Dragon's Fire

by Anne McCaffrey

  “No, no, leave off that!” he scolded her. “They’re only taking them to bed. You’d think they were going to be Shunned the way you’re—” Fenner abruptly stopped speaking, his gaze intent on Halla’s forehead. Slowly, almost apologetically, he reached out his hand and parted her hair. He grunted to himself when he saw that she was unmarked. Halla’s relief was short-lived, however, for Fenner’s eyes narrowed again critically.

  “A number of Turns ago,” Fenner began slowly, “there was a theft and attempted murder at Three Rivers.” He watched Halla carefully. “And a girl matching your description was caught. The crowd was ready to mark her Shunned, but she escaped.”

  Halla swallowed hard and lowered her head. She knew that she would never escape the mark, the sign of those to whom no aid would ever again be given. Her parents had been Shunned; Halla had expected no other fate. Turned from hold, turned from craft, how long could she survive in the wild by herself?

  “Please,” Halla said in a whisper, tears streaming down her face. “The little ones. They did nothing.”

  Halla started as Fenner’s strong hands grabbed her. Would the Lord Holder strangle her here and now? she wondered frantically, clawing at him with all her might. Maybe if she broke free she could rescue the others, too.

  “Stop struggling!” Fenner’s voice boomed over her. Halla went limp, sobs wracking her small body, eyes scrunched tightly closed. She felt herself being lifted. Huge arms wrapped around her and hugged her tight. Was he going to crush her in his arms? Halla wondered anxiously. She squirmed once more.

  “I said, stop,” Fenner growled. “By the First Egg,” he continued almost to himself, “it’s as though you expected me to Shun you on sight.”

  The impact of his words registered in his ears and he peered down at the figure shaking in his arms.

  “It’s all right,” he told her soothingly. “It’s all right, little one.”

  Some inner flame, some core of her being flared to life inside Halla once more and she looked up, eyes glaring, and declared, “I’m not little.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Fenner agreed hastily. “Why, you must be all of—nine Turns.”

  “I’ve twelve Turns,” Halla growled back defiantly.

  “No!” Fenner responded, his heart sinking. The child in his arms was light for nine, skeletal for twelve. He looked down at her and wrapped a large hand against the back of her neck, pulling her head gently toward his chest. “Why, my youngest is the same age as you.”

  Lord Fenner had children? Halla found herself wondering, her neck still resisting his insistent hand.

  Fenner let go of her head and looked down at her, telling her frankly, “I haven’t hugged anyone your size in Turns. Would you humor me?”

  He smiled down ingratiatingly at her, making his eyes go wide and waggling his eyebrows. He kept his bright blue eyes focused on her warm brown ones until he felt her relax, and then he gently pulled her head against his chest. With a contented sigh, he started rocking from side to side.

  “We can talk in the morning,” he said softly, still rocking. “After you’ve eaten.”

  Her fragile reserves of energy all consumed by her previous struggles and desperate panic, Halla felt a warm lassitude spread over her. She nodded muzzily in agreement. Yes, morning would be good.

  Slowly Lord Fenner carried Halla to the sleeping chambers where the other youngsters had been sent. As he walked, he hummed contentedly to himself. By the time he got to the bedroom, Halla was fast asleep, lips curved in a soft smile.

  CHAPTER 7

  Lord Holder, your role is assured.

  Lead the hold, help all endure.

  Set the pace and show no slacking;

  Let the lazy ones go packing.

  CROM HOLD

  When Halla woke the next morning, she gasped in surprise. She was in a bed with fresh sheets. She shouldn’t be in a bed, she was too dirty!

  Memories rushed back, and Halla struggled to get out from under the sheets only to discover that she was surrounded by the warm bodies of the children Moran had placed in her care. It took several moments of careful maneuvering before she could extricate herself, leaving the sleeping children behind. She spared only a moment for her embarrassment when she discovered that she had on only her undergarments—blushing red at the thought of Lord Fenner skinning her out of her dirt-encrusted tunic—before locating a huge plush towel and wrapping it around her.

