Seen (Heartstone Book 2)

by Frances Pauli

  “Tout signed the agreement. We have every right to our rendezvous with the Tolfarians. It is legal and sanctioned by the Galactic Summit.”

  “I don’t care if it’s…”

  “Mofitan!” Haftan of all people snapped at the burly Prince. “Let him come, for Shroud’s sake. We’ll be arguing all day otherwise.”

  Shayd leaned against the loading ramp railing and waited for them to sort it out. The lizard men had grown surlier as the trade barriers came down. They’d expected access to the planet, and instead they’d received a heavy dose of competition for the export trade. Mof tangled with them on a daily basis, and he’d petitioned to be rid of them entirely, to revoke all Shevran trade permits to the Council on more than one occasion.

  Now he faced the trader with his hands on his hips and murder in his glare. He’d take out the frustrations deserved of a whole race on this one if they let him. Haftan had the right of it. Haftan, of any of them, had undergone a positive change with the news that he would not be returning to Shroud. He’d perked up like a plant long dry at the first sign of water. He looked almost like his old self again, perhaps minus a measure of arrogance.

  “Call Tout and verify it if you must,” he cajoled Mof, but he did it from out of arm’s reach. “Then we can get moving.”

  Mof latched onto the idea. Maybe he hoped the lizard was lying, that Tout would refute the trader’s claim. Maybe he meant to argue against the idea directly with the Summit delegate. Either way, he ordered the Shevran to wait and stomped to the nearest communications panel.

  The Shevran trader sucked his cheeks back in. His color returned to a sickly shade of green and he hopped sideways to the hover sled on which he’d arrived from the bays. The vehicles followed a magnetic track in the flooring, and once the trader had removed his bags, this one wobbled off again, around the ship and away to the far wall to begin its return journey.

  Shayd let his gaze drift, adopted a stance that spoke of boredom and then carefully examined the trader without seeming to. The man had a twitch to him. At first, he’d assumed the Shevran was attempting some kind of trick, lying in order to sneak aboard for the first chance to make contact, and therefore trade relations, with a new culture. Possibly with two cultures.

  He was too confident for that to be the case, however. Shayd could see it in the scaly stance, defiant, assured of victory. Tout would confirm the man’s claims and they’d be stuck with an additional member of their crew, one of the less-than-savory variety.

  The trader flushed greener, and Shayd eyed the man’s bags. Three of them, no doubt stuffed with cheap goods to impress upon his new contacts how valuable he might be to them. He’d have brought samples, tastes, aromas…a gray face with a web of blue light woven across it. A machine that made life energy, and…

  “You!” Mofitan returned with steps that banged against Shayd’s thoughts and drove the vision away again. He pointed one fist at the Shevran and shook his head. “You will follow my orders at all times. Without question.”

  “Of course.” The head lowered and the trader’s eyelids fluttered. His cheeks glowed a deep viridian. “Of course, yes.”

  Mof stared at him for only a second, but Shayd knew a fuming Shrouded Prince when he saw one. He knew just how much danger the trader faced, and he couldn’t help but exhale when Mofitan finally turned and stormed up the loading ramp and into the ship’s belly.

  When the trader shuffled to follow, it was Haftan who held up the warning hand, who shook his head and stepped into the little man’s path. “Give him a moment, S’urrvin. Let him settle. We’ll get your things on board.”

  The trader thought about arguing. His cheeks paled and his fat lips parted, but his protests died in the departure announcement, in the howl of a shuttle’s engines overhead. By the time the bay fell back to its ordinary cacophony, he’d thought better. Haftan moved in, reached for one of the trader’s bags and hefted it to his shoulder. Before he could try for the second pack, the Shevran puffed out his throat, snatched up the plump duffle, and backed away, bobbing like a piston.

  “I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” he chanted. “Go on, move ahead.”

  “Good.” Haftan led the way up the ramp. “Then follow me.”

