Shrouded: Heartstone, #1

By Frances Pauli

Dolfan believed in the Heart... until it gave her to another man.

When Vashia arrives on Shroud as an indentured bride, Dolfan recognizes immediately that they are meant to be together. Broken, lost, and on the run, she trusts no one, but Dolfan has enough faith for the both of them... Until his people's sacred ritual gives Vashia to someone else. Until Dolfan's faith, and his heart are tested.

Vashia's arrival ignites a storm on Shroud, and the full-scale invasion that chases after her threatens to destroy Dolfan's home, his culture, and his planet. If he can't challenge his own beliefs enough to admit the ritual was wrong, the only woman he wants will likely be the end of everything he's ever known.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frances Pauli
• Release date: Aug 24, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536512533

Frances Pauli

Frances Pauli is a hybrid author of over twenty novels. She favors speculative fiction, romance, and anthropomorphic fiction and is not a fan of genre boxes. Frances lives in Washington state with her family, four dogs, two cats and a variety of tarantulas.

Book preview

Shrouded

Heartstone: Book One

Frances Pauli

This book is dedicated to the dreamers,

the true believers who never give up,

even when the stars themselves,

seem to argue against them.

one

HE MANAGED TO CUT HER off four steps from sanctuary. Vashia pressed her spine against the steel wall and watched the transport slide to a stop, blocking her path to the Comet’s back entrance. The alley she’d snuck down reeked of grease and sweat. She held her breath for more than just a need for silence. A gutter lizard slithered up the opposite wall, snapping its purple tongue at invisible insects. Vashia cringed and slid a step back down the way she’d come.

The hover sled powered to idle and the long door panel slid open. Her father’s insignia disappeared into the housing as the gap widened and Jarn stepped out of the vehicle. Vashia’s mouth twisted in distaste. At the same time she did her best to merge with the alley wall. Jarn knew about the Comet. Damn it.

He tugged at his gloves and sneered down the street in either direction. His vulture eyes picked through the riffraff for any trace of Vashia. Her skin crawled. She froze in the shadows and fought off the urge to flee. She couldn’t risk another step, couldn’t risk making a sound that might alert the governor’s aide. Instead she watched his shorn head shake and heard him bark orders to the driver and to the armed thugs standing on either side of his car. Wait. Keep your eyes sharp.

She held her breath and waited until he disappeared into the Comet, until he slid his skinny, uniformed shoulders through the nightclub’s entrance and the blast of music faded once more into the clatter and hum of normal street noise. The hover car whined in front of her, blocking the route she’d intended to take. Jarn’s toadies might not have genius level IQs, but they couldn’t miss an attempt to slip past them in the full light of Eclipsis’ primary moon. Vashia backed further into the alley and let out a slow, silent exhale. She was so screwed.

If she couldn’t reach Samra at the Comet, she’d have to scramble. She shook her head and worked her way past the rusted doors and between the piles of detritus and garbage dribbling around each rectangular trash chute. A new plan sparked, and she chewed on it while she slunk between the metal buildings. She needed to alter her appearance. If Jarn had the troops looking for her, she’d need some measure of disguise.

The alley opened up on the next street. Vashia held for a moment before she stole a glance right toward the haze of incense and neon brothel signs. She winked at the knob-tailed Chromian squatting in the opposite alley. His intricately woven mat spread across the ground before him, and his Haji cards shimmered in the reflected neon. He’d read for her once, when she’d been forced to linger and avoid her father’s street patrols. The fortune had been gibberish, but she’d still paid him enough to buy his food, maybe his drink, for at least a month. Now he winked back and leaned forward to check the road, mirroring her glance left and right.

Tonight, the brothels roared with laughter and stank of smoldering herbs from some planet she’d never see. The Eclipsis sky burned lavender in full moonrise. The occasional streak of a ship leaving the atmosphere tore up from between the buildings to the east where the Wraith spaceport ejected its refined gasses and heavy metals in huge cargo liners or welcomed the next transport of slaves, thieves, and the likewise desperate.

Vashia turned left, headed away from the city’s sex industry straight to the outer edge of the gambling district. She’d need cash even more than a disguise. Her father could and would freeze her credits. He’d done it more than once in the past when she’d slipped away for too long or when they’d had a large enough dispute to convince him she was a flight risk. This time, she didn’t intend to return. And if she wanted to avoid slavery or prostitution, she’d need every credit she could get her hands on.

