Seen (Heartstone Book 2)

by Frances Pauli

  Shayd stared at the panel, a wash of gray, a barricade, a devil’s gate. He could open it. The bride’s quarters did not lock. He could, but so could she. She could come out, but she hadn’t even spoken, had she?

  “Shall we join Mofitan?” Haftan watched him. His forehead had yet to smooth. He squinted and shifted his jaw to one side. “Or shall we beat the door down?”

  “Mofitan.”

  “Good. You can explain to us both at once that way.” Haftan’s eyes flashed. It might have been mirth, but then, his voice had a cool edge to it, something darker than humor.

  They stalked to the hall’s end in silence, and the other Prince waved Shayd forward to the ladder, forced him to climb first as if he didn’t trust him not to bolt back down the hall. He’d been too obvious, or else the Heart had sung loud enough for Haftan to hear as well.

  Haftan. No. Not possible. The only time the Heart had sung to more than one Prince, it had done so in error. The Seer had tampered with the choosing, and unless the stone meant to punish him that way, Haftan could not have mistaken Rowri for his own.

  No. Shayd’s punishment lay in the giving of his Heart to another, to this Tolfarian leader, and he had to stop it from happening.

  He climbed the ladder swiftly, snatched at each rung as he shifted from thought to thought. The Shrouded had to support him. The other Princes would understand what must be done.

  He entered the forward cabin with this firmly in his mind. Mofitan sat at the controls. His back faced them, and he didn’t turn around immediately. Instead, he tweaked the console indicators and mumbled something about skeleton crews.

  When Haftan slid the compartment door shut, Mofitan sat straighter and one of his hands thumped absently against the side of his chair. “Detachment is complete. The Chomans didn’t waste any time before they scuttled back home.”

  He tapped the chair again and then swiveled to face them. His eyes shifted from Haftan, to Shayd and back, and his forehead scrunched. “What?”

  “Exactly what I was going to say.” Haftan slipped past Shayd and drifted to the couch beside Mof. The rest of the room was occupied by console banks, vents, and control generators. Not that he’d intended to sit. He could explain to them perfectly well from standing inside the doorway. In fact, he preferred it that way. The exit behind him gave him strength.

  “She is my Heart.” His chin lifted, and he straightened his shoulders and dared them to argue.

  “Not Omira?” Haftan had to know the answer, and Shayd suspected he’d asked for Mofitan’s sake.

  “No.”

  “Damn.” Haftan’s face crumpled. His polite veneer shadowed to a sulk again. “I didn’t think so.”

  “What? The girl?” Mofitan looked from Haftan to Shayd and back. When Haftan nodded grimly, he cursed and pounded a fist against his chair. “Shroud! What do we do now?”

  They both looked to Shayd, looked to him, when he’d hoped to find his answer in their response. He’d hoped to find his salvation in their reactions and now, he could see only their frustration, their confusion and nothing like the support he’d wanted. The floor tilted again. His shoulder hit the console on his right and he stayed there, leaned against it and let his panic seep into the gadgetry. He imagined it, the dark fog of his fear swirling away into the circuits and wiring.

  “We should notify Peryl.” Haftan spoke first. “The king might be able to find a loophole.”

  “Are you certain it’s her?” Mofitan had reason to doubt the Heart. It had steered him toward the wrong woman, had pushed Mof at Dolfan’s rightful match and left him with nothing. The wound was obviously still fresh. “You could be mistaken. Have you spoken to her about it?”

  “No.”

  “Should we make sure first?” Haftan warbled under Mofitan’s point. They questioned his judgment, or else their faith in the Heart was as weak as…as weak as his was. “We could go forward until she’s confirmed it. I mean…”

  They looked at him again, guilty now, uneasy and shuffling even without actually moving. Their eyes bounced from his face to the ceiling, the walls, the light blinking their location on the console. He could sense their hope, and it wasn’t in his favor. They wanted him to be wrong. They wanted to finish the mission. Perhaps they had different reasons, but both Haftan and Mof wanted this treaty negotiated. Galactic membership would serve them better than Shayd’s pairing ever could.

