The Dragonriders of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

  “A dragonman may champion anyone whose grievance is just. By the time we reached Ruath Hold, my lady, I was quite ready to challenge Fax given any reasonable cause, despite the Search.” This was not the whole truth, but F’lar must teach this girl the folly of trying to control dragonmen. “Had you paid any attention to your harper’s songs, you’d know your rights. And”—F’lar’s voice held a vindictive edge that surprised him—“the Lady Gemma might not now lie dead. She, brave soul, suffered far more at that tyrant’s hand than you.”

  Something in her manner told him that she regretted Lady Gemma’s death, that it had affected her deeply.

  “What good is Ruatha to you now?” he demanded, a broad sweep of his arm taking in the ruined Court yard and the Hold, the entire unproductive valley of Ruatha. “You have indeed accomplished your ends, a profitless conquest and its conqueror’s death.”

  F’lar snorted. “As well, too. Those Holds will all revert to their legitimate Blood, and time they did. One Hold and One Lord. Anything else is against tradition. Of course, you might have to fight others who disbelieve that precept: who have become infected with Fax’s greedy madness. Can you hold Ruatha against attack . . . now . . . in her condition?”

  “Ruatha is mine!”

  “Ruatha?” F’lar’s laugh was derisive. “When you could be Weyrwoman?”

  “Weyrwoman?” she breathed, staring at him in shocked amazement.

  “Yes, little fool. I said I rode in Search . . . it’s about time you attended to more than Ruatha. And the object of my Search is . . . you!”

  She stared at the finger he pointed at her, as if it were dangerous.

  “By the First Egg, girl, you’ve power in you to spare when you can turn a dragonman, all unwitting, to do your bidding. Ah, but never again, for I am now on guard against you.”

  Mnementh crooned approvingly, the sound a soft rumble in his throat. He arched his neck so that one eye was turned directly on the girl, gleaming in the darkness of the Court.

  F’lar noticed with detached pride that she neither flinched nor blanched at the proximity of an eye greater than her own head.

  “He likes to have his eye ridges scratched,” F’lar remarked in a friendly tone, changing tactics.

  “I know,” she said softly and reached out a hand to do that service.

  “Nemorth has laid a golden egg,” F’lar continued persuasively. “She is close to death. This time we must have a strong Weyrwoman.”

  “The Red Star?” the girl gasped, turning frightened eyes to F’lar. That alone surprised him, for she had never once evinced any fear.

  “You’ve seen it? You understand what it means?” He saw her swallow nervously.

  “There is danger . . .” she began in a bare whisper, glancing apprehensively eastward.

  F’lar did not question by what miracle she appreciated the imminence of danger. He had every intention of taking her to the Weyr by sheer force if necessary. But something within him wanted very much for her to accept the challenge voluntarily. A rebellious Weyrwoman would be even more dangerous than a stupid one. This girl had too much power and was too used to guile and strategy. It would be a calamity to antagonize her with injudicious handling.

  “There is danger for all Pern. Not just Ruatha,” he said, allowing a note of entreaty to creep into his voice. “And you are needed. Not by Ruatha.” A wave of his hand dismissed that consideration as a negligible one compared to the total picture. “We are doomed without a strong Weyrwoman. Without you.”

  “Gemma said all the bronze riders were needed,” she murmured in a dazed whisper.

  What did she mean by that statement? F’lar frowned. Had she heard a word he had said? He pressed his argument, certain only that he had already struck one responsive chord.

  “You’ve won here. Let the babe”—he saw her startled rejection of that idea and ruthlessly qualified it—“Gemma’s babe—be reared at Ruatha. You have command of all the Holds as Weyrwoman, not ruined Ruatha alone. You’ve accomplished Fax’s death. Leave off vengeance.”

  She stared at F’lar with wondering eyes, absorbing his words.

  “I never thought beyond Fax’s death,” she admitted slowly. “I never thought what should happen then.”

  Her confusion was almost childlike and struck F’lar forcibly. He had had no time or desire to consider her prodigious accomplishment. Now he realized some measure of her indomitable character. She could not have been above ten Turns of age herself when Fax had murdered her family. Yet somehow, so young, she had set herself a goal and managed to survive both brutality and detection long enough to secure the usurper’s death. What a Weyrwoman she would be! In the tradition of those of Ruathan Blood. The light of the paler moon made her look young and vulnerable and almost pretty.

