Shrouded: Heartstone Book One (21 page)

T
he 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.

S
he 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.

S
yradan’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 toxic 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.

“I need to talk to you,” the prince whispered.

Syradan’s chest fluttered. He shrugged and walked back to join the man. He forced his voice to obey his control, despite the rage of sudden nerves. “What can I do for you, Tondil?”

“There’s something wrong with our new queen.” Still, the prince’s eyes fixed on the lute’s strings. He didn’t make eye contact, nor did he raise his voice above a conspiratorial level. “Something’s not right.”

“I should think so, young man. The poor girl inhaled half the Shroud.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” He set the instrument down on the pot hard enough for the wood to complain. “There’s always been something wrong. Now the doctor says she’s not fighting like she should be. He says she’s lackluster and weak.”

“The toxins were very high.”

“Damn the toxins.” Tondil stood up so abruptly Syradan had to clench his muscles to avoid flinching from the younger man. “It’s something else, something about the Heart and Haftan. They’re not right. They’ve never been right. Have they?”

This time he stared directly at Syradan. His eyes didn’t exactly accuse, but they pinned him just the same, sharp and measured and far more knowing than he should have been.

“I’m not sure. I don’t know what could be wrong.” He stammered, aware as he did it and unable at this point to rein in his growing panic. This one, of them all, this whimsical idiot had ferreted out the truth? His mind flipped and sorted through the possible options left him.

“But you can find out,” Tondil said. “You can look, or
see,
or do something. You’d be able to tell if the Heart was wrong, wouldn’t you?”

“The Heart is never wrong.” It was a pathetic, last ditch effort, but Tondil waved it off without hesitation. His faith in the stone had never been what it should have.

“But something
is
wrong.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with me.” He tripped up and let his words turn defensive. He scrambled to cover the lapse. “I’m not certain how I could help.”

“You’re the Seer.” Tondil began to pace, he turned his gaze on the carpet and gave Syradan a moment to compose himself. He made a tent of his hands and pressed them under his chin. Bloody lines crisscrossed each delicate fingertip. The lute had been unkind to Tondil.

Syradan narrowed his eyes. “Only for a few more days. Perhaps Shayd could—”

“I don’t think Vashia has that much time.”

“Right. Well, if you think it would help, I might be able to do a reading.”

“A reading. Good.” Tondil stopped pacing. “That might tell us something?”

“Of course.” Syradan relaxed. The young prince would be satisfied with a reading. Tondil hadn’t suspected anything more than a failure of the crystal he’d already doubted. “I can do it this afternoon, just as soon as I deliver a message.”

“To the moon base?”

A shot of nerves returned. “No, to Pelinol. Why?” He reminded himself that it had been Tondil who caught him outside the hover comm station.