  He should have guessed as much.

  “Should I contact Peryl?” Haftan asked the floor grating, didn’t lift his gaze for his answer.

  “No.” Shayd’s chest constricted. His throat dried out around the word. “Wait.”

  At last, they had the decency to look guilty. Mof grunted and fiddled with the console. He tapped at the light. Haftan sighed too loudly and met Shayd’s gaze for a second.

  “Are you sure?”

  Shayd didn’t know if he meant sure about waiting or sure about the girl, but he’d give the same answer regardless. He stiffened, stood upright, and lifted his chin before responding.

  “Yes.”

  They had a little time. If he was sure of the Heart’s choice for him, the other Princes’ doubt would hardly matter. Rowri would confirm it. She’d agree that the mission must not go forward, and no one on Shroud would support giving the woman away against her will. He’d just have to speak with her, preferably without her guardian. He’d have to get her alone. That idea had merit on many counts. He imagined it and felt the flutter of his body’s response alongside the Heart’s song.

  Shayd left the cockpit and returned to the ladder alone. He had a mission now, and felt the spring of it in his steps. Get Rowri alone before they reached the Tolfarian rendezvous. Get her alone and let her confirm what he already knew. They were meant for one another, and nothing in the galaxy mattered more than that fact.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jadyek followed the First Consort and the prison director. He trailed them up and down the long rows of cells and listened the entire time to the veins in the walls. They sang inside his head, and he could not mute the calling. Down, down, down.

  The director showed Jain Rieordan the security measures, the electronic panels and the circuitry, and all Jadyek could see were the translucent lines of gemstone winding through the Core. They moved down all the rows on the first level. The lift tunnel formed the central axis of the prison, and on each level five halls branched from this like arms. They were not connected, and the only way out was to take the central elevator back to the surface where the wide, main hallway stood manned by heavily armed Shrouded security.

  When they entered the lift for the second time, he found his fingers twitching, and his feet refused to be still. He placated the nervousness by shifting from one foot to the other. The car moved, dropped another level at an agonizing pace. When the other two men stepped out, however, Jaydek found himself glued to the spot. The stones whispered in his head, and the way they marched was not the way it wanted him to go.

  “I’ll stay here.” He cringed at the look the Consort flashed him. “I’m a little claustrophobic.”

  The Consort nodded, but he turned to the prison director for confirmation. Would they let him remain here alone, trust him? If Rieordan ordered him to join them, Jadyek wasn’t sure what he’d do. His legs felt like lead, like any step away from the shaft would tear them from his hips.

  “I see no problem,” the director said. “If the Consort approves?”

  Rieordan shrugged and turned back to his inspection. Jadyek was extra baggage anyway. He wasn’t needed for the inspection any more than he was needed back at the palace. They walked down the nearest hallway, forgetting him easily enough in the weight of their duties. He leaned against the elevator railing and listened to the shuffling of the few inmates. They awoke from their boredom as the inspection passed, tossed hoarse requests into the hall and shifted in their rooms.

  The rooms were not cruel, but the isolation was. He could barely imagine it, life underground, alone in the a
rtificial light with no chance to stretch or even see the Shroud overhead. Even a short sentence would be more than he ever wanted to experience. Just standing in the dark had him itching to move, and yet, it was not the surface that called to him.

  Go down, down.

  He leaned over and tried to follow the veins. Maybe he had a special affinity for mining. He’d never considered the career, had never possessed the least bit of interest in geology. Yet here he was in the dark, talking to the heartstone. If he had a skill for it, then wouldn’t he be more useful, more valued in a quarry somewhere?

  Anything to be free of the palace where everyone remembered the dead man he’d never live up to.

  The automated lights made it impossible to see more than a few meters down. They only lit up on proximity, following the elevator car along its journey. Jadyek stared hard at the darkness until the other men returned. Then he climbed back into the car and felt the call, the increase in pull as the lift moved down to the next level.

