Dragon's Kin

by Anne McCaffrey

  When not guiding Kindan in his storytelling, Master Zist was consoling Natalon, who was growing desperate for a dragonrider.

  “What is taking them so long?” Natalon moaned. “How long can Aleesa wait?”

  Zist shook his head. “I don’t know. Fort Weyr would have dispatched a dragonrider on the same day, even if the watch rider couldn’t land.”

  “Where would a dragon land here?” Natalon asked, eyes darting around the camp. “Is that the problem? Is there no suitable landing?”

  “Dragons aren’t so big that they couldn’t land here, Natalon,” the old Harper reassured him. “Only the bronzes or queens would have problems, and then they’d probably land up on the heights near the beacon.”

  “Would the dragonriders walk all the way down from there?” Natalon asked, somewhat astonished at the notion of a dragonrider walking the half mile that he made all the camp youngsters take at a run.

  “I don’t see why not,” Zist responded with a grin. “They do have feet.”

  Natalon glowered at him, but the old Harper was unrepentant and kept grinning until finally Natalon smiled. “I suppose they do at that.”

  Zist slapped the Miner on the shoulder. “They do.”

  “What if they don’t come soon? What if it’s too late?”

  With a sigh, Zist answered, “When you get to my age, Natalon, you learn to take things as they come.”

  Natalon laughed. “When I get to be your age, Master Zist, I’m sure I’ll be able.”

  That night Kindan noticed that Master Zist was unusually dour when it came time for bed. Kindan himself had been in equal parts both depressed and elated for the last two days—sometimes depressed because a dragon hadn’t yet come, sometimes elated because a dragon hadn’t come; sometimes elated that he had been chosen, and a whole year of coal traded, to get a watch-wher egg, sometimes depressed for the same reason.

  “A lot’s being asked of you, lad, you know that, don’t you?” Zist said to him.

  “Yes.”

  “Your father taught you about watch-whers, right?” Zist asked.

  Kindan shook his head mutely.

  “You know how to hatch ’em, how to feed them, and how to rear them, right?”

  Again Kindan shook his head. “My father used to say that I’d never be expected to do such things. I was too little to train, the older boys said.”

  Master Zist closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, he smiled. “Well, you’re a bright lad, I’m sure you’ll find yourself able.”

  “I won’t let down my Hold—er, Camp,” Kindan said, despite his fears.

  Master Zist pulled the blankets farther up and tucked them around Kindan. “I’m sure you won’t, lad,” he said firmly. Kindan noticed that the Harper had a troubled look in his eyes, something others likely wouldn’t have seen.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Master Zist raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You’ve gotten far too good at reading my moods, youngster,” he said. He took a breath and let it out with a sigh. “There is a problem, maybe only a slight problem, but it has me concerned.”

  Kindan gave him an encouraging look.

  “Maybe it’s just that I’ve mixed feelings about all this,” the Harper muttered to himself. He looked at Kindan and said, “You know if you do this, you’ll not be my apprentice much longer?”

  Kindan nodded solemnly. The thought had been on his mind for the past several days. He was torn between his duty to the miners—Natalon and Zenor in particular—and his own dream of being a Harper. He had held the fancy that perhaps he could do both and hadn’t tried to examine the idea too closely because, in his heart, he knew the idea was unrealistic.

  “Well . . .” The Harper took a breath and plunged on. “Our meeting with Master Aleesa is set for tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Kindan sat bolt upright. “But what if a dragonrider doesn’t come? What if they won’t take us?”

  Master Zist made soothing motions with his hands. “It may still turn out all right, even so,” he said.

  “How?”

  Master Zist frowned, thoughtfully. “This is a craft secret, understand?”

  Kindan paused, then nodded solemnly.

  “And not a harpercraft secret, a— I suppose you’d call it a dragoncraft secret,” the Harper explained. He continued, “You’ve proved you can keep your secrets, but this one especially you must not reveal.”

  Master Zist took another breath and plunged into his tale. “Long ago, when I was a journeyman, I was posted to Benden Weyr,” he said. Kindan’s eyes widened in amazement. “I made many a good friend while I was there. And used all of the poor healing skills I’d ever had and learned more.”

