Dragon's Fire

by Anne McCaffrey

  HIGH REACHES WEYR

  Don’t move,” a muffled voice said in kindly tones as Cristov opened his eyes. A cool cloth was placed on the side of his head and neck. “You must remain still for the healing to work.”

  A face came into his view, a young woman’s, with olive eyes set in a face framed by long dark hair made darker still by a single long streak of white flowing from the top of her forehead.

  “I’m Sonia,” she said. “You’re Cristov, and lucky to be alive.”

  Cristov blinked and tried to sit up. Sonia held him down, telling him imperiously, “I said, don’t move.”

  Cristov obeyed, having neither energy nor inclination, in the light of Sonia’s scolding, to consider otherwise.

  Where was he? What had happened? He peered around the room, rolling his eyes to the limit of their vision.

  Not the mine, obviously, nor his quarters. He caught sight of herbs in jars and sniffed—he was in a healer’s room.

  “If you don’t move, the healer said there’s a good chance you’ll have no lasting pain from the burn,” Sonia cautioned him.

  Burn? Cristov remembered, closing his eyes in a wince. He and Toldur—he snapped his eyes open, hoping to convey his question by look alone.

  “Best get some rest,” Sonia said. “It’ll be three sevendays, maybe a full month, before you’re back on your feet.” She could not quite suppress a grimace as she added, “Firestone leaves nasty burns.

  “If the pain gets too great,” she continued, “you’re to have some fellis juice.”

  Firestone? The mine? Cristov remembered sudden searing heat, cries of surprise and pain and someone tugging on him—Toldur? What had happened?

  Slowly he drifted off to sleep, distracted occasionally as Sonia gently bathed his wound.

  His last thought on the very edge of a troubled sleep was a startled realization that Sonia was bathing the whole side of his head, not touching about his ear. What had happened to his ear?

  “What will happen now?” The question startled D’vin, who had been expecting Toldur’s mate to burst into distraught tears and crumple into a trembling wretch at the sight of the burned-out mine and her mate’s tomb.

  “No one will disturb this site,” he told her reassuringly.

  Alarra shook her head, indicating that he had mistaken her. “What about the dragons and firestone?”

  D’vin shook his head and spread his hands. “This site has been destroyed—”

  “So we find another.”

  “That’s what we intend,” D’vin agreed with a firm nod, his eyes rapidly reevaluating this mate of Toldur’s.

  Alarra correctly interpreted his look and bowed her head slightly to him in acknowledgment. “I’m the mate of a miner, dragonrider; we share our burdens,” she told him. A smile twisted across her lips fleetingly. “If I’d been the stronger, Toldur would have had me in the mines.”

  D’vin was surprised and it showed.

  “He was a special man,” Alarra said.

  “And a special man needs a special woman,” a voice observed from the distance. Alarra and D’vin turned to see Sonia approaching them, her long hair braided into a tight ponytail. Sonia extended a hand to Alarra. “You must be Toldur’s mate.”

  Alarra nodded. “So, dragonlady, what needs to be done?”

  Sonia shook her head and laughed. “I’m not a dragonrider, merely weyrfolk. I help my father, who is the Weyr’s healer.”

  “Cristov?” Alarra asked.

  “He lives,” Sonia told her. “He is badly burned on his neck and the left side of his head.” She took a deep breath and added, “He thinks that Toldur must have shoved him down when the blast came and sheltered him with his body.”

  Alarra gasped, and she bit her lip harshly before responding in a choked voice, “He would—he loved that boy like he was his own.”

  She drew a deep breath and straightened up, gazing firmly at D’vin. “My lord, as Toldur’s mate I stand ready to serve in his place. When shall I begin?”

  D’vin could think of no answer and turned entreatingly to Sonia, who said, “First I think we need to consider our options.” She gestured toward the waiting dragons. “Perhaps this is best discussed at the Weyr.”

  “No sign? No sign?” D’gan emphasized his irritation by pounding on the Council table. He jumped to his feet and leaned on his arms, shouting at his assembled wingleaders. “What do you mean, no sign?”

  “They’ve dug at five different sites and found nothing,” K’rem said.

