The Dragonriders of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Have you had a chance to look through this device?” Robinton asked the brown’s rider.

  “Me? Hardly, Masterharper. Everyone else wants to. It’ll stay there until I’ve had my turn, I daresay.”

  “Has Wansor mounted it permanently at Fort Weyr?”

  “It was discovered at Fort Weyr,” the rider replied, a little defensively. “Fort’s the oldest Weyr, you know. P’zar feels it should stay at Fort. And the Mastersmith, he agrees. His man Wansor keeps saying that there may be good reason. Something to do with elevation and angles and the altitude of Fort Weyr mountains. I didn’t understand.”

  No more do I, Robinton thought. But he intended to. He was in agreement with Fandarel and Terry that there should be an interchange of knowledge between Crafts. Indisputably, Pern had lost many of the bemoaned techniques due to Craft jealousy. Lose a Craftmaster early, before he had transmitted all the Craft secrets, and a vital piece of information was lost forever. Not that Robinton, nor his predecessor, had ever espoused that ridiculous prerogative. There were five senior harpers who knew everything that Robinton did and three promising journeymen studying diligently to increase the safety factor.

  It was one matter to keep dangerous secrets privy, quite another to guard Craft skills to extinction.

  The brown dragon landed on the ridge height of Fort Weyr and Robinton slid down the soft shoulder. He thanked the beast. The brown rose a half-length from the landing and then seemed to drop off the side of the cliff, down into the Bowl, making room for someone else to land.

  Glows had been set on the narrow crown of the height, leading toward the massive Star Stones, their black bulk silhouetted against the lighter night sky. Among those gathered there, Robinton could distinguish the Mastersmith’s huge figure, Wansor’s pear-shaped and Lessa’s slender one.

  On the largest and flattest rock of the Star Stones, Robinton saw the tripod arrangement on which the long barrel of the distance-viewer had been mounted. At first glance he was disappointed by its simplicity, a fat, round cylinder, with a smaller pipe attached to its side. Then it amused him. The Smith must be tortured with the yearning to dismantle the instrument and examine the principles of its simple efficiency.

  “Robinton, how are you this evening?” Lessa asked, coming toward him, one hand outstretched.

  He gripped it, her soft skin smooth under the calluses of his fingers.

  “Pondering the elements of efficiency,” he countered, keeping his voice light. But he couldn’t keep from asking after Brekke and he felt Lessa’s fingers tremble in his.

  “She does as well as can be expected. F’nor insisted that we bring her to his weyr. The man’s emotionally attached to her—far more than gratitude for any nursing. Between him, Manora and Mirrim, she is never alone.”

  “And—Kylara?”

  Lessa pulled her hand from his. “She lives!”

  Robinton said nothing and, after a moment, Lessa went on. “We don’t like losing Brekke as a Weyrwoman—” She paused and added, her voice a little harsher, “And since it is now obvious that a person can Impress more than once, and more than one dragonkind, Brekke will be presented as a candidate when the Benden eggs Hatch. Which should be soon.”

  “I perceive,” Robinton said, cautiously choosing his words, “that not everyone favors this departure from custom.”

  Although he couldn’t see her face in the darkness, he felt her eyes on him.

  “This time it’s not the Oldtimers. I suppose they’re so sure she can’t re-Impress, they’re indifferent”

  “Who then?”

  “F’nor and Manora oppose it violently.”

  “And Brekke?”

  Lessa gave an impatient snort. “Brekke says nothing. She will not even open her eyes. She can’t be sleeping all the time. The lizards and the dragons tell us she’s awake. You see,” and Lessa’s exasperation showed through her tight control for she was more worried about Brekke than she’d admit even to herself, “Brekke can hear any dragon. Like me. She’s the only other Weyrwoman who can. And all the dragons listen to her.” Lessa moved restlessly and Robinton could see her slender white hands rubbing against her thighs in unconscious agitation.

  “Surely that’s an advantage if she’s suicidal?”

  “Brekke is not—not actively suicidal. She’s craftbred, you know,” Lessa said in a flat, disapproving tone of voice.

  “No, I didn’t know,” Robinton murmured encouragingly after a pause. He was thinking that Lessa wouldn’t ever contemplate suicide in a similar circumstance and wondered what Brekke’s “breeding” had to do with a suicidal aptitude.

