The Dragonriders of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  Manora nodded, unsettled by Lessa’s rapid switches of mood.

  “I, then, as Weyrwoman, presumably bring this to the attention of the Weyrleader who, presumably,”—she made no attempt to moderate her derision—“acts upon it?”

  Manora nodded, her eyes perplexed.

  “Well,” Lessa said in a pleasant, light voice, “you have dutifully discharged your traditional obligation. It is up to me now to discharge mine. Right?”

  Manora regarded Lessa warily. Lessa smiled at her reassuringly.

  “You may leave it in my hands, then.”

  Manora rose slowly. Without taking her eyes from Lessa, she began to gather up her records.

  “It is said that Fort and Telgar had unusually good harvests,” she suggested, her light tone not quite masking her anxiety. “Keroon, too, in spite of that coastal flooding.”

  “Is that so?” Lessa murmured politely.

  “Yes,” Manora continued helpfully, “and the herds at Keroon and Tillek had good increase.”

  “I’m happy for them.”

  Manora shot her a measuring look, not at all assured by Lessa’s sudden affability. She finished gathering up her Records, then set them down again in a careful pile.

  “Have you noticed how K’net and his wingriders chafe at R’gul’s restrictions?” she asked, watching Lessa closely.

  “K’net?”

  “Yes. And old C’gan. Oh, his leg is still stiff, and Tagath may be more gray with age than blue, but he was of Lidith’s hatching. Her last clutch had fine beasts in it,” she remarked. “C’gan remembers other days . . .”

  “Before the world turned and times changed?”

  Lessa’s sweet voice did not mislead Manora now.

  “It is not just as Weyrwoman that you are attractive to the dragonmen, Lessa of Pern,” Manora said sharply, her face stern. “There are several of the brown riders, for instance . . .”

  “F’nor?” Lessa asked pointedly.

  Manora drew herself up proudly. “He is a man grown, Weyrwoman, and we of the Lower Caverns have learned to disregard the ties of blood and affection. It is as a brown rider, not the son I bore, that I recommend him. Yes, I’d recommend F’nor, as I would also recommend T’sum and L’rad.”

  “Do you suggest them because they are of F’lar’s wing and bred in the true traditions? Less apt to be swayed by my blandishments . . .”

  “I suggest them because they believe in the tradition that the Weyr must be supplied from the Holds.”

  “All right.” Lessa grinned at Manora, seeing the woman could not be baited about F’nor. “I shall take your recommendations to heart, for I do not intend . . .” She broke off her sentence. “Thank you for apprising me of our supply problems. We need fresh meat most of all?” she asked, rising to her feet.

  “Grains, too, and some of the southern root vegetables would be very welcome,” Manora replied formally.

  “Very well,” Lessa agreed.

  Manora left, her expression thoughtful.

  Lessa reflected for long moments on that interview, sitting like a slim statuette in the capacious stony chair, her legs curled up under her on the padding.

  Foremost was the disturbing knowledge that Manora was deeply afraid of the mere prospect of Lessa absent from the Weyr, from Ramoth’s side, for any reason, for any length of time. Her instinctive fear reaction was a far more effective argument than any of R’gul’s sententious mouthings. However, Manora had given no hint of the reason for that necessity. Very well, Lessa would not try to fly one of the other dragons, with or without the rider, as she had been beginning to think she could.

  As for this matter of short supplies, on that Lessa would act. Especially since R’gul would not. And, since R’gul could not protest what he did not know, she would contrive, with the help of K’net or F’nor or however many she needed, to keep the Weyr decently supplied. Eating regularly had become a pleasant habit she did not wish to curtail. She did not intend being greedy, but a little judicious pilfering of a bountiful harvest would go unnoticed by the Hold Lords.

  K’net, though, was young; he might be rash and indiscreet. Perhaps F’nor would be the wiser choice. But was he as free to maneuver as K’net, who was, after all, a bronze rider? Maybe C’gan. The absence of a retired blue rider, time heavy on his hands, might not be noticed at all.

  Lessa smiled to herself, but her smile faded quickly.

  “The day the Weyr has to barter for what should be given . . .” She thrust back the premonitory shudder, concentrated on the ignominy of that situation. It certainly emphasized the measure of her self-delusion.

