Shrouded: Heartstone Book One

by Frances Pauli

  “Jarn,” Kovath spoke far louder than necessary. “Finally. I trust from your extended absence that the traitor’s information was accurate?”

  “It was.”

  “Fantastic.” Kovath’s beady eyes glinted. He turned his back on Jarn and faced the mercs. “Prepare to move out!”

  “Kovath?” Jarn felt his cheek twitch and bit down hard against it. He tasted his own blood.

  “What is it?” The governor turned at an intentionally slow pace. “Did you need something, Jarn?”

  “The coronation is not for three days,” he spoke through his teeth. “Syradan will not be prepared for our arrival any earlier.”

  “On the contrary.” Now Kovath smiled wider. “He’s quite anxious for his escape clause, Jarn. The man is jumpy, if you ask me. One little murder and he’s twitching like a gutter lizard.”

  “You’ve been in contact with Syradan?” He ignored the clench of his stomach. Kovath couldn’t be bluffing if he knew about the murder, and if he knew about Vashia’s death, why did he still grin at Jarn like a mad man?

  “Numerous times,” Kovath said. “He was more than eager to up the timetable, Jarn. More eager than he was to follow your orders, if I may. Still, a prince’s death serves MY purpose far more than Vashia’s could.”

  “A prince’s death?” Now his skin went cold. Kovath knew about Vashia, and he seemed to think the little brat still lived. If Syradan had betrayed him, if the Seer handed Kovath a daughter who was queen, Jarn could only hope to run. Run and pray.

  “Yes, Jarn.” Kovath took a step closer. “In what future you may still have, I should hope you’d involve me in any decisions concerning my child’s assassination.”

  “Of course, sir. I—”

  “You felt allowing Vashia to take the throne put you in a less favorable position,” Kovath said. He tugged on his glove and shrugged. “You were right, of course. Thank god Syradan has more self-preservation than loyalty. Thank god the man acted to his own advantage, or I might have been very disappointed in you.”

  Jarn watched the governor work his way between the bodies of the Shrouded security to shout commands at the invading force. He worked his brain harder and faster than he’d ever had to. When the mercenary at his side failed to walk away, he spoke to the man as quietly as he could. “Still with me, Evan?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” He stood tall and nodded. “You get a chance, any chance to take that man out, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It was a thin thread—Jarn and one guard against Kovath and the army—but at least for the moment, he lived. If he could manage to deprive the governor of that same luxury, he would, and if he ever got a hold of his traitor contact again, no one would be able to help Syradan.

  The trip through the Shroud passed in a flutter. Her arms clung to Dolfan’s waist as the bike rocketed over the dusty core. She hadn’t had enough time. The horror of the fallen base effectively killed their moment, but she’d only been able to tell him a fraction of what he needed to know about Jarn while he filled their packs and the bike’s storage compartment.

  The bike bounced on the magnetic lane, shimmying and nearly ramming the probes that could barely keep ahead of it. Vashia chewed her lip inside the face mask and cursed her own stupidity. They’d herded her again, and she’d opened a door for them to invade Shroud. If they couldn’t stop it in time, she’d have infected the entire planet with the Eclipsan disease that was her father’s regime.

  My father, my fault. When the Kingmaker destroyed everything the Shrouded held dear, how would they look on her then? How would Dolfan? Vashia watched the haze fly by and prayed to all of it, the Heart, the Shroud, the whole damned planet that they could stop whatever Jarn and Kovath planned next.

  They raced over the canyon lip and dropped, quick as a stone, down the wall before the artificial road caught them. The bike shot forward, and she saw only a blur of the atmospheric emitters and the safety platform before they’d left both behind. She clung to him, buried her face in the whipping black hair and savored what it felt like to be so close. Just in case it never happened again.

  The Palace hover pad was deserted. Both flags flying over the plaza declared an all clear, but she still replaced her face mask with the tube breather while Dolfan stowed the bike and clamped it down. He had his on too, she noted, when he returned. One of his arms found her waist, and she welcomed the rush of relief, a small sign that he hadn’t yet blamed her, and hurried her steps alongside his.

