The snow at Ash Forge might have once been smooth and white, but it had been trampled by dozens of feet, and now lay as churned and muddy as Aramnir’s thoughts.  The Ashchang, too, roiled on, its silken currents torn by a throng of broken branches, swollen from an upriver storm. 
He stared across it at the white-velveted plains beyond the river.  Their pale glitter wrung glare-tears from his eyes, but he watched still, until he saw the blue-winged darkness rise up, miles away.  Blue eyes followed the graceful flight of the dragon until it winked out.
Siarl was gone. 
Martan, who had been eyeing his friend as if he’d gone mad, gave him a hearty slap on the back.  “There you are, Arram, she’ll not trouble us again,” he said seriously, his wolfish face relaxed.  “I worried when word was sent that the unben’s granddaughter was coming; she might have spoiled everything.  But it was easy enough to conquer her.”  Martan looked curiously at his fellow rebel.  “Why did you stop me?  You knew that ‘the Peacemaker’ was sending that muneri out here to be killed anyway.”
Aramnir stirred the slush with the toe of his boot, uncomfortably.  “She didn’t.  She holds fast to her honor, though some would say she has none by the fact of her birth.”
Snorting, Martan rolled his brinti-dark eyes.  “She’s a halfblood, Arram.  She knows no honor by birth.”
He held his face carefully immobile as he turned away.  “Do halfbloods truly know no honor, Martan?”  His traitorous blue eyes—the blue eyes that had won him a position as ksan in Itebarl’s court—burned in their sockets.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Martan’s face lose its smile.  “Elf-spawn, Arram, just elf-spawn.  Aught else doesn’t count as a halfblood, does it?”
“She has far more honor than you and me,” Aramnir said coldly.  “Let us leave it at that.”


The camp was cold and lonely.  Normal sounds of people interacting with other people, objects, or the stubborn landscape were deadened by the snow, and most voices were weary. 
He found himself missing Siarl already, and growled to himself.  She was not irreplaceable, could not be irreplaceable.  She was a ksan, kin of his enemy, symbol of the rigidity of her society.  She cared more about honor than the suffering of his people. 
She cares more about honor than her own life, his mind whispered traitorously.
Lips pressed tightly together, Aramnir ducked into his tent.


It may have been dull in the camp, but the half-brinti Aramnir managed to forget about it as he strode into his hometown. 
A dark-haired, dark-eyed young woman flew into his arms.  “Arram!  You’re home, you’re home, I can’t believe you’re still alive…”
He grinned, twirled her around happily, and set her carefully back on the ground, stepping back from her ebullience.  “Of course I am, Rangaesa,” he replied gently.  She was an old friend that had started setting her cap for him years ago.  He loved Rangaesa dearly, but she was not a soulmate, nor someone he could bear for more than a few hours.  “Did you miss me?”
She nodded, fidgeting.  “Very much.  This place just goes to seed when you’re away.” 
“But what are those seeds sprouting?” he asked teasingly, and was astonished when she grimaced. 
“Nothing good, Arram, nothing good,” she spat.  “They’re out for blood here.  Some fool of a serchus started stealing our herds—as if he could beat us at our own game!—and got caught today.  He’s gaoled right now, but I don’t know how much longer we can keep him from the mob.  They’re overwrought after the caeth tithes…oh, Arram, they took Bryas, and him just two years from being a normal citizen…Caragad couldn’t pay.”
Aramnir blinked.  “But he was a possible elementalist, like the White Fox,” he said, shocked, and then swallowed.  “They can’t kill a serchus for raiding!  Glory, Ranga, they’ll send armies!  And the few muner on our side would have to withdraw their support and proclaim us barbarians…”
She shrugged.  “Tell that to the parents who have beggered themselves to keep another mouth to feed.  Tell that to the ones that couldn’t pay off.”
“They cannot riot!” he said forcibly.  “They must not…Ranga, where’s he being held?”
Rangaesa pointed.  “The basement of Lomian’s brewery.”  She watched him, bemused, as he loped away.


There was a crowd there, an ugly, murmuring, wild-eyed mob.  Lomian had the chained and frightened serchus with him on the landing, and they were watching him, clamoring for the death of this oppressor. 
He’s barely grown!  He’s certainly not old enough to be part of their problem.  The poor child looks as though he may faint…  I can’t let this happen. 
“STOP!” he commanded harshly, leaping lightly onto the threshold, shielding the boy from their vengeful eyes.  The throng muttered and fell back a little.  Lomian glared, half-embarrassed, half-relieved. 
“Are you all mad?” Aramnir continued, taking an aggressive stance in the hopes that they’d listen.  “Are we savages?  Look at him now!”  He gestured brusquely to the terrified young man.  “Is he old enough to have caused any of your troubles?  He hasn’t the years even to be responsible for himself in our society!  How can you condemn him for following the examples of his elders?” 
There was a little silence before someone shouted, “He was stealing food from our children’s mouths!”  The rest of the mob murmured angrily.
Glowering, Aramnir straightened his back and set his chin proudly, challenging his audience, “And are you muners, or unbens?  Are you as heartless as the Emperor himself?” He thumped himself on the chest.  “We are brinti.  We do not put people to death for cattle raids!  We do not punish children for the crimes of their parents!  If we are to be a free people, we must not transgress against justice as our overlords do!  Are you for justice, my people?”
Thus appealed to, the crowd roared their assent.


