Dragonheart

by Todd J. McCaffrey

  Forsk made a sound that was not quite satisfied, feeling enough of Bemin’s emotions to know that her bondmate was unhappy.

  “So, you are the wherhandler here?” H’nez glanced from the Lord Holder to Forsk’s lair and back again.

  “Lord Holder Bemin, at your service,” Bemin answered, extending a hand in greeting. His irritation with the dragonrider’s haughty ways had evaporated as he had realized that no bearer of ill-tidings would have behaved so poorly. That H’nez paused for a long moment before extending his hand in response was not lost upon Bemin but did not detract from his joy at knowing that his daughter’s dragon was still safe.

  “To what do we owe the honor, dragonrider?” he asked, then added, “And may I offer the hospitality of my Hold to you and your riders?”

  “You may,” H’nez replied, adding with a sniff, “such as it is.”

  Bemin chose to ignore the remark, and gestured toward the Great Hall. “If you’d like, we could talk at the table in the Great Hall while we take refreshments.”

  “As much as that would please me,” H’nez replied in a tone that indicated no such thing, “my duties require me to mount a watch on this Hold and all its outlying holds minor.”

  Bemin did not fail to notice H’nez’s emphasis on the word duties, with the unspoken implication that Bemin himself had no such pressing worries.

  “Perhaps when you’ve finished setting the watch, you’d accompany me to the Harper Hall,” Bemin offered, managing with effort to keep the irritation out of his voice. “I’m sure that Masterharper Zist would be obliged for any news of Fort Weyr.”

  “I doubt I’ll have time,” H’nez replied curtly.

  Bemin’s eyes narrowed at the other’s discourtesy, but, with a steadying breath, he tried again to be civil. “Will you need lodging for your riders?”

  “Of course,” H’nez said, as though it were obvious. “I shall stay here at your Hold. My riders will find lodgings where they are posted.”

  “Very well,” Bemin replied. “If there is any other way in which I may be of assistance—”

  “I’ll be sure to let you know,” H’nez answered dismissively.

  “What are you doing here?” Kelsa asked Bemin in surprise as she made her way to the master’s table at the Harper Hall the next morning.

  “I spent the night here,” Bemin replied. He gestured vaguely toward the journeyman’s quarters. “In one of the empty rooms.”

  Kelsa looked from him to Masterharper Zist and back again, a challenging look in her eyes. “Why?”

  “I wanted to show some flexibility,” Bemin replied. “Masterharper Zist and I had a long talk—”

  “You didn’t tell him?” Kelsa broke in angrily, looking betrayed.

  “I’ve been a harper long enough to know the signs,” Zist growled at her, waving her anger away and gesturing at the large bowls of breakfast cereals piled in front of her. “As it is, anyone in this Hall who doesn’t know you’re expecting had better have a very good reason,” he added, raising his voice enough to carry to every corner of the dining hall.

  “I told you,” Verilan murmured from his end of the table before immersing himself once again in an old Record.

  “It wasn’t the sort of thing you can hide, you know,” Nonala added with a grin for Bemin. “I must thank you, Lord Holder.”

  Bemin raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  “I won the bet,” Nonala said, stretching out her hand toward Verilan.

  “What bet?” Kelsa demanded airily. “How come you didn’t bet me?”

  “Because the bet was about how Bemin would react,” Nonala explained. She gave Master Archivist Verilan a reproving look. “A noble man, as I said.”

  “I never doubted that,” Verilan said quickly, looking up from his Record again while dipping into his pocket for a two-mark piece, which he passed over to Nonala’s outstretched hand. He gave Bemin an apologetic look as he explained, “The bet was how long it would take before you . . . accepted Kelsa’s requirements.”

  “Verilan thought you might hold out longer,” Nonala explained. She gave the archivist the same sort of sisterly look she’d bestowed on him since they’d first met, him having all of ten Turns at the time. She grinned as she continued, “But I figured you’d waste no time.”

  “What are you talking about?” Kelsa demanded. She looked first to the Masterharper, then to Bemin for an explanation.

  “I believe that your fellow master is telling you that Lord Holder Bemin will do whatever is necessary for the well-being of you and your child,” Zist said finally.

