Dragon Harper

CHAPTER 13

You look so thin, Conar,” Kelsa said as she looked up at the young holder boy gently dabbing at her head with a cloth. “Are you sure you’ve had enough to eat?”

Conar nodded.

“You eat this,” he told her, sitting her up and spooning some porridge into her mouth. He had scrounged it from the kitchen, unable to find anything else not moldy.

“But—”

“It’s only fair,” Conar replied, “you brought me back to health, now it’s my turn.”

Kelsa saw that it was useless to argue, especially as Conar placed the spoon on her tongue.

“It’s awful!” she groaned as she swallowed. Her throat was so raw from coughing that swallowing the porridge felt like swallowing hot coals. Now she knew how dragons must have felt with that old firestone. Conar—dragons sing his praise—had a cup of cool water to her lips in an instant. But the cool water was almost as much torment on her throat as the porridge.

“Another mouthful,” Conar said, filling another spoon. Kelsa twisted her head away rebelliously. Conar opened his mouth to utter another encouragement when they heard the sound of drums.

“Kindan?” Kelsa said in wonder. Conar nodded, listening.

“Fruit?” Kelsa muttered as the drum message beat out. “Where can we find fruit?”

“Did he say, ‘J’trel?’” Conar asked.

“He did,” Kelsa agreed. “Get him, tell him Kindan’s message.”

“He’s busy with Druri and the baby,” Conar said. The blue dragonrider had been working tirelessly with Jalenna’s children ever since she had succumbed to the plague four days earlier. Before that, it had been only the efforts of Jalenna, J’trel, and Conar that had kept the others alive. Kelsa didn’t know how many had died; Conar refused to tell her.

“Go get him, tell him it’s important,” Kelsa said, ignoring the pain of her tortured throat.

Conar scuttled off, moving more slowly than Kelsa liked. He looked thin, too. She wondered, had he been skimping on his meals?

Conar slowed down once he was out of the makeshift infirmary, stopping to gasp for breath and get rid of the spots that darted before his eyes. He hadn’t eaten in days. He was smaller than the rest, he told himself, he could do without for longer.

“J’trel, Kindan sent a message,” Conar said as he caught sight of the blue rider.

J’trel looked up at him, his face gaunt and cheeks full of days-old beard.

“He said for you to get fruit,” Conar told him.

“Fruit?” J’trel repeated wearily. “Was that all?”

“Fresh fruit,” Conar said, remembering the message and wishing he was much better with drums.

“There’s no fruit this time of year,” J’trel exclaimed, shaking his head angrily.

Conar screwed up his face, trying to remember the exact message. “He said: ‘J’trel, fresh fruit, south of Ista.’”

“South of—?” J’trel repeated, dumbfounded. “There’s no land south of—” He stopped suddenly, his eyes going wide. He looked outward, beyond the room to the meadow where his blue dragon rested. “Talith…”

***

“What is it, J’lantir?” C’rion, Ista’s Weyrleader, asked as the bronze rider caught up with him. C’rion had returned from a patrol over the infected Holds and was not happy. He had followed M’tal’s suggestion because it made too much sense—if the weyrfolk were as decimated by the plague as the holders, the Weyrs would be incapable of fighting Thread when it came. But that didn’t stop C’rion’s stomach from knotting every time he flew over empty fields or saw people waving helplessly at him from below.

They did what they could, guiding unwatched herdbeasts to makeshift corrals, dropping the masks that M’tal had mentioned, but it was too little and too late.

C’rion was itching to do something.

“I just had word from J’trel,” J’lantir said.

“How is the Harper Hall?”

“He didn’t say,” J’lantir replied. “He said that the holders need fruit, fresh fruit—”

“It’s the middle of winter, there’s none to be had,” C’rion objected.

“South of Ista,” J’lantir finished.

“South?” C’rion repeated his eyes going wide. “The Southern Continent?”

“The seasons would be reversed there, it’s summer,” J’lantir observed.

“Then there’s no hope there, either, the fruit wouldn’t be ripe,” C’rion objected.

“Do you remember Turns back, before we met young Kindan and the watch-whers, how I once lost my wing for a sevenday?” J’lantir said.

C’rion nodded slowly, uncertain about the sudden change of topic.

“I think I know where they went,” J’lantir told him. “If not precisely when they went.”

“To feed all the holds—”

“We could drop the fruit, if we found the right sort, just as we’re dropping those masks,” J’lantir cut in quickly.

