The Seedbearing Prince: Part I Page 4

  “Wreathweavers!” Joam blurted. “This far from the Dreadfall, are you sure?”

  “Yes, lad, I can tell what one looks like,” Grahm said wryly.

  Dayn’s relief over avoiding the well proved to be short-lived. Tension shone on Grahm’s face, his green eyes were bloodshot and held none of their usual warmth. Dayn's heart jumped as he examined the offworlder further. “Why are you all wet?” he asked.

  Grahm glanced at him sharply. “I didn't stumble on the snake itself, peace be praised. But from the size of the clutch, I would say it was twelve hands long, at least. Pretty young.” Joam gawked and Dayn felt his own jaw drop, too. “I managed to burn out all the eggs. The smell was so bad, I took a dunk in the well to get it off.” Grahm offered a dry laugh. It did not reach his eyes, which never left Dayn the whole time he spoke. “Not sure it worked all that great, though.”

  “That’s something. The same as at Southforte.” Joam rubbed his chin thoughtfully, but with the threat gone he was already looking back to the road.

  “It’s not like a wreathweaver to leave its nest,” Dayn said. “What do you think scared it away?”

  “No worry to me, so long as it’s gone.” Grahm frowned openly at him now.

  “Us, either,” Joam interjected with a warning look for Dayn. “We should get going. Happy Evensong, Grahm. Are you headed to the village soon?”

  “After I finish up. My wife already left with your mother. Is this festival really as important as they say? I missed it last year.”

  “Well, more if you aren't married,” Dayn said.

  “Ah, one of those,” Grahm said, noting Joam's eager grin. “A day for hunters. Happy Evensong, boys.” Grahm clapped Dayn on the shoulder. The smell emanating from his clothes made Dayn want to retch. “I better go clean up. Can you tell Kajalynn that I'll be there soon?”

  “We will,” Joam said, practically dragging Dayn away. Once they were out of earshot, he gave Dayn a sideways look. “What was that all about? There’s no deadwisps hiding in his well. He would have said so.”

  “He’s hiding something,” Dayn said. “Did you see any smoke, or smell it at all this morning? He didn’t burn anything out. He saw one of those men, too.”

  “Maybe it’s just one of his offworld cousins here for Evensong?” Joam sighed when Dayn did not smile. “We’re not Elders, Dayn, and neither is Grahm. Let them see to it, they’ll do what’s best.”

  “I’m still going to talk with them. Yonas, too, and anyone else I can find.” They made their way to the road and headed west.

  “You are set on making a mess of Evensong, aren’t you?” Joam leaped into a bound before Dayn could respond. Back on the road, Joam soon began chattering about the girls he planned to dance with, and which ones would be best to steal a kiss from. Then again, he was the Sweetwater King, wouldn't that mean they all wanted a kiss? Dayn only half listened.

  Grahm must be lying, but why? Usually friendly and easygoing, he seemed more like a rope ready to snap under some hidden strain. Did he see one of the men, too? Is he keeping it quiet because of Evensong?

  Dayn wanted answers so his friend would not think him crazy, or a liar. But most of all to make sure his family was safe. The man in the well was dangerous, that much he knew. Anything that drove the animals into a frenzy did not bode well for the village. Dayn turned for one more look as Grahm's fields fell behind them. The offworlder still stood there, watching the boys bound away toward Wia Wells and Evensong.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Evensong

  Palpo the merchant mocked the farmer, saying, 'O to be a Shardian prince! To have the dirt kiss my feet, the sheep pay me homage in their pens, and the trees drop fruit in my waiting hand!'

  'Quite right,' the farmer agreed, 'A full belly and an aching back is the life for us.’

  ‘What is this aching you speak of?’ the merchant asked.

  -from ‘Palpo the Merchant Buys the Belt’, an Ista Cham children’s story

  Sounds of merrymaking floated to their ears as the two approached Wia Wells. Dayn could not help but grin, although the morning’s events still had him looking around every corner. He shared an excited look with Joam as the road carried them to the Wustl Square. “You didn't mention how fine the village looked.”

  A simple place of sturdy wooden homes and workshops with thatched roofs, Wia Wells nestled around a square of wine-colored stone. Flowers of red and deep violet framed every doorway, and golden streamers crisscrossed the paths between booths built especially for festival traders.

