“Three thousand?” M’tal repeated in surprise. The Weyrs operated with far fewer people than that. Then again, he reflected, the population of Benden Weyr was much smaller than ten thousand.
“They don’t have dragons to help,” Kindan called back.
The lad had a point, M’tal admitted to himself. “What are you proposing?”
“Station a wing of dragons at every major Hold, get them to help the Holds get going again,” Kindan replied.
“But the plague!”
“I think it’s over,” Kindan said. “If not, it doesn’t last more than three weeks. Keep the wings in the Holds for three weeks after the last infection and they should be safe returning to the Weyr. There won’t be any infection to bring.”
“But a wing is only thirty dragons and riders at best,” M’tal replied. “What can they do?”
“They’re healthy,” Kindan said. “They can help haul coal, set up carts, round up livestock, transport holders quickly from one place to the other.”
“And if one wing’s not enough, Weyrleader, then we could send two,” J’trel chimed in. “I’m proof that dragonriders can survive this illness.”
“Weyrleader C’rion said you’re too stubborn to die,” M’tal answered, grinning to take the sting out of his comments.
“I’ve got people to live for,” J’trel said diffidently. “Some of them are holders.”
“We all live for holders and crafters, I believe,” M’tal commented drolly. He leaned back and closed his eyes in thought. When he opened them again, he nodded firmly toward Kindan. “Very well, I’ll take your suggestion back to the Weyrleaders.”
“And you?”
“I’ve already ordered Gaminth to dispatch wings to Bitra, Lemos, Benden, and all the holds minor,” M’tal said. He wagged a finger at Kindan. “For all Pern, you’d better be right.”
Kindan nodded, feeling a huge weight in his stomach.
“We’ll know in three weeks,” J’trel said. Of M’tal, he asked, “Do you think B’ralar will send help?”
“Yes, he will,” M’tal said. “It may be the worst mistake we ever make, and the last, but it has torn us apart to sit idly by while the rest of Pern dies.”
“Then we must get back,” Kindan said. “Bemin will have preparations to make.”
“Did you tell him?” M’tal asked in surprise.
“No, he doesn’t even know I’ve gone,” Kindan replied.
Bemin might not have known that Kindan had gone, but he certainly was aware when Kindan returned.
“Where were you?” the Lord Holder shouted when he spotted Kindan entering the Great Hall. “We’ve looked everywhere!”
“Is there a problem?” Kindan asked, looking around the Great Hall nervously. Could he have been wrong, could the plague still be infectious?
“No, but Merila woke up and went looking for you and when we couldn’t find you, I—” Bemin broke off, his hands clenched into fists at his side.
“I went looking for more fruit,” Kindan said, touched by the unspoken depth of Bemin’s affection.
“Fruit?” Bemin repeated in surprise. “There’s enough of that, it’s men we need.”
J’trel, who had been watching the exchange with growing amusement from the sidelines, murmured, “He got them, too. A right proper harper, he is.”
Kindan looked questioningly at him.
“Can’t help but speak in riddles,” J’trel explained. He turned as, suddenly, outside there were excited cries.
“What’s happening?” Bemin asked, rushing toward the doors.
“More fruit,” J’trel said, grinning. He and Kindan reached the courtyard just as the first wing of dragons landed.
“J’lantir!” J’trel called excitedly to the bronze rider in the front. “What are you doing here?”
“Keeping an eye on you,” the bronze rider growled. J’trel had the sense to look abashed. J’lantir turned to Bemin and bowed. “My Lord Holder, I present greetings from the Weyrleaders of Ista, Benden, and Fort Weyrs.”
“Three?” Kindan said in surprise.
“There was some discussion about the Harper Hall deserving all four,” J’lantir said lightly, “but we felt that D’vin would best serve as reserve.” He turned back to Bemin. “At your harper’s request”—and he nodded at Kindan, who looked thoroughly nonplussed—“we are pleased to provide you with the better part of three wings of dragons to aid you and the harpers in their recovery.” He bowed low. “What do you desire?”
