The Seedbearing Prince: Part I

by DaVaun Sanders

  Joam and Kayle nodded fiercely at that, muttering angrily as they watched the Arans speak with more of the Montollene officiants.

  “Get his staff, Kayle,” Milchamah said. “Knowing you, it will be lost before sunrise, boy.”

  Kayle moved to comply. He yelped an oath and dropped the wood instantly, staring at Dayn incredulously. “Your hands must be...the grain’s hot enough to bake bread!”

  “You were tired Dayn, that’s all,” Joam said. “Your grain to his steel any day.”

  Dayn nodded, but did not feel much better as they started gathering their gear. Nearby Montollene and fighters from other worlds eyed them with respect, but he wanted to be away from this place.

  Fortunately Milchamah paid Kayle’s exclamation no mind. Dayn did not want to answer any questions about the staff just now. It’s not as hot as he says, it can’t be. Unless the Seed is protecting me. How can that be, when I don’t have it?

  “Peace, Shardian.”

  A gravelly voice made them all turn back around. The Marshal General himself regarded each of them briefly before addressing Milchamah. “I will look forward to next season, weaponmaster. The last Cycle's outcome will surely not be repeated.”

  “Surely not,” Milchamah agreed. They spoke as respected equals, nothing more.

  The Marshal General nodded thoughtfully before turning to Dayn. “My men often forget there is more to their lives than chasing maidens and dueling on the ropes.”

  Toljed glanced at the Arans behind him, bragging loudly to another team, who wielded chain whips with strange hooks on the end. “Nearly all of the Five will assume some rank in the future.” He bowed simply, holding Dayn's eyes. “I thank you that the Highest's only son will not issue his commands from a ruined throat. Peace to you all.” He abruptly turned on his heel to gather the Five out of the arena.

  “A shame he was last,” Milchamah murmured. He caught Dayn's arm. “He’s right, boy. You didn't learn some of those forms from me―or your father.”

  Prolo nodded gravely. “You even had a soldier’s stance, Dayn. A man only uses those strikes for one reason, and it’s not scaring ridgecats from the sheep pen.” The two farmers wore matching scowls for a moment, driving the point home.

  “I've learned a lot because―well, the Defender...” Dayn stammered, unsure of what to say. “He doesn't want me to be helpless.”

  “What are you doing with them, Dayn?” Joam asked, concern lining his face. “You told us bits and pieces, but what good is a Mistlander running around the World Belt for the Ring? I can always tell when you’re holding something back.”

  “As can I.” A musical voice startled Dayn. Peace, everyone is fixed on sneaking up on me today! He turned, and his breath caught. Soong Shir-Hun smiled at him, surrounded by four attendants, all dressed in orange and red silks almost as fine as the Heiress High’s own dress. Dayn saw Joam’s gaping mouth and remembered to close his own. “Well fought, Shardian. I think maybe you really are an Initiate for the Ring.”

  “No, I’m not,” Dayn said hastily. He could already see Milchamah chewing on that thought. “Soong these are my friends, from Shard.” He began to make introductions, but Milchamah interrupted.

  “Just some farmers out to see the Great City before we head home, girl.” He motioned for the men to gather their things. Soong’s attendants glowered at Milchamah, but he paid them no mind. “We need to go check on our man, and it's past time we've been back to see to our crops. Come by the Tower Axios, when you’re finished here.” He fixed Dayn with a look that meant his words were not a suggestion. “I'm surprised you aren't holed up there, too. We’ll talk then. Maybe those Ringmen will see fit to let you come back with us, where you belong.”

  Dayn’s heart warmed to hear the farmer’s words. Yes. Back where I belong. Once Lurec takes the Seed to that tower, they won’t need me anymore.

  Milchamah herded the Shardians away, who were still gawking over Soong. Kayle winked approvingly at Dayn as he shuffled off. Joam leaned forward and kept his voice low. “I guess Falena will be waiting a little longer,” he said with a grin. Dayn punched him in the shoulder as he jogged to catch up to his father, laughing.

  Soong looked at him expectantly. “You are a mystery, disappearing from Olende, only to end up in Montollos, of all places.”

