Dragonheart

SEVEN

FortHold , Morning, AL 507.13.23

The alarm klaxon from the guard tower startled Lord Bemin and he broke into a run, anxious to leave the Great Hall and discover the cause of the disturbance.

The moment he was outside, several huge shadows fell over him and he instantly knew the cause — dragons! A full wing by all rights, he noted quickly as he peered upward, half-hoping to see a small gold above him. But that was not to be, for he knew that Fiona’s Talenth was still too young to go between. And then a dreadful thought crossed his mind and his face drained of color. He knew that some dragons had died from this new, unknown illness — could this wing of dragons be an honor guard bearing bad news?

He increased his pace, rushing toward where the largest dragon — a bronze — descended. The rider leapt off quickly but the dragon did not depart; clearly a brief visit was intended.

“My Lord — ” Lord Bemin began as soon as he was in earshot, halting as he tried to remember the name of this bronze rider.

“I am H’nez,” the rider drawled in response, glancing at Bemin as though he were a mere drudge, “rider of Ginirth.” He paused for a moment as he examined Bemin and feigned ignorance. “And you are?”

“It has been a long time, Lord H’nez,” Bemin replied stiffly, adding with an equally stiff but not very deep bow, “since you have graced this Hold with your presence. If my memory serves, the last time we met you were not yet a wingleader.”

“I wouldn’t know,” H’nez said, “as I have no idea to whom I’m speaking.”

Bemin’s eyes narrowed in anger; he was wearing his hold colors and his rank was obvious. The dragonrider was being rude — but two could play that game.

“I had heard that dragonriders in the main have excellent eyesight,” Bemin commented with another part-bow. “I did not realize that your eyes have gone so aged as mine that you cannot distinguish the colors of Fort Hold .” He paused just for a moment and added with an obsequious expression, “That is where you wished to be, is it not?”

H’nez snapped to his full height, his eyes flashing. Beside him, his dragon rumbled ominously.

From within her lair, Fort Hold ’s watch-wher, usually asleep during the day, bugled a response.

“It is all right, Forsk,” Bemin called to her. “We are honored by dragonriders from the Weyr.”

Forsk made a sound that was not quite satisfied, feeling enough of Bemin’s emotions to know that her bondmate was unhappy.

“So, you are the wherhandler here?” H’nez glanced from the Lord Holder to Forsk’s lair and back again.

“Lord Holder Bemin, at your service,” Bemin answered, extending a hand in greeting. His irritation with the dragonrider’s haughty ways had evaporated as he had realized that no bearer of ill-tidings would have behaved so poorly. That H’nez paused for a long moment before extending his hand in response was not lost upon Bemin but did not detract from his joy at knowing that his daughter’s dragon was still safe.

“To what do we owe the honor, dragonrider?” he asked, then added, “And may I offer the hospitality of my Hold to you and your riders?”

“You may,” H’nez replied, adding with a sniff, “such as it is.”

Bemin chose to ignore the remark, and gestured toward the Great Hall. “If you’d like, we could talk at the table in the Great Hall while we take refreshments.”

“As much as that would please me,” H’nez replied in a tone that indicated no such thing, “my duties require me to mount a watch on this Hold and all its outlying holds minor.”

Bemin did not fail to notice H’nez’s emphasis on the word duties, with the unspoken implication that Bemin himself had no such pressing worries.

“Perhaps when you’ve finished setting the watch, you’d accompany me to the Harper Hall,” Bemin offered, managing with effort to keep the irritation out of his voice. “I’m sure that Masterharper Zist would be obliged for any news of Fort Weyr .”

“I doubt I’ll have time,” H’nez replied curtly.

Bemin’s eyes narrowed at the other’s discourtesy, but, with a steadying breath, he tried again to be civil. “Will you need lodging for your riders?”

“Of course,” H’nez said, as though it were obvious. “I shall stay here at your Hold. My riders will find lodgings where they are posted.”

“Very well,” Bemin replied. “If there is any other way in which I may be of assistance — ”

“I’ll be sure to let you know,” H’nez answered dismissively.

“What are you doing here?” Kelsa asked Bemin in surprise as she made her way to the master’s table at the Harper Hall the next morning.

“I spent the night here,” Bemin replied. He gestured vaguely toward the journeyman’s quarters. “In one of the empty rooms.”

Kelsa looked from him to Masterharper Zist and back again, a challenging look in her eyes. “Why?”

“I wanted to show some flexibility,” Bemin replied. “Masterharper Zist and I had a long talk — ”

“You didn’t tell him?” Kelsa broke in angrily, looking betrayed.

“I’ve been a harper long enough to know the signs,” Zist growled at her, waving her anger away and gesturing at the large bowls of breakfast cereals piled in front of her. “As it is, anyone in this Hall who doesn’t know you’re expecting had better have a very good reason,” he added, raising his voice enough to carry to every corner of the dining hall.

