The Dragonriders of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  Lessa’s jaw dropped in amazement and she continued to stare at Robinton with wide-open eyes. Then she nodded, closing her mouth and moistening her lips.

  “So you’ll be more yourself then, too.” Robinton poured a cup of wine and passed it to her. Still bemused by his startling attitude, she even sipped it. “And able to realize that the worst catastrophe that could happen to this world would be for dragon to fight dragon.”

  Lessa set the cup down then, spilling wine on the stone table. “You . . . with your clever words . . .” and she pointed at Robinton, rising from the chair like an uncoiling spring. “You . . .”

  “He was right, Lessa,” F’lar said from the entrance where he’d been watching the scene. He walked into the room, toward the table where Lessa sat. “We only had cause to invade Southern to search for our egg. Once it was returned, we would be damned by all Pern to pursue vengeance.” He spoke to her but his eyes had gone to each Weyrleader and Craftmaster to judge their reactions. “Once dragon fights dragon, for whatever reason,” his gesture wiped away any possible consideration, “we, the dragonriders of Pern, lose the rest of Pern!”

  He gave Lessa a long hard look which she returned with frozen implacability. Squarely he faced the room. “I wish with all my heart that there’d been some other solution that day at Telgar for T’ron and T’kul. Sending them to the Southern Continent seemed to be the answer. There they could do the rest of Pern scant harm . . .”

  “No, just us—just Benden!” Lessa spoke with palpable bitterness. “It’s T’ron and Mardra, trying to get back at you and me!”

  “Mardra would not favor a queen to depose her,” said Brekke, who did not turn aside when Lessa whirled on her.

  “Brekke’s right, Lessa,” F’lar said, putting his hand on Lessa’ s shoulder with apparent casualness. “Mardra wouldn’t like competition.”

  Robinton could see the pressure of the Weyrleader’s fingers whitening his knuckles, although Lessa gave no sign.

  “Neither would Merika, T’kul’s Weyrwoman,” said D’ram, the Istan Weyrleader, “and I knew her well enough to speak with surety now.”

  More than any of the others in this room, Robinton thought that the Oldtimer felt this turn of events most keenly. D’ram was an honest, loyal, fair-minded man. He had felt compelled to support F’lar against those of his own Time. By such backing, he had influenced R’mart and G’narish, the other Oldtime Weyrleaders, to side with the Benden Weyr at Telgar Hold. So many undercurrents and subtle pressures abounded in this chamber, Robinton thought. Whoever had conceived of kidnapping the queen egg might not have succeeded in that stratagem, but they had effectively shattered the solidarity of the dragonriders.

  “I can’t tell you how badly I feel about this, Lessa,” D’ram continued, shaking his head. “When I heard, I couldn’t believe. I just don’t understand what good such an action would do them. T’kul’s older than I. His Salth couldn’t hope to fly a Benden queen. For that matter, none of the dragons in the South could fly a Benden queen!”

  D’ram’s puzzled comment did as much as Robinton’s pointed remarks to ease the multiple strains in the Council Room. Unconsciously D’ram had supported Robinton’s contention that an oblique compliment had been paid Benden Weyr.

  “Why, for that matter, by the time the new queen was old enough to fly to mate,” D’ram added as if he’d just realized it, “their bronzes would likely be dead. Eight Southern dragons have died this past Turn. We all know that. So they tried to steal an egg for nothing . . . for nothing.” His face was lined with tragic regret.

  “Not for nothing,” Fandarel said, his voice heavy with sadness. “For just look at what has happened to us who have been friends and allies for how many Turns? You dragonriders,” his great forefinger stabbed at them, “were a fingernail away from setting your beasts against the old ones at Southern.” Fandarel shook his head slowly from side to side. “This has been a terrible, terrible day! I am sorry for all of you.” His gaze rested longest on Lessa. “But I think I am sorrier for myself and Pern if your anger doesn’t cool and your good sense return. I will leave you now.”

