The Dragonriders of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  “I’ll have the bronze! Of course. The bronze’ll do fine,” she exclaimed. There was something so repellent about the glitter in her eyes and the nasty edge to her laugh that F’nor felt the hair rise on the back of his neck.

  “A bronze dragon on my shoulder will be most effective, I think,” Kylara went on, reaching for G’sel’s bronze lizard.

  G’sel’s put up a warning hand.

  “I said they were Impressed, Kylara,” F’nor warned her, quickly signaling the rider to refuse. G’sel was only a green rider and new to this Weyr at that; he was no match for Kylara, particularly not in this mood. “Touch him at your own risk.”

  “Impressed, you say?’ Kylara hesitated, turning to sneer at F’nor. “Why, they’re nothing but fire lizards.”

  “And from what creature on Pern do you think dragons were bred?”

  “Not that old nursery nonsense. How could you possibly make a fighting dragon from a fire lizard?” She reached again for the little bronze. It spread its wings, flapping them agitatedly.

  “If it bites you, don’t blame G’sel,” F’nor told her in a pleasant drawl though it cost him much to keep his temper. It was too bad you couldn’t beat a Weyrwoman with impunity. Her dragon wouldn’t permit it but a sound thrashing was what Kylara badly needed.

  “You can’t be certain they’re that much like dragons,” Kylara protested, glancing suspiciously around at the others. “No one’s ever caught one and you just found them.”

  “We’re not certain of anything about them,” F’nor replied, beginning to enjoy himself. It was a pleasure to see Kylara frustrated by a lizard. “However, look at the similarities. My little queen . . .”

  “You? Impressed a queen?” Kylara’s face turned livid as F’nor casually drew aside a fold of his sling to expose the sleeping gold lizard.

  “She went between when she was frightened. She communicated that fright, plus curiosity, and she evidently received our reassurances. At least she came back. Canth said she’d just hatched. I fed her and she’s still with me. We managed to save only these seven because they got Impressed. The others turned cannibal. Now, how long these will be dependent on us for food and companionship is pure conjecture. But the dragons admit a blood relationship and they have ways of knowing beyond ours.”

  “Just how did you Impress them?” Kylara demanded, her intentions transparent. “No one’s ever caught one before.”

  If it got her out of the Weyr and kept her on sandy beaches and off Brekke’s back, F’nor was quite agreeable to telling her.

  “You Impress them by being there when they hatch, same as with dragons. After that, I assume the ones which survive stay wild. As to why no one ever caught any before, that’s simple; the fire lizards hear them coming and disappear between.” And, my dear, may it be a warm night between before you catch one.

  Kylara stared hard at Mirrim and so resentfully at G’sel that the young rider began to fidget and the little bronze rustled his wings nervously.

  “Well, I want it clearly understood that this is a working Weyr. We’ve no time for pets who serve no purpose. I’ll deal severely with anyone shirking their duties or—” She broke off.

  “No shirking or tramping the beaches until you’ve had a chance to get one first, huh, Kylara?” asked F’nor, still grinning pleasantly.

  “I’ve better things to do.” She spat the words at him and then, skirts kicking out before her, swept out of the room.

  “Maybe we ought to warn the lizards,” F’nor said in a facetious way, trying to dispel the tension in the Infirmary.

  “There’s no protection against someone like Kylara,” Brekke said, motioning the rider to take his bandaged blue. “One learns to live with her.”

  G’sel gave an odd gargle and rose, almost unsettling his lizard.

  “How can you say that, Brekke, when she’s so mean and nasty to you?” Mirrim cried, and subsided at a stern look from her foster mother.

  “Make no judgments where you have no compassion,” Brekke replied. “And I, too, will not tolerate any shirking of duties to care for these pretties. I don’t know why we saved them!”

  “Make no judgments where you have no compassion,” F’nor retorted.

  “They needed us,” Mirrim said so emphatically that even she was surprised at her temerity, and immediately became absorbed in her brown.

  “Yes, they did,” F’nor agreed, aware of the little queen’s golden body nestled trustingly against his ribs. She had twined her tail as far as it would reach around his waist. “And true weyrmen one and all, we responded to the cry for succor.”

  “Mirrim Impressed three and she’s no weyrman,” Brekke said in a dry, didactic correction. “And if they are Impressionable by non-riders, they might well be worth every effort to save.”