“I told you,” Verilan murmured from his end of the table before immersing himself once again in an old Record.

“It wasn’t the sort of thing you can hide, you know,” Nonala added with a grin for Bemin. “I must thank you, Lord Holder.”

Bemin raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“I won the bet,” Nonala said, stretching out her hand toward Verilan.

“What bet?” Kelsa demanded airily. “How come you didn’t bet me?”

“Because the bet was about how Bemin would react,” Nonala explained. She gave Master Archivist Verilan a reproving look. “A noble man, as I said.”

“I never doubted that,” Verilan said quickly, looking up from his Record again while dipping into his pocket for a two-mark piece, which he passed over to Nonala’s outstretched hand. He gave Bemin an apologetic look as he explained, “The bet was how long it would take before you . . . accepted Kelsa’s requirements.”

“Verilan thought you might hold out longer,” Nonala explained. She gave the archivist the same sort of sisterly look she’d bestowed on him since they’d first met, him having all of ten Turns at the time. She grinned as she continued, “But I figured you’d waste no time.”

“What are you talking about?” Kelsa demanded. She looked first to the Masterharper, then to Bemin for an explanation.

“I believe that your fellow master is telling you that Lord Holder Bemin will do whatever is necessary for the well-being of you and your child,” Zist said finally.

“Oh,” Kelsa said, looking toward Bemin. Her expression softened as she asked, “You will?”

“Yes,” Bemin swore. “I love you.”

Verilan rapped the table and stretched out his hand to Nonala, who ruefully returned the two-mark piece.

Kelsa’s eyes slid to the pair of them and they halted the transaction with guilty looks on their faces until Nonala sheepishly confessed, “He bet me that Bemin would say he loved you the first morning he was at the Harper Hall.”

“That’s usually what happens,” Verilan explained. “You’d know that if you read the Records more often.”

Kelsa and Nonala shared a look of exasperated affection, shaking their heads nearly in unison.

“So you don’t mind if she’s raised here?” Kelsa asked Bemin when the moment passed.

“No,” he replied promptly. “I’ll make arrangements to be a part of her — or his — life, whether here or in the Hold.”

“And if she wants to be a harper?”

“All the better,” Bemin replied with a grin. “I have, as you know, changed my opinion about harpers in the past twelve Turns or more.”

“But if the child would prefer the honor of being a Lord Holder,” Zist added, looking challengingly at Kelsa, “I expect there to be no impediments.”

“Our child,” Kelsa declared firmly with an adoring glance at Bemin, “will have nothing stand in her way!”

“I would expect not,” Zist agreed, “with such parents as she has.”

“I’m impressed,” H’nez allowed as he watched the conclusion of the ground-crew drill at Fort Hold two days later.

They were standing on a rise just beyond sight of Fort Hold proper in the first valley beyond. H’nez could see brightly colored flags waving in the distance and small gouts of flame as the ground crews practiced flaming the mock Thread burrows that he had helped to “plant” earlier that morning — “ ’Cuz they’re used to me and my ways,” as Stennel, the head of ground crews noted.

“We’d be much quicker off the mark if we still had the fire-lizards,” Stennel explained apologetically. “We trained them to spot the burrows and coordinate our plans.” He shook his head regretfully. “As it is, we’ve got to rely on spotters in the heights, and I’m afraid we’ll miss many burrows until they get too big for us.”

“And how big is that?” H’nez asked, ignoring what to him was yet another whine about the fire-lizards. Didn’t these holders realize that it was the dragons of Pern that protected them against Thread? The fire-lizards were nothing more than a minor amusement, even if, as Stennel maintained, they were occasionally useful.

“According to the Records, if we don’t find the burrow in the first hour, then it’ll be too big to fight with the flamethrowers,” Stennel replied. “And then we’d have to get dragons to flame it.”

“Hmph,” H’nez grunted noncommittally.

“If we don’t spot it within eight hours, the Records say that our best hope is to fire the whole valley around it,” Stennel continued with a frown.

“Fire a whole valley?” H’nez repeated doubtfully. “I’m sure whoever wrote that Record must have been in error.”

“It happened about ten times in the last Turn of the Second Pass ,” Stennel persisted.

“Who told you that?”

“It was in the Hold Records,” Stennel replied. “I read them myself.” He stood a bit taller as he continued with a touch of pride, “I wanted to know, as best I could, what we were to expect, my lord.”

“Hmm,” H’nez murmured, turning his attention to the distant lines of the ground crews as they moved back to their rallying point.

“Anyways, it makes sense,” Stennel continued. “It matches up with what we’ve seen fighting fires.”

“Fighting fires?”

Stennel flushed and shrugged. “You could consider a burrow rather like a fire in a high wind — either one will destroy every living thing around it in short order, my lord.” He gestured to the ground crews in the distance. “These lads also fight our fires when we have ’em.” He shrugged once more, grimacing. “We had the fire-lizards for that, too. They were great spotters.

