Shrouded: Heartstone Book One

by Frances Pauli

  That one had come from Eclipsis, and Dolfan’d rather it hadn’t. When Pelinol caved to his Council’s pressure and opened lines with sectors like that, sectors that didn’t operate entirely within galaxy regulations, it put the whole operation at risk. He’d suspend them, if he did end up on the throne. The new council could push him all it wanted. Dolfan didn’t like the idea of ships like that hanging out on Moon Base 14.

  Dolfan heard Mofitan approaching and moved on. A good stretch of corridor between them would at least keep things civil. He prayed they could do the same on the trip down, but the idea of close confines, of him, Mofitan and Vashia all traveling in the same space didn’t bode well in his book. If they all survived to reach the Palace, he’d consider it a blessing.

  Dolfan reached the shuttle bay from the hangar end at the same time Nerala led the brides in from the atrium tunnel. Theirs was the only shuttle waiting, and he met them beside the hull. Vashia hung behind the others. She always did. Her gray eyes watched him through the gaps in the crowd, and their bond buzzed a background of static.

  The sled carrying the women’s things hovered behind the shuttle’s main hatch. He nodded a silent greeting to Nerala and then started loading the bags. Mofitan joined him moments later, and they stowed the fourteen identical duffels in the cargo racking.

  He stuffed the last bag into an empty slot and turned. Mof blocked the exit, and Dolfan had to sidestep around the man’s bulk. He reached the bottom of the ramp only to have someone plow directly into his chest. His arms came up on reflex, and he found a pair of slender shoulders in his grip. His senses hummed louder.

  “Oh!” Gray eyes turned up to him. They held a wild glint of panic. “Excuse me.”

  “What is it?” It occurred to him that these were the first words he’d ever spoken to her, that this was the first time they’d touched. He might have savored it, but the fear on her face swept the moment in a different direction.

  She shook her head and said nothing more. The look she darted over her shoulder told him enough. She was running from something—his eyes lifted to the corridor—or from someone. He squeezed against the wall and waved her up the ramp, felt the surge of both static and adrenaline as she brushed against him in passing.

  Another woman followed her, and the rest soon surged forward. He let them pass. Mofitan could show them to the couches. He bit back a flutter of jealousy. Better to have her safely on board, even if it meant with Mofitan. Then he noticed a man stalking across the shuttle bay and recorded as many details as he could. Perhaps this was who she had been running from?

  “Madame Nerala,” he called to her just as the stranger passed. “I believe we’re ready to depart.”

  She tore her gaze away from the man as well, noted that her charges had already boarded and scurried to follow them. Dolfan let her slide past him. He watched the stranger’s mouth curl around some hidden amusement. He moved on, skinny and dark and slick as oil. By the time the rear hatch had closed, that face was burned in Dolfan’s memory.

  He knew a snake when he saw one, and though he didn’t know the reason for Vashia’s reaction, he quickly labeled the man his enemy. As soon as their bonding was official, he’d find out exactly why. In the meantime, at least she’d be off the base. He smiled and turned his back on the doors. On Shroud, at least, no one would be able to find her.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  VASHIA CURLED LOWER against her seat and closed her eyes. Jarn. The serpent had followed her. Her brain flashed the image again—her father’s cohort walking bold as brass down the base hall, walking directly toward her. She pressed her palms against her lids and still couldn’t manage to pound out the picture.

  No way could coincidence explain that away. They’d come after her. She’d been so desperate, so terrified and focused on escape that she’d never even considered it a possibility. Even now, she couldn’t imagine why they’d bother. She had nothing of value except her inheritance, and she doubted her father would have waited two days to remedy that.

  But they’d followed her just the same. Jarn had found her.

  Her hands shook. She kept her eyes shut until the thrusters lifted them from the pad, until they’d navigated past the bay doors and the comm prattled their clearance to depart. When she opened them again, she found a Shrouded face regarding her intently.

