The Dragonriders of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  Mnementh began to bugle from the ledge, with Fidranth adding his note.

  Lessa “listened,” head cocked.

  “D’ram and G’narish,” she said. “I don’t think we need expect T’kul, but R’mart is not an arrogant man.”

  D’ram of Ista and G’narish of Igen Weyrs entered together. Both men were agitated, sparing no time for amenities.

  “What’s this about premature Threadfall?” D’ram demanded. “Where are T’kul and R’mart? You did send for them, didn’t you? Were your wings badly torn up? How much Thread burrowed?”

  “None. We arrived at first Fall. And my wings sustained few casualties, but I appreciate your concern, D’ram. We’ve sent for the others.”

  Though Mnementh had given no warning, someone was running down the corridor to the Weyr. Everyone turned, anticipating one of the missing Weyrleaders, but it was a weyrling messenger who came racing in.

  “My duty, sirs,” the boy gasped out, “but R’mart’s badly hurt and there’s so many wounded men and dragons at Telgar Weyr, it’s an awful sight. And half the Holds of High Crom are said to be charred.”

  The Weyrleaders were all on their feet.

  “I must send some help—” Lessa began, to be halted by the frown on T’ron’s face and D’ram’s odd expression. She gave a small impatient snort. “You heard the boy, wounded men and dragons, a Weyr demoralized. Help in time of disaster is not interference. That ancient lay about Weyr autonomy can be carried to ridiculous lengths and this is one of them. Not to help Telgar Weyr, indeed!”

  “She’s right, you know,” G’narish said, and F’lar knew the man was one step closer to gaining a modern perspective.

  Lessa left the chamber, muttering something about personally flying to Telgar Weyr. The weyrling followed her, dismissed by F’lar’s nod.

  “T’ron found a reference to unpredictable shifts in this old Record Skin,” F’lar said, seizing control. “D’ram, do you have any recollections from your studies of Istan Records four hundred Turns ago?”

  “I wish I did,” the Istan leader said slowly, then looked toward G’narish who was shaking his head. “Before I came here, I ordered immediate sweepwatches within my Weyr’s bounds and I suggest we all do the same.”

  “What we need is a Pern-wide guard,” F’lar began, carefully choosing his words.

  But T’ron wasn’t deceived and banged the table so hard that he set the crockery jumping. “Just waiting for the chance to lodge dragons in Holds and Crafthalls again, huh, F’lar? Dragonfolk stick together . . .”

  “The way T’kul and R’mart are doing by not warning the rest of us?” asked D’ram in such an acid tone that T’ron subsided.

  “Actually, why should dragonfolk weary themselves when there is so much more manpower available in the Holds now?” asked G’narish in a surprised way. He smiled slightly with nervousness when he saw the others staring at him. “I mean, the individual Holds could easily supply the watchers we’ll need.”

  “And they’ve the means, too,” F’lar agreed, ignoring T’ron’s surprised exclamation. “It’s not so very long ago that there were signal fires on every ridge and hill, across the plains, in case Fax began another of his acquisitive marches. In fact, I shouldn’t be surprised if most of those beacon fireguards are still in place.”

  He was faintly amused by the expressions on the three faces. The Oldtimers never had recovered from the utter sacrilege of a Lord attempting to hold more than one territory. F’lar had no doubt this prompted such conservatives as T’kul and T’ron to impress on the commoners at every opportunity just how dependent they were on dragonfolk, and why they tried to limit and curtail contemporary freedoms and licenses. “Let the Holders light fires when Thread masses on the horizon—a few strategically placed riders could oversee great areas. Use the weyrlings; that’d keep them out of mischief and give ’em good practice. Once we know how the Thread falls now, we’ll be able to judge the changes.” F’lar forced himself to relax, smiling. “I don’t think this is as serious a matter as it first appears. Particularly if shifts have occurred before. Of course, if we could find some reference to how long the shift lasted, if Thread went back to the original pattern, it’d help.”

  “It would have helped if T’kul had sent word as you did,” D’ram muttered.

  “Well, we all know how T’kul is,” F’lar said tolerantly.

  “He’d no right to withhold such vital information from us,” T’ron said, again pounding the table. “Weyrs should stick together.”