Bemin turned to Kindan, lunged, and grabbed him in a great bear hug.
“It’s over now,” Kindan said finally, staring hollow-eyed at the dragonriders. It had been nearly a month since the dragons had landed outside Fort Hold’s Great Hall. There had been no new case of the fever in a fortnight.
The days that followed had been no less wearying than the days of the plague, particularly when Kindan succeeded in convincing Bemin and J’lantir that it was time to reinhabit the Harper Hall. J’trel and J’lantir had gone there alone the first day and after that had refused to let any of the harpers near the Hall until they had completed all their work, clearing and cleaning up the Harper Hall.
Three large mounds outside the Healer Hall were covered with fresh earth, waiting for spring to cover them with green.
Kindan had been overjoyed to discover that Selora was among the survivors of the Harper Hall. In fact, apart from the younger apprentices, Selora was the only survivor of the Harper Hall—all the journeymen, Masters, and older apprentices had succumbed to the plague. Kindan couldn’t imagine how the Harper Hall would ever recover.
“There are harpers and healers in the holds,” Selora had assured him. “Some of them will come back.”
J’lantir’s pronouncement that the Harper Hall was once again fit for habitation was met by a combination of jubilation and sorrow.
Kelsa, Nonala, and Verilan were anxious to return to their quarters. Selora had gone ahead, accompanied by Neesa—who’d overridden Bemin’s worried protests with a simple, “Oh, Yanira will handle it all, you’ll see!”—to prepare a welcoming feast.
Kindan was surprised when, just outside the Harper Hall’s archway, a large bronze dragon appeared overhead and settled quickly onto the landing field. When he saw M’tal jump down, his face lit with joy.
“I wanted to be here when you returned to your Hall,” M’tal told him. “Salina wanted to come as well, but we decided not to risk that.”
“The danger’s past,” Kindan assured him.
“Not that,” M’tal replied with a grin. “The danger of leaving a whole Weyr unsupervised.”
Selora and Neesa had laid on a great feast in the Harper Hall’s dining room. Bemin was there, as were Jelir and many of the other Fort Holders, and the dragonriders.
Even so, the great dining room was only partly filled with everyone sitting at the apprentice tables. The Masters’ table and the journeymen’s tables remained empty, and Kindan realized that the Harper Hall would never seem the same to him again, that it had gotten smaller and yet somehow less intimate than before.
He looked at Benden’s Weyrleader. “Could you send for Master Zist? He’ll be needed here.”
M’tal gave him a worried look. “Kindan,” he began, but the harper stopped him with an upraised hand.
“I sent Valla this morning,” Kindan assured him. “Master Zist is alive. As the senior Master, he becomes the next Masterharper.”
“Of course,” M’tal agreed. “I’ll have him here tomorrow.”
Kindan wanted to protest, but contained himself.
“The dragons are tired,” M’tal explained. “And so are the riders.”
Kindan smiled wanly. “It seems I heard you say those words not so long ago, at High Reaches Weyr.”
When at last the feast was over, Kindan, Kelsa, Nonala, and Verilan made their way back to the apprentice dormitory and their old beds.
“So what are we going to do?” Kelsa asked as she turned over the last
glow and darkness filled the room.
“I think we should get up early,” Kindan replied.
“Why?”
“M’tal will bring Master Zist tomorrow,” Kindan told them.
“Master Zist?” Verilan repeated in dread tones. “I’ve heard stories about him.”
“All true,” Kindan replied, smiling in the dark.
Sleep came slowly to him; he was unused to the dormitory and also the night noises of the Harper Hall after so long in the Great Hall of Fort Hold. When it did come, he dreamt that Koriana was lying beside him.
When he awoke the next morning, he realized that the lump he’d felt lying by him was Valla, who chirped and chattered cheerfully to him as he got up and headed into the showers.
“You can start on clearing up the Archive Room,” Selora told them as they finished breakfast. She spread her gaze to include the rest of the apprentices. “All of you.”
“You take charge, Verilan,” Kindan said as they entered the large hall that was the Archive Room.
