User talk:Earthrender38

Chapter 4. Pain burned through Dayn's shoulder where the wreathweaver mangled his flesh, and a horrible throbbing attempted to cleave his head apart. He opened his eyes with a groan, squinting against the weak sunlight blistering through his bedroom window. “I'm home,” he realized aloud. His mouth tasted of old blood, and his voice was dull and scratchy. Bandages tinged the air with his mother's herbs, and engulfed his shoulder and chest where the wreatheweaver's jaws had left their mark. Dayn's skull pounded so fiercely it took him a moment to realize he was not alone until Laman cleared his throat. Dayn blinked. Milchamah was here also, and made a placating gesture when Dayn tried to rise. Laman's face was a study in tightly restrained fury. “Your friend may have very well saved your life. When the trouble started last night, we had no idea where you were until Milchamah and Joam told us about...” Laman paused, and something hard crossed his face, and then was gone. He continued tersely. “Your plans for the Dreadfall.” “We kept it quiet as we could,” Milchamah said, leaning in the door frame. He picked idly at a scabbed over cut on his forearm as he spoke. “I'm sure people are already asking why we bounded straight through Wia Wells without stopping. We asked after Grahm on the way, and it turned out he had a cinch and pulley to help fish you out. Funny thing for an offworlder to own, but fortunate for you. We'd still be dragging you out, without that.” “The Fall...” Dayn closed his eyes, grasping at memories feebily through his aching head. Of course the rupture he witnessed had been felt in Wia Wells. “What happened?” “The whole of Shard shook like a dog ridding herself of fleas.” Milchamah said. “The buildings are all whole, peace be praised. The worst we know of is a crack in the Dawnbreak's foundation?” Milchamah paused for Laman's confirming nod. “I fear Misthaven will not be so fortunate. We won't know until our runners return.” “This can happen to worlds, but I'm certain it was no ordinary...earthquake,” Laman added, forming the unfamiliar word with distaste. “Shard did not just shake. Somehow the ground...weakened. For nearly an hour the smallest spring in your step could carry you for spans; until Shard righted herself. People ran outside and their first step took them floating into the sky. The village has been up all night accounting for livestock, but its worse. There are...children missing.” “Peace,” Dayn said numbly. After his experiences in the Dreadfall, he could easily imagine whimpering toddlers as they wriggled into the uncaring night. Dayn sat bolt upright in his bed. “Tela! Is she alright?” he demanded. “Your sister is safe, and a budding hero at that.” Laman allowed himself the briefest rueful grin. “Tela found Kajalynn's toddler, who had been lost to the sky. She tied small stones to a blanket, and used it to drag the little lad back down to the ground. He must have been ten spans in the air, and never woke for a second.” Dayn shook his head in amazement. A baby that high, in the dark, would be near impossible to see. Tela really was a hero. So what were you doing? Dayn thought to himself bitterly. Traipsing about in the Dreadfall when the village needed you. Dayn eased back into the bed, ashamed. The two men allowed the silence to linger, punctuating Dayn's failure. Finally, Laman spoke. “She and your mother will return soon. Now enough questions. Dayn, tell us exactly what happened last night.” Dayn recounted last night's horror in a trembling voice, talking quietly into his palms. He could not bring himself to meet his father's eyes. Though his face burned at the omission, Dayn skirted around the deadwisps he saw swallowed in burning rock near the heart of Shard. He could not bear to seem a storytelling child trying to cover up his wrongdoings with outlandish tales. “Last thing I remember was passing out on the cliffside,” he finished. The two farmers were silent for a long moment, digesting Dayn's fantastical narrative. They had not interrupted Dayn once. Laman held a stoic trance, but his worried brown eyes hinted at thoughts thrashing beneath that mask. Milchamah mouthed the words heart of Shard? to himself and then shook his head; only to repeat the process all over again. Finally Laman looked at Milchamah, a pained expression that made Dayn want to burrow below his bed. He's ashamed of me, he thought miserably. The two men held each other's gaze, then without a single word to Dayn, walked out of his room. “Tell Joam I said thank you,” Dayn called out. Milchamah's head popped back into the room and regarded