  Why had she thought being at the Weyr would be so different from Ruath Hold? Had her early childhood training instilled such a questionless reverence for the Weyr that life must alter its pattern because Lessa of Ruatha had been Impressed by Ramoth? How could she have been such a romantic little fool?

  Look around you, Lessa of Pern, look around the Weyr with unveiled eyes. Old and hallowed is the Weyr? Yes, but shabby and worn—and disregarded. Yes, you were elated to sit in the Weyrwoman’s great chair at the Council Table, but the padding is thin and the fabric dusty. Humbled to think your hands rest where Moreta’s and Torene’s had rested? Well, the stone is ingrained with dirt and needs a good scrubbing. And your rump may rest where theirs did—but that’s not where you have your brains.

  The shabby Weyr reflected the deterioration of its purpose in the scheme of life on Pern. Those handsome dragonriders, too, so brave in their wher-hide accouterments, proud on the necks of their great beasts—they did not submit kindly to close examination without a few disappointing revelations. They were only men, with manlike lusts and ambitions, full of very human faults and frustrations, unwilling to disrupt their easy existence for the harsh exigencies that would reestablish the Weyr. They had settled too deeply in their isolation from the rest of their race; they did not realize they were little thought of. There was no real leader at their head . . .

  F’lar! What was he waiting for? For Lessa to see through R’gul’s ineffectiveness? No, Lessa decided slowly, for Ramoth to grow up. For Mnementh to fly her when he can . . . traditionalist that F’lar is, and Lessa thought this excuse to be specious . . . when the mating dragon’s rider became, traditionally, the Weyrleader. That rider!

  Well, F’lar might just find events not turning out as he planned.

  My eyes were dazzled by Ramoth’s, but I can see around the rainbow now, Lessa thought, steeling herself against the tenderness that always accompanied any thought of the golden beast. Yes, I can see into the black and gray shadows now, where my apprenticeship at Ruatha should stand me in good stead. True, there’s more to control than one small Hold and far more perceptive minds to influence. Perceptive but dense in their own way. A greater hazard if I lose. But how can I? Lessa’s smile broadened. She rubbed her palms against her thighs in anticipation of the challenge. They can do nothing with Ramoth without me, and they must have Ramoth. No one can coerce Lessa of Ruatha, and they’re as stuck with me as they were with Jora. Only, I’m no Jora!

  Elated, Lessa jumped from the chair. She felt alive again. And more powerful in herself than she felt when Ramoth was awake.

  Time, time, time. R’gul’s time. Well, Lessa had done with marking his time. She’d been a silly fool. Now she’d be the Weyrwoman F’lar had beguiled her to think she could be.

  F’lar . . . her thoughts returned to him constantly. She’d have to watch out for him. Particularly when she started “arranging” things to suit herself. But she had an advantage he couldn’t know—that she could speak to all the dragons, not just Ramoth. Even to his precious Mnementh.

  Lessa threw back her hand and laughed, the sound echoing hollowly in the large, empty Council Room. She laughed again, delighted with an exercise she had had rare occasion to use. Her mirth roused Ramoth. The exultation of her decision was replaced by that of knowing the golden dragon was waking.

  Ramoth stirred again and stretched res
tlessly as hunger pierced slumber. Lessa ran up the passage on light feet, eager as a child for the first sight of the glorious eyes and the sweetness that characterized the dragon’s personality.

  Ramoth’s huge golden wedge-shaped head swiveled around as the sleepy dragon instinctively sought her Weyrmate. Lessa quickly touched her blunt chin, and the searching head was still, comforted. The several protecting lids parted over the many-faceted eyes, and Ramoth and Lessa renewed the pledge of their mutual devotion.

  Ramoth had had those dreams again, she told Lessa, shuddering slightly. It was so cold there! Lessa caressed the soft down above her eye-ridge, soothing the dragon. Linked firmly to Ramoth as she had become, she was acutely aware of the dismay those curious sequences produced.

  Ramoth complained of an itch by the left dorsal ridge.

  “The skin is flaking again,” Lessa told her, quickly spreading sweet oil on the affected area. “You’re growing so fast,” she added with mock and tender dismay.

  Ramoth repeated that she itched abominably.

