The Lesser Repository Page 6

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 received 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, all right? For all the Elders know, ther
e’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 all right, 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.

  “Just the lad I wanted to see!” Jairn the gemcutter beckoned to Dayn from his booth. “I could use some new moondrops, if you've brought any.”

  Dayn groaned. “I forgot my gems!” Trading was the last thing on his mind after this morning. If he saw something that took his fancy, haggling would prove to be a fine chore.

  “Ah, pity. Suppose you've been busy, with all that's going on.” He looked away, hiding his disappointment. “Well, it's a big night. Go enjoy it.”

  A tight-lipped smile reappeared under the gemcutter’s white mustache as he turned back to two Misthaveners at his booth. The couple eyed a fine emerald pendant, but loudly questioned its quality. Jairn's teeth began to grind louder than his polishing stones as Dayn moved on.

  Not five paces away, he spied the offworlder booth and eagerly approached.

  Dayn picked up a chunk of gray rock, one of the only items on display. He could see someone stirring in the cart behind the booth. “Peace upon you, offworlder,” he called out. “Is this a piece of torrent?”

  “Don't touch anything! I’m just getting set up.” A balding man with a reddened face and sagging jowls labored into sight and peered at Dayn. Sweat poured down the man's face and stained his shirt, despite the perfect weather. Dayn set the rock back where he found it, somewhat wounded.

  “Wait. You Sha
rdians are all so blessed polite.” He grinned apologetically. “Name’s Flareze, from Ista Cham. First time to your world. I know why you’re so friendly. This ground would wear you right down into your graves if you were to fight among each other. How do you stand it? My feet can barely lift my toenails.”

  “Feels like you’re standing up even when you sit down?” Dayn asked, letting the trader's ill manners pass. He remembered how Grahm once complained of the ground.

  “Exactly! Say, you look to be local, not jumping over every twitch in the underbrush like the fellows who brought me. Honestly, now. Is it...safe, here? I've heard stories, you see.”

  “Of course it is,” Dayn said. He could imagine the Misthaveners filling this offworlder's head with nonsense. “Why wouldn’t it be?

  “My...travel companions whisper of a monstrous chasm nearby? They say the land for miles around is cursed, and this whole village might fall into it any day.”

  “Peace, no,” Dayn replied. Misthaven superstition never failed to astound him. “My farm is closest to the Dreadfall, and those cliffs won't budge until the Last Mist rises. Trust me, I've seen?” He snapped his mouth shut. The entire village would take turns skinning Dayn if they discovered how often he explored there. “I mean, I've heard?”

  “Heard about this Dreadfall, yes.” Flareze gave his nose a knowing tap, smiling at Dayn's slip. “Honest, polite and the worst liars in the Belt. That is peace's own truth. I could do quite well here. That rock is from the torrent, yes. I'll do a special bargain for you.”

  It was said to count your rings after shaking hands with an Ista Cham trader, and to count your rings and fingers besides if the trader walked away with a smile. Flareze was already smiling. Dayn took a deep breath. “How about this? I’ll help you unload the rest of your wares. At the rate you’re going, everyone will be asleep before you finish.”

  A grimace cracked Flareze’s grin. “I don't know how this world still turns without money, but we'll make do, you and I. Come.” Dayn allowed himself a sigh of relief, then set to lugging four heavy chests with iron locks over from the offworlder’s cart. The man’s grin slipped even further after Dayn finished the chore. “You didn’t even break a sweat.”

  Dayn shrugged as the man began unlocking the chests. “What’s in all of these, more rocks from the torrent?”

  “Only a few,” Flareze admitted. “That one you held nearly punched a hole in the transport that brought me here, peace’s own truth. Those two that glisten, see how they pull at each other?”

  To Dayn’s astonishment the two fist-sized stones slid next to each other with a clink when the offworlder set them apart. “Only pieces that were once near a worldheart can do that. Common enough, but I figure I’ll always find some fool taken enough to—Shardian, don’t touch that!”