  He gave Kindan a frank look. “I was not all that good at healing—and still am not—so I was posted to copy their Records.”

  He smiled at his memories of long ago. “There was a Hatching the first sevenday I was there,” he said.

  Kindan couldn’t help but gasp at the thought. Master Zist grinned at him and nodded, confirming that the event was just as amazing as Kindan had imagined.

  “Twenty-five eggs on the Hatching Ground,” the Harper continued. “And the last was slow to crack. Big, but slow to crack. The dragonriders said that it was probably a bronze and they were worried about it. The remaining Candidates were all gathered about it and I was high up in the viewing stands so I couldn’t see all that went on, but finally the crowd opened up and one lad—the first one to greet me when I arrived at the Weyr—Matal, Impressed the bronze.”

  Kindan realized that he’d been holding his breath and let it out slowly, so as not to distract the Harper.

  “I was so excited for my friend—M’tal, now—that I let out a loud cheer,” the Harper said, his face going red. “The sound must have echoed over by the hatchling, because it startled and caught its wing in its claws. Then it really started to get frantic and it seemed to take forever before M’tal and the others could calm it down. When they did, I could see that the dragon’s wing was terribly mangled.”

  Kindan let out a gasp of shock and sympathy.

  “It was all my fault,” Zist said bitterly.

  “ ‘Get help!’ the Weyrleader shouted. I ran out as quickly as I could, hoping to find the Weyr healer only to run full tilt into someone coming the other way.

  “I didn’t recognize him. He pulled me up. He had a sack of supplies. ‘It’ll be all right,’ he told me. ‘It wasn’t your fault. Do you want to help fix it?’

  “ ‘Please,’ I said. He grabbed my arm and spun me around, back to the Hatching Ground. Together we approached the wounded dragon—Gaminth—and M’tal.

  “He had me put numbweed on the gashes. He had all the supplies that were needed, some thick fabric on which to lay the torn wing, and fine needles to sew the torn pieces together. We were done in no time.

  “ ‘He’ll be all right now,’ the man said. M’tal looked up and started to say his thanks but stopped, looking from the other man to me and back again, gasping.

  “ ‘You!’ M’tal exclaimed. I didn’t understand at the time, thinking that he recognized the healer.

  “ ‘And you,’ the man said with a smile. ‘I’ve got to be going.’ When I made to follow him, he held up a hand to stop me. ‘I can find my way out, thank you.’ And he left.

  “Gaminth healed just fine, and M’tal has since gone on to become the Weyrleader of Benden Weyr,” the Harper finished.

  “And who was the man, then? Why did Lord M’tal say ‘You!’?” Kindan asked.

  Master Zist smiled. “Ah, there’s a song in that answer,” he said. Kindan raised his eyebrows. “I won’t sing it for you, but I’ll tell you the title. It’s called ‘When I Met Myself Healing.’ ”

  Kindan mouthed the title to himself and looked up sharply at the Harper. “You met yourself? The healer was you? But older? How?”

  “It’s a craft secret,” the Harper replied. “But maybe we can get the dragonriders to do it for us again.�
��

  Kindan pursed his lips in thought. “Dragons go between from one place to another—can they go between times?”

  Master Zist smiled and nodded. “You’ll make a good Harper.”

  “But I’m going to be a wherhandler now,” Kindan answered sourly.

  Master Zist’s smile faded. “Yes, if that’s your choice.”

  Kindan’s face screwed up in anguish. “I can’t let the others down,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll love being a wherhandler and I’ll get to stay with my friends.”

  “There is that,” the Harper said. “If you became a Harper, you’d have to apprentice in the Harper Hall and there’s no telling where you’d be posted.” He nodded to himself. “You’re right to see the good in the situation.”

  Kindan nodded glumly.

  Kindan was awoken roughly the next morning. Zist was shaking him, a pitcher of cold water in his other hand.

  “Up now, lad!” the Harper said gruffly. Kindan rushed out of bed, looking for his clothes. “No time for it, just throw this on.” Zist threw a cloak at him. “And get your boots on.”

