CHAPTER II

HIGH REACHES WEYR, AL 495.8

Cristov had never felt more uncomfortable in his life. He was in a meeting with the Weyrleader of High Reaches Weyr and all his wingleaders: the Masterharper of Pern; Master Zist; a grizzled old healer named Mikal who was treated with awe by the dragonriders; Toldur’s widow, Alarra; and Kindan. The grouping of so many august personages had been so frightening that Sonia had avoided it, which only increased Cristov’s own sense of alarm.

Of all them, Kindan made him feel most uncomfortable. However he tried, Kindan could not quite keep his eyes from Cristov’s injuries. If he hadn’t been so obviously understanding and sympathetic, Cristov might have hit him.

If Kindan had just looked a bit smug, Cristov probably would have. But Kindan looked even more apprehensive than Cristov felt.

“So you want us to go to the Southern Continent, from which our ancestors fled, to search for a firestone that fire-lizards will chew?” B’ralar asked, summarizing Kindan’s report.

Kindan flushed and nodded. “Yes, sir—I mean, my lord,” he said in a small voice.

“I think he’s right,” Mikal said. “For myself, I shudder to think how many have suffered needlessly if this is so.”

“But what if this firestone is only good for fire-lizards?” one of the wingleaders protested. “What then?”

“The only way to know is for a dragon to test it,” another observed.

“I’ll do it,” D’vin declared. “Hurth is willing.”

B’ralar pursed his lips. “We don’t have that many bronzes.”

D’vin pointed at Cristov. “And we’ve even fewer miners.”

B’ralar glanced at Cristov and Alarra sitting beside him, sighed, and nodded in agreement. “Very well,” he said. “I approve this journey.”

“You know,” Murenny said thoughtfully, “even if we find this new firestone here in the north, who’s going to mine it?”

“I’ll mine it,” Cristov declared.

B’ralar gave him a troubled look. “There’s a Hatching soon; you should stay here.”

For a moment Cristov’s eyes lit with joy. The Weyrleader was offering him a chance to Impress a dragon!

“I’ll go,” Alarra said. “I owe it to Toldur’s memory.”

Cristov nodded. “I’ll go,” he said. He met the Weyrleader’s startled look. “I owe it to Toldur, and I owe it for my father.”

“Even that won’t be enough, just the two of you,” Kindan objected, somewhat surprised by his own jealous reaction to B’ralar’s implied offer to Cristov. “You need a shift of ten to do any serious work.”

“That’s for coal,” Cristov corrected.

“Rock’s rock,” Kindan replied, standing his ground. “There’s only so much a person can mine in a day.”

“The weyrfolk helped,” Cristov responded.

“But will they be able when Thread falls?” Zist wondered. He glanced at B’ralar, who returned his glance with a troubled look.

“We could use the Shunned,” Mikal suggested. In response to the others’ muted reactions, he added, “Offer them an amnesty for a Turn’s worth of work.”

Murenny shook his head regretfully. “A good suggestion, but Telgar’s been putting the Shunned to work in the mines for Turns—they know it’s death to work firestone.”

“Someone would have to tell them otherwise, then,” Mikal suggested. “If they knew the firestone wouldn’t explode, I’d bet they’d come in droves.”

Zist gave him a thoughtful look and then said to Murenny, “It might be the solution to our problem.”

Murenny nodded and, in response to B’ralar’s questioning look, explained, “Master Zist and I have been concerned with the issue of the Shunned and what will happen with them during the Fall.”

“They’d be protected like anyone else on Pern,” B’ralar said immediately.

“But they’ve no holds, no place to grow crops,” Zist pointed out. “Such people will be desperate.”

“We sent Journeyman Moran out to make contact with them, Turns ago,” the Masterharper added, shaking his head sadly.

“Perhaps Moran would be willing to continue his mission,” Zist suggested to Murenny. He looked up at the Weyrleader. “Would it be possible for me to get to Crom on Harper business?”

“P’lel could take you,” D’vin offered. “I’m sure his Telenth would oblige.”

Halla tracked Pellar down at last, ready to pummel him for departing their hidden camp without leaving her the slightest message. It had taken her over an hour to find the first sign of his trail and another two to find him. She was hungry, hot, irritated, and—she hated to admit it—relieved at finding him.

Her relief gave way to surprise as she took in his position. He was kneeling. Was he sick? It had taken all her strength to pull him away to safety that day, so many sevendays ago. When she had found enough energy to go back for the other boy, she discovered that he was gone, as was Tenim’s body.

“Dragonriders,” Pellar had later written in explanation. But by then days had passed, and Halla had spent sleepless nights wondering if the blast had made Pellar addled. It had taken several more days before she recognized his strange gestures as attempts to write, and then she’d spent a fruitless day searching for something he could use, only to find, on her return to their camp, that Pellar had cleared a patch of ground and had used a stick to write, “I’m not addled. Remember, I can’t speak.”

Halla’s relief had been so great that she had cried for the first time since she’d been with Lord Fenner of Crom. She was surprised and grateful when Pellar wrapped his arms around her and held her tight while she cried out all the fears and horrors of the past weeks. But she also felt a bit uneasy; with Lord Fenner, Halla had felt that she’d been with someone like the father she’d never known, but with Pellar she felt more like she’d come home—and it scared her.

They’d had to change camps and hide when they discovered that the firestone mine had attracted several groups of the Shunned, who looted the wrecked mine and outbuildings for whatever they could find. Halla had refused to allow Pellar to contact the dragonriders, protesting, “They’ll capture them and put them to work on firestone mines!”

Nothing Pellar wrote could persuade her otherwise, and they spent several days angrily apart, not communicating beyond the barest necessary for survival.

The Shunned had fled when the dragons returned. But the dragonriders had stayed only briefly and were gone before Halla and Pellar could resolve yet another argument over whether to contact them.

And now the last of the food Halla had was gone; they would have to move camp soon, as the local game was now too wary of their traps, and Pellar was here kneeling in the grass.

He turned at the sound of her approach—which irritated Halla no end as she could have sworn that no one could hear her—and grinned, holding up something cupped in his hands.

