Dragonchoice 2: Dragonchosen

Faye Upton

To Ron and Margaret Schofield, who left us in 2003.

To Matey and Rooster, who went before their time.

And to Sussex Lad, who was too good for this world.

The World of Pern © Anne McCaffrey 1967, 2001, all rights reserved, and used by permission of the author.

All characters and events © Faye Upton.

All artwork © its respective artist and used with permission.

For the illustrated Dragonchoice, go to

www.dragonchoice.com

Acknowledgements

In vaguely alphabetical order:

To Amanda Phillips: long-time sub-dictator and dragon porn specialist since 1998.

To Andreas Weisz: amazing 3D modeller of dragons and backgrounds.

To Becky Camfield: one of Dragonchoice II’s first artists, and not afraid of a panoramic view!

To Brad Hicks: master of pencil work and creator of some superbly powerful dragons.

To Brenda Appleby: both reviewer and artist, whose vision matches mine so closely.

To Daniel Falck: fellow muppet, certifiable tease, and portrait artist extraordinaire.

To Fredrik Andersson: a superior comic artist with a surreal sense of humour.

To Gemma Legacy: marvellously fearless and highly successful with difficult poses.

To Jen Bagge: already a volunteer for the next story (and I’m counting on you!)

To Jenni Juntunen: tirelessly creative, generous to a fault, and utterly indispensable.

To Joe Wood: illustrator of the most accurate clutch of eggs ever seen (and their mother!)

To Julia B: an artist whose work is so rich and vibrant it leaps off the page.

To Laurie Hicks: beta reader, sanity checker, idea bouncer and priceless voice of

reason.

To Lauri Williamson: exquisite pencil illustrator of people, dragons, and an amazing Weyr vista.

To Martin Vire: a friend indeed, veteran of Dragonchoice, and owner of mad cute dogs.

To Micah Johnson: tireless advocate of the project, and multi-talented artist of almost anything.

To Paul Taaks: expert action illustrator, putting dramatic detail in every pencil stroke.

To Renee Spahr: another veteran, and a prolific and generous character illustrator.

To Sam Hogg: breathtakingly versatile artist of everything, including some “little sketches”.

To Ssthisto: master dragon artist, a Dragonchoice veteran and a fresh pair of eyes.

Thank you all for your generosity, your time and your creative vision. It’s been a pleasure and a privilege.

So…everyone on board for Dragonchoice III?

Prologue: Aloft, On Wing

Even in the dank grey chill of an autumnal morning, Kawanth looked superb.

They’d been up since before dawn, Peninsula-time, making their final preparations for departure, and despite Kawanth’s reluctance to leave the comfortable warmth of his ledge, Sh’zon had him in fine order. Now, as the big bronze spread his wings in the mist over Madellon Weyr, Sh’zon admired how the shining hide brightened the dismal day.

To their left, and half a level higher, Trebruth kept pace with Kawanth. Though barely the size of a blue, and so dark in colour that his hide seemed to absorb the grey light, the brown dragon was familiar and reassuring company. Sh’zon raised his arm to M’ric, signalling him to descend.

As the two dragons lost altitude, the Bowl of Madellon Weyr came into view through layers of fog. The irregular crater with its lake and beast paddocks and the neat rows of plants in the kitchen gardens was a far cry from the stark, windswept, beautiful cliffs of the Peninsula. Sh’zon quelled the regret that accompanied the thought of his home - former home - and repeated his mantra silently to himself. Tomorrow is your concern, not yesterday.

The dragon standing watch near the Star Stones bugled a query, and Sh’zon felt as well as heard Kawanth’s answering rumble. The blue asks us to state our business at Madellon Weyr.

“Tell him, then.”

The bronze expanded his chest. We are Kawanth and Trebruth of the Peninsula, here to see your Weyrleader.

Sh’zon saw the blue’s rider indicate a welcome, and thumped the bronze neck. “That’s it. Take us down.”

Epherineth and his rider the Weyrleader are waiting for us, Kawanth reported as he angled on one wing to glide towards the far end of the Bowl. The watchdragon warns us not to go near the Sands. Shimpath protects her eggs.

Sh’zon turned his head to look at the yawning entrance to the Hatching cavern. “And the golden one?”

Most fiercely of all.

He grinned. “And so she should, Kawie. And so she should.”

Chapter One: Five Heated Weeks

Epherineth roared.

The deafening sound reverberated through the weyr like a private thunderclap, making the collection of mugs on T’kamen’s desk rattle together, and jolting him out of his quiet contemplation and to his feet before he had time to think. “What is it?”

The echoes of that bellow were still rebounding off the walls when Epherineth said, quite calmly, Darshanth and his rider are coming.

T’kamen used the time it took for the resonance to fade completely to form a reply from his scattered thoughts. You didn’t have to shout.

I wouldn’t have had to if you’d been paying attention.

Epherineth’s voice was so reasonable, his rationale so unapologetic, that T’kamen couldn’t argue with it. Do you mean they’re coming, now, or….

If I’d meant tomorrow, I wouldn’t have shouted.

T’kamen sighed. He’d been staring fixedly at F’yan’s report, wondering how to address the Wingleader’s list of grievances. Reorganising the Wings hadn’t been entirely popular, but he’d expected that. The deliberate truculence of the senior bronze riders was what T’kamen had failed to predict.

I can be louder, if you like, Epherineth offered.

I liked you better when you were the silent bronze. He cast a weary eye over the stack of unopened message slates that had been cluttering a corner of the big skybroom desk that dominated his office. He’d intended to open them with Valonna in attendance, but as the Weyrwoman had barely left the Hatching ground in the last sevenday, and the heat of the sands shortened T’kamen’s short temper even further, they remained there, untouched and faintly accusatory.

He shrugged on his jacket against the damp chill that was seeping into his office from the outside. The silver stars on the epaulettes caught his eye. Some Turns had passed since he had last been allowed to wear more than the single gold stripe of a wingrider, and the novelty of the two five-pointed stars on each shoulder had not yet worn off. They, like all the insignia of his status, had been newly sewn for him. T’kamen’s predecessor had not bowed out graciously.

Stepping from the room, he almost collided with the shaken-looking rider coming the other way. T’kamen checked his stride in time and looked at the other man with interest. Epherineth’s roar must have been ear splitting at immediate range. “What is it, D’feng?”

The gaunt bronze rider rubbed at the side of his head, speaking too loudly. “I’ve got those tithe projections you wanted, Weyrleader. I’m sorry, I can’t hear very well. Epherineth seemed upset.”

Unsure whether to praise Epherineth or rebuke him, T’kamen decided to ignore him. D’feng was proffering a thick sheaf of hides with the air of a man bestowing an extra special treat. The other bronze rider’s cooperation had proved crucial in T’kamen’s assumption of the Weyrleader’s responsibilities, but he suspected that D’feng had been deliberately complicating matters in a bid to make himself indispensable. “Just put them on my desk. On my desk,” he repeated more loudly, when D’feng showed signs that he hadn’t heard the first time.

“Of course, sir!” D’feng reached past T’kamen and deposited the pile of documents squarely atop F’yan’s Wing report, burying it from sight and knocking several rolls of hide off the desk.

The floor would be as good a place for them as any, T’kamen thought to Epherineth as he deftly caught the displaced scrolls. He glanced down at the broken blue and white seals on the rescued missives. “Tell me, D’feng, have you given any more thought to recommending another Wingsecond yet?”

D’feng straightened, clasping his hands behind his back, and replied as if he feared discipline for the oversight, still almost shouting. “No, sir!”

T’kamen thrust the pair of documents into D’feng’s unresisting hands. “Transfer papers for those riders who came in from the Peninsula the day before yesterday. Give the bronze the interim Wingsecond slot. I’ll want a recommendation on the brown by the end of next sevenday.” It represented the tiniest fraction of his load, but of the matters that required immediate attention it was the most important that he trusted D’feng to handle.

“Yes sir. But, sir…”

T’kamen pretended not to hear, continuing outside to Epherineth’s ledge. Dealing with D’feng required a certain determined momentum. Don’t look at me like that, he said in response to Epherineth’s accusing stare. You’re no better.

The bronze dragon stretched, lithe muscles rippling beneath the green-gold sheen of his glossy hide, and only then deigned to offer a forearm. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

T’kamen smacked a neck ridge as he mounted. Epherineth grunted with exaggerated indignation, but his play-acting had no bearing on the power of his skywards leap. T’kamen leaned back into take off, and savoured the feel of the cold wind in his face. He’d had little opportunity to fly his dragon since Epherineth had won Shimpath’s mating flight three months ago. His time was no longer his own, and although his duties necessitated frequent journeys to and from Madellon’s major tithing Holds, fast trips between could not compare with the companionship of a long straight flight. T’kamen missed the quiet solitude of the remote weyr he and Epherineth had once shared, too. The accessibility of the Weyrleader’s weyr, close to the Lower Caverns and easily reached on foot, had put an end to that privacy.

What do you want privacy for when all you do is work? asked Epherineth.

The bronze’s remark was gently reproachful: not an accusation, but a reminder born of concern. T’kamen knew he’d been working longer hours than were strictly sensible. Epherineth often woke him when he had fallen asleep at his desk. But so many affairs required his attention, and with the better part of most days spent out-Weyr in summit with the increasingly intractable Holders of Madellon’s territory, only night time remained for the domestic affairs of the Weyr.

Epherineth held a position just above the Star Stones, raising his brilliantly green eyes to the cloudy sky. T’kamen reached down to rub his bronze’s neck as they waited for the anticipated dragonpair to arrive. The wildfire that had blazed out of control in the forests of Kellad Hold at Turn’s End had proved the mettle of dozens of Madellon’s finest riders and dragons, but none more so than C’mine and his brave blue Darshanth. In fighting for the lives of a group of foresters trapped by the flames, C’mine had nearly sacrificed his own. T’kamen had almost lost one of his oldest and dearest friends that day, but Darshanth had demonstrated courage and daring of the like seldom seen in an Interval in rescuing his rider from among the burning trees. Dragon and rider had remained at Kellad Hold in the months since, waiting for C’mine’s injuries to heal. Despite his busy schedule, T’kamen had felt the blue rider’s absence keenly, and taking this time to honour the return of a true hero of Madellon was both duty and privilege.

On time, Darshanth appeared from between, bright against the slate-grey clouds. Epherineth bugled a greeting, and all around the dragons of Madellon added their voices to welcome one of their own home.

“Report, blue rider!” T’kamen bellowed across the intervening space.

Aboard Darshanth’s neck, C’mine acknowledged the command with the affirmative signal. Darshanth circled to land, and Epherineth matched him in the honour escort that the blue dragon had earned.

A good natured cheer erupted from the score or more riders waiting on the ground as Darshanth landed, gazing around at his admirers with sapphire eyes that complemented his own shade of blue. Epherineth alighted a discreet distance away to let T’kamen down. Darshanth loves the attention.

C’mine’s not so sure, T’kamen replied, looking over at the rider dismounting, stiffly but unaided, from Darshanth’s neck. The presence of a second figure on the blue’s neck surprised him. Has Darshanth said who his passenger is?

Darshanth’s far too busy enjoying himself, said Epherineth, with a tolerant snort. Here’s Indioth.

T’kamen squinted up at the green who had just winked in. It’s not like C’los to miss being part of a spectacle.

Indioth’s carrying three, Epherineth observed. Candidates.

Of course. With the best part of five sevendays to go before Shimpath’s eggs were due to Hatch, candidates for the new dragonets were the least of his worries, but he did remember the green rider mentioning their finds.

But seeing C’mine fit enough to fly between and dismount without help was cause for celebration, and T’kamen greeted the blue rider with a lightened heart. “Welcome home, Mine.”

The burn scars, pale on C’mine’s brown face, didn’t affect the warmth of his smile, and his grip was as strong as ever as he clasped wrists with T’kamen. “Glad to be back, Kamen.” Then C’mine straightened, still with the hint of a smile. “Reporting for duty, Weyrleader.”

“You’re going to be taking it easy for a while yet,” T’kamen told him. Then he allowed himself a rare smile. “But when you’re ready, I’m short one blue in my Wing.”

“Yes sir.” C’mine wasn’t a big man, nor had he ever been a handsome one, but his grin was like summer sun. “Los and I have brought in some kids for Shimpath’s clutch.”

“Don’t worry about them for now, Mine.” T’kamen nodded towards the other riders who had turned out to welcome C’mine back to Madellon. “You’ve been missed.”

As the blue rider went to meet his friends, C’los came up beside T’kamen. “You’d better order him not to overdo it, Kamen. You know what he’s like. Always wants to be the hero.”

C’los, C’mine’s weyrmate of more than ten Turns, had taken the blue rider’s injuries as a personal affront. Indioth’s brilliant rider, whose intuitive grasp of Weyr politics had helped T’kamen to win the Weyrleadership in the face of overwhelming opposition, obviously hadn’t yet forgiven C’mine for risking himself. T’kamen ignored the edge in the green rider’s voice, replying mildly, “He is a hero, C’los.”

“Then I’d rather he was a coward,” C’los retorted. “Heroes get themselves killed.”

“Oh, da, stop saying that, it’s boring.”

The slim girl who had walked up beside C’los, loosening her wherhide jacket, had the same curly black hair and dusky-brown skin tone as the green rider, stood nearly his height, and had an expression of annoyance on her animated features that made her identical to C’los at his most exaggeratedly irate. “You’re just jealous that Mine’s getting all the attention and you’re not,” she went on. “It’s old, get over it. Hello, T’kamen.” She added the last almost as an afterthought.

“Carleah!” C’los snapped. “That’s the Weyrleader! Show some respect!”

“Leah,” T’kamen greeted C’los’ daughter, privately amused. “You’re looking well.”

“Thank you, Weyrleader,” Leah responded, turning a sunny smile on him. “Epherineth looks fabulous.”

T’kamen kept half an eye on C’los as the green rider turned away in agitated disgust, but he also noticed the vehemence with which Leah stuck her tongue out at her father’s back, and he nearly smiled again. Leah was exactly like Carellos had been at fourteen - confident, opinionated, and perhaps just a little more clever than was good for her. “He is. And your mother?”

“She’s fine, we’re all fine, and don’t listen to him.” Leah rolled her eyes dramatically. “You’d think C’mine was still an invalid or something.”

T’kamen watched as the blue rider clasped wrists with Vhion, the Master Dragon-healer who had treated Darshanth’s burns. “I think he has a way to go yet.”

C’los had beckoned the blue’s passenger down, and now he herded a slight young man, and the taller, older lad who had ridden behind Leah on Indioth, towards T’kamen. “Weyrleader, I’d like to present Sinterlion,” he indicated the younger boy, “and Murrany of Kellad Hold. And you know Leah.” The green rider said the last with resignation.

T’kamen nodded to both young men, passing a brief mental request to Epherineth. “Welcome to Madellon, Murrany, Sinterlion.”

“Thank you, Weyrleader,” both replied together, with creditable poise, although T’kamen felt Sinterlion’s awestruck gaze on the stars of his epaulettes.

In response to Epherineth’s unobtrusive summons, L’stev stalked over from the group of riders welcoming C’mine home. The tough old brown rider fixed the three youngsters with a menacing look, his suspicious scowl and hunched posture making it very clear that he would tolerate no nonsense. “More, eh, Weyrleader?” He spoke in the low growl that T’kamen remembered from his own weyrling days. “You’re too kind to an old Weyrlingmaster.”

“I’m sure you’ll have no trouble with them.”

“I’m sure I won’t,” L’stev said darkly.

T’kamen masked his amusement. L’stev put on the act with every new group of youngsters that came under his tutelage, but his bark was far worse than his bite, and it didn’t hurt a candidate to know where he stood from the start. If any or all of these young people Impressed from the clutch currently on the Sands, they could be wearing the stripes of full dragonriders within two Turns. T’kamen trusted L’stev to see that each would be qualified. The brown rider had a better touch for encouraging or bullying the best out of his young charges than any other man T’kamen could have chosen.

The first of the rain that the sullen skies had threatened all day began to spit. C’los scowled up at the clouds, as if personally offended by them. “C’mine, I want you inside, where it’s warm and dry, right now!”

“Oh, leave the man alone!” Leah exclaimed. L’stev gave her an ominous look, and she subsided.

C’mine glanced towards the yawning entrance of the Hatching Ground, smoothing his thin moustache with thumb and forefinger as he turned back towards his weyrmate. “I’d like to see Shimpath’s clutch, if she’ll let me.”

“I expect the Weyrwoman would be glad to see you,” T’kamen said, before C’los could protest. The green rider shot him a glare, but with the candidates present T’kamen didn’t think C’los wouldn’t make a fuss.

“It’s warm and dry in there,” L’stev pointed out.

T’kamen noticed the evil glint in the Weyrlingmaster’s eye. L’stev had always delighted in provoking C’los. “You may as well bring your candidates, Weyrlingmaster. Walk with me, C’mine?”

He kept his normal loping stride in check in deference to C’mine’s injuries as they walked towards the cavern, letting L’stev, a reluctant C’los, and the three new candidates draw ahead. “How are you really, Mine?” he asked quietly.

“Better,” the blue rider replied. “Not all the way, but better, and it’s good to be home.”

“Sarenya sends her love.”

C’mine smiled. “She’s well?”

“She said she’ll come up and see you as soon as she gets off duty.”

“And, you and she are well?” the blue rider asked, half teasingly.

“Such as she and I are,” T’kamen said, wry more than bitter, although C’mine would understand that. If the duties of a Weyrleader - and a new Weyrleader fighting to cope with the legacy of an incompetent and corrupt predecessor - left T’kamen little time for himself, less still remained for Sarenya, the journeyman Beastcrafter he had presented as a candidate for the infant Shimpath nearly eight Turns ago, and who, despite everything that had happened since, still held the monopoly on his heart.

“Los tells me that you’ve made some changes,” said C’mine, considerately changing the subject.

“One or two,” T’kamen said dryly. “Mostly not very popular.”

“They never are, at first,” the blue rider agreed. “C’los said twelve Wings now, instead of twenty-one?”

He shrugged. “There’s no justification for having that many Wings without the riders to fill them. I wanted to make it nine, but what’s left of the bronze rider Council argued me up to twelve.”

“You must have demoted a few Wingleaders, then. I’ll bet they took that well.”

“It would have been worse if R’hren hadn’t made the case for honourable retirement so compelling,” said T’kamen. “A’krig and Y’kat fell for that. B’mon was always too young, but I put him as Wingsecond under L’mis, and by the time he retires in a few Turns, B’mon will have the experience to take over. F’digan left for Igen, and the other two browns are Wingseconds. S’herdo doesn’t like the demotion but he won’t speak up against it, and since Alonth’s never going to fly properly again, H’ersto opted for extended convalescence at South Cove.”

“And L’dro?” C’mine asked.

“L’dro went to the Peninsula .”

“Willingly?”

“Eagerly, although they weren’t so happy to have him. We negotiated an exchange. H’pold agreed to take L’dro off my hands in return for a couple of riders he wanted out of his Weyr.”

“You think they’ll be trouble?”

“I don’t know yet,” T’kamen admitted. “But between H’pold wanting to get rid of them, and L’dro wanting to get away from Madellon, I’ve been spared a decision.”

“How does Valonna feel about it?”

T’kamen shook his head. The mysteries of the Weyrwoman’s mind were beyond his comprehension. “You’d be best off asking her yourself.”

As they passed through the massive tunnel leading into the Hatching cavern, blasted out of the rock nearly a century ago by the clever masons and miners who had shaped Madellon from the ancient stone, T’kamen heard the thunder of wings. Epherineth glided into the cavern, followed immediately by Darshanth, smaller but more swift than the great bronze. “Should he be doing that?” T’kamen asked C’mine, watching as the blue made a breakneck landing on one of the high ledges.

“Probably not, but it makes him happy,” C’mine replied. “And he wants to see the eggs.”

T’kamen led the way off the uncomfortably hot sand onto the first tier of seats and then stopped to let the blue rider appreciate the view. “There they are.”

The setting was grand enough at any time: a vast cavern, its upper reaches lost in shadow, the lower levels bathed with the yellow-green light of hundreds of glows. The baskets were replaced frequently, and most often by candidates - the enormous chamber was only lit when a clutch was hardening. The stands had been built of massive blocks, cut precisely to form the neat terraces that ran the length of the cavern and could easily accommodate every member of the Weyr, and as many guests besides.

But no one was looking at the stonemasonry. At the far end of the sandy expanse, Shimpath, Madellon’s only queen, loomed fiercely golden over her precious eggs.

“That’s a beautiful sight, Kamen,” said C’mine. “How many did she lay?”

T’kamen was sure that C’mine already knew the particulars, and that the blue rider was asking purely to make him feel good about his dragon’s achievement, but he answered anyway. “Twenty-five.” It still felt good.

“Twenty-five,” C’mine repeated. “And the gold one. That’s a good day’s work for Epherineth.”

He glanced up at his bronze, sitting quietly beside Darshanth, his eyes bright points of light in the gloom. “He knows.”

“Look.” C’mine pointed at the three candidates L’stev and C’los had taken a little closer to the protective Shimpath. “Look at their eyes, Kamen. They’re enthralled.”

T’kamen remembered his own first glimpse of a dragon’s eggs, standing not so far from here. He remembered studying each gleaming shell, trying to guess what colour hatchling would come from each, and which one, if any, might choose him. He never had discovered just which egg had been Epherineth’s. In the aftermath of Impression, shocked to his very soul by the impact of the bronze dragonet’s mind bonding with his, it hadn’t occurred to him to ask. But now, as he looked across at the clutch his Epherineth had sired, T’kamen studied individual eggs, and wondered. Would that big one, with soft yellow markings under the opalescent sheen, yield a bronze? Would the smallest egg, marbled with a pale bluish shade, produce the green its size suggested? Many shells had no distinctive features at all to hint at the nature of their tenants: soft cream in hue, with that subtle, beautiful lustre of rainbow colours that seemed to swirl and eddy of its own accord.

Only the golden shell of the largest egg left no doubt as to the colour of the dragonet within. T’kamen regarded it with a satisfaction that almost matched Epherineth’s smug pride. The healthy size of the clutch had been reason enough for jubilation, but a queen egg was a significant endorsement of both bronze and rider.

“Have the Search riders had any luck?” asked C’mine.

“L’stev’s directing them,” T’kamen replied. “But it’s hard to miss all the decorative Hold girls who’ve been convinced that all they need to Impress a queen is a pretty face and suitable recompense to whichever bronze rider brought them in.”

C’mine smiled. “That’s harmless so long as there are enough good prospects.” He nodded at his dragon. “He thinks Sinterlion, there, and Murrany, are sensitive. Sinter’s been helping me with Darshanth, and Murrany asked to be considered.”

“And Leah?”

The blue rider looked across at his weyrmate’s daughter. “Robyn could have stood, if she’d accepted Search, and I don’t think there was ever any doubt that Los would present Leah as a candidate. He’ll be insufferable if she gets the queen.”

“He’ll be insufferable if she doesn’t.”

C’mine eased himself upright from where they had both been leaning companionably against the rail separating stands from sands. Concerned that his friend was tiring, T’kamen started to move to support him, but the blue rider waved him off. “I’m all right, Kamen. I need to pay my respects to Shimpath.”

T’kamen let him lead the way along the terrace to where the queen’s rider had joined L’stev and C’los, keeping a cautious distance. Valonna, Madellon’s young Weyrwoman, greeted the blue rider with ingenuous delight. “C’mine, I’m so glad you’re home, and well.”

“When I heard Shimpath had clutched, I knew I had to get back,” C’mine replied solemnly. “You and she and the eggs are looking radiant.”

T’kamen fixed his gaze on Shimpath, almost envying the ease with which C’mine handled Valonna. Certainly, he wished he could communicate with her half so well. He knew it hadn’t been easy for the girl, adjusting to a new Weyrleader. Despite L’dro’s ignominious departure from Madellon, and the deplorable manner in which he had behaved towards Valonna, the Weyrwoman had been emotionally dependent on him for Turns. T’kamen treated Shimpath’s rider with respect at all times, and tried to make himself approachable, but although Valonna was obedient to his requests, she still seemed afraid of him. There were matters that required the Weyrwoman’s attention - not least her incomplete education in the duties of a queen rider - but T’kamen couldn’t find the time for her. Perhaps after the Hatching.but that was a month or more away, and then he would have bigger problems, unless he had managed to convince the Holds of Madellon’s territory to tithe enough to meet the urgent needs of twenty-five new dragonets.

The very fact that he was standing dumbly in the Hatching cavern, admiring the eggs from which more than two dozen walking appetites would shortly burst, caused him a pang of guilt, and he stepped towards C’mine and Valonna. “Weyrwoman, blue rider, I should get back to…”

But T’kamen trailed off. Behind Valonna, Shimpath had assumed a horribly familiar pose, raising her head as if listening to a far off sound.

No, Epherineth said softly, in T’kamen’s mind, and he was overwhelmed by the terrible weight of sorrow in that single word even as his dragon’s deep voice rose in a mournful song, blending with the lighter tone of Darshanth’s cry, Shimpath’s piercing wail of loss, and the keen of two hundred dragons outside the Hatching cavern.

Staggered by the emotional impact, T’kamen seized his head with one hand, and asked painfully, Who is it, Epherineth?

Sigith has gone between.

“Sigith…”

“E’rom…”

C’mine and C’los spoke simultaneously, both voices heavy with the grief that still rang the walls of the Hatching cavern. He spared a glance for the three candidates; Leah, who understood best, had gone pale, and the two boys looked startled and even a little frightened. T’kamen couldn’t blame them. “What in Faranth’s name happened?” he demanded over the dragons’ mourning dirge, trying to order his thoughts. Sigith, a brown, and E’rom, a Wingsecond in the new Western Flight - neither suffering from any injury or illness that would cause their death, at least not as far as T’kamen knew. And as Weyrleader, he should have known!

The man fell from the ledge? Epherineth’s words were a question as much as an answer, his attention evidently divided a dozen ways as dragons offered him conflicting reports. The one clear image he provided was of the body of a rider, impossibly sprawled on the rocks. No one is sure what happened. The Healers are on their way.

Don’t let them touch him. The command was automatic, born not only out of the knowledge that E’rom was dead - Sigith’s suicide made that plain - but of some instinct that insisted T’kamen see the scene of the tragedy for himself before anything was changed.

“Kamen, don’t let them move the body,” C’los urged him in a low hiss that confirmed T’kamen’s gut reaction.

He nodded curtly and called Epherineth down. “Valonna, have Shimpath confirm Epherineth’s order.”

“Of course.” The Weyrwoman’s face was white with the shock of Sigith’s death, amplified through her dragon. “Can I do anything?”

“Be with your queen. The Weyr will need her. C’los, C’mine, I want you with me. L’stev…”

The old Weyrlingmaster acknowledged the command that did not need to be voiced with a grimace, his expression more stony than ever, and addressed his new charges. “You lot, with me.”

T’kamen paused long enough to take his leave of Valonna with the briefest inclination of his head. Epherineth crouched low to let him mount and then sprang aloft, changing the angle of his wings to clear the entrance out into the Bowl. E’rom’s weyr was at the other end of the caldera - a fact T’kamen wouldn’t have known but for the shocked, silent crowd that was already gathering there.

It parted for him when he dismounted, riders and Weyrfolk acknowledging the Weyrleader’s right to be first on the scene. T’kamen made himself look at the lifeless form, still feeling Epherineth’s sadness, as C’mine and C’los joined him. The death of a dragonrider - any dragonrider - hurt every other rider in the Weyr. Sigith’s rider deserved better than the morbidly fascinated stares of a crowd.

Isnan, the Weyr Healer, hurried up breathlessly, his long face contorted with the exertion of running half the length of the Bowl. “Weyrleader, is he..?”

“We need to get this area screened off,” T’kamen said softly.

“There’s no hope?”

“Sigith’s gone.”

Isnan’s expression clouded over briefly, and then the Master Healer took control. “Get back, please, everybody. Heftan, Lante, fetch the screens from the infirmary. I said get back, please!”

Epherineth added a rumble to reinforce Isnan’s order, and the spectators slowly began to back off. The bronze’s presence gave T’kamen an idea, and he asked his dragon to extend his wings to conceal the site of E’rom’s demise from curious eyes, and to protect the body from the drizzling rain.

“Do you know what happened?” Isnan asked in a sombre voice.

“Not yet. Riders don’t just fall from their own weyr ledges.”

The Healer stepped closer, to examine E’rom’s twisted body, then turned his head away, coughing. “But if they’ve been drinking enough to smell like this…”

T’kamen moved near enough to catch the reek of spirits exuding from the brown rider’s corpse. It was strong enough to sting his nostrils. “Why would a Wingsecond have drunk enough to drown a dragon halfway through the afternoon?”

Isnan shook his head, still examining E’rom. “I don’t know, Weyrleader.”

T’kamen stood back, frowning at the body. It didn’t make sense. He remembered this rider. He had seen him to confirm that he would retain his Wingsecond status, not much more than a month ago. The brown rider had seemed relieved, but no more so than most of the riders who had feared for their positions following the change of Weyrleader. What could have made him jeopardise his rank?

The sound of running feet made him look up, and a rider burst past C’los and C’mine, his expression aghast and incredulous. “E’rom, oh Faranth, E’rom, no!”

“C’los!” T’kamen said sharply, and the green rider instantly seized the newcomer by the shoulder, holding him back. He just dropped to his knees without resistance, weeping, and T’kamen realised that he must have been the dead man’s weyrmate.

Isnan’s assistants rushed up with screens, shielding the body from view. The Weyr Healer’s expression was very grim as he straightened. “It’s too early yet to know, Weyrleader, but I’d be inclined to view this death with suspicion. I’d like to examine the body.”

T’kamen nodded. “What do you need?”

“There’s a Master at the Hall who specialises in diagnosing the exact cause of death in uncertain cases. I’d like to bring him in.”

T’kamen thought of his limited bargaining power with Hold and Hall, and tried not to wince at what this specialist might cost. “Do it.”

“Jessaf brandy.”

T’kamen looked round. C’mine was comforting E’rom’s distraught weyrmate, and C’los had drifted closer. “What?”

The green rider gestured towards the screens. “The drink on him. It’s Jessaf Hold brandy. And that stuff isn’t cheap.”

He looked at his old friend, then at Isnan, who was donning gloves, and came to a decision. “C’los, work with the Healer, and with his specialist. Find out what happened here.”

C’los nodded, his eyes brightening with the challenge. T’kamen excused him the reaction. If anyone could get to the bottom of why a brown rider had seemingly walked off his weyr ledge in the middle of the day, C’los could.

T’kamen met C’mine’s eyes briefly, wishing he could express more regret to the blue rider. It should have been a day for celebration. C’mine shook his head slightly, but it still mattered to T’kamen.

The crowd was lingering. T’kamen raised his voice. “That’s enough. Let the Healers do their job.”

He walked away, back to Epherineth, and left the Healers to their grim work.

Chapter Two: Your Charge Is Sure

“Isolate the area. Investigate it. Touch nothing. Disturb nothing. Make a sketch of everything you see. Include every detail, no matter how irrelevant it may seem. Never rely on your memory. Make accurate, objective notes, and trust them. These initial observations often make the difference between solution and frustration.”

C’los had never before had reason to think of that lecture of fifteen Turns ago. Or was it closer to twenty? He couldn’t remember. Strange, then, how he could recall one-armed Valrov’s words so precisely. Not only the words: he could picture the cramped confines of the old Harper’s office, the unpleasant warmth of too fierce a fire in the small space, the way that his own awareness of the discomfort had paled against the fascinating content of Valrov’s lesson.

Carellos had been twelve, the normal age of Harper apprenticeship, when the Master Crafters had passed judgement on him. He was not to be apprenticed as a Harper. He didn’t have the aptitude, they said: not the skills, nor the patience, to fully apply himself to the Craft. Masterharper Gaffry himself had broken the news to him, bluntly and without apology. It had been a stunning blow to a young ego - and yet with the humiliation of being turned down had come an immense sense of relief. Carellos hadn’t wanted to be a Harper. Oh, he’d sung in the chorus, like all the other lads with half-decent voices, and he could play pipes and gitar and drums, like virtually every other man, woman, and child in the Kellad-Harperhall complex - but he hadn’t grown up at the Hall itself without realising a few hard truths about the profession. Singing and playing weren’t the half of what it meant to be a Harper. Harpers were teachers before all else, and that was what he’d dreaded. If, after a four-Turn apprenticeship, he hadn’t distinguished himself in any field - and he’d already known that his singing and playing were merely good, and his compositions frustratingly short of greatness - he’d have been doomed to remain a senior apprentice or very junior journeyman, trotting around muddy paths to muddy holds, teaching reading and reckoning to muddy cotholders with muddy brains. The very thought of it still made C’los shudder.

“You’ll never be a Harper,” Gaffry had told him, placing the slightest breath of emphasis on that title: the kind of nuance of which Carellos had always been intensely aware. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t be of use to the Hall.”

Carellos had been packed off to study with a string of masters, journeymen, and less decorated individuals. His brashness had earned him more than one clip round the ear, but the content of his lessons had soon absorbed him to such an extent that he had stopped worrying about who his teachers were in favour of soaking up everything he could learn from them.

Domenge, the Harper Master whom Carellos had assumed was senile for Turns, had imparted to him the skill of playing a convincing role, using dialect, costume, and mannerisms to affect the part. Elroon, assistant steward at Jessaf Hold, had instructed him how best to gauge and influence people, individuals and groups, from drudge to Lord Holder. A nondescript man Carellos had known only as Sedd had taught him the arts of stealth, of blending into a dark shadow or a drifting crowd. And Valrov – one-armed, foul-tempered Valrov – had educated him in observation, reasoning, and deduction.

Much later, C’los had realised that those Turns of studying - usually under the façade of less interesting errands - had been his apprenticeship. Ultimately, events had taken his life in a different direction. His friendship with Cairmine had drawn more attention to them both than his diverse Masters had liked, and the interest of a Madellon Search dragon had put an end to Carellos’ training, but C’los still valued and used much of what he had learnt.

Carellos the boy couldn’t have known that, one day, Valrov’s lessons would be put to use in the investigation of a dragonrider’s death. And yet now, with the hushed, fascinated crowd of riders and Weyrfolk still loitering at the scene of E’rom’s death, C’los could hear Valrov’s clipped voice in his mind as clearly as if his old teacher were standing beside him.

One of Isnan’s journeymen was leading E’rom’s shocked and traumatised weyrmate away. C’los looked for T’kamen, but the Weyrleader was already stalking off, his spare frame radiating anger and frustration at the death. C’los started after him, then stopped. T’kamen had put him in charge of the investigation. Troubling him with details at this stage would achieve nothing. He turned instead to his own dragon, crouching at a respectful distance from the scene of E’rom’s fatal fall. Indioth, tell Santinoth and Chyilth that I need to see their riders. And that I need something to write with.

The green, grey-tinged with her grief for Sigith, rustled her wings softly as she passed along the messages. C’los waited with the patience he reserved for his dragon: accuracy, not speed, was what counted when he needed her to relay. They’re coming, she reported finally.

“Green rider?” Master Isnan’s voice cut into C’los’ thoughts. “I’d like to get the body back to the infirmary, and then if you and Indioth would be so good as to deliver a message to the Fort Healerhall…”

C’los’ brain sometimes worked faster than his conscious mind could follow: this was one of those times. “I don’t want you to move the body just yet,” he heard himself say. “I need to figure out how he died.”

“That much is clear, C’los,” Isnan said. “Look.”

C’los followed the Healer around the screens. E’rom’s twisted body made a grisly sight. His neck was clearly broken. C’los looked at the weyr ledge, not much more than twenty feet up. Steps led from it down to the Bowl. The observation made C’los’ fingers itch for recording tools.

“Can we move him?” asked Isnan.

C’los looked at the body, committing the details to memory. He couldn’t imagine ever forgetting them. “Mark where he fell,” he said at last. “I want to have a look in the weyr. Don’t let anyone come up after me.”

Isnan nodded. “I’ll have another rider go to the Hall.”

“Thanks,” C’los said, but his mind was already elsewhere.

Taking a deep breath, he started up the rocky stairs that led to the dead man’s weyr. There was a thin layer of sand on each step, kicked or scuffed from above, wet with the rain that had been falling on and off all day. The weyr ledge had a thicker coating of dust, and C’los paused before setting foot on it. The damp sand was marked with footprints, dragon and human: the impressions of different sized feet and boots with varying treads, the great claw scars of at least two different dragons, an occasional thin line scraped into the sand that could have been a careless wingtip. There were other marks, too, that defied immediate identification. C’los made a mental note to study the imprints in more detail later. He stepped around the edge of the area, taking care not to add footprints of his own, and entered the weyr.

The chamber that had belonged to E’rom’s Sigith was dominated by the raised stone couch, scattered with sand. That, then, explained the abundance of the stuff outside, although the floor was mostly clean. A brush leaned against the far wall. Neither detail was unusual: many dragons liked a layer of sand on their beds, but few riders liked it on the floor. The sand on the ledge outside had obviously been brushed or trodden from the dragon’s chamber over many Turns.

C’los moved on into the living area of the weyr. He felt momentarily guilty for intruding on another rider’s private space, but shrugged off the uncomfortable sensation. E’rom was dead, and he had to find out why.

It was a good-sized weyr: not as spacious as the caverns C’los and C’mine had been bequeathed by one of the elderly founding bronze riders of Madellon Turns ago, but considerably larger than the cramped quarters that many riders inhabited. Three curtained archways led to other areas of the weyr. Nothing looked out of place: the thin rugs on the floor were neat, the chairs drawn tidily up to the table. But the reek of Jessaf brandy that had exuded from E’rom’s corpse was strong in the room, too.

He found the bottle under the table, where it had rolled against the wall. He crouched to examine it, being careful not to move anything. Liquid had pooled under the uncorked neck of the vessel, and a dark stain on the rug showed how the bottle had rolled, spilling its contents in an arc.

C’los left the brandy bottle where it was. There was a jug on the table, half-full of what appeared to be water. He sniffed carefully but couldn’t detect any other odour. A wherhide case next to it contained a dragonrider’s standard leatherworking kit, and a piece of riding gear - one of the narrow straps that linked the dragon’s harness to the rider’s belt - beside that showed evidence of recent repairs. A glint caught C’los eye: a thick, curved needle, still threaded, lay on top of the fighting strap.

Nothing else looked unusual. The shelves held everyday miscellany: plates, utensils, folded cloths, a set of five matching cups. Other than the cloying smell of brandy, the room seemed innocuous.

C’los pushed aside the oiled hide hanging that partitioned off the bathing room. A small natural pool, just deep enough to sit in, rippled with the force of the fresh water bubbling up from the porous rock. Fading blots that could have been footprints made a trail towards the archway into the main room of the weyr, and a damp towel was folded neatly on a rocky shelf.

The sleeping room, little more than a niche, held a bed, tidily made, with a low chest at its foot. C’los had to squeeze past the bed to investigate the chest, but it contained only clothes. A picture hung on the wall, and he paused to study it. Charcoal on hide depicted E’rom as a youth with a half-grown Sigith beside him.

The final archway leading from the living chamber of E’rom’s weyr revealed not another room, but a narrow staircase. C’los made a quick mental projection as to where it would lead, based on the location of the weyr. The laundry rooms, he thought. He followed the stairs down to confirm his guess. After thirty steps, a door opened out into the humid heat of the cave system that housed Madellon’s big thermal pools for bathing and washing. That accounted for the vigour of the water recirculating in E’rom’s bathing pool. But it also meant that there was a back way into - and out of - the dead rider’s weyr.

C’los quickly retraced his steps back into the weyr. He gazed around the main chamber, trying to draw the pieces together in his mind. Absently, he placed his hands on the back of one of the chairs, and then exclaimed as a sharp sliver of wood jabbed into the flesh of his palm. The back of the chair was cracked and splintered.

Belatedly, C’los realised that he had already disregarded Valrov’s advice to take notes. He hastened back through Sigith’s cavern and then outside, taking care not to obscure or add to the marks in the sand of the ledge. His brain was buzzing with the possible conclusions to be drawn from what he had found.

Indioth, where’s… he began, half turning, but stopped as he saw two new dragons, a brown and a bronze, landing beside his green. C’los hurried down the steps to the Bowl to meet them, noticing that Isnan and his assistants had already taken E’rom’s body away, although someone had outlined the shape of the fallen rider in chalk.

Both brown and bronze rider wore the double stripes of Wingseconds on their shoulders, although one was half the age of the other. T’rello, who made up for his scant seventeen Turns with a conscientious and mature manner, looked pale beneath his summer tan. A’len, the easy-going rider who had always been part of C’los’ extended circle of friends, gravely offered chalk and slate.

C’los took the tools and started making notes in his own coded shorthand, hurrying to record what he had seen. As he scribbled, he glanced up at the two Wingseconds. “I need you two to close off this weyr. There’s a back way in from the laundry rooms. Roster a couple of your most trustworthy riders and have them guard both entrances. I don’t want anyone going in or out, or touching anything, until I’ve finished investigating it.”

The two Wingseconds exchanged a glance. “What’s going on, C’los?” asked A’len. “We heard Sigith go between, but…”

“T’kamen wants me to find out what happened to him.” C’los glanced up at the grey sky, making a face, and noted down the approximate time. “I just need to be sure that nothing’s tampered with.”

“Why would anyone tamper with a dead man’s things?” T’rello asked in a hushed tone.

Another question hung on the air between the three riders: the question C’los hadn’t yet committed himself to asking. “I don’t know,” he lied. “I just don’t want the place cleared until I’m done.”

T’rello seemed to accept that, and although A’len’s more experienced gaze was still troubled, the brown rider nodded. “We’ll see to it, Los.”

“Thank you.” C’los started back up the steps to E’rom’s weyr, intent on recording everything he had seen.

“Hey, C’los,” T’rello called after him. “How’s C’mine?”

C’los looked blankly at the young Wingsecond, his normally agile mind struggling to cope with the sudden change of subject. “Uh, he’s fine,” he said finally, and tried not to think too hard about the fact that his weyrmate, so recently returned to health and home, had never been further from his mind.

T’kamen was watching from a high window when the two browns winked in from between. Epherineth had commented that he would have been happy to report the new arrivals, but T’kamen had declined the offer. He was looking for more than dragons.

He turned back to the room, glancing briefly at the two men already there. Winstone, Lord of Jessaf and the designated host for the day’s meeting, sat stiffly in his chair at one end of the great skybroom table, his expression as stony as the lines of age carved into his face. D’feng looked scarcely less tense. T’kamen spared a moment to regret again the necessity of bringing the other bronze rider. There was no doubt that he needed a second, and D’feng certainly had more recent experience of the Madellon Lords than any other rider in the Weyr, but T’kamen didn’t like being forced to rely on a man who had been a political opponent such a short time ago. There were half a dozen riders he would rather have had at his side, but none could have filled the role. L’stev was deeply involved with his duties as Weyrlingmaster. C’los had been absorbed with C’mine’s recovery until recently, travelling between Madellon and Kellad on a daily basis, and as a green rider would not have carried the necessary gravitas with Holders. T’rello, for all that T’kamen valued the young man’s potential, was virtually a weyrling. The two riders T’kamen had taken on as his own Wingseconds were still finding their feet. So it had fallen to D’feng, a bronze rider who’d been his predecessor’s right hand, to accompany T’kamen to these consultations with the three major Holders of Madellon territory. He took solace in the knowledge that at least none of the Lords would be able to baffle him with numbers.

Winstone’s steward, a small man who almost certainly knew a great deal more than his impassive expression revealed, preceded the other three dignitaries into the room. Meturvian, Lord of Kellad, came first: burly, blonde, and as unsmiling as Winstone, wearing the brown and green colours of his Hold. The young Lord of Blue Shale Hold, Zinner, was a less formidable presence in blue and red. Gaffry, Masterharper of the South brought up the rear in the blue of his Craft. The riot of colour against wall hangings of Jessaf yellow was almost painful to the eye. T’kamen was glad for his own sober attire: dark dress leathers, with Madellon’s indigo limited to the cord of his rank knots.

“Winstone,” Meturvian addressed the Jessaf Lord curtly. “T’kamen.”

Zinner murmured acknowledgements, and Gaffry nodded to each of them, including D’feng. Trust the Masterharper to be diplomatic. As the only man present not of a rank with the others, D’feng was usually ignored by the three Lords, but today T’kamen only wanted him to listen. What transpired today would colour Weyr-Hold relations for the foreseeable future, and Gaffry - for all his purported neutrality - knew that.

“Master Gaffry,” T’kamen greeted the Harper cordially. He paused, and then added in a more formal tone, “My Lords Zinner and Meturvian.”

Winstone cleared his throat impatiently. “Sit, gentlemen, sit.”

One drawback of meeting on Hold territory was that Winstone had total control over the seating arrangements. The three Lords arrayed themselves at the head of the table, leaving the central seat for Gaffry, and the two chairs at the foot of the table for T’kamen and D’feng. None could have failed to mark the role of supplicant in which Winstone had cast the Weyr.

T’kamen took his designated place without comment or complaint, trusting to D’feng to back up his tacit disdain for Winstone’s tactics. Nearly five Turns as the subordinate of a hated rival had taught him restraint. Winstone would have to do much better if he wanted to needle a reaction out of Madellon’s new Weyrleader.

The steward moved around the table, filling glasses from a wineskin. T’kamen recognised the inferior vintage, although there were precious few skins of even this poor wine in the storage caverns of Madellon, and wondered if Winstone intended to insult his fellow Lords as well as the Weyrleader he resented. Neither Meturvian nor Zinner objected to their host’s miserly choice, however, and T’kamen suddenly grasped the Jessaf Lord’s intent. In serving a third-rate wine, Winstone was making a show of his Hold’s poverty.

Well, T’kamen intended to impress upon these three men that the Weyr wouldn’t accept substandard products. He waved the steward aside before the man could fill his glass or D’feng’s, and fixed Winstone with a stare that was as flat as it was unimpressed. “Thank you, we’re not thirsty.”

Winstone scowled. “That will be all,” he told his steward brusquely.

T’kamen waited for the heavy door to latch shut, and then spoke immediately, keen to take control of the proceedings. “Thank you for attending, my Lords, Masterharper. I’m glad you place such importance on your relationship with the Weyr.”

It was a calculated dig, voiced so blandly that none of the Lords would be able to object, although Winstone’s glower deepened, and Meturvian’s mouth twitched in the beginning of a frown. Zinner, the youngest and, usually, the quietest of the three powerful Madellon Lords, showed no reaction. The expected responses, then: Winstone openly hostile, Meturvian - who owed the Weyr the most - more guarded, and Zinner silent.

“You have the Weyr’s list of requirements, T’kamen?” asked Gaffry.

Gaffry would translate “demands” into “requirements, T’kamen remarked to Epherineth. “I do,” he replied, drawing the three flat rolls of hide from the inside pocket of his riding jacket. He pushed them across the table, taking care that each man received the correct document. There were several important distinctions between them.

Then he leaned back, watching intently as the three Lords perused the lists he had drawn up with such precision. He could see D’feng’s tight-lipped expression from the corner of his eye. The older bronze rider had argued the contents of the tithe demands with him for hours, insisting that the Weyr must ask for more than it needed, to leave room for negotiation. That was what the Lords expected; it was a traditional aspect of the sometimes uneasy Hold-Weyr symbiosis. T’kamen wasn’t interested in what D’feng thought they expected. A mere five Turns of L’dro’s tactics scarcely counted as tradition; prior to that, the Madellon Lords had dealt directly with Weyrwoman Fianine, Valonna’s formidable predecessor. Zinner was too new in his Lordship to have known Cherganth’s rider, but Meturvian and Winstone would both have spent many Turns railing futilely against Fianine’s uncompromising demands. T’kamen intended to make it clear that he subscribed to the former Weyrwoman’s values, not the self-indulgence of his own predecessor.

Silence dominated the room for several moments, broken only by the soft creak of D’feng’s riding leathers as the Wingleader shifted nervously in his seat.

Then, Meturvian looked up from the tithe demand T’kamen had compiled for Kellad Hold. “This is too much.”

“It’s what the Weyr needs, Meturvian,” T’kamen replied. “It’s the minimum I can accept to sustain Madellon’s riders and dragons at a basic level.”

“Weyrleader -”

“I’m not asking you for luxuries, my Lords,” T’kamen went on implacably. “Not your best wines, not your prime animals, not the scarcest timber. Just food that you wouldn’t object to eating yourself, good quality hide so we can cut harness that won’t risk lives, enough animals that our dragons don’t have to deplete the wild herds -”

Winstone exploded. “If there weren’t so many of your thrice-seared dragons -”

Outside, Sejanth and the two browns immediately echoed Epherineth’s affronted bugle. “Lord Winstone!” Gaffry objected.

T’kamen clenched his teeth, fighting back his outrage at the blasphemy. D’feng had paled with shock, and even the other two Lords were protesting at Winstone’s oath.

“It’s the truth,” Winstone growled unapologetically, glaring at Zinner and Gaffry. “We can’t support -” he consulted his document, “– two hundred and twenty-three dragons!”

“Two hundred and twenty-two,” D’feng corrected pedantically. “A brown rider died several days ago.”

T’kamen could have kicked him, not only for speaking up uninvited, but also for drawing attention to an incident that reflected poorly on the Weyr. He made a mental note to chase C’los up on his investigation when he got back to Madellon. The green rider had gone uncharacteristically quiet. “Considerably fewer than both Southern and the Peninsula, both with well over three hundred dragons.”

“And established Hold populations to match! You might have forgotten, Weyrleader, that Madellon territory comprises the frontier of Hold expansion in the South. My uncle was the first Lord of Jessaf, T’kamen - and that was fewer than fifty Turns ago! How can a developing Hold be expected to support two hundred and twenty dragons?”

“Your development will depend on dragons soon enough, Winstone,” T’kamen said coldly.

“You offer a payment deferred for a hundred Turns,” the Jessaf Lord declared, “and it no more sways my opinion than have the demands of Interval Weyrleaders to any Holder throughout Pern’s history.”

T’kamen didn’t bother to mask the disgust in his voice. “The Holds always have been quick to forget their debt to the Weyr once a Pass ends.”

“And what debt is that? Madellon dragons have never fought Thread over Jessaf.”

The arrogance of this man, who dared to blaspheme against the dragons whose ancestors had preserved the lives of his, made T’kamen seethe, but he was determined to control his temper, and he could feel Epherineth’s steadying touch helping him. He spoke very carefully, very softly. “Carry on, my Lord Winstone, and Madellon dragons never will.”

Winstone shrugged. “I’ll be dust in the wind by then, T’kamen, and so will your threats.”

T’kamen did not respond for a long moment, staring across the table at the Lord of Jessaf Hold. “You are short sighted,” he said at last, although he could have voiced a dozen less measured retorts.

“T’kamen, Winstone doesn’t mean to insult the Weyr,” said Meturvian.

He transferred his gaze to the Kellad Lord. Famously belligerent, the powerful Holder looked ill at ease in the role of appeaser, but Kellad owed the Weyr a more recent debt than that of all Pern to the dragons. The wildfire that had caught in Kellad’s rich forests at Turn’s End had killed dozens of holders, and would have taken the lives of many more if not for the bravery of Madellon dragonriders. C’mine had nearly died that day. No one who had been there, and least of all Meturvian, would soon forget what was owed.

“It’s not that we’re rescinding on our vows to tithe,” Meturvian went on. “But the drought means we all have to tighten our belts. Harvests have failed across the South because of it, and we can’t even trade with the North because the flooding there has destroyed winter reserves and set back the early plantings. We’ve got hungry people to feed, T’kamen.”

“So have I,” T’kamen replied flatly, “and twenty-five new dragonets on the way who won’t eat unless you tithe what is required.”

“The last clutch wasn’t so big,” Winstone complained.

T’kamen smiled, without warmth. “No, it wasn’t.”

“It’s irresponsible,” the Jessaf Lord declared. “L’dro agreed to see that the size of future clutches was kept down.”

“L’dro was good at making promises he couldn’t keep.”

Unexpectedly, Zinner spoke up. “You have to offer us something.”

By the way that Winstone and Meturvian relinquished control of the discussion to the youngest man in the room, T’kamen surmised that Zinner’s contribution, like everything else, had been carefully planned. He felt the burden of the entire Weyr press suddenly down on him; he was solely responsible for negotiating for Madellon’s needs, but the idea of bargaining for those needs with Weyr resources unsettled him. He folded his arms. “What did you have in mind?”

“Transport,” Zinner replied readily.

T’kamen studied the Lord of Blue Shale, wondering why the least experienced of the three Lords had been chosen to deliver what they had obviously decided to demand in return for tithes. “The price of dragon transportation has been fixed for Turns.”

“Waive the fee,” said Zinner. “At least for those on official Hold business.”

He frowned. He had already reduced the required tithe of marks significantly, counting on the revenue generated by the regular service of dragon transport. Any rider could offer the services of himself and his dragon to convey passengers or messages, with or without a price, but all major and minor Hold traffic went via the Weyrleader, and transport duty was rostered out among all wingriders. The marks belonged to the Weyr rather than the rider who had made the trip. The relative frequency of journeys made it a significant source of income, independent of tithes. To permit free travel not only trivialised a dragonrider’s time, it undermined a financial resource upon which T’kamen had been depending. “My riders won’t appreciate being treated like runners.”

“Of course, a small gratuity for the rider involved would be appropriate,” said Meturvian.

Winstone muttered, “If your dragons would carry goods, I’d be willing to pay…”

“No.” T’kamen didn’t wait for the Jessaf Lord to finish. “Messages and passengers are one thing, but dragons won’t carry cargo.”

D’feng nudged his elbow, and T’kamen threw a sidelong glare at him before noticing what the other bronze rider had wanted him to see. Zinner was looking at Winstone with an outraged expression. The young Seaholder quickly rearranged his features into a bland mask, but the inference was clear: Winstone had not discussed his plans for dragons as beasts of burden, and Zinner, whose Hold boasted one of the largest fleets in the South, felt betrayed.

“I’ll consider the waiving of the transportation fee,” T’kamen said slowly, “although conditions would apply. I won’t have my riders called upon for petty errands.”

Meturvian cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable again. T’kamen suspected that Kellad’s Lord would rather take an approach much like Winstone’s. “Kellad respectfully asks that the Weyr provides a trained service to assist with the protection of lives and land against wildfires.”

T’kamen had half expected that, although Meturvian’s phrasing aggravated him. “I nearly lost a rider saving lives, Meturvian; I wouldn’t risk one just to save a few trees.” He watched the blonde Lord’s eyes widen in anger, and went on before Meturvian lost his temper. “A Wing will be trained in appropriate methods of wildfire containment.”

He had the satisfaction of seeing Meturvian agree too quickly, caught off-balance between indignation and his awareness of Kellad’s debt. It didn’t matter either way to T’kamen: the fire-fighting Wing had been an obvious step to take after the brave but disorganised efforts of dragons and riders at Turn’s End.

“Cargo or no cargo, if we’re to tithe what you require, then dragons can come and collect it,” said Winstone, as if he hadn’t even heard the exchange regarding fire-fighting. “Sending men and beasts and wagons when a dragon could go between in a few breaths is absurd.”

Reluctantly, T’kamen nodded. It wasn’t an unreasonable request. He glanced at Gaffry, who had been silently recording details of the agreements that had been made so far. The Masterharper’s face revealed nothing. “Have you finished?”

Zinner and Meturvian both looked at Winstone. The difficult Lord scowled at T’kamen, his eyes almost vanishing beneath bushy eyebrows. “Hold watchdragons.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come now, T’kamen, you can’t tell me there isn’t a rider or two you’d rather have somewhere where they can’t cause mischief?” Winstone gave a snort of laughter that could have meant anything. “You are a new Weyrleader, after all.”

“Dragons don’t live away from the Weyr,” T’kamen said flatly. “It isn’t natural for them. I wouldn’t ask that of any of my riders.”

“Weyrleader, I think you have to…”

“I think I don’t have to anything.” He got up from his place, his patience finally spent at the audacity of the demand. A dragonpair on hand day and night to pander to the whim of Holders? No amount of marks could buy that. “You will each have the quantity and quality of items outlined in those tithe documents ready for collection by dragon on the allotted date. Thank you, Masterharper.”

“I haven’t finished yet!” roared Winstone.

T’kamen took a deep breath, vowing to hold in his fury, the indignation of a dragonrider whose pride has been affronted. “I have. D’feng?”

The other bronze rider rose instantly to join him, but T’kamen didn’t stop to see if he approved of the abrupt ending to the meeting or not: he was already heading towards the door.

“But there’s the problem of the border violations on the Peninsula side,” Winstone protested.

T’kamen kept walking, calling Epherineth down from the fire heights. He didn’t want to stay at Jessaf any longer than necessary.

“I said you should have left room for negotiations,” D’feng muttered as they stepped out into the courtyard of the Hold.

T’kamen could have chosen any one of many angry epithets to hurl at his default, and quite worthless, second, but something - perhaps Epherineth - held him back. “Shut up, D’feng,” he said, with finality. “Just shut up.”

Chapter Three: A Dragon Of Night-Dark Sea

Another steer broke from the herd, and Sarenya leaned back in the saddle of her runner, watching to see how the apprentices dealt with it. Tarnish chirped from his perch on her shoulder, asking permission to round up the errant herdbeast. She stroked the fire-lizard’s chin, but held him back. “Let’s see how they manage first.” The apprentices didn’t like the menial herders’ work, but it did teach them respect for the animals they were learning to treat.

Gadman, one of Madellon’s regular herdsmen, a wiry, weathered little man who sat his runnerbeast as if born in the saddle, grinned at Sarenya as the apprentice lads chased down the loose bullock. “Said ah couldn’t see ‘em gettin’ t’Weyr afore midday, an’ a sorry sight they surely are!”

Sarenya edged her mount slightly closer to keep the main herd in line, observing that one of the older lads had the right idea, flanking the stray. A shame that the other four were hampering his efforts. Charging the beast from the inside, they were driving it farther from the herd. “It’s not such a warm day that they’ll run themselves to skin and bone. The beasts, I mean, not the lads.”

The weather had certainly cooled since the scorching summer months, although too late for many farmers across Madellon’s territory. Sarenya, like the other journeymen, read the reports that came in from the Farm and Beastcrafthalls, and projections were not good. Crops had failed under the relentless sun, and the drought had sickened too many animals. Even these herdbeast showed the signs of summer exhaustion in dull hides and visible ribs. They would make tough eating. It was just as well that most of them would end up as dragons’ dinners.

Finally relenting, Sarenya sent her eager fire-lizard out to goad the rogue bullock back into the herd with a stinging swipe of sharp little claws. Panting and blowing, the apprentices rolled their eyes in relief before slogging back into position around the herd. Their feebly raised staves were enough to keep the demoralised beasts in check.

Sarenya dismissed Tarnish and kicked her runner on up the well-trodden thoroughfare that led to the Weyr. The old gelding was a stubborn, lazy creature, indifferent to almost everything - fire-lizards, dragons, and the commands of whoever was on his back - but he knew his stall was back in the Weyr, and kept to a brisk pace up the track. The yellow-green light of glows bathed the ground entrance to the Bowl in an eerie light that often spooked the animals, and the claustrophobic tunnel even made Sarenya a little uncomfortable, but she would be as glad to get home as her mount. Supervising these drives was a thankless task, but the other two Beastcraft journeyman lacked Sarenya’s advantage of fire-lizards. She supposed she should be glad that there were food animals enough to warrant the frequent activity, even if most of them were the worn-out dregs of Kellad Hold’s herds.

“Beasts coming through!” she called down the passage, as the glow light picked out the dull gleam of the bronze gate that prevented intruders from entering the Weyr unnoticed. A cheerful shout, the words distorted by the narrow tunnel, came back, accompanied by the rattle of chains and groan of windlasses as the gatekeepers raised the grille.

Saren’s gelding picked up his pace at the familiar sound, making for the natural light that showed dimly at the end of the passageway. The clatter of many cloven hooves on worn rock reverberated from the outside, and Sarenya let her runnerbeast trot on through the open gate, waving her thanks to the man on duty there.

The Bowl of Madellon Weyr opened up before them, vast and impressive, but even after a mere six months, Sarenya took it for granted. There was only so much wonder one could feel, even for the towering walls of an ancient crater that cast such long, impenetrable shadows, the dark mouths of individual caves that had been enlarged from the rock over half a century, the blue, green, and yellow of the water, grass and sand that carpeted the floor. Only the dragons still had the power to command Sarenya’s awe. No amount of familiarity - with C’mine’s shameless, brave Darshanth, whom Sarenya loved best of all, with C’los’ gentle Indioth, with T’kamen’s Epherineth, paramount among bronzes - could dull the reverence she felt for dragonkind, or her regret at being denied the bond her friends enjoyed. At nearly twenty-seven, Sarenya was too old for the clutch that was hardening on the Sands. Her chance had been and gone.

The other Beastcrafters of Madellon had moved the fences, shifting posts and rails to guide the influx of herdbeast directly into their pens. Sarenya nodded a greeting to Tebis and Jarrisam, her opposite numbers, and guided her runner towards the gap they had left in the fence.

“Thought you weren’t going to make it,” Jarrisam joshed her from the back of his own mount.

“Nearly didn’t,” Sarenya replied. “But after this morning’s exertions, the lads’ll be begging for hatchery duties.”

The swarthy journeyman made a face at the mention of the hated assignment. “Master Arrense said they can hose down and take the afternoon off. You, too.”

Sarenya nodded, relieved. “I’ll stable this old campaigner first.”

“Coming to the poker with the other journeymen tomorrow night, Saren?” Tebis asked. “We need your lucky touch.”

“I wouldn’t miss it, Teb.” Then, at the other crafter’s grin, Sarenya added, “But you can keep your lucky touch to yourself.”

Jarrisam snorted with amusement, and Tebis looked good-naturedly embarrassed. Sarenya took her leave of them, heeling her runner on as the first of the herdbeasts began to stream through the tunnel into the Bowl, shaking their heads in the sunlight.

The gelding knew his stall, and stood placidly, tugging mouthfuls of hay from the net, as Sarenya stripped his tack and brushed the dust from his coat. Normally there would have been a lad here to take the animal. Sarenya remembered drawing stable duties from her own time as a candidate at the Weyr. She wondered if she could coax L’stev into assigning the job to one of his new batch.

She left the stables, skirting around the beast enclosures on her way back to the Beastcrafters’ cot. The four apprentices who had been led such a merry chase by the more spirited creatures were straggling back to their dorm, black with trail dust. Sarenya felt almost as filthy, for all that she’d been on runnerback. Even the best of the trails that wound up through the passes north of Madellon, connecting the lowlands to the Weyr itself, were hard going.

She released the locking mechanism on her door - Tebis, despite his tendency to meaningful winks and double entendres, had warned her early on that she couldn’t trust the apprentices with an unlocked door - and stepped inside her room. The chamber was simply furnished: the bed, clothes chest, desk, and chair took up most of the space, but the curtains at both small windows matched the cheerful blue-and-yellow bedspread, and a rug that could have been woven to go with both covered the bare plank floor. Sarenya had known worse accommodation even as a journeyman, and while small, the room had everything she needed. Certainly she spent little enough time here, between work and her various off-duty activities, that the size of the space didn’t matter. She eased off her riding boots, leaving them by the door for polishing later, and padded through the second door and down the corridor in her socks. Sarenya paused by the linen cupboard to find a clean towel, and went on into the bathing room.

It only occurred to her after her bath, as she was wrapping the towel around herself in preparation for a quick dash back to her room, that her fire-lizards had made themselves scarce. She had released Tarnish to amuse himself, it was true, and Sleek, the handsome dark blue, was unfaithful at the best of times, but the pair seldom missed bath time. Indeed, Sarenya usually had to bully the lizards into behaving, or else spend an extra half hour mopping up the mess they made.

She puzzled over the conspicuous absence of her friends as she brushed out and then rebraided her hair. She concentrated hard, touching Tarnish’s thoughts and gleaning a rough impression of his state of mind. The little bronze’s attention was focused elsewhere, with a definite tinge of excitement. Sarenya slipped a fresh tunic over her head, and put her dusty boots back on. Maybe Darshanth would be able to shed more light on her fire-lizards’ distraction.

She set out across the Bowl, sparing a glance back at the beast pens, where Tebis, Jarrisam, and the remaining five of Madellon’s nine Beastcraft apprentices were sorting the new intake. Sarenya suspected that the impromptu afternoon off would be cancelled soon enough if the other two journeymen couldn’t manage, and she resolved to enjoy the free time while she could. She lengthened her stride with that in mind, but as she approached the Weyr lake a flash of metallic wings too small to belong to a dragon caught her eye. Sarenya paused on the bank, narrowing her eyes to identify the fire-lizards. The green-hued bronze was unmistakeably Tarnish, and his coppery-gold companion accounted for the delinquent male’s preoccupation. Amused, Saren put her hands on her hips, and called out sternly, “I knew you were seeing another woman, Tarnish!”

The two fire-lizards broke off their antics, but Tarnish continued to shadow the strange queen as she veered towards the bank. Sarenya shaded her eyes with one hand, trying to identify the newcomer. Fire-lizards of any colour were scarce in a Weyr too far inland to have its own beaches, but unless one of Madellon’s fair had spontaneously changed colour, this queen must be a visitor. She certainly wasn’t wild, although the swat that she dealt Tarnish with one wing provoked an outraged cheep from the little bronze. Sarenya winced at the rebuff. “Leave her alone, Tarnish.”

Tarnish obeyed sheepishly, backwinging to land on the forearm Sarenya extended for him, but the bronze hopped from there to her shoulder and wrapped his tail tight around her neck. She smoothed his wings, still half-open and agitated, and dug in her belt pouch to find him a snack. “Did she break your heart, lad?”

“She didn’t hurt him, did she?”

Sarenya turned in time to see the fire-lizard queen alight to the speaker’s wrist, still searching for a consolation treat. “Only his pride, and that’s easily healed.”

The tall, dark-haired man, a rider by his clothes, yet bare of the familiar Madellon knots, badges, and epaulettes, dipped into a pocket and pulled out two strips of dried meat. He stepped close enough to offer one to Tarnish, who took the titbit gratefully, and fed the other to his queen.

“There, boy,” Sarenya told her bronze, smiling as he gripped the snack in both forepaws, and then spoke to the queen’s handler. “Thank you. You now have a friend for life.”

Deep laughter-lines showed at the corners of the stranger’s eyes as he smiled back. “Trebruth will be glad to hear that he’s got more company, although Agusta here might be jealous.”

That confirmed Sarenya’s assumption that this man was a dragonrider. “Tarnish might be more possessive if my blue spent more time with me,” she said. “As it happens, Sleek only shows up if he wants something, and this one just feels superior for being loyal!”

The rider laughed, and the queen on his arm warbled imperiously. “She was looking to catch some lunch when your bronze arrived to inflate her opinion of herself,” he said. “Is there good fishing in the lake?”

“My boys have been feeding themselves from it since I’ve been here,” Sarenya replied, but the question piqued her curiosity further. A Madellon rider would hardly need to ask her about the lake. “You’re new here, then, or just visiting?”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, journeyman; I realise I’m not wearing anything to identify myself. I’m M’ric, Trebruth’s rider, transferred in from the Peninsula last sevenday.”

“Sarenya of the Beastcraft,” she introduced herself. “I’ve only been here half a Turn myself.”

M’ric nodded. “Excuse me.” Then spoke to his fire-lizard, who had been trying to get his attention. “Go on then, go and fish if you’re hungry.” He launched the queen off his arm, then apologised, “I’m sorry, she’s being a real pain. I think she misses the sea.”

“I was at Blue Shale before I came here,” said Sarenya. “Mine missed the company of other fire-lizards, at first, but they’re as happy now being with dragons.”

Tarnish begged permission to follow M’ric’s queen. Sarenya admonished him to behave and to leave Agusta alone, then let him go. She looked back at M’ric and saw that he had been watching the exchange with an understanding grimace. “Demanding beasts,” he said. “Although you should try a young dragon for sheer attention-seeking.”

Sarenya masked the surge of regret. “We’ll have a few of those to deal with, soon.”

“I heard. Twenty-five is a good number.” M’ric’s eyes moved again to the rank cords on her shoulder. “Though keeping them all fed will make your job a bit harder for a while.”

“The drought hasn’t left much to go around,” Sarenya agreed seriously.

M’ric nodded. “My new Wingleader mentioned that I’ll need to hunt Trebruth out-Weyr more than I’m used to.”

There was an odd note in his voice, and the slight emphasis on new made Sarenya curious. “Where’ve you been assigned?”

“North Central is the name I’ve been told, although no one seems to use it.”

“Oh,” said Sarenya. “D’feng’s Wing.”

M’ric laughed again: a pleasantly gravelly laugh. “He seems all right.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Well, I’ve known more charismatic leaders,” said M’ric. “But we’re new here, Trebruth and I. It’ll take us both a while to get used to this Weyr. And a while for the Weyr to get used to us.”

Another cryptic comment. Sarenya studied the dragonrider with renewed interest. She liked a man who implied more than he revealed. There was a keen intelligence in his perceptive dark eyes, a finely-tuned sense of humour mapped out in those established laughter-lines, an overall calmness and competence to his demeanour that convinced Sarenya he must have held rank at the Peninsula. He held himself with an understated confidence that was reassuring rather than intimidating. “What colour is Trebruth?”

M’ric raised his head, his eyes momentarily distant in the manner of a rider speaking with his dragon. “I didn’t mean you to disturb him,” Sarenya said, half-scolding.

“It’s all right, he wasn’t asleep.” M’ric nodded across the lake. “That’s him.”

The casual tone of his voice belied the spectacle of Trebruth’s appearance. A shadow in the shape of a dragon dropped vertically from a ledge, dark wings angled back so as not to impede his breathtaking descent, the shifts of muscle and sail that pulled him up out of the drop as imperceptible as the dive had been dramatic. The dark dragon soared low across the lake, his wingtips delicately brushing the water on each downstroke without ever breaking a surface that shivered with the force of his flight. Stretching out his powerful hind legs, Trebruth checked his forward velocity, the power of his wingbeats holding him in a perfectly-controlled hover.

His exquisite vertical landing barely raised a puff of dirt from the ground until he folded his wings, which agitated the dust in a spiral that twisted around his body before dying away.

Sarenya realised she had been holding her breath, and exhaled in a rush. She’d never seen a dragon fly with such precision or daring. “Now I understand why you say that Madellon will need to get used to you!”

M’ric’s smile wasn’t proud so much as resigned, as if his dragon’s daredevil tricks were less an accomplishment than a way of life. “He will show off.”

With Trebruth stationary, Sarenya could study him more closely, and in doing so found that M’ric’s dragon was unusual in more ways than one. The hide that had seemed shadow-black was brown, the darkest of that hue Sarenya had seen, the colour of rich river silt. The greyish cast of the cloudy sky barely picked out the lighter overtones of a dragon who gave an overall impression of darkness. But more striking even than Trebruth’s colour was his size. There could be no doubt that he was a brown, but a brown no larger than a small blue. Darshanth was bigger, and Darshanth didn’t rank among the largest of his colour.

Sarenya found M’ric watching her again, waiting for her reaction, and saw a guardedness to his eyes; the look of a man anticipating criticism and preparing to defend himself. To ride such an unusual dragon…if M’ric was, as he looked, in his late thirties, and had Impressed in his mid-teens, he would have spent more than half his life defending Trebruth from curiosity, ridicule, condemnation. Sarenya chose her words carefully. “I wouldn’t like to see any of Madellon’s browns try that. I bet your Weyrlingmaster had a few sleepless nights when you were in training.”

M’ric relaxed, and Saren knew she’d said the right thing. “We mostly saved the stunts for scaring Wingleaders, once we’d won our knots.”

“Mostly?”

The brown rider grinned.

Sarenya laughed, and looked out at the lake. M’ric’s little queen had caught her fish and was devouring it on the shore. Tarnish watched wistfully, close, but not so close as to aggravate Agusta. She wondered what her bronze coveted more: the golden lizard’s attention, or her fish.

“Agusta, don’t be so greedy,” M’ric told his fire-lizard. When the queen ignored him, the brown rider said, “Trebruth?”

The Peninsula dragon didn’t so much as cock his head, but Agusta threw the brown a chagrined look, and reluctantly stepped back from her meal. Tarnish swooped in without further invitation, his eyes glowing with gratitude.

“She won’t listen to me, but she’s doted on Treb ever since he Hatched,” M’ric explained.

“Then you’ve had her longer than him?” Sarenya asked.

“Since I was a scrappy little brat of a sea-holder,” he said. “She’ll never let me forget that she was around for a full five Turns before Trebruth came on the scene.”

“Tarnish’s a baby in comparison, then,” said Saren. “I was given him as part of my training at Blue Shale. Have you had any luck getting Agusta to clutch somewhere convenient?”

M’ric shook his head. “She vanishes for a month or so a couple of times a Turn. I used to try to work out where she went to lay, but there are so many beaches around where I grew up, and I don’t know which one she came from. I just leave her to it, now.”

“Would you be willing to try training her to lay here, rather than going back to where she was clutched?” Sarenya asked. “There are a few holders at Blue Shale who’ve been trying to train their queens to lay on demand, but none of them have dragons to help.”

“I can’t see why not.” M’ric paused, eyes lighting briefly on his dragon again. “He thinks it would be interesting.”

Sarenya looked at the golden fire-lizard, admiring the good health evident in her bright hide and sparkling eyes. “When’s she due?”

“She came back from seeing her last clutch through about ten or twelve days ago,” M’ric replied. “I reckon another six or eight sevendays before she rises again. Your bronze will know.”

The two fire-lizards had made short work of the fish Agusta had caught, but Tarnish, in his eagerness to strip the bones to nothing, pulled too hard at the tail and tugged the head out of Agusta’s grip. Outraged at the shocking behaviour, the little queen flew at the dinner companion she had grudgingly tolerated, chattering angrily.

This time, Trebruth’s rebuke was verbal, his low grumble somewhere between amusement and reprimand. Tarnish took the opportunity to dart free of Agusta’s furious attack. He clung to Sarenya’s shoulder, talons curling and uncurling in distress, but it was his aroma that made the journeyman shake him loose. “Tarnish, you smell! Go and find Sleek and wash off the fish-stink. Yes, I know she attacked you.” Sarenya shook her head, exasperated. “He’s such a baby.”

“I’m really sorry for the way she’s acting,” the brown rider apologised. “She’s not usually this bad.”

“I’d better clean him up. Haven’t had to deal with a queen in a few months, have you, boy?” Sarenya sighed at her forlorn bronze, then looked up at M’ric, extending her hand to him. “It was good to meet you, M’ric.”

He gripped her wrist. “And you, Sarenya.”

“Saren,” she told him, and indicated Tarnish and Agusta. “I expect you’ll have opportunity enough to call me that, with the start these two have got off to.”

M’ric glanced tolerantly at his glowering little queen. “I’m sure I will, Saren.”

Sarenya let Tarnish settle on her shoulder and wind his tail tight about her upper arm. “Until next time they come to blows then, M’ric. Trebruth.”

“Until then,” M’ric laughed.

Saren resumed her initial course across the Bowl towards Darshanth’s weyr. Tarnish gazed back at Agusta, trilling a plaintive objection in Sarenya’s ear, but she pulled his head around. “I think you’ve made enough of a fool of yourself for one day, fella. C’mine won’t mind me rinsing you off in his bathing room.”

The prospect of training M’ric’s queen, feisty as she was, to lay her eggs where they could easily be found put Sarenya in a good mood, although finding a kindred spirit in M’ric, a fellow friend of fire-lizards, was even more satisfying.

Still, something about the encounter bothered her. Sarenya turned the conversation over in her mind until it dawned on her. Transferred in from the Peninsula.. L’dro, former Weyrleader, the brutish rider of a brutish dragon, had gone to the Peninsula Weyr. Sarenya had heard most of the story second-hand from C’los, but the green rider was an impeccable source. Peninsula had only accepted L’dro on the condition that Madellon took two of its riders. M’ric, brown Trebruth’s rider, must be one of the pair deemed a fair trade for a volatile former Weyrleader, and Sarenya didn’t want to think that that handsome, intelligent man and his unusual dragon were concealing the potential to cause even half the strife L’dro had.

She lengthened her stride, hurrying on towards Darshanth’s weyr, hoping C’mine would know more.

“I can’t say that I know any more than you,” C’mine admitted, passing Sarenya a cup of klah. “Careful, it’s hot.”

Sarenya accepted the mug gratefully, took an imprudent gulp and then had to suck in air to cool her mouth. “Ow.”

“I told you it was hot,” the blue rider said with mild reproach, as he stirred his own cup, one of the teas he had been drinking to build up his strength.

“It’s meant to be.” But Sarenya blew on the surface of her klah before taking another, more cautious sip. “Good brew, Mine.”

C’mine touched the klah chest, running his fingers along the lovingly detailed carving of his own Darshanth on the lid with visible pleasure. The little box had been one of several gifts bestowed upon him by the grateful holders of Kellad during his recovery there, and although Saren sensed the blue rider’s embarrassment at the attention, she knew he loved the depiction of his dragon. “It’s a good blend. I’ll have to barter for more when this runs out.”

“That won’t take long,” Sarenya laughed. She drank again, enjoying the smooth flavour, then set the ceramic cup down and leaned back, relaxing in the familiar and comfortable environs of C’mine’s weyr. The blue rider shared enviable quarters with his weyrmate and their dragons, and though only a few days had passed since his return from Kellad, C’mine’s touch was in evidence everywhere. C’los delighted in furnishing their weyr, but C’mine had always been the one who kept it tidy. Already, he’d made items of discarded clothing vanish, beaten dust from every rug and tapestry, and scraped out the three-month accumulation of ashes that had made the hearth all but unusable.

“Los mentioned the Peninsula riders,” said C’mine, resuming their original conversation, “but he hasn’t got his hands on their records yet. Apparently T’kamen wasn’t happy the last time he found some missing documents of his in here.” The blue rider’s wry tone indicated that, while C’los might have been surprised by T’kamen’s reaction, C’mine, had not.

“Old habits die hard,” said Sarenya. “Did he give you any indication at all of why the Peninsula was so eager to be rid of these riders?”

C’mine lifted one shoulder in the half shrug that betrayed the burn scars still impeding his movement. “When a bronze transfers it’s usually political. The Peninsula Weyrleader is still relatively new in the job, only three Turns; maybe this was the soonest he could get him out from under his feet. As for your brown rider…”

“My brown rider?”

“You’ll know more about him now than any of us. That’ll annoy Los, if you were looking to score an easy point off him.” C’mine smiled, adding, “Not that I’m encouraging you.”

“Of course not.” Sarenya picked up her klah again, cupping the mug in both hands. “Definitely an unusual dragon, although I can’t see why that would be reason for a transfer.”

“I haven’t been out enough to notice,” said C’mine, with the hint of a grimace.

“Didn’t Isnan say you can resume training by the end of the sevenday?” When the blue rider nodded, Saren went on, “That’s soon enough. With the amount of drilling Kamen’s been putting the Wings through, you’ll miss the leisure.”

“We’ve had enough leisure to last an Interval,” said C’mine. “How big did you say this brown is?”

“Smaller than Darshanth, though maybe more bulky.”

“But in proportion?”

“Oh, yes. He doesn’t look wrong - just small.”

“I doubt there’s anything wrong, then,” said C’mine. “Could be there were smaller queens and bronzes in his lineage, and the trait happened to come out in him. You’re the Beastcrafter, you tell me.”

“Could be,” Saren conceded. She made a face. “Which brings to mind that we start mating the ewes next sevenday. Everybody’s favourite job.”

“There’s never been much breeding of beasts at the Weyr,” said C’mine.

“Well, we’ll do it in the lower pastures rather than in the Bowl itself,” Sarenya said. “But helping with a breeding programme was one of the main excuses for my transfer here.” She sighed. “Unfortunately it’s a long-term solution to a short-term problem. There just aren’t the animals to feed the population, especially after the drought, and especially with a clutch on the sands.”

“We’re used to hunting our dragons out-Weyr,” C’mine told her. “And used to doing it more when there are young weyrlings.”

“But twenty-five dragonets - that’s a lot of new mouths to feed,” Sarenya worried.

C’mine regarded her thoughtfully. “You don’t usually fret so, Saren. What’s the matter? Regrets, still?”

The blue rider’s tone was gentle, but Sarenya still winced. She shook her head. “I’m not sure it’ll ever be easy, but it doesn’t crush me like it used to.” The journeyman noticed C’mine’s eyes narrow fractionally. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?” C’mine protested.

“You’ve got your mind-reading face on. It puts me off.”

“I’m sorry,” he apologised. “I won’t guess. You tell me.”

Sarenya shook her almost empty mug, watching patterns form and dissolve in the muddy dregs of the klah. “I think it’s because T’kamen’s Weyrleader now.” She raised her head to meet C’mine’s steady gaze. “When L’dro was in charge it was easy to say, ‘well, what can we do, we’ve got a bad Weyrleader’. Except there are still problems - maybe more now than before - and Kamen isn’t a bad Weyrleader. For me, as a Beastcrafter, I have to take responsibility for the issues in my field - and as me, Sarenya, I’ve also got an obligation to show that the beast shortages aren’t Kamen’s fault. It’s harder under him, you see, because we don’t have L’dro to blame any more.”

C’mine nodded slowly. “If you asked, I think you’d find we all feel that way, all of us who supported Kamen’s bid and helped Epherineth fly Shimpath. Me and Los, T’rello, J’vondan - even L’stev’s edgy. It’s up to us to do everything we can to prove that Kamen is the Weyrleader Madellon needs.”

“He’s weyrmated to the job,” Saren said dourly, and then regretted the tone of her own voice.

To C’mine’s credit, he didn’t pounce. The blue rider rubbed pensively at the healed scar tissue that marred his left cheek. “He’s not happy that he doesn’t have the time to spend with you, either,” he said finally.

Sarenya sighed. “I know it’s not his fault.”

“It’ll get easier after Shimpath’s clutch has Hatched and Valonna’s not confined to the sands,” C’mine assured her. “Kamen’s taking on most of her duties, too.”

“You really think Valonna will take her part?” Sarenya shook her head. “I know you like her, Mine, but I can’t see her being much more effective now than she was with L’dro. Kamen won’t treat her like a drudge, but he’ll lose patience with her if she doesn’t meet his expectations.”

“Give her time,” said C’mine. “And Kamen, too. I’ve hardly seen anything of Los since I’ve been home, you know.”

“Some would call that a mercy,” Sarenya teased. “Has he been fussing around Leah?”

“L’stev had a word with him shortly after we brought her in and made him promise not to interfere. He’s known her since she was a little girl anyway, so it’s not as if C’los is entrusting her to a stranger.” C’mine shook his head. “No, Kamen’s got him looking into E’rom’s death.”

“That Wingsecond?” Sarenya had been in the pastures, checking the health of the animals she had just helped drive up to the Weyr, when the distant keen of mourning dragons had marked the death. “I heard he’d been drinking and fell off his weyr ledge.”

“It seemed like that, but Kamen thought there must be more to it. Los hasn’t said much about it - you know how he is - but he’s started with the charts and the lists and everything else.”

“It’ll keep him out of trouble,” said Sarenya, “and out from under your feet. And with that in mind, Mine, I’ll love you and leave you. When Arrense gives me an afternoon off it means he’s got something planned for my evening, and I’ve got a few errands to run.”

C’mine leaned over from his place, taking Sarenya’s klah mug and setting it on the table with his own. “Always good to see you, Saren.”

“Don’t get up, Mine, I know my way out and you still need the rest.” Sarenya gripped the blue rider’s wrist. “Thanks for helping with Tarnish, and for the klah.”

As she made her way out of C’mine’s weyr, Darshanth, resting quietly on his ledge, raised his head slightly in greeting. Green-bronze and deep blue against the dragon’s azure hide, Tarnish and Sleek uncurled themselves from where they had been sleeping. The little bronze appeared to have recovered from his earlier humiliation, nudging peremptorily at his sibling to move faster. Sarenya reached out to stroke Darshanth’s muzzle, watching as the blue’s eyelids slipped blissfully shut, and feeling his soft thrum of pleasure. “You’ll take rubs from anyone.”

Only if they’re good at it .

“You’re disgusting.”

Of course.

In comparison to the very visible scars on C’mine’s face and body, Darshanth’s milder burns had healed well, leaving his underside only slightly paler where the hide had grown back. Sarenya was very fond of C’mine’s blue, the dragon who always spoke directly to her, and often by name, but prolonged contact always made her melancholy.

“Well, come on, you two,” she said to her fire-lizards

Tarnish took up his normal place on Sarenya’s right shoulder, and the familiar weight of him, his tail hanging down her back alongside her own dark braid, one wing occasionally brushing her face, was comforting. Sleek landed on Saren’s other shoulder, and she took heart from their presence. They, at least, had deemed her worthy of their companionship.

“What would I want a dragon for, eh, boys?” she asked them. “They’re not exactly portable, are they? Not like you.”

But she knew Darshanth was still watching as she left.

Chapter Four: Cold Beyond Frozen Things

T’kamen had been waiting a long half hour when C’los finally emerged from the infirmary storeroom. The green rider was rubbing his hands together, and he looked pale with the chill of so much ice stored in one place. “What news, Los?”

“Tomsung says you can come in now,” C’los replied. “He’s come to his conclusion.”

T’kamen followed the green rider into the storeroom. It wasn’t an ideal location, as one of the duty journeyman had commented when T’kamen had arrived in the infirmary to find piles of medical supplies stacked untidily in corners and against walls, but the only other option had been to use the food storage caverns, and that, obviously, had been out of the question.

T’kamen hunched his shoulders, pulling his jacket closed, as he entered the frosty room. A thick mist emanated from the blocks of ice that lined the walls in tubs - some half melted, others newly replaced. The freezing vapour eddied sluggishly with his movement. It felt as cold as the polar waste to the south from which the Weyr mined its ice. But although the frigidity burned in T’kamen’s nostrils, he could smell something else, something less clean, but just as elemental.

The dead man lay on a narrow plinth that had been hastily constructed for the purposes of examination. E’rom was covered in a sheet to his neck, and his limbs had been placed in a more natural alignment than that into which they had fallen, but the blue-grey pallor of his slack face made T’kamen want to shudder with more than the cold. The brown rider had been dead for days.

He should have joined Sigith by now, said Epherineth, with an echo of the great grief only a dragon could feel for one of his own kind.

T’kamen agreed with his bronze. The preservation of E’rom’s corpse in ice was deeply unsettling.

The two figures made indistinct by the icy fog were Isnan and Tomsung, the specialist Master from Fort who had come at Madellon’s behest to examine E’rom’s body. T’kamen nodded briefly to the Weyr Healer, and addressed Tomsung. “What can you tell me, Master?”

Tomsung was a tall and portly man of late middle age and, in T’kamen’s brief experience, a rather more jovial character than was strictly appropriate given his field of expertise. “We’re finished with the body now, Weyrleader. You can send him between.”