Dayn for a moment before vanishing again. A terse exchange flared briefly in the hallway, and the old farmer reappeared, this time holding a silverbark staff in his hand. It looked completely unused. “Try not to lose this one.” He flung the staff hard and Dayn caught it reflexively, feeling the weapon's weight hit his hand with a resounding smack. It was brand new, and superbly weighted; the finest staff Dayn had ever touched. He looked questioningly at Milchamah, who shrugged from the doorway. “Only real competition for my boy. Know how to think on your feet, when you do choose to think. I'm sure you won't have anything else to do this season, anyway.” Dayn winced at the truth of Milchamah's words. Rumors and secrets spread like tripweed through a village the size of Wia Wells. If the remaining Misthaveners learned of Dayn's ordeal, his would be the shortest service as an Attendant in the history of Shard. Elder Buril would never forgive him, nor any other inhabitant of Wia Wells. Dayn's future leered at him. He would struggle to be granted his first landright, he would wear a blue garland at Evensongs his whole life...his father's staff would never be carved again. Children would get in fistfights if one insulted the other with Dayn's name. Dayn let out a crestfallen sigh. “Hope it was worth it, boy.” At the old farmer's departure, Dayn stuffed his head beneath a pillow and squeezed his eyes shut. His head throbbed insistently, thoughts bouncing like hot bricks inside his skull, fueled by Dayn's misery. Suddenly tired and week, he sought sleep. Milchamah had not closed the door, his parent's voices percolated through Dayn's inchoate fever dream. “...coursing! Not even old enough to mine salt! And the Fall...” “...when I get back. The Council must be told about what he saw, even at the cost of being named Attendant. Of course I know what that means! We'll skin that ridgecat later. He needs rest...” Dayn groaned, too low to be noticed over his parent's discourse. He cast aside pillow and covers in a fitful bid for coolness. Sweat droplets raced over his skin like a rash. Spots of eager red bloomed on Dayn's shoulder, he clawed ferally at the bandages staunching that wicked crescent flow. “...peace send it was not poisonous. See if Sister Cari will...” On the shelf Laman had built for Dayn's collections, a new curiosity rested, ignored since it had been placed there after dropping from Dayn's scrip. Still caked in grime, the small sphere came to life. “...Grahm is close by. Don't let Tela stray far, you can imagine how those tremors stirred up the wilds. I will be back well before sundown, hopefully with good news.” The orb flashed in a pulsating rhythm that mirrored Dayn's excruciating headache, in quiet hues of violet that gradually faded away. Dayn's moans stopped. His breathing deepened. When Hanalene came to check on him, he did not feel her gentle touch upon his forehead, nor the hiss she made at his spent bandages. She clucked in surprise at his skin's condition underneath, deftly dressed the bite and firmly shushed Tela when she tried to enter. She pulled Dayn's covers up again, sparing Dayn's find a mistrustful glance before closing the door quietly behind her. Dreams still burned through Dayn's consciousness, even as the fever spent itself in his body. He was in the torrent, twisting through swirling rock and mist and darkness. His wingline disappeared in the mist far ahead, pulling Dayn inexorably toward some unseen destination. There was no joy in this coursing. Dayn was chased by grotesque man-shapes that reeked of rancid moisture and oily smoke. He fluttered just beyond their clutches in the fragile dance of prey. Their touch would change him forever, somehow, and Dayn knew it to be true without knowing how he knew. No matter how well he coursed the torrent, the wingline drew him mercilessly, and his elemental pursuers edged closer. Dayn veered to avoid a collision, and the bristling mass of rock swept past him. A deadwisp loomed suddenly in its wake. Dayn faced the same malignant stare he remembered from the well. The gray skin split in the semblance of a smile. Maggots poured from the mouth. “Ro'Halan,” it hissed, reaching for his face. Dayn's world splintered in pain. “No, no!” Dayn struggled and thrashed himself awake. The blankets he was entangled in peeled away to reveal Tela. His sister yanked with a flourish and held them triumphantly, like a flag. Dayn glowered as she beamed down at him. “Sleep all day, time to play!” she proclaimed cheerily. “Get off!” Dayn launched a pillow at Tela's head. She tumbled backwards off the bed and it sailed