The Seedbearing Prince: Part I (39 page)

Rothash recovered quickly. He whispered to
the gawking drummers, who immediately latched on to Dayn’s rhythm.
Soon the entire crowd joined in, clapping even louder than before.
Young Kiel laughed and clapped so hard that he nearly pitched from
his father's shoulders.

Abruptly Dayn stopped, and fixed a look of
distaste on his face.
They will love this,
he thought. He
looked up and down the length of the baton, then dabbed at his
brow. He pretended to wipe away some sweat, and stared at his hand
in disbelief.

“In all my days, I never thought I would see
one of the High break a sweat!” Someone shouted.

“Peace, look at him. He’s never even felt it
before!”

The crowd laughed uproariously. Brant fought
to hold in his mirth for some reason, but the effort shone upon his
face.

With one last disdainful look at the spent
baton, Dayn tossed it to Rothash, then carefully smoothed down his
braids. He waved to the crowd with a flourish. Rela Run exploded
with cheers one last time, and bits rained down even harder than
before.

Rothash just stopped himself from bowing in
earnest. He took in the coin blanketing the paving stones around
his feet, muttering to himself. Abruptly he shook his head and
clapped his hands. The helpers jumped out of their trance, and
quickly began gathering the bits, looking over their shoulders at
Dayn while they swept the coins into large sacks.

Rothash cleared his throat. “Pure fun, you
understand. Who would’ve thought...” The man trailed off, staring
at the ground again. “What’s your name, lad?” he finally
managed.

“Dayn Ro’Halan, of Shard.”

The troupe leader proffered his hand and Dayn
shook it.

“A lucky guess, then. I’ve been on this world
more years than I care to remember, and could count the Shardians
I’ve seen on one toenail, including you. That was some fine skill
with the rod. Put my men to shame. Would you care to do the same,
tonight? The crowd will be much larger than this rabble, all of Ara
turns out for the Sending. It will be magnificent!”

“Thank you, no. I have to meet my friends
before then,” Dayn said regretfully. It sounded like fun, but he
doubted the Ringmen would approve.
They’re probably looking for
me in the palace right now. I better get back.

“Ah, yes.” The man hid his disappointment by
fiddling with his odd mustache, but still persisted. “There will be
more than enough coin to be made, lad!” He swung an arm to where
the ember tossers were picking up the silver and copper bits lying
everywhere. “We can agree to a fair price right now.”

Dayn shook his head again. “I don’t need it.
Can I have some of these bits, to buy a sweet round? And some to
get a treat or two for them.” The Aran boys who were betting saw
him point their way, and suddenly looked ready to bolt. “Maybe I’ll
see you tonight. It just depends on my friends.”

Rothash searched Dayn’s face as he pressed a
handful of bits into his palm. “Perchance, are...are you a prince
in truth, my boy?”

“No, I'm just a farmer.” Dayn took his leave,
exchanging good-natured nods with the troupe performers who waved
as he left. They understood that a good show filled their pockets,
no matter who turned out to look the fool in the end.
I'll bet
the joke is hardly ever on Rothash, either,
Dayn thought.
Not with how they’re all grinning.

Brant caught his arm in the midst of the
Arans circled around to offer praises. “Surprised us all you did,
young Shardian. That wasn’t part of the show, was it?”

“No, but peace knows I stay away from the
short side of a prank if I can help it.”

“You looked born to wield fire, lad. I know
good training when I see it. On your way to the Cycle, I presume?
Going to test our young swordsmen?”

Several more Arans leaned closer in sudden
interest, and Dayn hastily shook his head no. “There are fighters
on Shard much better than I.”

Brant’s eyes widened in surprise. “Well a man
of many talents, it would seem. I will remember the name. Thank you
for making my son laugh again today.”

“Peace keep you, Brant,” Dayn said. He turned
to leave, but Brant's troubled look made him add something he
remembered from Nassir. “May the low always uphold the High.”

“Wait.” The man shifted casually. All of the
Arans crowding close suddenly found pressing business elsewhere.
Brant wore the curved sword of the Aran guard on his left hip. Dayn
wanted to kick himself.

