Dragon Harper

CHAPTER 16

A dry, warm wind—warm even in winter—blew across the top of the abandoned Weyr. Drought had ruined Igen Hold and deprived Igen Weyr of tithe. Disaster had finished the Weyr off. The dragonriders were all gone now, having moved north to merge with Telgar Weyr. Once proud and bold, the Igen riders had instilled their values into the hardy Telgar folk, and an Igen rider was now Telgar’s Weyrleader.

But the old Weyr remained, colored slightly by wind-borne dust from the desert, deserted but not forgotten, a relic of better days, glories of past Turns.

A bronze dragon burst from between over Igen’s mighty Star Stones. Shortly thereafter a blue dragon with two riders appeared a short way off. The dragons landed long enough to disembark their passengers, then found perches in the high warm walls of Igen Bowl.

The riders arranged themselves so that the bronze rider was upwind of the blue rider and his passenger, so that the steady winds of Igen kept any possible infection from the bronze rider.

Those same winds made it difficult to talk, so that the down-wind portion of the conversation was conducted at just below a yell.

“Kindan, it’s good to see you,” M’tal began, grinning broadly at the young harper. The lad looked much aged, but M’tal was not surprised; the plague had made old men out of boys well before their time.

“And you,” Kindan called back.

“You wanted to speak with me,” M’tal said.

“With all the Weyrleaders, actually,” Kindan replied. “But I’ll settle for you at first.”

M’tal could not bear to tell the youngster that none of the other Weyrleaders had agreed to this meeting.

“How are things at Fort?”

“Better,” Kindan called back. “But not for long.”

M’tal took the news gravely.

“Bemin figures that two thousand died, and another two thousand or more will starve unless help comes.”

“What sort of help?” M’tal asked. “We can only keep the fruit supplies going for another day or two at the best.”

“Help setting the Holds back up,” Kindan told him. “Bemin says that normally three thousand are needed to keep the Hold going.”

“Three thousand?” M’tal repeated in surprise. The Weyrs operated with far fewer people than that. Then again, he reflected, the population of Benden Weyr was much smaller than ten thousand.

“They don’t have dragons to help,” Kindan called back.

The lad had a point, M’tal admitted to himself. “What are you proposing?”

“Station a wing of dragons at every major Hold, get them to help the Holds get going again,” Kindan replied.

“But the plague!”

“I think it’s over,” Kindan said. “If not, it doesn’t last more than three weeks. Keep the wings in the Holds for three weeks after the last infection and they should be safe returning to the Weyr. There won’t be any infection to bring.”

“But a wing is only thirty dragons and riders at best,” M’tal replied. “What can they do?”

“They’re healthy,” Kindan said. “They can help haul coal, set up carts, round up livestock, transport holders quickly from one place to the other.”

“And if one wing’s not enough, Weyrleader, then we could send two,” J’trel chimed in. “I’m proof that dragonriders can survive this illness.”

“Weyrleader C’rion said you’re too stubborn to die,” M’tal answered, grinning to take the sting out of his comments.

“I’ve got people to live for,” J’trel said diffidently. “Some of them are holders.”

“We all live for holders and crafters, I believe,” M’tal commented drolly. He leaned back and closed his eyes in thought. When he opened them again, he nodded firmly toward Kindan. “Very well, I’ll take your suggestion back to the Weyrleaders.”

“And you?”

“I’ve already ordered Gaminth to dispatch wings to Bitra, Lemos, Benden, and all the holds minor,” M’tal said. He wagged a finger at Kindan. “For all Pern, you’d better be right.”

Kindan nodded, feeling a huge weight in his stomach.

“We’ll know in three weeks,” J’trel said. Of M’tal, he asked, “Do you think B’ralar will send help?”

“Yes, he will,” M’tal said. “It may be the worst mistake we ever make, and the last, but it has torn us apart to sit idly by while the rest of Pern dies.”

“Then we must get back,” Kindan said. “Bemin will have preparations to make.”

“Did you tell him?” M’tal asked in surprise.

“No, he doesn’t even know I’ve gone,” Kindan replied.

***

Bemin might not have known that Kindan had gone, but he certainly was aware when Kindan returned.

“Where were you?” the Lord Holder shouted when he spotted Kindan entering the Great Hall. “We’ve looked everywhere!”

