Aramina’s first impression of the slender figure standing in the clearing was surprise. The Weyrwoman of Benden was so small in stature: a full head shorter than Aramina. But, once Aramina confronted Lessa, the vivid eyes and the forceful personality made her forget about such a trivial detail as height. Nor had Heth mentioned that F’lar and Lord Asgenar also waited.
“My dear child, are you quite all right?” Lessa’s expression turned anxious as her hand hovered over the ugly bare patch on Aramina’s head.
“I don’t know how that villian Thella eluded us,” said Asgenar, his teeth clenched with frustration. “We have captured the rest of her band. Fewer to trouble you, and us. I am most chagrined, Aramina, that despite our precautions you were put at risk.”
“I’m fine, really, Lord Asgenar. Heth saved me. And Mother had the fellis and numbweed.”
“We are extremely grateful to you,” Barla put in, “for those generous gifts.”
“Generous!” Lessa made a scathing remark. “I would be a lot more generous, Lady Barla, if your stiff Ruathan pride would permit.”
Nothing could have startled Barla more, but, though she permitted a slight smile to curve her lips, to Aramina she seemed to be more prideful than ever.
“We Ruathans have reason to be proud, Lady Lessa.”
“But not stupid in that pride, Lady Barla. Lytol tells me that Dowell’s hold is still vacant. Deserted, needing repairs, for no one under Fax’s holding prospered. Would you prefer to return there? Lord Asgenar”—Asgenar bowed at his name—“is also interested in anyone with wood mastery.”
Barla looked from one to the other. “Ruatha is ours by right.”
“So be it, Lady Barla,” Lessa said, and, from the way her mouth twitched, Aramina was certain that she applauded the answer.
“However, Lord Asgenar, I am certain that my husband would be glad to build you a Gather wagon . . . to acquit our lodging here.”
“Only if he also accepts the marks his Craft allots for the labor,” said Asgenar with a wide grin.
“Of course, Aramina is for Benden Weyr,” Lessa went on, her eyes now fixed on Barla’s face.
“But I want to go home, to Ruatha!” cried Aramina, clinging to her mother now; clinging, too, to the dream on which she had been nourished from childhood, the return to the place of her birth, where her family belonged.
“A girl who hears dragons belongs to the Weyr,” said Barla, firmly taking Aramina’s hands and pressing them hard.
“It’s not as if you can’t visit any time you want to,” Lessa said lightly. “I do. Though we of Ruatha serve our Weyrs whenever we are called to.”
Please, ’Mina. Heth’s tremulous whisper invaded her conflicting thoughts. Please come to Benden with me and K’van. We’d love to have you.
You will be most welcome in Benden Weyr, said the dark, black, rich voice of Mnementh.
“There are eggs hardening on Benden Hatching Ground right now,” Lessa went on, her voice persuasive. “Benden needs a girl who can hear dragons.”
“More than my family needs me?” asked Aramina perversely.
“Far more, as you’ll discover,” said Lessa, holding her hand out to Aramina. “Coming?”
“I don’t have a choice, do I?” But Aramina smiled.
“Not when Lessa, and Benden’s dragons, have made up your mind for you,” said F’lar with a laugh.
From the track, dragons bellowed an emphatic agreement.
Tenna topped the rise and paused to catch her breath, leaning forward, hands on her knees to ease her back muscles. Then, as she had been taught, she walked along the top on what flat space there was, kicking out her legs and shaking the thigh muscles, breathing through her mouth until she stopped panting. Taking her water bottle from her belt, she allowed herself a swig, swishing it around in her mouth to moisturize the dry tissue. She spat out that mouthful and took another, letting this one slowly trickle down her throat. The night was cool enough to keep her from sweating too heavily. But she wouldn’t be standing around long enough to get a chill.
