Brothers In Arms

[Anareth]

This story is set in the same Alternate Fifth Pass as "Free Falling" (and my previous stories at the OKT, "First Impressions" and "Tangles"), from my PBeM Weyr, North Ranges (http://www.geocities.com/northrangesweyr/) and its sister Weyr, Southern Boll (http://www.dragonslair.co.nz/sthnboll/). Any questions about references to medicinal herbs, check out Eliara's Pernese Herbarium. (http://www.geocities.com/northrangesweyr/herbarium.html)

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Brothers in Arms

Setting: Late Summer, 1015 AL
Racing Gather, Ruatha Hold

Alavid, Eliara, and S’rius are mine, Denmar and Moiria are PNPCs, C’vort is Laurie’s, and the rest are NPCs or mentioned in passing only!

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Even though racing had never been Alavid’s idea of a great time, with the brilliant sun reflecting off the stone faces of the Hold and brightening the colored tents around the Gather square and the pennants of the racing flats, he couldn’t help but smile and relax a little. And though Ruatha was hardly the sunny south, it was still warmer than North Ranges and a nice change. Not to mention, he thought, as he smiled at a group of girls in weavercraft apprentices’ knots, who giggled and smiled back from behind shyly-raised hands, it was always good to see new faces! North Ranges wasn’t just a small Weyr; at times it could feel outright claustrophobic.

Little needle claws dug into his shoulder, and Deecie chittered in a very chipper tone of voice, his tail flicking back and forth across Alavid’s back. “You’re glad for a change of scenery, too, aren’t you?” The chirp of a reply sounded affirmative to him. “Can’t say as I blame you.”

He didn’t have many marks in his pocket, so he contented himself with looking at the traders’ and crafters’ stands. There wasn’t much he really wanted, in any case, though he did see a shawl in swirls of red, yellow, and black that his mother would have loved, and a woven leather collar for canines that his youngest brother, Marvid, with his herding canines at the beastcraft hall, would probably have been glad to have. At a carver’s stall, he spotted a set of fine bone needles and stopped to look more closely. They were curved and far too fine for either wherhide work or for sewing dragonskin, but looked ideal for a Healer who worked on humans. Eliara, he thought, with her small hands, would probably adore them. With needles that fine, she could stitch a wound so delicately it might barely leave a scar.

Alavid shook his head. Eliara surely had her own marks, if he’d even had enough consider getting the needle kit for her. Though it might be nice to throw her for a loop, if he could have afforded to. She was so bloody . . . equanimous about everything, from a rider laced with threadscores to the sunrise breaking over the rim of the Weyr after a long night spent in the dragon infirmary trying and succeeding to save a rider and his dragon. Possibly nothing did throw her–was there anything she hadn’t seen before and couldn’t remember? Well, a few things, he thought, a tad bitterly. When Kizmeth had risen and lead the bronzes and half the browns, too, on a long and merry chase before making the selection everyone had expected, Alavid had half-hoped that Eliara, too, would catch a bit of the mood that always permeated a Weyr during a gold flight. Instead she’d retreated to her office, and later he’d caught the faint aroma of featherfern tea, a remedy he knew was used for dazzle-headaches. Anareth’s more recent flight had not improved matters any. Not that he was lacking for companionship if he wanted, but it would have been a nice change to see if Eliara ever got excited about anything.

Deecie twittered, and Alavid scratched him behind the headknobs (eye ridges were so hard to reach on the tiny firelizards.) “Shame she doesn’t have a green for you to chase,” he sighed, “I’ll bet that would make her sit up and take notice.” Eliara seemed as oblivious to the firelizards, though, as she was astute about her patients. Deecie crooned, and Alavid grinned. “Don’t worry. I think I can probably scrape up enough of a mark to get us something to eat.”

Enough for three meat rolls, anyway, two for him and one for the greedy flit. The seasoning was rich and spicy, and they were freshly made, so the pastry was still flaky and hot, not yet soaked with cooling grease. Alavid tried to nibble at his own snack one-handed while holding the other for Deecie, all while not getting crumbs on his Gather best. Well, his anything best. He had only two good tunics and one decent set of trousers, since at the typical Weyr event, Hatchings, he usually needed to be in clothes suited for working. Hatchlings were notoriously clumsy, and there was almost always at least one who needed at minimum a look-see from a dragonhealer. Today he had the neat black trousers pressed and was wearing the blue tunic, the one his mother insisted brought out his eyes. Frankly having one’s eyes out sounded painful, but he saw her so rarely he’d figured it wasn’t worth making an issue.

Though the official dances didn’t begin until the evening, he found himself gravitating towards the square anyway. Usually at Gathers there’d at least be a few Harpers around, if not to play then to entertain with juggling or story-telling, or at least men looking to show off their knife-throwing prowess or some other skill for the amusement those who weren’t interested in the races. Sure enough, there were three Harpers, in journeymen’s knots, sitting on the as-yet unset stage platform, one with pipes, one with a drum, and one with a gitar. They weren’t playing yet, but a crowd was gathering and undoubtedly that would change soon. Alavid scanned the crowd, looking for any familiar faces, if not from North Ranges, then Igen, or Big Bay Hold. He’d thought he’d seen the familiar colors, but there were so many here, enjoying what was likely to be one of the last decent days of summer, it was impossible to be sure.

The voice behind him was slightly muffled, as if the speaker had a mouthful of cotton, but it was unmistakable nonetheless. “Enjoying the Gather-day, Dragonhealer?”

He turned around, and tried not to stare. “Very much, Weyrhealer,” he said, mimicking her formality and hoping as he did she didn’t take it the wrong way. Eliara was leaning on one of the posts surrounding the dancing square, holding a little bag of . . . something white, and fluffy-looking, but the aroma wafting his way was salty-sweet. More astonishing, she was wearing a dress, or rather skirts and a blouse with a belted overtunic, clothes he knew he’d never seen her in before. Her hair, at least, was in its familiar utilitarian braid. “I’m surprised–I didn’t realize you were coming.”

“I caught a ride with C’vort,” and she crinkled her nose in what might have been annoyance, might have been amusement. He felt a faint twinge of irritation–not that he had a right to it, of course, she’d always treated the unattached men in the Weyr, including the brown rider, with distressing equanimity (distressing to Alavid, anyway.) And of course she’d need a dragonrider to bring her here. Why not C’vort? “It’s nice to get away sometimes, and Ruatha’s close enough to Fort it’s a chance to see my family. They’re not likely to make the trek up to a Gather at North Ranges.” She plucked one of the white kernels out of the sack and popped it into her mouth. “This is really good. Want some?”

“What is it?” He took a few of the white kernels and, since she seemed to be eating them to no ill effect, popped one in his mouth. It shattered with a satisfying crunch, and had obviously been doused with some sort of sweetening, and salt–“It’s good! Where’d you get it?”

She held out the bag for him to take more. “A vendor from the Telgar plains. Apparently, it’s maize, but it’s been dried and heated. I think that’s cane sweetening syrup, and butter, too. Ought to report this to the Healer Hall as an addictive.”

