Seen (Heartstone Book 2)

by Frances Pauli

  First, he had to see Dovali. The doctor's serum, the exploitation of Tchao's own abominable blood, must be ready before they met the wretched Uraru. He shoved down the taste of that now, the out-of-control feeling.

  "Set a course," he said. "I need to speak with the doctor."

  Tchao spun on his boot heel and marched from the bridge, but Prill caught up to him in the hallway, snapping to a salute and then falling in step at his side. “Commander, Tchao. A word, if you please?”

  “Make it quick, Prill.” He knew what the man wanted, and he had an answer ready. It didn’t mean he had to make things easy.

  “Just a quick question about the generator,” Prill cleared his throat, showed his nerves inadvertently. “The compartment in the center.”

  “What about it?”

  “I am curious what it’s for.”

  There. The man had summoned his nerve at last. Tchao let him enjoy it for a few steps, the sense of his own bravery. Then he waved one hand and dismissed the question as casually as he might swat a dustfly.

  “It’s for the remote.” He’d take the gamble here, give Prill part of the truth to keep his lies ringing on a sincere note. “Of course.”

  “The remote?”

  Tchao continued his march away from the bridge, as though it weren’t a question. Prill’s face squirmed as he digested the silence. He definitely had suspicions. Perhaps, then, it would be better to assign him to a different ship. Right now would look odd, but eventually, as soon as there was a way to do it that would look natural. Of course, it would be harder to keep an eye on him that way. Having him here was an irritation at best. Out of sight, what trouble might the man stir up?

  “What remote?”

  “The failsafe.” Tchao inhaled very dramatically. He’d practiced this bit, the condescension, the subtle pinch to his nose and soft shaking of the head. “Do you suppose, Mr. Prill, that our primitive cousins will open their arms and welcome us home immediately?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “And yet they have a serious problem that our generator can remedy.”

  “Which is why we’ve agreed to give it to them as a peace offering. Commander—”

  “Yes. And if it should malfunction in the meantime, Mr. Prill? Do you believe these Uraru would be capable of orchestrating repairs?”

  “Well. No, sir, I don’t suppose.”

  “No.” Tchao stopped abruptly. He smiled and waited as Prill stumbled ahead and then pulled up and swiveled around to attention again. “No, they won’t, but with a remote function, we will be able to help them…even if the negotiations are not well received. It will give us a second chance at earning their trust, Mr. Prill. I assume you are in accordance with that?”

  “Yes, sir!” Prill snapped an unnecessary salute. Good. It put things back the way they should be. It put him firmly back in command and without question.

  “Yes. Now, if there’s nothing else you take issue with?” Tchao made as if to continue, even took a step back toward Prill. He expected there was another thing. Something that had Mr. Prill looking for fault in his plan to begin with. Now was the chance to ferret it out, to do some suspecting of his own. He stepped up beside the man, continued one pace past him before Prill cleared his throat again.

  “There is one other thing.”

  “Yes?” Tchao held his breath. This thing, whatever it was, would be more significant. It would be the seed of Mr. Prill’s doubt, and possibly, of others’ as well. Prill had become a popular man among the Tolfarian families. “And that would be?”

  “The bride thing. Why do we need to go there, if you’ll beg my pardon?”

  He wouldn’t. Not if Prill apologized for the rest of his days. He’d never pardon that tone, the contempt in the man’s voice, the implications. As if Tchao had requested an Uraru bride for his own purposes, for some twisted personal need. He sucked the inside of one cheek between his teeth and bit into it. The blood soothed his fury. He inhaled and let the mood settle.

  “A political alliance, Mr. Prill. One that should cement future relations between our peoples. This is how it is done throughout the galaxy, and I consider it a great, personal sacrifice on my part.”

  “Yes, sir.” Prill actually dipped his head, submitted in posture and tone. “My apologies, sir.”

