The Seedbearing Prince: Part I Read online

  “Ah, look. The sun’s beat us to work,” Laman said, a frown crossing his brow. He set off again as the first sliver of sunlight peeked over the eastern horizon. Dayn followed, disappointed with himself. The torrent gradually faded into the pale blue of gathering dawn.

  “We must hurry,” Laman said, oblivious to Dayn's dismay. “Be a shame to be late for Evensong...Wia Wells hasn’t hosted since I was your age, and I don't care to dwell on how many years ago that's been. First time I laid eyes on your mother. Or she laid eyes on me, I should say.” He arched an eyebrow at Dayn. “With all those families down from Misthaven, you better watch yourself.”

  Dayn shook his head ruefully. “Joam's the one with that luck.” Mistland women used Evensong to matchmake, although no one ever said so. Unmarried men often took on a hunted look long before the merrymaking ended. “Ever since he won Sweetwater, half the girls from Wia Wells want to do his chores or braid his hair.”

  “The lad’s talented with the staff,” Laman said diplomatically. He studied Dayn from the corner of his eye as they walked.

  “His boasting will be ten times worse tonight,” Dayn grumbled. Joam Ro'Gem was Dayn’s best friend, but a touch of envy still edged into his voice.

  “I'd imagine you’d be excited to go offworld, too,” Laman replied. Joam father Milchamah was a fast friend of Laman, at least when they were not arguing over some wrinkle of Council business. “The deserving always find their way to victory at Montollos.”

  “He thinks he's deserving, alright.”

  “But as for you...”His father fixed his steady brown gaze on Dayn. Whenever Laman used that even tone, things went better when Dayn took heed. “You’ll honor our family name farming in the Mistlands―or competing along with your friend in the Cycle, whichever you set your mind to. I figured Joam is helping you with the staff, as much as you’re gone these days.” Thankfully, Dayn's guilt-ridden silence went unnoticed. “Your path will work itself out, once your head is settled on which way is best to go.”

  They walked quietly for a moment. Excitement stirred within Dayn as he mulled over his father's outlook. He’d let me go to Montollos and enter the Cycle, sure as mist rises. Only, I’d enter the coursing race instead of the weapons tournament. Joam had urged Dayn to reveal his coursing plans for weeks. Dayn gathered his words, newly encouraged.

  “Some Elders say this summer we'll see a skytear at night, and next season it will be bright enough to see during the day.” Dayn spoke lightly, but peace how his heart pounded! Skytears passed through the World Belt once or twice a lifetime, sprouting tails as they neared the sun. It seemed the easiest way to steer the talk back to the torrent, then coursing. “Elder Kaynerin said a skytear means that strange days are coming. Could it get trapped in the torrent?”

  Laman snorted. “Elder Kaynerin enjoys too much wine. He'll be first to blame the skytear if stripeworms take his crops, or a ridgecat steals into one of his sheep pens. That sorry talk is no better than Misthaven folk wagging their tongues about the Dreadfall.”

  Laman reached down to scoop a handful of the reddish-brown earth. The gray in his hair stood out more than Dayn had noticed before. His father's voice grew resonant with feeling as the soil sifted through his outstretched fingers.

  “The torrent, the skytear. It's fine talk for stories with Defenders or fool coursers, but this is real. This is who we are. Our Pledge is the oldest covenant in the World Belt. No Shardian has ever known a day of hunger, of thirst, or wanted for anything their whole life. In return, we give freely of the harvest to the Belt.”

  All mention of coursing died on Dayn's lips. Fool coursers. So that’s what he thinks. The remaining earth sifted out of Laman’s fingers, just more dust on the wind.

  Laman kissed his teeth irritably at sight of the sun peering over the horizon. The morning isn’t what either of us expected, Dayn thought numbly.

  “I mean to be to the northern edge well before noon. Go find your sister, she’s supposed to be fetching survey jars from the barn.”

  “Yes, father.” The Village Council tested each farm’s soil to ensure the land’s fertility. “I was wondering why we left them behind.”

  “Tela wanted to help load your mother's paintings for Evensong, but she needs to take on more of the chores. You won't be around here forever.” Laman gave Dayn an unreadable look. “Here. Take this, lad.”

