Dragon's Fire (20 page)

They arrived in daylight, hovering over the grave plateau, hidden from the miners by the mountain peak to the east.

After Pellar dismounted, D’vin looked down at him and said, “You know that if this lad’s egg hatches, Aleesa will be expecting
you
to bond with the other hatchling.”

Pellar nodded, grimacing.

D’vin pursed his lips thoughtfully before continuing, “Don’t forget that your future is your own to choose, not hers.”

Pellar shook his head, pulled out his slate, and wrote, “Oath.”

D’vin craned down to read the slate. “Your oath was to teach her and be harper, not to become a wherhandler.”

Pellar felt that D’vin wasn’t saying all he thought. With a sudden insight he pointed his finger at D’vin and at Hurth and then back at himself and shook his head firmly—there was no way that
he
could become a dragonrider.

D’vin says that you should know that dragons choose whom they will,
Hurth informed him.
You are the right age,
the bronze added on his own.

Pellar threw up his hands.
Thank you, thank D’vin, please. I must go now.

Call when you have need,
Hurth said.
I
like
the sound of your voice.

Pellar waved and turned to the path around and down the hill. He had been marching a long time before he realized that Hurth had referred to his “voice.” He stopped, momentarily stunned that anyone had ever heard his voice. Hurth could hear him. Really hear him. Pellar’s face split into a huge grin. The rest of his journey to the miner’s camp disappeared behind that amazing thought.

Perhaps he
could
be a dragonrider. Chitter burst forth from
between
a short distance above him and made it clear that he was
sure
that Pellar could be a dragonrider. After all, Pellar was his mate, so why not something bigger?

Pellar gave Chitter a shushing gesture—they were too near the camp and he didn’t want to attract attention. In fact, he thought with a sudden chill, he wasn’t sure how Master Zist would feel about his sudden arrival.

Reflecting on that, Pellar decided to wait until dusk before approaching the camp. Chitter wasn’t happy with the decision, projecting more and more pointed images of mouthwatering food and warm fires as the bitter evening chill drew down upon them.

All the same, Pellar held out until dark. If his approach to the camp afterward was perhaps more influenced by his grumbling stomach than his caution, he felt Chitter was to blame.

Whatever the reason, Pellar was surprised when he stumbled across someone crouched in a bush outside of the shed that had housed the late watch-wher.

Believing the worst, Pellar grabbed his victim around the throat, determined to repay his attacker for every bruise and indignity.

“It’s me,” a young voice gasped out hoarsely. Pellar let go instantly and sprang back, dropping into a defensive crouch as he revised his estimate of the situation. The other person was smaller than him and younger—neither Tenim nor Tarik. But the voice sounded vaguely like Tarik’s.

Cristov.

What was he doing here? Pellar wondered. It didn’t matter. He moved close and carefully massaged the boy’s throat the same way he’d done his own after Tenim’s assault.

“Sorry,” Pellar wrote after Cristov recovered.

“You—” Cristov stopped, swallowed, and massaged his throat before continuing. “You thought I was Tenim.”

Pellar nodded.

“Are you afraid he might steal the egg?”

Pellar’s eyes widened at the thought. It was a good idea that neither he nor Aleesa had had. Certainly Tenim knew where Camp Natalon was and would have no trouble finding the watch-wher egg. It would be easy for him to steal it before it hatched. In all the efforts of his dealings to find homes for the eggs, Pellar hadn’t considered the possibility that, once placed, the egg might still be in danger from the Shunned.

“Father says it’s a waste of a winter’s coal,” Cristov said. He looked Pellar straight in the eyes. “Even if it is, it’d be worse if the egg was stolen, wouldn’t it?”

Pellar nodded in agreement with the boy’s logic.

“I decided I could help and keep an eye on it,” Cristov explained. Pellar got the distinct impression that Cristov was not telling him all of his reasons; in that moment he got the distinct impression that Cristov was a rather lonely youngster, someone looking for an older friend. Pellar knew the feeling well, and recalled how well his suggestion that Zist get Kaylek to mentor the youngster had worked. Could it be that Cristov was hoping to see Pellar again? The thought made the young harper feel confused—both flattered and embarrassed.

Chitter appeared at that moment, hovering nearby. Pellar got the impression that the fire-lizard had seen everything but had been confused by both Pellar’s actions and Cristov’s reactions.

