Shrouded: Heartstone Book One

by Frances Pauli

  Haftan waved the servants back out into the hallway. Once the door had closed, he pointed to an archway in the far wall. “The bedroom is through there.” He didn’t face her. His fingers found the orchids and stroked the tiny petals absently. He stared out at the Shroud. “The other is the bath.”

  He’d said no more than that to her since the Heart had bound them together. Vashia watched his back and felt a surge of anger. They’d been crowded and pushed from place to place. She’d been congratulated by strangers, by the new friends that were immediately whisked away to their own fates. They’d only given her seconds to say goodbye. Her friends, Tarren and Murrel, if she could still count the girl among her friends, would follow their own path, and Vashia might never know what became of them.

  Why congratulate her on one more newfound misery?

  “Excuse me?” She watched Haftan sigh. His shoulders lifted and then settled again before he turned to regard her directly for only the second or third time since they’d met across the huge stone. “I’m sorry to bother you, but where would you like me to put my stuff? Do you have a side preference? Or should I just hop on in there and make myself at home?”

  The tremble that snuck into her voice ruined the effect she’d aimed for, but it worked. Haftan snapped out of whatever fugue he’d been lost in and looked at her like she’d just appeared for the first time. His eyes went wide. Had he even considered their arrangement?

  “You,” he said pointedly, “can have the bedchamber. I’ll be sleeping here for now.” He waved indistinctly around the main room. It had more than one couch, lounges that made her cot aboard the ship look like a plank of wood, but she’d never have suggested them for princely sleep.

  She blinked at him again. If he meant it, she could relax considerably as far as her most immediate terror was concerned.

  “Eventually,” he continued. This time he took a step away, putting part of the table between them. “I will need to produce an offspring. It would look odd, otherwise.”

  “Offspring?” She repeated it. She sounded stupid, but what else could she say to the man? He obviously had no interest in her at all.

  “I’m not going to rape you,” he said, matter-of-factly, “but you did sign a contract. I’m sure when the time comes, we’ll be able to work something out.” He turned away, sighed, and looked back to the windows, as if examining the Shroud’s patterns.

  “And in the meantime?” She’d signed the contract. She said it in her head. She’d come here of her own free will.

  “I’m sure you can find things to do.” He shrugged. His manner relaxed and he picked up a clear pitcher of water and poured a measure into a long goblet. “There are plenty of amusements around court. You’ll join me on the throne when I need you.”

  “Will there be a wedding?” Vashia watched him drink. He’d finished the unpleasant topic of their sleeping arrangements and moved to the more pressing issue of his rule. In the process, he’d completely negated everything she’d been told about the Heart.

  “A wedding?” His brows rose. “The Heart wed us the minute we touched it. A bonded pair has no need of any further ceremony.”

  “A bonded pair.” Vashia felt the flare of anger again. “You mean, because the big crystal said we were perfect for one another?”

  She expected to piss him off, for some reaction along that line, but Haftan turned four shades of terrified. His hand shook as he placed the cup back on the table.

  “Listen to me.” His voice trembled as well. “As far as anyone outside this room knows, we are perfectly matched. The Heart makes no mistakes.”

  She nodded and took a step backwards. Haftan might not have Dolfan’s mass, but he still towered over her.

  He sighed again and shook his head. “You must understand,” he said, smiling, his voice dripping like honey, “our religious beliefs serve us well. They keep the right blood on the throne and the right amount of faith in the king’s position.”

  “Absolute faith,” she said. “No questions.”

  “Exactly. You understand?”

  “Yes.” She understood. It was all smoke and mirrors after all. The Heart, the bonding, all of it was exactly like Tarren said—politics and religion.

  “There will be a coronation,” Haftan continued. “I’ll see to it that you have the appropriate clothing made.”

  He nodded and smiled again. She shivered when he passed her, watched him stride to the door and clenched her teeth together. Haftan, her husband, slipped back out into the hallway. The Heart wed us the minute we touched it. She waited for the doors to click shut, till she was sure her “perfect match” had gone, and then turned to the windows.

