Dragon's Fire (42 page)

The commotion woke the weyrfolk in the house, who all rushed over to see what had happened.

“Stay there!” the older guard shouted to the youngster on duty with him. “I’ll see what’s happening.”

Toldur and Cristov emerged and exchanged words with one of the weyrfolk. “You go!” Toldur urged them. “We’ll watch the mine.”

Pellar watched them enter, still wondering what Tenim hoped to gain from assaulting a dragon.

It was then that the second part of Grief’s attack began. Pellar had only time to catch a fleeting spot of darkness falling from the early morning sky before he realized what was happening. By the time he’d jumped up from his cover, the guard was already down on the ground, his hands covering his clawed and bloody face.

Pellar raced toward the mine entrance but before he was halfway across, a large object was lobbed from Tenim’s lair toward the mine entrance.

Hurth, help!
Pellar shouted at the same time as another voice shouted, “Help!”

For one brief moment, Pellar thought perhaps the words were his own, that in his panic he’d found his voice. And then Pellar realized that the voice wasn’t his own. In that brief instant, Grief reacted—dropping from the sky with a raucous cry toward the back of Pellar’s head.

But Pellar was ready. He twirled around, pulling his knife from his belt and knelt, holding the knife above him.

With a hideous shriek the diving falcon impaled itself on the knife, showering Pellar with blood and feathers.

“You!” Tenim cried in fury, bursting from his cover. As Pellar turned to face him, a roar exploded behind him and he felt a gout of flame. Immediately, Pellar turned back and raced toward the mine entrance, ignoring the deadly peril at his back and the fire in front of him.

He reached inside the mine, groped, and found a hand. He pulled, but the body wouldn’t budge; then, suddenly, as if pushed, the body lurched forward. Pellar pulled the body to one side and was about to go back for the other miner when another, larger explosion rocked the mine and shook him off his feet.

Rough hands grabbed at him as he tried to stand up again, and he turned to see the irate, bloody, and burnt face of Tenim above him. Pellar had no idea where his knife was. Tenim’s, however, was right in front of him.

“Catch!” a voice shouted from behind him. Pellar swiveled, and reaching up in one fluid movement, grabbed a knife out of the air and pivoted back to face Tenim.

“You killed my bird!” Tenim shouted over the roar of the explosion, lunging down to bury his knife in Pellar.

The blow didn’t connect. Instead, Pellar dropped to the ground and thrust up and out with the knife he held, which caught Tenim square in the chest. Tenim lurched, his mouth going wide in surprise, and Pellar quickly pulled his knife out and thrust it up again, higher, into Tenim’s throat.

That,
he thought hotly,
was for Chitter.

Pellar slipped to one side as the hot blood erupted and Tenim dropped, dead, on the ground.

It was only then that Pellar turned back around to seek out his benefactor and see whom he’d managed to rescue.

The sudden movement, coupled with the heat of the explosion and the stress of his exertions, was too much. He collapsed.

CHAPTER 9

H
IGH
R
EACHES
W
EYR

D
on’t move,” a muffled voice said in kindly tones as Cristov opened his eyes. A cool cloth was placed on the side of his head and neck. “You must remain still for the healing to work.”

A face came into his view, a young woman’s, with olive eyes set in a face framed by long dark hair made darker still by a single long streak of white flowing from the top of her forehead.

“I’m Sonia,” she said. “You’re Cristov, and lucky to be alive.”

Cristov blinked and tried to sit up. Sonia held him down, telling him imperiously, “I said, don’t move.”

Cristov obeyed, having neither energy nor inclination, in the light of Sonia’s scolding, to consider otherwise.

Where was he? What had happened? He peered around the room, rolling his eyes to the limit of their vision.

Not the mine, obviously, nor his quarters. He caught sight of herbs in jars and sniffed—he was in a healer’s room.

“If you don’t move, the healer said there’s a good chance you’ll have no lasting pain from the burn,” Sonia cautioned him.

Burn? Cristov remembered, closing his eyes in a wince. He and Toldur—he snapped his eyes open, hoping to convey his question by look alone.

“Best get some rest,” Sonia said. “It’ll be three sevendays, maybe a full month, before you’re back on your feet.” She could not quite suppress a grimace as she added, “Firestone leaves nasty burns.

“If the pain gets too great,” she continued, “you’re to have some fellis juice.”

Firestone? The mine? Cristov remembered sudden searing heat, cries of surprise and pain and someone tugging on him—Toldur? What had happened?

Slowly he drifted off to sleep, distracted occasionally as Sonia gently bathed his wound.

His last thought on the very edge of a troubled sleep was a startled realization that Sonia was bathing the whole side of his head, not touching about his ear. What had happened to his ear?

“What will happen now?” The question startled D’vin, who had been expecting Toldur’s mate to burst into distraught tears and crumple into a trembling wretch at the sight of the burned-out mine and her mate’s tomb.

“No one will disturb this site,” he told her reassuringly.

Alarra shook her head, indicating that he had mistaken her. “What about the dragons and firestone?”

D’vin shook his head and spread his hands. “This site has been destroyed—”

“So we find another.”

