The Dragonriders of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  She backed away, not from him but from the menace she knew existed, even if she didn’t know why she believed.

  “The moment F’lar Impressed Mnementh, F’lon began training him to take over. Then F’lon got himself killed in that ridiculous brawl.” An expression comprised of anger, regret, and irritation passed over F’nor’s face. Belatedly Lessa realized the man was speaking of his father. “F’lar was too young to take over, and before anyone could intervene, R’gul got Hath to fly Nemorth and we had to wait. But R’gul couldn’t control Jora’s grief over F’lon, and she deteriorated rapidly. And he misinterpreted F’lon’s plan for carrying us over the last of the Interval to mean isolation. Consequently”—F’nor shrugged expressively—“the Weyr lost prestige faster all the time.”

  “Time, time, time,” Lessa railed. “It’s always the wrong time. When is now the time?”

  “Listen to me.” F’nor’s stern words interrupted her tirade as effectively as if he had grabbed and shaken her. She had not suspected F’nor of such forcefulness. She looked at him with increased respect.

  “Ramoth is full-grown, ready for her first mating flight. When she flies, all the bronzes rise to catch her. The strongest does not always get the queen. Sometimes it is the one everyone in the Weyr wants to have win her.” He enunciated his words slowly and clearly. “That was how R’gul got Hath to fly Nemorth. The older riders wanted R’gul. They couldn’t stomach a nineteen-year-old over them as Weyrleader, son though he was to F’lon. So Hath got Nemorth. And they got R’gul. They got what they wanted. And look what they’ve got!” His scornful gesture took in the threadbare weyr.

  “It is too late, it is too late,” Lessa moaned, understanding a great deal, too well, too late.

  “It may be, thanks to your prodding K’net into uncontrolled raiding,” F’nor assured her cynically. “You didn’t need him, you know. Our wing was handling it quietly. But when so much kept coming in, we cut our operations down. It’s a case of too much too soon, since the Hold Lords are getting imprudent enough to retaliate. Think, Lessa of Pern,” and F’nor leaned toward her, his smile bitter, “what R’gul’s reaction will be. You didn’t stop to think of that, did you? Think, now, what he will do when the well-armed Lords of the Hold appear, to demand satisfaction?”

  Lessa closed her eyes, appalled at the scene she could picture all too clearly. She caught at her chair arm, limply sat down, undone by the knowledge she had miscalculated. Overconfident because she had been able to bring haughty Fax to his death, she was about to bring the Weyr to its ruin through that same arrogance.

  There was suddenly noise enough for half the Weyr to be storming up the passageway from the ledge. She could hear the dragons calling excitedly to each other, the first outburst she had heard from them in two months.

  Startled, she jumped up. Had F’lar failed to intercept K’net? Had K’net, by some horrible chance, been caught by the Lords? Together she and F’nor rushed out into the queen’s weyr.

  It was not F’lar and K’net and an angry Lord—or several—in tow who entered. It was R’gul, his cautious face distorted, his eyes wide with excitement. From the outside ledge Lessa could hear Hath generating the same intense agitation. R’gul shot a quick glance at Ramoth, who slumbered on obliviously. His eyes as he approached Lessa were coldly calculating. D’nol came rushing into the weyr at a dead run, hastily buckling on his tunic. Close on his heels came S’lan, S’lel, T’bor. They all converged in a loose semicircle around Lessa.

  R’gul stepped forward, arm outstretched as if to embrace her. Before Lessa could step back, for there was something in R’gul’s expression that revolted her, F’nor moved adroitly to her side, and R’gul, angry, lowered his arm.

  “Hath is blooding his kill?” the brown rider asked ominously.

  “Binth and Orth, too,” T’bor blurted out, his eyes bright with the curious fever that seemed to be affecting all the bronze riders.

  Ramoth stirred restlessly, and everyone paused to watch her intently.

  “Blood their kill?” Lessa exclaimed, perplexed but knowing that this was strangely significant.

  “Call in K’net and F’lar,” F’nor ordered with more authority than a brown rider should use in the presence of bronzes.

  R’gul’s laugh was unpleasant.

  “No one knows where they went.”

