Dragon Harper

CHAPTER 3

I hear you let your green go to a girl,” Master Aleesa said when Kindan and M’tal arrived at the wherhold two days later.

“Yes, Master,” Kindan replied.

“I hear she did good,” Aleesa added. “Flew between just like a proper dragonrider and saved her father.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “I was there.”

Aleesa stared deep into his eyes before nodding. “You did a good thing.”

“Thank you.”

“And now you’re here to take Mikal?”

“Not unless he wants to go,” Kindan replied.

Aleesa glanced beyond him to M’tal, then back. “This dragonrider says you’re here to learn how to fight someone.”

“Yes,” Kindan agreed.

“Over a girl,” Aleesa said.

“No,” Kindan corrected, shaking his head. “For women harpers.”

“Women harpers?” Aleesa repeated, chortling. “Women harpers,” she said again, more softly, shaking her head. “What next?”

“I’ve met many strong women in my time,” M’tal remarked.

“Anything is possible,” Kindan said, meeting Aleesa’s eyes squarely. “When women harpers become respected, all women will be more respected.”

Aleesa mulled this over for a silent moment. Finally, she said, her expression hardening, “You be sure you win.”

“Yes, Master,” Kindan agreed.

“Mikal!” Aleesa called, turning back to the cave the wherholders inhabited. “Your youngster is here!”

“How is Aleesk, Master?” Kindan asked.

“You can see her tonight,” Aleesa replied, turning away from him and retreating slowly into the dark cave. “She’ll be awake then, as you should well know.”

Kindan remembered how the nocturnal behavior of his watch-wher had driven him to distraction. Aleesa’s irritability was mostly fatigue, he guessed—although he’d never heard of her being anything other than grouchy.

A silver-haired man met her at the entrance and waved to Kindan.

“Aleesk will send word when we’re done,” Mikal told M’tal as they got within earshot. The ex-dragonrider eyed Kindan critically, then said, “Are you prepared to get hurt?”

“Yes, sir,” Kindan replied.

“And you’ve brought blades?”

Kindan nodded, indicating the long bundle on his back.

“Good,” Mikal said. “Start now with fifty push-ups.” He walked over to a rock. “I’ll watch from here.”

“I just want to learn to fight left-handed,” Kindan reminded the older man.

“And I want to see you live through it,” Mikal told him, gesturing for Kindan to get on the ground. “Start with those push-ups.”

“I’ll leave him in your hands, Mikal,” M’tal called.

Mikal merely grunted in response, not quite meeting the bronze rider’s eyes. M’tal nodded and strode quickly out of sight. Kindan knew that M’tal had carefully landed his Gaminth out of Mikal’s sight, just as Mikal had steadfastly remained in the wherhold until the last possible moment; even the sight of a dragon was torment to a man who had lost his own.

“Stop thinking and start working,” Mikal growled at Kindan. “You’ve only a sevenday at best.”

Kindan got into a prone position, then, putting all his weight on his arms, lifted up and began the push-ups.

By the end of the day, Kindan nearly wished he were dead. He didn’t know which exercise proved the greatest torment, although arguably the worst was running with a heavy rock clenched in each of his outstretched arms.

On the second day, Mikal began fencing with him in earnest.

“We’ll start right-handed,” the ex-dragonrider informed him, tossing a blade to Kindan and sweeping a blade up for himself. He made a quick salute, then took the en garde position.

“But I already know how to fight right-handed,” Kindan grumbled.

“Then show me,” Mikal said, lunging suddenly. Caught off guard, Kindan was struck on the shoulder.

By evening, Kindan was a mass of scratches and bruises, even though the padded practice leathers had deflected the worst of the blows.

Kindan spent the first part of the next day learning how to bruise tomatoes.

“You’ve got to have control of your blade,” Mikal had told him, showing him how to lunge and twist in such a way that the ripe tomatoes showed only the slightest of scratches on their surface. By midday, Kindan was covered in tomato juice, much to the amusement of the wherholders.

