Shrouded: Heartstone Book One

by Frances Pauli

  He bent down and snatched it from the folds of cloth. The device blinked in his hand. He smiled, pressed the off switch and started to stand back up. Pain lanced through his calf. He stumbled with it, fell forward and rolled to the side as the blade flashed from under the couch behind him. The second swipe missed, but his pant leg hung open over a deep gash, and his blood dribbled to the carpet. He stared into the face of his attacker and snarled.

  She’d pressed her old body under the couch, and now she growled back at him, showing the teeth between her wrinkled lips. Jarn snatched his leg out of range and rolled into a squat. One hand pressed against the wound and the other scrambled for a purchase on the overturned lounge. He pulled up to his feet with the wounded leg bent and bleeding.

  “Sir?” The merc at the glass took a step toward him.

  “Back.” He shook his head and tested the injury, placing partial weight on the offended foot. “She’s armed.”

  “Damn straight she is!” The woman under the couch hollered, muffled and in a voice crackled by her age.

  “I suggest you come out of there,” Jarn said. “Without the weapon would be preferable.”

  “I’m quite comfortable right here, thank you.”

  “Fine.” He pulled his gauss pistol from the holster on his belt and tried to get an angle on the woman. The lounge pressed against his calves. He leaned back, as far out of her blade’s range as he could manage, and then lowered the hand holding his weapon to the ground. He pulled the trigger without hesitation, heard the crack and the snap as the projectile exploded inside the narrow space. “Fine.”

  By the time he stood up, the blood had already pooled, spreading in a dark stain around the couch. He circled wide, just in case, and found the mercenaries staring watching him, openmouthed. Jarn straightened and raised an eyebrow. “The bitch stabbed me.” He crossed to the door and scowled over his shoulder as he left the room. “See that you clean it up before anyone finds her.”

  He limped back down the courtyard path. He needed to get to a first aid kit before he drizzled blood trails all over the damned base. Still, with the saboteur out of the picture, he needn’t worry about any more unauthorized transmissions. Things were firmly back in hand. Jarn smiled and brushed a palm frond out of his way. The moon was his, and, thanks to Syradan’s warning, no one on the planet would be the wiser.

  Dolfan’s heart stopped. He leapt the stairs down and stumbled to a halt beside the body lying across the stones. The wind howled over the sound of Lucha’s screaming, over the steps of others coming down behind him. He squatted beside Vashia and sent up a prayer to the Shroud that her pulse still beat.

  Lucha loomed on the stairs below, touching her hand to her nose and shouting against the gale. He caught the word “breather.” The flags in the plaza indicated high toxicity. Panic twisted in his gut as he rolled her over and found her nose bare. He didn’t think, just slid his hand under the shirt collar and tugged on the breather strap. When the device appeared, he fit the tubes to her nostrils. Please.

  Dielel squatted on the stair and leaned over his shoulder. He shouted in Dolfan’s ear. “Is she breathing?”

  He placed a hand on her chest, leaned close and waited to feel the signs of life he needed to find. When her chest moved against his hand, he blinked hard against the relief and nodded slowly. “We need to get her inside.”

  “I’ll help.” Dielel took Vashia’s legs and lifted.

  Dolfan slid his arm under her shoulders and pulled her up into his arms. They stood together, with Vashia’s limp body supported between them, and turned to face the top of the stairs again. Haftan stood there, outlined against the Shroud with his arms crossed and a nasty grimace on his face. He moved to the side and they carried Vashia past him.

  “Is she alive?” He shouted after them.

  Dolfan let Dielel answer. He pushed through the wind, taking the last few stairs as fast as he could without dropping her. He pulled Dielel, stumbling, along with him. How long had she been in the storm? Lucha had only been a few steps behind. She couldn’t have been exposed more than a few minutes. He let his eyes fall on her once they reached the level plaza. Her eyes remained shut and her signs of life far too subtle to be noticeable while on the move.

