

### The Lesser Repository

By DaVaun Sanders

Copyright 2013 DaVaun Sanders

Smashwords Edition

*****

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy. Your support is appreciated.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.

*****

Table of Contents

01:59 AM

03:07 AM

04:40 AM

05:16 AM

07:31 AM

Free Chapters of The Seedbearing Prince: Part I

Chapter 1: Laman's Well

Chapter 2: A Day for Hunters

Chapter 3: Evensong

Chapter 4: The Midnight Sun

About the Author

01:59 AM

Ben Reiner pressed a fresh ice pack to his temple, grimacing in pain. The suspect in the interrogation cell stared back at him through a curtain of unraveling sinew. Somewhere in that mangled ruin, calm eyes waited for him. The biggest arrest of Reiner's so-called career, and he was lucky to survive it. He might even hustle some money from this thing, if he could think for more than thirty seconds at a time.

Click. Click. Click.

His neuro-feed unit kept switching on and off by itself. The phantom clicks were much worse than his headache. His regrowth was generations ahead of the latest public domain tech. Nearly getting his skull caved in by this guy shouldn't have damaged it so easily.

"Maybe one more good swing will fix it. Bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Reiner muttered aloud, as though the suspect could hear him from behind the glass. His own reflection stared back at him, clear blue eyes well beyond bloodshot, red hair slicked to his scalp in places. Crimson stained his white button-down liberally.

The suspect's voice startled him. "We've little time," he called out. His jaw hung crookedly, ready to slide slide from its hinges.

Reiner looked longingly at the observation room's lone wastebasket, then squeezed his eyes shut. "Better hope Harrison gets here soon, or you and me are gonna have a really ugly conversation."

"We should talk face to face." Another coincidence in the timing of the man's words. Speech came easier for him, although his jaw still clung to an awkward angle.

Click. Click. Click.

Reiner hoped his neuro-feed worked its glitches out, and tried not to wonder what would happen to his brain if the phantom clicks worsened. He dismissed the idea of requisitioning City techs for a diagnostic pass. He knew he couldn't afford another co-pay.

"This might be your big break, partner." Jay Harrison entered the room, scrolling through a case pad as he balanced a cold cappuccino in the crook of his elbow. He slapped the pad down on the table, hiding a yawn behind a meaty fist as he plunked himself into one of the metal chairs. "That is, if your little revenue-tech idea doesn't steal the spectacle anytime soon."

"I still might surprise you," Reiner said. He nodded to the cell. "See him now? Look."

Harrison's good-natured grin immediately slipped off his face. A lot had changed in ten minutes. "You realize this is going to be the most high-profile in fifty years. Guy's a terrorist for sure. Didn't think City industry would ever attract that sort in my lifetime. Good thing I pulled you off of him. The mappers needed three sweeps to ID him after those...bruises you left him with."

"So I lost it. Fine. You saw what he did," Reiner retorted. His memories of the night's arrest were hard to recall, punctuated with the headache and phantom clicks. He looked guiltily at the wastebasket, then snatched his eyes away. He couldn't forget the feel of the boy's cold wrist, so small and limp in his palm. A bored kid exploring the stadium, that was all. Old as Reiner's son would have been.

The suspect looked out at them, expectant. He flexed his jaw experimentally. A loud _pop_ sounded through the cell speakers. Harrison quietly stood, placing a hand on Reiner's shoulder. He always showed up right before Reiner did anything too stupid. He had a gift. "Fair enough."

"We need an update from those neuro-techs at the stadium," Reiner said after a moment. "The crowd should be cleared out by now. I want to know how this guy was tampering with the spectacle feed."

The detectives watched the man's face knit itself back together with morbid fascination. Give him another half hour, and no one would ever guess Reiner almost beat him to death. All that remained of the swollen face was a purple, roach-sized bruise under the man's left eye. His greasy blond hair still showed dried blood from when the two fought in the hallways beneath the neuro-stadium.

"Remember when you used to go in there for verbal confessions?" Harrison asked, stepping closer to the glass. He wore his usual gray button down with rolled up sleeves. No tie, but impeccably shined shoes and pressed black trousers. "I swear the stale smoke and piss was gonna leach into your skin, you kept that up."

"I was pretty naive," Reiner admitted slowly. Harrison was stalling for some reason. Sentimental was not like him at all, but Reiner played along. "You'd tell me, 'Dumb rookie, you gonna lose yourself in there one day.'"

Harrison snorted. "Then you went and married Lisa." Reiner looked at him sharply. "Easy, Ben. I'm not your dad. You know I like her."

"You got a funny way of saying so."

"Don't twist my words around," Harrison said. "All I meant was trying so hard to relate to the dregs is a waste of life. Nothing left to 'em but emptiness and pain. Even Lisa knows that—and she made her way out from the under-City."

Reiner shook his head. "She never talks about down there," he said. Even with all of his money troubles, he could hardly imagine living in the shadow of the City. No industry, no purpose. Better to work in waste reclamation than choose that. "I used to think they could help me understand her better."

Silence stretched a moment, filled only by the phantom clicks in Reiner's head, spaced nearly five seconds apart now. He managed to bark a laugh. "Dumb rook. Thanks to you, the chief didn't know my name, for my first three months."

"Three months? How about the last six years?" Harrison chuckled roughly and downed his cappuccino. "He'll remember your name after tonight. Believe that." The empty bottle landed in the wastebasket with a _clink_.

Accusation made Harrison's burn. Reiner stared straight ahead at the observation glass, cursing his own carelessness. Scabs covered the table's interrogation cell as they flaked away from the suspect's face. Harrison fished the empty bottle from the wastebasket.

Click. Click. Click.

His partner sniffed the contents. Reiner had torn the label off, as if that would give any veteran detective pause. "Oh hell, partner. Are you really pulling this now?"

_Click. Cli—_ Just at that moment, the neuro-feed unit's phantom clicks finally stopped.

"My head's been...the meds weren't working and I—"

Harrison waved away his stammering. "I don't buy that for a second. What the hell are you thinking? The two of you are expecting!"

"I know, finally," Reiner said bitterly. Harrison was his partner for six years, and his sponsor for eight. "More bills. A City collector paid me a visit today. Do you know how much a regrowth placenta costs?"

"You could be doing a lot worse, partner. And here I was just praising...you can't hit Lisa with this now. You gotta tighten up, man."

"I will. It was just the headache," Reiner said defensively. "Pushed me over the edge." A poor excuse, even in his own ears. He glared at the suspect, who stared at them with a strange, slight smile on his face.

"Four years sobriety in the trash." Harrison tossed the bottle disgustedly back into the wastebasket. The sound of shattering glass echoed through the room. "Over this scum? We're going back to group. Tomorrow night when this all wraps up."

"Tonight, you mean?" Reiner said.

Harrison glowered at him, then motioned irritably toward the scroll-pad."You gonna read that yourself, or you want the quick-sync?" He tapped his temple twice, silently asking permission to link their neuro-feeds.

"Nah, my feed is glitched over," Reiner said. The clicks were stopped, but he didn't want to use the regrowth right then, either. "Just tell me about him."

Concern flickered in Harrison's eyes as he took in Reiner's bruise, but he hid it quickly behind the stern mask. Reiner couldn't even meet his eyes. _Four years...he's right._ Harrison had stuck with him through his first relapse, and two miscarriages.

"He really put one on you," Harrison said. "I'd get a med team down here but..." He trailed off, looking pointedly at the wastebasket.

"I'm fine," Reiner lied. He most likely had a concussion. He couldn't even remember what the guy hit him with in the stadium halls. A length of pipe maybe. He vaguely remembered a clang sound against his skull. "They don't pay us by the hour, partner. Enlighten me."

"Maddix Wynn. No record at all. Professor of our very own City Thirty-Eight's Greater Academy for ten years. Wow, degrees all over the place. Neuro-engineering, divinity, philosophy and dimensional theory. Certified genius on our hands."

"My father was a neuro-engineer," Reiner mused. The suspect—Maddix Wynn—looked at the glass with that same half-formed smile. No desire to reach out for understanding. Not with this one. "We need to hear from those neuro-techs."

"You said that already." Harrison tapped the reflective glass to wake up the cell sensors. "My neuro-feed is patched into their cloud sync. Soon as they finish the diagnostic, I'll know about it."

"Oh. Didn't think of that."

Harrison favored him with a bland look. "You need to see something. I scanned him while you were off looking for painkillers."

"Why? His healing tech is obvious."

"You think? You beat him within an inch of his life." Harrison licked his lips, staring into the cell. Reiner shifted uncomfortably. Unregistered regrowths in the City populace made even the toughest peace officers queasy. "Now he barely has worse than a shiner."

The interrogation room glass flickered to life as Harrison inputted commands into his pad. Data feeds streamed what information the bio sweepers licked from Wynn. Reiner frowned as he read the glass.

Vitals were all leveled out, heart rate and respiration more like a man fast asleep. The interrogation cell pulsed with green and white hues, as the room's hidden sweepers scanned deeper into Wynn's body. The process lent a sickly pallor to his calm expression. He knew what they were doing.

"Oh my God." Reiner dropped his ice pack. Red warning displays flared across the glass.

"I know." Harrison swallowed as the cell spilled the secrets hidden within Wynn's flesh.

A "Vein Bender" plasma accelerator with cognitive adrenaline triggers explained Wynn's abnormal heart rate. That sort of regrowth could not be ingested or implanted, it required weeks of careful surgery and programming. And money.

Dexterity enhancers in his motor cortex, synced to multi-spectrum corneal implants. Regrowths designed for military snipers. "You realize he can see in the dark," Reiner muttered. "He might be able to see through this damned glass."

Harrison grimaced. "Hadn't thought of that."

Reiner returned the ice pack to his temple, acutely aware of Wynn's gaze as he continued reading. Carbon molecular bonding on seventy-two different bones, plus the entire spinal column. Reiner remembered now when the man struck him in the stadium. No pipe at all, it was Wynn's fist.

"This guy has more regrowths than you and Lisa put together," Harrison said. "Nine of them our system can't even read. Experimental, or homegrown. He's done something to his lymph system, you see that?"

"I see it." Exhilaration pulsed through Reiner as he considered the implications of what he saw. Only another City would pour such resources into one man. Terrorist for sure. Set to sabotage some aspect of City Thirty-Eight's industry, likely neuro-spectacle developers. "Time to find out what he knows."

"Wait. We've got to follow protocol for this one." Harrison barred Reiner from the door. "Five different agencies have called since we processed him. Intra-City Defense, Department of Continental Freedom, even some suits from City One patched through to us on an encrypted sync. The chief said—"

"Screw ICD _and_ City One! I got my head cracked open bringing this guy down!" Reiner's face reddened in anger. "Damn it, Harrison—you saw what he did to that kid. We should—"

"Chief said leave him be, let them sort out priority," Harrison said firmly. "Don't look at me like that! He should be gutted for tonight, I know that. I saw it too." He shuddered. Harrison was ex-military, part of the decorated forces that "founded" City Seventy-Six a decade ago. He never talked about his past, and Reiner never asked. But some nights after shift he simply handed Reiner his gun to keep until the next morning.

"Guess you were wrong. It's not my big break after all." Just when his career looked due for an upgrade, reality swung back even harder than before.

"You still think you deserve one?"

Reiner sighed, he couldn't argue with that. The details nagged his mind. Industry espionage was fierce from City to City, but commonplace. Why all this attention for one lone act of sabotage? "We should be seeing ransom warrants, not ICD extradition. Wynn is a Culler isn't he?"

A surge of vindication quickened Reiner's pulse when Harrison swore under his breath. "You're too smart for your own good, you know that? You didn't hear it from me." They both stared at Wynn with a mixture of awe and dread. The restraints and reflective glass might as well not be there, considering the host of regrowths housed within the man's diminutive frame. "I never thought Cullers were so invested in regrowth tech."

"And I never thought we'd see them in the City," Harrison muttered. "I prayed we wouldn't. Especially not one like this. It's a wonder all that tech hasn't killed him. Know why they never get caught? The Cullers?"

"No. Why?"

"No pattern. They aren't racist, and no religion so far as anyone can tell. Most highly organized terrorist group in the world since the nations went post nuke. They just wipe out as many people as possible."

"So if he wasn't out to sabotage the spectacle...the stadium? Harrison, there were three hundred thousand people there tonight!"

"Sick, I know. Nobody knows what makes them tick."

"Until tonight." Reiner held up his hands at Harrison's scowl. "Okay, okay...tomorrow. Calm down."

"Give me a good reason. You've been scheming since I left to get his pad. Since you drained that bottle."

"Do you know how much I could make from a recorded interrogation?" Reiner demanded. Setting his neuro-feed to transmit was such a simple command. One data transfer to the right bidder afterward and his family would never worry about money again. "I'd sit on it, wait to stream it until after he's executed."

"Listen. I know you're thinking this will get your neuro-feed sharing startup to explode. You're already years ahead of any competition, since no one else can capture content like we can. Great idea, except our job isn't this damned exciting most nights."

Harrison clicked off the interrogation cell's bio sweeper, and Wynn flickered back into drab fluorescent lighting. "And not with this guy, he's too dangerous. I mean look at him. Cullers are the worst kind of crazy. Leave him to Intra-City."

"Fine." Reiner relented. Harrison was the most stubborn man he knew, besides himself. There was no persuading the man when his mind was set, especially with work. Reiner used to be the same way, until he realized he couldn't afford to paint a nursery for the child his wife carried.

"What about the kid? In the stadium?" he persisted. "If the crowd was his target, why take so much time to...to butcher—"

A shadow crossed Harrison's face. "Leave it, partner. It's been a long night."

"Too long," Reiner agreed, tossing his ice pack in the sink.

Almost on cue, a pitched chime sounded in his ears, indicating Lisa requesting a direct sync. "Hold on a sec, the wife is sending."

"That's what you get for enrolling in the spousal share. Never would've caught me giving Kendra a unit." Harrison smirked, but unconsciously rubbed his naked ring finger like always whenever his ex-wife came up. "Granting you access to my head is bad enough."

"Funny. Lisa's the one who got me thinking about the start up at all. She was using regrowths way before I met her," Reiner said.

"The cosmetic stuff? I'll pass. You probably don't even know what color her eyes really are." Harrison shook his head ruefully and made for the door. "Gotta make sure the night boys keep this reject cozy. See you tomorrow."

Reiner went the opposite direction, down a rarely swept hall. He wondered at his exasperating luck the entire way. A missed interrogation with a Culler. Spectacle corporations would spin neuro-feed tales about Wynn long after he perished. They would liquidate entire divisions for the footage Reiner could supply. The unfairness of it all made him want to vomit.

His neuro-feed chimed again. "Oh, Lisa. Sorry babe," he murmured. Reiner struggled to activate the sync. The sensation still felt awkward, like trying to wiggle a spare set of ears inside his head. It took two more clumsy attempts to "trip the synapse," as the techs said. Finally the false auditory _click_ sounded in his mind. Lisa's disembodied voice, bloomed to life within his consciousness.

_Hey you. It's past midnight. Nothing good ever comes of you being out so late._ Worry consumed his wife more each day now that they were five months into the pregnancy.

_Not this time,_ Reiner sent back. _We got a tip that dregs were scavenging parts to take back to under-City. Turned out it wasn't dregs at all. We caught one of those scum Cullers._

_That's great news,_ Lisa sent. Reiner hoped he'd not offended her. Lisa could be touchy about the under-City's poor. _He hurt people at the stadium, didn't he?_

Reiner hesitated. He could never tell his wife about what Wynn did to that kid. Not ever. _We think he was sabotaging the neuro-wave inputs somehow. The stadium techs haven't sent us a report yet, but three hundred thousand people we saved tonight._

Silence for a moment. Sweetie that is great! Lisa sent back. He could almost see her beaming. _My hero. It's done then?_

"I deserve this." He spoke aloud, so Lisa couldn't hear. Reiner took a breath and made his choice. He took a deep breath, and sent. _Few more hours. Wrapping up padwork with Harrison. Guy's a big deal._

Come home soon. Junior just kicked for you.

_You only send this late for two reasons._ Reiner's chuckle echoed faintly in the carport. _Need your feet rubbed?_

_Good guess, but maybe after._ His neuro-feed clicked off before he could send back.

Harrison emerged from the precinct just then. "Are you really still here?" he groaned. "What good is being married if you just talk all the time?"

Reiner smiled. "Depends on what you talk about."

Harrison rolled his eyes. "Listen...I got a hold of the chief. He'll get you into the press openshare, so be ready." Harrison frowned at Reiner's silence. "Don't thank me all at once, now."

"Guess I better get some rest, then. Night, partner." Reiner climbed into his squad car, felt the engine hiss to life at his bioprompt. He regretted lying to Harrison, even more than with Lisa in some ways. He was flirting with a full blown relapse, practically falling apart at the rivets. Yet Harrison took it in stride, even picked out the bright points. Reiner hoped to be half as solid someday, making the right decision no matter how hard.

But Harrison was wrong about one thing. Opportunity must be seized by the throat when it wandered close. Otherwise it would hide forever in the unrelenting grind of living out each day. Reiner couldn't afford to let this pass. He waited a few minutes to be certain Harrison was gone, then powered down his car and went back inside the precinct.