In the evening, Mikal insisted that Kindan sing or play around the warm coal fire that the wherholders kept inside their quarters.

“Murenny’s supposed to send us a harper,” Mikal remarked that night, eyeing Kindan consideringly. “But while I’m here they don’t need it.”

Kindan cocked an eyebrow. The ex-dragonrider was well known at the Harper Hall: He had originally settled into a cave in the hills not far from the Hall, where even the Masterhealer was not above seeking him out for his amazing ability to heal others with herbs and crystals. It was only recently that Mikal had moved from the Harper Hall to Aleesa’s wherhold.

“They’re afraid I’ll leave,” Mikal added with a bark of a laugh and a shake of his head. He jerked his head toward the others. “Stand up and sing them the Hold song.”

Kindan groaned and almost protested but instead stood up, thinking of Nonala’s beautiful voice. He put his sore hands to his side, ignored his aching chest as he filled his lungs and began the long, slow song that named all the Holds, major and minor, the Lord and Lady Holders, and their relative locations throughout Pern.

He went to bed late that night and woke up early the next morning, kicked none too gently by Jaythen.

“Arrows today,” the irascible wherman told him. “Mikal says you’re to hunt with me.”

Kindan’s protests died on his lips. He forced himself up and nodded in acceptance. In three more days he would be fighting for his life and his friends, and while he couldn’t see what hunting had to do with fighting Vaxoram, he trusted that Mikal had a good reason.

By the end of the day, Jaythen and Kindan had scored two wild-hens and a smallbeast. It was not a great haul, but they had lost none of their arrows, Jaythen insisting that Kindan race after every shot.

Again that evening, sorer and more tired than he’d ever felt, Kindan found himself in front of the wherholders, singing songs and teaching ballads. He practically crawled into his bed that night.

“Up!” Mikal barked into his ear early the next morning. When Kindan rolled over, trying to find his energy, Mikal doused him with a bucket of cold water. “Up—now!”

Then Mikal forced a soaked Kindan out into the cold morning air. “Run until you’re dry,” he ordered.

Kindan obeyed, and when he returned, his clothes fully dry, he was surprised to realize that he felt better than he’d ever felt before.

“Come with me,” Mikal ordered then, hiking a carisak to his shoulder and taking off at a brisk pace. They were far beyond the wherhold by the time he stopped—evidently at a spot that suited him specifically, though Kindan could see no distinction between it and any other place—and ordered, “Close your eyes.”

Kindan obliged and felt Mikal roughly tie a strip of cloth over his eyes.

“Now fight me,” Mikal ordered, thrusting a practice blade into Kindan’s right hand.

“Uh…” Kindan began uncertainly. A sharp pain struck him on his left chest.

“Parry,” Mikal ordered. Kindan blindly twisted his blade and was surprised to feel it connect with another blade. “And again.”

Again and again Kindan parried, then thrust, then probed.

“Stop,” Mikal ordered after several minutes. “Listen. What do you hear? Smell. Where are the scents?”

Kindan listened carefully. He heard the few noises of mid-autumn, the soft rushing of a stream, the gentle hissing of leaves in the wind. Then he heard it—the faintest of crunches as Mikal moved forward. He parried and connected. He heard Mikal move away, then nothing. He waited tensely for several moments. Then, from his right side he smelled it—the faintest odor of sweat with a hint of smoke. Kindan wheeled and raised his blade. He connected again.

“Better,” Mikal told him. “Now, I’ll stop being so easy on you.”

The pace increased, the time between decreased. The sounds and the telltale smells of an impending attack grew harder to detect—masked, Kindan guessed, by leaves, flowers, or other greenery. Blows landed on him and he whirled around defensively, only to connect with nothing. He started sweating, his breath became ragged, his nerves flared.

“Stop,” Mikal ordered. Kindan stopped. “Rest. You can’t win when you’re winded.”

