“How...how did you do that?” she spluttered. Dayn sighed in relief―she did not see his fall. “On his best day, my brother couldn’t reach the top of that wall!”
“I am Shardian,” Dayn called with a shrug. It was hard not to grin as she shook her fist at him. “Don't be angry, Aran! You should have given me your wager before I leaped.”
The girl flung down her bundle of silks and started rummaging through the garden pebbles while Dayn looked on quizzically. Did she mean to throw rocks at him?
“Here!”
Dayn caught her toss, she had a surprisingly strong arm. The small linen pouch she threw held a few silver coins inside. The pebbles she added allowed it to carry far enough.
“I...I'm sorry. I don't have it all,” she said sheepishly. He nodded judiciously, for he would not have known the difference. “Those are my lucky bits. But I will return to my rooms and―”
A few surprised shouts from the courtyard pulled Dayn's eyes from her. The rest of the servants had finally noticed his new perch. Time for me to go. He hoped the guards were not better bounders than this young woman's brother.
“See you at the Dance of Shells, Aran. I will collect the rest of our bet then!”
“Wait! I don't even know your name!” she protested. Dayn did not hear for he had already spotted a way to get off of the wall. He made his leap down and into the city before any guards could follow.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Burshee Split
Shard thrives precisely because of her isolation, and her people are bred to work themselves down into the earth. Much of the arable land lies unused, it is true. But to settle people from other worlds with new ideas among her people would be the height of folly.
-Consort Prelus, Observations on Belt Commerce
Dayn gradually relaxed as he lost himself in the early morning crowds of Olende. The city appeared to keep farmer’s hours, likely to avoid the hottest part of the day. Some Olende folk went about their merrymaking in the wide-eyed way of people eager to forget hard times. He wondered if news of Jemlar's Hall had spread.
More than one Aran took in Dayn’s height with a speculative look, but their stares were merely curious, not unfriendly. Young women tittered behind their hands as he passed, but he decided against stopping to chat. It almost felt like Evensong, save that dayroses could never bloom in such heat.
For the most part, people talked and laughed in the canyon shade. Some of the Arans wore slack faces. The sun stood only a little way above the horizon, it was much too early for wine.
Olende proved incredibly confusing for Dayn to navigate at first. The main thoroughfares slanted off haphazardly as they followed the natural splitting of the cliffs. Dwellings and shops were hollowed right out of the rock face, four or five levels high in places with especially tall canyon walls.
Arched tunnels bore straight through the redstone to join major streets. Their interiors showed flowing, curvilinear designs that were carved around strange, light emitting stones set within the ceilings. Dayn quickly gathered that these tunnels were called runs, while the canyon bottom streets were called splits.
The largest of the runs held taverns, bawdy places that echoed with laughter and rough singing. Guards always happened to patrol the longest runs, but Dayn doubted drunkards or brawlers would sprout up so early. Shir-Hun probably had the guards searching for signs of the voidwalker. They might even be looking for him after how he left the palace, so he avoided them all the same.
The walking soon made his belly rumble, and Dayn began looking at split vendors' trays with greater interest. He chided himself for not taking breakfast before leaving the palace. At least the coins he won in his bet would prove to be of some use.
It made for rough going at first. More than one split hawker puffed up indignantly at Dayn's dubious looks at their trays. Dried, stringy meat that made his jaws ache at the thought of chewing it seemed to be the main fare. The tart sauces varied from tray to tray, but a whiff of them never failed to make Dayn’s nose wrinkle.
Peace, they picked the rangiest of the goats outside the city for the festival! Dayn did not believe himself a particular eater. His aunts from Greenshadow were fond of declaring he had a hollow leg whenever they visited. But he still refused to take a chance on food that smelled so odd.
Even worse than the goat meat were the rows of neatly skewered insects―large locusts covered in chocolate or beetles boiled in salt water. Olende folk clamored for the locusts especially, but the thought of bugs twitching down his gullet made Dayn's stomach weak.