  “And those twelve Shunned died in that cave-in,” another wingleader added.

  D’gan purpled, ready to blast his wingleaders into action once again, but stopped, letting his breath out in a sigh. He glanced at each wingleader in turn as he said in soft, hard voice, “Without firestone the dragons cannot flame. Without flame, Thread will burrow. When enough Thread burrows, it will suck all the life out of Pern. We…must… have…firestone.”

  “The Masterminer—”

  “Knows nothing,” D’gan growled at the unknown wingleader. “We’ll just have to find more of the Shunned—”

  “What if there aren’t more?” K’rem asked worriedly.

  “Find some,” D’gan said. “There are always those who should be Shunned.” He pushed off the table with his arms and stood. “Dragonriders need firestone to serve Pern. We shall get it.”

  “D’gan is looking for more miners,” Zist commented sourly to Murenny as they paused in their discussion to listen to the drums.

  Murenny snorted derisively. “I can never figure out how his Kaloth ever caught Lina’s queen.” With a shake of his head, he added, “They say that the mating flight chooses the best Weyrleader, but…”

  “Well,” Zist said, “you know how it was. D’gan was the strongest rider from Igen, and it seemed the right thing that the two Weyrs should merge bronze and gold.”

  Murenny gave him a reproachful look. “That’s my theory you’re poaching.”

  “It seems to be the only one that fits,” Zist said with a shrug. He glanced at the sandglass that he had turned over just moments ago and then thoughtfully back to the Masterharper. Perhaps he would lose the bet after all.

  But no! A rush of feet and a hasty knock announced the arrival of the Harper Hall’s newest apprentice.

  Zist allowed himself a small smile as he exchanged looks with Murenny, who shrugged and cautioned, “You don’t know it’s him.” Zist merely smiled wider as the Masterharper called, “Enter.”

  “Sir,” Kindan began breathlessly, his sides heaving from his mad dash to the Masterharper’s quarters. “Is it true?”

  Zist allowed himself one moment of triumph before he turned to Kindan and asked, “Is what true?”

  “Toldur and Cristov,” Kindan replied, gasping for breath. “And the mine at High Reaches.”

  “It is true,” Murenny replied, shaking his head sadly. “Our reports are that the mine was completely destroyed.”

  “And Cristov?”

  “You heard the reports,” Zist said, his tone mildly disapproving as he wondered if Kindan had come to gloat over Cristov’s tragedy. But the lad’s next words relieved him, as Kindan asked, “What can I do to help?”

  “You can learn everything there is about mining firestone,” Murenny said, catching Kindan’s attention. He gestured down to the Archives Hall. “You’ll start there and then—if necessary—go through the Masterminer’s records, the records at Telgar, and wherever else you can find any reference to firestone.”

  Kindan’s eyes bulged and his mouth hung open in shock. But only for a moment. Then he closed his mouth and nodded, saying, “I’ll get started right away.”

  “You can look now,” the Weyr healer told Cristov. It had been nearly a full month before the healer had pronounced Cristov properly healed. He placed a small mirror in Cristov’s right hand.

  The face that peered back at him was his own, Cristov saw with relief. But then he turned his head to the side and saw the horrid
mottled flesh that lined the left side of his head where hair and ear should have been, the burn mark where the exploding firestone had seared his flesh completely away.

  “Scars like that make a dragonrider look distinguished,” D’vin declared as he entered the room. Sonia looked up and flashed him a smile, which the dragonrider returned enthusiastically.

  Cristov turned his scarred head to Sonia and asked, “Do you think so?”

  “No,” Sonia admitted. “But I look at the heart of a man, not his face.”

  “Anyway, I’m not a dragonrider,” Cristov said to no one in particular.

  D’vin ignored the comment, turning instead to the healer. “Is he fit?”

  “Fit enough.”

  D’vin nodded at the assurance and turned back to Cristov. “Why don’t you come for a stroll with me? I’d like to show you what you gave so much for.”

  Reluctantly, Cristov rose and followed the bronze rider.

  D’vin turned back at the entrance and said, “You might want to come, too, Sonia.”

  Sonia gave him a look that Cristov couldn’t read, exchanged an inquiring look with her father, who nodded in assent, and joined them, her eyes gleaming.

