Anne Mccaffrey_ Dragonriders of Pern 20 Read online

  “I’m not sorry you didn’t Impress,” Nonala said slowly. “I would have missed you.”

  “I would have missed you, too,” Kindan confessed. He looked at the backs of the other runners. “Come on, you’d better catch up or you’ll get extra chores.”

  Kindan knew that Masterharper Murenny would expect a full report as soon as he returned. With a wave, he parted from his friends as they headed for the apprentice dormitories and made his way up to the Masterharper’s quarters. It was only when he was outside that he considered that the Masterharper might still be asleep. His desire to “leave sleeping Masters lie” warred with his conviction that Murenny would want to know as soon as possible.

  He had just raised his hand to knock on the door when he heard Master Murenny’s voice call through it: “Go to the kitchen, Kindan, and bring up some breakfast.”

  “Yes, Master,” Kindan replied in astonishment. How had the Masterharper known he was outside the door? Kindan could guess that Masterharper Murenny would be expecting his report but even so…Kindan had been quiet on his way up the stairs. Somehow, the Masterharper always seemed to know.

  Shaking his head ruefully, Kindan rushed back down the stairs and into the kitchen.

  “Back from the Weyr?” Selora, the head cook, asked as soon as she saw him. She quickly piled a pitcher of klah, several mugs, and a plate of morning rolls onto a tray and thrust it into his arms.

  “Thanks, Selora!” Kindan said, grinning at her.

  She smiled back. “Get going! You know well enough not to keep harpers waiting for their food.”

  Moving more slowly to avoid spilling or dropping anything, Kindan hustled back up to the Masterharper’s quarters. Overburdened, he balanced on one foot and used the other to knock on the door.

  “Put it over there,” the Masterharper said, gesturing to a table even as he closed the door behind Kindan. Masterharper Murenny’s face was outlined with white stubble and his hair was still sleep-mussed.

  Kindan placed the tray down carefully, then immediately opened his mouth to start his report, but Murenny restrained him with an upraised hand.

  “Eat,” Murenny ordered. He poured two mugs of klah and handed one to Kindan. “Drink.”

  Kindan complied and was surprised to discover how hungry and thirsty he really was. The Masterharper observed him silently throughout their meal with a kindly expression. When at last Kindan had leaned back from the tray, Master Murenny said, “Now, are you ready to report?”

  Kindan nodded.

  “First let me say that while I’m glad you’re here, I would have hoped that perhaps you hadn’t returned,” Master Murenny said.

  Kindan shrugged; Master Murenny wasn’t saying anything he hadn’t already heard.

  “I’m happy to be a harper,” Kindan said.

  Master Murenny smiled. “You could still be a harper and ride a dragon, you know.”

  “Only if I finish my training.” Kindan had been at the Harper Hall over a Turn and a half. Apprentices normally didn’t “walk the tables” to become journeymen until they been at the hall for at least three Turns, and more often, four.

  Murenny nodded and motioned for Kindan to continue.

  “I was present at the Hatching,” Kindan began and leaned back into his chair, getting comfortable. As he got deeper and deeper into the report, he found himself wondering how to set it to song and altered his sentences to be more melodic. In moments, all of Kindan’s fears and worries had faded away to be replaced only by the spoken song he was relaying.

  “Well done, well done,” the Masterharper said when Kindan had finished. He sat briefly, lost in thought. When he looked up again, he murmured, “Well, Jessala has her rest at last. I imagine it won’t be long before B’ralar seeks his.”

  “Why, Master?” Kindan asked, surprised that any dragonrider would consider such an act.

  “Sometimes the heart gets so heavy that living is impossible,” Murenny told him. “Unless there’s something to replace a loss, a person just gives up.”

  He leaned forward, looking Kindan in the eye. “‘Without hope, there is no future.’”

  Kindan had heard that before. “Can’t we give him hope?”

  Murenny shook his head. “We can only give him choices. Hope is something you find for yourself.”

  Kindan nodded bleakly. Master Murenny noted his expression and smiled wryly. He leaned back, his eyes drifting to the ceiling. When he spoke again, his words were distant but heartfelt. “I hope you never feel that way.”

