ai Dragonfiight

To forestall the incursions of the dreadful Threads,

the Pernese, with the ingenuity of their forgotten

Terran forebears, developed a highly specialized vari-

ety of a life-form indigenous to their adopted planet.

Such humans as had a high empathy rating and some

innate telepathic ability were trained to use and pre-

serve this unusual animal whose ability to teleport was

of great value in the fierce struggle to keep Pern bare

of Threads.

The winged, tailed, and fiery-breathed dragons

(named for the Earth legend they resembled), their

dragonmen, a breed apart, and the menace they bat-

tled, created a whole new group of legends and myths.

Once relieved of imminent danger, Pern settled into

a more comfortable way of life. The descendants of

heroes fell into disfavor, as the legends fell into dis-

repute.

PARTI

Weyr Search

Drummer, beat, and piper, blow,

Harper, strike, and soldier, go.

Free the flame and sear the grasses

Till the dawning Red Star passes.

LESSA WOKE, cold. Cold with more than the chill

of the everlastingly clammy stone walls. Cold with

the prescience of a danger stronger than the one ten

full Turns ago that had then sent her, whimpering

with terror, to hide in the watch-wher's odorous lair.

Rigid with concentration, Lessa lay in the straw

of the redolent cheeseroom she shared as sleeping

quarters with the other kitchen drudges. There was

an urgency in the ominous portent unlike any other

forewarning. She touched the awareness of the watch-

wher, slithering on its rounds in the courtyard. It cir-

cled at the choke limit of its chain. It was restless,

but oblivious to anything unusual in the predawn

darkness.

Lessa curled into a tight knot of bones, hugging

herself to ease the strain across her tense shoulders.

Then, forcing herself to relax, muscle by muscle, joint

by joint, she tried to feel what subtle menace it might

be that could rouse her, yet not distress the sensitive

watch-wher.

The danger was definitely not within the walls of

Dragonfiight

Ruath Hold. Nor approaching the paved perimeter

without the Hold where relentless grass had forced

new growth through the ancient mortar, green witness

to the deterioration of the once stone-clean Hold. The

danger was not advancing up the now little-used

causeway from the valley, nor lurking in the crafts-

men's stony holdings at the foot of the Hold's cliff. It

did not scent the wind that blew from Tillek's cold

shores. But still it twanged sharply through her senses,

vibrating every nerve in Lessa's slender frame. Fully

roused, she sought to identify it before the prescient

mood dissolved. She cast outward, toward the Pass,

farther than she had ever pressed. Whatever threat-

ened was not in Ruatha . . . yet. Nor did it have

a familiar flavor. It was not, then. Fax.

Lessa had been cautiously pleased that Fax had

not shown himself at Ruath Hold in three full Turns.

The apathy of the craftsmen, the decaying farmholds,

even the green-etched stones of the Hold infuriated

Fax, self-styled Lord of the High Reaches, to the point

where he preferred to forget the reason he had sub-

jugated the once proud and profitable Hold.

Relentlessly compelled to identify this oppressing

menace, Lessa groped in the straw for her sandals.

She rose, mechanically brushing straw from matted

hair, which she then twisted quickly into a rude knot

at her neck.

She picked her way among the sleeping drudges,

huddled together for warmth, and glided up the worn

steps to the kitchen proper. The cook and his assistant

lay on the long table before the great hearth, wide

backs to the warmth of the banked fire, discordantly

snoring. Lessa slipped across the cavernous kitchen to

the stable-yard door. She opened the door just enough

to permit her slight body to pass. The cobbles of the

yard were icy through the thin soles of her sandals,

and she shivered as the predawn air penetrated her

patched garment.

The watch-wher slithered across the yard to greet

her, pleading, as it always did, for release. Comfort-

Dragonfiight 3

ingly, she fondled the creases of the sharp-tipped ears

as it matched her stride. Glancing fondly down at the

awesome head, she promised it a good rub presently.

It crouched, groaning, at the end of its chain as she

continued to the grooved steps that led to the rampart

over the Hold's massive gate. Atop the tower, Lessa

stared toward the east where the stony breasts of the

Pass rose in black relief against the gathering day.

Indecisively she swung to her left, for the sense of

danger issued from that direction as well. She glanced

upward, her eyes drawn to the red star that had re-

cently begun to dominate the dawn sky. As she

stared, the star radiated a final ruby pulsation before

its magnificence was lost in the brightness of Pern's

rising sun. Incoherent fragments of tales and ballads

about the dawn appearance of the red star flashed

through her mind, too quickly to make sense. More-

over, her instinct told her that, though danger might

come from the northeast, too, there was a greater peril

to contend with from due east. Straining her eyes as

if vision would bridge the gap between peril and per-

son, she stared intently eastward. The watch-wher's

thin, whistled question reached her just as the pre-

science waned.

Lessa sighed. She had found no answer in the

dawn, only discrepant portents. She must wait. The

warning had come and she had accepted it. She was

used to waiting. Perversity, endurance, and guile were

her other weapons, loaded with the inexhaustible pa-

tience of vengeful dedication.

Dawnlight illumined the tumbled landscape, the

unplowed fields in the valley below. Dawnlight fell

on twisted orchards, where the sparse herds of milch-

beasts hunted stray blades of spring grass. Grass in

Ruatha, Lessa mused, grew where it should not, died

where it should flourish. Lessa could hardly remem-

ber now how Ruatha Valley had once looked, sweetly

happy, amply productive. Before Fax came. An odd

brooding smile curved Ups unused to such exercise.

Fax realized no profit from his conquest of Ruatha . ..

4 Dragonfiighi

nor would he while she, Lessa, lived. And he had not

the slightest suspicion of the source of this undoing.

Or had he, Lessa wondered, her mind still reverber-

ating from the savage prescience of danger. West lay

Fax's ancestral and only legitimate Hold. Northeast

lay little but bare and stony mountains and the Weyr

that protected Pern.

Lessa stretched, arching her back, inhaling the

sweet, untainted wind of morning.

A cock crowed in the stable yard. Lessa whirled,

her face alert, eyes darting around the outer Hold

lest she be observed in such an uncharacteristic pose.

She unbound her hair, letting the rank mass fall about

her face concealingly. Her body drooped into the

sloppy posture she affected. Quickly she thudded

down the stairs, crossing to the watch-wher. It cried

piteously, its great eyes blinking against the growing

daylight. Oblivious to the stench of its rank breath,

she hugged the scaly head to her, scratching its ears

and eye ridges. The watch-wher was ecstatic with

pleasure, its long body trembling, its clipped wings

rustling. It alone knew who she was or cared. And it

was the only creature in all Pem she had trusted

since the dawn she had blindly sought refuge in its

dark, stinking lair to escape the thirsty swords that had

drunk so deeply of Ruathan blood.

Slowly she rose, cautioning it to remember to be

as vicious to her as to all, should anyone be near. It

promised to obey her, swaying back and forth to em-

phasize its reluctance.

The first rays of the sun glanced over the Hold's

outer wall, and, crying out, the watch-wher darted

into its dark nest. Lessa crept swiftly back to the

kitchen and into the cheeseroom.

From the Weyr and from the Bowl,

'Bronze and brown and blue and green,

Rise the dragonmen of Pern,

Aloft, on wing, seen, then unseen.

PLAR, ON bronze Mnementh's great neck, appeared

first in the skies above the chief Hold of Fax, so-called

Lord of the High Reaches. Behind him, in proper

wedge formation, the wingmen came into sight. F'lar

checked the formation automatically; it was as precise

as on the moment of their entry to between.

As Mnementh curved in an arc that would bring

'them to the perimeter of the Hold, consonant with the

friendly nature of this visitation, F'lar surveyed with

mounting aversion the disrepair of the ridge defenses.

The firestone pits were empty, and the rock-cut gutters

radiating from the pits were green-tinged with a

mossy growth.

Was there even one Lord in Pem who maintained

his Hold rocky in observance of the ancient Laws?

P'lar's lips tightened to a thinner line. When this

Search was over and the Impression made, there

would have to be a solemn, punitive Council held at

the Weyr. And by the golden shell of the queen, he,

F'lar, meant to be its moderator. He would replace

lethargy with industry. He would scour the green and

6 Dragonftight

dangerous scum from the heights of Pern, the grass

blades from its stoneworks. No verdant skirt would

be condoned in any farmhold. And the tithings that

had been so miserly, so grudgingly presented, would,

under pain of firestoning, flow with decent generosity

into the Dragonweyr.

Mnementh rumbled approvingly as he vaned his

pinions to land lightly on the grass-etched flagstones

of Fax's Hold. The bronze dragon furled his great

wings, and Flar heard the warning claxon in the

Hold's Great Tower. Mnementh dropped to his knees

as F'lar indicated he wished to dismount. The bronze

rider stood by Mnementh'a huge wedge-shaped head,

politely awaiting the arrival of the Hold Lord. F'lai

idly gazed down the valley, hazy with warm spring

sunlight. He ignored the furtive heads that peered at

the dragonman from the parapet slits and the cliff

windows.

F'lar did not turn as the rush of air past him an-

nounced the arrival of the rest of the wing. He knew,

however, when F'nor, the brown rider who was coinci-

dentally his half brother, took the customary position

on his left, a dragon length to the rear. From the cor-

ner of his eye, F'lar glimpsed Fnor twisting to death

with his boot heel the grass that crowded up between

the stones.

An order, muffled to an intense whisper, issued

from within the great Court, beyond the open gates.

Almost immediately a group of men marched into

sight, led by a heavy-set man of medium height.

Mnementh arched his neck, angling his head so that

his chin rested on the ground. Mnementh's many-

faceted eyes, on a level with Flar's head, fastened

with disconcerting interest on the approaching party.

The dragons could never understand why they gen-

erated such abject fear in common folk. At only

one point in his life span would a dragon attack a

human, and that could be excused on the grounds of

simple ignorance. F'lar could not explain to the

dragon the politics behind the necessity of inspiring

Dragonftight [7

awe in the holders. Lord and craftsman alike. He

could only observe that the fear and apprehension

showing in the faces of the advancing squad which

troubled Mnementh was oddly pleasing to him, F'lar.

"Welcome, bronze rider, to the Hold of Fax, Lord

of the High Reaches. He is at your service," and the

man made an adequately respectful salute.

The use of the third person pronoun could be con-

strued by the meticulous to be a veiled insult. This fit

in with the information F'lar had on Fax, so he ig-

nored it. His information was also correct in describ-

ing Fax as a greedy man. It showed in the restless

eyes that flicked at every detail of F'lar's clothing, at

the slight frown when the intricately etched sword hilt

was noticed.

F'lar noticed, in his own turn, the several rich

rings that flashed on Fax's left hand. The overlord's

right hand remained slightly cocked after the habit of

the professional swordsman. His tunic, of rich fabric,

was stained and none too fresh. The man's feet, in

heavy wher-hide boots, were solidly planted, weight

balanced forward on his toes. A man to be treated

cautiously, F'lar decided, as one should the conqueror

of five neighboring Holds. Such greedy audacity was

in itself a revelation. Fax had married into a sixth . . .

and had legally inherited, however unusual the cir-

cumstances, the seventh. He was a lecherous man by

reputation. Within these seven Holds, F'lar antici-

pated a profitable Search. Let R'gul go southerly to

pursue Search among the indolent if lovely women

there. The Weyr needed a strong woman this time;

Jora had been worse than useless with Nemorth.

Adversity, uncertainty: those were the conditions that

bred the qualities F'lar wanted in a Weyrwoman.

"We ride in Search," F'lar drawled softly, "and re-

quest the hospitality of your Hold, Lord Fax."

Fax's eyes widened imperceptibly at mention of a

Search.

"I had heard Jora was dead," Fax replied, dropping

the third person abruptly as if F'lar had passed some

DragonfligJit

sort of test by ignoring it. "So Nemorth has laid a

queen, hmmm?" he continued, his eyes darting across

the rank of the wing, noting the disciplined stance of

the riders, the healthy color of the dragons.

F'lar did not dignify the obvious with an answer.

"And, my Lord—"Fax hesitated, expectantly in-

clining his head slightly toward the dragonman.

For a pulse beat, F'lar wondered if the man was

deliberately provoking him with such subtle insults.

The name of the bronze riders should be as well-

known throughout Pern as the name of the dragon

queen and her Weyrwoman. F'lar kept his face com-

posed, his eyes on Fax's.

Leisurely, with the proper touch of arrogance,

F'nor stepped forward, stopping slightly behind

Mnementh's head, one hand negligently touching the

jaw hinge of the huge beast.

"The bronze rider of Mnementh, Lord F'lar, will

require quarters for himself. I, F'nor, brown rider,

prefer to be lodged with the wingmen. We are, in

number, twelve."

F'lar liked that touch of F'nor's, totting up the

wing strength, as if Fax were incapable of counting.

F'nor had phrased it so adroitly as to make it impos-

sible for Fax to protest the return insult.

"Lord F'lar," Fax said through teeth fixed in a

smile, "the High Reaches are honored with your

Search."

"It will be to the credit of the High Reaches," F'lar

replied smoothly, "if one of its own supplies the

Weyr."

"To our everlasting credit," Fax replied as suavely.

"In the old days many notable Weyrwomen came

from my Holds."

"Your Holds?" asked F'lar, politely smiling as he

emphasized the plural. "Ah, yes, you are now over-

lord of Ruatha, are you not? There have been many

from that Hold."

A strange, tense look crossed Fax's face, quickly

Dragonflight 9

supplanted by a determinedly affable grin. Fax

stepped aside, gesturing F'lar to enter the Hold.

Fax's troop leader barked a hasty order, and the

men formed two lines, their metal-edged boots flicking

sparks from the stones.

At unspoken orders, all the dragons rose with a

great churning of air and dust. F'lar strode noncha-

lantly past the welcoming files. The men were roll-

ing their eyes in alarm as the beasts glided above to

the inner courts. Someone on the high Tower uttered

a frightened yelp as Mnementh took his position on

that vantage point. His great wings drove phosphoric-

scented air across the inner court as he maneuvered

his great frame onto the inadequate landing space.

Outwardly oblivious to the consternation, fear, and

awe the dragons inspired, Flar was secretly amused

and rather pleased by the effect. Lords of the Holds

needed this reminder that they still must deal with

dragons, not just with riders, who were men, mortal

and murderable. The ancient respect for dragonmen

as well as dragonkind must be reinstilled in modem

breasts.

"The Hold has just risen from table, Lord F'lar,

if ..." Fax suggested. His voice trailed off at F'lar's

smiling refusal.

"Convey my duty to your lady. Lord Fax," Flar

rejoined, noticing with inward satisfaction the tighten-

ing of Fax's jaw muscles at the ceremonial request.

F'lar was enjoying himself thoroughly. He had not

yet been born on the occasion of the last Search, the

one that ill-fatedly provided the incompetent Jora.

But he had studied the accounts of previous Searches

in the Old Records that had included subtle ways to

confound those Lords who preferred to keep their

ladies sequestered when the dragonmen rode. For Fax

to refuse F'lar the opportunity to pay his duty would

have been tantamount to a major insult, discharged

only in mortal combat.

"You would prefer to see your quarters first?" Fax

countered.

10 Dragonfiight

F'lar flicked an imaginary speck from his soft wher-

hide sleeve and shook his head.

"Duty first," he said with a rueful shrug.

"Of course," Fax all but snapped and strode

smartly ahead, his heels pounding out the anger he

could not express otherwise.

F'lar and F'nor followed at a slower pace through

the double-doored entry with its great metal panels,

into the Great Hall, carved into the cliffside. The

U-shaped table was being cleared by nervous servi-

tors, who rattled and dropped tableware as the two

dragon-men entered. Fax had already reached the fai

end of the Hall and stood impatiently at the open slab

door, the only access to the inner Hold, which, like all

such Holds, burrowed deep into stone, the refuge of

all in time of peril.

"They eat not badly," Fnor remarked casually to

F'lar, appraising the remnants still on the table.

"Better than the Weyr, it would seem," F'lar replied

dryly, covering his speech with his hand as he saw two

drudges staggering under the weight on a tray that

bore a half-eaten carcass.

"Young and tender," Fnor said in a bitter under-

tone, "from the look of it. While the stringy, barren

beasts are delivered up to us."

"Naturally."

"A pleasantly favored Hall," Flar said amiably as

they reached Fax. Then, seeing Fax impatient to con-

tinue, F'lar deliberately turned back to the banner-

hung Hall. He pointed out to F'nor the deeply set slit

windows, heavy bronze shutters open to the bright

noonday sky. "Facing east, too, as they ought. That

new Hall at Telgar Hold actually faces south, I'm told.

Tell me. Lord Fax, do you adhere to the old practices

and mount a dawn guard?"

Fax frowned, trying to parse F'lar's meaning.

"There is always a guard at the Tower."

"An easterly guard?"

Fax's eyes jerked toward the windows, then back,

Dragon flight 11

sliding across F'lar's face to F'nor and back again to

the windows.

"There are always guards," he answered sharply,

"on all the approaches."

"Oh, just the approaches," and F'lar turned to F'nor

and nodded wisely.

"Where else?" demanded Fax, concerned, glancing

from one dragonman to the other.

"I must ask that of your harper. You do keep a

trained harper in your Hold?"

"Of course. I have several trained harpers." Fax

jerked his shoulders straighter.

F'lar affected not to understand.

"Lord Fax is the overlord of six other Holds," F'nor

reminded his wingleader.

"Of course," F'lar assented, with exactly the same

inflection Fax had used a moment before.

The mimicry did not go unnoticed by Fax, but as

he was unable to construe deliberate insult out of an

innocent affirmative, he stalked into the glow-lit cor-

ridors. The dragonmen followed.

"It is good to see one Holder keeping so many an-

cient customs," F'lar said to F'nor approvingly for

Fax's benefit as they passed into the inner Hold.

"There are many who have abandoned the safety of

solid rock and enlarged their outer Holds to danger-

ous proportions. I can't condone the risk myself."

"Their risk. Lord F'lar. Another's gain," Fax

snorted derisively, slowing to a normal strut.

"Gain? How so?"

"Any outer Hold is easily penetrated, bronze rider,

with trained forces, experienced leadership, and well-

considered strategy."

The man was not a braggart, F'lar decided. Nor, in

these peaceful days, did he fail to mount Tower

guards. However, he kept within his Hold, not out of

obedience to ancient Laws, but through prudence. He

kept harpers for ostentation rather than because tra-

dition required it. But he allowed the pits to decay; he

permitted grass to grow. He accorded dragonmen the

12 Dragonfiight

barest civility on one hand and offered veiled insult on

the other. A man to be watched.

The women's quarters in Fax's Hold had been

moved from the traditional innermost corridors to

those at the cliff-face. Sunlight poured down from the

three double-shuttered, deep-casement windows in

the outside wall. F'lar noted that the bronze hinges

were well oiled. The sills were the regulation spear-

length; Fax had not given in to the recent practice of

diminishing the protective wall.

The chamber was richly hung with appropriately

gentle scenes of women occupied in all manner of

feminine tasks. Doors gave off the main chamber on

both sides into smaller sleeping alcoves, and from

these, at Fax's bidding, his women hesitantly emerged,

Fax sternly gestured to a blue-gowned woman, her

hair white-streaked, her face lined with disappoint-

ments and bitterness, her body swollen with preg-

nancy. She advanced awkwardly, stopping several

feet from her lord. From her attitude, F'lar deduced

that she came no closer to Fax than was absolutely

necessary.

"The Lady of Crom, mother of my heirs," Fax

said without pride or cordiality.

"My Lady—" F'lar hesitated, waiting for her name

to be supplied.

She glanced warily at her lord.

"Gemma," Fax snapped curtly.

F'lar bowed deeply. "My Lady Gemma, the Weyr

is on Search and requests the hospitality of the

Hold."

"My Lord F'lar," the Lady Gemma replied in a

low voice, "you are most welcome."

F'lar did not miss the slight slur on the adverb or

the fact that Gemma had no trouble naming him. His

smile was wanner than courtesy demanded, warm

with gratitude and sympathy. Judging by the number

of women in these quarters. Fax bedded well and

frequently. There might be one or two Lady Gemma

could bid farewell without regret.

Dragonfiight 13

Fax went through the introductions, mumbling

names until he realized this strategy was not going

to work. F'lar would politely beg the lady's name

again. F'nor, his smile brightening as he took heed

which ladies Fax preferred to keep anonymous,

lounged indolently by the doorway. F'lar would com-

pare notes with him later, although on cursory exam-

ination there was none here worthy of the Search. Fax

preferred his women plump and small. There wasn't a

saucy one in the lot. If there once had been, the spirit

had been beaten out of them. Fax, no doubt, was stud,

not lover. Some of the covey had not all winter long

made much use of water, judging from the amount

of sweet oil gone rancid in their hair. Of them all,

if these were all, the Lady Gemma was the only will-

ful one, and she was too old.

The amenities over. Fax ushered his unwelcome

guests outside. F'nor was excused by his wingleader to

join the other dragonmen. Fax peremptorily led the

way to the quarters he had assigned the bronze rider.

The chamber was on a lower level than the

women's suite and was certainly adequate to the dig-

nity of its occupant. The many-colored hangings were

crowded with bloody battles, individual swordplay,

bright-hued dragons in flight, firestones burning on

the ridges, and all that Pern's scarlet-stained history

offered.

"A pleasant room," Flar acknowledged, stripping

off gloves and wher-hide tunic, throwing them care-

lessly to the table. "I shall see to my men and the

beasts. The dragons have all been fed recently," he

commented, pointing up Fax's omission in inquiring.

"I request liberty to wander through the crafthold."

Fax sourly granted what was traditionally a drag-

onman's privilege.

"I shall not further disrupt your routine. Lord Fax,

for you must have many demands on you, with seven

Holds to supervise." F'lar inclined his body slightly to

the overlord, turning away as a gesture of dismissal.

He could imagine the infuriated expression on Fax's

14 Dragonflight

face and listened to the stamping retreat. He waited

long enough to be sure Fax was out of the corridor

and then briskly retraced his steps up to the Great

Hall.

Bustling drudges paused in setting up additional

trestle tables to eye the dragonman. He nodded pleas-

antly to them, looking to see if one of these females

might possibly have the stuff of which Weyrwomen are

made. Overworked, underfed, scarred by lash and dis-

ease, they were just what they were—drudges, fit only

for hard, menial labor.

F'nor and the men had settled themselves in a

hastily vacated barrackroom. The dragons were

perched comfortably on the rocky ridges above the

Hold. They had so arranged themselves that every

segment of the wide valley fell under their scrutiny.

All had been fed before leaving the Weyr, and each

rider kept his dragon in light but alert charge. There

were to be no incidents on a Search.

As a group, the dragonmen rose at Flar's entrance.

"No tricks, no troubles, but look around closely,"

he said laconically. "Return by sundown with the

names of any likely prospects." He caught F'nor's

grin, remembering how Fax had slurred over some

names. "Descriptions are in order and craft affilia-

tion."

The men nodded, their eyes glinting with under-

standing. They were flatteringly confident of a suc-

cessful Search even as F'lar's doubts grew now that he

had seen all of Fax's women. By all logic, the pick of

the High Reaches should be in Fax's chief Hold, but

they were not. Still, there were many large craftholds,

not to mention the six other High Holds to visit. All

the same...

In unspoken accord F'lar and F'nor left the bar-

racks. The men would follow, unobtrusively, in pairs

or singly, to reconnoiter the crafthold and the nearer

farmholds. The men were as overtly eager to be

abroad as F'lar was privately. There had been a time

when dragonmen were frequent and favored guests

Dragonflight 15

in all the great Holds throughout Pern, from southern

Nerat to high Tillek. This pleasant custom, too, had

died along with other observances, evidence of the low

regard in which the Weyr was presently held. F'lar

vowed to correct this.

He forced himself to trace in memory the insidious

changes. The Records, which each Weyrwoman

kept, were proof of the gradual but perceptible de-

cline, traceable through the past two hundred full

Turns. Knowing the facts did not alleviate the condi-

tion. And F'lar was of that scant handful in the Weyr

itself who did credit Records and ballad alike. The

situation might shortly reverse itself radically if the

old tales were to be believed.

There was a reason, an explanation, a purpose,

F'lar felt, for every one of the Weyr Laws from First

Impression to the Firestones, from the grass-free

heights to ridge-running gutters. For elements as mi-

nor as controlling the appetite of a dragon to limiting

the inhabitants of the Weyr. Although why the other

five Weyrs had been abandoned F'lar did not know.

Idly he wondered if there were Records, dusty and

crumbling, lodged in the disused Weyrs. He must con-

trive to check when next his wings flew patrol. Cer-

tainly there was no explanation in Benden Weyr.

"There is industry but no enthusiasm," F'nor was

saying, drawing F'lar's attention back to their tour of

the crafthold.

They had descended the guttered ramp from the

Hold into the crafthold proper, the broad roadway

lined with cottages up to the imposing stone craft-

halls. Silently F'lar noted moss-clogged gutters on the

roofs, the vines clasping the walls. It was painful for

one of his calling to witness the flagrant disregard of

simple safety precautions. Growing things were for-

bidden near the habitations of mankind.

"News travels fast," F'nor chuckled, nodding at a

hurrying craftsman, in the smock of a baker, who gave

them a mumbled good-day. "Not a female in sight."

His observation was accurate. Women should be

l6 Dragonflight

abroad at this hour, bringing in supplies from the

storehouses, washing in the river on such a bright

warm day, or going out to the fannholds to help with

planting. Not a gowned figure in sight.

"We used to be preferred mates," F'nor remarked

caustically.

"We'll visit the Clothmen's Hall first. H my mem-

ory serves me ..."

"As it always does . . ." F'nor interjected wryly.

He took no advantage of their blood relationship, but

he was more at ease with the bronze rider than most

of the dragonmen, the other bronze riders included.

F'lar was reserved in a close-knit society of easy

equality. He flew a tightly disciplined wing, but men

maneuvered to serve under him. His wing always ex-

celled in the Games. None ever floundered in between

to disappear forever, and no beast in his wing sick-

ened, leaving a man in dragonless exile from the

Weyr, a part of him numb forever.

"L'tol came this way and settled in one of the High

Reaches," F'lar continued.

"L'tol?"

"Yes, a green rider from S'lel's wing. You remem-

ber."

An ill-timed swerve during the Spring Games had

brought L'tol and his beast into the full blast of a

phosphine emission from S'lel's bronze Tuenth. L'tol

had been thrown from his beast's neck as the dragon

tried to evade the blast. Another wingmate had

swooped to catch the rider, but the green dragon, his

left wing crisped, his body scorched, had died of

shock and phosphine poisoning.

"L'tol would aid our Search," F'nor agreed as the

two dragonmen walked up to the bronze doors of the

Clothmen's Hall. They paused on the threshold, ad-

justing their eyes to the dimmer light within.

Glows punctuated the wall recesses and hung in clus-

ters above the larger looms where the finer tapestries

and fabrics were woven by master craftsmen. The per-

vading mood was one of quiet, purposeful industry.

Dragonftight 17

Before their eyes had adapted, however, a figure

.glided to them, muttering a polite if curt request for

them to follow nun.

They were led to the right of the entrance, to a

small office, curtained from the main hall. Their guide

turned to them, his face visible in the wallglows.

There was that air about him that marked him indefin-

ably as a dragonman. But his face was lined deeply,

one side seamed with old bum marks. His eyes, sick

with a hungry yearning, dominated his face. He

bunked constantly.

"I am now Lytol," he said in harsh voice.

F'lar nodded acknowledgment.

"You would be F'lar," Lytol said, "and you Fnor.

You both have the look of your sire."

F'lar nodded again.

Lytol swallowed convulsively, the muscles in his

face twitching as the presence of dragonmen revived

his awareness of exile. He essayed a smile.

"Dragons in the sky! The news spread faster than

Threads."

"Nemorth has laid a female."

"And Jora dead?" Lytol asked concernedly, his

face cleared of its nervous movement for a second.

"Hath flew her?"

Flar nodded.

Lytol grimaced bitterly. "R'gul again, huh?" He

stared off in the middle distance, his eyelids quiet but

the muscles along his jaw taking up the constant

movement. "You have the High Reaches? All of

them?" Lytol asked, turning back to the dragonman,

a slight emphasis on "all."

F'lar gave an affirmative nod again.

"You've seen the women." Lytol's disgust showed

through the words. It was a statement, not a question,

for he hurried on. "Well, there are no better in all the

High Reaches." His tone expressed utmost disdain. He

eased himself down to the heavy table that half-

filled one comer of the small room. His hands were

clenched so tightly around the wide belt that secured

18 Dragonfiight

the loose tunic to his body that the heavy leather was

doubled.

"You would almost expect the opposite, wouldn't

you?" Lytol continued. He was talking too much and

too fast. It would have been insultingly rude in an-

other, lesser man. It was the terrible loneliness of the

man's, exile from the Weyr that drove him to

garrulity. Lytol skimmed the surfaces with hurried

questions he himself answered, rather than dip once

into matters too tender to be touched—such as his

insatiable need for those of his kind. Yet he was giving

the dragonmen exactly the information they needed.

"But Fax likes his women comfortably fleshed and

docile," Lytol rattled on. "Even the Lady Gemma has

learned. It'd be different if he didn't need her family's

support. Ah, it would be different indeed. So he keeps

her pregnant, hoping to kill her in childbed one day.

And he will. He will."

Lytol's laughter grated unpleasantly.

"When Fax came to power, any man with wit sent

his daughters down from the High Reaches or drew a

brand across their faces." He paused, his countenance

dark and bitter memory, his eyes slits of hatred. "I

was a fool and thought my position gave me im-

munity."

Lytol drew himself up, squaring his shoulders, turn-

ing full to the two dragonmen. His expression was

vindictive, his voice low and tense.

"Kill that tyrant, dragonmen, for the sake and

safety of Pern. Of the Weyr. Of the queen. He only

bides his time. He spreads discontent among the other

Lords. He—" Lytol's laughter had an hysterical edge

to it now. "He fancies himself as good as dragonmen."

"There are no candidates then in this Hold?" F'lar

said, his voice sharp enough to cut through the man's

preoccupation with his curious theory.

Lytol stared at the bronze rider. "Did I not say it?

The best either died under Fax or were sent away.

What remains is nothing, nothing. Weak-minded, ig-

norant, foolish, vapid. You had that with Jora.

Dragonftight 19

She—" His jaw snapped shut over his next words. He

shook his head, scrubbing his face to ease his anguish

and despair.

"In the other Holds?"

Lytol shook his head, frowning darkly. "The same.

Either dead or fled."

"What of Ruath Hold?"

Lytol stopped shaking his head and looked sharply

at F'lar, his lips curling in a cunning smile. He laughed

mirthlessly.

"You think to find a Torene or a Moreta hidden at

Ruath Hold in these times? Well, bronze rider, all of

Ruathan Blood are dead. Fax's blade was thirsty that

day. He knew the truth of those harpers' tales, that

Ruathan Lords gave full measure of hospitality to

dragonmen and the Ruathan were a breed apart.

There were, you know"—Lytol's voice dropped to a

confiding whisper—"exiled Weyrmen like myself in

that Line."

F'lar nodded gravely, unwilling to deprive the man

of such a sop to his self-esteem.

"No, there is little, very little left in Ruatha Val-

ley." Lytol chuckled softly. "Fax gets nothing from

that Hold but trouble." This reflection restored Lytol

to a semblance of normal behavior, and his face

twisted into a better humor. "We of this Hold are now

the best clothmen in all Pern. And our smithies turn

out a better tempered weapon." His eyes sparkled

with pride in his adopted community. "The conscripts

from Ruatha tend to die of curious diseases or acci-

dents. And the women Fax used to take . . ." His

laugh was nasty. "It is rumored he was impotent for

months after."

F'lar's active mind jumped to a curious conclu-

sion. "There are none of the Blood left?"

"None!"

"Any families in the holdings with Weyr blood?"

Lytol frowned, glanced in surprise at F'lar.

He rubbed the scarred side of his face thoughtfully.

"There were," he admitted slowly. "There were.

20 Dragonftight

But I doubt if any live on." He thought a moment

longer, then shook his head emphatically. "There was

such resistance at the invasion and no quarter given.

At the Hold Fax beheaded ladies as well as babes.

And he imprisoned or executed any known to have

carried arms for Ruatha."

F'lar shrugged. The idea had been a probability

only. With such severe reprisals. Fax undoubtedly

had eliminated the resistance as well as the best crafts-

men. That would account for the poor quality of

Ruathan products and the emergence of the High

Reaches' clothmen as the best in their trade.

"I wish I had better news for you, dragonman,"

Lytol murmured.

"No matter," F'lar reassured him, one hand poised

to part the hanging in the doorway.

Lytol came up to him swiftly, his voice urgent.

"Heed what I say about Fax's ambitions. Force

R'gul, or whoever is Weyrleader next, to keep watch

on the High Reaches."

"Is Fax aware of your leanings?"

The haunted, hungry yearning crossed Lytol's face.

He swallowed nervously, answering with no emotion

in his voice.

"That would not signify if it suited the Lord of the

High Reaches, but my guild protects me from persecu-

tion. I am safe enough in the craft. He is dependent

on the proceeds of our industy." He snorted, mocking.

"I am the best weaver of battle scenes. To be sure,"

he added, cocking one eyebrow waggishly, "dragons

are no longer woven in the fabric as the comrades of

heroes. You noticed, of course, the prevalence of

growing greens?"

F'lar grimaced his distaste. "That is not all we have

noted, either. But Fax keeps the other traditions. . . ."

Lytol waved this consideration aside. "He does that

because it is basic military sense. His neighbors armed

after he took Ruatha, for he did it by treachery, let

me tell you. And let me warn you also"—Lytol jabbed

a finger in the direction of the Hold—"he scons openly

Dragonflight 21

at tales of the Threads. He taunts the harpers for the

stupid nonsense of the old ballads and has banned

from their repertoire all dragonlore. The new genera-

tion will grow up totally ignorant of duty, tradition,

and precaution."

F'lar was not surprised to hear that on top of

Lytol's other disclosures, although it disturbed him

more than anything else he had heard. Other men,

too, denied the verbal transmissions of historic events,

accounting them no more than the maunderings of

harpers. Yet the Red Star pulsed in the sky, and the

time was drawing near when they would hysterically

re-avow the old allegiances in fear for their very lives.

"Have you been abroad in the early morning of

late?" asked F'nor, grinning maliciously.

"I have," Lytol breathed out in a hushed, choked

whisper. "I have. ..." A groan was wrenched from

his guts, and he whirled away from the dragomnen,

his head bowed between hunched shoulders. "Go,"

' he said, gritting his teeth. And, as they hesitated, he

pleaded, "Go/"

F'lar walked quickly from the room, followed by

Fnor. The bronze rider crossed the quiet dim Hall

with long strides and exploded into the startling sun-

light. His momentum took him into the center of the

square. There he stopped so abruptly that F'nor, hard

on his heels, nearly collided with him.

