The Seedbearing Prince: Part I

by DaVaun Sanders

  Dayn could hold his silence no longer. “You really mean to let me see The Victor's Arena?”

  “Could we truly stop you?” Nassir asked dryly. “You've already slipped out of a guarded palace. With so many offworlders here, at least you won’t be out of place.”

  “The Aran you seek will be in the sky suites that overlook the arenas,” Vake added. “The lad will not be far from you, so long as he stays inside.”

  Dayn nodded eagerly. “I’ll never be able to repay you for this.”

  “A small thing compared to the service you’ve done for the Belt,” Lurec replied. “Besides, the Consuls won’t accept your presence as readily as the High did on Ara. Reminding them of their dependence on Shard’s Pledge would not be wise.”

  Dayn shrugged, suddenly sheepish. “I haven't really done anything.”

  “It may feel that way now, but think of the people you've touched,” Lurec said. “Within a month, Overseer Feerthul and the Highest Shir-Hun will restore peace―if they haven’t done so already. You’ve tied them to a common purpose. It will be a great day for the Belt if your words hold the same weight in the Consul’s Tower.”

  Vake's eyes went wide enough to float out of their sockets, but he remained silent, sparing sidelong looks at Dayn.

  “Too often, the Ring is mistrusted,” Nassir said. “Your presence brings new hope to a cause long thought dead. A Defender and Preceptor alone could not have done this.”

  Open speculation painted Vake’s face. Shardian, the havenkeeper mouthed to himself. “I shall take you to the arena myself,” he said. They changed direction, hurrying to catch a different skybridge.

  ***

  Dayn fought down his excitement. He wanted to leap for joy―the Montollene ground was weak enough for an easy backflip―but dared not do anything to make the Ringmen reconsider their decision.

  Vake gestured grandly at the incredible structure before them as their platform drew near. “The Grand Arena of Victors,” he intoned. Dayn felt more the mudfooted farmer than ever as his eyes drank in the sight. Three vast domes big enough to swallow entire cities within rested atop one of the great towers, itself easily a mile wide. A Y-shaped structure of metal and crystal interlinked the domes where their edges touched. Each of the structure’s three wings marched proudly to the middle of the arena like spokes on a wheel. A metal spire rested atop the central point, where a defiant looking statue stood, one fist raised to the sky in challenge. The statue looked like a speck in the distance, but Dayn judged that it stood fifty spans tall.

  “There will be matches today, I hope?”

  Vake shrugged at Lurec's question. “Hard to say, Preceptor. The Regents have thrown the Cycle into a bit of a frenzy with this stunt. Most of the worlds are not even represented here. They’ll be angry at how they are ranked when the Cycle begins in earnest next year.”

  Nestled between the major domes lay fluted archways large enough to fit a windmill, grand entrances which put the Olende palace to shame. The plaza here on this tower-top was grafted with intricate designs and lavish fountains of green water. Nassir stopped well outside of the entrance and turned to Dayn.

  “Should something go wrong, and the Consuls reject our petition, the havenkeeper will seek you out.” He shot a quick look at Vake, who immediately clasped his hands behind his back and strolled away, out of earshot. “You can trust him. I hope to get word to Adazia, perhaps find a Sender among the towers who is friendly to the Ring.”

  “You will need this more than I.” Dayn pulled the Seed out of his pack, and passed it to the Preceptor. Lurec slipped it into his overcoat with a nod of thanks.

  “It might prove useful to show it to this Bargis,” Lurec agreed. “I will see it safely back to your hands.”

  “And I won't leave the arena until you return for me, on my word,” Dayn promised.

  A tension Dayn did not notice before left the Defender's face. “We will look for you at the tables inside this main hall once we return. Enjoy this moment, Shardian. Your service has earned a day's reprieve.”

  Vake wandered back toward them. “May I take your bag, young master?” he asked. “Much easier to see the arena without such a burden.”

  “No, I'll keep it,” Dayn said carefully.

  “As you say. There are pathmen inside, should you become lost. They can tell you if any spectacles are set to happen soon.”