  They repeated the same order of events three more times. Each level had fewer tunnels. The cells became less frequent and most were unoccupied. The First Consort discussed improvements with the director, though Jadyek couldn’t see the need for them. He watched the lights turn on and off and clenched his fists against the urge to stroke the stone as it passed.

  He didn’t need to lose a finger today. He needed to get up and out, to see the Shroud and smell the artificial, but fresh, air. Still, the song said, down, and Jadyek’s gaze followed it into the dark.

  “Last level,” the prison director commented. “Just one inmate and you know who that is.”

  “The traitor.”

  “Him, yes. The access tube that leads to the hole is on this level too.”

  “Jarn.” The First Consort snarled the name. “Still living?”

  “Yes, and as far from the elevator as possible.”

  “Good.”

  The traitors to Shroud, the worst criminals in Shrouded history, lived on this level. Jadyek wanted to be horrified, but his feet unstuck now, and the song moved him, changing its note. Here, here, here. What could it mean? The heartstone wanted him to see the traitors? His throat dried up. His skin prickled to attention, and he feared his special skill was leading him to something far less noble.

  “There are no guards on this level?” Rieordan asked.

  “No. There’s nowhere to go but up the shaft.”

  They left him, assumed he’d wait as he had at every stop. His feet would not allow it, however, and he stalked in their wake, pulled forward by the stone and pushed to a crawling pace by his own conscience. What if Jarn was psychic? What if the traitor had put some compulsion on him, would try to force him to commit treason and let the man loose?

  Here, here.

  The stone drew him toward danger. He felt that much, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to ignore it. The whisper tasted too much like a promise of something else.

  “The hole is this way.” The director passed the front of the solitary cell and kept walking. “If you want to check on him.”

  “Has he been any trouble?” Rieordan glanced briefly into the cell and continued past.

  “Just his mouth.” The director hit the end of the tunnel and opened a control box in the rock wall. He jerked his head back to indicate the cell. “He’s constantly nagging at that one.”

  “Nothing else to do in the hole.” They laughed together, but Jadyek couldn’t join them. He knew what Jarn had done, how the foreign devils had infiltrated the Shroud, invaded the planet and momentarily seized the throne. Where was the humor in that? Even if the man rotted in their “hole” he’d done enough damage to warrant a more somber mood.

  Also, his feet had stalled again. His fear of Jarn faded when the song changed. He felt no compunction to continue toward the traitor’s prison. He’d already found his goal. The stone told him as much. It allowed him to reach the cell, to peer at the wretched soul inside. In fact, it demanded that he look.

  Jadyek placed his hands against the glassteel front. He leaned his forehead against the smooth surface and examined the man. Too thin to have been eating regularly, too sallow to be healthy enough. His skin almost glowed from the lack of light, and his once-silky clothing tattered at the edges. All the wrappings had come undone.

  A fury swelled in his stomach. It replaced the fear of Jarn, the hope of some geological future in one swift breath. He pressed his fingers against the wall as if he might dig through it, and he watched the frail form inside shift. He held his breath while the man turned dark, haunted eyes to gaze in his direction.

  The heartstone blazed to life, then. It lit up, glowed like a spider’s web, reaching into the cell and out, up the tunnel and back—the light of the Heart that’s found its match. It sang a different song now, a single name that meant everything.

  Dielel.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The dining room was empty, and it felt different today. Shayd paced around the table again, sniffed the ship’s stale recycled air, and counted the chairs to keep his mind occupied. They brought the Brides here to eat. Each shipment sat around this table and considered their futures on Shroud. How many Brides had this ship carried in its time?

  Not one for him. Never, now. He’d found his match as sure as stone, and he couldn’t shake the weight of it. It pressed in around him as if the hull were slowly shrinking, as if the ship itself conspired to lure them together. Maybe the years of fetching Brides had imbued it with a sense of the Heart. Maybe he wasn’t losing his mind.

