TITLE PAGE

DEDICATION

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

BOOK ONE

PELLAR

PROLOGUE

HARPER HALL, SECOND INTERVAL, AFTER LANDING (AL) 483.7

CHAPTER I

HARPER HALL, SECOND INTERVAL, AFTER LANDING (AL) 490.3

CHAPTER 2

CROM HOLD, ALL-WEYR GAMES, AL 492.4

CHAPTER 3

NEAR CAMP NATALON, AL 492.7–493.4

CHAPTER 4

CAMP NATALON, AL 493.4

CHAPTER 5

WHERHOLD, AL 493.10

CHAPTER 6

CAMP NATALON, AL 493.10–494.1

CHAPTER 7

ALEESA'S CAMP, AL 494.1

CHAPTER 8

CAMP NATALON, AL 494.1

BOOK TWO

DRAGON'S FIRE

CHAPTER I

CAMP NATALON, SECOND INTERVAL, AFTER LANDING (AL) 494.1

CHAPTER 2

CROM HOLD, ALL-WEYR GAMES, AL 495.4

CHAPTER 3

HIGH REACHES WEYR

CHAPTER 4

FIRESTONE MINE #9

CHAPTER 5

CROM HOLD

CHAPTER 6

FIRESTONE MINE #9

CHAPTER 7

CROM HOLD

CHAPTER 8

HIGH REACHES WEYR

CHAPTER 9

HIGH REACHES WEYR

CHAPTER 10

WHERHOLD

CHAPTER 11

HIGH REACHES WEYR, AL 495.8

EPILOGUE

FIRE HOLD, AL 498.8

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

ALSO BY ANNE McCAFFREY

COPYRIGHT PAGE

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

AT CAMP NATALON

Cristov, son of Tarik

Natalon, Masterminer

Tarik, Natalon's uncle, a miner
Kindan, son of Danil the wher-handler

AT THE HARPER HALL

Murenny, Masterharper

Zist, Masterharper

Cayla, Zist's wife

Pellar, adopted son of Zist and Cayla

AT CROM HOLD

Fenner, Lord Holder

CHILDREN OF THE SHUNNED

Halla, a young girl

Tenim, a young lad

AT HIGH REACHES WEYR

D'vin, wingleader, bronze Hurth

Sonia, daughter of the Weyr Healer

PROLOGUE

Dragon's heart,
Dragon's fire,
Rider true,
Fly higher.

HARPER HALL,
SECOND INTERVAL,
AFTER LANDING (AL) 483.7

W hy does he have to live in a cave?" Cayla muttered rebelliously as she and Zist waited impatiently outside.

"He was a dragonrider, perhaps it feels more homelike," Zist said soothingly.

"He's a healer, too, so why isn't he down with the other healers?" Cayla retorted. Zist knew she was just showing her nerves.

"He's the best one for the boy," he told her, answering her unvoiced question.

"Because he's half-mad?" Cayla asked, her voice seething with all the protectiveness of an adoptive mother. "And what's he going to find out? Pellar's barely turned three."

"Nothing, if you keep on like that," a voice responded tetchily from the cave. Cayla shut her mouth with a snap, cheeks turning bright red. Zist shot her a not-quite-consoling look. He was too wise to Cayla's ways to give her any look of superiority. Anyway, he knew full well that Cayla understood him well enough to know that he wasn't all that sure about consulting with the ex-dragonrider healer.

Cayla glared at Zist and resumed her quiet pacing outside the cave.

"Don't block the light," Mikal called again from the cave, causing Cayla to twitch once and stand still as stone.

Inside the cave, Mikal squatted on the hard floor opposite the child. He held up a piece of glass so that it caught the rays of the morning sun. The glass was three-sided and the light broke into a brilliant rainbow lighting the far side of the cave.

Pellar's eyes gleamed with amazement and his mouth made a big "O" of excitement, but no noise came from his throat.

Nodding to himself, Mikal smiled at Pellar, then drew a number of colored beads from his tunic pocket and spread them out in front of Pellar.

Pellar picked them up and noted their colors: red, orange, blue, green, yellow. He looked up at the rainbow and down at the beads again. In short order he arranged them to match the rainbow in front of him and clapped his hands together excitedly.

"Good," Mikal told him. He held up a finger with one hand and turned so that he could grab some supplies from a low cupboard. Pellar tried to peer around the man's body to see what he was doing.