Aramnir headed home, bewildered serchus in tow.  His shirt stuck to his back as he moved, and his hair was plastered to the back of his neck.  The sweat on his face bit like ice. 
He’d only to get this young fool situated, and then he could collapse…
His hands were shaking already.  He scowled at them, and firmly propelled his prisoner through the door. 
Aramnir closed it, bolted it, and leaned against it gratefully.  The captive highborn watched him warily, as if at any moment Aramnir might go mad. 
“You,” the half-brinti said, eyes flashing, “are an absolute idiot.”
The young man’s jaw jutted.  “So you say, traitor.  At least I have my honor!”
The ksan’s hands slowly curled into fists.  “I would not speak of honor, had I just stolen from impoverished, defenseless people,” he said tightly, shoulders taut.  “What’s your name, boy?”
“Tharas,” he mumbled sullenly, avoiding his accuser’s eyes. 
Cold blue eyes pinned the boy until he squirmed, but no apology was forthcoming.  Aramnir sighed.  “What am I to do with you?”


He found the answer soon enough.  The noise of several someones hammering on his door woke him out of a dead sleep, and the ksan stared unhappily at his sleeping charge. 
“Must I always be saving some bloody highborn over my own kin?” he sighed to the heavens, and woke Tharas. 
The boy stared blankly at him.  Grimly, Aramnir yanked the serchus to his feet.  “Get up, boy.  I need your word—on your honor—that you’ll not run away if I take these chains off.  We need to make a run for it, and you’re going to need to move quickly.  They want your blood out there, but if you’d rather not pledge, it’s here we’ll both stay.”
Tharas swallowed.  “On my honor and the honor of my family,” he quavered, “I shall not attempt to escape.”
“Good lad.” Aramnir smiled wolfishly as he stuffed provisions and supplies into a small sack.
They left out the back window.


It had started to snow again, and the half-brinti ksan snarled at the favillous sky. Tharas simply plodded beside him, pale and stumbling.  He seemed oblivious to the sudden drop in temperature.
He trusts you, Aramnir told himself miserably.  You saved his life twice, and now he trusts you.  So what are you going to do about it, man?
“Keep up.  Don’t let the snow sit on your skin.  Don’t be still,” he said curtly aloud.  Could he even go home after this?  He’d risked much to be their ear at Itebarl’s court, but after this…
He refused to think about it, and slogged on through the steadily rising snow.


On the third day, Tharas pointed dully overhead as they were setting up another cold camp.  “Something’s coming,” he murmured.  “’S big, in the sky.”  Clouds, dark as charcoal, crackled and spat snow behind the dot that the serchus indicated.
Aramnir looked, and cracked his lips as he smiled.  “It’s the Storm-Bringer.  Our ticket out of here.”


The Milgwn was scowling as he dismounted the blue-winged black dragon.  It was not a good sign. 
“You,” the pale-haired man accused, gray eyes snapping, “are a great deal of trouble, brinti-ksan.  Twice now, I’m forced to hunt for you or yours.  You and outlanders...well, get on,” he grumbled.  “We can’t take either of you back.  The town is most displeased with you, Arram.  They’re throwing the word ‘traitor’ around an awful lot.”
He spared a look for Tharas.  “And you, my young serchus, are in far over your head.  I’m going to have to take both of you offworld…”
Aramnir felt a ball of ice grow in his stomach as he climbed on the lightning-dragon.  “I was only trying to see justice done, Storm-Bringer,” he said softly.
The White Fox patted him on the back.  “I know, Arram, I know.”


