Dragonseye

by Anne McCaffrey

  The meal was very good—though Iantine had to concentrate on tasting it. Most of his senses were involved in sitting thigh to thigh with Debera. She was quite volatile, talking to everyone, with a great many things to say about the various performances and the melodic lines that she particularly liked. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes very bright. He’d never seen her so elated. But then, he knew he was feeling high with an almost breathless anticipation of the dancing. He’d have her in his arms then, even closer than they were now. He could barely wait.

  He had to, for of course on First Day, ice cream, the special and traditional sweet, was available and no one would want to miss that. It was a fruit flavor this year, creamy, rich, tangy with lots of tiny fruit pieces, and he was torn between eating slowly—which meant the confection might turn sloppy since the Lower Cavern was warm indeed—or gulping it down firm and cold. He noticed that Debera ate quickly, so he did.

  As soon as the diners finished, they dismantled the tables and pushed back the chairs so there’d be space for the dancing. The musicians, reassembling in smaller units so that the dance music would be continuous, were tuning up their instruments again.

  When all was ready, K’vin led Zulaya, resplendent in the red brocade dress of her portrait, onto the floor for their traditional opening of the dance. Iantine caught himself wanting to sketch the distinguished-looking couple, but he’d hidden his pad in the pile of tables and had to content himself with storing the details in his mind. He’d never seen Zulaya flirt so with K’vin, and the Weyrleader was responding gallantly. He did notice some riders talking among themselves, their eyes on the two Leaders, but he couldn’t hear what was said, and while the glances were speculative, it wasn’t his business.

  Next the wing leaders handed their partners out on the floor for three turns before the wing seconds joined them. Then Tisha, partnered by Maranis, the Weyr medic, whirled very gracefully in among the dancers. The first dance ended but now the floor was open to everyone. The next number was a brisk two-step.

  “Will you dance with me, Debera?” Iantine asked with a formal bow.

  Eyes gleaming, head held high and smiling as if her face would split apart, Debera responded with a deep dip. “Why, I was hoping you’d ask, Iantine!”

  “I get the next one,” Leopol cried, appearing unexpectedly beside them, looking up at Debera, his eyes exceedingly bright.

  “Did you sneak some wine tonight?” Iantine asked, suspicious.

  “Who’d give me any?” Leopol replied morosely.

  “No one would give you anything you couldn’t take another way, Leo,” Debera said. “But I’ll keep you a dance. Later on.”

  And she stepped toward the floor, Iantine whisking her away from the boy as fast as he could.

  “Even for a Weyr lad, he’s precocious,” Debera said, and she held up her arms as she moved into his.

  “He is at that,” Iantine replied, but he didn’t want to talk about Leopol at all as he swung her lithe body among the dancers and eased them away to the opposite side of the floor from Leopol.

  “He’ll follow, you know, until he gets his dance,” she said, grinning up at him.

  “We’ll see about that,” and he tightened his arms possessively around her strong slender body.

  Will I dance when I’m older? Iantine clearly heard the green dragon ask.

  Startled, he looked down at Debera and saw by the laughter in her eyes that the dragon had spoken to them both.

  “Dragons don’t dance,” Debera said in her fond dragon-tone. Iantine had noticed that she had a special one for Morath.

  “They sing,” Iantine said, wondering how he was ever going to eliminate Morath from the conversation long enough to speak about them.

  She’ll listen to anything you say. Morath’s voice, so much like Debera’s, sounded in his head.

  Iantine grimaced, wondering how under the sun he could manage any sort of a private conversation with his beloved.

  I won’t listen then. Morath sounded contrite.

  “How long do you think you’ll be at Benden, Ian?” Debera asked.

  He wondered if Morath had spoken to her, too, but decided against asking, though he didn’t want to discuss his departure at all. Certainly not with Debera, the reason he desperately wanted to stay at Telgar.

  “Oh,” he said as casually as he could, “I’d want to do my best for Lord Bridgely and his Lady. They’ve been my sponsors, you see, and I owe them a lot.”