"We will spend exactly the same time within the

other Halls," he announced in a tight voice, his face

averted from F'nor's eyes. Plar's throat was con-

stricted. It was difficult suddenly for him to speak. He

swallowed hard, several times.

"To be dragonless . . ." murmured Fnor pityingly.

The encounter with Lytol had roiled his depths in a

mournful way to which he was unaccustomed. That

F'lar appeared equally shaken went far to dispel

F'nor's private opinion that his half brother was inca-

pable of emotion.

"There is no other way once First Impression has

22 Dragonfiight

been made. You know that," F'lar roused himself to

say curdy. He strode off to the Hall bearing the

leather-men's device.

Honor those the dragons heed,

In thought and favor, word and deed,

Worlds are lost or worlds are saved

From those dangers dragon'braved.

Dragonman, avoid excess;

Greed will bring the Weyr distress;

To the ancient Laws adhere,

Prospers thus the Dragonweyr<

PLAR WAS amused . . . and unamused. This was

their fourth day in Fax's company, and only F'lar's

firm control on self and wing was keeping the situa-

tion from exploding into violence.

It had been a turn of chance, F'lar mused, as Mne-

menth held his leisurely glide toward the Breast Pass

into Ruatha, that he, F'lar, had chosen the High

Reaches. Fax's tactics would have been successful

with R'gul, who was very conscious of his honor, or

S'lan or D'nol, who were too young to have developed

much patience or discretion. S'lel would have retreated

in confusion, a course nearly as disastrous for the

Weyr as combat.

He should have correlated the indications long ago.

The decay of the Weyr and its influence did not come

solely from the Holding Lords and their folk. It came

also from within the Weyr, a result of inferior queens

and incompetent Weyrwomen. It came from Rguls

Dragonflight 23

inexplicable insistence on not "bothering" the Holders,

on keeping dragonmen within the Weyr. And yet

within the Weyr there had been too much emphasis on

preparation for the Games until the internal competi-

tion between wings had become the be-all and end-all

of Weyr activity.

The encroachment of grass had not come overnight,

nor had the Lords awakened one morning recently and

decided in a flash not to give all their traditional tithe

to the Weyr. It had happened gradually and had been

allowed, by the Weyr, to continue, until the purpose

and reason of the Weyr and dragonkind had reached

this low ebb, where an upstart, collateral heir to an

ancient Hold could be so contemptuous of dragon-

men and the simple basic precautions that kept Pern

free of Threads.

F'lar doubted that Fax would have attempted such

a program of aggression against neighboring Holds if

the Weyr had maintained its old prominence. Each

Hold must have its Lord to protect valley and folk

from the Threads. One Hold, one Lord—not one

Lord claiming seven Holds. That was against ancient

tradition, and evil besides, for how well can one man

protect seven valleys at once? Man, except for dragon-

man, can be in only one place at a time. And unless a

man was dragon-mounted, it took hours to get from

one Hold to another. No Weyrman of old would

have permitted such flagrant disregard of ancient

ways.

P'lar saw the gouts of flame along the barren

heights of the Pass, and Mnementh obediently altered

his glide for a better view. F'lar had sent half the wing

ahead of the main cavalcade. It was good training for

them to skim irregular terrain. He had issued small

pieces of firestone with instructions to sear any

growths as practice. It would do to remind Fax, as

well as his troops, of the awesome ability of dragon-

kind, a phenomenon the common folk of Pem ap-

peared to have all but forgotten.

The fiery phosphine emissions as the dragons

24

Dragonftight

belched forth gasses showed the pattern well flown.

R'gul could argue against the necessity of firestone

drills, he could cite such incidents as that which had

exiled Lytol, but F'lar kept the tradition—and so did

every man who flew with him, or they left the wing.

None failed him.

F'lar knew that the men reveled as much as he'

did in the fierce joy of riding a flaming dragon; the

fumes of phosphine were exhilarating in their own

way, and the feeling of power that surged through the

man who controlled the might and majesty of a

dragon had no parallel in human experience. Dragon-

riders were forever men apart once First Impression

had been made. And to ride a fighting dragon, blue,

green, brown, or bronze, was worth the risks, the un-

ending alertness, the isolation from the rest of man-

kind.

Mnementh dipped his wings obliquely to slide

through the narrow cleft of the Pass that led from

Crom to Ruatha. No sooner had they emerged from

the cut than the difference between the two Holds

was patent.

F'lar was stunned. Through the last four Holds he

had been sure that the end of the Search lay within

Ruatha.

There had been that little brunette whose father

was a clothman in Nabol, but . . . And a tall, willowy

girl with enormous eyes, the daughter of a minor

Warder in Crom, yet . . . These were possibilities, and

had F'lar been S'lel or K'net or D'nol, he might have

taken the two in as potential mates, although not

likely Weyrwomen.

But throughout he had reassured himself that the

real choice would be found to the south. Now he

gazed on the ruin that was Ruatha, his hopes dis-

persed. Below him, he saw Fax's banner dip in the

sequence that requested his presence.

Mastering the crushing disappointment he felt, he

directed Mnementh to descend. Fax, roughly control-

Dragonflight 25

ling the terrified plunging of his earthbound mount,

waved down into the abandoned-looking valley.

"Behold great Ruatha of which you had such

hopes," he enjoined sarcastically.

F'lar smiled coolly back, wondering how Fax had

divined that. Had F'lar been so transparent when he

had suggested Searching the other Holds? Or was it a

lucky guess on Fax's part?

"One sees at a glance why goods from the High

Reaches are now preferred," F'lar made himself

reply. Mnementh rumbled, and F'lar called him

sharply to order. The bronze one had developed a dis-

taste bordering on hatred for Fax. Such antipathy in

a dragon was most unusual and of no small concern to

F'lar. Not that he would have in the least regretted

Fax's demise, but not at Mnementh's breath.

"Little good comes from Ruatha," Fax said in a

voice that was close to a snarl. He jerked sharply at

the bridle of his beast, and fresh blood colored the

foam on its muzzle. The creature threw its head back-

ward to ease the painful bar in its mouth, and Fax

savagely smote it a blow between the ears. The blow,

F'lar observed, was not intended for the poor, protest-

ing beast but for the sight of unproductive Ruatha.

"I am the overlord. My proclamation went unchal-

lenged by any of the Blood. I am in my rights. Ruatha

must pay its tribute to its legal overlord...."

"And hunger the rest of the year," F'lar remarked

dryly, gazing out over the wide valley. Few of its fields

were plowed. Its pastures supported meager herds.

Even its orchards looked stunted. Blossoms that had

been so profuse on trees in Crom, the next valley over,

were sparse, as if reluctant to flower in so dismal a

place. Although the sun was well up, there seemed to

be no activity in the farmholds or none near enough to

be observed. The atmosphere was one of sullen de-

spair.

"There has been resistance to my rule of Ruatha."

F'lar shot a look at Fax, for the man's voice was

fierce, his face bleak, auguring further unpleasantness

26 Dragonftight

for Ruathan rebels. The vindictiveness that colored

Fax's attitude toward Ruatha and its rebels was

tinged with another strong emotion which F'lar had

been unable to identify but which had been very ap-

parent to him from the first time he had adroitly sug-

gested this tour of the Holds. It could not be fear, for

Fax was clearly fearless and obnoxiously self-assured.

Revulsion? Dread? Uncertainty? F'lar could not label

the nature of Fax's compound reluctance to visit

Ruatha, but the man had not relished the prospect

and now reacted violently to being within these dis-

turbing boundaries.

"How foolish of the Ruathans," Plar remarked

amiably. Fax swung around on him, one hand poised

above his sword hilt, eyes blazing. F'lar anticipated

with a feeling close to pleasure that the usurper Fax

might actually draw on a dragonman! He was almost

disappointed when the man controlled himself, took a

firm hold on the reins of his mount, and kicked it for-

ward to a frantic run.

"I shall kill him yet," Flar said to himself, and

Mnementh spread his wings in concord.

F'nor dropped beside his bronze leader.

"Did I see him about to draw on you?" F'nor's

eyes were bright, his smile acid.

"Until he remembered I was mounted on a

dragon."

"Watch him, bronze rider. He means to kill you

soon."

"If he can!"

"He's considered a vicious fighter," F'nor advised,

his smile gone.

Mnementh flapped his wings again, and F'lar ab-

sently stroked the great, soft-skinned neck.

"I am at some disadvantage?" F'lar asked, stung by

Fnor's words.

"To my knowledge, no," F'nor said quickly,

startled. "I have not seen him in action, but I don't

like what I have heard. He kills often, with and with-

out cause."

Dragonflight 27

"And because we dragonmen do not seek blood,

we are not to be feared as fighters?" snapped F'lar.

"Are you ashamed of being what you were bred?"

"I, no!" P'nor sucked in his breath at the tone of his

leader's voice. "And others of our wing, no! But

there is that in the attitude of Fax's men that . . .

that makes me wish some excuse to fight."

"As you remarked, we will probably have that fight.

There is something here in Ruatha that unnerves

our noble overlord."

Mnementh and now Canth, F'nor's brown, ex-

tended their wings, flapping to catch their riders' at-

tention.

F'lar stared as the dragon slewed his head back

toward his rider, the great eyes gleaming like sun-

struck opals.

"There is a subtle strength in this valley," F'lar

murmured, gathering the import of the dragon's agi-

tated message.

"A strength, indeed; even my brown feels it," F'nor

replied, his face lighting.

"Careful, brown rider," F'lar cautioned. "Careful.

Send the entire wing aloft. Search this valley. I should

have realized. I should have suspected. It was all there

to be evaluated. What fools have dragonmen be-

come!"

Dragonftight 29

The Hold is barred,

The Hall is bare,

And men vanish.

The soil is barren,

The rock is bald.

All hope banish.

LESSA WAS shoveling ashes from the hearth when

the agitated messenger staggered into the Great Hall.

She made herself as inconspicuous as possible so the

Warder would not dismiss her. She had contrived to

be sent to the Great Hall that morning, knowing that

the Warder intended to brutalize the head clothman

for the shoddy quality of the goods readied for ship-

ment to Fax.

"Fax is coming! With dragonmen!" the man gasped

out as he plunged into the dim Great Hall.

The Warder, who had been about to lash the head

dothman, turned, stunned, from his victim. The

courier, a farmholder from the edge of Ruatha,

stumbled up to the Warder, so excited with his mes-

sage that he grabbed the Warder's arm.

"How dare you leave your Hold?" The Warder

aimed his lash at the astonished Holder. The force of

the first blow knocked the man from his feet. Yelping,

he scrambled out of reach of a second lashing. "Drag-

onmen indeed! Fax? Ha! He shuns Ruatha. Therel"

The Warder punctuated each denial with another

blow, kicking the helpless wretch for good measure,

before he turned breathless to glare at the clothman

and the two underwarders. "How did he get in here

with such a threadbare lie?" The Warder stalked to

the Great Hall door. It was flung open just as he

reached for the iron handle. The ashen-fased guard

officer rushed in, nearly knocking the Warder down.

"Dragonmen! Dragons! All over Ruatha!" the man

gibbered, arms flailing wildly. He, too. pulled at the

Warder's arm, dragging the stupefied official toward

the outer courtyard, to bear out the truth of his

statement.

Lessa scooped up the last pile of ashes. Picking up

her equipment, she slipped out of the Great Hall.

There was a very pleased smile on her face under the

screen of matted hair.

A dragonman at Ruatha! An opportunity: she must

somehow contrive to get Fax so humiliated or so in-

furiated that he would renounce his claim to the Hold,

in the presence of a dragonman. Then she could claim

her birthright.

But she would have to be extraordinarily wary.

Dragonriders were men apart. Anger did not cloud

their intelligence. Greed did not sully their judgment.

Fear did not dull their reactions. Let the dense-witted

believe human sacrifice, unnatural lusts, insane revels.

She was not so gullible. And those stories went against

her grain. Dragonmen were still human, and there

was Weyr blood in her veins. It was the same color

blood as that of anyone else; enough of hers had been

spilled to prove that

She halted for a moment, catching a sudden shal-

low breath. Was this the danger she had sensed four

days ago at dawn? The final encounter in her struggle

to regain the Hold? No, Lessa cautioned herself,

there was more to that portent than revenge.

The ash bucket banged against her shins as she

shuffled down the low-ceilinged corridor to the stable

door. Fax would find a cold welcome. She had laid no

30 Dragonftighi

new fire on the hearth. Her laugh echoed back un-

pleasantly from the damp walls. She rested her bucket

and propped her broom and shovel as she wrestled

with the heavy bronze door that gave into the new.

stables.

They had been built outside the cliff of Ruatha by

Fax's first Warder, a subtler man than all eight of his

successors. He had achieved more than all the others,

and Lessa had honestly regretted the necessity of his

death. But he would have made her revenge impos-

sible. He would have found her out before she had

learned how to camouflage herself and her little inter-

ferences. What had his name been? She could not

recall. Well, she regretted his death.

The second man had been properly greedy, and it

had been easy to set up a pattern of misunderstanding

between Warder and craftsmen. That one had been

determined to squeeze all profit from Ruathan goods

so that some of it would drop into his pocket before

Fax suspected a shortage. The craftsmen who had be-

gun to accept the skillful diplomacy of the first Warder

bitterly resented the second's grasping, high-handed

ways. They resented the passing of the Old Line and,

even more so, the way of its passing. They were unfor-

giving of the insult to Ruatha, its now secondary

position in the High Reaches, and they resented the

individual indignities that Holders, craftsmen and far-

mers alike, suffered under the second Warder. It took

little manipulation to arrange for matters at Ruatha

to go from bad to worse.

The second was replaced and his successor fared no

better. He was caught diverting goods—the best of

the goods, at that. Fax had had him executed. His

bony head still rolled around in the main firepit above

the great Tower.

The present incumbent had not been able to main-

tain the Holding in even the sorry condition in which

he had assumed its management. Seemingly simple

matters developed rapidly into disasters. Like the pro-

duction of cloth. Contrary to his boasts to Fax, the

31

quality had not unproved, and the quantity had

fallen off.

Now Fax was here. And with dragonmen! Why

dragonmen? The import of the question froze Lessa,

and the heavy door closing behind her barked her

heels painfully. Dragonmen used to be frequent visi-

tors at Ruatha—that she knew and even vaguely re-

membered. Those memories were like a harper's tale,

told of someone else, not something within her own

experience. She had limited her fierce attention to

Ruatha only. She could not even recall the name of

queen, or Weyrwoman from the instructions of her

childhood, nor could she recall hearing mention of

any queen or Weyrwoman by anyone in the Hold

these past ten Turns.

Perhaps the dragonmen were finally going to call

the Lords of the Holds to task for the disgraceful show

of greenery about the Holds. Well, Lessa was to blame

for much of that in Ruatha, but she defied even a

dragonman to confront her with her guilt. If all

Ruatha fell to the Threads, it would be better than

remaining dependent to Fax! The heresy shocked

Lessa even as she thought it.

Wishing she could as easily unburden her con-

science of such blasphemy, she ditched the ashes on

the stable midden. There was a sudden change in

air pressure around her. Then a fleeting shadow

caused her to glance up.

From behind the cliff above glided a dragon,

its enormous wings spread to their fullest as he caught

the morning updraft. Turning effortlessly, he de-

scended. A second, a third, a full wing of dragons fol-

lowed in soundless flight and patterned descent,

graceful and awesome. The claxon rang belatedly

from the Tower, and from within the kitchen there

issued the screams and shrieks of the terrified drudges.

Lessa took cover. She ducked into the kitchen where

she was instantly seized by the assistant cook and

thrust with a buffet and a kick toward the sinks. There

32 Dragonflight

she was put to scrubbing the grease-encrusted serv-

ing utensils with cleansing sand.

The yelping canines were already lashed to the

spitrun, turning a scrawny herdbeast that had been set

to roast. The cook was ladling seasonings on the car-

cass, swearing at having to offer so poor a meal to so

many guests, some of them of high rank. Winter-dried

fruits from the last scanty harvest had been set

to soak, and two of the oldest drudges were scraping

roots to be boiled.

An apprentice cook was kneading bread and an-

other carefully spicing a sauce. Looking fixedly at

him, Lessa diverted his hand from one spice box to a

less appropriate one as he gave a final shake to the

concoction. She innocently added too much wood to

the wall oven to insure the rum of the breads. She

controlled the canines deftly, slowing one and speed-

ing the other so that the meat would be underdone on

one side, burned on the other. That the feast should

result in fast, with the food presented found inedible,

was her whole intention.

Above, in the Hold, she had no doubt that certain

other measures, undertaken at different times for this

exact contingency, were being discovered.

Her fingers bloodied from a beating, one of

the Warder's women came shrieking into the kitchen,

hopeful of refuge there.

"Insects have eaten the best blankets to shreds!

And a canine who had littered on the best linens

snarled at me as she gave suck. And the rushes are

noxious, and the best chambers full of debris driven

in by the winter wind. Somebody left the shutters

ajar. Just a tiny bit, but it was enough," the woman

wailed, clutching her hand to her breast and rocking

back and forth.

Lessa bent with great industry to shine the plates.

Watch-wher, watch'wher,

In your lair,

Watch well, watch'wher!

Who goes there?

"THE WATCH-WHER is hiding something," F'lar told

Fnor as they consulted in the hastily cleaned great

chamber. The room delighted to hold the wintry chill,

although a generous fire now burned on the hearth.

"It was but gibbering when Canth spoke to it,"

F'nor remarked. He was leaning against the mantel,

turning slightly from side to side to gather some

warmth. He watched his wingleader's impatient pac-

ing.

"Mnementh is calming it down," F'lar replied. "He

may be able to sort out the nightmare. The creature

may be more senile than sane, but..."

"I doubt it," Fnor concurred helpfully. He glanced

with apprehension up at the web-hung ceiling. He was

certain he'd found most of the crawlers, but he didn't

fancy their sting. Not on top of the discomforts already

experienced in this forsaken Hold. If the night stayed

mild, he intended curling up with Canth on the

heights. "That would be a more reasonable suggestion

than Fax or his Warder have made."

"Hmmm," P'lar muttered, frowning at the brown

rider.

34 Dragonflight

"Well, it's unbelievable that Ruatha could have

fallen to such disrepair in ten short Turns. Every

dragon caught the feeling of power, and it's obvious

the watch-wher has been tampered with. That takes a

good deal of control."

"From someone of the Blood," F'lar reminded him.

F'nor shot his wingleader a quick look, wondering

if he could possibly be serious in the light of all in-

formation to the contrary.

"I grant you there is power here, F'lar," F'nor con-

ceded. "But it could as easily be a hidden male bas-

tard of the old Blood. And we need a female. But

Fax made it plain, in his inimitable fashion, that he

left none of the old Blood alive in the Hold the day

he took it. Ladies, children, all. No, no." The brown

rider shook his head, as if he could dispel the lack of

faith in his wingleader's curious insistence that the

Search would end in Ruath with Ruathan blood.

"That watch-wher is hiding something, and only

someone of the Blood of its Hold can arrange that,

brown rider," F'lar said emphatically. He gestured

around the room and toward the window. "Ruatha

has been overcome. But she resists . . . subtly. I say it

points to the old Blood and power. Not power alone."

The obstinate expression in F'lar's eyes, the set of

his jaw, suggested that F'nor seek another topic.

"I'll see what may be seen around fallen Ruatha,"

he mumbled and left the chamber.

F'lar was heartily bored with the lady Fax had so

courteously assigned him. She giggled incessantly and

sneezed constantly. She waved about, but did not ap-

ply to her nose, a scarf or handkerchief long overdue

for a thorough washing. A sour odor, compounded of

sweat, sweet oil, and rancid food smells, exuded from

her. She was also pregnant by Fax. Not obviously so,

but she had confided her condition to F'lar, either ob-

livious to the insult to the dragonman or directed by

her Lord to let drop the information. F'lar deliberately

ignored the matter and, except when her company

Dragonftight

was obligatory on this Search journey, had ignored

her, too.

Lady Tela was nervously jabbering away at him

about the terrible condition of the rooms to which

Lady Gemma and the other ladies of the Lord's pro-

cession had been assigned.

"The shutters, both sets, were ajar all winter long,

and you should have seen the trash on the floors. We

finally got two of the drudges to sweep it all into the

fireplace. And then that smoked something fearful till

a man was sent up." Lady Tela giggled. "He found

the access blocked by a chimney stone fallen aslant.

The rest of the chimney, for a wonder, was in good

repair."

She waved her handkerchief. F'lar held his breath

as the gesture wafted an unappealing odor in his di-

rection.

He glanced up the Hall toward the inner Hold door

and saw the Lady Gemma descending, her steps slow

and awkward. Some subtle difference about her gait

attracted him, and he stared at her, trying to identify

it.

"Oh, yes, poor Lady Gemma," Lady Tela babbled,

sighing deeply. "We are so concerned. Why my Lord

Fax insisted on her coming I do not know. She is not

near her time, and yet . . ." The lighthead's concern

sounded sincere.

F'lar's incipient hatred for Fax and his brutality

matured abruptly. He left his partner chattering to

thin air and courteously extended his arm to the Lady

Gemma to support her down the steps and to the table.

Only the brief tightening of her fingers on his forearm

betrayed her gratitude. Her face was very white and

drawn, the lines deeply etched around mouth and

eyes, showing the effort she was expending.

"Some attempt has been made, I see, to restore

order to the Hall," she remarked in a conversational

tone.

"Some," F'lar admitted dryly, glancing around the

grandly proportioned Hall, its rafters festooned with

36

Dragonfiight

Dragonfiight

37

the webs of many Turns. The inhabitants of those

gossamer nests dropped from time to time, with ripe

splats, to the floor, onto the table, and into the serving

platters. Nothing replaced the old banners of the

Ruathan Blood, removed from the stark brown stone

walls. Fresh rushes did obscure the greasy flagstones.

The trestle tables appeared recently sanded and

scraped, and the platters gleamed dully in the re-

freshed glows. Those unfortunately, were a mistake,

for brightness was much too unflattering to a scene

that would have been more reassuring in dimmer light.

"This was such a graceful Hall," the Lady Gemma

murmured for F'lar's ears alone.

"You were a friend?" he asked politely.

"Yes, in my youth." Her voice dropped expressively

on the last word, evoking for F'lar a happier girlhood.

"It was a noble line!"

"Think you one might have escaped the sword?"

The Lady Gemma flashed him a startled look, then

quickly composed her features, lest the exchange be

noted. She gave a barely perceptible shake of her

head and then shifted her awkward weight to take her

place at the table. Graciously she inclined her head

toward F'lar, both dismissing and thanking him.

He returned to his own partner and placed her at

the table on his left. As the only persons of rank who

would dine that night at Ruatha Hold, Lady Gemma

was seated on his right; Fax would be beyond her.

The dragonmen and Fax's upper soldiery would sit at

the lower tables. No guildmen had been invited to

Ruatha.

Fax arrived just then with his current lady and two

underleaders, the Warder bowing them effusively into

the Hall. The man, F'lar noticed, kept a good distance

from his overlord—as well a Warder might whose re-

sponsibility was in this sorry condition. F'lar flicked a

crawler away. Out of the comer of his eye he saw the

Lady Gemma wince and shudder.

Fax stamped up to the raised table, his face black

with suppressed rage. He pulled back his chair

roughly, slamming it into the Lady Gemma's before

he seated himself. He pulled the chair to the table

with a force that threatened to rock the none too

stable trestle-top from its supporting legs. Scowling, he

inspected his goblet and plate, fingering the surface,

ready to throw them aside if they displeased him.

"A roast, my Lord Fax, and fresh bread. Lord Fax,

and such fruits and roots as are left."

"Left? Left? You said there was nothing harvested

here."

The Warder's eyes bulged and he gulped, stammer-

ing, "Nothing to be sent on. Nothing good enough to

be sent on. Nothing. Had I but known of your arrival,

I could have sent to Crom ..."

"Sent ot Crom?" roared Fax, slaming the plate he

was inspecting onto the table so forcefully that the

rim bent under his hands. The Warder winced again as

if he himself had been maimed.

"For decent foodstuffs, my Lord," he quavered.

"The day one of my Holds cannot support itself or

the visit of its rightful overlord, I shall renounce it"

The Lady Gemma gasped. Simultaneously the

dragons roared. F'lar felt the unmistakable surge of

power. His eyes instinctively sought F'nor at the lower

table. The brown rider, all the dragonmen, had ex-

perienced that inexplicable shaft of exultation.

"What's wrong, dragonman?" snapped Fax.

F'lar, affecting unconcern, stretched his legs under

the table and assumed an indolent posture in the

heavy chair.

"Wrong?"

"The dragons!"

"Oh, nothing. They often roar ... at the sunset, at

a flock of passing wherries, at mealtimes," and F'lar

smiled amiably at the Lord of the High Reaches. Be-

side him his tablemate gave a little squeak.

"Mealtimes? Have they not been fed?"

"Oh, yes. Five days ago."

"Oh. Five . . . days ago? And are they hungry . ..

38 Dragonftight

now?" Her voice trailed into a whisper of fear, her

eyes grew round.

"In a few days," F'lar assured her. Under cover of

his detached amusement, F'lar scanned the Hall. That

surge had come from nearby. Either in the Hall or

just without it. It must have been from within. It came

so soon upon Fax's speech that his words must have

triggered it. F'lar saw that F'nor and the other drag-

onmen were surreptitiously searching every face in the

Hall. Fax's soldiers could be disqualified, and the

Warder's men. And the power had an indefinably

feminine touch to it.

One of Fax's women? F'lar found that hard to

credit. Mnementh had been close to all of them, and

none had shown a vestige of power, much less—with

the exception of Lady Gemma—any intelligence.

One of the Hall women? So far he bad seen only

the sorry drudges and the aging females the Warder

had as housekeepers. The Warder's personal woman?

He must discover if that man had one. One of the

Hold guards' women? F'lar suppressed an intense desire

to rise and search.

"You mount a guard?" he asked Fax casually.

"Double at Ruath Hold!" he was told in a tight,

bard voice, ground out from somewhere deep in Fax's

chest.

"Here?" F'lar all but laughed out loud, gesturing

around the sadly appointed chamber.

"Here!" Fax changed the subject with a roar.

"Food!"

Five drudges, two of them women in such grimy

brown-gray rags that F'lar hoped they had had noth-

ing to do with the preparation of the meal, staggered

in under the emplattered herdbeast. No one with so

much as a trace of power would sink to such depths,

unless . . .

The aroma that reached him as the platter was

placed on the serving table distracted him. It reeked

of singed bone and charred meat. Even the pitcher of

klah being passed smelled bad. The Warder franti-

Dragonftight 39

cally sharpened his tools as if a keen edge could

somehow slice acceptable portions from this unlikely

carcass.

The Lady Gemma caught her breath again, and

F'lar saw her hands curl tightly around the armrests.

He saw the convulsive movement of her throat as she

swallowed. He, too, did not look forward to this re-

past.

The drudges reappeared with wooden trays of

bread. Burnt crusts had been scraped and cut, in

some places, from the loaves before serving. As other

trays were borne in, F'lar tried to catch sight of the

faces of the servitors. Matted hair obscured the face

of the one who presented Lady Gemma with a dish of

legumes swimming in greasy liquid. Revolted, F'lar

poked through the legumes to find properly cooked

portions to offer Lady Gemma. She waved them

aside, her face ill concealing her discomfort.

As F'lar was about to turn and serve Lady Tela, he

saw Lady Gemma's hand clutch convulsively at the

chair arms. He realized then that she was not merely

nauseated by the unappetizing food. She was seized

with the onslaught of labor contractions.

F'lar glanced in Fax's direction. The overlord was

scowling blackly at the attempts of the Warder to find

edible portions of meat to serve.

F'lar touched Lady Gemma's arms with light fin-

gers. She turned her face just enough so that she could

see F'lar out of the comer of her eye. She managed a

socially correct half-smile.

"I dare not leave just now. Lord F'lar. He is always

dangerous at Ruatha. And it may only be false pangs

... at my age."

F'lar was dubious as he saw another shudder pass

through her frame. The woman would have been a

fine Weyrwoman, he thought ruefully, if she were

younger.

The Warder, his hands shaking, presented Fax the

sliced meats, slivers of overdone flesh, portions of al-

most edible meats, but not much of either.

40 Dragonftight

One furious wave of Fax's broad fist and the

Warder had the plate, meats and juice, square in the

face. Despite himself, F'lar sighed, for those un-

doubtedly constituted the only edible portions of the

entire beast.

"You call this food? You call this food?" Pax bel-

lowed. His voice boomed back from the bare vault of

the ceiling, shaking crawlers from their webs as the

sound shattered the fragile strands. "Slop! Slop!"

F'lar rapidly brushed crawlers from the Lady

Gemma, who was helpless in the throes of a very

strong contraction.

"It's all we had on such short notice," the

Warder squealed, bloody juices streaking down his

cheeks. Fax threw the goblet at him, and the wine

went streaming down the man's chest. The steaming

dish of roots followed, and the man yelped as the hot

liquid .splashed over him.

"My Lord, my Lord, had I but known!"

"Obviously, Ruatha cannot support the visit of its

Lord. You must renounce it," F'lar heard himself

saying.

His shock at such words issuing from his mouth was

as great as that of everyone else in the Hall. Silence

fell, broken by the splat of crawlers and the drip of

root liquid from the Warder's shoulders to the rushes.

The grating of Fax's boot heel was clearly audible as

he swung slowly around to face the bronze rider.

As F'lar conquered his own amazement and rapidly

tried to predict what to do next to mend matters, he

saw F'nor rise slowly to his feet, hand on dagger hilt.

"I did not hear you correctly?" Fax asked, his face

blank of all expression, his eyes snapping.

Unable to comprehend how he could have uttered

such an arrant challenge, F'lar managed to assume a

languid pose.

"You did mention, my Lord," he drawled, "that if

any of your Holds could not support itself and the

visit of its rightful overlord, you would renounce it."

Fax stared back at F'lar, his face a study of swiftly

Dragonflight 41

suppressed emotions, the glint of triumph dominant.

F'lar, his face stiff with the forced expression of in-

difference, was casting swiftly about in his mind. In

the name of the Egg, had he lost all sense of discre-

tion?

Pretending utter unconcern, he stabbed some veg-

etables onto his knife and began to munch on them.

As he did so, he noticed F'nor glancing slowly around

the Hall, scrutinizing everyone. Abruptly F'lar real-

ized what had happened. Somehow, in making that

statement, he, a dragonman, had responded to a cov-

ert use of the power. F'lar, the bronze rider, was "being

put into a position where he would have to fight Fax.

Why? For what end? To get Fax to renounce the

Hold? Incredible! But there could be only one pos-

sible reason for such a turn of events. An exultation

as sharp as pain swelled within F'lar. It was all he

could do to maintain his pose of bored indifference,

all he could do to turn his attention to thwarting

Fax, should he press for a duel. A duel would serve

no purpose. He, F'lar, had no time to waste on it.

A groan escaped Lady Gemma and broke the eye-

locked stance of the two antagonists. Irritated, Fax

looked down at her, fist clenched and half-raised to

strike her for her temerity at interrupting her lord and

master. The contraction that rippled across the swollen

belly was as obvious as the woman's pain. F'lar dared

not look toward her, but he wondered if she had de-

liberately groaned aloud to break the tension.

Incredibly, Fax began to laugh. He threw back his

head, showing big, stained teeth, and roared.

"Aye, renounce it, in favor of her issue, if it is male

... and lives!" he crowed, laughing raucously.

"Heard and witnessed!" F'lar snapped, jumping to

his feet and pointing to his riders. They were on their

feet in an instant. "Heard and witnessed!" they

averred in the traditional manner.

With that movement, everyone began to babble at

once in nervous relief. The other women, each react-

ing in her way to the imminence of birth, called orders

42 Dragonfiight

to the servants and advice to each other. They con-

verged toward the Lady Gemma, hovering un-

decidedly out of Fax's range like silly wherries

disturbed from their roosts. It was obvious they were

torn between their fear of their Lord and their desire

to reach the laboring woman.

He gathered their intentions as well as their reluc-

tance and, still stridently laughing, knocked back his

chair. He stepped over it, strode down to the meat

stand and stood hacking off pieces with his knife,

stuffing them, juice dripping, into his mouth without

ceasing to guffaw.

As F'lar bent toward the Lady Gemma to assist her

out of her chair, she grabbed his arm urgently. Their

eyes met, hers clouded with pain. She pulled him

closer.

"He means to kill you, bronze rider. He loves to

kill," she whispered.

"Dragonmen are not easily killed, brave lady. I

am grateful to you."

"I do not want you killed," she said softly, biting at

her lip. "We have so few bronze riders."

F'lar stared at her, startled. Did she. Fax's lady,

actually believe in the Old Laws? He beckoned to

two of the Warder's men to carry her up into the

Hold. He caught Lady Tela by the arm as she flut-

tered past him in their wake.

"What do you need?"

"Oh, oh," she exclaimed, her face twisted with

panic; she was distractedly wringing her hands. "Wa-

ter, hot, clean. Cloths. And a birthing-woman. Oh,

yes, we must have a birthing-woman."

P'lar looked about for one of the Hold women, his

glance sliding over the first disreputable figure who

had started to mop up the spilled food. He signaled

instead for the Warder and peremptorily ordered him

to send for the birthing-woman. The Warder kicked

at the drudge on the floor.

"You . . . you! Whatever your name is, go get her

from the crafthold. You must know who she is."

Dragonflight 43

With a nimbleness at odds with her appearance of

extreme age and decrepitude, the drudge evaded the

parting kick the Warder aimed in her direction. She

scurried across the Hall and out the kitchen door.

Fax sliced and speared meat, occasionally bursting

out with a louder bark of laughter as his thoughts

amused him. F'lar sauntered down to the carcass and,

without waiting for invitation from his host, began to

carve neat slices also, beckoning his men over. Fax's

soldiers, however, waited till their Lord had eaten his

filL

Lord of the Hold, your charge is sure

In thick walls, metal doors, and no verdure*

_ LESSA SPED from the HaH to find the crafthold

birthing-woman, her mind seething with frustration.

So close! So close! How could she come so close and

yet fail? Fax should have challenged the dragonman.

And the dragonman was strong and young, his face

"at of a fighter, stem and controlled. He should not

have temporized. Was all honor dead in Pem,

smothered by green grass?

And why, oh, why, had the Lady Gemma chosen

44 Dragonftight

that precious moment to go into labor? K her groan

hadn't distracted Fax, the fight would have begun,

and not even Pax, for all his vaunted prowess as a

vicious fighter, would have prevailed against a drag-

onman who had Lessa's support. The Hold must be

secured to its rightful Blood again. Fax would not

leave Ruatha alive!

Above her, on the High Tower, the great bronze

dragon gave forth a weird croon, his many-faceted

eyes sparkling in the gathering darkness.

Unconsciously she silenced him as she would have

done the watch-wher. Ah, that watch-wher. He had

not come out of his den at her passing. She knew the

dragons had been at him. She could hear him gibber-

ing in his panic. They'd drive him to his death.

The slant of the road toward the crafthold lent

impetus to her flying feet, and she had to brace her-

self to a sliding stop at the birthing-woman's stone

threshold. She banged on the closed door and heard

the frightened exclamation of surprise within.

