The Dragonriders of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  “No one else’ll help you. I will!” he cried and kicked the shell.

  A crack appeared. Two more stout blows and the crack widened. A piteous cry inside was followed by the bright tip of the dragonet’s nose, which battered at the tough shell.

  “You want to get born. Just like me. All you need is a little help, same as me,” Jaxom was crying, pounding at the crack with his fists. Thick pieces fell off, far heavier than the discarded shells of the other hatchlings.

  “Jaxom, what are you doing?” someone yelled at him but it was too late.

  The thick inner membrane was visible now and this was what had been impeding the dragonet’s emergence. Jaxom ripped the slippery stuff open with his belt knife and, from the sac, fell a tiny white body, not much larger than Jaxom’s torso. Instinctively Jaxom reached out, helping the backstranded creature to its feet.

  Before F’lar or anyone could intervene, the white dragon had raised adoring eyes to the Lord of Ruatha Hold and Impression had been made.

  Completely oblivious to the dilemma he had just originated, the incredulous Jaxom turned to the stunned observers.

  “He says his name is Ruth!”

  CHAPTER XV

  Evening at Benden Weyr:

  Impression Banquet

  It had been like coming up out of the very bowels of the deepest hold, thought Brekke. And Berd had shown her the way. She shuddered again at the horror of memory. If she slipped back down . . .

  Instantly she felt F’nor’s hand tighten on her arm, felt the touch of Canth’s thoughts and heard the chitter of the two fire lizards.

  Berd had led her out of the Ground to F’nor and Manora. She’d been surprised at how tired and sad they both looked. She’d tried to talk but they’d hushed her. F’nor had carried her up to his weyr. She smiled now, opening her eyes, to see him bending over her. Brekke put her hand up to the dear, worried face of her lover; she could say that now, her lover, her Weyrmate, for he was that, too. Deep lines from the high-bridged nose pulled F’nor’s mouth down at the corners. His eyes were darkly smudged and bloodshot, his hair, usually combed in crisp clean waves back from his high forehead, was stringy, oily.

  “You need cozening, love,” she said in a low voice which cracked and didn’t seem to be hers at all.

  With a groan that was close to a sob, F’nor embraced her. At first as if he were afraid of hurting her. Then, when he felt her arms tightening around him—for it was good to feel his strong back under her seeking hands—he almost crushed her until she cried out gladly for him to be careful.

  He buried his lips in her hair, against her throat, in a surfeit of loving relief.

  “We thought we’d lost you, too, Brekke,” he said over and over while Canth crooned an exuberant descant.

  “It was in my mind,” Brekke admitted in a tremulous voice, burrowing against his chest, as if she must get even closer to him. “I was trapped in my mind and didn’t own my body. I think that’s what was wrong with me. Oh, F’nor,” and all the grief that she’d not been able to express before came bursting out of her, “I even hated Canth!”

  The tears poured down her cheeks and shuddering sobs shook a body already weakened by fasting. F’nor held her to him, patting her shoulders, stroking her until he began to fear that the convulsions would tear her apart. He beckoned urgently to Manora.

  “She’s got to cry, F’nor. It’ll be an easing for her.”

  Manora’s anxious expression, the way she folded and unfolded her hands, was strangely reassuring to F’nor. She, too, cared about Brekke, cared enough to let concern pierce that imperturbable serenity. He’d been so grateful to Manora for opposing a re-Impression, though he doubted his blood mother knew why he’d be against it. Or perhaps she did. Manora in her calm detachment missed few nuances or evasions.

  Brekke’s frail body was trembling violently now, torn apart by the paroxysm of her grief. The fire lizards took to fluttering anxiously and Canth’s croon held on a distressed note. Brekke’s hands opened and closed pathetically on his shoulders but the tearing sobs did not permit her to speak.

  “She can’t stop, Manora. She can’t”

  “Slap her.”

  “Slap her?”

  “Yes, slap her,” and Manora suited actions to words, fetching Brekke several sharp blows before F’nor could shield her face. “Now into the bathing pool with her. The water’s warm enough to relax those muscles.”

  “You didn’t have to slap her,” F’nor said, angrily.

