The Seedbearing Prince: Part I

by DaVaun Sanders

  “For all we knew, a voidwalker snatched you from the palace!” Displeasure still showed greatly on the Preceptor’s face, but lessened somewhat at seeing the Seed. “You’ve seen for yourself how they can disappear at will. Our journey is difficult enough without you wandering off.”

  “Poor decisions will only worsen your circumstances,” Nassir said. “Would you run from every challenge, even from those sworn to protect you? You endanger everything we stand to gain.”

  No heat touched his voice, but the truth of the Ringman's words cut deeply. He’s right. I could’ve been taken for the High's bounty, if not for Brant. Peace only favors a fool so far.

  “I was wrong and foolish,” Dayn admitted. “I promise to be more careful.”

  Nassir gave a slight nod, and Lurec visibly relaxed. “Well that’s certainly good to hear. Now we can―”

  “Why do you smell as if you've rolled through a cookfire?” Nassir interrupted.

  “I watched an ember tossers’ show in Rela Run. I didn’t even notice the smoke.” It was probably best to leave the rest out. If they knew about the High's intentions, Nassir would truss him up tighter than he had Lurec in the torrent. “They’re supposed to be here tonight, too.”

  The Ringmen glanced at the sky overhead. “So long as you’ve kept out of sight, Shardian,” Nassir said.

  “I truly hope they perform soon,” Lurec observed. More Arans were now filling the lower seats. “I don’t want those rods in the air when the anchors draw near.”

  Dayn looked fearfully at the sky, remembering the resonance wake. “You aren't serious?”

  “No, not like that. The anchors within the torrent also exert some influence on the worlds,” Lurec explained. “They can make waters on the surface of any world surge higher or lower than normal. On Ara, nearby anchors affect the wind. Long ago the Arans discovered a peculiar phenomenon in this place and named it the Echowind Split.”

  “Can you feel it?” Nassir asked, showing a brief flash of amusement at the relief on Dayn's face. “The echoing wind is falling upon us.”

  A gentle breeze rippled at the edge of Dayn’s awareness. A wispy trail of dust fluttered from the tops of the facing cliffs, then disappeared. Dayn resisted the temptation to shrug. He really did not see what was so great about it. A few stragglers among the Aran elite hurried toward the lower seats, waved at by impatient companions who held their places.

  Lurec watched them thoughtfully. “Perhaps we can make up the ground we lost in our talks today. The High are beside themselves after what happened to Orsot.”

  “At least there’s no doubt that you are no puppet of Lord Adazia, Shardian,” Nassir added. “Since you took it upon yourself to disappear for most of the day.”

  “Enough people saw the voidwalker, what would you need me for?”

  “To balance their fear with knowledge that a Seed has been found. Have you so easily forgotten?”

  Dayn mulled over those words as the troupe of ember tossers appeared from the opposite side of the Echowind Split, spinning batons and cartwheeling nimbly. They paused long enough for Rothash to bow deeply to the Highest Shir-Hun. He nodded amiably, and the performance began. Dayn’s attention soon turned back to the Ringmen, for Rothash’s men were doing the same routine.

  “I believe people will abandon their worlds over time,” Lurec was saying to Nassir.

  “Belt stubbornness will win out over your logic. You would have Montollos joining arms with Quello, or a Dervishi bladebreaker learning to farm from a Shardian?” The Defender snorted. “Their eyes must be opened first.”

  “And what will bind them together, once the voidwalker threat passes? If we set ourselves to fighting Thar’Kur and nothing else, the conflict will consume us all.”

  “I’ve never considered a life without Thar’Kur.”

  “Perhaps it’s time you should.”

  They speak almost as if the Ring won’t be able to protect us. Dayn shuddered at the possibility. Lurec is so sure the Seed will help make things right, but how can it?

  A flurry of applause signaled the end of the performance. Abruptly Dayn realized that Rothash was peering right at him as he bowed to the crowd, eyebrows raised in a hopeful look. Dayn shook his head with a rueful grin. Disappointment flashed on the troupe leader's face, but he hid it behind a twist of his mustache, as his men departed.

  “You make friends quickly,” Nassir said flatly.