  Dayn easily caught his father's silverpine staff. It felt heavier than mere wood could account for. Dayn imagined he could hear six generations of Ro'Halans, their disapproving whispers swirling around him. Laman had never before entrusted him with the family staff. He spoke to the question in Dayn's eyes.

  “Grahm killed a gravespinner this big―” his father formed a space between his hands large enough to cradle a ripe dewmelon “―digging in his woodpile last night. It had an egg sack.”

  “Oh, no.” Dayn groaned at the ill news. If the spiders infested Grahm’s land, they would quickly spread. To the north, gravespinner webs blanketed the wilds for leagues. No chimebirds sang in the redbranch there.

  “That's why I wanted to finish our survey early. If silk traps need burning out, we best do it now. I’m sure it was chance for a spinner to venture this far from the nidus caves, but all the same—find her quick. The jars are in the old barn. Check there first.”

  “Yes, father.” Dayn swallowed hard, and angled south. The morning was growing worse faster than the sun could climb.

  The old south barn provided the perfect hiding place for his coursing gear, and Tela loved to snoop. Dayn quickened his pace, imagining her prancing around with his wingline or harness. If she ran off to show his parents, tonight's festival would be a miserable affair.

  Unplowed soil blurred beneath his feet. He noted several patches of inkroot poking through the covering clover, but the weeds would have to wait.

  “Tela!”

  Halfway to the barn, a movement to the west caught Dayn’s eye. A formless gray shape slid along the lip of the old Ro’Halan well then dropped to the earth. “Tela? You better not be hiding.”

  He twirled his father's staff apprehensively and crept closer to the rough white flagstone. What in peace’s reach... a cave crab? Dayn watched in stunned amusement as the plate-sized creature scuttled right past him, as though it meant to abandon its drab shell for more speed. It would not last long away from the water. He could think of a dozen good pranks a creature with those pincers could offer, but let it pass. A sound made Dayn look back toward the well. His grin melted away.

  Dozens more of the gray crabs spilled over the well’s edge, dropping to the earth in small puffs of dust. They skittered away in every direction, a handful streaming past Dayn as though he did not exist. He hopped out of their paths, not wanting to lose a toe, and soon found himself near the edge of the well. Hands tightening on his father’s staff, he leaned over for a look inside.

  Oddly enough, the well ran higher than usual this morning. Dayn could easily scoop out a drink without the bucket. Calm ripples cradled the gathering sunlight and returned his reflection. No cave crabs remained.

  “Nothing here but us farmers,” Dayn said with a puzzled look. I’ll ask father about this, later. He shrugged and made a face at his rippling twin below. “Are you ready for the Course of Blades?”

  The mouth did not move.

  Dayn watched in horror as his reflection melted away to reveal death lurking beneath the water. A drowned man floated in Laman’s well. The gray face hung close enough to touch, obscured by Dayn's own staring reflection. The bloated body hung motionless in the water, suspended in shadow.

  The eyes opened and snapped onto Dayn’s face. The cinder-black pupils turned his spine to mush. Dayn instinctively recoiled, but—

  It won’t let me move! He willed his legs to run, but an unseen force trapped him in place. A bone-white hand, covered in cuts and sores, broke the surface of the water to grasp the flagstone. Drowning had not bloated the gray man’s body, as Dayn first thought. He now saw a
hulking and brutish frame, covered in a black layer that looked more crust than skin. The powerful arm shook with effort, and thick pieces of the scabrous black coating sloughed away and sank in the well. Terrible pain lanced the man’s face, which looked grotesquely human to Dayn’s eyes as he watched, frozen helplessly.

  The man’s features contorted in loathing as he examined Dayn’s face. “Were never...my brother. I—” Green slurry poured from his mouth and into the water. His stare never left Dayn, even as his hold on the flagstone weakened. Unbidden thoughts began to spawn in Dayn’s mind, as though a putrid bog seeped into him through that stare.

  What…what is he doing to me? Get out of my head!