03:07 AM

The dank odor of the interrogation cell proved worse than Reiner remembered. He typed an override into the door panel, placing the cell sensors and cameras on standby. He tried to look occupied with a case pad for a moment while he fumbled internally with his neuro-feed.

_Transmit._ There. Such a simple command to stream his vision and auditory to a private data dock.

"How's your head?" Wynn asked pleasantly. His own injuries had completely vanished. Reiner did not like the new eagerness in the man's demeanor.

"Shut your mouth," he snapped. He instantly wished the words back. The boys on night watch were looking the other way, indignant when Reiner hinted he wouldn't be commended for the arrest. More broken rules than he could count to question the Culler like this, he needed to stay calm. _Nursery. Think of the nursery you'll build for Lisa._ He forced his face to stillness while Wynn peered at him curiously.

"Your name is Maddix Wynn?" The man nodded. "You're a member of the terrorist group known as the Cullers?"

"So it would appear. Please, call me Maddix." The hollow friendliness made Reiner's skin crawl.

"Why were you trying to sabotage the neuro-spectacle tonight? Hundreds of thousands of people were there. Innocent, law abiding citizens of the City."

Silence. Reiner tried another tact. "You mean to preserve the biosphere, the environment?"

"There are twelve billion people on this planet, detective...?" Reiner knew better than to give his name. "The Earth is quite capable of sustaining us all. I doubt it will miss the absence of a few thousand souls."

"You stand against the Cities, then?"

"Of course not. They perform their functions quite well. Perhaps too efficiently." Wynn studied him with calculating gray eyes. "You hold the look of a family man. A protector. An admirable and necessary trait for a peace officer."

"What's your point?" Reiner asked gruffly.

"You make decisions every day to preserve life, as do I. We differ only in methods, and perspective."

Reiner stared at him, incredulous. This interrogation was not progressing as he had hoped. He'd meant to treat this like an interview, instead of pushing for a confession. More material that way. "You're crazy."

"No detective, we are both family men."

"What family man would do this?" Reiner asked. He flicked on the case pad, watched Wynn's face. Not a speck of remorse in the Culler's eyes as he took in the images of the child's body. Reiner himself struggled not to heave up the contents of his stomach. Deep furrows marked where the boy's eyes had been, bruises and slashes covered his body. The wounds demonstrated a sick need to inflict pain.

"A sight to make any father weep." No remorse touched Wynn's voice, either. "Many more fathers shall weep, before my work is done. But for joy, or for sorrow?" He spoke in a crisp and insistent manner. " I would speak truthfully of the feedback bomb with you, even share where the first one is located. But I must ask something of you first."

Reiner's breath caught. _The first one? Score._ "Ask."

"When is Lisa expecting?"

The wet crack of breaking cartilage echoed in the cell before Reiner realized what he'd done. He held the Culler's shirt in one fist, his right drawn back for another blow.

"How did—" Memory of the phantom clicks surged over Reiner. "You hacked my neuro-feed!" How long? Since the interrogation cell? He couldn't remember when the clicks first started. Or was it when they stopped?

"It's a rather naked feeling, at first," Wynn said, inches from Reiner's face. The man spoke so calmly, indifferent to the red trickle snaking down his lips and chin. "But please Detective Reiner, we must be completely honest with each other. You already plan to cleave open your mind, by your own hand."

"What are you—"

Wynn's eyes lost their focus for a moment. A horrible rasping sound sprouted from the Culler's throat. Reiner loosened his grip, in alarm. The next voice to issue from the Culler's lips didn't belong to Maddix Wynn at all. _"Do you know how much I could make from a recorded interrogation?"_

"Stop that," Reiner mumbled. His own voice sounded like sin to his ears.

The man's Grey eyes glazed over once more, and the larynx writhed in Wynn's throat. A perfect rendition of Harrison's low voice filled the cell.

" _Great idea, except our job isn't this damned exciting most nights."_

"Shut up!"

The Culler blinked, and this time his voice was his own. "You mean to sell your neuro-feed to the masses. Ingenious. And lucrative, I imagine."

"Stay out of my head. Do you hear me?" Hearing the Culler speak normally again allowed Reiner to regain some composure. The worst of it was that he had no way to tell if the hack was still active.

"You're a provider, and a man of vision. Perhaps enough vision to grasp the lesser repository." The Culler nodded to himself, considering. "Your regrowths, your life as a peace officer place you in a unique position to see what so many do not. I daresay you were fated to capture me tonight."

"I should've never come in here," Reiner muttered. A sociopath tapped into his thoughts, his neuro-feed conversations. No wonder he was smiling while Reiner and Harrison talked. Could the Culler relay instructions to more of his kind? Reiner started for the door.

"Your salary is pathetic. Surely, you must see this night through. Is your family not worth it?"

"My family isn't your concern." He hastily reached for the cell door. "City One can deal with you in the morning."

Reiner froze as another phantom click sounded in his head. "Ah, detective. That was not the correct response."

His fingers never reached the keypad. Pain flared at the base of Reiner's skull, shooting into his spine and searing every nerve in his body, thousands of pore-sized fires. His muscles spasmed, fingers contorting his palms wide one moment, convulsing into fists the next. His head spun like a beetle twirled in silk, waiting for the spider's venom to dissolve its guts.

"I won't let you..." Reiner mumbled as he fell to the floor. Images assailed his mind, overlapped with the interrogation cell. No help would come from the bribed night's watch, with all the cameras deactivated. Vertigo threatened to black him out.

The Culler watched him dispassionately. "Close your eyes, or the simultaneous feeds will liquefy your brain."

Reiner squeezed his eyes shut, and the nausea vanished abruptly. The pain wracking his body mercifully began to fade. The images within his head focused.

Red numerals glowed at the bottom of Reiner's vision, reading 03:22:14. _He's plugged me into a damned live camera,_ Reiner thought. He was blind to everything but what Wynn wanted him to see.

"I'm not releasing your restraints. You'll have to—"

"Pay attention."

He saw a poorly lit room with actual linoleum curling from the floor like the scales of some diseased, ancient serpent. An antique style cell was built into the far end, fashioned from steel bars instead of observation glass. An old building in the under-City, a warehouse perhaps.

Behind the bars, a small shape stirred. A knot formed in Reiner's throat. He felt a sense of the camera focusing, drawing him closer to the movement.

A child.

Chain encircled the young boy's spindly limbs, wrapped so thickly his hands and feet were swallowed in metal. The chains fastened to the cage in such a way that his arms and legs were splayed wide. His chin rested limply on his chest. Reiner guessed him to be eight.

The forced neuro-feed was soundless, but the boy's heaving shoulders suggested sobs. The feed abruptly cut off. Reiner staggered to his feet, overcome with rage.

"What kind of sick—"

"You see now?" The Culler looked at him with mild disappointment. "The signs of the repository weren't clear to you?"

"Another life you mean to end, family man?" Reiner calmed himself with an effort. He couldn't prevent the man from taking his neuro-feed hostage again. His voice sounded even. He took a few deep breaths. He was in control.

"Another failed experiment." Wynn frowned. "Your regrowths are not advanced enough to sync."

"Don't worry. I'll have the techs flush them out first thing tomorrow," Reiner retorted. _Co-pay be damned, too._ He shook his head in disbelief. _Harrison's right—the worst kind of crazy._

"That child? He will expire by tomorrow," Wynn said. He spoke as though the boy were nothing more than a liter of milk. "He's not eaten in weeks."

"Then I better sync Intra-City to get down here right now," Reiner said. _Like you should've done in the first place, idiot._

"I won't speak with them detective. There's a forty-eight hour hold on torture warrants, plus—"

"How do you know that?"

"—plus, another week or so before I'm broken through those methods." Reiner gaped. The Culler smiled as he continued. "Perhaps longer. I'll admit I'm not much of a fighter, as you revealed to my embarrassment. But I assure you, my regrowths make my pain threshold quite high."

"Is one child so important to a Culler?" Reiner asked.

"Not a child. The lesser repository. I must show it to you. And you only. The location is not far from here."

Reiner replayed the man's words mentally, scarcely able to breathe. "You mean to tell me the Cullers have been here the whole time? In the City?"

Something cold flitted across Wynn's face. "Yes."

"Why give yourself up like this?" A cell of the organization, maybe. The entire organization based here, guarding this lessor repository. It was simply too good to be true. "I don't believe you."

"If you were to examine our activity in this hemisphere, you would see that City Thirty-Eight is a perfect relay point for our...efforts. We purposefully avoid conflict here. If you aren't safe at home, you aren't safe anywhere, yes?"

Reiner glanced at his watch. _I've come this far._ He took the man's words for truth, pushing away the voice warning that his own desperation clouded the issue.

The ICD investigators would take time to get here, more time to bicker over jurisdiction with their City One counterparts, while that boy wasted away. _I press forward, I'm a hero. A rich hero. I stop now, I'll be in a cell myself._

"The repository will show you the very essence of what it means to be a Culler, detective," Wynn said. "Your future accolades await."

"This has nothing to do with my neuro-feed," Reiner snapped. Wynn looked at him, eyebrow arched. Reiner's face flushed.

"Of course. Information on my bomb. And the boy."

Reiner looked down at Wynn, heart pounding, his decision made.

"Take me to this repository of yours."

04:40 AM

The under-City felt strange to Reiner, full of dust and stagnant memory. The mass of City Thirty-Eight pressed down on them from overhead. Millions of lives created a palpable hum in the air. Filthy clouds hid the City towers from the forgotten earth beneath. Forgotten, but not erased.

Reiner stood in the shadow of a scythe-like peristyle, one of the seventy rusting pairs that held the City aloft. The glow of waste refineries in the lower reaches cloaked the crumbling under-City landscape, painting derelict buildings a ghastly orange. No one came down here, except for the dregs who had no place else to go.

The silent chime sounded in Reiner's head just then. He swore softly to himself.

"Are you going to answer that?" Wynn asked, as Reiner pulled him from the black cruiser. Reiner shot him a look. Titanium manacles secured the Culler's hands, restraints similar to what the military used for soldiers who went insane from regrowth overload. It was a small miracle Reiner found this pair at the precinct."That's Lisa, isn't it?"

"Let's get one thing clear. Her name is not to be brought up again. Understood?"

"Perfectly, detective."

The Culler started toward the nearest pile of decaying brick. It looked surprisingly deserted, Wynn had warned Reiner to expect dregs here. The Cullers used it for some sort of health clinic, although no two walls stood parallel.

"What is this place?" he asked.

"Hospital."

Reiner had no idea what that meant, but immediately grew suspicious. "You didn't say anything about that before. You called it a repository."

"The repository is inside, detective," Wynn said patiently. He looked disturbed. By the lack of people? Or was he feinting, plotting an ambush to free himself? "We have little time to waste."

"No games, Wynn. Or I'll finish what I started at the stadium." Reiner drew his gun for emphasis. "I'm not stupid. If you synced some friends, this will be a painful night for all of you."

The Culler glanced at the manacles on his hands with a rueful expression. "I believe you wholeheartedly, detective."

The chime in Reiner's head stopped. _Nothing good ever comes of you being out so late._ Lisa's words. She was right. He checked his clip and walked cautiously through a collapsed concrete entryway.

There were a thousand reasons not to go on. The Culler insisted that Reiner alone possessed the necessary regrowths for neuro-feed hacking. The denials made it all the more likely the opposite was true. For the twentieth time, Reiner considered syncing Harrison, and dismissed the idea yet again. Reiner already knew what he would say.

"Oh, what the hell," he muttered. He activated his neuro-feed.

Transmit.

He stepped through closed double doors, careful to avoid the shattered glass. Wynn followed, warily eying Reiner's gun.

Dust covered everything, and peeling paint sloughed off the walls. The search light on Reiner's gun cast fractured shadows over a room full of brittle looking chairs and a central monitoring station. Halls snaked off in every direction, each one lined with untold doors where dregs could be hiding.

"Which way?" Reiner whispered.

"Forward five meters, the central hallway toward the...nursery. Last door on the left is the holding room."

They crept forward, Reiner watching the Culler just as closely as the strange hospital. He knew nothing of history before City One, but doubted any healing could occur in this place, now or ever.

A low mewling reached their ears from ahead.

"I've done my part detective," Wynn murmured. "I must tell you of the lesser repository now, lest you fail to understand."

"Shh—quiet!" Reiner cut the Culler off. Hope twinged in his chest. _He's really here. I'll be a hero._ The sound came again, unmistakable this time. The low moaning of a child.

"Detective, please," Wynn began again, urgency heating his voice.

"Shut up!" Reiner rushed forward recklessly. "Stay there!" He trained his gun on the second door and swept inside.

A wave of déjà vu overcame him immediately. Everything was just as he remembered it. A quick glance above the door frame showed a single red point, where the camera monitored the room's lone prisoner from its perch in the shadows.

"Help...can you help me?" A plaintive voice sounded from the cage ahead. Reiner's heart sank as he made out the child in the gloom. His condition looked even worse in the flesh. Dirt caked his pale skin and his ribs heaved with every breath. The boy could not even lift his head to look toward the door.

"I'm going to get you out of here, kid. Don't worry," Reiner said. Why so many chains? To scare people who see the feed? He turned to demand answers, but Wynn was fixed on the cage with a strange light in his eyes. The Culler walked forward as though in a trance.

"Stop right there!" Reiner snarled. _Should have thought this through, left Wynn in the car. Too many stupid moves._ The Culler ignored him, moving closer to the cage. The boy began to wail with fear, flailing limply in the chains.

"Please. Oh please, help!"

Reiner planted himself between Wynn's advance and the cage. Wondering if a clip could even stop a man so laden with regrowths, he aimed a warning shot near the Culler's foot. The bullet sent splinters of dried linoleum flying.

Thankfully, the Culler halted with a weary sigh. "Then I must risk us both, for you to see."

"Your voice is known among us."

A miserable expression appeared on the Culler's face. The boy's snuffling instantly ceased. The boy lifted his head to regard them both. Reiner stepped back in spite of himself. Something primal and cold rested in that gaze. Nothing of the terrified child remained.

"What in—"

"Now I must show you my truth, detective." Wynn smiled and tapped his temple twice, an awkward motion with the manacles sheathing his hands. "It must become your truth now."

Click. Click. Click.

Oh, no. " Maddix, wait. You don't—"

Clickclickclickclickclickclick—

"The upload is less painful if you don't speak, detective." Reiner pointed his gun toward Wynn's voice and squeezed the trigger. Once, twice, then darkness became complete.

05:16 AM

Pressure, distant and ethereal. Charcoal fissures split a blackness of deepest midnight. More pressure, pain. On his chest. Reiner coughed.

"There now." He heard Wynn's distant sigh of relief. Reiner opened his eyes slowly. The Culler's face came into focus above him.

"What did you do to me?"

The Culler smiled. Reiner hated when he smiled. "I synced you an upgrade. Your neuro-feed unit may make you rich after today, detective, but it's rather antiquated for my purposes." His smile faltered slightly. "I didn't think your regrowths would need to be...rebooted."

"A... _reboot?_ You mean I just..."

The Culler's eyes flickered up. "All a matter of perspective."

Reiner picked himself up to sit on the floor, ready to throw up. Surprisingly, his gun lay by his side. He snatched it up quickly. The Culler squatted next to him, a crimson spot shown on his thigh. So Reiner had hit him after all. After a moment, he grudgingly holstered his gun. _The boy._ So young, he must be scared out of his mind with—

"What in the _hell!"_ Reiner scrambled away from the cage until his back pressed into the wall. He gasped for breath, staring. "Wynn! What's wrong with him?"

The boy's eyes burned with a hungry light, indigo flame licked across his pupils. "Folly touches your every effort, Culler," the boy said. "Your very nature will consume you in time."

"My only folly is thinking to learn from you. I ask again creature, where are James and Isham?"

The boy's smile was cold. Too cold for one so young. "Freedom from this world. Your name is whispered within the repository now, Maddix Wynn. Soon you shall be free, too."

Reiner's head spun. "His eyes...what did you do to my feed?"

"I do not want to speak in front of it." Wynn beckoned him into the hall. Reiner followed on numbed feet. "I am sorry, I should have taken you to the nursery first.

"We are...limited beings. Limited in _numbers_ , detective." Wynn glared back into the room for a moment, then walked further down the hall. Reiner followed, sweat clinging to his back. He suddenly wasn't against the idea of so many chains on the boy.

"Go on."

"You asked of the Cullers are against the City's order. We simply recognize there are not enough souls remaining to populate them."

"That doesn't make any sense. Infant mortality is ancient history." A lump rose in Reiner's throat. "Conception happens like clockwork for most people."

"You make my case for me." The room they entered looked as if it were plucked from a different building. The space was swept clean, and fabric hung over harsh stand lights to lend a soft glow. Reiner heard a motor running somewhere down the hall, not loud enough to disturb two rows of sleeping infants.

"I didn't know the dregs had children so...freely." Taking in the evenly spaced little beds, jealousy coiled around Reiner's heart. _Parents should be here,_ he thought angrily.

