| Weyrsecond Sh’lerel and his blue Narlith of Disglair Weyr showed up to cart them off to the ‘Berried Alive’ Gather. He was rather perfunctory with his service; Aljheran, who was riding directly behind the Weyrsecond, could see his shoulders tense beneath the wherhide every time Aschiane spoke. Sh’lerel was also unusually old to be paired with a dragon who was scarcely out of Weyrlinghood, and Aljheran thought that this rather bothered the ‘rider as well. As soon as they had slithered off the leggy Narlith’s back, the pair made their escape, not even bothering to seek employ carting berries to nearby holds. Aschiane was not pleased. “Only a blue,” she sniped, and set her chin firmly. “I will have words with that girl-Weyrwoman over this, mark my words. Jhetarya, Aljheran, stay close, and keep an eye on your mark-pouches. For all I know, Lord Mejolin will have invited my dear Gherol’s relatives.” They glued themselves to the lady’s side, trailing after her as if they were young trundlebugs. Their little company from Windwhip had, Aljheran realized with some disgruntlement, arrived long after they could have helped with the berrying. Aschiane could not have helped even if they’d been in time, for the Lady Holder of Windwhip was dressed purely to impress. Shades-of-amber brocade embraced her form in a fitted surcoat, its long, robe-slit skirt and sleeveless design showing off the graceful teal undergown beneath. She wore the same amber jewelry she’d worn at their ‘interview’, and it was stunning in the bright afternoon light. Jhetarya was garbed in well-fitted charcoal gray, which, while it clung to her bony frame in a way that might have been attractive on a woman with more curves, did nothing for her color. It /did/ set off the blue-and-silver on black of the Windwhip badge that was prominently displayed on her shoulder. His cousin had bound up her coarse, crackling black hair into a braided crown and a bun that softened the equine angles of her features. A slender choker of silver, black, and cobalt braid was her only jewelry, but Jhetarya walked with a rangy, tense stride that gave her grandeur, if not beauty. Aljheran himself was dressed in cobalt and black, and thought he cut quite a magnificent figure, as the clothes actually fit him and were rawly new. They were of the light Southern linen, and he was glad of it, because it was definitely summer at Two River Hold. The smell that floated past on the light, hot breeze made Aljheran’s mouth water. There weren’t many berries that would grow in the Windwhip area, for the thin, sandy soil and the harsh weather would stunt even the hardiest of plants. But Aljheran remembered summers at Telgar, and he yearned after half-familiar scents so obviously that Jhetarya cracked a smile. “Oh, you!” she exclaimed softly, shaking her head at him, but he heard the suppressed laughter in her voice and saw much of the old spark back in her eyes. “Look! You’d best mind your manners. I do believe that that’s the Lord Holder himself coming our way.” Lord Mejolin was every inch a Lord Holder. His slightly wavy hair had gone entirely silver, and his face gave the appearance of having been drawn painstakingly for a very long time with a very hard pencil. Eraser-blurred old lines and shadows adding character to his cheeks and forehead, but the firm, straight nose and the suggestion of a square jaw held their own. Despite these marks of his Turns, the Holder’s step was as lively as his warm brown eyes, and if he’d lost inches with age, Mejolin had been a giant in his youth. Aljheran liked him on sight, and was quite disappointed when, after conversing pleasantly with the Holder for a few moments, Aschiane imperiously waved them away, saying that she needed a word with Lord Mejolin. They were to meet her at the Holder’s pavilion as soon as the Harpers began the dancing. Immediately, the young man started away, but Jhetarya caught his sleeve. “Oh, no, Jheran. We’ve no money for trinkets or refreshments; we should use this valuable time to find ourselves a permanent job.” When Aljheran made a face at her, his cousin all but dragged him away. The folk at the Gather stalls were friendly, for the most part, but they were also very sure that there was no room where they came from for a pair of unskilled workers. They had nearly finished the long, central row of ‘vendors’ when a Vintner-woman stopped them. “I’ve no permanent work for you,” she said diffidently, “ but if you’ve a few hours to spare today, I’ve need of some extra drink-servers.” “Drinks?” Jhetarya asked, dubiously. “Don’t your apprentices usually serve them?” The woman flushed. “You’re right, of course, but in the apprentices we brought for today are my own two sons, and I’d like for them to get