The Seedbearing Prince: Part I (19 page)

He saw no sign of the transport anywhere as
he sped through the sky. Dayn fumbled with his wingline as the wind
tugged on it. Heart thundering in his chest, he desperately
searched the breaking dawn before his flight became a fall.

***

Brooding silence hung over Nassir Toljem's
transport as it ghosted away from Misthaven. The quiet suited his
mood, although his present company did not. The navigators, Jetar
and Samli, usually traded jokes no matter the hour, but they
steered somberly now. Nassir did not care. Nor was he concerned
with these Preceptors, who wasted the seats he could have used to
bring twenty more Defenders to Shard. The gray-coated men broke
into new fits of sweat every time his eyes touched theirs. All
except for this Lurec, who looked back at him defiantly.

Lurec's speech and sharp blue eyes placed him
from the world of Uhrau, likely the Sael province, which told
Nassir little. He noted the absence of gray in the Preceptor's pale
hair. He must have shown exceptional promise to achieve his ranking
so young. Typically the most gifted students from Uhrau were
invited to study under the Lore Keeper on the world of Hutan, a
discrepancy Nassir filed away for future consideration.

Decades would be needed to repair the damage
caused by this Preceptor’s little jaunt. Both for the Ring, and
Nassir's own plans. Even worse, Lurec would not utter one word of
his discovery until he could speak with his superiors, and the Lord
Ascendant herself! Nassir was half tempted to toss the upstart from
the hold and watch him plummet to the ground.

As Shard goes, so the Belt follows
, he
thought.
At least her heart is strong.
Evidence of Thar’Kuri
warriors screamed throughout Shard, mostly to the south, from
villages with wells purported to run exceptionally deep. Nassir did
not know how the Lord Ascendant uncovered their plot to destroy
Shard’s worldheart, but the voidwalkers had come perilously close
to achieving their aims. With not one voidwalker captured or
killed, the Lord Ascendant's reaction to his report would be
legendary.

Lurec rubbed his neck and glared at Nassir
darkly. The Preceptor had required additional persuasion to board
the transport. Nassir favored him with an expressionless gaze, and
the man wisely dropped his eyes.

The sense of foreboding within the
transport’s hold hinged on even greater concerns. Every Preceptor's
face showed it. Nassir regretted the lost opportunity to inquire in
Wia Wells personally, particularly that farmer's son who so
fascinated this Lurec. A young boy, with a red cloak.

Nassir had questioned two farmers in Kohr
Springs who complained of their livestock refusing to drink well
water. Haenlin reported the same as far away as Pelmarsh, to the
west of Southforte. These farmers laughed about their eyes playing
tricks on them, but signs of Thar’Kuri were plain to anyone who
cared to see. Children convinced a 'deadwisp' lived in the springs
they swam in, wild animals roaming into village greens, strange
lights in the night sky―the accounts went on and on. The Shardians
did not even realize that Nassir stood ready to empty the Ring of
Defenders for their safety.

He dismissed any hopes of finding corpses
near the worldheart. A dead voidwalker to display for unconvinced
world leaders might be too much to wish for, but he would send men
to look, anyway. The use of a transport would be a small cost,
considering the voidwalkers nearly tore Shard from her orbit.
Oh
yes, the World Belt will take heed if that day ever occurs.

Nassir allowed himself a brief flash of
anger. The Preceptor's rash action wasted entirely too much time in
the south. He should locate that young farmer again. A tall youth,
but that was little use. Nearly all Shardians were tall. He carried
a wooden dueling staff and two heavy packs. An urgent, focused look
about him.

Nassir blinked, realizing how lost his
thoughts were becoming.
Something isn’t right.
The boy's
face had radiated fear in the village plaza, not urgency. Nassir
closed his eyes, sifting his memories.

He signaled to the flash force. No weapons.
Ash choked the air, stung his eyes. No use wasting their throats.
He imagined how his Defenders must look to these farmers, warriors
from the sky with black armor and hard faces lit by the flames of
their burning village. These farmers needed something to strike out
at, as he once did.

A groan sounded to Nassir's back, and he
pivoted into Swan's Flight to dodge another blow. He respected the
dueling staffs these farmers carried more than they realized.