  They took the stairway together, crossed the plaza stride for stride and leapt up the stairs to the Palace entrance. Only when they passed the threshold and the static of the other princes howled from the open throne room did his arm drop away. She could see the Heart, dark and lifeless through the entry, a cold reminder that for the moment she belonged to someone else.

  No matter. The Heart could call her whatever it liked. No contract could bind her to Haftan any longer. She set her shoulders. For now, they had bigger issues. They needed to warn Pelinol, to rouse the Shrouded defenses and prepare for the worst scenario possible.

  Vashia marched behind Dolfan into the throne room certain of so many things. The last thing she expected was to have the entire Shrouded Council waiting, to see Pelinol and Lucha sagging in their thrones above the princes, to see the Security officers standing just inside the entrance. For a second, she assumed they’d found out about the moon. She assumed they’d intercepted Nerala’s message too, that the Shrouded already had defenses in place and at the ready. She even breathed with relief.

  Then all eyes turned to them. Dolfan stopped walking. She saw him reach for a chair, for support, and her concern blossomed. She pushed forward, dodged his elbow and leaned to see what he had, to know what stopped him dead in his tracks. She should have known about assumptions. Her hopes always shredded in their wake.

  On the floor, surrounded by princes, lay Tondil. Peryl slumped over him, shaking. Vashia didn’t understand, not fully, not until Peryl looked up. His eyes bore into hers, red, wet, and horrid. She took a step back. He hissed, an inhuman sound between his teeth, and raised one arm to point at her.

  “You,” said Peryl softly, but even the static of the Heart stepped aside to allow his voice to echo through the mammoth room. “You killed him.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  THE SHOUTING DROWNED out Vashia’s protests. Dolfan stared at Tondil’s body, at the one person no one could possibly have disliked enough to kill, and tried to sort it out. How? Who? It all bounced back and forth between Peryl’s sobs, Syradan’s pleas, and the king’s calls for order.

  Vashia hadn’t done it. Peryl’s accusation aside, she’d been with him the entire time. He saw it on her face besides, the horror in her eyes, the terror. She shook her head and backed a step further from the scene. He didn’t miss the Security standing in the doorway, but he had enough faith in her innocence not to worry.

  “Why?” Peryl sobbed again and crumpled over Tondil’s still torso. “Why would you?”

  “I didn’t. I couldn’t have,” Vashia pleaded with him. Peryl shouldn’t even have suggested it. Weren’t he and Tondil only days earlier looking after her welfare? Why would she harm her most staunch supporters?

  “She’s been with me this whole time.” Peryl’s head snapped in Dolfan’s direction, but Haftan spoke before Peryl could utter a response.

  “The lute was poisoned,” he said, as if that made a damn bit of sense.

  “What lute?” Dolfan stepped closer to Vashia, realized how that looked and didn’t care. How could Haftan stand there and not defend her? It only proved what he already knew.

  “Vashia asked Tondil to tune it. They found poison on the strings, chemicals that matched the ones from her recovery room.”

  “That’s a lie,” Vashia defended herself. “I never asked him to do anything.”

  The silence after her speech could have smothered worlds. Vashia wouldn’t understa
nd why. She couldn’t know that no bonded had ever accused their mate of anything. The entire room now chewed on the biggest piece of blasphemy in the history of the Heart. Her eyes darted to Dolfan’s, scared and seeking answers.

  “The Heart made a mistake,” Dolfan declared. “Haftan hasn’t bonded—”

  “Liar!” Haftan jumped at him. “The Heart gave the Kingmaker to me.” Haftan’s face flamed red and his lip curled into a snarl. He came forward, arms lifting, as Dolfan put his body in front of Vashia’s. He raised his fists as well.

  “Stop!” Pelinol bellowed and stood up. Haftan paused, but his feet shifted and there was murder in his eye. The king’s command wouldn’t hold him for long.

  “The Kingmaker belongs to me,” he spat.

