The Skies of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  “I’ll return Janissian to Southern Boll,” Jaxom said, “once we’ve copies of all this for you and Curran, Ranrel, and for us.”

  Back at Landing—local time—3:40

  The instinct that saved dragons from colliding during Threadfall kept Golanth and his rider from disaster as they came out of between over a Landing that, at first, seemed covered by dragon wings, like a vast multicolored sunshade.

  Ramoth says to land on the square. We are to rest! And, without waiting for F’lessan’s comment, Golanth pivoted wearily on one wing tip, gliding over to the edge of the wide Gather square. F’lessan had time enough in that spin to see Ramoth, perched behind and above Admin, wings half open as she constantly swung her head from side to side across the area below her. Two more queens—the juniors from Benden who were accustomed to working with Ramoth—sat on either side, slightly below her position. They also were watching and, quite likely, directing dragon traffic in and out of Landing.

  Golanth was making his way toward the roasting pits and the nearest open space.

  She is here.

  Wearily F’lessan blinked his eyes at the several green dragons immediately below him.

  Both shes? F’lessan asked, trying to inject some humor into his voice. His body felt as battered as if they had been rolled by a tsunami.

  Both. I land. Should you see a healer?

  I’ll be fine when I’ve had some rest.

  Golanth’s thought rumbled with disbelief but he landed, flicking his wings up so that the tips and claws touched over his head and he didn’t touch the greens on either side of his chosen landing site. Zaranth was on his right, several shades lighter than she had been that morning. The other green had curled her head under one wing and was asleep, her rider’s head pillowed on her wrist. With narrowed, blurry eyes, Zaranth watched Golanth settle. When the green extended her head to nuzzle the bronze’s shoulder, F’lessan, tired as he was, felt a spurt of surprise. The touch was more caress than acknowledgment.

  She likes me, Golanth said.

  F’lessan saw that the green cradled Tai on her forelegs, the girl’s sprawled figure covered by two beautifully marked feline pelts.

  So, F’lessan thought, she did save them.

  “F’lessan?” Someone pulled at his leg. He looked down at S’lan, amazed to see his son in the south. The boy and his brown Norenth were only just out of the weyrling barracks.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Grinning proudly, S’lan held up a small cup.

  “All of us were brought down to help. Healer says to drink this down and then dismount and eat.”

  He climbed onto Golanth’s foreleg to hand the cup to the bronze rider and F’lessan tossed back the liquid. Just as well, he never would have sipped the beverage if he had sampled the taste of it. What a taste! Worse than the seaholder’s wine! It did revive him enough to dismount, if only to eat something to get rid of the taste of it in his mouth. Golanth groaned as he sank to his belly, stretching out as much as he could without interfering with the tired dragons on either side of him. Using Golanth’s shoulder as a prop, F’lessan slid down to a sitting position against his dragon.

  “Help me out of my jacket, Sellie.” I must remember to call him S’lan now, F’lessan thought. “Hang it on Golanth to dry, will you?”

  That done, he took the breadroll the boy offered.

  “You have to rest,” S’lan said, scowling at his father and looking, at that moment, like his grandmother. He unslung the two canteens looped over his shoulder. “One’s water. Don’t drink the klah in the other one yet. It’ll keep warm. Ramoth says every dragon and rider has time to rest.”

  “Ramoth says we have time? Good. Do I get back what time I lost?” F’lessan murmured facetiously, more to himself than for his son’s ears. “Thanks, S’lan,” he added.

  F’lessan glanced slowly across the panorama of so many dragons sprawled in or near the square. Sticking the breadroll between his teeth, he put the canteens on the ground beside him. Was Lessa aware of how much his son looked like her? Dark haired, dark eyed, with a certain familiar tilt to the chin? Scamp!

  “No one argues with Ramoth, you know,” the boy said. “Gotta go! I’ll be back.”

