“Yeah, I’ve been busy around the Hold, but I guess I should probably get back to mapping again.” Even to his own ears Piemur didn’t sound very enthusiastic.
“You did your best, you know.”
“What do you mean?” Piemur asked.
“There was nothing more you could have done or said to those riders to change their minds. B’naj told me what you said; he told me about the offer you made to them. I think there are a few of the older dragonriders who are just too bitter, and still too angry, to embrace the possibility of a hopeful future. I’m sorry that they didn’t accept your offer, Piemur. I think you would’ve been an excellent advocate for them.”
Piemur pursed his lips in a brief grimace, nodding twice.
“But you should know that the dragonriders did hear what you said about getting help from me. At first, a group of about fifty riders asked B’naj for the jango root I had sent down from Nabol. They’ve had complete success with it, too, clearing up that wretched coughing once and for all. And when the others saw how improved their fellows were from the jango, the rest of the riders asked for some, too. I think their dragons put them up to it. If you hadn’t guessed that thujang is called jango now, it might’ve taken far longer to make the weyr fit and healthy again. So you see, some good did come from what you did. I hope that makes you feel a little better.”
“I’m really pleased the dragons and their riders are better, Meria. That is good news,” Piemur replied, but he couldn’t keep the disappointment from his voice. Meria scanned Piemur’s face, searching his eyes for a moment, then she nodded once and reached out both her hands to clasp Piemur’s. He could see that the gentle Oldtimer was trying her best to console him, and he smiled weakly at her.
The following morning, Piemur set out with Stupid and Farli to continue mapping the Southern Continent. They had left the Hold early and were making good ground through the dense tropical vegetation when they heard a muffled cry from above and behind them. Piemur stopped Stupid and turned toward the sound. There it was again, a woman’s voice. And was that the whoosh and sweep of a dragon’s wings? Sure enough, the next moment he heard Meria’s voice calling his name.
“Piemur! Piemur, where are you?”
Quickly, he hopped up and stood on Stupid’s back, while Farli flitted up high above his head. He waved his arms overhead, not sure if he could be seen.
“I’m here!” he shouted and was answered by the short bugling sound of a dragon.
“There he is, B’naj! Let’s set down,” Piemur heard Meria say.
A snapping, cracking sound came from several dragonlengths behind him and Piemur waited, curious to know why Meria and B’naj had come in search of him. He could feel the air whooshing around him and guessed that Seventh was backwinging as he made to touch down.
Meria gave another call and Piemur replied, guiding her to him as he climbed down from Stupid’s back. A moment later, the diminutive Oldtimer came rushing toward Piemur, trailing a piece of vine that had snagged under her arm and a long frond of fern that was caught in her hair.
“There you are! At last! We’ve been looking for you all morning. Quickly, Piemur! Go to Seventh. B’naj will explain everything. I’ll take Stupid for you. Go! Quickly!” And she smiled at him, pushing him toward the waiting dragon and his rider.
“What is it, B’naj?” Piemur yelled, as he ran toward the brown dragon. “What’s the matter?”
“I can’t tell you, Piemur. You have to see it for yourself,” B’naj replied, a smile splitting his face as he offered a hand to help Piemur up on Seventh. The brown dragon was hopping from one foot to another, impatient to be off again.
“But what is it—why can’t you tell me, B’naj?”
“Not yet, Piemur,” B’naj said, hauling the younger man up onto his dragon’s back with one hand.
Bewildered, Piemur grabbed onto B’naj’s waist as Seventh pivoted and began to run back through the forest he had flattened while making his descent. Quickly the dragon leapt into the air and beat his wings in half a dozen powerful strokes before he went between.
It felt as if they’d only been in that dark, cold void for a single heartbeat and then they were back in the warm, tropical air of the Southern Continent. Seventh backwinged, landing in the middle of the deserted main compound of Southern Weyr.
Leaning forward, Piemur grabbed the dragonrider’s shoulder, on the verge of asking why they had come here, when B’naj held up one gloved hand.
“Wait,” B’naj said, resting his arms in front of him on Seventh’s neck ridges.
Piemur felt confused. What in the name of the First Egg was going on? Was this some cruel game B’naj and Meria were playing, taking him to this abandoned Weyr—a clear sign of his own recent failure? And then his confusion was replaced by a growing feeling of anger. He tried to calm himself by remembering how Meria and B’naj had never been anything but kind and friendly to him, but his ire—or was it his shame?—was battling with his reason.