  “They must have saved the best decorations until now,” Joam marveled. The shops that enclosed the Wustl Square all sparkled with fresh coats of whitewash. To the east lay Elder Huwes the shoemaker’s shop, Sister Layren’s bakery, and a new clothier moved from Southforte by marriage who Dayn did not yet know. Brother Opram the smith had departed for the mines last season, so his windows remained dark until an apprentice could be found from a neighboring village. Jairn the gemcutter held a place next to the Elder's repository, where they stored the village histories and taught lessons.

  “Do you see any of the Elders?” Dayn asked.

  “I’m sure they’ll turn up,” Joam said absently. “You know there are offworlders, don’t you?”

  “Offworlders at Evensong!” Dayn exclaimed. He peered at the crowd with renewed interest, missing Joam’s sigh of relief. The Dawnbreak Inn crowned the southern side of the Square, a full story higher than all the rest and painted a magnificent blue. Guests stuffed the village’s finest building to the thatch, judging from the people streaming through the front door.

  “I’m surprised Laman didn’t tell you.”

  A goodwife from Southforte swept toward them and dropped a garland of blue dayroses on each of their necks. She wore a brown dress and a moondrop necklace. More garlands were looped through her arm, white and blue.

  “Welcome!” The goodwife’s long dreadlocks swayed as she hugged them both. She gave Dayn an appraising look, only to burst into laughter at his blush. “Oh come now, child. My hair has more gray than both of your parents put together.”

  “Happy Evensong,” Dayn said. Gray hair or not, Dayn knew better than to mention her age. Evensong celebrated Shard's women, and one poorly thought remark could be cause for grave offense during the festival. Men did all of the preparations while their wives and sisters took their ease, although the women ended up prodding them until the decorations and such were to their liking. Which was much like every other festival, now that Dayn thought about it.

  “Sister, are there really offworlders here?” he asked.

  “There most certainly are.” Her smile faded as she took in Dayn's clothes, and he found himself blushing all over again. “You can find yourself a nice new shirt, before the dancing starts. And some trousers, like the ones that fit your tall friend here so well.”

  “I think his mother made those. Right, Joam? Joam?”

  Joam ignored the goodwife at his own peril. While he looked eagerly into the bustling crowd, she contented herself with a firm pinch. Joam yelped in surprise as she swayed off, looking for new quarry to adorn with dayroses.

  “Not one word from you,” Joam warned. He stood there for an embarrassed moment, furiously rubbing his backside.

  “Not one word,” Dayn agreed, fighting to hold in his amusement. Teasing Joam with the festival barely begun would be bad luck. The night might hold many more such encounters, and Dayn wanted the final laugh. “I think women invent festivals like this just to give men fits. Even the Sweetwater King.”

  Joam grinned and set his blue garland just right. “Maybe so, but it sure beats wearing white.” White dayroses were for the married, or children still more interested in playing on tangletoys than stealing kisses. “See what I mean?”

  A group of girls strolled near, casting glances between Joam and Dayn. Joam grinned so fiercely his face threatened to split in two. His first ever blue Evensong garland came just last year at Southforte, while Dayn had recei
ved his a year before that at Kohr Springs. Dayn patted his hair in spite of himself.

  “Happy Evensong!” Joam called out. “Where are you from?”

  The girls stopped short of the Dawnbreak Inn, making halfhearted attempts at indifference as the two approached. Not one wore white. Competition for the most dances and kisses from the maidens was an unspoken Wia Wells tradition, same as Evensong in any other Mistland village.

  “Greenshadow,” and “Misthaven, of course,” were among the replies. Dayn hid his surprise with a thoughtful nod. Word must have spread among distant kin about their village being chosen to host. The northern journey to Greenshadow took three weeks, much further than Misthaven.

  “We've only just now arrived,” Dayn said, letting a touch of helplessness enter his voice. “My poor friend here wouldn't know maidenvine if it grew in his hair. Do the blossoms have five petals, or six?”

  Two of the girls sniffed loudly and whisked into the inn, but the rest still lingered.

  “Six,” one replied, batting her eyes at Joam.

  “And the flowers are violet with blue spots?”