  D’nol started to protest, but R’gul cut him off with a savage gesture.

  “You wouldn’t dare, R’gul,” F’nor said with cold menace.

  Well, Lessa would dare. Her frantic appeal to Mnementh and Piyanth produced a faint reply. Then there was absolute blankness where Mnementh had been.

  “She will wake,” R’gul was saying, his eyes piercing Lessa’s. “She will wake and rise ill-tempered. You must allow her only to blood her kill. I warn you she will resist. If you do not restrain her, she will gorge and cannot fly.”

  “She rises to mate,” F’nor snapped, his voice edged with cold and desperate fury.

  “She rises to mate with whichever bronze can catch her,” R’gul continued, his voice exultant.

  And he means for F’lar not to be here, Lessa realized.

  “The longer the flight, the better the clutch. And she cannot fly well or high if she is stuffed with heavy meat. She must not gorge. She must be permitted only to blood her kill. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, R’gul,” Lessa said, “I understand. For once I do understand you, all too well. F’lar and K’net are not here.” Her voice grew shrill. “But Ramoth will never be flown by Hath if I have to take her between.”

  She saw naked fear and shock wipe R’gul’s face clear of triumph, and she watched as he got himself under control. A malevolent sneer replaced surprise at her threat. Did he think her defiance was empty?

  “Good afternoon,” said F’lar pleasantly from the entrance. K’net grinned broadly at his side. “Mnementh informs me that the bronzes blood their kill. How kind of you to call us in for the spectacle.”

  Relief temporarily swept her recent antagonism for F’lar out of Lessa’s mind. The sight of him, calm, arrogant, mocking, buoyed her.

  R’gul’s eyes darted around the semicircle of bronze riders, trying to pick out who had called in these two. And Lessa knew R’gul hated as well as feared F’lar. She could sense, too, that F’lar had changed. There was nothing passive or indifferent or detached about him now. Instead, there was tense anticipation. F’lar was done with waiting!

  Ramoth roused, suddenly and completely awake. Her mind was in such a state that Lessa candidly realized F’lar and K’net had arrived none too soon. So intense were Ramoth’s hunger pangs that Lessa hastened to her head to soothe her. But Ramoth was in no mood for placation.

  With unexpected agility she rose, making for the ledge. Lessa ran after her, followed by the dragonmen. Ramoth hissed in agitation at the bronzes who hovered near the ledge. They scattered quickly out of her way. Their riders made for the broad stairs that led from the queen’s weyr to the Bowl.

  In a daze Lessa felt F’nor place her on Canth’s neck and urge his dragon quickly after the others to the feeding grounds. Lessa watched, amazed, as Ramoth glided effortlessly and gracefully in over the alarmed, stampeding herd. She struck quickly, seizing her kill by the neck and furling her wings suddenly, dropping down on it, too ravenous to carry it aloft.

  “Control her!” F’nor gasped, depositing Lessa unceremoniously to the ground.

  Ramoth screamed defiance of her Weyrwoman’s order. She sloughed her head around, rustling her wings angrily, her eyes blazing opalescent pools of fire. She extended her neck skyward to its full reach, shrilling her insubordination. The harsh echoes reverberated against the walls of the Weyr. All around, the dragons, blue, green, brown, and bronze, extended their wings in mighty sweeps, their answering calls brass thunder in the air.

  Now indeed must Lessa call on the strength of will she had developed through hungry, vengeful years. Ramoth’s wedge-shaped head whipped back and forth; her eye
s glowed with incandescent rebellion. This was no amiable, trusting dragon child. This was a violent demon.

  Across the bloody field Lessa matched wills with the transformed Ramoth. With no hint of weakness, no vestige of fear or thought of defeat. Lessa forced Ramoth to obey. Screeching protest, the golden dragon dropped her head to her kill, her tongue lashing at the inert body, her great jaws opening. Her head wavered over the steaming entrails her claws had ripped out. With a final snarl of reproach, Ramoth fastened her teeth on the thick throat of the buck and sucked the carcass dry of blood.

  “Hold her,” F’nor murmured. Lessa had forgotten him.

