The Dragonriders of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  “You’ll have them,” F’lar promised.

  Terry’s face lit up with relief. “You don’t know what a difference it is to work with Benden Weyr. You see so clearly what needs to be done, without any hedging and hemming.”

  “You’ve had problems with R’mart?” asked F’lar with quick concern.

  “It’s not that, Weyrleader,” Terry said, leaning forward earnestly. “You still care what happens, what’s happening.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  The Smith rumbled something but there seemed to be no interrupting Terry.

  “I see it this way, and I’ve seen riders from every Weyr by now. The Oldtimers have been fighting Thread since their birth. That’s all they’ve known. They’re tired and not just from skipping forward in time four hundred Turns. They’re heart-tired, bone-tired. They’ve had too much rising to alarms, seen too many friends and dragons die, Threadscored. They rest on custom, because that’s safest and takes the least energy. And they feel entitled to anything they want. Their minds may be numb with too much time between, though they think fast enough to talk you out of anything. As far as they’re concerned, there’s always been Thread. There’s nothing else to look forward to. They don’t remember, they can’t really conceive of a time, of four hundred Turns without Thread. We can. Our fathers could and their fathers. We live at a different rhythm because Hold and Craft alike threw off that ancient fear and grew in other ways, in other paths, which we can’t give up now. We exist only because the Oldtimers lived in their Time and in ours. And fought in both Times. We can see a way out, a life without Thread. They knew only one thing and they’ve taught us that. How to fight Thread. They simply can’t see that we, that anyone, could take it just one step further and destroy Thread forever.”

  F’lar returned Terry’s earnest stare.

  “I hadn’t seen the Oldtimers in just that light,” he said slowly.

  “Terry’s absolutely right, F’lar,” said Lessa. She’d evidently paused on the threshold, but moved now briskly into the room, filling the Smith’s empty mug from the pitcher of klah she’d brewed. “And it’s a judgment we ought to consider in our dealings with them.” She smiled warmly at Terry as she filled his cup. “You’re as eloquent as the Harper. Are you sure you’re a smith?”

  “That is klah!” announced Fandarel, having drunk it all.

  “Are you sure you’re a Weyrwoman?” retorted F’lar, extending his cup with a sly smile. To Terry he said, “I wonder none of us realized it before, particularly in view of recent events. A man can’t fight day after day, Turn after Turn—though the Weyrs were eager to come forward—” He looked questioningly at Lessa.

  “Ah, but that was something new, exciting,” she replied. “And it was new here, too, for the Oldtimers. What isn’t new is that they have another forty-some Turns to fight Thread in our time. Some of them have had fifteen and twenty Turns of fighting Thread. We have barely seven.”

  The Smith put both hands on the table and pushed himself to his feet.

  “Talk makes no miracles. To effect an end to Thread we must get the dragons to the source. Terry, pour a cup of that excellent klah for Wansor and let us attack the problem with good heart.”

  As F’lar rose with Lessa, F’nor’s message rustled at his belt.

  “Let me take a look at F’nor’s message, Lessa, before we go.”

  He opened the closely written pages, his eye catching the repetition of “fire lizard” before his mind grasped the sense of what he was reading.

  “Impressing? A fire lizard?” he exclaimed, holding the letter so that Lessa could verify it.

  “No one’s ever managed to catch a fire lizard,” Fandarel said.

  “F’nor has,” F’lar told him, “and Brekke, and Mirrim. Who’s Mirrim?”

  “Brekke’s fosterling,” the Weyrwoman replied absently, her eyes scanning the message as rapidly as possible. “One of L’trel’s by some woman or other of his. No, Kylara wouldn’t have liked that!”

  F’lar shushed her, passing the sheets over to Fandarel who was curious now.

  “Are fire lizards related to dragons?” asked the Craft-second.

  “Judging by what F’nor says, more than we realized.” F’lar handed Terry the last page, looking up at Fandarel. “What do you think?”

  The Smith began to realign his features into a frown but stopped, grinning broadly instead.

  “Ask the Masterherder. He breeds animals. I breed machines.”

  He saluted Lessa with his mug and strode to the wall he had been contemplating when they entered, immediately lost in thought.

  “A good point,” F’lar said with a laugh to his remaining audience.

