The Seedbearing Prince: Part I (2 page)

Laman's Well

The roiling rock and the quickening sun

despise the old and outmatch the young,

In the sky you'll grow into a man, my son!

When you’re a’ coursing in the torrent.

-Jendini coursing song

O
n the world of
Shard, dawn teased the sleepy Lowlands and whispered promises of a
rich harvest. Dayn Ro'Halan walked the family land, wondering if
this was finally the time to level with his father, Laman. A
welcome breeze carried the first songs of gold-breasted chimebirds
to their ears, notes of approval to find such early risers. The
spring air tasted of sweet barbwood blossoms and creeping winkleaf,
but even more of expectation.

Laman's mood remained hidden in the early
light. No farmer's son would dare ask what Dayn sought, permission
to leave Shard to seek offworld adventure.
Not just
permission,
Dayn reminded himself,
a blessing.

His pace slowed as his brown eyes drifted
upward. The sky teetered between deepest black and blue gray, but
the entire eastern horizon shimmered as if sparks from a massive
bonfire swirled in a great ribbon, flowing from northern to
southern sky. The torrent. One day he would race in it, too—just
like the coursers in the stories.

Dayn rose early every morning to gaze at the
mass of rock that floated between the worlds of the Belt. Thoughts
of leaping and lassoing his way through boulders bigger than the
village inn, flowing faster than a river, or outwitting the
dangerous creatures that lived among the streams of rock gave him a
thrill that crops and harvest never could.
It’s the closest I’ll
ever come to flying without wings. Another summer of practice, and
I’ll be ready to enter the Course of Blades with the bravest
coursers. Even if I don’t win the race my first time, the whole
World Belt will see—

Laman cleared his throat loudly and Dayn
jumped. His father stood several paces ahead, waiting for Dayn to
rejoin him. “I suppose every lad in Wia Wells is witless the
morning of Evensong,” Laman said. His eyes held an amused
twinkle.

“Sorry, I was watching the torrent.” Dayn
grinned apologetically as he hurried to catch up. He did not feel
ready, but this was as good a time as any to feel his father out.
“It's always such a sight.”

“We’ve no time for getting lost in the sky
this season, now that the Council's seen fit to free up our land
again.”

Dayn cringed at his father's words.
How do
I tell him that getting lost in the sky is
exactly
what I
mean to do?

“It is a sight, though. The crumbling bones
of old worlds, if the stories are true.” Laman softened as he
followed Dayn’s gaze skyward, but his face left no doubt as to what
he thought of the old stories. “I never cared either way, so long
as it stays in the sky where it belongs. Our fields have enough
rocks as it is.”

“I don’t think the torrent would ever strike
Shard,” Dayn said. He watched Laman carefully for any reaction to
his next words. “Wouldn’t it be something, to see it up close?”

“More interesting than a field survey, I
suppose,” Laman said, leaning on his silverpine staff. The grain of
the staff was old and strong, passed down through six generations
of Ro'Halans. Carefully carved names from Laman's line banded
around the wood, so the memory of their ancestors always felt near.
Dayn hoped they would approve of him after today.

“Does the farm weigh on you, son?” The
question made Dayn’s heart skip. “A Shardian's calling is not so
easy to bear. Does a life in the capital interest you?” Laman
chuckled at the grimace on Dayn's face. “Something else, then?”

“I wouldn't forsake Shard's covenant,” Dayn
said quickly. The moment felt perfect to speak of coursing,
especially with the torrent itself urging him on in the distance.
“One day I’ll have a farm of my own, but...I tire of it, sometimes.
Father, don’t you ever want more than this?”

“So that's what is eating at you.” His father
sounded pleased, and Dayn brightened hopefully. “Your mother
thought it was some girl from Southforte. She'll learn not to wager
against me one day.” Laman nodded to himself before continuing. “Do
you want to leave the village?”

“How did you know?” Dayn breathed. The fear
that his parents would take his dreams to race in the torrent for
young foolishness began to waver. “I've been meaning to tell
you.”

“I guess right about things half as much as I
guess wrong,” Laman said with a wink. “Keep that to yourself,
though. It would be a shame for the Elders to find that out
after
my first year on the Village Council.”

