On the fifth morning, when Piemur went to the spacious beasthold to feed Stupid, he found Meer and Talla perched on Stupid’s back. Meer had a message from Sharra strapped to his bronze leg.

“They can even carry messages?” Ara asked, surprised.

“Useful that way, though they have to know where they’re going.” Piemur’s reply was somewhat distracted, for the message told him that Jaxom was gravely ill with fire-head at the Masterharper’s Cove. How Sharra knew where that was, Piemur could not guess. He himself had been hunting for that particular cove for the past three months. “I’ve got to leave. A friend needs me,” he added. “Look, Farli now knows who you are and where you are. As soon as I can, I’ll send you a message by her. When you’ve got it, just tell her to find Stupid—who isn’t.”

He gave Jayge a friendly clout on the back, made bold to hug Ara, and tweaked Readis’s chin, making the little fellow giggle. Then he started off in an easterly direction, wondering why Jayge did not come after him, demanding what he expected to find in that direction.

11: Southern Continent, PP 15.08.28-15.10.15

SANETER HAD NEVER felt so ineffective, though since coming to Southern, Toric had given him a good deal of practice. The old harper fervently wished that Piemur was not somewhere tramping through the eastern wilds; that Sharra, who was always clever at diverting her older brother, was not who-knew-where nursing Lord Jaxom of Ruatha Hold. Only the previous day her bronze had arrived with a message reporting that she could not yet leave her patient. Toric had irritably demanded to know how long it took to recover from the disease.

The current catastrophe added insult to Toric’s list of aggravations. T’kul on Salth and B’zon on Ranilth were both missing from the Southern Weyr. The remaining dragons, despite their frailty, were creating the most dreadful din, making everyone uneasy and certainly exacerbating the volatile Southern holder. Furthermore, every fire-lizard in the hold had streaked off, just when Toric urgently needed one.

“How,” Toric demanded, kicking at the furniture in his workroom, “can I get word to Benden Weyr when there isn’t a fire-lizard to send?”

“They never fly off like that for very long,” Saneter suggested hopefully.

“Well, they’re gone now, and now is when I need to inform Benden of this development. It may be critical. Surely you realize that.” With a savage scowl, Toric kicked a chair out of his way. He whirled on the elderly harper, pointing a thick forefinger at him. “You must bear me witness in this! I had no means to send an urgent message, and that wretched journeyman is gone when I need him most! My hold may depend on informing Benden! How, Saneter? How?” Toric bellowed.

For one horrified second, Saneter heard an echo of that shout. Only it was not precisely an echo of Toric’s bellow. It was the sort of noise that lifted the hair on the back of the neck, the keening that Saneter was all too familiar with: dragons announcing the death of one of their kind.

“Who?” Toric demanded of the walls at the top of his voice. He wheeled to Saneter, then obviously remembered that the old harper was unable to run any errands and charged from the chamber in search of an answer.

Toric was halfway down the path between hold and Weyr when a bronze dragon, giving a consoling bugle, swooped in over his head to land before the Weyrhall. Toric did not recognize the rider when he stripped off helmet and flying gear and stood looking around him. The keening of the resident dragons, however, had dropped to a bearable moan, and the unfamiliar bronze changed his tone to something that sounded, even to Toric, like encouragement.

“Dragonrider, I’m Toric of Southern. Which dragon died?” The Southerner strode across the clearing, taking the measure of the older man. Despite his fury and frustration, Toric found some reassurance in the confident manner in which the dragonrider awaited him.

“D’ram, rider of Tiroth, formerly Weyrleader of Ista. F’lar has asked me to assume the leadership of Southern. Other young riders have volunteered to help and will arrive shortly.”

“Who died?” Toric demanded again, impatience getting the better of courtesy.

“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.