  Dayn’s hand froze over the last remaining chest. “I just wanted to help you, like we agreed. This one was heaviest.”

  “That’s because it’s lined with lead. There’s sickmetal inside. You won’t feel anything after a touch, but a week from now a hole will be burned clean through your hand, or worse.”

  Dayn stepped away and shot the trader an accusing look. “Who would want that? I like things from the torrent, but not if it will make me sick!”

  “It wasn’t meant for here,” Flareze allowed. He gave a conspiratorial wink. “Raiders, lad, from the Eadrinn Gohr. Heard of them, I see. Nothing like you fine folks. A cut from one of their axes will weep blood for weeks. Or they’ll hide a pinch in the stew of someone they don’t like, or worse yet, make a helm out of the stuff. You can’t be around it too long, or it’ll drive you mad, see? I couldn’t well let it out of my sight with you locals poking around.”

  “People will leave your things alone,” Dayn said, offended. “A thief on Evensong would be the shame of Shard. If that ever happened, you should tell an Elder, so—” A muscle in the Ista Cham man’s cheek twitched. The Elders don’t know! Dayn stopped with a sudden smile, and stuck his hand out. “Looks like this is all you need?”

  “Looks that way.” Flareze shook his hand with a rueful grin. “Maybe I won’t make out here as well as I thought. Go enjoy your festival, young Shardian.”

  Dayn moved on, exhaling in relief. He could’ve talked me out of all of my gems if given the chance. A child darted past his knee, leaving behind a trail of staggering adults. He wore a yellow shirt under his white garland. “Yonas?” Dayn pushed after as carefully as he could, filled with sudden doubt. If what Joam said was true, Yonas should be scared out of his wits and sitting somewhere with bandaged feet, not running through Evensong. A dozen more youngsters darted in and out of the crowd, bouncing into hips and knees, laughing as they picked themselves up off the ground.

  “Kincatcher, kincatcher, you can't catch me!” They called. “Not one branch on your family tree!”

  A goodwife with a motherly face made an attempt to stop the game. “You children know to stay on the tangletoys. Now!” Her voice did not sound motherly at all.

  Dayn stopped near a blacksmith from Kohr Springs who took down farmers' orders for tools and repairs. Yonas would reappear soon enough, and then Dayn could ask his questions.

  “Got you!” The goodwife emerged from the throng with the kincatcher himself, a boy Dayn did not recognize with a breathtakingly large head. The boy dangled precariously by an earlobe as she marched him on tip toes out of the booths, then firmly deposited him in the grass near the tangletoys. He rubbed his reddened ear vigorously.

  Dayn grinned. A new kincatcher, this time a Kohr Springs girl with brown hair and feet that blurred beneath her blue dress, now ran through the booths. Every child she touched would be added to her 'family' until none were left but one. The last to be caught would chant the words to start a new family and they would all scatter again. The game had no end.

  “Peace, if I'm not doing an awful lot of work the night of Evensong!” The goodwife said loudly. Several farmers dropped away from the blacksmith to help her.

  “You would think a child could play at a festival of all places,” one muttered. The first boy had already disappeared from where he sat. Dayn soon spotted a large head bobbing through the crowd in a noble attempt to be stealthy.

  Dayn pointed him out to the farmer. “There should be an easy catch.”

  The farmer laughed. “Don't know why I'm dickering with this blacksmith for a grindstone, with a melon like that on hand. Say, you’re Laman's boy, aren't you?” Dayn nodded. “Thought so. Fine work, lad! You'll make us proud.”

  The Southforte man went off after the boy before Dayn could ask what he meant. A flash of yellow slipped past his knees and Dayn lunged after it before Yonas escaped him again.

  “Watch yourself, you big oaf!”

  The man Dayn just bumped into straightened himself. The angular cut of his clothes and odd, short-trimmed hair marked him as a Misthavener. A conical cap lay on the ground, and Dayn snatched it up before any passersby could crush it.

  “My apologies…Elder,” Dayn added the honorific when the man's eyes narrowed. “I will be more careful.”

