Dragon's Code

by Gigi McCaffrey

  “All the time,” Sebell replied. N’ton nodded, too.

  “It seems like all I ever think about are the same boring thoughts,” Piemur chimed in, his expression rueful. “Why do you ask, Menolly?”

  “I guess I’ve been spending too much time in Jaxom’s company. I couldn’t help but notice some things. Odd things,” she said.

  “Like what?” N’ton asked.

  “Do you remember when Mikay Impressed Nimath and we rushed to Ruatha afterward because Jaxom wasn’t at the Hatching?”

  “Yes,” N’ton said. “Go on.”

  “Jaxom said the strangest thing at the time, and when I was about to ask him to explain, I saw the Masterharper glowering at me so I had to drop it.”

  “What did Jaxom say?” Sebell asked.

  “You might remember, N’ton. It was after Jaxom said that Ruth always knew what when he was in.” Menolly chuckled and scrunched up her face as if Jaxom had gotten his words mixed up. “You gave him a dressing-down, N’ton, and the Masterharper joined in, too, reminding Jaxom how tense everything was at Benden Weyr. I felt sorry for poor Jax, because it was obvious from his expression he knew full well the seriousness of it all.” And Menolly paused, drawing in a long breath.

  “Then he said, ‘Dragons can’t fight dragons—that’s why the egg was returned.’ There was a strangeness in his tone when he said that, and the way he phrased his words seemed so odd to me.”

  “What did he mean, N’ton, about his dragon always knowing what when he was in?” Piemur asked.

  “He says Ruth always knows when he is if he times it, though it’s not something I’d hasten to have him prove. It takes an awful toll on both rider and dragon to fly between times,” the dragonrider said.

  “Did you see how sheepish he looked when I asked what he was doing during Nimath’s Impression?” Menolly said.

  “That threadscore he got was nothing to be sheepish about,” N’ton said to no one in particular, a puzzled expression momentarily washing across his face. “He’s been so eager to prove Ruth’s worth—I guess he’d give anything to show that his dragon’s just as good as all the others. He had to time it to flame Thread with Ruth. But going back in time two days to the last Fall wouldn’t explain why he looked so drained when we saw him with Lytol in Ruatha.”

  Menolly sat up straighter and pointed a finger at N’ton. “When we were at Benden, Jaxom collapsed right after the egg was returned. I know because I was standing right next to him. Wasn’t that odd, N’ton? Or could he have been timing it much more than you think?”

  N’ton shrugged. “Was anyone else affected in the same way as Jaxom?”

  “No,” Menolly replied, shaking her head.

  “You did say that he’d been seeing a girl in Plateau a lot. All that to-ing and fro-ing could’ve knocked the stuffing out of him,” Piemur said with a grin.

  “We never bothered to follow him when he went up there because it’s such a remote holding,” N’ton said. “And his visits there were always last-minute. He snatched his opportunities whenever he could.”

  Suddenly Menolly grabbed N’ton’s arm, and her eyes opened wider than Piemur had ever seen them before. Piemur could feel the atmosphere around the little campfire abruptly shift, and the air seemed to crackle with energy. The silence was so profound that Piemur thought his ears would pop as they all seemed to come to the same conclusion at the same instant. Before she could even utter the words, Piemur knew exactly what was going to come out of Menolly’s mouth.

  “Jaxom must have returned the egg!” Menolly cried.

  “Of course!” N’ton said, a look of amazement on his face

  “It makes the most sense!” Sebell chorused N’ton’s exclamation.

  “We only saw the bronzes as they were leaving Benden with the egg. There was complete bedlam after that, so anyone could’ve brought it back safely without being seen,” N’ton explained.

  “That’s really been gnawing at me,” Piemur said, frowning, then added: “Who could’ve been clever enough to return the egg without being seen?”

  “You have a dragonrider’s perspective, N’ton,” Sebell said, the excitement in his voice contagious. “Would it be difficult for Ruth to maneuver in Benden’s Hatching Grounds?”

  “Not at all!” N’ton sounded excited, too. “Ruth is amazingly agile, more so than blues or greens, and he’s smaller than all of them.”