  Froth surged along the water’s surface, churning up more crabs, all dead. Shock interrupted the gray man’s gaze, and the invisible bonds holding Dayn vanished. Before he could back away, the snarling man lunged up to seize his arm as the water surged back into the well's depths.

  Dayn shouted as the gray man pulled him down. The flagstone walls spun crazily around him. He cried out as pain bolted through his shoulder. His plunge abruptly stopped, and the man’s cold grasp slipped from his wrist.

  “Peace be praised,” Dayn croaked. His father's staff, splayed across the mouth of the well, had saved him from the fall. The grain sagged under Dayn's weight, and his shoulder felt ready to wrench free of its socket. Panting, he pulled himself closer to the well's coarse flagstone.

  A horrible, fetid odor overpowered the air, as if the receding water had uncovered some deep rot within the earth. Dayn's stomach heaved and fresh terror replaced his relief. The gurgling well water echoed beneath him. Clusterthorn. It’s rising again!

  His feet churned for a toehold on the slick rock. A wild lunge of his hand knocked Laman's staff aside. It clattered past him and down into the well. The echoed splash came much too soon.

  Dayn heaved himself over the edge, flopping onto the ground with a grunt. He leaped to his feet and lurched into a sprint. Thirty spans later, he stopped to peer back. No sound broke the early morning calm, save his heart thudding against his chest.

  Dust and blood! What was that?

  “Hey, boy!”

  Dayn spun around, relief washing over him. He spotted his best friend Joam Ro'Gem approaching from the village road, an excited bob in his step. Joam's father Milchamah strolled alongside him. They each carried a staff. Dayn rushed over to them and skidded to a stop.

  “What's wrong?” Joam looked at him quizzically. “You look like a ridgecat just tried to braid your hair.”

  “Have you...have you...”

  “Easy boy, catch your breath. Those great bounds of yours would carry you to the moon on any world but Shard.” Milchamah thumped the end of his staff into the loamy soil for emphasis. “One day she might let you go.”

  “Have you seen my sister?” Dayn finally managed.

  “No,” Joam said, frowning. “We passed your mother on the road. Another fine batch of her paintings for Evensong, it looks like. Maybe she can favor me with a portrait tonight. For my new standing as champion.”

  “Quiet, boy,” Milchamah said. “I didn't come all this way to watch your gums flap in the breeze. Let the boy spit out why he’s so worked up.” Only a few years older than Laman, fine wrinkles rested lightly on Milchamah’s sun-browned face, from years of good farming and rough humor. Gray strands threaded through his long braids, just visible under his wide straw hat. He spoke around a sweet tree twig which Dayn never saw him without. “Now what’s so important to break your neck over the morning of Evensong?”

  Dayn pointed, but quickly let his hand drop when he saw how badly it still shook. Peace, but I've never been so afraid in my life! Milchamah and Joam both looked curiously at the well.

  “A man was in there. The water sucked him away, there was this awful smell, and...” Dayn trailed off.

  “Spill surge.” The old farmer said after a moment. “The worst ones could make a well overflow for weeks. But if you say someone drowned, I better take a look.” Milchamah made straight for the well.

  “I didn’t say he drowned,” Dayn said faintly. Joam and Milchamah shared a long look that made his face burn.

  “Strange things dance around skytears,” Joam offered. Dayn waited for some joke at his expense, but Joam just chattered on as they strode over. “You won’t believe what happened at Urlan's farm this morning―”

  “Boy, if I want your opinion I'll snap my fingers. Skytears,” Milchamah growled in disgust. “And I already warned you to keep that other matter quiet.” His scowl widened to include Dayn. “The less people who know, the later our guests find out.”

  “Sorry, father,” Joam said with a wounded look.

  “Spill surge could cough up some Misthavener's lost cuddlebear, maybe even some heartrock from the deepest water.” Milchamah reached the well and snorted. Dayn sidled up to it anxiously. The water lay still.

  Gone. I know I didn’t imagine it. He or it, whatever it was, felt real.

  “What could give Shard a fever?” Dayn asked.

  Instead of answering, Milchamah pitched forward, suddenly shoulder deep in the water. Dayn and Joam both jumped back with a yelp. The rangy farmer straightened, his sleeve soaked, and Laman's staff in his hand.

