The Dragonriders of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Don’t think of it, dear heart.” F’lar squeezed her hand. “It didn’t happen.”

  “When Mnementh called me, I don’t think I’ve ever moved so fast. I fell off the ledge onto Ramoth’s back. Bad enough trying to get here before T’kul tried to kill you, but to find Robinton . . . If only you’d killed T’ron at Telgar Hold . . .”

  “Lessa!” He gripped her fingers so tightly she winced. “T’ron’s Fidranth was very much alive at Telgar Hold. I couldn’t cause his death no matter what insult T’ron had given me. T’kul I could kill with pleasure. Though I admit, he nearly had me. Our Harper’s not the only one who’s Turning old.”

  “So, thank goodness, are whoever’s still left of the Oldtimers in Southern. And now, what are we to do with them?”

  “I will go south and take charge of the Weyr,” D’ram said. He’d entered, quiet with weariness, while they were talking. “I am, after all, an Oldtimer . . .” He gave a deep sigh. “They will accept from me what they would not endure from you, F’lar.”

  The Benden Weyrleader hesitated, appealing as this offer was. “I know you’re willing, D’ram, but if it’s going to overset you . . .”

  D’ram raised his hand to cut off the rest of the sentence. “I’m fitter than I thought. Those quiet days in the cove worked a miracle. I will need help . . .”

  “Any help we can give . . .”

  “I’ll take you at your word. I’ll need some greens, preferably from R’mart at Telgar, or G’narish at Igen, for there are none to spare here at the moment. If they, too, are Oldtime, it will be easier for the Southerners. I’ll need two younger bronzes, and enough blues and browns to make up two fighting wings.”

  “The Southern dragonriders haven’t fought Thread in Turns,” F’lar said with contempt.

  “I know that. But it’s time they did. That would give the dragons who remain purpose and strength. It would give their riders hope and occupation.” D’ram’s face was stern. “I learned things from B’zon today that grieve me. I have been so blind . . .”

  “The fault is not yours, D’ram. Mine was the decision to send them south.”

  “I have honored that decision because it was the right one, F’lar. When . . . when Fanna died . . .” he got the words out in a rush, “I should have gone to the Southern Weyr. It would not have been disloyal to you if I had and it might have . . .”

  “I doubt it,” Lessa said, angry that D’ram was blaming himself. “Once T’kul plotted to steal a queen egg . . .” and she gestured her condemnation of the man.

  “If he had come to you . . .”

  Lessa’s harsh expression did not alter. “I doubt that T’kul would have come,” she said slowly. An expression of distaste crossed her mobile features and she made a sound of annoyance before she looked at D’ram again; this time her expression was rueful. “And I’d have probably sent him about his business. But you,” she pointed her finger at D’ram, “wouldn’t have. And I imagine that F’lar would also have been more tolerant.” She grinned at her weyrmate. “It wasn’t in T’kul’s nature to beg,” she went on more briskly. “Nor in mine to forgive! I will never forgive the Southerns for stealing Ramoth’s egg! When I think they brought me to the point where I was willing to set dragon against dragon! That I can never forgive!”

  D’ram drew himself up. “Do you disagree, Weyrwoman, with my decision to go south?”

  “Great Shells, no!” She was astonished, and then shook her head. “No, D’ram, I think you’re wise and kind, more generous than I could ever be. Why, that idiot T’kul might have killed F’lar today! No, you must go. You’re quite right about their accepting you. I don’t think I ever realized what might be happening in the South. I didn’t want to!” she added in candid acknowledgment of her own shortcomings.

  “Then I may invite additional riders to join me?” D’ram looked first at her and then at F’lar.

  “Ask anyone you want from Benden, except F’nor. It wouldn’t be fair to ask Brekke to return to Southern.”

  D’ram nodded.

  “I think the other Weyrleaders will help. This matter touches the honor of all dragonriders. And . . .” F’lar broke off, cleared his throat, “and we do not want the Lord Holders precipitously taking charge in the South on the grounds that we cannot maintain order in the Weyrs.”

  “They’d never . . .” D’ram began, frowning with indignation.