harmlessly over her sprawling feet. Tela alighted nimbly in a back bridge, and scuttled around like some bony shell-lost crab, giggling the entire time. She had reflexes like a cat. “You had better get up, brother. You better get up right now!” “Can't you see I'm supposed to be still?” Dayn growled. “I was badly hurt.” He tried to look wounded, but in truth Dayn's shoulder felt remarkably better than before. His headache was completely subdued, and the carnival of bruises felt considerably faded. He admitted to himself the real reason he avoided stirring was to avoid Hanalene's disapproval. I cannot stay in bed all spring. Tela tugged on his arm insistently. “You don't look hurt. Get up! Father is gone to the village,” Tela panted. Now she pulled valiantly on his ankle. Her next words froze Dayn's blood. “The strangers will be here soon.” “Strangers? What strangers?” he demanded with such intensity that Tela took an alarmed step away from the bed. “What strangers?” he repeated. “You better not be telling any stories.” “I'm not telling stories! They are visiting every homestead in the district. Grahm told us so this morning while you were asleep. Asking questions about anything out of the ordinary. They are visiting every homestead in the district. He said the whole village is spooked. I know he looked pale as a deadwisp!” Tela reeled sucking in her next breath. Dayn immediately began to dress. “Do you know who they are? You do, don't you? Hey! Where are you going, bighead?” Dayn called himself nine kinds of idiot for not telling his father and Milchamah about his encounter in the Dreadfall. Remorse surged him down the hall, ignoring Tela's incessant clucking at his heels. Dayn turned the corner so quickly, he nearly sprawled a startled Hanalene back into the kitchen. “Mother. I'm sorry, I—” he began, but Hanalene's peremptory hand halted the words in his throat. “Let me see your shoulder.” she said quietly. Hanalene carefully peeled away the bandage to inspect Dayn's wound. Her eyebrows lifted in surprise, and even Dayn forgot his urgency as he looked on, stunned. The neat arc of punctures was scabbed over, and the surrounding skin showed no sign of infection. “Is it true, about the strangers?” Dayn tried to ask calmly as his mother deftly replaced the bandage. “Tela would have said if they were from Misthaven.” Hanalene laced up Dayn's shirt, smoothing it, then examined him in that piercing way of mothers before drawing her eyes up to meet his. “I know nothing of the strangers,” she said evenly. “Father is at Wia Wells now, helping the Council look after everyone. Grahm promised to check on us once his wife is calmed.” “I'm sorry for last night.” Dayn blurted out. “I should have told you both...I meant to a long time ago, but they chose me as Attendant so quickly and there was no way to practice coursing, so I—” “Oh, Dayn.” Hanalene whispered. Her golden eyes, beautiful and injured, demanded Dayn embrace the humiliation he had thoughtlessly brought upon his family. Dayn felt his insides would split open with mortification, but then Hanalene touched his face gently, fingertips tracing down his cheek. Dayn wanted to look away but could not for his mother's gaze provided forgiveness alongside his condemnation. “We will talk about this when your father returns. He was so proud of you.” Dayn winced at his mother's observation. He was proud of me. “To be an Attendant, is the highest pledge. To be one of Shard's best sons. “I've always done my best by the land, just as father and you have taught me,” Dayn said crossly. “Peace, but I never asked for this! No I won't be able to show my face at the Sealing.” “Do you remember when you asked me for a leash so you could watch Tela?” Hanalene asked. Tela harumphed loudly from the hallway where she had been listening, silently for once. Dayn fronwed at the question. “I do remember,” he said. Tela was always trying to bound higher than him, or surging toward the next horizon to see what was there. Tela used to hide from him as if in some great game, but then she would get someplace where she grew afraid; like the roof of the house, or the barn. Then Dayn would have to find a way to get her down before their parents found out. Watching her had been as easy as watching a dust devil. “You were ten times as bad,” his mother said, ignoring his protests firmly. “Believe it. You've been fighting Shard's hold since your first steps. I don't know about this coursing nonsense, I—” Hanalene bit her words off at seeing Dayn's face crumple. Tela quit grinning, seeing the months of resolve that had carried Dayn into the Dreadfall shatter