  There was a moment’s silence finally broken by the Masterharper, who jumped up out of his chair decisively. “But now there’s work to be done, a tray to go back to the kitchen, and you to get to your classes.”

  “Yes, Master,” Kindan agreed, glad to see the end of gloomy musings.

  But it turned out, as the days rolled into seven, and the sevendays into months, that Kindan found himself lost in gloomy musings. He was distracted, wondering about Kisk—called Nuelsk, now—the green watch-wher he’d bonded with and then had released into Nuella’s care. At the time, his bonding with Kisk had seemed like imprisonment, but from the distance of memory, Kindan found himself remembering how kind the awkward, ugly green watch-wher had been, and how brave she had been at the end, to take Nuella on a never-before-attempted ride between to rescue the trapped miners. And he found himself wondering again what it would have been like to Impress a dragon, to have a pair of great, faceted eyes whirling anxiously for his well-being, to ride a dragon, to feed it firestone and watch it breathe flame.

  His days were filled with feeling overwhelmed by his classes and his various inadequacies; he had neither Nonala’s skill at crafting song, nor the fierce dedication to the dry, dusty Records that made Verilan’s eyes bright with excitement. Oh, he could thwart silly pranks from older apprentices and he gave as good as he got, but that was hardly a harperly calling, and beyond that, Kindan could think of no talent in which he had a gift.

  Except perhaps the drums. Drums on Pern were more than a way to keep a beat; they were the vital lifeblood of news between Holds and Crafts. Only a dragonrider could travel more swiftly than a drum message and, as drum messages were available to all, only the drums carried the full news of Pern.

  Kindan took to drumming like he’d taken to the coal caves where he’d grown up. He would listen to the “First Call” of morning and the “Last Call” of night; he loved being the first one to decipher the codes; he loved wagering how long it would take Vaxoram who, like Kindan, seemed particularly good at nothing, to decipher the latest messages; and he loved how the words from distant places gave him the feel of a world-traveler, of someone connected with all the people of Pern.

  He was worse at making drums than drumming on them. In fact, he couldn’t imagine how he could be worse at making things.

  “You’ll get the hang of it, just keep trying,” Nonala had told him staunchly the day Kindan had mentioned it.

  “You will,” Verilan had agreed, although Kindan felt that his agreement had been more out of loyalty than conviction. “And you’re so good at the codes.” Verilan had frowned; the drum codes were simply beyond him. He was built slightly and didn’t have the strength to make the big drums rebound with the volume needed to traverse outside of Fort Hold’s main valley, and his slow methodical ways made it difficult for him to decipher the multi-beat codes. By the time he’d deciphered the first beat, the second beat had already come and gone, lost forever.

  Vaxoram took great pains to taunt Kindan on his failures. Kindan sometimes wondered if Vaxoram didn’t gloat over the lackings of others to distract himself from his own weaknesses, but the older apprentice’s relentless ways never gave much time to consider the ramifications.

  The one thing that Vaxoram was good at was fencing. Finesse, naturally, was not the older apprentice’s forte, but his reach, endurance, and sheer brutality usually ensured his victory.

  “You’ve no subtlety,” Master Detallor said to him at one o
f their practice sessions. He motioned to Kindan. “You should learn from this youngster. He seems to understand what I’m saying.”

  Almost immediately Kindan wished that the Master hadn’t singled him out so; Vaxoram chose Kindan as his opponent for the next bout. It started well enough. Kindan got first touch, but then Vaxoram charged forward and—to Kindan’s utter astonishment—changed hands mid-strike, feinting with an empty right hand and striking a telling blow with the foil now in his left hand.

  “Better,” Detallor said as Kindan staggered and grunted in pain. “But fighting left-handed won’t win against another left-hander,” Detallor warned, grabbing up a foil himself. “Here, let me show you.”

  And he proceeded to administer a left-handed drubbing to Vaxoram that was so ferocious that Kindan forgot the bruise Vaxoram had made on his own chest.

  Still, if it weren’t that Kindan wouldn’t give up on his dream of being a harper, and a Weyr harper at that, he would have left the Harper Hall to free himself from Vaxoram’s incessant prodding.