  “Do you know them well?”

  “What? Me? No, my family’s mountain holders.”

  “So were mine.”

  “Were?”

  Debera gave a wry laugh. “Don’t let’s talk about families.”

  “I’d far rather talk about us,” he said and then mentally kicked himself for such a trite response.

  Debera’s face clouded.

  “Now what did I say wrong?” He tightened his arms on her reassuringly. Her expression was so woeful.

  She’s been upset about something Tisha told the weyrlings yesterday. I know I said I wouldn’t interfere but sometimes it’s needed.

  “You didn’t,” Debera said at the same time, so he wasn’t sure who had said what, since the voices were so alike.

  “But something is troubling you?”

  She didn’t answer immediately but her hands tightened where they gripped him.

  “C’mon, now, Deb,” and he tried to jolly her a bit. “I’ll listen to anything you have to say.”

  She gave him an odd glance. “That’s just it.”

  “What is?”

  “You wanting to talk to me, dance with only me and—”

  “Ooooh,” and suddenly Iantine had a hunch. “Tisha gave all the riders that ‘don’t do anything you’ll be sorry for at Turn’s End’ lecture?” She gave him a startled look. And he grinned back at her. “I’ve been read that one a time or two myself, you know.”

  “But you don’t know,” she said, “that it’s different for dragonriders. For green riders with very immature dragons.” Then she gave him a horrified look as if she hadn’t meant to be so candid. “Oh!”

  He pulled her closer to him, even when she resisted, and chuckled. All those casual questions he’d asked dragonriders explained all that she didn’t say.

  “Green dragons are . . . how do I put it, kindly? Eager, loving, willing, too friendly for their own good . . .”

  She stared up at him, a blush suffusing her cheeks, her eyes angry and her body stiffening against the rhythm of the dance. They were about to pass an opening, one of the corridors that led back to the storage areas of the Weyr. He whirled them in that direction despite her resistance, speaking in a persuasively understanding tone.

  “You’re the rider of a young green and she’s much too young for any sexual stimulation. But I don’t think a kiss will do her any damage, and I’ve got to kiss you once before I have to go to Benden.”

  And he did so. The moment their lips touched, although she tried to resist, their mutual attraction made the contact electric. She could not have resisted responding—even to preserve Morath’s innocence.

  Finally, breathless, they separated, but not by more than enough centimeters to let air into their lungs. Her body hung almost limply against his, and only because he was leaning against the wall did Iantine have the strength to support them both.

  That’s very nice, you know.

  “Morath!” Debera jerked her body upright, though her hands clenched tightly on his neck and shoulder. “Oh . . . dear, what have I done?”

  “Not as much to her as you have to me,” Iantine said in a shaky voice. “She doesn’t sound upset or anything.”

  Debera pushed away to stare up at him—he thought she had never looked so lovely.

  “You heard Morath?”

  “Hmmm, yes.”

  “You mean, that wasn’t the first time?” She was even more startled.

  “Hmmm. She knows my name, too,” he said, plunging in with a bit of info
rmation that he knew might really distress her, but now was the time to be candid.

  Debera’s eyes widened even more and her face had paled in the glowlight of the corridor. She leaned weakly against him.

  “Oh, what do I do now?”

  He stroked her hair, relieved that she hadn’t just stormed off, leaving all his hopes in crumbs.

  “I don’t think we upset Morath with that little kiss,” he said softly.

  “Little kiss?” Her expression went blank. “I’ve never been kissed like that before in my life.”

  Iantine laughed. “Me neither. Even if you didn’t want to kiss me back.” He hugged her, knowing that the critical moment had passed. “I have to say this, Debera: I love you. I can’t get you out of my mind. Your face . . . and . . .” he added tactfully because it was also true, “. . . Morath’s decorate the margin of every sketch I draw. I’m going to miss you like . . . like you’d miss Morath.”

  She caught in her breath at even the mention of such a possibility.

