SHROUDED
HEARTSTONE BOOK ONE
FRANCES PAULI
CONTENTS
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
About the Author
More Heartstone
SHROUDED
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, names and places, within are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, either living or dead, is purely coincidental.
* * *
Copyright © 2012 by Frances Pauli
* * *
All rights reserved.
This book is dedicated to the dreamers,
the true believers who never give up,
even when the stars themselves,
seem to argue against them.
CHAPTER ONE
HE MANAGED to cut her off four steps from sanctuary. Vashia pressed her spine against the steel wall and watched the transport slide to a stop, blocking her path to the Comet’s back entrance. The alley she’d snuck down reeked of grease and sweat. She held her breath for more than just a need for silence. A gutter lizard slithered up the opposite wall, snapping its purple tongue at invisible insects. Vashia cringed and slid a step back down the way she’d come.
The hover sled powered to idle and the long door panel slid open. Her father’s insignia disappeared into the housing as the gap widened and Jarn stepped out of the vehicle. Vashia’s mouth twisted in distaste. At the same time she did her best to merge with the alley wall. Jarn knew about the Comet. Damn it.
He tugged at his gloves and sneered down the street in either direction. His vulture eyes picked through the riffraff for any trace of Vashia. Her skin crawled. She froze in the shadows and fought off the urge to flee. She couldn’t risk another step, couldn’t risk making a sound that might alert the governor’s aide. Instead she watched his shorn head shake and heard him bark orders to the driver and to the armed thugs standing on either side of his car. “Wait. Keep your eyes sharp.”
She held her breath and waited until he disappeared into the Comet, until he slid his skinny, uniformed shoulders through the nightclub’s entrance and the blast of music faded once more into the clatter and hum of normal street noise. The hover car whined in front of her, blocking the route she’d intended to take. Jarn’s toadies might not have genius level IQs, but they couldn’t miss an attempt to slip past them in the full light of Eclipsis’ primary moon. Vashia backed further into the alley and let out a slow, silent exhale. She was so screwed.
If she couldn’t reach Samra at the Comet, she’d have to scramble. She shook her head and worked her way past the rusted doors and between the piles of detritus and garbage dribbling around each rectangular trash chute. A new plan sparked, and she chewed on it while she slunk between the metal buildings. She needed to alter her appearance. If Jarn had the troops looking for her, she’d need some measure of disguise.
The alley opened up on the next street. Vashia held for a moment before she stole a glance right toward the haze of incense and neon brothel signs. She winked at the knob-tailed Chromian squatting in the opposite alley. His intricately woven mat spread across the ground before him, and his Haji cards shimmered in the reflected neon. He’d read for her once, when she’d been forced to linger and avoid her father’s street patrols. The fortune had been gibberish, but she’d still paid him enough to buy his food, maybe his drink, for at least a month. Now he winked back and leaned forward to check the road, mirroring her glance left and right.
Tonight, the brothels roared with laughter and stank of smoldering herbs from some planet she’d never see. The Eclipsis sky burned lavender in full moonrise. The occasional streak of a ship leaving the atmosphere tore up from between the buildings to the east where the Wraith spaceport ejected its refined gasses and heavy metals in huge cargo liners or welcomed the next transport of slaves, thieves, and the likewise desperate.
Vashia turned left, headed away from the city’s sex industry straight to the outer edge of the gambling district. She’d need cash even more than a disguise. Her father could and would freeze her credits. He’d done it more than once in the past when she’d slipped away for too long or when they’d had a large enough dispute to convince him she was a flight risk. This time, she didn’t intend to return. And if she wanted to avoid slavery or prostitution, she’d need every credit she could get her hands on.
The governor and his hound, Jarn, had taken one step too far this time. They’d pushed her one time too many. Their newest scheme had sucked away her options, all her indecision, into null space. They’d given her no choice. She had to leave, fast and for good. She flinched away from a flash of memory, from the image of Jarn’s triumphant sneer, of his slimy voice and stiff, smug expression. The alternative would be a fate worse than death.
The buildings towered higher the further she ventured into crime central. The lights flashed brighter and quicker than at the brothels and the scents veered toward consumables: glow gin, cheap wine and tobacco from all over the galaxy. The shadows in these doorways were squatter, squarer than the prostitutes. Here the casino goons waited, leering at her with eyes that glowed like a wolf’s and snagging the unwary or the addicted to play in their bosses’ games.