  The Ringmen and havenkeeper bid Dayn farewell. He immediately swept inside, a huge grin covering his face. He knew the Ringmen were purposefully keeping him from underfoot, like a child in Wia Wells sent to the tangletoys while his parents barter. But Dayn did not care, not this time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Probabilities

  We owe the Ring a debt, for taking in these shrewd men and training them as Preceptors. Otherwise, every world in the Belt would be fetching their tea and washing their feet, and thanking them the whole while for lording over such fools.

  -Overlord Torin Blancid, after signing the Treaty of Irshev

  Lurec watched the boy practically float into the arena. “A small thing, but I hope it was wise.”

  “Better to keep him out of danger for as long as possible,” Nassir said. “A cell in the Tower of Chastening would be a poor end to his quest. Vake?”

  The havenkeeper jumped, lost in his own study of Dayn. “Yes, Brother Defender?”

  “I need you to find every transport out of the City before nightfall in case we need to leave quickly.”

  Vake swallowed. “I depart to serve.” He winced, laughing softly at himself. “Old habits. Once Ring, always Ringman. I’ve a feeling you’ll stay longer than you suspect. There’s something about that boy, Brother Defender, he carries himself well. Either way, my old flophouse will house you as long as you need.” With a curt nod, he set off for the nearest skybridge, balancing all of their possessions with him.

  “If I could only trust more men so easily,” Nassir muttered.

  Lurec shoved into his gray overcoat, and they set off through the crowd together. Lurec marveled at Montollos, silently lamenting over the Ring’s ill regard. If not for that, he would visit here often. The craftsmanship of the buildings, combined with the mixture of people from all over the World Belt...Montollos was as close of an approximation to the future as he could imagine. Notwithstanding the Regents’ foolishness, of course. Still, the fact that the Great City flourished despite their presence provided him with ample hope.

  “This Aran Consul, Bargis. Do you know of him?” he asked. They took a floating lift to one of the higher levels of the Victor’s Arena, the most prominent area for viewing contests.

  “I do not, other than that he’s a cousin of Shir-Hun. I expect he will be pliable enough, if we can keep the Regents from interfering. Once we succeed in getting the Consuls to give Dayn an audience, the entire Belt will know about Thar’Kur’s attack on Shard before week’s end. Follow my lead in the talks.”

  Lurec ground his teeth, but said nothing. This is too important to give in to squabbling. The Ring is unified and must be seen as such.

  The upper levels of the dome changed considerably from below. They passed down a wide, brightly lit hall with a glass roof to let in the sky’s light. Vapor arrays adorned every wall, showing the preliminary bouts in detail, scrolling through motion captures of Cycles past. For betting, Lurec realized. This opulence is so wasteful.

  A servant soon stopped them, wearing a white garment that looked ready to blow away at the slightest breeze. She directed a suggestive look to Nassir, which the Defender ignored. Lurec fought to keep his face smooth. A woman from Ista Cham would blush to wear such clothes!

  “Taking wagers?” she asked.

  “Another time,” Nassir replied. “We have business with Consul Bargis. Bring us to him.”

  The servant dropped her former charm and spun on her heel. They soon entered an observation lounge with a dazzling view of the arena floor. Pillows, refreshments and comforts of every sort filled every available
surface. Lurec would expect dozens of people for such a display, but the room held only one man. He did not even look up when they entered, the bouts below absorbed all of his attention.

  “Sand and ash! I’ll throw myself from this height if that Dervishi wins another match!”

  Nassir cleared his throat. “Consul Bargis?”

  The man turned, and immediately stiffened at sight of them. “What do you want?”

  Nassir said nothing as he handed Shir-Hun’s letter to the Consul. Bargis possessed the bronze skin typical of so many Arans, but wore his hair slicked back like a Regent. His face betrayed little as he read the letter, but Lurec noted that he re-read it carefully. Is he meticulous, careful or both? His bloodshot eyes suggested great stress. Not faring well as a betting man, Lurec suspected. This he read in a glance, and could only hope Nassir proved to be as observant.

  “So. You are Ringmen.” Bargis secreted the letter in a long, finely embroidered tunic. “A great risk you take in coming here.”

