Shrouded: Heartstone Book One

by Frances Pauli

  “Breeding.” Lucha rolled her eyes.

  “Bloodlines,” the king corrected. “The seven lines and the continuation of our entire species.”

  “Your majesty is correct.” He bowed low and favored Pelinol for a second before continuing. “As is the queen.”

  “Eh?” Pelinol frowned at him.

  “I feel quite certain the Heart bond intends to preserve the race and to perpetuate the Shrouded lines.”

  “Ha.” The king smiled at his wife.

  “And that it also has a great deal to do with the crystal matrix itself. The stone brings the Shrouded mates, allows for offspring to populate our world, but it also ties us to the core from whence the Heart springs.”

  “Aha!” Lucha sat taller and nodded. “Environment. Exactly what I told him.”

  While they debated, the prince candidates perked. Haftan and Dielel sat on a couch to the king’s right, while Peryl tiptoed to the side of his mother. Now, he placed a hand on the queen’s shoulder and nodded along with her. Not one of them guessed what Syradan had seen, that this bonding, this king-making had much wider repercussions.

  “Nonsense.” Pelinol scowled down from the throne. “That’s hardly a definitive answer.”

  “My apologies, Your Highness.” He bowed again briefly and then straightened his robes and brushed his hair back into place. “But I do have news for you. If I may?”

  “Of course.” Despite their argument, Pelinol’s gaze floated lovingly to his wife. He waved for Syradan to continue, but his attention barely fixed on him.

  “The Kingmaker has arrived.” Syradan said. “The time has come.”

  “You keep saying that.” Dielel spoke from the couch, blurted his stupid remark and then flushed when all eyes turned to him. “Well, he does say it a lot.” “Because it is true.” Syradan glared him into submission again. He hunched back into Haftan’s shadow. Haftan stared up at Syradan and gave him a nod. He continued, “And because she is coming now.” He turned back to the thrones. “The next ceremony will be the one.”

  The room digested the announcement. They couldn’t see what he saw, of course. They couldn’t see the Heart pulse darkly, or the ragged strand of Pelinol’s rein shudder and threaten to break. Hellfire, they couldn’t even see why Peryl trembled at his mother’s side. They wouldn’t understand that if they could. Nor would they understand the flush creeping over Haftan’s face or the sneer on Dielel’s.

  Syradan saw. He saw and he took note. Each of these, each of them, he could use to his advantage.

  “It’s almost your turn.” Murrel squeaked from behind her in line. Vashia felt the girl’s hand on her back as she strained to see over her.

  “Shush, Murrel.” She stood at the front of the group, watching poor Tarren struggle with Mofitan’s arm wraps while he did his best not to obviously hold his breath. She focused on them, because each time her eyes drifted toward Dolfan, she had to fight down the urge to tackle the prostitute currently winding silk up his lower leg.

  Her nails already bit little crescents into her palms. Her jaw ached from watching and from whatever primal, low brow instinct had possessed her. The roar of static did little to help.

  “You’re next.” Murrel whispered.

  “Shut up.”

  “I think I’m in love,” Murrel kept hissing. “I think it’s me, Vashia.”

  “What?”

  “I feel all swoony.”

  She spun around and looked Murrel in the face. The red-head looked “swoony,” all right. She looked completely mesmerized.

  “Murrel, you can’t fake this. Did you read the book?”

  “I’m the Kingmaker.” Murrel giggled and pressed a hand over her mouth. Her eyes grew wide and far too sparkly.

  “It’s not a joke, Murrel. They’ll be able to tell.”

  “Tarren said it’s just a scam. She said it’s all about religion.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Murrel nodded, but it was too emphatic. Vashia wanted to slap her. The idiot had no idea what she was messing with. Before she could come up with a more convincing argument, she heard her own name called.

  “It’s your turn, dear.” Madame Nerala smiled and held out a hand.

  Vashia’s feet turned to stone. She darted a look to Dolfan and then back to where Tarren stood, sagging in defeat beside Mofitan. She turned to Madame Nerala and waited.

  The woman’s mouth opened to speak, but Mofitan’s voice drowned out her words.