  “They well might. For other very valid reasons—to their ways of thinking,” F’lar replied. “I know,” he paused to emphasize that surety, “that the Southerns under T’kul and T’ron would never permit the Lord Holders to extend their holdings one dragonlength. Toric’s settlement has been steadily growing over the past Turns, a few people now and then, craftsmen, the dissatisfied, a few young holder sons without hope of land in the North. All very quietly, so as not to alarm the Oldtimers.” F’lar rose, restlessly pacing. “This isn’t common knowledge . . .”

  “I knew that there were traders north and south,” said D’ram.

  “Yes, part of the problem. Traders talk, and word has passed back that there’s a lot of land south. Granted some of this may be exaggeration but I’ve reason to believe that the Southern Continent is probably as large as this one—and one protected against Thread by thorough grubbing.” He paused again, rubbing forefinger and thumb down the lines from nose to chin, scratching absently under his jaw. “This time, D’ram, the dragon-riders will have first choice of land. In the next Interval, I do not intend that any dragonrider will be beholden to the generosity of Hold and Craft. We will have our own places, without prejudice. I, for one, will never beg wine or bread or meat from anyone!”

  D’ram had listened, at first with surprise and then with a gleam of delight in his tired eyes. He straightened his shoulders and with a curt nod of his head, looked the Benden Weyrleader straight in the eye.

  “You may rely on me, F’lar, to secure the South for that purpose. A grand purpose! By the First Shell, that’s a superb notion. That lovely land, soon dragonrider land!”

  F’lar gripped D’ram’s arm, affirming the trust. Then his face broke into a sly smile. “If you hadn’t volunteered to go south yourself, D’ram, I was going to suggest it to you! You’re the only man to handle the situation. And I don’t envy you!”

  D’ram chuckled at the Benden Weyrleader’s admission and returned the arm grip firmly. Then his expression cleared.

  “I have grieved for my weyrmate as is proper. But I still live. I liked being in that cove, but it wasn’t enough. I was relieved when you came after me, and kept me busy, F’lar. It doesn’t answer to give up the only life I’ve known. I couldn’t. Dragonmen must fly / when Threads are in the sky!” He sighed once more, inclined his head respectfully to Lessa and then, turning smartly on his heel, strode from the Weyr, his step firm, his stance proud.

  “D’you think he can manage it, F’lar?”

  “He’s more likely to pull it off than anyone . . . except possibly F’nor. But I can’t ask that of him. Or of Brekke!”

  “I should think not!” She spoke sharply and, with a little cry as if regretting her asperity, she ran to embrace him. He put his arms about her, absently stroking her hair.

  There are too many deep lines in his face, now, thought Lessa, lines that she hadn’t noticed before. His eyes were sad, his lips thin with worry as he gazed after D’ram. But the muscles in his arm were as strong as ever, and his body lean and hard with the active life he led. He’d been fit enough to preserve his skin against a madman. There’d only been one time when weakness had frightened F’lar—just after that knife fight at Telgar, when his wound had been slow to heal and he’d been sick with fever from foolishly going between. He’d learned a lesson then and had started delegating some of the strain of leadership to F’nor and T’gellan in Benden, to N’ton and R’mart in Pern, and to Lessa herself! Keenly sensible of her deep need of him, Lessa embraced F’lar fiercely.

  He smiled down at her sudden demonstration, the tired l
ines smoothed away.

  “I’m with you, dear heart, don’t worry!” He kissed her soundly enough to leave her no room for doubt of his vitality.

  The sound of boot heels thudding rapidly down the short corridor interrupted them and they moved apart. Sebell, face flushed from running, charged into the room, checking his pace when Lessa signaled him urgently to be quieter.

  “He’s all right?”

  “He’s asleep now, but see for yourself, Sebell,” Lessa replied and gestured toward the curtained sleeping chamber.

  Sebell rocked on his heels, wanting to reassure himself with a glimpse of his Master and anxious with fear he might disturb him.

  “Go on, man.” F’lar waved him forward. “Just be quiet.”

  Two fire-lizards winged into the room, squeaked when they saw Lessa and disappeared.

  “I didn’t know you had two queens.”

  “I don’t,” Sebell said, glancing over his shoulder to see where they’d gone. “The other one’s Menolly’s. She wasn’t allowed to come!” His grimace told both Weyrleaders how Menolly had reacted to that restriction.