When Mikal turned back, he noticed the boy's intent look and smiled at him. Mikal placed three small pots of paint down in between himself and Pellar. He raised his still-upright finger somewhat higher, arched his eyebrow, and made his finger dive into one of the open pots as if it were the head and neck of a flying creature. Pellar smiled and his eyes danced at the ex-dragonrider's antics. Mikal's finger zoomed up out of the pot with a small dab of yellow paint. Still holding his finger upright, Mikal nodded encouragingly to Pellar.

Pellar smiled and raised the same finger on his own hand. Mikal nodded again. Gleefully, Pellar thrust his finger into a different pot and zoomed it up again, his fingertip bright with thick red paint.

Silently, Mikal ran his finger over the ground, leaving a yellow snake on the white stone floor of the cave. Pellar imitated him, leaving a red snake on the floor. Mikal held up another finger and daubed up a bit of Pellar's red paint. Pellar gave him a hurt look but Mikal shook his head and held the red-daubed finger up for patience. With a grin, Mikal rubbed his red-tipped finger over part of his yellow snake, creating an orange blob. Pellar saw the color change and, with little encouragement from Mikal, picked up a trace of Mikal's yellow and rubbed it on his red snake to create a duplicate orange spot.

In short order, Mikal introduced blue paint from the third pot and showed the child how to make purple and green by combining blue with red and yellow.

"Can you draw me a picture of yourself?" Mikal asked. "Use any color."

Inspired, Pellar produced a multicolored self-portrait in the way of all those who had only three Turns on Pern, exactly the same way that those who were only three years old back on long-forgotten Earth would have done--complete with arms sticking out of heads. The mouth in the big round head was upturned and smiling.

"Great! Could you draw me, too?" Mikal asked.

Pellar happily complied.

"I see my mouth is pointing down," Mikal remarked of the finished drawing. "Are you saying I'm sad?"

Pellar nodded.

"Why is that?" Mikal asked. In response, Pellar combined all three colors onto one fingertip and drew a brown shape--a long, sinewy line crossed by another gull-shaped line.

"Zist, get in here!" Mikal called. Harper Zist raced inside, looking back and forth from Pellar to Mikal. "Did you tell him I was a dragonrider?"

"It may have come up," Zist admitted.

"Did you tell him the color of my dragon?" Mikal pointed to one drawing.

"No, I don't think so," Zist said, examining the drawing himself. "Come to think of it, I don't think I ever knew myself."

"Mmm," Mikal grunted. He looked at Pellar and pointed at the drawing. "Is that my dragon?"

Pellar nodded, eyes sad.

"How did you know what color to paint it?" Mikal asked.

Pellar raised a paint-covered finger and gently pointed at Mikal's eyes.

"I want the boy to train with me," Mikal told Zist. "Healing, painting, tracking, meditation--I'll teach him everything I know."

CHAPTER 7

Watch-wher, watch-wher in the night,

Keep us safe from fear or fright.

Watch-wher, watch-wher guard our Hold,

Keep us from those cruel or bold.

ALEESA'S CAMP,
AL 494.1

M oran woke up warm and disoriented. He was wrapped in blankets and he could smell a coal fire burning nearby. He could also smell the cold winter air billowing in from some distant entrance.

"He's awake," a young girl's voice declared. Halla.

"Wh-where's Tenim?" Moran asked, surprised at the weakness of his voice.

"Not far," a deeper voice replied. A face came into Moran's view. The face was hard-edged and looked bitterly upon him. "You've done us no favors, Harper."

Oddly, the last words weren't directed at Moran but at someone else. Moran swiveled his head around and regretted it as pain lanced through his joints. He guessed that he must have fallen hard. His head throbbed.

An amazingly painful sound clawed at his ears, the sound of chalk on slate. Moran winced more as he found the origin of the sound--was that Pellar?

"Your leg is broken and you have a nasty knock on your head," an old woman told him. "Pellar here set your leg and nursed you."

A face swam into view. The woman was old, much older than Moran.

"Why'd you come here?" she asked, eyeing him without favor.

Moran shook his head and again regretted the motion. "I was cold and saw the fire."

"Put out the fire, Jaythen," the woman ordered. The hard-faced man moved to obey. The woman turned to Pellar. "What are we going to do now?"

Pellar scrawled an answer on his slate. The woman read it and frowned thoughtfully. She looked back down at Moran.

"Do you know who I am?"

"No," Moran replied feebly, having learned not to shake his head.

"I'm Aleesa and you've stumbled on our hold."