  Mofitan met them at the flags. He slid in without comment and took Dielel’s place. They reached the Palace stair trailing a line of royalty—Lucha, Dielel, and Haftan bringing up the rear. Mof most closely matched his stride, and they reached the foyer in a few seconds. Tondil, Peryl and Pelinol appeared, summoned from the throne room by Lucha’s shouts and the stamping of booted feet against the tiles.

  “Bring her in here.” Pelinol waved them into the throne room. “I’ll send for the doctor.”

  “Fetch Syradan as well.” Haftan stepped forward and found his voice. “In case.”

  “Oh, don’t.” Lucha’s voice rasped without the strength of a full breath behind it. “Don’t even think it.”

  “What happened?” Tondil asked the queen, or maybe he asked Dolfan. He’d lost sense of who was speaking or what was being said. He followed Pelinol into the throne room, and they eased Vashia onto the nearest couch.

  “My queen forgot to wear her breather.” All eyes shifted to Haftan, but his face adapted—became grave and creased with concern—a little too late. “Thank god we found her right away.”

  “She’s barely breathing,” Tondil answered Haftan with a trembling voice. “Where’s the medic?”

  Dolfan let them natter on, glancing up only when the doctor on duty slid in and nudged him aside. He relented, but kept close enough to see the flutter behind Vashia’s lids as the medic fit his filter over her face and secured it. He watched the man’s fingers tap the controls, watched the lights dance on the device, and waited for Haftan’s bride to take a normal breath.

  “I need a gurney in the main foyer.” The doctor spoke into his wrist comm. “I should be able to stabilize her. How long was she exposed?” He looked to each of them in turn.

  “I don’t think it was more than a minute,” Lucha said. Tears ringed her eyes. “She was only a few steps ahead of me, but she bolted so quickly and the wind was so loud. I tried to call.” She curled into Pelinol’s offered arm and leaned against his chest. “I tried to.”

  “No one blames you.” Haftan said. “She didn’t check the flags.”

  “She’s new,” Tondil said. “Probably forgot.”

  They fell quiet. The machine over Vashia’s face beeped softly, and the lights flickered. Dolfan had no idea what they meant. The face underneath looked too pallid and still for comfort. The seconds ticked by, marked by the bleeps and the dance of indicator bulbs, but Vashia’s chest lifted, but just barely, and fell so slowly he had trouble catching the movement.

  “Once she’s stable,” the doctor continued, “we can assess her toxin levels. I don’t want to move her until then.”

  Dolfan watched the man watch Vashia. He kept his hair shorn, as most of the staff did, and he wore the long, blue coat of his profession. The medical field had always seemed as esoteric as the Seer’s world to him. If it didn’t have to do with variance or Gauss levels, his interest waned quickly. Now he wished he had a better idea of whether the yellow or blue lights were best for the patient and whether the beeps should be getting slower or quicker as her status changed.

  Finally, though he noted absolutely no difference in the lights or sounds, the doctor stood up. He turned to Pelinol and nodded. “I need to move her now.”

  Dolfan didn’t remember the gurney arriving, but it hovered just inside the throne room doors, accompanied by two blue-coated attendants. They moved in and shifted Vashia to the sled. The doctor added arm sensors and a chest pad and waved one of the men away.

  “Get me a chemical readout on that storm, and bring a sample up too.” He continued to fire off orders, tighten straps, and flick switches as the sled started to move. Dolfan followed with Tondil close behind, but at the doors, the doctor stopped them. “I think, only Ha
ftan, for now,” he said. “Best not to have a crowd until I’m certain the queen is stabilized.”

  Dolfan stared at him. The gurney slid out through the doors and the doctor went with it. Haftan shuffled by as well, following his bride. His bride.

  A chemical scan of the storm would help. They could detect how much of the Shroud’s toxins had swirled down to contaminate their little pocket, which gasses composed the storm and in what proportions. The doctor would know what poisons burned in Vashia’s lungs. He’d know how to handle the ones that could be neutralized.

  The ones that couldn’t…those were what worried Dolfan the most. Tondil joined him in the doorway, and they watched the gurney vanish into the hall at their left. Outside, the Shroud frothed and sent deadly tendrils down to pierce their artificial atmosphere. It spun in a scarlet swath and set the warning flags snapping.

