Alaric took a long breath. “He must.”
Kashvi shifted his weight. “Leave Kaern with me. I’ll see that he receives medical care. And please”—he fixed them each in turn with a piercing golden stare—“remember what happened the last time someone was foolish enough to meddle with the goddesses’ power. And remember that the price of your failure is unfathomable. No man should bear the power of a goddess.”
“We understand,” Thyrian replied gravely.
“We should go,” Flinx said, stepping forward to wrap her arms around the elderly lorist. “Be safe here, Kashvi.”
“And you, El’ahin,” he replied, placing a small stone in her hand. “All of you,” he amended.
Alaric turned, crouching beside Kaern, who watched them silently from the couch. “I must ask you one more thing, my friend,” he said gently. “How can we find the entrance to Keening House, and how do we find the Stone once we’re there?”
Kaern coughed, then cleared his throat. “The sewers. There’s a line, just south of the Deeps, marked by a ring of black brick. Follow that line as deep as it goes. Never stray from that path, and it will take you to the cavern series where the Stone lives.”
“Thank you,” Alaric replied. “Now rest well. You’re out of danger now.”
“Ready?” Flinx asked.
“If you are.”
Thyrian stepped forward, and he and Alaric placed a hand on either of Flinx’s shoulders. She lifted her hand, raising the Pulser into the air.
35 | The Breaking Stone
Vylaena followed the line of ether-touched into the adjacent cave through a twisting hall of jagged rock. The etherlamps they each carried were just bright enough to keep them from stumbling, but the uncomfortably narrow passage combined with sudden sharp turns and steep drop-offs made for a treacherous walk.
Of course, it made sense to protect such a powerful artifact behind a difficult path. The Elders of Aeswic had used the same techniques to protect the Shadowheart’s most precious artifacts.
The cave-corridor finally opened at last, culminating in a cavern so large its ceiling was lost to darkness. Vylaena stepped out of the jagged crevice and paused a moment, surveying the space, searching for anything she could use to aid an escape.
Black stone encased her in a vault of liquid night. The cavern was perfectly circular, with walls of such mirrorlike smoothness they could never have been hewn with the tools of men. No; this place hummed with ether—it penetrated her flesh and played her bones like lute strings, vibrating her insides with an otherworldly pulsation. Something primal and wild hovered at the edges of her awareness, slinking around her senses and then sliding away again, never quite revealing itself.
Her mouth went dry. This was the cavern she’d seen in her dreams.
There were torches; ether-forged creations of silver and sapphire, dripping down the walls like giant beads of rain. They offered a wavy, inconsistent light that floated and flickered against the glassy walls like a coy smile.
Vylaena spotted one pair of chains embedded in the wall to her left—she could still remember the woman they’d once held, whose soul had been torn from her body—but she and the other ether-touched were not led to these. Instead, they were herded toward the center of the room.
And there, beneath a single shaft of cold white moonlight, was a waist-high slab of pure black stone.
She blinked rapidly, reeling beneath the sudden flood of power that rocked her bones. The Breaking Stone. The boulder whose skin she’d shared in her nocturnal visions. The stone that had watched Emperor Tygnon defile a goddess. This place was woven into her past, her present, her future. It was tied to her and she to it.
As hard as she’d tried to disentangle herself from it, fate had finally arrived to snare her.
She could not look away. The Stone seemed to acknowledge her, shimmering slightly as she approached, imparting a whisper of something indiscernible into her head—a greeting? A warning? She wasn’t sure.
The Stone held her gaze, its wide, flat surface like a crystalline mountain pool, undisturbed and . . . waiting. It exuded power, its hardened skin barely able to contain the possibilities lying within, sleeping—for now, but with one eye open—and as dangerous as a hibernating bear. She wondered what it would do when prodded fully awake.
“Positions!”
