Ether-Touched (The Breaking Stone Trilogy Book 1)

by L. M. Coulson

  “You want to walk him back to the palace? From here?” Thyrian ran a hand through his hair. “Rutting Ether, Alaric.”

  “You have to . . . stop your brother,” Kaern wheezed, pushing Alaric’s hands away. “I’ve done . . . an awful thing. Please. Just leave me and go. I can tell you where he is.”

  Alaric’s jaw tightened. “What do you mean, stop my brother?” His voice was cold, steely, brimming with denial.

  Kaern turned to him and Flinx could see deep purple shadows beneath his eyes. “Eyren has these . . . these daggers. Etherial things. Made the leader of the Assassin’s Guild kill all his underlings, save eight. They patrol Keening House, protecting the entrance to . . .”

  “The Breaking Stone is below Cyair?” Flinx asked.

  Kaern nodded again, his eyes widening. “So you understand. And you know why you must stop him. He has the ether-touched. He’s going to use them to do something terrible.”

  “Eyren wouldn’t,” Alaric snapped, drawing back as if burned. “It’s someone else. You’re mistaken.”

  “Tell me,” Thyrian interjected, crouching on Kaern’s other side, “is Vylaena in Cyair? Vylaena Azrel of the Shadowheart—can you tell us where she is?”

  Kaern’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment and then he nodded. “She’s there. With them. Below.”

  Alaric pressed a hand over his eyes. “You don’t think she went poking down there by herself, do you?” he asked, the question directed to Thyrian.

  Flinx thought the Galiffan prince to be rather serious in general, but his face was positively stony as he replied, “Either that, or else . . .”

  He couldn’t finish, but Flinx understood full well what might’ve happened to Vylaena, even if she somehow made it past those assassins and to wherever the Stone was being kept. Being ether-touched had either saved her or doomed her, and they had little time to dwell on either outcome.

  “We need to get Kaern somewhere safe,” Flinx spoke, with an authority that had often gotten her into trouble at the library. “We can’t leave him here.”

  “What do you propose?” Alaric asked wearily, turning to her.

  Pressing her lips together, Flinx reached into her pocket to pull out Kashvi’s Pulser, a more polished version of the journey-stone they’d used to reach Kaern.

  “Do you ever run out of surprises?” Alaric eyed the stone, a flicker of his usual humor returning to the edges of his mouth. “Where did you—”

  “I grew up in Saensre. Under”—her lips tightened—“less than ideal circumstances. I eventually crossed paths with a kind lorist of the cathedral—Councilman Kashvi. He became more of a father to me than my own.” Flinx paused, allowing the memories to settle. “Kashvi’s expertise is Transplanar Devices—relics for instant travel. He’s ether-touched; he often gifts me with one so I can visit him.”

  “Kashvi,” Thyrian breathed. “I know him. He’s the lorist with the yellow eyes.”

  Flinx eyed him, unsurprised. The man was sun-crowned Galiffan royalty. He’d almost certainly studied at the cathedral.

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

  “What are you going on about?” Alaric demanded. “What keys?”

  Thyrian merely shook his head. “No time. Flinx, can you get all of us to the cathedral? It’s time we got others involved in what’s happening in Cyair. Not only to alert them of the threat, but to ask for aid. Lorist Kashvi can help us, I’m certain of it.”

  “I can,” she said. “But traveling this way can be hard. I don’t know if we can risk taking Kaern—it might injure him even more.”

  “We don’t have much of a choice,” Alaric pointed out. “It’s growing dark, and we’re running out of time. We’ll never make it to the castle on foot. This is the better option.”

  He took a deep breath. “Father would laugh me out of the room if I told him what was happening. But the Council of the Cathedral of Eternal Light . . . they should be told. It’s time Enserion participates in the world. And if that means I must push us there myself, so be it.”

  “What must we do?” Thyrian asked, falling to one knee.

  “Hold onto me,” Flinx replied, keeping hold of the Pulser in one hand and grasping Kaern’s arm with her other. She felt Alaric grip her shoulder as Thyrian reached out to take the other.

  “Take a deep breath,” Flinx commanded as blue light began to spill from her fingers. “And don’t let go.”