Finally, he pulled a passerby aside who was happily chewing away on a morsel of dried meat to ask a question.
“Yams, man,” Dayn repeated at the Aran man’s confused look. He patiently described what he sought, and the man nodded in recognition.
“Ah, sweet rounds. Why didn't you say so? They don’t sell those much in Olende. Not from around here, are you?”
The Aran peered up at him, and Dayn shook his head. Sweet rounds? “No, just visiting. For the Sending.”
“Good for you. Look around some of the upper shops on Burshee Split, if the sweet tooth is what takes you. Walk the Delcheet Run about two splits over, to Vienda Split. Go left past the columns and head through the plaza. A glassbreather's shop will be on your right side. Next you’ll take...”
After repeating back his directions, Dayn thanked the man and left him there, still chewing determinedly.
He got lost after the second turn. He stopped to ask directions repeatedly and soon found that Burshee Split was little known in Olende. More than one Aran scratched their head recalling where it lay. People visiting from other provinces had never even heard of it.
Before long, the sun shone nearly straight down to the split bottoms. Between that and the press of bodies, the heat in the splits grew unbearable. Every Aran not retreating into a shop or dwelling made for the runs.
Dayn followed their example and ducked into the nearest, Rela Run, the largest tunnel he had seen yet. The Arans crowded around run vendors, who rubbed their hands together over the fresh patronage. Dayn did not care for the sour juice they offered, but he might consider it before too long. With all the bodies squeezed inside, he figured the tunnel would not stay cool forever. Recalling his walk to Olende from the flyalong helped him decide against leaving.
Drumming drew Dayn to the middle of the run. Much to his delight, a troupe of nearly twenty Aran ember tossers and flame eaters were just starting a performance. They held wooden rods and batons, dipped in oil and carefully lit. The surrounding redstone glowed with torchlight, pulling even more people over. A string of young waifs zipped past Dayn. Every space between adult knees and hips quickly filled with clapping children.
Two Aran men with large arms folded over their dark vests stood near the performers' implements, and with good reason. Some of the young Arans' eyes glowed a bit too eagerly in the light of the fires. Elsewhere in the throng, toddlers used poor-baby looks to earn better seats, usually upon the shoulders of fathers with long suffering faces. Older Arans looked on eagerly, too.
Dayn edged into a place near the very front. He stood next to a man with just a few gray hairs showing in a brown beard, and a chubby faced boy atop his shoulders. Between the man's toddler and Dayn's height, they both earned more than a few sullen mutters as the Arans behind them shifted for better views.
Surprise shone on the man's face as he glanced over, but Dayn had grown quite used to stares in Olende because he was so tall. He stood almost at eye level with the youngster perched on the man’s shoulders. The Aran eventually offered a conspiratorial smile, and Dayn grinned right back. Neither one of them would budge an inch.
“These are the finest ember tossers in all of Ara, brought in by the Highest himself for the Sending tonight,” the bearded Aran said casually. “Peace surely shades us, to see them today. Only the High get to sit so close to such performers during the Sending.”
“I've never seen the like on Shar
d.” Dayn could not believe his good fortune.
“Shard, you say? I've never met a Shardian before.” The man made sure of his boy's balance before proffering a hand. “Brant's my name. This here’s Kiel. Say hello, son.”
The boy gurgled cheerfully, and a string of drool spilled into Brant's curly hair.
“My name’s Dayn.” He hid a laugh as he returned the man's greeting. Brant frowned slightly at the clasp. That's what I get for shaking hands like a Defender, Dayn thought wryly. He offered a hand to the man's son, too, although he got a palm full of slobber in return. “Hello, Kiel.”
“Long way from home, aren't you, Dayn? What brings you to Ara?”
Dayn considered his response, watching the ember tossers stretch their muscles in preparation. The men all wore purple vests and loose-fitting white trousers. “Peace favored me enough to see the World Belt before I start tilling my own land. I couldn't pass over the chance.” He knew the answer sounded dubious, but did not want to appear rude.