C’rion mulled the notion over only for an instant before he said briskly, “Do it.”

“You approve?”

“I was about to send a flight of dragons out to help, only I had not the slightest notion what we could do,” C’rion told him. “Now, there’s a chance.”

J’lantir smiled broadly and turned to go.

“J’lantir,” C’rion called after him. The bronze wingleader turned back. “Have your men pile the fruit by Red Butte, we’ll handle it from there.”

“How much?” J’lantir replied.

“All of it,” C’rion said. “I’ll let the other Weyrs know.” J’lantir’s brows rose in surprise. “You’re to get enough to feed all Pern.”

“For how long?”

“Until we tell you to stop,” C’rion replied, waving the bronze rider away. “Now go and get those miscreants.”

“I promised I’d work them like wherries,” J’lantir said with a smile. He shook his head in admiration, as he added, “And you know, they never told me what they did.”

“You still have to see if you’re right,” C’rion told him.

“Oh, no,” J’lantir called back, crossing the Bowl toward his Lolanth and jumping up onto the bronze’s neck. “I know I’m right, Talith seemed too smug.”

And with that, the bronze dragon and rider leaped into the air above the Bowl. Lolanth stroked his wings once, twice, and was gone between.

***

J’lantir timed his jump carefully, arriving just at the last time he’d seen his wing before they’d disappeared so abruptly after five Turns ago. He’d been off, he recalled, talking with C’rion about something, probably complaining once more about the firestone. He snorted at the memory.

“J’lantir!” J’trel called as Lolanth landed in the Bowl.

“J’trel, get the rest of the wing and meet me at Red Butte immediately,” J’lantir ordered briskly.

“But—”

“No time, just do it,” J’lantir replied, urging Lolanth airborne once more. In an instant he was between, hovering over the strange landmark that had been a rendezvous for hundreds of Turns and, hopefully, would be for hundreds more to come.

The wing arrived almost immediately after he did.

“J’lantir,” V’sog called as he dismounted, “when J’trel said to meet you here, I thought he was joking.”

“Weren’t you meeting with C’rion?” J’lian asked. “I thought I just saw you—”

“You did,” J’lantir interjected. He gestured for them to gather ’round. “Now listen up, I’ve come back in time—”

“Back in time!” V’sog exclaimed in surprise. “But dragons can’t—we’re not—”

“V’sog, listen up,” J’lantir bellowed. “I went back in time and brought you forward in time. You have to go to the Southern Continent, you have to find the best fruit, fruit that sick people can eat, and collect it all.”

“How much?” J’trel asked.

“Enough to feed all Pern,” J’lantir replied.

“For how long?” V’sog asked, looking at J’lantir anxiously.

“Until I tell you to stop,” J’lantir replied. “Bring it here. Bring it to this same spot one hour from now and keep bringing it.”

“But—timing it?” J’lian said, peering around nervously at the rest of the wing.

“Where will you be?” V’sog asked.

“I’ll be coordinating with the rest of the Weyrs,” J’lantir said. “We’ve got to distribute the fruit.”

“To whom?” V’sog demanded.

“I can’t tell you,” J’lantir replied. “When the right time comes, you’ll know.”

“And until then?” J’trel asked.

“Until then, I know nothing,” J’lantir told them. “And you’re not to tell me.”

“Time paradox,” V’sog guessed.

“Exactly,” J’lantir agreed. He looked at B’zim and L’cal. “I want you two to take charge.”

The two senior riders exchanged glances and then nodded in agreement.

“When you’re all done, I’ll know nothing,” J’lantir told them. “I’ll be very angry, but you’re to tell me nothing.”

“Tell you nothing?” J’lian asked, clearly confused. “Why?”

“Why are we doing all this, anyway?” K’nad demanded.

“Trust me,” J’lantir replied, catching each of their eyes in turn, “it’s worth it.”

“All right,” K’nad replied, “if you say so.”

“The Southern Continent!” J’lian exclaimed.

“Timing it!” J’trel added.

“Don’t get hurt,” J’lantir admonished them, then climbed back on his bronze dragon. “I’ll see you soon.”

And, leaving his wing behind, J’lantir and Lolanth vanished between. When he came out of between once more, the sun had moved an hour further into the sky and the top of the Butte was covered with nets full of fruit.