like Aran glass at his parents' rejection. Hanalene smothered Dayn in a fierce hug, as if she could press his splintered dreams into a new shape. “I'm just glad your safe.” A calloused knock filled their home, loud and insistent. Everyone's attention shifted to the front door, all else forgotten. Dayn and Tela looked at each other. The strangers. Hanalene released Dayn abruptly, smoothing her skirt and dabbing her eyes. “Finally, Grahm comes. Maybe now we will have some answers.” Then his mother's hand grasped the latch, ready to pull the door open. The siblings moved as one. Dayn stepped quickly in front of his mother, blocking the door with his full weight. Hanalene's eyes widened. She was so surprised Tela easily removed her grip from the latch, eyes wide with fear. “We don't know if that is him at all!” she cried. Dayn moved his mother away from the door. Her expression rapidly shifted from surprise to indignation. “Go to the garden, and be ready to run if I say,” he said. “Dayn, you are being ridiculous!” Hanalene exclaimed. Her golden eyes flashed dangerously, and Dayn hastily released his grip. Tela dropped her mother's hand like she had been holding a hot rock. At a look from Dayn, Tela disappeared into his room, returning with the new silverbark staff Milchamah had bestowed upon him. A weapon ill-suited for indoors, but the best Dayn had. Hanalene looked at him with searching eyes, hesitating at his sudden, uncharacteristic aggression. “Please. You know that isn't Grahm. Tela you go too.” In mounting worry, his mother let Tela half pull her out to the garden. Dayn took a deep breath and turned to face the door. He wished it were ten times as thick, and made of stone instead of wood. “Who is it?” he called out cautiously. “I am here on behalf of the Ring.” A muffled voice answered from behind the grain. Dayn frowned. The Ring? That was the last thing he expected to hear from outside the door. Still he did not open it. “We have come to investigate these past days' happenings. My name is Lurec. I am a Preceptor.” “How do I know for sure?” Dayn asked suspiciously. No Ringman ever came to Shard, except the Consorts who arrived every year at the festival of Sealing to gather Shard's harvest for the World Belt. But those were the same men every year, known by name throughout Shard even to the Elders of Wia Wells. Preceptors were men of learning, spending their lives in studious seclusion. Dayn hesitated. The gray men he had chanced upon in the Dreadfall would not be knocking so politely. He was not thinking clearly. “May I come in?” A strong grip unexpectedly yanked Dayn backwards, and he stumbled away from the door. “I should thump you with that great stick!” Hanalene hissed. With an exasperated twitch of her hair she flung the door wide. “Forgive my son's manners, Ringman. Dayn put that away! Please, come in. Please.” The least threatening man Dayn could have imagined entered the room. The Preceptor gathered them all in with a glance, he was slight of build and unassuming. Sharp blue eyes intimated a fiercely intelligent mind, Dayn was sure they remembered and stored every detail that took hold of the Preceptor's curiosity. He was searching for something. The man was quite fair of skin, with a round, clean shaven face and meticulously cut sandy hair. For some reason he reminded Dayn of their neighbor, Grahm; and Dayn absently wondered if they came from the same world. The Preceptor's clothes were a simple, neatly cut affair of the palest gray. The man looked as if he rarely spent a day outside. The Ringman peered at Dayn's staff with narrowly concealed nervousness, and Dayn's face grew hot. This man was not going to hurt anyone. He looked truly incapable of any kind of violence at all. Tela stared warily from behind her mother's skirts. The Preceptor addressed Dayn's mother with a halting, unctuous smile. “It is quite alright,” he said, stepping forward at Hanalene's insistance. He eyed Dayn's staff again, so Dayn leaned it on the wall. The Preceptor visibly relaxed, then gave his mother a slight bow. “My name is Lurec. Strange days dance in the World Belt. Even such a beautiful world as Shard would be hard pressed to avoid them.” “Forgive our...surprise to see you here, Ringman; we never see such visitors in the Mistlands. Why has the Ring come to our little village?” Hanalene asked carefully. Ringmen settled disputes among the worlds, and were the main overseers of commerce throughout the World Belt. There was never that sort of infighting on Shard, nothing Elders could not decide upon among themselves. “Honestly, I am hoping that you can tell us,” Lurec said earnestly. “A worldheart shook last night, and we need to know the why of it. 