Shrouded: Heartstone Book One (16 page)

V
ashia 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 exactly 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.”

M
of 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.

H
aftan 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.

S
yradan 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
. Syradan 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.”

“Good. Good. Lovely girl.”

Syradan let them natter on. His own focus danced between the princes already assembled and the door. He caught Dielel sneaking in, his chest puffed up and confident of his new status as king’s fool. Syradan snorted and watched him slinking. Dielel kept to the wall and worked his way around the length of the room to get at Haftan. As he slid into the chair nearest his idol, Mofitan appeared in the doorway.

Now that was interesting. Syradan sat taller and peered between the old and new kings. Mofitan limped in. He looked a bit like he’d been caught between hover cushions. His wraps hung loose enough for his sleeve to gap at the wrist, and his braid poked stray hairs at every stitch. Dolfan followed him in, in a worse state and barely upright.

Good. Let the two most dangerous princes focus their ire on one another. He preferred them to be distracted.

“She appreciates a good tune,” Tondil told Pelinol. “The new queen.”

Syradan caught Haftan’s snort and frowned. The look on his face, the derision, would have to be watched carefully. Haftan’s ambivalence to his bride could compromise his own rule should it become too obvious. The man most certainly knew that, and yet his scowl only deepened as they discussed the woman. Was he disappointed? Had he wanted the Heart more than Syradan had guessed?

In truth, the entire assembly sported various frowns and foul looks. Not the best foot for his new king to place forward. They needed to sweep past the moment, to get on with business before too much thinking sprouted behind those scowls.

“I believe we’re all here,” he said. “If one of your Highnesses cares to begin?”

There would be officer selection. The new Council needed structure even before the coronation. Its predecessors would be relieved of their tasks that very day. He would be relieved of his task. Haftan had his recommendations already. If he followed the advice, they’d have a chance of surviving the immediate future. If Haftan ignored his suggestions, well, Syradan had done what he could to save them. The future of Shroud would affect him little either way. Once he’d made his escape, what would it matter to him if Haftan fought to keep the planet sequestered or tossed the doors wide and let the galaxy in?

If Haftan kept in line, if he managed to play a believable role, then this coronation would seal more than the man’s place on the throne. Whatever the future brought upon the Shrouded, Syradan would not be there to see the repercussions. He had his promise from the outsider, his route off world, and all it had cost him was the key to his people’s undoing.

S
he’d fallen
asleep before Haftan returned. When she rose, he’d already departed again, but she found a heavy blanket folded neatly at the end of one couch and a square pillow tucked under it. Their table bore a tray of fruit, dried meat and breads, and a pitcher of some kind of juice.

Vashia sat, stared out at the Shroud and wondered if the food had been poisoned. Haftan despised her, she’d seen enough to figure that, but he did need her in the long run, at least for now. She picked up a star shaped pear and sniffed it. The door rattled under a soft knock, and she dropped the fruit.

Her breath caught and her chest pattered. She didn’t feel the static. Nothing hummed at the edge of her senses. She relaxed her spine and answered, “Come in.”

The queen entered. The former queen. Vashia tensed. This was the woman she’d be expected to replace, this smiling, statuesque monarch who waved her back into her seat and crossed the room with skipping, girlish steps. They’d introduced her the night before, but the blur of faces hadn’t latched onto any names, and as the woman dragged a chair away from the table to join her, Vashia had no idea what to call her.

“Good morning.” The queen smiled deeper, only the few lines in her face around the eyes giving away any hint of her age. She had blue eyes and long brown hair that hung in thick twists to either side of her face. Vashia had seen the style before, the smoky skin that spoke of her off-world heritage.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” she said.

“Lucha, please.”

Vashia enjoyed a wave of relief. She nodded and watched Lucha retrieve a piece of fruit.

“How is our new Highness this morning?” The woman eyed her sideways and popped the slice into her mouth. “Mmm. Delicious.”

“He left early,” Vashia answered.

“I meant you, my dear.”

“Oh.” She plucked the pear again and bit into it before she could say anything even stupider.

“I remember,” Lucha continued, and her eyes roved over Vashia’s face, “my first days here, you know. It hasn’t been
that
long. I remember how terrifying it was, and how exciting.”

She poured them each a cup of juice and pushed Vashia’s across to her.

“Thank you.”

“You’ll need your strength. I didn’t eat and spent a week far too close to fainting.”

“You came from off world?”