“
I'm sorry, brother,” a Shardian youth was
saying. “I couldn’t let you.”

Nassir took quick inventory of this...Dayn.
Despite the remorse on his face, his posture looked sure enough.
The boy could test several of his men, Nassir believed, if pressed.
Something else tugged at him about the boy, though he could not
name it. Steady brown eyes and dark complexion noted of Shardian
farmers, plain clothes. He held his right arm stiffly, an injury
from staff training perhaps? The Shardian did not attempt to
strike, so Nassir dismissed him, moving on to salvage this
debacle.

Nassir frowned as he realized why his
memories felt askew.
He was not dressed for a journey.
Confused murmurings among the Preceptors brought his attention back
to the transport hold.

“Am I alone in recalling a certain Mistland
farmboy?” Nassir asked. Several of the Preceptors blinked in
surprise, nodding agreement. They were all from the group taken to
Wia Wells.

“A Sending,” Lurec said in disbelief, “but
from a Sender as weak as a learning infant.” A penchant for stating
the obvious often proved to be a flaw of his kind. “Someone is
communicating with us about Dayn!”

“To what end?” Nassir asked. The Preceptor
opened his mouth, but then thought better of it.
His need is so
dire, yet he refuses to speak of it. Why?

The navigators typically ignored Preceptors
unless addressed, so their shouts in the hold came as a
surprise.

“By night's own peace! What is that?” Jetar
blurted out. Transport navigators tended to be even tempered―a
necessary trait for flying the torrent. Jetar had piloted for
Nassir on many a mission, and did not give in to needless
exclamation. Nassir rose immediately to see the source of their
alarm.

“How did he get up here? There are no
liftriders on this world!” Samli exclaimed, pointing out of the
transport's front window. Lurec appeared by Nassir's side in the
navigator area. Together they stared into the Shardian dawn as a
red streak sailed out of the blanketing mist, rushing toward them
at tremendous speed. The Shardian farmboy.

“I don't believe it,” Lurec whispered. “Peace
shines on my folly.” Nassir frowned at his words, but stood
transfixed. The Shardian appeared to be fumbling with a wingline
lasso in one hand, a task made quite impossible by the staff he
carried.

Nassir could not fathom how the boy planned
to survive such a leap.

He realized both of the navigators were
staring up at him, waiting for his orders. “We cannot let him
fall,” he said. Samli and Lurec both exhaled in relief, which
Nassir found irritating. “Jetar, alter our path as best as you can
to match his flight. Help me, Samli.”

The transport leaned beneath their feet as it
angled starboard. The navigator followed him nervously to the back
of the hold, through the questioning murmurs of the Preceptors. The
transport lay nearly ten miles above the surface of Shard, not yet
high enough for the outside air to freeze. Fortunately, for this
Shardian's sake.
Where in peace's reach does a farmer find
wingline?

“Prepare your Preceptors, Master Lurec, we
must open the hold. It would be a shame for one of you to fall
out.”

Nassir secured a breathing mask over his face
and stepped through the protective crystal door and Samli followed.
They both flanked the hold door and waved ready to Jetar in the
front. The crystal barrier slid shut. A great gust of wind roared
through them both as the door hissed open. Predictably, the
Preceptors cried out in alarm at the sound, although they were in
no real danger. Samli’s eyes twinkled above his mask as the wind
whipped through his curly red hair.

“Here he comes!” Jetar shouted from the
controls, his voice barely audible above the roar.

A frayed wingline appeared suddenly within
their view, looping around the lower rear stanchion of the
transport. Nassir shared a brief look of surprise with Samli before
the Shardian whipped into view, a preposterous red cloak tangled
hopelessly over his head. Samli whistled, and Nassir shook his head
in disgust. Only a highly skilled courser could lasso the transport
at this speed, but the boy's appearance made it obvious that he
owed his snag to little more than blind luck.

Nassir cast his own wingline out, and the
simpleton found enough sense to grab hold. Together they reeled him
in. The transport door closed, stilling the wind's tumult. The
Preceptors peered at the boy in astonishment, all except for Lurec.
A profound sense of vindication filled his blue eyes.

