Anne Mccaffrey_ Dragonriders of Pern 20

by Dragon Harper

  “But Master Murenny drummed to us,” Kindan protested.

  “And that sapped all his strength,” Resler replied testily. “You are to follow my instructions.”

  Kindan looked questioningly at Resler.

  “Who is the senior harper, Master?” Vaxoram asked politely.

  “I am,” Resler replied, clearly irritated at such impudent questions.

  “But—Master Detallor?” Kindan asked, aghast. Detallor was the next senior harper to Murenny, after Master Zist.

  “Master Gennel?” Vaxoram asked, naming the third-most senior.

  “Master Detallor died this morning,” Resler replied, glancing down at the ground to hide his emotions. “Master Gennel is sick in his rooms and can’t be moved.” It was clear from his tone that Resler felt that Gennel would soon follow Detallor.

  “There were three,” Kindan said, waiting for the final shard to crack.

  “Journeyman Issak died while attending the others,” Resler said, grimacing. “No one knew he’d caught the illness, he kept it from Master Lenner.” He glanced up at them. “He was a good man, he would have been a good Master.” High praise indeed from the crotchety Resler. Apparently Resler thought so, too, for his voice was full of bark as he roared, “Now, go!”

  Kindan needed no further urging. Vaxoram stuck at his side, only falling back when they entered the cramped corridor to the Healer Hall.

  “I don’t know much about healing,” Vaxoram confided as they walked in silence.

  “We’re both going to learn fast,” Kindan replied. He was surprised when Vaxoram clasped his right shoulder from behind and clenched it in firm agreement.

  When they arrived at the Healer Hall they were turned around again.

  “What are you doing here?” Lenner demanded, looking up from one of the many crowded beds in his infirmary. “You’re supposed to be in the Archives.”

  “Master Resler sent us here,” Kindan told him.

  Lenner sighed and straightened, running a weary hand through his hair.

  “You won’t do as much good here as you will in the Archives,” Lenner declared.

  “What about Verilan?” Kindan asked.

  Lenner pointed off into the distance. “He’s in the Harper Hall infirmary.”

  “So, he’s not too sick then,” Kindan said hoping to reassure himself.

  “He can’t be moved,” Lenner corrected him, his eyes full of sorrow.

  “What about Conar?” Kindan asked, glancing around the beds.

  “He’s all right,” Lenner said. “He’s been helping here, no sign of a cough yet, though.” He whistled loudly and called, “Conar! Report!”

  A small figure scurried toward them. He brightened when he spotted Kindan and Vaxoram. “You’re back,” he said, his face splitting with a smile. “And you’re alive!”

  Kindan grinned back and nodded, but he couldn’t help noticing the dark circles under the younger boy’s eyes. He turned toward Vaxoram, still grinning, expecting the older apprentice to share his happiness but was surprised by the grim look on Vaxoram’s face. In an instant he recognized the cause and asked, “Nonala and Kelsa, are they all right?”

  “Yes,” Lenner replied quickly. “They’re helping in the kitchens. We’re keeping most everyone quarantined to prevent the spread.”

  “It didn’t work,” Conar said quickly, glancing at the Healer apologetically. “In the Records, they said that it didn’t work.”

  “Find out why,” Lenner ordered Kindan. “Go look in the earliest Records, see if they have suggestions, ideas from back before Landing.” He turned away from them, distracted by another hacking cough in the distance. “Don’t come back until you’ve got an answer,” he called gruffly back over his shoulder.

  “Come on,” Kindan said, turning back to the corridor leading toward the Harper Hall and the Archive Room.

  “What about Resler?” Vaxoram asked. “He’s senior. And you know how he frets about his Records.”

  “Are you going to let people die?” Kindan replied, not caring whether Vaxoram followed or not.

  “It’ll be on your head,” Vaxoram’s voice carried to his ears a moment later.

  “So be it,” Kindan replied fiercely.

  “We’ll need glows,” Kindan said as they entered the dark confines of the Archive Room, knowing that Master Resler was too busy managing the Hall to come back to his beloved Records.

