Dragonseye

by Anne McCaffrey

  The exterior buildings of the College were designed to be Thread proof, with high peaked roofs of Telgar slate, and gutters that led into underground cisterns where errant Thread would be drowned. All the Craftsmen involved, including those destined to inhabit the facility, would have preferred to enlarge the cave system, but there had been two serious collapses of caverns, and the mining engineers had vetoed interior expansion for fear of undermining the whole cliffside. Even the mutant, blunt-winged, flightless photosensitive watchwhers had refused to go on further subterranean explorations which, their handlers insisted, meant dangers human eyes couldn’t see. So build externally they did: stout walls more than two and a half meters thick at ground level, tapering to just under two meters beneath the roof. With the iron mines at Telgar going full-blast, the necessary structural beams to support such weight had posed no problem.

  The new quarters were to be finished within the month. Even today there had been a workforce, though they had taken a break to watch the aerial display and would finish in time for the evening meal and entertainment.

  Charanth landed gracefully, with Ormonth right beside him, so that P’tero might remove the tethering safety straps before they could be noticed. As he was doing so, M’leng, green Sith’s rider, came up to him, scolding him for “putting my heart in my mouth like that!” And proceeded to berate P’tero far more viciously than his Weyrleader would.

  K’vin grinned to himself, especially as he saw how penitent P’tero became under such .a harangue. K’vin rolled up his riding straps and tied them to the harness ring.

  “Enjoy the sun, my friend,” he said, slapping Charanth on the wide shoulder.

  I will. Meranath is already there, the bronze dragon said, his tone slightly smug as he executed a powerful upward leap, showering his rider with grit.

  Charanth’s attitude toward his mate, Meranath, amused, and pleased, his rider. No one had expected K’vin to accede to Telgar’s Weyrleadership when it fell open after B’ner’s death nine months before. Who would have expected that the sturdy rider, just into his sixth decade, had had any heart problems? But that is what the medics said killed him. So, when Meranath was ready to mate again, Telgar’s senior Weyrwoman, Zulaya, had called for an open flight, leaving it up to the dragons to decide on the next Leader. She’d insisted that she had no personal preference. She had been sincerely attached to B’ner and was probably still grieving for him. There had certainly been no lack of “suitors.”

  K’vin had sent Charanth aloft in the mating flight because all the Telgar Weyr wingleaders were expected to take part, as well as bronze riders from the other Weyrs, He had no real wish to lead a Weyr into a Pass. He considered himself too young for such responsibilities. He had observed from B’ner that the normal duties of an Interval were bad enough, but to know that a high percentage of your fellow riders would be injured, or killed: that the lives of so many people rested on your expertise and endurance was too much to contemplate. Some nights, now, he was wracked by terrifying dreams, and Threadfall hadn’t even started. On the occasions when he was in Zulaya’s bed, she had been understanding and calmly reassuring.

  “B’ner worried, too, if that’s any consolation, Key,” she said, using his old nickname and soothing sweat-curled hair back as he trembled with reaction. “He had nightmares, too. Comes with the title. As a rule, the morning after a nightmare, B’ner’d go over Sean’s notes. I figure he had to have memorized them. I’ve seen you do the same thing. You’ll do well, Key, when push comes to shove. I know it.”

  Zulaya could sound so sure of something, but then she was nearly a decade his senior and bad had more experience as a Weyrleader. Sometimes her intuition was downright uncanny: she could accurately predict the size of clutches, the distribution of the colors, the sex of babies born in the Weyr, and occasionally even the type of weather in the future. But then, she was Fort Weyrbred, a linear descendant of one of the First Riders, Aliana Zuleita, and knew things. It was odd how the golden queens seemed to prefer women from outside the Weyrs—but sometimes a queen had a mind of her own and chose a Weyrbred woman, defying custom.

  However, just like his predecessor, he constantly reviewed accounts of the individual Threadfalls, how they differed, how you could tell from the Leading Edge of Fall that this would be an odd one. Most often the accounts were dry statements of fact, but the prosaic language did not disguise the presence of great courage: especially as those first riders had to figure out how to cope with Thread, easy or hard.

  The fact that he was a several times great-nephew of Sorka Connell, the First Weyrwoman—and Zulaya pointed this out more than once—constituted a secondary and subtle reassurance to the entire Weyr.

