The Skies of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  She tucked her wings along her back, diving obliquely. He followed quickly. Did she realize how close she was to the ground? Oh, she did and swooped up again, proudly, head reaching for the low clouds that scudded over the foothills.

  She’d play that game, would she? With one quick glance around him to see if any challengers had entered the chase, he swept after her. Sun sparkled off her brilliant skin between clouds and he pursued her, wondering if she knew that he could see her so clearly.

  She turned on one wing tip and, knowing these skies better than she did, he did the same and soared through the narrow pass. If she thought he’d fall for that wily trick, she hadn’t his measure. Soon she would.

  She rose above the filmy cloudbank, heading toward the thinner air, then almost tumbled back down. He followed this maneuver effortlessly. She raced forward, rolling slowly as if caressed by the chill air. He nearly overshot her but didn’t, so she failed with that ploy. She ducked, dodged, and fell surface-ward again, pulling up with the most graceful and powerful of movements he had yet seen in a green. Oh, she was a prize, this one! How he loved her! And she had chosen him!

  Clouds again and he shadowed her progress through them by the glow of her reddened eyes. Then, just as she let him get very close, to evade him at the last moment, he gave his wings a sudden massive stroke and reached for her, making the catch, pulling her to him, connecting. Wings entwined and beating together, they flew suspended and, because he was a bronze and cleverer than she had thought him, their flight was horizontal to the ground and he could extend this passion for a long, long time. He did, sweeping them both carefully over the great inland sea where the thermals caressed their gleaming hides.

  F’lessan was back in his body and Tai’s was his. They were both panting from the exertion of a marvelously extended flight. He felt both triumphant and drained. He hadn’t felt such repletion in a long while. She lay limply beneath him, eyes closed, head to one side, curls of sweaty hair concealing her face. He hadn’t the strength—nor, to be candid, the wish—to release her, to leave her body. Considerate of her, he shifted. For all the pleasure he had enjoyed with other women, this encounter really was different. He couldn’t think of anything appropriate to say and he had prided himself on knowing exactly the right words to use in any situation.

  “Oh, Tai, you did choose me,” he murmured, propping himself on his elbows, looking down at her with a feeling close to awe. “You did!”

  His words took him as much by surprise as they did her. She turned her head slightly, her eyes wide and human again. Her lips were swollen from kisses he had been unable to control, and her eyes filled with tears.

  “Please say you did?” The human in him needed to be reassured but he was also aware that their meeting had been incredibly intense, even for a dragon-generated mating. That could only be achieved with the enthusiastic cooperation of both partners. He couldn’t be feeling the way he did right now if rape had been involved.

  “I didn’t know it was supposed to be—like that!” she admitted softly and she turned her head, embarrassed.

  “My very dear green,” he said tenderly, stroking her face with his thumbs, feeling slightly superior because he was no stranger to the “that.” “It is assuredly the most intense emotional and sexual experience. We know exactly what our dragons are feeling, and they mirror ours. It can be stunning enough when humans love, but magnified by our emotional bond with our dragons …” He spread his hands, unable to quantify it and smiled tenderly at her. “Well, it—” he hesitated, “should have happened to you before, Tai.” He couldn’t help making fists and driving them into the rumpled furs of the bed. “I’m appalled and concerned that you were so abused. That’s not the way dragonriders should behave even when the dragon’s in control. I’m …”

  “Sssh,” she said, reaching up to lay her palm against his cheek, her face calm, the hint of a smile on her kiss-roughened lips.

  He wished he could see her eyes but there was so little light filtering through from the hall.

  “I’m glad it was you I could choose,” she said.

  “I—” He started to protest, stunned that, despite his best efforts, she had somehow sensed his wile.

  “I know me well enough, F’lessan,” she said, putting both hands on his face now. “I am so very grateful to you.”

