Dragon's Fire

CHAPTER 1

Toldur gently laid the most injured of the rescued miners down on the floor of the lift. “Let’s go up, Cristov.”

Cristov grabbed one of the lift’s ropes while Toldur grabbed the other, and together they winched themselves and the lift up from the bottom of the mine.

At the top, helping hands reached out to grab the injured miner from them and haul him out of the mine. Toldur stepped out behind him only to pause as he noticed Cristov holding back.

“Are you all right?” Toldur asked, peering intently at the young miner.

“Yes.”

“You should be proud of yourself,” Toldur said, clapping one of his huge hands on Cristov’s back. “Though you’ve just turned twelve, today you did a man’s job—and made a man’s decision.”

They reached the mine entrance and found themselves lost in a throng of torches and milling voices. In the distance, Cristov could make out a number of shining eyes peering down from the hillside—dragons.

Alarmed, he picked out several dragonriders in the crowds, wondering if he’d have to defend his actions tonight.

“Is that the last of them, Toldur?” asked Margit, the camp’s healer. She squinted when she noticed Cristov. “I didn’t think he’d be here.”

“He helped,” Toldur explained, patting Cristov on the back once more. “Without him we wouldn’t have been in time.”

Margit started to say something but thought better of it, shaking her head and turning away.

Around him, the noises and the cheering of the rescued and rescuers faded in Cristov’s ears as he imagined what Margit wanted to say. He felt numb, lost.

And then, across the crowd, his gaze locked with his father’s.

Instead of smiling at him or giving him any sign of recognition, Tarik turned his head sharply away from his son, as though disowning him.

Cristov felt his face burn in shame, even though he knew it wasn’t right, that he was the one who should be ashamed of his father.

As he watched, Masterminer Britell and two miners he didn’t recognize approached his father.

“Tarik, I think you should come with us,” Britell said. “There will be an investigation.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Tarik growled angrily.

“Precisely.”

Cristov was wondering if he should follow when a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“You need to drink some of this,” Toldur said, pressing a warm mug into his hands. “And then you’ll need to get some rest.”

“But my father—”

“He’ll have to accept the consequences of his actions,” Toldur said, his voice flat.

Three days later, after Masterminer Britell, his assistant, Master Jannik, and Harper Zist had conducted an extensive investigation, the whole camp was summoned to the great room in Natalon’s house.

Cristov was familiar with the room; he had taken classes from Harper Zist there. The room was arranged as it usually was when Harper Zist was teaching, with one small table placed at one end and the remaining tables arranged in two long rows perpendicular to it. Cristov and his mother, Dara, sat near the end of their table, closest to the small table where Zist, Britell, and Jannik sat.

When everyone was seated, Masterminer Britell rose. “We have completed our investigation,” he told the room. “And I have communicated my findings to Lord Holder Fenner.”

A ripple of surprise spread through the room as people wondered why the Masterminer had needed to communicate with Crom’s Lord Holder.

Britell gestured to a group of men standing in the doorway and silence fell as Tarik marched into the room, flanked by two guards.

“Miner Tarik,” Britell said to him. “I have heard evidence that you did purposely steal the wood intended to shore up your mine-shaft and that you did purposely mine the pillars of your shaft. Will you explain what you did with the wood and the coal?”

“Who said I did any such thing?” Tarik demanded, seeking out Natalon among the crowd and glaring at him. “It’s all lies—”

“Among others, miners Panit and Kerdal,” Master Zist’s voice cut across Tarik’s outburst.

A vein bulged in Tarik’s forehead as he tried to jump out of the grasp of his guards, lunging toward Panit and Kerdal.

“You’re dead!” he shouted to them, struggling against his guards. “Dead!”

“Silence,” Zist said, his voice not loud but commanding.

Tarik fell silent, still glowering at Panit and Kerdal.

“Would you answer our question?” Britell said.

Tarik looked nervously around the room. He opened his mouth to speak but decided against it, shaking his head.

“Very well,” Britell said. “Miner Tarik, it is our conclusion that your actions did severely endanger the safety of the mine and directly caused the death of two miners. Further, it is our conclusion that you took your actions repeatedly, in full knowledge of the dangers you were creating and against the directions of Camp Natalon’s leader. Your actions were taken, we believe, for your own gain.”

Beside him, Cristov could see his mother shaking as silent tears wracked her body.

“Beyond that, when the mine did collapse as a result of your negligence, you purposely refused to allow any rescue attempts to the extent that you struck a child unconscious to prevent him from attempting a rescue,” Britell continued, his voice harsh with repressed rage. “There is also some question as to whether your orders to pump air into the mine after the shaft’s collapse were not an attempt on your part to ensure that there would be no survivors.”

“That’s not so,” Tarik protested feebly. He raised his head to look Masterminer Britell in the eyes. “I didn’t know, I swear!”

Britell glanced down to Masters Zist and Jannik. Master Zist made a dismissive gesture with his hand. Britell shrugged in response and nodded to Zist. With a slight sigh, Master Zist rose and faced Tarik.

“Are you prepared to hear our judgment?” Master Zist asked him.

“What about the Lord Holder?” Tarik protested. “Doesn’t he get a say?”

“He does,” Master Zist agreed. “And he has.” He lifted a small roll of parchment from the table. “I ask again, are you prepared for our judgment?”

Tarik shuffled on his feet as he nodded.

“Your actions indicate a disregard for the lives of others,” Zist said. “As such, it is our opinion that you should be released from the company of men.”

“Shunned?” Tarik cried in disbelief.

Cristov’s eyes went wide. Beside him, Dara let out a moan.

“Shunned and Nameless,” Masterminer Britell said.

Nameless? Cristov thought in despair. His father’s name would be taken away from him, never to be spoken again. Beside him, Dara collapsed.

“Further, for the rest of your days you will work at the pleasure of Lord Holder Fenner,” Britell continued.

As Cristov tried desperately to rouse his mother, a voice spoke softly in his ear, “Let’s get her out of here.”

It was Toldur. Dalor and Zenor stood beside him, faces grave and concerned.

“It’s all right,” Cristov protested as Toldur lifted Dara’s limp body over his shoulder.

“We miners take care of our own,” Dalor asserted, patting Cristov on the shoulder.

But as they left the crowded room with all eyes upon them, Cristov wondered how true that would hold for him and his mother in the Turns to come.

CHAPTER 2

Cristov felt awkward wending his way through the Gather crowd at Crom Hold. There were more people at the Gather than in all of Camp Natalon. It was overwhelming. He was sure that they were all looking at him.

“They’re not looking at you,” Toldur said from behind him, guessing Cristov’s thoughts from the lad’s hunched shoulders, the way he kept his elbows close to his sides, and his bowed head. “At least, they’re looking at you no more than they’re looking at everyone else.”

Cristov paused long enough to give Toldur a sour look and then turned his attention back to the crowd.

“There’s a good crowd this time,” Toldur judged. “I’m surprised.”

“Why?”

“Because Telgar Weyr’s won the Games for the past four Turns.”

“And they’ll win again,” Cristov replied loyally.

“Over there,” Toldur said, pointing over Cristov’s shoulder toward a raised platform. “The Masterminer will be over there, with Lord Holder Fenner.”

Cristov changed his course. Again he wondered why the Masterminer had sent for him. Surely if he’d done something wrong, Toldur—or even his Uncle Natalon—would have told him.

He looks a lot like his father, Moran thought to himself as he watched the gangling youth heading through the crowd toward the Lord Holder’s stand. Same bowed head, same surly look. Yes, he might do, Moran decided. He might do indeed, if it worked out that way.

Imperiously, Moran raised his arm and beckoned. “There’s your target.”

“He was Jamal’s friend,” Halla objected when she caught sight of her prey. “I remember him. About three Turns back, just when Jamal broke his leg.”

“He was, and his father helped us, too,” Moran agreed. “So there’s no reason he shouldn’t be your friend, too.”

“But—”

Moran silenced her with a finger to his lips. “Go, if you want to eat tonight,” he told her. When she still looked rebellious, Moran added, “If you want the young ones to eat tonight.”

Halla glared at him, her jaw set, weighing the alternatives. There were none, and Moran knew it. Moran controlled the food, the wealth, and all the secrets. She had even been relieved when he’d arrived at Keogh to bring the wherhold children back to Aleesa—she’d found it harder than she would have believed to beg enough food to keep them fed. It was natural, afterward, that Halla and Moran continued on to Crom Hold, just as it was natural that Moran had collected a new group of children, orphaned or Shunned.

Halla could do what he said or suffer the consequences. When Jamal had been alive, Halla had held hopes that they might escape from Moran somehow. But the fever that had seeped in through his broken leg had sapped him first of strength and then of life.

She’d been all of eight when he’d died. With Jamal dead, there’d been no one but Moran—she doubted he was a real harper—to look after her. And now, when she was nearing twelve Turns, there were other young ones to look after—and perhaps save.

Halla knew that Moran had followed the same reasoning, had tied her to him out of her pity for the young ones just as he had tied her brother Jamal to him out of Jamal’s worry for her. And, even so, Halla couldn’t imagine leaving the young ones to deal with Moran alone. She, more than any, knew what that was like—she’d experienced it after Jamal’s death; the harper off at all hours of the evening, her never knowing if the harper would return, and, if he did, whether he would come with enough food for them or none at all and him drunk instead on the marks that he’d begged for their food.

“Just follow him,” Moran told her. “Listen to what’s said and report back to me.”

Halla nodded and headed off after her quarry. When she looked back, Moran had disappeared into the crowd. Probably looking for some wine, Halla thought, wondering if she’d have to deal once again with the harper’s drunkenness later that night. She felt herself chill at the thought.

Cristov found it easier to look at the youngsters scampering about the Gather than the older folk. He stopped and twirled around to follow the antics of a small pair of boys as they raced through the crowd, chattering incessantly. His eye fell on one girl, maybe one or two Turns younger than himself. She looked forlorn and hungry.

“Toldur, can I borrow a half-mark?”

“I’m sure we’ll be asked to eat with the Masterminer,” Toldur began, then paused as he followed the lad’s look. “Oh, certainly. You’ve more than that coming to you.”

The tall miner fished in his pocket and handed the token, branded with the Minercraft mark, over to Cristov.

“Thanks!” Cristov called back as he walked over to the girl.

“You look like you could use some bubbly pies,” he said to her. The girl froze for a moment, giving him a frightened look.

“I’m going to be with the Lord Holder,” Cristov continued, “and I’m not sure if they’ll serve bubbly pies.” He had the girl’s attention now, he could tell. “You remind me of a friend I knew here many Turns back; his name was Jamal. Would you do me a big favor?”

The girl’s eyes widened.

“Please?”

The girl nodded. Cristov smiled and pressed the half-mark into her palm. “Would you go and see if the bubbly pies are still good? Get as many as this will buy and eat them all for me? Can you do that?”

“Yes,” the girl said woodenly.

“Thank you,” Cristov said. “That way at least I’ll know that one of us will get bubbly pies.” He smiled at her. “I’m Cristov, of Camp Natalon.”

“Halla,” the girl said and then, as if she’d reached the limit of her words, she darted off into the crowd. Cristov tried to follow her progress, but she was soon lost from sight. He turned back to Toldur.

“Sorry,” he told the older miner, for it was Toldur’s mark he’d given away.

Toldur clapped him on the back. “There is nothing to be sorry about,” he exclaimed. “You did a good thing there.”

“Masterminer, how are you?” Toldur called out as he and Cristov climbed up the stands, all eyes upon them. Cristov cringed, wishing he could stay behind. Everyone was looking at him.

“Toldur!” Masterminer Britell exclaimed as he caught sight of the miner. He gave a cry of surprise when he spotted Cristov. “Is that Cristov?”

“It is indeed,” Toldur agreed, gesturing for Cristov to stand in front of him.

“When did you get so tall?” the Masterminer asked in astonishment. “And where did you get all those bulging muscles?”

“Where else but the mines?” Toldur answered for him. Cristov failed to keep the flush off his face. He didn’t think he was all that tall, and he still felt that he was as “scrawny” as when his father last griped about it.

“Lord Fenner, this is the one I was telling you about,” the Masterminer said, grabbing Cristov by the arm and turning him to Crom’s Lord Holder.

Cristov didn’t know if he was more shocked by his introduction to the Lord Holder, or at the way the Masterminer grabbed him—it was just like his father!

Lord Holder Fenner, Cristov was surprised to note, was not all that much taller than himself and did not look very imposing. In fact, Crom’s Lord Holder looked less imposing than the Masterminer, with a friendly face and kind eyes.

“A pleasure to meet you, Cristov,” the Lord Holder said, holding out his hand. Cristov shook it awkwardly, feeling like a little boy. His unease increased with the Lord Holder’s next words: “You’ve the look of your sire.”

An awkward silence fell upon them until Toldur coughed and said, “I think he takes more from his mother’s side of the family, myself.”

“Do you?” Fenner asked, peering at Cristov. “Hm, I suppose you’re right at that.” To Cristov he said, “And how is your mother, boy?”

Cristov gave Toldur a bleak look, but the Masterminer answered for him. “I’m afraid Dara had an accident. She’d not been well since…”

The Lord Holder looked nearly as embarrassed as Cristov felt. “I’m very sorry to hear that,” he said after a moment. “She was always such a kind, vivacious lady. She will be sorely missed.”

“Indeed,” Britell agreed.

“She died of shame,” Cristov said, startling the older men around him. He remembered his mother’s eyes that day, when Tarik was Shunned. He had seen the life go out of them slowly in the days before the trial, as her hopes dwindled.

When the sentence was read, she had been the first to turn away from Tarik, even before Cristov had turned his back on his father. He had seen her eyes and the tears spilling from them, and he had seen her heart harden and wither, and he knew, even before Tarik was sentenced to the firestone mines, that if the sentence had Shunned Tarik, it had killed Dara.

“I wish she hadn’t,” Britell replied gravely.

“Why don’t you stay up here and watch the Games with us?” Lord Holder Fenner offered awkwardly.

“That’s a marvelous idea,” Britell agreed.

“Thank you, we’ll be delighted,” Toldur said for both of them. “It’s not every day one is invited to sit in the Lord Holder’s stands, is it, Cristov?”

“Thank you, my lord,” Cristov said with a slight bow to the Lord Holder, remembering his manners.

“If you look over there, the queens should be appearing,” Lord Fenner said, pointing to the ridgeline to the east of the Gather field.

As if on cue, a group of gold dragons burst into view.

“Look carefully, lad, you won’t see all the queen dragons of Pern together every day,” Britell said to Cristov.

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Toldur asked. “Won’t the queens start fighting?”

“Only if one of them is ready to mate,” Lord Fenner replied. “You’re thinking of the Queen’s Battle, aren’t you?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Fenner laughed and waved away Toldur’s worry. “That was back in the First Pass, nearly five hundred Turns ago,” he said. “All the dragons were crowded into Fort Hold back then.”

“In the Hold? I thought they were always in the Weyrs,” Cristov exclaimed, adding guiltily, “my lord.”

“No, after the colonists crossed north, everyone lived in Fort Hold for a while,” Lord Fenner said. He gave Masterminer Britell a teasing look and said, “I thought you miners were all taught the Teaching Ballads before you went underground.”

Cristov’s face drained of all color in embarrassment; he was startled when the Lord Holder of Crom Hold clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Oh, give over, lad! I was teasing. I know that you’ve been taught by Master Zist, so I’ve no worries about your knowledge.”

“I’m afraid the lad isn’t used to your ways, Fenner,” Britell said, giving Cristov a reassuring nod.

Cristov, relieved, looked around and noticed that, beside the plush chairs and lush appointments and the Crom Hold pennant, the flags of the five Weyrs were displayed prominently in front of the stand. Near them were three empty flag holders, set at different heights.

“That’s where we indicate who is to fly,” Masterminer Britell said, noting Cristov’s glance. “And the other two are added when the judging is complete—for first, second, and third places.”

“These Games are to keep the dragonriders ready and trained,” Lord Fenner explained. He turned to the Masterminer. “Provided they’ve enough firestone to train with.”

Masterminer Britell grimaced. “We’ve got one mine working, now,” he told the Lord. “It’s enough.”

“For the moment,” Fenner allowed.

One mine? Cristov wondered. He knew of at least six coal mines and had heard of four mines for iron ore. One mine seemed insufficient to produce firestone for all the dragons of Pern. Was that why he had been sent to Crom Hold? To set up a new mine?

A wing of dragons suddenly appeared in the sky well below the queens. Moments later the loud booms of their arrival shook the air.

“They look small,” Cristov marveled.

“They’re weyrlings,” Britell replied. “They’re just old enough to fly between and carry firestone.”

A ripple of overwhelming sound and a burst of cold air announced the arrival of a huge wing of dragons, flying low over the crowd.

“Telgar!” The crowd shouted as the dragons entered a steep dive, twisted into a sharp rolling climb, and came to a halt, their formation now aligned just below the weyrlings so perfectly that it looked like the two wings of dragons had been flying as twins, even though the fighting wing was head to head and a meter underneath the weyrlings.

A rain of sacks fell from the weyrlings and were caught by the riders of the great fighting dragons. Cristov looked at the jacket worn by the bronze rider leading the fighting wing and gasped when he saw the stylized field of wheat set in a white diamond: It was the Weyrleader himself!

As one, the fighting wing of dragons turned and dove again, flawlessly returning to hover in the same place where it had come from between. The great necks of the flying beasts turned back and the riders opened the sacks they had caught from the weyrlings to feed the firestone to their dragons.

“That’s the same entrance as last Turn,” Britell said, shaking his head.

“Don’t they always come the same way?” Cristov asked.

Britell snorted. “Indeed they do, more’s the pity. A bit of change would do them some good.” He sighed. “Still, I suppose D’gan’s worried about the firestone.”

“Nasty stuff, firestone,” Cristov heard the Lord Holder mutter behind him. “Nasty stuff.”

“Indeed,” Masterminer Britell agreed. “It’s the hardest of all to mine.”

“No mine lasts too long, either,” Toldur added.

“Why?” Cristov asked.

“They blow up,” Lord Fenner answered with a shrug.

“If the gases don’t suffocate the men first,” Masterminer Britell added mournfully.

“But we must have it,” Lord Fenner said. “Without firestone, the dragons could not protect Pern.”

Cristov knew that. Harper Zist had taught him long ago that the dragons needed to chew firestone in order to breathe flames. Without the dragons’ flames, there was no way to destroy Thread in midair, before it reached the soil of Pern and sucked it of all life, turning lush valleys into lifeless dust bowls.

“Look, here comes Benden!” Lord Fenner called out, pointing to the sky.

Cristov followed the Lord Holder’s finger and spotted a single bronze dragon in the sky. He squinted as he noticed that something was flapping down from the dragon’s neck.

“What’s that?” Toldur asked.

Two more bronze dragons appeared below the first one and, in a move so quick Cristov couldn’t comprehend it, grabbed at the flapping object with their front claws. Cristov cheered as the flapping object was pulled taut and revealed itself to be a huge flag, in the diamond shape of the Weyrs, colored in the deep red of Benden Weyr and marked with the large “II” symbol of Pern’s second Weyr.

Below him, Cristov saw the crowd of Crom Hold echo his astonishment, pointing up into the sky and exclaiming to each other.

“Benden!” “Benden!” voices cried in the crowd, impressed despite their loyalty to Telgar Weyr, the Weyr sworn to protect their Hold.

“Very nice,” Lord Fenner remarked. “But Telgar will still win the Games, you’ll see.”

“No doubt, my lord,” Toldur agreed, his eyes still glued to the amazing aerial display.

“They must have spent ages practicing,” Britell murmured.

“Let’s see what the others do,” Lord Fenner said, scanning the skies for signs of the other three Weyrs.

As soon as Moran saw Nikal he knew he was in trouble. He altered his course, but the holder was too nimble and quickly caught up with him.

“Moran, a word with you!”

“Oh, it’s you, Nikal! I was just looking for you,” Moran said in mock surprise.

“You were, were you?” Nikal asked suspiciously. “Does that mean you’ve got my coal? You said months back you’d have it delivered.”

Moran took a step back from the angry holder. Nikal took a quick step forward and grabbed the harper.

“If you haven’t got it, I’ll have my money back,” the holder growled.

“I’ve had to make alternate arrangements,” Moran said, calling upon all his training to sound believable. Desperately he pointed to the Lord Holder’s stand. “See there? See those two with the Lord Holder?”

“They work for you?” Nikal asked dubiously.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“I don’t care how it’s said,” Nikal replied, “as long as my allotment of coal’s in my lockers in the next sevenday.”

“You may rely on it,” Moran said, stepping back out of Nikal’s grasp and drawing himself up to his full height. “My word as a harper.”

“That was the same word you gave that I’d have my coal by now,” Nikal noted sourly.

“There was a problem with my supplier,” Moran said. “It was totally beyond my control.”

“It’s already getting cold at nights,” Nikal complained. “I can’t afford the prices charged for Cromcoal—the harvest hasn’t been that good. I won’t have my family and kin freezing because of you.”

Moran sensed the hidden desperation in Nikal’s words. “I’m sure,” he said unctuously, “that your Holder will provide for you, just as you tithe to him.”

“You know full well that I tithe to no Lord,” Nikal growled. He grabbed at Moran again. “You don’t have to be marked to be Shunned.” Angrily, he pushed the harper away. “My father was Shunned and my mother went with him. I grew up without a Lord, moving from place to place, eating only when we were lucky. And now I’ve got a family of my own and a chance to start fresh, to make my own holding.”

He gave the harper a deadly look.

“I’ll not have you taking that away from me,” he swore. He turned away, and then back again to say, “You’ve the sevenday, and then I spread the word on you, Harper.”

“How much do you think your word would count against a harper?” Moran snapped angrily.

“With some folk,” Nikal said, “more than you’d like.”

Fort Weyr’s arrival was not as dramatic as Benden’s, but it was still awesome. In one instant three full wings of dragons burst into the skies over Crom Hold, with a long streaming banner in the earth brown and black of Fort Weyr carried by each rider. The Gather crowd clapped and cheered politely, but Cristov felt the lack of enthusiasm.

“Old G’lir was hardly trying,” Fenner muttered, referring to the Fort Weyrleader. “There’ll be a new Weyrleader there, soon, mark my words.”

Britell nodded in agreement.

Ista Weyr’s arrival was heralded by a steadily growing pyramid of dragons, each rider dropping an orange-and-black flag. The crowds below first looked on the display with puzzlement and then with hoarse cheering as the flags together formed a giant image of Ista Weyr’s famous volcano.

“That was the best yet,” Toldur shouted to Cristov above the crowd.

“Ah, but they’re no good in the Games,” Lord Fenner said.

“They weren’t last Turn,” Britell agreed. “But who knows what they’ve planned?”

“A point,” Fenner replied thoughtfully. He scanned the skies expectantly. “Only High Reaches Weyr to come, and then we’ll begin the Games.”

“I wouldn’t expect much from B’ralar,” Masterminer Britell said.

“I don’t know,” Fenner replied, “B’ralar’s more open to change than G’lir.”

“I can’t see much inspiring about jagged spires on a field of blue,” Britell remarked, referring to the emblem of High Reaches Weyr, reflecting the Weyr’s lofty mountain home and the deep blue skies which surrounded it.

“Indeed,” Fenner agreed. “They are a dour lot up high in those northern mountains.” He gestured to the nearby mountains of Crom Hold. “They say the cold in the High Reaches gets into your bones and stays there.”

“And they don’t have Cromcoal to cut the chill,” Masterminer Britell agreed with a laugh.

A change in the sky attracted Fenner’s attention. “Here they come,” he said, pointing.

Above them several bubbles of fog appeared, out of which burst blue dragons. A second group of dragonriders—all on bronze dragons—appeared from between, creating another set of bubbles, outlining the first with a bronze border.

“Look at that!” Britell cried. “Did you know they could do that?”

“They brought the cold moist air of High Reaches with them,” Fenner guessed. “That air would turn to fog in our heat.”

The blue riders released black streamers. The lower blue dragons caught the streamers and held them. In a moment, the blue of the dragons and the black of the streamers resolved itself into a huge recreation of the High Reaches Weyr symbol, black mountain crags on a blue background.

“Well, that’s much better than last Turn,” said Lord Fenner.

“I wonder if they’ll fly any better,” Britell muttered.

“Not enough so that it matters,” Fenner said. He turned to Toldur. “Care to place a little wager?”

“No, my lord,” Toldur said, “unless you want to bet against Telgar.”

Fenner snorted. “Not likely.” He looked at Cristov. “How about you, lad?”

Cristov shook his head. “No, my lord,” he said, “I stand loyal to Telgar.”

“Wise choice!” Britell declared. “Besides, it’s not as though there’s likely to be competition.”

“Certainly not the way the other Weyrs have been grumbling,” Fenner agreed. “I’m not sure I am entirely opposed to their views.”

“In what way, my lord?” Toldur asked, curious.

Fenner gestured to the Masterminer to answer.

Britell frowned. “It seems that more firestone is going to D’gan and his Weyr than to all the other Weyrs combined.”

“That doesn’t seem right,” Toldur said. “How did this happen?”

Britell gave the Lord Holder a sheepish look before he answered. “It appears that both Lord Holder Fenner and I were giving Telgar preferential treatment.”

“That would be enough for Telgar to get four times what the others receive,” Fenner said, “but we’ve also discovered that Weyrleader D’gan was appropriating firestone for his Weyr directly from the mine itself.”

“He was stealing?” Cristov asked in amazement.

“Not so much stealing as, perhaps, taking more than his fair due,” Lord Fenner said judiciously. “But we’ll sort that out now that we’ve discovered our error.”

“Perhaps Telgar will get a little more firestone than the other Weyrs,” Britell suggested.

“No,” Fenner said with a shake of his head. “I think that D’gan’s got enough firestone stockpiled now to last him until the Pass. Perhaps it’s time to be concerned with the other Weyrs, too.”

“High Reaches Weyr flies Thread over upper Crom,” Britell noted.

Lord Fenner smiled at the Masterminer. “Indeed they do,” he agreed. “But I think we’ve got to look to all Pern’s needs. Without enough training, any Weyr might fail to stop Thread.”

A young harper, an apprentice by his shoulder knots, came running up to the stand.

“Kindan?” Toldur shouted in surprise. “Is that you?”

Kindan nodded and gasped in a deep breath. “It is,” he said with a grin. “I’ve just arrived from the Harper Hall,” he explained. He nodded respectfully to Lord Fenner.

“My lord, my greetings,” he said, adding, “I have been asked to tell you that Weyrleader D’gan says that all the Weyrs are now present and could you have the drums sounded to start the Games?”

“Of course,” Fenner agreed. He turned to Cristov. “Seeing as this young harper’s all winded, Cristov, would you be so kind as to wave the Hold flag and start the Games?”

At the mention of Cristov’s name, Kindan gave Cristov a nod of recognition and a grin, waving while still panting for breath.

Cristov grabbed the staff from which the Hold flag was flying and waved it from side to side. As he did so, he saw that all eyes were on him. Lord Fenner had given him a signal honor. Perhaps he hadn’t been ordered here to be punished after all.

“Let the Games begin,” Lord Fenner shouted as Cristov waved the flag.

From the far hill, drums beat out a rapid tattoo. High above, dragons’ flames answered.

CHAPTER 3

The early morning air was colder in the center of the Weyr Bowl than it had been in the Living Cavern, which was warmed by the hearth fires that had been stoked high to cook the breakfast that the dragonriders had eaten early in anticipation of the day’s events.

D’vin could see the gleaming eyes of dragons arrayed all around him. Behind him, Hurth craned his neck around to watch the proceedings.

“You’re as ready as we can make you,” B’ralar told him quietly. With a smile, D’vin acknowledged his Weyrleader’s hidden taunt. B’ralar was in the middle of his sixth decade, forty Turns of which he’d been a dragonrider. Of those forty Turns, he’d been Weyrleader for more than twenty, whereas D’vin had only been a wingleader for two Turns and had Impressed Hurth only five Turns ago.

“I wish we’d had more firestone to practice with,” the Weyrleader continued, “but with the wet weather, it’s been hard to keep hold of our stocks.” Dampness was a danger with firestone, which would explode on contact with water.