"A birth. A birth at the Hold," Lessa cried in time

to her thumping.

"A birth?" came the muffled cry, and the latches

were thrown up on the door, "At the Hold?"

"Fax's lady and, as you love life, hurry, for if it is

male, it will be Ruatha's own Lord."

That ought to fetch her, thought Lessa, and in that

instant the door was flung open by the man of the

house. Lessa could see the birthing-woman gathering

up her things in haste, piling them into her shawl.

Lessa hurried the woman out, up the steep road to

the Hold, under the Tower gate, grabbing the woman

as she tried to run at the sight of a dragon peering

down at her. Lessa drew her into the Court and

pushed her, resisting, into the Hall.

The woman clutched at the inner door, balking at

the sight of the gathering there. Lord Fax, his feet up

on the trestle table, was paring his fingernails with his

knife blade, still chuckling. The dragonmen in their

wher-hide tunics, were eating quietly at one table

Dragonfiight 45

while the soldiers were having their turn at the meat.

The bronze rider noticed their entrance and

pointed urgently toward the inner Hold. The birthing-

woman seemed frozen to the spot. Lessa tugged fu-

tilely at her arm, urging her to cross the HalL To her

surprise, the bronze rider strode to them.

"Go quickly, woman. Lady Gemma is before her

time," he said, frowning with concern, gesturing im-

peratively toward the Hold entrance. He caught her

by the shoulder and led her, all unwilling, toward the

steps, Lessa tugging away at her other arm.

When they reached the stairs, he relinquished his

grip, nodding to Lessa to escort her the rest of the

way. Just as they reached the massive inner door,

Lessa noticed how sharply the dragonman was looking

at them. At her hand on the birthing-woman's arm.

Warily, she glanced at her hand and saw it, as if it

belonged to a stranger—the long fingers, shapely de-

spite dirt and broken nails, a small hand, delicately

boned, gracefully placed despite the urgency of the

grip. She blurred it

The Lady Gemma was indeed in hard labor, and

all was not well. When Lessa tried to retire from the

room, the birthing-woman shot her such a terrified

glance that Lessa reluctantly remained. It was ob-

vious that Fax's other ladies were of no use. They

were huddled at one side of the high bed, wringing

their hands and talking in shrill, excited tones. It re-

mained to Lessa and the birthing-woman to remove

Gemma's clothing, to ease her and hold her hands

against the contractions.

There was little left of beauty in the gravid woman's

face. She was perspiring heavily, her skin tinged with

gray. Her breath was sharp and rasping, and she bit

her lips against outcry.

"This is not going well," the birthing-woman mut-

tered under her breath. "You there, stop your snivel-

ing," she ordered, swinging around to point at one of

the gaggle. She lost her indecision as the requirements

of her calling gave her temporary authority over those

46 Dragonilighf

of rank. "Bring me hot water. Hand those cloths over.

Find something warm for the babe. If it is bom alive,

it must be kept from drafts and chill."

Reassured by her tyranny, the women stopped

their whimpering and did her bidding.

If it survives, the words echoed in Lessa's mind.

Survives to be Lord of Ruatha. One of Fax's get?

That had not been her intention, although...

The Lady Gemma grabbed blindly for Lessa's

hands, and despite herself, Lessa responded with

such comfort as a strong grip would afford the woman.

"She bleeds too much," the birthing-woman mut-

tered. "More cloths."

The women resumed their wailing, uttering little

shrieks of fear and protestation.

"She should not have been made to journey so far."

"They will both die."

"Oh, it is too much blood."

Too much blood, thought Lessa. I have no quarrel

with her. And the child comes too early. It will die.

She looked down at the contorted face, the bloodied

lower lip. If she does not cry out now, why did she

then? Fury swept through Lessa. This woman had, for

some obscure reason, deliberately diverted Fax and

F'lar at the crucial moment. She all but crushed Gem-

ma's hands in hers.

Pain from such an unexpected quarter roused

Gemma from her brief respite between the shudder-

ing contractions that seized her at shorter and shorter

intervals. Blinking sweat from her eyes, she focused

desperately on Lessa's face.

"What have I done to you?" she gasped.

"Done? I had Ruatha almost within my grasp again

when you uttered your false cry," Lessa said, her

head bent so that not even the birthing-woman at the

foot of the bed could hear them. She was so angry

that she had lost all discretion, but it would not mat-

ter, for this woman was close to death.

The Lady Gemma's eyes widened. "But ... the

dragonman . . . Fax cannot kill the dragonman. There

Dragonftight 47

are so few bronze riders. They are all needed. And

the old tales ... the star . . . star . . ." She could not

continue, for a massive contraction shook her. The

heavy rings on her fingers bit into Lessa's hands as

she clung to the girl.

"What do you mean?" Lessa demanded in a hoarse

whisper.

But the woman's agony was so intense that she

could scarcely breathe. Her eyes seemed to start from

her head. Lessa, hardened though she had become to

all emotion save that of revenge, was shocked to the

deeper feminine instinct of easing a woman's pain in

her extremity. Even so, the Lady Gemma's words

rang through her mind. The woman had not, then,

protected Fax, but the dragonman. The star? Did she

mean the Red Star? Which old tales?

The birthing-woman had both hands on Gemma's

belly, pressing downward, chanting advice to a

woman too far gone in pain to hear. The twisting body

gave a convulsive heave, lifting from the bed. As

Lessa tried to support her. Lady Gemma opened her

eyes wide, her expression one of incredulous relief.

She collapsed into Lessa's arms and lay still.

"She's dead!" shrieked one of the women. She flew,

screaming, from the chamber. Her voice reverberated

down the rock halls. "Dead . . . ead . . . ead . . .

ddddd," echoed back to the dazed women, who stood

motionless in shock.

Lessa laid the woman down on the bed, staring

amazed at the oddly triumphant smile on Gemma's

face. She retreated into the shadows, far more shaken

than anyone else. She who had never hesitated to do

anything that would thwart Fax or beggar Ruatha

further was trembling with remorse. She had forgotten

in her single-mindedness that there might be others

motivated by a hatred of Fax. The Lady Gemma was

one, and one who had suffered far more subjective

brutalities and indignities than Lessa had. Yet Lessa

had hated Gemma, had poured out that hatred on a

48 Dragonftight

woman who had deserved her respect and support

rather than her condemnation.

Lessa shook her head to dispel the aura of tragedy

and self-revulsion that threatened to overwhelm her.

She had no time for regret or contrition. Not now. Not

when, by affecting Fax's death, she could avenge not

only her own wrongs but Gemma's!

That was it. And she had the lever. The child . . .

yes, the child. She'd say it lived. That it was male.

The dragonman would have to fight. He had heard

and witnessed Fax's oath.

A smile, not unlike the one on the dead woman's

face, crossed Lessa's as she hurried down the cor-

ridors to the Hall.

She was about to dash into the Hall itself when she

realized she bad permitted her anticipation of triumph

to destroy her self-discipline. Lessa halted at the

portal, deliberately took a deep breath. She dropped

her shoulders and stepped down, once more the color-

less drudge.

The harbinger of death was sobbing in a heap at

Fax's feet.

Lessa gritted her teeth against redoubled hatred for

the overlord. He was glad the Lady Gemma had died,

birthing his seed. Even now he was ordering the hys-

terical woman to go tell his latest favorite to attend

him, doubtless to install her as his first lady.

"The child lives," Lessa cried, her voice distorted

with anger and hatred. "It is male."

Fax was on his feet, kicking aside the weeping

woman, scowling viciously at Lessa. "What are you

saying, woman?"

"The child lives. It is male," she repeated, descend-

ing. The incredulity and rage that suffused Fax's face

was wonderful to see. The Warder's men stifled their

minadvertent cheers.

"Ruatha has a new Lord." The dragons roared.

So intent was she on achieving her purpose that she

failed to notice the reactions of others in the hall,

failed to hear the roaring of the dragons without.

Dragon-flight 49

Fax erupted into action. He leaped across the in-

tervening space, bellowing denials of the news. Before

Lessa could dodge, his fist crashed down across her

face. She was swept off her feet, off the steps, and

fell heavily to the stone floor, where she lay motion-

less, a bundle of dirty rags.

"Hold, Fax!" F'lar's voice cut across the silence as

the Lord of the High Reaches lifted his leg to kick the

unconscious body.

Fax whirled, his hand automatically closing on his

knife hilt

"It was heard and witnessed. Fax," F'lar cautioned

him, one hand outstretched in warning, "by dragon-

men. Stand by your sworn and witnessed oath!"

"Witnessed? By dragonmen?" cried Fax with a

derisive laugh. "Dragonwomen, you mean," he

sneered, his eyes blazing with contempt, one sweeping

gesture of scorn dismissing them all.

He was momentarily taken aback by the speed with

which the bronze rider's knife appeared in his hand.

"Dragonwomen?" F'lar queried, his lips curling

back over his teeth, his voice dangerously soft. Glow-

light flickered off his circling blade as he advanced

on Fax.

"Women! Parasites on Pern. The Weyr power is

over! Over for good," roared Fax, leaping forward to

land in a combat crouch.

The two antagonists were dimly aware of the scurry

behind them, of tables pulled roughly aside to give

the duelists space. F'lar could spare no glance at the

crumpled form of the drudge, yet he was sure, through

and beyond instinct sure, that she was the source of

power. He had felt it as she entered the room. The

dragons' roaring confirmed it. If that fall had killed

her ... He advanced on Fax, leaping away to avoid

the slashing blade as Fax unwound from the crouch

with a powerful lunge.

F'lar evaded the attack easily, noticing his oppo-

nent's reach, deciding he had a slight advantage there.

He told himself sternly that wasn't much advantage.

50

Dmgonfiight

51

Fax had had much more actual hand-to-hand killing

experience than had he whose duels had always

ended at first blood on the practice floor. F'lar made

due note to avoid closing with the burly Lord. The

man was heavy-chested, dangerous from sheer mass.

F'lar must use agility as a weapon, not brute strength.

Fax feinted, testing F'lar for weakness or indiscre-

tion. The two crouched, facing each other across six

feet of space, knife hands weaving, their free hands,

spread-fingered, ready to grab.

Again Fax pressed the attack. F'lar allowed him to

close, just close enough to dodge away with a back-

handed swipe. He felt fabric tear under the tip of his

knife and heard Fax's snarl. The overlord was faster

on his feet than his bulk suggested, and F'lar had to

dodge a second time, feeling the scoring of Fax's

knife across his heavy wher-hide jerkin.

Grimly the two circled, looking for an opening in

each other's defense. Fax plowed in, trying to turn his

weight and mass to advantage against the lighter,

faster man by cornering him between raised platform

and wall.

F'lar countered, ducking low under Fax's nailing

arm, slashing obliquely across Fax's side. The over-

lord caught at him, yanking savagely, and F'lar was

trapped against the other man's side, straining desper-

ately with his left hand to keep the knife arm up. F'lar

brought up his knee, tuning a sudden collapse with

that blow. He ducked away as Fax gasped and

buckled from the pain in his groin. F'lar danced away,

sudden fire in his left shoulder witness that he had not

escaped unscathed.

Fax's face was red with bloody anger, and he

wheezed from pain and shock. But F'lar had no time

to follow up the momentary advantage, for the in-

furiated Lord straightened up and charged. F'lar was

forced to sidestep quickly before Fax could close

with him. F'lar put the meat table between them,

circling warily, flexing his shoulder to assess the extent

of his injury. The slash felt as if it had been scored

by a brand. Motion was painful, but the arm could be

used.

Suddenly Fax seized up a handful of fatty scraps

from the meat tray and hurled them at F'lar. The

dragonman ducked, and Fax closed the distance

around the table with a rush. Instinct prompted F'lar

to leap sideways as Fax's flashing blade came within

inches of his abdomen. His own knife sliced down the

outside of Fax's arm. Instantly the two pivoted to

face each other again, but Fax's left arm hung limply

at his side.

F'lar darted in, pressing his luck as the Lord of the

High Reaches staggered. But F'lar misjudged the

man's condition and suffered a terrific kick in the side

as he tried to dodge under the feinting knife. Doubled

with pain, Flar rolled frantically away from his charg-

ing adversary. Fax was lurching forward, trying to fall

on him, to pin the lighter dragonman down for a final

thrust. F'lar somehow got to his feet, attempting to

straighten up to meet Fax's stumbling charge. His

very position saved him. Fax overreached his mark

and staggered off balance. F'lar brought his right

hand over with as much strength as he could muster,

and his knife blade plunged through Fax's unpro-

tected back until he felt the point stick in the chest

plate.

The defeated Lord fell flat to the flagstones, the

force of his descent dislodging the dagger from his

chest bone so that an inch of the bloody blade re-

emerged from the point of entry.

A thin wailing penetrated the haze of pain and

relief. F'lar looked up and saw, through sweat-blurred

eyes, women crowding in the Hold doorway. One

held a closely swathed object in her arms. F'lar could

not immediately grasp the significance of that tableau,

but he knew it was very important to clear his

thoughts.

He stared down at the dead man. There was no

pleasure in killing the man, he realized, only relief

that he himself was still alive. He wiped his forehead

52 Dmgonftight

on his sleeve and forced himself erect, his side throb-

bing with the pain of that last kick and his left shoul-

der burning. He half-stumbled to the drudge, still

sprawled where she had fallen.

He gently turned her over, noting the terrible bruise

spreading across her cheek under the dirty skin. He

heard F'nor take command of the tumult in the Hall.

The dragonman laid a hand, trembling in spite of

an effort to control himself, on the woman's breast to

feel for a heartbeat. ... It was there, slow but strong.

A deep sigh escaped him, for either blow or fall

could have proved fatal. Fatal, perhaps, for Pem as

well.

Relief was colored with disgust. There was no tell-

ing under the filth how old this creature might be.

He raised her to his arms, her light body no burden

even to his battle-weary strength. Knowing F'nor

would handle any trouble efficiently, F'lar carried the

drudge to his own chamber.

He put the body on the high bed, then stirred up

the fire and added more glows to the bedside bracket.

His gorge rose at the thought of touching the filthy

mat of hair, but nonetheless and gently, he pushed it

back from the face, turning the head this way and

that. The features were small, regular. One arm, clear

of rags, was reasonably clean above the elbow but

marred by bruises and old scars. The skin was firm

and unwrinkled. The hands, when he took them in

his, were dirt-encrusted but all the same, well-shaped

and delicately boned.

F'lar began to smile. Yes, she had blurred that

hand so skillfully that he had actually doubted what

he had first seen. And yes, beneath grime and grease,

she was young. Young enough for the Weyr. And no

bom drab. She was not young enough, happily, to be

Fax's seed. One of the previous Lords' by-blows? No,

there was no taint of common blood here. It was pure,

no matter whose line, and he rather thought she was

indeed Ruathan. One who had by some unknown

agency escaped the massacre ten Turns ago and bided

Dragonfiight 53

her time for revenge. Why else force Fax to renounce

the Hold?

Delighted and fascinated by this unexpected luck,

F'lar reached out to tear the dress from the uncon-

scious body and found himself constrained not to. The

girl had roused. Her great, hungry eyes fastened on

his, not fearful or expectant; wary.

A subtle change occurred in her face. Flar

watched, his smile deepening, as she shifted her reg-

ular features into an illusion of disagreeable ugliness.

"Trying to confuse a dragonman, girl?" he chuckled.

He made no further move to touch her but settled

against the great carved post of the bed. He crossed

his arms on his chest and then shifted suddenly to

ease his sore arm.

"Your name, girl, and rank."

She drew herself upright slowly, her features no

longer blurred. Deliberately she slid back against the

headboard so they faced each other across the length

of the high bed.

"Fax?"

"Dead. Your name!"

A look of exulting triumph flooded her face. She

slipped from the bed, standing unexpectedly tall.

"Then I reclaim my own. I am of the Ruathan

Blood. I claim Ruath," she announced in a ringing

voice.

F'lar stared at her a moment, delighted with her

proud bearing. Then he threw back his head and

laughed.

"This? This crumbling heap?" He could not help

but mock the disparity of her manner and her dress.

"Oh, no. Besides, fair lady, we dragonmen heard and

witnessed Fax's oath renouncing the Hold in favor of

his heir. Shall I challenge the babe, too, for you? And

choke him with his swaddling clothes?"

Her eyes flashed, her lips parted in a terrible smile.

"There is no heir. Gemma died, the babe unborn. I

lied."

"Lied?" F'lar demanded, angry.

54 Dragonfiight 55

"Yes," she taunted him with a toss of her chin. "I

lied. There was no babe born. I merely wanted to be

sure you challenged Fax."

He grabbed her wrist, stung that he had twice fallen

to her prodding.

"You provoked a dragonman to fight? To kill?

When he is on Search?"

"Search? What should I care for a Search? I have

Ruatha as my Hold again. For ten Turns I have

worked and waited, schemed and suffered for that.

What could your Search mean to me?"

F'lar wanted to strike that look of haughty con-

tempt from her face. He twisted her arm savagely,

bringing her to his feet before he released his pres-

sure. She laughed at him and had scuttled to one side

and was on her feet and out the door before he could

realize what she was about and give chase.

Swearing to himself, he raced down the rocky cor-

ridors, knowing she would have to make for the Hall

to get out of the Hold. However, when he reached the

Hall, there was no sign of her fleeing figure among

those still loitering there.

"Has that creature come this way?" he called to

Fnor, who was, by chance, standing by the door to

the Court.

"No. Is she the source of power, after all?"

"Yes, she is," F'lar answered, galled all the more

by her escape. Where had she gone to? "And of the

Ruathan Blood, at thati"

"Oh-ho! Does she depose the babe, then?" F'nor

asked, gesturing toward the birthing-woman who oc-

cupied a seat close to the now blazing hearth.

F'lar paused, about to return to search the Hold's

myriad passages. He stared, momentarily confused, at

his brown rider.

"Babe? What babe?"

"The male child Lady Gemma bore," Fnor replied,

surprised by F'lar's uncomprehending look.

"It lives?"

"Yes. A strong babe, the woman says, for all that

he was premature and taken forcibly from the dead

dame's belly."

F'lar threw back his head with a shout of laughter.

For all her scheming, she had been outdone by Truth.

At that moment he heard the unmistakable elation

in Mnementh's roar, followed by the curious warble of

the other dragons.

"Mnementh has caught her," Flar cried, grinning

with jubilation. He strode down the steps, past the

body of the former Lord of the High Reaches and out

into the main court.

He saw the bronze dragon was gone from his

Tower perch and called him. An agitation drew his

eyes upward. He saw Mnementh spiraling down into

the Court, his front paws clasping something.

Mnementh informed F'lar that he had seen her climb-

ing from one of the high windows and had- simply

plucked her from the ledge, knowing the dragonman

sought her. The bronze dragon settled awkwardly

onto his hind legs, his wings working to keep him bal-

anced. Carefully he set the girl on her feet and care-

fully he formed a cage around her with his huge

talons. She stood motionless within that circle, her

face turned toward the wedge-shaped head that

swayed above her.

The watch-wher, shrieking terror, anger, and ha-

tred, was lunging violently to the end of its chain, try-

ing to. come to Lessa's aid. It grabbed at F'lar as he

strode to the two.

"You've courage enough to fly with, girl," he ad-

mitted, resting one hand casually on Mnementh's

upper claw. Mnementh was enormously pleased with

himself and swiveled his head down for his eye ridges

to be scratched.

"You did not He, you know," F'lar said, unable to

resist taunting the girl.

Slowly she turned toward him, her face impassive.

She was not afraid of dragons, F'lar realized with ap-

proval.

"The babe lives. And it is male."

56 Dragonfiight 57

She could not control her dismay, and her shoulders

sagged briefly before she pulled herself erect again.

"Ruatha is mine," she insisted in a tense, low

voice.

"Aye, and it would have been had you approached

me directly when the wing arrived here."

Her eyes widened. "What do you mean?"

"A dragonman may champion anyone whose griev-

ance 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 ty-

rant's hand than you."

Something in her manner told Tii'm that she re-

gretted 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 in-

fected 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 appreci-

ated 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 Weyr-

woman 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 antago-

nize her with injudicious handling.

"There is -danger for all Pern. Not just Ruatha," he

said, allowing a note of entreaty to creep into his

58 Dragonfiight

voice. "And you are needed. Not by Ruatha." A wave

of his hand dismissed that consideration as a negligi-

ble one compared to the total picture. "We are

doomed without a strong Weyrwoman. Without you."

"Gemnw said all the bronze riders were needed,*'

she murmured in a dazed whisper.

What did she mean by that statement? Flar

frowned. Had she heard a word he had said? He

pressed hi!- 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 struct F'lai

forcibly. He had had no tinu or desire to consider hei

prodigious accomplishmem. Now he realized some

measure of her indomiiabk character Sht could noi

have been above ten Turns of age herself when Faa

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 moon-

light. 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?

Dragonfiight 59

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 comer 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 Sur-

rogate 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.

60

Dragonfiight

61

"And nearly ours with her machinations," Flar

replied, but having found the admirable objeci of his

Search, he could now be magnanimous. "Suppress

your exultation brother," he advisec quickly as he

took nou of I nor s expression. "The new queen must

also bi Impressed."

"I'll settit arrangements here. Lytol is an excellent

choice,* F'no' said although he knew that F'lar

needed no one» appoval.

"Who is. thi- Lytol?" demanded Lessa pointedly

She hao twisted the mas: of nltb\ hai' bad from he

face. In the moonlighi the din was. less noticeable

F'lar caughi F noi looking ai her with an al too easily

read expression, ht signalex I nor with » peremptory

gesture Ui carr> out bis mdeis withoul delay.

"Lytol is> & draponles- man F'la' told the girl, "no

friend to Fa?. He will ward tht Holo weL and it will

prosper. Ht addeo persuasively with a quelling stare

full on her. "Won'i it?"

She regarded him somberly, without answering, until

he chucklec softly at hei discomfiture.

"We'll return to the Weyr.' he announced, proffer-

ing a hand to guide her u» Mnementh'& side.

The bronze one had extended, hi; 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 gro-

tesque beast. It raised its head slowly, crying pite-

ously.

"Mnementh says it is very old and soon will sleep

itself to death."

Lessa cradled the repulsive head in her arms, strok-

ing 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 senti-

ment 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 hi& adversary. The force of the

initial blow however, had dazeo him. and he lay

sprawled or' hk back. startled to see the watch-wher,

its scal\ b"d\ launched—suaight at him.

Simultaneous!} he heard Lessa? startled exclama-

tion and Mnementh s roar. The bronze? great head

was swinging around to knoci the watch wher aside,

away from the dragonman. But just as the watch-wher's'

body wa» fully extended in its leap, Lessa cried out.

"Don't killl Don't kill!"

The watch-wher, its snarl turning into an anguished

cry of alarm, executed an incredible maneuver in

mid-air, tuminp aside from its trajection As h fell to

the stone yard at his feet. F'lar heard the dull crack

as the foice 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 thai thi beast

had guessed Lessa was leaving Ruatha, something

one of hei 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 1 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 shouldei 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,

62 Dragonflight

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 tightly 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 fore-

arm 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 un-

63

nerving. 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 awav from nighttime Ruatha.

Lessa's hands tightened on his arms, this time in

surprise as they circled above the great stony trough

of the Weyr. FIar 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 hi 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 ap-

proach to their quarters, whistlinp shrillv to himself as

he braked his forward speed with a twist of his wings,

droppiny lightly at last to the ledge. He crouched as

F'lar swunp 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 pro-

longed 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 in-

tended as gathering places for men, not the habita-

tions of dragons. But suddenly he saw his own

64 Dragonftight

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 hol-

low 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 hang-

ing 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, crawl-

ing, 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,

Dragonftight 65

though the beast had been sorely pressed to do so by

himself. Mnementh. Also, in managing, by some phys-

ical feat, to turn aside its attack on Plar, at the cost of

its own life, it had elevated itself to dragonlike brav-

ery. Of course, the dragons had uttered a tribute at

its passing.

Flar, 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," Fnor greeted

his brother, grinning up at hun 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 Fnor's Canth singled out a

doe. The brown dragon neatly grabbed the struggling

beast in one claw and rose up, settling on an unoc-

cupied 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 Flar, nonethe-

less gratified by Lytol's reaction. Surrogate Lordship

was no substitute for loss of one's dragon, but it was an

honorable responsibility.

66 Dragonfiight

"There was much rejoicing in the High Reaches,"

F'nor continued, grinning widely, "and honest grief at

the passing of Lady Gemma. It will be interesting to

see which of the contenders takes title."

"At Ruatha?" F'lar queried, frowning down at his

half brother.

"No. At the High Reaches and the other Holds Fax

conquered. Lytol will bring his own people to secure

Ruatha and to give any soldiery pause before they

might attempt that Hold. He knew of many in the High

Reaches who would prefer to make a change of Hold,

even though Fax no longer dominates the High

Reaches. He intended to make all haste to Ruatha so

that our men will soon rejoin us."

F'lar nodded approval, turning to salute two more

of his wing, blue riders, who dropped with their beasts

to the feeding ground. Mnementh went back for an-

other fowl.

"He eats light," F'nor commented. "Canth's still

gorging."

"Browns are slow to get full growth," F'lar drawled,

watching with satisfaction as F'nor's eyes flashed an-

grily. That would teach him to withhold news.

"R'gul and S'lel are back," the brown rider finally

announced.

The two blues had the herd in a frenzy, stampeding

and screaming in fright.

"The others are recalled," F'nor continued. "Nem-

orth is an but rigid in death." Then he could no longer

contain himself. "S'lel brought in two. R'gul has five.

Strong-willed, they say, and pretty."

F'lar said nothing. He had expected those two would

bring in multiple candidates. Let them bring hundreds

if they chose. He, F'lar, the bronze rider, had in his

one choice the winner.

Exasperated that his news elicited so little response,

F'nor rose.

"We should have backtrailed for that one in Crom

and the pretty..."

"Pretty?" F'lar retorted, cocking one eyebrow high

r

Dragonfiight 67

in disdain. "Pretty? Jora was pretty," he spat out cyni-

cally.

"K'net and T'bor bring contenders from the west,"

F'nor added urgently, concerned.

The wind-torn roar of homecoming dragons crackled

through the air. Both men jerked their heads skyward

and saw the double spirals of two returning wings,

twenty strong.

Mnementh tossed his head high, crooning. F'lar

called him in, pleased the bronze one made no quarrel

at recall, although he had eaten very lightly. F'lar,

saluting hr brother amiably, stepped onto Mnementh's

spread foot and was lifted back to his own ledge.

Mnementh hiccuped absently as the two walked the

short passage to the vaulted inner chamber. He lum-

bered over to his hollowed bed and settled himself into

the curved stone. When Mnementh had stretched and

comfortabi) laid down his wedge-head F'lar ap-

proached huR. Mnementh regarded his friend with the

near eye. its many facets glinting and shifting, the inner

lids gradually closing as Flar scratched the eye-ridge

soothingly.

Those unfamiliar with it might find such a regard un-

nerving. But since that moment, twenty Turns before,

when the great Mnementh had broken through his shell

and stumbled across the Hatching Ground to stand,

weaving on weak legs. before the boy Flar. the drag-

onman had treasured these quiet moments as the hap-

piest of a long day. No greater tribute could man be

paid than the trust and companionship of the winged

beasts of Pern. For the loyalty that dragonkind gave

their chosen one of mankind was unswerving and com-

plete from the instant of Impression.

Mnementh's inner content was such that the great

eye quickly closed. The dragon slept, only the tip of

his tail erect, a sure sign that he would be instantly on

the alert if the need arose.

Dragonflight 69

By die Golden Egg of Faranth

By the Weyrwoman, wise and true,

Breed a flight of bronze and brown wings,

Breed a flight of green and blue.

Breed riders, strong and daring,

Dragon'loving, born as hatched

Flight of hundreds soaring skyward,

Man and dragon fully matched.

LESSA WAITED until the sound of the dragomnan's

footsteps proved he had really gone away. She rushed

quickly through the big cavern, heard the scrape of

claw and the whoosh of the mighty wings. She raced

down the short passageway, right to the edge of the

yawning entrance. There was the bronze dragon cir-

cling down to the wider end of the mile-long barren

oval that was Benden Weyr. She had heard of the

Weyrs, as any Pemese had, but to be in one was quite

a different matter.

She peered up, around, down that sheer rock face.

There was no way off but by dragon wing. The nearest

cave mouths were an unhandy distance above her, to

one side, below her on the other. She was neatly se-

cluded here.

Weyrwoman, he had told her. His woman? In his

weyr? Was that what he had meant? No, that was

not the impression she got from the dragon. It occurred

to her suddenly that it was odd she had understood the

dragon. Were common folk able to? Or was it the drag-

onman Blood in her Line? At all events, Mnementh

68

had implied something greater, some special rank.

They must mean her, then, to be Weyrwoman to the

unhatched dragon queen. Only how did she, or they,

go about it? She remembered vaguely that when drag-

onmen went on Search, they looked for certain women.

Ah, certain women. She was one, then, of several con-

tenders. Yet the bronze rider had offered her the posi-

tion as if she and she alone qualified. He had his own

generous portion of conceit, that one, Lessa decided.

Arrogant he was, though not the bully Fax had been.

She could see the bronze dragon swoop down to the

running herdbeasts, saw the strike, saw the dragon

wheel up to settle on a far ledge to feed. Instinctively

she drew back from the opening, back into the dark

and relative safety of the corridor.

The feeding dragon evoked scores of horrid tales.

Tales at which she had scoffed, but now . . . Was it

true, then, that dragons did eat human flesh? Did . . .

Lessa halted that trend of thought. Dragonkind was no

less cruel than mankind. The dragon, at least, acted

from bestial need rather than bestial greed.

Assured that the dragonman would be occupied

awhile, she crossed the larger cave into the sleeping

room. She scooped up the clothing and the bag of

cleansing sand and proceeded to the bathing room. It

was small but ample for its purpose. A wide ledge

formed a partial lip to the uneven circle of the bathing

pool. There was a bench and some shelves for drying

cloths. In the glowlight she could see that the near sec-

tion of the pool had been sanded high so a bather

could stand comfortably. Then there was a gradual dip

approaching the deeper water that slapped the very

rock wall on the farther side.

To be clean! To be completely clean and to be able

to stay that way. With a distaste at touching them no

less acute than the dragonman's, she stripped off the

remains of the rags, kicking them to one side, not

knowing where to dispose of them. She shook out a

generous handful of the sweetsand and, bending to the

pool, wet it.

70 Dragon/light Dragonftight 71

Quickly she made a soft mud with the sweet soap,

and she scoured hands and bruised face. Wetting more

sand, she attacked her arms and legs. then her body

and feet. She scrubbed hard until she drew blood from

half-healed cute. Then she stepped, or rather jumped,

into the pool, gasping as the warm water made the

sweetsand foam in her scratches. She ducked under the

surface, shaking her head to be sure her hair was thor-

oughly wetted. Then briskly she rubbed in more sweet

sand, rinsing and scrubbing until she fell her hair migh'

possible be clean. Years, it had been. Great strand?

floated away in tangles like immense crawlers, with at-

tenuated legs, toward the far edge of the pool and then

were drawn out of sight. The water, she was glad to

note, constantly circulated, the cloudy and dirty re-

placed with clear. She turned her attention again to her

body, scrubbing at ingrained dirt until her skin

smarted. It was a ritual cleansing of more than surface

soil. She felt a pleasure akin to ecstasy for the luxury of

cleanliness.

Finally satisfied her body was as clean as one long

soaking could make her, she sanded her hair yet a third

time. She left the pool almost reluctantly, wringing out

her hair and tucking it up on her head as she dried

herself. She shook out the clothiny and held one gar-

ment against her experimentally. The fabric, a soft

green felt smooth under her water-shrunken fingers

although the nap caught on her roughened hands. She

pulled it over her head. It was loose but the darker-

green overtunic had a sash that she pulled in tight at

the waist. The unusual sensation of softness against

her bare skin made her wriggle with voluptuous pleas-

ure. The skirt, no longer a ragged hem of tatters,

swirled heavily around her ankles, making her smile

in sheer feminine delight. She took up a fresh drying

cloth and began to work on her hair.

A muted sound came to her ears. and she stopped,

hands poised, head bent to one side. Straining, she lis-

tened. Yes, there were sounds without. The dragonman

and his beast must have returned. She grimaced to her-

self with annoyance at this untimely interruption and

rubbed harder at her hair. She ran fingers through the

half-dry tangles, the motions arrested as she encoun-

tered snarls. She tried patting her hair into place, push-

ing it defiantly behind her ears. Vexed, she rummaged

on the shelves until she found, as she had hoped to, a

coarse-toothed metal comb. With this she attacked her

unruly hair and, by the dint of much yanking and

groaning as she pulled ruthlessly through years of tan-

gles, she was able to groom the mass.

Now dry, her hair suddenly had a life of its own,

crackling about her hands and clinging to face and

comb and dress. It was difficult to get the silky stuff un-

der control. And her hair was longer than she had

thought, for, clean and unmatted, it fell to her waist—

when it did not cling to her hands.

She paused, listening, and heard no sound at all.

Apprehensively, she stepped to the curtain and glanced

warily into the sleeping room. It was empty. She lis-

tened and caught the perceptible thoughts of the sleepy

dragon. Well, she would rather meet the man in the

presence of a sleepy dragon than in a sleeping room.

She started across the floor and, out of the comer of her

eye, caught sight of a strange woman as she passed a

polished piece of metal hanging on the wall.

Amazed, she stopped short, staring, incredulous, at

the face the metal reflected. Only when she put her

hands to her prominent cheekbones in a gesture of in-

voluntary surprise and the reflection imitated the ges-

ture did she realize she looked at herself.

Why, that girl in the reflector was prettier than the

Lady Tela, than the clothman's daughter! But so thin.

Her hands of their own volition dropped to her neck,

to the protruding collarbones, to her breasts, which did

not entirely reflect the gauntness of the rest of her. The

dress was too large for her frame, she noted with an

unexpected emergence of conceit bom in that instant of

delighted appraisal. And her hair ... it stood out

around her head like an aureole. It wouldn't lie con-

tained. She smoothed it down with impatient fingers,

72 Dragonflight

automatically bringing locks forward to hang around

her face. As she irritably pushed them back. dismiss

ing a need for disguise, the hair drifted up again

A slight sound, the scrape of a boot again? stone

caughi he' bad from he» bemusemerx, Sht waited

momentarily expecting him to appea . She was sud-

denly timid. With her face bare to th< world her hau

behind he' ears>. her body outlined by » clinpiny fabric

she was- stripped of her accustomed anonymity and was

therefoit in her estimation, vulnerable.

Steml' she controlled the desire to run away, the ir-

rationa1 shod of fearfulnes'. Observing herself in the

looking metal, she drew her shoulder? bad tilted hei

head higl. chin up; the movement caused he» hair to

crackk and clinp and shift about he heacf. She was

Lessa of Ruatha. of a fine old Blood She no longer

needed to resort to artifice to preserve herself, so she

must stand proudly bare-faced before the world . . .

and that dragonman.