T’kamen nodded, relieved, although he wondered how the Healer knew about the Weyr’s traditional alternative to burial. We’ll see to it personally, Epherineth. “You’ve determined the cause of death?”

“Causes, in fact, although technically there can only be the one.” Tomsung gestured towards the door. “Let’s go into my colleague’s office. Had you noticed it’s cold in here?”

The joke fell dead in the freezing air. T’kamen saw C’los press his lips tightly together. The green rider looked grim, and T’kamen dreaded the news.

The warmer temperature of the infirmary was a welcome relief. Isnan called to an apprentice to bring wine as he urged them all into his office.

“Over the last four days, I’ve built up a picture of the subject’s physical condition at the time of his death,” Tomsung began. “In addition to examining the body in detail, I took several samples of blood, and had them tested at the Hall.” The Healer looked up as Isnan’s apprentice entered the room, carrying a tray with a wineskin and mugs. “Ah, good, I’ve worked up a thirst.”

The flippancy irritated T’kamen. He doesn’t understand what the death of a dragonrider means.

He does.

There was certainty in Epherineth’s voice. Does he?

Epherineth was silent for a moment, and then he said, Long ago he lost his dragon. This is his way. While he lives, and treats death lightly, Govadith is still with him.

The revelation threw T’kamen, and he accepted the cup of wine Isnan offered without remark. Epherineth was exceptionally perceptive at times. T’kamen would never have marked the bluff Healer as a dragonless man.

“All involved jumped to the immediate conclusion that this man’s death was related to the alcohol found on him,” Tomsung continued. “One of the blood samples I took was tested expressly to discern if he had imbibed alcohol immediately prior to his death.

“The results of the first test we performed were unclear. It was surmised that the sample had been contaminated, and another test was carried out on a different blood sample. It was similarly inconclusive, and that was when we realised that there was another agent in E’rom’s blood that was interfering with the alcohol test.”

The Healer paused to sip his wine. T’kamen was struggling to understand the meaning of Tomsung’s words. The vocabulary of agents and tests and samples was entirely foreign to him; it had never occurred to him that Healers could take a man’s blood and know if he had been drinking. “Another agent?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound ignorant.

“There was no evidence that E’rom was under the influence of alcohol,” said Tomsung. “But there was a high concentration of another agent, with somewhat similar properties, in his blood. Fellis juice.”

The silence that fell in the room was meaningful, and T’kamen could see that both C’los and Isnan were fully aware of the greater consequences of this revelation. He, however, was not. He frowned, feeling stupid, and not liking the sensation. “Then fellis would have had a similar disorienting effect to brandy?”

Isnan spoke up. “The concentration of fellis we found in E’rom’s blood would probably have dropped a runnerbeast, Weyrleader.”

Just ask, Epherineth advised his rider.

T’kamen took a deep breath, reminding himself that he didn’t have time to mince words. “Fellis or brandy, what’s the difference? Either would have made him unsteady, wouldn’t it?”

“The point is that E’rom wasn’t drunk,” C’los snapped. “He’d had fellis.”

“And not the sort of dose he’d take for a headache,” said Tomsung. “There can be no doubt that the fellis contributed to E’rom’s death. However, I don’t believe it was the direct cause. I believe E’rom died when he broke his neck. But from the accounts C’los and Isnan have provided of the placement of his corpse at the scene, and from my examination of the body, he wasn’t conscious when he fell from the ledge.”

“It means he didn’t fall,” C’los said, visibly having trouble controlling his agitation. “The fellis had already knocked him out. Kamen, there was a mark in the sand of E’rom’s weyr. Like something had been dragged.. I didn’t see it at first, because it was half brushed out, and then I thought it was probably just from Sigith’s tail. But I got A’len to take Chyilth’s measurement - he and Sigith were almost the same size - and it didn’t match. Then I realised that it originated right from the entrance to the inner weyr.”

C’los explanation was somehow more chilling than anything else T’kamen had heard. T’kamen swallowed with some difficulty, finding that his throat was suddenly dry. “Then someone dragged him from his weyr while he was unconscious…”

“And stopped to try to obscure the trail before pushing him off his own ledge,” C’los finished for him.

T’kamen closed his eyes briefly, not only at the horrible account, but at the fact that it had happened in the Weyr he was supposed to be leading. “Wait a moment,” he said. “You said he wasn’t conscious when he fell - for want of a better word - from the ledge. How do you know he wasn’t already dead?”

“I assumed he was, at first,” said Tomsung. “It was a simple matter to conclude that E’rom was not conscious - had he been awake, he would have instinctively tried to break his fall with his arms. It was quite clear from the injuries on his body that this was not the case. It’s much harder to tell the difference between unconscious and dead. But there are too many anomalies surrounding the fall. In the first, why had he taken this massive dose of fellis juice? Under its effects, why then would he have staggered to his weyr ledge - a not insignificant distance. How did the brandy - brandy he had definitely not been drinking - get on his clothes? And even if there were excellent explanations for all these factors, it is highly unlikely that he would have succumbed to the lethal effects of such a high dose at precisely the instant he was teetering on the brink of his ledge.”

“Unless he was suicidal,” said Isnan, with the air of a man repeating a previously stated argument.

“Not while Sigith was alive,” said Tomsung, and for a fraction of an instant the ghost of the Healer’s dragon was in the room with them.

T’kamen nodded. No dragonrider would take his own life. “There’s other evidence to discount suicide, anyway,” said C’los. “It looked like he’d just bathed, and he’d obviously been in the middle of mending his riding straps. Not exactly something you’d prioritise if you had a mind to kill yourself.”

The sharpness of the green rider’s tone betrayed his distress. C’los, who normally thrived on an intellectual challenge, looked defeated, and T’kamen thought he knew why. “Suicide’s out. I can accept that. Could it just have been an accident?”

C’los shook his head. “I don’t think so. If he’d accidentally taken that much fellis, he’d have realised something was wrong, and I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t have wandered off towards my weyr ledge if I was unsteady on my feet. I’m certain he was sitting down when the fellis started to affect him. One of the chairs in his weyr was damaged - splintered along the back rail, as if it had fallen heavily. There were splinters in the back of E’rom’s tunic that matched.”

“Also an injury to the back of his skull that would correspond with that sort of fall,” Tomsung interjected, “although it’s impossible to tell if that was made before or during the fall from the ledge.”

“But the chair wasn’t on the floor,” said C’los. “It had been put back under the table. As if somebody didn’t want there to be any evidence of a struggle.”

There it was again: that somebody, that someone, the last piece of the puzzle that surrounded E’rom’s death, and the piece that nobody wanted to acknowledge, although they were fast running out of alternatives. “Why didn’t Sigith notice?” T’kamen asked.

“Asleep, on the Rim,” said C’los. “I talked to some riders straight after it happened. Jenavally said Hinnarioth was right next to Sigith when he went between; it seems that they regularly kept each other company up there in the evenings. Sigith only woke up when he felt E’rom die.”

That ghastly thought made T’kamen reach to Epherineth for mutual reassurance. To be woken by the death of your lifelong partner…T’kamen didn’t want to imagine the hideous combination of shock, grief, and agony that E’rom’s brown must have experienced before hurling himself between.

They’re waiting for you to say it, the bronze told him gently.

Say what?

What happened to Sigith’s rider.

He found himself gripping his forgotten wine cup. He set it down before it shattered in his hand. Epherineth was right. Neither Isnan, nor C’los, nor even Tomsung wanted to be the one to say it aloud. T’kamen felt the gravity of his rank weighing on him again. They were right: it was his place to voice the conclusion to which they had all come.

“Then someone killed him,” he said.

C’los looked away. T’kamen had been hoping that someone would contradict him, that this time he had made a stupid mistake, but the defeated slump of C’los’ shoulders was enough to tell him otherwise. The green rider would take it personally that, for all his brilliant mind, he had been unable to come up with a viable alternative. “What are you going to tell the Weyr?” he asked dully.

T’kamen considered it. Whoever had killed E’rom was still abroad at Madellon, but he could hardly announce that the brown rider, a respected Wingsecond, had been murdered. Such a declaration would be met first with disbelief - he could hardly believe it himself - then outrage, paranoia, and panic. If a dragonrider could be murdered in his own weyr, no one would feel safe. Worse, it might send the killer into hiding, and T’kamen wanted him, or her, found. He didn’t even know what the Interval penalty for the murder of a dragonrider was - he’d never heard of such a thing happening - but he felt grimly certain he’d think of something.

“I’ll say it was a terrible accident, and in no way E’rom’s fault,” he said finally. “His friends and family need to know that much. Bad enough that he’s dead without the allegation of him having brought it on himself. And that there will be a full investigation into the circumstances of his death, with you at its head, C’los.”

The green rider nodded morosely; less at the charge, T’kamen thought, than its reason. Valonna would have to be told, of course. Much as it might distress her, the Weyrwoman had a right to know, and it was time the girl started facing up to the realities of her rank. She couldn’t hide in the Hatching ground forever. Besides, Shimpath’s influence over other dragons could be invaluable in finding out who was responsible for E’rom’s death.

Who else needed to know? C’mine would find out from C’los - he was far too perceptive not to - but the blue rider knew when to keep his mouth shut. D’feng? It was well past the time that he be dissuaded of his own importance. L’stev? No, the Weyrlingmaster had enough to worry about with the new candidates. The other Wingleaders? Madellon was no longer run by the assent of the bronze rider Council; T’kamen had no intention of letting that change.

It would just be the six, then: the four of them in the room, plus C’mine and Valonna. The four dragons involved were unlikely to pass the truth around; of them all, only C’los’ Indioth might have gossiped, and T’kamen was sure that the green rider could control his dragon. If necessary, Epherineth would speak to her, but T’kamen doubted that would be required.

“Thank you for your help, Master Tomsung,” he said, suddenly feeling very tired. “If you’ll come back to my office, I’ll settle your fee.”

The Fortian Master Healer inclined his head slightly and rose to his feet. “I’m sorry I couldn’t deliver a more reassuring diagnosis, Weyrleader.”

T’kamen stood up, shaking his head in wordless forgiveness. “My thanks for the use of your office, too, Master Isnan,” he told the Weyr Healer. “I’ll have arrangements made for E’rom by this evening.”

“Of course, Weyrleader,” Isnan murmured.

Finally, T’kamen looked at C’los. “I’d like you to come and see me after I’ve arranged Tomsung’s transport back to Fort.”

The green rider nodded, visibly too subdued to speak.

T’kamen ran both hands back through his hair, trying to order his thoughts. Someone had murdered a man and his dragon in broad daylight, and C’los was still the best man to find out who and why. The highly-strung green rider would get over his dejection. But T’kamen knew he himself would take longer to recover from the shock of having a murder occur in the Weyr for which he was responsible.

It’s not your fault, T’kamen.

I know, he replied. But he didn’t believe it.

The heavens threatened rain, and several of the riders who had assembled to witness E’rom’s last journey were already casting furtive glances at the sky. C’los hunched his shoulders and folded his arms, staring at the ground, but the chill that froze his bones was more than physical.

Isnan stood a short distance away, his hands clasped formally behind his back. The Master Healer looked grim as only a man who knew the truth could. Of the others, Tomsung had already returned to Fort, Valonna was still in the Hatching cavern with Shimpath, and T’kamen was with Epherineth at the other end of the Weyr, preparing to transport the dead brown rider’s body between.

Not just dead. Murdered.

The thought ran through C’los mind for the hundredth time, and he clamped down on it, blocking it from Indioth. His gentle dragon was so innocent of the potential of man to cause pain that C’los would not willingly subject her to the reality of E’rom’s demise. He wouldn’t be able to answer her questions. Why would anyone kill a dragonrider? Who would do such a terrible thing? And again, why?

So he kept the truth from her, aware that Indioth’s childlike trust in him would stop her asking questions. C’los couldn’t keep her from sensing his emotions - what the green lacked in complex thought, she more than made up for with her understanding of his moods and feelings - but for now, he knew she accepted the death of a rider, no matter how distantly C’los had known him, as reason enough for his unhappiness.

But he felt so lonely in his knowledge, so very alone in bearing its weight. C’los had never been unequal to the challenge of keeping secrets when he had to, but nothing so big as this. Nothing so…life or death.

Behind him, Indioth cried out a soft greeting. The deeper voice that responded was Darshanth’s. C’los turned as his weyrmate’s dragon landed, a reprimand already on his lips. C’mine shouldn’t be coming out in weather like this. The caution with which the blue rider dismounted, and the effort Darshanth made to see that he could do so as easily as possible, confirmed C’los’ fears. He hurried over as C’mine leaned briefly against his dragon’s side for support. “What did I tell you about coming out in the rain, making journeys you don’t need to when you should be resting, making Darshanth sick with worry about you?” C’los knew his voice was rising into an almost hysterical register, but he couldn’t help it. “Sometimes I think you don’t want to get better, Mine!”

The blue rider took a deep breath and straightened up. “It’s not raining, Los, and Indioth’s worried about you.”

C’mine’s quiet assertion took C’los aback. He stooped slightly to put a supportive arm around his weyrmate, ignoring C’mine’s mild protest that he wasn’t an invalid any more. “Any idiot can see it’s going to rain, and what’s she been telling you?”

“Darshanth, actually. She knows you’re hiding something, and she can’t understand why when it’s bothering you so much.” The blue rider tugged at his riding jacket where it had caught under C’los’ arm. “I see her point. We didn’t know E’rom.”

“Why don’t you make yourself useful and come over here so your rider can have some shelter from the elements,” C’los snapped at Darshanth.

The blue looked faintly offended, but he loped over, presenting his left side, putting out his forearm, and extending a wing. C’mine sighed, leaning back against his blue’s shoulder. “Please don’t shout at him, Los, and don’t think I didn’t notice you avoiding the issue.”

“There’s not an issue,” C’los insisted, leaning beside his weyrmate.

The blue rider stroked an absent fingertip down the thin black line of his moustache and beard, his gaze on one of the groups of mourners who had turned out for E’rom. “Indioth’s not stupid, and neither am I. Are you going to tell me what’s upsetting you now, or later?”

C’los wanted to tell him. Of course he did, but T’kamen had made it so clear that the news wasn’t to get out - and while C’los sometimes disagreed with his friend and Weyrleader, this was one occasion where he concurred wholeheartedly. But this was C’mine, and they didn’t keep secrets.

Abruptly, he noticed that C’mine was scratching the silvery scar tissue on his cheek. He slapped the blue rider’s fingers away. “Stop it! You’ll make it worse!”

C’mine clasped his hands together in his lap, looking chagrined. “Sorry.”

C’los stared at the other riders. Chief among them was K’ston, the blue rider who had been E’rom’s weyrmate. Sometime weyrmate, at least, as C’los had found no evidence of a second permanent resident of the dead brown rider’s weyr. That wasn’t unusual, though. There weren’t many weyrs large enough to comfortably house two dragons. K’ston’s eyes were red, and his expression tortured, but C’los supposed the blue rider would find some comfort in seeing his lover’s body decently interred between.

Unless K’ston was the murderer.

It was the first time that C’los had dared look at someone and wonder. He swallowed hard and tried to force his mind to consider the possibility. What was it old Valrov had said? The victim sometimes knew his own murderer?

No. The victim usually knew his murderer.

C’los grabbed C’mine’s arm to get his attention, and gripped it hard to keep it. “He didn’t fall off his ledge, Mine,” he hissed under his breath. “He was drugged and pushed off. E’rom was murdered.”

It was an immense relief to get it out, but C’los observed the shocked expression on his weyrmate’s face for a panicky few instants. If Darshanth had been listening, and started talking to Indioth.. Then C’mine composed himself, but there was an uncharacteristic grimness to the set of his jaw. “You’re sure?”

C’los was grateful for the blue rider’s readiness to accept the almost unbelievable news. Convincing T’kamen had been traumatic enough. “We’re sure.” Then, anxiously, he added, “You won’t let Darshanth know, will you?”

C’mine sighed and indicated to C’los’ right with a jerk of his head. Darshanth had been watching and - by the agitated speed at which his eyes were whirling, and the orange flickers of alarm - listening, too. “He won’t say anything to Indioth,” said the blue rider, “nor any other dragon.”

“T’kamen doesn’t want it to get out,” C’los said nervously.

“I’m not surprised.” C’mine shook his head slowly. “Who’d kill a dragonrider? And why?”

The two questions had been chasing each other in circles through C’los’ head since before this conversation, before the interview with T’kamen when the Weyrleader had told him to find out the answers. And it was Valrov’s wisdom that came back to him now, as it had then. “Money. Revenge. Passion.” C’los hesitated. “Insanity.”

“You think whoever did it was insane?” C’mine asked.

“No,” he replied. “Actually I don’t. At least, I think he knew exactly what he was doing.”

C’mine fell silent. The sombreness of the blue rider’s demeanour was enough to tell C’los that he was shaken, even if he didn’t show it otherwise. Finally, he stirred. “Kamen’s asked you to find out who did it, hasn’t he?”

C’los nodded slowly.

“Has he said what’s going to happen to them when you do?”

C’los was gratified, and reassured, by his weyrmate’s unquestioning conviction that he would be able to find E’rom’s killer. “No. I guess exile.” He paused, and then added, unwillingly, “Unless it’s a rider.”

C’mine reacted with shock, visibly taken aback. “Los, you can’t think a dragonrider would have killed him?”

“I don’t know,” he said unhappily. “I have to consider the possibility.”

“Even if a rider wanted to, surely his dragon wouldn’t let him,” C’mine objected.

C’los looked guiltily in the direction of his own green: uneasy, but otherwise calm. “Not if he’s good at keeping secrets.”

The blue rider looked at Indioth, then slowly reached a hand back to touch Darshanth’s glossy shoulder. “I couldn’t be that way with him.”

C’los exhaled heavily. He loved his dragon with all of his heart and soul, and more, but sometimes he wished that they could enjoy the intuitive ease of C’mine’s bond with Darshanth, or the intellectual depth of T’kamen’s with Epherineth. “I know.”

As they sat together, thinking their separate thoughts, there was a stir among the other groups of mourners. The Weyrbred brown rider had been part of a large family, and most of it seemed to be here. Four grim-faced men were carrying the simple casket that contained E’rom’s body out of the infirmary.

“Come on,” C’mine said softly, easing himself to his feet.

In respectful silence, they joined the circle of people as E’rom’s bearers set him down on a temporary bier. As if that was his cue, Epherineth glided down from the other end of the Bowl, landing at a distance to let his rider dismount. T’kamen stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his face an expressionless mask. Nobody approached him.

One of the bearers stepped forwards, a florid-faced man who, by his physical resemblance to the dead brown rider, was probably one of E’rom’s brothers. “Thank you all for coming. I want to say a few words before the Weyrleader…”

T’kamen nodded once, slowly, still impassive.

E’rom’s brother cleared his throat. “E’rom was born Eiromell, the son of H’role and Namelle, forty-eight Turns ago, here at Madellon Weyr. He was the second of four children of his parents, the others being myself, Ironam, our sister Romelle, and our brother Heromar, who’s now called E’mar. E’rom also had half-siblings, including…”

“This is likely to go on for some time,” a wry female voice murmured, close to C’los’ ear.

He looked away from Ironam’s monologue. Jenavally, the Weyr Singer, was dressed in suitably sober clothes for the occasion, but nothing could dull her tumbled mass of orange-red hair, or the natural humour in her pleasant, rather horsey face and genial voice. In her late thirties or early forties - it was hard to say - Jenavally had more experience than C’los as both green rider and Harper, but their similar backgrounds had made them firm friends ever since C’los had Impressed. “If I’d known we were going to get a family history, I’d have come late,” C’los replied, ignoring his weyrmate’s disapproving glance.

“I’d have warned you, if I’d known you were coming,” said Jenavally. “We were here for over an hour when their father passed away.”

“I didn’t know you were that well in with the family,” said C’los.

The Weyr Singer shrugged. “I’m not, but E’rom was dear to me once. It was a terrible shock to Hinnarioth when Sigith went between.” She paused, her eyes fixed upon the shrouded form on the bier. “Did you find out what happened?”

“Still investigating,” C’los evaded.

“I don’t believe what’s been said about him getting drunk,” Jenavally said. “Not E’rom. He liked a drink, certainly, but not before a Wing drill, and definitely not so much that he’d be a danger to himself.”

C’los chewed thoughtfully on his lip as Ironam droned on about E’rom’s childhood. Jenavally would be a good place to start piecing together the background to the brown rider’s death. It might be a challenge to question her in such a way that she didn’t suspect, but then while she had a Harper’s inquisitive mind - and a thirst for gossip almost as insatiable as C’los’ own - she also knew the importance of discretion. “What was he like?” he asked.

“Solid,” the other green rider replied immediately. “Solid, stable, and ultra-conservative, even when he was young. That’s why it didn’t last.” Jenavally made a face, then went on. “He was a good sort, C’los. Boring, sometimes, with his habits and routines, but there was a time when I wanted the stability.”

“Do you know much about his relationship with K’ston?” C’los asked.

Jenavally thought about it. “They were together for - oh, three or four Turns. They were quite fond of each other, I think. Very different characters. K’ston’s the sort who had five or six siblings at home to look after. A bit chaotic. E’rom was totally different - Weyrbred, absolutely fussy about his weyr and his habits. They say opposites attract, though, and so long as K’ston didn’t change anything around or interrupt any of his rituals, it worked out. Like I said, E’rom was a creature of habit.”

C’los thought back to what he had found in the brown rider’s weyr. Jenavally’s description tallied with the overall sense that E’rom had been a meticulous, orderly man. “K’ston didn’t share his weyr, though?”

“K’ston sometimes did, but never Bronth,” said Jenavally. “And I gather that was Bronth’s preference.”

“He and Sigith didn’t get on?”

“Less that than the fact that it would have been close quarters for two dragons without a bond of their own,” said the Weyr Singer. “I doubt Hinnarioth and Indioth would appreciate being made to share a cavern.”

C’los shuddered mentally at the thought of the two greens being forcibly juxtaposed. “I see.”

“Anyway, E’rom used to comment sometimes that he’d quite like the arrangement to be permanent, but he’d never have mentioned it to K’ston. Actually, he probably wanted him there all the time so he’d never have to wonder if he’d be there or not. Did I mention that E’rom liked routine?”

“Once or twice,” C’los replied.

Jenavally sighed. “I’ll miss the boring old sod.”

“I didn’t realise you knew him so well.”

“That’s because it was mostly before your time, Los,” she told him ruefully. “I’m talking ancient history. We stayed friends, though, and Sigith sometimes rose to Hinnarioth. When I was pregnant with J’her, I’d specifically ask him to chase. It made it easier on me during the flight. Always knew what you were going to get with E’rom.”

C’los looked at E’rom’s family, studying the similar faces. Ironam was talking about the brown rider’s weyrlinghood now, and showed no discernible signs of flagging. A short distance away, K’ston was standing with a group of riders recognisable to C’los as members of E’rom’s old Wing. The sandy-haired blue rider’s expression was glazed. Maybe there was something to be said for numbingly long obituaries. He wasn’t unattractive, despite the redness of his eyes.

“They had a good relationship, then?” he asked Jenavally. “K’ston and E’rom?”

“As far as I know, they did, but it’s hard for an outsider to make a judgement,” the Weyr Singer said evasively.

C’los shot her a sidelong glance. “No strain on it because of E’rom’s rank?”

“Not that I could tell.”

“Come on, Jena, you’re holding out on me.”

The other green rider shook back the tendrils of her hair that had crept forwards across her face. C’los had seen her do that enough times when prising gossip from the Weyr Singer to know that it meant capitulation. “You didn’t hear this from me,” she warned him. “But I get the impression that E’rom’s family never liked K’ston. You can see that for yourself.” She nodded discreetly at the pointed gap between E’rom’s siblings and his weyrmate. “I heard there was an argument the day after he died over who would get to take his body between . K’ston wanted to, of course, but then the youngest brother challenged his right. Pushed by Ironam, no doubt. I don’t think E’mar would have made a fuss on his own.”

“Funeral politics,” C’los murmured.

“The fact that T’kamen’s going to do it settled the argument, but not the grudge,” Jenavally went on. “K’ston would still probably rather have done it himself, but I think the family are more interested in the honour of having the Weyrleader’s bronze take E’rom between.”

C’los filed the information away for future consideration. “What do you know about his relationship with his Wing?”

“His new Wing, or the old one?”

“Both, actually.”

The Weyr Singer put her hands in her pockets, frowning thoughtfully. “I know his old Wingleader was F’yan. Conspicuous by his - oh, my mistake, he is here.” She nodded at the bronze rider, standing stiffly near K’ston. “He was put under H’ned when Kamen shook up the Wings. I couldn’t honestly tell you what his new wingriders thought of him. I think he was well-respected as F’yan’s ‘Second, though. He was a decent man, a decent rider.”

Jenavally fell silent. C’los started to ask another question and then stopped, realising belatedly that she was more upset by E’rom’s death than her bright demeanour suggested.

Ironam’s ponderous account of the life and times of Sigith’s rider was finally nearing its end, and not a minute too soon: everyone, even E’rom’s remaining siblings, was looking glassy, and T’kamen’s grim expression was darkening moment by moment. His interview with Jenavally over, C’los was impatient, too. There were things he wanted to investigate, people he wanted to see. This plodding formality was ludicrous when set against the murderous circumstances of E’rom’s death.

“…and so we honour the passing of our brother E’rom, sending him between to join his dragon,” Ironam intoned loftily, and lapsed into much-anticipated silence.

Something very like a collective sigh of relief rippled around the circle of mourners, and Epherineth loped forwards. The bronze looked as relieved as any of the humans.

In a motion as brief as Ironam’s speech had been long, Epherineth grasped E’rom’s coffin in his claws and sprang aloft. He vanished between on the second wingstroke, and when he reappeared, three breaths later and several hundred feet higher, his claws were empty.

C’los felt as much as heard every rider’s private sigh. E’rom had gone to Sigith now, joining him in death, the way it should be. The tension of knowing that dragon and rider were apart, even only in body, had been subtly stressful on every dragonrider in the Weyr.

“I’d better go and discharge my duty to the family,” said Jenavally, in a voice that was slightly rougher than usual.

“Ah, Jena.” C’los put a comforting arm around the Weyr Singer. “It’s all right. Having to listen to Ironam drivelling on even more would make me cry, too.”

Jenavally laughed, sniffing back her tears, and then punched him in the arm. “You’re terrible, C’los.”

“I know,” he admitted, grinning.

The anticipated rain started to fall as misty drizzle as Jenavally made her way towards E’rom’s family. C’los shook his head and turned to C’mine - except his weyrmate wasn’t there. It took C’los a moment to locate him, standing near Epherineth, talking to T’kamen. Everyone else was scattering in groups and pairs. Even Isnan had already started back towards the infirmary.

You’re not alone, said Indioth, in a mournful voice. I’m here. I’m always here.

Of course you are, C’los told his dragon hastily. He felt briefly ashamed that reassurance was necessary. A dragonrider was never alone. Even if it sometimes felt that way.

Chapter Five: And Quicker To Champion Me

Shimpath nosed at her smallest egg, testing its temperature, then rolled it with infinite gentleness into a different position. It completed the newest pattern in the sand: the zigzag arc that half surrounded the queen, with the largest eggs in the centre and the smaller ones ranging out to each side, in perfect size order. Some of the precious eggs lay on their sides and others on their ends, but each had been positioned with tender care and the instinctive skill of a queen dragon who knew exactly how best to warm her clutch.

In the stands, close enough to Shimpath to keep the queen company, but not so close for the heat of the sands to cause discomfort, Valonna sat absorbed in needlework. The idea had come to her in the first few days of her dragon’s imposed confinement to the Hatching ground: she would cross-stitch a memento for each of the twenty-five new riders who would Impress the dragonets of Shimpath’s clutch. The six samplers she had almost finished lay, folded carefully, on the seat beside her, each embroidered with the outline of a hatchling dragon. Of course, she wouldn’t be able to complete them until the clutch had Hatched, but then it would be a simple matter of stitching on the date and the names of each new dragonpair, and filling in the hatchling outline with the appropriate colour. It made satisfying work, and it took her mind off some of the unpleasantness of the past few days.

The death of a dragonrider was always cause for mourning. Valonna supposed herself lucky to have been born in the middle of an Interval, when she would never have to cope with frequent deaths in Threadfall. She still remembered the awful shock of losing classmates during training, and the three pairs that had never graduated from Shimpath’s first clutch, but it was rare to hear that terrible dirge of dragon grief. The death of the brown rider – E’rom – had come as a sad surprise. But how could someone have killed him deliberately?

T’kamen’s mood had been foul even by his standards when he’d come to tell Valonna the news. The new Weyrleader seemed capable of a cold fury far more frightening than L’dro’s passionate rages had ever been. With L’dro, she’d known what to expect. T’kamen’s temper had never been directed at her – he remained scrupulously polite and courteous, if distant – but Valonna could scarcely be blind to the anger and frustration seething just under the surface, or the signs of strain on his face. Leading the Weyr never seemed to have affected L’dro so severely.

But then, L’dro hadn’t been a good Weyrleader. Valonna forced herself to remember that. Her former weyrmate, the only man she’d ever loved, had used the rank to better his position, and left the common riders, the ‘lesser’ riders, without. It had taken one of those common riders to make Valonna see not only how destitute the Weyr had become, but what a weak and selfish man L’dro truly was, too.

She missed C’mine. The blue rider had become her friend, maybe her only real friend, and although openly affiliated with T’kamen he’d never used her to further the bronze rider’s ambitions. There had been times in the trying early days of T’kamen’s term as Weyrleader when Valonna would have done anything for some of C’mine’s calm advice and undemanding company. Now he was back, but Valonna couldn’t leave Shimpath, and she wouldn’t have dreamed of summoning him. She just wished she had someone to talk to in the long, slow hours when the queen dozed over her eggs. Shimpath’s serene personality changed dramatically when she was broody: the golden dragon hated to be alone, even when she was asleep.

Valonna had never found it easy to make friends. As the youngest child in her family, she had learned from an early age that making a fuss seldom did anything but aggravate her parents and elder siblings. The importance of enduring difficulty and hardship without complaint ran deep in her character, and with it, a need to retreat into the background, to deflect attention. She’d had few friends at Jessaf before her Search, and no time to make new ones at the Weyr before her Impression of Shimpath had forever set her apart from the other girls. The Weyrlingmaster had intimidated her, and the Weyrwoman, Fianine, had already been too unwell to have time for her. Her only human solace through the two Turns of weyrling training had been L’dro, and now even he had gone, exiled to the Peninsula, and the last of Valonna’s hopes that he still cared about her with him.

It didn’t help that T’kamen was so…unlovable. He was striking - the sharp, angular lines of his face, the lithe grace of his movements, and the fierce intensity of unsmiling dark eyes all held a strange allure. He was intelligent, and fair, and clearly dedicated to making things right in the Weyr. But Valonna knew she could never warm to him, and further, she knew he would never warm to her. Any true partner of his would have to be as aggressive, as determined, and as stubborn as he. Valonna knew she would never be those things. And T’kamen had a lover, a Beastcraft journeyman, Sarenya. He didn’t flaunt the relationship, but neither did he make a secret of it. Indeed: directly after Shimpath’s flight, T’kamen had made it plain that not only would he continue to pursue his personal attachments, separate from Valonna, he expected her to do the same – with the caveat that she should choose her partners with discretion.

But she didn’t know who she could have chosen. Even if there had been someone else, Valonna couldn’t have trusted him. L’dro had seemed sincere for Turns before she had discovered the full extent of his disdain for her. Another bronze rider would surely have ulterior motives for courting her. Association with a brown or blue rider would make gossip. A man who wasn’t a dragonrider at all wouldn’t understand what it was to be Weyrwoman and subject to the whims of a queen dragon. Truly, only another queen rider could comprehend her situation.

There would be another soon enough. Valonna let her eyes rest on the queen egg, its mottled golden shell half-buried in the sand. Perhaps the new hatchling would divert some attention away from Shimpath and her.

Abruptly, the queen raised her head from where she had been dozing, muzzle on forepaws. The movement of Shimpath’s eyes accelerated fractionally, and she spread her wings over her clutch.

What is it? Valonna asked, setting her embroidery aside.

The queen remained in her alert stance for a full ten breaths, and then wings, eyes, and posture subsided all at once. Vanzanth’s rider brings the young ones.

Valonna rolled up the pile of half-finished samplers as L’stev herded his charges onto the Hatching sands. More came each day, now: new faces mixed in with the familiar Weyrbred youths. At the Weyrlingmaster’s barked command the candidates organised themselves into a line and filed past Valonna, inclining their heads and muttering greetings. Some of the nods seemed more cursory than others, and some of the murmurs almost unintelligible, but the bows the candidates offered in Shimpath’s direction demonstrated their fervent wish to gain her good grace. Nobody wanted to upset the largest dragon at Madellon. The queen watched the newcomers warily, her eyes moving back and forth among them, but she didn’t prevent their approach.

As the candidates spread out among the eggs, L’stev stepped up into the stands. Valonna rose to meet him, brushing loose threads off her skirt.

“Weyrwoman,” the old brown rider greeted her, in the low growl that still made her flinch.

Valonna bowed her head awkwardly. “Good afternoon, Weyrlingmaster.”

L’stev watched the candidates as suspiciously as Shimpath for several moments before turning back to look at Valonna. “You well, Weyrwoman? Need anything? One of this sorry lot to run errands for you?”

“No, thank you, I’m fine,” Valonna said quickly.

The brown rider grumbled something under his breath that might have been assent. “And Shimpath? Anything she needs? More light, less light? She been eating properly?”

“Thank you,” she said, “but Epherineth’s been bringing her wherries.”

L’stev grumbled a bit more. “She needs to get out and have some sunlight and fresh air at least once a day.”

“She doesn’t like to leave the eggs,” Valonna told him. “Even when I stay with them.”

“No queen does, but nothing’s going to happen to them if she goes out for an hour’s sun, and she’ll make herself sick, cooped up in here.” L’stev’s eyebrows knitted into one. “You could do with a change of scene, too. If she doesn’t want them left unattended, get Epherineth to take over. T’kamen won’t mind.”

“Oh, I couldn’t, he’s much too busy.”

“If you ask him, you’ll find he won’t grudge you an afternoon’s loan of his dragon to see that Shimpath stays well,” said L’stev. “Yes, he’s busy, and so he should be, but the queen’s health, and yours, are a priority. He just can’t be expected to know if you don’t tell him.”

The Weyrlingmaster’s words reminded Valonna strongly of something T’kamen had said to her directly after Shimpath’s flight. I need to know what you think, what you want, what you need. I can’t promise you’ll always get it, but if I don’t know, I can’t try. She bowed her head in acquiescence. “I will, L’stev.”

“Good.” The brown rider scowled then, and raised his voice. “Move it along, Dastur; sitting on that egg won’t make you a bronze rider.”

The youth in question had been standing possessively by the second-largest egg. He threw a resentful look at the Weyrlingmaster, but shuffled along the line to give a slightly smaller egg a grudging pat.

“There’s always a few,” L’stev muttered, although Valonna wasn’t sure if the comment was meant for her.

Shimpath’s eggs varied in size: the great golden queen egg was half as large again as the smallest of the others. Valonna remembered from Shimpath’s first clutch that no one could tell for sure what dragon would come from each shell, regardless of size. But most of the candidates had focused on the biggest ones – the boys obviously hoping to influence bronzes, girls drawn to the queen egg. A few of the older girls seemed content with the smaller eggs at the far end of the arc.

With an odd little lurch, Valonna realised that some of the candidates were nearly as old as her. Of course, the same had been true for Shimpath’s last clutch, when there had been candidates as old and older than Valonna’s seventeen Turns. But this was different. This time, Shimpath had clutched a gold egg.

She glanced sideways at L’stev. The responsibility of training the new weyrlings didn’t appear to concern him, but he had Turns of practice at his job, having ridden a dragon forty Turns or more, and learned his craft from D’hor, his predecessor as Weyrlingmaster. By contrast, Valonna had been the only queen rider at Madellon for seven Turns, following Fianine’s premature death, and the old Weyrwoman had taught her so little. But Valonna, too, would bear the responsibility of passing on her wisdom and experience to the new weyrwoman. There was no one else.

The thought that the new queen weyrling might be of an age with Valonna herself, as experienced as she and maybe more so, made her more than a little nervous.

Epherineth’s rumbled greeting should have been enough to nudge T’kamen out of his distraction, and if not that, then the clearly audible footfalls across the dragon’s inner chamber. But he had been concentrating, comparing two tally slates with similarly worrying contents, and so it wasn’t until his visitor ducked through the curtained archway to his office that he jolted back to reality and to his feet with a muttered oath.

“Same to you, too, Kamen,” said Sarenya, moving aside several slates on T’kamen’s desk to set down the covered tray she had in one hand and the wineskin slung over her opposite shoulder.

You couldn’t have let me know? T’kamen asked witheringly of his dragon, and said aloud to Sarenya, “You could have been anyone.”

You complained last time, and I wouldn’t let just anyone through.

“Epherineth wouldn’t let just anyone through,” Saren replied at the same moment. “Anyway, I thought you’d rather I came up here myself instead of sending one of the boys. You’re an hour late.”

T’kamen looked at her, putting aside a sourceless surge of annoyance for later examination. “Oh,” he said, finally remembering. “I forgot.”

“Did you really? I’d never have guessed.”

“Saren…”

She shook her head. “It’s all right. I expected you’d be late, at least. I know you’ve got a lot on.”

He sighed, glad that Sarenya, if no one else, didn’t need appeasing. “I’m sorry. I lost track of the time.”

She shrugged. “Are you ready now?”

T’kamen looked at the lists, inventories and reports he was trying to complete. “Not really,” he admitted, “but then you could ask me that a month from now and I’d give you the same answer.”

“Then it’s time you took a break.” Sarenya stepped closer, placing one hand on his arm and peering into his face. “You’re looking terrible.”

T’kamen tried not to look away from her solicitous regard. “Thanks.”

Sarenya traced some of the lines scored into T’kamen’s face with light fingertips. “I’m serious. When was the last time you had a decent night’s sleep? Or sat down to eat?”

“Last Pass sometime, I think,” said T’kamen, but he could feel himself relaxing. “If I’d known there was going to be this much work…”

Sarenya cut him off. “Epherineth would still have flown Shimpath. You’re going to sit down and have something to eat, and I’m not above hitting you with a stick to make you.”

“I’m the Weyrleader, not a runnerbeast,” T’kamen groused, but he let Sarenya pull him towards his living quarters.

“I’d never hit a runnerbeast with a stick,” Sarenya said indignantly. “You, on the other hand…”

T’kamen chuckled and didn’t resist as the journeyman pushed him in the direction of his couch. He slumped down into the depth of upholstery and closed his eyes for a moment. He’d forgotten how comfortable it was – or maybe he’d never found out, since he couldn’t recall the last time he’d sat here for any length of time. It felt good, anyway, and he settled into the soft cushions, acknowledging how deathly tired he really felt.

He opened his eyes to watch Sarenya padding back and forth from his study, carrying through the food and wine she’d brought, then cups from somewhere else. “I knew you’d come in handy for something one of these days.”

“Don’t get used to it,” she warned him. “If I’d wanted to run around after a man I wouldn’t have entered the Beastcraft.”

“Running around after cows is more to your taste?”

“Ha!” Sarenya shook her head. ”Less trouble than over-conscientious bronze-riding Weyrleaders who forget about little things like eating, sleeping, and me!”

“I didn’t forget about you,” T’kamen protested. “Just that we were meeting tonight.”

“It was your idea, Kamen.” Sarenya shot him a suspicious glance as she sat next to him. “Which begs the question: are you feeling all right? It’s usually me trying to pin you down to a time.”

“Something reminded me.” He didn’t mention that the ‘something’ had been C’mine, after E’rom’s funeral. “Anyway, where are your lizards tonight?”

“Left them with M’ric,” she said, shrugging. “They’d have got in the way if I’d brought them, but they’re too fascinated by Agusta to worry about what I’m up to.”

“M’ric?” T’kamen sat up. “The Peninsula brown rider?”

Sarenya nodded, cracking the seal on the stopper of the wine skin. “We seem to keep running into each other. His fire-lizard gets lonely, and it’s good for the boys to have the company of their own kind.”

T’kamen thought back to his brief meeting with the two new riders. It had been less than a sevenday ago, but so much had happened since… “He’s settling in all right?”

“I think so.” Sarenya poured wine for them both and handed T’kamen a cup. “I’m not sure he’s impressed with D’feng as a Wingleader.”

T’kamen heaved a silent sigh, and sipped his wine. He’d let D’feng keep his Wingleader rank to guarantee the other bronze rider’s continued cooperation. “Anything specific?”

“Apparently D’feng’s insisting on flying Trebruth as if he’s a blue. He’s fast enough, that’s not an issue, but he’s got a brown’s stamina.” Sarenya gulped a mouthful of her own wine. “It’s a bit insulting. M’ric was a Wingsecond at the Peninsula , and D’feng’s treating him like a weyrling who doesn’t know his own dragon’s abilities.”

“He was complaining to you?” T’kamen asked.

“No, but he has a dry way of remarking on things.”

“Sounds like someone I know.”

“I can’t imagine who.”

T’kamen reached over to the tray Saren had brought in, hungry now that attention had been drawn to his basic needs. “How’s work?” he asked, taking the cover off the food.

“Hard. Smelly. Dirty.” Sarenya picked up one of the warm pasties from the tray and bit into it. The smell of braised meat and vegetables made T’kamen’s mouth water. “Much the same as ever, in other words.”

“And your apprentices?” He started on his own pasty.

Her mouth full, Sarenya waved an expressive hand. “Depleted, since we lost two of them to L’stev,” she said when she’d chewed and swallowed.

“You might get them back. Not everyone Impresses,” T’kamen said. Then he could have kicked himself for the thoughtless remark.

Sarenya made a face that was at least half grimace. “I’d be happy not to have Goridar back, although I wouldn’t wish him on a dragon, either. Belligerent little sod.”

“There are always a few,” T’kamen said. “I expect L’stev will be sending me reports on the worst of the current lot sooner or later.”

She frowned, licking crumbs from her fingers. “I know it’s not my place to say this, Kamen, but shouldn’t you be delegating more?”

He laughed shortly. “Who to?”

“I don’t know. Shouldn’t Valonna be doing some of the domestic side of things?”

T’kamen started to reply, then closed his mouth. He took his promise to see that the Weyrwoman was not disrespected seriously, even in the privacy of his own weyr. “She doesn’t have the training, and I don’t have the time to teach her.”

Saren looked unconvinced, but didn’t pursue the issue. “There has to be someone else. Isn’t there a Wingleader..?”

“Not that I’d trust as far as I can spit,” said T’kamen. “They all supported L’dro, remember? They haven’t done as well out of the change as everyone else.”

“C’los?”

He shook his head. “He’s got the sharpest mind in the Weyr, Saren, but he’s too highly-strung, and no one would take a green rider seriously. Besides, the sheer tedium of what I’d like to offload would send him spare.”

Sarenya broke the end off a loaf of bread and chewed thoughtfully for several moments. “What about the retired bronze riders? They’re not a threat to your position, and R’hren…”

“…wants the Weyr run the way he would have run it if he’d been man enough to stand up to Fianine,” T’kamen told her. “I’ll listen to his advice, but I won’t give him a voice with the Holders, and I can’t make him a clerk.”

Sarenya frowned again. “You’re going to have to compromise at some point, Kamen. You can’t keep this up.”

“I’ll manage,” he replied doggedly, reaching for the other end of the loaf. “I’d rather do everything myself than make a second out of someone I don’t trust.”

“Then how do you explain D’feng?”

“He doesn’t have the imagination to be a threat.”

“It was his idea to have me posted here, wasn’t it?”

“I only use him when I have to, and he’s useful enough.” T’kamen scowled, irrationally annoyed by Sarenya’s perceptiveness. He was relying more heavily on D’feng than he should. “Do we have to talk about this? I thought I was meant to be relaxing.”

The silence that followed was made uncomfortable by his excessive sharpness. T’kamen regretted it almost immediately, but he didn’t feel gracious enough to be the first to speak again.

You’re too stubborn, T’kamen, Epherineth commented.

I didn’t ask you.

“C’mine’s looking better,” said Sarenya, after several moments.

“He mended faster than the Healers at Kellad thought he would,” T’kamen replied quickly.

Sarenya poured herself another cup of wine, and topped up T’kamen’s. “He says that’s thanks to Darshanth wanting to get back to the Weyr.”

That reminded T’kamen of Winstone’s demand for Hold watchdragons. “Dragons don’t like being away from others for any length of time. It’s not fair on them.”

“I think C’mine’s glad to be back, too.” Sarenya leaned back with her wine cup, looking thoughtful. “I haven’t seen much of C’los, though.”

“Missing him, are you?” T’kamen asked, with irony.

Sarenya shrugged. “You know how I feel about C’los. Still, he never seems to be there when I visit Mine. In fact I don’t think I’ve seen the pair of them together since before last Turn’s End.”

“He’s working on something for me.”

“I know, C’mine said something about him investigating that brown rider for you, but couldn’t you give him a break? I mean, Mine’s only just -”

“No.” The anger and frustration that T’kamen had been suppressing since his audience with Tomsung started to seethe. There was a killer at Madellon, a murderer, and Sarenya wanted C’los to drop everything? He struggled to fight down his irritation, but some of it came through anyway. “He’s working on something for me, Sarenya, and I’m not going to distract him just to nursemaid C’mine.”

Saren shot him a look like a storm front, thunder briefly clouding the normally clear blue of her eyes. With visible effort, she schooled her expression and controlled her response. “I wasn’t suggesting you did, T’kamen.”

But all the same, T’kamen felt keenly the brittleness of his self-control for the rest of the evening. He couldn’t make himself unwind, couldn’t get the pressing business of the Weyr out of his head, couldn’t make himself forget, even for a few hours, the gravity of the issues weighing on his mind. Sarenya’s knowledge of Weyr politics extended far enough that T’kamen had to tread carefully, but there were things she simply didn’t, or couldn’t, understand: not a rider, nor Weyrbred, nor party to the many confidential facts tormenting him.

Even much later, when sleep should have come naturally to him, and Sarenya already drowsed, snugged contentedly in the crook of his arm, T’kamen lay awake, feeling the perspiration cool on his skin, and wondering how he could be so very tired and yet so totally disinclined to sleep.

Epherineth? he tried, but his dragon was asleep, too.

He looked at Saren, arranged elegantly against him, her long hair – freed, for once, from its braid – fanning soft and dark over the fair skin of her bare shoulder; serene in sleep, with no greater concern on her mind than stubborn cows or sick wherries. Her clothes lay where she’d dropped them, her boots half across his doorway, and the wineskin she’d brought drooped over the edge of his bedside table.

The irritation he had pushed away earlier came back. Sarenya had always been quick to make herself at home in his quarters – too quick. In the space of a few hours she could leave a trail of chaos through his orderly weyr. It was a quirk of hers he had once found tolerable, if not quite endearing. Once. Things had been a bit different, then.

T’kamen pushed himself away from her, sliding noiselessly out of bed. Sarenya barely stirred.

He picked up his discarded shirt, using it to towel the sweat of exertion from his face. He took clean garments from the pile someone had left atop his clothes chest, and dressed in the half darkness. Then, without a backwards glance, he pushed through the hanging in the doorway.

T’kamen hesitated in the central room of his weyr. He’d intended to go back to his office and look at those inventories again, but the cool flow of air from outside tempted him. Making a decision, he pulled on his boots. Some fresh air would clear his head.

Epherineth lay fast asleep on his stone couch, his head resting on his crossed forearms, the tip of his tail hanging limply off the edge of the platform. He breathed in a slow, regular pattern, and by the occasional twitches of sleek muscle under smooth hide, he was dreaming. T’kamen left him alone.

He emerged into a fitful breeze that whipped his hair and made him fold his arms reflexively. The Bowl was cold, and dark, and quiet. Slate-grey cloud marbled the he irregular oval of sky enclosed by the towering cliffs, and the crescent-shaped sliver of Belior gave off a weak, milky radiance. The faint light of glows threw the Star Stones, on the eastern edge of the Rim, into ghostly relief; the watchdragon seemed colourless in the gloom. Perhaps half a dozen of the hundreds of weyr openings showed dim illumination, but most were dark, the outlines of dragons sleeping outside barely discernible. The only significant source of light in the Bowl emanated from the main entrance of the lower caverns.

T’kamen inhaled deeply, feeling the chill air burn his lungs and sharpen his dull brain. Still and silent in the dead of night, the Weyr presented a calm face to the world. But T’kamen was painfully, agonisingly aware of the sobering realities just beneath the surface.

A thousand souls slept at Madellon Weyr, and T’kamen had responsibility for them all. He had been made Weyrleader by the dragons’ choice, and Epherineth’s desire, and his own ambition. It had been so easy to criticise L’dro’s decisions as Weyrleader. Now, T’kamen found himself wondering if he could do any better.

Those inventories weren’t going to resolve themselves without him. He had to look over the recommendations H’ned had sent him, too. At least while peace and quiet reigned, he could work without fear of disturbance.

The wind had teeth like a tunnelsnake. T’kamen went back inside.

Sarenya came awake in the twilight before dawn.

She always woke well before first light. Over her thirteen Turns as a Beastcrafter she had adapted to the necessity of being alert and functional before the sun had risen, to the point that she couldn’t have slept past dawn if she’d wanted.

But her body clock hadn’t woken her. The culprit of that was determinedly pawing at the bedfur, letting in cruelly cold air, and prodding at her with his nose to make her move.

Sarenya turned over, pushing her hair back out of her face. “Sleek?”

The fire-lizard chattered triumphantly and dived under the displaced covers, curling close against her hip. The ridges of his tail prickled against her bare skin. Sarenya prised him off with a mutter, then grabbed the smaller of her fire-lizards under his wings and hauled him out. “That wasn’t funny, Sleek.”

The little blue made an apologetic noise, his eyes whirling with contrition, and offered her an image of Tarnish and M’ric’s queen Agusta. Sarenya chuckled, putting Sleek down on the fur. “Ignoring you, were they?”

Sleek started to preen his wings in a false show of indifference that Sarenya didn’t believe for a moment. She looked over at the other side of the bed, wondering where T’kamen had gone. The furs had cooled, which suggested he’d been gone a while, but dawn hadn’t yet broken. Saren frowned. She wasn’t sure she liked waking up to an empty room after a night with T’kamen.

She got out of bed, looking pensively at the archway that led to T’kamen’s bathing room. Tempting, but she didn’t have any clean clothes. It would probably be easier to bathe back at the Beastcraft cothold.

She dressed in the previous day’s tunic, then combed out her hair with her fingers and tied it back. T’kamen’s conspicuous absence irritated her, she realised, as she pulled the tie on her hair too tight and made her eyes water. He’d been less than good company last night: more touchy than usual, quicker to criticise, and clearly distracted. Saren had bitten her tongue several times, holding in ripostes, and giving him some latitude on the basis that he was tired and overworked and under immense pressure. That hadn’t stopped her taking offence to the tone of his voice. T’kamen could be incredibly insensitive.

“Come on, boy,” she said to Sleek. “Let’s find us some breakfast, and then we’ll go and drag Tarnish away from that queen.”

The blue fire-lizard swooped over to land on her wrist, a lighter burden than Tarnish’s familiar weight. Saren rubbed his handsome head and then transferred him onto her shoulder.

They found T’kamen in his office, staring fixedly at a hide on his desk. He looked like he hadn’t slept. “Kamen?”

He glanced up, acknowledged her with a mutter, and returned his attention to his work.

“I’m going to go now,” Sarenya said.

T’kamen didn’t react.

Sarenya set her jaw, glaring at the unresponsive bronze rider. She considered saying something caustic, then thought better of it. “All right. Goodbye.”

She was halfway through the curtain when T’kamen called, “Wait a minute, Sarenya.”

She turned back, slightly mollified, but T’kamen was already sitting down at his desk again.

“Don’t go down off the ledge,” he said shortly. “Take the back stairs.”

“I’m sorry?”

T’kamen looked up again. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and he looked drawn and weary. “Take the back stairs,” he repeated.

“Why?”

“Just do it, Sarenya.”

Sleek shifted uneasily on Sarenya’s shoulder as she gazed at the bronze rider in dawning disbelief. “Why should I?”

T’kamen threw her a dark look. “Because I’m asking you to.”

“That’s not an answer, T’kamen.”

“Because it’s inappropriate!” T’kamen spat the words out with a viciousness that made Sarenya take a step back. “It’s in bad taste, having my lover walk out the front for the whole Weyr to see.”

Rendered momentarily speechless by his tirade, Sarenya couldn’t find anything to say, but Sleek didn’t need words. The little blue drew himself up, spread his wings, and hissed at T’kamen, his eyes gleaming red. Sarenya found her voice again, and asked incredulously, “You think I’m inappropriate?”

By the expression that briefly crossed T’kamen’s face, he regretted his choice of words, but he was clearly in no mood to refute them. “Just go, Saren.”

“You didn’t think it was inappropriate when you invited me here,” she said tightly, putting a hand up to hold Sleek back. “You didn’t think it was inappropriate when you gave me that ‘mating flights don’t count’ speech. This is a Weyr, not…”

“Don’t you quote Weyr tradition at me!” T’kamen snapped, coming to his feet. “Who do you think you are?”

It was too much for Sleek; the lizard broke free of Sarenya’s restraining hand and flew at T’kamen, shrieking with outrage. “Get back here!” Sarenya cried, but not before the blue had swiped at the bronze rider’s face.

T’kamen swore, and backhanded his assailant aside. The force of the blow knocked Sleek flat against the wall, but blood welled on the Weyrleader’s cheekbone, just under his eye, where wickedly sharp talons had sliced through the skin.

Sleek crumpled to the floor in a dazed heap. Sarenya scooped him up, examining him anxiously. The impact had damaged a wing, the fingertip bent back and the sail torn, and he lay limp in her hands. “You didn’t have to hit him that hard!”

T’kamen was cautiously feeling the cut on his face. His fingers came away bloody, but it didn’t appear to be serious. “Just get out,” he said harshly. “I don’t need this.”

“You’re right,” Sarenya hissed, between gritted teeth. “You don’t. Good day. Weyrleader.”

And cradling her injured fire-lizard in her arms, she turned and went – defiantly, down the steps from Epherineth’s ledge.

Chapter Six: Honour Those The Dragons Heed

The Weyrlingmaster strode noisily into the room in the manner that Sinterlion had learned, even after a scant sevenday in the Weyr, was his custom. The buzz of conversation gradually died as the old brown rider scanned the ranks of candidates with narrowed eyes, counting. “Kalior,” he barked at one boy. “You bunk with Rastevon. Where is he?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Kalior replied, exhibiting more composure that Sinter felt he could have displayed under L’stev’s withering gaze.

“Then go and find him! And as for the rest of you –” L’stev scowled from beneath the fierce dark eyebrows that dominated his face. “Sit. Listen. Where are the two R’yeno’s Wing brought in yesterday?” His eyes lit on the pair in question, Jostakovu and Varthen, and he stabbed a finger at the front row of benches. “Sit here. You’ve got the most to learn.”

Sinter had received the same orders the previous sevenday, on his first morning as a candidate. Sitting under the direct scrutiny of the impatient Weyrlingmaster had been a nerve-racking experience, even with Leah and Murrany either side. Nothing fazed Leah, but Murrany was as new to the Weyr as Sinter. Sharing a small room as they were with two Weyr boys, Sinter felt grateful that he and Murrany got along.

As the class rearranged itself, L’stev’s frown intensified. “Now where the shell is…”

“Here, sir.”

The words came, with barely masked insolence, from the young man who had just sauntered through the door of the teaching room. The Weyrlingmaster glared at the latecomer. “Sit down, Rastevon.” Then, as the boy started to move towards the back row, L’stev growled, “Not there. Here.”

Someone snickered, although whether at L’stev or at Rastevon, Sinter didn’t know. Rastevon glowered at the Weyrlingmaster, and if the similarity of their names had not made it obvious enough, the identical scowls of rider and candidate made it clear that they were father and son. “Yes sir,” he said, and sprawled on the bench next to Jostakovu. Sinterlion noticed Kalior edging back to join the class, slipping unobtrusively into the third row.

“Now that you’re all here,” and the Weyrlingmaster didn’t deign to glare at Rastevon any longer, “you’re going to recap what we did yesterday. Which was what, Kessirke?”

“Rider hierarchy, sir,” replied the Weyr girl.

“Soleigh,” L’stev snapped at one of the older Madellon girls, and then tossed her a stick of chalk. “You’re scribing.”

Soleigh nodded, accepting the task with her normal good humour. “Sir.”

L’stev grunted, grudgingly satisfied, as the girl went to the blackboard. He flung himself gracelessly into the chair behind the desk. “Murrany, who’s at the top of the heap?”

“The Weyrwoman and Weyrleader, sir,” said Murrany.

“Polian, their names.”

The Healer apprentice straightened on his bench. “Weyrwoman Valonna and Weyrleader T’kamen, sir.”

“And their dragons. Gidra.”

“Queen Shimpath and bronze Epherineth, sir.”

“You address them how, Carleah?”

Leah replied with nonchalant assurance. “Not at all unless spoken to or taking a message, Weyrlingmaster.”

“And then how, Bela?”

“Weyrwoman and Weyrleader, sir,” the Kellad girl said nervously.

L’stev’s brows furrowed, and he stared at Bela until she added, “Weyrleader or sir, sir.”

“Good. Rastevon, who’s next important after the Weyrleaders?”

Rastevon stretched his legs out, answering complacently, “Why, who else but you, sir.”

Sinter bit back a laugh, although the round of sniggers from half the rest of the class would have masked it.

“You’ll find that while you’re a candidate or weyrling at Madellon Weyr, I’m even more important than the Weyrleaders, my boy,” L’stev said ominously. “Dastur!”

“Uh, the Flightleaders, sir?”

The Weyrlingmaster thumped his fist down on his desk, making most of the class jump. “Maris, would you like to explain to our newcomers why it would seem that Dastur’s brain has been between for the last three months?”

“Yes, sir. The rank of Flightleader became obsolete at Madellon Weyr on bronze rider T’kamen’s accession to the Weyrleadership.”

“Sinterlion, would you then answer the question: who’s next important after the Weyrleaders?”

“The, um, Wingleaders, sir,” Sinter replied. He felt certain that he was correct, but intimidated nonetheless, and he breathed a silent sigh of relief when L’stev moved on.

“How many, Martouf?”

“Twelve, sir.”

“Deyan, after the Wingleaders?”

“Wingseconds, sir.”

“How many, Jardesse?”

“Twenty-four, sir, two per Wing.”

“And after that, Larhon?”

“Er, bronze riders, sir?”

L’stev’s fist thudded on the desk again. “Goridar?”

“All wingriders, sir,” said the Weyrbred apprentice, throwing a scornful look at Larhon.

The Weyrlingmaster leaned forward, raking each candidate, and particularly the two newest, with a searching look. “When some of you Impress – and it pains me to concede that some of you will – you’ll soon find why in this Weyr we don’t treat a wingrider better or worse for the colour of his dragon now. Bronze, brown, blue, or green – unless they’re wearing more than one stripe on the shoulder, are all wingrider.” He paused for a moment to let that sink in, and then twisted in his seat to address Soleigh. “Where do Weyr Crafters fit in?”

“Masters are ranked with Wingleaders, journeymen between Wingsecond and wingrider depending on seniority, and apprentices more or less with weyrlings, sir,” the girl replied, not pausing as she scribed out the rank structure L’stev had just goaded the class into describing.

“What about everybody else in the Weyr, Palroyan?”

“Sir, the Headwoman is equal with a Wingleader, her stewards are Wingseconds, and the rest are like wingriders.”

“And as candidates and possible weyrlings, Harrenar, where do you stand?”

“Right at the bottom, Weyrlingmaster, just below the tunnel-snakes.”

L’stev chuckled maliciously. “I like that, Harrenar. You all need to think in those terms. Now, would someone like to explain the insignia that are unique to Madellon? Korralthe?”

“Madellon’s riders wear shoulder epaulettes denoting rank in gold or silver stripes, chevrons, and stars, sir.”

“Chenda, run through them.”

In a bored tone, the Weyrbred girl recited, “One gold stripe for a rider, two for a Wingsecond, three for a Wingleader. Four used to be Flightleader. Stripes in silver if the rider is retired. Two gold stars for the Weyrwoman, one for a junior weyrwoman, two silver stars for the Weyrleader. Three gold chevrons for the Weyrlingmaster, two for his assistants, and one silver chevron for a weyrling.”

“So some of you have been listening,” L’stev said, with grudging satisfaction. “Good. Get in the habit. Are you finished yet, girl?”

“Yes sir,” Soleigh replied, stepping back from the blackboard where she had written down everything they had covered, including sketches of the shoulder insignia. Sinter had been glad for the similar sketches Harrenar had drawn the previous day. He hadn’t known what a chevron looked like.

“Good. That’s going to stay on the board here until tomorrow morning, and you,” L’stev pointed at the most recent candidates, “are going to be sure that you know it all by then. Now, I don’t believe in sitting you indoors for any longer than I have to. Faranth knows, if you Impress from this clutch, you won’t be spending much time on your backsides for a good long while. So you’re going to shift them outside to the lake, where you’ll find something more useful for you to learn.” And with that, the Weyrlingmaster thundered out of the room.

Sinter didn’t want to be first out of his seat, so he was glad when Soleigh and Maris led the way towards the door. He glanced around at the other candidates as, singly and in groups, they made their way out. They numbered thirty or so, about half from the Weyr, half who had been Searched from Hold or Craft, with a few more boys than girls, although Krinlen said that the almost equal split was mostly due to the queen egg. Leah chatted animatedly to the girls she had immediately attracted as friends, and Murrany was talking to Harrenar.

As he hesitated in the doorway, two of the biggest Weyr boys jostled him carelessly aside. “Hey, watch it!” one of them snapped.

“I’m sorry,” Sinter apologised, although he was sure the fault had not been his.

“You need to pay attention to where you’re going,” the other said. As the pair walked away, Sinter heard clearly the expression of disgust they tossed over their shoulders. “Faranth, stupid Holdbreds…”

“I thought they shoved you,” a quiet voice said from behind Sinter.

Sinterlion turned around to see one of the new lads. “I thought so too, but…” He shrugged, indicating his slight stature.

The other boy grinned, and slipped forwards. “I’m Varthen, from Jessaf.”

Sinter returned the smile, glad for a friendly face. Varthen was taller than him, and broader in the shoulders, but he didn’t look much older than Sinter’s thirteen Turns. “Sinterlion, from Kellad…everyone calls me Sinter, though.”

“Have you been here long?” Before Sinter could reply, Varthen went on, rapidly, “I just got here last night. Shells, I’d never seen a dragon except in the high sky, and next thing I knew a whole Wing had turned up at our cot, and they told me I could be a dragonrider!”

“I’ve only been here a few days,” Sinter admitted. “But I helped with a dragon at Kellad, Darshanth.”

“There’s a dragon at Kellad?”

“No, I mean, yes, there was, but he’s back here now. He got hurt in the fire at Turn’s End, so I had to help with him. And then C’mine said I could come back here and maybe Impress.” Sinter grinned, knowing that he had looked as awestruck as Varthen at that moment.

Both boys shivered as they stepped out into the chilly Bowl. Sinter noticed how Varthen gazed up at the nearest weyr ledges, staring in wonder at the dragons. The massive wingsails of a bronze cast a shadow over them as the dragon flew directly overhead, and Varthen sighed. “Can you imagine…” And he sighed again.

Sinter watched the bronze, then said softly, in case it was disrespectful, “I wouldn’t mind a bronze, but I think I’d like a blue, like Darshanth.”

“Agreen who Searched me,” said Varthen, “but you never hear about greens in the teaching songs, do you?”

“Nor blues, but there’s not a better dragon than Darshanth,” said Sinter, stout in his defence of C’mine’s dragon. “He rescued him from the fire, dived right through the flames and took him between. C’mine says he was glad Darshanth wasn’t bigger, ‘cause a brown or bronze wouldn’t have got through the trees!”

Varthen’s eyes had gone wide again at the story, but then something else caught his attention, and he pointed at the lake. “Say, Sinter, do you think that’s our lesson?”

L’stev waited by the closest of ten dragons, spaced out evenly along the shore of the lake. Their riders were standing with the Weyrlingmaster, watching the approaching candidates with amused expressions. L’stev gestured for them to gather round in a half circle, and bellowed, “Get a move on!” at the stragglers.

Sinter and Varthen found a place at one end of the semicircle where the taller boys wouldn’t block their view, although L’stev’s habit of pacing up and down the line, sweeping each individual candidate with a fierce glare, put both boys on their toes. “If you Impress – if,” the Weyrlingmaster emphasised, “then each of you will be personally and intimately responsible for the health, happiness, and education of a Madellon dragonet. And as any of these riders will tell you, one of the biggest jobs of all is keeping a dragon clean. So. Three to a dragon, four if he’s brown or bronze, and I want to see each of them gleaming. Questions?”

Gidra, the lad from the Seacraft, raised his hand. “Can my fire-lizards help?”

“Yes,” L’stev said shortly. “Any more? No? Brushes here, sand in the barrel there, and buckets.”

Some of the boys immediately hurried towards the only bronze. Varthen looked disappointed, but Sinter shrugged. “They’ve got more to clean. Let’s go and do that blue on the end.”

“An excellent choice,” said one of the nearby riders, with a broad grin. “Do you have another partner?”

Sinter glanced back at the other candidates, most of whom were still dithering over their trios. A red-haired girl who had been standing on the outskirts stepped forwards shyly. “I’ll help, if I may.”

“Certainly,” Sinter said politely, although Varthen looked unimpressed.

“I’m P’yom,” the blue rider introduced himself. He looked quite young himself, Sinter thought: no more than ten Turns older than most of the candidates, dark of hair and complexion, with a friendly grin that reinforced Sinter’s favourable opinion of blue riders.

“Sinter,” he offered.

“Varthen,” the other boy said, though he still gazed wistfully after the bronze.

“I’m Jenafa,” the shy girl admitted.

“Aith is looking forward to a good scrub,” said P’yom. “Grab yourselves some brushes and sand while we’re here – none of you are Weyrbred, are you?” When the three candidates shook their heads, he went on, “Ask me anything you want about the Weyr. I’ve been here all my life – and I won’t bite your heads off, like old Low-Brow L’stev.”

Jenafa giggled at the name, and Varthen sniggered. P’yom looked at them with exaggerated astonishment. “You didn’t know he was called that? Let me tell you, by the time Aith and I graduated – and that wasn’t so long ago – there were less complimentary nicknames for him!” He stopped by the last dragon in the line, and put a hand on the smooth greeny-blue hide. “This is Aith. Feel free to flatter him.”

“Good morning, Aith,” Sinter said boldly.

“He says good morning to you, too,” P’yom relayed.

Sinter was disappointed: Darshanth had always spoken directly to him. But though Aith glanced in their direction, the blue didn’t seem very interested in any of them.

“We’ll get started on him, now,” said the blue rider. “First thing you want when you’re scrubbing a dragon is to get him wet, so we’ll send him into the lake.”

Aith lumbered into the water with the peculiar ungainly walking gait Sinter had observed in Darshanth. It was the shortness of the forearms, C’mine had told him, compared to the strong, long hind legs. Dragons were graceful in flight, but clumsy-looking on the ground.

Under P’yom’s instruction, Aith submerged and then reappeared. “Go ahead and get stuck in,” the blue rider told them.

Sinter started to take off his boots, hopping on one foot as he tugged the left one off. He glanced back at Varthen, noticing that the other lad looked lost as he stared at the mountain of blue dragon they were expected to scrub. “C’mon, it’s not so hard.”

Wielding the brush, and a fistful of soapsand, Sinter started to bathe the dragon as he had been taught: back ridges first, then neck and sides. Varthen waded in to attack the blue’s forearm, and Jenafa tentatively soaped the near hind leg.

“You’ve done this before, Sinter,” P’yom observed after a short time.

“I helped with Darshanth, at Kellad,” said Sinter, unable to keep a hint of pride out of his voice.

“You did?” P’yom grinned. “We were there that day, you know, Aith and I. Second shift of riders on the fireline. Worked until the rain came and put it out.”

Sinter slid down Aith’s side, wincing at the chill of the water that came to halfway up his thighs, then splashed around to the blue’s tail. Along the shore of the lake, he could see the other dragons and candidates in various predicaments: dragons wilfully misbehaving, candidates struggling, or not, to complete their task, riders standing by and laughing as often as helping the hapless candidates.

As he rubbed the soapsand into a lather along Aith’s tail, Sinter looked sideways at Jenafa. She looked fit enough to be a dragonrider – L’stev had stressed the importance of that – neither delicate nor heavyset, with her reddish hair cut short to be practical without being severe, but she wouldn’t raise her eyes to meet his gaze. Sinterlion was by nature sufficiently gregarious to be encouraging of a more timid personality than his own. “So where’re you from, Jenafa?”

The grateful look in the girl’s eyes made up for her quietness. “Blue Shale,” she admitted. “My da works on the fishing fleet – crew, not Craft – but we’ve a space in the main Hold, because he’s away so much, and there’s just the two of us.”

Sinter wondered about the girl’s mother, but decided not to ask. “You’ve not got any rider kin, then?”

Jenafa shook her head, scrubbing diligently at Aith’s foot. “I don’t know anyone here,” she said, in a tone just short of despair.

“Well, you know me, now,” said Sinter, “and Varthen. And you’ll get to know everyone a lot better when we all Impress.”

Jenafa nervously tucked a short curl of hair behind an ear. “E’dor said I’m to do my best to Impress the queen, but what if I don’t?”

“Then maybe you’ll Impress a green, and that’s just as good.”

She smiled timidly. “Do you think so?”

“He’s right, you know,” P’yom said from behind them. Both candidates twisted around to look at Aith’s rider as he went on, “There’s no shame in riding one of the smaller dragons at Madellon, not now. In fact, I’d wager that by the time this lot of eggs Hatches, you could be seeing the first blue rider Wingseconds.”

“Blue rider Wingseconds?” Varthen echoed sceptically, sloshing through the water with brush in hand.

“That’s right!” P’yom grinned at him. “New Weyrleader, new rules. You just wait! Now, I think Aith’s ready to rinse off, so you might want to get back, or he’ll flood you.”

Sinter waded up the bank with the others as Aith moved out into deeper water. He felt vindicated by P’yom’s confidence that blue riders would be entitled to rank. He wondered if C’mine would be made Wingsecond. He was friends with the Weyrleader, after all. Sinterlion straightened up unconsciously at the thought of the terse, unsmiling bronze rider who commanded the whole of Madellon Weyr. He wasn’t sure he’d ever want that much responsibility. But if blue riders could be Wingseconds – well, then, maybe he’d be lucky enough to Impress a dragon like Darshanth and have a chance at respectable rank, too. And that would suit him just fine.

L’stev scrawled the date and his signature – a wildly elaborate notation that no clever weyrling had ever been able to forge – at the bottom of the page, and let the record hide roll itself up. Yawning widely, he glanced at the patch of sky just visible from his desk. Pitch black. How did it get so late so fast? Either the nights were drawing in unseasonably early, or he was getting absent-minded. Probably the latter, he thought sourly. Although when bronze riders over-eager to be the benefactor of Madellon’s future new junior weyrwoman kept dumping more useless girl candidates on him, it was no surprise that he worked long into each night writing up their reports. Pointless toil, since he could have picked out the no-hopers within seconds of meeting them, but protocol dictated that he keep a record of the conduct of each candidate, and L’stev believed devoutly in protocol. If nothing else, he had to set an example to young riders who needed to have obedience drilled into them – however boring or laborious or seemingly meaningless the task. He was too old to start flying a new formation. Forty Turns a rider, and Weyrlingmaster for fourteen of those, he’d had time enough to find out what worked.

The thought of the soft, useless Hold girls whose dubious chances at the new queen necessitated his long hours set L’stev to wondering if he should check up on a few of them. By tradition, candidates ignored their curfew, and after-hours exploits were benignly tolerated as part and parcel of the Weyr experience, but L’stev still liked to keep the youngsters on their toes. With no central dormitory, Hold and Craftbred candidates usually bunked in with the Weyrbred kids, but L’stev didn’t need records to know exactly who should be in which room at any one time. He savoured the prospect of scaring the dim wits out of some of those girls. A Weyrlingmaster – Candidate Master, he corrected himself pedantically, at least for the next four sevendays or so – enjoyed few pleasures.

There’ll be time enough for you to scare them. Let them sleep.

L’stev snorted at the sanctimonious tone of Vanzanth’s voice, and spoke aloud. “What are you doing awake? I thought I heard you snoring when I came in.”

Your malicious thoughts woke me up. L’stev heard the brown stretch and turn on the couch in the adjacent chamber, and then Vanzanth’s head appeared in the doorway, blocking out even the tiny scrap of sky that kept the Weyrlingmaster advised of the hour. You should go to bed.

“I’ll go to bed when I’m ready,” L’stev said, although most of his resistance was born of sheer irritation that he hadn’t been aware of his dragon’s increased consciousness. Maybe he was becoming absent-minded after all.

Vanzanth snorted. Comes with age.

L’stev rose from his chair, making a face at the stiffness that had set into muscles and joints, and walked to the doorway. “You old wher,” he said gruffly, clouting Vanzanth’s cheek. “You’re the one going green.”

I’m not green, it’s the glow light, Vanzanth objected placidly. But as often as L’stev accused and Vanzanth denied, neither one was ignorant to the fact that they were getting older. L’stev leaned against his dragon’s muzzle, giving and receiving the unconditional love and support and understanding that had flowed between them for four decades without words.

With a final thump, he pushed himself upright and turned to make for his sleeping space. Vanzanth withdrew his head from the doorway and nudged the heavy leather curtain across the space on its rail. L’stev heard the brown dragon making himself comfortable once more on his stone couch as he yanked back the fur on his own bed. Protracted physical contact was important in a young dragonpair, the bond still new and untried, but he and Vanzanth had known each other far too long and far too well for that to be necessary any more. Enough that the presence was there in his mind, the clever, calm, sarcastic personality of his Vanzanth, the infinite layers of love and understanding in the brown’s mental touch.

L’stev sat down on the edge of his bed and started to lever the boots from his feet. The night-time peace wouldn’t last once the candidates had become weyrlings. Then there would be dragonets waking up at all hours wanting their riders’ attention, dragonets with indigestion, dragonets too young and stupid to realise that the night was for sleeping, not knocking around the barracks waking up all the others. If anything, their young riders would be worse. The first few months were always the hardest in terms of lost sleep, and L’stev anticipated losing a great deal in the two Turns to come.

He set his boots aside, for cleaning in the morning, and unbuttoned his shirt. He always folded his clothes neatly and put them in clean and dirty piles. Crauva would be in around noon to take the items for washing and return the previous day’s garments, freshly laundered. She’d been looking after his things for the best part of ten Turns and knew what not to touch. L’stev made sure to be absent from his weyr for first two hours of the afternoon. It was pleasant to return to quarters that had been swept and dusted, bed furs aired and sheets changed. One less thing for him to think about.

Finally, he removed his bandanna, the plain black kerchief that he customarily wore to impose the gravity of his position on new candidates. The Weyrbred youngsters would know and tell of his great collection of garish bandannas, but in the main those born to the Weyr respected the Weyrlingmaster well enough. L’stev ran a hand through the straggly long hair that his headwear concealed – another popular myth disproved, for it was generally assumed that his bandannas hid a lack of hair, not an abundance. In truth, they hid his one mild rebellion and hypocrisy: he made new weyrlings cut their hair short, but couldn’t bear to part with his own.

He scratched at the pelt on his chest, pretending not to notice the grey mixed in with the black, and then swung his legs up onto the bed with a grunt. He lay still for a moment, then reached out to turn the glow basket.

“I’ll have them running tomorrow,” he said into the comfortable darkness.

Vanzanth didn’t respond, although he was certainly listening.

“Laps of the Bowl,” L’stev continued. “That should shake up some of those little girls who want to ride a queen.”

Worse if they Impress fighting greens, Vanzanth commented grudgingly, as if reluctant to be conversing when he could be sleeping.

“Bad all round. Is it better to have useless girls on fighting dragons in an Interval, or the most useless of the lot on a queen who could end up Senior?” L’stev thumped emphatically at a pillow. “Gold egg in a clutch always makes trouble. If it isn’t all the half-baked excuses the bronze riders come up with for their simpering little pretties, or the floods of tears from the ones who never had a chance, or the ones who got greens instead and don’t appreciate how lucky they are, then it’s the queen weyrling herself, making trouble in the class, having her head turned by adult bronze riders who are counting the minutes until she’s old enough to bed…”

A queen is always an asset.

“From where you’re standing, Van, but it’s not the dragon I worry about so much as whichever girl she takes it into her head to choose. If queens only had the sense to pick good solid Weyrbred girls!”

Vanzanth rumbled tolerantly. You say this every time.

“What do you know?” L’stev scoffed. “You don’t remember the last time. The problem with weyrwomen is that they never are Weyr women. Now, take young Maris, and Soleigh –”

Greens.

“– they’d make excellent queen riders; sensible, level-headed, know the Weyr –”

Greens, Vanzanth repeated.

“I’m aware that they’ll Impress greens,” L’stev said, “but the point is that either one of them would make a better Weyrwoman than any of the hold girls who, Faranth save us all, are the ones most likely to get the queen. And do you know why that is, Vanzanth?”

I’m sure you’re going to tell me.

“Newly-Hatched dragons don’t have the sense they’re born with.”

Vanzanth’s amusement at the comment was aggravating. Neither do ageing Weyrlingmasters.

“Full of wit tonight, aren’t you? You know what I mean. Fresh out of the shell, starving, convinced they’ll die if they can’t find riders – hatchlings aren’t the most discerning creatures on the face of Pern, are they? And don’t give me that ‘the dragon knows’ claptrap, Van. I’ve been at this game for too many long Turns to believe in that sort of sentimental nonsense. A dragonet makes a snap decision based on the best of what’s available. If they were that fussy about their riders, more would die unmatched. Or choose from the stands, for that matter, and how often have we seen that in our time? Twice in forty Turns?”

What do I know? I don’t remember the last time.

“Well, I do, and it was Jenavally twenty-odd Turns back, and she was sitting right down at the front, right in range of that green. Came out later that she’d been spotted on Search before, you know, and passed over because she’d just been made journeyman. No; the best hope a dragonet has of picking a rider who’ll be a credit to the Weyr is if the Search riders have done their job properly. An adult dragon who knows he isn’t going to die of hunger or loneliness has a much better chance of filtering the good from the bad. Except when there’s a gold egg, of course, and then all bets are off.”

Vanzanth was silent for a long moment, and then he said, You still blame yourself for Valonna.

The perception could not have been Vanzanth’s alone. Clever as he was - sharper than most bronze dragons, and with a better memory - the brown still could not have recalled for himself the unhappiness with which L’stev had released the young queen rider from his care almost six Turns ago, or his lack of conviction in her readiness to take on the responsibilities so abruptly ceded by her predecessor, or his frustration at being unable to prevent her immediate flight into the thrall of an arrogant young bronze rider whose motivations were wholly selfish. No: Vanzanth must have picked the thought from the back of L’stev’s mind, where the fear that it would happen again had been harrying him ever since Shimpath had laid her golden egg. It troubled L’stev; not that Vanzanth had access to his fears, for he always had and always would, but that the brown had seen unerringly to the heart of the issue. Valonna had been a child, yes, a young girl of the holders, but did the blame for her inadequacy not fall to her teacher? Was L’stev himself not the one at fault? He had tried so hard with her, teaching her everything he thought a good weyrwoman should know, and yet still she was a disappointment to the Weyr. Was there something more he could have done?

Vanzanth didn’t respond to that unspoken thought, and L’stev knew that the brown dragon was asking the same questions of himself. He had taken as great a responsibility, a joy, in teaching the young weyrlings as his rider: almost eighty dragonpairs had earned their wingriders’ stripes under their tutelage. He had mourned those they had lost to accident and injury as deeply as L’stev, recriminated with himself as fiercely, gone on with the survivors as stalwartly. In guiding the young of the Weyr, Vanzanth was as dedicated and passionate as a man could hope his dragon to be.

“We do the best we can, old wher, and hope the new queen is wiser than her dam,” L’stev said finally. “And that she breaks shell sooner rather than later, when there’s still some choice.”

The problem of candidate numbers gave L’stev sleepless nights before every Hatching. Madellon didn’t have such a big population that it could always offer a large clutch a decent selection from its own lower caverns. There were usually enough boys: even when the unsuitable had been filtered out, Madellon could muster an easy twenty lads of the right age to Impress. But not all girls chose to stand, and it wasn’t good to restrict the choice. L’stev had never seen a dragonet left unpartnered – and he thanked Faranth for that mercy – but he had seen bad matches made, usually at the tail-end of an Impression ceremony when pickings were slim: a blue choosing a boy better suited to bronze, a green accepting a headstrong girl over a sensible lad. A wider range of suitable young people improved the chances of strong bonds and compatible personalities, but the balance between quantity and quality was delicate, and taking on candidates to make up the numbers could have repercussions if those same undesirable youngsters Impressed. Of course, it was one of the first tasks of a Weyrlingmaster to reconcile each new weyrling with the colour of his or her dragon, but there would always be those who resented the restrictions enforced by the colour hierarchy.

L’stev already had his eye on several individuals in the current crop. As the candidates sorted themselves out into friendship groups and rival factions, the Weyrlingmaster gained a sense for trouble. A clique had formed of some of the physically bigger Weyr boys: Dastur, Martouf, Kodam, Goridar. L’stev had seen that sort of thing before, and he knew he would have to take steps to break the alliance if too many of them Impressed. A less troubling friendship was developing between some of the girls, ably headed by Soleigh and Maris. The pair had stood unsuccessfully at the previous Hatching, and L’stev trusted them to encourage, advise, and chaperone the younger girls, as necessary. A few of the younger Hold and Hall lads bore watching, if only to protect them from the cannier Weyr boys. And, of course, there was Rastevon.

It was far from the first time that a child of L’stev’s had stood as a candidate. He had two sons and a daughter on Madellon dragons: seasoned riders all. But none had stood to Impress in the Turns that he had served as Weyrlingmaster - not until Rastevon, his youngest by more than a decade. He had been fostered after his weaning, and not a day too soon: his mother had died not long after, and by his fourth Turn, L’stev had been wrapped up in the duties of a Weyrlingmaster. The boy had thrived under Crauva’s care, and L’stev had devoted his pastoral inclinations to the education of Madellon’s weyrlings.

Five Turns ago, L’stev had been surprised to realise that his son was of age to stand. He had taken pains to treat Rastevon like all the others, and concealed his disappointment when the lad failed to attach a dragonet. A mere twelve Turns old, Rastevon would have other chances. The instruction of the weyrling class resulting from that Hatching had taken up the better part of the next two Turns, and L’stev had had little contact with his son since.

The husky youth of seventeen who had strolled, late, into every candidate class since Shimpath’s clutch had been laid bore L’stev a striking resemblance, and he wondered if that was why Rastevon persisted in making trouble. Afraid, perhaps, that his relationship to the Weyrlingmaster would isolate him from the others, the boy was overcompensating. With more than thirty candidates to keep in line already, L’stev couldn’t afford the time to deal with his son’s behaviour personally – and nor could he afford drawing attention to their blood bond. Until he had more time, or a better idea, he intended to treat Rastevon like any other truculent candidate. The ultimate punishment would be to bar the boy from the sands, but that was a harsh sentence when clutches were so infrequent. L’stev wouldn’t deny his own son a chance at Impression simply to make an example of him.

He started to ask Vanzanth’s opinion of the matter, then realised that the dragon had fallen asleep. L’stev sighed. “Absent-minded old man,” he muttered to himself, and closed his eyes.

Chapter Seven: Weyrman, Watch

The thin layer of dust that had already settled over the contents of E’rom’s weyr gave the cave a ghostly aura. C’los sat at the table, looking at the well-scrubbed surface, and wondered if the identity of E’rom’s murderer would become clear if he looked hard enough.

A’len and T’rello had done an excellent job of keeping the weyr off limits. The markers C’los placed each time he left the weyr – a fine thread stretched between door and doorframe that would break on entry, charcoal to smudge onto the curtains if someone pushed through them – had remained undisturbed. A’len and Chyilth waited out there now, keeping Indioth company, while C’los sat in the dead rider’s weyr and ordered his thoughts. He found it helped to come here, to where E’rom had lived and died. It sharpened his receptiveness to possibilities.

C’los had spent the time since E’rom’s funeral struggling with the questions that lay at the heart of the brown rider’s murder. Who had killed him? Why? He knew when, and how. But it was the reason, the motive, that frustrated C’los the most. Valrov’s lessons had never involved the Weyr. Whatever drove one man to kill another in a Hold or Craft could scarcely begin to account for why somebody would murder a dragonrider in cold blood in his own weyr.

Money. Revenge. Passion. Outright insanity didn’t fit – the evidence pointed to calculation, not madness. Money…E’rom had left details of how he wished his possessions to be divided, but they were modest enough, and save for the spilled bottle of brandy, the few items of value in his weyr had not been touched. C’los doubted the brown rider had been hiding a secret stash of marks, and even if he had, theft and murder were worlds apart.

Everything C’los had heard about E’rom indicated that he had been a decent, reliable, but basically dull man. On the face of it, it seemed hard to believe that anyone could have harboured either resentment or passion for him. But C’los, well knowing as he did both his own serene weyrmate and the taciturn Weyrleader, had a lifetime’s experience of hidden depths. There must have been more to E’rom than there seemed.

The brown rider had held Wingsecond rank, and he had survived the changes that T’kamen had enforced where other riders had not. C’los had made arrangements to see H’ned and F’yan, E’rom’s commanding Wingleaders, later in the day. He’d read every report the brown rider had written over the last two Turns, and there were names he wanted to query with the two bronze riders.

Jenavally had given C’los more information on E’rom’s personal life, relating what she knew of the brown rider’s affairs over a gitar session in her weyr late the previous night. Not much of it seemed relevant. E’rom’s relationships had been fairly mundane, with no jealous lovers or spurned former flames. He’d fathered two girls – both grown up – and possibly a son, by three different women, none of whom had claimed more support or interest than E’rom had been willing to give. Despite the formality of his funeral, it appeared that E’rom had maintained only minimal ties with his blood relatives, and C’los doubted that Ironam would prove a useful source; interviewing him could wait.

He was more interested in speaking to K’ston, the late Wingsecond’s weyrmate. There were questions he was sure the blue rider would be able to answer. C’los had arranged to see K’ston in his weyr, but he had stopped at E’rom’s former quarters first to retrieve the items he needed.