They shared a grin. Sunrise began to paint
the edges of the horizon with gray light, but the torrent still
shone. Laman watched it as he continued.

“Times are changing in Wia Wells―changing for
the better. Our lads keep putting the rest of Shard to shame almost
every harvest. And if I do say so, you are among the best. The
Elders say you finish your lessons before anyone else your age is
halfway through.”

“I never really noticed.” Dayn's face flushed
furiously. Fortunately, his father's eyes remained on the torrent.
Laman’s pride would dry up like water in a cracked gourd if he knew
Dayn flew through his lessons only to free more time to practice
coursing. Yet Dayn gladly accepted the unexpected praise. Half a
season remained before his seventeenth naming day, but he still
felt surprised to stand of a height with his father, or be trusted
to help with so much around the farm.

Laman gave a firm nod. “You just keep at it.
One day these fields won't seem so small.”

“Yes, father.” Dayn wore the same worn field
linens as Laman, simple and faded from the Shardian sun, and his
skin already held the rich brown tones of a seasoned farmer.
Freshly braided cornrows held down his unruly black hair, which
reached his shoulders once fully combed out. His strong jaw and
restless brown eyes were unmistakable hallmarks of Laman's
bloodline, too—although his high cheekbones favored his mother,
Hanalene.

“Ah, look. The sun’s beat us to work,” Laman
said, a frown crossing his brow. He set off again as the first
sliver of sunlight peeked over the eastern horizon. Dayn followed,
disappointed with himself. The torrent gradually faded into the
pale blue of gathering dawn.

“We must hurry,” Laman said, oblivious to
Dayn's dismay. “Be a shame to be late for Evensong...Wia Wells
hasn’t hosted since I was your age, and I don't care to dwell on
how many years ago that's been. First time I laid eyes on your
mother. Or she laid eyes on me, I should say.” He arched an eyebrow
at Dayn. “With all those families down from Misthaven, you better
watch yourself.”

Dayn shook his head ruefully. “Joam's the one
with that luck.” Mistland women used Evensong to matchmake,
although no one ever said so. Unmarried men often took on a hunted
look long before the merrymaking ended. “Ever since he won
Sweetwater, half the girls from Wia Wells want to do his chores or
braid his hair.”

“The lad’s talented with the staff,” Laman
said diplomatically. He studied Dayn from the corner of his eye as
they walked.

“His boasting will be ten times worse
tonight,” Dayn grumbled. Joam Ro'Gem was Dayn’s best friend, but a
touch of envy still edged into his voice.

“I'd imagine you’d be excited to go offworld,
too,” Laman replied. Joam father Milchamah was a fast friend of
Laman, at least when they were not arguing over some wrinkle of
Council business. “The deserving always find their way to victory
at Montollos.”

“He thinks he's deserving, alright.”

“But as for you...”His father fixed his
steady brown gaze on Dayn. Whenever Laman used that even tone,
things went better when Dayn took heed. “You’ll honor our family
name farming in the Mistlands―or competing along with your friend
in the Cycle, whichever you set your mind to. I figured Joam is
helping you with the staff, as much as you’re gone these days.”
Thankfully, Dayn's guilt-ridden silence went unnoticed. “Your path
will work itself out, once your head is settled on which way is
best to go.”

They walked quietly for a moment. Excitement
stirred within Dayn as he mulled over his father's outlook.
He’d
let me go to Montollos and enter the Cycle, sure as mist rises.
Only, I’d enter the coursing race instead of the weapons
tournament. Joam had urged Dayn to reveal his coursing plans for
weeks.
Dayn gathered his words, newly encouraged.

“Some Elders say this summer we'll see a
skytear at night, and next season it will be bright enough to see
during the day.” Dayn spoke lightly, but
peace
how his heart
pounded! Skytears passed through the World Belt once or twice a
lifetime, sprouting tails as they neared the sun. It seemed the
easiest way to steer the talk back to the torrent, then coursing.
“Elder Kaynerin said a skytear means that strange days are coming.
Could it get trapped in the torrent?”

