Shrouded: Heartstone Book One

by Frances Pauli

  “Holy shit.” Tarren summed up succinctly.

  Vashia heard Mofitan grunt agreement. She smiled. Those two probably would work well together.

  “It’s so heavy,” she said. “Do you ever get used to it?”

  “Yes,” Dolfan answered, “and no. Even we live in awe of it.”

  “Your whole lives?” Vashia turned to him. She saw his love for his home, saw his pride blazing in the reflected pinks and yellows. “No one ever leaves? Ever wants too?”

  He shrugged. “We have the moon. Change comes slowly to us, I suppose.”

  “But it does come?”

  His eyes sparked. He nodded, and she caught the hint of things in his expression, complicated things that she was still enough of an outsider not to understand—even with the crackle in the air that linked them in some secret, Shrouded way.

  “What about the brides?” Tarren joined the thread. “They aren’t used to—” She pointed a finger straight up. “They don’t ever want to leave?”

  “The Heart binds us to the planet as well as to one another.” Dolfan’s mouth curled into a gentle smile. His look deepened, and Vashia felt her cheeks warm. “No one who has felt the Heart has been disappointed with the results.”

  “Huh.” Tarren missed his innuendo, but then she hadn’t been the target of that gaze. “What about the ones that don’t do the whole bondy thing?”

  “They are usually grateful for all we provide them,” Mofitan growled again.

  “Huh.” Tarren jabbed Vashia with her elbow. “Must be a pretty sweet deal.”

  Maybe it was. She tore her gaze from Dolfan’s and eyed the solid sky again. She hoped that meant a good deal for all of them, that Murrel and Tarren and even Jine would carve out some happiness in whatever crater they settled in. And as Madame Nerala led them forward, and the first of them surged up the staircase toward her destiny at least, Vashia prayed that Dolfan would not be “disappointed with the results.”

  It never occurred to her to question what those results might be.

  He saw his future in her eyes. The Shroud turned her cheeks to rose and cast her eyes into a sparkling reflection of the storms above. Dolfan tried to tell her, to reassure her without starting a war with Mofitan or scaring her even further. He put the force of his beliefs behind the words and prayed she’d understand as much.

  They took the stairs and stopped again while the women digested the breadth of the plaza and the height of the Palace dome and turrets. He heard the gasps and felt his spine straighten. His chin lifted. He couldn’t help but enjoy the reaction. The building awed him as well, and he’d been living in it for months now.

  Nerala pointed out the flags and all fourteen heads spun to examine the system that they’d come in time to trust with their lives. The banners fluttered in a pattern he knew meant their breathers were optional. Still, he saw several of the group reach up and check their devices. He approved of Nerala’s training—better to be safe now than sorry later.

  They followed her up the wider staircase to the Palace doors, which had been thrown open in welcome and secured against the moderate wind. Two shadows stood just inside the entry, and one stepped out into the light to greet them.

  Vashia stopped walking. Dolfan nearly trampled her, had to stumble to one side to avoid colliding. She stared, and Dolfan recognized the disquiet in her expression. He placed a hand lightly on her shoulder, and Mofitan surged forward to shadow her other side.

  “What?” He had to raise his voice to battle the wind. “What is it?”

  “Another prince.” She turned back to the stairs. Haftan already descended toward them.

  “How did you know that?” A leaden lump settled in his stomach. How? Dolfan watched her eyes and he knew the answer, though she didn’t speak. Haftan marched to a halt directly in front of her, and they exchanged steady gazes.

  “What’s going on?” Mofitan snarled.

  “The Kingmaker has come,” Haftan announced.

  “Him too?” Mof turned to her. They all did, but Vashia stared at her feet.

  Dolfan could feel her trembling under his hand. He wanted to get this over with, fast, but a seed of fear wedged into the back of his mind. How could they all sense her? If she knew Haftan on sight, then perhaps, she could sense the others as well. Perhaps she didn’t feel anything different with him, anything special. He ground out the thought, refused to let it formulate. He knew what he knew.

