As if there is an infection in the very winds that sweep the Northern Continent, others are challenging long-established ways. In Ista Hold, certainly one of the most conservative, a young man defies parental authority…

“I don’t care if everyone else in the family have been happy on High Palisades Island for every generation since the First Record—I want to see what the mainland is like!” Toric separated the last five words with emphatic thumps on the long kitchen table. His father, a Masterfisher, regarded him in shocked amazement that gradually turned to frozen anger as his second son openly—and in front of the younger children and the four apprentices—defied him. “There’s a lot more to Pern than this island and Ista!”

“Oh, Toric,” his mother began, appalled. She had argued with him, trying to soothe him, and had even tried to placate her angry husband.

“And how, might I ask,” his father began, holding up his hand to stem his wife’s interference, “do you think you’re going to support yourself away from this hall?”

“I don’t know, Father, and I don’t care, and never fear, it won’t cause you any embarrassment because I’m not staying around this place for the rest of my life!” Toric stepped over the bench on which he had been seated for yet another unendurable meal. “There’s a whole continent out there, and I’ll see what else I’m able for. I’ve asked you fair for my journeyman’s badge. You won’t give it, so I’ll leave on the trader.”

“Leave on that filthy trader, Toric—” His father rose as his eighteen-year-old son strode to the hall door, scooping his weather-gear off its peg. “Leave,” he bellowed, “and you will have neither hall nor hold, and all men’s hands will be turned against you. I’ll have the harpers read it!”

The door slammed shut so hard that the latch bounced up, and it swung open again on squeaky hinges. The others at the dining table simply sat, stunned at such an unexpected drama at the end of a tiring day. The Masterfisher waited, hearing the progress of steel-tipped bootheels departing across the exterior flagstones. When all sound had died away, he sat down again. Looking across to his oldest son, who was still gape-mouthed, he said in a tight, bitter voice, “That hinge wants oil, Brever. See to it after your meal.”

His wife could not completely choke back a sob of dismay, but her husband paid her no attention. He never mentioned Toric’s name again, not even when five of his remaining nine children followed their brother, irrevocably, off High Palisades Island.

Keroon Hold—Winter—two Turns later…

“Light-fingered she is, and I’ve told you that time and again, husband. She’s not to work in this hold ever again.”

“But it’s winter, wife.”

“Keita should have thought of that when she filched a whole loaf of bread. What does she think we are? Stupid? Rich enough to stuff her guts with more than she needs to do her work? Out she goes tonight. She’s holdless as of this moment. Let her remember that, as well. She’ll have no recommendation from Greystones if there is anyone fool enough to hire the slut.”

At Keroon, on the first high spring tides in that eighth Turn after Fax’s rise to prominence, a battered ship finally makes safe harbor, her rigging torn, mainmast snapped, bowsprit broken; and several of the crew vow to find a less hazardous occupation. The third mate cannot look forward to employment of any kind…

“Now, Brare, I’ve added a few credits to what’s yours by rights, but a footless man’s no good in the rigging, nor on the nets, and that’s a fact. I’ve asked my brother who’s Portmaster to see you healed and healthy. Talk it over with him, see what work’s available in the port holds. You were always a good man with your hands. I’ve a good word for you, too, in this recommendation. Any Lord Holder will see you’re an honest man who’s had a trade taken from him by injury. You’ll find a place. I’m sorry to have to beach you, Brare, real sorry.”

“But you’re doing it anyway, aren’t you, Master?”

“Now, let’s not be bitter, fisherman. I’m doing my best for you. It’s a tough enough life for an ablebodied man, let alone…”

“Say it, Masterfisherman, say it. Let alone for a cripple!”

“I wish you wouldn’t be so bitter!”

“Leave it to me then, Master, and get back to your ablebodied fisherfolk! You’ll be missing the tide if you wait too long!”

All through the summer, rumors of impending Threadfall are spreading. Someone suggests that Benden’s lone Weyr is circulating the rumors, but that idea is scoffed at: The precious dragonriders of Benden never show their faces outside the old mountain. And yet the possibility of Thread’s return begins to dominate all conversations…

As the harvest in Southern Boll was particularly heavy that year, Lady Marella and her steward were constantly in the groves and fields, overseeing the pickers who were prone to slack off if given any opportunity.

“We must be thrifty with the earth’s products,” Lady Marella kept repeating, urging the pickers to increase their efforts despite the heat of the waning summer days. “Lord Sangel expects a fair day’s labor for the marks he pays.”

“Aye, he’s wise to be storing the plenty while the skies are clear,” one of the foremen remarked, picking hand over hand at a rate that astonished Lady Marella.

“Now I want no talk of that nature here…”

“Denol, Lady Marella,” the man filled in courteously enough. “And it would settle our minds some, lady, if you could assure us that sort of talk is nothing but sundream.”

“Of course it is!” she said in her most decisive tone. “Lord Sangel has looked into the matter thoroughly, and you can rest assured that Thread will not return.”

“Lord Sangel’s a good and provident man, Lady Marella. You ease my mind. Pardon me for mentioning it, lady, but iffen someone, say like some of the children, could bring us empty sacks, and iffen the cart could come between the rows to pick up the full ones, we could move much faster down these rows.”

“Now, Denol,” the steward began in an admonitory tone.

“No, no, that’s not a bad idea,” Lady Marella replied, noting the numbers of men and women plodding to the top row with full sacks. “Only children above ten Turns,” she added, “for the younger ones must attend the harper and learn their traditional ballads.”

“And we appreciate their opportunity, Lady Marella,” Denol said, his hands darting with incredible speed from the fruit to the sack in front of him. “Moving about as we has to means they don’t get their learning. Tradition means a lot to me, lady. It’s the backbone of our world.”

His sack was full, and he respectfully bowed as he trotted down the row to deposit it on the cart and pick up an empty sack. He was back and picking again within seconds, moving with diligent energy.

She went on down the rows, noting how often pickers had to leave their rows, the steward silent behind her. When they were out of earshot, she turned to him. “Implement the change tomorrow. It would speed things up. And give that man an extra mark for his suggestion.”

The steward kept his eye on Denol throughout the harvesting, somewhat annoyed that he had not had the idea himself. But he could never catch Denol slacking the pace he set, either among the bushes, or in the groves, or when they started the backbreaking labor of digging the tubers. Denol still logged in more sacks than any other picker. The steward had to concede that the man was an excellent worker.

When the harvest was done, Denol approached the steward. “If my work has been satisfactory, steward, is it possible that me and my kin could stay on here over the winter? There’s still a lot to be done with the pruning and wintering of the land.”

The steward was startled. “But you’re a picker. You’ll be needed next at Ruatha.”