The Dragonriders of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Trouble? We won’t get caught. Everybody’s too busy this near dinner. I’d’ve had to help if you hadn’t come,” and the boy grinned smugly. “C’mon!”

  They had arrived at a fork in the passageway, one leading left, deeper into the Weyr, the other bending right. This one was ill-lit and Jaxom faltered. You didn’t waste glows on unused corridors.

  “What’s the matter?” Felessan asked, frowning back at his reluctant guest. “You’re not afraid, are you?”

  “Afraid?” Jaxom quickly stepped to Felessan’s side. “It’s not a question of fear.”

  “C’mon then. And be quiet”

  “Why?” Jaxom had already lowered his voice.

  “You’ll see. Only be quiet now, huh? And take this.”

  From a hidey-hole, Felessan handed Jaxom a half-shielded basket with one feebly gleaming glow. He had another for himself. Whatever objections Jaxom might have had were stilled by the challenge in the younger boy’s eyes. He turned haughtily and led the way down the shadowy corridor. He was somewhat reassured by the footprints in the dust, all leading the same way. But this hall was not frequented by adults. All the footprints were smallish, not a bootheel among ’em. Where did it lead?

  They passed locked, covered doorways, long unused and scary in the flickering light of the dim glows. Why couldn’t Felessan have stolen some new ones while he was about it? These wouldn’t last too long. Jaxom earnestly wanted to know how far they were going. He had no liking for a trip through back halls and dangerous corridors without full illumination to aid his vision and reduce his imagination. But he couldn’t ask. What could there possibly be this far back in the Weyr? A huge rectangle of absolute black rose on his left and he swallowed against terror, as Felessan marched purposefully past it, his weak glow back-lighting the threatening maw into another innocently empty corridor junction.

  “Hurry up,” Felessan said, sharply.

  “Why?” Jaxom was pleased with the steady, casual tone he managed.

  “Because she always goes to the lake about this time of day and it’s the only chance you’ll ever get”

  “Chance to what? Who’s she?”

  “Ramoth, thickwit,” Felessan stopped so quickly that Jaxom bumped into him and the glow in his basket began to flicker.

  “Ramoth?”

  “Sure. Or are you afraid to sneak a look at her eggs?”

  “At her eggs? Honest?” Breathless terror battled with insatiable curiosity and the knowledge that this would really put him one up on the Hold boys.

  “Honest! Now, c’mon!”

  The other corridors they passed held no unknown evils for Jaxom now, with such a promised end to this dark trek. And Felessan did seem to know where he was going. Their passage churned up the dust, further dimming the glows, but ahead was a sliver of light.

  “There’s where we’re heading.”

  “Have you ever seen an Impression, Felessan?”

  “Sure. A whole gang of us watched the last one and ooh, that was the most scary-velous time. It was just great. First the eggs wobbled back and forth, see, and then these great cracks appeared. Zigzaggy ones down the eggs, longwise,” Felessan excitedly illustrated the point with his glow basket “Then, all of a sudden,” and his voice dropped to a more dramatic pitch, “one enormous, dragon-sized split and the head—comes through. You know what color the first one was?”

  “Don’t you know that from the color of the shell?”

  “No, except for the queen. They’re biggest and they gleam kinda. You’ll see.”

  Jaxom gulped but nothing could have kept him from continuing now. None of the Hold boys or even the other young lordlings had seen eggs, or an Impression. Maybe he could lie a little . . .

  “Hey, keep off my heels,” Felessan commanded.

  The sliver of light ahead widened, touching the smooth wall opposite with a comforting rectangle. As they got closer and their glows augmented the outside light, Jaxom could make out the end of the corridor just beyond the fissure of the slot. The jumble of rock gave evidence of an ancient slide. But sure enough, they could really spy on the mottled eggs as they lay maturing on the mist-heated sands. Occasionally an egg rocked slightly as Jaxom watched, fascinated.

  “Where’s the queen egg?” he asked in a reverent undertone.

  “You don’t need to whisper. See? Ground’s empty. Ramoth’s gone to the lake.”

  “Where’s the queen egg?” Jaxom repeated and was disgusted when his voice broke.

