Dragon’s Time: Dragonriders of Pern

by Anne; Todd J. Mccaffrey Mccaffrey

  “That was my thinking,” Fiona agreed. Jeila eyed her thoughtfully. “Didn’t Azeez say you must have had trader stock yourself?”

  “I haven’t heard of many blond traders,” Fiona replied.

  “There have been some, particularly in far Keroon,” Jeila said. “We’re not all dark-haired and dark-eyed.”

  “And incredibly gorgeous,” Fiona agreed. “Although Jeriz—”

  “Weyrwoman?” Jeriz called out upon hearing his name. Fiona recovered quickly, gesturing for him to join them.

  “Have you met weyrwoman Jeila?” Fiona asked. Jeriz shook his head and extended his hand, bowing courteously. “Weyrwoman, my pleasure.”

  “You’re from the desert?”

  “You’re from the north?” Jeriz asked, taking in her features and that special look that seemed to mark most traders.

  “I am,” Jeila said smiling. “I was Searched three Turns back, but before that I was daughter to those hauling goods to the Fire Hold.”

  “Herdbeast or ship?” Jeriz asked, sinking into trade talk.

  “Both, actually,” Jeila said. Her eyes lit with memory. “There were summers we spent with cargo from Tillek to Southern Boll.”

  “Fish down, spices up?”

  “Indeed,” Jeila said. “I see you were well trained.”

  “Many came to see my father,” Jeriz said, his tone going flat. “After, not so many to see my mother.”

  “I see,” Jeila said. “And how came you to be here?”

  “My mother sent me to the one who spit in Father’s soup,” Jeriz said. “She said that she might teach me manners.”

  “She still has some way to go, I see,” Jeila replied, her tone going colder.

  “Jeriz, keep an eye on Terin, please,” Fiona said. Jeriz nodded in response, dipped his eyes to Jeila, and sped off.

  “So who spat in his soup?” Jeila asked quietly as she watched the small figure dart toward the cluster around Terin. “And doesn’t he have the most amazing green eyes?”

  “Shaneese spat in his soup,” Fiona said, delighting in Jeila’s surprised look. “And, yes, he has the most amazing green eyes.”

  “Shaneese?” Jeila repeated in surprise. “Why?”

  “Because Tenniz predicted that she’d be second wife and like it,” Fiona told her, eyes dancing.

  “Oh!” Jeila said understandingly. “She must have been very young.”

  “And very angry,” Fiona agreed. “Although perhaps not so young; she had sixteen Turns at the time.”

  “For a trader woman, what he said was a deep insult.”

  “And, as it is, the complete truth.”

  “Around you, Weyrwoman, the truth takes the strangest directions.” Fiona laughed.

  It was not the best time to fly Thread, T’mar mused as the wings formed up in front of him, two Telgar and one Benden. The sun had not yet set, edging toward the horizon with its last rays blinding the riders. While the Thread that fell between the sun and the dragonriders would be highlighted, Thread that fell from the east could easily be lost in the shadows behind the riders.

  T’mar’s plan was to avert that problem, with himself set well behind the fighting wings. J’gerd and the reserve force were there to provide additional eyes. T’mar swore bitterly at F’jian for his foolishness; not only was the wing deprived of his leadership when it was most needed, but his fatigue had made him slow and thoughtless in their drill so that the reserve wing was only half as effective as it should have been. T’mar cursed himself for not taking action sooner. Beneath him, Zirenth rumbled reprovingly.

  You thought you were doing best, the bronze told him with uncharacteristic forcefulness.

  I should have known, T’mar said.

  Like Fiona?

  T’mar’s lips edged upward at the comment and he slapped the bronze’s neck affectionately in acknowldgment of the jibe.

  What’s done is done, T’mar agreed. Now it’s up to us to deal with here and now.

  Zirenth agreed firmly, swiveling his head from one side to the other while T’mar turned around to peer behind them. He had half of the reserve wing doing the same, the other half scanning the backs of the leading dragons.

  It was not yet dark enough for the watch-whers, nor cold enough for Thread to freeze.