  “Iantine, what can I say to that? I’m a dragonrider. You know that Morath is always first with me,” she said gently, touching his face.

  He nodded. “That’s as it should be,” he said, although he heartily wished he could be her sole and only concern.

  “I’m glad you do know that, but Ian . . . I don’t know what I feel about you, except that I did like your kiss.” Her eyes were tender and she glanced shyly away from him. “I’m even glad you did kiss me. I’ve sort of wanted to know . . .” she said with a ripple in her voice, but still shy.

  “So I can kiss you again?”

  She put her hand on his chest. “Not quite so fast, Iantine! Not quite so fast. For my sake as well as Morath’s. Because . . .” and then she blurted out the next sentence, “I know I’m going to miss you . . . almost . . . as much as I’d miss Morath. I didn’t know a rider could be so involved with another human. Not like this. And,” she increased pressure on the hand that held them apart because he wanted so to kiss her for that, “I can’t be honestly sure if it’s not because Morath rather likes you, too, and is influencing me.”

  I am not, said Morath firmly, almost indignantly.

  “She says . . .” Debera began as Iantine said, “I heard that.”

  They both laughed and the sensual tension between them eased. He made quick use of the opportunity to kiss her, lightly, to prove that he could and that he did understand about Morath. He had also actually asked as many questions about rider liaisons as discretion permitted. What he’d learned had been both reassuring and unsettling. There were more ramifications to human affairs than he had ever previously suspected. Dragonrider-human ones could get very complicated. And the green dragons being so highly strung and sexually oriented were the most complex.

  “I guess I’m lucky she talks to me at all,” Iantine said. “Look, love, I’ve said what I’ve wanted to say. I’ve heard what Morath has to say, and we can leave it there for now. I’ve got to go to Benden Hold, and Morath has to . . . mature.” He gently tightened his arms around his beloved. “If I’m welcome to come back . . . to the Weyr, I will return. Am I welcome?”

  “Yes, you are,” Debera said as Morath also confirmed it.

  “Well, then . . .” He kissed her lightly, managing to break it off before the emotion that could so easily start up again might fire. “. . . let us dance, and dance and dance. That should cause no problems, should it?”

  Of course, the words were no sooner out of his mouth than he knew that having her so close to him all evening was going to be a trial of his self-control.

  His lips tingled as he led her back, her fingers trustingly twined into his. The dance was only just ending as he put his arms around her, so they managed just one brief spin. Since he now felt far more secure, he did let Leopol partner Debera for one fast dance, lest he’d never hear the last of it from the boy. Other than that surrender, he and Debera danced together all night, cementing the bond that had begun: danced until the musicians called it a night.

  He was going to hate to be parted from her, more now because they did have an understanding—of sorts—but there was no help for it. He had the duty to Benden Hold.

  CHAPTER XV

  New Year 258 After Landing; College,

  Benden Hold, Telgar Weyr

  ON THE FIRST OFFICIAL DAY of the new year, 258 AL, Clisser had a chance to review the four days of Turn’s End. Frantic at times, certainly hectic despite the most careful plans and the wealth of experience, the main performances—the First Day “Landing Suite,” and Second Day Teaching Songs and Ballads—had gone very well: far better than he had anticipated given the scanty rehearsals available for some of the performers. Fort’s tenor, for instance, had been a bit ragged in his big solo: he really should have held that final note the full measure. Sheledon glowered from the woodwind section: he’d’ve sung the part himself but he hadn’t the voice for it. But then, the only solos that Sheledon wouldn’t find fault with would be Sydra’s, and she never failed to give a splendid performance. Bethany’s flute obbligatos had been remarkable, matching Sydra’s voice to perfection.

  Paulin had been on his feet time after time, applauding the soloists and, at the finale, surreptitiously brushing a tear from his eye. Even old S’nan looked pleased, also fatuous, but on the whole Clisser was relieved at the reception. He hoped the two performances had been popular elsewhere on the continent. A great deal of work had been put into rehearsals from folks who had little spare time as it was.

