CHAPTER THREE
“WHERE THE HELL have you been?” Governor Kovath spun on one booted heel and snapped at him like he would a dog. “It’s practically dawn, Jarn, and you’ve got half my men circling Wraith like idiots.”
“Do you want Vashia scared, or not?” He crossed the office to Kovath’s couch and settled into the plush cushions. “I believe your exact orders were to ‘keep her on the run.’ Or am I remembering that wrong?”
Kovath waved an arm at him without turning from the huge window. He watched over Wraith like some fat vulture, squatting in this office and letting Jarn do all the moving around for him. “I want her stark terrified, Jarn. But I’d like it done with a little more efficiency.”
Whatever evil seed rooted in his DNA had spawned a self-absorbed monster in the Planetary Governor. The man had killed a perfectly good wife with neglect, ignored the offspring of that union for nineteen years, and let the planet he governed run itself into ruin through crime and debauchery.
When Kovath stared out at his capitol city, Jarn could only guess what the man saw. His own prowess? Glory or power? Whatever it was, the man’s vision was too narrow, his mind too simple to grasp more than the immediate benefit of each possession. His seat, his army, everything he held in his short reach counted only for what it could make him. With Kovath, the bottom line always came first. With Kovath, nothing moved or spoke or breathed that didn’t have a value in credits hanging over it.
Even the man’s own daughter.
“I think we managed to achieve terrified.” He failed to mention that they’d also lost Vashia somewhere in the bowels of Wraith. That she’d vanished into the ether in the middle of the seediest part of town. Jarn had a much broader view than the man he served. Kovath didn’t need to know everything and Jarn valued his position enough, had worked for the man long enough, to know when to omit the little, insignificant details.
“Good.” Kovath ran a hand through his hair and glowered out at his domain. “Good. Maybe the brat will finally be of some use to me.”
“I’m willing to bet on it,” said Jarn. Just as soon as they found her. Then he’d bet anything on her ending up safely married and under their control.
“Eh?” Kovath waved impatiently again. “Whatever. Get her dealt with and organize the next phase.” In other words, do all Kovath’s work and don’t bother him about it.
Jarn smiled and enjoyed another breath or two nestled into the governor’s couch. Then he stood and saluted the man’s back. “It’s handled, Sir.” Just as soon as he figured out where the bitch was hiding.
Dolfan fit his breather to his nose and shook off the weird aura for the third time. He watched Dielel and Haftan cross the plaza and take the palace steps together. They hadn’t exactly lingered, and for that Dolfan was in wholehearted agreement; he couldn’t leave the temple soon enough. Even though his ring safely hugged his finger again, the ritual, the momentary parting from it, left him feeling blasphemous.
He twisted it round with his other hand, felt the weight of the metal, and watched the stone flash. It didn’t look any different, but an unease had settled over him the minute he took it back from Syradan, the minute he’d slipped it back in its rightful place—as if the ring itself had chastised him for the lapse.
“You all right?” Tondil slid up beside him, fitting his nasal tubes with one hand and combing through his spiky, black hair with the other. “Haven’t decided you want to be king?”
“No. Definitely not.” Dolfan dropped his grip from the ring and smiled. “You?”
“Ha!” Tondil shook his head. His expression never wandered too close to serious; his eyes laughed almost nonstop. “Peryl, you coming?”
The king’s son giggled behind them. He slid up beside Tondil and winked to Dolfan. At the same time a wide shoulder brushed past on the other side. Mofitan pushed by them. He turned back over his shoulder and sneered.
“Don’t forget your breathers, ladies.” He made a show of taking a deep breath and then, holding it, darted out across the plaza.
“What an ass,” Tondil said. Peryl giggled again and the two of them followed Mofitan, slowly and with their tubes safely in place. Dolfan waited, still eager to be gone, but suddenly hesitant. He felt like the next step, any step would be one he’d never be able to take back. It was an asinine sensation, a flash of fear that had more to do with Syradan’s drama than anything else. He cursed himself for giving it any weight, but couldn’t help casting a nervous look over one shoulder.
