The Seedbearing Prince: Part I (36 page)

“Voidwalker!” Lurec finally gave a warning
shout after shaking free of his own shock. “Beware the
Thar'Kuri!”

The voidwalker raised a single hand to point
at Orsot. The High stepped back in fear. The gauntlet looked like
charred wood, and the exposed fingers were the color of swollen,
overfed maggots. Every Aran within sight screamed.

“But he’s the attendant,” Orsot spluttered,
confusion on his face. “I saw him carrying the Consort’s trunk
myself. They said the harsh light hurts his skin…” Dayn wanted to
tell the man to run, or look away―something. But fear held him
rooted to the floor.

The voidwalker's hand twisted, and Orsot
began to scream. The din in the chamber subsided briefly as people
sought out the source of Orsot's screeching, for it was pitched
higher than all the rest. Everyone witnessed High Orsot as he
collapsed before his own seat. The poor Aran began to rake long
furrows from his bald head all the way down to his chin, as though
he meant to tear away his own face.

Nassir used that moment of collective shock
to burst past the Aran guards and close with the voidwalker, his
every limb coiled to strike. Fear immobilized everyone else in the
entire chamber.

“For the sand, Arans! Help me!” Nassir
shouted.

The dozen or so swordsmen came to their
senses at last, blocking the three exits and surrounding the
voidwalker with drawn swords.

“For the sand! Protect the Highest!”

The cloaked figure slunk back, retreating to
the farthest end of the chamber beyond the High's chairs. The
candles behind every chair suddenly winked out, plunging the room
into deeper shadow.

“He's trapped himself,” Lurec said grimly at
Dayn’s side. Neither of them had budged as the scene unfolded. They
could barely see the voidwalker in the dim light as the swordsmen
closed in.

Nassir slowed when the voidwalker's arm
extended from his cloak, tensing for an attack. But the voidwalker
only pointed again, this time straight at Dayn.

“I bring a message for the whelp.” The voice
hissed, like rotting flesh searing on a spit. “Ro’Halan.”

Dayn felt a new fear born in his heart as the
beginnings of a dry, throat-rending laugh sounded throughout the
chamber, echoing louder and louder.

“Moridos. He comes for you.”

Nassir lowered his sword and stopped. The
Aran swordsmen began to swear fervently as the echoes faded.

Dayn slowly walked forward. The remaining
Arans parted for him with fearful stares, some muttering prayers to
themselves. He saw loathing among them, too. His name would be
forever tainted in their ears, after hearing it uttered from a
voidwalker’s lips.

Dayn stopped next to Nassir, who gave him a
considering look before sheathing his sword. “Peace protect us,”
Dayn whispered. The voidwalker had disappeared in the shadows.

Chimes Upon the
Wind

The worlds of the Belt squabble about which is
greatest, in bravery, intrigue, or compassion. None are right, and
that's why it's all so breathtakingly tragic. I can scarcely
imagine the blessed days before the Breach, even as I plot for
their return. I secretly dread the people will never act as
one.

-private journal of Master Preceptor Noredeen

T
he next morning,
Dayn found himself lying in the middle of the largest bed he could
imagine, after a night of bad sleep and worse dreams. He ran from
voidwalkers through grass with rows of sharp little teeth on the
leaves that nibbled at his ankles, then again through desert where
sucking pits of sand pulled at his boots. Every place he fled
through, something rose up to stop him, almost as if each nightmare
world wanted the voidwalkers to catch him.

His last dream was the worst one of all. He
fell through a jagged rush of torrent, but instead of wingline, he
held only the Seed. His hand took on the Seed’s glow, and red light
raced up his arm and through his veins until his whole body shone
brighter than Shard’s worldheart. He flung the Seed away from him.
The torrent howled around it worse than the resonance wake,
shattering a hundred floating mountains into dust. Flecks of black
appeared within the Seed until the torrent swallowed it completely.
His sheath grew hotter than the Aran sun and the skin of his hands
began to boil. Consumed in fire and terrible light, the last thing
he remembered was Eriya’s voice.
I cannot imagine a worse way to
meet my end.

The Aran dawn played gently through the
windows of his guest room in the Highest's palace. He had slept the
better part of yesterday and last night, which made up for the fact
that he had been awake for nearly two days. His body did not seem
to know when to rest, moving from world to world without the farm’s
routine.