Laman snorted. “Elder Kaynerin enjoys too
much wine. He'll be first to blame the skytear if stripeworms take
his crops, or a ridgecat steals into one of his sheep pens. That
sorry talk is no better than Misthaven folk wagging their tongues
about the Dreadfall.”

Laman reached down to scoop a handful of the
reddish-brown earth. The gray in his hair stood out more than Dayn
had noticed before. His father's voice grew resonant with feeling
as the soil sifted through his outstretched fingers.

“The torrent, the skytear. It's fine talk for
stories with Defenders or fool coursers, but this is real. This is
who we are. Our Pledge is the oldest covenant in the World Belt. No
Shardian has ever known a day of hunger, of thirst, or wanted for
anything their whole life. In return, we give freely of the harvest
to the Belt.”

All mention of coursing died on Dayn's lips.
Fool coursers.
So that’s what he thinks.
The remaining earth
sifted out of Laman’s fingers, just more dust on the wind.

Laman kissed his teeth irritably at sight of
the sun peering over the horizon.
The morning isn’t what either
of us expected,
Dayn thought numbly.

“I mean to be to the northern edge well
before noon. Go find your sister, she’s supposed to be fetching
survey jars from the barn.”

“Yes, father.” The Village Council tested
each farm’s soil to ensure the land’s fertility. “I was wondering
why we left them behind.”

“Tela wanted to help load your mother's
paintings for Evensong, but she needs to take on more of the
chores. You won't be around here forever.” Laman gave Dayn an
unreadable look. “Here. Take this, lad.”

Dayn easily caught his father's silverpine
staff. It felt heavier than mere wood could account for. Dayn
imagined he could hear six generations of Ro'Halans, their
disapproving whispers swirling around him. Laman had never before
entrusted him with the family staff. He spoke to the question in
Dayn's eyes.

“Grahm killed a gravespinner this big―” his
father formed a space between his hands large enough to cradle a
ripe dewmelon “―digging in his woodpile last night. It had an egg
sack.”

“Oh, no.” Dayn groaned at the ill news. If
the spiders infested Grahm’s land, they would quickly spread. To
the north, gravespinner webs blanketed the wilds for leagues. No
chimebirds sang in the redbranch there.

“That's why I wanted to finish our survey
early. If silk traps need burning out, we best do it now. I’m sure
it was chance for a spinner to venture this far from the nidus
caves, but all the same—find her quick. The jars are in the old
barn. Check there first.”

“Yes, father.” Dayn swallowed hard, and
angled south. The morning was growing worse faster than the sun
could climb.

The old south barn provided the perfect
hiding place for his coursing gear, and Tela loved to snoop. Dayn
quickened his pace, imagining her prancing around with his wingline
or harness. If she ran off to show his parents, tonight's festival
would be a miserable affair.

Unplowed soil blurred beneath his feet. He
noted several patches of inkroot poking through the covering
clover, but the weeds would have to wait.

“Tela!”

Halfway to the barn, a movement to the west
caught Dayn’s eye. A formless gray shape slid along the lip of the
old Ro’Halan well then dropped to the earth. “Tela? You better not
be hiding.”

He twirled his father's staff apprehensively
and crept closer to the rough white flagstone.
What in peace’s
reach... a cave crab?
Dayn watched in stunned amusement as the
plate-sized creature scuttled right past him, as though it meant to
abandon its drab shell for more speed. It would not last long away
from the water. He could think of a dozen good pranks a creature
with those pincers could offer, but let it pass. A sound made Dayn
look back toward the well. His grin melted away.

Dozens more of the gray crabs spilled over
the well’s edge, dropping to the earth in small puffs of dust. They
skittered away in every direction, a handful streaming past Dayn as
though he did not exist. He hopped out of their paths, not wanting
to lose a toe, and soon found himself near the edge of the well.
Hands tightening on his father’s staff, he leaned over for a look
inside.

Oddly enough, the well ran higher than usual
this morning. Dayn could easily scoop out a drink without the
bucket. Calm ripples cradled the gathering sunlight and returned
his reflection. No cave crabs remained.

“Nothing here but us farmers,” Dayn said with
a puzzled look.
I’ll ask father about this, later.
He
shrugged and made a face at his rippling twin below. “Are you ready
for the Course of Blades?”