“Best fruit we could find,” B’zim called as Lolanth settled in the remaining clear spot. The brown rider tossed J’lantir a large redfruit. The bronze rider caught it deftly and sniffed it; its odor was tantalizing.

“You can eat it, seeds and all,” J’trel told him. “Even the rind.”

“Excellent!” J’lantir replied. A rustle of noise and wind behind him alerted him and he turned to see C’rion hovering nearby on bronze Nidanth. Surrounding him were the rest of the Weyr, less J’lantir’s wing. A moment later the sky darkened as riders from Benden, Fort, and High Reaches arrived.

“Attach parachutes to those and we’ll drop them directly,” M’tal called as he jumped off bronze Gaminth and strode over to J’lantir.

“Parachutes?” J’lantir asked. He turned to his wing. “Come back in another hour.”

“That’s timing it tight, J’lantir,” B’zim noted.

“We’ve no time here,” J’lantir told him. B’zim nodded and waved to the other wing riders to mount their dragons.

“Where are they going?” M’tal asked, peering after the rising wing.

“Back in time to get more fruit,” C’rion told him.

“They’re timing it?” M’tal asked in horror.

“There’s no choice, fruit isn’t ripe in Southern this time of year,” C’rion replied.

“They’ll be all right,” J’lantir assured the Benden Weyrleader.

“How do you know?” M’tal asked challengingly.

“Because they’re the wing I lost for a sevenday,” J’lantir replied with a grin.

M’tal’s eyes widened as he recalled the story. “So now we know where they went and who took them.”

“Indeed,” C’rion agreed. He turned back to the task at hand. “How many parachutes for these nets, do you think?”

M’tal turned his attention to the large cargo nets and gestured for one of his riders to approach him.

“We must hurry,” the Benden Weyrleader said. “We don’t have time on our side here and now.”

He turned to another group of descending dragons, frowning. “What are they doing here,” he groaned, “they could be dropping the fellis leaves now. Gaminth, tell them to spread out to the Holds and drop the bundles they’ve got; they don’t need parachutes, the leaves will do fine!”

As if hearing his bellow, the four wings of dragons winked between to fulfill their mission.

***

“That’s the last of the fellis, there,” Neesa told Kindan as she handed him a pitcher. “And the rolls are gone, too.”

The sun was not yet at midday.

“Thanks,” Kindan told her. He left the pitcher on the counter and went out to the linen line again. Perhaps he could figure out a way to get some from the Harper Hall.

He drummed his message quickly, calling for attention. Then he waited. And waited. And waited. There was no response.

“Conar?” Kindan called out softly, thinking of the young holder boy who had never thought himself worth much.

Valla appeared at his shoulder, crooning anxiously and preening against Kindan’s neck, but Kindan ignored him, staring down at the dull pot in despair.

Bemin was right. They were all going to die.

A shadow dulled the pot. Then another. Kindan looked around and saw more shadows. He gazed upward and started as a bundle landed with a thump not a meter from him. Incredulously, Kindan reached for the bundle.

Leaves. Only leaves. Was this some—wait! They were fellis leaves.

“Neesa!” Kindan cried, scooping up two bundles and racing to the kitchen. “Neesa, I’ve got more fellis leaves!”

“What? How did you find them?” Neesa asked as Kindan thrust the bundles into her arms.

“They’re in the linen area,” Kindan told her. “They fell from the sky.”

“Fell from the sky,” Neesa repeated, looking at Kindan as though he’d lost his mind. Then his meaning registered and she clapped her hands to her mouth, tears leaking from her eyes. “Dragonriders! We’re saved!”

“What is this?” Bemin demanded, attracted by Neesa’s loud bellowing.

“Fellis,” Kindan said, thrusting a leaf at Bemin. “The dragonriders dropped fellis.”

For a moment, Bemin had a look of hope on his face. Then it drained away.

“Fellis will only help the dying,” he said, and turned back to the Great Hall.

***

C’rion and M’tal conferred when the first bundles of fruit were ready to drop.

“The Harper Hall?” C’rion asked.

“No, J’trel says there are only a few there,” M’tal replied. “Send them to Fort Hold.”

“You think your friend is still alive?” C’rion asked.

M’tal shook his head. “I can’t say,” he said. “But it was his idea, and B’ralar says there are still people moving at Fort Hold, so we owe it to him to try first.”

C’rion nodded and gestured to the laden wing. “Fort Hold!” he called. In an instant they were airborne and gone, between.

