“You’ve come a long way to speak with me,” Peryl began. He steepled his fingers on the tabletop, most likely to keep away his usual fidgeting. “I had gotten the impression our petition was not that high of a priority.”
The Terran dignitary leaned back in his seat. Peryl’s tone made his opinion of that matter clear. The Galactic Summit had acted dismissively, and the lack of humor in Peryl’s words lifted more Shrouded eyebrows than just Shayd’s around the table.
“I assure you,” the Summit delegate blustered over the tension, “the Shrouded application is at the forefront of my mind.”
“Because you have need of us for something now.” Peryl didn’t even twitch. “I’m certain you haven’t crossed two sectors simply for our sake.”
“No.” Tout’s lips tightened and his cheek ticked.
“The King is very perceptive.”
“Thank you.”
“But I hope that my mission can benefit us both.”
“As do I.” Peryl let a small smile free. He waved to one of his guards and the man moved away, set on some pre-arranged task. “They will bring refreshments, but perhaps you can begin while we wait?”
“Of course.” Tout looked to his aide once, then focused his gaze on Peryl. He cleared his throat again, and folded his hands into a tighter mime of the Shouded King’s posture. “Has your Majesty heard by any chance of a race known as Tolfarian?”
“No.” Peryl tilted his head as if trying to catch a memory. “But then, we have been inentionally secluded.”
“I understand. But now you wish to extend your reach.”
“As a defense only.”
“And the Summit has taken that into consideration. However, there are many benefits to membership in the Summit, and more societies petition us than we can necessarily accommodate. The exchange needs to be balanced.”
“And you believe we have nothing to offer in return for inclusion?”
“Not at all. However, rich trade is only one factor. As we’ve discussed, participation in a more active facility would greatly benefit the Shrouded petition.”
“And now you have something specific in mind.”
The guard returned with a pitcher and a servant bearing a tray of fruit and thin chalices. Peryl waved for them to serve the Terrans first. He giggled softly, a shadow of his youth, and raised one brow at Tout, a signal for the man to continue his explanation.
“The Tolfarian problem has been with us for some time.” Tout moved his hands to his lap while his drink was poured and made a new sound in his throat, a disgusted sound. “They abandoned their home world to live in space, nomadic, just drifting from one sector to the other without any regard for local regulations or politics.”
“Are they hostile?” Mofitan interjected.
Tout looked to Peryl instead, but the king had leaned forward, and his face showed enough interest to ease any doubt the delegate might have held about giving answer. He shook his head and lifted his glass to his lips, sipping once before elaborating.
“Not particularly. They wander. They gather, and they have been known to do a great deal of trading. Bastards love tech.”
“I’m not sure I understand the problem.” Peryl smiled.
“They don’t stay put, you see.” Tout took another drink. “And so it’s impossible to regulate them.”
“By which you mean tax them?”
“For one thing, yes.”
Tout’s aide tugged at the man’s sleeve and the two Terran heads leaned together for a moment. Around the table Shayd observed the ring of Shrouded frowns. Mofitan growled softly and scowled at each of the others in turn. The Shrouded would not be tax collectors for any Galactic government. They understood too well why a people might choose to live outside of the Summit’s control.
Beside him Haftan grunted, but kept his gaze down. His eyes were permanently fixed on his toes these days, ever since he'd unwittingly fallen in with the traitor Dielel’s plans and lived his brief reign as king. He'd been acquitted, but now lived surrounded by those who knew what he’d done, and in the shadow of the throne that he’d had to give back.
“Taxes are no longer an issue, however.” Tout surprised them. “They want to go home now, you see. And we’d very much like for them to do just that.”
“The Tolfarians wish to return to their home planet?” Peryl perked up. This idea would warm any Shrouded heart. The identity of their own home world had died generations past, and their new planet held a special status. It had done more than provide a home; it had given them the heartbond.
“They do.” Tout sat back, satisfied that the conversation had turned a corner in his favor. “But Choma is not unpopulated, and their kin there might not welcome them with open arms.”