“He’s beautiful,” Cristov exclaimed, tentatively holding his hand up to Chitter. Pellar gestured to Chitter and sent the fire-lizard a thought; Chitter chirped an assent and dropped down to hover just in front of Cristov’s outstretched hand.

“Can I touch him?” the boy asked Pellar, eyes wide with awe. In answer, Chitter snaked his head forward, jaw canted so that the Cristov’s fingers were touching his favorite scratching spot. Cristov needed little prodding and was soon happily scratching Chitter’s jaw and rubbing over his eye sockets, totally absorbed with the fire-lizard’s enthusiastic responses.

“Will the watch-wher be the same?” Cristov asked, taking his eyes off the fire-lizard just long enough to look at Pellar.

For a moment Pellar wondered whether Cristov was asking about the watch-wher’s appearance or its behavior. Guessing that he meant the behavior, he nodded in agreement, remembering Aleesk’s staunch defense.

“It won’t be as pretty as you, though,” Cristov told Chitter, fearing that he might offend his newfound friend. Chitter agreed with everything Cristov said, especially when the miner boy brought up his other hand and scratched both sides of Chitter’s face.

After a long time, Cristov looked back to Pellar. “Are you here to guard the egg, too?”

Pellar thought quickly, and made his decision. He shook his head and wrote, “No. Ask you.”

Cristov’s eyes got very big. “Me? You want to ask me to guard the egg?”

Pellar nodded.

The younger boy swallowed hard. “I’m not very big,” he admitted.

Pellar grinned and wrote, “Big enough.”

Cristov still looked dubious, so Pellar cleaned his slate and wrote, “Trust you.”

As the young miner absorbed this, a woman’s voice called out, “Cristov!”

Cristov shook himself out of his reverie and his eyes lost their shine. “I can’t stay up late,” he confessed sadly. “My mother would find out.”

“Only day,” Pellar wrote hastily.

“And you’ll watch at night?” Cristov said. “You and your fire-lizard?”

Pellar nodded.

Cristov mulled this over, the shine returning to his eyes.

“Cristov!” his mother called again.

“Deal,” Cristov said, holding out his hand to Pellar. Pellar took it and shook it firmly, convinced that Cristov was nothing like his father.

“Gotta go,” Cristov explained, then turned quickly and shouted, “Coming!”

Pellar waved at the retreating form and then wiggled into the bush Cristov had been using.

Pellar’s improvised guard schedule worked perfectly over the next three days. Cristov’s “guard” was unnoticed by the rest of the camp as he lived right next to the shed where the watch-wher egg had been placed, and his presence made it easy for Pellar to sneak into place for his night watch and sneak away in the morning.

When Pellar arrived for his watch on the fourth evening, Cristov was there to greet him, his face clouded.

“It hatched,” he said in a dull voice. “I haven’t seen it yet.”

Pellar gestured for Cristov to say more.

“You’re going to leave now, aren’t you?” Cristov asked with a deep sigh. Pellar nodded. Cristov screwed up his courage to ask, “Will I ever see you again?”

It was obvious to Pellar that Cristov was looking for a friend, a surrogate older brother, someone to train him in what was right and how to live in the world. Pellar was amazed that the boy had already decided that Tarik was no such guide, had decided to abandon the teaching of his father and look instead for some other mentor. He understood Cristov; a wave of sympathy and regret swept over him. He’d promised Aleesa. He was needed back with the Whermaster.

“Not soon. Turns,” Pellar promised on his slate, not wanting to set the boy hoping for his early return even though he wasn’t sure how long it would be before Masterharper Murenny or Master Zist arranged for his replacement at the wherhold.

“Turns?”

“Promise,” Pellar wrote in response.

“Turns,” Cristov repeated, eyes downcast. He looked up at Pellar. “How will you recognize me? How will I recognize you?”

Pellar smiled and pointed to Cristov’s heart and then his own.

Cristov nodded slowly in response, but Pellar felt that the boy was still disheartened. He held up a hand for a moment, then shrugged off his backpack and rummaged through it.

Cristov watched wide-eyed as Pellar searched his pack. His eyes got even bigger when Pellar pulled out a lovely pipe and ceremoniously handed it to him. No one had ever given him something before.

“Is this for me?” Cristov asked in disbelief.