  “Here.” He stepped forward and nearly ran Tarren over.

  “Here,” Dolfan echoed him.

  Vashia took a step backwards. The princes closed in, Dolfan dragging the woman still trying to wrap his knee. Tarren dove to the side, and Madame Nerala’s jaw dropped open. She squeaked, snapped her mouth shut and then tried again.

  “Vashia, dear.”

  Mofitan growled over the top of her. The two princes faced off, snarling and still advancing. Sashes hung loose and fluttering. Behind her, a whisper swelled through the girls who’d already finished, who waited amongst the foliage to watch the show. She retreated another step and let Murrel slide past her.

  “Oh!” Murrel squealed. “Madame Nerala, help.”

  “What is it dear?” Nerala frowned. Her eyes darted past Murrel, but Vashia avoided the look. She kept backing away.

  “I feel funny,” Murrel said.

  Vashia shook her head. She couldn’t help Murrel. She could only watch, frozen, while the moron dug herself a grave.

  Dolfan watched her slip back into the crowd. The girl behind her, the redhead, squealed again and pretended to faint. Maybe she was Mofitan’s mate. Maybe their little pissing match had been only a misunderstanding. He peered at Mof and shook his head. No. It had been Vashia that held both of their attention. Impossible, but undeniable.

  “Murrel, dear, calm down please.” Madame Nerala tossed a pleading look in Dolfan’s direction.

  “Oh!” The girl teetered. She wobbled in his direction and then swerved toward Mofitan. Her knees gave out a little too quickly and she fell backwards. He had to admire her commitment. If Mofitan hadn’t caught her, she would have cracked her head.

  “Girls!” Nerala almost shrieked. “Back to your rooms, please.”

  The women scattered into the plants. Mofitan held the still whimpering impostor. He cleared his throat and looked to Nerala for direction. The panic on his face earned him a speck of pity, but it didn’t last.

  “Set her down,” Nerala ordered. “What just happened here, gentlemen?” She cast a suspicious glance at each of them in turn.

  “The Kingmaker,” Mofitan said and released the girl who turned her wide-eyed face up at him in worship. “I can feel her.”

  “Good.” Dolfan nodded to Nerala. He pointed a finger at the woman on the ground. “She’s his Kingmaker then.”

  “Not her.” Mof stood tall and faced him again. “You know which one it is.”

  “I haven’t a clue which one is yours.” Dolfan felt his lip cure. He couldn’t help it. Mofitan had damn sure been eyeing Vashia, and he was having none of that. He growled and balled his fists at his side. “Do you?”

  “You son of a—”

  “Gentlemen!” Nerala clapped her hands together. The smack echoed to the glass walls. “Highnesses, please. I believe we can discuss this later.” She dropped her eyes pointedly to the woman in their midst. “After I have a little talk with Murrel.”

  Dolfan glanced at the girl. Her huge eyes dropped away immediately, but he caught the glimmer of tears there. A wave of shame shook him. He and Mofitan had been brutal in their rush to snarl at one another. He shook his head, even though she wasn’t looking at either of them now.

  “I’m sorry. Of course.” He backed away, hoping Mofitan could pick up on the not so subtle cue from Nerala. They could hash this particular dispute out later in private.

  All their little display had done was cue Nerala in to the problem and possibly hurt someone innocent. Foolish, perhaps,
but innocent enough. Now they’d have to answer for it, both to the trainer, and to the women who would, no doubt, hear about the scuffle. She would hear about it, and he’d look like some kind of possessive brute.

  Not the best foot to put forward, was it? He scowled and turned for the exit. The Heart would sort it out, of course. He’d only been riled by Mofitan’s reaction to his mate, a reaction that should not be possible. He frowned. Only the Heart would be able to fix the mess, but they were too far away.

  He left the courtyard. Let Mofitan posture all he wanted, once they took the brides under the Shroud, the truth would come out. The Heart would sort out the mess, and it would sort it out in his favor. He felt the pull. He recognized his Heart mate, and that brooked no argument. The Heart was never wrong.