“Is there a problem?” Kindan asked, looking around the Great Hall nervously. Could he have been wrong, could the plague still be infectious?

“No, but Merila woke up and went looking for you and when we couldn’t find you, I—” Bemin broke off, his hands clenched into fists at his side.

“I went looking for more fruit,” Kindan said, touched by the unspoken depth of Bemin’s affection.

“Fruit?” Bemin repeated in surprise. “There’s enough of that, it’s men we need.”

J’trel, who had been watching the exchange with growing amusement from the sidelines, murmured, “He got them, too. A right proper harper, he is.”

Kindan looked questioningly at him.

“Can’t help but speak in riddles,” J’trel explained. He turned as, suddenly, outside there were excited cries.

“What’s happening?” Bemin asked, rushing toward the doors.

“More fruit,” J’trel said, grinning. He and Kindan reached the courtyard just as the first wing of dragons landed.

“J’lantir!” J’trel called excitedly to the bronze rider in the front. “What are you doing here?”

“Keeping an eye on you,” the bronze rider growled. J’trel had the sense to look abashed. J’lantir turned to Bemin and bowed. “My Lord Holder, I present greetings from the Weyrleaders of Ista, Benden, and Fort Weyrs.”

“Three?” Kindan said in surprise.

“There was some discussion about the Harper Hall deserving all four,” J’lantir said lightly, “but we felt that D’vin would best serve as reserve.” He turned back to Bemin. “At your harper’s request”—and he nodded at Kindan, who looked thoroughly nonplussed—“we are pleased to provide you with the better part of three wings of dragons to aid you and the harpers in their recovery.” He bowed low. “What do you desire?”

Bemin turned to Kindan, lunged, and grabbed him in a great bear hug.

***

“It’s over now,” Kindan said finally, staring hollow-eyed at the dragonriders. It had been nearly a month since the dragons had landed outside Fort Hold’s Great Hall. There had been no new case of the fever in a fortnight.

The days that followed had been no less wearying than the days of the plague, particularly when Kindan succeeded in convincing Bemin and J’lantir that it was time to reinhabit the Harper Hall. J’trel and J’lantir had gone there alone the first day and after that had refused to let any of the harpers near the Hall until they had completed all their work, clearing and cleaning up the Harper Hall.

Three large mounds outside the Healer Hall were covered with fresh earth, waiting for spring to cover them with green.

Kindan had been overjoyed to discover that Selora was among the survivors of the Harper Hall. In fact, apart from the younger apprentices, Selora was the only survivor of the Harper Hall—all the journeymen, Masters, and older apprentices had succumbed to the plague. Kindan couldn’t imagine how the Harper Hall would ever recover.

“There are harpers and healers in the holds,” Selora had assured him. “Some of them will come back.”

***

J’lantir’s pronouncement that the Harper Hall was once again fit for habitation was met by a combination of jubilation and sorrow.

Kelsa, Nonala, and Verilan were anxious to return to their quarters. Selora had gone ahead, accompanied by Neesa—who’d overridden Bemin’s worried protests with a simple, “Oh, Yanira will handle it all, you’ll see!”—to prepare a welcoming feast.

Kindan was surprised when, just outside the Harper Hall’s archway, a large bronze dragon appeared overhead and settled quickly onto the landing field. When he saw M’tal jump down, his face lit with joy.

“I wanted to be here when you returned to your Hall,” M’tal told him. “Salina wanted to come as well, but we decided not to risk that.”

“The danger’s past,” Kindan assured him.

“Not that,” M’tal replied with a grin. “The danger of leaving a whole Weyr unsupervised.”

Selora and Neesa had laid on a great feast in the Harper Hall’s dining room. Bemin was there, as were Jelir and many of the other Fort Holders, and the dragonriders.

Even so, the great dining room was only partly filled with everyone sitting at the apprentice tables. The Masters’ table and the journeymen’s tables remained empty, and Kindan realized that the Harper Hall would never seem the same to him again, that it had gotten smaller and yet somehow less intimate than before.

He looked at Benden’s Weyrleader. “Could you send for Master Zist? He’ll be needed here.”

M’tal gave him a worried look. “Kindan,” he began, but the harper stopped him with an upraised hand.

