“Of course, they no longer had a healer, and were too proud to ask anyone from outside the Weyr for help. The sad thing is that I know I could have helped them. We used to use a root that grows in the north to help counter all sorts of woes. G’reff called it thujang, but I haven’t heard it mentioned in this Pass. Perhaps it’s vanished. I’ve been trying to find another root in the south that has the same healing properties.”
Piemur suddenly thought back to that miserable, wet day in Nabol when old Laida had given him and Sebell the brew made from jango to help ward off chills after they’d gotten soaked in the rain. It probably wasn’t the same thing, he reckoned, yanking his attention back to the present.
“Do you think that’s the reason why they took Ramoth’s egg? Because they were ill?” Menolly asked.
“Not entirely, but it played a part. You see, the Weyr has no weyrlings—no new blood—nor any queens young enough to fly to mate, and that only served to compound the sense of despondency many of the dragons and their riders were feeling. That’s when a few members of the Weyr grew truly desperate.”
“So they stole Ramoth’s egg!” Piemur said in a hushed whisper as he stared at Meria.
“Yes, they did. But only a few members of the Weyr decided to do that, Piemur,” Meria said, her tone earnest. “B’naj told me about the plan. He knew when they were going to take the egg to, and where. They had a drawing of the place where they planned to hide the egg—he even got a copy of it for me.”
“I spied on the man who made that drawing!” Piemur blurted out. “And I saw T’reb, too, when he came to fetch it. Cramb—that was the artist’s name—he kept one of the drawings, though. That must be the one he gave to B’naj!”
Meria nodded, a rueful smile on her lips. “Maybe you can see now that not everyone from Nabol is rotten, Piemur. Cramb is from Nabol, too—he’s a distant relative of mine. And for whatever it may be worth, B’naj and I planned to return the egg, but it was snatched up by someone else before we could get it.”
“Do you know who returned the egg?” Sebell asked quietly. Piemur noticed that Menolly had grown very still. She wanted to know who’d returned the egg just as much as Sebell—as much as they all did.
“No, I didn’t see who it was, and the riders guarding the egg were asleep when the egg was taken back. B’naj and I were too late.” Meria looked down at her hands where they lay idle in her lap. She would have given anything to be the one to return Ramoth’s egg, Piemur guessed as he watched the diminutive, likable Oldtimer. If she had pulled it off, it might have improved her standing in the Weyr and the precarious situation the Oldtimers now found themselves in. He glanced at Sebell quickly before Meria looked up from her hands, and the older harper gave him a piercing look.
“I guess it doesn’t matter who took the egg back, though it was most likely an Oldtimer from the south,” Piemur said, looking first at Meria and then Sebell and Menolly. Meria quickly lifted her head, a look of hope in her eyes. “All that matters, really, is that the egg was returned and the new queen has safely Impressed.”
“I couldn’t have said that any better, my friend,” Sebell said, and smiled, his warm brown eyes crinkling up at the corners.
“I wonder what they’ll do now?” Piemur said.
“I wish they’d listen to me,” Meria said wistfully. “I’m certain the poor health they’re suffering is due to the dust and fumes they inhaled at that firestone mine. I’m sure I could make them well again if they’d let me help.”
“I feel sorry for them,” Piemur said, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
Meria tilted her chin toward him, her expression one of curiosity. “Why is that?” she asked.
“They don’t fit in anymore. They’ve left their Weyr and fled their lives. And they’re sick, too. They haven’t lived in their old Weyrs up north for more than six Turns, and they don’t really seem to be living anywhere in this Pass. Shells, they’re nowhere! How bloody awful they must feel.”