  “Gratitude in a snake’s arse,” he said, incensed. He wrapped his arms around her, wanting very much to take her again, and with human lust. “It’s not bloody gratitude I want from you, my dear Tai!” He loosened his hold when he felt her resist with a hint of the panic she had shown on the terrace. He made his body relax beside hers, looked down into her eyes, wishing he could see the expression in them, the color they were right now. “I liked you when we first met. In the Archives. I know you knew who I was, that Mirrim had probably prejudiced you against me. Had probably said I was—reckless. I’m not. I’m a good Wingleader. Riders trust me. So do their dragons. I want you to choose me, of your own free will, Tai. I’d like to—choose you, too, as a person I want to know better, not just because your green went into heat and Golanth was the only dragon available.”

  She looked up at him for a long time and then, tentatively, curled one hand around his bare shoulder.

  “How did you manage it?” Her voice was low, even.

  “How did I manage—?” His voice broke in surprise. She meant Zaranth challenging Golanth. “Believe me, it is not something even I could manage!” A laugh burst from him. “Your dragon wanting mine!”

  And then he wondered. Dragons could be very cunning.

  “Wasn’t there one dragon in Monaco Zaranth liked?” he asked quickly. “Didn’t Mirrim tell you to decide which rider you preferred and latch on to him?”

  Her eyes slid from his and she swallowed hard. “Don’t go after Mirrim, F’lessan. She said—something like that. But I didn’t—didn’t prefer any of them.”

  “He didn’t have to be Monacan, you know.”

  “You’re angry with me again.” Her body was stiff beneath him.

  “With you? Again? When have I been angry with you, Tai?”

  “When you got back from Fort.”

  He blinked.

  “When you found me swimming after—after—”

  “When you were injured,” and he stressed that word, “trying to stop those sharding vandals.” He got angry just thinking about that attack.

  “You’re angry with me again.”

  “No, I’m—” He closed his lips on “not” and saw that, unaccountably, she was smiling a little; that her body had relaxed, that both her hands were lying loosely on his back. He took a deep breath and made taut muscles loosen. “I’m not angry with you, my dear Tai, I’m angry for you.”

  “I’ll have to get accustomed to the difference.”

  “Will you, my very dear green?” he asked very gently.

  “Will I what?”

  “Want to get accustomed to the difference? To me?” He searched her face, rubbing his thumbs gently from her temples to her cheeks. “I do so very much want to know you better.” He kissed her lightly at the corner of her mouth, felt her lips twitch under his. Then, carefully, he moved to one side of her long body and pulled her against him, pressing her head against his chest.

  “They’re lying just like this, you know,” she murmured.

  He smoothed her hair back and settled his cheek against it. “Hmm. I know. On the ledge. But they’re almost asleep.”

  “Aren’t we?”

  “We.” He liked the sound of that and especially the idea of sleep. Of sleeping with her in his arms.

  I told you I would hunt well, he thought he heard his dragon say. Had Golanth been planning a very subtle courtship after all? Just as his rider had?

  Harper Hall—1.28.31

  “You wanted to see me?”

  Sebell gave a start. Pinch closed the door that he had opened so quietly that his Masterharper had not even heard it. He grinned.

  “Losing t
he old skills, are you, Sebell?”

  “So long as you don’t,” Sebell said and flipped a piece of paper across the table, nodding for Pinch to read it. “From Crom’s harper.”

  “Serubil? Sensible man. Knows endless verses to that dreadful ‘Down the Shafts.’ ” Pinch gave a revolted shudder as he stepped forward to take the note. His eyes brightened as he scanned it. “So if the body was never found, even if the trackers were delayed looking, Serubil says the man must have escaped. Possibly taken the river down to the plains.”

  “Read on. There’s bad news, too.”

  “Oh. The prisoner did have a missing finger joint. No facial scar though.” Pinch sighed. “Well, he could have got the scar on one of those early forays the Abominators made. Or even during or after his escape, you know,” and Pinch eased his butt to the edge of Sebell’s desk, not quite disturbing the piles of papers as he continued to read. “Didn’t we send every harper a copy of the sketch I made?”

  “Thought we had.”

