The sentiment echoed in the silence that followed. She'd let her feelings leak free, and an awkwardness settled around them. It was Haftan who broke it, who moved the conversation forward with more tact than she'd managed.
“Uraru," he said. "I’m not sure I understand that term. Is it a genetic trait?”
“Both a genetic and a spiritual one.”
“Spiritual?” Shayd spoke beside her, and his eyes fixed to the spot where her knuckles squeezed their way toward white. She had to tell him, quickly, or he'd see it in her manner, hear it in the bitterness infecting her words. His already wavered, adopted a note of uncertainty. “The Uraru is part of your faith?”
“It is the reason for our faith. The beast is controlled by the spirit. This is our way, and the reason our Temple governs over all of Choma.”
“And the Tolfarians didn’t want to be governed by the Temple?” Mofitan asked.
“The Tolfarians have no beast. It is what first set us apart. No, they did not want the Temple rule nor did they want to keep Choma closed to the outside. Our differences were insurmountable, and the Uraru were in majority. Rather than live amongst us, the Tolfarians eventually requested exile, and the Choma-uraru were happy to grant it.”
“Priestess,” Haftan crooned. He meant to settle her feathers, perhaps. “The Galactic Summit has its own interests in mind, as is its custom. But the Shrouded are not a member of that Summit, not yet. If you were to make your own request of us…we would take it into equal consideration.”
“Thank you.” She stood up, and though she'd meant to speak with Shayd, had been looking for an opportunity to lure him away, she couldn't bring herself to do it. “You’ll excuse me, please. I fear the wine has taken a toll.”
“Of course.” Haftan again, smoothing, covering the awkwardness with an attempt at ordinary niceties. “Would you like one of us to—”
“I'll escort you back to your room.” Shayd stood before she could answer, and she barely managed to avert her eyes, to keep from meeting the questions in his expression before scooting out the door. Fate had decided for her again. She would tell him now, and now he would most likely hate her for it.
Rowri felt him at her back and his hand reached out, took her by the elbow, and assisted her onto the ladder. She climbed down alone, searching her thoughts for the right words and failing to find anything. Her thoughts were too busy scrambling for a way out, for a way not to betray him.
She waited at the bottom, enjoyed a guilty moment of closeness, the feel of him within reach as he descended to join her. So near. The power hummed between them like the lightning that should have filled the Choman skies.
"Something's wrong." He saw into her, perhaps, right through her. Then again, he was a Seer, a man of visions too.
"I will go with the Tolfarians after the meeting on Vade." It took all her strength to say it, and she couldn't look at him. Instead she stared at the wraps that wound around his arms and felt the trickle of slow tears against the skin of her face. "I have seen it."
"No." He shook his head so hard the fabric of his robes danced for her. "You said you saw us together."
"I did."
"Then…"
"The steps we take along the path are fully as important as the destination we chase."
"What? What is that?" Now she heard the anger she'd expected, the hurt that made his voice jagged at the edges.
"Something Omira told me." Rowri sighed and wished he'd reach for her, that they could return to that moment amidst the smoke. "She said what we know or do not know might make a difference that we cannot see."
"You mean we still might..."
"Don't say it." She put her hands up between them, backed a step away. "Please. I can't bear it."
"But Rowri, Rowri." He tried to close the gap, but she shuffled farther down the hall. "How can you say which vision supercedes the other?"
"Exactly. Exactly. Yes." She stared at his robes, a black wash on a blurry gray backdrop. The tears fell freely, and her feet moved her back and back. "It is not my place. I must follow through."
And in the end, they knew nothing. Even through a million visions. They came, one after the other, and the goal was never reached, the wafting from one fate to the next never ended.
"We'll find a way." He growled now, sounding more like his kin.
"I'm so sorry."
"No." He didn't follow her again, didn't take another step, but the Shrouded Seer's voice rang through the distance, echoed from one end of the ship to the other. "We will find a way. You can't be certain we won't."