More questions appeared on Brant’s face, but fortunately the leader of the troupe forestalled them. The Aran clapped his hands twice. Half of his men doffed their vests, arranging themselves in a loose circle, batons lit and ready. The rest moved off to one side, four of them began a light rhythm on pale-skinned drums. The last five waited patiently with their own batons, constantly checking how fast they burned.
“Olende! I am Rothash!” The troupe leader bellowed. His clean-shaven head contrasted sharply with a curling brown mustache and wild eyebrows. The man's green eyes looked like they could spot a silver bit in the dust from ten spans away. He wore the same purple vest as his performers, but of a decidedly finer fabric. “Are you prepared to witness the most astonishing spectacle in all of the World Belt?”
More people jostled to get closer, earning a warning grunt from Brant. “Careful, now.” The Arans behind them took greater care after that, which struck Dayn as odd.
The crowd clapped excitedly. Rothash scanned the dim interior of the run before turning back to his circle of sweating, bare-chested ember tossers. They traded worried looks with each other.
“I think it’s too much for them,” he said, shaking his head sadly. He still spoke loud enough so the crowd could hear. “I think it’s too hot.”
“No, no!” Aran shouts echoed from the ceiling of Rela Run, some ten spans above. Little Kiel waved his arms frantically. His little green vest was damp with drool.
“Maybe we should take our fine show to Porinis? I hear that world has perfect weather this time of year,” Rothash mused aloud. “Or perhaps Montollos will like our fire?”
“Olende, that surely isn’t true!” one of the drummers cried out. “Shall we stay?”
“Yes, yes!” The crowd responded. The troupe leader gave a satisfied nod and clapped his hands three times.
The main circle of ember tossers let out a shout that boomed through Rela Run. They crouched down, then in unison heaved their lit rods high into the air. The drummers began to pound in earnest.
Up the batons twirled, leaving streaks on Dayn’s vision. The entire crowd gasped as the throw came close to hitting the tunnel ceiling. Wide-eyed Kiel gaped as his head tilted back, and Brant whistled appreciatively.
The ember tossers began to clap slowly as soon as the fire left their hands. Once the rods dropped, they clapped even faster. The drummers matched their speed.
The crowd buzzed louder as the fire fell, and Dayn’s heart raced with anticipation. The ember tossers refused to ready themselves. Many of the onlookers joined in their clapping, adding to the excitement as every eye watched the ten batons descend.
“Hot,” Kiel shouted warningly. The toddler covered his face, but could not resist watching between his chubby fingers. “Hot!”
Just when it looked certain the rods would collide with floor and flesh alike in a shower of sparks, the ember tossers reached up as one. Not one baton hit the stone. The men shouted again, twirling their batons into wheels of fire so hot Dayn felt the warmth on his face. The crowd cheered in approval. Dayn clapped just as loudly as anyone.
“Quite a sight, aren't they?” Brant said with a chuckle.
Rothash surveyed the crowd with a smug look. “Why, I heard the volcanoes of Braende might as well be a cool breeze to Olende folk! Do you want more?”
“More, more!” Brant and Dayn joined with Kiel's shouts.
Immediately the circled performers flung their batons, but this time in lower, faster arcs. They spun so quickly that Dayn could barely tell which end was aflame, but the men caught each other's tosses easily.
The rest of the troupe rejoined the circle now, and just as the batons were thrown into the air a second time, they lifted their own torches to their mouths. Huge gouts of flame lit up the faces of every person standing near. A few Arans backed away with fearful shouts, provoking friendly heckling from other onlookers.
“What’s that smell? Someone’s cooking in the run!”
“If you’re afraid of the fire, let someone else stand closer!”
“Look, look!” Kiel cried.
The troupe exploded into a flurry of pell-mell cartwheels and backflips with fire in hand or in the air, circling and throwing to whoever stood free to catch another baton. Dayn nearly backed away himself at the confusion.
Brant nudged him in the ribs. “Look there. They’re placing bets on who will burn themselves first.” He pointed out a cluster of young boys watching near the front. Their eyes were fixed on the performers so intently that Dayn threw back his head and laughed.