“I think I see the problem,” Peryl said.
“Yes. The Galactic Summit would very much like to see the Tolfarians reunited with the Uraru, and we think you can help make that happen.”
“How is that?”
“We need someone to mediate between the two, to convince the Uraru to deal, to begin a relationship that could end with the Tolfarians back where they belong. But the two parted on less than amicable terms, and the Uraru are…a little different to begin with.”
“Different how?”
Shayd felt the room darken at the edges. He saw blue lines, a pale gray face. He saw an ebony woman with eyes like blue gems, and he felt the pulse of something, a heartbeat, a drum. But the Heart had rejected him. He was cast out, evicted. He was not listening to what Tout had said.
“…and the damned religion is running the show down there. The priesthood is the government and anyone who wants anywhere near Choma has to go through them.”
“I see.” Peryl looked at Shayd. He felt the weight of the King’s question, but he hadn’t caught the first part of Tout’s comment. “You believe that we might appeal to their mystical sensibilities.”
There it was. The push at his back, the sense of fate looming over. He didn’t have to guess now, if the Shrouded would do this thing. He already knew who the mediator would be. He could see his pathway open ahead, the long trek away from Shroud, away from the Heart.
“If your mediator manages this thing,” Tout said, “Shrouded membership in the Summit would be assured.”
Peryl laughed, but it was more snort than giggle. He unfolded his hands and looked, not to Dolfan or Mof or the shamed Haftan. He looked straight to Shayd. His eyes said he’d already picked his mediator. They both knew who it would have to be. The Shrouded Seer would go to Choma, but all Peryl told Tout was, “We shall discuss it.”
Chapter Five
Rowri dreamed and dreamed. She relived the smoke and the ash and, in between those flashes, she sat in a slick, metal shuttle opposite the Senior Priestess. Over and over they approached their destination. Omira repeated her words of reassurance. The rivets gleamed and the hatch cracked, letting light slash across the cabin and opening, opening on her future.
Each time the door fell a little farther until at last it clanked an echo against the bay floor. Light pooled on the shuttle’s hatch, sneaking in nearly to their feet. Voices called from outside, and Omira unbuckled her harness and stood up. The Senior stepped toward the light and turned, holding out a hand.
Rowri’s beast rumbled. She shoved it down and fought for a moment with the harness snaps. Better that than to acknowledge her eagerness, the flush of excitement at any forward progress in the vision. The shuttle ramp clanged under the tread of feet. Rowri’s harness fell open and she wiggled out of it, stood up in time to see the man, the alien, appear in their doorway.
He had skin like an Ametrian orchid. Even shaded by the shuttle cabin, his flesh had a subtle tint of purple to it. He wore his black hair long, longer than a Choma male would, and it shimmered like the drapes in her bedroom. Omira raised her hand to him, and he dipped into a short bow, his body hidden under long robes, and his eyes dark and drifting toward Rowri.
She seized in place. The beast quiet
ed and watched, held itself perfectly still, taut, waiting. She knew that posture, recognized the mood of her Uraru as a hunting one. This man had its attention, as surely as he had hers. She held her breath, felt the beast's interest blend with her own and listened for his voice as if it would hold all the answers to any question she’d ever posed.
His mouth had opened as if he meant to speak, and yet he held still as well, as frozen as she except for the deep furrow spawning between his eyes. His jaw tightened. He blinked, and Rowri reached for his words, stretched her seeing, desperate to hear him speak.
The vision faltered. The man’s frown faded into a swirl of her bedroom curtains. The filmy fabric danced and puckered into the room at the whim of an overly aggressive breeze. Rowri sat up and stared with wide eyes at the sky beyond. Thick clouds frothed over the temple roofline, backed only by a steady, flat gray. No fire fell, no sparks lingered, but in the wake of the disaster she knew she hadn’t dreamed, Rowri noticed something else—something much worse.
The bio-screen had died.
Over the garden and the temple grounds, over all of Choma, no lightning flashed. The shield had dropped, and nothing defended the planet’s surface from the wide, open dangers of the rest of the universe.