“We all do. I signed the contract, boarded a ship and flew straight for the unknown, just like all the other brides. Just like you.”

Vashia wanted to ask her why. She needed to know what drove the others, what had driven Lucha specifically to buy into the Shrouded scam. But the queen smiled amiably and sipped her juice. She just couldn’t bring herself to spoil it. Maybe she’d gotten lucky. Maybe
her
king had been the right man.

“It can be a little overwhelming, and of course, Haftan will be busier than normal the first few weeks.
My
predecessor vanished the second we took over, and I decided right then, that I’d never do that to you, dear. Even though, of course, I didn’t know who
you
were yet.”

Vashia stared at her and tried to make sense of it. She took a drink and nodded as if she understood completely. Her eyes drifted to the two women Lucha had brought with her. Were these brides who didn’t find a match? The servants waited just inside the door. One of them looked like the girl who’d trailed her and Haftan the night before. Did the Shrouded have so few attendants that the royals shared amongst themselves?

It seemed Lucha had been waiting anxiously for her. She probably wanted to get out of here as soon as she could, but instead she felt some sense of duty to Vashia.

“After my Heart ceremony, I barely had time to say hello to Pelinol before they whisked him away.” She sighed and blinked a few times at her fruit. “I felt so lost without him, even then when we’d only just met.”

“Really?” she blurted without thinking, but Lucha paid no notice.

“Really. They didn’t let us get to know one another properly for days.”

Vashia nodded. She’d taken it the wrong way entirely. Either the queen was well disciplined in her façade of marital bliss, or she and Pelinol had had a much different arrangement. Well, that was nice. At least one bride had found what she wanted under the Shroud.

“So, back to my job.” Lucha set her glass down and put both hands on the table, fingers folding into a tidy peak. “I’m going to keep you incredibly busy.”

Vashia laughed. She couldn’t rightly help it. Lucha made her task sound terribly important.

“Of course, I’ll be teaching you all of your duties as well.”

“Of course. Thank you.” At least she’d know what she was supposed to do.

“We’ll start right now, with the most important task for any queen.”

“And what would that be?” Vashia almost balked. A flare of mischief lurked behind Lucha’s eyes. She almost choked when the woman answered:

“Why, shopping, of course.”

D
olfan left
the throne room in slightly better spirits. Haftan gave him the moon. Mofitan glared at him on the way out, but they both took quickly to opposite directions. He could at least get the hell off-world. He’d have to wait until after the coronation, but at least he could leave the moment it ended.

Still, he had some free time and the voice in his head still chanted to get away, as far away as possible. He tucked his breather in and made for the stairway and the hover pads below. Each step reminded his aches that he was a stupid ass, but he endured the descent in silence.

One of the small transports already sat on the mag cushion. Dolfan could feel the static in his mind, and he wasn’t surprised to find the queen, both queens, and two of the Palace attendants on the other side of the vehicle preparing to board.

“Good morning, Dolfan.” Lucha beamed at him, but her face fell when she noticed the damage to his clothes, the dried blood showing through his pant legs. “Heavens. What happened to you?”

He stared past her. Vashia half hid behind the queen, but she peeked out enough to keep him in sight. Her wide eyes sparkled and pulled at his senses. What had he expected? Had he feared or hoped it would go away once the Heart had finished with them? He blinked and tried to answer, but he’d already forgotten what Lucha had asked.

“You look like you’ve had a fight,” she noted accusingly. He was taken aback. He shook his head, only partially looking at her.

“The stairs.”

“You fell?”

He nodded and noticed Vashia’s eyes widen. A forbidden emotion within him rejoiced in that look.

“Did the stairs also give you a black eye?”

“Yes. No.” He snapped back to present. “No. I’m afraid that was something else.”

“I see.”

“Your pardon.” He bowed low and still caught Vashia’s eyes following him.

“Hardly necessary,” Lucha said. “It’s your poor face.” She chuckled and shook her head at him. “We’re going shopping, Dolfan. Do you need transport somewhere?”

“No!” He let a flash of panic make his refusal too forceful. He saw Lucha’s brow rise. She stepped back and gave him a more critical look. Vashia frowned and dropped her eyes away. “I mean, that’s fine, but I planned on taking a bike.”

“Ah, boys.” His excuse worked on the queen, but Vashia didn’t look up again. “Well, then, have fun young prince and look more closely where you’re going, perhaps?”