The Dragonriders of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  F’lar nodded. “S’lan and D’nol, you are to continue an adroit Search for likely boys. They should be striplings, if possible, but do not pass over anyone suspected of talent. It’s all well and good to present, for Impression, boys reared up in the Weyr traditions.” F’lar gave a one-sided smile. “But there are not enough in the Lower Caverns. We, too, have been behind in begetting. Anyway, dragons reach full growth faster than their riders. We must have more young men to Impress when Ramoth hatches. Take the southern holds, Ista, Nerat, Fort, and South Boll where maturity comes earlier. You can use the guise of inspecting Holds for greenery to talk to the boys. And take along firestone and run a few flaming passes on those heights that haven’t been scoured in—oh—dragon’s years. A flaming beast impresses the young and arouses envy.”

  F’lar deliberately looked at R’gul to see the ex-Weyrleader’s reaction to the order. R’gul had been dead set against going outside the Weyr for more candidates. In the first place, R’gul had argued that there were eighteen youngsters in the Lower Caverns, some quite young, to be sure, but R’gul would not admit that Ramoth would lay more than the dozen Nemorth had always dropped. In the second place, R’gul persisted in wanting to avoid any action that might antagonize the Lords.

  R’gul made no overt protest, and F’lar went on.

  “K’net, back to the mines. I want the dispositions of each firestone-dump checked and quantities available, R’gul, continue drilling recognition points with the weyrlings. They must be positive about their references. If they’re used as messengers and suppliers, they may be sent out quickly and with no time to ask questions.

  “F’nor, T’sum”—F’lar turned to his own brown riders—“you’re clean-up squad today.” He allowed himself a grin at their dismay. “Try Ista Weyr. Clear the Hatching Cavern and enough Weyrs for a double wing. And, F’nor, don’t leave a single Record behind. They’re worth preserving.

  “That will be all, dragonmen. Good flying.” And with that, F’lar rose and strode from the Council Room up to the queen’s weyr.

  Ramoth still slept, her hide gleaming with health, its color deepening to a shade of gold closer to bronze, indicating her pregnancy. As he passed her, the tip of her long tail twitched slightly.

  All the dragons were restless these days, F’lar reflected. Yet when he asked Mnementh, the bronze dragon could give no reason. He woke, he went back to sleep. That was all. F’lar couldn’t ask a leading question for that would defeat his purpose. He had to remain discontented with the vague fact that the restlessness was some kind of instinctive reaction.

  Lessa was not in the sleeping room, nor was she still bathing. F’lar snorted. That girl was going to scrub her hide off with this constant bathing. She’d had to live grimy to protect herself in Ruath Hold, but bathing twice a day? He was beginning to wonder if this might be a subtle Lessa-variety insult to him personally. F’lar sighed. That girl. Would she never turn to him of her own accord? Would he ever touch that elusive inner core of Lessa? She had more warmth for his half brother, F’nor, and for K’net, the youngest of the bronze riders than she had for F’lar who shared her bed.

  He pulled the curtain back into place, irritated. Where had she gone to today when, for the first time in weeks, he had been able to get all the wings out of the Weyr just so he could teach her to fly between?

  Ramoth would soon be too egg-heavy for such activity. He had promised the Weyrwoman, and he meant to keep that promise. She had taken to wearing the wherhide riding gear as a flagrant reminder of his unfulfilled pledge. From certain remarks she had dropped, he knew she would not wait much longer for his aid. That she should try it on her own didn’t suit him at all.

  He crossed the queen’s weyr again and peered down the passage that led to the Records Room. She was often to be found there, poring over the musty skins. And that was one more matter that needed urgent consideration. Those Records were deteriorating past legibility. Curiously enough, earlier ones were still in good condition and readable. Another technique forgotten.

  That girl! He brushed his thick forelock of hair back from his brow in a gesture habitual to him when he was annoyed or worried. The passage was dark, which meant she could not be below in the Records Room.

  “Mnementh,” he called silently to his bronze dragon, sunning on the ledge outside the queen’s weyr. “What is that girl doing?”

