The Seedbearing Prince: Part I (8 page)

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.”

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

S
o 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.”