Shayd stood behind him. The silent prince waited and watched Dolfan through eyes that said absolutely nothing. Dolfan imagined them, like his ring, reprimanding him for some unspoken crime. His skin prickled and the dread increased, but he faced it head on, swallowed the taste of fear and turned his back on Shayd, on Syradan and the temple. Dolfan would give the Seer’s nonsense no more power over him.
He stepped out into the storm and felt the heat immediately. The planetary system produced breathable air that the Shroud cooked when acting up, so Dolfan hurried across the stones to reach the comfort of the palace where the filters and environmental controls could do their job without the storm’s interference—or toxins.
He trotted around the circle in the plaza center where the poles and flags stood and passed the long stair down from the royal compound to the hover pads and service buildings on the next lowest tier. The temple and palace sat almost at the crevice apex, backed on three sides by sheer rock and the last by the drop and the stair down. The royal buildings, while situated higher up to afford their proper status, also sat that much nearer to the Shroud. That fact was foremost in Dolfan’s mind as he jogged the last few steps to the palace entrance and safety.
He slipped through the doors into the foyer and waited for them to shut before plucking his breather. Let Mofitan risk an inadvertent inhalation if he chose to. Dolfan agreed with Tondil; Mof was an ass. He smiled and entered the first hall. Galleries angled off in either direction, but the double doors directly across from the entrance opened on the throne room. He found Peryl and Tondil secreted beside them, peeking at something through the crack around the door.
“How old are you two?” He crossed the hall tiles with clicking steps. Both spies jumped at his approach.
“Shhh.” Tondil put his finger to his lips and waved him over. He mouthed a name, Haftan, and pointed to the big doors.
Dolfan couldn’t resist. Their idiotic mood infected him, perhaps because he needed a distraction. Either way, he brushed them aside and leaned forward to peer into the throne room. Behind him, Peryl started a giggle that was truncated by Tondil’s elbow. Dolfan heard the grunt, but didn’t turn. Beyond the doors, the view of Haftan was far too interesting.
The high thrones stood on a dais at the room’s far wall. A tapestry hung behind the chairs, depicting the original diagram of the Shroud and its magnetosphere. Dolfan understood the scientific half of the symbols woven into the huge fabric, but the esoteric portion baffled him. Still, the silken images were impressive, two stories worth of them rippling in hues of amber, pink and indigo. In front of the throne, the wide floor spread, covered in the mosaic tiles of smoothed jasper, agate, and other more common stones mined in the planet’s deep crevices. Haftan circled the dome that rose from the center of this. As he circled the Heart, he seemed to be talking to it.
Every few circuits around the glass bubble, he’d run his hands along the surface, watching the huge crystal inside and leaning his face down close to the dome. For its part, the Heart remained dark, slick and as dim as any ordinary stone.
Footsteps rang someone’s approach less than a second before Dolfan felt Tondil’s hand at his shoulder. He spun around as the three of them adopted casual poses, leaning against the wall or one another so that, when Mofitan emerged from the far gallery, they couldn’t possibly have looked more conspicuous.
Mof growled and veered from the entrance directly toward them. “What?” He looked straight at Dolfan, as if whatever they’
d done must have been on his head.
“Nothing.” He couldn’t resist, not with Mofitan glowering at him. “Just watching Haftan woo your throne.” He jerked his head toward the throne room and smiled. Mofitan’s brow came down before he spun toward the doors and stormed in to the throne room.
“Now you’ve done it.” Tondil sounded far too pleased. He snagged Peryl by the sleeve and towed him after Mofitan with a sideways grin for Dolfan to join them. “Come on. This ought to be a decent show.”
They passed through the entrance in Mof’s wake, the big doors standing where he’d thrown them open wide. Haftan stood beside the Heart, adopting a defensive posture, legs wide and one arm resting possessively against the stone’s cover. Mofitan had his back to them, but Dolfan could imagine his expression from Haftan’s reaction. Maybe it would be a show, or more appropriately, a showdown.