  The autumn weather at Fort Hold was not as bitter as the biting cold Kindan had experienced at Camp Natalon in Crom Hold, but the rains seemed to last longer, the fogs of the morning were thicker and colder—sometimes lasting all day—and the miserable weather matched his miserable mood.

  Two months after his return from High Reaches Weyr, Kindan found himself at the tail end of a wet morning run accompanied, as usual, by Verilan and Nonala. Verilan was coughing more than usual, a sure sign that he would be in the infirmary with a nasty cough before the end of the sevenday.

  The rain had turned the path beside the road to brown mush, but the packed surface of the road was too hard on their feet so they stuck with the slick and muddy path. A noise from behind them startled them all, with Verilan losing his footing and Kindan plowing into him. Both went down and came up covered in muck and mud. Kelsa took one look at their bedraggled appearance and burst into giggles.

  “You two!” she said, still giggling. “You look like you’ve been out making mud pies.”

  Nonala said nothing, but she couldn’t keep a smile from her lips.

  Verilan scowled at them. Kindan, meanwhile, had turned around to spot the source of the noise. It was difficult in the fog and rain. Finally he made out a huge dark shape in the distance.

  “A dragon!”

  “What will we do?” Nonala moaned. “We’re not fit to greet him.”

  “Well, we can’t just turn away,” Verilan said, his last word breaking into a cough.

  Kindan nodded and started walking toward the dragon, searching for its rider. The others followed reluctantly, Nonala occasionally making small distressed noises to herself.

  As they approached, the figure of a tall man carrying a heavy object resolved itself out of the rain.

  “Kindan!” the rider exclaimed. It was M’tal, Benden’s Weyrleader. “Just who I was looking for—” He stopped as he took in the sight of their mud-covered bodies. His mouth quirked into a grin. “Slipped?”

  Kindan grunted and smiled back. “Yes, my lord.”

  “It’s M’tal to you,” the Weyrleader replied firmly. He nodded to the three figures huddling behind him. “Who are your friends?”

  Kindan turned to introduce them. “This is Nonala, that’s Kelsa, and this—” He was interrupted briefly when Verilan erupted into another coughing fit. “—is Verilan.”

  “You should see the healer, immediately,” M’tal said, his voice suddenly full of concern. He moved toward Verilan, then suddenly remembered his burden and thrust it toward Kindan. “Carry this, while I carry him,” he instructed.

  “No, no, I’m all right,” Verilan protested, horrified at the thought of the dragonrider getting covered in mud.

  “No, you’re not,” Nonala told him. M’tal nodded in agreement, grabbing Verilan by the waist and hoisting him off the ground. He carried the boy like a small child.

  “You’re lighter than a sack of firestone,” he assured the horror-stricken young harper. With a smile, M’tal said to Kindan, “And, thanks to your friend, firestone can get as wet as you are now.”

  Verilan glanced in surprise at Kindan.

  Somewhat guiltily, Kindan realized that he hadn’t had time since his return to the Harper Hall to fill his friends in on the discovery that there were two types of firestone: the traditional firestone, which exploded on contact with water, and the newly rediscovered firestone, which didn’t explode when in contact with water—the firestone that had given the fire-lizards their name.

  “Firestone explodes when wet,” Verilan declared stubbornly.

  “Not anymore,” M’tal assured him as they trudged under the arches of the Harper Hall.

  “Wow, Kindan!” Verilan called over the dragonrider’s shoulder.

  “Yes, wow, Kindan, why didn’t you tell your friends?” Kelsa repeated sourly, glaring at him. Kindan made a helpless, apologetic gesture, which only earned him a further glare.

  “Kindan, you’ll need to get your bundle to a hearth,” M’tal said, “and I’ll need one of you others to guide me to the infirmary.”

  “A hearth?” Nonala asked, glancing closely at the bundle Kindan was carrying. For the first time, Kindan noticed the bundle in his arms; he’d been more concerned with Verilan. It was heavy, and wrapped well in thick wher-hide. There was some sort of bucket inside the wrapping—he could feel the shape pressing through the fabric.