  “There’s light now,” Vaxoram said, waving at the lighter patches in the room.

  Kindan shook his head. “We’ll need more light soon,” he replied. “And we’re working through the night. Get some klah too.”

  He waved dismissively at Vaxoram. Vaxoram’s nostrils flared in irritation; then the older harper shook himself and turned on his heel.

  Kindan didn’t notice his departure, the sounds concealed by the noise of his rooting through the stacks of ancient Records. Some were so old and dusty that he could see them disintegrating right in front of him; brittle documents that cracked and flaked as he moved them. And then there were others, still supple and pliant, nearly as fresh as when they were first drawn. Kindan set them aside at first, assuming that they were new Records misfiled. It was only when he got to the oldest Records, Records drawn on some material that seemed like a strange combination of thin metal and living flesh, silky, soothing to the touch, that Kindan thought to look back at the stack of “new” Records.

  “There are no glows,” Vaxoram’s voice boomed from the far end of the Archive Room. “None to spare, at least. They’re all being used in the infirmaries. I set some up to recharge but they’re clamoring for them, so they’ll take them before I get back.”

  “We need light!” Kindan shouted. “Find some!”

  Vaxoram glared at Kindan’s back angrily but the young harper never noticed. With a deep sigh, Vaxoram calmed himself and turned away once more, leaving the Archive Room to follow Kindan’s orders.

  Kindan pulled the stack of “new” Records over to a table and started to go through them. They were written from just after Crossing. The writing was small, much smaller than he was accustomed to. In the dim light, they were hard to read. He leaned close, his nose almost touching the Record as he read.

  “Contents of Shipment #345-B, offloaded from gravsled #5,3.10.8 at 22:45,” the document began. What was a gravsled? Kindan wondered. And the date, was that the third day of the tenth month in the eighth Turn after Landing? And that number, 22:45—what was that?

  Kindan turned through several more Records and then he stopped, grunting in surprise as he read the first line of a poem or a song:

  “A thousand voices keen at night,

  A thousand voices wail,

  A thousand voices cry in fright,

  A thousand voices fail.”

  Maybe this will help, Kindan thought to himself, peering down to the next verse:

  “You followed them, young healer lass,”

  —young healer lass? Kindan wondered to himself. He knew of no healer lass at the Harper Hall or anywhere on Pern. With a sinking feeling he continued to read:

  “Till they could not be seen;

  A thousand dragons made their loss

  A bridge ’tween you and me.”

  Kindan shook his head, grimacing. This must just be another harper song, nothing important, Kindan thought to himself, recalling the countless drinking songs harpers wrote and sang for the entertainment of holder and crafter alike. He could imagine the tone of the piece, however, dour with minor chords throughout, a proper dirge—that didn’t seem right for a drinking song.

  The next stanza seemed to confirm his suspicion:

  “And in the cold and darkest night,

  A single voice is heard,

  A single voice both clear and bright,

  It says a single word.”

  A single word? Help? Kindan mused. Could Nonala, whose voice was “clear and bright,” somehow sing a word that would help save all of Pern? Maybe she was training to be a healer a
nd hadn’t told him. He peered down to the next verse and read:

  “That word is what you now must say

  To—”

  “I’ve got a torch!” Vaxoram called excitedly, breaking Kindan’s concentration.

  “A torch?” Kindan cried, turning around and seeing the blazing light that Vaxoram was holding in his hand. “Are you mad? The Records are mostly paper!”

  “You said to get light,” Vaxoram snapped. He waved the torch. “This is light. It’s even brighter than glows.”

  Kindan had to admit that even from the great distance of the door to his table, the torch’s light was having an effect.

  “Bring it here, let’s see how good it is,” Kindan said.

  As Vaxoram approached, Kindan could see more and more of the Record. He noticed small marks which he hadn’t seen in the dimmer light and saw that they were chord markings. Yes, it was a song—a song written in a minor key, just as he had thought. The tune started playing in his mind and he realized that, sour as it was, it was quite catchy. Whoever had written this song had meant it to be remembered for a long time.