  Not the best time. T’mar had placed H’nez in the center, C’tov on the right, and L’tor on the left. All three wings had drilled in all three different positions: left, right, center. T’mar had made the assignment based on H’nez’s pride and skill and C’tov’s marked proficiency flying on the right.

  The winds were light, but apt to whip up as the sun continued to set; a dangerous combination.

  T’mar spotted an ominous streak of white in the sky to the right and behind him. Zirenth quickly turned and beat his way upward to let them get a better look before T’mar realized he was seeing only the wisps of the high cirrus clouds, lit by the sun’s last rays.

  He had just returned to the flight level when a dragon bellowed behind him and, in an instant, a third of the reserve wing went between, dodging Thread.

  Thread behind! T’mar warned, even as he and Zirenth wheeled, flaming, toward the danger.

  Fiona winced as Talenth relayed the first clash of the fighting dragons to her. Three at once! Fortunately, they were all back immediately, their injuries light. But she could imagine the disarray of the fighting wings, learning that the Thread was behind them.

  Jeila had the same information from Talorth and the two weyrwomen exchanged nervous glances over the head of Terin.

  “What?” the youngest weyrwoman demanded, looking from one to the other.

  “Thread from behind,” Fiona said. “Fortunately, they ducked between and are safe.”

  “Oh,” Terin said glumly. She seemed to shrink in on herself, scanning the horizon near the Star Stones as if hoping to see the battle.

  We may need you, Fiona told her dragon.

  I have told Bekka, Talenth replied. She says she’s ready if needed.

  In fact, Talenth’s warning was all the excuse Bekka needed to demand that she be allowed to fly back to Telgar now, even though Birentir had already returned on a Fort Weyr dragon.

  “You’ve just finished your talk,” Betrony told her soothingly, “take a meal with us first.”

  “You are behind time,” Zist agreed, “you won’t get a decent meal when you get back and you might need your energy.”

  He glanced at Kindan who shook his head at the Masterharper, a wry look on his face. Zist winked at him and touched a finger to his nose, daring the younger man to keep the secret.

  Bekka started another objection, but Zist caught her hand in one of his. “Humor an old man,” Zist implored. “We’ve missed your company.”

  “The apprentices would like to have you seated with them again,” Betrony added, glancing at Seban, “both of you.”

  Seban’s eyes widened just for an instant before he turned to his daughter. “We should sit with them; who knows when next we’ll get the chance.”

  “Lindorm and Cerra are here, too,” Betrony added. “They made journeyman.”

  “Good for them!” Bekka said. “I’d like to congratulate them.”

  “Then, it’s settled,” Zist said. “We’ll have a proper feast in your honor and get you back before you’re needed in Telgar.”

  “Let me check with Fiona,” Bekka said solicitously. A moment later she had her answer. “The Weyrwoman says that Birentir is doing fine and Talenth won’t be needed for a while.”

  “Excellent!” Zist agreed. He nodded to Betrony, eyeing Bekka’s garb. “You know, though, if she’s going to eat with the apprentices, she should have proper attire.” Zist cocked an eye at Seban. “And you, too.”

  “I think we can find something suitable,” Betrony said, gesturing for the two healers to follow him.

  “Dinner will be ready shortly, don’t be late,” Zist called as they left his quarters. After the door closed, Kindan turned to the old Master,
a smile on his lips. “Is it too much to suppose, perhaps, that there is spare journeyman garb for me?”

  “I recall Nonala remarking on that a while back,” Zist said with feigned indifference. “I think she and Kelsa arranged to get some of your older garments cleaned.”

  “So I should find Kelsa?”

  “No, probably Nonala or Verilan,” Zist said.

  “Then I’ll take my leave,” Kindan said with a polite nod to the old Masterharper. Zist nodded, seating himself at his table, pretending to write in his sandtable. At the door, Kindan turned back and poked his head inside. “Don’t think I’m fooled, Master.”

  “Fooled by what?” Zist asked, looking up and managing an irritated look.

  “Fooled by you,” Kindan said, his eyes crinkling in delight. “It’s a good plan, but it won’t work, I’m bound to Telgar.”

  “A wise harper has more than one set of strings,” Zist intoned grandly.

  “Hmph!”

