Neither Lessa nor F’lar had said anything during their last visit. He should have noticed the avoidance, the talk about sky-watching and installing remote controls. Hadn’t he mentioned it casually? Had they thought he was making the adjustment from Wingleader to sky-watcher? How could he have been so dense? This ramp allowed Golanth more freedom of movement—on the ground. But into the air! Golanth might not have lost his ability to go between but to go between from ground level presented hazards that no sensible rider would ask his dragon to face. What about an un-sensible rider?
He could feel Tai beside him. He could hear the men and women who had made the ramp still cheering the accomplishment and encouraging Golanth to show how easily he could climb back up to the weyrhold. F’lessan took a deep breath and turned around: in Tai’s eyes he could see she knew what he’d been thinking. Then, the second shock hit him.
A dragon must be in the air to “fly” his mate. He could not suppress his anguish at that realization. Hard enough to lose his right to lead, but to lose the ecstasy, too?
It took him a moment to realize that Tai was shaking him, her green eyes intense with denial.
“Nonsense,” he heard Tai say in a whisper so furious it stung his ears. “There’ll be a way. There’s been a way for everything else! Come.”
He grabbed her, pushing her against one of the thick stanchions at the base of the ramp.
“Did you know? Do they?” He meant his Weyrleaders. He gave her a shake when she didn’t answer.
“I thought,” and her words came out slowly, “that you realized someone would have to take over your wing—for a while.”
“It’s not just the wing …” He pushed her away from him. “I thought Honshu was my refuge. Now I realize it’s Golly’s prison!” He pointed to the beasthold and its widened doors. “He’ll have to be put in there whenever there’s Thread above. Not being able to fly drives a dragon crazy. We always assist an injured dragon to get far away until Thread has passed. But Golanth can’t even do that!”
“You don’t know that yet!” she said, whirling to stand in front of him. “We haven’t even tried to get him to the sea.”
“How in the name of the first Egg can we get him to the beach when he can’t even get in the air?”
“Because,” Lessa replied, walking in under the ramp, F’lar beside her, “we know how he can get into the air. Once he’s in the air, he can go between. Did you think Ramoth and Mnementh—and other dragons—had forgotten what they learned that day at Honshu?”
F’lessan stared at her. She was almost reproachful. To his amazement, his father was more amused than critical. He couldn’t quite grasp what they meant. His mind was tormented by the crushing revelations he had been too cowardly to admit to himself.
“The ramp is a good idea,” F’lar said. “That—” and he waved toward the beasthold, “makes a fine weyr. Nothing else.” His amber eyes held F’lessan’s. “Certainly not a prison in time of Thread. By the time the Nine Fall is over Honshu, we’ll have mastered lifting that bronze dragon of yours.”
“But how?”
“It takes control, you know,” Lessa said, walking up to her son and slipping her arm in his. “Which, I believe, your dragon was practicing the other morning.”
“How did you know that?” F’lessan asked, startled out of his morbid thoughts.
“There’s not much Ramoth doesn’t know if she wants to find out,” Lessa said, looking up at him and giving him an encouraging little smile. “Now, there is a celebration going on around us. I think we’ve inspected Golanth’s weyr sufficiently to know it will suit and I think you’d better calm him down.”
Golanth was bugling and his happy voice did not mirror the anguish of F’lessan’s recent numbing thoughts. None had leaked to his dragon, for which he was intensely grateful. Now Golanth was happily prancing up the ramp. His mind was all about being free of the terrace. F’lessan concentrated on that positive thought, reinforced it by what F’lar had just said. Practice? Yes, practice. Zaranth and Golanth hadn’t done so badly in the two movings they’d attempted so far. They could practice. He could feel the thud of Golanth’s feet in the ground under his.
Lessa gave him a little shake. “Come, F’lessan, you’ve other things to do now,” she said softly and then pulled his arm.
