Although Keevan lengthened his walking stride as far as his legs would stretch, he couldn’t quite keep up with the other candidates. He knew he would be teased again.

Just as he knew many other things that his foster mother told him he ought not to know, Keevan knew that Beterli, the most senior of the boys, set that spanking pace just to embarrass him, the smallest dragonboy. Keevan would arrive, tail fork-end of the group, breathless, chest heaving, and maybe get a stern look from the instructing wingsecond.

Dragonriders, even if they were still only hopeful candidates for the glowing eggs which were hardening on the hot sands of the Hatching Ground cavern, were expected to be punctual and prepared. Sloth was not tolerated by the Weyrleader of Benden Weyr. A good record was especially important now. It was very near hatching time, when the baby dragons would crack their mottled shells, and stagger forth to choose their lifetime companions. The very thought of that glorious moment made Keevan’s breath catch in his throat. To be chosen—to be a dragonrider! To sit astride the neck of a winged beast with jeweled eyes: to be his friend, in telepathic communion with him for life; to be his companion in good times and fighting extremes; to fly effortlessly over the lands of Pern! Or, thrillingly, between to any point anywhere on the world! Flying between was done on dragonback or not at all, and it was dangerous.

Keevan glanced upward, past the black mouths of the weyr caves in which grown dragons and their chosen riders lived, toward the Star Stones that crowned the ridge of the old volcano that was Benden Weyr. On the height, the blue watch dragon, his rider mounted on his neck, stretched the great transparent pinions that carried him on the winds of Pern to fight the evil Thread that fell at certain times from the skies. The many-faceted rainbow jewels of his eyes glistened fleetingly in the greeny sun. He folded his great wings to his back, and the watch pair resumed their statuelike pose of alertness.

Then the enticing view was obscured as Keevan passed into the Hatching Ground cavern. The sands underfoot were hot, even through heavy wher-hide boots. How the bootmaker had protested having to sew so small! Keevan was forced to wonder why being small was reprehensible. People were always calling him “babe” and shooing him away as being “too small” or “too young” for this or that. Keevan was constantly working, twice as hard as any other boy his age, to prove himself capable. What if his muscles weren’t as big as Beterli’s? They were just as hard. And if he couldn’t overpower anyone in a wrestling match, he could outdistance everyone in a footrace.

“Maybe if you run fast enough,” Beterli had jeered on the occasion when Keevan had been goaded to boast of his swiftness, “you could catch a dragon. That’s the only way you’ll make a dragonrider!”

“You just wait and see, Beterli, you just wait,” Keevan had replied. He would have liked to wipe the contemptuous smile from Beterli’s face, but the guy didn’t fight fair even when a wingsecond was watching. “No one knows what Impresses a dragon!”

“They’ve got to be able to find you first, babe!”

Yes, being the smallest candidate was not an enviable position. It was therefore imperative that Keevan Impress a dragon in his first hatching. That would wipe the smile off every face in the cavern, and accord him the respect due any dragonrider, even the smallest one.

Besides, no one knew exactly what Impressed the baby dragons as they struggled from their shells in search of their lifetime partners.

“I like to believe that dragons see into a man’s heart,” Keevan’s foster mother, Mende, told him. “If they find goodness, honesty, a flexible mind, patience, courage—and you’ve got that in quantity, dear Keevan—that’s what dragons look for. I’ve seen many a well-grown lad left standing on the sands, Hatching Day, in favor of someone not so strong or tall or handsome. And if my memory serves me”—which it usually did: Mende knew every word of every Harper’s tale worth telling, although Keevan did not interrupt her to say so—“I don’t believe that F’lar, our Weyrleader, was all that tall when bronze Mnementh chose him. And Mnementh was the only bronze dragon of that hatching.”

Dreams of Impressing a bronze were beyond Keevan’s boldest reflections, although that goal dominated the thoughts of every other hopeful candidate. Green dragons were small and fast and more numerous. There was more prestige to Impressing a blue or brown than a green. Being practical, Keevan seldom dreamed as high as a big fighting brown, like Canth, F’nor’s fine fellow, the biggest brown on all Pern. But to fly a bronze? Bronzes were almost as big as the queen, and only they took the air when a queen flew at mating time. A bronze rider could aspire to become Weyrleader! Well, Keevan would console himself, brown riders could aspire to become wingseconds, and that wasn’t bad. He’d even settle for a green dragon: they were small, but so was he. No matter! He simply had to Impress a dragon his first time in the Hatching Ground. Then no one in the Weyr would taunt him anymore for being so small.

Shells, Keevan thought now, but the sands are hot!

“Impression time is imminent, candidates,” the wingsecond was saying as everyone crowded respectfully close to him. “See the extent of the striations on this promising egg.” The stretch marks were larger than yesterday.

Everyone leaned forward and nodded thoughtfully. That particular egg was the one Beterli had marked as his own, and no other candidate dared, on pain of being beaten by Beterli at his first opportunity, to approach it. The egg was marked by a large yellowish splotch in the shape of a dragon backwinging to land, talons outstretched to grasp rock. Everyone knew that bronze eggs bore distinctive markings. And naturally, Beterli, who’d been presented at eight Impressions already and was the biggest of the candidates, had chosen it.

“I’d say that the great opening day is almost upon us,” the wingsecond went on, and then his face assumed a grave expression. “As we well know, there are only forty eggs and seventy-two candidates. Some of you may be disappointed on the great day. That doesn’t necessarily mean you aren’t dragonrider material, just that the dragon for you hasn’t been shelled. You’ll have other hatchings, and it’s no disgrace to be left behind an Impression or two. Or more.”

Keevan was positive that the wingsecond’s eyes rested on Beterli, who’d been stood off at so many Impressions already. Keevan tried to squinch down so the wingsecond wouldn’t notice him. Keevan had been reminded too often that he was eligible to be a candidate by one day only. He, of all the hopefuls, was most likely to be left standing on the great day. One more reason why he simply had to Impress at his first hatching.

“Now move about among the eggs,” the wingsecond said. “Touch them. We don’t know that it does any good, but it certainly doesn’t do any harm.”

Some of the boys laughed nervously, but everyone immediately began to circulate among the eggs. Beterli stepped up officiously to “his” egg, daring anyone to come near it. Keevan smiled, because he had already touched it—every inspection day, when the others were leaving the Hatching Ground and no one could see him crouch to stroke it.

Keevan had an egg he concentrated on, too, one drawn slightly to the far side of the others. The shell had a soft greenish-blue tinge with a faint creamy swirl design. The consensus was that this egg contained a mere green, so Keevan was rarely bothered by rivals. He was somewhat perturbed then to see Beterli wandering over to him.

“I don’t know why you’re allowed in this Impression Keevan. There are enough of us without a babe,” Beterli said, shaking his head.

“I’m of age.” Keevan kept his voice level, telling himself not to be bothered by mere words.

“Yah!” Beterli made a show of standing on his toe tips. “You can’t even see over an egg; Hatching Day, you better get in front or the dragons won’t see you at all. ’Course, you could get run down that way in the mad scramble. Oh, I forget, you can run fast, can’t you?”

“You’d better make sure a dragon sees you, this time, Beterli,” Keevan replied. “You’re almost overage, aren’t you?”

Beterli flushed and took a step forward, hand halfraised. Keevan stood his ground, but if Beterli advanced one more step, he would call the wingsecond. No one fought on the Hatching Ground. Surely Beterli knew that much.

Fortunately, at that moment, the wingsecond called the boys together and led them from the Hatching Ground to start on evening chores. There were “glows” to be replenished in the main kitchen caverns and sleeping cubicles, the major hallways, and the queen’s apartment. Firestone sacks had to be filled against Thread attack, and black rock brought to the kitchen hearths. The boys fell to their chores, tantalized by the odors of roasting meat. The population of the Weyr began to assemble for the evening meal, and the dragonriders came in from the Feeding Ground on their sweep checks.

It was the time of day Keevan liked best: once the chores were done but before dinner was served, a fellow could often get close enough to the dragonriders to hear their talk. Tonight, Keevan’s father, K’last, was at the main dragonrider table. It puzzled Keevan how his father, a brown rider and a tall man, could be his father—because he, Keevan, was so small. It obviously puzzled K’last, too, when he deigned to notice his small son: “In a few more Turns, you’ll be as tall as I am—or taller!”

K’last was pouring Benden wine all around the table. The dragonriders were relaxing. There’d be no Thread attack for three more days, and they’d be in the mood to tell tall tales, better than Harper yarns, about impossible maneuvers they’d done a-dragonback. When Thread attack was closer, their talk would change to a discussion of tactics of evasion, of going between, how long to suspend there until the burning but fragile Thread would freeze and crack and fall harmlessly off dragon and man. They would dispute the exact moment to feed firestone to the dragon so he’d have the best flame ready to sear Thread midair and render it harmless to ground—and man—below. There was such a lot to know and understand about being a dragonrider that sometimes Keevan was overwhelmed. How would he ever be able to remember everything he ought to know at the right moment? He couldn’t dare ask such a question; this would only have given additional weight to the notion that he was too young yet to be a dragonrider.

“Having older candidates makes good sense,” L’vel was saying, as Keevan settled down near the table. “Why waste four to five years of a dragon’s fighting prime until his rider grows up enough to stand the rigors?” L’vel had Impressed a blue of Ramoth’s first clutch. Most of the candidates thought L’vel was marvelous because he spoke up in front of the older riders, who awed them. “That was well enough in the Interval when you didn’t need to mount the full Weyr complement to fight Thread. But not now. Not with more eligible candidates than ever. Let the babes wait.”

“Any boy who is over twelve Turns has the right to stand in the Hatching Ground,” K’last replied, a slight smile on his face. He never argued or got angry. Keevan wished he were more like his father. And oh, how he wished he were a brown rider! “Only a dragon—each particular dragon—knows what he wants in a rider. We certainly can’t tell. Time and again the theorists,” K’last’s smile deepened as his eyes swept those at the table, “are surprised by dragon choice. They never seem to make mistakes, however.”

“Now, K’last, just look at the roster this Impression. Seventy-two boys and only forty eggs. Drop off the twelve youngest, and there’s still a good field for the hatchlings to choose from. Shells! There are a couple of weyrlings unable to see over a wher egg much less a dragon! And years before they can ride Thread.”

“True enough, but the Weyr is scarcely under fighting strength, and if the youngest Impress, they’ll be old enough to fight when the oldest of our current dragons go between from senility.”

“Half the Weyr-bred lads have already been through several Impressions,” one of the bronze riders said then. “I’d say drop some of them off this time. Give the untried a chance.”

“There’s nothing wrong in presenting a clutch with as wide a choice as possible,” said the Weyrleader, who had joined the table with Lessa, the Weyrwoman.

“Has there ever been a case,” she said, smiling in her odd way at the riders, “where a hatchling didn’t choose?”

Her suggestion was almost heretical and drew astonished gasps from everyone, including the boys.

F’lar laughed. “You say the most outrageous things, Lessa.”

“Well, has there ever been a case where a dragon didn’t choose?”

“Can’t say as I recall one,” K’last replied.

“Then we continue in this tradition,” Lessa said firmly, as if that ended the matter.

But it didn’t. The argument ranged from one table to the other all through dinner, with some favoring a weeding out of the candidates to the most likely, lopping off those who were very young or who had had multiple opportunities to Impress. All the candidates were in a swivet, though such a departure from tradition would be to the advantage of many. As the evening progressed, more riders were favoring eliminating the youngest and those who’d passed four or more Impressions unchosen. Keevan felt he could bear such a dictum only if Beterli were also eliminated. But this seemed less likely than that Keevan would be turfed out, since the Weyr’s need was for fighting dragons and riders.

By the time the evening meal was over, no decision had been reached, although the Weyrleader had promised to give the matter due consideration.

He might have slept on the problem, but few of the candidates did. Tempers were uncertain in the sleeping caverns next morning as the boys were routed out of their beds to carry water and black rock and cover the “glows.” Twice Mende had to call Keevan to order for clumsiness.

“Whatever is the matter with you, boy?” she demanded in exasperation when he tipped black rock short of the bin and sooted up the hearth.

“They’re going to keep me from this Impression.”

“What?” Mende stared at him. “Who?”

“You heard them talking at dinner last night. They’re going to turf the babes from the hatching.”

Mende regarded him a moment longer before touching his arm gently. “There’s lots of talk around a supper table, Keevan. And it cools as soon as the supper. I’ve heard the same nonsense before every hatching, but nothing is ever changed.”

“There’s always a first time,” Keevan answered, copying one of her own phrases.

“That’ll be enough of that, Keevan. Finish your job. If the clutch does hatch today, we’ll need full rock bins for the feast, and you won’t be around to do the filling. All my fosterlings make dragonriders.”

“The first time?” Keevan was bold enough to ask as he scooted off with the rockbarrow.

Perhaps, Keevan thought later, if he hadn’t been on that chore just when Beterli was also fetching black rock, things might have turned out differently. But he had dutifully trundled the barrow to the outdoor bunker for another load just as Beterli arrived on a similar errand.

“Heard the news, babe?” Beterli asked. He was grinning from ear to ear, and he put an unnecessary emphasis on the final insulting word.

“The eggs are cracking?” Keevan all but dropped the loaded shovel. Several anxieties flicked through his mind then: he was black with rock dust—would he have time to wash before donning the white tunic of candidacy? And if the eggs were hatching, why hadn’t the candidates been recalled by the wingsecond?

“Naw! Guess again!” Beterli was much too pleased with himself.

With a sinking heart, Keevan knew what the news must be, and he could only stare with intense desolation at the older boy.

“C’mon! Guess, babe!”

“I’ve no time for guessing games,” Keevan managed to say with indifference. He began to shovel black rock into the barrow as fast as he could.

“I said, guess.” Beterli grabbed the shovel.

“And I said I have no time for guessing games.”

Beterli wrenched the shovel from Keevan’s hands. “Guess!”

“I’ll have that shovel back, Beterli.” Keevan straightened up, but he didn’t come to Beterli’s bulky shoulder. From somewhere, other boys appeared, some with barrows, some mysteriously alerted to the prospect of a confrontation among their numbers.

“Babes don’t give orders to candidates around here, babe!”

Someone sniggered and Keevan, incredulous, knew that he must’ve been dropped from the candidacy.

He yanked the shovel from Beterli’s loosened grasp. Snarling, the older boy tried to regain possession, but Keevan clung with all his strength to the handle, dragged back and forth as the stronger boy jerked the shovel about.

With a sudden, unexpected movement, Beterli rammed the handle into Keevan’s chest, knocking him over the barrow handles. Keevan felt a sharp, painful jab behind his left ear, an unbearable pain in his left shin, and then a painless nothingness.

Mende’s angry voice roused him and, startled, he tried to throw back the covers, thinking he’d overslept. But he couldn’t move, so firmly was he tucked into his bed. And then the constriction of a bandage on his head and the dull sickishness in his leg brought back recent occurrences.

“Hatching?” he cried.

“No, lovey,” Mende said in a kind voice. Her hand was cool and gentle on his forehead. “Though there’s some as won’t be at any hatching again.” Her voice took on a stern edge.

Keevan looked beyond her to see the Weyrwoman, who was frowning with irritation.

“Keevan, will you tell me what occurred at the black rock bunker?” asked Lessa in an even voice.

He remembered Beterli now and the quarrel over the shovel and … what had Mende said about some not being at any hatching? Much as he hated Beterli, he couldn’t bring himself to tattle on Beterli and force him out of candidacy.

“Come, lad,” and a note of impatience crept into the Weyrwoman’s voice. “I merely want to know what happened from you, too. Mende said she sent you for black rock. Beterli—and every Weyrling in the cavern—seems to have been on the same errand. What happened?”

“Beterli took my shovel. I hadn’t finished with it.”

“There’s more than one shovel. What did he say to you?”

“He’d heard the news.”

“What news?” The Weyrwoman was suddenly amused.

“That … that … there’d been changes.”

“Is that what he said?”

“Not exactly”

“What did he say? C’mon, lad, I’ve heard from everyone else, you know.”

“He said for me to guess the news.”

“And you fell for that old gag?” The Weyrwoman’s irritation returned.

“Consider all the talk last night at supper, Lessa,” Mende said. “Of course the boy would think he’d been eliminated.”

“In effect, he is, with a broken skull and leg.” Lessa touched his arm in a rare gesture of sympathy. “Be that as it may, Keevan, you’ll have other Impressions. Beterli will not. There are certain rules that must be observed by all candidates, and his conduct proves him unacceptable to the Weyr.”

She smiled at Mende and then left.

“I’m still a candidate?” Keevan asked urgently.

“Well, you are and you aren’t, lovey,” his foster mother said. “Is the numbweed working?” she asked, and when he nodded, she said, “You just rest. I’ll bring you some nice broth.”

At any other time in his life, Keevan would have relished such cosseting, but now he just lay there worrying. Beterli had been dismissed. Would the others think it was his fault? But everyone was there! Beterli provoked that fight. His worry increased, because although he heard excited comings and goings in the passageway, no one tweaked back the curtain across the sleeping alcove he shared with five other boys. Surely one of them would have to come in sometime. No, they were all avoiding him. And something else was wrong. Only he didn’t know what.

