The White Dragon

by Anne McCaffrey

  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.

  Just as they reached the entrance, a bronze dragon appeared above the Star Stones, bugling. The watchdragon replied. Jaxom noticed that everyone had stopped stock still to hear the exchange. Shells and shards, but they were nervous here in Benden. He wondered who had arrived.

  The Weyrleader from Ista, Ruth told him.

  D’ram? It wasn’t incumbent on other Weyrleaders to attend Hatchings, though generally, unless Threadfall was imminent in their own area, they did come—especially to Benden. Jaxom had already spotted N’ton, R’mart of Telgar Weyr, G’narish of Igen, T’bor of the High Reaches among those gathered. Then he remembered the Masterharper’s talk about D’ram’s Weyrwoman, Fanna. Was she worse?

  When they reached the Council Chamber, Nicat parted from him. Jaxom took one look at Lessa, seated in the Weyrwoman’s huge stone chair, her face intense in its frown, and he quickly moved to the far corner of the room. Her keen eyes wouldn’t be able to spot the score on his cheek at that distance.

  This was not to be a large meeting, the Harper had said. Jaxom watched the Mastercraftsmen file in, the other Weyrleaders, the major Lord Holders, but there were no Weyrwomen or wing-seconds except for Brekke and F’nor.

  D’ram arrived in the company of F’lar and a younger man Jaxom didn’t recognize though he wore wing-second colors. If Jaxom had been upset by the glimpse of the Masterharper’s ageing, he was shocked by the change in D’ram’s appearance. The man seemed to have shrunk in the past Turn to a husk, dried up and frail. The Istan Weyrleader’s step was jerky and his shoulders rounded.

  Lessa rose in one of her swift graceful gestures and went to meet the Istan, her hands outstretched, her expression unexpectedly compassionate. Jaxom had had the impression that she had been totally immersed in her brooding. Now, all her attention was centered on D’ram.

  “We’re all assembled as you asked, D’ram,” Lessa said, pulling him to the chair beside her and pouring him a cup of wine.

  D’ram thanked her for the wine and welcome, took a sip but, instead of seating himself, he turned to face the meeting. Jaxom could see that his face was marred by lines of fatigue as well as of age.

  “Most of you already know my situation and Fanna’s . . . illness,” he said in a low hesitant voice. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath. “I wish to step down now as Istan Weyrleader. None of our queens is due to mate but I have no heart to continue longer. My Weyr has agreed. G’dened,” and D’ram indicated the man who had accompanied him, “has led the past ten Falls on his Barnath. I should have stepped down sooner but . . .” he shook his head, smiling sadly, “we so hoped the illness would pass.” He straightened his shoulders with an effort. “Caylith is oldest queen and Cosira a good Weyrwoman. Barnath has flown Caylith already and there’s been a large strong clutch to prove them.” Now he hesitated, glancing warily at Lessa. “It was the custom in the Oldtime, when a Weyr was leaderless, to throw open the first queen’s flight in that Weyr to all young bronzes. In this fashion a new leader was fairly chosen. I would invoke that custom now.” He said it almost belligerently and yet his manner toward Lessa was entreating.

  “You must be very sure of G’dened’s Barnath then,” R’mart of Telgar Weyr said in a disgusted tone of voice that rose over the startled murmurs.

  G’dened, grinning broadly, managed to avoid meeting anyone’s glance.

  “I want the best leadership for Ista,” D’ram said stiffly, resenting R’mart’s implication of a token flight. “G’dened has proved his competence to my satisfaction. But he ought to prove it to everyone’s.”

  “That’s fairly put.” F’lar rose to his feet, holding up his hands for silence. “I don’t doubt G’dened has a good chance, R’mart, but D’ram’s offer is exceedingly generous at this critical time. I’ll inform all my bronze riders but I, for one, will permit only those whose dragons haven’t yet had a chance to mate with a queen. I don’t think it’s fair to pile too many odds against Barnath, now is it?”

  “Isn’t Caylith a Benden queen?” Lord Corman of Keroon Hold asked.

  “No, she’s one of Mirath’s laying. Pirith is the Benden Hatched queen.”

  “Caylith’s an Oldtimer queen?”

  “Caylith is an Istan queen,” F’lar said firmly but quickly.

  “And G’dened?”

  “I was born in the old time,” the man said in a quiet voice but the expression he turned to Lord Corman bore no trace of apology.

  “He is also a son of D’ram,” Lord Warbret of Ista Hold said, speaking directly to Lord Corman as if that qualification should ease the Holder’s tacit objection.

  “Good man. Good blood,” Corman replied, not at all ruffled.

  “His leadership is in question, not his bloodline,” F’lar said. “The custom is a good one . . .”

  Jaxom clearly heard someone remark that it was the only good Oldtime custom he’d ever heard about, and he hoped that the low whisper hadn’t carried far.

  “D’ram would be within his right to keep to the Weyr for leadership,” F’lar continued, addressing the craftmasters and Lord Holders. “I, for one, deeply appreciate his offer and the willingness of the Weyr to open the mating flight.”