  It seemed to F’lessan more like a threat but he chewed a huge bite of the roll—the bread was crusty and still slightly warm. With his free hand, he slipped the sweat-soaked helmet off his head and spread it where it could dry. Shards! That tsunami shed a lot of water! Wearily, he looked over at Tai but she was sound asleep. She was lucky. Would he see that damned wave hovering over him if he slept? Or himself, Golanth, and Binness plastered like insects on the cliff? A vision out of a nightmare sure to become one! Golanth really was the best dragon on all Pern.

  Of course I am, murmured the bronze immodestly.

  F’lessan chuckled around the last piece of the breadroll that he barely tasted, he was so tired. He swallowed the last of it with a sip from the water canteen. He could hardly keep his eyes open. Had there been a dash of fellis in that healer’s cup? He took a long swallow of water.

  Golanth groaned and dropped his muzzle to one foreleg. F’lessan reached up to pat the right eye ridge, nuzzled himself into a comfortable spot against Golanth’s shoulder, and immediately fell asleep.

  Harper Hall—5:00 in the morning, and Southern Hold—2:00 in the morning–1.9.31

  At wintry Fort, F’nor and Idarolan informed Sebell of the dangers and the details. Idarolan had acquired sufficient extra copies of the projected tsunami path through the Southern and Western Seas to give a set to the MasterHarper. The Interface office had the only automatic copier, another of the many technological wonders that were coming in so very useful. Considering the panic of drum messages into the Harper Hall from those minor holds and halls that had drummers, Sebell needed accurate information to give them. It was still night in the west but the constant drums had interrupted the sleep of many and lights were on in cotholds as well as in Fort’s great façade. A messenger came running up from the Healer Hall with queries from Master Oldive as to where he was to send healers to help in this emergency of which he’d like pertinent details so he could organize his craftsmen and -women.

  “Have you time for something to eat and drink?” Sebell asked when the core of the emergency had been explained to him.

  “No, it’s earlier at Southern Hold and we’d best not delay explaining it all to Toric,” F’nor said, grimacing.

  “He’ll demand to know why he’s had to wait to learn about the fireball,” Sebell added. Then he chuckled, his eyes bright in the gleam of the Hall’s night lamps.

  “I could use a laugh,” F’nor said.

  “I think he may regret having so many—ah, shall we say undisclosed—coastal holdings?” Sebell snorted, his expression amused. “Truth will out. K’van probably knows.”

  “We’d best go. He and Sintary will be waiting for us at the old Weyr site.”

  “We will try to defuse rumor with fact,” Sebell said. A task that F’nor did not envy him.

  Idarolan gave a malicious smile. “Keep ears open for what those seaworm Abominators spread.”

  “It’s a natural disaster, isn’t it?” F’nor remarked.

  “Reported by the Yokohama,” Sebell demurred.

  “And sharding fortunate we are to have at least one eye on the skies above,” Idarolan said in his caustic fashion.

  F’nor thought about timing it; there was no question in F’nor’s mind that Toric’s informers would eventually mention the exact minute and hour Landing had recognized the fireball as a threat, but he decided against making the effort just as Canth spoke.

  Ramoth said not to! We do not know what else we will have to do today.

  All right, Canth. I’m chastised.

  You are not! his dragon replied in mild protest.

  You know me too well.

  Another drum message rolled in and with a backward wave, Sebell trotted up the steps to deal with it. Once sure that Idarol
an was seated comfortably again behind him, F’nor gave Canth a vivid view of Southern Hold’s rocky cliffs—at night.

  Ruth is not the only dragon who knows when he is, was Canth’s exit remark.

  F’nor experienced an odd dislocation as they arrived over Southern Hold; the peaceful sight of the riding lights of four coastal ships anchored in the harbor and night glows up the harbor steps: all serene here. Landing had been chaotic! Fort Hold had been alive with activity and tension. Silently and, F’nor hoped, unseen by anyone watching below, Canth glided through the warm air over the sleeping Hold and on to the original Southern Weyr site. He was painfully aware that right now, on the other side of the planet, Monaco Bay Weyr would be experiencing the tsunami. There had been enough dragons to rescue every man, woman, and child, hadn’t there?

