“Hey.”
“Sorry. I just—”
“Look who’s coming.” Tarren brushed her short hair into order. She grinned at Vashia and stuck out one hip in a pose that brought to mind a dark brothel doorway.
Vashia cringed and slid past her. She worked her way deeper into the group and tried not to make eye contact with the Shrouded Prince again. He continued past them without stopping, but he favored Madame Nerala with a nod before turning into a hallway that branched to the right between the jewelers and a display of spooled rug yarns. The bright colors cast him into a darker picture, all black braid and billowy Shrouded clothing.
He looked like a cutout standing there, like a flat, stand-up model. Fake. The idea had nagged at her all morning. The moon base with its distant view of Shroud, perfectly displayed under glass, the pristine mall displaying all the wonders of the planet that almost no one shopping here would ever get to see. The whole thing was a façade. The Shrouded had crafted Moon Base 14 as a decoy, and it featured only what they allowed outsiders to see.
“I have an idea.” Tarren moved in beside her and spoke quietly. “Let’s stop bathing.”
“What?” Vashia spun to face her and they almost bumped noses. “Why would we?”
“So we don’t get picked.” Tarren held up her data pad and grinned. “If you don’t get picked, you’re set for life.”
“How?”
“Chapter six.” She nudged Vashia and winked. “You’re not the only one who can read and walk at the same time.”
Before she could respond, Madame Nerala called them all to attention. “Girls, girls,” she cawed. The other bride candidates closed in on her, instinctively conditioned to follow the motherly tone and waving arm. Maybe Nerala was a decoy as well. Her job was to inform them of exactly what they needed to know, but who decided what they needed?
“I bet she never got picked,” Tarren whispered. “They let you stay and do whatever you want.” She gave Vashia a look that said exactly how appealing she found the idea. “If you don’t get picked.”
“It’s time to do a little shopping for real,” Nerala continued. “Please follow me.”
Vashia waited for the rest of them to move on. Then she followed Tarren past the jewelers to a dark shop full of Shrouded clothing. Nerala unlocked this with a flourish and the brides rewarded her with a collective gasp.
She never got picked. The abrupt thought brushed aside her conspiracy theorizing. She’d spent the trip dreading the marriage portion of her escape, but she’d never considered that she might get rejected outright. She didn’t know how to feel about it, but a whole new paranoia could wrap around that idea alone. She imagined Dolfan’s face and couldn’t quite bring herself to pursue the thought.
Who cared if she got picked? Tarren might have a point, but she’d have to read Chapter six, to read the whole damned guide, before she decided for herself. She’d read the book, she’d figure out the entire picture, and then she’d try to see behind the thin, intentional façade and sort out what the hell was really going on.
A tug at her arm said reading would have to wait, however. Madame Nerala held open the shop door, and the rest of the group filed inside. Vashia followed Tarren. They had shopping to do, apparently. She could live with some new clothes, but whatever Tarren said, whatever Chapter six said, with two princes shadowing them, no way would she give up bathing.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“DON’T WRAP it that tight,” Murrel giggled and tugged on Tarren’s sash. “You’ll cut off your circulation.”
“I don’t have enough hands to do this.” Tarren snarled and slumped back on her couch. Her silk wraps sagged immediately and the wide sleeves of her dress burst loose. “Why not wear proper fitting clothes and chuck all this wrapping crap.”
“It’s a Shrouded art form,” Murrel stood taller and waved her neatly wrapped arms in front of Tarren. “And a bonding ritual.”
“Forget it, then. I’m not getting picked. I’ll wear the stupid dress like this.”
“Oh come on.”
Vashia lounged on her side and watched the argument with only half her attention. Her new dress draped over the brocade couch in a shimmer of translucent bronze. She’d managed to wrap the waist easily enough, but Murrel had helped her with the sleeves—a task her Shrouded husband would take on eventually. If she got picked.
That thought had proven hard to ignore.
Vashia’s couch faced her roommate’s. Murrel busily tugged on one end of Tarren’s silk sash. The other end was pinned firmly under Tarren’s thigh. Tarren crossed her arms and refused to relinquish it.