  “Either eat less so you’ll sleep less or stop outgrowing your hide overnight.”

  She chanted dutifully as she rubbed in the oil, “The dragonet must be oiled daily as the rapid growth in early development can overstretch fragile skin tissues, rendering them tender and sensitive.”

  They itch, Ramoth corrected petulantly, squirming.

  “Hush. I’m only repeating what I was taught.”

  Ramoth issued a dragon-sized snort that blew Lessa’s robe tightly around her legs.

  “Hush. Daily bathing is compulsory, and thorough oiling must accompany these ablutions. Patchy skin becomes imperfect hide in the adult dragon. Imperfect hide results in skin ruptures that may prove fatal to a flying beast.”

  Don’t stop rubbing, Ramoth entreated.

  “Flying beast indeed!”

  Ramoth informed Lessa she was so hungry. Couldn’t she bathe and oil later?

  “The moment that cavern you call a belly is full, you’re so sleepy you can barely crawl. You’ve gotten too big to be carried.”

  Ramoth’s tart rejoinder was interrupted by a low chuckle. Lessa whirled, hastily controlling the annoyance she felt at seeing F’lar lounging indolently against the archway to the ledge-corridor.

  He had obviously been flying a patrol, for he still wore the heavy wher-hide gear. The stiff tunic clung to the flat chest, outlined the long, muscular legs. His bony but handsome face was still reddened by the ultra-cold of between. His curiously amber eyes glinted with amusement and, Lessa added, conceit.

  “She grows sleek,” he commented, approaching Ramoth’s couch with a courteous bow to the young queen.

  Lessa heard Mnementh give a greeting to Ramoth from his perch on the ledge.

  Ramoth rolled her eyes coquettishly at the wing-leader. His smile of almost possessive pride in her doubled Lessa’s irritation.

  “The escort arrives in good time to bid the queen good day.”

  “Good day, Ramoth,” F’lar said obediently. He straightened, slapping his heavy gloves against his thigh.

  “We interrupted your patrol pattern?” asked Lessa, sweetly apologetic.

  “No matter. A routine flight,” F’lar replied, undaunted. He sauntered to one side of Lessa for an unimpeded view of the queen. “She’s bigger than most of the browns. There have been high seas and flooding at Telgar. And the tidal swamps at Igen are dragon-deep.” His grin flashed as if this minor disaster pleased him.

  As F’lar said nothing without purpose, Lessa filed that statement away for future reference. However irritating F’lar might be, she preferred his company to that of the other bronze riders.

  Ramoth interrupted Lessa’s reflections with a tart reminder: If she had to bathe before eating, could they get on with it before she expired from hunger?

  Lessa heard Mnementh’s amused rumble without the cavern.

  “Mnementh says we’d better humor her,” F’lar remarked indulgently.

  Lessa suppressed the desire to retort that she could perfectly well hear what Mnementh said. One day it was going to be most salutary to witness F’lar’s stunned reaction to the knowledge that she could hear and speak to every dragon in the Weyr.

  “I neglect her shockingly,” Lessa said, as if contritely.

  She saw F’lar about to answer her. He paused, his amber eyes narrowing briefly. Smiling affably, he gestured for her to lead the way.

  An inner perversity prompted Lessa to bait F’lar whenever possible. One day she would pierce that pose and flay him to the quick. It would take doing. He was sharp-witted.

  The three joined Mnementh on the ledge. He hovered protectingly over Ramoth as she glided awkwardly down to the far end of the long oval Weyr Bowl. Mist, rising from the warmed water of the small lake, parted in the sweep of Ramoth’s ungainly wings. Her growth had been so rapid that she had had no time to coordinate muscle and bulk. As F’lar set Lessa on Mnementh’s neck for the short drop, she looked anxiously after the gawky, blundering queen.

  Queens don’t fly because they can’t, Lessa told herself with bitter candor, contrasting Ramoth’s grotesque descent with Mnementh’s effortless drift.

  “Mnementh says to assure you she’ll be more graceful when she gets her full growth,” F’lar’s amused voice said in her ear.

  “But the young males are growing just as fast, and they’re not a bit . . .” She broke off. She wouldn’t admit anything to that F’lar.

  “They don’t grow as large, and they constantly practice . . .”