  She listened at the door for a moment before opening it swiftly, hoping to catch anyone outside off guard.

  “Daddy said you’d be up by now,” a girl down the corridor called out to her. The girl looked like a thinner, smaller version of Lord Fenner, only with blond hair instead of brown and eyes, that if anything, sparkled more than those of Crom’s Lord Holder.

  The girl bore down on Halla and held out her hand. “I’m Nerra.”

  Awkwardly Halla took the proffered hand.

  “Are you hungry?” Nerra asked and Halla saw that she carried a basket in her other hand. “I’ve got some rolls, but not much fruit and all of it dried.”

  “Dried fruit would be nice, my lady,” Halla said, trying her best to imitate the curtsies she’d seen Hold ladies use.

  Nerra smiled so widely that her face dimpled. “Oh, but the rolls are fresh and I’ve got butter.”

  “Fresh?” Halla repeated blankly.

  “Cook told me to bring them specially,” Nerra said. She gestured back to some distant spot in the large Hold. “She said I was to feed you before your bath and to watch the children if they woke.” Her face fell as she confided, “I don’t know how I’ll manage eight.”

  “I can have a bath?” Halla repeated, her skin crawling with excitement at the very notion. She turned her head to peer around the hallway. “Where is the bucket?”

  “Bucket!” Nerra snorted. “We don’t have a bucket, we have a bath room.”

  “A whole room?” Halla exclaimed, eyes wide.

  “Certainly,” Nerra replied in a surprised tone. She gestured back to the room. “But first we should eat.”

  And so, twenty minutes later, Halla found herself lowering her small, lean frame into a whole tub of warm water. She came out again only when she heard Nerra’s frantic knocking, and the other girl’s frantic cry, “Help, they’re all over the place!”

  Halla found herself issuing orders to the Lord Holder’s daughter and the Hold guards while clad only in a pair of thick, plush towels. Soon, to Nerra’s obvious amazement, she had restored order and got the two younger ones into a bath where, after several moments of panic, they were now happily splashing, cavorting, and thoroughly drenching the guard captain.

  Much later the guard captain, properly dried off, escorted Halla once more into the Great Hall, with Nerra chatting away happily at her side.

  Halla felt nervous in the rich surroundings and the old clothes Nerra had loaned her.

  “Don’t worry, he’s not the growler he pretends,” Nerra whispered to Halla, stopping, and—suddenly all formal—curtsying to her father.

  “Greetings, my lord,” she said, doing nothing to ease Halla’s fears. “I bring the prisoner for your judgment.”

  Prisoner? Halla’s eyes widened and she found herself once again searching for the best exit from the Great Hall.

  “What are her crimes?” Fenner called out from his seat at the end of the hall.

  “Complicity in theft, flight from a crime,” Nerra replied formally. Quietly, in a totally different tone, she confided to Halla, “But I told him you didn’t do it.”

  “Lady Nerra, please stick to the forms,” Fenner growled in exasperation.

  Nerra gave her father a grumpy look but nodded. “What is your pleasure, my lord?”

  “The rule of Crom lands rests with the Lord of Crom,” Fenner intoned severely. He crooked a finger at Halla, beckoning her forward. With a slight push from Nerra, Halla found herself walking down the long way to the Lord Holder’s chair.

  When she was directly
in front of him, Fenner held up a hand for her to stop.

  “What is your hold?” he asked her, his tone still formal.

  Halla shook her head in silence.

  “What is your craft?”

  Again Halla shook her head.

  “So you claim no hold or craft?” Fenner asked, his tone full of solemn disapproval.

  “None, my lord,” Halla said honestly, her arms hanging limply at her side. He had seemed so nice, too.

  “And did you steal as accused?”

  “No,” Halla answered honestly.

  “Were you not identified as a thief and nearly Shunned?” Fenner asked, leaning forward to gaze directly into her eyes.

  “Yes.”

  “How plead you?” Fenner asked solemnly.

