“Gone.” He spun and ran for the nearest bike. The shed sat at the end of the canyon, and boasted a heavy stock of face masks. He snagged one from a hook with one hand and pulled the bike along the rails with the other. By the time he left the awning, Mofitan stood in his way again.
“We should take the shuttle,” he yelled.
“Too slow!” Dolfan threw a leg over and flipped the current on. This time, damn it, he’d run Mof over if he had to.
“The shuttle has a cannon!” Mof had a point. No way would they be able to take the ship with a security pistol.
Dolfan shook his head and gunned the bike in warning. “Vashia’s on board!” he yelled.
“I’ll follow you!”
A cannon would help, but only if they could get Vashia out first. Dolfan nodded and waited while Mofitan stepped aside. Once he was clear, Dolfan pushed off. He landed on the current and hit the switch in one motion. The bike rocketed straight up, pointing into the Shroud while, below him, Mofitan ran for the shuttle.
Dolfan didn’t pause. The bike shot forward and he leaned into the rush. Vashia’s father took her farther from him by the second. Mof could find his own way. Like it or not, her static signature sang to both of them.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
VASHIA WOKE TO LOW VOICES. The floor vibrated, and she heard the familiar sound of engines, but they came from under her cheek. Vashia blinked her eyes open, cold fear joining the aches in her body. Syradan had drugged her. He’d poked her with a needle and now she was on a ship. Worse, it wasn’t the Seer’s familiar voice that rang through the cabin—it was her father’s.
She could see a uniformed leg, a nubby gray boot and the closed hatch. Masks hung on a peg beside it and below them a line of chutes. Troop transport. Shit. She’d been handed over to the mercenaries. An unfamiliar voice spoke over her head. “She’s moving, Sir.”
Something nudged her side less than gently. She rolled over to avoid a second push and came face to face with Governor Kovath. He smiled down at her with eyes like flint. “Hello, Your Highness.” His lips curled out around the address. “You’ve been a busy girl, haven’t you?”
“Not as busy as you,” she tried to sit, but her arms wobbled under her weight.
“Of course not.” He tugged on his gloves and sniffed his satisfaction. “However, you were supposed to disappear into some native’s bed, not take over the damned throne. Perhaps you inherited at least a portion of my genes after all.”
Vashia winced and managed to prop herself up on one elbow. “No thanks,” she said. She had no illusions when it came to parental affection. “What happens to me now?”
“Now that is a problem,” Kovath grinned, and she scooted a few inches away from him, dragging her ribs out of the range of his boot, just in case. “Syradan has framed you for murder which makes you far less useful to me than I’d hoped.”
Murder. If it had been Syradan who framed her for Tondil’s death, then the Seer had been the one responsible for it. Vashia thought of Peryl’s face, of the rage he’d turned against her and felt nauseated. Had Syradan gone back to spread more lies about her? What would stop them from believing him, now that her father’s men had attacked the Palace? She looked around the ship. Two mercenaries sat on the couch by the door and one pilot at the controls. Where was Jarn? Her gut told her she didn’t want to know.
“Jarn has betrayed me.” Her father answered the unspoken question. “Which leaves me in possession of a moon base and nothing more. Still, the man will want out, won’t he? He’ll need that elevator and he’ll need that base or what good is the bloody planet?”
“Then you’ll kiss and make up?” Vashia scooted away again. This time his boot flashed out, as she knew it would, it caught her in the hip and sent a shock of pain down her leg. The attack covered her slow retreat, made moving closer to the door look natural, innocent.
“Stupid.” Kovath snarled at her. “You always were a slow child. Then I’ll have you to barter with, won’t I?”
“What would Jarn want with me?” She edged away, turning her head discreetly to fix the position of the nearest face mask in her mind.
“Screw Jarn. I should think the Shrouded King will want to see you in custody, considering you killed a member of his Council. I’ll trade you and their freedom for Jarn’s hide.”
“You’d let this planet go just to pay him back?”
“Hell no, but the Shrouded idiots don’t know that, do they?”
