“Fire-lizards won’t eat it,” Sonia added. “I tried.”
“But it was the same as you gave us,” Cristov protested defensively.
“It was,” D’vin agreed. “And all that Hurth’s ever eaten for flame. The flames are hot and quick, but—”
“Maybe the Harper Hall will know more,” Sonia said. Cristov gave her a questioning look. “B’ralar sent to the Harper Hall for more information on firestone mining.”
“They assigned their best lad to the job,” D’vin added.
With a growing sense of surprise and dismay, Cristov guessed the answer to his own unspoken question. “Kindan?”
“Yes,” D’vin said with a curt nod of his head. “That’s the lad. Do you know him?”
Cristov could only nod wearily. And then the humor of the situation dawned on him: Kindan was working for him!
“I’m going to go blind and it’ll be all your fault,” Kelsa complained as she pored over yet another moldy Record stored deep in the bowels of the Harper Hall.
“Nuella’s blind and she’s got a watch-wher,” Kindan replied affably, feeling no less scratch-eyed and irritable than Kelsa but refusing to admit it.
“These Records are useless,” Kelsa growled. “Who wants to know who was married to whom?”
“It’s important for lineage,” Kindan replied.
“Why did you have to pick me to help?” Kelsa moaned.
“You’re good at spotting things,” Kindan replied.
“I’m better at writing songs.” Angrily, Kelsa grabbed a Record. “I can barely read this one.”
“Be careful then,” Kindan said. He waved a hand at the neat stack of Records in front of him. “These are easier to read, but they make no sense.”
“What do you mean?” Kelsa asked, glancing from her stack to Kindan’s. She’d ceded him the oldest Records in the belief that they’d be the hardest to read and was now regretting her choice.
“Well,” he said, holding up the sheet he was currently reading as an example, “this one’s all on about how they first discovered firestone.”
Kelsa leaned toward him, eyes wide. “That should be great, Kindan.”
Kindan shook his head. “It says that they spotted fire-lizards flaming and tracked it down to firestone on the beaches.”
Kelsa made a face. “Fire-lizards don’t flame.”
Kindan nodded. “And wouldn’t firestone just burn up when the tide covered it?”
Kelsa nodded. “You’re right, that’s cracked.” She moved closer, peering at the Record in his hand. “Maybe this is some child’s story that they preserved. You know, proud parents and all that.”
Blearily remembering that Kindan had no parents to be proud of him, Kelsa held out her hand, gesturing for the Record by way of diversion.
With a shake of his head, Kindan passed the sheet to Kelsa.
“You know,” he mused while she read the paper, “it must have been very odd the way the colonists discovered firestone. I mean, it’s buried under a certain sort of rock and all.”
Kelsa bent closer to the Record. “I wish we had better light,” she murmured, bringing her glow closer. “Glows just aren’t bright enough to read with.”
“We could wait until day,” Kindan suggested jokingly.
Kelsa glared at him. “I can just imagine how the Masterharper would react to that decision.”
“I suppose we could use a candle,” Kindan said.
“Are you mad?” Kelsa squeaked, gesturing around at the stacks of Records. “They’d burn, Kindan.”
“Only if you put them near the flame,” he retorted. He waved aside any further argument and gestured to the Record in Kelsa’s hands. “What do you think?”
“The print’s too small and fine to be a child’s,” she declared after a moment. She pointed at the text. “And the phrasing doesn’t sound like one either: ‘The small winged creatures dubbed fire-lizards were observed to chew a particular rock scattered along the shoreline and then emit flame to defend themselves against Thread. It was later determined that the rock was phosphine-bearing.’” She looked up at Kindan. “That sounds like Master Zist when he’s teaching.”
But Kindan wasn’t looking at her. He was staring off into space.
“Kindan?” Kelsa muttered, snapping her fingers under his nose. “You’re not asleep, are you?”
Kindan batted her fingers away and focused back on her. “Kelsa,” he asked slowly, “have you ever wondered why they’re called ‘fire-lizards’?”