“You truly did not recognize me from
yesterday,” Brant said quietly, pulling a heavy looking pouch from
his belt. Dayn remembered his face now, one of the guards from
Jemlar's Hall, the one Nassir named captain. The toddler balanced
on his shoulders made for a strange contrast with the man's razor
sharp gaze. “There’s a bounty on your head, Shardian. This pouch to
buy my silence, and twice as much promised to the guard who finds
you today.”

“Peace take my breath, if I’ve done anything
wrong.” Dayn tensed, wondering if he should make a run for the
splits.

“The High aren't so sure. I wasn’t either,
after that...creature spoke to you. But here’s what I think of this
bounty.”

Brant scattered the bag’s contents. The
helpers’ eyes nearly fell out at the sudden wash of silver, but
kept right on scooping it up.

“Thank you,” Dayn breathed in relief. “I'll
be sure to―”

“I haven't released you just yet, Shardian,”
Brant cut in. “I would follow the High to ruin if they wished it,
same as any of the Aran Guard. But they are still men who can bend
to fear, just as easily as any of us. They’re wrong to fear you,
but I must know. Why are you here?”

The other Arans milling around kept their
distance, but Dayn lowered his voice, anyway. “The
same...men...from Jemlar’s Hall meant to tear Shard from the Belt.
I saw them with my own eyes, in my village. The Ringmen asked me to
help them warn all of the worlds.”

“So we’re not squabbling over water when
there’s a sword at our backs.” Brant nodded to himself, shuddering.
“Peace shade us. Never in my life would I believe the old stories
were true. Most of my men still deny what they saw with their own
eyes. Your words are needed, more than you know.” Brant released
his hilt to steady Kiel, and Dayn relaxed. “Keep a low profile in
the splits, Dayn Ro'Halan. I'm surprised that beast of a Defender
let you leave the palace.” Dayn flushed and looked at his feet.
Brant barked a laugh. “Ha! Say no more. Enjoy Olende while you can,
lad. Don't miss the Dance of Shells tonight.”

“I won't,” Dayn promised. Brant made his way
off, the crowd parting easily before his steady gait. Kiel waved
goodbye from his shoulders. Dayn turned to go in the opposite
direction, smiling faintly as a few stragglers waved and cheered
him.
Peace surely favored me to meet him, instead of another
guard.

Outside Rela Run, the sun no longer shone
from directly overhead, and people were venturing back into the
splits. Dayn did not mind the stifling heat. The fire troupe had
rekindled his excitement over seeing a new world, and the people’s
enthusiasm over the Sending easily caught him up.

As if to prove his changing fortune, the next
Aran he asked about the Burshee Split gave much better
directions.

“You’re just a split away,” the young man
said. He reminded Dayn of Esane back home, the same shade of skin,
only the Aran had gray eyes. “There are split vendors with much
tastier fare, you know.”

“The sweet rounds are just fine, thank you,”
Dayn replied. A man could starve waiting to chew what passed for
meat here.

He found Burshee Split right where the Aran
said. His stomach rumbled fervently. He felt hungrier than ever
after the fire troupe’s show.

The welcome smell of baking yams filled the
air from a shop three levels up on one side of the narrow split.
This part of Olende was not so well kept. Rickety ladders joined
the upper levels of Burshee Split, where other splits boasted
curving stairs or switchbacking ramps. The few people Dayn saw
looked to be on their way elsewhere, and quickly.

The terrace stood much shorter than the
palace wall. He gathered himself and sprang. A few passersby
exclaimed as he passed the terrace by two spans. He managed to
catch hold of the ladder so he did not drop straight back down. He
gave a sheepish wave to the Olende folk who stared at him from
below.
Joam was right. I really am the courser who cannot
land.

“Where did you come from?” The owner gawked
from inside the shaded interior, clearly surprised to see a patron
appear out of thin air. Bells decorated the ladders in most of the
upper splits, to let shopkeepers know when people approached. “And
here in the heat of the day! What can I get for you?”

“Whatever it is you’re baking in there.” He
followed the Aran inside, checking his pocket for the Seed and his
silver bits. Thanks to Rothash, Dayn could pay. He touched the
servant girl’s pouch and determined to give it back to her. She
probably needed all the silver she could spare if she always made
such bad bets. The Aran pulled a tray of succulent yams from his
kiln.
Everything will right itself in time, just like Lurec
said.