Then, without warning, he felt a change in the air pressure above him, familiar but much stronger and heavier than usual. He glanced upward. One moment the sky above him, bright blue and cloudless, was empty, and then within the single blink of his eyes, hundreds of dragons and their riders steadily filled the air, hovering briefly before they began their descents.
Seventh remained where he was, standing stock-still and bugling a welcome as the trees and vegetation all around them were buffeted under the huge draft generated by so many gleaming, shimmering dragon wings—gold, bronze, brown, blue, and green.
“They wanted you to know, harper—the riders wanted you to see them here again!” B’naj shouted above the noise of all the dragons. Piemur looked at him, unsure what he was saying, or what it all meant.
“What you said swayed them! They changed their minds and decided to return. To this Pass, to this time!” B’naj cupped his hands around his mouth so Piemur could hear his next words. “It was the dragons who made their riders see sense. They told their riders to listen to you, Piemur!”
Piemur looked at B’naj, mouth open, incredulous. A dozen or more dragons trumpeted welcoming calls, vocalizing their pleasure while Piemur took in the full import of what the Oldtimer had just said.
Surprised, exulted, and overwhelmed, Piemur jumped up on Seventh’s back and spread his arms out wide in welcome, overcome with relief. As yet another dragon bugled a call of triumph, Piemur threw back his head, a huge smile spilling across his face as he welcomed the dragonriders home.
This book is dedicated to the present and to the past:
With love to my brothers, Alec and Todd, to my husband, Geoff, and to our son, Owen.
Thank you all, gentlemen, for your enduring love and support. And for your near-perfect understanding of the delicate dichotomies and abundant absurdities of “the Geej.”
And to the memory of my loving parents: H. Wright Johnson and Anne Inez McCaffrey. I know you’re both out there, somewhere, in the cosmos.
This story could never have been written if not for my wonderful mother, Anne McCaffrey. She created Pern and its marvelous inhabitants over fifty years ago. Thank you, Mum, wherever you are, out there in the cosmos, for permitting me to play in your world.
A huge debt of gratitude is also owed to my brother, Todd McCaffrey, who generously stepped back and allowed his little sister to mess around in the treasured sandbox that he has been carefully guarding for so many years. To Shelly Shapiro, my editor, whose patience and indefatigable guidance encouraged me to keep writing even when I hadn’t a clue where the story was taking me. Todd and Shelly, you two are true Champions of Pern.
To Diana Tyler, my agent at MBA Literary and Script Agents, for her gentle encouragement and endless patience; and to Jay A. Katz, most trusted Trustee, for thankfully never exerting an ounce of pressure on me throughout the writing process. Diana and Jay, treasured fami
ly friends for many decades, there could be no finer Guardians for Pern than you two.
To Richard Woods, O.P., for the most invaluable advice, guidance, and far too many admonitions to “Move it along!” For which I am most deeply grateful.
Hilary Taylor’s musical guidance and expertise, especially with regard to singing; and Richard McDonnell’s subtle insights into drumming, percussion, and the tensions required therein, have offered this novice a better understanding of that beautiful thing called music. Thank you both.
The music composed by Sheldon Mirowitz, for the original soundtrack to a film called Troublesome Creek: A Midwestern by Jeanne Jordan and Steven Ascher, was truly inspirational during the early stages of writing. Thank you, Sheldon, for your wonderful creation.
To John Greene, Maréchal de Logis, J’hon. Our memory of you carries on, my friend, and I know that you, too, are out there, somewhere in the cosmos.
For all the folk who grace the little haven that is the true heart of Ashford Village, the Chester Beatty Inn, and to her gracious patrons, Padraig and Mari Humby. Thanks to you all for the momentum you encouraged with your gentle nudges, asking “How’s the book?”
To Micaiah Murray (Mickay), the Beautiful and Amazing First-Eyes Proofreader, my thanks.
Finally, to my husband, Geoffrey Robert Kennedy, and to our son, Owen Thomas Kennedy, for all your patience and encouragement. You are the finest men I know and all my heroes are based on you. You know you drive me crazy, but I love you both madly.
Mythago Wood, March 2018
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
GIGI MCCAFFREY collaborated with her late mother, Anne McCaffrey, on three short stories collected in the anthologies Great Writers & Kids Write Spooky Stories, Mothers & Daughters, and a German-language anthology titled Das grofbe Lesebuch der FANTASY. She also contributed an essay to Dragonwriter: A Tribute to Anne McCaffrey and Pern, edited by her brother Todd McCaffrey. She lives in the Devil’s Glen, in the garden county of Ireland, with her husband, their son, and the infamous hound, Sidney.
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