Aleesa. The one who was selling watch-wher eggs. Moran tried to sit up. He could only imagine what Tenim would do if he found them.

A hand forced him back down.

"Pellar says to lie still," Halla told him. Another scraping noise and Halla turned to peer at Pellar's slate. "He says he's got a plan, but you'll have to agree to it."

"A plan?" Moran repeated. He licked his lips and continued, "Tenim wants a watch-wher egg--"

"They're all gone!" Aleesa declared with a derisive snort.

"But he doesn't know that," Halla said, rereading Pellar's plan. She looked up at the older boy and warned him, "If he catches you--"

Moran realized he was too sick to move. If Tenim arrived, he'd want his marks, if not more. He decided it was a good idea that Pellar not be dissuaded from his plan, so he cleared his throat and asked, "What do you want me to do?"

It all depended upon Chitter. Chitter and the falcon, Grief. Tenim's falcon had to spot Chitter, and Chitter had to lead Tenim to Pellar's trail. But not too soon, not until Halla had managed to disguise Pellar's original track and blend his trail in with Moran's.

Pellar set out as soon as he could finish constructing his bait. The pack was heavy and its straps tore into his shoulders as he trudged along in the cold winter countryside, heading north and west in a large loop around Keogh.

If Tenim found him anytime in the next three days, it was likely that the older lad would corner him before he could complete his plan. At least, Pellar thought ruefully, Tenim couldn't make him talk.

Pellar looked down at Moran's huge shoes as he trudged along in them and regretted that part of the plan, too. His feet were already raw and chafed and he'd only traveled for a day. But it was vital that Tenim think he was following Moran.

Pellar hoped that Halla would be all right. In some ways she reminded him of Cristov, both needing a better example in their lives.

Pellar allowed himself a fond smile as he thought of the little girl waving after him as they parted. She had insisted on leading the youngest of the wherhold's children back to the safety of Keogh despite both Moran's and Pellar's protests.

"I'll be fine," she assured them. "And with the fires out, they'll perish here."

She'd been right about that, Pellar realized, thinking of the small cold children all bundled up in the freezing caves of the wherhold. Moran had admitted reluctantly that Halla had a way with children, even those slightly older than herself, and that it would be best to get them out of the way of the harsh winter or any trouble that might come.

That part of Pellar's plan--leaving Moran behind as harper--had worked out better than he'd imagined. While neither Aleesa nor Jaythen were likely to ever look upon the older harper without distrust, it was obvious that they were willing to take advantage of his presence. After all, there were some things that were best explained without chalk and slate.

Pellar stumbled on an icy patch and caught himself, berating himself for his inattention. The snowy night wind howled around him and he started forward again, hoping to spot the lights of Keogh in the distance but not really expecting to see anything until late the next day at the earliest. He paused for a moment to glance at the mountains around him before setting on again, making a slight correction in his direction. He didn't need to get turned around in the middle of the night.

The next evening, just after he spotted Keogh to the south and west of him, Pellar allowed himself a broad grin.

It was time to start the next phase of his plan. Gratefully he built a small fire and laid some stones around it for heat. Satisfied that the fire was going well, Pellar unlimbered his pack; he rooted around in the special pocket he'd had added, pulled out his bait, and made sure that a little of the protecting sand scattered on to the ground around him before he placed the bait to warm by the stones.

Tenim swore long and slow to himself as he lost Moran's tracks for the third time in the past several days. It was obvious to him that the harper knew he was on his trail. Tenim's pack had grown lighter faster than he'd expected and his stomach was now emptier than his purse. He snorted to himself as he imagined Moran getting gaunter from all the exercise--the harper rarely put on such a hefty pace.

But if Moran was carrying so many marks, why didn't he simply buy his passage? The answer came to Tenim as quickly as the question--because neither he nor Moran were willing to risk that there wasn't someone else eager to take their hard-won marks. Just as Moran had decided he'd no further need of that useless Conni. Tenim snorted as he remembered her ranting and raving when he caught up with her at the tavern.

When he picked up the harper's trail again, he found signs that Moran had stopped at last. A fire--a day old. Some rocks gathered around. Something placed near the fire. What? Tenim wondered and peered closer. He sifted among the ashes. Sand? Why would the harper be carrying sand? And keeping it warm?

With a curse, Tenim sprang up and broke into a steady trot. Moran had found a fire-lizard egg or, better, a watch-wher egg.

One day. If he could catch up with Moran before Crom Hold, he'd have more than a fortune. He'd have a winter's worth of coal, or the same amount of marks.

