The Seedbearing Prince: Part I (6 page)

“But the Elders are all—you know, forget it.
Do what you want, I’m through helping you see sense.”

“Catch me up after you find your kin,” Dayn
said. “I want to see the offworlders first.”

“They probably can't even stand up straight
on our ground,” Joam said with a grin. “Sit with us at the
storytelling. And remember―you owe me an ember-eye, courser!”

“I will,” Dayn said, giving him a shove. Joam
laughed as he moved away into the throng.

Dayn turned back to the traders, looking for
Elders as he went. Several booths displayed the woven baskets,
wreathes and furniture fashioned from the endless redbranch
surrounding Wia Wells. Southforte traders bellowed over the quality
of the goods they made from the tough plants growing in their
swamps. Their rope earned a passing glance, but Dayn would never
wear clothes so coarse and itchy. Most people agreed, judging from
the frustration apparent on the Southforte folk's faces.

Woodworkers from Misthaven curried the most
attention. Many a farmer surrounded those booths, bartering
vigorously for new staffs of Highland silverpine. Milchamah stood
there, but Dayn ducked away before the weaponmaster saw him.

“Dayn Ro'Halan! Tell me that is not you!”

Dayn winced at the displeasure in his
mother’s voice. He turned to approach her booth reluctantly as a
goodwife moved away, clutching a painting of a single homestead
perched on a field of tall, golden grain.

“Do you need my help, mother?” Dayn
asked.

“No, but it looks like you need mine,”
Hanalene replied. She wore a flowing blue dress of some crushed
fabric Dayn did not recognize, and her dark hair arranged in a
multitude of braids. Honey-colored eyes took in Dayn and read his
face as readily as one of her palettes. “Sparring with Joam, again?
In the festival clothes I set aside for you?”

Dayn gave a sheepish shrug. “No. He thought
to best me in bounding.”

“You surely set him straight,” she observed.
She spread her arms expectantly, and Dayn returned her firm hug.
Her own smellgoods mixed with the pleasing scent of dawnlily from
her white garland. “At least you smell fine enough to give your
mother a hug, but you’ll do nothing but sit tonight if you still
look like this.” She picked a piece of stubble from his braids,
then called loudly to an adjoining booth. “Ereyl! One of your fine
shirts for my son here, and five changes of clothes for my
daughter, to a painting of your choice. Do you find the barter
fair?”

“Fair and done!” The wizened Southforte
trader nearly tripped in his haste to shake Hanalene's hand. He
peered at Dayn a moment before rummaging through a chest in his
booth. “I’ve just your size, lad. Come give it a wear.”

Dayn dutifully changed into the fresh tunic
before returning to Hanalene's booth. The fabric might feel better
if it were made of nettles.

“Please, don't ruin this one. And you’ll want
this before the night is through.” Hanalene pressed another packet
of smellgoods into his hand. “One more thing. Have you seen Grahm
yet today?”

“We talked to him in the fields,” Dayn said
carefully. He did not want to worry her with Grahm's behavior―or
his own strange morning, for that matter. “He said he would be here
soon.”

“That’s good. Kajalynn said…” Hanalene’s face
clouded briefly, but more villagers approached to look through her
paintings.

She favored them with a welcome smile before
turning back to Dayn.

“Is everything alright, mother?”

“Just be careful, my son.” She arched an
eyebrow and her tone became cool and mysterious. “There are hunters
about tonight.” With a rich chuckle she bustled him off.

Dayn plunged back into the booths. Evensong
beckoned, but his mother’s words only added to the unease clouding
his thoughts. Yet he did feel better with so many people about,
instead of just he and Joam on the open road.

Musicians played over in the Speaker's Turn.
Flute, lyre, and drums added to the pleasant drone of milling
farmers and craftsmen, along with the occasional stuffy
Misthavener. They pressed together so tightly Dayn could only
shuffle along.

All manner of delights clamored for his
senses. The sharp tang of new leather from a clothier's booth
competed with the heady aroma of crushed grapes where winemakers
from Greenshadow demonstrated their trade. Toddlers squealed in
delight as they hopped about the wide crushing vats with purple
stained feet, and a long line of youngsters eagerly awaited their
turn at the booth.

Dayn rounded a corner and perfumes assaulted
his nose, flowers and oils blended just to make a man lose his
wits.