  34 | The Cathedral

  They landed—that was the only way Thyrian could hope to describe it—in the middle of a well-appointed sitting room that smelled of parchment and exotic spices. He helped Alaric carry Kaern to a nearby sofa, the man’s chains clanging together in a discordant clash. Luckily, it seemed the journey had merely woken him more thoroughly, rather than injure him.

  “He’s not here,” Flinx said after a quick survey of Kashvi’s rooms, worry etched into her brow. “And the last rays of sun have just died.”

  Thyrian wasted no time. “Stay with Kaern,” he commanded. “I studied here; I know my way around. I’ll find Lorist Kashvi, or someone who can tell us where he is.”

  “I’ll get some water,” Flinx volunteered, moving toward a nearby door. “Alaric, could you fetch that blanket? I’m shocked Kaern didn’t catch his death wearing those rags.”

  “Hurry, friend,” Alaric said to Thyrian, clapping a hand on his shoulder before moving to obey the librarian.

  Thyrian obliged.

  Running through the halls of the cathedral was not normally permitted, but Thyrian didn’t care if he caused an uproar. The more people who saw him, the better. It would only take one lorist to recognize him, and then he might get the information he needed.

  But the halls were unusually empty. He saw a few students clutching books or scrolls, but they merely pressed themselves to the walls in surprise as Thyrian barreled down the polished corridors, one hand on his sheath to keep it from banging against his leg.

  He hadn’t been back to the cathedral in years. Not since he’d graduated, not since he’d thrown himself headlong into his first assignment with the Order, desperate to escape a face that had haunted him through those last few months of training . . .

  Well, he was here now. And though he waited for the memories to mount a full assault, he found that the deep, curdled pain that had plagued him once was noticeably absent. Numbed by time, perhaps. Or distance. Or something more complicated, perhaps.

  That was . . . good. Wasn’t it?

  Thyrian sprinted down a series of hallways and up a flight of stairs, skidding to a halt in front of a pair of ornate marble doors guarded by a single page. Ah, perfect. A place where he might find help.

  “Prince Thyrian,” the page squeaked at his arrival. She sketched a hasty bow that almost dislodged the cathedral-issue cap perched on her chestnut hair.

  “Is the Council in session? I must be allowed in.”

  The girl shook her head. “Everyone’s scattered ’round the kingdom, on account of the coming war,” she replied. “High Councilwoman Claera is the only one in, and she’s not to be disturbed. The President of Estryn is here.”

  Thyrian frowned. “Do you know where I can find Lorist Kashvi?”

  The page’s face turned pink. “Sorry, Highness. But no.”

  Rutting Ether. Thyrian inclined his head to the girl and took off, back the way he came. Well, if he had to, he’d search every room himself . . .

  “Thyrian?”

  Thyrian skidded to a stop on the polished flagstones, glancing over his shoulder to find one of his old sparring instructors, Master Arbyn, approaching from an adjoining corridor. Relief flooded his gut.

  “Thank the goddesses,” Thyrian said, placing a clenched fist over his heart and bowing to the middle-aged man. “Asta’s light upon your blade.”

  The man returned the gesture. “Upon yours as well.” He straightened, concern wrinkling his gold-Mark
ed brow. “I didn’t know you were visiting. Has there been some kind of trouble?”

  That was an understatement. “I need your help,” Thyrian replied. “I need to find Lorist Kashvi. At once. Do you know where he might be?”

  “In the library, I suspect,” Arbyn said, his eyebrows rising. “He’s practically been living in there. Trying to figure out how to disassemble those cursed daggers Kyshiin’s been using.”

  “Thank you,” Thyrian breathed, bowing again. “I must go, but thank you.”

  “Whatever you’re up to, be careful,” Arbyn called out as Thyrian took off in the direction of the library.

  The library, like the corridors, was starkly empty. Thyrian expected a student manning the front desk at the very least, but even that was abandoned.

  “Lorist Kashvi?” Thyrian shouted, looking around. He walked down the main aisle and peered down the first branching section. “Lorist Kashvi!”

  “Sweet goddesses, son, keep your voice down. This is a library.”

  Thyrian whirled on his heel to find an elderly man approach, with the characteristic tanned skin and moon-white hair of a Desert tribesman. And the gold eyes of their highest of shamans.