  Shayd waited for them to vanish into the ship’s interior. He waited for the eerie, slippery feeling to subside, for the trace image of a face full of blue implants to fade away again. He’d meet the owner of that face soon enough. Too soon, if the flutter in his gut were any indication. He squinted at the transport hatch and caught the shadows of Haftan and the lizard man as they moved ahead of him toward the ship’s interior.

  He should board now. It looked odd, lingering. It risked exposing his trepidation, his reluctance to take the next step. There was no Heart in space. He would have no brazier and no fumes to see with. Would he still hear it, the pulse of the stone, from across the galaxy? If not, how would he know what to do? The Seer needed the stone’s song. He needed its guidance to act in accordance for the best interest of his people.

  If the Heart’s song abandoned him in space, he could easily lose his way. But even as he thought it, as he felt the silver worm of panic at the base of his spine, creeping upwards, trembling his resolve, Shayd felt the hand at his back again. He felt the push away, always away, and knew the Heart wanted him on that ship. The Shrouded soul didn’t care if he knew what to do next. It only wanted him to go.

  The Seer adrift. Shayd let the hand have its way with him. He followed the Heart, what might be the stone’s last order to him, and strode directly up the ramp and into darkness.

  Chapter Seven

  The shuttle bay opened. The rivets gleamed and the lilac-skinned man strode into the hold, dipping low and staring at her with dark eyes. His gaze held her captive. His hand reached out for the Senior Priestess’s and his smile turned on Rowri. Her vision stuttered and then swept forward. She let the universe blur and followed willingly. Fighting would break the spell as surely as holding on too hard, concentrating too much.

  Colors swirled in a vortex and then stabilized. She faced him again, the lilac man, but now he stood so close that she could feel his breathing mingle with her own. She stared up into those eyes. She inhaled the soft scent of charcoal and perfume. Her chest tightened. The man leaned forward, leaned down, and Rowri knew his hands held her shoulders, that they’d been fighting and he meant to kiss her now.

  Her Uraru purred.

  How badly she wanted that kiss. The seeing held a depth of passion Rowri didn’t understand. Her beast did, however. She could feel the cat twitching in anticipation, heating her blood, making her pulse dance faster. Her chin lifted and the man’s lips closed in. Cool air whispered between them.

  Rowri awoke, sat up and glared at the swirl of thin curtains.

  “It’s cold in here.” She fought down the snarl and calmed her breathing. “Mirau?” She turned to Mirau’s side of the room automatically and frowned. This was not her room. It had no Mirau, no second bed at all. They’d made her a full priestess. She had a sparkling set of white robes now, draped across the couch in her private room. She had a few hours to live in it before her life changed again. Rowri could feel it coming, the pivot, the turnstile that would send her in a completely new direction.

  When her parents had delivered her to the Temple in their town, the goodbyes had been forever. She’d known it. She’d seen it all ahead of time. That steep path had had only one direction, forward, and Rowri had never looked back, had never regretted her choice to live in service at the Temple.

  She’d seen it, after all.

  Today she would take a similar step. She would volunteer to leave her world, to abandon Choma forever in order to secure a safe future for its people. She’d seen that too, and yet she couldn’t feel the finality this time. No matter how hard she tried to imagine never stepping foot in the Choma jungles again, she failed. Her Uraru sulked in silence, and the seeing didn’t come to order.

  Now she thought of her family. Did h
er parents still live? Was the farm profitable? What had become of her siblings? She’d thought, perhaps, that Sila might join the priesthood. Her younger sister’s cat had been a near twin to her own, and even more assertive. She’d yet to encounter the girl if she had joined, but then few of the clergy actually ended up here, assigned to the Grand Temple.

  Sila could be anywhere. Thinking of her now, Rowri realized how much Mirau reminded her of her sister. Was that why she’d taken to the girl? She’d leave her roommate behind as well now. Even that small companionship would pass, and Rowri would enter the unknown alone.

  It pushed her to get up now, to shake out her long black hair and run her smoky fingers through the tangles. It made her legs unfold, her arms slip into the new robes, gleaming white, bound now in a crossing pattern in the colors of her order and specialty. Silver for her cat, and orange for her level of seeing. That one should be at least green for her new status. She’d never heard of another promotion as early as hers had been, had had to be.