With a sigh, C’los picked up the brandy bottle that had been on the floor since the day of the murder and stoppered it to prevent the spoiled dregs from spilling further. He took the piece of fighting harness off the table, and then reached up to the top shelf above for one of the five matched mugs. He’d sniffed at all of them, hoping to detect a residue of fellis juice, but without success. Still, E’rom had to have quaffed his final drink from something.

C’los placed each item carefully in the bag he’d brought to carry them, and looked around at the weyr he had taken such pains to keep undisturbed one more time. In notes and sketches, he had gleaned everything he could from the place. But he still felt an odd pang of guilt as he left the dead rider’s weyr and, out of habit, he renewed the charcoal mark on the main archway that his entry had brushed out.

“Done for today?” asked A’len, as C’los stepped out onto the ledge.

He nodded. “You’ll stay here?”

“One of T’rello’s blue riders is coming up to take over at noon ,” A’len replied. “Don’t worry, Los, we won’t let anyone in or out. Oh, and I meant to ask you: when are we next going to get the old ensemble together? I thought, now that C’mine’s home…”

“The what?” C’los frowned. “Oh, that. Kamen’s too busy. I’ll maybe speak to Jenavally about taking over.”

“Yes sir,” A’len teased. “When you’re ready.”

C’los walked to Indioth, settling the strap of his bag more comfortably over his shoulder. The green had been snuggling against A’len’s dragon. Chyilth had caught Indioth in her last flight, six sevendays ago, and in several before that, and there was an affectionate bond between the pair.

“Come on, girl,” he said, controlling his impatience. “Tear yourself away.”

Yes, C’los.

Indioth was a small enough dragon to make mounting easy. C’los had always found that that suited him, particularly during weyrling training, when some of the brown and bronze riders had made amusing fools of themselves struggling to climb to their dragons’ neck ridges. There were some advantages to riding a green. But Indioth had been reserved of late; uncharacteristically quiet for a normally bright and cheerful personality. C’los knew it was because of the filter he had placed between them since beginning the murder investigation. It must have seemed cruel to her, but he couldn’t bear the thought of gentle, trusting Indioth knowing the worst of what man could do. So he paused to make a fuss of her, rubbing her eye ridges and scratching under her chin until her eyelids slipped shut and she sighed with pleasure.

That done, C’los thumped Indioth’s shoulder, and swung up to her neck. “Bronth’s weyr, then.”

Indioth waited for him to settle in place and then sprang from the ledge, spread her wings, and rose with ease, angling away from the cliff face with the lift of a Bowl thermal.

K’ston weyred in the southeast corner of the Bowl, not far from the tunnel that provided ground access into Madellon. On the ledge, Bronth was enjoying the autumn sun afforded by the clear sky. He looked in good colour for a dragon with a rider in mourning, his hide a vibrant deep blue. Indioth landed in the space Bronth vacated for her, humming thanks as she folded her wings.

“You’ll be all right here, girl?” C’los asked as he dismounted.

Will you be long?

“I’m not sure. It’s sunny, though, you can enjoy that.”

Indioth looked morose as she settled her chin to her forearms.

“Bronth, is that C’los?”

The voice belonged to the sandy-haired man who had just appeared at the entrance to the weyr. C’los stepped around Indioth’s masking bulk, and extended his hand to the blue rider. “It is, K’ston.”

K’ston grasped his wrist in a strong grip, and then let it go. C’los looked up at the taller rider, making a quick assessment. Before he had begun investigating E’rom’s death he had known this man only by name and face. K’ston was in his mid forties but looked much younger, an impression born of his open features and boyishly-tousled blond hair, receding only slightly at the temples. The lines of recent grief, and the dark shadows under his unusual green eyes, seemed out of place on his youthful face. “Bronth said Indioth was here. Will you come in and sit down?”

C’los followed the blue rider into his weyr. “Thank you for agreeing to talk to me.”

“I just want to know what happened.” K’ston sounded as tired as he looked.

“I hope I won’t have to keep you too long. You probably know that the Weyrleader’s asked me to look into the circumstances of E’rom’s death.”

K’ston turned away as he replied. “I’d thought he would.”

C’los let that pass. He’d taken too high-profile a part in T’kamen’s popularity campaign for the Weyr to forget his allegiance. It didn’t hurt. Any association with the Weyrleader lent C’los a substance that belied the colour of his dragon.

K’ston’s weyr was a modest affair, the standard single-room accommodation off the larger dragon chamber that constituted living quarters for most riders. The bed, clothes chest, table and chairs made up the furnishings; a curtained corner presumably concealed basic toilet facilities. K’ston picked up several abandoned items of clothes, rolling them up and throwing them onto the bed. “Sorry about the mess. Half my clothes are still in E’rom’s weyr.”

C’los waited while K’ston removed a shirt from the back of one of the chairs, then sat down. “We’ve almost finished with it now. You’ll be able to take them back.”

“Was there that much to find?”

“A few things,” C’los said, deliberately evasive. Then, because he was there to ask questions, not answer them, he said, “I’ve been trying to build up a picture of what sort of man E’rom was. Can you tell me about your relationship with him?”

K’ston sat heavily in the second chair, leaning his head against one hand. “Everyone said he was boring,” he said, after a moment. “I used to tease him about it. He didn’t care what people thought, but the teasing wound him up, even though he knew I didn’t mean it.” The blue rider stared at nothing, his eyes going vague. “I suppose he was, really,” he said. “But I’d had my share of excitement, getting Bronth to chase half the greens in the Weyr and seeing what I could make of it afterwards.” He smiled ruefully. “That’s how we met. Bronth and Sigith had both been going after a green; I forget whose. They both lost, anyway. E’rom and I went to drown our sorrows. I didn’t know he was a brown rider – or a Wingsecond. It didn’t matter, anyway. I felt like I knew him. It felt right.”

“How long were you weyrmated?” C’los asked.

“Never, not technically.” K’ston made a face. “I never moved in. He didn’t ask, and he was the one with the big weyr. Anyway, there wouldn’t have been room for Bronth. But we were together from…late 96. Nearly three Turns.”

“You must have known all his habits, then,” said C’los.

K’ston smiled briefly. “That only took about a sevenday. Yeah, he had habits, and routines, and Faranth forbid I should disturb the order of things.” He shrugged. “It was all based around his being a Wingsecond. He took that very seriously. Next to Sigith, it was the most important part of his life. More important than me, even. I tried to help at first, but he used to get so agitated when I put things in the wrong place.”

“That drives me crazy, too,” C’los agreed. He could well believe that E’rom would have found K’ston’s efforts irritating, based on the state of the blue rider’s weyr. “Did E’rom ever drink?”

K’ston looked truly distraught for the first time. “All around the Weyr, people are saying that he got drunk and fell off his ledge. He wouldn’t have – I just can’t… I told you, he was boring. And he had a Wing meeting that evening – he’d never have had a drink before one of those, never.”

“All right.” C’los paused again and then reached down to his bag. He took out the almost empty bottle of brandy, and set it on the table between them. “Do you recognise this?”

K’ston looked at the bottle. “Yes,” he replied, more softly. “That’s five-Turn-old Jessaf Hold brandy.”

C’los couldn’t help wincing at the waste. “Whose was it?”

The blue rider hesitated for a long moment, as if reluctant to reply. “It was E’rom’s,” he said finally. “I gave it to him at Turn’s End. That was the day he celebrated Impressing Sigith, too.” K’ston looked at C’los, pleading with his eyes. “It doesn’t mean he was a drunk, C’los. He loved a drink in the evenings, but he savoured it. He wouldn’t have wasted brandy like this.”

C’los nodded. It only confirmed what he and Isnan had deduced, and Tomsung’s tests had concluded. E’rom hadn’t been drinking on the evening of his death. Nor did it seem likely that the Wingsecond could have accidentally spilled such an expensive brandy on himself. C’los reached into his bag again and took out the mug from E’rom’s weyr. “What can you tell me about this?”

“That’s just one of his everyday cups,” said K’ston, eyeing the mug uneasily, as if he wasn’t sure what to make of it. “He wouldn’t have drunk brandy out of that.”

“What would he have drunk out of it?”

“Well, klah, I suppose. He used to have ten, enough for his whole Wing, but I’ve broken about four over the Turns. It drove him mad.”

C’los looked at the mug for a long moment and then put it and the bottle away. “Did you argue with him very much?” he asked, deliberately changing tack.

K’ston looked surprised at the question. “What do you mean? We disagreed, sometimes, but arguments? No, not really.”

“What did you disagree about?” C’los asked intently.

The blue rider frowned. “Little things, silly things. His family, sometimes.”

“His family?” C’los prompted.

K’ston shrugged, seeming to relax slightly. “His brothers never liked me. Just one of those things. It caused some tensions.”

C’los mentally revised his decision to omit Ironam from his investigation. E’rom’s brother might be able to shed some light on that enmity. Then something that had been niggling him since he had asked K’ston about the brandy suddenly blossomed into a question. “E’rom didn’t have a poor sense of taste, did he?”

Bronth’s rider looked perplexed. “Taste? No, his sense of taste was fine.”

“What about his health generally? Any problems?”

For a fraction of an instant, K’ston’s face clouded over. The expression had gone again by the time C’los blinked, and he wondered if he had imagined it. “No, nothing.”

“You’re sure?” C’los pressed, feeling instinctively that he was on to something.

“E’rom was completely healthy. We both are…were. And my brother, Katel, he’s a journeyman in the infirmary.”

“A Healer?” At K’ston’s nod, C’los asked, “How did E’rom and Katel get on?”

“Fine, I suppose,” K’ston said. “They hardly knew each other. Katel’s only been here a few months.”

C’los nodded slowly. “When was the last time you saw E’rom?”

“The morning of the…the morning he died.”

“I remember you got to the scene very quickly. Where had you been that afternoon?”

The blue rider’s expression changed again, but this time he made no attempt to hide the signs of remembered grief. “I was at the lake.”

C’los asked, carefully, “On your own?”

K’ston looked at him, as if trying to ascertain the motive behind his questioning. “With Bronth.”

“Had you argued that morning?”

“Argued? No, we didn’t…what…?”

“I just want to know what sort of frame of mind he was in,” C’los said. “If he was upset, or depressed.”

K’ston shook his head, clearly confused. “I don’t know.” Then, as an almost reluctant afterthought, he added, “It was hard to tell, sometimes. He didn’t talk about his feelings, much.”

C’los reviewed his list of questions rapidly in his mind and then stood up. “All right, K’ston, that’s all for now. I’m sorry I had to put you through this.”

“I know you’re just trying to find out what happened, C’los,” the blue rider replied, getting to his feet, evidently relieved. “If there’s anything else I can help you with…”

“I’ll let you know,” C’los promised.

K’ston nodded. “I’ll show you out.”

As they passed through Bronth’s sleeping chamber, something caught C’los’ eye. The blue’s fighting harness hung from a peg above the couch. C’los looked more closely at the leatherwork. White thread had been used as a contrast to the dark brown wherhide, but it was the pattern, not the colour, that had made him stop. “Did you make these?” he asked K’ston.

“I make harness for a few people,” the blue rider replied, with the hint of a shy smile.

“Beautiful work.” C’los studied the riding straps for a moment longer. “Unusual stitch.”

“It’s what the Jessaf Tanners use to sew runner harness.”

“Ah,” C’los agreed, but he didn’t need to know the origin of the pattern to know that it matched the stitching on the piece of E’rom’s harness he had in his bag.

Indioth raised her head when they emerged into the bright sunlight. C’los turned to the blue rider. “Thanks for your help, K’ston. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

Bronth’s rider clasped his wrist. “Best of luck, C’los.”

The blue rider stepped back, out of the way, as C’los remounted Indioth. But C’los could see him still standing there, watching, as the green shook out her wings and bounded off the ledge.

K’ston was hiding something. There was no doubt in C’los’ mind about that. The blue rider had had the opportunity, and through his brother the Healer, access to the fellis juice that had clearly been the intended method. Only a motive was still unclear. C’los liked K’ston: there was a warmth and vulnerability to his manner that appealed to the green rider, but that same openness had betrayed the fact that Bronth’s rider was definitely keeping something back. The piece of fighting strap alone suggested that he had been in E’rom’s weyr later than the morning of the sixth; a compulsively tidy man wouldn’t tolerate half-finished work being left lying around for very long.

Where do you want to go? Indioth asked, breaking through C’los’ concentration.

Oh – sorry, girl. C’los thought quickly. He had to talk to F’yan, but his interview with K’ston had raised some issues he wanted to clarify first. The infirmary, Indy.

The green obediently tilted on a wing. C’los leaned back against the shift, wondering if Isnan was busy. He could use the Weyr Healer’s expertise.

Will you be long this time? Indioth asked plaintively.

No, I don’t think so. Just a few quick questions and then we’ll go and see F’yan.

Indioth heaved a sigh.

Madellon’s infirmary was home to the busiest craft population of the Weyr. Eight journeymen, of widely differing seniorities, and twenty apprentices worked under Master Isnan. The numbers were swollen by the unranked personnel; mostly midwives and nurses from among the lower caverns women, experienced in their tasks, but lacking formal Craft training. There were always at least two journeymen on duty, even in the dead of night, but during the day the turnover of crafters and patients was brisk.

Midday seemed to have brought a lull, and C’los had no trouble attracting the attention of one of the duty journeymen. “Journeyman Lante,” he greeted her.

“Hello, C’los,” the journeyman replied pleasantly. “What can I do for you? Worried about C’mine again?”

C’los shook his head. “I just wanted to see Master Isnan for a moment, if he has the time.”

“He’s in his office,” Lante told him. “Go on through.”

C’los was no more than half a dozen steps past the journeyman Healer when he frowned and turned back. “Should I be worried about C’mine?”

Lante looked surprised. “No. It’s just that he’s in for his final check-up tomorrow, to clear him for returning to active duties.”

“Already?” C’los queried, walking back towards her. “Are you sure?”

“It’s been three months, C’los. He won’t have to strain himself, and he’ll still be coming in for checks every fortnight, but he’s fit to fly.” Lante waved him away. “Get on with you. The Master has patients to see after lunch.”

C’los sighed and resumed the trek to Isnan’s office. Three months – had it really been that long?

The Weyr Healer’s office was at the end of a long, twisting corridor. C’los passed the teaching room, where apprentices squirmed under the frosty gaze of their instructing journeyman; the pharmacy, where more journeymen laboured to create the infusions and tinctures and decoctions that made up such a large part of their craft; and several storerooms, locked, but pungent with the scents of dried herbs and roots.

He knocked politely on Isnan’s door, and entered at the muffled, “Come!”

The long-faced Master Healer sat at his desk, with the platter holding his noon meal perched precariously atop a stack of slates. Isnan looked up from the case notes he was reading, and beckoned C’los to sit. “A moment while I mark my place, Los,” he said, in the calm voice that had the power to inspire instant trust in his patients.

C’los had always liked the Weyr Healer. Turns ago, as a young green rider recovering from his dragon’s first mating flight, C’los had gone tentatively to the infirmary, knotted up with fear and embarrassment. Isnan had been completely unruffled. He had, as he’d said to C’los much later, seen it all before. A Weyr Healer had to be well acquainted with the complaints specific to dragonriders, and after nearly thirty Turns as Madellon’s Master Healer, very little remained to surprise him.

Isnan looked weary, and C’los wondered how much of that could be attributed to overwork, and how much to the burden of knowing the real cause of E’rom’s death. But the Healer smiled as he clasped his hands, stained faintly pink from redwort, together on the desk in front of him. “What can I do for you, C’los?”

“I just had a long chat with K’ston,” he began.

The Master nodded, his smile fading. “E’rom’s weyrmate.”

C’los chewed on his lip for a moment, thinking. “Master, if someone wanted to get hold of a quantity of fellis juice, what would be the best way?”

“I’ve thought about that,” Isnan said gravely. He leaned back in his chair, looking up into space. “Someone who had been prescribed fellis would have it to hand, of course.”

“Do you have a record of recent prescriptions?”

“Yes, I do. I’d have looked it out for you already, but those records are being re-filed.” Isnan picked up the steaming cup of tea from his desk, sipping pensively. “The most obvious source of fellis is right here.” He jerked his head towards the medicine cabinet behind him.

“How much would E’rom have to have taken for it to be a fatal dose?” C’los asked.

Isnan turned in his chair and, taking a key from the ring he wore buckled securely inside his tunic, unlocked the medicine cabinet. He removed a glass jar of the pale green liquid that C’los recognised as fellis juice. “A standard dose of fellis, and we use it for any affliction too severe for willowsalic, is between five and ten drops, depending on body weight, every four hours. That’s about half a spoonful to a spoonful. If you want to knock a man out where he stands you’re looking at barely twice that – perhaps twenty drops, and you go carefully because it puts strain on the heart. And if you’re prescribing any kind of dose on a regular basis, then you also start administering this.” He took a ceramic jar from the cabinet and handed it to C’los.

He opened the jar, shaking it to examine the contents: dried leaves, brown and brittle, with a sweetish smell. “What is it?”

“The herb has several names, but it’s often called fellisbane. Wherever you find fellis growing, you’ll find this nearby, and a good thing too. Fellis has addictive properties, and an infusion of fellisbane taken regularly helps to overcome dependency.” Isnan replaced the jar in the cupboard, and turned his attention back to the fellis juice. “The Healerhall teaches that any dosage above twenty five drops is fatal. That may be a conservative estimate, but I wouldn’t like to test the theory. Thirty drops – three spoonfuls – would almost certainly stop a man’s heart.”

“Potent,” C’los murmured.

“It’s dangerous,” Isnan agreed.

C’los frowned. “You lock the store cupboards, don’t you?”

“Of course. But security isn’t as rigorous as I’d like, not with eight journeymen around the place.” Isnan sighed. “I’ve found the storerooms left unlocked before. I gave them all a good bollocking about that. Naturally they didn’t understand why.”

“Anywhere else?”

The Healer raised his shoulders slightly. “A rider could source fellis from any Hold or Hall on Pern, I suppose, although it would raise questions. And technically, anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of distillation and a home-made still could refine fellis juice from the plant, although the quality wouldn’t be up to standard.”

“What about the taste?” C’los asked. “Could someone with a still do something to mask the flavour?”

“You’re wondering why E’rom didn’t taste the fellis?” Isnan shook his head. “I’ve been wondering that myself. It’s so bitter, even wine doesn’t completely hide the flavour. Unless E’rom’s sense of taste was poor…”

“I already asked K’ston that,” said C’los. “He said not.”

Isnan’s brows contracted. “He could be lying, C’los.”

He exhaled heavily. “I’ve thought about that,” he admitted. He brooded for a moment. “What about K’ston’s brother, Katel? He could have supplied the fellis, couldn’t he?”

“He could,” Isnan conceded, “but I don’t see why he would. Katel’s still on probation. He’s only been here two months, and he seems eager to prove himself. Actually, I like him. Good practical Healer. He’ll never have the academic drive to make his Mastery, but he’s well trained otherwise, and he’ll learn plenty at the Weyr to round out his skills.”

“Can you bring him in here?”

“Certainly.” Isnan got up and yanked open the door, looking back and forth down the corridor until he spotted a stray apprentice. “Habbert! Kindly go and find journeyman Katel and ask him to come to my office immediately.”

C’los grinned. “Good service.”

“There have to be some advantages to running a department of thirty.” Isnan sat down again with a wince. “Although there are days when I wish there was another Master. I tell you, C’los, I can’t win. Every time I train a journeyman up the way I like him, he goes and takes his Mastery exams and gets recalled to the Hall for reassignment.”

“You could request provision for a second Master,” C’los suggested.

“Every Weyr Master is asking for extra staff,” said Isnan. “The Weyrleader has enough on his hands keeping them happy. No. I have a good team here. I’d only get territorial with another Master about the place. Ah, journeyman, come in.”

C’los twisted in his seat to look at the newcomer. Katel was slighter and darker than his brother, and looked a few Turns older, though it was hard to tell. He was wearing the all-purpose white smock of a duty Healer. “You wanted to see me, Master?”

“Close the door behind you, Katel.” Isnan waited for the journeyman to comply, then said, “This is green rider C’los. He’s looking into the circumstances of Wingsecond E’rom’s death.”

C’los put out his hand. Katel hastily wiped his on his smock before shaking it. “Sorry, I was just making up some more of that liniment Master Vhion’s been asking for.”

“You must have known E’rom quite well, being his partner’s brother,” said C’los.

“Well, not well,” said Katel. “I’d met him, of course, but I’ve only been here the nine sevendays.”

“Have you seen much of K’ston since you’ve been at Madellon?” C’los asked.

The journeyman shook his head. “Not as much as I’d have liked, until recently.”

“What about as a Healer? Helped him out with any worries?”

Katel laughed. “Well, Kasto always was a terrible hypochondriac, but I’ve never treated him. Unprofessional, treating a family member.”

Isnan was nodding slowly. C’los asked, “And E’rom? Did he have any health problems?”

“Not that I knew of,” said Katel. “You’d have to look at his records.”

“All right.” He glanced at Isnan. “Thanks, journeyman.”

“That’ll be all, Katel,” the Weyr Healer told his crafter.

The journeyman nodded. “I hope I could help.”

When Katel had gone, Isnan raised his eyebrows at C’los. “Well?”

“K’ston implied that he consults his brother on health issues,” C’los said thoughtfully.

“Katel was correct in saying that Healers shouldn’t treat family members,” Isnan replied.

C’los rubbed his chin. “K’ston also said that he didn’t have any health problems, and yet Katel says that he’s a hypochondriac.”

“We can look at his records,” Isnan replied. “We’ll soon see if K’ston’s got a history of complaints.”

The infirmary record room was the next along from Isnan’s office. The details of every Weyr resident were kept there until a Turn after their deaths, at which point the records were transferred to the main Weyr Archives. “And a good thing too, or we’d have drowned under decades-old hides,” said Isnan. “Not to mention the trouble we’d have with snakes.”

The Weyr Healer turned to the first row of shelves. “Dragonriders nearest the door, you notice,” he said dryly. He ran a finger along the edge of the shelf until he reached ‘E’. “Here,” he said, pulling down a thick tube, “this is E’rom’s file. Go over to the table there while I find K’ston’s.”

C’los took the heavy wherhide cylinder over to the reading desk and pulled a glow basket closer so he could see. He noticed that the tube had obviously been reused: E’rom’s name was written beneath two others that had been crossed out. On closer examination, C’los realised that the second was Eiromell, E’rom’s birth name.

He opened the leather case and shook the roll of thin hides out into his hand. Flattening them out on the desk, he leafed quickly through the early documents, well acquainted with the Weyr’s filing system from the hours he’d spent in the Archives.

“Here’s K’ston’s,” said Isnan, dropping a second tube on the desk. “What have you got there?”

C’los had flipped to the most recent additions to E’rom’s record. “Nothing since the twelfth month of last Turn,” he said. “He dislocated his shoulder in Wing drill.”

“Let’s see.” The Healer bent closer. “Relocation, cold compression, and a sevenday’s rest. That’s standard. What does it say about analgesics?”

“Fellis juice!” C’los exclaimed.

“Hmm, yes, but only a single dose to make him comfortable during the relocation of his shoulder. Have you ever dislocated your shoulder, C’los?” When he shook his head, Isnan chuckled darkly. “I don’t recommend it. Willow bark tea for the residual pain. That’s normal, too. And there’s nothing for him since? What about before?”

C’los checked back through E’rom’s file. “A tussilago infusion for a cough. Anise for indigestion. Months apart.”

“Let’s have a look at K’ston’s notes.”

The second leather cylinder yielded a thicker sheaf of hides. Isnan thumbed rapidly through them. “Well, Katel wasn’t joking. Indigestion. Migraine. Lower back pain. Sore throat. It looks like K’ston’s been in here fussing about one thing or another about once a sevenday.”

“No fellis, though,” C’los observed. Then he noticed something else, turning to the last record. “And nothing since Turn’s End.”

“Who was the attending Healer?” Isnan followed down to the bottom of the page. “Journeyman Berro.” He made a face. “Lately Master Berro. One of my fugitives.”

“Do you know where he is now?” C’los asked.

“I doubt anyone does,” the Weyr Healer replied. “He took a place on an expedition into the Southern rainforest, looking for new medicinal herbs. That always was his passion. I can send to the Hall for word of him, but…” Isnan shrugged, indicating the likely futility of that measure.

C’los looked down at the records of the two riders, trying to mentally fit the pieces together. Then, with a start, he remembered the time. “Shards, I’m meant to be seeing F’yan right now.”

“He’ll eat you alive for being late,” said Isnan, evidently amused. “Go on. I’ll see what else I can glean from these records. I’ll prepare that list of fellis prescriptions for you, too.”

“Thanks, Isnan.” C’los looked down at E’rom’s record: the history of a man from birth to death. “We’re going to find who did this,” he said, half to himself.

“Yes we are,” Isnan replied. He patted C’los on the back. “Just don’t let it consume you. You’ve got to eat and sleep, too. Spend some time with your weyrmate and your dragon.”

“You know, for a moment there, I’d forgotten you’re a Healer,” C’los said sardonically. “I’ll see you later, Master. Thanks for your help.”

Indioth was waiting patiently outside, her head turned towards the entrance of the infirmary. You said you wouldn’t be long, she accused.

“I know, I know.” C’los started to mount, and then his eyes lit on the bag he’d left looped around Indioth’s harness. He stopped what he was doing and opened it, taking out the blue and red patterned cup he had brought from E’rom’s weyr.

It’s a cup, Indioth said, looking dubiously at the object of her rider’s attention.

“There are five of them,” C’los said thoughtfully. “Only five…”

Then he stuffed the cup back into the bag, shrugged it onto his shoulder, and started decisively towards the closest lower caverns entrance, calling back, “Stay here, Indy, I’ll be five minutes, I promise!”

He took a moment to orientate himself, then set off down the corridor that led, eventually, to the laundry caverns, first at a quick walk, then a jog. When he passed a woman carrying a basket of dirty clothes he knew he was nearly there, and finally he hurried into the laundry room itself.

The broad, high cavern was brightly lit with glows, but the steam that rose thickly from the thermal pools was solid and murky. It eventually seeped away through flues in the rock, but C’los wasn’t interested in the engineering. Women with piles of clothes and linen were doing their washing in the naturally heated water, vague shapes through the intense steam, and the doors that punctuated the rock wall led up to individual weyrs.

C’los found the door that led to E’rom’s weyr and tried the handle. It was locked, as it had been since the start of the investigation. The green rider stepped to the edge of the nearest pool and peered down into the water. It was hard to see through the suffocating steam, but…was that a flash of blue and red?

He got down on hands and knees, rolled back his sleeve, and reached into the pool. He winced at the heat of the water, but that gleam of colour was too great a lure. C’los stretched until he felt himself almost fall in, then pulled his arm back. The pool was too deep; he couldn’t reach.

He found a laundry hook hanging on the wall, and lowered the end of it into the pool. The water was deceptive, and it took C’los several moments to work out how to compensate for the visual distortion, but then the tip of his stick knocked against something with a thin clunk. Painstakingly, he manoeuvred the laundry pole until he felt it catch. Then, carefully, he lifted the stick out of the pool.

When the laundry pole cleared the water, C’los seized his prize. With shaking hands, he set it down on the edge of the pool, and then fumbled in the bag for E’rom’s klah mug.

The two cups, one red-on-blue, the other blue-on-red, sat innocently side by side, indisputably matched.

C’los picked up the mug he had fished out of the laundry pool, holding it tight in both hands. E’rom’s murderer had made his escape through here, hastily disposing of the fellis-laced cup with which he had tried to kill the brown rider, the cup from which E’rom had taken his final drink, the cup that would surely help to find his killer.

Chapter Eight: Weyrman, Learn

F’yan looked up from what he was doing when C’los entered his weyr, eyeing him at some length. “Sit down,” he grunted finally, with the barest of nods towards the bench that, from painful experience, C’los knew to be both hard and cold.

C’los obeyed, wincing not only at the uncomfortable seat, but at the memories it brought to the forefront of his mind. He’d spent some considerable time on this bench as a young rider in F’yan’s Wing – usually awaiting punishment for some smart-mouthed comment or other. The Turns had taught C’los a certain amount of discretion, but sitting in the Wingleader’s stark, musty-smelling weyr took him back over a decade.

F’yan had changed very little in the intervening Turns. He was a stout man in his sixth decade, and C’los had always wondered if the Wingleader’s sour disposition had anything to do with the baldness that had robbed him of what must once have been a very fine mane of black hair. What remained of it was wispy and unconvincing, and had been a convenient target for all manner of unkind remarks even when C’los had been a weyrling.

As the minutes passed, and F’yan showed no sign of addressing him, C’los began to shift his weight impatiently. His discovery of the vessel from which E’rom must have taken his final drink made him certain that he was on the right track, and he wanted to follow it up. Being at F’yan’s mercy maddened him. The bronze rider’s studied disregard was also, C’los realised, a measure of the contempt in which F’yan held him. C’los had never seen eye-to-eye with the bronze rider, and even though he‘d transferred to another Wing Turns ago, he knew he still harboured a strong dislike for him. F’yan had only been a moderate supporter of L’dro’s methods – a factor that had contributed to his retention of his rank – but he’d never made a secret of his poor opinion of C’los.

C’los cleared his throat. “Wingleader, I…”

“We’ll begin when I’m ready, rider,” F’yan interrupted. “Your tardiness compounds the inconvenience of this audience. Don’t test my patience any further.”

C’los bit his lip to hold in the scornful retort. “I speak for the Weyrleader on this matter,” he said instead, imitating the flat force that T’kamen could project so effortlessly. “Would you like me to interrupt him so he can inform you of the importance of this investigation in person?”

F’yan looked at C’los with an expression of such palpable loathing that he almost shuddered, but the veiled threat had its desired effect. No rider in the Weyr who valued his rank wanted to cross the notoriously short-tempered Weyrleader. “That won’t be necessary, green rider.” He put insulting emphasis on C’los’ rank. “What do you want?”

C’los cut straight to the chase. “You were E’rom’s Wingleader for seven Turns.”

“So?”

“What kind of man was he?”

F’yan shrugged. “Reliable. Dependable. You don’t need me to tell you that, even if they are characteristics alien to you.”

C’los ignored the insult. “As a Wingsecond, did you ever have reason to doubt his handling of the other members of the Wing?”

“No. He was a trustworthy man. He took care of all the minor business that I didn’t have time for.”

“What sort of minor business?”

“Petty discipline. Keeping the younger riders in line, especially the ones new in from graduation. Organising drills and inspections and the like.”

“Were there any problems with his disciplinary decisions?”

“Problems? Why should there be?”

“Did any rider come to you objecting to E’rom’s rulings?”

“No. Even if they had, they wouldn’t have found any joy with me. I don’t have time for bleaters.”

Again, C’los swallowed the desire to react to the Wingleader’s thinly-veiled slight. “What can you tell me about blue rider C’dessa?” he asked.

F’yan looked discomfited at the name. “He’s not one of mine any more.”

“But he was for nearly nine Turns,” C’los pointed out.

“Go and ask H’ned.”

“I’m asking you.”

F’yan glowered. C’los detected something more than mulishness in the Wingleader’s reluctance to answer the question. He had his own opinion of the blue rider in question, but he wanted to know what F’yan would say.

“Younger than his Turns,” the Wingleader said shortly. “The boy has a great deal of growing up left to do.”

“Why do you say that, Wingleader?” C’los asked, carefully bland.

F’yan looked even more uncomfortable. “He had issues with authority. Nothing that couldn’t be handled within his own Wing.”

“By E’rom?”

“That’s the purpose of a Wingsecond.”

“You never saw fit to mention C’dessa’s larceny to the Weyrleader, then?”

F’yan came angrily to his feet. “You go too far, green rider!”

“Do you deny,” C’los went on triumphantly, “that C’dessa was caught thieving from other members of the Wing, not just once, but several times?”

“He was light fingered,” said F’yan. “Nothing that couldn’t be handled –”

“Within his own Wing,” C’los completed for him. He paused. “By E’rom.”

“I told you, his main duty was to keep the riders in line. It didn’t need to go outside the Wing.”

“E’rom’s reports indicate that he asked you to go to the Weyrleader about C’dessa’s larceny on several occasions.”

F’yan snorted in derision. “And do you think our gracious Weyrleader L’dro would have been interested?”

C’los had to concede the point, and he decided not to press that particular issue. It was of little relevance to his investigations that F’yan had been covering up the thieving ways of one of his wingriders to spare himself the association, but putting the bronze rider on the defensive had always been the best way to handle the man. “Nonetheless, E’rom did want to take the matter higher, did he not?”

“I told him – not while I was his Wingleader.”

C’los nodded wisely. “Tell me, Wingleader, do you know what’s happened to C’dessa since T’kamen became Weyrleader?”

F’yan folded his arms. “Why should I? He’s not my problem any more.”

“When the Wings were reassigned, E’rom reported C’dessa’s habits to Wingleader H’ned,” said C’los. It seemed clear from F’yan’s demeanour that the bronze rider was fully aware of the series of events. “H’ned in turn reported the problem to the Weyrleader. Following an investigation, the Weyrleader suspended C’dessa from active duty and forbade him to leave the Weyr, amongst other restrictions.”

“The new Weyrleader takes a more personal interest than his predecessor,” said F’yan. “What’s your point?”

“Based on what you know of their professional relationship, how do you think C’dessa would have reacted to E’rom’s decision to report him?”

“Why don’t you ask C’dessa that?”

“I thought you might be in a good position to give me an objective opinion, Wingleader,” C’los said. Then, because he couldn’t resist getting in at least one dig, he added, “After all, you’re an expert on bearing grudges.”

That proved too much for F’yan. “That’s enough out of you, green rider,” he snapped. “I won’t be insulted by your like, Weyrleader or no Weyrleader. Get out.”

“I’ll be sure to tell T’kamen how helpful you were,” C’los said gaily. It was worth cutting the mostly pointless interview short in order to get in a few long-overdue jabs at his first Wingleader.

“You do that, rider,” said F’yan, suddenly ominous. “I’ll be sure to mention how his chosen representative is hiding behind his borrowed authority.” The Wingleader’s eyes narrowed suddenly. “What’s he got you sniffing around for, anyway? What’s so unexplained about E’rom’s death?”

That question, more than the implied threat, sobered C’los. “That’s the Weyrleader’s business,” he said flatly. “Good day, Wingleader.”

As he beat a hasty retreat from F’yan’s weyr, giving Vidrilleth a wide berth, C’los felt cold. It was the first time that someone had directly questioned his investigation into E’rom’s death. Only two factors had so far kept anyone from guessing, at least openly, that it was a murder enquiry. As a new Weyrleader, T’kamen could be expected to authorise unusual and unexpected measures, and E’rom was the first rider to have died of anything but age during his tenure. But perhaps more significantly, C’los didn’t believe anyone in the Weyr would think to consider murder as the cause of E’rom’s death. After all, who would want to kill a dragonrider? That, more than anything else, was surely keeping the horrible truth from the Weyr in general. But if a man like F’yan could grow suspicious, how long would it be before someone else realised that C’los’ questioning was intended not to discover why E’rom had died, but who might have had the method and motive to kill him?

It had started to rain since he had been in F’yan’s weyr. C’los glanced up at the sky, wondering if the drizzle was going to turn into something worse. He’d sent Indioth back to their weyr before going in to see F’yan. His next appointment was in H’ned’s quarters, a short walk on from Vidrilleth’s ledge that didn’t merit a dragon’s assistance. Still, as he started towards the second Wingleader’s weyr, he wished he’d thought to wear his jacket. He always forgot such practicalities when he had something more important on his mind. C’mine would usually have reminded him, but he had been conspicuous by his absence from their weyr when C’los had left to see K’ston.

The rain was falling in earnest by the time he reached H’ned’s weyr. Fortunately, his reception there was warmer than that provided by F’yan. “You look like a drowned tunnel snake, C’los,” the Wingleader greeted him, rising from the chair before his hearth.

“Thanks,” C’los replied. “I’ll just drip on your floor, shall I?”

Chuckling, H’ned found a towel from somewhere and tossed it to him. “I take it you didn’t look at the sweep rider’s report this morning. There’s enough weather coming north to keep the Weyr wet for a couple of days.”

“I haven’t been near the dining hall today,” C’los replied, rubbing his hair dry. “Too much to do.”

“You’d better take a seat, then. Can I mull you some wine?”

C’los sat by the fire, enjoying the warmth. “Thanks, Wingleader.”

“Just H’ned, C’los.”

As the bronze rider rested the end of a poker in the fire to heat and went to pour wine, C’los considered the contrast between H’ned and F’yan. H’ned’s support for L’dro in the months leading up to Shimpath’s mating had seemed genuine, but by all accounts of the flight itself his bronze had come within a hair’s breadth of catching the queen. Of all the men that remained from L’dro’s old bronze rider Council, C’los liked H’ned the most. His bright red hair contrasted oddly with his pale, almost colourless eyes, but since T’kamen had become Weyrleader, C’los had come to appreciate H’ned’s understated good humour.

“You mentioned there were a couple of riders in particular you wanted to talk about, C’los,” said H’ned, carrying two goblets of wine back to the fire. “I’ve taken the liberty of asking them to be prepared to come down while you’re here.”

“That’ll save me some time,” C’los said. “Faranth knows I wasted plenty with F’yan.”

H’ned shook his head as he took the hot poker out of the fire. “He’s never exactly been tractable. But then, you’d know that, wouldn’t you?”

“He only confirmed what I already knew,” said C’los, watching as H’ned heated the wine with the end of the poker. “C’dessa was Searched at the same time as T’kamen and Mine and me. T’kamen knew him best, though. Both Trader born.”

“That accounts for his quick hands, then,” said H’ned. “Not that I’m making a judgement about Traders, but they do seem to have a dexterity that most Harpers would envy. Don’t burn yourself on this.”

C’los took the cup of hot spiced wine and sipped carefully. “That’s good.”

H’ned sat in the other chair and leaned back. “So, the Weyrleader’s got you investigating E’rom’s problem riders, eh? This is to help him choose a replacement?”

C’los hadn’t thought of that as a possible explanation for his questioning. It would make a convenient smokescreen. “Partly,” he said. “How did you find E’rom as a Wingsecond?”

“My initial impression of him was that he was used to taking on a lot more than I would expect,” said H’ned. “S’rannis – my other Wingsecond – actually came to me bewildered because he had nothing to do. We sat down in the early days, the three of us, and discussed how we’d handle the Wing. E’rom wasn’t afraid of taking a rider in hand, even when that made him unpopular, and that’s a great asset for a Wingleader to have.”

“Was he unpopular?” C’los asked.

H’ned frowned. “He was never unfair. If he had an issue to take up with a rider, he’d always do it privately. There are some riders in the Weyr who believe in public discipline, but not E’rom. I wouldn’t have said that he was the most sympathetic of Wingseconds, but he wasn’t vindictive or petty, either. He just knew his job and got on with it.”

“I’ve read the reports he wrote for the three months he was your Wingsecond,” said C’los. “But were there any significant incidents with riders in that time?”

“The obvious one is C’dessa,” said H’ned. “He must have known he was on borrowed time, but he still took it badly when he was hauled up in front of the Weyrleader. He’s only, what, twenty-six? Twenty-seven? I think he was used to having E’rom sitting on his little hobby, and it came as a betrayal when he turned him in.”

“Do you think there was a lot of resentment there?”

“It’s hard to say. You probably have a better idea than me, but C’dessa seems like the emotional sort.”

“He always was a little jittery,” C’los admitted.

“I’d peg him as the type to whip himself up into a frenzy one minute, and forget about it the next,” H’ned opined. “I’m not sure that he’d hold any long-term grudge.”

C’los nodded. “There was another name in the report that I saw come up,” he said. “A green rider, Pyrea.”

H’ned laughed. “That tickled S’rannis and me. Pyrea was like C’dessa in that they were both in E’rom’s old Wing. The incident you’re probably referring to is her conduct following her green’s flight about two months ago.”

C’los nodded. “She missed Wing drill and blamed it on her dragon’s flight?”

“That’s right. The flight in question had been a day and a half previously. Anyway, it seems that it wasn’t the first time she’d used a mating flight as an excuse to skip drills, so E’rom slapped some punishment watches on her.”

“That sounds fair enough,” said C’los.

“That’s what I thought,” H’ned agreed. “Except a few sevendays ago – just before Shimpath clutched, I think – Pyrea’s green rose again, and both she and E’rom missed drill the next day. It turns out that Sigith caught Aprath. Pyrea’s obviously enthusiastic about her dragon’s flights.”

C’los chuckled. “Was that the last mating flight Sigith participated in, then?”

“Probably. I don’t think they were all that energetic most of the time. Pyrea was quite upset. Maybe the overexertion of Aprath’s flight was what finished E’rom off.”

H’ned’s tone was facetious, but C’los shivered. “One more name for you,” he said. “Brown rider T’fer.”

The Wingleader nodded slowly. “Now, if ever there were a rider who’s a thorn in my side…”

“His name comes up more often than any other,” said C’los.

“T’fer is a piece of work, C’los. A talented and clever piece of work, but trouble nonetheless.” H’ned sighed. “I don’t suppose it’s very obvious from his record.”

“All the marks against him seem fairly incidental,” said C’los. “Minor insubordination, disrespect to his commanding rider.”

“I could live with the occasional insult,” H’ned said dryly. “It’s the disobedience that concerns me. That, and the one I can’t put down on a report – taking initiative.”

C’los raised an eyebrow.

“He oversteps his authority,” H’ned explained. “Oh, Faranth knows we’ve all done that at some point, but a slap on the wrist is enough to put most riders back in their place. T’fer doesn’t understand the concept of chain of command.”

“Why not just order your riders not to follow his directions?” C’los asked.

“Because they’re usually very logical commands,” said H’ned. “There’s no doubt about it, he’s got a talent for seeing patterns in drill and marshalling his forces to suit. But you know as well as I do how dangerous it can be for the hierarchy to break down in the middle of a flaming drill.”

“It sounds to me like he’d make an excellent Wingsecond,” said C’los.

“He probably would,” the Wingleader replied. “But when the Weyrleader reshuffled the Wings, he had to be discerning, and you’ve seen T’fer’s disciplinary record.”

“I suppose that would make T’kamen disinclined to promote him,” C’los conceded. “What about you?”

“I don’t know,” H’ned replied honestly. “I put his name forward, with six or eight others, for the Weyrleader to consider – well, you know that, or you wouldn’t be here. I feel T’fer could either be a brilliant asset as a Wingsecond, or a complete disaster, but I’m not sure I want to make the call.”

“Who are the other frontrunners?”

H’ned shrugged. “W’den, H’jan. My old Wingsecond, J’her.”

“Jenavally’s boy?”

The Wingleader nodded. “He’s really too young; he was out of his depth.”

“W’den used to be L’dro’s shadow when we were weyrlings,” said C’los. “T’kamen can’t stand him. H’jan’s been tried out as a Wingsecond before.”

“Most of the remaining brown riders in the Weyr have,” H’ned agreed, “and the ones that haven’t are still wet behind the ears. I’ve got plenty of respect for young T’rello, but he’s the exception.”

“I’d say that puts T’fer in a very strong position,” C’los mused. “You can’t tell with T’kamen, though. He could do something unexpected.”

“I’ve noticed he does that.”

“It’s not that his ideas are particularly radical,” said C’los. “He just doesn’t give us any warning when he implements something new.”

H’ned smiled. “Are you ready for me to call them in?”

C’los nodded. “Where are they?”

“The Wing ready room, on the other side of Izath’s weyr. He’s been sitting with his back to the door so they can’t get away.”

“Are you expecting them to try?”

“Izath lives in hope.”

C’dessa came in first. The slight rider hadn’t changed significantly from the furtive boy who had arrived at Madellon nearly fifteen Turns ago. He had the drab, nondescript appearance of a man who wanted to blend in: the eye simply slid across his unremarkable features and coloration, as if he wasn’t there. His family was distantly related to T’kamen’s, but there was no resemblance to draw attention to the remote blood tie – a fact for which, C’los knew, T’kamen had always been rather grateful.

“C’dessa,” H’ned greeted his wayward rider. “You know green rider C’los.”

“We’ve met,” said C’dessa, with suspicion, but no hostility.

“He’d like to ask you a few questions about the late Wingsecond E’rom.”

The blue rider looked faintly surprised. C’los supposed that C’dessa had been interrogated regarding his misdemeanours so often that it actually came as a pleasant change to be asked about something else. “You rode under E’rom as a Wingsecond for seven Turns in F’yan’s old Wing, correct?”

C’dessa shrugged. “If you say so. I don’t remember how many Turns it was. Seemed like forever.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Do you know what it’s like having some boring old man breathing down your neck all the time?” the blue rider asked. “I couldn’t even take a piss without him wanting to know about it.”

“E’rom was always aware of your…” C’los paused delicately, “…pastime, wasn’t he?”

C’dessa’s face darkened. “Yeah, he knew. But he didn’t have to tell, did he? Faranth, if he’d just have died sooner, I wouldn’t be in this mess!”

“Have a little respect for the dead, rider,” H’ned said severely.

“You weren’t pleased when E’rom reported your activities to the Weyrleader, then?” C’los asked.

“Of course I wasn’t sharding pleased! We had an agreement, shard it!”

“An agreement?”

C’dessa snorted in disgust. “I was discreet, and he didn’t let on. It worked fine.”

“So what was your first reaction to his death?”

“My first?” C’dessa looked askance. “Shock, obviously. Then indifference, since it wasn’t as if I could do anything about it.”

“Why do you say that?”

C’dessa glared at him. “Because I was in my weyr. That’s the only place I’m allowed to be, unless we’re on a midnight watch, or someone’s summoned me on some stupid errand.”

C’los considered that response for a moment. Then, mindful of his purported reason for interviewing C’dessa, he asked, “What would you look for in E’rom’s successor?”

“A little integrity,” the blue rider replied sullenly. “Sharding turncoat…”

“That’s enough, C’dessa,” said H’ned, with a sigh. C’los nodded to the Wingleader, and he continued, “You can go back to your weyr, now.”

“See?” C’dessa demanded petulantly, even as H’ned ushered him out.

C’los waited until the blue rider had gone, then shook his head with a sympathetic grimace. “I don’t envy you him, H’ned.”

The bronze rider sprawled back in his chair with a long-suffering groan. “I’ve been trying to think of a way to fob him off on one of the other Wingleaders. L’mis, or perhaps D’sion.”

“They wouldn’t have him,” C’los told him. “Who’s next?”

“Pyrea. I’ll have Izath get Aprath to send her in.”

The moment the green rider walked into the room, C’los knew he was wasting his time with her. Pyrea was a voluptuous lady in her late forties who carried herself with supreme confidence in her own magnetism. Something about the coquettish look she flicked both riders from under her lashes convinced C’los that this was a woman more than capable of exhausting herself and her flight partner for a month, let alone a few days. But Pyrea was tiny – barely as tall as C’los’ shoulder – and the length of her fingernails, while vaguely intimidating, confirmed C’los’ initial reaction. This immaculately-groomed little woman plainly wouldn’t have had the strength to drag the unconscious body of a tall and bulky rider like E’rom all the way from his inner weyr to the ledge. Even if she had, her perfect fingernails – more like a dragon’s talons, C’los thought – wouldn’t have survived. He wondered how she groomed her dragon without scratching the poor beast to tatters.

C’los asked Pyrea several questions about her experience of E’rom as a Wingsecond before indicating to H’ned that she could go. The instant dismissal of the little green rider as a murder suspect made C’los consider a new factor. Whoever had murdered E’rom must have been physically strong enough to haul the body several dragonlengths to the weyr ledge.

When H’ned’s final wingrider stepped quietly into the room, C’los didn’t need to debate if he was strong enough. T’fer was tall and powerful and broader in the shoulders than any man had a right to be. He carried himself with a self assurance just short of a swagger, and nodded perfunctorily to H’ned before fixing C’los with an interested look.

H’ned began, “T’fer, this is…”

“Green rider C’los,” T’fer completed smoothly, with a slight inclination of his head.

C’los couldn’t help preening slightly at the recognition – a welcome balm to his ego after F’yan’s sneering attitude. “I realise you only flew under Wingsecond E’rom for a few months, T’fer, but can you tell me how you would rate his abilities?”

“Certainly,” the brown rider replied. “E’rom was an excellent Wingsecond and a fine rider. That was clear even after only three months.”

“What in particular would you say were his strengths?” C’los asked.

“He maintained a very close and caring relationship with his wingriders,” the brown rider replied. “I think that’s important in a Wingsecond, to act as an approachable buffer between wingriders and Wingleader.”

“Did you hope for a Wingsecond position when the Wings were reorganised?”

T’fer smiled. “I hoped, of course, but both E’rom and S’rannis were experienced and capable riders, and they would be the obvious choices.”

The brown rider’s tone was bland – too bland. “What was your reaction to E’rom’s death?”

“Shock, of course. It was a terrible tragedy.”

C’los decided to ask a more pointed question. “You didn’t think at all about the Wingsecond slot that became vacant on his demise?”

For a moment, T’fer’s carefully polite expression faltered. Then he smiled disarmingly. “I can’t pretend that the thought didn’t cross my mind eventually, green rider, but it certainly wasn’t my first reaction.”

C’los nodded slowly, filing away that look of indecision for future consideration. “Do you remember the last time you saw him before his death?”

“That morning. I only remember because I was the rest of that day with my weyrmate, preparing for Wing drill.”

“And your weyrmate is?

“Demmy, Caileth’s rider.”

C’los smiled briefly. “One of my weyrmate’s successful Searches. Thank you, T’fer, you’ve been very helpful.” Then, to reinforce the ostensible reason for the interview, he added, “I’ll be speaking with the Weyrleader in due course.”

“I’m sure the decision you make will be wise,” T’fer replied.

“You can go, wingrider,” H’ned said quietly.

The brown rider stepped forward to take C’los’ wrist in the strong grasp of both his hands, shaking firmly. “Thanks for your time, C’los.”

“You can go,” H’ned repeated, more forcefully.

T’fer released C’los’ wrist and turned to go. C’los noticed that he didn’t bother to take his leave of H’ned.

“Well,” said the Wingleader, when the brown rider’s footfalls had receded, “that was interesting.”

C’los looked thoughtfully into the fire for a moment before asking, “Why do you say that?”

The red-haired Wingleader smiled. “I’ve never seen him trying so hard to curry favour.”

C’los wasn’t sure if he should be amused or hurt. “His approach surprised me, after what you said about him,” he admitted.

H’ned shrugged. “He knows you’re T’kamen’s right-hand man, and he really wants that Wingsecond job.”

C’los frowned. Part of him was drawn to the brown rider. There was something indefinably magnetic about his self confidence, and he could see why H’ned considered him such a good prospect for leadership. But the phrasing of his answers had seemed too polished, the answers themselves too ready, as if he had rehearsed the interview, or one like it. “How insincere do you think he was being?”

“Put it this way, C’los: I’d bet Izath’s tail that T’fer was thinking about promotion before the dragons had even stopped keening for Sigith.” The bronze rider shook his head. “You’ve seen the reports. T’fer had about as much respect for E’rom as he does for me.”

“Does he think that will help his case?” asked C’los.

“I think he takes the opinion that treating me as an equal rather than a superior enhances his standing with me.”

“Does it?”

“I have a certain amount of admiration for his nerve,” H’ned admitted. “But that’s what bothers me. I don’t know what he’d be like given actual power.” The bronze rider sighed. “It’s times like these that I’m glad Epherineth won Shimpath’s flight.”

C’los smiled. “We’re all supposed to be glad of that, H’ned.” He got to his feet, handing his empty wine goblet back to the Wingleader. “I won’t keep you any longer.”

H’ned also stood. “More Wingsecond candidates to interview?” he guessed.

“That’s right,” C’los lied easily. “T’kamen wants me to be thorough.”

He left H’ned’s weyr, nodding distractedly to Izath on the way past, reviewing his conclusions. Of the three riders most likely to have held a professional grudge against E’rom, he was down to two. Pyrea couldn’t have committed the murder, even if she’d had sufficient motive. C’dessa had the motive, and C’los had no doubt that the blue rider could have stolen fellis juice from the infirmary. T’fer had sufficient ambition to have wanted E’rom out of the way, and something about the brown rider definitely unsettled C’los, but he couldn’t say exactly what.

He was about to call Indioth for a lift back to their weyr when he had a better idea. Indy, would you find out where Vanzanth’s rider is?

After the customary pause, Indioth replied, He’s at the weyrling barracks with the young ones. Then she added, Our young one is there, too.

“She would be,” C’los muttered aloud. Let Vanzanth know I’m coming.

It was still raining, but C’los hugged the wall of the Bowl as he made his way towards the eastern end of the Weyr. The weyrling barracks were located conveniently close to the Hatching cavern, but at some remove from the inhabited weyrs of adult riders. Only the Weyrlingmaster’s weyr, and a handful of other caverns for the use of his assistants, were close to where the young dragonets would live for the first disruptive Turn of their lives.

Vanzanth bulked large on his ledge above and to the left of the big double doors that granted access to the barracks, neck drawn in and shoulders hunched against the rain in a posture so like that of his rider that C’los grinned. “Afternoon,” he greeted the old brown. “Nice weather we’re having.”

The brown dragon stared at him with the expression that always seemed faintly mistrustful to C’los. He shook his head. “Be that way.”

The smaller gate set into the right-hand door was large enough for a person, but not for a dragonet of more than a few sevendays old. C’los opened it, and chuckled to himself as the hinges shrieked. How many times had he been woken in the dead of night or early in the morning by that incurably creaky door? Weyrlings trying to sneak in or out of the barracks were always betrayed by it, earning the complaints of their classmates and the scowling rebukes of the Weyrlingmaster, whose ears were finely attuned to the distinctive sound. Attempts had been made to oil the hinges, or muffle them, but to no avail. C’los had often wondered how exactly L’stev contrived to keep them so noisy.

Inside, the barracks opened out: a broad cavern that had been blasted from the rock almost a century ago. It had been designed to accommodate up to sixty half-grown dragons and their weyrling riders, although there had never been so many dragonets at once in Madellon history. The more remote couches had never been used, and heavy screens could be placed to block off the unused areas, conserving warmth. Riders’ pallet beds and dragons’ platforms alternated in pairs: two cots, then two couches, then two more cots, all around the walls. It broke up the dormitory feel of the barracks, giving the young riders a compromise between privacy and companionship without actually separating them. Girls and boys shared the same barracks, although they were assigned different sides of the cavern. Toilet and bathing facilities were also separate, set further back into the rock of the Weyr and remotely connected to the main lower caverns complex. The classrooms and storerooms were communal, however, as was the seldom-used common room.

C’los remembered his tenure in these serviceable quarters with definite fondness. Weyrling training was hard, exhausting work, and some of his classmates – notably the former Weyrleader L’dro – had been less than friendly, but very little could compare to those early days of his connection with Indioth. The startling impact of his Impression, the pride he’d felt at being fitted out with riding wherhides, the thrill of his first flight with Indioth and then their terrifying first trip between, the exhilaration of flaming drills, and finally the honour of graduating into an adult fighting Wing: those were the memories C’los associated with the weyrling barracks.

Those, and L’stev, the gruff Weyrlingmaster whose manner and bearing had changed as little in the intervening Turns as had his appearance. The brown rider was overseeing the young candidates as they worked to clean the dust and grime of several Turns of vacancy from the barracks. With brooms and brushes, soap sand and cloths, the candidates toiled to sweep, scrub, wash, and polish the furnishings they all hoped to inhabit when Shimpath’s clutch Hatched.

L’stev beckoned him over with a jerk of his head. “Don’t even think about sweeping that dust under the bed, Branvalt,” he cautioned one skinny lad. “Shenaz, if that chest isn’t gleaming by the time I come over there, I’m going to want to know why.”

“I see nothing much has changed in fourteen Turns,” C’los said to the Weyrlingmaster. “Abusing candidates still a speciality.”

The Weyrlingmaster frowned at him. “You’ll be joining them in a minute,” he threatened.

C’los grinned, looking around for his daughter. “One member of the family’s enough.”

“What did I tell you about nosing around her while she’s in my charge?”

“It’s not about her,” C’los insisted, still looking around. “Where is she?”

“Hiding her face in embarrassment,” the brown rider replied, nodding discreetly towards the far end of the row, where Leah was trying to make herself inconspicuous, throwing occasional chagrined glances in the direction of the two adult riders.

“What’s her problem?” C’los asked, feeling faintly hurt.

L’stev snorted. “What kid wants her father about the place when she’s trying to fit in?” he asked. “It’s for her benefit I told you to stay away. Now what was it you wanted?”

C’los composed his thoughts, quashing the feeling of betrayal. “How well do you remember the behaviour of individual weyrlings?” he asked.

L’stev gave him a dark look. “Seems to me there was this green weyrling about fifteen Turns ago who thought he was clever,” he said. “Never amounted to much. Don’t remember his name. What do you think?”

He loftily ignored L’stev’s sarcasm. “Tell me about T’fer.”

“Ha!” The Weyrlingmaster shook his head. “Another smart-mouthed little sod, and just when I’d got rid of you. T’fer. Always considered it a mercy that he didn’t get a bronze. Brown’s bad enough. Why, what’s he up to now?”

“T’kamen’s considering him for that promotion in H’ned’s Wing,” C’los said truthfully.

“I’d make you a Wingsecond before giving T’fer that sort of rank,” L’stev scoffed. “Adromaka, don’t think I’m not watching you!”

A candidate gave a guilty start, and resignedly started to smooth the sheets he had folded sloppily on a cot.

“T’fer has a problem with authority,” L’stev went on to C’los. “He was trouble right from the start. Oh, I couldn’t fault his care of Wayonth, or their performance in flight, but he never accepted the concept of unquestioning obedience.” The Weyrlingmaster frowned. “There was a lot of competition between the older boys in that class. A’keret and T’fer were cronies, and then there were two others who were friends – a bronze rider called W’gar and another brown called C’veron. The two pairs competed against each other like nothing I’ve ever seen – worse even than L’dro and T’kamen. At least with those two it was obvious who was better when it came to giving top honours at graduation.”

“A’keret I know, but I don’t recognise those other names,” said C’los.

“You wouldn’t,” L’stev said grimly. “I had them flying under A’keret as Wingleader and C’veron as Wingsecond in drills, sixteen months into training. You know the old remedy of making rivals work together. Well, something happened. C’veron lost concentration, or lost his head, and the next thing I know he’s skipped between to get back in formation and not come out again. And these lads had been betweening ten or twelve sevendays. We lost the one girl that class on her first between, and that seemed to have made the others extra careful.” L’stev shook his head. “I don’t know what happened.”

“And W’gar?” C’los asked intently.

The Weyrlingmaster let out his breath in a heavy sigh. “About two days later – and you can bet that in between I’d chewed them up and spat them out – we started drilling again. I put T’fer in command with W’gar under him. It was going fine – T’fer has a talent for knowing how quickly dragons will react in the air.” The brown rider paused, and for a moment he looked very old and tired. “T’fer ordered the Wing to bank left. W’gar’s bronze banked right. He collided with the blue flying next to him. They both went between.”

C’los closed his eyes briefly. “I remember now,” he said. “Not the details, but I do remember the two weyrlings colliding.”

“It nearly finished me as a Weyrlingmaster,” said L’stev. “Losing three of my lads in three days… If there’d been another rider ready to take over, I think I’d have given it up right then.” He shrugged. “Fianine wouldn’t have it. She never blamed me for those weyrlings’ deaths. Sometimes I wished she would, but…” The brown rider shrugged again.

C’los hesitated a moment, then asked, “Do you think T’fer was responsible?”

“I don’t know,” L’stev admitted. “There’s nothing to suggest it was anything more than a mistake on W’gar’s part.” The old Weyrlingmaster looked pensive. “A’keret and T’fer didn’t stay friends after that, and I was never comfortable putting T’fer in command again. I had to, of course – I had no good reason not to. Just an uneasy feeling about that boy. I still wouldn’t trust him, C’los. He was always too slick, always had a smooth excuse.”

The Weyrlingmaster’s opinion of T’fer troubled C’los. He put his concern aside for a moment, and asked, “You didn’t train K’ston, did you?”

L’stev shook his head. “Before my time.”

“C’dessa you did, though.”

“Of course. Wasn’t he Searched at the same time as you and Kamen and Mine?” At C’los’ nod, the brown rider went on. “I’d have sent him packing as soon as looked at him if I’d had the power to vet candidates that I do now. T’fer was slick, but C’dessa was as slippery as an oiled tunnel snake. Thieving little sod.” L’stev sighed. “When I think of how much trouble I had with that class, I almost feel grateful for this lot.”

“T’fer and C’dessa were in the same class?” asked C’los.

“Yes,” L’stev growled, “and Faranth only knows how I survived those two Turns with my sanity intact.”

C’los frowned. “Were they friends?”

“C’dessa didn’t have any friends,” the Weyrlingmaster replied. “Stooges and flunkies, but T’fer wouldn’t have let himself be seen to be associated with him.”

“You think there was a more covert link?”

“If there was, they both hid it very well. But I’d be inclined to believe the worst of both of them.”

“You have a refreshingly jaded view of young dragonriders, L’stev.”

The brown rider made a sound between a cough and a laugh. “I could tell you what I think of some old ones, too. You’re not one of these wide-eyed little brats, C’los. You know just as well as I do that riding a dragon doesn’t automatically equate to goodness and purity.”

“I’m reminded of that in your company,” C’los replied, with a straight face.

L’stev grinned viciously at him. “Somebody has to make up for the absence of our fondly missed former Weyrleader L’dro.”

C’los couldn’t help grinning at the brown rider’s acidity, but L’stev’s opinion touched on something that had been concerning him for some time. “But a dragon is always the best part of his rider.”

“Granted, but sometimes that’s not saying much.”

“Do you think a dragon would let his rider be really unpleasant?”

“Depends on the dragon, the rider, and the unpleasantness,” L’stev replied. “I train weyrlings to filter from their dragons because there are some things that young dragons shouldn’t be exposed to. As I remember, you were always rather good at that.”

C’los thought guiltily of how much he’d been keeping from Indioth of late, and sent a brief loving thought in his green’s direction.

“I think most dragons would at least be very strongly opposed to their rider doing harm to an innocent party,” L’stev continued, “but that’s very subjective, and what dragon won’t take his rider’s side?”

“Even when the innocent party is another dragonrider?” C’los asked lightly, hoping the Weyrlingmaster wouldn’t connect the question with E’rom.

L’stev shrugged. “Remember how H’ersto got Alonth to have a go at Epherineth during the mating flight? If a dragon’s mind is on something else - or even if he’s asleep - a rider has free rein to think and do what he pleases.”

C’los considered L’stev’s words with mounting unease. The Weyrlingmaster, whose analysis of the dragon-rider bond was both authoritative and entirely unclouded by sentimentality, seemed to be implying that a dragonrider would be capable of planning to harm another, so long as his dragon was unaware of the intention. C’los knew from personal experience that sustained and comprehensive shielding of thoughts from one’s dragon was possible.

L’stev’s account of the tragedies that had occurred during T’fer’s weyrlinghood somewhat clarified the uneasiness C’los had felt around Wayonth’s rider. The smoothness described by the Weyrlingmaster tallied with the unnatural polish C’los had observed during his interview of T’fer. There was something underneath that brown rider’s glossily bland exterior. C’los almost didn’t dare to wonder if the deaths of the two weyrlings who had been T’fer’s chief rivals had been more than accidental. He didn’t like to wonder if the lack of focus L’stev had mentioned in the dead weyrlings might have been a ten-Turn-old forerunner to the fellis drugging that had contributed to E’rom’s death.

But C’los was too highly-trained a thinker, too schooled in reasoning, in cause-and-effect, not to wonder, and a very real chill passed through him as he wondered if, that afternoon, he might have shaken the hand of the killer of not one, but three dragonriders, whose only crime had been to stand between that ambitious man and his goals.

Chapter Nine: Free The Flame

Darshanth had already begun to prance a little when C’mine emerged from their weyr with his fighting harness. Come on, hurry up.

C’mine stopped to look reproachfully at his restive dragon. “If you’d stand still, I’ll get this on you much faster.”

The blue froze in place.

“Darshanth,” C’mine sighed.

Darshanth rolled an eye to look at him, not moving a muscle. You said still.

C’mine reached up, took hold of his dragon’s chin, and dragged his head down. “I can’t reach, Darshanth. Now stop acting like a weyrling and help me put this on you.”

I only did what you said, Darshanth protested, but he submitted to C’mine’s ministrations without further interruption.

C’mine settled the broad aft strap at the base of Darshanth’s neck, smoothing the silky hide to prevent it chafing. Darshanth twisted his head around to look. Is that new?

“It is,” C’mine replied. He’d made the new harness in Darshanth’s company, and fitted it to him at several stages, but he didn’t expect him to remember. He buckled the neck strap. “How’s that?”

Darshanth shook his wings and forequarters vigorously. It’s a little loose.

C’mine cinched the strap in another notch. “Better?”

Much.

He pulled at the metal eyelets he had sewn to the leather until he was satisfied they were sound. Then he checked the tether straps dangling from his belt, yanking on the sturdy leather that would keep him safe in flight.

Come on! Darshanth implored. It’s fine, let’s go!

“I’m glad to know you have such a high regard for my safety.”

Darshanth lowered his head to look his rider in the eye. I wouldn’t let you fall.

C’mine placed a gloved hand lightly on his dragon’s forehead. “I know you wouldn’t.”

They stood there for a moment, looking at each other. Then C’mine turned away to button closed the top of his riding jacket. “You’d better give me a leg up.”

Darshanth bent his forearm, and C’mine stepped on it, grabbing the neck strap and pulling himself up to the blue’s ridges. After almost fifteen Turns the mount itself was as natural as breathing, but C’mine still moved stiffly when the scar tissue across his torso pulled. Master Isnan had assured him that it would loosen in time, but he had also made C’mine promise not to overdo it. This would be his first Wing drill in almost four months and he wasn’t allowed to hurt himself.

He snapped the metal fittings of his tether straps onto the eyelets on Darshanth’s harness, fighting briefly with the stiffness of the newly-forged steel. He shortened his straps by a couple of holes: in Wing drill he didn’t want too much slack in his harness, in case Darshanth decide to show off his agility. Then C’mine leaned down to tug at the two buckles of Darshanth’s rig, and the heavy safety on his own belt, in the final check that L’stev had drilled into him over two Turns of weyrling training more than a decade ago.

“All right, Darshanth, I think we’re ready,” he said at last. “Let’s go.”

Finally!

C’mine settled back into the familiar seat of his dragon’s neck ridges as Darshanth transferred his weight to his hindquarters. The blue launched himself in a powerful vertical leap, clearing the ledge easily before snapping out his wings to support him. C’mine leaned back against Darshanth’s climb, turning his head as the wind made his eyes water. It made the still-tender burn scars on his face sting, too, but that was bearable.

He glanced back as Darshanth made an upstroke, looking at the dragon’s flight profile – forearms tucked in, hind legs stretched back to follow the flowing lines of his body, tail similarly streamlined, with the forked tip snaking back and forth in the Bowl’s air currents. There was nothing wrong with him, at least. Darshanth’s burns had been largely superficial – painful but not crippling. He’d favoured his right side until recently, but that bias seemed to have gone. Darshanth was as resilient as he was brave – and no one could ever have questioned his courage.

We’ll need to stop at the dump and pick up some firestone, C’mine reminded him.

Firestone? As Darshanth banked fractionally to accommodate the request, he turned his head and dropped his jaw in a grin.

C’mine smiled at his eagerness, and patted the ridge in front of him.

Several dragons had already landed at the firestone dump. Two greens made room for Darshanth, and the blue bugled a cheerful greeting as he backwinged to land.

C’mine released his straps and eased himself down his mount’s shoulder. The other riders who were picking up ready-bagged firestone from the bunkers wore the insignia of three different Wings – T’kamen had called for a drill of the whole of what he called North Flight. He nodded to the greens’ riders, and waited his turn to collect the firestone Darshanth would need to sustain his flame.

Another dragon, a big bronze C’mine didn’t recognise, landed on the other side of the dump. The rider who vaulted to the ground from his neck ridges was unfamiliar, too, but the two stripes on the shoulders of the unusually long leather coat he wore in place of a riding jacket marked him as a Wingsecond.

The bronze rider cut an impressive figure. Taller than average – his height emphasised by the length of the black coat – with an athletic breadth of shoulder, he towered above C’mine. A slightly crooked beak of a nose dominated fierce, aquiline features, blazing blue eyes, and a shock of golden-yellow hair.

C’mine, though, was more interested in the palpable aura of confidence and charisma that surrounded the bronze rider. Fianine, who had been Weyrwoman before Valonna, had possessed a distinct and domineering presence. L’dro, for all his flaws, had charisma and charm in abundance. And T’kamen had the same quality, though Epherineth’s rider manifested an implacable authority that compelled rather than charmed.

This man, however, had the kind of tangible magnetism that won admirers at a glance. Heads turned as he strode towards the firestone bunkers, and when he made eye contact there seemed nothing false about his grin. Those remarkable blue eyes swept across C’mine, and the tall Wingsecond halted, scanning his insignia. “Not seen you before, blue rider.”

The bronze rider’s accent was unfamiliar and his words were abrupt, but his tone was friendly. C’mine inclined his head in respectful recognition of the other rider’s rank. “C’mine, Darshanth’s rider, of the Weyrleader’s Wing.”

“You’d be the hero of Kellad I’ve heard so much about!” The bronze rider thumped a hand down on C’mine’s shoulder, and he tried to conceal a wince. “First day back drilling, eh, pal?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m Second in North Central Wing now, C’mine. Sh’zon, and that’s Kawanth.” The bronze rider nodded at his dragon.

It was C’mine’s turn at the firestone bunker, and he looped the thong of a sack around his wrist before hefting it to his shoulder. Of course: this was the new Wingsecond from the Peninsula. He would have liked to learn more about the man, but this was not the place or time. “He looks in great health, sir.”

“Aye, that he is.” Sh’zon looked back at C’mine, fixing him with his penetrating stare. “I’ll not keep you, C’mine. Let me shake your hand.”

C’mine shrugged the heavy sack of firestone into a more comfortable position on his shoulder, then extended his right hand. Sh’zon enveloped his wrist in a powerful grasp. “You’re a good man, C’mine, I’ve heard good things. Look forward to working with you.”

“Thank you, sir,” C’mine replied.

Sh’zon released his forearm. Then the bronze rider seized up two sacks of firestone, one in each hand, and slung them over his shoulders as if they were weightless before striding back towards his dragon.

C’mine shifted his own firestone sack again and walked back towards Darshanth. The show of strength didn’t intimidate or impress him. But he wondered why the bronze rider, a Wingsecond only of his Flight, not even his Wing, had approached him. He’d heard a certain amount of discreet gossip about the Weyr regarding the two newcomers from the Peninsula . Most of what he’d heard said about M’ric – barring Sarenya’s early, and most comprehensive, report – had focused on the brown rider’s unusual dragon. By contrast, there seemed to have been more speculation than facts about Sh’zon. Everyone wanted to know why a bronze rider from the largest and most influential of the Southern Weyrs had come to Madellon. His immediate elevation to Wingsecond status had provoked a few indignant and angry comments from riders who had themselves been demoted in T’kamen’s reorganisation of the Wings.

But C’mine recognised that Sh’zon had an experienced leader’s flair. Darshanth had the sensitivity that allowed him to identify those young people best suited to Impressing dragonets, and C’mine shared some of that indefinable instinct. The potential of some youngsters radiated from them, and C’mine sensed that Sh’zon had been one of those conspicuous finds: a bronze rider born. He would thrive on the challenges and responsibilities of leadership – probably to the extent that being denied authority would make him a hazard to his wingmates. As an outsider in an established Weyr, Sh’zon couldn’t have expected to walk straight into the command of his own Wing, but C’mine doubted that the bronze rider would be content as D’feng’s subordinate for long.

That was interesting, he commented to Darshanth, fastening the sack of firestone to the left side of his dragon’s aft strap.

The blue shifted the weight of the bag. Get another one, I’m unbalanced.

I’ve always known that. He went back for another sack, and tied it to the other side of Darshanth’s harness.

That’s better.

C’mine checked to make sure both sacks were secure, then climbed back up to Darshanth’s neck, putting his safeties back on. What do you think of Kawanth?

He’s a bronze.

I noticed that. You can go.

Darshanth sprang into the air, and C’mine felt him roll his shoulders slightly to settle the firestone sacks. I mean he knows he’s a bronze, and I’m only a blue. There was more than a hint of irony in his voice.

Oh. C’mine patted the blue’s neck, in reassurance. Don’t worry, Darshanth. Not all bronzes are as broad-minded as Epherineth.

I’m not worried. Kawanth’s rider isn’t the Weyrleader.

C’mine laughed as Darshanth glided to where the three Wings of North Flight were assembling near the lake.

A full quarter of Madellon’s fighting roster had gathered for the drill: nearly fifty dragons, gleaming in all shades of green, bronze, blue, and brown under the grizzled sky. Epherineth, his hide showing distinctively green-gold, crouched watchfully by the group on the left. C’mine directed Darshanth towards T’kamen’s bronze. He’d been honoured, if not surprised, by the Weyrleader’s request that he and Darshanth fly in his Wing. C’mine knew his old friend still felt responsible for the injuries he and Darshanth had sustained at Kellad. T’kamen had no need to feel guilty, but if it made him feel better to have the pair of them in his Wing, C’mine wasn’t going to object.

Of all the changes T’kamen had implemented since becoming Weyrleader, the renewed emphasis on Wing drill was one of the least controversial. Some complained that intensive drilling in Threadfighting manoeuvres halfway through an Interval was pointless. Others fretted about the risks of dragons using live flame when it wasn’t strictly necessary. Still more pointed out that expending the Weyr’s supplies of firestone and harness leather was a waste of resources. But the riders, both young and old, who relished the chance to put themselves and their dragons through their paces, to practise the formation flying and flaming that made them feel like dragonriders, drowned out the dissenters. They would never get a chance to prove themselves against Thread. Everybody knew that. But it did a dragonpair good to feel that they would be capable of meeting Threadfall, had they been alive during a Pass. Besides, as the Weyrlingmaster had frequented complained during L’dro’s tenure as Weyrleader, if today’s riders didn’t know their arses from their elbows, how would tomorrow’s riders learn?

T’kamen’s reshuffle of the Wings had been unpopular at first – especially amongst the bronze and brown riders who’d been demoted. Gradually, though, the Weyr had adjusted. Indeed, many of the Wingleaders who had retained their rank now praised it – a Wing of sixteen or seventeen dragons offered far greater flexibility in formation than one of ten or eleven. Privately, C’mine suspected that many of the Wingleaders whose commands had almost doubled enjoyed the greater power and prestige, but since T’kamen had filtered out the worst offenders from the old bronze rider Council, there was no harm in that.

Darshanth landed next to a brown and folded his wings. The other dragon turned his head, rumbling a welcome, and his rider ducked under his neck to call up to C’mine. “Good to have you back, Mine!”

C’mine dismounted, nodding to the brown rider’s epaulettes. “New stripes, F’halig?”

“That’s Wingsecond F’halig,” the brown rider growled, and then he grinned, catching C’mine’s forearm. F’halig was a big man – a full head taller than C’mine, and burly more than muscular – with steady blue eyes and untidy, mostly grey hair. “You’re both looking well. Feeling up to it?”

“I am, and Darshanth’s raring to go,” C’mine replied. F’halig’s informal manner had irritated a string of Weyrleaders, repeatedly denying him a ranking position. T’kamen had always liked him, though, and with L’stev resuming his duties with the soon-to-be weyrlings, the Weyrleader had taken on this experienced brown rider as his senior Wingsecond.

“T’kamen says you’re both to take it easy today, and let one of us know if either of you are getting tired,” F’halig told him. “No going being a hero again.”

“I’ll try.”

“Good!” The brown rider joshed him in the shoulder. “You’d better get Darshanth stoked.”

C’mine turned back to his dragon, shaking his head. “Am I going to be treated like an invalid for the rest of my life?”

Probably. Darshanth nudged at him with his nose. Where’s that firestone, then?

“You’re pushy today, Darshanth,” C’mine observed, going to the left-hand firestone sack.

Pushy!

“Well, you are.” He opened the neck of the bag. “You do remember how to chew this, don’t you?”

Carefully.

C’mine tossed him a lump of firestone. The blue watched the rock arc towards him with gleaming eyes, and then snapped it out of the air. C’mine took another chunk of the foul-smelling rock out of the sack while Darshanth chewed, eyes closed. “You look like you’re enjoying that.”

I’m a dragon. Dragons chew firestone.

“Most dragons don’t enjoy it.”

I’m not most dragons. Darshanth opened his eyes. And I didn’t say I was enjoying it. More, please.

C’mine threw him the second piece, and again, Darshanth tracked it with his eyes before catching it in his teeth. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to play with your food, Darshanth?”

I never play with my food. The blue crunched the second rock between his strong back teeth, and gulped it down. Another.

C’mine found a third hunk and held it out. Darshanth looked disappointed. Spoilsport, he said, picking the rock delicately out of his rider’s hand.

Other dragons were chewing too, the noise rather like a distant rumble of thunder. Dragons produced, and quickly suppressed, spits of fire. Darshanth abruptly turned his head away from C’mine and opened his mouth. A tongue of flame issued from between his jaws, and then the blue clamped his mouth shut, holding the rest in. That’ll do. Knew I hadn’t forgotten.

“I’d never suggest you had.” C’mine brushed his hands clean of the debris of firestone. He walked back along Darshanth’s side and placed a hand lightly against the dragon’s stomach, feeling the stored gas grumbling and growling there.

Stop it.

“Sorry.”

Tickles.

“I said sorry.”

With most dragons primed for flame, the riders of each Wing began to assemble around their leaders. C’mine greeted those wingmates he knew and nodded or smiled to the others.

T’kamen’s Wingseconds flanked him at the front of the group. B’ward, the younger of the two brown riders, was sketching their starting formation in the sand. C’mine found his position on the chart, and made a mental note of the two riders who would be diagonally fore and aft of him.

The Weyrleader looked as grim and austere as usual, and the parallel scratches on his face, beneath his left eye, only enhanced the impression. It was a measure of the respect he commanded that no one had uttered a word of speculation. C’mine had coaxed most of the story out of Sarenya, although she had still been far too angry to give a clear account. Now, though, was neither the time nor the place to be worrying about their relationship, and he focused on T’kamen as Weyrleader, not friend.

“We’re flying a full flaming rope drill today,” T’kamen said, when everyone had gathered around. “Two Wings flaming and one dropping. I want to see precision, and if any one of you, dragons or riders, comes back with so much as a singe, Epherineth’s going to do some singeing of his own.”

Several riders chuckled, and almost everyone smiled, though it was a serious warning. Flaming drills were dangerous.

“Duties will be rotated, so each Wing will drop once and flame twice,” T’kamen continued. “It’ll also give each Wing a chance to work with the other two, and we’ll see which pairings work best. We’ll be dropping red rope, D’feng’s Wing will drop black, and P’keo’s yellow, and that’s wet paint, so I hope none of you had plans for this afternoon. F’halig.”

The veteran rider stepped forwards. “Those of you that don’t know, C’mine and Darshanth are back flying with us today. They’ve been lazing around for about half a Turn, so take it easy on them today.”

Even T’kamen smiled at that. A few of the closer riders slapped C’mine on the back, and several more broke into a ragged round of applause. C’mine looked away, smiling but embarrassed.

“Check your positions on B’ward’s chart,” F’halig went on. “When we’re done today, P’keo’s Wing will be doing the final low sweep to check for any stray ropes that could start fires. We’re flying this drill out west, over the scrub, but try not to let anything through anyway.” He glanced at B’ward, and then at T’kamen. “I think that’s it. Mount up!”

Darshanth ducked his head to aid his rider’s remount, bouncing on his forepaws in eagerness. Steady, now, C’mine cautioned him.

I am steady. But Darshanth didn’t settle until he’d reached altitude in pattern.

The region over which the dragons of Madellon typically drilled was desolate, an arid and uninhabited wasteland. Scraggy bushes, stunted trees, and acre upon acre of stony dirt were broken up only by occasional rock formations, shaped and worn by centuries of wind and rain.

The visualisation Darshanth received from Epherineth, and shared with C’mine for verification, was of one of those outcrops. Happy with it? C’mine asked.

Yes.

C’mine raised his arm in the signal to confirm their readiness, and down the line, the other riders of North High Wing did the same.

The Wing went between on Epherineth’s command. In the utter dark and cold, C’mine wondered, as he often did, if Darshanth was aware of the other dragons around him. He didn’t ask, though; he just counted. He never disturbed his blue’s concentration when they were between. It wasn’t worth the risk.

They emerged over the scrubland, into the raw wind that habitually blew across the stark terrain. C’mine hunched his shoulders, and turned up the collar of his riding jacket.

All right? asked Darshanth.

I will be, once we get started.

Above and upwind, D’feng’s Wing spread out along a broad front, preparing to drop the first fall of ropes. Below, P’keo’s Wing had taken up a loose formation, to catch the strays that North High missed. The precision of the pattern made C’mine momentarily wistful. This was the closest they would ever come to fighting real Thread.

Then North Central dropped the first wave of dyed rope, and Darshanth rose with the rest of the Weyrleader’s Wing to meet it. Glistening black strands like racing tunnel snakes descended, blowing into snarls and tangles, buffeted by the wind. The leading dragons of the Wing bisected that first fall at a rising angle, bronzes and browns burning a wide swathe through the inky cord. On the western edge of the second rank, C’mine leaned back with his blue’s powerful climb. While the big dragons turned, out beyond the leading edge, Darshanth and the other blues and greens picked off dozens of individual ropes, then turned almost in place. The five larger males resumed their place at the head of the Wing, and led the second attack from the reverse angle.

L’stev had once said that the smallest dragons had the biggest hearts. C’mine barely had time to concur with the Weyrlingmaster’s opinion as Darshanth darted and flamed and nipped back into formation again. The blue jinked impossibly quickly to avoid a half-incinerated rope that was falling like a comet, its tail on fire, and then banked hard right again to catch a piece blowing towards the neighbouring green.

Spots of dye spattered down from above, leaving a greasy slick when C’mine wiped his goggles. Occasionally a dragon would bellow, in surprise rather than pain, and vanish between in simulation of Threadscore, re-emerging with the distinctive stripe of a hit on wing or body or neck. Darshanth ducked between to dodge a rope, appeared again in time to burn it to ash, and then nipped between again on C’mine’s warning as a fresh tangle plummeted onto them.

After a time Darshanth’s flame started to flicker, but C’mine was ready for that. Darshanth curved his neck back with jaws gaping, and C’mine tossed rock into the maw, noticing the crimson combat hue of Darshanth’s eyes before he snapped his mouth shut and turned back to face the mock fall.

Combat continued, the formation altering to suit the pattern of the drop as T’kamen and his Wingseconds directed, until suddenly no more ropes fell. C’mine looked down, seeing flame blossom briefly from the dragons of P’keo’s low-level Wing as they mopped up the strays, and then up. D’feng and his Wingseconds were signalling that they had run out of rope.

Epherineth says stand by to pick up our rope, Darshanth reported. He coughed several times, expelling the last of his flame. That’s better. His mental tone sounded breathless, and C’mine slapped his neck hard in encouragement.

You didn’t get hit? he asked, glancing back. Drops of black paint speckled Darshanth’s hide, but C’mine couldn’t see a strike.

Of course not. Darshanth proffered an image of Madellon, modified from their usual image to compensate for the rest of the Wing, before going between.

Back at the Weyr, the black-marked dragons of North High wheeled down into the Bowl to pick up bags of red-painted rope. It was much lighter than firestone. Darshanth took two bags either side of his neck.

Before the Wing relaunched, C’mine looked at the other dragons for hits. A green had a long smear of black across her off shoulder and neck that would surely have been a fatal hit of Thread. Several dragons had wing and tailtip marks.

Amateurs, Darshanth commented.

They’re older than you, C’mine told him.

Old amateurs.

As they took off to return to the drill, C’mine mused that Darshanth, in the prime of his life at almost fifteen Turns old, occupied that optimal zone between youth and experience. He patted the blue’s neck again, wordlessly proud.

By the time they arrived back at the drilling area, P’keo’s Wing had climbed to take up the higher altitude position, and D’feng’s riders had reformed beneath them. C’mine acknowledged B’ward’s signal to head east, and Darshanth slipped easily into his new position.

On Epherineth’s mark, C’mine hauled up his first bag of rope. There was a trick to dropping rope to simulate Thread. With Darshanth quartering into the wind, like all the other dragons, C’mine draped the oilskin sack over his knee and loosened the neck thong. The ropes spilled from the bag a few at a time, and were immediately blown back towards the dragons below.

It was fascinating to watch the high-level Wing in action, although looking back and down proved hard on the neck. C’mine found that the bitter wind bothered him more without the immediacy of flying and flaming to occupy his mind. Halfway through the drop, Epherineth came along the line, his eyes gleaming scarlet, and C’mine heard Darshanth assure T’kamen’s bronze that he was comfortable.

When the last of the paint-soaked rope had flowed out of the fourth sack, C’mine tied it onto Darshanth’s harness and looked down. Several of P’keo’s dragons showed paint streaks. You’d better have some more firestone.

As Darshanth accepted a fresh supply of stone, P’keo’s Wing winked between to the Weyr, and B’ward made the hand gesture that indicated they should drop beneath the level of the third Wing. Darshanth lost height at a leisurely pace, spiralling down to North High’s new position.

In the clean-up pattern, Darshanth flew just off Epherineth’s right flank. C’mine could see T’kamen signalling to D’feng on the level above in between tossing lumps of firestone to his bronze. Then the Weyrleader turned to the Wing, indicating that they should spread out.

Sejanth’s rider wants to try something, Darshanth said as he complied with the order. Epherineth thinks we’ll have more to mop up.

Flaming ropes on the low level was a more sedate business than the frantic duck and dive of meeting the mock fall in the front line. Darshanth charred some pieces, left others to dragons better positioned to catch them, and occasionally warned off a wingmate going for a length that he had covered.

Epherineth’s pessimism regarding the effectiveness of D’feng’s new formation proved justified. More rope was getting through the top level than it should – great sheets of it, sometimes, that the big males should have destroyed. Conversely, though, there seemed to be far fewer individual strays than usual. North Central’s greens and blues must be working hard.

C’mine happened to be looking up, keeping an eye on an errant strand of rope that might or might not blow into Darshanth’s range, when Sejanth made his mistake.

D’feng’s bronze had been leading the eastern point of the Wing, meeting the bulk of the rope fall with one of his browns in support. On the western edge, the bigger bronze that C’mine now recognised as Sh’zon’s Kawanth maintained his position easily, with another brown backing him up. The pincer approach of the four biggest dragons effectively contained the edges of the fall, leaving the lighter dragons responsible for the centre. But it depended solely on the stamina and courage of the two lead bronzes, and Sejanth was struggling.