Pellar was glad to see the great walls of Crom Hold rising up in the morning sun as he approached. So far his plan had worked--Chitter had spotted Tenim a full day behind. Now all he had to do was get to Camp Natalon and Master Zist. Faced with a camp full of miners and a harper with a complete set of drums at his command, Tenim would have to give up the chase.

He paid for some provisions and sped through the far side of Crom Hold, catching up with a trader caravan that was heading near Camp Natalon. He was surprised that the traders would risk the snowy passes in the dead of winter.

"It's good to see you again," Tarri said cheerfully.

"And you," Pellar wrote. "Although, I'm surprised you're venturing up to the camp at this time of year."

"Cromcoal's worth a lot," said Tarri, the young trader who'd agreed to his passage. "Master Zist worked out a good deal and we've got a well-paved road--unless some of it's washed out."

She eyed his pack warily but said nothing as Pellar climbed aboard.

"You ride up front," she said, crawling through the curtains to the back of her wagon. She threw him a thick blanket. "Use this against the cold."

Pellar nodded in thanks. Tarri kept an eye on him until she was certain that he had the workbeasts well in hand and then she went back through the curtains. A while later she emerged.

"It's only warm," she said, handing him a mug of klah. "We keep heated rocks in a pail so's we don't freeze entirely."

Pellar took the mug gratefully and drained it quickly. The residual warmth of the mug itself he used to heat his cold fingers before regretfully passing it back to Tarri.

The trader kept her eyes on him as they drove. To Pellar's relief, she took the reins in some of the more difficult passes.

When not driving the wagon, Pellar dozed off, glad enough of the thick blanket Tarri had loaned him.

Shortly after dusk the snow picked up and was soon falling so thickly that they couldn't see the road.

"We'll stop," Tarri told him, pointing to the large drays behind. "You and I are first watch."

Pellar nodded and got down from the wagon, walking back to the end of the short column of workdrays. Tarri's was the only sleeping wagon--everyone slept in shifts, and there were only three work drays in the caravan.

"Less to lose, better prices," Tarri had explained when Pellar had first joined up.

In two hours Pellar was relieved and trudged back to his place at the front of Tarri's wagon. He was freezing cold.

Tarri's head poked out from the curtains.

"Come on inside--it's too cold and we've another watch before we move out," she told him.

Gratefully, Pellar crawled inside. He was immediately warmer. With a few gestures he asked permission to spread his sleeping roll; at Tarri's nod, he removed his boots and socks and crawled in.

Tarri gave him an amazed look and snorted, "You'll freeze if you try to sleep like that. You need to get out of those clothes."

Pellar nodded and smiled back, carefully removing his clothes while modestly hidden in his sleeping roll. He pulled them out and laid them beside him.

Tarri laughed. "I'm not as deft as you, so I'd appreciate it if you looked the other way."

Pellar nodded and rolled over.

Moments later, Tarri crawled under her pile of blankets and called out, "You can turn over now."

She was answered by Pellar's soft snores.

Tenim spread his marks liberally to get information. Yes, there had been a suspicious lad with a large pack. No, no signs of a harper. The lad couldn't talk, that was odd, managed to get a ride with the traders heading up to Camp Natalon. Daft to head up the mountains in midwinter, no matter what the price of coal, even with the improvements that had been put in. Tenim had bought another round or two of drinks before disappearing into the night.

Egg or no, purse or no, this "lad" owed him. He'd taken Tenim in, convinced him for three days that he'd been following Moran and a sack of marks or, better, a watch-wher's egg. Now Tenim was sure that he wasn't following Moran, and he had his doubts about the egg, too.

So this "lad" had decided to play Tenim for a fool. Moran would have to know, would have been in on it, Tenim was certain. What was the harper to the lad that he'd go out of his way to protect him? Why would the lad risk his life for a broken-down man who claimed he was a harper but spent most of his time stealing?

Or was the lad protecting something else? Had Moran stumbled on something the lad felt he had to protect? Something to do with watch-whers?

Tenim had smiled coldly to himself as he strode out of Crom and up the mountain path to Camp Natalon.

He'd find out soon enough; he'd been close behind the traders all day and he knew they'd stopped for the night. The lad might not talk, but when Tenim was done with him, he'd wish he could--and he'd still tell Tenim all he wanted to know. And, after that, well, no one who made a fool of Tenim lived to tell it.

Dawn was coming. He stopped and removed his pack. It was heavy and cumbersome, but the extra weight was worth it. His sources had said the lad had a fire-lizard.