“No one ever sorted through all the damp stuff,” Verilan sniffed. “I think the dragonriders must have thrown it all out,” he added mournfully. Idly he picked up a Record that had fallen to the floor and reverently set it on one of the reading tables. He glanced at Kindan, as if looking for instruction. Kindan shrugged and looked back at him expectantly.
“Right,” Verilan said, hitching up his shoulders and pointing to a group of the youngest apprentices. “Pick up every Record on the floor and pile it here.” He pointed to another group. “You lot start checking the stacks nearest where the fire was. I want you to look for fire damage and water damage first. Bring any damaged Records over to that table, there. Sort through the rest of the Records and rearrange them into chronological order.”
When the apprentices started discovering damaged Records, Verilan made a third group of trustworthy scribes and set them to work transcribing the damaged Records onto new paper. Kindan noticed that Verilan sent a younger apprentice to retrieve the supplies from Master Resler’s old quarters; Kindan couldn’t blame him for not wanting to go there himself, he knew that Verilan thought highly of the late Master.
The apprentices threw themselves into the task with relish and were all thoroughly absorbed as midday approached. Kindan was so engrossed himself that at first he didn’t notice the sound of a drum.
“Kindan,” Kelsa whispered urgently, “the drums.”
Report, the message said.
“That’s Zist,” Kindan told her excitedly.
“But he just said ‘report,’” Nonala complained. “He didn’t say who.”
“You’d better get going,” Verilan said to Kindan, looking up from his table. “It’s never good to keep a Master waiting.”
Verilan was right; Zist was tapping his thigh irritably as Kindan entered the Masterharper’s quarters.
“It took you long enough,” Zist grumbled irritably, gesturing for Kindan to take a seat. “Where’s your report?”
“Master?”
“I knew Murenny better than that,” Zist growled, “he’d expect a full report by now.” He jerked a thumb toward his workdesk. “There’s materials there, get started. And don’t leave out any details.”
Kindan was surprised at Zist’s gruff manner; he’d expected at least a polite hello before being set to writing.
“Mind you that it’s legible,” Zist warned, fingering the drum that he’d laid on the breakfast table beside him.
That was the last word the Master said for the next several hours as Kindan wrote first a rough draft and then a proper copy. Somewhere along the way—he couldn’t quite remember when—Kindan found tears starting in his eyes. He tried blinking them away, but they persisted. He paused for a moment, not wanting to mar his Record. He looked back at the Record; he had just been writing about Vaxoram.
A hand reached over him and grabbed the page from the table.
“You’re done with this one, aren’t you?” Zist asked in a soft, kind voice. Kindan nodded, he hadn’t realized that Master Zist had been reading the pages as soon as he finished them.
He was surprised a moment later when behind him Master Zist snorted and exclaimed, “You’ve a long ways to go before you’re a Master, what do you mean making Vaxoram a journeyman?”
Kindan turned to respond hotly, “Vaxoram earned the right. For all I knew, I was the last harper on Pern.” His voice cooled as tears filled his eyes once more. “It was all he wanted.”
“‘Want’ is not all that makes a journeyman,” Zist replied acerbically. In a softer tone, he added, “But Journeyman Vaxoram had earned the right.” He gave Kindan a firm nod. “And so the Records will show.”
Kindan gave him a grateful look. Zist sighed, then picked up his drum.
Songmaster report, he rapped out. With a smile to Kindan, he asked, “Who do you think will come?”
“Kelsa,” Kindan replied instantly. “If she doesn’t die of fright.”
“Is she good?”
“She’s the best,” Kindan told him fervently.
“Are you speaking as a friend or a harper?” Zist asked him, his bushy white eyebrows low over his eyes in a frown.
“First as a harper, second as a friend,” Kindan told him honestly.
“Well, we’ll see,” Zist said as they heard footsteps coming up the stairway. He raised a finger to his lips and motioned with his other hand that Kindan should get back to work. “Listen carefully, and see what you can learn.”
When the knock came on the door, Zist drawled out a long, deep “Yes?”