  The news he brought Toric was not as dire, though the Southern Holder might not agree. Idarolan was reasonably sure that Southern Hold’s cliffs were high enough to withstand the diffraction effect of the tsunami, compressed between Ista Island and the Southern headland. Unfortunately, Toric would be experiencing the event on both sides of his Holding. Idarolan’s chart, and Erragon’s calculations, indicated a direct line of westbound tsunami, which might—just—lose significant energy. Either way, there were coastal holds that must be evacuated and herdbeasts moved inland from the low-lying pastures. However, during the bad, bad, bad blow of which the dolphins had warned Toric, he had not moved quickly enough to reduce the devastation of the horrific gale winds of that hurricane.

  K’van, with his Weyrwoman, Adrea; Master Sintary; and four of the Southern Wingleaders, moved out of the shadows as Canth landed in the flower-scented night. Five pairs of blue-green eyes shone as the brown dragon crooned a greeting and went to join them. K’van distributed hand lights.

  “Neither moon’s out tonight,” the young Weyrleader said, his white grin visible in the reflection of the light he carried. “R’mart wanted to come but we convinced him that retired means no more responsibility.”

  F’nor bowed to Adrea, nodded to the other bronze riders, and finished stripping off his flying gear. He was grateful for the fresh breeze on the plateau.

  “I have my own light,” Sintary said, turning his beam on the well-worn track from the old open Weyr to the Hold.

  “Of course, Toric could just ignore all this,” F’nor remarked in a low tone as the eight of them carefully proceeded to the Hold.

  Before they reached the first bend, a fierce challenge stopped them.

  “Who’s out there?”

  “F’nor, Canth’s rider,” and F’nor tilted the light to his face.

  “K’van, Adrea, M’ling, N’bil, S’dra, H’redan,” the Weyrleader said, also lighting his face and flashing it at his companions as he named them.

  “Idarolan and Sintary,” the Harper said in turn.

  “Bringing an urgent message to Lord Toric from Landing,” F’nor said.

  “A very urgent and very important message,” Idarolan said, stepping forward in a purposeful manner, “and you had best guide us to him immediately.”

  “It’s the middle of the night!” was the protest.

  “Since when has the middle of the night been free of trouble!” Idarolan did not pause in his stride and the guard gave ground.

  “You sound like Idarolan,” he said dubiously.

  “If you don’t know your Weyrleader by sight,” Sintary remarked acidly, “you’re in a lot of trouble.”

  “This way, Master Harper, Weyrleader K’van. This way.” They were going past the large square when he made one more remark. “You’ve got to wake him, not me!”

  F’nor wasn’t the only one who chuckled.

  Luckily, it was Ramala who answered their summons, holding up a glowbasket to identify the visitors.

  “Bad news?” she asked, leading them to the main hall.

  “Perhaps not as bad for Southern as it is for others,” Idarolan remarked which made her stop and regard him speculatively in the dimly lit hall. “If you would be good enough to wake Toric?”

  “Yes, it had better be me,” she said and waved them to chairs as she opened the nearest glowbaskets.

  She disappeared on her errand and, because they were listening, they heard Toric’s muffled shout of protest. Then she came back, nodded at them and said, if they wouldn’t mind opening more lights, she would get fresh klah.

  “Or wine, if you feel that would suit better.”

  “Both,” F’nor said bluntly. He could use a glass of wine right now. Breakfast at Benden seemed to have been a long time ago despite the food that had been served during the emergency meeting at Landing.

  Sintary and two of the bronze riders opened only sufficient glowbaskets to light the front part of the big hall. They had taken seats at one end of the long table when they heard the scrape of sandals on stone. Idarolan grinned, arranging his papers on the table, preparatory to an argument with Toric.

  Shirt open, drawstring shorts rucked at one hip, the Lord Holder swung into the room, scowling, and the scowl deepened as he paused on the threshold, regarding those awaiting him.

  “What the shards is the matter now? This can’t constitute a Council!”

  “A fireball impacted in the Eastern sea at approximately twelve hours twenty minutes Landing time,” F’nor said bluntly.

  “The impact of what we believe is a cometary fragment has created tsunamis,” Idarolan said. “You will remember what happened when that volcano Piemur discovered erupted.”

