The Seedbearing Prince: Part I (51 page)

Dayn grimaced. “Peace, you had to find
Highlanders?”

“For now.” Milchamah looked genuinely
embarrassed. “Wayndell wouldn't leave his fields in Kohr Springs on
such short notice. You and your questions. Listen. I need you to
take the empty place.”

Dayn stopped up short. His chest grew tight
with guilt. “The last time Joam and I saw each other, I did
something terrible. I―”

“What? Saved his melon from being split for
supper?” Milchamah snorted. “Buril told me and your father all
about that. If anything, I owe you my thanks. If you hadn't stopped
him, Joam would just now be waking up from the beating those
Defenders would have put on him. Consider us even, boy.”

“For what?”

“'For what' he says. For me fishing your hide
out of the Dreadfall.”

Gruff as the farmer was, Dayn could not have
hoped for better news.
Maybe everyone won't be so angry with me
when I go home, after all.
“Thank you, Milchamah.”

“Don't mention it. You can square with Joam
yourself. Here they are now.”

Dayn looked up, and his angst faded
immediately. The Shardians were ahead, lean and brown to the man,
dressed in plain farmer's clothes with staffs close at hand. They
sat on their packs near one of the wooden sparring platforms,
gawking every which way at the sights and people. They
look as
out of place as...as I probably do,
Dayn thought to himself
wryly.

“Boys, you won’t believe who I’ve found...get
warmed up! We’re going to fight after all. Prolo, you won't have to
bribe that Porini fellow to pretend he’s from the Mistlands.” The
three farmers erupted in rough laughter, which ended in surprise as
they caught sight of Dayn.

“I don't believe it!” Joam rose from where he
sat, face split in two by a huge grin.

“Joam!” Dayn exclaimed. The two came near to
strangling each other in a fierce hug, laughing.

“Where have you―what have you...peace, it’s
good to see you!” Joam gave up searching for words, and looked at
Dayn in amazement. It was as though their clash in the Square never
took place. They had always been that way, and Dayn hoped it never
changed.

“Our match will start soon,” Milchamah
interjected. “You boys can catch up while we stretch. Dayn, this
here is Kayle. He’s a fisher from Kohr Springs.”

Dayn unlimbered his pack and shook hands with
Kayle, who was wiry strong and thin as his staff. He looked maybe
ten years older than Dayn, and carried himself with a quiet manner.
Dayn remembered the fisherman faring better than he had in the
standings at Sweetwater.

The Shardians listened in great interest as
he recounted his travels. He chose his words carefully, though.
They laughed at his story of Rela Run, murmured appreciatively over
the Dance of Shells and shook their heads in amazement to hear of
the Suralosan snow. He made no mention of the Seed, he owed the
Ringmen that much. “The Ring wants the World Belt to hear what
happened on Shard, in our own words. The people I’ve met on other
worlds are just like us―they think voidwalkers are stories to scare
children.”

“Peace knows that’s true.” Joam shuddered.
“Father let me come when Nerlin took the Elders back to see the
corpse in the redbranch. There wasn’t much left, but...it must have
been terrible, Dayn.”

“It sounds to be a fine thing you’re doing
for the Belt, lad,” Prolo observed. He was as stout as he was tall,
with wiry caterpillars for eyebrows that matched his gray eyes. He
was a cousin of Elder Buril by marriage, and claimed he had only
taken up the staff so he would not get dragged onto the Village
Council. “For Shard, too. Your parents will be proud.”

Dayn hungered for news of home, and Joam was
quick to oblige. “You should see it, Dayn. People came from
everywhere to help rebuild when word spread. Kohr Springs,
Southforte, even Sheercrest. Your aunts came down from Greenshadow,
too, and I think they brought half of their village along with
them. The Dawnbreak is going to be bigger than ever, four stories!”
Joam shrugged sheepishly, glancing at the huge structure that
surrounded them.

“Only took a voidwalker in the flesh to get
folks to visit,” Milchamah muttered. “After that, a little thing
like the Dreadfall doesn’t seem so bad.”

“A lot of them are thinking of staying, too,”
Prolo added, scratching his head in amazement. “We’ll finally get
to show what Wia Wells can
really
do in the harvest.”