  “Oh, tell them to come back. I don’t eat fire-lizards!” Lessa said, curbing her irritation. She didn’t know which annoyed her more, the fire-lizards themselves, or the way people cringed about her when the subject came up. “And that little bronze of Robinton’s showed a commendable amount of common sense today. So tell Menolly’s queen to come back. If the fire-lizard sees, she’ll believe!”

  Smiling with intense relief, Sebell held up his arm. Two queens popped in, eyes huge and whirling madly in their perturbation. One of them, Lessa didn’t know whose, since they all looked alike to her, chirped as if in thanks. Then Sebell, careful not to disrupt their balance and set them squeaking, walked with exaggerated care toward the sick man’s quarters.

  “Sebell takes over the Harper Hall?” Lessa asked.

  “Well able for it, too.”

  “If only the dear man had had the sense to delegate more to Sebell before this . . .”

  “It’s partly my fault, Lessa. Benden has asked much of the Harper Hall.” F’lar poured himself a cup of wine, looking at Lessa to see if she wanted some as well, and poured another when she nodded. They made an unspoken toast. “Benden wine!”

  “The wine that kept him alive!”

  “Miss a cup of wine? Not Robinton!” She drank quickly to ease the pressure in her throat.

  “And he’ll drink many more skins limp,” the quiet voice of Master Oldive said. He glided to the table, a curious figure with arms and legs apparently too long for his torso until his back was visible, with its hump. His handsome face was serene as he poured himself a cup of wine, regarding the rich crimson color a moment before he raised it, as Lessa had, and drank it down. “As you said, this helped keep him alive. It’s seldom that a man’s vice sustained life in his body!”

  “Master Robinton will be all right?”

  “Yes, with care and rest. He has rallied well. His pulse and heart are beating evenly again, if slowly. He cannot be fretted by any worries. I warned him repeatedly to reduce his activities. Not that I thought he’d listen! Sebell, Silvina and Menolly have done all they could to assist, but then Menolly took ill . . . There is so much to be done for his Hall and for Pern!” Oldive smiled, his long face lighting gently as he took Lessa’s hand and put it in F’lar’s. “You can do no more here, Weyrleaders. Sebell will wait to reassure Robinton when he rouses that all is well in his Hall. Brekke and I, and the good people of this Weyr, will nurse the Masterharper. You two need rest as well. Go back to your Weyr. This day has taken its toll of many. Go!” He gave them a shove toward the passage. “Go along now!” He spoke as to recalcitrant children, but Lessa was weary enough to obey and concerned enough to override the objections she saw rising in F’lar’s eyes.

  We do not leave the Harper alone, Ramoth said as F’lar helped Lessa mount her queen. We are with him.

  All of us are with him, Mnementh said, his eyes slowly turning in quiet reassurance.

  CHAPTER XVI

  At the Cove Hold, 15.8.28–15.9.7

  When Jaxom and Sharra blurted out to Piemur the events at Ista Weyr, including the news of the Harper’s illness, the young journeyman treated them to a colorful description of his Master’s follies, shortcomings, stupid loyalties and altruistic hopes that quite stunned the listeners until they saw the tears leaking down Piemur’s cheeks.

  At that moment, Ruth returned, scaring Piemur’s runner beast into the forest. Piemur had to coax the animal, cheerfully called Stupid, to come out again.

  “He’s really not stupid, you know,” Piemur said, wiping sweat and tears from his face. “He knows that yon,” Piemur jerked his thumb surreptitiously in Ruth’s direction, “like his sort for eating.” He tested the knot on the rope with which he had secured Stupid to a tree trunk.

  I wouldn’t eat him, Ruth replied. He’s small and not very plump.

  Laughing, Jaxom passed the message to Piemur, who grinned and bowed his gratitude to Ruth.

  “I wish I could make Stupid understand that,” Piemur said with a sigh, “but it’s difficult for him to make distinctions between friendly dragons and hungry ones. As it is, his tendency to disappear into the nearest thicket when dragons come within his senses has saved my skin any number of times. You see, I’m not supposed to be doing exactly what I’ve been doing. Most of all, I’m not supposed to be caught doing it.”

  “Go on,” Jaxom urged when Piemur stopped to assess the effect of his cryptic statement. “You wouldn’t have told us this much if you didn’t intend to say more. You did mention that you’d been looking for us?”