It was yellow. No, they were yellow.

“Yellowtops!” Halla exclaimed in surprise. Then she remembered her worried hours of searching and shouted at him, “You went looking for yellowtops?”

Pellar nodded, his grin slipping into a smaller smile. He stood up and handed her one, gesturing for her to follow him. Halla raised an eyebrow at him but shrugged and waited for him to lead the way.

They walked in silence, which grew more companionable with every step. Pellar was clearly excited about something, and his excitement was infectious. What was he going to do with yellowtops?

The question had just turned over in Halla’s mind when they topped a rise and she knew what he was going to do. She lengthened her stride and caught up with him, pulling him to a stop. Pellar’s eyes met hers just as Halla leaned up and kissed him.

“It was you!” she said. “You were the one.”

Pellar nodded. She kissed him again and grabbed his hand, dragging him after her as they made their way down the rise to the neat graves set in the dale below.

Wordlessly they stopped and knelt in front of the mounds. After a moment they leaned forward and carefully placed the small yellowtops on each grave.

One was Toldur’s, one was Tenim’s, but Halla could not tell which was which. Nor did she care; in her mind, the dead were clear of all debts.

Zist was surprised at the sight of Moran. His memories of the man were over a dozen Turns old, but he hadn’t expected to find the young man he’d sent on a perilous journey changed into such an old, worried person.

“Master Zist, I’m sorry,” Moran said, bowing deeply. “I’ve failed you and the Masterharper.”

Zist waved his apology aside. “Not your fault, boy. The job was bigger than you.”

“Then why have you let Lord Fenner send a mere girl on the same mission?” Moran demanded hotly, meeting Zist’s eyes squarely.

Zist raised an eyebrow and turned an inquiring look to Lord Fenner, who had the grace to look embarrassed. Behind him, however, a girl who bore a remarkable resemblance to Crom’s Lord merely snorted in annoyance.

“Father was absolutely right to send Halla,” the girl declared. “She’s a girl, after all.”

“Nerra, hush!” Fenner said quellingly. Nerra took an involuntary step backward before she caught herself, huffed, and defiantly regained her previous position.

“I will not,” she said. “You were right to send Halla—she was a much better choice to deal with the Shunned.”

“She was so small,” Moran objected.

“Exactly!” Nerra said, pouncing upon his words. “No threat to anyone and quick on her feet, as well as her wits.”

“So where is she?” Moran demanded.

Nerra’s exultant look collapsed, and she was reduced to murmuring, “They didn’t find her body at the firestone mine.”

“The dragonriders could search for her,” Zist suggested.

“Not Telgar,” Nerra declared. “They’d take her to the mines.” She pointed at Moran. “They were all ready to take him to the mines except that Father refused.” She sniffed. “At least D’gan still recognizes the rights of the Lord Holder, if nothing else.”

“Nerra, that’s no way to talk about our Weyrleader,” Fenner said, but it was clear to Zist that his heart wasn’t in it. Nor could the harper blame him; he’d seen enough of D’gan’s imperiousness firsthand. Dragonrider or not, the man bore his rank and responsibilities poorly.

“What did you ask this girl to do?” Zist asked Fenner.

“I asked her to track down the Shunned in hopes of opening communications with them,” Fenner said.

“That’s what Master Zist asked of me!” Moran exclaimed.

Nerra looked ready to say something acerbic, but was quelled by a look from her father.

“The traders had taken her under their protection,” Fenner explained. “They agreed to lend her aid and support.”

“And if she’d contacted the Shunned, what then?” Zist asked, curious to see if Crom’s Lord Holder had come up with a solution to the knotty problem of Pern’s dispossessed.

“Arrangements could be made,” Fenner said. He met Zist’s eyes squarely. “Some of those are doubtless people I’ve Shunned myself. But the Red Star grows larger and Thread will return. And when it does, what then will people with nothing to lose not do in order to survive?”

Zist nodded. “That was a question the Masterharper and I considered many Turns ago.” He glanced at Moran. “Our plan miscarried, however.”

“The only plan that seems to be working is D’gan’s,” Fenner admitted ruefully. “Round them up and force them to mine firestone.”

“Perhaps not force,” Zist said, “but encourage.” To Lord Fenner he explained, “We’ve just discovered Records that indicate there might be two types of firestone.” He went on to describe the meeting at High Reaches Weyr and the conclusions that Mikal, Kindan, and Cristov had reached.

“So they are going to the Southern Continent?” Fenner asked in surprise.

“Only the shore,” Zist said in reassurance. “To see if they can find any of this fire-lizard firestone.”

“A firestone that doesn’t explode in water,” Moran muttered to himself. He looked up at Zist. “What do the Shunned have to do with this?”

“This new firestone wouldn’t be deadly to mine,” Zist explained. “And all Pern will need it soon. If they could be convinced to mine it, their place and their protection would be assured directly by the Weyrs.”

“That could work,” Moran agreed, stroking his chin thoughtfully. He looked up again to Master Zist. “Master, I’d like to offer my services. I will make contact with the Shunned.”

“And find Halla while you’re at it,” Nerra demanded.

“And find Halla,” Moran agreed, turning to sketch a short bow in the girl’s direction.

“Perhaps P’lel will drop you somewhere along our way,” Zist said, turning to the green rider who had silently watched the entire exchange.

“For a firestone that doesn’t explode, I will do anything,” P’lel agreed fervently.

The Southern Continent!

Cristov couldn’t believe his luck as he sat perched atop Hurth’s huge neck and peered cautiously down at the headland below. Beside them, blue Talith struggled to keep up with the huge bronze dragon’s easy turn of speed.

It had startled Cristov for a moment to think that dragonriders couldn’t just go to the Southern Continent.

“We need someone who’s been there before,” D’vin had explained when they first set out. “Perhaps someone in Ista will know.”

Weyrleader C’rion greeted them courteously enough when they arrived in Ista Weyr’s Bowl.

“What do you want with the Southern Continent, D’vin?” he asked when D’vin presented their request.