Kindan was about to protest that he couldn’t win when he was blind, either, but stopped as he realized that not only could he win, but that he already had. He calmed himself, took several deep, steadying breaths, and listened carefully. He heard the merest of noises, smelled the faintest of smells, then he whirled and connected, hard, with Mikal’s blade.

“Better,” Mikal said, his voice full of approval. “Now, take your blindfold off and fight me left-handed.”

By the end of the day, Mikal had Kindan parrying alternate blows with either hand.

“Tomorrow,” Mikal told him as they trudged back to the wherhold, “I’ll teach you how to go for the eyes.”

“I don’t want to blind him,” Kindan said, aghast.

“But he wants to kill you,” Mikal replied. “Think what you’re going to do about that.”

All through his dinner and singing, Kindan mulled over the ex-dragonrider’s words. Even as he crawled into his bed, he thought them over.

Kindan slept fitfully that night.

***

“No one fights well when they’re worried about their eyes,” Mikal told Kindan as they started their practice the next morning. “And, as you’ve seen, it’s nearly impossible to fight when blinded.”

Kindan could only nod, appalled at the thought of blinding someone. His friend Nuella was blind, and though she coped with it very well, Kindan knew from first-hand experience—walking through the dark, dust-laden mines just after a cave-in—what that meant to her.

He knew that Vaxoram was bigger, heavier, older, and had the greater reach.

“A person’s reaction to a thrust to the head is instinctual,” Mikal went on. “They will always parry the blow.”

In a quick series of exchanges, Mikal demonstrated this on Kindan. Kindan felt sweat and cold fear running down his back—and he knew that Mikal would not hit him.

“Now, I want you to attack my head every third strike,” Mikal said.

“But I might hit you!” Kindan protested.

Mikal looked around the practice area he’d chosen. “There are no rocks or holes here,” he said. “If you get me within a sword’s length of the edge, we’ll break. Otherwise, I’ll be able to take care of myself.” He raised his sword, one of the heavy wooden practice blades they’d been working with. “And this is more likely to give me a black eye than a permanent injury.” And with that, Mikal thrust forward, sword raised toward Kindan, giving him the choice of fighting or being hit. Kindan fought.

They continued for two hours, breaking only four times. Once, Kindan nearly landed a blow on Mikal’s cheek, just below the left eye. Mikal, on the other hand, landed a solid blow on Kindan’s right cheek; Kindan knew that it would be black and blue in the morning.

“Good,” Mikal said as he lowered his blade after their last bout. “We’ll get some water and food. When we start back, we’ll use a dummy.”

After a quick bite to eat and a gulp of water, Mikal brought Kindan over to a hastily built figure. It was dressed in Mikal’s old clothes, a stick forced into the ground with a crosspiece tied to it at shoulder height representing arms. The clothes were filled out with old straw, so that the overall effect was that of a scarecrow. However, Mikal had rigged ropes to the “hands” so that he could pivot the scarecrow around the upright pole. The scarecrow’s head was a gourd with two large holes in it where eyes would be. In the holes Mikal had placed two ripe tomatoes.

He handed Kindan a steel blade and walked back to grab the ropes behind the scarecrow.

“Now go for the eyes,” he ordered. Kindan lunged, but Mikal pulled the scarecrow around so that Kindan’s stroke hit the side of the gourd. He pulled his blade free and prepared to strike again.

In twenty minutes he scored ten times, none of them on the eyes.

“We should take a break,” Mikal said.

“No,” Kindan replied, his sides heaving, “let’s continue.”

Again he thrust and missed. And again. And then—“Excellent!” One of the tomatoes was skewered and remained stuck on the end of Kindan’s blade. Kindan looked at it and his triumphant smile died on his lips as he grew pale and turned away from one-eyed scarecrow. He pivoted swiftly and moved his blade just enough to get it out of the way as he heaved his guts.

Some time later, Mikal handed him a flask of water and Kindan realized that the ex-dragonrider had dropped his ropes and was kneeling behind him, gently rubbing his shoulders.