  “You can be Weyrwoman,” he repeated with gentle insistence.

  “Weyrwoman,” she breathed, incredulous, and gazed around the inner Court bathed in soft moonlight. He thought she wavered.

  “Or perhaps you enjoy rags?” he said, making his voice harsh, mocking. “And matted hair, dirty feet, and cracked hands? Sleeping in straw, eating rinds? You are young . . . that is, I assume you are young.” His voice was frankly skeptical. She glared at him coolly, her lips firmly pressed together. “Is this the be-all and end-all of your ambition? What are you that this little corner of the great world is all you want?” He paused, then with utter contempt added, “The Blood of Ruatha has thinned, I see. You’re afraid!”

  “I am Lessa, daughter of the Lord of Ruath,” she countered, stung to responding by the Blood insult. She drew herself erect, her eyes flashing, her chin high. “I am afraid of nothing!”

  F’lar contented himself with a slight smile.

  Mnementh, however, threw up his head and stretched out his sinuous neck to its whole length. His full-throated peal rang out down the valley. The bronze communicated his awareness to F’lar that Lessa had accepted the challenge. The other dragons answered back, their warbles shriller than Mnementh’s male bellow. The watch-wher which had cowered at the end of its chain lifted its voice in a thin, unnerving screech until the Hold emptied of its startled occupants.

  “F’nor,” the bronze rider called, waving his wing-leader to him. “Leave half the flight to guard the Hold. Some nearby Lord might think to emulate Fax’s example, Send one rider to the High Reaches with the glad news. You go directly to the clothmen’s Hall and speak to L’to . . . Lytol.” F’lar grinned. “I think he would make an exemplary Warder and Lord Surrogate for this Hold in the name of the Weyr and the baby Lord.”

  The brown rider’s face expressed enthusiasm for his mission as he began to comprehend his leader’s intentions. With Fax dead and Ruatha under the protection of dragonmen, particularly that same one who had dispatched Fax, the Hold would be safe and flourish under wise management.

  “She caused Ruatha’s deterioration?” he asked his leader.

  “And nearly ours with her machinations,” F’lar replied, but having found the admirable object of his Search, he could now be magnanimous. “Suppress your exultation, brother,” he advised quickly as he took note of F’nor’s expression. “The new queen must also be Impressed.”

  “I’ll settle arrangements here. Lytol is an excellent choice,” F’nor said, although he knew that F’lar needed no one’s approval.

  “Who is this Lytol?” demanded Lessa pointedly. She had twisted the mass of filthy hair back from her face. In the moonlight the dirt was less noticeable. F’lar caught F’nor looking at her with an all too easily read expression. He signaled F’nor with a peremptory gesture to carry out his orders without delay.

  “Lytol is a dragonless man,” F’lar told the girl, “no friend to Fax. He will ward the Hold well, and it will prosper.” He added persuasively with a quelling stare full on her, “Won’t it?”

  She regarded him somberly, without answering, until he chuckled softly at her discomfiture.
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br />   “We’ll return to the Weyr,” he announced, proffering a hand to guide her to Mnementh’s side.

  The bronze one had extended his head toward the watch-wher, who now lay panting on the ground, its chain limp in the dust.

  “Oh,” Lessa sighed, and dropped beside the grotesque beast. It raised its head slowly, crying piteously.

  “Mnementh says it is very old and soon will sleep itself to death.”

  Lessa cradled the repulsive head in her arms, stroking the eye ridges, scratching behind its ears.

  “Come, Lessa of Pern,” F’lar said, impatient to be up and away.

  She rose slowly but obediently. “It saved me. It knew me.”

  “It knows it did well,” F’lar assured her brusquely, wondering at such an uncharacteristic show of sentiment in her.

  He took her hand again, to help her to her feet and lead her back to Mnementh.

  In one split second he was knocked off his feet, sprawling across the stones and trying to roll to his feet again, to face his adversary. The force of the initial blow, however, had dazed him, and he lay sprawled on his back, startled to see the watch-wher, its scaly body launched—straight at him.