* * *
—
Later that night Piemur tossed and twitched on his makeshift bed, trying, without luck, to fall to sleep. He finally got up and sat on the threshold of the little dwelling. The brief exchange he and J’hon had experienced with the head-in-the-wall kept playing over and over in Piemur’s mind, and he clearly recalled the head’s casual comment that Lord Deckter planned to brick up the network of old cellars. It made Piemur shudder when he thought of it. What if the head hadn’t seen Piemur and J’hon struggling to get into the exterior door of the Hold, or told them how to find the door from within? Or what if Piemur hadn’t kicked at the dirt floor in frustration so that J’hon saw the motes moved by the current of air? Ifs, ifs, ifs. There were too many of them!
When Piemur thought of what could have happened had the ifs not all worked out as they did, he was overwhelmed by a range of emotions. He found it difficult to fathom how those men could treat Sebell with such brutality and unwarranted disregard, such callous contempt. How could anyone do that to another person? he wondered.
The worst twist was that he knew they had to remain silent about their expedition to Nabol. He knew that the beating Sebell received would go unpunished—never mentioned. And Piemur knew why they could never disclose what had happened. But it didn’t make it any easier to bear.
“What is it, Piemur?”
Piemur had thought Sebell was asleep. “Ah, it’s nothing, Sebell. I’m just restless,” he replied softly. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t wake me. Why don’t we sit outside? Tell me what’s on your mind and maybe I can help,” Sebell said, his rich voice reassuring. The two harpers rose, and Piemur helped Sebell to the bench under the broadleaf tree. The skies above were partly cloudy, but here and there the stars peeked through.
“It’s just—it’s just that it’s not right, that’s all,” Piemur said, plucking at a loose thread on his tunic.
“What’s not right?”
“They shouldn’t have done that to you, Sebell. Jerrol and his lot shouldn’t have beaten you half to death and then stuffed you like a useless old bundle of rags in a dark hole. They should pay for what they’ve done!”
“You’re absolutely right, my friend. What Jerrol and his lot did was unspeakable. And they should be punished for it. But you and I both know that the details of our little jaunt to Nabol must remain untold. That’s how it has to be,” Sebell said. “I know, Pie, that if we went to these men to mete out the punishment we think they deserve, we will have achieved only one thing.”
“What?” Piemur asked.
“Retribution. Revenge. Retaliation, call it what you wish, but it would do absolutely no good. We have to find a solution to their problem so they’ll never want to behave like that again. If we don’t, we’ll simply be showing them the same treatment they’ve always known and they’ll never, ever have reason to want to change, or become more compassionate men.”
Piemur sighed.
“Piemur, someone made those men into the people they are. They didn’t start their lives with such adverse and damaged viewpoints. They were pushed to the breaking point after Turns of manipulation at the hand of someone else.” Sebell leaned forward as he spoke, closing the distance between him and Piemur, eager to make sure his point was understood.
“But they beat you! They bound you and then left you for dead, Sebell! That part of the cellars was going to be bricked up! What were they thinking?”
“They weren’t thinking, Piemur. They were reacting to Turns of mental torture that they shouldn’t have had to endure. They’ll never be able to change unless the chance to do so is given to them. I’ve been mulling this over, and I believe it’s the only course we can consider—otherwise we’re just fighting them. Perhaps turning into them.”
“That can’t be all that is done after what you suffered, Sebell,” Piemur said. He knew he sou
nded belligerent—and probably looked it, too—but he didn’t care.
“Don’t you see, my friend? Dragons were prevented from fighting one another in the name of revenge! If everything that happened in Nabol came to light, the only outcome it would achieve would be to pit Craft against Hold. And we can’t let that happen—it would be like permitting dragon to fight dragon,” Sebell declared. “The only way this sickening behavior can be dealt with is at its root. If any of us were pitted against another it would cut to the very heart of our way of life. We all fit together in a unique way, and if we allow our guardians—the dragonriders—or our protectors and custodians—the holders and crafters—to come to blows, then we’ll have undermined everyone’s safety. And Thread would win.”
Sebell turned his head to watch Piemur closely as the younger man battled with his emotions. “Do you see what I mean? We have to be prevented from fighting one another,” he added, and then he leaned back.
“But it’s not the same thing!” Piemur cried, and all his anger was expressed in those six words.
