“He’s long dead,” his father said, not altogether pleased with his son’s choice. “Thomas is a family name,” he admitted to K’vin. “I’m Thomas, ninth of my line.”
The boy looked at his father with that curious aloofness of independence that came with being a newly paired dragonrider: sort of “You can’t tell me what to do anymore” and “This is my business, Dad, you wouldn’t understand.”
“Tiabeth and S’mon,” K’vin said, lifting the glass he’d been carrying from table to table and drinking a toast to the partners. The others made haste to repeat it. “Eat, S’mon. You’ll need every meal you get a chance to eat,” he added, and left the boy to follow that very good advice.
At each subsequent table he heard more speculation about the late arrival of Debera. There had been embellishments: one had her father bleeding to death. Another variation suggested that Debera had been the reluctant one and her family had insisted that she try to Impress, having been Searched. Young Suze had had the best seat in the Hatching Ground after all, despite having been so far from the center that she hadn’t had a good view of Impression, but a perfect one for what was happening outside. So K’vin edited the facts to keep the incident from getting out of hand. Fortunately, the music the band was playing, and the lyrics, provided a happy distraction. Most of the music was new. Clisser’s musicians had done their job very well indeed.
He avoided having his glass filled too often, and used slices of the roast wherry and beef to sop up what was required by the obligatory toasting of the new riders.
He had almost completed his circuit when he saw the Telgar holders and T’dam leading Debera in, all moving toward the head table. Salda and Tashvi rose and went to meet her halfway. She still had a dazed look on her face, and glanced, almost wildly, around the crowded cavern. Someone had given her a green gown which showed off a most womanly body, and the style of it as well as the color suited Debera. The deep clear green set off her fine complexion and a head of curling bronze-colored hair which was attractively dressed, not straggling unkempt around a sweaty distraught face. No doubt Tisha, the headwoman, had had a hand in the transformation. Zulaya had once said Tisha treated all the Weyrgirls like live dolls, dressing them up and fussing with their hair. Nor was Tisha herself childless, but her excess of maternal instinct was an asset in the Weyr.
Salda put an arm about Debera, her head inclined to the shorter girl as she chatted: evidently determined to make up for the lack of family members on what was generally a very happy occasion for holder or Crafter. Had Debera seen the last of her relatives? No matter, she was in the larger, extended family of the Weyr and could find more amiable and sympathetic replacements.
Zulaya was introducing Debera to Sarra, the sun-bleached blonde from Ista who was chatting away with such animation that Debera smiled—tentatively, K’vin thought, but with growing self-confidence.
“You got Morath to sleep all right?” he asked, joining the women.
“I thought she’d never stop eating,” Debera said, a slightly anxious frown on her face. Her green eyes, K’vin saw, were also emphasized by the color of the gown. Tisha had done her proud.
“They’re voracious,” Zulaya said, with a kind laugh. “And so am I. Come, let’s all be seated before there’s nothing left for us.”
Salda gave a good-natured snort, grinning down at Debera. “Not likely. We’ve been sending you the fatted calves for the past week in anticipation.” She turned to the girl as she passed her over to K’vin. “One thing’s sure, girl, you’ll eat higher on the hog here in Telgar than you ever did at home. And not have to cook it.”
Debera was so clearly startled by such jocularity that K’vin took her hand, guiding her to the steps up to the platform on which the head table was placed.
“I think you’ll be very happy here, Debera,” he said gently, “with Morath as your friend.”
Immediately the girl’s face softened with joy and her eyes watered. Her look of vulnerable wonder struck such a responsive chord in him that he stumbled in following her.
“Oh, and she is more than a friend,” she said, more like a prayer than a statement of fact.
“Come, sit beside me,” Zulaya said, pulling out the chair, and signaling K’vin to take the one beyond. They were not in their usual center table position, but quick eye contact with Salda and Tashvi had the holders pulling out those chairs as if such placement was normal. “Listen to that melody. How lovely . . .” she added, tilting her head as the music, not quite martial, but firm, was stopping conversation throughout the cavern.