"They do, by our hand," Wynn whispered. He touched every empty bed as he walked past. Out of a dozen palettes, only four infants. "We care for them, but use them to monitor the repository."

Something finally clicked for Reiner. "We're not standing in the repository, now."

"No. An earthly body is, by nature, a vacuum. It must be filled upon conception. There is a...place, that houses our essence, where souls await their time to be born."

"You're talking about karma, past lives," Reiner said, forcing himself to think rationally. "Purgatory or something?"

"All crude ways to perceive the dynamic, but yes. Our repository is dangerously depleted of souls." Wynn stopped next to one of the infants. "When our essence is exhausted, a lesser repository is then tapped for...souls of a different nature, also awaiting birth."

"Souls of a different nature," Reiner repeated. He forced down the fear in his stomach and drew closer. That same eerie blue radiated from the infant's eyes. The boy regarded him silently, the weight of ages in his stare. Reiner tore his eyes away. "This is a freak show."

"There should be watchers here, detective," Wynn said, frowning. "We held more of these soulless ones when I was last here, before I—"

_Before you planted your bomb,_ Reiner finished silently. "Their eyes didn't look like that before, why?"

"I modified your regrowth so you could see their energies. They must no longer be allowed to walk hidden among us."

"So...what does this lesser repository do to us? Besides the creeped out eyes?"

"They are not _us,_ detective." The infant's gaze shifted to Wynn. He avoided looking, too. "Superior strength, advanced intelligence. We do not know what they are. But they are malicious creatures and mean for more of their kind to be born."

"You Cullers think balancing the population will prevent more of these...Soulless?"

"We see no other way," Wynn said, nodding. "Knowledge of what I have told you is forgotten since ancient times. We never knew how many human souls born would tip the scales until now. We need people to see as we do. You recording ability, and access to the City can—"

"Your plans are undone."

Reiner swore and spun to face the outer hall. Two adolescents stood in the door frame. One was dressed in rags, the chained youth from earlier. The other wore fine clothing that marked him from the wealthy upper towers of the City. _Shouldn't have left that boy alone. Stupid. How many of them are there?_

The Culler groaned. "No, no, no..."

Both boys spoke in unison. "We will free you from this world." They stalked forward, their eyes blazing with that sickening blue. The air shimmered around their heads. They looked at each other a moment, then moved towards Wynn soundlessly.

"My hands, detective. Help me!" The Culler backed away fearfully. _The manacles._ Reiner fumbled for the unlock sequence. It was set to an encrypted thought pattern in his head.

"Detective..."

"I'm trying!"

With a feral growl, the boy dressed in rags veered suddenly to dart at Reiner instead. He wrapped himself around Reiner's leg. No amount of kicking would shake him. The boy—the Soulless—looked up and into his eyes. Reiner felt something slide across his mind. Strange, sudden warmth pricked his stomach and chest.

"Look away, detective!" The other boy was slowly backing Wynn into a corner, who waved his manacles frantically. Reiner heard him as though in a distant dream. The boy's gaze was all that mattered, all that existed. An ocean seemed to hide behind that blue fire. Reiner knew his own life, all of his hopes and failures, was but a teardrop on the verge of being lost within something greater than himself. "They will consume us both!"

Reiner's mind groped to trigger the manacles. Tension bubbled within his chest, euphoric and vast. He would welcome it, except it felt so much like dying.

"Come." The Soulless offered Reiner a small smile, warm and inviting. The blue fire washed over his eyes. Reiner's resolve faltered. "Leave this place."

"Detective!" Wynn screamed. The other boy raked his hand across the Culler's face. He tripped, falling backward over one of the small beds. The boy was on him immediately, scratching and biting. Wynn held his manacles up, protecting his eyes.

Pain bloomed in Reiner's leg. The ragged boy had bitten him! He grabbed a fistful of dirty hair, but it tore away as the boy lunged for him again, fingers reaching for Reiner's neck. He fell to the floor.

Wynn appeared suddenly over the boy's shoulder, and swung down savagely with his manacles. The boy crumpled to his knees, dazed. Reiner kicked him aside and trained his gun on the other, who ran for Wynn's back.

"Stop!" He fired. The shot thundered through the nursery, producing immediate cries from the handful of infants. The boy stumbled back, clutching the wound on his chest. He fell to his knees before slumping on the floor.

The ragged boy and infant both howled, an unholy sound of pain and rage. Silence followed, the other three infants too terrified even to wail.

Reiner's hands shook as he trained his gun on the ragged boy, trying to ignore the young, sorrow-twisted face. The Culler crouched fearfully, repulsed and confused.

_The manacles, you idiot,_ Reiner thought. He focused long enough to achieve the unlock code. The manacles dropped free from the Culler's hands, and he faced the Soulless boy. The boy glowered at him, hate livid in his stance.

"You have set your face against us," he rasped in a voice like seared flesh. Dread curdled Reiner's stomach. "Your suffering shall be whispered among your kind for generations."

Wynn moved to stand in front of the infant. The boy snarled, then ran back through the door, disappearing into the hall beyond. Reiner did not have the heart to chase him.

He stared at the small, still body lying crumpled on the ground. His gun clattered to the floor. _I came here to save a child, and now look at me,_ he thought. "What have I done? I just killed a—"

"Not children." The Culler's voice broke through his mortified thoughts. "You are a peace officer—look at the evidence."

"What evidence? Your hack of my feed. A couple of starving under-City orphans?"

"You can't deny their _presence!_ My hack couldn't change what you felt when you looked in that creature's eyes."

"I...can't argue with you there."

"They made off with two other Soulless that were here." The Culler frowned, muttering to himself. The jagged scratch that marred his face was already healed. Reiner wished he could say the same thing about his own bitten leg.

"He said something about plans," Reiner said, looking anywhere but the small body. _I can still fix this._ "What plans?"

"They mean to 'free' us?" Wynn held the pensive expression of a scientist churning through new possibilities. Judging from his face, he did not like what he saw. "Free us from what? And male, why are they always male? Are they not compatible with females?"

"Answer me. Do you know where that one ran off to?"

Wynn found his composure. "They must know about the second feedback device I have planted. It's at this season's first-labor graduation."

Reiner groaned. It was too easy to forget that the unassuming man before him had nearly killed a stadium full of people just hours ago. _And he's on my side._ "A hundred-thousand youth will be getting their very first work assignments," he said quietly.

"What would you have me do?" Maddix demanded. "We have tried countless times to engage City scholars for decades! The Cullers were almost wiped out after the inception of City One."

"There must be some better way." Reiner glanced at his watch. Graduations start early. "There must be."

"How? You only see this one's...differences because of my addition to your regrowths. His true nature remains hidden to anyone else. We do not know when these Soulless last walked the earth, detective. They possess a shared awareness—like a neuro-feed, but natural. For every Soulless that lives—gaining experience, learning our ways—the whole grows stronger. The next born possesses all the experience of each who came before it."

"We gotta stop him. Will you show me?" Reiner could not condone another attack on the City, no matter how convincing the Culler's beliefs. _There must be some other way._

Wynn smiled sadly. "Still chasing money, hero?"

"What? No, listen." Reiner took a deep breath. "Show me how to stop this bomb, and I'll share my neuro-feed with ICD. Or I'll go straight to the City stadiums myself, if that's what it takes. They'll see this whole night, through my eyes. No one would believe in the lesser repository without that. God knows I wouldn't."

The Culler laughed mirthlessly. "How do I know that I can trust you? How do I know you'll do the right thing?"

"You asked about my wife," Reiner said softly. "Three months. She's due in three months."

"I will take you to the bomb." The Culler nodded slowly. "On one condition."

"What?"

Wynn came closer. Reiner tensed when the man reached down, straightening as he grasped Reiner's gun with unpracticed hands. The two men looked at each other for a long moment. "For Mark and Isham," Wynn said. He looked to the bed, the infant. Back to Reiner.

Reiner looked at the infant, full of sudden angst. One of these...Soulless creatures, in exchange for another City gathering of people, their lives. His thoughts drifted to Lisa's womb. Was he justified? What if our son is born this way? _What if a piece of the lesser repository filled her belly right now?_ When _did_ the soul first choose its body? The burning eyes of the child gazed back at him, primal and malevolent.

"I'll wait for you outside," Reiner said feebly. He didn't want to hear the report.

"You are doing the right thing, detective."

07:31 AM

Reiner strode into the northeast assembly tower of City Thirty-Eight. A wave of late arriving students and their families carried the Culler and he into the entry hall. Today marked the largest class yet in the history of the City.

He was beginning to doubt whether Wynn would hold true to his word and disarm the device. The Culler argued passionately, only grudgingly admitting the Soulless boy must be captured in order for the masses to believe anything of the lesser repository.

"The world's population isn't decreasing anytime soon, look around you." Reiner failed to keep the exasperation from his voice. "The old-century doomsayers got it wrong. How many people would you have to kill to be rid of the Soulless? Do you even know?"

"Well, no. The calculations are quite impossible, and—"

"How much blood on your hands before you become soulless yourself?" The Culler had no answer for that.

"One needs to be captured." Reiner grimaced. _We_ had _one captured._ He let fear cloud his judgment in the under-City, and _that_ blood was on his hands. _Whatever judgment I have left after tonight._ "Otherwise, Cullers will be hunted to extinction, while your true adversary grows unchallenged."

"Very well, detective." A wry smirk appeared on Wynn's face, then vanished just as quickly. "This way. I'm sure your credentials will allow us to reach the device faster than I could alone."

Reiner looked ahead. "Oh. yes."

A tower security guard eyed them curiously as they approached the maintenance warren. Reiner flashed his identification and mumbled something about extra security checks for major events. The man gave Wynn a hard look but nodded reasonably, waving them past. Reiner exhaled in relief as the doors closed behind them.

Wynn led him down some stairs, and the air quickly grew humid as they strode through the innards of the tower. Equipment buzzed and clicked around them, lending a primordial quality to their surroundings. The dim lighting made it hard to see, for Reiner at least. The Culler walked quickly, aided by his regrowth eyes.

"How far?" Reiner asked irritably. His nerves were frayed after an entire night with no sleep.

"Just down this hall are the neuro-feed calibrators." Wynn replied. "That's where the feedback device is connected."

Blinding pain shot through Reiner's back, and he fell to his knees. A shadow swept past him as he fumbled for his gun. " Maddix, behind—"

The Soulless kicked savagely at the Culler's right knee. The joint folded the wrong way. Wynn cried out in pain and surprise. For the second time in his life, Reiner looked down his sights at a child. His hand shook. Wynn screamed again as the boy brought his heel down on the Culler's wrist. The cry was cut short as the Soulless swiftly struck the Culler's neck in a fluid stabbing motion. Wynn crumpled the rest of the way to the ground, clutching his ruined throat.

The boy ran to the calibrator room. Reiner swore and fired.

The round took the child in the left shoulder blade, knocking him forward. He grasped at the spreading dampness on his back for a moment, then looked at Reiner, fury surging through the blue-lit fire of his eyes. Fury and fear.

Reiner fired twice more, one ricocheted off the swinging doors, the other took the child in the thigh. He disappeared, stumbling through the double doors.

"Detective," Wynn gurgled weakly, gasping and clutching his throat. His lower leg dangled uselessly from the ruptured knee. None of his injuries were healing themselves. The Culler's regrowths seemed to have reached their threshold. "You must..."

"I'm here," Reiner said. He looked up as Wynn struggled for words, waiting to see if the boy came out. He had looked at schematics for the tower, there was no other exit.

"But why..." Realization dawned in Wynn's eyes and he looked accusingly at Reiner. "Do...do the right...our future..."

Wynn's eyes rolled up, his face went slack. Reiner stood, wincing at the pain piercing through his left side. His ribs felt dislocated or cracked, it hurt to breathe. He reloaded his gun with unsteady hands. Perhaps the boy had bled out by now, but Reiner doubted it. His luck simply was not in tonight.

He understood the need to capture the child. But he did not know if he could bring himself to do what must be done, if it went wrong. He thought of Lisa, waiting for him at home, then entered the calibrator room.

Dozens of monitors glowed along the walls, scrolling through the tens of thousands of young graduates plugging into the tower for their neuro-stamped diplomas and City labor assignments. Untold variations of excitement and nervousness showed in every face. Reiner's thought flashed to his own son, what sports he might play, or if he would be some big engineer one day, like Reiner's father. His hands tightened on the gun.

Blood shown in several spots on the floor. The sound of fingers dancing on a keyboard drew him closer.

"You hesitate wisely." The young voice sounded eerie to be so mature. Commanding. The child looked up at Reiner from where he crouched over an instrument panel. A dozen wires from the panel snaked into a complicated looking device. "Stay your distance and become a hero. Thousands of your kind will be delayed, Detective Reiner."

_Your kind._ The Soulless spoke like people were unfortunate, squirming things beneath a rock. "You...you can dismantle it?" The Soulless nodded, but Reiner felt no relief.

"If this vessel does not fade in time, yes." The Soulless watched him carefully, even as his hands worked feverishly on the type pad before him. The neuro-spectacle system beeped as it processed commands. He pulled another wire from the device.

"What are you?" Reiner asked finally.

"The shadow questions the one who cast it." The boy laughed, a wet and rasping sound due to his injuries. "You are a byproduct of an attempt to increase the repository, long ago. The true repository."

"You're lying." His fingers were slick around the gun. "The Cullers are right about you!"

"Right only to fear the truth," the boy replied, his voice growing weaker. He pulled another wire from the device, checking his panel, then fixed blue augers on Reiner once again. His eyes did not burn so fiercely as before. "It is admirable that you yet cling to the misery your existence. But now the repository must be restored; our mistakes, erased."

Anger heated Reiner's face. "My family is not a mistake!" He shouted. The blue flames watched him in impassively, with not so much as a flicker of concern. Only pity, and...revulsion? "We could learn from each other," he offered, stammering for a solution. Wynn's plea floated to him unbidden. _Do the right thing._ "Teach us of the repository."

"Would a serpent bargain with its molted skin, just because a chance wind made the skin seem alive? Would a star-well reason with the light bending around it, or time bargain with the seasons?" Derision washed over the boy's words. "Your essence barely fills the vessel you stand in. So you implant these... _regrowths_ to feel whole. Your industry is a salve to ease your brokenness. You are but a shadow...of us."

Behind Reiner the door crashed open. He jerked around to see Harrison rush into the calibrator room, gun drawn and alert. Although his jaw dropped at the sight of Reiner's gun, relief showed on his face.

"Finally, I've found you!" He exclaimed. "What's going on? Wynn's dead outside and the chief..." Harrison's eyes widened as he took in the spreading pool around the Soulless. "What...what are you doing?"

"He hurt us," the Soulless sobbed, spreading his palms wide so more red was visible. The boy hunched over in pain, deftly pulling out another wire.

"Get away from there!" Reiner snarled. "Don't listen to him, he's—"

"A _kid!_ Ease back, let's sort this out."

"No chance. You don't know what he's capable of." The boy pulled out another wire. "Dammit, stop that!"

"What I _do_ know is you've been running around with a Culler all night. We've gotta get this right before ICD gets here. I've got your back. Just like always." Harrison was pleading now, but still had his gun out.

Reiner wondered if his own partner would actually shoot him.

"Not this time. He's—"

"It's Lisa, man!" Harrison shouted. "She's been trying to reach you all night—we both have! Her water broke, she's in labor right now. Only reason I left her is because a security guard here tipped the precinct to your location. There's a warrant out on you. Think of your family, man! Let's sort this all out. Put down the gun."

Reiner finally lowered his gun, dazed by the news. "She's only...it's not time yet."

"She's in good shape. Let's go see her. You want that, don't you?"

The boy looked at Reiner, then reached for the last wire with a vicious, triumphant smile on his face. "That was the right decision, detective."

He fired. The Soulless staggered back, holding his neck in one hand, the last wire in the other. He fell in a heap, and breathed his last, life ebbing away on the floor.

"No, no, no..." Harrison snatched the gun from Reiner's numb hand and flung it, frustration and fear in his eyes. "What have you done, Ben? What have you done?"

Reiner limped slowly to the still, small body. The eyes were open, but the malignant blue fire was gone. Harrison looked on in shock. Reiner took the wire from the child's small hand, examined it. He reattached it to the dead Culler's feedback device.

The monitors on every wall sprang to life, bathing them with the red light of warning displays. Harrison's eyes widened even further. Reiner did not look up. He could not.

"I've saved us all," he whispered. A knot formed in his throat as Harrison swore. He yanked the wire back out, but the Culler's feedback device was already doing its work. The images on the monitors showed that well enough. Any kind of sync overload caused heat to build up directly in the brain. It was a horrific way to die.

Harrison began to cry as he tapped his temple for medical units. "Ben, no. No."

"Heaven help me," Reiner whispered. "I did what I could."

*

Harrison sat in the living room of Lisa's house, fidgeting uncomfortably as pictures of Reiner smiled at him from the mantle and the walls. He wondered why she hadn't taken them all down.

"Not even today, Lisa?" he called into the next room. "It's his last chance."

"No," came the even reply. "I asked you not to bother us about it anymore, Jay."

"I know, I just...yeah. Okay."

