The Dragonriders of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  As he saw the Lords dismount, F’lar told Mnementh to pass the word to land the first three ranks. Like a great wave, the dragons obediently settled to the ground, furling their wings with an enormous rustling sigh.

  Mnementh told F’lar that the dragons were excited and pleased. This was much more fun than Games.

  F’lar told Mnementh sternly that this was not fun at all.

  “Larad of Telgar,” the foremost man introduced himself, his voice crisp, his manner soldierly and confident for one relatively young.

  “Meron of Nabol.”

  F’lar immediately recognized the swarthy face with the sharp features and restless eyes. A mean and provocative fighter.

  Mnementh relayed F’lar an unusual message from the Weyr. F’lar nodded imperceptibly and continued to acknowledge introductions.

  “I have been appointed spokesman,” Larad of Telgar began. “The Holder Lords unanimously agree that the Weyr has outlived its function. Consequently demands from the Weyr are out of order. There are to be no more Searches among our Holds. No more raiding on the herds and barns of any Hold by any dragonfolk.”

  F’lar gave him courteous attention. Larad was well-spoken and succinct. F’lar nodded. He looked at each of the Lords before him carefully, getting their measure. Their stern faces expressed their conviction and righteous indignation.

  “As Weyrleader, I, F’lar, Mnementh’s rider, answer you. Your complaint is heard. Now listen to what the Weyrleader commands.” His casual pose was gone. Mnementh rumbled a menacing counterpoint to his rider’s voice as it rang harshly metallic across the plateau, the words carried clearly back so that even the mob heard him.

  “You will turn and go back to your Holds. You will then go into your barns and among your herds. You will make a just and equable tithe. This will be on its way to the Weyr within three days of your return.”

  “The Weyrleader is ordering the Lords to tithe?” Meron of Nabol’s derisive laugh rang out.

  F’lar signaled, and two more wings of dragonmen appeared to hover over the Nabolese contingent.

  “The Weyrleader gives orders to the Lords to tithe,” F’lar affirmed. “And until such time as the Lords do send their tithings, we regret that the ladies of Nabol, Telgar, Fort, Igen, Keroon must make their homes with us. Also, the ladies of Hold Balan, Hold Gar, Hold . . .”

  He paused, for the Lords were muttering angrily and excitedly among themselves as they heard this list of hostages. F’lar gave Mnementh a quick message to relay.

  “Your bluff won’t work,” Meron sneered, stepping forward, his hand on his sword hilt. Raiding among the herds could be credited; it had happened. But the Holds were sacrosanct! They’d not dare—

  F’lar asked Mnementh to pass the signal, and T’sum’s wing appeared. Each rider held a Lady on the neck of his dragon. T’sum held his group aloft but close enough so the Lords could identify each scared or hysterical woman.

  Meron’s face contorted with shock and new hatred.

  Larad stepped forward, tearing his eyes from his own Lady. She was a new wife to him and much beloved. It was small consolation that she neither wept nor fainted, being a quiet and brave little person.

  “You have the advantage of us,” Larad admitted bleakly. “We will retire and send the tithe.” He was about to wheel when Meron pushed forward, his face wild.

  “We tamely submit to their demands? Who is a dragonman to order us?”

  “Shut up,” Larad ordered, grabbing the Nabolese’s arm.

  F’lar raised his arm in an imperious signal. A wing of blues appeared, carrying Meron’s would-be mountaineers, some bearing evidence of their struggle with the southern face of Benden Peak.

  “Dragonmen do order. And nothing escapes their notice.” F’lar’s voice rang out coldly.

  “You will retire to your Holds. You will send proper tithing because we shall know if you do not. You will then proceed, under pain of firestone, to clear your habitations of green, croft and Hold alike. Good Telgar, look to that southern outer Hold of yours. The exposure is acutely vulnerable. Clear all firepits on ridge defenses. You’ve let them become fouled. The mines are to be reopened and firestone stockpiled.”

  “Tithes, yes, but the rest . . .” Larad interrupted.

  F’lar’s arm shot skyward.