  “Prince Thyrian,” the man said, halting as recognition passed across his face. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in Cyair.”

  “Atremidora Flinx brought us here,” Thyrian replied, stepping forward. “It’s urgent. We need your help.”

  “Atremidora.” The lorist’s eyes widened. “Is she hurt?”

  “No, she’s fine. But we need to get to your office as quickly as possible. Everyone . . . well, you’ll see when you get there.”

  Kashvi nodded. “Take hold of my arm.”

  Thyrian obliged, and Kashvi pulled a glowing stone from his pocket. “Take a breath,” he commanded.

  It was over in a moment. Before Thyrian could let that breath out, they were back in Kashvi’s office. Thyrian stumbled forward, glancing around the room to find Flinx and Alaric kneeling together beside Kaern’s couch, helping to feed him a thin, steaming broth.

  “Kashvi!” Flinx breathed, relief flooding her voice. She sprung to her feet, giving him a tight hug and a weary smile. “It’s so good to see you.”

  “And you, my dear, but what in Ikna’s name is going on?” Kashvi eyed Alaric and frowned. “Prince Alaric? You’re here, too?”

  Alaric stood and nodded, still holding the bowl of broth. “I’m very sorry to barge in on you, councilman, but we find ourselves in need of your assistance.”

  Kashvi approached the couch and surveyed Kaern, who peered up at him with slitted eyes. “This man is terribly unwell,” he said. “I should call for a physician. Or an ether-touched with medicinal skill.”

  Thyrian frowned, brow furrowing. “I thought . . . all ether-touched can heal. Can’t they?”

  “Minor scrapes, maybe,” Kashvi replied, as Flinx crossed the room and took the soup bowl from Alaric, setting it on a nearby table. “But not all of us have the talent, I’m afraid. Healers must have the right sense of compassion and empathy, not to mention a very thorough understanding of anatomy and—and this is the key—an innate proficiency. Which I do not possess.”

  The image of Vylaena pressing ether into his palm flashed through Thyrian’s mind, and he could almost feel the ghost of her fingers on his skin. He willed the memory to dissipate.

  “Tell me what’s going on,” Kashvi urged, fetching another blanket from a cabinet and draping it over Kaern’s form.

  To Thyrian’s relief, Alaric began the tale, with frequent interjections from Flinx. It seemed, telling by the dark look on Kashvi’s face when her name was mentioned, that the lorist knew exactly who Vylaena Azrel was.

  When they were finished, Kashvi stood in silence for a long moment, running a hand along his downy beard.

  “What we need,” Flinx ventured finally, “is a Pulser that can take us directly to the Stone, so we can stop Eyren before he—”

  “I can’t do that,” Kashvi said with a shake of his head. “And you know exactly why not.”

  “Why not?” Alaric asked, still hovering at Flinx’s side.

  Flinx let out a frustrated breath. “I thought maybe if you—”

  “I’m sorry, El’ahin,” Kashvi pressed. “You should never Weave to a place you haven’t been. It’s too dangerous. If you can’t fix it in your mind and—”

  “What other choice do we have?”

  Kashvi was silent again, and a dense quiet settled over the room. His eyes fluttered closed and Thyrian wondered if he was trying to keep from weeping. “Jivika has fallen,” the man finally said, his voice breaking.

  Thyrian stiffened. “When?”

  “Last night,” Kashvi replied, turning to him, eyes opening once more. They held no tears, merely a deep weariness. “We received word just this morning. And so while I . . .” He paused; took a fortifying breath. “While I wish I could offer you a legion of soldiers and a couple of the senior Marked to go put a stop to this madness with the Breaking Stone, I cannot. Everyone has been called to the front lines.”

  Flinx and Alaric were silent. Alaric sank onto a couch, one arm across his chest, eyes closed and two fingers resting upon his copper Mark. Thinking. Flinx joined him, eyes wide, lips pressed tightly together. Also thinking.

  “But,” Kashvi continued, his tone lifting as something suddenly occurred to him, “that doesn’t mean I have to leave you empty-handed. Stay here.”

  The old man pulled another Pulser from the pouch at his hip, and in a flash of blue light he was gone.