  “No, you have it backwards,” another answered with a coy smile for Dayn.

  “But they must be violet, picked so early.” Dayn put on a confused frown. “Can you show me where some are?”

  “I would,” said another, wearing a flowing green dress that matched her eyes. She stepped closer to Dayn and looked to be a fine dancer. Her hand reached up to his face. “But only if you find a clean shirt!”

  She tugged at Dayn’s collar, and a puff of dirt shot into the air. Her friends erupted into a fit of giggles, leaving Dayn to stand sheepishly as they vanished into the Dawnbreak.

  “You'll find yourself a mayor's daughter if you keep on like that,” Joam said in genuine approval. “Now we know who to dance with!”

  “We all know who the Sweetwater King is,” Dayn said. He was not so addled over the girls as Joam, but still intended to enjoy seeing the new faces. Shardian villages with the best harvest received honors from the Misthaven Trader’s Circle on Evensong, and Wia Wells had long been overlooked. “I have to make sure there’s a dance or two saved for the rest of us common farmers.”

  Joam twirled through a staff form as though to remind the entire village of Sweetwater. The King's Circlet, of all things! Only the most brazen fighter would even think of using it. He offered Dayn a magnanimous smile. “I'll do my best.”

  The offworlder booths beckoned to Dayn. The two began wading into the festival, but a slender girl with a sulky mouth planted herself directly in their path. She wore a blue garland too, but neither of them were glad to see it.

  “Happy Evensong, Milede,” Dayn said.

  Milede Kaynerin wore a scarlet dress, and her twin black braids shone with fresh beeswax. She stood directly beneath a hanging cluster of purple maidenvine, but Dayn would not steal a kiss from the Elder's daughter if she were the last girl on Shard.

  She jabbed a finger into Dayn's chest so hard her bracelets clinked together. “You two better not be pestering every girl in sight. We’re to show our best manners, especially you, Dayn!” She abruptly stalked off, leaving Dayn and Joam with their mouths hanging open.

  “She's just salty over not being the prettiest girl at festival for a change,” Joam said with a smirk. “But she’s right, you know. The Elders won’t be happy if you—”

  Dayn shook his head. “Give up on talking me out of it, alright? For all the Elders know, there’s a pair of ridgecats sneaking around Southforte. They won’t believe a little boy, but they will listen to me at least.”

  “But the Elders are all—you know, forget it. Do what you want, I’m through helping you see sense.”

  “Catch me up after you find your kin,” Dayn said. “I want to see the offworlders first.”

  “They probably can't even stand up straight on our ground,” Joam said with a grin. “Sit with us at the storytelling. And remember―you owe me an ember-eye, courser!”

  “I will,” Dayn said, giving him a shove. Joam laughed as he moved away into the throng.

  Dayn turned back to the traders, looking for Elders as he went. Several booths displayed the woven baskets, wreathes and furniture fashioned from the endless redbranch surrounding Wia Wells. Southforte traders bellowed over the quality of the goods they made from the tough plants growing in their swamps. Their rope earned a passing glance, but Dayn would never wear clothes so coarse and itchy. Most people agreed, judging from the frustration apparent on the Southforte folk's faces.

  Woodworkers from Misthaven curried the most attention. Many a farmer surrounded those booths, bartering vigorously for new staffs of Highland silverpine. Milchamah stood there, but Dayn ducked away before the weaponmaster saw him.

  “Dayn Ro'Halan! Tell me that is not you!”

  Dayn winced at the displeasure in his mother’s voice. He turned to approach her booth reluctantly as a goodwife moved away, clutching a painting of a single homestead perched on a field of tall, golden grain.

  “Do you need my help, mother?” Dayn asked.

  “No, but it looks like you need mine,” Hanalene replied. She wore a flowing blue dress of some crushed fabric Dayn did not recognize, and her dark hair arranged in a multitude of braids. Honey-colored eyes took in Dayn and read his face as readily as one of her palettes. “Sparring with Joam, again? In the festival clothes I set aside for you?”

  Dayn gave a sheepish shrug. “No. He thought to best me in bounding.”