a look at the Gather before the dancing starts. You’ll be paid well, and if there’s a time you need to stop, I’m sure that I can have the boys back by then.” They haggled over their pay, halfheartedly, and the woman assured them that their time was plenty. The Vintner, Inifra, gave them aprons to protect their Gather finery, and elegant black enamel trays to carry drinks on. Finally, the Journeywoman caught up with her children. Her conversation was short. “Kehoral says he’s between jobs, but Anjeys was coming back to serve the Searchriders. A white for the rider with the scar, a brandy for the graybeard, a fruit cooler for the tall one, and a red of at least ten Turns pressing for the wrestler-looking one. For Riders, it’s on the Hall.” Heavy-laden, they haltingly made their way through the crowd, following Anjeys’ directions through the maze of Gather stalls. Aljheran’s boot-tip scuffed and nearly tripped him as the ground changed from packed earth to the uneven surface of a granite outcrop. Biting his lip at the beads of liquid that showed how close he’d come to disaster, the Telgaran looked up to a welcome sight. Dragons covered the sunwarmed hump of granite at the far end of the Gather grounds; at least six, and their blue and brown hides gleamed beneath Rukbat’s balmy light. Jhetarya spotted the group before he did; a cluster of four blues with riders to match nearby. “Your drinks, sirs,” Jhetarya said demurely, and the youngest of the riders, no more than twenty, rose and bowed solemnly. “See?” the young rider smiled triumphantly at his comrades. “I /told/ you that the Vintners wouldn’t dare send the brat back again. Instead, we get a lovel--er, graceful young woman and her…brother, is it?…for our servers today. ” “Cousin,” Aljheran replied, amused. The flamboyant rider had a silvery line of scar that pulled at one eyelid, keeping the boy’s expression in a constant half-wink. “You ordered the white, sir?” “Blessed refreshment,” the rider crowed, lifting the glass off of Aljheran’s tray with perilous speed. “Yes, I’m J’rin.” Now the rest of the riders rose. “You’ve the order for R’lan?” a giant of a rider asked quietly, and Jhetarya wordlessly handed over the fruit cooler. The other two were more difficult. They were roughly the same height and build, and they both wore hats. Both were cleanshaven. Jhetarya fumbled helplessly with the other drink on her tray. “Er, who had the red?” The slightly heavier one advanced, dark hair falling in his eyes. “Th’ red’s mine,” he said shortly, helping himself. He muttered something Aljheran couldn’t hear to the lighter-haired man. “Don’t be prejudiced, J’lenn,” said the drinkless one, disapprovingly. “They’ve had women in the Vintners for quite some time. The last one’s for me, son,” he directed Aljheran. Anjeys must have been mistaken, the Telgaran mused, for the last rider’s eyebrows were blond, not gray, and he didn’t seem any older than J’lenn. “How much do we owe you?” the blond rider inquired. Aljheran smiled dazzlingly. “Not a thing, sir. Journeywoman says it’s on the Hall.” “Why, that’s very nice of her,” he replied, startled. “Tell the Journeywoman that Rider D’run appreciates her fine service.” For no apparent reason, J’lenn suddenly turned pale, saying loudly, “You must be joking.” Blinking angrily at all the eyes on him, J’lenn shook his head brusquely. “Not you, D’run. Scith.” He waved a hand at a short-muzzled blue. Scith rumbled, stiffly getting to his feet. As his head swung toward Jhetarya, the rest of the quartet stirred. Before Aljheran could even stumble back, a sleek blue with a long, elegant face was breathing on him, inquisitively. “Ancith!” R’lan protested, his fair complexion reddening. “Leave that man alone!” J’rin laughed. “Aw, c’mon, R’lan, J’lenn. Just tell ‘em the good news. Amitath’s told me already.” Gravely, D’run shook his head at the bony young man. “What J’rin--and Okserth, for that matter--is trying to say is that the dragons think that you both are excellent candidates for Search. You’ll be Standing for gold Yainolith’s clutch. What are your names? I’ll come collect you at sunset, when your work should be done.” Aljheran, for once, was speechless, and it was Jhetarya’s rough alto that answered. “Jhetarya and, and Aljheran. We’re here with Lady Aschiane; you won’t find us at the wine tent. Your pardon, Scith,” she said, breathless and a little lightheaded, “but I’m quite aware of your intent, and that’s a little disconcerting.” The unremarkable blue sighed and withdrew his head, first-lids sliding sideways over the gleaming facets of his eyes. He seemed to stare wonderingly at his rider’s tight-lipped face before he flopped over on his flank and closed his eyes. To Ryslen Weyr Back To the Beginning |