  Ramoth rose, screaming, and with incredible speed landed on a second squealing buck. She made a second attempt to eat from the soft belly of her kill. Again Lessa exerted her authority and won. Shrilling defiance, Ramoth reluctantly blooded again.

  She did not resist Lessa’s orders the third time. The dragon had begun to realize now that irresistible instinct was upon her. She had not known anything but fury until she got the taste of hot blood. Now she knew what she needed: to fly fast, far, and long, away from the Weyr, away from these puny, wingless ones, far in advance of those rutting bronzes.

  Dragon instinct was limited to here-and-now, with no ability to control or anticipate. Mankind existed in partnership with them to supply wisdom and order, Lessa found herself chanting silently.

  Without hesitation, Ramoth struck for the fourth time, hissing with greed as she sucked at the beast’s throat.

  A tense silence had fallen over the Weyr Bowl, broken only by the sound of Ramoth’s feeding and the high keening of the wind.

  Ramoth’s skin began to glow. She seemed to enlarge, not with gorging but with luminescence. She raised her bloody head, her tongue forking out to lick her muzzle. She straightened, and simultaneously a hum arose from the bronzes ringing the feeding ground in silent anticipation.

  With a sudden golden movement Ramoth arched her great back. She sprang into the sky, wings wide. With unbelievable speed she was airborne. After her, in the blink of an eye, seven bronze shapes followed, their mighty wings churning buffets of sand-laden air into the faces of the watching weyrfolk.

  Her heart in her mouth at the prodigious flight, Lessa felt her soul lifting with Ramoth.

  “Stay with her,” F’nor whispered urgently. “Stay with her. She must not escape your control now.”

  He stepped away from Lessa, back among the folk of the Weyr, who, as one, turned their eyes skyward to the disappearing shining motes of the dragons.

  Lessa, her mind curiously suspended, retained only enough physical consciousness to realize that she was in fact earthbound.

  All other sense and feeling were aloft with Ramoth. And she, Ramoth-Lessa, was alive with limitless power, her wings beating effortlessly to the thin heights, elation surging through her frame, elation and—desire.

  She sensed rather than saw the great bronze males pursuing her. She was contemptuous of their ineffectual efforts. For she was wingfree and unconquerable.

  She snaked her head under one wing and mocked their puny efforts with shrill taunts. High above them she soared. Suddenly, folding her wings, she plummeted down, delighting to see them veer off in wingcrowding haste to avoid collision.

  She soared quickly above them again as they labored to make up their lost speed and altitude.

  So Ramoth flirted leisurely with her lovers, splendid in her newfound freedom, daring the bronze ones to outfly her.

  One dropped, spent. She crowed her superiority. Soon a second abandoned the chase as she played with them, diving and darting in intricate patterns. Sometimes she was oblivious of their existence, so lost was she in the thrill of flight.

  When, at last, a little bored, she condescended to glance at her followers, she was vaguely amused to see only three great beasts still pursuing. She recognized Mnementh, Orth, and Hath. All in their prime; worthy, perhaps, of her.

  She glided down, tantalizing them, amused at their now labored flights. Hath she couldn’t bear. Orth? Now Orth was a fine young beast. She dropped her wings to slide between him and Mnementh.

  As she swung past Mnementh, he suddenly closed his wings and dropped beside her. Startled, she tried to hover and found her wings fouled with his, his neck winding tightly about hers.

  Entwined, they fell. Mnementh, calling on hidden reserves of strength, spread his wings to check their downward fall. Outmaneuvered and startled by the terrific speed of their descent, Ramoth, too, extended her great wings. And then . . .

  Lessa reeled, her hands wildly grabbing out for any support. She seemed to be exploding back into her body, every nerve throbbing.

  “Don’t faint, you fool. Stay with her.” F’lar’s voice grated in her ear. His arms roughly sustained her.

  She tried to focus her eyes. She caught a startled glimpse of the walls of her own weyr. She clutched at F’lar, touching bare skin, shaking her head, confused.

  “Bring her back.”

  “How?” she cried, panting, unable to comprehend what could possibly entice Ramoth from such glory.