But that hope was too thin. She held it up against the scene she'd dreamed, the pain of the Tolfarian's torture, and couldn't believe it. Rowri shook her head and scurried away before her beast took over and leapt into his arms instead. She ran for her rooms, whispering the apology to herself.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Chapter Twenty-Two
“They’re here,” Mofitan said. He grunted and turned away from the controls long enough to fix Shayd with a suspicious expression. “You’ll be all right?”
“I’m not going to start a war,” he snapped back and dared Mof to argue with a glance.
The wide shoulders shrugged and Mofitan turned back to his console. Shayd sighed and leaned his head against the cool wall. He wouldn’t start a war, but he didn’t have to like the Tolfarians either. He wouldn’t interfere with the negotiations or the Galactic Summit bid, but neither did he intend to help it along.
Then again, he hadn't intended to hand them his heartmate either.
“Where is Haftan?” He hadn’t seen sign of Haftan since the night prior, nor had he wondered about it until then. He’d been too preoccupied by dreams that refused to vanish upon waking. Flashes of visions, kissing in a garden, and the priestess, Rowri, real and in his arms where she belonged. It would take only a nudge to bring them again, and the temptation hovered over him to just give up and drown in them.
“He is wooing the priestess’s favor,” Mofitan said. When Shayd’s head snapped back to attention he waved a big hand and frowned. “Not that one, the Senior. Haftan spent the morning showing her Peryl’s gifts.”
Shayd breathed and cursed the Tolfarians and his own kin, who were too absorbed in their own tasks to notice him dying among them. They'd both forgotten his plight, the Heart, and everything that made them Shrouded in their quest to woo the Galactic Summit.
Mofitan grunted and turned away again, leaving Shayd to his dark thoughts. They shifted from treason to murder. From kidnapping to inciting the war he'd just promised not to begin. It wasn’t Haftan's location he cared about. It was the alien leader just outside their hull.
“Message incoming. Better fetch him,” Mof said. “They’re in the dining room.”
Fetch Haftan, a message from the Tolfarians. They were here. Shayd shook his head and stared at the dark view screen. The consoles sang their pinging call, relaying positions, chanting in a way. He could hear their message without Haftan. It said he was out of time.
“Or would you rather I play diplomat?” Mofitan’s frustration growled through the cockpit. None of them, no one on Shroud, would ever accuse Mof of being diplomatic.
It might work in Shayd’s favor to allow it, but his guilt at the thought drove him to stand and follow orders. Fetch Haftan, speak to the Tolfarians, give his heartmate away to another man. His steps faltered, stilted and stuttering toward the narrow doorway. He grabbed the metal edge and steadied himself, staring out across the causeway to the open dining room while the ship swayed underneath him, perhaps only for him.
A strange voice mocked him. It filled the tiny cockpit of their transport, and it filled Shayd’s head with a memory, an image of a vision in incense smoke. The words made sense enough, held a tone of pleasant friendliness, and yet they set his teeth tightly together. When he turned around, his hands were heavy fists against his robes.
“Greetings, Shrouded Transport.” The face behind the words had gray skin, l
aced with tiny blue wires. They glowed between familiar features, features Shayd had seen in his visions. “I am Tchao Rimawdi, high commander of the Tolfarian fleet. We have your parts and are willing to assist.”
His enemy spoke with cool confidence, and yet Shayd’s body heated.
“Greetings, Tolfarian vessel.” Mofitan turned to him and waved his arm frantically. Go, it said. Get Haftan, quick! “If you’ll give us just one moment.”
“Of course.” Tchao smiled. His lips were thin and his mouth overly wide. His cheekbones had dark hollows below them where even the soft glow of his implants couldn’t intrude. His eyes, however, held a cat’s guile. Reminiscent of his Choman kin, those eyes were, and they sent a slinking shiver up Shayd’s spine.
Mofitan raised his eyebrows and jerked his head to indicate Shayd should leave. The movement dragged his gaze away from Tchao, released him from the spell of his rival’s familiar face. He pushed against the doorframe and slipped out, turning his back to the Tolfarian and stumbling across to the dining room as if he’d been drinking all night.