  “The Lord Holders aren’t going to like this,” G’narish remarked, no doubt thinking of Lord Corman of Keroon, the most difficult one of the Holders bound to his Weyr.

  “Oh,” F’lar replied with more diffidence than he felt, “if we tell them we’ve expected such a shift at about this time in the Pass . . .”

  “But—but the timetables they have? They’re not fools,” T’ron sputtered.

  “We’re the dragonfolk, T’ron. What they can’t understand, they don’t need to know—or worry about,” F’lar replied firmly. “It’s not their business to demand explanations of us, after all. And they’ll get none.”

  “That’s a change of tune, isn’t it, F’lar?” asked D’ram.

  “I never explained myself to them, if you’ll think back, D’ram. I told them what had to be done and they did it.”

  “They were scared stupid seven Turns ago,” G’narish remarked. “Scared enough to welcome us with wide-open arms and goods.”

  “If they want to protect all those forests and croplands, they’ll do as we suggest or start charring their profits.”

  “Let Lord Oterel of Tillek or that idiot Lord Sangel of Boll start disputing my orders and I’ll fire their forests myself,” said T’ron, rising.

  “Then we’re agreed,” said F’lar quickly, before the hypocrisy he was practicing overcame him with disgust. “We mount watches, aided by the Holders, and we keep track of the new shift. We’ll soon know how to judge it.”

  “What of T’kul?” G’narish asked.

  D’ram looked squarely at T’ron. “We’ll explain the situation to him.”

  “He respects you two,” F’lar agreed. “It might be wiser, though, not to suggest we knew about . . .”

  “We can handle T’kul, without your advice, F’lar,” D’ram cut him off abruptly, and F’lar knew that the momentary harmony between them was at an end. The Oldtimers were closing ranks against the crime of their contemporary, just as they had at that abortive meeting a few nights ago. He could console himself with the fact that they hadn’t been able to escape all the implications of this incident.

  Lessa came back into the weyr just then, her face flushed, her eyes exceedingly bright. Even D’ram bowed low to her in making his farewells.

  “Don’t leave, D’ram, T’ron. I’ve good word from Telgar Weyr,” she cried, but catching F’lar’s glance, did not try to keep them when they demurred.

  “R’mart’s all right?” G’narish asked, trying to smooth over the awkwardness.

  Lessa recovered herself with a smile for the Igen leader. “Oh that messenger—he’s only a boy—he exaggerated. Ramoth bespoke Solth the senior queen at Telgar Weyt. R’mart is badly scored, yes. Bedella evidently overdosed him with numbweed powder. She hadn’t the wit to send word to anyone. And the Wing-second assumed that we’d all been informed because he’d heard R’mart telling Bedella to send messengers, never dreaming she hadn’t. When R’mart passed out, she forgot everything.” Lessa’s shrug indicated her low opinion of Bedella. “The Wing-second says he’d be grateful for your advice.”

  “H’ages is Wing-second at Telgar Weyr,” G’narish said. “A sound enough rider but he’s got no initiative. Say, you’re Thread-bared yourself F’lar.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s bleeding,” Lessa contradicted. “And you haven’t eaten a thing.”

  “I’ll stop at Telgar Weyr, F’lar, and talk to H’ages,” G’narish said.

/>   “I’d like to come with you, G’narish, if you’ve no objections . . .”

  “I’ve objections,” Lessa put in. “G’narish’s capable of ascertaining the extent of the Fall there and can relay the information to us. I’ll see him to the ledge while you start eating.” Lessa was so didactic that G’narish chuckled. She tucked her arm in his and started toward the corridor. “I’ve not made my duty to Gyarmath,” she said, smiling sweetly up at G’narish, “and he’s a favorite of mine, you know.”

  She was flirting so outrageously that F’lar wondered that Ramoth wasn’t roaring protest. As if Gyarmath could ever catch Ramoth in flight! Then he heard Mnementh’s rumble of humor and was reassured.

  Eat, his bronze advised him. Let Lessa flatter G’narish. Gyarmath doesn’t mind.. Nor Ramoth. Nor I.

  “What I do for my Weyr,” said Lessa with an exaggerated sigh as she returned a few moments later.

