There was also the point that T’kul need not have gone South with Mardra, T’ron and the other obstinate and inflexible Oldtime weyrfolk. He could have accepted the leadership of Benden, acknowledged that Craft and Hold had earned rights for themselves in the four hundred Turns since the last Pass and conducted himself and his Weyr affairs accordingly.
Had any of the Southerners come forward, acting in honor, asking the assistance of the other Weyrs, he was certain such would have been forthcoming. He didn’t doubt D’ram’s sincerity, and he would have pressed for their requests himself, by the Shell he would have!
Looking at the worst possible conclusion to the day’s events, what would happen to T’kul if Salth did overfly himself? The Harper sighed deeply, not liking to consider that possibility at all, but he’d better. The possibility meant that . . . Robinton glanced toward the Weyrwoman’s quarters. T’kul had been wearing a belt knife. Everyone wore belt knives. Robinton felt his heart pounding. He knew it wasn’t proper, but shouldn’t he suggest to D’ram that someone be in the queen’s weyr in case of trouble? Someone uninvolved in the mating flight. When a man’s dragon died he could become insane, not know what he was doing. A vision of T’kul’s hatred flashed vividly before the Harper’s eyes. Robinton had many prerogatives but entering the chambers of the Weyrwoman whose dragon was mating was not one of them. Still . . .
Robinton blinked. F’lar was no longer seated at the table. The Harper glanced about the cavern, but caught no glimpse of the tall figure of the Benden Weyrleader. He rose, struggling to keep his progress casual, managed to nod pleasantly to D’ram and Warbret as he sauntered toward the entrance. The Istan Harper intersected his path.
“F’lar took two of our strongest riders with him, Master Robinton.” The man nodded toward the Weyrwoman’s quarters. “He’s afraid of trouble.”
Robinton nodded, blowing out with relief, then halted.
“How did he manage it? I saw no one using the steps.”
Baldor grinned. “This Weyr is full of odd tunnels and entrances. It wouldn’t do to compound the problem,” he added, gesturing toward the guests in the cavern, “now would it?”
“Indeed not. Indeed not.”
“We’ll know what happens soon enough,” Baldor said with a worried sigh. “Our fire-lizards’ll tell us.”
“True,” and Zair on his shoulder cheeped at Baldor’s brown.
Robinton was somewhat relieved by the precautions and made his way back to the table. He filled his cup again, and D’ram’s. Not Benden wine, but it wasn’t altogether unpalatable, if a trifle sweeter than he liked. Why was it that happy occasions seemed to fly past and one like today dragged interminably?
The watchdragon bugled, a fearful, unhappy sound. But not a keen! Not a death knell! Robinton felt the muscles in his chest relax. His relief was premature for there was a rustle of worried whispers sweeping through the living cavern. Several weyrfolk hurried out, looking up at the blue watchdragon, his wings extended. Zair crooned softly but Robinton sensed nothing definite from the creature. The little bronze merely repeated the dragon’s muddled thoughts.
“One of the bronzes must have faltered,” D’ram said, swallowing nervously, his face tinged gray under his tan. He looked hard at Robinton.
“One of those older ones, I’ll wager,” Warbret said, pleased at this justification of his opinion.
“You’re likely right,” Robinton said easily, “but the flight was declared open, so they had to be admitted.”
“Aren’t they taking a long time of it?” Warbret asked, frowning out at the sky just visible from their table.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Robinton replied with what he hoped was a casual air, “though it sometimes seems that way. I expect that’s because the outcome of this particular flight will have such consequences for the Weyr. Caylith is at least giving the bronzes a good run for her!”
“D’you think there’ll be a queen egg this time?” Warbret asked eagerly.
“I would never make the error of counting eggs this soon, my Lord Warbret,” the Harper said, trying to keep his countenance bland.
“Oh, yes, of course. I mean it would be quite an accomplishment for Barnath, wouldn’t it? Having his queen lay a golden egg this flight?”
“It would indeed. That is, if . . . Barnath succeeds in flying her.”
“Really, Master Harper, of course he will. Where’s your sense of justice?”