“Let’s hope we’re not too late,” C’rion murmured. Beside him, M’tal nodded glumly, his eyes filled with sorrow.

***

Kindan did not follow Bemin. Instead, he waited until Neesa had brewed a fresh decoction of fellis juice, then he took the bottle. In the Great Hall, he worked his way around the room, administering a drop here, two drops there, depending upon the amount of fever indicated by the moodpaste.

He had just finished the first line of cots when Bemin and Jelir walked back into the Hall, clearly having borne another body to the grave site.

“It’s almost full, my lord,” Jelir said. “Overfull, if we don’t want scavengers digging among the dead.”

“Then leave the bodies here,” Bemin replied disconsolately, throwing himself onto a cot and sitting with his head and shoulders hunched over in despair.

“My lord?” Jelir said in surprise. Fort’s Lord Holder made no response. Desperately, Jelir looked over to Kindan.

Kindan sighed and straightened his shoulders. He glanced around for Fiona, but she wasn’t in sight; he vaguely recalled a toddler sprawled in the kitchen.

He dropped to his knees in front of the Lord Holder.

“You cannot stop now,” he said, peering up to meet Bemin’s eyes.

“I can’t go on,” Bemin said. “We’ve got no food, only fellis.” He barked a laugh. “We could all drink it and feel no pain.” He raised his head enough to meet Kindan’s eyes. “Mix it with the wine and we’ll all feel no pain!”

“No,” Kindan said. “This is not the time for wine, my lord. Save it for later.”

“Later?” Bemin snorted. “When I mourn my wife, my sons, my daughter? Will you drown your sorrows over your lover then? Will the pain ever go away?”

“I don’t know,” Kindan told him honestly. “I was hoping you would tell me.”

Bemin grimaced and shook his head. “I have nothing to tell you, harper.” He snorted and said with a lopsided grin, “You’ve dishonored your word once more, you know.”

“My lord?”

“Only fellis fell from the sky,” Bemin told him. “You were half right, though, I’ll grant you that.” He snorted again in faint humor. “You keep half your word, harper.”

“I promised you food from the sky, my lord,” Kindan told him firmly, his voice rising to carry throughout the Great Hall. “On my word as harper.”

“Harper!” Bemin exclaimed, rising from the cot angrily. “I need no harpers, I need healers!”

“Lord Bemin, Lord Bemin, come quick!” Neesa shouted from the far end of the hall.

Bemin’s brows creased in pain.

“Fiona?” he called, then raced past Kindan toward the kitchen. Kindan followed an instant later.

But it wasn’t Fiona. Neesa raced past her, shouting, “Come quick, you’ve got to see! You’ve got to see it!”

They raced out into the linen yard and Neesa pointed into the sky.

“Dragonriders!” she shouted. “Look at them! They’ve come!”

“More fellis,” Bemin guessed sourly. Just then, a dragon swooped low and a great bundle fell from the sky, to be slowed an instant later by many large billowing parachutes.

“They dropped the fellis,” Kindan said in wonder, glancing at the slowly falling bundle. He turned and saw that more bundles were falling in the courtyard outside the Great Hall. He saw yet another bundle dropping toward the cotholds outside Fort Hold.

“It’s food,” Neesa said, rushing toward the first bundle that crashed onto the ground. “It’s food! Fruit!” She reached through the netting and pulled out a large fruit. “I’ve never seen the like!” She took a huge bite and juices dribbled down her chin. “It’s fresh! And it’s marvelous.” She turned to Bemin. “My lord, you’ve got to try it!”

Bemin didn’t move. His eyes were on Kindan.

Slowly the Lord Holder of Fort Hold, the oldest Hold on Pern, knelt before the youngest harper on Pern.

“You kept your word, harper,” Bemin said, bowing low before him.

“Have a fruit, my lord,” Kindan said, taking one of the fruits proffered by Neesa. Bemin looked up at him and slowly took the fruit.

“Then we’ll get back to work,” Kindan added with a grin.

The Lord Holder of Fort Hold rose slowly, redfruit in one hand, took a bite, then another, and smiled back at Kindan.

“Fruit from the sky,” Bemin murmured in amazement.

“We’ve more work to do now, my lord,” Kindan said with a renewed sense of urgency. He gestured to a bundle. “There’s many that will need these, they need them now.”

Bemin nodded in vigorous agreement, a new light in his eyes—a light of hope.