The Dragonriders of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Do try to keep out of the Weyrleaders’ sight. They’d know at a glance what that was,” Lytol said. “No sense advertising your folly.”

  Jaxom privately thought the scar gave him a more mature appearance but he promised Lytol he’d stay well away from Lessa and F’lar.

  Jaxom rather enjoyed Hatchings, more so when Lytol was not present. He felt guilty about that but he knew that, at each Hatching, painful memories of Lytol’s beloved Larth tortured the man.

  News of the imminent Hatching came to Fort Weyr while Jaxom was flying wing tip in weyrling Fall practice. He finished the maneuver, begged the weyrlingmaster’s pardon and took Ruth between to Ruatha so that he could change into proper clothing. Lytol along with Menolly’s Rocky reached him at the same moment and requested that he collect Menolly, since Robinton was already at Ista Weyr with the Harperhall’s dragon and rider.

  Jaxom put a good face on the request since he could think of no excuse to refuse. Well, he’d hurry her out of the Hall and into the Weyr so quickly that she wouldn’t have time to ask any questions.

  When he and Ruth arrived at the Harpercrafthall, Ruth bellowing his name to the watchdragon on the fire-heights, Jaxom became furious. Why, there were enough Fort Weyr dragons on the meadow to take half the Hall. Why hadn’t she asked one of them? He was determined that she wouldn’t have a chance to nag at him and asked Ruth peremptorily to tell her fire-lizards that he was here and waiting in the meadow. He had barely formed the words in his mind when Menolly came dashing out of the archway toward him, Beauty, Rocky and Diver chittering in circles above her head. She began shrugging into her riding jacket, awkwardly juggling something from one hand to the other.

  “Get down, Jaxom,” she ordered imperiously. “I can’t do it when your back’s to me.”

  “Do what?”

  “This!” She held up one hand to show him a small pot. “Get down.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t be dense. You’re wasting time. This is to cover that scar. You don’t want Lessa and F’lar to see it, do you, and ask awkward questions? Come down! Or we’ll be late. And you’re not supposed to time it, are you?” She added the last comment as he still hesitated, not altogether reassured by her altruism.

  “I’ve got my hair brushed over—”

  “You’ll forget and push it back,” she said, gesturing him to do so now as she unscrewed the pot lid. “I got Oldive to make some without scent. There. Only takes a dab.” She had applied it to his face and then brushed the residue on the skin of his wrist above his glove. “See? It blends in.” She stared critically at him. “Yes, that does the trick. No one would ever know you’ve been scored.” Then she chuckled. “What does Corana think of your scar?”

  “Corana?”

  “Don’t glare at me. Get up on Ruth. We’ll be late. Very clever of you, Jaxom, to cultivate Corana. You’d’ve made a good harper with your wits.”

  Jaxom mounted his dragon, furious with her but determined not to rise to her lure. It was just like her to find out such things, hoping to aggravate him. Well, she wasn’t going to succeed.

  “Thanks for thinking of the salve, Menolly,” he said when he got his voice under control. “It certainly wouldn’t do to annoy Lessa right now, and I do have to be at this Hatching.”

  “Indeed you do.”

  Her tone was loaded but he’d no time to figure out what she meant as Ruth took them up and, with no further direction, between to Benden Weyr. No, he wouldn’t let her rouse him. But she was bloody clever, this Harper girl.

  Ruth came out of between midsyllable. “. . . uth. I’m Ruth. I’m Ruth.”

  Which reminded Jaxom and he twisted his head about to look at Menolly’s left shoulder.

  “Don’t worry. They’re safely in Brekke’s weyr.”

  “All of them?”

  “Shells, no, Jaxom. Only Beauty and the three bronzes. She may be mating soon and the boys won’t leave her alone for a moment,” Menolly chuckled again.

  “Are all that clutch spoken for?”

  “What? Count the eggs before they’re laid? Not at all!” Menolly sounded repressive. “Why? You don’t want one, do you?”

  “Not I.”

  Menolly burst out laughing at his telling rejoinder and he groaned. Well, let her have her laugh.

  “What would I do with a fire-lizard?” he went on to settle her. “I promised Corana I’d see if I could get one for her. She’s been very . . . kind to me, you know.” He was rewarded by the sound of Menolly’s gulp of surprise.