Mende returned with broth and beachberry bread.

“Why doesn’t anyone come see me, Mende? I haven’t done anything wrong, have I? I didn’t ask to have Beterli turfed out.”

Mende soothed him, saying everyone was busy with noontime chores and no one was angry with him. They were giving him a chance to rest in quiet. The numbweed made him drowsy, and her words were fair enough. He permitted his fears to dissipate. Until he heard a hum. Actually, he felt it first, in the broken shinbone and his sore head. The hum began to grow. Two things registered suddenly in Keevan’s groggy mind: the only white candidate’s robe still on the pegs in the chamber was his; and the dragons hummed when a clutch was being laid or being hatched. Impression! And he was flat abed.

Bitter, bitter disappointment turned the warm broth sour in his belly. Even the small voice telling him that he’d have other opportunities failed to alleviate his crushing depression. This was the Impression that mattered! This was his chance to show everyone, from Mende to K’last to L’vel and even the Weyrleader that he, Keevan, was worthy of being a dragonrider.

He twisted in bed, fighting against the tears that threatened to choke him. Dragonmen don’t cry! Dragonmen learn to live with pain.

Pain? The leg didn’t actually pain him as he rolled about on his bedding. His head felt sort of stiff from the tightness of the bandage. He sat up, an effort in itself since the numbweed made exertion difficult. He touched the splinted leg; the knee was unhampered. He had no feeling in his bone, really. He swung himself carefully to the side of his bed and stood slowly. The room wanted to swim about him. He closed his eyes, which made the dizziness worse, and he had to clutch the wall.

Gingerly, he took a step. The broken leg dragged. It hurt in spite of the numbweed, but what was pain to a dragonman?

No one had said he couldn’t go to the Impression. “You are and you aren’t,” were Mende’s exact words.

Clinging to the wall, he jerked off his bedshirt. Stretching his arm to the utmost, he jerked his white candidate’s tunic from the peg. Jamming first one arm and then the other into the holes, he pulled it over his head. Too bad about the belt. He couldn’t wait. He hobbled to the door, hung on to the curtain to steady himself. The weight on his leg was unwieldy. He wouldn’t get very far without something to lean on. Down by the bathing pool was one of the long crook-necked poles used to retrieve clothes from the hot washing troughs. But it was down there, and he was on the level above. And there was no one nearby to come to his aid: everyone would be in the Hatching Ground right now, eagerly waiting for the first egg to crack.

The humming increased in volume and tempo, an urgency to which Keevan responded, knowing that his time was all too limited if he was to join the ranks of the hopeful boys standing around the cracking eggs. But if he hurried down the ramp, he’d fall flat on his face.

He could, of course, go flat on his rear end, the way crawling children did. He sat down, sending a jarring stab of pain through his leg and up to the wound on the back of his head. Gritting his teeth and blinking away tears, Keevan scrabbled down the ramp. He had to wait a moment at the bottom to catch his breath. He got to one knee, the injured leg straight out in front of him. Somehow, he managed to push himself erect, though the room seemed about to tip over his ears. It wasn’t far to the crooked stick, but it seemed an age before he had it in his hand.

Then the humming stopped!

Keevan cried out and began to hobble frantically across the cavern, out to the bowl of the Weyr. Never had the distance between living caverns and the Hatching Ground seemed so great. Never had the Weyr been so breathlessly silent. It was as if the multitude of people and dragons watching the hatching held every breath in suspense. Not even the wind muttered down the steep sides of the bowl. The only sounds to break the stillness were Keevan’s ragged gasps and the thump-thud of his stick on the hard-packed ground. Sometimes he had to hop twice on his good leg to maintain his balance. Twice he fell into the sand and had to pull himself up on the stick, his white tunic no longer spotless. Once he jarred himself so badly he couldn’t get up immediately.

Then he heard the first exhalation of the crowd, the oohs, the muted cheer, the susurrus of excited whispers. An egg had cracked, and the dragon had chosen his rider. Desperation increased Keevan’s hobble. Would he never reach the arching mouth of the Hatching Ground?

Another cheer and an excited spate of applause spurred Keevan to greater effort. If he didn’t get there in moments, there’d be no unpaired hatchling left. Then he was actually staggering into the Hatching Ground, the sands hot on his bare feet.

No one noticed his entrance or his halting progress. And Keevan could see nothing but the backs of the white-robed candidates, seventy of them ringing the area around the eggs. Then one side would surge forward or back and there’d be a cheer. Another dragon had been Impressed. Suddenly a large gap appeared in the white human wall, and Keevan had his first sight of the eggs. There didn’t seem to be any left uncracked, and he could see the lucky boys standing beside wobble-legged dragons. He could hear the unmistakable plaintive crooning of hatchlings and their squawks of protest as they’d fall awkwardly in the sand.

Suddenly he wished that he hadn’t left his bed, that he’d stayed away from the Hatching Ground. Now everyone would see his ignominious failure. So he scrambled as desperately to reach the shadowy walls of the Hatching Ground as he had struggled to cross the bowl. He mustn’t be seen.

He didn’t notice, therefore, that the shifting group of boys remaining had begun to drift in his direction. The hard pace he had set himself and his cruel disappointment took their double toll of Keevan. He tripped and collapsed sobbing to the warm sands. He didn’t see the consternation in the watching Weyrfolk above the Hatching Ground, nor did he hear the excited whispers of speculation. He didn’t know that the Weyrleader and Weyrwoman had dropped to the arena and were making their way toward the knot of boys slowly moving in the direction of the entrance.

“Never seen anything like it,” the Weyrleader was saying. “Only thirty-nine riders chosen. And the bronze trying to leave the Hatching Ground without making Impression.”

“A case in point of what I said last night,” the Weyrwoman replied, “where a hatchling makes no choice because the right boy isn’t there.”

“There’s only Beterli and K’last’s young one missing. And there’s a full wing of likely boys to choose from …”

“None acceptable, apparently. Where is the creature going? He’s not heading for the entrance after all. Oh, what have we there, in the shadows?”

Keevan heard with dismay the sound of voices nearing him. He tried to burrow into the sand. The mere thought of how he would be teased and taunted now was unbearable.

Don’t worry! Please don’t worry! The thought was urgent, but not his own.

Someone kicked sand over Keevan and butted roughly against him.

“Go away. Leave me alone!” he cried.

Why? was the injured-sounding question inserted into his mind. There was no voice, no tone, but the question was there, perfectly clear, in his head.

Incredulous, Keevan lifted his head and stared into the glowing jeweled eyes of a small bronze dragon. His wings were wet, the tips drooping in the sand. And he sagged in the middle on his unsteady legs, although he was making a great effort to keep erect.

Keevan dragged himself to his knees, oblivious of the pain in his leg. He wasn’t even aware that he was ringed by the boys passed over, while thirty-one pairs of resentful eyes watched him Impress the dragon. The Weyrmen looked on, amused, and surprised at the draconic choice, which could not be forced. Could not be questioned. Could not be changed.

Why? asked the dragon again. Don’t you like me? His eyes whirled with anxiety, and his tone was so piteous that Keevan staggered forward and threw his arms around the dragon’s neck, stroking his eye ridges, patting the damp, soft hide, opening the fragile-looking wings to dry them, and wordlessly assuring the hatchling over and over again that he was the most perfect, most beautiful, most beloved dragon in the Weyr, in all the Weyrs of Pern.

“What’s his name, K’van?” asked Lessa, smiling warmly at the new dragonrider. K’van stared up at her for a long moment. Lessa would know as soon as he did. Lessa was the only person who could “receive” from all dragons, not only her own Ramoth. Then he gave her a radiant smile, recognizing the traditional shortening of his name that raised him forever to the rank of dragonrider.

My name is Heth, the dragon thought mildly, then hiccuped in sudden urgency. I’m hungry.

“Dragons are born hungry,” said Lessa, laughing. “F’lar, give the boy a hand. He can barely manage his own legs, much less a dragon’s.”

K’van remembered his stick and drew himself up. “We’ll be just fine, thank you.”

“You may be the smallest dragonrider ever, young K’van,” F’lar said, “but you’re one of the bravest!”

And Heth agreed! Pride and joy so leaped in both chests that K’van wondered if his heart would burst right out of his body. He looped an arm around Heth’s neck and the pair, the smallest dragonboy and the hatchling who wouldn’t choose anybody else, walked out of the Hatching Ground together forever.

Aramina was roused by the urgency of her parents’ voices. Dowell’s fierce whisper of persuasion and her mother’s a fearful rejoinder. She lay still, at first thinking that her mother had had another of her “seeings,” but on such occasions Barla’s voice was totally devoid of emotion. Straining her ears to pick up only her parents’ words, Aramina ignored the myriad nocturnal noises of the enormous Igen cavern that sheltered some of the hundreds of holdless folk on Pern.

“It is pointless to assign blame at this juncture, Barla,” her father was whispering, “or to moan about our pride in Aramina’s ability. We must leave. Now. Tonight.”

“But winter comes,” Barla wailed. “How will we survive?”

“I can’t say that we survived all that well here last winter, with so many to share out what game was caught,” Dowell said as he rapidly stuffed oddments into the capacious pack. “I’ve heard tell of caves in Lemos. And Lemos …”

“Has wood!” There was bitterness in Barla’s voice. “And none in Igen to suit you.”

“We may be holdless, woman, but we have not lost honor and dignity. I will not be party to Lady Holdless Thella’s designs. I will not permit our daughter to be exploited in such a way. Gather your things. Now. I’ll wake the children.”

When Dowell touched Aramina’s shoulder, she swallowed against her fear. She hadn’t liked the self-styled Lady Holdless Thella when Thella had sought her out on the last few visits to the Igen caverns to recruit people to her roving bands. Aramina had been fascinated, and obliquely repelled by Giron, Thella’s second-in-command, the dragonless man who had scrutinized her so intently that Aramina had been hard put not to squirm under his cold and empty eyes. A man who had been a dragonrider and lost his dragon was only half a man, or so everyone said. Thella had hinted at concessions for Aramina’s family, perhaps even a hold, though Aramina was not so stupid as to contest that possibility, even as Thella offered the bait. Nor did Thella’s argument that the holdless had to band together, sharing whatever possessions they had, hold any weight with a child who had early learned that no gift was free.

“I’m sorry, Father,” she murmured in fearful contrition.

“Sorry? For what, child? Oh, you heard? You are not at fault, ’Mina. Can you manage your sister? We must leave now.”

Aramina nodded. She rose and deftly twisted her blanket about her shoulders to make a sling for Nexa. She had carried her thus often as the small family had wandered eastward. Indeed, Nexa merely draped herself sleepily across Aramina’s bony young shoulder and snuggled into the supporting blanket without rousing from her deep slumber.

Aramina glanced about, unconsciously checking to see that every one of their few belongings had been reclaimed.

“I’ve already packed the wagon with what we could take,” Dowell said.

“And Mother thought that that thieving Nerat family was pilfering things again.” Aramina was somewhat exasperated because she had been obliged to spend an entire day surreptitiously near that noisome camp, trying to spot any of their belongings.

Barla had already gathered up her precious cooking pots, wrapping them in old clothes to prevent their banging. Another shawl held the rest of the family’s portables, zealously guarded against the pilfering habits of the cavern’s population.

“Hush now! Come. We must make the most of the full moons.”

For the first time Aramina regretted that her father’s skill with woods had purchased for his family a partially secluded alcove toward the rear of the great Igen cavern. It had been much cooler during the blazing Igen summer, warmer and sheltered from the bitter winter winds, but now it seemed an interminable distance as they wended a cautious path among sleeping bodies to reach the entrance of the wind-sculpted sandstone cave.

Frequently Aramina had to shift Nexa in the journey down the sands to the river, sinking occasionally into old refuse holes and trying not to trip over debris. Having no hold to be proud of, the holdless residing in Igen cavern had no pride of place either, and any accommodation, transient or semipermanent, was marked by mute evidence of their occupancy.

The moons came out, bright Belior high and the smaller, dimmer Timor halfway down her arc, highlighting Igen River. Aramina wondered how long her father had planned this exodus, for not only did they have illumination but the river, dried by the summer’s sun, was low enough to make crossing to the Lemos side relatively easy and safe. Very soon, when the fall rains began in the high mountains, no one would be able to cross the torrent that rampaged around the bend, flooding the now shallow ford. Aramina also remembered that Thella and Giron had been in the cavern that very afternoon, unlikely to return for several days, thus giving the fleeing family some margin of escape. Neither had approached Aramina, for which she had been grateful, but perhaps Thella had alarmed Dowell. Whatever the reason, Aramina was grateful on many counts to be away from the brawling, odorous, overcrowded cavern. And she knew that Barla would be, too. Her brother Pell’s tendency to brag about his family would now be limited to hill and forest, wherry and tunnel snake.

The dray beasts were already hitched to the family’s wagon, a smallish one but adequate for four people. Since Aramina heard dragons and could give warning of the imminence of Threadfall, the family could travel with some impunity. It was this talent, until just recently considered the family’s most valuable asset, that the Lady Holdless Thella wished to pervert to her unlawful ends.

Aramina shifted her sleeping sister once more, for both shoulders ached, and Nexa, like other inanimate objects, appeared to grow heavier. Pell had awakened; his initial outburst muffled by Dowell’s large hand, he now trotted beside his father, burdened by the shawl bundle, and complained in a low undertone. Aramina came abreast of him.

“If you hadn’t blabbed to show off, we wouldn’t be running away,” she said to him in a tone for his ears only.

“We aren’t running,” Pell snapped back, grunting as the shawl bundle cracked him on the right shin. “We don’t run away. We change camps!” He was taunting her now with her own words, used on previous occasions to ease the stigma of their holdless-ness. “But where can we go,” and his voice became a frightened wail, “that Thella can’t find us?”

“It’s me she wants, and she won’t find me. You’ll be safe.”

“I don’t want to be safe,” Pell replied stoutly, “if you have to run because of me and my big mouth.”

“Hush!” said Dowell in a sharp voice. The children trudged the rest of the way in silence.

Their dray beasts, Nudge and Shove, turned their heads, lowing softly at the approach of familiar people; Dowell had left them with sufficient grain in their feed bags to content them. Barla climbed into the rear of the hide-covered wagon, took the sleeping Nexa from Aramina, the bundle from Pell, and gestured the children to the fore where Dowell was untying ring reins from the tether stone. Aramina and Pell reclaimed their goods from the wagon and took their positions, one on either side of the team, ready to encourage them into the river and up the bank on the far side. Dowell and Barla would walk behind to push should the wagon founder.

Despite the hour and the circumstances of their departure, Aramina felt a tremendous relief as they moved off. Two Turns ago she had been inexpressibly relieved not to have to plod at the pace of Nudge and Shove day after weary day. But now traveling was a far more palatable alternative to being part of Thella’s vindictive schemes.

“We are not holdless by choice, Aramina,” Barla had often abjured her daughter, “for your father held well under Lord Kale of Ruatha Hold. Oh,” and Barla would bow her head and press her hands to her mouth in anguish over terrible memories, “the perfidy, the treachery of that terrible, ruthless man! To murder all Ruatha blood in one pitiless hour!” Barla would gather herself then, lifting her head proudly. “Nor would your father serve Lord Fax of the High Reaches.” Barla was not an extravagant person in word or deed, retaining a quiet and unobtrusive dignity despite all the slights and pettiness that came the way of the holdless. Her acrimony was therefore the more memorable, and Aramina, as well as her surviving brother and sister, knew Fax as the villain, despoiler, and tyrant, possessed of no single redeeming virtue. “We had pride enough to leave when he made his unspeakable order …” Barla would often color and then pale when reciting this part of their exodus. “Your father had made this very wagon for us to attend Gathers.” Barla would sigh. “Attend Gathers as respected holders, not as wanderers, holdless and friendless. For other Lord Holders did not wish to antagonize Fax just then, and though your father had been so certain of a welcome elsewhere, there was none. But we are not like the others, children. We chose to retain our honor and would not submit to the incarnate evil of Fax.”

Although Barla would never be specific about that, of late Aramina was beginning to get glimmerings, now that she had become a woman. For Barla, despite the depredations of fourteen Turns of nomadic life and endless pregnancies as tokens of Dowell’s esteem, still retained a beautiful face and a slender figure. Aramina was old enough to realize that Barla was far more handsome than most holdless women and that, when they entered a new hold, Barla kept her lustrous hair hidden under a tattered head scarf and wore the many-layered garments of cold poverty.

Dowell had been a skilled wood joiner, holding a modest but profitable hold for Lord Kale in the forests of Ruatha. News of the treacherous massacre of the entire bloodline had reached the mountain fastness long after the event, when a contingent of Fax’s rough troops had thundered into the hold’s yard and informed the astounded Dowell of the change in Lord Holder. He had bowed his head—reluctantly but wisely—to that announcement and kept his resentment and horror masked, hoping that none of the troop realized that his wife, Barla, expecting her first child, also bore Ruathan blood in her veins.