  “Maybe that’s why Meranath let Charanth catch her,” Zulaya said, her face dead serious but her eyes dancing.

  “Had you, I mean . . . did you think of me . . . I mean . . .” K’vin tried to summon appropriate words two weeks after that momentous flight. He had been overwhelmed by her response to him that night. But afterward she seemed very casual in her dealings with him, and she did not always invite him into her quarters, despite the fact that their dragons were inseparable.

  “Who thinks at all during a mating flight? But I do believe I’m glad that Charanth was so clever. If there is anything in heredity, having a distant great-nephew of Fort Weyr’s First Weyrwoman, and from a family that has put many acceptable candidates on the Hatching Grounds, as Telgar’s Weyrleader gives us all a boost.”

  “I’m not my many-times-great-aunt, Zulaya . . .”

  She chuckled. “Fortunately, or you wouldn’t be Weyrleader, but Blood will tell!”

  Zulaya had a disconcerting directness but gave him no real hint how she, the woman, not the Weyrwoman, personally felt toward him. She was kind, helpful, made constructive suggestions when they discussed training programs, but so . . . Impersonal . . . that K’vin had to conclude that she hadn’t really got over B’ner’s death yet.

  He himself was obscurely comforted that his great great-aunt had managed to survive Fall and he would attempt to do the same. As, he was sure, would his two siblings and four cousins who were also dragonriders. Though no others were Weyrleaders . . . yet. Still, if his being of the Ruathan Bloodline, which had produced Sorka, M’ball, M’dani, Sorana, Mairian, offered reassurance to his Weyr, he’d reinforce that at every turn during the Pass.

  Now, at probably the last large gather Pern would enjoy under Threadfree skies for the next fifty years, he watched his Weyrwoman leave the group of Telgar holders she had been talking to and stride toward him across the open courtyard.

  Zulaya was tall for a woman, long-legged—all the better for bestriding a dragon’s neck. He was a full head taller than she was, which she said she liked in him: B’ner had been just her height. It was her coloring that fascinated K’vin: the inky black curly hair that, once freed of the flying helmet, tumbled down below her waist. The hair framed a wide, high cheek-boned face, set off the beige of her smooth skin and large, lustrous eyes that were nearly black; a wide and sensual mouth above a strong chin gave her face strength and purpose which reinforced her authority with anyone. She strode, unlike some of the hold women who minced along, her steel-rimmed boot heels noisy on the flagstones, her arms swinging at her side. She’d had time to put a long, slitted skirt over her riding gear, and it opened as she walked, showing a well-formed leg in the leather pants and high boots. She’d turned the high-riding boot cuffs down over her calf, and the red fur made a nice accent to her costume, echoed in the fur trim of her cuffs and collar, which she had opened. As usual, she wore the sapphire pendant she had inherited as the eldest female of her Blood.

  “So, did P’tero win M’leng’s undying affection with that stunt?” she demanded, an edge to her voice. “They’ve gone off together . . .” and she looked in the direction of the two riders who were headed toward the temporary tents along the row of cots.

  “You might have a word with both later. They’re afraid of you,�
�� K’vin said, grinning.

  “For that piece of stupidity I’ll make them more afraid,” she said briskly, hopping a step to match his stride. “You really should learn how to scowl menacingly.” She glanced up at K’vin and then shook her head, sighing sadly. She had once teased him that he was far too handsome to ever look genuinely threatening, with the Hanrahan red hair, blue eyes, and freckles. “No, you just don’t have the face for it Be that as it may, Meranath’s going to give out to Sith for allowing a blue to put himself in danger.”

  “Get ’em where it hurts,” K’vin said, nodding, because Meranath was even more effective as a deterrent with the dragons than any human could be, even the dragon’s own rider. “Damned fool stunt.”

  “However,” and now Zulaya cleared her throat, “the Telgarians thought it was ‘just marvelous!’ ” she added in a gushing tone. “Especially since they won’t get much chance to see the dive in real action.” Now she grimaced.

  “Well, at least Telgarians believe,” K’vin said.

  “Who doesn’t?” Zulaya demanded, looking up at him.

  “Chalkin, for one.”

  “Him!” She had absolutely no use for the Bitran Lord Holder and never bothered to hide it.