  Then she smacked him across the shoulder blade with her closed fist and he winced, then ducked away from her.

  “Leave off, Menolly! I’ve a score on that shoulder, too.” He spoke with more irritation than he meant and then cursed himself for reminding her of what he avoided mentioning.

  “I am sorry, Jaxom,” she said with such contrition that Jaxom was mollified. “How much scoring did you get?”

  “Face, shoulder and thigh.”

  She caught at his other shoulder. “Listen! They’re thrumming wildly. And, look, there are candidates entering the Hatching Ground. Can we fly right in?”

  Jaxom directed Ruth in through the upper entrance of the Hatching Ground. Bronzes were still bearing visitors to the Ground. As Ruth entered, Jaxom found his gaze going immediately to the spot by the arch where he and Ruth had transferred to return the egg. He felt a sudden surge of pride at his feat.

  “I see Robinton, Jaxom. There on the fourth tier. Near the Istan colors. Would you sit with us, Jaxom?” There was an entreaty in her tone, and a slight emphasis that puzzled Jaxom. Who wouldn’t want to sit with the Masterharper of Pern?

  Ruth angled close to the tier, catching at the ledge with his claws and hovering long enough to permit Menolly and Jaxom to dismount.

  As Jaxom settled his tunic before seating himself, he got a good long look at Master Robinton. He could understand Menolly’s entreaty. The Harper seemed different. Oh, he had greeted Jaxom and Menolly brightly enough with a smile for his journeyman and a buffet on the shoulder for Jaxom but he had turned back to his own thoughts which, to judge by his expression, were sad. The Masterharper of Pern had a long face, generally mobile with quick expressions and reaction. Now, while the Harper apparently watched the progress of the young candidates as they moved across the warm sands of the Hatching Ground, his face was lined, his deep-set eyes shadowed with fatigue and worry, the skin of his cheeks and chin sagged. He looked old, tired, and bereft. Jaxom was appalled and looked quickly away, avoiding Menolly’s gaze because his thoughts must have been all too apparent to the observant Harper girl.

  Master Robinton old? Tired, worried, yes. But aging? A cold emptiness assailed Jaxom’s innards. Pern deprived of the humor and wisdom of the Master Harper? Even harder to contemplate was being without his vision and eager curiosity. Resentment replaced the sense of loss as Jaxom found himself, loyal to Robinton’s precepts, trying to rationalize this wave of unpalatable reflection.

  An urgent thrumming brought his attention back to the Hatching Ground. He’d been to enough Hatchings to realize that Ramoth’s presence, when there was no queen egg, was unusual; her attitude was daunting. He wouldn’t have wanted to brave her red whirling eyes, or the stabs of her head as she kept poking toward the oncoming candidates. Instead of fanning out so that they loosely circled the rocking eggs, the boys were in a tight group, as if that way they stood a better chance against her attentions.

  “I don’t envy them,” Menolly said to Jaxom in an undertone.

  “Will she let them Impress, sir?” Jaxom asked the Harper, momentarily forgetting his awareness of the man’s mortality.

  “You’d think she was inspecting each one to see if he smelled of the Southern Weyr, wouldn’t you?” the Harper replied, his voice light with humor.

  Jaxom glanced at him and wondered if there hadn’t been some unflattering trick of lighting for the Harper grinned with mischief, very much his customary self.

  “I�
��m not sure I’d care for such a scrutiny right now,” he added, giving his left eyebrow a quirk upward.

  Menolly coughed, her eyes dancing. Jaxom supposed they’d been South recently and wondered what they had learned.

  Shells, he thought, in a sudden sweaty panic, the Southerners knew that none of them had returned the egg. Suppose Robinton had found that out?

  An angry hiss from the Hatching Ground brought such a reaction from the audience that Jaxom quickly transferred his attention. One of the eggs had split, but Ramoth had moved so protectively over it that none of the candidates dared approach. Mnementh bellowed from his ledge outside and the bronzes within thrummed. Ramoth’s head went up, her wings, shimmering gold and green, extended and she warbled a defiant answer. The other bronzes answered her in conciliating tones but Mnementh’s bugle was clearly an order.

  Ramoth is very upset, Ruth said to Jaxom. The white dragon had discreetly retired to a sunny spot by the Bowl lake. His absence did not keep him from knowing what was happening within the Ground. Mnementh tells her she is being silly. The eggs must Hatch; the Hatchlings must make Impression. Then she will not have to worry about them again. They will be safe with men.