D’vin nodded but said nothing; he had already aired his concerns about their allocation of firestone in the Council Room with the other wingleaders. Here, in front of his riders and the rest of the Weyr, he would not.

“We’ll do our best,” D’vin said.

“I know you will,” B’ralar said, clapping him on the shoulder. “You and your Wing have earned the right.”

“Thank you.”

B’ralar shook his head. “I only set the standards; you exceeded them.” He mounted his dragon. “The queens have gathered. Now it’s time for the opening ceremonies,” he said. “I’ll have Kalanth tell Hurth when we’re ready for you.”

Kalanth kicked off from the Weyr Bowl and beat his wings strongly to climb out of the Bowl before going between.

“You heard the Weyrleader,” D’vin called to his wing. “Mount up. We’ll gather by the Star Stones. The exercise will warm us up for the Games.”

D’linner and P’lel, the wing’s two youngest riders, cheered exuberantly, while the others looked on with the amusement of veterans.

The wing did not have long to wait at the Star Stones before the signal from the Weyrleader came.

Let’s go to Crom Hold, D’vin told his dragon, barely able to control his excitement.

As one, thirty dragons and their riders winked out of existence over High Reaches Weyr and reappeared over Crom Hold.

“The first event is a single rider competition,” Lord Fenner explained to Cristov. “Each Weyr picks two riders to represent them. The queens throw the rope Thread down, simulating a normal fall, and the riders flame it.”

Cristov listened attentively. He knew that the rules for the Games were changed each Turn, and this event was new to him.

“How do they determine the winner?” Toldur asked.

“Each rider has one pass at the Threadfall, and the one who chars the most Thread without letting any Thread get past wins,” Fenner replied.

Fenner turned to Kindan. “Harper, can you wave the Fort Weyr flag?”

Kindan nodded and took the Fort Weyr flag, waved it high, and placed it in the center stand to indicate that Fort Weyr was to fly Thread.

“Look up, lad,” Masterminer Britell told Cristov in a kindly tone. “You’ll never see the like of this again, I’ll wager.”

Cristov needed no urging; he looked up first to the queens hovering high above and then toward the cluster of Fort Weyr riders.

Presently, one dragon—a blue—separated from the formation and flew low over the Lord Holder’s stand, waggling its wings in acknowledgment before pulling up higher to take station at the starting point. The blue breathed a burst of flame to signal its readiness.

A hush came over the field as all those at the Gather looked up in anticipation of the forthcoming “Threadfall.” Cristov, along with the entire crowd, gasped as the air beneath the high flying queens suddenly turned silver with squiggling rope Threads.

“Can they really get all that?” Toldur asked in astonishment.

“The queens are throwing more Thread than one dragon would fly in a real Threadfall,” Kindan informed them all. “My understanding is that the Weyrs always try for harder Falls than they expect.”

“A good precaution,” Britell said approvingly.

All the same, Cristov was awed at the speed at which the blue flew through the wide swath of falling Thread, flaming continuously and seemingly everywhere as it battled the Fall.

It seemed mere moments before all the Thread was gone. It took the crowd some time to register this fact, and then the air was filled with a great roar of cheering.

“That was magnificent,” Lord Fenner murmured.

“Fancy a wager?” Masterminer Britell asked, with a gleam in his eyes.

“I’d wager that D’gan is furious,” Fenner said drolly. “But, as a bounden Holder, I’d not bet against my Weyr.”

“It’s not your Weyr, just the best rider,” Masterminer Britell responded in cajoling tones.

Lord Fenner waved the correction aside. “I’ll bet that Telgar wins the Games.”

Britell grimaced. “I’d not bet against that.”

Kindan, meanwhile, had removed the Fort Weyr pennant and, with a look to the Lord Holder, had placed the Benden Weyr pennant in the starting position.

A large brown dragon descended over the stand, waggled his wings, and took station. Again, a blizzard of Thread was unleashed by the queens high above, and again Cristov and the crowd were amazed at the speed with which the brown dragon turned all of it into harmless ash.

“What if one of the ropes is still burning when it hits the ground?” Toldur asked.

“I’ve ground crews standing by to put it out,” Lord Fenner told him. “The same ground crews that would fight Thread burrows in a real Fall.”

“Burrows?” Cristov repeated, wondering how they’d be dealt with in the Games.

“Oh, we’re not testing the dragonriders on burrows,” Lord Fenner said with a chuckle.

“That’d be for the ground crews,” Britell agreed. “Is there a separate event?”

“No,” said Fenner. “But I might suggest it to the Conclave of Holders. Usually, though, each Lord Holder is responsible for the effectiveness of his ground crews.” He told Kindan, “We’re ready for High Reaches, now, lad.”

A blue dragon represented the northern high mountain Weyr first. It flew through the Threads faster than the other two dragons and drew a great cheer, which changed into a puzzled noise as more and more people noticed one uncharred Thread slithering to the ground.

“Oh, missed one!” Fenner exclaimed. “Well, there’s still the second candidate.”

“He’s disqualified?” Cristov asked, thinking that it was a shame, since the dragon had been fastest of the three.

“Indeed he is,” Fenner agreed.

“Speed’s not the point when it comes to Thread, lad,” the Lord Holder expounded. “Except, perhaps, for the speed with which the ground crews dispatch such a burrow.” He peered over to where the Thread had fallen and grunted when he saw a black flag being waved.

“Harper, put a black flag over High Reaches’s pennant,” Fenner said to Kindan. To the rest of the group, he explained, “The black flag shows that the rider was disqualified.”

Tell D’linner he did his best, D’vin thought to Hurth.

He and Delth are both very disappointed, Hurth responded after relaying D’vin’s message.

Well, there’s still P’lel and Telenth, D’vin said. Beneath him, Hurth rumbled in agreement. Together the two watched Telgar’s first entrant, a green, dive through the next Threadfall. The green’s speed was greater than Delth’s but her accuracy was even worse. Pity.

In the distance D’vin could see Telgar’s Weyrleader screaming at the hapless dragon and rider. D’vin schooled his expression, aware that several of his riders were gauging his reaction. He didn’t want to give either them or the Telgar Weyrleader a chance to disparage his behavior.

The next dragon, an Istan green, was ridden by one of the older riders, but neither rider nor dragon could be faulted for speed or accuracy.

And then it was time for Fort’s second entrant, a brown. D’vin was surprised at the choice of a brown—the larger dragons were usually better at endurance than speed—but the brown proved itself up to the Fall thrown down by the queen riders and advanced to the next round. Benden’s second entrant was a more conventional blue who performed quite creditably.

D’vin mused to himself that while the purpose of the All-Weyr Games was mostly to assure the Holders of the abilities of the Weyrs to fight the Threadfall that would come with the next Pass of the Red Star, it also allowed the five Weyrs to become comfortable with each other’s abilities.

Tell P’lel good flying, D’vin said to Hurth as it came turn for High Reaches’s second entrant. D’vin saw P’lel wave at him before he and Telenth dove over the Lord Holder’s stand and rose up again to take their position.

D’vin could feel the tension in his wing as they waited for the queen’s wing to drop the Thread. In a moment he spotted it. The pattern, whether by design or the churning of the air from all the flaming before, was oddly clumped. It would be a hard fall for a bronze to fly, let alone a small green. Still, D’vin grinned as P’lel and Telenth dived toward the first clump and flamed it easily into blackened char. The pair continued their run, but it was becoming obvious to D’vin that they were both getting tired as they neared the end, with three clumps still to char. Suddenly Telenth disappeared, only to reappear, wheeling on a wingtip, just below the center of all three clumps. It was a wild tactic and one D’vin wasn’t sure he’d approve for a real Threadfall, but the green’s agility on wing and length of flame just managed to char all three clumps at once. Far below, D’vin could hear the crowd cheering more loudly than they’d ever cheered before.

Overcome with joy, P’lel and Telenth rolled quickly upside down and right side up again, to the renewed cheers of the crowd.

Tell Telenth well done, D’vin said. And tell P’lel, no more fool stunts!

The chagrined green rider rejoined his wing, but his discomfort quickly evaporated in the congratulations shouted by the rest of the wing.

Telgar’s second entrant performed adequately, if a trifle slowly, as if reluctant to repeat his weyrmate’s mistake.

Ista’s rider, a grizzled veteran on a blue, seared the Threads out of the sky so quickly that it took a moment before the crowd reacted.

That’s how it’s done, D’vin told his dragon. Hurth rumbled in agreement while D’vin tried to fix in his mind what it was about the blue dragon that had made it so effective. It almost seemed as if dragon and rider had anticipated the fall of the Thread and arrived before the Thread itself. Years of training, D’vin thought to himself in awe.

And then they were into the second round. The queens spread out somewhat and prepared to drop even more rope Threads for the next Pass. The first Fort and the first Istan entrants were disqualified in this round. In the third round, the queens practically doubled their original distance and the Fall was something truly frightening to behold.

In the third round, Benden’s first entrant was disqualified, then Fort’s second entrant, and finally, with a gasp from the crowd, Telgar’s last blue was disqualified.

But that still left three dragons, from Benden, Ista, and his own High Reaches, for the fourth round. As the queens spread out yet more and prepared to drop a veritable rain of Thread down, D’vin was convinced that the victory would go to High Reaches’s larger green Telenth. He could not imagine either of the two blues even completing the course, much less without error.

But they did, with Ista’s blue clearly putting in the most amazing performance. D’vin could find no fault with P’lel’s flying or with Telenth’s work, but it was obvious to him that the Istan blue dragon was simply the master of the situation.

From above he heard the queens’ bugle, announcing a tie. He looked down to the Lord Holder’s stand, wondering how Crom’s Lord Holder would decide.

“Ah,” Lord Fenner said as the sound of the queens far above floated down to them, “I was afraid of that.”

Cristov and the others looked at him expectantly.

“In the event of a tie, the Lord Holder must judge,” Fenner explained to them. He smiled deviously. “And, as Lord Holder, I have decided to enlist you all in my decision making.”

“My lord?” Toldur said.

“Indeed,” Fenner replied. “I think a show of hands amongst all of us, for first, second, and third place should do it.”

Toldur caught Cristov’s look of surprise and whispered down to him, “I’ll bet you didn’t expect to be judging dragonriders today, did you?”

Cristov gulped.

“Just do your best,” Kindan told him. “It’s not as though they’ll find out.”

“And be grateful that our own Weyr dropped out of the running, or our decision would be more difficult,” Masterminer Britell added.

Cristov sidled over to Kindan and asked softly, “Have you ever done this before?”

Kindan shook his head, a nervous smile plastered on his face.

“For first place, all those for Ista?” Lord Fenner asked. He counted easily, as all hands were up. “As I expected, then,” he said contentedly. “And all those for High Reaches for second place?” Again, all hands went up. “That would leave Benden in third place,” he said. “Harper, if you would so arrange it. Be sure to wave each flag high over the stand before you put it in its placeholder.”

Kindan nodded and removed the Ista Weyr pennant from its stand and waved it high from side to side.

As the crowd roared its approval, Lord Fenner said, “See, we’ve chosen wisely.” He waved back at the crowd before turning once more to Kindan. “And now, Harper, if you’d be so kind to wave the Crom Hold pennant, that will let the dragonriders know to come down.”

Kindan gave the Lord Holder a surprised look, and Fenner laughed. “I’ve not lost my senses! They’re only coming down for a break, young harper. The Games will start up again in a half hour. That’ll give the riders a chance to slake their thirst and fill their stomachs before the next event.”

D’vin waited until the Fort and Benden Weyr riders dismounted in front of the Lord Holder’s stand before ordering his riders down. After he dismounted, he bowed to the Lord Holder.

“Greetings from High Reaches Weyr,” D’vin called.

“Greetings to you, bronze rider,” the Lord Holder called back with a jaunty wave. “There are refreshments in the stalls. Please invite your riders to take what they need for their comfort.”

“I will, thank you,” D’vin replied. As he turned, he caught sight of two youngsters in the stands and turned back again, surprised. “Are these your heirs, my lord?”

Lord Fenner laughed. “No, indeed! These two scallywags hail from Camp Natalon. Kindan’s the harper, and Cristov is the miner.”

“Do you mine firestone?” D’vin asked. He had hoped to strike up an acquaintance with one of the firestone miners.

“No, my lord,” Cristov said, blushing in embarrassment. “We mine coal at Camp Natalon.”

“He’s being modest, my lord,” Fenner said, clapping Cristov on the back. “Camp Natalon has the best coal in all Crom.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” D’vin said. He nodded to Cristov. “Good to meet you, miner.” He turned away and then back once more. “My Lord Holder, could you point me to a vendor of bubbly pies?”

Lord Fenner looked surprised by the question, so D’vin explained sheepishly, “I’ve not had one in a long time and just caught a whiff as I landed.”

Lord Fenner shook his head and was about to reply when Cristov’s hand shot up, pointing. “My lord,” he said, “I think if you ask that girl there, she’ll lead you right.” He waved and shouted to the girl, the one upon whom he’d bestowed his half-mark earlier. “Could you lead my Lord D’vin to the bubbly pies, Halla?”

Halla’s stomach had rumbled in anticipation as she followed her nose to the bubbly pies. A miner half-mark entitled her to four, so she paid for two and got a quarter-mark back. She ate one pie immediately despite its burning warmth, and then turned to scan the crowd for her benefactor and quarry.

She was surprised to see him on the Lord Holder’s stand. What did Moran want with this one? she wondered. Still, orders were orders, especially from Moran, so she worked her way close to the stand, careful not to be obvious and also not to jostle her second pie.

The Lord Holder’s stand was constructed on a high knoll, giving it not only a great view of the Games but also of the whole Gather spread below. Halla had to work carefully to keep herself close enough to the stands to hear what they were saying but far enough in the crowd to avoid being spotted.

So she jumped when Cristov called her name. She couldn’t help shivering in fear. Had she been discovered? Had Moran been apprehended? Had he turned her in to save his own skin?

She was ready to run, almost ready to drop her precious bubbly pie, when the full extent of his words registered with her.

“Bubbly pies?” she repeated blankly, drawing closer to Cristov and the stand, like a moth to a flame.

“Yes, Lord D’vin would like some. Could you lead him to the baker?” Cristov repeated, frowning at the young girl. She was terrified. To assuage her fear, he offered, “Would you like me to come with you?”

Dumbstruck, Halla nodded. Cristov muttered excuses to the others and climbed down the stands. He gestured for the dragonrider to precede him, but D’vin politely demurred.

The crowd parted for them and they approached Halla. “My lord, this is Halla,” Cristov said.

“Halla,” D’vin said, with a nod. Halla could only nod in reply. “Can you show us the way?”

Halla nodded again, and turned. She strode off, glancing over her shoulder to see if they were still following her.

How could this happen? she asked herself. Now I’ve got a dragonrider following me!

In fact, she realized as she glanced around again, the dragonrider had caught up with her and was walking at her side.

“Do you come from Crom Hold, Halla?” D’vin inquired.

“No, nearby,” she said.

“Are you excited about the Games?”

Halla nodded. D’vin, sensing her reticence, let the conversation drop and trudged along beside her companionably, waving politely to anyone who called out or acknowledged him.

D’vin paused and sniffed the air. “Bubbly pies! I can smell them.”

“We’re close,” Halla agreed, feeling some relief at the prospect.

“We’ll need you to lead us back,” D’vin warned her. “I got quite lost in all that crowd.”

Halla’s eyes grew round in alarm.

Meanwhile, Cristov had been watching her closely. Suddenly, he asked, “Did we ever meet before, Halla?”

Should I tell him? Halla wondered. Or, she thought fearfully, did he see me up at the mine?

“Once, three Turns ago,” Halla said.

“Is Jamal your brother?” Cristov asked, his face brightening. When Halla nodded, Cristov continued excitedly, “No wonder I recognized you! You look just like him! It’s been ages since I’ve seen him!” He looked around wildly. “Where is he?”

Halla’s face fell and Cristov’s expression changed. “He’s all right, isn’t he?” he asked. “He had the cast on his leg when we met, but he’s all right?”

“The break got infected,” Halla murmured.

Cristov stopped dead, grabbing Halla’s arm in alarm. “Where is he?”

Halla pointed to the cemetery. “He died not long after he met you,” she told him. “He’d hoped to see you again.”

“I’m sorry,” Cristov told her miserably. “I never knew.”

“How are you getting along, then?” D’vin asked. His gaze took in the state of her clothing, and the gauntness of her frame.

“I’m making do, my lord,” Halla said, dipping her head in an apparent gesture of respect but really trying to hide her eyes from the dragonrider’s probing glance. To change the subject, she looked up again and pointed. “There’s the baker, my lord.”

“Thank you,” D’vin replied, picking up his pace. Sonia’s words from months back echoed in his head: I swear, D’vin, you’d take in every stray that crossed your path!

The baker was so pleased at D’vin’s patronage that she sent to the tent next door for fresh berry juice and set a special table out in front of her stall just for them.

Neither Halla nor Cristov were used to such deferential service, but D’vin did everything he could to make them feel at ease, while praising the baker’s and juicemaker’s efforts loudly to the bustling crowd.

Halla watched the dragonrider surreptitiously, surprised at his easy ways and the manner with which he dealt with the merchants. It was clear to her that he knew his praise would help their sales, and that he didn’t overdo it—he said just enough to ensure that both vendors would have plenty of custom for the rest of the Gather.

Cristov watched neither of them. Instead, he explored his last memories of Jamal. Memories of a Gather three Turns past.

“Cristov?” D’vin’s voice startled him.

“My lord?”

“Was he a good friend?” the dragonrider asked softly.

Cristov shook his head. “He might have been,” he said, “but we never got the chance to find out.” He looked up. “My father didn’t approve of him.”

Cristov didn’t notice the startled look Halla gave him but D’vin did.

With a sigh, D’vin got to his feet. “We’d better get back—the next event will start soon.”

CHAPTER 4

Get up, you lazy oaf!” Gerendel, the foreman, roared in his ear.

Tarik struck out feebly from his cot with one hand, trying to fend the foreman off.

A cold splash of water inundated him and he came up suddenly, arms swinging but meeting only air.

“I was on watch!” Tarik complained, sitting back on his cot.

“You were asleep on watch last night, so you’ll pull a full shift,” the foreman growled. He nudged Tarik with the empty bucket. “Get up now, or we’ll put you back in the stocks.”

With a bitter look, Tarik grudgingly stood up. He lunged suddenly toward the foreman, but Gerendel was too quick for him and jumped back out of his grasp while at the same time smashing him on the head with the bucket. Tarik crashed to the ground and lay there, clutching his head and groaning.

“Get up now, you useless Shunned no-named oaf,” Gerendel growled.

Wearily, Tarik pulled himself to his feet, his hands clenched firmly to his side, not daring a repeat of Gerendel’s beating. He found his boots at the end of his cot and dragged them on.

“My name’s Tarik,” he growled to the foreman as he trudged out of the room.

“No, it isn’t,” Gerendel spat. “You were Shunned, and lost your name along with everything else.” He laughed as Tarik turned back to glare at him. “You might win back your name one day, but with you—I doubt it.”

The building they came out of was rough-hewn, built out of wood. Tarik remembered the others laughing at him when he’d complained of not sleeping in a proper hold. But for more than a Turn since he’d been Shunned, he’d done just that—working as a drudge in minor holds around Crom.

“If you were so bothered about that, you’d not be Shunned,” Maril, one of the Shunned, guffawed. He spat. “If you want to live like a Lord, you’ve got to please ’em!”

“No spitting,” Gerendel roared at him. The other miners scowled at Maril, not the foreman. Gerendel wagged a finger at Maril. “You’ll find yourself in the stocks if you do that again, Maril!”

“But we’re not in the mine,” Maril protested.

“If we were, you’d likely be dead,” Gerendel said. “I don’t want you thinking you can spit anywhere lest you forget when you’re in the mine.” He turned to Tarik. “You remember that, firestone’s fickle with water. If it doesn’t explode, the fumes’ll kill a man.”

Tarik had remembered so well that he’d spent the first night in the stocks, after being caught trying to escape.

“Think you’re the first one who thought of escaping?” Maril had asked him as Tarik sat, his feet, neck, and arms locked into the wooden stockade. Maril kicked a loose pile of dirt up from the ground and rubbed it in Tarik’s face. “The rest of us’ll have to work extra while you laze about here,” the scrawny miner snarled. “You think about that the next time you try something. Think hard.”

In the two months since then, Tarik had been in the stocks twice more, and beaten, once, in the middle of the night. He was certain that Maril had been one of his assailants.

But neither Maril nor Gerendel frightened Tarik as much as the mine.

“This is the last working firestone mine on Pern,” Gerendel had told him when he arrived. He gave Tarik an evil grin as he added, “Mine number eight blew up a Turn back and set the whole valley around it in flames.

“It’s only a matter of time before this one blows,” Gerendel continued malevolently. “But there are always those who think themselves above all others, those who don’t care about other people, and they’ll get Shunned. And the Shunned work the firestone mines.” He nodded to Tarik. “You’re the first miner that’s been Shunned here.”

Tarik was shocked. How could they mine if they weren’t trained?

Gerendel laughed. “Oh, you’re thinking that mining requires special skills? It’s naught but hard work with a pick and a shovel, shift after shift.”

“What about shoring up the shaft?” Tarik asked in spite of his resolution against helping in any way.

“That’d be your specialty, wouldn’t it?” Gerendel said, leering. “Skimping on the shoring?” He noticed Tarik’s look. “Oh, we heard all about you, miner. Where’d you sell all that extra lumber, that’s what the lads wondered.” Gerendel shook his head and pointed at Tarik’s threadbare clothing. “It’s not done you much good, has it?”

Tarik glowered but said nothing.

Now he was going into the mine again, forced on a shift after a night’s watch duty because someone had caught him sleeping. Tarik grimaced at the indignity of it all. It wasn’t as though anyone would want to steal anything from the camp!

Tarik had thought once of trying to convince the others to murder Gerendel in his sleep and escape as a group. But there were too many dragonriders arriving at all hours, looking for firestone or dropping in supplies—there was no proper road up to the mine, so everyone was brought in a-dragonback.

Besides, with a big blue “S” on their foreheads, where would they go? They’d be fugitives searching for their next meal, animals on the run with only another mine to work, or worse, if they were caught. Gerendel had warned him on his first day that the nearest dwelling was over three days’ march away over the mountains, adding, with a smirk, “At least, that’s what they tell me. But no one’s ever come here except on a dragon.”

At least no one that was seen, Tarik thought. He wondered how long it would be before Moran appeared; the harper was always going on about the Shunned and their needs. Tarik wondered if, now that he was Shunned, Moran would still deal with him—it would only seem logical, given how much coal he’d handed over for Moran’s brats. Privately, he hoped not. Especially if Tenim was still around.

“Come on, grab a pick,” Gerendel said as they left the crude shack that served as their only dwelling.

The others were already milling about the shaft entrance. Sourly Tarik noted that Maril had managed to get the cart, the softest job of the lot. Tarik hefted his pick, eyeing the back of Gerendel’s head thoughtfully.

Maril shouted, pointing at Tarik, and Gerendel wheeled around.

“Right!” Gerendel shouted, snatching the pick out of Tarik’s hands. “It’s the stocks for you!”

“I did nothing!” Tarik protested as Gerendel gestured toward the stocks.

“Only ’cause Maril warned me,” Gerendel replied. He gestured to the others, shouting, “Well, lads, this one’s decided he needs another day in the stocks. Why don’t you let him know how you feel about that?”

The other Shunned miners roared with wrath and bounded up to grab Tarik. Roughly, they dragged him to the stocks, and shoved his feet, neck, and hands into the position, locking him in. His back immediately began to ache from the awkward half-sitting, half-standing posture the stocks forced him into. He knew that by the end of the day he would be in agony.

“I did nothing wrong!” he shouted again. “I was just testing the heft!”

The others ignored his protests.

“You’ll get half rations for the rest of the sevenday,” Gerendel said as he gave the lock on the stocks a final test.

“He shouldn’t get any,” Maril growled. “The dragonriders only provide food for the firestone mined.” He turned to the others. “He’ll be eating our share of the food—what do you think about that?”

“If he doesn’t eat, he’ll just die,” Renlin objected. “And we’ll still have to do his work and more.” The small, rat-faced miner shook his head. “Let him serve his time and learn his lesson.”

“You’re too soft,” Maril growled. “Next you’ll be wanting to leave him a drink and a snack.”

“No food,” Renlin disagreed. “But some water. He’s no use dead, and we’d have the trouble of burying the body.”

“See to it, Maril,” Gerendel ordered, gesturing to the others. “Come on, we’ve wasted enough daylight.”

Grudgingly the other fourteen Shunned miners trudged to the entrance of the firestone mine.

Maril lounged by the stocks until the others had disappeared inside the mine and then, with a rude gesture, turned to follow them.

“What about my water?” Tarik shouted after him.

Maril waved dismissively over his shoulder, grabbed the rope on the cart, and tugged it into the mine after him.

If there was a center to camp at firestone mine #9, it was the stocks. Beside them was a large fire pit, carefully shielded by rocks and a large cleared area, where the miners cooked fresh meat on the rare occasions they got some.

The stocks faced the mine entrance. They were set just off the path from the miners’ shack to the mine entrance. The wooden rails that led from the mine entrance to the only stone building in the camp curved in front of the stocks before curving farther to the stone-walled firestone storage building on the far side of the hill.

Every hour or so, Maril would come trudging out of the mine, muscles straining as he hauled the full cart up the hill and down to the firestone building. About fifteen minutes later, he would reappear, riding the empty cart on the down slope back into the mine.

Every time, Tarik shouted to him, asking for water. And every time, Maril smiled evilly and waved as he reentered the mine.

By noon, Tarik was too parched to call out. His legs, back, shoulder, arms, and neck all burned with the searing pain of his enforced stance.

A burst of laughter from the mine entrance startled him, and he lifted his aching head enough to see that the miners were breaking for lunch.

They grumbled and cursed at him on their way past him to the shack. Tarik’s stomach lurched with hunger as they returned with plates full of fresh tubers and jerked beef.

Renlin carried a large cook pot. In a short time there was a roaring fire in the fire pit, and the cook pot was bubbling with the most amazing smells as tubers, beef, and herbs simmered into stew. Perhaps it was the work, or the setting, but Tarik had never disagreed with the miners’ assertion that Renlin was the best cook they’d ever met.

As the others emptied the last of the stew onto their plates, Renlin came over to Tarik.

Gerendel scowled. “You can’t feed him, Renlin.”

“Yes, how will he learn?” one of the others grumbled.

“He looks parched,” Renlin said, peering closely at Tarik.

“Did you give him water, Maril?” Gerendel asked.

“Oh, I must have forgot!” Maril exclaimed in tones that fooled no one.

“If he dies, you’ll do his work as well as your own,” Gerendel replied.

“I’ll get you some water, Tarik,” Renlin promised. The miner passed his plate off and returned with a bucket of water. He ladled some out and poured it into Tarik’s mouth.

Tarik coughed on the first mouthful. Renlin tried again. Tarik’s parched throat absorbed the liquid eagerly.

“Don’t give him too much, Renlin, or he’ll get sick,” Gerendel warned.

“Thanks,” Tarik said to Renlin, his voice thick and husky.

“I’ll leave the bucket here,” Renlin said. He turned to Maril, saying, “Then it’ll not be too much trouble for you to check on him.”

Maril glowered but said nothing.

Shortly afterward, Gerendel chivvied the crew back to work. On his first trip out of the mine with a cartload of firestone, Maril paused on his return trip long enough to fling some water at Tarik. “There!”

Tarik was still thirsty enough to lick the drops off his face; Maril laughed.

Maril ignored him on the next trip, and again on the next. On the third time, Maril paused beside Tarik.

“Thirsty?” he asked, scooping up a ladleful of water from the bucket.

“Yes,” Tarik admitted.

“Pity,” Maril said, pouring the water from the ladle back into the bucket.

“Please…” Tarik began, begging. He cut himself short. He had lost everything else when he was Shunned; he refused to lose his pride.

“Beg for it, miner,” Maril said, bending down to peer into Tarik’s face. “Beg for it, and maybe I’ll give you some.”

Tarik stared back stonily. He knew that he’d be free of the stocks soon enough, and then Maril would pay for his insolence.