  “Oh,” Kelsa said, looking toward Bemin. Her expression softened as she asked, “You will?”

  “Yes,” Bemin swore. “I love you.”

  Verilan rapped the table and stretched out his hand to Nonala, who ruefully returned the two-mark piece.

  Kelsa’s eyes slid to the pair of them and they halted the transaction with guilty looks on their faces until Nonala sheepishly confessed, “He bet me that Bemin would say he loved you the first morning he was at the Harper Hall.”

  “That’s usually what happens,” Verilan explained. “You’d know that if you read the Records more often.”

  Kelsa and Nonala shared a look of exasperated affection, shaking their heads nearly in unison.

  “So you don’t mind if she’s raised here?” Kelsa asked Bemin when the moment passed.

  “No,” he replied promptly. “I’ll make arrangements to be a part of her—or his—life, whether here or in the Hold.”

  “And if she wants to be a harper?”

  “All the better,” Bemin replied with a grin. “I have, as you know, changed my opinion about harpers in the past twelve Turns or more.”

  “But if the child would prefer the honor of being a Lord Holder,” Zist added, looking challengingly at Kelsa, “I expect there to be no impediments.”

  “Our child,” Kelsa declared firmly with an adoring glance at Bemin, “will have nothing stand in her way!”

  “I would expect not,” Zist agreed, “with such parents as she has.”

  “I’m impressed,” H’nez allowed as he watched the conclusion of the ground-crew drill at Fort Hold two days later.

  They were standing on a rise just beyond sight of Fort Hold proper in the first valley beyond. H’nez could see brightly colored flags waving in the distance and small gouts of flame as the ground crews practiced flaming the mock Thread burrows that he had helped to “plant” earlier that morning—“ ’Cuz they’re used to me and my ways,” as Stennel, the head of ground crews noted.

  “We’d be much quicker off the mark if we still had the fire-lizards,” Stennel explained apologetically. “We trained them to spot the burrows and coordinate our plans.” He shook his head regretfully. “As it is, we’ve got to rely on spotters in the heights, and I’m afraid we’ll miss many burrows until they get too big for us.”

  “And how big is that?” H’nez asked, ignoring what to him was yet another whine about the fire-lizards. Didn’t these holders realize that it was the dragons of Pern that protected them against Thread? The fire-lizards were nothing more than a minor amusement, even if, as Stennel maintained, they were occasionally useful.

  “According to the Records, if we don’t find the burrow in the first hour, then it’ll be too big to fight with the flamethrowers,” Stennel replied. “And then we’d have to get dragons to flame it.”

  “Hmph,” H’nez grunted noncommittally.

  “If we don’t spot it within eight hours, the Records say that our best hope is to fire the whole valley around it,” Stennel continued with a frown.

  “Fire a whole valley?” H’nez repeated doubtfully. “I’m sure whoever wrote that Record must have been in error.”

  “It happened about ten times in the last Turn of the Second Pass,” Stennel persisted.

  “Who told you that?”

  “It was in the Hold Records,” Stennel replied. “I read them myself.” He stood a bit taller as he co
ntinued with a touch of pride, “I wanted to know, as best I could, what we were to expect, my lord.”

  “Hmm,” H’nez murmured, turning his attention to the distant lines of the ground crews as they moved back to their rallying point.

  “Anyways, it makes sense,” Stennel continued. “It matches up with what we’ve seen fighting fires.”

  “Fighting fires?”

  Stennel flushed and shrugged. “You could consider a burrow rather like a fire in a high wind—either one will destroy every living thing around it in short order, my lord.” He gestured to the ground crews in the distance. “These lads also fight our fires when we have ’em.” He shrugged once more, grimacing. “We had the fire-lizards for that, too. They were great spotters.

  “But they would never eat the firestone we use for the flamethrowers,” he continued reflectively. He cocked an eye at the dragonrider, adding, “I’m sure glad they found the right stuff—although getting our stone is much harder now.”

  “Harder?”

  “Aye,” Stennel replied. “No one wanted to dig it before, when it was necessary for the dragons. Now it’s only necessary for ground crews and no one really wants to go looking for it. Which is why the Mastersmith is working to see if he can adapt our flamethrowers to use proper firestone,” he went on, shaking his head. “Last I heard, he hadn’t much luck, but I don’t get the freshest information all the time.” He cast an inviting glance toward the dragonrider. But if he was hoping for illumination, he would be disappointed.

