The Dragonriders of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  “I’ve studied it, Lessa,” F’lar replied, glancing at it again and tipping it toward him to reaffirm his conclusions. “The only way to depart for all time between is to die, right? People just don’t fly away on their own, obviously. So it is a death vision, dutifully recorded by a grandchild, who couldn’t spell very well either. ‘Doodling’ as the present tense of dying!” He smiled indulgently. “And as for the rest of it, after the nonsense—like most death visions, it ‘explains’ what everyone has always known. Read on.”

  “ ‘Flamethrowing fire lizards to wipe out the spores. Q.E.D.’?”

  “No help there, either. Obviously just a primitive rejoicing that he is a dragonman, who didn’t even know the right word for Threads.” F’lar’s shrug was expressive.

  Lessa wet one fingertip to see if the patterns were inked on. The metal was shiny enough for a good mirror if she could get rid of the designs. However, the patterns remained smooth and precise.

  “Primitive or no, they had a more permanent way of recording their visions that is superior to even the well-preserved skins,” she murmured.

  “Well-preserved babblings,” F’lar said, turning back to the skins he was checking for understandable data.

  “A badly scored ballad?” Lessa wondered and then dismissed the whole thing. “The design isn’t even pretty.”

  F’lar pulled forward a chart that showed overlapping horizontal bands imposed on the projection of Pern’s continental mass.

  “Here,” he said, “this represents waves of attack, and this one”—he pulled forward the second map with vertical bandings—“shows time zones. So you can see that with a fourteen-hour break only certain parts of Pern are affected in each attack. One reason for spacing of the Weyrs.”

  “Six full Weyrs,” she murmured, “close to three thousand dragons.”

  “I’m aware of the statistics,” he replied in a voice devoid of expression. “It meant no one Weyr was overburdened during the height of the attacks, not that three thousand beasts must be available. However, with these timetables, we can manage until Ramoth’s first clutches have matured.”

  She turned a cynical look on him. “You’ve a lot of faith in one queen’s capacity.”

  He waved that remark aside impatiently. “I’ve more faith, no matter what your opinion is, in the startling repetitions of events in these Records.”

  “Ha!”

  “I don’t mean how many measures for daily bread, Lessa,” he retorted, his voice rising. “I mean such things as the time such and such a wing was sent out on patrol, how long the patrol lasted, how many riders were hurt. The brooding capacities of queens, during the fifty years a Pass lasts and the Intervals between such Passes. Yes, it tells that. By all I’ve studied here,” and he pounded emphatically on the nearest stack of dusty, smelly skins, “Nemorth should have been mating twice a Turn for the last ten. Had she even kept to her paltry twelve a clutch, we’d have two hundred and forty more beasts. . . . Don’t interrupt. But we had Jora as Weyrwoman and R’gul as Weyrleader, and we had fallen into planet-wide disfavor during a four hundred Turn Interval. Well, Ramoth will brood over no measly dozen, and she’ll lay a queen egg, mark my words. She will rise often to mate and lay generously. By the time the Red Star is passing closest to us and the attacks become frequent, we’ll be ready.”

  She stared at him, her eyes wide with incredulity. “Out of Ramoth?”

  “Out of Ramoth and out of the queens she’ll lay. Remember, there are Records of Faranth laying sixty eggs at a time, including several queen eggs.”

  Lessa could only shake her head slowly in wonder.

  “ ‘A strand of silver/In the sky. . . . With heat, all quickens/And all times fly,’ ” F’lar quoted to her.

  “She’s got weeks more to go before laying, and then the eggs must hatch . . .”

  “Been on the Hatching Ground recently? Wear your boots. You’ll be burned through sandals.”

  She dismissed that with a guttural noise. He sat back, outwardly amused by her disbelief.

  “And then you have to make Impression and wait till the riders—” she went on.

  “Why do you think I’ve insisted on older boys? The dragons are mature long before their riders.”

  “Then the system is faulty.”

  He narrowed his eyes slightly, shaking the stylus at her.