  “Accepted.” Barely. He continued away from Mr. Prill, swallowed the last of the blood and reminded himself that he wouldn’t actually have to marry the beastly Uraru woman. He needed her, certainly, but for Dovali’s work. It was the doctor who would have use of her, and use her to help them strike the Uraru at their very heart. Once Dovali was done with Tchao’s bride, they’d be able to place their weapon exactly where they needed it.

  It still kept him up, thinking about it. His plans revolved through his thoughts, over and around until he’d re-evaluated every detail and found it sound, solid. The only chink would be the damned seeing, and Dovali assured him he could control that much.

  Still, the thought nagged at him. What if she saw his plans before Dovali got his serum in her?

  They might be able to control the woman with the man’s drugs, but until they had her safely in their custody, the damned foresight could ruin his plans. Even Omira might see what he was up to. He could act the perfect part, and the beastly visions could still sink him.

  He’d rather believe it to be fraudulent, believe the whole concept was a myth. The rest of his people did. But Tchao had that taint of blood, that whisper in his mind that assured him his plan was not foolproof no matter how badly he wished it to be.

  He needed to be certain, and Dovali’s lab held his answers. He trusted the man, had confessed more to the science officer than to any other Tolfarian alive. Before Dovali, only his mother had known about his blood and then only because she, too, carried the taint of her heritage.

  Tchao found the lab dark and unoccupied. Damn his luck. Dovali’s hours were sporadic and dependent on his work. Tonight, the machines were silent, the lights dim and the soft blinking of the sensory readouts made long colorful shadows on the equipment banks. He crossed to the brightest screen and squinted at the scrolling data as if he had Dovali’s mind, as if he could make sense of any of it.

  He should have studied more. How could he check up on his scientist when the man’s knowledge went so far beyond his understanding? He growled in the back of his throat and made a fist, imagined banging it against the console.

  Something scratched on his left, a soft but insistent sound from the shelving where Dovali kept his test subjects. Tchao ignored it and glared at the data stream. He could see no pattern in the doctor’s work, no sense to the wires and diagrams. The plastic tubs stacked along the shelf, however, he understood. These creatures knew the beast inside him. Under Dovali’s ministrations, they shared his blood. The rats shared his scourge.

  He lifted the cage out, tilted it and eyed the scratching inhabitant without thinking. Only when the rat froze, when it’s tiny, half-bald head cocked in his direction and the black eyes flared in the colored lights did he remember the thing’s vision. The rat, tainted with his DNA and hooked into Dovali’s wires, had envisioned this exact moment. It had seen him looking in at it, and now, that seeing had come true.

  He stuffed the box back into its place and stood scowling at the thing with a wash of lights playing colors around him. The visions, the damned precognition. Tchao’s skin prickled into nervous bumps, his pulse flickered like the lights. The trace of Uraru seeing would be the end of him. He’d always known that much. But his recalcitrant blood only gave him that subtle feeling, that hint and no specifics. Would the seeing kill his plans? He couldn’t begin to guess. Would the bride or the Senior Priestess see his intentions before he could unfold their undoing?

  Tchao Rimawdi stared at the rat. Were he Choma-uraru, he would trust his faith. He might pray or chime or meditate for more clarification. But he was Tolfarian. He had no faith, no magic to entrust with his future. Tolfarians did not need to see ahead. His
future was based on his own will, and Tchao was nothing if not determined.

  He would wipe the Grand Temple from the map. Once his bomb had decimated the fanatical overlords his planet, Choma, would be easily suppressed. The clergy without their head would fumble, and the Choma-tolfari could come home as the rightful rulers of Choma. They could put down the beast and take back their world. The jungles would be tamed. Cities would rise and his people would seize their place among the great civilizations of the Galaxy.

  Once the Temple was gone he would have his home again, and this time the Choma-tolfari would not be the ones at a disadvantage.

