CHAPTER 4

CAMP NATALON,
AL 493.4

Red eyes whirling, Chitter scratched awkwardly at the blankets covering the old harper. As gently as he could through his terror, the brown fire-lizard clawed the harper’s face. Zist sputtered and twisted, instantly awake.

“What is it?” he demanded, pushing himself up and swiveling his legs over the side of his bed. “Pellar?”

The fire-lizard’s whirling red eyes were all that Zist needed to see. He pulled down his nightshirt, slipped a robe around himself, and slid into his slippers.

He hurried into Kindan’s room. “Get up,” he called, “it’s time to change watch.”

Certain that it would be a while before the lad would be about and equally certain that Kindan would then rush off in performance of his duty, Zist left the cottage by the back door.

It was still dark outside. Chitter appeared beside him.

“Where is he?” Zist asked, looking up at the gray blur of the fire-lizard. Chitter made an uncertain noise. “Go find him, Chitter! Take me to him.”

The fire-lizard chirped an acknowledgment and blinked between. Zist cautiously looked around to be certain no one had seen their interaction, and then made his way toward Natalon’s hold.

A rustling sound nearby halted him and Zist turned toward it. Someone was moving down by the old watch-wher shed. He peered through the night, straining to see if the figure was Pellar but it disappeared from his view like a mist.

Chitter reappeared, diving to Zist’s shoulder and tugging at his robe.

“You’ve found him?” Zist asked. The fire-lizard chirped and flew off, toward the back of Natalon’s house. Zist spared one last glance toward where he had spotted the interloper and then set off after Chitter.

Chitter stopped him before he reached the kitchen door and flew off in a different direction. Zist paused, uncertain, but the fire-lizard returned and tugged at him again.

The reason for Chitter’s uncertainty became apparent as soon as Zist rounded the far western corner of Natalon’s hold. Right next to the back corner of the house was a crumpled figure.

Pellar. He lay quite still.

Tears misted Zist’s vision as he raced to the youngster’s body. He paused, swallowing nervously.

If I’ve killed him, too! Zist thought harshly, remembering his wife and child. Getting a firm grip on his emotions, he knelt down beside Pellar’s body, searching his throat for a pulse.

Pellar’s neck was red and bruised. It looked like he’d been strangled. Rage thundered through Zist’s heart and fury lit his eyes. He swore vengeance on whoever had done this.

He bent down to give Pellar one last fatherly kiss—and felt the faintest of breath.

“You’re alive!” Zist cried out, scooping Pellar up and cradling him in his arms.

Pellar came awake surrounded by darkness and fought as best he could, only to discover that he was flailing against Master Zist. He stopped suddenly and looked up. Zist’s cheeks were wet with tears.

“Can you walk?” the harper asked. “It’s not far to the cottage.”

Pellar nodded and regretted it. His throat hurt, his neck ached, and his head throbbed from lack of oxygen. With Zist’s help he stumbled up to his feet and back to the cottage.

“In my room,” Zist said, guiding the youngster through the front door, guessing that Kindan would be having a cup of klah before departing from the kitchen.

After getting Pellar settled into his bed and pulling off his muddy boots, he went to the kitchen to grab cold water and warm klah.

“Fire! Help, help! Fire!” Zist heard Kindan’s shout from the kitchen and rushed out, fearing that Pellar’s attacker had returned and caught the other boy instead.

“Chitter, stay with Pellar,” Zist ordered as he left.

Pellar woke to find Chitter resting against his side. The fire-lizard stirred and stared at him warningly. Pellar felt awful and was slow to move. Then he remembered—the chimney! He had to warn the miners. He tried to rise, but Chitter jumped up and sat heavily on his chest. Pellar tried batting the fire-lizard away but he was still too weak and his movements were disjointed and feeble. Chitter nipped at his hand and then grabbed it with his forepaws.

“How’d you find us?” a voice from the kitchen asked. Pellar recognized the voice—it was Dalor, Natalon’s son.

“You were late for watch,” Kindan replied. Pellar listened intently as Kindan explained how he’d realized the chimney was blocked, had shouted out the alarm, had opened all the doors and windows to the large hold, and had gone in search of Dalor.

Pellar gave a silent sigh of relief and relaxed. Chitter gave him a satisfied look and curled back into his resting spot, clearly convinced that Pellar was going to rest as well. He was right: In moments, Pellar fell into a dreamless sleep.

Pellar woke hungry. The room smelled of cooling soup. He sat up carefully and—as his sore muscles registered—slowly. The room was dark. A small glow was uncovered near the table, its light reflected by the two faceted eyes of Chitter, perched on the back of Zist’s chair, keeping vigil.

Pellar’s slate was on the table beside the bed. Beside it was a small bowl of soup and a spoon. Written on Pellar’s slate in Zist’s hand was a note: “Winter’s End festivities. Eat slowly.”

Winter’s End. Pellar’s ears picked up the sound of music coming from Natalon’s hold. Whoever was playing the pipes was quite good, he decided after listening for a moment. Chitter cocked his head warningly and Pellar ducked his head in wry acknowledgment of the fire-lizard’s nursemaiding. Obediently, he picked up the spoon and fed himself.

Swallowing was misery but he was too hungry not to finish the entire bowl. When he had, Chitter flew off his perch and nestled onto the bed in an unmistakable intimation of his expectations for Pellar. Pellar was too tired to argue, and the rich soup was already settling in his stomach. He lay back down and was asleep in minutes.

Pellar woke in the middle of the night to the sound of a commotion.

“Master Zist! Master Zist!” Dalor shouted. Nervously, Pellar wondered if Tenim had returned to finish his job.

Zist snorted and stirred from the chair in which he’d fallen asleep.

“Eh? What is it?” he called out.

“It’s my mother,” Dalor replied. “The baby’s coming early.”

Zist wagged a finger at Pellar, ordering him to remain, then shucked on his robe and slippers and left the room.

Pellar heard his muffled order to Kindan: “Go run to Margit’s and get her up here.” To Dalor he promised, “I’ll be along as soon as I get some clothes on. You get on back. Start the cook boiling water, if she hasn’t already.” He continued a softer tone. “It’ll be all right, lad. Now off with you!”

Pellar looked around the room for Zist’s clothes, wondering what the harper would need, and rose from his bed, assembling a kit for him, dimly aware that Zist and Kindan were conferring outside the door.

“Get off, now! We’ll cope!” Zist called as he opened the door to his room. His eyes lit as he saw Pellar standing and the clothes laid out, ready for him to put on.

“You’ll have to stay here,” he told Pellar as he quickly donned his clothes. He gave the boy a warm, worried look. “Lad…”

Pellar shook his head and put a hand, palm flat, over his head, then brought it next to Zist’s—he was nearly as tall as the harper.

Zist shook his head and grabbed Pellar into a tight hug.

“Man or lad, if I’d lost you…” Zist broke off. Pellar patted Zist’s back and then broke out of the embrace, firmly steering the harper to the door and gesturing for him to hurry.

“You stay here,” Zist called back from the doorway. “Send Chitter if you need.”

Pellar nodded firmly and made a brushing motion to hurry Zist along. But the harper had to have the last word. “Chitter, I’m counting on you to keep him from overtaxing himself.”

Pellar was miffed that the harper had let him sleep through until morning, but he couldn’t deny that he’d needed it. As it was, he was much relieved to hear that the baby had been born healthy and without undue complications.

“I’ll keep watch tonight,” Pellar wrote by way of apology.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Zist told him emphatically. “You’ll need at least a sevenday to recover. Anyway, there’s a trader caravan due soon and among the apprentices there’s supposed to be one with a watch-wher.”

Pellar gave him a questioning look.

“With a watch-wher, the miners will be able to start a full night shift again,” Zist explained. “With a crew bustling about at night, I suspect it’ll be much harder for your friend Tenim to try anything.”

“Not my friend,” Pellar wrote, pointing to his throat for emphasis.

“And you’re to stay away from him.”

Pellar gave him a stubborn look.

“You’ve learned what I wanted to know,” Zist responded.

“He might try something else,” Pellar wrote.

“He might,” Zist agreed. “And we’ll have to be careful.” He looked sternly at Pellar. “But you would have died if Chitter hadn’t alerted me.” He took a deep breath and admitted, “And I don’t think I could live with that on my conscience.”

Pellar looked at the old harper for a long time. Finally, he nodded, realizing that further argument would be pointless; it would only cause the harper further pain and worry.

The traders came that afternoon, only there was no watch-wher with them.

“Apparently someone scared the apprentice off,” Zist explained as he prepared for the second celebratory Gather in two days, donning fresh clothes in harper blue and quickly buffing up his boots.

“Tenim,” Pellar wrote, cocking an eyebrow at the harper.

“It could be,” Zist answered. “But probably not.”

Pellar looked surprised.

“The first time anyone noticed that the lad was missing was yesterday, although he might have left sooner; Trader Tarri said he kept to himself.”

“Moran?” Pellar wrote.

Zist frowned as he read the slate. “I hope not,” Zist said. “It could be, but then why would he not want the watch-wher to come to the mine?”

“Same reason,” Pellar wrote.

“I’m not sure that Moran and Tenim have the same reasons,” Zist said.

Pellar gave him a questioning look.

“Moran was very worried about the Shunned,” Zist explained. “That’s why Murenny and I agreed to let him try to make contact.” He shook his head. “From what you’ve described of this Tenim character, I don’t think he cares for anyone but himself.”

As it was obvious to Pellar that Master Zist didn’t want to entertain dark thoughts about his old apprentice, Pellar decided to drop the matter.

“Still need a watch-wher,” Pellar wrote, changing the subject.

“Yes, we do,” Zist agreed.

“Where do we get one?” Pellar wrote.

