parry his oncoming strikes. But even two men together had little chance against a sun-crowned warrior, blessed by Asta herself. Left, right, left, the men parried Thyrian’s blows as he forced them out of the corridor and into the hall beyond. He felt the man on his right falter first, and struck with wicked surety, catching the man in the gut with a well-timed blow.

  The third man was quicker, but not quick enough to avoid the unexpected kick that sent him sprawling—sword clattering from his hand—across the flagstones.

  Thyrian knocked aside the man’s mask and pressed the tip of his sword against the man’s throat. “You will live only—only—if you give us answers,” he growled. “Who sent you here?”

  The man beneath Thyrian’s blade trembled, holding his hands up in a plea for mercy. “Serk. Man named Serk. He thought people might come looking for . . . for someone.”

  “For Kaern Westley?” Alaric said, appearing beside Thyrian. “Where is he?”

  “In a warehouse near the docks,” the man replied, his voice breaking. “Please. Don’t kill me. I just needed the lynd. Please.”

  “What warehouse?” Thyrian pressed.

  The man took a shaky breath. “Number fourteen. For now. Till they can move him somewhere permanent.”

  “Guards?”

  “N-n-none. None. All needed to protect Lord Wroth tonight.”

  Thyrian frowned. “Why? What’s Lord Wroth doing?”

  “I don’t know,” the man gulped, raising his hands higher. “I’m sorry. Please—don’t kill me. I told you all I know. I just needed the lynd. I’ve got a family to care for.”

  Thyrian turned to Alaric. “We stick him in one of these cells, or let him go?”

  Alaric pressed his eyelids closed for a moment, then opened them. “Let him go. Doesn’t seem like he’ll do any harm to us.”

  “Oh thank you, thank you, Your Highness.”

  “There are other ways to earn coin than being a sword for hire,” Alaric snapped, sheathing his weapon. “Inquire down at the river docks for a man called Raulin. He’s doing some construction on one of the castle’s outer walls. If you can lift a sword, you can lift stone—I’m sure he could use the labor.”

  The mercenary scrambled to his feet. “Yes, of course. Thank you. Thank you.”

  “Wait,” Flinx called out from behind them. “How did you get in here without alerting the Guard?”

  The man glanced at her with a queer look on his face. “Serk gave us journey-stones. Have one to get out, too, but Boss was carryin’ it.”

  Thyrian rummaged through the first mercenary’s pockets and fished out a small stone that pulsed every so often with a deep blue light, like some perversion of a heartbeat.

  “Truth is, though,” the man replied with a shrug, “I’ve no idea how to use it. Boss was the one who was supposed to.”

  “But you do, don’t you?” Alaric said, whirling on Flinx.

  She nursed a private smile as she reached out a hand for the stone.

  “Of course,” Alaric murmured.

  ✽✽✽

  The mercenary scurried off into the shadows the moment they appeared in the darkened street, the setting sun obscured by crumbling stone walls and rotting wooden siding. Flinx was used to the derelict nature of the inner city from her years teaching the poor and maligned, a Pulser always ready in her pocket in case she ran into trouble. But she’d never dared venture this far into the warehouse district, where Guards were few and often meaner than the cutthroats who prowled the streets.

  But she was with two princes now—one of whom was a sun-crowned warrior. She’d watched Thyrian cut down those men in the dungeon like they were flies to squash. No; that was too rudimentary. Like they were errant branches to prune. Because however brutal that had been to witness, she couldn’t deny it had been elegant. In a twisted kind of way.

  “I think we’re alone,” Thyrian whispered, finishing his survey of the immediate area. Flinx noted that he kept his sword in hand despite this. “You think he’s still inside, Alaric?”

  “He’s in there,” Alaric replied, moving past them to examine the tiny door that had once been painted red but was now a mottled, sickly brown. “We may need your lockpicking skills after all, Flinx.”

&nb
sp; Flinx nodded, walking up beside him as she freed a pin from her hair. She was no expert with locks but had picked up the skill as a child and the motions returned to her quickly. Once learned, it was rare that she misplaced knowledge. Especially when it came to handy skills such as this.

  The bolt slid aside at her touch, and she stepped out of the way as Thyrian pressed past her and into the shadowed warehouse.

  “Stay behind me,” Thyrian ordered as Flinx and Alaric followed him inside.

  The warehouse was dim but not completely dark; a ceiling collapse exposed one half of the sky and the remnants of the day’s light. Flinx peered around the stacks of wooden crates and musty barrels, stepping over shards of glass and wood that scattered the earthen floor. It appeared to be one large room, three stories high, with a second story that had half burned away in some long-ago fire.

  “Here,” Alaric breathed, tugging on Flinx’s elbow. She turned, staring into the shadows to find a man, wrapped in rags and with chains on his ankles, in a darkened corner.

  Flinx’s heart skipped; the man appeared to be dead. His skin was ashen and streaked with grime. A line of raw skin encircled his neck, edged in black—a telltale sign that the wound had been made by ether. He lay slumped against the wall, chained wrists splayed at his sides, his eyes closed. Ignoring Alaric’s cautious tug on her sleeve, she rushed forward and knelt beside the man, pressing her fingers to his wrist.

  “Master Kaern,” she said, keeping her voice as light as possible. “Are you able to hear me?”

  The man stirred a little, and Flinx was relieved to find a feeble pulse beneath his skin. Alaric joined her beside the man and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Kaern, it’s me. Alaric.”

  Kaern moved again, and his eyes opened to red slits. “Alaric?” he croaked. “Prince Alaric?”

  “We’re going to get you out of here,” Alaric pressed, turning his attention to the chains at the man’s wrists and ankles. He glanced up at Thyrian. “If Flinx and I carry him, can you guard us?”