The Seedbearing Prince: Part I

by DaVaun Sanders

  “Can it get me to the transport, too?”

  Nerlin looked ready to spit. “I barely know what I’m doing here, boy! You could hope the Ringman navigator has enough sense to see you coming, but getting you to Greenshadow is already chancing some broken bones. Missing the transport could mean a lot worse.”

  Dayn knew what he needed to do. “I won’t sleep another night if I don’t risk it. The Defenders will be able to help with the voidwalkers, and I’ve got to take the Seed back to Lurec. It’s important, I know it.”

  “Are you sure? There’s a lot I can tell you in Greenshadow, things you need to know. About the voidwalkers, especially. The Elders all know about them, lad, though no one ever thought to see one here. You need to know about the World Belt, too. The worlds aren’t what you believe they are!”

  The farmer’s words paralyzed Dayn. He could not afford to make another bad choice. “Do you know about the Seed? What it’s for?”

  “No,” Nerlin admitted. “But your aunts might. Greenshadow, boy. It’s for the best.”

  Dayn watched the image of the transport as it steadily climbed higher. Soon the Ringmen would be gone for good, likely never to return to Shard. “I have to do this. I’m sorry.”

  “Had a feeling the wind would blow that way,” Nerlin muttered, but a twinkle lit his eye. “Well, If you have the heart to brave the Dreadfall, this should be easy sport. Put on your gear, quickly!”

  Nerlin dug into his pack and pulled a band of dark red metal, attached to a piece of clear crystal. For my face, Dayn realized.

  “To keep your mouth free of flies. Here, like this.” Nerlin adjusted the circlet on Dayn's forehead until he heard a click. Oddly enough, the crystal face plate did not fog from his breath.

  “This is almost like a Defender's mask, isn’t it?”

  “Almost,” Nerlin acknowledged. “But it’s made special, for a courser. It...used to be mine. I’m giving it to you.”

  Dayn gaped. “You've been offworld?”

  The farmer's face softened, just for an instant. “You'll get your chance, boy, I'm sure of it,” he said. “But we must hurry. The leap point will draw that monster to us.”

  The light of the room began to fade, as water dried from the stone and the air. Nerlin reached beneath his cloak and produced a small leather pouch, which he proffered to Dayn.

  “These are wind draughts.” Dayn plucked out a pebble-sized, pale blue pellet. It felt strangely cool on his palm. The pouch held a few dozen more inside. “Strong lungs are a lost art in coursing. You held your wind well enough in the redbranch, and few can keep up with me. Hold one in your mouth when your air is gone.”

  The old farmer bent over the water, scrawling designs on the wet stone, but paused to bore his eyes into Dayn’s as he spoke. “Some people panic when they cannot breathe, and think more is better. Not with wind draughts! Two will make your head float so bad you couldn't grasp a wingline if it were tied around your fingers. Three will leave you giggling like a one-tooth toddler. More than that...you’ll sleep forever.”

  “I understand,” Dayn said. He secreted the draughts in his belt pouch. “I could have used these in the Dreadfall.”

  “On the edge of your very last breath, mind you! These aren't sweet twigs. Make sure you sit or lie down. Standing will break your legs.”

  Dayn finished securing his harness, and looked at Nerlin in utter confusion. “You want me to lie down now?”

  “Peace, boy―in the plaza! These are just the controls. There’s a platform in the center. Get your wingline ready. You’ll need it to rope the transport.” Nerlin barked a laugh as he began to manipulate the controls once more. Blue light swirled around the chamber.

  “What if I fall?”

  “The sealer―cover yourself from head to toe with it. Use it all! There's enough there to survive a mountain dropping on you.” The room's imagery shifted as Nerlin painted the air with his fingers. The ground rumbled beneath their feet. “The voidwalker will hear that. Our water’s nearly gone. Hurry!”

  “But what about you?” Dayn shouted to be heard over the rumbling. Fearful as he was, he could not leave the old farmer to face Moridos alone.

  “I'll be fine, boy.” Nerlin shoved Dayn unceremoniously toward the door. “Go! You must reach the plaza center before it turns red.”

  “Remember, you have to plant this year.” Dayn choked out the words as he took in the fact that Nerlin needed to stay behind and operate the leap point. “You said you would.”

