Shrouded: Heartstone Book One

by Frances Pauli

  As their shuttle passed overhead, however, the weapons shifted to train on them. Blasts echoed off the hull, and Mofitan banked sharply one direction and then the other. The cabin shook until her teeth rattled. In the front, Dolfan and Mofitan shouted at one another over the whining of the shuttle engines.

  “Never make it!” Mof yelled, and the ship dipped sideways. “It’s too far.”

  “Side road?” Dolfan looked back over his shoulder. He tried to smile, but Vashia saw through it. They weren’t making it all the way to the Palace.

  “Too many of them in the way.” Mofitan lifted the shuttle up, but a blast over their nose brought it right back down.

  “Land it.” Vashia closed her eyes. “Go ahead and land it.”

  “They’ll be all over us.” Dolfan’s voice held resignation though. Better to land and fight than crash and have no chance at all. “We can’t take them all.”

  “I just need enough time to get one of them to listen.” If she could even pull that off. Even then, who knew how much of a hold Jarn had on them. Who knew if they’d believe her at all? “It’s the best shot we have.”

  “Vashia, no.” Dolfan protested, but Mof shouted over him.

  “Too late!” A blast hit them full on the side. The shuttle rolled on impact, and smoke whispered into the cabin. “We’re going down, like it or not.”

  She kept her lids pressed tight and counted her own heartbeat. The air stank of fire now, of fuel and electricity. A whine drowned out any talk, but she doubted the princes had much to say. They angled left until she hung in mid air, the weight of her limbs tugging at her safety harness. The engines screamed. Another blast shook them, and then they hammered into the Shrouded core.

  The impact pressed her into the harness so abruptly that she lost her breath. The straps cut at her shoulders, even with their padding. A thumping rhythm broke into her mind, pounding, the ship shaking. She caught faint moaning from the front of the shuttle. Had they all survived? Her chest squeezed. Had Dolfan been injured?

  Bright light lanced in a strip across the floor—no—across the far side of the shuttle. They’d landed at a slant, and now Vashia hung at a sharp angle above the opposite bench. Metal scraped against loose metal, and the lights flared. Voices she didn’t recognize entered the cabin.

  “The missing princes.” A man’s voice, muffled by a helmet. “We have them, Commander.”

  Vashia kicked her feet and twisted. She clawed at the restraint and fought to free herself. She had to do something, but her mind shivered away from clarity. She had to tell them something. Dolfan? Her father?

  “And someone else.” Another voice. Boot steps against their wall, then a stranger’s face looking up at her. “Who is this?”

  She blinked at him and tried to remember. He had a strong face, slim features, and eyes without the usual nasty glint to them. He wore a merc uniform, a row of mission patches above the embroidered name: Rieordan. One of the badges shimmered like satin. It had a familiar shape, a fat, happy reminder of something far away. A shining, ruby-red heart.

  “Daughter,” Vashia choked out the word. The Commander squinted at her. She inhaled as much air as the straps would allow, spoke in a rush, as if the words might stick in her throat. “I am Governor Kovath’s heir.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  “THEY FOUND two wrecked bikes near the security platform, Sir.” Evan saluted and smiled at his success. “And what was left of Syradan.”

  “You’re sure it was him?” Jarn tilted his head to the side. The traitor was dead, good. It robbed him the pleasure of doing the deed himself, but otherwise, the Seer’s death worked well with the rest of his plans.

  “Yes, Sir. Enough of the head remained intact.”

  That sounded better. Perhaps Kovath had dealt with the man for him. He could live with that…so long as Kovath didn’t live with it.

  “Have you any word about the governor and his daughter?”

  “The governor took the woman and a transport back to the platform, sir.” Evan held his gaze steady, but his eyes flashed. He let his tone convey the secret that only he and Jarn knew. “He programmed the route directly from the map you provided.”

  “Any word from them since?”

  “No, Sir.”

  Of course there wasn’t. The roads he’d programmed into Kovath’s pad went nowhere fast. The governor and his brat would never find their way out of the Shroud. His plan couldn’t have worked better.