For a half second he thought she was serious, and then, to his surprise, he spotted a twinkle in her eye that was definitely humor. Eliara, in a dress, and cracking a joke? Maybe this stuff wasn’t addictive, but some sort of psychotropic . . . . “If it’s got to be trekked from Telgar during a Pass, then it’ll be too expensive for anyone but the Lords to be addicted to. But it is good.” He nibbled a bit more, and tried to think of a new, relatively harmless, topic of conversation, one that wouldn’t lead inexorably back to a discussion of work. At least his reluctant apprentice was nowhere to be seen. Willin was a clever boy, certainly, a gifted apprentice who was going to be a very talented dragonhealer someday, but Alavid suspected that the boy resented him more than a little, and he had a sneaking suspicion Willin harbored a bit of a crush on the Weyrhealer. That meant that every time the three were together, which was fairly often, Alavid could feel daggers boring into his back from Willin’s eyes. Eliara seemed either oblivious to the tension (a scenario Alavid found unlikely) or she had decided the best way to defuse the situation was to pretend not to notice.

Unfortunate, since that pretense seemed to extend to almost every male in the Weyr unless they were bleeding to death in front of her.

“Enjoying the Gather?” The minute the words were out he wanted to kick himself. How inane could he possibly be?

If Eliara noticed, she was too polite to say anything. “So far. Of course, it has its up sides and its down sides . . . .” Her gaze was suddenly focused over his shoulder, and he turned, almost dislodging Deecie and getting a squeak of annoyance from the firelizard, who’d been angling to sample the tasty kernels himself.

The man, Alavid decided quickly, as he took in the three people making their way around the edge of the dancing square, had to be Eliara’s father. Even without the Master Healer’s knots on his shoulders, the resemblance, in hair color, the shape of the eyes, and something in the look in them, too, would have been enough. The two women with him, though–the elder of the two had perhaps the same shape face as Eliara, but her hair was a brighter russet color, and she was definitely frailer of build. There was a squinting to the corners of her eyes, as if she spent a great deal of time in glowlight. The woman–girl, he re-estimated, beside her was a smaller copy, obviously taking as much after her mother as Eliara did after their father.

“There you are, Elie!” The girl spoke first, and with the familiarity only a sibling would dare. “Did you find the vendor you were looking for–oh!” Her look went from carelessly merry to an impressed calculating that Alavid at once recognized and found amusing in a girl her age. “Never mind.” The smile became absolutely polished, meant to stun, and it was well on its way to being effective. “I see you’re making friends. Going to introduce us?”

“Don’t call me Elie,” Eliara said, and to his surprise she stepped to his side. “And do I poach on your Harpers? Mind your manners, Nona.”

Poach? Alavid raised an eyebrow and looked down at her. Her face was as impassive as always, but she was standing close enough for her sleeve to brush his, and he thought (though he couldn’t be sure) there was just a touch more color to her cheeks. Deecie, knowing an opportunity when he saw it, had a much more practical use for her sudden proximity, and he hopped from Alavid’s shoulder to Eliara and scramble-flapped down her arm, burying his nose in the little sack of popped maize. “Deecie!”

“Don’t mind him,” though Eliara looked less comfortable about having a firelizard on her arm than she did annoyed at the pillaging of her snack. “Alavid, this is my father, Master Healer Elinon. My mother, Journeywoman Rasia, Healer archivist. And that’s my sister Ranona. She studies marriageable boys at the Harper Hall. This is Alavid, our dragonhealer at North Ranges, and he’s off-limits to you, Nona. I’m not having him scared off–it was hard enough getting a dragonhealer in the first place!”

“Oh, his *healing skills*, that’s all you’re interested in, Elie,” her sister retorted, in a tone of pointed teasing Alavid recognized because he’d heard it from his own siblings often enough–from his own mouth, even. “You must be ready to scream, putting up with my sister all the time.”

“Oh, it has its moments,” Alavid said, glancing sideways at Eliara to see how she took it. “Your daughter’s a very gifted Healer,” he said to her parents, though principally to Elinon. “It’s hard to keep up with her sometimes.”

“So I’ve been told,” Elinon said. He seemed to be sizing Alavid up, and his next words confirmed it. “So you’re the Dragonhealer we’ve heard so much about. It’s nice to have a face to go with my daughter’s letters.”

Alavid raised an eyebrow and beside him Eliara groaned. “Papa . . . . “

”You do mention him a great deal, daughter dear,” and there was no mistaking the teasing tone of voice, but he dropped the matter with a parent’s tact. “A pleasure, Alavid.” Rasia nodded and smiled, but didn’t say anything. “Your firelizard, I assume?” he added, pointing to Deecie.

Alavid looked, and winced. Deecie had his head buried in the sack, and kernels were flying everywhere as he did his best imitation of a gorging porcine. “I’m afraid so. Deecie, quit it!” He tried to pull the blue off Eliara’s arm and got a hiss for his trouble.

“Oh, let him finish the bag. He’s obviously enjoying himself,” Eliara said. “Besides, if he eats himself sick, I assume you know how to treat it?”

Was she teasing him? He looked down, and there was definitely humor in her eyes. Whatever had gotten into her, he decided, he wasn’t going to question his luck. “I should hope so. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s gorged himself and regretted it later.”

The Harpers on the platform had apparently decided they’d drawn enough of a crowd, and were tuning their instruments a bit louder. At the center of the crowd that had gathered a shout went up, and someone held up a nosegay of flowers, bound with ribbons, and the crowd began separating itself into two lines, men on one side, women on the other. Nona clapped her hands. “The flower dance!” She turned that obviously-practiced smile on Alavid. “Do you dance, Journeyman Alavid?”

“I like to try,” he said, and then he looked down at Eliara. “What about you, Weyrhealer?”

She raised an eyebrow, but before she could speak her sister piped up, “Oh, Elie never dances. She doesn’t like it.”

Eliara’s second eyebrow joined her first. “Actually, Dragonhealer, I’d love to. If Deecie will permit.”

Alavid barely had a moment to contemplate Nona’s objection and Eliara’s immediate denial before he was dealing with a struggling, protesting firelizard who was not interested in being separated from his snack. “Deecie! That’s enough!” He grabbed the blue firmly beneath the chest and pulled, and the firelizard came free–along with the sack, the remaining contents of which scattered on the ground around them. “Oh, no. Deecie, you glutton . . . .” The blue squawked, and wriggled free, hopping to the ground where he began working on cleaning up his mess.

He heard a strange, unfamiliar sound, and realized it was Eliara. She was laughing, even though she was biting her lip and trying not to show it. “Just leave him,” she sighed, when she’d gotten herself under control, but her eyes were still crinkled at the corners and her cheeks were pink. “At least he’ll make sure it’s all cleaned up. Now, you mentioned something about dancing, Dragonhealer?”

Nona was still staring at her sister, incredulous and a little miffed by the look of things. Alavid knew a volatile situation when he saw one, and held out an elbow first to Eliara, then offered his other arm to Nona. “Since it is the flower dance, I don’t have to chose, do I?” Nona grinned, stunningly, but Eliara took his arm a bit more slowly, and her smile was a great deal more cautious.

