Shrouded: Heartstone Book One (4 page)

Dolfan could only intellectualize what it meant, could only imagine what the king and his queen felt. Standing in the presence of the two, with the Heart in full light, he justified his curiosity wholeheartedly. The stab of jealousy, however, was something altogether different.

S
he had
to keep the wig on though Sam gave her a less offensive outfit and a lift to the rendezvous point. The hover cab bounced more than the cars Vashia was accustomed to, but she was thankful for the cover and for Samra’s company. It allowed her to keep from dwelling on the mistake she was about to make.

She stared out the window while Sam talked. The cab bobbed ever closer to the Wraith spaceport, passing casino row and offering her a clear view of the governor’s estate elevated just enough above the capitol city to allow her father to watch from up high. Vashia caught sight of a patrol––three cars moving slowly enough to be looking for something––and had to grit her teeth against the urge to bolt. She reminded herself that Jarn couldn’t see through the cab’s walls, that he couldn’t sniff her out like some kind of bloodhound.

But they
were
looking. She sat back against the seat and tried to imagine how she’d get past the port scanners. Security would snag her for sure long before she’d have to worry about marrying anybody.

The buildings turned into warehouses, the huge corrugated hulks that housed cargo leaving and arriving on planet. Eclipsis had little to offer outside the gases and metals they stripped from its bowels, but it managed to do a fair trade in those. At least, it did enough to fund her father’s padded salary and make the hellhole a convenient place for anyone working in the shadier areas of legality to do business.

Vashia watched the ID numbers change and thought about Samra’s flier. The gaseous giant, Shroud, had come up once or twice around her father’s table. None of his guests ever managed to agree on anything about the planet or its inhabitants. However, the popular theory for years suggested that the colonial Shrouded lived in hover cities, hidden in the thick clouds of their atmosphere and never touching or needing solid ground.

A few of the more brazen traders refuted this. Long range scans eventually discovered the planet’s core and, over time, contact and minimal trade were established. But minimal was the key word. The Shrouded made it very clear that they weren’t interested in the outside. They maintained some contact, eventually opened the moon base to trade on a limited basis, but her father’s colleagues and, no doubt, her father as well believed that it was simply to keep the outside world’s curiosity at bay.

Total mystery is irresistible. Eventually someone would have tried to find an answer. As it was, the galaxy had to meet the Shrouded on their terms. That drove people like her father absolutely nuts. Vashia grinned. Maybe she’d get along just fine on the mystery planet after all. Then again, maybe she stared smack in the face of just another form of slavery. Maybe she’d lost her freaking mind.

She should stop the cab, tell Samra thanks but no thanks and head back to the estate. A voice in the back of her thoughts added:
And back to Jarn.

“That’s it.” Samra leaned forward and tapped the driver on the sleeve. “That’s the warehouse there.”

Vashia squinted at the call numbers while the hover drives quelled and the cab bobbled to a halt. She listened to the hydraulics as the door slid open. She stared at the building outside while Sam slid from the vehicle.

“I don’t know, Sam.” She shook her head. “What if this is worse than the alternative?”“Kiddo, I don’t want to scare you.” Samra turned her back on the warehouse and fixed Vashia with a level, dead-serious expression. “But Jarn’s no stranger in my quarter. Word has it the whores draw straws to see who gets to be off duty when he visits. Catch my drift?”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“At least this way there’s a chance you won’t get an evil S.O.B.”

“Right.”

“You could always go back to your dad, see if you can get him to see reason. Maybe he’ll change his mind if you talk—”

“No.” She shook her head and crawled out of the cab. “Not my father, Sam. He as good as sold me off.”

“I’m sorry, Kiddo. I wish there was a better option.”

“Thanks for everything, Sam.”

“Good luck.” Samra climbed back in the cab and favored Vashia with a sad smile before closing the door. The cab hummed back to power with a bump and then skimmed away to round the end of the next warehouse.

Vashia stood and listened until she couldn’t discern its engine from the hum of others in the distance. She waited until there was no more excuse to wait and then turned to face her destination. Samra had delivered her to a building that hid in the shadow of its larger neighbors. The corrugated sided bowed out, as if the weight of the material were too much for its design. Aside from the stenciled numbers painted along the front, it had no designation, no logo, nothing to indicate what might hide inside.

She took a step closer, then stopped and stared some more. The governor’s estate peeked over the roofline of the buildings so that she could just make out the left wing. Her room waited there. Her things, her history, and a future full of Jarn. Vashia looked away and marched forward, only hesitating at the door for the span of a breath before ducking inside.

She smelled the body odor long before her eyes adjusted to the lack of light. A single, incandescent lamp glowed from a desk made out of old shipping crates. The solitary woman sitting behind it couldn’t possibly be responsible for the stench that had Vashia’s eyes watering within seconds. She suspected it came from beyond the next door. Her feet already turned, moving to take her back out of the shed as fast as they could.

“Can I help you?” The woman smiled and tilted her head to the side. “With anything?”

“No. I think I made a mistake.” Vashia reached for the handle. She heard the whine of a vehicle from the other side and felt her chest squeeze. What if they found her here of all places? God, what had she been thinking?

“It’s just the prescreening,” the secretary told her retreating back. “The smell, I mean. Most of them don’t pass.”

“What?” Vashia spun and faced her again.

“Most of the candidates don’t pass the screening. You look all right, you know. I thought maybe the smell. Well, it’s the biggest space we could get, and there are a lot of them in there.”