“My name is Dayn Ro'Halan,” the boy panted,
fixing his cloak and peeling off an antiquated courser's faceguard.
Nassir looked down at him, curiosity losing out to his displeasure.
Life held too many ways to die without resorting to such
foolishness.

“I know who you are,” Nassir replied flatly.
“Tell me why I shouldn't cast you back into your fields.”

“You came to our village yesterday.” The
Shardian rose unsteadily to his feet. He looked absolutely
wretched, his torn cloak covered in brambles and thick strands of
silk. He reeked of enough old sheath to course the torrent naked.
Nassir waited, and the boy continued uncertainly.

“I brought...I brought this.” He fished
beneath his cloak with trembling, wind-frozen hands. What he pulled
out was...impossible.

The Preceptors gave a collective gasp of
recognition. Lurec sat down hard, a strange blend of relief and awe
on his face. “I knew peace would not forsake us utterly.”

The navigator looked back and forth between
the shocked Preceptors and Nassir, confusion on his face. Nassir
quickly reduced his expression to smoothness. The less people who
knew the import of this small, blood-red orb, the better.

“You see now?” Lurec whispered softly. “I'm
convinced it’s fully functional. Everything will change.” Nassir
nodded. This explained the Preceptor's adamant refusal to leave the
village. A wasted effort, made evident by the other Preceptors’
calculating looks.

“Preceptor Lurec, you must have lost this in
your...fight. My Village Council tasked me as a messenger, to
return it to you.” The youth fished a letter from his pack and
handed it to Lurec, who tore the missive open and quickly scanned
the contents.

“Voidwalkers chased us on the road,” the boy
said, no doubt reading Nassir's eyes. His face suddenly wilted. “My
friend found a...a leap point, but he could only get me away. I
don't know if he escaped the ruins himself. Peace, the voidwalkers
did things to our heads. If they caught him again...”

He trailed off. The Preceptors’ worried
mutterings filled the hold. Samli's eyes looked ready to fall from
his head.

“You did well, young Shardian.” Lurec passed
the letter to Nassir, genuine sympathy in his voice. “Peace send
your friend is unharmed.”

“Elder Buril said this letter should 'satisfy
your protocol.' That's how he put it.”

Nassir scanned the neat script. Even the Lord
Ascendant could not have suggested better wording.

“Can you take me to Greenshadow?” The farmboy
held out the Seed, then lowered his hand in confusion when not one
Preceptor stepped forward to accept it.

“No,” he said. “Certain questions must be
answered first, by the highest authorities.” Hope drained from the
boy's face.

“Peace. They already mean to flay me in
Misthaven,” he muttered. “I’d hoped you would take me back home, at
least.”

“You misunderstand me, Shardian. We’re not
returning to your world.” Nassir kept his voice bereft of
assurances. “Since no official is here in your stead, you must now
answer to the Lord Ascendant.”

A Hero's Welcome

The Ring was born and broken in one blow by
Thar'Kur. Who can know what glory it might have achieved, if not
for the Breach?

-journal entry of the ninth Lore Keeper of Hutan

T
he Preceptors
sitting across from Dayn murmured worriedly among themselves,
indifferent to the transport's peculiar motion. Liberal amounts of
silver touched the hair of the eight Ringmen. Dayn could mistake
them all for Elders, except for their gray overcoats and the hungry
looks they shot at his pack when they thought he was not looking.
He could feel the pull of Shard's ground leaving him. The sensation
made his eyes water, and his stomach tried to sink through his
boots.

No openings were present in the transport’s
barren hold, although simple metal benches lined either side of the
interior. A wide hatch made up the entire rear wall, which was
partitioned by an inner crystal door. He could almost see outside
through the forward window, at least, which lay ahead of where
vapor misted around the two navigators operating the craft. The
other Preceptors stared forward as well, but for far different
reasons.

Nassir and Lurec argued steadily, stopping
only to ask questions of the two navigators seated before them in
their curved seats. “...back to his district at once,” Lurec was
saying.

The transport jerked imperceptibly, and Dayn
squeezed his eyes shut with a gasp. He once believed a transport
ride would be exhilarating, but he did not count on his fluttering
stomach. Dayn missed the rest of Lurec's words, but some of the
eavesdropping Preceptors nodded to themselves.