'As Shard goes, so the Belt follows.'” The last part held the sound of an old saying, but Dayn had never heard its like before. The Preceptor spoke haltingly at first, but his words, gained energy as he continued. “Some of my fellows in the Ring are conferring with the leaders of your capital. They believe a Query needs to take place. Wia Wells has been brought up more than once in those...considerations.” “Peace protect us.” Hanalene looked stricken. Dayn felt a tight ball of angst form in his chest. A Query. The Preceptor paused for effect, as though knowing the impact his words would convey, but still mildly surprised at the result. When conflict or trouble in the World Belt grew too great for the world to right itself, the Ring intervened to arbitrate. In the worst scenarios, swift punishment followed the Ring's judgment. The first phase for any world under a Query involved exhaustive scrutiny by Preceptors, the Ringmen who were rumored with fantastic abilities of perception. They could tell a man everything about his family tree in one stare, or pick out a thief from a crowd of fifty. Suddenly Lurec's nonchalant manner took a hidden, subversive nature. The Preceptor's smile looked more calculated than considerate, Dayn was sure; his blue gaze gathered evidence instead of understanding. Dayn felt sweat form on his back. Once Preceptors discovered any wrongdoing during their Query, Defenders were summoned to administer justice. Dayn had never seen a Defender from the Ring in his life, and hoped he never would. Hanalene's feelings must have reflected Dayn's, for no further words escaped her trembling lips. “Rest assured, goodwife,” Lurec said soothingly. “The Preceptors here with me believe such, shall we say, extreme measures are not necessary. We spoke with your—Village Council, its called?—before journeying to the outlying farms in this district. Now, there are Defenders in our party, but upon my word they are here only here for the protection of myself and my fellows. We were told the wildlife in the Mistlands is rather treacherous.” He finished with a sheepish grin. “Oh, yes.” Hanalene visibly relaxed at his words. “Not nearly so bad as those Misthaveners play at.” According to the stories, a Preceptor could not—would not—lie, even on pain of death. Plant a Preceptor's word in the ground and it will sprout every time, as the saying went. Dayn doubted that all the stories were true, but he believed this man. His words held a certainty that Dayn knew he could trust. Lurec proffered that ingratiating smile again, and his eyes swept over Dayn with the precision of a field survey. He pointed at Dayn's shoulder. “Seems like you could tell me about Shard's fauna firsthand! Dayn, was it?” “Nothing, really,” Dayn began, before his mother interrupted. “A wreatheweaver—” They both cut off awkwardly. Lurec looked on, thoughtful and analytic. Dayn suddenly did not want this Preceptor and his Ring to know he had been anywhere near the Dreadfall. The Misthaveners had assuredly whispered poison to this Ringman. Dayn flashed his mother a quick look. Judging by her face, she was thinking the same thing, and the hospitality she normally extended any house guest concealed a growing reservoir of worry. “Wreatheweaver. Those are...snakes, correct?” The Preceptor pursed his lips. “So fatal to encounter, their name is derived from the ceremonial markers you place upon your burial ground.” Dayn frowned, the man spoke as if reciting a passage from some ancient book. Despite her worry, Hanalene favored the Preceptor with a dry look he did not notice. Lurec was too busy taking in Dayn's bandages. “You Shardians are as hardy as they say if that is nothing!” he marveled. “Your shoulder looks like it should have been unhinged.” “It nearly was,” Dayn admitted. “I got away, though.” He needed to steer the conversation away from the Dreadfall quickly, Dayn knew himself to be a poor liar. This man would surely ferret out any meager attempt at falsehood, so Dayn tried to change the subject. “Gravespinners are worse, and there are more of them besides. They infest the redbranch for leagues to the north of here.” The Preceptor's mouth crinkled in disdain. “Another aberration, and just as aptly named. There are similar oddities on the world of Feralos. Do you know about—” abruptly Lurec cut off, muttering to himself. Dayn and Tela looked at each other curiously. What was he to say that we could not hear? “I have a fascination for local fauna,” Lurec said, issuing his warm smile again. “But I understand wreathweavers