C’mine didn’t see exactly what happened, but he did see Sejanth turn his head back, as if for firestone, and the spray of yellow as a paint-soaked rope struck the side of the bronze’s head. If Sejanth had just hopped between he would have escaped with no more than a lecture for being careless. But the bronze, half-blinded by the strike, panicked – and a surprised gout of flame erupted from his mouth.

Sejanth’s wing went up in flames.

C’mine saw D’feng’s fire-bathed form, dark against the incandescent flames, writhing in agony. Sejanth’s scream cut through every dragon and rider in the sky. C’mine dragged his eyes away from the awful sight. He felt Darshanth shudder, and he realised he’d seized the blue’s fore neck ridge in a convulsive grip. Has he…?

Burned himself. The blue’s tone betrayed his distress, but even without C’mine’s direct guidance, he retained the presence of mind to dodge and then char a loose rope.

C’mine glanced back up at the sky, seeing the gap in North Central’s formation, and dreading tragedy. They’ve gone between?

It seemed like hours before Darshanth replied. They’re alive. Sejanth went between to the Weyr.

Are they going to be all right?

I don’t know. Shimpath’s with them. Then Darshanth said, Epherineth is furious.

C’mine looked over at T’kamen’s bronze. Epherineth looked like he was ready to breathe fire without the aid of firestone. Are we carrying on?

Epherineth says yes, North Central’s Wingsecond is taking command. Darshanth banked sharply to avoid a yellow rope, then chased it down. We would not stop in a real Threadfall.

The flow of rope to the lower level increased suddenly as everything that had escaped D’feng’s Wing during the accident descended, and C’mine devoted his attention to helping Darshanth meet it. T’kamen commanded a tighter formation to compensate for the heavier fall, and North High kept busy for several minutes. C’mine welcomed the distraction from contemplation of the ghastly injuries D’feng and Sejanth must have sustained.

Then, as suddenly as it had intensified, the density dropped off, and hardly any ropes reached the lower level. C’mine looked up, trying to see if P’keo’s Wing was still dropping ropes. Have they run out?

But D’feng’s reformed Wing still flamed steadily, and it only took C’mine a moment to see the efficacy of the new pattern. Under the lead of Sh’zon and his bronze, North Central met and demolished the rope fall as if there were twice the number of dragons in the air, not one fewer. C’mine wiped stray spots of black and yellow dye off his goggles as he stared up at the fighting Wing, and then recognised the key to its performance.

One dragon weaved over and around and under the main pattern, unconfined to a fixed place in the formation. He moved with the breakneck agility of a green, but his hide showed almost black against the grey sky. He darted in and out of the other dragons with incredible speed and precision, making impossible turns, performing death-defying barrel rolls, incinerating broad sheets and tricky individual strands with equal skill. This, then, must be Trebruth, the Peninsula brown. He flew with fearless ease, crisscrossing the sky with style and daring, and little escaped him.

C’mine wasn’t the only one watching. In the lull, most of the other riders of North High had stopped to gaze up at the remarkable display. Epherineth barked a reprimand at one of the other blues, whose interest in the other Wing had distracted him from the task at hand. Admonished and paint marked, the guilty dragon renewed his duty with added fervour. It was hard to look away from the Peninsula brown’s acrobatics. But C’mine noticed T’kamen and Epherineth looking up, too, and wondered what the Weyrleader made of the display.

At last, the signal came down from above that the ropes had all been dropped: the fall was over. All around, dragons exhaled the last of their flame. As Darshanth let his surplus gas burn off, C’mine checked their firestone sacks: they had more left than he would have thought possible.

He didn’t let much through. Darshanth didn’t have to name the dragon he meant, nor say any more than his tone implied. Epherineth’s ordering us back to the Weyr.

C’mine reinforced the visual. When you’re ready, my friend. You flew well today.

We did, Darshanth corrected, and went between.

Epherineth ordered the dragons of North High and North Central to land near the lake, but every head turned towards where Sejanth was being attended by the dragon-healers. The bronze’s right wing was a charred mess, and C’mine looked away, reminded too forcefully of the burns he himself had suffered at the beginning of the Turn. Darshanth’s wings could have been burned to bone and ash… He forced the thought aside. Mercifully, his dragon’s injuries had been fairly minor. But he couldn’t help feeling a wrench, deep in his gut, of complete and comprehensive sympathy for D’feng.

Darshanth landed not far from Epherineth, and as C’mine released his fighting harness, feeling his muscles and bones complaining now that the excitement of the drill had passed, he saw T’kamen dismount from his bronze. The Weyrleader looked angry, in that ominous, introverted fashion of his.

As Trebruth glided in to make a landing that, in contrast to his bold fighting style, seemed positively sedate, riders from both Wings converged on him, cheering the brown’s skill, and thumping M’ric hard on the back.

“That’s enough! Get over here!”

T’kamen’s bellow had always made people move quickly, and this was no exception: the riders of the two Wings assembled rapidly before the Weyrleader, sobering as, to a man, they anticipated a dressing down.

“What in Faranth’s name do you think you have to cheer about?” T’kamen motioned towards Sejanth with an angry jerk of his head. “You think that’s something to celebrate?” The Weyrleader yanked off his helmet, sweeping a hand through sweat-spiked dark hair. “What happened to D’feng could have happened to any of you – and you’d all better be bloody grateful that we’re not in a Pass right now, or half your dragons would be crippled, and the other half riderless!”

Several riders muttered amongst themselves, ashamedly shifting their feet, and C’mine noticed for the first time the stripes in yellow, red, and black that marked dragons and riders alike.

“See to your dragons,” T’kamen told them. “Wingseconds, I want an accurate tally of who took hits, and the same goes for P’keo’s Wing when it gets back. Flight dismissed.”

The Weyrleader turned to head for Sejanth, and the riders started to disperse. Then T’kamen turned back. “Sh’zon, M’ric, J’tron, I want to see you after you’ve settled your dragons.”

The blond Peninsula bronze rider who’d assumed command of D’feng’s Wing was standing with M’ric, but of the three T’kamen had named, only J’tron, D’feng’s other Wingsecond, looked alarmed.

“Aye, pal,” C’mine heard Sh’zon mutter. “I’d say as you do.”

Darshanth nudged C’mine in the back with his nose. I’d really like to get rid of this ash, Mine.

“Of course you do. Sorry, Darshanth.”

C’mine started stripping off the blue’s harness, stippled with three colours of dye, and a thin film of charred rope dust, and noticed with satisfaction that the new leather had withstood its first real test without suffering any stretches or unravelled stitching. He wondered how much of T’kamen’s displeasure with the Flight stemmed from his concern for D’feng and Sejanth – and how much from the incident with Sarenya and her fire-lizard that had left him with the scratches on his face. His tone with the Peninsula riders seemed excessively harsh. But then T’kamen looked so gaunt and tired, more so even than usual; that must be a major factor. Everyone in the Weyr seemed to be suffering to some extent since E’rom’s death.

That was something else C’mine couldn’t afford to worry about. He was stiff, sore, and aching in places that he’d forgotten existed. “Let’s get you sorted out, Darshanth.”

But for a moment, careless of the firestone pungency of his dragon’s breath, C’mine wrapped an arm around Darshanth’s lower jaw and leaned his head against his cheek, glad, but guiltily glad, that he and his dragon had been lucky where Sejanth and D’feng had not.

Chapter Ten: Thought And Favour

Sarenya sprawled in the mud, gasping for air, her left side screaming in pain, and found some comfort in the knowledge that the beast who’d put her there was going to regret it.

“Saren!” Jarrisam’s shout, honed on Turns of yelling at apprentices in distant paddocks, carried like a message drum. “You all right?”

The other journeyman came slogging up the hillside as Sarenya struggled to catch her breath. Tarnish had returned, humming anxiously in her ear, but she couldn’t summon the wherewithal to reassure him.

“Knew that ram had a mean streak,” she gasped as Jarrisam approached.

“I know, I know.” Jarrisam raked his fingers through his hair in concern. “Can you move?”

Sarenya started to lever herself upright, but the white-hot pain that stabbed through her ribs stopped her. “Ouch, shard it!”

“Stay still.” Jarrisam crouched beside her, running a Beastcrafter’s sensitive hands over her side. Sarenya hissed with pain when his fingers touched the most painful spot. “You might have cracked some ribs. We need to get a Healer down here. Know any dragonriders?”

“A few,” Sarenya replied painfully. Breathing was getting easier, but deep breaths still hurt. “Send Tarnish to C’mine. Pencil’s in my belt… Tarnish! Get back here!”

The bronze fire-lizard had vanished between in an uncharacteristic show of disobedience. Sarenya closed her eyes: angry, frustrated, and hurting. Sleek had stayed back at the cot, grounded with his broken wing, none of the other Beastcrafters had fire-lizards, and the Weyr, for all that the great crater seemed close, was several uphill miles away. “Shard blast it!”

Jarrisam shook his head. “Dorvan! Anthelle!”

The apprentices had been watching the spectacle of their supervising journeyman being laid out by an obstinate ram with eager eyes. As they ran up, Sarenya resigned herself to the teasing she’d come in for by sundown. Butted by a randy sheep - certain parties were going to have a good laugh about that.

“Take a runner up to the infirmary and tell them what’s happened,” Jarrisam told Anthelle, the younger apprentice. “Dorvan, get two of the other lads and round up that ram. And don’t let him go for you.”

“Faranth,” Sarenya muttered, crossing her right arm over her chest to hold the painful ribs still.

“I don’t want to move you,” Jarrisam said frankly. “Making you ride runner-back would do more harm than good, so we’ll have to wait for Anthelle to -”

He was interrupted by the frightened bleating of ewes as a dragon materialised from between and glided low over the paddock. “Shards, where did he come from?”

Tarnish swooped down towards Sarenya to partially answer the question. Sarenya frowned at her delinquent lizard. “Hey, you, come here!”

The bronze landed by her head, folded his wings to his back, and strutted with his chest puffed out, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. Sarenya didn’t try to twist round to identify the dragonrider: pain aside, if her ribs were broken she knew better than to make things worse. “Who’ve you brought?”

“Your timing is excellent, brown rider,” said Jarrisam, sounding relieved.

But before Sarenya could mentally catalogue which browns she knew, the rider had spoken. “Saren, are you all right?”

“M’ric?” Sarenya looked up, startled, as the Peninsula brown rider came into her limited field of view.

“Tarnish came screaming out of between like Thread was falling.” M’ric knelt beside her, ignoring the mud, taking in the situation with a glance. Agusta clung to his shoulder, one forepaw wrapped in his curly dark hair. “Next thing I know the pair of them are flying up Trebruth’s nose. What happened?”

“Rammed,” Sarenya replied shortly.

“That ram,” Jarrisam added, nodding at the beast that the three apprentices had wrestled under control and were half-leading, half-dragging back towards the paddock. The ram resisted all the way.

M’ric frowned. “Those horns look nasty.”

Sarenya dragged in another difficult breath. “Feel it, too.”

“You’ve hurt your ribs?” M’ric asked, and then nodded. “Stay put. We’ll bring a Healer.” He rose and covered the distance back to his dragon in rangy strides. “Journeyman, she’s not to move a muscle. If those ribs are broken…”

A moment later Sarenya heard and felt the first massive downstroke of Trebruth’s wings. She turned her head against the fine spray of loose earth, unsure if she should be embarrassed or relieved by M’ric’s appearance. She settled for some of each.

“That’s a smart lizard you’ve got there, Saren,” said Jarrisam, hunkering down beside her.

“Not smart,” said Sarenya. She shifted a bit, starting to feel rocks digging into her back. She’d chosen an excellent place to fall - stony and muddy and covered in sheep droppings. “He’s obsessed with M’ric’s queen.”

“Is he a good friend of yours?” Jarrisam asked, with the forced jollity of someone trying to keep a patient’s mind off the pain.

“Only known him a sevenday,” Saren managed. “He’s new. Been showing him around.” She closed her eyes against the memory of being thrown flying. “I stink like sheep musk, don’t I?”

Jarrisam chuckled. “It is mating season.”

Sarenya groaned in mortification.

It seemed like hours before Trebruth returned, though it could only have been a few minutes. The brown chose a more considerate approach this time, although the entire flock had huddled at the far side of the enclosure. The short, wiry Healer M’ric had brought was Heftan, a senior journeyman of the craft.

“I hear you’re having trouble with the beasts today, Sarenya,” the Healer said cheerfully, kneeling beside her and setting down his case, marked with the purple caduceus of his Craft.

“A bit,” Sarenya admitted.

“Can you tell me where it hurts?”

Gingerly, Sarenya took her hand away from the left side of her ribcage. Heftan ran fingers gentler than Jarrisam’s over the area, feeling each rib in turn. Sarenya clenched her teeth against the pain when Heftan probed the fifth, sixth, and seventh ribs. She could see M’ric standing behind the Healer, and his presence had roused her pride.

“Does breathing hurt?” Heftan asked when he had finished his first examination.

“Yes. If I breathe too deep.”

“I need to see if there are any irregularities in the way you’re breathing, Sarenya. Your tunic absorbed some of the blow, but I’m afraid it’s going to have to come off.”

He had to cut it, in the end, slicing through the rows of stitches that Sarenya had repaired so many times. She wore a woolen sweater over a cotton shirt, but Heftan was able to perform his examination through them. Under his direction, Saren took several long, uncomfortable breaths. “I know that hurts,” Heftan said sympathetically, “but you need to resist the urge to take shallow breaths. You risk pneumonia if you don’t clear your lungs frequently. Would you cough for me?”

Sarenya coughed. “Ouch,” she said weakly.

“Can you taste any blood?”

“No, it just hurts.”

Heftan nodded. “Well, I think you’ve fractured those painful ribs, Sarenya, but I don’t believe there’s any secondary damage to your lungs from the broken bones. I’m going to immobilise your upper body, and then if M’ric and his dragon would be so kind, I’d like to get you back to the infirmary straight away.”

The Healer folded Sarenya’s left arm across her chest, so her palm was flat against the opposite collarbone, and secured it there with broad bandages. The support made Sarenya more comfortable without constricting her breathing, and with Heftan’s assistance she was able to get to her feet.

“Will you be all right without me?” Jarrisam asked anxiously. “I’d come up to the infirmary with you, but I shouldn’t leave the apprentices, and I’m not sure there’s room…”

“I’ll be fine,” Sarenya assured the other journeyman.

Jarrisam nodded. “I’ll send one of the lads to Arrense, to let him know what’s happened.”

At M’ric’s prompting, Trebruth flattened himself almost to the ground to make mounting easier. Heftan didn’t comment on the brown’s size, and Sarenya knew better, but it was a good thing that the Healer was slight and M’ric lean. Even then, they made a snug fit between Trebruth’s neck ridges. At least, Sarenya thought dully, the forcible removal of her work tunic meant that she was a bit cleaner than she had been.

Behind her on Trebruth’s neck, M’ric turned back to Heftan. “Can we take her between?”

“Certainly,” the Healer replied. “And a smooth take-off, if you would.”

M’ric chuckled as he turned back. Mounted forward of him, Sarenya heard the brown rider murmur, “Smooth as you like.”

With no further preamble, the brown dragon went between. Sarenya barely had time to register the intensity of cold and dark before they were out above the Bowl. Trebruth had gone between from the ground, but he might as well have gained ten dragonlengths of air: he’d assumed a flight profile before emerging, and his easy spiral down towards the ground was as controlled and precise as any Sarenya had ever seen. The shock almost made her forget about her injured ribs. “How did you do that?”

The wind whipped away her words, but she could feel M’ric laughing.

As Trebruth descended, Sarenya braced herself for the impact of landing. She needn’t have worried. The brown controlled his final approach with consummate skill, and Saren barely felt a shiver when the dragon’s hind feet touched down. Trebruth settled the upper part of his body to the ground without a jolt.

“Stay here a moment,” M’ric said in her ear as he released the fighting strap that had secured them all in place for the duration of the flight.

With the obliging Trebruth once more pressing himself close to the ground, Sarenya heard first Heftan and then M’ric dismount, the brown rider with more confidence than the little Healer. She steadied herself with the arm that wasn’t strapped, wondering how she was going to get down. Lateral movement hurt.

M’ric stepped up to Trebruth’s side. “Put your hand on my shoulder,” he told her. “Down you come.”

And as simply as that, the brown rider lifted Sarenya from Trebruth’s neck and placed her lightly on her feet. Sarenya almost staggered, catching herself against him just in time. M’ric steadied her with a supportive touch on her right shoulder, smiling down at her. “All right?”

“You’ve done ambulance runs before, brown rider,” Heftan said approvingly.

The smile suddenly died on M’ric’s face, and for a moment his eyes were more than dark. “More than once.”

Trebruth turned his head to look at his rider with an unreadable expression.

“Let’s not stand about,” said Heftan, with a note in his voice that suggested he wasn’t oblivious to the sudden strain in the air. “Thank you, brown dragon.”

“Thanks, Trebruth,” said Sarenya, patting the soft neck awkwardly with her free hand.

As she walked between Heftan and M’ric to the infirmary, the journeyman wondered what memory had pained Trebruth’s rider so. Did it have something to do with his transfer to Madellon? There was still so much she didn’t know about the Peninsula rider.

“Beast journeyman Sarenya, suspected broken ribs,” Heftan said to the Healer behind the desk in the waiting area.

“Take her straight onto the ward,” the duty journeyman replied. “We’re having a quiet day.”

Sarenya had never needed to visit the Weyr’s infirmary before. The ward was a long room with curtained cubicles on either side. Most of the hangings, drawn back, revealed empty, neatly-made beds. The antiseptic scent of redwort hung on the air. Several Healers – apprentices and journeymen – moved quietly about their business up and down the chamber.

Agusta and Tarnish winked in from between, their eyes wide and green. “Go and check on Sleek, Tarnish,” Sarenya told her bronze. “Don’t want him hurting himself.”

The little bronze cheeped and vanished. Agusta blinked at her friend’s sudden departure, drawing herself up in fire-lizard affront, then alighted on the foot of the closest bed and started to preen her wings.

“If you’d like to wait here, journeyman,” Heftan told Sarenya, indicating the cubicle Agusta had commandeered. “Apprentice, would you bring some extra pillows?”

As Heftan vanished off down the ward, the senior apprentice he had addressed – a girl of about eighteen – collected an armful of pillows from a locker and brought them into the cubicle. She smiled understandingly at Sarenya as she built up the head of the bed. “Broken ribs?”

“Looks that way,” Saren replied.

“Is the other guy worse off?” the apprentice asked.

Sarenya laughed and then regretted it. “He will be,” she said when the flare of pain in her side had died down, thinking of the ram. “No more stud service is going to be the least of his worries.”

The Healer apprentice looked perplexed, but M’ric laughed, his normal good humour apparently restored.

“People laughing in the ward, that can’t be right,” Heftan said as he returned with water and redwort. He set the basins down on the table beside the bed. “Now, I’m going to need you to take off your sweater and shirt, there, Sarenya.”

“Ah,” said M’ric. “That would be my cue to step outside.”

Heftan chuckled. “If you would, please, brown rider.”

“Is there anything I can get for you, Saren?” M’ric asked. “Anyone you want to know you’re here?”

“My Master will be up here soon enough,” she replied.

M’ric nodded. “I’ll wait outside.”

“You too,” Heftan said to Agusta. “I know what fire-lizards can be like.”

The queen chirped, insulted, and flew to M’ric’s shoulder. The brown rider winced as her hind claws dug through his shirt. “Now she’s offended.”

As the apprentice pulled the curtains around the cubicle, Heftan started to untie the bandages that had served to immobilise Sarenya’s torso. “Gara, would you help the journeyman with her sweater?”

“You’re not going to have to cut that off, too?” Sarenya asked, dismayed.

“No, I don’t think so. Let’s see how you do.”

With the apprentice’s help, and a bit of uncomfortable manoeuvring, the sweater came off in one piece. The shirt was easier, although unbuttoning it one-handed proved almost impossible. Gara’s deft fingers finished the task.

Heftan whistled softly as the extent of Sarenya’s injury became apparent. “That’s quite a bruise.”

Half the left side of Sarenya’s ribcage had blossomed an angry purple, dramatic against her pale skin. The Beastcrafter sucked in her breath sharply as Heftan ran his fingers gently over the contusion. “Yes, I think those three ribs are definitely fractured. And a lot more would have been, but for those layers of leather and wool. The skin is broken, although not so badly as I might have feared.” He directed her to lie back on the bed, propped half-upright by the pillows Gara had piled there. “Had big horns, did he, this sheep?” he asked conversationally as he reached for redwort and a cloth.

“Sharding big horns.”

“They’ve left quite an imprint.”

Sarenya closed her eyes as the first cold swipe of redwort stung her abraded skin. “So long as that’s all you’re looking at.”

“Of course, journeyman. Apprentice, would you go to the cold room and bring me an ice compress?” Heftan finished cleaning the area and reached to the table for something else. “You’ll be glad to know I haven’t forgotten the existence of numbweed.”

Sarenya sighed in relief as the Healer started spreading the pale green salve over her painful ribs. “Faranth, that’s better.”

“It will reduce the pain from the surface contusion,” Heftan agreed. “However, it won’t provide much relief from the discomfort of the broken ribs themselves. The ice compress I’ve sent Gara for will help to reduce the swelling, as will rest.” The Healer finished coating Sarenya’s bruise with numbweed and opened a packet of gauze. “There isn’t any secondary damage to your internal organs, so I’m not going to strap you up again. I will cover the wound, though. The surface graze would benefit from fresh air, but your side’s going to be very tender for a good two sevendays or so.”

Once Heftan had dressed the ugly bruise, he let Sarenya put her shirt back on. “I’m going to prescribe you willowsalic for the pain,” he said. “You’ll need to brew it as a tea and drink it four times a day. If it’s not effective, I’ll prescribe you something stronger. Ah, Gara, thank you.”

The apprentice had returned with a cold compress, covered with a thick towel. Heftan removed the towel to reveal the bag of crushed ice. He wrapped it in a thinner cloth and applied the ice pack to Sarenya’s injured side.

Before long, Sarenya felt the cold begin to seep through her shirt. It was an uncomfortable sensation, but it did ease the throbbing of her ribs. Sarenya had never used an ice compress on an animal – the Beastcraft simply didn’t have the access to ice that a Weyr’s infirmary did – but she would have treated a beast that had been kicked or rammed in much the same way as Heftan has treated her. The main difference was that animals couldn’t tell you where it hurt.

“Keep holding that in place,” Heftan told her. “I’ll get that willow. Gara, would you finish up?”

The Healer journeyman had barely gone two paces when he poked his head back around the curtain. “Sarenya, your Master’s here.”

“Better let him in,” Sarenya said, sitting up. “Open the curtain, in fact. I’m decent.”

Master Arrense, the Weyr Beastcrafter, stood with M’ric across the corridor from Sarenya’s cubicle. The Weyr Master was frowning - an expression Sarenya had heard she often mirrored. Little wonder. Arrense was her uncle, her father’s brother, and although they played down the blood tie in favour of a more professional working relationship, the family resemblance betrayed them.

“How are you feeling, Saren?” Arrense asked with typical gruff concern.

“Sore, Master. Some broken ribs.”

Arrense folded his arms across a chest made burly from decades of handling powerful animals. “That daft girl Anthelle came running up to the cot blathering something about you being stampeded by half the flock.”

Sarenya groaned at the embellishment. “Not stampeded so much as…well, rammed.”

“What happened?”

“We were trying out that young ram Jessaf sent us in their last drive.”

“The one with the big horns?”

“I always thought he’d be mean. But we put him in with some of the experienced ewes, to see how he’d get on. He got nasty with them, so I roped him.” She sighed. “I should have waited for Jarrisam before I pulled him out of the enclosure. I got Dorvan to put another rope on him, but he didn’t have a good enough hold. Ram pulled loose as I was closing the gate. Tarnish ran him off, but not before he’d tossed me.”

“Dorvan’s a big lad,” said Arrense. “He should have been able to hold it.”

Sarenya shrugged her right shoulder. “He didn’t.”

Arrense leaned closer to look at the ice pack Sarenya still held to her side. “Broken ribs, you say? You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”

“I know,” Sarenya said sourly. With the pain under control, she was annoyed with herself.

“Well.” Arrense frowned down at her. “What are we going to do with you?”

“The Healer says I’ll be sore for at least two sevendays.”

He nodded. “You won’t be going back out into the pastures for a while. There’s the hatchery, of course.”

“Oh, Faranth,” Sarenya groaned.

Arrense shook his head. “Teasing, Saren. Hmm. You’ll need a couple of days before I can put you back on duty anyway, won’t you? Well, that gives me time to think of something. And speaking of time, I should go and give Jarrisam some help before I find that he’s been knocked on his backside, too.”

“It’s not funny, Master,” Sarenya complained.

Arrense chuckled. “It will be once every apprentice in the Weyr has heard it. Glad it’s not too bad, Saren. Now you get your rest and do what you’re told.” He snorted with laughter. “By the Healers, if not me!”

As Arrense walked away, Sarenya met M’ric’s gaze. He looked amused. “You can stop that, too,” Saren told him disgustedly.

M’ric smiled. “I’m on your side.”

Sarenya leaned her head against the heaped pillows. “I’m sorry Tarnish dragged you into this.”

“Don’t be. I wasn’t doing anything important, and you could really have been hurt.”

“It’s an imposition I’d rather not have made,” Sarenya insisted. “You’ve barely been here a sevenday and already you’ve minded my fire-lizards, rescued me from a sheep attack…”

M’ric laughed. “Trebruth says to call him sooner the next time a sheep attacks you.” Then his expression sobered. “It’s our pleasure, Saren.”

Sarenya didn’t quite know how to respond to that. Fortunately, she didn’t have to. Heftan returned at that moment, and to her surprise he was deep in conversation with C’los.

The green rider caught sight of her, and hesitated mid-stride. “Saren? What are you doing here?”

“Just visiting, C’los; what does it look like?”

He looked askance at the ice pack. “I know T’kamen likes it a little rough, sometimes, but –”

“Oh, shut up,” Sarenya told him, so vehemently that the exclamation hurt her sore ribs.

“If you’d leave the shouting until after those ribs have healed, journeyman, green rider,” said Heftan, throwing stern glances at them both.

Sarenya closed her eyes against the pain, doubly irritated for having been so easily baited. Her barbed exchanges with C’los seldom strayed into real viciousness, but his mention of T’kamen had hit a nerve. The unwritten, unspoken rules of the game dictated that certain lines were not crossed. C’mine knew what had happened between her and T’kamen, and by extension C’los should too.

“Willowsalic, Sarenya.”

She opened her eyes to pay attention to Heftan. The Healer had set a steaming cup on the bedside table. “Two spoonfuls in water that’s just gone off the boil,” he told her, doling out the quantity from the packet he‘d brought. “Let it steep and drink it all when it’s cooled enough. You can add some mint if it’s too bitter.”

Sarenya was familiar with the properties of willowsalic. “How often can I –”

A sudden disturbance from the adjacent cubicle interrupted her; murmurs that started soft and barely audible, but rose rapidly to incoherent shrieks.

“Shards,” Heftan muttered, and pulled back the curtain, hurrying into the cubicle. The heavily-bandaged form in the bed thrashed violently. “I need some help, here!”

M’ric and C’los were closest. “Hold him down!” Heftan ordered them, and the two riders obeyed, pinning the writhing, screaming figure to the cot. Heftan unlocked the cabinet next to the bed, and Sarenya saw him seize a bottle from it.

Several other Healers arrived at that moment; one of them Isnan, the Weyr Master. “He’s in dragon-linked shock, Heftan: get him sedated. The queen’s managing his bronze. Katel: hold his head.”

Another journeyman immobilised the struggling rider’s head, and Heftan held the cup containing the hastily-mixed sedative to his lips. Most of it spilled, but after several moments the bandaged rider’s resistance subsided.

“Sejanth,” he croaked, “Sejanth…”

“Sejanth’s going to be all right, D’feng,” said Isnan. “He’s going to be all right, you hear?”

From her bed, Sarenya stared at the other patient in surprise. D’feng? Her working hours meant that she sometimes lagged a day or so behind in the Weyr’s news, and she hadn’t heard anything about a serious injury to one of Madellon’s most senior riders.

D’feng didn’t seem to have heard the Weyr Healer’s reassurances. He clung suddenly to the journeyman who was still restraining his head with clumsy, bandaged hands. “You, you, who are you, I know you… Sejanth, no, don’t flame, don’t…”

“Hold him,” the Healer Master said grimly, and when four pairs of hands held D’feng motionless, he administered more of the sedative mixture. The bronze rider relaxed slowly, his eyes drooping shut. Heftan felt for the carotid pulse at D’feng’s throat, and nodded to his Master.

“Thank you, riders,” the Weyr Healer said to C’los and M’ric. “C’los, wait for me in my office; I’ll be with you shortly. Heftan, if your patient can manage without you, I’d like your help here…”

“What happened with D’feng?” Sarenya demanded of C’los as the Master Healer closed the curtain on the bronze rider’s cubicle.

“Accident in flaming drill,” C’los replied. He looked sidelong at M’ric. “Why don’t you ask your friend the Wingsecond?”

“M’ric’s not a Wingsecond.”

“Ha!” C’los crowed. “Wrong!”

She looked blankly at M’ric. “Are you?”

The brown rider rubbed his jaw with one knuckle, looking faintly embarrassed. “Well…”

“You need to pay more attention, Saren,” C’los gloated. “It’s been all round the Weyr, and you didn’t know!”

“Would you shut up, for the love of Faranth?” Sarenya said, exasperated. “What happened, M’ric?”

“Sejanth lost his head in drill and flamed himself.”

“You weren’t there,” said M’ric, and a stern note in his voice made C’los recoil slightly. M’ric turned to Sarenya, and continued in his normal tone. “After the accident, the North Central Wingseconds took command. Sh’zon was my superior at the Peninsula , and he impressed the Weyrleader.”

“T’kamen promoted him on the spot,” C’los cut in.

M’ric looked at the green rider, then back at Sarenya. “Is he always like this?”

Ignoring C’los’ baits was one way to deal with him. “Sometimes he’s worse.”

The brown rider shrugged. “Sh’zon was made acting Wingleader, and the Weyrleader approved his choice of me as acting Wingsecond.”

C’los pounced. “So it’s only interim rank?”

“Something like that,” M’ric agreed.

“I guess it makes sense,” said C’los. “Half a rank for a man with half a dragon.”

“C’los!” Sarenya exclaimed, outraged.

“What?”

But M’ric seemed unconcerned by C’los’ jibe. “It’s all right, Saren.”

“It’s not all right,” Sarenya insisted, glaring at the green rider. “You know, C’los, one day, something’s going to fly into that big mouth of yours, and I’m going to have a good laugh at your expense.”

“Make it a day when your ribs aren’t broken, Saren,” C’los retorted and, with a backhanded wave, he strolled away.

Sarenya groaned and looked up at M’ric. “Don’t mind C’los,” she said wearily. “He likes to think he’s clever. He doesn’t usually mean to cause offence.”

“I’m not offended, Saren,” he told her.

“Really?”

“Really.” M’ric offered her the cup of cooled willowsalic. “Drink your tea.”

Sarenya accepted the change of subject as non-negotiable. “So you’re a Wingsecond,” she said instead, taking the cup from him.

“I’m a Wingsecond.”

“Just once, I’d like to see you wearing accurate rank knots.” Sarenya sipped her tea and grimaced at the bitterness. “Won’t there be a lot for you to learn, being so new to Madellon?”

“J’tron will direct a lot of the proceedings until Sh’zon and I are up to speed,” he replied.

“Was Sejanth badly hurt?”

“Firestone burn is always bad,” M’ric said soberly. “Poisonous. D’feng was protected to a certain extent by his wherhides, and wingsail regenerates fast, but if it’s got into Sejanth’s blood…”

“You think it might not be an interim rank for long?”

M’ric shook his head slowly. “I wouldn’t like to speculate.”

Heftan came back into the cubicle then. “I’m sorry about that, Sarenya,” he apologised. “You’ll need to drink all of that tea.”

Sarenya made a face, but gulped down the remainder of the willowsalic. “Thank you, journeyman, that was revolting,” she said, handing the cup back.

“If it doesn’t taste bad it’s not doing you any good,” he replied. “How’s that feeling?”

Saren cautiously peeled the melting compress away from her ribs. Her side was unpleasantly cold, but the burning seemed to have subsided. “Better, I think.”

“Good. Good.” Heftan took the dripping ice pack and handed Sarenya the packet of willowsalic and numbweed tin. “You’ll need both of these. If it gets worse and you need a stronger analgesic, or if you feel any sharp, stabbing pains, or start coughing up blood, then you’ll need to call a Healer immediately. Otherwise, I’d like to see you again the day after tomorrow.”

“Thank you, journeyman,” said Sarenya. “I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time.”

“Just try not to get on the wrong side of any more frisky rams,” Heftan chuckled.

“What will happen to that ram?” M’ric asked.

“If he’s lucky, he’ll become some dragon’s dinner,” Saren replied, easing herself cautiously to her feet.

“And if he’s not lucky?”

Sarenya smiled. “Let’s just say that he won’t be the ram he used to be.”

M’ric raised an eyebrow.

“The process is known as wethering.”

The brown rider winced. “Do something for me, Sarenya.”

“What’s that?”

“Remind me never to cross a Beastcrafter. Your methods of chastisement are really unforgiving.”

Chapter Eleven: That Glimpse Of Love

“So anyway,” Leah continued, mindful of keeping her audience’s attention, “my da C’los and his weyrmate C’mine grew up with T’kamen, and that’s why he’s not all ‘you blue and green riders are beneath we mighty bronze riders’, because it’s not the colour of the dragon that matters, it’s how smart the rider is at making the best of his situation.”

Kessirke, Jenafa, and Bela were quick to agree, but behind them, Kodam made a scornful noise. “Shows what you know,” he said. “You’re not even Weyrbred.”

“If being Weyrbred means looking and smelling like you, I’m glad,” Leah retorted. “My da’s a rider.”

“Yeah,” Kodam agreed, “a green rider, and greens are pretty stupid.”

Leah turned on him. “Oh, and you’d know!”

Kodam gave a snort. “If your da’s so smart, how come he never got promoted?”

“Give over, Kodam,” a new voice cut in. Harrenar had dropped back from where he’d been walking at the front of the procession of candidates. “You’re not making yourself any friends.”

Kodam shot him a resentful look, and seemed about to answer back, but something stopped him, and he skulked off to join his own friends.

“Thanks,” Leah said to Harrenar, glancing sideways at him. The oldest of the candidates, and Weyrbred, Harrenar stood out as much for his quiet authority as for his striking appearance. His hair would have been dark were it not for the premature greying that had already turned half of it white, and his eyes were very pale, but he had a ready smile, and Leah couldn’t find much to dislike about him.

“He was spoiling for a fight,” Harrenar said. “It’s easy to get dragged in.” He flashed her a grin that warmed his almost colourless eyes, then lengthened his stride to catch up with Folzal and Murrany.

“I wonder if I could get Mine to put some money on him for me,” Leah mused to herself. Then she noticed Bela’s avid gaze, and rolled her eyes. “Get that expression off your face.”

Bela didn’t look chagrined. “Do you suppose, if I got the queen, and he got a bronze…”

“Didn’t I tell you to get that rubbish out of your head?” Leah scolded. “It’s only in Harpers’ tales that everyone falls in love in mating flights.”

“But your da’s got a weyrmate,” Jenafa pointed out.

“Oh, they were together long before Indioth ever rose, and Darshanth doesn’t always catch her.” Leah heaved an exaggerated sigh. Disabusing the Holdbred Bela and Jenafa of their romanticised notions was going to be more difficult than she’d thought. “L’stev already told you, mating flights don’t mean anything. And he’s right!”

Jenafa didn’t have a chance to reply as the candidates reached their destination. The Weyrlingmaster had stopped at the entrance to the dragon infirmary, wearing the grumpy expression that Leah, from Turns of association with the brown rider, knew to be a front. “When you go inside you’re going to sit down, shut up, and listen to what Master Vhion has to teach you,” L’stev told them. “There are sick dragons in here, and if one of them so much as twitches because you’ve disturbed him, you’re going to be mucking him out for a month.”

Even the most boisterous of the candidates took that threat seriously. They filed into the cavern in silence. The antiseptic smells of redwort and numbweed immediately met Leah’s nostrils, and she shivered, reminded of the shelter that had been improvised for Darshanth at Kellad while his burns had healed.

Vhion, the Master Dragon-healer, ambled out of one of the bays, wiping his hands on a cloth. “Ah, L’stev, you’re here with your youngsters.” He beamed around at the candidates.

“This is Master Vhion,” L’stev informed the class. “He’s one of Pern’s most experienced Dragon-healers. Madellon is lucky to have him, and so are you. This is who you’ll be coming to if your dragonets need help with injuries or illness. Do as he says. I’ll be back to give you your chores at the end of the session.”

Most of the candidates managed to stifle their groans, but Vhion’s grin broadened. “Thank you, Weyrlingmaster.” He regarded the candidates with a keen gaze that belied his plump, bumbling appearance. “Well, now, if you’d all like to follow me, we’ll be starting with some theory in the teaching room.”

The cavern to which they were led branched off the main infirmary, and had obviously been designed for humans rather than dragons. Rows of benches faced an open area. Slates and chalk lay at intervals along each bench, and three large blackboards on the wall displayed painted diagrams of dragon anatomy. Blue notations on one of them suggested a recent lesson. The other walls bore pictures and studies of dragons: wings, heads, legs, claws, all beautifully rendered and labelled.

“You may all take seats, but be sure that you can see,” said Vhion, walking towards the blackboards. “All the basics I’ll be teaching you today will be vital to the care of your dragons if you Impress.”

Leah led Bela, Kessirke, and Jenafa towards a place near the end of a bench on the middle row. The rest of the class spread out. Several of the boys, including Kodam, took seats at the very back.

Master Vhion was wiping the blue chalk from the board with a cloth when three more people entered the teaching room. “Aha, journeymen, I trust you’ve fortified yourselves with klah?”

The two male Crafters were both Healers, by their rank cords, but Leah recognised the third journeyman. “Saren!” she hissed at the Beastcrafter, stretching her arm across the empty place at the end of the bench beside her to stop anyone else taking it. “Over here!”

Sarenya made her way rather gingerly across the teaching room, and finally took the seat Leah was saving. “Hello, Leah.”

“Did you hurt yourself?” Leah asked, looking askance at the normally energetic Beastcrafter.

Sarenya made a face. “That’s a long story. I thought I might see you here.”

“You’re not going to be standing for the clutch, are you?” Leah asked, without thinking.

“No.” Sarenya smiled briefly, though she didn’t look in Leah’s direction as she went on. “I’ve been seconded to Master Vhion. He only has Rymon to assist him at the moment, and he’ll need more to help out with the dragonets once Shimpath’s eggs Hatch. My Master thought this would be a useful way for me to spend my time while I’m indisposed to be wrestling with cows. Zafandrie and Kat are here to learn about the liniments and tonics the dragonets will need.”

Leah schooled herself not to ask any more tactless questions. She admired Sarenya, and it was unfair to drag up the old failure. “So you’ll be helping with the weyrling class?”

“It looks that way,” Sarenya agreed. “Anyone I should look out for?”

“All them,” Leah said, indicating the boys at the back of the room with an indiscreet jerk of her head.

Sarenya looked casually in their direction, and then away. “I’m familiar with Goridar. What about the others?”

“Dastur, the one with the blond hair, and Kodam in the blue shirt – they’re Goridar’s friends,” said Leah. “And that’s Rastevon on the end, but he’s not one of them. He’s L’stev’s son. He’s always making trouble.”

“Sometimes it’s important to put some distance between yourself and your family,” Sarenya said. “And the others? Anyone I should be putting money on?”

“That’s Sinter two rows in front, next to that Healer,” said Leah, pointing out the slight lad. “Darshanth Searched him. And these are Kessirke and Jenafa and Bela.” She indicated the three girls sitting the other side of her. Sarenya nodded politely to them.

“Over there, with the grey hair, that’s Harrenar, who Bela fancies,” Leah went on, ignoring the other girl’s mortified gasp, “and next to him that one with the long face is Murrany. He’s one of Darshanth’s too.” She lowered her voice and confided, “His wife died, and he couldn’t bear to stay at Kellad, so he asked C’mine if he could come to the Weyr.”

“You should probably keep that to yourself,” Sarenya told her.

Leah didn’t blush at the mild admonition, but she felt deflated. What was the point in gossip if you couldn’t pass it on? “Well, it’s true,” she said, a touch defensively.

“Who’s the lad with the fire-lizards?” Sarenya asked.

Leah looked. “Gidra? He’s from the Seacraft at Blue Shale Hold.”

Sarenya frowned thoughtfully. “I was there five Turns, but I don’t recognise him.”

Leah looked at Saren’s shoulders, noticing the absence of her lizard pair. “Where are yours today?”

“Sleek had a little accident about a sevenday ago,” Sarenya replied, with an edge in her voice. “He broke some of the finger bones in his wing, so he’s grounded.”

“What about Tarnish?”

“He’s got other things on his mind at the moment.” Sarenya nodded towards Vhion. “I think the Master is about to start.”

The Master Dragon-healer was scanning the room, counting. “Well, I think we’re all present and accounted for,” he said at last. “So I believe I’ll begin.

“The purpose of the time you’ll spend with me as candidates is to learn some of the fundaments of a dragon’s physical constitution. Young dragons in particular are prone to a whole range of complaints – most of which I’m sure will come to my attention in the months and Turns ahead.” He beamed again, as if that were something to be hotly anticipated. “But before we can study how to treat a sick dragon, we need to know how a healthy one should look and feel and behave.

“Now, some of you are going to Impress in a few sevendays’ time when Shimpath’s eggs have hardened. I’m sure the Weyrlingmaster has advised you adequately of the nature and depth of the dragon-rider bond. If your dragonet is in pain or discomfort, you’ll certainly be the first to know! Young dragons don’t hold back, and so they shouldn’t. If something hurts, there’s usually a good reason, and problems left untreated in a dragonet can potentially turn into permanent weaknesses in an adult.” Vhion paused, then added brightly, “You are all taking notes, I hope?”

Every candidate in the class hastily picked up his or her chalk. Leah started to scrawl down a summary of what Vhion had just explained, noticing that Sarenya was trying to hide a smile.

“A healthy dragon’s hide is smooth and glossy, and feels silky to the touch,” Vhion continued. “Sometimes, if the dragon is an unusual shade of his colour, it’s more difficult to make a visual judgement, but if his hide feels slack or rough or sweaty, there’s a problem. The cause can be as simple as dehydration or hunger, in which case a drink or meal will usually remedy it, but as you get to know your dragonets’ needs, they should never want for food or water. On the other hand, it’s very easy for a dragonet who thinks he’s starving to eat too much, and believe me when I say that a dragon with indigestion – or constipation – or diarrhoea – is not a pretty sight.”

A titter ran through the class, accompanied by much wrinkling of noses. Leah rolled her eyes..

“However, I said I’d start with a healthy dragon’s condition, so if you’ll turn your attention to this fine fellow here –” Vhion indicated the detailed sketch of a dragon’s head on the central blackboard, “– I’d like to begin with his senses.” The Dragon-healer looked at the class with a slightly pained expression. “Some Turns ago, one of my more excruciating apprentices named this dragon Health.” Amid the resultant chorus of groans, Vhion went on, “An atrocious pun, I’m sure you’ll agree, but nonetheless it seems to have stuck.”

Leah heard Sarenya murmur, “He trots that one out every time.”

“As most of you know, humans have five main senses: touch, taste, sight, smell, and hearing. Dragons have the same five, and in addition a sixth, which we loosely define as their telepathic sense – the part that links them to their rider, and permits them to communicate without what we would think of as words, amongst other things.” With his blue chalk, Vhion circled the depiction of the dragon’s faceted eye. “A dragon’s eyes are quite different to a human’s. There is neither iris nor pupil, but instead this multi-lensed structure you can see on the diagram. It gives a dragon both excellent long sight and night vision superior to any human’s. You can also see that where we have one set of eyelids and eyelashes to protect our eyes, dragons have three sets of lids and no lashes.” He tapped a single facet with his chalk. “Dragons’ eyes also change colour depending on mood. Green and blue indicate that the dragon is happy, content, comfortable, while grey usually indicates pain or discomfort. White or yellow can indicate fear, alarm, danger. Shades of red and orange can mean something as simple as hunger, or they can mean anger or mating arousal. The exact shades vary from dragon to dragon, but you’ll have a better idea of what colour means what when you’ve Impressed – you’ll know first-hand what your dragon is feeling.

“You’ll probably have observed at some point that dragons have no ears, but that doesn’t mean they’re deaf. Dragons can hear sounds, probably through the headknobs.” Vhion pointed to that part of the dragon’s anatomy. “However the sense of hearing is a secondary concern to a dragon. You will mostly communicate mind-to-mind, and this holds true even when you address your dragon aloud.

“Smell and taste,” and Vhion circled the nostrils and mouth of the dragon, in turn, “are also secondary senses. A dragon’s sense of smell is no better than yours or mine, and his sense of taste is extremely primitive. Those of you who’ve handled firestone will know how hard it would be to persuade a dragon to chew it if he could taste the stuff! Most of his appreciation of food comes from the texture. A young, succulent herdbeast that’s rich with fat will feel much better in his mouth than a tough old wherry. Dragons have two kinds of teeth, like we do – sharp ones to rip and tear meat at the front, and broad, blunt grinding teeth at the back, to chew food and firestone. The adult fangs take some time to grow in, which is why young dragons must have their food cut up for them.

“Dragon hide is very tough, and dragons are extremely resistant to the cold because of it. Your dragonets will undoubtedly be complaining of itches for most of the first two Turns of their lives, simply because of their phenomenal rate of growth. When they reach adult size, less skin stretching occurs, and less itching, but while they’re young you’ll have to keep your dragonets’ skins well oiled to prevent flaws developing.” Vhion touched the depiction of the eye ridge with his chalk. “Most dragons love to be stroked and scratched. Eye ridges are often very sensitive, but that’s something else that varies from dragon to dragon.

“Going back to the headknobs, we understand them to be related to the telepathic sense. If you compare a fire-lizard to a dragon,” and he pointed at the pair of blue lizards perching on Gidra’s shoulders, “you will notice that a lizard’s headknobs are much more primitive, almost under-developed, by comparison. That’s not to say that a dragon with pronounced headknobs is any more telepathic than normal.”

Vhion paused, and most of the class seemed to breathe a silent sigh of relief. Leah scribbled down the last of what he had said and massaged her cramped fingers. The furious scratch of chalk on slate from all around suggested that she was one of the first to finish, but then not everyone had the benefit of a Harperhall upbringing. “How come you don’t have to take notes?” she whispered to Sarenya.

“We went over this earlier,” the Beastcrafter replied.

“Did it hurt your hand, too?”

Saren shook her head. “I’ve been a journeyman more than six Turns and I was an apprentice for seven. I’ve learned how to take notes in shorthand.”

“Everyone finished?” Master Vhion asked gaily, even though the sound of frantic writing indicated that not everyone was. “I’m sure you’d all like a break from the classroom. We have several dragons in with minor complaints this morning, and their riders have given their permission for you to come around and see how they’re being treated. So, if you’d all like to come this way – bring your slates – and I’ll have to ask you to keep your voices down, as there’s one very sick dragon who needs peace and quiet.”

“I missed all that about headknobs,” Kessirke hissed to Leah. “Can I look at your notes?”

Leah handed her slate to the younger girl. “Will you be all right?” she asked Sarenya as the rest of the candidates started to leave their seats.

“So long as no one runs into me,” Saren replied. “Don’t wait for me. I’ll be lurking at the back.”

As the class gradually filtered through the doorway, Harrenar’s friend Folzal approached Leah. He was a reserved, unremarkable young man, whose untidy hair made him look like he’d got up in too much of a hurry. “Who was that you were talking to?”

“Saren?” Leah asked. “She’s a friend of my da’s.”

“Saren,” Folzal repeated, in a glazed sort of voice.

Leah shot him a direct look. “Don’t even think about it. She’d laugh in your face, and anyway, she’s taken.”

Folzal looked crestfallen. “You’re sure?”

“Quite sure,” Leah said airily. And then, because Folzal wouldn’t tell her off, she added, “Of course, if you want to go and fight T’kamen for her, you’re entirely welcome to try.”

“She’s… The Weyrleader?” He threw a distinctly nervous glance in Sarenya’s direction.

Leah shrugged. “I wouldn’t trouble yourself about it. Anyway,” and she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “Arina likes you.”

“Really?” Folzal blinked, looked at the slight blonde girl from Jessaf, and then asked, “Really?”

Leah nodded sagely. “And you know, you should really make the most of it now, before you Impress, or you’ll be waiting a Turn for the good stuff.”

Folzal’s eyes widened. “Thanks, Leah,” he said, sounding like he wasn’t sure if he should be thrilled or terrified.

Leah chuckled to herself as the bemused Folzal hurried to catch up with Arina. Men – especially young men – were so easy to manipulate when you were in possession of the relevant facts. He’d owe her now, and while Leah wasn’t in the business of extorting favours and promises out of people, she was too much her father’s daughter to be blind to the importance of networking.

“If you’ll wait here for a few moments, I’ll see if our patients are ready for you,” Vhion told the class, with yet more of that apparently permanent jollity.

Leah drifted apart from her friends to think. She’d always liked to be in the thick of things – not necessarily as the centre of attention, although she wasn’t averse to that when the occasion demanded – but always involved. In the few sevendays she’d been at the Weyr as a candidate, Leah had found herself in a good position to study her fellows. She occupied a middle ground between the Weyrbred candidates and those from Crafts and Holds. Brought up at the Harperhall at Kellad Hold, but thoroughly acquainted with Weyr culture through her green rider sire, Leah had a perspective on all three cultures. Naijen came from a similar background – born to a rider and brought up by his Holdbred father – but he hadn’t spent the time at Madellon that Leah had over the Turns. Her understanding of Pern’s diverse social structures gave her a broad appeal to candidates with more limited education. She was a natural hub, gathering and disseminating information with equal facility, and very little went on in the candidate community that didn’t get back to her. Leah had an exhaustive knowledge of those candidates who liked each other, those who were rivals, and those whose mutual attraction had led to more than friendship. She knew which of the girls had been brought in merely as pretty faces and which were viable prospects for the queen – and which, of both types, frequented the weyrs of their sponsoring bronze riders. She even had a good idea of who would Impress what – or rather, who would be best suited to each colour under ideal circumstances. But there was one thing Leah didn’t know, and it disturbed her sleep each night, more so even than the furtive sounds of Shenaz sneaking out of the cubicle they shared to meet with Korralthe. Leah didn’t know what colour she herself would Impress, if she Impressed at all, and further, she couldn’t decide what she would prefer.

Leah had never let her unusual parentage either embarrass or obstruct her. Some people called her dragonspawn, but the fact was that she’d been conceived before her father had Impressed. The truth of the relationship between her parents was both complex and, as far as Leah had ever been concerned, private. She had spent her life ignoring the eyebrows people raised when they found out that her father rode a green dragon. C’los had never shirked his responsibility to her, and Leah had a second father in C’mine. Growing up in the relaxed atmosphere of the Harperhall rather than the Hold proper had probably spared her the worst of the jeers, but Leah had simply never risen to the taunts.

She had known from her earliest Turns that she would be allowed to stand for a Madellon clutch – when she came of age. It wouldn’t have been possible for her to grow up with her father, and both C’los and Robyn had wanted her to have the benefit of a Harperhall upbringing like their own. Five Turns ago, at nine, Leah had been too young for the last clutch, and since her twelfth Turnday she had chafed for the queen to rise again, bothering her father and his weyrmate for news of any sign that Shimpath might be close to mating.

The forest fire at Kellad had overshadowed the queen’s eventual flight for Leah, and C’mine’s recovery had featured higher in her mind than any thought of candidacy. But as the blue rider’s wounds had healed, he had promised that when he returned to the Weyr, she would come with him to take her rightful place as a candidate for Shimpath and Epherineth’s clutch.

Leah had attended every Madellon Hatching since her birth, with the exception of one when a bad head cold had prohibited her from going between. Dragon eggs were nothing new to her, but when she and Sinterlion and Murrany had gone into the Hatching cavern to look at the clutch, the enormity of the situation had suddenly hit her. It wasn’t an ordinary clutch. One girl would Impress the hatchling that emerged from the precious golden egg, and that girl wouldn’t just be a dragonrider – she would be a Weyrwoman.

The cynicism that was her father’s legacy, and her mother’s pragmatic nature, had planted Leah’s feet firmly on the ground from an early age. The fact that queen eggs were extremely rare, combined with her lack of tolerance for overblown romanticism, meant that she had never seriously considered or even fantasised about Impressing a queen. It was pointless – and Leah had always scoffed at the banal songs and ballads that so many female Harper apprentices wrote on the subject. Now, she found herself unnervingly close to becoming the cliché she had derided for so long.

Leah could have argued the case for green over gold in her sleep. Green dragons were faster and more agile, smaller and thus easier to tend; they could chew firestone and fly in the fighting Wings. They weren’t burdened with the tedious chore of procreation that chained queens and their riders to the Hatching Ground. Their flights were fast, frequent, and fun. They didn’t have the overbearing personalities of queens, and nor did they come with a massive set of responsibilities. A green rider had freedoms that a Weyrwoman did not.

But seeing that gold egg, and knowing that within it slept instant power and privilege for the chosen girl, had affected Leah in a way she couldn’t explain. Perhaps, after fourteen Turns of exposure, those same silly apprentice compositions had actually infiltrated her mind. Or maybe the knowledge that whoever Impressed the hatchling queen would be the absolute centre of attention had something to do with it.

Leah knew that draconic choice sometimes seemed completely arbitrary. Her father’s comments on various riders – mostly bronze – certainly called hatchling intelligence into question. She thought about the other female candidates. Soleigh and Maris, the two Weyrbred girls everyone always mentioned in the same breath, had all but stated that they weren’t going to look at the queen. Ivaryo was happily working her way through the Weyr’s younger male riders, and Leah couldn’t see a queen choosing her. Jardesse was stupid, Chenda was spiteful, and Lisette was two-faced. Kessirke was too young to Impress a dragon, in Leah’s opinion. Jenafa would be funny about mating flights, and Bela was next to useless under pressure. Most of the others were trophy candidates. There wasn’t a single one to whom Leah would be happy to defer in a crisis.

Or maybe her natural aversion to being on the fringes was compelling her to desire the most pivotal position, not only in the weyrling class that would result from the clutch, but in the Weyr itself? Leah wasn’t sure if she wanted to shoulder the responsibilities and restrictions that came with a queen dragon, but even the thought of it filled her with a strange kind of anticipation – and expectation. She’d never been very good at settling for second place. Grace in defeat, Leah conceded honestly, was not one of her strengths. She took too frank a line with herself to deny that her desire to excel in all things had a bearing on her contemplation of becoming a queen rider.

L’stev had warned them early on that boys with preconceptions about what colour they wanted to Impress often ended up with nothing at all – a candidate focusing only on attracting a bronze could discourage a brown or blue from choosing him. The Weyrlingmaster had been less forthcoming about how the girls should behave. Leah felt certain that half or more of her fellow female candidates would focus on the gold egg, to the exclusion of any greens that might Hatch before it. After the queen dragonet had made her choice, some of the rejected girls would certainly turn their attention to the greens, while others, too desolate by their failure to attract the golden hatchling, would be closed to a green Impression. Leah suspected that L’stev shared her reservations about the suitability of many of the Searched candidates, and preferred not to encourage the more useless girls towards fighting dragons. There were enough boys for the greens to choose from once all the receptive girls had been taken.

But Leah’s conflicting feelings about that egg were interfering with her planned strategy. If she faced the clutch with an open mind, a green could choose her before the queen ever had a chance. But if she concentrated on the gold egg, and it Hatched towards the end of the Impression ceremony, she might miss out on Impressing a dragon at all, and that would be terrible – as would be her humiliation of acting like the silliest of Holdbred girls who just wanted to be queen riders.

If she could only reconcile her ambiguity towards that shard-blasted queen egg, Leah thought, she would be content. She didn’t trouble herself with false modesty – her father was a rider, her mother could have been; she was young, healthy, fit, well educated in Weyr ways, and prepared to make the sacrifices required of a dragonrider. Darshanth had given her his formal approval – if anything about that blue could ever be said to be formal. Leah had all the environmental advantages a candidate could want. And yet a tiny voice of doubt in the remotest corner of her mind still troubled her. What if, for whatever reason, she didn’t Impress? Yes, she was young enough to stand again, and yes, there would be more opportunities when the queen from this clutch matured, but that left her at a loose end for three or four Turns, and there was no guarantee that she would Impress on a second attempt, either. There was a place for her at the Harperhall, she knew, because her voice was good enough that she could live out a comfortable existence there. But she had never apprenticed and, like C’los, didn’t have the inclination to be a true Harper. It was an unappealing prospect indeed, compared to the lifestyle of a dragonrider.

Master Vhion’s voice, somewhat more hushed than it had been, broke into Leah’s thoughts. “We’re ready for you now, candidates. If you’d all remember to keep a bit quiet…”

The Dragon-healer indicated the closest bay. The infirmary comprised a single large cavern divided into open-fronted areas, each big enough to accommodate an adult dragon. The bays, Leah noticed, were spotlessly clean. The sand that usually filled dragons’ wallows presumably posed an uncomfortable risk to wounded beasts, and rushes, instead, covered the floor.

The green dragon crouching beside her rider was holding her wings awkwardly high. “Melith here has sustained a very common injury for green dragons,” Vhion told the class. “Green rider, would you explain what’s happened?”

“Melith rose to mate last night,” said the green’s rider, an attractive blonde woman. “The brown who caught her took harder hold of her than he should have.”

“The lacerations on her wing-shoulders are quite plain,” said Vhion.

The wounds looked like they’d been made by the claws of a much larger dragon, and they oozed greenish ichor. Leah winced. Her father’s Indioth had several scars on her shoulders from rough matings, and C’los had been known to berate the riders of offending males with all his considerable eloquence.

“Injuries like this are, as I say, quite common in greens, and most are easily treated. An initial cleansing with redwort,” and the Dragon-healer indicated a bucket, “and then regular applications of numbweed for the pain. Melith’s injuries are somewhat deeper than might be expected, however, and will require sutures. That’s one aspect of dragon care I don’t recommend you try.” Vhion’s assistant, a tall young man in a nondescript smock without any markings of rank, carried a stepladder into the bay, and the Master continued, “As you can see, accessing a dragon’s wings requires a certain amount of assistance, even for Rymon here!”

A blue occupied the next bay, a beast whose age showed as much in the greyness of his muzzle as by the appearance of his rider. “Yezzath’s one of Madellon’s veterans,” said Vhion, with a note of affection in his voice that spoke of long association with the old blue and his rider.

“Even veterans sometimes catch a talon hunting,” Yezzath’s rider rasped, patting his dragon’s shoulder.

“You can see how the talon has been torn from the nail bed. It’ll have to be removed, of course.” Vhion’s cheerfully graphic description made Leah, and most of the other candidates, squirm. “Redwort again, and numbweed for the pain, and the talon will be cut away from the forepaw. It will regrow in a couple of sevendays. Young dragons just learning to hunt for themselves are especially prone to this sort of injury.”

Then the Dragon-healer’s manner became more serious, and he folded his hands behind his back, scanning the candidates solemnly. “The last dragon you’re going to see is very badly wounded indeed. The Weyrlingmaster specifically asked that you see him, as a warning to you of how serious and dangerous an undertaking it is, becoming a dragonrider.”

“Sejanth,” Leah murmured, and she heard the name repeated by several of her classmates.

Master Vhion led them to the last bay on the end of the row, away from the activity of the main infirmary. The first few candidates to reach it stopped abruptly, and some of them gasped, or swallowed hard. All of them looked, their eyes fixed upon the bay’s tenant.

The bronze dragon lay motionless on the soft rushes of his bed. His eyes were open, but dull, almost grey, and moving so slowly that they might as well have been stationary. His hide held no lustre. And worst by far, horribly, obscenely, his right wing was almost gone. A few shreds of membrane, scorched and blackened, still clung to the awful wreck of bones, but most of the wingsail and entire areas of cartilage just weren’t there any more.

“This is Sejanth, Wingleader D’feng’s dragon,” said Vhion. “There was an accident in firestone drill three days ago. As you can see, the effects of firestone flame on living matter are severe.”

Leah would have liked to look away from the horribly maimed dragon, but she couldn’t. She had known D’feng – not sociably, for C’los had never liked the bronze rider who had once been L’dro’s right-hand man – but by reputation, and for all the man’s faults, she would never, ever have wished this fate on any dragon.

“The queen, Shimpath, is helping Sejanth with his pain,” Vhion went on. “His rider was also very badly wounded, and without Shimpath’s support Sejanth could lose the will to continue.” The Dragon-healer’s voice spoke sympathetically, but with stark honesty. “The obvious damage to his wing, while extreme, may heal in time, although he won’t fly again. Less visible, however, are the complications involved with a firestone burn. There is very little we can do to help Sejanth fight the firestone poisoning of his own flame. We douse him with numbweed hourly for the surface pain, and aloe to soothe the burn and promote healing, and Shimpath compels him to eat and drink. His water,” and Vhion indicated the big trough, “is heavily laced with several tonics to help strengthen his body and allow regeneration to take place.” The Master Dragon-healer paused, and then added, “As future dragonriders, you should be made aware of the reason behind the most obvious omission. Sejanth’s rider, D’feng, has been sedated with a strong dose of fellis juice for the pain. Sejanth, however, has not, and there is one very simple and crucially important reason for this: fellis juice is toxic to dragonkind.” Vhion shook his head. “At times like this we may wish it were otherwise, but the fact is that a dose large enough to provide the pain relief that we associate with fellis would be poisonous, if not fatal, to a dragon. An analgesic such as willowsalic, which a Healer might use as a milder alternative to fellis, is simply not strong enough to ease a dragon’s pain in any quantity. In that, Sejanth is alone.”

Master Vhion fell silent. Leah continued to look at Sejanth, hearing his laboured breathing, smelling the reek of burned bone that the numbweed could not mask. A profound change had come over the class. Even the least sententious members of the group stared at the disfigured bronze with a kind of sick horror. There was something unnerving about the sight of a dragon so humbled, somewhat akin to how Leah thought she would feel in the sun failed to come up one day, or if the solid, immutable ground were suddenly to fall away. All her experience of dragonkind had not prepared her for the pathetic reality of what had happened to D’feng’s dragon.

“That’s the responsibility you accept,” L’stev’s voice growled from the back of the class. Leah hadn’t been aware of the Weyrlingmaster’s presence, too transfixed by Sejanth. “That’s why you can’t be anything but absolutely serious about becoming dragonriders, because if you’re any less than completely dedicated, your dragon will suffer. And then you’ll suffer.”

The eerie quiet held for several moments more, as the candidates absorbed the Weyrlingmaster’s words.

Finally, L’stev said, “Thank you, Master Vhion.”

The Dragon-healer inclined his head. “Weyrlingmaster.”

And in silence, still in universal contemplation of the grisly object lesson of bronze Sejanth, the candidates fell in line and followed L’stev sombrely from the infirmary.

Chapter Twelve: Greed Will Bring The Weyr Distress

It wasn’t really that bad, T’kamen thought, chewing valiantly. Not really. Not unbearably.

“See what I mean?” F’halig persisted. He had already pushed his bowl away.

T’kamen swallowed, with difficulty. “It’s a bit chewy,” he admitted.

The brown rider gave him a flat look. “If it were any denser, I’d be regurgitating it for a second go.”

T’kamen sighed and looked dourly at his dish of porridge. “It’s edible,” he said, wondering if his spoon would stand up in it.

F’halig snorted. “I know our supplies are a little low, but I’m sure we can do better than this.”

“No one’s doing better than this,” said T’kamen. “You’ve flown sweeps since the summer. You’ve seen what the fields look like.”

His Wingsecond exhaled a heavy breath, and reached unenthusiastically for his bowl. “I don’t want to think about what this is doing to my digestion.”

T’kamen made himself swallow another spoonful of the stuff, coarse and lumpy with the grains that would have been better suited to animal feed. “Consider it a test of your constitution, if you like.”

They worked their way through the stodgy cereal in silence. T’kamen looked around the dining hall as he ate, taking in the telling details. There were more gaps at the long tables than he remembered from the last time he’d eaten his morning meal with the Weyr. He did so infrequently, preferring to have his meals brought to where he could eat them without having to stop work. D’feng’s accident, besides being the kind of tragedy that no Weyrleader liked to see, had increased T’kamen’s workload to the point where there were just too few hours in the day. He could feel things getting away from him, and the fine balance that separated order from chaos seemed more precarious all the time.

It had been manageable at first. With D’feng taking care of much of the number-work, and Valonna handling some of her duties as Weyrwoman, T’kamen had been able to turn his attention to righting some of L’dro’s wrongs. He had broken down the rank hierarchy and then rebuilt it, filtering out the least competent Wingleaders and Wingseconds and replacing them with men whose talents had been stifled under L’dro. He had reawakened the fighting spirit of riders grown apathetic under weak leaders and infrequent drills. He had brought in new journeymen and Masters to supplement the skeleton staff of Craft personnel that had been struggling to meet the Weyr’s needs for Turns. He had terminated the agreements L’dro had made with the Lords of Madellon territory, and negotiated new ones.

After that, everything had started to slide.

The deals T’kamen had been forced to make with the Madellon Lords had unpopular repercussions. Without the income from dragon transportation, the Weyr’s coffers were low, and it had been necessary for T’kamen to reduce the raise he’d promised to each rider’s stipend. Transporting tithe products in quantity by dragon rankled with some riders, who spoke out against the use of their mounts as burden-beasts. T’kamen was not unsympathetic to their complaints, but if the Madellon Holders were to keep to the deal, the Weyr must fulfil its side, too. He had not yet begun selection or training of the fire-fighting Wing he had promised Meturvian: that, though, was an oversight the Kellad Lord need not know about, and the autumn rainfall meant that wildfire was a distant threat.

In return, the Holds supplied the bare minimum T’kamen and D’feng had calculated Madellon needed to survive, less what the Weyr could hunt or produce itself. The quality of the morning porridge was an early symptom of the shortages that would strike Pern when the full effects of the arid summer played out, and the conspicuous absence of half the Weyr’s riders at breakfast was ample evidence of their discontent. T’kamen suspected that the complaints would continue for some time, right up until the last Hold stockpiles ran out and everyone on Pern started to struggle. There would be fewer objections to lumpy porridge then.

The task of managing the Weyr’s supplies – usually the Weyrwoman’s duty, and if not then the responsibility of the Headwoman – had fallen to T’kamen. Valonna’s contribution had ended with the laying of Shimpath’s clutch, and the Headwoman, Adrissa, had neither the intelligence nor the imagination to manage Madellon’s store caverns adequately. Under L’dro, D’feng had administrated the storerooms with a steward’s efficiency, and he had continued in that capacity when Epherineth had flown Shimpath. Now, T’kamen regretted his lack of patience with the tedious bronze rider. He had taken D’feng’s mathematical abilities for granted, not fully comprehending his value until the chore of handling the interminable figures had, like everything else, come to him. T’kamen’s private issues with the rider who had been functioning as his second paled into insignificance against his personal and professional grief for a man whose dragon would probably never fly again, if they even both survived. It was, perhaps, petty of him to take D’feng’s accident as a personal affront, but the entire Weyr was reliant on its Weyrleader’s ability to cope, and T’kamen felt D’feng’s loss more keenly than he could ever have imagined.

Loneliness is the price of authority. T’kamen recalled that particular profundity from a long-ago conversation with L’stev. He also remembered being unmoved by it at the time, confident in his preference for peace and solitude over noisy crowds. T’kamen realised now that he had been unqualified to make that judgement. With supreme power came supreme isolation, and not the kind he liked. The friends and allies who’d supported him in the months leading up to Shimpath’s crucial mating flight had dispersed to see to their own business: L’stev preparing his candidates, C’mine recovering from his wounds, C’los tracking down E’rom’s killer. T’kamen hadn’t seen any of them in an unofficial capacity in sevendays.

Thinking of his friends turned his mind automatically to Sarenya, and T’kamen rubbed reflexively at the healing scratches on his cheek. Nobody had dared ask about them, but Isnan had commented in passing that they’d probably scar. The prospect didn’t improve T’kamen’s disposition. He’d made a discreet enquiry through Master Vhion, and had been relieved to know that he hadn’t done any serious damage to Sarenya’s fire-lizard, but he didn’t need a permanent reminder of his own quick temper carved into his face. Under other circumstances he might have been more aggrieved by the situation, but Sarenya had been pointedly ignoring him, and T’kamen simply didn’t have the time to do anything about it. He worked from the time he roused before dawn until he succumbed to sleep late at night: always busy, always needed. He broke away from his duties only to see to Epherineth’s needs, and even then he knew he wasn’t giving his dragon the amount of time and attention he should. Eating breakfast in the dining hall was a duty like any other, scheduled in around everything else. It was necessary for him to be seen eating the same unappetising slop as the rest of the Weyr. But it also invited approaches, and T’kamen feared additions to his workload.

“At least the klah’s still good,” said F’halig, raising his cup in an ironic salute.

T’kamen shrugged. “Kellad has it to spare.”

F’halig slurped appreciatively at his drink. “The whole Hold must have smelled like roasting klah for sevendays after the fire.”

“The klahbark trees weren’t touched,” said T’kamen. “Just the timber lots.”

“Thank Faranth for small mercies.” Then, with a covert glance over his shoulder, F’halig added, “Here’s trouble.”

T’kamen raised his head to see Madellon’s most recent Wingleader approaching the table, cutting a striking figure even without his distinctive Peninsula-style flying coat, and newcomer though he was, Sh’zon’s three-bar epaulettes left no room for error when it came to his rank. “Wingleader,” T’kamen greeted him.

The aquiline bronze rider inclined his head. “Weyrleader.”

T’kamen nodded towards the vacant bench on the other side of the table. “Will you sit?”

Sh’zon straddled the bench and rested his elbows on the table, a casual movement that nonetheless presented an assertive, almost intimidating, front. T’kamen met the other bronze rider’s gaze calmly. “Something you need?”

“Aye. The loan of a rider.”

The Peninsula rider’s directness made T’kamen smile thinly, but tension hung on the air between them. All bronze riders counted each other as rivals, but some more so than others. “A Wingful isn’t enough?”

Sh’zon returned an equally guarded smile. “More than enough for almost any Wingleader. But I’m wanting to borrow your Search pair.”

T’kamen hadn’t expected that, although he supposed he probably should have. D’feng’s Wing had no Search-sensitive dragon. He‘d arranged it that way in case L’dro’s former second ever developed ambitions. “You have someone in mind?”

The blond Wingleader’s fierce expression didn’t falter. “Some place.”

“There’s no rule that says candidates can only be brought in by a Search pair.”

Sh’zon’s eyes narrowed fractionally. “I know.”

T’kamen regarded Sh’zon thoughtfully, wondering if there was more to the request. He wasn’t oblivious to the probable reasons behind the other bronze rider’s transfer from the Peninsula Weyr. H’pold had taken as many diplomatic pains over Sh’zon’s reference as T’kamen had with L’dro’s, but neither Weyrleader had been in any doubt about the significance of the exchange. T’kamen didn’t know exactly why H’pold had wanted to be rid of Sh’zon, but he recognised capable leadership, and he’d had no reservations about putting the Peninsula man in command. If Sh’zon had his eye on a girl for Shimpath’s queen egg then he was no different to any other Madellon bronze rider. “I’ll speak to C’mine,” he assented finally. Then he added, “He won’t be under orders to Search with you.”

Sh’zon nodded and pushed himself up off the bench. “Understood. We’ll bring him back in one piece.”

T’kamen watched as Sh’zon strode away, wondering if the Peninsula rider had meant something by that parting comment. Someone would have filled the bronze rider in on the details of the Kellad fire, but the faint inference that he, T’kamen, had not brought C’mine home safely on that occasion stung him. At least Sh’zon didn’t mince words. His forthright manner was refreshing in comparison to the way in which several of Madellon’s Wingleaders tried to ingratiate themselves. Yet T’kamen had no doubt that, had Shimpath’s rising been delayed by a few months, Sh’zon would have vied for her as aggressively as any Madellon-born bronze rider. Kawanth was bigger than Epherineth. But then, Pierdeth had been bigger and more powerful, and Pierdeth had almost ruined his wind trying to outfly T’kamen’s bronze. Size wasn’t everything.

F’halig, who had remained silent during the brief interview, raised his eyebrows as Sh’zon walked out of range.

“Well?” T’kamen asked.

“You’ve made work for yourself with that one,” the brown rider opined.

T’kamen sipped his klah before replying. F’halig’s loose grasp of tact was one of the reasons why he‘d chosen the brown rider as his senior Wingsecond. T’kamen liked having a rider he trusted around to disagree with him. L’stev had always performed that duty admirably, and F’halig was similarly inclined. “What makes you say that?”

The brown rider crossed his formidable forearms on the table, looking knowingly at T’kamen, as if judging what he expected of him. “Not many riders, let alone bronze riders, transfer from Weyr to Weyr. The fact that the Peninsula took L’dro in return for him is enough to merit watching him. But you know that.” F’halig rubbed his chin meditatively. “You made him Wingleader after less than two sevendays, and that’s a lot of trust to put in a rider you don’t know from spit.”

T’kamen winced at his Wingsecond’s candour, but gestured for him to continue.

“He’s clearly led before, and that’s fine as far as it goes, but firstly you’ll have trouble if and when D’feng recovers, and secondly, the very fact that Sh’zon took over so easily should make you wary. L’dro learned first hand that Weyrleaders and career bronze riders are a dangerous mix. But then you know that, too, and Shimpath’s next flight is probably three, four Turns off.” F’halig frowned for a moment. “I wouldn’t have predicted he’d ask to borrow C’mine. He seems like a rider who’d bring a girl in for a queen egg, Search dragon or no Search dragon. I’ll have to give that some more thought. But aside from whatever grief he causes you directly, there’s the trouble he’ll provoke with the rest of the bronze and brown riders in the Weyr.” He started to tick points off on his fingers. “With the other Wingleaders, who’ll object to having an outsider on equal footing with them; with the bronze riders you demoted or passed over when you reassigned the Wings; with all the brown riders who’ve been jockeying for E’rom’s slot only to see the same position in D’feng’s Wing filled by another outsider with no questions asked. It doesn’t take a genius to see the potential for strife.”

T’kamen weighed each point, but his Wingsecond’s analysis hadn’t touched upon anything he hadn’t already considered himself. “How much evidence have you seen of half the Weyr being up in arms?” he asked, with an irony that was a mild rejoinder to F’halig’s bluntness.

“Now that you mention it, very little.” F’halig shrugged bulky shoulders. “I don’t hear as much as I used to, now I’m your Wingsecond. A lot of riders are still afraid enough of being stepped on that they’re careful of remarks getting back to you.”

T’kamen smiled mirthlessly, and then regretted it as the expression made him aware of the still-tender slashes on his cheek. “I don’t bite.”

“You’re not too good with second chances, either,” said F’halig.

T’kamen thought of D’feng, and tried not to acknowledge the tiny part of his mind that felt grateful the other bronze rider had been incapacitated. Sejanth’s rider had been invaluable when it came to the Weyr’s daily business, but he’d left much to be desired as a right-hand man in talks with Madellon’s Holders. He forced the uncharitable reaction down. “Not really. There’s not so much talent in the Weyr that I can always afford to be selective.”

“I’m not saying it’s a bad thing,” F’halig said. “There’s no harm in keeping those bronze riders on their toes. But that’s not a valid reason to let two foreigners walk in and assume rank that any other rider in the Weyr would have to earn. I think you’re going to regret it.”

T’kamen’s patience slipped a notch. Professional disagreement was fine, but F’halig’s criticism almost crossed the line into nagging. “Field commissions aren’t unusual, and interim rank is easily withdrawn if they don’t come up to scratch.”

F’halig cleared his throat, sounding uncomfortable for the first time. “You just don’t need the Weyr thinking you make calls based on politics first and everything else second.”

T’kamen looked at his Wingsecond sharply. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t need me to tell you that some of your decisions have been unpopular,” said F’halig. “Agreeing to collect the bulk of tithes by dragon, for one. All the conveying jobs for a pittance. There’s not been a significant improvement in the quality of life, T’kamen, and I know that’s not your fault, but there’s a current of dissatisfaction. A lot of blue and green riders came out to support you at the end, and I think they feel like you’ve reneged on your promises. Things are much the same as they were under L’dro – less widespread corruption, perhaps, but power and privilege is still the sole domain of bronze and brown riders. And there’s a perception in some quarters that you’re putting the goodwill of Holders before your own Weyr.”

“That’s ridiculous,” T’kamen said, managing his growing anger with some effort. “And I thought you said no one was telling you anything that might get back to me.”

“They don’t need to,” F’halig told him. “It’s too generalised a feeling to attribute to any one source. But promoting Sh’zon can only make it worse. They might not be saying it to me, but there will be those who see that as a political move, too. An incentive for a couple of difficult riders to accept a transfer, in return for getting rid of L’dro with the minimum fuss.”

“Oh, for Faranth’s sake, it didn’t happen like that,” said T’kamen. “There wasn’t even a Wingleader position open until after they got here.”

F’halig gave him a meaningful look. “Until D’feng and Sejanth were conveniently put out of action.”

T’kamen laughed. “You’re not suggesting that was deliberate.”

“I’m not, T’kamen. But it’s no particular secret that D’feng was on the other side when you were building a following, and you’re not exactly known for being forgiving, either. There are still enough riders who preferred life under L’dro to cry foul play.”

T’kamen shook his head, half in scorn, half in anger. “You’ve either been listening to too many Harper stories, or you’ve become paranoid.” He reached for Epherineth. Wake up, you.

I am awake.

“I’m just trying to keep you informed,” said F’halig. “I wouldn’t even have brought it up if I didn’t think there were some contentious parties ready to make trouble over it.”

“F’halig, I have enough to worry about right now without jumping at shadows. Even the suggestion that I’d have any involvement whatsoever in a plot to deliberately harm one of my own riders…” T’kamen turned his head away, disgusted. “I’m going to take Epherineth out. I’ll be back in my office within the hour if you’ve got any legitimate issues that need my attention.”

He wasn’t blind to the way F’halig bristled at that barb. The brown rider had grown accustomed to being able to speak his mind, but T’kamen took exception to the abuse of that privilege – at least when it came to spinning yarns that questioned his personal decency – and F’halig had to learn that even freedom of speech had its limits. The Wingsecond might resent that: he might even sulk for a while. But as T’kamen walked away, towards the Bowl and his waiting dragon, he just couldn’t quite bring himself to care.

Kawanth’s greeting rumble drew Sh’zon from his weyr. He paused, resting an arm on his dragon’s neck, and watched as Trebruth came in for a sedate landing.

The hand that slipped caressingly up his back to his shoulder caught him unprepared. Sh’zon recoiled from the unsolicited touch, turning hastily, and blinked at the woman standing behind him. He’d forgotten she was there. “Easy, lassie,” he said, in the slightly annoyed, dismissive tone that usually sent her like on their way. “Mind where you put your hands.”

The woman – what was her name? Sh’zon was scorched if he could remember – flinched back, looking offended. No matter. He hated it when guests overstayed their welcome.

M’ric dismounted from his dragon’s short, powerful neck, looking amused. Sh’zon threw a warning look at his Wingsecond, hoping to intercept the smart remark he knew was coming. “M’ric.”

“Morning, boss,” the tall and dark Wingsecond replied. He nodded to Kawanth, and barely raised an expressive eyebrow in the direction of the woman who was making a hurt withdrawal from the bronze dragon’s ledge. “Who’s the young lady?”

“Shut up and get in here,” Sh’zon told him disgustedly. He led the way back into his weyr, and threw a glare over his shoulder at the unruffled brown rider. “You’re late. What were you doing last night?”

“Not what you were doing, that’s for sure.”

Sh’zon growled something vaguely threatening that he knew would only entertain M’ric further, and sprawled in one of his armchairs. “Help yourself,” he said, pointing at the klah pitcher he’d brought from the lower caverns.

M’ric poured klah for himself and leaned back in another chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “You talked to the Weyrleader?”

“Aye. We get to use his Search rider if the man agrees.” Sh’zon shrugged. “Don’t see why he wouldn’t. Seems like the quiet type.”

“They’re the dangerous ones,” M’ric replied.

Sh’zon flexed his fingers thoughtfully. “Now I just have to work out a way to get that blue to the island without him realising where it is.”

They sat in pensive silence for a moment, and then Sh’zon rose from his seat and started to pace, covering the width of his weyr in four easy strides. “I could get his dragon to take a visual direct from Kawanth, no questions asked.”

M’ric was already shaking his head. “That’s not the problem. The issue is the time difference. He’ll know by the sun that he’s not in Peninsula territory.”

The bronze rider furrowed his brows. “How much difference is there?”

“Fourteen hours from the Peninsula , seventeen from here. If you left at noon , Madellon-time, you’d arrive at the island before dawn.”

Sh’zon scowled. The trouble with M’ric’s intelligence was that the man tended to find big logical gaps in otherwise perfectly serviceable plans. “Give me some options.”

The brown rider drained off his klah and set the mug down. “You could fill the Search rider in on the details, but you’d have to be able to trust him, and that would take more time than we have.” He hesitated. “I’m not going to break my word, and I know you won’t either, so cutting the Search rider out of it altogether won’t work.”

“Come on, Malric, you’re meant to be the smart one!”

“There’s a simple solution,” M’ric replied. “Potentially more trouble than it’s worth.”

Sh’zon stopped and looked at his Wingsecond for a long moment.

“How’s Kawanth’s time sense these days?”

He snorted. “That’s your speciality.”

“And Tarshe’s your cousin.”

Sh’zon shook his head. “Kawanth can find his way between times well enough on a reference, but seventeen hours back is a tricky jump to get one for. Especially when there’s another dragonpair along for the ride.” He started to pace again. “I don’t want to mess it up.”

“We’ve done it before,” said M’ric. “Remember when we were just starting out in the Wing and we knew we were going to be late back from that Gather at Varden Hold?”

Sh’zon grinned at the memory. “Aye, and you had D’lain tie that stupid purple flying scarf of his to the Eye Rock about ten minutes before we were meant to be back.”

“We just had to visualise the scarf, and we jumped back about six hours. And then took the thing down, so it was only actually there for a matter of moments.”

“So you’re saying I should go to the island and have Tarshe run up the summons flag as a reference?”

“Exactly that,” M’ric agreed. “And we guarantee it with Agusta.”

“Eh?”

“If Tarshe can’t provide the reference for whatever reason, we’ll be going between to nowhere,” M’ric explained. “We go between normally to the island, to arrange a time for her to run up a banner. I’ll leave Agusta with her, and then we return here, still in normal time. When Tarshe has the banner flying, she sends Agusta back to me with a note to say it’s there. Seventeen hours after I’ve received that confirmation, you take T’kamen’s Search rider and time it back to the island, using the reference that Agusta has confirmed exists. You take the flag down again as soon as you arrive. If the Search dragon’s any good it won’t take him long to sniff out Tarshe. Once she’s been Searched, you’ll have to come forward seventeen hours again. You’ll need another time-specific reference for that jump, which is why Trebruth and I will need to stay here.”

Sh’zon regarded his Wingsecond dubiously, but M’ric was very thorough when it came to assessing timing risks, and he’d trusted the brown rider too much over the Turns to start doubting him now. “I’ll take your word for it.”

The brown rider gazed intently into the middle distance, wearing a slight frown. “I can see two catches right now.”

“Now you tell me,” Sh’zon growled.

“You’ll have to jump back to Madellon using Trebruth and me as a reference,” said M’ric. “And that means that you’ll have to cut it quite fine. I can’t guarantee staying in one place, even for an hour. So you’ll be coming back with Tarshe to a time very shortly after the moment you leave. That could cause a problem with the Search rider, if he knows he’s been gone an hour but realises when he gets back that it’s only been five minutes.”

“We can get around that,” said Sh’zon. “What’s the other catch?”

“The calibre of the Search dragon. If he doesn’t notice Tarshe we’ll have wasted a lot of good planning.”

“He’d have to be dead not to notice her,” Sh’zon snorted.

M’ric conceded that point. “Who’s the rider?”

“C’mine. The blue rider who was hurt in that fire at Kellad.”

“I’ve heard his name,” M’ric admitted.

Sh’zon yawned, feeling the previous late night catching up with him, and threw himself back into his chair, crossing one booted foot over his thigh. “Seems solid enough, and he flies in the Weyrleader’s Wing.”

“You’re sure it’s a good idea, using someone so close to T’kamen?”

Sh’zon chuckled. “Who’d accuse the Weyrleader’s own Search rider of making an inappropriate choice? At least not until after the Hatching, and one way or another it won’t matter then.”

The two Peninsula riders sat in comfortable silence for a while. How many times had they met to debate a plan like this? Sh’zon couldn’t remember, but for a moment, he could almost forget that he had been displaced from the Weyr where his dragon had Hatched. Almost. Sh’zon wrestled with the keen sense of loss for a few pointless moments, then gave in. “Heard any word on Ipith?” he asked gruffly.

“Nothing yet.”

Sh’zon exhaled heavily. “Guess not.”

“T’kamen,” M’ric said unexpectedly, looking up. The thoughtful frown was back in place, and his eyes had gone serious. “What do you think of him?”

Sh’zon considered the question for a moment, rubbing absently at a dull patch on the polished leather of his boot. Then he shrugged dismissively. “Insecure little tyrant.”

If M’ric agreed, he didn’t show it. “Met anyone who likes him yet?”

“No.” Sh’zon thought about the Weyrleader, and went on, “Too new in the job to know his limits, and much too keen to put his mark on the Weyr. He’s got respect, mostly, but he’s not certain enough of it to relax his grip.”

“He won’t delegate,” said M’ric, half to himself.

“Well, that’s what I said,” Sh’zon said impatiently, “he won’t delegate.” He blinked. “Won’t he? Who’ve you been talking to?”

M’ric shook his head. “I hear things.”

The movement drew Sh’zon’s attention to the single bar of gold braid on his Wingsecond’s epaulettes. “Where’re your stripes?”

M’ric glanced at one shoulder. “I haven’t picked them up yet.”

“Well, go and get them! How do you expect anyone to do what you tell them if you’re not even wearing your stripes?” Sh’zon glared at his Wingsecond. “And did you shave this morning?”

The brown rider ran a self-conscious hand over his jaw. “Well, a bit.”

“A bit? You’ve got to smarten up, M’ric! You’re not some something and nothing rider any more!”

“Sorry, boss,” M’ric apologised, without the slightest hint of contrition.

