Dragon's Fire Read Free

arms and rocking her instinctively.
    “Thread will come again soon enough, and what then?” Zist went on, repeating his reasons needlessly. “If there are enough Shunned, what’s to stop them from overwhelming a hold or craft hall?”
    Cayla didn’t have to say a word to make her opinion of
that
clear; she’d said enough before.
    “Well, even if they don’t, what
will
they do when Thread comes again?” Zist asked reflectively. “It’s not right to condemn them all to a death no one on Pern should ever experience.”
    “I know, love, I know,” Cayla said soothingly, recognizing that her mate was working himself into another passionate discourse. She knew from past discussions how vivid the image of Thread, falling mindlessly from the sky, devouring all life, searing all flesh, was engrained in Zist’s mind from his reading. “We’ve discussed this, Murenny’s discussed this, and that’s
why
we’re here in this wagon, dressed like the Shunned—”
    “Do you think we should put an ‘S’ on your head, too?” Master Zist asked, pointing to the purple-blue mark on his forehead.
    “No,” Cayla said in a tone that brooked no argument. “And you’d best be right about how to get that mark off.”
    “It’s not proper bluebush ink,” Zist reminded her. The sap of the bluebush, used for marking the Shunned, was indelible and permanently stained skin. “Some pinesap, lots of hot water and soap, and it’ll come off.”
    “So you’ve said,” Cayla remarked, sounding no more convinced.
    In front, Zist noticed that the workbeast was slowing and flicked the reins to encourage it back to a faster walk.
    “Well, I’m glad you’re with me,” Zist told Cayla, after satisfying himself that they were moving fast enough.
    “I’m glad that we left Pellar behind,” Cayla said. “Ten Turns is too young to see the sights we expect.”
    “Indeed,” Zist agreed.
    “Carissa’s so little that she’ll remember none of it,” Cayla continued, half to answer Zist’s unspoken thought, half to answer her own fears.
    “There’ll be children among the Shunned,” Zist remarked. “That’s part of what makes it so wrong.”
    “Yes,” Cayla agreed. She flicked a wisp of her honey-blond hair back behind her ear and continued rocking little Carissa. Then she looked back again. “He’s gone now.”
    “We’ll be back in less than half a Turn,” Zist said after a moment of thoughtful silence. “He’ll be all right.”
    “I hope he’ll forgive us,” Cayla said.

    Zist took the coast road south, toward Hold Gar, Southern Boll Hold, and warmer weather. He and Cayla had guessed that the warmer climes would attract the Shunned, who would find the harsh winters of the north harder to survive.
    The road was still snow covered and never more than a pair of ruts running down along the coastline. Even in the protected enclosure of the wagon, Cayla wrapped herself up tightly and nuzzled little Carissa close to her side to keep them both warm. In front, perched on the rattling bench seat, Zist had a thick wherhide blanket spread over his knees and layers of warm thick-knit Tillek sweaters, the same as those used by the Tillek sailors because they kept out the worst of the wet and cold even at sea. Even so, Zist was chilled to the bone every evening when they halted.
    They were both relieved when they finally came upon the outskirts of Hold Gar.
    Their reception by the holders was sharp and unpleasant.
    “Go away!” shrieked the first old woman whose cothold they had stopped at, hoping to barter for food. “Would you have me Shunned, too?”
    She hurried them on their way by throwing stones and setting her dogs on them.
    “Go back north and freeze! We’re hardworking folk down here,” she yelled after them. “You won’t find any handouts.”
    Zist shared a shaken look with Cayla who busily tried to comfort a bawling Carissa.
    As they neared the next hold, Cayla glanced quickly at the “S” on Zist’s forehead.