“Oh.” What else could she say?

“If you stay,” The woman reached under the crate desk and pulled out a disposable data pad. “You don’t have to sign anything until after you pass.”

“Pass the screening?” Vashia stepped closer. She might not pass anyway. What would it hurt to go that far? Aside from the odor, the warehouse was as fine a place to hide as any. She could do screening, get her head together. Maybe she wouldn’t pass. “Okay.”

“Here are your forms.” The woman kept talking. “Just follow through the door there and they’ll call the number—this one.” She pointed to the top of the screen where a long red number had been stamped. “When it’s your turn.”

“Sure. Thanks.” How many applicants could there be? Vashia smiled and took the device. She didn’t look at it, just tucked it under her arm and followed the secretary’s direction on autopilot. She crossed to the inner door, opened it and took her first step into the unknown.

S
yradan took
another vial down from the shelf. He squinted at the contents, sloshed them in a slow circle and frowned. He didn’t need to look. He could have grabbed the correct ingredients in total darkness. Still, he scanned the labels. The rituals dulled his sense of time. He’d manifested patterns to drive away the boredom. He snagged another candidate and then turned at the sound of soft steps entering his workroom.

“Who’s there?”

The shadow in his doorway dipped into a bow. “It’s me.”

“Well, come in quickly before you’re seen.” He waved the man closer and squinted at the latest vial. No one need know just how adept he could be, just how quickly he could snag his herb of choice, curative or poison. Syradan sniffed at it and nodded. He addressed the prince without looking up. “What do you want?”

“You know what I want, Syradan.”

“Yes,” the Seer snarled at the shadow opposite his worktable, “and I’ve arranged it. The blessing is done. The stage is set. So why do I find you lingering here, where anyone might see you come or go?”

“I—” the prince stammered, but he didn’t retreat one step despite Syradan’s tone. This one was very determined. It could prove to be a serious problem. “I need to be certain this will work.”

“It has worked. The Kingmaker is already on the path here.”

“And?” He made an accusation of it. Syradan might have struck him then, if he hadn’t needed the man, if his own future didn’t depend so much on their plan’s success.

“And you and I will choose who is king,” he said. “The Heart will respond regardless.”

“Regardless.”

“You doubt me?” Syradan ground his teeth together. The king, the rightful king, had never doubted him. This young idiot could use a lesson in humility, but it would not be Syradan’s place to give it. When the old king stepped down, his term as Seer would end and some other, younger man would take
his
place as well. He’d be forced to leave his sanctuary, to abandon his work and live outside of the scent of smoke and power. He shuddered, and made no effort to hide it.

“No. Of course not.” The prince lied. His presence here proved otherwise.

“Good.” Syradan stepped closer to his table and eyed the symbols he’d drawn on the current parchment. “There’s no need to doubt. My destiny relies as much as yours on the outcome of this Heart choice.”

That was no lie. He’d broken the oldest law on Shroud. He’d defied the Heart. He’d conspired with an outsider, but he had
seen
his own future after Pelinol stepped down, and he hadn’t cared for it. This particular passing of the rule had widespread repercussions. If the Heart were allowed to choose its king freely, their whole culture could be at risk. He’d seen so many changes, pivotal changes. If the crystal was left to its natural devices, nothing on Shroud would ever be the same again.

Syradan had served his king faithfully, but he fully intended to retire with more than just a parting thank you. He’d earned a great deal more than simply growing old. “So I see no reason for you to linger, or to darken my workshop door again. You take risks I would rather you didn’t.”

“Your pardon,
Seer
.”

“Yes,
prince
, I still hold that title. While I do, it would be best to remember your place.” He waited for the man to leave, listened to the clip of footsteps fade to silence and then leaned over his scrolls. The symbols he’d drawn matched those he’d seen in the smoke. They spoke of success. Certain success, if his eyes could be trusted. Then again, his old eyes weren’t what they used to be.

W
hores filled the waiting room
. Vashia tired to keep her breathing shallow without obviously offending anyone. Sitting in a room surrounded by prostitutes made her nervous, but it also provided a little hope. At least the Shroud thing would be a step up from the brothels, if the applicants were to be believed. Either that or they were all in for a surprise.

They’d lined the warehouse with folding chairs and made an island of crates in the center. Vashia threaded her way between a maze of crossed legs, high heels, and a few stray tentacles to the only empty seat she could see, a square of crate farthest from the door she’d come through. She sat there avoiding eye contact and flicking through the questions programmed into her pad.

She answered with lies for the most part, as she assumed the others did. Who gave out their real name on Eclipsis? Only the things that could be verified by physical examination—which the document hinted might come next—she tried to keep as honest as possible. Species, age, height would be impossible to fake if they took anything more than a cursory glance at her.

Hell, all they had to do was scan her to get the whole story. Then, she figured, they’d hand her back over to Jarn’s men and the nightmare would continue. At this point, she wasn’t sure which option scared her more, pass or fail.

Every few minutes a second door opened, and a woman’s voice would call out the next series of numbers. Each time this occurred, every pair of eyes in the room dropped to a data pad, as if by the tenth or thirteenth time the number had not been etched in their memory forever. The holder of the lucky pad stood and shuffled between the assembled appendages to the back of the room, vanishing through the door and not returning. By the time Vashia had seen six prostitutes disappear, the ritual of it was beginning to creep her out.