Eyren emerged from the back of the amassed ether-touched, his curt bark thrusting Vylaena back to the present. She watched the others take what appeared to be specific places around the Stone, and it was only then that she noticed the floor: it was a giant mosaic, inlaid with perfect chips of stone. While black over most the cavern, the area around the Stone itself was decorated with a circular rendering of the celestial bodies: a ring depicting each phase of the moon’s monthly cycle and, marked in gold around the base of the stone, sunbeams pointing to each. In between each moon-and-beam glimmered a dusting of stars, edged with a fleeting copper glint she wasn’t entirely sure existed.
Each ether-touched made his or her way to one of the moon mosaics, standing directly upon the center of each. One by one, they dismantled their etherlamps and allowed the loose ether to swirl around their shaking fingers. The only remaining spot, she saw, was a dark space reserved for the new moon, when Ikna was at her strongest.
“You have an important part to play tonight,” Eyren said, taking her elbow and steering her to the mosaic. She fought each step with a single-minded fury, but her feet continued on, ignoring her.
Vylaena had not been given any commands against talking. And though she might’ve been stripped of her steel, she still had one weapon—her mind. There had to be something she could learn to help stop this madness.
“I know what you want,” she snapped as Eyren deposited her atop the new moon inlaid on the floor.
“Oh, I doubt that.”
“You want Ikna’s power—but why?”
Eyren stood directly in front of her, his back to the Stone. A hard smile tipped the edges of his mouth. “A curious Shadowheart. How novel.” And then his expression cooled; all humor dissipated. “One who is suspiciously well-informed.”
Vylaena held Eyren’s gaze, keeping her expression even. “You’re a prince. You already have power and influence. Why seek this?”
Eyren’s mouth tightened. “I have only a shadow of power. And I am not King Arnyel’s heir; I am merely a backup, relegated to the periphery in my own home until convenient—a day that is likely never to come.” His eyes hardened, the icy light from the wall torches glancing off them like deflected arrows. “I can be so much more than that. I was meant for more. I refuse such a trivial fate, and I refuse to watch my idiot father further ruin this kingdom.”
“Alaric is both intelligent and aware of the kingdom’s problems. Why not support him in leading Enserion to change?”
“Alaric is naive and softhearted and indecisive,” Eyren scoffed. “What’s his Knack—winning games? How droll—a king whose best asset is running card tables. You’ve seen the horrors that plague this world, Vylaena. Do you honestly believe that Alaric is the most capable of righting them?”
“And you are?”
For a moment it looked as though Eyren might strike her, or turn away in anger. But then the ice in his eyes melted, leaving behind the bare resolve of a man who knew his duty but did not relish it. “No,” he relented. “But I will be. Once I have Ikna’s power, I will have the means to remake this world.”
“I don’t see how defiling a goddess would earn you anything but distrust and hate.”
“Hate? I don’t give a rutting shit if people hate me,” Eyren snapped, his voice low and dangerous. “But no one else will stand up and do what needs to be done. Certainly not my father. And certainly not our useless goddesses! What do they actually do for us, hmm? Toss us scraps of power and then watch as we kill each other over bits of gold and earth?”
“And if you were a god, you’d do a better job?”
Eyren held her gaze and she saw the fire of b
razen confidence there as he replied, “Yes.”
“You don’t think that much power in one person’s hands is foolish?”
“Says the woman who created those,” Eyren replied, his eyes lowering to the dagger buried in her chest.
Right. Vylaena took a hard breath. “That’s exactly my point. I wasn’t careful—I created something without thinking and I paid the price. What will the consequences be for taking Ikna’s power? Or for using it?”
Eyren leaned closer, scanning Vylaena’s eyes with a focused, blazing gaze. “That’s the thing about being a god,” he murmured. “There are no consequences when you’re the highest authority. Who would possibly enforce them upon me?”
I would. I would always work to stop you. Vylaena opened her mouth, but the words wouldn’t come.
The prince was done with her, anyway. He retreated, taking a step back to survey the assembled ether-touched. “Hold your positions until I return,” he commanded. “One hour till midnight.”