The governor and his hound, Jarn, had taken one step too far this time. They’d pushed her one time too many. Their newest scheme had sucked away her options, all her indecision, into null space. They’d given her no choice. She had to leave, fast and for good. She flinched away from a flash of memory, from the image of Jarn’s triumphant sneer, of his slimy voice and stiff, smug expression. The alternative would be a fate worse than death.

The buildings towered higher the further she ventured into crime central. The lights flashed brighter and quicker than at the brothels and the scents veered toward consumables: glow gin, cheap wine and tobacco from all over the galaxy. The shadows in these doorways were squatter, squarer than the prostitutes. Here the casino goons waited, leering at her with eyes that glowed like a wolf’s and snagging the unwary or the addicted to play in their bosses’ games.

Vashia kept her gaze forward. She straightened her spine and put more confidence in her steps. She added a touch of swagger—something she didn’t feel. She’d learned early on how to pass for one of Wraith’s stray souls, and she’d learned just how to avoid too much attention, just how to fit in without getting caught in the city’s many nets.

A few of the bouncers hustled her. One or two might have recognized the governor’s daughter. She ignored the comments and snickers and walked a bee line to the only bank in Wraith that still dealt in cash.

The building had worn nearly transparent with age and neglect. While the casinos around it grew, the bank shrank into itself until only a slip of a façade remained, sandwiched between its brighter cousins and marked only by a sparking, antique neon sign. Vashia ducked a flutter of fiery rain and slid through the entrance.

The foyer stank of body odor from more species than she could count or even identify. The old rug lay as threadbare as the furniture, frayed and faded until the original pattern smudged into an incoherent gray mess. Few customers haunted the place during daylight hours and, even now, when the casino doors had only recently opened for business and the quarter was firing up for the start of a lucrative night, only a single person waited at the electronic service counter.

Vashia ignored the man and swerved directly to the left. She shifted into a different stance, one she reserved for dealing with her father and the officials that haunted the hallways of their home. She lifted her chin and tossed her hair back over her set shoulders. She raised one hand and rapped sharply on an unmarked door. Heavy footsteps answered.

The bank manager spent too much of his time in her father’s company, but she knew him, and his greed would win out over any loyalty. Vashia waited for the inset panel to slide open, then sighed and leaned forward for the facial scan. She tapped one foot and made a point of affecting an impatient expression.

The door beeped before the scan finished. She snapped upright and watched it slide aside to reveal the hall leading to the back office. The manager had come himself, and, as soon as the door opened, he dropped into a half crouch and tilted his head in deference to her status.

Lady Vashia, how nice to see you.

Is it? Vashia drew one eyebrow to its full height. I require a transaction, Zern, and I’d prefer to handle it in cash.

Of course, Lady. Why else would someone in your position find need of me?

I don’t care for your tone.

Your pardon. Please, come back to the office and I’ll arrange the exchange.

I’m in a hurry. Vashia glanced past him to the dim passage. She’d never seen Zern’s office and she didn’t care to now. I need to liquidate as much of my credits as you can manage. I’ll authorize the withdrawal. She held out her palm for him to scan.

I think we’d be better served to deal in private. Zern frowned and peeked around her toward the entrance. I’m not comfortable handing you that much cash in full view.

View of whom? I’m capable of handling myself, thank you. I’ll take full responsibility.

She stuck her palm out again, but, instead of moving to scan it, Zern stole another glance toward the street. A tiny alarm sounded in Vashia’s head. She narrowed her eyes. Zern had made it to the door awfully fast. He might easily have been waiting there, in fact. Who he’d been waiting for would make all the difference.

I mentioned a need for expediency, she snapped. He jumped nearly out of his skin.

Of course, of course. I’ll just check your account. He produced a card-sized scanner and waved it at her palm without looking. The alarm amplified. Zern was more than a little distracted. Hmmm. He frowned and glanced at the device. It seems your credits have been frozen.

Damn. Her father had moved quickly this time. Either Jarn had already returned to rat on her or they knew she’d overheard their little deal. Both of them had known exactly how unwilling she would’ve been to play out her part in their arrangement.

It’s a mistake. She kept the nerves out of her voice. You know that, of course.