  “It’s kinda to that side, out of sight”

  Jaxom craned his neck up and down, trying to get a glimpse of the golden egg.

  “You really want to see it?”

  “Sure. Talina’s been taken on Search from my Hold and she’ll be a Weyrwoman. Ruathan girls always become Weyrwomen.”

  Felessan gave him a long stare, then shrugged. He twisted sideways and inserted his body into the slit, easing his way past the rocks

  “C’mon,” he urged his friend in a hoarse whisper.

  Jaxom eyed the slit dubiously. He was heavier as well as taller than Felessan. He presented the side of his body to the slit and took a deep breath. His left leg and arm got through fine but his chest was caught against the rocks. Helpfully, Felessan grabbed his left arm and yanked. Jaxom manfully suppressed a yelp as knee and chest were scraped skin deep by rock

  “Eggshells, I’m sorry, Jaxom.”

  “I didn’t tell you to pull!” Then he added as he saw Felessan’s contrite expression, “I’m all right, I guess.”

  Felessan pulled his tunic up to dab at the young Lord’s bloody bare chest. The rock had torn through fabric. Jaxom slapped his hand away. It smarted enough as it was. Then he saw the great golden egg, reposing by itself, a little apart from the motley group.

  “It’s—it’s—so glisteny,” he murmured, swallowing against awe and reverence, and a growing sense of sacrilege. Only the weyrbred had the right to see the Eggs.

  Felessan was casting a judicious eye over the gold egg.

  “And big, too. Bigger’n the last queen egg at Fort. Their stock is falling off noticeably,” he remarked with critical detachment.

  “Not to hear Mardra talk. She says it’s obvious Benden stock is in trouble; the dragons are too large to maneuver properly.”

  “N’ton says Mardra’s a pain in the ass, the way she treats T’ron.”

  Jaxom didn’t like the trend of the conversation now. After all, Ruatha Hold was weyrbound to Fort Weyr and while he didn’t much like Mardra, he ought not listen to such talk.

  “Well, this one’s not so big. Looks like a wherry egg. It’s half the size of even the smallest one of the others,” and he touched the smooth shell of an egg that lay almost against the rock wall, apart from the others

  “Hey, don’t touch it!” Felessan protested, visibly startled.

  “Why not? Can’t hurt it, can I? Hard as leather,” and Jaxom rapped it gently with his knuckles and then spread his hand flat on the curve. “It’s warm.”

  Felessan pulled him away from the egg.

  “You don’t touch eggs. Not ever. Not until it’s your turn. And you’re not weyrbred.”

  Jaxom looked disdainfully at him. “You’re scared to.” And he caressed the egg again to prove that he was not.

  “I am not scared. But you don’t touch eggs,” and Felessan slapped at Jaxom’s impious hand. “Not unless you’re a candidate. And you’re not. And neither am I, yet.”

  “No, I’m a Lord Holder,” and Jaxom drew himself up proudly. He couldn’t resist the urge to pat the small egg once more because, while it was all right to be a Lord Holder, he was more than a little jealous of Felessan, and fleetingly wished that he, too, could look forward to being a dragonrider one day. And that egg looked lonely, small and unwanted, so far from the others.

  “Your being a Lord Holder wouldn’t matter a grain of sand in Igen if Ramoth came back and caught us here,” Felessan reminded him and jerked Jaxom firmly toward the slit

  A
sudden rumble at the far end of the Hatching Ground startled them. One look at the shadow on the sand by the great entrance was enough. Felessan, being more agile and faster, got to the exit first and squeezed through. This time Jaxom did not object at all as Felessan frantically yanked him past the rock. They didn’t even stop to see if it really was Ramoth, returning. They grabbed the glow baskets and ran.

  When the light from the slit was lost in the curve of the corridor, Jaxom stopped running. His chest hurt from his exertions as well as from his rough passage through the fissure.

  “C’mon,” Felessan urged him, halting several paces further.

  “I can’t. My chest . . .”

  “Is it bad?” Felessan held his glow up; blood traced smeared patterns on Jaxom’s pale skin. “That looks bad. We’d better get you to Manora quick.”