They could be siblings with those eyes. Both Rowri and Omira had them—dark, feral eyes that hinted at bloodlines and secrets. So different, the Tolfarians and the Chomans, and yet the same eyes, skin in two divergent shades of smoke, charcoal and ash, but colors easily drawn from the same source. How had one half gone to the stars, to implants and space faring, while the other remained in the jungle?
Would the same thing happen to his people, if they loosened their grip on import and export? If the Galactic Summit embraced Shroud, would some of his own people choose to leave their world? Shayd wandered into the dining room and sat without a word. A crewmember brought him a plate, but he didn’t see the food.
They employed other races to go out for them, had the Bride candidates brought home and signed away their rights to leave again. What would happen if they didn’t?
“Is everything all right?” Haftan called from the table’s end.
“Mofitan wants you.” Shayd remembered the challenge in the Senior Priestess’s words, and he looked to her now, found her frowning back at him. If the Shrouded wandered away from the Heart, she’d suggested, how would they differentiate between ordinary attraction and the Heart bonding?
“Is there something wrong?” Omira asked. Her frown didn’t lift, and her eyes held him as if they could read his brooding, as if she knew he plotted to overthrow her negotiation, to steal the girl and run.
If the Shrouded went searching for brides, perhaps, his role as Seer would be moot. If his people left their world, like the Tolfarians had, maybe they’d leave the Heart behind as well.
“It’s only the Tolfarians,” he said. He watched her face, saw the shadow of fear replace her disapproval. “They’re here.”
The Senior Priestess shivered and then rose. She sniffed once, opened her mouth as if she had something to tell him, and then left the room without saying another thing. Soon the mission would be done and over with. The Shrouded portion of it, at least.
Shayd sat alone and stared at his plate. He reminded himself that there was still hope, still one vision at least that hadn't yet come to pass. Rowri hadn't wanted to admit it, maybe. She'd been inconsolable, determined to obey her latest seeing and something more. She'd been afraid.
He hadn't needed a vision to see that.
His heartmate was terrified. Whatever she'd seen had scared her, and yet she'd face it head on. As much as that drove a blade into his heart, he admired it too. He didn't have to let it end there, though. If she saw herself go, and if she insisted on doing it, so be it.
That didn't mean he couldn't fight to get her back. It didn't mean he couldn't try.
That hope, Shayd clung to while the rest of the crew greeted his enemy. It took them awhile to align the ships, to connect the umbilicals and prepare to transfer people and parts. He sat in the dining room until he heard Mofitan and Haftan leaving the cockpit. Then, he joined them on the causeway, took the ladder behind them and walked the long hallway to the rear of the ship, the second ladder down to cargo and the airlocks that would allow his enemy on board.
He marched behind the wall made by the backs of the other two Shrouded men, shielded or held back by their solidarity. They wouldn’t help him. The surprise of that had worn off by now. Still, he might be able to count on them for something in the end. If the girl asked for shelter, neither Haftan or Mofitan would refuse her. They could be trusted for that much without a doubt.
They passed the trader’s room and then the Chomans’ as well. Before they reached the hall’s end, however, the patter of steps fell into line behind them. He turned back long enough to identify their shadow, and then groaned and hustled his steps closer to the others. The Shevran tailed them, clutching a silver case to his chest and boasting an even, emerald green hue.
“What do you want?” Shayd didn’t turn back, but his conversation alerted Haftan and Mof to their company.
“Off this ship.” The trader huffed aloud, but he kept in step with them all the way to the ladder. “I’ll go with the Tolfarians, thank you, and the Summit will hear about our little trip as soon as we arrive.”
“Good,” Mofitan snorted. “Good riddance.”
“If the Tolfarians agree,” Haftan amended. “Then you are welcome to complete your journey on board their vessel.”
He reached the ladder first, vanishing gracefully through the hatch. Mofitan stood aside and glowered at the Shevran while Shayd went ahead. Better to face the Tolfarians, perhaps, than the wrath of Mofitan. He hoped the trader did make it onto the other ship. Otherwise, they might have to defend Mof for murder before the trip was done.