Before she could answer, the floor tilted sharply. Vashia rolled with it, found herself wedged against the door with little effort on her part. She heard the pilot curse and watched Kovath’s attention leave her. “What the hell was that?” He snapped at the pilot. His restraint harness held him fast to the couch opposite her. The mercenaries to the side had similar safeties in place. She’d guessed the pilot’s answer seconds before she heard it.
“We’re losing the road, Sir.”
“What? Damn it all.” Kovath reached to his harness snap, but hesitated before releasing it. The floor bucked again. Vashia grabbed the racking and clung to it. “How long till we hit the platform?”
“We should have found it by now.” The pilot’s voice cracked. The man knew her father, she suspected, he’d know what failure meant.
“How the hell did you miss it? I programmed the damned map into—” She watched his face stretch like a cartoon. His thick brows almost reached his hairline and his mouth stretched and twisted around a single name: “Jarn!”
Vashia pulled herself up the rack. She snagged a mask as she triggered the door mechanism. Dust sucked in through the gap, and the Shroud boiled outside, thick and yellow and eager to invade the cabin. She didn’t care. Her fingers clutched the mask, but she doubted she’d have time to don it. Still, she leapt from the vehicle, felt it bobble as the variance took it out from under her feet.
Her body flew to the side, flung toward the deep surface like a scrap. Until she felt the whisper of static, just at the edge of her perception, she didn’t bother to worry if she’d survive the impact.
Jarn heard the sniffling like distant fingernails, slowly scraping away at his patience. His mercenaries circled the room, keeping a respectful distance from the grieving court. The mercs spoke only in muffled voices, and very few kept their weapons ready at all. And each successive sob from the gathered Shrouded dug Jarn’s irritation even deeper.
He took a report from one of his field commanders with Evan’s comm and kept an eye on the court at the same time. The big crystal bothered him as well. Jarn could think of no rational reason for it, but the damned rock just sat there in the middle of the room, dark and covered in a protective dome. He couldn’t shake the feeling the thing watched him.
He handed the device back and smiled at the man who he’d come to think of as his first in command. “It seems to be going well, Evan,” he said. “Very little resistance in fact. We might be able to tidy this up with fewer casualties than I thought.”
“Excuse me?”
Jarn turned to Haftan. “Yes, Your Highness?”
“If we could move Tondil’s body.” The new ruler’s voice trembled, his tone full of fear and desperation. If Syradan had meant to prepare him for this, he’d done a poor job of it. “I think they’d calm down if he wasn’t still lying there.”
He had a point, though Jarn sensed the man only half believed in his own position. Going along with his suggestion would allow Haftan to feel powerful. It would also cement the idea that it was he, Jarn, who dispensed that power. He nodded and attempted to sound impressed. “An excellent idea, your Highness. I’ll see to it first thing.”
“Have you heard word of Syradan?” Haftan seized upon the opportunity to assert his position, and Jarn didn’t appreciate that. “Our Seer’s presence would help to calm them as well.”
“Do you have so little faith in your own abilities?” Jarn let his irritation show. He’d learned quickly that any show of dominance cowed the young king. “Perhaps your pr
edecessor would be a better man to deal with?”
“No.” Haftan stood taller, but fear touched his eyes. “I am fully capable of handling the situation.”
“Good. Then we’ve dealt with the right man. Now,” Jarn looked away intentionally, letting his attention wander to show Haftan exactly how unimportant his position was. “Go back to your Council and see that you keep them in order.”
He didn’t wait for the man to obey. He stepped sharply away, leaving the king to face his back, and waved for the mercenary Commander. He watched the man cross from the entrance and noted that he too gave the domed crystal a wide berth, cast a suspicious glance at the dark rock and skirted as far from it as the width of the aisle allowed.
“Evan!”
“Yes, sir?” The man appeared at his elbow as if he were sewn there.
“Get some men and supervise the moving of that body. Have the mercs do it, though, not the Royals.”
“Yes, sir.” Evan slid away to do his bidding, and the Commander replaced him.