They joined the lines of the dancers, ending up with Eliara directly across from him, though in this dance that didn’t necessarily matter. At the head of the set, one girl, in Weaver’s apprentice knots, had taken her place with the beribboned flowers in her hands, while the first two men from their side of the set took their places to either side. As the Harpers struck up a fast tune, the waiting dancers began to clap in time, Alavid included. Nona, too, was clapping and even stamping her foot in time with the drummer, but he noticed that Eliara’s hands were at her skirt, swishing it awkwardly back and forth. She noticed him looking and narrowed her eyes, as if daring him to comment. He smiled, and she looked away.

At the head of the set, the girl holding the flowers looked from one man to the other, smiling and making a show of demureness, looking up through lowered lashes. She turned one way, then the other, and then thrust the flowers at the man to her right, a stocky fellow in Fort colors, and took the hands of the man on her left, a boyish-looking journeyman Smith. There were a few whistles and catcalls to accompany the clapping as the two danced down the set and rejoined the lines at the end. The rest of the dancers moved up the set, and two girls stepped to either side of the Fort man holding the flowers, where it was now his turn to chose a partner and leave the other standing.

Alavid found himself scanning the lines, looking for familiar faces. There were a few dragonriders who looked familiar, but none he recognized nor were any wearing North Ranges’s blue and white colors. To his left, a late arrival hurried into line, a man wearing the rank knots of a Southern Boll brown wingrider. To Alavid’s surprise, the dragonrider was in the company of a little girl, who looked barely old enough to walk securely, but the little girl toddled to the opposite line, taking her unsteady place beside Eliara. She beamed in the unstinting way children her age (Alavid guessed that to be perhaps four turns) tended to smile, obviously looking for the dragonrider’s approval, which came in the form of a smile and encouraging nod. Eliara glanced down at her new companion, her expression in that careful blank set he knew meant she was thinking very hard. Again she caught him looking, and again the near-glare. He kept smiling.

Nona reached the head of the set first, and wound up standing beside a nervous-looking Beastcraft apprentice, who was clutching the flower bundle like a defensive weapon. Her apparently-permanent smile widened as the apprentice thrust the flowers at the other girl and seized Nona’s hands, whirling her down the set with a slightly desperate expression while she laughed and tossed her auburn hair.

Alavid found himself to one side of the abandoned girl, but she obviously knew the Holder lad to her other side, as he found himself clutching the flowers almost before he’d had a chance to think. Then Eliara was stepping around him, and he caught a flash of alarm on the dragonrider’s face. A look to his right and down, very down, explained why–there was the little girl, still beaming and clapping out of rhythm but with undeniable enthusiasm.

Alavid looked back at Eliara. The Healer’s mouth twitched in just a bit of a smile. “You owe me a dance later, Dragonhealer.” And she held out her hand for the flowers.

Alavid passed them over, and then made a dramatic bow to the little girl, who laughed, and he bent just a bit so she didn’t have to stretch too far. It took them a bit longer than the others to dance down the set, but they were accompanied by a bit of extra applause and shouts as they went. The little girl laughed all the way.

As he straightened up and stepped back into line, he turned in time to see Eliara hand the flowers to a Healercraft apprentice and take the hands of the dragonrider who’d been accompanying the little girl. Their progress was much quicker, though Eliara seemed to be doing more a quick stepping motion than a dance, without regards to the music. The dragonrider bowed gallantly anyway as they reached the end, and then he quickly swept the little girl up in his arms, to another burst of laughter from her.

Turning to Alavid, he smiled, and nodded in acknowledgment. “Thank you. I’d forgotten how unpredictable this dance is, and I’m not sure Seroia would have handled being left very well.” He seemed to remember his manners and added, “S’rius, brown Padrath’s rider.”

Alavid shrugged, but accepted the thanks with good grace. “I’m Alavid, journeyman dragonhealer for North Ranges. Is this your daughter?”

S’rius grinned, stepping back a bit out of the line, which was starting to dissolve anyway as more dancers simply didn’t rejoin them. “That she is. I don’t see her often–she fosters with her mother’s family–but since Moiria needed a ride to this Gather anyway, we thought she might like to come along and I could ‘get to know her.’” Which was more than many dragonriders did for children living in their Weyr, let alone those outside, Alavid knew. “Moiria’s a race-rider. If you’re looking for a tip, she has a mount for the lord of Keroon in the third race she says is as close to a sure thing as there is in racing.”

Alavid wondered what sort of odds Denmar would have given him, and shook off the thought. “I’ll bear it mind.” He glanced towards the women’s line, and noticed Eliara had withdrawn. “I don’t mean to be rude–“

S’rius had seen which way he was looking. “Of course. I didn’t mean to interrupt, and I’m sorry Seroia interrupted your plans for a dance with your lady friend! Are those knots what I think I’m seeing? That slip of a girl’s a Master Healer?”

“You’d be amazed,” Alavid said, sincerely. Then he hurried off around the women’s line and spotted Eliara, headed for the sidelines. “Eliara! Wait a moment!”

She didn’t stop entirely, but she did slow down. “That was nice of you. And the little girl seemed to enjoy herself.”

“I’m sorry, though,” and he found he was still having to step quickly to keep up. “I really was hoping . . . .”

“As I said, you can owe me a dance later.”

“Bit hard to do, if I can’t find you,” he pointed out. “What did your sister mean, you don’t dance? Was she just trying to horn in?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” but she didn’t make it sound quite like an insult. “She’s right, I don’t, usually. But then the flower dance is really more like a game than a dance. I don’t really like music, I suppose. I learned to speak all my ballads, not sing them.”

“You?” Alavid remembered being both put off and relieved when she had first explained to him that she was an eidetic, one of the rare specimens with a literal perfect memory. Put off, because it was an eerie talent, one he associated with the strange sorts the Harper Hall sometimes found, the ones who went into trance-like states as they recited whatever their favorite topic of memory was. Relieved, because he certainly wouldn’t have been the only one to react that way, and a history of people reacting like that certainly would explain a great deal about her temperament. And it was oddly fascinating, too–he couldn’t begin to imagine remembering everything–in fact, as he’d reflected on what he’d seen during Fall and after as a healer, he wasn’t sure he’d want to.

“Yes, me. I’ve never enjoyed listening to it, dancing to it, any of it.” Her nose wrinkled in an expression that was downright endearing. “As you can probably imagine, evenings hanging around the dining hall when the Harper’s in a mood are torture.”

“It just seemed, with your memory, you’d be good at remembering songs, or dances,” Alavid said. She’s slowed down a bit, so at least he didn’t feel like he was running to keep up. “You remember how to do other things–stitches and things like that.”

She shrugged. “Maybe it’s the music. Throwing me off, I mean. I can’t think when it’s playing, and worse, if I get a tune stuck in my head, it stays stuck.”

“Hm.” Behind them, the flower dance was breaking up, but the Harpers had not stopped playing. The lines had broken up, but the dancers were splitting into couples and forming a circle for a round dance–probably not a stately promenade, but one in which it would be a contest between dancers and Harpers as to who tired first. “Well, why don’t we see if we can fix that?”

Eliara looked from him to the dancers and back again. “Alavid, I really don’t think . . . .”