“Firestone,” D’vin said immediately. He recounted the meeting at High Reaches and the conclusion reached by Kindan, Cristov, and Mikal.

C’rion looked skeptical until D’vin added, “Mikal was a dragonrider many turns back.”

“Firestone accident?” C’rion asked.

D’vin nodded.

“There have been so many of those,” C’rion said. He looked at Cristov. “And you say there’s a firestone that doesn’t burn in water?”

“The fire-lizards got their name for some reason,” Cristov pointed out.

“And B’ralar approves this?” C’rion asked, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Well, he’s a cautious one. If he says so, then I’m up for it.”

“Do you know someone who could guide us?” D’vin asked.

C’rion heaved a sigh before replying. “You know that the Southern Continent is banned,” he said. When D’vin nodded in agreement, he continued, “There’s good reason for it, I’m sure. But I’ve one blue rider who won’t listen to reason and just flies off by himself now and again. When he comes back, he’s always got these most amazing fruits of the largest size.”

“He goes to Southern?” D’vin asked.

“I’ve never asked,” C’rion replied drolly, his eyes lit with amusement. “But perhaps he can guide you.”

And so, without actually saying it aloud, D’vin managed to get J’trel to agree to give him the coordinates, provided he could come along.

“I suspect he wants an official reason to know where the Southern Continent is,” D’vin confided with a grin to Cristov as they rose out of Ista Bowl and took station beside the wiry blue dragon.

And now here they were.

D’vin gestured to the beaches beyond the headland, indicating that they should land there.

The sun was warm and the sand hot as they jumped down and looked around.

At some unspoken word from Hurth, D’vin laughed and told his dragon, “Yes, go play! But be ready when I call.”

With a huge cooling breeze from his wings, Hurth leapt into the air. Soon he and J’trel’s Talith were cavorting in and out of the warm southern water.

“Any sign of your rocks, Cristov?” J’trel asked as he strode up to them.

Cristov looked dismayed to hear the fire-lizards’ firestone referred to as “your rocks.” He wondered how the dragonriders would react if none were found.

“Are there any fire-lizards around?” he asked hopefully. “Maybe we could find the rocks they like.”

After an hour, D’vin suggested they try further south. The dragons returned from their water play quickly enough, though neither Cristov nor D’vin were quite happy to be riding a wet dragon.

“We won’t go between,” D’vin said reassuringly to Cristov, “but fly straight. Call out if you see anything.”

They checked out two more beaches, but there was no sign of any rocks worthy of consideration.

“Let’s rest a bit, and continue later,” D’vin suggested as they trudged in the hot sand.

“Good idea,” J’trel agreed readily. “I know where to get some fruit—” His face fell as D’vin smiled knowingly at him, but he recovered quickly, adding, “It’s the best fruit you’ll ever taste.”

“I’m sure of it,” D’vin said. He waved J’trel off and called Hurth in from the sea. The dragon curled up comfortably in the sand, tired from his exertions.

J’trel returned shortly, his sack full of large, orange-mottled fruits, which he shared with the other two. Cristov waited until D’vin had bitten into one—manners, he would have said if challenged—but when the Weyrleader’s face lit with appreciation, Cristov’s restraint vanished.

“They’re great!” he exclaimed as soon as he swallowed his first bite. He’d never tasted anything like it. He could completely understand why J’trel had ignored all prohibitions to search out this fruit.

Silence descended as the three ate heartily. The silence continued as the sun reached its highest point and bore down on them relentlessly. Fortunately, Hurth agreeably stretched a wing out over D’vin and Cristov, providing them with shade. J’trel sought the company and protection of his smaller Talith.

Soon all three humans and two dragons were asleep, lulled by their full stomachs, exertions, and the hot noon sun.

Cristov woke with a start, angry with himself for nodding off. He tried to get up but discovered he was trapped by D’vin’s arm across his chest. D’vin silenced him with a look, and then, deliberately, turned his head slowly forward, away from Cristov. Cristov followed his gaze…

Fire-lizards.

He tracked them with his eyes, picking out prominent landmarks so that he would know exactly where they had been. There was a little queen and several bronzes. A mating flight? No, there were blues, greens, and browns, as well.

Idly, Cristov wondered whether a fire-lizard could help in the mines.

One of the bronzes had noticed them. It flew toward them and then, with a chirp of surprise, blinked between. Immediately, the rest of the fire-lizards vanished.

D’vin chuckled. “Hurth tells me that the bronze couldn’t believe he was looking at a relative that was so big.”

D’vin released Cristov and the two got up. J’trel joined them, his eyes alight. “Such antics! Did you get a good fix on their location?”

“Not far from that promontory,” Cristov replied, pointing. “Maybe five or six hundred meters away.”

“It’s a pity they weren’t flaming,” J’trel said.

“It’s possible that they won’t be looking for firestone until the first Threadfall,” D’vin remarked, with a sideways glance at Cristov.

Cristov groaned and his shoulders slumped. “I hadn’t thought of that!”

“Nor had anyone else,” D’vin told him reassuringly. “Still, we can look.” He cocked an eyebrow at J’trel. “Is your Talith up to chewing strange rocks?”

“Certainly,” the blue rider replied after a moment’s silent communication with his dragon.

“It’s a pity we forgot to bring a shovel,” D’vin remarked as they started toward the promontory. Behind him, Hurth grumbled and leapt into the air, arriving at the site before them. A shower of flying sand flew into the air as the great dragon began to dig. “Sorry, Hurth, I’d forgotten we didn’t need one,” D’vin apologized with a smile.

“For a fire-lizard, the stones would have to be about this big, wouldn’t they?” J’trel asked Cristov, making a shape about half the size of his fist.

“I suppose,” Cristov agreed judiciously. He looked around. “And they wouldn’t bother with the larger rocks, so if we found any place where there were lots of larger rocks of the same type and no smaller ones—”

“Like these?” D’vin asked, holding up a rock the size of his fist.

Cristov beckoned, and D’vin tossed the rock to him. The young miner examined it for a moment; started to toss it aside, then changed his mind and tossed it to J’trel. “That’s too heavy for firestone; it should be lighter.”