  Normally initiation into such a status meant a lifetime of service in the Temple. Normally. This time, it meant exile. For Rowri it meant a shuttle flight, a stranger, and a future filled with the unknown.

  The first chimes already sang when she left her room. The alcoves looked out over the garden and the plants bloomed still, though the sky was flat gray and empty of lightning or fire. It was empty of life energy, drained by the loss of plant, animal, and Choma-uraru in the wake of the volcanoes’ wrath.

  She took the stairs, crossed through the foliage, and felt her stomach growling over the rumble of her beast. She’d missed breakfast, had missed lunch the day before, and only taken a short run after her talk with the Senior. Her body was unhappy with her, inside and out. Would there be time for a final run? She should have thought of it earlier. To let her Uraru loose in the Choma jungle, now that she might never see it again, seemed like the most important thing she could possibly do.

  But the chimes said there was no time. The patter of feet along the paths told her she was not the last to reach the sanctuary today. She scurried through the leaves, inhaled deeply, and joined the line of clergy trickling through the huge open doorway.

  Mirau waited just outside, balancing on her toes and dissecting the crowd to find Rowri. When their eyes met the girl sprang forward, pushed her way through the complaining clergy to reach her former roommate. She giggled, bobbed, clapped her hand over her mouth, and then dipped at the knees slightly in deference to Rowri’s new robes.

  “I couldn’t stand another minute.” She blasted the words out. “I’ve been waiting and waiting!”

  “Shh, Mirau.” Rowri nodded an apology to as many passersby as she could. “It’s time for rites.”

  “I know!” Her giggle overpowered the chimes and parted the sea of clergy so that there was a wide space around them. “Omira has a big announcement. I know, Rowri!”

  “But I know what it is.”

  Mirau’s eyes stretched to their fullest, bright orbs with too much excitement to have a clue what the Senior had in store. What would the girl think of Rowri’s future? What would any of them think?

  It didn’t matter; she’d seen it. What was seen would come to pass.

  "Tell me! What is it?"

  “No one else is supposed to know, Mirau, but she’ll tell everyone soon enough if you let us go in!”

  “I know, I know.” Mirau still pranced, but at least she moved toward the doors now. “What’s your room like?"

  “What? It’s just a room.”

  “They gave me an angry girl.”

  “I’m sure you just need to get to know each other.” Rowri managed to steer them both inside the temple. She sidled up to the nearest bell table and scanned the chimes. She should be centered, shouldn’t have Mirau buzzing in her ear like an insect.

  “Her cat is always growling.”

  Rowri swallowed her chuckle and let her hands drift over the bells. A chime for today—would Anticipation come to her again this morning? She closed her eyes and ignored Mirau’s continued mumbling. Her hand shifted, and she stepped sideways along the table until heat blossomed, tingles darted over her palm. The chime called and Rowri opened her eyes on Fear.

  She sighed heavily and lifted the bell. Her last bell, perhaps, on her home world. If ever she deserved to strike it, today was the day. But she didn’t care to explain to Mirau, and so she tucked the chime in close, shielded it from view with her hands, and led their way to a bare stretch of bench to the left of the dais and toward the back of the room.

  Mirau sat beside her and tried to see her chime without being obvious. The last of the clergy filed in and sat. The sanctuary filled today, and the soft mutters rumbled like a storm, only fading to silence slowly when Omira took the stage. The Senior raised her left arm, held a small chime aloft and struck one clear note.

  Clarity. Rowri recognized it even as it drowned in the answer of the crowd. She lifted Fear and struck it hard, blending her inner voice with the chord of all the Temple priesthood’s. The vibrations trembled through her legs and seat. The music seemed discordant today, and no wonder.

  Mirau threw a questioning look at her, but Rowri ignored it. She fixed her gaze on the dais and waited. Omira silenced the bells. She cleared her throat and began her story, the story she’d told Rowri a day early. The one that had changed everything. Broodmare.