  Plead? Halla looked at him questioningly. She shifted on her foot nervously. Was she supposed to beg for her life? Or did he expect her to tell him that Milera was the thief? If Milera ever found out—and Halla wondered where she’d been so long—she’d choke her for sure.

  “Not guilty,” Nerra whispered stridently to her. Halla turned to face her with a questioning look. “Say ‘not guilty,’” Nerra whispered again.

  “Not guilty,” Halla said. Hastily she added, “My lord.”

  “Good,” Nerra murmured approvingly. “Now demand justice.”

  Halla nodded and swallowed. “My lord, I demand justice.”

  “In what name?”

  “My name. Halla.”

  “Very well,” Fenner replied. “Justice is asked and will be given.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment in thought. When he opened them again he looked straight at Halla.

  “The issues against Halla of no hold are dropped,” he declared. “The judgment is that the children traveling with you will become fosterlings of Crom Hold, under my protection until they come of age.”

  Halla opened her mouth to form a protest, but Nerra nudged her foot so sharply that Halla was afraid for her balance.

  After a moment of silence, Lord Fenner looked up at Halla again and smiled. “Well, now that that’s done, I think it’s time for some lunch, don’t you?”

  Halla could only nod in shock.

  Moments later she found herself seated at the great table in the kitchen while Nerra bustled about, arranging for the feeding of the eight new fosterlings.

  “I swear that I’ll treat them as my own,” Fenner said when he caught Halla glancing nervously at the children. Once he was certain that she had heard him, he allowed himself to cast a glance at the eight youngsters, the newest additions to Crom Hold. They were all very thin and haggard. Fenner hoped that they would fill out with enough food. “I’m surprised they survived.”

  “Not all did,” Halla admitted in a dull voice, her thoughts full of shallow graves and yellow flowers.

  “Why did you not ask for the mercy of the Lord Holder?” Fenner asked, his face full of honest curiosity.

  Halla flushed and shook her head. “I didn’t know.”

  “Who was with you before?” Nerra asked. Halla gave her a startled look which Nerra waved aside. “You were little once; someone had to look out for you.”

  Hastily, Halla sought a safe answer. “My brother, Jamal.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He broke his leg and it got infected.”

  “So where is he?” Nerra asked, glancing around as if expecting to see him any moment.

  “He died three Turns ago,” Halla replied.

  “Then he wasn’t the last one to help you,” Fenner declared. “Who was?”

  Halla pursed her lips tightly. Fenner reached over and lifted her chin lightly with his forefinger until her eyes met his. “I have a reason for asking,” he told her. “I am trying to contact the Shunned, you see.”

  Halla gave him a startled look. Why would a Lord Holder want to contact the very people he’d Shunned?

  “Thread will be coming soon,” Lord Fenner said in answer to her unspoken question. “I think now is the right time to set aside lands for the Shunned and give them the right to hold what they can.”

  Halla blinked in surprise, crying, “But they’re Shunned!”

  “Some I’ve Shunned myself,” Fenner confessed. “When I can see a way, I let holders and crafters be. For murder, repeated manslaughter, repeated theft, even sheer laziness, I have to consider the good of all.”

  He pointed to the ceiling. “Thread is coming back. We need to start storing the food we can now in case we aren’t so prosperous in future Turns. That way we’ll have sufficient in reserve for any disaster Thread might inflict on us.”

  He sighed and spread his hands, indicating his entire hold. “I can’t ask one man to toil in the hot sun when another does nothing.”

  “What if one man has no tools?” Halla asked. “Or his fields are full of rocks?”

  “We give him tools, and we all work to clear the rocks from fields,” Fenner said. “When Thread comes, we will all need everything we can get—shorting one man makes no sense.”

  Halla nodded, wondering why Moran hadn’t told her this. Of course, she thought sourly, he was a fat man.

  “But if you give them tools, wouldn’t that make you Shunned also?” Halla asked after a thoughtful silence.

  “Before that, we have to contact them,” Fenner said, “which is where you come in.”

  Halla was surprised and it showed.