If Dowell hoped that a meek acceptance and an isolated location would keep him from Fax’s notice, he erred. The leader of the troop had eyes in his head; if he couldn’t detect Barla’s bloodline at a glance, one look was enough to tell him that here was a woman of interest to Lord Fax. Nor had the man’s shrewd gleam escaped Dowell, and the wood-crafter had made contingency plans, which began with leaving the hold’s Gather wagon and two sturdy dray beasts in a blind valley on the Tillek side of the mountain. When half a Turn had passed with no further visitation, Dowell had begun to think his precautions foolish: that he had mistaken the man’s reaction to Barla’s beauty.

Then Lord Fax, followed by a score of his men, came galloping up the narrow trace to the woodland hold. His scowl had been frightening when he had seen Barla’s gravid state.

“Well, the pump will be primed and ready. She’ll whelp soon. Collect her in two months. See that she is waiting for her Lord Holder’s summons!”

Without a backward look, Fax had cruelly spun his runner about and, clouting the lathered creature with his rawhide whip, clattered back the way he had come.

Dowell and Barla had left their hold within the hour. Seven days later, a boy had been prematurely born, and died. Nor did Dowell and Barla find a ready sanctuary in Tillek’s hold.

“Not this close to Fax, man. Perhaps farther west,” their first host has suggested. “I don’t want him knocking on my hold door. Not that one!”

Dowell and Barla had traveled ever since, to the western reach of Tillek, where they had found brief respites in their journeyings while Dowell carved bowls and cups or joined cabinets, or crafted Gather wagons. A few weeks here, a half Turn there; and Aramina was born on their way through the mountains of Fort, the first of Barla’s children to survive birth. The news of Fax’s death caught up with them in the vast plains of Keroon, just after Nexa’s birth.

“Ruatha Hold brought Fax nothing but disease and trouble,” the harper told Dowell and Barla in Keroonbeasthold, where Dowell was building stables.

“Then we could return and claim our hold again.”

“If there’s anything to claim. But I’m told that Lytol is a fair man and he’ll need good workers,” the harper had said, eyeing the notched timbers that Dowell had fitted.

“We’ll return then,” Dowell had told Barla, “when I’ve finished my bond with the mastercraftsman.”

More than a full Turn later, they did begin the long journey up the Keroon peninsula, with a sturdy daughter, a small son, and a tiny baby.

Then Thread began to fall on the innocent green land, raining destruction on a population that had denied the existence of their ancient enemy. Once again dragons filled the skies with their fiery breath, charring the dread menace in midair, saving the rich land from the devouring Thread.

Travel became more hazardous than ever for the holdless; people clung to the safety of stone walls and stout doors, and to the traditional leadership of their Lord Holders. Within those sanctuaries there was little room for those without legitimate claim on leadership, supplies, and refuge. A new terror was visited on the unfortunate, deprived for any number of reasons of their right to hold or craft affiliation.

For Dowell and Barla, the terror was slightly abated by Aramina’s unexpected ability to hear dragons. When she first naively reported such conversations, she had been soundly spanked for telling lies. Then came the day when she persisted in warning them that her dragons said Threadfall was imminent. Threatened with a second thrashing and a supperless night, she had tearfully refused to retract her report. It was only when Dowell saw the leading edge of Thread, a silver smudging in the sky, dotted with the fiery blossoms of dragon breath, that he had apologized. As the family lay crouched under a rocky ledge just large enough to shelter them, they were grateful to her.

“The lords of Ruatha have always given dragonriders complete hospitality,” Barla had said, shielding the squalling Nexa against her shoulder. She had to stop to wipe grit from her lips. “No one in my immediate family was ever taken on Search, but then, there haven’t been that many Searches in my lifetime. Aramina comes by her talent as a right of blood.”

“And to think I ever complained that our firstborn was female,” Dowell had murmured, smiling at Aramina, tucked in the safest angle of the rock ledge. “I wonder if Nexa will be able to hear dragons.”

“I’ll bet I will when I’m older,” Pell had ventured, not wishing to let his sister take all the honors.

“It means we’ll be safe traveling across Telgar Plains to Ruatha, for Aramina can always warn us about Threadfall. We won’t need to be beholden to any lord for shelter!”

To be without restraint or obligation meant a great deal to Dowell’s pride. Since the advent of Threadfall, the holdless had suffered more than the usual indignities at the hands of holders, large and small. Having no right of affiliation, they could be cheated of the ordinary rights of hospitality; overcharged for any goods their infrequent marks could purchase; forced to work unnatural hours for the mere privilege of shelter from Thread; deprived of dignity and honor; and, above all else, required to express gratitude for even the least condescension shown by holders and crafters.

The elation of the small family was short-lived, for their dray beasts had run off in the panic of Threadfall. Dowell was forced to return to Keroonbeasthold on foot, hire his skill at a hard-bargained price for the next Turn, then trudge all the way back with the new team to where his family had waited, fearful of marauding holdless men and women and Threadfall.

The indenture over, Dowell had once again turned team and wagon westward. A miscarriage and fever had forced them to take refuge in the huge Igen cave, and expediency had kept them there when Dowell’s resolution had faltered under a series of misfortunes, all apparently designed to thwart his repatriation to Ruatha Hold.

Now they pushed on through the night, struggling to escape yet another threat to honor and resolve.

From somewhere Dowell had acquired a map of Lemos Hold, complete with road, track, and trace. Lemos had so many forests and mountains that rivers, Pern’s other roadways, were unusable. Dowell elected to follow the faintest of tracks and was careful to remove any droppings. When he finally allowed them to rest, it was noontime. During the brief respite he allowed his family and team, Dowell crushed leaves and stained the wagon’s leather cover with green to make it less visible to any searching eye.

“We’ll be safe in the forests of Lemos,” he said, reassuring himself as well as his family. “There are caves there in the mountains which no one could find …”

“If no one can find them, how will we?” asked Pell reasonably.

“Because we’ll be looking very hard, of course,” Aramina answered before her weary father’s short temper flared.

“Oh!”

“And we’ll live by ourselves and thrive on the provender that woods naturally provide us,” Aramina went on, “for we’ll have all the wood we need to be warm, and nuts and roots because we know where to look for them, and berries and roast wherry …”

“Roast wherry?” Pell’s eyes widened with delight at such a promise.

“Because you fashion such excellent snares …”

“I always caught more tunnel snakes than any one else at Igen,” Pell began. Then, remembering that this helter-skelter trip was due to his boastfulness, he covered his mouth with his hand and huddled into a tight ball of remorse.

“Any of the forest caves ought to have lots of snakes, shouldn’t they, Mother?” Aramina asked, wanting to lighten her mother’s sad face as well as her brother’s guilt.

“They should,” Barla agreed in the absent way of parents who have not really attended to their children’s conversation.

Dowell called them to order, and they continued on their way until Nudge refused to go farther and, when Dowell took the stick to him, sank resolutely to his knees. Unhitching the recalcitrant brute, they forced Shove to haul the wagon into the brush at the side of the trace.

“Nudge has got sense,” Pell muttered to his sister as the weary children gathered enough branches to screen the wagon.

“Father has, too. I certainly didn’t want to help Thella or,” and Aramina shivered with revulsion, “that dragonless man, Giron.”

“They’re as bad as Fax.”

“Worse.”

Although Barla roused herself sufficiently to hand out dry rations, she found that Aramina and Pell had fallen asleep.

Only when they had put four mountains between themselves and Igen River did Dowell let up on the pace he had set. On the narrow traces, more logging tracks than proper trails, there were none to witness their passage as they climbed higher into the vast Lemos range.

They were not quite alone, for dragons passed overhead on daily sweeps and Aramina reveled in their conversations. She made her reports amusing, to liven evening campfire—for Dowell had conceded that a careful, smokeless fire would not be easily seen in the thick woods.

“It was green Path again today, with Heth and Monarth,” Aramina said on the tenth day after their exodus from Igen Cave. “Lamanth, the queen, has clutched thirty fine eggs, but Monarth says that there are no queen eggs.”

“There aren’t always queen eggs,” Dowell reminded Aramina, who sounded unhappy.

“That’s what Path said. I don’t know why Monarth was upset.”

“I didn’t realize that dragons talked to each other,” Barla remarked, puzzled. “I thought they only talked to their riders.”

“Oh, they do,” Aramina assured her. “Heth talks constantly to K’van when they’re doing the sweep alone.”

“Why are there three today then?” Pell asked.

“Because Threadfall is imminent.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Dowell wanted to know, exasperated with his daughter’s diffidence.

“I was going to. They think Threadfall will come over Lemos tomorrow late afternoon.”

“How can we survive Threadfall out in these woods?” Dowell demanded, angry with apprehension.

“You said there were lots of caves here in Lemos,” Pell said, grimacing his face into a tearful expression.

“We’ll need one!” Dowell said grimly. “We’ll start first light tomorrow. Aramina, you and Pell will search ahead. On the upper slope. For there is bare cliff above us and somewhere there must be a cave for shelter.”

“And we’ll need more roots and anything else you can find to eat,” Barla added, showing the empty stewpot as proof of the need. “There’s naught left of the dried meat and vegetables.”

“Why is it Thread always comes at times like these?” Pell asked, but expected no answer to his plaint.

He had occasion to repeat much the same expression the next morning when the off-rear wheel, sinking in a leaf-covered hole, cracked the cotter pin and lazily spun off. The team dragged the wagon on for several lengths, grinding the hub into the dirt before Dowell was able to halt them. Grimly he surveyed the damage. Then, with the sigh of long-suffering patience, he set to the job of repairing the wheel.

It was by no means the first time that wheels had come off, and Aramina and Pell needed no instructions to search out stout limbs, and to help roll a boulder into place for the lever. Indeed it was a well-drilled operation, and Aramina and Pell had wedged two blocks under the wagon bed as soon as Dowell and Barla had levered it up. They had the wheel back on the axle when Dowell discovered that there were no more cotter pins or kingpins in the wagon. He’d used the last on the journey to Igen Cave and had no reason to replace them in the long Turn.

“With the world and all of wood about us, Dowell?” Barla had remonstrated to cut short his flow of self-recriminations. “There’s a hardwood over there. It can’t take much time to whittle new pegs. The children can forage ahead for food and a cave. Come.” She handed him the hatchet. “I’ll help. Aramina, take a sack and one of the hide buckets. Pell, make one of your snares and set it if you cross snake spoor. Nexa, you may carry the small shovel, but don’t lose it in the woods.”

“If you hear more about Threadfall from the dragons, Aramina, you come back to me straightaway,” Dowell added as he made for the hardwood visible from the track. “Don’t dally.”

With a spirit of urgent adventure the three children ran up the track. For the first four switchbacks, there was nothing but forest on either side, though Pell insisted on inspecting several outcroppings of the gray rock that he felt looked promising.

Then the logging trace started a long, straight run, which finally disappeared around a rocky out-thrust. To their right, up a steep bank, the trees were sparser as the native rock intruded.

“I’ll go look up there, ’Mina!” Pell cried, and took off just as Nexa called Aramina’s attention to the unmistakable if withered tops of redroots growing on the downside.

Aramina saw Pell scrambling for footing on the steep and slippery bank, and elected to forage with Nexa. They had been digging for only a short while when Aramina heard Pell’s warbling, the family signal for an emergency. Fearful that he had injured himself climbing, Aramina raced back to the track.

“I found a cave, ’Mina! I found a cave.” Pell slithered back down the bank. “A good deep one. Room for Nudge and Shove, too.” His voice reflected the jouncing his body took as he half walked, half slid the remaining distance to his sister.

“And lost your gathering,” she said sternly, pointing to the cluster of broken bulge-nut twigs he still clutched in his left hand.

“Oh, them.” Pell tossed the useless bits aside, stood up, and brushed the wet leaves from his leathern pants. “There’re plenty more where they …” He broke off, an uncertain look on his face as his hand hesitated.

“Hmm, sprung the seams again, too,” Aramina said impatiently and, grabbing him, swung him about to see the damage the slide had done his trousers. She sighed, controlling her temper. Pell never considered risk and consequence.

“Only the seam. Not the leather. Mother can mend it! In the cave I just found. Plenty of space.” Grinning broadly to soothe the frown from his sister’s face, he made exaggerated gestures with his arms, outlining the splendor of his discovery.

“How far up the slope?” Aramina regarded the steep incline with a thoughtful eye. “I’m not sure Nudge and Shove could make it.”

“They’ll make it ’cause there’s grass and water …”

“The cave is damp?”

“Nah! Dry as far in as I went.” Pell cocked his head sideways. “And I didn’t go all the way in, just like you always warn me. Only far enough to see it was big and dry. And the tunnel snake signs. Good eating.” He rolled his eyes and smacked his lips at the prospect. “There’s even a stream and—a cascade, too.”

Aramina hesitated, eyeing the steep bank and wondering if Pell’s enthusiasm hadn’t clouded his judgment. Pell would go through life seeing only what he hoped he was seeing, not what really was. But the need to get under shelter was critical. No matter if Pell had exaggerated: he had found a cave. Her father could decide on its suitability.

“How far up the slope is it?”

“Straight to the top of the ridge”—Pell pointed—“down into the dip past the nut plantation. Turn to your right at the forked birch and you’ll stare right at the entrance. Only it’s to the left. A good overhang. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

“No, you wait here. Nexa’s down there digging roots”—Aramina pulled a face at her brother’s sour expression—“which we need nearly as much as the cave.” She hesitated once more. Maybe she ought to check the cave first, rather than raise false hopes.

“Ah, ’Mina, I wouldn’t lie about shelter.”

Aramina scrutinized her brother’s face, his features contorted into an expression of utter trustworthiness. No, Pell wouldn’t lie about something that important. A ray of sunlight broke through the clouds, lancing past the soughing tree branches, reminding her that there was little time left if they were to be under cover when Thread fell.

“Don’t wander off! You know how scared Nexa gets.” Aramina threw a deft twist of cord about the neck of her root sack and tossed it to the side of the logging track.

“I won’t stir from her side. But I expect I’d do better gathering kindling.” Thus avoiding his most hated chore of rooting, Pell diligently collected branches.

Aramina started off down the track in a lope, her long plaits bouncing off her shoulders and buttocks. She was light on her feet, moving with an economy of movement that would have been envied by a hold runner.

The sunlight seemed to follow her, illuminating her way on the overgrown trace, the springiness underfoot making the going a pleasure. She shortened her stride as the track switched back on itself, and listened intently, over the thud of her footfalls, for the sound of the wagon. Surely it hadn’t taken her father too long to whittle the necessary pins: Dowell and Barla should have made some distance up the logging road. Surely she ought to have heard the lumbering wagon, her father’s voice urging Nudge and Shove to their task.

Peering through the thickly planted trees, Aramina looked for some glimpse of the covered wagon. Apprehension lent her impetus and down the trace she sped, every nerve anxiously alert for any reassuring sight or sound. Faster she ran, positive now in her mind that something had happened. Could Lady Holdless Thella have possibly caught up with them?

Taking a more direct line, she bypassed the next turn and pushed through the underbrush, wiggling past trees. Then, as she discerned the bulk of the green-smeared wagon cover through the trees, she moved more circumspectly. The wagon had not shifted from the spot in which they had left it two hours past.

Trembling with fear, Aramina paused, listening now for the sound of voices, for the bass rumble of Giron or the crisp acid alto of Thella. Hearing nothing but the wind soughing through the leafless trees, she moved cautiously down until she was poised on the bank above where the wagon was still canted. Muffling a cry of fear, Aramina slid down the bank, recoiling in horror as she saw her father’s head and shoulders protruding from under the wagon. Somehow the blocks had slipped and the wheel lay once again on its side. Horrified, Aramina was certain that her father had been crushed to death until she saw that one block had fallen directly under the wagon bed, preventing the complete collapse of the heavy load onto her father’s chest.

Only then did Aramina hear the hoarse grunt and half sob, as she realized that her mother was attempting to lever the wagon bed off her stricken husband.

“Mother!”

“I cannot lift it, ’Mina!” Barla sobbed, leaning exhaustedly against the pole. “I’ve been trying and trying.”

Wasting no words, Aramina threw her weight onto the lever, and though Barla gave every remaining ounce of her strength, the two women could not summon enough mass between them to shift the wagon more than a finger’s breadth.

“Oh, ’Mina, what can we do? Even if we had Pell and Nexa, they couldn’t help enough …” Defeated, Barla slumped onto the ground, weeping.

“We lifted it enough. If Pell and Nexa were here, they could pull him free.…” Aramina swung ’round to her father, his tanned face pale with shock, the pulse in his neck beating slowly but reassuringly. “Pell’s found a cave. It’s not too far up the track. I’ll be right back.”

Giving Barla no chance to protest, Aramina started up the track again as fast as she could run. Pell and Nexa just had to be strong enough. She didn’t dare believe anything else. And they must hurry. The sun glancing into her eyes warned her that time was very short if they were to rescue Dowell and get the wagon up the trail to the cave. She couldn’t consider any other problems then, only the most immediate ones, and she almost ignored the sight of the dragon gliding overhead. She stopped so fast that she almost fell.

Dragon, dragon, hear me! Help me! HELP ME! Aramina had never attempted to communicate with the dragons, but a dragonrider would be strong enough to help her. Surely a dragonrider would not ignore her need.