Tenim unlaced the special compartment, reached in with a well-gloved hand, and restrained the falcon resting inside. With the other hand he finished opening the compartment, exposing it to the cold morning air.

"Come on, my pet, I've got a job for you," he crooned as he settled Grief onto his hand.

Pellar woke the instant the hand touched his shoulder. He twisted his head quickly and looked up to see Tarri above him.

"Our watch," she said. "You get dressed and search for kindling. I'll keep watch here and ready some klah."

Pellar nodded and Tarri left the wagon. He dressed quickly, rolled up his bedroll and left the wagon, waving to Tarri.

The caravan had stopped at a bend in the road, crouching close to the mountainside. On the other side of the road the mountain fell away in a cliff. Pellar looked over and saw a stand of trees and a stream in the distance below. He shrugged to himself and started carefully down the cliffside to the only source of kindling.

Chitter joined him as he reached the plateau, chiding Pellar against the cold morning air. Pellar nodded and waved in companionable agreement--yes, it was cold and only fools would climb down cliffsides in search of kindling. He unshouldered his pack and put it down by a tree, looking around the clearing. Why, he wondered to himself, would Chitter have stirred from his warm spot in the wagon?

The thought made him go suddenly cold and still, his eyes moving over the terrain in front of him. Had something disturbed the fire-lizard?

There! Pellar spotted a movement in the trees high above him, moving very fast. It was a bird, diving. He formed a warning in his mind for Chitter and was just about to send it when the fire-lizard dove in front of him, screeching a warning of his own.

Chitter was too late. A hard fist landed behind Pellar's ear and he stumbled in pain. His last sight was of Chitter and claws and a beak--and then the air was filled with shrieking and green ichor. And then he was falling into the stream, cold water engulfing him.

CHAPTER 8

Wail at night, cry by day,
Never right, always fey.
Make the cairns with rocks piled high,
To mark the spot where loved ones lie.

CAMP NATALON,
AL 494.1

W hen he didn't show up, we sent out a search party, and we found this," Tarri said, holding up the mangled body of a fire-lizard for Master Zist's inspection.

"And this." A pack, torn and shredded. There was some sand and shards still inside it.

"I need you to take me there," Zist said.

"It's half a day away on foot," Tarri protested.

"Please," Zist begged, "I've got to see."

"We can take my wagon," Tarri said. "That will save us some time."

The day was cold and clear--the clouds that had brought snow the night before had dissipated. Tarri easily followed the trail the drays had left on their way up to Camp Natalon. When she reached the bend, she pulled the wagon to a halt.

"Right over there," she said, pointing across Zist to the cliff on their right. "Down the ravine."

Tarri showed Zist the way down. The site where they'd found the fire-lizard and Pellar's pack had been trampled down by the trader's boots as they searched.

"We think he fell in the water here," Tarri said, pointing to a depression on the bank of the fast-moving stream. "There's a fall just down there," she added sadly.

Zist grunted his acknowledgment, shading his eyes against the sun to peer farther into the distance. He sighed and turned back to the trampled site, particularly examining the ground where the snow was stained green by Chitter's ichor.

Zist remembered the brown fire-lizard's battered body. Some sharp object had cut through Chitter's neck just where it joined the shoulders. There were claw marks on his sides--some large bird, or a very small wherry. Zist guessed it was a bird, probably a falcon, because he'd never heard of a fire-lizard being so surprised by a wherry that it couldn't get between to safety.

There was a large patch of sand not far away and some shards. What had Pellar been carrying in his pack? And why had someone murdered him for it? Had the attack by the bird been an unhappy accident or part of a plan? Why had Pellar been on his way to Camp Natalon?

"We may never know," the harper said softly to himself.

"Pardon?"

Zist shook himself and rose from beside the ichor-stained snow, saying, "I'm sorry, I was talking to myself." He pointed up to the wagon. "I'm ready to go now."

But it seemed to Tarri as she watched the harper climb feebly up the ravine he had so vigorously descended only moments before that Master Zist was not at all ready to go--that, in fact, he left a large part of himself behind in that ravine.

They rode back toward Camp Natalon in silence and the setting of the sun.

After tens of Turns in his cave near the Harper Hall, Mikal had learned to cipher the drum codes. He always perked up when a message came in from Zist, wondering about Pellar and his fire-lizard.

