The Seedbearing Prince: Part I Page 6

  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, alright? 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.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

 
; The Midnight Sun

  The world beneath my feet is not the world my fathers knew,

  my Belt's glory is their sorrow and their tears are mine, anew.

  My studies are fraught with grief. I long to be blind and dumb.

  For I have learned the truth of the Breach, I have seen the midnight sun.

  -last known work of Lakhil Grabin, Shardian poet believed to have thrown himself in the Dreadfall

  So let me get this straight.” Joam's voice echoed through the surrounding rock formations that heaved into the night, weathered and arthritic. “You didn’t steal one kiss from her? Not one?”

  “Not one,” Dayn replied patiently, surely for the tenth time. He razored his way along the painfully narrow trail. His coursing gear hung between them, dangling on the bundle of poles and the two old sparring staffs held upon their shoulders. Stones dislodged by their feet clattered down slopes fit to splinter limbs.

  “Well, why not?” Joam persisted, struggling to keep his voice light. “She was the finest maiden wearing blue, and had eyes for no one else.”

  “She danced about as fine as a sick goat,” Dayn muttered. He welcomed Joam's chatter, it kept him from squinting after imagined stirrings along the path. He feels it too, Dayn thought. Something is wrong with the night. Their lantern light faltered before the shadows, which stalked around them like hungry ridgecats.

  “Can’t say I noticed.”

  “I should have worn a white garland. She was so busy making sure everyone saw us together, we nearly tripped three times.”

  “More reason for a kiss,” Joam swept his lantern about in sputtering, fitful arcs, as he balanced the poles on his shoulder.” Who else passes by so much good fortune, all in the same day? There's something wrong with you.”

  “Good fortune? Every Elder on the Village Council means for me to become a mayor, the way they act over this Applicant business. Our grandparents would howl in their graves.”

  “Not with one look at that beauty by your side. You know it's exactly what everyone wants, a fresh union between Wia Wells and Misthaven.”

  Dayn grunted. “I'm sure Falena would agree.”

  “A plumb fool would agree.”

  Dayn offered no reply. Joam fell silent as the trail switchbacked sharply upward to the right, passing through outcrops that looked like broken potshards from some giant's workshop. After an hour of plodding through the dark, they were finally nearing the Dreadfall.

  “Peace, but I want my bed,” Joam groaned. “Did we really need to do this tonight?”

  “Applicant training begins with First Mist, so my father gave me all freedays until then. I won't have a minute alone after that.”

  “So you'll practice coursing every day until then,” Joam said thoughtfully. “I'd do the same thing if it were a lost summer of staff work. I hope the mist is late in rising for you.”

  “I do, too. Joam...thank you for this,” Dayn blurted out. A hopeless feeling that greater forces would forever shape his dreams had finally started to lift, like a loaded wagon rolling off of his chest. “I couldn’t do it myself.”

  “You better make good as a courser, or I'll have you working my land until we’re both gray-haired.” Joam chuckled.

  “You better hope I do course, for your sake!” Dayn said with a snort. “If the Elders stay worked up over this Attendant business, I'll end up as some high and mighty councilor. Like a mayor for all of Shard.”

  Joam snickered. “Well you never dream small, I'll give you that. We'll find you a big purple cape, like a Montollos Regent.”

  “The first thing I'll do is banish you to a world with the worst soil in the Belt, for all the lip you'll give me. I'll send Falena, too, to dance with you.”

  “Just keep my rows plowed straight, Grand Councilor.” Their laughter echoed in the ravine below.

  Dayn stretched his lantern out to see ahead. The rock formations here towered over them, contorted spires or jumbled piles that rested in the merciful peace of collapse. Most disturbing of all were the caves. They perforated every surface the two shuffled past, refusing to allow his lantern's light inside. The smaller openings worried Dayn most, they were likely places for wreathweaver dens.

  “Sand and ash, but this place makes my skin crawl,” Joam muttered. “I’m glad we’re not carrying this junk back with us. How much farther now?”

  “Just a hundred spans from the top of this ridge.”

  The sloping trail abruptly ended on a windswept plateau that reminded Dayn of a raised scar. Life of a sort festered within the Fall's steep cliffs, but not even hardy redbranch grew on this barren ground.

  They stopped fifty spans shy of the edge to rest. Dayn wiped sweat from his face, and Joam took a grateful swig from their waterskin, casting furtive glances ahead.

  “So what are we supposed to do with these?” Joam motioned to the four poles they brought, fashioned from the straightest redbranch limbs Dayn could find. Three spans long and thicker than a man's leg, they could each bear Dayn's weight without bending.

  “We’ll wedge them into the cliff face, so they stick out like a bird's perch. I’ll use them to practice my flips. Climbing down will be the hardest part.”