  “I see,” H’nez replied in a tone that showed that whether he saw or not, he certainly didn’t care.

  Stennel frowned. “I suppose fire’s not so much an issue up in your Weyr, surrounded by all that rock.”

  “No,” H’nez answered, “it isn’t.”

  Why was it, he wondered, that holders were so easily irritated? They certainly weren’t properly deferential, not even the women. With a frown, H’nez turned away, back toward his dragon. “Well, I’ve seen enough,” he said, climbing up to Ginirth’s neck. “I’ll see you back at the Hold.”

  Stennel sketched a salute as the wind of Ginirth’s wings buffeted him, and then H’nez was gone, between.

  It’s always good to show the holders their place, H’nez reflected as he and Ginirth emerged once more from between, this time over the courtyard of Fort Hold. A group of holder women and children scattered as he guided Ginirth down to a landing. He spotted Lord Holder Bemin striding out into the courtyard from the Great Hall in response to the commotion and allowed himself a grin as he noticed Bemin quickly school his irritated expression into a bland look.

  “Does the ground-crew drill meet your approval, my lord?” Bemin asked as H’nez dismounted.

  H’nez paused a moment, straightening his clothes, before answering indolently, “As well as could be expected, I suppose.” He gave Bemin a measuring look. “I was surprised that you were not there yourself.” He raised his eyebrows questioningly. “Was there business at the Harper Hall?”

  Bemin flushed, which was not lost on H’nez. “I was busy with inventory,” he replied tightly, waving a hand toward the Great Hall. “We have to be certain not only of our tithe to the Weyr but also to ensure that the holders themselves will prosper.”

  “Of course,” H’nez agreed in a tone that was just short of insulting.

  Lord Holder Bemin pressed his lips together, firmly stomping on his anger.

  H’nez noticed and was amused. He started to add another jibe when the air above them suddenly darkened and was filled with the sound of dragons.

  Bemin scanned the riders and their dragons’ harnesses for signs of their Weyr, hoping that perhaps M’tal or some other Weyrleader had come to visit the Masterharper. Perhaps, he thought hopefully, I could have a word with him and he could rein in this irritating wingleader.

  “V’ney!” H’nez exclaimed as he recognized the bronze rider descending. “You’re a day early!”

  The bronze rider, still descending, didn’t hear him, of course, but H’nez’s expression was so clear that when V’ney dismounted, he called out, “H’nez, you need to return to the Weyr.”

  “Why didn’t you have your dragon send for me?” H’nez demanded, exasperated. Bemin was far enough behind that he saw both dragonriders’ faces, and it was clear to him that V’ney had brought bad news.

  “The sick dragons are—” V’ney stopped abruptly, placing an arm gently on H’nez’s shoulder. “They’re not expected to make it through the night,” he finished quietly. “K’lior thought it would be best if the riders had the companionship of their wing.”

  H’nez’s face was suddenly devoid of all expression. “Of course,” he said immediately. “Thank you . . . I’ll fill you in on the—”

  “You haven’t time,” V’ney said. “You need to get your wing back now.” He gestured to Bemin, who had quickened his pace to join them. “I’m sure the Lord Holder can set me right.” He gestured skyward. “You get going.”

  H’nez opened his mouth to argue but stopped himself, settling instead for an abrupt nod of his head.

  V’ney’s bronze leapt up to the watchtower to make room for H’nez’s Ginirth in the landing area.

  “Wingleader!” Bemin called out as H’nez climbed astride his dragon. The bronze rider gave him a startled look. “I am sorry we part so sadly.”

  H’nez locked eyes with him, and for a moment the dragonrider appeared to be his usually arrogant self, but then he visibly deflated in sorrow and said, “I, too.”

  And then the dragon leapt aloft and was gone, between.

  “My lord,” V’ney said in the stillness that followed, “I’d like to apologize for any ill will wingleader H’nez might have engendered between your Hold and my Weyr.” He shook his head and continued, “He’s good with his riders and flies well—but he enjoys making trouble with everyone when he’s on the ground.”