Who calls a dragon?

She recognized the voice of Heth.

It is Aramina. Down on the logging trace, above the river in the forest. Please help me. My father is trapped beneath our wagon. And Thread will fall soon! She jumped up and down in the middle of the trace, waving frantically. Oh, please help me!

No need to shout. I heard you the first time. My rider wants to know who you are.

To her relief, Aramina saw the dragon change directions, circling down toward the track.

I told you, I’m Aramina.

May I tell him?

Such consideration rarely came Aramina’s way.

Yes, yes, of course. Are you Heth?

I am Heth. My rider is K’van.

How do you do?

I’d do better if we could see you.

But I’m right here. In the middle of the trace. And the wagon is large.… Oh, my father painted it green. If you’ll just fly lower …

I’m a dragon, not a wherry.… K’van sees the wagon.

Aramina crashed through the underbrush to reach the wagon at the same time as dragon and rider. Barla looked about to faint with shock at their sudden appearance.

“It’s all right, Mother. They’ll help us. They’re much stronger than Pell and Nexa would be.” Then Aramina realized that Shove and Nudge were taking great exception to the proximity of a dragon. She tied them tightly down by their nose rings to the tether stone, giving them more immediate pain to occupy their stupid brains.

Fortunately, the dragonrider directed Heth to land behind the wagon, out of the dray beasts’ immediate sight.

To her dismay, Aramina realized that both dragon and rider were young. She’d always thought that bronze dragons must be big, and, indeed, Heth had seemed enormous, outlined in the sky. But now she could see that he wasn’t fully grown and that his rider, K’van, was both undersized and younger than herself.

As if K’van sensed her disappointed appraisal, he straightened his shoulders and jerked his chin up. He walked forward, taking in the lever propped against the boulder and looking down at the prostrate Dowell.

“We may be weyrlings, but we can help you,” K’van said without ostentation. He turned to Heth. “What I want you to do is to put heave on this, Heth, with your forearms. C’mon, Aramina.”

Aramina stopped staring at the bronze dragon, who waddled forward to place his five-clawed paws about the lever.

“Not until I say go, Heth,” K’van cautioned, grinning a bit at Aramina as they knelt in the dust beside the unconscious Dowell, fastening their hands under the man’s armpits. “Heave, Heth! Heave!”

As quickly as they could, Aramina and K’van hauled Dowell’s body from under the wagon. With a cry of incredulous relief, Barla rushed to her husband’s side, opening his shirt to judge the extent of his injury. K’van had the presence of mind to replace the fallen block and prop the wagon up.

“You’ll need the wheel back on,” he said to Aramina. “That was fine, Heth.”

I am very strong, said the dragon with a trace of smugness, his great faceted eyes whirling bluey green as he maintained pressure on the lever.

“Oh, you are indeed, you beautiful, beautiful creature,” cried Aramina.

“All right, Heth, ease it down,” said K’van, holding the block in place. “Slowly now.”

The wagon settled, creaking as the block took its weight. K’van fumbled about in the grass and dust and triumphantly held up the pegs.

“Mother?” Aramina’s trembling voice held a question as she turned to look at her father.

“I can’t find anything broken,” Barla said in a low unsteady voice, “but look …” Her hand indicated the terrible line of bruising already discoloring the skin. Carefully she smoothed the hair back from Dowell’s brow, her expression of concerned tenderness causing the two young people to exchange embarrassed glances.

K’van touched Aramina’s arm. “Do you know how to set the wheel back on the axle?” He gave her a rueful glance as he proffered the pegs. “I don’t.”

“Whyever should you?” Aramina wanted to know as she took the pegs and noticed, with a pang, how carefully Dowell had made a cotter hole in the kingpin. “You’re a dragonrider.”

“Not all that long,” he said with a grin as he helped her lift the wheel and roll it into position. “And weyrlings are taught a little bit of every craft needed by the Weyr. You never know when something will come in handy. Like now!” He said this on the end of a grunt as the two young people tried to force the wheel onto the axle.

“It’s the dirt encrusted on the hub,” Aramina said as K’van paused uncertainly. With her belt knife, she scraped off the caked dirt, found a large rock, and, with a healthy knock, set the wheel firmly on. With another few taps of her rock, she rammed the kingpin through and then the cotter pin into its place.

“You’re deft at that,” K’van said admiringly.

“Practice.”

With Heth’s assistance, they removed the block from under the wagon.

“Have you far to go?” K’van asked then. “Thread falls soon and, as I recall, the foresters’ hold is a long ways up the track.”

Barla stifled a sound in her throat, but Aramina had an answer ready.

“I know,” Aramina lied calmly, “but this accident delayed us. However, there’s a cave not far up the track where we can wait out Threadfall.”

“Is it large?” asked K’van.

“Large enough. Why?” Aramina asked, suddenly wary.

“Well, just before you called us,” and K’van grinned ingenuously for her temerity, “Heth spotted a band of runners beyond the river. Are they part of your group?”

“No.” Barla groaned aloud, looking wildly up at Aramina.

“There shouldn’t be anyone else in this part of Lord Asgenar’s forests,” Aramina said with all the indignation she could muster. “We were warned that holdless raiders have been seen.”

“Holdless men?” K’van was instantly alert. “If they are, they’ll disperse once they’ve seen me. Look, let me help you get your father into the wagon and see you safely on your way to the cave. I’ll take care of the raiders. And warn Lord Asgenar, too.”

Aramina hadn’t expected that, but she said what was appropriate, determined to play out her part in this charade. She unfastened the tailgate so that they could slide Dowell in. Then, while K’van watched beside Heth, she and Barla took up their positions and prodded Nudge and Shove into a walk, and then into a shambling trot up the trace.

Barla and Aramina had to keep hard at the dray beasts to maintain their trot. Nudge resented the pace, twisting his horned head and lowing piteously, but Aramina had no mercy on him. Women and beasts were sweating when they finally reached the bank, Pell cheering lustily until Aramina shouted at him to stop being so foolish and come help.

In a few terse words, Aramina explained what had happened, and Pell began shaking his head slowly from side to side.

“I don’t know how we’ll get Father up that bank,” he said, appraising the difficulty. “You shouldn’t’ve sent the dragonrider away.”

“It’s not just Father being hurt, Pell. K’van saw a troop of riders on the other side of the river.…”

Pell quailed, and his distress communicated itself to Nexa, who had been standing there, wide-eyed and perplexed. Now she burst into tears.

“So we must also get the wagon out of sight. And hide Nudge and Shove.”

“But Thread’s coming. And we have to get Father up to the cave and …” Pell’s words tripped over themselves in his anxiety.

“Somehow we’ll do it,” Aramina said, peering up and down the trace to find a possible screen for the mass of the wagon. “Maybe, if K’van has frightened them with Threadfall, they’ll have to go back the way they came.… Maybe if we rig a stretcher, we can haul Father up the bank.…”

“Maybe, maybe, maybe!” Pell almost danced with frustration.

“I won’t have you children fighting at a time like this,” Barla said tartly, appearing in the back of the wagon. “We’ve got to rouse your father.… How long before Thread falls, Aramina? Or didn’t you ask the dragonrider?”

Aramina bowed her head at her mother’s rebuke. As she did so, her glance fell on a group of evergreens on the left-hand side of the roadway a few lengths farther up the track.

“There!” she cried dramatically, gesturing wildly. “There! We can drive the wagon in there, behind the evergreens. They’re just tall enough!”

With something constructive to do, even Nexa stopped her whingeing. Dowell was carefully lifted out of the wagon and covered by a sleeping fur. Then everyone concentrated on getting the wagon out of sight. Nexa was directed to brush away the tracks of the wagon as Aramina and Pell forced the dray beasts through the opening Barla parted into the copse. The artistic addition of extra branches completed the camouflage.

Then Barla sent Pell and Nexa on ahead to the cave with sleeping furs and Barla’s precious stewpot, while Aramina and her mother tried to rouse Dowell. The usual aromatic had no effect, and the two women exchanged anxious glances, when suddenly Nudge and Shove, tethered by the trace, began to moan fearfully and pull at their ring ropes.

“Thread?” gasped Barla, bending protectively over her husband.

“No,” cried Aramina, “Dragons! Big dragons!” Indeed it seemed to her as if the sky was filled with them, their great wings causing the saplings to bend to their backwind.

“Aramina, how did that dragonrider come to help us in the first place? You didn’t call him, did you?” When Aramina mutely nodded, Barla gave a despairing cry. “But the Weyrs will take you from us if they know you can hear and speak to dragons! And then what shall we do?”

“How else were we to save Father?” asked Aramina even as she, too, regretted her action.

I hear Aramina, said Heth’s unmistakable voice.

Oh, please go away, Heth. Say you can’t find me.

But I have! You must not fear. We won’t harm you. Before Aramina could speak again, three dragons skimmed neatly down onto the track, making Nudge and Shove buck and strain to be free of their tether. As one, Barla and Aramina dashed forward to prevent the escape of the dray beasts, twisting the nose rings until pain paralyzed the stupid animals.

We will move down the track, Aramina heard Heth say as she coped with the frantic Nudge. When the dragons were far enough away not to be an immediate threat, Aramina and Barla relaxed their hold.

“I am T’gellan, bronze rider of Monarth, and this is Mirrim, who rides green Path,” said the oldest of the three riders who approached them. “K’van wisely called for help to persuade those holdless raiders to absent themselves from this vicinity. So I thought we’d better make sure you had safely reached shelter before Threadfall.”

Barla hovered between her critical need for assistance and anxiety at the presence of dragonriders who might very easily depart with her daughter who could hear dragons.

Mirrim knelt beside Dowell and opened his shirt, then exhaled her breath on a long whistle.

“I can feel no broken bones, but he’s not regained consciousness,” Barla told Mirrim, sensibly making her husband’s needs her first priority.

“If he was under a wagon as K’van says, that doesn’t surprise me,” Mirrim remarked. “I’ve done considerable nursing at the Weyr. First let’s get him to this cave.”

“We don’t have much time to spare,” T’gellan added, squinting at the steep bank. “And I don’t fancy trying to haul an unconscious man up that!”

“Is there any sort of a clearing by your cave?” Mirrim asked Aramina.

“A small one,” she said, devoutly hoping that Pell’s description bore some resemblance to fact.

“Path? Would you oblige us?” Mirrim asked the green dragon.

I see no reason why not. In a maneuver that Aramina couldn’t believe she was seeing, the green dragon glided to the group without moving her wings or appearing to walk. Silly beasts, aren’t they? Path added as Nudge and Shove began their terrified lowing again.

Aramina was obliged to go calm them; their perturbation abruptly ceased as Mirrim, Path, her father, and her mother disappeared.

“Well, it seemed easier to send your mother along, too, Aramina,” T’gellan said with a laugh for her astonishment. “You’d best go the hard way. Thread will fall very shortly.”

“But I can’t … Nudge and Shove …”

K’van grinned. “Just get on one, get a good hold on the nose rein of the other. We’ll supply the impulsion.” And he jerked his thumb at the two dragons watching with their jewel eyes whirling mildly.

It was perhaps the wildest ride Aramina had ever had. In the first place, dray beasts were not designed for comfortable riding, having straight backs, wide withers, short necks and low-held heads. However, the flapping of dragon wings behind Nudge and Shove was more than enough to have sent them plunging through fire. They took the bank, cloven hooves slipping on the wet footing in no more than four bucking jumps. Momentum carried them over the top and down the dip, almost right into the cliff wall, where they fetched up to a dead stop that sent Aramina onto Nudge’s horns, and then to the ground with a force that jarred her from heel to headbones.

Pell appeared, eyes wide at her impetuous arrival.

“A girl on a green dragon brought Father and Mother. I didn’t think girls were allowed to ride fighting dragons.”

“Help me get these inside the cave before they stampede again,” Aramina said, though she had been equally surprised by Mirrim and Path.

“Oh, look, they’re going!” Pell’s disappointment was patent, as he saw the dragons hover briefly in the sky. “I’m forever missing the good parts,” he complained.

“Get Shove inside!” Aramina had no time to humor her brother, and she gave him such a hard prod that he sharply reminded her that he wasn’t any old dray beast.

He hauled on the nose rein and, lowing, Shove followed his painful muzzle—then bellowed as his hindquarters scraped along the right wall of the narrow entry. Aramina pushed at his dappled flanks and set him right. She was careful to line Nudge squarely in the opening, and to prevent any further recalcitrance she twisted his nose ring. With an injured bellow, he, too, made the passage into the cave, running into Aramina, who stopped, amazed at what lay before her.

“Isn’t this cave marvelous, ’Mina? Didn’t I find a good one? Couldn’t we get everything in here? Maybe we could even live here.” Pell dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper on the last sentence. “For it’s as big as a hold, isn’t it, ’Mina?” The boy was all but dancing at the end of Shove’s ring rein, momentarily oblivious of everything but his need for her approval.

In a sweeping glance, Aramina saw a solemn-faced Nexa cradling her father’s head where he lay on the pile of sleeping furs, and her mother busy lighting a small fire within a ring of stones before she allowed herself to examine the cave in more detail.

“Why, it is truly big enough to be a hold,” she said in a voice awed enough to delight her brother.

“It’s bigger than many holds we’ve been in, ’Mina,” Pell said with great satisfaction. “Much bigger. It’s nearly as big as any of the Igen caverns I ever was in.”

Aramina appraised the high ceiling, dry as far as she could see in the dim light filtering in from the entrance. She could sense rather than see clearly that the cave extended far beyond the immediate chamber in which they stood.

“There’s even a sort of stall place where we can tether Nudge and Shove,” he went on, babbling happily, and pulled on Shove to lead the way.

The beasts settled, Aramina and Pell came back to the front of the cavern, where Barla was coaxing the flames on the small hearth. Then a soft moan broke the silence as Dowell rolled his head from side to side in Nexa’s lap. She snatched her hands away from him, as if contact might somehow impede his recovery. With startled eyes she looked about for reassurance.

“There now, Nexa, I told you he’d come around,” said Barla, rising from the now healthy fire. “Aramina, we’ll need fresh water. As cold as you can draw it. We’ve nothing but cold compresses to ease the bruising. And hurry. Those dragonriders said that Threadfall was a matter of minutes away.”

“ ’Mina,” and Pell caught the other side of the bucket, accompanying his sister out of the cavern, “can you hear ’em yet?”

Aramina halted at the entrance, listening with every fiber in her ears, smiled at Pell, and walked quickly out.

“Show me where the water is,” she said, and Pell danced around in front of her and to their left.

“Right here! Right here!” he caroled, pointing and dancing about. “Just like I said. You won’t ever doubt me again, will you, ’Mina?”

“No, I won’t,” she said, smiling as she extended her hand into the little cascade that leaped and fell down the side of the mountain. The water was ice cold, numbing her fingers in seconds. She filled the bucket. She was just at the entrance to the cave when Pell let out an excited whoop. At the same time she heard a multitude of voices, excited and anticipatory.

“They’re here! I can see them! I saw them first!” His triumph found a lack in her talent.

“Well, I can hear them talking!”

“Can I watch the dragons fight Thread this time, ’Mina? This time can I watch?”

Aramina shushed him, examining the overhang of the cavern. Unless Thread should happen to fall at a tremendous velocity and at a slant, she couldn’t see how any of the dreaded menace could score them. Turns of familiarity with Thread had dampened her fear of it.

“Yes, I think it’s safe here for us to watch.” She placed a warning finger on her lips, and, slipping quickly inside to bring her mother the bucket of cold water, she rejoined him in the entrance.

To Pell’s keen disappointment, there wasn’t as much to watch as he’d anticipated. They could see the dragons in their ranks, suspended motionless in the clear mountain air, gleaming where wing and body reflected the sun briefly. Then the two watching children saw the sudden blurring of the sky, the silvery mist that was the leading edge of Thread.

Only then did the dragons break the temporary suspension, swooping up to meet the deadly rain, sending blossoms of fiery breath to char the parasitic Thread. Pell didn’t breathe with the wonder of the darting forays of the smaller dragons, exclaiming as he saw a long tongue of flame reach out to char a mass of Thread. Silver mist turned to black smoke and then dissipated lazily. Fire blooms traced the dragons’ progress after their ancient enemy until the hills and trees covered the distant sight from the watchers’ searching eyes.

“It didn’t last long enough,” Pell said dejectedly.

“It’ll last long enough for the dragonriders, I’m sure,” Aramina said with mild rebuke for his callousness. “Did you remember to bring the roots with you?”

“Ah, who wants to eat roots. There are acres of nuts out there.”

“Then you’ll have no trouble filling a sack, will you?” As Aramina turned back to the fire, she heard her father’s querulous voice.

“I don’t understand how you managed, with just Aramina.”

“Pell was a great help, too,” Barla said soothingly, wringing out another cold compress. She gave Aramina a quick stern glance.

“It was really very simple, Father. You keep telling us that if there was a lever long enough, we could even move Pern away from the Red Star,” Aramina said with a smile.

“This is no time for levity,” Barla said severely.