  “That’s her trouble. She can’t actively seek death so she just lies there. I have this incredible urge,” and Lessa bunched her fists, “to beat or pinch or slap her—anything to get some response from the girl. It’s not the end of the world, after all. She can hear other dragons. She’s not bereft of all contact with dragonkind, like Lytol.”

  “She must have time to recover from the shock . . .”

  “I know, I know,” Lessa said irritably, “but we don’t have time. We can’t get her to realize that it’s better to do things . . .”

  “Lessa . . .”

  “Don’t you ‘Lessa’ me too, Robinton.” In the reflection of the glow lights, the Weyrwoman’s eyes gleamed angrily. “F’nor’s as daft as a weyrling, Manora’s beside herself with worry for them both, Mirrim spends more of her time weeping which upsets the trio of lizards she’s got and that sets off all the babes and the weyrlings. And, on top of everything else, F’lar . . .”

  “F’lar?” Robinton had bent close to her so that no one else might hear her reply.

  “He is feverish. He ought never to have come to High Reaches with that open wound. You know what cold between does to wounds!”

  “I’d hoped he’d be here tonight”

  Lessa’s laugh was sour. “I dosed his klah when he wasn’t looking.”

  Robinton chuckled. “And stuffed him with mosstea, I’ll bet.”

  “Packed the wound with it, too.”

  “He’s a strong man, Lessa. He’ll be all right”

  “He’d better be. If only F’nor—” and Lessa broke off. “I sound like a wherry, don’t I?” She gave a sigh and smiled up at Robinton.

  “Not a bit, my dear Lessa, I assure you. However, it’s not as if Benden were inadequately represented,” and he executed a little bow which, if she shrugged it off, at least made her laugh. “In fact,” he went on, “I’m a trifle relieved that F’lar isn’t here, railing at anything that keeps him from blotting out any Thread he happens to see in that contraption.”

  “True enough.” And Robinton caught the edge to her voice. “I’m not sure . . .”

  She didn’t finish her sentence and turned so swiftly to mark the landing of another dragon that Robinton was certain she was at odds with F’lar’s wishing to push a move against the Red Star.

  Suddenly she stiffened, drawing in her breath sharply.

  “Meron! What does he think he’s doing here?”

  “Easy, Lessa. I don’t like him around any better than you, but I’d rather keep him in sight, if you know what I mean.”

  “But he’s got no influence on the other Lords . . .”

  Robinton gave a harsh laugh. “My dear Weyrwoman, considering the influence he’s been exerting in other areas, he doesn’t need the Lords’ support.”

  Robinton did wonder at the gall of the man, appearing in public anywhere a, scant six days after he’d been involved in the deaths of two queen dragons.

  The Lord Holder of Nabol strode insolently to the focal point of the gathering, his bronze fire lizard perched on his forearm, its wings extended as it fought to maintain its balance. The little creature began to hiss as it became aware of the antagonism directed at Meron.

  “And this—this innocuous tube is the incredible instrument that will show us the Red Star?” Meron of Nabol asked scathingly.

  “Don’t touch it, I beg of you.”
Wansor jumped forward, intercepting Nabol’s hand.

  “What did you say?” The lizard’s hiss was no less sibilantly menacing than Meron’s tone. The Lord’s thin features, contorted with indignation, took on an added malevolence from the glow lights.

  Fandarel stepped out of the darkness to his craftsman’s side. “The instrument is positioned for the viewing. To move it would destroy the careful work of some hours.”

  “If it is positioned for viewing, then let us view!” Nabol said and, after staring belligerently around the circle, stepped past Wansor. “Well? What do you do with this thing?”

  Wansor glanced questioningly at the big Smith, who made a slight movement of his head, excusing him. Wansor gratefully stepped back and let Fandarel preside. With two gnarled fingers the Smith delicately held the small round protuberance at the of the smaller cylinder.

  “This is the eyepiece. Put your best seeing eye to it,” he told Meron.

  The lack of any courteous title was not lost on the Nabolese Plainly he wanted to reprimand the Smith. Had Wansor spoken so, he would have hesitated a second, Robinton thought.