  The Shroud swirled overhead, pressing down with the full force of its weight. Vashia sighed and glared at it. Haftan was an asshole, but he was still better than Jarn by a long stretch. She ignored the flash of something else: a flicker of dashed hope and the image of Dolfan that just wouldn’t go the hell away.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  VASHIA SMILED at the men outside her door, stepped aside to allow them entry, and wondered if she’d ever get used to the static that wouldn’t go away. Her head buzzed anytime she got near the Shrouded Princes.

  “Is Haftan here?” The tall one asked her. He moved like a dancer and had eyes like lasers.

  Vashia shook her head and felt the hum waver. “I’m sorry,” she said. “There are so many of you, I can’t remember your name.”

  “Tondil.” He grinned sideways, crooked and completely charming. “The short one is Peryl.”

  “Hey!” The short one feigned offense, but his giggle gave his humor away. He practically danced into the room and flopped into one of the chairs. “I am short, I suppose. We can’t all be tall, dark, and handsome.” He flashed a smile in Vashia’s direction and a look in Tondil’s that told her a great deal.

  “We can try,” Tondil said. “I’m sorry to bother you, your Highness.”

  Vashia’s stomach clenched. He meant her. Highness, queen, she’d never even given that part a thought.

  “Are you okay?” Peryl leaned forward and frowned. “She looks green, Tawn.”

  “Yes, she does. Here,” he said, waving Vashia over to another chair. “Sit down.”

  She obeyed him, stumbled to the chair and sat starting at her feet. Would she have to wrap Haftan’s arms when he dressed tomorrow? Would she have to have to do anything “Queenly?”

  “I think she’s going to faint.” Peryl’s face leaned into her line of sight. He looked younger than the rest, had soft, baby features under his short hair.

  “I’m okay,” she managed. “It’s just a lot to take in. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing.”

  “Well!” Tondil sang the word loud enough to bring her eyes up, to make her smile a little. “We can help you there.” He bowed low and winked on the rise. “What’s your pleasure, Highness? Dancing? Shopping? Needle arts?”

  “I can dance,” she said. “I studied music at home.” Her father had demanded she study it all, art, music, government, history. He’d groomed her as if he had every intention of allowing her to live. She shook her head. He’d acted as if he planned for her to be more than a present to Jarn. She supposed the better-rounded her education, the more possible uses she might have had, the more ways he might have used her to his benefit. Had she failed him? Was that why he chose to toss her away to Jarn instead?

  “Music, ha!” Tondil hooted and spun in a graceful circle. Peryl giggled and stared up at him in barely concealed worship.

  She hardly blamed him. Tondil was fun and charming. The two of them, at least, could be a bright spot to her life here—friends, perhaps—within the walls. They certainly lightened the mood, and she couldn’t help but laugh along with Peryl as his taller counterpart danced a solo tango for them both.

  He stopped abruptly and aimed those laser eyes right into her own. They sparkled with intent, and Vashia felt momentarily exposed. For all his humor, Tondil’s look said he’d known exac
tly what he was doing when he knocked on her door. She wanted to kiss him for it.

  Instead, she just smiled when he bowed again and added, “I suspect we’re going to get along just fine.”

  Mof waited on the stairs when he returned. Dolfan ignored him, slid the bike back into the racking and secured the clamps without comment. He hadn’t made it past the canyon walls before his comm summoned him back for Council, and the ride over the local habitations had done little to sooth him. He wanted out. He wanted to break for the rim and get lost under the Shroud.

  Instead he’d get to spar with Mofitan on the way to Council. He could have lived without that particular pleasure. He stomped to the base of the stair and headed up, passing Mof without even looking at him.

  “Dolfan.” Mofitan stepped in line beside him anyway.

  “How’s the treason coming, then?”

  “It’s not treason if the Heart has made a mistake.”

  “I made it pretty clear I’d rather not have this discussion.” He took another step up.