  “Excuse me.” The blasted Commander had returned. He marched through the Palace doors and circumvented the Heart to sidle up beside Evan. He held a comm to his ear and nodded in quick succession before lowering it. “Am I to believe that Governor Kovath is no longer with us?” He looked at Jarn with a flat and far too confident expression.

  “No, you’re to understand that he’s dead,” he snapped. “And considering that leaves me in charge, you’re to improve your attitude first.”

  “Right.” Rieordan held up a finger. One, rude finger and put his ear back to the device. “One second.” He turned back and lowered his hand only a second before Jarn ordered Evan to break it. “All right, sir,” he said. “If you’ll just provide me with some proof that you have access to the governor’s accounts, please.”

  “What?”

  “The governor’s accounts. You’ll need to provide—”

  “I’ll need to do nothing of the sort.” Jarn stepped closer. He was a good four inches taller than the Commander, and he knew how to use that height. “There is no question of my ability to pay, Commander, if that’s what your clumsy inquiry is meant to imply.”

  “It was, yes.”

  “Well, you can rest assured. I am, and always have been, the sole inheritor and executor of Kovath’s estate should anything untoward befall the governor and his daughter.”

  “Right.” Commander Rieordan blinked and smiled a thin smile. He didn’t seem nearly as cowed as he should have. “You see, that would be the problem.”

  “I grow tired of your idiocy, Commander. Before I have Evan replace you permanently, humor me. What problem?”

  “Me,” a ghost called from the entrance.

  His skin crawled at the sound of her voice. Vashia. Alive? Kovath’s stupid brat had managed to escape her father’s fate. Damn. He took a step in her direction, bared his teeth and let his disdain curl around her name. “Vashia!”

  A slick black cylinder imposed itself between them. The Commander waved the gun’s muzzle closer, aimed it straight at Jarn’s temple, and grinned like a fool.

  “The problem,”—he didn’t bother to hide the joy behind his words—“would be his daughter.”

  Vashia entered the throne room with Mofitan and Dolfan on either side of her. Jarn screeched her name and took an angry step forward. The mercenary behind him raised his weapon and trained it on the Commander who in turn held Jarn at gunpoint. The troops inside the doors all aimed at one of the three men in the center of the room. It was anyone’s guess who.

  “Evan,” Commander Rieordan said softly. “How long do you think he’ll be in charge after they learn he can’t pay them? Are you planning on taking a bullet for him? For free?”

  Evan slowly dropped the weapon to his side. Jarn growled at him, but did nothing else. Another merc slid in and relieved Evan of the gun. He, too, trained his weapon on Jarn.

  “You think Kovath left his money to you, brat?” Jarn shouted at her desperately, but the damage had already been done. The mercenaries doubted him far more than they doubted her. Commander Rieordan wanted to doubt him.

  “The Shrouded government is prepared to back her claims,” Dolfan said.

  “Ha!” Jarn spat. “What Shrouded government? Haftan?”

  “I believe Pelinol is still the king.” Haftan’s voice cracked around his words. He stepped from the dais and cleared his throat. “That decision falls on him.”

  “Coward.” Jarn turned over his shoulder, but remained in place as he eyed the mercenaries’ brandished weapo
ns. “He’s afraid you’ll find out he was in bed with Syradan!” Jarn shouted, causing Haftan to flinch.

  “You lie.” He brushed at his wraps and shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Jarn’s laugh echoed to the high ceiling. The Commander stuck his rifle muzzle in the small of Jarn’s back and pushed less than gently. “Idiots.” Jarn moved, but he kept hissing. “Why would Syradan hand him the throne if he wasn’t an ally? Who had the most to benefit from the prince’s death? Was he asking too many questions? Didn’t you have the most to lose?”

  “Shut up.” Haftan said. “You are the invader here. Why would anyone believe you?”

  A hand settled on Haftan’s shoulder. He cringed under the weight, and Pelinol stepped forward. “Vashia?” the rightful king asked. “What do you plan on doing with your mercenaries?”

  The question brought the room to silence. All eyes shifted to her. She took a deep breath and stepped forward. “I intend to clean up my father’s mess,” she said. “All of my father’s messes. If I have to spend every last cent he had to do it, so much the better.”