Cristov spied some rocks not far from Hurth’s new hole. He walked over and picked one of them up.

“This is more like it,” he said, hefting the rock judiciously.

“It looks like sandstone,” D’vin said, picking up another one from the pile.

Cristov nodded and threw his rock down hard on a larger rock. His specimen cracked, revealing a blue-green crystal.

“Is that firestone?” D’vin asked.

“It could be,” Cristov replied.

“There’s only one way to find out,” J’trel said, picking up the other half of Cristov’s specimen. “Talith, if you’d be so kind?”

The blue dragon opened its mouth and J’trel threw the rock into it. Shortly there came the grinding sound of a dragon chewing and then Talith swallowed, visibly and audibly.

“Now, we wait,” J’trel said. The three found it impossible to wait patiently. Cristov found himself examining the promontory for more signs of sandstone or blue-green rock; D’vin found more of the sandstone rocks and started cracking them, throwing the ones that were pure sandstone into one pile and the ones with hints of the blue-green rock into another pile; J’trel merely spent his time nervously pacing in front of his dragon.

“So how do you feel?” J’trel asked out loud. “Does it feel like firestone?” Before he could get a response, he jumped away, arms outstretched, crying, “Stand back!”

Talith opened his mouth and burped. A tiny flicker of flame erupted.

“That took longer than regular firestone,” D’vin said.

“Talith says that it didn’t burn, and he’d like to try some more,” J’trel reported, gathering up some of the rocks that D’vin had sorted and feeding them to his dragon. D’vin started doing the same with Hurth.

In a few short moments, both dragons produced a decent flame, and both pronounced it much less stressful than the firestone they were used to.

“Does it look like they can sustain flame longer?” D’vin asked J’trel.

“Yes, it seems like this firestone produces the fire gas more slowly,” J’trel agreed. He looked up at Talith again. “Is that how it feels to you?”

Cristov understood Talith’s response merely from the blue’s emphatic nod. He picked up a specimen and walked with it to the sea.

“Cristov, what are you doing?” D’vin asked his voice tinged with equal parts curiosity and alarm.

Cristov threw his rock, with its exposed blue-green crystal, into the surf and watched carefully. Nothing. No explosion, no puff of gas, nothing.

“I just wanted to be sure,” he said, turning around and walking back to the others. He picked up several specimens and stuffed them into his pouch. “This firestone doesn’t explode on contact with water.”

“There must be something extra in the dragons’ stomachs to make the flame,” D’vin suggested, hefting a rock in his palm. “If this were the old firestone, the sweat from my palms alone would produce some gas.”

“If this were the old firestone, all the sea air would have combusted it long ago,” Cristov remarked.

“Well, now that we’ve got the right firestone, what do we do next?” J’trel asked.

“We find it in the north, if we can, and mine it,” Cristov replied. He turned to D’vin. “I’d like to start immediately.”

“If not sooner,” D’vin agreed, looking very thoughtfully at his sample. It was a long moment before Cristov’s agitated movements attracted D’vin’s attention. The dragonrider smiled at him but did not apologize, merely gesturing for Cristov to mount Hurth.

“I do not understand,” Halla cried to Pellar in exasperation.

Pellar started to write again, but Halla pulled the stick out of his hand and snapped it in two, throwing it to the ground.

“Our traps are here, our food is here—why do you want to go north?”

Pellar sighed and picked up the thicker piece of his broken stick. Bending down, he wrote, “Dragonriders.”

“That’s what you said before!” Halla exclaimed, her frustration evident. “We can avoid them. The woods are too thick for them to land, and we can hide.” She looked up entreatingly into Pellar’s eyes. “We’re safe here,” she said in a small voice. “We don’t have to run anymore.”

Pellar nodded, but still he smoothed out the patch of dirt he’d written on and bent down to write again. “We help.”

“Help?” Halla repeated. “We don’t need help, we can get along just fine on our own.”

“Thread,” Pellar wrote in response.

“Thread won’t come for Turns, you said so,” Halla replied irritably. What was wrong with him?

Pellar wrote the word “fight” just above “Thread.”

“Fight Thread?” Halla shook her head. “Why should we worry about that? That’s dragonriders’ work!”

Pellar nodded, then wrote another word above “fight.” The word was “firestone.”

“Firestone fight Thread,” Halla repeated. She paused to digest the meaning. “The dragonriders need firestone to fight Thread and you want to help them?”

Pellar nodded, smiling.

Halla shrieked at him, “You’ll get killed!”

He shook his head.

“Then you’ll get burned just like your friend,” she said. She pushed him away from her, tears streaming down her face.

“Go on then, get killed. See if I care,” she cried, and ran away from him into the dense underbrush. She didn’t go far and crumpled into a small heap when she failed to hear Pellar coming after her.

I don’t need him, she thought. I can survive on my own.

After a moment she asked herself, then why do I hurt so much?

Pellar sat in silent thought for a long time after Halla had run off. Then, with a sigh, he stood and walked off purposefully in the opposite direction.

“There!” Moran pointed below them as they flew over the vast barren country north of Keogh.

Zist peered down, following his arm, and saw faint marks on the dusty ground below.

“It could be traders,” he said.

“This far north?” Moran asked, shaking his head. To P’lel he said, “Put me down somewhere in front of them.”

Moments later, they were on the ground and Moran was hefting his pack onto his back.

“You’ll stay in touch?” Zist asked.

Moran nodded. “I will.”

“And be careful?” Zist asked.

“More than last time.”

“If I don’t hear from you in a month…”

“You’ll hear from me,” Moran promised, turning toward the oncoming wagon. “Probably sooner than that!”

Halla awoke, angry with herself for having fallen asleep and cold from the chilly, late afternoon breeze. She peered blearily around for Pellar and then remembered their last conversation and how she’d pushed him away.

People always leave, she thought bitterly. Why should Pellar be any different?

Something caught her eye, fanned by the breeze. Halla turned her attention to it, then pounced on it eagerly.

It was a pair of yellowtops, their stalks twined together. Halla picked them up and held them gingerly in her hands, impressed at how deftly Pellar had woven them together. A smile wobbled on her lips.

