Dragon's Fire

by Anne McCaffrey

  Pellar looked around at the other dragons, some aloft on watch, some perched on top the hill below. He found the riders and their markings—Fort, Ista, Benden, and High Reaches. Suddenly he found himself holding his sides in silent laughter. Only Telgar was not present. Any devious mind would quickly conclude that Master Aleesa’s camp was still on Telgar lands!

  “So where are they?” Tenim shouted, angrily pounding his fist on the table. A sudden hush filled the tavern. Hold Balan had grown up as natural stopping point for barges and drays on their journey between Miner’s Hold and Campbell’s Field. The holders earned much of their trade providing the bargemen and draymen with lodgings and meals, so they were used to a raucous, constantly changing crowd. Even so, patrons turned nervously toward him. Some tossed back the last of their drinks and made their exit with indecorous haste.

  Moran made calming gestures with his hands. “They’re checking.”

  “Checking? Checking?” Tenim roared, the veins in his neck standing out like ropes. He pounded the table again, ignoring the worried expressions of the few remaining patrons and the cowed look of the owner with whom he’d already shared harsh words and short jabs, concentrating instead on Moran’s worried face. Oh, he thinks he hides it, Tenim thought, but I know. I know who’s in charge here, and it’s not this fat old fool.

  “Checking,” Moran repeated firmly. “Halla’s report is from Crom; we’ve still Telgar to hear from, and Miner’s Hold to the east—who knows?”

  “We don’t,” Tenim growled. “There’s a fortune changing hands and we don’t even know where.” He gave the harper a cunning look. “Think of the children you could help with that sort of money.”

  Tenim smiled to himself as he saw his remark hit home. Oh yes, I know your loyalties, he thought, wondering how he could have ever thought of the older man as anything but a weakling.

  Sure, it was true that Moran had found him, fed him, nursed him back to health when no others would so much as raise a hand for the son of a Shunned father and no one had the time for his spineless mother. He never wondered anymore what had happened to her; the last he’d seen of her was the night she’d turned on his father and he’d struck her down. Tenim had learned not to argue with his father at an early age; in fact, at the same time that Tenim had learned that even if she’d had a will, his mother would have never used it in his defense.

  “If you hadn’t sold all the coal we’d stolen for your brats, we’d have enough now to pay for decent information,” Tenim added. “I told you to hold on to it.”

  “Who would we sell the egg to?” Moran asked. He wondered again how he had come to this pass, how the boy he’d succored so long ago had turned into this sour young man, and again he remembered the many petty compromises, lies, wheedles, and thefts that the harper had made to provide the next day’s food, to feed just one more helpless mouth, make one more small difference, only to find himself repeating the effort the next day, this time to feed even more mouths with even more theft and lies.

  “Anybody,” Tenim replied sourly. “Think of what we could get. They say that Tarik’s camp promised a whole winter’s supply of coal for their chance at an egg. What would they pay for the real thing in their hands, no questions asked?”

  “Somebody would ask questions,” Moran protested. “There aren’t that many watch-whers—”

  Tenim cut him off. “What makes you so certain? Why would they care where it came from?”

  “I suppose they might not,” Moran said, unwilling to press the point. “Not that it matters—we don’t know where they are. The eggs might have been distributed already.”

  Tenim snorted. “If they had, then Tarik would have told us.” He took a sip of his ale. “You didn’t hear how much he complained about the waste.” He frowned thoughtfully and took another long pull on his drink, then threw it back altogether, draining the mug and slamming it on the table. He rose and headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?” Moran asked. “We have to wait for the rest of the children.”

  Tenim snorted. “You wait if you want. I know where one egg will be, and I know what’ll be paid for it. I’ll get that for certain.”

  “There’s an egg left,” Aleesa announced as the last of the party left.

  “Is there anyone else who wanted to trade?” D’vin asked Pellar. Pellar thought for a long moment before shaking his head. He stifled a yawn, gave everyone a sheepish look—which grew deeper as others yawned in succession—and then shook his head again firmly to be certain he was understood.

  “Aleesk won’t move until the last egg’s gone,” Aleesa told the others.