The man peppered the meal well enough, but
nearly ruined it with honey before Dayn stopped him. The Aran
accepted a handful of Dayn’s bits with wide, disbelieving eyes.
Refreshed and encouraged, Dayn bid him farewell and departed to see
more of Olende. This was looking to be a good day after all.

The Dance of Shells

All the people gathered from the Belt to choose who
would be king. Cried the man from Ista Cham, 'Gather round and kiss
my ring.' Said the Regent Montollene, 'No, no, don't be fooled!
Crown me king, you simple things, I'll command, and so you’ll
do.'

Last of all the farmer stood, looking at his feet.
He said,’ What if I’m the one to grow, so all of you can eat?' 'Our
king! Our king, at last!' the people shouted all around, but the
farmer took off for his fields as fast as he could bound.

-from the Aran play, Round the Belt We Go

D
ayn licked his
fingers clean as his stomach rumbled in contentment. More Olende
revelers filled the already swollen splits as the sun’s heat
diminished, mainly glassbreathers, finally closing their shops in
time for the evening's ceremony.

He stopped to observe the skill of these
famed Aran craftsmen. Bare-chested men puffed mightily into long
hollow tubes affixed to molten balls of glass. Their kilns were
carved right into the redstone of their shops. Sons and daughters
worked a bellows to keep the kiln hot. The glassbreathers spun the
tube as they breathed into it, gradually forming a new urn or vase.
It looked to be hot, truly miserable work. Yet the finished pieces
of these artisans were simply without equal, thin and delicate as
silk, but surprisingly strong.

The glasswork would make wonderful keepsakes
for home, but Dayn doubted his remaining silver bits were enough to
obtain one. Besides, there was no telling how they would leave Ara.
A collection of Aran glasswork would be the worst thing to stow in
his pack, especially if Nassir decided they course the torrent
again. Still, he kept a watch for smaller pieces as he walked.

At times Dayn sensed a veneer-like quality to
the Olende folk's merriment, as if they celebrated by rote, and hid
some deeper weariness from view. He dismissed the feeling though,
believing it to sprout from his own worries.

Directions to the Dance of Shells were easy
to come by. Most people were milling the same way, so he followed
the flow of festival revelers. He did not realize so much of the
day had passed, and remorse nearly led him to make his way back to
the palace. The Ringmen were undoubtedly looking for him, but he
reasoned that his best chance to find them would be at the
ceremony.

Ahead, a blindfolded man juggled some
withered melons, while a trio of musicians played pipes and a sitar
for all they were worth. Behind them the largest run of stairs Dayn
had ever seen were chiseled into a split wall almost five stories
high. Some Arans availed themselves of two ramps switchbacking
beside the stairs, but most chose to climb. Dayn followed, although
his feet itched to bound over the hundreds of people in front of
him.

The stairs led to the top rim of a massive
amphitheater where perhaps a thousand more Arans already waited.
This makes the Speaker's Turn back home look like a baby's
crib,
Dayn thought. The space looked down upon a circular plaza
set within the intersection of two particularly deep splits. The
scene was quite breathtaking, and the mixed bands of orange and
gold within the redstone glowed brilliantly in the late afternoon
sun.

More seating lay further below, on the same
plane as the plaza floor itself. Dayn made out more of the Aran
gentry nearly seven spans down, conversing among the redstone
benches carved into the split's walls.
The Ringmen will be down
there.
A metal railing guarded against the drop, but it would
be an easy leap.

A sudden voice at his elbow made Dayn jump.
“Only guests of the Highest go down there, offworlder.” Two Aran
guardsmen, swarthy men with curly black hair and patient
expressions gestured back to the amphitheater’s upper seats. They
looked to be brothers. “There are still spots close to the lower
rail. You can get one if you hurry.”

“He’s permitted, let him pass!”

They looked down to see Lurec waving at them
from the plaza, standing next to one of the High. Dayn looked at
the two guards expectantly. Surprise shone on their faces. “Well,
should I jump? The stairs will be too crowded to go back down
now.”