In the distance she saw another bright bundle. Intrigued, she went toward it and discovered another pair of yellowtops. She picked them up, too, just as she noticed a third pair. A trail.

Halla’s earlier thought echoed: People always leave. But no one had ever left her a trail.

It was dark by the time Halla caught up with him. She would have missed the last bundle of yellowtops if Pellar’s trail hadn’t continued unerringly north.

He was camped in the open, which surprised Halla. Clearly he wasn’t worried about intruders, but his lack of precaution increased the danger of attack from night animals. Pellar slept like someone who was under a nighttime watch.

Who?

The answer brought a smile to her lips: her. She dropped her armload of yellowtops on the ground beside him—she stuffed them into her pack where they would create a great pillow—and lowered herself to the ground, dropping her pack under her head. She lifted his blanket. Pellar shivered in the night air until she bunched herself up, scooched against him, and lowered the blanket. For a moment, Pellar was awake. He wrapped an arm possessively over her, drawing her tight against his stomach; then he fell asleep once more.

Though her back was against him she knew he was smiling. She smiled, too, and closed her eyes peacefully, a feeling she hadn’t felt in Turns overflowing in her heart. She had only one name for it: home.

Cristov was depressed. They’d been searching the shoreline of High Reaches for three days and they’d nothing to show for it but a nasty collection of cuts, bruises, and sore muscles. Except, now, Alarra had broken her leg as she ran from a rockslide they’d caused with their digging.

She’d been quickly evacuated to the Weyr, where the healer had set her leg and ordered her to rest until the bone knitted together once more—at least six sevendays.

Cristov had insisted on continuing the search, and D’vin, after consulting with B’ralar, had reluctantly returned Cristov to the mountains south and east of their previous location.

“Hurth will be listening if you need help,” D’vin told him. “Otherwise, I’ll send someone by next sevenday.”

When Cristov looked curious, wondering why D’vin hadn’t promised to return himself, the wingleader said, “The Hatching will be any day now. Seeing as we want to present as many suitable candidates as possible, I’ll be riding in Search.”

Cristov promised himself that he would not call the bronze dragon except to announce success.

On the first day he had no luck at all. He wasn’t sure if his technique was right anyway: He would stop at a spot that caught his fancy, usually a place where the rock had been bared already, and dig around it, looking for signs of sandstone in the layers. If he found any, he’d dig around, looking for loose rock; failing that, he’d use his pick to break some rock free.

He worked for no more than an hour and then moved northward again, looking for a new spot. In this way he covered two kilometers and had made five excavations by nightfall.

The next day, though sore, he repeated this method. He was pretty certain that he’d found a vein of sandstone, but he couldn’t be sure—he’d never learned this sort of minecraft from his father, or even from Toldur.

On the third day, Cristov changed his tactics, deciding to dig deep into the sandstone vein he’d located the night before.

It was a hot day and Cristov was all the hotter, digging into the moist cliff in front of him. He liked sandstone because it was soft; he disliked it because it was crumbly—not a good supporting material. He had dislodged a fair amount of the soft stone and was making amazing progress digging into the side of the mountain when it happened: From one blow to the next, the whole nature of the vein changed, and instead of a trickle of loose rock, Cristov suddenly found himself facing a flow, then a rush, and finally a torrent of sandstone that threw him backward and engulfed him.

For the past two days Pellar had been traveling due north, and Halla had followed. They were tired, irritable, and hungry, but they were together, and Halla found that Pellar’s mute companionship more than made up for his annoying determination.

Thirst, however, was something neither could ignore, and so they were drinking at a stream when Halla heard it: a distant rumble that quickly died away. A glance at Pellar confirmed that he’d heard it, too.

“Come on!” Halla shouted, racing off in the direction of the sound.

When they reached a clearing, they spotted a cloud of dust rising about a kilometer north of them. Wordlessly they broke into a steady, ground-eating trot.

Pellar lengthened his stride, his long legs quickly widening the gap.

“Go on,” Halla called, waving him onward. “I’ll catch up.”

When Halla arrived at the site, she found Pellar inspecting the remains of a mine. She quickly toured the immediate area and found a campsite. The footprints around it belonged to one person, someone bigger than her but not by all that much. She returned to Pellar and the disaster.

“Only one person,” she told him between ragged breaths. She knelt over, filling her lungs with cooler air and forcing herself to take slow deep breaths.

Pellar nodded and began to pull armloads of the rocks away.

“You think he’s there?” Halla asked as soon as she’d recovered. She stepped up opposite him and began to throw stones away. She stopped when she caught sight of something shiny among the coarse, red rock. Thinking it was odd, she quickly pocketed it, then returned to her work.

A little while later, Pellar encountered hair. He rapped two rocks together to get Halla’s attention and pointed. Wordlessly she came around to where he was and began to help.

In moments they uncovered a head.

“I know him!” Halla cried. “That’s Cristov.”

Pellar nodded and bent over the face, clearing the smallest dirt away. He pressed his ear close to Cristov’s mouth and then looked up at Halla, alarmed. Then, to her surprise, he leaned over again and parted Cristov’s lips, put his own mouth over Cristov’s and blew a death breath.

“Pellar!” Halla exclaimed disgustedly. “Eww.”

Pellar paid her no attention, looking instead at Cristov. He repeated the movement. This time Cristov coughed and sputtered.

“Stay still!” Halla ordered. “You’re in a landslide.”

Quickly Pellar and Halla dug Cristov’s chest out from under the loose rock. It took more effort and more care to extract his legs.

Finally, Pellar motioned for Halla to stand back and gestured that he would pull Cristov out.

“No, I won’t,” she declared firmly, eyeing the rocks above them. “We’ll do this together.”

Pellar pursed his lips angrily in response, and Halla stuck her hands on her hips and glared in return. Pellar gave her one last angry look, sighed, shook his head regretfully, and gestured for her to come help.

Together, slowly, they pulled Cristov out from the landslide. When he was far enough out, Halla moved to his legs and picked them up. Cristov groaned painfully.