“Rieordan.” Jarn eyed the man through narrow eyes. This one, he had doubts about. He’d seen the man looking at him more than once with distaste in his expression. “Have your men managed to get word on the traitor, or the missing princes?”
“They’re still in the process of keeping the streets under your control, Sir.” The man’s eyes drifted from Jarn to the group beside the dais. “When Governor Kovath arrives, I’m certain we’ll have more time to sweep for strays.”
“Sweep now.” Jarn snapped. “God only knows what’s kept the governor.”
“Yes, sir.” The Commander turned away and frowned at the mercenaries dragging the body into the aisle. Behind them, the youngest, sobbing prince had to be restrained by his peers. Jarn felt the beginning of a smile twitch, but the Commander cut it short. “You there!” He shouted and took a step toward the men. “Show some damned respect.”
“I have ordered the body removed.” Jarn let the words stretch. The Commander had a little too much authority with the men, a little too much loyalty by his thinking.
“Then get a gurney.” Rieordan didn’t even look at him. He kept his eyes on the cluster of Royals. His voice softened. “Is there something you have to cover him with?”
Jarn rolled his eyes and pressed his lips tight together. The weeping boy unwound his outer wrap, and two of the Palace staff members scuttled to drape it over the dead prince, now lying in the aisle at the feet of two mercenaries.
“You have a medical unit?” The Commander continued to address the group, to come terribly close to defying his orders. “Your Highness?”
“Yes, the doctor can move him, if that is allowable?” Haftan, at least, had the sense to flick a glance to Jarn, to offer him the final say.
“Of course.” Jarn waved the incident to the side and retrieved a measure of calm. Haftan, he could work with. It boded well for their future as political partners. That commander, however, needed replacing quick. Until he could work out how, he’d send the man to look for the missing princes, send him away from the Palace while he got things firmly in hand.
He stomped down the aisle to the entrance with Evan at his heels. The stupid rock stared at him as he passed. Kovath hadn’t arrived on schedule. Jarn’s lip twitched. He’d snagged his daughter then. Kovath had guessed his intentions, intercepted the traitor, and ran for the elevator. He stifled a laugh and eyed the line of mercenaries. If he’d done his job correctly, they were his mercenaries now, and Governor Kovath and his brat would never live to see the elevator, or anywhere else, again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
DOLFAN SAW HER JUMP. The shuttle faltered and veered one way and the soft shadow that buzzed in his veins flew in the other direction. He banked left and followed her fall with his eyes. The Shroud heaved between them, and all he could make out was the dust cloud of her impact.
Dolfan landed when the road wiggled again, set the craft down and leapt from it before the engines died. They’d flown straight into the core wastes, into a plain that stretched to the west and away from anything aside from a few scattered mining craters. He slogged through the deep dust and prayed it had cushioned her enough, prayed even more so, that she wore a mask.
An explosion rocked in the distance, and the Shroud rippled as the wave passed over. He staggered to one side, but didn’t turn. Even with the static to guide him, Dolfan feared the deep surface and the thick air boiling low with no visibility. He stumbled forward, and kept his eyes on the ground.
A second, smaller concussion rattled the ground. He worried for Mofitan, for the slower shuttle that had managed to keep pace only through the man’s willingness to take every risk in the book. But Mof could look out for himself, and, at the moment, he needed to find Vashia. He needed to track that whisper of static and get to her before the Shroud did.
If she doesn’t have a mask on...He trudged through the next drift and caught sight of something dark ahead. When the shape moved, he bolted for it, his legs dragging each step. He fell into a squat beside Vashia just as she sat up. Her hands worked at the straps of a face mask that hadn’t quite made it into the proper position. He helped her, tweaked the seal and got the fasteners tightened safely. Only then did he pull her close.
When she returned the embrace, he relaxed a little. Her eyes shone bright behind the mask, and she breathed normally.
“Are you okay?” he shouted over the sound of engines. When Vashia nodded, he turned back the way he’d come. The shuttle hovered a short distance from where he’d ditched his bike. Behind it, a plume of black smoke cast a thick, writhing shadow visible even through the Shroud. The transport had gone down, and, judging from the sound of the explosion and the size of that cloud, no one had survived the crash.
