Piemur shook his head, looking at his hands as they lay idle in his lap, a small frown on his brows.
“If you saw someone in trouble, perhaps without safe haven from Thread, would you wait for someone else to help them?” Sebell asked, leaning forward to further engage Piemur’s attention.
“Of course not, I’d help them straightaway! I couldn’t be certain that they’d be safe before anyone else offered them aid,” Piemur had replied.
“I know you would, my friend. And I think, too, that if you saw someone in less obvious mortal peril, but with a more complex problem, you’d offer them whatever help you could. Am I correct?”
“You are, of course. We all have a duty to help one another,” Piemur replied.
“And that is my point, Piemur. We have a duty to one another, and that overrides everything else.”
“I’m sorry, Sebell,” Piemur had replied. “Sometimes it’s hard to understand what my role is. I don’t see how I can help anyone. I never imagined when I was in the Harper Hall that I’d do anything other than sing. And now that I’ve finally found my mature voice, and I’m comfortable with it, singing seems so unimportant to me. It’s strange, Sebell, I thought finding my voice again would solve all my problems, but it hasn’t. It all feels meaningless to me now.”
“That’s because you’re so much more than just a singing voice, Piemur,” Sebell said, his voice resonating with warmth. “You’ve a great many skills! You may take them for granted, but they’re truly useful and important. You just have to trust yourself.”
Piemur recalled that when Sebell had paid him that compliment, his cheeks had grown hot and he’d fidgeted with humility. It was odd to be on the receiving end of a compliment for something other than singing. Singing! He had thought about nothing else after his voice broke, and it suddenly dawned on him that for a very long time all he’d been able to do was to look back, toward what had been, not forward, toward what could be. He’d let his singing voice blind him to everything else. The oddest thing was that when he sang for Ama, and his voice rang true, he felt no different. No jolt of relief or rush of delight because he could sing again. He shook his head, musing that he had behaved just like the Oldtimers and had gotten stuck, longing for his past.
In a flash, as if he were being propelled from the darkness of between into the brightness of a southern sunrise, he felt his head might spin off his shoulders until, in a wonderful burst of clarity, all his musings and ideas fell into place. He knew exactly what he was going to do, what he had to do! Most important, he started to feel as if he knew his place, his niche, as a harper.
He squeezed Stupid’s sides to urge him forward, but the runnerbeast was playfully pawing at the soft sand underfoot and ignored him.
“C’mon, Stupid!” Piemur yelled, thumping his heels hard into the beast’s sides as he gathered up the reins, wheeling the animal’s head around and urging him homeward, fast. Stupid stumbled slightly but then, as the reins were gathered up and he was egged on by Piemur’s frantic urgings, he collected himself and was soon charging homeward at full pelt. Farli flew next to Piemur’s head, chirruping at him in confusion because the tranquility of their morning ride had been broken.
“We’re going to show them, Farli! That’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to show them how to look forward.”
Piemur rode hard toward the Hold, and when he was within earshot, he bellowed out Meria’s name until the diminutive Oldtimer rushed outside, staring at him in surprise.
“Meria, I think I know the name of the root!”
The Oldtimer looked at Piemur as if he’d lost his mind.
“When I was in Nabol with Sebell, we got soaked to the skin in the rain,” he explained, all in a rush. “An old woman gave us a brew from a root she called jango. She said it would set us right. Do you think it could be the same as the root you used to know—the one G’reff told you about?”
“Thujang?” Meria asked, incredulous.
“Yes, that’s it!” Piemur cried, unable to hide the excitement in his voice. “What if the real name of the root has been altered over the last few generations? And what if it could help the dragons in Southern?”
Within moments they put Piemur’s plan into action. Farli was dispatched with a message to Sebell, and Meria hurried to fulfill her part in the plan. When she’d rushed off, leaving Piemur alone, he jumped off his runnerbeast, his legs shaking with spent energy and his head buzzing with what he had just set in motion.