“I’m sorry,” Halla told him, “but we’ve got to get you away from here.”

“My rock,” Cristov cried through clenched teeth.

“Shh,” Halla told him soothingly. “We can find you plenty of rocks.”

Cristov was in too much pain to argue. They went about twenty meters before Pellar gestured to Halla to set the boy back down.

“I’ll get some water,” Halla said, moving quickly to the campsite.

Pellar was kneeling beside Cristov when she returned.

“Am I dead?” Cristov asked Halla.

“No,” Halla replied testily.

“But he’s dead,” Cristov said, pointing to Pellar.

Halla shook her head and opened the flask. “Here, drink this.” When Cristov complied, spluttering a bit on the water, she looked at him and said, “There, do you think dead people cough when drinking?”

Cristov thought for a moment and shook his head. He winced at the movement. Pellar laid a hand on his head and glanced up to Halla, shaking his own head.

“Pellar says that you shouldn’t move your head,” Halla told him, her tone implying that she expected that Cristov had already figured that out himself.

“You can talk to him?” Cristov asked in wonder.

Halla shook her head. “No, but it’s easy to guess what he means.”

Pellar shot her a penetrating look and broke into a huge grin.

“My rock,” Cristov said. “We must find it.”

“There are plenty of rocks,” Halla repeated soothingly. “We can look when you’re better.”

“No, we’ve got to find it,” Cristov responded, his face twisted in irritation. “If not, we’ll have to go back to the Southern Continent to get another.”

“What sort of rock is it?” Halla asked in surprise. “And what were you doing in the Southern Continent?”

“Looking for firestone,” Cristov explained.

“But you’ve found it already,” Halla said. Her brows drew close. “You weren’t hoping to find it in that sandstone, were you?”

“Yes,” Cristov said. “That’s where we found it before.”

“Sandstone?” Halla repeated dubiously. “But firestone explodes in water.”

“Not this firestone,” Cristov replied. “It doesn’t burn in water. It’s what the fire-lizards eat, and they find it on the shore in the Southern Continent.” He frowned. “I’ve got to find that sample.”

“What’s it look like?” Halla asked.

“It’s a blue-green crystal,” Cristov told her. “There’s usually some sandstone around it.”

Halla fished in her pocket. “Like this?”

“That’s it!” Cristov cried, reaching for it. Halla gave it to him readily.

“But there’s loads up there,” she said, waving her hand back up toward the landslide. “That was just the smallest piece.”

Cristov’s eyes widened and he looked at Pellar for confirmation. The young harper nodded. A mixture of joy, relief, and impatience crossed Cristov’s face.

“We’ve got to tell the Weyr,” he exclaimed. Of Halla he demanded, “How much was there? How quickly can we get it?”

Pellar shook his head and pointed at Cristov’s legs. Halla guessed his meaning and said, “We’ve got to take care of you first.”

“No,” Cristov cried, “we’ve got to tell the Weyrs! Until we prove this is the right firestone and there’s enough, they’ll still try to mine the old firestone.”

Pellar and Halla exchanged worried looks.

“All we have to do is find the blue-green rock?” Halla asked, an idea forming in her mind.

“Yes,” Cristov agreed.

Halla gave Pellar a questioning look; he nodded.

“We’ll do it,” Halla said.

“Any luck?” B’ralar called as D’vin strode into the Kitchen Caverns.

D’vin pulled a face, shaking his head while filling a mug with klah from the kettle left on the warming stove. “Nothing in Tillek,” he said. “I tried Hold Balen as well, but found no likely lads there, either.”

“We’ve twenty-three eggs and only nineteen solid candidates,” B’ralar said, frowning.

“Perhaps B’neil will have better luck,” D’vin suggested.

B’ralar made a sour face. “His Danenth is nowhere near as good as Hurth at spotting candidates,” he said. “I don’t think there will be more than two sevendays before the Hatching.”

“I can go out again, if you’d like,” D’vin suggested. He started to say more but stopped, clearly listening to his dragon. When he spoke again, he was already moving, dropping the mug of klah on the nearest table. “Pellar’s found Cristov. Cristov’s injured.”

“Go,” B’ralar said, waving him off. “I’ll let Sonia know.”

D’vin waved acknowledgment as Hurth descended from his perch to retrieve his rider.

“No broken bones this time, either,” Sonia said to Cristov when he woke the next morning to find himself tucked once again in the High Reaches Weyr infirmary. She smiled at him. “I think you do this just to spend time with me.”

Sonia’s hand descended on his chest as soon as Cristov tried to sit up. “And again, you’re trying to move too early,” she added with a sigh. She shook her head at him. “You’re going to rest for a while.”

“How long?” Cristov demanded petulantly. “I found the firestone—we’ve got to mine it.”

“I know,” Sonia replied, smiling. “Everyone’s talking about it. Alarra was furious that you’d found it before she could get back out again.”

“I still am,” Alarra snarled from a bed just out of Cristov’s sight in another alcove of the infirmary.

“You’ll be on your feet soon enough,” Sonia assured her. “And, if you’re good, we’ll give you crutches in another sevenday.” Cristov looked startled, so Sonia explained, “We had to take her crutches away because she was doing too much on her feet.” She shook her head wonderingly. “What is it about you miners? It’s not as though you don’t have time.”

“But we don’t,” Cristov protested, his words cutting across a similar protest from Alarra. “A Weyr needs forty tonnes of firestone a week when fighting Thread.”

Sonia shrugged.

“This new firestone isn’t as dangerous as the old firestone,” Cristov continued in response. “We could mine it now and build a stockpile.”

“And have it ready before Threadfall?” Sonia asked.

“Maybe even have some in reserve,” Alarra called.

“But we need to start now,” Cristov groaned, leaning back in his bed.

“I think you’re going to be a worse patient than you were the last time,” Sonia muttered ruefully.

As the days passed, Sonia discovered that her prediction was more than accurate. S’son, her father and the Weyr’s Healer, would steel himself every day to enter the infirmary and deal with the two impatient miners.