Sh’zon scowled at the other rider with customary ferocity. He and M’ric had never been friends – always allies, and frequently cohorts, but in the main they led quite different lifestyles, with different interests. They had simply discovered, many Turns ago, that they made an excellent team, both in the command of a Wing, and in negotiating the treacherous politics of the Peninsula Weyr. The Peninsula was the largest of the three southern Weyrs, boasting more than four hundred dragons – more than forty of them bronze. The competition for command of one of the twelve Wings was fierce, and required a bronze rider to have a talented Wingsecond whose loyalty he trusted implicitly. Sh’zon and M’ric had spent seven Turns competing for their own Wing and then, once they had been granted a command, fighting off the ambition of other up-and-coming pairs. It was a bitter irony that the attack that had finally ousted them from their hard-fought position had come from above, not below. Their association had benefited them both over the Turns, despite their very different personalities, and the grudging affection of long familiarity coloured their otherwise professional relationship. They were not friends, but nor was their alliance merely one of convenience.

Clawing back some of the respect and recognition they had earned at the Peninsula would not be easy. That they had assumed command of a Wing so rapidly was pure luck: bad for D’feng and good for them. Sh’zon had limited sympathy for the former Wingleader. A man whose dragon made such a critical mistake when stoked for flame wasn’t equipped to lead a Wing, even during an Interval.

It was aggravating that Madellon’s queen had flown so recently, but there was more than one way to skin a wherry, and Sh’zon had learned the art of biding his time. The gold egg on the Sands had been enough temptation for him to agree, however grudgingly, to transfer out of the Peninsula . In the high stakes game they were playing, it was worth taking a risk to secure a valuable prize.

Especially when the prize was a queen dragon.

Chapter Thirteen: The Finger Points

C’los seldom regretted his actions, even when he knew he should, and so it was with few compunctions that he turned from his work to glare at his weyrmate. “Do you think you could maybe make a bit more noise, disturb me just a little more?”

C’mine glanced up from where he had been going about the business of tidying their weyr – quietly, C’los conceded, but making just enough background noise to annoy him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise I was bothering you.”

The mild reply should have satisfied C’los’ need to express his aggravation, but it didn’t. Rather, he felt irrationally cheated by C’mine’s passive attitude to everything. Why wouldn’t the man just show some backbone once in a while, object to something, so C’los could shout him down and work out some of his frustration? Faranth knew the blue rider wasn’t giving him any other outlet for it. C’los turned his attention back to the record hide in front of him, forcing his eyes along the scratchy lines of H’ned’s abominable handwriting – whichever Harper had taught Izath’s rider his letters should have been dropped between as an apprentice – but he only recognised the shape of the words, without taking them in. No matter how hard he tried, C’los couldn’t concentrate on the text before him, and he’d never been in the habit of taking blame onto himself.

Perversely, he strained his ears until the softest click of the ash bucket on the floor gave him reason – however meagre – to shove back his chair and jump to his feet, seething with the anger and tension that had been building up inside him all day. “I said, would you shut up?”

This time, C’mine didn’t even have the grace to look chagrined. He just looked at C’los from where he had knelt by the hearth to sweep out the day’s ashes. “I’m not being loud, C’los.”

“You are to me! I’m trying to work here, and I can’t even hear myself think with you shuffling around behind me like some stupid drudge without the wit to know when to sit down and shut up!”

C’mine sighed, but answered in the same patient, reasonable, infuriating tone. “You’ll be cold in the night if the fire’s not banked.”

Disgust and resentment crystallised simultaneously in C’los’ stomach, and he retorted with ice in his voice. “What would you care about me being cold in the night, C’mine?”

“That’s not fair, Los.”

“Oh, isn’t it?” C’los sat down again and glared at the record hides, as if they were to blame for his bad mood. They were, but only to a point. He kept staring at them as, behind him, he heard C’mine getting to his feet.

The gentle weight of the blue rider’s hand on his shoulder tempted C’los to relent, but he forced the reaction away. “Just don’t,” he snapped. “I don’t have time for this right now.”

C’los could sense his weyrmate’s hurt as C’mine withdrew his hand. He waited for the blue rider’s next move with anticipation that verged on the spiteful, but it never came. After several moments of silence, C’los turned to launch another attack, and was pulled up short as he realised that C’mine wasn’t there any more.

Thwarted of venting his spleen, he spat several vicious curses under his breath, and gathered up several of the most important records from the table. He left the rest spread messily, in defiance of his weyrmate’s love for neatness. With luck, C’mine would have tidied them up by the time C’los returned, and that would give him another excuse to pick a fight.

C’los stalked out onto the weyr ledge, ignoring Darshanth, who regarded him suspiciously from one half-lidded eye, and barely acknowledging Indioth. His green was asleep, but her restless twitching suggested an agitation to match his own.

It was late enough that most weyrs were dark and quiet, but the faint light emanating from the Weyrleader’s weyr made a good beacon. C’los arranged his thoughts as he crossed the Bowl, sufficiently professional to focus past his poor humour. Shouting at C’mine for a few hours might have made him feel better, but it would also have made him late.

Epherineth was sharing his ledge with Izath peaceably enough, but something to the rigid set of the sleeker dragon’s shoulders indicated that he was not wholly comfortable with the proximity of another bronze. C’los nodded a brief acknowledgement to both big dragons and hurried between them, into the weyr.

H’ned and Valonna sat in two of the chairs in front of T’kamen’s desk. They both looked round as C’los entered the room. The Weyrwoman’s face was pale, and her demeanour nervous; H’ned simply looked concerned.

T’kamen, leaning against the mantle behind his desk, greeted C’los with the least motion of his head, and indicated with his eyes for him to sit. C’los obeyed, taking the third seat, but he couldn’t help but be shocked at T’kamen’s appearance. The bronze rider had always been spare of frame, but silhouetted against the glow of the fire, T’kamen actually looked gaunt, and the shadows under his eyes spoke of more than a few late nights. He was still impeccably dressed and groomed, but C’los had to wonder if the Weyrleader spent more time shaving these days than he did eating or sleeping.

T’kamen raised his head, his eyes briefly distant, and from outside came the sound of a dragon shifting his weight. “Epherineth won’t let anyone in now,” he said. “I don’t need to remind you that this is a closed meeting.”

“Weyrleader, I feel like I’m the only one here who doesn’t know what’s going on,” said H’ned. The red-haired Wingleader’s voice betrayed his strain. “If I’ve erred, would you please tell me?”

C’los could appreciate the Wingleader’s anxiety. H’ned would have met with T’kamen often enough over C’dessa’s misdemeanours that the Weyrleader alone would not have fazed him: no doubt the Weyrwoman’s presence was his cause for concern. T’kamen didn’t call Valonna away from her broody dragon lightly.

“Not you, H’ned,” T’kamen replied. “Nor even C’dessa, but we are here regarding one of your riders, and it’s your right as his Wingleader to know the background.” T’kamen looked at C’los. “Have you found anything new?”

C’los shook his head, gripping the record hides he still held in his hands. Their failure to provide any shred of evidence against his suspicion was at least partially responsible for his bad temper.

T’kamen folded his arms and looked at H’ned. “This doesn’t leave the room, through rider or dragon,” he said, with enough emphasis to imply dire consequences. “C’los has been investigating the circumstances of E’rom’s death. Although it is generally believed that his fall was an accident, we ascertained early in the proceedings that it was not. E’rom was murdered.”

H’ned let out his breath in incredulous horror. “Faranth’s shards, T’kamen, are you sure?”

“Yes,” T’kamen said. “We’re sure.”

H’ned sat back in his chair, as if struck. C’los supposed they’d all felt that way the first time. The Wingleader looked at him with an expression that seemed to plead with him to deny the truth. “You weren’t looking into E’rom’s replacement when you interviewed my riders and me.”

“I’m sorry, Wingleader,” T’kamen answered for C’los. “I didn’t – and don’t – want the truth widely known, yet. C’los has some experience of criminal investigation, so I put him in charge of the matter.”

H’ned shook his head, gazing bemusedly at the floor as he struggled to absorb the revelations. “I should have put it together,” he murmured to himself, “the questions you were asking… Who else knows?”

T’kamen indicated the room. “The four of us here. Master Isnan. Master Tomsung, the Fortian Healer who diagnosed the cause of death.” He glanced briefly at C’los. “C’mine.”

C’los felt himself redden, but T’kamen didn’t pursue the issue, and no one else seemed surprised that C’mine knew.

H’ned looked up. “Who was it?”

“C’los?” T’kamen asked.

He cleared his throat, stared unseeingly at the records in his hands, then looked up at H’ned and the Weyrleader. “There are three elements to consider when attempting to identify a murderer. Method, motive, and opportunity.” He was aware that he was quoting Valrov again, and equally aware that he was doing so out of an uncharacteristic need to feel that he spoke with authority. “We know that E’rom was heavily drugged with fellis, and then tipped off his weyr ledge.” He heard H’ned’s sharp intake of breath, but continued. “His murderer must have been both strong enough to manhandle him through his weyr, and in possession of a significant quantity of fellis. The fact that Sigith remained asleep until the moment of his rider’s death indicates that E’rom knew his killer: he would certainly have alerted his dragon to an unknown intruder.”

“But why would someone want to kill him?” H’ned interrupted.

“Wingleader,” T’kamen said softly. “Let him finish.”

C’los looked around at T’kamen’s stern mask, at Valonna’s white, unhappy face, at H’ned’s barely half-convinced expression. “I believe the motive in this case was ambition,” he said, and even to his own ears, his voice sounded hollow. “I’m sorry, H’ned. I think it was T’fer.”

The silence that greeted the words he had not wanted to say deafened C’los. He had expected denial, outrage, an insistence that he must be mistaken, a demand that he explain himself. But none came, and even though he had told T’kamen the name prior to the meeting, and the Weyrleader would have made Valonna aware of it, their acceptance staggered C’los.

He heard the sound of his own voice before he realised he’d started speaking again. “T’fer was listed as a candidate for the Wingsecond position that was eventually granted to E’rom. According to T’kamen’s records,” and C’los looked at the Weyrleader for confirmation, “T’fer was his next choice, but E’rom hadn’t put a foot wrong as a Wingsecond, and it would have been illogical to pass over a trusted and competent rider in favour of an untried man with a spotty record. E’rom’s own records of T’fer’s conduct outline several minor incidences of insubordination or disrespect, which paint a fairly clear picture of how T’fer felt about the man who was promoted ahead of him.” C’los waited again for someone to say something, then went on, more troubled by the continued silence than he would have been by an objection. “E’rom was preparing for an evening Wing drill when he was murdered. He and his dragon were well known for sticking to strict routines and procedures, which made it easy for his murderer to pick a suitable time to strike. E’rom would have had no reason to be surprised or alarmed at having one of his wingriders visit shortly before a drill.”

He leafed through the documents he had brought from his weyr until he found the Healer-stamped hide, written in Isnan’s beautiful hand, that listed every fellis prescription authorised by a Madellon Healer since Turn’s End. “T’fer was prescribed fellis juice a month ago when he went to the infirmary complaining of acute pain from one of his wisdom teeth. The quantity he was given, intended to last him ten days, would be enough to kill a man several times over.” He paused and then added, although it was unnecessary, “T’fer is a big man, and more than strong enough to have dragged E’rom through his weyr.”

“Wait a moment,” H’ned interjected. “You say T’fer had enough fellis to kill a man? Then why did he have to drag E’rom anywhere?”

C’los shook his head. “Maybe T’fer misjudged the dose. Maybe E’rom had a natural resistance to it. Whatever, we know it knocked him out, but it didn’t kill him.”

H’ned frowned, leaning back pensively. “What about T’fer’s alibi? He said he was with his weyrmate when E’rom died.”

C’los sighed. “I spoke to Demmy. She doesn’t remember. C’mine’s known her for Turns, and he’s always said that her memory’s no better than a dragon’s.”

“C’los has already been over the detail of his investigations with me in depth,” said T’kamen. “He has convinced me that there are compelling reasons to believe that T’fer was responsible for E’rom’s death. But,” and there was emphasis on that qualifier, “suspicion without proof isn’t enough. C’los?”

He could tell the difference between T’kamen his friend and T’kamen his Weyrleader. “Yes, sir?”

“Do you have any incontrovertible evidence of T’fer’s guilt?”

“No, sir.”

T’kamen turned to look into the fire, and the play of light and shadow across his face made his expression unreadable. The weight of the Weyr seemed a palpable force on his shoulders. After several moments, he turned back, lifting one hand to rub at the parallel slashes on his cheekbone. “We can’t accuse T’fer based on the circumstantial fact that he fits a profile. But if he is guilty… If he killed E’rom, he could kill again, and that’s enough of a risk that I don’t want him around the Weyr until we find out the truth, one way or the other.” T’kamen looked at H’ned. “I’m going to hold off appointing your new Wingsecond until this is cleared up. I don’t want to create another target, if ambition was the motive. C’los, what other leads do you have?”

“A few,” C’los admitted. “E’rom’s weyrmate, some of his family.”

“Follow them up, and see if anyone new fits the profile. I’d like…”

“T’kamen,” C’los cut in, “it’s becoming more and more difficult to ask questions without arousing suspicion. Especially with E’rom’s family – I don’t even have the excuse of vetting prospective Wingsecond candidates. If I could just explain…”

“I’m not ready for this to go public yet,” T’kamen replied simply. “I appreciate your position, but you’ll have to manage. If H’ned’s reaction tonight was anything to go by,” and he gave the pale-eyed Wingleader a humourless smile, “Madellon would be in uproar within the hour, and our killer would certainly be alerted that we’re on to him. Unless you want the case muddied even more, I’d prefer you told them that you’re still investigating the accident.”

“Weyrleader,” C’los agreed reluctantly.

“H’ned, with your permission, I’m going to give T’fer a special assignment,” T’kamen told the other bronze rider.

“Of course, Weyrleader, but…what did you have in mind?”

“Something to keep him at arm’s length for a while.” The Weyrleader grimaced. “It’s not an ideal solution, but I want him away from the Weyr. I’ll make the arrangements in the morning. Weyrwoman.”

Valonna started at the abrupt address. She had been so quiet as to be almost invisible, but C’los had always been conscious of her presence. “Yes, Weyrleader?”

“I’d like you to be available to help C’los. There may come a point when Shimpath’s influence will throw some light on a rider’s testimony.”

“If dragon memory were only better, we wouldn’t have to go such a long way round,” C’los murmured.

T’kamen shrugged. “The ability to confirm or deny that a rider is telling the truth will have to do. Are you agreeable, Valonna?”

“Yes, Weyrleader, of course,” the young queen rider replied. “Anything I can do.”

“Unless anyone has something else to add…” The Weyrleader looked around, and when no further remarks were forthcoming, he continued, “I apologise for the inconvenience of the hour. Thank you all for your time.”

It was as close to a dismissal as T’kamen could issue to such an eclectic group. C’los couldn’t help noticing how carefully Epherineth’s rider behaved when Valonna was present. He wasn’t convinced that the formal approach was helping the Weyrwoman adjust to her new counterpart.

As C’los made his way back across the Bowl to his weyr, he shivered with more than the cold. Self-doubt had never been part of his character, but he suddenly hoped that he was up to the challenge of finding E’rom’s killer. Even when all the pieces seemed to be in place, he couldn’t be sure of T’fer’s guilt. There had to be something he was missing.

The fire in his weyr had been banked: the coals glowed softly under a layer of ash. C’los paused to warm his hands, recalling the mood in which he had left earlier. C’mine had tidied up after him, but the table was still cluttered with documents. He picked up one or two, then put them down again. He was too tired and too disheartened to go through them again.

C’los took off his shirt as he walked into the bathing room, dropping the garment on the floor. He crouched by the steaming pool and splashed warm water on his face, then reached for the towel that had been left thoughtfully close to the edge. There was cold water in the pitcher on the shelf that held his and C’mine’s shaving gear and other sundries, and he washed out his mouth several times before drinking deeply.

The furs on his bed had been straightened and tucked in neatly. C’los sat down on the edge of the couch to pull off his boots, and pretended not to notice the curtain drawn across the alcove on the other side of the weyr. He kicked his boots into an untidy pile and pulled unenergetically at his bedfurs. The neatly folded covers resisted his efforts, and C’los swore at them. Why did C’mine have to do everything so precisely?

He stood up, wincing at the coldness of the stone floor against his feet, and making a mental note to find another rug. He hesitated a moment, then crossed the weyr to the other sleeping alcove and peered cautiously around the heavy curtain.

C’mine was as untidy in sleep as he was neat when awake. The blue rider sprawled across his couch, one arm flopping limply over the side, his furs unevenly bunched around him. The smell of aloe had been strong on this side of the weyr since C’mine had returned from Kellad, but there was no evidence of the plant. C’los made himself look at the scars on C’mine’s chest, left uncovered by the tangled furs. The healed burns in evidence on his face and arms were smooth, almost shiny, but the scar tissue on his chest and back stood proud, thick and rough. Darshanth’s claws, gripping desperately tight, had left deep lacerations in C’mine’s flesh. The knots of scar showed pale against his dark skin, and C’los knew it would be a long time before he would be able to look at his weyrmate and not see the terrible disfigurement first.

But the wounds had healed. The aloe and numbweed that had taken up residence on C’mine’s bedside table were gone. He’d even been cleared to fly drills again. So why was he maintaining the distance between them?

C’los tugged the furs up to cover his weyrmate’s bare chest. C’mine had always been vulnerable to chills, and winter was approaching fast. The last thing he needed was a cold.

Then he pushed back through the curtain and returned to his own bed, to be alone with himself, and his gloom.

In shades of brown and gold and bronze that would not have been out of place in a dragon’s hide, the leaves of Kellad drifted from the trees, covering the flagstones of the courtyard, blowing into piles in corners and against walls. They rustled with each bare breath of wind, and the sibilant sound was as constant at Kellad in the autumn as the noise of the ocean at Blue Shale all Turn round.

The crunch of dry, brittle leaves under his boots made T’kamen subtly aware of his knowledge of the Hold. Born and bred a Trader, the train of his bloodline had made Kellad its winter home for more Turns than he’d been alive. It was early yet for the Frankon train, but the corner of the Gather meadow customarily leased to the traders for the cold months had been cleared recently, in accordance with the terms of the agreement T’kamen’s great-grandfather had negotiated with Kellad’s first Lord, some eighty Turns ago. From the air, he had noted with a critical eye the area of grass that had been scythed, the evidence of a chore group’s toil to remove the hidden rocks that could turn an ankle or lame a burden beast, the newly-cleared path to the river. As a boy he had ridden up to the Hold in advance of the wagons to approve the winter campsite many times, and the habit, even fifteen Turns out of date, ran deep.

T’kamen’s companion, the burly Lord Meturvian, had been demonstrating an excess of hospitality by his terse standards. The Kellad Holder had walked him around the sprawling courtyard, pointing out the nuances of his Hold and the adjoining Harperhall. Meturvian had no reason to know that Madellon’s new Weyrleader, defined as he was by the bronze dragon on the fireheights above, had his own excellent knowledge of Kellad. The large, distributed population of the Hold meant that Meturvian wouldn’t even know the names of each of his holders, let alone those of seasonal visitors like the Frankon traders. T’kamen saw no particular advantage in revealing his origins to the powerful Lord. The inclusions – and omissions – of Meturvian’s tour said a great deal about how the Kellad Holder felt about his lands and people.

The fire of Turn’s End had taken its toll on the Hold. Although the flames had not reached as far as the main settlement, the pall of smoke rising from the burning trees had, and the Hold, built of the golden-brown local stone, had been stained by it. The lower walls had been cleaned, the original mellow shade of the stone restored, but for the most part the sheer walls of the Hold remained the dismal grey of ash. The workshops that lined one side of the courtyard, usually redolent with the scent of fresh sawdust, smelled instead of wet soot. Meturvian explained how they were still trying to salvage something of worth from the thousands of trees that had been burnt, but it was grim work to crafters accustomed to the almost limitless supplies of timber from the lots of the most prosperous forest Hold on Pern. The people, too, looked sombre, and tired, and somehow dingy, as if the smoke that had soiled their Hold had stained them as well.

“Your man’s apartment is up there, the third window from the left on the top level of the Hold,” Meturvian told him, sweeping his arm in a gesture that almost dislodged the young fire-lizard from his broad shoulder.

The little creature reminded T’kamen of Sarenya, but he ruthlessly diverted his mind from the subject. He knew from his experience of the Hold as a child that the top levels were comfortably furnished, and unused only by merit of their remoteness from the main thoroughfares of the Hold. As a purported stranger to the Hold, however, he shouldn’t have known, and Meturvian’s slightly defensive manner would have made him suspicious. “The rooms are suitably appointed?” he asked, letting scepticism colour his tone.

“Of course, Weyrleader; Kellad would certainly never do your rider the dishonour of common quarters.” There was something faintly gratifying about the arrogant Lord’s uncharacteristic eagerness to please. “We thought he would be most comfortable close to his dragon. He’ll have a drudge assigned to him, and any problems can be directed straight to my steward.”

T’kamen made a grudging noise of assent. He certainly needed to be seen stipulating the very best conditions for Kellad’s new watchrider. He didn’t particularly like the elaborate deceit – on all sides – but he recognised the importance of maintaining it.

They walked on to where a blue and two greens were being loaded with portions of Kellad’s tithe to Madellon. T’kamen nodded stiffly to the blue rider, and didn’t smile as the young man straightened to attention and returned the solemn acknowledgement. Collecting tithes by dragon had a distinct advantage: produce could be transported quickly from Hold to Weyr, without the opportunity for it to spoil in transit. It also meant that the Holds’ bounty could be collected as each resource became available. Nonetheless, it remained unpopular with riders who objected to their dragons being used as beasts of burden. When his business with Meturvian had been concluded, T’kamen intended to call Epherineth down and load him up with his share of the tithe goods. It would do the bronze no harm, and T’kamen a great deal of good, to be seen ferrying loads as readily as any other. T’kamen didn’t like it much himself, but he had always believed in leading by example. He’d had few bargaining chips in his repertoire when he had negotiated with the Madellon Lords, and tithe transportation was a necessary evil.

He was less comfortable with the short-term solution he had contrived to the problem of T’fer. If C’los’ suspicions were even half as well founded as he thought, T’kamen didn’t want the brown rider anywhere near Madellon. Assigning him to Kellad as a semi-permanent watchrider was the best answer T’kamen had come up with at short notice. It would keep T’fer out of trouble for a few sevendays, but that was about its only virtue. T’kamen didn’t like lying to people, and convincing the brown rider that he had been hand-picked to pilot a Hold watchrider scheme had been an exercise in insincerity. Meturvian, at least, had been more than agreeable at the prospect of being the first Madellon Holder to boast his own watchdragon. But there would certainly be repercussions from Winstone and Zinner when they learned of Kellad’s privilege, and further aggravation from those two Holds was the last thing T’kamen needed. The Weyr, too, would likely regard the move with distrust. F’halig’s glum projections of rider opinion might be exaggerated, but T’kamen was painfully aware of the unpopularity of some of his decisions. Both were issues he would confront when he had to, and not before.

T’kamen was trying hard to ignore the additional uneasiness he felt about the morality of stationing a murder suspect at a Hold full of oblivious people. There had been no question of telling Meturvian about the investigation. The Kellad Lord would scarcely have agreed to harbour a possible killer – and T’kamen had no intention of making any suggestion that a dragonrider could be capable of murder. The breach of faith and trust it would cause between Weyr and Hold would be felt across the whole of Pern. He had to take full responsibility for T’fer’s behaviour while the brown rider was assigned to Kellad – up to and including any murders he might commit.

The possibility was slim. Even if T’fer was E’rom’s killer, the deed had been motivated by ambition, and the likelihood of him finding a reason to kill a random Holder was remote. T’kamen had taken care to impart to T’fer that the Kellad assignment was temporary, that he would be representing the whole of Madellon Weyr and, crucially, that the Wingsecond position he coveted so desperately would not be filled in his absence. The lies had made T’kamen grit his teeth, but he couldn’t risk T’fer discovering the real reason for his posting to Kellad.

Ultimately, though, it had come down to a very stark choice. If T’fer was the murderer, and he did kill again, T’kamen didn’t want the victim to be another rider. Madellon had already lost two lives: E’rom’s and Sigith’s. T’kamen didn’t want to lose any more dragons, even at the cost of a holder’s life.

He pulled up the direction of his thoughts and addressed a different issue. “Shimpath’s clutch is due to Hatch towards the end of next sevenday,” he said, and found that the prospect lightened his spirits. “The Weyrwoman and I hope that you’ll be attending.”

The magical experience of watching dragons Hatch was not one that any Holder lightly passed up, however politically at odds with the Weyr. Meturvian smiled. “How fares the queen?”

“Well. Rightfully proud of her clutch.”

“And has Kellad provided any youngsters to stand for them?”

T’kamen didn’t have an answer to the polite question. He had had almost nothing to do with the recruitment or training of the candidates for Shimpath and Epherineth’s clutch, and he could barely remember the faces, let alone the names, of the few he had met. “Kellad always supplies excellent young blood for the Weyr,” he said, feeling slightly defensive. Then he remembered that C’los and C’mine had brought in Leah, and added, “There’s a good prospect for the queen from the Harperhall.”

“And from the Hold?” asked Meturvian, as if he was conscious of his unease and eager to exploit it.

Five boys, three girls, Epherineth supplied.

“Five boys and three girls,” T’kamen replied, silently thanking his dragon for his timely save.

“I’m sure there’ll be some good bronze riders among them,” said Meturvian.

T’kamen restrained his exasperation at the elitist comment and replied, “I’m sure there will.” Disdain for the ‘lesser’ dragon colours had always annoyed him. The fact that he himself was a bronze rider didn’t give him the authority to declare that bronzes were better than their smaller siblings. Every dragon had the potential to be brave and loving and intelligent, regardless of colour. The bigotry of some holders, to whom anything less than a bronze dragon represented failure for their sons, infuriated him.

“You’ll be sending dragons to convey their families to the ceremony?” Meturvian pressed.

T’kamen forced a smile, but Meturvian’s manner was starting to verge on the presumptuous. The Weyr’s willingness to host Hold guests after Impression ceremonies was a courtesy, not an obligation. “Transport will be arranged.”

Further discussion was halted by the approach of T’fer and Ongye, Meturvian’s steward. T’kamen took a firm hold of his composure and met his rider’s eye with a curt nod. “Is everything acceptable, brown rider?”

Wayonth’s rider raised his head to look down on him – a habit of his that irritated T’kamen. “Yes, sir. More than acceptable.”

T’kamen motioned him aside, showing a brief, disarming smile to Meturvian and his steward. “I don’t need to tell you not to let them take advantage,” he told the brown rider quietly. “That’s why I chose you for this assignment. You’re going to set the limits for Hold watchriders.”

T’fer’s chest swelled almost imperceptibly with the pride he could not entirely conceal, but his tone remained level. “I understand, Weyrleader.”

“Have Wayonth contact Epherineth directly if you have any problems.” He considered adding another sop to T’fer’s ego, but decided against it: the man wasn’t stupid, and T’kamen was already tired of stroking his pride. “Is there anything else you need?”

“I don’t think so.” T’fer paused, then asked, “We will be able to attend Shimpath’s Hatching?”

“Yes. You’ll convey Meturvian. And while you’re here, if you’d make an accurate count of the family members of candidates likely to want permission to attend, it would reduce some of the burden on L’stev.”

A barely visible moue of distaste crossed T’fer’s face at the mention of the Weyrlingmaster. “Certainly.”

T’kamen made a mental note to mention that grimace to C’los when he got back to the Weyr, but he turned back to Meturvian with the thinnest of smiles. “I’ll leave you to help T’fer settle in, my Lord.” He inclined his head in a gesture that could never have been mistaken for a bow.

Anticipating his summons, Epherineth descended from the heights in a measured glide. T’kamen met the serenely blue eyes for a moment as his dragon alighted, stirring up a whirlwind of dead leaves, and allowed himself the briefest touch of a gloved hand on the bronze’s lower jaw as he passed on the way to the pile of tithe materials remaining to be transported to Madellon. Even through the lined glove, Epherineth’s responsive warmth eased T’kamen’s worries.

As T’kamen heaved the first sack over to his dragon, preparing to wrap the neck rope onto a ring on Epherineth’s harness, he noticed the approving glance of the older of the two green riders. It was a welcome, though small, victory. But T’kamen wondered if the green rider would approve if he knew the real reason for T’fer’s posting to Kellad. He wondered how many riders would approve of the secrets he was keeping. Necessary or not, a lie was a lie, and he hoped devoutly that this one wouldn’t come back to haunt him.

Chapter Fourteen: Seen Then Unseen

Darshanth’s intent expression made C’mine instantly suspicious when he came out onto the ledge, bearing the blue’s flying harness across his shoulder. He paused to study his dragon’s stance with interest before prodding him in the ribs. “Pay attention.”

I am paying attention.

“To me.”

Do I have to?

“Yes.”

I’d really rather look at Kinerth.

“I’m sure you would, but she’s not your rider.”

No, my rider’s uglier than her.

“Thank you.”

Much uglier.

Darshanth acquiesced graciously enough to having his harness tightened, but his gaze still wandered in the direction of the green dragon preening herself up on the Rim. Kinerth’s hide didn’t seem bright to C’mine, but then some greens didn’t show any overt signs of their season. Darshanth’s interest was a much more accurate indication of her readiness to mate.

The blue had expressed very little interest in chasing greens since Kellad, and C’mine was glad to see that his dragon’s libido appeared to have returned. In a testament to the strength of their bond, Darshanth had refrained from even commenting on females – usually his favourite subject – while C’mine had been convalescing. He didn’t know if Darshanth had been consciously suppressing his needs, or if his reduced ardour had directly mirrored his own physical health, but he felt grateful that the issue hadn’t come up. Worrying about his dragon’s happiness would only have contributed to his illness, and Darshanth’s unstinting support and buoyant company had done much to speed C’mine’s recovery.

Still, there was a time and a place for chasing greens, and this was neither. “I hate to rein you in, Darshanth, but we do have other commitments.”

You ruin all my fun, the blue grumbled.

The flight to Sh’zon’s weyr took moments. Kawanth regarded the smaller dragon with an aloof eye, but no hostility. The big bronze already wore his harness, and as Darshanth settled deferentially to the ledge, Sh’zon emerged from his weyr, clad in his customary long coat. “Stay there,” he told C’mine, as he began to dismount. “You ready?”

“Yes, sir,” C’mine replied.

The blond Wingleader made a show of vaulting to his dragon’s neck. “You won’t have been to where we’re going,” he shouted across the intervening space. “So this is what we’re going to do. Have your dragon take the visual direct from Kawanth. Don’t try and identify it, you’ll put him off.”

“Where are we going, sir?” C’mine asked politely.

Sh’zon scowled across the distance between their dragons. “That’s for me to know and you not to! Now, let’s go hunting!”

Kawanth launched skywards with a mighty leap. Darshanth followed, too sensible to try to match the much larger dragon’s flamboyance. C’mine patted his blue’s soft neck. Darshanth liked to show off, but he did know his limits.

As they gained height, C’mine wondered about Sh’zon was reluctance to describe their destination. T’kamen had told him to expect a certain amount of caution on the Peninsula bronze rider’s part, and also not to let it concern him. The Weyrleader suspected that Sh’zon had a girl in mind for the queen candidate, and that she would be found in Peninsula territory. It wasn’t really polite for the riders of one Weyr to poach candidates from the territory of another, but it did happen, particularly when there was a family tie. How’s Kawanth’s visualisation?

It’s quite clear. Darshanth sounded unconcerned. I know how to get to where we’re going.

Sh’zon’s bronze paused, swivelling his head to follow his rider’s line of sight, and C’mine recognised Trebruth as the object of the bronze pair’s attention. He still hadn’t met the unusual brown dragon or his rider, although he felt he owed M’ric a debt of thanks for coming to Sarenya’s rescue. News of the friendship that had sprung up between the Peninsula brown rider and the journeyman Beastcrafter had come as no surprise to C’mine. They had fire-lizards in common at a Weyr with few of the little beasts, and besides, Sarenya had always been quick to make friends with handsome men.

And ugly ones, said Darshanth. Kawanth’s ready.

C’mine looked across to catch Sh’zon’s signal. In your own time.

They went between. C’mine closed his eyes against the darkness, listening to his own pulse. He counted ten beats and then opened his eyes, expecting Darshanth to emerge at the same moment. But they remained between, and C’mine’s stomach lurched in an instant of panic.

I know where we’re going, Darshanth told him resolutely, and with an almost palpable wrench, the blue dragon emerged low into light and warmth.

C’mine gripped the neck ridge in front of him for reassurance, aware that all the blood had drained from his face. Those extra few seconds between had given him a fright that he would not soon forget. In fifteen Turns and Faranth knew how many thousands of jumps between, Darshanth had never lingered any longer than it took for C’mine’s heart to beat ten times. Other riders had other measurements, but his had always been constant. Now, his pulse was racing so fast he could barely distinguish one beat from the next, and the sting of wind in his face was a welcome discomfort.

What happened? he demanded as, following Kawanth’s cue, Darshanth began to descend.

I don’t know. The blue sounded calm, but a reflection of C’mine’s own momentary panic underlined his voice. It took longer?

C’mine looked at Sh’zon. The bronze rider seemed unconcerned. I don’t know. It felt like you did. Maybe I counted wrong. He knew his explanation lacked conviction.

As Darshanth circled, C’mine took enough time away from his preoccupations to take in their surroundings. The modest settlement below comprised a cluster of one-storey buildings that had clearly been built with haste rather than artistry in mind. The resulting untidy muddle of structures lacked the orderly lines of most cotholds. The buildings near the fringes of the small settlement were obviously recent additions – some of them only half-finished. But the entire holding could not have been home to more than thirty souls, and C’mine wondered what circumstance had compelled these holders to throw up such poorly-designed buildings with such little regard for planning.

C’mine couldn’t see a central courtyard, but Kawanth made for a site on the far side of the compound with a practiced veer that spoke of familiarity. As the two dragons landed, C’mine loosened, then removed his jacket, and only then realised the temperature. It was definitely warm – much warmer than at Madellon – and he wondered what part of Peninsula ‘s territory could be so far north as to enjoy such heat this close to winter. He looked for the colours, but the improvised flagstaff – little more than a pole lashed to the corner of one of the far buildings – was flying only the banner that requested a dragonrider’s visit.

You know what we’re here to do, he told Darshanth as he dismounted. They seem to be expecting us.

The blue snorted.

Several people had emerged from the settlement, some with tools in their hands, others whose mortar-smeared appearance attested to their work on the unfinished buildings. Three of them, two men and a woman, approached Sh’zon with a confidence that confirmed C’mine’s suspicions: the bronze rider was no stranger here. But even as Kawanth’s rider strode to meet the cotholders, C’mine observed the signs of hardship on these people. They all looked just a little underfed, and their clothes noticeably threadbare, if not actually ragged. Every one of them was darkly tanned. But it took him several moments to notice another anomaly: not one of the hold folk wore shoulder knots.

“Ho, Sh’zon!” the bigger of the two men bellowed and, casting aside the pickaxe he had been carrying, engulfed the bronze rider in a massive hug.

C’mine watched, politely but with interest, as holder and rider pounded each other firmly on the back. “How you holding out, old man?” Sh’zon demanded.

“Aye, much like always, much like always.” The cotholder spoke with the same accent as Sh’zon, if thicker – as if external influences had softened the dragonrider’s home dialect over time. But he glanced at C’mine with suspicion, and he realised that his presence had stopped the other holders from greeting Sh’zon. “Who’s this you’ve brought?”

Sh’zon motioned C’mine forward. “This is Search rider C’mine of Madellon Weyr,” he said. “C’mine, this is Shevran, my father’s brother.”

C’mine nodded courteously, and some of the distrust in Shevran’s eyes faded, but he didn’t extend a hand. “Aye,” he said instead. “Search rider, you say? Not much for you here.”

“Sometimes it only takes one,” Sh’zon said easily. “Now, Varfer, pal, it’s been a season or two.”

As the Wingleader turned to greet the others – members of his extended family, by the definite physical resemblance – C’mine considered where this would lead. He expected that T’kamen’s suspicion had been correct, and that Sh’zon had someone specific in mind. He wondered why Sh’zon hadn’t just brought the girl in. Search sensitivity might be the domain of blue and green dragons, but many bronze and brown riders nominated family members or friends for candidacy regardless. Although having a sensitive dragon approve a young person’s ability to Impress helped, the only actual stipulations were that a candidate be of a suitable age, physically fit and healthy, and, in the case of girls, not pregnant. Crafter candidates needed the permission of their Master to respond to Search, and journeymen weren’t approached – a Crafter who had gained that rank represented too much value in his Craft’s eyes for the Weyr to take him without excellent motivation. But Sh’zon had gone out of his way to procure Darshanth’s Search talent on this occasion, and C’mine wondered why. The Peninsula bronze rider didn’t strike him as a man who liked to do things by numbers.

His greetings complete, Sh’zon beckoned with a tiny jerk of his head. “Walk with me, C’mine.”

C’mine obligingly fell into step with the bronze rider, folding his hands behind his back. It took him a moment to match the taller man’s long stride. They walked without speaking for a time, only the scuff of their boots in the dust, and the flap and creak of Sh’zon’s coat, breaking the silence.

Then Sh’zon turned abruptly to him. “Done much Searching?”

“Some,” C’mine admitted.

“How much is some?”

He counted in his head. “Sixteen Impressions.”

Sh’zon’s answering grunt betrayed grudging respect. “Ever Searched for a queen?”

“Once,” said C’mine, thinking of Sarenya.

“She didn’t make it, eh?”

“No.”

The bronze rider made a sound that C’mine interpreted to mean ‘obviously’.

They walked on. Ahead, a small figure darted out of the alley between two buildings, scurrying across their path, before disappearing into the shadows. C’mine raised an eyebrow at the first evidence of children.

“One of my nephews,” Sh’zon said, with a shrug. “Scrap of a thing.”

“You were brought up here, then?” C’mine asked.

The bronze rider didn’t respond for several long moments, staring straight ahead. C’mine was starting to wonder if he had spoken out of turn by the time Sh’zon answered, “My family’s here.”

On cue, the Wingleader turned a corner into a small triangular courtyard, formed by the walls of three buildings that had been built at awkward angles to each other. Under the shade of woven grass awnings, four youths – two boys and two girls – worked around a long wooden table. C’mine just had time to observe that the two younger children were scribing carefully on slates with sharpened chalk when the smallest girl’s eyes widened. She scrambled off her seat and launched herself at Kawanth’s rider, exclaiming, “Sh’zon, Sh’zon!”

The Wingleader caught the child with a feigned stagger and exaggerated grimace. “Ah, lassie, you’ll knock your poor uncle down.” By the ease with which he cradled the girl, no more than six or seven, in one arm, and reached down with the other hand to ruffle the hair of the slightly older boy who had knocked over his stool in his excitement, it was clear that Sh’zon was well-acquainted with the boisterous antics of his young relatives.

The lad on the other side of the table looked to be in his mid-teens, and C’mine noticed how carefully he stowed away the knife he had been using to cut strips from a cured hide before rising from his task. But it was the other girl who caught C’mine’s eye. Older, a Turn or two off her third decade, she had the same deep tan, sun-lightened hair and blue eyes as the rest of her kin. She wore a heavily faded shirt that must once have been blue, which left her bronzed arms bare to the shoulder, and tan shorts that had clearly been cut down from a longer garment. Like all the others, her feet were bare. The girl met C’mine’s curious gaze with a direct, slightly defiant look through eyelashes several shades darker than her bleached hair.

“C’mine, these are my sister’s children, Ashan and Arville,” said Sh’zon, hitching up the little girl in his left arm, and resting a hand on the young boy’s shoulder. “And my cousins, Zonan and Tarshe.”

“Who’s the man?” the boy, Arville, asked, staring unashamedly at C’mine. Like the adults, the boy spoke with a heavy accent.

“This is C’mine,” Sh’zon told his young nephew.

Arville studied C’mine sceptically for a moment. “Are you a dragonrider? You’re not very big.”

C’mine couldn’t blame the lad for basing his image of all dragonriders on his striking and obviously well-loved uncle. “Yes, I’m a dragonrider, and no, I’m not very big.”

Arville’s face lit up. “So I could be a dragonrider? ‘Cause I’m not very big, either.”

“Maybe when you’re a bit older,” C’mine replied, smiling at the familiar longing in the boy’s eyes.

“What colour’s your dragon? What’s his name? Is he with Kawanth? Can I go see? Will you…”

“So many questions, laddie,” Sh’zon rebuked Arville gently. “Go see Kawanth, and don’t be bothering Darshanth.”

Arville flashed him a grin, and bolted.

Ashan squirmed until Sh’zon put her down, and trotted after her brother, calling, “Arvy, wait for me!”

With the two younger children gone, Sh’zon’s manner changed. He nodded brusquely to Zonan, and exchanged a more knowing look with Tarshe, before addressing C’mine. “Tarshe here’s nineteen, and Zonan sixteen,” he said. “They’re the ones you want to be looking at.”

C’mine nodded, touching Darshanth’s mind. Paying attention?

Yes.

He looked at Zonan first, appraising the lad’s physical condition. He seemed fit, if rather thin, under the worn clothes that seemed universal to the people of this nameless Peninsula cothold. He definitely resembled Sh’zon, having the bronze rider’s naturally golden-blond hair, but the Wingleader’s cousin didn’t radiate the same kind of intensity.

Not so Tarshe. The girl held herself proudly, showing no sign of self consciousness at C’mine’s scrutiny. The front almost convinced him, but C’mine was too good at reading subtleties, and he recognised a young woman with something to prove when he saw one. It didn’t put him off, but it did make him wonder. The girl was attractive enough, in a slightly wild, unruly way, and yet clearly unmarried. Either the cothold was more remote than C’mine had thought, or Tarshe’s ostentatious independence made her a less than desirable match. Either way, he surmised that her current status – overseeing the younger members of the Hold – might have something to do with her attitude. But whether she felt defensive of a simple lifestyle, or resented it, C’mine didn’t know.

Darshanth?

You’re right about the boy.

C’mine felt a pang of regret. Zonan seemed responsible, and he wouldn’t have had any reservations about taking him to the Weyr, but if Darshanth judged him lacking in the right sensitivity to Impress, there was no point. And the girl?

Bring her to me. I want to look at her.

He cleared his throat before addressing Tarshe. “My dragon would like to meet you. Will you come?”

The girl glanced at Sh’zon. The big bronze rider nodded fractionally. “Zonan, why don’t you show me if there’s a beastie about for Kawanth to snack on?”

Zonan nodded, but from the sag of his shoulders he recognised the rejection. C’mine cringed inside, and hoped that Sh’zon would employ some of his considerable charisma to cheer the lad.

“You’re a blue rider?” Tarshe asked, as she started in the direction of the two dragons, leaving C’mine to follow.

“Yes,” he admitted, lengthening his stride to catch up, aware but tolerant of her boldness. “How did you know?”

Tarshe threw him a knowing look over her shoulder, but didn’t reply.

C’mine was sure that C’los would have devised a complex theory to explain the girl’s knowledge, but he could only think of two possibilities. Tarshe either knew that most Search dragons were blue, or Sh’zon had specifically briefed her on C’mine’s identity beforehand. In either case, as no one had mentioned Search, and Tarshe had not been surprised by C’mine’s presence, she had clearly been expecting the visit. The probability that she had been tutored in suitable answers to the normal questions a Search rider asked was not lost on C’mine. Sh’zon obviously had his young cousin in mind for Shimpath’s queen egg, and it seemed that the Wingleader hadn’t left anything to chance.

“What do you do here?” he asked.

Tarshe shrugged expressively. “This and that.”

“What sort of this and that?”

“I forage. I fish. I make line and mend net.” The girl’s accented voice flowed almost lyrically.

C’mine frowned slightly. “I didn’t realise you’re so close to the coast here.” They had come in low, and he’d been so preoccupied with Darshanth’s uncharacteristic hiccup between that he hadn’t looked for a bearing from the air.

“Close enough.” The wary note in Tarshe’s voice was baffling.

He considered his next question carefully. “What are the new buildings going to be? Are you expecting more people?”

She looked up, as if trying to gauge the point behind the question. “No, they’re just storehouses.”

By the scale of the structures being constructed, the cothold must have a significant need for storage. C’mine wondered if there was some product exclusive to the region that they exported – perhaps something particularly valuable, which would go some way towards explaining Tarshe’s caution.

It occurred to him that he could spend the afternoon asking questions and still glean no more from the girl than she had been prompted to give. C’mine seldom confronted anyone for any reason, but he felt that a little directness might win him Tarshe’s respect, if not her trust. “Tarshe, I’m a Search rider,” he said. “But you know that already.”

If Tarshe felt any surprise that he suspected her foreknowledge, she didn’t show it. She nodded. “Yes.”

“How would you feel about being Searched?” Then, before she had a chance to reply, C’mine added, “And I mean how do you feel, not how did your cousin tell you how to feel.”

Tarshe shot him a look that softened her abrupt manner. She took several moments to answer, but C’mine sensed that the delay was due to her wishing to frame her thoughts accurately, rather than to obscure a true meaning. “It wouldn’t be a surprise,” she replied, at length. “Sh’zon has been saying it for Turns. You can’t always take him seriously, though.”

“Do you know why he’s waited until now to have you appraised by a Search dragon?” When the girl hesitated, the barriers going up again, C’mine went on, “Because it’s no shame to wait for a queen egg.”

Tarshe nodded. “I suppose not.”

“Do you want to be a queen rider?”

Sh’zon’s cousin smiled, the first smile C’mine had seen on her. “My cousin is a bronze rider, C’mine. There’s no one here who doesn’t envy what he has.”

“How do you feel about the possibility of being a green rider?”

Tarshe looked faintly surprised. “I hadn’t considered it, to be honest.”

“If you come to Madellon to stand for Shimpath’s clutch, you’ll need to,” C’mine told her.

“Why would a green choose a queen candidate?”

“Why does any dragon choose any candidate?” C’mine smiled, thinking back to his own Impression. “There are no queen candidates at Madellon, Tarshe. Candidates chosen with the queen in mind, perhaps, but even Search riders can’t second-guess a dragon’s choice.”

“I’ll have to think about that,” said Tarshe. “Sh’zon obviously neglected to mention a few things.”

C’mine smiled, but said nothing.

“Are you in his Wing?”

“His Flight. The Weyrleader’s Wing.”

“I see.” The girl was pensively silent for a moment. “What if I don’t Impress?”

“Sh’zon didn’t comment on that possibility either?” C’mine asked.

Tarshe made a disgusted sound. “You can’t know my cousin very well. Of course he didn’t. He’s never heard of failure.”

“If you don’t Impress, you can stay at the Weyr, or come back here, whichever you prefer,” said C’mine. “You’ll be past the age of candidacy by the time of the next clutch, if you stay, but the choice is entirely yours.”

“And if I do Impress?”

“You’ll spend about two Turns as a weyrling. It’s hard work – I can’t lie to you about that – and there are sacrifices involved in being a dragonrider, but…”

“Let me guess, you think they’re worth it,” said Tarshe, gently mocking. “You would say that. Hard work isn’t anything new. Sacrifices – let’s see, now: two Turns of being ordered around, a list of rules as long as my arm, the prospect of losing friends in training – oh, and being at the mercy of your dragon’s heat cycle.”

“That’s most of them,” C’mine agreed. “But if you Impress a queen, you can add responsibility to the list.”

“And less liberty to do what I want than the rider of a fighting dragon would enjoy, I presume.”

The blue rider nodded. “I’m glad you understand about the heat cycle,” he added belatedly. “That one’s sometimes hard to explain.”

“I have more second cousins at the Peninsula than I can count,” Tarshe said dryly. She cocked her head and asked disarmingly, “Do you have children?”

“Not that I know of,” said C’mine. “My weyrmate’s daughter is standing for this clutch, though.”

“Female weyrmate or male?”

C’mine smiled. He wasn’t sure if Tarshe was asking out of genuine curiosity or just to show off her understanding of Weyr life, but he didn’t really mind the personal queries. “His name is C’los.”

Tarshe’s eyebrows rose and fell in an expression that might or might not have been faint surprise as they rounded the corner of the last building. Kawanth, C’mine observed, was patiently enduring the attentions of Sh’zon’s small niece and nephew. Ashan and Arville had climbed onto the bronze’s neck, and were thumping their heels into his sleek hide, as if the big dragon were a runner. Darshanth looked faintly relieved that the pair hadn’t accosted him, but he came alert as C’mine and Tarshe came into view. The blue, who had been lounging on his forearms, scrambled to sit up, staring intently at Tarshe.

“He’s Search sensitive?” Tarshe asked.

When C’mine nodded, the girl walked closer to the blue dragon without fear or hesitation. Darshanth gazed down at her, his nose no more than a few inches from her face. C’mine could see his dragon’s breath stirring Tarshe’s hair. In his Turns as a Search rider, he had never seen any potential candidate approach his dragon with such presumption – or such boldness. Even Sarenya had waited for his permission before moving towards the blue. But Tarshe looked directly into Darshanth’s jewelled eyes, and Darshanth held her gaze, until finally he eased back on his haunches. She’ll do.

With visible effort, Tarshe tore her eyes from Darshanth’s and looked at C’mine. Her demeanour had changed: gone was the wariness, gone the cockiness,  replaced by an openness and vulnerability that C’mine wouldn’t have believed possible from his first impression of the girl. It wouldn’t be the first time that Darshanth had charmed a potential candidate, but Tarshe’s reaction was unusual. “What does he say?”

C’mine hesitated before replying. Search required discretion on the rider’s part as much as sensitivity on the dragon’s. “Tarshe, are you promised to anyone?”

“Promised? Me?” Tarshe shook her head. “No.”

He chose his words with great care before asking his next question. “Please don’t take offence, but it’s important that I know: is there any chance at all that you’re with child?”

Tarshe folded her arms resolutely. “No. None.”

C’mine surveyed the girl – young woman, he corrected himself – briefly, assessing her fitness for himself rather than asking. She looked sound, strong; thinner than really desirable, but that was nothing an improved diet couldn’t solve, and C’mine would rather bring in a girl lean and fit from hard living than one with the spare flesh of indolence. Her fingers, resting lightly on her darkly tanned upper arms, showed white nicks and scars, and nails kept scrupulously short and clean. Nothing suggested her health to be any less than perfect.

“Well?” she asked, with more than a hint of that belligerent impatience.

He couldn’t help but smile. “We’d like you to come back to Madellon Weyr to stand for Shimpath’s clutch.”

Tarshe nodded curtly, although she couldn’t entirely conceal her pleasure. “Thank you, blue rider. I’d like that.”

Darshanth sneezed. C’mine flinched reflexively and threw a reproachful look at his dragon, but in looking at the blue, he saw Sh’zon, standing beside Kawanth. The Wingleader had clearly been watching for some time. You could have just said he was there, you know.

Who?

Sh’zon. You didn’t have to sneeze to get my attention.

I didn’t. Darshanth’s eyes glowed with innocence. My nose itched.

C’mine decided not to acknowledge the bronze rider. Darshanth’s approval, not Sh’zon’s, had been the crucial factor in Tarshe’s Search, and it would be insulting to suggest to her that he had acted because the Wingleader had told him to, rather than because she was worthy. “You won’t need to bring much, Tarshe, but if you need some time to get your things together, then I’m sure Sh’zon will come and pick you up in a day or so.”

Tarshe went visibly tense, and said quickly, “No, I’ll come back with you now.” Then she added, “I’ve already packed, anyway. Sh’zon warned me.”

“He must have been very confident in you,” C’mine replied, but he wondered why the girl was so keen to get away. “Does the rest of your family know you’re going?”

“He warned them, too,” said the girl, with a more natural roll of her eyes. “I’ll get my pack. I won’t be long.”

C’mine knew, even before Tarshe had disappeared out of sight into one of the thick-walled buildings, that Sh’zon would be on him for details. He turned to make some unnecessary adjustments to Darshanth’s flying harness, wondering what to say. The least charitable part of him almost wished that Tarshe had proved unsuitable, just to knock Sh’zon’s towering self-assurance down a notch. But C’mine honesty wouldn’t let him rebuff an excellent prospect out of spite, and besides, he liked Tarshe. Her manner was perhaps more abrasive than strictly necessary, and there were definite similarities between her outspoken confidence and Sh’zon’s, but C’mine sensed that much of that aggression was bluster. Tarshe’s strong personality might not always make life easy for her, but her brusqueness resulted from something else, something that had forced her to be tough, if only on the outside, in order to survive. He had thought at first that Tarshe reminded him of Sarenya – and in a way she did: determined, unafraid, rather stubborn. But, as C’mine ran their conversation back through his mind, he realised that the girl out him more in mind of the close-mouthed, short-tempered, but totally straightforward and trustworthy T’kamen.

“So my cousin’s coming to the Weyr?”

C’mine took a quick deep breath before turning to face Sh’zon. “Darshanth and I think that she’d make an excellent dragonrider.”

“She’s a good lass,” Sh’zon asserted. “The best.”

C’mine considered suggesting Tarshe would make a first-rate green rider, but he decided against it. Deliberate provocation wasn’t his style. But the very fact that he had thought of the barb was telling: Sh’zon’s attitude bothered him. The bronze rider’s charisma would appeal to many, but C’mine didn’t quite feel comfortable with it. It reminded him too much of L’dro.

“What’s this place called?” he asked instead.

Sh’zon’s eyes narrowed fractionally, but his tone didn’t waver. “Just Shevran’s hold, after my uncle.”

If the settlement had been named after the bronze rider’s uncle, it must be quite new, which would account for the apparent haste of its construction. “I didn’t know any part of the Peninsula ‘s territory was this warm.”

“Long way north,” Sh’zon said shortly and, as if to cut off further questioning, he stalked back towards his bronze.

C’mine looked at Darshanth and shrugged.

He was scratching the blue’s throat when Tarshe reappeared. She had changed into a long-sleeved tunic and trousers just as shabby as the vest and shorts she had been wearing earlier, and she wore battered sandals on her feet. As C’mine went to take Tarshe’s bag of belongings, he frowned at the garments. They weren’t nearly substantial enough to keep out the cold of between.

Sh’zon intercepted his cousin as she crossed the space between the two dragons, doffing his long flying coat. “Here, lassie, put this on, or you’ll catch a death.”

Tarshe winced a bit as she pulled on the heavy, too-long coat, but she touched Sh’zon’s arm fondly. “Thank you.”

The bronze rider snorted in response, and buttoned shut the lighter jacket he had been wearing under his coat. “Go on with you.”

C’mine had mounted to Darshanth’s neck ridges before he realised that Tarshe was waiting expectantly for a hand up. He blinked down at the girl. “You’re not riding with your cousin?”

Tarshe shrugged laboriously, the bulk of the leather coat obviously weighing her down.

“You’d better come with us, then.” C’mine leaned down, offering his hand.

The girl took it, eyeing the distance between ground and neck ridges uncertainly, and with a flash of insight C’mine realised that she must have little or no experience of riding dragons. He masked his surprise. “Just step up on his forearm there, and I’ll give you a pull the rest of the way.”

Darshanth politely bent his elbow to assist the procedure, and Tarshe, clumsy in her borrowed coat, clambered onto his arm. C’mine shifted his grip to her wrist, and tugged her up his dragon’s side until she could throw a leg over the soft neck behind him.

He looped the passenger safety strap around Tarshe’s waist, then secured the loose end to the secondary eyelets on Darshanth’s neck strap. He pulled on the leathers to make sure, and asked, “Does that feel all right?”

Tarshe nodded, and C’mine added, “You can hold on to me. Has Sh’zon told you about between?”

“I have flown,” Tarshe said, with asperity. Then, grudgingly, she admitted, “It’s just been a while.”

“Just remember that it doesn’t last long, and you’ll be fine.” C’mine checked their safety harness one more time, and looked to Sh’zon for permission before rousing Darshanth with a light slap. “Let’s go.”

As the blue reared to his haunches, extending his wings, C’mine moved with him, but Tarshe was thrown back in her place. He gave her a reassuring smile. Riding a dragon was exciting to a beginner, but not always comfortable.

Darshanth and Kawanth sprang aloft almost at the same moment, banking in different directions to achieve suitable altitude and airspace. C’mine looked down at the cothold, noticing the small group of people who had gathered outside one of the buildings, looking up. He supposed that Sh’zon had laid the groundwork for Tarshe’s removal to the Weyr long ago, but the lack of reaction to her Search was still puzzling.

Let’s go home, he told his dragon.

The blue went between.

C’mine caught himself counting again, and the memory of their last, inexplicably long, jump between made a sweat break out of his forehead. Seven…eight…nine…

Darshanth re-emerged over Madellon, into a darkness almost as intense as the one from which they had come. C’mine clutched the neck ridge in front of him with frantic strength. Darshanth, what happened?

This is home. His dragon’s tone was confused, and as he turned his head back to look at his rider, C’mine could see yellow flashes of distress in Darshanth’s eye.

But it’s the wrong time! Darshanth, it was daylight when we left!

“C’mine?”

He’d forgotten about their passenger. “It’s all right, Tarshe, don’t worry,” he called back, hating himself for the lie.

What should I do, Mine?

C’mine looked down at the sleeping Weyr. The watchdragon was looking up at them, but the brown would not vocalise a challenge or query late at night. We’ve come to the wrong time, Darshanth.

The blue angled on a wing, and then cried out softly, a piteous sound. C’mine looked down to see what had distressed his dragon, and swallowed hard. Below, on their weyr ledge, another silvery sky-blue dragon lay asleep. Another Darshanth.

C’mine felt a wave of disorienting nausea roll over him. He shook his head, trying to focus. Come on, Darshanth. We have to find our own time. It’s daylight, and Kinerth’s going to rise soon. There’s a blue on watch. He formed the image in his mind, concentrating hard on the preening green. Let’s go.

He felt Darshanth’s mind take hold of the visualisation, and they went between.

He couldn’t count: Darshanth had too strong a grip on his thoughts, clinging to the clarity of the picture C’mine had drawn. Every detail he could muster seemed to burn in his brain as the blue relied on him absolutely to find his way through the freezing blackness, and for the first time, transfixed as he was by the powerful grasp of Darshanth’s mind, C’mine experienced some of the immensity of a dragon’s pathfinding ability. He only touched the edges of it, and understood less than he saw, but the alien complexity of the dragons’ instinctive gift to navigate between here and there made him shudder away.

Here!

C’mine didn’t know which of them had spoken, but as Darshanth’s vicelike clutch on his consciousness eased, he opened his eyes.

Madellon sprawled below them, in daylight. The blue was on watch. Kinerth perched on the Rim, preening her wings, and the same few males still watched her. Even the brown, Trebruth, was where he had been.

C’mine felt something ease inside him, and he wiped the film of perspiration from his brow with a trembling hand. Good lad, Darshanth, clever lad. He swallowed convulsively. Ask the watchdragon how long we’ve been gone.

Darshanth’s voice was a little shaky, too. He says only a minute, and why are we back so soon.

Tell him it’s a long story. Let’s get on the ground. C’mine pulled his flying goggles down, letting the air cool the sweat on his face. Then he turned to touch Tarshe’s arm, knowing that she wouldn’t hear him speak over the wind of Darshanth’s flight. The girl looked perplexed, but not afraid: blissful in her ignorance of the disaster that had almost occurred.

Darshanth checked his descent for a moment, looking back at C’mine. Trebruth wants to know where Kawanth is.

If C’mine had forgotten about Tarshe, sitting behind him on Darshanth’s neck, in his fright, he had as good as forgotten Sh’zon’s existence. Didn’t they come back with us? Did they stay?

I don’t know.

If Kawanth had lost his way like Darshanth, the bronze and his rider could be anywhere – or anywhen – and the Peninsula pair might not have a strong enough image of Madellon to find their way back. Can’t you find them, Darshanth?

But before the blue could reply, a shadow fell abruptly on them from above. C’mine looked up, and exhaled in relief at the sight of Kawanth’s bright hide.

Darshanth flinched, wobbling and then correcting himself. Kawanth’s very angry, he said tremulously.

Why should he be angry? But C’mine couldn’t dispute his dragon’s report: as the bronze dived to flank Darshanth, he could see the orange of Kawanth’s eyes, and the furious expression on Sh’zon’s face. You’d better land.

The Wingleader released his straps and slid down from his dragon’s neck almost before Kawanth had settled to the ground, and there was wrath in every inch of his body as he stormed across to Darshanth. “Get down from there!” he bellowed up at C’mine.

C’mine unfastened the fighting strap. “Just swing your leg over his neck, and slide down,” he told Tarshe.

Sh’zon stood fuming as first Tarshe and then C’mine dismounted. “What in the name of Faranth’s first egg did you think you were doing, going between on your own?” he shouted in C’mine’s face, heedless of his cousin’s presence.

C’mine straightened, offended despite his scare. “Darshanth and I have been going between on our own for thirteen Turns, sir.”

“You went without my permission! You went without taking the visual!”

Sh’zon couldn’t know about their detour into another time, and his rage was out of all proportion. “With respect, Wingleader, we know our way home.”

“You should have waited!” Sh’zon’s roar was enraged, but he hadn’t flushed with anger. If anything, he was paler than usual. “Next time, you wait, you hear? Scorch you, you wait!”

“Yes, sir,” C’mine said, thinking privately that there wouldn’t be a next time. He was glad that he was in T’kamen’s Wing. The Weyrleader had his moments, but at least C’mine understood him.

“Give me that.” Sh’zon pulled at the coat Tarshe was still wearing, hardly giving the girl a chance to take it off. Tarshe shot her cousin a baleful look, but said nothing. “Now get out of my sight, both of you.”

“I’m sorry about that,” C’mine said softly to the girl, as Sh’zon strode away, yanking on his coat.

Tarshe shook her head. “It’s all right. It’s not your fault.”

C’mine hesitated, then said, “That first jump between…I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened there.”

“It’s not your fault,” the girl repeated, looking at him with those fiercely blue eyes.

C’mine sighed, taking Tarshe’s pack down from Darshanth’s harness. “I’ll take you to meet L’stev, the Weyrlingmaster. He’ll be in charge of you, but his bark’s worse than his bite.”

“That’s often the way.”

C’mine walked his latest candidate to the weyrling barracks, leaving her in L’stev’s capable hands. But he couldn’t help being unnerved by the problems Darshanth had encountered going between. He might have been able to forget one anomaly, but not two in the same day. Why had they ended up at Madellon in the middle of the night? Had they gone back in time, or forward? Darshanth’s instinct had never been unreliable before. And why had Sh’zon reacted so extremely to their jump between, unless he knew they’d gone astray? How would he have known?

The watch dragon said that they had only been gone a minute. C’mine had used his last time-specific visual of Madellon as a reference. But Sh’zon and Kawanth had arrived back only a few moments after Darshanth. They had been at Tarshe’s cothold for an hour or more: why had the bronze pair jumped back in time to a minute or two after their departure from Madellon? Had Kawanth lost his way, too?

The thought was ominous. Relying on your dragon to find his way between was a fundamental part of being a dragonrider. If that foolproof instinct could no longer be trusted…

C’mine shivered, chilled to his very soul.

Chapter Fifteen: Who Loves, Lives

“Raise your arms, green rider. Come on, I don’t have all day.”

C’los did as he was told, but he glared at the top of Ironam’s head as the tailor stooped to stretch a measuring tape around his chest. He didn’t normally mind being measured for new clothes – in fact, he quite enjoyed the conversation that accompanied a fitting. Ironam, though, was not his usual tailor, and E’rom’s eldest brother had neither the flattering manner of Avair, who had been making C’los’ clothes for most of a decade, nor his flair for innovative design. C’los had caught a glimpse of the fabric swatches Ironam had brought, and they all looked drab and dull. If talking to Ironam hadn’t been so crucial to his investigation, C’los would have told him to take his boring fabrics and get out.

He endured, keeping in mind his promise to T’kamen to avoid arousing suspicion. At least he could charge the price of the shirt to the Weyrleader. That thought cheered him.

“Don’t puff out your chest like that,” Ironam said peevishly. “And stop sucking in your belly.”

“Excuse me?” C’los asked, holding himself in tighter.

“Do you want this shirt to fit or not?”

C’los scowled as the tailor whipped the tape around his waist. The number Ironam noted down on his slate was offensively high. Avair cut his shirts to fit, but the man had tact and never wrote down C’los’ real measurements where he could see them. But then, Avair had trained at the Hall, and Ironam merely had a useful talent. The difference was in the service.

Finally, Ironam put down his slate. “You can look at those swatches and see what you like,” he said, jerking his head at the stack of fabric.

C’los eyed the selection dubiously, but he was glad to be free of Ironam’s brutally honest measuring tape. He picked up the first square of cloth – patterned in a sober blue and white stripe – and sighed mentally. “Can you guarantee you’ll have this ready before the Hatching?”

Ironam glanced up from putting his tape away. “That’ll be extra.”

C’los sighed again. Fingering the top few swatches without really feeling them, he arranged his thoughts. “I was at your brother’s funeral,” he said. Then, without much sincerity, he added, “Your eulogy was very touching.”

Apparently deaf to the irony, Ironam assumed a pious expression. “I only did what any brother would. I didn’t know you knew E’rom.”

“Not as well as I’d have liked to,” C’los lied.

“He was the best of men,” said Ironam. “He deserved better.”

“A better death?” asked C’los.

The tailor sniffed. “That, too, but no. He deserved a better weyrmate than that blue rider.”

“K’ston?”

“You know him?” Ironam asked, suddenly wary.

“I know of him,” C’los shrugged. “The Weyr Singer and I are friends, and she was close to E’rom.”

Ironam seemed to relax. “We’d all rather she’d been his weyrmate.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what didn’t you like about K’ston?”

The tailor folded his arms. “We’re a close family, green rider, and we don’t soon forget wrongs against our own.”

C’los felt more convinced of the latter statement than the former. “What sort of wrongs?”

Ironam huffed to himself. “Our youngest brother, Heromar, Impressed from the same clutch as K’ston. And let me tell you, I don’t know what was going through that dragon’s mind when he chose that little bully.”

“He and E’mar didn’t get on?”

“Ha!” Ironam checked himself, then said darkly, “And him a blue rider too, that was the worst of it. Holdbred and hidebound, that’s all I’ll say.” He shook his head. “E’rom should have known better than to take up with his like. It’s been thirty Turns, he said; he’s changed, he said, but a tunnel snake doesn’t change its markings just because it’s shed a skin. Are you going to look at that fabric or not?”

The level of animosity Ironam clearly felt towards K’ston surprised C’los. The green rider wondered if the tailor resented him for something as simple as the fact that the Holdbred boy had Impressed and Ironam had not, but he didn’t think so. Weyrbred boys who had been given opportunities to Impress and failed were typically given short shrift if they bemoaned the injustice for too long. But Ironam’s manner had become wary again, and C’los doubted he would get any more on the subject out of the pompous little man.

He flipped through the scraps of material without really paying attention. Brown, brown, boring, boring, dull, dull, dull. He liked colours with life, personality, eye-catching appeal. “You know, the Weyrleader hasn’t chosen E’rom’s replacement yet,” he said conversationally.

“Of course not,” Ironam said stiffly. “Respect for the dead.”

C’los didn’t mention that, during a Pass, a new Wingsecond would have been promoted immediately. “Who do you think will be appointed?”

“Why don’t you tell me, green rider? I’m not a dragonrider. I don’t presume to know the Weyrleader’s mind.”

C’los paused, and then asked, “There’s not a rider from his Wing he thought might have an eye on his position?”

“You’re asking the wrong person. Now tell me what you want this shirt made of, or I won’t have it ready by Turn’s End, let alone the Hatching.”

In the end, C’los chose plain but very fine white linen for his shirt, reasoning that it would echo the simple white robes that the candidates, including Leah, would be wearing. It took longer to persuade Ironam to cut the sleeves rather fuller than was strictly functional, and the tailor complained that the embroidery C’los wanted – a green dragon, her wings spread, across the shoulders, and finer detail of head and neck on the left breast – would have to be outsourced to someone skilled in close needlework. Still, C’los was forced to concede that the overall effect would probably be met with greater approval by his daughter and weyrmate than something in the loud colours and patterns he normally preferred.

It was late for lunch, but C’los found himself ravenous, and he drifted towards the dining cavern. Only a few people still ate at the long tables, but he didn’t feel like company anyway. He flashed a practised, entirely insincere grin at one of the kitchen helpers as she dished up his serving of the meal and found his portion of the dessert doubled. C’los gloated over his unerring ability to charm extra out of almost every woman in the kitchens, and then remembered Ironam’s measuring tape.

He trudged towards the vacant end of a table, reflecting bitterly that sessions with tailors weren’t supposed to make one feel bad about oneself. He sat down and took the first bite of his pie. If there were meat in there, it was hiding where he couldn’t find it. C’los stared gloomily at the miserable fare. He was expanding his waistline for this? He ate anyway, too hungry to pass up the meal, and too conscious that he couldn’t be fussy with the Weyr struggling to make ends meet.

By the time he had cleared his plates, and taken them back to the service hatch, C’los was wondering what to do next. Ironam hadn’t shed any more light on T’fer’s involvement with E’rom’s murder, and he needed something more to go on than circumstantial evidence and a hunch. It had been almost a month since E’rom’s murder, and for all C’los knew, the brown rider’s killer could still be at loose in the Weyr. It was an unnerving thought.

C’los wondered if there were any more to be gleaned from L’stev regarding the double tragedy that had occurred in T’fer’s weyrling class. If he could get a better sense for the limitations of the brown rider’s ambition, he might be better able to confront T’fer with his suspicions. Perhaps more frustrating than anything was being forced to investigate the crime without being able to do so openly. C’los understood why T’kamen didn’t want the Weyr at large to know, but it made his task ten times more difficult. Riders who had been obstructive would surely be more helpful if they knew what was at stake.

As he left the dining hall, C’los realised he still felt hungry. Indioth, are you hungry? he asked, but she was asleep. Perhaps dreaming of food.

The weather outside was sullen: grey and gusty. C’los didn’t want to wake Indioth just to find out where L’stev was, so he headed in the general direction of the weyrling barracks. But his eye was drawn to a dragon emerging from the lake, and C’los hesitated to identify him before changing course mid-stride and almost tripping over his own feet. The striking deep-hued blue was Bronth. K’ston might have some more answers.

The blue rider was wrapping a towel about himself, shivering and blowing with the chill of the water, but Bronth showed the sparkling health of a newly-clean dragon. He cocked his head to look at C’los as he approached, and his interest alerted K’ston.

C’los only had a few moments to remind himself that K’ston knew he was investigating E’rom’s death before the blue rider hailed him. “C’los!”

“Hello, K’ston,” he replied. “Bronth’s looking well.”

K’ston shuddered. “He’d better. I don’t know what possessed me to go into that water in this sort of weather.” He rubbed vigorously at his head with his towel, making his sandy hair stand up in spikes.

C’los hesitated, taking care with his words. “How are you feeling?”

K’ston froze for the barest of instants and then lowered his towel. “I’m getting by,” he admitted.

C’los waited until the other rider had put some clothes back on before saying, “I was wondering if you’d sit with me and tell me more about E’rom.”

“You’re still investigating what happened?” Bronth’s rider asked.

C’los nodded. “Why don’t you come up to my weyr?”

Indioth and Darshanth were both dozing on the ledge. C’los stepped carefully in between the two dragons. “C’mine?”

His weyrmate didn’t respond, and a quick glance around the weyr satisfied C’los that Darshanth’s rider had gone out. “Sit down and dry off,” he invited K’ston, indicating one of the chairs by the hearth. He prodded at the embers in the fireplace with a poker, almost extinguishing them before they flared back into life. C’mine usually tended the fire.

“This is a really nice weyr,” said K’ston, in the manner of a man making small talk.

“It belonged to one of Madellon’s founding bronze riders,” C’los replied, taking his own seat by the fire. “He did most of the work of chiselling it out of the rock, so when he died and left his possessions to Mine and I, this was included.”

They both lapsed into silence for a difficult few moments, and then both spoke at once.

“Can you tell me?” C’los began.

“Have you found out any more?” K’ston said.

C’los grinned, a little of the tension eased. “You first.”

The blue rider smiled uncomfortably. “Have you found out any more about how it happened?”

Yes, C’los wanted to shout. Your weyrmate was murdered. Someone drugged him, and then killed him, and I think it was T’fer, but I don’t have any proof, and…

“Some,” he replied, with a calmness he didn’t feel. “I’m still trying to get a sense for the sort of man E’rom was, to put his death in context.” The green rider considered for a moment. “Did he see much of his family?”

“He couldn’t fail to, with so many of them around the place,” said K’ston, with only a hint of bitterness. “E’rom was from a big Weyrbred family – they came from Ista when Madellon was founded. His eldest brother can recite the lineage as if it’s sacred.” There was no mistaking the scorn in his curled lip.

“Why didn’t you get along with them?” asked C’los, deliberately skipping the establishment of that fact.

K’ston shrugged. “They didn’t like me from the start. I thought maybe it was because they missed E’rom’s last weyrmate, but…I don’t know.”

“Didn’t you and his younger brother Impress from the same clutch?” C’los asked, falsely casual.

K’ston’s expression betrayed him. The blue rider started to speak, then stopped, shaking his head. “I guess there’s no point edging around that,” he said regretfully. “E’mar and I were weyrlings together, yes.”

“Go on,” C’los prompted.

“There was a certain amount of rivalry between us,” said K’ston. “Both being blue riders, him from the Weyr and me from Jessaf. I might have been pretty unkind to him at the time – I was bigger than him, and…well, we were kids. It was thirty Turns ago. I mean, everyone’s got something in their past they’d rather wasn’t there, haven’t they?”

C’los could believe that the friction between E’rom’s family and K’ston stemmed from that long-ago rivalry. Ironam had said himself that he never forgot a slight. “Did you and E’rom talk about it?”

“Not much,” said K’ston. “Like I said, it was a long time ago, and I was pretty young and pretty stupid. E’rom realised that, even if his brothers didn’t.”

C’los mulled that over. It cleared up another loose end, but it still didn’t resolve anything. He was convinced that the answer lay with T’fer. But while C’los was desperate to find something that would conclusively point to the brown rider now stationed at Kellad, he was perversely relieved every time a line of questioning failed. He wanted to find the killer, but cynical as he was, pragmatic as he was, C’los still couldn’t bear to be the one who proved that one dragonrider could murder another in cold blood.

“Did E’rom ever mention one of his wingriders, T’fer, to you?” he asked.

Bronth’s rider nodded. “One of the brown riders from his new Wing, under H’ned,” he said.

“What did he think of him?”

K’ston frowned thoughtfully. “He never really said. I think he said once that T’fer might have been made Wingsecond in his place.” The blue rider smiled: a brief, oddly forced smile. “But there was no reason for E’rom to be demoted. He didn’t support L’dro; he was qualified for his position.”

“Did T’fer ever go to E’rom’s weyr on Wing business?” asked C’los.

“Most of his wingriders did at some point,” K’ston replied, blinking. “At least, from his old Wing. He always took a personal interest in his riders.”

“So E’rom wouldn’t have been surprised if T’fer dropped in to discuss a Wing matter before drill?” C’los pressed.

The blue rider looked askance. “Well, no.”

“Maybe for a cup of klah?”

“Oh, no, E’rom never drank klah after mid-afternoon,” K’ston said earnestly.

Something about the blue rider’s words struck a distant chord in C’los’ mind. He frowned, rubbing at his temples, frustrated by the sudden torpor of his mental agility. Making connections without conscious effort had always been one of his gifts. But at the edge of his awareness, beyond the barrier he had maintained between himself and Indioth for the duration of the murder investigation, he felt his dragon rousing, and with a shock of recognition C’los realised how and why the normally gentle and introverted green had been interfering with his concentration all day. She was ready to mate.

He tried to count up the sevendays since Indioth’s last flight, and couldn’t. Was she early, or had he just lost track of the days? He couldn’t focus: Indioth wasn’t in control yet, but the building intensity of her emotions pulled his mind this way and that, buffeting his thoughts, demanding his attention. A lone coherent thought reared up in the morass: oh, love, why didn’t I notice, but the guilt and mortification of the thought was gone almost before it formed, swept away in the green dragon’s growing need.

C’los didn’t even realise K’ston was still trying to get his attention until the blue rider actually seized his shoulder, shaking him back to himself for a moment. “C’los!” The other man looked down at him intently, and then his eyes went vague. “It’s Indioth, isn’t it?”

He dragged both hands back through his hair, desperately trying to hold on to himself. Indioth’s flights were to be cherished, but not like this, not without warning or preparation or even a moment to collect himself. He was an experienced green rider of nearly fifteen Turns and dozens of flights: he should have known she was close.

All thoughts of the investigation gone from his mind, C’los got shakily to his feet, driven by the need to be with his dragon. He was only peripherally aware of K’ston beside him, only half conscious of the chair in his way and the blue rider’s help as he almost tripped. It was only when C’los reached the ledge, and his green, that he could focus, and then on the furious, vibrant form of Indioth, rearing high above him with eyes like amber lanterns.

What are you doing rising now? he asked weakly into the unyielding strength of her emotions.

It’s time, she declared. We will fly.

With that, she launched herself into the air. C’los clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached, but Indioth alighted on the Rim, flaring her wings and bugling a raucous challenge to the males of the Weyr.

C’los spared a moment to be relieved that his dragon hadn’t gone for the flocks: a green who blooded kills before a flight was an unnecessary drain on the Weyr’s resources, and he wouldn’t have had the presence of mind to restrain her. Other concerns were already becoming more pressing. As dragons around Madellon responded to Indioth’s challenge, their riders began to drift in C’los’ direction, eyes slightly glazed as they focused on their blues and browns.

Blue… Where was C’mine? Fighting for a moment’s control, C’los turned on Darshanth. The blue had made himself small on the ledge, but he regarded C’los with peaceful eyes. “Where’s C’mine?” C’los demanded, not sure if the words were coherent or not. “Where is he?” But Darshanth didn’t react, and C’los suddenly realised that the blue dragon showed no sign of agitation: his eyes were slow and calm, his sprawl relaxed. He clearly had no intention of pursuing Indioth.

“What’s the matter with you?” C’los shouted, half at Darshanth, half at his rider. “What’s the matter?”

Darshanth still showed no sign of a response, and by then the other riders were closing around C’los in a determined circle, and helpless to resist any longer, her gave himself up to Indioth.

Through her lust-reddened eyes he glared at their suitors; through her heightened senses he scented them; through her thoughts he felt them. Dragon and rider bared their teeth in a silent snarl of calculated scorn, provoking the shifting males with their disdain, daring them to prove themselves. A brown landed close to Indioth, rearing over her in a display of dominance, but the green hissed and flung a wing in his face, even as C’los blocked the advance of the brown’s rider with his forearm.

Indioth curved her neck towards the rest of her admirers, screaming once more in a mixture of defiance and invitation, and then with a powerful spring she was aloft. C’los fought down the urge to leap into the air himself only with the experience of many flights, and with the tiny part of him that was still conscious and aware he staggered in the direction of his inner weyr. The riders, some of whose dragons still hadn’t reacted to Indioth’s abrupt take-off, grasped vaguely at him, but C’los evaded them and they followed him instead, out of the light and into privacy. That responsibility complete, C’los let the last part of his mind merge with Indioth’s.

She flew, the rapid sweeps of her wings carrying her fast and far, concerned with nothing more in the first few moments than showing off her speed and grace, compelling her pursuers to keep up, if they could. There would be time for the catch later; for now, the chase was everything. The chase would sort the strong from the weak, the determined from the indifferent: Indioth was no queen, but her pride soared with her, and she would not settle for any male if another could show himself more worthy.

Confident of her lead, she threw a glance back over one shoulder. Blues, and browns, and a single bronze larger than them all, flew in her wake with the same orange gaze. Indioth derided them all with a shriek. What were they, compared to her?

But when the first hint of tiredness from the headlong flight touched her wing muscles, Indioth ceased her exhausting sprint. Turning almost on her tail she doubled back, almost colliding with the pack of males behind her, diving with easy precision to avoid them, and screaming with contempt as her suitors tried to compensate. One blue was buffeted midair by another as they struggled for airspace: both flew on, but Indioth was already ahead again. She banked out of the range of a brown and darted beneath him before he had time to close the difference.

Ducking and weaving between the larger dragons, flaunting her superior agility, Indioth felt herself tiring, but the need to outfly the males had faded: now, she waited for one of them to make a move to prove himself worthy of her. On the outskirts of the pack, the bronze dipped suddenly, a massive form twice Indioth’s size, but the green evaded and the big dragon couldn’t turn as fast.

But as Indioth turned, a blue turned with her, matching her speed and angle. She twisted away and the blue followed that manoeuvre too: she dived and he dived, she climbed and he climbed. However she tried to best him, the persistent blue would not be shaken. And when Indioth turned a little too slowly, at last satisfied that here was one worthy of her, her most ardent suitor took his opportunity, and grabbed.

All thoughts of escape evaporated from Indioth’s mind as the blue seized her shoulders, blocked her wings with his body, tangled their tails together, gripped the back of her neck gently in his jaws, extinguished her fight to make way for a brighter, fiercer flame that scorched dragons and riders, and took possession of his prize.

Consciousness returned slowly, and C’los was aware of Indioth long before he could register his own situation.

You’re awake.

The normal post-flight satisfaction in the green dragon’s voice was tempered by something else that, groggy as he was, C’los couldn’t identify. You’re back safely, girl?

Yes. Safely. You didn’t know it was time.

The strange note in Indioth’s voice was accusatory. C’los tried to think. No, I’m sorry, I…

You would have known if you’d asked. If you’d let me in, you would have known.

Indioth…

Sometimes I can hardly feel you. And Indioth’s mind wrapped around him, gentler than during her flight, but no less fierce. You’re my rider, and I love you, and nothing should come between us.

Indioth’s vehemence touched C’los almost as deeply as the tangible strength of her devotion to him. His mild dragon seldom spoke out so forcefully. I’m sorry, girl. Things have just been so… His thoughts turned to E’rom’s murder, and automatically he started to shield the knowledge from his dragon.

Don’t you trust me?

The piteous tone of Indioth’s question was heartbreaking. Indy, no, it’s not… With an effort, C’los collected himself. Of course I trust you. It’s not about that. It’s just that some things have been happening, bad things, and I didn’t want you worrying about them.

You can tell me anything, C’los.

Indioth…

I don’t want to be protected if it means you won’t let me in.

She had skimmed that thought, C’los’ intended reply, off the top of his mind with an ease that was almost ostentatious. You don’t want to know, Indioth, he tried feebly.

No. I don’t want to know. So why won’t you just trust me not to go looking?

C’los was spared fumbling for an answer by the movement beside him that made him abruptly aware of his physical self. He opened his eyes cautiously. His field of vision was limited, and in the faint light he could only make out part of a shoulder. C’los started to heave himself up on his elbows before realising that he didn’t have the strength. He reached out instead, feeling across the other man’s chest for something with which to identify him. The skin was smooth underneath his fingertips, the muscles well defined, and C’los felt disappointment crush him. It wasn’t C’mine.

But before he could formulate a thought beyond that realisation, a hand suddenly closed around his. “C’los?”

It took him a moment to place the voice, and then he sat bolt upright, his tiredness forgotten. “K’ston?”

The rider beside him sat up more slowly, still gripping his hand, and shaking his head slightly, as if to clear it. “Indioth rose?”

“Well…yes.”

“I didn’t realise…Bronth hasn’t…” The blue rider buried his face in his free hand for a moment, and then raised his head. “Why, why’d he…”

“Why’d he do what?” C’los asked. He was aware that K’ston was still holding his hand, but he couldn’t decide if he minded or not, so he didn’t mention it.

The blue rider looked at him, green eyes serious under his incongruously tousled hair. Then he released C’los’ hand with a start, and glanced away. “It’s nothing.”

C’los blinked. Waking up with a random rider was sometimes embarrassing, but he wasn’t embarrassed on this occasion, just baffled. “What’s nothing?”

“Nothing’s nothing.” The blue rider started to move, almost pulling the tangled furs off them both. He stopped to unwind the covers from his legs. “I’ll get out of the way before your weyrmate comes back.”

The memory of Darshanth sprawling indolently on the ledge, quite unmoved by Indioth’s challenge, came back to C’los like a fist in the gut. “He won’t mind,” he said, before he could stop himself. “It’s not as if he cares about Indioth’s flights any more.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” said K’ston.

“I can’t remember the last time Darshanth caught her,” C’los continued. “He hasn’t even tried the last three times.” A part of him objected - Darshanth’s injuries had disqualified him from the last flight – but then the blue wouldn’t have been hurt if C’mine hadn’t chosen the chance to be a hero over his own weyrmate.

“There’s got to be a good reason for that,” K’ston insisted. “Anyway, just because his dragon hasn’t been chasing, doesn’t mean he’s not interested in you any more.”

And that was the worst part – more hurtful by far than Darshanth’s indifference. “He’s not,” C’los said, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. “He doesn’t even want to be near me. We’re sleeping apart.”

“Oh, C’los…”

There was sympathy in K’ston’s voice, and understanding, and when the blue rider engulfed him in a rough hug C’los didn’t object. He leaned his head against the other rider’s shoulder, fighting with his misery at the betrayal of his weyrmate, the estrangement of his dragon, the terrible burden of knowing the truth about E’rom. Never had he been so in need of support from those closest to him, and never had that support been so lacking.

K’ston was a solid presence, his frame larger and more muscular than C’mine’s, and there was something comforting about that. His skin was soft, without the disfiguring scars that fire and sharp claws had left in C’mine’s flesh. His hair was shaggy and sandy blonde, barely receding at the temples, but not thinning like C’mine’s, not certain to vanish altogether. And his face – generously sculpted, with fine lines of nose and brow and jaw, with those unusual deeply green and soul-filled eyes – was handsome, not homely.

C’los could sense where his thoughts were going, and a part of him rebelled. But the larger part was in control, and it was too tired and too stressed and too bitter to do the right thing. He just wanted to be wanted.

He lifted his head just far enough to look K’ston full in the face. Bronth’s rider gazed up at him. “C’los, wha…”

C’los silenced him with a kiss. The blue rider’s instant of shock was fleeting, and then he was responding, wrapping a strong arm around C’los’ shoulders, stroking his hair was a tenderness that the green rider couldn’t have predicted.

It had been so long since C’los had known another man’s embrace outside a flight; all those Turns and Turns he’d been weyrmated to C’mine. He forced away thoughts of Darshanth’s rider, pushed them back into that tiny part of his mind that housed his conscience and his better judgement.

Not to mention the ever-loving, and increasingly distant, presence of his dragon.

Chapter Sixteen: Black, Blacker, Blackest

The sound of Epherineth’s wings broke the tranquil silence of the Hatching cavern, and Valonna straightened where she sat halfway up the stands. Shimpath had raised her head at the first sound, one wing ready to curve protectively over her eggs, but her eyes stayed calm and blue as she watched her mate approach. Epherineth alighted a careful distance from the eggs, shaking his head as the draught of his landing stirred up the sand. The bronze dipped a shoulder to let his rider dismount, then greeted Shimpath with a graceful inclination of his head, as silent as ever.