She was using his name, not ‘Dragonhealer’, so he was making progress. “I owe you a dance, remember?” He grinned. “Come on. You’re not afraid, are you?”

That was apparently the tack to take. He hadn’t been asleep these last months, after all. “Afraid? Of dancing with you?” Her eyes glittered, and this time he suspected the color in her cheeks wasn’t embarrassment. “Lead on, Dragonhealer.”

They had to hurry back, as the Harpers weren’t apparently in a mood to wait. Speed worked to Alavid’s advantage, because it meant Eliara didn’t have time to object as he took her right hand in his left and wrapped his right arm about her waist, pulling her just a bit closer than was strictly necessary. “Left hand goes on my shoulder,” he said, with his best smile. “Then just follow my lead.”

“I don’t have much choice, do I?” Just then the Harpers struck up and spared him from answering, and her question became a shriek as Alavid took a quick step and pulled–swung, really–her along with him. “Alavid, slow down!”

He laughed and whirled her around, tightening his hold on her waist. “Can’t! We have to stay with the music.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing!” Her eyes were wide, with what looked like fear and exhilaration both.

“Just count! One-two-three, and one-two-three!” He managed the stops and starts of the quick-stepping dance, cuing her with a press of his hand on her back or a squeeze of her fingers, and gradually she began to catch on, mirroring his steps, a hop on the left and slide on the right and vice-versa, and she relaxed into his hold, letting him propel them in the circle with the other dancers. As the Harpers picked up the pace and a few couples dropped out, they matched the tempo, and by the time the musicians cried mercy and brought the dance to a rousing end, Eliara was laughing and breathless as Alavid brought them in one last spin to a stop.

When he’d managed to catch his breath, he asked, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Her cheeks were flushed pink, and she was still trying to catch her breath. He tried to be polite, but the unfamiliar clothes and her breathless state made it difficult to keep his eyes from straying down below her face. “You’d better hope it wasn’t, Dragonhealer,” she said, when she’d caught enough breath to speak. “I won’t forget if it was, remember?”

He supposed he shouldn’t have been disappointed. If he’d been expecting Eliara to fall into his arms, of course he was going to be disappointed. But would it kill her to be a bit less vague? “Well, that’s not the most reassuring compliment I’ve ever received.” He sounded petulant, even to himself, but couldn’t help it. As if sensing his owner’s distress (or looking for a warm place to nap after gorging himself) Deecie appeared in a blast of cold air and settled onto Alavid’s shoulder, chattering softly. “Maybe next time I’ll find a dance you prefer.”

To her credit, she looked abashed. “I didn’t mean–I did have fun. I’m just not used to it, is all.”

“Dancing, or having fun?” That earned him a pitying, exasperated look and he quickly retracted, “Dancing, of course I meant dancing. I was only teasing.”

“I know.” She didn’t quite sound like she did, though. “I’d best be going. My family’s probably gotten themselves lost, and there’s . . . .” She stopped herself, but he didn’t need her to finish. C’vort, most likely. Or some other dragonrider. Of course it wasn’t his business.

“Of course, Weyrhealer,” and he made a deliberately formal bow. “I enjoyed our dance, whether you did or not.” He turned and started for somewhere, anywhere, in the opposite direction she was headed.

“Alavid–“ He heard his name, and almost stopped, but instead he picked up the pace and didn’t slow down until he’d lost himself in the crowds and there
was no chance of her catching up.

To be continued....

[Anareth]

In spite of himself, Alavid made his way to the racing flats before the start of the third race. He’d never really liked racing, even growing up in a Sea Hold best known as a transhipment point for many of Pern’s finest runners. Too much of his earliest apprenticeship with beasthealing had been spent fixing, or failing to fix, injuries brought about by shipping, hard running, and pushing injured animals before they were fully healed. And, of course, he thought as he was jostled by a crowd swirling around a tote that, from its color pennant, belonged to a Ruathan odds-maker, there was always the betting. He’d never had enough marks to think about risking them on the vagaries of runners, but he did find himself looking to see what odds they were giving on the Keroonese Lord’s entry, the one the dragonrider had mentioned. Short odds, so it seemed the bettors agreed with S’rius’s assessment.

“Best odds! Best odds here! Paid back in Beastcraft marks, paid in full! Wagers offered on single runners, order of finish, three races on the card!”

Alavid froze. He had to be mishearing. He knew that voice, but it couldn’t be–he’d heard that there weren’t going to be many odds-makers here. The Ruathan Lord, so they said, didn’t want the competition. So how could he have come all the way here from Katz Field?

“Best odds! Place your bets before the flag goes up!”

It was him, no question. Alavid sighed, and began scanning the crowd. He didn’t see the red-and-pale-green banner, but he could follow the voice. Deecie bounced cheerfully on his shoulder, enjoying the jostling ride even as Alavid was nearly stepped on. He came up just as the other was turning around, mid-call.

“Hello, Denmar.”

His younger brother was caught off-guard, even losing his place in his customer-luring chant. “Alavid!” he said, grinning but not so much that Alavid thought he’d been into a flask this early. “Dragon’s teeth, I didn’t know you were going to be down here! Send a fellow word next time.”

“I hardly thought you’d be here,” Alavid replied. “I thought the Ruathan Lord had banned outside gaming, except for a few Bitrans.”

Denmar brushed off the fact as if it were dust on his sleeve. “There are always independent odds-makers at a racing meet, you know that. Who’s going to notice one more in the crowd?” His eyes, paler copies of Alavid’s own, narrowed. “Speaking of which, I don’t suppose you’d care to make a wager yourself? I can give you some excellent odds on the third.” Alavid only crossed his arms, and Denmar rolled his eyes. “Come on, you can’t be that broke!”

“I don’t exactly have marks to burn, no,” Alavid said. “You know better than to ask, anyway. Even if I did I’m not risking it on racing. Besides, that would be endorsing it–“

”Oh, you and your runners!” Denmar shook his head. “Well, if you aren’t going to bet, why don’t you let me buy you a drink later, since I’m the only one of the family going to make a profit today? Until then, I’ve got business to do!” He turned half away, raising his voice again and calling, “Best odds! Best odds here, paid in beastcraft marks!”

“A drink later, then,” he said to his brother’s back, though knowing Denmar it would be more than a single drink. Deecie trilled softly, nudging Alavid’s cheek, and he sighed. “He means well, Deecie. He just takes after Da.”

There was a shout from the racing flats, and he saw the flag was up for the third race. Morbid curiosity and a faint interest in seeing if S’rius and his mate were right (not to mention the favorable odds Denmar was offering). In spite of the crush, he managed to reach the rail just as the flag dropped and the runners leapt forward, the riders shouting and some fanning their sticks already, rushing their mounts towards the front. This was a route, two hundred dragonlengths down the course, but some were hoping to get their runners so far ahead there would be no chance of the closers catching up. In the rush to the fore, Alavid saw two runners carrying the red and brown of Ruatha, and another the red, white, and blue of Telgar. Scanning the field, he spotted Keroon’s gold, white, and green, carried by a tall red colt whose rider seemed content to stalk just behind the leaders, her head tucked low near the colt’s neck.