Dielel paced and wrung his hands from off in the wings. If he’d been charged with keeping guard for Haftan, he’d failed completely. Mofitan growled again, loud enough to hear across the hall. Haftan smiled. He stroked the dome over the Heart and shrugged innocently.
“Something wrong, Mof?”
“No.” Mofitan advanced, circling to the right and stopping opposite Haftan. He ran his own hand over the bubble and leaned out to rest his hip against the case. “Not a thing.”“They might as well piss on the thing and get it over with,” Tondil whispered. Dolfan cringed at the blasphemy of his statement. Too much in one day. He couldn’t wait to get the hell away from here. Even Peryl’s jaw dropped open at the idea. His hero worship of Tondil paled next to the open disdain for the Heart.
The stone didn’t notice the insult any more than it did the two princes posturing over its cover. The crystal’s facets barely shone in the low light. Whatever it thought of them, it wasn’t talking today. Dolfan frowned. Someone was, however. He heard low voices behind them, managed to turn and compose himself just in time to see the king and his bride enter.
“Dolfan,” Lucha beamed at him and tilted her head gently to one side. “Good afternoon.”
“Your Highness.” Dolfan lowered into a bow and smiled at the floor. Tondil and Peryl followed suit opposite him, but were slightly off balance for their lack of warning. The princes warring over the Heart both jumped away like two children caught with their hands in a sweets urn. Their bows came late and with little grace.
King Pelinol sniffed and looked from one to the other for only a moment before he turned to his son. “Peryl, come help me set your mother straight.” He waved his arm and Peryl moved into range, allowed the royal embrace and tried not to sag under the weight of his father’s arm across his shoulders. Of all the Shrouded living in the palace, King Pelinol was the only one who managed not to see how uncomfortable his son became under his attention.
“Tell your mother that it’s all about the stock.” Pelinol’s favorite topic, and his favorite argument, always revolved around Shrouded genetics. “That the Heart is about keeping the lines pure.”
“I—it might be.” Peryl darted a desperate look at Dolfan.
“Breeding,” Lucha spat. She shook her head sadly, but the look she gave Pelinol was entirely favorable. “It’s all about breeding with you.”
Pelinol chuckled. In his grasp, Peryl turned three shades of red. Lucha swept past them toward the Heart while Haftan and Mofitan continued their retreat in opposite directions. The queen bride nodded to them and placed her own palm against the dome. She stared down at the huge crystal and then turned back to her family.
“The crystal is rooted in the Shrouded core. The Heart, my dear, could easily be about environment and not.” She rolled her eyes and said, “Genetics.”
“Pah,” Pelinol snorted. He released his son, who managed to stagger out of range again. “The lines breed true, Lucha. The Heart keeps the blood Shrouded, regardless of the female’s genes.”
The king might not have intended the slight, but Dolfan flushed red as Lucha’s brows lifted. She struck a less affectionate pose and eyed her mate.
“Excuse me?”
“Huh?” Pelinol caught up. He realized his mistake long after the rest of the room, but he waved it off. He was the king, after all. “Oh bother, Lucha. You know what I meant.”
Pelinol’s theories outlined the root of their problem. There weren’t enough Shrouded—barely enough to keep the mines and factories working—to keep their culture intact and thriving on its chosen home. Dolfan agreed with Lucha about the stone. Though he wanted to believe in the mystic aspects of the Heart bond, he couldn’t help but share Pelinol’s concern for their people’s genetic preservation. They must increase the population. The Shrouded must breed, even if it must be with outsiders. Without the Heart, they wouldn’t have a future.
The king ignored his lady’s glare and stalked forward. Dolfan watched, as he suspected the others did, to see the huge crystal’s reaction. He couldn’t help it. Whether or not he coveted the throne, the awakening of the Heart, the potential of a perfect pairing, awed him. It awed all of the Shrouded—or it should. When Pelinol approached his bride, his steps taking him within range of the Heart’s power, the stone flared to life. The crystal facets flashed with hidden light. The stone glowed, brighter and stronger as the king reached his mate. The Heart recognized a bond of its making, and it blazed in honor of the pair. Lucha softened her stance, released her mock offense, and took Pelinol’s offered hand.