  “See that you do,” the man snapped, his beady eyes glittering with anger. He snatched the cap away before Dayn could return it, and stomped off. “This Fall-cursed, fly speck village is bad enough without clod-footed farmers and their downcountry manners to deal with!”

  Dayn's face burned. Several Wia Wells onlookers?none of them Elders, thankfully?watched the exchange in silence. They lanced him with warning looks before returning to their merriment.

  Dayn spotted more Wia Wells boys gathered in the Speaker’s Turn, an amphitheater of grass and wooden benches. They stood near the stage full of musicians, who were resting and scarfing down food. Judging from the sweat darkening the offworld trader's shirt, it would be a while yet before he finished unloading. Dayn skirted around the grass where gleeful children swarmed over tangletoys to join his friends.

  “Ro'Halan! Just who I wanted to see. Nice shirt.” Esane Ro'Thelen's round face
seemed built with a permanent grin. Of all the boys their age, he might be the only one who pulled more pranks than Dayn and Joam. Esane made brief introductions for the boys Dayn did not know, some friendly Southforte folk and a few aloof Misthaveners.

  “Good Evensong,” Dayn said to all. The boys returned to clamoring over who would kiss who, and guessing at the best dancers among the girls. Dayn eyed the musicians tuning while they ate, and felt an itch in his feet. “I'm sure looking forward to some dancing.”

  “I hope they can carry a tune, or this will be the worst Evensong ever,” one of the Misthaven boys said, sneering openly at the platform.

  “Thade, you don't mean that,” Esane said with a grimace, offering apologetic looks to the group. Several of the boys frowned over the comment, but continued in their debate.

  “Who is this lout to you?” Dayn murmured to Esane.

  “My cousin Thade from Misthaven,” he whispered back. “My mother is making me show him around the village.”

  “You better show him some manners while you're at it. That talk will earn him a beating.”

  “I know! What should I do?”

  Thade had light brown eyes and what Dayn presumed to be good looks, aside from a pair of unfortunately large ears. Too dull to notice the dangerous silence of the Wia Wells boys around him, the Misthavener continued to question the musicians' skill. Esane looked on, mortified that his charge stood an insult away from a well-deserved flogging.

  “We could have brought drummers from Misthaven, at least,” Thade was saying. “The girls will be asleep by the third song.”

  Dayn clapped a hand on the boy’s shoulder and used Laman's staff to gesture toward the crowd. “Don’t you worry about that. The Mistland girls get tired of the same boring farmers.” The Wia Wells and Southforte boys' faces shone with pure affront. “Besides, you haven't really danced until you've taken a Wia Wells maiden around the Turn.”

  “Really?” Thade asked doubtfully.

  “Really. I know just the one, too. She was standing under maidenvine when I first arrived, but I didn’t even bother to ask for a kiss. Been going on about you Misthaveners all week.”

  Several barely suppressed guffaws bubbled from the group as Laman's staff singled out none other than Milede, swishing her skirts through the booths. Thade rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Esane feigned a cough to hide his laugh.

  “Maybe this won’t be so bad after all,” Thade allowed. The Wia Wells boys whooped loudly for the Misthavener as he hurried off after her.

  “And I thought Joam was the better prankster of you two,” Esane marveled.

  “Evensong is no place for fighting,” Dayn replied. “I'll help make the village look as good as anyone else. What did you want to see me for?”

  The other boys circled close as Esane lowered his voice to avoid the musicians' ears. “Some of these tenderfeet want to go explore tonight.” A dozen expectant eyes swung to Dayn, lit with excitement. Dayn quickly glanced at the platform. The musicians were engaged in hot debate over the order of the songs, paying the boys no mind.

  “He said you know the wilds best,” one of the Misthaven boys urged. “Take us to the Dreadfall, Mistlander.”

  “I'd rather dance than spend the night getting scratched up in redbranch,” Dayn said. He needed to stop Esane from doing something foolish once night fell. “Could be muddy, too. The Elders think the mist will come early this year.” Esane gave Dayn a questioning frown.