  “They kept saying I was a prince, to make the crowd laugh,” Dayn explained. “I don't understand what was so funny. There are no princes on Shard. Whoever heard of such a thing?”

  “You must realize that almost no one ventures to Shard,” Lurec said delicately. If Dayn did not know better, he would think the Preceptor held in laughter. “People will make up…stories to fill in a world as they imagine it to be.”

  “Look there.” Nassir pointed to a new procession, dozens of men on horseback pouring into the circular plaza. “That man is the closest you’ll see to a prince, on Ara or anywhere else. The High are unique among the World Belt. They are all chosen from the same bloodline.”

  “Though not always direct descendants, peace be praised,” Lurec put in. Nassir nodded his agreement. The Olende crowd thundered above them as the procession moved toward the center of the Echowind Split. The High and Aran gentry looked upon the parading horsemen in approval.

  “Even a great man can sire a born fool for a son, or daughter,” Nassir continued. “But the High are harsh against their own and quick to root out any weakness of intellect or spirit, so the people will not suffer. They’re not power hungry like the Regents of Montollos, nor closed from the Belt like Jendini lords. If ever the World Belt thought to raise the call for a single king, they would do well to look among those seated here.”

  “A world king?” Dayn looked at the surrounding Arans with new eyes. Kings were distant people to him, faded ideas in old stories from well before he was born. “Peace, I couldn't even imagine being a mayor!”

  Lurec and Nassir both laughed, then stopped to stare at each other as though surprised to agree on something. “You’re a Seedbearer, Dayn,” Lurec said after a moment. “There are many who couldn’t imagine the responsibility you so blithely carry around in your pocket.”

  The procession began to cross before the Highest. Ceremonial guards with scarlet capes over their leather armor let their horses prance. Five men swaggered after them on foot. The crowd cheered wildly, but Dayn could not help but remember the same proud animals, charging down the slopes of Mount Patel. “A world king would’ve stopped the attack on Suralose,” He said suddenly, not caring if the Arans seated nearby heard or not. Nassir's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

  “That incident isn’t commonly known yet,” Lurec said urgently. “We’ve agreed to let the High tell their own, as they choose. So long as they make amends to Suralose with all haste.”

  Dayn watched the ceremony dubiously. The men all wore flowing red capes and matching vests, with beige trousers tucked into dark brown boots. They were a mishmash of ages, two little older than Dayn himself. Plenty of gray touched the elegant braids of the oldest, while the other two were anyone's guess. They all looked more than able to wield the curved swords belted at their waists.

  The Highest made his way toward the men, clutching his cloak about him as the oddest wind swept through the plaza, growing in strength. Dayn could tell the prince apart easily now, there was no mistaking Shir-Hun’s son. The Highest paid him no more attention than the rest as he addressed the gathered Arans in a strong voice.

  “Ara, long have we been blessed to be represented well in the Cycle. Those Dervishi won’t be so lucky this time around.”

  Chuckling rippled through the onlookers.

  “Many have traveled far to be here with us on this blessed day,” Shir-Hun intoned. “Ara welcomes friends from the Ring, here to support us in such worrisome times.”

  Lurec and Nassir both stood and bowed deeply to the Highest, who nodded to the
Ringmen. “Peace shelter the Ring,” a nearby merchant murmured.

  “Ara welcomes Dayn Ro'Halan. An...emissary, from Shard, whose bounty protects all the Belt.” Dayn froze, surprised to hear his name at all. Lurec nudged him in the ribs and he rose to mimic the Ringmen. A rash of loud cheers rang out among the Olende commoners above, and Dayn hastily sat down.

  The Highest motioned forward the only Aran swordsman with gray in his hair, a man who looked as though he would rather chew rocks than smile. He gave the crowd a perfunctory wave.

  “Marshal General Toljed, ever devoted to preserving Aran safety and honor.” Scattered applause rippled as the Marshal General offered the slightest bow, a man set to carry out a task and no more.

  “The Cycle isn’t until next year,” Dayn said with a frown.

  “Yes,” Lurec acknowledged without taking his eyes from the ceremony. “This is the first Cycle with preliminary bouts for the Prevailer’s Gauntlet. The Regents of Montollos will do anything to make the Belt look as though it turns around them.”