“I sent Valla this morning,” Kindan assured him. “Master Zist is alive. As the senior Master, he becomes the next Masterharper.”

“Of course,” M’tal agreed. “I’ll have him here tomorrow.”

Kindan wanted to protest, but contained himself.

“The dragons are tired,” M’tal explained. “And so are the riders.”

Kindan smiled wanly. “It seems I heard you say those words not so long ago, at High Reaches Weyr.”

When at last the feast was over, Kindan, Kelsa, Nonala, and Verilan made their way back to the apprentice dormitory and their old beds.

“So what are we going to do?” Kelsa asked as she turned over the last glow and darkness filled the room.

“I think we should get up early,” Kindan replied.

“Why?”

“M’tal will bring Master Zist tomorrow,” Kindan told them.

“Master Zist?” Verilan repeated in dread tones. “I’ve heard stories about him.”

“All true,” Kindan replied, smiling in the dark.

Sleep came slowly to him; he was unused to the dormitory and also the night noises of the Harper Hall after so long in the Great Hall of Fort Hold. When it did come, he dreamt that Koriana was lying beside him.

When he awoke the next morning, he realized that the lump he’d felt lying by him was Valla, who chirped and chattered cheerfully to him as he got up and headed into the showers.

“You can start on clearing up the Archive Room,” Selora told them as they finished breakfast. She spread her gaze to include the rest of the apprentices. “All of you.”

“You take charge, Verilan,” Kindan said as they entered the large hall that was the Archive Room.

“No one ever sorted through all the damp stuff,” Verilan sniffed. “I think the dragonriders must have thrown it all out,” he added mournfully. Idly he picked up a Record that had fallen to the floor and reverently set it on one of the reading tables. He glanced at Kindan, as if looking for instruction. Kindan shrugged and looked back at him expectantly.

“Right,” Verilan said, hitching up his shoulders and pointing to a group of the youngest apprentices. “Pick up every Record on the floor and pile it here.” He pointed to another group. “You lot start checking the stacks nearest where the fire was. I want you to look for fire damage and water damage first. Bring any damaged Records over to that table, there. Sort through the rest of the Records and rearrange them into chronological order.”

When the apprentices started discovering damaged Records, Verilan made a third group of trustworthy scribes and set them to work transcribing the damaged Records onto new paper. Kindan noticed that Verilan sent a younger apprentice to retrieve the supplies from Master Resler’s old quarters; Kindan couldn’t blame him for not wanting to go there himself, he knew that Verilan thought highly of the late Master.

The apprentices threw themselves into the task with relish and were all thoroughly absorbed as midday approached. Kindan was so engrossed himself that at first he didn’t notice the sound of a drum.

“Kindan,” Kelsa whispered urgently, “the drums.”

Report, the message said.

“That’s Zist,” Kindan told her excitedly.

“But he just said ‘report,’” Nonala complained. “He didn’t say who.”

“You’d better get going,” Verilan said to Kindan, looking up from his table. “It’s never good to keep a Master waiting.”

***

Verilan was right; Zist was tapping his thigh irritably as Kindan entered the Masterharper’s quarters.

“It took you long enough,” Zist grumbled irritably, gesturing for Kindan to take a seat. “Where’s your report?”

“Master?”

“I knew Murenny better than that,” Zist growled, “he’d expect a full report by now.” He jerked a thumb toward his workdesk. “There’s materials there, get started. And don’t leave out any details.”

Kindan was surprised at Zist’s gruff manner; he’d expected at least a polite hello before being set to writing.

“Mind you that it’s legible,” Zist warned, fingering the drum that he’d laid on the breakfast table beside him.

That was the last word the Master said for the next several hours as Kindan wrote first a rough draft and then a proper copy. Somewhere along the way—he couldn’t quite remember when—Kindan found tears starting in his eyes. He tried blinking them away, but they persisted. He paused for a moment, not wanting to mar his Record. He looked back at the Record; he had just been writing about Vaxoram.

A hand reached over him and grabbed the page from the table.

“You’re done with this one, aren’t you?” Zist asked in a soft, kind voice. Kindan nodded, he hadn’t realized that Master Zist had been reading the pages as soon as he finished them.

He was surprised a moment later when behind him Master Zist snorted and exclaimed, “You’ve a long ways to go before you’re a Master, what do you mean making Vaxoram a journeyman?”