“Drink and spit it out—it’ll clear out the aftertaste,” Mikal told him softly. Kindan obeyed, his insides still shaking. After a while, he felt better. “Are you able to stand?”

Kindan nodded and stood up. He was glad to get away from the stench of his own vomit. As he stood, he caught sight of his blade once more, with the tomato neatly skewered at the end. It was just a tomato.

“Kindan,” Mikal called softly. Kindan turned to him. “Now you understand what you’re doing, don’t you?”

Kindan nodded mutely.

“And you understand what Vaxoram will do?”

“He’ll kill me,” Kindan answered. “But that’s stupid.”

A trace of a smile crossed the old man’s lips. “So don’t let him.” He gestured for Kindan to pick up his blade and return to the exercise.

Gingerly, Kindan retrieved the blade, flicked it so that the tomato flew off, and moved toward the dummy. He noticed that it once more had two tomato eyes.

Mikal moved behind the dummy and grabbed the control ropes once more.

“Now,” he called, “go for the eyes!”

They practiced for another three hours, by which time Kindan had exhausted Mikal’s store of tomatoes.

“Maybe we should stop,” the ex-dragonrider suggested.

Kindan shook his head. “No, I’ve an idea. Let’s see if I can score just below the eye.”

“Why?”

“I want to convince Vaxoram that I can have his eyes anytime I want,” Kindan replied. “If he understands that, perhaps he’ll surrender.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then he’ll lose an eye,” Kindan replied staunchly, his stomach in a tight knot.

“And if he doesn’t stop then?” Mikal persisted.

Kindan heaved a deep sigh. “Then I’ll blind him and leave him fighting his own shadows.”

Mikal locked eyes with him over the distance and then nodded in acknowledgment of Kindan’s conviction. “If he knows that you won’t stop, he’ll surrender.” He tugged on the ropes once more. “Very well, let’s begin.”

Kindan worked for two more hours, fighting with both his natural right and his newly trained left hand.

As the sun set, Mikal called a halt.

“Tomorrow you’ll practice with Jaythen, then Aleesa,” Mikal told him.

Kindan looked surprised at his mention of the elderly wherhandler.

“She fights dirty,” Mikal told him with a wink.

***

Kindan was just as tired that night, but instead of going to bed exhausted, he found himself led to his quarters by Arella, Aleesa’s daughter.

“Strip, and lie down there on your stomach,” she ordered, pointing to a raised platform. “Put your head in the hole.”

All feeble concerns Kindan had over nudity were completely banished by her next words: “Mikal has asked me to give you a massage.”

As with all harpers, Kindan had received some training in healing and so, from that, he already had some training in massage and understood its benefits to not only muscle tone and skeletal alignment but also just peace of mind. His nostrils pricked as he recognized the smell of warmed, scented oil.

The head hole was well padded with furs and let Kindan relax completely on his stomach without tilting his head to one side or the other. He let out a deep sigh as he settled in, aware only of the cold air on his back. That was soon relieved by a soft fur bundled over his butt and legs. The sounds of Arella pouring and rubbing oil on her hands alerted Kindan to the start of the massage. She first got his back well covered with the oil, then started on his muscles, massaging shoulders and neck first, and then moving down to the base of his spine. In moments Kindan was lost in the luxurious feeling of having the kinks in his muscles all worked out.

Kindan awoke on his sixth day at the wherhold to the smell of fresh klah. He looked up to see Mikal holding a mug nearby.

“Bathe and then join us,” the old ex-dragonrider instructed him.

After a quick—and welcome—bath, Kindan dressed carefully, aware of the parts of his body that were still sore. Outside the wherhold he found Master Aleesa, Jaythen, and Mikal waiting for him. Arella hovered nearby.

“What sort of fighter is Vaxoram?” Aleesa asked as he approached.

“Answer her now,” Mikal barked.

“Don’t think!” Jaythen yelled.

