The Seedbearing Prince: Part I by DaVaun Sanders

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