“I shall have to think on that,” Zist replied, turning to the door. “If you’re still awake when the Gather’s through, we can talk some more.”

Pellar nodded and Zist gave him a probing look. The harper wagged his finger at the youngster. “Stay here. We’ll be all right.”

Pellar waited until he was certain that everyone had entered the large hall in Natalon’s hold. Then he carefully dressed himself in bright clothes, grabbed a well-used cloak, and went out through the cothold’s front door. Regardless of Zist’s warnings or even how sore his raw throat still felt, Pellar was going to make sure that there were no more accidents.

Rather than gliding silently past the entrance to Natalon’s stone hold, Pellar strode purposely beyond it, looking exactly like someone who was lost but unwilling to ask for directions.

He headed toward the camp’s graveyard, planning to find a place beyond it where he could climb to the cliff above and backtrack to a good vantage point near Natalon’s hold but away from any possible sighting by the camp’s lookouts.

He was just past the graveyard when Chitter appeared from between. Pellar gave the brown fire-lizard a fierce admonishing look. He thought he had made it clear that the fire-lizard was to stay in the harper’s cothold. Chitter hovered in front of him, wings beating slowly until Pellar understood that, as far as Chitter was concerned, if Pellar felt no compulsion to obey orders, neither would Chitter.

Pellar sighed in reluctant acceptance. Just before Pellar started off again, a noise startled him. Pellar froze. Someone was coming.

He sank to the ground in a crouch, hoping that the cloak would cover him sufficiently.

It did. The person, a small boy, passed him by, moving quickly and purposefully but without taking any particular pains to move quietly.

From the short-cropped blond hair, Pellar reckoned that the boy was either Dalor or Cristov. More likely it was Cristov, he decided, as Dalor would have a difficult time getting away from the evening’s festivities.

But what was Cristov doing here?

Pellar followed him quietly from a safe distance. The blond boy made his way to the graveyard, where he stopped in front of one of the graves. Pellar wasn’t certain, but he guessed that it was Kaylek’s grave.

“Miners look after each other.” Cristov’s words drifted softly across the night air to Pellar.

Was he making a promise or repeating something he’d been told? Pellar wondered. Or both?

The youngster stood by the grave for a long while in silent communion. Just as Pellar decided that he had no choice but to find an alternate way to the cliff, Cristov stepped back, turned, and moved off quickly—toward the cliff.

Pellar followed him easily, both relieved at not having to lose time sneaking around Cristov and intrigued by the boy’s motives. Was it possible that Cristov had been suborned by his father to finish Tenim’s task?

Cristov started climbing, following the same route Pellar had taken the other night.

Climbing the cliff was more effort than Pellar remembered. His shoulders and stomach were still sore from his fall, but worse was the torment in his throat as he gulped down the air needed for his exertions. He tried his best to be quiet, but it wasn’t good enough.

Suddenly he noticed a pair of eyes staring down at him from the cliff above.

“Who are you?”

For an instant Pellar considered fleeing back down the cliff and eluding Cristov in the forest—he knew he had more woodcraft than the boy—but before he could put his plan into action, Chitter appeared and started scolding Pellar and Cristov with equal intensity.

“Is he yours?” Cristov asked, his voice full of amazement and yearning.

Pellar nodded. Chitter caught his eye and looked back and forth rapidly between him and Cristov. Pellar knew that the fire-lizard was trying to tell him something, but he couldn’t decide what.

“Did you block the hold chimney?” Cristov asked, his voice cold with outrage.

Pellar shook his head firmly. Cristov peered at him and reached forward to touch his neck.

“Someone tried to choke you,” the blond boy declared, his fingers brushing Pellar’s throat gently. He gave Pellar another intense look. “Did you try to stop someone from blocking the chimney?”

Pellar nodded.

“And they tried to choke you?” Cristov asked rhetorically. “And now you can’t talk?”

Pellar nodded and then shook his head to answer both questions. Cristov looked confused.

Pellar reached to his side, then paused, looking questioningly at Cristov who, in his turn, looked confused. Pellar held up both his hands to show that he had nothing in them and then flattened one hand and poised the other over it in an imitation of writing.

“You want to write something?” Cristov asked. “I’ve got nothing to write with—oh! You do.”

Pellar nodded, smiling, and reached for his slate. He was bigger than the boy and older by at least two Turns, but if Cristov grew afraid or alarmed, his shouts could easily bring the entire mining camp out, and Pellar didn’t even want to think about what might happen then.

“It’s dark, I don’t know if I’ll be able to read,” Cristov began, only to stop when he saw that Pellar had a slate and stick of white chalk. “Maybe if you write big, then.”

Pellar wrote carefully, “Name Pellar.”

“I’m Cristov,” the other replied, holding out his hand. Pellar pocketed his chalk and let go of his slate which dropped around his neck, held in place by the ever-present string, and solemnly shook Cristov’s hand. Cristov pursed his lips for a moment, then asked, “You aren’t Shunned, are you?”

Pellar shook his head emphatically, reached again for his slate and chalk, and wrote, “Shunned blocked chimney.”

“And you stopped them?” Cristov asked, his eyes brilliant with awe.

Pellar shook his head and held up a finger.

“There was only one of them?”

Pellar nodded.

“What about your voice? Will it come back?” Cristov blurted, obviously overwhelmed with curiosity.

Pellar shook his head.

“Oh,” Cristov said, crestfallen. “Does it bother you that you can’t talk?”

Pellar shrugged, then waggled a hand in a so-so gesture. Then he smiled at Cristov and tapped his ear meaningfully.

“You listen more?” Cristov guessed. Pellar nodded. “I’ll bet you do. And so that’s why you were here? To listen?” Pellar nodded, surprised at how quickly Cristov had guessed. “For the Shunned, right?”

Pellar’s nod merely confirmed Cristov’s suspicions.

“So you’re listening for the Shunned,” Cristov murmured to himself thoughtfully. “Do you work for Master Zist?”

Pellar’s startled look was answer enough for Cristov. Pellar grabbed his slate and hastily wrote, “Secret!”

“From whom?”

“Everyone,” Pellar wrote back.

“Why?”

“Shunned,” Pellar wrote back. He pointed to his throat, rubbed his slate clear, and wrote, “Hurt people.”

“If they found out, they might hurt more people?” Cristov asked, trying to guess at Pellar’s meaning. Just as Pellar started to shake his head, Cristov shook his own head, dismissing the thought. “No, that doesn’t make sense.”

Pellar waved a hand to get the boy’s attention and wrote, “Watch now. Think later.”

Cristov gave him a sheepish grin. “You’re right,” he said, extending a hand to Pellar to help him up the cliff.

Shortly they were in the same position Pellar had seen Tenim occupy the previous night. Pellar leaned forward and painfully craned his still-sore neck over to peer down into the valley below.

Light from the great room of the stone hold outlined the far corner at the east and dimly lit the western corner, but the nearest corner was barely distinguishable. After a while, Cristov said, “I think I can see the chimney.”

Pellar followed the boy’s outstretched arm and peered carefully into the night. It took him a moment to make out the shape of the chimney.

Cristov looked around where they were sitting and picked up a fist-sized rock. Pellar turned at his motion and grabbed Cristov’s hand, shaking his head.

“He threw rocks, right?” Cristov asked, dropping the rock from his hand. Pellar nodded. “They pulled one of the chimney bricks out of the chimney. If Kindan hadn’t come by—” Cristov’s voice broke. “—they’d all be dead.”

Pellar grimaced in agreement.

“And the baby wouldn’t have been born,” Cristov added quietly. He was silent for a longer moment. When he spoke again, it was in a slow, uncertain tone. “If they had died, my father would have been the head miner.”

For the barest instant, Pellar froze. Then he felt Cristov’s eyes on him and he shrugged carelessly, gesturing for the boy to sit down and doing the same himself, sitting on his butt, his knees raised and legs splayed to provide extra stability. Cristov’s gaze intensified, so Pellar wiped his slate clean and wrote a response. To read the slate, Cristov sat down beside him.

“I watch,” he wrote.

“So we’re safe?” Cristov guessed, then added, “As long as no one attacks you.”

Pellar gave him a pained look as he nodded in agreement.

“What would the Shunned want here?”

“Coal,” Pellar wrote.

“But we’d notice, we’d know it when someone stole coal from the dump,” Cristov protested. “And they wouldn’t try to sneak into the mine.”

Pellar nodded in agreement. Chitter, who had flown out over the cliff for his own inspection, flew back and perched on one of Pellar’s knees.

“Could I touch him?” Cristov asked shyly. Pellar glanced at Chitter. The fire-lizard inclined his head toward Cristov and then stretched out his neck in invitation. Pellar indicated his agreement with a beckoning wave of his hand.

Slowly Cristov brought up his hand and gently touched the side of Chitter’s head. The fire-lizard rubbed his head against Cristov’s outstretched fingers enthusiastically.

“He’s beautiful,” Cristov said. “A regular dragon in miniature, not at all like a watch-wher.” He glanced up at Pellar. “My father had a fire-lizard egg once, but the fire-lizard went between when it hatched. My father says that Danil’s watch-wher, Dask, frightened it.”

Pellar gave Cristov a dubious look and the boy shrugged.

“My father says that fire-lizards would be far more useful in the mines than watch-whers,” Cristov said. “He says that he’s going to get another egg soon and he’ll let me keep it.” His voice fell uneasily. “But he says that I’ll have to keep it a secret.”

He looked down at Chitter, stroking his head firmly. “I don’t think I’d like that.”

They sat in silence for a while, and then Cristov stood up.

“I think I’d better get back,” he said. “Will you keep watch?”

Pellar nodded.

“I’ll keep your secret,” Cristov promised as he strode off.