“He likes to overwhelm,” Kindan shot back.

Mikal nodded. “Good, then what must you do?”

Kindan started to think, but Jaythen barked at him, “Answer!”

“Talk!” Aleesa added.

“Overwhelm!” Kindan shouted in frustration.

“Good,” Mikal said. He smiled at Kindan. “You spoke from your gut, which is the best judge of a fighter’s character. Why?”

This time they gave him the time to think through his response. “Because fighters fight from their gut,” he said at last.

Mikal nodded.

“So this morning we will practice overwhelming,” Mikal told him. “The three of us will try to overwhelm you.”

Kindan swallowed hard. Three? How could he fight three at once?

“Not with swords, just with glances,” Mikal told him. “You must make us look away, all three.”

“How do I do that?” Kindan asked despairingly. “You’re all older than I am. And bigger.”

“So is your opponent,” Mikal replied. “He will be expecting to see you afraid, to see you glance away from him, to see you admit your defeat before he ever raises his blade.”

“If you keep your eyes on his, meet his willpower, then he will be afraid,” Jaythen added.

“It is the test of wills that decides the fight,” Aleesa said.

“You must make us back down,” Mikal said. “Use your mind, your willpower.”

“When you get it, when you use your willpower, we’ll feel it and back down,” Jaythen added.

“Arella will help,” Mikal added, nodding toward the younger wherhandler. “She’ll be your coach, shouting encouragement from behind you.” He paused a moment. Then: “Ready? Begin!”

Arella put her hands soothingly on Kindan’s shoulders and told him, “You can do it, Kindan. You can do it.”

Mikal darted toward Kindan, his brows furrowed, an angry look on his face. Beside him, Aleesa and Jaythen also rushed forward, their gazes intent, focused, angry.

“Go on, Kindan, you can do it,” Arella’s voice sounded in his ear, but he didn’t notice it, didn’t feel her hands. Instead, he locked eyes with Aleesa, then looked away, frightened by the expression on the tough old woman’s face. He glanced to Jaythen and saw the fighter’s strength and raw power. He turned his gaze almost imploringly to Mikal, but he knew the old dragonrider had far too much strength for him.

He almost broke down, almost backed away, but then he thought of Nonala and Kelsa.

“You can do it, Kindan,” Arella’s voice sounded in his ear, her hands kneading his shoulders encouragingly.

I will not lose, he swore to himself. He raised his eyes to Jaythen and locked onto him. Jaythen’s age and fierceness melted out of Kindan’s sight. He felt his own heart leap, his breath coming in slow deep lungfuls, and he remembered his bond with Kisk, his watch-wher. If he could manage her, he could manage this man. His eyes widened, not in fear but in release of power. And then—Jaythen blinked, looked away.

“Go on, Kindan, you can do it!”

Kindan immediately changed his focus to Mikal. He locked eyes on him. I will win, he thought to himself. Again he felt the strength within himself, the support and power of Kelsa and Nonala, and he realized that no matter how old, how skilled Mikal was, he would never win against Kindan because Kindan was supported by so many friends. Mikal’s eyes widened, then broke off.

“One more, Kindan, and she’s just an old hag!” Arella shouted behind him.

When Kindan turned his attention to Aleesa, she had already lost.

“Such power!” she exclaimed, glancing to Mikal. “Did you expect this?”

“Yes,” Mikal responded. “He wants to win.” He smiled at Kindan. “Now, we’re going to up the stakes. We’re going to shout at you, try to defeat you with our voices. You have to shout back and defeat us with yours. If you can defeat the three of us, you’ll have no trouble overpowering Vaxoram.”

“And you won’t have me to help this time,” Arella added, taking a step away from him.

Kindan nodded and beckoned for them to begin.

It was much harder this time, with the roar of three voices coming at him, but he never doubted the outcome for an instant. First Mikal, then Aleesa, then Jaythen were all subdued, dropping their eyes from Kindan’s stare. Kindan’s throat was raw and hoarse, but he was exhilarated, feeling he could fly without even a dragon. He had done it!