  Still, when Haftan turned and led them up the stairs, he couldn’t help but agree with Mofitan’s muttered curse. He couldn’t help the shaking in his legs anymore than he could the nasty whisper in his mind that said, maybe not.

  If she’d had any doubt about her fate, it vanished when she met the remaining princes. They buzzed like a swarm of bees, even across the huge throne room. They stared at her. Seven pairs of eyes fixed on her position against the far wall, and her brain hummed back at them as if it were their hive.

  Between them, the huge crystal sat under a clear dome. Her eyes kept dancing back to it, from Dolfan to the Heart to one of the others in line and then back to the stone. That thing, that dark faceted piece of gemstone would decide her future. Vashia shook her head. It all seemed fairly ridiculous.

  She already knew which one she wanted. She frowned at the Heart. Did they really need a magic crystal to announce it? The old buzzard priest shuffled forward, and the hush that fell over the hall said they did. At least the Shrouded did. They took their big stone very seriously.

  Tarren nudged her in the ribs and whispered something she couldn’t make out. The women gathered around her sounded like insects, too. At least that sound was audible to everyone present. Even Madame Nerala’s fussing was a whispered hiss in the presence of the Heart. It sat dark, under glass and still managed to dominate the wide room.

  The dais might have been higher, and the pair seated there loftier, but the Heart ruled the throne room.

  The priest sang to it. He danced around it, waving a pot of smoke and working his free hand in the air. He drew invisible symbols with long, exaggerated motions and his voice rose and fell like the beating of a drum. He wore a black silk wrap that billowed and swirled until he seemed like only a shadow of a person, a hologram circling the dome and the stone that lifted in a sharp point just a hand’s span higher than his head.

  The smoke filled the room with a sweet smell, resinous and reminding her of the brothels back on Eclipsis. The air grew thick with it. Impossibly, she found her vision narrowing as she peered through the haze. A brazier that small could never fill a hall the size of the Shrouded King’s, yet Vashia smelled the smoke thick in her nostrils, and her eyes strained to see anything beyond the light flaring at the crystal’s point.

  Light flaring.

  Her knees wobbled. She could see light there, light lining each facet as if somewhere inside the stone a hidden bulb glowed. That was probably exactly what it was, a light. Someone had flipped a switch and the crystal lit up like a candle—except the room had gone fuzzy too. She blinked. The whole world was haze and smoke but for the path cleared in front of her.

  Vashia stared down the tunnel, past the Heart, and found a pair of eyes watching. She knew them, had known them since the dawn of time, perhaps. Dolfan. Her legs moved. She took a step or two, locked her gaze to his and walked forward.

  The hum faded. The static buzzed far away, and something flooded in to take its place. A pulse drowned out the interference. It beat against her temple, in her heart and at each point where her feet touched the ground. She felt it in waves. Joy. Pleasure. Calm. Each crest moved her, took her one more stride closer to the Heart.

  The smoke shifted. Tendrils wound between them. Threads linked and bound their bodies to the pulse, tied their hearts to the crystal and to each other. Vashia blinked against the fog of incense and tears and something that neither could explain away.

  The rhythm drew her forward, and her mind didn’t have time to question. Her rational, educated mind bowed to the impossible. She
saw the crystal glow. She heard the heartbeat that pulled her onward, and she felt an attraction with no boundary in space or time.

  She reached a hand out. Her fingers longed to touch the Heart, but a barrier kept it at bay. She stroked the smooth surface of the dome and watched the lights shift and pulse within the stone below. The Heart. Hello. A smile flirted with her lips. She let the pulse seep into her veins until her own heart beat in time to the crystal. Hers and another’s.

  She found Dolfan again, could have found him in total darkness. He stood far at the edge of the room. His eyes had gone dark. A frown graced his brow and horror touched his gaze. It flicked from her for a second, and she had no choice but to follow it.