  “Everyone comfortable?” Mofitan’s voice growled when he spoke, even in casual conversation. He faced the seated women, but his gaze pinned Vashia in her seat and didn’t as much as flicker away. Behind him, she could see Dolfan’s back. He sat at the controls, piloting the shuttle away from Moon Base 14.

  The women around her nodded. Madame Nerala reached forward and patted Mofitan’s big knee. “Don’t you worry about us,” she said. “We’re happy to be on our way. Aren’t we?”

  Vashia let their murmurs answer for her. She was glad to be away, but she’d be glad to be heading anywhere that Jarn wasn’t.

  When the shuttle turned, the fore-view screen filled with the swirling Shroud. “Anywhere” loomed in front of them for a few seconds before their course shifted and they lined up with the elevator platform.

  She spent the time it took them to reach it meditating on her own stupidity. Thinking in circles wouldn’t remedy her hasty choices. It wouldn’t lessen the feeling that she’d been herded again, that Jarn drove her forward somehow.

  The Shroud would protect her from him. At least she’d chosen correctly on one account. She flicked a glance toward the pilot’s chair—possibly two accounts. If her crackling impressions of Dolfan could be trusted, he’d protect her as well. Maybe there was something to this Heart bond. Maybe Murrel had been right to covet it.

  Not that she could tell her. They hadn’t spoken a word since the announcement that Vashia might very well be the Kingmaker. Murrel had attached herself to Jine, and the two perpetually huddled together whispering and casting poisonous glances in her direction. She turned her head to the right and confirmed as much. They hadn’t let up all morning.

  Tarren stuck by her, though they hadn’t done any whispering or much conversing at all. Vashia figured they both had their own thoughts to contend with, and the silence was a nice reprieve from days of chatter. She’d told herself that at least three times before they reached the shuttle.

  Now the prostitute sat at her elbow, silent and with a frown creasing her high forehead. She smelled better, must have caved and showered sometime in the night, and in the cramped confines of the shuttle interior Vashia could only be grateful for the fact. She wished for a flash that Tarren would in fact find her fairy tale on Shroud. Maybe the woman could even take Mofitan off her hands? One glance forward dashed that hope. He continued to stare at her, and she couldn’t ignore the surge and crackle of her senses in response.

  She was a psychic harlot, apparently. She giggled and clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle it.

  “You okay?” Tarren whispered. She raised one brow and tilted her head to the side, examined Vashia through half-closed eyes. “Are you high?”

  “No.” Vashia pushed her hair out of her eyes and sat up taller. “Just a funny thought.”

  “Right.” Tarren nodded. “Well, if you have any more, consider sharing.” She turned forward, but leaned in closer and whispered near Vashia’s ear. “Of either.”

  “I’m not high.”

  Tarren looked straight ahead, but her expression didn’t believe Vashia for a second.

  “I’m not.”

  “Right.”

  The shuttle tilted to the left and they all listed into their neighbors. The platform leveled out ahead. Vashia watched the docking clamp grow larger as they neared it. She focused on the immediate goal, the space elevator and the next leg of her journey—down, into the Shroud itself.

  “Almost there,” Tarren said. “First trip to our new home and you’re high as a kite.”

  “I’m not.” Vashia giggled again. “I never have been.”

  “I know.” Tarren sat even straighter
. With her eyes fixed on the forward screens, she smiled a devious smile and nodded very slowly. “I don’t imagine the governor’s daughter has much use for drugs.”

  The click of the clamps rang through the cabin. The shuttle rocked to the right and then steadied. Their journey’s first leg closed faster than Vashia could snap her gaping mouth shut.

  “How long have you known?” She caught Murrel’s red hair out of the corner of her eye and lowered her voice. “Who else knows?”

  “Just me and just now.” Tarren finally turned to her. Amusement sparkled in her normally dull eyes. “Murrel didn’t even notice Jarn back there, but you damn near shat yourself.”

  Before she could digest her exposure, before she could fabricate a reply, Tarren’s hand reached out and patted her on the thigh. She flinched, remembering the weight of the woman’s fury at the mention of her father. Tarren smiled, but her face waxed serious. “Don’t worry,” she said. “If we see him again, I’ll help you tear his worthless heart out.”