Kindan turned to respond hotly, “Vaxoram earned the right. For all I knew, I was the last harper on Pern.” His voice cooled as tears filled his eyes once more. “It was all he wanted.”

“‘Want’ is not all that makes a journeyman,” Zist replied acerbically. In a softer tone, he added, “But Journeyman Vaxoram had earned the right.” He gave Kindan a firm nod. “And so the Records will show.”

Kindan gave him a grateful look. Zist sighed, then picked up his drum.

Songmaster report, he rapped out. With a smile to Kindan, he asked, “Who do you think will come?”

“Kelsa,” Kindan replied instantly. “If she doesn’t die of fright.”

“Is she good?”

“She’s the best,” Kindan told him fervently.

“Are you speaking as a friend or a harper?” Zist asked him, his bushy white eyebrows low over his eyes in a frown.

“First as a harper, second as a friend,” Kindan told him honestly.

“Well, we’ll see,” Zist said as they heard footsteps coming up the stairway. He raised a finger to his lips and motioned with his other hand that Kindan should get back to work. “Listen carefully, and see what you can learn.”

When the knock came on the door, Zist drawled out a long, deep “Yes?”

“You sent for me?” Kelsa replied through the door.

“I sent for the Songmaster,” Zist replied. “But you may come in.”

Kelsa opened the door and peered around hesitantly.

“Come in,” Zist ordered, his finger pointing to a spot right in front of him. Kelsa walked nervously to the indicated spot and stood, her fingers moving anxiously at her side. “And you are?”

“Kelsa, Master,” she replied with a squeaky voice.

Zist cast an amused glance toward Kindan, but as he was busy writing his Records and had his back to the proceedings, he didn’t see it. Valla, who had entered the room when Kindan had started crying and had found a perch on a bookshelf overlooking the worktable, saw the Master’s look and chirped amusedly at Kindan.

“I sent for the Songmaster,” Zist said. “Why did you come?”

“The Master is dead,” Kelsa told him. “I thought I could help.”

“You did, did you?” Zist asked. He gave her a thoughtful look. “I need a song.”

“Master?”

“I need a song about the events of the plague,” Zist told her. “I need a song that is uplifting but honest, a song that tells everyone why the Weyrs stood aloof and how they came to help when they could.

“Can you write that song?”

“I can try,” Kelsa temporized.

“I did not ask if you could ‘try,’” Zist responded harshly. “This song will be sung by all the harpers on Pern. I need it by this evening.” He held up the pages of Kindan’s Records. “You can use these,” he said, handing her the papers. “Can you do it?”

Kelsa glanced at Kindan’s back, straightened her own, and declared with chin held high, “Yes, Master, I can.”

“Good,” Zist said approvingly. He gestured toward the sleeping quarters. “You’ll find instruments and a writing table in there. Get started now. I’ll bring you more Records as he”—he nodded toward Kindan—“finishes them.”

Zist waited until he could hear Kelsa’s tuning in the room next door, then stood up and went over to the desk where Kindan was working.

“Be quick,” Zist urged him, taking another completed Record from the table and sitting back down at his table to read it. A moment later he walked it through to Kelsa. Kindan could hear them conferring indistinctly and then Zist said clearly at the doorway, “Yes, yes, that’s a good choice. Keep working.”

Zist returned to his desk and sat for a while in thoughtful silence. When he moved again, it was to pick up the drum.

Voicemaster, report.

“Who will that be?” he asked.

“Nonala,” Kindan replied at once. “She’s the best.”

“Did she work with you?”

“Not as much as I’d like,” Kindan answered honestly. “My voice has been a mess since it cracked.”

“Good,” Zist replied. “If you’d told me that she had worked with you, I would have sent her packing.”

Despite himself, Kindan smiled at the Master’s remark.

“Your fire-lizard is still young, is he up to taking a message?” Zist asked from behind him. Kindan glanced up at Valla, then turned to face Master Zist.

“Sometimes,” he replied. “He learns quicker than most.”

“Well,” Zist said, “hard times speed things up.” His glance remained on Kindan for a moment longer, unfathomable. “Can you have him take a message to Jofri? I want him to come here as my second and handle defense, dance, and civics.”