Shard felt more distant than ever as he took
in his lavish surroundings. The linen sheets felt cool to the
touch, and ebony posts marked each corner of his bed. Finely
polished redstone with orange and yellow streaks paneled the walls
of his spacious room. Fine pieces of famed Aran glasswork decorated
every wall, vivid turquoise with clear bubbles trapped within. They
looked like dancing trees, or frozen tongues of fire.

A chest of drawers stood beneath the open
window, carved gracefully enough to earn his father’s admiration. A
breeze diminished the overall warmth. Fresh clothes awaited him on
top of the chest.

Outside of the heavy purple drapery that
covered the entrance to his rooms, a bell tinkled. With wood so
scarce, doors were rare on Ara. Dayn suspected the Arans valued the
ebony chest and bed far more than their impressive glasswork.

“Good morning, Shardian.” Lurec entered at
Dayn's assent. The Preceptor had shed his gray overcoat, and wore a
blue tunic of Aran cut. His face had grown incredibly red after
their walk to the city yesterday, and Dayn feared painful days were
in store for the Preceptor if they stayed on Ara long. “How did you
sleep?”

“Better than I thought I would. My father
used to tell me and Joam that when we were born, our parents
guessed at how tall we would turn out, then built our beds a foot
shorter.” The Preceptor chuckled as Dayn spread his arms wide,
taking in the expanse of his bed. “That way if we grew up to be
lazy, we wouldn't waste time finding our own land. We would leave
just to build beds worth sleeping in.” Dayn let his arms drop. His
grin at the memory faded. “I wish I could forget about
yesterday.”

“I slept little myself,” Lurec admitted. “I
doubt anyone in that room found rest after the...encounter. Can you
believe the Arans still speak of finding the
Ringman
responsible? Hard not to blame them, though. A voidwalker in their
midst, completely undetected. Yesterday truly opened a door for us.
Otherwise, this Ring Consort might still be to blame for the High's
plots on Suralose.”

“Has anyone found him?”

“The Consort?” Lurec frowned. “No, not yet.
The apartments he occupied in Olende are empty, of course. The bed
wasn’t even slept in. It’s possible the voidwalker controlled the
man, if he was truly a Consort in the first place.”

Dayn searched the Preceptor's blue eyes,
dismayed with what he saw. “That isn't what you think, is it?”

Lurec sighed. “There are...sympathizers,
among the World Belt. Those who’ve befriended Thar'Kur for some
foolish hope of gain, or been cowed by their threats. You know
better than most how a voidwalker can inspire fear. Distasteful as
the idea may be, I cannot discount it. I must consider that such
confused souls could be lurking within the Ring.”

“Peace protect us.” Dayn could scarcely
believe his ears.

“Indeed. Who knows where else their influence
festers?” The Preceptor shook his head. “The Belt turns against us,
but we’ve done some good here. The Highest has already ordered for
High Crina’s arrest. That should provide more answers to what
spurred her actions.”

“Then coursing through the torrent was worth
it after all.”

Lurec nodded grudgingly. “The most important
thing is that we’ve avoided an open war in the Belt. The treaty
will be restored, given time.”

Pride over their good deed came and went
without lifting Dayn’s spirits. His thoughts kept returning to
Jemlar's Hall. He
knew
the exact moment when the voidwalker
disappeared in the shadows. Its gaze released him like an engorged
leech, drunk from its fill. “Preceptor, they...they know I’m here.
Moridos, he said his brother died in the redbranch. That
means―”

“Do not fear, young Shardian.” Lurec's face
filled with sympathy, but quickly gave way to resolve. “I may have
my differences with Nassir, but he is uniquely gifted to provide
for your safety.”

“I hope you’re right. I've barely been on Ara
and I already want to leave!”

“Let your mind dwell on other things,” the
Preceptor urged. “The palace is well guarded. Nassir and I will be
in mediation with the High throughout most of the day. You may have
your run of the grounds until we’re finished. There are a hundred
different ways to pass the time away. I would recommend the
gardens.”

Dayn frowned, suspecting the Preceptor had
made some sort of joke. “The gardens, why? Because I'm
Shardian?”