  “Look up, Lord. Look well. The Red Star pulses by day as well as night. The mountains beyond Ista steam and spout flaming rock. The seas rage in high tides and flood the coast. Have you all forgotten the Sagas and Ballads? As you’ve forgotten the abilities of dragons? Can you dismiss these portents that always presage the coming of Threads?”

  Meron would never believe until he saw the silver Threads streaking across the skies. But Larad and many of the others, F’lar knew, now did.

  “And the queen,” he continued, “has risen to mate in her second year. Risen to mate and flown high and far.”

  The heads of all before him jerked upward. Their eyes were wide. Meron, too, looked startled. F’lar heard R’gul gasp behind him, yet he dared not look, himself, lest it be a trick.

  Suddenly, on the periphery of his vision, he caught the glint of gold in the sky.

  Mnementh, he snapped, and Mnementh merely rumbled happily. The queen wheeled into view just then, a brave and glowing sight, F’lar grudgingly admitted.

  Dressed in flowing white, Lessa was distinctly visible on the curved golden neck. Ramoth hovered, her wing-span greater than even Mnementh’s as she vaned idly. From the way she arched her neck, it was obvious that Ramoth was in good and playful spirits, but F’lar was furious.

  The spectacle of the queen aloft had quite an effect on all beholders. F’lar was aware of its impact on himself and saw it reflected in the faces of the incredulous Holders, knew it from the way the dragons hummed, heard it from Mnementh.

  “And, of course, our greatest Weyrwomen—Moreta, Torene, to name only a few—have all come from Ruath Hold, as does Lessa of Pern.”

  “Ruatha . . .” Meron grated out the name, clenched his jaw sullenly, his face bleak.

  “Threads are coming?” asked Larad.

  F’lar nodded slowly. “Your harper can reinstruct you on the signs. Good Lords, the tithe is required. Your women will be returned. The Holds are to be put in order. The Weyr prepares Pern, as the Weyr is pledged to protect Pern. Your cooperation is expected—” he paused significantly—“and will be enforced.”

  With that, he vaulted to Mnementh’s neck, keeping the queen always in sight. He saw her golden wings beat as the dragon turned and soared upward.

  It was infuriating of Lessa to take this moment, when all his energy and attention ought to go to settling the Holders’ grievance for a show of rebellion. Why did she have to flaunt her independence so, in full sight of the entire Weyr and all the Lords? He longed to chase immediately after her and could not. Not until he had seen the army in actual retreat, not until he had signaled for the final show of Weyr strength for the Holders’ elucidation.

  Gritting his teeth, he signaled Mnementh aloft. The wings rose behind him with spectacular trumpetings and dartings so that there appeared to be thousands of dragons in the air instead of the scant two hundred Benden Weyr boasted.

  Assured that that part of his strategy was proceeding in order, he bade Mnementh fly after the Weyrwoman, who was now dipping and gliding high above the Weyr.

  When he got his hands on that girl, he would tell her a thing or two . . . .

  Mnementh informed him caustically that telling her a thing or two might be a very good idea. Much better than flying so vengefully after a pair who were only trying their wings out. Mnementh reminded his irate rider that, after all, the golden dragon had flown far and wide yesterday, having blooded four, but had not eaten since. She’d be neither capable of nor interested in any protracted flying until she had eaten fully. However, if F’lar insisted on this ill-considered and completely unnecessary pursuit, he might just antagonize Ramoth into jumping between to escape him.

 
The very thought of that untutored pair going between cooled F’lar instantly. Controlling himself, he realized that Mnementh’s judgment was more reliable than his at the moment. He’d let anger and anxiety influence his decisions, but . . .

  Mnementh circled in to land at the Star Stone, the tip of Benden Peak being a fine vantage point from which F’lar could observe both the decamping army and the queen.

  Mnementh’s great eyes gave the appearance of whirling as the dragon adjusted his vision to its farthest reach.

  He reported to F’lar that Piyanth’s rider felt the dragons’ supervision of the retreat was causing hysteria among the men and beasts. Injuries were occurring in the resultant stampedes.

  F’lar immediately ordered K’net to assume surveillance altitude until the army camped for the night. He was to keep close watch on the Nabolese contingent at all times, however.

  Even as F’lar had Mnementh relay these orders, he realized his mind had dismissed the matter. All his attention was really on that high-flying pair.