  “Fair enough. Is the path worse than that goat trail you found to get us here?” Joam asked.

  Dayn gave him a level look. “There are no paths into the Dreadfall, Joam. It's all straight down. I'll show you what to do. It's easy.”

  “If you say so,” Joam said, peering at the poles doubtfully. Dayn could tell he would need prodding to do the actual work. “What does a courser need to flip for, anyway? I thought you just roped a boulder and let it pull you through the torrent.”

  “That’s true, but think of it more like swimming in the Silk River,” Dayn said. “Only the current is rock instead of water. You need to flip your way through it or be crushed. Every story I've read says so. I may have no torrent, but here I'll be free to swing around just like I was born in it.”

  “You were born in it,” said Joam, full of mock sympathy. “Your parents never had the heart to tell you the truth. One day you just dropped right out of the sky...”

  Dayn cuffed him on the shoulder. “Would you stop? We're wasting light.”

  “Don't be a glumtongue. These lanterns will last hours yet.”

  “I wasn't talking about the lanterns. We'll need those for the walk back.”

  “Then what did you mean?”

  “Never mind. I need to show you how everything works.” Dayn spilled out the contents of their pack, hoping to distract Joam from the unanswered question. It would be better to look over the tools here instead of right next to the edge. The growing doubt on his friend's face worried him.

  “I got this at last year's harvest,” Dayn said. The Misthaven trader likely thought to sell the frayed wingline as a curiosity from beyond Shard, never guessing Dayn intended to use it. The finely braided fiber glinted silver in the lantern light. Dayn pulled on a span with all of his strength. The wingline stretched reluctantly, then snapped back to its original length once he relaxed. The pack held normal rope, too, but wingline was fifty times stronger.

  He passed the entire coil to Joam, who gave it a thoughtful tug. “So thin. Like gravespinner silk.”

  Next Dayn held up one of the talons, a courser’s grappling hook. “This is what you use to catch a rock that will pull you through the torrent,” he explained.

  “Without getting flattened by a boulder along the way. Did you manage to trade for a Defender's suit of armor, too?”

  In response, Dayn opened a small wooden cask. Joam gave a surprised grunt of recognition at the clear, pasty substance within. “By the mist, how did you get this?”

  “Last year at the Sealing,” Dayn said. “I saw two Misthaven kids chase a rat down with slingshots. They hit it at least ten times and it still got away. They showed me the alley where they first saw it. I found a harvest barrel there that wasn't sealed, and figured the rat got inside.”

  For the Fe
stival of Sealing, special barrels were used to store the World Belt’s portion of the harvest. Preceptors, men of great wisdom from the Ring, used a coating to seal the barrels and preserve crops for transport between worlds. Rumor said a sealed harvest would keep for decades.

  “You think this goop will save you in case you swing face first into the cliff?”

  “I do. Put it on like this.”

  “Nasty.” Joam wrinkled his nose, backing away before Dayn could explain. “You aren't going to smear that on―hey!” Dayn spread a handful of the sealer on Joam's arm just below the shoulder. He barely held back a laugh as Joam's eyebrows climbed his forehead in disbelief. The mixture did smell rather foul.

  Before Joam could wipe the sealer away, Dayn swung his staff in a ferocious, bone-snapping strike that cracked against Joam's arm. Blinding light flashed from the blow, and Joam went sprawling.

  He scrambled to his feet with a roar. “You have some nerve! I'm going to...” He stopped short, clutching his arm in wonder. “Hey it...it doesn't even hurt.”

  “It’ll keep us from breaking anything. I'll bet this stuff could stop a much stronger strike. Maybe even turn steel.”

  “Maybe. You know, I've heard old Nerlin say if you ever fell down the cliffs, you’ll starve to death before you hit bottom.” Joam glanced toward the Dreadfall's edge with a look like he had just swallowed a handful of rotten fervorberries. “Why won't we need the lanterns? You never said before.”

  “Come and see.” Dayn meant to ease Joam's nerves by showing him the tools, but he could do nothing more. Together they approached the edge.

  “Where's the other side? And the bottom...” Joam’s eyes slid downward, and widened further than Dayn thought possible. A whimper escaped his throat.

  Jagged, crumbling cliffs curled out of sight to the north and south, joining together over ten leagues away to the east. The Dreadfall stretched countless leagues deeper into Shard's heartrock, a refuge of purest shadow.

  Dayn shuddered in spite of himself even though he had stood in this very spot dozens of times. Sometimes he imagined he felt the ground here cracking underfoot. The Dreadfall seemed to fester, a wound that expanded slowly as seasons and shadows and burrowing things vainly tried to lick it clean.