“You won’t beg?” Maril asked. He stood up and grabbed the bucket. “Then you’ll have to get it yourself.” Laughing, he carefully placed the bucket just to the left of Tarik’s booted foot, then, with a derisive snort, returned to the mine.

The air was dry; the mountain morning’s chill had worn off, replaced by an afternoon heat that bore down on Tarik. Thirst consumed him. At first he ignored the bucket by his foot, determined to last until either Maril relented or the shift ended.

Maril passed by him again with another cartload of firestone. On the way back, he rode the cart down into the mine, waving tauntingly at Tarik as he passed.

Tarik looked at the bucket. Maybe, he thought, he could hook the handle with his boot and drag it close enough to grab with his hand. He’d have to be quick; he didn’t know how long it would take before Maril appeared with another cartload of firestone. He was certain that Maril would take the bucket away if he thought Tarik could get it.

Tarik eyed the bucket, eyed the mine entrance, and paused. If he didn’t get the bucket, if it tipped over, what then? He was close enough to the mine shaft that the water from the bucket might flow to the entrance. Of course, he reminded himself, there was a deep gutter dug in front of the mine to carry any water away—water in a firestone mine would be disastrous.

Tarik’s thirst won out over his caution. He strained his toe forward and flicked it up. The first time, the end of his foot slid off the handle, flicking it up and back down again before he could get his foot under it. He paused and tried again. This time the handle flew up and he quickly kicked with his foot, hoping to get it under the handle before it fell back to the bucket’s side.

He kicked too hard. The bucket shuddered and fell over away from him. With a hoarse cry, Tarik watched as the precious fluid flowed away from him, downhill, toward the mine.

Everything would have been all right, if Maril hadn’t emerged from the mine at that moment. The water had lapped over the wooden rails the cart ran on; Maril, pushing from behind, didn’t see the stain of liquid and was taken off guard by the sudden change in resistance of his load. His pushing jarred the cartload, and a few pieces of firestone fell off the cart.

Tarik’s voice was too dry for more than the hoarsest of shouts, “Run!”

Maril didn’t hear him. He leaned over instinctively to retrieve the errant stone just as it fell into the water and burst into flame.

In an instant, the disaster was complete. The fire startled Maril, who leaped backward, tripped, and, struggling to stay upright, tugged the cartload of firestone back toward the mine. The cart of firestone caught flame even as it rolled back over Maril’s leg and into the mine, gaining speed on the slope.

A huge ball of flame, taller than a man, burst out of the side of the mountain where the firestone mine had been. The blast caught Tarik and threw him, still in the stocks, backward like a straw doll.

The flames licked the nearby trees, withering their limbs. And then the fires subsided, leaving the mine shaft a huge, black, smoking hole in the side of the mountain.

CHAPTER 5

D’vin left them at the stands. Cristov climbed back up and, when he turned back, found that Halla had disappeared. He regretted that; he wanted to talk with her more about Jamal.

“They’re off again,” Fenner said as wings of dragons reassembled above the crowd. He turned to Cristov. “The next competition is for whole wings fighting Thread.”

“How is that judged, my lord?” Toldur asked politely.

“It’s about the same, I believe,” Lord Fenner said. “The queens throw Thread and the wings fight it. If any gets through, the wing is disqualified. If all wings succeed in fighting the Thread, the queens spread out and throw more.”

“Will we have to judge a tie again?” Britell asked, a hint of worry in his voice.

Fenner laughed. “No, this continues until there’s a clear winner.”

“That’s a relief,” the Masterminer said with a sigh. In response to Lord Fenner’s questioning look, he explained, “I’m afraid we’d hardly be considered impartial if every event was a tie and we had to judge.”

Lord Fenner snorted in agreement. “I daresay you’re right.”

At Lord Fenner’s nod, Kindan waved the hold’s flag high over his head, signaling that the games were to recommence. Again, the drummers on the far hill drummed their tattoo, and again dragons up high flamed their readiness.

Cristov craned his neck back to spot the queen dragons. He was amazed at how far up they were.

“How high can dragons fly?” Cristov asked Kindan in a low voice.

“It depends on the dragon and the rider,” Kindan replied. “The queens can fly higher than most, but the air gets too thin eventually.”

“What happens if a dragon flies too high?” Cristov wondered.

“I’ve been told that as the air gets thin, the riders start to feel as if they’re drunk,” Kindan said.

Cristov raised his eyebrows in surprise, wondering if Kindan was teasing him. Kindan caught his look and said, “No, seriously, I’ve heard that from many dragonriders. One even said that the color went out of his eyes and he only saw shades of gray until he got back down on the ground.”

“That can happen in the mines, too, if there’s not enough air, as you two know,” added Toldur, who had been listening in. Cristov and Kindan shuddered in memory.

The cave-in at Camp Natalon had been Tarik’s fault. He had skimped on the planking for the tunnel his shift was digging. Natalon had discovered this and, in the process of trying to repair the faulty tunnel, had been caught with most of his shift in the cave-in. Kindan, Toldur, and Nuella, Natalon’s blind daughter, had defied Tarik’s order that no one go into the mine. Cristov remembered the shocked look on Kindan’s face when he’d arrived with his axe to offer help.

Even with his help and the use of a secret passageway Natalon had dug when the mine was first surveyed, the rescue party was nearly overcome by the coal dust that had filled the mine after the cave-in. In the end, they discovered that the trapped miners were too far away to dig out, but Kindan somehow managed to convince Nuella that she could ride his watch-wher, Kisk, like a dragon between to rescue the trapped miners.

And somehow, the strange journey Nuella and the watch-wher made had bound the girl and the watch-wher together, allowing Kindan to pursue his desire to become a harper.

Cristov envied Kindan his freedom to follow his dreams. Wistfully he recalled one of his conversations with Jamal when they had stared up skyward at the last Games. Jamal had pointed up to one of the dragons and exclaimed, “I’d like one like that!”

“A bronze?” Cristov said, peering upward.

“Sure,” Jamal replied. “And then I’d become Weyrleader.” He blew out a sigh and asked wistfully, “Do you think the dragonriders will Search when the Games are over?”

Cristov shrugged. “I dunno.”

“Wouldn’t you like it, Cristov? Wouldn’t you love to Impress a dragon?”

Cristov looked over at Jamal, then back up to the brilliant formation of dragons—bronze, brown, blue, and green. For a moment he imagined himself on the Hatching Grounds, the excitement as the dragon eggs burst open and the dragonets scrambled awkwardly out of their shells, multifaceted eyes whirling anxiously, searching for their life mates. Cristov imagined how he’d feel, his face splitting wide in surprise and joy as a dragon—his dragon—spoke telepathically to him and told him that he would forever have a friend, a champion. He tried to imagine how his father would react—and could only see him frowning.

“It’ll never happen,” he had said firmly, turning away from Jamal. “Father says I’m only fit to be a miner.”

And now Tarik was Shunned, and Cristov stood here next to the Masterminer and Crom’s Lord Holder not knowing what was in store for him, and Jamal was nearly three Turns dead.

Cristov locked his eyes on one of the high-flying bronze dragons and tried not to be envious of his rider.

The pace picked up immensely as Fort began its second run. The sky that seemed practically black with the Thread that the queen riders had thrown down was suddenly bursting into flame. And then the sky was clear—except for one strand that sailed harmlessly to the ground.

A groan of sympathy rose up from the Gather crowd as they realized what had happened. Kindan waved a black flag to show that they’d been disqualified.

The rest of the Weyrs completed the second round. The wing from High Reaches was disqualified in the third round. For a moment it even looked like Telgar had let some Thread through but, as the crowd watched anxiously, it broke up into harmless char just before hitting the ground.

“Now they’ll have to fly three times as far,” Lord Fenner muttered as the queens spread for the fourth round.

Benden flew flawlessly but just a little too slow to get to the last of the Thread before it hit the ground, so they were disqualified.

Kindan, who was friendly with Benden’s Weyrleader, M’tal, groaned sympathetically.

“Third place isn’t bad,” Toldur assured him.

It was down to Telgar and Ista. The Telgar wing flew the extended, thickened Fall flawlessly with a speed that seemed to Cristov like lightning. The Istan wing got off to an even faster start, and it looked certain that there would be a sixth round.

“Look!” Fenner shouted, pointing skyward. “They missed some!”

Sure enough, a clump of rope fell to the ground uncharred.

Britell raised an eyebrow at Crom’s Lord Holder. “Didn’t you say that Telgar would win?”

“I did,” Fenner agreed, “but this—!” He gestured to the sky and shook his head. “Ista flew well and deserved to win.”

“Ista placed second, so they’re ahead on points,” Britell noted.

“There’s still the final competition,” Lord Fenner reminded him. He cocked an eye speculatively at the Masterminer. “Are you willing to wager, then?”

Britell snorted. “Telgar will win the final event, I’m sure.”

“What if they don’t?” Toldur asked.

“D’gan will be impossible,” Lord Fenner replied with a shudder.

“They have to win the next event or they’ll only be able to tie with Ista,” Britell noted.

“At best,” Lord Fenner agreed with a grimace.

Cristov looked puzzled. Toldur noticed.

“The overall placing is based on points,” Toldur explained. “First place is worth five points, second place is worth two points, and third place is worth one point. The Weyr with the most points at the end of the Games is the winner.”

“There’s a lot of gambling on the outcome,” Kindan added.

“But Telgar always wins,” Cristov declared loyally.

“Which is why most people bet on which Weyr will place second and third,” Lord Fenner told him with a twinkle in his eyes.

“If Telgar wins the last event, they’ll have ten points, and the best Ista could get then would be second place in the event for a total of nine points,” Kindan continued.

“And if either High Reaches or Benden wins the next event, they’ll tie with Ista,” Masterminer Britell noted.

“That won’t happen,” Lord Fenner declared stoutly.

“One thing’s certain,” Britell said, “the betting’s going to be fierce.”

Cristov, casting an eye over the crowd below and seeing how excitedly people were talking amongst themselves, silently agreed.

D’vin looked at the movement of the crowds far below him. He could see enough to spot bettors exchanging marks and wished he had a few to wager himself. Certainly things were interesting, and he was glad they were. Of all the events, the relay was his favorite—the one event he felt most tested a Weyr’s true ability to fight Thread.

The first round of the relay would be nothing special: Three wings from each Weyr would fly against the rope Thread in rapid succession. It was the next round, when the queens spread out more and thickened the fall of Thread that things would start to get interesting.

Far below him, someone on the Lord Holder’s stand waved Fort’s flag. Nearby, a Fort dragon belched flame. The relay began.

Fort did well, as did all the other Weyrs, just as D’vin had expected. He turned back from his run on Hurth with all three wings of High Reaches dragons warbling in elation at their run. They’d done well.

The queens spread out more. And then Fort’s flag was waved again for the next run.

Soon it would be High Reaches’s turn.

Make sure everyone has enough firestone, D’vin reminded his dragon.

Telenth needs more, Hurth responded. D’vin craned around to spot the small blue and saw P’lel wave as a weyrling appeared from between.

Just as suddenly as the weyrling had appeared, there was a brilliant explosion by its side. The deafening sound shook the afternoon sky.

As D’vin’s eyes recovered from the flash of the explosion, he saw that the weyrling had disappeared.

Where are they? D’vin asked Hurth.

They are gone.

“By the egg of Faranth!” Lord Fenner declared, staring in horror at the brilliant fireball above them.

“What happened?” Toldur asked.

“The firestone must have come in contact with some water,” Britell said, shaking his head sorrowfully.

“It exploded?” Cristov asked. Britell could only nod, eyes wide with shock.

“And the dragon? The rider?” Cristov looked from the Masterminer to the Lord Holder, but the expressions of both were identical.

“At least it was quick,” Fenner said somberly.

“They’re dead?”

“Nasty stuff, firestone,” Britell murmured, still shaking his head in disbelief. “The slightest bit of water and…”

All around him, dragons keened for the lost weyrling. D’vin shook his head angrily. That shouldn’t have happened!

His thoughts returned to the instant, still seared in his eyes, when the weyrling emerged from between, trying to see what had caused the explosion, but he couldn’t. Firestone was too difficult, too impossible to handle. He could remember at least three times when the storage cavern at High Reaches had exploded.

It burns, Hurth agreed. D’vin nodded absently. The large bronze must have felt the movement of his rider’s body on his neck, for he dropped his neck suddenly in an expression of irritation. It burns wrong.

D’vin cocked an eye down at the huge neck of his friend. Firestone had always been dangerous. He couldn’t imagine how the dragons survived it and was appalled at the risks he’d taken as a weyrling when it had been his task to haul it to the older riders.

D’gan asks if you’ll withdraw, Hurth reported.

Withdraw? D’vin shook his head angrily. What tribute would that be to the lost rider and dragon?

We will continue, D’vin replied. Tell the rest of the flight.

D’gan says good luck, Hurth told him.

D’vin looked over to where the Telgar flights were arrayed and gave them an exaggerated wave. Good luck, indeed!

Let’s show them what High Reaches can do, D’vin told his dragon.

The crowd cheered encouragement as High Reaches began their next run. As the queens threw down a new hail of ropes, D’vin’s wing raced forward, flaming it all to char, backed High Reaches’s other two wings.

They almost made it. Just at the end, two riders headed for the same cluster, missing a single clump that fell behind them. At D’vin’s urging, Hurth dove toward the clump, but Hurth was out of flame and the clump fell, unburned, to the ground. Below him, the crowd groaned sympathetically.

Sorry, D’vin said to his dragon. We tried.

“That’s a pity,” Britell remarked, “but it’s not unexpected.”

Lord Fenner looked less sanguine, and the Masterminer gave him an inquiring look.

“I don’t deny their prowess, nor that they’ve suffered a tragedy,” the Lord Holder explained, “but I hope that the Weyrs can recover more quickly from their losses when Thread really does start to fall.”

“I think they will, my lord,” Kindan said from his place by the flags. “That’s part of the purpose of these games, to train for the worst.”

Fenner and Britell both nodded.

Cristov wasn’t listening. He was too busy wondering why the dragons depended upon such a dangerous rock as firestone for their flame. Coal was bad enough, but something that exploded on contact with water was just incredible. How could anyone work with such a difficult mineral?

The explosion above the crowd was all Tenim needed to make his greatest theft of the day. He’d been by the Smithcrafthall tent early on and had spotted the lovely dirk set proudly on display—well guarded by no less than three apprentices.

“That?” A journeyman had said in response to his questioning. “That dirk’s been made special for Lord D’gan, the Weyrleader himself.”

It was a beauty, Tenim decided. Its hilt was decorated with several rare jewels and embossed with gold. The blade itself was sharp enough to cut wherhide, as was demonstrated by the proud Smiths. It was a valuable piece.

And Tenim wanted it. He had had too few pretty things in the past several Turns. It was time his luck changed. And the explosion in the sky was all the change he needed.

In one swift moment he jostled against the apprentices, pocketed the dirk, and took off before anyone could react.

Far enough to be lost in the crowd, he flipped over his tunic and ruffled it up, while at the same time removing his cap and patting down his hair. He switched his belt around and changed the buckle for a Smithcraft piece. No one would recognize him now.

Yes, his luck had changed.

It was then that he spotted Cristov up in the Lord Holder’s stand. Tenim’s lips tightened and he frowned. He knew that Moran was hoping to use the lad the same way they’d used Tarik.

Tarik had cost him dear. Except for a quiet visit in the dark of the night, Tenim was certain that Tarik would have talked and cost Tenim even more dearly. Tenim was still not ready to have an “S” brushed on his head.

But the price had been the coal they’d stashed. It had taken little work on Tenim’s part to expose it and break a trail that led to it, a trail marked only with Tarik’s boot prints.

All the wood that Tarik had stashed had been found, too.

In the end all Tenim got for all his efforts was a small sack of coal, the only one he dared keep from the hoard that he and Tarik had laid down. The sack of coal hadn’t been worth more than three marks.

Tenim had learned quickly enough that his final plan had been ruined by Cristov, when the boy had helped save Natalon. Tenim felt that he owed little Cristov—though he was no longer quite so little—the same treatment that his father had been given. Wouldn’t it be fitting for Cristov to get the same blue “S” his father wore?

Yes, Tenim decided, nodding to himself, it would. He felt the dirk hidden under his tunic and smiled. He knew just how to do it. The dirk would be a small price for such a sweet revenge.

The horror of the weyrling’s loss was soon overcome by the excitement of the last event of the Games. Ista had been eliminated in the first round, and High Reaches had fallen out at the second round. Fort, Benden, and Telgar competed with astonishing passes in the third round. It seemed as though the sky was alive with the rope Threads. The crowd gasped in regret when Fort was disqualified by a single Thread in the third round. The fourth round was only between Benden and Telgar.

“Telgar, without a doubt,” Fenner declared loyally. Masterminer Britell nodded in agreement.

“It’d better be,” Kindan quipped to Cristov with a grin. “I’ve heard that D’gan’s commissioned a fancy dirk for himself as a reward.”

“It’s never a wise course to bet on your success,” Toldur opined.

Kindan nodded, but added, “It’ll be his solace if he loses.”

“Oh, so he plans on the dirk either way?” Toldur asked. When Kindan nodded again, the older miner continued, “Then why does he wait for the outcome?”

“If he wins, he’ll have Lord Fenner present it to him ceremoniously,” Kindan said.

“And savor the reward all the more,” Britell remarked.

“Look! Benden missed some!” Lord Fenner shouted, drawing them back to the event overhead.

“So Telgar’s the winner,” Cristov said.

“Only if they complete this round without letting Thread through,” Kindan corrected, shaking his head. “Otherwise it’s a tie.”

“If they tie, they’ll split the points and Telgar will win anyway,” Bitrell noted.

Cristov frowned at that, while trying to do the math in his head. First place was worth five points and second place worth two, so Telgar would earn only three and a half points if they tied with Benden. Add that to the five points that Telgar already had for winning the wing event and Telgar would have eight and one half points. Ista had seven points and Benden would add three and a half to its two points, so neither would beat Telgar. Satisfied, he nodded in agreement.

“Did that without moving your lips,” Britell said to Cristov with a smile. “I’m impressed.”

Cristov turned red with embarrassment.

A cheer erupted around them and Cristov looked up. The skies were clear of the rope Thread. Telgar Weyr had won.

“Raise the Telgar flag,” Fenner instructed, but Kindan was way ahead of him, raising and waving the Telgar flag to indicate the winner of the Games.

“D’gan will be well pleased,” Bitrell said.

“And he’ll get his dirk,” Kindan said to Cristov with a smile and a broad wink.

Cristov smiled back, wondering what sort of dirk a Weyrleader would covet.

A crowd rushed toward the stand.

“Here comes D’gan!”

Some enthusiastic revelers rushed up onto the stand itself, pushed by the cheering crowd. Cristov was bowled over and had a hard time getting up, buried under the crush of several holders.

When Cristov stood up again, his clothes felt different, heavier. He started searching his clothing for what had changed.

“Cristov, stand up, D’gan’s coming,” Toldur hissed in warning.

Hastily Cristov straightened up and sidled over to Toldur, peering out over the stand to where the crowd had parted wide to let one group pass through.

The dragonriders all bore the strange, hot, burning smell of firestone and the lean look of those who’d mastered their craft. They looked haughty, proud, determined—and they had earned the right.

As D’gan stepped upon the platform, the holders and crafters in the Gather burst into cheers.

“Telgar! Telgar! Telgar!” they shouted.

D’gan nodded and waved at them, his face beaming with pride.

“Lord Fenner,” D’gan called out, extending his hand imperiously. “Do you have something special to mark this occasion?”

Fenner turned to the group of smiths who were approaching and told D’gan, “I believe that the Smithcrafters of Telgar have created something special for you, Weyrleader.”

“My lord,” the eldest of the smiths called out, in despair, “it’s been stolen!”

“Stolen?” D’gan cried in amazement.

Cristov suddenly identified the strange weight in his clothes. With a metallic clatter it fell to the ground.

“There it is!” one of the smith apprentices exclaimed, pointing to Cristov’s feet.

Before Cristov could react, he found himself grabbed roughly from all sides.

D’vin strode over to him and bent to retrieve the dirk. He eyed it carefully for damage, then held it up, point first, under Cristov’s chin.

“You dare steal from a dragonman?”

“No,” Cristov said, shaking his head fiercely. “No, my lord. I never saw it before!”

“A likely tale!” someone from the crowd shouted.

“Shun him!”

Halla heard Tenim shouting, “His father was Shunned, Shun him, too!” She followed his voice to spot him standing right before Lord Fenner’s stand, urging the crowd on and Halla knew that Tenim had planted the dirk on Cristov. Tenim glanced her way, smiled, and nodded evilly.

“Speak up if you want to join him,” Tenim told her.

“He’s innocent!” Halla shouted, but her small voice was lost in the crowd. Desperately, she strode forward to the steps and shouted once more, “He didn’t do it!”

Tenim’s gleeful look vanished from his face and he slipped back into the crowd. Even if she couldn’t convince others, he didn’t need Halla pointing her finger at him.

“Shun him!” the crowd shouted.

Up on the platform D’gan waved for silence. The crowd slowly subsided, pressing forward eagerly, sensing that the Weyrleader was ready to make a proclamation.

“He’s innocent!” Halla shouted once more.

“Indeed, he is,” a loud voice shouted from the back of the crowd. The crowd parted as another group of dragonriders strode through. Halla recognized D’vin.

“This is a Telgar matter,” D’gan declared, turning away from D’vin.

“With all due respect, Weyrleader,” D’vin replied, “it seems to me that this is a matter best left to the Lord Holder of Crom.”

D’vin strode past Halla and up the steps to the platform. He turned to Fenner and pointed at Cristov. “My lord, I happen to know that this lad was here on the platform for the entire Gather, except when he accompanied me on your request. Is that not so?”

“Well, yes,” Fenner replied, glancing uncomfortably at D’gan, “yes, he was.” To D’gan, he explained, “Cristov and Toldur were invited to attend by Masterminer Britell.”

“And why was that, miner?” D’gan demanded.

“I asked that they be here because they are being promoted in rank,” Britell replied. “Toldur to Master and Cristov to journeyman.”

“Is it your habit then, miner, to promote thieves?” D’gan ask in a vicious tone.

“No, it is not.”

“Yet am I not correct in remembering that this lad’s father was just recently Shunned?” D’gan continued. “And now we find him with this dirk, a dirk commissioned especially for me.”

“There was a rush to the stands a while back,” Toldur interjected. “Perhaps someone dropped the dirk then.”

D’gan laughed. “That seems hard to believe!”

A throbbing sound overwhelmed Cristov. He was going to be Shunned. Shunned on the day he was to be made journeyman.

The throbbing grew. He looked around, aware that others had stopped speaking and were also looking around. A dragon bugled imperiously and the silence grew.

The throbbing remained. In the silence, Cristov recognized the sound as distant drumming. A nearer drum picked up the message and amplified it. And then another.

“Firestone mine number nine has exploded,” Kindan reported.

“Number nine?” D’vin echoed, turning in alarm to D’gan. “Is that the last mine?”

D’gan sheathed the dirk in his hands and spun on one heel, shouting to his men, “To your dragons! To the mine!”

“I’ll come!” D’vin shouted after him, jumping off the platform.

D’gan twirled back to glare at the younger dragonrider. “Stay where you are, High Reaches. This is a Telgar matter!”

And with that, he was gone.

D’vin turned to Masterminer Britell with a questioning look. “Shouldn’t some of the miners go, too?”

Bitrell shook his head. “There were no miners at the firestone mine.”

“Cristov,” Kindan said softly, stepping close to him, “wasn’t your father at that mine?”

Slowly, Cristov nodded.

CHAPTER 6

D’gan swore as he circled down over the wreck of firestone mine #9. He swore at the miners, he swore at the Shunned, he swore at his luck. Hadn’t everything been going too well? And now this!

The camp was a smoking ruin, all the firestone consumed in the explosion of the mine. A gaping hole in the side of the mountain was all that remained.

Firestone mine #8 had gone much the same way, although it had operated for nearly thirty Turns before disaster struck. Prior to that, well before D’gan’s time, the records showed that the last mine, #7, had been completely mined of ore without incident for over a hundred Turns. Privately, D’gan wondered if the old Telgar records hadn’t been altered to disguise some earlier mismanagement. He knew that such things happened. He certainly saw no reason to leave records over which his eventual successor might one day gloat.

Firestone mine #9 had lasted only two Turns. It had been hard enough to locate a new vein of firestone. Many Shunned had been killed in the search.

Well, D’gan thought to himself, there’re plenty more scum to hand. His thoughts turned back to Tarik’s son.

A movement caught Kaloth’s eye, and the great dragon banked tighter, circling back. There.

I see it, D’gan answered. Covered in bits of wood and debris was the body of a man. It had moved. Tell the others that we’re landing.

Kaloth obeyed, then circled in for a neat landing not far from the body.

“Over here,” came a voice.

Great, D’gan thought, there’s a survivor. His worries about finding someone with enough lore to locate firestone abated. His elation lasted only until he got a good look at the survivor.

“I know you,” D’gan swore, pulling his dirk from belt and waving it threateningly, “You’re Tarik. Your son tried to steal my dirk!”

Still in shock from the explosion, Tarik flinched and tried to scramble away from D’gan, but he was still pinned by wreckage.

“Over here!” D’gan shouted to his wingriders. Six of them ran over immediately. D’gan issued a crisp set of orders, and Tarik was freed from the rubble only to find himself restrained on either side by two burly dragonriders. D’gan strode up to him, toying thoughtfully with the dirk in his hand and eyeing Tarik with evident distaste.

“What happened here?” he asked, gesturing behind him at the ruin of the firestone mine.

“There was an explosion,” Tarik replied. D’gan’s eyes narrowed in a frown and he tightened his grip on the dirk. Hastily, Tarik added, “Someone kicked over a bucket of water. I tried to warn them, but it was too late. The mine exploded and blew me over here.”

“What were you doing in the stocks?” D’gan asked, nodding toward the pile of rubble in which Tarik had been found. He watched Tarik’s reaction shrewdly and noticed how the ex-miner’s eyes widened in alarm, only to narrow again in calculation.

“I’m a miner; they wouldn’t listen to me,” Tarik said. “The foreman was afraid of me.”

“If he was afraid of you, why didn’t he kill you?” D’gan asked, advancing toward Tarik, dirk held tightly in his hand.

“He needed me,” Tarik replied with an edge of desperation in his voice. “I know too much about mining.”

At Tarik’s words, D’gan paused. The miner had a point.

“Toss him that shovel,” D’gan said to a wingman, gesturing for the ones holding the miner to release him.

As Tarik caught the shovel, D’gan sheathed his dirk and told the Shunned miner, “I’ll be back in the morning for a hundredweight of firestone.”

“A hundredweight?” Tarik protested. “But the mine’s been destroyed!”

“Build another,” D’gan commanded and turned away to his dragon.

“What about food?”

“Tomorrow,” D’gan called over his shoulder. “You don’t want to be wasting time on something that trivial today.”

“But if I don’t eat, I’ll die,” Tarik cried.

D’gan climbed up Kaloth’s leg and vaulted into his position astride the bronze dragon’s neck before responding. “If you don’t have my firestone in the morning, I’ll kill you, and then neither you nor I will have to worry about your belly.”

“But—but who will mine for you then?” Tarik shouted back in terrified amazement.

“The Shunned,” D’gan replied. “There’s plenty of them, as you well know.”

Before Tarik could muster another protest, D’gan and his wing of dragons leapt into the air and disappeared between.

The wing reappeared over Crom Hold an instant later. The moment Kaloth touched ground, D’gan leaped off, ordering his dragon back into the air so that the rest of his wingriders could assemble behind him. With gratifying speed and precision, his wingriders formed silently behind him and D’gan strode off briskly, heading back to Lord Holder Fenner and the others who were still on the platform. Waiting respectfully, as they should, D’gan noted to himself.

His face tightened when he caught sight of Tarik’s brat. The brat had blond hair and blue eyes, while Tarik had both brown hair and eyes, but the shape of the face was the same.

Same vapid look, D’gan thought to himself. Same whining ways.

With a nod to himself, D’gan decided that the boy was as guilty as the father. Justice would be served.

