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.