The Seedbearing Prince: Part I

by DaVaun Sanders

  They angled right down a dim hallway. Dayn felt a new lightness in his step, knowing that Nerlin was safe. Montollene folk eyed the farmer oddly, but Milchamah paid them no mind. “As for your folks, those Misthaveners got the village all riled up, the fools. They were nice and bothered when they realized what Laman pulled, sneaking you off. That got him kicked off the Council. I think that’s what Payter wanted all along. Fool Misthavener gets jittery when anyone shows they have half a brain more than he does.” Milchamah chuckled again. “It’s a wonder the man sleeps at night.”

  “Sand and ash. They took my father off the Council?” A lump rose in Dayn’s throat. He’s lost so much because of me. Will I ever make it all up to him?

  “No need to fret, boy. Those Misthaveners forgot that Wia Wells folk aren't sheep lost in the redbranch. Buril got the Elders thinking, and soon enough they put Laman right back where he belonged.” Milchamah snorted. “Though he gave up a fine opportunity to free himself of all that nonsense, in my opinion.”

  Dayn took comfort in Milchamah’s words. The hallway opened into one of the Great Arena's three domes, the Achen Isee. Dayn craned his neck higher and higher until he finally saw where the stone and metal walls touched the oblong ceiling.

  “What a wonder, eh? And not even the greatest of the three,” Milchamah said as they walked forward. Rows upon rows of empty seats belted the space around a square practice field. A few scattered onlookers gazed toward the wooden platforms erected on the dome's floor. The sound of ringing metal and flashes of light issued from the gathering.

  “When I heard of these bouts, I didn’t think you would come,” Dayn said.

  “You thought right. A grand waste of time, but Buril insisted. After everything that’s happened, he thought it best that people remember Shard’s presence. Sort of like what we heard you’re doing.” Milchamah glanced at Dayn, studying him. “I want to know every drop of what these Ringmen have you about, boy―but right now, I need you. One of our men got dreadful sick yesterday, he can’t even wiggle a toe.” He shook his head disgustedly. “Leave it to a Northforte mudwit to eat a meatpie from the street.”

  Dayn grimaced. “Peace, you had to find Highlanders?”

  “For now.” Milchamah looked genuinely embarrassed. “Wayndell wouldn't leave his fields in Kohr Springs on such short notice. You and your questions. Listen. I need you to take the empty place.”

  Dayn stopped up short. His chest grew tight with guilt. “The last time Joam and I saw each other, I did something terrible. I―”

  “What? Saved his melon from being split for supper?” Milchamah snorted. “Buril told me and your father all about that. If anything, I owe you my thanks. If you hadn't stopped him, Joam would just now be waking up from the beating those Defenders would have put on him. Consider us even, boy.”

  “For what?”

  “'For what' he says. For me fishing your hide out of the Dreadfall.”

  Gruff as the farmer was, Dayn could not have hoped for better news. Maybe everyone won't be so angry with me when I go home, after all. “Thank you, Milchamah.”

  “Don't mention it. You can square with Joam yourself. Here they are now.”

  Dayn looked up, and his angst faded immediately. The Shardians were ahead, lean and brown to the man, dressed in plain farmer's clothes with staffs close at hand. They sat on their packs near one of the wooden sparring platforms, gawking every which way at the sights and people. They look as out of place as...as I probably do, Dayn thought to himself wryly.

  “Boys, you won’t believe who I’ve found...get warmed up! We’re going to fight after all. Prolo, you won't have to bribe that Porini fellow to pretend he’s from the Mistlands.” The three farmers erupted in rough laughter, which ended in surprise as they caught sight of Dayn.

  “I don't believe it!” Joam rose from where he sat, face split in two by a huge grin.

  “Joam!” Dayn exclaimed. The two came near to strangling each other in a fierce hug, laughing.

  “Where have you―what have you...peace, it’s good to see you!” Joam gave up searching for words, and looked at Dayn in amazement. It was as though their clash in the Square never took place. They had always been that way, and Dayn hoped it never changed.

  “Our match will start soon,” Milchamah interjected. “You boys can catch up while we stretch. Dayn, this here is Kayle. He’s a fisher from Kohr Springs.”