A week had passed since the first-labor disaster. Lisa had gone deep inside herself in reaction to the tragedy. A whole generation of students lost. The City economy would reabsorb all of the prepared entry jobs soon enough, but the people's psyche would remain forever scarred over the terrorist attack. The entire police force of City Thirty-Eight was combing the under-City for Cullers—brutal stuff that reminded Harrison of his military days.

At the center of it all was Reiner. He had supposedly set his neuro-feed to transmit for the entire incident, according to the reports Harrison had bribed some techs to obtain.

Turned out the recorded feed was useless. The dead Culler corrupted it somehow just before his partner had attempted to free the chained boy. The techs were afraid to tool with Reiner's regrowths, now. ICD wanted him fully coherent for the execution. The event looked to be the largest neuro-spectacle in the history of the Cities.

"The masses liked your idea after all, partner," Harrison whispered sadly. He doubted he would ever fully discover what drove his partner to murder over the course of a single night. But even temporary insanity—or Culler puppet masters—would not spare Reiner's life. The toll was too great, and ICD had to punish someone, especially with no real Cullers in hand after another attack.

"It just seems like the right thing to do," Harrison persisted. Lisa seemed intent on acting as though Reiner had never existed.

"He murdered...I can't even speak the words." Lisa's voice quivered through their modest apartment. "Stood by for another. How do you lecture us about anything to do with him?"

Harrison swore to himself, wondering how that information leaked to the masses so quickly. "It's the man's dying wish." He would ask how she found out about the children later. ICD couldn't afford to be so careless with information. "Would it hurt to let him see his son, just once? Its all he asks me about. 'How does he look, what color are his eyes?' All he wanted was to make you happy. The neuro-feed unit, all of it. You should really go see him, Lisa."

A bitter laugh came from the nursery. "The eyes? How ironic. They only opened this morning."

Harrison entered the unfinished nursery reluctantly. Only one wall was painted a bright blue, the other three remained in the City's generic, optic white. Lisa stared down into the crib and Harrison joined her. The infant's head wobbled, taking in his presence. Harrison frowned.

Lisa gave him a sharp look. "What is it, Harrison?"

"They look...brown? That's a surprise. From your side of the family?"

Lisa grimaced. "Ben's father had an odd saying. 'The eyes are windows to the soul.' He never liked the idea of us."

"Well, he missed out on something special," Harrison managed. She smiled at him then, and her green eyes—regrowths, undoubtedly—seemed especially bright. Freckles played hide and seek across her olive skin, her dark hair hung loosely to her shoulders. Haggard as she was, she still looked beautiful. "No, definitely from my husband. I'm sure he'll be happy to see that, before he's finally free of his suffering." She paused, watching the infant with an unreadable face. He gurgled happily in his crib. "Will they let us speak with him?"

"Yes," Harrison said hopefully. _Free of his suffering? That's one helluva way to look at things,_ he thought. But Lisa looked up at him expectantly, so he set worry aside and nodded his encouragement. "Of course."

"I've changed my mind, then." She smiled at Reiner's son. Harrison couldn't say why, but something about her expression set his teeth on edge. "We would like to go see him after all."

*****

Also by DaVaun Sanders...

Please enjoy these free chapters of The Seedbearing Prince: Part I!

***

CHAPTER ONE

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

On 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, all right."

"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?"

The mouth did not move.

Dayn watched in horror as his reflection melted away to reveal death lurking beneath the water. A drowned man floated in Laman's well. The gray face hung close enough to touch, obscured by Dayn's own staring reflection. The bloated body hung motionless in the water, suspended in shadow.

The eyes opened and snapped onto Dayn's face. The cinder-black pupils turned his spine to mush. Dayn instinctively recoiled, but—

_It won't let me move!_ He willed his legs to run, but an unseen force trapped him in place. A bone-white hand, covered in cuts and sores, broke the surface of the water to grasp the flagstone. Drowning had not bloated the gray man's body, as Dayn first thought. He now saw a hulking and brutish frame, covered in a black layer that looked more crust than skin. The powerful arm shook with effort, and thick pieces of the scabrous black coating sloughed away and sank in the well. Terrible pain lanced the man's face, which looked grotesquely human to Dayn's eyes as he watched, frozen helplessly.

The man's features contorted in loathing as he examined Dayn's face. "Were never...my brother. I—" Green slurry poured from his mouth and into the water. His stare never left Dayn, even as his hold on the flagstone weakened. Unbidden thoughts began to spawn in Dayn's mind, as though a putrid bog seeped into him through that stare.

What...what is he doing to me? Get out of my head!

Froth surged along the water's surface, churning up more crabs, all dead. Shock interrupted the gray man's gaze, and the invisible bonds holding Dayn vanished. Before he could back away, the snarling man lunged up to seize his arm as the water surged back into the well's depths.

Dayn shouted as the gray man pulled him down. The flagstone walls spun crazily around him. He cried out as pain bolted through his shoulder. His plunge abruptly stopped, and the man's cold grasp slipped from his wrist.

"Peace be praised," Dayn croaked. His father's staff, splayed across the mouth of the well, had saved him from the fall. The grain sagged under Dayn's weight, and his shoulder felt ready to wrench free of its socket. Panting, he pulled himself closer to the well's coarse flagstone.

A horrible, fetid odor overpowered the air, as if the receding water had uncovered some deep rot within the earth. Dayn's stomach heaved and fresh terror replaced his relief. The gurgling well water echoed beneath him. _Clusterthorn. It's rising again!_

His feet churned for a toehold on the slick rock. A wild lunge of his hand knocked Laman's staff aside. It clattered past him and down into the well. The echoed splash came much too soon.

Dayn heaved himself over the edge, flopping onto the ground with a grunt. He leaped to his feet and lurched into a sprint. Thirty spans later, he stopped to peer back. No sound broke the early morning calm, save his heart thudding against his chest.

Dust and blood! What was that?

"Hey, boy!"

Dayn spun around, relief washing over him. He spotted his best friend Joam Ro'Gem approaching from the village road, an excited bob in his step. Joam's father Milchamah strolled alongside him. They each carried a staff. Dayn rushed over to them and skidded to a stop.

"What's wrong?" Joam looked at him quizzically. "You look like a ridgecat just tried to braid your hair."

"Have you...have you..."

"Easy boy, catch your breath. Those great bounds of yours would carry you to the moon on any world but Shard." Milchamah thumped the end of his staff into the loamy soil for emphasis. "One day she might let you go."

"Have you seen my sister?" Dayn finally managed.

"No," Joam said, frowning. "We passed your mother on the road. Another fine batch of her paintings for Evensong, it looks like. Maybe she can favor me with a portrait tonight. For my new standing as champion."

"Quiet, boy," Milchamah said. "I didn't come all this way to watch your gums flap in the breeze. Let the boy spit out why he's so worked up." Only a few years older than Laman, fine wrinkles rested lightly on Milchamah's sun-browned face, from years of good farming and rough humor. Gray strands threaded through his long braids, just visible under his wide straw hat. He spoke around a sweet tree twig which Dayn never saw him without. "Now what's so important to break your neck over the morning of Evensong?"

Dayn pointed, but quickly let his hand drop when he saw how badly it still shook. _Peace, but I've never been so afraid in my life!_ Milchamah and Joam both looked curiously at the well.

"A man was in there. The water sucked him away, there was this awful smell, and..." Dayn trailed off.

"Spill surge." The old farmer said after a moment. "The worst ones could make a well overflow for weeks. But if you say someone drowned, I better take a look." Milchamah made straight for the well.

"I didn't say he drowned," Dayn said faintly. Joam and Milchamah shared a long look that made his face burn.

"Strange things dance around skytears," Joam offered. Dayn waited for some joke at his expense, but Joam just chattered on as they strode over. "You won't believe what happened at Urlan's farm this morning?"

"Boy, if I want your opinion I'll snap my fingers. Skytears," Milchamah growled in disgust. "And I already warned you to keep that other matter quiet." His scowl widened to include Dayn. "The less people who know, the later our guests find out."

"Sorry, father," Joam said with a wounded look.

"Spill surge could cough up some Misthavener's lost cuddlebear, maybe even some heartrock from the deepest water." Milchamah reached the well and snorted. Dayn sidled up to it anxiously. The water lay still.

Gone. I know I didn't imagine it. He or it, whatever it was, felt real.

"What could give Shard a fever?" Dayn asked.

Instead of answering, Milchamah pitched forward, suddenly shoulder deep in the water. Dayn and Joam both jumped back with a yelp. The rangy farmer straightened, his sleeve soaked, and Laman's staff in his hand.

"See, all kinds of things get lost," Milchamah said, his face tight. Joam's jaw hung open at sight of the carved silverpine.

Dayn took the staff, mortified. _Peace! Father just gave it to me this morning! I need to dry it before the grain warps!_

"I know what I saw," Dayn mumbled as he toweled the staff off with his shirt.

"No one's missing, boy. Don't you think word would spread if someone fell down another well? And how would they end up here?"

"It's easy for our eyes to play tricks at dawn," Joam suggested, after a wary look at Milchamah. Joam stood a foot taller than either of them but acted meek as a day-old kitten around his father. "And you know how Tela wanders when she catches a notion," he added. He was a good friend, saving face for Dayn.

"She's not the only one catching notions," Milchamah observed.

Dayn dropped his eyes. He could offer no ready answers.

Milchamah seemed to argue with himself for a moment as he frowned at the waterlogged staff in Dayn's hands. "Son, are you sure about this?" he asked.

Joam nodded eagerly. "Sure as the mist rises."

Milchamah spat around his sweet tree twig. "What I'm seeing now doesn't help much."

Dayn looked uncertainly between the two. The mischievous light in Joam's brown eyes made him nervous. "Sure about what?" he asked.

"You should know by now." The rangy farmer studied him openly. Sweat began to form on Dayn's back. "I'm here about Montollos."

"Montollos?" Dayn fought down a flash of panic. He shot Joam a searching look, but his friend chose the moment to start counting his toes.

"Joam told me all about what you've been planning," Milchamah continued somberly. The rangy farmer glanced to the south, to the barn, and that made everything plain.

Dayn's mouth went dry. _He knows about my coursing gear! This dustbrained whelp let something slip, and now Milchamah's here to tell father. They'll never let me leave the farm after this!_ "Joam, you didn't?"

"Best find Laman, boy. Did you think you could hide forever?"

Numb fury crept over Dayn as Joam stood there with a too-innocent grin spreading over his face. The rest of Milchamah's words washed soundlessly over Dayn as he stared murder at his best friend.

CHAPTER TWO

A Day For Hunters

Deadwisp in the lake, deadwisp in the river, go home, go home, you're making me shiver.
Deadwisp in the well, deadwisp in the deep, go home, go home, don't steal me in my sleep.
-Highland children's rhyme on Shard

I don't believe you," Dayn growled. He clenched Laman's staff so hard his hands shook. That was the only thing keeping them from Joam's throat. "I was going to tell father everything today. Peace confound it all, you've ruined everything!"

"Sure you were." Joam had the gall to actually _smile!_ He held up his hands defensively after a good look at Dayn's face. "But if I didn't say something before tonight, you?"

Milchamah cleared his throat loudly, his annoyance plain. Joam shut his mouth so fast, his teeth clicked. "No need for this fuss. I'll talk to Laman. That doesn't mean things will go easy."

"As easy as for Joam?" Dayn asked bitterly. _Why didn't I speak to father when I had the chance?_

"Cinch up your tongue, boy. There's no call for that. Before a festival, no less."

"Yeah, Dayn," Joam echoed with a wink.

Before Dayn could throttle him, Milchamah's sparring staff descended smoothly between them. Irregular notches and slashes crisscrossed the honey-colored grain. Dayn might trounce Joam briefly, but Milchamah would ensure he paid dearly for it.

"He already vouched for you, boy." Milchamah withdrew his staff, giving Dayn an odd look. "There's nothing else to prove."

"Vouched for me?" Dayn blinked in confusion.

Joam stepped forward hastily, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "You've been chosen for sparring camp! Why else would we be here so early?"

"I...what?" Dayn felt so relieved he could not decide whether to laugh or weep. "Thank you, Elder!"

"Don't call me Elder," Milchamah said gruffly. Weaponmasters the Belt over chose the best fighters to represent their worlds in the Binder's Cycle at Montollos. Joam's father did not look the part, but he was the best weaponmaster on all of Shard.

"Sorry. I didn't understand."

Milchamah nodded and spat, which was as good as a handshake from any other man. Dayn shifted his gaze to include Joam in the apology, too. His friend winked, and Dayn shook his head ruefully. _Did he ever fool me. I should still throttle him, making me think his father knew about my coursing gear!_

"No worries, brother," Joam said. "It's a lot to take in." The two friends were easily the best pranksters in Wia Wells. Years might pass before Dayn managed to get Joam back for this.

"You caught my eye when you kept your wits at Sweetwater, even after that Sheercrest miner broke your staff," Milchamah said. "He said you would've beat him if the fight weren't stopped."

"I remember." Dayn kept his face smooth, but it took an effort. Fighters from Northforte to Greenshadow came to the Sweetwater tourney after harvest. Dayn distinctly recalled his last match there, for Milchamah happened to be the ringmaster who ended his fight. In fairness, or some such nonsense.

"I like people who aren't afraid to improvise," Milchamah said.

"It's not like Sweetwater at all, brother!" Joam broke in. He lived for the staff, which came as no surprise to anyone, considering his father's prowess. "Swordsmen from Ara, Badaian axe fists, Dervishi bladebreakers?the best fighters from all the World Belt. We'll face them all at Montollos!"

Milchamah afforded his son a rare, approving grin. Dayn felt a twinge of envy. _Would father be so proud of me for coursing?_

"You'd be going with us next year, boy," Milchamah added. "Your very first Cycle, just like Joam here. But you hold back in your matches. Hesitation and victory may share a bed for the night, but one always leaves before dawn." Dayn blinked uncertainly, and Milchamah sighed. "Never mind that. More practice is the best thing for you right now. I wouldn't be here at all, except...my boy tells me you actually beat him awhile back?"

"I was lucky," Dayn said, giving Joam a surprised look. "A lucky thrust, that's all."

"Well, is that a fact now." Milchamah said dryly. Dayn instantly regretted his words. In truth, he had hounded Joam for three days straight before finally besting him, just to prove he could. Sometimes Joam's head gained pounds by the week?it was a wonder he held it up at all with his boasting. Admitting a defeat to his father would not have been easy. He deserved better than Dayn laying his victory to chance. "It was a fair fight, though."

"That much I'm sure about, at least. The day is short, boy," Milchamah prodded. "What do you say? Practice begins in two weeks."

"Father will need help on the farm," Dayn said reluctantly. _There's no way I can do this_ and _practice coursing._ The World Belt took the Cycle's fighting competition quite seriously, some fighters were chosen from birth to bring a golden Victor's Sash home from Montollos. Training on the Shardian team did not ensure Dayn would also get to go offworld, like Joam. Accepting Milchamah's offer would only doom his own dreams. "We're farthest away from Wia Wells, with just one neighbor, really."

Joam's smile faltered. Milchamah's eyebrows lifted in genuine surprise, but he gave a ready response. "Already settled. The Elders agreed Laman's land can lie fallow for another year, once I give them the word. They know that sorry offworlder isn't much help out here."

"But my father couldn't bear that. You know how the Village Council expects him to tend everything but his own crops. I shouldn't leave him with only Grahm to help."

The words sounded noble enough, but tasted bitter on Dayn's tongue. _You wouldn't worry so if this was for the Course of Blades,_ a small voice chided him. He pushed it away. "I cannot be in the camp. At least...not this year."

Joam's voice was incredulous. "But this is the _Cycle._ The Prevailer's Gauntlet! In five years you could go to Montollos and?"

Dayn cut him off. "I'm sorry you both came so far."

"As am I," Milchamah said. He directed a look of complete disappointment not at Dayn, but at his son. Joam looked back and forth between them both, completely stricken. Dayn imagined how hard Joam pressed Milchamah for this, backed it with his own good word. He shifted on his feet guiltily as the silence stretched.

"Happy Evensong!" Tela burst out of nowhere, already dressed in feastday clothes with red ribbons threaded through her tiny braids. From her golden eyes to her cheerful smile, she looked the perfect miniature of their mother, Hanalene. Tension sprouted among the men like kniferoot, but she did not sense it.

"Peace, Tela?where have you been?" Dayn felt immense relief to see his little sister unharmed. For once, she could not have picked a better time to appear.

"Helping mother with paintings. You came to help me with survey jars, didn't you? You are so _sweet!"_ Tela gave Dayn a crushing hug, then favored the Ro'Gems with a merry laugh and skipped over to them, arms wide. They returned her festival greeting awkwardly, Joam not bothering to fix his scowl.

"I've been looking for you. Have you seen anything...strange?" Dayn asked. Milchamah snorted.

"No, but I _smell_ something strange." Tela wrinkled her nose and giggled. Dayn glanced toward the well at her words. Joam noticed, and rolled his eyes. "It's all right, big brother. Mother had me stop home to fetch you this."