Sebell sighed. “The Oldtimers felt they were in a desperate situation, Piemur, and so they carried out a desperate act. In a way, I think that was their way of asking for help. Jerrol and his kin’s actions, though different, were born from the same feelings of hopelessness. Holdlessness,” Sebell said. It was Piemur’s turn to sigh.
“Shards, those three men were probably treated so badly all their lives they no longer know what’s right or wrong!” Sebell went on heatedly. “I remember when I was in Nabol for the Master, when Meron was alive. The way he baited his kin—it was nothing short of torture. He’d promise one nephew a patch of land, and the next day he’d renege on his offer and promise it to another kinsman. He used to laugh at their confusion and the anguish he put them through. It got so that none of them could trust the other. Meron made them all hate one another. Their very own flesh and blood, too! And all because they feared they wouldn’t get what they should’ve been entitled to. It was appalling!”
“But what about the bricks, Sebell?” Piemur hissed; he couldn’t stop thinking about what would’ve happened if Sebell hadn’t been discovered.
“Don’t think about that, Piemur. You found me, and I’m going to be fine.”
Piemur stared at Sebell, the conflicting emotions welling up in him until he didn’t know what to think. He wondered if he’d ever be like Sebell or Master Robinton, wise enough to see what was right and wrong, and strong enough to see past his own emotions, to discern the best choices to make for the good of everyone.
Just after the sun rose the following morning, B’naj flew into the valley to bring Meria back to Southern Weyr. She was content that Sebell hadn’t suffered anything untoward as a result of his shoulder relocation, and that his other wounds and bruises were on the mend. She’d given the harpers instructions on how to care for him until he recovered, and left healing tinctures and balms to be administered. Rest was a key element to Sebell’s recovery, she told them, followed by gentle use of his arm and shoulder over the ensuing week. Now that Sebell was on the mend, Menolly had to attend to her duties, too, and reluctantly sent a message to N’ton requesting a dragon to take her back to the Harper Hall.
Piemur walked with Meria to where B’naj waited with Seventh. The dragonrider stood proudly, one hand touching his brown’s hide, and Piemur locked eyes with him. B’naj regarded Piemur with a composed and open demeanor, not a glimmer of arrogance evident. Unexpectedly Piemur recognized something in the older man’s face that, up to this point in his life, he had never fully comprehended: What compelled B’naj and all dragonriders was an unconditional commitment to their dragons and to the code they lived by, a code that was so deeply embedded in all dragonmen and -women that it had become a part of their very essence: to protect, and to sustain the safety of everyone.
Piemur bowed to B’naj, trying in that one slight gesture to convey the deep respect the older man deserved.
“Dragonrider,” he said, completing his bow.
Somewhat taken aback, B’naj dropped his hand from Seventh’s side, while the brown dragon turned his head to look at Piemur, green eyes flecked with blue.
If only there were some way the Oldtimers could get back to where they belonged, Piemur mused, among the other dragonriders of Pern; somewhere not isolated, not out of sight, or out of mind.
As B’naj mounted Seventh and reached down a hand to help Meria, Piemur thought he saw a look of resignation settle on her face just before she turned to climb onto the dragon’s back. Suddenly he felt compelled to stop her. He couldn’t let her leave, let this moment pass without saying something.
“Wait a moment, Meria,” he called.
“What is it, Piemur?” she asked, turning back as Piemur closed the distance between them.
Piemur spoke, loud enough so both Oldtimers would hear him.
“I thought…I just thought you should know—” He faltered and paused, searching Meria’s face in the hope that his words would not be disregarded. The two Oldtimers patiently waited to hear what he had to say. He wanted to offer his help to them but knew they were too proud to accept it.
“I want you both to know something.” He looked at Meria and then up to where B’naj sat on Seventh’s back. “Even though it’s very likely that you will never be credited with attempting to return Ramoth’s egg, I admire what you tried to do. It was a noble, decent act.” He smiled then.