  The silence thickened and grew heavy. Even Mirau stilled, leaned forward while the Senior explained the Tolfarians’ belief in the genetic nature of the Uraru, in the shared lineage and divergent history of the Choma peoples. She inhaled at the right times, gasped and shook her head along with the rest…all of them except for Rowri.

  The news of the generator received better responses. A few chimed their bells when Omira told of the offer, of the ability to repair the bio-shields. Rowri recognized Hope and Elation in the mix. She’d used both chimes before.

  When the Senior explained what the Tolfarians requested in return, however, the chimes stilled. Voices lifted in their place, an angry murmur echoed in Mirau’s whispered, “What did she say?”

  Rowri didn’t answer, she heard the next chime loud and clear. It echoed alone in the room, and somehow reached the high domes. She heard it, and only partly noticed that she’d struck the note herself, that she’d stood, that she faced Omira alone now, though a sea of confused faces swam between them. Rowri struck Fear again, chimed loudly and clearly to the Senior and waited. Omira’s head tilted, when the woman nodded, ever so slightly.

  “I volunteer!” Rowri shouted it, but her voice crackled. Her throat had dried up on her, and she wet her lips and tried again. “I volunteer, Senior. I have seen it!”

  No one chimed then, nor did they whisper. Only Mirau gave a tiny sob beside her. Omira nodded again, but even her controlled expression wavered and grew sorrowful. Her voice held, however, and they all heard the answer. A few echoed the words.

  “That which is seen must come to pass.”

  Chapter Eight

  Dielel breathed in the damp air and curled more tightly into himself. The cage that was his world seemed clean, was kept sterile and free of filth by regular, automated systems. They made his skin crawl. The beams did no physical damage, but he saw them in his sleep. In his dreams they crisped his flesh and ate away at his wretched bones.

  Though his cell was deep inside the Core of his world, the air was piped in as clear and fresh as that one might breathe upon the surface. It still tasted sour. He could smell the mold, even if they kept it out of his immediate space. It still smelled of slow death and the guilt that haunted the prison tunnels.

  His own guilt tasted like pepper. It awoke every night and chewed at his tongue while the voice hissed to him from the vent in one corner. He knew it now, like he knew his own thoughts, and he judged the hour as late strictly by the presence of its constant taunting.

  “Dielel, traitor Prince. I know you’re up there. I hear them, talking to you. They don’t talk to me Dielel. Th
ey’ve buried me even deeper than you, and you betrayed them all.”

  He rocked from side to side on his cot. Hugged his knees and imagined the voice had a face. Sometimes he pictured a dead man, though he knew from his trial that the Seer had perished. He liked the idea better that way, the thought that the ghosts of his victims might taunt him from beyond the grave. At least it suggested that there was something beyond the grave.

  Once, half asleep, he’d thought it was Haftan calling to him. But he knew better. He should. Haftan hated him now. He’d seen it in the man’s eyes when they took his crown away. Dielel rocked harder, curled more tightly into himself. He’d done it all for Haftan, had loved the man even though that love was rejected and scorned from their first meeting. He’d done everything for Haftan. Haftan who had deserved to be the king.

  Haftan, who had abandoned him to the pit prison and never once thought to come visit.

  Dielel banged his head back hard against the wall of his cell. It cleared his thoughts, drove Haftan away and allowed him to identify the voice’s true owner. It was the foreigner, Jarn, who called to him. It was the bastard who lived below him now, the devil who had led them all into temptation.

  “Dielel, I know you can hear me.”

  Haftan had always been the noble one. He’d stood up for Dielel in school, had looked out for him in the academy. Dielel had only meant to repay him, had only thought, if he gave Haftan what he desired most, perhaps the Prince would forgive him for the other thing.

  “Dielel….”

  The vent hissed and, though Jarn couldn’t see him, Dielel blushed. His cheeks flamed. Haftan had worked it out eventually. He’d suspected the devotion was more than friendship, perhaps, for some time. But though he’d been very clear on his own feelings, Haftan hadn’t deserted him, had allowed the relationship to go on as if nothing unusual had happened. Until they took his crown away.

  Then Dielel had been cast aside, as if the failure all rested on his head.