* * *
—
It would have made more sense, Piemur thought afterward with a little regret, if he had grabbed his flying gear before climbing on Seventh’s back. The journey back between, to when the Oldtimers had decamped, was far longer than any jump Piemur had ever made before. He decided not to count out the heartbeats in his head but trusted B’naj, who knew when he was taking them to, and who’d made the jump safely numerous times.
Piemur closed his eyes tightly as he sat behind B’naj, knowing that there would be nothing to see anyway, even if he did leave them open. Between had never felt so cold before! And when the words cold, colder, coldest, blacker than all things had wormed around his head, and he began to feel a tight knot of fear crawl around his chest into his heart, Seventh suddenly burst into the air above Southern’s western Weyr. A warm blast of air washed across Piemur’s face and he sighed.
Dragons were everywhere below them, probably twelvescore from what he could see. Makeshift, unlit campfires were dotted here and there around the clearing, and though rudimentary shelters had been erected to offer shade to the weyrfolk, it was a sorry-looking mess, Piemur thought, not in any way an ordered or fitting place for noble dragons and their riders. Where is the proper settlement? he wondered. The site was completely devoid of any of the facilities or structures that should have been there to accommodate a Weyr.
Piemur put a hand on B’naj’s shoulder. “When is this, B’naj?”
“We came back twenty-five Turns, harper. When we knew there’d be no Thread to fight. The dragons would not have been easy here otherwise.”
Ah, thought Piemur, the Oldtimer dragons have run true to their instincts, unable to ignore the code ingrained in them, which runs to their very core.
“I know it’s an odd request, B’naj, but could you set down in the middle of the camp, please? And ask Seventh if he’d land among his fellows and allow me to stand on his back? I want all the dragonriders to see me—and their dragons, too,” he added as an afterthought.
B’naj nodded and Seventh quickly backwinged into the middle of the compound, blowing up grit and sand all around him. Several dragons nearby hissed or bugled in loud protest at the brown’s unseemly behavior. Piemur quickly stood up on the brown dragon’s back, and B’naj slid to the ground, standing by his dragon’s head.
“Dragonmen!” Piemur called, immediately attracting attention with the resonant timbre of his voice and the respectful tone he employed. Roars and bugling rose up from several of the dragons in the settlement, and Piemur saw a few of the older dragonriders glowering at him. One or two men called out guttural cries, some coughing intermittently, and the air around Piemur grew tense. This might have been a very bad idea, he thought.
He raised his arms to shoulder height, palms open wide, calling out again in a deeper, stronger voice that could be heard throughout the compound.
“Noble dragons! Noble dragonriders! I beseech you to listen, please. Listen to what I have to say.” Slowly he lowered his open hands, as if slowing the rising tension in the air. It’s now or never, he thought. I’d better speak my mind quickly, or they might sear me to char before I draw another breath.
“My name is Piemur. I come from Crom and I am a journeyman harper. I was a singer once, but time changed that. Time changes all things.” Piemur’s tone was grave, and some of the calls from the angriest weyrfolk stopped midbreath. He grew h
opeful, thinking he might have hit a chord.
“I want to offer my assistance to you.”
From the corner of his eye, where he stood on Seventh’s back, Piemur could see two queen dragons at the edge of the compound, and a small group of bronzes and browns perched in wallows nearby. Their light-amber eyes whirled steadily as they regarded him.
Shouts and a few curses rang through the air and Piemur could see small groups of dragonmen slowly walking toward him, anger plainly stamped on their faces. He had to change the atmosphere quickly or his plan would fail.
“I know that you have been blamed for things not all of you had a hand in!” he shouted. He tried to infuse his voice with a note of command.
“I know that you feel wronged. Cast out by the people of my time. You’ve been slighted when your noble acts should be lauded. But please listen to what I have to say!” The shouts and cursing calls stopped, and Piemur took a deep breath.
An older man, standing slightly stooped, walked out of the crowd to stand in front of them, an inscrutable expression on his face. At first Piemur didn’t recognize him, but then he realized that it was T’ron, the Weyrleader.
