Within the hour, dragons from every Weyr across the northern hemisphere of Pern had delivered all the guests invited to Benden with an alacrity that even the efficiency-obsessed Mastersmith, Fandarel, would’ve deemed remarkable.
Ramoth, the senior queen dragon in Benden Weyr, stood protectively on the hot sands of the Hatching Grounds, close to the queen egg. It had been pushed away from all the other eggs in the clutch, which were still many days away from hatching. Piemur had heard that Ramoth was the largest dragon on all of Pern, and as she stood over her egg she made an awe-inspiring sight, her golden hide gleaming with good health and the muscles of her huge body rippling with vigor and strength. Piemur couldn’t help but make a mental comparison between the queen he saw in front of him now, vibrant and powerful, and the lackluster, unhealthy state of Mardra’s queen, Loranth.
Up on the ledge of the Weyr, where all the other dragons perched, he could see F’lar’s dragon, Mnementh, who was Ramoth’s mate, watching her, his eyes an intense shade of green.
Ramoth lifted her huge, wedge-shaped head and looked around intently at her clutch, her whirling green eyes tinged with a faint shade of mauve. She was still uneasy, Piemur guessed, and no wonder: It had been a tense wait, these past few days, to see whether her most precious egg had suffered any lasting damage from its travels.
An imperceptible vibration traveled along the hot sands, and Piemur could feel the slightest of shudders coursing through the stands up to where he sat. The vibrations came from the mottled egg, which had begun to ripple with slight tremors. Without realizing it, Piemur reached out a hand and gripped Sebell’s forearm; the older harper glanced at him quickly, then back at the egg, a smile of anticipation on his face.
Ramoth turned her head to where Lessa waited, and then the Weyrwoman of Benden strode to the edge of the Hatching Ground sands and stared at her queen. Lessa’s long dark hair had been scraped back severely from her face—revealing her unusual, fine features—then plaited and twisted in a tortuously intricate weave that fell down her back in a heavy coil. The style expressed the stark frame of mind she’d been in since the theft of the egg. Her light-green robes hid her slight, wiry frame, and while there may not have been an extra pinch of flesh on Lessa’s small figure, she stood tall, taut, and ready to spring into action at any moment.
As if prompted by some silent cue, several dragons filled the air with a few short bugling bursts. It was the noise the dragons always made to warn when a new queen was about to hatch.
The egg began to tremble and rock periodically, but no dragon emerged. A low thrumming noise, not as startling as the earlier trumpeted bugling, filled the Weyr as the dragons gave voice to the imminent arrival of a new queen and the further perpetuation of their species. The massive cavern, which had been an oppressive and unwelcoming place since the theft, and only an hour beforehand had felt dark and all a-hush with suspicion and fear, now buzzed with new energy as riders, weyrfolk, and all the assembled guests waited in silent anticipation. There was an indefinable energy buzzing all around him that Piemur knew was unique to dragonkind. He felt infected by it and awash with a greater sense of his own self-purpose.
Every Hatching was an important event for the dragons and their riders. No matter that this Hatching was unprecedented, like all Hatchings it afforded each rider and dragon the opportunity to renew their own bonds, as they vicariously relived the moment when they had made Impression with their own partners. Even the other attendees, from weyrfolk to lords, crafters to drudges, had the privilege of bearing witness to another wholly uplifting and uniquely special union.
Piemur saw a flurry of activity to one side of the Grounds and wrenched his gaze from Ramoth. The Weyrlingmaster and his crew hurried to the edge of the hot sands, offering last-minute tips to the female Candidates. Ramoth stood immobile next to the egg, hissing and rumbling loudly as her head whipped about, eyeing the increasing activity that dared threaten the safety of her progeny.
The dragons’ thrumming increased in tempo and volume, adding to the sense of urgency. Only once before in the memory of any dragonrider living in the Present Pass, when Ramoth herself had hatched, did the safe Impression of a queen hold such importance to all the people of Pern. This Hatching would not culminate in the exultant celebrations enjoyed after a typical Hatching. In this situation it was best, Piemur ruminated with no little irony, not to count on anything until the egg had hatched.