Behind them, the glass wall facing the courtyard stood open a crack, and Vashia inhaled a whiff of Sylian jasmine, night orchid and earthy fern. She wrinkled her nose. Unfortunately, all three drifted through the filter of Tarren’s unwashed body odor. The woman had meant her threat. They’d been paying the price for the last two days. Vashia had given forced hygiene care serious thought on more than one occasion.
They could do it in her sleep. She imagined sneaking up on Tarren’s couch with a hydro cylinder and the wooden scrub brush they used to clean the ion shower and cracked a smile. Tarren would no doubt kill them both, but the breath of fresh air might be worth it.
Vashia rolled onto her stomach and reached under the pillow to retrieve her data pad, but a flash of movement between the plants drew her eye back to the courtyard. “Jine’s coming,” she said. “Must be fresh gossip.”
“Maybe the princes are back.” Murrel dropped her end of Tarren’s sash and spun to the window. “Do you think?”
Vashia closed her eyes and took a steadying breath. A faint hum buzzed in the back of her mind. “Yeah,” she said. “I bet they’re back.”
“You don’t think they already found her?” Murrel’s voice turned tremulous. She desperately wanted to be the new Shrouded Queen. One quick read through the manual had sold her on the idea without hesitation.
“Who?” Tarren grinned at Vashia.
“The Kingmaker. What if they already bonded?”
Vashia ignored the spike of fear at the idea and flicked her own manual to Chapter seven. She’d read it three times already, but the Sacred Heart still confused her.
“So what?” Tarren laughed. “There are seven of the bloody princes, Murrel. You should be able to bag at least one of them.”
Vashia flicked through the pages and stared at the text until her vision blurred. Seven princes. Seven of them and dozens of bride candidates, a good many of whom had already headed for the planet, for a Heart testing that could bond any of them together as king and queen. She sat up. It was over. The buzzing in her head said at least one of them had returned to the moon.
Which one? She shook her head and then stared out at the courtyard. It didn’t matter.
When Jine slid through the sliding panel, flounced across to Murrel’s couch and announced that “they” were back, Vashia let her shoulders settle back down. She turned off her data pad and tucked it back under her pillow. If both of them returned to the station, then neither of them had bonded. Let the Kingmaker come, she figured, but let her come from one of the others.
She sounded like Murrel, and the thought gave her a headache. Of all the girls she’d met in this circus, she cared to be associated with Murrel the least. Still, though she kept it a silent secret, most of her own thoughts echoed Murrel’s desperate and obvious dialogue. Vashia cared little for the throne, but she’d be hard pressed to deny the little flutters of jealousy when she imagined Dolfan picking a bride from the other candidates.
I’m as ridiculous as she is. I just hide it better.
“Holy god, Tarren.” Jine scrunched up her nose. “You be reeking.”
“Nice, huh?” Tarren stood up and spun in place, waving her arms high so that the loose sleeves of her dress gaped and let loose her full stench.
“No!” Murrel and Jine answered together. Vashia’s throat had choked shut in defense. All she managed was a vicious
shake of her head.
“Tarren!” Jine scolded. “You’re shameless. Both princes come today and you smellin’ like the garbage chute outside Millie’s.”
“It’s not that bad.” Tarren twisted to sniff at her own under arm.
“Yes,” Vashia choked. “Yes, it is.”
“They’re coming?” Murrel took a step away from Tarren and focused on Jine. “When? Why?” She brushed at her skirts and tossed her red hair back behind her shoulders.
Jine shrugged and lay down on Murrel’s pillow. “Nerala said they were helping with today’s training.”
Murrel squealed and ran for the mirror with Jine close on her heels. The sound of their tittering floated through the room and no doubt drifted out the glass doors to join the drip of water in the courtyard. Vashia eyed Tarren. They both rolled their eyes, but despite a heavier dose of dignity, they both itched to move. Tarren’s knee twitched up and down, and Vashia wanted to attack her hair and smooth the wrinkles out of her skirt. She looked at Tarren instead.