  Dolfan opened his mouth to argue, but another voice interjected. It carried through the room as if amplified, though the man speaking made no effort, hardly even moved his mouth.

  “She’s not the Kingmaker.” Shayd’s eyes drilled into Dolfan’s. He’d said it before, too, he and Mofitan both. Now he settled back against the wall and looked back to Tondil’s immobile form, as if he’d settled things.

  “Everyone stop!” Pelinol stamped a foot against the dais. “We’ll never sort this out at one another’s throats.” The king left his place on the throne to join them, followed closely by a harried looking Lucha.

  Syradan appeared at Dolfan’s elbow. The Seer tugged at his sleeve, dragging his attention away from Haftan and the battle at hand. Pelinol continued to holler from the other side of the room, but Syradan had Vashia by the arm and pulled him another step away from Haftan before whispering, “We should get her out of here, before they get ugly.”

  “I didn’t do it.” Vashia’s voice sounded so small, Dolfan felt like hugging her.

  “I can take her to the Temple,” Syradan continued. “She’ll be safe there while things calm down.”

  “I have to warn them about the moon.” Dolfan looked to Vashia instead of the Seer, tried to reassure her with the glance. They’d fix this, somehow, but she’d be safer with Syradan, and he had to stay here if they wanted any chance at coming out on top.

  “What about the moon?” Syradan’s voice cracked.

  “The Eclipsan government has taken control of Base 14.”

  “What’s that?” Haftan moved in again. He pushed them back another step toward the doors. Everyone else had eyes on them as well.

  Dolfan kept half his attention on Vashia and the other on Haftan’s approach.

  “Her father has taken the moon?” Syradan asked. “Kovath has come here?”

  “What?” Dolfan saw Vashia’s face fall. She’d left that bit out earlier, but he hadn’t given her much time to explain. “Your father?”

  “What’s this about?” Haftan demanded. “What are you saying?”

  “I have to warn them.” He tried to catch her eye before turning, but she stared at the floor and refused to look up. He pushed Syradan back, got between them and the mob again and growled, “Get her to the temple.”

  Syradan could get past the guards. He could keep her safe. Right now, Dolfan had to get the rest of the men to calm down long enough to warn them. He faced off with Haftan and cringed. How could he convince any of them like this? They were enraged, confused, and he had to explain that the father of the woman they had just accused of murder had committed an act of war against them. Convincing them she was innocent might prove impossible after that.

  Syradan talked the guards at the door into letting them leave. No one moved to stop him, even though they all thought she’d killed Tondil, even though they all looked at her with hate in their eyes. She didn’t understand how Syradan knew who her father was, but he’d dropped the bomb in front of Dolfan, and she’d seen the damage explode across Dolfan’s face. She should have told him, should have made him slow down and listen.

  He’d never believe her now. How could he, when her father had overtaken his beloved moon base? What was the penalty on Shroud for killing a prince? A Council member? A friend? She tried not to imagine Tondil’s face, dark and empty on the throne room tiles. Of all of them, he should have been animate, laughing and full of music. Why Tondil? What kind of monster could snuff out that bright of a life?

  She let Syradan guide her down the Palace steps, putting on her breather as she did so. He led her across the plaza to the head of the steps and supported her at the elbow when they started down. They’d nearly reached the bottom before she realized they hadn’t gone to the Temple. Syradan had led her directly to the hover pads.

  “Where are you taking me?” She planted her feet as the Seer pulled at her arm from a lower step. “Syradan, Dolfan said to go to the Temple.”

  “It’s not safe.” He pulled harder, with more strength than his age would suggest, and Vashia stumbled down a step to stand beside him.

  She braced her feet and shook her head. “Where are we going?”

  “Well,” he said, looking out over the canyon and squinting. “I’m getting off this planet, out from under the Shroud, and as far away from them as possible.”

  His finger stabbed at the horizon as she turned to look. The heavy silhouettes in the distance, familiar and completely out of context, turned her blood cold. More than a dozen ships slid over the crater. Vashia tried to shake off Syradan’s grip. She kept her eyes on the horror drifting toward them just below the Shroud.