Behind a booth spaced further from the rest,
smoke billowed. A massive figure moved deftly through it. Dayn
nearly leaped out of his skin until he realized it was Blayle the
butcher, sweating over his coals.

Dayn chided himself.
I’ll fare worse with
the Elders than I did with Milchamah if I act this jumpy.
He
sidled up to where Blayle expertly tended over a dozen spits full
of slow roasting lamb, goat and chicken. The stocky man paused
every so often to wipe sweat from his face with the towel he kept
draped over a thick shoulder. Blayle did not get to see any of the
other traders, but he looked pleased enough, especially when he
glanced across the way at the bored looking berrycake makers from
Kohr Springs.

“Hello, Brother Blayle. I won't be surprised
when ridgecats sneak into Evensong, as good as it smells here.”
Dayn's mouth watered so freely he thought his cheeks might start to
sweat. The butcher took a good look at him, then sliced a liberal
chunk from a roasting goat and skewered it. He slathered it with
his family’s sauce, known throughout the district, and offered the
morsel to Dayn.

“Oh, the ridgecats are here,” Blayle said,
motioning beneath his booth's counter. Dayn held back a laugh.
Stuffed beneath some dirty aprons, he spotted the butcher’s blue
garland. “They just put dresses on over their fur. Good Evensong to
you, lad.”

“Have they made off with all of the Elders? I
haven’t seen one all day.”

“Buril has them all circled up,” Blayle
confided. His eyes rested on Laman’s staff a moment before he
turned back to minding a spit of lamb. “Important stuff, I’m sure.
Best not worry about it, we’ll see them soon enough.”

Dayn thanked him and went his way.
Maybe
the Elders already know.
The thought lifted his spirits, but he
still wanted to be sure, so he looked for them in earnest as he
ate. The savory spices blended perfectly on his skewer, but the
flavor was lost on his tongue. He greeted Wia Wells friends, but
felt oddly alone, as though he bore some strange affliction. The
music and merriment grew steadily in the Wustl Square, but did not
warm him.

“Just the lad I wanted to see!” Jairn the
gemcutter beckoned to Dayn from his booth. “I could use some new
moondrops, if you've brought any.”

Dayn groaned. “I forgot my gems!” Trading was
the last thing on his mind after this morning. If he saw something
that took his fancy, haggling would prove to be a fine chore.

“Ah, pity. Suppose you've been busy, with all
that's going on.” He looked away, hiding his disappointment. “Well,
it's a big night. Go enjoy it.”

A tight-lipped smile reappeared under the
gemcutter’s white mustache as he turned back to two Misthaveners at
his booth. The couple eyed a fine emerald pendant, but loudly
questioned its quality. Jairn's teeth began to grind louder than
his polishing stones as Dayn moved on.

Not five paces away, he spied the offworlder
booth and eagerly approached.

Dayn picked up a chunk of gray rock, one of
the only items on display. He could see someone stirring in the
cart behind the booth. “Peace upon you, offworlder,” he called out.
“Is this a piece of torrent?”

“Don't touch anything! I’m just getting set
up.” A balding man with a reddened face and sagging jowls labored
into sight and peered at Dayn. Sweat poured down the man's face and
stained his shirt, despite the perfect weather. Dayn set the rock
back where he found it, somewhat wounded.

“Wait. You Shardians are all so blessed
polite.” He grinned apologetically. “Name’s Flareze, from Ista
Cham. First time to your world. I know why you’re so friendly. This
ground would wear you right down into your graves if you were to
fight among each other. How do you stand it? My feet can barely
lift my toenails.”

“Feels like you’re standing up even when you
sit down?” Dayn asked, letting the trader's ill manners pass. He
remembered how Grahm once complained of the ground.

“Exactly! Say, you look to be local, not
jumping over every twitch in the underbrush like the fellows who
brought me. Honestly, now. Is it...
safe,
here? I've heard
stories, you see.”

“Of course it is,” Dayn said. He could
imagine the Misthaveners filling this offworlder's head with
nonsense. “Why wouldn’t it be?

“My...travel companions whisper of a
monstrous chasm nearby? They say the land for miles around is
cursed, and this whole village might fall into it any day.”