  You had better teach her to fly between, Mnementh remarked, one great eye shining directly over F’lar’s shoulder. She’s quick enough to figure it out for herself, and then where are we?

  F’lar let the sharp retort die on his lips as he watched, breathless. Ramoth suddenly folded her wings, a golden streak diving through the sky. Effortlessly she pulled out at the critical point and soared upward again.

  Mnementh deliberately called to mind their first wildly acrobatic flight. A tender smile crossed F’lar’s face, and suddenly he knew how much Lessa must have longed to fly, how bitter it must have been for her to watch the dragonets practice when she was forbidden to try.

  Well, he was no R’gul, torn by indecision and doubt.

  And she is no Jora, Mnementh reminded him pungently. I’m calling them in, the dragon added. Ramoth has turned a dull orange.

  F’lar watched as the flyers obediently began a downward glide, the queen’s wings arching and curving as she slowed her tremendous forward speed. Unfed or not, she could fly!

  He mounted Mnementh, waving them on, down toward the feeding grounds. He caught a fleeting glimpse of Lessa, her face vivid with elation and rebellion.

  Ramoth landed, and Lessa dropped to the ground, gesturing the dragon on to eat.

  The girl turned then, watching Mnementh glide in and hover to let F’lar dismount. She straightened her shoulders, her chin lifted belligerently as her slender body gathered itself to face his censure. Her behavior was like that of any weyrling, anticipating punishment and determined to endure it, soundless. She was not the least bit repentant!

  Admiration for this indomitable personality replaced the last trace of F’lar’s anger. He smiled as he closed the distance between them.

  Startled by his completely unexpected behavior, she took a half-step backward.

  “Queens can, too, fly,” she blurted out, daring him.

  His grin broadening to suffuse his face, he put his hands on her shoulders and gave her an affectionate shake.

  “Of course they can fly,” he assured her, his voice full of pride and respect. “That’s why they have wings!”

  PART III

  Dust Fall

  The Finger points

  At an Eye blood-red.

  Alert the Weyrs

  To sear the Thread.

  “You still doubt, R’gul?” F’lar asked, appearing slightly amused by the older bronze rider’s perversity.

  R’gul, his handsome features stubbornly set, made no reply to the Weyrleader’s taunt. He ground his teeth together as if he could grind away F’lar’s authority over him.

  “There have been no Threads in Pern’s skies for over four hundred Turns. There are no more!”

  “There is always that possibility,” F’lar conceded amiably. There was not, however, the slightest trace of tolerance in his amber eyes. Nor the slightest hint of compromise in his manner.

  He was more like F’lon, his sire, R’gul decided, than a son had any right to be. Always so sure of himself, always slightly contemptuous of what others did and thought. Arrogant, that’s what F’lar was. Impertinent, too, and underhanded in the matter of that young Weyrwoman. Why, R’gul had trained her up to be one of the finest Weyrwomen in many Turns. Before he’d finished her instruction, she’d known all the Teaching Ballads and Sagas letter-perfect. And then the silly child had turned to F’lar. Didn’t have sense enough to appreciate the merits of an older, more experienced man. Undoubtedly she felt a first obligation to F’lar for discovering her on Search.

  “You do, however,” F’lar was saying, “admit that when the sun hits the Finger Rock at the moment of dawn, winter solstice has been reached?”

  “Any fool knows that’s what the Finger Rock is for,” R’gul grunted.

  “Then why don’t you, you old fool, admit that the Eye Rock was placed on Star Stone to bracket the Red Star when it’s about to make a Pass?” burst out K’net.

  R’gul flushed, half-starting out of his chair, ready to take the young sprout to task for such insolence.

  “K’net!” F’lar’s voice cracked authoritatively. “Do you really like flying the Igen patrol so much you want another few weeks at it?”

  K’net hurriedly seated himself, flushing at the reprimand and the threat.

  “There is, you know, R’gul, incontrovertible evidence to support my conclusions,” F’lar went on with deceptive mildness. ‘The Finger points/At an Eye blood-red . . .’ ”

  “Don’t quote me verses I taught you as a weyrling,” R’gul exclaimed heatedly.