“Now it is time to rest and reflect,” Mikal told him, his own voice raspy from overuse. “Don’t say another word today. Make certain that you have everything you need without using your voice.”

Kindan nodded. Suddenly Aleesa, Jaythen, and Mikal rushed forward and sandwiched him in a giant hug. When they finally broke up, Aleesa leaned down and hugged him to her. “I am glad you had a watch-wher: you are worthy.”

Kindan nodded in thanks, his eyes bright with tears. At the side, Arella stood, smiling at him.

“You fight well,” Jaythen said, hugging him in a tight bear hug that reminded Kindan of his dead father, Danil. “You will win.”

Mikal hugged him last. “Remember that you have friends here now. You earned them.”

Tears rolled down Kindan’s cheeks. He stood for a long moment while the others departed. After a while, realizing that he was alone, Kindan sat down on the grass.

His glance dropped to the soil beside him. He saw the blades of grass, the dark, rich soil, small rocks on the surface and finer grains of dirt. He drew a deep, full breath and exhaled slowly. One pebble caught his eye and he reached for it. It was smooth, rounded, and black. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, savoring the sense of the smooth and cool stone.

Stone. Kindan remembered his earlier conversations with Mikal about stones, rocks, and crystals. He recalled that Mikal had decided to stay in the wherhold because he liked the stones and crystals to be found in the area. Kindan knew that crystals had healing powers, and could also be used for meditation, to focus thoughts. Perhaps if he could find the right crystal, he could use its steadying influence in his fight with Vaxoram.

Kindan stood up resolutely. The best place to look for crystals would be in Aleesk’s cave; he recalled that from his foray Turns earlier to get his green watch-wher egg. He wondered if watch-whers found crystals as soothing as some humans did. He walked back to the wherhold’s entrance and searched inside for a glowbasket. He took one small glow-covered rock and headed toward Aleesk’s cave.

It was daytime, so he knew the watch-wher would be sleeping. He walked in as quietly as he could, so as not to disturb her slumber. Holding the dim glow close, he turned to the nearest wall and ran his hands slowly over it.

He felt it before he saw it—a small stone half-buried in the wall. It came out of the wall easily and he held it in his hand. It felt special, full of power. Satisfied, he went out of the room, returned the glow to its basket, and left the wherhold, heading toward the nearby stream.

In the stream he bathed his find and carefully chipped out a small piece of quartz crystal from the main mass. It was just big enough to hold, but it seemed to vibrate with power as he pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. This will be me, he thought to himself, small and powerful.

Intrigued now, Kindan scanned the streambed and the banks looking for any other rock or pebble that called to him. He was not surprised to find a nice sliver of yellow citrine, which he cleaned and pocketed. He had learned from Mikal during one of the ex-dragonrider’s days at the Harper Hall that citrine helped to keep one cheerful and manifest goals, just as white quartz was good at manifesting power and concentrating intentions. Armed with these, Kindan felt he could not lose.

He walked slowly back to the camp, pausing to touch the bark of a tree, check for the sign of animals, inhale deeply of the scents on the air, feeling more at peace and focused than he had since he’d first arrived at the Harper Hall over a Turn before.

He could do this. He could meet Vaxoram and win. But his good feelings faded as he realized one thing: He could not blind the older apprentice to win, any more than he could kill him. It wasn’t that Kindan didn’t believe he had the ability now, nor that he wasn’t willing to do either deed if there was no other way—it was that he realized that winning by those means would be a hollow victory, would leave Vaxoram so utterly defeated that the older boy would have no chance to redeem his honor.

Kindan had to find another way.

He spent the rest of the day in an uneasy, thoughtful silence.