  “Those are transports.” As she said it, the nearest vehicle dropped a stipple of black shapes from one side. She saw the chutes open, and recognized the tactic immediately. “Mercenaries. My god. We have to warn them.”

  “Warn them?” Syradan’s tone shifted. A warning alarm rang in the back of Vahia’s mind. Her eyes refused to budge from the invasion unfolding as the rest of the transports began raining mercenaries over the valley.

  “Syradan!” She pulled again, but his grip had turned to iron. They didn’t have time to argue. There had been no warning from the rim, and the Palace would be completely unprepared. The prick against her arm came from nowhere. Pain, sharp and cold, tore her eyes from the invasion and brought her attention screeching back to the madman holding her arm in a vice-grip. “What have you done?”

  He stretched his lips wide and sneered at her. His whole face shifting, turning into a Shrouded version of the sort of man she knew far too well, the men her father surrounded himself with. “I’ve bought myself a ticket out,” he said. “I’m leaving, and you, my dear—”

  Vashia’s legs buckled. She fell again, this time into a crumple at Syradan’s side. His arm still clung to hers, lifting her torso and preventing a second knock to the head. His face loomed over her, blurry and fading in and out. He looked like someone else from that angle. He looked like Jarn. His mouth twisted and he dragged her painfully down the last few steps.

  “You,” he said. She hung limp in his grasp. Her body refused to fight him, refused to answer her brain’s commands at all. He laughed and shook his head. “I have no idea where you are going.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  MOFITAN WOULDN’T STOP SHOUTING. The king, the real king, tried to regain order, but Pelinol was grossly outnumbered. He ended up holding a sobbing Lucha and watching the insanity unfold along with the rest of them.

  There were too many questions. Dolfan’s announcement about the moon had earned him three seconds of stunned silence, three seconds to stare at Tondil’s still form and at Peryl beside himself with grief. He tried to sort out a million warring thoughts in those three seconds. Then they exploded again.

  “The Heart was wrong!” Mofitan hollered, joining with Dolfan in his blasphemy.

  “You’re mad!” Haftan countered. He stood like a board above Tondil and clung to his future throne with vulture’s claws. “The Heart is never wrong.”

  “Perhaps we should be focusing on Dolfan’s news,” Pelinol tried again. He’d waved madly at the officers inside the door, and now both men flanked him. One held a comm device to his ear, shaking his head repeatedly
at the other. “What? What is it?” The king turned to them, leaned in and listened to what the man whispered.

  Dolfan’s world tilted to one side. He saw them all from a distance, as if for the first time. They were terrified, angry, unorganized, and completely vulnerable. None of them would listen to him. They didn’t know how. When one of the guards sprinted for the doors, he followed. He backed down the throne room’s wide aisle. He passed close to the Heart, the dark stone that had deceived them all—him perhaps more than anyone—and he wondered if he’d ever step foot in that room again.

  Only when he stood on the threshold, when he turned to face the exit across the foyer, did he notice Dielel. Haftan’s shadow slunk against the throne room wall, working his way toward the exit in a more subtle route. Dielel’s eyes darted around the room, and he pressed his spine tight against the wall, sliding along it. Before Dolfan could react, Shayd stepped up on Dielel’s left. The silent prince crossed his arms and stopped Dielel’s journey with one pointed look.

  Fine. Let Shayd deal with domestic issues. He could see the security officer on the plaza, and the man hadn’t slowed his pace. He’d be at the stairs in four strides, and Dolfan intended to get there in time to join him. He lunged through the exit, took a step across the foyer and was yanked back by a heavy hand at his shoulder.

  “Where are you running to?” Mofitan growled by his ear.

  “That guard heard something,” he said. “He’s got a comm.” Dolfan pulled away and took another step toward the exit. He heard Mof follow, heard the heavy footsteps and felt the floor vibrate under his boots. More than simply Mofitan’s stomping had to have caused that flutter.

  “Did you feel that?”