  “F’lar? Remember that flawed piece of metal, with that garble of words? The one with the scribble like last night’s. It mentioned fire lizards, too. That was one of the few words that made sense.”

  “So?”

  “I wish we hadn’t given that plate back to Fort Weyr. It was more important than we realized.”

  “There may be more at Fort Weyr that’s important,” F’lar said, gloomily. “It was the first Weyr. Who knows what we might find if we could search there!”

  Lessa made a face, thinking of Mardra and T’ron.

  “T’ron’s not hard to manage,” she mused.

  “Lessa, no nonsense now.”

  “If fire lizards are so much like dragons, could they be trained to go between, as dragons can, and be messengers?” asked Terry.

  “How long would that take?” asked the Smith, less unaware of his surroundings than he looked. “How much time have we got this Turn?”

  CHAPTER VIII

  Midmorning at Southern Weyr

  “No, rannelly, I’ve not seen Kylara all morning,” Brekke told the old woman patiently, for the fourth time that morning.

  “And you’ve not taken a good look at your own poor queen, either, I’ll warrant, fooling around with these—these nuisancy flitterbys,” Rannelly retorted, grumbling as she limped out of the Weyrhall.

  Brekke had finally found time to see to Mirrim’s wounded brown. He was so stuffed with juicy tidbits from the hand of his overzealous nurse that he barely opened one lid when Brekke inspected him. Numbweed worked as well on lizard as on dragon and human.

  “He’s doing just fine, dear,” Brekke told the anxious girl, the greens fluttering on the child’s shoulders in response to her exaggerated sigh of relief. “Now, don’t overfeed them. They’ll split their hides.”

  “Do you think they’ll stay?”

  “With such care as you lavish on them, sweeting, they’re not likely to leave. But you have chores which I cannot in conscience permit you to shirk . . .”

  “All because of Kylara . . .”

  “Mirrim!”

  Ashamed, the girl hung her head, but she deeply resented the fact that Kylara gave all the orders and did no work, leaving her tasks to fall to Brekke. It wasn’t fair. Mirrim was very very glad that the little lizards had preferred her to that woman.

  “What did old Rannelly mean about your queen? You take good care of Wirenth. She lacks for nothing,” said Mirrim.

  “Ssssh. I’ll go see. I left her sleeping.”

  “Rannelly’s as bad as Kylara. She thinks she’s so wise and knows everything . . .”

  Brekke was about to scold her fosterling when she heard F’nor calling her.

  “The green riders are bringing back some of the meat hung in the salt caves,” she said, issuing quick instructions instead. “None of that is to go to the lizards, Mirrim. Now, mind. The boys can trap wild wherries. Their meat is as good, if not better. We’ve no idea what effect too much red-blood meat will have on lizards.” With that caution to inhibit Mirrim’s impulsive generosity, Brekke went out to meet F’nor.

  “There’s been no rider in from Benden?” he asked her, easing the arm sling across his shoulder.

  “You’d’ve heard instantly,” she assured him, deftly adjusting the cloth at his neck.
“In fact,” she added in mild rebuke, “there are no riders in the Weyr at all today.”

  F’nor chuckled. “And not much to show for their absence, either. There isn’t a beach along the coastline that doesn’t have a dragon couchant, with rider a-coil, feigning sleep.”

  Brekke put her hand to her mouth. It wouldn’t do for Mirrim to hear her giggling like a weyrling.

  “Oh, you laugh?”

  “Aye, and they’ve made a note of both occasions that I did,” she said with due solemnity, but her eyes danced. Then she noticed that the sling was missing its usual occupant. “Where’s . . .”

  “Grall is curled between Canth’s eyes, so stuffed she’d likely not move if we went between. Which I’ve half a mind to do. If you hadn’t told me I could trust G’nag, I’d swear he’d not delivered my letter to F’lar, or else he’s lost it.”

  “You are not going between with that wound, F’nor. And if G’nag said he delivered the letter, he did. Perhaps something has come up.”

  “More important than Impressing fire lizards?”