  “Dragon tradition started out as a guide . . . but there comes a time when man becomes too traditional, too—what was it you said?—too hidebound? Yes, it’s traditional to use the weyrbred, because it’s been convenient. And because this sensitivity to dragons strengthens where both sire and dam are weyrbred. That doesn’t mean weyrbred is best. You, for example . . .”

  “There’s Weyrblood in the Ruathan line,” she said proudly.

  “Granted. Take young Naton; he’s craftbred from Nabol, yet F’nor tells me he can make Canth understand him.”

  “Oh, that’s not hard to do,” she interjected.

  “What do you mean?” F’lar jumped on her statement.

  They were both interrupted by a high-pitched, penetrating whine. F’lar listened intently for a moment and then shrugged, grinning.

  “Some green’s getting herself chased again.”

  “And that’s another item these so-called all-knowing Records of yours never mention. Why is it that only the gold dragon can reproduce?”

  F’lar did not suppress a lascivious chuckle.

  “Well, for one thing, firestone inhibits reproduction. If they never chewed stone, a green could lay, but at best they produce small beasts, and we need big ones. And, for another thing”—his chuckle rolled out as he went on deliberately, grinning mischievously—“if the greens could reproduce, considering their amorousness and the numbers we have of them, we’d be up to our ears in dragons in next to no time.”

  The first whine was joined by another, and then a low hum throbbed as if carried by the stones of the Weyr itself.

  F’lar, his face changing rapidly from surprise to triumphant astonishment, dashed up the passage.

  “What’s the matter?” Lessa demanded, picking up her skirts to run after him. “What does that mean?”

  The hum, resonating everywhere, was deafening in the echo-chamber of the queen’s weyr. Lessa registered the fact that Ramoth was gone. She heard F’lar’s boots pounding down the passage to the ledge, a sharp ta-ta-tat over the kettledrum booming hum. The whine was so high-pitched now that it was inaudible, but still nerve-racking. Disturbed, frightened, Lessa followed F’lar out.

  By the time she reached the ledge, the Bowl was a-whir with dragons on the wing, making for the high entrance to the Hatching Ground. Weyrfolk, riders, women, children, all screaming with excitement, were pouring across the Bowl to the lower entrance to the Ground.

  She caught sight of F’lar, charging across to the entrance, and she shrieked at him to wait. He couldn’t have heard her across the bedlam.

  Fuming because she had the long stairs to descend, then must double back as the stairs faced the feeding grounds at the opposite end of the Bowl from the Hatching Ground, Lessa realized that she, the Weyrwoman, would be the last one there.

  Why had Ramoth decided to be secretive about laying? Wasn’t she close enough to her own weyrmate to want her with her?

  A dragon knows what to do, Ramoth calmly informed Lessa.

  You could have told me, Lessa wailed, feeling much abused.

  Why, at the time F’lar had been going on largely about huge clutches and three thousand beasts, that infuriating dragon-child had been doing it!

  It didn’t improve Lessa’s temper to have to recall another remark of F’lar’s—on the state of the Hatching Grounds. The moment she stepped into the mountain-high cavern, she felt the heat through the soles of her sandals. Everyone was crowded in a loose circle around the far end of the cavern. And everyone was swaying from foot to foot. As Lessa was short to begin with, this only decreased the likelihood of her ever seeing what Ramoth had done.

>   “Let me through!” she demanded imperiously, pounding on the wide backs of two tall riders.

  An aisle was reluctantly opened for her, and she went through, looking neither to her right or left at the excited weyrfolk. She was furious, confused, hurt, and knew she looked ridiculous because the hot sand made her walk with a curious mincing quickstep.

  She halted, stunned and wide-eyed at the mass of eggs, and forgot such trivial things as hot feet.

  Ramoth was curled around the clutch, looking enormously pleased with herself. She, too, kept shifting, closing and opening a protective wing over her eggs, so that it was difficult to count them.

  No one will steal them, silly, so stop fluttering, Lessa advised as she tried to make a tally.

  Obediently Ramoth folded her wings. To relieve her maternal anxiety, however, she snaked her head out across the circle of mottled, glowing eggs, looking all around the cavern, flicking her forked tongue in and out.