“This is not where you belong! You should not be living here, in this time!” Piemur cried. A large number of dragons bugled in agreement and were quickly joined by their weyrmates. The noise was deafening.
“Your dragons know you should not be here!”
A low muttering started up among the dragonriders, and Piemur sensed that their old tenet of autonomy might be raising its ancient head.
“Noble dragonmen of Pern, set aside the rules of your time. Don’t let your strict adherence to independence keep you isolated from the others of this Pass. I ask that you take my help and let me speak and act for you.” As he spoke, he looked directly into the eyes of the men and women standing in front of him, projecting his words so they could be clearly heard, and keeping his expression and voice open and relaxed.
“None of us can survive alone, dragonriders, not without one another. And we can’t exist as a whole when some of our parts are missing. Crafts, Holds, and Weyrs—we need one another. We are under constant threat from Thread and we have to defend against it together or perish. The Holds need the Weyrs just as much as the Weyrs need the Holds. And the Crafthalls enhance our lives. Together all serve to teach us that we must band together. Come back with me! Come back to where you belong in the Present Pass. You cannot face your future here. No one should have to face such difficulties alone.”
A dragon coughed near Piemur, and then a voice from the back of the compound growled loudly.
“Bah! You are just one person! How can you help all of us? Go back to your own time, harper!”
A chorus of rumbles rose from the crowd and Piemur looked around him, trying his hardest to quell a mounting feeling of failure.
“Something has made many of you unwell,” he shouted, looking around at the dragonriders and their dragons. “You’ve been fouled by something, made sick somehow when you were once robust and strong. And your illness has affected all other aspects of your lives. I know someone who can help you shake off your illness. When you’re well again, we can work together to reunite this Weyr with the rest of Pern.”
“They’ve cast us aside! We are of no use to them anymore!” someone shouted, and another rumble rose up from the dragonriders. Piemur held up his hands, waiting with patience for the Oldtimers to heed him again.
“Yes, I know how you feel! But you are crucial linchpins in the assembly of our social structure, and only you can take those first steps forward to come back to us.” Piemur said, stressing the last few words. He lowered his head, wondering how he could make them see that he wanted to be their advocate, not their adversary.
“Noble dragonkind, I do not want to make judgment on whether your banishment was right or wrong. Or to mete out or seek justice,” he said, knowing his choice of words would send a ripple through the crowd, making clear that he was referring both to the theft of the egg as well as to their own exile.
“We could fight with one another, seeking revenge and retribution until we’re all but spent. But such actions are self-serving. They’re not for the good of us all,” he cried, and obeying an impulse he jumped down from Seventh’s back and slowly walked into the crowd.
“You all came forward to help fight Thread and keep the people of this Pass safe for the future. I would like to help you find your rightful purpose again. In this Pass! I know you can teach us, teach your descendants, many things. Just as you taught our dragons and riders to fight against Thread. But would you let us teach you how we can live together in this Pass?” As Piemur spoke, he walked among the dragonriders, looking from one to the next in appeal. “I would be honored to act as your advocate, dragonmen.” He came to a stop, his progress impeded by the stooped figure of T’ron, who had stepped forward, barring Piemur from progressing any farther.
“If you would allow me, I would be your voice—to speak on your behalf so your wishes will be heard.” Piemur’s words carried across the compound. He stood in front of T’ron, aware that all the Oldtimers were regarding him keenly. He crossed one arm in front of his waist and slowly dipped his upper body in a deep bow.
When he straightened up, T’ron had stepped closer. He glared at Piemur.
“We’ve listened to you, harper, and heard your words. Go, and leave us now!” T’ron’s voice, loud enough for everyone to hear, was flat and brooked no argument. Piemur stared at the Oldtimer Weyrleader, his face contorted in anguish at the rebuff. T’ron reached out a hand and placed it on Piemur’s shoulder, squeezing it for the barest moment before he openly pushed him away. Was he mistaken, Piemur wondered, or when T’ron touched his shoulder was he sending him another, subtler message? He couldn’t be sure, and he could do nothing more about it now in this tension-filled atmosphere.