  “If she doesn’t move, there’s a good chance you may be found out by some of the Shunned,” D’vin replied.

  “So now we’ll see the worth of a dragonrider’s word,” Jaythen responded, eyeing the bronze rider challengingly.

  For a moment it looked as though the young dragonrider would respond to Jaythen’s barb, then D’vin relaxed and smiled. “Yes, you will.”

  Aleesa slapped Jaythen on the arm. “You apologize, Jaythen. They’ve kept their word and more.”

  Jaythen’s jaw clenched as he locked eyes with the dragonrider. Then he drew himself up to his full height and gave D’vin a low bow. “Aleesa’s right, dragonrider. You’ve done everything you’ve said you would; I had no call to doubt you.”

  D’vin waved the apology away. “We’ve all been working hard, we’re tired.”

  “It’s not just that,” Jaythen replied as he stood up. “We—” He waved a hand to include Aleesa, Arella, and the rest of the wherholders. “—have had to be wary for so long that it’s hard to trust anyone.”

  “No problem, I understand,” D’vin told the man, his eyes full of warmth at Jaythen’s candor and integrity.

  “I think it is a problem, bronze rider,” Jaythen disagreed mildly. “We have fewer friends when we treat them like enemies.”

  “Hmm, I imagine that’s so,” D’vin replied. He held out his hand to Jaythen. “Will you be friends with a rider from High Reaches?”

  Jaythen nodded and took the hand, shaking it firmly.

  “There’s still an egg left,” Arella reminded them. “If we’re to trade, we’ll need to act fast.”

  Aleesa shook her head. She looked over to Pellar. “That boy, Kindan, he was a worthy lad,” she said. “If his egg doesn’t hatch, we’ll give him this one.”

  “And what if his egg hatches, Mother?” Arella demanded.

  Aleesa sighed. “Then the hatchling will decide what’s necessary.”

  Arella and Jaythen both paled, and Pellar looked inquiringly at them.

  “It’ll go between,” Arella explained.

  “Forever?” D’vin asked, aghast.

  Arella nodded.

  Aleesa looked Pellar straight in the eyes and said, “You go, be sure that egg hatches, and come back to help us move and keep your part of the bargain.”

  Pellar nodded. D’vin gestured for the harper to follow him. In moments Pellar was airborne, and an instant later, between.

  They arrived in daylight, hovering over the grave plateau, hidden from the miners by the mountain peak to the east.

  After Pellar dismounted, D’vin looked down at him and said, “You know that if this lad’s egg hatches, Aleesa will be expecting you to bond with the other hatchling.”

  Pellar nodded, grimacing.

  D’vin pursed his lips thoughtfully before continuing, “Don’t forget that your future is your own to choose, not hers.”

  Pellar shook his head, pulled out his slate, and wrote, “Oath.”

  D’vin craned down to read the slate. “Your oath was to teach her and be harper, not to become a wherhandler.”

  Pellar felt that D’vin wasn’t saying all he thought. With a sudden insight he pointed his finger at D’vin and at Hurth and then back at himself and shook his head firmly—there was no way that he could become a dragonrider.

  D’vin says that you should know that dragons c
hoose whom they will, Hurth informed him. You are the right age, the bronze added on his own.

  Pellar threw up his hands. Thank you, thank D’vin, please. I must go now.

  Call when you have need, Hurth said. I like the sound of your voice.

  Pellar waved and turned to the path around and down the hill. He had been marching a long time before he realized that Hurth had referred to his “voice.” He stopped, momentarily stunned that anyone had ever heard his voice. Hurth could hear him. Really hear him. Pellar’s face split into a huge grin. The rest of his journey to the miner’s camp disappeared behind that amazing thought.

  Perhaps he could be a dragonrider. Chitter burst forth from between a short distance above him and made it clear that he was sure that Pellar could be a dragonrider. After all, Pellar was his mate, so why not something bigger?

  Pellar gave Chitter a shushing gesture—they were too near the camp and he didn’t want to attract attention. In fact, he thought with a sudden chill, he wasn’t sure how Master Zist would feel about his sudden arrival.