  “See, all kinds of things get lost,” Milchamah said, his face tight. Joam’s jaw hung open at sight of the carved silverpine.

  Dayn took the staff, mortified. Peace! Father just gave it to me this morning! I need to dry it before the grain warps!

  “I know what I saw,” Dayn mumbled as he toweled the staff off with his shirt.

  “No one’s missing, boy. Don't you think word would spread if someone fell down another well? And how would they end up here?”

  “It's easy for our eyes to play tricks at dawn,” Joam suggested, after a wary look at Milchamah. Joam stood a foot taller than either of them but acted meek as a day-old kitten around his father. “And you know how Tela wanders when she catches a notion,” he added. He was a good friend, saving face for Dayn.

  “She’s not the only one catching notions,” Milchamah observed.

  Dayn dropped his eyes. He could offer no ready answers.

  Milchamah seemed to argue with himself for a moment as he frowned at the waterlogged staff in Dayn's hands. “Son, are you sure about this?” he asked.

  Joam nodded eagerly. “Sure as the mist rises.”

  Milchamah spat around his sweet tree twig. “What I'm seeing now doesn't help much.”

  Dayn looked uncertainly between the two. The mischievous light in Joam's brown eyes made him nervous. “Sure about what?” he asked.

  “You should know by now.” The rangy farmer studied him openly. Sweat began to form on Dayn’s back. “I'm here about Montollos.”

  “Montollos?” Dayn fought down a flash of panic. He shot Joam a searching look, but his friend chose the moment to start counting his toes.

  “Joam told me all about what you've been planning,” Milchamah continued somberly. The rangy farmer glanced to the south, to the barn, and that made everything plain.

  Dayn's mouth went dry. He knows about my coursing gear! This dustbrained whelp let something slip, and now Milchamah’s here to tell father. They’ll never let me leave the farm after this! “Joam, you didn’t―”

  “Best find Laman, boy. Did you think you could hide forever?”

  Numb fury crept over Dayn as Joam stood there with a too-innocent grin spreading over his face. The rest of Milchamah's words washed soundlessly over Dayn as he stared murder at his best friend.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A Day For Hunters

  Deadwisp in the lake, deadwisp in the river, go home, go home, you're making me shiver.

  Deadwisp in the well, deadwisp in the deep, go home, go home, don't steal me in my sleep.

  -Highland children's rhyme on Shard

  I don't believe you,” Dayn growled. He clenched Laman’s staff so hard his hands shook. That was the only thing keeping them from Joam's thr
oat. “I was going to tell father everything today. Peace confound it all, you've ruined everything!”

  “Sure you were.” Joam had the gall to actually smile! He held up his hands defensively after a good look at Dayn's face. “But if I didn’t say something before tonight, you―”

  Milchamah cleared his throat loudly, his annoyance plain. Joam shut his mouth so fast, his teeth clicked. “No need for this fuss. I’ll talk to Laman. That doesn’t mean things will go easy.”

  “As easy as for Joam?” Dayn asked bitterly. Why didn't I speak to father when I had the chance?

  “Cinch up your tongue, boy. There's no call for that. Before a festival, no less.”

  “Yeah, Dayn,” Joam echoed with a wink.

  Before Dayn could throttle him, Milchamah's sparring staff descended smoothly between them. Irregular notches and slashes crisscrossed the honey-colored grain. Dayn might trounce Joam briefly, but Milchamah would ensure he paid dearly for it.

  “He already vouched for you, boy.” Milchamah withdrew his staff, giving Dayn an odd look. “There's nothing else to prove.”

  “Vouched for me?” Dayn blinked in confusion.

  Joam stepped forward hastily, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “You've been chosen for sparring camp! Why else would we be here so early?”

  “I...what?” Dayn felt so relieved he could not decide whether to laugh or weep. “Thank you, Elder!”

  “Don't call me Elder,” Milchamah said gruffly. Weaponmasters the Belt over chose the best fighters to represent their worlds in the Binder’s Cycle at Montollos. Joam’s father did not look the part, but he was the best weaponmaster on all of Shard.