Resolutely she crossed the room, pushing aside the

hanging on the doorway to the great cavern.

He was. there beside the head of the dragon scratch-

ing its eye ridges, a curiously tender expresskw on his

face. It was a tableau completely at variance with all

she had heard of dragonmen.

She had of course, heard of the strange affinity be-

tween ride and dragon, but this was the first time

she realized that love was part of that bond. Or that

this reserved cold man was capable of such deep emo-

tion. He had been brusque enough with her over the

old watch-wheT. No wonder it had thought he had

meant her harm. The dragons had been more tolerant,

she remembered with an involuntary sniff.

He turned slowly, as if loath to leave the bronze

beast. He caughi sight of her and pivoted completely

around, hi? eyes intense as he took note of her altered

appearance. With quick, light steps he closed the dis-

tance between them and ushered her back into the

sleeping room, one strong hand holding her by the el-

bow.

Dragonflight 73

"Mnementh has fed lightly and will need quiet to

rest," he said in a low voice, as if this were the most

important consideration. He pulled the heavy hanging

into place across the opening.

Then he held her away from him, turning her this

way and that, scrutinizing her closely, a curious and

slightly surprised expression fleeting across his face.

"You wash up ... pretty, yes, almost pretty," he

allowed with such amused condescension in his voice

that she pulled roughly away from him, piqued. His

low laugh mocked her. "How could one guess, after all,

what was under the grime of ... ten full Turns, I

would say? Yes, you are certainly pretty enough to

placate F'nor."

Thoroughly antagonized by his attitude, she asked in

icy tones, "And Fnor must be placated at all costs?"

He stood grinning at her till she had to clench her

fists at her sides to keep from beating that grin off

his face.

At length he said, "No matter, we must eat, and I

shall require your services." At her startled exclama-

tion, he turned, grinning maliciously now as his move-

ment revealed the caked blood on his left sleeve. "The

least you can do is bathe wounds honorably received

in fighting your battle."

He pushed aside a portion of the drapery that cur-

tained the inner wall. "Food for two!" he roared

down a black gap in the sheer stone.

She heard a subterranean echo far below as his voice

resounded down what must be a long shaft.

"Nemorth is nearly rigid," he was saying as he took

supplies from another drapery-hidden shelf, "and the

Hatching will soon begin, anyhow."

A coldness settled in Lessa's stomach at the mention

of a Hatching. The mildest tales she had heard about

that part of dragonlore were chilling, the worst dismay-

ingly macabre. Numbly she took the things he handed

her.

"What? Frightened?" the dragonman taunted, paus-

ing as he stripped off his torn and bloodied shirt.

74 Dragonflight

With a shake of her head, Lessa turned her attention

to the wide-shouldered, well-muscled back he pre-

sented her, the paler skin of his body decorated with

random bloody streaks. Fresh blood welled from the

point of his shoulder, for the removal of his shirt had

broken the tender scabs.

"I will need water," she said and saw she had a flat

pan among the items he had given her. She went swiftly

to the pool for water, wondering how she had come to

agree to venture so far from Ruatha. Ruined though it

was, it had been hers and was familiar to her. from

Tower to deep cellar. At the moment the idea had been

proposed and insidiously prosecuted by the dragonman,

she had felt capable of anything, having achieved, at

last. Fax's death. Now it was all she could do to keep

the water from slopping out of the pan that shook un-

accountably in her hands.

She forced herself to deal only with the wound. It

was a nasty gash, deep where the point had entered

and torn downward in a gradually shallower slice. His

skin fell smooth under her fingers, as she cleansed the

wound. In spite of herself, she noticed the masculine

odor of him, compounded not unpleasantly of sweat,

leather, and an unusual muskiness that must be from

close association with dragons.

Although it must have hurt him when she cleansed

away clotted blood, he gave no indication of discom-

fort, apparently oblivious to the operation. It annoyed

her still more that she could not succumb to the temp-

tation of treating him roughly in return for his disre-

gard of her feelings.

She ground her teeth in frustration as she smeared

on the healing salve generously. Making a small pad of

bandagt. she secured the dressing deftly in place with

other strips of torn cloth. She stood bad when she had

finished her ministrations. He flexed hi& arm experi-

mentally in the constricting bandage, and the motion

set the muscles rippling along his side and back.

When he faced her, his eyes were dark and thought-

ful.

Dragonflighi 75

"Gently done, my lady. My thanks." His smile was

ironic.

She backed away as he rose, but he only went to the

chest to take out a clean, white shirt.

A muted rumble sounded, growing quickly louder.

Dragons roaring? Lessa wondered, trying to conquer

the ridiculous fear that rose within her. Had the Hatch-

ing started? There was no watch-wher's lair to secrete

herself in here.

As if he understood her confusion, the dragonman

laughed good-humoredly and, his eyes on hers, drew

aside the wall covering just as some noisy mechanism

inside the shaft propelled a tray of food into sight.

Ashamed of her unbased fright and furious that he

had witnessed it, Lessa sat rebelliously down on the

fur-covered wall seat, heartily wishing him a variety of

serious and painful injuries that she could dress with

inconsiderate hands. She would not waste future op-

portunities.

He placed the tray on the low table in front of her,

throwing down a heap of furs for his own seat. There

were meat, bread, a pitcher of klah, & tempting yellow

cheese, and even a few pieces of winter fruit. He

made no move to eat, nor did she, though the thought

of a piece of fruit that was ripe instead of rotten set

her mouth to watering. He glanced up at her and

frowned.

"Even in the Weyr, the lady breaks bread first," he

said and inclined his head politely to her.

Lessa flushed, unused to any courtesy and certainly

unused to being first to eat. She broke off a chunk of

bread. It was like nothing she remembered having

tasted before. For one thing, it was fresh-baked. The

flour had been finely sifted, without trace of sand or

hull. She took the slice of cheese he proffered her, and

it, too, had an uncommonly delicious sharpness. Much

emboldened by this indication of her changed status,

Lessa reached for the plumpest piece of fruit.

"Now," the dragonman began, his hand touching

hers to get her attention.

76 Dragonftight Dragonfiight 77

Guiltily she dropped the fruit, thinking she had

erred. She stared at him, wondering at her fault. He re-

trieved the fruit and placed it bad in her hand as

he continued to speal Wide-eyed, she nibbled, dis-

armed, and gave him her full attention.

"Listen to me. You must not show a moment's fear

at whatever happens on the Hatching Ground. And

you must not let her overeat." A wry expression crossed

his face. "One of our main functions is to keep a

dragon from excessive eating."

Lessa lost interest in the taste of the fruit. She placed

it carefully bad. in the bowl and tried to son out what

he had not said but what his tone of voice implied. She

looked ai the dragonman's face, seeing him as a per-

son, not a symbol, for the first time.

His coldness- was caution, she decided, not lack of

emotion. His sternness must be assumed to offset hi?

youth, lor he couldn't be thai much her sernior in Turns

There was a blackness about him that was not malevo

lent; it was a brooding sort of patience. Heavy black

hair waved back from a high forehead to brush his

shin collar. Heavy black brows, were too often pulled

together in a glower or arched haughtily as he looked

down a high- bridged nose at his victim, his eyes (an

amber, light enough to seem golden) were all too ex-

pressive of cynical emotions or cold hauteur. His lips

were thin but well-shaped and in repose almost gentle

Why must he always pull his mouth to one side in dis-

approval or in one of those sardonic smiles? Handsome

he must be considered, she supposed candidly, for

there was a certain compelling air about him that was

magnetic. And at (his moment he was completely

unaffected.

He meant what he was saying. He did not want her

to be afraid. There was no reason for her, Lessa, to

fear.

He very much wanted her to succeed. In keeping

whom from overeating what? Herd animals? A newly

hatched dragon certainly wasn't capable of eating a full

beast. That seemed a simple enough task to Lessa. The

watch-wher had obeyed her and no one else, at Ruath

Hold. She had understood the great bronze dragon and

had even managed to hush him up as she raced under

his Towe1 perch for the birthing-woman. Main func-

tion? Our main function?

The dragonnian was looking at her expectantly.

"Our main function?" she repeated, an unspoken

request for more information inherent in her inflection.

"More of that later. First things first," he said, im-

patienty waving off other questions.

"But what happens?" she insisted.

"As I was told, so I tell you. No more, no less.

Remember those two points. Turn out fear and do not

let her overeat."

"But..."

"You, however, need to eat. Here." He speared a

piece of meat on his knife and thrust it at her. frowning

until she managed to choke it down. He was about to

force more on her. but she grabbed up her half-eaten

fruit and bit down into the firm sweet sphere instead.

She had already eaten more at this one meal than she

was accustomed to having all day at the Hold.

"We shall soon eat better at the Weyr," he re-

marked. regarding the tray with a jaundiced eye.

Lessa was surprised, for in her opinion this was a

feast.

"More than you're used to? Yes, I forgot you left

Ruatha with bare bones indeed."

She stiffened.

"You did well at Ruatha. I mean no criticism," he

added, smiling at her reaction. "But look at you," and

he gestured at her body, that curious expression cross-

ing his face, half-amused, half contemplative. "No, I

should not have guessed you'd clean up pretty," he re-

marked. "Nor with such hair." This time his expression

was frankly admiring.

Involuntarily she put one hand to her head, the hair

crackling over her fingers. But what reply she might

78 Dragonfiight

have made him, indignant as she was, died a-boming.

An unearthly keening filled the chamber.

The sounds set up a vibration that ran down the

bones behind her ear to her spine. She clapped both

hands to her ears. The noise rang through her skull,

despite her defending hands. As abruptly as it started,

it ceased.

Before she knew what he was about, the dragonman

had grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her over to

the chest.

"Take those off," he ordered, indicating dress and

tunic. While she stared at him stupidly, he held up a

loose white robe, sleeveless and beltless, a matter of

two lengths of fine cloth fastened at shoulder and side

seams. "Take it off, or do I assist you?" he asked with

no patience at all.

The wild sound was repeated, and its unnerving tone

made her fingers fly faster. She had no sooner loosened

the garments she wore, letting them slide to her feet,

than he had thrown the other over her head. She man-

aged to get her arms in the proper places before he

grabbed her wrist again and was speeding with her out

of the room, her hair whipping out behind her, alive

with static.

As they reached the outer chamber, the bronze

dragon was standing in the center of the cavern, his

head turned to watch the sleeping room door. He

seemed impatient to Lessa; his great eyes, which fas-

cinated her so, sparkled iridescently. His manner

breathed an inner excitement of great proportions, and

from his throat a high-pitched croon issued, several

octaves below the unnerving cry that had roused them

all.

Rushed and impatient as they both were, the dragon

and dragonman paused. Suddenly Lessa realized they

were conferring about her. The great dragon's head was

suddenly directly in front of her, his nose blotting out

everything else. She felt the warm exhalation of his

breath, slightly phosphorus-laden. She heard him inform

Dragonflight

79

the dragonman that he approved more and more of

this woman from Ruatha.

With a yank that rocked her head on her neck, the

dragonman pulled her along the passage. The dragon

padded beside them at such speed that Lessa fully ex-

pected they would all catapult off the ledge. Somehow,

at the crucial stride, she was perched on the bronze

neck, the dragonman holding her firmly about the

waist. In the same fluid movement they were gliding

across the great bowl of the Weyr to the higher wall

opposite. The air was full of wings and dragon tails,

rent with a chorus of sounds, echoing and reechoing

across the stony valley.

Mnementh set what Lessa was certain would be a

collision course with other dragons, straight for a huge

round blackness in the cliff-face, high up. Magically,

the beasts filed in, the greater wingspread of Mnementh

just clearing the sides of the entrance.

The passageway reverberated with the thunder of

wings. The air compressed a»ound her thickly. Then

they broke out into a gigantic cavern.

Why, the entire mountain must be hollow, thought

Lessa, incredulous. Around the enormous cavern drag-

ons perched in serried ranks, blues, greens, browns,

and only two great bronze beasts like Mnementh, on

ledges meant to accommodate hundreds. Lessa gripped

the bronze neck scales before her, instinctively aware

of the imminence of a great event.

Mnementh wheeled downward, disregarding the

ledge of the bronze ones. Then all Lessa could see was

what lay on the sandy floor of the great cavern: dragon

eggs. A clutch of ten monstrous, mottled eggs, their

shells moving spasmodically as the fledglings within

tapped their way out. To one side, on a raised portion

of the floor, was a golden egg, larger by half again the

size of the mottled ones. Just beyond the golden egg

lay the motionless ocher hulk of the old queen.

Just as she realized Mnementh was hovering over

the floor in the vicinity of that egg, Lessa felt the drag-

80

Dragonflight

81

oilman's hands on her, lifting her from Mnementh's

neck.

Apprehensively she grabbed at him. His hands tight-

ened and inexorably swung her down. His eyes, fierce

with amber fire locked with hers.

"Remember, Lessai"

Mnementh added an encouraging note, one great

compound eye turned on her. Then he rose from the

floor. Lessa half-raised one hand in entreaty, bereft of

all support, even that of the sure inner compulsion that

had sustained her in her struggle for revenge on Fax.

She saw the bronze dragon settle on the first ledge, at

some distance from the other two bronze beasts. The

dragonman dismounted, and Mnementh curved his

sinuous neck until his head was beside his rider. The

man reached up and absently, it seemed to Lessa, ca-

ressed his mount.

Loud screams and waitings diverted Lessa, and she

saw more dragons descend to hover just above the

cavern floor, each rider depositing a young woman un-

til there were twelve girls, including Lessa. She re-

mained a little apart from them as they clung to one

another. She regarded them curiously, contemptuous of

their tears, although her heart was probably beating no

less rapidly than theirs. It did not occur to her that

tears were any help. The girls were not injured in any

way that she could see, so why such weeping? Her

contempt of their bleating made her aware of her own

temerity, and she took a deep breath against the cold-

ness within her. Let them be afraid. She was Lessa of

Ruatha and did not need to be afraid.

Just then, the golden egg moved convulsively. Gasp-

ing as one, the girls edged away from it, back against

the rocky wall. One, a lovely blonde, her heavy plait

of golden hair swinging just above the ground, started

to step off the raised floor and stopped, shrieking, back-

ing fearfully toward the scant comfort of her peers.

Lessa wheeled to see what cause there might be for

the look of horror on the girl's face. She stepped back

involuntarily herself.

In the main section of the sandy arena, several of

the handful of eggs had already cracked wide open.

The fledglings, crowing weakly, were moving toward—

and Lessa gulped—the young boys standing stolidly in

a semicircle. Some of them were no older than she had

been when Fax's army had swooped down on Ruath

Hold.

The shrieking of the women subsided to muffled

gasps and sobs as one fledgling reached out with claw

and beak to grab a boy.

Lessa forced herself to watch as the young dragon

mauled the boy, throwing him roughly aside as if

unsatisfied in some way. The boy did not move, and

Lessa could see blood seeping onto the sand from

dragon-inflicted wounds.

A second fledgling lurched against another boy and

halted, flapping its damp wings impotently, raising its

scrawny neck and croaking a parody of the encourag-

ing croon Mnementh often gave. The boy uncertainly

lifted a hand and began to scratch the eye ridge. In-

credulous, Lessa watched as the fledgling, its crooning

increasingly more mellow, ducked its head, pushing at

the boy. The child's face broke into an unbelieving

smile of elation.

Tearing her eyes from this astounding sight, Lessa

saw that another fledgling was beginning the same per-

formance with another boy. Two more dragons had

emerged in the interim. One had knocked a boy down

and was walking over him, oblivious of the fact that its

claws were raking great gashes. The fledgling who fol-

lowed its hatch-mate stopped by the wounded child,

ducking its head to the boy's face, crooning anxiously.

As Lessa watched, the boy managed to struggle to his

feet, tears of pain streaming down his cheeks. She

could hear him pleading with the dragon not to worry,

that he was only scratched a little.

It was over very soon. The young dragons paired off

with boys. Green riders dropped down to carry off the

unacceptable. Blue riders settled to the floor with then-

beasts and led the couples out of the cavern, the

82 Dragonflight

young dragons squealing, crooning, flapping wet wings

as they staggered off, encouraged by their newly ac-

quired Weyrmates.

Lessa turned resolutely back to the rocking golden

egg, knowing what to expect and trying to divine what

the successful boys had or had not done that caused

the baby dragons to single them out.

A crack appeared in the golden shell and was

greeted by the terrified screams of the girls. Some had

fallen into little heaps of white fabric, others embraced

tightly in their mutual fear. The crack widened and the

wedge head broke through, followed quickly by the

neck, gleaming gold. Lessa wondered with unexpected

detachment how long it would take the beast to ma-

ture, considering its by no means small size at birth.

For the head was larger than that of the male dragons,

and they had been large enough to overwhelm sturdy

boys of ten full Turns.

Lessa was aware of a loud hum within the Hall.

Glancing up at the audience, she realized it emanated

from the watching bronze dragons, for this was the

birth of their mate, their queen. The hum increased in

volume as the shell shattered into fragments and the

golden, glistening body of the new female emerged.

It staggered out, dipping its sharp beak into the soft

sand, momentarily trapped. Flapping its wet wings, it

righted itself, ludicrous in its weak awkwardness. With

sudden and unexpected swiftness, it dashed toward the

terror-stricken girls. Before Lessa could blink, it shook

the first girl with such violence that her head snapped

audibly and she fell limply to the sand. Disregarding

her, the dragon leaped toward the second girl but mis-

judged the distance and fell, grabbing out with one

claw for support and raking the girl's body from shoul-

der to thigh. Screaming, the mortally injured girl dis-

tracted the dragon and released the others from their

horrified trance. They scattered in panicky confusion,

racing, running, tripping, stumbling, falling across the

sand toward the exit the boys had used.

As the golden beast, crying piteously, lurched down

Dragonfiight 83

from the raised arena toward the scattered women,

Lessa moved. Why hadn't that silly clunk-headed girl

stepped aside, Lessa thought, grabbing for the wedge-

head, at birth not much larger than her own torso. The

dragon was so clumsy and weak she was her own worst

enemy.

Lessa swung the head around so that the many-

faceted eyes were forced to look at her . . . and found

herself lost in that rainbow regard.

A feeling of joy suffused Lessa; a feeling of warmth,

tenderness, unalloyed affection, and instant respect

and admiration flooded mind and heart and soul.

Never again would Lessa lack an advocate, a defender,

an intimate, aware instantly of the temper of her mind

and heart, of her desires. How wonderful was Lessa,

the thought intruded into Lessa's reflections, how

pretty, how kind, how thoughtful, how •brave and

clever!

Mechanically Lessa reached out to scratch the exact

spot on the soft eye ridge.

The dragon blinked at her wistfully, extremely sad

that she had distressed Lessa. Lessa reassuringly patted

the slightly damp, soft neck that curved trustingly to-

ward her. The dragon reeled to one side and one wing

fouled on the hind claw. It hurt. Carefully Lessa lifted

the erring foot, freed the wing, folding it back across

the dorsal ridge with a pat.

The dragon began to croon in her throat, her eyes

following Lessa's every move. She nudged at Lessa,

and Lessa obediently attended the other eye ridge.

The dragon let it be known she was hungry.

"We'll get you something to eat directly," Lessa as-

sured her briskly and blinked back at the dragon in

amazement. How could she be so callous? It was a

fact that this little menace had just seriously injured,

if not killed, two women.

She couldn't believe her sympathies could swing so

alarmingly toward the beast. Yet it was the most natu-

ral thing in the world for her to wish to protect this

fledgling.

84 Dragonflight

The dragon arched her neck to look Lessa squarely

in the eyes. Ramoth repeated wistfully how exceed-

ingly hungry she was, so long confined in that shell

without nourishment.

Lessa wondered how she knew the golden dragon's

name, and Ramoth replied: Why shouldn't she know

her own name since it was hers and no one else's?

And then Lessa was lost in the wonder of those mag-

nificently expressive eyes.

Oblivious to the descending bronze dragons, oblivi-

ous to the presence of their riders, Lessa stood caress-

ing the head of the most wonderful creature of all Pem,

fully prescient of troubles and glories, but most imme-

diately aware that Lessa of Pem was Weyrwoman to

Ramoth the Golden for now and forever.

PARTH

Dragonflight

Seas boil and mountains move,

Sands heat, dragons prove

Red Star passes.

Stones pile and fires bum,

Green withers, arm Pern.

Guard all passes.

Star Stone watch, scan sky.

Ready the Weyrs, all riders fly;

Red Star passes.

"IF A QUEEN isn't meant to fly, why does she have

wings?" asked Lessa. She was genuinely trying to

maintain a tone of sweet reason.

She had had to leam that, although it was her nature

to seethe, she must seethe discreetly. Unlike the aver-

age Pemese, dragonriders were apt to perceive strong

emotional auras.

R'gul's heavy eyebrows drew together in a startled

frown. He snapped his jaws together with exasperation.

Lessa knew his answer before he uttered it

"Queens don't fly," he said flatly.

"Except to mate," S'lel amended. He had been doz-

ing, a state he achieved effortlessly and frequently,

although he was younger than the vigorous R'gul.

They are going to quarrel again, Lessa thought with

an inward groan. She could stand about half an hour

85

86

Dragonfiight

Dragonfiight

87

of that, and then her stomach would begin to chum.

Their notion of instructing the new Weyrwoman in

"Duties to Dragon, Weyr, and Pem" too often deterio-

rated into extended arguments over minor details in

the lessons she had to memorize and recite word-

perfect. Sometimes, as now, she entertained the fragile

hope that she might wind them up so tightly in their

own inconsistencies that they would inadvertently re-

veal a truth or two.

"A queen flies only to mate," R'gul allowed the cor-

rection.

"Surely," Lessa said with persistent patience, "if she

can fly to mate, she can fly at other times."

"Queens don't fly," R'gul's expression was stubborn.

"Jora never did fly a dragon at all," S'lel mumbled,

blinking rapidly in his bemusement with the past. His

expression was vaguely troubled. "Jora never left these

apartments."

"She took Nemorth to the feeding grounds," R'gul

snapped irritably.

Bile rose in Lessa's throat. She swallowed. She

would simply have to force them to leave. Would they

realize that Ramoth woke all too conveniently at

times? Maybe she'd better rouse R'gul's Hath. In-

wardly she permitted herself a smug smile as her secret

ability to hear and talk to any dragon in the Weyr,

green, blue, brown, or bronze, momentarily soothed

her.

"When Jora could get Nemorth to stir at all," S'lel

muttered, picking at his underlip worriedly.

R'gut glared at S'lel to silence him and, succeeding,

tapped pointedly on Lessa's slate.

Stifling her sigh, she picked up the stylus. She had

already written this ballad out nine times, letter-

perfect. Ten was apparently R'gul's magic number. For

she had written every single one of the traditional

Teaching Ballads, the Disaster Sagas, and the Laws,

letter-perfect, ten times each. True, she had not under-

stood half of them, but she knew them by heart.

"Seas boil, and mountains move" she wrote.

Possibly. If there is a major inner upheaval of the

land. One of Fax's guards at Ruath Hold had once

regaled the Watch with a tale from his great-grandsire's

days. A whole coastal village in East Fort had slid into

the sea. There had been monumental tides that year

and, beyond Ista, a mountain had allegedly emerged

at the same time, its top afire. It had subsided years

later. That might be to what the line referred. Might

be.

"Sands heat. . " True, in summer it was said that

Igen Plain could be unendurable. No shade, no trees,

no caves, just bleak sand desert. Even dragonmen es-

chewed that region in deep summer. Come to think of

it, the sands of the Hatching Ground were always

warm underfoot. Did those sands ever get hot enough

to bum? And what warmed them, anyway? The same

unseen internal fires that heated the water in the bathing

pools throughout Benden Weyr?

"Dragons prove . . ." Ambiguous for half a dozen

interpretations, and R'gul won't even suggest one as

official. Does it mean that dragons prove the Red Star

passes? How? Coming out with a special keen, similar

to the one they utter when one of their own kind passes

to die between? Or did the dragons prove themselves

in some other way as the Red Star passes? Besides, of

course, their traditional function of burning the

Threads out of the skies? Oh, all the things these bal-

lads don't say, and no one ever explains. Yet there

must originally have been a reason.

"Stone pile and fires bum/Green withers, arm Pern"

More enigma. Is someone piling the stones on the

fires? Do they mean firestone? Or do the stones pile

themselves as in an avalanche? The balladeer might at

least have suggested the season involved—or did he,

with "green withers"? Yet vegetation purportedly

attracted Threads, which was the reason, traditionally,

that greenery was not permitted around human habita-

tions. But stones couldn't stop a Thread from burrow-

ing underground and multiplying. Only the phosphine

emissions of a firestone-eating dragon stopped a

88 Dragonfiight Dragonfiight 89

Thread. And nowadays, Lessa smiled thinly, no one

not even dragonmen—with the notable exceptions of

F'lar and his wingmen—bothered to drill with fire-

stone, much less uproot grass near houses. Lately

hilltops, scoured barren for centuries, were allowed to

burgeon with green in the spring,

"Guard all passes."

She dug the phrase out with the stylus, thinking to

herself: So no dragonrider can leave the Weyr unde-

tected.

R'gul's current course of inaction as Weyrieader was

based on the idea that if no one. Lord or holder, saw

a dragonrider, no one could be offended. Even tradi-

tional patrols were flown now over uninhabited areas,

to allow the current agitation about the "parasitical"

Weyr to die down. Fax, whose open dissension had

sparked that movement, had not taken the cause to

his grave. Larad, the young Lord of Telgar, was said

to be the new leader.

R'gul as Weyrieader. That rankled Lessa deeply. He

was so patently inadequate. But his Hath had taken

Nemorth on her last flight. Traditionally (and that

word was beginning to nauseate Lessa for the sins of

omission ascribable to its name) the Weyrieader was

the rider of the queen's mate. Oh, R'gul looked the

part—a big, husky man, physically vigorous and domi-

neering, his heavy face suggesting a sternly disciplined

personality. Only, to Lessa's thinking, the discipline

was misdirected.

Now F'lar ... he had disciplined himself and hit

wingriders in what Lessa considered the proper direc-

tion. For he, unlike the Weyrieader, not only sincerely

believed in the Laws and Traditions he followed, he

understood them. Time and again she had managed to

make sense of a puzzling lesson from a phrase or two

Flar tossed in her direction. But, traditionally, only the

Weyrieader instructed the Weyrwoman.

Why, in the name of the Egg, hadn't Mnementh,

Flar's bronze giant, flown Nemorth? Hath was a noble

beast, in full prime, but he could not compare with

Mnementh in size, wingspread, or strength. There

would have been more than ten eggs in that last clutch

of Nemorth's if Mnementh had flown her.

Jora, the late and unlamented Weyrwoman, had

been obese, stupid, and incompetent. On this everyone

agreed. Supposedly the dragon reflected its rider as

much as the rider the dragon. Lessa's thoughts turned

critical. Undoubtedly Mnementh had been as repelled

by the dragon, as a man like F'lar would be by the

rider—unrider, Lessa corrected herself, sardonically

glancing at the drowsing S'lel.

But if F'lar had gone to the trouble of that desperate

duel with Fax to save Lessa's life back in Ruath Hold

to bring her to the Weyr as a candidate at the Impres-

sion, why had he not taken over the Weyr when she

proved successful, and ousted R'gul? What was he

waiting for? He had been vehement and persuasive

enough in making Lessa relinquish Ruatha and come

to Benden Weyr. Why, now, did he adopt such an aloof

pose of detachment as the Weyr tumbled further and

further into disfavor?

"To save Pern," F'lar's words had been. From what

if not R'gul? F'lar had better start salvation procedures.

Or was he biding his time until R'gul blundered fa-

tally? R'gul won't blunder, Lessa thought sourly, be-

cause he won't do anything. Most particularly he

wouldn't explain what she wanted to know.

"Star Stone watch, scan sky." From her ledge, Lessa

could see the gigantic rectangle of the Star Stone out-

lined against the sky. A watch-rider always stood by it.

One day she'd get up there. It gave a magnificent view

of the Benden Range and the high plateau that came

right up to the foot of the Weyr. Last Turn there had

been quite a ceremony at Star Stone, when the rising

sun seemed to settle briefly on Finger Rock, marking

the winter solstice. However, that only explained the

significance of the Finger Rock, not the Star Stone. Add

one more unexplained mystery.

"Ready the Weyrs," Lessa wrote morosely. Plural.

Not Weyr but Weyrs. R'gul couldn't deny there were

90 Dragonfiight

five empty Weyrs around Pem, deserted for who knows

how many Turns. She'd had to leam the names, the

order of their establishment, too. Fort was the first and

mightiest, then Benden, High Reaches, Hot Igen, Ocean

Ista and plainland Telgar. Yet no explanation as to

why five had been abandoned. Nor why great Benden,

capable of housing five hundred beasts in its myriad

weyr-cavems, maintained a scant two hundred. Of

course, R'gul had fobbed their new Weyrwoman off

with the convenient excuse that Jora had been an in-

competent and neurotic Weyrwoman, allowing her

dragon queen to gorge unrestrained. (No one told

Lessa why this was so undesirable, nor why, contradic-

torily, they were so pleased when Ramoth stuffed her-

self.) Of course, Ramoth was growing, growing so

rapidly that the changes were apparent overnight.

Lessa smiled, a tender smile that not even the pres-

ence of R'gul and S'lel could embarrass. She glanced

up from her writing to the passageway that led from

the Council Room up to the great cavern that was

Ramoth's weyr. She could sense that Ramoth was still

deeply asleep. She longed for the dragon to wake,

longed for the reassuring regard of those rainbow eyes,

for the comforting companionship that made life in the

Weyr endurable. Sometimes Lessa felt she was two

people: gay and fulfilled when she was attending

Ramoth, gray and frustrated when the dragon slept.

Abruptly Lessa cut off this depressing reflection and

bent diligently to her lesson. It did pass time.

"Red Star passes."

That benighted, begreened Red Star, and Lessa

jammed her stylus into the soft wax with the symbol for

a completed score.

There had been that unforgettable dawn, over two

full Turns ago, when she had been roused by an omi-

nous presentiment from the damp straw of the cheese-

room at Ruatha. And the Red Star had gleamed at her.

Yet here she was. And that bright, active future F'lar

had so glowingly painted had not materialized. Instead

of using her subtle power to manipulate events and

Dragonfiight 91

people for Pem*s good, she was forced into a round

of inconclusive, uninstructive, tedious days, bored to

active nausea by R'gul and S'lel, restricted to the Weyr-

woman's apartments (however much of an improve-

ment that was over her square foot of the cheeseroom

floor) and the feeding grounds and the bathing lake.

The only time she used her ability was to terminate

these sessions with her so-called tutors. Grinding her

teeth, Lessa thought that if it weren't for Ramoth, she

would just leave. Oust Gemma's son and take Hold at

Ruatha as she ought to have done once Fax was dead.

She caught her lip under her teeth, smiling in self-

derision. If it weren't for Ramoth, she wouldn't have

stayed here a moment past Impression anyway. But,

from the second in which her eyes had met those of

the young queen on the Hatching Ground, nothing but

Ramoth mattered. Lessa was Ramoth's and Ramoth

was hers, mind and heart, irrevocably attuned. Only

death could dissolve that incredible bond.

Occasionally a dragonless man remained living, such

as Lytol, Ruatha's Warder, but he was half shadow and

that indistinct self lived in torment. When his rider

died, a dragon winked into between, that frozen noth-

ingness through which a dragon somehow moved him-

self and his rider, instantly, from one geographical posi-

tion on Pem to another. To enter between held dan-

ger to the uniniated, Lessa knew, the danger of being

trapped between for longer than it took a man to cough

three times.

Yet Lessa's one dragonflight on Mnementh's neck

had filled her with an insatiable compulsion to repeat

the experience. Naively she had thought she would be

taught, as the young riders and dragonets were. But

she, supposedly the most important inhabitant of the

Weyr next to Ramoth, remained earthbound while the

youngsters winked in and out of between above the

Weyr in endless practice. She chafed at the intolerable

restriction.

Female or not, Ramoth must have the same innate

ability to pass between as the males did. This theory

92 Dragonftighi

was supported—unequivocally in Lessa's mind—by

"The Ballad of Moreta's Ride." Were not ballads con-

structed to inform? To teach those who could not read

and write? So that the young Perriese, whether he be

dragonman. Lord, or holder, might learn his duty to-

ward Pern and rehearse Pern's bright history? These

two arrant idiots might deny the existence of that

Ballad, but how had Lessa learned it if it did not exist?

No doubt, Lessa thought acidly, for the same reason

queens had wings!

When R'gul consented—and she would wear him

down till he did—to allow her to take up her "tradi-

tional" responsibility as Keeper of the Records, she

would find that Ballad. One day it was going to have

to be R'gul's much delayed "right time."

Right time! she fumed. Right time! I have too much

of the wrong time on my hands. When will this particu-

lar right time of theirs occur? When the moons turn

green? What are they waiting for? And what might the

superior F'lar be waiting for? The passing of the Red

Star he alone believes in? She paused, for even the

most casual reference to that phenomenon evoked

a cold, mocking sense of menace within her.

She shook her head to dispel it. Her movement was

injudicious. It caught R'gul's attention. He looked up

from the Records he was laboriously reading. As he

drew her slate across the stone Council table, the clat-

ter roused S'lel. He jerked his head up, uncertain of

his surroundings.

"Humph? Eh? Yes?" he mumbled, blinking to focus

sleep-blurred eyes.

It was too much. Lessa quickly made contact with

S'lel's Tuenth, himself just rousing from a nap. Tuenth

was quite agreeable.

"Tuenth is restless, must go," S'lel promptly mut-

tered. He hastened up the passageway, his relief at

leaving no less than Lessa's at seeing him go. She was

startled to hear him greet someone in the corridor and

hoped the new arrival would provide an excuse to rid

herself of R'gul.

Dragonftight 93

It was Manora who entered. Lessa greeted the head-

woman of the Lower Caverns with thinly disguised

relief. R'gul, always nervous in Manora's presence, im-

mediately departed.

Manora, a stately woman of middle years, exuded

an aura of quiet strength and purpose, having come to

a difficult compromise with life which she maintained

with serene dignity. Her patience tacitly chided Lessa

for her fretfulness and petty grievances. Of all the

women she had met in the Weyr, (when she was per-

mitted by the dragonmen to meet any) Lessa admired

and respected Manora most. Some instinct in Lessa

made her bitterly aware that she would never be on

easy or intimate terms with any of the women in the

Weyr. Her carefully formal relationship with Manora,

however, was both satisfying and satisfactory.

Manora had brought the tally slates of the Supply

Caves. It was her responsibility as headwoman to keep

the Weyrwoman informed of the domestic management

of the Weyr. (One duty R'gul insisted she perform.)

"Bitra, Benden, and Lemos have sent in their tithes,

but that won't be enough to see us through the deep

cold this Turn."

"We had only those three last Turn and seemed to

eat well enough."

Manor smiled amiably, but it was obvious she did

not consider the Weyr generously supplied.