  With great dignity he bowed to each of the Weyrleaders and their women, to Brekke and last to Lessa, trying to catch her eyes. Failing, he gave a little sigh and left the room.

  Fandarel had clearly stated what Robinton wanted to be sure Lessa heard and understood—that the dragonriders stood in grave peril of losing control over Hold and Craft if they permitted their outrage and indignation to control them. Enough had been said, in the heat of the moment, in front of those Holders summoned to the Weyr during the crisis. If no further action was to be taken now that the egg had been returned, no Holder or Craftmaster could fault Benden.

  But how was anyone to get through to that stubborn Lessa, sitting there wallowing in fury and determined on a disastrous course of revenge? For the first time in his long Turn as Masterharper of Pern, Robinton was at a loss for words. Enough that he had lost Lessa’s goodwill already! How could he make her see reason?

  “Fandarel has reminded me that dragonriders can have no private quarrels without far-reaching effect,” F’lar said. “I permitted insult to overcome sanity once. Today is the result.”

  D’ram’s bowed head came up and he stared fiercely at F’lar, then shook his head vigorously. There were murmured disclaimers from other dragonriders, that F’lar had acted in all honor at Telgar.

  “Nonsense, F’lar,” Lessa said, roused from her immobility. “That wasn’t a personal fight. You had to fight T’ron that day to keep Pern together.”

  “And today I cannot fight T’ron, or the other Southerners, or I won’t keep Pern together!”

  Lessa stared back at F’lar for another long moment and then her shoulders sagged as she reluctantly accepted that distinction.

  “But . . . if that egg does not hatch, or if the little queen is in any way damaged . . .”

  “If that should happen, we will certainly review the situation,” F’lar promised her, raising his right hand to honor the condition.

  Fervently Robinton hoped that the little hatchling would prove healthy and vigorous, not a whit the worse for its adventuring. By the Hatching, he ought to have some information that might appease Lessa and save F’lar’s now pledged honor.

  “I must return to Ramoth,” Lessa announced. “She needs me.” She strode from the room, past dragonriders who deferentially moved aside.

  Robinton looked at the cup of wine he had poured for her and, taking it up, downed the contents in one gulp. His hand was trembling as he lowered the cup and met F’lar’s gaze.

  “We could all use a cup,” F’lar said, gesturing the others to gather about while Brekke, rising quickly to her feet, began to serve them.

  “We will wait until the Hatching,” the Benden Weyrleader went on. “I don’t think I have to suggest that you all take precautions against a similar occurrence.”

  “None of us have any clutches hardening right now, F’lar,” said R’mart of Telgar Weyr. “And none of us have Benden queens!” He had a sly twinkle in his eye as he glanced toward the Harper. “So, if eight of their beasts died this past Turn, I make it that there are now two hundred and forty-eight dragonriders left, and only five bronzes. Who brought the egg back?”

  “The egg is back: that’s all that matters,” F’lar said, then half-emptied his cup at the first swallow. “Though I am deeply grateful to that rider.”

  “We could find out,” N’ton said quietly.

  F’lar shook his head. “I’m not sure I want to know. I’m not sure we need to know—just as long as that egg hatches a live and kicking queen.”

  “Fandarel has his finger in the sore,” Brekke said, moving gracefully to refill cups. “Just look what has happened to those of us who have been friends and allies for many Turns. I resent that more than anything else. And,” she looked at everyone in turn, “I also resent the antagonism for all fire-lizards because some few, who were only being loyal to their friends
, had a part in this hideous affair. I know I’m prejudiced,” she smiled sadly, “but I have so much reason to be grateful to our little friends. I would like to see sense prevail as regards them, too.”

  “We’ll have to go softly on that score, Brekke,” F’lar said, “but I have taken your point. Much was said this morning in the heat and confusion that was not meant to stand!”

  “I hope so. I sincerely hope so,” said Brekke. “Berd keeps telling me that dragons have flamed fire-lizards!”