  “Ah!” Pinch’s somewhat sleepy expression brightened as he read further. “The prisoner—did the man have no name at all?—was sentenced for life to the Crom mines with several others for attacking Aivas.”

  “While I was waiting for you to arrive,” and Sebell adroitly teased Pinch though, indeed, Master Mekelroy must have hurried to the Masterharper’s door before pausing to slip inside in a stealthy fashion. That was often how Pinch entered this office, in stealth and at night or other inconvenient hours. “I had time to review Master Robinton’s report of that incident.”

  Sebell stroked the blue leather cover of the journal and opened it with gentle fingers to the place where he had left a slip of paper. “Aivas thwarted the attack with what he called a ‘sonic barrage’—a noise so fierce and penetrating that it rendered the intruders unconscious. Aivas said that some aural damage might be permanent. When we expressed amazement that he would retaliate, he remarked that, and I quote him, ‘These units are programmed with industrially and politically valuable information. Unauthorized access and/or destructive actions must, therefore, be actively discouraged, and this has always been a minor function of an Aivas facility.’ ”

  Sebell looked up from the open pages to regard Pinch.

  “Well, yes.” Pinch scratched the back of his head. “ ‘Some aural damage might be permanent.’ According to Serubil—” and Pinch rattled the message in his hand, “—this prisoner was deaf. Maybe he recovered his hearing? Convenient and useful to pretend not to hear if someone wanted to escape.”

  “Yes, in the next paragraph, Serubil says this wasn’t the man’s first attempt. However—” Sebell held up a finger, “neither this one or the others ever gave their names.”

  “If they were deaf, how would they hear even that question?” Pinch asked.

  Sebell grimaced. “Usually there are ways to get across as simple a question as that. Me,” and he punched his chest with his thumb, “Sebell. You?” He widened his eyes, assumed an interrogatory expression, and pointed at Pinch.

  “Having failed to crash or crush Aivas, the last thing I would want to tell was my name.”

  “Good point, but—” And Sebell looked down the closely written, beautifully inscribed handwriting to the paragraph he wanted, planting his finger on the margin.”—while the men carried no identification whatever in their clothes, one of them had been a glassblower, judging by the pipe calluses on his hands and burn scars on his arms.” He regarded Pinch with an anticipatory expression.

  “And Master Norist was one of the most outspoken adversaries of Aivas and his new techniques. He was also exiled for his part in the abduction of our Master Robinton.” Pinch’s face went as bleak as Sebell’s at that reminder of the man both had respected, admired, and loved.

  “Three of Master Norist’s sons were journeymen in the Glasscrafthall. All were very much under their father’s control.”

  Pinch considered this. “Mind you, after thirteen Turns in a mine, pipe calluses might not last but burn scars made by hot glass do not fade.” He cocked his head at his Craftmaster. “So I should take a sketch of our good friend up to Serubil and maybe question some of the prison guards about those burn scars. Someone must have noticed them in thirteen Turns.”

  “And if he regained his hearing.”

  Pinch gave a snort. “He’d have to be able to talk if he’s been plotting raids and selective booty.”

  “Find out, too, will you, Pinch, in your delightfully subtle way, how long it was before they went after the escaped prisoner? I’d heard tell the Smithcraft gave them twenty marks for that meteorite.”

  Pinch gave an appreciative whistle. “No wonder the latest ones have made such a stir.”

  Sebell shifted uneasily, his mouth pursed with annoyance. “No matter how much they’re worth, they’re causing more trouble than they could possibly be worth to the Smithcraft.”

  “Oh?”

  Sebell gave him a sharp look. “The one on the Keroon plains has the hillmen certain they’ll have a fireball next and aren’t the dragonriders going to blast it out of the sky before it falls on them and burns up all the fodder.”

  “I thought the one in Paradise River Hold only fell through a roof?”

  “It harmed nothing and Jayge got fifteen Smith marks for it. He also said,” and the expression on Sebell’s face suggested to Pinch that the Masterharper wished that Jayge had not been so garrulous, “that the dolphins had seen several ‘hissy hot’ objects sink into the sea and they’d be happy to dive for them.”