  Meron’s lips slid into a sneer and, with a bit of a swagger he took the final step to the distance-viewer. Bending forward slightly, he laid his eye to the proper place. And jerked his body back hastily, his face wearing a fleeting expression of shock and terror, He laughed uneasily and than took a second, longer look. Far too long a look to Robinton’s mind.

  “If there is any lack of definition in the image, Lord Meron—” Wansor began tentatively.

  “Shut up!” Gesturing him away impatiently, Meron continued his deliberate monopoly of the instrument.

  “That will be enough, Meron,” Groghe, Lord of Fort said as the others began to stir restlessly. “You’ve had more than your turn this round. Move away. Let others see.”

  Meron stared insolently at Groghe for a moment and then looked back into the eyepiece.

  “Very interesting. Very interesting.” he said, his tone oily with amusement.

  That is quite enough, Meron,” Lessa said, striding to the instrument. The man could not be allowed any privilege.

  He regarded her as he might a body insect, coldly and mockingly.

  “Enough of what—Weyrwoman?” And his tone made the title a vulgar epithet. In fact, his pose exuded such a lewd familiarity that Robinton found he was clenching his fists. He had an insane desire to wipe that look from Meron’s face and change the arrangement of the features in the process.

  The Mastersmith, however, reacted mere quickly. His two great hands secured Meron’s arms to his sides and, in a fluid movement, Fandarel picked the Nabolese Lord up, the man’s feet dangling a full dragonfoot above the rock, and carried him as far away from the Star Stones as the ledge permitted. Fandarel then set Meron down so hard that the man gave a startled exclamation of pain and staggered before he gained his balance. The little lizard screeched around his head

  “My lady,” the Mastersmith inclined his upper body toward Lessa and gestured with great courtesy for her to take her place.

  Lessa had to stand on tiptoe to reach the eyepiece, silently wishing someone had taken into account that not all the viewers this evening were tall. The instant the image of the Red Star reached her brain, such trivial annoyance evaporated. There was the Red Star, seemingly no farther away than her arm could reach. It swam, a many-hued globe, like a child’s miggsy, in a lush black background. Odd whitish-pink masses must be clouds. Startling to think that the Red Star could possess clouds—like Pern. Where the cover was pierced, she could see grayish masses, a lively gray with glints and sparkles. The ends of the slightly ovoid planet were completely white, but devoid of the cloud cover. Like the great icecaps of northern regions of Pern. Darker masses punctuated the grays. Land? Or seas?

  Involuntarily Lessa moved her head, to glance up at the round mark of redness in the night sky that was this child’s toy through the magic of the distance-viewer. Then, before anyone might think she’d relinquished the instrument, she looked back through the eyepiece. Incredible. Unsettling. If the gray was land—how could they possibly rid it of Thread? If the darker masses were land . . .

  Disturbed, and suddenly all too willing that someone else be exposed to their ancient enemy at such close range, she stepped back.

  Lord Groghe stepped forward importantly. “Sangel, if you please?”

  How like the Fort Lord, Lessa thought, to play host when P’zar who was, after all, acting Weyrleader at Fort Weyr, did not act quickly enough to exert his rights. Lessa wished fervently that F’lar had been able to attend this viewing. Well, perhaps P’zar was merely being diplomatic with the Fort Lord Holder. Still, Lord Groghe would need to be kept . . .

  She retreated—and knew it for a retreat—to Robinton. The Harper’s presence was always reassuring. He was eager to have his turn but resigned to waiting. Groghe naturally would give the other Lord Holders precedence over a harper, even the Masterharper of Pern.

  “I wish he’d go,” Lessa said, glancing sideways at Meron. The Nabolese had made no attempt to re-enter the group from which he had been so precipitously expelled. The offensive stubbornness of the man in remaining where he clearly was not welcome provided a counterirritant to worry and her renewed fear of the Red Star.

  Why must it appear so—so innocent? Why did it have to have clouds? It ought to be different. How it ought to differ, Lessa couldn’t guess, but it ought to look—to look sinister. And it didn’t. That made it more fearful than ever.

  “I don’t see anything,” Sangel of Boll was complaining.