  “It doesn’t seem fair. I doubt Milchamah will leave his fields for anything but the Cycle.”

  “No team will be denied their world right,” Lurec added. “But those who do well in this exhibition, will earn some advantage in the tournament rankings.”

  The Marshal General stood aside as Shir-Hun continued.

  “Sten Mattes of the Southern province!” A lean man joined the Marshal General, waving with a flourish that would have made Rothash proud. “Newly appointed to the Five after besting Kenl the Savage in a duel of prolix swords on three ropes.” Exclamations peppered the crowd, but the Highest continued before Dayn could ask about any of it. What do ropes have to do with dueling?

  “Hal Orden, one of Olende's own!” A lithe man with challenging hazel eyes folded his arms smugly, as though a Victor’s Sash already rested on his shoulders.

  “A superb fighter, that one,” Lurec remarked under the cheers.

  Nassir gave him a considering glance. “You know much of the Cycle. More than any Preceptor I’ve ever known.”

  “Oh? And how many Preceptors have you known, Defender?”

  Lurec looked pleased with himself when Nassir turned away with a grunt. Dayn rolled his eyes. His hair would turn gray long before the Ringmen ever tolerated each other.

  “Niel Pakalj of the West province, son of Vadant the Swift. Niel is the only Cycle contender to break a Dervishi bladebreaker!”

  Applause rumbled through the split, mixed with laughter. Pakalj’s easygoing expression contrasted sharply with a jagged scar that slashed across his jaw line. Olende folk in the stands above called, “Breaker, breaker!”

  The last swordsman stepped forward, his long black hair blown about by the peculiar wind. The Olende folk stilled expectantly.

  “His first Cycle, and chosen as the Fifth.” The Highest failed to keep the pride from his voice. “He defeated Bandar the Victorious to prove his worthiness, years before the normal age. Ara's First Sword of the High, Gorhaj Shir-Hun!”

  Lurec pursed his lips, and even Nassir’s eyebrows lifted thoughtfully at that. “Bandar was the last Aran to win the solo weapons contest,” Lurec explained to Dayn. “To be chosen Fifth is a great honor, a place of prominence over the rest.”

  “The Marshal General is one of the best weaponmasters in the Belt,” Nassir added. “For him to acknowledge young Shir-Hun this way is a sign of sure promise.”

  “A shrewd way to position him for leadership when the Cycle is over,” Lurec allowed. The two Ringmen frowned at one another before turning back to the plaza, irritated to be caught in agreement again.

  High Shir-Hun raised his arms wide. “Ara, I give you the Five!”

  The crowd exploded. The Olende folk in the upper amphitheater capered and cheered harder than all the rest, and their enthusiasm spilled into the seats below. The surrounding gentry abandoned their polite claps and proceeded to whoop themselves hoarse. Dayn was completely taken aback.

  Nassir noticed his expression. “You are not so honored on Shard?”

  “Nothing like this,” Dayn replied. Many of these Aran folk had journeyed for days to reach Olende, he had overheard several travelers say as much in the splits. “Milchamah hosts a big dinner at his house. Half of the people who go to see our staffs away really just want to look at the transport.”

  The High all stood then, and the crowd followed suit. Dayn began to rise, but Nassir caught his arm. “Not for offworlders, Shardian,” he murmured.

  “These Five would represent Ara!” Highest Shir-Hun shouted. “What say the High?”

  The High replied as a group, “Whom shall we send?”

  “Here am I,” Gorhaj stepped forward, at the center of the Five. All of them were sauntering now, drinking in the crowd’s adulation. All except the Marshal General, at least. Gorhaj drew his sword, and held it in both hands as though making an offering of it to the people. “Send me!” he bellowed.

  “Go!” The High commanded, echoed by the commoners above. “Go!”

  “Here am I,” the Marshall General's gravelly voice filled the Echowind Split. His sword glinted in the air. “Send me.”

  “Go! Go!”

  This continued for the remaining three, then the Highest raised his hands a final time. “Ara herself blesses our Sending. Feel the wind, and let the shells sooth your souls.”