  “They need to be kept warm,” M’tal said. “I’m afraid I could only get two for the Harper Hall; the rest are for Lord Holder Bemin.”

  “Fire-lizard eggs?” Kindan asked, his voice rising, his eyes going wide.

  “Not the same as dragon, I know,” M’tal called over his shoulder as he followed after Kelsa, “nor even a watch-wher. Master Murenny agreed that one would be for you.”

  “Thank you!” Kindan shouted as M’tal headed up the stairs. Holding his bundle tighter, he increased his pace as he veered toward the kitchen. Nonala tagged along after him.

  “Fire-lizard eggs!” she repeated, her step changing almost to the sort of bounce that Kelsa most often preferred. “I wonder who will get the other one?”

  Kindan shook his head. As exciting as the fire-lizard eggs were, his thoughts had already turned back to Verilan. The younger boy was always getting sick, especially in winter. Kindan was particularly alarmed that M’tal had decided to bring him to the infirmary immediately, even before seeing the Masterharper.

  “What are you doing here?” Selora demanded as she spied them. “You’re all wet and mucked up! Don’t you know—” She spied the bundle Kindan had in his arms. “What’s that?”

  “Fire-lizard eggs,” Kindan told her quickly. “I’m sorry, Selora, but Weyrleader M’tal said that they needed to get to the hearth immediately.”

  “Of course they do,” Selora snapped, grabbing the wher-hide bundle out of Kindan’s arms and placing it on the stone-covered floor near the hearth. Deftly, she unwrapped it while Kindan bent down beside her and Nonala hovered anxiously nearby.

  “You’re shivering!” Selora declared as she glanced first at Kindan and then at Nonala. “You need a warm bath, both of you.” Her eyes narrowed. “And where are the other two, your accomplices?”

  “M’tal took Verilan up to the infirmary,” Kindan began.

  “The infirmary?” Selora exclaimed. “He’s not hurt, is he?”

  “He’s coughing again,” Nonala said in her mother-hen voice. Kindan could never understand how a girl with three older brothers could be so motherly, but that was how Nonala was.

  “You, then,” Selora snapped to Nonala peremptorily, “up to the baths. Throw the boys out—they’ve been in too long if they’re still there.”

  Nonala froze, her eyes going to Kindan, and Kindan started to rise, torn between the fire-lizards and protecting his friend from the older apprentices.

  The interplay was not lost on Selora. “So, it’s that way, is it?” she asked, nodding sagely. Neither Kindan nor
Nonala was able to get a half-formed protest spoken out loud as Selora barreled over them. “I’d thought so, but I wasn’t certain.” She glanced at Kindan. “You follow her up, then, and make sure she’s not harassed.” As Kindan made to protest, Selora shushed him with a hand, her expression softening. “I’ve looked after fire-lizard eggs before, you know,” she told them. With a wave of her hand, she said, “Now, go! Both of you, and both of you in the baths.” Her waved hand turned to a pointed finger as she continued, “And mind you, not the same one, either!”

  Nonala and Kindan, both too red with embarrassment to respond, hustled mutely out of the room.

  “I’ll send someone up with more coals,” Selora called after them, searching the kitchen for a likely candidate. Not surprisingly, she had no lack of volunteers, all hoping that the fire-lizard eggs would hatch in their presence.

  There were still several apprentices up in the dormitory, including Vaxoram.

  “Where were you?” he demanded as they entered. “And where are the other two?”

  “Infirmary,” Kindan replied tersely. “Selora sent us up for baths.”

  “Are you going to wash her back?” Vaxoram asked, smirking vulgarly. He was rewarded with a scattering of chuckles. “Mind you, she’s still a bit young, but so are—”

  “Shut up!” Kindan shouted, his eyes narrowed, fists clenched at his side.

  “Kindan…” Nonala said soothingly at his side, as though encouraging him to drop it.

  “No,” Kindan told her firmly. He turned back to Vaxoram, raising his head to stare at the taller boy. “You apologize.”

  “To her?” Vaxoram demanded, a sneer on his face.

  “To both of us,” Kindan replied, stepping toward the older apprentice. Kindan was shivering, and he realized that not all of it was with rage; some of it was from the cold, wet clothing he wore.