“Where it generally is, but I doubt that Caylith is attuned to justice right now.”
The words were no sooner out of his mouth than Zair, his eyes the bright yellow of distress, gave a frightened, gibbering squeak at the Harper. Mnementh erupted into the air just above the ground of the Bowl, bugling in alarm.
Robinton was on his feet and running, glancing about him for Baldor. The Istan Harper was equally alert to the danger. He and four large riders began pelting toward the Weyr.
“What’s the matter?” Warbret demanded.
“Stay there,” Robinton shouted.
The air was suddenly full of dragons, bugling and keening, barely avoiding midair collisions, as they swept about, riderless, disturbed. Robinton pumped his long legs as fast as he could, regardless of the fierce pain in his side that he eased somewhat by digging the heel of his hand into his flesh. The weight on his chest seemed worse; it kept breath which he needed for running.
Zair began squealing over Robinton’s head, projecting an image of a falling dragon and fighting men. Unfortunately the little bronze could not project the information Robinton most wanted—which dragon, which men! F’lar must be involved or Mnementh would not be here.
The huge bronze was landing on the queen’s weyr ledge, preventing Baldor’s men from entering the weyr. They flattened themselves against the wall, trying to avoid the frantic sweeps of his wide wings.
“Mnementh! Listen to me! Let us pass! We’re going to aid F’lar. Listen to me!”
Robinton charged right up the steps, past Baldor and his men, and grabbed one wing tip. He was all but hauled off his feet as Mnementh pulled it back, bending his head to hiss at the Harper. The great eyes whirled violently yellow.
“Listen to me, Mnementh!” the Harper roared. “Let us pass!”
Zair flew at the bronze dragon, screaming at the top of his lungs.
I listen. Salth is no more. Help F’lar!
The great bronze dragon folded his wings, lifted his head, and Robinton thankfully waved Baldor and his men to go ahead. He needed a moment to catch his breath.
As Robinton turned to enter the passage, hand pressed against his side, Zair zipped in front of him, his cries full of encouragement now. The Harper wondered fleetingly if the tiny creature thought that he, and he alone, had turned aside the great bronze. Robinton could only be grateful that the bronze dragon would listen to him.
As Robinton entered the Weyr, he could hear the sounds of fighting in the Weyrwoman’s sleeping chamber. The curtain across the entrance was suddenly ripped from its pole as two struggling bodies staggered out into the larger room. F’lar and T’kul! Baldor and two of his helpers were close behind, trying to separate the men. In the room beyond them, locked in the mating flight contact with their beasts, were the rest of the bronze riders and the Weyrwoman, oblivious to the combat. Someone had collapsed on the floor. B’zon, probably, he thought as the scene registered in his mind in one split second.
What caught Robinton’s horrified attention was the fact that F’lar had no knife in either hand. His left was closed about T’kul’s right wrist, straining to keep the man’s long knife—no short-bladed belt but a skinning tool—away from his collarbone. His fingers began digging into the tendons of T’kul’s wrist, trying to force the fingers open, or to deaden the nerves. His right hand held T’kul’s left arm down and out from their sides. T’kul writhed savagely; the maniacal gleam in his reddened eyes told Robinton that the man was beyond himself. As he must have intended, thought Robinton.
One of Baldor’s men
was trying to shove a knife in F’lar’s hand but F’lar had to keep T’kul’s left hand engaged.
“I’ll kill you, F’lar,” T’kul said through gritted teeth as he struggled to force his right hand down, closer and closer, the blade slanting toward the bronze rider’s neck. “I’ll kill you. As you killed my Salth. As you killed us! I’ll kill you!” It sounded like a chant, the beats emphasized by the spurts of strength T’kul called up from the depths of his madness.
F’lar saved his breath, the strain of holding off that knife showing in the cords that stood out in his neck, in the drag on his face muscles, the tension in his legs and thighs.
“I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you as T’ron ought! I’ll kill you, F’lar!”
T’kul’s voice now came in ragged gasps as the point of the knife inched toward its goal.
