“There’s land, my dear Weyrwoman, for any man who can hold it.”

“I’d say then,” Lessa went on, “that you’ll have more than enough to occupy you fully and to Hold, from sea to Western Range to the Great Bay…”

Suddenly Toric heard his fire-lizards’ warning. Sharra was running away. He had to leave the Plateau, to get back to the hold.

“To the Great Bay in the West, yes, that is my hope. I do have maps. In my hold, but if I’ve your leave…” He had managed one stride to the door when the Benden queen bugled a warning. Another male voice chimed in, all but drowning his fire-lizards out. F’lar moved swiftly to block his way.

“It’s already too late, Toric.”

And so it was. For when they all filed out of that all too provident meeting, Toric saw the white dragon landing, Sharra and the young lordling on his back. Unsmiling and impotent, Toric watched them approach.

“Toric,” Jaxom said, “you cannot contain Sharra anywhere on Pern where Ruth and I cannot find her. Place and time are no barriers to Ruth. Sharra and I can go anywhere, anywhen on Pern.”

One of Toric’s fire-lizard queens attempted to land on his shoulder. He ignored her piteous chirps and brushed her away. He hated disloyalty.

“Furthermore,” Jaxom went on, “fire-lizards obey Ruth! Don’t they, my friend?” The white sport had followed his rider. “Tell every fire-lizard here on the Plateau to go away.”

In an instant the meadow was empty of the little creatures. Toric did not like the young upstart’s demonstration. When the fire-lizards returned, he allowed his little queen to land on his shoulder, but he never took his eyes from Jaxom’s.

“How did you know so much about Southern? I was told that you’ve never been there!” So that milkbrother had lied. Toric half-turned, looking across the meadow, wondering if Piemur had had a hand in this. That unweyred lordling could not have snatched Sharra back from Southern all by himself: he wouldn’t have had the courage or the knowledge.

“Your informant erred,” Jaxom continued. “Today is not the first time I’ve retrieved something from the Southern Weyr which belongs to the North.” He laid his arm possessively about Sharra’s shoulders.

Toric felt his composure leave him. “You!” He thrust his arm out at Jaxom, wanting to do many things at once, especially swat down that—that—impudent excrescence. He was livid with the indignation of being under obligation to that—that lordling! That leggy, undeveloped boy! He wanted to rend Jaxom limb from body, but little though the white dragon might be, he was bigger than Toric, stronger than any man, and both dam and sire were not far away. There was nothing Toric could do but swallow his humiliation. He could feel the blood suffusing his face, pumping through his extremities. Impossible as it was for him to believe, he was faced with the fact that the boy had dared to retrieve Sharra—dared and done—and now faced him coolly. He had been in error to call the lad a coward! He had allowed himself to be swayed in his judgment by the jaundice of a milk-brother. Young Jaxom had acted like a proper lord, reclaiming the woman of his choice in spite of precautions. “You took the egg back! You and that—but the fire-lizards’ images were black!”

“I’d be stupid not to darken a white hide if I make a night pass, wouldn’t I?” Jaxom asked scornfully.

“I knew it wasn’t one of T’ron’s riders.” Toric was reduced to clenching and unclenching his fists as he struggled to regain his composure. “But for you to…Well, now…” He forced himself to smile, a trifle sourly, as he looked from the Benden Weyrleaders to the Harper. Then he started to laugh, losing anger and frustration as he roared away the stress. “If you knew, lordling,” and this time it was a respectful title as he pointed his finger at Jaxom, “the plans you ruined, the– How many people knew it was you?” He turned accusingly on the dragonriders.

“Not many,” the Harper answered, also glancing at the Weyrleaders.

“I knew,” Sharra said, “and so did Brekke. Jaxom worried about that egg the whole time he was fevered.” She gazed up at the boy proudly.

They made a handsome pair, Toric thought inconsequentially.

“Not that it matters now,” Jaxom said. “What does matter is, do I now have your permission to marry Sharra and make her lady of Ruatha Hold?”

“I don’t see how I can stop you,” Toric had to admit, sweeping his arm up in irritation.

“Indeed you couldn’t, for Jaxom’s boast about Ruth’s abilities is valid,” F’lar said. “One must never underestimate a dragonrider, Toric.” Then he grinned, softening the implicit warning. “Especially a Northern dragonrider.”

“I shall bear that firmly in mind,” Toric replied, letting chagrin color his voice. Indeed, he had become far too complacent about the distinction. “Especially in our present discussion. Before these impetuous youngsters interrupted us, we were discussing the extent of my Hold, were we not?”

He turned his back on his sister and her lording and gestured to the others to return to their temporary hall.

13: Southern Continent, Nerat Hold, PP 15.10.23

TWO DAYS AFTER Jaxom had triumphantly returned to Cove Hold with Sharra, and Toric had concluded his Holding agreement with the Benden Weyrleaders, contingent on confirmation by the Lord Holder Conclave, Piemur managed to find an opportunity to tell Master Robinton about Jayge and Ara.

“Another ancient settlement? Restored and lived in?” Astonished, Master Robinton leaned back in his great chair. Zair, asleep on his desk in the sun, woke up, blinking. “Bring me the relevant map.” He tossed Piemur the key that unlocked the drawer in which his secret documents were kept. Masterscrivener Arnor had had his most discreet and accurate journeyman make three copies of all the maps found on the walls of the “flying ship,” after which access to the ship had been restricted to Master Fandarel’s most trusted Mastersmiths. “How kind of you, Piemur, to save something to amuse me just when it was beginning to be humdrum again,” Robinton went on.

After Piemur had shown him the location of Paradise River, the Harper pored over the map a long time, murmuring to himself and occasionally grimacing. Well accustomed to his Master’s ways, Piemur filled Robinton’s goblet with wine and put it by his right hand. Piemur had been officially reassigned by the new Masterharper Sebell as journeyman to Cove Hold. He did not bother asking the new Masterharper if Toric had refused to have him back, or if Master Robinton had specifically requested him. What mattered to Piemur was that he was back with Master Robinton where, despite the old man’s wistful complaints, things were never dull—especially since, having been given a clean bill of health by Master Oldive, the Harper had great plans for further exploration.

“A vast and marvelous land, Piemur,” Robinton said, taking a sip of his wine. “And when one thinks of the plight of the holdless in Igen low caverns, those terrible rock cells in Tillek and High Reaches…” He sighed. “I think—” He broke off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I let them talk me into retiring too soon is what I think.”

Piemur laughed. “You’re no more retired than I am, Master Robinton. Merely looking for a different kind of mischief to get into. Let Sebell cope with the Lord Holders, Craftmasters, and Weyrleaders. I rather thought you liked delving into the mounds?”

The Harper’s gesture was testy. “If they’d find anything! Fandarel and Wansor have the best part of what has been discovered so far and are happy as gorged weyrlings with those totally undecipherable star maps. The few empty bottles—albeit made of a very curious substance—and broken mechanical parts simply do not stimulate my imagination. I want to know so much more than what the ancients threw away or left behind as too bulky to dismantle. I want to know their style of living, what they used, ate, wore, why they moved North, where they came from originally, how they got here, apart from using the Dawn Sisters as vehicles. That really must have been a staggering voyage. I want to reconstruct Landing and…Just how much was left there at—what did you call it?”