  Dayn unlimbered his pack and shook hands with Kayle, who was wiry strong and thin as his staff. He looked maybe ten years older than Dayn, and carried himself with a quiet manner. Dayn remembered the fisherman faring better than he had in the standings at Sweetwater.

  The Shardians listened in great interest as he recounted his travels. He chose his words carefully, though. They laughed at his story of Rela Run, murmured appreciatively over the Dance of Shells and shook their heads in amazement to hear of the Suralosan snow. He made no mention of the Seed, he owed the Ringmen that much. “The Ring wants the World Belt to hear what happened on Shard, in our own words. The people I’ve met on other worlds are just like us―they think voidwalkers are stories to scare children.”

  “Peace knows that’s true.” Joam shuddered. “Father let me come when Nerlin took the Elders back to see the corpse in the redbranch. There wasn’t much left, but...it must have been terrible, Dayn.”

  “It sounds to be a fine thing you’re doing for the Belt, lad,” Prolo observed. He was as stout as he was tall, with wiry caterpillars for eyebrows that matched his gray eyes. He was a cousin of Elder Buril by marriage, and claimed he had only taken up the staff so he would not get dragged onto the Village Council. “For Shard, too. Your parents will be proud.”

  Dayn hungered for news of home, and Joam was quick to oblige. “You should see it, Dayn. People came from everywhere to help rebuild when word spread. Kohr Springs, Southforte, even Sheercrest. Your aunts came down from Greenshadow, too, and I think they brought half of their village along with them. The Dawnbreak is going to be bigger than ever, four stories!” Joam shrugged sheepishly, glancing at the huge structure that surrounded them.

  “Only took a voidwalker in the flesh to get folks to visit,” Milchamah muttered. “After that, a little thing like the Dreadfall doesn’t seem so bad.”

  “A lot of them are thinking of staying, too,” Prolo added, scratching his head in amazement. “We’ll finally get to show what Wia Wells can really do in the harvest.”

  Joam nodded eagerly. “Crops are growing well enough, there's no leafblight in the Mistlands like Kohr Springs dealt with last season. Southforte is looking to have a grand harvest. Sister Irie is with child, and Esane wove a marriage bracelet for some girl from Misthaven.” Joam let loose a grin. “Oh, what's her name?”

  “Falena,” Prolo offered. “She's stringing him along well enough. He's a good lad, hard worker. No one can figure out what she's waiting for.” Joam laughed uproariously at the look on Dayn’s face after that. Prolo frowned, but kept to his stretching.

  “My sister, she’s well?” Dayn asked.

  “Stirring up trouble as usual. You wouldn't believe it, Dayn, but her scars are nearly faded from the Eve of Trembling.” Joam shrugged. “That’s what they call it now, to remember it. But who wants to do that? Tela’s doing just fine. Sister Cari hardly knew what to make of it. She's growing fast this spring, too.”

  “That tall?” Dayn marveled when Joam leveled a hand midway through his ribcage to show Tela's height. I’m gone for a few weeks and she decides to shoot up! Her whole body had been covered in bandages it seemed. He still remembered his last night by her side as if it were yesterday. His terrible attempt at a song, and then…the Seed. Peace, it must have healed her, too. “I never thought things would change so fast.”

  “The boys will be wondering when she gets her first blue dayroses before long. I promise you that.” The farmers all laughed at Dayn’s mortified look.

  “Here, boy.” A darkwood staff sailed through the air. Dayn caught it without thinkin
g, and the edges blurred as his wrists moved the grain. The darkwood felt good in his grasp, though it was a little longer than he liked. Still, the grain balanced nicely.

  “Thanks. I still owe you for the silverpine you gave me.”

  “No worries.” Milchamah nodded approvingly. “You haven’t completely gone to slack, good. You gained weight, boy? I could see your spleen before you left.” Of all people, Joam guffawed loudly at that.

  “Small wonder these Montollene aren’t all skeletons,” Kayle said gloomily. “Where does their food come from? I wouldn't feed a Misthavener's herd of swine with what we've seen pass for market here.”

  “Nor I.” Milchamah sighed heavily. “We’ll leave that bone for the Trade Circle to gnaw on when we return. This whole thing’s been a fine farce, pulling us from our early crops and barely started our own training, besides. Come. Our bout is this way.”