  Kindan worked as fast as he could but he was fumble-fingered in his excitement.

  Master Zist growled at him, “All haste, too much waste! Take a breath and try again.”

  As soon as he’d finished lacing up his boots, Master Zist rushed the two of them out of the cottage and up toward the beacon heights.

  It was pitch black outside and Kindan only made it up the cliff without stumbling because he knew the trail well enough to walk it in his sleep.

  Three figures greeted them at the top by the beacon. And one was huge. Kindan looked up and up and finally found the face of the dragon. It peered down at him as though he were a mere trundlebug, blew a breath out its nostrils that turned to steam in the cold morning, and then looked away.

  “Here they are,” Natalon said. “This is Master Zist, lately of the Harper Hall, and Kindan, the son of our late wher-watcher.”

  The man whom Natalon addressed yawned pointedly. “You set a beacon for this?”

  Kindan sensed Master Zist tense angrily beside him.

  “We had hoped that we could ask for the hospitality of transport,” Natalon replied. “We give fair tithe.”

  “The beacon and dragon pennant are for emergencies, Miner,” the dragonrider responded, beckoning to his dragon and preparing to depart.

  “Lord—?” Zist called urgently, stopping the irritated dragonrider in his tracks.

  “I am Lord D’gan, Harper, lately Weyrleader of Telgar Wyer,” the dragonrider replied, drawing himself up to his full height.

  “We are most honored, Lord D’gan,” Zist said, sketching a courtly bow. Hastily, Kindan copied him as best he could. “Camp Natalon is a prosperous Camp with good prospects, my Lord. We have found much coal here which is greatly in demand—”

  “Not by dragons or their riders, Harper,” D’gan interjected. “If you were mining firestone, it would be a different matter. I care little if Holders are a bit cold this winter.”

  “We are mining Smithcoal, my Lord,” Natalon said. “Our coal is of such quality that the MasterSmith himself has laid in a large order for it.”

  D’gan cocked an eyebrow at him. “I am very pleased for the MasterSmith.”

  “My Lord,” Zist said, and Kindan could see signs of restrained anger in the old Harper’s face, “that coal is used to make the steel that binds your fighting straps, strengthens your helmet, and buckles your belt.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” D’gan replied. “We have had many complaints on the quality of steel coming from the Smith Hall. Now I know the source.” He moved toward his dragon.

  “My Lord!” Zist called. “Of old the dragonriders of Pern have been courteous in responding to the just requests of the Holders and Crafters.”

  D’gan stopped and whirled back, his hand on the dagger at his side. “Courtesy is much lacking in this Camp. Of old the dragonriders have been given more respect and have not been asked to provide frivolous thrill rides. Do not presume on my courtesy anymore!”

  Kindan drew in an outraged gasp, covering his mouth quickly to hide his gaff.

  But both Natalon and the Harper had also reacted to the accusation.

  “Thrill ride?” Master Zist repeated, appalled, staring at D’gan.

  “It is indeed to redress a serious problem at this Camp. We have no watch-wher, and our mining efforts cannot continue without the aid of one,” Natalon explained.

  “We are to collect a new egg from Master Aleesa and time is of the essence,” the Harper went on.

  “Oh.” There was studied insult in D’gan’s manner as he inspected the three in front of him.

  “Our Dask died leading us to a tunnel collapse,” Kindan was bold enough to say.

  Master Zist put his hand on Kindan’s shoulder, a gesture more approval than rebuke.

  “It enabled us to rescue the others,” Natalon said.

  “So, a watch-wher is your hero?” D’gan added.

  To everyone’s surprise, the dragon dropped his head toward their cluster and made a funny snort. It sounded a bit like a noise Dask might have made.

  “He was, I gather, just doing his duty.”

  Stung, Kindan replied. “Had he rested, he would have lived. He did not rest while miners were trapped in a dark cave-in.”

  D’gan made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “You have only convinced me that Telgar’s previous Weyrleader was far too accommodating. Asking a dragon to give transport to collect a watch-wher.” He snorted again and smoothed his hair back. “Thread is coming again, as you should know, Harper. Do not presume on Interval courtesies anymore.”

