The Seedbearing Prince: Part I (3 page)

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.

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 throat. “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.

“Sorry. I didn't understand.”

Milchamah nodded and spat, which was as good
as a handshake from any other man. Dayn shifted his gaze to include
Joam in the apology, too. His friend winked, and Dayn shook his
head ruefully.
Did he ever fool me. I should still throttle him,
making me think his father knew about my coursing gear!

“No worries, brother,” Joam said. “It’s a lot
to take in.” The two friends were easily the best pranksters in Wia
Wells. Years might pass before Dayn managed to get Joam back for
this.

“You caught my eye when you kept your wits at
Sweetwater, even after that Sheercrest miner broke your staff,”
Milchamah said. “He said you would’ve beat him if the fight weren't
stopped.”

“I remember.” Dayn kept his face smooth, but
it took an effort. Fighters from Northforte to Greenshadow came to
the Sweetwater tourney after harvest. Dayn distinctly recalled his
last match there, for Milchamah happened to be the ringmaster who
ended his fight. In fairness, or some such nonsense.

“I like people who aren’t afraid to
improvise,” Milchamah said.

“It's not like Sweetwater at all, brother!”
Joam broke in. He lived for the staff, which came as no surprise to
anyone, considering his father's prowess. “Swordsmen from Ara,
Badaian axe fists, Dervishi bladebreakers―the best fighters from
all the World Belt. We'll face them all at Montollos!”

Milchamah afforded his son a rare, approving
grin. Dayn felt a twinge of envy.
Would father be so proud of me
for coursing?

“You'd be going with us next year, boy,”
Milchamah added. “Your very first Cycle, just like Joam here. But
you hold back in your matches. Hesitation and victory may share a
bed for the night, but one always leaves before dawn.” Dayn blinked
uncertainly, and Milchamah sighed. “Never mind that. More practice
is the best thing for you right now. I wouldn't be here at all,
except...my boy tells me you actually beat him awhile back?”

“I was lucky,” Dayn said, giving Joam a
surprised look. “A lucky thrust, that's all.”

“Well, is that a fact now.” Milchamah said
dryly. Dayn instantly regretted his words. In truth, he had hounded
Joam for three days straight before finally besting him, just to
prove he could. Sometimes Joam's head gained pounds by the week―it
was a wonder he held it up at all with his boasting. Admitting a
defeat to his father would not have been easy. He deserved better
than Dayn laying his victory to chance. “It was a fair fight,
though.”

“That much I'm sure about, at least. The day
is short, boy,” Milchamah prodded. “What do you say? Practice
begins in two weeks.”

“Father will need help on the farm,” Dayn
said reluctantly.
There’s no way I can do this
and
practice coursing.
The World Belt took the Cycle’s fighting
competition quite seriously, some fighters were chosen from birth
to bring a golden Victor's Sash home from Montollos. Training on
the Shardian team did not ensure Dayn would also get to go
offworld, like Joam. Accepting Milchamah’s offer would only doom
his own dreams. “We’re farthest away from Wia Wells, with just one
neighbor, really.”