Anne Mccaffrey_ Dragonriders of Pern 20 (5 page)

They hustled in and placed the coals under the baths, then scurried out again, one of them calling as he left, “Selora says she’ll have others up with hot water in a moment.”

“Thank you!” Nonala and Kindan chorused. As the two apprentices hurried away, one whispered to the other in a voice that carried, “Did you see his face?”

“I heard Vaxoram plans to kill him,” came the other’s reply.

Nonala turned anxiously to look at Kindan, her eyes welling with tears.

“No, he won’t,” Kindan declared.

“Kindan…” Nonala began worriedly, only to be interrupted by another voice from the outside.

“Are you decent?” It was Kelsa.

“Come on in,” Nonala called. “You can steal some of my coals, the water’s not that warm yet.”

“Selora said she’ll send someone up with hot water,” Kindan added as Kelsa pushed aside the curtains and entered the room.

Shivering worse than Kindan and Nonala had, Kelsa had trouble undoing the fastenings on her clothes. It didn’t help that her eyes were locked on Kindan’s face.

“Shards, Kindan, you’re a mess,” she declared as she peeled off her outer clothes, her eyes still locked on his.

“And, uh,” Kindan said in embarrassment, “you’re not in your bath.”

Kelsa glanced down and back up at him. “So?” she asked absently.

“Kelsa!” Nonala growled. “You’re embarrassing him!”

“I am?” Kelsa asked in surprise. She looked back to Kindan. “Well, I suppose if you’re going to let Vaxoram kill you—”

“I’m not going to die,” Kindan declared. Kelsa smiled at his fierceness and rushed over to him, kneeled down beside him, and planted a swift kiss on his cheek before he could even flinch away.

“Of course, you aren’t,” she agreed, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him again. Huskily, she repeated, “Of course you aren’t.”

Then, without another word, she sprang up, shucked off her undergarments, and settled down into the next bath over.

Nonala glanced back and forth between the two, her look somewhat wistful.

Kelsa caught her look. She turned to Kindan. “Kindan?”

“Yes?” Kindan said, turning to look at Kelsa. He saw that tears spangled her eyes.

“Kindan, I don’t want you to die!” Nonala blurted suddenly.

“What Nonala meant to say, Kindan, is that she loves you,” Kelsa told him. She nodded slowly. “And so do I.”

Kindan didn’t know what to say. He liked Nonala, he knew that. In fact, he loved her like a sister. Kelsa was different…sometimes he found himself thinking of her in ways that made his throat go tight. And then he realized—“I love you, too,” he said, glancing at both of them. He smiled, even though it hurt his lips. “You’re the best friends anyone could have.”

With a splash, Nonala sprang from her bath grabbing a towel from a nearby hook and quickly tying it around her. She rushed over to Kindan, wrapping two wet arms around his neck and planting a warm kiss on his cheek before hopping back just as quickly into her bath.

“You know your face is really yucky,” Kelsa spoke into the silence that followed. “You should try washing that blood off.”

“You should see the Masterhealer, too,” Nonala added.

“Kindan,” Masterharper Murenny called from outside the curtain.

“Sir?” Kindan replied, glancing at the two girls to be sure that they weren’t concerned.

“M’tal told me what happened,” the Masterharper said. “I’d like to speak with you as soon as possible.”

“He should see the Masterhealer first, sir,” Nonala spoke up.

“I quite understand,” Murenny replied. “In the meantime, I’ve posted Master Detallor outside.”

Master Detallor was the dance and defense master, a short, wiry man who moved with a limp—except when he was dancing or fighting, and then he moved like liquid fire.

“Thank you,” Kelsa called back.

Something about the Masterharper’s tone alerted Kindan, who said, “Did you want to talk to me about relinquishing the duel, sir?”

“No,” Murenny replied. There was a moment’s silence before he continued. “Who will be your second?”

“I will,” Kelsa and Nonala said in chorus. They glanced at each other, then Nonala said, “You’re taller, maybe you should go first.”

“All right,” Kelsa said. She turned to Kindan. “If you don’t win, I’ll kill him,” she told him matter-of-factly.

“I’m going to win,” Kindan repeated.