Master Zist was extremely annoyed with Pellar’s disobedience, even after he read Pellar’s painstakingly detailed account of his meeting with Cristov.

“You can’t imagine how I felt,” Zist scolded him fiercely when Pellar returned the next morning, well after dawn. “I didn’t know where you’d got to, or whether you’d gone on your own free will, and even Chitter wasn’t here to send after you.”

“Had to keep watch,” Pellar wrote in his defense. It was a feeble defense and he knew it.

So did Zist, who snorted angrily. “What sort of watch did you keep? You were caught and then, later, you fell asleep.”

Pellar nodded miserably.

“If you can’t do as you’re told, and you won’t rest when you need it, then I shall have to send you back to the Harper Hall,” Zist said.

“Can’t make me,” Pellar wrote defiantly, his eyes flashing angrily as he shoved his slate under Zist’s nose.

Zist bit back an angry response and let out his breath in a long, steadying sigh.

“Well, at least we now know what the Shunned are trading for coal,” he said, forcing himself to change the topic.

Pellar gave him a quizzical look.

“Fire-lizard eggs,” Zist told him. He looked fondly at Chitter. “I should have thought of it myself. Any holder or crafter would exchange top marks for a chance at a fire-lizard.”

Pellar nodded in agreement, one hand idly stroking Chitter’s cheek. The fire-lizard luxuriated in the attention, preening his head against Pellar’s fingers.

“I wonder if that’s how they got to Moran,” Zist said to himself thoughtfully.

Pellar shook his head and wrote, “Tenim has bird.”

Zist looked at him thoughtfully. “You think that Tenim wouldn’t have a bird if Moran had a fire-lizard?”

Pellar nodded.

“And a hunting bird at that,” Zist said. “I suppose—they wouldn’t need a bird if they had a fire-lizard. So Moran wasn’t offered a fire-lizard. Although perhaps he was, and Tenim couldn’t Impress a fire-lizard. From your description, the bird seems a better match for his personality.”

Pellar nodded, his expression bitter.

“And now we know at least one reason Tarik has to hate watch-whers,” Zist said. Pellar gave him an inquiring look, so Zist explained, “He blames the watch-whers for the loss of the fire-lizard.”

Pellar frowned and held up two fingers. He wrote, “Watch-whers awake at night.”

Zist grunted in agreement to Pellar’s correction, then his expression changed. “Maybe we should find a watch-wher.”

“Where?” Pellar wrote, his eyebrows raised questioningly.

Zist pursed his lips thoughtfully for several moments and then he looked Pellar square in the eyes.

“I think it’s time for you to disappear,” Zist replied, his eyes twinkling with mischief. It took Pellar only a moment to guess his master’s thinking. Pellar grinned.

Pellar returned to Crom Hold with the trader caravan, his passage arranged by Master Zist and secured by his agreement to use Chitter as a messenger in case of emergency—and his willingness to help spread gravel to shore up the roadway.

Trader Tarri ordered the caravan to set out slowly, with the domicile caravans in the rear, which not only made good sense but made it easier for Pellar to creep on board the last one, which happened to be Trader Tarri’s.

“Put these on,” she said as soon as she saw him scramble aboard. “And join in the work the next time we stop.”

Pellar nodded mutely and waited until the trader had left before donning the loose-fitting tunic and trousers she’d tossed him.

He found his brawn called upon almost immediately, when the caravan stopped at the next bend.

Tarri had arranged that the foremost dray be filled with gravel and discarded rock from the miners’ diggings. She ordered the larger stones to be laid down first and packed with the backs of the shovels, then covered by a thinner layer of the light gravel be shoveled out to cover it.

After half an hour, Tarri was satisfied and sent the first dray carefully over the repaired road.

From that point on, Pellar found himself at the forefront of the workcrews, patching and filling the road as the caravan made its slow, cautious way back downhill to Crom Hold.

When they stopped for the night it was all he could do to find the rearmost wagon and crawl in.

“No, you don’t!” Tarri barked at him when she saw his muddy boots. “There’s food to eat first.”

She led him back to the communal fire and made sure that he, and everyone else, ate before she did. None of the traders spared a glance in his direction, acting as though he didn’t exist.

The next morning, with the sky still gray, Pellar woke to the sound of someone moving beside him and the smell of fresh hot klah.

“Brought you something to break your fast with,” Tarri said, pushing a roll and a mug of klah into his hands. “I’ll be up front as soon as it’s light. You can stay here but listen for my call, or come if the caravan stops.”

Pellar nodded.

Tarri gave him a thoughtful look, then patted his arm. “You did good work yesterday.”

Pellar nodded in acknowledgment of the compliment, for he knew that was the best he could hope for from the gruff trader.

“With luck, we’ll see Crom Hold before this evening,” Tarri added. Pellar looked surprised and the trader laughed. “The journey’s faster going downhill than up.”

She turned to leave, then turned back again. “What are you going for, anyway?”

Pellar searched for a place to put his mug. Noticing, Tarri took it from him. He nodded gratefully, stuffed his roll in his mouth, and pulled out his slate. He wrote, “Secret.”

Tarri laughed. “And don’t you think I can keep secrets? Nor Master Zist? If so, why’d he ask me to take you?”

Pellar reddened and shrugged apologetically. Tarri laughed again and waved off his embarrassment. “We traders know a fair bit about trading. It seems like Zist has sent you to find something,” she said. She wagged a finger at him. “Finding things is also something we traders are good at.”

Pellar pursed his lips in thought for a long time before he wrote, “Watch-wher egg.”

“Oh!” Tarri nodded. “That makes sense, given the way the last apprentice with a watch-wher scarpered when he heard he was coming to Camp Natalon.” She gave Pellar a shrewd look. “But a watch-wher egg would be no good unless there was someone there to Impress it.”

Pellar nodded but wrote nothing in reply. Tarri gave him another appraising look and laughed. “If you won’t talk, you won’t talk.”

Pellar started to write a protest, but she laughingly waved him back to stillness.

“You know what I mean,” she said. “But I’ll do you a favor, little though it is. The only one who could get you a watch-wher egg is Aleesa, the Whermaster. She’s got a gold watch-wher she sometimes breeds.”

“Where?” Pellar wrote.

Tarri shrugged. “I don’t know.” She tapped her temple. “There’s not much call to trade for watch-wher eggs, so it’s not something I keep in here. Maybe you can find out more at Crom Hold.”

The Whermaster, Aleesa, was so hard to locate that for the first month Pellar doubted her existence. It took him another two months to track her down.

His journeying had hardened him in ways he would not have imagined beforehand; when he boldly made his way into the small camp that was reputed to be Aleesa’s demesne, he was rake thin but whip tough.

He had traveled with the traders when he could, and the Shunned when he had no other choice. His fire-lizard made him a welcome guest among traders and Shunned alike, who considered the fire-lizard’s Impression a character reference. The small groups of traders or Shunned were particularly grateful, seeing the fire-lizard as a source of communications in an emergency.

Over time, his nervousness with the Shunned had faded. He discovered that they were very much like the traders, with one vital difference: The traders were aloof of Hold and Crafthall from choice, the Shunned by decree.

Still, with the Shunned Pellar found himself called upon more often to prove himself, either by providing for the communal pot, prescribing for the sick, or, more often than he liked, proving his strength.

His fights were always with those near his own age who looked upon him as an easy challenge and a good way to improve their standing in the community. After painfully losing his first several encounters, Pellar got quite adept at seeking quick solutions and less concerned about any bruises he gave his assailants.

Even though food was not plentiful and he was expected to share, Pellar thrived, filling out and growing tall. So tall, in fact, that as time progressed he found himself challenged by older, taller lads, many Turns older than his own thirteen.

Upon taking his leave of Trader Tarri at Crom Hold, Pellar found passage on one of the barges heading downstream from Crom Hold, continuing his search for Master Aleesa. He worked the passage, helping pole the barge when necessary and tying it up at night. The family who owned the boat didn’t trust him and made him sleep on deck, although by the end of the sevenday journey, they had grown so fond of him and his fire-lizard that they pressed a well-worn half-mark on him.

A bad piece of advice sent Pellar eastward, to Greenfields, and then on to Campbell’s Field, a journey that took over a month.

It was only at the small hold in Campbell’s Field that Pellar heard that Aleesa had set up a hold of sorts somewhere around Nabol Hold. That was all the way back west of where he was. He sent word to Master Zist, returned to Crom Hold, and took passage once more on a barge downriver. This time he left at Keogh, a minor hold at the bend of the Crom River.

At Nabol Hold he learned that Aleesa’s hold was north in the mountains, but no one quite knew where.

The mountains north of Nabol were mostly forested and uninhabited. Pellar found himself slowed by the necessity of having to forage for food. After three sevendays of searching without success, his strength ebbing, and the last days of summer fast approaching, Pellar was just about ready to give in when he remembered that watch-whers flew at night.

So he ate early, put out his fire, found a clearing at the top of a nearby hill, and waited, eyes eagerly scanning the horizon.

It wasn’t until the middle of the night, when Pellar’s body was so bone cold that he could no longer shiver, that he caught the merest glimpse of something darting in the sky high above him.

He quickly woke Chitter, pointed to the watch-wher, and launched the fire-lizard into the sky.

As soon as Chitter and the watch-wher were out of sight, Pellar crouched down to the stack of wood he’d piled up before him and carefully sparked a small—and oh, so joyously warm—fire.

Chitter returned, quite pleased with himself, late that morning. Shortly thereafter, with a stomach freshly full of jerked beef, Chitter led Pellar to the Whermaster’s hold.

Pellar hadn’t known what sort of reception to expect, but he didn’t count on having an arrow whiz toward him to strike the ground just in front of his foot.

“That’s far enough!” a voice in the distance shouted in warning. “State your business.”

