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.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
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
The 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 througho
ut 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.
His hand rested on the green skin, but not one spine pierced it. They flexed down, bending away from his touch. The plant itself...needle spire. The words came to Dayn's mind unbidden, but somehow felt right. He could feel moisture within the plant's interior, although too bitter to drink. Some birds had hollowed their nest into the top of it, but the damage to the plant itself was unimportant. They kept the plant free of sandbeetles, but their chicks had fallen prey to―
Dayn jerked his palm away, completely uninjured. He heard the servants snicker loudly behind him. “We warned you,” another called. Dayn ignored them, staring at his shaking hand. The spines of the needle spire flexed back into place.
Sand and ash! I knew this plant as though I raised it from a sprout! The thought brought a new, troublesome insight that dried his mouth far more than the Aran sun could account for. The Seed. Dayn reached for it immediately, but stopped before pulling it all the way out of his pocket. Peace keep me, look how brightly it glows!
He looked up quickly. Several of the Aran servants now spoke with the guards near the entrance, pointing in his direction. He began to walk casually away from the courtyard, hoping they would not follow. Surely the guards would not hesitate to take the Seed, if they discovered it. He wanted to avoid questions about the needle spire, and his hand, too.
The white stone path meandered along the outer wall of the gardens. He followed it around a corner, away from the Arans’ prying eyes. The redstone parapet along the top of the wall stood perhaps ten spans above him. The faint sound of someone practicing with a flute drifted to his ears from the other side. He felt confident that the Aran ground was weaker than Suralose.
“The guards will see you.”
Dayn turned at a musical voice. He found a servant eying him, her arms piled high with red and yellow silks. Dayn could not decide if her eyes were green or hazel, they seemed to shift in the morning light. Freckles danced upon the cinnamon tones of her oval face, and she looked as though she laughed often. The young woman wore a plain white dress with no sleeves, and the curls of her dark auburn hair were mostly hidden beneath a matching white scarf.
“I was told I could walk here,” Dayn said. He looked beyond her anxiously, but saw no signs of the two swordsmen.
“I'm sure you were,” the servant said sweetly, “but you’re planning to climb that wall. I don't know why the guards are on edge today, but doing that will land you on their bad side as surely as hugging one of the High.”
“You won't tell, will you?” Dayn asked, flashing a smile that would make Joam proud. The Aran arched an eyebrow at him in such a way that the smile slid right off his face. He thought about saying he was a guest of the Highest, but something told him this servant would care less.
“I only want to see the city.”
“It wouldn’t matter if I told or not. The redstone is rough down here, but look higher. There are no handholds for the last two spans. See?”
“Well, it's a good thing I'm not going to climb it. Now are you going to tell those guards, or not?”
She pursed her lips. “What do you think you are, some Isunduran cliff diver? You don’t have the look of that world, and you’re too skinny. I promise you, that wall is too high to climb.”
The young woman followed him off the path, ignoring the pebbles beneath her bare feet.
“Don't you need to prepare for the festival?” Dayn asked irritably.
“Ten bits says you fall flat on your back.”
“Done!”
The servant shifted her pile of silks so she could spit in her hand and proffer it to him. Dayn stared at her for a moment, but still sealed the bizarre handshake. Though he would not spit! She gave a delighted laugh, like chimes upon the wind.
Dayn peered up at his goal. I can do this, I've coursed in the torrent! Peace, I don't even know what a bit is worth! Certainly his gems could cover the wager, should he slip.
“Second thoughts, I see? Too late to go back on your bet, cliff diver.”
“I hope you can throw your bits that high,” Dayn growled. She shrugged, watching him silently with her teasing eyes. A running start is best, he decided. Too much could go wrong if he bounded straight up. He retreated from the wall several spans and steeled himself. Starting with short steps, he took two light hops and dropped low to gather all the strength he could muster from his legs. He heard the servant gasp as he leaped.
Peace finally shone on Dayn. He planned his jump perfectly―landing was the problem. For all of his coursing and bounding practice, finding his feet after a long bound always gave him trouble.
He soared to the top of his arc above the palace wall, which proved to be blessedly wide. His boots touched down on the top, but he promptly slipped and fell on his backside. He scrambled to his feet and turned back to the edge, waving triumphantly at the servant far below him.
The Seedbearing Prince: Part I Page 27