  “She did, she did,” said Brekke in a ragged gasp, shuddering as they bundled her into the warm pool water. Then she felt the heat penetrate and relax muscles knotted by racking sobs. As soon as she felt Brekke’s body easing, Manora dried her with warmed towels and gestured for F’nor to tuck her back under the furs.

  “She needs feeding up now, F’nor. And so do you,” she said, looking sternly at him. “And you are kindly remember that you’ve duties to others tonight. It’s Impression Day.”

  F’nor snorted at Manora’s reminder and saw Brekke smiling wanly up at him.

  “I don’t think you’ve left me at all since . . .”

  “Canth and I needed to be with you, Brekke,” he cut in when she faltered. He smoothed her hair back from her forehead as if such an action were the most important occupation in the world. She caught his hand and he looked into her eyes.

  “I felt you there, both of you, even when I wanted most to die.” Then she felt anger in her guts. “But how could you force me onto the Hatching Ground, to face another queen?”

  Canth grumbled a protest She could see the dragon through the uncurtained archway, his head turned toward her, his eyes flashing a little. She was startled by the unhealthy green tinge to his color.

  “We didn’t want to. That was F’lar’s idea. And Lessa’s. They thought it might work and they were afraid we’d lose you.”

  The empty ache she tried not to remember threatened to become a hole down which she must go if only to end that tearing, burning pain of loss.

  No, cried Canth.

  Two warm lizard bodies pressed urgently against her neck and face, affection and worry so palpable in their thoughts it was like a physical touch.

  “Brekke!” The terror, the yearning, the desperation in F’nor’s cry were louder than the inner roaring and pushed it back, dispersed its threat.

  “Never leave me! Never leave me alone. I can’t stand being alone even for a second,” Brekke cried.

  I am here, said Canth, as F’nor’s arms folded hard around her. The two lizards echoed the brown’s words, the sound of their thoughts strengthening as their resolve grew. Brekke clung to the surprise of their maturity as a weapon against that other terrible pain.

  “Why, Grall and Berd care,” she said.

  “Of course they care.” F’nor seemed almost angry that she’d doubt it.

  “No, I mean, they say they care.”

  F’nor looked into her eyes, his embrace less fiercely possessive. “Yes, they’re learning because they love.”

  “Oh, F’nor, if I hadn’t Impressed Berd that day, what would have happened to me?”

  F’nor didn’t answer. He held her against him in loving silence until Mirrim, her lizards flying in joyous circles around her, came briskly into the weyr, carrying a well-laden tray.

  “Manora had to attend to the seasoning, Brekke,” the girl said in a didactic tone. “You know how fussy she is. But you are to eat every bit of this broth, and you’ve a potion to drink for sleeping. A good night’s rest and you’ll be feeling more yourself.”

  Brekke stared at the young girl, watching in a sort of bemusement while Mirrim deftly pushed F’nor out of her way, settled pillows behind her patient, a napkin at her throat, and began to spoon the rich wherry broth to Brekke’s unprotesting lips.

  “You can stop staring at me, F’nor of Benden,” Mirrim said, “and start eating the food I brought you before it gets cold. I carved you a portion of spiced wherry from the breast, so don�
�t waste prime servings.”

  F’nor rose obediently, a smile on his face, recognizing the child’s mannerisms as a blend of Manora and Brekke.

  To her own surprise, Brekke found the broth delicious, warming her aching stomach and somehow satisfying a craving she hadn’t recognized until now. Obediently she drank the sleeping potion, though the fellis juice did not entirely mask the bitter aftertaste.

  “Now, F’nor, are you going to let poor Canth waste away to a watch-wher?” Mirrim asked as she began to settle Brekke for the night. “He’s a sorry shade for a brown.”

  “He did eat—” F’nor began contritely.

  “Ha!” Mirrim sounded like Lessa now.

  I’ll have to take that child in hand, Brekke thought idly, but an enervating lassitude had spread throughout her body and movement was impossible.

  “You get that lazy lump of brown bones out of his couch and down to the Feeding Ground, F’nor. Hurry it up. They’ll be out to feast soon and you know what a feeding dragon does to commoner appetites. C’mon now. You, Canth, get out of your weyr.”

