“I need to talk to you,” the prince whispered.
Syradan’s chest fluttered. He shrugged and walked back to join the man. He forced his voice to obey his control, despite the rage of sudden nerves. “What can I do for you, Tondil?”
“There’s something wrong with our new queen.” Still, the prince’s eyes fixed on the lute’s strings. He didn’t make eye contact, nor did he raise his voice above a conspiratorial level. “Something’s not right.”
“I should think so, young man. The poor girl inhaled half the Shroud.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.” He set the instrument down on the pot hard enough for the wood to complain. “There’s always been something wrong. Now the doctor says she’s not fighting like she should be. He says she’s lackluster and weak.”
“The toxins were very high.”
“Damn the toxins.” Tondil stood up so abruptly Syradan had to clench his muscles to avoid flinching from the younger man. “It’s something else, something about the Heart and Haftan. They’re not right. They’ve never been right. Have they?”
This time he stared directly at Syradan. His eyes didn’t exactly accuse, but they pinned him just the same, sharp and measured and far more knowing than he should have been.
“I’m not sure. I don’t know what could be wrong.” He stammered, aware as he did it and unable at this point to rein in his growing panic. This one, of them all, this whimsical idiot had ferreted out the truth? His mind flipped and sorted through the possible options left him.
“But you can find out,” Tondil said. “You can look, or see, or do something. You’d be able to tell if the Heart was wrong, wouldn’t you?”
“The Heart is never wrong.” It was a pathetic, last ditch effort, but Tondil waved it off without hesitation. His faith in the stone had never been what it should have.
“But something is wrong.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with me.” He tripped up and let his words turn defensive. He scrambled to cover the lapse. “I’m not certain how I could help.”
“You’re the Seer.” Tondil began to pace, he turned his gaze on the carpet and gave Syradan a moment to compose himself. He made a tent of his hands and pressed them under his chin. Bloody lines crisscrossed each delicate fingertip. The lute had been unkind to Tondil.
Syradan narrowed his eyes. “Only for a few more days. Perhaps Shayd could—”
“I don’t think Vashia has that much time.”
“Right. Well, if you think it would help, I might be able to do a reading.”
“A reading. Good.” Tondil stopped pacing. “That might tell us something?”
“Of course.” Syradan relaxed. The young prince would be satisfied with a reading. Tondil hadn’t suspected anything more than a failure of the crystal he’d already doubted. “I can do it this afternoon, just as soon as I deliver a message.”
“To the moon base?”
A shot of nerves returned. “No, to Pelinol. Why?” He reminded himself that it had been Tondil who caught him outside the hover comm station.
“Communications are down. The storm is messing with signals.”
“Right.” He let the tension drain from his shoulders, took a breath and exhaled a little more of it. He needed to relax. The plan had gone smoothly enough, and he had no reason to be so jumpy. He smiled at the prince and nodded, then turned for the door.
“Do you think it was someone on the inside?” Tondil’s question froze him in place. He didn’t turn back, didn’t trust his expression to obey.
“Excuse me?” He held his breath.
“The one who messed with the Heart ceremony,” the prince, the crafty, far too sharp for his own good prince, continued. “Do you think it could have been one of us?”
“No.” Syradan’s heart stuttered. He pressed his lips tight and bit divots in his palms with his nails. “What makes you think someone messed with the ceremony?”
“How else could the Heart make a mistake?”
“How else?” Stupid. The man’s faith ran deeper than he let on. He might have known. All the Shrouded learned it from birth. The Heart does not make mistakes. “Of course.” He didn’t wait for a response, but stepped sharply through the temple doors and marched forward onto the plaza. It took him five steps to remember to fit his breather. Damn.
The Heart might not make a mistake, but Tondil had. Syradan’s brain whirled as he took the steps up to the Palace. He’d have to alter Jarn’s directive. The man wouldn’t like it, but if Tondil’s overzealous brain sorted anything else out, they’d lose everything. What was one small murder when compared to that?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
DOLFAN WAITED WITH THE OTHERS. He paced and sat alternately and stared holes in the door while they waited. No one came out of the room. No one told him anything. Haftan was with her. Haftan knew what the hell was going on, and no one else mattered.