She extended the package beneath her arm. A quick pull of the string revealed a fine set of feastday clothes, pressed and folded. "She said we have a freeday after I take father the jars. Did he tell you this morning? Can you wait for Evensong? I can't wait. Can _you_ wait, Joam? I wish we were in Wia Wells right now!"

Milchamah cut in, clearly ready to be elsewhere. "Your dedication to the land is...admirable," he said gruffly. "There will always be another season to plant, for as long as Shard shelters the Belt. A man's gifted with ability enough to fill a river, but only a handful of days to use it." Milchamah spat around his sweet tree twig, peering at Dayn from beneath his hat as if to see whether his words would take root. "Think it over, boy?but think fast. Peace willing, we'll begin training in two weeks."

"I'll talk to my father," Dayn promised. Joam rolled his eyes again.

"Fair enough. Happy Evensong. You better work that staff through some forms if you want it to dry, which I trust you do. Fast forms. I was there when your grandfather?peace shade his wreath?gave it to your father."

Dayn swallowed heavily and nodded.

The weaponmaster turned to his son. "Be sure to remember what I said." Joam nodded dutifully. Milchamah motioned to Tela, who looked at Dayn with a face full of questions. "Come, girl. I'll help you. I swear your old withered root of a father would plant all the way to the edge of the Dreadfall if it were up to him. Lead the way."

"Father's not _old,_ Elder! Isn't your hair grayer than his?"

Dayn and Joam watched them go, Tela cartwheeling and skipping around the farmer's steady gait. Joam's eyes glinted dangerously.

"You know I mean to course," Dayn began. "If I spend the summer collecting bruises so you can go to Montollos, how am I?"

"I gave my _word_ you were the best!" Joam shouted. "You, brother. Out of some twenty staffs from Wia Wells and Southforte. Father convinced the _entire Council_ to lighten your field work. You think Laman will stand against sparring, after that? All you ever talk about is Montollos. This is your chance to go, and what do you do? Peace!"

Dayn bristled. "I mean to enter the Cycle for coursing, not the staff—and you know it!"

"No Shardian has entered the Course of Blades in two hundred years! Entered, Dayn! Let alone won a Victor's Sash. Besides, you wouldn't know torrent if a rock fell from the sky and split open your fool head!"

"Then I will just have to be the first to win, won't I?" Dayn snapped. Joam's words cut closer than he cared to admit.

"I think a rock hit you on the head already! Not one pebble of Shard looks like the torrent, a one-tooth toddler knows that. Jumping your way through floating boulders that could smash you dead—since when is that supposed to be fun? Better to take a transport from the Ring. I'd bet coursers wouldn't even exist if not for your stupid race. There's no air to breathe in most of the torrent. The sun will melt away your skin, and the rock moves faster than you can even think! Tell me how you train for _that!"_

"Coursers can do it, so why can't I? I already have the right rope, and—don't you look at me like that!" The wonders that drew Dayn to the torrent were also the most compelling reasons for him to fail there. Joam echoed exactly what Dayn expected to hear from his own father. What was worse, Dayn could not argue. Joam spoke peace's own truth, and showed no sign of slowing.

"What do you think the Elders will do if they find out you've been _training_ —" Joam slathered the word with scorn "—in the Dreadfall?"

"The cliffs aren't as dangerous as they say," Dayn retorted. "You just remember who helped filch the tools I needed."

Joam's eyes flashed. "You wouldn't?"

"—do anything to get my friend in trouble." Dayn pressed his advantage while Joam stammered. The two had earned their share of strappings when they were younger, but now any trouble that threatened Joam's staff work positively terrified him. "That's more than I can say for you! What were you thinking with that prank just now? I nearly gave myself away to your father!"

"I should have done you the favor," Joam muttered. A pleased expression abruptly broke through his scowl. "It was still a fine prank. If you had only seen your...oh, all right! Don't go giving me the stinkeye over a little fun. You owe me as much, with all the sneaking around we've done for your coursing. I don't know how you stand it."

"Me either. Just...never do that again," Dayn said. "Your father is the last one I need poking around. It's hard enough hiding everything from Tela."

"Why haven't you told Laman?" Joam gave a resigned sigh at Dayn's shrug." He'll say no, and that will be that. In five years, you can come to Montollos with me."

"Sparring would be just a hair more fun than watching the Village Council yammer for the whole summer." Joam gave him an unreadable look. "Peace, Joam. I didn't mean it like that. You'll go to Montollos next year and every Binder's Cycle after until you drop. I don't love the staff like you do, and I'm not half as good."

"Peace knows that for truth." Joam rubbed his chin. "You still didn't answer my question."

"I'll tell him tonight at Evensong," Dayn said. Joam's eyebrows rose doubtfully. "No more sneaking around."

"Sure you will," Joam said with a smirk. "Just remember, I gave you a chance."

Dayn knew they would argue no more. Angry spells with Joam never lasted more than a day, their friendship had always been that way. Dayn trusted no one more, especially with his dreams to course. Joam's eyes shifted to Dayn's bundled feastday clothes.

"Well at least you have a freeday. Are you going to wash up so we can go?"

"No," Dayn said quickly. He could stand a quick wash, but his skin squealed at the thought of touching that water.

"A drowned man, really?" Joam took Laman's staff and twirled it through forms at Dayn's consenting nod. Silverpine resisted rot well, Shard's mist would topple any tree that could not.

"He scared me, brother. And he wasn't drowned. He almost pulled me back in with him, that's how I lost father's staff. See?" Dayn held up his hands to show where the well's flagstone had dug into his palms.

Joam took in his proof with open doubt. "Well, something has people acting odd this morning, I'll give you that. Some even as foolish as you." Dayn carefully buttoned his shirt. Joam continued somewhat grumpily once it became clear that Dayn refused to be baited. "Your crazy offworlder neighbor is one of them. We saw him creeping around his fields on the way here, holding a scythe like it was a sword! He looked awful. I'll bet you a moondrop he slept in those clothes for at least a week."

"No bet. That's nothing strange," Dayn said, slightly disappointed. "Father said Grahm saw a gravespinner near their farm. He's probably never seen one before. And him being a new father, too? I was small when Tela was born, but I couldn't imagine watching three of her. That's all?"

"I wasn't finished," Joam said as Dayn smoothed his clothes. Hanalene's bundle included a wooden comb and a small vial of smellgoods made from herbs in her garden. His mother thought of everything. "The Southforte folk say they saw an amber light in the sky two nights ago. Like a falling star, but bigger." Joam traced his finger from west to east.

"That couldn't be the skytear, right?" Dayn asked as they started toward his home. When the skytear appeared in the skies, it came with a long tail behind it, but Elders never mentioned it being any color or lasting just one night.

"Exactly what I said. The next morning, half the Southforte herds and flocks had broken out of their pens. There's not a hen in Southforte can find its own coop?they all pecked each other's eyes out." Dayn's eyebrows rose in disbelief. "Sheep and goats are scattered all over the swamp. Nobody knows what scared them so bad."

"I know what scared them," Dayn breathed. He could imagine a herd going into a frenzy around the man he saw. "The man I saw scared enough cave crabs out of our well to feed Wia Wells for a week!"

Joam gave a derisive snort. "Oh, so now there were _crabs,_ too?"

"Milchamah wasn't going to hear anything I said, not after seeing my father's staff in the water." They neared the Ro'Halan home, a sturdy dwelling of more white flagstone with wooden slats for roofing. Dayn opened the window to his room just wide enough to toss in his clothes. Joam returned Laman's staff, and the two started down the road to the village. "What does he mean to keep quiet?"

"Joam hesitated. Well...you remember Urlan Ro'Lett's family? His little brother, Yonas?"

"Sure I do. Urlan always looks like he just ate a bad berrycake when he sees me, because I beat him so bad at Sweetwater. Yonas plays with Tela on the tangletoy."

"He said he saw a man made of smoke jump out of their well and run into the woods."

Dayn stopped twirling the silverpine. "You might have mentioned that when your father was all but naming me a liar!" he spluttered.

"I meant to, if you don't remember," Joam replied. "Not that he would listen. You haven't been to Wia Wells yet, you don't understand. The Elders are all frothing at the mouth with worry over the Misthaveners enjoying Evensong. And my father decides what I'm thinking before I do, most times."

"So does mine," Dayn admitted. He started twirling Laman's staff again, but Joam still noticed his hands were shaking again and smirked. "I saw a man, and I felt weak as a hatchling that couldn't peck open its own egg. We need to tell the Elders. I don't know what that man was doing, but he's not here just to go swimming in the well."

"That may be, but keep it quiet, or we'll never see an Evensong here again." Joam pressed on before Dayn could retort. "Peace, I mean it! What do you think the Misthaveners will make of you? If you frighten off capital folk by asking after drowned smoke men, the whole of Wia Wells will never forgive you."

"You're right," Dayn said grudgingly.

A tension left Joam's eyes. "I would believe you brother, but who ever saw such a thing?"

A fresh thought stopped Dayn in his tracks. "I know who might."

"Dayn, wait..." Joam groaned as Dayn veered north, toward their neighbor Grahm's fields. "Come on. We'll get there faster bounding. I'll bet you an ember-eye I can bound higher than you!"

"Fine." Surprisingly, Joam agreed. He might place in Sweetwater every year for the staff, but Dayn could bound circles around him. It was the closest thing to coursing on Shard. Dayn took two gathering steps and leaped powerfully into the air. The ground pulled away beneath him smoothly as he rose three spans high. "Let's see you top that, brother!" he shouted.

Dayn held out his arms to steady himself as he descended, enjoying a cooling breeze that blew from the north. A familiar, rancid odor tickled his nose. _Just like inside the well._ He landed heavily, crashing to the ground in a spray of dirt. Laman's staff flew from his grasp.

"Ha! The courser who cannot land!" Joam hooted, skipping easily back to the ground beside him. Dayn grimaced, his friend had not even broken Grahm's careful furrows.

"Stow it, will you?" Dayn looked his festival clothes in dismay, now filthy with dirt.

"No balance! They'll come for miles to see! Why bother with the journey to Montollos? Dayn Ro'Halan, the great?peace, what is that smell?"

"It's the same as?hey, wait. Where are you going?" Dayn asked in alarm. Joam strode purposefully to the north, further into Grahm's fields. Laman had become fast friends with his offworlder neighbor over the past two seasons. Grahm and Dayn often learned the land side by side from his father, and Dayn knew Grahm's fields just as well as Laman's. Joam was walking straight toward Grahm's well.

Joam called back over his shoulder. "We've got to find out what that is. It smells like...rot. Elder Buril said that's what a gravespinner cave smells like." Mischievous as Joam could be, he still took his farm work as seriously as any good Shardian. "Grahm can barely tell one end of a spade from the other. Peace, the spinners could spread to your land, too!"

"Grahm's learned a lot! Leave off him. Besides...I know it's not gravespinners." Dayn's stomach churned. As much as he did not want Joam ridiculing him, he could not take a step further.

"Then what, Dayn? Are you telling me—"

"Not gravespinners," called a gruff voice. The two jumped as Grahm descended from a bound to land right beside them. "Wreathweaver. You boys lost?"

Grahm was the first offworlder anyone knew of to settle in the Mistlands and take a Shardian wife. Rumor said he had stepped off a transport in Misthaven with nothing but a few possessions from his native world of Cutremur, and asked to be pointed to Wia Wells. He wore plain brown field linens and kept his black hair cut oddly short. It steeped at his temples although he was quite young. Freckles touched his fair skin as though the sun played tag with his face, instead of merely shining upon it.

"Wreathweavers!" Joam blurted. "This far from the Dreadfall, are you sure?"

"Yes, lad, I can tell what one looks like," Grahm said wryly.

Dayn's relief over avoiding the well proved to be short-lived. Tension shone on Grahm's face, his green eyes were bloodshot and held none of their usual warmth. Dayn's heart jumped as he examined the offworlder further. "Why are you all wet?" he asked.

Grahm glanced at him sharply. "I didn't stumble on the snake itself, peace be praised. But from the size of the clutch, I would say it was twelve hands long, at least. Pretty young." Joam gawked and Dayn felt his own jaw drop, too. "I managed to burn out all the eggs. The smell was so bad, I took a dunk in the well to get it off." Grahm offered a dry laugh. It did not reach his eyes, which never left Dayn the whole time he spoke. "Not sure it worked all that great, though."

"That's something. The same as at Southforte." Joam rubbed his chin thoughtfully, but with the threat gone he was already looking back to the road.

"It's not like a wreathweaver to leave its nest," Dayn said. "What do you think scared it away?"

"No worry to me, so long as it's gone." Grahm frowned openly at him now.

"Us, either," Joam interjected with a warning look for Dayn. "We should get going. Happy Evensong, Grahm. Are you headed to the village soon?"

"After I finish up. My wife already left with your mother. Is this festival really as important as they say? I missed it last year."

"Well, more if you aren't married," Dayn said.

"Ah, one of those," Grahm said, noting Joam's eager grin. "A day for hunters. Happy Evensong, boys." Grahm clapped Dayn on the shoulder. The smell emanating from his clothes made Dayn want to retch. "I better go clean up. Can you tell Kajalynn that I'll be there soon?"

"We will," Joam said, practically dragging Dayn away. Once they were out of earshot, he gave Dayn a sideways look. "What was that all about? There's no deadwisps hiding in his well. He would have said so."

"He's hiding something," Dayn said. "Did you see any smoke, or smell it at all this morning? He didn't burn anything out. He saw one of those men, too."

"Maybe it's just one of his offworld cousins here for Evensong?" Joam sighed when Dayn did not smile. "We're not Elders, Dayn, and neither is Grahm. Let them see to it, they'll do what's best."

"I'm still going to talk with them. Yonas, too, and anyone else I can find." They made their way to the road and headed west.

"You are set on making a mess of Evensong, aren't you?" Joam leaped into a bound before Dayn could respond. Back on the road, Joam soon began chattering about the girls he planned to dance with, and which ones would be best to steal a kiss from. Then again, he was the Sweetwater King, wouldn't that mean they all wanted a kiss? Dayn only half listened.

Grahm must be lying, but why? Usually friendly and easygoing, he seemed more like a rope ready to snap under some hidden strain. _Did he see one of the men, too? Is he keeping it quiet because of Evensong?_

Dayn wanted answers so his friend would not think him crazy, or a liar. But most of all to make sure his family was safe. The man in the well was dangerous, that much he knew. Anything that drove the animals into a frenzy did not bode well for the village. Dayn turned for one more look as Grahm's fields fell behind them. The offworlder still stood there, watching the boys bound away toward Wia Wells and Evensong.

CHAPTER THREE

Evensong

Palpo the merchant mocked the farmer, saying, 'O to be a Shardian prince! To have the dirt kiss my feet, the sheep pay me homage in their pens, and the trees drop fruit in my waiting hand!'
'Quite right,' the farmer agreed, 'A full belly and an aching back is the life for us.'
'What is this aching you speak of?' the merchant asked.
-from 'Palpo the Merchant Buys the Belt', an Ista Cham children's story

Sounds of merrymaking floated to their ears as the two approached Wia Wells. Dayn could not help but grin, although the morning's events still had him looking around every corner. He shared an excited look with Joam as the road carried them to the Wustl Square. "You didn't mention how fine the village looked."

A simple place of sturdy wooden homes and workshops with thatched roofs, Wia Wells nestled around a square of wine-colored stone. Flowers of red and deep violet framed every doorway, and golden streamers crisscrossed the paths between booths built especially for festival traders.

"They must have saved the best decorations until now," Joam marveled. The shops that enclosed the Wustl Square all sparkled with fresh coats of whitewash. To the east lay Elder Huwes the shoemaker's shop, Sister Layren's bakery, and a new clothier moved from Southforte by marriage who Dayn did not yet know. Brother Opram the smith had departed for the mines last season, so his windows remained dark until an apprentice could be found from a neighboring village. Jairn the gemcutter held a place next to the Elder's repository, where they stored the village histories and taught lessons.

"Do you see any of the Elders?" Dayn asked.

"I'm sure they'll turn up," Joam said absently. "You know there are offworlders, don't you?"

"Offworlders at Evensong!" Dayn exclaimed. He peered at the crowd with renewed interest, missing Joam's sigh of relief. The Dawnbreak Inn crowned the southern side of the Square, a full story higher than all the rest and painted a magnificent blue. Guests stuffed the village's finest building to the thatch, judging from the people streaming through the front door.

"I'm surprised Laman didn't tell you."

A goodwife from Southforte swept toward them and dropped a garland of blue dayroses on each of their necks. She wore a brown dress and a moondrop necklace. More garlands were looped through her arm, white and blue.

"Welcome!" The goodwife's long dreadlocks swayed as she hugged them both. She gave Dayn an appraising look, only to burst into laughter at his blush. "Oh come now, child. My hair has more gray than both of your parents put together."

"Happy Evensong," Dayn said. Gray hair or not, Dayn knew better than to mention her age. Evensong celebrated Shard's women, and one poorly thought remark could be cause for grave offense during the festival. Men did all of the preparations while their wives and sisters took their ease, although the women ended up prodding them until the decorations and such were to their liking. Which was much like every other festival, now that Dayn thought about it.

"Sister, are there really offworlders here?" he asked.