  “You surely set him straight,” she observed. She spread her arms expectantly, and Dayn returned her firm hug. Her own smellgoods mixed with the pleasing scent of dawnlily from her white garland. “At least you smell fine enough to give your mother a hug, but you’ll do nothing but sit tonight if you still look like this.” She picked a piece of stubble from his braids, then called loudly to an adjoining booth. “Ereyl! One of your fine shirts for my son here, and five changes of clothes for my daughter, to a painting of your choice. Do you find the barter fair?”

  “Fair and done!” The wizened Southforte trader nearly tripped in his haste to shake Hanalene's hand. He peered at Dayn a moment before rummaging through a chest in his booth. “I’ve just your size, lad. Come give it a wear.”

  Dayn dutifully changed into the fresh tunic before returning to Hanalene's booth. The fabric might feel better if it were made of nettles.

  “Please, don't ruin this one. And you’ll want this before the night is through.” Hanalene pressed another packet of smellgoods into his hand. “One more thing. Have you seen Grahm yet today?”

  “We talked to him in the fields,” Dayn said carefully. He did not want to worry her with Grahm's behavior―or his own strange morning, for that matter. “He said he would be here soon.”

  “That’s good. Kajalynn said…” Hanalene’s face clouded briefly, but more villagers approached to look through her paintings.

  She favored them with a welcome smile before turning back to Dayn.

  “Is everything alright, mother?”

  “Just be careful, my son.” She arched an eyebrow and her tone became cool and mysterious. “There are hunters about tonight.” With a rich chuckle she bustled him off.

  Dayn plunged back into the booths. Evensong beckoned, but his mother’s words only added to the unease clouding his thoughts. Yet he did feel better with so many people about, instead of just he and Joam on the open road.

  Musicians played over in the Speaker's Turn. Flute, lyre, and drums added to the pleasant drone of milling farmers and craftsmen, along with the occasional stuffy Misthavener. They pressed together so tightly Dayn could only shuffle along.

  All manner of delights clamored for his senses. The sharp tang of new leather from a clothier's booth competed with the heady aroma of crushed grapes where winemakers from Greenshadow demonstrated their trade. Toddlers squealed in delight as they hopped about the wide crushing vats with purple stained feet, and a long line of youngsters eagerly awaited their turn at
the booth.

  Dayn rounded a corner and perfumes assaulted his nose, flowers and oils blended just to make a man lose his wits.

  Behind a booth spaced further from the rest, smoke billowed. A massive figure moved deftly through it. Dayn nearly leaped out of his skin until he realized it was Blayle the butcher, sweating over his coals.

  Dayn chided himself. I’ll fare worse with the Elders than I did with Milchamah if I act this jumpy. He sidled up to where Blayle expertly tended over a dozen spits full of slow roasting lamb, goat and chicken. The stocky man paused every so often to wipe sweat from his face with the towel he kept draped over a thick shoulder. Blayle did not get to see any of the other traders, but he looked pleased enough, especially when he glanced across the way at the bored looking berrycake makers from Kohr Springs.

  “Hello, Brother Blayle. I won't be surprised when ridgecats sneak into Evensong, as good as it smells here.” Dayn's mouth watered so freely he thought his cheeks might start to sweat. The butcher took a good look at him, then sliced a liberal chunk from a roasting goat and skewered it. He slathered it with his family’s sauce, known throughout the district, and offered the morsel to Dayn.

  “Oh, the ridgecats are here,” Blayle said, motioning beneath his booth's counter. Dayn held back a laugh. Stuffed beneath some dirty aprons, he spotted the butcher’s blue garland. “They just put dresses on over their fur. Good Evensong to you, lad.”

  “Have they made off with all of the Elders? I haven’t seen one all day.”

  “Buril has them all circled up,” Blayle confided. His eyes rested on Laman’s staff a moment before he turned back to minding a spit of lamb. “Important stuff, I’m sure. Best not worry about it, we’ll see them soon enough.”

  Dayn thanked him and went his way. Maybe the Elders already know. The thought lifted his spirits, but he still wanted to be sure, so he looked for them in earnest as he ate. The savory spices blended perfectly on his skewer, but the flavor was lost on his tongue. He greeted Wia Wells friends, but felt oddly alone, as though he bore some strange affliction. The music and merriment grew steadily in the Wustl Square, but did not warm him.