Kelsa looked from Kindan to the Record she held in her hands and then back again, frowning thoughtfully.
“I think we should wake the Masterharper,” Kindan said.
“It’s the middle of the night,” Kelsa protested. Apprentices who were foolish enough to wake the Masterharper anytime, let alone the middle of the night, often found themselves regretting their mistake for a very long time.
Kindan nodded. “It is here,” he said. “But when will it be dawn at Telgar?”
Kelsa was tired and it took her a moment to think through to his meaning. Dawn would come earlier at eastern Telgar than the westerly Harper Hall. And when dawn came, some would be working the mines. Some would possibly even be digging new firestone mines.
“Let’s run,” Kelsa said.
CHAPTER I0
Harper learn,
Harper read.
Harper help
Those in need.
WHERHOLD
If I don’t get those herbs, she’ll die,” Moran repeated, glaring at Jaythen and Arella. Since his arrival, their acceptance of him had been conditional at best, hostile at worst. But they could not hope to match his skills as harper and healer. Now Aleesa lay before them, burning with fever.
Moran quickly determined that the self-styled Whermaster was more than a little crazed by a long life of trauma, not eased any by her association with watch-whers. But somehow he and Aleesa had found and kindled a strange sort of respect, bordering on friendship.
Perhaps he recognized a kindred spirit, tormented by past decisions and indecisions, torn between high ideals and petty indulgences. Or perhaps it was Aleesk, with her strange looks and quiet presence. He learned quickly enough that Aleesk was the last gold watch-wher, and that Master Zist and even the dragonriders found the creatures valuable. After so many Turns spent fruitlessly striving to find an answer for the Shunned, or hope for their children, Moran found the issue of the watch-whers and their handlers to be a much easier burden, and he was in need of a rest.
“I don’t trust you, ‘harper,’” Jaythen said. “How do I know you won’t betray us?”
“How do I know you’ll return in time?” Arella asked, her face tear-stained from worry and haggard from hours of caring for her ailing mother.
“You don’t,” Moran said in reply to both of them. “But I can guarantee that the longer before I return, the less likely she’ll live.”
Arella looked away and bowed her head. Jaythen held Moran’s eyes for moments more before dropping his arms and growling, “Go then.” He took a deep breath. “But if you don’t come back, I’ll hunt you down and kill you.”
Moran laughed. “You and Tenim both,” he said. He gestured beyond them to the crevice where the watch-wher was sleeping restlessly and said to Arella, “If I don’t come back in time, can you save Aleesk?”
Arella shook her head. “Not with a watch-wher of my own,” she told him. “If you don’t save my mother, we’ll lose the last gold watch-wher on Pern.”
Moran winced as he rose to his feet. “Then I’d best hurry,” he said, striding quickly toward the light of the brightening day.
“How long will you be?” Jaythen called after him.
“Three days if I’m lucky,” Moran called back.
“Be quick,” Arella called after him.
“Be lucky,” Jaythen growled ominously.
Moran shouldered his pack at the cave’s entrance and strode quickly away.
He made good time
the first day, better than he’d hoped. He knew that a lot of that was due to his new environment; the short rations of the wherhold and the work that Jaythen and Aleesa had demanded of him had forced him to grow stronger and leaner.
He woke early the next day, sore. It took him longer than he would have liked to get moving and he found it hard to keep the same pace he’d set the day before.
The ground between the wherhold and Keogh was rough and barren. Moran chose his path with care; any fall here might well be fatal, even if he only broke a leg.
His concentration on his path was his undoing. He didn’t notice the dragon above him until its shadow fell over him.
For a moment he froze in panic. What if D’gan found out about Aleesa? What could he do? He thought frantically, desperate for a plan. Finally, a slow grin spread across his face.
He looked up and waved at the descending dragon and rider. His waving grew more frantic and he smiled and bellowed, “Over here! Over here!”
When the dragonrider dismounted, Moran ran over to him. “By the First Egg, I’m glad you found me,” Moran declared. “I was afraid I was dead for certain.”