Abruptly, F’lar kicked out with his left leg and, twining it about T’kul’s left, yanked the foot out from under the crazed, overbalanced Oldtimer. With a yell, T’kul fell forward into F’lar, who neatly twisted him over and down, breaking T’kul’s left-hand hold but keeping his own left hand firmly locked on T’kul’s right wrist. The Oldtimer kicked out, caught F’lar viciously in the stomach. Although the bronze rider did not release the knife hand, he was doubled up, windless. A second kick from T’kul knocked his feet out from under him. F’lar fell heaving as T’kul wrenched his knife-hand free and scrambled to fall on the younger Weyrleader. But F’lar continued the roll with an agility that astonished the watchers, coming to his feet again even as T’kul stood up and launched an immediate attack. But that interval had been time enough for F’lar to grab the belt knife from Baldor.
The two antagonists faced each other. Robinton knew by the grim determination on F’lar’s face that this time, with the man’s beast already dead, the Benden Weyrleader would finish off his opponent. If he could.
Robinton disliked having doubts about F’lar’s skill as a fighter, but T’kul was no ordinary antagonist, driven as he was by the grief-madness of Salth’s death. The man, older by some twenty Turns, had the reach of F’lar, and a longer, more deadly blade in his hand. F’lar would have to elude that slashing blade long enough to wear T’kul past the point of the mad energy that possessed the Oldtimer.
An exultant shout burst from the Weyrwoman’s room and her piercing shriek followed. That was just enough to divert T’kul. F’lar was ready for that tiny break in concentration. He dove at T’kul, knife arm down and, before the man could parry and guard himself at the lower angle, F’lar’s thrust went up and through the ribs to the heart. T’kul, eyes protruding, fell dead at his feet.
F’lar sagged, dropping to one knee, gasping with his exertions. Wearily he scrubbed at his forehead with the back of his left hand, every line of his body emphasizing the dejection he was experiencing.
“You could have done nothing else, F’lar,” Robinton said softly, wishing he had the strength to move to F’lar’s side.
From the Weyrwoman’s chamber came the rejected suitors, dazed by their participation in the mating flight. They came out in a mass, and Robinton couldn’t figure out who had remained with the Weyrwoman as her mate and was now the new Weyrleader of Ista.
His sudden inexplicable weakness confused the Harper. He couldn’t catch his breath; he hadn’t the energy to quiet Zair, who was chittering the wildest distress. The pain in his side had moved again to his chest, like a heavy rock sitting on him.
“Baldor!”
“Master Robinton!” The Istan Harper rushed to his side, his face expressing horror and consternation as he assisted Robinton to the nearest bench. “You’re gray. Your lips. They’re blue. What’s wrong with you?”
“Gray is how I feel. My chest! Wine! I need wine!”
The room began pressing in on the Harper. He couldn’t breathe. He was aware of shouts, sensed panic in the air and tried to bestir himself to take control of the situation. Hands pushed him down, then flat, making it totally impossible to breathe. He struggled to sit up.
“Let him. It will help his breathing.”
Dimly Robinton identified the voice as Lessa’s. How did she come to be here? Then he was propped against someone and could breathe more easily, If only he could rest, could sleep.
“Clear everyone from the Weyr.” Lessa was giving orders.
Harper, Harper, listen to us. Now listen to us. Harper, don’t sleep. Stay with us. Harper, we need you. We love you. Listen to us.
The voices in his head were unfamiliar. He wished they would be silent so that he could think about the pain in his chest and the sleep he so desperately craved.
Harper, you cannot leave. You must stay. Harper, we love you.
The voices puzzled him. He didn’t know them. It wasn’t Lessa or F’lar speaking. The voices were deep, insistent, and he wasn’t hearing them with his ears. The voices were in his mind where he couldn’t ignore them. He wished they would leave him alone so that he could sleep. He was so very tired. T’kul had been too old to fly his dragon or win a fight. Yet he was older than T’kul, who now slept in death. If only the voices would let him sleep, too. He was so tired.
You cannot sleep yet, Harper. We are with you. Do not leave us. Harper, you must live! We love you.
Live? Of course, he would live. Silly voices. He was just tired. He wanted to sleep.
Harper, Harper, do not leave us. Harper, we love you. Do not go.