  “A moment, sir.” Wansor came forward and began adjusting a small knob. “Tell me when the view clarifies for you.”

  “What am I supposed to be seeing?” Sangel demanded irritably. “Nothing there but a bright—ah! Oh!” Sangel backed away from the eyepiece as if Thread had burned him. But he was again in position before Groghe could call another Lord to his place.

  Lessa felt somewhat relieved, and a little smug, at Sangel’s reaction. If the fearless Lords also got a taste of honest dread, perhaps . . .

  “Why does it glow? Where does it get light? It’s dark here,” the Lord Holder of Boll babbled.

  “It is the light of the sun, my Lord,” Fandarel replied, his deep, matter-of-fact voice reducing that miracle to common knowledge.

  “How can that be?” Sangel protested. “The sun’s on the other side of us now. Any child knows that.”

  “Of course, but we are not obstructing the Star from that light. We are below it in the skies, if you will, so that the sun’s light reaches it directly.”

  Sangel seemed likely to monopolize the viewer, too.

  “That’s enough, Sangel,” Groghe said testily. “Let Oterel have a chance.”

  “But I’ve barely looked, and there was trouble adjusting the mechanism,” Sangel complained. Between Oterel’s glare and Groghe trying to shoulder him out of the way, Sangel reluctantly stepped aside.

  “Let me adjust the focus for you, Lord Oterel,” Wansor murmured politely.

  “Yes, do. I’m not half blind like Sangel there,” the Lord of Tillek said.

  “Now, see here, Oterel . . .”

  “Fascinating, isn’t it, Lord Sangel?” said Lessa, wondering what reaction the man’s blathering had concealed.

  He harumphed irritably, but his eyes were restless and he frowned.

  “Wouldn’t call it fascinating, but then I had barely a moment’s look.”

  “We’ve an entire night, Lord Sangel.”

  The man shivered, pulling his cloak around him though the night air was not more than mildly cool for spring.

  “It’s nothing more than a child’s miggsy,” exclaimed the Lord of Tillek. “Fuzzy. Or is it supposed to be?” He glanced away from the eyepiece at Lessa.

  “No, my Lord,” Wansor said. “It should be bright and clear, so you can see cloud formations.”

  “How would you know?” Sangel asked testily.

  “Wan
sor set the instrument up for this evening’s viewing,” Fandarel pointed out.

  “Clouds?” Tillek asked. “Yes, I see them. But what’s the land? The dark stuff or the gray?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Fandarel told him.

  “Land masses don’t look that way as high as dragons can fly a man,” said P’zar the Fort Weyrleader, speaking for the first time.

  “And objects seen at a far greater distance change even more,” Wansor said in the dry tone of someone who does know what he’s talking about. “For example, the very mountains of Fort which surround us change drastically if seen from Ruatha Heights or the plains of Crom.”

  “Then all that dark stuff is land?” Lord Oterel had difficulty not being impressed. And discouraged, Lessa thought. Tillek’s Lord Holder must have been hoping to press the extermination of Thread on the Red Star.

  “Of that we are not sure,” replied Wansor with no lessening of the authority in his manner. Lessa approved more and more of Wansor. A man ought not be afraid to say he didn’t know. Nor a woman.

  The Lord of Tillek did not want to leave the instrument. Almost as if he hoped, Lessa thought, that if he looked long enough, he’d discover a good argument for mounting an expedition.

  Tillek finally responded to Nessel of Crom’s acid remarks and stepped aside.

  “What do you think is the land, Sangel? Or did you really see anything?”

  “Of course I did. Saw the clouds plain as I see you right now.”

  Oterel of Tillek snorted contemptuously. “Which doesn’t say much, considering the darkness.”

  “I saw as much as you did, Oterel. Gray masses, and black masses and those clouds. A star having clouds! Doesn’t make sense. Pern has clouds!”

  Hastily Lessa changed her laugh at the man’s indignation to a cough, but she caught the Harper’s amused look and wondered what his reaction to the Red Star would be. Would he be for, or against this expedition? And which attitude did she want him to express?

  “Yes, Pern has clouds,” Oterel was saying, somewhat surprised at that observation. “And if Pern has clouds, and more water surface than land, then so does the Red Star . . .”