“Well,” Master Murenny called from outside the bath curtain, “I’ll see you after you’ve seen the Masterhealer.”

“Yes, sir,” Kindan replied. Murenny’s steps echoed to the dormitory door and faded away.

“You’d better hurry up, then,” Kelsa ordered him. “You don’t want to keep the Masterharper waiting.”

As this was obviously true, Kindan made no response.

“The Masterharper says you challenged Vaxoram,” Masterhealer Lenner remarked as he carefully dabbed at Kindan’s split lip.

Kindan nodded.

“I can’t approve of dueling,” Lenner said, shaking his head. “You’d think, with these injuries, that you’d not want it.”

“I want it,” Kindan replied. “He’s a bully.”

“A bully?”

“He threatened Nonala,” Kindan said. The Masterhealer’s quick intake of breath was all that Kindan needed to hear.

With one final, gentle dab, Lenner released him. “I’ve done all I could for now,” he told Kindan, handing him a small glass vial. “Use this daily both on the wound and with your food.”

“Arnica?” Kindan asked.

“Of course,” the Masterhealer replied, his tone approving of Kindan’s knowledge of herbs.

Not five minutes later, Kindan stood outside the Masterharper’s door. He paused for a moment, then knocked.

“Come,” Master Murenny’s deep voice carried clearly through the thick door.

Kindan entered the Masterharper’s quarters. Murenny smiled at him and gestured to a chair by a small, round table. Weyrleader M’tal was already in another seat. From his position, Kindan guessed that the Masterharper had been pacing—never a good sign.

“There’s some herbal tea,” Murenny said, gesturing to a pot. “Selora sent it up along with word that the eggs are warm and settled.”

Kindan took his seat and gratefully poured himself a cup of the pungent herbal mix. He knew that Selora would have laced it with restoratives and not sent it up so hot that it might inflame his cuts.

The sound of the rain that had been lashing down earlier had dissipated somewhat, but it still could be heard falling softly around the Harper Hall.

The Masterharper took another turn around his dayroom, glanced at M’tal, and settled himself into the third seat, nearly opposite Kindan.

“Kindan—”

“Masterharper, I will not yield the challenge,” Kindan interrupted softly but firmly.

“I know,” Murenny said, nodding firmly. “I did not intend to ask that of you.”

Kindan gave the Masterharper his full attention, setting his cup back carefully in its saucer. Masterharper Murenny looked chagrined, even apologetic as he continued, “I wished, instead, to apologize to you.”

“Master?”

Murenny let out a long, heavy sigh. “When Vaxoram arrived here, he was young and had the most beautiful voice,” the Masterharper explained, half closing his eyes in memory. “But it broke wrong and he lost it. I had hoped that he would find some other talent, but none seemed to come to him and it turned him bitter.” He met Kindan’s eyes frankly. “I made a mistake: I should have released Vaxoram back to his hold Turns. I’d heard enough rumors of his behavior to know that he was a problem and a bad influence on several others, as well.” He frowned in thought a moment, his head bowed, then looked up at Kindan once more, determinedly. “In fact, until you arrived, I’d made up my mind to do just that.”

“Me?” Kindan couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice.

“When you stood up for Verilan, I thought that perhaps Vaxoram would learn his lesson and mend his ways,” the Masterharper confessed. “Even more so when Kelsa and Nonala appeared, especially as his behavior meant that releasing him of his apprenticeship would be seen as prejudiced.”

“I’m sorry, Murenny,” M’tal interrupted, “but I don’t follow that.”

“Consider for a moment,” Murenny replied, “what would be the effect on your wings if you had female riders.” As M’tal made ready to reply, Master Murenny added, “Women riders in your fighting wings.”

“Oh,” M’tal said after a moment. “That would be awkward, wouldn’t it?”

“But I do not believe that talent should be subservient to sex,” Murenny said. “Our survival depends upon our children and it always will, but it should not be at the expense of the lives of the women holders and crafters.”

M’tal regarded him carefully for a long moment. “You’ve been thinking about this for a long while,” he decided.

“Yes,” Murenny agreed. He looked over to Kindan. “Your friend Nuella is an excellent example.”

“So are Kelsa and Nonala,” Kindan added loyally.