Vylaena could only watch as Eyren pulled his hood low over his head and disappeared back the way they’d come. She’d been ordered to stay put, but her insides boiled a rancorous rebellion. He would not get away with this. All her life, she’d fought against the shackles placed upon her. And even now, bound by a prison of her own making, she could not lie down and accept defeat. It simply wasn’t in her nature.
She was a cynic, yes. Unlike Thyrian, she didn’t believe in an innate goodness in her fellow humans. But though she couldn’t speak for mankind’s brighter qualities, she could face the world with an understanding of her own. And in that moment, surrounded by bowed heads and broken hearts, she felt her own chest solidify in defiance.
Defiance. She’d always walked her own path, always sought out the truths she felt in her heart, no matter what others said or did. She’d denied the mate the Elders had selected; she’d turned her back on the caste chosen for her. She’d explored lands untouched and unknown by her kind; taken up a profession reserved for her better-trained kinfolk. She’d eluded, ignored, argued with a goddess.
And even at her lowest, when she’d been weak and unsure or caught in circumstances not of her choosing, she’d always had that—defiance. Her mind, her thoughts, her will. Even now, forbidden from open rebellion, her mind roamed free.
And that is the key, she thought. They can try to steer me, to hold me to a path, to use me for their own gain. But they can never take my mind. That part of me will always remain free.
There was power in thought. Thought was what drove Eyren to desperate measures. Thought was what allowed Thyrian to find such serenity with his place in the world. She’d once told him that a thought couldn’t change things, but wasn’t it thought that molded ether? Wasn’t it thought that allowed those with intention and focus to create that which hadn’t before existed?
Vylaena turned her attention to the dagger in her chest and closed her eyes. This—this foolish mistake—she would not allow it to be the spark that burned down the world. Because, despite her aloofness and cold detachment and pessimism, there was something innate and rebellious, deep within the darkest places of her soul, that cared. That didn’t want to watch the flames devour it all. And only now could she finally see that it had been there all along.
An odd, uncomfortable, but somehow familiar sensation crept out of the recesses of her heart—slowly, tentatively, like a flower unfurling for the sun. But it was not weakness, as she’d always been warned. This . . . this caring—it only strengthened her resolve. It bolstered her determination and sent desperate waves of urgency crashing against the shard of metal lodged between her ribs.
By the Three, she swore. Even if it kills me, I will put an end to this.
✽✽✽
“Sweet goddesses . . .”
Thyrian lowered Aelstrid’s shield, peering over the polished steel at Alaric. “It works?”
“Rather unnervingly well.”
Thyrian supposed he should’ve felt relieved, but the truth was he didn’t feel much at all. Just a steady calm and a mindful determination to complete the task at hand. He always felt like that, when he was about to embark on a mission. A perk, really, to be able to keep a cool head. It was a strength he often thanked Asta for. Frayed nerves could get you killed.
Raelic’s hood felt close and stifling on Thyrian’s head, though—he’d never been comfortable in a helmet. But it would be needed in the sewers below; he knew better than to bring a light into the heart of the Assassin’s Guild. Flinx had told him they navigated by sound and trained to fight in the dark. An etherlamp would be nothing more than a beacon, a “Here’s my heart, stab accordingly.”
They didn’t exchange parting words; a nod to Alaric and a weighty glance to Flinx that clearly meant, “Good luck,” was all he wanted and all he gave. And so he left the sitting room and made his way out of the Cyair Palace, borrowed shield raised high.
No one stopped him. Even his footsteps were silenced by the etherial shield; it was a bit unnerving until he got used to it. He wished desperately for Vylaena’s extensive knowledge of the Cyair underground, but he managed to find the more public—if one could call it that—entrance to the sewers near the Deeps, and after only ten minutes of walking he found himself entirely alone beneath the city’s foundations.
The hood was a goddess-send. Darkness seemed to bend around it, making even the blackest of shadows a middle grey. It wasn’t perfect, but he could see. And so he picked up his pace and continued on.