  The croon of the bronzes deepened and Ramoth, still protesting an inevitable cycle of life, stepped slowly away from the eggs. Whereupon one of the older boys who had bravely led the first rank bowed formally to her and then stepped up to the split egg from which a young bronze was emerging, squealing as it tried to balance itself on wobbly legs.

  “That boy has good presence of mind,” Robinton said, nodding his approbation. He was intent on the scene below. “Just what Ramoth needed, that courtesy. Her eyes are slowing and she’s retracting her wings. Good. Good!”

  Following the example set, two more of the older candidates bowed to Ramoth and moved quickly toward eggs that had begun rocking violently with the efforts of the Hatchlings to pierce their shells. If subsequent obeisances were jerky or skimped, Ramoth had been mollified although she emitted curious little barks as each dragonet made its Impression.

  “Look, he got the bronze! He deserved him!” Robinton said, applauding, as the newly linked pair moved toward the entrance of the Ground.

  “Who’s the lad?’ Menolly asked.

  “From Telgar Hold; he’s got the build and coloring of the old Lord—and his wits.”

  “Young Kirnety from Fort Hold has another bronze,” Menolly reported, delighted. “I told you he’d do it.”

  “I have been wrong before and will be again, my dear girl. Infallibility would be a bore,” Master Robinton replied equably. “Are there any lads here from Ruatha, Jaxom?”

  “Two, but I can’t recognize them from this angle.”

  “It’s a good-sized clutch,” Robinton replied. “Plenty to choose from.”

  Jaxom was watching five boys who had circled one large egg covered with green splotches. He caught his breath as the dragonet’s head emerged, turning to look at each of the boys as it shook shell fragments from its body. “And many boys disappointed,” Jaxom said as the little brown dragon pushed past the, five boys, out into the sands, crooning piteously, swinging its head from side to side. What if, Jaxom thought with a pang of cold in his guts, Ruth had not found me suitable? Almost all the candidates had left the Ground when he’d freed Ruth from the overhard shell.

  The searching dragonet stumbled, its nose burying into the warm sand. It righted itself, sneezed and cried again. Ramoth called out in warning and the boys nearest her retreated hurriedly. One of them, a dark-haired, long-legged lad whose bony knees were scarred, almost stumbled over the little brown. He caught himself with a wild flailing of his arms, started to back away and then halted, staring at the brown dragon. Impression occurred!

  I was there. You were there. We are now together, said Ruth, responding to Jaxom’s emotion at that scene. Jaxom blinked away an excess of moisture that collected in his eyes at that reaffirmation of their bond.

  “It’s all over so soon,” Menolly said, her voice petulant with regret. “I wish it wouldn’t all happen in such a rush!”

  “I’d say we’d had quite an afternoon,” Robinton stated, gesturing toward Ramoth. The queen was now glowering at the retreating pairs and shifting from foreleg to foreleg.

  “D’you suppose now that they’re all safely Hatched and Impressed, her temper will improve?” Menolly asked.

  “And Lessa’s as well?” Robinton’s lips twitched to suppress his amusement. “No doubt once Ramoth can be persuaded to eat, both will feel more charitable.”

  “I hope so.” Menolly’s reply was low and fervent, not meant, Jaxom thought, to be heard by Robinton, for the Harper had turned to the back of the tiers, evidently looking for someone.

  Robinton had heard, however, and gave his journeyman a warm grin. “Too bad we can’t postpone this meeting until the happy restoration has occurred.”

  “Can’t I come with you this once?”

  “To protect me, Menolly?” The Harper gripped her by the shoulder, smiling affectionately. “No, it’s not a general meeting and I cannot offend by including you.”

  “He can come . . .” Menolly jerked her thumb at Jaxom, glaring at him with resentment.

  “I can what?”

  “You hadn’t learned from Lytol that a meeting’s been called after the Impression?” the Harper asked. “Ruatha must attend.”

  “They couldn’t exclude you as Masterharper,” said Menolly in a tight voice.

  “Why would they?” Jaxom asked, surprised by Menolly’s uncharacteristic defensiveness.

  “Because, you dim glow . . .”

