Eventually, having heard the artisan’s parting phrase repeated by her affronted spouse for the twentieth time in an evening, the Lady Holder of Nerat said, “He did say he’ll return when it is time, Vincet. Cease fretting. He’s gone for now. He’ll be back.”

In Telgar Hold, two Turns later, when the Lord Holders are becoming increasingly aware of and annoyed by the Weyr’s ascendance, Lord Larad is trying to make a suitable disposition of his rebellious sister…

“Larad, I’m your sister—your older sister!” Thella shouted while Larad signalled vigorously for her to lower her voice. With his eyes, he appealed to his mother to support him, but Thella raged on. “You will not marry me off to some niggardly, foul-mouthed, snaggle-toothed senile old man, just because Father agreed to such a travesty in his dotage.”

“Derabal is not senile or snaggle-toothed, and at thirty-four he is scarcely old,” Larad replied behind clenched teeth. Being a brother, even half-brother, he did not appreciate the defiant stance of her magnificently proportioned body, athletic and fit in her riding gear. To him, the high color in her cheeks, the flash of the hazel eyes, and the contemptuous curve of her sensuous mouth meant merely another stormy session with her. It did not help that she was within a half span of his own height, so that in the high-heeled long riding boots she preferred she was eye-to-eye with him. At that moment he would have liked to throttle her challenge and reduce her to compliance with the good beating that was long overdue. But Lord Holders did not thrash dependent kinswomen.

Thella had always been the most contentious of his sisters, both half– and full-blooded: argumentative, arrogant, willful, and stubborn, making far too much use of the freedom their father had granted his adventurous and daring daughter. Larad had sometimes suspected that their father had almost preferred Thella, with her aggressive high-handed manner, to his son’s more considerative, reflective ways. Lord Tarathel had even looked the other way when Thella had beaten a young drudge to death. He had, however, taken her to task for riding a promising young runner into the ground. Valuable animals could not be wasted.

Or perhaps as Larad’s mother had suggested, Lord Tarathel had given the girl special consideration since her mother had died giving birth to her. No matter the reason, the old lord had encouraged his first-born child in her hunting, riding, and exploring pursuits; it had amused Tarathel to encourage her to defy convention. Thella was also eleven months Larad’s senior, and she made as much of that seniority as she, a daughter, could. She had even challenged Larad at the Conclave of Lord Holders, demanding that she, Tarathel’s first born, be considered first for the Holdership. She had been politely, in most cases, and dismissively, in others, told to take her “rightful” place with her stepmother, sisters, and aunts. Telgar Hold had rung for weeks with her complaints at such injustice. The drudges bore new lash marks daily as she vented her frustration, and some fled the main Hold on any pretext they could invent.

“Derabal is a minor holder, not even a lord…”

“Derabal holds an impressive spread from river to mountain, my girl, and you’ll have more than enough to occupy you if you would deign”—Larad allowed some of his feeling to color that word—”to marry the man. His offer is in good faith, you know…”

“So you keep telling me.”

“The jewels he offered as a bridal present are magnificent,” Lady Fira put in with some envy. She had nothing half as good in her own coffers, and Tarathel had not been a stingy man.

“Have them!” Thella swept that consideration aside with a contemptuous flick of one hand. “But I will not accompany his guard of honor—” She sneered openly. “—back to Hilltop Hold as a meekly submissive bride. And that, my dear Lord Holder,”—for emphasis she slapped her riding stick against her high leather boot—”is my final word on the subject.”

“Yours, perhaps,” Larad replied in such a harsh tone of voice that Thella looked at him in surprise. “But not mine.” Before she could guess his purpose, he grabbed her by the arm and marched her to her sleeping room. Giving her a hard push inside, he closed the door and locked it.

“You are a right fool, Larad!” Thella called through the thick panel. Son and mother heard the thud of something heavy being thrown against the door, and then there was silence, not even broken by the curses with which Thella usually answered confinement.

The following morning, when Larad relented enough to allow food and drink to be brought to Thella, there was no sign of the recalcitrant girl. Thella’s gowns remained neatly folded in their chest, but all of her rough-wear gear was gone, along with the bed fur. On investigation, four runnerbeasts—three good mares already in foal and Thella’s strong and willful gelding—were missing from the beasthold, as well as a variety of gear and sacks of journey food. Two days later Larad found that several bags of marks were missing from the safe-hold in his office.

Discreet inquiries by Larad revealed that Thella had been seen leading a string of horses, heading southeast to the dividing range between Telgar and Bitra. There was no further report of her after that.

To Derabal, Larad sent a younger half-sister, a rather sweet and certainly biddable girl who was quite happy to have a decent hold of her own, and a husband who would give her such beautiful gems. Certainly Derabal would later thank him for a remission from the tempers and terrors of Thella.

When Thread did, indeed, begin to fall on Pern, and the Lord Holders threw all support behind the Benden Weyrleaders, Lady Fira worried about Thella.

When she first heard reports of rather peculiar thefts occurring along the eastern mountain trails and the Igen River track that carters had been forced by Threadfall to use, she nursed very private suspicions about Thella. For a long while, Larad never once connected the thefts with his half-sister. He persisted in blaming the holdless, the dissenters, those turned out of hold and hall for violent acts or robberies: the renegades of Pern.

JAYGE HAD HOPED his father would stay longer at Kimmage Hold. He did not want to leave as long as he and his shaggy mare were doing so well in races against the holder boys’ runners. Fairex looked so clumsy with her winter hair that it had been easy to fool the other lads into wagering against her. And to give the Kimmage boys their due, they had not warned off any of the outholders who came in with their fathers to visit the main Hold. So Jayge now had a most satisfactory collection of credit bits, almost enough to trade for a saddle when next their wagons encountered those of the Plater clan. He needed only another race or two—just a seven day more.

The Lilcamps had been at Kimmage all through the wet spring. Why did his father want to move out now? No one argued with Crenden. He was fair but tough, and although he was not a very big man, anyone who had experienced his fist—and Jayge still did at times—knew that he was far stronger than he looked. Just as a holder, major or minor, was the final authority on his property, so Crenden was obeyed by his kin. A shrewd trader, a hard worker, and honest in all his dealings, he was welcome in those smaller, less accessible holds that were unable to get to the main Gathers on a regular basis. To be sure, some Crafts sent travelers on regular routes to take orders for their Halls, but they rarely ventured up the narrow tracks into the mountains or across broad plains too far from water. Not all of Crenden’s goods bore a Crafthall stamp but they were well-made, and cheaper than Crafthall products. Crenden also had a fine memory for what his clients might need and carried a varied stock, limited only by the space of the wagons.