  Cristov found as he walked that the left side of his neck felt tight, awkward.

  “It will take a while for the skin to stretch out,” Sonia commented from behind him, grabbing his hand as he reached to touch the scarred surface. “It’s best not to irritate it. Father will give you a salve to help the skin stretch more.”

  As they exited the tunnels into the great Bowl of the Weyr, he noticed with annoyance that it hurt the left side of his neck to squint against the light, and he felt a twinge as he lifted his head upward. But the sight before him drove such minor aches completely away from his thoughts.

  Dragons!

  Golds, bronzes, browns, blues, greens, all soared in a graceful pattern over the top of the bowl, striping the ground below with wing-shadows.

  An older man detached himself from a group of dragonriders who were also watching their friends’ aerial antics.

  “They’re honoring you,” the man said, giving Cristov a slight nod.

  Cristov could only nod back, still transfixed by the sights above him. So many dragons! Twisting, spinning, pirouetting, climbing, diving—it was almost as though a rainbow had taken flight.

  For a moment, Cristov imagined himself on the back of one of those dragons, soaring up and diving down with delight. He could almost feel it.

  Almost. “They’re beautiful.”

  “They are indeed,” the man agreed. Cristov tore his gaze away from the aerial antics and looked at the man who had spoken. His hair was gray and his face grizzled, his body seemed shrunken, tired, but he bore himself with an air that commanded respect. Cristov’s eyes widened as he took in the rank knots on the man’s shoulder.

  “Weyrleader,” Cristov breathed. He shook himself, angry at the pain on the left side of his neck. “I meant no disrespect.”

  “None was taken,” High Reaches’s Weyrleader told him with a smile. He held out his hand and Cristov took it. “I am B’ralar.”

  “Weyrleader B’ralar,” Cristov said, bowing deeply. “Thank you for your kindness.”

  B’ralar gestured for Cristov to straighten up and waved aside his thanks, saying, “It’s we who should be honoring and thanking you.”

  Cristov was so surprised that B’ralar chuckled. “Why, it’s because of you that we had any firestone at all.”

  “But the mine’s ruined!” Cristov cried. “And Telgar has no mine, either.” Cristov stopped for a moment as he absorbed the full impact of his words, then squared his shoulders, looked up into B’ralar’s eyes, and said, “I’m ready to start again, Weyrleader.”

  B’ralar looked into Cristov’s eyes for a long while before responding, “I see that you are. But, I think it would be best if you were to wait here with us awhile longer.” When Cristov made to protest, B’ralar raised a hand. “We have enough firestone—thanks to you—to keep us for a month, if necessary.”

  The Weyrleader waved his hand to indicate the entire Weyr. “In the meantime, we would like to offer you our hospitality as thanks for all you’ve done.”

  Cristov still looked ready to argue. B’ralar smiled at him again. “Please,” he said, “we owe you.”

  “But—”

  “Come see the Hatching Grounds,” D’vin interrupted, laying a firm hand on Cristov’s right shoulder. “There are twenty-three eggs near to hatching.”

  “Yes, do!” B’ralar agreed, waving him away.

  Cristov had only a few moments to notice High Reaches’s lofty seven spires, the uneven peaks that gave the Weyr its name, before he found his eyes adjusting to a darker indoors, the tunnel to the Hatching Grounds.

  Sonia, who had paused to chat with some weyrfolk, eagerly rejoined them.

  “Garirth is bathing,” Sonia said as she joined them. “I’ll take a chance to check out that egg.”

  D’vin chuckled. “You’ve no need, now that your father confirmed that it’s safe.” To Cristov he explained, “We thought one of the eggs had a crack in it, but it turns out it’s just a strange marking.”

  “My egg,” Sonia declared, fingering the white streak in her hair. D’vin didn’t laugh. In a softer voice, she added, “Maybe Garirth’s last queen.”

  “You don’t know that,” D’vin said.

  “Jessala’s not been well these past two Turns,” Sonia said. “And Garirth’s mating flight was short and low.”

  “Garirth’s strong.”

  “Her strength is as much as her rider’s,” Sonia replied, shaking her head.