  The Commander spoke first. He kept his rifle on Jarn, who’d fallen silent at her declaration. “What would you have us do with this one?”

  “I think we should first give him to the Shrouded to answer for his crimes against them,” she said. “Though I suspect we’ll need to assist them with security. Your Highness?”

  “Thank you.” Pelinol nodded and the mercenaries surged forward, surrounded Jarn and moved with him to the exit. The Commander remained in the throne room.

  “Commander Rieordan” Vashia turned to the man who’d pulled her from the shuttle wreckage. “I don’t need to tell you that he’s crafty.”

  “He’s not going anywhere.”

  “Thank you, Commander.”

  They’d made it to the Palace. She felt certain Jarn would cause her no more trouble. Oddly enough, it was the next step that made her knees wobble. Pelinol stood with Haftan before the dais. She faced them with Dolfan, Mofitan and her mercenary Commander. The rest of the Council still waited below the thrones. For a moment, no one spoke.

  Finally, Pelinol began, “About Tondil’s murder…”

  “She didn’t do it.” Dolfan and Mofitan both answered for her. Vashia sighed. She hadn’t earned that much loyalty, not yet.

  “Of course she did,” Haftan blurted. He flushed pink when Pelinol’s hand kept him from stepping forward.

  “I believe, Haftan, that we are missing some vital pieces of this puzzle.” The king sighed too, and he looked behind him to his court.

  “I believe Dielel can help us there,” Shayd spoke again. He stepped forward, thrusting a whimpering Dielel ahead of him.

  “What could he possibly have to say?” Haftan glared at them and Dielel cowered in Shayd’s grip.

  “Indeed,” said Pelinol. “What do you have to say, Dielel?”

  Vashia felt a tug at her elbow. She followed Dolfan forward, and Mofitan trailed them until they passed the Heart and all stood in a circle around Shayd and Dielel.

  The latter only had eyes for Haftan. He spoke directly to him, and the rest of them may as well have not existed.

  “You wanted to be king.” Dielel’s eyes widened. He stood straighter and his voice settled. “You wanted it badly, and Syradan promised he could make it happen.”

  “Dear god.” Lucha whispered from her couch. She held Peryl. The youngest prince looked from Dielel to Haftan and back. Vashia knew what it felt to be on the receiving end of that look. She almost pitied them.

  “This is ridiculous.” Haftan waved a hand in Dielel’s face. “I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “Syradan fixed it,” Dielel said. “But Tondil guessed that he’d tampered with the Heart.”

  “You’re a worthless fool,” Haftan said. “Vashia killed Tondil. It was her poison.”

  “How can you accuse Vashia?” Dolfan said. “How can you possibly accuse her?” He stepped forward, and this time, Haftan backed away. He couldn’t go far. The rest of the court ringed them in. “How did he do it?” Dolfan pressed him. “How did you two rig the Heart?”

  “You’re mad.” Haftan snarled and looked to either side. “The Heart is never wrong.”

  “And yet,” Pelinol interjected, “you have accused your bonded of murder.”

  “How’d he do it?” Mofitan snarled.

  “He doesn’t know!” Dielel howled. His voice trailed off into a sob. “Syradan didn’t tell him. He believed that Haftan wanted the crown enough to pretend he was the real king.”

  “He was right,” Pelinol said. He stamped a foot against the tiles and snarled at his absent Seer. “Wasn’t he, Haftan?”

  “I—I thought the stone had picked me.” Haftan sagged in defeat. “I was king. It wanted me to be king. I assumed the rest was just a secret only the Seer knew, that the Heart was all about the throne and not the marriage.”

  “What about Tondil?” Peryl stood taller, let go of his mother and shook his head. “Which one of you came up with that?”

  “I didn’t even know about that,” Dielel said. “Syradan must have known we wouldn’t agree to it.”

  “I’m not so sure.” Peryl’s voice hardened. His whole demeanor took on an edge of steel. “I’m not so sure you both wouldn’t have agreed, if it got you what you wanted.”

  Haftan shook his head, though it still hung forward and he refused to look at Peryl. Dielel only curled in further on himself.