The thrumming noise seemed to intensify the air of anticipation coursing around the cavern, and the sounds of excitement coming from the assembled guests rose and fell, as if on a wave.
Only ten female Candidates had been brought to Benden on Search, readied hastily when it was apparent the egg had been forced to harden, and thus hatch, before the others in the clutch. A few of the Candidates were slightly older than the others, having been added to the group at the eleventh hour when it was deemed that as much variance of choice as possible for the unique egg would be a sensible measure. It was imperative that the little dragonet, once safely hatched, made a decisive Impression.
The thrumming noise from the dragons suddenly increased in volume, all but drowning out the audience. It was the perfect cue, and an appropriate hush fell over the crowd.
Next to the egg, Ramoth hissed menacingly as the female Candidates were ushered from where they stood in the wings of the Hatching Grounds onto the hot sands. Even from his seat higher up in the tiers, Piemur could have sworn that Ramoth was scrutinizing each Candidate individually.
As tradition dictated, the Candidates were all dressed in identical plain, unbelted, white woolen robes; it was the mental energy and spirit of character that steered a dragonet toward her new lifemate, not the Candidate’s physical appearance. Encouraged by shooing motions from the Weyrlingmaster, the Candidates nervously moved farther onto the sands. It wasn’t that they didn’t want the chance of Impressing a queen dragon, but the stories they’d heard about how enraged Ramoth had been since the egg’s theft fueled their thoughts, and understandably the terrifying sight of the huge and menacing Ramoth standing in front of them now wasn’t helping. It appeared, even after all the turmoil of the egg’s theft and return, that Benden’s senior queen dragon was intent on guarding her progeny up to the very last moment. The thrumming noise from all the other dragons grew more intense as the tempo increased.
Piemur watched as Lessa left her place in the seating area and walked to the edge of the Hatching Grounds to stand opposite the Candidates, her arms crossed in front of her body. It was clear to Piemur that, between Ramoth’s hissing and darting head and Lessa’s severe countenance, the Candidates were now too scared to move any closer.
Piemur saw F’lar as he slowly stood up from his seat, scrutinizing his mate’s queen. Brushing a heavy lock of dark hair from his eyes, he hastily walked over to join his weyrmate on the hot sands. When he gently touched her arm, Lessa turned her face to look at F’lar, a deep scowl clouding her features. What F’lar had to say to her Piemur could only guess, but it aptly served its purpose for, in a rare gesture of deference, Lessa slowly lowered her crossed arms, letting them fall limply by her sides. As F’lar walked back to his seat, Lessa’s shoulders relaxed. Looking up at Ramoth, she raised one arm, then let it fall very slowly back to her side as she lowered her head, silently commanding her queen to retreat and let fate play out its plan.
Ramoth threw her huge head up toward the vaulted ceiling of the cavern as she roared loudly in defiance, pouring out all the pent-up frustration, anger, and insult she had borne over the last several days. The watching dragons abruptly ceased their instinctive thrumming. Ramoth’s head shook violently as she bellowed, sending shivers down Piemur’s back. He felt as if he understood what Ramoth was saying: that no queen dragon of Pern should ever have to fear for the safety of one of her own, not when the purpose of all dragons was so noble and selfless and true.
Her roar slowly died away and t
hen Ramoth lowered her head, shaking it again vigorously before she blew heavily through her nostrils. She looked at Lessa, eyes whirling fiercely, and then made a single soft and forlorn cry and slowly backed out of the Hatching Grounds, relinquishing her precious egg. Piemur felt a lump forming in his throat but quickly gulped it down.
As if on cue, a loud crack rang out in the cavern and the egg rocked forcefully. The hushed crowd oohed audibly at the sound, in near-perfect unison, and then quickly fell silent.