  “Oh. And here I thought you followed my trail to honor our wager,” Dayn said with a playful smile.

  Soong blushed. “I suspected it was important for you to leave so quickly. I came to watch my brother, but never expected you would be entering the Cycle, too.”

  “I'm not a fighter, I...” Dayn started. I almost forgot! He had been in the Dome for over an hour. He had no idea how long Montollos would allow people to declare for the Course of Blades. I must not miss my chance. The Ringmen might decide to leave tonight, for all he knew. “I have to go,” he said, grabbing his pack. “Can you wait here? I won’t take long.”

  “I wait for no man.”

  “Come with me, then.”

  One of the men accompanying Soong stepped forward. “Heiress, that would not be prudent. The city―”

  “It will only be a moment, here in the arena,” Dayn said. “I have to declare for the coursing race.”

  “You’re a courser, as well?” Soong tilted her head. “What other secrets are you hiding?”

  “My father says there are no secrets. Only unasked questions.”

  Her eyebrows raised quizzically. “I wonder what your mother says to that,” she murmured.

  “Heiress, we should go.” The attendants frowned, openly displeased with Dayn.

  “I won’t remain here,” she said coolly. Dayn's face fell. “But I will go to the plaza outside. Do not keep me waiting. I don’t like to wait.”

  Dayn ran as never before, barely feeling his bruises from the match. He retraced his steps, running past the long lines of people. No one remained in the line for the Course of Blades, but the man still sat at his post. Dayn breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I’m here to declare,” Dayn panted. “I'm a courser. Dayn Ro'Halan, from Shard.”

  “Oh, yes. I remember you from before, but I didn’t think...you’re serious.” Open skepticism painted the man’s face as he took in Dayn's appearance. “No courser from Shard has entered the Cycle in two hundred years.” Some of the Montollene milling about snickered loudly and sauntered over to watch.

  “Well, more reason for me to declare,” Dayn retorted. He reached for the ledger, but the man stopped his hand.

  “You said your name was...Dayn? How quaint.” He began what sounded like an often rehearsed speech. “There’s no parlay in the torrent. The Course of Blades does not suffer fools or the unskilled. One careless move will put you at the mercy of―”

  “Can you just show me where to sign my name?” Dayn said impatiently.

  The man scowled. “There are certain qualifications to be met. You’ve fared in the torrent before, I dearly hope for your sake?”

  “Yes, and the Dreadfall on Shard. The Breach.” Dayn added that last, remembering how Lurec described it to Feerthul. The man’s eyes boggled, and several onlookers glanced at one another in disbelief. That got his attention. I’ll have to ask Lurec why offworlders call it that.

  “Very well. Where’s your equipment? It must be inspected, you know.” Dayn emptied his pack on the man's desk. Pursing his lips distastefully, the Montollene picked through the worn wingline he had bartered for on Shard, his leather harness, Nerlin's old face guard, and what remained of the sheath from Suralose. Skeptical murmuring arose from every side at sight of Dayn’s frayed wingline.

  “A bit old.” The man eyed the gear dubiously. “You can’t mean to bring that with you?”

  “You asked for my equipment,” Dayn said bluntly.

  “This might be the worst I’ve ever seen, but it passes.” A sneer twisted his lips. “Now, what about your witnesses?”

  Dayn blinked. “What witnesses?”

  “Three sworn witnesses are re
quired to enter the Course of Blades. Or one of high standing. Because of the danger, you understand. A true courser would know that. Maybe you’ll be ready in a cycle or two―though this equipment may be worthless by then!”

  Some of the bystanders laughed, but Dayn was already thinking furiously. His kin could not have gotten far. Even with Milchamah’s distaste for coursing, surely he could...

  “By my sight, he is able,” a voice intoned. The Montollene man stared past Dayn.

  “By my sight, he is able.”

  Dayn smiled as a most satisfactory look of shock spread over the man’s face. “A Preceptor and a Defender will suit you?” he asked innocently. The man nodded numbly.

  “As well it should,” Lurec said solemnly as he stepped forward. He wore his gray overcoat once more, and looked every inch the Preceptor. “The Regents would not be pleased to incur a Query of Procedure upon the Cycle from the Halls of Understanding.”

