Shrouded: Heartstone Book One (24 page)

She’d achieved an almost cheery mood by the time they entered the dome. The air dripped and sweated against the glass, and the floor stretched in all directions with perfect little green rows. Overhead a tangle of pipes wove a maze of watering and chemical delivery systems. She breathed in deeply and let the warmth and the moisture sooth the dull ache that still lingered in her lungs. It felt good. Maybe she could hide here with Tarren and they could support one another.

She’d just convinced herself she could take it, that with Tarren to commiserate with, life on Shroud might be bearable, when her friend took off at a run. Ahead of them, a Shrouded man dropped his long-handled tool and jogged in their direction. Vashia watched, stunned by the sudden change in demeanor, as the two met on the narrow path. Any hopes of sharing her plight with her friend vanished, when Tarren launched, bouncing even, into her husband’s arms.

T
he wires sparked
and rained fire around the console. Jarn holstered his pistol and eyed the damage. That should keep the relays quiet, at least between the platform and the palace complex. Syradan had given him enough of a map to get them that far. The man’s guidelines checked out and they should have no problem navigating that distance by coordinates. He didn’t see any reason the devices should be left to assist his foes—or any of his allies that might get ideas.

This was the last in the circle around the platform. He’d gone a little farther the first time, tested Syradan’s roads without heading directly to the target crater, just to be sure of the man’s maps. The relays had little defense; they were designed to be easily disabled by the paranoid Shrouded who considered dropping the signals as a last line defense against invaders.

Jarn snorted and then let a smile stretch across his lips. Most invaders wouldn’t have a perfect, detailed map of exactly how to reach the palace. Most invaders wouldn’t have had the resources or the clearance codes to take out the Security detail around the platform quickly and without much of a struggle. He tapped the shredded console. His mercenaries would have no trouble with the Shrouded.

He still had work to do, still had Kovath to deal with. He reminded himself that the day was not quite his yet, and turned to the merc he’d set at the doorway. “This is the last of them?”

The man eyed his data pad and nodded. Three devices contained those maps, and only two of them hadn’t been programmed to lie. He and his bodyguard possessed those. The third would get someone just far enough to get lost; he’d made certain to modify the data precisely to ensure that.

“I need a man stationed here,” he said. “When the time comes, I’d rather not depart from the primary platform.

“Too much attention,” countered his hired mercenary. “And too much chance they’ll know how to get there even in the dark.”

“Very well.” The man had a brain along with his square muscles and lack of neck. “What’s your name?”

“Evan, Sir.”

“Well, Evan, is it your goal to work as a mercenary forever?”

“No, Sir.”

“Good. Keep that in mind and don’t let that data pad out of your sight.” Jarn surveyed the damage one last time and then headed for the door. “And stay close to me. Tell your partner to remain here. Tell him to shoot down anything that moves in this direction.”

The mercenary saluted. His grin said enough to satisfy Jarn. It echoed his, “Yes, Sir,” completely.

T
arren’s home
might have been a humble affair compared to Murrel’s, but it suited her perfectly. Vashia followed Peryl through the entrance, between rows of short, flowering shrubs and into the main portion of the house. Here the atmosphere returned to normal. They met a rush of cool air that held no trace of the moisture from outside the domes.

The main room boasted ample seating, if one could dodge the assortment of gardening gadgetry, pots, and other clutter. Every surface inside the building had a different hue, yet it all seemed to match, possibly held together by the continuity of detritus littered about. Vashia settled onto a soft couch beside Peryl and sighed. Lovely, perfect—the same homey combination that wafted from the couple hosting them.

Mack and Tarren bustled about clearing paths and adjusting piles until Peryl giggled out loud. He couldn’t help himself, and Vashia was hardly ready to blame him. Tarren’s cheery situation warmed her, even though it cemented her feeling that she’d been handed the shortest of straws when it came to the Heart.

“Stop fussing,” she said when Tarren tossed her a panicked look. She held a stack of tiny pots that clanked and teetered dangerously. “Just sit down and visit.”

“It was clean this morning,” Tarren said.

“It’s wonderful now, Tarren. Sit.”