Joam nodded eagerly. “Crops are growing well
enough, there's no leafblight in the Mistlands like Kohr Springs
dealt with last season. Southforte is looking to have a grand
harvest. Sister Irie is with child, and Esane wove a marriage
bracelet for some girl from Misthaven.” Joam let loose a grin. “Oh,
what's her name?”

“Falena,” Prolo offered. “She's stringing him
along well enough. He's a good lad, hard worker. No one can figure
out what she's waiting for.” Joam laughed uproariously at the look
on Dayn’s face after that. Prolo frowned, but kept to his
stretching.

“My sister, she’s well?” Dayn asked.

“Stirring up trouble as usual. You wouldn't
believe it, Dayn, but her scars are nearly faded from the Eve of
Trembling.” Joam shrugged. “That’s what they call it now, to
remember it. But who wants to do that? Tela’s doing just fine.
Sister Cari hardly knew what to make of it. She's growing fast this
spring, too.”

“That tall?” Dayn marveled when Joam leveled
a hand midway through his ribcage to show Tela's height.
I’m
gone for a few weeks and she decides to shoot up!
Her whole
body had been covered in bandages it seemed. He still remembered
his last night by her side as if it were yesterday. His terrible
attempt at a song, and then…
the Seed. Peace, it must have healed
her, too.
“I never thought things would change so fast.”

“The boys will be wondering when she gets her
first blue dayroses before long. I promise you that.” The farmers
all laughed at Dayn’s mortified look.

“Here, boy.” A darkwood staff sailed through
the air. Dayn caught it without thinking, and the edges blurred as
his wrists moved the grain. The darkwood felt good in his grasp,
though it was a little longer than he liked. Still, the grain
balanced nicely.

“Thanks. I still owe you for the silverpine
you gave me.”

“No worries.” Milchamah nodded approvingly.
“You haven’t completely gone to slack, good. You gained weight,
boy? I could see your spleen before you left.” Of all people, Joam
guffawed loudly at that.

“Small wonder these Montollene aren’t all
skeletons,” Kayle said gloomily. “Where does their food come from?
I wouldn't feed a Misthavener's herd of swine with what we've seen
pass for market here.”

“Nor I.” Milchamah sighed heavily. “We’ll
leave that bone for the Trade Circle to gnaw on when we return.
This whole thing’s been a fine farce, pulling us from our early
crops and barely started our own training, besides. Come. Our bout
is this way.”

They gathered their belongings and followed
Milchamah through the Achen Isee, weaving through fighters from
every world in the Belt. Every platform they passed showed some new
weapon or style of fighting, and Dayn grew increasingly nervous at
the prospect of matching his own abilities against them.

To one side, two men squared off. An average
looking fellow with tattoos from wrist to shoulder wielded two
curious implements that Dayn could best describe as a segmented
short staff. The man held it so he could tuck the hafts under his
arms. He faced a hulking, bare chested man armed with a huge,
spiked hammer. The farmers slowed to watch the match. Joam's eyes
were as big as apples.

“The little one is Dervishi,” Milchamah
murmured. “His opponent is from Quello. A mauler, they are called.
Strong ground there. You see the difference in how he moves?”

“My bet's on the hammer,” Joam whispered.

“I'll take that,” Prolo said immediately. The
two shook hands.

“I thought Dervishi were supposed to be the
best fighters.” Dayn looked doubtfully at the smaller man, who eyed
his bulkier adversary with clear contempt. “Is he using
bladebreakers?” he asked, nodding toward the strange weapons.

“Peace, no. Those are hickory wands. Only
Dervishi women wear bladebreakers. Just watch.”

An officiant wearing a black robe shouted
loudly to begin the match.

The Dervishi man wasted no time, rushing
forward with the sticks outstretched. The mauler swung his hammer,
and the Dervishi nimbly fell into a crouch. The weapon hummed
harmlessly through the air over his head as he continued forward,
sliding on his knees. He slammed the haft of his hickory wand into
the mauler's ribs, and the man doubled over with a groan.

The Dervishi pivoted and swept his arms hard
and low. The next instant, the mauler’s ankles hung in the air. The
crash of his impact on the platform echoed faintly through the
arena.

Joam whistled, passing an ember-eye to Prolo.
The officiant clambered up to declare the victory, but the Dervishi
man just hopped from the sparring platform and walked off.