  “I . . . got . . . to . . . catch . . . my . . . breath.”

  In rhythm with his labored exhalations, his glow sputtered and darkened completely.

  “We’ll have to walk slow then,” Felessan said, his voice now shakier with anxiety than from running.

  Jaxom got to his feet, determined not to show the panic he was beginning to feel; a cold pressure gripped his belly, his chest was hot and painful, while sweat was starting to creep down his forehead. The salty drops fell on his chest and he swore one of the wardguard’s favorites.

  “Let’s walk fast,” he said and, holding onto the now useless glow basket, suited action to words.

  By common consent they kept to the outer edge of the corridor, where the now dimly seen footsteps gave them courage.

  “It’s not much further, is it?” Jaxom asked as the second glow flickered ominously.

  “Ah—no. It better not be.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Ah—we’ve just run out of footprints.”

  They hadn’t retraced their steps very far before they ran out of glow, too.

  “Now what do we do, Jaxom?”

  “Well, in Ruatha,” Jaxom said, taking a deep breath, a precaution against his voice breaking on him, “when they miss me, they send out search parties.”

  “In that case, you’ll be missed as soon as Lytol wants to go home, won’t you? He never stays here long.”

  “Not if Lytol gets asked to dinner and he will, if dinner is as close as you said it was.” Jaxom couldn’t suppress his bitterness at this whole ill-advised exploration. “Haven’t you any idea where we are?”

  “No,” Felessan had to admit, sounding suddenly out of his depth. “I always followed the footprints, just like I did now. There were footprints. You saw them.”

  Jaxom didn’t care to agree for that would mean he was in part to blame for their predicament.

  “Those other corridors we passed on the way to the hole, where do they go?” he finally asked.

  “I don’t know. There’s an awful lot of the Weyr that’s empty. I’ve—I’ve never gone any farther than the slit.”

  “What about the others? How far in have they gone?”

  “Gandidan’s always talking about how far he’s gone but—but—I don’t remember what he said.”

  “For the Egg’s sake, don’t blubber.”

  “I’m not blubbering. I’m just hungry!”

  “Hungry? That’s it. Can you smell dinner? Seemed to me we could smell it an awful long ways down the corridor.”

  They sniffed at the air in all directions. It was musty but not with stew. Sometimes, Jaxom remembered, you could smell fresher air and find your own way back. He put out a hand to touch the wall; the smooth, cold stone was somehow comforting. In between, you couldn’t feel anything, though this corridor was just as dark. His chest hurt and throbbed, in a steady accompaniment to his blood.

  With a sigh, he backed up against the smooth wall and, sliding down it, settled to the ground with a bump.

  “Jaxom?”

  “I’m all right. I’m just tired.”

  “Me, too,” and with a sigh of relief, Felessan sat down, his shoulder touching Jaxom’s. The contact reassured them both.

  “I wonder what it was like,” Jaxom mused at length.

  “Wonder what what was like?” asked Felessan in some surprise.

  “When the Weyrs and the Holds were full. When these corridors were lighted and used.”

  “They’ve never been used.”

  “Nonsense. No one wastes time carving out corridors that’ll lead nowhere. And Lytol said there are over five hundred weyrs in Benden and only half-used . . .”

  “We have four hundred and twelve fighting dragons at Benden now.”

  “Sure, but ten Turns ago there weren’t two hundred, so why so many weyrs if they weren’t all used once? And why are there miles and miles of halls and unused rooms in Ruatha Hold if they weren’t used once . . .”

  “So?”

  “I mean, where did all the people go? And how did they carve out whole mountains in the first place?”

  Clearly the matter had never troubled Felessan.

  “And did you ever notice? Some of the walls are smooth as . . .”

  Jaxom stopped, stunned by a dawning realization. Almost fearfully he turned and ran his hand down the wall behind him. It was smooth. He gulped and his chest hurt more than the throb of the scratches. “Felessan . . .?”

  “What—what’s the matter?”

  “This wall is smooth.”

  “So what?”

  “But it’s smooth. It’s not rough!”

  “Say what you mean.” Felessan sounded almost angry.