  The Teaching Songs and Ballads had been just as well received, with people going about humming some of the tunes. Which was exactly what the composers had hoped for. Fortunately, honors were even between Jemmy and Sheledon for catchy tunes. He caught himself humming the Duty Song chorus. That had gone particularly well. He wouldn’t have to deal with a laborious copying of the Charter once youngsters learned those words by heart. It certainly fit the bill. Copies of all the new songs were being made by the teachers themselves, who would then require their students to transcribe them, and that saved a lot of effort for his College.

  Really, a printing press of some kind must be put high on the list of Kalvi’s engineering staff. They’d managed quite a few small motor-driven, solar panel gadgets, why not a printing press? But that required paper, and the forests were going to be vulnerable for the next fifty years no matter how assiduous the Weyrs were in their protective umbrella.

  One tangle of Thread could destroy acres of trees in the time it took to get a groundcrew to the affected area.

  He sighed. If only the organics plastic machinery were still operating . . . but the one unit housed in the Fort storage had rusted in the same flooding that had ruined so much else.

  “’Ours not to wonder what were fair in life,’ ” he quoted to himself, “which is a saying I should get printed out to remind me that we’ve got what we’ve got and have to make do.”

  He couldn’t help but feel somewhat depressed, though. There had been some high moments these last few days and it was hard to resume normal routine. Not every one in the teaching staff was back, though all should have checked in by late evening. He’d hear then how the performances went elsewhere. He’d have to wait to learn how the new curriculum was working. By springtime he’d know what fine tuning would be needed. He could count on Sallisha for that, he was sure. By springtime Thread would fall and the easy pace they had all enjoyed would be a memory.

  Ah, that was what he had to do. He’d put it off long enough—write up the roster for groundcrews drafted from students over fifteen and teachers. He’d promised that to Lord Paulin and, what with everything else, never produced it. He pulled a fresh sheet of paper from the drawer, then stopped, put it back, and picked up a sheet from the reuse pile. A clean side was all he needed. Mustn’t waste or he’d want soon enough.

  Lady Jane herself led Iantine to his quarters, asking all the gracious questions a hostess did: Where had he been for Turn’s End? Had he enjoyed himself? Had he had the opp
ortunity to hear the splendid new music from the College? What instrument did he play? What did he hear from his parents? He answered as well as he could, amazed at the difference between his reception here and the one he’d had at Bitra. Lady Jane was a fluttery sort of woman, not at all what he would have expected as the spouse of a man like Bridgely. She must be extremely efficient under all that flutter, he thought, contrasting the grace, order, and appearance of the public rooms with those at Bitra, and seeing a vast difference between the two.

  No low-level living for him here, either. Lady Jane led him onto the family’s floor, urging the two drudges who were carrying the canvases and skybroom wood panels to mind their steps and not damage their burdens.

  She opened the door, presenting him with the key, and he was bemused as he followed her into a large dayroom, at least ten times larger than the cubicle at Bitra, on the outside of the hold so that it had a wide, tall window, facing northeast. It was a gracious room, too, the stone walls washed a delicate greeny-white, the furnishings well-polished wood with a pleasing geometric pattern in greens and beige on the coverings.

  “I do know that Artists prefer a north light, but this is the best we can do for you on that score . . .” Benden’s Lady fluttered her hands here and there. They were graceful, small hands, with only the wide band of a spousal ring on the appropriate finger. Another contrast to the Bitran tendency to many gaudy jewels.

  “It’s far more than I expected, Lady Jane,” he said as sincerely as he could.

  “And I’m sure it’s far more than you had at Bitra Hold,” she said with a contemptuous sniff. “Or so I’ve been told. You may be sure that Benden Hold would never place an Artist of your rank and ability with the drudges. Bitrans may lay claim,” and her tone expressed her doubt, “to having a proper Bloodline, but they have never shown much couth!” She noticed him testing the sturdiness of the easel. “That’s from stores. It belonged to Lesnour. D’you know his work?”