  “A greater risk to the World Belt if we do not,” Nassir replied.

  The Consul turned back to the bouts below. A muscle twitched in the Defender’s jaw. “But what of the danger to Ara?” Bargis asked. “You would ask me to summon the Consuls, so I can be the laughingstock of the towers over some Shardian boy and his village?”

  You mean the danger to your standing, Lurec thought with disgust.

  “I would ask you to do as the Highest instructed you,” Nassir replied tersely.

  “Shir-Hun knows little of the maneuvering I endure to keep Ara relevant among the Consuls. I would speak to him directly before undertaking such reckless action. I will send a servant to the Tower Axios for you, once I have...clearer instruction.” A small smile played on Bargis’s lips. “I assume you’ve lodged there?”

  Nassir looked regretful over giving Vake his sword. This is going worse than we imagined. Forgive me, Defender, but we must forge a different course. Lurec spoke quickly before Nassir could erupt. “A fine line you must walk, Consul. A pity you would turn your back on such an opportunity.”

  Lurec turned to leave. Nassir’s eyes flashed, but he took the cue. As expected, Bargis’s voice stopped them. “Wait! You negotiate for a cup of water, but your palm holds only sand.”

  Lurec shrugged his shoulders precisely, allowing just the right amount of inexperience to touch his voice. “I’m but a Preceptor. My talents lie in other areas, I’m afraid.”

  The Consul looked skeptical, but predictably enough, greed lit his eyes. “You speak for the Ring, then?”

  “For this matter, yes. I understand Ara must not lose respectability on any front. One of my areas of study is probabilities. If you call the Consul to hear us, what is the worst outcome? Dismissed from your position, or getting Ara’s seat revoked entirely.”

  Bargis’s face went ashen. “Go on.”

  “If we are correct, the opposite will be true. Our message is so urgent, I believe it will usher in a new era of cooperation between the Ring and Montollos. You of course know what that means.”

  The skeptical mask returned. “Dancing on the ribbons, I suppose.”

  Lurec sighed heavily. “Trade, man. The strictures would be lifted. New routes for transports would be established. The man responsible for such a shift would be hailed across the Belt. I’d suspect there would be little argument in raising you to a High Seat.”

  Bargis laughed so hard that tears shone in his eyes. “Here I thought that Preceptors do not lie!”

  Nassir shot Lurec a malevolent look. “If only they did. Or at least knew how to hold their tongue.”

  That made Bargis thoughtful again. Well played, Defender.

  “What is this message from Shard? Knowing that would better aid my decision. Are the crops failing, as the Regents forewarned?”

  “On my word as a Preceptor, they are not,” Lurec swallowed. He could hardly believe the Regents were fomenting such lies, but he must not focus on their brazen lunacy at the moment. His next words would stretch his Preceptor’s oaths more than any time since he swore them. “In fact, the bounty is in a place to increase a hundredfold.”

  Bargis’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Ara would weep for joy to hear such news. But...the risk is too great to convene the Consuls on your hearsay. The Prevailers could throw you in their keep, and me along with you. Perhaps you should go now, Ringmen. Lest someone suspect you of plotting.”

  Nassir pulled Lurec’s arm, insistent, but the Preceptor pressed on. “A pity. You appeared a man who seized opportunity when he saw it.” Lurec’s eyes flickered to the arena floor. “Peace doesn’t smile on your odds of late?”

  “Not in weeks,” Bargis muttered. “It’s good that Ara’s Five arrives to give me a certain bout to bet upon. I could fill a transport with my losses.”

  “Your swords are strong in this contest?”

  “Strong as they’ve ever been. There’s not a team in the World Belt who will best three of our men.”

  “I will agree to that,” Lurec said swiftly. “Upon my word as a Preceptor.”

  “Agree to what? I only mentioned...” Bargis’s jaw dropped as he took in Lurec’s face. “A transport? That’s what you would bet?”

  “Preceptor...” Nassir rumbled warningly.

  Relent now and he’ll refuse a lesser offer. I’m sure of it. “If you lose, you’ll carry out our request before sundown.”