  The palace doctors knew what they were doing. She’d only been exposed for moments. No way would they let the next Queen of Shroud die. No way would Haftan allow them to.

  Dolfan turned over his shoulder and eyed the Heart. It sat under its dome, silent and dark. He had to resist the urge to walk over and kick the damned thing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THE WOMAN’S body flopped and leaked fluids through the silk they’d wrapped it in. Jarn had them toss it out an airlock, and his mercs recruited a few of the more vocal traders to clean up the blood. That would go a long way to keeping their complaints to a minimum, he figured.

  He had a full guard on the platforms, storage bays and atrium, and as far as he knew, the rest of the base could now be counted as safely vacant. He nodded to the merc he’d selected as his personal guard and entered the command room alone, closing the door between them and trusting the man to keep it that way.

  Syradan had hailed him from the surface three times in the last hour. He’d have to answer the man eventually. He lowered his thin frame into the nearest chair and eyed the atmospheric readouts. Jarn couldn’t make heads or tails of them, but he trusted in his new friend to time their move correctly and safely.

  He triggered the message and waited while the words scrolled by. The new queen—his lip curled at that little twist of fate—apparently found herself on the wrong side of the Shroud. He squinted at Syradan’s message. She might not survive it. In fact, if he read Syradan’s meaning correctly, she could or she couldn’t depending on their next steps. Was the man asking him for orders?

  He considered it. The little brat had some use in her yet, but if they could pull this off without her, her death would solve his little inheritance problem. It would practically hand Kovath’s estate over to him. His head swayed a little as he chewed on the idea. What could she really do for them at this point, aside from cement Kovath’s claim on Shroud? Her death would justify their invasion even more. It would make the Eclipsan position all the more sympathetic.

  He reached out one hand and flexed spidery fingers. A simple answer and the governor’s daughter would be handled permanently. Things were looking up. He typed his reply quickly, encrypted it with the sequence they’d agreed on and watched the letters morph into gibberish. Syradan had received a golden opportunity, and Jarn intended to make full use of it. He hit send, leaned back in the chair, and imagined the signal descending through the haze of the Shrouded atmosphere, bringing Vashia’s doom along with it.

  She woke from a dark place to the touch of flames at her chest. Her throat burned as well, and panic flared as she tried to inhale. Something blocked her airway. Her body wanted to thrash, but restraints held her. She pressed against them and gasped for air that didn’t bring fire with it.

  Except she was breathing. Vashia blinked back tears and felt the cool rush of gas work its way in and out through her nostrils. Her lungs still complained, but the pain felt dull and far away. Her fingers explored the surfaces within their reach: a smooth and cold surface, padding, a bolt. Her eyes focused and squinted to make sense of the lights and shapes overhead.

  She’d been strapped down. Something clear and curving covered her face, and her respiration fogged it enough to blind her. Still, it proved she lived, proved the embers in her lungs, the closed, aching throat hadn’t done her in entirely. Alive. She shut her eyes and wondered just how close she’d come to killing herself. And I didn’t even mean to.

  Someone shuffled around the room. She heard footsteps, mechanical noises, eventually voices. Nothing seemed familiar, not even the face that leaned in and caught her awake and looking around—and he was her husband. Haftan. He blinked in surprise and then called the doctor over before vacating her line of sight.

  She wouldn’t have expected him at her bedside, not unless, perhaps, his throne depended on her survival. That would explain it. His coronation hadn’t happened yet. If she died before he sat on the throne, would the Heart pick a different king? The doctor peered down at her with a far more interested expression. He smiled and let his relief out in a forceful exhale.

  “Well, then,” he said. “You’ve come back round to us, have you? No. Don’t move just yet. The restraints are for your sake, Your Highness. Abrupt movement is not going to feel good for some time, I’m afraid.”

  She waited. The pain in her throat would have prevented conversation even if her brain had supplied something to say. Her eyes continued to leak tears that had only a fraction to do with the injuries. She let it all out, there, protected by the cover of the straps, wires and clear plastic keeping her alive. Vashia wept and let the salt water pool inside the mask. Maybe it would drown her.