  Reflecting on that, Pellar decided to wait until dusk before approaching the camp. Chitter wasn’t happy with the decision, projecting more and more pointed images of mouthwatering food and warm fires as the bitter evening chill drew down upon them.

  All the same, Pellar held out until dark. If his approach to the camp afterward was perhaps more influenced by his grumbling stomach than his caution, he felt Chitter was to blame.

  Whatever the reason, Pellar was surprised when he stumbled across someone crouched in a bush outside of the shed that had housed the late watch-wher.

  Believing the worst, Pellar grabbed his victim around the throat, determined to repay his attacker for every bruise and indignity.

  “It’s me,” a young voice gasped out hoarsely. Pellar let go instantly and sprang back, dropping into a defensive crouch as he revised his estimate of the situation. The other person was smaller than him and younger—neither Tenim nor Tarik. But the voice sounded vaguely like Tarik’s.

  Cristov.

  What was he doing here? Pellar wondered. It didn’t matter. He moved close and carefully massaged the boy’s throat the same way he’d done his own after Tenim’s assault.

  “Sorry,” Pellar wrote after Cristov recovered.

  “You—” Cristov stopped, swallowed, and massaged his throat before continuing. “You thought I was Tenim.”

  Pellar nodded.

  “Are you afraid he might steal the egg?”

  Pellar’s eyes widened at the thought. It was a good idea that neither he nor Aleesa had had. Certainly Tenim knew where Camp Natalon was and would have no trouble finding the watch-wher egg. It would be easy for him to steal it before it hatched. In all the efforts of his dealings to find homes for the eggs, Pellar hadn’t considered the possibility that, once placed, the egg might still be in danger from the Shunned.

  “Father says it’s a waste of a winter’s coal,” Cristov said. He looked Pellar straight in the eyes. “Even if it is, it’d be worse if the egg was stolen, wouldn’t it?”

  Pellar nodded in agreement with the boy’s logic.

  “I decided I could help and keep an eye on it,” Cristov explained. Pellar got the distinct impression that Cristov was not telling him all of his reasons; in that moment he got the distinct impression that Cristov was a rather lonely youngster, someone looking for an older friend. Pellar knew the feeling well, and recalled how well his suggestion that Zist get Kaylek to mentor the youngster had worked. Could it be that Cristov was hoping to see Pellar again? The thought made the young harper feel confused—both flattered and embarrassed.

  Chitter appeared at that moment, hovering nearby. Pellar got the impression that the fire-lizard had seen everything but had been confused by both Pellar’s actions and Cristov’s reactions.

  “He’s beautiful,” Cristov exclaimed, tentatively holding his hand up to Chitter. Pellar gestured to Chitter and sent the fire-lizard a thought; Chitter chirped an assent and dropped down to hover just in front of Cristov’s outstretched hand.

  “Can I touch him?” the boy asked Pellar, eyes wide with awe. In answer, Chitter snaked his head forward, jaw canted so that the Cristov’s fingers were touching his favorite scratching spot. Cristov needed little prodding and was soon happily scratching Chitter’s jaw and rubbing over his eye sockets, totally absorbed with the fire-lizard’s enthusiastic responses.

  “Will the watch-wher be the same?” Cristov asked, taking his eyes off the fire-lizard just long enough to look at Pellar.

  For a moment Pellar wondered whether Cristov was asking about the watch-wher’s appearance or its behavior. Guessing that he meant the behavior, he nodded in agreement, remembering Aleesk’s staunch defense.

  “It won’t be as pretty as you, though,” Cristov told Chitter, fearing that he might offend his newfound friend. Chitter agreed with everything Cristov said, especially when the miner boy brought up his other hand and scratched both sides of Chitter’s face.

  After a long time, Cristov looked back to Pellar. “Are you here to guard the egg, too?”

  Pellar thought quickly, and made his decision. He shook his head and wrote, “No. Ask you.”

  Cristov’s eyes got very big. “Me? You want to ask me to guard the egg?”

  Pellar nodded.

  The younger boy swallowed hard. “I’m not very big,” he admitted.

  Pellar grinned and wrote, “Big enough.”

  Cristov still looked dubious, so Pellar cleaned his slate and wrote, “Trust you.”