“You sent for me?” Kelsa replied through the door.
“I sent for the Songmaster,” Zist replied. “But you may come in.”
Kelsa opened the door and peered around hesitantly.
“Come in,” Zist ordered, his finger pointing to a spot right in front of him. Kelsa walked nervously to the indicated spot and stood, her fingers moving anxiously at her side. “And you are?”
“Kelsa, Master,” she replied with a squeaky voice.
Zist cast an amused glance toward Kindan, but as he was busy writing his Records and had his back to the proceedings, he didn’t see it. Valla, who had entered the room when Kindan had started crying and had found a perch on a bookshelf overlooking the worktable, saw the Master’s look and chirped amusedly at Kindan.
“I sent for the Songmaster,” Zist said. “Why did you come?”
“The Master is dead,” Kelsa told him. “I thought I could help.”
“You did, did you?” Zist asked. He gave her a thoughtful look. “I need a song.”
“Master?”
“I need a song about the events of the plague,” Zist told her. “I need a song that is uplifting but honest, a song that tells everyone why the Weyrs stood aloof and how they came to help when they could.
“Can you write that song?”
“I can try,” Kelsa temporized.
“I did not ask if you could ‘try,’” Zist responded harshly. “This song will be sung by all the harpers on Pern. I need it by this evening.” He held up the pages of Kindan’s Records. “You can use these,” he said, handing her the papers. “Can you do it?”
Kelsa glanced at Kindan’s back, straightened her own, and declared with chin held high, “Yes, Master, I can.”
“Good,” Zist said approvingly. He gestured toward the sleeping quarters. “You’ll find instruments and a writing table in there. Get started now. I’ll bring you more Records as he”—he nodded toward Kindan—“finishes them.”
Zist waited until he could hear Kelsa’s tuning in the room next door, then stood up and went over to the desk where Kindan was working.
“Be quick,” Zist urged him, taking another completed Record from the table and sitting back down at his table to read it. A moment later he walked it through to Kelsa. Kindan could hear them conferring indistinctly and then Zist said clearly at the doorway, “Yes, yes, that’s a good choice. Keep working.”
Zist retur
ned to his desk and sat for a while in thoughtful silence. When he moved again, it was to pick up the drum.
Voicemaster, report.
“Who will that be?” he asked.
“Nonala,” Kindan replied at once. “She’s the best.”
“Did she work with you?”
“Not as much as I’d like,” Kindan answered honestly. “My voice has been a mess since it cracked.”
“Good,” Zist replied. “If you’d told me that she had worked with you, I would have sent her packing.”
Despite himself, Kindan smiled at the Master’s remark.
“Your fire-lizard is still young, is he up to taking a message?” Zist asked from behind him. Kindan glanced up at Valla, then turned to face Master Zist.
“Sometimes,” he replied. “He learns quicker than most.”
“Well,” Zist said, “hard times speed things up.” His glance remained on Kindan for a moment longer, unfathomable. “Can you have him take a message to Jofri? I want him to come here as my second and handle defense, dance, and civics.”
“He’d be good at that,” Kindan said, gesturing for Valla to hop down to him.
“I don’t recall asking for an apprentice’s opinion,” Zist said severely.
“Sorry, Master,” Kindan replied, extending a hand for the Master’s note. “Where is Master Jofri now?”
“Fort Weyr,” Zist replied. In a softer voice he added, “At least he was safe.”
“How was it in the mines?” Kindan said, asking the question he’d been dreading for a while.
Zist sighed. “It was bad, but not as bad as here,” he said. “Dalor is in charge now.”
“Dalor?” Kindan repeated in surprise.
“Master Natalon and his wife did not survive,” Zist responded. “Nuella and Zenor are all right, although it was touch and go with her, as is Renna—she’s acting as healer for the moment. While this plague affected people of all ages, all the miners between seventeen and twenty-one succumbed, much the same as here.” He turned his head toward the stairway as they heard footsteps. “Let’s see who showed up,” he said to Kindan as someone knocked on the door.
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