In the few steps back into the sunlight, he quenched that black moment of anger and mind-numbing despair, forced himself through them to grasp what hope allowed. He joined the applause as Golanth came charging back to the foot of the ramp, limping only slight on his left hind leg. His right wing was fully extended and, if the left was canted downward, it was straighter than it had been now the dragon didn’t have to worry about banging into Honshu’s wall.
Maybe swimming and dolphin massage would loosen that joint just enough—
“Don’t consider anything else, rider,” said his father in a low voice, striding past him.
F’lessan turned back and held out his hand. “Tai?” he asked hopefully.
She came out of the shadow of the ramp, too, and took his hand. They walked out to Golanth. “Remember, F’lessan, I have chosen you. I now reaffirm it.” Her hand was tight on his as they began the walk up the ramp.
Southern Hold—3.23.31
Toric was overseeing the unloading of several prime breeding pairs of canines: big strapping animals, deep in the chest, thick-necked, well-set teeth, sturdy legs, dark to mid-brown short-haired—a necessary trait since parasites could cling to long fur to burrow into the host body. Shrewd calculating eyes, unafraid, despite a journey stuffed in a cramped forward compartment.
“They weren’t seasick,” the handler said approvingly, with a slight emphasis on the pronoun. “Name’s Pinch, Lord Toric.”
“Why the muzzles?” Toric asked, flicking his thick fingers in acknowledgment of the name.
“One of the females is near her heat. Couldn’t have them biting, fighting.”
“Aren’t they trained?”
The handler, a medium-sized man with an angular face somewhat marred by tar stains and dirt, brown eyes, serious sort of expression, gave Toric a hard stare.
“If they wasn’t when they came on board, they are now. Sit!”
All six dogs instantly obeyed, heads pointing at the handler. Though they didn’t move, it was obvious by their rolling eyes and the movements of their nostrils that they were taking in such sights and smells as they could at the sit position.
“Stand!” On their feet in a shot. They took advantage and glanced about in every direction. One of them whined softly.
The man gave a sort of smug smirk. “Voice and hand.” He demonstrated by firmly depressing his hand to the ground and the dogs sat down again. “Make sure you feed ’em by hand yourself and they’ll be yours.”
Toric had no time to feed dogs but his sons did.
“Here’re their papers,” the handler said. He fumbled in a clean but well-mended jacket, and passed Toric a sheaf. “Master Ballora guarantees fertility or you can return the dogs.”
“Can you manage to get them to my hold?” Toric asked, eyeing the man. Any one of the dogs stood higher than the handler’s knee: heavy collars as well as choke chains, paired up on three thick leather leads.
“Up to top, turn second left, up the wide stairs and Lord Toric’s Hold is directly in front,” the man said in quick phrases and then grinned, showing very white and even teeth.
“Get going then, and you’re responsible if you lose one or any get damaged or do damage.” Toric gestured him to be off.
“Come!” The dogs followed their handler down the gangplank, shoving a little with their shoulders to be closest behind him. At his order, they moved in front of him.
Toric watched as the dogs led the man up the stairs without pulling at him. Toric approved. He must remember to oversee his sons while they were getting accustomed to the beasts. Maybe, he’d keep one pair by him. Might be prudent. Ballora had offered him watchwhers. He couldn’t stand the look of the c
reatures, and they were really only good watchers at night. They had to be blooded at birth to recognize the legitimate members of a Hold.
He pretended to read the dogs’ papers as the rest of the passengers began filing off the ship, assessing the newest arrivals at Southern. More ragged ones who were unlikely to devote any time to that newest fad, sky-watching. If things fell out of the sky, they fell, and there was more water on Pern than land. What were really needed in the sky were more accurate weather satellites. That spaceship had only its southern array and the worst winds came down out of the north, which was what had happened two Turns ago and his coastline had been sharding ruined. Dolphin warning hadn’t given anyone enough time.