prefer much rockier terrain. I've seen nothing here but woodland.” Dayn was still grasping for a noncommittal answer when Tela, to his horror, blurted out a response. “Tell him, Dayn!” she said. “Tell him, brother! Way past Esane's farmland to the west, before the swamps; that is where it is rocky.” Tela turned to the Preceptor with a look of satisfied knowing. “Dayn took me there once.” Bless you, Tela, Dayn thought in relief. Lurec nodded judiciously. His sister had unwittingly led the conversation completely away from the Dreadfall. The Preceptor's inquisitiveness was seemingly satiated for the moment. “Is that so?” Hanalene asked, her voice too sweet. Dayn looked with approbation at his mother. Dayn was not supposed to be in the Sliding Cliffs himself, let alone have taken Tela. Still he preferred her eventual wrath to this current predicament. “To the west, there are undercut bluffs, where the swamp water pulls the land down.” Dayn continued at his sister's insistence. Lurec nodded his head, listening in interest. Dayn suspected the man never forgot anything that was spoken to him. “Southforte folk call them the Sliding Cliffs. It is easy to find gems there, and Hake the gemcutter will always trade well for any that we find. Sometimes we find relics there too, although its easier to find them in...other places.” Dayn bit his lip and grimaced inwardly. Tela gets us away from the Dreadfall and I almost bring it up again myself. Peace! He spoke rapidly, pushing to finish quickly for fear of his own tongue. “I was going to trade my relics at Evensong, but most offworlders like the gems we find more.” “Dayn has the best collection in all the Mistlands,” Tela beamed proudly. Lurec's eyebrows rose. “Relics you say? Relics interest me.” “Well then, I'm sure you two will have something to talk about,” Hanalene said. “You have traveled far, Master Lurec. Let me prepare you a suitable meal.” The Preceptor began to protest, but she shushed him firmly. “No, I insist. Preceptors still must eat, I'm sure? My husband will be here soon, and he is part of the Village Council. Then you can ask of us all to your heart's content. We would like to know more of what happened last night, too.” Lurec bowed graciously in acceptance. Dayn noticed his blue eyes dart imperceptibly to the window though. He was measuring the daylight. Then he looked at Dayn, a brief flash of calculation before addressing Hanalene smoothly. “Shardian hospitality is highly spoken of, and rightly so. I accept. Please Dayn, show me this collection.” Hanalene nodded briskly, and swept out to the garden. Dayn watched her go solemnly, dreading what other questions the Preceptor planned to ask of him. He has someplace to go, but he thinks it worthwhile to stay here. Peace keep me, what is he searching for? Reluctantly, he motioned the Preceptor towards his room. Three long shelves that stretched across one wall of Dayn's room, and were laden with the oddities he had collected through the years. The wood was carved with Laman's fine carved scrollwork. The Preceptor ran an appreciative hand over the intricate craftsmanship, but his eyes were fixed on Dayn's trinkets. Dayn wondered what secrets each piece whispered to this offworlder. Dayn supposed much of his collection would be counted as rubbish to any outside eye. There were many pieces of wind-sculptured wood, and stones that caught his eye for their intricate patterns. Most boys in Wia Wells possessed similar yields from their exploration, but Dayn prided himself on finding the truly unique. Dayn nervously followed the Preceptor's eyes, wondering if he could tell where each piece originated from. Lurec's eyebrows lifted in approval at a flat piece of lime-colored rock that was crisscrossed with bone shapes that looked to be a skeleton trapped inside. That lay next to Dayn's assortment of gems; firedrops, moonstones and emeralds. Most offworlders drooled at the sight of just one or two of the stones, but to Dayn's surprise, the big basket full of those went entirely ignored by the Preceptor. Lurec had instead keyed on one of Dayn’s rarest finds, and he lifted it from the lower shelf with a grunt. The Preceptor examind a dull cylindrical object, turning it end over end with trembling hands. It had a dull metallic gleam where it was windshorn, and curious angular markings etched into what Dayn believed was once a smooth surface. “You did not exaggerate. Few people of the Belt could boast of such artifacts. Few Ringmen, for that matter,” he added dryly. “This is called an angel tear. Perhaps another time I will be able to tell you of its history.” The Preceptor