  “So I had noticed,” Bemin said wryly.

  V’ney snorted. “You mean that you couldn’t understand why a dragon would choose to be ridden by an ass?”

  Bemin’s lips quirked upward. “I hadn’t put quite those words to it, actually.”

  “Then you’re a very tolerant person,” V’ney allowed.

  EIGHT

  Weyrfolk, keep your duty dear

  Provide for dragon and for Weyr.

  When the Red Star comes on nigh

  By your efforts will dragons fly!

  Fort Weyr, Afternoon, AL 507.13.25

  Xhinna cleared her throat so loudly that Fiona looked up from her position next to J’marin. The blue rider was resting fitfully, having exhausted himself in his ministrations to his ailing blue dragon.

  Xhinna’s eyes darted to the entranceway and Fiona followed her gaze. There was a rider standing in the doorway. H’nez. Fiona couldn’t think of a single thing to say to him and merely glanced back down to J’marin.

  H’nez crossed the room, his energy intense and compacted like a tunnel snake ready to strike, but he paused as he spotted the bucket full of green mucus and saw the half-cleaned trail near Asoth’s nostrils. The blue dragon gave a rattly breath that startled everyone.

  “Asoth!” J’marin exclaimed, raising his head up to look at the dozing blue. Assuring himself that his dragon was no better or worse than before, J’marin glanced around the room. He startled when he caught sight of H’nez and drew himself shakily to his feet.

  “Wingleader.”

  H’nez waved him back down and crossed the last distance to stand beside his blue rider. J’marin looked at his sleeping dragon.

  “I don’t think I could take losing him,” he told H’nez softly.

  “What can I do?” H’nez replied. J’marin made ready to reply, then noticed Fiona and Xhinna. H’nez noted his reluctance.

  “Weyrwoman,” he said respectfully, including Xhinna with a glance, “you must be very tired yourself. Why don’t you excuse us and I’ll stay with J’marin?”

  Xhinna rose instantly to comply,
but Fiona was reluctant to leave. Xhinna tugged on her sleeve.

  “We’re not wanted,” she told her quietly.

  “Speak to Talenth if you need anything,” Fiona said to J’marin. The blue rider nodded. “I will, Weyrwoman, you may count on it.”

  “You’ve got your entire wing at hand if you need it,” H’nez assured J’marin as Fiona and Xhinna left.

  “I know that,” J’marin replied, “but the Weyrwoman’s been a great comfort.”

  The rest of their words were lost to Fiona as she entered the corridor and made her way toward the stairs leading down to the Weyr Bowl.

  J’marin’s Asoth was no worse than the other three ailing dragons: M’rorin’s blue Panunth, L’rian’s green Danorth, and, of course, Tannaz’s gold Kelsanth. T’jen’s brown, Salith, was only slightly better off. It seemed to Fiona that Salith’s symptoms were similar to those of the others a sevenday earlier. She didn’t know if other dragons had the illness, but she’d heard enough coughing to believe that there were more infected dragons.

  “Melanwy’s up to something,” Fiona muttered to herself as they made their way down the stairs. Behind her, Xhinna pointedly made no comment: Fiona had been over this ground with Xhinna so often that the weyrgirl had no more to say on the subject. “She’s got H’nez involved, now, too.”

  “Wingleader H’nez makes his own decisions,” Xhinna reminded her. Fiona snorted in disagreement, in response to which Xhinna continued, “I can see how he might listen to Melanwy, but I do not see how any plans of hers might be to his benefit. And H’nez always works to his own benefit.”

  Fiona made no reply. She was certain that Melanwy had, in the guise of consoling the riders of the sickest dragons, concocted some sort of plot. She knew that whenever she entered a room where Melanwy was, the ex-headwoman stopped talking. Even Tannaz now seemed to positively disdain Fiona’s attempts at consoling her.

  “Nonsense!” Cisca had declared when Fiona had raised her suspicions with the Weyrwoman. “Tannaz is under a lot of stress and can’t be expected to act normally, under the circumstances.” But she didn’t dismiss Fiona’s concerns completely. “All the same,” she’d added, “if you can keep an eye on Tannaz, Melanwy, and the others, that would help.” She had frowned thoughtfully, then continued, “At least you can provide them comfort.”