Of course. Zern looked toward the street again. I’m sure I can arrange for a small loan, some pocket cash to hold you over until it’s straightened out.

Thank you. It wouldn’t be enough. She ignored a flash of panic. It didn’t matter. She needed whatever he could get her. I’m sure that will be soon.

If you’ll come back to the office.

Vashia took a step backwards. She saw Zern’s eyes widen, and his uni-brow lowered until it furrowed a deep cleft in his high forehead. For a second, neither of them moved. Beads of sweat lined up at the banker’s hairline. His eyes danced to the door and back one more time.

Vashia shook her head. Maybe some other time. She took another step toward the exit. His façade breaking, Zern lunged for her. His sweaty hand clawed at her sleeve as she turned. Vashia shook him off and leapt two more strides. She skidded through the exit into the street in time to hear the whine of engines at her left, to catch a blur of gray that would be Jarn’s car blocking her escape.

She had no money. Tears fogged her vision. She spun on her heel and darted away in the opposite direction. No money meant no escape. As planetary governor, her father owned everything—and apparently, everyone—on Eclipsis. Wraith was no place to be without cash, without shelter. Vashia had seen enough of the city to know that much, even sheltered by her status as Kovath’s daughter.

But she’d heard her father’s words. He meant to give her to Jarn, to use her body to bind his ally to him by blood. She smeared away the tears with the back of one hand and ran for all she was worth. She had nowhere to go, but still her legs churned, her feet pounding steady against the rough street. Vashia ran through the narrow alleys, back toward the belly of Wraith’s unsavory sector. She ran past the casinos and the customers squeezing to get inside, back the way she’d come toward the brothels and the horror of a future with no options.

DOLFAN PAUSED IN THE threshold and looked up to the swirling atmosphere. An orange curl wound between the canyon peeks, blushing with the touch of distant storm. He craned to see out beyond the palace entrance and brushed a stray strand of black hair out of his face. A thin red flag rippled high above the plaza. He squinted at it, pulled his breather from inside his shirt, and tucked a tiny tube into each nostril before stepping out into the open air.

The plaza blazed in the reflection of the storm—creamy orange, flashes of pink. Each surge of gas overhead painted the roughly shaped stones a different hue. The Shroud roiled above and the plaza flared in its image underfoot. Dolfan drew his wrap forward, tucked the extra material into his sash, and adjusted the crimson silk so that the cloak formed a partial hood, blocking the wind and any stray toxins that might break free of the Shroud. He descended the palace stairs and strode forth, tall and fortified against the storm.

The hall across the square stood half the palace height. It backed up to the canyon wall, directly shadowed by both the native stone and the higher building it served. The walls rippled in the half-light where Shrouded masons had carved the old symbols, the spirals within spirals that made sense only to those with a Seer’s gifts. Dolfan felt his skin prickle as he entered the building. He felt the tingle in his mind that was his genetic gift, the trace of psionic talent that ran through his veins but hadn’t manifested into a true Seer’s calling.

He ignored the sensation and slipped off his breather. He’d never wanted the psionic gifts and felt no loss for their absence. Still, he walked in the Seer’s house and bowed his head as he passed through the haze of incense smoke that led to the inner foyer. He was of the Council of Princes, so when Syradan summoned, he came, psionic aspirations or not.

You’re late, Mofitan growled from across the room. His big form leaned against a support pillar and his face scowled at Dolfan. He brushed a square hand through the stubble on his head and snarled again. We’ve all been waiting on you.

Patience never was one of your virtues, Mofitan. That is, if you had any virtues. I came immediately. Perhaps I just had farther to walk.

No matter, Haftan interceded. He waved Dolfan to the side and ignored the glare from their Council brother. He’s here, Mof, and we can begin. Someone tell them we’re ready. Peryl?

Their youngest member stood and disappeared through a curtain into the sanctuary proper. Dolfan watched the fabric settle back into place and wished the whole mess was over already. He’d have given anything to not be wearing a Council ring, to not have been chosen from his line. As soon as the ceremony ended, he’d catch a lift back to the moon without delay.

You found time to fit your breather, Mofitan taunted, for the six steps across the square.

Quit, Mof. Haftan growled as well now. Play your suicide games with the Shroud if you like, but the rest of us know better.