Alavid moved with the crowd as they rushed down the field, trying to reach the best spot for the finish. He almost lost the Keroon colt in the flying turf kicked up by the leaders, but as he scrambled up the side of the boundary, he saw the rider lean forward, saw her stick rise and fall on the colt’s shoulder, and he lunged forward. From his perspective, the gap between the two leaders, both in Ruathan colors, wasn’t wide enough, but the rider tucked her hands low and the colt surged between his rivals. For an instant they hung together, heads bobbing, and then he moved again, drawing away, by a half, three-quarters, a full length . . . his ears were pricked, and again the stick rose and fell, but she rode almost entirely with her hands, her arms the only part of her body that seemed to be moving. The colt seemed to roll forward, leaving the others behind, or maybe they were slowing, but either way, it didn’t matter, as he swept past the finish post with lengths to spare.

Alavid found himself cheering with the rest as the colt slowed, the rider standing in the irons as she let him run himself out before circling back towards the finish. Near the post, Alavid spotted the Lord of Keroon, along with a man with a Beastcrafter’s Master knots, hurrying forward with a groom in tow, rushing to meet the colt as he jogged back. The Lord said something, and the rider nodded, removing her colored cap and revealing a dark head of hair done up in a braid. The rider was looking around as she spoke, letting the colt crab-step as the Master took hold of the bridle while she scanned the crowd. Alavid suspected he knew who she was seeking, and his suspicions were confirmed when he recognized S’rius and the girl–Seroia, that had been her name–making their way through the crowd. With one last affectionate slap to the colt’s foam-flecked shoulder, she swung her leg over the front of the saddle and dropped to the ground, slipping past the Lord and other well-wishers and flinging her arms around her mate and daughter, accepting a victory embrace from both.

Alavid couldn’t help smiling, and he almost wished he’d placed a thirty-second on the colt. Denmar at least would have let him bet such a small amount, and would have probably paid, too. Of course, he thought, dropping from his perch on the rail and starting to work back through the crowd, if he had bet, the colt would probably have tripped at the start and lost his rider.

As he made his way back towards the Gather tents, he noticed a man in Ruathan colors and fine clothes moving towards the racing flats, and if it weren’t for the man’s shoulder badge, he would have assumed from the two guards, both armed with long, wicked-looking belt knives and stout billy clubs, that the man was the Ruathan Lord. But from his badge he had to be the Steward, though he was certainly looking around as if he owned the place. His eyes were scanning the pennants flying around the flats, eyeing each with a calculating glint in his eye.

Suddenly Alavid found himself the subject of the flinty gaze, and of the hard, unflinching stares of the two guards. Only a deep breath and a reminder that he had as much right to be there as anyone kept him from cringing. The steward’s eyes narrowed, and then he looked away again, moving further into the crowd, but Alavid could follow his progress by how the people parted in his wake.

Deecie trilled uncertainly, and Alavid shook his head. “Nothing. At least, I think nothing.” He kept watching for a moment, though, before forcing himself to turn away and head back towards the tents. Maybe, he thought, forcing himself to focus on more pleasant things, he could find that Telgar vendor, the one selling the sweetened maize . . . .

To be continued....

[Anareth]

The racing lasted until the sun was just starting to dip down below the heights. The dragons lounging above the hold had moved farther up to catch the final rays of warmth, while below the glow baskets and torches were coming out, casting the Gather grounds in soft golden light. At the dancing square, the stage was being set for the serious playing that would accompany the evening’s formal dancing, and at the edges the Hold cooks were slicing up wherry, roast in its own juices, dishing up steamed vegetables and butter-slathered tubers to accompany it. Skins of wine were out, and out among the tents casks of ale were being tapped at the brewer’s tents. From the raised voices and raucous laughter emanating from behind some tents, the casks had been open for quite a while in some cases.

Alavid could hear the Harpers start to play, and the sound of feet on the dancing square, but he skirted the edge of the crowd. He was looking for Eliara, he realized, and forced himself to stop. For all he knew she’d gone home by now. Though, and he derived a certain amount of satisfaction from the fact, it wasn’t with C’vort. He’d spotted the brown rider at one of the stalls, chatting with an auburn-haired girl who worked there and who seemed rather familiar with C’vort. Her booth’s colors said she was probably Neratian, and of course C’vort had come from Igen. Then again perhaps the brown rider just made friends quickly. Female friends, that was.

Moving away from the bright lights of the square, Alavid headed down a row of tents. He didn’t particularly want a drink, but that seemed to be all that was left to do. Well, that, and other, less savory or official entertainments. He could hear the giggling and voices, male and female, rising and falling from the backs of some tents.

He’d reached the end of one ‘street’ near the edge of the racing flats, and was about to turn back when a voice hissed from between the tents to his right: “Alavid! Alavid, over here!”

He turned, squinting in the dim glowlight. There was a figure there, shadowed against the canvas of the tent, hunched and gripping one arm as if in pain. “Who’s–“ He stepped closer. “Denmar!”

His brother looked far less self-assured and cheerful than he had that afternoon. In fact, he looked as if he’d gone head to toe with a watch-wher and come out on the losing end. Alavid wasn’t used to dealing with blunt-force injuries (Thread was more like fire) but he knew them when he saw them, and Denmar’s face was a case study. One eye was already swelling shut, and a dark line of dried blood ran from his hairline down his forehead. His lips were split and swollen, and the cheek beneath the unblackened eye had a dark purple bruise that more than made up for the eye’s escaping injury. More alarming, though, was how his right arm hung, bent unnaturally between elbow and wrist and pressed against his side. His sleeve, too, was sodden and sticking to his skin, and though in the light the color looked black, Alavid knew what had made the stain.

“Denmar, what happened?” He hurried forward to take his brother’s good, or at least less-injured side. “Robbers? Why didn’t you find a Healer? The Hold-“

”The Hold?” Denmar’s tone suggested he would have laughed, if it hadn’t hurt so much. “Who do you think did this?”

“What?” Alavid had been trying to move his brother forward, towards the lights and noise of the square, but Denmar’s words brought him to a halt. “Someone from Ruatha? But . . . you have to report them. The Lord–“

”It was his Steward, him and his thugs, who did this,” Denman wheezed. It sounded as if just drawing breath was painful. “I guess you were right, big brother–they didn’t want any independent odds-men here.”

“That doesn’t mean they can do–this!” Alavid had seem worse injuries–any Healer in a Weyr had, generally in a single Fall. But the idea that the Hold’s own men had done this made it worse somehow. “Come on, we’ve got to get you some help. The Hold Healers can’t turn you away.”

“They can if the Steward says they can,” Denmar said, and stopped to gasp for air. “Can’t say I blame them, really.”

“Well, you can’t just slap some numbweed on this,” Alavid said. “And unfortunately I know more about fixing dragons than fixing people. We have to get help. Eliara!”

“Who?” Denmar blinked, which probably hurt, but Alavid was thinking out loud.

“Eliara, she has to still be around somewhere. She’ll help. And frankly I’d be afraid for the Hold guards if they tried to stop her, either.”