  Simultaneously he heard Lessa’s startled exclamation and Mnementh’s roar. The bronze’s great head was swinging around to knock the watch-wher aside, away from the dragonman. But just as the watch-wher’s body was fully extended in its leap, Lessa cried out.

  “Don’t kill! Don’t kill!”

  The watch-wher, its snarl turning into an anguished cry of alarm, executed an incredible maneuver in mid-air, turning aside from its trajection. As it fell to the stone yard at his feet, F’lar heard the dull crack as the force of its landing broke its back.

  Before he could get to his feet, Lessa was cradling the hideous head in her arms, her face stricken.

  Mnementh lowered his head to tap the dying watch-wher’s body gently. He informed F’lar that the beast had guessed Lessa was leaving Ruatha, something one of her Blood should not do. In its senile confusion it could only assume Lessa was in danger. When it heard Lessa’s frantic command, it had corrected its error at the expense of its life.

  “It was truly only defending me,” Lessa added, her voice breaking. She cleared her throat. “It was the only one I could trust. My only friend.”

  F’lar awkwardly patted the girl’s shoulder, appalled that anyone could be reduced to claiming friendship with a watch-wher. He winced because the fall had reopened the knife wound in his shoulder and he hurt.

  “In truth a loyal friend,” he said, standing patiently until the light in the watch-wher’s green-gold eyes dimmed and died out.

  All the dragons gave voice to the eerie, hair-raising, barely audible, high keening note that signified the passing of one of their kind.

  “He was only a watch-wher,” Lessa murmured, stunned by the tribute, her eyes wide.

  “The dragons confer honor where they will,” F’lar remarked dryly, disclaiming the responsibility.

  Lessa looked down for one more long moment at the repulsive head. She laid it down to the stones, caressed the clipped wings. Then, with quick fingers, she undid the heavy buckle that fastened the metal collar around the neck. She threw the collar violently away.

  She rose in a fluid movement and walked resolutely to Mnementh without a single backward glance. She stepped calmly to Mnementh’s raised leg and seated herself, as F’lar directed her, on the great neck.

  F’lar glanced around the Court at the remainder of his wing which had reformed there. The Hold folk had retreated into the safety of the great Hall. When his wingmen were all astride, he vaulted to Mnementh’s neck, behind the girl.

  “Hold lightly to my arms,” he ordered her as he took hold of the smallest neck ridge and gave the command to fly.

  Her fingers closed spasmodically around his forearm as the great bronze dragon took off, the enormous wings working to achieve height from the vertical takeoff. Mnementh preferred to fall into flight from a cliff or tower. Dragons tended to indolence. F’lar glanced behind him, saw the other dragonmen form the flight line, spread out to cover the gaps of those still on guard at Ruatha Hold.

  When they had reached a sufficient altitude, he told Mnementh to transfer, going between to the Weyr.

  Only a gasp indicated the girl’s astonishment as they hung between. Accustomed as he was to the sting of the profound cold, to the awesome utter lack of light and sound, F’lar still found the sensations unnerving. Yet the uncommon transfer spanned no more time than it took to cough thrice.

  Mnementh rumbled approval of this candidate’s calm reaction as they flicked out of the eerie between. She had not been afraid or screamed in panic as other women had. F’lar did feel her heart pounding against his arm that pressed against her ribs, but that was all.

  And then they were above the Weyr, Mnementh setting his wings to glide in the bright daylight, half a world away from nighttime Ruatha.

  Lessa’s hands lightened on his arms, this time in surprise as they circled above the great stony trough of the Weyr. F’lar peered at Lessa’s face, pleased with the delight mirrored there; she showed no trace of fear that they hung a thousand lengths above the high Benden mountain range. Then, as the seven dragons roared their incoming cry, an incredulous smile lit her face.

  The other wingmen dropped into a wide spiral, down, down, while Mnementh elected to descend in lazy circles. The dragonmen peeled off smartly and dropped, each to his own tier in the caves of the Weyr. Mnementh finally completed his leisurely approach to their quarters, whistling shrilly to himself as he braked his forward speed with a twist of his wings, dropping lightly at last to the ledge. He crouched as F’lar swung the girl to the rough rock, scored from thousands of clawed landings.