  “I only want the best leadership for my Weyr,” D’ram repeated. “This is the only way to be certain Ista gets it. The only way, the only right way.”

  Jaxom suppressed the urge to cheer and glanced about the room, willing the reactions to be favorable. All the Weyrleaders seemed to agree. As they should, since one of their riders might gain from it. Jaxom hoped th
at G’dened’s Barnath would fly Caylith anyhow. That would prove there was good metal in the younger Oldtimers. No one would be able to say anything against Ista leadership once it was proved by competition!

  “I have stated Ista’s intention,” D’ram said, raising his tired voice over the murmur of individual conversations. “It is the will of my Weyr. I must go back now. My duty to you, Lords, Masters, Weyrleaders, all.”

  He gave a quick sweeping nod to everyone, bowed more formally to Lessa, who rose, touched his arm in sympathy and let him pass.

  To Jaxom’s surprise and elation, everyone rose as D’ram left, but the Istan Weyrleader’s head remained down. Jaxom wondered if he’d been aware of that spontaneous show of respect and felt a lump rise in his throat.

  “I will take my leave as well, in case I’m needed,” G’dened said, bowing formally to Benden’s leaders and the others.

  “G’dened?” Lessa incorporated a wealth of question in his name.

  The man shook his head slowly. “I will inform all the Weyrs when Caylith is ready to fly.” He quickly followed D’ram.

  As the sound of his footsteps diminished down the corridor, voices began to rise. The Lord Holders weren’t certain they approved of such an innovation. The Craftmasters were apparently divided, though Jaxom rather thought Robinton had known of D’ram’s decision and was neutral. The Weyrleaders expressed complete satisfaction.

  “Hope Fanna doesn’t expire today,” Jaxom heard a Craftmaster murmur to his neighbor. “A death at a Hatching is a bad sign.”

  “Besides spoiling the feast. I wonder just how strong G’dened’s bronze is. Now if a Benden bronze rider got into Ista . . .”

  Speaking of the feast reminded Jaxom that his stomach was roiling for lack of food. He’d been up early for his training as usual, and had had no more than time to change into good clothing at his Hold so he began to sidle to the exit. He could always coax a meatroll or a sweetbread from one of the Lower Cavern women to stay his hunger.

  “Is this all the meeting there is?” Lord Begamon of Nerat Hold asked, his rasping voice falling into a momentary silence. He sounded peevish. “Haven’t the Weyrs yet found out who took the egg? Even who returned it? That’s what I thought we’d hear today.”

  “The egg was returned, Lord Begamon,” F’lar said, extending his hand to Lessa.

  “I know the egg was returned. I was right here when it happened. Was at its Hatching, too.”

  F’lar continued to lead Lessa down the length of the room.

  “This is another Hatching, Lord Begamon,” F’lar said. “A happy occasion for all of us. There will be wine below.” And the two Weyrleaders had left the room.

  “I don’t understand.” Begamon turned in confusion to the man beside him. “I thought we’d learn something today.”

  “You did,” F’nor said, guiding Brekke past him. “That D’ram is stepping down as Weyrleader at Ista.”

  “That doesn’t concern me,” Begamon was growing more, rather than less, annoyed with the replies he was getting.

  “That concerns you more than any puzzle over the egg,” F’nor said as he and Brekke left the room.

  “I think that’s all the answer you’re going to get,” Robinton said to Begamon, a wry smile on his face.

  “But . . . but aren’t they doing anything about it? They’re not just letting the Oldtimers insult them like that and not doing something?”

  “Unlike Lord Holders,” N’ton said, coming forward, “dragonriders are not free to indulge their passions or honors at the expense of their primary duty, which is to protect all of Pern from Thread. That is the important occupation of dragonriders, Lord Begamon.”

  “C’mon, Begamon,” Lord Groghe of Fort Hold said as he took the man by the arm. “It’s Weyr business, not ours, you know. Can’t interfere. Shouldn’t. They know what they’re doing. And the egg was returned. Too bad about D’ram’s woman. Hate to see him go. Sensible fellow. F’lar didn’t say but it must be Benden wine.”

  Jaxom saw Lord Groghe searching the faces about him.

  “Ah, Harper, it ought to be Benden wine here?”

  The Harper agreed and left the Council room in the company of the two Lords, Begamon still protesting the lack of information. Jaxom followed them out as the room was clearing. When he got to the base of the Weyr steps, Menolly pounced on him.

  “Well, what happened? Did they speak to him at all?”

  “Did who speak to whom?”

  “Did F’lar or Lessa address the Harper?”

  “No reason why they would.”

  “Plenty of reason why they wouldn’t. What happened?”

  Jaxom sighed for patience with her as he rapidly reviewed what had occurred.

  “D’ram came here to ask—no, to tell them that he’s stepping down as Istan Weyrleader . . .” Menolly nodded encouragingly as if this were no news to her. “And he said he was invoking an Oldtime custom to throw the first queen’s mating flight open to all bronzes.”