  “I’d like you to contact those of the Shunned who are willing to settle,” Fenner told her. Halla looked questioningly at him. He nodded. “You are young enough to present no threat and bright enough to know when to speak.

  “And the Traders speak highly of you,” he added, smiling at Halla’s look of surprise. “As Lord Holder, I am supposed to know what goes on in my Hold.”

  “He does, believe me,” Nerra added fervently.

  Fenner waved at his daughter for silence; to Halla’s eyes, the gesture spoke of an affection greater than she’d ever seen.

  “But I’m only a little girl,” Halla protested feebly.

  “Yes,” Fenner agreed, eyeing her carefully. “I suppose you are.”

  Halla caught the challenge in his tone and her face flashed with anger.

  “I’ll do it,” she told him defiantly.

  “But you’re right, you are young,” Fenner responded.

  “Don’t push it, Father,” Nerra said acerbically. “She’s agreed to go.”

  Fenner smiled at Halla. “I’d hoped you would.”

  “We’ll have to go higher, my lord,” Toldur called to D’vin from behind the dragonrider as they flew over the precipitous mountains north of the High Reaches. “I can still smell the sea.”

  In front of him, D’vin nodded, and Hurth suddenly banked and veered inland.

  Cristov was wedged in between the bronze rider and Toldur, still somewhat in shock at the speed with which events had moved. It had taken less than a day to gather tools, maps, and equipment, and it had taken only three short seconds to move halfway across the continent from Crom Hold to High Reaches Weyr.

  There, Toldur and Cristov met with B’ralar, the Weyrleader, to discuss their plans. Cristov took the time to stroll around the Weyr, examining dragons and quarters with nearly equal interest, marveling at how the ancient builders had managed to produce such straight, smooth corridors, at the size of the individual weyrs, and at the sheer bustle and energy of everyone in the Weyr.

  He was even more impressed and somewhat daunted by the tour of the firestone caves, especially when he was told that the replacement cave had taken the weyrfolk three Turns to construct. Another cave was a mere open sore at the base of the Weyr—testament to the power of firestone and its combustibility.

  It took another hour for Toldur and Cristov, referring to the wind-rattled map, to find a suitable place for mining. Once they’d settled on a location, it took mere seconds for Hurth to land them and their supplies.

  “I’ll be up to check on you every day,” D’vin promised. “Let me
know if you need help.”

  “Certainly,” Toldur said, waving a thanks to the dragonrider. “We’ll have our first site by noon tomorrow.”

  After D’vin departed, Cristov and Toldur selected a suitably flat site and set up a hasty camp under a rock outcropping. The two collected kindling and larger branches and quickly built a roaring fire. As the night wore on, Cristov grew increasingly grateful for the fire’s warmth and light.

  “It’s colder up here than at Crom,” Toldur observed as he slipped into his sleeproll. “We’ll need to be careful if snow comes.”

  Cristov grunted in agreement, too tired and wound up to talk. He was soon asleep.

  “This is a bad time to mine,” Toldur remarked the next morning as they chipped cautiously away at the grass and soil covering a nearly sheer cliff. Toldur frowned as a drizzle of dirt rained down on him from above.

  “At least the ground’s soaked enough to keep the dirt from sliding too much,” Cristov said as the slide tapered off.

  Toldur frowned, shaking his head. “I’m not sure I like the idea of wet soil meeting firestone.”

  They peered at the bare rock their labors had exposed and smiled.

  “There’s a clay layer here,” he said happily. “It would protect any firestone beneath it.”

  Cristov nodded, looking at the exposed rock for the telltale dark gray and dark yellow crystals. When he found a candidate, he would silently point it out to Toldur. Four times he pointed, and four times Toldur shook his head. When he pointed for the fifth time, Toldur nodded, saying, “It looks like it to me, too.”

  Toldur gingerly tapped a small section out of the hillside. Cristov caught the shards as they fell, grateful that he and Toldur had found a creosote bush nearby in the valley. They’d rubbed their hands on it to stop their palms from sweating, a precaution they’d learned from the Weyrlingmaster at High Reaches.

  They took their samples over to a nearby stream.