It didn’t take long for her breath to return to normal, and she was pleased by that. She was in good shape. She kicked out her legs to ease the strain she had put on them to make the height. Then, settling her belt and checking the message pouch, she started down the hill at a rapid walking pace. It was too dark—Belior had not yet risen above the plain to give her full light for the down side of the hill—to be safe to run in shadows. She only knew this part of the trace by word of mouth, not actually footing it. She’d done well so far during this, her second Turn of running, and had made most of her first Cross by the suggested easy laps. Runners watched out for one another, and no station manager would overtax a novice. With any luck, she’d’ve made it all the way to the Western Sea in the next sevenday. This was the first big test of her apprenticeship as an express runner. And really she’d only the Western Range left to cross once she got to Fort Hold.
Halfway down from the top of the rise, she met the ridge crest she’d been told about and, with the usual check of the pouch she carried, she picked up her knees and started the ground-eating lope that was the pride of a Pernese runner.
Of course, the legendary “lopers”—the ones who had been able to do a hundred miles in a day—had perished ages ago, but their memory was kept alive. Their endurance and dedication were an example to everyone who ran the traces of Pern. There hadn’t been many of them, according to the legend, but they had started the runner stations when the need for the rapid delivery of messages arose, during the First Fall of Thread. Lopers had been able to put themselves in some sort of trance which not only allowed them to run extended distances but kept them warm during snowstorms and in freezing temperatures. They had also planted the original traces, which now were a network crisscrossing the entire continent.
While only Lord Holders and Craftmasters could afford to keep runnerbeasts for their couriers, the average person, wanting to contact crafthalls, relatives, or friends across Pern, could easily afford to express a letter across the continent in runner pouches, carried from station to station. Others might call them “holds,” but runners had always had “stations,” and station agents, as part of their craft history. Drum messages were great for short messages, if the weather was right and the winds didn’t interrupt the beat, but as long as folks wanted to send written messages there’d be runners to take them.
Tenna often thought proudly of the tradition she was carrying on. It was a comfort on long solitary journeys. Right now, the running was good: the ground was firm but springy, a surface that had been assiduously maintained since the ancient runners had planted it. Not only did the mossy stuff make running easier but it identified a runner’s path. A runner would instantly feel the difference in the surface, if he, or she, strayed off the trace.
Slowly, as full Belior rose behind her, her way became illuminated by the moon’s light and she picked up her pace, running easily, breathing freely, her hands carried high, chest height, with elbows tucked in. No need to leave a “handle,” as her father called it, to catch the wind and slow the pace. At times like these, with good footing, a fair light, and a cool evening, you felt like you could run forever. If there weren’t a sea to stop you.
She ran on, able to see the flow of the ridge, and by the time the trace started to descend again, Belior was high enough to light her way. She saw the stream ahead and slowed cautiously . . . though she’d been told that the ford had a good pebbly surface . . . and splashed through the ankle-high cold water, up onto the bank, veering slightly south, picking up the trace again by its springy surface.
She’d be over halfway now to Fort Hold and should make it by dawn. This was a well-traveled route, southwest along the coast to the farther Holds. Most of what she carried right now was destined for Fort Holders, so it was the end of the line for both the pouch and herself. She’d heard so much about the facilities at Fort that she didn’t quite believe it. Runners tended to understatement rather
than exaggeration. If a runner told you a trace was dangerous, you believed it! But what they said about Fort was truly amazing.
Tenna came from a running family: father, uncles, cousins, grandfathers, brothers, sisters, and two aunts were all out and about the traces that crisscrossed Pern from Nerat Tip to High Reaches Hook, from Benden to Boll.
“It’s bred in us,” her mother had said, answering the queries of her younger children. Cesila managed a large runner station, just at the northern Lemos end of the Keroon plains where the immense skybroom trees began. Strange trees that flourished only in that region of Pern. Trees that, a much younger Tenna had been sure, were where the Benden Weyr dragons took a rest in their flights across the continent. Cesila had laughed at Tenna’s notion.
“The dragons of Pern don’t need to rest anywhere, dear. They just go between to wherever they need to go. You probably saw some of them out hunting their weekly meal.”
In her running days, Cesila had completed nine full Crosses a Turn until she’d married another runner and started producing her own bag of runners-to-be.
