“I doubt the following nights will alter the view.”
“On the contrary, Weyrleader,” said Wansor, his eyes wide, “the Red Star turns on its own axis much as Pern does.”
“But it is still too far away to make out any details,” Lessa said firmly.
F’lar shot her an annoyed look “If I could only see for myself . . .”
Wansor looked up brightly. “Well, now, you know, I had about figured out how to utilize the lenses from the magnifier. Of course, there’d be no such maneuverability as one can achieve with the ancient device, but the advantage is that I could set up those lenses on your own Star Stones. It’s rather interesting, too, because if I put one lens in the Eye Rock and set the other on the Finger Rock, you will see—or, but then you won’t see, will you?” And the little man seemed to deflate.
“Won’t see what?”
“Well, those rocks are situated to catch the Red Star only at winter solstice, so of course the angles are wrong for any other time of year. But then, I could—no,” Wansor’s face was puckered with his intense frown. Only his eyes moved, restlessly, as the myriad thoughts he was undoubtedly sifting were reflected briefly. “I will think about it. But I am sure that I can devise a means of your seeing the Red Star, Weyrleader, without moving from Benden.”
“You must be exhausted, Wansor,” Lessa said, before F’lar could ask another question.
“Oh, not to mention,” Wansor replied, blinking hard to focus on her.
“Enough to mention,” Lessa said firmly and took the cup from his hand, half-lifting him from the stool. “I think, Master Wansor, that you had better sleep here at Benden a little while.”
“Oh, could I? I’d the most fearful notion that I might fall off the dragon between. But that couldn’t happen, could it? Oh, I can’t stay. I have the Craft’s dragon. Really, perhaps I’d just better . . .”
His voice trailed off as Lessa led him down the corridor.
“He was up all last night too,” N’ton said, grinning affectionately after Wansor
“There is no way to go between to the Red Star?” N’ton shook his head slowly. “Not that we could see tonight—last night. The same features of dark, reddish masses were turned toward us most of the time we watched. Just before we decided you should know about the other planets, I took a final look and that Nerat-like promontory had disappeared, leaving only the dullish gray-red coloration.”
“There must be some way to get to the Red Star.”
“I’m sure you’ll find it, sir, when you’re feeling better.”
F’lar grimaced, thinking that “unobtrusive” was an apt description of this young man. He had deftly expressed confidence in his superior, that only ill-health prevented immediate action, and that the ill-health was a passing thing.
“Since that’s the way matters stand in that direction, let us proceed in another. Lessa said that you procured Thread for us. Did you see how those swampgrubs dealt with Thread?”
N’ton nodded slowly, his eyes glittering.
“If we hadn’t had to cede the dissidents the continent, I’d’ve had a straight-flown Search discover the boundaries of the southern lands. We still don’t know its extent. Exploration was stopped on the west by the deserts, and on the east by the sea. But it can’t be just the swampy area that is infested with these grubs.” F’lar shook his head. He sounded querulous to himself. He took a breath, forcing himself to speak more slowly and therefore less emotionally. “There’s been Threadfall in the Southern Weyr for seven Turns and not a single burrow. The ground crews have never had to flame out anything. Now, even with the most careful, most experienced, sharpest-eyed riders, some Thread gets to the ground. T’bor insists there were never any burrows to be found anywhere after a Threadfall.” F’lar grimaced. “His wings are efficient and Threadfall is light in the south, but I wish I’d known.”
“And what would you have thought?” asked Lessa with her usual asperity as she rejoined them. “Nothing. Because until Thread started falling out of phase, and you had been at the swampfall, you’d never have correlated the information.”
She was right, of course, but N’ton didn’t have to look so torn between agreement with her and sympathy for him. Silently F’lar railed at this infuriating debility. He ought to be up and around, not forced to rely on the observations of others at a crucial time like this.