  “But we might never get another chance,” one of the Southforte boys whispered. “They say the deadwisps steal away from guarding the heartrock to weep at the midnight sun. Their songs will drive you mad if you listen too long.”

  Dayn opened his mouth then closed it again with a frown. He could not tell the boy about his foolishness without giving away his own forbidden knowledge.

  “They sing about all the worlds lost to the torrent. If they see you with a torch, they’ll chase you until dawn!” “Not if you get rid of the clothes you wore there,” a Misthaven boy corrected. At Dayn's astonished look, he added, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, “So they won’t recognize you.”

  “They’ll steal your eyes and hide them in Shard’s heartrock. If you go looking for them, they'll cast you down the cliffs.”

  “You'll fall forever.” They all nodded fervently on that point and shivered. “To the other side and back again until the Last Mist rises.”

  Dayn could scarcely believe his ears. “But how can you look for your eyes, if they’ve already?” He cut off at a jab from Esane’s elbow.

  “Sorry, Dayn. I think that flute player is eavesdropping.”

  Esane must have been pumping these ridiculous stories into their heads for years. Dayn could already imagine him tomorrow, chortling about the Misthaveners he tricked into running naked through redbranch in the dark. The other Wia Wells boys' eyes twinkled mischievously, too.

  So they’re all in on the prank, Dayn thought. I would be too, if it were any other night. But with that man I saw...peace, maybe he was a deadwisp!

  A doubtful looking Southforte boy, younger than the rest piped up. “We probably couldn't get close enough to spit in the Dreadfall. Some wreathweaver or gravespinner would make a feast of us all, first. If you need an idea of their handiwork, look right there.”

  Easing himself onto a blanket near the back of the Speaker’s Turn, old Nerlin sat in his usual place, muttering to himself as he always did. Furrows creased his weathered brow as he brushed absently at his threadbare feastday clothes. His row always filled last whenever people gathered for stories or open council. Most occasions, it would not fill at all. Nerlin sat stiffly and avoided looking in their direction. Hesitant mutters and doubtful frowns rippled through the group.

  “Leave over.” Dayn gave the boy a hard look, even though his words may have discouraged Esane's foolish outing. The Misthavener stares bordered on open jeering. They gawked not at Nerlin, but his foot. Or rather, where his foot had once been. “He's done nothing to you, and that came from no wreathweaver.”

  “What happened then, Mistlander?” One of the Misthaven boys asked. “Caught in a gravespinner's web?”

  “If you must know, go ask him yourself.”

  The Wia Wells boys all echoed their agreement, suddenly remembering themselves. No matter what they disliked about each other, Mistlanders always banded together around outsiders. Especially capital folk. The withered old farmer glanced up so quickly Dayn nearly missed it. A grateful look.

  Esane suddenly gave a low, appreciative whistle. “Peace, what I wouldn't give for some maidenvine right now.” One of the girls from the Dawnbreak Inn before glided toward them. Nerlin?and the Dreadfall, peace be praised?were instantly forgotten. Dayn swallowed in spite of himself, and unconsciously patted his braids.

  “My cousin, Falena.” A Misthaven boy stammered through introductions. He clearly did not bother to remember their names. Dayn could not fault him too much, for he did not recall the Misthavener's name, either.

  “Falena Ankehl, from Misthaven,” she added the last pointedly, looking them all over. Esane, and the rest grinned foolishly, tripping over each other to offer her hugs, but Dayn felt ready to gag over the next Misthavener to announce her city.

  “Happy Evensong, sister,” he said stiffly. He would ask Milede to dance himself before fawning over any of these haughty strangers.

  “Such poor manners, Brel! Forgive my cousin. Happy Evensong,” Falena peered up at Dayn expectantly through long eyelashes. Dayn took the hint and hugged her reluctantly. Refusing one would be considered a serious insult. Her fingertips teased his back, making the hairs on his neck stand up.

  “What was your name?”

  “Dayn Ro'Halan.” He could not resist adding, “From Wia Wells, closest village to the Dreadfall.”