But the message wasn't good. "Chitter dead?" Mikal whispered to himself as he deciphered the message. He closed his eyes from the pain of the ancient loss of his own dragon, now relived in the loss of the fire-lizard he had been afraid to meet.

The message continued and Mikal's face drained of all color. "Pellar?"

Wordlessly, sightlessly, he reached around for a flask of wine and remorselessly, hopelessly tried once again to blot his pain by getting drunk.

Tenim was in a foul mood as he entered the kitchen of Tarik's cothold. He had gone up to the mine, taking the long route around to the coal dump and then out of sight beyond the crest of the hill to come back around to the mine, only to discover from the miners' chatter that Tarik's shift had been relieved by Natalon. If he hadn't been on his guard he might have been caught.

The thrill of Grief's deadly strike on the fire-lizard--Tenim had never dreamed the attack would be so successful--had completely drained from him in the ensuing events: first, the boy's unexpected fall into the river and, second, the infuriating discovery that the boy's pack held only a fake egg made of clay. Tenim had been led on a wild wherry chase for no profit.

"What are you doing here?" Tarik asked as Tenim let himself in. The miner was sprawled in a chair, a bottle of wine on the table in front of him and a mug in his hand.

"I might ask you the same," Tenim said. "Let's just say that I'm here to see how we are doing on our investments.

"Only," he went on, gesturing toward the mine, "I discover that you've been relieved." He gave Tarik a sour look. "Something about skimping on the wood joists, I hear."

Tarik flushed angrily. "Natalon's a fool. He'd have us use three times as much wood as we need."

"So you decided to profit on your own initiative?" Tenim asked, glowering down at the miner. "And, instead, we stand to lose everything."

Tarik took an angry breath, caught the murderous look in Tenim's eyes, and let it out with a deep sigh.

"I thought you weren't going to be back until spring," Tarik said.

"My plans changed," Tenim replied, dragging up a chair opposite Tarik. The miner gestured to the bottle on the table, but Tenim shook his head irritably. "One of us needs to keep his head clear enough to think."

"Why bother?" Tarik said. "Natalon's as good as sacked me. I'll never find work after this." He shook his head dejectedly. "His own uncle, and he'd throw me out."

"You're no use to me if you're thrown out," Tenim said, eyeing Tarik thoughtfully. The older man was too much in his cups to recognize his peril.

"I should be the master here," Tarik grumbled, "not him. I've Turns more experience in the mine, helped train him, too."

Tenim's murderous look altered subtly as he listened to Tarik.

"Where's Natalon now?"

Tarik quirked an eyebrow at him, saying querulously, "In the mine, my shaft, shoring up the joists, of course."

Tenim rose from his seat in one fluid motion, like a bird rising to swoop on its prey.

"Stay here," he ordered Tarik. "Don't let anyone in the mine."

Tarik looked up at him in confusion. "I'm not in charge."

"Yet," Tenim replied curtly.

"Master Zist? Master Zist?" Cristov called at the door to the harper's cothold.

The mine had collapsed and Tarik had forbidden anyone to enter it, declaring it too dangerous. He'd even hit Kindan when the lad had insisted on going in with his watch-wher.

"That dumb animal's no use now," Tarik had sworn angrily.

Someone had to take charge, someone had to do something. Cristov had run down to Zist's, hoping the harper could restore order.

"Master Zist?" he called again, inching inside the door. His resolve grew and he walked all through the cottage, calling Zist's name.

In the kitchen, on the table, he spied the grisly remains of a brown fire-lizard. The memory of stroking that fire-lizard's cheek woke an anger in Cristov that he had never before felt. He turned on his heel and strode out of the cottage.

He was going to get his axe.

CHAPTER I

Miners, dig in streets so black,
Find the coal, bring it back.
When cold winter comes to stay,
Your warm coal keeps chills away.

CAMP NATALON,
SECOND INTERVAL,
AFTER LANDING (AL) 494.1

T oldur 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 3

Dragonmen, your beasts must learn
When to flame and swiftly turn.
Keep the burning Thread away,
Live to fight another day.

HIGH REACHES WEYR

T he 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 6

Dragon fly, dragon flame,
Dragon char, dragon tame.
Rider watch, rider fight,
Rider aim, rider right.

FIRESTONE MINE #9

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 8

To flame the skies
Your dragon must chew
A hundredweight
Or more for you.

HIGH REACHES WEYR

S o 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

Dragonrider, this is true:
Others all look up to you.
Your hard work and bravery
Keep Pern safe and skies Thread-free.

HIGH REACHES WEYR

D on'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!