She wasn’t. Still ignoring the girls clustered around her, even the bold dark-haired one that Fiona

would have thought she’d like, the dragonet lurched over to the visitor stands. She looked up into the

stands and creeled desperately. Kindan and Bemin exchanged alarmed looks as the little gold gazed

toward Fiona. Fiona’s eyes grew wide with shock and she glanced worriedly at Lord Bemin. Bemin

seemed to wilt in despair—Fiona was his last surviving child—but he recovered and nodded weakly.

“What’s her name?” he asked his daughter, gesturing to the gold below and forcing his lips into a

smile.

The dragonet creeled again piteously and Fiona turned back to her, her face glowing in pure joy as she

declared, “She says her name is Talenth!”

Kindan picked out K’lior and Cisca climbing down the stairs toward them. It was obvious from the

look on her face that Cisca had taken in the full import of the event. She would handle things from here.

Kindan, who, after all, was beholden to Benden not Fort Weyr, turned away for a last look at the now

empty Hatching Grounds.

For a moment, a very brief moment, before the egg had proved to be a gold, Kindan had imagined

what might have happened if he had Impressed. A chirp from above distracted him as his fire-lizard,

Valla, swooped down from his perch above, pleased with himself for locating Kindan and thrilled to have

seen the Hatching.

Kindan shook himself from his reverie. He had been a miner, had bonded with a watch-wher, the

dragons’ kin, and now he was a harper who had Impressed a fire-lizard. The Red Star was approaching,

bringing the deadly Threads, and everything would change when the dragons began the fifty-Turn battle

to save Pern from extinction. Vaguely Kindan wondered if he would live to see the end of the Pass and

the return of the less trying times he had been born into.

The beating of a drum, the call to dinner, and a personal plea from Kentai for help in entertaining the

revelers spurred Kindan up and out of the Hatching Grounds. At the entrance, he turned back once

more, unable to contain his longing.

Kindan couldn’t remember who waved him toward the sleeping quarters or quite how he got himself

into bed. The evening had been a raucous celebration at which he had sung much, danced much, and

drank much—far more than his usual. He had no idea why he’d drunk so much, nor why he’d worked so

hard that evening . . . until he woke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.

The Weyr was silent, but the silence seemed more oppressive than comforting. The sound of his

labored breathing came harshly to his ears and he sat up in his cot, glancing around nervously to check if

his nightmare had disturbed anyone else to whom he’d have to make a quick apology.