  The last thing Brekke saw as F’nor obediently followed Mirrim out of the sleeping room was Canth’s surprised look as she bore down on him, reached for his ear and began to tug.

  They were leaving her, Brekke thought with sudden terror. Leaving her alone . . .

  I am with you, was Canth’s instant reassurance.

  The two lizards, one on each side of her head, pressed lovingly against her.

  And I, said Ramoth. I, too, said Mnementh and, mingled with those strong voices, were others, soft but present.

  “There,” said Mirrim with great satisfaction as she reentered the sleeping room. “They’ll eat and come right back.” She moved quietly around the room, turning the shields on the glow baskets so that the room was dark enough for sleeping. “F’nor says you don’t like to be left alone so I’ll wait until he comes back.”

  But I’m not alone, Brekke wanted to tell her. Instead, her eyes closed and she fell into a deep sleep.

  As Lessa looked around the Bowl, at the tables of celebrants lingering long past the end of the banquet, she experienced a wistful yearning to be as uninhibited as they. The laughter of the hold and craftbred parents of the new riders, the weyrlings themselves fondling their hatchlings, even the weyrfolk, was untinged by bitterness or sorrow. Yet she was aware of a nagging sadness, which she couldn’t shake, and had no reason to feel.

  Brekke was herself, weak but no longer lost to reason; F’nor had actually left the girl long enough to eat with the guests; F’lar was recovering his strength and had come to realize that he must delegate some of his new responsibilities. And Lytol, the most distressing problem since Jaxom had Impressed that little white dragon—how could that have happened?—had managed to get roaring drunk, thanks to the tender offices of Robinton who had matched him drink for drink.

  The two were singing some utterly reprehensible song that only a Harper could know. The Lord Warder of Ruatha Hold kept falling out of tune, though the man had a surprisingly pleasant tenor voice. Somehow, she’d have thought him a bass; he had a gloomy nature and bass voices are dark.

  She toyed with the remains of the sweet cake on her platter. Manora’s women had outdone themselves; the fowls had been stuffed with fermented fruits and breads, and the result was a remission of the “gamy” taste that wherry often had. River grains had been steamed so that each individual morsel was separate and tender. The fresh herbs must have come from Southern. Lessa made a mental note to speak to Manora about sneaking down there. It simply wouldn’t do to have an incident with T’kul. Maybe N’ton had gathered them when he went on his “grubbing” expeditions. She’d always liked the young bronze rider. Now that she’d got to know him better . . .

  She wondered what he and F’lar were doing. They’d left the table and gone to the Rooms. They were always there these days, she thought irritably. They must be cleaning the grubs’ orifices. Could she, too, slip away? No, she’d better stay here. It wasn’t courteous for both Weyrleaders to absent themselves on such an auspicious occasion. And people ought to be leaving soon.

  What were they going to do about young Jaxom? She looked around, locating Jaxom easily by the white hide of his dragon in the group of weyrlings watering their beasts by the lakeside. The beast had charm, true, but had he a future? And why Jaxom? She was glad that Lytol could get drunk tonight, but that wouldn’t make tomorrow easier for the ex-dragonrider to endure. Maybe they ought to keep that pair here, until the beast died. The consensus was that Ruth would not mature.

  At the other end of the long “high” table were Larad, Lord of Telgar, Sifer of Bitra, Raid of Benden Hold, and Asgenar of Lemos with Lady Famira (she really did blush all the time). The Lemos Hold pair had brought their fire lizards—fortunately a brown and a green—which had been the object of much overt interest by Lord Larad, who had a pair hardening on his hearth, and covert inspection by old Raid and Sifer of Bitra, who also had eggs from F’nor’s last find. Neither older Lord Holder was entirely sure of the experiment with fire lizards but they had watched the Lemos pair all evening. Sifer had finally unfrosted enough to ask how to care for one. Would this influence their minds in the matter of Jaxom and his Ruth?