“Whyever not? Father’s conscious, we’ve got this huge big cave all to ourselves, and Pell’s gone out for more of these delicious nuts.” Expertly Aramina positioned two in her palm and cracked them. “See?” She held out the meats to Barla.

After a supper of boiled roots and crisp nut-meats, Aramina and Pell used the last of the daylight to gather fodder for Nudge and Shove, and sufficient boughs and fragrant bracken for bedding.

Tired as she was, Aramina found that sleep eluded her. She had been brought up to honor truth, and today that teaching had been disregarded for expediency. She had permitted K’van to think that they were proper holders, on their lord’s business. She had avoided truth with her father, although at Barla’s behest, so as not to worry him.

In each case the truth would confound her lies in very short order. But … K’van had chased off the Lady Holdless Thella and the band that had nearly caught up with her and her family. And … they had contrived to get Dowell safely into this cave refuge, hopefully without leaving an easy trail that Thella could follow. But … to achieve that end, she had revealed her ability to hear dragons to Benden Weyr riders. And … the dragonriders now knew exactly where she was even if Lady Holdless Thella did not. She could not imagine what punishment would be meted out to her for that daylong imprudence.

Nexa, curled close against her sister’s body, whimpered in a restless sleep. Aramina pulled the sleeping rug closely about her, stroking her arm, and Nexa subsided into sleep. For a while, she was distracted by Dowell’s breathing, a light snore because he had to sleep on his back, but its soft rhythm finally lulled Aramina to sleep.

It seemed all too short a time before Pell was urgently tugging at her shoulders and whispering excitedly in her ear.

“ ’Mina! ’Mina! K’van is here! And so is the Weyrleader! He wants to speak to you! And there are lots of strange men out there, too.”

“Here?” Frantically brushing sleep from her eyes, Aramina sat up, all too aware of yesterday’s bruises and scrapes and the dull ache across her shoulders from abused muscles.

“No, on the track. The men are armed with bows and arrows and spears and I think the dragons brought them.” Pell’s eyes were wide with excitement. K’van was just beyond him.

“It’s all right, Aramina, really it is,” said K’van, softly so as not to disturb the other sleepers. “It’s the raiders, you see.”

Careful not to rouse Nexa, Aramina slipped out from under the fur and pressed it gently down about her sister.

“The raiders are coming?” Pell’s voice slipped from whisper to harsh alarm, but Aramina quickly covered his mouth. Fear darkened his eyes as he stared at his sister.

The little one is suddenly afraid, said a surprised, richly mellow voice.

She has more to fear from the holdless. The second dragon voice was deep and dark, like a pool of the blackwater that Aramina had seen in Igen.

“I am not afraid of you.” Aramina spoke stoutly.

“Of me?” K’van asked in astonishment, his hand on his chest.

“Not you. Those dragons.” No, Aramina told herself, she was not afraid of the dragons, but of their riders and the impending justice that would be meted out for all the lies of yesterday. She hoped that K’van would not think too badly of her.

“I don’t think badly of you,” K’van protested as they stepped out into the sunlight. “Why should I? I think you were an absolute marvel yesterday, fixing that wheel and getting everyone safe inside the cave.…”

“Oh, you don’t understand,” said Aramina, trying to keep her voice from breaking.

“And neither does Heth but …”

It will come right, said Heth as if he meant it.

Then they were at the top of the bank and Aramina held on to a sapling to steady herself at the sight of masses of armed men, just as Pell had reported, and an incredible stream of dragons, taking off and landing in the track. Standing slightly apart with the enormous bronze dragon and a brown almost as big was the Weyrleader, F’lar, and his wing-leader, F’nor, talking earnestly with two men dressed in gleaming mail. A fur-trimmed cape was slung negligently over the shoulders of the younger man.

“Are those who I think they are?” asked Pell in an awed whisper. His hands clasped in his sister’s arm for reassurance. Then he stiffened, for F’nor had seen the three standing on the bank. He smiled and beckoned them down.

Aramina prayed earnestly that she wouldn’t lose her footing and arrive in an ignominious heap at the bottom of the slope. Then she felt K’van’s steadying hand. It was Pell who slipped, tumbling almost to the feet of the Weyrleader, who, with an easy laugh, gave him a hand to his feet. Then Aramina and K’van reached the group.

“How is your father today?” F’lar asked with a sympathetic smile.

“Badly bruised but sleeping, Lord F’lar,” Aramina managed to stammer. That was the correct form of address for the Weyrleader of Pern, wasn’t it? Aramina braced herself for the worst.

“We’ll hope not to disturb him, but those holdless marauders did not disperse after Threadfall.” F’lar’s slight frown indicated his annoyance with that intransigence.

“So,” F’nor took up the explanation, “Lord Asgenar plans to disperse them.” He grinned as he gestured to the tall man.

It was all Aramina could do to stand straight as she stared, appalled to be in the company of the Lord Holder whose land had been invaded by impudent holdless raiders in pursuit of a trespassing holdless family. In a daze she heard Lord Asgenar wondering why the raiders were pressing so far into his forestry. She saw that men were marching down the track, quietly but in good array.

“I’ve foresters in the top camp, although I cannot see what profit raiders could make of sawn logs,” Lord Asgenar was saying.

Now the truth must out, to save good men from Lady Holdless Thella’s brutal riders.

“It’s me.”

Aramina’s voice cracked so that her tentative admission was almost unheard. But the bronze dragon rumbled, and suddenly F’lar was regarding her with a sharp and penetrating gaze.

“You said that it was you, Aramina?”

The two men turned to gaze down at her. Pell’s fingers tightened about her arm.

You do not need to fear, child.

“Mnementh’s quite right, Aramina. Would you explain?”

“It’s me. Because I can hear dragons. And the Lady Holdless Thella …”

“Thella, is it?” exclaimed Lord Asgenar, slapping his hand onto his sword hilt. “By the first egg, I’ve been longing to meet that one.”

“Thella has been chasing you, child?”

It was such a relief to admit to the first truth that her confession was almost incoherent, except that between her words Aramina kept hearing the reassurances of three dragon voices in her head, calming her, bidding her speak more slowly and above all not to be worried about a thing.

“So, Thella thinks to Search for what is the Weyr’s by right?” F’lar’s amber eyes flashed with a fire no less frightening than dragon breath. “And you and your family left Igen Cave only ten days ago? You have traveled hard to escape that woman. Where did you come from?”

“Last Turn my father bonded himself to Keroonbeastmaster.…”

“Then you are Keronese?”

“No, Lord F’lar. My father and mother had a small forest hold in Ruatha …”

Aramina stopped in midsentence, startled by the play of surprise and comprehension that flashed across the faces of the dragonriders.

“Lessa should have come, after all, F’lar,” F’nor said, grinning with some private amusement at the Weyrleader.

“So Fax made your family holdless, Aramina.” F’lar’s voice was kind, though his eyes still sparkled.

Unable to speak, Aramina nodded.

“And your father was a forester?” Lord Asgenar’s question was eager.

Again Aramina could only nod.

“He’s the best wood joiner and carver in all Pern,” Pell spoke up, sensing a sympathy in their audience that Aramina, immersed in guilt, could not appreciate.

“Is he now? I thought as much.” F’lar took up the conversation, giving Aramina a chance to regain her poise. “That’s a very well made Gather wagon you hide so neatly. We almost didn’t spot it, did we, Asgenar?”

“Well hidden indeed. But I must go on, F’lar, F’nor. My men are assembled. I’m leaving men to guard your cave, Aramina, so you will have absolutely nothing to fear from our Lady Holdless Thella. Not now or again. We’ll see to that.”

And, at his signal, two men ranged behind Aramina, K’van, and Pell. As Aramina watched the tall young Lord Holder stride down the track to join his men, she began to feel secure for the first time since her first encounter with Thella and Giron.

“We must leave, too,” F’lar said to F’nor. “Can’t let them sight dragons in the sky near this mountain. Aramina. K’van brings some medicines for your father from our healer.”

“We do not like to be beholden to anyone,” Aramina replied, as her parents had drilled her to say to any such well-meant offers. “We have all we need with us.” She caught her lip to be telling yet another untruth.

“But we,”—and F’lar bowed slightly toward her—“are beholden to you for luring that hellion Thella near enough to grab her.”

“Oh!”

“Take the medicines, child. Ease your father’s injuries,” said F’nor, clasping Aramina’s shoulders in his warm, gentle hands. He gave her a kindly little squeeze. “And don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” Aramina replied, for she wasn’t. Not of the weyrmen. But what would her proud father say of her actions over the past two days?

Then both dragonriders quickly vaulted to their waiting dragons, swinging nimbly up onto the neck ridges. With mighty leaps that sent dust, pebbles, and bruised leaves flying, the two beasts launched themselves upward. Suddenly the trace was empty of dragons and men, and only the two soldiers and the youngsters remained to hear the morning breeze sighing through the forest.

“I wonder if they’d have taken me along to see Thella get trounced,” Pell said, cocking his head around and beaming at the soldiers.

“Well now, lad, you should have asked, shouldn’t you?” said the older guard. “Now, young lady, if you’ll just lead the way to this cave of yours …”

“K’van, where’s Heth got to? You’re here. Where’s he?” Pell wanted to know, looking all about him as if the bronze dragon might be roosting in a nearby tree.

“He’s up at the cave, Pell. Probably asleep in that small clearing … if it’s big enough. Dragons like the sun and we had a very busy day yesterday.”

“And a busy one so far today, too,” Pell said amiably, digging his toes into the damp mulch of the bank.

“You could do with some steps cut in this bank,” said the younger soldier, who had just slipped as far as he had come.

“Oh, we couldn’t do that,” Pell replied, horrified. “We don’t really live in that cave. Though I’d sure like to,” he added with such ingenuousness that the older guard chuckled. “Can you make a good snare?” he asked him. “ ’Cause that cave is just crawling with tunnel snakes. They’d make mighty good eating after months and months of nothing but roots and fish.”

“I tie a pretty good snare,” K’van said, grabbing a sapling to pull himself onto the top of the ridge.

“You? But you’re a dragonrider.”

“I wasn’t always,” K’van admitted, grinning over Pell’s head at Aramina. “Before I was a dragonrider I was a very lowly weyrboy, and small. Just the right size to set snares for tunnel snakes. My foster mother used to give an eighth of a mark for every fifty snakes we caught.”

“Really?” Pell was awed by the thought of riches beyond the eating. “Well,” and Pell recovered from his awe, “I’m bloody good at snake-snaring, too, aren’t I, Aramina?”

“Not if you use the word ‘bloody’ you aren’t,” she said in reproof, not wishing the soldiers to think that the holdless were also mannerless.

They had reached the clearing—and there was Heth, curled in a tight ball that just fit in the available space. The soldiers grinned as Pell, eyes wide, carefully circled the sleeping bronze dragon.

“The cave is where, young lady?” asked the guard leader.

Aramina pointed. “There!”

“There’s water just to the right,” Pell said hospitably, “and there’s a whole grove of nuts just beyond the copse if you’re hungry.”

“Thank’ee, lad, we’ve rations with us.” The guard patted a bulging pouch. “Though a drink of cold water would be welcome. Traveling between sort of dries a man’s mouth of spit. You go on in, tell your folks not to worry. We’ll be out here on guard.”

“I’d rather stay with you,” Pell said confidentially.

Aramina caught the guard’s expression and hastily vetoed that option.

“Aw, Aramina, you had all the fun yesterday.”

“Fun?” Aramina got a firm grip on his arm and pulled him ruthlessly toward the cave entrance.

“Later, perhaps, Pell,” K’van said in the role of conciliator, “after you’ve eaten your breakfast, for I know I woke you out of a sound sleep. I’ve got enough klah here to serve everyone, and some bread, because Mende knew you wouldn’t have had a chance to bake yesterday.” K’van’s engaging grin dared Aramina to reject the treats.

“Bread? Klah? What else do you have in that sack, K’van?” Pell, displaying the manners of the worst Igen holdless riffraff, tried to pull open the neck of the sack for a glimpse of its contents.

“Pell!” Aramina’s shocked whisper reminded her brother of their sleeping parents as well as his manners.

“But, ’Mina, do you know how long it is since we had klah?”

“I’ve promised to make it for the guards, ’Mina,” K’van said in a voice that had brought many around to indulge his whimsies. “Surely a cup between friends …”

She relented, though she was sure to receive a scolding on that account as well as for her other errors. But a cup of klah would do much to ease the trembling in her stomach and knees, and give her the energy to bear whatever other shocks this day might hold for her.

The aroma, as it steeped, roused the sleepers, though Barla’s first conscious act was to peer in her husband’s face, reassured by the soft snores that emanated from his slightly open mouth. Only then did Barla react to the fragrance of the brewing klah.

“We had no klah,” she said, frowning at Aramina before she recognized K’van beside the little hearth.

“My foster mother, Mende, sent it along with fellis and numbweed salve to ease your husband’s injury,” said K’van, rising to bring her a cup of the fresh brew. He smiled with a shy charm to which Barla was scarcely impervious.

Aramina regarded the young bronze rider with astonishment.

“My Weyrleaders insisted that I return to see if he is recovering from the accident.”

“That is kind of you, young K’van, but unnecessary. We do not care to be beholden to anyone.” Barla pretended not to see the cup he offered, but Aramina saw her mother’s nostrils twitch in appreciation of the aromatic steam.

K’van gave her another of his charming smiles. “I’m weyr-bred, you know,” he said, undaunted, “so I know how you feel about being under obligation.” When he saw Barla’s incredulous expression, he went on. “Before the Pass began, Benden Weyr was begrudged every jot and tittle … because”—and now his voice became querulous and his eyes took on a merry twinkle for his impersonation—“everyone knows that Thread won’t fall on Pern again!” He grinned impishly at Barla’s astonishment and her sudden realization that Benden had indeed once been relegated to a state not much different from that of the holdless: tolerated when unavoidable, ignored when possible, and condemned on every occasion for uselessness. “Drink, good lady, and enjoy it. Mende also sent along bread, knowing you’d’ve had no chance to bake yesterday.”

“Mother, could we not send Mende one of the wooden spoons Father carved at Igen?” Aramina ventured to suggest to salve her mother’s sensibility.

“Yes, an exchange is always permissible,” Barla replied and, inclining her head graciously, finally accepted the cup of klah.

Relieved by her mother’s capitulation, Aramina carefully cut a thick slice of the round loaf, spreading it generously with the jam that K’van had also extracted from his sack of surprises. She bent a stern glance on Pell when he started to devour the treat ravenously.

Only when she had served the others did Aramina eat, savoring the klah and the thick, crunchy bread spread with the berry jam. Daintily she even rescued the crumbs from her lap with a moistened fingertip. When K’van and Pell went outside to serve the guards, Barla summoned Aramina to the sleeping furs, where she was delicately smearing numbweed salve on the livid bruises on Dowell’s chest.

“Why is that rider still here?”

“He came back this morning, Mother.” Then Aramina took a deep breath, realizing that only the truth would serve. Evasion was as dishonest as lying, whatever her motive. The presence of the dragonriders and Lord Asgenar would ensure the safety of everyone. With complete candor she accounted for her part in the events of the past day and this morning. “And the Benden Weyrleader was just here with Lord Asgenar and his men because Lady Holdless Thella has followed us. Lord Asgenar is using this opportunity to ambush her and that horrid band of hers. So we’ll be safe now because Lord Asgenar and Lord F’lar think father built a fine Gather wagon. And truly, they did call it a Gather wagon just as if that’s all it ever has been.”

“That’s what it was made for,” said Dowell in a sad voice, slightly shaken by the pain of the shallow breaths he took to speak.

“Here, Dowell. Drink this fellis,” Barla said, raising the carved wooden cup to his lips.

“Fellis? We had no fellis!”

“We have it now, Dowell. Don’t be so proud it hurts!” Barla said, suspending pride in the interests of healing her husband.

Thus abjured, Dowell swallowed the dose, closing his eyes at the pain even that minor movement caused his swollen flesh.

Barla saw Aramina’s tender concern. “The numbweed will be taking effect soon. I am truly grateful to this Mende. I think a spoon and one of the sandstone bowls. A woman can never have too many of them.” She sighed. “I am truly grateful to her. And …” She turned to Dowell, who had closed his eyes in tacit accord. “I think that we must be grateful to you, daughter … in spite of the fact that you seem to have forgotten all we have tried to instill in you of manners and conduct.”

Aramina bowed her head, assuming a contrite pose. Then she realized that although her mother’s voice was sharp, there was no bite to her words. Discipline required a scolding, but this time it was only the form that was obeyed, not the spirit. Aramina looked up and tried not to smile at this unexpected absolution.

“ ’Mina, if Lord Asgenar …,” Dowell began in a voice no stronger than a whisper, speaking in short phrases between the shallow breaths he took, “… favors us … with his presence again … we must request … formal permission to stay … in this cave … until I am able … to continue our journey.”

“I’ll tell him. And I’ll mention it to the guard as well.”

Dowell nodded again, closing his eyes, his mouth beginning to relax a little as fellis and numbweed gave him surcease. Barla rose and, motioning Aramina to follow her, left his side.

“It is a good dry cave, ’Mina,” she said, as if this were the first chance she had had to inspect it. “There are guards? We must not fail in hospitality.”