Pellar looked crestfallen, not at a loss for words but at a loss for a way to convey them. He held his hands up, palms out, to show that he was unarmed and waited.

Another arrow answered him. “I said, state your business!”

Pellar pointed to his throat and shook his head, making a face.

“You won’t talk?” another voice suggested. This voice belonged to an old woman, while the other had clearly been a man’s.

Pellar shook his head and pointed to his throat again.

“You can’t talk?” the woman asked, this time sounding intrigued.

Pellar nodded vigorously and smiled as broadly and kindly as he could.

“Do you trust him?” the man called to the woman.

“I don’t know,” the woman shouted back.

“Maybe we shouldn’t take any chances,” the man replied. “If he’s one of the Shunned and he reports back—”

Pellar’s eyes widened. They were talking about killing him.

Pellar stood stock-still for a moment, concentrating on Chitter. The fire-lizard chirped nervously in response but finally, if reluctantly, went between.

“Where’d he go?” the man called angrily.

“He could have gone anywhere,” the old woman responded. When she spoke again, her tone held a grudging respect. “That’s what you intended, isn’t it?”

Pellar nodded firmly.

“If he’s trained his fire-lizard well, the little one could lead others back here,” the old woman continued. There was a silence, then she spoke again. “You can come here, to me. Just remember that Jaythen has a bow trained on you.”

Pellar took a deep steadying breath, hitched up his pack, and carefully walked toward the sound of the woman’s voice.

He had been walking for several moments before the woman’s voice, near but now to his right, called out, “Stop.”

Pellar, still very aware of a bowman somewhere out there, obeyed, standing motionless. For several moments, nothing happened. Then he heard a movement behind him and rough hands grabbed him, pulling him backward off his feet.

He fell back, mouth open in an O of silent surprise. When he landed on his pack, his look was both angry and confused—hadn’t he done everything they’d asked?

Instinctively, he grabbed for his slate. Someone stooped over him from behind, pressing a knife against his chest.

“Don’t,” the man, Jaythen, said.

Pellar let his hands go limp.

“Let him up, Jaythen,” the old woman said. Another shadow fell over Pellar; he looked up and saw a thin old woman with white hair woven into a braid that hung down her back. “He told the truth; he can’t talk. If he could, he would have made some noise when you pulled him over like that.”

His pack weighing him down, Pellar rolled onto his side before shakily standing up. The woman was taller than him. Jaythen stood behind him, doubtless with his knife ready.

Gingerly, Pellar reached for the strap around his neck and was first surprised and then horrified at how easily it moved. Forgetting everything, he felt in his clothes for his slate and was devastated when he found that it had cracked in half from his fall.

“Is that what you write on?” the old woman asked, her voice sounding more kindly than before. “And it’s broken?”

Pellar nodded miserably to both questions.

“Well, we’ll replace it, then,” the woman declared. She held out her hand. “I’m Aleesa.”

Pellar shook it and then pointed to himself and regretfully to his broken slate. He fished out his chalk and wrote his name on one of the pieces.

“Pellar, eh?” Aleesa repeated when she read it. She nodded to herself. “I’ve heard about you.”

“So have I,” Jaythen growled menacingly from behind. “The Silent Harper, everyone calls you. Jaythen spat in disgust, then added, “But the traders said you were a good tracker.”

Aleesa’s eyes flicked beyond Pellar to the man standing behind him and she said, “He walked in here, there’s no other way out.”

“Unless his fire-lizard went to fetch a dragonrider,” Jaythen growled.

Aleesa frowned and then shrugged. “We’ll be moving again soon enough,” she declared. “If the dragonriders come, they’ll find another empty camp.”

She gestured for Pellar to follow him. “Come along, youngster, there’s klah and something warm at the fire.”

Pellar was still somewhat dazed by the turn of events, but he remembered his manners and bowed politely to the old woman, then crooked his elbow toward her in an invitation to hold on to his arm.

Aleesa laughed, a deep hearty laugh that brought out the crow’s-feet around her eyes. She latched onto Pellar’s arm and called over her shoulder, “See, Jaythen? This one has manners!”

Behind them, Jaythen grumbled.

Aleesa’s camp was hidden behind a hillock and nestled against the rising Nabol Mountains. Pellar suppressed a shiver as they went into shadow deeper than the early morning. Beside him, Aleesa shook herself and shivered.

“My bones don’t like this cold,” she admitted to him. “I’m too old.”

At the foot of the mountain there was a small opening, and Aleesa led him inside. To the right side there was a small crevice; on the left, a larger opening with the smell of klah and stew. Aleesa led him to the left.

The opening widened to a natural cave that reminded Pellar of the cave he’d found up by Camp Natalon, except that this cave was far more spacious and had several alcoves. Young children played noisily in the center of the cave, while around them a couple of women bustled, washing, cooking, or keeping the children out of the worst of the mischief.

“Those that aren’t resting are on watch,” Aleesa said. She gestured to the women. “These are just the child minders.”

One of the women looked up at the oblique introduction, smiled at Pellar, but was instantly distracted by the movements of a baby crawling toward the open fire.

Pellar nodded at Aleesa’s explanation, keeping his expression neutral. He got the impression that Aleesa wanted him to believe that the camp had many inhabitants, but a quick glance at the food stored in the pantry and the size of the pots told him that there could be no more than two or three others in the whole place—and that with them all on short rations.

Aleesa herself served him up a cup of klah. Pellar nodded and smiled in thanks, cupping his hands gratefully around the warmth. The klah was thin and watered down.

Aleesa gestured toward a pile of furs placed to one side of the cave and took a seat on the largest pile. Pellar found another fur nearby and sat.

“I’d heard that you’ve been looking for us for several months now,” Aleesa said.

Pellar nodded.

“You found our old camp over by Campbell’s Field?”

Pellar shook his head, his surprise obvious.

“I told Jaythen no one would find it,” she said with a bitter laugh. Her look turned sour. “Except maybe the dragonriders.”

Pellar carefully schooled his expression to be neutral but he didn’t fool the old woman.

“They don’t like us,” Aleesa continued bitterly. “They say that watch-whers steal food meant for their dragons.” She snorted in disgust. “That D’gan! Him with his high airs. He’s got it in his mind that the watch-whers ate him out of Igen Weyr.”

Pellar looked surprised. He knew that D’gan was the Weyrleader of Telgar Weyr, and that Igen Weyr had been combined with Telgar a number of Turns back, but he hadn’t heard anything about watch-whers being involved.

“He says that they are abominations and shouldn’t exist,” Aleesa said with a sniff. She looked up at Pellar. “I know they’re no beauties on the outside, but they’ve hearts of gold when you get to know them, hearts of gold.” Her eyes turned involuntarily toward the entrance to the cave and the crevice beyond.

“And there are so few left,” she added softly.

“So few,” she repeated, nodding to herself, her gaze turned inward. After a moment, she glanced back up at Pellar and told him conspiratorially, “I think she’s the last one, you know.”

Then her tone changed abruptly and she demanded, “So what do you want and why should I let you live?”

It was then that Pellar realized that the Whermaster was quite insane.

In the course of the next few days, Pellar discovered that Aleesa’s camp was a desperate place full of desperate people. It took of all Pellar’s tact, winsome ways, and hard work to earn their grudging acceptance—and his continued existence. For, unlike the Shunned, these people were not only desperate, they were fanatics dedicated to the continued existence of the watch-whers.

Realizing how desperate the camp was for game, Pellar offered to set and tend traps, which he was allowed to do, though he was often shadowed by Jaythen or one of the other men of the camp. He gladly accepted even the worst jobs and did his best at them all, to the point where even Aleesa commented on how brightly he’d shined the pots assigned him.

Good as her word, Aleesa had one of the men find suitable pieces of slate to replace Pellar’s broken one and help with the difficult task of boring holes on which to string it. Pellar took advantage of the supply to lay aside other pieces for the future.

Because he was not trusted, Pellar often found himself stuck entertaining the camp’s three young children, none of them more than toddlers. It was difficult, particularly as he couldn’t tell them what to do, but he quickly found that they were entranced by his expressive ways, charming games, and magical pipes.

As soon as he could, he gathered enough reeds to fashion three more pipes, each a different note, and taught the children how to play one of the more popular Teaching Songs. The mothers were pleased and vocal in their pride of their children; Aleesa was not.

“Teaching Songs!” she snorted when she heard it. “What do we need of those? ‘Honor those the dragons heed!’” She shook her head disgustedly.

Pellar gave her a quizzical look, surprised by her vehemence.

“Dragonriders care nothing for us,” Aleesa continued in a bitter voice. “It was D’gan himself, Weyrleader of Telgar, who sent us packing from our last camp.”

“‘Your beasts will eat all the herdbeasts and leave nothing for the fighting dragons,’” she quoted. She shook her head, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

“Fighting dragons!” she snorted. “No Thread has fallen any time in over a hundred Turns! What do they fight?” She shook her head dolefully.

“And he turfed us out, just like that, like we were Shunned.” She sniffed. “One of the babies died on the way here, for want of food.” She shook her head again. “Anything the watch-whers ate, they earned. They kept watch at night for nightbeasts eager to devour the herds, they caught and killed tunnel snakes, frightened away wherries—even the herders were glad to have us—but he sent us packing.

“No,” she said, looking at Pellar, “I’ll hear nothing of dragonriders in my camp. They sent us out to die, and the last queen watch-wher with us.”

The look of shock on Pellar’s face was so obvious that Aleesa, when she saw it, gave him a sour laugh. “You think all dragonriders are perfect and can do no harm?” She shook her head derisively. “You have a lot to learn, little one, a lot to learn.”

She turned away from him, toward her sleeping alcove. Her gaze rested briefly on the youngsters all snuggled together, surrounded by their parents.