  Tchao thanked his luck that the volcanoes had chosen his lifetime to strike its blow, the first blow as he saw it in a war that would end in his people’s victory. They’d earned it, had lived as outcasts on the fringe of society for enough generations. The time had come for their rewards.

  To rule Choma without the beast’s influence.

  And if Dovali’s serum could in fact control the seeing, if it could mold that ability to their uses. He’d have an entire population of seers to dope up and put to good use. The Uraru would serve their real purpose, as his eyes on the future. With their vision in his hands, nothing existed that could challenge Tchao’s status as leader. Not his background, his history, or his beastly ancestry.

  Not even the whispers behind his eyes, the vile traces of the Uraru blood that coursed through his veins as surely as the bio-electrics that criss-crossed his ashy skin.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Rowri's beast told her Shayd was in the cockpit, but despite the fact that she'd come looking for him, she couldn't quite bring herself to turn in that direction. Still, she had to see him whether her heart wanted to or not. She had to tell him, but how could she? She'd promised to choose him and now, now she had no choice but to betray that promise.

  Panic surged to the surface, making her Uraru snarl and thrash inside her mind. All her training failed to calm it now. She didn't want to. She wanted to shout and tear the walls and scream at the unfairness of it all. How could they live like this? How had they, for generations, pulled always from one vision to the next like a seed on the breeze? She'd thought the seeing made them strong, that the beast made them powerful, but they lived at the mercy of fate in the end.

  Now she'd pay fate's price. She'd make its sacrifice, but she'd take another soul down with her.

  He was there, to her left on the other side of the door. She stood at the top of the ladder, inches from him, but hesitated. Rowri looked the other way to the room where she did have permission to go. That door was open now, and soft voices drifted out. Her nerve faltered. She’d come too far from the seeing to still feel its pressure. Now the woman could rein in the cat, and she pulled it from its goal and chose the dining room.

  The voices dropped at the sound of her footsteps. She stalled again—they’d been talking quietly enough before, but now perhaps she wasn’t welcome in either place. They’d left the door open, but at this hour who would expect her to be pacing the halls?

  She might be shaken, but she still held enough of the Uraru's ferocity to push her forward. But Rowri made it to the doorway only to pause in it, to survey the interior before continuing. Shayd was not here, but she’d known that already. She could still feel him behind her, his presence overflowing the boundaries of the cockpit and spilling out to taunt her. In the dining room she found the other two, Mofitan and Haftan, on opposite ends of the long table.

  Both of them stared at her, but it was Haftan who stood first, who held out one arm and waved her inside. “Good evening, Priestess.”

  “Good evening. I hope I’m not interrupting…”

  “Of course not. Please join us.” Haftan sat just as Mofitan was standing. The larger man grunted and flopped back into his seat, but his scowl was for the ewer of wine in the center of the table. Rowri guessed it was not her appearance that had soiled his mood.

  “Have some wine.” He stabbed a finger at the pitcher.

  Each man had a tall flute in front of them, but four empty ones stood in a circle around the wine. Rowri walked to that end of the table and selected a glass for herself, though she only filled it a quarter of the way. Then she chose a seat that split the distance between the two Shrouded men equally. “Thank you.”

  “Restless night.” Mofitan said it, and didn’t clarify if he meant in general, or for her specifically. It didn’t sound like a question though, and required no answer.

  “How is the ship?” She chose a more generic topic, or she thought she had. Both men stiffened at the question, and Mofitan made a sound like her Uraru did when it had been too long between runs. She was messing this up too. “Forgive me for choosing a poor subject.”

  “Not at all,” Haftan said. “In fact, we’re in good shape to make the rendezvous point. We’ll just be delayed a few days unless…”

  He trailed off, shared a look with Mofitan that told her they’d reached their former topic, and it was not to be shared.

  “Omira has told me the Tolfarians are coming.” She sipped her wine and listened to their awkward silence until the moment faded.

  “They are, indeed.” Haftan nodded. "But we will continue with you to Vade, once they've arranged for our repairs."