"True, but that was because we had stores of pre-

served and dried foods from more bountiful Turns to

sustain us. That reserve is now gone. Except for those

barrels and barrels of fish from Tiliek . .." Her voice

trailed on expressively.

Lessa shuddered. Dried fish, salted fish, fish, had

been served all too frequently of late.

"Our supplies of grain and flour in the Dry Caves

are very low, for Benden, Bitra, and Lemos are not

grain producers."

"Our biggest needs are grains and meat?"

"We could use more fruits and root vegetables for

variety," Manora said thoughtfully. "Particularly if we

94 Dragonfiight

have the long cold season the weather-wise predict

Now we did go to Igen Plain tor the spring and fall

nuts, berries ..."

"We? to Igen Plain?" Lessa interrupted her, stunned.

"Yes," Manora answered, surprised at Lessa's reac-

tion. "We always pick there. And we beat out the water

grains from the low swamplands."

"How do you get there?" asked Lessa sharply. There

could be only one answer.

"Why, the old ones fly us. They don't mind, and it

gives the beasts something to do that isn't tiring. You

knew that, didn't you?"

"That the women in the Lower Caverns fly with

dragonriders?" Lessa pursed her lips angrily. "No. I

wasn't told." Nor did it help Lessa's mood to see the

pity and regret in Manora's eyes.

"As Weyrwoman," she said gently, "your obligations

restrict you where ..."

"If I should ask to be flown to ... Ruatha, for

instance," Lessa cut in, ruthlessly pursuing a subject

she sensed Manora wanted to drop, "would it be re-

fused me?"

Manora regarded Lessa closely, her eyes dark with

concern. Lessa waited. Deliberately she had put Man-

ora into a position where the woman must either lie

outright, which would be distasteful to a person of her

integrity, or prevaricate, which could prove more in-

structive.

"An absence for any reason these days might be

disastrous. Absolutely disastrous," Manora said firmly

and, unaccountably, flushed. "Not with the queen

growing so quickly. You must be here." Her unex-

pectedly urgent entreaty, delivered with a mounting

anxiety, impressed Lessa far more than all R'gul's

pompous exhortations about constant attendance on

Ramoth.

"You must be here," Manora repeated, her fear

naked.

"Queens do not fly," Lessa reminded her acidly. She

suspected Manora was about to echo S'lel's reply to

Dragonftight 95

that statement, but the older woman suddenly shifted

to a safer subject.

"We cannot, even with half-rations," Manora blurted

out breathlessly, with a nervous shuffling of her slates,

"last the full Cold."

"Hasn't there ever been such a shortage before . . .

in all Tradition?" Lessa demanded with caustic sweet-

ness.

Manora raised questioning eyes to Lessa, who

flushed, ashamed of herself for venting her frustrations

with the dragonmen on the headwoman. She was dou-

bly contrite when Manora gravely accepted her mute

apology. In that moment Lessa's determination to end

R'gul's domination over herself and the Weyr crystal-

lized.

"No," Manora went on calmly, "traditionally," and

she accorded Lessa a wry smile, "the Weyr is supplied

from the first fruits of the soil and hunt. True, in re-

cent Turns we have been chronically shorted, but it

didn't signify. We had no young dragons to feed. They

do eat, as you know." The glances of the two women

locked in a timeless feminine amusement over the

vagaries of the young under their care. Then Manora

shrugged. "The riders used to hunt their beasts in the

High Reaches or on the Keroon plateau. Now, how-

ever ..."

She made a helpless grimace to indicate that R'gul's

restrictions deprived them of that victual relief.

"Time was," she went on, her voice soft with nostal-

gia, "we would pass the coldest part of the Turn in one

of the southern Holds. Or, if we wished and could, re-

turn to our birthplaces. Families used to take pride in

daughters with dragonfolk sons." Her face settled

into sad lines. "The world turns and times change."

"Yes," Lessa heard herself say in a grating voice,

"the world does turn, and times ... times will change."

Manora looked at Lessa, startled.

"Even R'gul will see we have no alternative," Man-

ora continued hastily, trying to stick to her problem.

"To what? Letting the mature dragons hunt?"

96

Dragonflight

Dragonflight

97

"Oh, no. He's so adamant about that. No. We'll have

to barter at Fort or Telgar."

Righteous indignation flared up in Lessa.

"The day the Weyr has to buy what should be

given . . ." and she halted in midsentence, stunned as

much by such a necessity as by the ominous echo of

other words. "The day one of my Holds cannot support

itself or the visit of its rightful overlord . . ." Fax's

words rang in her head. Did those words again fore-

shadow disaster? For whom? For what?

"I know, I know," Manora was saying worriedly,

unaware of Lessa's shock. "It goes against the grain.

But if R'gul will not permit judicious hunting, there is

no other choice. He will not like the pinch of hunger

in his belly."

Lessa was struggling to control her inner terror. She

took a deep breath.

"He'd probably then cut his throat to isolate his

stomach," she snapped, her acid comment restoring her

wits. She ignored Manora's startled look of dismay and

went on. "It is traditional for you as headwoman of the

Lower Cavern to bring such matters to the attention of

the Weyrwoman, correct?"

Manora nodded, unsettled by Lessa's rapid switches

of mood.

"I, then, as Weyrwoman, presumably bring this to

the attention of the Weyrleader who, presumably,"—

she made no attempt to moderate her derision—"acts

upon it?"

Manora nodded, her eyes perplexed.

"Well," Lessa said in a pleasant, light voice, "you

have dutifully discharged your traditional obligation.

It is up to me now to discharge mine. Right?"

Manora regarded Lessa warily. Lessa smiled at her

reassuringly.

"You may leave it in my hands, then."

Manora rose slowly. Without taking her eyes from

Lessa, she began to gather up her records.

"It is said that Fort and Telgar had unusually good

harvests," she suggested, her light tone not quite mask-

ing her anxiety. "Keroon, too, in spite of that coastal

flooding."

"Is that so?" Lessa murmured politely.

"Yes," Manora continued helpfully, "and the herds

at Keroon and Tiliek had good increase."

"I'm happy for them."

Manora shot her a measuring look, not at all assured

by Lessa's sudden affability. She finished gathering up

her Records, then set them down again in a careful

pile.

"Have you noticed how K'net and his wingriders

chafe at R'gul's restrictions?" she asked, watching

Lessa closely.

"K'net?"

"Yes. And old C'gan. Oh, his leg is still stiff, and

Tagath may be more gray with age than blue, but he

was of Udith's hatching. Her last clutch had fine beasts

in it," she remarked. "C'gan remembers other

days .. ."

"Before the world turned and times changed?"

Lessa's sweet voice did not mislead Manora now.

"It is not just as Weyrwoman that you are attractive

to the dragonmen, Lessa of Pem," Manora said

sharply, her face stem. "There are several of the brown

riders, for instance ..."

"F'nor?" Lessa asked pointedly.

Manora drew herself up proudly. "He is a man

grown, Weyrwoman, and we of the Lower Caverns

have learned to disregard the ties of blood and affec-

tion. It is as a brown rider, not the son I bore, that I

recommend him. Yes, I'd recommend F'nor, as I would

also recommend Tsum and L'rad."

"Do you suggest them because they are of Flar's

wing and bred in the true traditions? Less apt to be

swayed by my blandishments ..."

"I suggest them because they believe in the tradition

that the Weyr must be supplied from the Holds."

"All right." Lessa grinned at Manora, seeing the

woman could not be baited about F'nor. "I shall take

your recommendations to heart, for I do not in-

98 Dragonfiight

tend . . ." She broke off her sentence. "Thank you for

apprising me of our supply problems. We need fresh

meat most of all?" she asked, rising to her feet.

"Grains, too, and some of the southern root vegeta-

bles would be very welcome," Manora replied for-

mally.

"Very well," Lessa agreed.

Manora left, her expression thoughtful.

Lessa reflected for long moments on that interview,

sitting like a slim statuette in the capacious stony chair,

her legs curled up under her on the padding.

Foremost was the disturbing knowledge that Manora

was deeply afraid of the mere prospect of Lessa absent

from the Weyr, from Ramoth's side, for any reason,

for any length of time. Her instinctive fear reaction was

a far more effective argument than any of R'gul's sen-

tentious mouthings. However, Manora had given no

hint of the reason for that necessity. Very well, Lessa

would not try to fly one of the other dragons, with or

without the rider, as she had been beginning to think

she could.

As for this matter of short supplies, on that Lessa

would act. Especially since R'gul would not. And,

since R'gul could not protest what he did not know,

she would contrive, with the help of K'net or F'nor or

however many she needed, to keep the Weyr decently

supplied. Eating regularly had become a pleasant habit

she did not wish to curtail. She did not intend being

greedy, but a little judicious pilfering of a bountiful

harvest would go unnoticed by the Hold Lords.

K'net, though, was young; he might be rash and in-

discreet. Perhaps F'nor would be the wiser choice. But

was he as free to maneuver as K'net, who was, after all,

a bronze rider? Maybe C'gan. The absence of a retired

blue rider, time heavy on his hands, might not be no-

ticed at all.

Lessa smiled to herself, but her smile faded quickly.

"The day the Weyr has to barter for what should be

given . . ." She thrust back the premonitory shudder,

concentrated on the ignominy of that situation. It cer-

Dragonfiight 99

tainly emphasized the measure of her self-delusion.

Why had she thought being at the Weyr would be so

different from Ruath Hold? Had her early childhood

training instilled such a questionless reverence for the

,Weyr that life must alter its pattern because Lessa of

Ruatha had been Impressed by Ramoth? How could

she have been such a romantic little fool?

Look around you, Lessa of Pem, look around the

Weyr with unveiled eyes. Old and hallowed is the

Weyr? Yes, but shabby and worn—and disregarded.

Yes, you were elated to sit in the Weyrwoman's great

chair at the Council Table, but the padding is thin and

the fabric dusty. Humbled to think your hands rest

where Moreta's and Torene's had rested? Well, the

stone is ingrained with dirt and needs a good scrub-

bing. And your rump may rest where theirs did—but

that's not where you have your brains.

The shabby Weyr reflected the deterioration of its

purpose in the scheme of life on Pern. Those handsome

dragonriders, too, so brave in their wher-hide accouter-

ments, proud on the necks of their great beasts—they

did not submit kindly to dose examination without a

few disappointing revelations. They were only men,

with manlike lusts and ambitions, full of very human

faults and frustrations, unwilling to disrupt their easy

existence for the harsh exigencies that would reestab-

lish the Weyr. They had settled too deeply in their iso-

lation from the rest of their race; they did not realize

they were little thought of. There was no real leader

at their head...

F'larl What was he waiting for? For Lessa to see

through R'gul's ineffectiveness? No, Lessa decided

slowly, for Ramoth to grow up. For Mnementh to fly

her when he can . . . traditionalist that Flar is, and

Lessa thought this excuse to be specious . . . when

the mating dragon's rider became, traditionally, the

Weyrleader. That rider!

Well, F'lar might just find events not turning out as

he planned.

My eyes were dazzled by Ramoth's, but I can see

100

Dragonfiight

101

around the rainbow now, Lessa thought, steeling her-

self against the tenderness that always accompanied

any thought of the golden beast. Yes, I can see into

the black and gray shadows now, where my apprentice-

ship at Ruatha should stand me in good stead. True,

there's more to control than one small Hold and far

more perceptive minds to influence. Perceptive but

dense in their own way. A greater hazard if I lose. But

how can I? Lessa's smile broadened. She rubbed her

palms against her thighs in anticipation of the chal-

lenge. They can do nothing with Ramoth without me,

and they must have Ramoth. No one can coerce Lessa

of Ruatha, and they're as stuck with me as they were

with Jora. Only, I'm no Joral

Elated, Lessa jumped from the chair. She felt alive

again. And more powerful in herself than she felt when

Ramoth was awake.

Time, time, time. R'gul's time. Well, Lessa had done

with marking his time. She'd been a silly fool. Now

she'd be the Weyrwoman F'lar had beguiled her to

think she could be.

Flar . . . her thoughts returned to him constantly.

She'd have to watch out for him. Particularly when she

started "arranging" things to suit herself. But she had

an advantage he couldn't know—that she could speak

to all the dragons, not just Ramoth. Even to his pre-

cious Mnementh.

Lessa threw back her hand and laughed, the sound

echoing hollowly in the large, empty Council Room.

She laughed again, delighted with an exercise she had

had rare occasion to use. Her mirth roused Ramoth.

The exultation of her decision was replaced by that of

knowing the golden dragon was waking.

Ramoth stirred again and stretched restlessly as

hunger pierced slumber. Lessa ran up the passage on

light feet, eager as a child for the first sight of the glo-

rious eyes and the sweetness that characterized the

dragon's personality.

Ramoth's huge golden wedge-shaped head swiveled

around as the sleepy dragon instinctively sought her

Weyrmate. Lessa quickly touched her blunt chin, and

the searching head was still, comforted. The several

protecting lids parted over the many-faceted eyes, and

Ramoth and Lessa renewed the pledge of their mutual

devotion.

Ramoth had had those dreams again, she told Lessa,

shuddering slightly. It was so cold there! Lessa caressed

the soft down above her eye-ridge, soothing the dragon.

Linked firmly to Ramoth as she had become, she was

acutely aware of the dismay those curious sequences

produced.

Ramoth complained of an itch by the left dorsal

ridge.

"The skin is flaking again," Lessa told her, quickly

spreading sweet oil on the afiected area. "You're grow-

ing so fast," she added with mock and tender dismay.

Ramoth repeated that she itched abominably.

"Either eat less so you'll sleep less or stop outgrow-

ing your hide overnight."

She chanted dutifully as she rubbed in the oil, "The

dragonet must be oiled daily as the rapid growth in

early development can overstretch fragile skin tissues,

rendering them tender and sensitive."

They itch, Ramoth corrected petulantly, squirming.

"Hush. I'm only repeating what I was taught."

Ramoth issued a dragon-sized snort that blew

Lessa's robe tightly around her legs.

"Hush. Daily bathing is compulsory, and thorough

oiling must accompany these ablutions. Patchy skin

becomes imperfect hide in the adult dragon. Imperfect

hide results in skin ruptures that may prove fatal to a

flying beast."

Don't stop rubbing, Ramoth entreated.

"Flying beast indeed!"

Ramoth informed Lessa she was so hungry. Couldn't

she bathe and oil later?

"The moment that cavern you call a belly is full,

you're so sleepy you can barely crawl. You've gotten

too big to be carried."

Ramoth's tart rejoinder was interrupted by a low

T

102

Dragonflight

Dragonftight

103

chuckle. Lessa whirled, hastily controlling the annoy-

ance she felt at seeing Flar lounging indolently against

the archway to the ledge-corridor.

He had obviously been flying a patrol, for he still

wore the heavy wher-hide gear. The stiff tunic clung to

the flat chest, outlined the long, muscular legs. His

bony but handsome face was still reddened by the

ultra-cold of between. His curiously amber eyes glinted

with amusement and, Lessa added, conceit

"She grows sleek," he commented, approaching

Ramoth's couch with a courteous bow to the young

queen.

Lessa heard Mnementh give a greeting to Ramoth

from his perch on the ledge.

Ramoth rolled her eyes coquettishly at the wing-

leader. His smile of almost possessive pride in her

doubled Lessa's irritation.

"The escort arrives in good time to bid the queen

good day."

"Good day, Ramoth," F'lar said obediently. He

straightened, slapping his heavy gloves against his

thigh.

"We interrupted your patrol pattern?" asked Lessa,

sweetly apologetic.

"No matter. A routine flight," F'lar replied, un-

daunted. He sauntered to one side of Lessa for an un-

impeded view of the queen. "She's bigger than most of

the browns. There have been high seas and flooding at

Telgar. And the tidal swamps at Igen are dragon-

deep." His grin flashed as if this minor disaster pleased

him.

As F'lar said nothing without purpose, Lessa filed

that statement away for future reference. However ir-

ritating F'lar might be, she preferred his company to

that of the other bronze riders.

Ramoth interrupted Lessa's reflections with a tart

reminder: If she had to bathe before eating, could they

get on with it before she expired from hunger?

Lessa heard Mnementh's amused rumble without the

cavern.

"Mnementh says we'd better humor her," F'lar re-

marked indulgently.

Lessa suppressed the desire to retort that she could

perfectly well hear what Mnementh said. One day it

was going to be most salutary to witness F'lar's stunned

reaction to the knowledge that she could hear and

speak to every dragon in the Weyr.

"I neglect her shockingly," Lessa said, as if con-

tritely.

She saw F'lar about to answer her. He paused, his

amber eyes narrowing briefly. Smiling affably, he ges-

tured for her to lead the way.

An inner perversity prompted Lessa to bait F'lar

whenever possible. One day she would pierce that pose

and flay him to the quick. It would take doing. He was

sharp-witted.

The three joined Mnementh on the ledge. He hov-

ered protectingly over Ramoth as she glided awk-

wardly down to the far end of the long oval Weyr

Bowl. Mist, rising from the warmed water of the small

lake, parted in the sweep of Ramoth's ungainly wings.

Her growth had been so rapid that she had had no time

to coordinate muscle and bulk. As F'lar set Lessa on

Mnementh's neck for the short drop, she looked anx-

iously after the gawky, blundering queen.

Queens don't fly because they can't, Lessa told her-

self with bitter candor, contrasting Ramoth's grotesque

descent with Mnementh's effortless drift.

"Mnementh says to assure you she'll be more grace-

ful when she gets her full growth," F'lar's amused

voice said in her ear.

"But the young males are growing just as fast, and

they're not a bit..." She broke off. She wouldn't admit

anything to that F'lar.

"They don't grow as large, and they constantly prac-

tice ..."

"Flying! . . ." Lessa leaped on the word, and then,

catching a glimpse of the bronze rider's face, said no

more. He was just as quick with a casual taunt.

Ramoth had immersed herself and was irritably

104 Dragonfiight Dragonflight 105

waiting to be sanded. The left dorsal ridge itched

abominably. Lessa dutifully attacked the affected area

with a sandy hand.

No, her life at the Weyr was no different from that

at Ruatha. She was still scrubbing. And there was

more of Ramoth to scrub each day, she thought as she

finally sent the golden beast into the deeper water to

rinse. Ramoth wallowed, submerging to the tip of her

nose. Her eyes, covered by the thin inner lid, glowed

just below the surface—watery jewels. Ramoth lan-

guidly turned over, and the water lapped around

Lessa's ankles.

All occupations were suspended when Ramoth was

abroad. Lessa noticed the women clustered at the en-

trance to the Lower Caverns, their eyes wide with

fascination. Dragons perched on their ledges or idly

circled overhead. Even the weyrlings, boy and drag-

onet, wandered forth curiously from the fledgling bar-

racks of the training fields.

A dragon trumpeted unexpectedly on the heights by

the Star Stone. He and his rider spiraled down.

"Timings, F'lar, a train in the pass," the blue rider

announced, grinning broadly until he became disap-

pointed by the calm way his unexpected good news

was received by the bronze rider.

"F'nor will see to it," F'lar told him indifferently.

The blue dragon obediently lifted his rider to the wing-

second's ledge.

"Who could it be?" Lessa asked F'lar. "The loyal

three are in."

F'lar waited until he saw F'nor on brown Canth

wheel up and over the protecting lip of the Weyr, fol-

lowed by several green riders of the wing.

"We'll know soon enough," he remarked. He turned

his head thoughtfully eastward, an unpleasant smile

touching the comer of his mouth briefly. Lessa, too,

glanced eastward where, to the knowing eye, the faint

spark of the Red Star could be seen, even though the

sun was full up.

"The loyal ones will be protected," F'lar muttered

under his breath, "when the Red Star passes."

How and why they two were in accord in they un-

popular belief in the significance of the Red Star Lessa

did not know. She only knew that she, too, recognized

it as Menace. It had actually been the foremost con-

sideration in all F'lar's arguments that she leave

Ruatha and come to the Weyr. Why he had not suc-

cumbed to the pernicious indifference that had emas-

culated the other dragonmen she did not know. She

had never asked him—not out of spite, but because it

was so obvious that his belief was beyond question.

He knew. And she knew.

And occasionally that knowledge must stir in the

dragons. At dawn, as one, they stirred restlessly in their

sleep—if they slept—or lashed their tails and spread

their wings in protest if they were awake. Manora, too,

seemed to believe. F'nor must. And perhaps some of

F'lar's surety had infected his wingriders. He certainly

demanded implicit obedience to tradition in his riders

and received it, to the point of open devotion.

Ramoth emerged from the lake and half-flapped,

half-floundered her way to the feeding grounds. Mne-

menth arranged himself at the edge and permitted

Lessa to seat herself on his foreleg. The ground away

from the Bowl rim was cold underfoot.

Ramoth ate, complaining bitterly over the stringy

bucks that made her meal and resenting it when Lessa

restricted her to six.

"Others have to eat, too, you know."

Ramoth informed Lessa that she was queen and had

priority.

"You'll itch tomorrow."

Mnementh said she could have his share. He had

eaten well of a fat buck in Keroon two days ago. Lessa

regarded Mnementh with considerable interest. Was

that why all the dragons in F'lar's wing looked so

smug? She must pay more attention as to who fre-

quented the feeding grounds and how often.

Ramoth had settled into her weyr again and was

106 Dragonftight

already drowsing when F'lar brought the train-captain

into the quarters.

"Weyrwoman," F'lar said, "this messenger is from

Lytol with duty to you."

The man, reluctantly tearing his eyes from the glow-

ing golden queen, bowed to Lessa.

"Tilarek, Weyrwoman, from Lytol, Warder of Ruath

Hold," he said respectfully, but his eyes, as he looked

at Lessa, were so admiring as to be just short of im-

pudence. He withdrew a message from his belt and

hesitated, torn between the knowledge that women did

not read and his instructions to give it to the Weyr-

woman. Just as he caught F'lar's amused reassurance,

Lessa extended her hand imperiously.

"The queen sleeps," F'lar remarked, indicating the

passageway to the Council Room.

Adroit of F'lar, Lessa thought, to be sure the mes-

senger had a long look at Ramoth. Tilarek would

spread the word on his return journey, properly elabo-

rated with each retelling, of the queen's unusual size

and fine health. Let Tilarek also broadcast his opinion

of the new Weyrwoman.

Lessa waited until she saw Flar offer the courier

wine before she opened the skin. As she deciphered

Lytol's inscription, Lessa realized how glad she was to

receive news of Ruatha. But why did Lytol's first words

have to be:

The babe grows strong and is healthy...

She cared little for that infant's prosperity. Ah . . »

Ruatha is green-free, from hill crown to craft-

hold verge. The harvest has been very good, and

the beasta multiply from the new studs. Herewith

is the due and proper tithe of Ruath Hold. May

it prosper the Weyr which protects us.

Lessa snorted under her breath. Ruatha knew its

duty, true, but not even the other three tithing holds

Dragonftight 107

had sent proper greetings. Lytol's message contained

ominously:

A word to the wise. With Fax's death, Telgar has

come to the fore in the growing sedition. Meron,

so-called Lord of Nabol, is strong and seeks, I

feel, to be first: Telgar is too cautious for him.

The dissension strengthens and is more wide-

spread than when I last spoke with Bronze Rider

F'lar. The Weyr must be doubly on its guard. If

Ruatha may serve, send word.

Lessa scowled at the last sentence. It only empha-

sized the fact that too few Holds served in any way.

". . . laughed at we were, good F'lar," Tilarek was

saying, moistening his throat with a generous gulp of

Weyr-made wine, "for doing as men ought.

"Funny thing, that, for the nearer we got to Benden

Range the less laughing we heard. Sometimes it's hard

to make sense of some things, being as how you don't

do 'em much. Like if I were not to keep my sword arm

strong and used to the weight of a blade," and he made

vigorous slashes and thrusts with his right arm, "I'd be

put to it to defend myself come a long-drawn fight.

Some folk, too, believe what the loudest talker says.

And some folk because it frightens them not to. How-

ever," he went on briskly, "I'm soldier-bred and it goes

hard to take the gibes of mere crafters and holders.

But we'd orders to keep our swords sheathed, and we

did. Just as well," he said with a wry grimace, "to talk

soft. The Lords have kept full guard since . . . since

the Search..."

Lessa wondered what he had been about to say, but

he went on soberly.

"There are those that'll be sorry when the Threads

fall again on all that green around their doors."

F'lar refilled the man's cup, asking casually about

the harvests seen on the road here.

"Fine, fat and heavy," the courier assured him.

"They do say this Turn has been the best in memory of

108 Dragonflight

living man. Why, the vines in Crom had bunches this

big!" He made a wide circle with his two huge hands,

and his listeners made proper response. "And I've

never seen the Telgar grain so full and heavy. Never."

"Pern prospers," Plar remarked dryly.

"Begging your pardon"—Tilarek picked up a wiz-

ened piece of fruit from the tray—'Tve scooped better

than this dropped on the road behind a harvest

wagon." He ate the fruit in two bites, wiping his hands

on the tunic. Then, realizing what he had said, he

added in hasty apology, "Ruatha Hold sent you

its best. First fruits as man ought. No ground pickings

from us. You may be sure."

"It is reassuring to know we have Ruatha's loyalty

as wen as its full measure," F'lar assured him. "Roads

were clear?"

"Aye, and there's a funny thing this time of year.

Cold, then suddenly warm like the weather couldn't

remember the season. No snow and little rain. But

winds! Like you'd never believe. They do say as how

the coasts have been hit hard with high water." He

rolled his eyes expressively and then, hunching his

shoulders, confidentially added, "They do say Ista's

smoking mountain that does appear and then... phffst

... disappears . . . has appeared again."

Flar looked properly skeptical, although Lessa did

not miss the gleam of excitement in his eyes. The man

sounded like one of R'gul's ambiguous verses.

"You must stay a few days for a good rest," Flar

invited Tilarek genially, guiding him out past sleeping

Ramoth.

"Aye and grateful. Man gets to the Weyr maybe

once or twice in his life," Tilarek was saying absently,

craning his neck to keep Ramoth in sight as Flar led

him out. "Never knew queens grew so big."

"Ramoth is already much larger and stronger than

Nemorth," F'lar assured him as he turned the messen-

ger over to the weyrling waiting to escort him to quar-

ters.

"Read this," Lessa said, impatiently shoving the

Dragonftight 109

skin at the bronze rider as soon as they were again in

the Council Room.

"I expected little else," Flar remarked, uncon-

cerned, perching on the edge of the great stone table.

"And . ..?" Lessa demanded fiercely.

"Time will tell," Flar replied serenely, examining a

fruit for spots.

"Tilarek implied that not all the holders echo their

Lords' seditious sentiments," Lessa commented, trying

to reassure herself.

Flar snorted. "Tilarek says 'as will please his lis-

teners,' " he said in a passable imitation of the man's

speech.

"You'd better know, too," Fnor said from the door-

way, "he doesn't speak for all his men. There was a

good deal of grumbling in the escort." F'nor accorded

Lessa a courteous if absentminded salute. "It was felt

that Ruatha has been too long poor to give such a

share to the Weyr its first profitable Turn. And I'll

say that Lytol was more generous than he ought to be.

We'll eat well... for a while."

Flar tossed the messageskin to the brown rider.

"As if we didn't know that," Fnor grunted after he

had quickly scanned the contents.

"If you know that, what will you do about it?"

Lessa spoke up. "The Weyr is in such disrepute that

the day is coming when it can't feed its own."

She used the phrase deliberately, noticing with

satisfaction (hat it stung the memories of both dragon-

men. The look they turned on her was almost savage.

Then Flar chuckled so that Fnor relaxed with a sour

laugh.

"Well?" she demanded.

"R'gul and S'lel will undoubtedly get hungry," F'nor

said, shrugging.

"And you two?"

Flar shrugged, too, and, rising, bowed formally to

Lessa. "As Ramoth is deep asleep, Weyrwoman, your

permission to withdraw."

"Get out!" Lessa shouted at them.

110

Dragonfiight

Dragonftighi

111

They had tamed, grinning at each other, when

R'gul came storming into the chamber, S'lel, D'nol,

T'bor, and K'net close on his heels.

"What is this I hear? That Ruatha alone of the

High Reaches sends tithes?"

"True, all too true," F'lar conceded calmly, tossing

the messageskin at R'gul.

The Weyrleader scanned it, mumbling the words

under his breath, frowning at its content. He passed it

distastefully to S'lel, who held it for all to read.

"We fed the Weyr last year on the tithings of three

Holds," R'gul announced disdainfully.

"Last year," Lessa put in, "but only because there

were reserves in the supply caves. Manora has just

reported that those reserves are exhausted...."

"Ruatha has been very generous," F'lar put in

quickly. "It should make the difference."

Lessa hesitated a moment, thinking she hadn't

heard him right.

"Not that generous." She rushed on, ignoring the

remanding glare F'lar shot her way.

"The dragonets require more this year, anyway. So

there's only one solution. The Weyr must barter with

Telgar and Fort to survive the Cold."

Her words touched off instant rebellion.

"Barter? Never'"

"The Weyr reduced to bartering? Raidi"

"R'gul, we'll raid first. Barter never!"

That had stung all the bronze riders to the quick.

Even S'lel reacted with indignation. K'net was all but

dancing, his eyes sparkling with anticipation of action.

Only F'lar remained aloof, his arms folded across

his chest, glaring at her coldly.

"Raid?" R'gul's voice rose authoritatively above the

noise. "There can be no raid!"

Out of conditioned reflex to his commanding tone,

they quieted momentarily.

"No raids?" T'bor and D'nol demanded in chorus.

"Why not?" D'nol went on, the veins in his neck

standing out.

He was not the one, groaned Lessa to herself, trying

to spot S'lar, only to remember that he was out on the

training field. Occasionally he and D'nol acted to-

gether against R'gul in Council, but D'nol was not

strong enough to stand alone.

Lessa glanced hopefully toward F'lar. Why didn't

he speak up now?

"I'm sick of stringy old flesh, of bad bread, of

wood-tasting roots," D'nol was shouting, thoroughly

incensed. "Pern prospered this Turn. Let some spill

over into the Weyr as it ought!"

T'bor, standing belligerently beside him, growled

agreement, his eyes fixing on first one, then another of

the silent bronze riders. Lessa caught at the hope that

T'bor might act as substitute for S'lan.

"One move from the Weyr at this moment," R'gul

interrupted, his arm raised wamingly, "and all the

Lords will move—against us." His arm dropped dra-

matically.

He stood, squarely facing the two rebels, feet

slightly apart, head high, eyes flashing. He towered a

head and a half above the stocky, short D'nol and the

slender Tbor. The contrast was unfortunate: the

tableau was of the stem patriarch reprimanding errant

children.

"The roads are clear," R'gul went on portentously,

"with neither rain nor snow to stay an advancing

army. The Lords have kept full guards under arms

since Fax was killed." R'gul's head turned just slightly

in F'lar's direction. "Surely you all remember the

scant hospitality we got on Search?" Now R'gul pinned

each bronze rider in turn with a significant stare. "You

know the temper of the Holds, you saw their

strength." He jerked his chin up. "Are you fools to

antagonize them?"

"A good firestoning . . ." D'nol blurted out angrily

and stopped. His rash words shocked himself as much

as anyone else in the room.

Even Lessa gasped at the idea of deliberately using

firestone against man.

112

Dragonftight

Dragonfiight

113

"Something has to be done . . ." D'nol blundered

on desperately, turning first to F'lar, then, less hope-

fully, to T'bor.

If R'gul wins, it will be the end, Lessa thought,

coldly furious, and reacted, turning her thoughts to-

ward T'bor. At Ruatha it had been easiest to sway

angry men. If she could just... A dragon trumpeted

outside.

An excruciatingly sharp pain lanced from her instep

up her leg. Stunned, she staggered backward, unex-

pectedly falling into F'lar. He caught her arm with

fingers like iron bands.

"You dare control . . ." he whispered savagely in

her ear and, with false solicitude, all but slammed her

down into her chair. His hand grasped her arm with

vise-fingered coercion.

Swallowing convulsively against the double assault,

she sat rigidly. When she could take in what had hap-

pened, she realized the moment of crisis had passed.

"Nothing can be done at this time," R'gul was say-

ing forcefully.

"At this time . . ." The words ricocheted in Lessa's

ringing ears.

"The Weyr has young dragons to train. Young men

to bring up in the proper Traditions."

Empty Traditions, Lessa thought numbly, her mind

seething with bitterness. And they will empty the very

Weyr itself.

She glared with impotent fury at Flar. His hand

tightened wamingly on her arm until his fingers

pressed tendon to bone and she gasped again with

pain. Through the tears that sprang to her eyes, she

saw defeat and shame written on K'net's young face.

Hope flared up, renewed.

With an effort she forced herself to relax. Slowly, as

if Flar had really frightened her. Slowly enough for

him to believe in her capitulation.

As soon as she could, she would get K'net aside. He

was ripe for the idea she had just conceived. He was

young, malleable, attracted to her anyway. He would

serve her purpose admirably.

"Dragonman, avoid excess," R'gul was intoning.

"Greed will cause the Weyr distress."

Lessa stared at the man, honestly appalled that he

could clothe the Weyr's moral defeat with hypocriti-

cal homily.

Honor those the dragons heed

In thought and favor, word and deed.

Worlds are lost or worlds are saved

From the dangers dragon-braved,

"WHAT'S THE matter? Noble Flax going against

traditiQn?" Lessa demanded of P'nor as the brown

rider appeared with a courteous explanation of the

wingleader's absence.

Lessa no longer bothered to leash her tongue in

Fnor's presence. The brown rider knew it was not

directed at himself, so he rarely took offensc. Some of

his half brother's reserve had rubbed off on him.

His expression today, however, was not tolerant; it

was sternly disapproving.

"He's tracing K'net," Fnor said bluntly, his dark

eyes troubled. He pushed his heavy hair back from his

forehead, another habit picked up from F'lar, which

r

114

added fuel to Lessa's grievance with the absent weyr-

man.

"Oh, is he? He'd do well to imitate him instead,"

she snapped.

F'nor's eyes flashed angrily.

Good, thought Lessa. I'm getting to him, too.

"What you do not realize, Weyrwoman, is that

K'net takes your instructions too liberally. A judicious

pilfering would raise no protest, but K'net is too young

to be circumspect."

"My instructions?" Lessa repeated innocently.

Surely F'nor and F'lar hadn't a shred of evidence to

go on. Not that she cared. "He's just too fed up with

the whole cowardly mess!"

F'nor clamped his teeth down tightly against an

angry rebuttal. He shifted his stance, clamped his

hands around the wide rider's belt until his knuckles

whitened. He returned Lessa's gaze coldly.

In that pause Lessa regretted antagonizing F'nor.

He had tried to be friendly, pleasant, and had often

amused her with anecdotes as she became more and

more embittered. As the world turned colder, rations

had gotten slimmer at the Weyr in spite of the system-

atic additions of K'net. Despair drifted through the

Weyr on the icy winds.