“She’s right.” Mack shrugged. “I’ll get some refreshments. You visit.” He pressed his wife into a chair between a tower of cloth and a table covered in seed packets and left the room. When he’d gone, Tarren joined Peryl in a giggle.

“I’m really nervous,” she said. “How stupid is that?”

“Pretty stupid.” Vashia smiled at her. “Since I enjoyed your company during the no bathing phase.”

“What?” Peryl looked horrified.

“It doesn’t matter. Mack seems wonderful.”

“He is.” Tarren shoved the seeds aside and pulled out a lump of wire weaving. “His Shrouded name is Makryl, but I can’t call him that with a straight face.” Her fingers took to twisting the wire while she spoke. “His cousin cuts stones for the mine, and he’s teaching me a little. I’m going to make jewelry, maybe get that little market stall after all.”

“That’s fantastic.”

“A long ways better than life in Wraith.”

“For certain.”

“What’s wrong with Wraith?” Peryl’s question set them both to laughing.

“You’d have to go there to know,” Vashia didn’t care to elaborate on a situation that she’d begun to claim as a personal failure. “But pretty much everything.”

“I was born in a brothel,” Tarren hadn’t shared that before, but it explained a great deal. “I never really left.”

“Sure you did,” Vashia said. “You got out in spades.”

“I’ve been meaning to thank you.” Tarren darted a look toward Peryl, but she’d sat up taller and put the wire down in her lap. “It was a kind thing that you did at Murrel’s, to let me think the Heart was nothing special. You could have been like them, rubbed in how wonderful it was, but you agreed with my stubborn ideas to spare my feelings.”

“No, really.” Vashia’s eyes moved to Peryl too. She heard his intake of breath and felt herself trapped in a corner. She sighed. “It didn’t seem fair to go on about it in front of you like that.”

Peryl’s look changed from shock to sympathy. He patted her on the shoulder and grinned. “Vashia’s a jewel. We’re lucky to have her.”

“It sounds like she’s lucky to still be with us.” Tarren shook her head. “All that training about the breathers and you spaced it?”

“Hey, what happened to, ‘Oh Vashia, I was so worried about you?’”

“You look fine to me.”

“Nice.” Vashia couldn’t help but smile. Tarren looked great, she smelled great. Her husband seemed great, though a bit short and stockier than she’d have imagined. Her mood lifted despite the chorus in the back of her mind.
Everyone but you is happy

Makryl returned carrying a tray as cluttered as the house, overflowing with platters and dangling bunches of fruit and cutlets of meat that had spilled their bonds. Peryl leapt up to assist him, and they managed to set the thing down without spilling more than a few grapes to be lost in the mess on the floor. Four tubes stood in the tray’s center, each sparkling with a different colored drink. The man had a style all his own, and a lighthearted face despite his heavy bulk.

Vashia took the blue drink he offered and lifted it to take a sip when the door rattled. Mack set his orange tube down and crossed to open it. She didn’t need to see past his width to know Dolfan had arrived, but she smiled when Peryl announced it. The look died when she saw Dolfan’s face.

“What?” Peryl stood up a half-second before she did. “What is it?” he asked.

Vashia could understand the panicked tone of his voice. Dolfan’s skin looked ashen, and his frown etched deep lines in his forehead. She had to bite her lip to keep her urge to run to him in check.

“Several of the relays beyond the main platform are no longer functioning,” he said. “The moon still has not responded to any communications, and the palace has had no contact with the teams sent in to look at repairs.” He accepted the drink Mack offered and shrugged. “I suspect the storm did far more damage than we thought—maybe even to the elevator.”

“Are you heading up?” Peryl asked.

“No.” He shook his head and looked directly at her. “Haftan will have his coronation first. The system is designed to be shut down anyway, and no one’s worried.”

“Sounds like you think they should be,” Mack said. “Is there anything we can do?”

“Hunker down for now.” He stepped forward and handed a data pad to Peryl. “Security is to treat it like a defense blackout until we sort it out. This came for you.”

“Defense black out?” Mack moved back to stand behind Tarren. “Can you get back?”

“The relays this side of the complex are functioning normally. Only the ones between here and the platform have taken damage. I was thinking of checking the nearest one on the way back. If the queen is amenable to a slight delay?”