  Pinch gave an indifferent shrug. “From what I remember, meteorites are more often apt to come down at sea than on land since we have so much more water on Pern.”

  “That’s not the problem. Even people who should know better are demanding that the Weyrs send out more sweepriders to prevent more objects falling out of the sky.”

  Pinch gave a bark of laughter. “Dragons can move fast but not as fast as a meteorite. And meteorites are so hot when they hit the atmosphere that however hot dragon flame is, it couldn’t stop a meteorite—even if a dragon could match its speed.”

  “I know, I know.” Sebell sighed gustily.

  “Now—” Pinch rattled Serubil’s message. “Why don’t I do something useful, like go to Crom Minehold?”

  “I’ve asked N’ton to have you conveyed. You’ve about time to get your sketch of that Abominator and change into riding gear.”

  “Good. Bista loves going a-dragonback.” Pinch neatly folded Serubil’s message and put it in a thigh pocket. “I shan’t be long.”

  “I hope not.”

  He was back by late evening. This time he knocked discreetly at Sebell’s office door and entered, carrying a tray with a klah pot, cups, and a plate of sweet biscuits.

  “I do not come empty-handed,” he said and strode to set the tray down on Sebell’s desk. He gave the piles of papers a quick appraisal: Sebell seemed to have made little headway with the stacks. “Did you do nothing today about all those petitions?”

  “I put them in different piles. What’s your news?”

  Pinch poured klah for them both before he made himself comfortable on the edge of the desk again.

  “The prisoner did not have a scar on his face when he left. He lost the top joint of the first finger on his left hand in a mining accident. He had tried to escape before but was easily caught. The trackers were sure he couldn’t hear them coming. That’s one reason they delayed going after him.”

  “When were those attempts made?”

  Pinch consulted notes he had made in the margin of Serubil’s message. “In the first couple of Turns he was there—” His eyes widened and he pointed at the MasterHarper just as Sebell reached the same conclusion.

  “So he got enough hearing back to try again!” They spoke in unison and then both grinned.

  “And he waited for the right time—” Sebell said.

  “What better time than when a meteorite has knocked out holes to escape through!” Pinch jumped to his
feet again. “Right. The prison bathroom has partitions in its stalls so no one there remembers any scars on his arms.”

  “And no name?”

  “They called him Glass because of the pipe calluses.”

  “So he could be Norist’s journeyman?” Sebell asked.

  “That’s likely.”

  “So he’d have plenty of reason to hate Aivas. Norist thought of Aivas as the Abomination. There’s enough circumstantial evidence to believe that the escaped prisoner is the new leader.”

  “My man, Fifth,” Pinch put in. With a sigh, he sat back down on the edge of the desk. “Now all we have to do is find him and see if he can hear our questions clearly enough to answer them.”

  “I suggest we set our minds first to finding out what he and his fellow Abominators plan to do next,” Sebell said gloomily.

  Pinch watched his Master for a long thoughtful moment. Then, with an artificially bright expression, he asked, “Did you hear that M’rand and Pilgra are retiring to Cathay?”

  “Yes,” Sebell said. “And I’m glad. For their sakes—they’ve fought Thread long enough—and because the new Weyrleaders are young and will balance old G’dened who’s so conservative you wonder where he got the courage to make the trip Forward thirty-odd Turns ago.”

  Honshu Hold—2.1.31

  F’lesssan and Tai still reported to their respective Weyrs for Threadfall but F’lesssn was in Benden as infrequently as possible, returning to Honshu and his continued maintenance of the weyrhold. Though he knew that most of the Monaco riders were now settled in new quarters, Tai kept returning to Honshu—and him. He also got her to talk to him, about her childhood in Keroon, her schooling with Master Samvel, her work at Landing, and her apprenticeship with Master Wansor and Erragon. In the bright evenings, they would take turns identifying more and more of the stars in the southern skies.