Shimpath hummed a melodic acknowledgement and then barked a stern command, extending both wings over her clutch. Epherineth listened so gravely that Valonna wanted to laugh. He won’t let anything happen to them, Shimpath.

Males always need to be told what to do, Shimpath replied. Then, satisfied that her precious eggs would be sufficiently well guarded, she edged delicately around them and leapt aloft, darting out through the exit to the Bowl in search of a meal.

Valonna wished she could take such a straightforward approach with Epherineth’s rider. T’kamen stalked towards her with all the unstoppable momentum of a rising tide, and her stomach clenched unhappily at the bleak expression on his face. The Weyrleader might be doing no more than enquiring after her health, but just seeing him coming was enough to make Valonna nervous.

As T’kamen made his normal perfunctory bow, Valonna couldn’t help but notice how haggard the bronze rider looked. She seldom tried to look past the stark black and white that were the only colours he ever wore, but the wrist visible where his shirt sleeve had been pushed back seemed painfully thin, and the bone structure of his face – never softened by excess flesh – was too pronounced, too gaunt. The vitality of bunched muscle and sinew that had marked T’kamen out scarcely four months ago had turned to skin and bone, and something in the set of his jaw told Valonna that her Weyrleader held himself together by force of will and little else. He looked older than his thirty-odd Turns, grimmer, even greyer, and the thin scars beneath his left eye did nothing to lighten his countenance.

He stared at the eggs for a long moment, his eyes narrowing, before he finally spoke. “L’stev says they’ll Hatch in five days, six at the outside.”

Valonna just nodded, looking at the sampler in her lap without seeing it. She’d learned about the incubation period for dragon eggs from Fianine – no fewer than thirty-two days, and seldom longer than thirty-eight – but she only had Shimpath’s one previous clutch to compare. The Weyrlingmaster had more experience from which to draw a conclusion.

The silence dragged on, ominous rather than awkward. T’kamen never had time for small talk, but he usually had something important to say when he did approach her to speak. Valonna risked a sideways glance, but the Weyrleader’s face was unreadable.

After a time, T’kamen went on as if he hadn’t stopped. “I’ve invited the Madellon Lords, but I’ve also sent invitations to P’raima and Margone at Southern, and H’pold and Rallai at the Peninsula .”

Valonna raised her eyes at that. Playing host to the other Weyrleaders wasn’t unheard of, but L’dro hadn’t done it, and she was uncertain of the etiquette. “What will you need me to do?”

T’kamen looked at her, his dark eyes hard and unfriendly, and then looked away, the muscles of his jaw clenching and relaxing minutely. “Nothing, Valonna. Nothing at all.”

She flinched, knowing she’d angered him, but not why. She wanted to ask, wanted to know, but she was too afraid: not in the same way as she had feared L’dro’s unpredictable rages, but afraid nonetheless of the pure black intensity of what T’kamen never let out. Valonna feared what would happen if that tight control ever slipped, and as each passing day saw T’kamen more pressured and more troubled, she worried more.

Abruptly, the Weyrleader turned and stepped down onto the sand. Epherineth, sitting at attention beside the eggs, watched with mild eyes as his rider started to pace around the clutch, occasionally extending his hand to touch a mottled shell. Even after a month with them, Valonna hadn’t tired of looking at her queen’s eggs, noticing new details in their coloration, feeling the change from leathery pliability to brittle hardness, but T’kamen was regarding them without pleasure. “Twenty-five,” he said suddenly, softly. “Twenty-sharding-five. And the queen! Why now, for Faranth’s sake?”

Valonna watched the Weyrleader uneasily, not sure if he expected her to respond, and if he did, what she should say. Epherineth made a little growling sound deep in his throat that could only have been translated as dismissive, and T’kamen turned to face his dragon. He didn’t speak aloud, but his look spoke of hostility, and by the darkening of Epherineth’s eyes, their discourse was far from cordial.

T’kamen broke away from the stare first, turning his back on his bronze. Epherineth gave a disgusted snort and dropped his head to his forearms, curling his tail around the clutch.

It dawned slowly on Valonna that T’kamen had all but forgotten about her. He slumped down on the lowest tier and raised both hands to his head, dragging his fingers through his hair, and from where Valonna was sitting she could see the savage lines of worry that Madellon’s problems had scored into his face, and that his shoulders were actually shaking with the strain.

The spectacle more than discomfited, more than unsettled her. It shocked her. Valonna would never have dreamed of seeing the normally implacable Weyrleader in a state of such despair. At odds with his own dragon and agitated by the very clutch that should be lightening his mood, not making it worse, T’kamen had the look of a man under attack from all sides and barely holding his own.

Valonna had never seen the same desperation in L’dro, and yet she couldn’t mark that as a point in the former Weyrleader’s favour. L’dro had been selective with his responsibilities, decanting the more onerous tasks onto his Council, trusting to D’feng to delegate where necessary, and simply ignoring issues that defeated his capability to cope. By contrast, T’kamen seemed to have accepted the entire unleavened weight of the Weyr onto his own shoulders and, in endeavouring to right the wrongs of L’dro’s tenure, doubled the burden. It was a bitter misfortune that his accession to the Weyrleadership had coincided with the southern droughts and northern floods that had ruined Pern’s harvests. T’kamen fought odds that seemed to have been deliberately stacked against him, and the struggle was taking a cruelly visible toll on him.

Valonna had never imagined she might feel sorry for her resilient counterpart, and she was certain that T’kamen would resent the least indication that he had become a figure of pity. But she felt for him, for his apparently hopeless situation, and perversely, felt reassured. T’kamen was human, and fallible, and vulnerable, and that emboldened her.

She put her work aside and, gathering her skirts, began to climb down the steps to the bottom tier. “Weyrleader?” He didn’t react, and Valonna hesitated before stepping alongside him, so he could not fail to see the movement from the corner of his eye. “T’kamen?”

Epherineth’s rider lifted his head and slowly, slowly turned to meet her gaze. When he spoke, his voice was tired rather than angry, as if simply too exhausted to muster greater force. “What is it, Valonna?”

She opened her mouth to speak, realised she didn’t know what to say, and closed it again. Then, after a moment’s thought, she said, “I know things are hard right now, I know morale’s low. We all need something to lift our spirits. When the eggs Hatch…”

“When the eggs Hatch, the dragon population of Madellon will increase by ten percent at a time when we can barely feed the mouths we have,” T’kamen replied, still in that soft, weary voice.

“We’ll manage, T’kamen,” said Valonna, trying to project positivity into her voice. “We’ve always managed, and when the Lords Holder have watched the Impression ceremony they’ll be more generous with their tithes.”

“They’ve all been to Hatchings before, and even if they were so inclined, they don’t have more to give.” The Weyrleader shaded his bloodshot eyes with one hand as if to deny reality, even as he outlined, with a stark economy of words, the situation. “The drought ruined the harvest, and too many beasts got sick and died. The wild herds we have left in the unclaimed parts of the South are being systematically consumed, driven off, or carried away. There’s land unfarmed, but no one there to farm it, and too many border squabbles over the settled regions for any Lord to spare the men to claim more. There will be people starving come the winter, Valonna. People. And Madellon is less than a sevenday off fielding twenty-five new dragonets, twenty-five insatiable appetites, including a queen that, in two Turns, will be mature and producing clutches of her own, doubling our population growth at a time when Pern does not need more dragons.”

There was such frustration, such bitterness in those last words that Valonna almost recoiled before she realised that T’kamen wasn’t aiming them at her. “Things will improve by that time, I’m sure they will.” Even to her own ears, the assertion was unconvincing, and she hurried on. “T’kamen, you’re doing the best you can. You can’t blame yourself.”

“Blame myself?” T’kamen looked up, dropping his hand, and the anger flooded back into his voice. “I wish I could! If I thought it was my own scorching incompetence that was at fault, then the solution would be as simple as taking myself and Epherineth between and leaving the way open for someone else to lead the Weyr! No, Valonna, I don’t blame myself. Not unless I count letting Epherineth fly Shimpath so high and so far that she clutches a queen. Or taking the hardest line with the Holds that I can, and still having to compromise my own riders. Or wanting to act like a Pass Weyrleader when I’m still a hundred Turns deep in an Interval!” The Weyrleader’s rising voice turned into a ragged laugh as he caught his breath, but little humour rang in it, and less in his snarling smile.

Steady wingbeats announced Shimpath’s return, and Valonna looked to the Bowl exit, guiltily glad for her dragon’s presence, although the brevity of her absence meant she must have fed very lightly. Epherineth came to attention as his mate landed, and watched stiffly while Shimpath inspected her clutch. Satisfied, the queen arranged herself meticulously around her precious eggs so the tip of her tail curled about the farthest, and the golden shell of the queen egg lay inches from the end of her nose.

“Weyrwoman.”

The dismissive curtness of T’kamen’s tone indicated that the Weyrleader had regained some measure of control over himself, but as Valonna looked in surprise at the bronze rider, she could still see his seething frustration and fear and strain. Epherineth’s rider was on his feet, and the Weyrwoman realised that he intended to leave as abruptly as he had arrived. She knew she should be relieved, but a small, strange part of her insisted that she didn’t want him to go. “T’kamen, wait.”

He halted, pivoting back to face her, the stony mask firmly in place.

“I need to… T’kamen, what can I do? To help?”

For a long moment, the his pitiless eyes locked with hers. Valonna swallowed hard, but would not break the gaze. She couldn’t like her Weyrleader, but she respected him, and something inside her wanted his respect in return.

“See to your queen,” T’kamen told her, and without another word he resumed his stiff stride towards Epherineth.

Valonna felt her cheeks colour, and she stared down at her feet, clenching her fingers on the sturdy fabric of her skirt, until she heard the sweep of wings and knew that Epherineth was gone.

Mindful of the heat, she stepped down onto the sands. One of Shimpath’s great jewel-like eyes, gleaming emerald, swivelled to regard her, although she didn’t move. Valonna walked carefully around the clutch and stood by her queen’s head, stroking the pliable golden hide that covered a sensitive headknob. No trace of blood showed on talon or fang. Shimpath was a fastidious eater, but there was no evidence that she had eaten at all.

You needed me here, the queen remarked, unruffled.

You need to eat, Shimpath!

I can eat later. Shimpath raised her head. Epherineth is concerned for his rider. You should be, too. T’kamen works too hard.

The queen put no particular stress on the bronze rider’s name, but the fact that she used it at all spoke of the strange combination of approval and respect Shimpath had for the Weyrleader, despite Valonna’s mixed feelings. The golden dragon had never liked L’dro, but nor had she ever made a point of it. Since D’feng was hurt, he hasn’t had anyone to help him.

Shimpath snorted, although whether at the mention of D’feng or for some other reason, Valonna didn’t know. He works too hard, she repeated.

Valonna just stood there, taking comfort from her dragon’s closeness, moving carefully from foot to foot as the heat of the sand penetrated the soles of her lined shoes.

The queen cocked her head suddenly, a motion that conveyed surprise as much as attentiveness. When she spoke, her voice had deepened with amusement. Darshanth bespeaks me, she told Valonna. He asks me to ask you if you will see his rider.

“Darshanth?” Valonna wondered aloud. “C’mine’s here?”

Shimpath paused, consulting with the other dragon. No. In his weyr. Then she noted, He is bold for a blue.

Valonna wondered why C’mine wanted to see her. It wasn’t the first time the blue rider had contacted her through their dragons – there were few blues so daring as to speak directly to a queen, but Darshanth was an unusual dragon – but she had seen very little of C’mine since his return from Kellad. Would you mind terribly if I went, Shimpath? Just for a little while?

The queen shifted anxiously, betraying her uneasiness at the notion, but as her eggs neared maturity she had become less insistent on Valonna’s constant presence. For a little while. You won’t be long?

I won’t be long, and I’ll come straight back if you need me, Valonna promised.

Darshanth will come and get you and bring you back, Shimpath said, with an imperious note in her voice.

Was that Darshanth’s idea or yours? Valonna asked, already knowing the answer.

Mine, of course.

Sure enough, when the blue arrived, speeding into the Hatching cavern like a flash of silvery-blue lightning, he looked rather sheepish. Shimpath didn’t deign to raise her head, but she eyed the much smaller dragon suspiciously.

It was an easy climb to Darshanth’s neck for a rider more accustomed to a queen. Valonna arranged her skirts and braced herself against the blue dragon’s ridges. I’ll be back soon, love.

Darshanth took off smoothly – much more smoothly than Shimpath – and as the blue carried her out into the Bowl, Valonna wondered why. A queen had to spring that much more powerfully, she knew, to get her great weight airborne. But then, Darshanth had more Turns, more experience, and he probably flew more in a day than Shimpath did in seven, even when she wasn’t grounded with a clutch. For a moment, Valonna let herself think about what her life would have been like if she had Impressed a green instead of a queen.

The blue landed on the low-level ledge of his weyr, crouching down before looking meekly over his shoulder at Valonna. She slid the short distance to the solid rock of the ledge and patted Darshanth’s shoulder reassuringly.

“Where did you go, Dar…” C’mine, emerging from the inner weyr, stopped and looked at her in bemusement. “Weyrwoman?”

His startled expression threw Valonna. “Darshanth told Shimpath you wanted to see me..?”

“He told Shimpath what?”

They both looked at the blue. Darshanth didn’t look abashed, his courage apparently restored away from the intimidating queen, and his reply was audible to Valonna as well as C’mine. I lied.

“You lied to Shimpath?” C’mine demanded, aghast.

You did want to see her. You just didn’t say it.

The blue rider looked helplessly at Valonna. “I don’t know what to do with him. I’m sorry. Please apologise to Shimpath.”

C’mine’s relationship with his dragon was always entertaining to observe, but he didn’t look his normal calm self: stubble darkened his jaw, and his shirt was rumpled, as if he hadn’t changed it in a few days. “It’s quite all right, C’mine.”

The blue rider rubbed his head in agitation. “Do you want to come in, since you’re here? Or do you need to get back to Shimpath?”

Darshanth’s initiative in calling her convinced Valonna that something was wrong. “I’ll come in, if I may.”

“Of course you may. You’re always welcome, Valonna. Always.”

The interior of the weyr was usually tidy, and today was no exception, but something seemed to be missing. Valonna couldn’t put her finger on what it was, but she took a seat by the hearth and accepted the cup of klah C’mine offered her with thanks. The blue rider sat in the other chair and poured himself a mug, but just held it, turning it round and round in his hands without so much as taking a sip. He looked up, as if just remembering she was there, and smiled, but the expression looked distracted, if not quite forced. “How have you been?”

“Very well,” Valonna replied, not certain what to do in the face of C’mine’s obvious distraction.

“And Shimpath? The eggs?”

“She’s fine, and the eggs are nearly hard enough to Hatch.”

“Good. That’s good.” C’mine looked down at the mug in his hands, as if he wasn’t quite sure how it had got there, and then carefully put it down on the hearth by his feet. He looked at Valonna with the same wide-eyed stare, and then shook his head. “I’m sorry, Valonna, I don’t know where I am today. I keep trying to pull myself together, but…”

He trailed off. Valonna sipped her klah, to buy herself a moment’s thinking time, then asked quietly, “What’s happened, C’mine?”

He laced the fingers of both hands at the back of his neck. “It’s C’los,” he said, after a long moment. “He’s…” He stopped, then tried again. “He’s gone. Left.”

“Left?” Valonna queried.

“Left. Me.” C’mine indicated the weyr with a wave of his hand. “Gone.”

Valonna realised then what was missing: the transient clutter of clothes and records, dirty plates and bits of riding harness, that C’los left in an absent-minded trail behind him. C’mine tidied up after his weyrmate so habitually that after a time visitors didn’t even notice him doing it, but the weyr was too painfully neat and tidy, without a sock or hide or buckle out of place. On the other side of the fireplace, C’los’ gitar was missing: only C’mine’s remained. Only half the amount of crockery graced the shelf above the hearth, half the number of rugs the floor, and the rack beside the door to the dragons’ chamber held only one harness. There was nothing left of C’los’ in the weyr, but the conspicuous lack of things that had been there for over a decade screamed of his absence. On a morning of shocks, the disintegration of what, to Valonna, had seemed one of the most rock-solid relationships in the Weyr was as startling as any.

“Why?” she asked, half in a whisper, afraid to speak too loudly.

“Indioth rose – Darshanth didn’t want to chase her. I couldn’t make him! Especially not after he was hurt, because of me… Bronth won, K’ston’s blue, and I came in after the flight – not straightaway, I gave them time, I gave them all day – and he was still there…and C’los said he was sick of being rejected, and he’d had enough, and he was leaving.”

The words came out in a rush, and Valonna had to take a minute to sort through them. “Are you sure he wasn’t just still with Indioth?” she asked hesitantly. “Still irrational because of her?”

C’mine shook his head miserably. “He went with K’ston, and then he came back later for his stuff. It wasn’t Indioth. Just C’los.”

Valonna was spared having to think of a response by a call from outside. “C’mine, that disgusting blue dragon of yours is flirting with me again. What did you…”

As the speaker stepped through the archway, she stopped, looking at Valonna and straightening up. “Weyrwoman – I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.”

“It’s all right, journeyman,” said Valonna, at the same moment as C’mine said, “Sorry, Saren, come in.”

Sarenya hesitated, looking from one to the other, and then came in the rest of the way. “Darshanth said you needed me, Mine?”

“Darshanth’s been busy,” C’mine said resignedly. “Let me get you a chair.”

Sarenya looked at Valonna with a steady gaze, then inclined her head slightly. “Weyrwoman Valonna.”

“Journeyman Sarenya,” Valonna replied uneasily. Sarenya was T’kamen’s lover, and her self-possession was formidable.

C’mine brought over one of the chairs from the table and set it in front of the hearth, between the two armchairs, but before he could resume his seat Sarenya had stepped over to him with a frown, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Mine, what’s happened?”

As the blue rider related the story again for Sarenya’s benefit, Valonna observed the rapport between the two wistfully. C’mine was her friend, yes, but it was clear that he and Sarenya had been close for much longer. The Beastcrafter seemed almost ostentatiously at ease with Darshanth’s rider.

“The miserable, conniving, stinking excuse for a watchwher!” Sarenya burst out, when C’mine had finished. Then she glanced at Valonna. “Excuse my language, Weyrwoman, but I ought to kick him in the backside so hard he won’t be sitting down for a month!”

“Don’t blame it all on him,” C’mine said morosely. “He left because of me.”

“Oh, don’t be such a wherry, C’mine. He’s the one who had a tantrum and walked out on you. You know, if you’d stood up to him more over the Turns, he might not be such a self-obsessed ass.”

“Saren,” C’mine objected.

“It’s true and you know it. He’s been walking all over you ever since I’ve known you. What have you ever done to warrant him saying he’s fed up?”

The blue rider looked briefly stricken and embarrassed at the same moment. “Since Kellad, we haven’t… I mean, I didn’t feel… And Darshanth hasn’t…” He looked from one to the other, and hung his head.

“Oh,” said Sarenya, a fraction of an instant before Valonna realised what C’mine meant. “I see.” She looked at Valonna with a sigh. “Isn’t that just typical? Only a man would throw a fit over something that small. Not that I’m casting aspersions on you, Mine,” she added.

C’mine laughed weakly, and Valonna found herself smiling. “C’mine, if it were up to me, I’d have told you to kick him out Turns ago. But I know you’ve been in love with the man longer than I’ve even known you, and I might not get on with him, but I know he loves you.” Sarenya stroked the blue rider’s sparse hair. “He’ll be back. When he realises that you’re the only man in the whole of Pern who’ll put up with him for more than about ten minutes, he’ll be back.”

Sarenya’s no-fuss approach to the blue rider’s misery could have been unsympathetic, but it wasn’t. Valonna hardly knew the journeyman, but simply listening to her tackle C’mine’s fears gave her a remarkable insight into Sarenya’s character. Brusque but not harsh, honest but not spiteful, ironic without ever belittling the depth of the blue rider’s personal crisis. And that long-suffering look she’d shot Valonna had drawn her in, consciously including her when Valonna was accustomed to exclusion.

“What if he doesn’t?” C’mine asked, still forlorn, but perhaps not to the same extent.

“Just trust me, Mine.” Sarenya looked him up and down, shaking her head. “Now don’t tell me these clothes were clean on this morning.”

C’mine looked ashamed. “I had other things on my mind.”

“I don’t know – the Weyrwoman’s sitting at your fireplace, and here you are, unshaven, in yesterday’s filthy shirt. C’los might have taken all his rubbish, but somehow I doubt he’s carried off the bathing room.” The journeyman poked C’mine in the chest with one finger. “Go and have a wash and a shave and put some clean clothes on.”

“Yes, Saren,” said C’mine. He sighed. “Thank you both for coming. Sorry Darshanth’s such a pain.”

“That’s all right,” said Valonna.

“Rather you than me with that one,” Sarenya said dryly.

Darshanth’s rider ambled obediently in the direction of the bathing room. Valonna, her mug still half full, gulped at her klah, feeling she should drink it and leave.

Sarenya took a third mug from the mantle, spooned a generous measure of klahbark into it, and filled the cup with hot water from the kettle at the side of the hearth. “Want a refill?” she asked Valonna companionably.

“Won’t C’mine…?” Valonna began.

“He doesn’t mind.” Sarenya took the second mug, added water and a slightly less daunting spoonful of klah, and handed it back.

Valonna sipped the fresh klah, winced at the bitterness, and looked around for milk and sweetening. She added them to her taste, and looked up as Sarenya chuckled from the other side of the hearth.

“You’re halfway there when you’re making yourself at home in C’mine’s weyr,” the journeyman said cryptically.

Valonna stirred her klah, and asked, “Have you known him for very long?”

“Seven or eight Turns, now.”

“Is he how you know T’kamen?” Valonna asked, more boldly than she felt.

“That’s how it usually works, isn’t it,” said Saren, casually, but something tightened around her eyes. “Darshanth being what he is.”

“What he is?” Then Valonna understood. “You were Searched?”

Sarenya smiled, slowly, but her blue eyes held no warmth. “Seven or eight Turns ago.”

Valonna bit her lip, trying not to stare, but dredging her memory for any recollection of Sarenya. There had been so many candidates, and she had been one of them for such a short time. She’d been brought in by L’dro’s Wing the night before the Hatching, despite the Weyr’s traditional vetting period. “I don’t remember you from then,” she confessed.

“Why would you?” Sarenya shrugged. “I went back to the Beastcraft straight after the ceremony. We probably never met.”

Except on the sands, a little part of Valonna’s mind whispered. And Shimpath chose me. It was the strangest affirmation: both triumph and defeat. She had Impressed the queen that day, but how, when the competition had been as strong as Sarenya? What had made Shimpath choose shy over confident, quiet over outspoken? “I’m sure T’kamen would rather you’d Impressed than me,” she said, and then wondered at herself.

“I’m sure T’kamen would rather many things were different,” said Sarenya. “Fortunately he doesn’t have that much power.”

“I’m worried about him,” said Valonna, thinking of how the Weyrleader had been behaving earlier with a shiver. “It’s such a difficult time, and he’s taken on too much.”

“T’kamen has two fundamental problems.” Sarenya didn’t elaborate for a while, instead looking at the fire, and taking occasional sips from her mug, but Valonna waited, sensing there was more. At length, the journeyman continued, “He refuses to delegate to anyone of a lower rank.” Then Sarenya looked straight at Valonna. “And he can’t delegate to anyone of equivalent rank.”

Valonna flushed and averted her eyes from that piercing stare. “I tried,” she murmured. “I asked him what I could do. I asked…”

“Weyrwoman. ” Sarenya’s tone relented somewhat. “Perhaps it would be kinder to say won’t, rather than can’t. But you’re never going to make a herdbeast fly, no matter which way you groom it. It all boils down to the same thing.” She sighed. “You have to understand the way T’kamen thinks. If you want him to trust you, you have to show him that you can be trusted. If you want him to respect you, you have to prove that you’re due respect. He won’t come looking for it, and he won’t assume worth until he’s seen it with his own two eyes. Valonna, if you want to help – and Faranth, girl, you should: you’re the Senior Weyrwoman, not a drudge – then you have to start taking responsibility for yourself. Find out what needs to be done, and do it. Don’t wait for someone to tell you, because the only man in the Weyr with the authority to tell you anything is Kamen, and he won’t. In his mind, if you don’t have the wit to act on your own initiative, you don’t have the wit to do anything worthwhile.”

Her tone wasn’t unkind, but Valonna squirmed anyway. It all made so much sense, and yet the goal Sarenya urged her towards seemed unattainable. “I’ve never learned all the duties of a Weyrwoman,” she said, in a small voice. “I ask because I’m scared I’ll do things wrong.”

“Everybody makes mistakes, Valonna. Faranth knows I have. But they’re there to be learned from, and no one’s saying you have to strike out blind. You can’t ask T’kamen for direction, but you can get advice from other sources. The Headwoman should be your strongest ally.”

Valonna made a face. “Adrissa doesn’t like me very much.”

“Then replace her.” At Valonna’s incredulous gasp, Sarenya raised her eyebrows. “You can do that, you know. It’s more than within your authority. Find one of the other senior staff who knows her job and who you can work with, and promote her. Shards, T’kamen didn’t make any bones about changing the hierarchy around to suit his needs.”

“But they’ll hate me,” Valonna said tremulously.

“Better that they hate you for being strong than despise you for being weak.”

They stared at each other, Valonna shocked, Sarenya deadly serious. Then Sarenya sighed and leaned back, breaking the tableau. “I’m sorry, Weyrwoman. Sometimes I don’t know when to shut up. It’s not my place to criticise you.”

Valonna shook her head vigorously, taking a deep breath. “No. I’m glad you did. Shards, Sarenya, why didn’t I see it before?”

The Beastcrafter grimaced. “Because L’dro was a tail-fork, and on his best day T’kamen’s not much better?”

The appraisal made Valonna stare in surprise, and then she looked away. “You know him so much better than I do.”

“A lot of good that’s done me,” Sarenya said, without inflection. “The difference between you and me is that I can choose to ignore him. You don’t have that luxury, so the best you can do is try to get on with him.”

Valonna wasn’t dumb to Sarenya’s change of subject, but she respected her right to avoid the issue – and understood the truth of the distinction Sarenya had made. “Will you help me, journeyman?”

“Help you?”

Valonna nodded, her mind made up. “T’kamen needs help, and I need help to help him. I need friends…allies. Someone to point me in the right direction.”

“I’m not Weyrbred,” Sarenya warned her. “If you want to know how to clip wherries’ wings or geld runners, I’m your girl, but other than that, I can only offer my common sense. And maybe some sort of insight into our cheerful Weyrleader’s mind.”

“It’s a start,” Valonna said bravely.

Sarenya grinned suddenly, an expression with more genuine warmth in it then Valonna had seen all day. “You’re right. It is.”

Chapter Seventeen: Of Hope And Promise

Most of the other candidates had already taken their seats at the closest two tables in the dining hall when Harrenar tacked the day’s chore lists on the noticeboard. He paused, ostensibly to smooth the sheet of hide, until he felt the inevitable impact against his back. Then without changing expression he turned, picked up the crumpled ball of yesterday’s chore list off the floor where it had fallen, and put it in his pocket. He ignored the titters from the culprits – Korralthe and his pals, no doubt – and went to sit next to Rastevon as their classmates started to gravitate reluctantly towards the board.

“Martouf,” Rastevon noted casually, as Harrenar straddled the bench beside him.

Harrenar shrugged. “It’s not worth worrying about. They’ll get bored and give up eventually.”

“Sure, and then find something more humiliating to do while your back’s turned.” Rastevon spoke dryly. “You should smack some respect into them.”

Harrenar smiled. “I don’t think that would do my chances at the clutch much good.” He paused and, knowing that Rastevon would rather die than be seen to be making an effort, added, “You’re meant to be helping in the kitchens today.”

“My sharded luck,” the other candidate muttered.

Harrenar masked his smile. Rastevon complained no matter what chores he drew. Then, too, he thought, watching the reactions of their classmates, candidate chores weren’t meant to be enjoyable. The Weyrbred among them, like him and Rastevon, had always known what to expect, but some of the Holdbred candidates had more difficulty adapting to the tedious reality.

“It can’t be much more than a sevenday off, now,” he mused aloud.

Rastevon didn’t ask what he meant. The Weyrlingmaster’s son liked to flout L’stev’s authority, but he followed every change in the clutch’s development as intently as any of them. “The eggs are pretty hard,” he agreed.

“And there haven’t been any new candidates in a few days,” Harrenar pointed out.

“You’d notice,” said Rastevon, with scorn he didn’t mean.

“I suppose so.” As the most senior in Turns of the Weyrbred male candidates, Harrenar had taken on a position of responsibility for the group. It didn’t go much further than keeping track of numbers and relaying messages – like the morning chore lists – from L’stev, but it was enough to make him the target of elements like Korralthe’s clique. That, though, was small enough an irritant, and the new members of the candidate group mostly seemed grateful for a bit of friendly direction.

“How many of us are there now?” asked Rastevon.

Harrenar hesitated, counting. “Forty-four, I think.”

The other boy made a disgruntled sound. “Too much competition for only twenty-five dragons.”

“It’s not that bad,” Harrenar told him. “Not with sixteen – seventeen – girls.”

“So we assume half the clutch is green, and that only leaves twelve dragons for nearly thirty of us. I don’t like those odds.” Rastevon brooded a moment, then added grudgingly, “At least there’s a queen.”

Harrenar didn’t need his friend to explain that, either. They’d discussed every facet of the Hatching so many times already that they had nothing new left to say. Rastevon had argued early on that the presence of a queen in this clutch could only be a good thing for the older candidates, like themselves. Harrenar was nineteen and Rastevon seventeen, and with Shimpath rising only once every four or five Turns, this could have been their last chance at a Madellon clutch. But the queen from this laying would mature within two or three Turns, and that would give them another opportunity to Impress – if they needed one. Harrenar considered himself fairly level headed, but he couldn’t deny the knot of fear and tension that coiled in his stomach when he thought about the Hatching. He’d stood before and failed – they both had – but few candidates ever got a third chance. “You know, that means that whatever happens to us, we’ll be completely ignored,” he said cheerfully.

“Oh, yeah,” said Rastevon. “Queen breaks shell and it’s between with the rest of us.”

“It’s not such a bad thing,” Harrenar opined. “It’s nerve-racking enough without the whole Weyr looking at you.”

Rastevon laughed. “They’ll look, they just won’t care.”

“Family will,” Harrenar insisted, and then realised his mistake as his friend’s expression darkened.

“Yours might,” Rastevon said, and without another word he got up and stalked off.

Harrenar sighed. Rastevon could be so touchy, especially where L’stev was concerned.

Murrany, the softly-spoken forester from Kellad, approached the place Rastevon had just vacated, glancing at Harrenar for permission. He smiled welcome and assent. Murrany was the same age as Rastevon, but in some ways he seemed older than any of them. The depth of sadness in his brown eyes spoke of the loss a man so young should not have suffered. Murrany didn’t speak about his wife, not openly, and Harrenar didn’t pry, but he couldn’t help overhearing the murmured whispers, and he’d seen the two rings the Kellad lad wore on a chain around his neck, under his shirt. Harrenar felt bad that Murrany’s personal tragedy had become the subject of candidate conversation, but he didn’t see what he could do about it. Gossip had wings like a fire-lizard, and a similar propensity for appearing in unwanted places.

“Kitchen gardens again,” said Murrany.

“Me, too,” Harrenar replied. “At least it’s not raining.”

Murrany eased his weight onto the bench, looking at Rastevon’s retreating back. “He looks upset.”

“It was something I said,” explained Harrenar.

“His dad?”

Harrenar nodded.

“It must be hard for him,” said Murrany.

Harrenar shook his head slowly, frowning. “It shouldn’t matter. L’stev didn’t bring him up.” Then, because it was as bad to discuss Rastevon’s business behind his back as it was Murrany’s, he said, “We were saying that the eggs will probably Hatch this sevenday.”

“Really?” Murrany looked startled. “Shards.”

Harrenar couldn’t help smiling at the mixture of apprehension and eagerness in his friend’s voice. “These might be our last few days of freedom.”

“It’d be worth it, though,” said Murrany. “I mean, I know it’s hard work, looking after a dragon, but…”

“I know,” Harrenar agreed, grinning. It was another conversation he’d had before, but none of the candidates tired of talking about Impressing. “Have you thought about what you’ll call yourself if you Impress?”

“I’m almost afraid to,” Murrany confessed. “But…what do you think? M’ran or M’rany?”

“They both sound good.”

He shook his head. “I don’t want to decide. What about you?”

Harrenar shrugged. “Maybe H’ren. I don’t know, yet.” Then he added, “I thought, if I Impress, I could ask my dragon what he thinks.”

Murrany’s slow, shy grin betrayed his appreciation of that idea. “I’ve been trying not to think about it too much,” he said. “But I can’t help wondering…what’s it like, standing?”

Harrenar thought back to his first, unsuccessful, Hatching. “Terrifying,” he admitted. “When you walk out, with the whole Weyr watching, you feel like your stomach’s trying to climb up out of your throat. Then when the dragons start Hatching, you don’t know where to look – dragonets everywhere, and you’re trying to see if any of them are coming in your direction, and if they’re not then you try to move so you’re more in their sight… But it’s over so fast. It feels like hours at the time, but it only takes a few minutes.”

“What happens if you don’t Impress?” Murrany asked quietly.

“We got rounded up by a few riders,” Harrenar said, smiling uncomfortably at the memory. “There weren’t many of us left, only about ten. L’stev still made us go to the feast. It wasn’t much fun, though.”

“You must have been a bit younger then,” said Murrany.

“I was fourteen, but then Tyrello had only just turned twelve, and he Impressed a bronze. The only bronze, actually – and now he’s a Wingsecond.”

“I don’t care about getting a bronze,” Murrany told him. “If a dragonet will have me, that’s enough. Any dragonet.”

“I know what you mean,” Harrenar agreed. “You don’t see any blue or green riders going around complaining, do you?”

Murrany shook his head. “A blue Searched me, and he and his rider nearly got themselves killed trying to help in the wildfire.”

Harrenar nodded. “C’mine and Darshanth.”

“You know them?”

“Everybody does. Darshanth’s about the best Search dragon Madellon has, and C’mine and his weyrmate are friends with the Weyrleader.”

At that moment, as if summoned by the sound of his name, the Weyrleader, T’kamen, walked into the dining hall. Harrenar straightened automatically where he sat, and he wasn’t the only one. Most of the candidates sat up, watching in silence as the lean, grim-faced bronze rider strode by. T’kamen didn’t even turn his head in their direction, but Harrenar felt relieved rather than snubbed. Even to the Weyrbred, the Weyrleader cut a forbidding and unapproachable figure, and no candidate wanted to attract his eye. There was no telling what might displease the unsmiling bronze rider, and his poor opinion so close to the Hatching of his dragon’s first clutch could be disastrous.

When T’kamen moved out of range, Murrany exhaled heavily. “I really wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of him.”

“No one would,” said Harrenar. Then he added, “At least, not now he’s Weyrleader.” At Murrany’s inquiring look, he explained. “T’kamen and the last Weyrleader, L’dro, hated each other. When L’dro became Weyrleader he stripped T’kamen of all his rank, knocked him back down to wingrider. None of the other ranking riders would have anything to do with him.”

Murrany whistled softly. “So when he became Weyrleader, what happened to all the riders who’d been snubbing him?”

“They got demoted, mostly. Or transferred out.”

“He can do that?”

“He’s the Weyrleader; he can do anything. Except disobey the senior queen, but the Weyrwoman’s young. Fortunately,” and Harrenar stressed that word, “my dad, was never one of L’dro’s cronies, so he kept his Wing. Nearly doubled the size of it, too.”

“You never told me your father’s a Wingleader,” said Murrany, sounding impressed.

“I don’t really think of him as that,” Harrenar said. “He’s just H’ned. I don’t even look like him, except for the eyes, and most people pay more attention to this.” He scratched self-consciously at his conspicuously greying hair.

“It is kind of obvious,” Murrany sympathised.

Harrenar shrugged. “If I Impress, I’ll have an excuse to cut most of it off.”

Murrany rubbed at his own hair. “How short does it have to be?”

“Yours is all right,” Harrenar told him. “It’s some of the girls who’ll be in for a shock. L’stev doesn’t let anyone off. You get a sevenday to have your hair cut short, and after that he threatens to do it himself.” He made a face. “Some green weyrling called his bluff, once. She couldn’t go outside without a hat for months.”

“It’s important, though, isn’t it?” Murrany asked earnestly. “To show that there’s been a change in your life, to show that you’re committed.”

Harrenar nodded slowly. It hadn’t taken him long to realise that for Murrany, part of coming to the Weyr had to do with starting over. He hoped that the emotional burden of having lost a spouse in childbirth wouldn’t damage his chances in front of the dragonets. “Right. New haircut, new name.”

Murrany nodded, and then his eyes moved to the Bowl entrance. “We should probably go outside,” he said in a low voice.

Harrenar followed his gaze. “You’re right,” he said, getting to his feet perhaps quicker than he might have had Javerre, the formidable woman responsible for Madellon’s kitchen gardens, not been standing there, her arms folded meaningfully.

Several of the other candidates followed their lead, with varying degrees of reluctance, until six of them had lined up in front of Javerre. Harrenar was tall, but the woman stood nearly as tall as him, and as stout as two of him put together. “I’d have thought you youngsters would be more punctual,” the big woman declared. “Dragonets aren’t going to wait for you. Come along now.”

Harrenar glanced over his shoulder to see who else had been assigned garden chores. Willenze and Cebria, two of the youngest Weyrbred candidates, trailed along at the back as usual, giggling at something. Fonnain, the phlegmatic Minecraft apprentice, had fallen in behind Murrany, appearing to take very little interest in anything beyond his own feet. The new addition from the Peninsula ‘s territory, Tarshe, completed the group, matching Harrenar stride for stride, but maintaining a certain cautious distance from the others.

Madellon’s extensive kitchen gardens made a deceptively tranquil sight. Staked lines of climbing legumes ran precisely parallel to rows of the lush tops of root vegetables. Leafy greens and low-spreading berry bushes alike grew healthy and strong, without any evidence of pest or disease. The entire plot was neatly fenced off, with posts, bars, and gates painted pristine white. But Harrenar, like every other Weyrbred youth who had been alive during Javerre’s tenure, knew what lurked behind the serenity of the gardens. Javerre ruled over them with an iron fist, and Faranth help anyone who disturbed, inadvertently or otherwise, the meticulously planned and planted plots. She thought nothing of sending out teams of Weyr children, candidates, or weyrlings to pick off, by hand, any marauding insects that might be thinking of eating her plants. The perfect fences saw fresh paint four or five times a Turn courtesy of more reluctant conscripts. What seemed to be an oasis of peace and calm in the often hectic Bowl was in actuality one of the most closely supervised and regimented parts of the Weyr.

Javerre led them along the gravel paths between rows of sprouting herbs until she reached a long, narrow plot of stony-looking soil. “Tubers,” she said, pointing at the bare earth. “We’ll be planting tubers in this ground. You’ll prepare the soil for them, and that means breaking up what’s here and digging in some muck.” She pointed imperiously at the mattocks and forks leaning against the closest stretch of fence. “Tools are there, and when you’re ready for the muck, you’ll find barrows and shovels by the manure pile.” Javerre’s smile wasn’t quite malicious. “Any questions?”

Harrenar was relieved when none of the other candidates spoke. “I don’t think so, Javerre,” he replied, sufficiently acquainted with her ways to know that she expected an affirmative response.

“Good. Get on with it. And I’ve counted every bean in every pod on the stakes, there. If I find a single one has gone missing…” Javerre left the threat implicit, but Harrenar had to keep himself from shuddering.

“All right, let’s get started,” he said as Javerre sailed away without a backwards glance. “Murrany, Fonnain, we three will grab those mattocks and start breaking up the ground…”

“Like giving orders, don’t you?”

Harrenar halted mid-sentence, turning to look at the speaker. Tarshe stared back at him, her intensely blue eyes narrowed, as demonstrative of her irritation as her accented words. He found himself briefly lost for a reply. “It just helps to organise the job,” he managed finally, not quite sure of himself.

“Stand back, women and children, and let the bronze riders in waiting take charge. Ha!” Tarshe shook her head in disgust and stalked over to the tools. She hefted one of the mattocks easily, then passed another to Harrenar with a briskness that could have been interpreted as a challenge. “We’ll see about that.”

Harrenar exchanged a glance with Murrany. Murrany just raised his eyebrows, and went to select a tool of his own. Harrenar sighed mentally and stepped up to the edge of the plot, keeping a safe distance between himself and Tarshe. She spat on both palms, twisting her hands on the shaft of the mattock for grip, and the ease with which she handled the heavy tool spoke of more than a passing familiarity.

The ground was hard: a heavy clay that had baked in the hot summer and then beaten flat rather than softened by the autumn rains. Harrenar’s mattock had bitten no more than half a dozen times before he heard Tarshe’s dry suggestion that Fonnain, Cebria, and Willenze try using forks to break up the bigger clods. He raised his head only enough to see her challenging gaze on him, and then bent his attention, and his back, to his work.

For a time, the steady chop of blunt edge through heavy earth was the only sound. It was hard work, and Harrenar’s shoulders started to burn before long, but Tarshe kept a step or two ahead of him, and she showed no sign of intending to stop. Harrenar gritted his teeth and kept up. Despite the grey sky, he soon found himself uncomfortably warm, and he paused to wipe the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. It gave him the slightest edge of satisfaction to see the sheen of perspiration gleaming on Tarshe’s face, but she didn’t even stop to towel it away. Apparently tireless, her mattock rose and fell steadily, until Harrenar wondered where she found the strength. Spare and compact of frame in the heavily faded and shabby tunic and trousers, Tarshe was built more like a runner than a labourer, but there could be no mistaking the stubborn determination in expression and stance. She had obviously done this before, and perhaps on even rockier ground.

It galled Harrenar when Tarshe reached the end of the plot a bare step before him. He set his jaw and hacked at the last patch of ground before painfully straightening up, resting the head of his mattock on the ground, and leaning on it to catch his breath. He didn’t trust himself to meet Tarshe’s gaze, and it was only when she reached out and grabbed his wrist that he looked up in surprise.

“You’ve never done this before, have you?” She turned his hand over, forcing open his fingers. “Idiot.”

Harrenar had been trying not to think about the painful blisters the work had raised on his palms, and yet something in the tone of Tarshe’s voice didn’t tally with her scathing words. “I didn’t notice,” he said, partially truthfully.

“Of course not.” Tarshe pointed at the fence. “Sit down.”

Harrenar did as he was told, noticing as he did that Murrany still had a distance to go before completing his third of the plot. Murrany glanced up briefly, as if to say I’m not in a hurry.

Tarshe wiped her hands on a clean but very tattered rag, then offered the cloth to Harrenar. He took it, dabbing cautiously at the grimy sweat on his palms, careful not to disturb the blisters. Tarshe’s hands, he noticed, were tough with callus, and while perspiration had darkened the few strands of sun-bleached hair that stuck to her face and neck, she seemed unconcerned. He had to admire her stamina. “You’ve done this a lot,” he observed, still gingerly drying his hands.

Tarshe shrugged. “This has been dug over before. Virgin ground is more work.”

Harrenar looked at Tarshe’s dark tan and made an educated guess. “You’re used to it being hotter, too.”

She nodded. “This is cold, for me.”

“Wait till you see a Madellon winter,” said Harrenar. “Ice and snow up to your neck.”

Tarshe shook her head slowly. “It’s been Turns since I last saw snow.”

“So what part of the Peninsula ‘s territory do you…”

“The north,” Tarshe replied curtly.

“Oh.” Harrenar tried to remember his geography lessons. “I didn’t know it could get so hot…”

“The extreme north,” Tarshe cut across him, even more curtly. She paused, eyeing him guardedly, and added, “It’s a new cothold.”

“Oh,” Harrenar said again, but he could picture the southern continent in his mind, and he was fairly sure that the Peninsula ‘s boundaries didn’t extend even as far as the sub-tropical zone. “Why weren’t you Searched to the Peninsula Weyr?”

Tarshe smiled humourlessly. “Because my cousin and the Weyrleader there don’t get on.”

Harrenar decided not to pursue that particular line of questioning. “How are you feeling about the Hatching?” he asked. “You haven’t been here long; is there anything you need, anything you want to know…”

“You do like taking charge,” Tarshe accused, but with more tolerance than before.

Harrenar shrugged unselfconsciously. “I’m the oldest. It’s expected.”

“Is it, now.” Tarshe folded her arms, and once more Harrenar was made painfully aware of the raggedness of her clothes. “I know what I need to know.”

“Has anyone talked to you about a robe yet?” Harrenar asked, wondering how he could broach the subject of attire.

“L’stev gave me one almost before I was through the door,” Tarshe said casually.

Harrenar weighed up the risks, and then asked gingerly, “And have you got something to wear to the Hatching feast?”

Tarshe smiled, showing more teeth than humour. “Because everything I wear looks like it’s been handed down three times and worn out into the bargain?”

“Well, yes,” he admitted freely.

She barked a laugh. “Least you’re honest. Yes, Harrenar of Madellon, I have something to wear to the Hatching feast that won’t disgrace me.”

Relieved that he had gauged Tarshe correctly, Harrenar said, “You can get some new clothes from the Headwoman if you need to. There’s plenty in the storerooms.”

“These have done me well enough so far,” said Tarshe. “After the Hatching, we’ll see.”

There was a note of finality in her tone, underlined by the forthright stubbornness that dominated her manner. Anyone looking to lock horns with this girl would have trouble making ground. Regardless, Harrenar liked Tarshe. Her confrontational demeanour would make her few friends, but Harrenar doubted that would trouble her greatly, and her straightforwardness appealed to him. She seemed more defensive about her humble background than was really necessary, but that wasn’t an unusual characteristic in a group of young people from all levels of Pern’s society.

Panting a bit, Murrany came to join them, leaning on the fence. “Give me wood to chop any day,” he sighed.

Tarshe smiled slightly, and the three of them settled into a companionable silence as they watched the younger trio complete the lighter work of forking clods of earth into a finer tilth.

“We’d better go and get some of that manure,” Harrenar thought aloud, and then caught himself. He looked at Tarshe with a wince, expecting a scathing retort.

She just regarded him with an odd half smile, then shook her head. “That’s one thing you do know more about than me. Lead the way, muck boy.”

“Muck boy?” Harrenar muttered incredulously, but he grinned to himself, not letting anyone else see.

C’los opened his eyes, and flinched back instinctively from the rocky wall less than an inch from the tip of his nose. Next to him, K’ston mumbled in his sleep and tugged another six inches of quilt out of his grasp.

He stared down at the foot thus exposed to the chill air, and wondered what he was doing.

C’los had always hated being on the wall side, but since it was K’ston’s weyr and K’ston’s bed, he had graciously agreed to make the sacrifice. He’d hit his head on the wall the first night, leaving a bump that still throbbed, and the second woken up with his cheek mashed against it. He’d carried the imprint of barely smoothed rock on his face for the entire morning. He could only get out of bed by either struggling down to the foot of it – and banging something painful on the carved footboard – or clambering over K’ston, which as often as not didn’t even wake the blue rider, and usually involved C’los landing on the floor on his face.

He opted for crawling out via the end of the bed. The bare stone floor was another thing he hated about K’ston’s weyr, but for once C’los’ feet landed on fabric. He looked down and realised it was his shirt, still on the floor where he’d dropped it the previous night.

Feeling thoroughly out of sorts, he pushed bad-temperedly through the curtain that partitioned off K’ston’s toilet facilities. Or, K’ston’s chamber pot, as it might more accurately be described. Peeing was a miserable business, and any hope of a shave with hot water – or great stars, a bath! – meant venturing down two levels to the closest communal bathing room.

C’los found a shirt on the floor that he was sure he’d only worn once and pulled it on. All his clean clothes were still stuffed in the sacks piled up in a corner of Bronth’s chamber, along with all his other possessions. He couldn’t unpack them: K’ston’s weyr barely had room enough for his own things. His trousers were by the bed, but since the bed was only about two paces away from the door, it didn’t take much effort to locate them.

He stuffed his feet into his boots and went out onto the ledge. There was only room for one dragon to sleep there comfortably – the first night, Bronth had slept inside with Indioth on the ledge, but neither dragon liked the arrangement: Bronth complained of being closed in, and Indioth didn’t like the blue blundering out on top of her in the mornings. The temporary compromise was that the dragons would take it in turns on the alternate nights, with the other finding a spot up on the Rim.

Indioth was still asleep, one wing extended to cover her nose. C’los sank down to the hard rock of the ledge, putting his back against the smooth warmth of her side, and closed his eyes. What am I doing here?

It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Still furious with C’mine for his apathy, and seduced – literally and figuratively – by K’ston’s boyish charm, C’los had seen nothing unreasonable about shouting at the top of his lungs when his weyrmate had come to find him after Indioth’s flight. A fine time for Darshanth’s rider to make an appearance – after the event. Then K’ston had suggested he move in with him for a while, and C’los had jumped at the offer – forgetting that he’d already seen what Bronth’s rider called home. It might not have gone beyond that first night, except that when C’los went back to the weyr he shared with C’mine spoiling for a fight, the blue rider hadn’t been there. Loath to leave without making a point, C’los had decided to pack up all his possessions and see if that provoked a reaction out of his weyrmate.

It hadn’t, which was why C’los was still subsisting in a tiny space, in the company of a man whose habits were already irritating him, with facilities that weren’t fit for a drudge, let alone a dragonrider.

Two days of defiance were enough. He missed his weyrmate’s thoughtfulness: the way he would stir up the fire before C’los woke to warm the weyr, the way he would bring him a cup of tea or klah in bed, the way he would pick up C’los’ discarded clothes and put them away or sort them for washing. He missed being able to talk, at length, on whatever subject was troubling him, and know that C’mine was listening, even if he didn’t understand. He missed playing his gitar in the evenings, and hearing C’mine pick up an accompaniment to the tune on his four-stringed gitar. He missed their weyr, too, with its comfortable space and bathing pool, but mostly he missed C’mine.

C’los laid his cheek against Indioth’s soft hide, and wondered how he could get things back to normal without losing too much face.

His head still hurt. He put a hand up, feeling the lump where his skull had collided with the wall. It hadn’t broken the skin, but it was tender, and he’d been taking willow tea for the ache. That, at least, was something K’ston had facilitated. Drunk cold rather than hot, it wouldn’t be as effective, but C’los didn’t feel like going all the way down to the kitchens for a cup of hot water. Cold would do, if he could find the herb.

Patting Indioth’s belly, he climbed laboriously to his feet. The morning watchdragon had been relieved; it was later than he’d thought. It reminded him that he and Indioth were on the roster to take the forenoon watch in two sevendays’ time. He wondered if he could get T’kamen to take him off the schedule.

K’ston had rolled onto his stomach, his face half buried in his pillow, and he was making small snuffling noises that weren’t quite snores. C’mine didn’t snore, unless he’d had too much to drink, and that didn’t happen all that often. C’los sighed and started looking for K’ston’s willowsalic.

It wasn’t in any of the boxes of junk on the single shelf, or in the pile of things that had been pushed aside on the table to make room for K’ston’s mending work. C’los peered at the low boxes under the bed, but by the thick layer of dust no one had ventured down there for months. He flipped open the lid of K’ston’s clothes chest. Tunics and shirts vied for space with heavy wherhide flying gear. C’los rummaged through the mess until, near the bottom, his hand fell upon a small packet. He squinted at the neat writing until he was satisfied the herb was willow.

A single glove had been stuffed in a corner at the very bottom of the chest. It bulged strangely, tied with a leather thong. Curious, C’los picked it up. The glove felt light in his hand, but its contents crunched when he squeezed it.

Putting the willowsalic aside, he set to unpicking the knot. It came undone easily. He upended the glove and shook it, and a fat bag slid out onto his hand.

It looked like the willow packet, except it had been stuffed almost to bursting, and other than the faded stamp of the Healerhall on one corner C’los couldn’t find anything to indicate its contents. He turned the bag over in his hands for a moment, and then raised it cautiously to sniff at it. It smelled sweet and musty, not unpleasant, and although C’los couldn’t immediately identify it, the aroma seemed familiar.

He sat back on his haunches, thinking. Smell was supposed to be the most evocative of the senses, but C’mine had returned from Kellad with so many different tonics and salves and analgesics that C’los hadn’t even tried to keep track. It could be any one of those. He untied the drawstring and opened the neck of the bag, letting a few dry brown leaves spill onto his palm, and then he remembered.

The herb has several names…often called fellisbane…fellis has addictive properties, and an infusion of fellisbane taken regularly helps to overcome dependency…

Isnan’s words came back in perfect clarity with the fragrance of the brittle herb. Fellisbane. Whatever scientific name it might have, nothing could have been as chilling as the common name that described the herb’s property. Fellisbane, unlabelled, and hidden in the possessions of a man whose weyrmate had been drugged and murdered.

What could K’ston possibly want with a secret stash of such a herb?

C’los found himself sweating. He tipped the loose leaves back into the pouch, tied it, put it back in the glove, and bound that closed. He stuffed the whole thing back where he had found it. As an afterthought, he put the willow back too: his headache seemed to have abated. He rearranged the layer of clothes on top of the chest, and dropped the lid with a thump that almost made him jump out of his skin. In the bed, K’ston stirred, but didn’t wake, and C’los thanked Faranth that he was a heavy sleeper.

The evidence of his search erased, at least unless K’ston noticed the disorder in his clothes chest, C’los’ thoughts raced. To Isnan first, to confirm the importance of what he had found, or T’kamen? Isnan would be more cordial, but T’kamen would want to know first. With a sinking feeling, C’los realised that T’kamen would also want to know how he had been in a position to search K’ston’s weyr. News of his problems with C’mine would certainly have reached the Weyrleader’s ears by now. But having to face T’kamen with the news that the very rider for whom he had left C’mine could have had a hand in E’rom’s murder…

C’los shuddered, but he knew his duty. Pulling his thoughts together, he hurried out of K’ston’s weyr, and went to rouse Indioth.

K’ston had been waiting alone in T’kamen’s office for almost an hour before C’los and Isnan returned. The Master Healer nodded to T’kamen, his expression grim, but C’los hung back, uncharacteristically reserved. No matter. I’ll deal with him later.

T’kamen glanced around at the hastily assembled panel, seated at the long Wing table. Valonna looked grave, but oddly resolute. P’keo, K’ston’s Wingleader, had been rapidly appraised of the situation, and sat frowning, although T’kamen was glad the older bronze rider hadn’t made a fuss. H’ned sat opposite his fellow Wingleader: it only seemed fair to keep him in the picture, given that one of his own riders was still under suspicion.

“Wingleader,” T’kamen murmured to P’keo.

P’keo rose and went into T’kamen’s office. A moment later he re-emerged with K’ston.

If the blue rider had been scared when T’kamen had summoned him and told him to wait, he looked petrified by the seniority of the panel. Petrified – yet not bewildered. A man with nothing to hide wouldn’t give the impression of being cornered. When K’ston’s eyes fell on C’los he almost recoiled, as if betrayed. C’los, T’kamen noticed, just avoided the blue rider’s gaze, looking at the table instead.

“Blue rider,” he said, “sit down.”

K’ston sat, but his knuckles were white where he gripped the arms of his chair. “Weyrleader, I…”

T’kamen just looked at the man until he fell nervously silent. “Master Healer, would you please report on the herb found in this rider’s quarters?”

C’los sank lower in his chair, and K’ston’s eyes widened as Isnan came to his feet with the bulging bag of leaves in one hand. “These are the dried leaves of a herb commonly known as fellisbane, for its potency in combating the addictive qualities of fellis juice. It is not a rare herb, but rarely used.”

“Does fellisbane have any other beneficial properties?” T’kamen asked.

“In sufficient quantity, it moderates some of the effects of fellis,” Isnan said. “That is, reducing the strain on the heart caused by fellis juice, and counteracting its narcotic properties. Of course, it also reduces the effectiveness of fellis as an analgesic.”

T’kamen nodded, letting the summary sink in. Then he looked at K’ston. “Blue rider. Can you tell me why you had a significant quantity of the herb fellisbane in your possession?”

K’ston looked terrified. “N-no, Weyrleader.”

T’kamen placed both hands flat on the table, staring into K’ston’s frightened green eyes. “Does that mean you can’t tell me or you won’t tell me?”

“I don’t… I don’t know where it came from,” the blue rider stammered.

“Weyrwoman!” T’kamen snapped, not taking his eyes off the rider in front of him.

“Bronth says he doesn’t think that’s true,” Valonna said, in a clear voice that shook only slightly.

K’ston’s face crumpled as he realised that his dragon was under interrogation by Shimpath. T’kamen pressed the advantage. “Why did you have the herb, K’ston? What was it for?”

“I…” K’ston shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “I can’t…”

T’kamen looked at Valonna. The Weyrwoman was frowning, her eyes distant. “Shimpath says Bronth doesn’t know – he can’t make K’ston tell him.”

T’kamen cursed mentally: the one weakness in a queen’s authority was that she couldn’t demand what Bronth didn’t know. “Did you give E’rom a massive dose of fellis the day he died?”

“No!”

“He’s telling the truth,” said Valonna, her voice shaking a bit more, but whether from concentration or distress, T’kamen didn’t know. “Bronth says he’s telling the truth.”

K’ston had gone utterly white, all the blood leached from his face. “I’d never have hurt E’rom, never!”

“Then who did? Who’d have tried to drug him to death, and then when it failed, tried to make it look like he’d got drunk and fallen off his ledge?”

“I don’t know!”

T’kamen looked at Valonna. The Weyrwoman’s face was pale, but she nodded. “He doesn’t.”

“Then why have you been lying about his death from the start?” T’kamen demanded. “Why did you say that you hadn’t seen E’rom since the morning of the day he died, when it’s clear by the leatherworking kit you’d left out in his weyr – a weyr E’rom always insisted was neat and tidy – that you had? Don’t you think it’s a little strange that your lover died with fellis in his blood, and you’re found with a herb directly related to it?”

“Was E’rom taking fellis when he died?” Isnan asked suddenly, his voice intent.

K’ston hesitated for an awful moment, then nodded; miserable, defeated. “Y-yes.”

Everyone in the room stiffened at the admission. “Why?” the Weyr Healer asked.

“H-his shoulder. It was never right after he d-dislocated it last Turn. It was hurting him so much…” The blue rider turned tortured eyes on T’kamen. “He was so afraid you’d take his rank away.”

T’kamen masked the shock he felt at that revelation. “How often was he taking it?” Isnan pressed.

K’ston swallowed hard. “Every day.”

“For how long?”

“Since Turn’s End.”

“And who administered it?”

K’ston gripped his head in both hands, dragging his fingers through his hair. “I did.”

Nobody breathed. T’kamen leaned forwards. “Did you kill E’rom?”

“No!” K’ston’s howl of denial was wrenching. “I didn’t mean to…I mixed the dose – I always measured it, I was careful! I didn’t mean for him to fall!”

T’kamen looked at Isnan and then C’los. The green rider looked physically unwell. “Fall?” he queried sharply. “Are you saying you didn’t push E’rom off his weyr ledge?”

“Push him?” The look of incomprehension on K’ston’s tear-ravaged face was too genuine. “I…I wasn’t even there!”

“But you gave him the fellis!”

“I mixed it when E’rom was bathing, and then Bronth wanted me at the lake…so I left it there – E’rom must have taken it when he’d finished washing… I didn’t mean to hurt him, Weyrleader! You have to believe me!”

“It’s true,” Valonna confirmed, in a voice that shook with the strain.

T’kamen closed his eyes, feeling sick. “Why did you lie, blue rider?” he asked. “If you didn’t mean to harm E’rom, why didn’t you tell us about the fellis?”

“It was my fault.” K’ston’s voice trembled. “My fault he died. But I didn’t think you’d believe me. I…” He hesitated, then went on. “I got rid of the fellis and fellisbane I had left – I took it between on Bronth. I didn’t know I still had any left.” He stared at the bag C’los had found with a hopeless expression.

“Where did you get it?” Isnan asked quietly.

“J-journeyman Berro.” K’ston swallowed again. “He’d been stealing from the storerooms. He had a still for his own concoctions… I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone, if he didn’t record E’rom’s fellis.”

“Berro,” Isnan muttered, with more venom in his tone than T’kamen would have believed possible of the Healer. “I don’t believe it.”

T’kamen exhaled heavily. “You didn’t kill E’rom, blue rider.”

“What?”

“The fellis wasn’t what killed him. Not directly. K’ston, E’rom didn’t fall off his weyr ledge. He was unconscious when someone pushed him off.”

It was hard to say which must have distressed K’ston more: the thought that he had been responsible for his lover’s death, or the revelation that he had been murdered. He sagged back in his chair, ashen. “Oh, stars. Oh Faranth.”

No one spoke for a long moment. T’kamen looked at Valonna, nodding minutely to the question in her eyes: there was no point in upsetting Bronth any more. “Wingleader H’ned,” he said softly, “would you take K’ston back into my office and stay there with him?”

H’ned nodded. His face was grim, but his touch strangely gentle as he helped the devastated blue rider to his feet and led him quietly away.

The silence that reigned when they had gone was deafening. T’kamen coughed into the quiet. “P’keo?”

The Wingleader looked up. “I never would have pegged him for a killer, T’kamen. But then I wouldn’t peg him for a liar, either.”

“Valonna?”

The Weyrwoman lifted her chin. “Bronth is…very upset. Shimpath’s comforting him.”

T’kamen nodded. “Master Isnan?”

The Healer stared sombrely into space for several moments. “Have to contact the Hall about Berro,” he said indistinctly.

T’kamen studied C’los for a while before speaking. He looked ghastly. “Well?”

It was the first time in twenty Turns that T’kamen had ever seen C’los lost for words. “I need time to think,” he said at last. “To think…”

“What are you going to do with K’ston?” P’keo asked gruffly. “He made some stupid decisions, but he’s obviously no murderer. And I think you’d do well to get that blue out of the Weyr before he upsets all the rest, at least for a few days.”

“C’los, where did you say that K’ston was Searched from?”

The green rider looked up. “Jessaf.”

“Does he still have family there?”

“I think…think so.”

“It might do him good to spend some time away from Madellon,” Isnan conceded.

“Then I’ll send him to Winstone,” T’kamen decided. “A few days’ watch with Bronth…”

“I’ll get in touch with the Master Healer there,” said Isnan. “Have him keep an eye on him.”

“You’ll need to send someone to watchride at Blue Shale, too,” P’keo pointed out, “or Zinner will make a fuss.”

“Of course. Thank you, Wingleader.”

“I’ll have Shimpath watch over Bronth,” said Valonna.

“Thank you, Weyrwoman. P’keo, would you inform K’ston of what’s going to happen?”

“Certainly, Weyrleader.”

As the panel began to disperse, T’kamen watched C’los get up from his place. “Sit down, C’los. I want to speak to you.”

C’los froze, then slowly sank back down into his chair. He looked uncomfortable, and not a little cowed; an assertive rider somehow diminished.

T’kamen waited until everyone else had gone, and then fixed his old friend with a cool gaze. “You got involved with him.”

C’los was crestfallen. “T’kamen, it was just a flight, and then I lost my temper…”

“You got involved with him!” T’kamen came to his feet, too angry to remain seated. “He could have been a murderer!”

“He isn’t a murderer!”

“He could have been!”

“All right, it was stupid!” C’los shouted. “I was stupid! But K’ston didn’t do it!”

“Then who did? Well, tell me! A month you’ve been investigating this – more than a month – and what have you given me? Two suspects and still no idea of who in this Weyr planned and executed a murder in cold blood!”

“I’m trying!” the green rider yelled. “Scorch me, T’kamen, I’m trying!”

“Not hard enough!”

They glared at each other, T’kamen snarling with anger and frustration, C’los on the verge of tears, both of them stretched past breaking point.

Abruptly T’kamen let the strength drain out of his limbs, and he slumped back into his chair. “Get out of my sight.”

“T’kamen…”

“Just get out.”

C’los stared miserably at him. Stripped of his normal bravado, he made a pathetic sight. Then he turned and fled.

T’kamen massaged his aching temples with both hands for a moment. Then he reached for hide and ink, and began to compose a missive to Lord Winstone.

Chapter Eighteen: A Day Of Glory

When the dragons informed their riders that Shimpath’s clutch would Hatch that evening, the first marks of what would be a busy day for Madellon’s bet-takers changed hands, and L’stev was rumoured to have cracked a smile on the basis that his prediction had been accurate almost to the hour.

The Weyr’s lower caverns had been preparing for several days, and confirmation of the Hatching saw the kitchen staff mobilise. Every spare pair of hands was enlisted to help, and the wiser riders made a point of staying out of the dining hall, lest they be dragged into the fray. Supplies that had been hoarded for months came out from locked storerooms and cupboards. Food shortage or not, Madellon had no intention of staging anything but a hearty celebration of its first new dragonpairs in five Turns.

The forty-four candidates, exhibiting varying degrees of nervousness, excitement, and hysteria, found themselves rounded up, and sequestered in a teaching room. The riders L’stev had recruited to help the brand-new weyrlings with their dragonets took it in turns to mind the class while the Weyrlingmaster made his final preparations for the Impression ceremony. Madellon policy stipulated that candidates who’d been in contact with the eggs shouldn’t have the opportunity to go astray at the last minute. Nobody really knew if prior contact actually influenced dragons’ choice, but if it did, and a particular youngster wasn’t there when the dragonets Hatched, there could be tragic consequences. The supervising rider took a regular register, and trips to necessary facilities were permitted only in pairs, that the one could make sure the other didn’t vanish. L’stev stopped in at intervals to check on them, recapping his lectures on Hatching etiquette, but the candidates were otherwise totally cut off from the rest of the Weyr. The Weyrlingmaster insisted that the isolation was for their own benefit, giving them a chance to meditate on the coming ceremony and prepare themselves for the hatchlings’ scrutiny, but there were those who suspected that L’stev just liked making his charges sweat.

The killing enclosure was a hive of bloody activity as, under Master Arrense’s watchful eye, Madellon’s Beast journeymen and apprentices slaughtered the animals chosen to become the hatchlings’ first meals, and butchered the carcasses into manageable pieces. The timing of the Hatching meant that twice the usual quantity had to be prepared – the dragonets would wake after no more than eight hours, ravenous for a second feed, and that would place the meal in the middle of the night. It was too much to expect new weyrlings to have the wherewithal to prepare meat so soon after Impression and at such an hour, although by the next morning and the next feed they would be responsible for satisfying their own dragons’ appetites.

Weyr children too young to Stand and too quick for the kitchen staff had been assigned the task of preparing the Hatching cavern. They doubled the number of glow baskets, and reserved certain areas of the stands for the most important guests, placing cushions to soften the hard stone of the seats. They swept the stands and raked the sand, although no one had the nerve to approach the doubly-vigilant Shimpath too closely.

Crafters in the Healer and Dragon-healer infirmaries made their own preparations for the inevitable mishaps that accompanied a Hatching. Buckets of oil, tubs of numbweed, and tins of warming liniment for strained or pulled muscles cluttered the waiting room of the infirmary until, inevitably, someone knocked a pail over, and Master Isnan demanded that the whole lot be removed to the Hatching ground. In the dragon infirmary, Vhion briefed his assistants, including the Healer and Beast journeymen seconded to him, on likely emergencies.

Riders of all colours had started bringing in their personal guests early in the day, and by lunchtime the Weyr had begun to fill in earnest. The most important visitors – Lords, Craftmasters, Weyrleaders – wouldn’t arrive until much later. The first few tentative requests for food from the kitchens were rebuffed with a ferocity that rivalled Shimpath’s, but most of the early arrivals had had the wit to bring their own midday repasts. The day had stayed fine, and if not warm then at least not cold, and the Bowl was soon covered with groups of people.

Wingleaders H’ned and R’yeno had volunteered to organise transport for the family and friends of candidates, and riders with nothing better to do were sent off to a dozen different holds, halls, and cotholds with the names of those who had been invited. More conscripts were assigned as guides and ushers, charged with the often difficult task of directing gaping holders to the areas assigned to them, keeping them away from others, and ultimately herding them into the Hatching cavern when the time came.

As the afternoon wore on, the general level of excitement in the Weyr increased, and on the sands, Shimpath watched and waited, knowing that her long vigil was almost at an end.

Sarenya was glad of the foresight that had made her bring her good clothes to the dragon infirmary. Even given the time to go back to her own quarters to change, she’d never have made it through the hordes of guests. She pushed back the loose tendrils of hair that had escaped her braid to straggle over her face, glancing around the neat infirmary. Everything seemed to be in order, but then Vhion had been working the entire team non-stop since dawn. The Dragon-healer staff stood ready to treat the entire clutch of twenty-five, if need be.

Movement at the edge of her vision made her look round, but it was just Sejanth, shifting in his sleep. The crippled dragon’s condition had improved since the beginning of Saren’s tenure with Master Vhion; some of the colour had returned to Sejanth’s hide, a fraction of the sparkle to his eyes. The Healers had contrived to bring D’feng to see his bronze on a litter, and although the visit had been brief, it seemed to have benefited both dragon and rider.

Sarenya had had precious little time for the pedantic rider before the flaming accident that had maimed him and his bronze, but in helping with Sejanth’s recovery she had developed an affection for the dragon that no one had thought would survive. She made a point of talking to him when he was awake, much as she would to any sick animal. The bronze seldom responded, but it would have been impolite to behave as if the dragon couldn’t hear or understand. Someone had mucked out Sejanth’s bay recently, but Sarenya inspected his tail for signs of any problems before topping up his drinking trough. Enforced inactivity did nothing for a dragon’s digestion.

As she was returning the bucket to the stack beside the big water tank, Master Vhion hurried in, looking harassed. “Ah, Saren,” he puffed, “I’m glad you’re here. Are any of the others about?”

“Here, Master,” Rymon, the Dragon-healer’s assistant, called, and Katel stuck his head out from the farthest bay.

“We have another problem, on top of our unscheduled visitors.” Vhion rolled his eyes expressively, and Sarenya grinned. Because the dragon infirmary was equidistant between the main entrance to the lower caverns and the Hatching sands, the arrival point for invited guests had been set up just outside, and they’d already had to shepherd out a number of lost and disoriented holders. “It seems the Healerhall has sent a tithe cargo back with the dragons conveying the Kellad crowd. Skies know why – it’s not due until the end of the month – but the riders didn’t have the sense to take it to Isnan’s people. We’ve got a stack of tribute outside, and it’s getting in the way.”

“Should we take it straight over to the Healers?” Rymon asked.

Vhion sighed. “You’ll never make it through the crowds. No, just bring it in here and stack it against the wall. Try to keep it tidy. Isnan’s apprentices can come and pick it up when things are back to normal.”

Sarenya used the few moments it took to leave the dragon infirmary to rebraid her hair, tying the loose bits back out of her eyes. She wondered if she’d have time for a quick bath before the Hatching began. The day’s work had been hard, and she didn’t want to attend the celebrations covered with sand and sweat.

The Bowl overflowed with people in their Gather day best and dragons showing off the glowing sheen of recent oiling. The lake had been in such demand that half of Madellon’s beasts had been forced to go out-Weyr to bathe. Up by the Star Stones, two bronzes stood watch, ready to challenge intruders, and Epherineth himself guarded the entrance to the Hatching cavern.

A brown was taking off as Sarenya and the rest of the Dragon-healer team emerged, and two greens hovered above, waiting to land. A older rider wearing the two bars of a Wingsecond and a badge depicting a brown dragon on his jacket stood checking names against a list, and assigning guides to groups of smiling but visibly awestruck holders.

The Healerhall’s delivery, made conspicuous by the purple mark stamped on each item, had been piled haphazardly to one side of the landing zone. Master Vhion tutted at the careless handling, and waved his staff forward.

“It’s a good thing Fetheran knows how to pack for transit, D’jalin,” Sarenya heard the Dragon-healer comment to the Wingsecond as she picked up a crate bearing the legend FRAGILE – handle with care.

Sarenya deposited her burden on the far side of the infirmary, and stepped out of the way as Rymon and Katel rolled a big barrel between them. Then it was back outside for more, and by that time Vhion had recruited several idle riders to help. The heap of sacks, bales, boxes and kegs shrank rapidly with the additional pairs of hand to help, and by Sarenya’s third trip the whole load had been ferried into the dragon infirmary and out of the way.

A blue came in to land, the downdraft of his wings whipping Sarenya’ braid wildly. She stuffed her hair down the back of her infirmary smock, watching the dragon’s landing. His passengers disembarked on the other side, but Sarenya was more concerned with the blue himself. His hide showed dull and lustreless, and his eyes lacked even the sparkle of crippled Sejanth’s. “Master…” she began, turning to Vhion.

“Hush a moment,” Vhion told her, and nodded at the man and woman dismounting stiffly from the blue. “That’s Lord Winstone and Lady Sadwe of Jessaf.”

Sarenya watched as D’jalin greeted the ruling pair and then introduced them to the younger brown rider who would escort them to meet with the Weyrleaders. Winstone had the kind of stony, sour face that put her hackles up, and Saren pitied his elegant Lady.

“That blue isn’t healthy, Master,” she murmured.

“I know, Saren,” Vhion replied. “I know.”

But he waited until the Jessaf pair had moved well out of earshot before striding forward to challenge the blue’s rider. “K’ston, what in Faranth’s name have you been doing to your dragon?”

Sarenya blinked, looking at the blue rider for the first time. So this was K’ston, for whom C’los had walked out on C’mine. She didn’t quite glare at the blue rider, but she did look over his dishevelled appearance with a judgmental eye. She didn’t like his sort – especially when it looked very much like he had been neglecting his dragon.

She wasn’t close enough to hear K’ston’s mumbled response to Vhion’s challenge, but she did see how slowly the blue dragon’s neck hide recovered when the Dragon-healer pulled at a fold of it. “Dehydrated,” Vhion said, “and he’s not eaten recently, or I miss my mark. I don’t care how miserable you’ve been at Jessaf, blue rider, that’s no reason to let your dragon get in this sort of state! I want him to stay in the infirmary overnight.” He glanced around. “Sarenya, Bronth here can go in bay seven, so he doesn’t disturb Sejanth. Make sure he empties his trough at least twice, and I’ll have someone bring him something to eat. As for you, K’ston…”

“Shards, what’s wrong with him?”

Sarenya hadn’t heard Katel come out from the infirmary behind her. “He hasn’t been eating or drinking,” she said, not bothering to hide the disgust in her voice at the rider who had so mistreated his dragon. “We’re having him in the infirmary overnight to get some sustenance into him. Faranth knows what his rider was thinking.”

“K’ston’s my brother,” said Katel, with a defensive edge in his voice. “It’s probably not his fault.”

“Fault or not, I’ve seen healthier-looking watchwhers,” Sarenya said.

Katel shook his head. “I’ll see if I can help.”

Sarenya shrugged and went inside to start preparing a bay.

Zafandrie, the other journeymen who had been assigned to help with the dragonets, came across Sarenya as she shovelled fresh rushes into the wallow. “Vhion told me about our new patient,” he said, picking up a rake.

Saren grinned her thanks for the help. “His rider’s Katel’s brother, apparently. I hope that means he gets to miss the feast to check up on him.”

“If only life was that fair,” Zafandrie sighed. “Have you got plans?”

“I’m double booked,” said Sarenya. “C’mine has three or four candidates on the sands today, and I promised sevendays ago that I’d go and help him shout for them, but M’ric’s asked me as well.”

“The mystery brown rider, eh? So what are you doing?”

Sarenya shrugged. “Going with both of them.”

Zafandrie laughed. “I thought as much, from you.”

Sarenya set down her shovel, picked up a second rake, and helped Zafandrie finish the job. “So what about you, Zaf? Going with Bellian?”

He nodded. “Her little sister was Searched, but Bel’s not sure if that’s good or bad, especially with the queen. Imagine your baby sister ending up Weyrwoman!”

Sarenya shook her head. “I can’t – I only have brothers.”

Zafandrie grinned. “It shows.”

Between them, it didn’t take long to ready the bay for Bronth, and in short order the blue was installed in his temporary wallow, encouraged to drink, and presented with a freshly killed and still kicking herdbeast, courtesy of D’jalin’s Kyrinth.

It was fortunate that the blue dragon made so little fuss. Vhion steamed into the infirmary, calling for everyone to have their first aid kits to hand, and not to drink so much that they forgot their schedule for checking up on Sejanth throughout the evening. It was several moments before the Dragon-healer’s agitation made sense, but when Vhion told them all to shut up and just listen, the reason became apparent, and the hairs on the back of Sarenya’s neck stood up as she recognised the low reverberation.

“Even Sejanth,” Zafandrie said softly.

And indeed, the sick bronze was awake, his eyes glowing an unusual shade of violet, and his soft hum building to add to the expectant chorus of hundreds, heralding that Shimpath’s clutch was about to Hatch.

The latecomers who kept trying to hurry into the Hatching cavern through the ground access tunnel were getting on Leah’s nerves. L’stev and his helpers turned them all back, of course, pointing them in the direction of the stands entrances, but the fascinated scrutiny of ignorant Holdbred gawkers, identifying the candidates by their white robes, was off-putting. A few of them even whispered good luck as they passed, and that annoyed Leah too. Luck had nothing to do with it.

L’stev and his team stood close together near the entrance, talking quietly. All but the Weyrlingmaster himself wore old clothes suitable for the messy business of helping to feed hatchling dragons, and even the long, sleeveless, open-fronted robe that L’stev wore would be easily discarded when the time came. The fine garment, in Madellon’s indigo worked with silver embroidery, distinguished him from the other riders on the sands, and emphasised his importance to the ceremony.

As the light started to fade, Leah wondered if the Weyrlingmaster ever felt nervous before a Hatching. There were always things that could go wrong. A candidate who didn’t step lively enough risked being mauled by a single-minded dragonet. The heat of the sand, and the stress of the occasion, had been known to cause candidates to faint. And there was always the chance, however slim, that a hatchling wouldn’t find anyone suitable. That was the worst thought of them all, even if it had never happened, as far as anyone knew. Well: Leah had no intention of getting in any dragonet’s way; she was sure she’d rather die than faint on the sands; and with nearly four dozen candidates for two dozen eggs, there should be no chance of a hatchling remaining unpaired.

“Positive thoughts,” she said aloud. “Positive, welcoming thoughts.”

“All right for you to say,” said Sinterlion.

Leah patted him on the back. “You’ll be fine, Sinter.” He looked pale, but not as sheet-white as some of the others – boys and girls both. Some of their classmates looked like they were about to be physically sick. Leah was certain that wouldn’t help. “Just remember not to be scared.”

Sinterlion swallowed hard, but nodded, his expression turning resolute. Leah patted him on the back again.

Several riders appeared from the direction of the stands entrance, all in their finest clothes, with the dragon badges few normally displayed worn in the colours of their mounts. Each had been embroidered with a glittering gold S. Leah grinned in nervous relief when she recognised C’mine among the Search riders. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispered, hugging him tightly.

“You don’t need me,” he told her in a soft voice that was full of pride and affection. “You’re fine all by yourself.” C’mine tousled her hair, and then turned to meet his other candidates. Sinterlion and Murrany stood up straight as they clasped wrists with the rider of the dragon who had Searched them, and some of their tension visibly faded with C’mine’s quietly spoken words of encouragement.

“Tarshe,” he greeted the girl who had been waiting a pace or two behind the others.

“C’mine,” Tarshe replied. The slight smile on her lips belied her reserved attitude, and even she could not help but accept when the blue rider extended his hand to her.

Leah felt a pang of jealousy: she couldn’t have expected C’mine to hold off Searching any girl other than herself, but he was her almost-father, her indulgent and understanding confidant, her champion. Knowing that Tarshe was one of Darshanth’s selections had encouraged Leah to make an effort to welcome her, but Tarshe had all but rebuffed the advances of friendship. She had a way of summing up a person with a glance, and dismissing them just as rapidly. Leah didn’t like being considered beneath anyone’s note.

Positive thoughts, Leah told herself furiously. All the other Search riders were standing with their candidates, giving advice and encouragement, and L’stev was talking to the Weyrbred – Leah supposed, so as not to leave them out.

“How is it in there?” she asked C’mine.

“Full,” he told her, with a smile that eclipsed the scars on his face. “I think about half of Pern’s there. Don’t worry,” he said, as Sinterlion moaned at the thought of the crowd, “it’ll all be over before you know it. Just keep your chins up, and remember, Darshanth’s candidates always do well.” He glanced over his shoulder at L’stev, who was gesturing for the Search riders to leave. “I’ll see you all afterwards. Good luck.”

Somehow, coming from C’mine, luck seemed like a good thing to have on one’s side. But as C’mine left, Leah ran after him. “Mine!”

He turned back. “What is it?”

Leah gripped his hands. “Da’s being an idiot,” she told him fiercely. “Don’t forget.”

C’mine’s smile was momentarily sad, but he quickly banished the expression. “He and Robyn are on the far side, about halfway down, right in the middle. And I’ll be with Saren, right opposite the clutch. Now go on. Your dragon’s waiting for you.” He squeezed her hands, then let them go.

Leah found tears in her eyes as Darshanth’s rider increased his stride to catch up with his fellows.

“Positive thoughts, remember?” Sinterlion said helpfully, beside her.

She grabbed his hand, gripping it tight, and composed herself enough to smile. “Right, Sinter.”

Bronze and brown dragons were beginning to congregate just beyond the group of candidates as L’stev called for all of them to gather round. By tradition, bronze riders delivered their sponsored candidates for a queen egg onto the Hatching sands. It was more custom than rule now, but Leah thought it was silly. Most of the girls who had been chosen by bronze riders had been selected on looks rather than suitability. L’stev had informed them all, with a straight face, that any girl who wanted to be brought in by a rider could do so, with the rider’s consent. Leah could have asked her father, or C’mine – she could even have asked the Weyrleader himself – but she’d decided not to take part in the daft tradition. She’d go in to face the eggs on her own two feet. One or two girls had found riders willing to take an active part in the ceremony, and to Leah’s certain knowledge, at least three riders had been fighting over the privilege of delivering Ivaryo. Six bronzes and three browns waited with their riders, gazing at the candidates with purple eyes.

The Weyrlingmaster was taking the register again. When he reached, “Carleah,” Leah replied without thinking, as she had so many times already that day. As L’stev called out the names of some of the male candidates, Leah realised it might be the last time she ever heard some of them. She squeezed Sinterlion’s fingers again, and wondered how he would shorten his name.

The register complete, all forty-four candidates present and accounted for, L’stev stuffed the rolled hide into an inside pocket of his robe, and surveyed the group. “Well,” he said finally, “here you all are. In a moment, those of you with escorts are going to go and find them. I want the rest of you lined up in single file. I’m going to lead you in and make sure you’re all evenly spaced around the eggs, so I don’t want to see any shoving to get to the front of the line. You’ll walk quietly, without talking, and without waving at anyone you might know in the stands.” He cast a withering glance around the group, as if to show them what he thought of that sort of behaviour. “As we approach the clutch you will each bow to Shimpath, then turn to your left and bow to Epherineth. You can be assured that they will be watching each one of you very closely. These are their children, children. Be worthy.

“When the eggs start to Hatch, stay where you are. Don’t crowd around the dragonets. That’s how candidates get hurt. If they want you, they’ll come to you, and bearing down on them won’t do anything but frighten them. Don’t run away if a dragonet’s coming towards you, either – but be prepared to step aside.

“If you Impress, then the first order of business is to get yourself and your dragon out of the way of the hatchlings still looking. You won’t suddenly become invulnerable just because you’ve Impressed: a dragonet will still plough right into you if you’re between him and the one he wants. So get your dragon moving – if you need help, we’ll be there – and straight over to feed them.

“If you don’t Impress, A’len and Pettra here –” he indicated two of his assistants, “– will take you back to where you can get changed, wash your faces, and compose yourselves. I don’t want anyone running off by themselves. You can be alone later, but you all have guests, and none of you – none of you – are to be the least bit ashamed for not Impressing. There will be other days and other clutches.

“Those of you with new dragons will probably want to show them off to your family and friends. You’ll have a chance – a brief chance – to do so after you leave the Hatching ground, and before you reach the weyrling barracks. Once your dragonets are bedded down and asleep, they’re off-limits. Your possessions will be in the open lockers on your immediate left as you enter the barracks; it’s up to you to retrieve them. You may then change into your good clothes, and when every last one of you is ready, I’ll lead you into the dining cavern – so you girls had better not take too long, or the feast will be over before you’ve even got there.”

It helped to laugh, and Leah, like almost everyone else, did. L’stev was only repeating lectures he’d made before, but it was reassuring – grounding – to listen to his familiar gruff voice. It settled the fair of fire-lizards that seemed to have made its home in Leah’s stomach.

“You won’t be staying up late, and I’ll advise you now against drinking too much, because those dragons are going to wake up about four hours before dawn wanting to be fed again,” L’stev continued. “But I’ll be introducing each of you to the Weyrleaders, and we’ll drink a small toast in your honour.” He paused. “I’m looking forward to being proud of all of you at that moment.”

There was almost a catch in the Weyrlingmaster’s voice with the last, and Leah felt a lump in her throat to go with the fire-lizards in her belly.

“Now, you miserable lot,” and L’stev was his normal brusque self again, “those of you getting rides go and get them; the rest of you line up here. Quickly! Those dragonets won’t wait for you!”

In the rush to get in line, Leah let go of Sinterlion’s hand, and when they’d all organised themselves into a single file she found she’d lost him. Little Branvalt was in front of her, and Martouf behind. Well, Branvalt was all right, she thought, but she’d rather Sinter had stayed close. More than half the girls had started off towards the waiting dragons. Jenafa and Shenaz, Arina, Hana, Ivaryo – someone must have won the fight – Lisette, Adzai, Chenda, and Tarshe. Two back in the line, Soleigh caught Leah’s attention and rolled her eyes.

L’stev walked briskly down the file, muttering the occasionally caustic comment – “stop chewing your nails”; “stand up straight”; “get your hands out of your pockets; you look like you’re playing with yourself”. Then he walked back to the head of the line. “Right, kids. Time to go.”

Leah was halfway down the line, and it felt like ages before Branvalt moved, but then they were all walking. Perhaps unconsciously and perhaps not, Leah matched her stride to his, and then wondered if anyone else was doing the same, marching in time. The ground was hard beneath her bare feet, and the cooling breeze of evening blew around her ankles and tugged at the simple white robe that fell to her knees. As they approached the yawning mouth of the tunnel the dragons’ hum became audible and tangible, a deep vibration through the very rock of the Weyr that sent a thrill through Leah’s body. The voices of hundreds of people became louder too, a mass murmur of excited anticipation. Then they were in the warm tunnel, lit by glows, and the irregular opening into the cavern itself was ahead, bathed in the brighter light of glows and torches combined, and walking the path that so many candidates had trodden on their way to finding their dragons, the thought came to Leah that she would not see the sky again before she had Impressed a dragon or tried and failed.