“So are the words . . .” Salda said, eyes widening in surprise, as well as delight, at what she heard. When her husband started to say something, she hushed him.
K’vin was happy to listen, too.
Sheledon, who had insisted on using the Telgar Impression as the debut of some new music, was very pleased that conversation had trailed off and everyone was hearing what was being sung. Now was the time to spring the big one on them. As soon as the coda on what Jemmy called “Dragonlove” had finished, he held up the music to the Duty Ballad and then pointed it at his soprano spouse, Sydra, who would sing the boy soprano part. They hadn’t found a lad with a suitable voice yet, but she could whiten her voice to approximate the tone. At Sheledon’s signal, Bethany piped the haunting notes of the intro and Sydra rose to sing the opening verse.
All right, they didn’t have enough trained voices to really sock the Ballad to this audience—in his mind, Sheledon “heard” what afull chorus would sound like—but the excellent acoustics in the cavern were a big help. And the music captivated. Sydra managed to sound very young and awed . . . Gollagee came in with his fine tenor as the dragonrider, Sheledon was right on cue with his baritone part, and then, with Bethany singing alto and the Weyr’s own musicians adding their voices, they wound it all up.
There was just one split second’s total silence—the sort that makes performers rejoice—and then everyone was standing, wildly cheering, clapping, stamping their approval. Even the dragons joined in from outside, caught up in their riders’ enthusiasms. Sydra kept bowing and urging the rest of the musicians to stand and accept the accolades. Even Bethany stood, a few tears trickling down her cheek at such a unanimous reception.
They gave five encores of the Ballad—with people adding their voices to the chorus as they quickly picked up on the words. When Sheledon ruefully waved off a sixth repeat, there were calls for the “Dragonlove” song which was so appropriate for this evening.
All in all, Sheledon decided as he caught Sydra’s smiling face, a very successful debut! Jemmy had outdone himself and Clisser would be delighted. Perhaps there was something to Clisser’s notion of redesigning the educational system so less time would be wasted on unessentials and the Real Meaning of Life could be addressed sooner.
CHAPTER IV
Telgar Weyr and the College
IT WAS THE WEYRWOMAN, Zulaya, who noticed Debera’s increasing nervousness.
“Go on back to Morath, m’dear. You’re exhausted and you’ll need your sleep.”
“Thank you . . . ah . . .”
“We make no use of titles in the Weyr,” Zulaya added. “Just go. I’ve given you permission, if that’s what you were so politely waiting for.”
Debera murmured her thanks and rose, wanting to slip out as inconspicuously as possible. She’d felt so awkward and unsocial, even when everyone, even the Lord and Lady Holder, had been so incredibly kind and easy. She thought they would expect her to give an explanation of her unusual behavior, but they’d supported her instantly. Really, it was as if her real life had started the moment she and Morath had locked eyes,
It had, she decided as she made her way along the side of the cavern wall, head down so she needn’t make eye contact with anyone. She saw only smiles from folks as she passed them, smiles and courtesy. And certainly none of the lascivious behavior that her father had often said was prevalent in the Weyr.
Of course, he’d to
ld her a lot of things. And not told her others. Like the fact that an official announcement of Search, with her name on it, had been delivered to the hold so that she’d know when to come, to be available for the Hatching. No, she’d had to find that, stuffed in the cupboard where bits and pieces that could be reused were kept. No one at Balan Hold, especially her father and stepmother, Gisa, would have thrown out a whole sheet of paper that had a clean side that could be recycled. How she hated that word! Cycle, recycle. Use, reuse. The concept dominated every aspect of Balan Hold. And they were not “poor” in material possessions: not the way some holders were. But “poor” Balan Hold had been in spirit ever since her mother died.