“That’s what we intend,” D’vin agreed with a firm nod, his eyes rapidly reevaluating this mate of Toldur’s.

Alarra correctly interpreted his look and bowed her head slightly to him in acknowledgment. “I’m the mate of a miner, dragonrider; we share our burdens,” she told him. A smile twisted across her lips fleetingly. “If I’d been the stronger, Toldur would have had me in the mines.”

D’vin was surprised and it showed.

“He was a special man,” Alarra said.

“And a special man needs a special woman,” a voice observed from the distance. Alarra and D’vin turned to see Sonia approaching them, her long hair braided into a tight ponytail. Sonia extended a hand to Alarra. “You must be Toldur’s mate.”

Alarra nodded. “So, dragonlady, what needs to be done?”

Sonia shook her head and laughed. “I’m not a dragonrider, merely weyrfolk. I help my father, who is the Weyr’s healer.”

“Cristov?” Alarra asked.

“He lives,” Sonia told her. “He is badly burned on his neck and the left side of his head.” She took a deep breath and added, “He thinks that Toldur must have shoved him down when the blast came and sheltered him with his body.”

Alarra gasped, and she bit her lip harshly before responding in a choked voice, “He would—he loved that boy like he was his own.”

She drew a deep breath and straightened up, gazing firmly at D’vin. “My lord, as Toldur’s mate I stand ready to serve in his place. When shall I begin?”

D’vin could think of no answer and turned entreatingly to Sonia, who said, “First I think we need to consider our options.” She gestured toward the waiting dragons. “Perhaps this is best discussed at the Weyr.”

“No sign? No sign?” D’gan emphasized his irritation by pounding on the Council table. He jumped to his feet and leaned on his arms, shouting at his assembled wingleaders. “What do you mean, no sign?”

“They’ve dug at five different sites and found nothing,” K’rem said.

“And those twelve Shunned died in that cave-in,” another wingleader added.

D’gan purpled, ready to blast his wingleaders into action once again, but stopped, letting his breath out in a sigh. He glanced at each wingleader in turn as he said in soft, hard voice, “Without firestone the dragons cannot flame. Without flame, Thread will burrow. When enough Thread burrows, it will suck all the life out of Pern. We
…must…
have…firestone.”

“The Masterminer—”

“Knows nothing,” D’gan growled at the unknown wingleader. “We’ll just have to find more of the Shunned—”

“What if there aren’t more?” K’rem asked worriedly.

“Find some,” D’gan said. “There are always those who should be Shunned.” He pushed off the table with his arms and stood. “Dragonriders need firestone to serve Pern. We shall get it.”

“D’gan is looking for more miners,” Zist commented sourly to Murenny as they paused in their discussion to listen to the drums.

Murenny snorted derisively. “I can never figure out how his Kaloth ever caught Lina’s queen.” With a shake of his head, he added, “They say that the mating flight chooses the best Weyrleader, but…”

“Well,” Zist said, “you know how it was. D’gan was the strongest rider from Igen, and it seemed the right thing that the two Weyrs should merge bronze and gold.”

Murenny gave him a reproachful look. “That’s
my
theory you’re poaching.”

“It seems to be the only one that fits,” Zist said with a shrug. He glanced at the sandglass that he had turned over just moments ago and then thoughtfully back to the Masterharper. Perhaps he would lose the bet after all.

But no! A rush of feet and a hasty knock announced the arrival of the Harper Hall’s newest apprentice.

Zist allowed himself a small smile as he exchanged looks with Murenny, who shrugged and cautioned, “You don’t know it’s him.” Zist merely smiled wider as the Masterharper called, “Enter.”

“Sir,” Kindan began breathlessly, his sides heaving from his mad dash to the Masterharper’s quarters. “Is it true?”

Zist allowed himself one moment of triumph before he turned to Kindan and asked, “Is what true?”

“Toldur and Cristov,” Kindan replied, gasping for breath. “And the mine at High Reaches.”

“It is true,” Murenny replied, shaking his head sadly. “Our reports are that the mine was completely destroyed.”

“And Cristov?”

“You heard the reports,” Zist said, his tone mildly disapproving as he wondered if Kindan had come to gloat over Cristov’s tragedy. But the lad’s next words relieved him, as Kindan asked, “What can I do to help?”

“You can learn everything there is about mining firestone,” Murenny said, catching Kindan’s attention. He gestured down to the Archives Hall. “You’ll start there and then—if necessary—go through the Masterminer’s records, the records at Telgar, and wherever else you can find any reference to firestone.”

Kindan’s eyes bulged and his mouth hung open in shock. But only for a moment. Then he closed his mouth and nodded, saying, “I’ll get started right away.”

“You can look now,” the Weyr healer told Cristov. It had been nearly a full month before the healer had pronounced Cristov properly healed. He placed a small mirror in Cristov’s right hand.

The face that peered back at him was his own, Cristov saw with relief. But then he turned his head to the side and saw the horrid mottled flesh that lined the left side of his head where hair and ear should have been, the burn mark where the exploding firestone had seared his flesh completely away.