Pellar nodded. He wiped his slate clean and wrote on it, “Zist teach.”

“You want me to ask Master Zist for lessons?” Cristov squeaked in surprise. When Pellar nodded, Cristov confessed, “I don’t know if I’d be any good.”

“Try,” Pellar wrote in response.

“Okay,” Cristov promised. Pellar sealed up his pack and shouldered it once more. As he turned to go, Cristov said, “I’ll try real hard.”

Pellar turned back and grabbed the youngster in a big hug. Then as quick as he could, Pellar vanished into the darkness.

Two hours later, Pellar stood again in the plateau clearing.

Hurth, I’m ready,
he thought.

We come,
the dragon responded immediately.
You sound sad.

I am,
Pellar responded. How many children on Pern, he wondered, were like Cristov—trying to do their best without example?

CHAPTER 6

C
AMP
N
ATALON,
AL 493.10–494.1

M
aster Zist was surprised when Cristov stayed behind after the end of the morning class. He was even more surprised by the boy’s request to be taught the pipes.

“I don’t know if I have any spare pipes,” Zist said, not sure why he’d want to do Tarik’s son any favors.

“Someone gave me one,” Cristov replied, his face a mix of sorrow and surprise.

“May I see it?” Zist asked, holding out a hand. The pipe that Cristov reluctantly gave him was immediately familiar to the Master. He had made it himself not too many Turns before. In fact, Pellar had been just about Cristov’s age when Zist had presented him with this very pipe.

“Did Pellar give this to you?”

Cristov looked surprised but nodded. “He said he’d see me again but it would probably be Turns,” he explained.

“Well,” Zist replied, “if he said it, then it will be so.”

Zist twirled the pipe in his hand. The Ancients would have called it a recorder. The mouthpiece was at the top of the pipe, not at the side as with the more common flute. A recorder was much easier to learn than a flute, but at the expense of the dynamic range it could produce.

Zist nodded to himself in sudden decision. He looked at Cristov. “I’ll teach you.”

“Thank you,” Cristov said, smiling. Then his smile faded as another thought crossed his mind. “Can we not tell my parents?”

Zist considered the question carefully. “I see no reason why we can’t wait until the appropriate time to surprise them,” he allowed, his eyes twinkling with a sense of mischief that Cristov had never seen before.

“Thank you,” Cristov said.

“Let’s see if you thank me after your first lesson,” Zist replied. He handed the pipe back to Cristov. “And your first lesson will be on breathing.”

Breathing? Cristov thought to himself in dismay. He’d heard how Kindan and Zenor had both been as limp as rags after an hour of Zist’s “breathing” lessons! Well, he
had
asked.

“Egg?” Tarik repeated to Tenim in disbelief. “What would you want with an egg?”

“Not me,” Tenim said. “Others. They’d pay full marks, too.”

“The egg hatched two days ago,” Tarik replied. “It’s bonded with the brat now.”

“Bonded?”

“Yes, the thing bit the boy and now it follows him everywhere.”

Tenim’s features soured as he scowled. They were in the kitchen of Tarik’s new cothold and it was dark. Tenim’s journey had taken two more days than he had planned: profitable days, to be sure, considering the increased bulk of his well-hidden purse, but perhaps not profitable enough to make up for missing a chance at the egg.

“Hmmph,” Tenim snorted in disgust. “It’s no good to me now.”

“It’s a green,” Tarik said thoughtfully. “That means it’ll mate someday.” He smirked at the thought of how young Kindan would deal with
that.

“Greens aren’t as good as golds,” Tenim snapped, having absorbed that much lore from Moran’s teachings. “Not green fire-lizards, nor green dragons. I’m sure it’s the same for those uglies, too.”

“Then the best price would be paid for a gold egg, wouldn’t it?” Tarik suggested, carefully keeping his tone neutral. Tarik would breathe easier if Tenim took up the wild watch-wher chase.

Tenim cocked his head quizzically at the suggestion. It was a good idea, so good it surprised him. He pursed his lips and furrowed his brow while he examined Tarik, wondering what thoughts were going on in the older man’s head. Still…it was a good idea.

“No one knows where the queen watch-wher is,” Tenim said.

“No one?” Tarik asked. “From what I’ve heard, there were several buyers vying for watch-wher eggs.”

“No one’s told me anything,” Tenim said, gazing intently at the miner.