  Lessa, the dragon replied, stressing the Weyrwoman’s name with pointed courtesy, is talking to Manora. She’s dressed for riding, he added after a slight pause.

  F’lar thanked the bronze sarcastically and strode down the passage to the entrance. As he turned the last bend, he all but ran Lessa down.

  You hadn’t asked me where she was, Mnementh plaintively answered F’lar’s blistering reprimand.

  Lessa rocked back on her heels from the force of their encounter. She glared up at him, her lips thin with displeasure, her eyes flashing.

  “Why didn’t I have the opportunity of seeing the Red Star through the Eye Rock?” she demanded in a hard, angry voice.

  F’lar pulled at his hair. Lessa at her most difficult would complete the list of this morning’s trials.

  “Too many to accommodate as it was on the Peak,” he muttered, determined not to let her irritate him today. “And you already believe.”

  “I’d’ve liked to see it,” she snapped and pushed past him toward the weyr. “If only in my capacity as Weyrwoman and Recorder.”

  He caught her arm and felt her body tense. He set his teeth, wishing, as he had a hundred times since Ramoth rose in her first mating flight, that Lessa had not been virgin, too. He had not thought to control his dragon-incited emotions, and Lessa’s first sexual experience had been violent. It had surprised him to be first, considering that her adolescent years had been spent drudging for lascivious warders and soldier-types. Evidently no one had bothered to penetrate the curtain of rags and the coat of filth she had carefully maintained as a disguise. He had been a considerate and gentle bedmate ever since, but, unless Ramoth and Mnementh were involved, he might as well call it rape.

  Yet he knew someday, somehow, he would coax her into responding wholeheartedly to his lovemaking. He had a certain pride in his skill, and he was in a position to persevere.

  Now he took a deep breath and released her arm slowly.

  “How fortunate you’re wearing riding gear. As soon as the wings have cleared out and Ramoth wakes, I shall teach you to fly between.”

  The gleam of excitement in her eyes was evident even in the dimly lit passageway. He heard her inhale sharply.

  “Can’t put it off too much longer or Ramoth’ll be in no shape to fly at all,” he continued amiably.

  “You mean it?” Her voice was low and breathless, its usual acid edge missing. “You will teach us today?” He wished he could see her face clearly.

  Once or twice he had caught an unguarded expression on her face, loving and tender. He would give much to have that look turned on him. However, he admitted wryly to himself, he ought to be glad that melting regard was directed only at Ramoth and not at another human.

  “Yes, my dear Weyrwoman, I mean it. I will teach you to fly between today. If only,” and he bowed to her with a flourish, “to keep you from trying it yourself.”

  Her low chuckle informed him his taunt was well-aimed.

  “Right now, however,” he said, indicating for her to lead the way back to the weyr, “I could do with some food. We were up before the kitchen.”

  They had entered the well-lighted weyr, so he did not miss the trenchant look she shot him over her shoulder. She would not so easily forgive being left out of the group at the Star Stone this morning, certainly not with the bribe of flying between.

  How different this inner room was now that Lessa was Weyrwoman, F’lar mused as Lessa called down the service shaft for food. During Jora’s incompetent tenure as Weyrwoman, the sleeping quarters had been crowded with junk, unwashed apparel, uncleared dishes. The state of the Weyr and th
e reduced number of dragons were as much Jora’s fault as R’gul’s, for she had indirectly encouraged sloth, negligence, and gluttony.

  If he, F’lar, had been just a few years older when F’lon, his father, had died . . . Jora had been disgusting, but when dragons rose in mating flight, the condition of your partner counted for nothing.

  Lessa took a tray of bread and cheese, and mugs of the stimulating klah from the platform. She served him deftly.

  “You’d not eaten, either?” he asked.

  She shook her head vigorously, the braid into which she had plaited her thick, fine dark hair bobbing across her shoulders. The hairdressing was too severe for her narrow face, but it did not, if that was her intention, disguise her femininity or the curious beauty of her delicate features. Again F’lar wondered that such a slight body contained so much shrewd intelligence and resourceful . . . cunning—yes, that was the word, cunning. F’lar did not make the mistake, as others had, of underestimating her abilities.