  Menolly’s eyes widened and she made her mouth round with surprise. “That must have rocked ’em back on their heels. Any protests?”

  “From the Lord Holders, yes.” Jaxom grinned. “From the other Weyrleaders, no. Except that R’mart made a snide remark about G’dened being so strong there’d be no contest.”

  “I don’t know G’dened, but he’s a son of D’ram’s.”

  “That doesn’t always mean anything.”

  “True.”

  “D’ram kept saying that he wanted the best leadership for Ista Weyr and this was the way to achieve it.”

  “Poor D’ram . . .”

  “Poor Fanna, you mean.”

  “No, poor D’ram. Poor us. He was very strong as a leader. Did Master Robinton speak at all?” she asked then, throwing off her reflections on D’ram for the more important consideration.

  “He spoke to Begamon.”

  “Not to the Weyrleaders?”

  “No reason to. Why?”

  “They’ve been such close friends for so long . . . and they’re so unfair about it. He had to speak up. Dragons can’t fight dragons.”

  To which Jaxom stoutly agreed, his comment echoed by a rumble from his stomach so audible that Menolly glared at him. Jaxom was torn between embarrassment and amusement at such an internal betrayal. The laughter won and, even as he apologized to Menolly, he could see that the incident had triggered her sense of the ridiculous.

  “Oh, come on. I won’t get any sense out of you until you’ve eaten.”

  It was not the most memorable of Hatching feasts nor particularly merry. A restraint touched the dragonriders. Jaxom did not try to figure out how much was due to D’ram’s resignation or how much to the theft of the egg. He preferred not to hear any more about that. He was uncomfortable in Menolly’s company because he couldn’t put aside his feeling that she knew he’d brought the egg back. The fact that she said nothing about her suspicions worried him more because he also felt that she was leaving him in suspense on purpose. He didn’t particularly wish to share a table with F’lessan and Mirrim, who might notice the Threadscore. Benelek was not his choice of a companion at any time and he certainly wouldn’t have been at ease taking the place at the main tables to which his rank entitled him. Menolly had been dragged away from him by Oharan, the Weyr’s Harper, and he could hear them singing. Had there been new music he might have stayed by them, just to be part of some group. But the Lord Holders were asking for their favorite songs and so were the proud parents of boys who had Impressed.

  Ruth was enjoying the emotional feast of the newly Hatched dragons but he did miss the ministrations of the fire-lizards.

  They don’t like being cooped up in Brekke’s weyr, Ruth told his rider. Why can’t they come out? Ramoth’s asleep with a very full belly. She wouldn’t even know.

  “Don’t be too sure of that,” Jaxom said, glancing up at Mnementh, curled on the queen’s ledge, his softly glowing eyes bright points on the other side of the darkening Weyr
Bowl.

  The outcome was that he and Ruth left the feast as soon after eating as courtesy permitted. While they were circling in to Ruatha Hold Jaxom began to worry about Lytol. His guardian would be extremely upset when Fanna died and her queen suicided. He wished he didn’t have to bring the news of D’ram’s resignation. He knew that Lytol respected the Oldtimer. He wondered what Lytol’s reaction would be to the open mating flight.

  Lytol merely grunted, gave a sharp nod of his head and asked Jaxom if any further development over the theft of the egg had been discussed. For Jaxom’s recital of Lord Begamon’s complaint, Lytol issued another sort of grunt, disgusted and contemptuous. Then he asked if there were any fire-lizard eggs available; two more small holders had been pressing him for eggs. Jaxom said he’d ask N’ton in the morning.

  “Considering the bad odor of fire-lizards, I wonder anyone wants them,” the Fort Weyrleader remarked the next day when Jaxom told him his errand. “Or maybe that’s why there’s so many requests. Everyone is convinced no one else will want ’em, so they get in there now. No, I don’t have any. But I wanted to speak with you. Fort Weyr flies with the High Reaches Weyr tomorrow during the northernly Fall. If it were over Ruatha, I’d ask you to join the weyrling wing. As it is, I’d better not. Can you understand?”

  Jaxom allowed that he could, but did N’ton mean that he would be able to fight Ruth the next time Thread was over Ruatha?

  “I discussed it with Lytol.” N’ton grinned, his eyes twinkling. “Lytol’s reasoning is that you’d be so far above ground no Ruathan would realize his Lord Holder was risking his life and word wouldn’t get back to Benden.”

  “I risk my life and limbs far more surely on the ground with that flamethrower crew.”

  “Quite likely, but we still don’t want someone blurting the truth out to Lessa and F’lar. I’ve had a good report of you from K’nebel. Ruth is all you told me he could be—fast, clever and unusually quick in the air.” N’ton grinned again. “Between you and me, K’nebel says the little beast changes direction on his tail. His chief concern is that some of the others might get the notion that their dragons can do the same thing, and we’d have riders coming adrift.”