“You can go tomorrow,” S’son told Cristov the evening of his third day at the Weyr, “provided you agree to do no work.”

“What’s the point then?” Cristov demanded.

“You can supervise,” Sonia told him.

“There’s no one to supervise,” Cristov snapped.

Sonia merely smiled and rose from her place beside him. “In that case, you can wait until you’re healed,” she said. As she stood in the doorway, she called over her shoulder, “What should I say to D’vin?”

Cristov schooled the sour look from his face. “Please tell him that I’d like to go back at first light.”

“Are you sure?” Sonia asked. “There’s a Hatching soon. You don’t want to miss that.”

“What’s the use of a dragon if it can’t flame?” Cristov demanded, shaking his head irritably. “I’ll do my duty and mine firestone.”

Sonia turned back to face Cristov, eyeing him cryptically and saying, “There are other ways to serve Pern, you know.”

Cristov grimaced. “This is the one I know.” He remembered his father’s sour comment from Turns back. “It’s what I’m fit for.”

The look Sonia gave him was pitying. “If you say so.”

“There’ve been some changes since you were last here,” D’vin warned as they descended through the morning mist.

Cristov couldn’t imagine that Pellar and Halla could have done all that much in the four days he’d been gone, however hardworking and dedicated the two seemed to be.

The mist thickened into fog as they settled into the valley. Cristov was surprised that Hurth could find the ground, let alone a safe place to land, but the dragon landed without even a bump.

“I can’t stay,” D’vin apologized. “We’ve more eggs on the Hatching Grounds than candidates, so I’m still on Search.”

“Good luck,” Cristov said. D’vin gave him an odd look and started to say something, but shook his head and said instead, “Good luck to you, as well.”

Cristov was alone in the foggy valley, the sun a dim dot just above the horizon. He stopped to catch his bearings, then started in surprise as he heard noises in the distance. The creak of a loaded cart on rails, the distant sound of bellows, the even fainter but unmistakable noise of picks against rock—the whole valley was filled with the noise of work.

“Cristov?” a voice called from the fog. A small figure resolved from the shadows. It was Halla. She smiled when she saw him. “Pellar says you’re not to work,” she warned him. “But we need you—”

“I’m sure I can do something,” Cristov told her.

“Not to work,” Halla said, shaking her head. “We need your advice.”

Cristov cocked his head in inquiry. Halla sighed and grabbed his hand, dragging him after her and saying over her shoulder, “It’s best if we show you. Come on up to the mines.”

“Mine,” Cristov corrected. “Unless you’ve got more than one, it’s just a mine.”

“Mines,” Halla replied testily. “And we’ve got three.”

Cristov was dumbstruck. “Three? Why did you start three?”

“Well, it seemed pointless not to put everyone to work,” Halla told him.

“Everyone?” Cristov repeated blankly. He squinted, trying to see through the fog. He could see Halla clearly now and make out the color of her clothes. They were new and looked freshly washed. He wondered how she’d found the time to wash her clothes. Everyone? “How many people are here?”

“I don’t know,” Halla said. “Ask Pellar. I think he’s trying to keep count.”

“Trying?”

“Well, the numbers keep changing,” Halla explained. “I think another wagon came in during the night. And we’ve got some farmers further up the valley. They’re really thrilled with the soil—they say it’ll be great for crops.”

“Crops?” Cristov repeated dully. Farmers?

“Pellar!” Halla shouted. “Pellar, Cristov’s here!” She turned back to Cristov. “Mind your head.”

Cristov caught a glimpse of a dark space in front of him and instinctively ducked. They were in a mine.

“Watch out for the rails,” Halla cautioned. “There should be some glows here,” she muttered. “I’ll have to talk to Spennal.” She raised her voice again to shout, “Spennal! Spennal, where are the glows, you dimwit?”

A glow approached them, illuminating an older man.

“Sorry, Halla, I was just down with Pellar,” the old man, Spennal, said. “I’ll get more glows now,” he said, handing her his glow basket.

“It’s all right, just bring us to Pellar,” Halla said.

“Certainly,” Spennal replied. He glanced at Cristov and his eyes widened. “Is this him?”

“This is Cristov,” Halla said. She turned to Cristov and whispered, “Everyone’s excited that you’re here.”

“Why?” Cristov whispered back.

Halla’s response was a bit embarrassed. “Well, Pellar and I might have bragged about you a bit,” she confessed. “But you’re the one who found firestone that doesn’t burn.”

“So?”

“You saved them,” Halla explained, still in a whisper. “When word got out, they came from all over.”

“Miners?”

“No,” Halla said, “the Shunned.” She took in Cristov’s stunned expression. “They can work here without shame and without fear. This is their hold.”

“Their hold?” Cristov repeated in surprise. A hold for the Shunned—how was that possible?

“If they work,” Halla said. “If they don’t, they can leave. We feed their children, but if the adults don’t work, they don’t eat and they don’t stay.”

“Three mines?” Cristov said, repeating Halla’s earlier statement.

“Yes,” Halla replied, looking at Cristov as though wondering if he were all right. She glanced ahead. “Here’s Pellar.”

The mute harper waved and smiled at Cristov, beckoning him forward to look at a drawing he’d made on a huge slate.

“What is it?” Cristov asked, splitting his question between Pellar and Halla.

“It’s a map of the mines,” Halla explained. Somehow Pellar had found several colors. She pointed out the various sections. “Red is where we’ve found the greatest concentrations; white is where we’re planning on going. Pellar wants to know if you have any suggestions.”

Cristov bent over the map, wishing the light were brighter. Halla must have sensed it, for she lifted her glows higher and closer to the map. He peered at the map for a long while, confessing, “I’ve never seen anything like it before.” He glanced up at Pellar, who looked nervous until Cristov told him, “It’s perfect.”

He pointed to several areas, particularly the red spots. “It looks like there’s a vein running through the mountains and all three mines pierce it,” he said after a moment. He frowned over Pellar’s white lines and looked around for something to write with. Pellar handed him some white chalk and a bit of cloth for an eraser. Cristov declined the use of the eraser. “I don’t want to change anything just yet,” he said, drawing a number of dotted lines. “I’m thinking,” he explained as he drew, “that perhaps the vein runs north-south through the mountains. If that’s so, you could mine here and here to meet the center mine.”