Piemur heard muffled sounds coming from the edge of the hot sands as the Weyrlingmaster flapped his arms and cajoled the ten Candidates to move toward the queen egg. Two girls, far younger than the other Candidates, clung to each other as they wept in terror. Then one of them screamed and fell down in a puff of white wool, dragging her friend with her to huddle on the hot sands in a sobbing heap. Three other Candidates bravely stepped forward, ready to present themselves to the little queen when she finally cracked through the wall of her shell. Two of them, both blond and blue-eyed with plump, pink skin, looked so similar that Piemur was certain they must be sisters or, more likely, twins. They held hands, buoying each other to be brave through that simple contact. The third Candidate was older than the twin girls, for the soft and tender look of youth had all but left her face. Her expression remained somber as she tried to maintain some degree of calm in the midst of so much fear.
The egg rocked again, harder, and a crack appeared low down along its side. The last five Candidates stood immobile in a loose circle some distance back from the egg, reluctant to take any further steps forward. No doubt they were remembering the stories of dragonets who, as they lurched about in their first moments after hatching, had inflicted deep wounds on Candidates with their razor-sharp talons, mauling them unintentionally, some with everlasting or even fatal consequences.
One girl, who had been repeatedly pushed forward from the edge of the hot sands by the dragonrider who had found her on Search, cried out as the egg rocked again. Then she turned, screaming, and ran in blind terror from the Hatching Grounds, leaving behind her one chance of becoming the lifelong partner of a queen dragon. Piemur’s heart went out to her: The loss was something she would live with for the rest of her life.
The egg cracked further and then rolled forward, leaving a large piece of shell behind on the sand. Piemur had returned his attention to the closest Candidates and saw the older one suddenly frown. She tilted her head to one side as if, Piemur reckoned, straining to hear something. She stared hard at the egg, and the twin girls moved closer, still holding hands. The older girl continued to peer intently at the egg and then, surprisingly, crouched down on her heels. Piemur saw a look of understanding wash across her face, and he moved to the edge of his seat as she dove forward toward the egg, frantically shoveling sand away from its base.
“Help me!” she cried. “She’s lying upside down and can’t move her head anymore to break free of the shell!” A rumbling of concern came from the crowd, added to the renewed thrumming of the dragons that ringed the Grounds. Piemur saw Lessa take several steps toward the Candidates and then stop, allowing the unfolding tableau to play out as it would, without any help from her.
Without hesitation, the blond girls answered the desperate plea of the older Candidate and flung themselves to their knees, helping to clear the hot sand back in a semicircular indentation at the base of the egg.
“We have to push it back!” the older girl cried. “Help me, please!”
Three pairs of hands pressed firmly against the top part of the egg and rocked it, trying to force it to roll backward. Seemingly of its own accord, the egg suddenly rocked to and fro and then settled into place, resting right-side up. But as Piemur looked on, to his horror he saw that the older Candidate had lost her footing when the egg righted itself, and fallen face-first onto the sands, her forearms trapped under the egg.
A great crack sundered the egg one last time, and the glistening, golden queen tumbled out, rolling over the fallen girl. Piemur couldn’t believe it: Was the older girl really going to be injured after she’d helped the little queen? A profound silence filled the huge cavern, and Piemur later claimed he could hear the sound of his own heart beating as every man, woman, and dragon watched with bated breath.
The twins stood stock-still, frozen in crouched positions, expressions of shock on their faces and their arms spread out wide as they stared at the little golden dragon. The other Candidates, as if released from some torpor, moved forward to form a close ring around the dragonet as she walked toward them, her tail trailing over the fallen girl, who still lay prone and quite likely injured.
A piteous warbling rolled up out of the little queen’s throat, terminating in a cry that sounded like a lament. She opened her mouth fully, her head thrown up, to reveal a fierce-looking set of teeth. She stumbled forward clumsily, moving her head from side to side, searching among the Candidates for the one she had to Impress. But where was she? Another soft cry, and then a deeply piteous moan rolled out of the queen’s throat and she turned on her haunches, knocking down four Candidates as she swung about, desperately searching among them.
Noticing that the fallen Candidate was struggling to move, one of the twins bravely ran over to help her onto her side. There was a loud intake of gasped breath from the assembled crowd. Piemur watched, transfixed, as the little queen swiveled around and turned to face the two girls, her head held low.
