Anne Mccaffrey_ Dragonriders of Pern 20 by Dragon Harper

tomato juice, much to the amusement of the wherholders.
    In the evening, Mikal insisted that Kindan sing or play around the warm coal fire that the wherholders kept inside their quarters.
    “Murenny’s supposed to send us a harper,” Mikal remarked that night, eyeing Kindan consideringly. “But while I’m here they don’t need it.”
    Kindan cocked an eyebrow. The ex-dragonrider was well known at the Harper Hall: He had originally settled into a cave in the hills not far from the Hall, where even the Masterhealer was not above seeking him out for his amazing ability to heal others with herbs and crystals. It was only recently that Mikal had moved from the Harper Hall to Aleesa’s wherhold.
    “They’re afraid I’ll leave,” Mikal added with a bark of a laugh and a shake of his head. He jerked his head toward the others. “Stand up and sing them the Hold song.”
    Kindan groaned and almost protested but instead stood up, thinking of Nonala’s beautiful voice. He put his sore hands to his side, ignored his aching chest as he filled his lungs and began the long, slow song that named all the Holds, major and minor, the Lord and Lady Holders, and their relative locations throughout Pern.
    He went to bed late that night and woke up early the next morning, kicked none too gently by Jaythen.
    “Arrows today,” the irascible wherman told him. “Mikal says you’re to hunt with me.”
    Kindan’s protests died on his lips. He forced himself up and nodded in acceptance. In three more days he would be fighting for his life and his friends, and while he couldn’t see what hunting had to do with fighting Vaxoram, he trusted that Mikal had a good reason.
    By the end of the day, Jaythen and Kindan had scored two wild-hens and a smallbeast. It was not a great haul, but they had lost none of their arrows, Jaythen insisting that Kindan race after every shot.
    Again that evening, sorer and more tired than he’d ever felt, Kindan found himself in front of the wherholders, singing songs and teaching ballads. He practically crawled into his bed that night.
    “Up!” Mikal barked into his ear early the next morning. When Kindan rolled over, trying to find his energy, Mikal doused him with a bucket of cold water. “Up—now!”
    Then Mikal forced a soaked Kindan out into the cold morning air. “Run until you’re dry,” he ordered.
    Kindan obeyed, and when he returned, his clothes fully dry, he was surprised to realize that he felt better than he’d ever felt before.
    “Come with me,” Mikal ordered then, hiking a carisak to his shoulder and taking off at a brisk pace. They were far beyond the wherhold by the time he stopped—evidently at a spot that suited him specifically, though Kindan could see no distinction between it and any other place—and ordered, “Close your eyes.”
    Kindan obliged and felt Mikal roughly tie a strip of cloth over his eyes.
    “Now fight me,” Mikal ordered, thrusting a practice blade into Kindan’s right hand.
    “Uh…” Kindan began uncertainly. A sharp pain struck him on his left chest.
    “Parry,” Mikal ordered. Kindan blindly twisted his blade and was surprised to feel it connect with another blade. “And again.”
    Again and again Kindan parried, then thrust, then probed.
    “Stop,” Mikal ordered after several minutes. “Listen. What do you hear? Smell. Where are the scents?”
    Kindan listened carefully. He heard the few noises of mid-autumn, the soft rushing of a stream, the gentle hissing of leaves in the wind. Then he heard it—the faintest of crunches as Mikal moved forward. He parried and connected. He heard Mikal move away, then nothing. He waited tensely for several moments. Then, from his right side he smelled it—the faintest odor of sweat with a hint of smoke. Kindan wheeled and raised his blade. He connected again.
    “Better,” Mikal told him. “Now, I’ll stop being so easy on you.”
    The pace increased, the time between decreased. The sounds and the telltale