  Never was a man so eager to shake Lurec’s hand. “I will see it done, peace forsake me if I don’t!” At Lurec’s pointed look, Bargis promptly strode to a vapor array to summon a servant.

  “Adazia will flail us over this,” Nassir whispered gruffly. “To the bone. You don’t even know who the Arans will fight!”

  There was little time to waste with this one,” Lurec whispered back. The same servant from earlier reappeared. She took some quick orders from Bargis before trotting off. “I’d empty the Ring of transports to see this task complete, and consider the price a bargain.”

  “Should three swords fall, you will have your audience. I’ve seen to it.” Bargis made for the wine with new vigor in his step. “Take your ease, please. We can watch the bouts together. Let’s hope peace favors you with a team that can stand up to Aran steel.”

  “I’m sure peace will see us to a fair contest.” The Consul’s grin slipped off his face. He drank deeply from a cup of wine. Lurec gave a small smile. Probabilities were his strongest area of study.

  ***

  People milled about everywhere in more styles of dress than Dayn could imagine. What did the Preceptor say? Thirty-eight worlds, Dayn mused. People don’t live on them all, but peace if it doesn't look that way, sometimes.

  The first pathman he pulled aside wore beads in the hair of his chin. His breath stank of fervorberries, and he spoke so fast that Dayn could barely understand him. “The Dome of Achen Isee is to your right! Trial bouts begin there in two hours!” Dayn thanked the man and continued on.

  Stairways and ramps spiraled from the hallway he walked, and he almost climbed one so he could see the inside of a dome where the Cycle's contests lay. Ahead of him, a dozen long lines of people snaked down the hall. These must be where the worlds can declare for the Cycle. The nearest line easily boasted a hundred people. A hastily erected banner near the front read: The Binder’s Dance.

  He continued past, quickening his pace. The hall was swollen thick with competitors in every imaginable skill. Surely there must be...

  Dayn stopped, heart pounding. Another banner just ahead looked no different than the rest, but shone in his eyes like the sun. It simply read, The Course of Blades.

  “Why not?” he murmured to himself. He was here, after all. There’s no telling what could happen between now and the Cycle next year. He took a deep breath and walked closer.

  The people standing in line murmured nervously. Many were older and carried themselves with a quiet confidence, but still looked uneasy at facing the Montollene man.

  “Dayn? By my gra
ndmother's ale, is that you?”

  Dayn looked up in surprise at the familiar voice. Of all the people he least expected to see, Milchamah himself strode up! The farmer looked just as Dayn remembered him, dressed plainly and carrying a staff with a sweet-tree branch quirked in his lips.

  “Milchamah!” Dayn exclaimed. “Peace, what are you doing here? Is Joam here?”

  “I could ask the same of you lad, but it's rather obvious,” the farmer said wryly. “Of course he's here, along with Prolo and the rest. I need you to come with me, right now.”

  “But I only just arrived,” Dayn protested. “I have to declare for the Course of Blades.”

  Milchamah’s mouth twisted in a grimace. “Can’t believe that notion’s still driving you. If your old stump of a father and I traded places, I would’ve knocked it from you long since. Oh, alright! No need to scowl, boy. This line will still be here by the time I'm done with you. A year and a day, up until the Cycle begins. Come.”

  Milchamah strode briskly into the bowels of the arena with Dayn trotting at his heels. “Peace, but it’s good to see you, boy. Are you well?”

  “I'm alright for the most part,” Dayn said hurriedly, bursting with his own questions. “How are my parents, and my sister?”

  Milchamah spat and his expression darkened. People dodged out of their way at sight of his glower. “Things turned ugly after you left, Dayn. Not that it was your fault. I’m glad you made it out, old Nerlin told me all about it. A leap point. Who knew?”

  “Nerlin’s alive!” Dayn exclaimed. “Peace be praised. I...I wasn't sure.”

  “Aye, boy, more alive than I've ever seen him. You certainly got him worked up. He finally plowed his fields under again, first time in ten seasons. Planting spice corn, of all things. Buril's so pleased he'd probably let him plant tripweed.”