"There most certainly are." Her smile faded as she took in Dayn's clothes, and he found himself blushing all over again. "You can find yourself a nice new shirt, before the dancing starts. And some trousers, like the ones that fit your tall friend here so well."

"I think his mother made those. Right, Joam? Joam?"

Joam ignored the goodwife at his own peril. While he looked eagerly into the bustling crowd, she contented herself with a firm pinch. Joam yelped in surprise as she swayed off, looking for new quarry to adorn with dayroses.

"Not one word from you," Joam warned. He stood there for an embarrassed moment, furiously rubbing his backside.

"Not one word," Dayn agreed, fighting to hold in his amusement. Teasing Joam with the festival barely begun would be bad luck. The night might hold many more such encounters, and Dayn wanted the final laugh. "I think women invent festivals like this just to give men fits. Even the Sweetwater King."

Joam grinned and set his blue garland just right. "Maybe so, but it sure beats wearing white." White dayroses were for the married, or children still more interested in playing on tangletoys than stealing kisses. "See what I mean?"

A group of girls strolled near, casting glances between Joam and Dayn. Joam grinned so fiercely his face threatened to split in two. His first ever blue Evensong garland came just last year at Southforte, while Dayn had received his a year before that at Kohr Springs. Dayn patted his hair in spite of himself.

"Happy Evensong!" Joam called out. "Where are you from?"

The girls stopped short of the Dawnbreak Inn, making halfhearted attempts at indifference as the two approached. Not one wore white. Competition for the most dances and kisses from the maidens was an unspoken Wia Wells tradition, same as Evensong in any other Mistland village.

"Greenshadow," and "Misthaven, of course," were among the replies. Dayn hid his surprise with a thoughtful nod. Word must have spread among distant kin about their village being chosen to host. The northern journey to Greenshadow took three weeks, much further than Misthaven.

"We've only just now arrived," Dayn said, letting a touch of helplessness enter his voice. "My poor friend here wouldn't know maidenvine if it grew in his hair. Do the blossoms have five petals, or six?"

Two of the girls sniffed loudly and whisked into the inn, but the rest still lingered.

"Six," one replied, batting her eyes at Joam.

"And the flowers are violet with blue spots?"

"No, you have it backwards," another answered with a coy smile for Dayn.

"But they must be violet, picked so early." Dayn put on a confused frown. "Can you show me where some are?"

"I would," said another, wearing a flowing green dress that matched her eyes. She stepped closer to Dayn and looked to be a fine dancer. Her hand reached up to his face. "But only if you find a clean shirt!"

She tugged at Dayn's collar, and a puff of dirt shot into the air. Her friends erupted into a fit of giggles, leaving Dayn to stand sheepishly as they vanished into the Dawnbreak.

"You'll find yourself a mayor's daughter if you keep on like that," Joam said in genuine approval. "Now we know who to dance with!"

"We all know who the Sweetwater King is," Dayn said. He was not so addled over the girls as Joam, but still intended to enjoy seeing the new faces. Shardian villages with the best harvest received honors from the Misthaven Trader's Circle on Evensong, and Wia Wells had long been overlooked. "I have to make sure there's a dance or two saved for the rest of us common farmers."

Joam twirled through a staff form as though to remind the entire village of Sweetwater. The King's Circlet, of all things! Only the most brazen fighter would even think of using it. He offered Dayn a magnanimous smile. "I'll do my best."

The offworlder booths beckoned to Dayn. The two began wading into the festival, but a slender girl with a sulky mouth planted herself directly in their path. She wore a blue garland too, but neither of them were glad to see it.

"Happy Evensong, Milede," Dayn said.

Milede Kaynerin wore a scarlet dress, and her twin black braids shone with fresh beeswax. She stood directly beneath a hanging cluster of purple maidenvine, but Dayn would not steal a kiss from the Elder's daughter if she were the last girl on Shard.

She jabbed a finger into Dayn's chest so hard her bracelets clinked together. "You two better not be pestering every girl in sight. We're to show our best manners, especially _you,_ Dayn!" She abruptly stalked off, leaving Dayn and Joam with their mouths hanging open.

"She's just salty over not being the prettiest girl at festival for a change," Joam said with a smirk. "But she's right, you know. The Elders won't be happy if you—"

Dayn shook his head. "Give up on talking me out of it, all right? For all the Elders know, there's a pair of ridgecats sneaking around Southforte. They won't believe a little boy, but they will listen to me at least."

"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 all right, 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.

Dayn grinned. A new kincatcher, this time a Kohr Springs girl with brown hair and feet that blurred beneath her blue dress, now ran through the booths. Every child she touched would be added to her 'family' until none were left but one. The last to be caught would chant the words to start a new family and they would all scatter again. The game had no end.

"Peace, if I'm not doing an awful lot of work the night of Evensong!" The goodwife said loudly. Several farmers dropped away from the blacksmith to help her.

"You would think a child could play at a festival of all places," one muttered. The first boy had already disappeared from where he sat. Dayn soon spotted a large head bobbing through the crowd in a noble attempt to be stealthy.

Dayn pointed him out to the farmer. "There should be an easy catch."

The farmer laughed. "Don't know why I'm dickering with this blacksmith for a grindstone, with a melon like that on hand. Say, you're Laman's boy, aren't you?" Dayn nodded. "Thought so. Fine work, lad! You'll make us proud."

The Southforte man went off after the boy before Dayn could ask what he meant. A flash of yellow slipped past his knees and Dayn lunged after it before Yonas escaped him again.

"Watch yourself, you big oaf!"

The man Dayn just bumped into straightened himself. The angular cut of his clothes and odd, short-trimmed hair marked him as a Misthavener. A conical cap lay on the ground, and Dayn snatched it up before any passersby could crush it.

"My apologies...Elder," Dayn added the honorific when the man's eyes narrowed. "I will be more careful."

"See that you do," the man snapped, his beady eyes glittering with anger. He snatched the cap away before Dayn could return it, and stomped off. "This Fall-cursed, fly speck village is bad enough without clod-footed farmers and their downcountry manners to deal with!"

Dayn's face burned. Several Wia Wells onlookers?none of them Elders, thankfully?watched the exchange in silence. They lanced him with warning looks before returning to their merriment.

Dayn spotted more Wia Wells boys gathered in the Speaker's Turn, an amphitheater of grass and wooden benches. They stood near the stage full of musicians, who were resting and scarfing down food. Judging from the sweat darkening the offworld trader's shirt, it would be a while yet before he finished unloading. Dayn skirted around the grass where gleeful children swarmed over tangletoys to join his friends.

"Ro'Halan! Just who I wanted to see. Nice shirt." Esane Ro'Thelen's round face seemed built with a permanent grin. Of all the boys their age, he might be the only one who pulled more pranks than Dayn and Joam. Esane made brief introductions for the boys Dayn did not know, some friendly Southforte folk and a few aloof Misthaveners.

"Good Evensong," Dayn said to all. The boys returned to clamoring over who would kiss who, and guessing at the best dancers among the girls. Dayn eyed the musicians tuning while they ate, and felt an itch in his feet. "I'm sure looking forward to some dancing."

"I hope they can carry a tune, or this will be the worst Evensong ever," one of the Misthaven boys said, sneering openly at the platform.

"Thade, you don't mean that," Esane said with a grimace, offering apologetic looks to the group. Several of the boys frowned over the comment, but continued in their debate.

"Who is this lout to you?" Dayn murmured to Esane.

"My cousin Thade from Misthaven," he whispered back. "My mother is making me show him around the village."

"You better show him some manners while you're at it. That talk will earn him a beating."

"I know! What should I do?"

Thade had light brown eyes and what Dayn presumed to be good looks, aside from a pair of unfortunately large ears. Too dull to notice the dangerous silence of the Wia Wells boys around him, the Misthavener continued to question the musicians' skill. Esane looked on, mortified that his charge stood an insult away from a well-deserved flogging.

"We could have brought drummers from Misthaven, at least," Thade was saying. "The girls will be asleep by the third song."

Dayn clapped a hand on the boy's shoulder and used Laman's staff to gesture toward the crowd. "Don't you worry about that. The Mistland girls get tired of the same boring farmers." The Wia Wells and Southforte boys' faces shone with pure affront. "Besides, you haven't really danced until you've taken a Wia Wells maiden around the Turn."

"Really?" Thade asked doubtfully.

"Really. I know just the one, too. She was standing under maidenvine when I first arrived, but I didn't even bother to ask for a kiss. Been going on about you Misthaveners all week."

Several barely suppressed guffaws bubbled from the group as Laman's staff singled out none other than Milede, swishing her skirts through the booths. Thade rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Esane feigned a cough to hide his laugh.

"Maybe this won't be so bad after all," Thade allowed. The Wia Wells boys whooped loudly for the Misthavener as he hurried off after her.

"And I thought Joam was the better prankster of you two," Esane marveled.

"Evensong is no place for fighting," Dayn replied. "I'll help make the village look as good as anyone else. What did you want to see me for?"

The other boys circled close as Esane lowered his voice to avoid the musicians' ears. "Some of these tenderfeet want to go _explore_ tonight." A dozen expectant eyes swung to Dayn, lit with excitement. Dayn quickly glanced at the platform. The musicians were engaged in hot debate over the order of the songs, paying the boys no mind.

"He said you know the wilds best," one of the Misthaven boys urged. "Take us to the Dreadfall, Mistlander."

"I'd rather dance than spend the night getting scratched up in redbranch," Dayn said. He needed to stop Esane from doing something foolish once night fell. "Could be muddy, too. The Elders think the mist will come early this year." Esane gave Dayn a questioning frown.

"But we might never get another chance," one of the Southforte boys whispered. "They say the deadwisps steal away from guarding the heartrock to weep at the midnight sun. Their songs will drive you mad if you listen too long."

Dayn opened his mouth then closed it again with a frown. He could not tell the boy about his foolishness without giving away his own forbidden knowledge.

"They sing about all the worlds lost to the torrent. If they see you with a torch, they'll chase you until dawn!" "Not if you get rid of the clothes you wore there," a Misthaven boy corrected. At Dayn's astonished look, he added, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, "So they won't recognize you."

"They'll steal your eyes and hide them in Shard's heartrock. If you go looking for them, they'll cast you down the cliffs."

"You'll fall forever." They all nodded fervently on that point and shivered. "To the other side and back again until the Last Mist rises."

Dayn could scarcely believe his ears. "But how can you look for your eyes, if they've already?" He cut off at a jab from Esane's elbow.

"Sorry, Dayn. I think that flute player is eavesdropping."

Esane must have been pumping these ridiculous stories into their heads for years. Dayn could already imagine him tomorrow, chortling about the Misthaveners he tricked into running naked through redbranch in the dark. The other Wia Wells boys' eyes twinkled mischievously, too.

_So they're all in on the prank,_ Dayn thought. _I would be too, if it were any other night. But with that man I saw...peace, maybe he was a deadwisp!_

A doubtful looking Southforte boy, younger than the rest piped up. "We probably couldn't get close enough to spit in the Dreadfall. Some wreathweaver or gravespinner would make a feast of us all, first. If you need an idea of their handiwork, look right there."

Easing himself onto a blanket near the back of the Speaker's Turn, old Nerlin sat in his usual place, muttering to himself as he always did. Furrows creased his weathered brow as he brushed absently at his threadbare feastday clothes. His row always filled last whenever people gathered for stories or open council. Most occasions, it would not fill at all. Nerlin sat stiffly and avoided looking in their direction. Hesitant mutters and doubtful frowns rippled through the group.

"Leave over." Dayn gave the boy a hard look, even though his words may have discouraged Esane's foolish outing. The Misthavener stares bordered on open jeering. They gawked not at Nerlin, but his foot. Or rather, where his foot had once been. "He's done nothing to you, and that came from no wreathweaver."

"What happened then, Mistlander?" One of the Misthaven boys asked. "Caught in a gravespinner's web?"

"If you must know, go ask him yourself."

The Wia Wells boys all echoed their agreement, suddenly remembering themselves. No matter what they disliked about each other, Mistlanders always banded together around outsiders. Especially capital folk. The withered old farmer glanced up so quickly Dayn nearly missed it. A grateful look.

Esane suddenly gave a low, appreciative whistle. "Peace, what I wouldn't give for some maidenvine right now." One of the girls from the Dawnbreak Inn before glided toward them. Nerlin?and the Dreadfall, peace be praised?were instantly forgotten. Dayn swallowed in spite of himself, and unconsciously patted his braids.

"My cousin, Falena." A Misthaven boy stammered through introductions. He clearly did not bother to remember their names. Dayn could not fault him too much, for he did not recall the Misthavener's name, either.

"Falena Ankehl, from Misthaven," she added the last pointedly, looking them all over. Esane, and the rest grinned foolishly, tripping over each other to offer her hugs, but Dayn felt ready to gag over the next Misthavener to announce her city.

"Happy Evensong, sister," he said stiffly. He would ask Milede to dance himself before fawning over any of these haughty strangers.

"Such poor manners, Brel! Forgive my cousin. Happy Evensong," Falena peered up at Dayn expectantly through long eyelashes. Dayn took the hint and hugged her reluctantly. Refusing one would be considered a serious insult. Her fingertips teased his back, making the hairs on his neck stand up.

"What was your name?"

"Dayn Ro'Halan." He could not resist adding, "From Wia Wells, closest village to the Dreadfall."

The Wia Wells boys groaned audibly. Falena's expression faltered, but she recovered smoothly, glancing at the platform for a moment. Singers from Kohr Springs and Southforte now rehearsed with the musicians. A Southforte lute player stared at Falena, and she favored him with a dazzling smile. He yelped an oath when one of his strings snapped.

"Ro'Halan...that name sounds familiar. Your father sits on the Trade Circle, doesn't he?" The village boys' heads bobbed eagerly before Dayn even opened his mouth. They were positively moonstruck over this maiden. "I thought so. He is highly spoken of in Misthaven, Laman is. Even though he's..." She coughed delicately into her hand.

_Even though he's from Wia Wells,_ Dayn finished silently. He suddenly did not care to dance with this Falena at all.

"I suppose he'll be mayor here one day," she continued, playfully twirling her blue garland.

"Our Village Council serves well enough," Dayn said flatly. Several of the boys gave firm nods before catching themselves. Falena affected not to notice them eavesdropping, and Dayn did not care.

"So there's more to you than farming. And I hear you're not in love with wielding the staff like that beanpole Misthavener pestering all of my friends for kisses," Falena said. "Can I sit with you for the storytelling?"

"Everyone, please join us," Elder Buril's resonant voice boomed from the platform of the Speaker's Turn, forestalling Dayn's answer. The Turn immediately began to fill.

Dayn spotted his neighbor Grahm sitting next to his wife, and all of his former worry came rushing back. Kajalynn held one of their triplets and minded two more swaddled in their blankets, concern lining her face. Grahm stared forward with hollow eyes, not responding to her whispers. Dayn could not be more certain his neighbor saw the same thing he did this morning.

Joam waved to Dayn from a bench further off, where he sat with his parents and brothers. He motioned coyly to an empty space nearby as if to say, _there's room for her, too._ Even old Nerlin's row quickly filled. The remaining boys broke away to find more blue garlands to sit near.

"Hello, son."

Dayn started at Laman's voice behind him. His parents had appeared beside Elder Buril, standing in front of the musicians. A sharp tremor of worry snaked through Dayn's chest. "You and your friend may want to sit down," Hanalene said, her eyes twinkling.

"The storytelling is nearly upon us," Elder Buril intoned. A broad-chested man with regal, gray dreadlocks, his resonant baritone made for a booming laugh, and served equally well in bending the Village Council to his wishes. Falena led Dayn to an open space on a nearby bench. A few stragglers hurried over from the booths.

Elder Buril's dark eyes shone proudly as he looked over the expectant faces. "Many of you have journeyed far to celebrate Evensong with us. Wia Wells is honored to host Misthaven this season. There's one small matter to attend before the storytelling.

"The Trade Circle selects worthy apprentices every season, as you all know. This Applicant is chosen to learn the proper running of a village, and how the harvest will best serve the World Belt. Shard's Pledge has flourished under this tradition of guidance for centuries, and will continue to do so for as long as the mist rises."

A murmur of approval ran through the onlookers. Dayn's parents stood quietly as Elder Buril's voice carried easily over the growing rumble of anticipation from the crowd. Dayn felt an odd twinge in the pit of his stomach.

"For the first time in two generations, one of our own is selected as an Applicant. This lad will apprentice with our good neighbors down the road, in Southforte, as well as in Greenshadow, Kohr Springs, and Misthaven."

_Anyone but me._ Dayn swallowed nervously as he felt dozens of farmers lock their eyes on him. A pleased sound escaped Falena's throat, and she held to Dayn's arm with a self-satisfied curl to her lips. _Please, no._

"The choice for this season's Applicant is Dayn Ro'Halan!"

The Turn burst into cheers. Local folks pointed out Dayn to the travelers, who eyed him appraisingly. Laman beamed with pride as he shook Elder Buril's hand, and Hanalene waved excitedly to Dayn. He managed a feeble wave back, not daring to stand. _Peace, my legs feel like jelly. How long have they known?_

Milede stood off by herself, staring at him crossly. _So this is why she snapped at me before,_ Dayn thought. She wanted to sit on the Village Council one day just like Elder Kaynerin, though her father had never been an Applicant.