  The man was still stammering apologies after Dayn had signed his name on the ledger and gathered his gear. Even walking off with Nassir and Lurec at his side, he could hardly believe his good fortune. In less than a year’s time, he could race in the Cycle’s Course of Blades.

  “Thank you,” Dayn said to the Ringmen. He could not stop glancing at the two as they took the long corridor to the outer plaza. “You don’t know what this means for me.”

  “A small thing we can do,” Nassir replied. “After all you have done for us.”

  “A Preceptor’s mandate is to negotiate disputes throughout the Belt,” Lurec added. A pleased grin crept onto his face. “Surely this isn’t too far afield.”

  I trust you found the Achen Isee impressive?” Nassir asked. “What did you see while we were away?”

  “There were some bouts.” Dayn’s voice wavered. “I watched some of the fighters. Up close. Your forms were...ah...I saw a lot of what you showed me in the caves.”

  “You’ll have to tell us of it, once our task is finished,” Lurec said solemnly.

  The Defender’s eyes twinkled, but to Dayn’s relief he asked no more questions. “Our talks were...victorious. The Consuls will be assembled to see you after sundown. There’s time to see some of the city, if you wish,” Nassir stopped, examining Dayn's face. “What? Why do you look as if you’ve just swallowed a toad?”

  “There’s one more thing I need to ask,” Dayn said breathlessly.

  “Well, out with it, Shardian,” Nassir said. The Ringmen gave each other considering looks as Dayn explained his request.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  A Shardian’s Heart

  Peace shall always favor your world, so long as Montollos keeps the peace.

  -inscription on the entrance to the Tower Axios

  Nassir peered intently at Soong's retinue, measuring the worth of the men in silks. They straightened under his gaze, hiding any irritation they likely felt at his blunt questioning.

  “You. How many ropes can you dance?” He nodded to the blue-eyed man who appeared to be first among them. Silver touched the curly black hair at the man’s temples. A sword handle flashed within his billowing trousers, so fast Dayn doubted he saw it.

  “Three.”

  “And you?”

  The younger gave a tight smile. Short auburn dreadlocks barely touched his shoulders. “Two, Defender.”

  “You will do.” Nassir nodded approvingly. He did not bother to question the remaining two, which Dayn found odd. “This Shardian would be under my personal protection if urgent business did not also require my time.”

  “I can take care of myself,” Dayn put in. He almost wished the Defender had seen him fight. The Ringmen would be furious over the attention, but Dayn doubted it mattered. He did not stand out on a team full of Shardians.

  “Wandering one arena is an entirely different matter than getting lost in a city with no love for the Ring, Shardian.”

  The older Aran cleared his throat. “A friend in the presence of the Heiress High will be given the same safety as though he himself were High.”

  “Oh, are his chances that good?” Lurec murmured behind Dayn. He hid a grin when Dayn shot him a look.

  “We thank you for that.” Nassir's voice was bland, but was there a flicker of mirth in his eyes, too? “Do not tarry long, the Consul’s tower will be impatient enough. Ask any pathman for directions to the haventowers. Make your return before sunset. Come, Preceptor.” They bowed slightly to the Heiress High, and immediately set off for the nearest ribbon.

  Before Dayn could open his mouth, Soong raised a hand. “Walk with me.” The retinue enclosed them as she made for a ribbon heading in a different direction.

  He glanced at the Aran bodyguards. “The Ringmen told me Montollos is safe.”

  “My father takes no chances, especially with such strife in the Belt. Gorhaj is not the only one who will lead one day,” Soong said with a wry smile. “I must be aware of the Belt's turnings, so I may best serve Ara.”

  The ribbon passed beneath the shadow of a tower, and Dayn saw a sight that left him stunned. A Montollene man wearing nothing but rags crouched ahead of them, his grimy hands held out to beg for bits.

  Distaste painted the faces of Soong's retinue. Her eyes shone with a moment's distress before flickering ahead. “These days especially, anyone can find themselves lowered.”

  “Of course,” Dayn said hoarsely. He kept forgetting her station, and how different their lives must be. He stuffed a hand into his pack, digging for his pouch of gems. The Montollene man caught the moondrop he tossed with trembling hands.