  The Wia Wells boys groaned audibly. Falena's expression faltered, but she recovered smoothly, glancing at the platform for a moment. Singers from Kohr Springs and Southforte now rehearsed w
ith the musicians. A Southforte lute player stared at Falena, and she favored him with a dazzling smile. He yelped an oath when one of his strings snapped.

  “Ro'Halan...that name sounds familiar. Your father sits on the Trade Circle, doesn't he?” The village boys' heads bobbed eagerly before Dayn even opened his mouth. They were positively moonstruck over this maiden. “I thought so. He is highly spoken of in Misthaven, Laman is. Even though he’s...” She coughed delicately into her hand.

  Even though he’s from Wia Wells, Dayn finished silently. He suddenly did not care to dance with this Falena at all.

  “I suppose he'll be mayor here one day,” she continued, playfully twirling her blue garland.

  “Our Village Council serves well enough,” Dayn said flatly. Several of the boys gave firm nods before catching themselves. Falena affected not to notice them eavesdropping, and Dayn did not care.

  “So there’s more to you than farming. And I hear you’re not in love with wielding the staff like that beanpole Misthavener pestering all of my friends for kisses,” Falena said. “Can I sit with you for the storytelling?”

  “Everyone, please join us,” Elder Buril's resonant voice boomed from the platform of the Speaker's Turn, forestalling Dayn's answer. The Turn immediately began to fill.

  Dayn spotted his neighbor Grahm sitting next to his wife, and all of his former worry came rushing back. Kajalynn held one of their triplets and minded two more swaddled in their blankets, concern lining her face. Grahm stared forward with hollow eyes, not responding to her whispers. Dayn could not be more certain his neighbor saw the same thing he did this morning.

  Joam waved to Dayn from a bench further off, where he sat with his parents and brothers. He motioned coyly to an empty space nearby as if to say, there’s room for her, too. Even old Nerlin's row quickly filled. The remaining boys broke away to find more blue garlands to sit near.

  “Hello, son.”

  Dayn started at Laman’s voice behind him. His parents had appeared beside Elder Buril, standing in front of the musicians. A sharp tremor of worry snaked through Dayn's chest. “You and your friend may want to sit down,” Hanalene said, her eyes twinkling.

  “The storytelling is nearly upon us,” Elder Buril intoned. A broad-chested man with regal, gray dreadlocks, his resonant baritone made for a booming laugh, and served equally well in bending the Village Council to his wishes. Falena led Dayn to an open space on a nearby bench. A few stragglers hurried over from the booths.

  Elder Buril's dark eyes shone proudly as he looked over the expectant faces. “Many of you have journeyed far to celebrate Evensong with us. Wia Wells is honored to host Misthaven this season. There’s one small matter to attend before the storytelling.

  “The Trade Circle selects worthy apprentices every season, as you all know. This Applicant is chosen to learn the proper running of a village, and how the harvest will best serve the World Belt. Shard's Pledge has flourished under this tradition of guidance for centuries, and will continue to do so for as long as the mist rises.”

  A murmur of approval ran through the onlookers. Dayn’s parents stood quietly as Elder Buril's voice carried easily over the growing rumble of anticipation from the crowd. Dayn felt an odd twinge in the pit of his stomach.

  “For the first time in two generations, one of our own is selected as an Applicant. This lad will apprentice with our good neighbors down the road, in Southforte, as well as in Greenshadow, Kohr Springs, and Misthaven.”

  Anyone but me. Dayn swallowed nervously as he felt dozens of farmers lock their eyes on him. A pleased sound escaped Falena's throat, and she held to Dayn's arm with a self-satisfied curl to her lips. Please, no.

  “The choice for this season's Applicant is Dayn Ro'Halan!”

  The Turn burst into cheers. Local folks pointed out Dayn to the travelers, who eyed him appraisingly. Laman beamed with pride as he shook Elder Buril's hand, and Hanalene waved excitedly to Dayn. He managed a feeble wave back, not daring to stand. Peace, my legs feel like jelly. How long have they known?