  “There could be something. Threads are falling out of phase—” Brekke broke off, she oughtn’t to have reminded F’nor of that, judging by the bleak expression on his face. “Maybe not, but they’ve got to get the Lord Holders to supply watchers and fires and it may be F’lar is occupied with that. It certainly isn’t your fault you’re not there to help. Those odious Fort riders have no self-control. Imagine taking a green out of her Weyr close to mating—” Brekke stopped again, snapping her mouth closed. “But Rannelly said ‘my queen,’ not ‘her’ queen.”

  The girl turned so white that F’nor thrust his good hand under her elbow to steady her.

  “What’s the matter? Kylara hasn’t ducked Prideth out of here when she’s due to mate? Where is Kylara, by the way?”

  “I don’t know. I must check Wirenth. Oh, no, she couldn’t be!”

  F’nor followed the girl’s swift steps through the great hanging trees that arched over the Southern Weyr’s sprawling compound.

  “Wirenth’s scarcely hatched,” he called after her and then remembered that Wirenth was actually a long time out of her shell. It was just that he tended to think of Brekke as the most recent of the Southern Weyrwomen. Brekke looked so young, much too young . . .

  She is the same age as Lessa was when Mnementh first flew Ramoth, Canth informed him.

  “Is Wirenth ready to rise?” F’nor asked his brown, stopping dead in his tracks.

  Soon. Soon. Bronzes will know.

  F’nor ticked over in his mind the bronze complement of Southern. The tally didn’t please him. Not that the bronzes were few in number, a discourtesy to a new queen, but that their riders had always contended for Kylara, whether Prideth’s mating was at stake or not. No matter whose bronze flew Wirenth, the rider would have Brekke and the thought of anyone who had vied for Kylara’s bed favor making love to Brekke irritated the brown rider.

  Canth’s as big or bigger than any bronze here, he thought resentfully. He had never entertained such an invidious comparison before and ruthlessly put it out of his mind.

  Now, if N’ton, a clean-cut lad and a top wingrider just happened to be in Southern? Or B’dor of Ista Weyr. F’nor had ridden with the Istan when his Weyr and Benden joined forces over Nerat and Keroon. Nicely conformed bronzes, both of them, and while F’nor favored N’ton more, if B’dor’s beast flew Wirenth, she and Brekke would have the option of removing to Ista Weyr. They’d only three queens there, and Nadira was a far better Weyrwoman than Kylara, despite her coming from the Oldtime.

  Pleased with this solution, though he hadn’t a notion how to accomplish it, F’nor continued along the path to Wirenth’s sun-baked clearing.

  He paused at the edge, affected by the sight of Brekke, totally involved with her queen. The girl stood at Wirenth’s head, her body gracefully inclined against the dragon, as she tenderly scratched the near eye ridge. Wirenth was somnolent, one lid turning back enough to prove she was aware of the attention, her wedge-shaped head resting on one foreleg, her hindquarters neatly tucked under and framed by her long, graceful tail. In the sun she gleamed with an orange-yellow of excellent health—a color which would very shortly turn a deeper-burnished gold. All too shortly, F’nor realized, for Wirenth had lost every trace of the fatty softness of adolescence; her hide was sleek and smooth, not a blemish to suggest imperfect care. She was an extremely well-proportioned dragon; not one bit too leggy, short-tailed or wherry-necked. Despite her size, for she was easily the length of Prideth, she had a more lithesome appearance. She was one of the best bred from Ramoth and Mnementh.

  F’nor frowned slightly at Brekke, subtly changed in her dragon’s presence. She seemed more feminine—and desirable. Sensing him, Brekke turned, and the languid look of adoration for her queen made her radiant face almost embarrassing to F’nor.

  He hastily cleared his throat. “She’ll rise soon, you realize,” he said, more gruffly than he intended.

  “Yes, I think she will, my beauty. I wonder how that will affect him,” Brekke asked, her expression altering. She stepped to one side and pointed to the tiny bronze tucked between Wirenth’s jaw and forearm.

  “Can’t tell, can we?” F’nor replied and, with another series of throat-clearings, covered his savagery at the thought of Brekke mating any of the bronze riders at Southern.

  “You’re not sickening with something, are you?” she asked with concern and was abruptly transformed back into the Brekke he knew best.

  “No. Who’s going to be the lucky rider?” he heard himself asking. It was a civil enough question. He was, after all, F’lar’s Wing-second and had a right to be curious about such matters. “You can ask for an open flight, you know,” he added defensively.