"You came running fast enough. Why is that Haftan? Do you fancy yourself the new king?"

As a matter of fact, I do. Haftan slipped a wink at Dolfan.

Mofitan couldn’t resist a chance to spar verbally with any of them, though it was Dolfan and always Dolfan that he wished to bait. Mofitan’s father had been their instructor at the Academy, and had praised Dolfan one too many times for his son’s taste.

I figure it suits me, Haftan added.

Do you, now? This time Tondil answered. He sprawled in a corner, stretched out on the floor tiles like a cat and looking just as content. You’re planning to claim the Heart then, Haftan?

Hearts are your territory, Tondil. Dolfan couldn’t resist the jab, or the chuckle. Tondil had them all mastered when it came to hearts. Maybe you should be king?

Not my style. Tondil shrugged and rolled onto his back. I couldn’t take the commitment.

Even Mofitan laughed at that, though Dolfan caught the look he darted at Haftan and knew at least two of them coveted the throne. Of the pair, he’d prefer Haftan by a Shrouded mile. He didn’t have to imagine Mofitan as the next King of Shroud to know it wouldn’t go well for him, not if their experiences at school were any indication.

They’re coming, Dielel whispered from Haftan’s shadow. Haftan, I can see feet.

Dolfan had to lean back to see where the last prince sat, perched on the lip of a huge vase and at Haftan’s side as always. That one would definitely prefer Haftan to rule. Dielel didn’t have the spine for more than sycophant status.

Dolfan guessed it would be Haftan or Mofitan. Shayd had the Seer’s gifts. His succession of Syradan had seemed certain. Peryl’s youth as well as his manner were against him, despite the fact that he carried King Pelinol’s blood, and regardless of the fact that the king wanted so desperately for the boy to take the crown. No, it would be Haftan or Mofitan, and for his sake Dolfan prayed it would be the first.

The curtain drew aside and Peryl pranced back through. Shayd followed, tall and stiff as a statue. He fit in here, amongst the incense and the spirals. Not one of the rest of them could hope to take Syradan’s place. He tilted his head to acknowledge Dolfan’s arrival or possibly to chastise his tardiness. Reading Shayd’s stony expression rivaled psionics amongst the list of things Dolfan couldn’t do well.

Is he ready for us? Haftan’s eagerness swelled to embarrassing proportions. The man wanted to be king enough for all of them. Dolfan frowned. Maybe too much. Perhaps Tondil could succumb to the Heart, even if it meant a single mate from that point on. Perhaps even Peryl might—

Yes, Peryl answered where Shayd would only nod and gesture to the curtain. It’s time.

Too late to wonder now. Dolfan stared through the gap into the sanctuary. The room lay dark and full of rolling smoke. The ceremony they’d come for was a mystery to everyone on Shroud, to all their people and to anyone who hadn’t been a member of a Council, who hadn’t been a prince. He’d never spared it any curiosity. Now he stared it in the face and set his jaw. He could take whatever Syradan might summon.

Seven princes formed the Council, one for each remaining Shrouded bloodline. Each held the hopes of their line in their veins, the hopes of all the Shrouded. Each had been chosen by their predecessor to take up a ring and form the new Council, and one of them—any one of them—would be the next King of Shroud.

Just don’t let it be me. He could take anything, even Mofitan enthroned, if it meant Dolfan could remain himself. Let it be Haftan. He chanted in his mind and stepped forward, beating Mofitan to the archway and following Tondil straight into the darkness.

two

THE CHROMIAN SAVED her life. Vashia caught the glint of a Haji card as she ran. A stubby arm tilted it to catch the light and, when she drew even with the alley, gestured for her to follow. She veered without slowing, ducked through the side alley and followed the waist-high alien through a crack between buildings.

She could feel Jarn’s hounds breathing down her neck. At every crossroad, the gray hulk of a hover car had blocked her, steered her like a hare before the hunt. Vashia couldn’t guess where the man drove her, but she didn’t care to be herded any more than she liked being chased, blocked, or cut off.

Her veins throbbed. She struggled for breath as the Chromian led her deeper into the narrow space. She couldn’t run here, and, for an instant, her panic flared. If Jarn cornered her now, she’d be hard pressed to escape him. She considered squeezing back out the way she’d entered, but the lumpy little man thumped his tail hard against the ground and caught her attention once more.