  As he stalked the corridor back toward the atrium, he forced away the thought that Mofitan was no doubt counting on exactly the same fact.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “WHAT HAPPENED?” Tarren leaned over Murrel and tossed a frantic look at Vashia. “Are you okay?”

  Vashia watched Murrel cry. She should have hopped over to the other couch. She should have draped an arm over the girl and done her best to help Tarren comfort her. Instead, she shrank away. She lay on her lounge and tried to blend into it.

  “Oh.” Murrel sniffed, a loud and overdone gesture and one she’d pulled out three times since Nerala delivered her back to their room. “Oh.” She flung off Tarren’s arm and dove into her pillow face down.

  Fingers tapping on the glass announced Jine, who didn’t wait for an invitation, but slid into the room and rushed to Murrel’s side. “Oh, Murrel!” She lent her own drama to Murrel’s. “Was it awful?”

  Vashia frowned. She heard the dash of hope in Jine’s question. The girl was surfing for a story to spread. “I’m sure it wasn’t,” said Vashia. “I’m sure Murrel has learned her lesson.” She had no idea where the little flare of anger came from, but is snuck out before she could stop herself.

  Three heads snapped in her direction.

  “I mean, I’m sure Madame Nerala was gentle about it.”

  Murrel sat up and sniffed again. She brushed off Jine’s arm and nodded, but her eyes held a tickle of suspicion. “She was,” she said, “but they were horrid.”

  “Well what do you expect?” Vashia’s tongue refused to play it safe. “You mocked their whole belief system!”

  She saw Tarren’s eyes narrow and sat up.

  “She didn’t mean too,” Jine defended Murrel. “Did you?”

  “No.” Murrel’s eyes didn’t flinch from Vashia’s. “No. I felt something. It was just like in the book, all throbbing and lightheaded.”

  “It’s not like that at all.” Vashia held Murrel’s gaze. She felt the challenge, and couldn’t bring her stupid pride to back down. “It doesn’t feel like that for real.”

  “Because it’s not real,” Tarren said.

  “They both think it’s you.” Murrel dropped her bomb and waited. Her eyes accused Vashia, as if she’d done it intentionally, as if she hadn’t tried to stop Murrel from making an ass of herself.

  “Don’t be silly.” Tarren’s voice shook a little, despite the force of her words. “Vashia doesn’t want to be queen.”

  She didn’t move, though Tarren’s fears made her want to squirm a little. She didn’t want to be queen, but she didn’t confirm the fact; her silence damned her. She could see it on Murrel’s face and in Jine’s startled expression.

  “What does it feel like?” Jine asked.

  “Go back to your own room, Jine.” Vashia stood up and crossed the room. She stared out the glass into a mesh of thick leaves. Bad enough to alienate her roommates, but Jine’s whispering could do wider damage.

  She waited. No way would she talk to them with Jine in the room. For a few minutes none of them spoke, and she felt the distance between them deepen, pushing her to the outside of the little circle. Finally, Jine stood up and came to the glass doorway. She paused in it, but Vashia refused to turn to her, to see whatever nasty face went along with her parting shot.

  “You’re not the Kingmaker,” she said.

  Vashia waited for her steps to cross the courtyard before she reached out and slid the panel shut. She turned and found her roommates watching her. She’d expected the fury on Murrel’s face, even the betrayal on Tarren’s, though she didn’t deserve either. Even so, her resolve wavered in the onslaught.

  “Are you?” Tarren whispered first. She looked down at her hands.

  “It feels like static.” Vashia reached up and tapped her temple. “In here.”

  “Shit.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Bollocks.” Murrel stood up. “You’re wrong. That’s not how the manual says it feels.”

  “Shut up, Murrel.” Tarren still wouldn’t look at her, but her words gave Vashia a little hope. “The stupid book is crap.”

  “It also says only mates can feel it. How can they both think it’s her? How could they both feel you? Why would you even want both of them?”

  “I don’t, Murrel.”

  “Don’t.” She threw up her hands and sneered at her. “I don’t believe you.” She stomped to the outside door and disappeared into the hallway. Silence settled over the room again.

  “Static huh?” Tarren looked up at her for the first time. Her voice was cool, flat and distant.

  “I’m sorry, Tarren.”