“Of course.” Vashia nodded, all eyes suddenly on her. Heavens knew she wasn’t in any hurry to rush back.

“Good. Security is loaning me an extra probe. If I can get that relay up to capacity, you should be able to get back to business with only a small deviation.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

“Do you need me?” Peryl didn’t look up from the pad. “Tondil wants help with something.”

“No,” Dolfan answered without pause. Vashia thought she saw a smile flicker briefly on his features. “If you can borrow a bike to get back, I think we can manage.”

Vashia took a drink and watched his face. Defense blackout meant nothing to her, but she understood one thing he wasn’t sharing. If the storm damage was responsible for the damaged relays, but it only took out those in a direct line between the palace and the platform, that was one unusual weather pattern. She would argue it might look suspicious.

She glanced from one face to the other and wondered why the hell no one was saying it.

S
yradan sipped
his juice and kept an eye on the man across the room. Haftan paced back and forth between the couches and the table. He never even looked at the instrument lying on the couch beside the Seer. He hadn’t seemed to notice the lute at all.

Syradan stored his observations, including the number of times the new king glanced up to the Shroud, and calculated just how much time he’d have to get off-world before Haftan caved and confessed that he felt nothing for his queen. The man could barely contain his unease, and the woman was halfway across the planet.

Haftan jumped when the door rattled and kicked one of the chairs hard enough to bang the table. Syradan winced as the lute sang softly, one random note born from the sudden vibrations. It didn’t mean anything. The sound held true despite the layer of poison coating each metal string.

“Are you going to get that?”

Haftan jumped again at the sound of his voice, but recovered fast enough to snarl at him. “I am two days away from being your king,” he argued, but he went to open the door just the same. Syradan had no time to worry about the king’s temper. He was two minutes away from being a murderer.

Dielel waited on the other side of the door. He hustled into the room, but balked when he caught sight of Syradan. His eyes flew to Haftan for reassurance, but the new king had reinstated his pacing.

“Good afternoon, Dielel,” Syradan said. “How are you getting along these days?”

“Huh?” Even for such a simple question, he looked to Haftan before answering. The man’s loyalty had become a reflex. “Fine. I’m fine.”

“How lovely,” Syradan sniffed and turned his attention back to his juice. The fruit had a sweeter flavor than usual, perhaps from overzealous fertilizers or a late harvest. He swirled it in the glass and suppressed a quick flare of concern. Certainly no one would go that far?

It almost amused him, the idea of Tondil offing him before he could return the favor. He set the glass down half finished and watched Dielel sulk to the table. Haftan ignored his shadow while Dielel stood staring at the Shroud himself for a moment before dragging a chair from the table and flopping into it.

When he reached for the juice pitcher, Syradan’s chest squeezed and he stood up quickly enough to make the other two men flinch.

“What’s the matter now?” Syradan asked. Dielel looked close to tears.

“Absolutely nothing.” Haftan snapped. He turned to Syradan and frowned. “Is that the queen’s lute?”

“The queen asked me to deliver it to Tondil.” Syradan swooped in with his rehearsed response. “He’s coming by to take it for tuning.”

“Shroud!” Dielel hammered a fist on the table and sent a flat note humming from the lute. “Everything’s gone wrong!”

“Don’t be dramatic.” Haftan waved off his friend’s distress. “Nothing is wrong.”

Dielel’s snort drowned in the next knock at the door. Haftan tossed a look at Syradan. Dielel glowered at his own toes. Syradan picked up the lute. This time, he would answer the door.

“That would be Tondil.” Haftan’s voice had a bite to it.

“I’ll just give it to him on my way out.” He couldn’t waste his breath soothing either of them. The time had come for action. He’d already sunk to his neck in the business, certainly, but this last act would weigh the heaviest on him. It would be the one that haunted him after he’d gone.

He reached the door and pulled it wide. Tondil raised his eyebrows but said nothing, only nodded a greeting as Syradan handed him the instrument. He’d asked for it. Syradan reminded himself of that, chanted it with each step as he slid out into the hall. The queen’s lute required tuning, and Tondil couldn’t resist the queen. He fled the scene with his head high and his robes billowing. He’d made the right decision in defying Jarn. The girl had proven quite useful, and she’d be taken care of just as easily. Her arrest would help him a great deal more than her death might have. He smiled at Shayd and Mofitan lurking in the foyer and scuttled past them. Yes, much better this way. Their Vashia was about to commit the crime of the century.