  “Then have faith in what you taught,” F’lar snapped back, his amber eyes flashing dangerously.

  R’gul, stunned by the unexpected forcefulness, sank back into his chair.

  “You cannot deny, R’gul,” F’lar continued quietly, “that no less than half an hour ago the sun balanced on the Finger’s tip at dawn and the Red Star was squarely framed by the Eye Rock.”

  The other dragonriders, bronze as well as brown, murmured and nodded their agreement to that phenomenon. There was also an undercurrent of resentment for R’gul’s continual contest of F’lar’s policies as the new Weyrleader. Even old S’lel, once R’gul’s avowed supporter, was following the majority.

  “There have been no Threads in four hundred Turns. There are no Threads,” R’gul muttered.

  “Then, my fellow dragonman,” F’lar said cheerfully, “all you have taught is falsehood. The dragons are, as the Lords of the Holds wish to believe, parasites on the economy of Pern, anachronisms. And so are we.

  “Therefore, far be it from me to hold you here against the dictates of your conscience. You have my permission to leave the Weyr and take up residence where you will.”

  Someone laughed.

  R’gul was too stunned by F’lar’s ultimatum to take offense at the ridicule. Leave the Weyr? Was the man mad? Where would he go? The Weyr had been his life. He had been bred up to it for generations. All his male ancestors had been dragonriders. Not all bronze, true, but a decent percentage. His own dam’s sire had been a Weyrleader just as he, R’gul, had been until F’lar’s Mnementh had flown the new queen.

  But dragonmen never left the Weyr. Well, they did if they were negligent enough to lose their dragons, like that Lytol fellow at Ruath Hold. And how could he leave the Weyr with a dragon?

  What did F’lar want of him? Was it not enough that he was Weyrleader now in R’gul’s stead? Wasn’t F’lar’s pride sufficiently swollen by having bluffed the Lords of Pern into disbanding their army when they were all set to coerce the Weyr and dragonmen? Must F’lar dominate every dragonman, body and will, too? He stared a long moment, incredulous.

  “I do not believe we are parasites,” F’lar said, breaking the silence with a soft, persuasive voice. “Nor anachronistic. There have been long Intervals before. The Red Star does not always pass close enough to drop Threads on Pern. Which is why our ingenious ancestors thought to position the Eye Rock and the Finger Rock as th
ey did . . . to confirm when a Pass will be made. And another thing”—his face turned grave—“there have been other times when dragonkind has all but died out . . . and Pern with it because of skeptics like you.” F’lar smiled and relaxed indolently in his chair. “I prefer not to be recorded as a skeptic. How shall we record you, R’gul?”

  The Council Room was tense. R’gul was aware of someone breathing harshly and realized it was himself. He looked at the adamant face of the young Weyrleader and knew that the threat was not empty. He would either concede to F’lar’s authority completely, though concession rankled deeply, or leave the Weyr.

  And where could he go, unless to one of the other Weyrs, deserted for hundreds of Turns? And—R’gul’s thoughts were savage—wasn’t that indication enough of the cessation of Threads? Five empty Weyrs? No, by the Egg of Faranth, he would practice some of F’lar’s own brand of deceit and bide his time. When all Pern turned on the arrogant fool, he, R’gul, would be there to salvage something from the ruins.

  “A dragonman stays in his Weyr,” R’gul said with what dignity he could muster.

  “And accepts the policies of the current Weyrleader?” The tone of F’lar’s voice made it less of a question and more of an order.

  So as not to perjure himself, R’gul gave a curt nod of his head. F’lar continued to stare at him and R’gul wondered if the man could read his thoughts as his dragon might. He managed to return the gaze calmly. His turn would come. He’d wait.

  Apparently accepting the capitulation, F’lar stood up and crisply delegated patrol assignments for the day.

  “T’bor, you’re weather-watch. Keep an eye on those tithing trains as you do. Have you the morning’s report?”

  “Weather is fair at dawning . . . all across Telgar and Keroon . . . if all too cold,” T’bor said with a wry grin. “Tithing trains have good hard roads, though, so they ought to be here soon.” His eyes twinkled with anticipation of the feasting that would follow the supplies’ arrival—a mood shared by all, to judge by the expressions around the table.