  “If there’s one, there may be others, for all the lip service they give us.”

  “What? With First Fall only months away from us?” Zulaya demanded. “And why, pray tell, do we have dragons at all, if not to provide an aerial defense for the continent? Oh, we provide transportation services, but that’s not nearly enough to justify our existence.”

  “Easy, lady,” K’vin said. “You’re preaching to the dedicated.”

  She made a disgusted sound deep in her throat and then they had reached the steps up to the Upper Court. She put her hand through his arm so that they would present the proper picture of united Weyrleadership. K’vin stifled a sigh that the accord was only for public display.

  “And Chalkin’s already into that new bubbling wine of Hegmon’s,” Zulaya said irritably.

  “Why else do you think he came?” said K’vin as he deftly guided her away from the Bitran who was smacking his lips and regarding his wineglass with greedy speculation. “Though today’s also a chance for his gamesters to profit.”

  “One thing’s sure, I hear tell he’s not on Hegmon’s list,” she said as they reached their table, which the Telgarians shared, by choice, with the High Reaches Weyr and hold leaders and those from Tillek. The senior captain of the Tillek fishing fleet and his new wife completed the complement at their table.

  “That was quite a show you put on,” said the jovial shipmaster, Kizan, “wasn’t it, Cherry m’dear?”

  “Oh, it was, indeed it was,” the girl replied, clapping her hands together. While the gesture was close to an affectation, the young wife was clearly awed by the company she kept at this Gather, and everyone was trying to help her cope. Kizan had let it be known that she came from a small fishing hold and, while a capable shipmaster, she had little experience with a wider world. “I’ve often seen the dragons in the sky, but never so close up. They are so beautiful.”

  “Have you ridden one yet?” Zulaya asked kindly.

  “Oh, heavens, no,” Cherry said, modestly lowering her eyes.

  “You may, and soon,” her husband said. “We came overland here to Fort for the Gather, but I think we’d better see how good our credit is . . .”

  “Very good, Captain,” said G’don, the High Reaches Weyrleader, “as you’ve never applied to us half as much as you’re entitled to.” Mari, his Weyrwoman, nodded and smiled encouragingly at Cherry’s almost horrified reaction.

  “What?” Kizan teased his bride, “the woman who sailed through a Force Nine gale without complaint is nervous about flying on a dragon?”

  Cherry tried to respond but she couldn’t find words.

  “Don’t tease,” Man said. “Riding a dragon is considerably different to standing on your own deck, but I don’t know many people who refuse a ride.”

  “Oh, I’m not refusing,” Cherry said hastily, startled.

  Just like a child fearful of being denied a promised treat, K’vin thought, and struggled to keep from grinning at her.

  “All of you, leave her alone,” said the Telgar Lady Holder, scowling at them. “I remember my first ride a-dragonback—”

  “Back that far, huh,” said her husband, Lord Tashvi, eyeing her blandly. “And yet you can’t remember where you put that bale of extra blankets . . .”

  “Don’t start on that again!” Salda began, scowling, but it was apparent to the others at the table, even young Cherry, that the Telgar Holders often indulged in such sparring.

  “Have you not opened your wine?” asked an eager voice, and they looked round at Vintner Hegmon, a stout, gray-haired man of medium height with a flushed face and a reddened nose which he jokingly called an occupational hazard.

  “Do us the honor,” Tashvi said, gesturing to the chilled bottles.

  Hegmon complied and, in his experienced hands, the plug erupted from the bottle neck with speed and a “plop.” The wine bubbled up but he deftly put a glass under the lip before a drop could be spilled.

  “I think we’ve done it this time,” he said, filling the glasses presented to him.

  “I say, it does look exciting,” Salda said, holding her glass up to watch the bubbles make their ascent.

  Thea, the High Reaches Lady Holder, did likewise and then sniffed at her glass. “Oh, my word,” she said, putting a hand to her nose just in time to catch a sneeze. “The bubbles tickle.”

  “Try the wine,” Hegmon urged.

  “Hmmmm,” Tashvi said, and Kizan echoed the sentiment.

  “Dry, too,” the captain said. “Go on, Cherry,” he urged his wife. “It’s quite unlike Tillek brews. They tend to be foxy and harsh. This’ll go down easily.”