  “Peace keep you, offworlder!”

  “Why did you do that?” Soong searched Dayn's face. “Even if he uses it to buy food, the Prevailers will likely think he stole it. He'll be thrown in the Tower of Chastening.”

  “If he's not beaten senseless for it by his fellows, first,” the gray-haired Aran bodyguard muttered. Soong shot him an icy stare, but he just shrugged.

  “I didn't think of that,” Dayn admitted. He watched the beggar scuttling in the opposite direction down the ribbon, heading for another plaza. “He looked like he needed it. Would bits serve better?”

  Dayn ruffled through his pack again, until he produced some of the coins he still had from the ember tosser’s show.

  “That is kind,” Soong said, “but those are Aran coins. They would be next to worthless on Montollos because…” She trailed off as he dug out another fistful. Most of them were silver, with the face of some ancient High on one side and a rearing stallion on the other. Soong stared at him wordlessly, and the younger of the two guards whistled softly.

  Dayn returned the coins to his pack, abashed. “Should I take the gem back?”

  “It's too late, now. Peace will protect him, if he’s deserving.”

  I did what I thought best. Hopefully, that will be enough. Dayn forgot the beggar for the moment, as the ribbon floated upward past the tower.

  Montollos spread before them, towers rising and falling in the distance as more ribbons drifted all around them. Dayn felt as though he were in the workings of a monstrous clock. They stepped onto a plaza, which swept off in another direction, southwest as far as he could tell.

  “Where are you taking us?” he asked curiously.

  Soong glanced at him. “Why, are you so eager to be back in the Arena?”

  “I told you, I'm no fighter.”

  She sniffed. “Not from what I saw. Gorhaj will remember you for some time, I'm afraid. I've never seen anyone press him like that in a match. Except for the Marshal.”

  “He’s very good with the sword,” Dayn allowed. Of all the people in the Belt, why does he have to be her brother? He would rather pluck his own eyelashes out than compliment the First Sword.

  Soong favored him with an unreadable gaze. “I wish he would pay his studies as much attention. Look, we’re nearly there.”

  The plaza floated toward another enormous tower, but this one looked quite different. Thick vines covered the stone, the first real vegetati
on Dayn had seen on Montollos at all.

  They entered through an enormous circular portal near the center. Dense vegetation covered every inch of the tower’s hollow core. Unfamiliar birdsong issued from all around. Benches and fountains were set about for resting. To Dayn's surprise, not one Montollene occupied the entire space, they had it all to themselves.

  “I thought a green tower would be...pleasing to you,” Soong said. Dayn held his silence, for the space clearly enthralled her. “Is your world all so green?”

  “Yes, when the season is right. But, it’s real.” The Arans all looked at him curiously. Dayn grasped for words to explain his impression of the tower. He could feel the vegetation around him, struggling and no less desperate than the beggar from before. He knew the Seed’s influence was at work, and hoped Soong did not think him strange. “These plants are...forced, somehow. Montollos could do a lot better.”

  He looked around for an example, and Soong gasped. “Look at your head!” Dayn felt behind his left ear, his palm was sticky with blood when he pulled it away.

  “Oh. From the fight.”

  “That will take an infection,” the Aran servant observed. She produced some small vials, looking at Dayn as though he were a bird with a broken wing. “I have these.”

  “It's fine. I'll just―”

  “The Regents will hear of this. You’re lucky my brother didn’t make you a foot shorter. Sit, Shardian.” Dayn’s eyebrows rose at Soong's change in tone, suddenly brisk and full of command.

  “Right here?” he asked. They were standing in the middle of the tower's thoroughfare.

  “Well...over there.” Soong's face colored as she gestured to a nearby stone bench. “I assure you, I’m quite adept.”

  Soon Dayn found himself sitting in the midst of a Montollos garden tower with the Heiress High of Ara perched on the bench behind him, cleaning a scrape on his scalp. He felt awkward as a Southforte lad fresh from the swamp gone to his first Misthaven Evensong, but somehow Soong put him at ease. She was plainspoken, kind and beautiful. Peace, if she would only sit where I could see, I could listen to her all...