  Flinx and Thyrian stared at each other, tense and unable to come up with anything to say. Alaric hadn’t yet lifted his head.

  Goddesses. With Jivika under Desert rule, the other Terolynite cities would fall one by one. And then nothing would stand between Kyshiin and Enserion—or Galiff. Meanwhile, Prince Eyren was trying to steal a goddess’s power.

  To protect Enserion?

  The thought unnerved him, but it . . . it could be plausible, couldn’t it?

  No. The price for such power is too high. No sane man would defile a deity just to protect his kingdom.

  Would he?

  There was another burst of light and Kashvi reappeared beside Thyrian, holding a length of worn leather and a round, polished steel shield. Both items had an odd blue-black glimmer to them—a sort of silvery sheen Thyrian knew was there but couldn’t quite focus on. His stomach gave a half-excited, half-queasy flip. Ether.

  Alaric opened his eyes as Flinx sucked in a breath. “Is that . . .” she started.

  Kashvi nodded. “Queen Aelstrid’s shield.”

  “I thought it was in the care of the Cult of Living Shadow.”

  “A common misconception. One we encouraged, for safety reasons.”

  “And that’s . . .?”

  “King Raelic’s hood.”

  Flinx was off the couch in an instant, stepping forward to admire the artifacts. “But these should be—”

  “They were,” Kashvi said, his eyes glinting mischievously. “But I figured there was no more appropriate time than now to take them out. I present them to you three as a loan. So that you may stop this ritual and keep our goddess whole.”

  Alaric was up now, too, peering over Flinx’s shoulder at the shield. “Care to explain?” he asked her.

  “Aelstrid was Emperor Tygnon’s daughter—his only child,” she replied breathlessly. “She was a sun-crowned warrior. She led her father’s armies on many occasions, but only out of fear. She harbored no love for him, and thought him a madman.

  “One of Tygnon’s distant cousins, Raelic—who had survived the purge on his family’s kingdom . . .” Flinx shrugged. “Another story. Anyway, he’d been leading the western front of resistance against Tygnon and made a failed assassination attempt on Aelstrid. The event, however, ignited the beginnings of a romantic relationship—”

  “As botched assassinations do,” Alaric nodded.

  “—and they became allies.
The details are lost, but we know that when Tygnon went to use the Breaking Stone, Aelstrid fought her way to him and killed him before he could complete the ritual. Afterward, it was Aelstrid and Raelic who united to pick up the pieces of that fractured land. You, Alaric, are one of their descendants. A Darnyel—as in, King Raelic Darnyel, the first leader of modern Enserion.”

  Alaric smirked. “So, technically these belong to my family,” he pointed out.

  One corner of Flinx’s mouth twitched upwards. “One reason, I’m sure, that Kashvi felt obliged to offer them.”

  “We have no need of a hood,” Thyrian pointed out, “and a shield would only slow us down. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but what use are these artifacts to us?”

  And why did Yrsa want me to have them?

  Kashvi turned a warm gaze on Thyrian. “These have been kept safe in the cathedral’s vaults not only for their historic value, but for their powers. The shield, when raised, offers its bearer perfect invisibility. And the hood allows its wearer to see in the dark.”

  Oh. Well . . .

  “If you give us another Pulser,” Flinx said to Kashvi, “then we can at least get close enough to Keening House to get inside. And with these artifacts, we could attempt to get past Eyren’s assassins.”

  “Well,” Alaric pointed out, “one of us could.” He glanced at Thyrian and they shared a weighty look. “I think we all recognize you’re the best swordsman among us. Flinx and I would just slow you down. Or get you killed. Not to mention ourselves.”

  Thyrian knew what he was asking, and nodded. “I’m not the crown prince of my kingdom. I wouldn’t want to put you at risk. It must be me alone.”

  “That doesn’t mean you’re not valuable,” Kashvi chastised, handing Thyrian the artifacts. He took them with due reverence, testing the weight of the shield in his left hand and admiring the feel of it.

  “If you go after Eyren,” Alaric continued, “then perhaps Flinx and I can petition Father to hand over temporary command of the Guard. If we have them, then we can follow after you and offer backup.”

  “If,” Thyrian pointed out, “he agrees to that.”