“This place is too cold,” she declared, shivering. She nodded to the children. “Come winter, there’ll be less of them.”

She looked at Pellar.

“You’ve the watch,” she told him. From a corner, Jaythen looked up sharply at her declaration. “You wake Jaythen next.”

Pellar nodded.

“Don’t bother the watch-wher,” Aleesa warned him. “If you hear any noise, send your fire-lizard to tell her.” She rolled her eyes in disbelief. “For some reason, she likes him. She’ll check anything out; she’s got the best night eyes on Pern.”

Pellar waved in acknowledgment, strode to the entrance of the cave, and settled down cross-legged, with his back to the distant fire.

Chitter made a quick tour of the surroundings and returned to curl up near Pellar, resting his head on the youngster’s leg. Pellar smiled and idly stroked his fire-lizard, his mind turning over his conversation with Aleesa.

He had heard enough rumors about D’gan, the Weyrleader of Telgar, on his journeying. His trip from Crom Hold to Keogh had been through lands looking to Telgar Weyr for protection when Thread came again. Also, Campbell’s Field. He remembered that the holders, particularly the herdsmen he met at Campbell’s Field, had been very wary of talking about Aleesa and her watch-whers. When he’d convinced them that he wasn’t working for D’gan and they found themselves comfortable talking to him—usually after a few glasses of wine—they told Pellar exactly what Aleesa had said, though in different words.

“Best thing against a nightbeast I’d ever seen,” one herder said of the watch-whers, shaking his head sadly. “We lost more herdbeasts the first sevenday after they left than we gave for the protection of the watch-whers in the last half Turn.” Hastily, he added, “Not that I mean any disrespect to our Weyrleader.”

Pellar’s opinion of D’gan had been formed earlier, when he’d heard how Telgar Weyr had repeatedly won the Weyr Games. The gossip around the Harper Hall had not been very flattering.

“He’s such a bad winner, I hope he never loses,” was the one comment Pellar had heard most often from the older journeymen.

A noise from behind, followed immediately by something butting against his back, caused Pellar to startle and jump. When he turned back, he saw the large glowing eyes of a watch-wher staring back at him. It butted him again, politely. Beside him, Chitter leaped up and hovered near the watch-wher.

Pellar looked curiously at the watch-wher, and realized that it was the gold. He wondered what the watch-wher wanted and was at a loss for some way to communicate when Chitter landed on his shoulder and started tugging at him.

Oh, you want to go out, Pellar thought to himself. He stood aside, and the watch-wher lumbered out of the crevice into the dale. You’re welcome, Pellar thought, just as he did with Chitter.

The gold turned back for a moment and nodded her head toward Pellar before turning back, taking one giant stride, and jumping into the air.

Well, they’re related to dragons, Pellar mused, so why wouldn’t they move well in midair?

He was still trying to absorb this new thought when a voice behind him cried out and he felt a rush of air. Suddenly there was a second watch-wher in the air, climbing frantically after the queen.

A rush of feet behind him alerted him in time to turn and see Aleesa come pelting toward him.

“You! Send your fire-lizard away!” she ordered. As Pellar’s brows furrowed questioningly, she added, “It’s a mating flight! You’ll not want him around.”

A mating flight? Like dragons? Pellar grabbed for Chitter and locked eyes with his brown. Chitter protested twice but finally agreed and, just after Pellar released him, vanished between.

“Have you ever seen a mating flight?” Aleesa asked, her voice filled with a reverence that made Pellar uneasy.

Pellar shook his head.

“Have you ever felt a mating flight?” Aleesa asked with a hint of a leer in her voice.

Reluctantly Pellar nodded. Others were awake now and rushed out of the cave. Jaythen approached Aleesa with a wild light in his eyes and Pellar realized that the bronze watch-wher was bonded to him.

“Do you want to do this, Aleesa?” Jaythen asked, his voice rasping with barely controlled emotions. “She’s old.”

“She’ll outfly your bronze if you keep jabbering,” Aleesa replied, turning toward the younger man. She spared one last glance at Pellar. “Have Polla get the children and the others prepared and stay with them.”

Pellar nodded and ran back to the cave. He found Polla, one of the older women, already organizing the children into groups. He was surprised to see some of the younger women eyeing him consideringly.

“It’d only be for the flight,” the woman said when she caught his gaze. “Nothing more than that.”

Pellar nodded, not sure of his own feelings, and wondered how many of the children were the results of previous mating flights—he’d heard enough about them during his time at the Harper Hall.

“They’ll be needing food and warmth after the flight,” Polla warned, brusquely setting the children to play near the fire.

Who, Pellar wondered, the watch-whers, Aleesa, or the children?

“How many Turns have you, anyway?” Polla asked, regarding Pellar carefully.

Pellar hastily pulled out his slate and wrote 13.

Polla read it and laughed, nodding toward the younger woman. “Arella’s nearer your age, she’s only three Turns older.”

Pellar found it hard to believe that the other woman had only sixteen Turns; he would have guessed her nearer to thirty. Life with the watch-whers was clearly very demanding.

“Come sit by me, then,” Arella called, patting a spot near her.

Pellar crossed around the fire and had just sat, nervously, when the watch-whers mated.

Much later, Arella whispered in his ear, “Now you are one of us.”

“He is not one of us,” Jaythen declared loudly the next day, staring angrily at Pellar and Arella but directing his speech to Aleesa.

The old woman looked very tired. She shook her head slowly. “Perhaps,” she said, “perhaps not.” She cast a secretive glance toward Arella. “Time will tell.”

“Mother,” Arella said, “it was a mating flight. He knows.”

Knows what? Pellar wondered. That watch-whers mated? That they were enough like dragons that people felt the intensity of their emotions?

“It might be her last mating flight,” Aleesa said, her voice betraying her own fatigue and sorrow. “If there’s no queen egg…”

Pellar looked up at the mention of eggs. Jaythen and Aleesa both noted it.

“You’re here for an egg?” Jaythen demanded, towering menacingly over Pellar.

Pellar nodded.

“You would steal an egg, why?” Aleesa asked.

Pellar shook his head. He slowly drew out his slate, very aware of Jaythen’s menacing presence, and wrote, “Not steal. Trade.”

“Trade what?” Jaythen growled derisively. He turned to Aleesa. “We’ve been through his pack; he’s got nothing of value.”

Pellar kept a neutral look on his face; he’d known that they had searched his pack the first night he arrived. He had guessed that they would.

“He’d’ve hidden anything of value, Jaythen,” Arella said to the older wherhandler, not attempting to keep her sense of derision from her voice.

“What’s valuable enough for a watch-wher’s egg?” Jaythen demanded.

Pellar felt all eyes on him. Hastily he wrote, “Warmth. Fire. Fuel.”

He passed his slate to Aleesa, who looked at it and frowned, passing it on to Polla.

“Warmth, fire, fuel,” Polla reported.

It was then that Pellar realized that Aleesa couldn’t read. All the other times, he hadn’t realized that she’d let someone else read his slate because she couldn’t; he’d thought she’d done it to prove her authority.

Pellar gestured urgently for the slate. Polla passed it back to him, her brow creased in concern. Pellar made sure that no one else saw what he wrote before he passed it to Aleesa.

Aleesa frowned at it, then passed it to Polla. Polla read it, gasped, and gave Pellar a hard look. Pellar gestured for her to read it. Polla glared at him, then glanced nervously at Aleesa.

“Well?” Aleesa demanded.

“It says, ‘lessons,’” Polla reported.

Aleesa snorted. “In return for which, I’m supposed to teach you how to talk, I presume?”

Pellar stood up, backing away from Jaythen, whose attitude, if anything, had grown more frosty during the exchange. He bowed low to Aleesa, stood up again, and gestured to the children. From inside his tunic, he pulled out his pipes, mimed putting them to his lips, put them back in his tunic, and then made like he was holding a guitar.

“You claim you’re harper-trained just because you can make pipes?” Jaythen asked incredulously. He laughed derisively. “A pretty poor excuse you are for a harper if you can’t speak!”

Pellar nodded and then shook his head, cupping his ear and frowning intently.

“He hears better than those who talk,” Aleesa guessed. She laughed, and not bitterly.

“And he’s got a fire-lizard, Mother,” Arella pointed out. “If he can keep one of those, he’ll be able to bond with a watch-wher.”

Pellar shook his head emphatically and made a waving-off gesture with one hand. He retrieved his slate from Polla and wrote, “Not me.”

“Who, then?” Aleesa asked. “Would you bring a horde upon us?”

Pellar gave Aleesa a long, thoughtful look. “Good idea,” he wrote finally.

“Good idea?” Jaythen snorted when he read the slate. “What makes that a good idea?”

“Sell the eggs,” Pellar wrote. “Herdsmen, miners.”

Polla’s eyes widened when she read his response, and her tone was very thoughtful when she told Aleesa, “He’s thinking you could sell the eggs to herdsmen and miners.”

“Sell them?” Aleesa repeated. She looked at Pellar and frowned. “And what would we sell them for?”

“A year’s coal,” Arella answered immediately. She looked defiantly at her mother and then at Pellar. “The chance of an egg for a year’s supply of coal.”

“Chance?” Jaythen repeated.

“They’d have to get by Aleesk,” Arella pointed out.

Aleesa barked a laugh. “I like it!”

“The herdsmen could offer a year’s supply of food,” Polla added, looking at the youngsters huddled together by the fire.

“Or gold,” Jaythen said, his eyes glowing thoughtfully. “Better than marks: You can buy anything with gold.”

Aleesa raised a hand, silencing the group. She gave Pellar a long, appraising look.

“It’s a deal,” she said finally. Pellar’s eyes brightened until she raised her hand. “If you stay here, make the arrangements, and provide for your replacement as harper when the time comes.”