Across the waiting room, Lucha whispered to Pelinol. Shayd came and went at intervals, while Peryl sat beside his mother, ashen and staring at his own hands. Dielel sulked in a corner, and both Mofitan and Tondil had left after the doctor’s first report. He could only imagine they went to see to other business. Other business meant absolutely shit to him at the moment.
“Should we ask the doctor to update us?” Lucha wondered. “Pelinol, you could ask him?”
“I’m not going to knock.” The king shifted in his seat. “What if it’s not good in there?”
“You’d think Haftan would tell us something.”
Dolfan stood up and renewed his pacing efforts. He stamped to the end of the room beside his rulers, spun on a heel and stamped back. He nearly ran over Syradan. The Seer shuffled around the corner so rapidly they had to dodge one another.
“Sorry.” Dolfan leaned against the nearest wall.
“Your pardon.” Syradan dipped into an upright bow and asked the room: “How is she?”
“We don’t know!” Lucha moaned. “No one has come out in ages.”
“Well, then,” Syradan smoothed his wrap and stood taller. “I shall go in.”
“Oh do,” Lucha said. “But don’t you forget us out here too.”
“No, no.” Syradan looked around the room. His eyes landed on Dolfan, narrowing as if he’d only just noticed him.
“What?” Time ticked away and the Seer stood like a stone. Dolfan willed him to hurry, but the man just leaned closer.
“I’m sure Haftan could use a break,” he said finally. He stood up and looked back to Lucha. “A meal, a shower?”
The queen nodded. Dolfan was ready to throttle the lot of them. Shower? Meal? Meaningless words and stupidity that didn’t get that door open any faster. He nearly snarled aloud.
“I’ll take Dolfan in.” Syradan didn’t make eye contact, but Dolfan would have sworn the Seer had a reason for choosing him, that the man had seen something Dolfan hadn’t. “Until Haftan can rest and return.”
“Oh good,” The queen approved. “He can keep us appraised?”
Dumbstruck and with legs that took to trembling all of a sudden, Dolfan only nodded. He dodged Lucha’s smile and followed Syradan to the door. The Seer knocked, and the sound rang an intrusion through the somber room. No one had considered such a breech until that moment. Not with Vashia clinging to life on the other side.
The click of the mechanism echoed. The panel cracked and a sliver of the room glowed against the wall. He could see light, primarily light. Haftan’s face pressed close to the opening.
“Let me in.” Syradan commanded. “Dolfan and I will stay with her now.”
If he heard a muffled argument from the doctor, Haftan ignored it. His face washed with relief and he pushed the door wide, slid out like a man released from his own tomb and let them pass. Perhaps there was more to the Seer’s power than simple vision, or perhaps Haftan had been waiting desperately for an escape. Either way, they took his place easily. As the door shut again at their backs, Dolfan heard Lucha’s frantic whispers as
she grilled the prince on his bride’s welfare.
He forgot them. Haftan could fill them in. Dolfan forgot them all the instant he saw Vashia on the bed, still wired and tubed and machines pinging their frantic efforts at life support. He saw the doctor’s face, lined and exhausted, and his chest tightened.
He stepped to her bedside, faintly aware of the conversation between the other men in the room. Her eyes pressed closed, her skin glowed nearly translucent and the face mask fogged and drizzled moisture to her cheeks. Her chest lifted and fell beneath a tangle of tubing, wires and the straps that kept her pinned to the bed. Her hands rested against the bedrail.
“She’s not fighting.” The doctor sounded defeated. “She should be improving more rapidly.”
Dolfan pressed his fingers against her hand. He pushed his thumb inside the little fist and drew a circle on the soft palm. Vashia’s eyes opened. The static of the Heart, the hum that had told him she still lived, that had kept him from charging the door on his own, flared only slightly. What did he care? What did the Heart matter when Haftan could own her, when Mofitan and the others could feel it too? His fingers against hers throbbed with something far more significant.