  “I will boy, that’s a promise. Now if you miss the Ringmen, you’ll drop somewhere north of Kohr Springs. The sealer will protect you. I’ll let the Ringmen know to look for you, if I can. Deal firmly with them, boy―you are of Shard. Show them you’re no mudwit farmer. Be ready with that wingline―the transport will come up on you fast. Go!”

  Dayn lurched into a run. Outside, the plaza glowed with new life beneath the mist, the intricate diamond patterns pulsing in shades of blue. Dayn reached the center. After peering over the edge, he easily hopped down the three spans and onto a platform wide enough to hold an inn.

  He spread the sealer over his clothes, ignoring the pungent odor. He applied it everywhere he could reach quickly, smearing it over his chest and removing the face guard to apply it to his head. The strange stuff tingled faintly upon his skin and flashed faintly upon his clothes.

  Remembering Nerlin's words, Dayn lay on his back, holding his staff tightly to his chest. The rumbling ceased, and he heard nothing but his own breathing.

  The platform jerked, swooping downward and falling hundreds of spans in seconds. The surface beneath him angled sharply. He imagined Nerlin aiming the leap point toward the transport, guiding the vapor inside the room.

  Lights along the inner wall suddenly glowed red. In a moment of wracking pain, all of Dayn’s bones felt as though they would fly apart. Wind suddenly rushed forcefully against him, pushing at the clear mask and whipping his cloak. The strap of his packs sawed into his shoulder. He looked beneath him in shock. Terabin Round was nothing but a white speck on the southern horizon. It disappeared within seconds, swallowed by redbranch wilds. I’m flying! The leap point worked!

  He saw no sign of the transport anywhere as he sped through the sky. Dayn fumbled with his wingline as the wind tugged on it. Heart thundering in his chest, he desperately searched the breaking dawn before his flight became a fall.

  ***

  Brooding silence hung over Nassir Toljem's transport as it ghosted away from Misthaven. The quiet suited his mood, although his present company did not. The navigators, Jetar and Samli, usually traded jokes no matter the hour, but they steered somberly now. Nassir did not care. Nor was he concerned with these Preceptors, who wasted the seats he could have used to bring twenty more Defenders to Shard. The gray-coated men broke into new fits of sweat every time his eyes touched theirs. All except for this Lurec, who looked back at him defiantly.

  Lurec's speech and sharp blue eyes placed him from the world of Uhrau, likely the Sael province, which told Nassir little. He noted the absence of gray in the Preceptor's pale hair. He must have shown exceptional promise to achieve his ranking so young. Typically the most gifted students from Uhrau were invited to study under the Lore Keeper on the world of Hutan, a discrepancy Nassir filed away for future consideration.

  Decades would be needed to repair the damage caused by this Preceptor’s little jaunt. Both for the Ring, and Nassir's own plans. Even worse, Lurec would not utter one word of his discovery until he could speak with his superiors, and the Lord Ascendant herself! Nassir was half tempted to toss the upstart from the hold and watch him plummet to the ground.

  As Shard goes, so the Belt follows, he thought. At least her heart is strong. Evidence of Thar’Kuri warriors screamed throughout Shard, mostly to the south, from villages with wells purported to run exceptionally deep. Nassir did not know how the Lord Ascendant uncovered their plot to destroy Shard’s worldheart, but the voidwalkers had come perilously close to achie
ving their aims. With not one voidwalker captured or killed, the Lord Ascendant's reaction to his report would be legendary.

  Lurec rubbed his neck and glared at Nassir darkly. The Preceptor had required additional persuasion to board the transport. Nassir favored him with an expressionless gaze, and the man wisely dropped his eyes.

  The sense of foreboding within the transport’s hold hinged on even greater concerns. Every Preceptor's face showed it. Nassir regretted the lost opportunity to inquire in Wia Wells personally, particularly that farmer's son who so fascinated this Lurec. A young boy, with a red cloak.