  An immense sigh, like a gust of wind, swept through the cavern. For there, now that Ramoth’s wings were furled, gleamed an egg of glowing gold among the mottled ones. A queen egg!

  “A queen egg!” The cry went up simultaneously from half a hundred throats. The Hatching Ground rang with cheers, yells, screams, and howls of exultation.

  Someone seized Lessa and swung her around in an excess of feeling. A kiss landed in the vicinity of her mouth. No sooner did she recover her footing than she was hugged by someone else—she thought it was Manora—and then pounded and buffeted around in congratulation until she was reeling in a kind of dance between avoiding the celebrants and easing the growing discomfort of her feet.

  She broke from the milling revelers and ran across the Ground to Ramoth. Lessa came to a sudden stop before the eggs. They seemed to be pulsing. The shells looked flaccid. She could have sworn they were hard the day she Impressed Ramoth. She wanted to touch one, just to make sure, but dared not.

  You may, Ramoth assured her condescendingly. She touched Lessa’s shoulder gently with her tongue.

  The egg was soft to touch and Lessa drew her hand back quickly, afraid of doing injury.

  The heat will harden it, Ramoth said.

  “Ramoth, I’m so proud of you,” Lessa sighed, looking adoringly up at the great eyes that shone in rainbows of pride. “You are the most marvelous queen ever. I do believe you will redragon all the Weyrs. I do believe you will.”

  Ramoth inclined her head regally, then began to sway it from side to side over the eggs, protectingly. She began to hiss suddenly, raising from her crouch, beating the air with her wings, before settling back into the sands to lay yet another egg.

  The weyrfolk, uncomfortable on the hot sands, were beginning to leave the Hatching Ground now that they had paid tribute to the arrival of the golden egg. A queen took several days to complete her clutch so there was no point to waiting. Seven eggs already lay beside the important golden one, and if there were seven already, this augured well for the eventual total. Wagers were being made and taken even as Ramoth produced her ninth mottled egg.

  “Just as I predicted, a queen egg, by the mother of us all,” F’lar’s voice said in Lessa’s ear. “And I’ll wager there’ll be ten bronzes at least.”

  She looked up at him, completely in harmony with the Weyrleader at this moment. She was conscious now of Mnementh, crouching proudly on a ledge, gazing fondly at his mate. Impulsively Lessa laid her hand on F’lar’s arm.

  “F’lar, I do believe you.”

  “Only now?” F’lar teased her, but his smile was wide and his eyes proud.

  Weyrman, watch; Weyrman, learn

  Something new in every Turn.

  Oldest may be coldest, too.

  Sense the right; find the true!

  If F’lar’s orders over the next months caused no end of discussion and muttering among the weyrfolk, they seemed to Lessa to be only the logical outcomes of their discussion after Ramoth had finished laying her gratifying total of forty-one eggs.

  F’lar discarded tradition right and left, treading on more than R’gul’s conservative toes.

  Out of perverse distaste for outworn doctrines against which she herself had chafed during R’gul’s leadership, and out of respect for F’lar’s intelligence, Lessa backed him completely. She might not have respected her earlier promise to him that she would believe with him until spring if she had not seen his predictions come true, one after another. These were based, however, not on the premonitions she no longer trusted after her experience between times, but on recorded facts.

  As soon as the eggshells hardened and Ramoth had rolled her special queen egg to one side of the mottled clutch for attentive brooding, F’lar brought the prospective riders into the Hatching Ground. Traditionally the candidates saw the eggs for the first time on the day of Impression. To this precedent F’lar added others: very few of the sixty-odd were weyrbred, and most of them were in their late teens. The candidates were to get used to the eggs, touch them, caress them, be comfortable with the notion that out of these eggs young dragons would hatch, eager and waiting to be Impressed. F’lar felt that such a practice might cut down on casualties during Impression when the boys were simply too scared to move out of the way of the awkward dragonets.