He could see it, reflected back up from her eyes, and he damn sure wasn’t letting it stop her from surviving. Whatever the crystal believed wove between her and Haftan, it hadn’t done much to save her. He squeezed her fingers and stared through the face mask, willing the woman to live. Syradan had seen something outside. He’d brought Dolfan in for a reason. Maybe, when she’d recovered, the Seer could sort out what had to be a mistake. Maybe Syradan could help them. There had to be a way.
He watched Vashia’s eyes widen and let his mouth curl at the corners. Fight. Live. Her hand felt warm in his. Her pulse beat against his wrist, soft, but steady. A tear slid over her cheek, got lost in the filter and cleaned away, but her eyes returned his smile. She squeezed his fingers—quick, hidden—but without mistake.
Maybe Syradan could help them. Dolfan watched the man as he moved to other side of the bed. The Seer held a great deal of sway in Shrouded law. While he couldn’t cross the Heart outright—and why would there ever have been a need—there had to be something he could do, some way he could uncover the biggest mistake in Shrouded history.
For the moment, it only mattered that Vashia lived. Before he placed their future in Syradan’s hands, he needed to know they had one. The Seer peered down at Vashia and smiled. He turned to Dolfan and nodded, looking deep again, seeing more than anyone else could. He checked her tubes and examined the face mask as if checking the doctor’s work.
When she recovered fully, when her face had some color to match the smile, he’d convince Syradan to help them.
Kovath’s ship hovered over the landing bay like a vulture. The nose even dipped forward a touch, pecking at nothing, before the pilot set the craft down level and secure on the pad. Jarn waited with his mercs. He watched the hatch open, and sent a guard to the ramp to escort the governor across the bay. He’d already come to think of Base 14 as his moon base. Treating the governor like a distinguished guest would only help to cement that impression.
Kovath glowered at the merc and looked about immediately for his aide. When he found Jarn standing at a distance, surrounded by his entourage, the governor’s scowl deepened. Jarn kept his face still, silently pleased. It wouldn’t do to push Kovath too far, not when he still needed the man’s favor, and still needed his money.
He let the governor approach without making a move forward. When Kovath stopped, however, Jarn offered him a deep bow. “Governor Kovath,” he said. “Welcome.” Welcome to my Moon Base.
“Jarn.” Kovath stroked his mustache and looked around. “I see you have things here well in hand. Good. You’ve served me well, yet again.”
Jarn inclined his head. He felt the muscle in his jaw twitch and knew Kovath saw it, saw how much his statement rankled, and enjoyed it.
“So, Jarn. I’d like to see my new acquisition. You may give me a tour first and report on our status as we walk.”
“Of course, Governor.” He didn’t miss the smile under Kovath’s hairy face, nor did he miss the mercs exchange glances. In less than thirty seconds, Kovath had established his dominance, and he’d done it in front of them for a reason. His money paid for the mercenary presence, and Jarn couldn’t forget it for a second. “Shall we start in the atrium?”
“No. I couldn't care less about the bloody women, Jarn.” Kovath snarled and took a step toward the cargo tunnel. “I want to see the trade goods coming off of this rock. You’ll remember assuring me that they would make the operation worthwhile, I’m sure.”
“Yes.” Jarn had to bite back his natural snappishness. He’d been away from the governor long enough to relax into his own ego. Now he reined it back in for the time being and followed half a pace behind the man. “I’m certain you’ll agree.”
“Good. What is the situation with the traders?”
“They’ve been a bit noisy, but we’ve kept them in line, Sir.”
“In line? Damn it, Jarn. These are the men we want to do business with. What good is a planet of riches without some idiots to buy the stuff?”