“Pell remembered to offer, Mother, and they say they have their own rations.”

“That is not to the point, ’Mina, and you know it. Would there be more roots in the patch Nexa found yesterday? And nuts, too? For they make a tasty flat bread.”

Aramina schooled her features not to betray her dismay, for it took a great many nuts to make a decent quantity of nut flour, and the grinding took hours.

“I’ll get nuts, and there may be some wild onions, too,” she said, aware of her narrow escape from punishment and determined to be dutiful today.

“Where’s Pell? He ought to accompany you.”

“He’s with K’van, Mother.” Aramina picked up her sack, cleaned her belt knife, and sheathed it. She glanced about in the habit of someone used to thinking ahead on chores before she left.

Pell was not with the guards, nor was K’van, although Heth’s bronze hide was visible through the trees.

“The boys have gone off to set a wherry snare,” the older guard told Aramina with a grin for such youthful pastimes. “There’s roosts there.” He pointed over the rocky saddle leading to a farther dell.

“A roast wherry would be a real treat for all of us,” Aramina said, smiling to include both guards.

“Oh, aye, that it would, young lady.” When Aramina started toward the nut plantation, he caught her by the arm. “It’s you we’re guarding. Where are you going?”

“Only over that ridge”—Aramina pointed to the south—“for nuts.”

“I’ll just have a look-see.” The guard strode along with her, past the sleeping Heth, and up the long slope.

He halted, catching her arm again, as he looked down into the peaceful grove. The nut trees, well grown, were so thick-branched that they had inhibited any undergrowth that the acid of the nut mast had not killed. The approach of humans had sent the wood snakes scurrying, and only the last vestiges of the summer’s insects flitted about. Nuts were visible in plenty.

“I’ll give you a hand,” the guard said, seeing that it was a matter of scooping up the fallen tree fruits.

With two willing pairs of hands, Aramina’s sack was filled in short order.

“How much do you need?” the man asked when Aramina began to make a carryall of her jerkin.

“Mother has a mind for nut bread.”

The man raised his eyes skyward. “It do be tasty, and you might just need enough”—he winked broadly at her—“to stuff that wherry your brother plans to snare. I’ll just fetch these to your mother. Don’t stray now.”

Aramina didn’t stray, but in gathering she headed toward the far edge of the grove, wondering what other edibles might be found. She filled her jerkin as she moved, and had it stuffed to overflowing when she reached the boundary. There the land fell away into broken boulders. She looked up to the top of the mountain on whose flank she stood. She could see down to a twist of the river rushing through a gorge, just visible through the wintry forest. To be alone, after so many Turns of overcrowding, was a rare treat for Aramina. Maybe Lord Asgenar’s gratitude would indeed extend to a longer stay for her family in the cave. It could be made quite tenable, she was sure, even in the coldest weather. Why, they could make stalls for Nudge and Shove, and if Lord Asgenar didn’t object, maybe cut steps up the bank. From the fallen trees, they could fashion furniture. Her father could even season wood in the dry rear of the cave and have his own workshop. Her imagination embellished the dazzling possibilities. And then, being a practical girl, she sighed at her folly. She would be content enough to have a secure and private dwelling for as long as it took her father’s chest to heal. She mustn’t be greedy.

She listened then, as the breeze caressed her face, to what other sounds might be carried up from the river. She wondered if the ambush had been sprung and if she’d hear the sounds of battle. She shivered. Much as she feared Lady Holdless Thella and Giron, she wished only an end to their threat, not their lives.

She heard the faint sound of someone treading close and, thinking it was the guard returning, was taken completely by surprise as a rough hand covered her mouth and strong ones pinned her arms to her sides.

“It falls out well, after all, Giron,” said a harsh voice, and Aramina’s head was pulled cruelly back by her hair so that she looked up into the stained, sweaty face of Lady Holdless Thella. “We have snared the wild wherry after all, and the trap she laid is bare for Asgenar.”

Heth! Heth! Help me! Thella! Even if Giron’s heavy hand had not covered her mouth, Aramina was completely paralyzed by fear. Her mind idiotically repeated the one syllable that meant rescue. Heth! Heth! Heth!

Giron growled at Aramina as he began to manhandle her across the grove. “Don’t struggle, girl, or I’ll knock you senseless. Maybe I ought to, Thella,” he added, cocking his big fist in preparation. “If she can hear dragons, they can hear her.”

“She’s never been near a Weyr!” Thella’s reply was contemptuous, but the notion, now Giron had planted it, gave her a moment’s pause. Her face contorted with anger, she gave Aramina’s hair another savage jerk. “Don’t even think of calling for a dragon.”

Aramina couldn’t have stopped her mind’s chant, but she frantically rolled her eyes as if complying with Thella’s order. Anything to relieve the pain of her scalp.

“Too late!” Giron threw Aramina from him, a heave that left a hunk of her hair and scalp in Thella’s hand and Aramina teetering on the brink of a drop. A drop that was blocked by Heth, his eyes whirling red and orange in anger. He bellowed, sinuously weaving in among the trees, chasing Thella and Giron. From the other side of the grove came the two guards, Pell, and K’van, shouting imprecations. Aramina saw Giron and Thella disappear into the woods. The guards ran past in full pelt, but Heth had to stop at the edge of the grove, the forest being too dense for him to penetrate. He continued to bellow in fury, even after K’van reached him.

Shaking with reaction to her frightening experience, Aramina slumped against the nearest bulge-nut tree, clasping it for support and trying not to weep so childishly.

“ ’Mina! What happened to you?” Pell knelt beside her, his hand hovering over the bleeding scalp wound. “It was really Thella? Who else was with her?”

K’van was beside her, patting her shoulders.

“You did the right thing, ’Mina. Heth heard you and told me. We were setting snares. Heth’s called for reinforcements. They won’t get away. If there hadn’t been so many trees, Heth would’ve caught ’em already!”

“Dragons,” she said in gasps, “aren’t built … to run in forests.” Sniffing, she pointed to Heth, who was retracing his way, weaving in and out of the trees, snarling as one wing caught on a protruding branch. He looked so funny; she oughtn’t to laugh at the dear dragon who had saved her from Thella and Giron, but it was funny, and she began to giggle and then couldn’t stop her laughing.

“What’s so funny!” demanded Pell, outraged by his sister’s laughter.

“I expect she’s a bit hysterical. Not that I blame her. You take her other arm, Pell. We’ve got to get her back to the cave.”

“What about Heth?”

Heth rejoined them, his roars now reduced to belly rumbles.

I told her I was coming! I told her I heard her! Didn’t you hear me, ’Mina? Heth curled his neck around K’van to peer anxiously up at Aramina.

Hiccuping somewhere between laughter and tears, Aramina speechlessly patted Heth’s muzzle.

I was so scared … even her thought hiccuped … I couldn’t even hear myself.

“Shards!” said K’van as a whoosh of wind signaled the arrival of a wing of dragons. Heth swiveled his head toward the display.

The guards chase them through the woods!

As the three youngsters watched, Aramina marveling at the snippets of conversations she caught in the confusion of orders given and received, the dragons began to peel off from the wing formation, going in all directions in a search for the renegades.

“T’gellan’s leading the wing,” K’van informed them, deftly picking out of the stream the information that escaped Aramina. “They’ll search. We’re to get back to the cave.”

“Oh, my sackful of nuts!” cried Aramina.

“Nuts, she worries about! At a time like this!” Pell was disgusted.

Aramina started to cry again, unable to stop the tears. “Mother needs them for bread flour.…”

“I’ll come back for ’em,” exclaimed Pell at the top of his voice in frustration. “I’ll come back!”

Not completely reassured, since she knew her brother so well, Aramina was nonetheless willing to be helped back to the cave. Her mother, after her first startlement, bathed and salved Aramina’s scalp and the other scratches she had received from the rough handling. If Barla did so with compressed lips and a decidedly pale face, she did not scold Aramina. Pell, under K’van’s stern eye, had gone back for the nuts and Aramina’s jerkin. K’van brewed more klah, a very welcome cup that infused Aramina’s cold stomach with welcome heat.

Aramina, Lessa waits without, said Heth. For your mother, too.

“Mother, we’re wanted outside,” Aramina said.

“By whom?”

“By Lessa, the Weyrwoman of Pern,” said K’van. “Heth just relayed the message.”

Barla looked at her daughter as if she had never really seen her clearly before.

“You don’t just hear dragons,” she said in a puzzled voice, “they hear you, and they talk to you, and you can answer them?”

“A very useful knack,” K’van said with a grin; then he added, “Lessa’s waiting.”

“Is she angry with me?” Aramina asked timorously.

“Why would she be angry with you?” K’van asked, puzzled.

We could not be angry with you, Aramina, said the most beautiful dragon voice that Aramina had yet heard.

“C’mon.” K’van took Aramina firmly by the arm to haul her out of the cave. “You don’t keep Lessa waiting.”

Aramina’s first impression of the slender figure standing in the clearing was surprise. The Weyrwoman of Benden was so small in stature: a full head shorter than Aramina. But, once Aramina confronted Lessa, the vivid eyes and the forceful personality made her forget about such a trivial detail as height. Nor had Heth mentioned that F’lar and Lord Asgenar also waited.

“My dear child, are you quite all right?” Lessa’s expression turned anxious as her hand hovered over the ugly bare patch on Aramina’s head.

“I don’t know how that villian Thella eluded us,” said Asgenar, his teeth clenched with frustration. “We have captured the rest of her band. Fewer to trouble you, and us. I am most chagrined, Aramina, that despite our precautions you were put at risk.”

“I’m fine, really, Lord Asgenar. Heth saved me. And Mother had the fellis and numbweed.”

“We are extremely grateful to you,” Barla put in, “for those generous gifts.”

“Generous!” Lessa made a scathing remark. “I would be a lot more generous, Lady Barla, if your stiff Ruathan pride would permit.”

Nothing could have startled Barla more, but, though she permitted a slight smile to curve her lips, to Aramina she seemed to be more prideful than ever.

“We Ruathans have reason to be proud, Lady Lessa.”

“But not stupid in that pride, Lady Barla. Lytol tells me that Dowell’s hold is still vacant. Deserted, needing repairs, for no one under Fax’s holding prospered. Would you prefer to return there? Lord Asgenar”—Asgenar bowed at his name—“is also interested in anyone with wood mastery.”

Barla looked from one to the other. “Ruatha is ours by right.”

“So be it, Lady Barla,” Lessa said, and, from the way her mouth twitched, Aramina was certain that she applauded the answer.

“However, Lord Asgenar, I am certain that my husband would be glad to build you a Gather wagon … to acquit our lodging here.”

“Only if he also accepts the marks his Craft allots for the labor,” said Asgenar with a wide grin.

“Of course, Aramina is for Benden Weyr,” Lessa went on, her eyes now fixed on Barla’s face.

“But I want to go home, to Ruatha!” cried Aramina, clinging to her mother now; clinging, too, to the dream on which she had been nourished from childhood, the return to the place of her birth, where her family belonged.

“A girl who hears dragons belongs to the Weyr,” said Barla, firmly taking Aramina’s hands and pressing them hard.

“It’s not as if you can’t visit any time you want to,” Lessa said lightly. “I do. Though we of Ruatha serve our Weyrs whenever we are called to.”

Please, ’Mina. Heth’s tremulous whisper invaded her conflicting thoughts. Please come to Benden with me and K’van. We’d love to have you.

You will be most welcome in Benden Weyr, said the dark, black, rich voice of Mnementh.

“There are eggs hardening on Benden Hatching Ground right now,” Lessa went on, her voice persuasive. “Benden needs a girl who can hear dragons.”

“More than my family needs me?” asked Aramina perversely.

“Far more, as you’ll discover,” said Lessa, holding her hand out to Aramina. “Coming?”

“I don’t have a choice, do I?” But Aramina smiled.

“Not when Lessa, and Benden’s dragons, have made up your mind for you,” said F’lar with a laugh.

From the track, dragons bellowed an emphatic agreement.

Tenna topped the rise and paused to catch her breath, leaning forward, hands on her knees to ease her back muscles. Then, as she had been taught, she walked along the top on what flat space there was, kicking out her legs and shaking the thigh muscles, breathing through her mouth until she stopped panting. Taking her water bottle from her belt, she allowed herself a swig, swishing it around in her mouth to moisturize the dry tissue. She spat out that mouthful and took another, letting this one slowly trickle down her throat. The night was cool enough to keep her from sweating too heavily. But she wouldn’t be standing around long enough to get a chill.

It didn’t take long for her breath to return to normal, and she was pleased by that. She was in good shape. She kicked out her legs to ease the strain she had put on them to make the height. Then, settling her belt and checking the message pouch, she started down the hill at a rapid walking pace. It was too dark—Belior had not yet risen above the plain to give her full light for the down side of the hill—to be safe to run in shadows. She only knew this part of the trace by word of mouth, not actually footing it. She’d done well so far during this, her second Turn of running, and had made most of her first Cross by the suggested easy laps. Runners watched out for one another, and no station manager would overtax a novice. With any luck, she’d’ve made it all the way to the Western Sea in the next sevenday. This was the first big test of her apprenticeship as an express runner. And really she’d only the Western Range left to cross once she got to Fort Hold.

Halfway down from the top of the rise, she met the ridge crest she’d been told about and, with the usual check of the pouch she carried, she picked up her knees and started the ground-eating lope that was the pride of a Pernese runner.

Of course, the legendary “lopers”—the ones who had been able to do a hundred miles in a day—had perished ages ago, but their memory was kept alive. Their endurance and dedication were an example to everyone who ran the traces of Pern. There hadn’t been many of them, according to the legend, but they had started the runner stations when the need for the rapid delivery of messages arose, during the First Fall of Thread. Lopers had been able to put themselves in some sort of trance which not only allowed them to run extended distances but kept them warm during snowstorms and in freezing temperatures. They had also planted the original traces, which now were a network crisscrossing the entire continent.

While only Lord Holders and Craftmasters could afford to keep runnerbeasts for their couriers, the average person, wanting to contact crafthalls, relatives, or friends across Pern, could easily afford to express a letter across the continent in runner pouches, carried from station to station. Others might call them “holds,” but runners had always had “stations,” and station agents, as part of their craft history. Drum messages were great for short messages, if the weather was right and the winds didn’t interrupt the beat, but as long as folks wanted to send written messages there’d be runners to take them.

Tenna often thought proudly of the tradition she was carrying on. It was a comfort on long solitary journeys. Right now, the running was good: the ground was firm but springy, a surface that had been assiduously maintained since the ancient runners had planted it. Not only did the mossy stuff make running easier but it identified a runner’s path. A runner would instantly feel the difference in the surface, if he, or she, strayed off the trace.

Slowly, as full Belior rose behind her, her way became illuminated by the moon’s light and she picked up her pace, running easily, breathing freely, her hands carried high, chest height, with elbows tucked in. No need to leave a “handle,” as her father called it, to catch the wind and slow the pace. At times like these, with good footing, a fair light, and a cool evening, you felt like you could run forever. If there weren’t a sea to stop you.

She ran on, able to see the flow of the ridge, and by the time the trace started to descend again, Belior was high enough to light her way. She saw the stream ahead and slowed cautiously … though she’d been told that the ford had a good pebbly surface … and splashed through the ankle-high cold water, up onto the bank, veering slightly south, picking up the trace again by its springy surface.

She’d be over halfway now to Fort Hold and should make it by dawn. This was a well-traveled route, southwest along the coast to the farther Holds. Most of what she carried right now was destined for Fort Holders, so it was the end of the line for both the pouch and herself. She’d heard so much about the facilities at Fort that she didn’t quite believe it. Runners tended to understatement rather than exaggeration. If a runner told you a trace was dangerous, you believed it! But what they said about Fort was truly amazing.

Tenna came from a running family: father, uncles, cousins, grandfathers, brothers, sisters, and two aunts were all out and about the traces that crisscrossed Pern from Nerat Tip to High Reaches Hook, from Benden to Boll.

“It’s bred in us,” her mother had said, answering the queries of her younger children. Cesila managed a large runner station, just at the northern Lemos end of the Keroon plains where the immense sky-broom trees began. Strange trees that flourished only in that region of Pern. Trees that, a much younger Tenna had been sure, were where the Benden Weyr dragons took a rest in their flights across the continent. Cesila had laughed at Tenna’s notion.

“The dragons of Pern don’t need to rest anywhere, dear. They just go between to wherever they need to go. You probably saw some of them out hunting their weekly meal.”

In her running days, Cesila had completed nine full Crosses a Turn until she’d married another runner and started producing her own bag of runners-to-be.

“Lean we are in the breeding, and leggy, most of us, with big lungs and strong bones. Ah, there now, a few come out who’re more for speed than distance but they’re handy enough at Gathers, passing the winning line before the others have left the starting ribbon. We have our place on the world same as holders and even weyrfolk. Each to his, or her, own. Weaver and tanner, and farmer, and fisher, and smith and runner and all.”

“That’s not the way we was taught to sing the Duty Song,” Tenna’s younger brother had remarked.