  A stranger stood opposite her. His hand also rested on the dome, and his eyes filled her vision. The pulse engulfed them both. Wrong. Vashia tried to lift her hand, but the Heart held it fast. She tried to look away, to find Dolfan, to drag him to her, but her body seized against her orders. She stared into the wrong face, and it stared back. False! The stone screamed the word, and yet, it wouldn’t release her.

  The priest sang again. His voice chanted her doom, a drum calling her back from the smoke. The room clarified. The figures stood in place. The priest announced the doom of her mistake.

  “Haftan,” he called. A whisper circled the room. It echoed his raspy pronouncement. “Haftan. Haftan the King!”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE SKY ROILED and curled with the storm. It stared down with one red eye and witnessed his retreat. The flags rode the winds, spoke of toxins. Dolfan forgot his breather; he took three steps into the chaos before he remembered to use it. He dug into his shirt and kept walking, holding his breath and feeling like an idiot, like Mofitan, no less.

  Fool.

  He stopped at the edge of the plaza and slid the device in place. Another round of cheers howled through the opening behind him. He heard it, even over the fury of the storm. The sound twisted in his gut and brought on another wave of nausea.

  He looked to the flags, and then eyed the stairs. Where was he going? The hover pad called him, but the new council would meet too soon for a trip to Base 14. Still, the planet had more than one crevasse. He could find a pit to sink into somewhere far from here.

  A shadow moved in front of him, and Dolfan turned from the stair mid-step.

  The temple door opened and a tall form stood in the entrance. The silhouette waved an arm, gestured for him to come. Where else did have to go? Dolfan spun on his heel and marched across the stones. He slipped into the temple with the wind swirling at his back and the palace cheers pushing his steps.

  Shayd waited in the foyer. He paced forward and back, pausing only to toss a wild-eyed look at Dolfan. “She’s not the Kingmaker.” He stopped suddenly and stared at the doors.

  “The Heart.” Dolfan stifled the surge of hope and frowned. He didn’t figure Shayd for one to doubt.

  “Yes, yes.” The tall prince threw his wrap back over his shoulders and nodded, but he didn’t seem to be listening to anything besides his own thoughts. “Something odd. I was certain of the vision, but Syradan.”

  “Syradan confirmed Haftan.” Dolfan pressed his lips tight. “And the Kingmaker.”

  “Something, something.” His head snapped up and he looked directly at Dolfan, shook off whatever spell held him and nodded. “Come on.”

  He spun around, and his robes fanned out around his legs. Before Dolfan could answer or think, Shayd pushed through the curtain and disappeared. He watched the fabric ripple for a moment before following. The Heart gave her to Haftan. The Heart was never wrong, and this—questioning the ceremony—did not happen.

  The lights transformed the room into an ordinary space. Instead of smoke and shadow, he caught the whiff of fresh herbs and saw the shelves that lined the walls. They overflowed with unidentified clutter. The huge brazier sat lifeless and heavy in the center of the room, its fire untended during ordinary hours. Very little remained to hint at the temple’s ritual functions.

  Shayd ignored his entrance. He dug in one of the cupboards, snatching boxes and little cloth bags and lining them up on the counter below. He talked the entire time, but the words were muttered so low, he had to be speaking to himself. Dolfan looked around the room, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and waited. He wasn’t used to Shayd speaking. None of them were.

  When the other prince loaded the supplies into his arms and headed for the brazier, Dolfan moved in and caught the few things that fell as he walked.

  “Thanks.” Shayd deposited the lot on a small table and, without pause, began to open vials and toss ingredients into a crystal bowl. “Can you fetch that igniter?”

  “Sure.” He sighted along the arm Shayd had flung and found the lighter on the other wall. The celebration in the Palace wouldn’t last forever. They’d miss him and Shayd both. He sighed. His window of escape narrowed with each packet Shayd fiddled with. He plucked the igniter from its rack and turned back to the brazier.

  He watched the other prince—the Seer now—flick the device and set the flame to the base. The element lit and the big pot flared to life.

  “Something…this particular king-making.” Shayd kept talking as if they’d been having a conversation the entire time. “I don’t know. I need to see.”