The Mistland farmers sitting nearby congratulated Dayn, slapping him on the back.

"Do Wia Wells proud, lad!"

"I will," Dayn said numbly.

"We expect nothing less!"

Falena brushed closer to him, murmuring her regards. "I shall enjoy dancing with you." Dayn could almost believe the people were cheering her, from the look on her face.

"You'll do a fine job, lad," Elder Buril beamed. Hanalene and Laman waved once more before stepping toward the back of the platform. The musicians congratulated them as though they had just won Sweetwater. Dayn's heart sank to see the joy on their faces. "Now please, everyone, find your seats?the telling will begin soon!"

Joam trotted over, a pained look on his face. "Happy Evensong, sister," he said with a deep bow for Falena. "Mind if I borrow my brother for just a moment?"

She nodded. They moved off to stand away from the Speaker's Turn, and stood in silence on the grass.

_Just remember, I gave you a chance._ Those were Joam's words from this morning. Dayn looked back into the Turn. Milchamah held his eye for a moment, then shrugged before turning back to Joam's older brothers. Elder Buril still conferred with the musicians from the platform, but watched Dayn and Joam out of the corner of his eye. Dayn's heart sagged as the revelation struck home. His father's awkward talk this morning, followed by Milchamah's untimely visit.

"The whole of Wia Wells was betting on which you would choose," Joam finally said. "The staff or the fields."

"Peace, but I didn't want to fight," he mumbled. "How was I to know about this?"

"You weren't. Laman wanted you to choose for yourself. My father said if you found out you were to be Applicant from anyone, he would make me whittle down every staff I have, and I could forget about sparring, let alone Montollos. I would have told you, but I was so sure you would choose the staff."

"You know that's not what I want."

Sympathy shone plainly on Joam's face. "Peace, I know. But now you'll be tied to a farm for as long as the mist rises. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

"I don't see how. We won't see each other the whole summer."

Joam shook his head sadly. "Dust and bones, you're right. Listen, everyone is starting to stare. Let's just sit down, all right? Come on."

Dayn put on a cheerful air for the farmers' sake as he dragged himself back to the Turn. He could never refuse the Trade Circle's decision, not without shaming his family and the village. He could see that now, in the excited clamor of the gathered farmers who had taught him all he knew, the way their eyes flashed with pride when they rested on him. His coursing dreams stood as much chance as a wingless bird in a gravespinner's web.

They returned to where Falena awaited. The Southforte folk sitting nearby offered their congratulations, and complimented Dayn on his shirt. Conveniently enough, the bench held only enough room for Dayn.

"Well, I'll go sit with my family then," Joam said awkwardly. Falena offered her apologies along with another ravishing smile, but Dayn knew better. She acted all honey and cream and charm with him, but any girl wreathed in blue who looked Dayn's way received a frosty stare.

"Wait, Joam." Dayn caught his arm. "You really mean it, that you'll make it up to me?"

Joam's word meant everything to him, same as any self-respecting Shardian. "Peace take my breath if it's not true!"

"Then come over tomorrow, when your chores are done. Tell Milchamah you'll spend the night. I'll need you then, just this once."

Joam searched Dayn's face, then nodded uncertainly before returning to his kin. "This isn't about...the well, right?"

"No, nothing like that. I'll explain everything tomorrow."

"I'll be there."

"Tomorrow," Dayn whispered for himself. Falena cooed inquiringly beside him but he ignored her, pretending to set his attention on Elder Buril. The crowd listened in rapt attention as the storytelling began. Dayn knew what must be done, for any hope of coursing. But he needed to hear himself say the words. "Tomorrow night I'll go to the Dreadfall."

CHAPTER FOUR

The Midnight Sun

The world beneath my feet is not the world my fathers knew,
my Belt's glory is their sorrow and their tears are mine, anew.
My studies are fraught with grief. I long to be blind and dumb.
For I have learned the truth of the Breach, I have seen the midnight sun.
-last known work of Lakhil Grabin, Shardian poet believed to have thrown himself in the Dreadfall

So let me get this straight." Joam's voice echoed through the surrounding rock formations that heaved into the night, weathered and arthritic. "You didn't steal one kiss from her? Not one?"

"Not one," Dayn replied patiently, surely for the tenth time. He razored his way along the painfully narrow trail. His coursing gear hung between them, dangling on the bundle of poles and the two old sparring staffs held upon their shoulders. Stones dislodged by their feet clattered down slopes fit to splinter limbs.

"Well, why not?" Joam persisted, struggling to keep his voice light. "She was the finest maiden wearing blue, and had eyes for no one else."

"She danced about as fine as a sick goat," Dayn muttered. He welcomed Joam's chatter, it kept him from squinting after imagined stirrings along the path. _He feels it too,_ Dayn thought. _Something is wrong with the night._ Their lantern light faltered before the shadows, which stalked around them like hungry ridgecats.

"Can't say I noticed."

"I should have worn a white garland. She was so busy making sure everyone saw us together, we nearly tripped three times."

"More reason for a kiss," Joam swept his lantern about in sputtering, fitful arcs, as he balanced the poles on his shoulder." Who else passes by so much good fortune, all in the same day? There's something wrong with you."

"Good fortune? Every Elder on the Village Council means for me to become a mayor, the way they act over this Applicant business. Our grandparents would howl in their graves."

"Not with one look at that beauty by your side. You know it's exactly what everyone wants, a fresh union between Wia Wells and Misthaven."

Dayn grunted. "I'm sure Falena would agree."

"A plumb fool would agree."

Dayn offered no reply. Joam fell silent as the trail switchbacked sharply upward to the right, passing through outcrops that looked like broken potshards from some giant's workshop. After an hour of plodding through the dark, they were finally nearing the Dreadfall.

"Peace, but I want my bed," Joam groaned. "Did we really need to do this tonight?"

"Applicant training begins with First Mist, so my father gave me all freedays until then. I won't have a minute alone after that."

"So you'll practice coursing every day until then," Joam said thoughtfully. "I'd do the same thing if it were a lost summer of staff work. I hope the mist is late in rising for you."

"I do, too. Joam...thank you for this," Dayn blurted out. A hopeless feeling that greater forces would forever shape his dreams had finally started to lift, like a loaded wagon rolling off of his chest. "I couldn't do it myself."

"You better make good as a courser, or I'll have you working my land until we're both gray-haired." Joam chuckled.

"You better hope I do course, for your sake!" Dayn said with a snort. "If the Elders stay worked up over this Attendant business, I'll end up as some high and mighty councilor. Like a mayor for all of Shard."

Joam snickered. "Well you never dream small, I'll give you that. We'll find you a big purple cape, like a Montollos Regent."

"The first thing I'll do is banish you to a world with the worst soil in the Belt, for all the lip you'll give me. I'll send Falena, too, to dance with you."

"Just keep my rows plowed straight, Grand Councilor." Their laughter echoed in the ravine below.

Dayn stretched his lantern out to see ahead. The rock formations here towered over them, contorted spires or jumbled piles that rested in the merciful peace of collapse. Most disturbing of all were the caves. They perforated every surface the two shuffled past, refusing to allow his lantern's light inside. The smaller openings worried Dayn most, they were likely places for wreathweaver dens.

"Sand and ash, but this place makes my skin crawl," Joam muttered. "I'm glad we're not carrying this junk back with us. How much farther now?"

"Just a hundred spans from the top of this ridge."

The sloping trail abruptly ended on a windswept plateau that reminded Dayn of a raised scar. Life of a sort festered within the Fall's steep cliffs, but not even hardy redbranch grew on this barren ground.

They stopped fifty spans shy of the edge to rest. Dayn wiped sweat from his face, and Joam took a grateful swig from their waterskin, casting furtive glances ahead.

"So what are we supposed to do with these?" Joam motioned to the four poles they brought, fashioned from the straightest redbranch limbs Dayn could find. Three spans long and thicker than a man's leg, they could each bear Dayn's weight without bending.

"We'll wedge them into the cliff face, so they stick out like a bird's perch. I'll use them to practice my flips. Climbing down will be the hardest part."

"Fair enough. Is the path worse than that goat trail you found to get us here?" Joam asked.

Dayn gave him a level look. "There are no paths into the Dreadfall, Joam. It's all straight down. I'll show you what to do. It's easy."

"If you say so," Joam said, peering at the poles doubtfully. Dayn could tell he would need prodding to do the actual work. "What does a courser need to flip for, anyway? I thought you just roped a boulder and let it pull you through the torrent."

"That's true, but think of it more like swimming in the Silk River," Dayn said. "Only the current is rock instead of water. You need to flip your way through it or be crushed. Every story I've read says so. I may have no torrent, but here I'll be free to swing around just like I was born in it."

"You were born in it," said Joam, full of mock sympathy. "Your parents never had the heart to tell you the truth. One day you just dropped right out of the sky..."

Dayn cuffed him on the shoulder. "Would you stop? We're wasting light."

"Don't be a glumtongue. These lanterns will last hours yet."

"I wasn't talking about the lanterns. We'll need those for the walk back."

"Then what did you mean?"

"Never mind. I need to show you how everything works." Dayn spilled out the contents of their pack, hoping to distract Joam from the unanswered question. It would be better to look over the tools here instead of right next to the edge. The growing doubt on his friend's face worried him.

"I got this at last year's harvest," Dayn said. The Misthaven trader likely thought to sell the frayed wingline as a curiosity from beyond Shard, never guessing Dayn intended to use it. The finely braided fiber glinted silver in the lantern light. Dayn pulled on a span with all of his strength. The wingline stretched reluctantly, then snapped back to its original length once he relaxed. The pack held normal rope, too, but wingline was fifty times stronger.

He passed the entire coil to Joam, who gave it a thoughtful tug. "So thin. Like gravespinner silk."

Next Dayn held up one of the talons, a courser's grappling hook. "This is what you use to catch a rock that will pull you through the torrent," he explained.

"Without getting flattened by a boulder along the way. Did you manage to trade for a Defender's suit of armor, too?"

In response, Dayn opened a small wooden cask. Joam gave a surprised grunt of recognition at the clear, pasty substance within. "By the mist, how did you get this?"

"Last year at the Sealing," Dayn said. "I saw two Misthaven kids chase a rat down with slingshots. They hit it at least ten times and it still got away. They showed me the alley where they first saw it. I found a harvest barrel there that wasn't sealed, and figured the rat got inside."

For the Festival of Sealing, special barrels were used to store the World Belt's portion of the harvest. Preceptors, men of great wisdom from the Ring, used a coating to seal the barrels and preserve crops for transport between worlds. Rumor said a sealed harvest would keep for decades.

"You think this goop will save you in case you swing face first into the cliff?"

"I do. Put it on like this."

"Nasty." Joam wrinkled his nose, backing away before Dayn could explain. "You aren't going to smear that on?hey!" Dayn spread a handful of the sealer on Joam's arm just below the shoulder. He barely held back a laugh as Joam's eyebrows climbed his forehead in disbelief. The mixture _did_ smell rather foul.

Before Joam could wipe the sealer away, Dayn swung his staff in a ferocious, bone-snapping strike that cracked against Joam's arm. Blinding light flashed from the blow, and Joam went sprawling.

He scrambled to his feet with a roar. "You have some nerve! I'm going to..." He stopped short, clutching his arm in wonder. "Hey it...it doesn't even hurt."

"It'll keep us from breaking anything. I'll bet this stuff could stop a much stronger strike. Maybe even turn steel."

"Maybe. You know, I've heard old Nerlin say if you ever fell down the cliffs, you'll starve to death before you hit bottom." Joam glanced toward the Dreadfall's edge with a look like he had just swallowed a handful of rotten fervorberries. "Why won't we need the lanterns? You never said before."

"Come and see." Dayn meant to ease Joam's nerves by showing him the tools, but he could do nothing more. Together they approached the edge.

"Where's the other side? And the bottom..." Joam's eyes slid downward, and widened further than Dayn thought possible. A whimper escaped his throat.

Jagged, crumbling cliffs curled out of sight to the north and south, joining together over ten leagues away to the east. The Dreadfall stretched countless leagues deeper into Shard's heartrock, a refuge of purest shadow.

Dayn shuddered in spite of himself even though he had stood in this very spot dozens of times. Sometimes he imagined he felt the ground here cracking underfoot. The Dreadfall seemed to fester, a wound that expanded slowly as seasons and shadows and burrowing things vainly tried to lick it clean.

"Dayn, what is that?" Joam's voice came too calmly, as though he struggled not to squeak. A pinpoint of light flickered to life deep within the Dreadfall, shining mournfully like the last star in a graven sky. Fear shone in Joam's eyes as he stared into the depths of the Dreadfall, watching the light grow steadily brighter.

"That's the only thing right about the stories," Dayn said. He took a deep breath. "There is no bottom. That light is the midnight sun."

"Peace," Joam said faintly. He recognized the familiar light, seeing the sun below with new eyes, guttering like a candle at the bottom of a mine shaft. He stared at Dayn with a stranger's gaze, then backed away from the cliff edge on leaden feet, mumbling to himself. "I never thought...there's a hole in our world. There's a hole in Shard, and you want to play courser in it!"

Joam grabbed the nearest lantern and his staff, then turned wordlessly back to the trail leading west.

"Wait...don't leave!" Dayn called out in alarm, hurrying after him. Joam rounded suddenly and shook his staff so forcefully that Dayn stopped in his tracks.

"This is mad!" Joam cried. The lantern cast jagged shadows on his face. His eyes burned with fear. "We could...we could really fall."

"We won't," Dayn insisted. "There's a ledge just beneath the cliff where we'll hang the poles. You'll be able to see it when the sun is...brighter. I brought enough rope, I promise you that?"

"No." Joam looked at the ground, then back west.

Dayn felt paralyzed. "Do you want me to beg on my knees? I'll do all your chores for the summer?for two summers!"

"No, Dayn. I'll see if my father can get you in sparring camp, somehow. I promise. I know you ache for this, brother." The pity in Joam's voice stung. "But coursing will never get you to Montollos."

"I just need a few hours—don't _leave_ , Joam!" Dayn pleaded. He hated how desperate the words sounded. Joam started walking again. "Peace, we're so close. There's nothing to fear so long as we're careful. Besides, you barely know the way back!"

"I'm doing you a favor," Joam said roughly. He easily found their trailhead, to Dayn's dismay. "I'll wait for you back at your farm. Forget coursing, Dayn. We are Shardian. Peace, you're an _Applicant,_ now! You're better off throwing all of that junk right into the Dreadfall."

Joam set off down the slope, and the light from his lantern soon succumbed to the shadows. "That's why there won't be any Ro'Gems in the stories!" Dayn shouted. Empty silence answered. He moped back to his gear, slicing his staff through the air in frustration. "Should have readied him, instead of talking about that Misthaven girl the whole way," he muttered.

Dayn returned to the Dreadfall edge, leaning on his staff while he contemplated what to do next. His gear and the cumbersome poles were here, at least. He could still build his training perches, it would just take more than a night without Joam's help.

"I will be a courser. I will go to the Cycle," Dayn said to himself. The words did little to strengthen him, but he repeated them anyway. "I will be a courser. I?"

The Dreadfall shimmered, interrupting Dayn's litany. He looked expectantly to the cliffs. A burst of light blazed from the depths, unmasking the distant walls of the far rim and bathing the rock in yellow, orange and gold. The column of light marched skyward, escorted by a rising wind that tugged at Dayn's clothes. Flashes far overhead, like a flock of ravens caught on fire, marked where the sun illuminated the ever-moving torrent. Dayn marveled at the beauty of the sight.

He shook himself from his reverie and set to his task, newly encouraged. He needed every precious second granted by the false daylight.

Dayn donned his leather harness, inhaling deeply to make sure the straps around his waist and shoulders did not hinder his breathing. He knotted his plain rope through a stake already hammered into the ground on his last trip, then secured the opposite end to the ring on his harness. Next he carefully spread a coating of the pungent seal on his forearms, and after a moment's thought, on his shins, boots and chest. He stopped after spreading some on his forehead, though, before he gagged over the smell. The stuff stifled the wind's coolness as it seeped into his clothes and tingled against his skin. Small bursts of light shone briefly as the seal settled in, which he took for a good sign.

He decided to doff his lucky red cloak, and tied it to the stake, it would only get in his way if the wind picked up. The cloak whipped about in the upward breeze as if to agree. Lastly, he lashed two of the redbranch poles to his back, along with his staff and the mattock Joam had filched for him.

"Montollos, here I come," he whispered. Holding the rope at his chest and waist in either hand, Dayn slowly rappelled over the edge and into the waiting maw of the Dreadfall.

The added weight strapped to his back made it hard to let out his rope. The upward light showed footfalls and handholds just as if the sun stood overhead, which felt quite strange. Redbeak swallows chirped and swooped around him, plucking insects from the night air for their young. Dayn picked his way gingerly through their nests. The birdsong is what led him to explore this area of the cliffs in the first place. It would be poor thanks to crush them.