  “Meria and B’naj said the dragon who took the egg from the southern hiding place was small and dark. That made me think it had to be a small green dragon—a blue would be too large,” Piemur said. “But a green is too light in color,” he added and frowned, realizing that his guesswork wasn’t adding up.

  “What if Jaxom did something to conceal Ruth’s hide? Like covering it with something dark? Something that would hide his identity.” Menolly was warming to this new theory; she was just as excited by this revelation as the other three.

  “But what I don’t understand,” Piemur said, looking around at the others, “is why hasn’t Jaxom told anyone? He could’ve owned up when you went to find him after Nimath’s Impression.”

  “Maybe he just didn’t want the attention,” Sebell replied.

  “I think I know why he hasn’t said anything,” N’ton offered. “Ever since Jaxom Impressed Ruth he’s been under scrutiny from Benden, and Lytol—and all the Lord Holders, for that matter. His dragon is unique and after Ruth hatched we were all concerned he wouldn’t survive his first Turn. Everyone’s been hovering over that pair like a flock of nervous wherries, so poor Jaxom must’ve felt like he was slowly being smothered. I bet he’s kept quiet because he doesn’t want any more attention.”

  “That makes sense,” Menolly agreed.

  “And since Jaxom’s been timing it against all good sense, and teaching Ruth to chew firestone without permission,” N’ton added, “and basically bucking all the constraints that his well-meaning guardians have leveled on him, I think he’s keeping his mouth shut because he’s afraid the few freedoms he does enjoy will be curtailed.”

  Piemur listened as his friends continued to exchange thoughts and expand their insights into the theory they’d arrived at, and as he watched them he began to see Jaxom’s intervention in the Weyrs’ business as a picture in a larger frame.

  “Do you think he knows what he’s done?” Piemur spoke quietly. “What he’s stopped from happening?” The other three fell silent, waiting for him to continue.

  Piemur nodded slowly. “Dragons fighting dragons.”

  Over the course of the next sevenday Piemur and Sebell fell into an easy routine at Pergamol’s little cothold. With the continued care and rest Sebell was receiving, the strength in his shoulder increased just as rapidly as the bruises on his legs faded. Piemur taught the hold children several lessons, but he also helped Ama prepare food for preserving and assisted Pergamol with the runnerbeast herd.

  After three long days of strenuous work with the runnerbeasts, Piemur was only too happy to eat his evening meal and quietly retire for the night while Sebell remained behind, entertaining the cotholders with some of the lesser-known harper tales.

  Piemur was in a deep sleep, dreaming of dragon eggs and dragons lost between, when a voice called his name insistently and a hand roughly shook his shoulder.

  “Wake up! Wake up!”

  Piemur rolled away from the bothersome voice.

  “You have to wake up, Piemur,” Sebell said again, this time with more urgency.

  Rolling onto his elbows and rubbing one eye, Piemur stared at the slender harper and muttered through dry lips, “What? What is it?”

  “It’s Ama, something’s wrong. Drina says she’s sick.”

  Piemur was fully awake in an instant, swinging his legs over the edge of the cot to haul on his leggings and then grabbing at his tunic to yank it over his head while his feet poked aroun
d the floor, searching for discarded boots.

  “What happened?”

  “She took a bad turn, that’s all I know. Drina was with her. Go!”

  Piemur stuffed his feet into his boots and was out the door of the little cothold in a flash, running as fast as he could to Ama’s house. He didn’t understand what might have happened to Ama: She’d seemed fine to him when he saw her that evening. As he ran Piemur grew fearful of what he would find when he reached her house. He arrived a few moments later, pushed open her front door—and was unable to take a single step farther. Pergamol filled the room with his large frame, though he was not alone; Drina and two young women were seated around the bed.

  Pergamol grabbed Piemur in a quick bear hug, whispering in his ear: “She won’t wake up!” Tears were streaming down his weather-beaten face. “Drina said she seemed confused. Then she just slumped over and hasn’t woken since. D’you see how her face has changed? We’ve seen that before in other kinfolk. It’s not good, Pie.”