“Lean we are in the breeding, and leggy, most of us, with big lungs and strong bones. Ah, there now, a few come out who’re more for speed than distance but they’re handy enough at Gathers, passing the winning line before the others have left the starting ribbon. We have our place on the world same as holders and even weyrfolk. Each to his, or her, own. Weaver and tanner, and farmer, and fisher, and smith and runner and all.”
“That’s not the way we was taught to sing the Duty Song,” Tenna’s younger brother had remarked.
“Maybe,” Cesila had said with a grin, “but it’s the way I sing it and you can, too. I must have a word with the next harper through here. He can change his words if he wants us to take his messages.” And she gave her head one of her emphatic shakes to end that conversation.
As soon as runner-bred children reached full growth, they were tested to see if they’d the right Blood for the job. Tenna’s legs had stopped growing by the time she’d reached her fifteenth full Turn. That was when she was assessed by a senior runner of another Bloodline. Tenna had been very nervous, but her mother, in her usual offhanded way, had given her lanky daughter a long knowing look.
“Nine children I’ve given your father, Fedri, and four are already runners. You’ll be one, too, never fear.”
“But Sedra’s . . .”
Cesila held up her hand. “I know your sister’s mated and breeding but she did two Crosses before she found a man she had to have. So she counts, too. Gotta have proper Bloodlines to breed proper runners and it’s us who do that.” Cesila paused to be sure Tenna would not interrupt again. “I came from a hold with twelve, all of them runners. And all breeding runners. You’ll run, girl. Put your mind at ease. You’ll run.” Then she’d laughed. “It’s for how long, not will you, for a female.”
Tenna had decided a long time ago—when she had first been considered old enough to mind her younger siblings—that she’d prefer running to raising runners. She’d run until she could no longer lift her knees. She’d an aunt who’d never mated: ran until she was older than Cesila was now and then took over the management of a connecting station down Igen way. Should something happen and she couldn’t run anymore, Tenna wouldn’t mind managing a station. Her mother ran hers proper, always had hot water ready to ease a runner’s aching limbs, good food, comfortable beds, and healing skills that rivaled what you could find in any Hold. And it was always exciting, for you never knew who might run in that day, or where they’d be going. Runners crossed the continent regularly, bringing with them news from other parts of Pern. Many had interesting tales to tell of problems on the trace and how to cope with them. You heard all about other Holds and Halls, and the one dragonweyr, as well as what interested runners most specifically: what conditions were like and where traces might need maintenance after a heavy rain or landslide.
She was mightily relieved, however, when her father said he had asked Mallum of the Telgar station to do her assessment. At least Tenna had met the man on those occasions when he’d been through to their place on the edge of Keroon’s plains. Like other runners, he was a lanky length of man, with a long face and graying hair that he tied back with his sweatband as most runners did.
Her parents didn’t tell her when Mallum was expected, but he turned up one bright morning, handing in a pouch to be logged on the board by the door and then limping to the nearest seat.
“Bruised the heel. We’ll have to rock that south trace again. I swear it grows new ones every Turn or two,” he said, mopping his forehead with his orange sweatband and thanking Tenna for the cup of water. “Cesila, got some of that sheer magic poultice of yours?”
“I do. Put the kettle to heat the moment I saw you struggling up the trace.”
“Was not struggling,” Mallum said in jovial denial. “Was careful not to put the heel down was all.”
“Don’t try to fool me, you spavined gimper,” Cesila replied as she was dipping a poultice sack into the heated water, testing it with a finger.
“Who’s to run on? Some orders in that need to be got south smartly.”
“I’m taking it on,” Fedri said, coming out of his room and tying on his sweatband. “How urgent?” His runner’s belt was draped over his shoulder. “I’ve others to add from the morning’s eastern run.”
“Hmmm. They want to make the Igen Gather.”
“Ha! It’ll be there betimes,” Fedri said, reaching for the pouch and carefully adding the other messages to it before he put it through the belt loops. Settling it in the small of his back with one hand, he chalked up the exchange time with the other. “See you.”
Then he was out the door and turning south, settling into his long-distance stride almost as soon as his foot hit the moss of the trace.