The Storm-Bringer and his lifemate dropped them off at the same place as he’d dropped Siarl, supposedly. 
“She’s a Weyrling now,” the Milgwn had said cryptically.  “She won’t be able to see you.”
Aramnir shivered.  The snow was as thick, if not thicker, here at Ryslen as it had been on Inyx. 
Lovely.  More snow, just what I need.
They’d talked to the Weyrwoman exhaustively.  They’d talked to the Weyrleader exhaustively.  They’d even gone to see some Search dragons, who apparently liked them, but not enough.  Aramnir and the serchus had been declared residents.  For some reason, several people were disappointed. 
The ksan sat, well-bundled, on a wooden bench near the thawing lake, and watched the dragons.  It was quickly becoming his favorite pastime. 
There was one that intrigued him, a snowy bronze youngster, all legs and wings and overlong neck.  He still managed to project a kind of grace…
The little white-bronze drew himself upright, as if he sensed Aramnir’s regard.  Opalescent eyes flashed back at him. 
<<Who are you?>> the dragon asked wearily.  <<Another bonder-hopeful?  A candidate who likes me ever-and-ever-so-much?  Someone else looking for ‘Erynduth, poor, lonely Erynduth?’>>
“A traitor, a liar, and a deserter,” Aramnir replied bitterly.  “No one of importance.  I’m here until they decide I can come back, I guess.”  He sighed.  “I’ll move if I’m bothering you.  Glory, the last thing I want is a dragon, if that helps.”
<<All that?>> Erynduth said, scandalized.  He bared his teeth, and continued coldly,  <<Have you been brought to justice?>>
“Justice?” Aramnir gave a short bark of laughter.  “Dragon, I’ve tried justice before, and it’s gotten me nowhere.  Now the highborns know I’m a traitor, and my kin thinks I’m one.”
The dragonet growled.  <<What did you do that was so dreadful?>>
“I was spying, trying to keep my people, the brinti, from losing more to war than they already do as slaves,” he replied tersely.  It really wasn’t any of this creature’s business.  “I had to lie to my partner, a lady I rather liked, because she was too scorch’ed honorable.  I ended up sending her offworld, just because she was honorable, but I wouldn’t let Martan kill her.”  He swallowed.  “Then I came home and found another highborn, some youngster who thought to punish us, or some such.  My people were going to kill him, just for cattle theft.”  He blinked, angrily.  “So I saved the nardly idiot, like a fool, and now they’re after me.”
<<Oh.  That was…nice of you,>> the dragon said, his tone gentler.  <<And my name is Erynduth.>>
“Aramnir,” the young man replied.  “I’d offer you a hand, but I think it might be a bit small for you.”
<<A bit,>> Erynduth chuckled.  He looked at the ksan intently.  <<How much do you know about dragons and all?>>
He thought carefully.  “They come in just about every shade of the rainbow, they bond people or other dragons, and they usually fight something.  That’s about it.”
<<You do not know that I was Abandoned?>>
Aramnir shook his head.  “I don’t know what it means.  Who left you behind?”
Erynduth drooped.  <<My rider.  My bonded.  I must have made the wrong choice, or something.  I don’t know what I did to offend him, but he’s gone…>>
“Oh,” Aramnir said, stunned, in much the same tone that Erynduth had used a moment before.  “I’m so sorry.”  His mind caught up to his mouth.  “I’m sure it wasn’t you, Erynduth.  Some people are just…like that.”
<<But he was my rider!>> Erynduth cried, and curled up miserably.  <<And now I have to deal with a stream of sharding hopefuls that everyone thinks are perfect, and they don’t work!  All they do is remind me of him.>>
Greatly daring, Aramnir patted the white-bronze’s shoulder sympathetically, but  the inconsolable Erynduth only sighed and closed his eyes.


“I hear you’ve made friends with Erynduth,” a rich tenor commented as Aramnir was brooding on the bench, a month and a half later.  “Allow me to thank you for that.”
Aramnir shrugged.  “The thanks is accepted, but he made friends with me, I’m afraid.  He’s most intrepid, is our Erynduth.”  He tried to meet the rider’s eyes, and looked upon a blind man’s scarf instead.  Oh.  The man was handsome, otherwise, his dark hair threaded with silver, his face full of character—and the traceries of old scars.  “Who’d thank me for replying in kind?”
“I would,” the man said simply.  “Harper Master Ca’trell, rider of light blue Meilizath.  Meil’, especially, appreciates it.  He was in the same situation, not too long ago, until I befriended him.”
Aramnir blinked, bemused.  “Ah.  Well, tell him that you’re both very welcome.  It wasn’t an arduous task, by any means.”
<<Is Ca’trell down here again?  Tell him not to bring any more bonders!>>
<<I can’t do that, Erynduth.  You can’t live forever without a bond.  You’re worthy of far more.>>
<<Is that so?>> the white-bronze replied, contemplatively.  <<What a notion.>>  He tossed his head and paced to sit at the ksan’s side.  <<Listen here, Ca’trell and Meilizath, you aren’t to bring me any more hopefuls.  It’s insulting, and I won’t stand for it.  I have made my choice.>>
Aramnir bit his lip, eyes worried.  “Oh, Erynduth, you’ll be lonely…who’ll take care of you?”
The dragon snorted and dipped his head, pinning the Inyxan in the glow of those opalescent eyes.  <<Lonely?  Hardly.  And I won’t need anyone to take care of me.  That’s what riders do.>>
A slow, broad smile was creeping across Ca’trell’s face, but Aramnir was too preoccupied to notice.  “But you don’t have a rider!” he exclaimed, aggrieved. 
<<But I do,>> Erynduth purred.  <<His name is Arram, and he will definitely get back to Inyx someday.>>
Stunned, the ksan enfolded one pale foreleg in a tight embrace, his joy almost palpable.  He couldn’t speak for the happiness lodged in his throat.
His lifemate nuzzled him back with a proprietary air.  <<You take a while to catch on, Arram, but when you do, you wow ‘em!>> he commented, pleased. <<Now pick your jaw up off the ground, because we are way behind in classes, and we can’t be rescuing anybody until we’re properly educated.  Righting the wrongs of those wronging right!>>
“Safely and intelligently?” Arram asked, raising an eyebrow. 
<<Most of the time.>>
Arram's White-Bronze Erynduth
Arram found it rather frustrating that he graduated so much later than the rest of Erynduth's clutchmates,