He helped Vashia stand, wrapped an arm around her waist and guided her back toward the vehicle and Mofitan. She took three steps with him before balking.
“Is that the transport?” She hollered over the shuttle’s whine.
“I’m afraid so.”
“My father’s dead?”
He nodded, but her face didn’t fall. Her expression remained level, neutral, but he could have sworn the lines around her eyes softened.
“I didn’t do it,” said Vashia. “I didn’t have anything to do with it.” Now tears sparkled under the mask. She looked to him and her eyes begged him to believe what he already knew.
“Of course you didn’t.” He’d never suspected she had, but her shoulders still relaxed, and Dolfan felt relief sweep through her.
“Thank you.”
Mof shouted from the craft and he tugged at her to move again. The roads in this area didn’t hold as steady as they did near the cities, and Mofitan had already come farther than Dolfan would have taken a shuttle that size. The door slid open before they reached it, and Dolfan helped Vashia up before rolling in behind her.
The shuttle lifted and started back before they’d even shut the hatch. Mof knew the risk; he was always fully aware of risks. He may have been a risk taker, but he wasn’t reckless. The engines revved loudly as the man steered quickly into the direction of a safe route.
“Thanks.” Dolfan slid out of his mask and said it again. “Thanks, Mof.”
“Did you see the blast?” Mofitan turned to them, his mask still on and a huge grin splitting his features. “I hit them square in the—oh. Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Vashia’s voice sounded smaller than it should. The man might have been the devil, but he’d still fathered her. “I’m fine.”
“Well,” Mof hollered over the shuttles rumble. “What do we do now?”
Not a bad question. Dolfan frowned and tried to sort out a plan. “We could get to the elevator,” he said. “If they don’t have an army waiting there.”
“The Palace,” Vashia said from his elbow. “If Jarn has the Palace, we have to help them.”
“The whole valley is crawling with mercenaries,” Mofitan shouted back. “We’ll never get near it alive.”
> Dolfan watched her face. Back to the Palace meant facing the accusation of murder. It meant facing all the damage her father and Syradan had done in her name. If he could get her to the moon, they might be able to make a run for it. “We need to get you out of here,” he whispered.
“No.” She shook her head. “We have to stop him.”
“How?” He didn’t like the idea of leading her back into danger anymore than he liked their odds of getting anywhere near the Palace again. “We could go to Tarren’s, or another crater somewhere. If we hide out for now, maybe we can take back—”
“You don’t know Jarn,” she said. “You don’t know what he can do, how fast he can destroy everything your people have.”
“Vashia, they have troops of mercenaries, armed men, transport ships…”
She just stared up at him.
“Which way am I driving?” Mof hollered. Hell, the idiot would be up for anything; he’d storm the Palace, the platform, even the moon, all on his own.
“Is my father dead?” Vashia asked Mofitan.
“Nobody could have survived that,” he answered.
“Head back to the Palace.” She stuck her chin out and set her shoulders back.
“Vashia,” Dolfan tried to reason with her. “How long do you think it will take those mercenaries to kill us all?”
“That depends,” she said. He’d meant to scare her. Instead she smiled up at him. “It depends on how long it takes them to sort out who’s going to pay them now.”
They’d barely burst free of the Shroud when the mercenaries started firing. Vashia clung to her harness and focused on Dolfan’s faith in her. His and Mofitan’s faith. Neither of them had much reason to trust her, and yet, they’d turned the transport around without another word and headed back into danger.
Mofitan piloted the craft through the barrage and down past the Security platform to the long road that led toward the Palace. A narrow gauntlet bristled with mercenary defenses. Two of the troop vehicles had settled on the first platform, and a few waited directly ahead in the midst of the chaos. Ground troops lined the streets, carrying heavy assault rifles and herding clusters of Shrouded citizens into large huddles.
Shrouded: Heartstone Book One Page 25