He shifted his feet and glared as the last man off the boat led a small girl and encouraged three boys to move quickly now. Then the captain and the Runner Stationmaster emerged, the latter hefting the heavy message sack to his shoulder. The captain smiled and the Runner murmured something and made his way to the gangplank. He saw the Lord Holder and nodded courteously.
“You’ve nothing for me, Runner?”
“No, Lord Toric, or I would have had it to hand the moment I saw you come on board.”
Toric swore under his breath, pursing his lips. The Runner Stationmaster angled past Toric, onto the pier, and up the stairs to the new Runner Station at Southern.
Sharding Fifth! He’d had no message since their meeting at Telgar. Fifth had indicated there were many men and women who obeyed his directions but not who or where they were; only the most discreet shared his theories about the Abomination and Master Robinton. Very prudent of Fifth but sharding infuriating for Toric. He consoled himself with the fact that there were plenty of men like that Ruathan renegade that he could recruit, but it meant starting out again. Dorse had been almost worth every mark Toric paid him.
Of course, he could approach Kashman! Now there was a man who had a legitimate grievance with the high and mighty Lord Dragonrider Jaxom. Toric might be able to work on that. Gain another freethinking man in the Council.
He also had had no word from Master Esselin about the meeting with Fifth that he had set up. Surely the old fool could do that much correctly. Unless, of course, Fifth had decided to take the marks and disappear. Toric rather thought not. The man’s obsession would keep him fueled for the revenge he sought. Kashman might be a willing associate even if he’d been only a child when the beloved Robinton had been alive.
That was when he saw the thin woman, at one side of the wharf, watching him, standing in a very awkward position, one hand in front of her clasping the elbow of her other arm. He swaggered down the gangplank, knowing she waited to speak to him, Lord Toric. There was only one person she could be: Dorse had described her in unflattering terms, but had grudgingly admitted that she was meticulous with details, uncompromising in her devotion to Fifth, and determined to destroy all Abominations if she had to do it single-handedly.
And here she was, Toric thought, seeking him out. Did she intend to take Dorse’s place? Or Fifth’s? Whichever, he could control her as he had Dorse, as he hoped to manipulate Kashman. She’d be very useful in Toric’s scheming. Dorse had once said that she had a knack of recruiting the disgruntled to their cause. At the very least, she could give him the names and whereabouts of those already “persuaded.” She’d be convenient to use as an emissary to Keroon Hold.
He smiled at her as he approached. She met his glance squarely, her face a mask, her body motionless, facing him as an equal. Toric kept his smile, but thought that he had better make sure she didn’t consider herself an equal in any respect to Toric, Lord Holder of Southern!
Neither saw that the dog handler paused at the top of the stairs and observed their meeting.
The dog handler remained in Southern Hold long enough to instruct Toric’s twin sons in how to care for and use the commands to which the dogs had been trained. During that sevenday, he listened but heard nothing about any untoward incident at Landing or any word about Master Esselin’s demise.
When Toric set off with Fourth to some destination along the coast, Pinch summoned Bista to him. She had been inconspicuous among all the fire-lizards that darted about Southern. He met with Sintary in Southern’s Harper Hall and gave the Master a sketch of Fourth, asking him to keep an eye out for her. Then he sent Bista to Sebell, requesting a dragon to convey him back to the Harper Hall.
Honshu Weyrhold—3.27.31
It took two days to recover from the party. Lessa had managed to talk F’lar into staying overnight as a snowstorm had blown in over Benden from the Eastern Sea and she wanted to stay warm. T’lion, who had helped build the ramp, talked one of the Monaco harpers into coming along for the celebration: Jubb had a gitar, Sparling a fiddle, Riller a drum. Keita sang a fine light soprano, Sagassy a rich contralto, and everyone, even Tai, laughed when F’lessan tried to sing the chorus with them. He didn’t try to dance but F’lar partnered everyone, including Tai, though she excused herself from other invitations on the grounds of her sore leg and sat with F’lessan when he wasn’t busy trying to keep his bronze dragon from walking up and down the ramp. But it was a fine evening.