  They continued on through the tunnel into the Hatching Grounds in silence.

  Instead of darkening further, the way slowly brightened. Cristov gasped. The Hatching Grounds were as well lit as the Weyr Bowl outside.

  “There are mirrors guiding the light into the Hatching Grounds,” D’vin explained, seeing Cristov’s expression. He shook his head at memories of his youth. “Made of some sort of metal. The weyrlings are assigned to polish them when it’s dark.”

  “Some more than others,” Sonia quipped, glancing slyly at D’vin.

  D’vin acknowledged her gibe with a wave of his hand, confessing to Cristov, “The Weyrlingmaster had it in for me.”

  Sonia snorted derisively, but said no more, her levity fading as she caught sight of the far end of the Hatching Grounds.

  “There are only twenty-three,” D’vin said apologetically. “There’d be more if Garirth were younger.”

  Eggs as high as Cristov’s chest were sheltered together in an array of mottled brilliance—bluish, greenish, brown, soft brown, the eggs were swirls of color that confused the eye.

  Sonia loped away, intent on one egg set slightly apart from the others.

  “She’s hoping it’s a gold,” D’vin told Cristov in a low voice, “but the queen usually rolls queen eggs aside. Sonia says that it’s a sign that Garirth is weak that she couldn’t roll the egg very far away.”

  Cristov nodded, thinking that was the polite thing to do.

  “If it’s not a queen egg,” D’vin continued, “and Garirth dies, then we’ll be queenless, like Igen.”

  “Would High Reaches band with Telgar?” Cristov asked worriedly.

  D’vin laughed, shaking his head. “I doubt that would be Weyrleader B’ralar’s first choice,” he said. “No, I imagine we’d barter for a queen egg.” His face grew grim as he added, “Doubtless that egg would come from Telgar and we’d be beholden.”

  Cristov gave him a questioning look.

  “We’d be beholden,” D’vin explained, “to open our mating flight to the bronzes of Telgar.”

  “So you hope that’s a gold egg, then,” Cristov surmised.

  “I do,” D’vin agreed. He pointed to the other eggs, turning away from Sonia, who was carefully inspecting the odd striations in the larger egg. “Why don’t you look at the others while you’re here?”


  Cristov looked at the eggs and back at D’vin in alarm. Sonia turned from her egg and said to Cristov, “Go on, when will you have another chance?”

  “But—” Cristov’s protests were so many and varied that he couldn’t pick a first one.

  “Everyone does it,” Sonia said. “And you’ve earned the right.”

  Is that what the Weyrleader had meant? Cristov asked himself. He turned his gaze back longingly to the eggs lying less than a dragonlength away. The light played upon them like they were jewels beyond imagining. Without realizing it, he stretched a hand out as if to grasp one—but they were well out of his reach.

  “You’ll have to get much closer than that,” D’vin said humorously. Just as he gestured for Cristov to move closer, a loud bellow sounded from in the Bowl.

  “That’s Garirth,” Sonia said with an edge of nervousness in her voice. “She’s on her way back.”

  D’vin sighed and said regretfully to Cristov, “We’d best leave. We can come back another day.”

  “It’s not like you’re going anywhere soon, after all,” Sonia said.

  Cristov gave her a questioning look, which she referred by a jerk of her head to D’vin, who sighed before responding slowly, “One man by himself, what could he do?”

  Cristov felt himself flush with angered pride as he answered, “I could do my duty, dragonrider.”

  Sonia made a rude noise, surprising Cristov. “By yourself, you’d die, and neither I nor my father are willing to let you,” she told him. She glanced at D’vin, who nodded, saying, “You’re the only one alive on Pern who’s mined firestone. It’d be foolish to let you go before you could at least teach what you know to others.”

  “I don’t see how the Weyrs could have survived with the beastly stuff for all these hundreds of Turns,” Sonia said with a shake of her head.

  D’vin indicated a side passage off the main tunnel to the Hatching Grounds, which they took just as Garirth’s lumbering form blocked the light from the Weyr Bowl.

  “I agree,” he said. He looked curiously at Cristov. “Hurth hates the stuff.”