She’d been looking for something else entirely when she found the sheet. Not that she knew the day’s date, but it was obvious that the announcement must have come sometime before, the paper being soiled and the creases well set. Maybe even weeks. She had been ready to accept Ganmar as an alternative to continued living in her father’s house. She knew that she’d have to work as hard, if not harder, setting up a new hold, chiseling it out of rock above the mine, but it would have been hers—and Ganmar’s—and something she could design to her own wishes. Not that she’d been inclined to believe any of the blithe and extravagant promises Ganmar or Boris had made her. All they wanted was a strong body with lots of hard work in it.
But she had seen many dragons in the sky the day before, most of them carrying passengers. Balan Hold was not that far from Telgar Weyr—not even by surface travel. So, the moment she’d read the message, she made her plans right then, without any wavering. She’d been Searched. She had the right to be there. No matter how life in the Weyr might be, it couldn’t be worse than what she now endured. And if she could be a dragonrider . . .
She had tucked the paper into her hip pocket and slammed the drawer shut. She was alone in the kitchen, and sun streamed in, almost as if adding light to her resolve. She didn’t even go back to the room she shared with her three half sisters. Grabbing her jacket, she made for the paddock where the riding horses were kept. There was no one about in the yard: all were at work. Assignments had been given out over breakfast, and everyone had to show their father completed chores or there’d be no lunch break until they were.
She didn’t even dare collect a saddle or bridle from the barn, because her eldest brothers were restacking hay—they’d done a sloppy job of it the first time around. She just grabbed up a leather thong. Since she’d had the most to do with the hold horses, she’d have little trouble managing any of them with just a lip rein.
Bilwil would be the fastest. She had probably three hours before the midday meal, when her absence would be noticed. By then she’d be well up the track to the Weyr.
With one look over her shoulder to see if she was being observed, Debera walked quickly—as if she were on an errand—to the paddock. Bilwil was not far from the fence that she climbed—the gate would be too near the vegetable garden where two half sisters were weeding. They loved nothing better than to report her “idling ways” to either their mother or her father. Two brothers were in the barn, the next pair out with her father in the forestry, and her stepmother in the dairy hold making cheese. Debera had been grinding wheat for flour when the cotter pin snapped. That’s what she’d been trying to find in the drawer, a nail or something to replace the cotter pin so she could continue her task. So Gisa wouldn’t miss her for a while to sound an alarm. For until flour had been made there’d be no bread, and Gisa wouldn’t want to turn that heavy stone, not pregnant as she was.
Bilwil nickered softly when she approached him and grabbed his forelock. No one had bothered to groom him last night and his coat was rough with perspiration from yesterday’s timber hauling. Maybe she should take one of the others. But Bilwil had lowered his head to accept the twist of thong around his lower jaw. She could scarcely risk chasing a better-rested, less amenable mount about the paddock, so she inserted the rein, grabbed a handful of mane, and vaulted to his back. Would she be vaulting to the back of a dragon tomorrow? She lay as flat as she could across his neck, just in case someone looked out across the paddock, and kneed him forward, toward the forest.
Just before they reached the intertwined hedging that marked the far boundary, she took one more look back at the hold buildings, its windows chiseled out of the very rock, the uneven entrance to the main living quarters, the wider one into the animal holding. Not a soul in sight.
“C’mon, Bilwil, let’s get out of here,” she’d murmured, and kicked him sharply into a trot, heading him right at the fence, a point not far from one of the tracks through the forest.
It was a good thing Bilwil liked to jump anyhow, because she’d given him only enough room to gather himself up. But he was nimbly over and had planted his left front foot, swinging left on it in response to her pull on his mouth and to her right heel as he brought his other feet down. In moments they were among the trees and quickly reached the track. Bilwil tried once to pull to the left, to go back to the hold, but she kicked him sharply and he went right. They were far enough from the hold so that his hoofsteps wouldn’t be audible—not unless someone had their ear to the ground, which was unlikely. Noses would be to the grindstones where hers no longer was. The thought made her grin, though she was not yet safe from discovery.
As soon as the track widened she set Bilwil to a canter, enjoying the one activity in which she took any pleasure.