  Toric’s eyes rounded, thick sun-bleached eyebrows turning his scowl into an expression of unpleasant surprise.

  “Some of your Hold is in the path of the tsunamis—two sets of them, one with three different waves from the east and the other from the west,” Idarolan went on relentlessly. He used the map in front of him to point them out. “Journeyman Erragon and Master Wansor confirmed the phenomenon.” He paused for a moment and then rushed on, as a man who regretted what he had to say. “Even as we speak, Monaco Bay is probably being drowned!”

  Adrea gasped, and S’dra and N’bil inhaled sharply.

  Toric stared at the retired MasterFishman and then glared at K’van. “Then what are you dragonriders doing here instead of being there to help them?” He waved his arms furiously to indicate the different sites. He dropped his eyes to study the chart, pulling it toward him.

  “Every Weyr has sent wings to help,” F’nor said, “We’re here to tell you what to expect in roughly eleven hours from now.”

  Toric blinked.

  “I will have riders in the sky rousing the coastal holders as soon as Adrea’s queen gives them the orders,” said K’van with a stiff bow to Toric. “We know you prefer to be informed of the Weyr’s movements. I have just returned from the emergency meeting at Landing.”

  “I’ll rouse your portmaster myself,” Idarolan volunteered, “to warn the ships at anchor. They’ll be safe enough at sea. Able to ride the tsunami swell, if they notice it at all. It’s the land that’s vulnerable.”

  Ramala came in with a tray of cups and food, followed by a very sleepy and resentful pair of holder women, one bearing a big klah pot, the other a wineskin. “You all need something in your stomachs to organize the evacuations!” she said.

  F’nor wondered how she knew what they had come to organize. Ramala was a good woman to have subtly on your side.

  “Then, leaving you in good hands, Lord Toric,” F’nor said courteous, “I will return to Landing.”

  “Good hands? I’ll …” Toric lurched at F’nor.

  Instantly, before Toric had a chance to complete his lunge at the brown rider, Idarolan stood between then. With a well-calculated blow of his fist to Toric’s shoulder, he spun him off balance.

  “If we’re to save any of your coastal holds, Lord Toric, you’d best pay attention to me,” Master Idarolan said in a loud harsh voice that had quelled argument before and made the infuriated Lord Holder think.

  F’nor? Canth’s mental tone was a
larmed.

  F’nor saw Sintary move to Idarolan’s side as the stern MasterFishman held Toric motionless with his stony glare.

  The Southern Lord Holder seemed to shake himself. With teeth clamped shut behind his bared lips, he gave a long hiss of breath and pivoted back to the table, spread with maps of his holding.

  He’s under control now, Canth, F’nor said, turning as casually as he could, trying to calm himself and his dragon. Sharding idiot! He could feel the anger of the other dragonriders as he left the hall in measured strides. Thank the First Egg that Idarolan had been right that Toric respected him. Slowly his fists unclenched. He took his time walking back in the night to the old Southern Weyr to regain full control of himself. And to face the other disasters this day seemed to be so full of. As much as he dreaded what he must see of a flooded Monaco, he was needed there, or at Benden. He could get back to his duties in time. After all, at the very beginning of this Pass, thirty Turns ago, Lessa had sent him a full ten Turns back, to raise weyrlings. Timing it was far more wearing on the rider than the dragon. He wondered if he could make time to see Brekke at Benden. She’d undoubtedly be extremely busy organizing the mass evacuations along the Benden Hold coast. She might even be annoyed with him for interrupting her at whatever she was doing. He knew that he took strength from her slight person, strength and comfort, and he did so need to be comforted—however briefly—for the terrible reality of a drowned Monaco.

  She is at Loscar. The High Shoals should protect it, Canth told him, eyes a brilliant blue as he stepped from the shadows. Other bright eyes watched the brown rider.

  “Your riders will be here shortly,” F’nor told the other dragons, trying to strike a cheerful note. “Lord Toric had no immediate argument with the news we brought him.” He shrugged into his jacket, secured his helmet, and climbed to Canth’s back, affectionately slapping him on the shoulder.