He wished he could say much more, articulate more clearly all his hopes and good wishes for them, but this would have to do. It was not lost on Piemur that both B’naj and Meria probably had very bitter tastes in their mouths as they listened to him. Indeed, he realized, they must have fervently wished their situations were different from the reality they faced. They were living less than the fullest of lives; B’naj as a dragonrider banished with his Weyr, disgraced by the senseless act of a few desperate people; and Meria, banished from her adopted people yet desperate to help them.
“Safe skies, B’naj,” Piemur said, looking up at the brown dragonrider.
“To you, too, harper,” B’naj replied.
As the two Oldtimers were lifted into the air on Seventh’s wings, Piemur wondered how they would fare among their own. Would B’naj be maligned for acting with Meria, their outcast healer? And would Meria be forced, yet again, to remain outside the Weyr and live the rest of her life away from those she cared for the most? It seemed unfair to Piemur that they should not be rewarded for what they had tried to achieve.
* * *
—
Piemur spent the remainder of that morning with Sebell, noting that even though Sebell slept a lot, he seemed to be improving with every passing hour. Kimi, having been so dramatically separated from him before, never left Sebell’s side.
Late in the afternoon the following day, Sebell went swimming. Meria had suggested that swimming would be beneficial for his shoulder, so N’ton flew Menolly into the valley on Lioth—enchanting the cotholders with yet another sighting of a beloved dragon—so that she could help Piemur with the pleasant task of getting Sebell into the water. One of Pergamol’s kin had cleverly dug out a wading pool, separated from the main body of water by a high bank of earth and clay, so the younger children would have a safe and secure area in which to play. Piemur knew the water there would be warmed from the sun, and it was there that he and Menolly helped the injured harper into the shallow pool. With a soft sigh, Sebell sank down and allowed the water to lap over his legs.
Being sensitive to Sebell’s condition, none of the group were inclined to mention Nabol or any of the particulars relating to their time there. Menolly and N’ton relayed the latest news from the Harper Hall, the other Crafthalls, and the Weyrs, and then happily talked about other minor matters. Eventually, though, Piemur thought he might explode and asked, “I’m sorry, but I have to know: Have there been any more developments with Jerrol and hi
s plan to oust Jaxom?”
“The Masterharper received a message from Nabol today, just before we came here,” Menolly replied, trying unsuccessfully to hide the smug look that spread across her face. “Jerrol and his kin have had their comeuppance.”
“Yes!” N’ton said under his breath, punching a fist into the palm of his other hand.
“Lord Deckter and his primary holders found out what those three did to Sebell, and what they planned to do to Jaxom,” Menolly told them.
“How?” Sebell asked, taking the words out of Piemur’s mouth.
“It’s the oddest thing, but some old biddy named Fronna recognized Piemur when he and J’hon were bringing you out of the cellars, Sebell. Seems she nearly had a fit when she saw the condition you were in, so she marched straight into Lord Deckter’s rooms, fit to be tied, and demanded to know why two men leaving his Hold looked as if they’d had the stuffing kicked out of them. When Lord Deckter was unable to give her an answer she told him exactly what she thought of him. Candler heard her, as did everyone in the Great Hall! Her choice of words was great!” Menolly placed one hand on her hip and changed her voice to sound like that of a busybody old woman. “ ‘Lord Deckter, you cannot harbor the despeakable activities that’s been going on in your own Hold. No, no, it’s time for you to take better charge of your men!’
“When Lord Deckter quizzed her further, she told him how odd she thought it that a single dragon took off from the side rampart to the Hold, not where dragons usually arrive and depart when visiting Nabol. And she harangued another holder, who’d also seen Piemur and Sebell, and made him step forward to back her up. So Lord Deckter had no choice but to find out exactly what’d happened in his Hold, under his very nose. One thing led to another, and when Jerrol and his kin were found frantically searching every room in the deserted part of the cellars, the whole sordid mess was revealed.”
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