  “This leads only to our quarters,” he told her as they entered the corridor, vaulted and wide for the easy passage of great bronze dragons.

  As they reached the huge natural cavern that had been his since Mnementh achieved maturity, F’lar looked about him with eyes fresh from his first prolonged absence from the Weyr. The huge chamber was unquestionably larger than most of the halls he had visited in Fax’s procession. Those halls were intended as gathering places for men, not the habitations of dragons. But suddenly he saw his own quarters were nearly as shabby as all Ruatha. Benden was, of a certainty, one of the oldest dragonweyrs, as Ruatha was one of the oldest Holds, but that excused nothing. How many dragons had bedded in that hollow to make solid rock conform to dragon proportions! How many feet had worn the path past the dragon’s Weyr into the sleeping chamber, to the bathing room beyond where the natural warm spring provided ever-fresh water! But the wall hangings were faded and unraveling, and there were grease stains on lintel and floor that could easily be sanded away.

  He noticed the wary expression on Lessa’s face as he paused in the sleeping room.

  “I must feed Mnementh immediately. So you may bathe first,” he said, rummaging in a chest and finding clean clothes for her, discards of former occupants of his quarters, but far more presentable than her present covering. He carefully laid back in the chest the white wool robe that was traditional Impression garb. She would wear that later. He tossed several garments at her feet and a bag of sweetsand, gesturing to the hanging that obscured the way to the bath.

  He left her then, the clothes in a heap at her feet, for she made no effort to catch anything.

  Mnementh informed him that F’nor was feeding Canth and that he, Mnementh, was hungry, too. She didn’t trust F’lar, but she wasn’t afraid of himself.

  “Why should she be afraid of you?” F’lar asked. “You’re cousin to the watch-wher who was her only friend.”

  Mnementh informed F’lar that he, a fully matured bronze dragon, was no relation to any scrawny, crawling, chained, and wing-clipped watch-wher.

  “Then why did you accord him a dragon tribute?” F’lar asked.

  Mnementh told him haughtily that it was fitting and proper to mourn the passing of a
loyal and self-sacrificing personality. Not even a blue dragon could deny the fact that that Ruathan watch-wher had not divulged information he had been enjoined to keep, though the beast had been sorely pressed to do so by himself, Mnementh. Also, in managing, by some physical feat, to turn aside its attack on F’lar, at the cost of its own life, it had elevated itself to dragonlike bravery. Of course, the dragons had uttered a tribute at its passing.

  F’lar, pleased at having been able to tease the bronze one, chuckled to himself. With great dignity Mnementh curved down to the feeding ground.

  F’lar dropped off as Mnementh hovered near F’nor. The impact with the ground reminded him he had better get the girl to dress his shoulder for him. He watched as the bronze one swooped down on the nearest fat buck in the milling herd.

  “The Hatching is due at any hour,” F’nor greeted his brother, grinning up at him as he squatted on his haunches. His eyes were bright with excitement.

  F’lar nodded thoughtfully. “There will be plenty to choose from for the males,” he allowed, knowing F’nor was tauntingly withholding choicer news.

  They both watched as F’nor’s Canth singled out a doe. The brown dragon neatly grabbed the struggling beast in one claw and rose up, settling on an unoccupied ledge to feast.

  Mnementh dispatched his first carcass and glided in again over the herd, to the pens beyond. He singled out a heavy ground bird and lifted with it in his claws. F’lar observed his ascent, experiencing as always the thrill of pride in the effortless sweep of the great pinions, the play of the sun on the bronze hide, the flash of silvery claws, unsheathed for landing. He never tired of watching Mnementh in flight or admiring the unconscious grace and strength.

  “Lytol was overwhelmed by the summons,” F’nor remarked, “and sends you all honor and respect. He will do well at Ruatha.”

  “The reason he was chosen,” grunted F’lar, nonetheless gratified by Lytol’s reaction. Surrogate Lordship was no substitute for loss of one’s dragon, but it was an honorable responsibility.