“Sir, in the Turns I’ve been a dragonrider,” said N’ton, considering his words even as he spoke, “I’ve learned that nothing is done without purpose. I used to call my sire foolish to insist that one tanned leather in just one way, or stretched hide only a little at a time, well-soaked, but I’ve realized recently that there is an order, a reason, a rhyme for it” He paused, but F’lar urged him to go on. “I’ve been most interested in the methods of the Mastersmith. That man thinks constantly.” The young man’s eyes shone with such intense admiration that F’lar grinned. “I’m afraid I may be making a nuisance of myself but I learned so much from him. Enough to realize that there’re gaps in the knowledge that’s been transmitted down to us. Enough to understand that perhaps the southern continent was abandoned to let the grubs grow in strength there . . .”
“You mean, that if the ancients knew they couldn’t get to the Red Star,” Lessa exclaimed, “they developed the grubs to protect growing fields?”
“They developed the dragons from fire lizards, didn’t they? Why not grubs as ground crews?” And N’ton grinned at the whimsy of his thesis.
“That makes sense,” Lessa said, looking hopefully at F’lar. “Certainly that explains why the dragons haven’t jumped between to the red star. They didn’t need to. Protection was being provided.”
“Then why don’t we have grubs here in the north?” asked F’lar contentiously.
“Ha! Someone didn’t live long enough to transmit the news, or sow the grubs, or cultivate them, or something. Who can tell?” Lessa threw wide her arms. It was obvious to F’lar that she preferred this theory, subtle as she may have been in trying to block his desire to go to the Red Star.
He was willing to believe that the grubs were the answer, but the Red Star had to be visited. If only to reassure the Lord Holders that the dragonmen were trustworthy.
“We still don’t know if the grubs exist beyond the swamps,” F’lar reminded her.
“I don’t mind sneaking in and finding out,” N’ton said. “I know Southern very well, sir. Probably as well as anyone, even F’nor. I’d like permission to go south and check” When N’ton saw F’lar hesitate and Lessa frown, he went on hurriedly. “I can evade T’kul. That man’s so obvious, he’s pathetic.”
“All right, all right N’ton. Go. It’s the truth I’ve no one else to send,” and F’lar tried not to feel bitter that F’nor was involved with a woman; he was a dragonrider first, wasn’t he? Then F’lar suppressed such uncharitable thoughts. Brekke had been a Weyrwoman; through no fault of hers (and F’lar still berated himself that he had not thought of keeping a closer check on Kylara’s activities—he’d been warned), Brekke was deprived of her dragon. If she found some comfort in F’nor’s presence, it was unforgivable to deprive her of his company. “Go, N’ton. Spot-check. And bring back samples of those grubs from every location. I wish Wansor had not dismantled that other contraption. We could look closely at the grubs. That Masterherder was a fool. The grubs might not be the same in every spot.”
“Grubs are grubs,” Lessa mumbled.
“Landbeasts raised in the mountains are different from landbeasts raised on the plains,” N’ton said. “Fellis trees grown south are larger with better fruit than Nerat’s best.”
“You know too much,” Lessa replied, grinning to take the sting from her words.
N’ton grinned. “I’m a bronze rider, Weyrwoman.”
“You’d best be off. No, wait Are you sure Fort is not going to need you and Lioth for Thread?” F’lar asked, wanting to be rid of this very healthy youngster who only emphasized his illness.
“Not for a while, sir. It’s full night there still.”
That underscored his youthfulness and F’lar waved him out, trying to suppress jealousy with gratitude. The moment he’d gone, F’lar let out a sudden exasperated oath that brought Lessa, all consideration, to his side.
“I’ll get well, I’ll get well,” he fumed. He held her hand against his cheek, grateful, too, for the cool of her fingers as they curved to fit against his face.
“Of course you’ll get well. You’re never sick,” she murmured softly, stroking his forehead with her free hand. Then her voice took on a teasing note. “You’re just stupid. Otherwise you wouldn’t have gone between, let cold into a wound, and developed fever.”
F’lar, reassured as much by her caustic jibe as her cool and loving caresses, lay back and willed himself to sleep, to health.
CHAPTER XIV
Early Morning at Ruatha Hold
Midday at Benden Weyr
WHEN WORD CAME that the Hatching was likely to occur that bright spring day, Jaxom didn’t know whether he was glad or not. Ever since the two queens had killed each other ten days before, Lytol had been sunk in such a deep gloom that Jaxom had tiptoed around the Hold. His guardian had always been a somber man, never given to joking or teasing, but this new silence unnerved the entire Hold. Even the new baby didn’t cry.