A quarter-mile section of cliff had split away here, leaving behind a uniform gap twenty spans wide, and perhaps thirty spans straight down. Deep cracks riddled the stone, making it perfect for the swallow nests?and an ideal purchase for wedging his poles. This natural alcove ensured a single mistake would not result in a death drop, and there were plenty of handholds for climbing should anything happen to his rope.

Dayn halted his descent next to the spot he had marked in white chalk several weeks ago. He cinched off his rope with a quick knot. After a few moments of awkward grasping, he jammed his first redbranch pole into a split in the rock. He braced his feet against the cliffside for leverage, and then began to wedge the pole in place with his mattock. Swallows fluttered away from hidden perches as his strikes echoed.

Dayn tested his handiwork, hanging from the pole with his full weight. It held him without so much as a creak. He let go and swung away gently, allowing the rope to assume his weight once more. He could not help but grin over his progress.

It took even less time than he expected. _I should have brought more down._ He dealt the completed pole one last victorious whack. The second pole, along with Dayn's sparring staff, tumbled free of their binding on his back.

"Oh, _blind me."_

He groaned in dismay as they clattered to the ledge ten spans below. Sunlight still shone from the other side of the Dreadfall, perhaps an hour left. There was time to hammer another pole into the cliff side, but not if he wanted to get that staff back.

Strapping the mattock to his back?securely, this time?Dayn descended, losing himself in the rhythm of push and catch as he rappelled down the cliff.

Despite his blunder, he felt exhilarated. These new perches would allow him to practice leaping and roping at the same time, something he could never do on the ground above. Honing this skill brought him a big step closer to coursing. Soon enough, his feet touched mossy rock. This marked the deepest he had explored yet.

"Hello!" he called. The space swallowed his echo. He shouted louder, insistent that the cliffs acknowledge his presence. "Dayn Ro'Halan, the greatest courser in the World Belt!"

As Dayn retrieved his staff, a sudden flash caught his eye, near the ground beyond his fallen pole. He picked his way over to investigate. This looked a poor place to find gems, but anything Dayn found would be a welcome prize after Joam's flight.

The ground began to squelch sickeningly under his feet. Dayn gagged at the sudden, pungent odor in his nostrils. He looked up. The swallow nests were directly above him, bird droppings and dead, fallen nestlings covered the ground. The flash pulled Dayn's eye again, it was coming from a triangle-shaped recess deeper in the cliff. Dampness slicked everything near the opening. He heard a steady dripping beyond the rock.

Something odd tugged at Dayn's gut, a sense of wrongness about this place. Sunlight did not penetrate the recess at all, which made the light emanating from it even more curious. The opening reeked of offal, and Dayn refused to crawl inside, so he held his breath and reached. Slick beetles and the creeping things feeding upon them scurried from his hand. His stomach heaved in protest. Dozens of bulbous mushrooms brushed his grasp, forming an odd cradle around the object he could barely make out. Dayn's hand closed around a smooth, cool surface and he pulled it from the grime in triumph.

He held a strange little orb that fit easily in his palm. Dayn had never seen anything quite like it before. It appeared to be a perfect sphere, despite the feathers and insect shells caked upon it. In the few spots where Dayn could actually see the surface the orb shone with a mysterious red glow. He turned away from the cave to better examine his find in the upward sunlight. Joam's abandonment did not sting so badly now.

"This is better than all of my gems put together. Wait until I show Joam!" Dayn laughed, turning the orb about in his grime-covered fist. It glowed stronger for a moment, close to the dangerous crimson of dewshade berries. He did not hear the stirring behind him in the shadowed recess.

Pain tore into his shoulder, sudden and sharp. Dayn screamed, flailing wildly with his staff. He staggered for balance, but agony forced him to his knees. A sinuous shape unraveled lazily from the opening. Dayn's eyes followed the variegated black scales and bone ridges stretching over powerful coils of muscle. A blunt, wedge-shaped head fastened to his shoulder, full of the teeth that were buried in his flesh. A wreathweaver.

He thrust his staff at the closest eye and missed. His shoulder caught fire with the movement. The wreathweaver's jaws did not budge as it rippled from the recess. It moved laboriously, and looked as long as his house.

Warm blood mixed with the cool dampness on his shirt. Dayn fought panic. He whipped his staff around for another awkward thrust and missed again. A threatening hiss sounded, and the monstrous snake flared its claw-like hood.

Dayn screamed in pain as the bony protrusions dug into his skin, gripping him in place. The wreathweaver shook him like a child's caperdoll. Dayn kept hold of his staff, but the curious orb dropped into the swallow boneyard.

The wreathweaver coiled around Dayn's torso, securing the meal that had skipped into its den. If he did not escape now, his bones would join the doomed fliers at his feet.

Positioning its jaws to swallow him head first, the wreathweaver loosened its hold for the briefest instant. Dayn twisted his body away, ignoring the teeth rending his shoulder. For one sickening moment, the Dreadfall depths filled his entire field of vision.

He tumbled off the ledge. The creature uncoiled fluidly, refusing to completely release Dayn's shoulder, but too weak to pull him up. The leather harness sawed roughly into his chest as his rope snapped taut. He slammed back into the cliff face, crying out as his body sank into the wreathweaver's upper jaw. The creature released him and, retreated back to the ledge above. Dayn's gambit worked, he was free.

The wreathweaver slithered back and forth, its bony hood flared open like the leaves of a flysnare vine. The snake's movement pelted him with a rain of crusted beetles and muck from the ledge floor.

The red orb suddenly dropped down from the ledge. Dayn lunged and caught it.

"Thanks for that!" he crowed. Reclaiming the artifact nearly made him forget the pain of his mangled shoulder. The wreathweaver's cold gaze studied Dayn, and its forked tongue lifted his scent from the air. "Now, how to get past you?"

He stowed the orb in his pocket, then sidestepped horizontally, rappelling back to where he first descended. The wreathweaver trailed him, barring the way up.

"Not as slow as you look," Dayn said, frowning. He swung like a pendulum from his rope, for a moment, but he could not wait the wreathweaver out. The midnight sun would soon pass from the Dreadfall. With no lantern and no moonlight, the darkness would be absolute.

The wreathweaver's tongue flicked out again, deliberate and searching. It followed his rope, matching the rhythm of his sway. Dayn's puzzlement quickly faded to alarm.

"No, no, no..."

It lashed out with primal speed. The rope snapped in its jaws.

Dayn screamed in terror. The Dreadfall blurred around him, the air whipping his clothes. The tattered rope flapped uselessly from his harness like a kite's severed string. A sick numbness spread through his body as he plummeted toward the heart of Shard.

Dayn fell faster than he ever thought possible The cliffs poured past him like water, no matter how he flailed. He lost consciousness, regained it again. Still he fell. Despair settled into his bones, cold and deep.

A sudden thrumming impression saturated Dayn's being, yet seemed to escape his ears. The pit of his stomach quivered, and his teeth began to ache. The very air seemed to vibrate. He twisted his head against the howling wind, looking for the source of sound that was not sound.

Great ripples and folds scored the Dreadfall's unending vertical stone, as though the cliffs here were once molten waves, now frozen in place.

_That's heartrock!_ He had fallen countless miles from the surface. The air began to warm considerably. Dayn found himself clutching for the filthy orb, surprised he still held it in his pocket.

His freefall began to slow. At first Dayn thought he imagined it, but the wind no longer tore at his clothes, and he could make out features in the near cliffs. _If I want to be a courser, I better start thinking like one!_ He stopped flailing and arched his back, allowing the remaining wind to flip him so he no longer fell head first. He held his back rigid as he continued to slow, angling himself at the cliffs.

The Dreadfall shook, a terrifying sound like a thousand cities grinding to dust. A great cloud of steam and dust issued from the nearest cliffs, and massive fissures raced up the sides of the Dreadfall, with molten red light at their depths. Dayn felt a twinge in the pit of his stomach, and his ears popped painfully. He still floated toward the cliffs, but with even less speed than when he first fell, as though Shard's grasp on him were fading away. He glanced into the cliff face, skidding and tumbling until he came to a jarring stop in a flash of white light.

"Peace protect me," Dayn whispered. He ran his hands over his body, incredulous to find no broken bones. The substance from the barrels had done its work. He lay balanced precariously on a jagged pile of scree on a jutting section of cliff, five spans beneath where the Dreadfall was breaking apart. "What's happening?"

He began to pick his way through the mishmash of rubble, but every step felt wrong, as if the ground were only half as strong. He stopped and gaped. Shattered boulders floated through the expanse of the Dreadfall like leaves on a bitter wind, slowly expanding into the larger expanse. More than just rock floated in the air—there were men, still and lifeless. _Same as from the well, at least six of them. What are they doing down here?_

Dayn crept higher, toward the smoke above him. He clung to the cliff face like a beetle, afraid he would float away if he lost his grip. He pulled himself over another ledge, and gasped.

Seven gray men lay still before the mouth of a tunnel made of a metal that Dayn had never seen before. It glowed like an immense furnace. Several hulking silhouettes stood in that light, fists raised. Voices stabbed through Dayn's shock.

"Their own worldheart will shake them to dust!"

"Victory!"

Cheers sounded until a new voice cut in, harsher than the rest. "I am not here to frighten them with trembling ground. I want this world torn from their accursed Belt! Finish your task!"

Dayn needed to hear no more. He immediately turned to flee, but his first bound took him floating into the air as though he were stuck in honey. Soon he would be swept into the floating rubble of the Dreadfall, and silently prayed they did not see him.

Warmth touched his outer thigh as he floated even higher. He reached instinctively for the strange orb and drew it from his pocket. The red pulsing shone through the muck that covered it. _What in peace's reach?_

"Raaluwos, look there." Dayn hastily stuffed the orb back in his pocket, too late.

"What?" The cruel voice again. One of the silhouettes shifted, pointing at Dayn.

"A boy in the air, watching us."

The voices all went abruptly silent. No doubt staring at Dayn as he floated in place.

"Raaluwos!" The biggest of the shadows turned at a shout from deeper within the blinding tunnel. "Something is wrong. The worldheart is resisting us. We must—"

The Dreadfall groaned ominously. More smoke filled the expanse, darkening the midnight sun. The cliffs where the gray men stood exploded, and a swath of burning heartrock three miles wide rushed toward Dayn.

***

Joam stopped to wait for Dayn at the bottom of the trail in the redbranch thickets, and then again at Laman's farm. Once it became clear he would not follow, Joam bounded crossly back to his own home, despite the lateness of the hour and how far he must go.

"I've stuck my neck out for him plenty enough," Joam muttered to himself. He cut quietly through the Wustl Square while the village slumbered, padding along empty streets with his lantern shuttered. With Elders doing backflips to please the visiting Misthaveners, it seemed wise to stay out of sight.

Dayn and his stubborn foolishness. Joam could not possibly fathom the appeal of coursing, not from how Dayn described it. Especially after looking into that monstrous hole, eyes searching vainly for the bottom, for any bottom...

Joam shivered. _I will never go to the Dreadfall again,_ he promised himself. _Not for a city full of Falena's sisters. Not for a Victor's Sash from the Cycle!_

He emerged on the other side of Wia Wells without incident, absorbed in his musings as he bounded home on weary feet. Although the truth would crush him, Dayn's chances of getting to the Course of Blades were about as good as old Nerlin's.

_Laman's reasonable, and fair with a staff besides, when he's not playing at Elder,_ he thought. _I could speak to him._ One season as an Applicant would have Dayn begging for anything that spared him from the fields. What would Laman do then? Laman had heavy ties with the Village Council, after all. Joam recalled the man's face when Elder Buril named Dayn an Attendant. An odd blend of pride, envy, and regret. That last puzzled him, regret?but maybe that meant a chance for Montollos with Joam.

"I shouldn't even bother," Joam muttered, although he knew the words to be false the moment he uttered them. He would do anything for Dayn. Well, anything within reason. He shivered again, and pushed the Dreadfall firmly from his mind.

Finally he turned off the road to his home, and crept soundlessly through his bedroom window, a skill honed through many nights of pulling pranks. Joam listened for creaking floorboards, but his parents and visiting brothers did not stir.

He placed his staff in the corner beside his door, and peeled his boots from miserably sore feet, giddy at the prospect of slumber. Joam groggily wondered how long it would take Dayn to give up. _That surely wasn't sunlight. Why don't the Elders teach us about the Dreadfall? Is it because they don't know what made cliffs so deep?_ Joam gave one last shudder before exhaustion forced his eyelids shut. He would find some excuse for being home in the morning.

Panicked shouts jolted him awake just before he began to snore. He leaped from bed, but the ground lurched under his feet and tossed him back into his blankets.

"Boys, outside!" He heard Milchamah shouting. "Get out of the house!"

Joam looked around in shock. His room looked windswept. Dresser drawers hung crookedly, wooden shelves slipped from their hangings, their contents scattered. His bed now slanted askew, inexplicably shifted away from the wall. Shouting continued throughout the house, and Joam opened his mouth to join in.

The cry died in his throat, cut short by an impossible sight. His darkwood staff no longer leaned in the corner. It floated slowly toward the ceiling as he watched, held in the thrall of some unnatural freedom. More objects began to rise. The broken shelves. His boots and whittling knives. The sight made Joam's hair stand straight up. He clung to his bed, fearful it would stir next. Surprise mingled into his family's screams.

"Peace protect us, the ground has died!" His mother's voice rang with terror, but Joam refused to believe her cries.

The ground trembled again, forcefully enough to rattle his teeth. For some reason, the memory of the Dreadfall brushed his mind, and somehow Joam knew.

"Dayn, whatever mess you've gotten into, peace send you're safe!"

***

Dayn glimpsed only a fleeting impression of rock hurtling toward him, wreathed in fire and dark smoke. Searing wind slammed into his body. The force flung him end over end, pelting him with shattered pieces of the cliff. The fragments glanced harmlessly from his seal-protected limbs in blinding flashes of light. He curled behind his forearms and shins as best he could while gouts of rock from the cliff wall mushroomed in every direction. The explosion propelled him away from the heartrock in a wave of boulders and choking dust.

Something cracked Dayn's head and silver discs speckled his vision. Pain lanced his upper arms and chest, tearing sleeves and skin alike. Another blow glanced off his collarbone just shy of a snapped bone. The tiny fragments needling his body made him painfully aware of every inch of skin not covered in sealer. After whatever the men did to Shard's heart, the explosions pushed him away from the heartrock with dizzying speed.

A firm mass thudded into Dayn's back, stunning him. He twisted around to discover a slab of smoking rock wider around than he could reach. Instinctively, Dayn kicked against it. His momentum shifted immediately, and he angled on a new path through the rock. For the first time since losing his rope, Dayn could control where he moved.

_Up,_ he thought. _I need to go up!_

Dayn began to hurdle clumsily, twisting and pushing to direct himself. He leaped and pushed through the debris, like a frog crossing a flooded river. The air cooled. Stars?blessed stars?were visible above! He was closer to the surface than he could hope for, but feared the rock would carry him past it, maybe even off his world completely and into the void.

He focused on the stars, and finding the cliffside. He kicked off a nearby boulder as big as a house as it sailed past him. The angle put him crossways to the main flow of rock. Fresh explosions thundered out of the Dreadfall's maw below him.

Dayn slammed into a mass that did not budge. He clung to it with all of his strength, feeling the cold rock of a cliff wall scrape his face.

"I did it," he breathed. "I did it." Shadow raced toward him, retaking the cliff walls as the sun below passed away from the Dreadfall. Cold swept in as the light vanished. The world reeled, and a terrible thundering made him lift his head in time to see broken stone and debris crashing its way back down the Dreadfall. Shard no longer let it float free, he could feel the difference in her ground. Blood and sweat covered his body, and pain gouged him from every direction.

Dayn knew he should begin climbing, but exhaustion kept his legs from moving. He heard water flowing swiftly from somewhere behind the cliff wall. He knew that meant something urgent, but the ringing in his ears refused to let him ferret out why. Another thought soon replaced it.

"So that's what coursing feels like." His voice sounded mangled to his own ears. A sickly pungent odor was the last thing Dayn remembered before darkness took him.

About the Author

If imagination was a mutant power, DaVaun Sanders could have enrolled at 1407 Graymalkin Lane. Instead, he went the safe route and earned a Bachelor's degree from Washington University in St. Louis in 2002. He eventually acquiesced to the student loan gods and took up architecture in Phoenix. Yet his passion for the field faded as he spent more free time writing and performing spoken word poetry.

The Seedbearing Prince began as a dream vivid enough to play like a movie trailer. Deciding to write the debut novel took some time, as it wasn't part of "The Plan," but the housing market collapse forced DaVaun's small design firm under in 2008. He decided to plunge into writing full-time, and is loving every minute of it. When the keyboard cramps his fingers, DaVaun gets lost in the great outdoors of Arizona or hits up open mic spots in the Valley. He responds to email from fans, but postcards are even better!

DaVaun is currently hard at work editing Part II of The Seedbearing Prince. Follow him on Google Plus, Twitter and Facebook for updates and giveaways!

gplus.to/davaunsanders

facebook.com/davaunsanders

twitter.com/davaunwrites

davaunsanders.com

*