“What are you doing out here?” the dragonrider demanded, glancing around the barren terrain.
“I ran away,” Moran said, waving behind him. “The Shunned were after me and I ran away. They caught me sleeping and it was all I could do to get away with my pack.”
“Shunned, you say?” the dragonrider repeated. “How do you know they were Shunned?”
“Who else would be out here attacking the unwary in the middle of the night?”
“What were you doing out here?”
“I was heading to Keogh,” Moran replied. “I need to get some medicines.”
“Medicines?”
“Yes, I’ve left a sick mother behind at a cothold a ways back,” Moran said, gesturing generally far north of Aleesa’s camp, “and I need to get her feverfew or she’ll die.”
“Feverfew,” the dragonrider murmured, then looked intently at Moran. “How do you know medicines?”
“I am a harper,” Moran said, bowing low. “Moran, journeyman to Master Zist.”
“K’lur,” the dragonrider replied shortly. “I thought that Jofri was Zist’s journeyman.”
“A harper may have more than one journeyman,” Moran temporized quickly, hoping that his surprise at K’lur’s news hadn’t shown on his face.
“Well,” K’lur gestured impatiently toward his green dragon, “come along. I can get you where you’re going faster than your legs.”
“Thank you, green rider,” Moran responded gratefully.
K’lur’s response was a rough grunt that left Moran feeling uneasy until they were airborne and the dragon went between.
Moran’s unease exploded into surprised outrage when they burst out from between. “This is Crom Hold!”
“Yes,” K’lur agreed. “Lord Fenner must judge you. If, as I suspect, he knows nothing of you or worse, then you’ll be Shunned and sent to the mines.”
Moran was too stunned by this change in plan even to speak as they descended to the entrance to Crom Hold. Even if he could get the feverfew, he was now more than five days’ journey from Aleesa. She would die—and then what would happen to the last queen watch-wher of Pern?
At K’lur’s commanding gesture, Crom Hold guards formed up on Moran’s flanks to prevent his escape and his walk assumed the nature of a march—a march of doom.
The great Hold doors opened and Moran found himself admitted to the Hold’s Great Hall.
Moran had seen Lord Fenner several times from a safe distance but he’d never been introduced. He could hope that no one he’d cheated out of their marks had reported a good likeness of him to the Lord Holder. He did not want to be Shunned and turned over to K’lur and the firestone mines.
As he marched up the length of the Great Hall to the dais on which Lord Fenner sat, Moran noticed several people—even children—watching from tables placed alongside the walls. One of the children pointed at him with wide, surprised eyes. Moran paused, stunned. “Fethir?” Another child appeared familiar. “Marta?”
Rage, sudden and immense, filled Moran. He shook off his guards and raced to the end of the hall. “What are you doing with them?” He demanded at the top of his lungs. “Are you sending children into the mines?”
He looked around feverishly, recognizing the children he’d left with—“Where’s Halla? What have you done with her?”
The guards caught up with him and wrestled him to the ground before he could assault Lord Fenner. Moran fought back as hard as he could, only to have more guards descend upon him. Even so he fought. Must save them!
K’lur stunned him with a two-handed blow to the back of the neck. Moran slumped over, and his lips split against the hard stone floor.
“What justice is this?” he asked through bloody lips, lifting his face up enough to catch a glimpse of the Lord Holder’s boots. “What justice is it to send children to the mines?”
“Not mine,” Lord Fenner answered from above Moran. At a gesture, the guards stepped back but retained wary holds upon the battered harper.
Moran straightened enough to meet Fenner’s eyes. “Where’s Halla then? I left these children in her care.”
“She went off after Tenim,” Fenner said, meeting Moran’s gaze squarely.
“Are you mad? He’ll kill her!”
Fenner shook his head. “It was not my idea,” he said, glancing for just a moment at K’lur. “I’d sent her on a different task. But the traders told me that she changed her course.”
Moran realized that he was missing something and gathered that Fenner was guarding his tongue, but he couldn’t understand why.