  Robinton let out a startled exclamation. “I got that wild notion from Zair, too, before I sent him to stay in your weyr, Brekke. But no dragon flamed here . . .” He looked about at the other Weyrleaders, some of whom were agreeing with Brekke’s remark, others expressing concern over such an unlikely occurrence.

  “Not yet . . .” Brekke said, nodding significantly toward Ramoth’s weyr.

  “Then we must make sure that the queen is not further upset by any sight of fire-lizards,” F’lar said, his glance sweeping around the room for agreement. “For the time being,” he added, raising his hand to stop the half-formed protests. “It is the better part of wisdom for them not to be seen or heard right now. I know they’ve been useful, and some are proving to be very reliable messengers. I know many of you have them. But direct them to Brekke if it is absolutely necessary to send them here.” He looked directly at Robinton.

  “Fire-lizards do not go where they are not welcome,” Brekke said. Then she added with a wry smile to take the sting out of her comment: “They’re scared out of their hides right now anyway.”

  “So we do nothing until the egg has Hatched?” N’ton asked.

  “Except to assemble the girls found on Search. Lessa will want them here as soon as possible, to accustom Ramoth to their presence. We’ll all assemble again for the Hatching, Weyrleaders.”

  “A good Hatching,” D’ram said with a fervor that was sincerely seconded by everyone.

  Robinton half-hoped that F’lar might hold him back as the others dispersed. But F’lar was in conversation with D’ram, and Robinton sadly decided that his absence would be appreciated. It grieved Robinton to be at odds with the Benden Weyrleaders and he felt weary as he made his way back to the Weyr entrance. Still, F’lar had supported Robinton’s plea for deliberation. As he reached the last turning of the corridor, he saw Mnementh’s bronze bulk on the ledge, and he hesitated, suddenly reluctant to approach Ramoth’s mate.

  “Don’t fret so, Robinton,” N’ton said, stepping to his side and touching his arm. “You were so right and wise to speak out as you did, and probably the only one who could stop Lessa’s madness. F’lar knows it.” N’ton grinned. “But he does still have to contend with Lessa.”

  “Master Robinton,” F’nor’s voice was low as if he didn’t wish to be overheard, “please join Brekke and me in my Weyr. N’ton, too, if you’re not pressed to return to Fort Weyr.”

  “I can certainly, spare any time you need today,” the younger bronze rider replied with cheerful compliance.

  “Brekke will be right along.” Then the wing second led the way across the Bowl, unnaturally silent except for the moans and mutters that issued in muffled echoes from Ramoth in the Hatching Ground. On his ledge, Mnementh swung his great head constantly so that every portion of the rim was scrutinized.

  No sooner had the men entered the Weyr than they were assaulted by four hysterical fire-lizards that had to be petted and reassured that no dragon would flame them—a fear which seemed to be common and persistent.

  “What is this large, darkness that I get from Zair’s images?” Robinton asked when he had caressed his little bronze into a semblance of order. Zair shivered frequently and, whenever the Harper’s gentle strokes lapsed, the bronze pushed imperiously at the negligent hand.

  Meanwhile Berd and Grall were perched on F’nor’s shoulders, stroking his cheeks, their eyes bright yellow with anxiety and still whirling at a frantic rate. “When they’re calmer, Brekke and I will try to sort the whole thing out. I get the impression that they are remembering something.”

  “Not something like the Red Star?” N’ton asked. At his unfortunate reference, Tris, who had been lying quietly on his forearm, began to bat his wings and the others squealed in fright. “I’m sorry. Calm down, Tris.”

  “No, not something like that,” F’nor said. “Just something . . . something they remembered.”

  “We do know that they communicate instantly with one another and apparently broadcast anything seen that is strongly felt or experienced,” Robinton said, picking his words as he vocalized his thoughts. “So this could be evidence of a mass reaction. But picked up from which fire-lizard or fire-lizards? However, Grall and Berd, and certainly that little creature of Meron’s, could not have known through one of their own kind that the . . . you know what . . . was dangerous to them. So how did they know to the point of hysterics? How could it be something they remembered?”

  “Runner beasts seem to know when to avoid treacherous ground . . .” N’ton offered.

