“Salth. Ranilth is badly spent but may recover. He and B’zon remain at Ista.” D’ram spoke with such deep sorrow that Toric felt the tacit rebuke.
“What happened?” he asked more politely. “We knew the bronzes were missing, but so,” he added through clenched teeth, “was every fire-lizard we could have sent to warn Benden.”
D’ram nodded acknowledgement of Toric’s quandary. “T’kul and B’zon brought their bronzes to Caylith’s mating flight, which had been thrown open to decide the new Istan Weyrleader. Salth burst his heart trying to fly the queen…” D’ram paused, terribly distraught, then sighed heavily and continued without meeting Toric’s eyes. “Having nothing to lose by it, T’kul challenged F’lar.”
“F’lar is dead?” Toric was appalled, seeing all he had worked so hard to obtain lost through more of T’kul’s stupidity.
“No, the Benden Weyrleader was the stronger. He mourns T’kul’s death as all dragonriders do.” D’ram gave Toric such a challenging look that Toric nodded in a gesture that was close to apology.
“I can’t say I’m sorry T’kul is dead,” Toric replied, though he was careful to speak with no heat, “or Salth. They’ve both run mad and uncontrolled ever since T’ron—and Fidranth—died.” Toric had struggled to recall T’ron’s dragon’s name. But he was rapidly realizing, and hoping, that F’lar’s appointment of a new Weyrleader heralded the changes he had so long sought: open commerce with the North, allowing his hold to expand as he had always planned.
Just then Mardra appeared, sobbing hysterically in a maudlin show of grief that disgusted Toric, who knew very well how often she had quarrelled with T’kul. He excused himself, telling D’ram that the Weyrleader had only to ask what he could do to assist him.
“There will be other dragonriders joining me here, both Oldtimers and those of this Pass. You will see the Weyr restored,” D’ram said with quiet confidence before he went to comfort Mardra.
Toric walked slowly back to his Hold, deep in thought about the implications of such a promise. Anything would be an improvement—just so long as it was not a hindrance. How was he to retrieve Sharra? How was he to contact Piemur? He needed the quick wit and solid Northern associations of that devious young man more than he had remotely appreciated. It was then that he noticed the return of the Hold’s fire-lizard population. But when his little queen tried to settle on his shoulder, chittering agitatedly about something, he was in no mood to heed her.
The cove that Piemur had heard so much about from Menolly and Master Robinton was every bit as beautiful as they had said. A perfect deep half-circle, with wide sandy beaches sloping slightly upward to meet the lush forests, trees and shrubs a riot of colorful blossom and leaf. Ripe fruit was evident on a half dozen trees. And he had seen no snakes, their absence due, no doubt, to the presence of Ruth, Jaxom’s dragon. A rough building was set well back in the shade, a well-trodden path leading to it from the shore. The water, ranging from a pale green to the deeper blue of greater depths, was deceptively pellucid, and the gentlest of waves rolled over the sand.
“So Sharra,” he said after the three had exchanged joyful greetings. “What is it that Meer, Talla, and Farli are trying to tell me? And where’s Ruth?”
“You’d better sit down, Piemur,” Sharra said gently.
Piemur stood stolidly on both feet, his expression belligerent. “I can hear it just as well standing!”
Sharra and Jaxom exchanged looks that spoke too loudly to Piemur of a well-developed understanding—and of something he was not going to like to hear.
“T’kul and B’zon tried to fly the Istan queen Caylith this morning,” Jaxom began. “Salth burst his heart, T’kul attacked F’lar—are you all right?” Piemur had sat down, very hard, his face ashen under the dark tan.
“F’lar’s alive, unhurt,” Sharra cried, going to Piemur’s side and slipping an arm about his shoulders. “B’zon and Ranilth will stay at Ista awhile.”
“D’ram is now Southern Weyrleader,” Jaxom added.
“Really?” Piemur’s color returned, and mischief glittered briefly in his eyes. “Toric’s going to love that. Another Oldtimer to deal with.”
“D’ram’s different,” Jaxom said encouragingly. “You’ll see.”
“Well, that’s not so bad. A change in the wind always helps.” Piemur glanced at Sharra to see if she had considered what the new development might mean to Toric’s ambitions, but the distress on her face had not lessened. He turned back to Jaxom.
“And?”
“Master Robinton has had a heart attack!”
“That arrogant, addlepated, insufferably egotistical, altruistic know-it-all!” Piemur shouted, springing to his feet. “He thinks Pern won’t manage without his meddling, without him knowing everything that happens in every Hold and Hall on the entire planet, North and South! He won’t eat properly, he doesn’t rest enough, and he won’t let us help him even though we could probably do the same job even better than he can because we have more sense in our left toenails than he does.” He knew that Sharra and Jaxom were staring at him, but he could not stop. “He’s wasteful of his strength, he never listens to anyone, even when we try to get him to see sense, and he’s got this wild idea that only he, the Masterharper of Pern, has any idea of the destiny of Weyr, Hold, and Hall. Well, this serves him right. Maybe now he’ll listen. Maybe now…”
Tears came to Piemur’s eyes, and he stared from one to the other, begging them to say that it was all some kind of hideous joke. Sharra embraced him again, and Jaxom awkwardly patted his shoulder. Above him the fire-lizards chirruped in far too happy a tone. Piemur had not wanted to understand Farli. He had not let himself understand her.
“He’s all right,” Sharra was saying over and over, and he could feel her tears on his cheek. “He’ll be fine. Master Oldive’s with him and Lessa. Brekke’s just gone. Ruth insisted on taking her. And you know that Master Robinton will have to recover if both the Masterhealer and Brekke are attending him.”
Piemur felt Jaxom’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him. “The dragons, Piemur—the dragons wouldn’t let Master Robinton die!” Jaxom spaced his words out so that their sense would penetrate the young harper’s shock and fear. “The dragons wouldn’t let him die! He’s going to live. He’ll be fine. Really, Piemur, can’t you hear how happy the fire-lizards are?”
Piemur only believed in Master Robinton’s eventual recovery when the white dragon, Ruth, burst back into the clearing, his clarion bugle sending Stupid careening into the safety of the forest. Ruth was so eager to hearten Piemur that he ventured to nudge him gently with his white muzzle, a gesture of extreme affection, while the facets of his beautiful eyes whirled slowly with their reassuring green and blue.
“You know that Ruth can’t lie, Piemur,” Jaxom said earnestly. “He says Master Robinton’s resting easily, and he tells you that Brekke told him herself that he will recover. Mainly he needs rest.” Jaxom attempted a one-sided grin. “With every dragon on Pern watching him, he won’t get away with any of his usual tricks.”
Piemur had to concede that point. Gradually he began to relax and answer his friends’ questions about his travels. He did not mention Jayge and Ara, though with Master Robinton ill, he would have to confide in someone else. Sebell was the one most likely to assume the Mastery of the Harper Hall—he had long been trained to that onerous position. He would know all Master Robinton knew, and Piemur would have no hesitation about informing his Craftmaster friend—once everything had settled down again. For the time being, the secret of Jayge and Ara’s Paradise River Hold was safe enough.