“There were no survivors,” D’gan said. “The mine was totally destroyed.” He let that sink in for a moment before adding, “It looks like the miner caused the explosion. Sheer carelessness, overturned a water bucket. We won’t be getting any more firestone.”

This last he said with a sly look at D’vin and a sharp cut of his eyes to Tarik’s brat.

Only the Shunned worked the firestone mines. Why not arrange to have two miners and two mines? The idea appealed to D’gan not just for its redundancy but also for its efficiency—if both son and father died in the mines, then D’gan was doing all Pern a favor, weeding out a bad bloodline. And if they survived, Pern would benefit from the protection their labors helped provide. Yes, he told himself, a good solution.

He turned his attention to Fenner. “We’ll need new miners.”

Lord Fenner and Masterminer Britell exchanged a quick, worried look.

“My Lord D’gan—” Britell began, only to be cut off by D’gan’s upraised hand.

“You can start with him,” D’gan said, pointing at Cristov, setting off a cacophony of protests.

“It’s not clear…” Britell protested.

“I’m sure he didn’t do it,” D’vin declared.

“The matter shall have to be decided,” Fenner said.

“I’ll do it,” Cristov said. The others looked at him in shock. He waved aside Toldur’s unvoiced objections and the worried look of the Masterminer. “I’ll go in my father’s place. He destroyed the mine. Pern needs the firestone.”

D’vin had been watching D’gan carefully and now spoke up. “The mine was destroyed?”

D’gan nodded absently, savoring the look of misery on the brat’s face. He should be ashamed, he thought, with a father Shunned.

He is not bad, Kaloth remarked from up on the fire-heights, punctuating his thought with a low rumble.

It’s for the good of Pern, D’gan responded, wondering what in the name of the Shell of Faranth had prompted his dragon to make such an observation.

D’vin glanced up at rumbling from D’gan’s bronze and made a snap judgment. “Cristov can mine at High Reaches.”

“High Reaches?” D’gan snorted in disgust. “No one’s ever mined firestone there.”

“There is firestone at High Reaches,” Kindan piped up suddenly. Britell and D’vin turned to him questioningly. “I remember from a map at the Harper Hall.”

In response to their surprised looks, Kindan added, “I recall large areas in the mountains, mostly to the north by the sea.”

D’vin extended a hand to Cristov with a firm nod. “So, Journeyman Cristov, will you mine for High Reaches?”

“Yes, my lord,” Cristov said in a daze.

“No!” D’gan exclaimed angrily. “He should stay here!”

Lord Fenner looked at the Weyrleader consideringly. “Granted that you have a grievance with the lad, wouldn’t it be better all around to give him a chance to prove himself outside the lands that look to you?”

D’gan gave Crom’s Lord Holder a sour look followed by a curt nod, which he repeated to Masterminer Britell. He snorted at D’vin and turned to leave, only to turn back to Toldur, who had been watching the events intently. “What about you? Would you mine firestone?”

Toldur lined up beside Cristov with a firm nod, saying, “I will, my lord.”

D’gan was elated with his response. He held out a hand invitingly.

Toldur shook his head regretfully.

“I will stay with Cristov, my lord.” He nodded at the startled youngster and gave him a reassuring smile. He glanced at D’vin then turned to D’gan. “We miners take care of our own. Journeyman Cristov will need a Master’s instruction.”

“Well said, well said!” Britell exclaimed, nodding fiercely.

“What about Alarra?” Cristov asked, referring to Toldur’s mate.

“I would like to have her join us,” Toldur said, looking inquiringly toward D’vin, and then back to Cristov, as he added, “But not until we’ve got a proper house for her.”

“I can arrange a dispatch to Camp Natalon,” Britell offered.

D’gan’s eyes flicked angrily from Toldur to the other men before settling on Fenner.

“I’ll need more men to start a mine,” D’gan told him.

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to get men for Cristov, my lord?” Fenner said.

“High Reaches can fill his needs,” D’gan snapped. He pointed to the hills in the distance, saying, “I want men for a mine there.”

He turned to the others. “I think it’s a good idea to start two mines, so that we don’t find ourselves without firestone when Pern most needs it.”

“There is that,” Fenner said, glancing to Britell and the others. Then he shook himself and said regretfully, “But I’ve no Shunned at the moment. Perhaps you might find some at Telgar Hold, my lord.”

D’gan scowled.

“I should get going,” D’vin said. He glanced back at Toldur and Cristov. “Would you care to come with me now or later?”

“I think now would be best,” Masterminer Britell said, nodding firmly. He looked at Toldur, adding, “There’s an extra hour of sun at High Reaches—it would give you a better chance to get settled today.”

D’gan hissed but said nothing, stomping off toward his wing, circling his arm over his head in an ancient gesture. Over his shoulder, he shouted to Fenner, “Start the victory ceremonies.”

“As you wish, my lord,” Fenner said with a bow. Turning to Kindan, he said, “Kindan, place the banners in their order.”

Kindan first picked Fort Weyr’s banner, raised it high, waved it from side to side, and then placed it in the fifth-rank stand. The Gather crowd clapped politely. Kindan next picked High Reaches Weyr’s banner and, after the flourish, placed it in the fourth-rank stand. The crowd again applauded politely.

As Kindan reached Benden Weyr’s banner, Fenner raised a hand and told him, “Wait a moment, lad. Some of the bettors are a bit drink-fuddled.”

A momentary look of puzzlement crossed Kindan’s face to be replaced by a smile of understanding—not everyone of the Gather crowd would have figured out the final rankings, so Lord Fenner was giving the gamblers a bit of suspense.

After a long moment during which the noise from the crowd changed from one of excitement to one of confusion, Fenner waved a hand at Kindan, saying, “I think now will be good enough.”

With a nod, Kindan picked up Benden’s banner, to the murmured approval of the crowd, waved it overhead, and placed it in the third-place stand. The crowd clapped approvingly. Their applause grew when Kindan repeated the performance with Ista’s banner.

“Now watch them go really wild,” Fenner said as he nodded to Kindan to proclaim the winning Weyr.

As Kindan raised the Telgar Weyr banner, the crowd erupted in a huge roar of approval that seemed to go on forever. Only when it finally died down could the sound of the crowd’s clapping hands be heard. Slowly the applause died away, only to rise again to a new crescendo as all the dragons of Telgar Weyr, in fighting formation, flew a low circuit of honor over the Gather grounds, while the dragons of the four other Weyrs kept station far above them. When they completed their circuit, the dragons from fifth-placed Fort Weyr vanished between.

The dragons of Telgar Weyr continued their circuit three more times; at the end of the second circuit, fourth-placed High Reaches vanished between, at the end of the third circuit, third-placed Benden Weyr went between, and, finally, at the end of the fourth circuit, second-placed Ista Weyr departed.

The dragons of Telgar Weyr performed one final lap and then, they, too, went between with a huge, resounding explosion of sound.

As the last echo died away, Cristov felt as though he’d woken from a dream.

“Well, that’s that,” Lord Fenner said, “at least until the next Turn.”

As dawn broke over the surrounding hills, the unmistakable sound of dragons coming from between erupted over the remains of firestone mine #9.

Tarik looked up at the sound and was not surprised to see a full wing of thirty dragons descending toward him. He identified D’gan in the forefront. Wearily he raised an arm and waved at the dragonriders as they landed. He swallowed nervously when their dragons took station on the hilltops and valley exits, but then schooled his expression to project a calm he didn’t feel.

As D’gan strode directly toward him, his wingriders arrayed themselves in a circle, cutting off any chance for Tarik to escape. D’gan’s hand hovered over his dirk.

“Your son knows that you’re dead now, Shunned one,” D’gan said, his eyes looking hard for Tarik’s reaction.

Tarik merely grunted, in a response that grated on D’gan’s nerves.

“Where’s the firestone?”

Tarik bowed low, gesturing behind him with one arm. “Over there, Weyrleader.”

D’gan nodded to one of his men, who strode off and quickly located a mound of filled sacks.

“Two hundredweight of firestone,” Tarik added, rising slightly from his bow, his eyes just avoiding D’gan’s.

“Two hundredweight?” D’gan exclaimed derisively. “No man can mine two hundredweight in a single day.” He drew his dirk and advanced on Tarik. “You’re a liar just like your son.”

“Weyrleader!” the detailed dragonrider shouted. “There’s over two hundredweight of high quality firestone here!”

D’gan halted, his menacing look replaced by one of surprise. With a curt nod to Tarik, he said, “Explain.”

Tarik straightened some more, still careful to keep himself slightly hunched in obeisance. With a wave of his hand around the ruins, he explained, “My lord, I could not find a suitable site for a new mine. However, I was able to recover some firestone from the ruin of the mine and the storage shed.”

D’gan pursed his lips, his brows furrowed in angry contemplation of the useless man standing in front of him. With a lunge, he swung, hitting the Shunned miner with an open backhand. Tarik recoiled, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and anger.

With a wave to his riders, D’gan ordered, “Take the firestone.”

“My lord?” Tarik inquired obsequiously. D’gan favored him with a glare. Tarik licked his cut lip before continuing. “I know where you can get more firestone.”

D’gan gave the Shunned miner a considering look and frowned. “Where?”

“Near Keogh,” Tarik said quickly. “Still in Crom lands, but high up in the north hills.”

“And how do you know this?”

Tarik looked to the ground, acting subservient while hiding the triumphant gleam in his eyes. “I came across it when I was looking for more coal mine sites,” he muttered.

“Coal and firestone are never found together.”

“As I discovered, my lord,” Tarik quickly replied. “At the time I hadn’t seen firestone, but I learned that any prospect that included it was not a good prospect for a seam of coal.”

He risked an upward glance to gauge D’gan’s response and continued, “I know exactly where it was. And it was a large site, a full valley.”

“Hmm,” D’gan murmured. “In Keogh, you say?”

“Near it,” Tarik said. “It was difficult to locate—barely accessible—but I’m sure I could find it again.”

“And you’d have to be on foot to find it, wouldn’t you?” D’gan asked suspiciously. “And the ranges over there are so steep that anyone could get lost without much trouble. Is that what you were hoping?”

“No, my lord,” Tarik protested quickly, waving his hands in supplication. “Nothing of the sort. I couldn’t find the site on dragonback, but once found, you’d have no problems flying in.”

D’gan snorted. Cocking an eyebrow at Tarik, he said, “So you’re asking us to trust you.”

“If you please,” Tarik said, lowering his head once again.

“And what is your price, nameless one?” D’gan demanded, knowing very well what the miner would ask.

Tarik straightened and looked D’gan square in the eyes. “My name and life.”

D’gan shook his head. “Your life you left when you were Shunned and marked with the blue ‘S.’”

“My name, then,” Tarik responded, slumping once again, his voice barely more than a whisper. “And to be foreman.”

“Ah!” D’gan exclaimed, tossing his head. “Now we see your true price. You would want to be master to others.”

“I was a miner, my lord,” Tarik said. “If I could mine your stone, I’d be a miner again.”

D’gan gave Tarik a long searching look. The miner was hiding something, he was certain. Still…the notion had possibilities.

“If you desert us, the dragons will be able to hunt you down,” he warned.

“I had guessed, Weyrleader,” Tarik replied.

D’gan nodded slowly, his lips still pursed thoughtfully. “And how many men would you need?”

“It would depend upon the richness of the vein, and of your needs,” Tarik told him, knowing that D’gan already knew that. Seeing D’gan’s eyes narrow angrily, he added hastily, “With eight men, I could have a mine producing a hundredweight of firestone every day within two sevendays.”

D’gan snorted. “I’ll give you four men, and a sevenday.”

Tarik bit off an angry protest, let out his hastily drawn breath in a slow sigh, and nodded. “As you wish, Weyrleader.”

“Yes,” D’gan said, steel in his voice. “As I say.” He wagged a finger at Tarik. “And remember, nameless one, that if I wish, I can leave you to the wild, or take you to the sea and let you swim for your life. For you’re Shunned and no man will lift a hand to help you.”

Tarik swallowed angrily, his eyes lowered, and nodded in resignation.

“I’m glad that we understand each other,” D’gan responded with the cold of between in his voice.

Tarik kept his head lowered until he was ordered onto the back of a green dragon. He looked up only once the dragons rose into the air, and his eyes were gleaming in triumph.

Even though he had two purses filled to near bursting, Tenim’s earnings weren’t enough. Especially if he was to share them with Moran and the harper’s starving brats. Sure, Moran had fed him and reared him ever since he’d found him, but the price had been paid; he was ready to move on. Large numbers attracted attention, and too many might remember him with Milera.

No, it was best, Tenim decided, to finally part ways. He glanced around to be certain that none of Moran’s brats were in sight, particularly the nosy Halla, and started to fade into the deepening night.

He had no idea where he would go next, not that—with both purses so full—he would have to worry about food or lodging.

He was about to set his course when he noticed a disturbance over the hills in the distance. North of Keogh were the unmistakable signs left by dragons’ coming from the cold of between into the warmer moist evening air.

Why would dragons head there? Tenim wondered. They would have to be Telgar dragons; D’gan would permit no interlopers. Tenim frowned, wondering what could be keeping the Telgar riders from their victory celebrations.

What, Tenim decided with narrowing eyes, but finding firestone?

Word of the disaster had fanned throughout the Gather and the drums had spread the word throughout Pern. Tenim guessed that the dragonriders, particularly D’gan, would be desperate to found a new mine immediately. From all he’d heard after the disaster with the firestone and the weyrling, Tenim knew that the Weyrs stored only the barest minimum of firestone—no more than that needed for a sevendays’ worth of training.

If the Weyrs were without firestone, what would they pay to get it? His musing look grew more contemplative. D’gan had been stingy with the rations. What would the other Weyrs pay for extra?

Certainly far more than for coal at the start of a cold winter. With a calculating frown, Tenim set off in the direction of the dragon sign.

“He’s gone,” Halla told Moran as the last of the small ones reported in to her. “We should be going soon.”

Moran turned slowly around the churned field that had earlier that day been thronged full of spectators recovering from their revelries of the night before. Gone? Moran had never considered that Tenim would leave. What would the lad do without him?

“Moran,” Halla said urgently, “we have to find a place for the small ones to sleep soon.” She waved at hand toward two of the toddlers. “They’ll fall over soon enough, and the ground’s too cold and moist.”

Where had the lad gone? Moran wondered again, ignoring Halla’s pleading tone. He made another long, slow, scan of the grounds. In the far distance, he spotted a pinprick of light—a wood fire in the distance, toward Keogh.

Tenim had been evasive when asked about Milera, and violently abrupt when questioned about his whereabouts. Moran had known that the lad had spent the time since then attempting to locate Aleesa’s wherhold. As long as Moran controlled the purse strings, Tenim stayed close by. And that was as Moran preferred it. He needed the lad’s greater speed and strength to protect the small ones, just as he needed Tenim’s quick fingers to provide the marks needed to feed these small outcasts of Pern. If Tenim were gone, Moran worried, how would the children be fed?

What if—and Moran’s stomach shrank in fear—Tenim had decided to find the wherhold, and had left him with the children in order to slow him down? Would Moran find the wherhold a ruin littered with shattered remains? He shuddered. Aleesk was the last gold on Pern. If anything happened to her, there would be no more watch-whers.

He turned to Halla. “I have to go.”

“Go?” Halla repeated, alarmed at the harper’s tone. “Go where? What about the children?”

Halla was still a child, Moran told himself, glancing down to meet the challenge in her upturned eyes. Her brown eyes blazed at him, full of determination.

A child, yes, Moran thought to himself, but she’s been mother to so many that she’s a child only if measured by Turns.

A part of Moran shrank at that assessment. Well, no matter. He would not let Tenim’s greed destroy the dragons’ cousins.

“You can take care of them, I’m sure,” he told her. “You’ve always done so.”

“And where will you be?” Halla demanded.

“I’ll be back in a sevenday, not much more,” Moran responded evasively. He unhitched his purse and tossed the sack to her. Halla caught it easily. “That should be enough until I’m back.”

Halla weighed the purse in her hand. “There’s more than a sevenday’s worth here.”

“Extra, just to be sure,” Moran replied lightly, hoisting his sack to his shoulders. As he strode away, he called back over his shoulder, “Anyway, it’s safer with you.”

Halla glared at the harper’s back, her mind full of guesses at the reason for his sudden desertion. Then one of the smaller children started whining, and Halla found herself engulfed in the issues of dealing with eight small ones all by herself. She hefted the purse once more and scanned the now empty field. The lights of Crom Hold burned bright in the cliffs above her. Decisively, Halla started chivvying the children toward the Hold’s walls.

“What are you doing out this late?” a voice called from in front of her an hour later. Halla’s feet were sore from stomping on the hard-packed road that led up from the foothills into Crom Hold proper. She had one of the smallest perched on her shoulders, another held to her side, and a third dangling off her free hand.

“We’re looking for lodging for the night,” she said, working to deepen her voice. The effect was not quite what she’d hoped.

“Where are your parents, lad?” the guard asked, angling a glow-light down to shed its eerie glowing green light on them. He peered closely at Halla. “Why, you’re just a girl!”

Just a girl! Halla bristled and bit back a quick retort.

“Where are your parents?” the guard asked suspiciously, glancing at the small children draped around her. “What are these young ones doing out so late?” he added with a shake of his finger, “You’re sure to get a tanning, missy.”

“If you please, we’ve lost our parents,” Halla said, picking up on the guard’s guess.

“You have, have you?” The guard bent over to peer more critically at Halla. With one hand he reached down and swept her hair off her forehead, looking for the telltale blue “S” of the Shunned. Halla suppressed a shriek, the image of the outraged holders from two Turns back suddenly in her mind.

“Maybe you have at that,” the guard allowed. He stood upright, drew his dirk, and beat a quick tattoo with it on his shield.

“We’ll let the guard captain deal with you,” he told Halla, sheathing his dirk once more. “If you’re lucky, he’ll let you go with no more than a scolding.”

“I hope so,” Halla said fervently.

“You’d better,” the guard agreed. “Elsewise you’re likely to be seeing Lord Holder Fenner himself. He’ll not appreciate being disturbed this late at night.”

Halla was not lucky. An hour later she found herself wrapped in a blanket with a mug of warm milk, perched on the far end of one of the great tables in Lord Holder Fenner’s Great Hall, small children nestled all around her.

When Lord Fenner entered the room, dressed in his nightrobe, Halla’s heart skipped at the sight of his angry, stiff expression.

“Out at night!” he bellowed, waking the smaller children who started whimpering fearfully. He stormed up to Halla and wagged a finger down imperiously over her.

“Your parents must be frantic. My captain has told me that you’ve refused to name them. That’s all the worse for you, for now you have not only them to deal with but me as well.” He paused to see how his words registered with Halla, and then his expression changed to one of confusion. “I’ve seen you before,” he declared. “Where was it?”

“I was at the Gather, my lord,” Halla mumbled, her insides shivering as the Lord Holder’s angry intensity overwhelmed her.

“I know you were at the Gather,” Fenner barked, waking up the rest of the children. Startled, and sensing Halla’s fear, they began to cry quietly.

Tears started in Halla’s eyes. Tears of fear, tears of sorrow, tears of rage.

“Wait a minute,” Fenner said, kneeling beside her and peering close at her dirt-stained face. “You’re that girl Cristov pointed out. The one that found the bubbly pies.”

He looked past her to the sobbing youngsters. He raised a hand and told his guards, “Get someone to settle them in a guest room.”

The children’s wails rose as the guards tried to remove them from Halla, and Halla grabbed at them impulsively.

“No, no, no,” Fenner told her irritably. “No one’s going to hurt them.”

“Where are they going?” Halla demanded, rising to her feet, her eyes flashing a challenge at the towering guards and darting around the Great Hall searching for avenues of escape. But it was futile. The guards were too many, too big, and Lord Fenner stood directly in her way.

“Halla!” Fenner declared, his face brightening in memory. “That’s your name. I remember now.” He noticed that Halla was still resisting the guards’ attempts to pick up the other children.

“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

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.

“Ready,” Toldur said, eyeing the stream carefully and nodding to Cristov. Cristov tossed the contents of the bucket into the stream. Toldur peered intently for telltale signs of gas, then shook his head.

D’vin had explained that firestone gas only exploded in large quantities. In smaller quantities, the gas was deadly if inhaled.

Cristov and Toldur had agreed that tossing the suspect rocks into a running stream was a safe way to detect firestone—if the rocks were firestone, they’d emit the characteristic gases that immediately exploded on contact with air.

“I don’t know,” Toldur said as Cristov gave him a questioning look. “Perhaps we’ll have to use the bucket instead.”

Neither of them liked the idea of filling a bucket with water and dropping suspect rocks into it; the dangers of inhaling fatal gases or of ruinous explosion were too high.

Cristov pursed his lips in thought. “Perhaps we could use one of the cooking pans.”

“Get the big one,” Toldur suggested. Cristov nodded and raced back to their campsite. When he returned, he was moving more slowly, as the big pot was not only heavy but bulky, restricting movement in the undergrowth.

They selected a wide clearing near the river, placed the pot close to the river’s edge, and used the bucket to fill it with water.

“Now all we need are more samples,” Toldur said.

Cristov shook his head. “We need a dry bucket, too.”

Toldur grunted in agreement. With a shrug, Cristov turned back to the campsite.

“I’ll head back to the rock site,” Toldur called as Cristov moved away. Cristov raised an arm in acknowledgment, still moving briskly toward their camp.

Ten minutes later they were back beside the pot, close together. Cristov tossed the contents of the dry bucket into the water in the pot, while Toldur watched carefully. The water bubbled, and the bubbles burst into flame on contact with air.

“Firestone,” Cristov whispered in awe. Toldur’s amazed and wary look was all the agreement he needed.

“We’ve got to work quickly,” Toldur said, his voice full of urgency. His legs gave meaning to his words and he outpaced the shorter Cristov. When Cristov caught up again, Toldur said, “We’ve got to build a full entrance before nightfall; we don’t want a late night snow or downpour to destroy our site.”

They worked quickly. Cristov’s hands blistered as he hauled away load after load of clay while Toldur bared the entrance fully and dug into the face of their firestone vein, squaring it up.

Cristov would dump a load of clay and return with planed wooden beams for shoring.

Working carefully, he and Toldur constructed a proper shaft entrance. They glanced at the entrance for a moment before Toldur groaned, “The first drop of water will set off the mine.”

They went back for some clay, which they placed on top of the mine entrance to keep any melting water from entering the mine.

It was a tough race, but by night, bone-weary, Toldur and Cristov stood in front of a proper mine entrance, the roof and sides protected by layers of protective clay.

Early the next morning, when D’vin arrived, Toldur surprised him with a sack full of rock.

“No more than an eighth hundredweight,” the miner said diffidently. “But we wanted to give you some ore to test.”

“Well, then,” D’vin said, “let’s see if you’ve found some firestone.”

Ready? he asked his dragon, patting Hurth’s neck affectionately.

It’s not a lot, Hurth responded, warily eyeing the sack D’vin held. However, he opened his great maw and let D’vin throw him the largest of the chunks to chew and swallow.

It seems about the same, Hurth said after a moment. Hurth raised his head and emitted a bellow of fire.

Cristov jumped in surprise.

“That’s definitely firestone,” D’vin said. “The quality’s good, too.”

“Is he okay?” Cristov asked, looking up at Hurth worriedly.

“Have you ever heard of the hot peppers from Southern Boll?” D’vin asked. Cristov nodded. “Imagine that you’d eaten a whole mouthful of the ripest, hottest of those peppers.”

“That bad?” Toldur asked, shaking his head in awe at Hurth’s constitution.

“If our ancestors created the dragons, why didn’t they create them so that eating firestone wasn’t so painful?” Cristov asked.

“A good question,” D’vin said. “And one that’s talked about often in the Weyrs.” He shook his head resignedly. “Our best guess is that our ancestors didn’t have the time to make things perfect.”

“But doesn’t the pain of chewing firestone distract the dragons from fighting Thread?” Cristov asked.

“No,” D’vin said, “they are willing to endure it for Pern’s sake.” And so am I, he added to himself, casting an apologetic look toward his dragon.

It is the only way, Hurth agreed, his second stomach feeling bloated and his throat sore.

D’vin nodded in agreement and turned to the miners. “This is high-quality firestone,” he said again. “How soon can you get the mine into operation? What do you need from us?”

Cristov and Toldur were prepared for those questions, having thought about both for a long while.

“We don’t ask for dragonriders to help in the mining,” Toldur began, “but any help would speed things up, particularly among those miner-trained.”

D’vin sighed and shook his head. “I’m afraid we can’t help you there. None of our weyrfolk have mining experience.”

“We’d thought as much,” Toldur said. “But if your weyrfolk could help in making the wooden shorings and beams, then we’d have more time to put them in place and flesh out the mine head.”

“That we can do,” D’vin replied, nodding vigorously. “Anything else?”

“Do you suppose you have someone who could rig up some pumps?” Cristov asked. He pointed to a waterfall in the distance. “I was thinking if they could use the power of the waterfall to run the pumps, then we could pull any gases out of the mine.”

“If we don’t have an automatic way to clear out gas buildups, we’ll have to run the pumps by hand,” Toldur explained. “That would mean only one of us in the mines and…well, I’m afraid that the mine and the miner would be short-lived.”

“Very well, I’ll get with the headwoman and see if we can’t solve that problem,” D’vin said. “If we can’t, I’m sure the Mastersmith can.”

Cristov turned to Toldur, eyes shining with amazement as he mouthed the word, “Mastersmith.”

Toldur laughed and clapped him on the back. “You think too little of yourself, journeyman! All Pern relies on our efforts now, so why wouldn’t all Pern pitch in and help?”

“Indeed,” D’vin agreed. Why wouldn’t all Pern help? Toldur’s question echoed in his mind. Was there a way to get more help—help D’vin hadn’t ever previously considered? Weren’t the Shunned also part of all Pern? What would B’ralar say to his radical thought? What of the Lord Holders and Craftmasters?

“But with two of us, even if the pumps are automatic, we can hardly mine enough for all the Weyrs,” Cristov said.

Toldur gave him a thoughtful look, then turned to the dragonrider. “How much firestone do the Weyrs need?”

“As much as we can get,” D’vin said promptly. Seeing Toldur’s surprised look, he expounded. “We like to keep only a little on hand because it’s so dangerous. Typically a dragon needs at least a hundredweight of firestone for a full Fall, sometimes two or three. With three hundred fighting dragons in a Weyr, that works out to a minimum of fifteen tonnes per Fall.” He paused, stroking his chin, debating whether to say more and finally added, “My search of the Records indicates that in a typical Fall, a Weyr needs closer to forty tonnes.”

“Forty tonnes?” Cristov murmured, glancing to Toldur and then on to the mine, unable to imagine how they could mine such a huge number every sevenday.

“For one Weyr,” Toldur noted. “We’d need five times that number for all the Weyrs.”

“Probably more,” D’vin corrected. “Telgar flies with the strength of nearly two Weyrs.”

“Two hundred and forty tonnes every sevenday,” Cristov said, awed.

“I think we’re going to need some help,” Toldur said.

D’vin waved a hand, dismissing the issue. “Not for some time, however. The first thing is to get you up and running. Aside from pumps, what other needs have you?”

Toldur took on a distant, thoughtful look. “We’ll need a good storage site; plenty of firestone sacks; maybe some hands to help load the firestone; a good set of rails and carts to haul firestone to and from the mine—I think that’s it.”

D’vin laughed, shaking his head. The two miners looked at him in surprise. “Weren’t you ever planning on sleeping?”

“Well, yes,” Toldur said, wondering why the dragonrider had brought up the issue.

“Or eating?”

The two miners nodded.

“Then I suppose you’d like a place to live and perhaps a cook to take that burden off of you,” D’vin said.

“We can sleep in our camp,” Toldur said, surprised at D’vin’s generous offer. “And we cook well enough.”

D’vin shook his head, holding up a hand to forestall further comments from the miners. “The least the Weyr can do is to provide you with a warm place to sleep, hot meals, and hot water with which to bathe.”

A look of joy and amazement flashed across Cristov’s face only to be replaced by bemusement as he wondered why the Weyr would consider treating two mere miners so well.

“It’s the least we can do,” D’vin said in answer to his unasked question. “And, if you think about it, it’s for the most selfish of reasons—every waking moment you’re not mining firestone means less practice time for us.”