“Maybe,” Cesila had said with a grin, “but it’s the way I sing it and you can, too. I must have a word with the next harper through here. He can change his words if he wants us to take his messages.” And she gave her head one of her emphatic shakes to end that conversation.

As soon as runner-bred children reached full growth, they were tested to see if they’d the right Blood for the job. Tenna’s legs had stopped growing by the time she’d reached her fifteenth full Turn. That was when she was assessed by a senior runner of another Bloodline. Tenna had been very nervous, but her mother, in her usual offhanded way, had given her lanky daughter a long knowing look.

“Nine children I’ve given your father, Fedri, and four are already runners. You’ll be one, too, never fear.”

“But Sedra’s …”

Cesila held up her hand. “I know your sister’s mated and breeding but she did two Crosses before she found a man she had to have. So she counts, too. Gotta have proper Bloodlines to breed proper runners and it’s us who do that.” Cesila paused to be sure Tenna would not interrupt again. “I came from a hold with twelve, all of them runners. And all breeding runners. You’ll run, girl. Put your mind at ease. You’ll run.” Then she’d laughed. “It’s for how long, not will you, for a female.”

Tenna had decided a long time ago—when she had first been considered old enough to mind her younger siblings—that she’d prefer running to raising runners. She’d run until she could no longer lift her knees. She’d an aunt who’d never mated: ran until she was older than Cesila was now and then took over the management of a connecting station down Igen way. Should something happen and she couldn’t run anymore, Tenna wouldn’t mind managing a station. Her mother ran hers proper, always had hot water ready to ease a runner’s aching limbs, good food, comfortable beds, and healing skills that rivaled what you could find in any Hold. And it was always exciting, for you never knew who might run in that day, or where they’d be going. Runners crossed the continent regularly, bringing with them news from other parts of Pern. Many had interesting tales to tell of problems on the trace and how to cope with them. You heard all about other Holds and Halls, and the one dragonweyr, as well as what interested runners most specifically: what conditions were like and where traces might need maintenance after a heavy rain or landslide.

She was mightily relieved, however, when her father said he had asked Mallum of the Telgar station to do her assessment. At least Tenna had met the man on those occasions when he’d been through to their place on the edge of Keroon’s plains. Like other runners, he was a lanky length of man, with a long face and graying hair that he tied back with his sweatband as most runners did.

Her parents didn’t tell her when Mallum was expected, but he turned up one bright morning, handing in a pouch to be logged on the board by the door and then limping to the nearest seat.

“Bruised the heel. We’ll have to rock that south trace again. I swear it grows new ones every Turn or two,” he said, mopping his forehead with his orange sweatband and thanking Tenna for the cup of water. “Cesila, got some of that sheer magic poultice of yours?”

“I do. Put the kettle to heat the moment I saw you struggling up the trace.”

“Was not struggling,” Mallum said in jovial denial. “Was careful not to put the heel down was all.”

“Don’t try to fool me, you spavined gimper,” Cesila replied as she was dipping a poultice sack into the heated water, testing it with a finger.

“Who’s to run on? Some orders in that need to be got south smartly.”

“I’m taking it on,” Fedri said, coming out of his room and tying on his sweatband. “How urgent?” His runner’s belt was draped over his shoulder. “I’ve others to add from the morning’s eastern run.”

“Hmmm. They want to make the Igen Gather.”

“Ha! It’ll be there betimes,” Fedri said, reaching for the pouch and carefully adding the other messages to it before he put it through the belt loops. Settling it in the small of his back with one hand, he chalked up the exchange time with the other. “See you.”

Then he was out the door and turning south, settling into his long-distance stride almost as soon as his foot hit the moss of the trace.

Tenna, knowing what was needed, had already pulled a footstool over to Mallum. She looked up at him for permission and, with his nod, unlaced the right shoe, feeling the fine quality of the leather. Mallum made his own footwear and he had set the stitching fine and tight.

Cesila knelt beside her daughter, craning her head to see the bruise.

“Hmmm. Hit it early on, didn’tcha?”

“I did,” Mallum said, drawing his breath in with a hiss as Cesila slapped the poultice on. “Oooooh! Shards … you didn’t get it too hot, didja?”

Cesila sniffed denial in reply as she neatly and deftly tied the packet to his foot.

“And is this the lass of yours as is to be taken for a run?” he asked, relaxing his expression from the grimace he’d made when the poultice was first applied. “Prettiest of the bunch.” And he grinned at Tenna.

“Handsome is as handsome does,” Cesila said. “Looks is all right but long legs is better. Tenna’s her name.”

“Handsome’s not a bad thing to be, Cesila, and it’s obvious your daughter takes after you.”

Cesila sniffed again but Tenna could see that her mother didn’t mind Mallum’s remarks. And Cesila was a handsome woman: lithe still and slender, with graceful hands and feet. Tenna wished she were more like her mother.

“Nice long line of leg,” Mallum went on approvingly. He beckoned for Tenna to come closer and had a good look at the lean muscles, then asked to see her bare feet. Runners tended to walk barefooted a lot. Some even ran barefooted. “Good bone. Hmmm. Nice lean frame. Hmm. Not a pick on you, girl. Hope you can keep warm enough in winter like that.” That was such an old runner comment, but his jollity was encouraging and Tenna was ever so glad that Mallum was her assessor. He was always pleasant on his short stops at Station 97. “We’ll take a short one tomorrow when this foot’s eased.”

More runners came in so Cesila and Tenna were busy, checking in messages, sorting the packets for the changeovers, serving food, heating water for baths, tending scratched legs. It was spring of the year and most runners only used leggings during the coldest months.

Enough stayed the night so there was good chatter and gossip to entertain. And prevent Tenna from worrying about satisfying her assessor on the morning.

A runner had come in late that night, on her way north, with some messages to be transferred to an eastern route. His heel bruise much eased, Mallum thought he could take those on.

“It’s a good testing trot,” he said, and gestured for Tenna to slip the message pouch on her belt. “I’ll travel light, girl.” His grin was teasing, for the pouch weighed little more than the wherhide it was made from. “First, lemme see what you wear on your feet.”

She showed him her shoes, the most important part of a runner’s gear. She’d used her family’s special oils to soften the wherhide and then formed it on the lasts that had been carved for her feet by her uncle who did them for her Bloodline. Her stitches were neat but not as fine as Mallum’s. She intended to improve. Meanwhile, this pair wasn’t a bad effort and fit her feet like gloves. The spikes were medium length as fit for the present dry trace conditions. Most long-distance runners carried an extra pair with shorter spikes for harder ground, especially during spring and summer. She was working on her winter footwear, hoping she’d need it, for those boots came up to midcalf and required a lot more conditioning. Even they were of lighter weight than the footgear holders would use. But then most holders plodded and the thicker leather was suitable for their tasks as fine soft hide was right for a runner’s foot.

Mallum nodded in approval as he handed back her shoes. Now he checked the fit of her belt to be sure it was snug enough not to rub against the small of her back as she ran, and made certain that her short trunks would not pull against her leg and that her sleeveless top covered her backside well below her waist to help prevent her getting a kidney chill. Stopping often from a need to relieve oneself ruined the rhythm of a run.

“We’ll go now,” Mallum said, having assured himself that she was properly accoutred.

Cesila stood in the door, gave her daughter a reassuring nod, and saw them off, up the eastern trace. Before they were out of sight, she gave the particular runner yodel that stopped them in their tracks. They saw her pointing skyward: at the arrow formation of dragons in the sky, a most unusual sight these days when the dragons of Benden Weyr were so rarely seen.

To see dragons in the sky was the best sort of omen. They were there … and then they weren’t! She smiled. Too bad runners couldn’t just think themselves to their destinations the way dragons could. As if he had shared her thought, Mallum grinned back at her and then turned to face the direction in which they were headed, and any nervousness Tenna had had disappeared. When he sprang off again, she was in step with him by the third stride. He nodded again approvingly.

“Running’s not just picking up your heels and showing them to those behind you,” Mallum said, his eyes watching the trace ahead, though he must have known it as well as Tenna did. “A good bit of proper running is learning to pace yourself and your stride. It’s knowing the surfaces of the traces you have to traverse. It’s knowing how to save your strength so you’ll last the longer hauls. When to ease back to a walk, when and how to drink and eat so’s you’re not too gutty to run right. It’s learning the routes of the various Crosses and what sort of weather you might have to run through … and learning to maneuver on snowrunners on the northern Crosses. And, most important, when to take cover and just let the weather have its way with the world and you safe out of it. So’s the messages and the packets you carry will get through as soon as possible.”

She had responded with a nod of appreciation. Not that she hadn’t heard the same lecture time and again in the station from every relative and runner. But this time it was for her benefit and she owed Mallum the courtesy of listening closely. She did watch Mallum’s stride, though, to be sure his heel wasn’t bothering him. He caught her glance once and gave her a grin.

“Be sure you carry a wedge of that poultice on any long laps, girl. You never know, you know, when you might need it. As I just did.” And he grimaced, reminding Tenna that even the best runner can put a foot wrong.

While no runner carries much, the long-tailed orange sweatband that runners invariably wore could be used to strap a strain or sprain. An oiled packet, no larger than the palm of a hand, had a cloth soaked in numbweed which both cleansed and eased the scratches one could acquire from time to time. Simple remedies for the most common problems. A wedge of poultice could be added to such travel gear and be well worth its weight.

Tenna had no trouble making that lap with Mallum even when he picked up the pace on the flat section.

“Running with a pretty girl’s not hard to do,” he told her when they took one brief pause.

She wished he didn’t make so much of her looks. They wouldn’t help her run any better or help her become what she wanted to be: a top runner.

By the time they reached Irma’s station at midday, she was not even breathing very hard. But the moment Mallum slowed, he limped slightly with his full weight on the heel.

“Hmm. Well, I can wait out the day here with more poultice,” he said, pulling the little wedge from one of the pockets of his belt. “See,” and he displayed it to Tenna, “handy enough.”

She tapped her aid pocket and smiled.

Old Irma came out with a grin on her sun-dried face for them.

“Will she do, Mallum?” the old woman asked, handing each a cup.

“Oh, aye, she’ll do. A credit to her Bloodline and not a bother to run with!” Mallum said with a twinkle in his eyes.

“I pass, do I, Mallum?” Tenna asked, needing to have a direct answer.

“Oh, aye,” and he laughed, walking about and shaking his legs to get the kinks out even as she was doing. “No fear on that. Any hot water for m’poultice, Irm?”

“Coming up.” She ducked back into her station and came out with a bowl of steaming water which she set down on the long bench that was an inevitable fixture of every station. The overhang of the roof provided a shelter from sun and rain. Most runners were obsessed with watching the traces to see who was coming and going. The long bench, its surface smoothed by generations of bums sliding across it, was placed so that it commanded a good view of the four traces linking at Irma’s.

Automatically, Tenna pulled a footstool from under the bench and held out her hand to receive Mallum’s right foot. She untied the shoe, and placed the now moistened poultice on the bruise while Irma handed her a bandage to fix it in place, taking a good look at the injury in the process.

“ ’Nother day’ll do it. Shoulda stayed off it this mornin’, too.”

“Not when I’d a chance to run with such a pretty girl,” Mallum said.

“Just like a man,” Irma said dismissively.

Tenna felt herself blushing, although she was beginning to believe he wasn’t just teasing. No one else had ever commented on her looks.

“It wasn’t a taxing leg, Irma. It’s level most of the way and a good surface,” she said, grinning shyly at Mallum as she tried to divert Irma’s criticism.

“Humph! Well, a hill run would’ve been downright foolish and it is flat this a way.”

“Anything for Tenna to take back,” Mallum asked, getting back to business, “to make her first round-trip as a runner?”

“Should be,” Irma said, winking at Tenna for this informal inclusion into the ranks of Pern runners. “You could eat now … soup’s ready and so’s the bread.”

“Wouldn’t mind a bit myself,” Mallum said, carefully shifting his position as if easing the heat from the poultice, since the heat probably penetrated even the toughened sole of his foot.

By the time Tenna had eaten the light meal, two runners came in: a man she didn’t know by sight, on a long leg from Bitra with a pouch to go farther west; and one of Irma’s sons.

“I can run it to Ninety-Seven,” she said, the official designation of her family’s station.

“That’ll do,” the man said, panting and heaving from his long haul. “That’ll do fine.” He gasped for more breath. “It’s an urgent,” he got out. “Your name?”

“Tenna.”

“One … of … Fedri’s?” he asked and she nodded. “That’s good … enough for me. Ready to … hit the trace?”

“Sure.” She held out her hand for the pouch that he slipped off his belt, pausing only to mark the pass-over time on the flap as he gave it into her keeping. “You are?” she asked, sliding the pouch onto her own belt and settling it in the small of her back.

“Masso,” he said, reaching now for the cup of water Irma had hastened to bring him. He whooshed her off to the westward trace. With a final grateful farewell wave to Mallum, she picked up her heels as Mallum cheered her on with the traditional runner’s “yo-ho.”

She made it home in less time than it had taken her to reach Irma’s, and one of her brothers was there to take the pouch on the next westward lap. Silan nodded approval at the pass-over time, marked his own receipt, and was off.

“So, girl, you’re official,” her mother said, and embraced her. “And no need to sweat it at all, was there?”

“Running’s not always as easy,” her father said from the bench, “but you made good time and that’s a grand way to start. I hadn’t expected you back before midafternoon.”

Tenna did the short legs all around Station 97 for the first summer and into that winter, building her stamina for longer runs and becoming known at all the connecting stations. She made her longest run to Greystones, on the coast, just ahead of a very bad snowstorm. Then, because she was the only runner available in Station 18 when the exhausted carrier of an urgent message came in, she had to carry it two stations north. A fishing sloop would be delayed back to port until a new mast could be stepped. Since the vessel was overdue, there were those who’d be very glad to get the message she carried.

Such emergency news should have been drummed ahead, but the high winds would tear such a message to nonsense. It was a tough run, with cold as well as wind and snow across a good bit of the low-lying trace. Pacing herself, she did take an hour’s rest in one of the Thread shelters that dotted a trace. She made the distance in such good time in those conditions that she got extra stitches on her belt, marking her rise toward journeyman rank.

Ru was tired from helping his father load the fishing nets they had repaired the previous night, so he was lagging a bit behind his sister when a fresh breeze came up and stung him in the face. Immediately he was back on his dragon, at altitude above Ista Island—high enough to see the silvery haze on the horizon that marked the incoming fall of Thread.

That’s the leading edge, Nerith, he told his dragon telepathically, as he checked that his safety straps were secure on the broad belt all dragonriders wore during Threadfall. The clump of Thread had been overlooked by the other riders in his Wing and Neru knew no one else would be able to sear it before the silvery Threads fell to the ground and devoured every living thing in their path.

Fly faster, Nerith! Neru urged his lifelong partner, his beloved dragon. We must climb up higher and try to sear it as we draw near.

I will reach it; my wings are strong, Nerith replied, and his wings beat down sending them higher and faster than they’d ever flown before. As they closed in on the leading edge of Thread, Nerith belched a long steady stream of flame, charring the silvery clump to harmless ash.

Scanning the skies around them closely, Neru saw one single long Thread that had escaped Nerith’s flame. Wheel and spin, Nerith, we’ve missed one!

I see it! his dragon replied.

Abruptly, Nerith dropped his right wing to make the turn, and with one powerful stroke, he pivoted into position to flame the lone strand of Thread with a burst of fire. It was a very dangerous maneuver, but nothing Neru and Nerith hadn’t done before.

You are the strongest, wisest, and fastest dragon on Pern, Nerith. Good flying, my friend. Well done! Neru said, as he caressed the soft hide of his dragon’s neck.

Nerith turned his head toward Neru, his many-faceted eyes whirling blue with pride.

“Here comes the Ninny and her wannabe dragonrider brother,” a baritone voice said nearby, cracking in adolescent fashion. Suddenly Neru was back in the present, on the road to the Harper’s hall, and out of his daydream. Mostly the kids at Lado Hold on Ista Island called him Ru and his sister Ninny. Neru didn’t mind “Ru,” but he took extravagant exception whenever he heard people call his twin sister, Nian, by that nickname.

“Flamel, do you want yet another bloody nose?” Neru asked, as he focused on Flamel, son of the Hold’s smith. Nian, who was very self-conscious and hated confrontation of any sort, moved slightly behind her twin brother.

“Sure,” Flamel said, putting up his hands. But just then Orla, daughter of the Hold’s weaver, intervened.

“You really are tiresome, Flamel. Just drop it for the day, huh? Give us all a break,” she said in a cajoling tone of voice.

“Why should I? It’s fun,” Flamel said, raising his fists again. “Let’s see how the dragonrider defends himself and his ninny of a sister.”

“Oh, that’s so old, Flamel. Can’t you strive to be just a little creative?” Orla said with a bored sigh.

Just then two adults strode onto the road, talking together in low voices. The taller man glanced at the scene, then paused.

“You all better hurry on to the Harper’s now, or you’ll be late,” he said with a flick of his hand. But as he passed he gave Flamel a hard stare. It was enough for the bully to move on, while Orla took her place beside Nian.

“Thanks, Orla,” Neru said with one of his charming smiles. “And you’re right. Flamel is boring.”