  Wishing he were dreaming instead of looking at the still figure of his beloved Ama, Piemur sat down on one of the bedside stools, his movements wooden.

  “Ah, Ama,” Piemur whispered, a lump choking up his throat as he took one of her hands into both of his own and touched it to his cheek. “It shouldn’t be like this.”

  Tears overflowed and ran down his cheeks. “Ama, wake up,” Piemur implored, his voice low. “I should’ve told you at least a hundred times more how much you mean to me. How I’ll always love you. No one will ever fill the place you hold in my heart.” He laid a gentle hand on her brow and rested it there for a moment, silently surprised that it felt so cool to his touch.

  With Pergamol and the other members of the family, Piemur sat by Ama’s side through the rest of the night and on into the morning. He continued to hold her hand, silently hoping she would wake up, but his entreaties went unanswered.

  Well past midday, Pergamol shook Piemur awake and made him leave Ama’s side to get some fresh air. A few other members of Ama’s extended family took Piemur’s place, and yet more family, fosterlings, friends, and neighbors sat outside the little cothold, quietly talking as they kept their vigil.

  “Of all the dozens of fosterlings she’s had, I think Ama held you closest to her heart,” Pergamol said, a little smile tugging at his lips. “It could’ve been that sweet voice of yours that beguiled her, but I think it was all the antics you got up to—after she got over being vexed with you, of course. She always laughed at your windups, Pie. Didn’t she?”

  Wordlessly, Piemur nodded and then turned, grief-stricken, toward Pergamol, tears flowing down his face. “I knew this day would come sometime, Pergamol. Honest, I truly did. But my heart hoped she’d live forever. Aren’t mothers supposed to live forever?”

  “Aye, they are.”

  “I think a part of me is going with her. This hurts so much, Pergamol.”

  “I know. Our Ama will take a piece of all of us with her when she goes. But we’ll keep the best bits of her right here, lad,” Pergamol said, his voice faltering as he tapped a finger over his heart.

  Chairs and stools had been placed all around Ama’s bed so her loved ones could be close, and the hours passed by while the watchers silently listened to each breath she took. People from all over Crom came to offer support to those keeping vigil, consoling the grief-stricken with soft words or gentle silence. Piemur saw Sebell once, but it was only briefly and in passing, as the journeyman masterharper clasped Piemur’s arms, offering his support.

  As the sun started to fall and the new-season air began to cool, Ama ended their long vigil on one single inward breath. When the last lungful of air was expelled from her body they all sat, momentarily bewildered. When they knew that Ama had taken her last breath they all stood up and gently placed their hands on her head, or her face, on her hands or feet; on any part of her they could reach. They didn’t want to part company with their Ama without one final caress.

  Drina was the first to break the tableau as, sobbing gently, she turned from the bed. Pergamol pushed the door open wide and everyone slowly left the room. Later, when Ama had been washed and wrapped in a cloth, Piemur helped carry her slight body to the woven-willow stretcher he’d helped make. It hadn’t taken long to weave the stretcher with so many hands to help.

  With great tenderness they laid Ama’s body on the rush padding that topped the stretcher and then, one by one, each person placed a small memento beside her body. Some of the younger girls, the children of Ama’s grown fosterlings, placed daisy chains or bunches of fragrant wildflowers around the padding, and one little boy put a small berry pie next to Ama’s hand. Older folk secreted notes written on scraps of cloth under the rushes, and Pergamol placed a skin of fortified wine near her hand because, he said, “She liked a nip or two from time to time.” Piemur laid a small stone near her head, carefully turning it to expose where the shape of a heart had been weather-worn onto its surface. When all the tokens had been safely tucked around Ama, everyone helped hoist the stretcher up onto the shoulders of those who would carry her onward.

  Their task was not a burden. The cortege only had to bear the stretcher past the cotholds and neighboring pastures, then over a knoll to the lake. Each mourner lit a candle, secured in tapered wooden cups, and then placed the candle cups on the woven stretcher before it was taken into the water. They gathered in a tight group around Ama’s body, and on a single command from Pergamol, “Let her go,” they gently pushed her away from the shore.