“Sir, I—”
“Don’t flap your jaw at me.” Kovath stopped walking. He smoothed his jacket and stood taller, stiffening his spine and adding at least an inch to his height. “Get them together and let me sort it out.” He raised his voice enough to include the mercs to either side of them, possibly to echo down the whole damned tunnel. “You may think you’ve little need for me anymore, Jarn, but I have a few skills of use yet. Don’t think you can replace a planetary governor with a few underhanded moves and a passel of mercenaries that he is paying for.”
“I never would, Sir.” Jarn employed the bow again. Damn it. He’d stirred more than just suspicion in Kovath. The bastard had turned defensive on him.
“Right.”
Despite his little speech, Kovath didn’t wait for Jarn to gather the traders or to do anything else for that matter. He paraded into the cargo stores two quick steps ahead of them, threw his arms wide and hollered, “Gentlemen!” at the top of his voice.
The traders, gathered into small, mutinous groups, all froze and gawked at Kovath. A few of the females snarled in their native languages, but the governor continued so quickly that none of them had time to do much more than stare.
“Who wants to increase their trade access?” Kovath didn’t even flinch when they all started talking at once. He waited ten seconds, tossed Jarn a look over his shoulder and then raised both his arms. The traders shut up. Just like that. “I assume that is a yes?”
The satisfaction in the man’s voice reeked, but the traders didn’t seem to care. They hung on his next word. Kovath spoke their language. He’d had found the one cookie they all wanted. Jarn knew it, had meant to exploit it eventually, but the governor had beat him to the punch.
One of the Samais trade ambassadors spoke up first. He stood and flexed his dorsal appendages. “Who are you to offer it?” His voice trembled even more than was natural.
“Governor Kovath of Eclipsis,” Kovath announced. “Currently in charge of this moon base, and very soon of the planet below. And gentlemen, I think you’ll find I’m more than willing to re-negotiate your current contracts.”
Just like that, he had them. Jarn watched the ripple cross the group, watched their loyalties shift away from the Shrouded government they already resented. He’d underestimated Kovath. He saw it now. The man had skills that he’d kept hidden. He had ambitions too, perhaps, that he’d kept to himself. The way Kovath shifted the loyalties here, the ease with which he’d won the crowd could easily combine with sympathies over a lost daughter to earn the man far more than Jarn had ever suspected. Kovath might be looking for bigger prizes, maybe even a seat on the Galactic Council.
Jarn’s plans teetered in that moment, hinged on the death of one stupid girl who’d managed to get herself selected as queen. He bit the inside o
f his cheek and prayed Syradan could be quick. If Kovath ever found out his daughter had gone and bagged the Shrouded throne, he wouldn’t hesitate to seize the opportunity and use it for his own ends.
At that point, Jarn would be obsolete. Thankfully, he’d already set things in motion to remedy the situation. Syradan would follow his orders. The only person in the way of his future would be Kovath himself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
VASHIA SAT up and shook her head. She didn’t want the damned soup. She wanted out of the room. The poor attendant tried again, had orders no doubt, to keep her eating. Vashia bared her teeth and refused the offered spoon. “I said, no thank you.”
“The doctor said you should eat.” Haftan leaned against the far wall, rumpled and holding down the room’s only couch. He probably had orders as well. She couldn’t imagine him staying of his own volition. Still, he’d stayed, and she supposed she should be grateful for that.
Except Haftan here meant that Dolfan wasn’t. She waved the attendant away and lay back down. Not now, maybe, but whenever Syradan chased her husband out, then Dolfan would come. He’d stand like an anchor at her bed and say nothing, and that nothing had become her entire world. She breathed for it, she healed for it, and she even ate the damned soup for it.
“You really should eat.” Haftan said. He didn’t look up from his data pad. “The doctor seems to think you’ll be up and around soon.”
“I just had breakfast.”
“Hmm.” He tapped the keys noisily. “I should think you’d want to get out of that bed.”
“I do.”
They’d kept their conversations to niceties and directives. The four days since her injury had forced them into much more regular contact, and she suspected neither one of them knew what to do about it. Haftan had been civil, even courteous, if considerably distracted. She might actually have liked him under other circumstances.
Shrouded: Heartstone Book One Page 19