Tarik returned Tenim’s intent look with a bland one of his own, waiting with growing anxiety that he worked desperately to hide. As the silence grew uncomfortable, he suggested, “Perhaps your harper friend might learn more?”

“Him!” Tenim snorted at the suggestion.

“What’s he doing now, I wonder,” Tarik said, sounding as though he were talking to himself.

Tenim nodded thoughtfully and rose from his seat, heading for the door.

At the door, he stopped and said, “I’ll find out.” He waved a finger at Tarik. “When I come back, I’ll expect you to have more coal set aside.”

Tarik nodded, knowing that there was nothing else he could do—except hope that perhaps Tenim wouldn’t come back.

Halla said nothing as she watched Moran scan the landscape in front of them, just as she’d said nothing when Moran announced their sudden departure from the environs of Hold Balan, even though some of the older boys had grumbled about missing Tenim.

“He’ll find us, no worries,” Moran had replied lightly. Halla had been the only one close enough to see his face in the dark night, and she’d seen the deep lines and worry written on it. To her it had looked like Moran was more worried about Tenim finding them than not, but perhaps she was just assigning her own feelings to the harper.

Little Tucker bumped into her. He did that often to get attention. Halla ignored him this time, knowing that the child was still half-asleep.

“We’ll need food soon,” she said to Moran. Moran gave her a surprised look; usually children told him that they were hungry. It was a sign of Halla’s forced maturity that she thought the way she did.

“It looks pretty barren,” he replied, but he eyed the girl hopefully. After Tenim, Halla was the best hunter. Astride his shoulders, little Nalli stirred.

“I’ll take her for a while,” Halla said, holding up her arms to grab the toddler.

Although he still wore a backpack, Moran’s step grew more energetic after Halla had taken Nalli from him. After a few more steps carrying Nalli, Halla could see why—there was so little in their packs that the weight of an undernourished toddler more than doubled the load. Little Nalli, who had roused slightly during the transfer, soon fell back to sleep, resting her small head on Halla’s and providing warmth for the back of her neck and shoulders.

At a sound from behind them, Moran stopped and turned.

“Perri,” Moran said in a tone that was equal parts exhaustion and worry.

Halla half turned and warned, “There’s no more feverroot.”

Moran rushed back to the fallen youngster. Perri had been bitten by a tunnel snake when he was playing at the outskirts of Hold Balan—or that’s what Halla guessed, for the toddler had never been much of a talker and refused to say anything about his injury. The wound had festered in the past several days, and he’d walked through the night in a half-fever.

Some noise or sigh caused Halla to stop and turn all the way back to the others. Instead of trudging after her, they were grouped in a semicircle. Moran was kneeling in the center.

As soon as Moran lifted his head up and looked at Halla, she knew. She sighed, too tired for anything else, wordlessly passed Nalli back to Moran, and grabbed at the handle of the shovel that hung down from her backpack. She was getting too good at digging graves.

A half hour later they trudged on, Halla more grimy than she liked, and only a few withered yellow flowers for the mound she left behind. She’d liked Perri, he’d just started to smile.

They look to you, Moran thought to himself as he led the group of children away from yet another grave, and you let them down.

How many graves did that make? He wondered idly and realized with dull relief that he couldn’t remember. This isn’t how things were supposed to be, Moran told himself. I was to find the Shunned, to set up meetings, to help them, Moran recalled. He had always wanted to make a difference, have ballads composed about him, make up for his unknown origins. Instead, somehow, he’d found himself only surviving one crisis to fall into another, never seeming to find the right place, the right answers, and always coming up with more complications. Every time he’d sworn that he’d locate the next harper, report in to the Harper Hall, something had happened to change his mind. He wanted to report his success; he could not bring himself to report failure. And so the Turns had passed. Turns, and Moran’s dreams had gone from saving the Shunned to simply finding food enough for those waifs he’d found along the way. Worse still, at times he’d squandered their spare marks for drink, or an evening’s comfort. Always, at the time, Moran had told himself that he deserved it—the drink or the warm company—and after, seeing the mute looks of the hungry children, had sworn never again. But again and again, he would give in to his base desires. With such dismal failures, how could he face Murenny or Zist?

He shifted Nalli on his back, looking hopefully back at Halla in hope of a trade. Her face was streaked with tears.

Moran swore at himself for his selfishness and trudged on.