Vashia kept her gaze forward. She straightened her spine and put more confidence in her steps. She added a touch of swagger—something she didn’t feel. She’d learned early on how to pass for one of Wraith’s stray souls, and she’d learned just how to avoid too much attention, just how to fit in without getting caught in the city’s many nets.
A few of the bouncers hustled her. One or two might have recognized the governor’s daughter. She ignored the comments and snickers and walked a bee line to the only bank in Wraith that still dealt in cash.
The building had worn nearly transparent with age and neglect. While the casinos around it grew, the bank shrank into itself until only a slip of a façade remained, sandwiched between its brighter cousins and marked only by a sparking, antique neon sign. Vashia ducked a flutter of fiery rain and slid through the entrance.
The foyer stank of body odor from more species than she could count or even identify. The old rug lay as threadbare as the furniture, frayed and faded until the original pattern smudged into an incoherent gray mess. Few customers haunted the place during daylight hours and, even now, when the casino doors had only recently opened for business and the quarter was firing up for the start of a lucrative night, only a single person waited at the electronic service counter.
Vashia ignored the man and swerved directly to the left. She shifted into a different stance, one she reserved for dealing with her father and the officials that haunte
d the hallways of their home. She lifted her chin and tossed her hair back over her set shoulders. She raised one hand and rapped sharply on an unmarked door. Heavy footsteps answered.
The bank manager spent too much of his time in her father’s company, but she knew him, and his greed would win out over any loyalty. Vashia waited for the inset panel to slide open, then sighed and leaned forward for the facial scan. She tapped one foot and made a point of affecting an impatient expression.
The door beeped before the scan finished. She snapped upright and watched it slide aside to reveal the hall leading to the back office. The manager had come himself, and, as soon as the door opened, he dropped into a half crouch and tilted his head in deference to her status.
“Lady Vashia, how nice to see you.”
“Is it?” Vashia drew one eyebrow to its full height. “I require a transaction, Zern, and I’d prefer to handle it in cash.”
“Of course, Lady. Why else would someone in your position find need of me?”
“I don’t care for your tone.”
“Your pardon. Please, come back to the office and I’ll arrange the exchange.”
“I’m in a hurry.” Vashia glanced past him to the dim passage. She’d never seen Zern’s office and she didn’t care to now. “I need to liquidate as much of my credits as you can manage. I’ll authorize the withdrawal.” She held out her palm for him to scan.
“I think we’d be better served to deal in private.” Zern frowned and peeked around her toward the entrance. “I’m not comfortable handing you that much cash in full view.”
“View of whom? I’m capable of handling myself, thank you. I’ll take full responsibility.”
She stuck her palm out again, but, instead of moving to scan it, Zern stole another glance toward the street. A tiny alarm sounded in Vashia’s head. She narrowed her eyes. Zern had made it to the door awfully fast. He might easily have been waiting there, in fact. Who he’d been waiting for would make all the difference.
“I mentioned a need for expediency,” she snapped. He jumped nearly out of his skin.
“Of course, of course. I’ll just check your account.” He produced a card-sized scanner and waved it at her palm without looking. The alarm amplified. Zern was more than a little distracted. “Hmmm.” He frowned and glanced at the device. “It seems your credits have been frozen.”
Damn. Her father had moved quickly this time. Either Jarn had already returned to rat on her or they knew she’d overheard their little deal. Both of them had known exactly how unwilling she would’ve been to play out her part in their arrangement.
“It’s a mistake.” She kept the nerves out of her voice. “You know that, of course.”
“Of course.” Zern looked toward the street again. “I’m sure I can arrange for a small loan, some pocket cash to hold you over until it’s straightened out.”
“Thank you.” It wouldn’t be enough. She ignored a flash of panic. It didn’t matter. She needed whatever he could get her. “I’m sure that will be soon.”
“If you’ll come back to the office.”
Vashia took a step backwards. She saw Zern’s eyes widen, and his uni-brow lowered until it furrowed a deep cleft in his high forehead. For a second, neither of them moved. Beads of sweat lined up at the banker’s hairline. His eyes danced to the door and back one more time.
Vashia shook her head. “Maybe some other time.” She took another step toward the exit. His façade breaking, Zern lunged for her. His sweaty hand clawed at her sleeve as she turned. Vashia shook him off and leapt two more strides. She skidded through the exit into the street in time to hear the whine of engines at her left, to catch a blur of gray that would be Jarn’s car blocking her escape.