  Nassir had questioned two farmers in Kohr Springs who complained of their livestock refusing to drink well water. Haenlin reported the same as far away as Pelmarsh, to the west of Southforte. These farmers laughed about their eyes playing tricks on them, but signs of Thar’Kuri were plain to anyone who cared to see. Children convinced a 'deadwisp' lived in the springs they swam in, wild animals roaming into village greens, strange lights in the night sky―the accounts went on and on. The Shardians did not even realize that Nassir stood ready to empty the Ring of Defenders for their safety.

  He dismissed any hopes of finding corpses near the worldheart. A dead voidwalker to display for unconvinced world leaders might be too much to wish for, but he would send men to look, anyway. The use of a transport would be a small cost, considering the voidwalkers nearly tore Shard from her orbit. Oh yes, the World Belt will take heed if that day ever occurs.

  Nassir allowed himself a brief flash of anger. The Preceptor's rash action wasted entirely too much time in the south. He should locate that young farmer again. A tall youth, but that was little use. Nearly all Shardians were tall. He carried a wooden dueling staff and two heavy packs. An urgent, focused look about him.

  Nassir blinked, realizing how lost his thoughts were becoming. Something isn’t right. The boy's face had radiated fear in the village plaza, not urgency. Nassir closed his eyes, sifting his memories.

  He signaled to the flash force. No weapons. Ash choked the air, stung his eyes. No use wasting their throats. He imagined how his Defenders must look to these farmers, warriors from the sky with black armor and hard faces lit by the flames of their burning village. These farmers needed something to strike out at, as he once did.

  A groan sounded to Nassir's back, and he pivoted into Swan's Flight to dodge another blow. He respected the dueling staffs these farmers carried more than they realized.

  “I'm sorry, brother,” a Shardian youth was saying. “I couldn’t let you.”

  Nassir took quick inventory of this...Dayn. Despite the remorse on his face, his posture looked sure enough. The boy could test several of his men, Nassir believed, if pressed. Something else tugged at him about the boy, though he could not name it. Steady brown eyes and dark complexion noted of Shardian farmers, plain clothes. He held his right arm stiffly, an injury from staff training perhaps? The Shardian did not attempt to strike, so Nassir dismissed him, moving on to salvage this debacle.

  Nassir frowned as he realized why his memories felt askew. He was not dressed for a journey. Confused murmurings among the Preceptors brought his attention back to the transport hold.

  “Am I alone in recalling a certain Mistland farmboy?” Nassir asked. Several of the Preceptors blinked in surprise, nodding agreement. They were all from the group taken to Wia Wells.

  “A Sending,” Lurec said in disbelief, “but from a Sender as weak as a learning infant.” A penchant for stating the obvious often proved to be a flaw of his kind. “Someone is communicating with us about Dayn!”

  “To what end?” Nassir asked. The Preceptor opened his mouth, but then thought better of it. His need is so dire, yet he refuses to speak of it. Why?

  The navigators typically ignored Preceptors unless addressed, so their shouts in the hold came as a surprise.

  “By night's own peace! What is that?” Jetar blurted out. Transport navigators tended to be even tempered―a necessary trait for flying the torrent. Jetar had piloted for Nassir on many a mission, and did not give in to needless exclamation. Nassir rose immediately to see the source of their alarm.

  “How did he get up here? There are no liftriders on this world!” Samli exclaimed, pointing out of the transport's front window. Lurec appeared by Nassir's side in the navigator area. Together they stared into the Shardian dawn as a red streak sailed out of the blanketing mist, rushing toward them at tremendous speed. The Shardian farmboy.

  “I don't believe it,” Lurec whispered. “Peace shines on my folly.” Nassir frowned at his words, but stood transfixed. The Shardian appeared to be fumbling with a wingline lasso in one hand, a task made quite impossible by the staff he carried.

  Nassir could not fathom how the boy planned to survive such a leap.

  He realized both of the navigators were staring up at him, waiting for his orders. “We cannot let him fall,” he said. Samli and Lurec both exhaled in relief, which Nassir found irritating. “Jetar, alter our path as best as you can to match his flight. Help me, Samli.”

  The transport leaned beneath their feet as it angled starboard. The navigator followed him nervously to the back of the hold, through the questioning murmurs of the Preceptors. The transport lay nearly ten miles above the surface of Shard, not yet high enough for the outside air to freeze. Fortunately, for this Shardian's sake. Where in peace's reach does a farmer find wingline?