Since D'nol's abortive rebellion, all spirit had

drained out of the dragonmen. Even the beasts re-

flected it. Diet alone would not account for the dullness

of their hide and their deadened attunement. Apathy

could—and did. Lessa wondered that R'gul did not

rue the result of his spineless decision.

"Ramoth is not awake," she told F'nor calmly, "so

you do not need to dance attendance on me."

F'nor said nothing, and his continued silence began

to discomfit Lessa. She rose, rubbing her palms on

her thighs as if she could erase her last hasty words.

She paced back and forth, glancing from her sleeping

chamber into Ramoth's, where the golden queen, now

larger than any of the bronze dragons, lay in deep

slumber.

Dragonftight 115

If only she would wake, Lessa thought. When she's

awake, everything's all right. As right as it can be, that

is. But she's like a rock.

"So . . ." she began, trying to keep her nervousness

out of her voice, "P'lar is at last doing something, even

if it is cutting off our one source of supply."

"Lytol sent in a message this morning," Fnor said

curtly. His anger had subsided, but not his disapproval

Lessa turned to face him, expectantly.

"Telgar and Fort have conferred with Keroon,"

Pnor went on heavily. "They've decided the Weyr is

behind their losses. Why," and his anger flared hot

again, "if you picked K'net, didn't you keep a close

check on him? He's too green. C'gan, Tsum, / would

have..."

"You? You don't sneeze without Flar's consent,"

she retorted.

F'nor laughed outright at her.

"F'lar did give you more credit than you deserve,"

he replied, contemptuous of his own turn. "Haven't

you realized why he must wait?"

"No," Lessa shouted at him. "I haven't! Is this

something I must divine, by instinct, like the dragons?

By the shell of the first Egg, F'nor, no one explains

anything to mel

"But it is nice to know that he has a reason for wait-

ing. I just hope it's valid. That it is not too late al-

ready. Because I think it is."

It was too late when he stopped me from reinforcing

Tbor, she thought, but refrained from saying. Instead,

she added, "It was too late when R'gul was too cow-

ardly to feel the shame of..."

Pnor swung on her, his face white with anger. "It

took more courage than you'll ever have to watch that

moment slide by."

"Why?"

F'nor took a halt step forward, so menacingly that

Lessa steeled herself for a blow. He mastered the

impulse, shaking his head violently to control himself.

"It is not R'gul's fault," he said finally, his face old

116 Dragonfiight Dragonfiight 117

and drawn, his eyes troubled and hurt. "It has been

hard, hard to watch and to know you had to wait."

"Why?" Lessa all but shrieked.

F'nor would no longer be goaded. He continued in

a quiet voice.

"I thought you ought to know, but it goes against

Flar's grain to apologize for one of his own."

Lessa bit back the sarcastic remark that rose to her

lips, lest she interrupt this long-awaited enlightenment.

"R'gul is Weyrleader only by default He'd be well

enough, I suppose, if there hadn't been such a long

Interval. The Records warn of the dangers..."

• "Records? Dangers? What do you mean by Inter-

val?"

"An Interval occurs when the Red Star does not

pass close enough to excite the Threads. The Records

indicate it takes about two hundred Turns before the

Red Star swings back again. Ftar figures nearly twice

that time has elapsed since the last Threads felL"

Lessa glanced apprehensively eastward. F'nor

nodded solemnly.

"Yes, and it'd be rather easy to forget fear and

caution in four hundred years. R'gul's a good fighter

and a good wingleader, but he has to see and touch

and smell danger before he admits it exists. Oh, he

learned the Laws and all the Traditions, but he never

understood them in his bones. Not the way Flar does

or the way I have come to," he added defiantly, seeing

the skeptical expression on Lessa's face. His eyes nar-

rowed, and he pointed an accusing finger at her. "Nor

the way you do, only you don't know why."

She backed away, not from him but from the men-

ace 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 him-

self killed in that ridiculous brawl." An expression

comprised of anger, regret, and irritation passed over

Fnor's face. Belatedly Lessa realized the man was

speaking of his father. "Flar 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 de-

teriorated rapidly. And he misinterpreted F'lon's plan

for carrying us over the last of the Interval to mean

isolation. Consequently"—F'nor shrugged expres-

sively—"the Weyr lost prestige faster all the time."

"Time, tune, time," Lessa railed. "It's always the

wrong time. When is now the time?"

"Listen to me." F'nor's stem 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. Some-

times 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 Flon. 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, under-

standing a great deal, too well, too late.

"It may be, thanks to your prodding K'net into un-

controlled 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 Pem," 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

118 Dragonfiight

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 storminp 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 Flar failed to inter-

cept 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 wa«. R'gul. his cau-

tious face distorted, his eyes wide with excitement.

From the outside, ledge Lessa could hear Hath gen-

erating 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, hast-

ily buckling on his tunic. Close on his heels came

S'lan, S'leL T'bor. They all converged in a loose semi-

circle 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 affect-

ing 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.

"CaU in K'net and F'lar," F'nor ordered with more

Dragonftight 119

authority than a brown rider should use in the pres-

ence 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 Mne-

menth 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 real-

ized.

"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. "Mne-

menth 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

120

Dragonfiight

Dragonflight

121

F'lar out of Lessa's mind. The sight of him, calm, ar-

rogant, 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 real-

ized F'lar and K'net had arrived none too soon. So

intense were Ramoth's hunger pangs that Lessa has-

tened 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 un-

ceremoniously 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 re-

verberated 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 eyes 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 lash-

ing 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 sec-

ond 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 in-

stinct 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 en-

122

Dragonftight

Dragonflight

123

large, 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 inef-

fectual efforts. For she was wingfree and unconquer-

able.

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 plum-

meted down, delighting to see them veer off in wing-

crowding haste to avoid collision.

She soared quickly above them again as they la-

bored 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 recog-

nized Mnementh, Orth, and Hath. All in their prime;

worthy, perhaps, of her.

She glided down, tantalizing them, amused at their

now labored nights. 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, con-

fused.

"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."

124 Dragonftight Dragonftight 125

Trembling at the thought of losing Ramoth be-

tween, Lessa sought the dragon, still locked wing to

wing with Mnementh.

The mating passion of the two dragons at that mo-

ment 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 atten-

tively, heard and was reassured by Mnementh's grat-

ified 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 tumul-

tuous events. Something might have gone wrong.

Somethiny 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 in-

former?

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 reas-

sured 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, enor-

mous Star Stone, chest-high to a tall man, its pol-

ished 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 splashing 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

126 Dragonfiight

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 Flar 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 com-

posed eyes of the dragon-roused passion they had

experienced together yesterday. There was no friend-

liness about her at all. No warmth. Was this what Mne-

menth 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 un-

derstanding 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.

Well, F'lar, bronze Mnementh's rider, was now

Weyrleader, and changes were long overdue.

Long overdue, Mnementh confirmed dryly. The

Lords of the Holds gather in force on the lake pla-

teau.

"There's trouble," F'lar announced to Lessa by way

of greeting. His announcement did not appear to

alarm her.

"The Lords of the Hold come to protest?" she asked

coolly.

Dragonftight 127

He admired her composure even as he decried her

part in this development.

"You'd have done better to let me handle the raid-

ing. K'net s still boy enough to be carried away with

the joy of it all."

Her slight smile was secretive. F'lar wondered fleet-

ingly if that wasn't what she had intended in the first

place. Had Ramoth not risen yesterday, it would be a

different story altogether today. Had she thought of

that?

Mnementh forewarned him that R'gul was at the

ledge. R'gul was all chest and indignant eye, the

dragon commented, which meant he was feeling his

authority.

"He has none," F'lar snapped .out loud, thoroughly

awake and pleased with events, despite their precipi-

tation.

"R'gul?"

She was quick-witted all right, F'lar admitted.

"Come, girl.'' He gestured her toward the queen's

weyr. The scene he was about to play with R'gul

ought to redeem that shameful day in the Council

Room two months back. He knew it had rankled in

her as in him.

They had no sooner entered the queen's weyr than

R'gul, followed by an excited K'net, stormed in from

the opposite side.

"The watch informs me," R'gul began, "that there

is a large body of armed men, with banners of many

Holds, approaching the Tunnel. K'net here"—R'gul

was furious with the youngster—"confesses he has

been raiding systematically—against all reason and

most certainly against my distinct orders. Of course,

we'll deal with him later," he informed the errant

rider ominously, "thai: is, if there is a Weyr left after

the Lords are through with us."

He turned back to F'lar, his frown deepening as he

realized F'lar was grinning at him.

"Don't stand there," R'gul growled. "There's noth-

128 Dragonfiight

ing to grin about. We've got to think how to placate

them."

"No, R'gul," F'lar contradicted the older man, still

grinning, "the days of placating the Lords are over."

"What? Are you out of your mind?"

"No. But you are out of order," F'lar said, his grin

gone, his face stem.

R'gul's eyes widened as he stared at F'lar as if he

had never seen him before.

"You've forgotten a very important fact," Flar

went on ruthlessly. "Policy changes when the leader

of the Weyr is replaced. /, F'lar, Mnementh's rider,

am Weyrleader now."

On that ringing phrase, S'lel, D'nol, T'bor, and

S'lan came striding into the room. They stopped,

shock-still, staring at the motionless tableau.

F'lar waited, giving them a chance to absorb the

fact that the dissension in the room meant that au-

thority had indeed passed to him-

"Mnementh," he said aloud, "call in all wingsec-

onds and brown riders. We've some arrangements to

make before our . . . guests arrive. As the queen is

asleep, dragonmen, into the Council Room, please.

After you, Weyrwoman."

He stepped aside to permit Lessa to pass, noticing

the slight flush on her cheeks. She was not completely

in command of her emotions, after all.

No sooner had they taken places at the Council

Table than the brown riders began to stream in. F'lar

took careful note of the subtle difference in their at-

titudes. They walked taller, he decided. And—yes,

the air of defeat and frustration was replaced by tense

excitement. All else being equal, today's events ought

to revive the pride and purpose of the Weyr.

F'nor and T'sum, his own seconds, strode in. There

was no doubt of their high, proud good humor. Their

eyes flashed around daring anyone to defy their pro-

motion as T'sum stood by the archway and F'nor

marched smartly around to his position behind F'lar's

Dragonflight 129

chair. F'nor paused to make a deeply respectful bow

to the girl. F'lar saw her flush and drop her eyes.

"Who's at our gate, F'nor?" the new Weyrleader

asked affably.

"The Lords of Telgar, Nabol, Fort, and Keroon, to

name the principal banners," F'nor answered in a sim-

ilar vein.

R'gul rose from his chair; the half-formed protest

died on his lips as he caught the expression in the

faces of the bronze riders. S'lel, beside him, started to

mumble, picking at his lower lip.

"Estimated strength?"

"In excess of a thousand. In good order and well-

armed," F'nor reported indifferently.

F'lar shot his second a remonstrating look. Con-

fidence was one thing, indifference preferable to de-

feat, but there was no wisdom in denying the situation

was very tight.

"Against the Weyr?" S'lel gasped.

"Are we dragonmen or cowards?" D'nol snapped,

jumping up, his fist pounding the table. "This is the

final insult."

"Indeed it is," F'lar concurred heartily.

"It has to be put down. We'll swallow no more,"

D'nol continued vehemently, encouraged by F'lar's

attitude. "A few flaming ..."

"That's enough," F'lar said in a hard voice. "We

are dragonmen! Remember that, and remember also

—never forget it—this fellowship is sworn to protect."

He enunciated that word distinctly, pinning each man

with a fierce stare. "Is that point clear?" He glared

questioningly at D'nol. There were to be no private

heroics today.

"We do not need firestone," he continued, certain

that D'nol had taken, his meaning, "to disperse these

foolish Lords." He leaned back and went on more

calmly, "I noticed on Search, as I'm sure you all did,

that the common holder has not lost one jot of his ...

let us say ... respect for dragonkind."

T'bor grinned, and someone chuckled reminiscently.

130 Dragonftight

"Oh, they follow their Lords quickly enough, in-

cited with indignation and lots of new wine. But it's

quite another matter to face a dragon, hot, tired, and

cold sober. Not to mention on foot without a wall or

Hold in sight." He could sense their concurrence.

"The mounted men, too, will be too much occupied

with their beasts to do any serious fighting," he added

with a chuckle, echoed by most of the men in the

room.

"However consoling these reflections are, there are

more powerful factors in our favor. I doubt the good

Lords of the Hold have bothered to review them. I

suspect"—he glanced around sardonically at his riders

—"they have probably forgotten them ... as they

have conveniently forgotten so much dragonlore . . .

and tradition.

"It is now time to reeducate them." His voice was

steel. An affirming mutter answered him. Good, he

had them.

"For instance, they are here at our gates. They've

traveled long and hard to reach this remote Weyr.

Undoubtedly some units have been marching for

weeks. F'nor," he said in a calculated aside, "remind

me to discuss patrol schedules later today. Ask your-

selves this, dragonmen, if the Lords of the Holds are

here, who is holding the Holds for the Lords? Who

keeps guard on the Inner Hold, over all the Lords

hold dear?"

He heard Lessa chuckling wickedly. She was quicker

than any of the bronze riders. He had chosen well that

day in Ruatha, even if it had meant killing while on

Search.

"Our Weyrwoman perceives my plan. T'sum, im-

plement it." He snapped that order out crisply. T'sum,

grinning broadly, departed.

"I don't understand," S'lel complained, blinking in

confusion.

"Oh, let me explain," Lessa put in quickly, her

words couched in the sweet, reasonable tone F'lar was

learning to identify as Lessa at her worst. He couldn't

Dragonfiight 131

blame her for wanting to get some of her own back

from S'lel, but this taste of hers for vengeance could

become pernicious.

"Someone ought to explain something," S'lel said

querulously. "I don't like what's going on. Holders at

the Tunnel Road. Dragons permitted flrestone. I don't

understand."

"It's so simple," Lessa assured him sweetly, not

waiting for F'lar's permission. "I'm embarrassed to

have to explain."

"Weyrwoman!" F'lar called her sharply to order.

She didn't look at him, but she did stop needling

S'lel.

"The Lords have left their Holds unprotected," she

said. "They appear not to have considered that drag-

ons can move between in seconds. T'sum, if I am not

mistaken, has gone to assemble sufficient hostages

from the unguarded Holds to insure that the Lords

respect the sanctity of the Weyr." F'lar nodded con-

firmation. Lessa's eyes flashed angrily as she contin-

ued. "It is not the fault of the Lords that they have

lost respect for the Weyr. The Weyr has ..."

"The Weyr." F'lar cut in sharply. Yes, he would

have to watch this slim girl very carefully and very

respectfully. ". . . the Weyr is about to insist on its

traditional rights and prerogatives. Before I outline

exactly how, Weyrwoman, would you greet our newest

guests? A few words might be in order to reinforce the

object lesson we will impress on all Pemese today."

The girl's eyes sparkled with anticipation. She

grinned with such intense pleasure that F'lar won-

dered if he was wise to let her instruct the defenseless

hostages.

"I rely on your discretion," he said emphatically,

"and intelligence to handle the assignment adroitly."

He caught her glance, held it until she briefly inclined

her head in acknowledgement of his admonition. As

she left, he sent a word ahead to Mnementh to keep

an eye on her.

Mnementh informed him that that would be wasted

132 Dragonflight

effort. Hadn't Lessa shown more wit than anyone else

in the Weyr? She was circumspect by instinct.

Circumspect enough to have precipitated today's

invasion, F'lar reminded his dragon.

"But... the ... Lords," R'gul was sputtering.

"Oh, freeze up," K'net suggested. "If we hadn't

listened to you for so long, we wouldn't be in this

position at all. Shove between if you don't like it, but

F'lar is Weyrleader now. And I say about time!"

"K'net! R'gul!" F'lar called them to order, shouting

over the cheers K'net's impudent words produced.

"These are my orders," he went on when he had their

complete attention. "I expect them to be followed

exactly." He glanced at each man to be sure there

was no further question of his authority. Then he out-

lined his intentions concisely and quickly, watching

with satisfaction as uncertainty was replaced with

admiring respect.

Assured that every bronze and brown rider under-

stood the plan perfectly, he asked Mnementh for the

latest report.

The advancing army was streaming out across the

lake plateau, the foremost units on the Tunnel road,

the one ground entrance to the Weyr. Mnementh

added that the Holders' women were profiting from

their stay in the Weyr.

"In what way?" F'lar demanded immediately.

Mnementh rumbled with the dragon equivalent of

laughter. Two of the young greens were feeding, that

was all. But for some reason such a normal occupation

appeared to upset the women.

The woman was diabolically clever, F'lar thought

privately, careful not to let Mnementh sense his con-

cern. That bronze clown was as besotted with the

rider as he was with the queen. What kind of fascina-

tion did the Weyrwoman have for a bronze dragon?

"Our guests are at the lake plateau," he told the

dragonmen. "You have your positions. Order your

wings out." Without a backward look, he marched

out, conquering an intense urge to hurry to the ledge.

135

He absolutely did not want those hostages scared

witless.

Down the valley by the lake, the women were

lightly attended by four of the smallest greens—big

enough for the uninitiated—and the women were

probably too scared at having been seized to notice

that all four riders were barely out of adolescence. He

spotted the slight figure of the Weyrwoman, seated to

one side of the main group. A sound of muffled weep-

ing drifted up to his ears. He looked beyond them, to

the feeding grounds, and saw a green dragon single

out a buck and run it down. Another green was

perched on a ledge above, eating with typical messy,

dragon greed. F'lar shrugged and mounted Mne-

menth, clearing the ledge for the hovering dragons

who waited to pick up their own riders.

As Mnementh circled above the confusion of wings

and gleaming bodies, F'lar nodded approvingly. A

high, fast mating flight coupled with the promise of

action improved everyone's morale.

Mnementh snorted.

F'lar paid him no attention, watching R'gul as he

assembled his wing. The man had taken a psychologi-

cal defeat. He would bear watching and careful han-

dling. Once the Threads started to fall and R'gul's

faith was restored, he'd come around.

Mnementh asked him if they should pick up the

Weyrwoman.

"She doesn't belong in this," F'lar said sharply,

wondering why under the double moons the bronze

had made such a suggestion. Mnementh replied that

he thought Lessa would like to be there.

D'nol's wing and T'bofs rose in good formation.

Those two were making good leaders. K'net took up

a double wing to the Bowl lip and winked out neatly,

bound to reappear behind the approaching army.

C'gan, the old blue rider, had the youngsters organ-

ized.

F'lar told Mnementh to have Canth tell F'nor to

134

Dragonflight

Dragonftight

135

proceed. With a final look to be sure the stones to the

Lower Caverns were in place, F'lar gave Mnementh

the signal to go between.

From the Weyr and from the Bowl, -,^

Bronae and brown and blue and green, \^

Rise the dragonmen of Pern,

Aloft, on wing; seen, then unseen.

LARAD, LORD of Telgar, eyed the ^ow}mM^

ot Benden Weyr. The striated stone looked like frozen

waterfalls at sunset. And about as hospitable_Alonfc

moribund awe squirmed at the back of his mmd_ fo.

the blasphemy he and the army he led were about to

commit. He stifled that thought firmly.

The Weyr had outlived its usefulness. That was

obvious. There was no longer any need for the

Holders to give up the profits of their sweat and labor

to the lazy weyrfolk. The Holders had been patient

They had supported the Weyr in good part out of

gratitude for past services. But the dragonmen had

overstepped the borders of grateful generosity.

First, this archaic Search foolishness. So a queen-

egg was laid. Why did the dragonmen need to steal

away the prettiest women among the Holders when

they had women of their own in the Weyr proper? No

need to appropriate Larad's sister, Kylora, eagerly

awaiting a far different alliance with Brant of Igen

one evening and gone on that ridiculous Search the

next. Never heard from since, either.

And killing Fax! Albeit the man had been danger-

ously ambitious, he was of the Blood. And the Weyr

had not been asked to meddle in the affairs of the

High Reaches.

But this steady pilfering. That was beyond enough.

Oh, a holder might excuse a few bucks now and again.

But when a dragon appeared out of nowhere (a tal-

ent that disturbed Larad deeply) and snatched the

best stud bucks from a herd carefully protected and

nurtured, that tore it!

The Weyr must be made to understand its subordi-

nate position in Pern. It would have to make other

provisions to victual its people, for no further tithes

would come from anyone. Benden, Bitra, and Lemos

would come around soon. They ought to be pleased

to end this superstitious domination by the Weyr.

Nevertheless, the closer they came to the gigantic

mountain, the more doubts Larad experienced as to

just how in the world the Lords would penetrate that

massif. He signaled Meron, so-called Lord of Nabol

(he didn't really trust this sharp-faced ex-Warder

with no Blood at all) to draw his riding beast closer.

Meron whipped his mount abreast of Larad.

"There is no other way into the Weyr proper but

the Tunnel?"

Meron shook his head. "Even the locals are

agreed."

This did not dismay Meron, but he caught Larad's

doubtful expression.

"I have sent a party on ahead, to the southern lip

of the Peak," and he indicated the area. "There might

be a low, scalable cliff there where the brow dips."

"You sent a party without consulting us? I was

named leader . . ."

"True," Meron agreed, with an amiable show of

teeth. "A mere notion of mine."

136 Dragonftight Dragonflight 137

"A distinct possibility, I agree, but you'd have done

better ..." Larad glanced up at the Peak.

"They have seen us, have no doubt of that, Larad,"

Meron assured him, contemptuously regarding the

silent Weyr. "That will be sufficient. Deliver our ulti-

matum and they will surrender before such a force as

ours. They've proved themselves cowards over and

over. I gave insult twice to the bronze rider they call

F'lar, and he ignored it. What man would?"

A sudden rustling roar and a blast of the coldest air

in the world interrupted their conference. As he mas-

tered his plunging beast, Larad caught a confused pan-

orama of dragons all colors, sizes, and everywhere.

The air was filled with the panic-stricken shrieks of

plunging beasts, the cries of startled, terrified men.

Larad managed, with great effort, to drag his beast

around to face the dragonmen.

By the Void that spawned us, he thought, struggling

to control his own fear, I'd forgotten dragons are so

big.

Foremost in that frightening array was a triangular

formation of four great bronze beasts, their wings

overlapping in a tremendous criss-cross pattern as

they hovered just above the ground. A dragon's

length above and beyond them, there ranged a second

line, longer, wider, of brown beasts. Curving beyond

them and higher up were blue and green and more

brown beasts, all with they huge wings fanning cold

air in great drafts on the terrified mob that had been

an army moments before.

Where did that piercing cold come from, Larad

wondered. He yanked down on his beast's mouth as

it began to plunge again.

The dragonmen just sat there on their beasts' necks,

watching, waiting.

"Get them off their beasts and the things away so

we can talk," Meron shouted to Larad as his mount

cavorted and screamed in terror.

Larad signaled foot soldiers forward, but it took

four men per mount to quiet them enough so the

Lords could dismount.

Miscalculation number two, Larad thought with

grim humor. We forgot the effect of dragons on the

beasts of Pern. Man included. Settling his sword,

pulling his gloves up onto his wrists, he jerked his

head at the other Lords, and they all moved forward.

As he saw the Lords dismount, F'lar told Mne-

menth to pass the word to land the first three ranks.

Like a great wave, the dragons obediently settled to

the ground, furling their wings with an enormous

rustling sigh.

Mnementh told F'lar that the dragons were excited

and pleased. This was much more fun than Games.

F'lar told Mnementh sternly that this was not fun

at all.

"Larad of Telgar," the foremost man introduced

himself, his voice crisp, his manner soldierly and con-

fident for one relatively young.

"Meron of Nabol."

F'lar immediately recognized the swarthy face with

the sharp features and restless eyes. A mean and pro-

vocative fighter.

Mnementh relayed F'lar an unusual message from

the Weyr. F'lar nodded imperceptibly and continued

to acknowledge introductions.

"I have been appointed spokesman," Larad of Tel-

gar began. "The Holder Lords unanimously agree

that the Weyr has outlived its function. Consequently

demands from the Weyr are out of order. There are to

be no more Searches among our Holds. No more

raiding on the herds and barns of any Hold by any

dragonfolk."

F'lar gave him courteous attention. Larad was

well-spoken and succinct. F'lar nodded. He looked at

each of the Lords before him carefully, getting their

measure. Their stem faces expressed their conviction

and righteous indignation.

"As Weyrleader, I, F'lar, Mnementh's rider, answer

you. Your complaint is heard. Now listen to what the

138 Dragonftight

Weyrleader commands." His casual pose was gone.

Mnementh rumbled a menacing counterpoint to his

rider's voice as it rang harshly metallic across the

plateau, the words carried clearly back so that even

the mob heard him.

"You will turn and go back to your Holds. You will

then go into your barns and among your herds. You

will make a just and equable tithe. This will be on its

way to the Weyr within three days of your return."

"The Weyrleader is ordering the Lords to tithe?"

Meron of Nabol's. derisive laugh rang out.

F'lar signaled, and two more wings of dragonmen

appeared to hover over the Nabolese contingent.

"The Weyrleader gives orders to the Lords to

tithe," F'lar affirmed. "And until such time as the

Lords do send their tithings, we regret that the ladies

of Nabol, Telgar, Fort, Igen, Keroon must make their

homes with us. Also, the ladies of Hold Balan, Hold

Gar, Hold .. ."

He paused, for the Lords were muttering angrily

and excitedly among themselves as they heard this

list of hostages. F'lar gave Mnementh a quick mes-

sage to relay.

"Your bluff won't work," Meron sneered, stepping

forward, his hand on his sword hi1t. Raiding among

the herds could be credited; it had happened. But the

Holds were sacrosanct! They'd not dare—

F'lar asked Mnementh to pass the signal, and

Tsum's wing appeared. Each rider held a Lady on

the neck of his dragon. T'sum held his group aloft but

close enough so the Lords could identify each scared

or hysterical woman.

Meron's face contorted with shock and new hatred.

Larad stepped forward, tearing his eyes from his

own Lady. She was a new wife to him and much be-

loved. It was small consolation that she neither wept

nor fainted, being a quiet and brave little person.

"You have the advantage of us," Larad admitted

bleakly. "We will retire and send the tithe." He was

Dragonfiight 139

about to wheel when Meron pushed forward, his face

wild.

"We tamely submit to their demands? Who is a

dragonman to order us?"

"Shut up," Larad ordered, grabbing the Nabolese's

arm.

F'lar raised his arm in an imperious signal. A wing

of blues appeared, carrying Meron's would-be moun-

taineers, some bearing evidence of their struggle with

the southern face of Benden Peak.

"Dragonmen do order. And nothing escapes their

notice." F'lar's voice rang out coldly.

"You will retire to your Holds. You will send proper

tithing because we shall know if you do not. You will

then proceed, under pain of firestone, to clear your

habitations of green, croft and Hold alike. Good Tel-

gar, look to that southern outer Hold of yours. The

exposure is acutely vulnerable. Clear all firepits on

ridge defenses. You've let them become fouled. The

mines are to be reopened and firestone stockpiled."

"Tithes, yes, but the rest . . ." Larad interrupted.

F'lar's arm shot skyward.

"Look up. Lord. Look well. The Red Star pulses

by day as well as night. The mountains beyond Ista

steam and spout flaming rock. The seas rage in high

tides and flood the coast. Have you all forgotten the

Sagas and Ballads? As you've forgotten the abilities

of dragons? Can you dismiss these portents that al-

ways presage the coming of Threads?"

Meron would never believe until he saw the silver

Threads streaking across the skies. But Larad" and

many of the others, F'lar knew, now did.

"And the queen," he continued, "has risen to mate

in her second year. Risen to mate and flown high and

far."

The heads of all before him jerked upward. Their

eyes were wide. Meron, too, looked startled. F'lar

heard R'gul gasp behind him, yet he dared not look,

himself, lest it be a trick.

140 Dragonfiight Dragonftight 141

Suddenly, on the periphery of his vision, he caught

the glint of gold in tlie sky.

Mnementh, he snapped, and Mnementh merely

rumbled happily. The queen wheeled into view just

then, a brave and glowing sight, F'lar grudgingly ad-

mitted.

Dressed in flowing white, Lessa was distinctly vis-

ible on the curved golden neck. Ramotli hovered, her

wing-span greater than even Mnementh's as she

vaned idly. From the way she arched her neck, it

was obvious that Ramoth was in good and playful

spirits, but F'lar was furious.

The spectacle of the queen aloft had quite an effect

on all beholders. F'lar was aware of its impact on

himself and saw it reflected in the faces of the incred-

ulous Holders knew it from the way the dragons

hummed, heard it from Mnementh.

"And, of course, our greatest Weyrwomen—

Moreta, Torene, to name only a few—have all come

from Ruath Hold, as does Lessa of Pern."

"Ruatha . . ." Meron grated out the name, clenched

his jaw sullenly, his face bleak.

"Threads arc coming';' asked Larad.

F'lar nodded slowly. "Your harper can reinstruct

you on the signs. Good Lords, the tithe is required.

Your women will be returned. The Holds are to be

put in order. The Weyr prepares Pern, as the Weyr is

pledged to protect Pem. Your cooperation is ex-

pected—" he paused significantly—"and will be en-

forced."

With that, he vaulted to Mnementh's neck, keeping

the queen always in sight. He saw her golden wings

beat as the dragon turned and soared upward.

It was infuriating of Lessa to take this moment,

when all his energy and attention ought to go to set-

tling the Holders' grievance for a show of rebellion.

Why did she have to flaunt her independence so, in

full sight of the entire Weyr and all the Lords? He

longed to chase immediately after her and could not.

Not until he had seen the army in actual retreat, not

until he had signaled for the final show of Weyr

strength for the Holders' elucidation.

Gritting hi& teeth, he signaled Mnementh aloft. The

wings rose behind him with spectacular trumpetings

and dartings so that there appeared to be thousands

of dragons in the air instead of the scant two hundred

Benden Weyr boasted.

Assured that that part of his strategy was proceed-

ing in order, he bade Mnementh fly after the Weyr-

woman, who was now dipping and gliding high above

the Weyr.

When he got his hands on that girl, he would tell

her a thing or two....

Mnementh informed him caustically that telling

her a thing or two might be a very good idea. Much

better than flying so vengefully after a pair who were

only trying their wings out. Mnementh reminded his

irate rider that, after all, the golden dragon had flown

far and wide yesterday, having blooded four, but had

not eaten since. She'd be neither capable of nor in-

terested in any protracted flying until she had eaten

fully. However, if F'lar insisted on this ill-considered

and completely unnecessary pursuit, he might just

antagonize Ramoth into jumping between to escape

him.

The very thought of that untutored pair going be-

tween cooled F'lar instantly. Controlling himself, he

realized that Mnementh's judgment was more reliable

than his at the moment. He'd let anger and anxiety

influence his decisions, but...

Mnementh circled in to land at the Star Stone, the

tip of Benden Peak being a fine vantage point from

which F'lar could observe both the decamping army

and the queen.

Mnementh's great eyes gave the appearance of

whirling as the dragon adjusted his vision to its

farthest reach.

He reported to F'lar that Piyanth's rider felt the

dragons' supervision of the retreat was causing hys-

142

Dragonflight

Dragonftight

143

teria among the men and beasts. Injuries were occur-

ring in the resultant stampedes.

F'lar immediately ordered K'net to assume surveil-

lance altitude until the army camped for the night. He

was to keep close watch on the Nabolese contingent

at all times, however.

Even as F'lar had Mnementh relay these orders, he

realized his mind had dismissed the matter. All his

attention was really on that high-flying pair.

You had better teach her to fly between, Mnementh

remarked, one great eye shining directly over F'lar's

shoulder. She's quick enough to figure it out for her-

self, and then where are we?

F'lar let the sharp retort die on his lips as he

watched, breathless. Ramoth suddenly folded her

wings, a golden streak diving through the sky. Effort-

lessly she pulled out at the critical point and soared

upward again.

Mnementh deliberately called to mind their first

wildly acrobatic flight. A tender smile crossed F'lar's

face, and suddenly he knew how much Lessa must

have longed to fly, how bitter it must have been for

her to watch the dragonets practice when she was

forbidden to try.

Well, he was no R'gul, torn by indecision and

doubt.

And she is no Jora, Mnementh reminded him pun-

gently. I'm calling them in, the dragon added.

Ramoth has turned a dull orange.

F'lar watched as the flyers obediently began a

downward glide, the queen's wings arching and curv-

ing as she slowed her tremendous forward speed. Un-

fed or not, she could fly!

He mounted Mnementh, waving them on, down

toward the feeding grounds. He caught a fleeting

glimpse of Lessa, her face vivid with elation and re-

bellion.

Ramoth landed, and Lessa dropped to the ground,

gesturing the dragon on to eat.

The girl turned then, watching Mnementh glide in

and hover to let F'lar dismount. She straightened her

shoulders, her chin lifted belligerently as her slender

body gathered itself to face his censure. Her behavior

was like that of any weyrling, anticipating punishment

and determined to endure it, soundless. She was not

the least bit repentant!

Admiration for this indomitable personality re-

placed the last trace of F'lar's anger. He smiled as he

closed the distance between them.

Startled by bis completely unexpected behavior,

she took a half-step backward.

"Queens can, too, fly," she blurted out, daring him.

His grin broadening to suffuse his face, he put his

hands on her shoulders and gave her an affectionate

shake.

"Of course they can fly," he assured her, his voice

full of pride and respect. "That's why they have

wings!"

PART

Dust Fall

The Finger points

At an Eye blood'red.

Alert the Weyrs

To sear the Thread.

"You STILL doubt, R'gul?" F'lar asked, appearing

slightly amused by the older bronze rider's perversity.

R'gul, his handsome features stubbornly set, made

no reply to the Weyrleader's taunt. He ground his

teeth together as if he could grind away F'lar's au-

thority over him.

"There have been no Threads in Pem's skies for

over four hundred Turns. There are no more!"

"There is always that possibility," F'lar conceded

amiably. There was not, however, the slightest trace

of tolerance in his amber eyes. Nor the slightest hint

of compromise in his manner.

He was more like F'lon, his sire, R'gul decided,

than a son had any right to be. Always so sure of bun-

self, always slightly contemptuous of what others did

and thought. Arrogant, that's what F'lar was. Imperti-

nent, too, and underhanded in the matter of that

young Weyrwoman. Why, R'gul had trained her up to

be one of the finest Weyrwomen in many Turns. Be-

fore he'd finished her instruction, she'd known all the

Teaching Ballads and Sagas letter-perfect. And then

145

146 Dragonflight

the silly child had turned to F'lar. Didn't have sense

enough to appreciate the merits of an older, more

experienced man. Undoubtedly she felt a first ob-

ligation to F'lar for discovering her on Search.

"You do, however," F'lar was saying, "admit that

when the sun hits the Finger Rock at the moment of

dawn, winter solstice has been reached?"

"Any fool knows that's what the Finger Rock is

for," R'gul grunted.

"Then why don't you, you old fool, admit that the

Eye Rock was placed on Star Stone to bracket the

Red Star when it's about to make a Pass?" burst out

K'net.

R'gul flushed, half-starting out of his chair, ready to

take the young sprout to task for such insolence.