  Mofitan’s hand shot out and snagged his arm. He hauled him back and around to face off, nose to nose again. “I don’t care what you’d rather,” Mof growled. “You can still feel her, and so can I, and that is not the way it’s supposed to work.”

  “I don’t care.” Dolfan leaned forward and pressed his advantage. Standing one stair higher, he put a hand on Mof’s shoulder and pressed down until the grip on his arm released. “I don’t care how it works.”

  “You’re lying.”

  He closed his eyes and imagined pushing Mofitan down the stairs. Just picturing it sufficed. He ignored the dart and turned away and lifted a foot to the next stair. Mof pushed him. He staggered forward and caught the stairs with his knees, hard. His hands shot out in time to keep his face from suffering the same blow. He pressed away from the stone and threw himself back to his feet, spinning in time to see Mofitan’s snarl fade.

  “You’re stupid and a liar, Dolfan. Come on, let’s get it over with.” Mof staggered his stance and brought up both fists. He nodded and his mouth split into a grimace to match his ugly words.

  He didn’t need the invitation. His arm swung before Mof’s mouth snapped shut. The punch landed just below the man’s ribs, and he stumbled with the impact and fell the last few steps down to the hover pads. Dolfan watched him roll. He jumped to the platform, landing only a few feet away and waiting while Mofitan pulled himself back up into a crouch.

  Dolfan’s knees screamed, but he bounced against the pain and got his arms up in time to block most of the impact when Mof sprung. They slammed together and grappled across the pad. He used Mof for support, leaned all his weight against his opponent and concentrated on using his arms to block Mofitan’s punches.

  Neither of them had advantaged positions. Dolfan’s knees complained at each jar, and Mofitan had to have taken a few good hits on the tumble down the stairway. They strained and twisted against one another, trying to sort out an avenue of attack, but pound for pound it was an even match.

  He focused on keeping his face away from Mof’s teeth. The man snapped and howled like a tiger in his grip. Blows grazed against his midsection, and he planted at least one punch against Mofitan’s side before a shadow fell across them.

  His head snapped around in time to catch the silhouette descending the staircase. Mof’s grip went slack and Dolfan let go and rolled back onto his haunches. He caught a sucker punch to the solar plexus for his trouble and groaned, sitting down hard on the platform. He could hear Mofitan laughing, but the man kept his face turned toward the prince that had joined them.

  Dielel sneered and looked down his long nose at them both. His hands brushed at his pants as if just being near such base activity might have rubbed off on him. “The Council is about to convene,” he told them through gritted teeth. “If the two of you can be bothered to attend.”

  Dolfan leaned back on his hands and watched Dielel saunter back up the staircase. His spine pointed straight to the Shroud, and didn’t so much as waver as he climbed. “Did he grow a few inches? Or is it just me?”

  “Haftan,” Mof grunted and stood. “Haftan is king now. Dielel’s going to be worse than you to live with.”

  “Huh. Funny.” Dolfan stood. His body ached in more places than just his shredded knees. His back cracked and complained and at least a dozen bruises promised more pain in a few hours. Stupid. He tried to hold himself upright and managed a sideways hunch. Childish stupidity. But in fact, he felt a good deal better. Judging from Mofitan’s grin, the feeling was mutual.

  “It’s not treason,” he said.

  “Okay, Mof. Just leave me out of it.”

  “Fine. Whatever.” Mofitan headed for the stairs, limping, and holding an arm tight across his ribs. He stopped two paces up and turned over one shoulder. “I always thought, eventually, you’d find something you gave a shit about enough to fight for.”

  Dolfan felt the heat in his face. He let a growl rumble in his throat, but didn’t move from the spot. Mofitan’s taunt burned hotter than the impression of his princely ring embedded between Dolfan’s shoulder blades. He tilted his head back and snarled at the heavy sky.

  Haftan didn’t knock, but then, why would he? Vashia jumped when the door opened. The music stopped, and Tondil looked casually toward the entrance. His flute lay in his hands, and the last notes of the song floated around the room for moments more.

  Peryl’s soft laugh broke the tension. Tondil turned a grin back to her and started the tune again.