“‘Dragonmen must fly when Threads are in the sky,’” Cristov quoted, realizing that dragons without firestone were helpless against Thread.

In the days that followed, Cristov and Toldur found themselves pampered by weyrfolk morning and night, with hot food pressed upon them and a sturdy shelter quickly built. Beyond that, the weyrfolk quickly erected a waterwheel and a crafty set of pumps to continuously suck the air out of the mine, built tracks, and assembled ore carts to haul out the ore.

The actual mining, however, fell to just Toldur and Cristov. And while they managed to produce a steady amount of firestone, both were depressingly aware that it was much less than the High Reaches, let alone the other five Weyrs, needed just for practice.

Tarik yelped and twisted over in his bed the second time a foot kicked him, not too gently, in the shoulder. The light of a low glow dimly lit the tent.

“You!” Tarik growled as he made out the figure towering over him. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to renew our contract,” Tenim answered, his eyes glinting green in the glow’s light.

“I’ve lost everything and you want—” Tarik’s protests were cut off in a gasp as Tenim dropped his hands around Tarik’s throat and squeezed tightly.

He lifted the miner’s head by the neck, his face nearly touching Tarik’s. Tenim watched emotionlessly as Tarik’s frantic efforts to free himself and gain breath grew feebler and feebler. Finally, as Tarik’s fight for his life was reduced to no more than a frantic look in his eyes, Tenim let go and threw Tarik back onto his cot.

As the miner lay gasping in rasping breaths, Tenim whispered to him calmly, “Everything? Think again.”

He glanced around, found a folding chair, pulled it up, and sat down close to Tarik’s head.

“I hear that the dragonriders are desperate for this firestone,” Tenim said. “I’m sure that they’d pay more for it than Cromcoal.”

“D’gan pays nothing,” Tarik said, his voice still hoarse from Tenim’s crushing grip.

“So? Aren’t there other Weyrs?”

“He knows how much we’re mining,” Tarik replied warily. “There’s only so much a person can do in a day.”

“In a day,” Tenim agreed. “What about a night?”

Tarik considered the notion. “The workers would tire out too quickly. He’d notice.”

“Then we get more workers,” Tenim replied.

“And the food?”

“They can share with the others,” Tenim said.

“D’gan barely provides enough,” Tarik protested. “If we halve that, the workers will die.”

“I don’t believe I care,” Tenim told him. “How soon can you have your first shipment?”

“Shipment?”

“My dray carries two tonnes,” Tenim informed him. “When should I bring it by?”

“But—the workers!” Tarik protested.

“Surely D’gan doesn’t collect every day,” Tenim said in a tone that was almost reasonable. “I’m sure you could spare some firestone before I bring you additional help. Anyway,” he added with a shrug, “I’ll need some money to help in acquiring your additional aid. Shall we say in two days’ time?”

At those words, Tarik’s mind began to work furiously. How long had Tenim been working on his plan? How long had he been watching Tarik’s camp? Did he know that D’gan came for firestone no more than twice in a sevenday?

Another thought caused Tarik to ask, “How can you get a dray here? There’s no road.”

When Tenim didn’t answer, Tarik added, “Where did you get a dray?”

Tenim smiled, touching the side of his nose. “Don’t ask questions unless you’re willing to live with the answer.”

Tarik shuddered unwillingly and remained silent.

“I’ll see you in two days,” Tenim said and, turning on his heel, headed toward the door.

“Wait!” Tarik called out, ignoring the pain of his raw throat. Tenim paused but did not turn back as Tarik said, “For a tonne a day, I’ll need eight strong men.”

Tenim waved a hand in mocking acknowledgment and disappeared into the night.

Tarik spent the day alternately flogging his workers mercilessly for extra firestone and hoping that his encounter with Tenim had merely been a nightmare. By nightfall the workers had managed to produce only an extra three hundredweight. The next day was no better. Darkness found Tarik nervously pacing in his tent, his dinner uneaten. Two workers were in the stockades, their parched and swollen tongues lolling in their heads, as a lesson to the others.

A loud noise caused Tarik to jump as something was thrown in his tent. He dived out the door, intent on catching the miscreant, only to find his legs taken out from underneath him. He fell heavily, the breath knocked out of him. A hand covered his mouth. Tarik’s eyes found its owner.

“Hello,” Tenim told him softly, eyes gleaming in the dark. “Is everything ready?”

Tarik nodded.

“Good,” Tenim said, releasing his grip and stepping back from Tarik. He gestured expansively in the dark. “My dray is on the far side of that hill, next to your firestone.”

“We can’t move two tonnes that far by ourselves,” Tarik protested.

Tenim smiled a big toothy smile at him. “I promised you I would bring help.”

Tenim’s “help” was a disheveled crew of young teens and children.

“They won’t last long,” Tarik complained as he bullied the new arrivals into hauling the heavy sacks of firestone into the dray.

Tenim smiled at him. “Then I’ll get more.”

“Get ’em older,” Tarik snapped. Instantly he regretted it: Tenim’s fist landed at the point of his jaw and sent him flying.

“I give the orders, old man,” Tenim said to Tarik’s sprawled form. He gestured for Tarik to get up. Rubbing his jaw, Tarik rose again.

“Hurry them up,” Tenim told him. “I’ll want to leave before the second moon rises.”

Tarik’s angry protest died stillborn as he caught the deadly look in Tenim’s eyes. Instead, he swallowed hard and nodded swiftly.

Two hours later, Tenim rumbled out of sight in the fully loaded workdray, leaving his ten recruits in Tarik’s care.

By the end of a sevenday, frantic in his efforts to meet both D’gan’s and Tenim’s unreasonable demands, Tarik was a hollow-eyed wreck of a man.

“Your workers are slacking off,” D’gan complained as he surveyed the worksite. “Aren’t they getting enough sleep?”

“It’s their nerves, my lord,” Tarik told him. “They are afraid of an explosion.”

“Hmph,” D’gan grunted in response to the explanation. He waved toward the small group of new hands he’d found. “Perhaps these six will help.”

Tarik scanned the group with little hope. He spotted one small body flopped on the ground and pointed. “I’m not sure he’ll last all that long, my lord.”

“We spotted him on our way here,” D’gan said dismissively. “He was extra. Use him as you wish.”

Spotted him? Tarik walked over to the unconscious form, half hoping and half fearing that it was Tenim. Instead it was a much smaller teen. Tarik sighed deeply and then, to cover his reaction, asked, “Where was he when you found him?”

D’gan glowered at him until Tarik recognized his gaffe and corrected himself, saying, “I mean, where was he when you found him, my lord?”

“One of my riders found him near a river not far from here,” D’gan said. “It looks like he’d tangled with something or someone a while back.” He nudged the slumped body reflectively with his boot, adding, “He’s got deep scars that are healed and signs of broken bones.”

“Did he not say where he was from?” Tarik asked, careful not to put the tone of his real question—“Are you sure he was Shunned?”—into his voice.

“He doesn’t talk,” D’gan replied. “We think he’ll recover. And if not, well, he’ll still be able to work for you.”

For a little while, Tarik thought to himself grimly. His eyes strayed to a line of mounds on the other side of his valley, particularly the three fresh mounds of the youngsters who’d died the previous night.

“Can we get more provisions to care for him, my lord?”

D’gan sneered at him. “More provisions? You are too wasteful as it is.”

“I was just thinking,” Tarik persisted, “that it would be wasteful to have to spend time burying the lad when with a few more supplies we could get some work out of him.”

“Mmm, you’ve a point,” D’gan admitted. With a wave of his hand he tossed the matter aside. “Give my wingman your requirements and we’ll see.”

Tarik took D’gan’s words for a dismissal and was relieved to deal with D’gan’s second, a reasonable man who asked few questions.

Still, it was a distraction having to remember every jot and tittle needed to run the mines; he made a note to himself to find someone to act as scribe.

It was a sevenday before the injured lad recovered. He still couldn’t speak, but Tarik was pleased to discover that the lad could write and immediately set him to work compiling the lists of supplies needed to run the mines.

The extra help was not enough to relieve Tarik’s worries. D’gan’s constant demands and Tenim’s nocturnal visits kept him jittery and on edge.

“Who’s this?” Tenim asked when he spotted the silent lad keeping pace beside Tarik.

“Someone the dragonmen dumped on me,” Tarik replied with a shrug. “He helps me manage supplies.”

Tenim peered at the lad for a moment longer in the dark night, then ignored him, turning back to Tarik. “Why not put him in the mines with the others?”

“Because between you and D’gan, I’m managing over thirty men—” There was a note of pride in his voice. “—and I need help with the records.”

“Suit yourself,” Tenim said. “But you’d better be shorting D’gan this one’s share of the firestone, not me.”

“The lad’s saved me so much time, I’m thinking of opening another shaft.”

“Another shaft?” Tenim asked, looking askance. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“I’ll need to if I’m to meet your demands.”

“If you do, then D’gan will get suspicious.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” Tarik protested angrily. “There are so many working now that I’m afraid they’ll trip over each other and cause an explosion. And you know what that would mean.”

Tenim cocked his head thoughtfully. It was a moment before he replied, “Yes, that would be a tragedy wouldn’t it?

“Do you know,” he went on, his eyes glinting in the dark, “I think you should have four tonnes of firestone ready for me when I get back.”

“Four tonnes?” Tarik repeated in amazement. He spluttered, “But—but—”

“I have to guard my investment,” Tenim told him calmly. “It’s important that I have a reserve in case something happens to my stockpile.”

“Stockpile? I thought you had a buyer.”

“Several,” Tenim lied cheerfully. “Which is why I have a stockpile.” He nodded curtly to Tarik, saying, “So. Four tonnes in two days’ time.” With that, he turned away, ignoring all of the inarticulate noises coming from Tarik.

It was easy for Tenim to do so because he was busily plotting. How much would he get if there was no supply of fresh firestone? How much would his stockpile be worth then?

It had surprised him to discover how difficult it was to find a buyer for his firestone, given how all the other Weyrs had complained about D’gan’s stinginess. Tenim had been convinced that it would be easy, and profitable, to sell firestone, so he was much surprised to discover that neither was the case. In fact, Tenim had considered abandoning the effort altogether and switching to a different venture. But now…

Tenim returned to his calculations. How much could he get for a hundredweight of firestone?

“Firestone?” Sidar repeated with a horrified look on his face. “You’ve got firestone?”

Tenim didn’t move a muscle. He’d come to Sidar after exhausting all his other resources. The man was known to cheat, steal, and murder for his profit—methods Tenim preferred to reserve to himself—but when he paid, he paid well.

“Where do you store it?” Sidar asked, looking around the room carefully. “The stuff explodes with the merest contact with water.”

“Like this?” Tenim asked, throwing a small pebble into one of the cauldrons hanging over the hearth. There was a small hiss, followed by a bluish flare.

“Shells, are you mad?” Sidar asked, jumping to his feet. “If the dragonriders catch you, you’ll be Shunned for certain.”

“So will you,” Tenim said in bored tones. “In fact, one must wonder how you’ve done so well as to avoid it so far.”

“Indeed, particularly when one considers the full implications,” Sidar agreed, his lips twisted into a small smile as he countered Tenim’s implied threat.

Tenim waved aside the issue, saying, “The question remains—how much will you pay?”

“Pay?” Sidar asked incredulously. “For something that might explode at any moment? Are you mad?”

“No,” Tenim said. “It’s not just that firestone bursts into flame so easily—it’s that firestone’s the only thing that dragons can use to flame Thread.”

“They can always get more,” Sidar replied sourly.

“And what if they couldn’t get more?” Tenim asked. “What would firestone be worth then?”

“All Pern depends upon the dragons,” Sidar replied. His tone made it clear that Tenim had overstepped his bounds.

Tenim shrugged. “Only when Thread is in the sky,” he replied, and glanced up to the ceiling. “The Red Star is still a long way off.”

“All the more reason for the dragons to train now,” Sidar replied. He rose, indicating that the discussion was at an end. “No, your best bet is to return those goods whence they came and get far away before—”

“Before what?” Tenim interjected, his arm twitching slightly in the dim light. Suddenly he had a dagger in his hand. He toyed with it and glanced up innocently at Sidar asking, “Would there be a problem?”

“Leave,” Sidar growled undisturbed by Tenim’s sudden display of a weapon. “Leave before you find yourself as lifeless as your wares.”

“It was Tenim,” Halla declared as she stood up from her examination of the footprints surrounding the tracks of the stolen workdray. They were at a trader camp just north of Keogh, a smaller hold to the southwest of Crom.

“Are you sure?” Veran asked.

“He taught me how to track,” Halla told him.

“Did he teach you how to steal, too?”

“He tried,” Halla said. “I didn’t like it much.” She cast her gaze in the direction of the tracks. “It looks like he was heading due north.”

“We didn’t find anything that way,” Veran told her.

“He would have found a way to hide the tracks,” Halla said.

“There are no roads in that direction; he couldn’t get far.”

Halla nodded to indicate that she heard him, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Why would Tenim steal a workdray? She could understand his desire to take one of the brightly colored domicile drays for himself or his profit, but what would he need a workdray for?

“—that workdray could only haul two tonnes at best,” Veran was saying. “We’ll absorb the loss. It won’t hurt as much as if he’d taken a larger one, and it wasn’t even loaded.”

“Not loaded?” Halla repeated bemusedly.

“In that respect we were lucky; there was a larger one right next to it, fully loaded with Cromcoal.”

What would Tenim want to haul away, if not Cromcoal? Halla wondered. What could be more valuable than that?

“Could I get some supplies?” Halla asked, turning back from her inspection of the distant trail after being certain to memorize sufficient landmarks.

“Supplies?” Veran asked. “What are you going to do?”

“I think I’ll see what Tenim is doing,” Halla told him.

Veran looked dubious. “That doesn’t sound much like what I heard Lord Fenner ask of you.”

“How will the traders react when the word gets around that someone like Tenim has stolen one of your drays?”

“Word’s already gotten around,” Veran confessed. Sheepishly he added, “And we traders are none too happy about it.”

“So how will the traders feel when they hear that the dray was tracked down by someone else like Tenim and returned to its rightful owners?”

Veran gave her a long, thoughtful long. “Are you sure you’ve only twelve Turns?”

Halla shrugged. “That’s what I’ve been told,” she said. “I’m not certain.”

“Not certain,” Veran muttered to himself. “That’s not right.”

Halla nodded, saying, “That’s what Lord Fenner said, too.”

“He’s a good man, Lord Fenner,” Veran said by way of agreement. He looked down at Halla and frowned. “Are you sure you’ll be able to track him?”

“Yes,” she said.

“And what if he finds you?”

“He won’t,” Hall declared, trying to sound calm. “I’m a better tracker.”

Veran looked at her a long time before responding, with a sigh, “I just hope you’re a better tracker than you are a liar.”

Halla smiled up at him and patted his arm. “I am, honestly.” She paused a moment, then asked, “So, can I get those supplies?”

“You want to leave now?”

“Soonest is best,” Halla said. She gestured to the trail. “The trail’s days old; I can’t wait—it might get wiped out.”

Veran shook his head reluctantly. “Maybe you’d better reconsider. There’s been rain since that dray was stolen; there probably aren’t any tracks.”

“I’ve got to try,” Halla replied.

“It was a good idea of yours, my lord, to send the extra supplies,” Tarik told D’gan when next they met, knowing full well that it had been the other way around but now recognizing the need to flatter the Weyrleader. He put an arm around his aide’s shoulder. “This one has turned out to be a real timesaver when it comes to toting up tallies.”

“Has he?” D’gan drawled in icy tones. “And here I’d hoped to see him get more firestone to protect Pern.”

Tarik blanched. “Well, my lord, in a way he has. By freeing me up to work more on mining chores than on numbers, I’ve been able to up our output.”

“Really?” D’gan turned away from the busy mine shaft to the firestone dump opposite it where weyrlings were carefully loading up sacks full of firestone and disappearing between. “I could scarcely believe that from the amount of firestone you’re storing.”

“We need more bags,” Tarik told him. Beside him the silent youth gave him an odd look, which vanished before either Tarik or D’gan could comment upon it.

“More bags?” D’gan repeated. “We brought in more than enough bags.”

“Well, some of them have ripped,” Tarik told him nervously.

“Have someone repair them,” D’gan ordered. He waved a hand at the silent youth. “Him, for example.”

Tarik’s mouth worked up a protest, but under D’gan’s glare, he never voiced it, instead bobbing his head obediently.

“Seeing as you’re doing so much better,” D’gan continued, “I think we should expect more firestone from this mine.”

He looked around appraisingly. “You’ve done well,” the dragonrider admitted. “I think you’ll have no problem producing another tonne before we next arrive.”

Tarik’s face went white. Feebly, he stammered, “My lord?”

D’gan nodded firmly. “Yes, I think that will do nicely.” He turned to look Tarik in the eye. “My men need a good full Weyr training, so we’ll have the extra sacks for you.”

“Yes, my lord,” was all Tarik could say in response. Irritably he waved at the teen standing at his side. “You, go start fixing those torn firestone sacks.”

“And be sure to do a good job,” D’gan added.

The youth gave Tarik an inscrutable look, then nodded, handed Tarik his slates, and headed toward the shed where the firestone sacks were stored.

Neither D’gan nor Tarik paid the youth any attention while the firestone was being ferried away. D’gan turned down Tarik’s feeble offer of refreshment with a sneering, “We send you the swill that’s deemed unfit for dragonriders. Why do you think I’d want some now?”

Finally the last of the sacks were gone and D’gan took his leave, allowing an exhausted Tarik a few hours of respite. Irritably he sought out the silent boy and thrust a stack of new slates at him. “If you didn’t keep count of what the dragonriders took, I’ll tan your hide.”

The silent youth nodded and quickly made new marks on the slates he’d been handed. Disgusted at the lad’s diligence, Tarik cuffed his head—“Just to keep you on your toes.”

To his surprise, the blow rocked the small youth. Slates fell everywhere—some shattered.

“Now you’ve done it,” Tarik growled as the lad tried desperately to collect all the slates. “If you don’t have this fixed by dusk, you’ll spend the night in the stocks, do you hear me?”

With a sullen look, the boy nodded and scampered off toward his work tent.

Alone for a moment, Tarik heaved a deep sigh. He looked around him: The once green valley was now a dry, dirty bowl dotted only with stone sheds, tents, and tracks for the carts—all his.

A screech from the sky brought Tarik’s attention back from his musings. He looked up and picked out a black dot moving swiftly in the dark sky above him. Tenim was on his way. It was time to rouse the night crew.

Wearily he turned and trudged off to the secret meeting place. He was halfway there before he paused, swearing, and turned back. He’d forgotten his scribe!

Tarik stood torn between being late and doing without the lad’s handy services, before finally muttering, “I don’t need him.”

He failed to notice a small figure lurking in the shadows beside him. As Tarik turned back to his trail, the figure silently followed him.

“You’re late,” Tenim snarled when Tarik arrived. He looked around. “Where’s your shadow?”

“Huh?” Tarik muttered. “Oh, the lad!” he exclaimed when enlightenment dawned. Hastily, he lied, “In the stocks.”

“Good,” Tenim said. “I never liked him. You should consider keeping him there—he knows too much.”

“He’s useful,” Tarik protested. “He saves me a lot of work.”

“He could tell D’gan all about us,” Tenim responded, “and all you worry about is your comfort.”

“He won’t talk,” Tarik replied. “Shells, he can’t talk.”

“Can’t talk?” Tenim asked, cocking his head in sudden interest.

“Not a sound,” Tarik said. “At first I thought it was from whatever hurt him. Now, I’m not so sure.”

Tenim grew quite still as his thoughts outpaced him. Could this be the egg carrier come back to life?

“No matter,” he said aloud. He would merely kill the boy again, along with everyone else. Yes, that would work. Tidily. He turned to Tarik, another dead man, and said, “Have you got my firestone?”

“Our firestone,” Tarik corrected. “Of course.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” Tenim replied. He pointed into the shadows. Tarik could just barely make out the outline of a workdray, a patch of darkness in the shadows. “Get your lads to fill it up.”

Tarik nodded. With a whistle, he roused the children Tenim had provided. He unhitched the whip he kept looped off his belt and gave it a loud crack. Shadows shuffled out around them. Suddenly the dim light of a glow could be seen shining eerily in the night like a dragon’s giant eye.

“Bring the dray over and start loading,” Tarik called. He turned back to Tenim. “They’ll be no use for any other work tonight.”

“No use, why?” Tenim asked. He pointed to Tarik’s whip. “Can’t you use that?”

“Not in the mines,” Tarik replied. A pair of youths passed by grunting as they hauled a full firestone sack between them. “It might make sparks.”

“And sparks are bad?”

“Of course,” Tarik said. “In fact, there’s so much gas building up that we’ll have to get more pumps soon or risk an explosion.” He frowned, adding, “We’ve had a few close calls already; workers have been passing out from the fumes, and we’ve had to wait until we can fan in more fresh air.”

Tenim said nothing in response, preferring to watch the dray’s loading. The conversation died off until the dray was loaded and the workbeasts, gaunt old things, were hitched up.

“I’ll see you soon,” Tenim told Tarik.

“You’ll not need more firestone?” Tarik asked in surprise.

“No,” Tenim told him. “I think you’ve done enough.”

A look of relief, almost gratitude, crossed Tarik’s face, plainly visible in the light of Pern’s two moons. Then relief was replaced by suspicion. “When will you be back?”

“Soon,” Tenim repeated, flicking the reins to urge the workbeasts on. As the dray moved off, Tarik resignedly turned back to the work of the dawning day.

When he arrived back at the camp, he banged on the work tent where he’d last seen his scribe.

“Boy! Wake up, boy! It’s time for work,” he shouted, determined that as soon as he had everyone working hard enough, he would allow himself a well-deserved rest.

When, after several moments, the boy did not stir, Tarik stuck his head inside the tent, shouting, “Boy, you’d best hope—” But the tent was empty.

Tarik’s swearing was enough to rouse the rest of the camp.

The boy, who had been following Tarik earlier in the evening, watched Tenim’s departure carefully, noting the direction the young man took. He was about to return to the camp when he noticed that Tenim had stopped. Why?

Curious, he silently moved toward the workdray. He stopped abruptly when he spotted a figure walking back toward him. Tenim. He was carrying something on his arm.

“Remember how I taught you, Grief.” Tenim’s voice drifted clearly on the early morning air. “The water buckets.”

They were on the hill overlooking the firestone camp and the dam that had been one of Tarik’s earliest projects. Tenim stepped closer. The boy recognized the bird on his arm and the partly filled firestone sack hanging from his shoulder.

The boy started running, but he was already too late. In a moment, the falcon was in the sky, zooming down the valley to the carefully placed table outside the mine shaft with its half-full buckets of drinking water. It would take nothing for the falcon to jostle the buckets, tip them over, and have their contents seep into the mine.

But that was only part of Tenim’s plan. The second part became apparent when he started lobbing rocks of firestone at the base of the dam. At first they merely sizzled, but soon the air was full of flame.

The boy slammed into Tenim, knocking him off his feet, but the older youth was larger and stronger. Tenim recovered quickly, lashing out with balled fists. Still the boy persisted, even as the dam grew weaker from Tenim’s earlier firestone bombings. Taking a moment, Tenim threw the rest of the firestone sack into the water now streaming from the dam and then turned back to his opponent.

“How many times do I have to kill you?” he asked, his fists slamming into the boy’s stomach.

Behind him, the firestone exploded and Tenim heard the sudden rush of water. The dam had burst.

The boy stood rooted for one horrified moment as a wave of water rushed down the hillside, heading straight for the firestone dump. His distraction lasted long enough for Tenim to land the boy a knockout blow.

Tenim stared down at the unconscious boy and twitched to release his hidden knife. Two explosions, nearly simultaneous, rocked the morning air and he turned around in time to catch sight of the fireball rising where the firestone dump had been. From the mine entrance came a huge gout of flame and the more distant rumble of an explosion. A worried look crossed his face as he scanned the skies, to be relieved when he spotted the small form of his falcon racing back toward him.

He slid his knife into his belt and raised his arm for the falcon. Grief landed, and he quickly tied her jesses around his arm and placed her hood on her head. Only then did he look back down at the sprawled boy, a considering look on his face.

“I think I’ll leave you,” Tenim said finally. “That way, they’ll think you did it.”

With that, he strode off, firm in the belief that he had just made himself the richest, most powerful man on Pern.

The low rumble woke Halla. She jumped out of her sleeping roll in time to spot a brilliant light in the distance. She was only kilometers away.

“Firestone,” Halla declared. She’d taken to talking to herself, having not realized how much she appreciated the comforting chatter of the children who had always been in her care. “It has to be.”

Now she knew why Tenim had stolen an empty workdray: to carry firestone. Had he been mining by himself? No, that didn’t make sense. And hadn’t Veran told her that D’gan was getting firestone from some unknown place? Judging by the sound she’d heard, that place was no more.

She broke her camp, hoisted her pack, and set off in the direction of the noise, determined to search for survivors.

Pellar woke slowly and kept his eyes closed, listening for a long while. In the distance he heard the cries of the camp’s survivors. Closer, he only heard the sounds of morning. He kept his eyes closed while he gingerly tested each of his limbs. Satisfied that this time nothing was broken, he carefully sat up, wincing as the movement strained the bruise on his jaw.

“How many times do I have to kill you?” The question echoed again in his mind as his memories flooded back.

He remembered fighting the icy stream, sliding backward over a huge fall, and waking up much later, leg and arm broken, his head resting on the stream bank. Shivering with cold, he’d found the strength to pull himself out of the water before he’d collapsed again in exhaustion.

How long he’d stayed there on the edge of death, Pellar couldn’t recall. He’d survived on worms, trundlebugs, insects, whatever he could stuff into his mouth.

Once he’d fought off a wild dog determined to have him for dinner, another time he’d survived a wherry’s aerial attack by fending it off with fallen branches.

But it was his memories of Mikal’s teachings that finally healed him, although it took a terribly long time. He’d sought out the healing rocks from the streambed, looking for quartz above all. Carefully, he’d placed the crystals as he’d been trained by Mikal, aligning their vibrations to help his healing.

As soon as he could, he’d found stringy runners and shorter branches to fashion a splint for his arm and then for his leg. He’d just barely survived winter, huddled in a cave and eating raw fish. When spring came, he set traps, and—when they were full—he ate well. Slowly, his strength returned.

But he could remember only flashes of his past.

When the dragonriders had discovered him, he was initially glad, thinking he’d found aid. But they’d dropped him off here and the cold of between had helped settle an irritating cold deep in his chest. It had taken several days of rest before he’d recovered.

He remembered being irritated when he first met Tarik, although he had to feel gratitude for the other’s care of him. And he’d felt insanely angry when he’d first seen Tenim, and only caution had prevented him from attacking the larger youth at that time.

But it was only at the sight of the falcon that Pellar had remembered everything. The falcon that had killed Chitter. Pellar’s face clouded in memory. Chitter had saved his life.

For what? Pellar wondered bitterly, feeling well enough to stand and survey the wreckage of the valley below. His eyes strayed back to the green dale in which he was standing. There—a leaf good for burns. There—a leaf to reduce pain. He didn’t spot any numbweed.

As swiftly as his sore body would move, Pellar started harvesting healing leaves and roots.

Provisioned, he set off at a trot to the camp. As he grew closer he saw, to his horror, that some of the injured were badly burned. Some would not survive the day. He had no fellis juice to ease their pain. Most of the survivors were either lying on the ground in exhaustion, or walking around listlessly. He needed more help.

Could he still speak to dragons?

Hurth, he ventured, I need help.

The response was immediate, worried, and full of that special draconic warmth. Where are you?

Pellar scanned the valley and closed his eyes, building the image in his mind.

We come, Hurth said.

The immediate response was a tonic to Pellar and he lengthened his stride. He was barely at the first of the tents when the sky above him filled with dragons.

He waved frantically at the large bronze he knew to be Hurth.

“Pellar!” D’vin shouted from his perch atop Hurth’s neck, his face alight with joy. “We’d given you up for dead!” He paused and surveyed the scene around him. “What happened?”

D’vin jumped down from Hurth’s neck and then turned back to help down the group of weyrfolk that had ridden with him.