Rowri stood too fast. She stumbled, and sat back hard on her mattress. Her robe lay beside the bed, tossed off the foot while she thrashed in her sleep. She bent more carefully to pick it up, paced her movements and let her body fully awaken. How long had she slept, and where was Mirau? Where was anyone, in fact? Her Uraru cowered in a corner of her mind. Her blood chilled. The beast did not scare easily.
What if they’d all gone?
Her chest tightened and, deep inside, her Uraru whimpered. They wouldn’t abandon her. She knew that rationally, but her pulse warbled just the same. Her steps hurried to the door and, when she found the hallway deserted, her breath caught. She ran to the first stairway, scanned the empty gardens that darkened and looked far less inviting under that black and open sky.
She nearly plowed over Mirau. The young priestess sat at the top of the stairs, her back against the column and her knees tucked up to her chest. She squealed when Rowri stumbled into her, leaping up and risking a tumble down the flight. They held to one another’s robes and steadied their feet through a joint effort, balancing together on the precipice. When the danger of a tumble had passed, Rowri released her grip and backed away.
“I’m so sorry, Rowri,” Mirau gushed. “I only meant to be gone a moment, but you’ve been so still for so long, and I wanted to hear…”
“Hear what, Mirau? What is happening?” Rowri heard the pitch of her voice, recognized the beast’s panic in her tone. She took a trained breath and invoked calm. “Please. Tell me what is going on.”
“First Priestess Omira is addressing the clergy in the temple. The secretaries have brought a petition.”
“Already?” Rowri glanced up to that heavy sky, to the lapse in lightning. She pulled her robes straighter and dipped her head to her bare feet. “Come on, Mirau, we need to hear it.” Rowri started down the stairs on her own, but before she’d gone three steps, she heard Mirau patter after her.
“Are you sure you feel all right?”
“Yes. I’m fine.” Rowri focused her eyes down, watched each step pass and avoided looking at the sky. “Now tell me what has happened.”
Mirau tried, but once they reached the pathway at ground level, the muffled booming of Omira’s speech reached them, and they both hushed and focused on picking out the woman’s message, stepping as gingerly and yet as quickly as possible along the way to the Grand Temple. Its tallest spire flew a long golden banner, signifying a meeting that affected all of Choma’s people, and therefore, should not be kept to the Clergy only. All would be welcome in the sanctuary today, not that many would have made the journey so quickly.
“Greatest devastation in Choma history…” Omira’s voice claimed.
“They sent all the secretaries,” Mirau commented, drowning out the speech of their Senior. “All of them but Bumare.”
“Shhh.” Rowri strained to hear, but the Clergy had begun a bell ringing, and from the sound of the chimes, one in honor of the dead.
“They say no survivors in that district. Bumare is just gone. Even Tarshane had damage.”
“Which one erupted?” Rowri stopped too fast and slipped out of one slipper. She fished around for it while Mirau tried to work up her courage. The girl’s face scrunched and flinched from the story, but Rowri had seen the ash, the fire in the sky. She could guess at the rest.
“All of them.”
Bumare district hugged the rim of Choma’s massive volcanic complex. The hot springs and mineral baths had made the area famous, and the healing benefits of a soak there brought visitors from across the planet. Even Rowri had gone once, as a child, before her parents arranged her training at the Temple.
The bell ringing settled into a solid chime, one long chord in honor of the dead that had to number beyond counting.
“Hurry,” Mirau whimpered. “It’s almost over.”
They reached the gate just as the bells faded. Rowri’s courage dimmed with the soft echo of the dying chord. She slumped in the doorway, leaning against the thick frame, and gaped at the fully assembled clergy of the Grand Temple.
Rowri’s eyes wandered from one bowed head to the other. As her gaze lifted to the front dais and the tall figure who stood there, her beast whimpered again. Omira stood as firm and straight as ever, but the Senior Priestess could not hide how her voice trembled. She could not hide her red eyes, or the dark echoes of her own beast-terror behind them.