  They gathered their belongings and followed Milchamah through the Achen Isee, weaving through fighters from every world in the Belt. Every platform they passed showed some new weapon or style of fighting, and Dayn grew increasingly nervous at the prospect of matching his own abilities against them.

  To one side, two men squared off. An average looking fellow with tattoos from wrist to shoulder wielded two curious implements that Dayn could best describe as a segmented short staff. The man held it so he could tuck the hafts under his arms. He faced a hulking, bare chested man armed with a huge, spiked hammer. The farmers slowed to watch the match. Joam's eyes were as big as apples.

  “The little one is Dervishi,” Milchamah murmured. “His opponent is from Quello. A mauler, they are called. Strong ground there. You see the difference in how he moves?”

  “My bet's on the hammer,” Joam whispered.

  “I'll take that,” Prolo said immediately. The two shook hands.

  “I thought Dervishi were supposed to be the best fighters.” Dayn looked doubtfully at the smaller man, who eyed his bulkier adversary with clear contempt. “Is he using bladebreakers?” he asked, nodding toward the strange weapons.

  “Peace, no. Those are hickory wands. Only Dervishi women wear bladebreakers. Just watch.”

  An officiant wearing a black robe shouted loudly to begin the match.

  The Dervishi man wasted no time, rushing forward with the sticks outstretched. The mauler swung his hammer, and the Dervishi nimbly fell into a crouch. The weapon hummed harmlessly through the air over his head as he continued forward, sliding on his knees. He slammed the haft of his hickory wand into the mauler's ribs, and the man doubled over with a groan.

  The Dervishi pivoted and swept his arms hard and low. The next instant, the mauler’s ankles hung in the air. The crash of his impact on the platform echoed faintly through the arena.

  Joam whistled, passing an ember-eye to Prolo. The officiant clambered up to declare the victory, but the Dervishi man just hopped from the sparring platform and walked off.

  “He already lost the match in his own eyes,” Prolo murmured. Milchamah nodded his agreement. Dayn and Joam exchanged confused looks.

  “Lost? I've never seen anyone beaten so fast,” Joam said in awed tones. He looked at his own staff doubtfully.

  “He didn’t fell him with the first strike,” Milchamah explained. “A true Dervish fight is to the death. Hickory wands are used for sport on their world. Like a child's toy. They scoff at the Cycle for the most part, but their lords make sure enough of them survive, I expect. No one knows if they’re even sending a team to the Gauntlet next year.”

  The officiant spied Milchamah, and hurried over to where they stood. “What’s this?” Milchamah murmured. Prolo tossed his pack on the ground and began to twirl his staff, listening to the officiant with half an ear.

  “Apologies, weaponmaster,” the officiant said breathlessly. “There’s been an...adjustment to your match.”

  Prolo laughed under his breath and Kayle whistled. Milchamah’s eyes narrowed. “You mean to tell me, we’ve come all this way just to―”

  “No, your match will still occur,” the Montollene said. “Next on the platform, in fact. The only change is your opponent.”

  “But we’ve been practicing to fight against whip darts!” Joam protested.

  “I’m sorry. It is unfair, an...oversight in scheduling on our part.” The officiant’s eyes flickered to the heights of the dome for an instant before he cleared his throat and continued. “Do you wish to forfeit the match, and return tomorrow?”

  Something about this doesn’t feel right, Dayn thought.

  “By rights, we should,” Milchamah said thoughtfully. “Give our man from Northforte a day to make amends with his gut. But no...peace doesn’t favor the man who ignores its gifts.” He winked at Dayn. “Shard will stand against whoever you bring.”

  The officiant gave a slight nod and walked off.

  “Well that certainly changes my day,” Prolo said with a sigh.

  “So who are we fighting?” Dayn asked, suddenly nervous. He would not soon forget how thoroughly Nassir trounced him during those weeks in the Aran desert. I know I'm no fighter after that, Dayn thought worriedly. But I can't let my kin down. He clenched and unclenched his hands to stop their shaking.

  “He’s speaking with those men over there,” Joam said, pointing. “Father, where are they from?”

  “Ara.” Milchamah studied Dayn's face as he spoke in serious tones. “I know you never took to the staff, but we have no other options. They won't let us go with only four. Just this once, alright? Boy?”