“He already lost the match in his own eyes,”
Prolo murmured. Milchamah nodded his agreement. Dayn and Joam
exchanged confused looks.

“Lost? I've never seen anyone beaten so
fast,” Joam said in awed tones. He looked at his own staff
doubtfully.

“He didn’t fell him with the first strike,”
Milchamah explained. “A true Dervish fight is to the death. Hickory
wands are used for sport on their world. Like a child's toy. They
scoff at the Cycle for the most part, but their lords make sure
enough of them survive, I expect. No one knows if they’re even
sending a team to the Gauntlet next year.”

The officiant spied Milchamah, and hurried
over to where they stood. “What’s this?” Milchamah murmured. Prolo
tossed his pack on the ground and began to twirl his staff,
listening to the officiant with half an ear.

“Apologies, weaponmaster,” the officiant said
breathlessly. “There’s been an...adjustment to your match.”

Prolo laughed under his breath and Kayle
whistled. Milchamah’s eyes narrowed. “You mean to tell me, we’ve
come all this way just to―”

“No, your match will still occur,” the
Montollene said. “Next on the platform, in fact. The only change is
your opponent.”

“But we’ve been practicing to fight against
whip darts!” Joam protested.

“I’m sorry. It is unfair, an...oversight in
scheduling on our part.” The officiant’s eyes flickered to the
heights of the dome for an instant before he cleared his throat and
continued. “Do you wish to forfeit the match, and return
tomorrow?”

Something about this doesn’t feel
right,
Dayn thought.

“By rights, we should,” Milchamah said
thoughtfully. “Give our man from Northforte a day to make amends
with his gut. But no...peace doesn’t favor the man who ignores its
gifts.” He winked at Dayn. “Shard will stand against whoever you
bring.”

The officiant gave a slight nod and walked
off.

“Well that certainly changes my day,” Prolo
said with a sigh.

“So who are we fighting?” Dayn asked,
suddenly nervous. He would not soon forget how thoroughly Nassir
trounced him during those weeks in the Aran desert.
I know I'm
no fighter after that,
Dayn thought worriedly.
But I can't
let my kin down.
He clenched and unclenched his hands to stop
their shaking.

“He’s speaking with those men over there,”
Joam said, pointing. “Father, where are they from?”

“Ara.” Milchamah studied Dayn's face as he
spoke in serious tones. “I know you never took to the staff, but we
have no other options. They won't let us go with only four. Just
this once, alright? Boy?”

Joam glanced over with sudden worry.
“Brother? Why are you smiling like that?”

Dayn watched the other side of the platform
as Gorhaj Shir-Hun appeared, strutting like some stripe-feathered
peacock. The Marshal-General and rest of the Aran Five followed
him, looking casually around the Arena.

Dayn turned back to Milchamah, his hands now
steady on the darkwood staff. “I'd like to go first.”

Flutterbird Takes the
Nectar

A Shardian once won the individual trial of the
Prevailer's Gauntlet, over two hundred years ago. He was so worried
about his harvest that he didn't linger to accept the Victor’s
Sash. The overseer took it to Shard to deliver personally, and was
given a plate of berries and a cup of water for his trouble.

-Cycle Overseer Elenna Krelas

T
he Montollene
officiant returned to confer with Milchamah for a few moments.
Fighters from all over the Achen Isee Dome converged on the
sparring platform, curious to see how Shard would fare against the
Aran Five.

“Rules haven't changed,” the officiant was
saying. He spoke in a crisp manner, and looked up at Milchamah as
though irritated at having to incline his head. “I will see to the
swords myself, you needn't worry. Tell your men they must remain on
the platform. Fighters hailing from stronger ground have struggled
with that.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Milchamah said
dryly. “We'll manage just fine, I think. What of the rankings?”

“My apologies, but I don't deal with that,
weaponmaster.” The man looked around quickly, dropping his voice to
a whisper Dayn could barely hear. “I’m sorry for how you’ve been
thrown about today. It’s not right. I’ve heard―only
heard,
mind you―that the worst teams will face long odds, come the Cycle.
Back-to-back bouts, that sort of thing. Victories today will matter
when the Belt gathers next year.”

Milchamah's brow furrowed in consideration.
“Peace favor Montollos,” he said, giving the man a slight nod. The
officiant nodded and hurried over to the waiting Arans.