“Indeed,” Murenny agreed. “And perhaps even more so as they will influence many others when they walk the tables and move on to mastery.”

Kindan tried for a moment to imagine Kelsa as a masterharper and found the image difficult to merge with the ever-moving, hyperkinetic, graceful, and gawky girl he called his friend. Although, Kindan remarked to himself, if she
wanted
it, nothing and no one could stop her.

“But there are too many hidebound holders and crafters,” M’tal objected. “They’ll never permit—”

“Given the way that the holders and crafters are so loath to yield apprentices to the Harper Hall, the time might be sooner than you think,” Murenny replied. He turned to Kindan. “And women won’t be respected as harpers in hold and crafthall if they’re not respected in the Harper Hall.”

“Then I must fight him,” Kindan declared. The Masterharper glanced at him quizzically. “Not just for Kelsa, or Nonala, but for Verilan and other people who bullies hate for their talents.”

“Spoken like a true harper,” Murenny said approvingly. “But—”

“What, Master?” Kindan asked, his tone verging on a challenge.

“If you lose…”

“I won’t lose,” Kindan declared.

“If you kill him, it won’t be much better,” M’tal observed.

Murenny nodded, saying in agreement, “That will only open the door for the next bully or retaliation.”

“I won’t kill him,” Kindan said.

“But he means to kill you,” M’tal said.

Kindan let out a long, slow sigh and nodded. “I know.”

“Vaxoram has demanded the earliest possible date,” the Masterharper said.

“I would prefer that also.”

Murenny nodded understandingly. “I have set the date for a sevenday after your wounds have healed.”

“Thank you.”

“He’s larger than you, heavier than you, and has the greater reach,” M’tal declared. Kindan turned to him and nodded bleakly. “What can I do to help?” the Weyrleader asked.

“Take me to Mikal.” Mikal was a legend at the Harper Hall: the ex-dragonrider who had found himself a home in a natural cave in the hills beyond the Harper Hall, the man who could track anyone across bare rock, who used crystals and meditation to effect healing in ways that not even the Masterhealer fully understood. He was a better swordsman than Master Detallor, himself a master of the blade. When Kindan had last seen Mikal, the man had been at Master Aleesa’s camp, tending to the sick Whermaster.

“When?” M’tal asked.

“Now,” Kindan replied.

“I’ve set Menengar and Detallor to keep an eye on Vaxoram,” Murenny said. “He’s been posted to the infirmary.”

“What about Verilan?” Kindan asked, concerned.

“He’s in the isolation room,” the Masterharper replied. “Vaxoram would have to get past the Masterhealer before he could harm him. And there are guards beyond that.”

Kindan nodded but his fears were still not quite relieved. “Someone might try to harm Nonala and Kelsa.”

For the first time since the interview started, Master Murenny smiled. “
They’re
Verilan’s guards.”

“What about the fire-lizard eggs?” M’tal asked.

“I will send them up to the Hold,” Murenny decided. “Most of them will go to Bemin and his folk.” He glanced at Kindan. “You should be able to get to a hatching in ample time.”

“Better,” M’tal suggested, “assign him up there.” Kindan started to protest, but M’tal held up a hand. “For now.”

“What about Mikal?”

“When he’s ready, I’ll come for you,” M’tal promised.

“Thank you, Weyrleader,” Kindan said, feeling honored.

“I feel partly to blame,” M’tal said. “If I’d been a bit quicker, I would have heard him myself.”

Kindan furrowed his brow in confusion.

“And then he would have fought
me,
” M’tal explained.

“But you’re a dragonrider!” Kindan exclaimed, appalled at the thought of Vaxoram striking the Weyrleader with a sword.

“Which would have given me the right of weapons,” M’tal said with a grin. He held up his hands in a fighter’s style. “I wouldn’t have killed him, but he would feel it for the rest of his Turns.”

Kindan grinned back at him, imagining the look of horror on Vaxoram’s face as he squared off against the older, stronger, taller, and fiercer dragonrider.

CHAPTER 3

Be sparing with your wrath
Take not the angry path
Lest harsh words create harsh deeds
And fill your heart with bitter seeds.

A
LEESA’S
W
HERHOLD

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.