  Syradan pressed the relay controls and sent his message. It registered another act of treachery—one he could have lived without. His old eyes watched the data flicker over the display, the Gauss standards, the mapped lanes and even the calculations for normal variance.

  He’d practically paved the way for them. A muscle in his jaw spasmed. Unavoidable. His future as more than just a forgotten shadow, as more than an old cast-off smoke addict haunting the pits of the core, depended on outside involvement. Considering the entire future of his people was about to take a sharp left turn, he’d have sold them Pelinol himself to ensure his future off-planet.

  Still, his fingers shook as he tapped them together. His cheek twitched again. The Heart hummed in his mind, in the patterns woven into his robes, inlaid in each of his tools. It hummed, and it accused, and it had every right to hate him. He only prayed he’d be far enough away not to hear it once he left Shroud.

  The data flow ceased and the indicator lights went dead. He stood immediately and produced a thin cloth from the folds of his robe. His fingers clutched at a corner, and he swept the silk along the toggles and across the screen. He wiped the lip of the counter, the arms of the chair, even the seat just to be safe.

  With all evidence of his crime sufficiently erased, Syradan tucked the cloth away. He’d burn it later, add some herbs for cleansing and perhaps a prayer or two for his own conscience. But first he stepped to the door and listened. He heard nothing from the hall outside, and after waiting a minute more, he opened the panel and peeked in both directions.

  The upcoming ceremony had him on edge. He sighed and worked his thoughts around a mandala, forcing them to follow imagined lines of a memorized symbol instead of dwelling on the events before him. He let his breathing settle, drew the sigil over and over in his head and walked from the room.

  “How’s the Gauss?”

  Syradan jerked his head up and spun toward the voice. His heart stuttered and threatened to give out on him.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle.” Tondil sat against a counter at the far end of the hallway. He held a slim instrument in his hands, and his long fingers drifted across the metal, flirting with the holes even at rest.

  “Tondil.” Syradan inclined his head to the young prince and followed the lines of the sigil with his mind—around and back to the center, sweep left, calm. “I didn’t expect anyone to be about this early.”

  “Acoustics.” Tondil waved the flute toward the ceiling. “The playing here is better.”

  “Of course.” The curlicue at the bottom leads back to the center, then up and into another turn. “The vaulting.”

  “Yes. Stay and listen?” The glint in his eye might very well have been natural mischief. He had the reputation and the charisma to back that.

  “No. No, thank you, I have many things to attend to before we wake the Heart.”

  “I suppose I’m nervous.”

  “Of course.” The ceremony could explain it, as well as his slipping away to play alone in the early hours in the back corner of the relay shed. It could, but did it? “I suspect you’ll all be a bit anxious considering that.”

  “It won’t be me, will it?” the prince blurted, and then straightened his back, as if to negate the momentary weakness. “It’s just that I prefer my life the way it is, and while I have no end of respect for the Heart, I’m not certain I could—”

  “I feel quite certain that it won’t be you.” Syradan let him off the hook. In truth, the Heart had shown him nothing to that account, hadn’t revealed which prince it wanted for the next, pivotal rule, but it hardly mattered. He’d made certain the Heart would have no bearing on this particular bonding. “Rest assured.”

  “Thanks.” The prince relaxed back into his natural, lounging pose. He reminded Syradan of a shadow cat, all lean muscle and charm.

  “Well, enjoy the playing, then.” He turned his back on Tondil and continued down the hallway. Shadow cats had been known to kill when necessary, and he’d been caught where he had no legitimate business being. He nodded and stepped out of the shed. He’d prove wise to keep an eye on that one.

  The elevator car rose and fell through the Shroud continually. Padded couches ringed the interior, and a full two-thirds of the walls were transparent, enabling the passengers to relax and enjoy the chaos enveloping them. At least Vashia assumed they’d relax. With two Shrouded Princes towering over her like bookends, she didn’t have a chance.