  The door slid open and their reptilian passenger shuffled in. He flicked glances to either side before noticing Shayd across the table. The large eyes blinked, recessing a touch into his scaly head. The green color of the man’s skin deepened and he cleared his throat.

  “We’re eating now?”

  “Yes.” Shayd looked over the man’s head to the doorway. No one else entered. He’d be forced to converse with the Shevran. The thought nearly sent him running for his cabin. He placed his hands on the back of the chair he’d stopped behind, stared at the open mess door, and willed someone else to appear.

  It slid shut instead. The lizard man picked the chair opposite Shayd and flopped into it. He cleared his throat again.

  Shayd dragged his seat away from the table. It screeched, blissfully drowning any hope of conversation for the space of a breath. The Shevran blinked across at him. Its cheeks flushed toward yellow-green—not quite angry, more of a slightly annoyed shade. It watched him, however, and Shayd sat at as leisurely a pace as he could. He took time to smooth his robes, then fold the back neatly under himself and settle in before inching his seat back into place.

  “Hmm.” The scaly head across from him bobbed a little, but the door behind it slid open again, and Mofitan appeared as if in answer to Shayd’s prayers.

  Mof was no more a diplomat than he was, of course, but running Base 14 would give him enough conversation fodder with the Shevran to stall until Haftan arrived. The big Prince already made enough noise to distract the trader. As Mofitan marched to the head of the table, the scaly head swiveled to follow his progress.

  Shayd expelled a breath laced with nerves and let his pulse settle.

  “Hmm.” The reptilian cleared his throat again and earned a scathing look from Mofitan. It did nothing to deter him. “Are they here? Will they eat too? Where are the Chomans hiding?”

  Shayd said a blessing in his thoughts to Mofitan’s arrival and the Heart and anyone else who would listen that he was not the target of the man’s interrogation.

  “Yes, I suppose, and they’ll be here any minute.” Mof glanced to the door as well, and Shayd could only imagine he shared his own eagerness for Haftan to make his appearance. “Any minute now.”

  “If the Shrouded join the Galactic Summit, will you unclench your trade restrictions?”

  “No.” Mof backed the syllable with a growl. “Why would we do that?”

  “Why?” Two rough hands settled on the t
able, green except at the knuckles where the scales whitened with tension. “Why indeed. Why does anyone increase trade? For profit, for expansion and good will.”

  “Agreed.” Mofitan nodded and waved one hand to acknowledge the man’s point. “But we choose the rate of that expansion, and we’ll choose it to suit ourselves, thank you.”

  “Ridiculous.” The trader’s cheeks bloomed like buttercups. His head wobbled a little, but not overly aggressively. He didn’t bob a threat, only blushed his frustration with Shrouded policy in a glorious sunshine hue. “I think the Shrouded toy with the rest of the galaxy because they like the attention. I think you fear opening your routes might reveal that you are no more special than the rest of us.”

  “Special?” Mof grunted and shook his head. “That’s stupid.”

  “I hardly think stupid is the polite term,” Haftan breezed through the doorway in time to diffuse the insult. He placed himself quickly between Mof and the Shevran and focused entirely on the latter. “Certainly we respect all theories on the matter, though you must understand my blustery counterpart’s point. We have never sought attention from the outside for any reason. In fact, I’d say it has found us quite by accident, and if it’s somehow labeled us as special, we’d be the first to choose to remedy that error.”

  “Hmm.” The trader still blazed at the edges, but he put his hands back in his lap and inclined his head at a friendlier angle when Haftan slipped into the seat beside him.

  Through the doorway he’d vacated the Choman Senior priestess drifted in with the girl, Rowri, in her wake. Shayd felt her like a tremble in the air, and her eyes lifted to his for a heavy second before her chaperone steered her to a seat on the other side of the trader, opposite Shayd, and far enough away that he suspected Omira of keeping them at as much distance as possible. The older woman definitely sensed something. Her eyes found him as well, and there was a sharp edge there with his name on it.