  “Get going, you’ll be late,” Zist said, making a shooing motion toward the journeyman harper.

  “It is an honor that you would think so of me,” Kindan said as he closed the door.

  “Who said I was thinking about you?” Zist said, raising his voice enough to carry through the thick door to Kindan’s ears as he made the way down toward Verilan’s quarters.

  “Well, it’s about time,” Verilan said as he and Nonala helped garb Kindan in a very neat, extremely new harper’s outfit. It was certainly one that Kindan had never seen before, even if perhaps its measurements were taken from one of his cast-offs. “Now he won’t carp on at me all the time.”

  “Or me,” Nonala added.

  “Or Kelsa; think what that would do to the Lord Holder Conclave,” Verilan added, bringing a clenched fist to his chest while miming florid anger.

  “We’d lose half from apoplexy,” Kindan agreed. “Although with Nerra firm at Crom, and the strength of the traders—”

  “Not to mention Pellar and Halla in Fire Hold,” Verilan added.

  “Indeed not,” Kindan agreed, continuing, “with all those, perhaps the Holders might be willing to see a woman as Masterharper.”

  “Gadran would sooner die,” Verilan said with a snort, referring to Bitra’s irritable Lord Holder while gesturing for Kindan to bend down when the Master Archivist fixed his collar. A moment later he motioned for Kindan to stand once more and cocked an eye toward his mate. “Suitable?”

  “Fit for the tables,” Nonala agreed from behind. She grabbed Kindan’s shoulders and spun him around, hugging him tightly. “This should have happened Turns back.”

  Kindan wisely said nothing, choosing to smile at the warm loyalty of his friends.

  “Come on, Journeyman, walk with us to dinner,” Verilan said, managing to sound fierce and formal.

  “You’ve had a lot of practice with that, haven’t you?”

  “Mostly with the children,” Nonala said with a chuckle.

  “He’s good with them?” Kindan asked, arching a brow.

  “If they don’t behave, I make them write out lines in fair neat hand,” Verilan said in a menacing voice.

  “The eldest has—what?—three Turns now?”

  “And writes most beautifully,” Nonala said with a laugh. She poked Kindan in the back. “Now hush up and move on, or Zist will bark at you.”

  Kindan, far too used to the Masterharper’s barks, still could not stop himself from lengthening his stride.

  Bekka was just as glad to get dressed in the fine blue garb with the healer’s mark as she was to acknowledge the compliments she received from journeymen and masters on her talk that evening. Seban beamed at her and nodded at others, but kept silent, preferring to let Bekka do the talking.

  “This looks like a special meal,” Bekka said as she sat down next to the oldest apprentice. Over her head, Seban shook his head warningly at the apprentice whose eyes lit with delight as he played along, saying, “Oh, it’s nothing special. Just the cook’s way of giving thanks for your talk.”

  “It’s not often healers talk about birthing,” a younger apprentice agreed, even as she helped herself to a savory platter of roast meat.

  “It certainly shows that we should be talking to midwives about first aid as well,” another chimed in.

  “They know more than just first aid,” Bekka began, diving into the conversation eagerly.

  She didn’t notice when Kindan entered and was seated at the journeymen’s table, but Seban saw him and nodded once, gravely. Kindan shot him a quick smile and then turned his attention to the journeymen, most many Turns his junior, and joined easily in their conversation.

  Fiona was torn between her interest in the festivities at the Harper Hall and the battle raging in the skies above Crom. Talenth’s vantage atop Fort Hold was no good for information; she had to rely on the scraps that the queen passed on from Bekka, which were tantalizing at best. Her lips quirked upward, though, when Talenth relayed Bekka’s request to stay for dinner, and some of Bekka’s surprise at the clothes offered her were reflected by the queen. Wait until dessert, Fiona thought with a grin.

  Her information on the Threadfall was no better; Jeila relayed what her Tolarth told her. The news wasn’t good.

  The dragonriders had recovered from their initial shock, but she could feel their worry and the disarray of their wings only grew.

  Dark had slipped over the Weyr and the weyrfolk at the aid stations had turned the glows up for light, with large patches of shadow spread between.