  “That’s enough, Menolly. I appreciate your concern, but all things come to pass in the fullness of time. My head is neither bloodied or bowed. Once Ramoth has killed, I’ll have no fear of being dragon bait, either.” Robinton patted her shoulder reassuringly.

  The queen was making her way out of the Hatching Ground and, as they watched, she took wing.

  “There, you see. She’s gone to feed,” the Harper said. “I have nothing to fear anymore.”

  Menolly gave him a long sardonic look. “I just wish I could be with you, that’s all.”

  “I know. Ah, Fandarel.” The Harper raised his voice and waved to catch the eye of the big Mastersmith. “Come, Lord Jaxom, we’ve business in the Council Chamber.”

  This must be what Lytol had meant by his being required to attend the Hatching. But oughtn’t Lytol to have been there if the meeting was as important as Menolly intimated? Jaxom was flattered by his guardian’s confidence.

  The two Masters, having met on their way down the tiers, attached other Craftmasters who nodded greetings with more solemnity than a Hatching generally occasioned. Menolly’s hint that this was to be an unusual meeting was reinforced. Again Jaxom wondered that Lytol was not here. He had, Jaxom knew, agreed to support Robinton.

  “Thought Ramoth was going to prevent Impression for a moment there,” Fandarel said, nodding at Jaxom. “Hear you’ve deserted me for your favorite pastime, huh, lad?”

  “Training only, Master Fandarel. All dragons must learn to chew firestone.”

  “Upon my soul,” Masterminer Nicat exclaimed. “Never thought he’d live long enough to do that.”

  Jaxom caught the Masterharper’s warning expression as he was about to reply with some heat, and rephrased his answer. “Ruth is very good at it, thank you.”

  “One forgets the passage of time, Master Nicat,” Robinton said, smoothly, “and that growth and maturity come to those we remember first as very young. Ah, Andemon, how are you today?” The Harper beckoned to the Masterfarmer to join them as they made their way across the hot sands.

  Nicat fell in beside Jaxom, chuckling. “Teaching the little white to chew firestone, huh? That wouldn’t happen to be why some of our supplies appear short in the morning?”

  “Master Nicat, I’m training at Fort Weyr and have all the firestone Ruth needs there.”

  “Training at Fort Weyr, are you?�
� Nicat’s grin widened as his eye flicked to Jaxom’s cheek, stayed and moved on. “With dragonriders, huh, Lord Jaxom?” There was the barest stress of the title before Nicat looked ahead at the steps up to the queen’s weyr and the ledge where Mnementh generally perched.

  The bronze had gone off to watch his queen feed in the meadow below. Jaxom looked for the white hide of Ruth by the lake and felt his dragon’s mental presence.

  “Good Hatching, with a nice bit of suspense for starters, huh?” Nicat said conversationally.

  “Did you have any lads on the Ground today?” Jaxom asked politely.

  “Only one this time. Two lads had already gone to Telgar’s last Hatching so no complaints. No complaints. Although, if you’ve a clutch of fire-lizard eggs going a-begging, I wouldn’t say no to a couple.”

  Nicat’s gaze was guileless, and it certainly would be no hair off his hide if Jaxom chose to teach Ruth to chew firestone and had appropriated sacks from the mines.

  “We’ve none presently, but you never can tell when a clutch’ll be found.”

  “I only mention it in passing. They’re pure death for those pesky, ruinous tunnel snakes, not to mention being very clever about discovering gas pockets we don’t smell. And gas pockets is about all we’re mining at present.”

  The Masterminer sounded depressed and worried. Jaxom wondered what was in the air these days to produce such a general atmosphere of anxiety and sorrow. He’d always liked Master Nicat and, during their lessons in the mines, had come to respect the short heavyset craftmaster whose face was still black-pored from working as an apprentice below the ground. As they climbed the stone steps to the queen’s weyr, Jaxom wished again that he wasn’t bound by that promise to N’ton not to time it. He had too many demands on ordinary daytime to risk a hop between to the Southern beaches although Ruth might be lucky enough to locate a clutch quickly. He would like to oblige Master Nicat; he’d also like to find an egg for Corana. It also wouldn’t hurt to indulge the disgruntled Tegger, who might have learned how to keep a fire-lizard now. But there was no way, short of timing it, that Jaxom could complete a trip south right now.