Pellar waved his hands and groped around his neck to show D’vin that he had nothing to write with. He turned, holding one hand out to highlight the scene surrounding them, but already it had changed as weyrfolk and dragonriders bustled about, providing aid to the burned and dazed survivors.

“Does anyone have a slate?” D’vin shouted over the growing din. A young woman dressed in riding gear raced over to him, her long black hair highlighted by one white streak.

“Thank you, Sonia,” D’vin told her with a smile that went to his eyes. She smiled back at him, turned, and waved good-bye over her shoulder as she sped off in search of more work. D’vin handed Pellar the slate and waited patiently while the boy wrote his message. When he was done, he handed the slate to D’vin who read, “Tenim. Destroyed the mine. Stealing firestone.”

“He’s stealing firestone?” D’vin asked in amazement. “What for?”

“To sell,” Pellar wrote in response.

“Sell?” D’vin repeated in surprise. He shook off the question, asking instead, “Was this D’gan’s mine?”

When Pellar nodded, D’vin made a face. “I’ll have to let him know.” He gestured toward a green dragon hovering high over the valley. “Fortunately, P’lel says we’re not too far from our borders.”

Pellar gestured for the slate and wrote hastily, “I should go; D’gan’s men brought me here, put me to work.”

“He’s been putting men in the mines?” D’vin asked, brows furrowing angrily.

Pellar nodded in confirmation and wrote, “Tenim brought him children to work a second shift.”

“Children!” D’vin exclaimed in shock, adding thoughtfully, “Not that you’re all that much older.”

The sky grew thick once more with dragons.

“That’ll be D’gan,” D’vin judged, looking up at the arriving dragons. He looked back to Pellar. “I think you’d best leave until I can calm him down.”

Pellar nodded and strode off, heading toward the ruined dam. A new resolution had entered his thoughts: Rather than avoid D’gan, he would track Tenim.

Halla arrived at the outskirts of the valley in time to see a second group of dragonriders appear. She stared at them for a long time, lost in their beauty, before she brought her attention back to the goings-on in the valley. Dragonriders and weyrfolk were attending the injured. In the center of it all, Telgar’s Weyrleader was talking to a dragonrider wearing High Reaches colors. With a start, Halla recognized the High Reaches rider as the one she’d met at the Gather.

Carefully, she made her way down the valley, hoping to pick up on the conversation without being noticed.

She need not have bothered. D’gan was shouting so loudly that Halla could easily hear his every word from two dragonlengths away.

“My mine!” D’gan shouted. “My workers! I’ve no stomach for High Reaches poaching them.”

“We came to their aid,” D’vin replied, his voice firm and not as loud. Halla thought that for all his deferential stance, the High Reaches rider was very angry and only just holding on to his temper. “And I informed you as soon as I could.”

“You did, did you?” D’gan yelled in response. “Not before you carted off a load of firestone, though. I would have never thought that I’d see the day when one Weyr stole from another—”

“My lord,” D’vin interrupted curtly. “We are dragonmen. We came to offer aid, not to steal.” He paused as he considered D’gan’s words. “And why would we cart off firestone when we can fly it off?”

“I don’t know,” D’gan declared petulantly. “All I know is that there are tracks leading off in the direction of your lands.”

D’vin was silent for a moment—communing with his dragon, Halla guessed. “My dragon has found the tracks you mentioned. We shall investigate.”

“You will investigate?” D’gan roared in response. “This happened on Telgar land—we’ll investigate.”

“As the dray is now in High Reaches territory, tracking it becomes our problem,” D’vin replied. He held up a placating hand to prevent D’gan’s next outburst. “However, we’d be delighted to accept your offer of help.”

D’gan spluttered for a moment before saying, “Fine! You find them.”

D’vin nodded curtly. After a moment, D’gan said, “Well, why aren’t you going?”

D’vin looked at him in surprise. “Your miners still need aid.”

“Leave them,” D’gan said. “That’s Telgar business, and we’ll handle it.”

D’vin’s reluctance was obvious to D’gan, who ignored the fact that he had brought none of his weyrfolk, and that most of his riders were still hovering over the valley on their dragons.

“I said we’ll handle it,” the Telgar Weyrleader repeated, tapping his fingers testily against his riding helmet. “You may leave now, Wingleader.”

D’vin bit back a bitter response and settled for bringing himself erect and bowing to D’gan. “Weyrleader.”

D’gan nodded back and waved D’vin away.

The High Reaches folk were slow to leave their charges, their concern visible on their faces, but in short order they were arrayed once more behind the dragonriders who had brought them. The dragons leapt aloft, formed the wing, and vanished between.

Halla was already heading away from the valley by the time the High Reaches weyrfolk departed. She’d learned what she needed to know. As she turned north and west, scanning for the heavily loaded workdray’s tracks, she reflected that she could leave Tenim to the dragonriders, that this was not what Lord Fenner had asked her to do, and that Tenim was much larger and more dangerous than she. But she would find him. A cry from one of the injured behind her strengthened her resolve. She lengthened her stride.

CHAPTER 8

So D’gan’s mine was destroyed,” B’ralar said, looking up from his position at the head of the Council Room. “And he complained when you arrived with aid?”

“Yes,” D’vin said. He was still surprised at the speed of events since the destruction of firestone mine #9.

The Weyrleader chuckled. “And all the while he’d been telling us he had no more firestone.”

D’vin smiled. “We haven’t been too frank with him, either.”

B’ralar grinned and nodded. “It seems just as well now,” he said. “And it seemed a better idea when we didn’t know how your miners would perform.”

“Not as well as D’gan’s men,” D’vin observed. “We’ll need a lot more trained men before we start to see a tonne a day.”

“They got that much?” B’ralar asked, sounding impressed.

“As near as I can tell,” D’vin replied. “I talked with Toldur and Cristov about it.”

B’ralar gave D’vin an inquisitive look.

“They said that it was possible to mine that much in a day, but they were concerned that it would require a lot of risks.”

“Hmm,” B’ralar said. He looked at his wingleaders. “So High Reaches is now the only Weyr that has a firestone mine on its lands.” He snorted. “Imagine how D’gan’ll feel when he finds out.”

The wingleaders grinned.

“I’m worried about this Tenim,” D’vin said. “He seems a dangerous character, and he’s willing to use firestone in a way we’ve never considered.”

“We should catch him as soon as possible,” B’ralar agreed.

“What do we do then?” D’vin asked, his voice tinged by the memories of the burned and injured miners. Worse, more than half of the miners had perished—including Tarik.

B’ralar pursed his lips in thought for a moment. “Let’s capture him first, then we’ll decide.”

The others nodded in assent, and B’ralar assigned his patrols. The meeting broke up, and the wingleaders marched out briskly to issue their orders.

“D’vin, wait a moment,” B’ralar called as D’vin rose to leave.

D’vin turned back and looked at the elderly Weyrleader expectantly.

“It’s not enough,” B’ralar said slowly, “for a Weyrleader to fight against Thread. A Weyrleader needs to chart a course Turns ahead, yet be prepared for any eventuality.”

“For which I am glad that I’m not a Weyrleader,” D’vin replied with a grin.

“One thing a good Weyrleader does is keep a close eye on all potential Weyrleaders,” B’ralar said. “For the good of the Weyr.”

D’vin shook his head. “Weyrleader, I wish you a long and happy life.”

B’ralar laughed. “I accept and will certainly aim for it.” He grew more somber. “But my days are numbered just as any other man’s.” He caught D’vin’s eyes and held them. “Don’t forget what I said, and don’t do anything you might come to regret later.”

D’vin bowed his head in acknowledgment. Then, with an inquiring look, he asked if he could leave. B’ralar waved him away, shaking his head at the waywardness of youth.

Toldur and Cristov were surprised when D’vin arrived at their camp, and grim when he explained his purpose.

“Well, we’re safe enough here,” Toldur declared after a moment’s thought. “We’ve well water, and our firestone is stored in a well-built stone shed.”

“He could still destroy the mine,” Cristov objected. The news of his father’s real death after all the months he’d spent thinking that Tarik was already dead was something he hadn’t yet fully absorbed, and he was determined to bury himself in his work to avoid the issue for as long as he could.

“Only if there’s no one guarding it,” Toldur said.

“We should consider starting another mine,” Cristov said. “Maybe training some others to do the work so we can mine more firestone.”

Toldur shook his head. “I can’t imagine who would volunteer, especially after news of Tarik’s mine gets out.”

“But how will the dragonriders train?” Cristov demanded, gesturing to D’vin and his riders. “And if they don’t train, what will happen when the Red Star returns?”

“Oh,” D’vin said demurely, “I think the dragons might enjoy a short break from firestone.” Behind him, Hurth rumbled approvingly. He turned back to the mine. “How are you doing?”

“Well enough,” Toldur said. “But Cristov’s right: Two people can only mine so much in a day, even with all the help your weyrfolk are providing.”

Cristov looked chagrined and mumbled something about “sorry.”

“You’ve no need to apologize,” D’vin replied fiercely. “You and Toldur have done excellent work. If more miners would—”

Cristov coughed and Toldur gave the dragonrider a pained look.

“What?” D’vin asked.

Toldur squared his shoulders before replying, “We sent messages to Masterminer Britell asking for more miners.”

“Did you? That’s excellent.”

Toldur shook his head. “The Masterminer said that there were no takers.”

“And that was before this news about the other mine,” Cristov added.

“And,” Toldur said, “before you ask, dragonrider, none of your weyrfolk have volunteered either.”

D’vin nodded and propped his chin in his hand, resting one arm on top of the other across his chest.

“We’ll think of something,” he declared finally.

“They can start at mine number ten,” D’gan declared. “If that doesn’t work, they can start at old mine number nine.”

“Weyrleader, none of the survivors who’ve remained are fit to stand, let alone work,” healer K’rem told him.

D’gan shot a venomous look at L’rat, the wingleader charged with guarding the camp. “Have you found any of them yet?”

Miserably, L’rat shook his head. “No, Weyrleader. Our riders have spread out all over and have had no luck so far.”

D’gan fumed. “If we hadn’t spent so much effort on the injured, we could have guarded the able well enough to keep them from running away.”

“I don’t think they would have worked even under pain of firestoning,” L’rat said, spreading his hands in surrender.

“Well, you let them get away so we’ll never know, will we?” D’gan retorted scathingly. He waved a hand at L’rat. “You lost them, you’ll find their replacements. We’ll need two dozen to start with.”

“But my lord, the holders say that there are no Shunned left in any hold,” L’rat protested.

“Find some,” D’gan ordered. “Make some. Goodness knows those useless holders are always up to something.”

L’rat drew breath to protest but D’gan startled him into silence, shouting, “Well, what are you standing about for? Go get more workers!”

L’rat nodded reluctantly, cast a pleading glance at the Weyr healer, who refused to meet his eyes and departed after sketching a quick bow to D’gan.

“We have to have firestone,” D’gan said to himself. He looked up at K’rem for support. “Without it, all Pern is doomed.”

“Yes, my lord,” K’rem agreed, “but I can’t help wondering if there isn’t an easier way to get it.”

The pounding that woke Sidar up was more welcome than the figure he found standing in his doorway.

“Are you insane?” he hissed angrily. “All Pern is looking for you!”

Tenim smiled and forced his way past the other man, heading to the hearth to warm his hands. “And how much of Pern is looking for firestone?” he asked nonchalantly.

“Firestone?” Sidar exclaimed incredulously. “They’re getting enough from the mine at High Reaches.”

Tenim was glad he had his back to Sidar, for he could feel his face drain of all color. “High Reaches?”

“Yes, you fool,” Sidar snapped back. “Tarik’s brat has been mining up there ever since that last Gather.”

“Really?” Tenim asked, turning to face Sidar, his features once more composed and calm.

“Really,” Sidar said. He grabbed Tenim by the collar and pulled him off his stool, shoving him toward the door. “Now get out, you’re no longer welcome here.”

Tenim turned back to face the older man. “Not welcome?” he asked, looking crestfallen. “After all we’ve done?”

“Come back and my heavies will deal with you,” Sidar promised.

“I wouldn’t want that,” Tenim said agreeably. He slung his pack off his shoulder and fished in it for something. “Seeing as you’ve been such a good friend, I’ve got something for you. Call it a going-away gift.” He looked around and spotted a jug. “In return all I want is some water.”

Sidar eyed him warily and backed away until he saw what Tenim had pulled out—a rock.

“It’s just a rock,” Sidar said. “Why should I trade water for that?”

Tenim threw the rock at him and the older man caught it reflexively. Tenim stepped over to the jug and filled a mug.

“No ordinary rock,” Tenim responded smoothly. “That’s firestone.”

Sidar eyed him warily and then the rock speculatively. “It’s not worth my water,” he growled. “You’d best leave.”

“It’s quite valuable,” Tenim continued in the same smooth tone.

Sidar snorted derisively.

“You don’t like my gift?” Tenim asked, sounding sad.

“Neither it nor you,” Sidar replied. “Now get out.”

“Ah, but that’s a special rock,” Tenim said, smiling. He pretended to sip from his mug and made a face. “Certainly worth more than this water.”

He threw the water at Sidar who grunted in surprise.

“And quite deadly,” Tenim added, stepping back as Sidar gave a strangled cry and lurched away from him. Tenim continued on as if nothing were happening, completely ignoring Sidar’s frantic movements. “It seems that if the gas doesn’t explode outright, it burns the lungs and the air in them. Death is quick, if painful.”

Tenim watched as Sidar’s desperate movements became more and more feeble and finally stopped. Shaking his head, he turned to go, only to turn back again for one final admonition. “You really should have bought when you had the chance.”

Back outside, Tenim climbed back aboard his workdray and drove it around into the shed behind Sidar’s cothold. He unhitched the beasts, put them in good stalls, fed and watered them, all the while whistling to himself and examining the runnerbeasts across the stables. Once done, he selected the best beast, saddled it, added his bedroll, travel pack, and falcon’s hutch, and rode out into the night heading west, toward High Reaches Weyr.

Halla swore when she lost Tenim’s tracks in Keogh. She arrived three days behind him, late enough that the body of the holder had been found. Halla herself had discovered the missing workdray and its deadly load of firestone, but she left before D’gan had arrived to supervise its unloading.

Now Tenim had a horse and a three-day lead.

Halla wondered about the other set of tracks she’d spotted on the way. Why had they continued west even after Tenim had veered south? Still, she had her mission, and the mission Lord Fenner had given her. So far her hopes of finding any of the Shunned had proven just as false as her hopes of bringing Tenim to justice.

“So what am I going to do now?” Halla asked herself. West, she decided. At the edge of town she found a trader caravan that agreed to take her along the moment she identified herself as Tarri’s friend.

“Tarri’s report said good things about you,” their leader had told her, gesturing to her fire-lizard as her source of news.

They camped halfway up the High Reaches mountains that night. Well bundled against the cold, Halla joined the caravanners around a large fire and listened as they talked.

“So what are the odds for that firestone mine?” one of them asked.

“No better than the one D’gan had,” another answered.

“But I hear they’ve got miners working it,” the first one said.

The other snorted a laugh. “At least until they make their first mistake.”

The group joined him in a bitter laugh.

“And then what? What happens when there’s no one to mine more firestone?”

“There’ll always be someone to mine firestone, as long as there’s the Shunned.”

“I hear,” the first one said, dropping his voice, “that D’gan’s taking even those who aren’t to start a new mine.”

“You don’t say?”

“What a terrible thing to do!”

“They say that half the miners at the old mine were burned in that explosion.”

“I heard that one of the Shunned did it on purpose.”

“Could you blame them, working like that?”

“Shouldn’t get Shunned if they didn’t want to work like that,” another grumbled.

Halla fought an impulse to finger her forehead.

“Not everyone gets a choice.”

“How’s that? Isn’t it justice that they do?”

“Justice is different from Lord Holder to Lord Holder.”

A chorus of assents passed around the campfire. After a while the conversation moved on to other topics and Halla drifted off to sleep, but not before she asked, “Does anyone know where this other mine is?”

The oldsters exchanged thoughtful glances before one replied, “High up in the mountains, near High Reaches. They say only dragons can get there.”

Pellar crossed the mountains as quickly as he could. He made good time and found a boat heading downriver at the first decent-sized hold. For keeping watch, he got a free ride. But first he had to show his forehead to prove he wasn’t Shunned.

“Not that I’d do it,” the boatman explained, “but there’s word that Telgar will pay a bounty for a Shunned man.”

Pellar looked at the man politely, encouraging him to continue conspiratorially, “I hear that Weyrleader D’gan himself ordered it. He’s all put out that High Reaches has their own mine. I guess he figures he’s the only one who deserves a monopoly on firestone.”

Aside from that, the man spoke as little as Pellar, having gone silent after asking exasperatedly, “Why can’t you talk, boy?”

Pellar had pulled down the collar of his tunic and mimicked someone trying to strangle him, which had been enough.

They parted ways at the river’s fork, the man heading farther downstream, and Pellar deciding to see if he could get to High Reaches Weyr.

What he discovered after a grueling day’s walk was that the mountains surrounding High Reaches were cold, barren, and inhospitable. A storm dashed his final hopes of arriving at the Weyr to surprise D’vin and left him fearing instead for his very survival.

Hurth, Pellar called, finally admitting defeat.

The storm was so bad that the best D’vin could do was drop down a parcel which, though brightly colored, Pellar took over an hour to locate. Inside was cold bread and jam. He found a place to shelter for the night and ate, savoring every bite.

“You should have bespoken Hurth before you tried anything so foolish,” D’vin scolded him the next day when the weather had turned sunny once again.

Pellar nodded in rueful agreement.

“So what were you doing here?” D’vin asked. Pellar explained about Tenim and his concerns about the new firestone mine.

“I agree, we’re worried too,” D’vin said. “So is Master Zist, who, by the way, sends his warmest regards and demands that you don’t get yourself killed again.”

Pellar winced. He fished out a note he’d written days earlier on the trail and passed it over to D’vin.

D’vin took one look at the top of it and folded it up. “I’ll see that it gets sent to Zist tonight.”

Pellar smiled in thanks.

“So what are we going to do with you?”

Pellar had already written his answer to that question, so he merely passed his slate over. “Take me to the mines. I’ll guard.”

D’vin shook his head. “We’ve guards enough already,” he said. “I think you should go back to Master Zist.”

Pellar shook his head and gently pulled back his slate, writing on it, “I can track.”

D’vin considered the suggestion carefully before shaking his head. “I’ll have to ask the Weyrleader and Zist.”

Pellar shook his head again, his expression grim and determined. He wrote, “For Chitter. I have to do this.”

When he passed the slate back, he locked his tear-rimmed eyes with D’vin’s until the young wingleader nodded.

Smiling sadly, Pellar withdrew his slate once more and wrote, “Keep it a secret, my guarding.”

D’vin mulled that over for a long time. “Very well,” he agreed at last. He pointed a finger at Pellar. “But I want your promise that you’ll call Hurth for help if you spot anything suspicious. It’s only that you’re so good at calling Hurth for help, that I’m agreeing.”

Pellar nodded and wrote on his slate. “Part of my plan.”

“Part of your devious plan,” D’vin agreed, shaking his head ruefully. “I just hope that neither of us regrets this.”

Tenim didn’t know whether he wanted to swear or laugh when he found the High Reaches firestone mine. There was Tarik’s brat digging firestone along with one of the other miners from Natalon’s camp. Why, this was perfect! He’d get revenge for all the things the miners had done wrong to him, and he’d have the honor of exterminating Tarik’s brat! On the other hand, it infuriated him to see how well Cristov and the other man worked and how much firestone they brought up with each load. Worse, they were obviously being treated like Lord Holders—a warm stone house in which to sleep, pumps built by Mastersmiths, rails laid by the weyrfolk themselves—they were too well dressed to be anything else, and a dump where they had to do none of the tedious sacking.

What made him want to swear the most—and laugh the most—was the way the mine was guarded day and night. In the two days and nights he’d been watching, Tenim had never seen the mine unguarded, but the guards were all old men and scrawny women, no match for him. The dragonriders were too complacent, Tenim decided. For which they would pay—and then pay him handsomely.

Because for all their guards and their careful planning, the dragonriders were mistaken if they believed they could protect their precious mine from him. He had a plan. And he would execute it just after the miners went down for their first shift. And then even dragonriders would listen to him.

Pellar refused to be angry with himself for not finding Tenim’s trail sooner; clearly, Tenim had gotten better at disguising his trail than when Pellar had last encountered him. His discovery had been made more difficult by the decision to move only at night. But at night Tenim’s falcon was sleeping; Pellar would only have to evade one pair of eyes, and those eyes tired from their own full day of surveillance.

It was clear that Tenim had arrived some days before, and that once he’d arrived, he had moved very little, going only from his resting place to his observation spot and back again, making it all that much harder to spot his trail.

In fact, Pellar would have never spotted it if he hadn’t decided that Tenim’s intention was to attack Cristov’s mine. Guided by that idea, Pellar had spied out the best locations from which to observe and launch an assault.

What he hadn’t figured out was how Tenim hoped to succeed in any single-handed attack. But then, he didn’t plan to find out. All he needed was for Tenim to move, and Pellar would have him.

What Pellar didn’t count on was the falcon, Grief.

The first sign of the attack came in the predawn when a commotion arose from beyond the clearing, back where the watch-dragon was posted. The dragon cried first in startlement, then in pain as the falcon dived repeatedly, beak and talons raking dragon hide, despite the desperate efforts of his rider to protect him.

The commotion woke the weyrfolk in the house, who all rushed over to see what had happened.

“Stay there!” the older guard shouted to the youngster on duty with him. “I’ll see what’s happening.”

Toldur and Cristov emerged and exchanged words with one of the weyrfolk. “You go!” Toldur urged them. “We’ll watch the mine.”

Pellar watched them enter, still wondering what Tenim hoped to gain from assaulting a dragon.

It was then that the second part of Grief’s attack began. Pellar had only time to catch a fleeting spot of darkness falling from the early morning sky before he realized what was happening. By the time he’d jumped up from his cover, the guard was already down on the ground, his hands covering his clawed and bloody face.

Pellar raced toward the mine entrance but before he was halfway across, a large object was lobbed from Tenim’s lair toward the mine entrance.

Hurth, help! Pellar shouted at the same time as another voice shouted, “Help!”

For one brief moment, Pellar thought perhaps the words were his own, that in his panic he’d found his voice. And then Pellar realized that the voice wasn’t his own. In that brief instant, Grief reacted—dropping from the sky with a raucous cry toward the back of Pellar’s head.

But Pellar was ready. He twirled around, pulling his knife from his belt and knelt, holding the knife above him.

With a hideous shriek the diving falcon impaled itself on the knife, showering Pellar with blood and feathers.

“You!” Tenim cried in fury, bursting from his cover. As Pellar turned to face him, a roar exploded behind him and he felt a gout of flame. Immediately, Pellar turned back and raced toward the mine entrance, ignoring the deadly peril at his back and the fire in front of him.

He reached inside the mine, groped, and found a hand. He pulled, but the body wouldn’t budge; then, suddenly, as if pushed, the body lurched forward. Pellar pulled the body to one side and was about to go back for the other miner when another, larger explosion rocked the mine and shook him off his feet.

Rough hands grabbed at him as he tried to stand up again, and he turned to see the irate, bloody, and burnt face of Tenim above him. Pellar had no idea where his knife was. Tenim’s, however, was right in front of him.

“Catch!” a voice shouted from behind him. Pellar swiveled, and reaching up in one fluid movement, grabbed a knife out of the air and pivoted back to face Tenim.

“You killed my bird!” Tenim shouted over the roar of the explosion, lunging down to bury his knife in Pellar.

The blow didn’t connect. Instead, Pellar dropped to the ground and thrust up and out with the knife he held, which caught Tenim square in the chest. Tenim lurched, his mouth going wide in surprise, and Pellar quickly pulled his knife out and thrust it up again, higher, into Tenim’s throat.

That, he thought hotly, was for Chitter.

Pellar slipped to one side as the hot blood erupted and Tenim dropped, dead, on the ground.

It was only then that Pellar turned back around to seek out his benefactor and see whom he’d managed to rescue.

The sudden movement, coupled with the heat of the explosion and the stress of his exertions, was too much. He collapsed.

CHAPTER 9

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.”

“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 10

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?”

“Of course,” Nerra replied, racing away. “Shall I use the emergency signal two or three times?”

“Three,” Fenner called after her. Without pausing, Nerra acknowledged him with a wave of her hand and was gone.

“Thank you,” Moran said with feeling. The emergency signal was repeated three times only in a Pern-wide emergency.

“We’ll see if you still feel that way later,” Fenner said. He gave Moran a sour look. “Your name came up not too long ago, as I recall.”

Moran raised an eyebrow. “My lord?”

“Yes, a poor man named Nikal swore a complaint on you,” Fenner said. “Said he’d paid you for a month’s Cromcoal and never got it.” Fenner paused, watching Moran’s face carefully. “When he told me that you’d claimed to be one of my harpers, I felt obliged to fill his lack.”

“I had hoped—” Moran began but Fenner cut him off with a raised hand.

“The issue will be between you and the Masterharper,” Fenner told him. “For which you should be grateful; I’ve Shunned men for stealing.”

“It was for the children,” Moran explained.

“You should have come to me,” Fenner replied.

Moran shook his head, confused, and momentarily lost for words. He licked his lips and winced. “They were Shunned.”

Marta came back at that moment with a wet washcloth. Fenner smiled at the child and directed her toward Moran. She handed him the washcloth and darted away, an action that spoke of no great affection for the harper. Fenner’s frown was unseen by Moran, who was busy wiping the blood off his face.

When Moran had finished cleaning himself up, Lord Fenner said, “I think there will be some time before we get a response. Why don’t you rest for a while?”

“Thank you, lord,” Moran said, rising slowly to his feet. Upright, he was surprised to find himself swaying with shock and fatigue. “I could use it.”

“Kindan, Kindan,” a voice shouted urgently in his ear. “They’re calling for you.”

Blearily Kindan opened his eyes to find Kelsa hovering over him, shaking him into wakefulness.

“Didn’t you hear the drums?” Kelsa continued.

Kindan shook his head. He had been up through the night and well into the next day before he and Kelsa had been dismissed by an ecstatic Zist to catch what sleep they could. Judging by the light from Kelsa’s glow, it was still dark out.

“News from Crom,” Kelsa told him. “A triple emergency, help for Master Aleesa.”

Kindan was on his feet so fast that Kelsa had to jerk her head back.

“Master Aleesa?” he cried. “What’s wrong?”

“She’s ill.”

“They’ll want me,” Kindan said, fumbling for the door.

On his second attempt, Kelsa pushed him aside. “Let me,” she said. As he stumbled out the door, she grabbed him, saying, “Maybe I’d better come along.”

Kindan nodded a quick thanks. It was moments before the thought struck him that Kelsa usually did everything she could to avoid the attention of the Masterharper.

When they arrived at the Masterharper’s quarters, Kelsa reverted to form and thrust Kindan inside before she could be noticed.

Kindan was not surprised to see that Master Zist was already there, but he was surprised to see another older person in the room.

If Zist was old, and Murenny older, this man was ancient.

His hair was completely white and thinning. Bright, light blue eyes stared out of a face that was lined with creases: crow’s feet at the edges of the eyes, and pain lines around the mouth.

“Mikal?” Kindan guessed, surprised that the Harper Hall’s famous recluse had deigned to emerge from his crystal cave. Mikal, once dragonrider M’kal, had made a place for himself in a cavern, shunning the more boisterous atmosphere of the Harper Hall itself. The ex-dragonrider had devoted himself to the study of healing and had become a master in his own right, developing his own brand of healing arts, which relied mostly on crystals, physical exercises, and meditation. His techniques were unique to the Harper Hall. Many otherwise incurable injuries had been overcome with his practices.

“Yes.”

“You’re late,” Master Zist said, motioning for Kindan to grab a seat. “I was expecting you minutes ago.”

Kindan took the indicated seat and apologized. “I was tired.”

“Hmph! Tired while we old men keep longer hours than you?” Murenny snorted.

“He knows this Aleesa?” Mikal asked, gesturing to Kindan.

“Not well, my lord,” Kindan answered quickly. “I met her once, Turns back, when I got my watch-wher egg.”