  Joam glanced over with sudden worry. “Brother? Why are you smiling like that?”

  Dayn watched the other side of the platform as Gorhaj Shir-Hun appeared, strutting like some stripe-feathered peacock. The Marshal-General and rest of the Aran Five followed him, looking casually around the Arena.

  Dayn turned back to Milchamah, his hands now steady on the darkwood staff. “I'd like to go first.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Flutterbird Takes the Nectar

  A Shardian once won the individual trial of the Prevailer's Gauntlet, over two hundred years ago. He was so worried about his harvest that he didn't linger to accept the Victor’s Sash. The overseer took it to Shard to deliver personally, and was given a plate of berries and a cup of water for his trouble.

  -Cycle Overseer Elenna Krelas

  The Montollene officiant returned to confer with Milchamah for a few moments. Fighters from all over the Achen Isee Dome converged on the sparring platform, curious to see how Shard would fare against the Aran Five.

  “Rules haven't changed,” the officiant was saying. He spoke in a crisp manner, and looked up at Milchamah as though irritated at having to incline his head. “I will see to the swords myself, you needn't worry. Tell your men they must remain on the platform. Fighters hailing from stronger ground have struggled with that.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” Milchamah said dryly. “We'll manage just fine, I think. What of the rankings?”

  “My apologies, but I don't deal with that, weaponmaster.” The man looked around quickly, dropping his voice to a whisper Dayn could barely hear. “I’m sorry for how you’ve been thrown about today. It’s not right. I’ve heard―only heard, mind you―that the worst teams will face long odds, come the Cycle. Back-to-back bouts, that sort of thing. Victories today will matter when the Belt gathers next year.”

  Milchamah's brow furrowed in consideration. “Peace favor Montollos,” he said, giving the man a slight nod. The officiant nodded and hurried over to the waiting Arans.

  “This is a bigger farce than I thought,” Prolo muttered.

  “You’re right about that,” Milchamah replied. “But still good experience for the boys. Everyone knows the order? Dayn, I don’t care what weed you mean to pluck with that boy over there, you’ll go last. With a little luck, you won't even need to fight. Prolo is clean up, after me.”

  The Montollos officiant took to the platform, and a speculative murmur rose. Exclamations sounded as Joa
m rose from where he was seated.

  “He’s tall as a tower!”

  “The size of him!”

  He took a deep breath and met the officiant in the platform center. “Start us off right, son,” Milchamah said. “Remember what I told you about the sheath. Don’t let it distract you.”

  “I will, father!”

  One of the Aran Five―Hal Orden, Dayn remembered―sauntered up to join them. The man looked up at Joam as though a long-limbed beetle thought to spar with him. Joam gave him a toothy grin.

  Two men rushed up to the side of the platform, carrying a metal tub between them. The officiant rolled back his sleeves and dipped his hands, then wiped his palms on Joam's neck, then Orden’s. The Aran gave the officiant his sword, which he also dipped into the tub.

  “No blood of the Belt shall be spilled on these grounds,” he intoned loudly. He held his palm open, and brought the Aran's sword down on it, hard. A flash of light made Dayn squeeze his eyes shut, and a familiar acrid tinge filled the air.

  “This blade is now sealed to the Binder's Cycle.” The officiant returned the sword to Orden and stepped back. A superb fighter. Dayn remembered the Preceptor's words.

  “Begin!”

  Orden lunged immediately, a quick stab aimed at Joam's belly. Joam blocked it easily, but the flash of light from the Aran's sheath-covered blade surprised him. Orden used that to his advantage at first, but Joam quickly adapted. More flashes lit the platform as his darkwood staff blocked Orden's strikes, and offered counters of his own. The Aran was quickly forced on the defensive, snarling in frustration.

  “That's the way, Joam!” Dayn shouted. Joam moved with confidence now, twirling his staff into Leaf on the Wind. A blow cracked down on Orden's wrist, and he dropped his sword. Joam promptly swept the man's feet from under him, then sent his grounded sword flying from the platform with a flick of his staff. A bystander yelped in fear when the sword flashed upon striking his legs, but the sheath did its work. Just like that, the match was over.