The next morning both rider and dragon were so lame that Tai complained that they’d used up two whole pots of numbweed between them to ease their aches. Keita decided that she was redundant and asked T’lion for a ride to the Healer Hall. She’d send more numbweed.
The third morning saw the last of the party cleared up. Sagassy said they’d enough food left over for several days and she’d best get down to her hold. Tai offered to fly her back, with the favorite pots and pans that she’d brought up to Honshu to help out. Suddenly F’lessan had his weyrhold to himself. Taking a cup of klah out to the terrace, he sat, watching Golanth snoring, head on his forepaws.
His color’s good, F’lessan thought and firmly turned his mind to wondering when Erragon would bring that new console so he could start working for his living. Which brought him right back to what he didn’t want to think about! The facts that he would never lead a wing again and that Golanth might never fly Zaranth. That he didn’t like—especially since Zaranth was a young dragon and would need a good male to keep her content. He, F’lessan, certainly didn’t wish to share Tai with another rider—any other male. She enjoyed being with him now, relaxed, eager, and he wasn’t going to have her response to him destroyed by some heavy-handed rider with no sensitivity for her marvelous, intricate personality. He felt himself getting quite roused by the very thought. And they had work to do, both of them, on the prints: they weren’t half through that job. That was the channel he should concentrate on. The stars! The stars were important. Sky-watching was important work. He didn’t need to fly to do that. He did need Tai to do that job properly. Truth be told, she knew a lot more about astronomy than he did, though he was catching up. They’d need more people in Honshu to help with that project. He couldn’t keep up with Erragon’s four hours of sleep a night. The daytime work, listing all the positions, seeing if there were other traces of the orbit from wherever Master Idarolan was working. Weren’t there good men in Crom and Southern Boll already involved? He should meet with them. He should organize his life on a new basis—shouldn’t he?
Abruptly another revelation occurred to him. Lytol, with his scarred and seamed face! He had been dragonless for Turns, ever since his brown Larth had died in a routine training flight at Benden: a training flight during which R’gul had allowed his dragon a chance to chew firestone and flame. Only Larth had caught flame in the face and so had Lytol. The dragon had managed to land his gravely wounded rider with the last breath in him. That should have been the end of the rider, as a person—a dragonless man.
Tradition said dragonless riders suicided rather than live without their dragon. But Lytol had defied that convention and had become far more than a dragonrider. He had been a Lord Holder for Jaxom’s minority; he had then turned his hand to help Master Robinton and D’ram to manage Landing as a major Hold to the satisfaction of everyone i
nvolved. Now, Lytol and D’ram, in addition to bearing blind Wansor company, had accepted yet another role for which they were unusually qualified: as wise consultants for the complex society of the planet. Briefly F’lessan wondered, even as his soul cringed at the thought: would he have had the courage to build a new life—lives, in fact—as Lytol had done, if Golanth had succumbed to his injuries?
F’lessan gave a snort of disgust for his self-absorption. The time he had wasted. As Tai had said, there would be a way. Lytol had made several, and the example of the man’s quiet heroism rebuked him.
Halfway through a snore, Golanth woke, alert, looking northward. When was the Nine Fall due? Close enough for Golanth to know it was near.
Five riders appeared in the sky, and a sixth came swooping up out of the jungle. It was Zaranth who reached Honshu first, hovering to let her rider dismount on the terrace before she turned on her wing tip, as if challenging the newcomers. F’lessan rose, wondering at her almost defensive attitude. Then the dragons were close enough for him to recognize them: Monarth, Gadareth, Path, Galuth, and Arwith, but they made no move to land.
They come to practice, Zaranth said. Tai, I will get his jacket.
“What do they mean ‘practice’?” F’lessan wanted to know.
His jacket smacked into his chest and the reflex action of his hand kept it there.
“They mean to practice what they learned from Zaranth, Ramoth, and Mnementh,” Tai said, as if reminding him of something he’d forgotten.
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