  The group abandoned her. Even Tarren had caved and joined the other brides when Mofitan pushed in between them. Now they all clustered around the rest of the car, whispering and pointing at the phenomenon outside and only occasionally tossing curious glances in her direction. Madame Nerala flit from one girl to the next, answering questions and––Vashia suspected––keeping their attention focused on other things, which left her adrift in a sea of static interference, staring at the most beautiful thing she’d ever witnessed—the full, close-up fury of the Shroud—while two complete strangers postured and stared daggers at one another over her head.

  “The magnetic interference prevents scanning and limits comm use,” Dolfan explained. She tried to focus on him, but Mofitan leaned closer.

  “The storms, however,” he growled, “can cause fluctuation in the planetary magnetism.” He tapped a big mitt against the clear wall. The thunk rang through the car and drew the rest of the group’s attention.

  “Hmmm.” Vashia stared at the colors.

  “A bit of variance this morning,” Dolfan rested one hand against the wall. She could just see his shoulder and arm in her peripheral vision, his wraps wound almost to the elbow. “But nothing that should cause us any delay.”

  “Variance.” Mofitan shifted his weight. She dropped her eyes to the side and watched his booted foot tap. “Just enough to keep things interesting,” he said.

  “But not enough to worry about at all,” Dolfan countered.

  “You never know.” Mofitan growled the words, and she wished not for the first time that she could actually shrink on command. As it was, she found her shoulders rising and her spine drawing down into a submissive posture.

  “The point is,” Dolfan pulled away from the window and stepped back, giving her more space and sacrificing some ground in the process. “That the Shroud protects anyone under it.”

  Vashia looked up to his face and understood. He’d seen her reaction on the moon and he’d guessed even more. She nodded and tried to smile. She didn’t share his Shrouded faith in their atmosphere. Nothing could keep the galaxy out forever. She’d read the files, and yes, she understood the basic physics of the thing, but she’d also sat at a table and listened to the off-world view of their planet.

  Nothing would stop them when they decided they wanted his world. They’d find a way past the Shroud eventually. Vashia looked out at the miasma and prayed it wouldn’t be any time soon. She watched the blush and swirl of the Shroud and prayed it could keep them out long enough for her to get lost under it.
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  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THEY FOUND the Palace despite “a bit of variance.” The heavy transport that carried them from the elevator platform trundled along just above the surface of the core, managing to find its way somehow along the natural magnetic lanes. The vehicle, unlike the elevator, hadn’t been designed for sightseeing, and it required piloting as well. Vashia was grateful for that much. She managed to enjoy the short trip in a fairly calm state, tucked in beside Tarren, pretending she couldn’t see the nasty looks shot in her direction from the others.

  When they entered the canyon, the ship bounced and then dove forward and down. Vashia glanced to the front and caught a glimpse of buildings before the craft leveled out and surged ahead again. Shrouded aesthetics favored curves and crystal. The clear material flashed as they passed between structures. She saw long, translucent corridors and huge opaque structures that looked like factories or storage. All the Shrouded buildings, however, seemed clean and well maintained—something she hadn’t encountered much in her part of the galaxy.

  The whispers started again once they’d landed. Vashia hung back, and this time Tarren stayed beside her even when the princely duo stepped forward. Nerala handed out the tube necklaces that would help them filter out any atmospheric toxins. They’d practiced with the devices on the moon, but these would be theirs to keep. She pulled hers over her head and tucked the tiny tubes into her nostrils as Nerala mimed the process from the doorway.

  As the group exited the ship, spilling down the ramp onto a narrow platform, they fell silent. What could possibly be said under the weight of that sky? Vashia joined them, craning involuntarily to gaze up at it. They all did.

  Shrouded civilization burrowed into the planet’s solid core. The people built their cities and structures in pits, cracks and craters where their technology could easily manufacture pockets of breathable atmosphere. The manual had explained as much. The sheer stone on three sides of the hover platform agreed, as did the hewn stairway leading up to the next level of the canyon. But no book could prepare them for the view up, for the solid moving wall of color resting on the canyon’s rim.