Dolfan could only intellectualize what it meant, could only imagine what the king and his queen felt. Standing in the presence of the two, with the Heart in full light, he justified his curiosity wholeheartedly. The stab of jealousy, however, was something altogether different.
CHAPTER FOUR
SHE HAD to keep the wig on though Sam gave her a less offensive outfit and a lift to the rendezvous point. The hover cab bounced more than the cars Vashia was accustomed to, but she was thankful for the cover and for Samra’s company. It allowed her to keep from dwelling on the mistake she was about to make.
She stared out the window while Sam talked. The cab bobbed ever closer to the Wraith spaceport, passing casino row and offering her a clear view of the governor’s estate elevated just enough above the capitol city to allow her father to watch from up high. Vashia caught sight of a patrol––three cars moving slowly enough to be looking for something––and had to grit her teeth against the urge to bolt. She reminded herself that Jarn couldn’t see through the cab’s walls, that he couldn’t sniff her out like some kind of bloodhound.
But they were looking. She sat back against the seat and tried to imagine how she’d get past the port scanners. Security would snag her for sure long before she’d have to worry about marrying anybody.
The buildings turned into warehouses, the huge corrugated hulks that housed cargo leaving and arriving on planet. Eclipsis had little to offer outside the gases and metals they stripped from its bowels, but it managed to do a fair trade in those. At least, it did enough to fund her father’s padded salary and make the hellhole a convenient place for anyone working in the shadier areas of legality to do business.
Vashia watched the ID numbers change and thought about Samra’s flier. The gaseous giant, Shroud, had come up once or twice around her father’s table. None of his guests ever managed to agree on anything about the planet or its inhabitants. However, the popular theory for years suggested that the colonial Shrouded lived in hover cities, hidden in the thick clouds of their atmosphere and never touching or needing solid ground.
A few of the more brazen traders refuted this. Long range scans eventually discovered the planet’s core and, over time, contact and minimal trade were established. But minimal was the key word. The Shrouded made it very clear that they weren’t interested in the outside. They maintained some contact, eventually opened the moon base to trade on a limited basis, but her father’s colleagues and, no doubt, her father as well believed that it was simply to keep the outside world’s curiosity at bay.
Total mystery is irre
sistible. Eventually someone would have tried to find an answer. As it was, the galaxy had to meet the Shrouded on their terms. That drove people like her father absolutely nuts. Vashia grinned. Maybe she’d get along just fine on the mystery planet after all. Then again, maybe she stared smack in the face of just another form of slavery. Maybe she’d lost her freaking mind.
She should stop the cab, tell Samra thanks but no thanks and head back to the estate. A voice in the back of her thoughts added: And back to Jarn.
“That’s it.” Samra leaned forward and tapped the driver on the sleeve. “That’s the warehouse there.”
Vashia squinted at the call numbers while the hover drives quelled and the cab bobbled to a halt. She listened to the hydraulics as the door slid open. She stared at the building outside while Sam slid from the vehicle.
“I don’t know, Sam.” She shook her head. “What if this is worse than the alternative?”“Kiddo, I don’t want to scare you.” Samra turned her back on the warehouse and fixed Vashia with a level, dead-serious expression. “But Jarn’s no stranger in my quarter. Word has it the whores draw straws to see who gets to be off duty when he visits. Catch my drift?”
“Yeah, I get it.”
“At least this way there’s a chance you won’t get an evil S.O.B.”
“Right.”
“You could always go back to your dad, see if you can get him to see reason. Maybe he’ll change his mind if you talk—”
“No.” She shook her head and crawled out of the cab. “Not my father, Sam. He as good as sold me off.”
“I’m sorry, Kiddo. I wish there was a better option.”
“Thanks for everything, Sam.”
“Good luck.” Samra climbed back in the cab and favored Vashia with a sad smile before closing the door. The cab hummed back to power with a bump and then skimmed away to round the end of the next warehouse.
Shrouded: Heartstone Book One Page 3