  “Listen.” Dolfan took a step closer to the flaming bowl. “It’s over, right?”

  “Maybe.” Shayd threw the contents of the bowl into the brazier, and a wave of smoke blasted into the air. “The lights, please.”

  He turned back toward the entrance, but the lights clicked off long before he reached them. Another shadow moved into the room, crossed with heavy steps and joined them in the raging glow now spilling from underneath Shayd’s work. Mofitan.

  “Haftan,” he spat. He glanced briefly in Dolfan’s direction. “I’d rather have had you.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Shhh.” Shayd tossed another handful of something and peered at the smoke. “I must see.”

  Mofitan leaned forward and looked intently, as if he too could read the clouds that billowed from the pot. The stench of it choked in Dolfan’s throat. It was only partly the odor of the herbs. This thing they worked at was more than blasphemy, it was treason. He wanted no part of it, no matter what he’d thought or felt.

  “The Heart already chose,” he said.

  Two heads snapped in his direction. Both faces stared at him with wide eyes. He shook his head. “Not me.” He put his hands out, palm up. “I’ll keep quiet, but I’m leaving now.”

  They didn’t try to stop him, and he backed as far as the door before Mofitan spoke.

  “You really didn’t want the throne?”

  Dolfan didn’t answer. He pushed his way through the curtain and stormed through the foyer to the doors. This time, he slammed his breather in place before leaving. Of course he hadn’t wanted the throne. He’d wanted the Heart, had wanted her. He crossed to the stairway, keeping as much distance as possible between him and the Palace. Now, all things considered, he prayed it never found him.

  No one ever wants to leave? He leapt two stairs at a time to the hover platform. The council would have to wait for Mofitan and Shayd to finish their mischief. He could squeeze in a short ride, a short trip under the weight of the Shroud. His own words taunted him as he went. Today, he knew at least one Shrouded would have given anything to escape his planet.

  Vashia stumbled after Haftan down the wide halls. Arches passed on her right, galleries and curving windows on the left. She forgot to count them. Her eyes darted from her feet to the servants drifting like a train in her wake to the hallway ahead where the back of the man she’d be forced to marry drifted like a mast down the center of the aisle.

  Not forced. She’d gone into this voluntarily. Her feet stuttered and she had to throw out an arm to keep from tripping. What the hell had happened? She’d felt their Heart, had known for a few seconds that it was real. But the stone had handed her to this Haftan, and she co
uldn’t begin to understand why.

  She looked up in time to avoid slamming into him. He stood in front of a tall doorway and eyed her sideways as she skidded to a stop. Her duffle smacked into her thigh, the strap wrenching her shoulder. She blinked up at the prince who would be her husband.

  Offspring.

  He frowned and tilted his head to the side. His hair hung far below his shoulders, and he wore it loose and flowing. Lilac skin covered a slimmer frame than either Mofitan or Dolfan’s. Haftan was snakelike, wiry, and his wraps bound slender, muscular limbs. His face bothered her the most. The expressions she found there left her cold and lodged a seed of fear in her gut that hadn’t rested there since Eclipsis.

  “These will be our rooms.” His voice hissed, cementing the snake in her mind. His words flowed, but his face twitched and tightened. “Until the coronation.”

  Vashia couldn’t formulate a response. Her brain shied away from “our rooms,” and she watched dumb while he opened the doors and vanished inside. She took a slow breath and then followed him into an enormous chamber.

  Windows covered the outer wall and the Shroud blazed through, lighting the space in a blush of gold and peach. The ceilings rose higher than any in the governor’s estate on Eclipsis, and the furnishings sat like rich, exotic museum pieces around the room. Vashia tried to imagine sitting in the carved agate chairs, and cringed at the idea of tainting the embroidered silk upholstery. She was supposed to live here?

  A long table faced the windows, covered in more silk and topped with stone vases that sprouted plumes of orchids similar to the varieties in the atrium on the moon. She’d never forget the scent, not if she went the rest of her life without smelling it again. It hung in the air in “their rooms” and almost washed away the tension between them.