She held out her hand to him. “Will you do it?”

Pellar thought for a moment and then, slowly, took her hand and shook it firmly.

“Heard and witnessed!” Arella declared. From the watch-whers’ cave came a chorus of acknowledgment.

Pellar’s new duties, it seemed, didn’t absolve him of his old duties; he found himself working twice as hard. Arella’s behavior toward him was much warmer and full of playful banter, which was good, as Jaythen seemed to grow more distrustful with every new day.

So it was more than a month before Pellar found the time and the timber with which to fashion the frame of a decent drum. He started with a well-formed section of tree trunk, carefully carved out the center, and slowly expanded the hollow until the frame was only a few centimeters thick. With all the other work he had, the process took him two sevendays.

“What are you doing?” Arella asked him late one night as she watched him carefully rub a rough stone against the outside of the frame. She peered curiously around the fire in the middle of the largest cavern.

Pellar paused, carefully placing his stone tool and work to the side before dragging out his slate, on which he wrote, “Sanding.”

Arella made a face. “I see that, but why?”

Pellar looked at her, picked up the frame, and mimed pounding on the hole where a skin should be. Arella looked at him with a creased brow before she relaxed in comprehension. “You’re making a drum?”

Pellar nodded. Arella crossed around the fire in quick strides and sat down close by him. She leaned in to peer at the drum in his hands and begged, “Teach me how.”

Pellar thought for a moment, nodded, and handed her the frame and rough stone.

Arella looked down at both in awe and then looked up at Pellar. “What do I do?”

“Sand,” Pellar wrote in reply.

The next morning, Pellar set out in search of a good hide for the drum. As he trotted from one trap to the next, he suppressed his irritation at Jaythen trailing him. Grinning, he glanced back over his shoulder to where Jaythen was hiding. Rather, where Jaythen was trying to hide, for Jaythen’s skills were only slightly better than none at all.

Pellar had taken pains to remain easily tracked in the past several sevendays—although he occasionally applied more of his craft just to learn the limits of Jaythen’s skill. He was always careful never to lose Jaythen for too long, lest the older man guess Pellar’s true abilities.

So far, after three traps, Pellar had nothing to show for his efforts. What he really wanted was a wherry foolish to fly into one of his large aerial traps—wherhide would make an excellent drumhead—but he’d settle for one of the larger furbeasts. What he didn’t expect was half a furbeast and a busted trap. He had barely time to recognize what he was looking at before an arrow flew by his shoulder and landed near the broken trap. Pellar whirled around to see Jaythen waving at him frantically and gesturing for him to run. Pellar had only taken his first confused step when Jaythen stiffened, notched another arrow to his bow, and let it fly—straight at Pellar.

Pellar dived to the right out of the arrow’s path, landing hard on his shoulder, curling up as soon as he hit the ground, and turning around to face the sounds coming from behind him. He pulled his knife from the top of his left boot and cradled it in both hands close to his chest while coming up to a crouch, for the volume of the sound told him he was facing something big and fast. And the grunting noise told him it was a wildboar—one of the most dangerous creatures on Pern.

Pellar only had an instant to spot Jaythen’s arrow sticking out of the wildboar’s left eye before he dove to the side and flung himself atop the wildboar. It lurched under his weight and squirmed to dislodge him. Pellar wrapped his numb right arm around the beast’s haunches and dug deeply into the wildboar’s neck with his knife. The boar squealed and bucked, throwing Pellar off.

Pellar fell hard, banging his head on a rock and rolling over another with his sore shoulder. He would have screamed out loud if he could. His face pinched in pain, he grabbed the rock his head had hit on the way down and threw it at the wildboar.

“Are you mad?” Jaythen yelled in the distance. “Run!”

But Pellar shook his head, knowing that even as injured as the wildboar was, he was too slow to outrun it.

The wildboar charged toward him, its good eye blazing balefully.

Pellar dodged to the left just in time, grabbing at his knife as he did. The knife wouldn’t dislodge, but that was fine with him: He was hoping to drive it deeper. With a sudden squeal, the wildboar’s legs splayed out from under it and it fell to the ground.

Jaythen rushed up. “Did you kill it?”

Pellar shook his head. Jaythen threw him a puzzled look, which cleared up as he saw that the beast was still breathing.

“You cut its spine,” Jaythen surmised, drawing his own blade and deftly delivering the mercy blow. The wildboar gave one last surprised sigh and collapsed.

Pellar exhaled heavily, carefully wiped his blade, returned it to his boot, pulled out his slate, and wrote, “Hide mine.”

Jaythen snorted when he read the note. “It’s yours,” he declared. He gestured at their kill and said with a broad grin, “There’s a sevenday’s eating here.”

Pellar nodded, smiling in return. Wildboar made great eating.

With a laugh, Jaythen patted him on the shoulder and declared, “Now you’re one of us.”

Arella took charge of the carcass as soon as Pellar and Jaythen brought it in. Pellar was surprised to see how deft she was with a knife, even more so when she presented him with a perfectly cut hide. She also took great pains to get as much blood on Pellar as herself, dragging him off to the nearby bathing pool as soon as she’d set the meat to smoking.

Pellar played and cavorted with her but refused to be drawn into anything more serious, pointing to his various injuries. Arella’s angry frown was immediately replaced by a tender look and she insisted on bandaging him when they were done with their ablutions and had returned to the main cave of what Pellar had started to think of as the wherhold.

“So when are you going to arrange these trades?” Aleesa demanded at dinner that evening. Her abrupt manner was as close to praise as he’d ever heard from her.

Pellar held up a hand politely, finished chewing his food, fished out his slate, and wrote, “Eggs.”

“You know I can’t read,” Aleesa told him curtly, sliding the slate toward Arella. Pellar grabbed her hand, caught her eyes, and shook his head slightly. Gently he pulled the slate back and carefully drew three small ovals piled on top of each other. He slid the slate back to Aleesa and gave her a challenging look.

“Eggs?” Aleesa said, glancing at the drawing. Then she glanced up at the letters above. “That says eggs?”

Pellar nodded. Aleesa glanced down at the writing once more, her gaze intent on absorbing and remembering every aspect of the letters before her.

After a moment, Pellar touched her hand and gestured to get the slate back. He carefully rubbed out the letter “s” and two of the three ovals and slid the slate back to Aleesa.

“Egg?” Aleesa guessed. When Pellar nodded, she squinted at the slate, examining it carefully. “That little squiggle at the end, that makes the ‘sss’ sound?”

Pellar nodded, smiling encouragingly.

“That’s the letter ‘s,’ Mother,” Arella told her.

Pellar nodded and gestured for the slate again. Aleesa released it with just a hint of reluctance. Pellar acknowledged her expression and carefully erased the letters and drawing. He wrote the letter “s” and handed the slate back to her, this time handing her the chalk as well.

“You want me to write the letter?” Aleesa asked. Pellar nodded. Aleesa frowned, then bent over the slate, carefully sliding the chalk on the slate. She muttered to herself as she drew and finally looked up, holding the slate toward Pellar with a sour look.

“Mine doesn’t look as good as yours,” Aleesa said.

Pellar held up one finger.

“You’re saying that it’s my first?”

Pellar nodded.

Aleesa pursed her lips, but Pellar’s face burst into a smile as he danced his finger up and down in front of her and cocked his head invitingly. He held up two fingers, then three, four, and finally five.

“You want me to try five more times?”

Pellar nodded.

Aleesa’s lips thinned rebelliously, and Arella smiled at her and mimicked, “‘Five times to learn, Arella.’”

Aleesa frowned and stuck her tongue out at her daughter playfully. She turned back to Pellar, bit back some comment, and carefully drew four more copies of the letter.

When she was finished, Pellar examined her handiwork carefully and then nodded emphatically, not failing to note the slight sigh of relief that Aleesa tried to keep hidden from him.

And so began Aleesa’s education.

In the days that followed, though both she and Pellar found themselves exasperated by their mutual difficulty in communicating—his in speaking and hers in reading—neither one would permit it to sour or break their bargain.

“‘I go soon,’” Aleesa repeated nearly ten sevendays later. She shook her head at Pellar. “Shouldn’t it be: I’ll be going soon?”

Pellar nodded in agreement but pointed at the slate.

“Oh, I see,” Aleesa said. “The slate’s too small.”

“Be sure not to use that drum of yours until you’re far away,” Jaythen warned.

“And be prepared to run—you’re likely to draw every one of the Shunned upon you,” Aleesa added.

Pellar nodded understandingly. They had discussed his plans in detail over the past several sevendays. Jaythen had been the first to point out that if in the watch-wher eggs they had something to trade, they also had something for the Shunned to steal.

“I’m convinced they get a lot of their money from trading in fire-lizards’ eggs,” he had said.

“Hunting birds,” Pellar had written in response, opening himself to a long line of questioning from Aleesa, Jaythen, and Arella in which he explained his encounter with Halla, Tenim, and Tenim’s hawk. Arella had drawn him out, and Pellar had found himself explaining about the flowers and the tragedy at Camp Natalon. Tears welled in his eyes as he recounted how he’d found the small snow-covered mounds.

“Working underground!” Jaythen exclaimed when Pellar explained the expected watch-wher’s role.

Aleesa took on the abstracted look that Pellar had come to recognize meant she was communicating with her watch-wher. “Aleesk says that watch-whers like the dark and would enjoy it,” she reported a moment later.

“Dask did,” Pellar wrote in response.

“Very well,” Aleesa said. “You may tell this Zist of yours that we’ll trade. A winter’s worth of coal for a chance at an egg.”

“Chance?” Pellar wrote back.

“Whoever wants it has to get it from Aleesk,” Aleesa replied with an evil grin. “I’ll let her have the final say.”