  “Prepare your Preceptors, Master Lurec, we must open the hold. It would be a shame for one of you to fall out.”

  Nassir secured a breathing mask over his face and stepped through the protective crystal door and Samli followed. They both flanked the hold door and waved ready to Jetar in the front. The crystal barrier slid shut. A great gust of wind roared through them both as the door hissed open. Predictably, the Preceptors cried out in alarm at the sound, although they were in no real danger. Samli’s eyes twinkled above his mask as the wind whipped through his curly red hair.

  “Here he comes!” Jetar shouted from the controls, his voice barely audible above the roar.

  A frayed wingline appeared suddenly within their view, looping around the lower rear stanchion of the transport. Nassir shared a brief look of surprise with Samli before the Shardian whipped into view, a preposterous red cloak tangled hopelessly over his head. Samli whistled, and Nassir shook his head in disgust. Only a highly skilled courser could lasso the transport at this speed, but the boy's appearance made it obvious that he owed his snag to little more than blind luck.

  Nassir cast his own wingline out, and the simpleton found enough sense to grab hold. Together they reeled him in. The transport door closed, stilling the wind's tumult. The Preceptors peered at the boy in astonishment, all except for Lurec. A profound sense of vindication filled his blue eyes.

  “My name is Dayn Ro'Halan,” the boy panted, fixing his cloak and peeling off an antiquated courser's faceguard. Nassir looked down at him, curiosity losing out to his displeasure. Life held too many ways to die without resorting to such foolishness.

  “I know who you are,” Nassir replied flatly. “Tell me why I shouldn't cast you back into your fields.”

  “You came to our village yesterday.” The Shardian rose unsteadily to his feet. He looked absolutely wretched, his torn cloak covered in brambles and thick strands of silk. He reeked of enough old sheath to course the torrent naked. Nassir waited, and the boy continued uncertainly.

  “I brought...I brought this.” He fished beneath his cloak with trembling, wind-frozen hands. What he pulled out was...impossible.

  The Preceptors gave a collective gasp of recognition. Lurec sat down hard, a strange blend of relief and awe on his face. “I knew peace would not forsake us utterly.”

  The navigator looked back and forth between the shocked Preceptors and Nassir, confusion on his face. Nassir quickly reduced his expression to smoothness. The less people who knew the import of this small, blood-red orb, the better.

  “You see now?” Lurec whispered softly. “I'm
convinced it’s fully functional. Everything will change.” Nassir nodded. This explained the Preceptor's adamant refusal to leave the village. A wasted effort, made evident by the other Preceptors’ calculating looks.

  “Preceptor Lurec, you must have lost this in your...fight. My Village Council tasked me as a messenger, to return it to you.” The youth fished a letter from his pack and handed it to Lurec, who tore the missive open and quickly scanned the contents.

  “Voidwalkers chased us on the road,” the boy said, no doubt reading Nassir's eyes. His face suddenly wilted. “My friend found a...a leap point, but he could only get me away. I don't know if he escaped the ruins himself. Peace, the voidwalkers did things to our heads. If they caught him again...”

  He trailed off. The Preceptors’ worried mutterings filled the hold. Samli's eyes looked ready to fall from his head.

  “You did well, young Shardian.” Lurec passed the letter to Nassir, genuine sympathy in his voice. “Peace send your friend is unharmed.”

  “Elder Buril said this letter should 'satisfy your protocol.' That's how he put it.”

  Nassir scanned the neat script. Even the Lord Ascendant could not have suggested better wording.

  “Can you take me to Greenshadow?” The farmboy held out the Seed, then lowered his hand in confusion when not one Preceptor stepped forward to accept it.

  “No,” he said. “Certain questions must be answered first, by the highest authorities.” Hope drained from the boy's face.

  “Peace. They already mean to flay me in Misthaven,” he muttered. “I’d hoped you would take me back home, at least.”

  “You misunderstand me, Shardian. We’re not returning to your world.” Nassir kept his voice bereft of assurances. “Since no official is here in your stead, you must now answer to the Lord Ascendant.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  A Hero's Welcome

  The Ring was born and broken in one blow by Thar'Kur. Who can know what glory it might have achieved, if not for the Breach?