It was bad, very bad, to lose one queen, Jaxom knew, but to lose two, in such a horrible way! It was almost as if things were pointing toward even direr events. Jaxom was scared, a deep voiceless feeling in his bones. He almost dreaded seeing Felessan. He had never shaken off his sense of blasphemy for invading the Hatching Ground, and wondered if this were his punishment. But he was a logical boy and the death of the two queens had not occurred at Ruatha, not over Fort Weyr to which Ruatha Hold was bound. He’d never met Kylara or Brekke. He did know F’nor and felt sorry for him if half what he’d heard was true—that F’nor had taken Brekke into his weyr and had abandoned his duties as a Wing-second to care for her. She was very sick. Funny, everyone was sorry for Brekke but no one mentioned Kylara, and she’d lost a queen, too.
Jaxom wondered about that but knew he couldn’t ask. Just as he couldn’t ask if he and Lytol were really going to the Hatching. Why else would the Weyrleader send them word? And wasn’t Talina a Ruathan candidate for the queen egg? Ruatha ought to be represented at the Hatching. Benden Weyr always had open Impressions, even when the other Weyrs didn’t. And he hadn’t seen Felessan in ages. Not that anyone had done much more than Thread-watch since the wedding at Telgar.
Jaxom sighed. That had been some day. He shivered, remembered how sick, cold and—yes—how scared he’d been. (Lytol said a man wasn’t afraid to admit to fear.) All the time he’d watched F’lar fighting T’ron, he’d been scared. He shuddered again, his spine rippling with reaction to that memory. Everything was going wrong on Pern. Dragon queens killing each other, Weyrleaders dueling in public, Thread falling here and there, with no rhyme or reason. Order had slipped away from life; the constants that made his routine were dissolving, and he was powerless to stop the inexorable slide. It wasn’t fair. Everything had been going so well. Everyone had been saying how Ruatha Hold had improved. Now, this past six days, they’d lost that northeastern farmhold and, if things kept up, there wouldn’t be much left of all Lytol’s hard work. Maybe that’s why he was acting so—so odd. But it wasn’t fair. Lytol had worked so hard. And now, it looked as though Jaxom was going to miss the Hatching and see who Impressed that littlest egg. It wasn’t at all fair.
“Lord Jaxom,” gasped a breathless drudge from the doorway, “Lord Lytol said for you to change to your best. The Hatching’s to start. Oh, sir, do you think Talina has a chance?”
“More than a chance,” Jaxom said, rude with excitement “She’s Ruathan-bred after all. Now get out”
His fingers were clumsy with the fastenings of his trousers and the tunic which had been new for the Telgar wedding. He hadn’t spilled on the fine fabric, but you could still see the greasy fingerprints on the right shoulder where an excited guest had pulled him away from his vantage point on the Telgar Hold steps during the fight.
He shrugged into the cloak, found the second glove under the bed and raced down into the Great Court where the blue dragon waited.
Sight of the blue, however, inevitably reminded Jaxom that Groghe’s eldest son had been given one of the fire-lizard eggs. Lytol had deliberately refused the pair to which Ruatha Hold was entitled. That, too, was a rankling injustice. Jaxom should have had a fire-lizard egg, even if Lytol couldn’t bear to Impress one. Jaxom was Lord of Ruatha and an egg had been his due. Lytol had no right to refuse him that perquisite.
“Be a good day for Ruatha if your Talina Impresses, won’t it?” D’wer, the blue’s rider, greeted him.
“Yes,” Jaxom replied, and he sounded sullen even to himself.
“Cheer up, lad,” D’wer said. “Things could be worse.”
“How?”
D’wer chuckled and, while it offended Jaxom, he couldn’t very well call a dragonman to task.
“Good morning, Trebith,” Jaxom said to the blue, who turned his head, the large eye whirling with color.
They both heard Lytol’s voice, dull-toned but clear as he gave instructions for the day’s work to the stewards.
“For every field that gets scored, we plant two more as long as we can get seed in the ground. There’s plenty of fallow land in the northeast. Move the Holders.”