  “How’s that?”

  Brekke frowned a little at F’nor as if she didn’t credit his obtuseness.

  “Look at the facts, F’nor. I don’t know of a commoner alive who hasn’t entertained the notion of catching a fire lizard, simply because they resemble small dragons—no, don’t interrupt me. You know perfectly well that it’s just in these last eight Turns that commoners were permitted on the Ground as candidates at Impression. Why, I remember my brothers plotting night after night in the hope of catching a fire lizard, a personal dragon of their own. I don’t think it ever occurred to anyone, really, that there might be some truth in that old myth that dragons—weyrdragons—were bred from lizards. It was just that fire lizards were not proscribed to commoners, and dragons were. Out of our reach.” Her eyes softened with affection as she stroked the tiny sleeping bronze in the crook of her arm. “Odd to realize that generations of commoners were on the right track and never knew it. These creatures have the same talent dragons have for capturing our feelings. I oughtn’t to take on another responsibility but nothing would make me relinquish my bronze now he’s made himself mine.” Her lips curved in a very tender smile. Then, as if aware she was displaying too much of her inner feelings, she said very briskly, “It’d be a very good thing for people—for commoners—to have a small taste of dragon.”

  “Brekke, you can’t mean you think that a fire lizard’s loving company would mellow someone like Vincet of Nerat or Meron of Nabol toward dragonriders?” Out of respect for her, F’nor did not laugh aloud. Brekke was a sackful of unexpected reactions.

  She gave him such a stern look that he began to regret his words.

  “If you’ll pardon me, F’nor,” G’sel spoke up, “I think Brekke’s got a good thought there. I’m holdbred myself. You’re weyrbred. You can’t imagine how I used to feel about dragonriders. I honestly didn’t know myself—until I Impressed Roth.” His face lit with a startling joy at the memory. He paused, unabashed, to savor the moment anew. “It’d be worth a try. Even if the fire lizards are dumb, it’d make a difference. They wouldn’t understand how much more it is with a dragon. Look, F’nor, here’s this perfectly charming creature, perched on my shoulder, adoring me. He was all ready to bite the Weyrwoman to stay with me. You heard how angry he was. You don’t know how—spectacular—it’d make a commoner feel.”

  F’nor looked around, at Brekke, at Mirrim, who did not evade his eyes this time, at the other riders.

  “Are you all holdbred? I hadn’t realized. Somehow, once a man becomes a rider, you forget he ever had another affiliation.”

  “I was craftbred,” Brekke said, “but G’sel’s remarks are as valid for the Craft as the Hold.”

  “Perhaps we ought to get T’bor to issue an order that lizard-watching has now become a Weyr duty,” F’nor suggested, grinning slyly at Brekke.

  “That’ll show Kylara,” someone murmured very softly from Mirrim’s direction.

  CHAPTER V

  Midmorning at Ruatha Hold

  Early Evening at Benden Weyr

  Jaxom’s pleasure in riding a dragon, in being summoned to Benden Weyr, was severely diminished by his guardian’s glowering disapproval. Jaxom had yet to l
earn that most of Lord Warder Lytol’s irritation was for a far larger concern than his ward’s mischievous habit of getting lost in the unused and dangerous corridors of Ruatha Hold. As it was, Jaxom was quite downcast He didn’t mean to irritate Lytol, but he never seemed able to please him, no matter how hard he tried. There was such an unconscionable number of things that he, Jaxom, Lord of Ruatha Hold, must know, must do, must understand, that his head swam until he had to run away, to be by himself, to think. And the only empty places to think in Ruatha, where no one ever went or would bother you, were in the back portions of the hollowed-out cliff that was Ruatha Hold. And while he could, just possibly, get lost or trapped behind a rockfall (there hadn’t been a cave-in at Ruatha in the memory of living man or the Hold Records as far back as they were still legible), Jaxom hadn’t got into trouble or danger. He knew his way around perfectly. Who could tell? His investigations might someday save Ruatha Hold from another invader like Fax, his father. Here Jaxom’s thoughts faltered. A father he had never seen, a mother who died bearing him, had made him Lord of Ruatha, though his mother had been of Crom Hold and Fax his father, of the High Reaches. It was Lessa, who was now Weyrwoman at Benden, who had been the last of Ruathan Blood. These were contradictions he didn’t understand and must.