“Fair enough,” Pellar had written in reply.

“When will you go?”

“Tomorrow,” Pellar wrote back.

“Tomorrow it is, then,” Aleesa agreed. Beside her, Arella gave a sob and raced out of the main cavern. Aleesa followed her daughter’s anguished departure with her eyes and looked back to Pellar. “She is hoping that when you come back, you’ll stay.”

Pellar nodded.

“And?”

Pellar shook his head sadly.

“It’s a hard life with the watch-whers,” Aleesa said with a sigh. Her eyes twinkled as she added, “It has its compensations, like mating flights, but I won’t deny it’s hard.”

She caught his gaze and held it with her own.

“You could make it better, though,” she told him.

Pellar’s mouth quivered, but finally, he shook his head, wiped his slate clean, and wrote on it, “Shunned.”

Aleesa read it and nodded slowly. “You don’t like putting flowers on graves.”

Pellar nodded.

“You’re a good lad, Harper Pellar,” Aleesa said. “I’ll not force you, but remember this—you’ve a home here if you want.”

Pellar grabbed her hand and squeezed it in thanks, rose, and bowed slightly, then sprinted off after Arella.

He found her outside of the main compound, up near a stand of trees.

“I’m not staying,” Arella told him as he approached. He arched an eyebrow at her. Whether she saw it in the dark or guessed at it didn’t matter. She was crouched on the ground, cradling her knees with her arms, her chin rested on one knee. “I’ll be here when you get back, but I’m not staying.”

Pellar sat down beside her. She sidled up next to him and laid her head on his shoulder.

“One of those coming for an egg will want help, I’m sure,” she said. “I’ll go with him. There’s more than watch-whers, worry, and empty bellies in this world, and I want it.”

Arella pulled away from him and stood up. Pellar stood up beside her. She looked at him half-defiant, half-hopeful. He shook his head slowly—no, he did not love her.

“I knew that,” Arella said. But Pellar could hear the lie in her voice.

He tugged at her, gesturing toward the cave. Arella followed reluctantly. Her resistance grew when he turned toward their sleeping quarters, but he waved aside her objections with a hand and begged her with his eyes to wait. Suspiciously, Arella followed him.

From under his sleeping furs, he pulled out a small, perfect drum and presented it to her solemnly.

“For me?” Arella asked, carefully turning the drum over in her hands.

Pellar nodded and wrote quickly. “‘Arella. Emergency.’ I come.”

He had taught her how to drum her name and the emergency signal several sevendays before.

“If I need you, I can call for you?” Arella asked, her eyes gleaming again.

Pellar nodded firmly.

Arella smiled and drew him toward her for a kiss. Not the kiss of lovers, but the kiss of friends who once had been.

Pellar took the most difficult route out of Aleesa’s wherhold: He went straight over the mountains. It took him a full day to get to the far side. He pressed on at first light the next morning and was glad to find himself within sight of Keogh, a minor hold of Crom, before the sun set that evening. He found a good camp but did not wait to set up before unlimbering his drum, checking the bindings of the wildboar hide, and rolling out the quick beat of “Attention.”

A huge grin split his face as he heard no less than three drums return the “Ready” signal.

His grin slipped a little as he sought to compose his message. He finally settled on: “For Zist. Aleesa will trade.”

He would send Chitter on with a longer explanation.

As the drums pounded back their acknowledgment, Pellar spread out his sleeping roll and gestured for Chitter. His note to Master Zist was terse but explained the most of the details.

Chitter waited patiently for Pellar to roll the small piece of paper and tie it onto his harness, but Pellar could tell that the fire-lizard was increasingly eager at the thought of the tidbits he’d find at Master Zist’s table—just as Pellar had hoped.

With a final chirp, the fire-lizard bade Pellar farewell, leaped into the air, and blinked between before he was more than head high above Pellar.

Greedy guts, Pellar thought with a grin as he pulled off his boots and socks and settled in for a well-earned rest.

Chitter was back the next morning with a small breadroll, a note from Zist, and a belly that had clearly been stuffed to the gills.

Pellar merely smiled and shook his head; he intended to keep Chitter working for his food. The fire-lizard caught his mood and did a quick twirl in the air, standing almost on his tail, before returning to Pellar’s shoulder with a satisfied chirp.

At Keogh, Pellar earned his meal and a place to sleep with his pipes and his slowly told tales of watch-whers and watch-wher eggs. He left before first light, certain that on his return he would not only get another night’s food and board, but also at least two holders committed to trade for the privilege of a watch-wher egg.

But Keogh wasn’t his primary goal. He had in mind, instead, the herders he’d met near Campbell’s Field, and some of the wiser traders he’d met along the way.

The herders’ need for watch-whers was obvious, and Pellar felt a small twinge of satisfaction at the notion of arranging things so that D’gan would have no choice but to accept the creatures—he couldn’t argue that they were useless if they were set to protect the very herdbeasts his dragons dined on.

He traveled fast, prepared to get rides where he could and ready to steal them where he couldn’t. Aleesa had told him that Aleesk had already clutched and that it would be only four sevendays before the watch-wher eggs hatched. He planned to be back at least a sevenday beforehand, ready to acknowledge those with whom he’d set up trades and fight off those with whom he hadn’t.

What he hadn’t counted on was the dragonrider. He was three days out of Keogh and worried that he was falling behind on his schedule when he noticed a strange shadow on the ground before him. Chitter squawked and flew up out of sight. As Pellar craned his neck up to follow the fire-lizard, he found his eye distracted by the sight of a large bronze dragon, wheeling downward on its wingtip, circling right above him.

Pellar froze, unable to react. The dragon was huge. Its eyes whirled the blue of contentment. Did that mean that the dragon was happy to find him, or glad to have caught an intruder?

Pellar was not at all sure how a dragonrider of Telgar Weyr would react if they knew his mission.

He forced himself to relax—the dragonriders wouldn’t know his mission unless someone had told them. And the only people who knew were Aleesa’s people and Master Zist.

Pellar waved. The dragon was low enough now that Pellar could make out the dragon’s rider and he waved back.

Shortly the dragon landed and Pellar realized once again how huge bronze dragons could be. The dragon’s head was nearly twice as tall as Pellar and its body could easily have circled three, maybe four, of the traders’ large workdrays.

Pellar bowed low, first to the dragon, and then to the rider who quickly dismounted and pulled off his headgear.

“Are you Pellar?” the rider called out, striding quickly toward him.

Pellar nodded.

“Master Zist sent me for you,” the rider said. “I’m D’vin of High Reaches.” He gestured back to his dragon. “This is Hurth.”

He saw Chitter hovering near the dragon’s left eye and added with a laugh, “I see that your fire-lizard has introduced himself already.”

D’vin eyed Pellar carefully. “Master Zist asked me to bring you back.”

Pellar gave him a questioning look.

“Isn’t it true that the watch-whers are living on land that looks to High Reaches?” D’vin asked.

Could High Reaches want the watch-whers to leave? Pellar wondered in horror.

D’vin must have guessed his thoughts. “Master Zist asked Weyrleader B’ralar to extend the protection of the Weyr to Master Aleesa and the watch-whers.

“He said that you’d told him about Master Aleesa being driven out of Telgar lands by D’gan,” the bronze rider added, in an odd tone, one that strived not to be disapproving.

Pellar nodded.

“Let me bring you to Zist,” D’vin said. Pellar looked startled—what about his mission?

“Afterward, I’ll help you on your way.”

Pellar bowed in thanks and then looked back at the dragon, trying to keep his eyes from going wide. He had never ridden a dragon before.

The dragon, Hurth, swiveled his long sinewy neck so that both eyes peered down at Pellar. For a moment, Pellar was lost in those huge, whirling eyes that were nearly as large as he was tall. He felt the same keenness of attention that he got from Chitter, only more so. He had a sense that something about him amused and intrigued the dragon.

Hurth inclined his head slightly and Pellar heard a voice in his head tell him with a laughing lilt, You think that you can’t talk to people. You do it all the time.

Could the dragon hear his thoughts? Pellar wondered, eyes wide in amazement.

Yes, came the reply. Pellar noticed the crispness of the voice, strangely devoid of tone yet still full of inflection and meaning. So can your little one.

Chitter chirped and flew a quick circuit between Pellar and the huge dragon.

He can? Pellar asked, both awed and thrilled. He had always thought that he had a special relationship with the fire-lizard, he’d felt and hoped that Chitter understood him but—to have a dragon confirm it! Pellar looked at his small friend and thought hard. Chitter flipped in the air and flew straight into Pellar’s arms, made a satisfied noise, and stroked Pellar’s chin with his face.

He is very lucky, your little one, Hurth said. Pellar felt that he both knew and didn’t know what the dragon meant by the remark, but before he could reply, he got the distinct impression that the dragon was occupied elsewhere, listening to a voice Pellar could not hear.

D’vin—the name was spoken with a warmth that awed Pellar—says that we should go. He is glad you can hear me. He asks if you can give me the image for Master Zist and Camp Natalon.

Image? Pellar asked himself, bewildered. Then he remembered that dragons were like fire-lizards, and that they needed to visualize their destination first. Pellar had never ridden a-dragonback. Image, he thought. He scanned the sky for the sun and then visualized as clearly as he could the fork of the road leading into Camp Natalon, Zist’s stone cothold, the larger stone hold of Natalon, the shed where Danil’s watch-wher had lived, the other road curving right and uphill toward the coal dump.

You give good coordinates, Hurth complimented. Very clear, very clean.

“You’ll want to put these on,” D’vin said, pulling a pack off his back and removing something blue. He shook it out and handed it across to Pellar.

Pellar shook his head and waved the offer aside, appalled that the dragonrider would offer him the clothes of a full apprentice harper.