  “I hate to intrude,” Haftan spoke from just inside the door, “but we’ve been summoned to Council.” Tondril might have missed his scowl, but Vashia didn’t. Haftan pulled his frame to its full height and sniffed. “There is a coronation to plan.”

  “Of course.” Tondil winked at Vashia, stood up, and held out the flute. “Practice this,” he said. “And we can both play next time.”

  “I only learned strings,” Vashia admitted, shrugging. The instruments she’d studied on Eclipsis would be alien things here.

  He shook his head, brows down and lips together. “I’ll find you something, then.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled.

  Tondil turned to face Haftan. Her husband. The future king spun back to the door and marched through it without sparing her another glance. Tondil followed, and Peryl shadowed him. He turned at the door, grinned at her, and raised a hand in a very sweet wave before leaving.

  The door shut them all out, and with them the static background. The room settled into normal space again. Vashia’s head felt the sudden absence. It echoed, that lack of humming. The silence of it possessed the room and circled her like a dark, waiting, bird.

  Her shoulders ached. She let them go slack and leaned back against the silk cushion. The high ceiling glowed and reflected the patterns of the Shroud outside. Pink, cream, orange danced across the vaults. Good acoustic ceilings. No wonder Tondil came to play.

  She wondered where Tarren had gone next, if Murrel would find her fairy tale and if she’d pretend it was as fantastic as the stories claimed. Thinking of them pressed a weight back around her head. Her eyes closed and she felt the first waves of both sleep and loneliness. Tondil and Peryl would be fun and she enjoyed the playing, but she already missed the sound of Murrel snoring. There would be no late night whispered conversations here. Not with the king sleeping in the anteroom.

  The king would require an heir eventually. Of course he would. Offspring. She’d signed the contract willingly, and she’d expected nothing more than this. She’d actually expected far worse—at first. She’d be queen here. Queen. The thought only made the tears come faster. She let them now, with no one to witness. They slid in little rivers down her cheeks, sparkling like gems in the blush light.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  SYRADAN WATCHED THEM ALL ENTER. He sat below the thrones and kept his eyes on the hall doors. Shayd drifted in on his heels. He pressed himself into a corner as usual and said nothing. The new Seer. Syr
adan wished the idiot well. In fact, Shayd had already made himself comfortable in the Temple, if the mess along his counters—not Syradan’s counters anymore—could be relied upon as evidence. Syradan would be expected to retire immediately after the coronation, but he’d let the young fool start early. It would hardly matter.

  Haftan came next, marching like he already owned the throne and leading the snickering duo of Tondil and the current king’s son, Peryl. The boy was a waste of space, and worse—if his secret glances toward Tondil were any indication. Pelinol’s line should have chosen another candidate, but then, they’d expected Peryl to take the throne. The last four kings had carried that line in their veins.

  By that reasoning, Haftan should be Seer, but the man had no ability whatsoever that Syradan could see. Though they shared a line, Haftan would never have taken the Seer’s mantle. The obvious choice there had always been the silent Shayd whose line had only infrequently shown the gifts and, until Shayd, had only had one other Seer in their history.

  Haftan greeted Syradan with a nod and a twitch of his lips. He took a chair facing the thrones and sat stock still in it. Dielel proved oddly absent from Haftan’s shadow, but Syradan had little time to wonder over it. Pelinol had arrived as well. His eyes flicked toward the throne, and Syradan wondered if now, finally, the man had given a thought to his own future. Had Pelinol seen the useless waste of time the rest of his life had to offer? But then, Pelinol had Lucha to fritter the years away with. He had his Heart bond. He hadn’t the ego to feel slighted by retirement, and he’d leave willingly.

  In perfect character, the king cracked a smile and joined them, patting Haftan on the shoulder and taking a chair on their level below the dais, amongst them now. Also within character, Pelinol broke the silence.

  “How fares your new bride, Haftan?”

  Haftan started and darted a look toward Syradan before answering. “She seems to be settling in well.”