And then they were out in the Hatching cavern, with hot sand under their feet, and for a moment all Leah could see was people, rows upon rows of people, crammed into the stands, in Gather clothes of every shade and hue of every colour she could have named. The excited murmurs of hundreds of people swelled: some pointed at the candidates, some broke into scattered applause before being hushed by their neighbours, but all of them looked, and all the eye could see was eyes. In the darkness high above the mass of humans, perched on the shelf that ran almost the circumference of the cavern, dragons watched, with eyes like glittering violet jewels, and their rising hum seemed to reverberate through every fibre of Leah’s body. She couldn’t look for her parents, or her friends; she couldn’t have picked out a face from that crowd if her life had depended on it.

L’stev led them across the broad expanse of sand at an angle, and as the clutch came into view, glowing and beautiful against the awesome backdrop of its protective parents, Leah forgot about the crowd. The eggs she’d seen so often, that she had touched, and stroked, and admired, were moving. They twitched, they shook; they almost seemed to pulse with vitality, with the life so close to bursting from them. Twenty-five glorious eggs, arranged with their mother’s care and wisdom for the last time, and in the centre, throbbing like molten gold, the largest of them all: the queen egg.

Leah almost walked into Branvalt when he stopped in front of her. He made his bows, his normal awkwardness forgotten, and then started out towards the far side of the clutch, skirting around the eggs rather than stepping through them.

“Shimpath first, Carleah,” L’stev said softly.

She hadn’t even noticed the Weyrlingmaster, so entranced by the eggs. L’stev was standing straight for once, his hands folded behind his back, angled to face the queen and her mate. Leah bowed to Shimpath – fiercely golden, her eyes more red than purple as she prepared to relinquish the care of her offspring – and then to Epherineth – lithely gold-green and watchful.

“Over there, between Naijen and Gidra,” the Weyrlingmaster told her as she straightened up.

Leah made her way to her appointed place, almost sidestepping at one point, not wanting to be so disrespectful as to turn her back on the two dragons. Gidra shot her a quick nervous smile, but Naijen’s gaze was fixed on the shuddering eggs, and his fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles were as white as his robe.

The heat of the sands was uncomfortable, but bearable. Leah looked at the restless clutch, looked at the hairline fractures beginning to appear on some shells as their occupants determinedly tapped their way out, looked at the blazing queen egg, and waited.

Chapter Nineteen: Man And Dragon Fully Matched

Sarenya shielded Agusta with her free arm as somebody jostled past them. The stands heaved with people, and no one seemed to be looking where they were going, much less at anyone who might happen to be in the way. The queen muttered indignantly, and tightened her grip. Sarenya winced. The material of her best Gather outfit wasn’t made for fire-lizard purchase, and Agusta’s talons were sharp. Tarnish, at least, on her other shoulder, knew enough to lock his talons into the fabric, not her flesh.

The fire-lizard queen extended her left wing, and Sarenya looked right to see M’ric and C’mine. “Good directions, Agusta,” she told the fire-lizard, raising her voice to be heard over the din of people and the dragons’ hum.

The two riders had secured a place with an excellent view of the sands on the second tier, not much more than a dragonlength from the clutch. M’ric saw her coming first, perhaps alerted by his fire-lizard, and rose from his seat. He was, Sarenya noticed, looking very good in a pale blue shirt cut in the Peninsula style and open at the throat against the combined heat of Hatching sands and massed bodies. The royal blue of her own garb – a simply-cut shift dress, sleeveless and dropping almost straight from shoulder to mid-calf but intricately embroidered at the bust – complemented the lighter shade rather well.

M’ric leaned close and shouted, “She got you here all right, then?”

“Excellent service,” Sarenya shouted back, letting the queen hop from her shoulder to M’ric’s. “I’ll recommend it to my friends!”

“Take the weight off,” M’ric told her, indicating the seat he and C’mine had left vacant between them.

Sarenya did with a sigh that even she couldn’t hear, then peered around Tarnish to look at C’mine. “Looking good, Mine,” she shouted in his ear. The blue rider wore his best dusky red shirt – so freshly ironed that the creases were still sharp.

“I thought you weren’t going to make it,” C’mine replied.

“I almost couldn’t get away,” said Sarenya. “Sejanth got a bit excited, and it took us some time to settle him.” She looked from one to the other. “Have I introduced you two?”

“We managed that part without you,” said M’ric, with a knowing glint in his eye.

Sarenya gave C’mine a baleful look. “What have you been saying?”

“Me?”

M’ric laughed. “Only good things.”

“Here they come,” said C’mine, and a moment later the level of noise increased as the white-clad candidates, marching in single file behind the Weyrlingmaster, emerged into the Hatching cavern.

Sarenya felt only a little wistful as she watched the young people cross the sands. Had it really been eight Turns since she’d been out there herself? She remembered putting on the thin robe as if it were only yesterday. If she concentrated hard enough, she could recall the discomfort of heat and grit underfoot and between her toes. The thirty-odd boys and girls – mostly boys – walking out today looked more composed than she remembered feeling.

“There’s Leah,” said C’mine, although he didn’t point. “About tenth in the line.”

Saren picked out C’los’ daughter easily. “There aren’t many girls, are there?”

“The rest will come in with the bronzes,” he told her.

“Of course.” She should have known that: she’d done it herself, with T’kamen. Curious, she looked across the sands to where the Weyrleaders were seated close to their dragons. T’kamen wore black, naturally, and beside him Valonna was in a pale shade of Madellon’s indigo. They were too far away for Saren to pick out any more detail, but she hoped T’kamen would be generous to the young Weyrwoman. This should be a day for them both to be proud of their dragons.

“Have you been to a Hatching before, Saren?” asked M’ric, transferring Agusta onto his other shoulder so he didn’t have to talk through her.

“Only once,” Sarenya replied wryly, letting her eyes follow the curves of the queen egg.

The brown rider regarded her contemplatively. “Spectator or participant?”

Sarenya looked at him. “What do you mean?”

M’ric smiled and looked down at the candidates. After a moment, he glanced over at C’mine. “Was she one of Darshanth’s?”

“Leave him out of it,” Saren insisted, before C’mine could reply.

“I’m sorry, Saren,” the brown rider said, shaking his head. “I didn’t mean to give offence.”

“I’m not offended.” But Sarenya’s curiosity was piqued. “All right, C’mine Searched me,” she said at last. “It was a long time ago. How did you know?”

“I didn’t,” M’ric replied. “I just couldn’t believe that Madellon’s Search riders could have missed you.”

Sarenya studied the brown rider intently, searching for the irony – however gentle – she was sure must be there. M’ric just met her gaze calmly and steadily, with his natural good humour, and no trace of mockery or sarcasm. “I didn’t Impress.”

“Not all of these will, today,” he said, nodding at the candidates below. “Doesn’t mean they wouldn’t, given a different clutch.”

“Did you Impress first time?” Saren challenged.

“Yes,” M’ric admitted, “but that was probably more to do with being willing to take on a dragon like Trebruth than any innate worth of mine.”

“No one else wanted him?” she asked, amazed.

M’ric looked slightly uncomfortable. “He wasn’t a bronze. Everyone wants the bronze.”

“Except you?”

“No, I wanted the bronze until Treb came for me.” He shrugged. “It’s about the dragon, not the colour.”

“I still didn’t Impress.”

“Trebruth’s still half the size of any other brown here,” M’ric replied. “But if he hadn’t Hatched, I’d rather have gone without.”

Sarenya considered the brown rider’s philosophy as six bronze dragons entered through the high entrance to the cavern, each bearing a white-robed candidate on his neck in addition to his rider. Three browns followed the bronzes in, similarly burdened. She had never met a rider yet who would have traded his mount in for a higher colour, nor even for another dragon of the same. Maybe her dragon had just never Hatched. The thought was melancholy as well as comforting.

C’mine touched her hand to get her attention. “That’s Tarshe,” he said, pointing out a girl with sun-bleached hair and a tan that contrasted strongly with her robe.

The nine big dragons dropped off their riders as well as their passengers before heading for the high ledge to find spaces to perch. Each rider hastened up into the stands, and one of the bronze riders, a tall blond man in an ankle-length black coat, made directly for where Sarenya, M’ric, and C’mine were sitting.

Sarenya thought she heard C’mine mutter something, but it was difficult to tell over the dragons’ swelling voices. With the addition of the last nine males the sound seemed fuller, richer than before: more urgent. As the girls hurried to join the other candidates around the eggs, the hum increased dramatically in volume to the point where it would have been painful had it not been filled with such joyous anticipation. The buzz of conversation died away, slowly at first, and then more rapidly as the expectant atmosphere affected even the most insensitive holder. Watching the eggs intently, Saren found herself holding her breath and clenching her fists on her lap. The strain and yearning on the face of every single candidate was unbearable. She felt C’mine take her left hand, gripping it lightly, but expressing every last ounce of how he felt: his excitement, his nerves, his sorrow that C’los was halfway across the cavern instead of beside him where he belonged. Saren tore her attention away from the shuddering eggs long enough to glance at M’ric. Agusta was as tense on his shoulder as Tarnish was on Saren’s, and the brown rider’s eyes were keen. Sarenya reached for his hand, but he beat her to it, wrapping his long fingers around hers, and holding on tight. Agusta and Tarnish took flight as one, as if in disgust, but Sarenya noticed more fire-lizards than just her bronze and M’ric’s queen rise to join the dragons high above.

The dragons’ song grew until it seemed it could surely grow no more, building to an incredible crescendo while the eggs shivered and shuddered as if the ground itself were shaking beneath them, and then, abruptly, the hum ceased, and in the instant of absolute silence that followed, the snap of breaking shell seemed as loud as a clap of thunder.

The top of an egg standing on end near the centre of the clutch shattered outwards with the force of a blow from within. Next to it, big chunks of shell flaked off another egg. A split ran the length of a third as its occupant fought to escape. But it was a fourth egg, standing in the shadow of the big golden shell of the queen, that gave a little jerk, shuddered once, and collapsed into shards.

The shrill cry that pierced the air was heartbreaking: a wail of incredible longing, impossible need. Amidst the wreckage, a dragonet stumbled to its feet: dark and wet with egg fluids, ungainly, awkward, lost. With her Craft’s instinctive eye for sizing up a newborn, Sarenya guessed that the hatchling measured six or seven feet from the tip of its nose to the forked end of its tail. It extended its wings, and the light shining through the translucent sail revealed its colour. He was blue, a dark steel blue; the colour of his hide became clearer as the heat of the sand evaporated the egg-fluid. He raised his head, focusing with visible difficulty until the brilliant white of the candidates’ robes gave him purpose.

As the blue hatchling blundered towards his goal, a second shell disintegrated, then two more in quick succession. An awkward green, a spindly brown, and another dragonet whose colour was not immediately obvious came crying into the world. Another green, Sarenya thought, but the tears in her eyes blurred her vision, and she blinked furiously to clear them away. The dragonets’ thin, high voices were painful on ears and heart alike, and the distance from shell to candidates seemed too far for their staggering legs to carry them.

The steel blue tottered towards the closest group of candidates, but though the boys all met his pleading gaze he passed over every one. He wavered, but some instinct pulled his head to the right, and dragging wings and tail behind him he moved in that direction. The male candidates looked at him as he passed, but the dragonet’s demeanour was growing steadily more purposeful, his cry less despairing. Saren felt C’mine’s grip tighten on her hand as, one by one, candidates stepped aside for the hatchling, until only a tall young man with light-coloured hair and widening brown eyes remained.

The hatchling’s shriek changed, becoming a query filled with hope, and when he looked up into the lanky candidate’s face the shock of recognition, of understanding, of fulfilment and completion, struck the chosen lad like a physical blow. He reeled backwards, barely breaking his fall with his hands, but his eyes were still locked with the blue’s, and as the dragonet’s suddenly ecstatic voice turned anxious they were no longer a frightened hatchling and a nervous candidate, but dragon and rider, matched wholly and exultantly, and Sarenya couldn’t blink back the tears any more.

“Murrany!” C’mine’s muffled exclamation of the candidate’s name made Sarenya glance at the blue rider. There were tears shining on his scarred face, and as a roar went up from the audience for the first Impression of the day, she clutched his hand, sharing in his joy at the achievement of one of his candidates.

It seemed almost too much to bear that there would be twenty-four more pairings, and the second was as rapturous as the first. The first green, coloured like the lush foliage of Southern’s rainforest under the darkening moisture, barely took two uncertain steps before rushing to her chosen, the Weyrbred girl Sarenya remembered as Maris. A brown with hide the colour of dappled autumn leaves completed half a circuit of the candidates before almost knocking over Gidra, the Seacraft lad from Blue Shale, with his relief. Too many things were happening at once; it was impossible to watch every dragon Hatch, or every Impression, but when the first bronze broke shell every eye went to him.

From the moment that a pointed muzzle thrust through the crumbling shell it was clear that the young bronze looked like Epherineth. He struggled out of his prison with methodical determination, wrenching one shoulder free, then the other, then shaking stubbornly free of the egg casing, and even before his wings had unfurled the iridescent green-gold sheen that distinguished his sire was plain on his hide.

Sarenya couldn’t imagine what must be going through T’kamen’s mind at the sight of this striking son of Epherineth’s. Several candidates took a single involuntary step towards the dragonet before catching themselves, but the lad with more silver than black in his hair kept moving, that expression of incredulous hope already on his face as the bronze charged decisively towards him, their eyes already locked across the distance between them. They met, Harrenar almost skidding into the hatchling who had chosen him in a flurry of sand, like old friends kept too long apart, and for a long moment dragonet and new weyrling sprawled together, oblivious to everything around them, connected eye to eye, hand to neck, heart to soul.

There seemed to be a lot of greens roaming without partners, their piteous cries almost drowned out by the cheers that accompanied each new Impression. Saren counted five wandering from candidate to candidate. Some of the girls were standing back, as if to discourage the hatchlings’ interest. “What are they waiting for?” she demanded, under her breath.

“The queen,” said M’ric, but the inflection in his voice was muffled by the background noise.

“Stupid girls,” Saren murmured. “You’ll end up with nothing.”

The palest of the greens turned aside suddenly as one of the youngest girls hurried to meet her, leaving four still looking, and another that had Hatched in the meantime. But then the great golden queen egg began to move in earnest, and a new hush fell over the Hatching cavern.

Pieces of shell fell away in showers of gold as the dragonet inside battled to break out. A weak point where most of the hard casing had fractured away from the soft inner layer was unexpectedly breached by birth-soft hind claws, and then the hatchling queen burst free of her egg.

Objectively, it was hard to call any hatchling pretty. Clumsy, disproportionate, covered in egg fluid and sand, they lacked the dignity and grace of the adults, and only the most besotted new weyrling would call his dragonet beautiful. The queen made no exception – ungainly and wobbly on her feet, blunt of head and stubby of wing – but her colour set her apart. The sheen that showed green-gold against bronze hide shimmered exquisitely silver-gilt on hers of pale gold. Her cry rose more forlorn than any before, and every girl left on the sands moved closer, her eyes fixed on the golden hatchling.

Saren could hardly feel her left hand any more, but she didn’t have the heart to say anything to C’mine. “Leah’s still there,” he muttered. “Come on, girl!”

The queen was looking at the closest girl, but her gaze dismissed her. There were still at least a dozen female candidates, and every one of them had gathered around the crying dragonet. Leah was almost the furthest away. “Come on,” Sarenya willed the newborn queen. “You’re looking in the wrong place, go down the other end!”

One girl let out a short scream and literally jumped out of the way as a green hatchling with a hide like cloudy jade bumped into the back of her legs. The dragonet looked dazedly at the candidate she had almost felled, and wandered on. Behind her, the queen stumbled determinedly onwards, her head held high, and turning from side to side as if scenting out her rider.

Leah was still looking at the queen when the lost green paused in front of her. Sarenya saw C’los’ daughter step back, startled. The golden hatchling still hadn’t chosen. Slowly, Leah looked at the little queen, and Sarenya saw her shake her head. Then the girl sank to her knees and wrapped her arms around the green dragonet’s upturned head, her shoulders heaving with sobs of joy, and Sarenya heard herself shout with the rest of the crowd in the stands to celebrate the union.

“What happened?” C’mine pleaded.

He had closed his eyes, unable to watch. “She’s got a green, Mine!” Sarenya shouted in his ear. “Leah’s got a green!”

C’mine opened one eye to look, then the other, and his grin was proud and happy and sad all at the same time. “That’s our good girl, Leah! That’s our clever girl!”

M’ric leaned across to thump C’mine on the shoulder. The brown rider wasn’t crying, but there was something in his gaze that recalled the moment when an undersized dark-brown dragonet had claimed him for his own.

Sarenya didn’t think Leah’s own parents could have been any more delighted than C’mine. She wondered how C’los and Robyn had reacted to their daughter’s Impression, but the collective gasp from the audience cut the thought dead. “Look at the queen!”

The golden hatchling had stopped looking at every candidate, drawn towards the end of the group. She almost tripped over her own feet in her hurry, and her wings impeded her progress. A girl with blonde hair stepped into the dragonet’s path, conviction that she had been chosen written all over her face, but the queen brushed her aside without so much as a glance, and all but pounced on Tarshe.

“Yes!” The individual shout was lost in the massive roar as the young queen warbled happily, but Saren heard it. The rider in the long coat she had noticed before was on his feet on the other side of M’ric, and his face displayed his jubilation.

“Tarshe got the queen?” C’mine asked, with something between disbelief and dismay in his voice.

“Of course she did!” Sarenya told him. “Darshanth only chooses the best!”

“Faranth,” the blue rider said faintly. “He’s never going to let me forget this.”

Sarenya watched the new queen rider with her dragon for a moment. Tarshe was alternating between wiping the hatchling’s eyes with her sleeve and wiping her own, and the arm she had curled lovingly around the dragonet’s neck spoke eloquently of her delight. The last, and only, hatchling queen Saren had seen had been Shimpath, and in her disappointment it had been more than she could do to be pleased for Valonna. Now, she didn’t begrudge Tarshe an ounce of her happiness.

The last few eggs had cracked during the fuss, and at some point two more bronzes had Hatched and chosen their riders. Three bronzes and a queen in a clutch was an excellent result, Saren knew, and all the dragonets looked healthy. Many of the girls who had been rejected by the queen quickly paired off with greens, and none of them looked the least bit unhappy. Sarenya just wished she had been able to watch every Impression. She’d forgotten how quickly a Hatching was over.

The final egg Hatched another green, and the candidates left unchosen, almost twenty of them, started to move in on her. The lone green stepped back in alarm – quite understandably, Saren thought – and howled in pain as her foot came down on a jagged shard of eggshell.

Shimpath and Epherineth bugled at almost the same moment, lowering their great heads to their daughter, and across the cavern Sarenya saw T’kamen stand up. She put her hand on the first-aid kit she had brought from the infirmary, but she didn’t know what anyone could do to help the dragonet until she’d been Impressed, nor what candidate would have the courage to approach a hatchling in pain and with her extremely protective parents an arm’s length away.

Then one of the lads stepped out bravely from the pack. He glanced nervously at the Weyrleaders’ dragons, then set his jaw and hurried to the injured green’s side. When the hatchling looked up, her pitiful cries of pain and loneliness died off abruptly, and her happy croon sealed the last Impression of the day.

The shout of acclaim that went up from the crowd was one of the loudest. “He deserved her,” said M’ric, adding his applause to the din. “He really deserved her.”

“Wasn’t that another of yours, Mine?” Sarenya asked, watching as the Weyrlingmaster urged the last pair over to where the other new dragonets were bolting down their first meals.

C’mine looked like he might not be able to stand up on his own as he nodded. “Darshanth’s going to be unbearable.”

“I think we need to get a couple of celebratory drinks into him,” Sarenya told M’ric.

“We’ll do that.” Then he said, “Saren, I’d like you to meet Sh’zon.” He indicated the rider with the coat.

Sarenya let go of M’ric’s hand, with some reluctance. “Bronze rider. Wingleader,” she added, belatedly noticing the three stripes on his shoulders.

“Aye, journeyman,” the blond man replied, catching her wrist in a firm shake.

“Tarshe is Sh’zon’s cousin,” M’ric explained.

Sarenya smiled at the pride on the bronze rider’s face. “Congratulations to you both, then.”

“Never doubted her a moment,” he grinned.

Saren looked down at the sands: Vhion was seeing to the green with the injured foot, and all the new weyrlings were grappling with meat and oil. T’kamen was standing a discreet distance away with L’stev. “We should probably make a move if we want to go and see the dragonets before they’re bedded down,” she said.

Sh’zon looked dubiously at C’mine. “He all right?”

Between them, M’ric and Sarenya pried C’mine up out of his seat. Saren finally retrieved her hand, and covertly massaged some feeling back into it. M’ric noticed, and grinned wryly at her.

“You look lovely, by the way,” he told her, leaning down.

“Thank you,” she replied sincerely. “It’s nice to be wearing something that isn’t muddy.”

“I heard mud was in, this season.”

Sarenya sighed. “Mud’s in every season in the Beastcraft.” She smiled up at him. “You look good too.”

Waiting to leave the stands was a lengthy business with the cavern so full. It was Sh’zon whose patience ran out first, after they had been standing around for ten minutes or so. “Scorch this for a fair of fire-lizards,” he muttered, and climbed down over the row of seats in front before vaulting over the barrier between stands and sands.

M’ric raised an eyebrow at Sarenya. “Shall we?”

Saren eyed the precipitous climb unenthusiastically. “I bring these adventures on myself, don’t I?”

He chuckled. “At least there aren’t any sheep.”

“Oh, shut up.”

The descent wasn’t as bad as Saren had feared with C’mine and M’ric to help. A few other riders had obviously had the same idea as them, leaving the cavern via the ground access tunnel. Shimpath and Epherineth had already left, so the sands were empty except for the pile of shell fragments.

Evening had fallen, and the area immediately outside the Hatching cavern had been lit with big torches. Each new dragonpair was surrounded by a little knot of people: family in some cases, or friends, or members of L’stev’s team. Leah was standing close to the exit with her green, her tearstained face glowing with happiness. “Mine!” she cried, when she saw them approach, but she didn’t leave her dragon.

C’mine went to her, enveloping her in a hug, regardless of the bloodstains on the front of the new weyrling’s robe – evidence of her dragon’s first messy meal. Sarenya and M’ric stood back a little, just watching. “I’m so proud of you,” he told the girl who might as well have been his daughter in a thick voice. “What’s her name?”

“Jagunth,” Leah replied, with pride and love soaring in her voice. “Jagunth, this is C’mine.”

The hatchling looked up at him with sparkling eyes. C’mine looked to Leah for permission before stroking her head, on a level with his chest. “Jagunth. What a lovely lady you are.”

“Leah! Leah!”

The familiar voice made Sarenya wince. “Trouble?” M’ric asked her quietly.

“Trouble,” she confirmed uneasily, as C’los and Robyn hurried into view.

The green rider hesitated when he saw that C’mine was already there, but he tore his eyes away from the blue rider who had been his weyrmate for over a decade, and hugged his daughter. “Oh, sweetheart, we’re so proud.”

“She’s beautiful, Leah,” said Robyn, stepping closer to embrace the new weyrling. Her smile was nearly as radiant as her daughter’s. “What’s she called?”

“Uh oh,” Sarenya murmured to M’ric, as C’mine and C’los looked at each other. The green rider looked uncharacteristically sober in a white shirt embroidered in green. His shirts usually caused mild to moderate blindness.

“How’ve you been?” C’mine asked.

“Oh, you know.” C’los paused. “She’s lovely, isn’t she?”

“Lovely,” C’mine agreed. He paused. They looked at each other. “So…”

“Think we should leave them to it?” M’ric asked.

“Probably a good idea.”

They drifted away. Sarenya recognised some of the candidates – weyrlings now, she reminded herself – from the limited contact she’d had with them during their classes. “Lovely brown, Polian,” she complimented the apprentice, whose family didn’t appear to have arrived yet. “What does he call himself?”

“His name’s Sparth,” Polian replied delightedly, resting his hand on the almost sand-coloured dragon’s headknob.

“Can’t go wrong with a nice brown,” M’ric told him.

Polian grinned. “Thank you, sir.”

“I’d like to see how the green with the injured foot is doing,” Saren told M’ric as they walked on.

M’ric nodded. “These dragonets are going to start collapsing of exhaustion soon,” he said. “Some of them are looking shaky already.”

“There’s not as much difference in size as I thought,” Saren observed, comparing a bronze with one of the many greens.

“Not at this stage,” said M’ric. “But within the first month the gap will open up. The bronzes and browns especially put on a lot more bulk than the others.” He paused, then added, “Except Trebruth, who looked runtier than half the greens at that age.”

Sarenya grinned, pleased that the brown rider was comfortable enough with her to make sarcastic remarks about his dragon. “I’m sure he was never runty.”

“Oh, he was,” M’ric laughed. “And there I was trying to make him eat as much as the other browns – Faranth, what a mess that made when he sicked it all back up again.”

“Thanks for that,” Sarenya groaned, as they approached the place where Master Vhion was chatting to the lad whose dragonet had cut herself on the sands.

“You will have to keep a good eye on her for the first few days, but –” Vhion paused and beamed at Sarenya. “Ah, journeyman, your timing couldn’t have been better. And this is your…?” He looked enquiringly at M’ric.

Sarenya glanced at the brown rider, but he just gave her one of those fiendish looks, offering her no assistance whatsoever. “This is Wingsecond M’ric, Master.”

“Of course it is,” Vhion replied expansively. “Now, Saren, I was just telling S’terlion here –” he grinned conspiratorially at the brand-new green weyrling, and then at the proudly bemused pair of holders that must have been his parents, “– what he’s going to have to do with his dragon’s foot. Green rider, if you’d ask her to show the journeyman?”

“Nerbeth,” the young man addressed his dragon, with the same affection in his voice exhibited by all the other weyrlings, “can you show us the foot that hurts again?”

The hatchling extended her left hind for examination. It had been lightly bandaged, and the distinctive smells of redwort and numbweed were strong.

“Puncture wound, journeyman,” Vhion told Sarenya. “Deeper than we first thought, but dragon shell is hard. Hard work getting out of it, too!” He smiled fondly at the hatchling green. “So, standard procedure, and I’d like you to look in on our fine young lady here later tonight and again in the morning. No need to have her in the infirmary, but will you check on her?”

“I knew this would involve work,” Sarenya sighed, but she grinned at S’terlion. “Of course I will.”

“Thank you. I’ll have Zaf and Katel cover your infirmary rounds.”

Encouraged by the Weyrlingmaster, the new dragonriders began to lead and coax their dragonets towards the weyrling barracks. M’ric and Sarenya moved out of the way, to give the rapidly tiring hatchlings some space.

The young queen was one of the last, and Sh’zon was still walking alongside her rider. There was definitely a resemblance between the two dragonriders, but it was more a similarity of manner and attitude than actual physical features. Of those, only their eyes were the same: fiery blue and piercing.

“Congratulations, Tarshe,” M’ric said quietly as the queen rider passed.

Tarshe flashed him a smile that was genuine for all its fierceness. “Thanks, M’ric, and it’s Berzunth, before you ask.”

“She’s putting it on,” he murmured, when Tarshe was out of earshot. “I’ve never got tired of telling people my dragon’s name.”

“I’d noticed that,” Saren teased him. “What was he called again?”

M’ric shrugged. “Tre-something. I can’t remember.”

Sarenya laughed, and for more than M’ric’s dryness. Wit came naturally to her, and she loved the stimulation of fencing words with a like-mind, but Saren had never known anyone with a sense of humour as arid as M’ric’s whose touch with it was so gentle. C’los was a worthy opponent, but his baits invited – demanded – barbs in response. M’ric teased without spite, mocked without bitterness, and made himself a target at least as often as anyone else. Bantering with him was companionable rather than competitive. There was something deeply compelling about a man so comfortable in of himself that he didn’t feel the need to belittle others to make himself feel good.

L’stev stalked out of the barracks, driving Sh’zon – the bronze rider protesting his innocence – before him. “I don’t care who you are, rider,” the Weyrlingmaster was growling. “You don’t go in the barracks and you don’t meddle with my weyrlings. They’re going to get all the meddling they’re ever likely to need from me.”

“I was just…!” Sh’zon objected, but L’stev had already walked past him, his customary hunched stance emanating disgust.

“The lot of you can clear off to the dining hall now,” the Weyrlingmaster told the gathered friends and family of the newly Impressed. “They’ll be out to join you soon enough.”

“You know, I heard they’re actually serving real wine at the feast today,” Sarenya confided to M’ric.

He recoiled in mock disbelief. “Surely not!”

“That’s what I’ve heard.”

“We should probably investigate,” he said gravely. “I’m a Wingsecond. I have a responsibility to find out these things.”

“It could be dangerous,” she warned him.

“In that case, I might just stick to drinking those murky Southern reds. At least then I know what I’m letting myself in for.”

“You might, M’ric, but I’m not sure I do.”

“But that’s half the point, Saren,” he told her, “and all of the fun.”

“You’re a terrible influence on me, brown rider.”

“I know,” he sighed. “But if we can’t corrupt each other, who can we corrupt?”

“Just about anyone unfortunate enough to be watching.” Sarenya slid her hand around M’ric’s forearm. “You just remember – whatever happens, it was your idea.”

“Fine by me,” he replied, but the hand he placed lightly over Saren’s belied the flippancy of his tone. “No one ever suspects the brown rider.”

In T’kamen’s admittedly limited experience, a Weyrleader’s rewards were few and far between, but he had to concede that witnessing the birth and Impression of Epherineth’s first clutch of offspring had been a pleasure that would be hard to beat.

The day had already been long and stressful. T’kamen had been on his feet since before dawn, rushing around the Weyr to oversee a hundred aspects of the detailed plan he had devised to make sure the day ran smoothly. The logistics of providing food, transport, and necessary facilities for several hundred guests were immensely complicated. Ensuring that all the important personages – Lords, Mastercrafters, Weyrleaders – were properly greeted, escorted, and entertained was almost as challenging. And all that to think about before he could start on the real business of worrying about the Hatching itself.

Things had gone better than his cynicism had expected. The visiting dignitaries had been duly attended; Weyrfolk stationed at every entrance of the dining hall were offering discreet directions to head off the possibility of nasty surprises the next morning; and twenty-five dragonets had Impressed without significant incident. T’kamen had even been able to watch the hatchlings devouring their first meals with pride instead of concern about how the Weyr would provide for them as they grew. It was hard to reconcile Epherineth’s vigorous, strong offspring with the statistic that had been haunting him for sevendays.

The twelve greens, five blues, four browns, three bronzes, and one striking young queen all seemed lively and healthy, and T’kamen had offered his congratulations to about half the new weyrlings and their proud parents already. Jenavally’s youngest son Naijen – the lad she’d had grow up with his Holdbred father – had Impressed a brown. H’ned’s eldest had attached the bronze dragonet who looked so much like Epherineth. It had already reached T’kamen’s ears that L’stev’s own unruly son had Impressed one of the other bronzes. He knew that C’los’ daughter had been chosen by a green, and looked forward to greeting the girl he had known from infanthood as a dragonrider.

Most of the holders whose sons and daughters had Impressed seemed thrilled, with only one or two making a fuss, and all of those about colour. T’kamen had never had much patience for anyone, Holdbred or otherwise, who discriminated on the basis of dragon colour. It had no bearing on a rider’s intrinsic worth, on the quickness of his mind or the stoutness of his heart. A bronze might be more inclined to choose a rider with natural authority or ambition, but there were bronze riders enough with ambition and no sense, or authority and no conscience. Most of the dragons who had been at Kellad at Turn’s End had been blue and green, and their riders had done Madellon proud. One of the new blue weyrlings had obviously been lambasted by his father for “not doing better”. T’kamen had put the burly Holder in his place, and the lad was standing straighter now, defiantly proud to have had the Weyrleader take his side.

T’kamen sipped at his drink, managing not to make a face only because the awful wine had already numbed his tongue. The good Southern wines had been depleted within the first half hour, leaving only the cloudy Madellon vintages – one of Winstone’s less successful projects. Even those were going down fast enough that he wondered if the people of Madellon’s territory had palates at all.

Halfway across the dining cavern, T’kamen could see Valonna speaking with Meturvian and Juillara of Kellad. The Weyrwoman had taken a more active role in the Hatching feast than T’kamen had thought she would, making herself available to their most important guests as well as offering her personal congratulations to the new weyrlings. Perhaps the success of the Impression ceremony had put some iron in her backbone: whatever the reason, T’kamen was glad that she was taking some of the burden off him.

Thinking of the Weyrwoman turned his thoughts automatically to the new queen weyrling, and T’kamen scanned the mass of people for a moment before locating the girl. Attractive rather than pretty, she had changed from the uniform white robe of a candidate into a long black gown and an emerald wrap, edged with silver. It was an outfit well suited to a queen rider, although perhaps too much for a weyrling. T’kamen couldn’t help wondering if the girl would have worn something so ostentatious if she’d Impressed a green.

For all that she was standing alone, with neither family nor friends in attendance, Tarshe regarded him with a steady gaze and immense self possession. “Weyrleader,” she greeted him.

“Weyrling,” T’kamen replied, placing no particular emphasis on the diminutive. “Congratulations on Berzunth.” The name sounded good to his own ears: a queenly name indeed for Epherineth’s golden daughter.

“Thank you.”

Tarshe’s accent was very similar to Sh’zon. T’kamen had been made aware of her connection to the Peninsula bronze rider early on. It didn’t especially concern him, not with L’stev as Weyrlingmaster. “Your family couldn’t come?” he asked, deciding not to dance around the conspicuous absence of any relatives.

Her small smile hid as much as it revealed. “They couldn’t. Sh’zon is filling in.”

“So I’ve seen.” A glance over the weyrling’s shoulder located Sh’zon, a short way distant, standing near the edge of where Harpers had defined a dance floor. T’kamen had to check his own expression: Sarenya, elegant in deep blue, was partnering the Peninsula brown rider M’ric in one of the close dances, and by the intent look in the eyes of both, not for convenience. T’kamen tore his gaze away, telling himself that he didn’t care. “The weather here is a little more temperate than you’re used to,” he said to Tarshe, choosing the first banal topic of conversation that came into his head.

Her eyes narrowed fractionally: heated blue. “I liked the weather at home well enough.”

Despite himself, T’kamen smiled. It was good to see that the girl had some spunk. “Evidently.” He raised his wine cup slightly, in salute. “Best of luck with Berzunth.”

He wondered, as he walked on, if he was being callous, leaving the new weyrling on her own again. But he had spent no more time with any of the other youngsters, and he certainly had no intention of showing favouritism to the one who had Impressed the queen. Tarshe seemed more than capable enough by herself.

He was looking for another weyrling to approach when a tall man with dark hair, eyes like jagged ice, and an expression that barely masked a predatory smile intercepted him. T’kamen had to raise his head slightly to look him in the eye; almost as he did, the other man lifted his head a fraction more, making a point of the difference in height. T’kamen willed himself not to clench his fists, and offered the thinnest and coldest of smiles.

As if to spite him, the Peninsula Weyrleader broke into a broad grin, his eyes flashing with amusement. “I wasn’t sure I’d ever find you, T’kamen. You’re an elusive fellow.”

“I’m available when I need to be, H’pold.”

“I’m certain you are.” There was emphasis on the words, but before T’kamen had a chance to decipher the inference, H’pold had continued. “Not a bad Hatching, for your first.”

It had been an excellent Hatching by anyone’s standards, but T’kamen knew the other Weyrleader was trying to provoke him. “Not bad,” he conceded, wishing he could remember the details of Ipith’s last Hatching. He was sure that the weyrling queen at the Peninsula had come from a junior clutch.

“Of course, Madellon needs the extra bronzes, seeing how quickly you get through them,” H’pold said, still smiling. “After all, what’s a Weyrleader without a little healthy competition?”

“I’m certain neither of us would know,” T’kamen replied coolly.

“Indeed.” H’pold’s eyes flicked over T’kamen’s shoulder, and he had to restrain himself from looking in that direction. “I can see that Peninsula-trained riders stand out here, to have been promoted so quickly.”

T’kamen couldn’t help looking. Sh’zon was standing quite still some distance away, out of earshot, but close enough that it was clear that his fierce gaze was fixed on H’pold. “Madellon recognises merit, Weyrleader.” He put enough of an edge in his voice to turn the title into a dig.

“Madellon is a young Weyr, T’kamen,” H’pold replied, and his continued refusal to use T’kamen’s title was as conscious a slur.

“The Peninsula not much less so,” T’kamen replied, “but perhaps too old to learn from its mistakes.”

For a moment H’pold’s smile slipped. Then it was back, as superficially friendly as ever. “Time will tell, T’kamen. Four Turns a Weyrleader has taught me that.”

“It took you four Turns?” T’kamen asked lightly, and turned away.

The barb had struck: the instant’s silence was enough to confirm that. Then H’pold spoke again. “Your new queen weyrling – some relative of Sh’zon’s, I assume?”

“So I understand it,” T’kamen replied offhandedly, not turning around.

Weyrleader H’pold laughed shortly, a satisfied sound. “That will cause you some trouble. A shame no one told you about that family.”

It was an odd comment: a remark whose venom went deeper than that for a rival removed to a position where he was no longer a threat. But even as T’kamen began to speak over his shoulder, a sudden premonitory chill went through him as he felt a stab of shock from Epherineth.

Half the buzz of conversation died instantly as every dragonrider in the room went silent. The Harpers played on a moment and then limped to a halt; fire-lizards on shoulders assumed a listening pose, and when the cry came through the rock of the Weyr, their shrill high voices cut through the low keen of loss.

What happened! T’kamen’s demand was echoed a dozen times across the crowded cavern as the dragons’ moan shivered through Weyr and Holdfolk alike.

Bronth, Epherineth told his rider, his voice heavy with sorrow and confusion. Bronth has gone between.

Chapter Twenty: All Hope Banish

C’los didn’t realise that he’d staggered until C’mine caught him, seizing his shoulders and stopping him from falling. He’d simply lost all consciousness of his body, so stunned by the keen, and by the name that was now being spoken in shocked whispers all over the cavern. Thoughts formed and dissipated in his mind so quickly that he couldn’t examine each one; he could only grab at a few, desperately trying to make some sense of them.

How can Bronth be gone?

Trust C’mine to catch me: he’s always said he’d never let me down.

If Bronth’s gone, what about K’ston? Haven’t even seen him since Kamen sent him to Jessaf. Haven’t wanted to.

It’s my fault he went there.

Bronth’s gone.

The poor weyrlings…

Leah.

That one cut through the rest, and C’los became abruptly aware of his own dead weight, the strain C’mine was under to support him. He struggled to regain his footing, and whirled to find his daughter. Leah had gone to talk to one of the other new weyrlings, one of her friends, but she hadn’t gone far, only a few steps. Her pale, strained face told of her shock, and her friend was wide-eyed and shaking, muttering under her breath. The loss of a death hit any dragon hard, but the emotional impact on the fragile mind of a newly-Hatched dragonet especially so.

“Tell her it’s all right, Leah.” Indioth, tell Jagunth to be calm. C’los took his daughter’s hands, trying to lend her some of the support she needed. “Tell her it’s going to be all right.”

“She doesn’t know what to do, da.” Leah’s eyes flicked vaguely back and forth as she struggled to impose a calming influence on her dragon. It was a titanic task with the bond so unfamiliar.

Indioth! “Tell her she’s not to do anything but stay calm.”

Vanzanth just told me to keep out of it, Indioth reported. Her voice trembled.

“C’los,” said C’mine, his tone a warning.

T’kamen was making his way grimly through the crowd towards C’los, ignoring or shouldering past the people getting in his way to demand explanations. “Come with me now,” he said simply.

“But…Leah…”

“L’stev’s dealing with the weyrlings. Come with me.” The Weyrleader’s voice left no room for disobedience.

Helplessly, C’los let Leah’s hands go. “Be brave, sweetheart. Mine, look after her?”

“Of course, Los,” C’mine promised him. “You know I will.”

As he followed the Weyrleader, C’los wondered what had ever possessed him to fall out with C’mine. He vowed to swallow his pride and apologise to the blue rider for being such a selfish idiot. The thought seemed incongruous, given the situation, but C’los felt certain that if he faced the reality too quickly he might not be able to cope.

T’kamen paused long enough to snap out orders to two Wingseconds standing near the main entrance to the dining cavern. C’los was lagging too far behind the Weyrleader’s rapid stride to hear, but in the back of his mind he felt Indioth quiver. Epherineth has grounded every dragon in the Weyr. No one may leave.

The command, evidently passed on to every rider through his or her dragon, was already spreading through the throng by the time C’los hurried through the exit after T’kamen. The first few objections were clearly audible even he hastened out of earshot. He had no doubt that T’kamen’s orders involved every ranking rider in the room: they would earn their stripes tonight, keeping Madellon’s visitors under control.

It was cold and bright outside under the full moons, and C’los shivered in the thin linen of his shirt. “What happened?” he called after T’kamen, breaking into a run to catch up. “Where’s K’ston?”

“Don’t know. He’s not accounted for.”

C’los had caught up with T’kamen before he thought to wonder where he was headed. “Where are we going?”

“Dragon infirmary.” Then, without waiting to be asked, T’kamen went on, “Bronth came back from Jessaf looking terrible. Underfed, dehydrated. Vhion filled me in. I was going to deal with it later. After the Hatching.”

He bit off each phrase as he completed it, his anger very clear. C’los still felt numb. He could cope with some of the ripples spreading outwards from Bronth’s death – the new dragonets’ distress, the guests’ objections to being penned in the dining cavern – but not the fact itself, nor its possible significance. It skated across the surface of his thoughts, and so long as he didn’t try to take hold of it, he could function.

Dragons crowded the Rim, a jagged crown of restlessly-shifting wings studded with the dim jewels of sorrow-greyed eyes. They should have been alert and lively with the joyous occasion. It should have been a day for celebration.

A member of the Dragon-healer’s staff, silhouetted against the light streaming from the entrance to the dragon infirmary, hailed T’kamen as they approached. “Weyrleader!”

T’kamen broke into a run, loping so fast he was almost horizontal. Even at his best C’los had never been able to keep up with the bronze rider, so he jogged into the infirmary several moments after the Weyrleader.

The big cavern seemed quiet, peaceful, but Zafandrie, Master Vhion’s assistant, was white and trembling with shock. He ran shaking hands through his hair as T’kamen and C’los approached. “He w-went c-crazy,” he stammered. “Thrashing, screaming…he was grey, totally grey, when he went…”

T’kamen grabbed Zafandrie’s shoulders. “What happened? Why were you here?”

“I came to check S-Sejanth. Bronth was asleep. I was mucking out Sejanth’s bay, and… He gets upset when people come too near – restless - it must have woken Bronth up. I could hear him moving about.”

Epherineth says that Bronth’s rider has been found.

Found? Alive or… C’los couldn’t bring himself to complete the sentence.

Indioth paused, and when she spoke again there was a bleakness in her voice that C’los had never heard before. He wishes he was dead.

He felt sick. He was aware that Zafandrie was still speaking, but he couldn’t make himself listen to the words.

“C’los, look at this.”

One of the dragons’ wallows evidenced a commotion: rushes had been flung in all directions. T’kamen’s gaze focused on the water trough. His face was a mask, but his eyes were terrible.

Somehow C’los made his legs work. A part of him already knew what T’kamen had found, his mind leaping ahead and independent of him again.

Bronth must have been thirsty: he had almost drained his trough. But there were dregs enough in the bottom, and the smell – not so pungent as the numbweed stink that always pervaded the infirmary, but telltale nonetheless – was horribly familiar.

C’los reached down to trail his fingers through the shallow puddle left in Bronth’s trough. The pale green liquid dripped off his fingertips. He heard his own voice before he realised he’d spoken. “Fellis juice.” He didn’t dare look at T’kamen, realising, perhaps for the first time, just how much his relationship with the bronze rider had changed in the last four months.

“Could this have been an accident?” T’kamen asked.

“I don’t see how.” C’los had to wrench his eyes away from the fluid still wetting his fingers. “Zafandrie? Do you know how fellis juice could have found its way in here?”

The Dragon-healer’s assistant looked unwell. “The Healerhall’s tithe. Master Vhion had us move it here, out of the way.” He pointed.

C’los felt his insides contract. He wiped his hand convulsively on his trousers, and crossed the cavern to the pile of boxes and kegs Zafandrie had indicated. One of the barrels had been opened and then poorly resealed. He could get his fingers in the crack between lid and barrel. Tightening his grip, he levered the lid free, and a fresh wave of nausea broke over him. The barrel was half full of fellis juice.

“Must have used a bucket,” he said, half to himself. He tried to calculate how much had been taken. Gallons. He looked from the barrel to the floor, his eye drawn to the faint shine where liquid had dripped and dried. Fellis juice. Poured, bucket by bucket, into a dragon’s water trough. Gallons. Fully half of a barrel that would have been enough to meet the needs of Madellon’s riders and Weyrfolk for an entire Turn.

Quietly, T’kamen asked, “Zafandrie, do you know who did this?”

The man replied in a voice that shook. “I don’t know who would.”

“Who else has been in here tonight?”

“Master Vhion. The rest of the team.” Zafandrie shook his head. “I don’t know who else. K’ston was here.”

No, C’los thought. He couldn’t have. Not his own dragon.

Why?

Indioth’s tremulous query sliced through the haziness that had been dulling C’los’ thoughts ever since the dragons’ keen. She knew. In those few moments of sick disbelief the green had penetrated months of shielding, targeting the very root of her rider’s anxiety and distress, and in that one word, that one question, C’los realised that it had all been for nothing. I don’t know, Indioth. But I have to find out. “T’kamen, I need to talk to K’ston.”

T’kamen looked at him for a long moment, visibly weighing it up. C’los met his stare as steadily as he could. T’kamen had no reason to trust his judgement, not after everything that had happened. Finally, the bronze rider pulled him aside, out of Zafandrie’s earshot, and spoke in a low voice. “I can’t keep the Weyr locked down like this for long, C’los.”

He shook his head slowly, but his thoughts were sprinting. “There’s no point, now. If the…if whoever did this intended to leave, he’ll be long gone. More likely he’s still here. No one left the Weyr after E’rom.”

“You’re sure it’s the same person?”

C’los looked at the half-empty fellis barrel. “I need to talk to K’ston.”

“Then go and do it, but I’m going to have to address the Weyr.”

T’kamen’s expression was stony, and C’los realised that the Weyrleader intended to make the truth about E’rom’s death public. “You can’t,” he said sharply. “I need more time.”

“You don’t have any more time, C’los,” said T’kamen, with finality. “Someone killed a dragon. I can’t hide it from the Weyr any more. Nor the Lords.”

“Kamen, they’ll eat you alive!” Their roles reverted suddenly to normal: C’los as T’kamen’s advisor, his eyes and ears and guile. “If you stand up and tell them that there’s a murderer loose at Madellon and you’ve know about it for a month – it’s political suicide. H’pold and P’raima would be within their powers to have you removed as Weyrleader.”

T’kamen’s face paled, but he insisted, “The connection will have been made already. And the killer’s still out there. I can’t risk him picking off another rider, another dragon.”

“He won’t! Bronth wasn’t chosen randomly! T’kamen, I’ve been going about this all wrong. E’rom’s not the lynchpin, K’ston is! His weyrmate was killed, and now his dragon. I just need a chance to work it out. Please!”

“That could take you forever.”

C’los cast about for another angle. “T’kamen, trust me. Please. I’m close to working it out now. But I need time!”

“C’los…”

“Please, Kamen!”

T’kamen bowed his head, as if the burden of his responsibilities was a physical weight on his shoulders. “All right,” he said, at last. “You have an hour.”

C’los exhaled hard; he hadn’t been aware that he’d been holding his breath. “You won’t regret it.”

“But I’m calling the Wingleaders to an emergency council,” T’kamen went on, “and if you haven’t turned anything up by the end of the hour, it goes public. All of it.”

“I’ll work it out,” C’los promised. “I’ll get him.”

“You’d better.” There was no threat in T’kamen’s tone: merely a bleakness that made C’los shudder. “I’ll have T’fer confined.”

“T’fer?” It took C’los a moment to remember the name: his thoughts were already far ahead. “Don’t bother. He doesn’t fit the profile any more.”

“Then find me somebody who does.” T’kamen raised his voice to address the distraught Zafandrie. “I’ll have someone relieve you here, journeyman.” Then he threw C’los a sideways glance. “An hour, C’los.”

He was moving before T’kamen had even finished speaking, running before he’d even left the dragon infirmary, and still his mind ranged ahead of him: forming and discarding theories, comparing old facts to new, mapping out the pattern. There were still parts missing, but now C’los understood that K’ston was the key he could feel the answers within his reach.

He burst into the Healer caverns at a dead run. There was no one at the desk, but C’los could hear the sound of a struggle coming from the ward. He lengthened his stride, racing through the deserted waiting room, and then almost stumbled over his own feet as he skidded to a halt.

K’ston was writhing and thrashing on one of the beds despite the best efforts of three Healers, including Isnan, to hold him down. The once-handsome blue rider’s face was bloody, and with a sick jolt C’los realised that he had torn at his own cheeks with his fingernails. Dry heaves stifled the scream that his mouth worked to describe, but the rhythmic thump of his boots against the frame of the bed as he convulsed was awful enough. For the space of three deafening heartbeats C’los just stood and stared. However briefly, this man had been his lover. He had enticed him from C’mine. His habits had irritated him nearly to distraction. And now he was no more than a man, and perhaps less: Bronth had been ripped from him, and half of K’ston had perished with the blue dragon.

One of the journeymen forced K’ston’s jaws open, wedging his teeth apart. “Hold him!” Isnan bellowed, but the former blue rider tossed his head this way and that, his eyes rolling in their sockets. Another Healer gripped K’ston’s head. The dragonless rider’s legs kicked wildly, but with his upper body immobilised the Weyr Healer bent close, a cup in his hand.

C’los was shouting even as he lunged to dash the beaker from Isnan’s grasp. “Faranth, don’t!”

The cup went spinning from the Master Healer’s grasp and shattered on the floor. The smell of fellis juice almost made C’los retch, but he shoved aside the closest journeyman and seized K’ston’s shoulders with both hands, pinning him to the bed with his full weight. “K’ston!” The smell of stale beer and vomit on the blond man’s rumpled tunic was nearly as nauseating as that of the fellis. “K’ston, you scorching son of a whersport!” C’los freed a hand and slapped the bleeding face hard; he felt Isnan’s crafters yank at his shirt, trying to pull him off, but he smacked the dragonless man another dizzying, glancing blow to the face. “If you want Bronth avenged then stay the shell still!”

The combined effort of three Healers dragged C’los back off the bed, but K’ston’s convulsions had ceased. “What the shell…!” Isnan began, but C’los silenced the Master Healer’s outraged questions with a look.

K’ston lay still, panting raggedly, his once-soulful green eyes expressing such agony that C’los couldn’t bear to meet them. He did anyway, his stomach knotting in sympathy. “You have to tell me what happened, K’ston,” he said, in a low voice. “Tell me what happened, we’ll find who did it, and…”

“He’s gone,” K’ston cried, and his wail of loss was as unearthly as any dragon’s keen. “Bronth, Bronth, oh, Faranth, no, no, no! Bronth!”

“C’los, what in Faranth’s name happened?” Isnan muttered urgently in his ear as K’ston began to choke on his own tears again.

C’los didn’t look up from the stricken man. “Someone put fellis juice in Bronth’s water trough.”

“Faranth’s shards!” The Healer’s oath was shocking: C’los had never heard him swear like that before. “Oh, stars above! Not from the tithe… How much, C’los? Shards, how much?”

C’los shook his head. “Half a barrel. I don’t know.”

“Kill me,” K’ston pleaded suddenly, the words muffled but distinct. “Kill me, please, someone kill me, it’s my fault, it’s all my fault!”

“It’s not your fault, shard you! K’ston!”

“I deserved it, but Bronth, why did they have to take you, why did they have to take you?”

C’los grasped K’ston’s arm, his fingers biting into the former rider’s bicep, knowing that the grip would hurt. “You didn’t deserve it! Who would want to kill your dragon, K’ston? Who? Tell me, and I’ll kill him. I swear, I’ll kill him.”

“I didn’t feed him,” K’ston wailed. “I couldn’t stand being there, I couldn’t stand remembering… I thought he’d be all right; he said he’d look after him. He said he would! But I should have stayed with him, I should have stayed! E’rom died because of me, and Bronth died because of me, and it’s my fault! Oh, Bronth, Bronth!” K’ston’s voice rose, becoming hysterical, his words growing less coherent as the enormity of his loss weighed down up his sanity: bending it, cracking it. “Oh, stars, Bronth, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

C’los’ hand was shaken loose as K’ston seized his own head in both hands, ripping at his hair. C’los let Isnan shoulder past him, watching without really seeing as the Master Healer and his journeymen worked to restrain the former blue rider. “I’m going to have to sedate him, C’los, I’m sorry,” Isnan said through gritted teeth as he strove to hold K’ston down.

C’los didn’t protest as a second draught of fellis was forced down K’ston’s throat. C’los let himself be shunted away from the sickbed as the healers bustled around to make the dragonless rider comfortable. K’ston’s words, barely coherent and coloured by the grief and pain that had all but destroyed his mind, had thrown everything into confusion again.

“Green rider.” Isnan pulled C’los aside, leaving his journeymen to curtain off K’ston’s bed. “You say Bronth had fellis?” At C’los grim nod, Isnan continued, “Wouldn’t he have objected to the taste before he had enough to do him any harm?”

“Dragons have hardly any sense of taste,” said C’los. “And Bronth had been dehydrated. He was thirsty.” He paused again, considering something else. “But even half a barrel, to a dragon…Master, would that be enough to kill him?”

Isnan shook his head slowly. “I don’t know, C’los. Fellis is hard on the heart, in humans. I’ve heard of fire-lizards dying from drinking the dregs of fellis-laced wine.”

A detail C’los had noticed about K’ston suddenly became relevant. “He smelled like beer. Had he been drinking?”

“He was found in the privies. I suspect he’d been drinking heavily. He’d been sick, and I think he was probably unconscious when Bronth went between.”

C’los shuddered as the probable explanation dawned on him. “We’re trained to comfort our dragons when they’re hurt or sick,” he said. “They panic easily, and when they panic… Isnan, it’s the same as when a dragon’s mating. If the rider isn’t with them, they’ll go between. Bronth must have started feeling sick. Nauseated. Maybe his hearts started beating irregularly. He reached for K’ston, for reassurance…”

“And K’ston was unconscious,” Isnan completed for him.

“He couldn’t reassure him, and Bronth couldn’t sense him properly. So he panicked…went between.” C’los closed his eyes, and felt for Indioth. She wasn’t far away, and her mind wrapped protectively around his for a moment: an embrace of souls. “If he hadn’t had so much to drink, maybe Bronth wouldn’t have died.”

“That still doesn’t explain who gave him that fellis,” Isnan pointed out.

C’los forced himself to calm, concentrating. “No one’s been on duty in the dragon infirmary full-time tonight. Anybody could have slipped away from the feast, and there wouldn’t have been anyone there to see them put the fellis in Bronth’s trough. Except…Isnan, Sejanth was there! Where’s D’feng?”

The Healer nodded decisively. “Come with me.”

The injured bronze rider had been moved to a small chamber of his own. The sickroom smell pervaded. D’feng was still swathed in heavy bandages, barely able to move, and it took several moments for C’los to realise that he was awake and gazing at him.

“D’feng, we need your help,” Isnan told the bronze rider, in a brisk, unsympathetic tone that C’los felt D’feng would appreciate. Sejanth’s rider had always been a pedantic soul, but he thrived on being made useful.

“What?” D’feng asked, slowly and painfully.

C‘los stepped forwards at Isnan’s prompt. “D’feng, K’ston’s Bronth is dead. Somebody poisoned him with fellis juice. He was in the infirmary. We need to know if Sejanth saw anyone unusual there.”

D’feng took such a long time to answer that C’los wondered if he would at all, but finally the bronze rider croaked a reply. “No one unusual.”

Disappointed, C’los looked at Isnan, shaking his head.

Then D’feng spoke again. “Blood. Bad blood. Not -” he made a garbled attempt to form a word that C’los thought was appropriate, “- choices. Either one.”

“Either one what?” C’los asked intently.

D’feng’s mouth moved without sound for a moment. He closed his eyes, evidently in frustration, and then managed one more word. “Holdbred.”

C’los stared at the crippled bronze rider, willing him to say more, but D’feng appeared exhausted by the effort of speech. Something about that word tickled his memory. “D’feng?” he pressed.

“C’los,” Isnan murmured, and then spoke more loudly. “Thanks for your help, D’feng. It’s good to hear you talking again.”

C’los didn’t resist as the Master Healer led him out of the room, but he was burning with frustration. “Isnan, I nearly had something there,” he complained.

“D’feng hasn’t spoken more than two coherent words together since his accident, C’los,” the Weyr Healer told him quietly. “He’s nearly exhausted himself saying that much. I’m sorry.”

C’los squeezed his eyes shut, summoning his mental focus. He could sense the answer more closely than ever; some instinct told him that he had all the pieces now, if he could only fit them together. “Holdbred,” he muttered to himself. “Holdbred. Holdbred and…hidebound.”

Something shifted minutely in his mind, and he opened his eyes. “I have to go,” he told Isnan, the newly clarified pattern still dancing in his mind. “I just need to check one thing in the archives.”

If the Master Healer replied, C’los didn’t hear him. His pulse racing, he set off at a run.

The deeper corridors of the Weyr were never busy, but with almost the entire population of Madellon still being held in the dining cavern they were utterly deserted. C’los ran, conscious that his time was short, and glad he knew the route to the main archives so well.

The door was never locked. It didn’t need to be: few other than drudges carrying new additions to Madellon’s records frequented the chamber. C’los was one of the few. Campaigning to raise popular support for T’kamen had required a thorough understanding of Weyr politics, and he had spent months studying records of Madellon’s previous Weyrleaders. He knew the layout of the sprawling cavern, with its dozens of dusty shelves and bins, all crammed full of mouldering record hides and stacks of slates. He knew where to find the shelf marked “Weyrlings” and, at one end of it, the smaller subsection labelled “Candidates”.

He ran his finger along the shelf, ignoring the newer indexes. Farther back, where the dust was thicker, faded handwriting labelled the appropriate era. C’los pulled out one folder, scanning down its list of contents before stuffing it back in the row, then chose another. The date, penned neatly at the top, was right and when he read down the list of names below he tensed with the thrill of impending discovery. Propping the folder against a pile of record slates covered in half a century’s accumulation of dust, C’los started to read, squinting in the low light to decipher the tiny writing.

What he read there completed the pattern. C’los made himself read the pertinent entry twice, to be sure that he wasn’t hallucinating. Then he stuck a marker in the right place and closed the folder. As he did, he realised he was trembling. “Got you,” he said aloud, savouring the words almost as much as the victory he could scent would soon be his.

The first few sevendays of a dragonet’s life were predictable down to the last minute. Turns of experience had given L’stev a finely-tuned instinct for knowing when newborn hatchlings would wake, how much they would eat, and when they would collapse into sleep again. After a couple of days he could guess with a good degree of accuracy which dragonets would eat too much and wake up prematurely with indigestion, and which would sleep through without a fuss. By the end of the first sevenday, L’stev was generally able to make a projection of which dragonpairs would give him problems and which would not. A Weyrlingmaster who couldn’t second-guess his weyrlings wouldn’t last five minutes against the inevitable difficult cases, and it certainly didn’t hurt to give the impression that he could read their minds.

Not even he could have predicted the tragedy that had woken the hours-old dragonets out of their first sleep. Dragons died, and sometimes suddenly, but not dragons whose riders were healthy and strong and not even halfway through their forties, and not during a Hatching feast. L’stev didn’t know what had happened – that was for the Weyrleader to investigate – but he did know that twenty-five hatchling dragons had been roused from their sleep by the shocking blow of a dragon’s death.

Rounding up the new weyrlings had been a horrendous job in the crowded dining cavern. He’d been missing about ten by the time he had fought his way to the exit, bellowing for people to make way. Vanzanth had gone straight to the barracks without prompting to reassure the dragonets, but even he could only do so much in the face of so many upset hatchlings whose distress was amplified by their riders’. L’stev had left one of his assistants in charge of locating the stragglers, and herded the rest towards the barracks.

Things had calmed somewhat from the bedlam that had greeted them there, but the fifty youngsters, dragon and human, were still huddling together for mutual comfort and reassurance. Most of the weyrling riders had been all but incapacitated by the emotional impact of the death, felt through a brand-new and still strange bond. Vanzanth had done a certain amount to calm the dragonets, but a gentle touch was crucial at this early stage. L’stev could have asked Shimpath to come down on the hatchlings’ fear, but the queen’s intervention had the potential to do more harm than good. Well: it wasn’t an ideal situation, but the weyrlings would just have to start learning to manage the bond themselves.

He scanned the class, looking for the least shaken of the older weyrlings. As he started to call out names, he realised that he hadn’t even had the chance to find out what all the boys had named themselves. “Harrenar. Gidra. Tarshe. Maris.” He paused, then added, “Rastevon.”

The five answered the summons slowly, each taking time to reassure their dragonets with words and touch. L’stev approved of that, although as their training progressed he would expect the weyrlings to jump at his command. “I need you five to help the others,” he told them in a low voice. “You’re older and you’re handling this shock better. So you’re going to split the class up into five groups of five. I want you each to take a slate and chalk from the pile and make me a list of the names and colours of each dragonet in your group, and the names you boys have chosen for yourselves. It’ll give everyone something else to think about, and that will calm the dragonets. Understand?”

“Yes sir,” Harrenar replied, and the others responded with nods or affirmatives.

“All right.” L’stev raised his voice. “You’re going to get in teams, weyrlings, and I want you all to start finding out about each other now you’re riders. And you’d better be good at listening, because I’m going to be asking questions.”

The five weyrlings he had chosen took the cue to start organising the others into groups. L’stev noted with approval that they had the sense to split up the class with the minimum fuss, gathering the closest into each team rather than their particular friends. A hesitant murmur of conversation soon became more confident as the weyrlings talked about themselves, and their dragonets’ distress eased with the change of subject.

He couldn’t help watching Rastevon’s group more keenly than the others. He didn’t know the name of the sturdy young bronze, dark overall but with a handsome dappling of sunny gold, who had chosen his son. He’d barely had a chance to think about it. He did remember the mixture of delight and trepidation that had filled him when he’d seen his stubborn youngest son Impress. But perhaps it was that very characteristic that was sustaining Rastevon when so many of the other new weyrlings were still in shock. L’stev watched how his boy encouraged one of the girls into talking through her tears. He couldn’t hear what was said, but something fundamental had already changed about Rastevon’s demeanour. A bronze dragon could make or break a young man, perhaps more so than any other colour. A poor choice, or worse, a poor match, could have long-term repercussions for the entire Weyr. L’stev would never forget the sense of dread he had felt almost fifteen Turns ago when an arrogant young Leddrome had Impressed a bronze so burly as to be almost deformed. Madellon was still suffering from the ill luck that had seen Pierdeth Hatch last, with so little choice remaining. But then, a bronze from that very same clutch had transformed a ragged and rebellious Trader lad into one of the most responsible and fair riders L’stev had ever known. In fifteen Turns’ time, L’stev vowed, Rastevon would be more T’kamen than L’dro.

But if there was a member of the class L’stev would be watching even more keenly, it was Tarshe. Any queen weyrling bore close scrutiny, but the girl from the Peninsula had resisted all attempts at analysis in her brief time as a candidate. She had shown little interest in making friends with the other girls, and that would most likely lead to friction as the class settled in. L’stev’s greatest concern was her connection to Sh’zon. Valonna had been ruined as a queen rider by her dependence on L’dro, and Madellon couldn’t afford a second weak weyrwoman. Tarshe was five Turns older than Valonna had been at Impression, and infinitely more self-possessed, but L’stev worried that her overbearing cousin would exert too great an influence on the girl. The obvious solution was for him as Weyrlingmaster to cultivate Tarshe’s broad self-reliant streak, pushing her to take responsibility for her own decisions rather than deferring to Sh’zon, but in practice there was a fine line between independence and insubordination. Manipulating any weyrling was a delicate business, but the rider of a queen much more so than any other.

The tortured shriek of hinges made L’stev turn sharply, attuned to the sound he instinctively associated with misbehaviour, but he soon relaxed. “Sarenya,” he greeted the journeyman Beastcrafter as she entered the barracks through the noisy door.

“Hello, L’stev.” Sarenya made a face. “Sorry about the noise; I forgot about that door.”

“That’s what they all say.” He raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t think they were letting anyone out of the dining hall yet.”

“They’re not,” she told him, looking at the new dragonpairs with the slight tightness of regret around her eyes that L’stev thought was completely unconscious. “It took M’ric and Master Vhion to get me permission, and even then the Wingsecond on the door didn’t want to let me go.”

“I can understand that,” said L’stev, giving her his most lecherous grin as he looked her up and down.

“You’re a dirty old man, L’stev,” Sarenya told him.

L’stev grinned even more. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen your ankles before. Is that your best frock?”

“It’s my only frock. How are your weyrlings?”

“Upset,” he grumbled. “It’s a big shock, for a hatchling. Any news on what happened?”

“Not that I’ve heard, except it seems that K’ston’s still alive.”

L’stev frowned. “Then what in Faranth’s name happened to Bronth? I was guessing that his rider went and choked on something, or tripped up and cracked his head open.”

Sarenya shook her head. “Bronth was in the infirmary when I came off duty there, looking a state. He hadn’t been eating, hadn’t been drinking. But I didn’t think for a moment he’d just up and die. I thought dragons were more robust than that.”

“They are.” L’stev scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Don’t say anything to the kids.”

“I won’t. I’d like to check on Nerbeth, though.”

L’stev nodded towards S’terlion, who was sitting with Maris’ group, his dragonet’s head resting on his knee. “Go ahead.”

The journeyman had a way about her, L’stev thought, as Sarenya crouched to look at Nerbeth’s foot. She seemed casual, but her hands were professionally deft and gentle as she removed the dressing on the green’s hind foot to examine the injured pad, and she kept up a flow of conversation with both S’terlion and Nerbeth that made weyrling and dragonet relax.

Sarenya rose from the green hatchling, smoothing the fine fabric of her dress. “That foot’s more swollen than I’d like,” she told L’stev. “Puncture wounds are prone to infection, so I’d like to flush it out again, but I’ll have to go and get the right solution of redwort.”

“These are going to be asleep again in a few minutes,” L’stev warned her. “I don’t want to be waking her up again.”

“I won’t be long,” Sarenya promised. “I left M’ric looking after my wine, and if I don’t get back to it quickly he’ll drink it.”

“Will he, now,” said L’stev, eyeing her knowingly.

“You’re the third person today who’s made a comment like that,” Saren said indignantly, but there was too much of a glint in her eye for it to be convincing. “I can’t imagine what you’re trying to say.”

L’stev laughed. “Don’t play me the innocent, Sarenya. A brown rider! You of all people should know better.”

“I know,” Sarenya sighed as she turned for the door. “I mean, they’re a shady lot, brown riders. Present company most definitely included.”

He chuckled maliciously as the door hinges shrieked again, then called helpfully, “Mind the door.”

The weyrlings seemed calmer, their dragonets less agitated. L’stev let them talk for a few minutes more. “Right then,” he said finally. “Give me your slates. Let’s see what you’ve learned.”

C’los willed himself to keep his pace steady. There was time. The dragons on the Rim were calm, still, expectant. The Bowl was deserted. The masses hadn’t been released from the dining cavern. T’kamen would be talking to his Wingleaders. There was time, and no need for him to hurry, no need for him to get out of breath. The cold night air was crisp in his lungs; both moons were large and bright; the stars were incandescent. Finally, everything had fallen into place, and T’kamen’s faith in him would be restored.

Instinct was not the only reason for his destination, although it was strong; nor logic, although it was sound. He fixed his gaze on the dimly lit entrance to the dragon infirmary with a piece of Valrov’s wisdom echoing and re-echoing in his mind. The criminal will often revisit the scene of the crime. Both relief and regret had accompanied understanding: relief that, at last, he had made the connection; regret that he had not been able to do so in time to save Bronth. But mostly relief, and satisfaction, and reassurance: a renewed confidence. C’los had begun to doubt himself in a way he never had before. It was no wonder he’d been so hard on C’mine.

He paused in his stride just long enough to inhale deeply before crossing the threshold into the infirmary.

Victory bubbled up inside him. Valrov had been right. The killer was there, drawn back to the scene like iron to a lodestone. He was sweeping the rush-strewn floor. C’los was reminded of the telltale trench in the sand where E’rom had been dragged to his death, the mark that had been partially obscured. Whatever evidence was being covered now no longer mattered. He’d finally tracked E’rom’s killer down.

“C’los.” He looked genuinely surprised - convinced, perhaps, that there was no evidence to point to him. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for someone,” said C’los. Calm had overtaken him; he was glad he hadn’t run. Needing to catch his breath would have been a nuisance. “Maybe you’ve seen him.”

The murderer shook his head, leaning on his broom. “I haven’t seen anyone.”

“Are you sure?” C’los stepped nearer. “Maybe if I describe him to you…you see, I’m looking for a killer.”

The man froze, all his muscles tensing for an instant, before shaking his head with a half smile. “Sorry, green rider? What do you mean?”

“I think you know.” C’los moved closer, slowly circling his quarry as he stalked him with his words. “He killed a man, a while ago. He killed a dragon tonight. Right there, where you’re standing.”

The murderer was still smiling, but the expression hadn’t reached his eyes. “That’s ridiculous. How could anyone kill a dragon?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said C’los. “Maybe…fellis juice? If there were enough, and nearby…” He saw the killer’s eyes slide past him, to the barrel that still stood against the wall. “See, now you’re catching on.”

“You must have been drinking, C’los,” said the murderer, but there wasn’t the confidence in his voice any more. “You’re talking nonsense.”

“Did you really think you’d covered your tracks well enough?” asked C’los. “The first time, at least. Because it didn’t go the way you planned, did it? The fellis wasn’t enough, was it?” His quarry didn’t reply; the smile had drained away altogether now. “Did you plan to kill Bronth, or was that just a bonus?”

“You don’t have any proof,” the killer said hoarsely. “If you had proof, you’d have called me out on it.”

“Actually, it was the motive I was missing,” said C’los, advancing on the murderer. “That’s what took me so long. I just couldn’t understand why… You’ve really been bitter all this time? Harbouring this grudge all these Turns, because K’ston Impressed and you didn’t?” He took the folder he’d brought from the archives from under his arm, and tossed it at the other man’s feet. “It’s all here, if I’d just thought to look for it before.”

The killer stood his ground, shaking his head. “You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about, green rider. You don’t have any idea.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to think about it for yourself,” C’los said triumphantly. “You’ll have plenty of time to do a lot of things on your own when the conclave exiles you – if the Weyrleader doesn’t tear you apart first. If I don’t.”

“I don’t think you’ll be doing that,” said the killer.

C’los opened his mouth to retort, and felt the breath leave his body as if he had been punched in the chest. Stunned, he struggled to grasp the reality of what his intellect, his training, and his instinct had failed utterly to predict. He looked down in disbelief at the handle of the knife that E’rom’s murderer had thrust through his ribs with surgical precision, and just before his legs turned to water he heard Indioth scream.

He crumpled to the floor. Indioth. He clutched at the knife hilt. It was slippery, or his hand was. He couldn’t hold on. He could barely speak his dragon’s name in his mind. “Indioth,” he tried. Blood filled his throat, drowning him. The pain was so shocking he couldn’t feel it.

He could feel Indioth trying to wrap her thoughts around his, trying to hold on to him, but like his hand on the knife handle, she kept losing her grip. C’los, don’t leave me, C’los, C’los, C’LOS! But as her grasp slipped for the last time, so did his.

The breath and the life went out of C’los all at once. He was still trying to say his dragon’s name when he died.

The piercing scream of loss rocked Sarenya back as she stepped into the infirmary. She seized the wall to steady herself, shaking her head as the high shriek from outside was joined by Sejanth’s bass roar, deafening in the confined space.

“Sejanth, what’s -” she began, hurrying forwards to where the grounded bronze had reared from his wallow, spreading his ruined wings to the fullest extent of the cavern.

She was nearly knocked off her feet as someone ran into her at full tilt. Katel staggered back, as surprised as she, but Sarenya’s gaze had already gone to the figure sprawled on the floor behind the Healer, and she was moving before her mind had even grasped the horror of it.

“C’los!” She tripped on her skirt, falling hard to her knees beside the green rider’s supine body. There was blood on his mouth, and the pristine white linen of his new shirt had blossomed wetly crimson. His eyes were wide open, as if in surprise, and a part of Sarenya knew he was gone before she became aware of the dragons’ keen, but she pressed her hand over the ghastly wound in the side of his chest anyway, and grabbed his shoulder, and shook him, as if she could shake the life back into him. “C’los, oh Faranth, Los, what’s been done to you?” She looked over her shoulder, half-blinded by tears. “Katel, you’ve got to help him, please!”

But there was something shining dully in the Healer’s hand, and before Sarenya had registered that it was a knife, the blade was at her throat.

“Katel,” she gasped.

She heard, but did not see, Tarnish burst out of between, screaming with rage. “Send it away!” Katel ordered harshly. Sarenya hesitated for the briefest of instants, and then felt hot blood trickle down her throat as the keen steel bit into her skin. “Send it away or I’ll cut your throat!”

It could have been a bad dream: C’los lying on the floor, the blade nicking the soft skin of Saren’s neck, and Katel… “Go!” Sarenya rasped, willing Tarnish to obey. Go now, go to Agusta! GO!

Tarnish’s shrieks cut off abruptly. Katel relaxed the pressure of the knife at her throat. “Good girl.”

“I don’t -” Saren began, but then the breath choked from her as Katel looped something around her neck and pulled it tight. She scrabbled desperately at the noose, but it was thick leather, a belt, and when Katel eased the tension she gulped raggedly for air.

“Do as you’re told and I won’t kill you,” said Katel. His voice was chillingly matter-of-fact, and he tightened the noose again for a moment, as if to show her how easily he could use it to throttle her.

Sejanth lurched from his bay, bellowing, but the bronze’s injuries slowed him, and his own size impeded him in the cramped quarters. Unmoved, Katel used the belt to jerk Sarenya to her feet, and forced her ahead of him, well out of Sejanth’s range.

Get help, Sarenya pleaded of D’feng’s crippled bronze, hoping he could hear her. Please, get help!

Chapter Twenty-one: Those Dangers Dragon-Braved

T’kamen had assembled his Wingleaders in one of the storerooms not far from the dining cavern. The chamber had been emptied of its normal stock of folding chairs and trestle tables, but the combined personalities of T’kamen’s eleven Wingleaders filled the space to the point of discomfort.

It didn’t help that half of them had been drinking enough to make them belligerent, and that H’ned and P’keo, with their prior knowledge of the situation, were both as sober as T’kamen. Factions had formed before T’kamen had been able to curb them, with Wingleaders on all sides pigeonholed into one or another by the most vocal protesters. F’yan was chief among those. Flushed and sweating, with his sparse strands of hair stuck to his scalp with perspiration, he would have made a ridiculous spectacle had his stance not been so strong. T’kamen had no right, he argued, to conceal a danger from the Weyr. At the very least the Council should have been informed of the facts surrounding E’rom’s death. And to entrust the investigation of something so critical to a green rider…

Several other Wingleaders had spoken up against that bigotry, thank Faranth. T’kamen had let them argue over whether or not riders of the smaller dragons should be given an equal voice to the bronze riders: as an issue it bore scrutiny, but not today. Enough that it undermined F’yan: he was sufficiently outspoken, albeit emboldened by too much wine, to be dangerous. T’kamen had few illusions about the loyalty of his Wingleaders. Few had any great love for him, and none had truly benefited from his policies. Only the reality of a queen’s infrequent mating urges in an Interval guaranteed him any kind of longevity in his position: had they been in the middle of a Pass, with Shimpath rising twice a Turn, T’kamen doubted he would have been suffered to wear the Weyrleader’s stars for more than six months.

Having agreed to keep the knowledge of E’rom’s murder to themselves, H’ned and P’keo were his allies by default. L’mis’ deep frown of concern placed him second only to F’yan of those condemning the deception, but T’kamen never expected L’dro’s father to condone anything he did. A’keret was similarly aligned in the opposing camp, but the second youngest Wingleader, at not quite thirty Turns, seldom made a great impression on the others. E’dor, the youngest, usually took T’kamen’s part, but his opinion carried even less weight. Of the moderate Wingleaders only R’yeno, C’los’ commanding rider, was tentatively supportive of T’kamen’s decision. That left four undecided, and while D’sion and V’stan were notorious for being slow to take sides, T’kamen had hoped for T’gat’s support.

Conspicuous by his reserve was Sh’zon. In this, the first significant assembly of Madellon’s bronze riders since his promotion, T’kamen would have expected the Peninsula man to make his voice heard. Instead, Sh’zon simply listened to all sides of the argument, without displaying so much as a flicker of emotion on his face to suggest where his loyalty lay. It was the last thing T’kamen would have predicted.

The initial debate – whether T’kamen had been justified in keeping the truth under wraps – had long since degenerated into a slanging match between F’yan and P’keo. The ancient enmity between the two most senior Wingleaders was a weakness that T’kamen knew to exploit. While the two bronze riders persisted in disagreeing, the council would be too divided to ever face him down. T’kamen had borrowed the tactic from Fianine, the Weyrwoman before Valonna: an expert at maintaining her own authority by manipulating bronze riders into conflict. But he was painfully conscious that there were still close to a thousand people being politely but firmly confined to the dining hall, and it was only a matter of time before tempers wore thin.

“Enough,” he said, realising as he spoke that his own patience was almost depleted. “You can argue about whether or not to have me staked out for Thread later.” He spoke with heavy irony. “Right now we have a Weyr full of visitors.”

“Well, you have to tell them,” said A’keret. “They’ve a right to know.”

“It’s not an issue of rights,” H’ned disagreed. “It never was and it still isn’t. It’s about how many people are going to panic when they hear the word ‘murderer’, no matter how well it’s explained to them. There are a lot of people out there who’ve had too much to drink.”

“One or two in here, too,” growled P’keo, with a look of barely disguised contempt for F’yan.

“I don’t know how you can even think of maintaining this lie,” F’yan snapped. “How can anyone be expected to protect themselves – or their dragons! – if they don’t even know they’re at risk?”

“I think you’re inflating the situation, F’yan,” said R’yeno. “No one’s going around picking off random victims.”

“Maybe not random,” said L’mis, “but who could be next? One of K’ston’s friends? Family? Does anyone know if he’s fathered any children?”

“If he has, they’re probably still locked in the dining hall with half the rest of southern Pern,” said D’sion.

“And who’s to say the killer isn’t in there with them?” F’yan demanded. “Choosing his next victim? Putting fellis in the drinks?”

The concerned looks that greeted that suggestion were dispersed when Sh’zon muttered, “Couldn’t make ’em taste any worse.”

“I don’t think this man’s out to slaughter half the Weyr,” H’ned insisted.

“How do you know it’s a man?” asked L’mis. “It could just as easily be a woman.”

“Shards, did anyone think of that?”

“How many women do you know strong enough to drag a big man like E’rom all the way out of his weyr and off the ledge?”

“I can think of one or two…”

But T’kamen had already stopped paying attention to the conversation, so attuned to Epherineth that he felt the jolt almost at the same instant as the dragon himself, and long seconds before the bronze cried out, Indioth is no more!

Dragons wailed.

There was a frenzied note to their cry of loss: bewilderment, anger, and most of all a demand for explanation. Why is our sister gone? Who has done this? When will the culprit be made to pay? T’kamen seized his own head with both hands, but inside him shock and fury and anguish combined in a wordless howl that all but drowned out the keen.

Epherineth was abruptly with him, a companion in his grief, muffling T’kamen’s awareness of everything external. He felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach, stunned, the breath knocked out of him by a blow he’d never seen coming. He heard himself thinking it can’t be true, over and over again, but there could be no denial of Epherineth’s horror, or the immediacy of his support.

You have to breathe, T’kamen, the bronze urged him, and only then did he realise that his breath had caught in his chest, a doubled fist of pain, sharp and dull at the same time, as if his heart had been gouged out with something blunt. He breathed, but the constriction in his chest and throat didn’t ease. He felt sick and light-headed and only Epherineth’s iron support kept him on his feet.

“Weyrleader. Weyrleader! T’kamen!”

T’kamen pulled himself together with an enormous effort of will, realising dazedly that H’ned was trying to get his attention over the other Wingleaders. “Take a register,” he said, not really hearing or seeing the other bronze riders. “Account for everyone.”

Shimpath is talking to the others. Grizbath and Ipith too. No dragon may leave. No dragon may lie. Epherineth’s voice was terribly grim.

T’kamen understood that, with the other queens involved, keeping the truth a secret was no longer either possible or necessary. Neither did it matter. The opportunity to take action had been eliminated: now he could only react. And while T’kamen the man was staggered by a tragedy whose full implications he had yet to grasp, T’kamen the Weyrleader had to respond to the escalating crisis.

Is there any word on what happened? he asked Epherineth numbly.

Not yet. Indioth followed her rider.

The depth of sorrow in the bronze’s voice shook T’kamen’s enforced composure. I need something, Epherineth!

Nobody knows yet.

All right. All right. T’kamen made himself focus on the Wingleaders. Surprisingly, they were all still there, looking to him. Even sour F’yan wore a mixture of shock and sympathy on his face. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised: his friendship with C’los was well known. “Go back to the dining hall,” he said to no one in particular. “See if they’ve let anyone out. Reassure them that they’re not in any danger.” He didn’t specify a method. It just didn’t matter any more.

“Are you going to make an announcement?” R’yeno asked in a hushed voice.

“I’m going to find C’los.”

“But you…”

“You have your orders,” T’kamen said with more force.

“You’re not thinking of going on your own, T’kamen,” L’mis said sharply. “Bloody fool thing to do. Do you want to be next?”

Sh’zon spoke up without a pause. “I’ll watch your back, Weyrleader.”

“Fine.” T’kamen didn’t even look at the Peninsula rider. He started towards the door and then hesitated, turning back. “H’ned. Find C’mine.”

H’ned nodded, his jaw tightening.

Sh’zon’s aquiline features were even fiercer than usual, T’kamen noticed dully, as he led the way from the storeroom. The other bronze rider was an oddly comforting presence at his left shoulder, physically imposing, but undemanding in his ignorance. Any other Wingleader would have known that the fallen rider was one of T’kamen’s closest friends. Any other Wingleader would have said something. Sh’zon just paced him through the empty, echoing corridors, solid and serious, and T’kamen was remotely grateful for his company.

He didn’t realise that he was heading for the infirmary until they were there. The part of his brain that made decisions seemed to be functioning better on its own than it would have with conscious thought. The infirmary was the last place T’kamen knew C’los had been. He wasn’t certain he would have remembered that if he’d thought about it. “Master Isnan!”

His shout brought the Master Healer hurrying into the waiting room. “T’kamen, thank Faranth – what under the Red Star is happening?”

“C’los isn’t with you?”

“No, he left about half an hour ago. What’s…” Isnan broke off, staring at him in disbelief, and the colour drained from his face. “Not…not Indioth.”

“Where did he go?” T’kamen asked. He felt strangely abstracted in the face of Isnan’s horror.

“I don’t… The archives. He said he had to check something in the archives.” The Healer shook his head. “T’kamen…”

“Did he say who it is, Isnan?”

“No. But…D’feng said something. Hidebound. That’s what made C’los rush off. T’kamen…”

“Bring what you need,” T’kamen said. “If there’s any chance he’s still alive…”

Isnan hesitated only for a moment before snatching a first aid kit from behind the desk.

It had been a long time since T’kamen had needed to visit the archives. The dimly-lit cavern was extensive, with row upon row of shelves stretching back into the darkness. C’los could be anywhere. “Split up,” he told the others curtly.

Prowling down the aisles, alone for the first time since the dragons’ lament for Indioth, T’kamen had to fight to maintain his control. He knew that if he let himself think he’d lose it entirely. He focused on his anger instead, the seething fury he had long kept confined. It flared as he acknowledged it, white hot in intensity, and he clenched his fists. He wanted to hit something, to hurt something, to vent his wrath on something tangible, to let it out without restraint. It had been a long time since he had allowed his once-violent temper to come to the fore. Epherineth’s presence had always taken the edge off it, but under these circumstances and with the bronze distracted. T’kamen could feel the old rage stirring sluggishly, like something that had long been denied the light but survived in darkness, waiting for an opportunity to emerge. It should have scared him. It would have, had he not already been so cold, so consciously detached from his emotions. Instead, he took comfort from the knowledge that the anger was there, ready to be drawn upon.

A muffled thump made him swivel on the spot, and he dropped automatically into a defensive stance, his eyes gouging the darkness.

“Sorry, sorry!” Isnan apologised from the next row.

No sooner had T’kamen relaxed than Epherineth barked in his head, Go to where Sejanth is.

But C’los…

You’ll find him.

Is he…?

You’ll find him.

It was enough. “Isnan, Sh’zon!”

T’kamen didn’t think as he led the way towards the dragon infirmary at a sprint. He didn’t consult Epherineth. He didn’t speak to either the Master Healer or the Wingleader racing in his wake.

Sejanth had collapsed halfway out of his wallow, his tattered wings splayed to either side. His head lay on the ground, and his eyes were slits as he wheezed for breath, but he bared his teeth in a snarl at them. The feebleness of the dragon’s challenge would have been poignant, but T’kamen had already seen what lay beyond D’feng’s crippled bronze.

C’los was dead. T’kamen knew it before Isnan rushed past him, before the Healer felt for a pulse in the fallen green rider’s throat, before he looked up and shook his head with the hope dying in his eyes. He looked at his friend’s body, strangely unmoved, as if his mind and his emotions had been disconnected.

“Weyrleader.”

Sh’zon had stooped to pick up a folder lying on the floor nearby. Still crouching, he handed it to T’kamen. It fell open in his hands, and he moved his eyes to the tight lines of script on the marked page.

Seventh Interval, sixty-ninth Turn, eleventh month, twentieth day

The clutch can’t be more than ten days off Hatching hardness. I’m certain now that the smallest isn’t viable, although L’mis won’t hear of it. It’s just as well, though: one less dragonet is one less to choose a rider from this sorry lot.

I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a less likely crew. Sirannis and Larpay won’t quit scuffling no matter how many times I put them on latrine duties together. I’m certain Pyrea’s behind it. If they’d just settle down and share the girl it wouldn’t matter, but sense seems to be beyond them. And Faranth help us all if she Impresses. It would help if there were more girls in the group, but of the five Pyrea’s like a queen among watchwhers – it’s no wonder the lads are fighting over her.