T
he transport wobbled
as they shot out of the crater. Dolfan steadied the craft, verified that the probes still blinked happily just past the nose and then checked on his passenger. She sat straight and stiff in the chair beside his. Her eyes stretched wide as she watched the Shroud, but her skin hadn’t gone ghost pale this time, her hands sat on the arm rests instead of grasping them in a death grip that the material would never recover from. Good.

This time, there was no chatter, no constant rattling on of Peryl from the rear—they had no chaperone, and the absence of sound reminded them. The silence screamed between them. It drowned out even the static of the Heart and swept anything he might have said directly out of his mind.

He struggled against it, counted each mile and calculated how long they had to reach the relay, how long the return trip would take. He weighed that figure against the things that needed said and felt the pressure building. Their only chance, their only time was now.

“Vashia,” he started abruptly, causing her to jump at the sound of his voice. She didn’t look at him, but one of her arms shot forward toward the view screen.

“Probe.”

“Pardon?”

“Probe!” Her eyes shifted for a second to his, but her hand stabbed ahead.

Dolfan felt the transport sag before he tore his gaze from her. He guessed he’d find no blinking from the warning devices, but their absence still sent a stab of adrenaline through his body. He flew to action, compensating for the ship’s wobble and preparing to set her down as quickly and gently as possible. They lost the road before touchdown, and the vehicle smacked the surface harder than he’d intended. The undercarriage whined as it tried to spin while embedded in a layer of soil. He killed power and stared at the dust settling over their nose.

“Damn!” He spun toward Vashia. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, but all her color had gone.

“It’s just variance, the roads wobble on occasion.”

She sighed loud enough to reach his ears and nodded, but her eyes remained fixed where the haze of the Shroud drifted beyond the screen. “How long until it wiggles back?”

“Could be days.” Dolfan didn’t miss the fear in her question, but his mind veered in a different direction. Fate, he suspected, had given him a bit more time. It had also stranded them alone together, a fact that became glaringly evident when she turned those eyes on him.

“What do we do?”

“First we retrieve the probes.” He bit back the answers he wanted to give and stuck to practical steps. “Then we make a decision.”

“What decision is that?”

“Stay here,” he tried to reassure her, to make it sound casual, but she wasn’t going to like the alternative. “Or make our way to the closest relay. We keep supplies there, and the probes are set to home in on the nearest signal.”

“Except the relay isn’t broadcasting.”

“No. It isn’t.”

“So.” Her fingers drummed against the armrests, but didn’t bite again. “If that were the best option, how do we find it?”

“By memory.” He watched her laugh, enjoyed it for a moment until she realized he wasn’t joking. Then the sound stopped, and her eyes widened again. This time she was scared. He rushed in before the fear could magnify. “I know the lanes by heart. All of the Shrouded do. The positioning of the relays is set. It’s just the roads that vary, and we’ll have the probe to assist with a general trajectory.”

“You favor that idea.” She looked forward again, watched a curl of dust passing. “There’s a reason, I assume.”

“The ship is not stocked with much—maybe two day’s worth of water, a ration packet that could sustain us longer than that, but the scrubbers will fill with dust eventually, and we’ll have a finite amount of good, filtered air.”

“But if the road will come back, then we could wait a bit?”

“A bit, yes.” He let her digest it, and then flicked on the emergency beacon. Someone would have to stumble upon them to pick it up without the relay’s help. There’d be a bike there, better filters and a way home even if they couldn’t repair whatever damages the storm had done to the communications. As he figured it, the relay was the only option, but he didn’t care to force it on her. Not after her accident. “I’m going to suit up and fetch the probes before we lose them,” he said. “You’ll need to fit a full mask while the door’s open.”

“No.” She put a hand on his arm. It felt like a lead weight. Her words came in a rush, and he felt how much each one cost her. Her voice wavered, but there was strength behind it too. “No. Let’s just grab them on the way.”