  “Ohhh,” and Cherry’s response was one of sheer delight. “Oh, I like this!”

  Hegmon grinned at her ingenuousness and accepted the approving nods from the others at the table.

  “I quite like it, too,” Zulaya said after letting a sip slide down her throat. “Rather nice.”

  “I say, Hegmon, wouldn’t mind a refill,” and Chalkin appeared at the table, extending his glass under the mouth of the bottle the vintner held.

  Hegmon kept the bottle upright and regarded the Lord Holder coolly. “There’s more at your own table, Chalkin.”

  “True, but I’d rather sample different bottles.”

  Hegmon stiffened and Salda intervened.

  “Leave off, Chalkin. As if Hegmon would offer an inferior bottle to anyone,” she said and waved him off.

  Chalkin hesitated between a scowl and a smile, but then, keeping his expression bland, he bowed and backed away from the table with his empty glass. He did not, however, return to his own table but moved on to the next one where wine was being poured.

  “I could—” Hegmon began.

  “Just don’t supply him, Hegmon.”

  “He’s already insisting that I give him vine starts so he can grow his own,” Hegmon said, furious at such importunity. “Not that he’d do that any better than any of those other projects he starts.”

  “Ignore him,” Zulaya suggested with a flick of her fingers. “M’shall and Irene do. He’s such a toady.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Tashvi with a grimace, “he’s managed to find like minds . . .”

  ‘We’ll settle him at the meeting,” K’vin said.

  “I hope so,” Tashvi said, “though a man like that is not easily convinced against his will. And he does have a following.”

  “Not where it matters,” Zulaya said.

  “I hope so. Ah, and here’s food to soak up all this lovely stuff before we’re too muddled to keep our wits about us this evening.”

  Zulaya waved at the wine cooler. “I doubt there’s more than two glasses apiece, scarcely enough to muddle us, though it’s lovely stuff.” And she sipped judiciously. “Hegmon is generou
s but not overly so. And here’s our dinner . . .”

  She sat back as a swarm of men and women in Fort colors began to distribute platters of steaming food among the tables. And bottles of red wine.

  “You spoke too soon about muddling, Zuli,” K’vin said, grinning as he served her roast slices from the platter before passing it around the table.

  They had finished their meal and all the wine before Paulin rose from his table and signaled those in the Upper Court to follow him into the Hold for the meeting. Dancing was well under way in the square and the music made a cheerful processional.

  K’vin hoped the musicians would still be playing when the meeting ended. Despite the height of her, Zulaya was so light on her feet she was a pleasure to partner, and because he was so tall, she preferred him as hers. And a full orchestra of professionals was far more entertaining than the half-trained, if enthusiastic players currently in the Weyr. Different music, too.

  “Ah,” said Zulaya appreciatively as they filed into Fort’s Great Hall, “they’ve done a great job of freshening the murals.”

  “Hmmm,” K’vin agreed, craning his neck around and impeding Chalkin’s entrance into the Hall. “Sorry.”

  “Humph,” was Chalkin’s response, and he glared sourly at Zulaya as he passed, shrugging his garments away from touching them.

  “Consider the source,” K’vin said when he thought Zulaya might fire a tart comment after the Lord Holder.

  “I want to be at Bitra when the first Fall hits his hold,” she said.

  “Isn’t he lucky, then, not to be beholden to us, but to Benden?” K’vin said wryly.

  “Indeed,” said Zulaya, and allowed herself to be guided to Telgar Weyr’s usual seat at the big conference table. “I wonder did anyone get any sleep in this hold the past week,” she said, stroking the banner of Telgar’s colors, which clothed their portion of the table. “Makes such a nice display,” she murmured as she pulled out the chair which also sported Telgar’s white field and black grain design.

  The table itself was made up of many smaller units hooked together, forming a multifaceted circle: Telgar’s Weyr and hold leaders were between High Reaches and Tillek since they were the northernmost settlements. Across from them were Ista Weyr and Hold, and Keroon Hold, with their brilliant sun-colors. Benden Weyr was seated with Bitra on one side and Nerat and Benden on the other. The Chief Engineer, the Senior Medic, and the Headmaster were also included in the meeting. Fort, traditionally the senior hold, with Ruathà and Southern Boll on either side, was at table center, and this time was the “Chair.”