  In this gloom Fiona suddenly noticed a pair of bright eyes peering down from above: a dragon’s whirling multifaceted eyes reflecting the light of the glows.

  “Terin,” F’jian’s voice called from beside the dragon.

  “F’jian, what are you doing here?” Fiona called, instantly on her feet, alert—and afraid.

  “I need to speak with Terin,” F’jian said, moving past the Weyrwoman as if she didn’t exist.

  “Stay there, I can hear you,” Terin spoke up coldly from where she sat.

  F’jian sought her out in the dark, guessed her position, and threw himself to his knees in front of her.

  “I have to go now,” he said, his voice sounding heavy, full of dread.

  “Go?”

  “They need me,” F’jian said. “It’s my time.”

  “Your time?” Terin said, standing up and reaching out for him where he knelt, partly silhouetted by Ladirth’s eyes. “No,” Terin said, firmly, her hand reaching his shoulder. “No, you need to be with me.”

  “I will,” F’jian told her. “I’ve got to go.” He stood up, cupping her hand to his chest.

  “No, you need to stay with me,” Terin said again, moving forward and wrapping her other arm around his waist even as Fiona and Jeila found their way to her side. “Stay here, now.”

  “I can’t,” F’jian said, shaking his head. “I wish I could, but I can’t.”

  “Promise me that you’ll be with me always,” Terin said, her voice harsh with emotion.

  “I promise you that when you need me, I’ll be there,” F’jian said, pulling away from her. “By the shell of Ladirth, I so swear.”

  Behind him, Ladirth bellowed in agreement.

  “I must go now.”

  “Bronze rider,” Fiona spoke, commandingly, sternly. “Stand down, return to your weyr.”

  “Weyrwoman, I cannot,” F’jian said with a sob.

  Fiona moved to him, close, and spoke for his ears alone, “Why?”

  “I cannot break time.”

  “Will you break your vow?”

  “No,” F’jian said. “I have not.” And with that he pulled away from them all, vaulted to Ladirth’s back and the bronze leaped into the night air. A wave of cold air filled the Bowl as dragon and rider slipped into the cold between.

  The meal was every bit as good as, but different from, the best of meals prepared at Telgar Weyr, and Bekka found herself enjoying the company. She avoided the wine proffered her way, deligh
ting in saying that she was flying Fiona’s queen and seeing the astonished looks of the younger apprentices who had never heard of such a thing.

  Dessert was served, everyone was relaxing, and Bekka was thinking, with mixed emotions, of her return to Telgar; how she’d love to fly Talenth between once more, how she’d regret leaving this good company behind.

  Silence descended around her before she noticed and she looked up guiltily to see Masterharper Zist and Masterhealer Betrony standing at the Masters’ table for silence. As the last word died, the other Masters rose.

  “It is our custom,” Betrony said into the silence, “to take apprentices for many Turns, ensuring that their knowledge is up to the heavy burden of a healer.”

  “And Turns after, those that prove themselves return to the Healer Hall to take their ranks as journeymen,” Zist added.

  “That custom ends tonight,” Betrony said. The room was stunned.

  “The Plague wrought many changes,” Zist said. “And tonight is yet another of them.”

  “We cannot always choose where our best learning will take place,” Betrony said in agreement. “Nor,” and his eyes fell on Bekka, “can we choose by age or gender.”

  “Bekka of Telgar,” Zist called forth in a voice that resonated in every corner of the room, “rise!”

  Bekka could not move. She was both alarmed at her frozen limbs and forever grateful to those beside her, positioned on purpose she later realized, who helped her up.

  All the journeymen, healer and harper, trouped over to stand behind her. She was glad to realize that Kindan was on her right.

  “It’s time to walk, Bekka,” Kindan told her kindly, resting his hand on her upper arm and guiding her away from the table.

  “Daddy?” Bekka asked, looking down at her father’s beaming expression.

  “Walk,” Seban said with a firm nod.

  “Head high, Telgar,” Kindan told her encouragingly.

  Head held high, eyes gleaming with tears, Bekka of Telgar walked the tables to join the journeymen healers of Pern.

  “I think we need the set,” Zist said as the applause died down and the other journeymen had all clapped Bekka on the back in warm congratulations.