The men’s rush of movement returned to a perfect circle. Not a single torch touched the ground. Everyone cheered loudly.
The ember tossers started their measured clap up again, and the onlookers did not hesitate to join in. Brant reached up to help his son keep time. The troupe tossed their batons across the circle to each other, back and forth. Oohs and aahs sounded every time the batons just missed colliding.
The troupe stopped suddenly and Rela Run rang with cries of disbelief. Every ember tosser held two batons! Brant chuckled and shook his head. “Am I seeing things?”
Dayn had not even noticed the two barrel-chested helpers from earlier, swapping out spent batons for fresh. The flame eaters added the extra batons to their throws without missing a beat.
“Now for the final toss!” Rothash proclaimed. He began the slow clap once more, and every hand in Rela Run joined him. The drummers hurled themselves into another thundering beat.
Again, the ember tossers’ shout boomed through the run. Their batons lifted high into the air, racing end over end to brush the ceiling with fire.
A strangled cough brought Dayn's attention back to the performers. One of the flame eaters held his throat, choking violently. He shook his head, roughly shoving away the two helpers.
“I'm fine!” he insisted between ragged gasps. The man continued to wave away help, but his fellows eyed him with growing alarm.
“That doesn't bode well,” Brant murmured with a frown. “They need him to catch all of the rods.”
“He's alright,” Dayn said. “He's already getting back in the circle, see?”
The man resumed his place with a sour expression. The clap continued to speed up as the batons plunged. The flame eater gave a distressed groan and suddenly belched fire. The ember tossers to his right went running with singed breaches and choice oaths. The smell of burnt hair filled Dayn’s nose. Panic prevailed, and no one could move in the crush of people. None of the scattered troupe stood anywhere near their original positions.
“Oh no!” Kiel cried.
One helper crashed into yet another ember tosser, and the measured clap broke off raggedly. Wild shouts echoed through the run as the drums beat urgently in countdown. Dayn started to edge away from the front, but onlookers were squeezed together so tightly he could not move a step. Brant looked ready to clear a path with his elbows.
“Remain calm!” Rothash pleaded, his words split between the crowd and his own tr
oupe.
“They need help!”
“Stay back, Shardian. I wouldn't go a step closer to that flame-breathing idiot.”
The drummers pounded their skins with both hands and shouted at the top of their lungs in a final go of thunder. The ember-tossers let loose a shout of their own at the same time, stunning everyone in the run.
Not one baton touched the ground! Dayn looked around in utter astonishment. A drummer held one with a smile on his lips. Several of the troupe members had somersaulted back into position to catch theirs just in time. The two helpers and Rothash himself accounted for two batons apiece. Two more ember tossers held batons while lying on the ground!
Last of all, the flame eater held one also, though he still wore a sickly expression. One of the young Aran gamblers shook an angry fist at the man. A drummer brought the flame eater a cup of sour juice. He drank gratefully and gave a luxuriant sigh before bowing deeply to the crowd.
Dayn gaped in spite of himself. “They planned this?” The crowd exploded in laughter and applause.
“Didn't I tell you?” Brant said with a laugh. “Best in all of Ara!” The ember tossers, drummers and helpers formed a line behind the troupe leader, bowing again.
“Good folk of Olende―” Rothash began, but the flame eater belched again. Rothash jumped as fire brushed his backside. The flame eater shrugged apologetically and everyone roared. They gave a final bow, and coins began to sprinkle the performers which the two helpers immediately set about gathering. The betting Aran boys looked at the ground wistfully.
“Thank you, Olende! Thank you!” The troupe leader bowed again with a flourish. “You shall see us again tonight before the Dance of Shells. Peace upon the Sending! Peace embrace Ara.”
“You didn't even blink,” Dayn said. “Have you seen this show before?”
“I haven't, truly,” Brant replied. “But the drums, you see. The drums never stopped.”
The Seedbearing Prince: Part I Page 28