“She must be a real hellion if–“ Denmar choked off whatever he’d been going to say (not that Alavid was going to disagree) and stumbled, nearly falling. “Alavid! Get out of here!”

“What?” But he looked up and saw the two figures blocking the gap between tents, and recognized the two guards he’d seen with the Steward earlier. A look behind only showed him the ropes that held the tents up–perfect trip wires and traps if they tried to run. And somehow he suspected that trying to use his credentials, as nothing but a journeyman from a Weyr well to the north, wasn’t going to get them very far. “I don’t suppose you feel up to running very far.”

“Don’t let me slow you down,” Denmar gasped, trying to pull back, but Alavid tightened his grip. “Alavid–“

”You think Ma would ever speak to me again if I left you here to bleed to death?” He shifted his grip. “Maybe they’ll let us past.”

“Would you like me to give you odds on that?” From somewhere, Denmar found the energy to grin.

Alavid couldn’t help a smile, either. “Not really, no. Well . . . no getting round it. Get ready to run.”

The two guards had the wicked-looking clubs out and the bigger, uglier man of the pair grinned. “There you are–who’s your friend? Another thieving Igenite? Never mind, then, we’ll get our marks back off you, too–hey!”

A dark shape swooped down, chattering fiercely, and Deecie came away with a chunk of the man’s dirty-blonde hair in his talons. The second man swung his bat up at the flit, but Deecie swooped up and out of reach. “Damn flitter–get off!” Deecie made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a razz, and swept in again, talons and teeth at the ready.

Alavid saw his chance and lunged, but Denmar was only a step above dead weight and he wasn’t fast enough. The first man, obviously still in pain and missing that bit of hair, snarled and swung his club, aiming for Denmar’s already-injured arm. His brother screamed and staggered, and Alavid lost his balance. The second man, who’d been uselessly flailing at his airborne attacker, spun and stuck out. Alavid felt an explosion of pain across the small of his back, and his knees buckled. Deecie shrieked at the attack on his master and as the man raised his arm for a second blow he dove, sinking his teeth into the back of the attacker’s hand. The man screamed and shook his arm, trying to dislodge the little blue. “Ialo, get him off me!”

The other man (Ialo?) was busy, as he had Denmar by the arm (the bad one) and was bringing the club up for another blow, aiming for Denmar’s unprotected head. Alavid, trying to ignore the pain in his back, lunged and grabbed the big man’s arm.

“Get off!” Suddenly faced with Alavid trying to wrench his arm off, the big man staggered and Denmar tried to lurch away. “Jorin, get this one!”

Alavid was suddenly grabbed from behind and his head snapped back, cracking the other man in the face. That hurt, too, but the smaller man, Jorin, presumably, got the worst of it. Alavid heard Deecie hissing and felt a brush of air as his firelizard curved around for another pass. Then he was being wrenched around. Apparently Jorin had decided to resort to plain fists, as he discovered when said fist connected with his jaw. He punched, aiming for the man’s gut, and heard a satisfying whoosh as Jorin doubled over.

“Deecie!” The flit chirruped, and Alavid risked a look. “Find help! Get...get Eliara! You know her–find her, get her to follow you!” He sent a picture, as best he could–Eliara in her Gather finery, and he felt Deecie’s comprehension. Then the flit was gone, and he suddenly found himself facing Jorin again–and the other man had his belt knife out, and was holding it in a way that showed far too much experience for Alavid’s comfort. His mouth suddenly felt very dry.

He heard a groan behind him, and the dull thud of a blow on flesh. He wanted to turn, to see if Denmar was unconscious, or worse, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the knife pointed at him. “Now, you really don’t want to use that.” He tried to find the tone he used to soothe a nervous dragon, but it came out far shakier than he intended.

“Wrong,” Jorin said around a crooked grin, “you don’t want me to use it.” He made a quick slash, not meant to connect but to frighten. It worked. Alavid stumbled back, and collided with Ialo. The big man laughed, and grabbed Alavid’s arm, twisting it up behind his shoulder, wrenching the joints until he thought bone would snap. Jorin was still grinning, and now he was tossing the knife casually from hand to hand, as if he had all the time in the world and was just trying to decide what to do with it.

Footsteps, and flapping, and Deecie was back, shrieking and diving at Jorin’s head. Alavid looked over the man’s shoulder and saw Eliara, whose expression went from confused and annoyed to horrified in an instant as she took in the scene. Jorin, realizing Alavid was looking at someone, turned around and saw her standing there, and his grip on the knife tightened. Alavid lunged forward, snarling, but Ialo twisted his arm harder and he felt joints pop.

“Hello, pretty,” Jorin said. “Come to join the fun?”

For just an instant, Alavid saw fear in Eliara’s eyes, and in spite of the pain he struggled again, trying to get free and knowing it was futile. And then Eliara’s eyes hardened, and her shoulders set. He saw her draw in a deep breath.

“FIRE!”

Her voice was high and shrill and probably carried halfway to Fort Hold. Jorin froze, and Alavid felt Ialo’s grip loosen. Eliara, seeing the effect she wanted, filled her lungs and screamed again, doing a fair imitation, Alavid thought, of a green dragon in heat, with nearly the volume to match. Suddenly his arm was free, and he pitched face-first into the grass. Eliara was still screaming, and he heard running footsteps receding as he pushed himself slowly up on his hands and knees. His arm nearly buckled at the weight, but the fact that he could still bend it suggested it was merely strained, not broken.

As quickly as she’d started Eliara stopped shrieking and was on her knees beside him. “Alavid!” and he was oddly pleased to hear real fear in her voice, not her usual cool professionalism. “Are you all right? Who were they? What happened? You’re hurt!”

“If it gets you to sound that worried about me, it’s worth it,” Alavid said, pushing himself to a sitting position. To his amazement, she even looked worried, for just a moment there was real fear in her eyes, not of the men, not of that knife, but fear for him, that he’d been hurt. Pain or no pain, he felt wonderful. “I don’t think anything’s broken, but Denmar–“

Eliara had spotted Denmar, and was already stepping to him, that brisk professionalism back again as she bent over his brother’s still form. “He’s losing blood. Knife wound–doesn’t look too deep but I can’t be sure. I need a proper infirmary. The Hold–“

Alavid shook his head, and wished he hadn’t. Usually it didn’t hurt that much. “Those were Hold guards.”

Her eyes widened, and then she looked back down. “I can’t help him here. Shaffit, I wish Papa hadn’t gone home–he’d be able to make them listen, they wouldn’t dare disobey a proper male Master from the Hall.” She looked as if she was considering, her brow wrinkled in thought in an expression that would have been endearing if the situation weren’t so serious. “Alavid, get over here–put your hand over the wound. Keep steady pressure on.” As he complied, pressing down on Denmar’s arm, his brother groaned, but didn’t open his eyes. Eliara untied the woven belt she had around her waist and wrapped it over Denmar’s arm, Alavid keeping pressure on until the last minute, the same rhythm they used when bandaging a wounded dragon, he noted distantly. “That’ll hold for a bit. Stay with him while I get some help. We’re going to have to take him back to North Ranges. I can treat him there.”