  It was important.

  “That word is what you now must say,

  To open up the door,

  In Benden Weyr, to find the way

  To all my healing lore.”

  “What’s this—”

  “Shh!” Kindan ordered.

  “It’s all that I can give to you,

  To save both Weyr and Hold.

  It’s little I can offer you,

  Who paid with dragon gold.”

  Yes, the tune was definitely catchy. But, “paid with dragon gold”? Kindan could think of no one who had lost a gold dragon. Could the song refer to Koriana? But they’d been to Benden already, and found nothing. And—

  “This is just some nonsense song,” Vaxoram declared, shaking his head, grabbing the Record with his free hand and easily reading it in the torch’s bright light. “You’re wasting your time.”

  Kindan shook his head. “I don’t know, it looks important.”

  “Only to the person who wrote it,” Vaxoram declared. “A waste of paper or whatever this is.” He dropped the Record back to the table dismissively. “But the light helps, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Kindan replied absently, picking up the Record and rereading it closely. “There could be a thousand deaths from this—”

  “More,” Vaxoram said, peering down at the Record. “You’re wasting time, Kindan.” He grabbed for the Record again, yanking it out of Kindan’s hands.

  Before Kindan could react, a drum message boomed out, echoing across the valley from Fort Hold and reverberating in the confines of the Archive Room.

  “Master Kilti ill, please help,” the message said. Kindan recognized the drummer—Koriana.

  Angrily, Kindan dived for the Record to snatch it back. He caught Vaxoram off guard and as the older lad fought to retain possession, he lost hold of the torch.

  “No!” Vaxoram cried, diving for the dropped torch and loosing his hold on the Record at the same time.

  “The Records!” Kindan yelled, watching in horror as first one, then another Record caught fire. “We’ve got to get water!”

  “We’ve got to get help!” Vaxoram added.

  In an instant, Valla was there, hovering over Kindan’s head and chittering shrilly. Then the bronze was gone again, only to be heard loudly in the courtyard beyond.

  “Run!” Kindan shouted. “To the well!”

  “To the kitchen!” Vaxoram said, and then both burst into action, Vaxoram retrieving the torch, Kindan darting to separate the precious Records. Vaxoram bumped into Kindan in his haste and Kindan tripped, pushing the ancient Record toward the fire. Before he could do anything, the Record was a burst of flame—and a pile of ashes.

  “What is it? What is it?” Harried voices could be heard shouting in the courtyard. “It’s Kindan’s fire-lizard! Something’s wrong!”

  Then Vaxoram’s voice drowned all others as he burst into the courtyard. “Fire! Fire in the Archives!”

  The flames rose around Kindan and he found himself being forced backward by the heat of the rising flames, his attempts to salvage Records thwarted. Despairing, he turned to the exit only to be met by Resler.

  “What have you done? What have you done?” Resler shouted, striking at Kindan furiously.

  “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Kindan cried, trying to dodge the enraged Archivist’s blows and get into the courtyard. “We’ll put it out.”

  “Step aside, we’ve got water,” a new voice called. It was Vaxoram. He shouldered Resler brusquely aside, handed Kindan a sloshing bucket, and entered the room, throwing his bucket indiscriminately and racing back for more.

  “Form a line!” Kindan heard Kelsa shout. “Form a bucket line! Pass them along!”

  Kindan threw his bucket on the flames, found another in his hand, then another, then another, and another—

  And then, after an eternity, the flames were out. The Archive Room was a mixture of ash, damp Records, and rising smoke.

  “It’s out,” Kindan called hoarsely. His message carried backward through the bucket line to those at the well. “The fire’s out.”

  Behind him, Resler peered in at the mess that had been made of his precious Records, livid with fury.

  CHAPTER 10

  Dark rewards

  Do dark deeds pay;

  Harsh words

  Do harsh wounds flay.