"K'net!" F'lar's voice cracked authoritatively. "Do

you really like flying the Igen patrol so much you

want another few weeks at it?"

K'net hurriedly seated himself, flushing at the rep-

rimand and the threat.

"There is, you know, R'gul, incontrovertible evi-

dence to support my conclusions," F'lar went on with

deceptive mildness. "The Finger points/At an Eye

blood-red...'"

"Don't quote me verses I taught you as a weyrling,"

R'gul exclaimed heatedly.

"Then have faith in what you taught," F'lar

snapped back, his amber eyes flashing dangerously.

R'gul» stunned by the unexpected forcefumess,

sank back into his chair.

"You cannot deny, R'gul," F'lar continued quietly,

"that no less than half an hour ago the sun balanced

on the Finger's tip at dawn and the Red Star was

squarely framed by the Eye Rock."

The other dragonriders, bronze as well as brown,

murmured and nodded their agreement to that phe-

nomenon. There was also an undercurrent of resent-

ment for R'gul's continual contest of F'lar's policies as

the new Weyrleader. Even old S'lel, once R'gul's

avowed supporter, was following the majority.

147

"There have been no Threads in four hundred

Turns. There are no Threads," R'gul muttered.

"Then, my fellow dragonman," F'lar said cheer-

fully, "all you have taught is falsehood. The dragons

are, as the Lords of the Holds wish to believe, para-

sites on the economy of Pem, anachronisms. And so

are we.

"Therefore, far be it from me to hold you here

against the dictates of your conscience. You have my

permission to leave the Weyr and take up residence

where you will."

Someone laughed.

R'gul was too stunned by F'lar's ultimatum to take

offense at the ridicule. Leave the Weyr? Was the man

mad? Where would he go? The Weyr had been his

life. He had been bred up to it for generations. All

his male ancestors had been dragonriders. Not all

bronze, true, but a decent percentage. His own dam's

sire had been a Weyrleader just as he, R'gul, had been

until F'lar's Mnementh had flown the new queen.

But dragonmen never left the Weyr. Well, they did

if they were negligent enough to lose their dragons,

like that Lytol fellow at Ruath Hold. And how could

he leave the Weyr with a dragon?

What did F'lar want of him? Was it not enough

that he was Weyrleader now in R'gul's stead? Wasn't

F'lar's pride sufficiently swollen by having bluffed the

Lords of Pern into disbanding their army when they

were all set to coerce the Weyr and dragonmen? Must

F'lar dominate every dragonman, body and will, too?

He stared a long moment, incredulous.

"I do not believe we are parasites," F'lar said,

breaking the silence with a soft, persuasive voice.

"Nor anachronistic. There have been long Intervals

before. The Red Star does not always pass close

enough to drop Threads on Pern. Which is why our

ingenious ancestors thought to position the Eye Rock

and the Finger Rock as they did ... to confirm when

a Pass will be made. And another thing"—his face

turned grave—"there have been other times when

148 Dragonflight

dragonkind has all but died out. . . and Pern with it

because of skeptics like you." F'lar smiled and relaxed

indolently in his chair. "I prefer not to be recorded as

a skeptic. How shall we record you, R'gul?"

The Council Room was tense. R'gul was aware of

someone breathing harshly and realized it was him-

self. He looked at the adamant face of the young

Weyrleader and knew that the threat was not empty.

He would either concede to F'lar's authority com-

pletely, though concession rankled deeply, or leave

the Weyr.

And where could he go, unless to one of the other

Weyrs, deserted for hundreds of Turns? And—R'gul's

thoughts were savage—wasn't that indication enough

of the cessation of Threads? Five empty Weyrs? No,

by the Egg of Faranth, he would practice some of

F'lar's own brand of deceit and bide his time. When

all Pem turned on the arrogant fool, he, R'gul, would

be there to salvage something from the ruins.

"A dragonman stays in his Weyr," R'gul said with

what dignity he could muster.

"And accepts the policies of the current Weyr-

leader?" The tone of F'lar's voice made it less of a

question and more of an order.

So as not to perjure himself, R'gul gave a curt nod

of his head. F'lar continued to stare at him and R'gul

wondered if the man could read his thoughts as his

dragon might. He managed to return the gaze calmly.

His turn would come. He'd wait.

Apparently accepting the capitulation, F'lar stood

up and crisply delegated patrol assignments for the

day.

"T'bor, you're weather-watch. Keep an eye on

those tithing trains as you do. Have you the morning's

report?"

"Weather is fair at dawning ... all across Telgar

and Keroon ... if all too cold," Tbor said with a wry

grin. "Tithing trains have good hard roads, though, so

they ought to be here soon." His eyes twinkled with

anticipation of the feasting that would follow the sup-

149

plies' arrival—a mood shared by all, to judge by the

expressions around the table.

F'lar nodded. "S'lan and D'nol, you are to continue

an adroit Search for likely boys. They should be strip-

lings, if possible, but do not pass over anyone sus-

pected of talent. It's all well and good to present, for

Impression, boys reared up in the Weyr traditions."

F'lar gave a one-sided smile. "But there are not

enough in the Lower Caverns. We, too, have been

behind in begetting. Anyway, dragons reach full growth

faster than their riders. We must have more young

men to Impress when Ramoth hatches. Take the

southern holds, Ista, Nerat, Fort, and South Boll

where maturity comes earlier. You can use the guise

of inspecting Holds for greenery to talk to the boys.

And take along firestone and run a few flaming passes

on those heights that haven't been scoured in—oh—

dragon's years. A flaming beast impresses the young

and arouses envy."

F'lar deliberately looked at R'gul to see the ex-

Weyrleader's reaction to the order. R'gul had been

dead set against going outside the Weyr for more

candidates. In the first place, R'gul had argued that

there were eighteen youngsters in the Lower Caverns,

some quite young, to be sure, but R'gul would not

admit that Ramoth would lay more than the dozen

Nemorth had always dropped. In the second place,

R'gul persisted in wanting to avoid any action that

might antagonize the Lords.

R'gul made no overt protest, and F'lar went on.

"K'net, back to the mines. I want the dispositions

of each firestone-dump checked and quantities avail-

able. R'gul, continue drilling recognition points with

the weyrlings. They must be positive about their ref-

erences. If they're used as messengers and suppliers,

they may be sent out quickly and with no time to ask

questions.

"F'nor, Tsum"—F'lar turned to his own brown

riders—"you're clean-up squad today." He allowed

himself a grin at their dismay. "Try Ista Weyr. Clear

150 Dragonfiight

the Hatching Cavern and enough Weyrs for a double

wing. And, F'nor, don't leave a single Record behind.

They're worth preserving.

"That will be all, dragonmen. Good flying." And

with that, F'lar rose and strode from the Council

Room up to the queen's weyr.

Ramoth still slept, her hide gleaming with health,

its color deepening to a shade of gold closer to bronze,

indicating her pregnancy. As he passed her, the tip of

her long tail twitched slightly.

All the dragons were restless these days, F'lar re-

flected. Yet when he asked Mnementh, the bronze

dragon could give no reason. He woke, he went back

to sleep. That was all. F'lar couldn't ask a leading

question for that would defeat his purpose. He had to

remain discontented with the vague fact that the rest-

lessness was some kind of instinctive reaction.

Lessa was not in the sleeping room, nor was she

still bathing. F'lar snorted. That girl was going to

scrub her hide off with this constant bathing. She'd

had to live grimy to protect herself in Ruath Hold,

but bathing twice a day? He was beginning to wonder

if this might be a subtle Lessa-variety insult to him

personally. F'lar sighed. That girl. Would she never

turn to him of her own accord? Would he ever touch

that elusive inner core of Lessa? She had more

warmth for his half brother, F'nor, and for K'net, the

youngest of the bronze riders than she had for F'lar

who shared her bed.

He pulled the curtain back into place, irritated.

Where had she gone to today when, for the first time

in weeks, he had been able to get all the wings out of

the Weyr just so he could teach her to fly between?

Ramoth would soon be too egg-heavy for such

activity. He had promised the Weyrwoman, and he

meant to keep that promise. She had taken to wearing

the wherhide riding gear as a flagrant reminder of his

unfulfilled pledge. From certain remarks she had

dropped, he knew she would not wait much longer for

Dragonflight 151

his aid. That she should try it on her own didn't suit

him at all.

He crossed the queen's weyr again and peered

down the passage that led to the Records Room. She

was often to be found there, poring over the musty

skins. And that was one more matter that needed ur-

gent consideration. Those Records were deteriorating

past legibility. Curiously enough, earlier ones were

still in good condition and readable. Another tech-

nique forgotten.

That girl! He brushed his thick forelock of hair

back from his brow in a gesture habitual to him when

he was annoyed or worried. The passage was dark,

which meant she could not be below in the Records

Room.

"Mnementh," he called silently to his bronze

dragon, sunning on the ledge outside the queen's

weyr. "What is that girl doing?"

Lessa, the dragon replied, stressing the Weyr-

woman's name with pointed courtesy, is talking to

Manora. She's dressed for riding, he added after a

slight pause.

F'lar thanked the bronze sarcastically and strode

down the passage to the entrance. As he turned the

last bend, he all but ran Lessa down.

You hadn't asked me where she was, Mnementh

plaintively answered F'lar's blistering reprimand.

Lessa rocked back on her heels from the force of

their encounter. She glared up at him, her Ups thin with

displeasure, her eyes flashing.

"Why didn't I have the opportunity of seeing the

Red Star through the Eye Rock?" she demanded in

a hard, angry voice.

F'lar pulled at his hair. Lessa at her most difficult

would complete the list of this morning's trials.

"Too many to accommodate as it was on the Peak,"

he muttered, determined not to let her irritate him

today. "And you already believe."

"I'd've liked to see it," she snapped and pushed

152 ' Dragonflight

past him toward the weyr. "If only in my capacity as

Weyrworaan and Recorder."

He caught her arm and felt her body tense. He set

his teeth, wishing, as he had a hundred times since

Ramoth rose in her first mating flight, that Lessa had

not been virgin, too. He had not thought to control his

dragon-incited emotions, and Lessa's first sexual ex-

perience had been violent. It had surprised him to be

first, considering that her adolescent years had been

spent drudging for lascivious warders and soldier-

types. Evidently no one had bothered to penetrate

the curtain of rags and the coat of filth she had care-

fully maintained as a disguise. He had been a con-

siderate and gentle bedmate ever since, but, unless

Ramoth and Mnementh were involved, he might as

well call it rape.

Yet he knew someday, somehow, he would coax her

into responding wholeheartedly to his lovemaking. He

had a certain pride in his skill, and he was in a position

to persevere.

Now he took a deep breath and released her arm

slowly.

"How fortunate you're wearing riding gear. As soon

as the wings have cleared out and Ramoth wakes, I

shall teach you to fly between."

The gleam of excitement in her eyes was evident

even in the dimly lit passageway. He heard her inhale

sharply.

"Can't put it off too much longer or Ramoth'll be

in no shape to fly at all," he continued amiably.

"You mean it?" Her voice was low and breathless,

its usual acid edge missing. "You will teach us today?"

He wished he could see her face clearly.

Once or twice he had caught an unguarded expres-

sion on her face, loving and tender. He would give

much to have that look turned on him. However, he

admitted wryly to himself, he ought to be glad that

melting regard was directed only at Ramoth and not

at another human.

"Yes, my dear Weyrwoman, I mean it. I will teach

153

you to fly between today. If only," and he bowed to

her with a flourish, "to keep you from trying it your-

self."

Her low chuckle informed him his taunt was well-

aimed.

"Right now, however," he said, indicating for her to

lead the way back to the weyr, "I could do with some

food. We were up before the kitchen."

They had entered the well-lighted weyr, so he did

not miss the trenchant look she shot him over her

shoulder. She would not so easily forgive being left

out of the group at the Star Stone this morning, cer-

tainly not with the bribe of flying between.

How different this inner room was now that Lessa

was Weyrwoman, F'lar mused as Lessa called down

the service shaft for food. During Jora's incompetent

tenure as Weyrwoman, the sleeping quarters had been

crowded with junk, unwashed apparel, uncleared

dishes. The state of the Weyr and the reduced number

of dragons were as much Jora's fault as R'gul's, for

she had indirectly encouraged sloth, negligence, and

gluttony.

If he, F'lar, had been just a few years older when

F'lon, his father, had died . . . Jora had been disgust-

ing, but when dragons rose in mating flight, the con-

dition of your partner counted for nothing.

Lessa took a tray of bread and cheese, and mugs of

the stimulating klah from the platform. She served

him deftly.

"You'd not eaten, either?" he asked.

She shook her head vigorously, the braid into which

she had plaited her thick, fine dark hair bobbing

across her shoulders. The hairdressing was too severe

for her narrow face, but it did not, if that was her in-

tention, disguise her femininity or the curious beauty

of her delicate features. Again F'lar wondered that

such a slight body contained so much shrewd intel-

ligence and resourceful. . . cunning—yes, that was the

word, cunning. F'lar did not make the mistake, as

others had, of underestimating her abilities.

154

Dragonflight

Dragonfiight

155

"Manora called me to witness the birth of Kylara's

child."

F'lar maintained an expression of polite interest. He

knew perfectly well that Lessa suspected the child

was his, and it could have been, he admitted privately,

but he doubted it. Kylara had been one of the ten

candidates from the same Search three years ago

which had discovered Lessa. Like others who survived

Impression, Kylara had found certain aspects of

Weyr life exactly suited to her temperament. She had

gone from one rider's weyr to another's. She had even

seduced F'lar—not at all against his will, to be sure.

Now that he was Weyrleader, he found it wiser to

ignore her efforts to continue the relationship. T'bor

had taken her in hand and had had his hands full

until he retired her to the Lower Caverns, well ad-

vanced in pregnancy.

Aside from having the amorous tendencies of a

green dragon, Kylara was quick and ambitious. She

would make a strong Weyrwoman, so F'lar had

charged Manora and Lessa with the job of planting

the notion in Kylara's mind. In the capacity of Weyr-

woman ... of another Weyr . . . her intense drives

would be used to Pern's advantage. She had not

learned the severe lessons of restraint and patience

that Lessa had, and she didn't have Lessa's devious

mind. Fortunately she was in considerable awe of

Lessa, and F'lar suspected that Lessa was subtly in-

fluencing this attitude. In Kylara's case, F'lar preferred

not to object to Lessa's meddling.

"A fine son," Lessa was saying.

F'lar sipped his klah. She was not going to get him

to admit any responsibility.

After a long pause Lessa added, "She has named

him T'kil."

F'lar suppressed a grin at Lessa's failure to get a

rise from him.

"Discreet of her."

"Oh?"

"Yes," F'lar replied blandly. "T'lar might be con-

fusing if she took the second half of her name as is

customary. 'T'kil,' however, still indicates sire as well

as dam."

"While I was waiting for Council to end," Lessa

said after clearing her throat, "Manora and I checked

the supply caverns. The tithing trains, which the Holds

have been so gracious as to send us"—her voice was

sharp—"are due within the week. There will shortly

be bread fit to eat," she added, wrinkling her nose at

the crumbling gray pastry she was attempting to

spread with cheese.

"A nice change," F'lar agreed.

She paused.

"The Red Star performed its scheduled antic?"

He nodded.

"And R'gul's doubts have been wiped away in the

enlightening red glow?"

"Not at all." F'lar grinned back at her, ignoring her

sarcasm. "Not at all, but he will not be so vocal in his

criticism."

She swallowed quickly so she could speak. "You'd

do well to cut out his criticism," she said ruthlessly,

gesturing with her knife as if plunging it into a man's

heart. "He is never going to accept your authority

with good grace."

"We need every bronze rider . . . there are only

seven, you know," he reminded her pointedly. "R'gul's

a good wingleader. He'll settle down when the

Threads fall. He needs proof to lay his doubts aside."

"And the Red Star in the Eye Rock is not proof?"

Lessa's expressive eyes were wide.

F'lar was privately of Lessa's opinion—that it might

be wiser to remove R'gul's stubborn contentiousness.

But he could not sacrifice a wingleader, needing every

dragon and rider as badly as he did.

"I don't trust him," she added darkly. She sipped at

her hot drink, her gray eyes dark over the rim of her

mug. As if, F'lar mused, she didn't trust him, either.

And she didn't, past a certain point. She had made

that plain, and, in honesty, he couldn't blame her. She

156 Dragonfiight

did recognize that every action F'lar took was toward

one end . . . the safety and preservation of dragonkind

and weyrfolk and consequently the safety and pres-

ervation of Pern. To effect that end, he needed herJull

cooperation. When Weyr business or dragonlore were

discussed, she suspended the antipathy he knew she

felt for him. In conferences she supported him whole-

heartedly and persuasively, but always he suspected

the double edge to her comments and saw a specula-

tive, suspicious look in her eyes. He needed not only

her tolerance but her empathy.

"Tell me," she said after a long silence, "did the sun

touch the Finger Rock before the Red Star was

bracketed in the Eye Rock or after?"

"Matter of fact, I'm not sure, as I did not see it

myself . . . the concurrence lasts only a few moments

. . . but the two are supposed to be simultaneous."

She frowned at him sourly. "Whom did you waste it

on? R'gul?" She was provoked, her angry eyes looked

everywhere but at him.

"I am Weyrleader," he informed her curtly. She

was unreasonable.

She awarded him one long, hard look before she

bent to finish her meal. She ate very little, quickly and

neatly. Compared to Jora, she didn't eat enough in

the course of an entire day to nourish a sick child. But

then, there was no point in ever comparing Lessa to

Jora.

He finished his own breakfast, absently piling the

mugs together on the empty tray. She rose silently

and removed the dishes.

"As soon as the Weyr is free, we'll go," he told her.

"So you said." She nodded toward the sleeping

queen, visible through the open arch. "We still must

wait upon Ramoth."

"Isn't she rousing? Her tail's been twitching for an

hour."

"She always does that about this time of day."

F'lar leaned across the table, his brows drawn to-

gether thoughtfully as he watched the golden-forked

Dragonftight 157

tip of the queen's tail jerk spasmodically from side to

side.

"Mnementh, too. And always at dawn and early

morning. As if somehow they associate that time of

day with trouble ..."

"Or the Red Star's rising?" Lessa interjected.

Some subtle difference in her tone caused F'lar to

glance quickly at her. It wasn't anger now over having

missed the morning's phenomenon. Her eyes were

fixed on nothing; her face, smooth at first, was soon

wrinkled with a vaguely anxious frown as tiny lines

formed between her arching, well-defined brows.

"Dawn . . . that's when all warnings come," she

murmured.

"What kind of warnings?" he asked with quiet en-

couragement.

"There was that morning ... a few days before . . .

before you and Fax descended on Ruath Hold. Some-

thing woke me ... a feeling, like a very heavy pressure

. . . the sensation of some terrible danger threatening."

She was silent. "The Red Star was just rising." The

fingers of her left hand opened and closed. She gave

a convulsive shudder. Her eyes refocused on him.

"You and Fax did come out of the northeast from

Crom," she said sharply, ignoring the fact, F'lar no-

ticed, that the Red Star also rises north of true east.

"Indeed we did," he grinned at her, remembering

that morning vividly. "Although," he added, gesturing

around the great cavern to emphasize, "I prefer to be-

lieve I served you well that day . . . you remember it

with displeasure?"

The look she gave him was coldly inscrutable.

"Danger comes in many guises."

"I agree," he replied amiably, determined not to

rise to her bait. "Had any other rude awakenings?"

he inquired conversationally.

The absolute stillness in the room brought his at-

tention back to her. Her face had drained of all color.

"The day Fax invaded Ruath Hold." Her voice

was a barely articulated whisper. Her eyes were wide

158

and staring. Her hands clenched the edge of the table.

She said nothing for such a long interval that F'lar

became concerned. This was an unexpectedly violent

reaction to a casual question.

"Tell me," he suggested softly.

She spoke in unemotional, impersonal tones, as if

she were reciting a Traditional Ballad or something

that had happened to an entirely different person.

"I was a child. Just eleven. I woke at dawn . . ."

Her voice trailed off. Her eyes remained focused on

nothing, staring at a scene that had happened long

ago.

F'lar was stirred by an irresistible desire to comfort

her. It struck him forcibly, even as he was stirred by

this unusual compassion, that he had never thought

that Lessa, of all people, would be troubled by so old

a terror.

Mnementh sharply informed his rider that Lessa

was obviously bothered a good deal. Enough so that

her mental anguish was rousing Ramoth from sleep. In

less accusing tones Mnementh informed F'lar that

R'gul had finally taken off with his weyrling pupils.

His dragon. Hath, however, was in a fine state of dis-

orientation due to R'gul's state of mind. Must F'lar

unsettle everyone in the Weyr ...

"Oh, be quiet," F'lar retorted under his breath.

"Why?" Lessa demanded in her normal voice.

"I didn't mean you, my dear Weyrwoman," he as-

sured her, smiling pleasantly, as if the entranced in-

terlude had never occurred. "Mnementh is full of

advice these days."

"Like rider, like dragon," she replied tartly.

Ramoth yawned mightily. Lessa was instantly on

her feet, running to her dragon's side, her slight figure

dwarfed by the six-foot dragon head.

A tender, adoring expression flooded her face as

she gazed into Ramoth's gleaming opalescent eyes.

F'lar clenched his teeth, envious, by the Egg, of a

rider's affection for her dragon.

159

In his mind he heard Mnementh's dragon equiv-

alent of laughter.

"She's hungry," Lessa informed F'lar, an echo of

her love for Ramoth lingering in the soft line of her

mouth, in the kindness in her gray eyes.

"She's always hungry," he observed and followed

them out of the weyr.

Mnementh hovered courteously just beyond the

ledge until Lessa and Ramoth had taken off. They

glided down the Weyr Bowl, over the misty bathing

lake, toward the feeding ground at the opposite end of

the long oval that comprised the floor of Benden Weyr.

The striated, precipitous walls were pierced with the

black mouths of single weyr entrances, deserted at

this time of day by the few dragons who might other-

wise doze on their ledges in the wintry sun.

As F'lar vaulted to Mnementh's smooth bronze

neck, he hoped that Ramoth's clutch would be spec-

tacular, erasing the ignominy of the paltry dozen

Nemorth had laid in each of her last few clutches.

He had no serious doubts of the improvement after

Ramoth's remarkable mating flight with his Mne-

menth. The bronze dragon smugly echoed his rider's

certainty, and both looked on the queen possessively

as she curved her wings to land. She was twice

Nemorth's size, for one thing; her wings were half-a-

wing again longer than Mnementh's, who was the

biggest of the seven male bronzes. F'lar looked to

Ramoth to repopulate the five empty Weyrs, even as

he looked to himself and Lessa to rejuvenate the

pride and faith of dragonriders and of Pern itself. He

only hoped time enough remained to him to do what

was necessary. The Red Star had been bracketed by

the Eye Rock. The Threads would soon be falling.

Somewhere, in one of the other Weyrs' Records, must

be the information he needed to ascertain when, ex-

actly, Threads would fall.

Mnementh landed. F'lar jumped down from the

curving neck to stand beside Lessa. The three watched

160

as Ramoth, a buck grasped in each of her forefeet,

rose to a feeding ledge.

"Will her appetite never taper off?" Lessa asked

with affectionate dismay.

As a dragonet, Ramoth had been eating to grow.

Her full stature attained, she was, of course, now eat-

ing for her young, and she applied herself conscien-

tiously.

F'lar chuckled and squatted, hunter fashion. He

picked up shale-flakes, skating them across the flat

dry ground, counting the dust puffs boyishly.

"The time will come when she won't eat everything

in sight," he assured Lessa. "But she's young . . ."

". . . and needs her strength," Lessa interrupted,

her voice a fair imitation of R'gul's pedantic tones.

F'lar looked up at her, squinting against the wintry

sun that slanted down at them.

"She's a finely grown beast, especially compared to

Nemorth." He gave a contemptuous snort. "In fact,

there is no comparison. However, look here," he or-

dered peremptorily.

He tapped the smoothed sand in front of him, and

she saw that his apparently idle gestures had been to

a purpose. With a sliver of stone, he drew a design in

quick strokes.

"In order to fly a dragon between, he has to know

where to go. And so do you." He grinned at the as-

tonished and infuriated look of comprehension on her

face. "Ah, but there are certain consequences to an

ill-considered jump. Badly visualized reference points

often result in staying between." His voice dropped

ominously. Her face cleared of its resentment. "So

there are certain reference or recognition points ar-

bitrarily taught all weyrlings. That,"—he pointed first

to his facsimile and then to the actual Star Stone with

its Finger and Eye Rock companions, on Benden

peak—"is the first recognition point a weyrling learns.

When I take you aloft, you will reach an altitude just

above the Star Stone, near enough for you to be able

to see the hole in the Eye Rock clearly. Fix that pic-

Dragonfiight 161

ture sharply in your mind's eye, relay it to Ramoth.

That will always get you home."

"Understood. But how do I leam recognition points

of places I've never seen?"

He grinned up at her. "You're drilled in them. First

by your instructor," and he pointed the sliver at his

chest, "and then by going there, having directed your

dragon to get the visualization from her instructor,"

and he indicated Mnementh. The bronze dragon

lowered his wedge-shaped head until one eye was

focused on his rider and his mate's rider. He made a

pleased noise deep in his chest.

Lessa laughed up at the gleaming eye and, with

unexpected affection, patted the soft nose.

F'lar cleared his throat in surprise. He had been

aware that Mnementh showed an unusual affection

for the Weyrwoman, but he had had no idea Lessa

was fond of the bronze. Perversely, he was irritated.

"However," he said, and his voice sounded unnatu-

ral to himself, "we take the young riders constantly to

and from the main reference points all across Pem, to

all the Holds so that they have eyewitness impressions

on which to rely. As a rider becomes adept in picking

out landmarks, he gets additional references from

other riders. Therefore, to go between, there is actu-

ally only one requirement: a clear picture of where

you want to go. And a dragon!" He grinned at her.

"Also, you should always plan to arrive above your

reference point in clear air."

Lessa frowned.

"It is better to arrive in open air"—F'lar waved a

hand above his head—"rather than underground,"

and he slapped his open hand onto the dirt. A puff of

dust rose warningly.

"But the wings took off within the Bowl itself the

day the Lords of the Hold arrived," Lessa reminded

him.

F'lar chuckled at her uptake. "True, but only the

most seasoned riders. Once we came across a dragon

162 Dragonfiight

and a rider entombed together in solid rock. They . . .

were... very young." His eyes were bleak.

"I take the point," she assured him gravely. "That's

her fifth," she added, pointing toward Ramoth, who

was carrying her latest kill up to the bloody ledge.

"She'll work them off today, I assure you," F'lar re-

marked. He rose, brushing off his knees with sharp

slaps of his riding gloves. "Test her temper."

Lessa did so with a silent. Had enough? She gri-

maced at Ramoth's indignant rejection of the thought.

The queen went swooping down for a huge fowl,

rising in a flurry of gray, brown and white feathers.

"She's not as hungry as she's making you think, the

deceitful creature," P'lar chuckled and saw that Lessa

had reached the same conclusion. Her eyes were snap-

ping with vexation.

"When you've finished the bird, Ramoth, do let us

learn how to fly between," Lessa said aloud for F'lar's

benefit, "before our good Weyrieader changes his

mind."

Ramoth looked up from her gorging, turned her

head toward the two riders at the edge of the feeding

ground. Her eyes gleamed. She bent her head again

to her kill, but Lessa could sense the dragon would

obey.

It was cold aloft. Lessa was glad of the fur lining

in her riding gear, and the warmth of the great golden

neck which she bestrode. She decided not to think of

the absolute cold of between which she had experi-

enced only once. She glanced below on her right

where bronze Mnementh hovered, and she caught his

amused thought.

F'lar tells me to tell Ramoth to tell you to fix the

alignment of the Star Stone firmly in your mind as a

homing. Then, Mnementh went on amiably, we shall

fly down to the lake. You will return from between to

this exact point. Do you understand?

Lessa found herself grinning foolishly with anticipa-

tion and nodded vigorously. How much time was

saved because she could speak directly to the dragons!

Dragon flight 163

Ramoth made a disgruntled noise deep in her throat.

Lessa patted her reassuringly.

"Have you got the picture in your mind, dear one?"

she asked, and Ramoth again rumbled, less annoyed,

because she was catching Lessa's excitement.

Mnementh stroked the cold air with his wings,

greenish-brown in the sunlight, and curved down

gracefully toward the lake on the plateau below

Benden Weyr. His flight line took him very low over

the rim of the Weyr. From Lessa's angle, it looked

like a collision course. Ramoth followed closely in his

wake. Lessa caught her breath at the sight of the jag-

ged boulders just below Ramoth's wing tips.

•It was exhilarating, Lessa crowed to herself, doubly

stimulated by the elation that flowed back to her from

Ramoth.

Mnementh halted above the farthest shore of the

lake, and there, too, Ramoth came to hover.

Mnementh flashed the thought to Lessa that she

was to place the picture of where she wished to go

firmly in her mind and direct Ramoth to get there.

Lessa complied. The next instant the awesome,

bone-penetrating cold of black between enveloped

them. Before either she or Ramoth was aware of more

than that biting touch of cold and impregnable dark-

ness, they were above the Star Stone.

Lessa let out a cry of pure triumph.

It is extremely simple. Ramoth seemed disap-

pointed.

Mnementh reappeared beside and slightly below

them.

You are to return by the same route to the Lake,

he ordered, and before the thought had finished,

Ramoth took off.

Mnementh was beside them above the lake, fuming

with his own and F'lar's anger. You did not visualise

before transferring. Don't think a first successful trip

makes you perfect. You have no conception of the

dangers inherent in between. Never fail to picture

your arrival point again.

164 Dragonfiight

Lessa glanced down at F'lar. Even two wingspans

apart, she could see the vivid anger on his face, almost

feel the fury flashing from his eyes. And laced through

the wrath, a terrible sinking tearfulness for her safety

that was a more effective reprimand than his wrath.

Lessa's safety, she wondered bitterly, or Ramoth's?

You are to follow us, Mnementh was saying in a

calmer tone, rehearsing in your mind the two refer-

ence points you have already learned. We shall jump

to and from them this morning, gradually learning

other points around Benden.

They did. Flying as far away as Benden Hold itself,

nestled against the foothills above Benden Valley, the

Weyr Peak a far point against the noonday sky, Lessa

did not neglect to visualize a clearly detailed impres-

sion each time.

This was as marvelously exciting as she had hoped

it would be, Lessa confided to Ramoth. Ramoth re-

plied: yes, it was certainly preferable to the time-

consuming methods others had to use, but she didn't

think it was exciting at all to jump between from

Benden Weyr to Benden Hold and back to Benden

Weyr again. It was dull.

They had met with Mnementh above the Star Stone

again. The bronze dragon sent Lessa the message that

this was a very satisfactory initial session. They would

practice some distant jumping tomorrow.

Tomorrow, thought Lessa glumly, some emergency

will occur or our hard-working Weyrleader will de-

cide today's session constitutes keeping his promise

and that will be that.

There was one jump she could make between, from

anywhere on Pern, and not miss her mark.

She visualized Ruatha for Ramoth as seen from

the heights above the Hold ... to satisfy that require-

ment. To be scrupulously clear, Lessa projected the

pattern of the firepits. Before Fax invaded and she

had had to manipulate its decline, Ruatha had been

such a lovely, prosperous valley. She told Ramoth to

jump between.

Dragonflight 165

The cold was intense and seemed to last for many

heartbeats. Just as Lessa began to fear that she had

somehow lost them between, they exploded into the

air above the Hold. Elation filled her. That for F'lar

and his excessive caution! With Ramoth she could

jump anywhere! For there was the distinctive pattern

of Ruatha's fire-guttered heights. It was just before

dawn, the Breast Pass between Crom and Ruatha,

black cones against the lightening gray sky. Fleetingly

she noticed the absence of the Red Star that now

blazed in the dawn sky. And fleetingly she noticed a

difference in the air. Chill, yes, but not wintry ... the

air held that moist coolness of early spring.

Startled, she glanced downward, wondering if she

could have, for all her assurance, erred in some fash-

ion. But no, this was Ruath Hold. The Tower, the

inner Court, the aspect of the broad avenue leading

down to the crafthold were just as they should be.

Wisps of smoke from distant chimneys indicated peo-

ple were making ready for the day.

Ramoth caught the tenor of her insecurity and

began to press for an explanation.

This is Ruatha, Lessa replied stoutly. It can be no

other. Circle the heights. See, there are the ftrepit

lines I gave you. . . .

Lessa gasped, the coldness in her stomach freezing

her muscles.

Below her in the slowly lifting predawn gloom, she

saw the figures of many men toiling over the breast of

the cliff from the hills beyond Ruatha, men moving

with quiet stealth like criminals.

She ordered Ramoth to keep as still as possible in

the air so as not to direct their attention upward. The

dragon was curious but obedient.

Who would be attacking Ruatha? It seemed in-

credible. Lytol was, after all, a former dragonman

and had savagely repelled one attack already. Could

there possibly be a thought of aggression among the

Holds now that F'lar was Weyrleader? And what

T

166

Dragonflight

Dragonftight

167

Hold Lord would be foolish enough to mount a ter-

ritorial war in the winter?

No, not winter. The air was definitely springlike.

The men crept on, over the firepits to the edge of

the heights. Suddenly Lessa realized they were lowering

rope ladders over the face of the cliff, down toward

the open shutters of the Inner Hold.

Wildly she clutched at Ramoth's neck, certain of

what she saw.

This was the invader Fax, now dead nearly three

Turns—Fax and his men as they began their attack

on Ruatha nearly thirteen Turns ago.

Yes, there was the Tower guard, his face a white

blot turned toward the Cliff itself, watching. He had

been paid his bribe to stand silent this morning.

But the watch-wher, trained to give alarm for any

intrusion—why was it not trumpeting its warning?

Why was it silent?

Because, Ramoth informed her rider with calm

logic, it senses your presence as well as mine, so how

could the Hold be in danger?

No, No! Lessa moaned. What can I do now? How

can I wake them? Where is the girl I was? I was asleep,

and then I woke. I remember. I dashed from my

room. I was so scared. I went down the steps and

nearly fell. I knew I had to get to the watch-when's

kennel.... 7 knew....

Lessa clutched at Ramoth's neck for support as

past acts and mysteries became devastatingly clear.

She herself had warned herself, just as it was her

presence on the queen dragon that had kept the

watch-wher from giving alarm. For as she watched,

stunned and speechless, she saw the small, gray-robed

figure that could only be herself as a youngster, burst

from the Hold Hall door, race uncertainly down the

cold stone steps into the Court, and disappear into the

watch-wher's stinking den. Faintly she heard it crying

in piteous confusion.

Just as Lessa-the-girl reached that doubtful sanc-

tuary, Fax's invaders swooped into the open window

embrasures and began the slaughter of her sleeping

family.

"Back—back to the Star Stone!" Lessa cried. In her

wide and staring eyes she held the image of the guiding

rocks like a rudder for her sanity as well as Ramoth's

direction.