Tenna, knowing what was needed, had already pulled a footstool over to Mallum. She looked up at him for permission and, with his nod, unlaced the right shoe, feeling the fine quality of the leather. Mallum made his own footwear and he had set the stitching fine and tight.
Cesila knelt beside her daughter, craning her head to see the bruise.
“Hmmm. Hit it early on, didn’tcha?”
“I did,” Mallum said, drawing his breath in with a hiss as Cesila slapped the poultice on. “Oooooh! Shards . . . you didn’t get it too hot, didja?”
Cesila sniffed denial in reply as she neatly and deftly tied the packet to his foot.
“And is this the lass of yours as is to be taken for a run?” he asked, relaxing his expression from the grimace he’d made when the poultice was first applied. “Prettiest of the bunch.” And he grinned at Tenna.
“Handsome is as handsome does,” Cesila said. “Looks is all right but long legs is better. Tenna’s her name.”
“Handsome’s not a bad thing to be, Cesila, and it’s obvious your daughter takes after you.”
Cesila sniffed again but Tenna could see that her mother didn’t mind Mallum’s remarks. And Cesila was a handsome woman: lithe still and slender, with graceful hands and feet. Tenna wished she were more like her mother.
“Nice long line of leg,” Mallum went on approvingly. He beckoned for Tenna to come closer and had a good look at the lean muscles, then asked to see her bare feet. Runners tended to walk barefooted a lot. Some even ran barefooted. “Good bone. Hmmm. Nice lean frame. Hmm. Not a pick on you, girl. Hope you can keep warm enough in winter like that.” That was such an old runner comment, but his jollity was encouraging and Tenna was ever so glad that Mallum was her assessor. He was always pleasant on his short stops at Station 97. “We’ll take a short one tomorrow when this foot’s eased.”
More runners came in so Cesila and Tenna were busy, checking in messages, sorting the packets for the changeovers, serving food, heating water for baths, tending scratched legs. It was spring of the year and most runners only used leggings during the coldest months.
Enough stayed the night so there was good chatter and gossip to
entertain. And prevent Tenna from worrying about satisfying her assessor on the morning.
A runner had come in late that night, on her way north, with some messages to be transferred to an eastern route. His heel bruise much eased, Mallum thought he could take those on.
“It’s a good testing trot,” he said, and gestured for Tenna to slip the message pouch on her belt. “I’ll travel light, girl.” His grin was teasing, for the pouch weighed little more than the wherhide it was made from. “First, lemme see what you wear on your feet.”
She showed him her shoes, the most important part of a runner’s gear. She’d used her family’s special oils to soften the wherhide and then formed it on the lasts that had been carved for her feet by her uncle who did them for her Bloodline. Her stitches were neat but not as fine as Mallum’s. She intended to improve. Meanwhile, this pair wasn’t a bad effort and fit her feet like gloves. The spikes were medium length as fit for the present dry trace conditions. Most long-distance runners carried an extra pair with shorter spikes for harder ground, especially during spring and summer. She was working on her winter footwear, hoping she’d need it, for those boots came up to midcalf and required a lot more conditioning. Even they were of lighter weight than the footgear holders would use. But then most holders plodded and the thicker leather was suitable for their tasks as fine soft hide was right for a runner’s foot.
Mallum nodded in approval as he handed back her shoes. Now he checked the fit of her belt to be sure it was snug enough not to rub against the small of her back as she ran, and made certain that her short trunks would not pull against her leg and that her sleeveless top covered her backside well below her waist to help prevent her getting a kidney chill. Stopping often from a need to relieve oneself ruined the rhythm of a run.
“We’ll go now,” Mallum said, having assured himself that she was properly accoutred.
Cesila stood in the door, gave her daughter a reassuring nod, and saw them off, up the eastern trace. Before they were out of sight, she gave the particular runner yodel that stopped them in their tracks. They saw her pointing skyward: at the arrow formation of dragons in the sky, a most unusual sight these days when the dragons of Benden Weyr were so rarely seen.
A Gift of Dragons Page 7