  “Why?” Tarren shrugged and crossed to her own couch. “Why be sorry? It’s not like I wanted to be queen.”

  “I don’t either.”

  “Maybe not, but I think you want one of them.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Yeah. You weren’t too keen on my stinking plan.”

  “Well, not on the stinking part.” She let a little laugh enter her words, tried to lighten the impact. “Listen, they’ll take you guys all over Shroud. There’s more than one ceremony.”

  “I don’t want to get picked, remember?”

  “Right.”

  Vashia sat back on her couch and waited for Tarren to relax a little, to remember that they were friends. The idea was scary enough without being all alone on top of it. Queen. Kingmaker. It was enough to make her nauseated.

  “Well, all right.” Tarren rolled over and smiled, maybe not genuinely, but it was something. “Just one thing.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t expect me to call you Your Majesty, or Highness or whatever the hell they use.”

  “If you did,” Vashia relaxed into the pillow and tried not to panic at the thought. “I’d have to smack the crap out of you.”

  Jarn piloted the ship on thrusters until the station’s tractor seized the hull. Then he switched off and let the Shrouded bring him right on in. He set down on Moon Base 14 and waited for the station crew to tackle the job of unloading.

  He’d brought them cargo—gas and metal to keep their tech and their artificial atmosphere running at full capacity. In return he’d load a pretty batch of stones for Eclipsis, or, more accurately, for a particular class of Eclipsans.

  He folded his fingers together and stared at his reflection in the dead screen. Who gave a shit? Trade had nothing to do with this visit. He grinned and watched the beacon device flash against the console. A fleet of mercenaries waited for his signal just outside the Sector. Kovath’s money had bought him an army, even if it hadn’t exactly secured his future yet.

  His contact on Shroud had provided a means of entry. The message he’d received before docking confirmed it. Jarn tapped his breast pocket where the data disk waited. They had the magnetic map now, a fair trade for the promises he’d made to the traitor. Thanks to Syradan, they possessed what no one else in the galaxy had—a route into Shroud and a direct line to the palace once they’d arrived.

  His thin lips twisted into a smile. All that remained was the waiting. He’d see the governor’s brat off first, make absolutely certain the girl was on the surface before he moved. Once Vashia had given them an officia
l excuse, no one could fault them for their next step. Kovath could claim the child had been abducted, and the Galactic Council would fail to charge him with committing an unprovoked act of war. He watched the cargo sleds file past and nodded. A little wait, a little time, and all the pieces would fit together. Vashia would lead the way, and all he had to do was follow.

  The Gauss warbled a little that morning. Dolfan frowned at the readings and ignored another little stab of insecurity. He had nothing to worry about. In a few hours, the whole thing would be decided. In a few hours, he’d have everything he’d ever wanted.

  The shuttle waited to ferry them all to the elevator. Nerala would bring her candidates, and he and Mofitan would accompany them to the surface and pilot one of the larger transports back to the Palace for a ceremony that should be the last he’d have to endure. He saw no need for the sharp edge to his nerves, for the tremble in his gut, but he couldn’t seem to shake either.

  The door banged open, and Mofitan stormed through it. He ignored Dolfan and stepped to the gauges, tapping a finger on the screen and frowning at the Gauss readout.

  “Variance this morning.” Dolfan leaned back and turned his chair to face the other prince.

  “I can read.”

  “Thanks for clearing that up.” Dolfan shrugged. “I always wondered.”

  “She’s not for you.” Mof didn’t look away from the screen, but his voice was all fight.

  Dolfan stood and turned to the door. “We’ll know soon enough, won’t we?”

  He heard Mofitan grunt as he left the room. Once outside, he let his own anger surface. He balled fists at his side and twisted a pop out of his shoulders. The last thing he needed was to get physical with Mof. Both their statuses would suffer for it. Hell, the throne would suffer for it.

  Dolfan couldn’t help the stomp in his steps as he took the corridor toward the shuttle bay. He could see the main hangars through the tube walls. The sleds busily unloaded the newest shipment. He scowled. The ship that brought it had a derelict, battle hardened hull, which he supposed would be the norm outside of standard trade lanes.