“The districts of Bumare and Tarshane will have our full support, of course.” She took a long breath that should have been soft but instead rattled at its edges. “We will send aid…”
An eager rumble swept through the assembly. The Senior raised her hand for silence, but too many voices murmured, and it took a long minute before she could speak again.
During the pause Rowri eyed the line of men—secular men, in ordinary uniforms—seated behind Omira. The secretaries all slumped in their places, as if pressed down by the weight of their offices. The dark man on the end, the one who looked vacantly into space and still wore the stun of trauma on his expression, would be the delegate from Tarshane.
“When the secretaries return—” Omira had to shout the first words. The impropriety of it silenced the final muttering. “When they return, we will send clergy with them. We need volunteers, and I am certain that you will all be happy to stand forth.”
Mirau sidled closer to Rowri’s side. She sighed and tucked her arm through Rowri’s, leaning into her. Inside the temple’s main room, others leaned on one another in much the same way. They held hands, bowed heads, and whispered softly their intentions to rush into humanitarian service. Rowri, however, felt something different. She knew, as surely as the steel settling into her spine at Mirau’s touch, that she wouldn’t be going to Tarshane or even to whatever was left of Bumare. She tightened her jaw and resisted the urge to look…up.
“Now,” Omira continued, and Rowri’s eyes fixed upon the woman’s face, held fast by the soft, deliberate movement of the Senior’s lips. “There is this other thing we must address. Secretary?”
A man stood. He wore a loose-fitted, pale yellow suit and had his long white hair tied back in a braid tight enough to stretch the wrinkles around his eyes up and back. He moved without the grace of a priest, rough and awkward, but then his Uraru had been chained by an ordinary life. Rowri recognized the stance, the bow of his shoulders and remembered her father, their farm at the edge of the Silari province. Far enough from Bumare, home, not that she’d retained any ties to her family or life there after her ordination.
Her Uraru would live free always.
The man shuffled forward. He looked to Omira for permission before addressing the crowd of clergy. His manner, his submissive stance, and the waver in his voice didn’t detract from their impact.
>
“The Tolfarians have contacted the Galactic Summit.” The murmurs rattling the high dome drowned out his attempt to continue.
The Grand Temple hummed like an angry hive. Heads swiveled, bells clattered to the floor, and a thousand lips whispered. Mirau’s fingers dug into Rowri’s arm. The Secretary tried again, twice, before giving up and looking to Omira again. But the Senior Priestess didn’t see him. Her gaze, even from the far dais, fixed upon Rowri. The weight of the look pressed in, pushed Rowri’s spine even straighter.
The Tolfarians had left Choma generations before. Ashamed of the Uraru, or perhaps jealous of its lack in their kind, the Choma population had divided forever when the tech-minded Choma-tolfari abandoned the home world, left it at last in the hands of the Choma-uraru.
“Silence!” At last Omira turned her attention to her priesthood. She raised both arms to the dome, and the sound of panic died. “Let the secretary speak.”
“Yes.” The man still trembled and tried to hide it by fidgeting. The movement only made him look weaker, prey-like at the head of a group of people with predators lurking under their skin. “Shortly after the disaster, we received a transmission from the Summit. They had monitored our situation and asked if we required assistance.”
The grumbles that time were soft, short-lived, and coupled with nervous glances toward Omira. Choma never required assistance, nor did its Uraru care for Galactic interference. Their membership in the Summit was both new and tentative and had neither been easily nor fully accepted. The proud Uraru were resilient and independent and had only been swayed at the end by the promise that membership would allow them more leverage to keep out unapproved visitors.
“They have been in contact with the Tolfarians for some time now, though they’d meant to wait even longer before contacting us as to the matter. The explosion gave them reason to believe we might appreciate their news sooner rather than later.”
He stopped, blinking rapidly and looking to Omira for rescue. The crowd made no noise now. Not one head moved. All eyes fixed on him and most of the assembly held their breaths. Tolfarians, the lost Choma, had news of relevance to them? Unlikely.
Seen (Heartstone Book 2) Page 4