  “It’s smooth. It’s an old wall.”

  “So?”

  “We’re in the old part of Benden.” Jaxom got to his feet, running a hand over the wall, walking a few paces.

  “Hey!” Jaxom could hear Felessan scrambling to his feet “Don’t leave me. Jaxom! I can’t see you.”

  Jaxom stretched his hand back, touched fabric, and jerked Felessan to his side.

  “Now hang on. If this is an old corridor, sooner or later it’ll run out. Into a dead end, or into the main section. It’s got to.”

  “But how do you know you’re going in the right direction?”

  “I don’t, but it’s better than sitting on my rump getting hungrier.” With one hand on the wall, the other clinging to Felessan’s belt, Jaxom moved on.

  They couldn’t have walked more than twenty paces before Jaxom’s fingers stumbled over the crack. An even crack, running perpendicular to the floor.

  “Hey, warn a guy!” cried Felessan, who had bumped into him.

  “I found something.”

  “What?”

  “A crack up and down, evenly.” Excitedly Jaxom stretched both arms out, trying to find the other side of what might even be a doorway.

  At shoulder height, just beyond the second cut, he found a square plate and, in examining it, pressed. With a rumbling groan, the wall under his other hand began to slide back and light came up on the other side.

  The boys had only a few seconds to stare at the brightly lit wonders on the other side of the threshold before the inert gas with which the room had been flooded rushed out to overcome them. But the light remained a beacon to guide the searchers.

  “I had the entire Hold mustered this morning, only to find him in the bowels of the Hold itself where a rockfall had barred his way,” Lytol said to Lessa as he watched the boys running toward the Lower Cavern.

  “You’ve forgotten your own boyhood then,” F’lar laughed, gesturing courteously for Lytol to proceed him to the weyr. “Or didn’t you explore the back corridors as a weyrling?”

  Lytol scowled and then gave a snort, but he didn’t smile. “It was one thing for me. I wasn’t heir to the Hold.”

  “But, Lytol, heir to the Hold or not,” Lessa said, taking the man’s arm, “Jaxom’s a boy, like any other. No, now please, I am not criticizing. He’s a fine lad, well grown. You may be proud of him.”

  “Carries himself like a Lord, too,” F’lar ventured to say.

 
“I do my best”

  “And your best is very well indeed,” Lessa said enthusiastically. “Why, he’s grown so since the last time I saw him!”

  But the tic started in Lytol’s cheek and Lessa fumed, wondering what Mardra had been complaining about in the boy lately. That woman had better stop interfering . . . Lessa caught herself, grimly reminded that she could be accused of interfering right now, having invited Jaxom here on a visit. When Mardra heard that Lytol had been to Benden Weyr . . .

  “I’m glad you think so,” Lytol replied, confirming Lessa’s suspicions.

  Harper Robinton rose to greet Lytol, and the Mastersmith Fandarel’s face broke into the almost feral expression that passed as his smile. While F’lar seated them, Lessa poured wine.

  “The new train is in, Robinton, but not settled enough to serve,” she said, grinning down at him. It was a private joke that Robinton visited Benden more for the wine than for companionship or business. “You’ll have to make do with last year’s tithe.”

  “Benden wine is always acceptable to me,” Robinton replied suavely, using the compliment as an excuse to take a sip.

  “I appreciate your coming, gentlemen,” F’lar began, taking charge of the meeting. “And I apologize for taking you from your business at such short notice, but I . . .”

  “Always glad to come to Benden,” Robinton murmured, his eyes twinkling as he tipped his cup again.

  “I have news for you so I was glad of this opportunity,” Fandarel rumbled.

  “And I,” Lytol said in a dark voice, the tic moving agitatedly.

  “My news is very serious and I need to know your reactions. There has been premature Threadfall . . .” F’lar began.

  “Threadfalls,” Robinton corrected him with no vestige of his previous levity. “The drumroll brought me the news from Tillek and Crom Holds.”

  “I wish I’d as reliable messengers,” F’lar said bitterly, gritting his teeth. “Didn’t you question the Weyrs’ silence, Robinton?” He had counted the Harper his friend.