  F’lar gave her a cynical look. “G’narish is more of a modern mind than he knows.”

  “Then we’ll have to make him conscious of it,” Lessa said firmly.

  “Just so long as it is ‘we’ who make him,” F’lar replied with mock severity, catching her hand and pulling her to him.

  She made a token resistance, as she always did, scowling ferociously at him and then relaxed against his shoulder all at once. “Signal fires and sweepriding are not enough, F’lar,” she said thoughtfully. “Although I do believe we’ve worried too much about the change in Threadfall.”

  “That nonsense was to fool G’narish and the others, but I thought you’d . . .”

  “But don’t you see that you were right?”

  F’lar gave her a long incredulous look.

  “By the Egg, Weyrleader, you astonish me. Why can’t there be deviations? Because you, F’lar, compiled those Records and to spite the Oldtimers they must remain infallible? Great golden eggs, man, there were such things as Intervals when no Threads fell—as we both know. Why not a change of pace in Threadfall itself during a Pass?”

  “But why? Give me one good reason why.”

  “Give me one good reason why not! The same thing that affects the Red Star so that it doesn’t always pass close enough to cast Thread on us can pull it enough off course to change Fall! The Red Star is not the only one to rise and set with the seasons. There could be another heavenly body affecting not only us but the Red Star.”

  “Where?”

  Lessa shrugged impatiently. “How do I know? I’m not long in the eye like F’rad. But we can try to find out. Or have seven full Turns of certainty and schedule dulled your Wits?”

  “Now, see here, Lessa . . .”

  Suddenly she pressed herself close to him, full of contrition for her sharp tongue. He held her close, all too aware that she was right. And yet . . . There had been that long and lonely wait until he and Mnementh could come into their own. The terrible dichotomy of confidence in his own prophecy that Thread would fall and fear that nothing would rescue the Dragonriders from their lethargy. Then the crushing realization that those all too few dragonmen were all that could save an entire world from destruction; the three days of torture between the initial fall over the impending one at Nerat Hold and Telgar Hold with Lessa who-knew-where. Did he not have a right to relax his vigilance? Some freedom from the weight of responsibility?

  “I’ve no right to say such things to you,” Lessa was whispering in soft remorse.

  “Why not? It’s true enough.”

  “I ought never to diminish you, and all you’ve done, to placate a trio of narrow-minded, parochial, conservative . . .”

  He stopped her words with a kiss, a teasing kiss that abruptly became passionate. Then he winced as her hands, curving sensuously around his neck, rubbed against the Thread-bared skin.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. Here, let me—” and Lessa’s apology trailed off as she swiveled her body around to reach for the numbweed jar.

  “I forgive you, dear heart, for all your daily machinations,” F’lar assured her sententiously. “It’s easier to flatter a man than fight him. I wish I had F’nor here right now!”

  “I still haven’t forgiven that old fool T’ron,” Lessa said, her eyes narrowing, her lips pursed. “Oh, why didn’t F’nor just let T’reb have the knife?”

  “F’nor acted with integrity,” F’lar said with stiff disapproval.

  “He could’ve ducked quicker then. And you’re no better.” Her touch was gentle but the burns stung.

  “Hmmm. What I have ducked is my responsibility to our Pern in bringing the Oldtimers forward. We’ve let ourselves get bogged down on small issues, like whose was the blame in that asinine fight at the Mastersmith’s Hall. The real problem is to reconcile the old with the new. And we may just be able to make this new crisis work there to our advantage, Lessa.”

  She heard the ring in his voice and smiled back at him approvingly.

  “When we cut through traditions before the Oldtimers came forward, we also discovered how hollow and restrictive some of them were; such as this business of minimal contact between Hold, Craft and Weyr. Oh, true, if we wish to bespeak another Weyr, we can go there in a few seconds on a dragon, but it takes Holder or Crafter days to get from one place to another. They had a taste of convenience seven Turns ago. I should never have acquiesced and let the Oldtimers talk me out of continuing a dragon in Hold and Craft. Those signal fires won’t work, and neither will sweepriders. You’re absolutely right about that, Lessa. Now if Fandarel can think up some alternative method of . . . What’s the matter? Why are you smiling like that?”