“But they would never eat the firestone we use for the flamethrowers,” he continued reflectively. He cocked an eye at the dragonrider, adding, “I’m sure glad they found the right stuff — although getting our stone is much harder now.”

“Harder?”

“Aye,” Stennel replied. “No one wanted to dig it before, when it was necessary for the dragons. Now it’s only necessary for ground crews and no one really wants to go looking for it. Which is why the Mastersmith is working to see if he can adapt our flamethrowers to use proper firestone,” he went on, shaking his head. “Last I heard, he hadn’t much luck, but I don’t get the freshest information all the time.” He cast an inviting glance toward the dragonrider. But if he was hoping for illumination, he would be disappointed.

“I see,” H’nez replied in a tone that showed that whether he saw or not, he certainly didn’t care.

Stennel frowned. “I suppose fire’s not so much an issue up in your Weyr, surrounded by all that rock.”

“No,” H’nez answered, “it isn’t.”

Why was it, he wondered, that holders were so easily irritated? They certainly weren’t properly deferential, not even the women. With a frown, H’nez turned away, back toward his dragon. “Well, I’ve seen enough,” he said, climbing up to Ginirth’s neck. “I’ll see you back at the Hold.”

Stennel sketched a salute as the wind of Ginirth’s wings buffeted him, and then H’nez was gone, between.

It’s always good to show the holders their place, H’nez reflected as he and Ginirth emerged once more from between, this time over the courtyard of Fort Hold . A group of holder women and children scattered as he guided Ginirth down to a landing. He spotted Lord Holder Bemin striding out into the courtyard from the Great Hall in response to the commotion and allowed himself a grin as he noticed Bemin quickly school his irritated expression into a bland look.

“Does the ground-crew drill meet your approval, my lord?” Bemin asked as H’nez dismounted.

H’nez paused a moment, straightening his clothes, before answering indolently, “As well as could be expected, I suppose.” He gave Bemin a measuring look. “I was surprised that you were not there yourself.” He raised his eyebrows questioningly. “Was there business at the Harper Hall?”

Bemin flushed, which was not lost on H’nez. “I was busy with inventory,” he replied tightly, waving a hand toward the Great Hall. “We have to be certain not only of our tithe to the Weyr but also to ensure that the holders themselves will prosper.”

“Of course,” H’nez agreed in a tone that was just short of insulting.

Lord Holder Bemin pressed his lips together, firmly stomping on his anger.

H’nez noticed and was amused. He started to add another jibe when the air above them suddenly darkened and was filled with the sound of dragons.

Bemin scanned the riders and their dragons’ harnesses for signs of their Weyr, hoping that perhaps M’tal or some other Weyrleader had come to visit the Masterharper. Perhaps, he thought hopefully, I could have a word with him and he could rein in this irritating wingleader.

“V’ney!” H’nez exclaimed as he recognized the bronze rider descending. “You’re a day early!”

The bronze rider, still descending, didn’t hear him, of course, but H’nez’s expression was so clear that when V’ney dismounted, he called out, “H’nez, you need to return to the Weyr.”

“Why didn’t you have your dragon send for me?” H’nez demanded, exasperated. Bemin was far enough behind that he saw both dragonriders’ faces, and it was clear to him that V’ney had brought bad news.

“The sick dragons are — ” V’ney stopped abruptly, placing an arm gently on H’nez’s shoulder. “They’re not expected to make it through the night,” he finished quietly. “K’lior thought it would be best if the riders had the companionship of their wing.”

H’nez’s face was suddenly devoid of all expression. “Of course,” he said immediately. “Thank you . . . I’ll fill you in on the — ”

“You haven’t time,” V’ney said. “You need to get your wing back now. ” He gestured to Bemin, who had quickened his pace to join them. “I’m sure the Lord Holder can set me right.” He gestured skyward. “You get going.”

H’nez opened his mouth to argue but stopped himself, settling instead for an abrupt nod of his head.

V’ney’s bronze leapt up to the watchtower to make room for H’nez’s Ginirth in the landing area.

“Wingleader!” Bemin called out as H’nez climbed astride his dragon. The bronze rider gave him a startled look. “I am sorry we part so sadly.”

H’nez locked eyes with him, and for a moment the dragonrider appeared to be his usually arrogant self, but then he visibly deflated in sorrow and said, “I, too.”

And then the dragon leapt aloft and was gone, between.

“My lord,” V’ney said in the stillness that followed, “I’d like to apologize for any ill will wingleader H’nez might have engendered between your Hold and my Weyr.” He shook his head and continued, “He’s good with his riders and flies well — but he enjoys making trouble with everyone when he’s on the ground.”

“So I had noticed,” Bemin said wryly.

V’ney snorted. “You mean that you couldn’t understand why a dragon would choose to be ridden by an ass?”

Bemin’s lips quirked upward. “I hadn’t put quite those words to it, actually.”

“Then you’re a very tolerant person,” V’ney allowed.