  F’lar also had Lessa persuade Ramoth to let Kylara near her precious golden egg. Kylara readily enough weaned her son and spent hours, with Lessa acting as her tutor, beside the golden egg. Despite Kylara’s loose attachment to T’bor, she showed an open preference for F’lar’s company. Therefore, Lessa took great pains to foster F’lar’s plan for Kylara since it meant her removal, with the new-hatched queen, to Fort Weyr.

  F’lar’s use of the Hold-born as riders served an additional purpose. Shortly before the actual Hatching and Impression, Lytol, the Warder appointed at Ruath Hold, sent another message.

  “The man positively delights in sending bad news,” Lessa remarked as F’lar passed the message skin to her.

  “He’s gloomy,” F’nor agreed. He had brought the message. “I feel sorry for that youngster cooped up with such a pessimist.”

  Lessa frowned at the brown rider. She still found distasteful any mention of Gemma’s son, now Lord of her ancestral Hold. Yet . . . as she had inadvertently caused his mother’s death and she could not be Weyrwoman and Lady Holder at the same time, it was fitting that Gemma’s Jaxom be Lord at Ruatha.

  “I, however,” F’lar said, “am grateful for his warnings. I suspected Meron would cause trouble again.”

  “He has shifty eyes, like Fax’s,” Lessa remarked.

  “Shifty-eyed or not, he’s dangerous,” F’lar answered. “And I cannot have him spreading rumors that we are deliberately choosing men of the Blood to weaken Family Lines.”

  “There are more craftsmen’s sons than Holders’ boys, in any case,” F’nor snorted.

  “I don’t like him questioning that the Threads have not appeared,” Lessa said gloomily.

  F’lar shrugged. “They’ll appear in due time. Be thankful the weather has continued cold. When the weather warms up and still no Threads appear, then I will worry.” He grinned at Lessa in an intimate reminder of her promise.

  F’nor cleared his throat hastily and looked away.

  “However,” the Weyrleader went on briskly, “I can do something about the other accusation.”

  So, when it was apparent that the eggs were about to hatch, he broke another long-standing tradition and sent riders to fetch the fathers of the young candidates from craft and Hold.

  The great Hatching Cavern gave the appearance of being almost full as Holder and Weyrfolk watched from the tiers above the heated Ground. This time, Lessa observed, there was no aura of fear. The youthful candidates were tense, yes, but not frightened out of their wits by the rocking, shattering eggs. When the ill-coordinated dragonets awkwardly stumbled—it seemed to Lessa that they deliberately looked around at the eager faces as though pre-Impressed—the youths either stepped to one side or eagerly advanced as a crooning dra
gonet made his choice. The Impressions were made quickly and with no accidents. All too soon, Lessa thought, the triumphant procession of stumbling dragons and proud new riders moved erratically out of the Hatching Ground to the barracks.

  The young queen burst from her shell and moved unerringly for Kylara, standing confidently on the hot sands. The watching beasts hummed their approval.

  “It was over too soon,” Lessa said in a disappointed voice that evening to F’lar.

  He laughed indulgently, allowing himself a rare evening of relaxation now that another step had gone as planned. The Holder folk had been ridden home, stunned, dazed, and themselves impressed by the Weyr and the Weyrleader.

  “That’s because you were watching this time,” he remarked, brushing a lock of her hair back. It obscured his view of her profile. He chuckled again. “You’ll notice Naton . . .”

  “N’ton,” she corrected him.

  “All right, N’ton—Impressed a bronze.”

  “Just as you predicted,” she said with some asperity.

  “And Kylara is Weyrwoman for Pridith.”

  Lessa did not comment on that, and she did her best to ignore his laughter.

  “I wonder which bronze will fly her,” he murmured softly.

  “It had better be T’bor’s Orth,” Lessa said, bridling.

  He answered her the only way a wise man could.

  Crack dust, blackdust,

  Turn in freezing air.

  Waste dust, spacedust,

  From Red Star bare.

  Lessa woke abruptly, her head aching, her eyes blurred, her mouth dry. She had the immediate memory of a terrible nightmare that, just as quickly, escaped recall. She brushed her hair out of her face and was surprised to find that she had been sweating heavily.

  “F’lar?” she called in an uncertain voice. He had evidently risen early. “F’lar,” she called again, louder.