“Peace, no,” Dayn replied. Misthaven
superstition never failed to astound him. “My farm is closest to
the Dreadfall, and those cliffs won't budge until the Last Mist
rises. Trust me, I've seen―” He snapped his mouth shut. The entire
village would take turns skinning Dayn if they discovered how often
he explored there. “I mean, I've heard―”

“Heard about this Dreadfall, yes.” Flareze
gave his nose a knowing tap, smiling at Dayn's slip. “Honest,
polite and the worst liars in the Belt. That is peace's own truth.
I could do quite well here. That rock is from the torrent, yes.
I'll do a special bargain for you.”

It was said to count your rings after shaking
hands with an Ista Cham trader, and to count your rings
and
fingers besides if the trader walked away with a smile. Flareze was
already smiling. Dayn took a deep breath. “How about this? I’ll
help you unload the rest of your wares. At the rate you’re going,
everyone will be asleep before you finish.”

A grimace cracked Flareze’s grin. “I don't
know how this world still turns without money, but we'll make do,
you and I. Come.” Dayn allowed himself a sigh of relief, then set
to lugging four heavy chests with iron locks over from the
offworlder’s cart. The man’s grin slipped even further after Dayn
finished the chore. “You didn’t even break a sweat.”

Dayn shrugged as the man began unlocking the
chests. “What’s in all of these, more rocks from the torrent?”

“Only a few,” Flareze admitted. “That one you
held nearly punched a hole in the transport that brought me here,
peace’s own truth. Those two that glisten, see how they pull at
each other?”

To Dayn’s astonishment the two fist-sized
stones slid next to each other with a
clink
when the
offworlder set them apart. “Only pieces that were once near a
worldheart can do that. Common enough, but I figure I’ll always
find some fool taken enough to—Shardian, don’t touch that!”

Dayn’s hand froze over the last remaining
chest. “I just wanted to help you, like we agreed. This one was
heaviest.”

“That’s because it’s lined with lead. There’s
sickmetal inside. You won’t feel anything after a touch, but a week
from now a hole will be burned clean through your hand, or
worse.”

Dayn stepped away and shot the trader an
accusing look. “Who would want that? I like things from the
torrent, but not if it will make me sick!”

“It wasn’t meant for here,” Flareze allowed.
He gave a conspiratorial wink. “Raiders, lad, from the Eadrinn
Gohr. Heard of them, I see. Nothing like you fine folks. A cut from
one of their axes will weep blood for weeks. Or they’ll hide a
pinch in the stew of someone they don’t like, or worse yet, make a
helm out of the stuff. You can’t be around it too long, or it’ll
drive you mad, see? I couldn’t well let it out of my sight with you
locals poking around.”

“People will leave your things alone,” Dayn
said, offended. “A thief on Evensong would be the shame of Shard.
If that ever happened, you should tell an Elder, so—” A muscle in
the Ista Cham man’s cheek twitched.
The Elders don’t know!
Dayn stopped with a sudden smile, and stuck his hand out. “Looks
like this is all you need?”

“Looks that way.” Flareze shook his hand with
a rueful grin. “Maybe I won’t make out here as well as I thought.
Go enjoy your festival, young Shardian.”

Dayn moved on, exhaling in relief.
He
could’ve talked me out of all of my gems if given the chance.
A
child darted past his knee, leaving behind a trail of staggering
adults. He wore a yellow shirt under his white garland. “Yonas?”
Dayn pushed after as carefully as he could, filled with sudden
doubt. If what Joam said was true, Yonas should be scared out of
his wits and sitting somewhere with bandaged feet, not running
through Evensong. A dozen more youngsters darted in and out of the
crowd, bouncing into hips and knees, laughing as they picked
themselves up off the ground.

“Kincatcher, kincatcher, you can't catch me!”
They called. “Not one branch on your family tree!”

A goodwife with a motherly face made an
attempt to stop the game. “You children know to stay on the
tangletoys. Now!” Her voice did not sound motherly at all.

Dayn stopped near a blacksmith from Kohr
Springs who took down farmers' orders for tools and repairs. Yonas
would reappear soon enough, and then Dayn could ask his
questions.

“Got you!” The goodwife emerged from the
throng with the kincatcher himself, a boy Dayn did not recognize
with a breathtakingly large head. The boy dangled precariously by
an earlobe as she marched him on tip toes out of the booths, then
firmly deposited him in the grass near the tangletoys. He rubbed
his reddened ear vigorously.