“But, Lord Lytol . . .”
“Don’t give me the old wail about temporary dwellings. There’ll be temporary eating if we aren’t farsighted, and that’s harder to endure than a draught or two.”
Lytol gave Jaxom a cursory inspection and an absent good morning. The tic started in the Lord Holder’s face the moment he climbed up Trebith’s shoulder to take his seat against the neck ridges. He motioned curtly to his ward to get in front of him and then nodded to D’wer.
The blue dragonman gave a slight smile of response, as if he expected no more notice from Lytol, and suddenly they were aloft. Aloft, with Ruatha’s fire height dwindling below. And between with Jaxom holding his breath against the frightening cold. Then above Benden’s Star Stones, so close to other dragons also winging into the Weyr that Jaxom feared collision at any moment.
“How-how do they know where they are?” he asked D’wer.
The rider grinned at him. “They know. Dragons never collide.” And a shadow of memory crossed D’wer’s usually cheerful face.
Jaxom groaned. How stupid of him to make any reference to the queens’ battle.
“Lad, everything reminds us of that,” the blue rider said.
“Even the dragons are off color. But,” he continued more briskly, “the Impression will help.”
Jaxom hoped so but, pessimistically, he was sure something would go wrong today, too. Then he clutched wildly at D’wer’s riding tunic for it seemed as if they were flying straight into the rock face of the Weyr Bowl. Or worse, despite D’wer’s reassurance, right into the green dragon also veering in that direction.
But suddenly they were inside the wide mouth of the upper entrance, a dark core that led into the immense Hatching Ground. The whir of wings, a concentration of the musty scent of dragons, and then they were poised above the slightly steaming sands, in the great circle theatre with its tiers of perches for men and beasts.
Jaxom had a dizzying view of the eggs on the Hatching Ground, of the colored robes of those already assembled, and the array of dragon bodies, gleaming eyes and furled wings, the great, graceful, blue, green and brown hides. Where were the bronzes?
“They’ll bring in the candidates, Lord Jaxom. Ah, there’s the young scamp,” D’wer said, and suddenly Jaxom’s neck was jerked as Trebith backwinged to land neatly on a ledge. “Off you go.”
“Jaxom! You did come!”
And Felessan was thumping him, his clothes so new they smelled of dye and were harsh against Jaxom’s hands as he pounded his friend’
s back.
“Thanks so much for bringing him, D’wer. Good day to you, Lord Warder Lytol. The Weyrleader and the Weyrwoman said to give you their greetings and to ask you to stay to eat after Impression, if you would give them a moment of your time.”
It all came out in such a rush that the blue rider grinned. Lytol bowed in such solemn acknowledgment that Jaxom felt a surge of irritation for his stuffy guardian.
Felessan was impervious to such nuances and pulled Jaxom eagerly away from the adults. Having achieved a certain physical distance, the boy chattered away in so loud a whisper that everyone two ledges up could hear him distinctly.
“I was sure you wouldn’t be allowed to come. Everything’s been so sour and horrible since the—you know—happened.”
“Don’t you know anything, Felessan?” Jaxom said in a rebuking hiss that startled his friend into wide-eyed silence.
“Huh? What’d I do wrong?” he demanded, this time in a more circumspect tone, glancing around him apprehensively. “Don’t tell me something’s gone wrong at Ruatha Hold?”
Jaxom pulled his friend as far from Lytol as they could go on that row of seats and then sat the younger boy down so hard that Felessan let out a yip of protest which he instantly muffled behind both hands. Jaxom glanced surreptitiously back at Lytol but the man was responding to the greetings of those in the level above. People were still arriving, both by dragonwing and by a climb up the flight of stairs from the hot sands. Felessan giggled suddenly, pointing toward a portly man and woman now crossing the Hatching Ground. They obviously wore thin-soled shoes for they kept picking their feet up and putting them down in a curious mincing motion, totally at variance with their physical appearance.
“Didn’t think so many people would come what with all that’s been happening,” Felessan murmured excitedly, his eyes dancing. “Look at them!” and he pointed out three boys, all with the Nerat device on their chests. “They look as if they smelled something unpleasant. You don’t think dragons smell, do you?”
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