  By the Egg, they couldn’t want to disrupt the territorial balance because Jaxom had Impressed a sport dragon that hadn’t a chance in Threadfall of surviving! How could you make an honorific out of Jaxom? J’om, J’xom? Most weyrwomen chose names for their sons that could be contracted decently. Then Lessa was amused to be worrying over how to shorten a name, a trivial detail in this dilemma. No, Jaxom must remain at Ruatha Hold. She’d relinquished her Bloodright on Ruatha Hold to him, Gemma’s son, because he was Gemma’s son and had at least some minute quantity of Ruathan Blood. She certainly would contest the Hold going to any other Bloodline. Too bad Lytol had no sons. No, Jaxom must remain as Lord Holder at Ruatha.. Just like men to make a piece of work over something so simple. The little beast would not survive. He was too small, his color—who ever heard of a white dragon?—indicated other abnormalities. Manora’d mentioned that white-skinned, pink-eyed child from Nerat Hold who hadn’t been able to endure daylight. A nocturnal dragon?

  Obviously Ruth would never grow to full size; new-hatched, he was more like a large fire lizard.

  Ramoth rumbled from the heights, disturbed by her rider’s thoughts, and Lessa sent a hundred apologies to her.

  “It’s no reflection on you, darling,” Lessa told her. “Why, you’ve spawned more queens that any other three. And the largest of their broods is no better than the smallest of yours, love.”

  Ruth will prosper, Ramoth said.

  Mnementh crooned from the ledge and Lessa stared up at them, their eyes glowing in the shadows over the glow-lit Bowl.

  Did the dragons know something she didn’t? They often seemed to these days, and yet, how could they? They never cared about tomorrow, or yesterday, living for the moment. Which was not a bad way to live, Lessa reflected, a trifle enviously. Her roving eyes fastened on the white blur of Ruth. Why had those two Impressed? Didn’t she have troubles enough?

  “Why should I mind? Why should I?” demanded Lytol suddenly in a loud, belligerent voice.

  The Harper beamed up at him in an idiotish way. “Tha’s what I say. Why should you?”

  “I love the boy. I love him more than if he were flesh and blood of me, of me, Lytol of Ruatha Hold. Proved I love him, too. Proved I care for him. Ruatha’s rich. Rich as when the Ruathan Bloodline ruled it. Undid all Fax’s harm. And did it all, not for me. My life’s spent. I’ve been everything. Been a dragonrider. Oh, Larth, my beautiful Larth. Been a weaver so I know the Crafts. Know the Holds now, too. Know everything. Know how to take care of a white runt. Why shouldn’t the boy keep his dragon? By the First Shell, no one else wanted him. No one else wanted to Impress him. He’s special, I tell you. Special!”

  “Now, just a moment, Lord Lytol,” Raid of Benden said, rising from his e
nd of the table and stalking down to confront Lytol. “Boy’s Impressed a dragon. That means he must stay in the Weyr.”

  “Ruth’s not a proper dragon,” Lytol said, neither speaking nor acting as drunk as he must be.

  “Not a proper dragon?” Raid’s expression showed his shock at such blasphemy.

  “Never been a white dragon ever,” Lytol said pontifically, drawing himself up to his full height. He wasn’t much taller than the Lord Holder of Benden but he gave the impression of greater stature. “Never!” He appeared to feel that required a toast but found his cup empty. He managed to pour wine with creditable deftness for a man swaying on his feet. The Harper motioned wildly for his own glass to be filled but had trouble keeping it steady under the flow of wine.

  “Never a whi’ dragon,” the Harper intoned and touched cups with Lytol.

  “May not live,” Lytol added, taking a long gulp.

  “May not!”

  “Therefore,” and Lytol took a deep breath, “the boy must remain in his Hold. Ruatha Hold.”

  “Absolutely must!” Robinton held his cup high, more or less daring Raid to contradict him.

  Raid favored him with a long inscrutable look.

  “He must remain in the Weyr,” he said finally, though he didn’t sound as definite.

  “No, he must come back to Ruatha Hold,” said Lytol, steadying himself with a firm grip on the table edge. “When the dragon dies, the boy must be where obligations and responsibilities give him a hold on life. I know!”

  To that Raid could give no answer, but he glowered in disapproval. Lessa held her breath and began to “lean” a little on the old Lord Holder.

  “I know how to help the boy,” Lytol went on, sinking slowly back into his chair. “I know what is best for him. I know what it is to lose a dragon. The difference in this case is that we know Ruth’s days are numbered.”