He returned to the wherhold that evening and was grateful to be offered his meal in silence. Even the youngsters were quiet, their chattering voices stilled. Kindan felt guilty about that for a moment, then caught the eyes of one of the smaller girls and saw that she was regarding him solemnly, sharing his silence in a kind and compassionate way. He smiled at her and she smiled back, her eyes shining brightly. Then, as though that were too loud, she schooled her expression to be serious and brought a finger to her lips. Kindan nodded. He held her eyes for a long while. She looked away first, toward her mother, and Kindan found himself following her gaze, to her mother’s eyes. He continued, wordlessly expressing his gratitude to every member of the small hold. When the meal was complete, Arella led him once more to the massage table and, in silence, massaged his muscles until he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

***

“Kindan,” Mikal’s soft voice roused him slowly into consciousness.

Kindan opened his eyes.

“This is the seventh day,” Mikal said, his tone neutral.

“I’m ready.”

“You only think you are,” Mikal told him. “You have one more thing to do.”

Kindan sat up and looked at the ex-dragonrider expectantly.

“You must discover ten things to live for,” Mikal told him quietly. Kindan opened his mouth, but Mikal silenced him with an upraised hand. “First, we will eat.”

It seemed that the whole of the wherhold had gathered for breakfast. The children, including the solemn girl of the previous night, were bright-eyed and loud in the way of all children. The adults were also animated, and even sometimes coarse in their language. They laughed frequently; Kindan found himself smiling a lot.

When they finished, Mikal led him off to their practice area and indicated that Kindan should sit.

“Well, what have you discovered so far?” Mikal asked.

“To live for?” Kindan repeated, partly to buy time. Mikal nodded. “I want to live for my fire-lizard egg.”

Mikal nodded and held up a finger.

“I want to live for Nonala and Kelsa,” Kindan said.

“What does that mean?” Mikal asked.

“I want to protect them,” Kindan replied.

“Why?” Mikal pressed.

This is getting harder, Kindan thought as he grappled with the question.

“Because they’re my friends,” he said out loud.

“You could get other friends—that doesn’t sound like a reason,” Mikal replied dismissively. “Find another.”

“Because I love them!” Kindan blurted out, surprised at his words and the heat of his reaction. All his half-formed dreams of kissing Kelsa, of dancing through the night with her, maybe even of partnering with her, vanished as he absorbed that. He loved them both, equally, and neither of them as a mate. Kelsa and Nonala were special to him because he knew they loved and trusted him; he would do nothing to alter that—he loved them too much.

Mikal stared at him for a long, tense moment, then nodded and held up two more fingers. “What else?”

“For M’tal,” Kindan said.

“The Weyrleader?” Mikal repeated. “You want to live for the Weyrleader?”

Kindan frowned. “No, I want to go to Benden, become the Weyr harper.”

Mikal held up a fourth finger.

And now Kindan faltered, groping for a fifth reason. What if he couldn’t find five reasons to live? What did that say about his life, he wondered.

“I want to live for my father and my brothers,” he said after a moment. “To honor their memory.”

Mikal held up his fifth finger and waved the other clenched fist in the air. Kindan took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“I want to live for you,” he said. “I want to live so that you’ll know that your training helped and that you are needed and—” He faltered, nibbling his lip for a moment before he added, “—loved.”

Mikal’s eyes glistened as he held up the first finger on his left hand.

“I want to live for all that I can learn,” Kindan said. Another finger. “For all that I can give.” Another finger. “For all that I have yet to see.” Another finger—he was up to nine. “I want to live for me and what I can offer.”

Mikal put up his hands, fingers spread wide. “Now, do you know what you have discovered?” the old man asked slowly.

Kindan nodded slowly. “I’ve discovered my strength.”

“How many reasons does Vaxoram have to live?”

Kindan shook his head. “Maybe one.”

“That’s right,” Mikal agreed. “You have at least nine more reasons to live than he does.” He stood up slowly, stretching, and gestured for Kindan to lead the way back to the wherhold. “Are you ready to fight now?”

“Yes,” Kindan replied.

“And do you know what you’ll do?”

“I’ll win.”