Heromar seems to be perfecting his role as a victim. Dorfeng – sneak that the boy is – reported the incident to me. It seems Kaston and Katel were taunting him about that blue rider friend of his again. It’s his own fault – he should know better than to flaunt his inclinations around Holdbreds. That said, those two are as nasty a piece of work as I’ve known in my days. And it’s the younger, not the elder, who’s the worse of the pair. The bigoted little sod – if we weren’t so short of candidates this time, I’d pack Katel straight off back to Jessaf – and if the rider lost him between on the way, so much the better.

It clicked in T’kamen’s mind, as it must have in C’los’, and with a hideous jolt in his stomach he realised what he’d done. “Katel.”

Isnan looked up, but whatever he said was lost on T’kamen. As if in a daze, he turned his head to look at Sejanth. The bronze was breathing hard, his eyes filmed grey. “Sejanth, was it Katel?”

T’kamen felt Epherineth pick up the image from his mind. The next instant Sejanth reared, almost striking his head on the ceiling in his agitation, his snarl reverberating against the rock, and T’kamen didn’t need Epherineth to translate. Him! Yes! Yes! Him!

“But he’s a Healer,” Isnan breathed, his face a mask of disbelief.

T’kamen felt sick. He had sent Katel here himself to relieve the distraught Zafandrie following Bronth’s death. Find him, Epherineth. I don’t care how. T’kamen stepped closer to D’feng’s bronze, ignoring the dragon’s hostile stance. “Where did he go, Sejanth?”

Took her.

Hearing another dragon’s voice was always disconcerting. “Took who?”

Took her.

“Fire-lizards,” Sh’zon muttered.

T’kamen wheeled on the other bronze rider. “What?”

“The woman with the fire-lizards,” said Sh’zon. “Kawanth says…” His eyes suddenly snapped into focus. “T’kamen! That’s who he’s taken! What was her name – M’ric’s friend – Sarenya.”

T’kamen felt himself go cold, as if a bucket of ice had been poured over him. Epherineth, occupied as he was, sensed the change, and was there for him. Her lizards, T’kamen said numbly. Find out…

They’re with Trebruth. He’s been trying to make himself heard. His rider is being held. He tried to leave the dining hall.

I need him here now.

Epherineth paused. He’s coming.

Call F’halig and T’rello, too. He hesitated over L’stev for a moment, then discounted him; the weyrlings’ need was greater.

M’ric arrived first. He must have come from the dining cavern at a dead run, although he wasn’t out of breath, but he looked dishevelled, as if he had been involved in a struggle. With a pang of something that might have been jealousy, T’kamen recognised the bronze fire-lizard clinging to M’ric’s left shoulder, counterpart to the queen on his right. “Flame it, T’kamen! Trebruth’s been trying to get your bronze’s attention for the last quarter of an hour!”

“So have half the dragons in the Weyr.” It was easier to focus on his dislike of the brown rider than on C’los’ still corpse. “What happened?”

“Saren’s been taken. They wouldn’t let me out of the dining hall.” M’ric was bristling with fury.

Scepticism crept through into T’kamen’s tone. “And she sent her lizard to you?”

M’ric’s eyes flashed. “Do you think I’d make this up?”

T’kamen ignored the demand and looked at the queen fire-lizard. He felt his hands curl into fists. “Is she still in the Weyr?”

“I don’t think so. They can go to her, but Trebruth thinks she’s been blindfolded. She doesn’t know where she is.”

“Then find out,” T’kamen snapped. “You’re the one with the lizards.”

M’ric’s expression hardened, but he lifted Tarnish off his shoulder, holding the agitated fire-lizard’s head still as he spoke through his dragon. T’kamen stared at M’ric, given an immediate focus for his anger. The brown rider was taller than him by a couple of inches, and broader in the shoulders, but T’kamen was younger by six or eight Turns, and when he was angry size and strength didn’t matter.

“Dear Faranth, T’kamen – this is how you run your Weyr?”

T’kamen turned on his heel. Weyrleader H’pold had stepped into the infirmary, and in the half-light the expression on his face was a sneer. Behind him, his Weyrwoman, Rallai, looked pale and drawn. “How did you get out of the dining cavern?”

“Your riders might not understand the meaning of discipline, but their dragons still know how to obey a queen,” H’pold replied, with contempt. He raked the scene with a glance, his eyes lingering briefly on Sejanth, and at more length on the still, bloody form of the green rider. “What’s happened here?”

“I don’t have time for this,” said T’kamen, and to his surprise, at the same moment, Sh’zon growled, “None of your business.”

H’pold’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the big blond Wingleader, and T’kamen could hardly fail to notice the enmity that sparked when the two riders locked glares. “I see you’re in the thick of this, Sh’zon.”

Sh’zon took a step towards him. “You’re not welcome here, H’pold.”

H’pold snorted with derision, but he didn’t look away from Kawanth’s rider as he addressed T’kamen. “If it’s a killer you’re after, you need look no further. Sh’zon has the form.”

“That’s a lie!” Sh’zon snarled.

“You’d be an expert in lies!” H’pold taunted the bigger bronze rider. “Don’t think you’ll get away with what you’ve done!”

“I haven’t done anything!”

“Liar! Oath-breaker!”

“You filthy snake!”

“Sh’zon, don’t!”

Rallai’s plea went unheard: Sh’zon rushed the Peninsula Weyrleader. H’pold barely sidestepped in time to evade the brunt of the bigger rider’s charge, taking a glancing buffet that sent him reeling. Outside, dragons roared in protest. Before he knew what he was doing, T’kamen had seized the collar of Sh’zon’s coat and was dragging him off H’pold. He shoved the blond rider away and then stepped between the two. “Not here, shard it! Not now!”

Blood trickled from H’pold’s nose. He wiped his face with the back of one hand, looked at the smear of crimson, and bared his teeth in a grimace of triumph. “See, T’kamen? What kind of a man attacks another dragonrider?”

“Dragonrider?” Sh’zon shouted in contempt.

“Shut up, both of you!” T’kamen was almost beyond anger. He raked both Peninsula men with a glare that made H’pold shrink back a little, and Sh’zon pale. “This is my Weyr! If you want to fight, you’ll sharding well do it somewhere else!”

Silence reigned for a moment. Even Sejanth’s harsh breathing seemed to have quietened. Isnan, crouching over C’los’ body, didn’t move. M’ric’s eyes were still distant with the effort of communicating with dragon and fire-lizards. Rallai, standing behind H’pold, was looking at Sh’zon with hopeless eyes.

“Sh’zon,” T’kamen snapped.

“I never killed anyone, and I never broke an oath!”

“Liar,” H’pold spat.

“You…!”

“Be silent!” T’kamen glared at H’pold. “You! What are you talking about?”

“Why do you think I wanted him out of my Weyr?” H’pold blotted the blood that was still flowing from his nose on the sleeve of his expensive tunic. “All of his family are tried and convicted murderers! Wiped out a neighbouring cothold over a land dispute. All of them, right down to the babes! You must have heard about it!”

“That’s not –” Sh’zon cut himself off, evidently making an effort to control his temper, but his eyes were dreadful.

It was too much for T’kamen. The very last thing he needed was the continuation of what was obviously a long and bitter feud when he had a definite murderer at large at Madellon. It struck him suddenly, with a sense of horror, that unlike C’los and K’ston, the dragons wouldn’t know if anything had happened to Sarenya. “Weyrwoman, control your Weyrleader,” he snapped at Rallai, and then to Sh’zon, “Help the Master Healer. I’ll deal with this later. M’ric, report!”

The fire-lizards had vanished, but M’ric’s expression was still intent, his eyes fixed on some distant point. “They’ve left the Weyr,” he said, after a pause. “Somewhere to the north.”

“On foot?”

“Runnerbeast. Saren keeps telling Tarnish to keep his distance.”

“Is she hurt?” T’kamen dreaded the answer. Epherineth, can you talk to her?

Not from here.

“Tarnish isn’t sure. He thinks she’s more afraid than hurt. He thinks.” M’ric’s voice shook with scarcely concealed emotion.

T’kamen hesitated, then asked, “Can your dragon reach her?”

“Only through her bronze.”

“Then tell her help’s coming. Tell her I’m coming.”

T’rello raced into the infirmary, followed shortly by a puffing F’halig. “Weyrleader!” The Wingsecond’s youth was painfully evident as he laid eyes on C’los, but he gulped and continued. “We got here as soon as we could. C’mine’s…oh, Faranth, C’mine’s in a state.”

“He can wait,” T’kamen said, and hated himself. “Our killer’s Katel. He’s taken Sarenya as a hostage and headed north out of the Weyr on runnerback.”

“North, T’kamen?” F’halig asked. “Then they could be anywhere in the passes and we won’t be able to find them.”

“We’ll find them,” he grated. “We’ll fly a standard search pattern, Epherineth, Santinoth, and Valth. You can…”

“Weyrleader, you’ll cover more ground more quickly with me and Kawanth in the air,” said Sh’zon.

T’kamen hesitated over the decision for a split-second, then nodded. “Then…”

“And Trebruth and me,” said M’ric.

“No.” The negative was out before T’kamen could stop it. “You stay here, keep in contact with the fire-lizards.”

“I can do that better from the air,” the brown rider said obstinately.

“I said no!”

“T’kamen, take him.” It was Rallai. The Peninsula Weyrwoman stepped forwards. “M’ric’s a rescue rider, didn’t you know?”

H’pold looked up from his bloody nose. “We were sorry to lose him,” he admitted grudgingly.

T’kamen was almost disappointed. He’d wanted M’ric to be involved in the same controversy as Sh’zon. It would have given him a rational reason to dislike the brown rider. “All right. No more wasting time. They’ve already had half an hour to lose themselves in that terrain. Standard pattern, and keep the dragons talking to each other.”

He couldn’t bear to stand around any longer: not to speak to Isnan, not to get rid of H’pold, not even to look at C’los’ body again. T’kamen needed to act. Outside, the three bronze and two brown dragons were landing in a broad semi-circle. Their orange-flecked eyes glowed, and moonlight almost as bright as day from the twin satellites shone on their hides. Epherineth lowered his head to T’kamen without saying a word. He wore no harness, but T’kamen didn’t remember having any trouble mounting by the time he had braced himself between the bronze neck ridges. His black and silver dress tunic did little to keep out the chill breeze, but T’kamen barely felt it, and there was no time to spare on finding a jacket. Of the others, Sh’zon was wearing his omnipresent long coat, but T’rello and F’halig wore only their best tunics, and M’ric was in shirt-sleeves. Trebruth, though, had his own riding harness; it took his rider a matter of moments to rig the fighting straps, but T’kamen resented the delay anyway.

Let’s go, he told Epherineth when all were mounted, trusting to the bronze to pass the command on, and not bothering to make the arm signal.

The five dragons sprang almost in the same instant, but T’kamen couldn’t help noticing that Trebruth, all the colour leached from his dark hide by the brilliant white moonlight, was first aloft. The ostentation chafed nerves already strung taut, and T’kamen bared his teeth. He smacked Epherineth’s neck, and took some satisfaction from the contrast in size once the bronze had reached the same altitude. Epherineth’s wingspan was twice that of M’ric’s dragon. Trebruth was scarcely the size of a large green. In the company of four much bigger dragons, he was ridiculous.

No dragon is ridiculous, Epherineth said sharply, glancing back over his shoulder with a baleful amber eye. Trebruth and his rider are helping.

The reprimand stung T’kamen, and he clenched a fist on his thigh. North, Epherineth, he said shortly. Be watchful. They can’t have gone far.

Taking point, the bronze veered north. His wings beat a steady course through the night sky, and T’kamen leaned closer against his neck, turning his head aside and blinking his watering eyes. Flying goggles would have helped, but even against the brightly moon-washed landscape, their quarry would be difficult to see. A dragon’s eyes were better equipped for the distance, so T’kamen shared the use of Epherineth’s sight. The ground raced by below, but landmarks stood out more clearly through the bronze’s sharp eyes. They soon left the Weyr’s plateau, with its roughly fenced pastures and herds of grazing beasts, behind. Crisscrossing trails snaked north-south on the slopes, pale against the darker rock, curving to bypass sheer outcrops in the mountainous terrain. Scrubby grass and gravel paths gave way to barren rock and dust tracks, and always the ground sloped away, dropping gently in some places, sharply in others. It was perilous terrain for low-flying, but more perilous still on foot for anyone unaccustomed to the switchbacks and scarp slopes, and near lethal in the dark. T’kamen thanked Faranth for the strong light of Belior and Timor , but as they skimmed just above the treacherous passes he steeled himself for the sight of fallen runnerbeasts.

Trebruth says this is as far as they could have come, Epherineth reported. Then, as if anticipating T’kamen’s opposition, he added, Valth agrees. We’ll expand the search east and west.

Against the night sky, T’kamen saw the dark forms of Valth and Santinoth peel off in one direction, Kawanth and Trebruth in the other. Go west, he told Epherineth.

The bronze obeyed. One of the others called to him softly, and he arrayed himself with them in a broad triangular formation designed to cover the maximum ground.

The lizards say we’re getting close. There was an edge of excitement in Epherineth’s voice.

T’kamen renewed his scrutiny of the ground, ignoring the tears being dashed from his eyes and the numbness that had set into his face from the icy wind. Can you reach Saren?

No. I’m sorry.

Shard it, Epherineth!

The bronze descended abruptly. Sorry, Epherineth apologised. Have to keep up.

But T’kamen was less concerned about the rapid dive than he was with the reason for it. North-west of the Weyr, the land that had surged up in some impossible distant past to form the range of mountains and ancient volcanoes in which dragonriders had founded Madellon was as dramatic as in any part of Pern. To the south and east the lofty peaks descended gradually into smaller mounts and then rolling foothills, but the western face of the range was all cliffs and ravines. If the fire-lizards were correct, it was into this most hazardous of regions that Katel had taken Sarenya. Gliding back south, and with his eyes adjusting now to the darkness, T’kamen saw the looming form of Madellon ahead, crouching atop its plateau like a watchdragon, and understood the route Katel had chosen. On runnerback the gallop across the high pastures would have taken mere minutes, but once amongst the scree slopes and vertical drops of that ghastly face of the mountains, only someone with knowledge of the scanty trails trodden faintly by too few feet would have a chance of survival. And if Katel’s ultimate route was the one T’kamen feared, then neither runner nor dragon could pass, and on foot a hundred men could take a Turn to explore every gully, every crevice of the rock, and still never find them.

Trebruth roared, his voice darker and deeper than T’kamen would have expected from such a small beast, and Epherineth swung his head around. There.

T’kamen grasped the forward neck ridge with one hand to secure himself as Epherineth lost altitude rapidly. Only a dragon could have discerned the dun-coloured runnerbeast from the surrounding rock in no more than moonlight. But even as Epherineth came in to land, Trebruth and Kawanth following suit, T’kamen could see that the runner was wandering riderless.

He slid from Epherineth’s neck as soon as the bronze was down. The runnerbeast didn’t seem unduly concerned by the presence of the dragons, and did not so much as sidle away as T’kamen approached. T’kamen took hold of its bridle and felt for the ear tattoo that confirmed his suspicion: this was one of Madellon’s phlegmatic beasts: surefooted, stoutly built, and accustomed to the perils of the mountain trails.

“They’re on foot?” Sh’zon asked, striding near, a looming black-cloaked form in the shadow of rocky spires.

T’kamen nodded curtly. “Down there.”

The two Peninsula riders looked in the direction he indicated. Sh’zon swore; M’ric said nothing, but T’kamen understood both reactions. He had flown over here, at a cautious altitude, many times in the last dozen Turns. He knew from the air the terrain that was passable only on foot, and then barely.

Millennia ago, a stream had worn the narrowest of paths down through the layered rock. The water had long since dried up, but the gap remained, slicing almost vertically through the cliff for dragonlengths before levelling out into the narrow chasm that a larger river had carved through the landscape.

That chasm was infamous. It was one of the most striking gorges of its kind in Madellon territory, a jagged rip in the fabric of the lands that fronted the Weyr. Weyrlings learned it as a between reference because the bluer-than-blue of the river that still flowed from an underground source along its length, and the banded colours of rock in the sheer cliffs, from a crimson that was nearly black through rusty orange to tawny amber and finally pale gold, were not duplicated anywhere else on Pern. But dragonriders also knew the canyon for the deathtrap it was. Decades before even T’kamen’s time, a weyrling pair, misjudging the span of the gorge, had flown too low. Fouling his wingtips on the unforgiving cliffs, the young blue had lost control and crashed to a dreadful death on the savage rocks the lined the bottom of the canyon. The account L’stev had related to every weyrling classes since was sufficiently graphic that no one had ever taken a chance over the landmark again. But T’kamen remembered discussing it with the veteran brown rider when they had been assigned a sweep over the region some Turns back. “A green could probably make it,” he said aloud, remembering what L’stev had said. “But a green has more sense.”

Sh’zon and M’ric looked at him. Then the brown rider turned and walked back towards his dragon.

“Brown rider!”

“Your bronze is too big, Weyrleader.” There was no sneer in M’ric’s voice, merely a matter-of-factness that was almost chilling.

“M’ric!” T’kamen seized the older rider’s shoulder, pulling him around to face him. “It’s dark and you don’t know how dangerous this canyon is! Shard it, man, I don’t like you, but I don’t want to lose another dragon tonight!”

“This is what Trebruth does, T’kamen.” He shrugged away T’kamen’s hand without bravado. “This is what we do.”

“It’s suicide!”

“Weyrleader.” Sh’zon approached, leading the runnerbeast, and extended his hand. The darkness on it could only be blood.

T’kamen touched the runner’s neck and felt stickiness matting its mane. There was no way to tell whose blood it was.

“Trust him,” Sh’zon urged. “Trebruth knows what he’s about.”

The moments seemed to stretch out into infinity as T’kamen struggled with the conflicting factors: his dislike of the brown rider, his fear for Sarenya, the danger of what M’ric was proposing. In the end it was the anger that had barely been dulled by the bitter cold that made the decision for him. He wouldn’t let Katel escape. “All right,” he said at last. “But I’m coming with you.”

M’ric froze for an instant, as if he were about to object. Then he nodded. “You wearing a belt?”

“I don’t need harness,” T’kamen said stubbornly.

“You will.” The brown rider didn’t even use his dragon’s leg up to mount, vaulting up by main strength alone, but he secured his riding straps with extreme care. “Come on up.”

Bestriding another dragon’s neck after so many long Turns as Epherineth’s rider felt unnatural. Trebruth’s much smaller proportions and darker hide were the least of the differences; most unnerving was the absence of rapport with the dragon beneath him. T’kamen was always in tune with everything Epherineth did. Feeling Trebruth’s unpredictable shifts and movements was discomfiting. He sensed his bronze’s anxiety, and reassured him. I’d rather it were you.

I know. The gorge is dangerous. I’m telling Trebruth what we know about it.

T’kamen might have protested at the heavy safety strap M’ric wrapped around his waist had he not been concentrating on his own dragon. It seemed excessive. But then, without warning, Trebruth surged skywards with a powerful vertical leap. T’kamen’s head snapped back, and he swore viciously. It was of little consolation to him that M’ric, at least, had not slammed back. T’kamen hated being crammed onto another dragon’s neck, hated the indignity of the extra safety strap securing him in place. He was blind and helpless, no more than a passenger, but he couldn’t complain. He had wanted to come.

But Trebruth was barely two wingbeats airborne when he folded his wings back, darted forwards, and plunged over the edge of the cliff in an impossibly tight arc. Thrown back against the brown’s aft neckridge, T’kamen found himself looking directly at the rock-strewn bottom of the gorge. Trebruth had launched himself into a headlong dive, his body stretched taut at right angles to the ground that was rushing up to meet him with terrifying speed. T’kamen grabbed for Epherineth, his pride forgotten in the ghastly sight of the fang-like rocks that would rend the brown dragon and both his riders to shreds on impact.

T’kamen would never know how Trebruth managed to pull out of that dive. The brown barely extended his wings - mindful, perhaps, of the proximity of the rock walls flashing by threateningly on either side - then folded them again to skim less than half a dragonlength above the bottom of the ravine. T’kamen was suddenly grateful for his limited human vision. He didn’t want to see how closely M’ric’s dragon was judging his flight.

Then he recalled the topology of the ravine, how it bent abruptly west. Warn him!

It was hard to know if Trebruth reacted in response to Epherineth or simply to his own perceptions. The brown banked sharply left, and T’kamen felt the safety strap pull tight. Some instinct made him turn his head to the right, and although it was disconcerting to see the sky, the massive shapes of two dragons that could only be Epherineth and Kawanth, hovering higher, calmed him.

In brilliant moonlight Trebruth levelled off, but no sooner had he done so than twin streaks of bronze and gold flashed past T’kamen’s ear. He didn’t need a translation for the lizards’ screams, just as he didn’t need M’ric to turn and bellow, “Get ready!” as Trebruth checked his forward momentum, dipping so that his outstretched hind paws almost grazed the ground. He felt the impact through the brown’s lithe body, and then Trebruth skidded to a landing amidst a massive cloud of dust, his talons gouging furrows into the hard ground as he fought to halt his slide before he reached the sheer river bank.

T’kamen ripped off the flying strap and scrambled off Trebruth’s neck. Dust obscured everything, but the moons seemed to blaze down with renewed brilliance, and through the haze he could see what Trebruth had struck; two figures, struggling to rise.

He approached, but before he was close enough to identify either, he heard a choking sound, and then a hoarse voice warned, “Come any nearer and I’ll kill her.”

As the dust thinned, the sincerity of the threat became apparent. The renegade Healer had something pulled tight around Sarenya’s neck. Saren was scratching feebly at the noose that was cutting off her breath, but when T’kamen took an instinctive half step forward, Katel just hauled the stricture tighter. “I said back off!”

M’ric erupted from the dust cloud at a sprint. Startled, Katel fumbled for his knife. But the brown rider’s rush was a feint; tearing Katel’s end of the noose from the murderer’s hand, he grabbed Sarenya around the waist, yanking her away from her captor and pulling her to the ground, to safety.

With screams of fury, Agusta and Tarnish descended on Katel, talons flashing. The Healer’s fist was an ineffectual defence against their attack, but then his hand closed around his knife. His first slash elicited a mortal scream from one of the lizards - T’kamen couldn’t tell which - but both broke off their attack. Katel clutched at the scratches on his face, but the knife-blade in his other hand, already stained with blood, now dripped green ichor as well.

“Put it down,” T’kamen commanded.

Katel should have been afraid. He was a Healer by training, and a cowardly killer, choosing only the unaware or the unarmed. But the gaze that fell upon T’kamen burned in the silvery moonlight, and Katel stepped forwards with a smile or a snarl on his lips. “Make me.”

“What do you think you can achieve, Katel? There’s nothing you can do.”

“Isn’t there? How about I kill you, Weyrleader. Dragonriders bleed just like other men.” He raised the blade as if it were a trophy.

T’kamen saw the dark stain of blood, C’los’ blood, and the black fury began to rise in him. “Put the knife down and you get to live a while,” he rasped.

“A while?” Katel mocked. “Is that the best you can offer?”

“You can’t fight two of us and a dragon!”

“I’ve killed two of you and a dragon,” Katel jeered. “And you have more to lose than me.”

For a moment T’kamen couldn’t see past his own rage. “I can still take your life!”

“Come and get it!”

As Katel moved forwards to engage, T’kamen reached for his own knife, but his hand closed on empty air. He swore when he saw that the sheath on his belt was empty. Katel’s eyes were deadly, and his teeth were bare in a grin; he had already noticed the missing blade.

Then C’los’ killer was on him. T’kamen seized his wrist with both hands, fighting to keep the knife away. Katel’s left hand went for his throat. T’kamen brought his knee up, missing his intended target, but catching Katel in the gut. He folded, but as he toppled he dragged T’kamen with him. They fell to the stony ground, still grappling for control of the knife. T’kamen dug his fingers into the tendons of Katel’s wrist, trying to force his hand open, but Katel gouged at his eyes with stiffened fingertips, and T’kamen flinched away with a cry.

Over and over they rolled, first one, then the other gaining the upper hand, but the blade was still clutched tight in Katel’s fist, as if welded to it. He was older than T’kamen and not so physically fit, but there was a resilience to his build that T’kamen found hard to match. The visceral reserves of adrenaline that had been sustaining him through the last few difficult months could only go so far. And the knife made him afraid, not just for his own life, but for Epherineth’s.

His groping fingers closed on a rock, and he smashed it into Katel’s hand. The murderer howled in pain, and the blade flew from his suddenly limp and bloody grasp. T’kamen grabbed for it, but the knife was out of the range of his outstretched arm. Katel slithered away while he was overextended. T’kamen scrambled to his feet.

They faced each other across a ten foot gap, the abrupt drop to the turbulent waters of the river less than half that distance to T’kamen’s left. Trebruth and M’ric and Sarenya were somewhere behind T’kamen; he knew he wouldn’t be able to rely on them, even if he’d wanted their help. He and Katel were both breathing hard, both throwing covert glances at the knife that lay in the dust between them. Katel made as if to lunge for it; T’kamen moved to block. Both fell back. Katel, T’kamen guessed, was more cautious now that the knife was out of play; for himself, he doubted his own stamina. “Why’d you do it, Katel?” he asked, playing for time to get his breath back. “Why’d you kill E’rom?”

“For Kaston,” Katel replied, as if there could be no more obvious answer. “For his sake.”

It was the last answer T’kamen could have expected, so improbable, so illogical, and yet spoken as if its rationale was self-evident. “What?”

Katel shook his head slowly. “Because he’s my brother, and I love him.”

“You killed his dragon!”

“It was for his own good!” Katel’s eyes glittered with anger, with hatred. “It was the dragon that changed him – turned him. I should have realised it sooner. E’rom needn’t have died.”

“Died?” T’kamen demanded. “You killed him!”

“Hardly! He’d been drugging himself for months. He was bound to have made a mistake with it sooner or later. And when I saw how he was with Kasto – when I realised that he was still as misguided as I remembered – it made it so easy to plan how to get rid of him.”

T’kamen felt nauseated by the absence of anything approaching remorse in the Healer’s voice. “The fellis didn’t work,” he grated.

Irritation crossed Katel’s face. “I underestimated the tolerance he’d built up,” he admitted. “I switched the fellisbane. Without that, the straight fellis Kasto prepared should have stopped E’rom’s heart. Oh, it put him on the ground fast enough, but I knew Sigith hadn’t gone between. It would have been so much simpler if he’d just died then.”

T’kamen swallowed back the bile in his throat. “K’ston thought he overdosed his own weyrmate. You let your brother believe he’d killed the man he loved.”

“Loved?” Katel made a disgusted sound. “It stopped him asking questions. And answering them. I didn’t think there’d be much speculation about how a drunk had fallen from his weyr ledge.”

“You know he didn’t fall,” T’kamen snarled.

Katel laughed shortly. “He did, once I let go of him. But by that point I’d already cleared up the trail. The dragons were screaming as I left; the laundry women never saw me. That should have been the end of it. I knew questions were being asked; Kasto said that he’d been interviewed, but it hardly seemed as if the matter was being given the attention of anyone senior. And then –” Katel’s lip curled, as if the very thought revolted him, “– I found that he’d taken up with the man who’d been sniffing around asking about E’rom.”

T’kamen didn’t trust himself to speak; his hands were curled so tightly into fists that his fingernails were digging into his palms. The strength of fury was welling up in him again, but he had to listen as Katel went on.

“I’d been trying to treat the symptoms, not the cause. E’rom wasn’t the reason for the way Kasto was; he was a result of it. It finally dawned on me that Bronth was the root of it. Bronth was the corrupting influence. I could have disposed of C’los – I had the opportunity – but it wouldn’t have cured Kasto. It was his filthy dragon that had made him sick. But I couldn’t have contrived a more helpful set of circumstances than those you provided for me tonight, Weyrleader. Did you know that K’ston hadn’t been home to Jessaf in nearly thirty Turns? Did you know why? Do you think our parents would have welcomed him back there ever again after the first time he visited them with Bronth?”

“Because he was a blue rider?”

“Because he was disgusting! And he flaunted it, taking his friends with him, parading how the Weyr had changed him! Oh, it had changed him, all right. And I’m only glad that I didn’t Impress, and went back home before the Weyr got to me, in time to be sure that I’d never become like him.”

A cold shudder went down T’kamen’s spine; a memory, more than fifteen Turns old, of hearing how Cairmine had been thrashed by one of his peers over the summer, his body bruised by fists, his ribs cracked with kicks. A memory of finding out who had done it, and confronting him, and demanding to know why, and hearing, “To beat it out of him, before it’s too late.” Taskamen had done some beating of his own that winter, just before the Search dragons had come to Kellad, but he had never forgotten the conviction in Ogharn’s voice when he had explained that he had issued the pounding to Cairmine for his own good. And for an instant, just an instant, T’kamen pitied the young Katel, for what he must have suffered at his parents’ hands to be sure that he would never become like his older blue rider brother.

“I’d been racking my brains, trying to think of a way to get rid of the dragon,” Katel went on. “But it all came together so beautifully tonight. Them coming back from Jessaf in such a state – Vhion insisting that Bronth stay in the infirmary overnight to recover – and, oh, best of all, the fellis delivery. If I hadn’t known from sitting in with the candidates that fellis is toxic to dragons, if I hadn’t known that dragons can’t taste, I wouldn’t even have considered it. I only had to wait until Bronth was asleep, and then fill his trough. I didn’t know how much it would take.”

“You must have known that we’d trace it back to you eventually,” T’kamen said hoarsely.

Katel shrugged. “So you found me. It doesn’t matter anymore. I told you, I did it for Kasto. He’ll be all right now.”

“He won’t be all right,” T’kamen said, hearing his own voice tremble with fury. “You killed his dragon.”

“He’ll get over it.”

With an enormous effort, T’kamen controlled himself long enough to ask, “Then why did you kill C’los?”

“Because he irritated me.”

Wrath flooded through T’kamen in a boiling tide, and he charged Katel with an incoherent roar. Katel threw himself aside, rolled, and came up with the knife in his hand again. T’kamen barely recovered his balance in time to sway back from a vicious lateral slash, and then the flurry of cuts that followed. A thin streak of pain across his collarbone was lost in the blossoming agony of a slash that parted fabric, skin, and flesh over his ribs, and as scalding blood flowed down his side T’kamen heard and felt Epherineth’s scream of outrage.

“T’kamen! Catch!”

M’ric’s shout was all the warning T’kamen had for the dark shape spinning towards him. Somehow he twisted and seized it from the air. His fingers closed on the familiar shape of a belt knife. He yanked it from its sheath. The leather-wrapped hilt nestled into his hand as if it belonged there; the blade was burnished not with the blood of man and dragonkin, but with a tawny sheen of oil on an edge freshly honed. T’kamen turned Katel’s next slice and punched the Healer left-handed in the sternum, driving the breath from him. He aimed a kick at his ankle and then hooked the other leg out from under him, but Katel had a fistful of his tunic. They hit the ground again, each with a knife this time, each grappling to disarm the other. Katel scooped up gravel, flinging it in T’kamen’s face, but he shook it away. He seized Katel’s knife hand and pounded it against the ground until he let go, then set M’ric’s blade against the killer’s throat, and everything stilled.

T’kamen crouched over the man who had murdered C’los with a snarl hurting his face, and recognised the fear that had dawned in the Healer’s eyes. “One reason,” he rasped. “One reason why I shouldn’t cut your murdering throat.”

Katel gargled in panic as the knife pressed too hard. “You’re the Weyrleader,” he choked. “You won’t do it.”

He has a point, some small, sane corner of T’kamen’s mind mused.

He’s unarmed, after all.

Unarmed.

He threw the knife away. Katel went limp with relief.

Then, gently, T’kamen wrapped his hands around the Healer’s throat. Katel’s eyes bulged, first in shock, and then in panic, but T’kamen couldn’t see his face. He could only think of C’los, dead on the floor; C’los, lying in a pool of his own blood; C’los, gone forever. The anger and frustration of the last hundred days and more were behind him: he had moved beyond them, into an absolute and emotionless calm.

T’kamen!

The voice was distant, faint. It made T’kamen curious, but he was still thinking about C’los, and how he would miss him.

You have to stop!

It was insistent, even desperate. T’kamen wondered where it was coming from. There was only him and Katel, and Katel was in no position to be speaking.

T’kamen! Stop! Now!

And suddenly the calm evaporated as Epherineth’s mind ripped T’kamen back to reality. He released his strangling grip and Katel gulped raggedly for air. His face was grotesquely contorted, the colour sapped from it. The red haze faded from T’kamen’s eyes. He could feel Epherineth again: confused, afraid, relieved. He pushed himself to his feet, suddenly exhausted. The gouge in his side throbbed steadily. He raised his eyes to the sky, feeling the sweat cool to ice on his face.

M’ric and Sarenya approached. Saren’s dress was torn and dusty; there was blood on her hands, and a cruel welt encircled her throat. She was leaning heavily on M’ric. T’kamen looked away, heartsick.

“Kamen!”

At Sarenya’s cry, he spun to see Katel charge him at a staggering crouch. T’kamen threw himself aside, but Katel’s momentum was implacable, and the bank was close.

As Katel went over the brink, he lunged for purchase. Impossibly, one bloody hand caught in a crevice of the rock; his other arm flailed, and he hooked his elbow up over the edge, hugging the sheer stone close. But that last desperate grab seemed to have taken the last of his strength, and Katel hung there, his feet scrabbling frantically for a hold.

T’kamen looked down at the man hanging over the precipitous bank, and Katel raised his head. There was no remorse in his eyes; only the last vestiges of his grim determination to preserve his own skin. It would have been easy for T’kamen to reach down and haul the murderous Healer to safety. To justice. To exile.

But he didn’t.

Katel’s grip, slick with blood, slipped. He fumbled for a hold, tearing his hands on the rock face, and then he fell.

It seemed to take a long time. T’kamen watched as Katel plunged impossibly slowly towards the foaming surface of the rapids. He saw the last hope of survival vanish from the Healer’s face, and then Katel hit the water. An arm resurfaced briefly, and then it was swept away.

T’kamen picked himself up. He stood looking at the patch of water where Katel had disappeared, not moving, resisting being moved, until Epherineth called him back.

I didn’t kill him, Epherineth.

I know.

But I wanted to.

Epherineth’s voice was filled with a terrible compassion. I know.

Epilogue: The Blackest Night Must End In Dawn

A pale, wintry sun crept reluctantly over the Rim of the Weyr, spilling watery light into the Bowl and washing out what little brightness Madellon had to offer. Frost still silvered the grass and the thinnest rime of ice clung to the sheltered edges of the lake. A fitful breeze made small stones rattle along the ground, and picked up dust in its chill embrace, carrying it a little distance before dying away. Winter was coming to Madellon – slowly, inexorably – and it would not be ignored.

The crunch of footfalls on the frozen grass should have alerted Sarenya but, lost in her thoughts, she wasn’t aware of M’ric’s approach until he had stepped over the bench to sit beside her. He didn’t quite smile, and he didn’t touch her, but he rested his forearm on his thigh with his hand upturned. Sarenya took it after a moment, and M’ric enfolded her fingers lightly in his. He had seldom been farther than a dozen paces away in the last two days, shadowing her from a slight remove that made his presence reassuring rather than intrusive. He seemed to know instinctively when more distance was needed. Or less.

Sarenya shook her head slightly, an unconscious motion to flip back the long locks of hair that kept falling forwards into her face. No one had commented on the uncharacteristic style, and M’ric, certainly, knew why she had been leaving her hair loose. The unruliness was only mildly irritating.

“The weyrlings will have it hard, so close to winter.”

Sarenya followed M’ric’s gaze to where the new riders were half leading, half coaxing their dragonets towards the water: the most visible proof that life had to go on. Near the back, L’stev walked with Leah and Jagunth. Carleah, Saren corrected herself. C’los’ daughter was adamant that she should be known by the full name she had once disdained. She walked close to her dragonet, the green’s head pressed against her side, under her arm. Sarenya couldn’t see her expression. She didn’t need to. “Better to get it out the way while they’re small, perhaps.”

They watched the weyrlings for a time without speaking. Most of the dragonets seemed to have forgotten the tragedies of two days ago already: they gambolled with the carefree energy universal to all young animals. Even the queen was playful, splashing her clutchmates in the shallows of the lake. The weyrling riders kept a cautious distance, understandably reluctant to join in.

Sarenya suddenly heard herself speak. “I didn’t like him, you know.”

M’ric’s fingers tightened fractionally on her hand, but he didn’t say anything. Saren was glad. Spoken aloud, the sentiment sounded cruel, and she wasn’t sure she could have borne M’ric’s reproof. That his opinion mattered so much was only one of the things that had changed in recent days.

“I don’t think he liked me much, either,” she went on. “He always had to have the last word, and sometimes I didn’t let him. I can’t remember ever having a conversation with him that wasn’t an argument, or at least a chance to score points.”

M’ric still didn’t reply. Saren shot him a sideways glance, to reassure herself that he was listening. The look he returned was compassionate and alert and wholly undemanding.

“And the way he took C’mine for granted always sat wrong with me,” she continued. “He just walked all over him. He could be incredibly selfish. And he always had to be right. Even when he obviously wasn’t, he’d keep arguing until you got fed up trying to retort. As if he had something to prove. Shard it! If he hadn’t had to be such a shaffing smart-ass, maybe he wouldn’t have gone and got himself…”

She stopped, and then said, more quietly, “Got himself killed. Faranth, M’ric, I didn’t like him, but he didn’t deserve to die. He didn’t deserve to be killed by that murdering piece of filth.”

M’ric reached around and took the hand with which Sarenya realised she had been rubbing the abrasion that encircled her throat. “Don’t do that.”

But Sarenya could still feel the mark, just as she could still feel the fear it represented, a reminder almost as awful as C’los’ death of her own mortality. Isnan had assured her that the welt would heal and fade to nothing, but Saren knew she would always feel it there. The confidence she had built up over the Turns, the self-reliance so crucial for a woman making her way in a male-dominated field, had been rattled by her abduction. Katel had been a colleague: she had worked with him, trusted him, even if she’d never counted him as a friend. Sarenya had always thought herself capable, resilient, but that had been proved a conceit. The memory of the ghastly blind ride across Madellon’s plateau, then the descent into the gorge, with Katel’s belt wrapped around her neck, C’los’ blood drying on her hands, and the torn and filthy ruins of her Gather-best dress tangling her legs, would never leave her. Nor would the knowledge that, in her fear and shock, her only recourse had been to call for help.

Tarnish hadn’t come back. Sarenya had heard and felt him scream, but she didn’t know what had happened to him after that. Agusta, when she had returned to M’ric, hadn’t offered an explanation. Saren still hoped that her faithful bronze was licking his wounds somewhere and would return when he was ready, but something told her he wouldn’t. His loss paled in comparison to C’los’ death, but Sarenya mourned her loyal fire-lizard. Tarnish had contributed to her rescue as surely as T’kamen and M’ric: her champion, her companion.

“I’m glad T’kamen didn’t save him.” It was the first time she had spoken of the circumstances of Katel’s death, and her own vehement approval of T’kamen’s methods shocked her.

After a long moment, M’ric said, “I would have done the same, in his place.”

His voice carried the odd note of finality that indicated he would say no more on the subject. The steel in M’ric was well hidden by his disarming manner and self-deprecating charm, but no less central to his personality. Sarenya seldom liked being told what to think, but she knew he was right. They would not speak of Katel’s death again: not to each other, not to T’kamen, and certainly not to anyone else. No one who had not been there could have understood why the Weyrleader had done as he had.

But T’kamen’s actions had frightened Sarenya, too, on a subtler, more insidious level than Katel’s overt malice. The man who had attacked C’los’ murderer so savagely was not the rider Sarenya had loved and lost and loved again. The T’kamen she knew was fierce but not violent, angry but not brutal, and violence and brutality had been the least disquieting of the characteristics he had manifested during that awful struggle. In the eight Turns Sarenya had known the bronze rider, even at the height of their first estrangement, she had never believed him capable of killing a man, however deserving. The T’kamen she knew had a dragonrider’s hands, a lover’s hands, an occasional musician’s hands. The T’kamen she knew was controlled intensity. But those hands had nearly choked the life from a man, and the intensity had been anything but controlled. It hadn’t been difficult to avoid the Weyrleader since, and though Sarenya was ashamed to admit it, even to herself, she was glad.

M’ric looked up; a moment later, the wind of wingbeats overhead accompanied Trebruth. The brown folded his wings tight to his back and plunged into the deepest part of the lake with his normal flamboyance and barely a ripple. Sarenya watched as he surfaced and arched clear of the water before splashing back in to chest-depth. She didn’t laugh, as she once might have. She owed too much to Trebruth’s skill and daring.

Sarenya hadn’t let herself think about what could have happened if M’ric and Trebruth hadn’t transferred to Madellon. But she was aware, however peripherally, of the rumours surrounding Sh’zon and the new queen weyrling, and she couldn’t help wondering. “M’ric, why did you leave the Peninsula ?”

He frowned, and Saren wondered if she had stepped over an invisible line on territory she had never broken. But the expression seemed directed internally rather than at her, and there was sadness rather than reproach in his voice when he spoke. “I would have anyway, sooner or later, but once H’pold made the deal to exchange Sh’zon for L’dro, there wasn’t much point in me staying any longer. I was only staying for Sh’zon’s sake, anyway.” He paused. “My daughter would have been finishing weyrling training about now. Ten months ago, her dragon lost control over the southern Peninsula ranges.”

Sarenya gripped his hand more tightly.

“It happens sometimes,” M’ric continued in the same quiet, even, but terribly sad voice. “It’s one of the risks we all accept when we choose to stand for Impression. Temmal was old enough to make the decision for herself.” He hesitated again, then said slowly, “Her mother died the same way when Tem was four. Overflying her dragon.”

“Oh, M’ric.”

“I’d spent all those Turns being reminded of Artema every time I turned around,” he went on, as if determined not to let himself dwell on it. “I couldn’t stay there.”

“Why didn’t you leave straight away?” Sarenya asked.

M’ric raised his shoulders in a shrug. “Sh’zon. It would have undone Turns of hard work for me to abandon him then. I said I’d stay until Ipith rose. But then H’pold found out about his family’s exile, and that was all the leverage it took to get the other senior riders to force through the exchange with L’dro. Conveniently for H’pold. So when Sh’zon was ordered to Madellon, I came too.”

The alacrity with which he moved the conversation on reinforced Sarenya’s understanding of him: M’ric never actually refused to answer a question, but he always replied on his own terms, and reserved the right to change the subject, or redirect the original query, as rapidly as possible. He didn’t let himself wallow. It was an enviable trait.

Trebruth emerged from the lake some distance down the bank, shaking himself, but his normal exuberance was not in evidence as he raised his head to the sky, the speed of his eyes decreasing. Sarenya recognised the change in his demeanour, and shivered from more than the cold. “It’s time, isn’t it?”

M’ric nodded. “We should go.”

With a muffled curse, H’nar recoiled from his dragon. “Don’t do that, Ell!”

Ellendunth jerked back apologetically. I’m sorry, I’m sorry! What did I do?

The young bronze’s affectionate nuzzle would have been endearing but for the fact that he had just waded, dripping, from the freezing shallows of the lake. H’nar gritted his teeth as icy water seeped through his trousers, leaving an embarrassing damp patch. He tugged his shirt down to hide it and scratched under his dragon’s chin to soothe him. “You’re just cold and wet, that’s all.” Then, because Ellendunth was still drooping with chagrin, H’nar sighed and hugged the dragonet’s head to his chest, screwing up his face as lake water soaked his shirt, too. “It doesn’t matter. Really, it doesn’t.”

And it didn’t, as the still new and indescribable glow of Ellendunth’s love washed over him, warming H’nar in a way that no amount of water could cool. It still brought a lump to his throat to think that such a marvellous dragon had chosen him. Misty eyes had been common amongst the weyrlings in the scant two days since their dragons had Hatched.

“Come on now, Ell,” he said, releasing Ellendunth’s upturned head. “We need to get you oiled, and then you can have a sleep.”

The bronze dragonet was quite steady on his feet now and needed no assistance to sustain his somewhat awkward loping gait, although his tail still dragged until he remembered to hold it up. H’nar walked with him to the buckets of oil they had brought from the barracks. About half of the other weyrlings were already there, and he led Ellendunth to where M’rany was tending his blue.

The blue rider grinned at him over Rementh’s back. H’nar returned the grin as he reached for the brush sticking out of the closest oil bucket. M’rany had smiled more in the brief time since the Hatching than he had in the entire period of his candidacy. Rementh seemed to have lifted the sadness M’rany had carried with him over the death of his wife and child. H’nar was certain that he’d never forget the ones he had lost, nor ever stop mourning them in his heart, but his permanent melancholy had evaporated in the instant of the blue dragonet’s choice.

Ellendunth squirmed as H’nar began to apply oil to him with the broad brush. His most recent meal had visibly distended his belly, and the resultant stretching of his hide was making him twitch. H’nar coated the bronze’s underside first, feeling Ellendunth’s relief as well as hearing his sigh, and admired the handsome green-gold sheen that was intensified by the gloss.

There was little conversation as the twenty-five weyrlings attended to their dragons. The riders spoke to their dragonets more often than to each other, but even vocal communication was limited. H’nar knew why, although he was careful not to dwell on it, for fear of distressing Ellendunth. The entire Weyr was subdued: even the weyrlings, isolated as they were from the rest of the community, could feel it. The Weyrlingmaster had spoken to them about the events that had followed the Hatching – only briefly, but there was more than enough horror in the sparse details he had provided. H’nar preferred not to think about it at all. L’stev had emphasised that the affair was none of their concern, and no longer anything for them to worry about, and H’nar agreed. But twenty-four of the weyrlings could neither ignore the existence of the twenty-fifth nor be dumb to her anguish. Carleah moved woodenly through the motions of caring for her green, not neglecting Jagunth, but barely conscious of anything else. H’nar couldn’t imagine how it must feel to gain a dragon and lose a beloved father within the space of an evening. L’stev lurked around her protectively, but the other weyrlings were keeping a discreet distance between themselves and Carleah. Whether they were afraid of saying something to hurt her, or if her presence simply made them uncomfortable, H’nar didn’t know, but he felt a little ashamed of himself for doing the same.

One other weyrling stood apart from the others, for quite different reasons. Tarshe seemed as unconcerned by being snubbed as she ever had before Impression, but to H’nar’s eyes, at least, there was something lonely about the Peninsula girl’s ostentatious indifference. He supposed that any queen weyrling would feel a certain remoteness from the others – H’nar, at least, had two other bronze riders in the class to gauge himself against. Some of the girls who had eventually Impressed greens were still resentful of the one who had Impressed the golden hatchling they had coveted, although none of them would have swapped their greens for Berzunth. But it was the gossip that had filtered down to the segregated weyrlings that was really making them wary of the new queen weyrling. Tarshe had not said a word, and neither had L’stev, but everyone had heard whispers of the horrible crimes her father had committed and the subsequent exile of the entire family.

H’nar finished coating Ellendunth with oil and came to a decision. The little bronze was beginning to sag with weariness. “Can you still walk, Ell?”

I’m tired, he said piteously.

“I know, but it’s not far, really. Just as far as Tarshe there.”

Ellendunth broke into a reluctant walk, dragging his feet. By the time he flopped down next to Berzunth he was visibly exhausted.

“Taking pity on the outcast, eh, muck boy?” asked Tarshe, without rancour.

“You’re not an outcast,” said H’nar. “Everyone’s just wrapped up in their dragons.”

“Of course,” she replied, with heavy irony. But there could be no doubt, from the way she rested a tanned hand lightly on her queen’s pale neck, that she was as enthralled as any of them.

H’nar cast about for something to say. “I never had a chance to tell you…I liked your dress, at the feast.”

Tarshe laughed shortly. “Sh’zon’s idea. And paid for in blood, if you believe all the rumours. Babies’ blood.”

“I don’t believe the gossip.”

“You should,” she said coolly. “I might murder you in your sleep.”

“You’re not going to murder me in my sleep.”

“How do you know?”

“I just… Well, are you?”

Tarshe looked at him, and then slowly shook her head, almost smiling. “Probably not.”

H’nar relaxed, glad he’d broken through her stubborn façade. “What I mean is that we’re all weyrlings, now. What’s in the past is in the past. We’re not the same people we were three days ago, not any of us.”

“Perhaps you have a point,” Tarshe conceded.

“You two.”

The low growl belonged to L’stev. The Weyrlingmaster approached wearing his normal suspicious frown, but then he always seemed to suspect that something untoward was happening. “Think you can get this lot back to the barracks without tripping over yourselves or breaking something?”

“Yes sir,” H’nar replied automatically.

L’stev looked at Tarshe. “And you, weyrling?”

“Yes, sir,” Tarshe said slowly.

“Get the dragonets bedded down, and then you can all start tidying up the mess you’ve made the last two days. I don’t want to hear that there’s been any fooling about while I’m gone.”

“Excuse me, sir, but where are you going?” asked H’nar.

The old brown rider’s expression was briefly tinged with genuine pain. “I’ll be with Carleah, weyrling. Go on now.”

“You’re right,” Tarshe said quietly as L’stev walked away.

“Am I?” asked H’nar.

“We’re not who we were three days ago.” Tarshe looked at Carleah. The green weyrling made a forlorn sight: her shoulders slumped, all the characteristic energy sapped from her body. “And some of us more so than others.”

Valonna finished the last entry in the Hatching register, double-checking it with the scroll she had received from L’stev, and set the volume carefully aside to let the ink dry. She could see her next task from the corner of her eye, but her gaze lingered for a long moment on the document she had just completed.

With a sigh, she reached for the bulky black-bound volume that she had taken from its shelf with such a heavy heart. The Madellon death record had been created at the founding of the Weyr, almost a century ago, of hide cured and treated to withstand the passage of decades. Valonna turned to the page with the black ribbon that marked the most recent entries, and looked at her own handwriting.

In the five Turns since she had been Weyrwoman, Valonna had recorded perhaps three dozen deaths. Of those, most had been elderly Weyrfolk, gone to their deserved rest at the proper time. Fewer than one in three were dragonriders. And yet with the fifth month of this Turn barely begun, three dragonpairs were already no more. First E’rom and Sigith, then K’ston’s Bronth, and now the partnership Valonna so dreaded placing down on the page. She looked at the notes T’kamen had given her, then took up her pen, dipped the nib in ink, and bent over the stiff page to write.

Deceased this Ninth Day of the Fifth Month of the Ninety-Ninth Turn in the Seventh Interval: a Green Rider, C’los, rider of Indioth. Born Carellos of the Harperhall on 67.06.21. Impressed 85.05.01 of the Second Clutch Hatched of golden Cherganth and bronze Staamath. Father of a Green Weyrling, Carleah, rider of Jagunth. Beloved weyrmate of a Blue Rider, C’mine, rider of Darshanth.

His Murder at the hands of Katel, a journeyman Healer; with a knife to the Heart.

Below it, she wrote:

Deceased this Ninth Day of the Fifth Month of the Ninety-Ninth Turn in the Seventh Interval: a journeyman Healer, Katel. Appointed to the Staff of Weyr Master Isnan 99.01.13. His Professional Rank and all Privileges Revoked by order of Masterhealer Barraky 99.05.10.

The Foul Murderer of a Brown Rider, E’rom, and his Sigith; a Blue Dragon, Bronth, once beloved of K’ston; and a Green Rider, C’los, and his Indioth.

His Death in flight from Justice, by Water.

Valonna read back over the entries, and then noticed how the pen trembled in her hand. She placed the tool hastily in its stand before ink dripped onto the page, and then she was forced to wipe her eyes, to prevent tears from doing the same. The words blurred, and she looked away, fumbling for a handkerchief in the pocket of her sober grey skirt.

“Here.”

She looked up. The cloth T’kamen offered was square and white but otherwise unadorned: a man’s handkerchief. Valonna took it gratefully, dabbing at her eyes. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

T’kamen leaned over to look at the records Valonna had been amending. He nodded slowly, apparently approving. “If you’re finished here, it’s time for us to go.”

“Yes, let me just…” The ink on the Hatching register was dry. Valonna closed the book and put it on the shelf above the desk in the Archive office reserved for current records. The death record would have to be left a little longer. She looked around, but there was nothing else to be done.

“Keep it,” T’kamen said, when Valonna offered the handkerchief back to him. “I have others.”

Valonna couldn’t imagine the Weyrleader ever needing a handkerchief himself. The countenance that was normally so fierce and grim just seemed tired, sad. There was a dullness in his eyes that spoke of his grief more eloquently than tears. She wrapped her fingers around the cloth. “Thank you.”

As she walked beside him towards the Bowl, Valonna noticed that the bronze rider was wearing all his insignia. T’kamen seldom displayed more than his knots, or his epaulettes if he was wearing his flying jacket, but the full regalia of shoulder cords, silver stars, and Weyr badge would leave no observer in any doubt of his status. They made up for his faded everyday clothes; the black and silver finery he had worn at the Hatching had been ruined in his struggle with C’los’ killer. In addition, he wore a scarf tied around his left arm, green to honour the fallen rider. Valonna wore a green scarf, too, and had chosen one of her best gowns, but the muted hue reflected the mood of the occasion.

Valonna herself had made the arrangements for C’los’ funeral, directing a team of staff from the lower caverns to set up chairs and benches for the mourners expected to attend. But the number of people who had assembled out there on that chill autumnal morning took her aback. Seating had been provided for a hundred, but every place was taken, and twice that number again stood to both sides and at the back. Riders and Weyrfolk alike, dressed in their sombre finest with green scarves or armbands, sat and stood shoulder to shoulder, all hierarchies forgotten.

Near the front, Valonna recognised some of C’los’ closest friends. The young bronze rider T’rello sat with two other Wingseconds. H’ned was seated beside Master Isnan, and in the next row, R’yeno sat among what looked to be the whole of C’los’ Wing. For all of C’los’ politics, it seemed that half the bronze riders in the Weyr were there – not only R’hren and Fr’ton, who had put their support behind the green rider’s campaign for T’kamen, but Wingleaders like T’gat and E’dor whose privileges had been reduced following T’kamen’s accession.

Half of the very front row remained unoccupied, and T’kamen led Valonna to the reserved seats there. Farther along, shesaw Sarenya with the Peninsula brown rider M’ric who had been her constant companion since her abduction. She nodded to the Beastcrafter but did not smile. The Weyrleader took the chair on the very end.

We’re all here, Valonna.

The Rim was lined with dragons. They stood quite still, sentinels to the gravity of the event: at least half of Madellon’s complement, and probably more. Shimpath and Epherineth watched from the Star Stones, as silent and still as the others.

The sound of multiple pipes silenced the subdued murmur of conversation. All eyes turned towards the Lower Caverns, and everyone who had been sitting, stood.

Four bearers carried the casket on their shoulders, walking in step to the slow, sad tempo of the pipes. The banner draped over the coffin was of Madellon indigo, edged with green, and like all the other mourners, the bearers wore armbands to honour the fallen.

C’mine and Carleah walked side by side behind the coffin. Both wore black and green; both stared at the ground with reddened eyes, as though they couldn’t bear to look anywhere else. Valonna felt her own eyes fill, and she used T’kamen’s handkerchief to blot her tears. Behind them, L’stev walked with Robyn, Leah’s mother. The Weyr Singer, Jenavally, completed the procession, playing the poignantly simple air on her pipes.

The bearers lowered the coffin to the bier and straightened the flag of Madellon where it hung down almost to the ground. One of them directed C’mine and Leah gently to the seats beside Valonna. Robyn and L’stev took the last two chairs in the front row, and prompted by them, everybody else sat down. Valonna put her hand helplessly on C’mine’s arm, but the blue rider was beyond comfort. The scars on his face only heightened his agonised expression, and his shoulders sagged with grief. Valonna had been one of the first to reach him after the impact of his weyrmate’s death had swept Madellon. She would never forget the look that had been frozen on his face.

As Jenavally’s music ceased, and the Weyr Singer quietly took her seat, T’kamen rose from his. In silence, the Weyrleader walked to the lectern that had been placed beside the bier. He looked out at nearly three hundred people, and when he spoke his voice carried without seeming to increase in volume.

“Thank you for coming.”

T’kamen paused for such a long moment that Valonna began to wonder if he would speak again, if he had been choked by his grief. But the Weyrleader lifted his head slightly, as if to remind himself of his responsibility, and at last he went on.

“C’los was a man of extremes, and he only provoked the strongest emotions in the people who knew him: love, hate, exasperation. He was many things to many people. A beloved weyrmate, a proud father, a valued friend. In every way that matters, he was my brother.”

T’kamen took a deep breath, and as he gazed across the assembled riders and Weyrfolk Valonna wondered if the Weyrleader even saw them.

“Carellos was born nearly thirty-two Turns ago, at the Harperhall in Kellad. He never became an apprentice, and never wanted to, but that didn’t stop him getting into trouble, and he was still in single figures when he started dragging his first reluctant accomplices into his schemes. Cairmine was from one of Kellad’s forest holds, but when his family moved to the Hold proper he and Carellos became friends immediately. It wasn’t long after when the Frankon trader train began to make its regular winter overstays at Kellad, and that was when I became associated with them both. Carellos was very sharp, and he always seemed to know the latest news before everyone else. His love of gossip – another passion of which he never tired – frequently landed him into trouble, but as often as not he could talk himself out of it again.

“His friendship with Cairmine had always been very strong, but it developed into much more over the Turns. Their path was often rocky – the Hold is not the Weyr – and it didn’t stop Carellos fathering his daughter, Carleah. But it was during Carellos’ seventeenth winter when a Search Wing from Madellon Weyr arrived at Kellad.

“Carellos was chosen, as were Cairmine and I. At Madellon, Carellos and Cairmine didn’t have to hide how they felt. Their love – and they were always in love, even though they didn’t know it to start with – was accepted in a way it could never have been at Kellad.”

The briefest twitch of emotion betrayed T’kamen’s composure, and his gaze slid in C’mine’s direction for an instant before he went on. “Impressing a green didn’t slow C’los down for a moment. He refused to know his place and never accepted that a green rider couldn’t influence the way the Weyr worked. As during his childhood, his outspoken tendencies frequently saw him in trouble, but C’los shrugged off punishment duties as if they didn’t exist. He made many friends, and not a few rivals, but he always managed to make time for the three most important parts of his life – Indioth, C’mine, and Leah.

“C’los was instrumental in the recent change of Weyrleader, proving wrong everyone who ever said that a green rider can’t be influential. His hard work and support were unstinting. But it was his intelligence and intuition that came to the fore when I asked him to investigate the suspicious circumstances of Wingsecond E’rom’s death. It was that sharp mind that helped him untangle the mystery. And it was his selfless courage that led to his death.

“He shouldn’t have died.” Now T’kamen’s voice was shaking as he fought visibly to maintain his poise, and Valonna’s heart went out to her Weyrleader, to the man who seemed so hard and cold. “But his death was not in vain. C’los lost his life in service to the Weyr. He died nobly. His absence will be felt, by his family, by his friends, and by his rivals. His loss diminishes us all. But perhaps it will remind us of the conviction that drove him throughout his life: that anyone, no matter their position, no matter their humble origins, can make a difference. A green rider has no less heart than a bronze rider, and no man is greater than another, save through his own bold actions. C’los’ heart, and his boldness, put all of us to shame. His sacrifice will not be forgotten.”

Valonna could barely see to know if there were tears in T’kamen’s eyes, but the Weyrleader’s voice had grown hoarse towards the end of his eulogy. She dried her eyes on the bronze rider’s handkerchief, aware that many others around her were using similar items, or their sleeves, to do the same. There were tears rolling down C’mine’s face as he hugged Carleah to him with one arm. The young green rider sobbed into his shoulder.

T’kamen looked up at the sky with tortured eyes, and his last words were barely audible. “Go to Indioth, Los.”

The massive shadow of a dragon swooped low over the mourners. Epherineth had launched himself from the Rim, skimming low across the Bowl. The bronze plucked the banner-draped casket from the bier and vanished.

The cry that swelled from the assembled dragons was not the keen they raised for the loss of one of their own kind. They honoured C’los not as one of their own but as a man worthy of their respect, a man whose loss would not soon be forgotten.

Long after Epherineth had reappeared with empty forepaws, long after the gathering had dispersed, the low requiem for C’los hung in the air, a final lament as he returned between to his dragon.

T’kamen looked at the spirits that barely covered the bottom of his cup to half an inch, thinking of how good it would feel to get drunk, to be insensible, to forget about the burdens that seemed determined to grind him into the ground, even if only for a short time.

He couldn’t – not in any sense. Even if he could have brought himself to behave so irresponsibly, there just wasn’t enough alcohol left in the Weyr. What remained from the Hatching feast was barely enough to give everyone who had attended C’los’ send-off a drink to toast him on his way.

He was bone-tired in every possible way: physically weary, mentally exhausted, emotionally spent. Everywhere he looked in the dining hall reminded him of one issue or another. A cluster of three Wingleaders – T’gat, R’yeno, and E’dor – made him worry that his senior riders were conspiring against him. After the events of Hatching day they would have been justified in mounting a serious opposition to his leadership, and H’pold of the Peninsula had made it very clear that he would back any action to remove T’kamen from power.

L’stev made him think of the weyrlings, especially Leah, whose grief would surely be affecting her young green. Their hunger still concerned him the most. The Madellon Lords, Winstone in particular, had not been amused by the drama the Weyr had provided in addition to Hatching and feast. It was only a mercy that they didn’t know that K’ston and T’fer had been assigned watch positions while under suspicion. T’fer remained at his post, as did the green rider at Blue Shale. T’kamen had despatched another rider to Jessaf as a replacement for K’ston. But he worried that the Lords would reach a consensus against him, too, and renege on the tithe agreement he had so painfully negotiated. The dragonets themselves were rays of light in the gloom, but they represented a severe drain on the Weyr’s resources.

And then, not for the first time, or the last, it hit him like a fist in the gut. C’los was gone. The brilliant thinker who had masterminded a campaign to gather half the Weyr behind a disgraced bronze rider with few allies; the insufferable know-it-all who had been irritating T’kamen for two-thirds of his life; the friend who had always been the first to leap to his defence and the last to concede defeat, was gone. He had died unarmed and alone, and the responsibility was a leaden weight on T’kamen’s shoulders. Never again would C’los offer his incisive opinion, never again be first with the latest news and rumours, never again aggravate T’kamen with his smug self-satisfaction and loud mouth. One of the cornerstones of T’kamen’s life had been destroyed and he felt its absence keenly.

But as devastated as he was by C’los’ death, T’kamen knew his grief could not compare to C’mine’s. The two riders had been friends for more than twenty Turns and lovers for twelve, and that alone would have been enough to bring C’mine to his knees, but the reality of C’los’ indiscretion exacerbated the pain the blue rider must be suffering. Reconciliation would never be possible. C’mine could forgive C’los in his heart, but he would never now have the chance to do so to his face.

Master Isnan had been keeping K’ston sedated since Bronth’s death. T’kamen’s orders regarding the former blue rider reflected less compassion than pragmatism. He would ultimately have to talk to the dragonless man about his future, especially if K’ston desired an end to his existence without Bronth. For now, though, T’kamen didn’t have the time, and keeping the wretched K’ston insensible was the only humane option.

T’kamen downed the liquor in one convulsive gulp. It seared down his throat to his stomach and smouldered there, but he needed the fortification. Putting the empty cup down, he crossed the hall to join C’mine.

The blue rider looked terrible. His eyes were red and darkly circled from lack of sleep; someone had made him change his clothes for the funeral, but by the shadow on his face and the unkemptness of his normally neat beard and moustache, he had taken no other interest in his appearance. The unassuming serenity that was his normal demeanour hung in tatters around him. He made a pathetic sight, and T’kamen wasn’t surprised that few of the people standing around the dining cavern, talking quietly, had approached him. Jenavally was with him, and T’kamen made a mental note to thank her and the rest of the handful of riders who had made it their business to see that he was not left alone.

But the Weyr Singer understood and acknowledged the look T’kamen gave her, and she gently released C’mine’s hand, professing the need to go and get another drink. T’kamen nodded his thanks to her as she passed, and slowly lowered himself into the chair she had just vacated.

“I’m sorry, Mine.”

The blue rider raised his head to look at T’kamen with bloodshot, haunted eyes. “I know.”

T’kamen couldn’t think of anything else to say. Nothing could offer the blue rider any comfort. Nothing could divert his mind from the truth. Nothing could bring C’los back.

“Thank you,” C’mine said suddenly.

T’kamen looked at him.

“For this. He would have liked this. He would have liked the attention.”

“He would have been horrified at the quality of the drink.”

“He liked to be liked. But he’d rather be hated than ignored. He loved irritating people. He loved irritating you.” The blue rider fell silent for a long moment. “I can’t imagine life without him, Kamen.”

It was a long time before T’kamen could bring himself to answer. He stared bleakly into the middle-distance, conscious of the people all around, and that he was more alone than ever. In these most difficult times, insignia or no insignia, his status absolutely separated him from those he led.

“Neither can I,” he replied, at length.

They sat in a silence that could not be called companionable, isolated by their grief, even from each other.

T’kamen was just thinking that he would need to have Epherineth keep an eye on Darshanth, now that the immediate furore surrounding C’los’ murder and Katel’s death had abated, when C’mine spoke. “Kamen, do something for me.”

“Of course,” he said immediately. “Anything.”

“Talk to Saren.”

T’kamen felt himself tense reflexively before the request had even fully registered. “Mine, that doesn’t matter right now.”

C’mine abruptly grabbed T’kamen’s shoulder, an almost convulsive grip, and looked at him with complete conviction through the misery. “It matters. If you’d lost her, without making things right…”

He didn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t need to. Instead he said, with dulled urgency, “Talk to her now. Don’t put it off.”

T’kamen cast a covert glance across the room. M’ric was standing with Sarenya, not quite hovering, but a protective presence nonetheless. He couldn’t pretend it didn’t bother him, but he hadn’t let himself think too hard about his former lover or the brown rider since returning to the Weyr two nights ago. It wasn’t jealousy, he realised, with sudden insight. Rather, he had felt since first seeing them together that Saren was trying to spite him by spending so much time so ostentatiously with M’ric. Even when it had become apparent that she wasn’t, it had been easier for T’kamen to block her out of his thoughts than to actually resolve the situation. But in that moment when it had become clear that Katel had taken Sarenya as a hostage, for all T’kamen’s crushing grief for C’los, his fear for Saren had been greater. If she had died…

“All right,” he said, looking around for someone to take his place with the blue rider. A’len was close, and he nodded imperceptibly when T’kamen caught his eye before coming over to sit with C’mine.

M’ric noticed his approach before Sarenya did, and that troubled T’kamen. Saren was usually very alert. She seemed diminished somehow, but it was not until T’kamen drew closer that he realised the bronze fire-lizard was missing from his habitual place on her shoulder. He felt a pang of guilt about the blue, absent since his argument with Sarenya. More than the fire-lizards, though, something was missing: perhaps her confidence. T’kamen supposed that abduction at knifepoint would unsettle anyone, but Sarenya’s uncharacteristic introversion bothered him.

When she raised her gaze to see him coming the momentary look of apprehension in her eyes almost made T’kamen step back. It vanished almost as soon as he saw it, but that it had been there at all was hurtful. He couldn’t really blame her for her trepidation. He didn’t remember much about his struggle with Katel, but what he did know was enough to frighten him. Epherineth intervened if he tried to think about it too much, and in any case, T’kamen had no great desire to recall the detail, but Sarenya’s reaction still hurt.

She lifted her head, a confident motion, but T’kamen could see it was a front. He could also see the reddish welt that marred the soft skin of her throat, and the deeper crimson where a cut had scabbed over. The marks made him angry, but it was a distant anger, and he could feel Epherineth helping him to keep it at arm’s length.

“Saren,” he said.

If she was surprised at the familiar use of her name, Sarenya didn’t show it. “Kamen.”

“Could we talk a moment?”

The glance that passed between Sarenya and M’ric was brief, and yet infinitely expressive: intimately so. With a dignity that T’kamen might have envied, had he the heart, M’ric withdrew a short distance.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

Sarenya smiled, but her eyes were still pained. “As well as can be expected.” Her gaze flicked to his hands. “You?”

T’kamen had almost forgotten about his injuries, but the reminder made him conscious of the dressings under his tunic, well numbed, but limiting his movements. The scrapes and cuts on his knuckles were the only exterior evidence of the struggle. “The same.”

Neither spoke for a moment, uncertain rather than uncomfortable. “C’los would have approved of his eulogy,” said Sarenya, at last.

“Thank you,” T’kamen replied, almost automatically. Then, because he felt he should say something, he said, “Tarnish…?”

Sarenya shook her head, and an extra shadow of grief touched her brow. “He hasn’t come back.”

T’kamen hesitated. “He will if he can.” It was a blunter sympathy than the assurance that the lizard would return, but Sarenya had never tolerated condescension. “Is Sleek all right?”

“A bit clumsy in the air, and he’s still sleeping most of the time,” said Sarenya. “Better, though.”

“I’m sorry I hit him, Saren. I’m sorry it came to that.” And he was, though not just for the fire-lizard’s sake: his outburst then had been a precursor to the terrible anger that had come over him on Hatching night, the anger he had thought long buried.

Sarenya shook her head. “I’m sorry I was so selfish, Kamen. I should never have tried to make you put me before the Weyr.”

“I shouldn’t have treated you like a convenience,” T’kamen insisted.

“And I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”

“We’re both guilty of that,” T’kamen said reflectively.

The indirect reference to his rage made him wince inside, but then he felt Sarenya’s hand on his arm, and he looked up to see the troubled compassion in her eyes. He had scared her, he realised, but the part of her that knew him as well as any woman ever had still understood.

“We always seem to be apologising to each other,” said Saren, but the wryness in her voice sounded forced.

“It seems that way,” T’kamen replied, but although the familiar touch of her fingers on his arm was supportive, the fierce passion that had marked their previous reconciliations simply hadn’t sparked. “Maybe we’re too alike.”

And that was it. T’kamen suddenly knew, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, that he and Saren had no future together. Even had their rank been equal, even had she Impressed Shimpath and become his Weyrwoman, they were temperamentally too much the same. They would always fight, always clash, both too stubborn to give ground readily. The same volatility that had created the attraction between them would inevitably tear them apart.

He couldn’t help glancing at M’ric, and recognising in the brown rider some of what he himself lacked: calmness, composure, good-humour. Disliking him had become a reflexive defence against what T’kamen had perceived as Sarenya’s attempt to antagonise him, but in truth, it was hard to find anything specific to dislike. On a day already dominated by mourning, T’kamen hadn’t thought he could be capable of feeling any more grief, but the realisation that his path and Sarenya’s had diverged again saddened him.

T’kamen nodded to the brown rider without really knowing why, and looked back at Sarenya. “I’m glad we spoke, Saren.”

“So am I.” But there was comprehension behind the bland words. Sarenya knew this was a conclusion, and T’kamen wished that the calm empathy of moments like these were sustainable.

He grasped her arm gently, and then let it go, feeling her release his forearm as he did. “Stay well, Sarenya.”

“And you, Weyrleader.”

Her use of his title was respectful, but it also reinforced the distance between them – a distance T’kamen knew he could never now bridge. He turned away, feeling the lonely burden of his position weighing down on him more keenly than ever.

Valonna stood alone, not shunned by the other mourners so much as distanced from them by the same eminence that T’kamen bore. She was sombre and still in her sober grey gown, her straight-backed poise almost regal, but young, so very young. And she had borne this isolation, this alienation, ever since her Impression of a queen as a girl of fourteen. T’kamen empathised with his introverted Weyrwoman in a manner he had not before.

She had held steady throughout the crisis following the Hatching, co-ordinating the interrogation of every dragon through Shimpath and the visiting queens. By all accounts, she had been a source of calm authority during the enforced confinement of everyone in the dining hall, responding well even to the demands of the other Weyrleaders. Perhaps most vitally, she had been with C’mine in the moments following the keen for Indioth that had signalled C’los, and for the support she had provided then, T’kamen owed her a debt that could not be repaid. In crisis, Valonna had showed the mettle of a queen rider.

T’kamen crossed the dining cavern to join her, observing that she seemed preoccupied, but Valonna had noticed him by the time he was there. She stood a bit straighter, but faced him without lowering her eyes. Conscious of how Sarenya had imposed the distance between them, T’kamen made a point of addressing the Weyrwoman by name. “Thank you for organising this, Valonna.”

“It was no trouble, T’kamen.” Then, unexpectedly, Valonna went on, “Crauva arranged the refreshments and staff. I believe I’ll be asking her to take over the position of Headwoman from Adrissa.”

The quiet determination in Valonna’s voice surprised T’kamen almost as much as the radical statement itself. She wasn’t asking his permission to make the change; rather, informing him of a decision she had every right to make. A dozen questions leapt to mind, but T’kamen restrained his amazement, and simply nodded. “Thank you for letting me know.”

He noticed how she lifted her chin at the sincerest approval he could have given: unquestioning acceptance of her authority in the domestic running of the Weyr. T’kamen had been handling too many of the Weyrwoman’s traditional duties, but most of the day to day matters of the Weyr’s lower caverns had been left to the intractable Adrissa, and it wasn’t the Weyrleader’s place to appoint a new Headwoman. The thought that Valonna might start to take on the responsibilities she had been neglecting for so long made T’kamen strangely hopeful. He knew that, if he survived the enormous dent that circumstances had made in his credibility as a leader, he would have to start relying on someone. Making every decision for a Weyr in crisis was simply more than one man could manage. Nor was he in denial, now, of the damage he had done to his own health through too much stress and too little rest. He felt a decade older than his Turns, and the fight with Katel had demonstrated just how much of his physical strength had been sapped by months of worrying. Trust had never come easily to T’kamen, but with C’los gone, C’mine incapacitated, and neither really suited to functioning as a Weyrleader’s second in any case, he knew it was time to look to his bronze riders for support.

T’kamen’s thoughts turned to the former Peninsula bronze rider, Sh’zon. He was mistrustful enough of H’pold to take the Peninsula Weyrleader’s comments with a good dose of scepticism, but Sh’zon had made no attempt to deny the severity of the crimes for which his uncle, and most of his extended family, had been exiled some Turns ago. Kawanth’s rider simply insisted that he had not violated the oath he had taken never to transport anyone from the island. Clearly, Sh’zon had manoeuvred C’mine into extracting Tarshe from the family exile, but interviewing Darshanth’s rider was out of the question. It wouldn’t have been so bad had Tarshe not Impressed the queen. The prospect of a weyrwoman with an eight Turn grudge, fierce family loyalty, and, by L’stev’s judgement, a streak of steely will concerned T’kamen. The strength of character evident in the young woman was in itself no bad thing, but T’kamen would never have authorised her inclusion in the candidate class if he’d known her background.

But the problem of Tarshe could wait until her queen was older, and by then L’stev’s training would probably have instilled some sense of loyalty to the Weyr in the girl. Sh’zon was the more immediate concern. T’kamen had already contacted Masterharper Gaffry. He wanted to know the true circumstances of the crime, and H’pold was unlikely to be forthcoming with information. T’kamen had spoken only briefly with Sh’zon before temporarily relieving him of duty. He hadn’t stripped the Peninsula rider’s rank from him – too conscious of how it felt to have the privileges and responsibilities of command so ignominiously removed – but the story had spread around the Weyr, and T’kamen would risk mutiny if he left Sh’zon on active service.

His concerns about the foreign rider were, by rights, strictly his own business, involving the fighting Wings as they did, but T’kamen turned to his Weyrwoman nonetheless. “I’ll be spending some time investigating the incident with Wingleader Sh’zon’s family,” he said. “There’ve been some ugly rumours circulating, and I’m going to need your support in putting them down until the matter has been clarified to my satisfaction. It’s not fair on Sh’zon, nor on Tarshe.”

“I understand.” Valonna hesitated, then said, “I was speaking to Rallai at the Hatching, before… Her queen will be rising in the next Turn or so, T’kamen. I wondered if that might have been a factor in Sh’zon’s transfer.”

T’kamen nodded curtly. He hadn’t realised that the Peninsula ‘s senior queen was due to mate, and Valonna’s insight pleased him. It would certainly account for some of H’pold’s animosity towards Sh’zon. He thought, with a pang, that C’los would have been best equipped to unravel the mystery behind the Peninsula man’s transfer.

But C’los was dead, and one way or another, T’kamen, and Madellon, would have to manage without him. T’kamen looked out across the room, at L’stev and Jenavally, his oldest supporters; at C’mine, who would need himself some of the friendship that he had always been so willing to give; at H’ned and T’rello, whom he must learn to trust; at Carleah, who represented the young of the Weyr he had to see guided and nurtured through the next few Turns. And finally he looked at Valonna, the young Weyrwoman whose strength was untested, untried, but now undeniable.

Winter was coming to the Weyr. For some, it had already come. But if winter marked an end to some things, it signalled a beginning for others – and if T’kamen, and Madellon, could only endure, spring, and hope, might eventually follow.

Appendix A: characters and dragons

Adrissa, Headwoman

Adromaka, candidate

Adzai, candidate, Impresses green Warjenth

A’keret, bronze rider of Redmyth, Wingleader

A’krig, bronze rider of Forlenth, retired

A’len, brown rider of Chyilth, Wingsecond

Ammia, green rider of Trinth

Anthelle, apprentice Beastcrafter

Arina, candidate

Arrense, Weyr Beastcrafter

Artema, deceased green rider of Zovath at the Peninsula Weyr

Arville, child at Shevran cothold

Ashan, child at Shevran cothold

Avair, journeyman Tailor at Madellon Weyr

Barraky, Masterhealer at the Southern Healerhall

Bela, candidate

Bellian, green rider of Arvianth

B’mon, bronze rider of Zintyrath, Wingsecond

Brejoro, candidate, Impresses blue Lovanth

Brissian, green rider of Agrolth

Burkale, candidate

B’ward, brown rider of Hishovath, Wingsecond

Casseon, candidate, Impresses blue Brancepath

C’dessa, blue rider of Murroveth

Cebria, candidate, Impresses green Gawath

Chenda, candidate, Impresses green Lirpath

C’los, green rider of Indioth

C’mine, blue rider of Darshanth

Crauva, lower caverns woman

C’veron, weyrling brown rider of Lasseroth, deceased

Dastur, candidate

Demmy, green rider of Caileth

Deyan, candidate

D’feng, bronze rider of Sejanth, Wingleader

D’hor, brown rider of Defronth, former Weyrlingmaster, deceased

D’jalin, brown rider of Kyrinth, Wingsecond

D’lain, blue rider of Sprissenth at the Peninsula Weyr

Domenge, Master Harper at the Southern Harperhall

Dorvan, apprentice Beastcrafter

D’sion, bronze rider of Calproth, Wingleader

Elroon, assistant steward at Jessaf Hold

E’dor, bronze rider of Kidbeth, Wingleader

E’mar, blue rider of Churonth

E’rom, brown rider of Sigith, Wingsecond

Estelio, candidate

Fetheran, steward at the Southern Healerhall

Fianine, queen rider of Cherganth, former Weyrwoman, deceased

F’digan, brown rider of Benreth, former Wingleader

F’halig, brown rider of Valth, Wingsecond

Folzal, candidate

Fonnain, candidate

F’yan, bronze rider of Vidrilleth, Wingleader

Gaffry, Masterharper at the Southern Harperhall

Gara, apprentice Healer

Gidra, candidate, Impresses brown Kinnescath

Goridar, candidate

Habbert, apprentice Healer

Hana, candidate

Harrenar, candidate, Impresses bronze Ellendunth

Heftan, journeyman Healer

H’ersto, bronze rider of Alonth, former Wingleader, at Southern Weyr

H’jan, brown rider of Polaketh

H’ned, bronze rider of Izath, Wingleader

H’pold, bronze rider of Suffath, Weyrleader at the Peninsula Weyr

H’role, brown rider of Mengoath, deceased

Ironam, tailor

Ishane, green rider of Kinerth

Isnan, Weyr Healer

Ivaryo, candidate, Impresses green Saperth

Jardesse, candidate, Impresses green Kitlith

Jarrisam, journeyman Beastcrafter

Javerre, lower caverns woman

Jayena, green rider of Melith

Jenafa, candidate, Impresses green Nedrith

Jenavally, green rider of Hinnarioth, Weyr Singer

J’her, brown rider of Buriyoth

Jostakovu, candidate, Impresses blue Moth

J’tron, brown rider of Feolth, Wingsecond

Juillara, Lady Holder of Kellad

J’vondan, brown rider of Kimdanth, Wingsecond

Kalior, candidate

Katel, journeyman Healer

Kessirke, candidate, Impresses green Irdanth

Kodam, candidate, Impresses brown Narwath

Korralthe, candidate, Impresses bronze Djeth

Krinlen, candidate

K’shaw, blue rider of Yezzath, retired

K’ston, blue rider of Bronth

Lante, journeyman Healer

L’dro, bronze rider of Pierdeth, former Weyrleader

Leah (Carleah), candidate, Impresses green Jagunth

Lisette, candidate

L’mis, bronze rider of Pelranth, Wingleader

L’stev, brown rider of Vanzanth, Weyrlingmaster

Margone, queen rider of Grizbath, Weyrwoman at Southern Weyr

Maris, candidate, Impresses green Indrahath

Martouf, candidate, Impresses green Atath

Meturvian, Lord Holder of Kellad

M’ric, brown rider of Trebruth, fire-lizard queen Agusta, transferred from the PeninsulaWeyr

Murrany, candidate, Impresses blue Rementh

Naijen, candidate, Impresses brown Danementh

Namelle, lower caverns woman

Ongye, steward at Kellad Hold

Palroyan, candidate

Pettra, green rider of Siviath

P’keo, bronze rider of Nathronth, Wingleader

Polian, candidate, Impresses brown Sparth

P’raima, bronze rider of Tezonth, Weyrleader at Southern Weyr

P’yom, blue rider of Aith

Pyrea, green rider of Aprath

Rallai, queen rider of Ipith, Weyrwoman at the Peninsula Weyr

Rastevon, candidate, L’stev’s son, Impresses bronze Oaxuth

R’hren, bronze rider of Staamath, retired

Robyn, Leah’s mother

Romelle, lower caverns woman

R’yeno, bronze rider of Gryth, Wingleader

Rymon, assistant to the Dragon-healer

Sadwe, Lady Holder of Jessaf Hold

Sarenya, journeyman Beastcrafter, fire-lizards bronze Tarnish, blue Sleek

Sedd, Harper associate

S’herdo, bronze rider of Helvianth, Wingsecond

Shevran, cotholder at Shevran cothold, Sh’zon’s uncle

Sh’zon, bronze rider of Kawanth, transferred from the Peninsula Weyr

Sinterlion, candidate, Impresses green Nerbeth

Soleigh, candidate, Impresses green Bristath

S’rannis, brown rider of Inorath, Wingsecond

Tarshe, Sh’zon’s cousin, at Shevran cothold, Impresses queen Berzunth

Tebis, journeyman Beastcrafter

Temmal, weyrling green rider of Dath at the Peninsula Weyr

T’fer, brown rider of Wayonth

T’gat, bronze rider of Muzzanth, Wingleader

T’kamen, bronze rider of Epherineth, Weyrleader

Tomsung, Master Healer at the Fort Healerhall, former bronze rider of Govadith

T’rello, bronze rider of Santinoth, Wingsecond

Valonna, queen rider of Shimpath, Weyrwoman

Valrov, Master Harper at the Southern Harperhall

Varfer, holder at Shevran cothold

Varthen, candidate

Vhion, Master Dragon-healer

V’ley, green rider of Orsalth

V’stan, bronze rider of Sewelth, Wingleader

W’den, brown rider of Moshroth

W’gar, weyrling bronze rider of Tarventh, deceased

Willenze, candidate, Impresses blue Goldevath

Winstone, Lord Holder of Jessaf

Y’kat, bronze rider of Laradinth, retired

Zafandrie, journeyman Healer

Zinner, Lord Holder of Blue Shale

Zonan, boy at Shevran cothold

Appendix B: artists and artwork

Martin Vire

Cover illustration; insignia buttons

Rebecca Camfield

“Early arrivals” (prologue)

Joe Wood

“Queen and clutch” (I)

Renee Spahr

“A hero returns” (I); “Blue rider” (VII); “Green rider” (VIII); “Friend or enemy?” (IX)

Brad Hicks

“Victims” (II); “Alert!” (X)

Gemma Legacy

“Weyrleader’s bronze” (II)

Daniel Falck

“New friends” (III); “Old brown” (VI); “T’kamen” (XII); “Gladrags and fire-lizards” (XX)

C. Ssthisto Reid

“Daredevil” (III)

Jenni Juntunen

“Weyrmates” (IV); “Greens” (VII); “Nice weather” (VIII); “Before the storm” (IX); “Council of war” (XIII); “Challenge” (XV); “Entranced” (XVIII); “Mother” (XVIII); “Hatchling queen” (XIX); “Green weyrlings” (XX); “The future” (Epilogue)

Sam Hogg

“Weyrlingmaster’s advice” (V); “Napping” (VII); back cover illustration

Brenda Appleby

“Memento” (V)

Fredrik Andersson

“Bath time” (VI); “In Distress” (XIX)

Micah Johnson

“Loyal bronze” (X); “Crippled” (XI); “Search” (XIV)

Andreas Weisz

“Allies” (XII)

Amanda Phillips

“Catch” (XV)

Lauri Williamson

“Bronth triumphant” (XV); “Home territory” (XVII); “Hatchling” (XIX); “Struggle” (XXI)

Paul Taaks

“Abduction” (XXI); “Catch!” (XXI)

Julia ‘Myaah’ B

“Twilight bronze” (XXI)

Table of Contents

Chapter One: Five Heated Weeks

Chapter Two: Your Charge Is Sure

Chapter Three: A Dragon Of Night-Dark Sea

Chapter Four: Cold Beyond Frozen Things

Chapter Five: And Quicker To Champion Me

Chapter Six: Honour Those The Dragons Heed

Chapter Seven: Weyrman, Watch

Chapter Eight: Weyrman, Learn

Chapter Nine: Free The Flame

Chapter Ten: Thought And Favour

Chapter Eleven: That Glimpse Of Love

Chapter Twelve: Greed Will Bring The Weyr Distress

Chapter Thirteen: The Finger Points

Chapter Fourteen: Seen Then Unseen

Chapter Fifteen: Who Loves, Lives

Chapter Sixteen: Black, Blacker, Blackest

Chapter Seventeen: Of Hope And Promise

Chapter Eighteen: A Day Of Glory

Chapter Nineteen: Man And Dragon Fully Matched

Chapter Twenty: All Hope Banish

Chapter Twenty-one: Those Dangers Dragon-Braved