Kestket bit his lips, shivering in the rocky Threadshelter he had taken refuge in. The runners in their shaggy winter coats didn't seem to mind the cold, resting against the inside wall in a thick bed of straw, but the lordling was determined to get the fire started. Outside the wind screamed through the icy high mountain pass- he had been on the road for almost a seven days before the route turned snowy, and this was the first night he was truly roughing it, having parted company with a pair of Messengers delivering a large parcel by rickshaw. The Northern Barrier Range, or as the Messengers had called it, the Backbone of Pern, got snow, and lots of it in the winter, but this path, was usually free of snow all winter long, as it was in the rain shadow between two mountain ranges. The Messengers swore on their boots that they could and did run the length of Pern, even in the winter, because of that fluke of geography.
His hands trembled, bringing the flint and steel together incorrectly, failing to produce sparks. Gurdy, his brown firelizard, crooned reassuringly from the depths of his fur lined hood, his small warm body curled around the back of Kestket's neck. Kestket sighed and rested his hands in his lap, taking deep breaths to calm himself against his rising panic. Doquni had taught him how to light a fire - along with several other of the gentle arts - and for a moment he rested in the warm memory of work roughened hands gently holding his own, guiding him in the correct technique to hold the steel and flint. Gurdy's croon softened, becoming happier, sharing and sharpening the memory, for he had been there too, when Kestket had spent three glorious days, storm bound in the woodworker's rented cot.
He hoped Doquni's offer to join him still stood. He hadn't heard from his friend since last spring.
The flint struck true and sparked, causing the tindermoss to smoke. Quickly he blew on the smoldering nest of moss, causing it to catch fire. Gently he placed it in a cored out cow patty, where the fiber rich patty caught fire. Satisfied, he sat back and used some of the remaining water from his waterskin to wash his hands before stuffing them back in his mittens. He had to avoid Crom, he was too well known there, they'd send him back just as soon as was spotted. Nabol too wasn't safe, his father had fostered too many Holder lads from there for him to chance it. No, Ruatha was only the first major Hold that would be safe to visit - Farkin was not given to walking among the working Holders, if the rumors were true.
Kestket stood, confident enough in the fire's strength and protection to go to the entrance and collect accumulated snow to bring back to the runners' trough. The snow would melt as the fire warmed the shelter, and after three trips, he brought back one more packed snowball for the camp pot. The runners, sturdy mountain stock, bred to pull carts in mines, and the one part of his plan he worried might expose his intention. Forage was sparse along this route, it was one of the reasons he took two runners instead of one, just so he could carry enough food for both animals. With any luck he would be able to trade one or both for a distance runner in Ruatha, before taking the coastal road to Southern Boll, where Doquni had his permanent workshop.
The fire did wonders for his mood and he hummed, stretching the heavy oiled skin back across the entrance, rather than close the heavy Threaddoor and seal himself in. While it would doubtlessly be warmer, he wasn't confident that the chimney hadn't become snow clogged. Nor was he willing to keep out anyone who might have gotten caught out in the blowing snow.
The water began to simmer and he dug thorough his packs to pull out the oats and dried fruit. He and the runners could fill their bellies on hot mash, the meatrolls he intended to keep for Gurdy, at least until he could hunt again.
Zandur cornered the Weyrleaders between the main meal and dessert, when the kitchen was handing out sweetened cups of after dinner klah. Jurille and B'ton were sitting together, musing over the newest tidbit from the Hold, namely the desertion of Kestket. Without preamble, Zandur sat down opposite them and proceeded to enumerate a laundry list of Gl'tek's myriad sins, only stopping when Jurille groaned and hid her face in her hands.
"Yes, yes I know," she said looking up as B'ton looked thunderstruck, being unaware of Gl'tek's dalliances and dealings, outside the Weyr.
"Aren't you tired of cleaning up his messes?"Zandur asked pointedly.
"Yes, of course I am. But you know full well he's also one of the best Weyrlingmasters we've had in decades." She retorted, her patience with the Healer wearing thin.
Peace, Jurille. He does not mean to remind you of these things lightly. Graesth informed her. Jurille took a breath, calming herself.
"You allow him a great deal of latitude because of that. Perhaps it is time you used that leverage of your own?" Zandur asked, sipping his klah. Jurille scrutinized the crotchety Healer for a long moment.
"What has he done this time?"
"It's what he haven't done."Zandur replied evenly. "He hasn't released Mirrth and C'bay to the lists and he won't train Vaeth and Char to flame."
"Wait... the blue pair are from the last hatching. They're nowhere near ready to firestone." B'ton spoke up, for while Weyr issues were the domain of the queens, fighting Wings were his.
"True. But I released them to return to training this morning, and Koru was training them this afternoon."
B'ton and Jurille shared a glance, then both got that far away look riders wore when in deep conversation with their dragons. Jurille went from questioning, to exasperated to livid, and without a word, stood before stalking out of the caverns.
"I'll wager you a new riding helmet that Gl'tek refuses simply to be contrary." Reema said with a grin.
"What do I get if you lose?" B'ton asked the junior queen with a slow smile.
"I'll make you a book, transcribe whatever you want into it, and title the cover with gilt." Reema offered. B'ton stuck out his hand and they shook on it.