“He can’t go between with a wound like that,” Alavid protested, before realizing, too, that would mean she’d have to get a dragonrider’s help.

“No, but we can fly straight.” She looked around for any sign the men were coming back–or anyone answer her screams about fire, for that matter. “I’ll be as quick as I can. Just try to keep that from bleeding too much.” She started to rise, then paused. “Are you sure you’re all right?” There was that edge to her voice again, the crack in the perfect Healer’s facade.

Better than you can possibly know, his heart sang giddily, in spite of the pain, better just because you care. “I’ll be fine. I’ll send Deecie again if they come back.”

“Maybe you should let him stay,” she said, standing up. “He looked like he was holding his own better than you.” And she was off and running again, too quick to hear his reply:

“Now, that’s the Eliara I know,” and he winced and tried to relax. Deecie settled, to his surprise, not on his shoulder (and he was glad, because he wasn’t sure it would take the weight) but on the ground by Denmar’s head, crooning sadly. “He’ll be all right,” Alavid told him. “Like I said, Ma would never forgive me.” Still, he found himself counting, marking the minutes, and he wasn’t even at all annoyed when Eliara returned and it was C’vort that she had in tow.

To be concluded....

[Anareth]

Alavid would normally have enjoyed the chance to ride a dragon, any dragon, especially on a long straight flight. He would especially have enjoyed that Eliara was sitting in front of him and his arms were around her waist. But he hadn’t counted on having C’vort behind him, or Denmar in front of Eliara, slumped sideways and held on by the safety straps and by Eliara’s grip. He was still unconscious, but Eliara seemed to think this was a good thing. “If he were awake,” she’d said, as they eased him up onto Gordianth’s back, “he’d just be feeling the pain. I’d rather he didn’t right now.”

“Won’t much longer now,” C’vort said. Alavid took his word for it–the farther north they’d flown, the darker it had gotten, until now he could only trust that dragons truly did see better in the dark than humans could. “Gordianth can hear the watch-dragon.”

Alavid leaned sideways, trying to get some view of where they were, but all he could see were peaks of mountains, black on black jutting up into the night sky. The moons were low in the sky and cast little light, making what shadows there were strange and distorted. Suddenly the brown dipped his wing and Alavid half-fell sideways, panic gripping him even as he knew the safety straps would hold him. In front of him Eliara leaned back, and he felt her tense up, trying to keep Denmar from shifting too much as Gordianth banked. He tightened his grip on her waist, telling himself it was to help her balance, not his.

There were dragon eyes like glows on the rim and on the various ledges, but no one seemed to particularly note their arrival, and no one from the Caverns seemed around to meet them. C’vort slid down first, and stepped to Gordianth’s shoulder. “Dragonhealer, you get down next, and help me with him.” Alavid obeyed, stumbling a little as he found his way down Gordianth’s foreleg in the dark. If the brown noticed, neither he nor C’vort said anything about it. The rider was still looking to his last passengers. “All right, Lia-my-lady, unhook him and slide him down to us.”

Alavid felt a thoroughly irrational surge of temper at the ease with which C’vort used the pet name, and half-hoped Eliara would have a particularly cutting retort , but she only said, “Careful! Mind his arm, I don’t want it bleeding again. And for Faranth’s sake, don’t drop him.”

Alavid had to bite down the urge to say of course he wasn’t going to drop his own brother, but he forced himself to remain silent. C’vort, again, seemed to feel no such compunctions. “Thanks for the warning, I was planning on letting his head go banging on the gravel, but now that you mention it that’s not such a good idea, is it?”

“You’re insufferable, the both of you,” Eliara said, unhooking her own straps and sliding down. “Come on, let’s get him into the infirmary. That arm’s not healing itself.”

“Got himself some interesting friends, this brother of yours,” C’vort said, as they tried to follow Eliara without jostling Denmar too much. “What did he do, forget to pay some Bitran what he owed?”

“Denmar’s no welsher,” Alavid snapped, then reminded himself C’vort was helping them. “He’s an odds-maker, and apparently the Steward of Ruatha didn’t want any outside business. It’s tradition for odds-makers to work the different racing Gathers, it’s never been frowned on before! And it’s his living–like a traveling Harper, only he doesn’t have a Hall to fall back on.” He realized he was not only babbling, he was defending his brother’s profession, one he moderately abhorred, but he didn’t like C’vort’s cavalier tone, not when Denmar was bleeding, might be–he made himself think of something else.

To his surprise, none of that was what C’vort seized on. “The Steward? Ruathans did this?” His tone was as serious as Alavid ever remembered hearing the brown rider. “I’d heard there were some problems when riders went to them on Search, but beatings? Even over gambling, that’s . . . S’vrel ought to hear about this.”

“I’d really rather he didn’t,” Alavid said. “There’s nothing he could do, anyway.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” C’vort said. “He can at least try to talk to the Fort folks about it, and you never know–he’s surprisingly resourceful stick-in-the-mud, sometimes, my big brother is.”

Alavid blinked–he’d forgotten, it was easy to forget, really, that C’vort was in fact the Weyrleader’s brother. There weren’t many similarities he’d ever noticed between the stoic–staid, even-Weyrleader and C’vort, who was . . . well . . . C’vort. “I’m not sure he’d really approve of dragging the Weyr into this. If there were any other way, I wouldn’t have brought him here.”

“I think he’d understand,” C’vort said. “You’re brothers–both parents, real sibs. He puts up with me hanging around, and we just have the same dam.”

“I still feel like . . . I’m misusing the Weyr resources. But she insisted,” and he nodded in the direction Eliara had gone.

“And our Eliara’s a tough girl to say no to, isn’t she?”

Alavid tried to hear some sort of possessiveness in that, or affection, or anything, but all he could hear was a sort of respectful admiration. “She is that.” C’vort didn’t reply, but Alavid found he was glad they’d found a topic on which they could agree.

Eliara had her exam table cleared and ready when they edged their way carefully through the door. She’d also removed her embroidered tunic and tied up the sleeves of her blouse. “Put him up on the table–gentle, now! Alavid, once you’ve done that, wash up–I might need an extra pair of hands. C’vort–“ and her voice softened just a bit, “thank you, and thank Gordianth for me, please.”

“Always at your service, my lady,” he said, “and if there’s anything else you need–“

”Go on with you,” she said, already picking up her scissors and cutting away her makeshift bandage and much of Denmar’s sleeve. “That Neratan girl isn’t going to wait all night, even if you make up time on your way back.”

“Now, would I misuse my dragon’s abilities for nefarious womanizing purposes?” He did a very good impression of being wounded.

“Of course you would,” she said, never lifting her eyes from her work. “Now scat. We have work to do here and you’re no healer.”

The brown rider nodded to Alavid, who offered only a brief smile as the other man left. The redwort stung at his hands, and he winced as he patted them dry. His shoulder ached–burned, more like, and his lower back was throbbing where the club had connected, but anything he felt had to be like a minor scratch compared to what Denmar must feel. His brother still hadn’t opened his eyes, but he was moving a bit, and as Eliara kept cutting, pulling scraps of material away, he groaned.