  “Manora called me to witness the birth of Kylara’s child.”

  F’lar maintained an expression of polite interest. He knew perfectly well that Lessa suspected the child was his, and it could have been, he admitted privately, but he doubted it. Kylara had been one of the ten candidates from the same Search three years ago which had discovered Lessa. Like others who survived Impression, Kylara had found certain aspects of Weyr life exactly suited to her temperament. She had gone from one rider’s weyr to another’s. She had even seduced F’lar—not at all against his will, to be sure. Now that he was Weyrleader, he found it wiser to ignore her efforts to continue the relationship. T’bor had taken her in hand and had had his hands full until he retired her to the Lower Caverns, well advanced in pregnancy.

  Aside from having the amorous tendencies of a green dragon, Kylara was quick and ambitious. She would make a strong Weyrwoman, so F’lar had charged Manora and Lessa with the job of planting the notion in Kylara’s mind. In the capacity of Weyrwoman . . . of another Weyr . . . her intense drives would be used to Pern’s advantage. She had not learned the severe lessons of restraint and patience that Lessa had, and she didn’t have Lessa’s devious mind. Fortunately she was in considerable awe of Lessa, and F’lar suspected that Lessa was subtly influencing this attitude. In Kylara’s case, F’lar preferred not to object to Lessa’s meddling.

  “A fine son,” Lessa was saying.

  F’lar sipped his klah. She was not going to get him to admit any responsibility.

  After a long pause Lessa added, “She has named him T’kil.”

  F’lar suppressed a grin at Lessa’s failure to get a rise from him.

  “Discreet of her.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes,” F’lar replied blandly. “T’lar might be confusing if she took the second half of her name as is customary. ‘T’kil’ however, still indicates sire as well as dam.”

  “While I was waiting for Council to end,” Lessa said after clearing her throat, “Manora and I checked the supply caverns. The tithing trains, which the Holds have been so gracious as to send us”—her voice was sharp—“are due within the week. There will shortly be bread fit to eat,” she added, wrinkling her nose at the crumbling gray pastry she was attempting to spread with cheese.

  “A nice change,” F’lar agreed.

  She paused.

  “The Red Star performed its scheduled antic?”

  He nodded.

  “And R’gul’s doubts have been wiped away in the enlightening red glow?”

  “Not at all.” F’lar grinned back at her, ignoring her sarcasm. “Not at all, but he will not be so vocal in his criticism.”

  She swallowed quickly so she could speak. “You’d do well to cut out his criticism,” she said ruthlessly, gesturing with her knife as if plunging it into a man’s heart. “He is never going to accept your authority with good grace.”

  “We need every bronze rider . . . there are only seven, you know,” he reminded her pointedly. “R’gul’s a good wingleader. He’ll settle down when the Threads fall. He needs proof to lay his doubts aside.”

  “And the Red Star in the Eye Rock is not proof?” Lessa’s expressive eyes were wide.

  F’lar was privately of Lessa’s opinion—that it might be wiser to remove R’gul’s stubborn contentiousness. But he could not sacrifice a wingleader, needing every dragon and rider as badly as he did.

  “I don’t trust him,” she added darkly. She sipped at her hot drink, her gray eyes dark over the rim of her mug. As if, F’lar mused, she didn’t trust him, either.

  And she didn’t, past a certain point. She had made that plain, and, in honesty, he couldn’t blame her. She did recognize that every action F’lar took was toward one end . . . the safety and preservation of dragonkind and weyrfolk and consequently the safety and preservation of Pern. To effect that end, he needed her full cooperation. When Weyr business or dragonlore were discussed, she suspended the antipathy he knew she felt for him. In conferences she supported him wholeheartedly and persuasively, but always he suspected the double edge to her comments and saw a speculative, suspicious look in her eyes. He needed not only her tolerance but her empathy.

  “Tell me,” she said after a long silence, “did the sun touch the Finger Rock before the Red Star was bracketed in the Eye Rock or after?”

  “Matter of fact, I’m not sure, as I did not see it myself . . . the concurrence lasts only a few moments but the two are supposed to be simultaneous.”