“Do I smell that bad?”
“Maybe if we bind your sleeves it will hold some of it in?”
Tarren nodded. Her eyes dropped to her lap. Vashia slid off her couch and went to work on Tarren’s wrappings. She had to hold her breath, but smiled when Tarren snuck a sideways peek up at her.
“I really don’t want to get picked.”
“I know.” She tied the first sleeve and gave Tarren’s shoulder a pat before circling around to start the other. “You’re right about the law, too. If you don’t find a husband, the Shrouded will set you up doing whatever you like.”
“Yeah. That’s what it said.”
“House, job, money. No worries.” Vashia wound the thin silk in a crisscross pattern from Tarren’s wrist to her elbow, binding the folds of fabric and sealing in a good portion of the woman’s odor.
“No worries,” Tarren agreed. Her voice still trembled. “Thanks, Vash.”
“Any time.”
“You know, if you don’t get picked, we could—maybe we could stick together, open a shop or something?”
“I’d like that a lot.” Vashia finished the knot and let go of Tarren’s arm. She smiled again, this time through a curtain of guilt. She would have liked that, but the roar of static in her head said two things: the Shrouded Princes had reached the courtyard, and no way in hell was Vashia not getting picked.
The sound of giggling filtered through the thick leaves. Dolfan cast his glance around the edges of the courtyard, to the eight panes of glass that walled in dormitories, and wondered which one was hers. On the other side of Madame Nerala, he caught sight of Mofitan doing the same thing. Somewhere behind the glass walls, both their Heart mates waited. What were the odds?
He brushed the hair out of his eyes and felt for the sensation that had swelled in his mind since he’d returned to the station. He could find her by it in the dark, he figured—the third window on his right. So very close. He stopped walking and leaned around a purple palm frond for a better look at the glass walls.
Nerala continued toward the front of the courtyard where a clearing held a ring of benches and the fountain gurgled and flashed over mica rich stone. She called out for the candidates to assemble, sounding like a trumpet blast in contrast to the background of feminine laughter.
Dolfan waited a few seconds longer, watching the room he’d sensed was hers. When Mofitan joined him, however he sighed and moved on to catch Nerala and wait for the demonstration. The bastard had shadowed his every step for days.
He hadn’t minded on the planet. Neither of them had much interest in the Heart trial. They’d both known their Heart match wasn’t in that batch of brides, even if the Kingmaker had been. Dodging Mof through the station had turned into a challenge, however. They’d both started tripping over one another almost immediately after returning. If their mates had come on the same shuttle, fine. Mofitan could bond first and claim the throne, and Dolfan could keep his freedom and have the Heart as well. But Mof had watched the same room he had, and a shadow of fear nagged his thoughts. What were the odds of two princes bonding at a single ceremony?
“Hurry up now!” Nerala called out again. “Our guests don’t have all day.”
The brides burst from their rooms, almost as if they’d been lurking just inside, waiting for the summons. He heard them rustling through the plants, but his eyes stayed on the one room and the four girls that stepped onto the gravel path there. She stayed in the middle, and her eyes found him immediately.
Dolfan moved a step away from Nerala to keep her in his line of sight, to keep their gazes locked, even as she passed Mofitan. His pulse danced at that. Who cared if Mofitan bonded first? Let him have the throne. Dolfan watched the woman with hair like honey and skin only a shade paler. He let her gray eyes trap him. Nothing else mattered anymore.
“Hurry, hurry,” Nerala called. “Line up girls. Right here.”
They surged into a crowd around her instead, and Dolfan was forced to take a step backwards. As he did, he caught sight of Mofitan. He followed the man’s gaze, and frowned.
“No, no. One line, facing me.”
The women finally sorted themselves out, filing into a line facing Madame Nerala. His woman, the one he felt like fire in his veins, lined up toward the back. She flicked her glance nervously from him to Mofitan who hovered near her on the right and stared stupidly at the wrong bride.