“He’d be good at that,” Kindan said, gesturing for Valla to hop down to him.

“I don’t recall asking for an apprentice’s opinion,” Zist said severely.

“Sorry, Master,” Kindan replied, extending a hand for the Master’s note. “Where is Master Jofri now?”

“Fort Weyr,” Zist replied. In a softer voice he added, “At least he was safe.”

“How was it in the mines?” Kindan said, asking the question he’d been dreading for a while.

Zist sighed. “It was bad, but not as bad as here,” he said. “Dalor is in charge now.”

“Dalor?” Kindan repeated in surprise.

“Master Natalon and his wife did not survive,” Zist responded. “Nuella and Zenor are all right, although it was touch and go with her, as is Renna—she’s acting as healer for the moment. While this plague affected people of all ages, all the miners between seventeen and twenty-one succumbed, much the same as here.” He turned his head toward the stairway as they heard footsteps. “Let’s see who showed up,” he said to Kindan as someone knocked on the door.

It was Nonala. She entered without permission and stood close to Zist. “You sent for me?”

“Are you the Voicemaster?”

“I’m the best in the Hall,” Nonala replied firmly.

“Good,” Zist said approvingly. He nodded his head toward the sleeping quarters. “Young Kelsa is composing a song in there. I want it sung tonight at the evening meal.”

Nonala’s eyes widened for just an instant. Then she glanced at Kindan’s back and nodded firmly. “I’ll need my own choice of singers.”

“Everyone except him and her,” Zist replied, pointing at Kindan and the doorway to the other room.

“He’s not very good,” Nonala told Zist frankly.

“His voice just cracked,” Zist replied, much to Kindan’s surprise. He remembered Master Zist as a perfectionist, not given to taking second best.

“It was never all that good to start with,” Nonala responded.

“Passable at best.”

“Ah,” Zist said approvingly, “I see that you really are a Voice-master.”

Nonala stood a bit taller, elated.

“Very well,” Zist concluded, “wait here while Kelsa finishes the song, then get to work.”

“Finishes?” Nonala asked, showing her first signs of fear—to take a song, one written by Kelsa and not yet finished, to its first performance in less than a day was more than a bit daunting.

“Not up to the challenge?” Zist asked with a hint of a smile.

“Have you seen the stuff she writes?” Nonala demanded, suddenly all in motion. “It’s nearly impossible!”

“If it’s nearly impossible, then it’s clearly possible,” Zist told her, smiling. Nonala started to give him an angry reply, then snorted and smiled back. Zist waved toward a spare chair, but Nonala demurred. “I think I’ll go listen in, if I may.”

With a nod, Zist waved her off to the far room. He rose again silently, and retrieved another finished Record from Kindan.

“Last one,” Zist said enigmatically when he’d finished reading Kindan’s writing. He picked up the drum and rapped: Archivist, report.

“That’ll be Verilan,” Kindan predicted confidently. “He should have been made journeyman long ago, but he’s too young.”

“Age is not my concern,” Zist replied. “Experience and maturity are what counts.”

This time the steps came earlier, and were rushed; the knock on the door was perfunctory, and the door was thrown open before Zist could speak.

“Verilan reports,” the youngster said soberly. One hand was stained with ink, but he did not look at all abashed by it, rather treating it as part of his apparel. “The Archives will be restored by this evening.”

“Verilan, is it?” Zist asked, lazily pushing the drum out of his lap and back onto the table. “I sent for the Archivist.”

“I am the Archivist,” Verilan replied. “Master Resler is dead.”

“But you’re just an apprentice,” Zist said scornfully.

“I’m the Archivist,” Verilan persisted staunchly.

“Prove it,” Zist said. He turned to Kindan. “Aren’t you done yet?”

“Yes, Master,” Kindan said, printing out the last line of his Record. He turned with the page in his hand and passed it over to the Master.

“About time,” Zist murmured. He glanced at the Record and handed it over to Verilan. “Kelsa is in the other room writing a song using this Record,” he told him. “You are to make a copy and then have your scribes make copies for every hold, major and minor.

“When they are done with that,” Zist continued, “Kelsa will have a song for you to copy also. You must have both completed by dusk, ready to send.”

Verilan nodded curtly and marched into the other room. He was back a moment later, retrieving stylus, ink, and paper from the workdesk, unperturbed by Zist’s ominous gaze.