  Piemur grinned. “Among other things.” He stretched out on the sand, grunting and making a show of settling himself. He took the cup of fruit juice Sharra handed him, quaffed the contents and held it out to be refilled.

  Jaxom regarded the young man patiently. He was used to Piemur’s mannerisms from the days they had spent together in Master Fandarel’s and the Harper Hall.

  “Did you never wonder why I left the classes, Jaxom?”

  “Menolly told me you’d been posted elsewhere.”

  “And everywhere,” Piemur replied with a broad sweep of his arm, his fingers flicking southward in emphasis. “I’ll wager that I’ve seen more of this planet than any living thing . . . including dragons!” He gave a decisive nod of his head to show the others they should be impressed. “I haven’t quite . . .” he paused to stress the qualifier, “gone all around this Southern Continent, nor have I gone across it, but I intimately know everywhere I have been!” He pointed to the worn boots on his feet. “New they were, a scant four sevendays ago when I started east. Oh, the tales these boots could tell!” He squinted at Jaxom thoughtfully. “It’s one thing, my Lord Jaxom, to soar serenely over land, seeing all from an exalted height. Quite another, I assure you, to stomp on it, through it, under it, around it. You know where you’ve been then!”

  “Does F’lar know?”

  “More or less,” Piemur replied with a grin. “A little less than more, I’d wager. You see, about three Turns back, Toric started trading north with some fine samples of iron ore, copper and tin—all of which, as you might have heard Fandarel complain, Jaxom, are getting in short supply north. Robinton thought it prudent to investigate Toric’s sources of supply. He was smart enough to send me over . . . You’re sure he’s going to be all right? You’re not holding anything from me?” Piemur’s anxiety cut through his brash manner.

  “You know as much as we know, as much as Ruth knows.” Jaxom paused to inquire of his dragon. “And Ruth says he sleeps. He also says the dragons won’t let him go.”

  “The dragons won’t let him go, huh? Don’t that beat all!” Piemur shook his head from side to side. “Not that I’m surprised, mind you,” he added with customary briskness. “The dragons know who’re their friends. Now, as I was saying, Master Robinton decided it would be very smart of us to know more about the South, since he ha
d a notion F’lar had an eye for this continent during the next Interval.”

  “How is it that you know so much about what F’lar and Robinton think?” Sharra asked.

  Piemur chortled, wagging a finger at her. “That’s for me to know and you to guess. But I’m right, aren’t I, Jaxom?”

  “I don’t know what F’lar’s plans might be but he’s not the only one interested in the South, I’d wager.”

  “Truly spoken! But he’s the only one that matters, don’t you see?”

  “No, frankly I don’t see,” Sharra said. “My brother’s Lord Holder . . . Well he is,” she added with some heat when Piemur started to contradict her. “Or would be, if his Hold had been acknowledged by the Northern Lord Holders. He risked settling south with F’nor when he timed it back. No one else was willing to try. He’s put up with the Oldtimers, and made a fine, big, Threadfree Hold. No one can gainsay his right to hold what he has . . .”

  “Nor do I!” Piemur assented quickly. “But . . . for all Toric’s attracted a lot of new people from the North, he can only Hold so much! He can only protect and work so much. And there is so much more of the Southern Continent than anyone realizes. Except me! I’ll bet I’ve already walked the breadth of Pern from Tillek Head to Nerat Tip on this continent and not gone its length.” Piemur’s tone changed abruptly from derision to awe. “There was this bay, you see, the opposite shore all but hid in the heat haze. Stupid and I had been struggling through really bad sand for two days. I’d only enough water to go back the way we’d come because I’d thought that the sand would have to give way to decent land soon. . . . I sent Farli out, first to the far shore, then down to the mouth of the bay, but all she brought back to me was more sand. So I knew I’d have to turn back. But,” he turned to his listeners, “you see, there’s probably as much land beyond that bay as I’d already transversed from Toric’s Hold and I’d still not come full circle! Toric could not begin to hold the half of, what I’ve seen. And that’s only the western side. East now, it’s taken me a full three sevendays to reach you from Toric’s and we’d had to swim part of the way. Good swimmer, that Stupid of mine! As willing as a new day and never complains. When I think of how careful my father was to feed his runner stock on only the best fodder, and what Stupid makes do on with twice the work out of him . . .” Piemur broke off to shake his head at the inequity.