Shrouded: Heartstone Book One

by Frances Pauli

  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.

  Syradan 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.

  Whores 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 assem
bled 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.

  Between the numbers, the first door would open more often than not to admit a new applicant. Eclipsis had no shortage of desperate women, it seemed. As Vashia watched them enter, she tried to guess their story, how they ended up on the street, and even how they found their way to a ramshackle warehouse full of not-so-blushing brides. She considered bolting three times before they finally called her number.

  Then she stood and slid sideways toward the voice. She didn’t have as far to go. She managed to reach the door without stepping on anyone. It led to a medical unit. She might have guessed as much. The three couches inside looked a fair sight more expensive than the furniture in the lobby. Probably why they’re sitting on crates out there. You’d have to cut corners to pay for all the equipment in this room.

  The nurse who had called her number helped her onto a couch. Barely noticing her, the woman only looked directly at her once to ask a single question before leaving her to wait again. Vashia eyed the other two couches, both occupied, and frowned. It made sense, that question, but she certainly hadn’t considered it. She hadn’t once thought that far ahead.

  The girl closest to her had her eyes closed. They’d hooked her to a medical scanner, and the bot busily ran up and down her body, measuring and recording what it found. She looked peaceful, possibly asleep. Vashia had the same thing done on her last physical, but somehow, considering the nurse’s question, it took on a sinister aspect. She frowned and watched the machine work. When the woman’s eyes opened, however, she realized she’d been staring.

  “See anything new?” The woman snapped at her, pursing her face into an expression neither peaceful nor friendly.

  “No. Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

  “Right.” The girl lay back and stared at the ceiling.

  Great. She’d pissed her off. She frowned again, but kept her gaze firmly on the ceiling. The nurse’s question repeating in her mind, suggestive of things she should have thought through, things she didn’t even know how to think about. She closed her eyes and waited. They’d probably scan her and send her home. It probably wouldn’t matter, but the words, “Are you fertile?” were amazingly hard to shake off.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  DOLFAN PACKED LIGHT. He tossed his duffle over one shoulder and slipped through the palace wing before dawn lit the Shroud. No flags flew over the plaza. He stepped into the blush morning without his breather, inhaling the pure tang of artificial air. The stones glowed pink as the gasses overhead brightened. He spared them a moment’s inspection before rounding the circle and taking the wide stairs down.

  The canyon walls cut deep into the Shrouded core, the stairs hewn from the natural stone curled against them, shadowed as they dove further from the glowing atmosphere. Dolfan shivered and pulled his wrap higher as he descended to the next level and into almost total night again. The hover pads waited.

  He stood on the lip outside the hangars and looked out across the rest of the crevice. The far end rose into a shallow cleft. There the pink light already reached bottom. Dolfan saw the glint of distant buildings touched by Shroud light. The road wound that direction, past the markets and through housing to the edge of the cleft. There he’d leave the shelter of the depression to travel over the core surface and directly in the lowest layer of the Shroud.

  He tucked his breather into his shirt. In the Shroud, he’d have to wear a full mask and filter. A supply of both hung inside the hangar. He turned his back on the dawn and entered the low building. A bank of screens registered the fluctuations in the core’s magnetic lanes. He paused long enough to reaffirm his route, one he had memorized for most conditions, before snatching his equipment from a slim locker.

  Declination and intensity hovered nicely within standard this morning. He glanced at the screens again on the way back to verify the last transmission. All data current, feed from Base 14 verified. It should be a nice, easy ride to the platform. No variance on the way, and he’d have a leisurely trip to look forward to.

  He unhooked the cables securing the nearest bike and performed a quick, routine inspection before sliding the vehicle along the rails out from under the hangar to the edge of the nearest pad. He hooked the mask onto a cargo fixture, strapped his duffle onto another and tested the weight distribution before keying in his access numbers.

  The pad flared to life, a ring of light indicating the invisible cushion was charged and ready. Dolfan threw one leg over the bike seat and steadied the vehicle with the other. He checked the load weight again and found it balanced, ready to go.

  A shadow stepped in front of him. Dolfan squinted at it for a second and then turned pointedly back to his bike. “Morning, Mofitan. Do you mind?” He flipped the bike’s switch and felt the surge of magnetism pull against the clamps.

  “Where are you going?” Mofitan stopped directly between the hover pad and the bike. The Shroud light cast him into a dark silhouette. “Rushing off so early.”