  She turned pale and leaned back against Wirenth. As if for comfort.

  As if for comfort, F’nor repeated the observation to himself, and remembered, with no relief, the way Brekke had looked at T’bor the day before. “It doesn’t matter if the rider’s already attached, you know, not in a first mating.” He blurted it out, then realized like the greenest dolt that that was stupid. Brekke’d know exactly what Kylara’s reaction would be if T’bor’s Orth flew Wirenth. She’d know she would have no peace at all. He groaned at his ineptitude.

  “Your arm is hurting?” she asked, solicitous.

  “No. Not my arm,” and he stepped forward, gripping her shoulder with his good hand. “Look, it’d be better if you called for an open flight. There are plenty of good bronzes. N’ton of Benden Weyr, B’dor of Ista Weyr. Both are fine men with good beasts. Then you could leave Southern . . .”

  Brekke’s eyes were closed and she seemed to go limp in his grasp.

  “No! No!” The denial was so soft he barely heard it. “I belong here. Not—Benden.”

  “N’ton could transfer.”

  A shudder went through Brekke’s body and her eyes flew open. She slipped away from his grip.

  “No, N’ton—shouldn’t come to Southern,” she said in a flat voice.

  “He’s got no use for Kylara, you know,” F’nor continued, determined to reassure her. “She doesn’t succeed with every man, you know. And you’re a very sweet person, you know.”

  With a shift of mood as sudden as any of Lessa’s, Brekke smiled up at him.

  “That’s nice to know.”

  And somehow F’nor had to laugh with her, at his own blundering interference, at the notion of him, a brown rider, giving advice to someone like Brekke, who had more sense in her smallest finger than he.

  Well, he was going to get a message to N’ton and B’dor anyhow. Ramoth would help him.

  “Have you named your lizard?” he asked.

  “Berd. Wirenth and I decided. She likes him,” Brekke replied, smiling tenderly on the sleeping pair. “Although it’s very confusing. Why do I have a bronze, you a queen and Mirrim three?”

  F’nor shrugged and grinned at her. “Why not? Of course, once we tell them that’s not
how it’s done, they may conform to time-honored couplings.”

  “What I meant was, if the fire lizards—who seem to be miniature dragons—can be Impressed by anyone who approaches them at the crucial moment, then fighting dragons—not just queens who don’t chew firestone anyhow—could be Impressed by women, too.”

  “Fighting Thread is hard work. Leave it to men.”

  “You think managing a Weyr isn’t hard work?” Brekke kept her voice even but her eyes darkened angrily. “Or plowing fields and hollowing cliffs for Holds? And . . .”

  F’nor whistled. “Why, Brekke, such revolutionary thoughts from a craftbred girl? Where women know there’s only one place for them . . . Oh, you’ve got Mirrim in mind as a rider?”

  “Yes. She’d be as good or better than some of the male weyrlings I know,” and there was such asperity in Brekke’s voice that F’nor wondered just which boys she found so lacking. “Her ability to Impress three fire lizards indicates . . .”

  “Hey—backwing a bit, girl. We’ve enough trouble with the Oldtimers as it is without trying to get them to accept a girl riding a fighting dragon! C’mon, Brekke. I know your fondness for the child and she seems a good intelligent girl, but you must be realistic.”

  “I am,” Brekke replied, so emphatically that F’nor looked at her in surprise. “Some riders should have been crafters or farmers—or—nothing, but they were acceptable to dragons on Hatching. Others are real riders, heart and soul and mind. Dragons are the beginning and end of their ambition. Mirrim . . .”

  A dragon broke into the air above the Weyr, trumpeting.

  “F’lar!” With such a wingspan, it could be no other.

  F’nor broke into a run, motioning Brekke to follow him to the Weyr landing field.

  “No. You go. Wirenth’s waking. I’ll wait.”

  F’nor was relieved that she preferred to stay. He didn’t want her to come out with that drastic theory in front of F’lar, particularly when he wanted his half-brother to shift N’ton and B’dor here for her sake. Anything to spare Brekke the kind of scene Kylara would throw if T’bor’s Orth flew Wirenth.