“I have just been informed about the watch-whers,” Mikal said, shaking his head. A strange, pained look flashed across his face as he added, “I hadn’t really thought about them much.”

“According to Moran’s message, Aleesa’s queen is the last of the gold watch-whers,” Zist said. His tone suggested that he was continuing a discussion that had begun before Kindan’s arrival. “If she dies—”

Mikal ignored him, turning to Kindan. “Zist tells me that you broke bonds with your watch-wher.”

Kindan took a moment to process the ex-dragonrider’s words before he nodded. “It was an emergency. Unless she let Nuella bond with her, the miners would have died.”

Mikal nodded as he absorbed Kindan’s response. “So, wouldn’t it be possible for the queen to bond with someone else?”

Kindan shrugged. “Maybe.”

“So you’re saying you won’t go?” Murenny pressed. “Because the queen might re-bond?”

“No, I’ll go,” Mikal replied. He nodded to Kindan, “He comes, too.”

It took the cold of between to rouse Kindan out of his fatigue-induced haze, but what really woke him up was the dragon’s dizzying descent in full darkness.

“I’ll wait here,” the dragonrider told them after they alighted. Kindan guessed that the rider’s behavior was more in deference to Mikal than for any concern for the wherholders. “The watch-wher knows you’re coming,” he added with a hint of humor in his voice.

“Why the laugh?” Mikal asked.

“The watch-wher was surprised that a dragon could make a night flight,” the rider replied, chuckling.

“They see in the dark,” Kindan said.

“So do dragons,” the rider replied with pride in his voice.

“Well, I don’t see well,” Mikal said, grabbing Kindan’s shoulder. “I hope you see better, miner’s son.”

“The last time I was here was in daylight,” Kindan said defensively.

He need not have worried, for his night vision was good and he quickly found a way into the wherhold.

“Which one of you is the healer?” The woman’s voice startled them.

“I have some understanding of the art,” Mikal replied. “The lad carries supplies.”

A man’s voice spoke out from a different location—behind them. “Where’s Moran?”

“Crom,” Kindan replied. “He was intercepted by a Telgar rider and brought before Lord Fenner for judgment.”

“He sent word to the Harper Hall,” Mikal added, “and Master Murenny asked me to come.”

“What about the boy?” the man asked suspiciously.

“I was once bonded to a watch-wher,” Kindan said.

“Once?” the woman snorted derisively. “How’d you lose it?”

“Kisk bonded with Nuella and is now Nuelsk,” Kindan replied, surprised at the anger in his response.

No words were spoken but Kindan felt the atmosphere change from dangerous suspicion to cautious respect.

“If you don’t want us here, we’ll leave,” Mikal said, turning around.

“Wait!” the woman called desperately. A dim light suddenly emerged in front of them. “Follow the glow.”

In short order they found themselves being led through a set of canvas doors into a room lit dimly by red coals. The woman holding the glows handed them off to another woman.

“I’m Arella,” the woman said. “Aleesa is my mother.”

The rustle of canvas behind them caused them to turn; a hard-faced man entered, his hand on the pommel of his dirk. Mikal stared at him for a long moment before the man removed his hand from his weapon and, instead, held it out in greeting. “I’m Jaythen.”

Mikal shook it quickly, then turned back to Arella. “Where’s your mother?” he asked, gesturing with a hand for Kindan to give him the pack of supplies.

“In there,” Arella said. Her eyes roved over the older man’s face seeking some sign of his skill. “You arrived quickly enough,” she said. “Moran said she’d be all right for a number of days.”

“He might be right,” Mikal said noncommittally. Gesturing politely for Arella to proceed him, he followed her into another chamber, muttering, “This is nice rock; I can feel the crystals in it.”

Kindan, relieved of his pack, turned slowly around the room, spotted a familiar crevice, and asked Jaythen, “Is that where Aleesk lives?”

Jaythen’s eyes narrowed in an instant of surprise, which he covered immediately with a derisive snort. “You don’t know much about watch-whers if you don’t know she’s out hunting; it’s night.”

“My watch-wher was a green; one of Aleesk’s,” Kindan said. He made a cheerful sound of greeting toward the crevice, so reminiscent of the noise he’d made over four Turns ago that he felt a moment of regretful memories.

Aleesk’s response from the crevice was no shock to Kindan, who merely turned back to Jaythen, saying, “I’d like to see her—she sounds worried.”

Jaythen looked at the young man with renewed interest mingled with respect. Kindan turned back toward the crevice. Jaythen’s hand on his shoulder startled him. The man spoke softly in his ear, saying, “Do you know what will happen if Aleesa dies?”

Kindan turned his head back to meet Jaythen’s eyes. “I do,” he said. “It’s hoped that I could bond with her.”

Jaythen nodded slowly. “Maybe you could,” he said after a moment. His expression softened and he added, “I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“So do I,” Kindan agreed fervently. “This is something I think Nuella would be much better at.”

He turned his head back, squared his shoulders, and walked into the watch-wher’s lair.

Much later, Kindan was awoken by steps and a voice calling in awe, “She’s a real queen.”

It was Mikal. Kindan looked up from where he lay near the queen watch-wher and felt tentatively with his thoughts—had Aleesa passed on in the night? Was Aleesk now bonded to him?

“She is all right,” Mikal assured Kindan. “Moran was right to send for feverfew and wiser to ask for help. He didn’t understand some of the subtler issues.”

Kindan nodded. Until the other day, he’d known nothing of Zist’s missing journeyman but he knew much of Mikal and the ex-dragonrider’s renowned abilities as a healer.

Mikal looked around the dimly lit chamber with interest, turning this way and that, reverently feeling the rock walls.

“There is good rock here,” he announced. He turned back to Kindan. “I will stay here. The rock is good, and the watch-whers are pleasant company.”

Kindan was startled; he’d thought that Mikal would always be a fixture of the Harper Hall. But Mikal was lured by rocks and crystals and—

“Do you know of a different firestone?” he blurted suddenly.

“A different firestone?” Mikal repeated blankly. “Why do you think there is a different firestone?”

“Because the records speak of fire-lizards chewing it on the shore of the Southern Continent,” Kindan told him. He wondered why neither he, nor Master Zist, nor even the Masterharper himself hadn’t thought of asking the ex-dragonrider.

In an instant he knew why.

Mikal sank against the floor, his legs suddenly weak. Kindan moved to help but the old man waved him away. Feebly, he explained, “My dragon died from a firestone explosion.” He searched Kindan’s face. “Are you saying that there is a safer firestone?”

“Maybe it was all used up,” Kindan said in a vain effort to ease the pain so evident in Mikal’s eyes. He had heard of the bond between dragon and rider, but he’d never thought it was so strong that tens of Turns later the loss would still cause so great a pain. This was nothing like the feeling he’d had when his watch-wher had bonded with Nuella.

Mikal’s look demanded more.

“The Records said that fire-lizards ate firestone on the shore,” Kindan said again.

Mikal shook his head in disbelief. “The sea air alone would destroy the firestone, to say nothing of sea spray and the tide.”

“That was my thought,” Kindan said. “But why were they called fire-lizards? They won’t eat firestone.”

“They won’t?” Mikal repeated faintly in surprise. His brow knotted in thought. “If there was a different firestone, then you’d know because a fire-lizard would eat it. Look for the stones that fire-lizards eat.”

“Fire-lizards are hard to find,” Kindan said. “There are a few at the Harper Hall. Fort’s Lord has a new clutch.”

“Pellar had a fire-lizard,” Mikal said. “Send for him.”

“Pellar?” Kindan said. He shook his head. “We don’t know where he is.”

Mikal shook his head. “Finding fire-lizards is easy enough, it’s finding this firestone of yours that will be hard, if it exists.”

“Maybe they couldn’t find it in the north,” Kindan suggested.

“Maybe,” Mikal agreed dubiously. Then he brightened. “But you know where it was, so you could go there.”

“Go to the Southern Continent?” Kindan asked warily. Everyone knew that the Southern Continent was unsafe: That was why the colonists had moved to the northern continent nearly five hundred Turns ago. He mulled over the thought. “Perhaps we could go just to find a sample.”

“Wouldn’t the Masterminer be able to tell you where to find this firestone here, once you had a sample for him?” Mikal asked.

“I don’t know,” Kindan said, then shrugged in apology for contradicting the old man. “It’s just that the records seem to show that firestone mining has been dangerous for several hundred Turns. If there was a safer firestone, we’d be mining it.”

“Unless the only ones who could tell had died,” Mikal said.

“It would have been an accident, most likely,” Kindan said. “Perhaps they discovered a vein of our firestone and it blew up before they realized their mistake.”

Mikal mulled the suggestion over. “Perhaps.”

Kindan was intrigued with the notion. “If they didn’t know about our type of firestone, they’d never know their peril.”

“And if the fire-lizards’ firestone was impervious to water, they might have dowsed the new firestone with water without realizing the danger,” Mikal said.

Kindan had a horrific image of miners using water to clean a wall of rock only to have it explode in a sheet of flame, extinguishing them in a terrifying instant.

“But why wouldn’t the next miners have simply gotten a new sample from one of the Weyrs?” Kindan wondered.

Mikal shook his head. “We’ll never know.

“And we’ll never know if there is such a firestone until someone gets a sample from the Southern Continent.” He pushed himself upright and turned determinedly toward the entrance. “We must talk with the dragonrider.”

CHAPTER 11

Cristov had never felt more uncomfortable in his life. He was in a meeting with the Weyrleader of High Reaches Weyr and all his wingleaders: the Masterharper of Pern; Master Zist; a grizzled old healer named Mikal who was treated with awe by the dragonriders; Toldur’s widow, Alarra; and Kindan. The grouping of so many august personages had been so frightening that Sonia had avoided it, which only increased Cristov’s own sense of alarm.

Of all them, Kindan made him feel most uncomfortable. However he tried, Kindan could not quite keep his eyes from Cristov’s injuries. If he hadn’t been so obviously understanding and sympathetic, Cristov might have hit him.

If Kindan had just looked a bit smug, Cristov probably would have. But Kindan looked even more apprehensive than Cristov felt.

“So you want us to go to the Southern Continent, from which our ancestors fled, to search for a firestone that fire-lizards will chew?” B’ralar asked, summarizing Kindan’s report.

Kindan flushed and nodded. “Yes, sir—I mean, my lord,” he said in a small voice.

“I think he’s right,” Mikal said. “For myself, I shudder to think how many have suffered needlessly if this is so.”

“But what if this firestone is only good for fire-lizards?” one of the wingleaders protested. “What then?”

“The only way to know is for a dragon to test it,” another observed.

“I’ll do it,” D’vin declared. “Hurth is willing.”

B’ralar pursed his lips. “We don’t have that many bronzes.”

D’vin pointed at Cristov. “And we’ve even fewer miners.”

B’ralar glanced at Cristov and Alarra sitting beside him, sighed, and nodded in agreement. “Very well,” he said. “I approve this journey.”

“You know,” Murenny said thoughtfully, “even if we find this new firestone here in the north, who’s going to mine it?”

“I’ll mine it,” Cristov declared.

B’ralar gave him a troubled look. “There’s a Hatching soon; you should stay here.”

For a moment Cristov’s eyes lit with joy. The Weyrleader was offering him a chance to Impress a dragon!

“I’ll go,” Alarra said. “I owe it to Toldur’s memory.”

Cristov nodded. “I’ll go,” he said. He met the Weyrleader’s startled look. “I owe it to Toldur, and I owe it for my father.”

“Even that won’t be enough, just the two of you,” Kindan objected, somewhat surprised by his own jealous reaction to B’ralar’s implied offer to Cristov. “You need a shift of ten to do any serious work.”

“That’s for coal,” Cristov corrected.

“Rock’s rock,” Kindan replied, standing his ground. “There’s only so much a person can mine in a day.”

“The weyrfolk helped,” Cristov responded.

“But will they be able when Thread falls?” Zist wondered. He glanced at B’ralar, who returned his glance with a troubled look.

“We could use the Shunned,” Mikal suggested. In response to the others’ muted reactions, he added, “Offer them an amnesty for a Turn’s worth of work.”

Murenny shook his head regretfully. “A good suggestion, but Telgar’s been putting the Shunned to work in the mines for Turns—they know it’s death to work firestone.”

“Someone would have to tell them otherwise, then,” Mikal suggested. “If they knew the firestone wouldn’t explode, I’d bet they’d come in droves.”

Zist gave him a thoughtful look and then said to Murenny, “It might be the solution to our problem.”

Murenny nodded and, in response to B’ralar’s questioning look, explained, “Master Zist and I have been concerned with the issue of the Shunned and what will happen with them during the Fall.”

“They’d be protected like anyone else on Pern,” B’ralar said immediately.

“But they’ve no holds, no place to grow crops,” Zist pointed out. “Such people will be desperate.”

“We sent Journeyman Moran out to make contact with them, Turns ago,” the Masterharper added, shaking his head sadly.

“Perhaps Moran would be willing to continue his mission,” Zist suggested to Murenny. He looked up at the Weyrleader. “Would it be possible for me to get to Crom on Harper business?”

“P’lel could take you,” D’vin offered. “I’m sure his Telenth would oblige.”

Halla tracked Pellar down at last, ready to pummel him for departing their hidden camp without leaving her the slightest message. It had taken her over an hour to find the first sign of his trail and another two to find him. She was hungry, hot, irritated, and—she hated to admit it—relieved at finding him.

Her relief gave way to surprise as she took in his position. He was kneeling. Was he sick? It had taken all her strength to pull him away to safety that day, so many sevendays ago. When she had found enough energy to go back for the other boy, she discovered that he was gone, as was Tenim’s body.

“Dragonriders,” Pellar had later written in explanation. But by then days had passed, and Halla had spent sleepless nights wondering if the blast had made Pellar addled. It had taken several more days before she recognized his strange gestures as attempts to write, and then she’d spent a fruitless day searching for something he could use, only to find, on her return to their camp, that Pellar had cleared a patch of ground and had used a stick to write, “I’m not addled. Remember, I can’t speak.”

Halla’s relief had been so great that she had cried for the first time since she’d been with Lord Fenner of Crom. She was surprised and grateful when Pellar wrapped his arms around her and held her tight while she cried out all the fears and horrors of the past weeks. But she also felt a bit uneasy; with Lord Fenner, Halla had felt that she’d been with someone like the father she’d never known, but with Pellar she felt more like she’d come home—and it scared her.

They’d had to change camps and hide when they discovered that the firestone mine had attracted several groups of the Shunned, who looted the wrecked mine and outbuildings for whatever they could find. Halla had refused to allow Pellar to contact the dragonriders, protesting, “They’ll capture them and put them to work on firestone mines!”

Nothing Pellar wrote could persuade her otherwise, and they spent several days angrily apart, not communicating beyond the barest necessary for survival.

The Shunned had fled when the dragons returned. But the dragonriders had stayed only briefly and were gone before Halla and Pellar could resolve yet another argument over whether to contact them.

And now the last of the food Halla had was gone; they would have to move camp soon, as the local game was now too wary of their traps, and Pellar was here kneeling in the grass.

He turned at the sound of her approach—which irritated Halla no end as she could have sworn that no one could hear her—and grinned, holding up something cupped in his hands.

It was yellow. No, they were yellow.

“Yellowtops!” Halla exclaimed in surprise. Then she remembered her worried hours of searching and shouted at him, “You went looking for yellowtops?”

Pellar nodded, his grin slipping into a smaller smile. He stood up and handed her one, gesturing for her to follow him. Halla raised an eyebrow at him but shrugged and waited for him to lead the way.

They walked in silence, which grew more companionable with every step. Pellar was clearly excited about something, and his excitement was infectious. What was he going to do with yellowtops?

The question had just turned over in Halla’s mind when they topped a rise and she knew what he was going to do. She lengthened her stride and caught up with him, pulling him to a stop. Pellar’s eyes met hers just as Halla leaned up and kissed him.

“It was you!” she said. “You were the one.”

Pellar nodded. She kissed him again and grabbed his hand, dragging him after her as they made their way down the rise to the neat graves set in the dale below.

Wordlessly they stopped and knelt in front of the mounds. After a moment they leaned forward and carefully placed the small yellowtops on each grave.

One was Toldur’s, one was Tenim’s, but Halla could not tell which was which. Nor did she care; in her mind, the dead were clear of all debts.

Zist was surprised at the sight of Moran. His memories of the man were over a dozen Turns old, but he hadn’t expected to find the young man he’d sent on a perilous journey changed into such an old, worried person.

“Master Zist, I’m sorry,” Moran said, bowing deeply. “I’ve failed you and the Masterharper.”

Zist waved his apology aside. “Not your fault, boy. The job was bigger than you.”

“Then why have you let Lord Fenner send a mere girl on the same mission?” Moran demanded hotly, meeting Zist’s eyes squarely.

Zist raised an eyebrow and turned an inquiring look to Lord Fenner, who had the grace to look embarrassed. Behind him, however, a girl who bore a remarkable resemblance to Crom’s Lord merely snorted in annoyance.

“Father was absolutely right to send Halla,” the girl declared. “She’s a girl, after all.”

“Nerra, hush!” Fenner said quellingly. Nerra took an involuntary step backward before she caught herself, huffed, and defiantly regained her previous position.

“I will not,” she said. “You were right to send Halla—she was a much better choice to deal with the Shunned.”

“She was so small,” Moran objected.

“Exactly!” Nerra said, pouncing upon his words. “No threat to anyone and quick on her feet, as well as her wits.”

“So where is she?” Moran demanded.

Nerra’s exultant look collapsed, and she was reduced to murmuring, “They didn’t find her body at the firestone mine.”

“The dragonriders could search for her,” Zist suggested.

“Not Telgar,” Nerra declared. “They’d take her to the mines.” She pointed at Moran. “They were all ready to take him to the mines except that Father refused.” She sniffed. “At least D’gan still recognizes the rights of the Lord Holder, if nothing else.”

“Nerra, that’s no way to talk about our Weyrleader,” Fenner said, but it was clear to Zist that his heart wasn’t in it. Nor could the harper blame him; he’d seen enough of D’gan’s imperiousness firsthand. Dragonrider or not, the man bore his rank and responsibilities poorly.

“What did you ask this girl to do?” Zist asked Fenner.

“I asked her to track down the Shunned in hopes of opening communications with them,” Fenner said.

“That’s what Master Zist asked of me!” Moran exclaimed.

Nerra looked ready to say something acerbic, but was quelled by a look from her father.

“The traders had taken her under their protection,” Fenner explained. “They agreed to lend her aid and support.”

“And if she’d contacted the Shunned, what then?” Zist asked, curious to see if Crom’s Lord Holder had come up with a solution to the knotty problem of Pern’s dispossessed.

“Arrangements could be made,” Fenner said. He met Zist’s eyes squarely. “Some of those are doubtless people I’ve Shunned myself. But the Red Star grows larger and Thread will return. And when it does, what then will people with nothing to lose not do in order to survive?”

Zist nodded. “That was a question the Masterharper and I considered many Turns ago.” He glanced at Moran. “Our plan miscarried, however.”

“The only plan that seems to be working is D’gan’s,” Fenner admitted ruefully. “Round them up and force them to mine firestone.”

“Perhaps not force,” Zist said, “but encourage.” To Lord Fenner he explained, “We’ve just discovered Records that indicate there might be two types of firestone.” He went on to describe the meeting at High Reaches Weyr and the conclusions that Mikal, Kindan, and Cristov had reached.

“So they are going to the Southern Continent?” Fenner asked in surprise.

“Only the shore,” Zist said in reassurance. “To see if they can find any of this fire-lizard firestone.”

“A firestone that doesn’t explode in water,” Moran muttered to himself. He looked up at Zist. “What do the Shunned have to do with this?”

“This new firestone wouldn’t be deadly to mine,” Zist explained. “And all Pern will need it soon. If they could be convinced to mine it, their place and their protection would be assured directly by the Weyrs.”

“That could work,” Moran agreed, stroking his chin thoughtfully. He looked up again to Master Zist. “Master, I’d like to offer my services. I will make contact with the Shunned.”

“And find Halla while you’re at it,” Nerra demanded.

“And find Halla,” Moran agreed, turning to sketch a short bow in the girl’s direction.

“Perhaps P’lel will drop you somewhere along our way,” Zist said, turning to the green rider who had silently watched the entire exchange.

“For a firestone that doesn’t explode, I will do anything,” P’lel agreed fervently.

The Southern Continent!

Cristov couldn’t believe his luck as he sat perched atop Hurth’s huge neck and peered cautiously down at the headland below. Beside them, blue Talith struggled to keep up with the huge bronze dragon’s easy turn of speed.

It had startled Cristov for a moment to think that dragonriders couldn’t just go to the Southern Continent.

“We need someone who’s been there before,” D’vin had explained when they first set out. “Perhaps someone in Ista will know.”

Weyrleader C’rion greeted them courteously enough when they arrived in Ista Weyr’s Bowl.

“What do you want with the Southern Continent, D’vin?” he asked when D’vin presented their request.

“Firestone,” D’vin said immediately. He recounted the meeting at High Reaches and the conclusion reached by Kindan, Cristov, and Mikal.

C’rion looked skeptical until D’vin added, “Mikal was a dragonrider many turns back.”

“Firestone accident?” C’rion asked.

D’vin nodded.

“There have been so many of those,” C’rion said. He looked at Cristov. “And you say there’s a firestone that doesn’t burn in water?”

“The fire-lizards got their name for some reason,” Cristov pointed out.

“And B’ralar approves this?” C’rion asked, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Well, he’s a cautious one. If he says so, then I’m up for it.”

“Do you know someone who could guide us?” D’vin asked.

C’rion heaved a sigh before replying. “You know that the Southern Continent is banned,” he said. When D’vin nodded in agreement, he continued, “There’s good reason for it, I’m sure. But I’ve one blue rider who won’t listen to reason and just flies off by himself now and again. When he comes back, he’s always got these most amazing fruits of the largest size.”

“He goes to Southern?” D’vin asked.

“I’ve never asked,” C’rion replied drolly, his eyes lit with amusement. “But perhaps he can guide you.”

And so, without actually saying it aloud, D’vin managed to get J’trel to agree to give him the coordinates, provided he could come along.

“I suspect he wants an official reason to know where the Southern Continent is,” D’vin confided with a grin to Cristov as they rose out of Ista Bowl and took station beside the wiry blue dragon.

And now here they were.

D’vin gestured to the beaches beyond the headland, indicating that they should land there.

The sun was warm and the sand hot as they jumped down and looked around.

At some unspoken word from Hurth, D’vin laughed and told his dragon, “Yes, go play! But be ready when I call.”

With a huge cooling breeze from his wings, Hurth leapt into the air. Soon he and J’trel’s Talith were cavorting in and out of the warm southern water.

“Any sign of your rocks, Cristov?” J’trel asked as he strode up to them.

Cristov looked dismayed to hear the fire-lizards’ firestone referred to as “your rocks.” He wondered how the dragonriders would react if none were found.

“Are there any fire-lizards around?” he asked hopefully. “Maybe we could find the rocks they like.”

After an hour, D’vin suggested they try further south. The dragons returned from their water play quickly enough, though neither Cristov nor D’vin were quite happy to be riding a wet dragon.

“We won’t go between,” D’vin said reassuringly to Cristov, “but fly straight. Call out if you see anything.”

They checked out two more beaches, but there was no sign of any rocks worthy of consideration.

“Let’s rest a bit, and continue later,” D’vin suggested as they trudged in the hot sand.

“Good idea,” J’trel agreed readily. “I know where to get some fruit—” His face fell as D’vin smiled knowingly at him, but he recovered quickly, adding, “It’s the best fruit you’ll ever taste.”

“I’m sure of it,” D’vin said. He waved J’trel off and called Hurth in from the sea. The dragon curled up comfortably in the sand, tired from his exertions.

J’trel returned shortly, his sack full of large, orange-mottled fruits, which he shared with the other two. Cristov waited until D’vin had bitten into one—manners, he would have said if challenged—but when the Weyrleader’s face lit with appreciation, Cristov’s restraint vanished.

“They’re great!” he exclaimed as soon as he swallowed his first bite. He’d never tasted anything like it. He could completely understand why J’trel had ignored all prohibitions to search out this fruit.

Silence descended as the three ate heartily. The silence continued as the sun reached its highest point and bore down on them relentlessly. Fortunately, Hurth agreeably stretched a wing out over D’vin and Cristov, providing them with shade. J’trel sought the company and protection of his smaller Talith.

Soon all three humans and two dragons were asleep, lulled by their full stomachs, exertions, and the hot noon sun.

Cristov woke with a start, angry with himself for nodding off. He tried to get up but discovered he was trapped by D’vin’s arm across his chest. D’vin silenced him with a look, and then, deliberately, turned his head slowly forward, away from Cristov. Cristov followed his gaze…

Fire-lizards.

He tracked them with his eyes, picking out prominent landmarks so that he would know exactly where they had been. There was a little queen and several bronzes. A mating flight? No, there were blues, greens, and browns, as well.

Idly, Cristov wondered whether a fire-lizard could help in the mines.

One of the bronzes had noticed them. It flew toward them and then, with a chirp of surprise, blinked between. Immediately, the rest of the fire-lizards vanished.

D’vin chuckled. “Hurth tells me that the bronze couldn’t believe he was looking at a relative that was so big.”

D’vin released Cristov and the two got up. J’trel joined them, his eyes alight. “Such antics! Did you get a good fix on their location?”

“Not far from that promontory,” Cristov replied, pointing. “Maybe five or six hundred meters away.”

“It’s a pity they weren’t flaming,” J’trel said.

“It’s possible that they won’t be looking for firestone until the first Threadfall,” D’vin remarked, with a sideways glance at Cristov.

Cristov groaned and his shoulders slumped. “I hadn’t thought of that!”

“Nor had anyone else,” D’vin told him reassuringly. “Still, we can look.” He cocked an eyebrow at J’trel. “Is your Talith up to chewing strange rocks?”

“Certainly,” the blue rider replied after a moment’s silent communication with his dragon.

“It’s a pity we forgot to bring a shovel,” D’vin remarked as they started toward the promontory. Behind him, Hurth grumbled and leapt into the air, arriving at the site before them. A shower of flying sand flew into the air as the great dragon began to dig. “Sorry, Hurth, I’d forgotten we didn’t need one,” D’vin apologized with a smile.

“For a fire-lizard, the stones would have to be about this big, wouldn’t they?” J’trel asked Cristov, making a shape about half the size of his fist.

“I suppose,” Cristov agreed judiciously. He looked around. “And they wouldn’t bother with the larger rocks, so if we found any place where there were lots of larger rocks of the same type and no smaller ones—”

“Like these?” D’vin asked, holding up a rock the size of his fist.

Cristov beckoned, and D’vin tossed the rock to him. The young miner examined it for a moment; started to toss it aside, then changed his mind and tossed it to J’trel. “That’s too heavy for firestone; it should be lighter.”

Cristov spied some rocks not far from Hurth’s new hole. He walked over and picked one of them up.

“This is more like it,” he said, hefting the rock judiciously.

“It looks like sandstone,” D’vin said, picking up another one from the pile.

Cristov nodded and threw his rock down hard on a larger rock. His specimen cracked, revealing a blue-green crystal.

“Is that firestone?” D’vin asked.

“It could be,” Cristov replied.

“There’s only one way to find out,” J’trel said, picking up the other half of Cristov’s specimen. “Talith, if you’d be so kind?”

The blue dragon opened its mouth and J’trel threw the rock into it. Shortly there came the grinding sound of a dragon chewing and then Talith swallowed, visibly and audibly.

“Now, we wait,” J’trel said. The three found it impossible to wait patiently. Cristov found himself examining the promontory for more signs of sandstone or blue-green rock; D’vin found more of the sandstone rocks and started cracking them, throwing the ones that were pure sandstone into one pile and the ones with hints of the blue-green rock into another pile; J’trel merely spent his time nervously pacing in front of his dragon.

“So how do you feel?” J’trel asked out loud. “Does it feel like firestone?” Before he could get a response, he jumped away, arms outstretched, crying, “Stand back!”

Talith opened his mouth and burped. A tiny flicker of flame erupted.

“That took longer than regular firestone,” D’vin said.