As Verilan retreated to the back room, Zist said to Kindan, “Go tell Selora that we will have a new song tonight.”

Kindan desperately wanted to stay with his friends, but he knew Zist too well to argue, so he nodded and left.

“Let me know when your fire-lizard returns!” Zist called at his retreating back.

***

“A new song, eh?” Selora said, her look inscrutable. “Hmm, well, we’ll need help in the kitchens, then, because new songs mean lots of food.” She threw an apron to Kindan. “You can get started with the dessert.”

Kindan suppressed a groan. Perhaps things were getting back to normal after all.

In fact, Selora was hard-pressed for help and feeding even thirty harpers meant a lot of cooking. Kindan was hot and sweaty by the time the soup was set to simmering, the shepherd’s pies were cooking in the oven, the bread was set to cooling, the fires were stoked, and the greens washed.

Selora consulted some internal clock that only cooks seemed to possess and told Kindan consideringly, “You’d best go change, Master Zist would have your hide if you came to dinner looking like that.”

Kindan was still wearing Koriana’s clothes and was reluctant to part with them. Besides, he wasn’t sure if he had any clean clothes left.

Seeing his concern, Selora told him, “Lord Bemin sent you down some clothes. I had someone lay them on your bunk.”

Kindan took the time to wash and brush his teeth before returning to his bunk. He was astonished to see not one but three sets of clothes on a hanger—all in harper’s blue. He eyed the finish critically; it appeared that the apprentice stripes were merely tacked on. Well, there was nothing for it, he could fix them later.

The fresh clean cloth felt good against his skin. There was just a hint of a special fragrance, the smell that Kindan would always associate with Koriana’s hair. He was just ready to leave when Verilan, Nonala, and Kelsa came rushing in.

“He sent us to change!” Kelsa wailed.

“You should gripe, we’ve only had one practice, and I’m going to have to sing soprano,” Nonala replied, heading toward the restroom.

“Hey, who put these clothes here?” Verilan complained as he approached his bunk. Kindan looked over and saw that Verilan, too, had a new set of harper’s blue.

“Maybe Lord Bemin,” Kindan said. “He sent some down for me.”

“For all of us,” Kelsa exclaimed, glancing appreciatively at the finery. “But they must have rushed, the sewing’s not all that good.”

When he returned to the kitchen, Selora sent him out peremptorily. “You’re to go to the Dining Hall!”

Kindan came up to the Dining Hall just as it was filling. Something was bothering him, but he couldn’t identify it. From the Masters’ table, Master Jofri waved at him and Kindan waved back, his face splitting into a grin.

Something…about the clothes. But before Kindan could figure it out, Verilan, Nonala, and Kelsa came rushing into the hall along with the rest of the apprentices. Kindan turned to Kelsa, mouth open, ready to ask a question when Master Zist entered the room, dressed in a fine new Masterharper’s outfit.

He was flanked, Kindan noted with surprise, by Lord Holder Bemin, Weyrleader B’ralar, and—best of all—M’tal. Behind them came Jelir, Neesa, Melira, Stennel, and Yanira, carrying baby Fiona. Behind them came the High Reaches Weyrleader, D’vin, and C’tov! In back of them was a last group—Dalor and Nuella, Kindan’s friends from his youth in the mines. They were dressed in their finest clothes and the twin brother and sister waved cheerfully at Kindan.

The dignitaries were seated at the journeymen’s table which surprised Kindan greatly, but not nearly as much as it did Verilan, who looked completely nonplussed.

“Do you know—” Verilan began in an excited whisper, only to be cut off by Master Zist’s resounding voice.

“We are honored tonight by hold, craft, and weyr,” Zist told the group.

“Something’s up,” Kelsa declared, glancing around the room suspiciously.

“I know,” Verilan agreed fervently.

“We have all been through many perils and much pain,” Zist continued. “Now that they are past, it is time to begin again.

“Tonight marks a new beginning for Pern,” he said. “And tonight we celebrate it.” He took a deep breath and turned to the apprentices. “You have survived great pain and loss, you have been called upon to meet the sternest of challenges, and you did not fail. Your childhood ended abruptly and far too early.” He nodded sorrowfully toward them, then paused for a moment.