“Pellar was afraid of cave-ins,” Halla said.

Cristov glanced up and inspected the beams and woodwork over them. “Not if your people keep shoring the roof up like that,” he said, grinning. He said to Pellar, “You’re right to be worried about the sandstone—it’s very soft and not good at holding weight. Shore up everything and you’ll do fine.” He looked around. “Just how big is the vein, anyway?”

Halla smiled. “It’s as big as this shaft. We’re getting over a tonne a shift from each mine.”

Cristov whistled in surprise.

“You said we need forty tonnes every sevenday for one Weyr,” Halla said, looking grim. “We can only get about twenty-one tonnes right now.”

“But now we know what to look for,” Cristov replied. “We can find more mines, maybe one for each Weyr.”

A disturbance from the mine entrance distracted them. Spennal called out, “D’vin is here.”

“What does he want?” Halla asked in wonder. Pellar shrugged, carefully took the large slate now marked with Cristov’s dotted suggestions, and hung it back up on the wall before gesturing that the others should precede him.

“Some of the Shunned were telling me that holder children don’t start working until they’ve twelve Turns or more,” Halla remarked as they walked toward the shaft entrance.

“That’s silly,” Cristov said. “What would they do with all their free time?”

“I don’t know,” Halla said. “The youngsters here all work.” She gestured toward the camp outside. “They want to learn a craft before they marry and, by twelve, they’re already courting.”

Pellar handed Halla a slate he’d been writing on and she read, “Harpers don’t marry until they’re older.” She glanced back at Pellar. “What’s older?”

“Sixteen?” Cristov guessed, glancing to Pellar for confirmation. Pellar made a “go higher” gesture with his free hand. “Eighteen?” When Pellar nodded, Cristov exclaimed in surprise, “Miners are lucky to live thirty Turns. We usually mate much earlier.”

They came to the mine’s entrance and squinted: The sun had broken through and was bathing the valley in bright morning sunlight. A gentle breeze had moved the last of the morning’s mist away, wafting fragrant smells through the valley.

Cristov grunted in surprise at the vista exposed before him. There were tents, wagons, and some small houses sprouting up all over the valley. Three paved roads led up to the hills, one running right up to this mine, the other two to the other mine entrances.

“All this in four days?” he asked in amazement.

“They were hungry,” Halla said. At Cristov’s look, she explained, “They had to work to get fed. And Moran brought in a whole group when he came in two days ago.”

“Halla, there’s another wagon coming in,” a woman called up to them.

“You know what to do, Lorra,” Halla called back. “See what they can do, find out why they’re here, and what they’ll do. Make sure that Harper Moran knows about them, too.”

“Where should I put them?” Lorra called back.

“Find out what’s up and then decide,” Halla called back, glancing at Pellar for confirmation. Pellar smiled and nodded at her decision.

Cristov looked at Halla with renewed interest. It seemed that everyone in the camp looked to her for guidance. He guessed that some of that was due to her nature, some of it due to her position as Pellar’s “voice,” but he couldn’t quite imagine what else would be required to get adults to accept directions from a girl who was just coming into womanhood.

“It wouldn’t have worked out this way if it hadn’t been for Pellar’s ability to talk with dragons,” Halla explained. Cristov’s confusion must have been evident for she explained, “Even the Shunned are wary of the dragons. Having a wing show up whenever Pellar needed it was enough to convince even the hardest heads to listen to reason. And Harper Moran sent them all here.” She made a face and then grinned. “We keep an eye on his drink, and he teaches the little ones their Ballads—respect for dragonriders and dragonkind.”

The reference to dragons reminded Cristov that they had left the mine to see D’vin. He scanned the valley below and picked out the bronze dragon easily. D’vin was much closer to them, moving purposefully.

A group of miners noticed the dragonrider and then noticed Cristov, Pellar, and Halla. The miners paused on their way to the mines, curiously, some pointing at Cristov, others at D’vin.

“Pellar,” D’vin called when he was close enough to be heard. “There’s a Hatching.”

“A Hatching?” Halla cried delightedly. “Pellar, did you arrange for us to—” The look on his face cut her off. “What’s wrong?”

“Not going,” Pellar wrote quickly, holding it up to her and then to D’vin as he joined the group.

“You can talk to dragons,” D’vin said. “We’re short just one candidate.”

Pellar shook his head again and pointed firmly to the ground.

“But if there’s not enough candidates for the hatchlings,” D’vin said, his voice full of despair, “then—”

“What will happen?” Cristov asked. Halla glanced between them, her face betraying a wide range of emotions. Pellar gave Halla a horrified look, and she knew.

“The hatchling will die,” she said.

“It will go between forever,” D’vin confirmed.

Pellar frowned, torn. D’vin caught the way he looked around: at the valley, at Halla, at the mines, at Halla, at Cristov, at Halla, and finally at some distant vision only he could see. When he caught D’vin’s eyes again, the wingleader knew Pellar’s decision. For whatever reasons, and Halla was bound at the center of them, Pellar felt obligated to stay.

“Who else could go?” Halla asked D’vin, flicking her eyes toward Cristov.

Cristov caught the look and held up his hands, protesting, “Not me, I don’t deserve the honor.”

“Why don’t you let the hatchlings decide?” D’vin suggested.

“But there’s work to do here,” Cristov protested.

“We’ll do it,” Halla assured him, jerking her head toward Pellar, who nodded emphatically in agreement. “You’ve shown us how.”

“But—”

“Go on,” Halla said, jerking her head toward the dragon in the distance.

Cristov’s eyes widened. He looked longingly toward the dragon and then back to Halla.

“Are you afraid, then?” she taunted. She grabbed him and turned him toward the dragon. “There’s your future. Go on, Impress! Impress a bronze for us all and show them at High Reaches. Show them what to expect from Fire Hold.”

She gave him one final push and turned away, walking back to the waiting crowd of miners.

Head held high, Cristov walked to his future.