  “Flying! . . .” Lessa leaped on the word, and then, catching a glimpse of the bronze rider’s face, said no more. He was just as quick with a casual taunt.

  Ramoth had immersed herself and was irritably waiting to be sanded. The left dorsal ridge itched abominably. Lessa dutifully attacked the affected area with a sandy hand.

  No, her life at the Weyr was no different from that at Ruatha. She was still scrubbing. And there was more of Ramoth to scrub each day, she thought as she finally sent the golden beast into the deeper water to rinse. Ramoth wallowed, submerging to the tip of her nose. Her eyes, covered by the thin inner lid, glowed just below the surface—watery jewels. Ramoth languidly turned over, and the water lapped around Lessa’s ankles.

  All occupations were suspended when Ramoth was abroad. Lessa noticed the women clustered at the entrance to the Lower Caverns, their eyes wide with fascination. Dragons perched on their ledges or idly circled overhead. Even the weyrlings, boy and dragonet, wandered forth curiously from the fledgling barracks of the training fields.

  A dragon trumpeted unexpectedly on the heights by the Star Stone. He and his rider spiraled down.

  “Tithings, F’lar, a train in the pass,” the blue rider announced, grinning broadly until he became disappointed by the calm way his unexpected good news was received by the bronze rider.

  “F’nor will see to it,” F’lar told him indifferently. The blue dragon obediently lifted his rider to the wing-second’s ledge.

  “Who could it be?” Lessa asked F’lar. “The loyal three are in.”

  F’lar waited until he saw F’nor on brown Canth wheel up and over the protecting lip of the Weyr, followed by several green riders of the wing.

  “We’ll know soon enough,” he remarked. He turned his head thoughtfully eastward, an unpleasant smile touching the corner of his mouth briefly. Lessa, too, glanced eastward where, to the knowing eye, the faint spark of the Red Star could be seen, even though the sun was full up.

  “The loyal ones will be protected,” F’lar muttered under his breath, “when the Red Star passes.”

  How and why they two were in accord in their unpopular belief in the significance of the Red Star Lessa did not know. She only knew that she, too, recognized it as Menace. It had actually been the foremost consideration in all F’lar’s arguments that she leave Ruatha and come to the Weyr. Why he had not succumbed to the pernicious indifference that had emasculated the other dragonmen she did not know. S
he had never asked him—not out of spite, but because it was so obvious that his belief was beyond question. He knew. And she knew.

  And occasionally that knowledge must stir in the dragons. At dawn, as one, they stirred restlessly in their sleep—if they slept—or lashed their tails and spread their wings in protest if they were awake. Manora, too, seemed to believe. F’nor must. And perhaps some of F’lar’s surety had infected his wingriders. He certainly demanded implicit obedience to tradition in his riders and received it, to the point of open devotion.

  Ramoth emerged from the lake and half-flapped, half-floundered her way to the feeding grounds. Mnementh arranged himself at the edge and permitted Lessa to seat herself on his foreleg. The ground away from the Bowl rim was cold underfoot.

  Ramoth ate, complaining bitterly over the stringy bucks that made her meal and resenting it when Lessa restricted her to six.

  “Others have to eat, too, you know.”

  Ramoth informed Lessa that she was queen and had priority.

  “You’ll itch tomorrow.”

  Mnementh said she could have his share. He had eaten well of a fat buck in Keroon two days ago. Lessa regarded Mnementh with considerable interest. Was that why all the dragons in F’lar’s wing looked so smug? She must pay more attention as to who frequented the feeding grounds and how often.

  Ramoth had settled into her weyr again and was already drowsing when F’lar brought the train-captain into the quarters.

  “Weyrwoman,” F’lar said, “this messenger is from Lytol with duty to you.”

  The man, reluctantly tearing his eyes from the glowing golden queen, bowed to Lessa.

  “Tilarek, Weyrwoman, from Lytol, Warder of Ruath Hold,” he said respectfully, but his eyes, as he looked at Lessa, were so admiring as to be just short of impudence. He withdrew a message from his belt and hesitated, torn between the knowledge that women did not read and his instructions to give it to the Weyrwoman. Just as he caught F’lar’s amused reassurance, Lessa extended her hand imperiously.