  As Ama’s body floated into the center of the lake, one of the women started to hum and looked to Piemur to begin the song. It was a melody they had all learned as young children. Piemur’s face was awash with tears, and grief shook his shoulders. He felt bereft that even for Ama he could not seem to find his voice, and when he lifted his tearstained face toward Pergamol, he was grateful the older man recognized his anguish.

  Pergamol took the lead, calling out the song of lament:

  On again, go again

  Take your last step

  Free your worn body

  And send it to rest.

  The dirge was a flowing, slow-paced piece and Piemur listened as Pergamol sang softly, his deep voice rich, even though it was untrained. Everyone grew silent, straining to hear the big herdsman, but then, as he sang the last three words of the verse, Pergamol faltered and then stopped as he, too, was overcome by grief. Silence hung in the air. Drina was standing next to Pergamol, and Piemur saw her reach up to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder.

  The pause in the singing grew so long that Piemur began to wonder if Ama’s farewell song would go unsung, and he closed his eyes. Ama deserved to be properly sent off. Someone had to sing the farewell song for her! Piemur closed his eyes, afraid to continue the dirge for Pergamol in case his voice might fail him. Fail Ama. But someone had to finish the song!

  Even with his eyes shut tight Piemur could suddenly see Ama’s face so clearly it was as if she were right in front of him.

  Listen to your gut instinct! he heard her saying. Just let it rip, my Pie. And then, without a thought, Piemur listened to his instincts, lifted his head, opened his mouth, and filled the air with the sound of his voice.

  Go again, show again

  We’ll see it right

  Marching ye onward

  Toward peace in the night.

  His singing was soft and hesitant at first, but as each word rang out, Piemur let his breath get stronger. He stood tall, his chin lifted high, and though his cheeks were wet with tears, as he sang out the well-known words, his phrasing was as clear and perfectly timed as it had ever been. Growing increasingly assured as he sang each successive note, Piemur continued, his voice finally ringing out across the lake like a bell.

  Go again, know again

  You were loved true

  Take heart in the honor
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  Shown b’those whom you knew.

  Lifting his arms up from his sides, Piemur gestured for the mourners to help him finish the dirge, as was the custom, and as the group rose to the occasion, each man, woman, and child drawing breath in unison, Piemur believed he’d never felt prouder of his kin and community than he did at that moment, when their voices rang out together.

  On again, go again

  We’ll think of you ere

  Now rest our belov-ed

  Turn to dust, turn to air.

  * * *

  —

  After the funeral ceremony, Piemur spent a sevenday with his kin in Crom, promising Sebell, who had returned to the Harper Hall two days after Ama died, that he’d send word when he was ready to leave. He found it a comfort to be with his extended family as they all grieved; he slipped into the routine of the little community with ease, and every night he fell onto his sleeping mat exhausted from his day of self-imposed, strenuous travails and was lost, almost immediately, to a heavy, dreamless sleep. But he always woke, two or three short hours later, and spent the remainder of his nights in a turmoil of thoughts, worrying about a plethora of inconsequential things and falling into, and out of, a fitful pattern of sleep. Often, he wondered where his life would take him, and whether he’d ever fit into the part he was supposed to play.

  During the endless, sleepless nights his thoughts always circled around to Ama and he was incapable of preventing his grief from flooding over him, pushing against his rib cage until he felt as if his heart were being compressed by a heavy weight. And when the aching grief slowly eased, as it always did, he felt as if he had been riding on a long, rolling wave.

  Finally, early one morning, when he least expected it, he realized he was ready to move on. He had been drowsing, willing his body to rest even though he could not find sleep, while he waited for the sun to rise. It was at the hour when the day birds were beginning to rustle about in their nests with solitary cheeps and murmurs, calling to one another that they had made it safely through the night. It was then that Piemur experienced what seemed like a waking dream. Ama’s radiant face was smiling at him, and although the vision appeared for only a moment he knew Ama was telling him that she was happy, and he would be, too.