Dolfan ground his teeth together and stifled a snarl. It had to be the wrong woman, but there was Mof, posturing like a crevice snake and not budging from her side. He was making her nervous, not to mention diverting her attention from its proper place.
“Shall we start?” Nerala noticed Mofitan’s lapse at last. She cleared her throat twice to get his attention and then waved him forward. He relented and moved out in front, but he looked back twice. Each time Dolfan pressed fists into his thighs and kept his tongue.
Mof took a spot opposite Dolfan, leaving the diminutive Nerala in the middle. He looked over her head, met Dolfan’s look and widened his eyes. They stared at one another while Nerala explained the wrapping process. When she asked for an arm, Mofitan stepped forward so fast he jostled her, and they both had to dive in to steady the poor woman.
“There, thank you.” She straightened and smoothed her hair. “Well, let’s just start with practice. Jine, Salie, come on up here.”
Mofitan reached down and loosened his forearm sash. His big hands flipped the silk and twisted it around and around, letting the length tumble to the floor and freeing his sleeve. Dolfan nodded once and bent over. He snagged the tail tucked behind his knee and pulled. He pointed the toe of his boot and moved his calf in a circle. The sash unraveled into a neat pile.
He glanced to Mofitan and smiled. Mof’s eyes narrowed. He reached for the sash around his waist, but Nerala shot an arm out to stop him.
“I think we’ll be fine with that,” she said. “Sleeves and legs, ladies.” She waved them in and stepped away to watch their attempts.
Dolfan looked to the line and found gray eyes on him. He straightened and let his mouth curve up at one corner. He counted ten girls in line before her. It would take some dancing, but damned if he’d let her wrap for Mofitan. Unfortunately, one glance in his rival’s direction told him Mof had come to exactly the same conclusion. Ten women, two sashes each—it all depended on how fast they went. He set his jaw and turned to the woman tangling his scarf back around his calf. It would definitely take some dancing, and possibly, a little help from fate.
CHAPTER TWELVE
SYRADAN SHUFFLED across the plaza and took to the palace steps. He hunched forward against the wind and tugged his wrap up over his head. Too much blasted light out here in the open. Too much blasted air.
He heaved his small mass up the last few steps and scurried in under the foyer, slipping off his breather and tucking it back under his robes. His long hair fell forward, and he brushed it away from his eyes before striding into the palace hall.
&n
bsp; The throne room doors stood open, offering a clear view of the Heart. Syradan dropped his eyes to the tiles, entered the room and quickly moved to the left. The crystal lay dark and lifeless, but he heard its accusation in his thoughts. He heard it whisper his betrayal—traitor, deceiver. His ears burned with imaginary taunts.
He lifted his chin and stared forward to the throne. The stone could despise him for his choices. He’d served it long enough, faithfully enough to get a little something back here at the end. He’d lived in its shadow, in the dark smoke-filled recesses for more years than most could survive, and the time had come to collect his reward.
His sovereign sat beside Lucha. The warmth of their Heart bond burned between them. Syradan could see it. He’d worked with the patterns that long. The threads that bound Pelinol and his bride hummed visibly in the air, tied them together body and soul.
For all his service, the Heart had never even offered him that. Not even that small concession. His lips tightened as he approached the throne. For the Seer, there was only ever smoke and darkness. He’d told Shayd as much, had warned the upstart mystic against that path more than once, but the young had their own ideas, and Shayd already bore the signs of addiction. The sigils and threads had him fully in their grip.
“Here he is!” Pelinol bellowed and the princes lounging in the couches around the room jolted upright together. “Syradan, come and settle this once and for all.”
“Oh, bother.” Lucha waved a hand in her mate’s direction. “Syradan, tell him he’s an old fool.”
“I’d hardly tell the king that,” he nodded in deference to Pelinol and slipped a wink at the queen. “Even if it were true.”
“Bagh,” Pelinol grunted and waved him forward. “You work closely with the Heart, Syradan. You’ve officiated at enough selections. Tell her once and for all, that the bond is about Shrouded genes.”
Shrouded: Heartstone Book One Page 9