  “I knew it. I knew you’d want to see the Smith and the Harper so I sent for them, but they won’t be here until you’ve eaten and rested.” She tested the fresh numbweed to see if it had hardened.

  “And of course you’ve eaten and rested, too?”

  She got off his lap in one fluid movement, her eyes almost black. “I’ll have sense enough to go to bed when I’m tired. You’ll keep on talking with Fandarel and Robinton long after you’ve chewed your business to death. And you’ll drink—as if you haven’t learned yet that only a dragon could outdrink that Harper and that Smith—” She broke off again, her scowl turning into a thoughtful frown. “Come to think of it, we’d do well to invite Lytol, if he’d come. I’d like to know exactly what the Lord Holders’ reactions are. But first, you eat!”

  F’lar laughingly obeyed, wondering how he could suddenly feel so optimistic when it was now obvious that the problems of Pern were coming home to roost on his weyr ledge again.

  CHAPTER IV

  Midday at Southern Weyr

  Kylara whirled in front of the mirror, turning her head to watch her slender image, observing the swing and fall of the heavy fabric of the deep red dress.

  “I knew it. I told him that hem was uneven,” she said, coming to a dead stop, facing her reflection, suddenly aware of her own engaging scowl. She practiced the expression, found one attitude that displeased her and carefully schooled herself against an inadvertent re-use.

  “A frown is a mighty weapon, dear,” her foster mother had told her again and again, “but do cultivate a pretty one. Think what would happen if your face froze that way.”

  Her posing diverted her until she twisted, trying to assess her profile, and again caught sight of the swirl of the guilty hem.

  “Rannelly!” she called, impatient when the old woman did not answer instantly. “Rannelly!”

  “Coming, poppet. Old bones don’t move as fast. Been setting your gowns to air. There do be such sweetness from that blooming tree. Aye, the wonder of it, a fellis tree grown to such a size.” Rannelly carried on a continuous monologue once summoned, as if the sound of her name turned on her mind. Kylara was certain that it did, for her old nurse voiced, like a dull echo, only what she heard and saw.

  “Those tailors are no better than they should be, and sloppy about finishing details,” Rannelly muttered on, when Kylara sharply interrupted her maundering with the problem. She exhaled on
the note of a bass drone as she knelt and flipped up the offending skirt. “Aye and just see these stitches. Taken in haste they were, with too much thread on the needle . . .”

  “That man promised me the gown in three days and was seaming it when I arrived. But I need it.”

  Rannelly’s hands stopped; she stared up at her charge. “You weren’t ever away from the Weyr without saying a word . . .”

  “I go where I please,” Kylara said, stamping her foot. “I’m no babe to be checking my movements with you. I’m the Weyrwoman here at Southern. I ride the queen. No one can do anything to me. Don’t forget that.”

  “There’s none as forgets my poppet’s . . .”

  “Not that this is a proper Weyr, at all . . .”

  “. . . And that’s an insult to my nursling, it is, to be in . . .”

  “Not that they care, but they’ll see they can’t treat a Telgar of the Blood with such lack of courtesy . . .”

  “. . .And who’s been discourteous to my little . . .”

  “Fix that hem, Rannelly, and don’t be all week about it. I must look my best when I go home,” Kylara said, turning her upper torso this way and that, studying the fall of her thick, wavy blonde hair. “Only good thing about this horrible, horrible place. The sun does keep my hair bright.”

  “Like a fall of sunbeams, my sweetling, and me brushing it to bring out the shine. Morning and night I brushes it. Never miss. Except when you’re away. He was looking for you earlier . . .”

  “Never mind him. Fix that hem.”

  “Oh, aye, that I can do for you. Slip it off. There now. Ooooh, my precious, my poppet. Whoever treated you so! Did he make such marks on . . .”

  “Be quiet!” Kylara stepped quickly from the collapsed dress at her feet, all too aware of the livid bruises that stood out on her fair skin. One more reason to wear the new gown. She shrugged into the loose linen robe she had discarded earlier. While sleeveless, its folds almost covered the big bruise on her right arm. She could always blame that on a natural accident. Not that she cared a whistle what T’bor thought but it made for less recrimination. And he never knew what he did when he was well wined-up.