  "Thank you." She could like these Shrouded. They understood something she wasn’t even sure she could define. A way of life, an independent attitude that was integral to being Choman…maybe to being Shrouded too. Did the Tolfarians understand it as well? Is that why they remained apart? Why they meant to hurt her. Her glass rattled when she set it down. So many generations had passed since separation. What had the Choma-tolfari become?

  “Your people have had no contact with the Tolfarians.” Haftan’s voice lowered, took on a serious note that was softer and more persuasive. “And yet now you welcome their renewed interest?”

  He placed the emphasis of his question on the “welcome,” as if there were another option, and he only waited for her to share it. Rowri wished there was, wished she could tell him that she wouln't go, that she wanted their help, wanted their Seer. She would never make that request now, and she gave them the only answer she could. “I only know my part in this, and it was a seeing which led me to accept the Tolfarians’ offer. I believe the Senior may have experienced a similar vision, and I have faith that her decision was made for the good of our people.”

  “Based on a vision?” Mofitan did not believe in visioning, if his tone were any indication.

  “Yes.” Rowri forced down the terror, the image of blue lines and the memory of pain. She recited the words she was trained to say, words she had little faith in now. “That which is seen must always come to pass. To ignore a vision is to disrupt the natural path of fate. One only draws the same conclusion but with more damage along the way.”

  “Excuse us, priestess,” Haftan said smoothly. It was his way, she suspected, to keep the situation flowing and gentle. “It is a foreign concept to us.”

  “I shouldn’t think it was.” Rowri stared into her glass, matched him in swirling the contents. “You trust your Heart to be correct, do you not?”

  “Ah, yes.” Haftan smiled a cat’s smile. Perhaps he’d only meant to lure her into some understanding as well. “The Heart is the most sacred thing on Shroud, and its Seer is second only to the Shrouded king.”

  “Then surely he must understand the power of a seeing.” He'd have to, had to understand why she'd do it. Or else he'd hate her for it, and maybe, that would be better in the end.

  “I imagine Shayd does.” Haftan played his emphasis again, this time on the name. He watched her too. Rowri could feel the weight of his eyes even without looking up. “And did your vision show you enough of these Tolfarians to trust them with your future? With your heart?”

  “I didn’t see…” She bit her lower lip and stared at her glass. She opened her mouth but closed it again. There was no honest answer that she could give. In her mind, the cat stilled and held at taut attent
ion. Shayd.

  He entered the room, and Rowri kept her eyes glued to her wine flute. She pressed her nails into the underside of the table and let her Uraru howl.

  “Shayd,” Haftan said. “We were just talking about you. Well, you and the Tolfarians.”

  “The Tolfarians are coming.” He stopped directly behind her. She felt him like a wall of fire, like a pillar of heat and longing. His words, however, gave her chills. “They have the parts we need, and are close by and heading in the same direction we are.”

  “That’s convenient,” Haftan said.

  “Parts are standard enough.” Mofitan grumbled the words. He said it almost guiltily. “Better to have them than to be late.”

  “I suppose so.” Haftan’s tone held something else. It drew Rowri’s eyes to him, and distracted her from the weight of the Seer standing so close to her. Haftan’s eyes were sad. They held apology and something more personal and beyond her understanding. He raised his glass again, and smiled a wry twisting of his lips. “To our saviors, then. The Tolfarians to the rescue.”

  Rowri wished all of them a quick death in space.

  Shayd sat in the chair beside her, though the huge table boasted a dozen empty seats. Their bodies were drawn to one another even more than before, as if the memory of their contact could not be unsealed.

  Rowri breathed rhythmically and tried to center. Her hands clutched the stem of her glass, and the smoke of her skin paled at her knuckles. Her voice came out flat and empty of music. "To the Tolfarians, who believed in progress and sought to breed out the Uraru, to shun the seeing completely and turn to their implants and bio-engineering.”