  The room fell silent. Shayd held Dielel by the collar, and Haftan stared at his feet. The rest of them looked to Pelinol for guidance. Vashia noted the king’s glance toward the still silent Heart. Had Haftan believed the same as she had this whole time? Was the ritual no more than a ruse, a secret lie that no one was allowed to reveal?

  Finally, Pelinol cleared his throat. “The Heart has been tampered with,” he declared, although he sounded unsure, “which means we have no Kingmaker. Sorry.” The look he threw Vashia made her laugh aloud.

  “Pardon, Your Highness,” she said, “but I’ve never been so relieved.”

  “But how did he do it?” Lucha asked. “And how do we fix it now?”

  “Another bonding,” Shayd said. He didn’t look up, nor did he elaborate.

  “How will that help?” Vashia felt a tremble of fear. If the damned thing picked wrong once, it could do it again. “With all of you buzzing in my head, how the hell will we know what’s right or wrong?”

  “What’s that?” Lucha stood up and stepped forward. “What did you say?”

  “We can all feel her.” Mofitan growled his frustration, and Vashia had to smile. There was a lot to like there. Despite her original fears, Mofitan was a good man. “Like bloody static.”

  “Is this true?” Pelinol scowled when they all nodded in reply. “That’s not right. That’s not what it’s like at all.”

  The throne room exploded into chatter again. Vashia felt Dolfan’s hand around her waist, protective, possessive. She leaned into him and waited for them all to calm down.

  Mofitan snarled. “He’s put some sort of spell on us. Damn Syradan and his magic!”

  “Thank God,” Peryl said. Everyone looked to him. He stood beside his father now, and he caught Vashia’s eyes very briefly. “Sorry, but I thought there was something seriously wrong with me.”

  She had to stifle a laugh. No one else enjoyed the prince’s humor, or maybe they didn’t quite understand it. Shayd’s shoulders might have shaken, just a tad, but she couldn’t see his face properly. His hand came up and brushed his long hair to the side, and the stone in his ring flashed.

  “How’d he do it?” Mofitan asked. “How’d he get us all?”

  “Well,” Vashia said, staring at the gemstone on Shayd’s finger, “you all have the same damn ring.” She felt Dolfan tense beside her.

  “But the rings never leave the finger,” Pelinol sighed. “Unless he attacked them all in their sleep, he must have found a way to
taint the bonding itself. What?” He looked around the room. Every last prince stared at his own hand. “What?”

  “The stupid blessing?” Peryl whispered. “The damned bowl?”

  “What are you talking about?” Pelinol looked to each of them in turn, even her. Vashia shrugged and followed his glances. Finally, Dolfan answered for them all.

  “During the blessing,” he said. “Syradan took the rings and put them all in a bowl.”

  “Shroud!” Pelinol shouted. “That’s not right either.”

  “You mean he really did tamper with them?” Mofitan looked at his hand, but didn’t touch the ring, didn’t even move to adjust its hold on his finger. “Now what do we do?”

  “I’ll go first.” Peryl jumped up and pulled his ring off. He almost skipped to his father’s side and handed the thing over.

  Vashia felt the difference the instant the ring touched Pelinol. His eyes flew to her, and he flushed pink. “Oh dear,” he said. “Perhaps, we should put them on the—here.” He took two steps to the nearest couch and dropped the ring.

  Shayd joined him, removing his own ring and then pushing Dielel forward as well. None of them looked at her directly, but she felt the static dim with each ring that dropped to the cushions. When Haftan grudgingly added his, she thoroughly enjoyed the fading of static. Then only Mofitan and Dolfan still stood staring at one another. Vashia held her breath and watched them. They did it together, slid the stones from their hands and set them down in one movement.

  For the first time since she’d met them, the static hushed. Her mind was silent; nothing buzzed under her skin. It felt like a shuttlecraft had lifted from her shoulders. When they both turned to look at her, she couldn’t bring herself to miss it. Not even looking at Dolfan. Not for a second. She didn’t need the static to know who she wanted to belong to.

  “Oh,” she sighed. “Oh thank God.”