  HARPER HALL

  Kindan didn’t pause as he cleared the archways of the Harper Hall. He didn’t glance back. He didn’t cry, although that took an extreme effort of will.

  Gone. All his dreams were gone.

  Banished. “And never come back!” Resler had shouted, still hoarse with rage.

  Doomed. “You’re to go to the Hold, help as you may,” Resler had said, pointing toward the Harper Hall’s arching entrance.

  “But Master Lenner—”

  “Doesn’t need your sort of help,” Resler replied. He shook his head furiously. “For almost five hundred Turns we’ve preserved the Records and in ten minutes you’ve destroyed a quarter of them. Never in the history of Pern has there been greater treachery.”

  Any words of protest died on Kindan’s lips. He could not tell if, among the lost Records, there was a remedy for the illness that now affected all of Pern. His mistake could have cost the lives of millions.

  “You’ve got to keep going,” Vaxoram said quietly, nudging Kindan in the shoulders. Kindan turned back angrily, but Vaxoram ignored his look, nodding toward the ramp up to Fort Hold. “Keep going.”

  “How?” Kindan asked in misery.

  “One foot after the other, one day after the next,” the older apprentice replied. “It will get better.”

  Kindan stopped, turning to face Vaxoram bitterly, demanding, “How do you know?”

  “Because you taught me.” The answer was so simple, so sincere, that Kindan could not doubt it. Vaxoram bent his head and added, “That fire was my fault, not yours.”

  “I could have stopped you,” Kindan said.

  “Then it was our fault,” Vaxoram replied. He nudged Kindan gently, turning him toward Fort Hold. “And that’s our destiny.”

  “To die in Fort Hold?”

  “Maybe,” Vaxoram answered. “But at least your girlfriend’s there.”

  Kindan said nothing, he could think of no response. But, unconsciously, he picked up his pace. Behind him, Vaxoram’s face lit with a brief smile.

  “What are you doing here?” the Fort Hold guard demanded suspiciously as he looked out through the speaking port in the great doors. “There’s quarantine.”

  “We were sent by Master Resler, to help Master Kilti,” Kindan explained.

  “Are you healers?” the guard asked hopefully.

  “Harpers,” Kindan confessed.

  “All that can be spared,” Vaxoram added.

  The guard nodded, closed the speaking port. A moment later, one of the dou
ble doors opened just enough to admit the two of them and closed again. Kindan glanced around, surprised that only one door was used, only to discover that there was only the one guard at the gate.

  The guard turned away hastily, coughing, then turned back to them. “Had this cough for a sevenday now,” he told them. “One of the younger lads didn’t last that long.”

  “Younger, you say?” Kindan asked, in surprise.

  “Not twenty Turns yet,” the guard agreed. “And I’ve nearly forty.” He shrugged. “I thought the young ones were sturdier.”

  “Me too,” Vaxoram agreed, glancing warily at the guard and then at Kindan.

  “The Lord Holder will be pleased to see you,” the guard said, waving them on to the entrance to the Great Hall. “You’ll have to go on your own, I’m the only one still here.”

  “Out of how many?” Kindan asked.

  “Twenty,” the guard answered quickly. He turned away again to cough, then back to them, adding bleakly, “Seven are already dead.”

  The doors to the Great Hall stood slightly ajar. Before Kindan approached them, Valla darted forward and through, returning a moment later with an encouraging chirp. Vaxoram gave Kindan a quizzical look, gesturing for him to go first.

  Inside, Kindan was shocked to see that the floor of the Great Hall was filled with cots. And the cots, crammed so close together that it was difficult to navigate through them, were filled with people.

  “Must be hundreds here,” Vaxoram remarked as they proceeded toward the great hearth at the top of the Hall.

  Kindan gazed at the listless bodies and nodded in bleak agreement. But Fort Hold was home to over ten thousand; where were the rest?

  He glanced around, looking for anyone upright in the filled room. It was a moment before he spotted movement, a white-haired, balding man who looked like a scarecrow and—Kindan drew a sharp breath—Koriana. They rose from one bed and went quickly to another.