  “Instinct.” Robinton pondered. “Could be instinct.” Then he shook his head. “No, avoiding treacherous ground is not the same use of an instinctive fear: that’s a generality. The . . . R-E-D-S-T-A-R,” he spelled letter by letter, “is a specific. Ah, well!”

  “Fire-lizards are basically gifted with the same skills as dragons. Dragons, however, have no memories to speak of.”

  “Which, let us fervently hope,” F’nor said, raising his eyes toward the ceiling, “wipes out what happened today in record time.”

  “Lessa does not suffer that gift,” Robinton said with a heavy sigh.

  “She’s not stupid either, Masterharper,” N’ton said, adroitly reaffirming his respect for the man by the use of his title. “Nor is F’lar. Just worried. They’ll both come round and appreciate your intervention today.” Then N’ton cleared his throat and looked the Masterharper squarely in the eyes. “Do you know who took the egg?”

  “I had heard that something was being planned. I knew, which would have been obvious to anyone counting Turns, that the Southern men and dragons are slowing with age, and desperate. I’ve had only the experience of Zair wanting to mate . . .” Robinton paused, remembering that astounding revival of desires he had thought himself well past, shrugged and met the understanding twinkle in N’ton’s eyes. “So I can appreciate the pressures that randy brown and bronze dragons can exert on their riders. Even a willing green, young enough to be flown, would help . . .” He looked questioningly at the two dragonriders.

  “Not after today,” F’nor said emphatically. “If they’d approached one of the Weyrs . . . D’ram for instance,” he glanced at N’ton for corroboration, “perhaps a green would have gone, if only to prevent something disastrous. But to attempt to solve their problems by kidnapping a queen egg?” F’nor frowned. “How much do you know, Robinton, about what goes on down in the Southern Weyr? I know I gave you all the maps I’d made when I was timing it in the South.”

  “Frankly, I know more about happenings in the Hold. I did get a message from Piemur recently that the dragonriders had been more private than is their custom. They don’t mix much with holders, following the pattern of their own Time, but a certain amount of coming and going into the Weyr was permitted. That ceased abruptly and then no holders were allowed near the Weyr. Not for any reason. Nor was there much flying done. Piemur says the dragons would be seen midair and then they’d pop between. No circling, no cruising. Just going between.”

  “Timing it,” F’nor said thoughtfully.

  Zair squeaked piteously and Robinton soothed him. Again the fire-lizard inserted in his mind the image of dragons flaming fire-lizards: the black nothingness, and a glimpse of an egg.

  “Did you both get that picture, too, from your friends?” he asked, though their startled expression made the question unnecessary.

  Robinton pressed Zair for a clearer image, a view of where the egg was, and received nothing but the impression of flame an
d fear.

  “I wish they’d a bit more sense,” Robinton said, forcing down his irritation. Tantalizing to be so close, thwarted by the limited scope of fire-lizard vision.

  “They’re still upset,” F’nor said. “I’ll try with Grall and Berd later on. I wonder if Menolly’s getting the same reaction from hers. You might ask her when you’ve got back to the Harpercrafthall, Master Robinton. With ten, she might get that much more clarity.”

  Robinton agreed as he rose, but thought of one last thing. “N’ton, weren’t you among the bronzes who went to Southern Weyr, to see if the egg had been taken there?”

  “I was. The Weyr was deserted. Not even an old dragon left behind. Completely deserted.”

  “Yes, that would follow, wouldn’t it?”

  When Jaxom and Menolly, on Ruth, entered the air above Fort Hold, Ruth called his name to the watchdragon and was almost smothered by fire-lizards. They so impeded his progress that he dropped a few lengths before he could get them to give him wing room. The moment he landed, the fire-lizards swarmed over him and his riders, keening with anxiety.

  Menolly called out reassurances as fire-lizards clung to her clothing, got tangled in her hair. Jaxom found two trying to sit on his head, several had tails wrapped around his neck and three were beating their wings frantically to remain at eye level with him.