  The doctor caught it first. He pressed a control and drained the fluid away in a rush. He adjusted the filter to keep the invasive tears flushed clear and squash any further thoughts of suicide. He’d gone through so much trouble to keep her alive.

  “We have you breathing through the device.” He continued to fidget with the equipment while he spoke to her, only glancing up for confirmation when needed. “Until the blisters in your airway heal enough to reduce the pain. Your lungs suffered only mild damage, thankfully, but there are still traces of a few toxins in your system. So, until we’ve completely filtered them out, the machines will remain necessary.”

  She nodded, and the face mask rattled against whatever wires and tubes they were attached to. He seemed to think she would recover, but he hadn’t exactly guaranteed it.

  “Now,” he told her, turning from the overhead arms and eyeing her directly. “There are some people outside in a real hurry to get in. It is entirely up to you, but I’m willing to let them in, if you are.”

  Was she? Vashia closed her eyes and felt more pressure building. She’d almost died. Her body felt like she had, and half of her brain wished it. She didn’t know who waited in the room outside, but it didn’t matter. She’d woken to Haftan. She belonged to him, and she had no one to blame for it but herself.

  “Maybe they can wait a little longer?” The Shrouded doctor might have had a little Seer in him along with the science. He didn’t press it, only turned back to his adjustments and let her cry alone inside her mask with only the filter’s suction to keep her from drowning in her own stupidity.

  Syradan’s hands trembled as he deleted the foreigner’s reply. He checked twice to make sure the file left no trace behind and then left the room, looking to the far hall and back for signs of spies and listening for the trace, hollow sound of a flute or other invader. He heard nothing. He passed no one in the hover bunker, on the landing pad, or the stairs. No one moved to stop him.

  The message hadn’t exactly said to kill the queen, but “it would be in our best interest if she didn’t make it” left little room for doubt. He took the stairs at a snail’s pace, looking over his shoulder every third step. He’d already donned the traitor’s mantle. This new role shouldn’t have bothered him at all.

  He reached the plaza and turned his gaze immediately to the right, to the temple and the flags and the distance he had to cross. He had the right poisons. The doctor wouldn’t notice in an already to
xic host if a few trace substances entered the mix. Delivery would be a bit more difficult, but he had to figure an opportunity would present itself. The doctor would let them in eventually—either in groups or all at once.

  By that time, he could have something ready. He watched the tiles underfoot as the plaza slid by. The temple entrance yawned ahead. Syradan swept inside without once glancing in the direction of the Palace, without once letting his thoughts dwell on anything except for the task at hand.

  He headed down the narrow passage that led to the private chambers, classrooms, storage area and his own personal work space. He didn’t bother to activate the lighting. Syradan could navigate this particular room in darkness almost better than he could with illumination. He knew the nooks and the cabinets and each item resting inside like he knew his own skin.

  Today, he pulled out vials and tubes and small silk packets that had not seen use since he’d stored them there over thirty years ago. The day he’d taken the Seer’s vow lay back at the end of one long, and suddenly very narrow, tunnel. Whether the path ahead was equally narrow or opened up on infinite vistas, depended heavily on his next actions.

  He loaded his arms with poisons and moved to the work table, mixing the toxin he needed expertly, without error, though he’d never done it before and had learned the formula years ago. Seers did not forget knowledge any more than they forgot a vision. Of course, no Seer had ever acted on his gifts the way Syradan had. No Seer had ever lied about the seeing.

  He’d broken new ground at least on that front. His tools flashed in the scattered light, filtering in through the ducts around the windows. His hands mixed and measured and only trembled once, when the last particle had dissolved and the mixture was finished. He pressed the stopper in and tucked the wicked brew into a pocket in his wrap.

  When the evidence had been burned and the vials meticulously replaced, he retraced his steps to the temple foyer. Before he made it to the doors, a throat cleared behind him. He jumped and spun back the way he’d come. Tondil sat on one of the huge pots to the side of the room. He held a lute across his lap, and kept his eyes down.