  With that, D’gan turned and flung himself onto his dragon’s back. In two chilling beats of its wings, the dragon was airborne and, in another, between.

  Natalon turned questioningly to Master Zist, but the old Harper was too busy swearing to offer him any advice.

  “What shall we do now?” Kindan asked after having learned enough new oaths from the angry Harper to dine on for a week.

  Master Zist paused in his swearing, aware that Kindan had been listening intently. “You’ll remember that I believe that any youngster who swears should have his mouth washed out with soap. And I shall remember not to swear in your presence.”

  “You were quite justified,” Natalon said from behind them. “I have never met a dragonrider before—”

  Zist held up a hand. “Do not say anything against dragonriders until you’ve had a fair sample.”

  “And how will I get that?” Natalon snapped back.

  “I have my ways,” Master Zist answered. He looked at Kindan. “Put out the beacon and lower the flag. When you’re done, meet me at the drums.”

  When Kindan had completed his tasks, Master Zist had presented him with a message to beat out on the drums. The message had been simple: “Zist requests M’tal.” Kindan had had to spell out both “Zist” and “M’tal,” so the drumming was longer than he was used to. He waited until he got an acknowledgment from the two nearest drums and then reported to Master Zist.

  “What are you doing here?” Zist bellowed when he saw the boy. “Get back up to those drums and wait for a response.”

  “Master?”

  “What?” Zist bellowed again, clearly in a rare anger.

  “Could someone send me some breakfast?”

  The Harper drew breath for another bellow, saw the pale look of the lad, and let his breath out again. “Very well. And take this sweetroll up with you.”

  “Thanks!” Kindan answered, and trotted off back up the hill with the sweetroll in his tunic.

  “I’ll send some proper clothes for you, as well,” Zist boomed after him. Unseen in the early morning light, Kindan turned bright red as he realized that he’d met his first dragonrider in his pajamas.

  Later in the day, Master Zist trudged up to the drum heights with another young lad beside him. Blond and brown-eyed, the lad was happy to hand his bun
dles to Kindan—Kindan’s day clothes. Asking the Harper to carry such a bundle up to the heights by himself would be tantamount to insult.

  Kindan tried not to look embarrassed as he took his clothes from the other boy and slid into them under his cloak but Master Zist must finally have noticed his discomfort for he charitably asked, “So, Kindan, what did you think of your first look at a dragon?”

  The other boy gave Kindan a look of awe, but it was Master Zist who was surprised by Kindan’s offhand answer: “Oh, they’re pretty enough, but you’d never fit one in a mine.”

  Someone shook Kindan awake and he jumped up with a start, aware that he had fallen asleep on watch. It was deep night. The beacon burned bright, still fueled by the last logs Kindan had piled on it earlier, so he figured he couldn’t have been asleep more than an hour, two at most.

  The person who shook him was dressed in leather—a dragonrider.

  “My Lord,” Kindan said, sketching a quick bow. Behind him he heard a gentle snort from way up high. Turning, he saw the dim outline of a dragon, its great eyes peering down at him with interest. “I am Kindan. Master Zist asked me to keep watch—”

  The dragonrider smiled. He was nearly as old as Master Zist, Kindan judged. His hair sparkled with silver strands in the night. His eyes were amber, and he was all that Kindan had ever imagined a dragonrider to be—except, perhaps, older.

  “Well, Kindan, please tell Master Zist that M’tal has responded to his request,” the dragonrider said.

  “No need,” a voice called from the darkness, startling Kindan. “And do stop jumping, Kindan, you’ll wear yourself out.”

  “He seemed quite worn out already,” M’tal remarked.

  Master Zist stepped into the light. “I’d noticed,” he said lightly, “which is why I decided to keep him company for a bit.”

  “You were here, too?” Kindan asked in aggrieved tones.

  The two men laughed.

  “It’s a habit of leadership, youngster,” M’tal remarked. “It’s always a good idea to check up on a sentry from time to time.”