  At that moment, a rush of air gusted down from the northern end of the split, sweeping peoples' loose hair and pulling at Shir-Hun's cloak. Stillness settled in as though the wind never was, but then it returned, blowing from the crossing split, as if the wind were breathing.

  Three dozen women padded silently out to the plaza from every direction, standing in a line to face the amphitheater. A new gust descended, and the crowd murmured appreciatively as the tinkling of a thousand chimes rippled through the dancers.

  Their fitted costumes reminded Dayn of whisperleaf's translucent yellow blossoms. Golden chimes encircled the dancers' ankles and hips. Thin strings of golden chain streamed from their arms, adorned with all manner of bells and a countless number of radiant white shells. Powdered gold dust adorned them at the waist and shoulders, so the waning sun remade them into statues of brilliant fire.

  They slowly rose their arms in unison. The echoing wind rushed through the dancers like a musician caressing a most prized instrument, and the bells came to life.

  Drums began to pound out a captivating rhythm. The Aran dancers swayed easily on bare feet, their single line melting into interwoven circles like an unfolding rose. Then they halted suddenly, with each dancer's wrists crossed languidly overhead. The shells and gold streaming from their arms concealed their faces. The echoing wind swept through them once more, and their costumes sung, rippling together like a golden field of milkwheat.

  “Magnificent,” Lurec breathed. Dayn only nodded as he watched―no one else spoke as the women resumed their dance. The bells at their arms, hips and ankles were all pitched differently, so every new movement created a fresh blend of sound. “Such a degree of timing with the echoing wind...” The Preceptor trailed off in approving murmurs.

  The dancers paused in repose again as the wind gusted through them. Next they swirled into a star-shaped pattern centered on the lead dancer. Dayn's breath caught.

  To the lead dancer's left, one girl raised her arms slowly, rolling her hips in time to the outer dancers' slow clap. A slight sheen of sweat made her features glow as she spun slowly, completely concentrated on the movement.

  Peace, the girl from the garden, Dayn realized. She’s no servant! Henna decorations adorned the young woman's outstretched arms. The interwoven strings of gold and shells flowed around her slender form.

  For a split second, her eyes rested on Dayn. All he could do was stare back. The wind died, breaking the spell. She abruptly glided away as the arms of the star curled, the women all spinning, folding into the center.

  The echoing wind continued to pulse stronger. The dancers' tempo increas
ed to match it, and they added leaps to their steps and clapping. Dayn could not help but follow the young woman as the formation enveloped and released her time and again. For Dayn, the dance dragged along until she emerged once more. While he hoped for it, she never met his eyes again.

  The women no longer stopped to let the wind whip through their musical costumes, instead they blended each new rush of air into their movement. With a final flourish of clapping, the Dance of Shells drew to an end.

  Not one person remained seated in the amphitheater, from the commoners above to the High below. Elated dancers dabbed sweat from their faces and waved, some blowing kisses into the crowd. The recipients of those were looked upon with envy by men both common and High alike.

  “Peace, but I've never seen so much beauty in one place,” Dayn finally breathed. In the amphitheatre above, the gathered thousands began to drift back into Olende for more revelry. The Aran gentry in the closer seats made their way into the plaza to congratulate the dancers, except Highest Shir-Hun, who spoke with a few people before leaving with a contingent of palace guards. The echoing wind and waning sun together made the temperature surprisingly agreeable. Twilight would not touch the plaza for some time yet.

  “Astonishing, isn’t it?” Lurec marveled, while Dayn searched eagerly among the Arans. “I can scarcely fathom the training necessary to master such a performance. And the wind...the pattern is similar to the divided tides of Kembar. You see, resonance wakes in the torrent are seasonal things, and...what?” Lurec trailed off as Nassir and Dayn both stared at him. “What?”

  The Defender arched an eyebrow. “Only a Preceptor could speak of wind and tides after a dance such as that.”

  “I appreciate the...subtleties of the performers' form, Defender, but that is only one part of the overall effect,” Lurec insisted. “You must admit that the timing, combined with the...”

  Dayn could only shake his head. Incredible. He turned to scan the crowd as Nassir buried his face in his hands. Dayn soon found whom he sought. The young woman stood among a knot of the performers, still breathing hard from exertion. The bare skin of her shoulders sparkled in the sun’s fading rays.