So this is it, Piemur brooded. My great plan to be mediator for the Oldtimers has come to nothing. They don’t want help. He looked around at the dragonmen, aware that they regarded him with steady gazes as he searched among their faces to find B’naj.
With Seventh following close behind, B’naj walked with Piemur out of the Oldtimer compound where they could lift into the air with ease. Wordlessly Piemur climbed onto Seventh’s back and strapped himself in behind B’naj. Moments later they were airborne and Piemur looked down one last time, true remorse washing over him as he watched the men and women who’d helped change the fate of every person alive on Pern but who would not now allow that debt to be repaid.
* * *
—
The journey home was long and cold, but Piemur felt so utterly dispirited that he was barely aware even of the bone-freezing passage between as Seventh flew them forward through the Turns to his own time. As soon as the brown dragon set down a short distance from Southern Hold’s compound, Piemur touched B’naj’s shoulder in farewell, threw his leg across Seventh’s back, and began to climb down. Suddenly Seventh trumpeted loudly. Piemur almost lost his grip, but B’naj grabbed his arm. Piemur looked up in gratitude, but the Oldtimer just gripped his arm tighter.
“You can let go now, B’naj, my feet are almost on the ground,” Piemur said, trying to break free of the dragonrider’s strong grasp.
“Seventh—and I, as well—we want you to know something.” The Oldtimer loosened his grip so that Piemur could continue to dismount. When his feet finally touched ground, Piemur looked up at B’naj. The Oldtimer had an earnest expression on his lined face.
“No harper has ever offered their support to us in the way you did today. We are grateful that you tried to help. I’m sorry that your offer was refused.”
Piemur didn’t know what to say in reply so he merely shrugged. But then a thought occurred to him. “I hope that your Weyr will take Meria’s remedy. She’s certain the jango will make them well again.”
“It’s my ferven
t wish, too, harper.” B’naj dipped his head toward Piemur, who returned the courtesy, bowing toward Seventh and his rider. Without another word Piemur moved out of Seventh’s way so the Oldtimer dragon could return his rider to their Weyr. Just before he climbed higher into the air, Seventh circled around to face Piemur, his eyes whirling a startling shade of emerald green as he bugled loudly. Then his voice was swallowed up between.
* * *
—
Piemur fell into an irregular schedule of work in Southern Hold, never really finding an easy rhythm to his daily tasks. He felt like he was stumbling and stuttering through each day. He helped teach the children; he helped grade and store a bumper crop of tubers; he pitched in to prepare a batch of numbweed that would see the Hold through to the following Turn, at the very least. But regardless of all the activity that kept him busy, Piemur’s days felt empty; what he achieved had no meaning for him, and he realized after a sevenday that he felt very deflated and more than a little glum.
He couldn’t shake the feeling of absolute disappointment that the Oldtimers had dismissed his offer of assistance so quickly and emphatically. Were they really that hidebound that they couldn’t—no, wouldn’t—take his help? Or did they think his words were empty, or that he didn’t have the requisite ability? It was hard to shake his sense of defeat, and as the first sevenday passed into the next, even though his days were full of activity and worthwhile work, and he was surrounded by the friendly company of the holders, Piemur could not shake himself out of his doldrums.
Late one afternoon, a group of the hold children rushed back to the compound full of excitement because they’d found a clutch of abandoned fire-lizard eggs. Meria asked Piemur to help her and the children retrieve the eggs and keep them safe until their future homes could be determined. Fire-lizard eggs were hard to come by in the north, and would be used as a bartering tool for goods or future favors.
“You’ve been keeping busy, haven’t you, Piemur?” Meria asked when the eggs were positioned in a safe place in the main Hold, out of harm’s way. “I’ve hardly seen you at all these last few days.”
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