“No, no. After seeing you course, I doubt any
garden will ever again capture your interest. They’re not
particularly lovely, and rather stifling even though the hour is
early. But at least,” Lurec gave Dayn a conspiratorial wink,
“you’ll be able to avoid anyone looking to pry. The High are rather
interested in the...attention you received yesterday. The rumors of
a Thar’Kuri warrior in Jemlar’s Hall will spread in time. They will
vary much, but many will agree that the voidwalker knew the name of
a boy named Ro’Halan.”

“Clusterthorn,” Dayn muttered. “The
voidwalker wants me dead, and they want to chatter about it? I
agreed to be a Seedbearer to help my family name, not stain it
further!”

“Be easy, Dayn. The path before us won’t be
easy, but the work you are doing is good and true. The entire World
Belt will soon appreciate what you’ve done, not just Suralose, Ara
and Shard. I didn’t see it fully before, but I do now. Stay the
course and all will right itself.”

The sincerity Lurec spoke with cut through
Dayn’s gloominess. “Thank you, Preceptor.”

“Of course. Don’t wander all day, and avoid
making a spectacle of yourself. Never let the Seed out of your
sight.” Dayn flushed, searching his sheets until he finally
produced the red orb from beneath his pillow. Lurec nodded
approvingly. “Exactly what I would have done in your place. We’ll
send servants to find you in time for the Dance of Shells.”

“What’s that?” Dayn asked.

“Why, only one of the greatest festivals in
all of the World Belt!” Lurec exclaimed. His sudden burst of
enthusiasm took Dayn by surprise. “We’ll be guests of honor in the
Echowind Split at dusk.” Lurec turned to go. “You won’t want to
miss it.”

The brown trousers and honey-colored vest
left on top of the chest of drawers fit Dayn perfectly. The black
boots were taller than he was used to, but he guiltily admitted
they felt much better than his field boots from home.

Certain he looked presentable enough to be
seen in his first palace, Dayn dropped the Seed in his pocket. He
hesitated a moment over his staff, but finally decided to leave it
resting in the corner. He didn’t want to look any more out of place
than he already did. Giving his vest one last tug, he stepped out
of the room.

“Anything I can help you with, young
sir?”

Dayn jumped. A fair-haired Aran servant with
a prim manner looked up at him expectantly. He had clearly been
waiting for Dayn to emerge this entire time.

“The gardens?” Dayn said. The man's brow
crinkled querulously, so he added, “I was told they were a fine
sight in the palace.”

“You were told...well, I suppose you
are
Shardian,” the servant murmured to himself, shaking his
head “It’s not very peaceful at the moment, I'm afraid. The gardens
are filled to bursting with dancers rehearsing for the Sending. The
inner studies are much cooler at this time of day. I could
certainly take you there, and the High Talor would be happy
to―”

“The gardens are fine, thank you,” Dayn said
firmly, keeping with Lurec's suggestion. He added a bit
sarcastically, “Really, I can't wait to see the flowers.”

“Flowers? But surely...” The Aran decided not
to persist after taking in Dayn’s face. “Very well, young sir.”

He led Dayn to the palace gardens, murmuring
with the Aran guards a moment before they allowed Dayn through. The
two swordsmen were willow thin, and stood with a confident grace.
They both said nothing as Dayn passed, but watched him with flinty
eyes even after his friendly nod.

This is what passes for a garden on
Ara?
Dayn wondered as he strolled along a footpath of wide
white stones. Smooth pink pebbles covered the entire space, except
for a central courtyard that bustled with dozens of palace
servants. They rushed to and fro excitedly, carrying elaborate
dresses and bolts of fabric. Dayn supposed they were making
decorations and costumes for the Aran festival, and steered well
clear.
The goodwives at Evensong grow fangs whenever people see
their work beforehand. I doubt this lot will be any
different.

Brown and green speckled plants decorated the
gardens like nothing Dayn had ever seen. Instead of leaves, long
spines covered every inch of them in bristling rows, and there were
no branches to speak of. He stepped close to one over twice his
height. The spines were long and black, hardened by the sun. Dayn
instinctively reached out to touch the surface.

“Careful―you'll be days picking those needles
from your hand!” A servant called out to him from the courtyard. He
ignored the Aran's warning and pressed his palm toward the rows of
inch-long spines.