The Seedbearing Prince: Part I by DaVaun Sanders Read Free Book Online Page A

your
mother a hug, but you’ll do nothing but sit tonight if you still
look like this.” She picked a piece of stubble from his braids,
then called loudly to an adjoining booth. “Ereyl! One of your fine
shirts for my son here, and five changes of clothes for my
daughter, to a painting of your choice. Do you find the barter
fair?”
    “Fair and done!” The wizened Southforte
trader nearly tripped in his haste to shake Hanalene's hand. He
peered at Dayn a moment before rummaging through a chest in his
booth. “I’ve just your size, lad. Come give it a wear.”
    Dayn dutifully changed into the fresh tunic
before returning to Hanalene's booth. The fabric might feel better
if it were made of nettles.
    “Please, don't ruin this one. And you’ll want
this before the night is through.” Hanalene pressed another packet
of smellgoods into his hand. “One more thing. Have you seen Grahm
yet today?”
    “We talked to him in the fields,” Dayn said
carefully. He did not want to worry her with Grahm's behavior―or
his own strange morning, for that matter. “He said he would be here
soon.”
    “That’s good. Kajalynn said…” Hanalene’s face
clouded briefly, but more villagers approached to look through her
paintings.
    She favored them with a welcome smile before
turning back to Dayn.
    “Is everything alright, mother?”
    “Just be careful, my son.” She arched an
eyebrow and her tone became cool and mysterious. “There are hunters
about tonight.” With a rich chuckle she bustled him off.
    Dayn plunged back into the booths. Evensong
beckoned, but his mother’s words only added to the unease clouding
his thoughts. Yet he did feel better with so many people about,
instead of just he and Joam on the open road.
    Musicians played over in the Speaker's Turn.
Flute, lyre, and drums added to the pleasant drone of milling
farmers and craftsmen, along with the occasional stuffy
Misthavener. They pressed together so tightly Dayn could only
shuffle along.
    All manner of delights clamored for his
senses. The sharp tang of new leather from a clothier's booth
competed with the heady aroma of crushed grapes where winemakers
from Greenshadow demonstrated their trade. Toddlers squealed in
delight as they hopped about the wide crushing vats with purple
stained feet, and a long line of youngsters eagerly awaited their
turn at the booth.
    Dayn rounded a corner and perfumes assaulted
his nose, flowers and oils blended just to make a man lose his
wits.
    Behind a booth spaced further from the rest,
smoke billowed. A massive figure moved deftly through it. Dayn
nearly leaped out of his skin until he realized it was Blayle the
butcher, sweating over his coals.
    Dayn chided himself. I’ll fare worse with
the Elders than I did with Milchamah if I act this jumpy. He
sidled up to where Blayle expertly tended over a dozen spits full
of slow roasting lamb, goat and chicken. The stocky man paused
every so often to wipe sweat from his face with the towel he kept
draped over a thick shoulder. Blayle did not get to see any of the
other traders, but he looked pleased enough, especially when he
glanced across the way at the bored looking berrycake makers from
Kohr Springs.
    “Hello, Brother Blayle. I won't be surprised
when ridgecats sneak into Evensong, as good as it smells here.”
Dayn's mouth watered so freely he thought his cheeks might start to
sweat. The butcher took a good look at him, then sliced a liberal
chunk from a roasting goat and skewered it. He slathered it with
his family’s sauce, known throughout the district, and offered the
morsel to Dayn.
    “Oh, the ridgecats are here,” Blayle said,
motioning beneath his booth's counter. Dayn held back a laugh.
Stuffed beneath some dirty aprons, he spotted the butcher’s blue
garland. “They just put dresses on over their fur. Good Evensong to
you, lad.”
    “Have they made off with all of the Elders? I
haven’t seen one all day.”
    “Buril has them all circled up,”