“They’ll fit,” D’vin said, extending his hand again. “Master Murenny swore on it.”

Pellar gave the dragonrider a questioning look.

“He said that they’re yours,” D’vin told him in reply. For a moment the confident rider looked uncomfortable as he asked, “You’re not upset that there’s no proper ceremony, are you? Master Murenny seemed assured that you’d take these from a dragonrider.”

Harper clothes? Apprentice? A full apprentice? Proper? Pellar dodged past the clothes and grabbed the rider in a fierce hug, clapping him firmly on the back.

Even though Master Murenny and Zist had said he could be an apprentice, he had always been half-afraid that they didn’t mean it, that maybe they were just humoring him—until now. Proper clothes! He really was a harper!

I have told D’vin that you are honored, Hurth said, adding a low rumble to Chitter’s high, happy warbling.

Pellar stepped back and bowed apologetically to D’vin.

The bronze rider smiled, drew himself up to his full height, steadied his expression, held out the blue garments in both hands to Pellar and said formally, “Pellar, I have been requested by Murenny, Masterharper of Pern, to present you the formal garb of a harper apprentice. Do you accept?”

With equal formality, Pellar nodded and gave the dragonrider the same half-bow he’d seen other apprentices give on their induction into the Harper Hall. Then he took formal delivery of the precious blue garments.

D’vin excused himself to inspect Hurth’s riding harness while Pellar changed into his harper blue. He was sorry that he couldn’t clean himself up better; it had been days since his last bath. Inside the new blue-stained wherhide boots Pellar was quite pleased to find clean socks.

He was surprised to notice that his trousers and tunic both contained several large pockets—not standard.

D’vin, alerted by Hurth, turned and told him, “Master Murenny told me that you’d wonder about the pockets. He said to tell you that he expects you to carry more burdens than most.”

Pellar looked surprised.

“He also said that he was sure you’d be up to them,” the dragonrider added. “From the little I’ve seen of you, I’d say he underestimates you.”

D’vin gestured to Hurth’s shoulders. “This time, however, Hurth stands ready to carry you.”

The bronze dragon snorted and nodded in agreement.

A dragon. Pellar looked again at the huge beast. He felt uneasy.

You’re not afraid of me, are you? Hurth asked, sounding slightly hurt.

No, Pellar responded immediately. But you are rather big.

I am as big as I need to be, Hurth replied. If I were smaller, how would I be able to carry you and D’vin?

Pellar smiled at Hurth’s logic. His smile was echoed by D’vin’s laugh.

“Come, Harper,” D’vin declared, holding out his hand. “Let me get you up on the big one before he decides he really is too small for both of us!”

D’vin sat in front. When he was settled, he turned back to Pellar, both hands in fists with the thumbs up. Pellar returned the thumbs-up gesture with a nervous grin. He was actually on a dragon! He was actually going to fly! No, he was flying! He looked down for a moment as the ground shrank slowly away from him. A moment’s dizzying sense of perspective sent a thrill of fear through him and then Pellar realized that this was the most amazing moment of his life.

Thank you, Pellar thought to Hurth.

My pleasure, Hurth responded. There was that pause again as the dragon spoke with his rider and then Hurth continued, Remember, between only takes as long as it takes to cough three times.

Only? Pellar thought to himself. And then he was engulfed in blackness. He couldn’t feel the dragon beneath, D’vin in front of him, or anything around him. His heart beat loudly in his body, he felt his blood coursing through his veins—nothing else. He realized that he was holding his breath and never remembered doing so. He wondered how long he could hold it. He felt cold, a bone-numbing cold, so cold, so very cold, worse than the coldest night in winter. Would his skin freeze?

And then they were in the sunlight again, Pellar’s breath came in a rush, and the cold became a swiftly fading memory.

Pellar looked around. They were at Camp Natalon.

You give good coordinates, Hurth said again. Very clean. D’vin wonders why you were never Searched.

Searched? Pellar mused. Him? For Impression? To be a dragonrider? But dragonriders have to talk, to be heard.

I hear you quite well, Hurth told him.

Me, a dragonrider? Pellar thought. Chitter burst out in the sky beside them, gave a satisfied warble, and banked tightly to close in to Pellar’s side.

Good for you, Chitter, Pellar thought fondly. You followed us just fine.

Chitter chirped smugly.

Zist does not want me seen, Hurth said. Is there a place I can drop you?

Pellar thought that a bronze dragon was pretty hard to disguise, but then he realized that Hurth had come in close to the east mountain and flown back behind it almost instantly.

There’s a plateau, he responded, remembering the small grave site. He had a sudden wish to see how it had survived through the spring thaw—and an echoing curiosity about the other mounds he’d seen when tracking Tenim and Tarik.

I see it, Hurth replied, veering toward it. I can land there. The dragon started a precipitous descent. What makes you so concerned about little mounds?

Pellar found himself overwhelmed by the question and its answer, his mind awash with many different memories—of Cayla and Carissa, of little Halla hanging upside down, of the yellow flowers.

Dragons go between to die, Hurth responded. He sounded sad and somewhat confused. I suppose earth is like going between for people.

Pellar was startled by the comparison and stunned by Hurth’s astute observation. He didn’t have much time to consider it, as D’vin was already helping him down onto Hurth’s huge leg.

Once Pellar had scrambled to the ground, D’vin told him, “Let Hurth know when you want to be picked up.”

Pellar nodded, and waved in acknowledgment.

Step away, Hurth cautioned. Pellar moved a dragonlength away. With a great bound of his hind legs, Hurth leapt in the air, his huge wings beating mightily to gain altitude, and then dragon and rider winked out of sight, between.

Pellar was surprised to see only a faint bubble of mist where the dragon and rider had been moment before. He stared for a moment longer, then shook himself from his musings and started off over the hill and down to Camp Natalon.

He was surprised to find Master Zist waiting for him at the bottom of the hill.

“We haven’t much time,” Zist said brusquely. “I’ve already heard that the Shunned know about the sale of the watch-wher eggs.”

Pellar nodded grimly. He had guessed that something as rare and valuable as watch-wher eggs would attract the attention of anyone desperate enough to become Shunned.

“Murenny has asked B’ralar, the High Reaches Weyrleader, to provide protection for Aleesa and her watch-whers,” Zist continued. He put a hand on Pellar’s shoulder and shook him gently. “I need you to convince Aleesa to accept the protection and arrange some signal that either you or the watch-whers can send to the dragons if the need arises.”

Pellar shook his head, drew out his slate, and hastily wrote, “When.”

“When the need arises,” Zist agreed solemnly. Pellar raised a hand palm up to stop Zist from saying anything more, cleaned off his slate, and wrote, “Must move.”

Zist read the note and nodded. “You’re saying that they’ll have to move after the eggs are distributed?”

Pellar nodded, wiped his slate clean, and wrote, “Want harper.”

“They want a harper?” Zist guessed. Pellar nodded. Zist stroked his chin thoughtfully for a moment, then looked back up speculatively at Pellar.

Pellar shook his head, pointed to himself, and followed that gesture immediately by waving both hands in front of himself—his way of saying “no” since he was a baby.

“Not you,” Zist gathered. He cocked an eyebrow at his adopted son. “Is that your choice or theirs?”

Pellar raised both hands, one with a single figure raised and the other with all fingers outstretched.

“All of you, then,” Zist guessed. He shrugged. “Well, I won’t say I’m not relieved, but I can’t say when we’ll have a replacement.”

“I stay until,” Pellar wrote.

“That’s probably for the best,” Zist agreed. “Your Chitter can tell us when they move and where.” He waved aside Pellar’s rising reaction. “The dragonriders will need to know so that they can provide protection.”

Pellar mulled on Zist’s words for a moment and then nodded.

“Good lad,” Zist said, slapping him once more on the shoulder. This time he released his grip on Pellar and pushed him lightly away. “Now, go to Master Aleesa and get her to agree to the protection. Tell her that Natalon will provide the coal.”

Pellar turned to leave, but then turned back and wrote, “D’vin bring you?”

“When it’s time for the hatching?” Zist asked. Pellar nodded. Zist shook his head. “No, we’ll have to get a rider from a different Weyr, so that we don’t give away Aleesa’s location.”

Pellar frowned for a moment before nodding slowly in agreement—the lands protected by a Weyr were vast, but not so large that a determined group couldn’t locate Aleesa and her watch-whers if they knew which Weyr protected them.

“Telgar,” Pellar wrote as a suggestion, knowing that D’gan would never let the watch-whers back under his protection.

Zist caught on to the implications immediately and snorted in laughter. “Great idea!”

Pellar bowed slightly, waved, and turned back the way he’d come.

He was so immersed in his thoughts that it seemed only moments before he was back on the plateau. He paused instinctively and scanned for any sign of others. When he was certain that he was alone, he thought of signaling Hurth but stopped, deciding first to visit the little grave.

It was right where he remembered. The mound had shrunk a little as the snow had thawed into mud and the mud had settled, but it was still unmistakably a grave.

They were no flowers. It looked forlorn and sad. Barren.

Pellar decided that it would have been more pleasant with a blanket of snow. He closed his eyes for a moment and imagined a small bundle of yellow flowers, the image being the only gift he could leave. He turned north and west and imagined the other mounds he’d seen in the snow following Tarik and Tenim; he closed his eyes again, imagining flowers on each of them and wondering once more which one was occupied by Halla, the girl with the flashing eyes and bark shoes.

He felt a spasm of anger run through him as he remembered Tenim and their fight. Unconsciously his hand went up to his throat and massaged it.

With a deep sigh, Pellar opened his eyes again. One day, he swore to himself. He knew he would meet Tenim again one day.

He scanned the plateau once more and then walked carefully to where he’d last seen the great bronze dragon.

Hurth, I’m ready.