She stopped several times, to rest her own backside as well as Bilwil’s . . . and found late berries to eat. She really ought to have snatched up the last of the breakfast cheese or even an apple or two to tide her over on the way.
It wasn’t until Debera reached the final leg of the journey up to the Telgar Weyr that she was aware of pursuit, Or at least spied three horsemen on the road. They could well be visitors, coming for the Hatching, but it was prudent to suspect the worst. Her father could be one, and possibly Boris and Ganmar the other two. She had to get to the safety of the Weyr before they caught up to her. How had they made such good time in pursuit of her? Had someone seen her, after all, and run to alert Lavel?
A long tunnel had been carved in the thinnest wall of the Telgar Crater as access for surface traffic. It was lit with glow baskets. Bilwil was tired from the last long steep climb on top of yesterday’s work. She thought she heard male voices yelling at her and kicked Bilwil into a weary trot. No matter how she used her heels on his ribs, he wouldn’t extend his stride. Then she heard the humming—as if it emanated from the walls around her. She knew what that meant. She gave a cry of despair.
After all this, she’d be too late and there wouldn’t be a dragon left for her to Impress . . . even if she had been Searched. How could she possibly go back? She wouldn’t. She knew her rights. She’d been Searched. She could stay at the Weyr until the next clutch. Anything was preferable to going back to what she’d just left. The union with Ganmar would not have been any real improvement, although she had been determined to establish a proper relationship with the young miner. He looked impressible. Her own mother had told her that there were ways of handling a man so he didn’t even know he was being managed. But Milla had died before she could impart those ways to her daughter. And Gisa, who had probably given up all thought of a second union if she had been desperate enough to partner her father, was a natural victim who enjoyed being dominated.
More hoofsteps sounded in the tunnel and, desperate to reach her objective, Debera kicked Bilwil on. The gallant animal fell into a heavy canter that jarred every bone in her body, but they made it into the Bowl.
Debera could see that not only was the Hatching Ground full of people, but also new, staggering dragonets. But as she got close enough she saw there were still a few eggs. Her pursuers were catching up. She had no need to halt Bilwil at the entrance. He stopped moving forward the moment she stopped kicking him. She slid off and raced toward the Hatching Ground just as her father, Boris, and Ganmar caught up, yelling at her to stop, to come to her senses
. . . She wrenched herself free of grasping hands . . . just in time to reach Morath. And finally came into her own.
Now, as she made her way back to the weyrling barracks, she was as tired as she had ever been in her life, and far happier! As she rattled the door in her nervousness to open it, T’dam poked his head out of the boys’ barracks next door.
“Back, are you? Well, she hasn’t moved so much as a muscle. And I don’t think you will, either, will you?”
She shook her head, too tired to speak. She opened one side of a door wide enough to accommodate wing-trailing dragonets and slipped inside, turning to close it after her, but T’dam came in as well, reaching up to turn the glowbasket open. It was well he did because Debera would have knocked into the first of the dragonet beds.
These were basically simple wooden platforms, raised half a meter above the ground, ample for dragons until they were old enough to be transferred to a permanent weyr apartment. The rider’s bed was a trundle affair to one side of the dragon’s, with storage space underneath and a deep chest at the foot.
She skirted the bed, relieved she had not awakened the occupant, and got to Morath’s, the next one in. And hers. There were several items of clothing on the chest.
“Tisha sent in some other things since you weren’t able to bring any changes with you,” T’dam said. “And a nightdress, I believe. Open the glow above the bed and then I’ll shut this one.”
When she had done so, he closed the larger one and the door behind him. As soon as he had, she examined Morath, curled tightly on her platform, wings over her eyes. Was that how dragonets slept? Wondering at the good fortune that had happened to her this day, Debera watched the sleeping dragonet as dearly as any mother observed a newborn, much wanted child. Morath’s belly still bulged with uneven lumps from all the meat she had eaten. T’dam had laughed when Debera worried that the dragonet would make herself sick with such greed.
Dragonseye Page 8