She had no money. Tears fogged her vision. She spun on her heel and darted away in the opposite direction. No money meant no escape. As planetary governor, her father owned everything—and apparently, everyone—on Eclipsis. Wraith was no place to be without cash, without shelter. Vashia had seen enough of the city to know that much, even sheltered by her status as Kovath’s daughter.
But she’d heard her father’s words. He meant to give her to Jarn, to use her body to bind his ally to him by blood. She smeared away the tears with the back of one hand and ran for all she was worth. She had nowhere to go, but still her legs churned, her feet pounding steady against the rough street. Vashia ran through the narrow alleys, back toward the belly of Wraith’s unsavory sector. She ran past the casinos and the customers squeezing to get inside, back the way she’d come toward the brothels and the horror of a future with no options.
Dolfan paused in the threshold and looked up to the swirling atmosphere. An orange curl wound between the canyon peeks, blushing with the touch of distant storm. He craned to see out beyond the palace entrance and brushed a stray strand of black hair out of his face. A thin red flag rippled high above the plaza. He squinted at it, pulled his breather from inside his shirt, and tucked a tiny tube into each nostril before stepping out into the open air.
The plaza blazed in the reflection of the storm—creamy orange, flashes of pink. Each surge of gas overhead painted the roughly shaped stones a different hue. The Shroud roiled above and the plaza flared in its image underfoot. Dolfan drew his wrap forward, tucked the extra material into his sash, and adjusted the crimson silk so that the cloak formed a partial hood, blocking the wind and any stray toxins that might break free of the Shroud. He descended the palace stairs and strode forth, tall and fortified against the storm.
The hall across the square stood half the palace height. It backed up to the canyon wall, directly shadowed by both the native stone and the higher building it served. The walls rippled in the half-light where Shrouded masons had carved the old symbols, the spirals within spirals that made sense only to those with a Seer’s gifts. Dolfan felt his skin prickle as he entered the building. He felt the tingle in his mind that was his genetic gift, the trace of psionic talent that ran through his veins but hadn’t manifested into a true Seer’s calling.
He ignored the sensation and slipped off his breather. He’d never wanted the psionic gifts and felt no loss for their absence. Still, he walked in the Seer’s house and bowed his head as he passed through the haze of incense smoke that led to the inner foyer. He was of the Council of Princes, so when Syradan summoned, he came, psionic aspirations or not.
“You’re late,” Mofitan growled from across the room. His big form leaned against a support pillar and his face scowled at Dolfan. He brushed a square hand through the stubble on his head and snarled again. “We’ve all been waiting on you.”
“Patience never was one of your virtues, Mofitan. That is, if you had any virtues. I came immediately. Perhaps I just had farther to walk.”
“No matter,” Haftan interceded. He waved Dolfan to the side and ignored the glare from their Council brother. “He’s here, Mof, and we can begin. Someone tell them we’re ready. Peryl?”
Their youngest member stood and disappeared through a curtain into the sanctuary proper. Dolfan watched the fabric settle back into place and wished the whole mess was over already. He’d have given anything to not be wearing a Council ring, to not have been chosen from his line. As soon as the ceremony ended, he’d catch a lift back to the moon without delay.
“You found time to fit your breather,” Mofitan taunted, “for the six steps across the square.”
“Quit, Mof.” Haftan growled as well now. “Play your suicide games with the Shroud if you like, but the rest of us know better.”
“You came running fast enough. Why is that Haftan? Do you fancy yourself the new king?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” Haftan slipped a wink at Dolfan.
Mofitan couldn’t resist a chance to spar verbally with any of them, though it was Dolfan and always Dolfan that he wished to bait. Mofitan’s father had been their instructor at the Academy, and had praised Dolfan one too many times for his son’s taste.
“I figure it suits me,” Haftan added.
“Do you, now?” This time Tondil answered. He sprawled in a corner, stretched out on the floor tiles like a cat and looking just as content. “You’re planning to claim the Heart then, Haftan?”
“Hearts are your territory, Tondil.” Dolfan couldn’t resist the jab, or the chuckle. Tondil had them all mastered when it came to hearts. “Maybe you should be king?”
“Not my style.” Tondil shrugged and rolled onto his back. “I couldn’t take the commitment.”
Even Mofitan laughed at that, though Dolfan caught the look he darted at Haftan and knew at least two of them coveted the throne. Of the pair, he’d prefer Haftan by a Shrouded mile. He didn’t have to imagine Mofitan as the next King of Shroud to know it wouldn’t go well for him, not if their experiences at school were any indication.
Shrouded: Heartstone Book One Page 1