  “That’s pretty dangerous.” Dolfan raised his hand from the clamps. He’d been damn close to releasing the vehicle. Mofitan took too many risks. “I could have plowed you.”

  “That’s not an answer.”“I’m going back to work, Mof.”

  “To the base.”

  They stared for a moment. Dolfan could see the thoughts calculating in his rival’s head. It wouldn’t do any good to explain that he needed to get the hell away from this mess.

  “And I thought you didn’t want to be king,” Mofitan said. “Silly me.”

  “I don’t.”

  “No. Of course not. You’re just running off to work. You probably didn’t even consider that the brides will arrive at the base or that the Kingmaker is probably with them.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “What could it hurt to see them first?” Mofitan growled outright. “If you don’t want to be king anyway.”

  “Seeing them first hadn’t entered my mind, Mof. But now that you bring it up, what difference could it make? The Heart’s choice is set.”

  “The difference is, at least Haftan and I are honest. We’re not pretending we don’t want anything to do with the throne.”

  “I don’t want the throne, Mof.” He didn’t. But a wiggle of guilt coursed through him. He did want the Heart. Anyone raised in its shadow would, anyone raised by parents who’d felt the bond every time they looked at one another. Hell, anyone who’d seen the stone glow for Pelinol and Lucha would. He wanted the Heart. He’d hardly be Shrouded if he didn’t.

  “Liar.” Mofitan stepped forward. He leaned between the rails and put a big hand on the front of the bike.

  Dolfan stiffened. He clenched his jaw and considered plowing over the other prince. Mofitan almost deserved it. They’d been at odds as long as he could remember, and as far as he knew he hadn’t done a damn thing to instill this kind of ire in anyone. More than that, he never lied. His wrist shifted and the hum revved enough to make Mof’s eyebrows go up.

  He didn’t hate the man enough to murder him. But Mofitan’s look said he didn’t know that. Dolfan smiled and tilted his head to the side. “Move your ass, Mof.”

  “I’d do as the man says.” Two more shadows joined them. Tondil spoke for them both as usual. “I once saw a man who’d ended up sandwiched between cushions.” He shivered, making the gesture involve his entire body. “Not pretty.”

  “Morning, Tondil, Peryl.” Dolfan kept his eyes on Mofitan.

  “How’s the Gauss today?” Tondil slid up alongside and casually touched Mofitan on the shoulder. He didn’t say a word to the man, but Mof shook once, tossing off whatever suicidal spell held him, and he stepped back out of the bike’s path.

  “Normal,” Dolfan answered. His eyes flicked to the bike’s readout on instinct just to be sure. He’d just read the monitors, had checked them twice, but his training whispered. Never, never trust the Shroud
to stay constant.

  “Good.” Tondil smiled and took an exaggerated step back. He slid a glance to Mofitan and waited for him to follow suit. Thankfully, everyone liked Tondil. Mof glowered, but stepped clear enough that Dolfan could release his ride. “Have a good trip then.”

  “Thanks.” He reached down to the clamps and popped the lever before anyone could hinder him again. The bike surged up and out to bobble on top of the pad’s invisible cushion. He checked the display, flipped a switch and changed currents. The hover bike rocketed forward, spewed from the pad as the charges repelled one another. As he shot away, Dolfan caught the faint sound of Peryl’s laugh.

  The Comet nightclub did decent business during the day. Jarn sniffed at the haze of smoke and glared across the tables to the bar in the center of the establishment. The proprietor served drinks, leaning against the steel counter and scowling at her patrons. He straightened even further and strode across to stand beside one of the stools.

  The drinkers shifted out of his way. A waitress veered sharply, spilling froth from the drinks she carried as she listed and swerved to avoid contact with him. Jarn smiled and folded his fingers into a tent on the counter surface. Let them all get out of the way. He’d done a great deal of work to ensure his reputation, and visual proof that he’d succeeded always pleased him. Some of the rumors he’d paid for, but the juicier ones he’d earned.

  He waited for the woman to notice him. She poured a slim tumbler of something pink with smoke roiling over the lip, slid it toward a hunched trader and then turned to replace the nozzle before she looked his way. On purpose. She must have seen me enter. Jarn’s long fingers drummed out his irritation on her bar.

  When she drifted in his direction, his lips twitched. He’d have had her flogged for it under other circumstances.

  “What can I get you?” She blinked at him until her smoker’s wrinkles tangled.