  She frowned at him sourly. “Whom did you waste it on? R’gul?” She was provoked, her angry eyes looked everywhere but at him.

  “I am Weyrleader,” he informed her curtly. She was unreasonable.

  She awarded him one long, hard look before she bent to finish her meal. She ate very little, quickly and neatly. Compared to Jora, she didn’t eat enough in the course of an entire day to nourish a sick child. But then, there was no point in ever comparing Lessa to Jora.

  He finished his own breakfast, absently piling the mugs together on the empty tray. She rose silently and removed the dishes.

  “As soon as the Weyr is free, we’ll go,” he told her.

  “So you said.” She nodded toward the sleeping queen, visible through the open arch. “We still must wait upon Ramoth.”

  “Isn’t she rousing? Her tail’s been twitching for an hour.”

  “She always does that about this time of day.”

  F’lar leaned across the table, his brows drawn together thoughtfully as he watched the golden-forked tip of the queen’s tail jerk spasmodically from side to side.

  “Mnementh, too. And always at dawn and early morning. As if somehow they associate that time of day with trouble . . . “

  “Or the Red Star’s rising?” Lessa interjected.

  Some subtle difference in her tone caused F’lar to glance quickly at her. It wasn’t anger now over having missed the morning’s phenomenon. Her eyes were fixed on nothing; her face, smooth at first, was soon wrinkled with a vaguely anxious frown as tiny lines formed between her arching, well-defined brows.

  “Dawn . . . that’s when all warnings come,” she murmured.

  “What kind of warnings?” he asked with quiet encouragement.

  “There was that morning . . . a few days before . . . before you and Fax descended on Ruath Hold. Something woke me . . . a feeling, like a very heavy pressure . . . the sensation of some terrible danger threatening.” She was silent. “The Red Star was just rising.” The fingers of her left hand opened and closed. She gave a convulsive shudder. Her eyes refocused on him.

  “You and Fax did come out of the northeast from Crom,” she said sharply, ignoring the fact, F’lar noticed, that the Red Star also rises north of true east.

  “Indeed we did,” he grinned at her, remembering that morning vividly. “Although,” he added, gesturing around the great cavern to emphasize, “I prefer to believe I served you well that day . . . you remember it with displeasure?”

  The look she gave him was c
oldly inscrutable.

  “Danger comes in many guises.”

  “I agree,” he replied amiably, determined not to rise to her bait. “Had any other rude awakenings?” he inquired conversationally.

  The absolute stillness in the room brought his attention back to her. Her face had drained of all color.

  “The day Fax invaded Ruath Hold.” Her voice was a barely articulated whisper. Her eyes were wide and staring. Her hands clenched the edge of the table. She said nothing for such a long interval that F’lar became concerned. This was an unexpectedly violent reaction to a casual question.

  “Tell me,” he suggested softly.

  She spoke in unemotional, impersonal tones, as if she were reciting a Traditional Ballad or something that had happened to an entirely different person.

  “I was a child. Just eleven. I woke at dawn . . . “ Her voice trailed off. Her eyes remained focused on nothing, staring at a scene that had happened long ago.

  F’lar was stirred by an irresistible desire to comfort her. It struck him forcibly, even as he was stirred by this unusual compassion, that he had never thought that Lessa, of all people, would be troubled by so old a terror.

  Mnementh sharply informed his rider that Lessa was obviously bothered a good deal. Enough so that her mental anguish was rousing Ramoth from sleep. In less accusing tones Mnementh informed F’lar that R’gul had finally taken off with his weyrling pupils. His dragon, Hath, however, was in a fine state of disorientation due to R’gul’s state of mind. Must F’lar unsettle everyone in the Weyr.

  “Oh, be quiet,” F’lar retorted under his breath.

  “Why?” Lessa demanded in her normal voice.

  “I didn’t mean you, my dear Weyrwoman,” he assured her, smiling pleasantly, as if the entranced interlude had never occurred. “Mnementh is full of advice these days.”

  “Like rider, like dragon,” she replied tartly.

  Ramoth yawned mightily. Lessa was instantly on her feet, running to her dragon’s side, her slight figure dwarfed by the six-foot dragon head.