He had no true plan. It was an odd feeling, he who had always been the one to enforce orders or carry them out himself. The thought made him chuckle; a soundless, eerie compulsion. Someone had always been around to point him in a direction or show him where to find something; he’d always had peers to lean upon or fellow warriors at his back.
I’m four-and-twenty and still feel like a child sometimes, he thought as he crossed the ominous ring of black tile Kaern had warned was the entrance to Keening House. He had no idea what he would do once he reached the Breaking Stone.
Galiff’s security had always been his top priority. Protecting his people; that’s what had always mattered. He’d once told Vylaena it was a worthy cause to champion, and he still thought so.
But now, racing deep into the sewers below Cyair, he wondered if he’d ever really done that. He was a captain of the Order of the Golden Aegis, but was guarding and patrolling really making the kind of difference his people deserved? And what about other realms, like Enserion? What about people like that mercenary, who’d taken up murderer-for-hire as a means of income simply because he didn’t know any other way?
I protect them, but I don’t really fight for them, he decided. He jumped over a section of flooded pipe and readjusted his shield. It was only now, barreling through the depths of the earth to stop Eyren, that he was truly doing something noteworthy for the first time in his life. Something that would have wide-rippling implications, whether he failed or succeeded.
How ironic, that he was now entirely alone. And yet... it fit. How many great heroes of old could he recall? Three? Four? None had changed history by following orders and sticking to a prescribed plan. Each had stood up, above the shoulders of their fellow men, and wholeheartedly championed a cause.
It took more than guts to do that; it took the recognition of the need for better, and the monumental determination that they would be the one to step up and bring that change—not wait for someone else to invite them to do so.
Galiff didn’t need more soldiers. Not even in this uncertain time, when war simmered on the horizon and faraway spearheads glinted in the setting sun. No; they needed someone who would take bigger action—someone who could do more than man a barricade and hope they lost fewer men than the other side that day.
They needed someone who could make it so that those barricades would not need to be manned in the first place. Someone who could make it so they’d never even need to be built.
Thyrian slid down a steep incline, the sound
swallowed up by Aelstrid’s shield. He was not a diplomat; had never been. One of his older brothers should have come to Enserion in his place to secure this alliance. But what he was good at was fighting. He excelled at cutting down a threat before it became a menace. And he would use his blade to give Enserion what he had not been able to give Galiff—a step closer to peace.
The sewer had crumbled away into what appeared to be a natural cave. Thyrian crept forward, senses sharp, and surveyed the floor. Crude steps had been chiseled into the rock, curving in a lazy, snake-like wave into the darkness below. Keeping his shield up, Thyrian placed his boot on the first step.
Blue light sparked above his head, and Thyrian jumped backward as a flurry of silver arrows landed on the place he’d just vacated in a rain of metallic scratches. His heart hammered against his ribs as the clamor died down, one arrow slipping off the stair and clattering to the next before coming to rest.
Goddesses. He should have known the way would be rigged with traps.
He spied movement in the shadows below, and raised his shield higher, so that only his eyes peeked above the steel disc. An animal, perhaps? Even with the hood, it was hard to see at that distance. He waited, willing his heart to calm.
And then, he heard a clicking noise—the characteristic sound of a tongue against the roof of a mouth. The sound echoed around him, oddly loud in the cavernous space, and Thyrian’s stomach went cold as a shadowy human figure appeared on the stairs below him.
“I know you’re there,” came a man’s voice, cracked and weak from disuse. “Warped by ether, but there. Did you really think darkness would shield you from the best assassins in Aethryl? We are darkness.”
Well, it seemed invisibility wouldn’t entirely work against men who saw with sound. Thyrian lowered the shield slightly, assuming a defensive position he’d not fought in since his days at the cathedral.
The assassin made that clicking noise again and Thyrian heard the malevolent joy in his voice when he added, “Ah. There you are.”
Ether-Touched (The Breaking Stone Trilogy Book 1) Page 37