Caught between the little queen and the fallen Candidate, the girl who had run to help fell backward in fright, landing bottom-first. The little queen lunged, and the girl scuttled farther backward and to one side, crablike, dragging herself through the sand in her haste to avoid being trampled. The other girl still lay on the sands, struggling to draw air into her lungs.
As the dragonet’s momentum moved her directly toward the winded girl, Piemur held his breath, terrified that the poor girl would be seriously injured. But just at the last moment, the dragonet stopped, head low, blowing air through her nostrils loudly, her eyes whirling a dazzling shade of turquoise blue. A little soblike croon escaped her throat. And then, in the profound silence that filled the cavernous Weyr, a single voice spoke in a wondrous tone.
“But you’ve found me, Nimath! I’ve been right here all the time, my beautiful queen.”
The dragonet suddenly lurched forward, breaking the tender tableau, causing Piemur and everyone else to gasp again. But the queen carefully planted first one foot and then the other on either side of the girl, and then she lowered her head, gently blowing air through her nostrils. The girl raised her arms and laid her hands on either side of the little queen’s head, caressing the glistening, golden hide as she rose to her knees and rested her forehead on the bridge of the queen’s nose. The new partners remained motionless for several moments, content in silent communion.
The blond girl, who still sat sprawled on the sand a little distance from the queen dragon and her new mate, suddenly burst into tears as the tension of the drama she’d been party to was finally defused. But slowly a watery smile spread across her face, and Piemur could see her exultation at bearing intimate witness to such a momentous Impression.
The viewing stands erupted with the sounds of happy people relieved of their worry. Piemur knew he was beaming from ear to ear as he reached for Sebell’s arm once again, flushed with the joy he’d witnessed, and in which he’d shared. Sebell was smiling, too, his eyes shining and bright.
Released from the thrall of the Impression, the guests in the viewing stands lingered in their seats, chatting excitedly to one another, or they stood and stretched, turning to their neighbors to laugh or hug; some stamped their feet or clapped; others gently wept with joy, the dragonriders among them almost certainly reliving the moment that they, too, had first made Impression with their own beloved dragons.
Piemur, a smile still plastered across his face, watched as the Weyrlingmaster hurried forward to assist
Nimath’s mate, who proudly told him that her name was Mikay and that she was from a mountain hold in Crom. Carefully helping Mikay to her feet he was reassured, as was everyone else, when she calmly stated that she wasn’t really hurt at all, just a little squashed and only slightly bruised.
The new queen and her rider stood together, Mikay never letting her hand leave her dragon’s hide as Nimath crooned, ravenous. It was a piteous noise and Mikay immediately assuaged it with another gentle caress. They moved forward together as the Weyrlingmaster ushered the new queen and her rider toward their quarters, where Nimath would be given her first feed from Mikay’s own hand.
As the tension that had mounted on the Hatching Grounds was dissipating, Piemur let go of Sebell’s arm again as he looked around the great cavern. Lessa, he saw, had finally succumbed to the anxiety she had endured since the egg was stolen, allowing the taut fibers in her body to slowly uncoil. She stood alone, as she had throughout the Impression, several paces to the front of the viewing stands. He watched as the Weyrwoman of Benden lifted up one outstretched arm, palm open, to where her huge golden dragon waited on the edge of the Hatching Grounds, and slowly nodded. Their bond, Piemur knew, was being reinforced, as it was every time they witnessed a new Impression.
Then Piemur saw Lessa slowly turn around, searching among the crowd. F’lar walked toward her, a tender smile on his face. Lessa stopped in front of him, leaning toward him in a rare moment of public intimacy as she tilted her head back to look up into his face. A lock of his hair fell forward, obscuring one eye, as F’lar looked down at her, and Lessa smiled as she pushed back the lock with one hand and stepped into his embrace. Then she gently touched his cheek, and he bent to kiss her on the mouth. Piemur watched Lessa relax in F’lar’s arms as he kissed one eye and then the other, finally pulling her against his chest to hold her close.
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