  Milede stood off by herself, staring at him crossly. So this is why she snapped at me before, Dayn thought. She wanted to sit on the Village Council one day just like Elder Kaynerin, though her father had never been an Applicant.

  The Mistland farmers sitting nearby congratulated Dayn, slapping him on the back.

  “Do Wia Wells proud, lad!”

  “I will,” Dayn said numbly.

  “We expect nothing less!”

  Falena brushed closer to him, murmuring her regards. “I shall enjoy dancing with you.” Dayn could almost believe the people were cheering her, from the look on her face.

  “You’ll do a fine job, lad,” Elder Buril beamed. Hanalene and Laman waved once more before stepping toward the back of the platform. The musicians congratulated them as though they had just won Sweetwater. Dayn's heart sank to see the joy on their faces. “Now please, everyone, find your seats?the telling will begin soon!”

  Joam trotted over, a pained look on his face. “Happy Evensong, sister,” he said with a deep bow for Falena. “Mind if I borrow my brother for just a moment?”

  She nodded. They moved off to stand away from the Speaker's Turn, and stood in silence on the grass.

  Just remember, I gave you a chance. Those were Joam's words from this morning. Dayn looked back into the Turn. Milchamah held his eye for a moment, then shrugged before turning back to Joam's older brothers. Elder Buril still conferred with the musicians from the platform, but watched Dayn and Joam out of the corner of his eye. Dayn's heart sagged as the revelation struck home. His father’s awkward talk this morning, followed by Milchamah's untimely visit.

  “The whole of Wia Wells was betting on which you would choose,” Joam finally said. “The staff or the fields.”

  “Peace, but I didn't want to fight,” he mumbled. “How was I to know about this?”

  “You weren’t. Laman wanted you to choose for yourself. My father said if you found out you were to be Applicant from anyone, he would make me whittle down every staff I have, and I could forget about sparring, let alone Montollos. I would have told you, but I was so sure you would choose the staff.”

  “You know that's not what I want.”

  Sympathy shone plainly on Joam’s face. “Peace, I know. But now you’ll be tied to a farm for as long as the mist rises. I'll make it up to you, I promise.”

  “I don’t see how. We won't see each other the whole summer.”

  Joam shook his head sadly. “Dust and bones, you're right. Listen, everyone is starting to stare. Let's just sit down, all right? Come on.”

  Dayn put on a cheerful air for the farmers' sake as he dragged himself back to the Turn. He could never refuse the Trade Circle's decision, not without shaming his family and the village. He could see that now, in the excited clamor of the gathered farmers who had taught him all he knew, the way their eyes flashed with pride when they rested on him. His coursing dreams stood as much chance as a wingless bird in a gravespinner's web.

  They returned to where Falena awaited. The Southforte folk sitting nearby offered their congratulations, and complimented Dayn on his shirt. Conveniently enough, the bench held only enough room for Dayn.

  “Well, I'll go sit with my family then,” Joam said awkwardly. Falena offered her apologies along with another ravishing smile, but Dayn knew better. She acted all honey and cream and charm with him, but any girl wreathed in blue who looked Dayn's way received a frosty stare.

  “Wait, Joam.” Dayn caught his arm. “You really mean it, that you’ll make it up to me?”

  Joam’s word meant everything to him, same as any self-respecting Shardian. “Peace take my breath if it's not true!”

  “Then come over tomorrow, when your chores are done. Tell Milchamah you'll spend the night. I'll need you then, just this once.”

  Joam searched Dayn's face, then nodded uncertainly before returning to his kin. “This isn’t about...the well, right?”

  “No, nothing
like that. I’ll explain everything tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Tomorrow,” Dayn whispered for himself. Falena cooed inquiringly beside him but he ignored her, pretending to set his attention on Elder Buril. The crowd listened in rapt attention as the storytelling began. Dayn knew what must be done, for any hope of coursing. But he needed to hear himself say the words. “Tomorrow night I'll go to the Dreadfall.”