The voices were not loud, but they held on to him, in his mind. That was it. They were not letting his mind go.
Someone else, outside him, was holding something to his lips.
“Master Robinton, you must try to swallow the medicine. You must make the effort. It will ease the pain.” That voice he recognized. Lessa. Distraught.
Of course, she would be, with F’lar having to kill a rider, and all the trouble with the theft of the egg, and Ramoth being so upset.
Harper, obey Lessa. You must obey Lessa, Harper. Open your mouth. You must try.
He could ignore Lessa, he could bat feebly at the cup at his lips and try to spit out the bitter-tasting pill which was melting on his tongue, but he could not ignore those insistent voices. He let them put wine in his mouth, and swallowed the pill with it. At least they had the kindness to give him wine, not water. Water would have been undignified for the Harper of Pern. He could never have swallowed water with the pain in his chest.
Something seemed to snap inside him. Ah, the pain in his chest. It was easing, as if the snap had been the loosening of the tight band that constricted his heart.
He sighed at the relief. One didn’t fully appreciate the absence of pain, he thought.
“Take a sip of the wine, Master.” He felt the cup at his lips again.
Wine, yes, that would complete his cure. Wine always did revive him. Only he still wanted to sleep. He was so very tired.
“And another!”
You may sleep later. You must listen to us and stay. Harper, listen! We love you. You must stay.
The Harper resented their insistence.
“How long does it take the man to get here?” That was Lessa’s voice, sounding fiercer than he’d ever heard her. Why did she also sound as if she were weeping? Lessa weeping?
Lessa is weeping for you. You do not want her to weep. Stay with us, Harper. You cannot go. We will not let you go. Lessa should not weep.
No, that was right, Lessa should not weep. Robinton didn’t really believe that she was. He forced his eyes to open and saw her bending over him. She was weeping! The tears were dropping from her cheeks to his hand which lay limp and upturned as if to receive the tears.
“You mustn’t weep, Lessa. I will not have you weeping.” Great Shells, he was losing his voice control. He cleared his throat. This would never do.
“Don’t try to talk, Robinton,” Lessa said, gulping back her sobs. “Just rest. You’ve got to rest. Oldive is coming. I told them to time it. Just rest. More wine?”
“Have I ever refused wine?” Why was his voice so fai
nt?”
“Never,” and Lessa was laughing and crying at the same time.
“Who’s been nagging me? They wouldn’t let me go. Make them let me rest, Lessa. I’m so tired!”
“Oh, Master Robinton, please!”
Please what?
Harper, stay with us. Lessa will weep.
“Oh, Master Oldive. Over here!” That was Lessa again, leaving his side.
Robinton tried to reach for her.
“Don’t exert yourself!” She was holding him down, but she was staying beside him. Dear Lessa! Even when he was angry with her, he loved her nonetheless. Perhaps more, because she was angry so often and anger intensified her beauty.
“Ah, Master Robinton.” Oldive’s soothing voice made him open his eyes. “The chest pain again? Just nod. I’d rather you didn’t make the effort to speak.”
“Ramoth says he has great pain and is very tired.”
“Oh? Convenient having the dragon listen, too.”
Master Oldive was putting cold instruments to his chest and on his arm. Robinton would have liked to protest.
“Yes, I know they’re cold, my dear Harper, but necessary. Now listen to me, your heart has been overstrained. That was the pain in your chest. Lessa gave you a pill which has relieved that pain for the moment. But the immediate danger is past. I want you to try to sleep. You are going to need a lot of rest, my good friend. A lot of rest.”
“Then tell them to be quiet and let me sleep.”
“Who’s to be quiet?” Oldive’s voice was soothing, and Robinton was vaguely annoyed because he suspected Oldive didn’t believe he’d heard them keeping him awake. “Here, take this pill and a sip of wine. I know you’ve never refused wine.”
Robinton smiled weakly. How well they knew him, Oldive and Lessa.
“It’s Ramoth and Mnementh talking to him, Oldive. They said he had nearly gone . . .” Lessa’s voice broke on the last note.
The White Dragon Page 27