replaced the angel tear and unconsciously wiped his hands on his coat. His lip curled like someone who had touched filth by accident, and did not know how to get the smell off his hands. Tela looked at the man oddly, cocking her head to one side and frowning. Whatever the object was had entirely transformed Lurec’s demeanor. “Thank you for that,” Dayn said carefully. “The Elders said they did not know where it came from, or what it was for. I think they just did not want to say.” “Wise men and women, for that,” Lurec replied, giving the rest of the shelves a disinterested sweep. “Some stories are fit to make the stones weep. Does any of your collection come from the Bore?” The Preceptor's question was sudden and direct. He did not face Dayn as he spoke, but continued to glance through the collection. Dayn licked his lips. Tela frowned, uncomprehending. “I beg your pardon; what Shardians call the Dreadfall?” The man waited patiently for Dayn to stammer his reply. “People say it is bad luck to collect from the Fall. I've heard there is more to find near the mines at Sheercrest,” he said, eying the Preceptor nervously. What if he knows I was in the Fall? Lurec nodded and did not appear to notice Dayn avoiding his question. “Do you think some of those could—” “Peace embrace us all,” Lurec whispered. He spun to face Dayn, a stricken look on his face. “Do you know what this is?” The Preceptor's hands may have trembled before, but now they shook. He held the orb Dayn had found in the Dreadfall last night. He stared at it dumbly, he had completely forgotten about it with all of the recent events. “No, I...just barely found it.” Dayn shared a worried glance with Tela as the Preceptor rushed out of the room with suddenly purposeful strides. “Come with me, at once!” Dayn followed. His mother stood in the kitchen, holding a freshly prepared tray of berrycakes and tea on a tray. Her look for the Preceptor was understandably perplexed as he waved the red orb in the air like it was the key to Ista Cham. “Please, I must return to the Ring at once,” Lurec said urgently. His blue eyes burned with an intense light that Dayn was surprised to see in the slight man. “What...is something wrong? You've just barely arrived!” “I am duty bound as a Preceptor not to meddle in your household, Hanalene. Your son has brought a...tool to my attention that I must be allowed to take.” The Preceptor's voice grew even more agitated. “Your husband must return soon! He is on the Council, yes?” “Yes,” Hanalene stared silently for awhile, studying the man before she spoke. “I do not know for certain why, but I feel we can trust you,” Hanalene said. Dayn knew what she meant. The Preceptor was excited, even frantic, but it was nearly impossible to see him capable of deceit, or meaning them any kind of harm. Dayn had never heard a story of a Preceptor causing anyone harm—except when their Query resulted in the action of Defenders from the Ring. “If its that important, take it.” “Yes, we do not want trouble here. We are good Shard folk,” Dayn chimed in. “You can have it.” The Preceptor let out an anguished laugh. “I wish it were so simple! This is...a Seed.” Lurec took in their blank looks, and shook his head. “Ah, you truly do not know. What I can tell you is this is very old, and very powerful. There are...those in the World Belt who would pay any price to possess this, or even kill any who know of it. I pray none of them are Shardian.” Hanalene made a scandalized sound, and Dayn found his own voice rising in indignation. “No Shardians kill people! Only [world] or the Eadrinn Gohr do such things!” “Take it.” Hanalene repeated. She had set the tray down, and ushered Lurec towards the door. Tela busied herself wrapping berrycakes in a napkin for his journey back to Wia Wells. Lurec shook his head obstinately, and Hanalene all but begged him, wringing her hands next to the opened door. “We want none of that trouble here. Enough has happened! Please, just take it!” “I cannot. The Ring deals only with leaders of a given world. My actions today could be seen as deceiving, you must understand.” Lurec's even tone was not reassuring. Dayn forced himself to think from the man's perspective, as his mother continued to plead with him to leave. It would be the same as if Dayn himself used his position as an Applicant to take tools from other youth. Even if he were taking tools for the right reasons, those fathers and mothers would be sorely displeased after the fact. Yes, it made sense. “But your husband's permission will free you of this burden,” Lurec was saying. “Peace send he come this way soon.” “Fine. Tela, go