  As the young miner absorbed this, a woman’s voice called out, “Cristov!”

  Cristov shook himself out of his reverie and his eyes lost their shine. “I can’t stay up late,” he confessed sadly. “My mother would find out.”

  “Only day,” Pellar wrote hastily.

  “And you’ll watch at night?” Cristov said. “You and your fire-lizard?”

  Pellar nodded.

  Cristov mulled this over, the shine returning to his eyes.

  “Cristov!” his mother called again.

  “Deal,” Cristov said, holding out his hand to Pellar. Pellar took it and shook it firmly, convinced that Cristov was nothing like his father.

  “Gotta go,” Cristov explained, then turned quickly and shouted, “Coming!”

  Pellar waved at the retreating form and then wiggled into the bush Cristov had been using.

  Pellar’s improvised guard schedule worked perfectly over the next three days. Cristov’s “guard” was unnoticed by the rest of the camp as he lived right next to the shed where the watch-wher egg had been placed, and his presence made it easy for Pellar to sneak into place for his night watch and sneak away in the morning.

  When Pellar arrived for his watch on the fourth evening, Cristov was there to greet him, his face clouded.

  “It hatched,” he said in a dull voice. “I haven’t seen it yet.”

  Pellar gestured for Cristov to say more.

  “You’re going to leave now, aren’t you?” Cristov asked with a deep sigh. Pellar nodded. Cristov screwed up his courage to ask, “Will I ever see you again?”

  It was obvious to Pellar that Cristov was looking for a friend, a surrogate older brother, someone to train him in what was right and how to live in the world. Pellar was amazed that the boy had already decided that Tarik was no such guide, had decided to abandon the teaching of his father and look instead for some other mentor. He understood Cristov; a wave of sympathy and regret swept over him. He’d promised Aleesa. He was needed back with the Whermaster.

  “Not soon. Turns,” Pellar promised on his slate, not wanting to set the boy hoping for his early return even though he wasn’t sure how long it would be before Masterharper Murenny or Master Zist arranged for his replacement at the wherhold.

  “Turns?”

  “Promise,” Pellar wrote in response.

  “Turns,” Cristov repeated, eyes downcast. He looked up at Pellar. “How will you recognize me? How will I re
cognize you?”

  Pellar smiled and pointed to Cristov’s heart and then his own.

  Cristov nodded slowly in response, but Pellar felt that the boy was still disheartened. He held up a hand for a moment, then shrugged off his backpack and rummaged through it.

  Cristov watched wide-eyed as Pellar searched his pack. His eyes got even bigger when Pellar pulled out a lovely pipe and ceremoniously handed it to him. No one had ever given him something before.

  “Is this for me?” Cristov asked in disbelief.

  Pellar nodded. He wiped his slate clean and wrote on it, “Zist teach.”

  “You want me to ask Master Zist for lessons?” Cristov squeaked in surprise. When Pellar nodded, Cristov confessed, “I don’t know if I’d be any good.”

  “Try,” Pellar wrote in response.

  “Okay,” Cristov promised. Pellar sealed up his pack and shouldered it once more. As he turned to go, Cristov said, “I’ll try real hard.”

  Pellar turned back and grabbed the youngster in a big hug. Then as quick as he could, Pellar vanished into the darkness.

  Two hours later, Pellar stood again in the plateau clearing.

  Hurth, I’m ready, he thought.

  We come, the dragon responded immediately. You sound sad.

  I am, Pellar responded. How many children on Pern, he wondered, were like Cristov—trying to do their best without example?

  CHAPTER 6

  Pipes for playing, pipes for song,

  Pipes to help the day along.

  Pipes for laughter, pipes for joy,

  Pipes for sorrow, pipes for boys.

  CAMP NATALON,

  AL 493.10–494.1

  Master Zist was surprised when Cristov stayed behind after the end of the morning class. He was even more surprised by the boy’s request to be taught the pipes.

  “I don’t know if I have any spare pipes,” Zist said, not sure why he’d want to do Tarik’s son any favors.

  “Someone gave me one,” Cristov replied, his face a mix of sorrow and surprise.