The airlocks lined the short hallway between the ladder and the cargo bay. Haftan stood beside the first, while the crew worked at the controls of the second. Behind the door, the Tolfarians would already be waiting in the causeway. Would this Tchao be among them? Not for a simple engine repair, but perhaps to view his future bride?
He stabbed the nails of one hand into the knuckles of the other. If only he had his brazier here. He could scry in the smoke for Rowri’s decision. He could burn the right herbs, nudge the future in their favor, even. His finger warmed where the heartstone cabochon rested. His council ring held a trace of the Heart’s voice. If he could only think of a way to use it…like the last Seer had done. The echo of that evil rang in his current temptation.
The Shevran scrambled down the ladder. His face was edged with canary now, and his throat bulged. Mofitan had said something to ruffle the man, and now he too came down, hand over hand halfway and then leaping for the final drop. When he hit the floor, the Shevran clutched his case tighter to his chest and sidestepped directly into Shayd.
“Keep him away from me,” he whined. “I’ll report you all.”
“You were going to do that anyway,” Haftan said. He leaned against the wall opposite the airlock, and cast a less than smooth expression to where the crew made ready. “Weren’t you?”
“Yesss.”
The airlock blared an alarm, signaling the completion of the cycle. The crewman at the controls turned to Mofitan for confirmation and when the large man nodded, began to flip levers and turn the screw that would open the door.
Shayd watched the process, his mind filled with images of armed Tolfarians spilling into their hallways. They’d be easily overcome. The Shrouded were not accustomed to going armed, didn’t even carry small personal weapons except at ceremony. He supposed some of the crew would have sidearms, and there was a locker in the hall that would contain rifles, but none of them had thought to open it.
His people were not cut out for this. They had no business roaming a galaxy full of dangerous people, people like the Shevran with his metal case, who could have easily stabbed Shayd in the back at any moment. He tossed a concerned glance back and found the reptilian watching the airlock, still flushing yellow, but far more intent on the goings on than on murdering the Shrouded Seer. Still, the man’s hostility, hi
s case, and his knowledge of exactly how the Galactic Summit’s doctrines protected him gave him an advantage that the Shrouded couldn’t share.
They weren’t ready. That wouldn’t matter to the Tolfarians, to the Galactic Summit, or to any enemy they might encounter.
The airlock let out a breath when it opened. The seals huffed and the door swung outward, blocking the hallway and offering only a partial view of the aliens stepping onto their ship—gray skin and tall, slender frames. The blue wires laced across all their faces, their hands and wherever the skin was exposed. Did they augment everything with their bio-technology? The implants could make them highly sensitive, fast, and very perceptive.
He tried to catch the faces, to find Tchao Rimawdi amongst them, but their crew wanted the engines repaired. They waved the newcomers toward the next doorway as if they dealt with Tolfarians all the time. Maybe some of them did.
Mofitan must have seen the situation the same way he did. He pushed his way past the Shevran, nodded to Shayd, and then squeezed his bulk around the airlock door. That succeeded in completely blocking any view of the Tolfarians, but it also went a long way towards making Shayd feel more secure. Mofitan, he was certain, wouldn't need implants to take down just about anyone.
“I’m going with them!” the Shevran hollered, but no one turned. “Let me through.”
“Wait.” Mofitan’s voice drifted back, and there was no arguing with his tone.
The sound of boots against steel grating filled the compartment, and Shayd’s thoughts raced beneath the hammering echo. Was Tchao here? How many of them had come? How could his people hope to coexist with the rest of the galaxy when they’d spent generations afraid to leave their own atmosphere?
The ladder pinged behind him, a higher pitched sound and one that managed to sing over the top of the footfalls. He turned around and gazed over the top of the Shevran’s head. Omira, Senior Priestess of the Choma-uraru, descended the ladder. Her white robes rippled. Her head craned back to see above her where Rowri would be waiting. They’d come to see the Tolfarians too, or maybe to leave with them as the trader would.
Seen (Heartstone Book 2) Page 15