“You must send someone to get her,” Moran said desperately. “She’s not safe with him out there.”
“Who is Tenim?” K’lur demanded from behind him.
“He was my ward, until he turned thief and worse,” Moran said, not quite telling all the truth.
“Thief and murderer,” Fenner said. Moran tried to cover his surprise—and his fear. “He was implicated in the death of one Sidar of Keogh.”
“Someone used firestone,” K’lur growled from behind Moran.
“He was burned?” Moran asked queasily.
“No,” K’lur said. “Sometimes firestone gas won’t burn; breathing it alone kills.”
“What were you doing with the Shunned?” Fenner asked.
“Isn’t it enough that he was consorting with them?” K’lur said. He failed to notice the irritated look on the face of Crom’s Lord Holder as he continued, “D’gan will want him in the mines. The dragons need firestone.”
“I was ordered,” Moran replied to Fenner.
“By whom?”
“My master, Harper Zist,” Moran said.
Fenner was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, it was to K’lur. “Dragonrider, I will have to investigate this,” Fenner told him solemnly. “It will take no more than a day to get word to the Harper Hall.”
“When you do, please send word that Master Aleesa needs feverfew and a healer,” Moran begged.
Fenner gazed for a long moment at the green rider before asking frostily, “You took this man from the sick?”
“He was wandering alone,” K’lur said. “He claimed he was going to Keogh, but I didn’t believe him.”
“Dragonrider,” Fenner began and paused, putting a smile on his face, “I thank you for your kindnesses and for bringing this man to my intention. I will, of course, deal with any punishments necessary in my capacity as Lord Holder.”
K’lur recognized Fenner’s words as a dismissal. “But D’gan wants more workers,” he protested, easily imagining his Weyrleader’s fury when he returned empty-handed.
“So he has repeatedly told me,” Fenner replied. “But there are only so many holders whose behavior warrants being Shunned.”
K’lur looked like he wanted to argue the point but could think of nothing to say. With
a curt nod, he turned on his heel and strode out of the Great Hall.
“That wasn’t courteous, was it?” a young voice asked curiously as the great doors slammed shut.
At a gesture from Fenner, the guards stood completely away from Moran.
“Grab him a chair, child,” Fenner replied. “And no, it wasn’t.” To Moran he said, “The dragonriders of Telgar seem short of courtesy since they integrated with the Igen riders.”
The young girl, whom Moran didn’t recognize, pushed a padded stool noisily to him. Moran stumbled upright enough to sit on it gratefully.
“Thank you,” he said absently.
“You’re welcome,” the girl replied. “Marta, get a washcloth and some water, please.”
Moran heard but didn’t see the patter of Marta’s feet as she raced off on her errand. Painfully he raised his head so that his eyes met Lord Fenner’s.
“Please, my lord, could you send that message now?” Moran asked softly. “More than one life depends upon it.”
“I can,” Fenner said, “but I wonder if you recall that the Harper Hall is farther from Keogh than we are.”
Moran nodded wearily. “Help will have to come a-dragonback if it’s to be in time.”
“You’ll get no help from Telgar,” the young girl snorted derisively.
“Nerra, that’s no way to talk,” Fenner said reprovingly. “We are beholden to Telgar Weyr.”
“Yes, Father,” Nerra said in a tone that showed she accepted the fact but didn’t necessarily like it.
“The Harper Hall could ask for help from Fort Weyr or Benden,” Moran said. He examined Fenner’s face carefully, seeking to determine the nature of his character. He had heard that Fenner was a shrewd, cautious man who was not above sharp dealing. This man didn’t seem to match the description. Moran’s own judgment was suspect, he knew, for he had clearly misjudged Tenim. Still…
“The other life is a watch-wher,” Moran said, watching Fenner’s eyes for any reaction. Lord Fenner nodded and leaned forward in his chair. “She is the last gold watch-wher on Pern.”
“I see,” Fenner said, nodding. He glanced up and waved imperiously to his daughter. His words were clipped and fast, urgent. “Nerra, run to the drum tower. Do you know what to say?”
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