  He had changed his clothes now, from the dirty everyday ones to his finest tunic and trousers, with a wherhide over-tunic and knee boots. Not that even they could stop the horrible cold of between. Jaxom shuddered with delighted terror. It was like being suspended nowhere, until your throat closed and your bowels knotted and you were scared silly that you’d never again see the light of day, or even night’s darkness, depending on local time of day where you were supposed to emerge. He was very jealous of Felessan, despite the fact that it was by no means sure his friend would be a dragonrider. But Felessan lived at Benden Weyr, and he had a mother and a father, and dragonriders all around him, and . . .

  “Lord Jaxom!” Lytol’s call from the Great Courtyard broke through the boy’s reverie and he ran, suddenly afraid that they’d leave without him.

  It was only a green, Jaxom thought with some disappointment. You’d think they’d send a brown at the very least, for Lytol, Warder of Ruatha Hold, one time dragonrider himself. Then Jaxom was overwhelmed by contrition. Lytol’s dragon had been a brown and it was well known that half a man’s soul left him when his dragon died and he remained among the living.

  The green’s rider grinned a welcome as Jaxom scrambled up the extended leg.

  “Good morning, Jeralte,” he said, slightly startled because he’d played in the Lower Caves with the young man only two Turns back. Now he was a full-fledged rider.

  “J’ralt, please, Lord Jaxom,” Lytol corrected his ward.

  “That’s all right, Jaxom,” J’ralt said and looped the riding belt deftly around Jaxom’s waist

  Jaxom wanted to sink; to be corrected by Lytol in front of Jer—J’ralt, and not to remember to use the honorific contraction! He didn’t enjoy the thrill of rising, a-dragonback, over the great towers of Ruatha Hold, of watching the valley, spread out like a wall hanging under the dragon’s sinuous green neck. But as they circled, Jaxom had to balance himself against the dragon’s unexpectedly soft hide, and the warmth of that contact seemed to ease his inner misery. Then he saw the line of weeders in the fields and knew that they must be looking up at the dragon. Did those bullying Hold boys know that he, Jaxom, Lord of Ruatha, was a-dragonback? Jaxom was himself again.

  To be a dragonman was surely the most wonderful thing in the world. Jaxom felt a sudden wave of overwhelming pity for Lytol who had had this joy and—lost it, and now must suffer agonies to ride another’s beast. Jaxom looked at the rigid back in front of him, for he was sandwiched between the two men, and wished that he might comfort his Warder. Lytol was always fair, and if he expected Jaxom to be perfect, it was because Jaxom must be perfect to be the Lord of Ruatha Hold. Which was no little honor, even if it wasn’t being a dragonrider.

  Jaxom’s reflections were brought to an abrupt stop as the dragon took them between.

  You count to three slowly, Jaxom told his frantic mind as he lost all sense of sight and sound, of contact, even of the soft dragon hide beneath his hands. He tried to count and couldn’t. His mind seemed to freeze, but just as he was about to shriek, they burst out into the late afternoon, over Benden Weyr. Never had the Bowl seemed so welcome, with its high walls softened and colored by the lambent sun. The black maws of the individual weyrs, set in the face of the inner wall, were voiceless mouths, greeting him all astonished.

  As they circled down, Jaxom spotted bronze Mnementh, surely the hugest dragon ever hatched, lounging on the ledge to the queen’s weyr. She’d be in the Hatching Ground, Jaxom knew, for the new clutch was still hardening on the warm sands. There’d be another Impression soon. And there was a golden queen egg in the new clutch. Jaxom had heard that another Ruathan girl had been one of those chosen on Search.

  Another Ruathan Weyrwoman, he was positive. His Hold had bred up more Weyrwomen . . . Mardra, of course, was nowhere near as important as Lessa or Moreta, but she had come from Ruatha. She’d some real funny notions about the Hold. She always annoyed Lytol. Jaxom knew that, because the twitch in his Warder’s cheek would start jumping. It didn’t when Lessa visited. Except that lately Lessa had stopped coming to Ruatha Hold.

  The young Lord of Ruatha spotted Lessa now, as they circled again to bring the queen’s weyr in flight line. She and F’lar were on the ledge. The green called, answered by Mnementh’s bass roar. A muffled bellow reverberated through the Weyr. Ramoth, the queen, took notice of their arrival.