“Songmaster Kelsa, please rise,” Zist said.

Kelsa rose to her feet, her face white.

At she did, Jofri rose beside Master Zist, and so did all the dignitaries at the journeymen’s table.

“You’re going to walk the tables, Kelsa!” Nonala declared in sudden comprehension.

“Apprentices, please rise and escort Kelsa to her new table,” Zist said, his voice no longer somber, his eyes twinkling.

“I don’t think I can move!” Kelsa moaned.

“Of course you can,” Kindan declared, pushing her with his hand.

Slowly, steadily, Kelsa walked around the apprentice table and over to the journeymen’s table, to be greeted enthusiastically by the Lord Holders, Crafters, and Weyrleaders.

“Congratulations, Journeyman Kelsa,” Zist said to her. The hall burst with the noise of clapping hands and stomping feet.

Zist waited until everyone was seated once more. “We’re not done yet,” he told the apprentices with a wink.

“Oh, no!” Nonala exclaimed.

“Voicemaster Nonala, please rise,” Zist said, smiling at her.

“Come on, Nonala,” Verilan urged.

“You earned it,” Kindan agreed fervently. Kelsa rushed back over to help and together the four walked the tables to deposit a shocked Nonala at the journeymen’s table.

“One more,” Zist said after the tumult died down. “And then we can eat.”

Kindan nodded toward Verilan.

“No, it’s you,” Verilan said, shaking his head. “After all you’ve done, it has to be you.”

“I was banished, remember?” Kindan told him. “I’m lucky to be here at all.”

“But—”

“Archivist Verilan, please rise,” Zist’s voice boomed out, dispelling any doubt.

Verilan sat, rebellious, until Kindan rose and grabbed him under the elbow.

“You’ve earned this,” Kindan told him forcefully. “By all rights you should be Master now.”

Reluctantly, Verilan stood. When Nonala and Kelsa came eagerly to him, he couldn’t help but smile back at them. He completed his circuit around the tables and sat at the journeymen’s table but he continued to look back at Kindan, his expression mirroring the injustice he felt.

The food came out and Kindan ate heartily, glad to realize that he and Selora had made such a great feast for such illustrious company. Still, he couldn’t help from time to time glancing wistfully toward his friends, wishing not so much that he were there with them as that he had their company.

The meal was finished and dessert served before Zist rose again.

“It is a rule of the Harper Hall that a person cannot be promoted until they’ve eaten one meal in their present rank,” Zist said. There was a gasp from all the apprentices and journeymen as these words registered amongst them.

Jofri rose beside Zist and they walked over to the journeymen’s table.

“Journeyman Verilan,” Jofri said soberly, “please rise.”

“Me?” Verilan squeaked. “No, it should be Kindan.”

“Get up, Verilan,” Kelsa commanded him. “Get up, or we’ll lift you.”

Reluctantly Verilan rose.

“Only once before has an apprentice been elevated to Master in the same day,” Zist told the gathering as he and Jofri escorted Verilan over to the Masters’ table. “And that was Master Murenny.

“But you are the youngest Master on record,” Zist said to Verilan. “As you might well know.”

Verilan could only nod mutely.

Kindan roared his approval along with the rest of the room. When the noise died down, Zist rose again, gesturing to Nonala.

“Journeyman Kelsa has written a song to mark the events of these past sad months and Journeyman Nonala has kindly agreed to sing it,” Zist said. He nodded to Verilan and addressed the Weyrleaders, Holders, and Crafters. “And Master Verilan will provide copies of the Records for your harpers as well as copies of this song.”

Nonala assembled her chorus and with a firm nod prepared them to sing.

“This is called ‘Kindan’s Song,’” Nonala said, her voice reverberating through the room.

Step by step

Moment by moment

We live through

Another day.

Fever consumes us

Death surrounds us

Still we succeed through

Another day.

Tears trickled down Kindan’s face as they did down all the faces in the Harper Hall and he recalled the faces of those who had died, countless, in the plague.

The song was over and there was a silence in the hall before Kindan realized that people were standing behind him. He felt arms on his, urging him upward.

M’tal and Bemin were at his side, lifting him.

“Rise, Kindan,” Zist’s voice boomed through the hall, filling every corner.

Step by step, moment by moment, Kindan walked the tables.