down the road to meet father. He's on his way, but we need him here quickly.” Dayn's sister dropped the neat packages she was preparing for the Preceptor at her mother's instructions. With a triumphant look for Dayn, she bolted into her room to find her shoes. Dayn turned to his mother angrily. “Mother, I can get there twice as quickly. I should be the one to go!” “Dayn...” his mother began warningly, but then dropped her tone after an imperceptible glance at Lurec who had surreptitiously busied himself over his new discovery. Dayn crossed his arms stubbornly, even if he was going to get dressed down in front of a stranger, he was still in the right. Hanalene began again in more measured tones. “Dayn, she is fine on the road. Also it is best you are not in the village for awhile, until things have...settled. Tela can handle herself.” Tela entered the room in a proud saunter as if to prove exactly that. “I will be back soon, mother!” Then she was gone. Dayn watched her from the window for a moment, bounding swiftly westward down the road, until she was out of view. The Preceptor was polite enough, responding to Hanalene's attempts at small talk and commenting on how tasty the refreshments were, but it was clear he was impatient to leave. She gave up eventually, and Dayn did nothing himself to fill the silence. The Seed consumed the Preceptor's mind, and that was the one thing Dayn wished to know nothing more about. First he held it, then placed it on the table as if afraid it would burn his hand; only to snatch it up a few moments later as though it would sprout legs and bound away like Tela. Dayn could not wait to be rid of it. He could already imagine greed crazed Misthaveners descending upon Wia Wells upside down for more artifacts to find. More of these Seed. Men like that weasel eyed Elder from Evensong, who was probably still staying at the Inn. If that were not bad enough, offworlders would surely come; more than the Ring and its Query—all with Dayn stuck in the middle. The road lay empty. Judging from the sun, Laman had still been in Wia Wells to be gone this long. Two hours crawled had gone by, rife with tense silence. Dayn had given over reading one of his favorite books, it was unnerving with the Preceptor muttering to himself, about “outdated protocol” and “exigent circumstances”, whatever that meant. The Preceptor paced, and Hanalene had retreated to her studio to paint as she often did when emotions overflowed in her day. Laman would arrive soon enough, and he would take care of everything. Dayn's shame returned at the thought. Not a day had passed since he was dragged from the Dreadfall—the same night his sister was hailed a hero. Now here he was attracting the attention of offworlders from the relics he had procured from snooping around in the very place he was not supposed to be. Still Dayn found himself longing for his father's sure frame to appear on the horizon, but he also dreaded it. Dayn's attention was devoted entirely to the window, so he was the first to see a bright flash to the west. Lurec stopped pacing, and his mother called sharply from her studio. Dayn flung the door open and rushed outside, dimly aware of the Preceptor on his heels. Dayn stopped in surprise as the ground shook under their feet. A thick black plume of smoke began to rise steadily into the sky. “That's right where Wia Wells is,” Dayn called out in alarm. “Peace, look at the smoke!” “Laman! By the heart of Shard, my daughter! Tela!” Hanalene's voice took on a shrill, hysterical keen and she rushed mindlessly towards the road. Dayn and Lurec grabbed her, Dayn's stomach knotted to hear his mother's wail of protest. She was ready to bound all the way to Wia Wells, hands still stained with dyes. “This will wait.” Lurec slipped the Seed into the pocket of his cloak before meeting Dayn's eyes. “I will assist however I can.” Dayn ran back inside to grab his staff. He forced down thoughts of his family in the town, and what could have happened. He had never seen so much smoke in his life, except for last night when....Dayn steered his mind away from the Dreadfall. His hands felt numb and weak, but gripping the staff helped him steady himself. “I don't care about your Seed, I just want to see my family safe. Mother, go to stay at Grahm's until I come back!” Dayn made his mother acknowledge, and finally she disappeared inside for traveling clothes. Dayn thumped his staff into the ground impatiently until she emerged with her cloak, then he gestured at the Preceptor. “Come on!” The three headed down the road to Wia Wells, watching the smoke rise higher and higher into the sky.