  The pain of stinging blows on her face made her angrily aware of F’lar’s disturbing proximity. His eyes were wild, his mouth distorted.

  “Think with her. She cannot go between. Stay with her.”

  Trembling at the thought of losing Ramoth between, Lessa sought the dragon, still locked wing to wing with Mnementh.

  The mating passion of the two dragons at that moment spiraled wide to include Lessa. A tidal wave rising relentlessly from the sea of her soul flooded Lessa. With a longing cry she clung to F’lar. She felt his body rock-firm against hers, his hard arms lifting her up, his mouth fastening mercilessly on hers as she drowned deep in another unexpected flood of desire.

  “Now! We bring them safely home,” he murmured.

  Dragonman, dragonman,

  Between thee and thine,

  Share me that glimpse of love

  Greater than mine.

  F’lar came suddenly awake. He listened attentively, heard and was reassured by Mnementh’s gratified rumble. The bronze was perched on the ledge outside the queen’s weyr. All was peacefully in order in the Bowl below.

  Peaceful but different. F’lar, through Mnementh’s eyes and senses, perceived this instantly. There was an overnight change in the Weyr. F’lar permitted himself a satisfied grin at the previous day’s tumultuous events. Something might have gone wrong.

  Something nearly did, Mnementh reminded him.

  Who had called K’net and himself back? F’lar mused again. Mnementh only repeated that he had been called back. Why wouldn’t he identify the informer?

  A nagging worry intruded on F’lar’s waking ruminations.

  “Did F’nor remember to . . .” he began aloud.

  F’nor never forgets your orders, Mnementh reassured him testily. Canth told me that the sighting at dawn today puts the Red Star at the top of the Eye Rock. The sun is still off, too.

  F’lar ran impatient fingers through his hair. “At the top of the Eye Rock. Closer, and closer the Red Star came,” just as the Old Records predicted. And that dawn when the Star gleamed scarlet at the watcher through the Eye Rock heralded a dangerous passing and . . . the Threads.

  There was certainly no other explanation for that careful arrangement of gigantic stones and special rocks on Benden Peak. Nor for its counterpart on the eastern walls of each of the five abandoned Weyrs.

  First, the Finger Rock on which the rising sun balanced briefly at dawn at the winter solstice. Then, two dragon lengths behind it, the rectangular, enormous Star Stone, chest-high to a tall man, its polished surface incised by two arrows, one pointing due east toward the Finger Rock, the other slightly north of due east, aimed directly at the Eye Rock, so ingeniously and immovably set into the Star Stone.

  One dawn, in the not too distant future, he would look through the Eye Rock and meet the baleful blink of the Red Star. And then . . .

  Sounds of vigorous s
plashing interrupted F’lar’s reflections. He grinned again as he realized it was the girl bathing. She certainly cleaned up pretty, and undressed . . . He stretched with leisurely recollection, reviewing what his reception from that quarter might be. She ought to have no complaints at all. What a flight! He chuckled softly.

  Mnementh commented from the safety of his ledge that F’lar had better watch his step with Lessa.

  Lessa, is it? thought F’lar back to his dragon.

  Mnementh enigmatically repeated his caution. F’lar chuckled his self-confidence.

  Suddenly Mnementh was alert to an alarm.

  Watchers were sending out a rider to identify the unusually persistent dust clouds on the plateau below Benden Lake, Mnementh informed his wingleader crisply.

  F’lar rose hastily, gathered up his scattered clothes, and dressed. He was buckling the wide rider’s belt when the curtain to the bathing room was flipped aside. Lessa confronted him, fully clothed.

  He was always surprised to see how slight she was, an incongruous physical vessel for such strength of mind. Her newly washed hair framed her narrow face with a dark cloud. There was no hint in her composed eyes of the dragon-roused passion they had experienced together yesterday. There was no friendliness about her at all. No warmth. Was this what Mnementh meant? What was the matter with the girl?

  Mnementh gave an additional alarming report, and F’lar set his jaw. He would have to postpone the understanding they must reach intellectually until after this emergency. To himself he damned R’gul’s green handling of her. The man had all but ruined the Weyrwoman, as he had all but destroyed the Weyr.