“Talith says that it didn’t burn, and he’d like to try some more,” J’trel reported, gathering up some of the rocks that D’vin had sorted and feeding them to his dragon. D’vin started doing the same with Hurth.

In a few short moments, both dragons produced a decent flame, and both pronounced it much less stressful than the firestone they were used to.

“Does it look like they can sustain flame longer?” D’vin asked J’trel.

“Yes, it seems like this firestone produces the fire gas more slowly,” J’trel agreed. He looked up at Talith again. “Is that how it feels to you?”

Cristov understood Talith’s response merely from the blue’s emphatic nod. He picked up a specimen and walked with it to the sea.

“Cristov, what are you doing?” D’vin asked his voice tinged with equal parts curiosity and alarm.

Cristov threw his rock, with its exposed blue-green crystal, into the surf and watched carefully. Nothing. No explosion, no puff of gas, nothing.

“I just wanted to be sure,” he said, turning around and walking back to the others. He picked up several specimens and stuffed them into his pouch. “This firestone doesn’t explode on contact with water.”

“There must be something extra in the dragons’ stomachs to make the flame,” D’vin suggested, hefting a rock in his palm. “If this were the old firestone, the sweat from my palms alone would produce some gas.”

“If this were the old firestone, all the sea air would have combusted it long ago,” Cristov remarked.

“Well, now that we’ve got the right firestone, what do we do next?” J’trel asked.

“We find it in the north, if we can, and mine it,” Cristov replied. He turned to D’vin. “I’d like to start immediately.”

“If not sooner,” D’vin agreed, looking very thoughtfully at his sample. It was a long moment before Cristov’s agitated movements attracted D’vin’s attention. The dragonrider smiled at him but did not apologize, merely gesturing for Cristov to mount Hurth.

“I do not understand,” Halla cried to Pellar in exasperation.

Pellar started to write again, but Halla pulled the stick out of his hand and snapped it in two, throwing it to the ground.

“Our traps are here, our food is here—why do you want to go north?”

Pellar sighed and picked up the thicker piece of his broken stick. Bending down, he wrote, “Dragonriders.”

“That’s what you said before!” Halla exclaimed, her frustration evident. “We can avoid them. The woods are too thick for them to land, and we can hide.” She looked up entreatingly into Pellar’s eyes. “We’re safe here,” she said in a small voice. “We don’t have to run anymore.”

Pellar nodded, but still he smoothed out the patch of dirt he’d written on and bent down to write again. “We help.”

“Help?” Halla repeated. “We don’t need help, we can get along just fine on our own.”

“Thread,” Pellar wrote in response.

“Thread won’t come for Turns, you said so,” Halla replied irritably. What was wrong with him?

Pellar wrote the word “fight” just above “Thread.”

“Fight Thread?” Halla shook her head. “Why should we worry about that? That’s dragonriders’ work!”

Pellar nodded, then wrote another word above “fight.” The word was “firestone.”

“Firestone fight Thread,” Halla repeated. She paused to digest the meaning. “The dragonriders need firestone to fight Thread and you want to help them?”

Pellar nodded, smiling.

Halla shrieked at him, “You’ll get killed!”

He shook his head.

“Then you’ll get burned just like your friend,” she said. She pushed him away from her, tears streaming down her face.

“Go on then, get killed. See if I care,” she cried, and ran away from him into the dense underbrush. She didn’t go far and crumpled into a small heap when she failed to hear Pellar coming after her.

I don’t need him, she thought. I can survive on my own.

After a moment she asked herself, then why do I hurt so much?

Pellar sat in silent thought for a long time after Halla had run off. Then, with a sigh, he stood and walked off purposefully in the opposite direction.

“There!” Moran pointed below them as they flew over the vast barren country north of Keogh.

Zist peered down, following his arm, and saw faint marks on the dusty ground below.

“It could be traders,” he said.

“This far north?” Moran asked, shaking his head. To P’lel he said, “Put me down somewhere in front of them.”

Moments later, they were on the ground and Moran was hefting his pack onto his back.

“You’ll stay in touch?” Zist asked.

Moran nodded. “I will.”

“And be careful?” Zist asked.

“More than last time.”

“If I don’t hear from you in a month…”

“You’ll hear from me,” Moran promised, turning toward the oncoming wagon. “Probably sooner than that!”

Halla awoke, angry with herself for having fallen asleep and cold from the chilly, late afternoon breeze. She peered blearily around for Pellar and then remembered their last conversation and how she’d pushed him away.

People always leave, she thought bitterly. Why should Pellar be any different?

Something caught her eye, fanned by the breeze. Halla turned her attention to it, then pounced on it eagerly.

It was a pair of yellowtops, their stalks twined together. Halla picked them up and held them gingerly in her hands, impressed at how deftly Pellar had woven them together. A smile wobbled on her lips.

In the distance she saw another bright bundle. Intrigued, she went toward it and discovered another pair of yellowtops. She picked them up, too, just as she noticed a third pair. A trail.

Halla’s earlier thought echoed: People always leave. But no one had ever left her a trail.

It was dark by the time Halla caught up with him. She would have missed the last bundle of yellowtops if Pellar’s trail hadn’t continued unerringly north.

He was camped in the open, which surprised Halla. Clearly he wasn’t worried about intruders, but his lack of precaution increased the danger of attack from night animals. Pellar slept like someone who was under a nighttime watch.

Who?

The answer brought a smile to her lips: her. She dropped her armload of yellowtops on the ground beside him—she stuffed them into her pack where they would create a great pillow—and lowered herself to the ground, dropping her pack under her head. She lifted his blanket. Pellar shivered in the night air until she bunched herself up, scooched against him, and lowered the blanket. For a moment, Pellar was awake. He wrapped an arm possessively over her, drawing her tight against his stomach; then he fell asleep once more.

Though her back was against him she knew he was smiling. She smiled, too, and closed her eyes peacefully, a feeling she hadn’t felt in Turns overflowing in her heart. She had only one name for it: home.

Cristov was depressed. They’d been searching the shoreline of High Reaches for three days and they’d nothing to show for it but a nasty collection of cuts, bruises, and sore muscles. Except, now, Alarra had broken her leg as she ran from a rockslide they’d caused with their digging.

She’d been quickly evacuated to the Weyr, where the healer had set her leg and ordered her to rest until the bone knitted together once more—at least six sevendays.

Cristov had insisted on continuing the search, and D’vin, after consulting with B’ralar, had reluctantly returned Cristov to the mountains south and east of their previous location.

“Hurth will be listening if you need help,” D’vin told him. “Otherwise, I’ll send someone by next sevenday.”

When Cristov looked curious, wondering why D’vin hadn’t promised to return himself, the wingleader said, “The Hatching will be any day now. Seeing as we want to present as many suitable candidates as possible, I’ll be riding in Search.”

Cristov promised himself that he would not call the bronze dragon except to announce success.

On the first day he had no luck at all. He wasn’t sure if his technique was right anyway: He would stop at a spot that caught his fancy, usually a place where the rock had been bared already, and dig around it, looking for signs of sandstone in the layers. If he found any, he’d dig around, looking for loose rock; failing that, he’d use his pick to break some rock free.

He worked for no more than an hour and then moved northward again, looking for a new spot. In this way he covered two kilometers and had made five excavations by nightfall.

The next day, though sore, he repeated this method. He was pretty certain that he’d found a vein of sandstone, but he couldn’t be sure—he’d never learned this sort of minecraft from his father, or even from Toldur.

On the third day, Cristov changed his tactics, deciding to dig deep into the sandstone vein he’d located the night before.

It was a hot day and Cristov was all the hotter, digging into the moist cliff in front of him. He liked sandstone because it was soft; he disliked it because it was crumbly—not a good supporting material. He had dislodged a fair amount of the soft stone and was making amazing progress digging into the side of the mountain when it happened: From one blow to the next, the whole nature of the vein changed, and instead of a trickle of loose rock, Cristov suddenly found himself facing a flow, then a rush, and finally a torrent of sandstone that threw him backward and engulfed him.

For the past two days Pellar had been traveling due north, and Halla had followed. They were tired, irritable, and hungry, but they were together, and Halla found that Pellar’s mute companionship more than made up for his annoying determination.

Thirst, however, was something neither could ignore, and so they were drinking at a stream when Halla heard it: a distant rumble that quickly died away. A glance at Pellar confirmed that he’d heard it, too.

“Come on!” Halla shouted, racing off in the direction of the sound.

When they reached a clearing, they spotted a cloud of dust rising about a kilometer north of them. Wordlessly they broke into a steady, ground-eating trot.

Pellar lengthened his stride, his long legs quickly widening the gap.

“Go on,” Halla called, waving him onward. “I’ll catch up.”

When Halla arrived at the site, she found Pellar inspecting the remains of a mine. She quickly toured the immediate area and found a campsite. The footprints around it belonged to one person, someone bigger than her but not by all that much. She returned to Pellar and the disaster.

“Only one person,” she told him between ragged breaths. She knelt over, filling her lungs with cooler air and forcing herself to take slow deep breaths.

Pellar nodded and began to pull armloads of the rocks away.

“You think he’s there?” Halla asked as soon as she’d recovered. She stepped up opposite him and began to throw stones away. She stopped when she caught sight of something shiny among the coarse, red rock. Thinking it was odd, she quickly pocketed it, then returned to her work.

A little while later, Pellar encountered hair. He rapped two rocks together to get Halla’s attention and pointed. Wordlessly she came around to where he was and began to help.

In moments they uncovered a head.

“I know him!” Halla cried. “That’s Cristov.”

Pellar nodded and bent over the face, clearing the smallest dirt away. He pressed his ear close to Cristov’s mouth and then looked up at Halla, alarmed. Then, to her surprise, he leaned over again and parted Cristov’s lips, put his own mouth over Cristov’s and blew a death breath.

“Pellar!” Halla exclaimed disgustedly. “Eww.”

Pellar paid her no attention, looking instead at Cristov. He repeated the movement. This time Cristov coughed and sputtered.

“Stay still!” Halla ordered. “You’re in a landslide.”

Quickly Pellar and Halla dug Cristov’s chest out from under the loose rock. It took more effort and more care to extract his legs.

Finally, Pellar motioned for Halla to stand back and gestured that he would pull Cristov out.

“No, I won’t,” she declared firmly, eyeing the rocks above them. “We’ll do this together.”

Pellar pursed his lips angrily in response, and Halla stuck her hands on her hips and glared in return. Pellar gave her one last angry look, sighed, shook his head regretfully, and gestured for her to come help.

Together, slowly, they pulled Cristov out from the landslide. When he was far enough out, Halla moved to his legs and picked them up. Cristov groaned painfully.

“I’m sorry,” Halla told him, “but we’ve got to get you away from here.”

“My rock,” Cristov cried through clenched teeth.

“Shh,” Halla told him soothingly. “We can find you plenty of rocks.”

Cristov was in too much pain to argue. They went about twenty meters before Pellar gestured to Halla to set the boy back down.

“I’ll get some water,” Halla said, moving quickly to the campsite.

Pellar was kneeling beside Cristov when she returned.

“Am I dead?” Cristov asked Halla.

“No,” Halla replied testily.

“But he’s dead,” Cristov said, pointing to Pellar.

Halla shook her head and opened the flask. “Here, drink this.” When Cristov complied, spluttering a bit on the water, she looked at him and said, “There, do you think dead people cough when drinking?”

Cristov thought for a moment and shook his head. He winced at the movement. Pellar laid a hand on his head and glanced up to Halla, shaking his own head.

“Pellar says that you shouldn’t move your head,” Halla told him, her tone implying that she expected that Cristov had already figured that out himself.

“You can talk to him?” Cristov asked in wonder.

Halla shook her head. “No, but it’s easy to guess what he means.”

Pellar shot her a penetrating look and broke into a huge grin.

“My rock,” Cristov said. “We must find it.”

“There are plenty of rocks,” Halla repeated soothingly. “We can look when you’re better.”

“No, we’ve got to find it,” Cristov responded, his face twisted in irritation. “If not, we’ll have to go back to the Southern Continent to get another.”

“What sort of rock is it?” Halla asked in surprise. “And what were you doing in the Southern Continent?”

“Looking for firestone,” Cristov explained.

“But you’ve found it already,” Halla said. Her brows drew close. “You weren’t hoping to find it in that sandstone, were you?”

“Yes,” Cristov said. “That’s where we found it before.”

“Sandstone?” Halla repeated dubiously. “But firestone explodes in water.”

“Not this firestone,” Cristov replied. “It doesn’t burn in water. It’s what the fire-lizards eat, and they find it on the shore in the Southern Continent.” He frowned. “I’ve got to find that sample.”

“What’s it look like?” Halla asked.

“It’s a blue-green crystal,” Cristov told her. “There’s usually some sandstone around it.”

Halla fished in her pocket. “Like this?”

“That’s it!” Cristov cried, reaching for it. Halla gave it to him readily.

“But there’s loads up there,” she said, waving her hand back up toward the landslide. “That was just the smallest piece.”

Cristov’s eyes widened and he looked at Pellar for confirmation. The young harper nodded. A mixture of joy, relief, and impatience crossed Cristov’s face.

“We’ve got to tell the Weyr,” he exclaimed. Of Halla he demanded, “How much was there? How quickly can we get it?”

Pellar shook his head and pointed at Cristov’s legs. Halla guessed his meaning and said, “We’ve got to take care of you first.”

“No,” Cristov cried, “we’ve got to tell the Weyrs! Until we prove this is the right firestone and there’s enough, they’ll still try to mine the old firestone.”

Pellar and Halla exchanged worried looks.

“All we have to do is find the blue-green rock?” Halla asked, an idea forming in her mind.

“Yes,” Cristov agreed.

Halla gave Pellar a questioning look; he nodded.

“We’ll do it,” Halla said.

“Any luck?” B’ralar called as D’vin strode into the Kitchen Caverns.

D’vin pulled a face, shaking his head while filling a mug with klah from the kettle left on the warming stove. “Nothing in Tillek,” he said. “I tried Hold Balen as well, but found no likely lads there, either.”

“We’ve twenty-three eggs and only nineteen solid candidates,” B’ralar said, frowning.

“Perhaps B’neil will have better luck,” D’vin suggested.

B’ralar made a sour face. “His Danenth is nowhere near as good as Hurth at spotting candidates,” he said. “I don’t think there will be more than two sevendays before the Hatching.”

“I can go out again, if you’d like,” D’vin suggested. He started to say more but stopped, clearly listening to his dragon. When he spoke again, he was already moving, dropping the mug of klah on the nearest table. “Pellar’s found Cristov. Cristov’s injured.”

“Go,” B’ralar said, waving him off. “I’ll let Sonia know.”

D’vin waved acknowledgment as Hurth descended from his perch to retrieve his rider.

“No broken bones this time, either,” Sonia said to Cristov when he woke the next morning to find himself tucked once again in the High Reaches Weyr infirmary. She smiled at him. “I think you do this just to spend time with me.”

Sonia’s hand descended on his chest as soon as Cristov tried to sit up. “And again, you’re trying to move too early,” she added with a sigh. She shook her head at him. “You’re going to rest for a while.”

“How long?” Cristov demanded petulantly. “I found the firestone—we’ve got to mine it.”

“I know,” Sonia replied, smiling. “Everyone’s talking about it. Alarra was furious that you’d found it before she could get back out again.”

“I still am,” Alarra snarled from a bed just out of Cristov’s sight in another alcove of the infirmary.

“You’ll be on your feet soon enough,” Sonia assured her. “And, if you’re good, we’ll give you crutches in another sevenday.” Cristov looked startled, so Sonia explained, “We had to take her crutches away because she was doing too much on her feet.” She shook her head wonderingly. “What is it about you miners? It’s not as though you don’t have time.”

“But we don’t,” Cristov protested, his words cutting across a similar protest from Alarra. “A Weyr needs forty tonnes of firestone a week when fighting Thread.”

Sonia shrugged.

“This new firestone isn’t as dangerous as the old firestone,” Cristov continued in response. “We could mine it now and build a stockpile.”

“And have it ready before Threadfall?” Sonia asked.

“Maybe even have some in reserve,” Alarra called.

“But we need to start now,” Cristov groaned, leaning back in his bed.

“I think you’re going to be a worse patient than you were the last time,” Sonia muttered ruefully.

As the days passed, Sonia discovered that her prediction was more than accurate. S’son, her father and the Weyr’s Healer, would steel himself every day to enter the infirmary and deal with the two impatient miners.

“You can go tomorrow,” S’son told Cristov the evening of his third day at the Weyr, “provided you agree to do no work.”

“What’s the point then?” Cristov demanded.

“You can supervise,” Sonia told him.

“There’s no one to supervise,” Cristov snapped.

Sonia merely smiled and rose from her place beside him. “In that case, you can wait until you’re healed,” she said. As she stood in the doorway, she called over her shoulder, “What should I say to D’vin?”

Cristov schooled the sour look from his face. “Please tell him that I’d like to go back at first light.”

“Are you sure?” Sonia asked. “There’s a Hatching soon. You don’t want to miss that.”

“What’s the use of a dragon if it can’t flame?” Cristov demanded, shaking his head irritably. “I’ll do my duty and mine firestone.”

Sonia turned back to face Cristov, eyeing him cryptically and saying, “There are other ways to serve Pern, you know.”

Cristov grimaced. “This is the one I know.” He remembered his father’s sour comment from Turns back. “It’s what I’m fit for.”

The look Sonia gave him was pitying. “If you say so.”

“There’ve been some changes since you were last here,” D’vin warned as they descended through the morning mist.

Cristov couldn’t imagine that Pellar and Halla could have done all that much in the four days he’d been gone, however hardworking and dedicated the two seemed to be.

The mist thickened into fog as they settled into the valley. Cristov was surprised that Hurth could find the ground, let alone a safe place to land, but the dragon landed without even a bump.

“I can’t stay,” D’vin apologized. “We’ve more eggs on the Hatching Grounds than candidates, so I’m still on Search.”

“Good luck,” Cristov said. D’vin gave him an odd look and started to say something, but shook his head and said instead, “Good luck to you, as well.”

Cristov was alone in the foggy valley, the sun a dim dot just above the horizon. He stopped to catch his bearings, then started in surprise as he heard noises in the distance. The creak of a loaded cart on rails, the distant sound of bellows, the even fainter but unmistakable noise of picks against rock—the whole valley was filled with the noise of work.

“Cristov?” a voice called from the fog. A small figure resolved from the shadows. It was Halla. She smiled when she saw him. “Pellar says you’re not to work,” she warned him. “But we need you—”

“I’m sure I can do something,” Cristov told her.

“Not to work,” Halla said, shaking her head. “We need your advice.”

Cristov cocked his head in inquiry. Halla sighed and grabbed his hand, dragging him after her and saying over her shoulder, “It’s best if we show you. Come on up to the mines.”

“Mine,” Cristov corrected. “Unless you’ve got more than one, it’s just a mine.”

“Mines,” Halla replied testily. “And we’ve got three.”

Cristov was dumbstruck. “Three? Why did you start three?”

“Well, it seemed pointless not to put everyone to work,” Halla told him.

“Everyone?” Cristov repeated blankly. He squinted, trying to see through the fog. He could see Halla clearly now and make out the color of her clothes. They were new and looked freshly washed. He wondered how she’d found the time to wash her clothes. Everyone? “How many people are here?”

“I don’t know,” Halla said. “Ask Pellar. I think he’s trying to keep count.”

“Trying?”

“Well, the numbers keep changing,” Halla explained. “I think another wagon came in during the night. And we’ve got some farmers further up the valley. They’re really thrilled with the soil—they say it’ll be great for crops.”

“Crops?” Cristov repeated dully. Farmers?

“Pellar!” Halla shouted. “Pellar, Cristov’s here!” She turned back to Cristov. “Mind your head.”

Cristov caught a glimpse of a dark space in front of him and instinctively ducked. They were in a mine.

“Watch out for the rails,” Halla cautioned. “There should be some glows here,” she muttered. “I’ll have to talk to Spennal.” She raised her voice again to shout, “Spennal! Spennal, where are the glows, you dimwit?”

A glow approached them, illuminating an older man.

“Sorry, Halla, I was just down with Pellar,” the old man, Spennal, said. “I’ll get more glows now,” he said, handing her his glow basket.

“It’s all right, just bring us to Pellar,” Halla said.

“Certainly,” Spennal replied. He glanced at Cristov and his eyes widened. “Is this him?”

“This is Cristov,” Halla said. She turned to Cristov and whispered, “Everyone’s excited that you’re here.”

“Why?” Cristov whispered back.

Halla’s response was a bit embarrassed. “Well, Pellar and I might have bragged about you a bit,” she confessed. “But you’re the one who found firestone that doesn’t burn.”

“So?”

“You saved them,” Halla explained, still in a whisper. “When word got out, they came from all over.”

“Miners?”

“No,” Halla said, “the Shunned.” She took in Cristov’s stunned expression. “They can work here without shame and without fear. This is their hold.”

“Their hold?” Cristov repeated in surprise. A hold for the Shunned—how was that possible?

“If they work,” Halla said. “If they don’t, they can leave. We feed their children, but if the adults don’t work, they don’t eat and they don’t stay.”

“Three mines?” Cristov said, repeating Halla’s earlier statement.

“Yes,” Halla replied, looking at Cristov as though wondering if he were all right. She glanced ahead. “Here’s Pellar.”

The mute harper waved and smiled at Cristov, beckoning him forward to look at a drawing he’d made on a huge slate.

“What is it?” Cristov asked, splitting his question between Pellar and Halla.

“It’s a map of the mines,” Halla explained. Somehow Pellar had found several colors. She pointed out the various sections. “Red is where we’ve found the greatest concentrations; white is where we’re planning on going. Pellar wants to know if you have any suggestions.”

Cristov bent over the map, wishing the light were brighter. Halla must have sensed it, for she lifted her glows higher and closer to the map. He peered at the map for a long while, confessing, “I’ve never seen anything like it before.” He glanced up at Pellar, who looked nervous until Cristov told him, “It’s perfect.”

He pointed to several areas, particularly the red spots. “It looks like there’s a vein running through the mountains and all three mines pierce it,” he said after a moment. He frowned over Pellar’s white lines and looked around for something to write with. Pellar handed him some white chalk and a bit of cloth for an eraser. Cristov declined the use of the eraser. “I don’t want to change anything just yet,” he said, drawing a number of dotted lines. “I’m thinking,” he explained as he drew, “that perhaps the vein runs north-south through the mountains. If that’s so, you could mine here and here to meet the center mine.”

“Pellar was afraid of cave-ins,” Halla said.

Cristov glanced up and inspected the beams and woodwork over them. “Not if your people keep shoring the roof up like that,” he said, grinning. He said to Pellar, “You’re right to be worried about the sandstone—it’s very soft and not good at holding weight. Shore up everything and you’ll do fine.” He looked around. “Just how big is the vein, anyway?”

Halla smiled. “It’s as big as this shaft. We’re getting over a tonne a shift from each mine.”

Cristov whistled in surprise.

“You said we need forty tonnes every sevenday for one Weyr,” Halla said, looking grim. “We can only get about twenty-one tonnes right now.”

“But now we know what to look for,” Cristov replied. “We can find more mines, maybe one for each Weyr.”

A disturbance from the mine entrance distracted them. Spennal called out, “D’vin is here.”

“What does he want?” Halla asked in wonder. Pellar shrugged, carefully took the large slate now marked with Cristov’s dotted suggestions, and hung it back up on the wall before gesturing that the others should precede him.

“Some of the Shunned were telling me that holder children don’t start working until they’ve twelve Turns or more,” Halla remarked as they walked toward the shaft entrance.

“That’s silly,” Cristov said. “What would they do with all their free time?”

“I don’t know,” Halla said. “The youngsters here all work.” She gestured toward the camp outside. “They want to learn a craft before they marry and, by twelve, they’re already courting.”

Pellar handed Halla a slate he’d been writing on and she read, “Harpers don’t marry until they’re older.” She glanced back at Pellar. “What’s older?”

“Sixteen?” Cristov guessed, glancing to Pellar for confirmation. Pellar made a “go higher” gesture with his free hand. “Eighteen?” When Pellar nodded, Cristov exclaimed in surprise, “Miners are lucky to live thirty Turns. We usually mate much earlier.”

They came to the mine’s entrance and squinted: The sun had broken through and was bathing the valley in bright morning sunlight. A gentle breeze had moved the last of the morning’s mist away, wafting fragrant smells through the valley.

Cristov grunted in surprise at the vista exposed before him. There were tents, wagons, and some small houses sprouting up all over the valley. Three paved roads led up to the hills, one running right up to this mine, the other two to the other mine entrances.

“All this in four days?” he asked in amazement.

“They were hungry,” Halla said. At Cristov’s look, she explained, “They had to work to get fed. And Moran brought in a whole group when he came in two days ago.”

“Halla, there’s another wagon coming in,” a woman called up to them.

“You know what to do, Lorra,” Halla called back. “See what they can do, find out why they’re here, and what they’ll do. Make sure that Harper Moran knows about them, too.”

“Where should I put them?” Lorra called back.

“Find out what’s up and then decide,” Halla called back, glancing at Pellar for confirmation. Pellar smiled and nodded at her decision.

Cristov looked at Halla with renewed interest. It seemed that everyone in the camp looked to her for guidance. He guessed that some of that was due to her nature, some of it due to her position as Pellar’s “voice,” but he couldn’t quite imagine what else would be required to get adults to accept directions from a girl who was just coming into womanhood.

“It wouldn’t have worked out this way if it hadn’t been for Pellar’s ability to talk with dragons,” Halla explained. Cristov’s confusion must have been evident for she explained, “Even the Shunned are wary of the dragons. Having a wing show up whenever Pellar needed it was enough to convince even the hardest heads to listen to reason. And Harper Moran sent them all here.” She made a face and then grinned. “We keep an eye on his drink, and he teaches the little ones their Ballads—respect for dragonriders and dragonkind.”

The reference to dragons reminded Cristov that they had left the mine to see D’vin. He scanned the valley below and picked out the bronze dragon easily. D’vin was much closer to them, moving purposefully.

A group of miners noticed the dragonrider and then noticed Cristov, Pellar, and Halla. The miners paused on their way to the mines, curiously, some pointing at Cristov, others at D’vin.

“Pellar,” D’vin called when he was close enough to be heard. “There’s a Hatching.”

“A Hatching?” Halla cried delightedly. “Pellar, did you arrange for us to—” The look on his face cut her off. “What’s wrong?”

“Not going,” Pellar wrote quickly, holding it up to her and then to D’vin as he joined the group.

“You can talk to dragons,” D’vin said. “We’re short just one candidate.”

Pellar shook his head again and pointed firmly to the ground.

“But if there’s not enough candidates for the hatchlings,” D’vin said, his voice full of despair, “then—”

“What will happen?” Cristov asked. Halla glanced between them, her face betraying a wide range of emotions. Pellar gave Halla a horrified look, and she knew.

“The hatchling will die,” she said.

“It will go between forever,” D’vin confirmed.

Pellar frowned, torn. D’vin caught the way he looked around: at the valley, at Halla, at the mines, at Halla, at Cristov, at Halla, and finally at some distant vision only he could see. When he caught D’vin’s eyes again, the wingleader knew Pellar’s decision. For whatever reasons, and Halla was bound at the center of them, Pellar felt obligated to stay.

“Who else could go?” Halla asked D’vin, flicking her eyes toward Cristov.

Cristov caught the look and held up his hands, protesting, “Not me, I don’t deserve the honor.”

“Why don’t you let the hatchlings decide?” D’vin suggested.

“But there’s work to do here,” Cristov protested.

“We’ll do it,” Halla assured him, jerking her head toward Pellar, who nodded emphatically in agreement. “You’ve shown us how.”

“But—”

“Go on,” Halla said, jerking her head toward the dragon in the distance.

Cristov’s eyes widened. He looked longingly toward the dragon and then back to Halla.

“Are you afraid, then?” she taunted. She grabbed him and turned him toward the dragon. “There’s your future. Go on, Impress! Impress a bronze for us all and show them at High Reaches. Show them what to expect from Fire Hold.”

She gave him one final push and turned away, walking back to the waiting crowd of miners.

Head held high, Cristov walked to his future.