  Jaxom felt much better, particularly when he also caught sight of a small figure, racing across the Bowl floor to the stairs up to the queen’s weyr. Felessan. His friend. He hadn’t seen him in months. Jaxom didn’t want the flight to end but he couldn’t wait to see Felessan.

  Jaxom was nervously conscious of Lytol’s critical eyes as he made his duty to the Weyrwoman and the Weyrleader. He’d rehearsed words and bows often enough. He ought to have it down heart-perfect, yet he heard himself stammering out the traditional words and felt the fool.

  “You came, you came. I told Gandidan you’d come,” cried Felessan, dashing up the steps, two at a time. He nearly knocked Jaxom down with his antics. Felessan was three Turns his junior but he was of the dragonfolk, and even if Lessa and F’lar had turned their son over to a foster mother, he ought to have more manners. Maybe what Mardra was always carping about was true. The new weyrmen had no manners.

  In that instant, as if the younger boy sensed his friend’s disapproval, he drew himself up and, still all smiles, bowed with commendable grace to Lytol.

  “Good afternoon to you, Lord Warder Lytol. And thank you for bringing Lord Jaxom. May we be excused?”

  Before any adult could answer, Felessan had Jaxom by the hand and was leading him down the steps.

  “Stay out of trouble, Lord Jaxom,” Lytol called after them.

  “There’s little trouble they can get into here,” Lessa laughed.

  “I had the entire Hold mustered this morning, only to find him in the bowels of the Hold itself, where a rockfall . . .”

  Now why did Lytol have to tell Lessa? Jaxom groaned to himself, with a flash of his previous discontent.

  “Did you find anything?” Felessan demanded as soon as they were out of earshot.

  “Find anything?”

  “Yes, in the bowels of the Hold.” Felessan’s eyes widened and his voice took on Lytol’s inflections.

  Jaxom kicked at a rock, pleased by the trajectory and the distance it flew. “Oh, empty rooms, full of dust and rubbish. An old tunnel that led nowhere but an old slide. Nothing great.”

  “C’mon, Jax.”

  Felessan’s sly tone made Jaxom look at him closely.

  “Where?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  The weyrboy led Jaxom into the Lower Cavern, the main chamber with a vaulting roof wher
e the Weyr met for sociability and evening meals. There was a smell of warm bread and simmering meats. Dinner preparations were well along, tables set and women and girls bustling about, making pleasant chatter. As Felessan veered past a preparation table, he snatched up a handful of raw roots.

  “Don’t you dare spoil your dinner, you young wher-whelp,” cried one of the women, swinging at the retreating pair with her ladle. “And a good day to you, Lord Jaxom,” she added.

  The attitude of the weyrfolk toward himself and Felessan never failed to puzzle Jaxom. Why, Felessan was just as important as a Lord Holder, but he wasn’t always being watched, as if he might break apart or melt.

  “You’re so lucky,” Jaxom sighed as he accepted his share of Fetessan’s loot.

  “Why?” the younger boy asked, surprised.

  “You’re—you just are, that’s all.”

  Felessan shrugged, chomping complacently on the sweet root. He led Jaxom out of the Main Cavern and into the inner one, which was actually not much smaller, though the ceiling was lower. A wide, banistered ledge circled the Cavern a half-dragonlength above the floor, giving access to the individual sleeping rooms that ringed the height. The main floor was devoted to other homey tasks. No one was at the looms now, of course, with dinner being prepared, nor was anyone bathing at the large pool to one side of the Cavern, but a group of boys Felessan’s age were gathered by the miggsy circle. One boy made a loud, meant-to-be-overheard remark which was fortunately lost in the obedient loud cackles of laughter from the others.

  “C’mon, Jaxom. Before one of those baby boys wants to tag along,” Felessan said.

  “Where are we going?”

  Felessan shushed him peremptorily, looking quickly over his shoulder to see if they were being observed. He walked very fast, making Jaxom lengthen his stride to keep up.

  “Hey, I don’t want to get in trouble here, too,” he said when he realized they were heading still farther into the caves. It was one thing, according to Jaxom’s lexicon, to be adventurous in one’s own Hold, but quite another to invade the sanctity of another’s, much less a Weyr! That was close to blasphemy, or so he’d been taught by his ex-dragonrider guardian. And while he could weather Lytol’s wrath, he never, never, never wanted to anger Lessa . . . or—his mind whispered the name—F’lar!