He held up the corner of a tarp, stringy with age and slick with things better left unidentified. When she balked, he thumped his tail again and glanced back to the alley. Vashia took the hint and dropped down, wiggling under the scrap that couldn’t possibly hide someone her size. She scooted closer to the building, the cover’s weight pressing her crouch even lower, and tried to make herself invisible.

Her legs dropped into a hole. She fought the urge to snap them back out again, but only half managed to stifle her scream into a barely audible squeak. The tarp rippled and the Chromian’s round face pushed into view. It vanished as he dropped the cover back into place, but Vashia felt him brush past her. She heard the click and purr of his speech as he urged her to follow.

She’d gone from the governor’s estate to the bottom of a pothole in one short day. If it meant escaping a life as Jarn’s wife, Vashia would happily take the pothole. She shook her head and pushed against the ground, slipping over the rim and into the pit.

She expected to hit bottom a great deal sooner, and her arms flailed outward before the jar of impact darted up through her knees. What she’d taken for a shallow hole reached well over her head. She could just tip the rim with her fingers if she stood on tiptoe. The walls felt rough and wet. She stopped exploring after a brief touch.

Her savior clicked near her heels. A fleshy hand touched hers briefly. She dropped to a squat and peered into the darkness. A lighter circle outlined the Chromian’s tunnel. He’d been at more than potholes apparently, and Vashia thanked her luck and her few extra coins for winning her such an ally. She smiled and crawled on hands and knees after the fat tail. The tunnel curled to the left and opened suddenly into the cellar of the building overhead.

Whatever business operated there, her plump guide didn’t seem to fear discovery. He slipped out of the tunnel and out of her view without hesitation. Vashia followed, but paused at the tunnel’s edge and scanned the space. Dust hung in curtains from the ceiling, the sheet webs of some stray arachnid. Shelves lined the walls, broken and hanging in places but sturdy enough to hold an impossible assortment of trash.

Vashia swung her legs out and stood up. She noted other dark circles and tunnels leading out of the room that she now assumed had to be the Chromian’s home. She’d never imagined anything so bizarre, so precious could exist beneath Wraith’s filth. The shelves lining the storeroom overflowed with treasures scavenged from the city’s trash. She assumed her new friend had collected and stored the odd contents, an impressive undertaking for a diminutive creature that the rest of the galaxy considered a hair’s breadth above vermin.

The shelves bulged with things cast off from the streets above. Vashia saw more tarps, piles of rope, cable, and metal parts to gods knew what sort of contraptions. There were ratty boxes and soft bundles wrapped tight and stashed into the narrow spaces. She wanted to peek, even took a step nearer and leaned in to inspect the nearest carton, but the Chromian clicked again, and she spun around to face it.

Sorry. She couldn’t read a thing in his doughy expression. Is this yours? Your home? He squatted next to his mat, had his cards out again. His answer purred incoherently and she shook her head. I don’t understand.

One stubby finger lifted to the thing’s lips in the universal sign for quiet. Vashia nodded and crossed to the middle of the room. She knelt beside him, met the dark, inhuman eyes and whispered. I need your help. You know that, right? I need to find a way out of here, but I haven’t any money this time.

The creature smiled and nodded back at her. Vashia would have bet what was left of her luck that he didn’t understand a word she said. He waved his hand over his shiny cards and plucked one circle from the spread, holding it up for her to examine. The silver disk flashed even in the low light of the basement. She could see the symbol on its face as the plump hand spun it before her. It flashed, from silver to red to silver as the card went round—a perfect, ruby red heart.

THE SMOKE CHOKED IN his throat and nostrils. Dolfan watched Syradan hunch over the brazier and struggled not to cough. He couldn’t imagine choosing to live in this, couldn’t ever understand the appeal of devotion to darkness and fumes, no matter what the bonus. He needed to breathe.

He’d seen Syradan struggle with it when he left the comfort of his temple. The man’s lungs could hardly process clean air, even the artificial kind. His old skin had darkened until he carried an ashy hue to match his sags and wrinkles. Dolfan watched him now bent so low his long beard sizzled in the brazier’s heat. His beady eyes shone with the reflected fire, and his thin lips twisted with the incantation no one—well maybe Shayd—could make any damned sense out