“Great Faranth, I’ve seen Threadfall injuries look better. He looks like someone put him in a bag full of rocks and rolled him down a hill.” She wasn’t talking to him but to herself, he realized that, but it was disconcerting nonetheless. “At least there only seems to be the one knife wound, but that arm’s broken or I’m no Healer. Alavid, I need arnica salve, more redwort, and my needle kit. This knife wound is going to need stitching. On the bruises–I don’t even know where to start. Once he wakes up and I’m sure he’s lucid enough I’ll fellis him, but until them . . . those ribs are probably cracked, too, but that can wait. The knife went deep. Redwort?”

He stood to one side as she worked on stitching the knife wound closed, occasionally dabbing with a redwort-soaked pad where she indicated, or cutting her a new length of sinew. The gash ran nearly the length of Denmar’s forearm, but her stitches were tiny and precise and surprisingly quick. With the wound closed, she swabbed it down with redwort again and then wrapped it in a lose bandage. Then came the splints, holding the arm immobile. With the bleeding stopped and the break in a temporary set, she turned to the bruises. Again Alavid followed directions, helping to smooth on the arnica salve, which was also pungent with wintergreen, and lifting his brother up so she could wrap the bruised or broken ribs. Finally, using a stretcher generally reserved for moving Threadfall injuries from the bowl to the infirmary, they managed to transfer him to one of the beds, where he had the bad grace to look remarkably peaceful for someone who had nearly been in pieces.

Alavid sighed, and looked down at his brother, who did at least seem to be sleeping, not simply knocked out. “No numbweed?”

Eliara shook her head. “I’ll wait until he’s up and can tell me where it hurts. Pain’s sometimes the best clue we have for what an injury really means.” She stretched wearily. “He should, from what I’ve seen so far, be all right. But he’s not going to be up and bounding around by tomorrow morning.”

“Denmar might surprise you,” Alavid said, “he’s not any better at taking orders than I am.” He tried an experimental stretch of his arms and winced, sucking in a breath as pain lanced from his shoulder to wrist. Quickly he dropped his arm and hoped she didn’t notice, but of course, that was futile.

“You are hurt!” Eliara sounded more angry than alarmed.

“It’s really nothing–he just wrenched my arm, and my back, just a bit.” He tried to straighten up and nearly bit through his lip. “Really, I’ve have worse from an annoyed patient. Dragons are ticklish, you know.”

Eliara was having none of it. “Sit.” She pointed to a stool, and he obeyed, meekly. She went back to the basin and washed her hands again, and retrieved the arnica salve. “Take off your shirt,” she ordered, “or do I have cut yours off, too?”

“Why, Eliara,” and he tried his best debonair grin, though it wasn’t very effective at the moment, “I had no idea you were interested.”

“Insufferable,” she muttered, reaching for the ties of shirt, but he managed it himself, though he did need help pulling it over his head. She stepped behind him, and he heard a sharp intake of breath. “Alavid, you idiot! How many times did he hit you? Why didn’t you say something?”

“That bad?” He tried to crane his neck to look, but his shoulder wasn’t allowing it. “It doesn’t feel so bad.”

“Well, the good news is if you were bleeding internally you’d probably have passed out by now,” she said, her fingers probing his shoulder. “And I think this is just strained, not dislocated or torn. But honestly, you should have said something! What were you trying to prove, anyway?”

“Has anyone ever mentioned that your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired?” he snapped. “I wasn’t trying to prove anything. I could wait. Denmar couldn’t. And you know it.”

“True enough.” Now she was massaging the salve into the abused shoulder, and it was already starting to have a soothing warmth. “And yes, people have mentioned. Though not my usual patients. Usually they’re too busy getting their arm eaten off by Thread to worry about the social graces.”

Alavid winced as she found a particularly tender spot. “You’re not tending Fall victims all the time.”

She paused, and stepped around to face him. “No, but apparently you don’t need Thread to get yourself good and injured. If you’re trying to impress me with your tolerance of pain, it’s not working. I’ll get the numbweed for yours.”

“Would I impress you more with a few ‘my ladies’, Lia?” He couldn’t help it–if she were really hurt he could always say the pain was talking.

Eliara paused, her hand on the numbweed jar. “Asking C’vort not to call me that is as pointless as asking my sister not to call me Ellie.” She turned around, and he saw she was smiling just a little. “He doesn’t mean anything in particular by it. That’s just the way he is.”

“And you don’t mind?” She tried to step around him with the numbweed, but he caught hold of her wrist. “Or that he’s with a girl now?”

“Of course not,” and she shrugged, but she wasn’t looking him in the eye now. “He’s a dragonrider. That’s the way dragonriders are. They already belong to their dragons, so it’s not as if anyone else can have a claim. That’s what makes them so–“ She stopped, and he saw in her eyes she’d said more than she meant to.

“So what?” He didn’t let go, turned her to face him. “Safe?” She shrugged. “What’s safe about that–knowing you’re second place at best?”

Eliara looked up, and he saw the answer in her expression. “With C’vort, I always know where I stand.” She looked down at him and he realized how close she was–he could see the light-colored flecks in her brown eyes. “You, now . . . .”

She kissed him, he was sure that he hadn’t moved but her lips were pressed against his, and he stood in spite of the pain, pulling her closer and wrapping his good arm around her waist. Her skin smelled faintly of herbs, spicy and sweet. When they finally had to breathe she leaned against him for a moment, her head resting against his chest, and pain or no pain, he could have held her forever.

With a sigh that might have been regret, she stepped back. “You, now . . . I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.” He could have offered a suggestion or two, but she continued, “You should get some rest. Don’t worry. I’ll sit up with your brother, and if anything happens I’ll come get you.”

“I should really stay,” he protested, “in case he wakes up. Besides, aren’t you forgetting something?” She raised an eyebrow, and he indicated the jar dangling, forgotten, in her grasp. “Numbweed?”

She blinked, and then laughed. Quietly, though, and she stopped after a glance at her sleeping patient. “All right, numbweed. But then you’re getting some sleep. If you really want, you can stay here–I have the beds free–but you are going to sleep. It’ll help you heal.”

“Yes, Master Healer,” he said, feigning meekness, which only earned him a light slap on his good arm. He wasn’t going to admit it, but the numbweed was a relief, dulling most if not all of the throbbing pain in his shoulder. The bruises on his lower back still ached, but it was better. When she’d finished, he took the cot beside Denmar, tugging off his boots and trying to find a comfortable way to lie down before trying one last time, “I can sit up with him, if you’re tired–“

”Alavid, don’t make me get out the fellis,” she said. She’d washed the numbweed from her fingers and taken a seat at her desk. He couldn’t see her, but he could hear the sound of hides being shifted, and a stylus scratching. “Sleep. I’m fine.”

“All right, all right.” He closed his eyes, then opened them again. “Eliara?”

A sigh. “Yes, Alavid?”

“Tuck me in?”

There was a pause. “I can force the fellis down your throat, you know. They teach us things like that in the Healer Hall.” Before he could think up a retort, she added, “And you already got your good-night kiss. Go to sleep.”

He closed his eyes again, letting it go, for now. He couldn’t see her, but he’d heard it in her voice. As she’d said it, she’d been smiling.