“Just so long as you don’t let him get to you again. Master Lado was not best pleased over your last fight with Flamel.”

“But he didn’t do anything to stop Flamel bullying my sister,” Ru commented sourly.

“ ‘Childish bickering,’ he called it,” Nian said.

“When Flamel’s apprenticed, it’ll be knocked out of him,” Orla replied tartly. “Oh, if it would only happen soon.”

The three friends continued on their way down the road that led to the Harper’s Hall and their morning lessons.

“Soon all of us will have to move on,” Orla said, kicking a pebble out of the way. Her curly hair bounced with every step she took. “How will you manage being apart?” she asked Nian.

“Nian’s tougher than she looks, Orla,” Ru said, his twin’s champion and supporter.

If only that were true, Nian thought. She was scared of the mere idea of being alone, day in and day out. She knew she would have to stand on her own two feet one day, but the thought of doing it without her other half nearby was frightening.

Being the more reserved twin, she couldn’t imagine life without her brother at her side, even if she could always sense him. When her parents had moved Neru to a bedroom in the lean-to, she had spent many wakeful nights without his comforting presence beside her, even though she was well aware that boys and girls were always separated when they got to a certain age. But being in totally different places … She gave herself a mental shake. It would do no good to worry now.

“Has Master Ruart recommended you to the Healer and Harper Halls?” Orla asked. “I get to go to Fort Hold, as apprentice to Master Elaine. But not until the leaves turn. Master Elaine designed that gorgeous brocade pattern our family’s working on right now.”

“Father wants to marry Nian off to a farmer on the North Shore,” Neru said with some perturbation. He glanced at his sister to see her reaction.

She shrugged. Her mother had been making remarks lately about how good it was to start a new life in one’s own place, but Nian tried not to listen.

“We’re keeping an eye open for fire lizard clutches,” she said. “So we can be apart without really being separated.” The fire lizards, distant cousins to the much larger dragons, were good companions and useful for delivering messages. It had been Neru’s idea that if they both had fire lizards, they would at least be able to communicate with each other over distance, thus making their imminent physical separation more bearable.

“How soon will Clidith’s clutch be ready for Impression?” Orla asked. “This could be your big chance, Ru.”

“First I have to be Searched, you know,” Ru said with a diffident shrug.

“Don’t try to fool me, Ru,” Orla said firmly. “Not that every lad doesn’t hope to be a dragonrider. I think you’d make a good one. Especially since you are so good a brother. And I hear that one of the eggs is a queen egg.” She turned excitedly to Nian. “You could become a dragonrider, too, Nian!”

“Who would want a Ninny for a rider?” Nian asked scornfully.

“You shouldn’t call yourself that, Ni,” Ru said with a fierce scowl. “A ninny you’re not. Don’t even think it of yourself.”

Nian glanced gratefully at her brother.

“You can’t let the teasing of a dimwit like Flamel get to you,” Orla said with equal severity. “As we used to say, ‘Sticks and stones may break your bones, but names can never hurt you.’ ”

Nian gave a snort and wished she could shake off such jibes as easily, but she didn’t have that kind of confidence. No one ever teased Orla. Orla was self-assured and pretty, with very curly black hair that framed her oval face. Her nose was straight and small, her mouth wide and friendly. Orla had all the feminine qualities that Nian did not see in herself. She didn’t consider herself even marginally attractive.

While Nian, Neru, and Orla had been strolling in a leisurely way as they talked, the rest of the children of Lado Hold were making their way down the hill toward the Harper’s small Hall. Their nemesis, Flamel, tall for his age yet still carrying some baby flab, was visible in the group. He immediately edged closer to the twins to begin teasing.

“You been Searched yet, Ru?” was Flamel’s snide query. Singling out her brother was unfair, anyway, Nian thought, because so many of the other boys in the Hold desperately wished to become dragonriders and escape the less glamorous adult occupations waiting for them. But Neru’s dream was well known, and she thought that Flamel chose his targets carefully, knowing exactly how to insult and injure.

Ru ignored the question and Nian was proud of him. Her mother had constantly told them to ignore such taunts.

“Well, you’re still here, aren’t you. Neru? We’re all waiting for the dragons to come take you away.”

Neru shook his shoulders as if he could dislodge the verbal darts sent his way. But Nian was provoked into angry responses.

“He will be Searched, you just wait and see!” Nian brandished her fist at the flabby son of the Journeyman Smith, who merely snorted at her. “They sure won’t give you even a sniff, Flamel.”

“You scare me,” Flamel said, pretending to quiver and knocking his knees together.

“Stop it, Flamel,” said Orla. “You really are pathetic, you know. Leave the twins alone. Just for a change.”

“Or?” Flamel replied.

“Or I might just tell everyone here the real reasons why you pick on the twins so much. I might just tell them all that you’re really—”

“Really what?” Flamel interrupted her quickly. Orla was not the only one to notice that the color in his cheeks was rising to a pinkish blush.

“Shall we see?” Orla asked in her sweetest tone.

Flamel gave her a long stare, but he began to walk faster, putting distance between him and Orla, as well as Nian and Neru. Nian smiled her thanks at Orla, who sketched an airy salute.

“My pleasure. He gives me a headache with his nonsense. I hope his father does send him to the Smithhold at Telgar. They’ll sort him out soon enough.”

That reminded Nian—again—all too forcefully that there were changes in the air for all the youngsters in their age group. She didn’t like her father’s talk of marrying her to a farmer on the north coast of Ista. She had met the man at Gathers, and she was not overjoyed by the thought of closer ties. Nothing had been said about Neru, though she knew that her parents had decided a long time ago that he was to be trained at something other than fishing. There were quite enough in that profession already at Lado Hold, and Neru had shown no aptitude for a life at sea. Their mother wanted the Harper, Ruart, to recommend Neru for harper training, since he performed very well on the flute and the horn. His voice had changed into a good enough tenor range that he was always asked to sing at Gathers.

The children had reached the lean- to porch of the Harper’s so-called Hall and were all busy scraping mud off their boots. They would not bring any mud into the Hall and have to clean it up later. Ruart insisted on high standards of tidiness. The porch, which was broad enough to accommodate the Hold’s children during fair weather, was their favorite place for lessons, but as today was raw and cold, with a clammy mist in the air, they’d have to remain inside.

Inside, the “Hall” had been enlarged from the original limestone cave. A ledge against one wall provided a bench, all too often as cold as the rock behind it, for the smaller children to sit on. Another alcove was Harper Ruart’s private quarters, screened from the main room by one of Orla’s beautiful screens, its panels woven of fragrant reeds and grasses, which still faintly scented the stone room. The screen also doubled as a wall on which to hang the drawings of Ruart’s students. Everyone in Lado Hold was certain that Orla was going to be a fine artist—probably the only one ever to go forward from Lado to an Artist’s Hall. Her skillful drawings stood out vividly, compared to the scrawls and scenes by the other students.

The youngest children sat on their ledge; niches had been carved out below the seating to shelve their books and slates. Two fine wooden tables allowed the older students a proper surface for writing and figuring. Ruart had a splendid desk made of the local woods, with a series of drawers on each side in which he kept records and texts that were rare, and thus too valuable to be left out. Behind him, a slab of black slate had been cleverly attached to the smoothest part of the limestone wall. On this he could write and display whatever the day’s lessons might be.

At sixteen Turns old and soon to be apprenticed to learn a trade, Neru, Nian, Orla, Flamel, and Chaum were the oldest, if not the most advanced, students. Journeyman Ruart had high hopes for the twins and Orla, but the other two boys would undoubtedly perfect adult skills in the plantations and fields that surrounded Lado Hold.

The journeyman harper was about to take the roll call when wild shrieks and yells interrupted.

“Dragons, dragons!”

Journeyman Ruart was as startled as his class. Someone pounded up the steps and rapped on his door, shouting urgently.

“The dragons come on Search!”

The room erupted with noise as the children jostled for the door and a closer look at the magnificent dragons. Almost every child on Pern, at one time or another, dreamed of flying a-dragonback.

Ruart clapped his hands together and shouted at the children. “Settle! Settle now, children! You’ll all be allowed out to see the dragons on Search, but not a one of you will do so in an unfitting manner!” He lowered his voice when this threat had the desired effect.

“Of course, you all know that there is an age requirement for being Searched,” he continuted slowly and deliberately. “You little ones will have to stay at the back.” His hands made a shooing gesture. “Now let us all proceed outside in a quiet and orderly fashion. No pushing.”

Two green dragons and one beautifully sea-blue dragon had fitted themselves on Lado’s little Gather clearing in front of the main Hold. Lord Lado and his lady, Cirine, hastily smoothing her apron, were already outside to greet the arrivals. Ruart skillfully motioned his class to form ranks across the roadway.

“We come on Search,” the blue rider said formally, dismounting with an athletic grace that Neru admired. Nian glanced nervously at her twin. Would his dream come true today? Would he be Searched by the dragons? Was this the last she’d see of her “other half” until who knew when?

“I am R’dik, blue Shalanth’s rider, and here are Sarty, green Ledith’s rider and Conna, who rides Oswith.”

Beside her Ru shuffled his feet, swung his arms, and all but nominated himself out of hand as a candidate. She pinched his sleeve to remind him of his manners. Giving her a cross look, he nevertheless subsided. Just as he protected her against physical danger, she protected him from making social errors.

“Search, and be welcome, R’dik,” Lord Lado replied, equally formally. “The youngsters of our Hold are all available to you and your dragons.” He gestured to those ranked in front of him, all breathless with suspense. “The Hold is greatly honored by your Search. I hear that Clidith clutched thirty-two eggs.”

“Yes. They are near to being Hatched, and we would like to provide the Weyr with plenty of choices,” he said, with a bow that swept from Lado around to the children, who bowed back. He smiled encouragingly at them. “We are looking for those who are fourteen Turns or older,” he announced. “For, as you all know, we are in a Pass and need to have riders who are fit and able to join the fighting wings as soon as the hatchlings grow strong enough to fly.”

Ruart adroitly directed his disappointed younger students to sit out of the way, on the Hold steps, while the older ones ranked beside him to brave the Search. While he thought Chaum might make a good, if unimaginative, rider, he devoutly hoped that the bullying Flamel, who had straightened up as if he was certain of being chosen, would be totally ignored. Neru, he knew, wanted desperately to be a dragonrider; perhaps both twins might be selected. Ruart had never heard of twins being made riders at the same Hatching, but oh, how that would solve the problem of separating Neru and Nian! He caught a glimpse of Palla, the twins’ mother, among the crowd now assembling outside the Hold to watch the dragons on Search. Her youngest child, Niall, was in her arms, waving at his older brother and sister.

After a thorough inspection of the waiting teenagers, Ledith and Oswith picked Orla and Chaum out of the crowd. Then they approached Nian, sniffing at her and giving her little prods with their noses. She was made a little nervous by this close inspection, and she grabbed her brother’s hand. The dragons didn’t seem one bit interested in Neru. Nian heard her mother gasp as she, too, saw the dragons overlook her eager, would-be dragonrider son.

How could this be happening? Neru thought of nothing but dragons and fighting Thread. How could they overlook him and show such interest in her, when Nian had never once entertained the thought of dragons except for her brother’s sake? This is a bad situation, she thought. If they take me on Search and leave Ru behind, I’ll have deserted him and stolen his dream all in the same moment. I can’t let this happen!

Unconsciously Nian shifted her weight toward her brother, changing her stance from that of protected to protector. She had to make them take Ru with her—but how?

The green dragon, Ledith, turned to Oswith as if in consultation. Then Conna stepped to her dragon as if summoned to her side.

She is very strong! Oswith told her rider. I can hear her, Conna. But she will not go without him.

Remaining at Oswith’s side, Conna looked at the twins. “What is your name?” she asked Nian.

“Neru and Nian,” the twins chorused in unison.

“It’s certainly unanimous,” the blue rider said, a wide smile on his tanned face. He slapped his riding gauntlets against his thigh. “Ah, I see that you are twins.”

“Yes, blue rider, we are, though my sister is the elder,” Neru said as Nian still gripped his hand tightly. By the First Egg! Neru hoped that the dragons would select him, too. But what if it were Nian, not he, Neru, who was taken on Search? What if he never had the chance to fulfill his dream? He simply couldn’t—wouldn’t—think about it. Neru decided that his best plan was no plan at all. He’d just have to wait and see what happened to him.

“Have you ever been separated from each other?” Sarty asked, startling everyone.

“No, rider Sarty,” Neru replied.

“We’re just better together at everything,” Nian added stoutly.

Which, as the holders and Ruart knew, was true enough.

Conna gave a little sniff. “Well, we’ll see what the dragons decide,” she said. “Are your parents here?”

“I am their mother, Palla. Their father has not yet returned from the morning’s fishing,” Palla said, moving through the crowd toward the dragonriders and the possible candidates.

“It is customary to seek the permission of the Holder and at least one parent of any Searched candidate,” Conna said, turning expectantly to Lado. “The dragons have chosen Nian.”

“But my son has shown more interest in becoming a dragonrider, while Nian never has. How can such a choice be made?”

“It sometimes happens. The green dragons know these things and, despite riding Oswith nearly thirty Turns now, I have never figured out how she discerns rider potential.”

“But they would be separated so soon, too soon!” said Palla, tears starting to form in her eyes.

“Oh, Mother,” Neru mumbled in embarrassed exasperation, hoping that only his twin heard him. Nian squeezed his fingers.

“They would soon be separated anyway, would they not?” asked Conna kindly.

At that moment Nian made up her mind. She had never thought of being a dragonrider, but now that she had been Searched, and the possibility existed, she would certainly do her best to try and make her brother’s dream come true.

“Em, pardon me, dragonriders,” she squawked, and had to pause to clear the little frog that had crept up into her throat and made her croak. She continued. “If I may? No one else from my family will be able to attend the Hatching and, should I Impress a dragon, I’d like to have a family member nearby. Could my brother not come with me now?” Squeezing Ru’s hand tightly, she looked at the dragons and their riders beseechingly, and willed it to happen with all her might. Neru squeezed her hand back and held his breath. He knew that dragonriders’ families were allowed to visit the Weyr, particularly on special occasions. But would they let him come now?

Conna paused a moment and looked at her dragon, lost in a telepathic conversation.

The boy is strong but his twin shields him from me, Oswith said to her rider. I cannot see his potential clearly. It is strange. Perhaps he should come along as a candidate, too.

“Oswith is undecided about Neru as a candidate, but we will bring him with us regardless,” Conna said finally. Both twins let out their breath in a rush. “Never fear, Nian, your brother will remain with you until the Hatching. There is, however, no guarantee that any of those selected on Search will Impress; the hatchlings make that decision.”

“Oh!” Palla clasped both her hands to her throat. “But the dragons seemed so interested in Nian.” Her eyes were wide with concern.

Ledith seemed to sneeze. “We can never guarantee,” Sarty repeated equably, “but Ledith is rarely wrong.”

“Whichever,” Holder Lado said brusquely. Kind as he was, he was not fond of long, drawn-out farewells. “Now, run along and pack what you need to take with you. Don’t keep these dragonriders waiting—they may have other places to Search.”

Looking pleased that Lado Hold could offer the Weyr four possible dragonriders, he flapped his hands at those selected—Neru and Nian, Orla and Chaum—to be off to their holds, and then gestured to Ruart to take his charges back to the Hall for their lessons. Then a holder woman appeared with hot mugs of klah and the best wineglasses full of a red that Lado had imported from Benden especially for such occasions.

The two women riders reached for the klah, but R’dik took a glass of wine and, sipping respectfully, made approving noises as he swallowed, nodding with appreciation to the Holder.

At their family hold, Palla stuffed clean underclothes and socks into a worn leather carryall for Neru and tossed Nian a canvas bag made from old sail, all the while protesting that they really had nothing suitable to be seen in a Weyr. Nian neatly folded her Gather dress, and Neru’s fine Gather shirt, which she had embroidered for him, and reached for their worn winter jackets. Everyone knew that going between was very cold. She found her knitted cap, but not Ru’s, and then saw the bobble of it extruding from one of his jacket pockets. They had only their heavy boots, since once the weather was warm enough, everyone on Ista Island usually went about barefoot. All too quickly they were ready and Palla hugged them both, tears streaming down her face.

“We’re not going to our deaths, Mother,” Neru said, embarrassed though there was only family to see her make such a display.

“Will you let me ride your dragon, Ni?” Niall asked his older sister.

“If I Impress I surely will,” Nian replied kindly.

“Dragonriders are always very generous about giving rides, but not by yourself,” Ru added.

They heard a most unusual sound outside, almost a growl. Niall ran to the window.

“There’re two dragons waiting outside!” he announced excitedly.

Nian kissed her mother several times, carefully blotting the tears on her face. “We will be back, you know,” she said. “It’d be no trouble at all to drop in any time we can.” Though she was not at all sure she’d be a dragonrider, she was determined to think positively. Especially about Ru. No matter how things turned out for her, Neru must Impress.

Palla followed them to the door, saw them being shown how to mount the green dragons, and ended up waving and weeping as the dragons flung themselves into the sky and disappeared with her children.