The intense cold acted as a restorative. And then

they were above the quiet, peaceful wintry Weyr as if

they had never paradoxically visited Ruatha.

F'lar and Mnementh were nowhere to be seen.

Ramoth, however, was unshaken by the experience.

She had only gone where she had been told to go and

had not quite understood that going where she had

been told to go had shocked Lessa. She suggested to

her rider that Mnementh had probably followed them

to Ruatha so if Lessa would give her the proper refer-

ences, she'd take her there. Ramoth's sensible attitude

was comforting.

Lessa carefully drew for Ramoth not the child's

memory of a long-vanished, idyllic Ruatha but her

more recent recollection of the Hold, gray, sullen, at

dawning, with a Red Star pulsing on the horizon.

And there they were again, hovering over the Val-

ley, the Hold below them on the right. The grasses

grew untended on the heights, clogging firepit and

brickwork; the scene showed all the deterioration she

had encouraged in her effort to thwart Fax of any

profit from conquering Ruath Hold

But, as she watched, vaguely disturbed, she saw a

figure emerge from the kitchen, saw the watch-wher

creep from its lair and follow the raggedly dressed

figure as far across the Court as the chain permitted.

She saw the figure ascend the Tower, gaze first east-

ward, then northeastward. This was still not Ruatha of

today and now! Lessa's mind reeled, disoriented. This

time she had come back to visit herself of three Turns

ago, to see the filthy drudge plotting revenge on Fax.

She felt the absolute cold of between as Ramoth

snatched them back, emerging once more above the

Star Stone. Lessa was shuddering, her eyes frantically

168 Dragonfiight

taking in the reassuring sight of the Weyr Bowl, hoping

she had not somehow shifted backward in time yet

again. Mnementh suddenly erupted into the air a few

lengths below and beyond Ramoth. Lessa greeted him

with a cry of intense relief.

Back to your weyr! There was no disguising the

white fury in Mnementh's tone. Lessa was too un-

nerved to respond in any way other than instant com-

pliance. Ramoth glided swiftly to their ledge, quickly

clearing the perch for Mnementh to land.

The rage on Plar's face as he leaped from Mne-

menth and advanced on Lessa brought her wits back

abruptly. She made no move to evade him as he

grabbed her shoulders and shook her violently.

"How dare you risk yourself and Ramoth? Why

must you defy me at every opportunity? Do you real-

ize what would happen to all Pern if we lost Ramoth?

Where did you go?" He was spitting with anger, punc-

tuating each question that tumbled from his Ups by

giving her a head-wrenching shake.

"Ruatha," she managed to say, trying to keep her-

self erect. She reached out to catch at his arms, but he

shook her again.

"Ruatha? We were there. You weren't. Where did

you go?"

"Ruatha!" Lessa cried louder, clutching at him

distractedly because he kept jerking her off balance.

She couldn't organize her thoughts with him jolting

her around.

She was at Ruatha, Mnementh said firmly.

We were there twice, Ramoth added.

As the dragons' calmer words penetrated F'lar's

fury, he stopped shaking Lessa. She hung limply in

his grasp, her hands weakly plucking at bis arms,

her eyes closed, her face gray. He picked her up and

strode rapidly into the queen's Weyr, the dragons fol-

lowing. He placed her upon the couch, wrapping her

tightly in the fur cover. He called down the service

shaft for the duty cook to send up hot klah.

"All right, what happened?" he demanded.

Dragonfiight 169

She didn't look at him, but he got a glimpse of her

haunted eyes. She blinked constantly as if she longed

to erase what she had just seen.

Finally she got herself somewhat under control and

said in a low, tired voice, "I did go to Ruatha. Only

... I went back to Ruatha."

"Back to Ruatha?" F'lar repeated the words

stupidly; the significance momentarily eluded him.

It certainly does, Mnementh agreed and flashed to

F'lar's mind the two scenes he had picked out of

Ramoth's memory.

Staggered by the import of the visualization, F'lar

found himself slowly sinking to the edge of the bed.

"You went between times?"

She nodded slowly. The terror was beginning to

leave her eyes.

"Between times," F'lar murmured. "I wonder . . ."

His mind raced through the possibilities. It might

well tip the scales of survival in the Weyr's favor. He

couldn't think exactly how to use this extraordinary

ability, but there must be an advantage in it for drag-

onfolk.

The service shaft rumbled. He took the pitcher from

the platform and poured two mugs.

Lessa's hands were shaking so much that she

couldn't get hers to her lips. He steadied it for her,

wondering if going between times would regularly

cause this kind of shock. If so, it wouldn't be any ad-

vantage at all. If she'd had enough of a scare this

day, she might not be so contemptuous of his orders

the next time; which would be to his benefit.

Outside in the weyr, Mnementh snorted his opinion

on that. F'lar ignored him.

Lessa was trembling violently now. He put an arm

around her, pressing the fur against her slender body.

He held the mug to her lips, forcing her to drink. He

could feel the tremors ease off. She took long, slow,

deep breaths between swallows, equally determined to

get herself under control. The moment he felt her

stiffen under his arm, he released her. He wondered

170 Dragonfiight

if Lessa had ever had someone to turn to. Certainly

not after Fax invaded her family Hold. She had been

only eleven, a child. Had hate and revenge been the

only emotions the growing girl had practiced?

She lowered the mug, cradling it in her hands care-

fully as if it had assumed some undefinable importance

to her.

"Now. Tell me," he ordered evenly.

She took a long deep breath and began to speak,

her hands tightening around the mug. Her inner turmoil

had not lessened; it was merely under control now.

"Ramoth and I were bored with the weyrling ex-

ercises," she admitted candidly.

Grimly F'lar recognized that, while the adventure

might have taught her to be more circumspect, it had

not scared her into obedience. He doubted that any-

thing would.

"I gave her the picture of Ruatha so we could go

between there." She did not look at him, but her

profile was outlined against the dark fur of the rug.

"The Ruatha I knew so well—I accidentally sent

myself backward in time to the day Fax invaded."

Her shock was now comprehensible to him.

"And . . ." he prompted her, his voice carefully

neutral.

"And I saw myself—" Her voice broke off. With an

effort she continued. "I had visualized for Ramoth the

designs of the firepits and the angle of the Hold if one

looked down from the pits into the Inner Court. That

was where we emerged. It was just dawn"—she lifted

her chin with a nervous jerk—"and there was no Red

Star in the sky." She gave him a quick, defensive look

as if she expected him to contest this detail. "And I

saw men creeping over the firepits, lowering rope lad-

ders to the top windows of the Hold. I saw the Tower

guard watching. Just watching." She clenched her

teeth at such treachery, and her eyes gleamed ma-

levolently. "And I saw myself run from the Hall into

the watch-wher's lair. And do you know why"—her

Dragonfiight 171

voice lowered to a bitter whisper—"the watch-wher

did not alarm the Hold?"

"Why?"

"Because there was a dragon in the sky, and /,

Lessa of Ruatha, was on her." She flung the mug from

her as if she wished she could reject the knowledge,

too. "Because I was there, the watch-wher did not

alarm the Hold, thinking the intrusion legitimate,

with one of the Blood on a dragon in the sky. So I"

—her body grew rigid, her hands clasped so tightly

that the knuckles were white—"/ was the cause of

my family's massacre. Not Fax! If I had not acted the

captious fool today, I would not have been there

with Ramoth and the watch-wher would—"

Her voice had risen to an hysterical pitch of re-

crimination. He slapped her sharply across the

cheeks, grabbing her, robe and all, to shake her.

The stunned look in her eyes and the tragedy in her

face alarmed him. His indignation over her willful-

ness disappeared. Her unruly independence of mind

and spirit attracted him as much as her curious dark

beauty. Infuriating as her fractious ways might be,

they were too vital a part of her integrity to be exor-

cised. Her indomitable will had taken a grievous

shock today, and her self-confidence had better be

restored quickly.

"On the contrary, Lessa," he said sternly, "Fax

would still have murdered your family. He had

planned it very carefully, even to scheduling his attack

on the morning when the Tower guard was one who

could be bribed. Remember, too, it was dawn and the

watch-wher, being a nocturnal beast, blind by day-

light, is relieved of responsibility at dawn and knows

it. Your presence, damnable as it may appear to you,

was not the deciding factor by any means. It did, and

I draw your attention to this very important fact,

cause you to save yourself, by warning Lessa-the-

child. Don't you see that?"

"I could have called out," she murmured, but the

172 Dragonflight

frantic look had left her eyes and there was a faint

hint of normal color in her lips.

"If you wish to flail around in guilt, go right

ahead," he said with deliberate callousness.

Ramoth interjected a thought that, since the two of

them had been there that previous time as Fax's men

had prepared to invade, it had already happened, so

how could it be changed? The act was inevitable both

that day and today. For how else could Lessa have

lived to come to the Weyr and impress Ramoth at

the hatching?

Mnementh relayed Ramoth's message scrupulously,

even to imitating Ramoth's egocentric nuances. F'lar

looked sharply at Lessa to see the effect of Ramoth's

astringent observation.

"Just like Ramoth to have the final word," she said

with a hint of her former droll humor.

F'lar felt the muscles along his neck and shoulders

begin to relax. She'd be all right, he decided, but it

might be wiser to make her talk it all out now, to put

the whole experience into proper perspective.

"You said you were there twice?" He leaned back

on the couch, watching her closely. "When was the

second time?"

"Can't you guess?" she asked sarcastically.

"No," he lied.

"When else but the dawn I was awakened, feeling

the Red Star was a menace to me? . . . Three days

before you and Fax came out of the northeast."

"It would seem," he remarked dryly, "that you

were your own premonition both times."

She nodded.

"Have you had any more of these presenti-

ments ... or should I say reinforced warnings?"

She shuddered but answered him with more of her

old spirit.

"No, but if I should, you go. I don't want to."

F'lar grinned maliciously.

"I would, however," she added, "like to know why

and how it could happen."

Dragonflight 173

"I've never run across a mention of it anywhere,"

he told her candidly. "Of course, if you have done it

—and you undeniably have," he assured her hastily

at her indignant protest, "it obviously can be done.

You say you thought of Ruatha, but you thought of it

as it was on that particular day. Certainly a day to be

remembered. You thought of spring, before dawn, no

Red Star—yes, I remember your mentioning that—so

one would have to remember references peculiar to

a significant day to return between times to the past."

She nodded slowly, thoughtfully.

"You used the same method the second time, to get

to the Ruatha of three Turns ago. Again, of course, it

was spring."

He rubbed his palms together, then brought his

hands down on his knees with an emphatic slap and

rose to his feet.

"I'll be back," he said and strode from the room,

ignoring her half-articulated cry of warning.

Ramoth was curling up in the Weyr as he passed

her. He noticed that her color remained good in spite

of the drain on her energies by the morning's exer-

cises. She glanced at him, her many-faceted eye al-

ready covered by the inner, protective lid.

Mnementh awaited his rider on the ledge, and the

moment F'lar leaped to his neck, took off. He circled

upward, hovering above the Star Stone.

You wish to try Lessa's trick, Mnementh said, un-

perturbed by the prospective experiment.

F'lar stroked the great curved neck affectionately.

You understand how it worked for Ramoth and

Lessa?

As well as anyone can, Mnementh replied with the

approximation of a shrug. When did you have

in mind?

Before that moment F'lar had had no idea. Now,

unerringly, his thoughts drew him backward to the

summer day R'gul's bronze Hath had flown to mate

the grotesque Nemorth, and R'gul had become Weyr-

leader in place of his dead father, F'lon.

174 DragonjKght

Only the cold of between gave them any indication

that they had transferred; they were still hovering

above the Star Stone. F'lar wondered if they had

missed some essential part of the transfer. Then he

realized that the sun was in another quarter of the sky

and the air was warm and sweet with summer. The

Weyr below was empty; there were no dragons sun-

ning themselves on the ledges, no women busy at

tasks in the Bowl. Noises impinged on his senses: rau-

cous laughter, yells, shrieks, and a soft crooning noise

that dominated the bedlam.

Then, from the direction of the weyrling barracks

in the Lower Caverns, two figures emerged—a strip-

ling and a young bronze dragon. The boy's arm lay

limply along the beast's neck. The impression that

reached the hovering observers was one of utter de-

jection. The two halted by the lake, the boy peering

into the unruffled blue waters, then glancing upward

toward the queen's weyr.

F'lar knew the boy for himself, and compassion

for that younger self filled him. If only he could re-

assure that boy, so torn by grief, so filled with resent-

ment, that he would one day become Weyrleader. . . .

Abruptly, startled by his own thoughts, he ordered

Mnementh to transfer back. The utter cold of be-

tween was like a slap in his face, replaced almost

instantly as they broke out of between into the cold of

normal winter.

Slowly, Mnementh flew back down to the queen's

weyr, as sobered as F'lar by what they had seen.

Count three months and more,

And five heated weeks,

A day of glory and

In a month, who seeks?

Rise high in glory,

Bronze and gold.

Dive entwined,

Enhance the Hold.

A strand of silver

In the sky . . .

With heat, all quickens

And all times fly.

"I DON'T KNOW why you insisted that F'nor unearth

these ridiculous things from Ista Weyr," Lessa ex-

claimed in a tone of exasperation. "They consist of

nothing but trivial notes on how many measures of

grain were used to bake daily bread."

F'lar glanced up at her from the Records he was

studying. He sighed, leaned back in his chair in

a bone-popping stretch.

"And I used to think," Lessa said with a rueful

expression on her vivid, narrow face, "that those ven-

erable Records would hold the total sum of all drag-

onlore and human wisdom. Or so I was led to

believe," she added pointedly.

F'lar chuckled. "They do, but you have to disinter

it."

Lessa wrinkled her nose. "Phew. They smell as if

we had . . . and the only decent thing to do would be

to rebury them."

"Which is another item I'm hoping to find ... the

175

176 Dragonflight

old preservative technique that kept the skins from

hardening and smelling."

"It's stupid, anyhow, to use skins for recording.

There ought to be something better. We have become,

dear Weyrieader, entirely too hidebound."

While F'lar roared with appreciation of her pun,

she regarded him impatiently. Suddenly she jumped

up, fired by another of her mercurial moods.

"Well, you won't find it. You won't find the facts

you're looking for. Because I know what you're

really after, and it isn't recorded!"

"Explain yourself."

"It's time we stopped hiding a rather brutal truth

from ourselves."

"Which is?"

"Our mutual feeling that the Red Star is a menace

and that the Threads will come! We decided that out

of pure conceit and then went back between times to

particularly crucial points in our lives and strength-

ened that notion, in our earlier selves. And for you, it

was when you decided you were destined"—her voice

made the word mocking—"to become Weyrieader one

day."

"Could it be," she went on scornfully, "that our

ultraconservative R'gul has the right of it? That there

have been no Threads for four hundred Turns be-

cause there are no more? And that the reason we have

so few dragons is because the dragons sense they are

no longer essential to Pern? That we are anachronisms

as well as parasites?"

F'lar did not know how long he sat looking up at

her bitter face or how long it took him to find answers

to her probing questions.

"Anything is possible, Weyrwoman," he heard his

voice replying calmly. "Including the unlikely fact that

an eleven-year-old child, scared stiff, could plot re-

venge on her family's murderer and—against all odds

—succeed."

She took an involuntary step forward, struck by his

unexpected rebuttal. She listened intently.

Dmgonftight 177

"I prefer to believe," he went on inexorably, "that

there is more to life than raising dragons and playing

spring games. That is not enough for me. And I have

made others look further, beyond self-interest and

comfort. I have given them a purpose, a discipline.

Everyone, dragonfolk and Holder alike, profits.

"I am not looking in these Records for reassurance.

I'm looking for solid facts.

"I can prove, Weyrwoman, that there have been

Threads. I can prove that there have been Intervals

during which the Weyrs have declined. I can prove

that if you sight the Red Star directly bracketed by the

Eye Rock at the moment of winter solstice, the Red

Star will pass close enough to Pern to throw on

Threads. Since I can prove those facts, I believe Pern

is in danger. / believe . . . not the youngster of fifteen

Turns ago. F'lar, the bronze rider, the Weyrieader,

believes it!"

He saw her eyes reflecting shadowy doubts, but he

sensed his arguments were beginning to reassure her.

"You felt constrained to believe in me once be-

fore," he went on in a milder voice, "when I suggested

that you could be Weyrwoman. You believed me

and . . ." He made a gesture around the weyr as sub-

stantiation.

She gave him a weak, humorless smile.

"That was because I had never planned what to

do with my life once I did have Fax lying dead at my

feet. Of course, being Ramoth's Weyrmate is wonder-

ful, but"—she frowned slightly— "it isn't enough

anymore, either. That's why I wanted so to learn to

fly and..."

". . . that's how this argument started in the first

place," F'lar finished for her with a sardonic smile.

He leaned across the table urgently.

"Believe with me, Lessa, until you have cause not

to. I respect your doubts. There's nothing wrong in

doubting. It sometimes leads to greater faith. But be-

lieve with me until spring. If the Threads have not

fallen by then ..." He shrugged fatalistically.

178 Dragonfiight

She looked at him for a long moment and then in-

clined her head slowly in agreement.

He tried to suppress the relief he felt at her deci-

sion. Lessa, as Fax had discovered, was a ruthless ad-

versary and a canny advocate. Besides these, she was

Weyrwoman: essential to his plans.

"Now, let's get back to the contemplation of trivia.

They do tell me, you know, time, place, and duration

of Thread incursions," he grinned up at her reassur-

ingly. "And those facts I must have to make up my

timetable."

"Timetable? But you said you didn't know the

time."

"Now the day to the second when the Threads may

spin down. For one thing, while the weather holds so

unusually cold for this time of year, the Threads sim-

ply turn brittle and blow away like dust. They're

harmless. However, when the air is warm, they are

viable and . . . deadly." He made fists of both hands,

placing one above and to one side of the other. "The

Red Star is my right hand, my left is Pem. The Red

Star turns very fast and in the opposite direction from

us. It also wobbles erratically."

"How do you know that?"

"Diagram on the walls of the Fort Weyr Hatching

Ground. That was the very first Weyr, you know."

Lessa smiled sourly. "I know."

"So, when the Star makes a pass, the Threads spin

off, down toward us, in attacks that last six hours and

occur approximately fourteen hours apart."

"Attacks last six hours?"

He nodded gravely.

"When the Red Star is closest to us. Right now it

is just beginning its Pass."

She frowned.

He rummaged among the skin sheets on the

table, and an object dropped to the stone floor with a

metallic clatter.

Curious, Lessa bent to pick it up, turning the thin

sheet over in her hands.

Dragonfiight 179

"What's this?" She ran an exploratory finger lightly

across the irregular design on one side.

"I don't know. F'nor brought it back from Fort

Weyr. It was nailed to one of the chests in which the

Records had been stored. He brought it along, think-

ing it might be important. Said there was a plate like it

just under the Red Star diagram on the wall of the

Hatching Ground."

"This first part is plain enough: 'Mother's father's

father, who departed for all time between, said this

was the key to the mystery, and it came to him while

doodling: he said that he said: ARRHENIUS?

EUREKA! MYCORRHIZA. . . .' Of course, that part

doesn't make any sense at all," Lessa snorted. "It isn't

even Pemese—just babbling, those last three words."

"I've studied it, Lessa," F'lar replied, glancing at it

again and tipping it toward him to reaffirm his con-

clusions. "The only way to depart for all time between

is to die, right? People just don't fly away on their

own, obviously. So it is a death vision, dutifully re-

corded by a grandchild, who couldn't spell very well

either. 'Doodling' as the present tense of dying!" He

smiled indulgently. "And as for the rest of it, after the

nonsense—like most death visions, it 'explains' what

everyone has always known. Read on."

" 'Flamethrowing fire lizards to wipe out the spores.

Q.E.D.'?"

"No help there, either. Obviously just a primitive

rejoicing that he is a dragonman, who didn't even

know the right word for Threads." F'lar's shrug was

expressive.

Lessa wet one fingertip to see if the patterns were

inked on. The metal was shiny enough for a good

mirror if she could get rid of the designs. However,

the patterns remained smooth and precise.

"Primitive or no, they had a more permanent way

of recording their visions that is superior to even the

well-preserved skins," she murmured.

"Well-preserved babblings," F'lar said, turning

180 Dragon^ight

back to the skins he was checking for understandable

data.

"A badly scored ballad?" Lessa wondered and then

dismissed the whole thing. "The design isn't even

pretty."

F'lar pulled forward a chart that showed overlap-

ping horizontal bands imposed on the projection of

Pern's continental mass.

"Here," he said, "this represents waves of attack,

and this one"—he pulled forward the second map

with vertical bandings—"shows time zones. So you

can see that with a fourteen-hour break only certain

parts of Pem are affected in each attack. One reason

for spacing of the Weyrs."

"Six full Weyrs," she murmured, "close to three

thousand dragons."

"I'm aware of the statistics," he replied in a voice

devoid of expression. "It meant no one Weyr was

overburdened during the height of the attacks, not

that three thousand beasts must be available. How-

ever, with these timetables, we can manage until

Ramoth's first clutches have matured."

She turned a cynical look on him. "You've a lot of

faith in one queen's capacity."

He waved that remark aside impatiently. 'Tve

more faith, no matter what your opinion is, in

the startling repetitions of events in these Records."

"Ha!"

"I don't mean how many measures for daily bread,

Lessa," he retorted, his voice rising. "I mean such

things as the time such and such a wing was sent out

on patrol, how long the patrol lasted, how many

riders were hurt. The brooding capacities of queens,

during the fifty years a Pass lasts and the Intervals be-

tween such Passes. Yes, it tells that. By all I've

studied here," and he pounded emphatically on the

nearest stack of dusty, smelly skins, "Nemorth should

have been mating twice a Turn for the last ten. Had

she even kept to her paltry twelve a clutch, we'd

have two hundred and forty more beasts. . . . Don't

Dragonflight 181

interrupt. But we had Jora as Weyrwoman and R'gul

as Weyrieader, and we had fallen into planet-wide

disfavor during a four hundred Turn Interval. Well,

Ramoth will brood over no measly dozen, and she'll

lay a queen egg, mark my words. She will rise often to

mate and lay generously. By the time the Red Star is

passing closest to us and the attacks become frequent,

we'll be ready."

She stared at him, her eyes wide with incredulity.

"Out of Ramoth?"

"Out of Ramoth and out of the queens she'll lay.

Remember, there are Records of Faranth laying sixty

eggs at a time, including several queen eggs."

Lessa could only shake her head slowly in won-

der.

" 'A strand of silver/In the sky. . . . With heat, all

quickens/And all times fly,'" F'lar quoted to her.

"She's got weeks more to go before laying, and then

the eggs must hatch..."

"Been on the Hatching Ground recently? Wear

your boots. You'll be burned through sandals."

She dismissed that with a guttural noise. He sat

back, outwardly amused by her disbelief.

"And then you have to make Impression and wait

till the riders—" she went on.

"Why do you think I've insisted on older boys? The

dragons are mature long before their riders."

"Then the system is faulty."

He narrowed his eyes slightly, shaking the stylus at

her.

"Dragon tradition started out as a guide . . . but

there comes a time when man becomes too traditional,

too—what was it you said?—too hidebound? Yes, it's

traditional to use the weyrbred, because it's been con-

venient. And because this sensitivity to dragons

strengthens where both sire and dam are weyr-

bred. That doesn't mean weyrbred is best. You,

for example..."

"There's Weyrblood in the Ruathan line," she said

proudly.

182 Dragonflighi

"Granted. Take young Naton; he's craftbred from

Nabol, yet F'nor tells me he can make Canth under-

stand him."

"Oh, that's not hard to do," she interjected.

"What do you mean?" F'lar jumped on her state-

ment.

They were both interrupted by a high-pitched,

penetrating whine. F'lar listened intently for a mo-

ment and then shrugged, grinning.

"Some green's getting herself chased again."

"And that's another item these so-called all-

knowing Records of yours never mention. Why is it

that only the gold dragon can reproduce?"

F'lar did not suppress a lascivious chuckle.

"Well, for one thing, firestone inhibits reproduc-

tion. If they never chewed stone, a green could lay,

but at best they produce small beasts, and we need big

ones. And, for another thing"—his chuckle rolled out

as he went on deliberately, grinning mischievously—

"if the greens could reproduce, considering (heir am-

orousness and the numbers we have of them, we'd be

up to our ears in dragons in next to no time."

The first whine was joined by another, and then a

low hum throbbed as if carried by the stones of the

Weyr itself.

F'lar, his face changing rapidly from surprise to tri-

umphant astonishment, dashed up the passage.

"What's the matter?" Lessa demanded, picking up

her skirts to run after him. "What does that mean?"

The hum, resonating everywhere, was deafening in

the echo-chamber of the queen's weyr. Lessa reg-

istered the fact that Ramoth was gone. She heard

Flar's boots pounding down the passage to the ledge,

a sharp ta-ta-tat over the kettledrum booming hum.

The whine was so high-pitched now that it was in-

audible, but still nerve-racking. Disturbed, fright-

ened, Lessa followed F'lar out.

By (he time she reached the ledge, the Bowl was

a-whir with dragons on the wing, making for the high

entrance to the Hatching Ground. Weyrfolk, riders,

Dragonflight 183

women, children, all screaming with excitement, were

pouring across the Bowl to the lower entrance to the

Ground.

She caught sight of Flar, charging across to the en-

trance, and she shrieked at him to wait He couldn't

have heard her across the bedlam.

Fuming because she had the long stairs to descend,

then must double back as the stairs faced the feeding

grounds at the opposite end of the Bowl from the

Hatching Ground, Lessa realized that she, the

Weyrwoman, would be the last one there.

Why had Ramoth decided to be secretive about lay-

ing? Wasn't she close enough to her own weyrmate to

want her with her?

A dragon knows what to do, Ramoth calmly in-

formed Lessa.

You could have told me, Lessa wailed, feeling

much abused.

Why, at the time F'lar had been going on largely

about huge clutches and three thousand beasts, that

infuriating dragon-child had been doing it!

It didn't improve Lessa's temper to have to recall

another remark of F'lar's—on the state of the Hatch-

ing Grounds. The moment she stepped into the

mountain-high cavern, she felt the heat through the

soles of her sandals. Everyone was crowded in a

loose circle around the far end of the cavern. And

everyone was swaying from foot to foot. As Lessa was

short to begin with, this only decreased the likelihood

of her ever seeing what Ramoth had done.

"Let me through!" she demanded imperiously,

pounding on the wide backs of two tall riders.

An aisle was reluctantly opened for her, and she

went through, looking neither to her right or left at

the excited weyrfolk. She was furious, confused, hurt,

and knew she looked ridiculous because the hot sand

made her walk with a curious mincing quickstep.

She halted, stunned and wide-eyed at the mass of

eggs, and forgot such trivial things as hot feet.

Ramoth was curled around the clutch, looking

184 DragonfiigU

enormously pleased with herself. She, too, kept shift-

ing, closing and opening a protective wing over her

eggs, so that it was difficult to count them.

No one will steal them, silly, so stop fluttering,

Lessa advised as she tried to make a tally.

Obediently Ramoth folded her wings. To relieve

her maternal anxiety, however, she snaked her head

out across the circle of mottled, glowing eggs, looking

all around the cavern, flicking her forked tongue in

and out

An immense sigh, like a gust of wind, swept

through the cavern. For there, now that Ramoth's

wings were furled, gleamed an egg of glowing gold

among the mottled ones. A queen egg!

"A queen egg!" The cry went up simultaneously

from half a hundred throats. The Hatching Ground

rang with cheers, yells, screams, and howls of exulta-

tion.

Someone seized Lessa and swung her around in an

excess of feeling. A kiss landed in the vicinity of her

mouth. No sooner did she recover her footing than

she was hugged by someone else—she thought it was

Manora—and then pounded and buffeted around in

congratulation until she was reeling in a kind of dance

between avoiding the celebrants and easing the grow-

ing discomfort of her feet.

She broke from the milling revelers and ran across

the Ground to Ramoth. Lessa came to a sudden stop

before the eggs. They seemed to be pulsing. The

shells looked flaccid. She could have sworn they were

hard the day she Impressed Ramoth. She wanted to

touch one, just to make sure, but dared not.

You may, Ramoth assured her condescendingly.

She touched Lessa's shoulder gently with her tongue.

The egg was soft to touch and Lessa drew her hand

back quickly, afraid of doing injury.

The heat will harden it, Ramoth said.

"Ramoth, I'm so proud of you," Lessa sighed, look-

ing adoringly up at the great eyes that shone in rain-

bows of pride. "You are the most marvelous queen

Dragon-flight 185

ever. I do believe you will redragon all the Weyrs. I

do believe you will."

Ramoth inclined her head regally, then began to

sway it from side to side over the eggs, protectingly.

She began to hiss suddenly, raising from her crouch,

beating the air with her wings, before settling back

into the sands to lay yet another egg.

The weyrfolk, uncomfortable on the hot sands,

were beginning to leave the Hatching Ground now

that they had paid tribute to the arrival of the golden

egg. A queen took several days to complete her clutch

so there was no point to waiting. Seven eggs already

lay beside the important golden one, and if there were

seven already, this augured well for the eventual total.

Wagers were being made and taken even as Ramoth

produced her ninth mottled egg.

"Just as I predicted, a queen egg, by the mother of

us all," F'lar's voice said in Lessa's ear. "And I'll

wager there'll be ten bronzes at least."

She looked up at him, completely in harmony with

the Weyrieader at this moment. She was conscious

now of Mnementh, crouching proudly on a ledge, gaz-

ing fondly at his mate. Impulsively Lessa laid her

hand on PIar's arm.

"Flar, I do believe you."

"Only now?" F'lar teased her, but his smile was

wide and his eyes proud.

Weynnan, watch; Weynnan, leam

Something new in every Turn,

Oldest may be coldest, too.

Sense the right; find the true!

IF PLAR'S orders over the next months caused no

end of discussion and muttering among the weyr-

folk, they seemed to Lessa to be only the logical out-

comes of their discussion after Ramoth had finished

laying her gratifying total of forty-one eggs.

Plar discarded tradition right and left, treading on

more than R'gul's conservative toes.

Out of perverse distaste for outworn doctrines

against which she herself had chafed during R'gul's

leadership, and out of respect for F'lar's intelligence,

Lessa backed him completely. She might not have

respected her earlier promise to him that she would

believe with him until spring if she had not seen his

predictions come true, one after another. These were

based, however, not on the premonitions she no

longer trusted after her experience between times,

but on recorded facts.

As soon as the eggshells hardened and Ramoth had

rolled her special queen egg to one side of the mottled

clutch for attentive brooding, F'lar brought the pro-

spective riders into the Hatching Ground. Tradition-

Dragonftight 187

ally the candidates saw the eggs for the first time on

the day of Impression. To this precedent F'lar added

others: very few of the sixty-odd were weyrbred, and

most of them were in their late teens. The candidates

were to get used to the eggs, touch them, caress

them, be comfortable with the notion that out of

these eggs young dragons would hatch, eager and wait-

ing to be Impressed. F'lar felt that such a practice

might cut down on casualties during Impression when

the boys were simply too scared to move out of the

way of the awkward dragonets.

F'lar also had Lessa persuade Ramoth to let Kylara

near her precious golden egg. Kylara readily enough

weaned her son and spent hours, with Lessa acting as

her tutor, beside the golden egg. Despite Kylara's

loose attachment to T'bor, she showed an open pre-

ference for F'lar's company. Therefore, Lessa took

great pains to foster F'lar's plan for Kylara since

it meant her removal, with the new-hatched queen, to

Fort Weyr.

F'lar's use of the Hold-bom as riders served an

additional purpose. Shortly before the actual Hatching

and Impression, Lytol, the Warder appointed at Ruath

Hold, sent another message.

"The man positively delights in sending bad news,"

Lessa remarked as F'lar passed the message skin to

her.

"He's gloomy," F'nor agreed. He had brought the

message. "I feel sorry for that youngster cooped

up with such a pessimist."

Lessa frowned at the brown rider. She still found

distasteful any mention of Gemma's son, now Lord of

her ancestral Hold. Yet ... as she had inadvertently

caused his mother's death and she could not be Weyr-

woman and Lady Holder at the same time, it

was fitting that Gemma's Jaxom be Lord at Ruatha.

"I, however," F'lar said, "am grateful for his warn-

ings. I suspected Meron would cause trouble again."

"He has shifty eyes, like Fax's," Lessa remarked.

"Shifty-eyed or not, he's dangerous," P'lar an-

188 Dragonflighi

swered. "And I cannot have him spreading rumors

that we are deliberately choosing men of the Blood to

weaken Family Lines."

"There are more craftsmen's sons than Holders'

boys, in any case," F'nor snorted.

"I don't like him questioning that the Threads

have not appeared," Lessa said gloomily.

F'lar shrugged. "They'll appear in due time. Be

thankful the weather has continued cold. When the

weather warms up and still no Threads appear, then

I will worry." He grinned at Lessa in an intimate re-

minder of her promise.

F'nor cleared his throat hastily and looked away.

"However," the Weyrleader went on briskly, "I

can do something about the other accusation."

So, when it was apparent that the eggs were about

to hatch, he broke another long-standing tradition and

sent riders to fetch the fathers of the young candidates

from craft and Hold.

The great Hatching Cavern gave the appearance

of being almost full as Holder and Weyrfolk watched

from the tiers above the heated Ground. This time,

Lessa observed, there was no aura of fear. The youth-

ful candidates were tense, yes, but not frightened out

of their wits by the rocking, shattering eggs. When the

ill-coordinated dragonets awkwardly stumbled—it

seemed to Lessa that they deliberately looked around

at the eager faces as though pre-Impressed—the

youths either stepped to one side or eagerly advanced

as a crooning dragonet made his choice. The Impres-

sions were made quickly and with no accidents. All

too soon, Lessa thought, the triumphant procession of

stumbling dragons and proud new riders moved er-

ratically out of the Hatching Ground to the barracks.

The young queen burst from her shell and moved

unerringly for Kylara, standing confidently on the hot

sands. The watching beasts hummed their approval.

"It was over too soon," Lessa said in a disap-

pointed voice that evening to Flar.

He laughed indulgently, allowing himself a rare

Dragonftighi 189

evening of relaxation now that another step had gone

as planned. The Holder folk had been ridden home,

stunned, dazed, and themselves impressed by the

Weyr and the Weyrleader.

"That's because you were watching this time," he

remarked, brushing a lock of her hair back. It ob-

scured his view of her profile. He chuckled again.

"YouTI notice Naton..."

"N'ton," she corrected him.

"All right, N'ton—Impressed a bronze."

"Just as you predicted," she said with some as-

perity.

"And Kylara is Weyrwoman for Pridith."

Lessa did not comment on that, and she did her best

to ignore his laughter.

"I wonder which bronze will fly her," he murmured

softly.

"It had better be Tbor's Orth," Lessa said,

bridling.

He answered her the only way a wise man could.

Crack dust, blackdust,

Turn in freezing air.

Waste dust, spacedust,

From Red Star bare.

LESSA WOKE abruptly, her head aching, her eyes

blurred, her mouth dry. She had the immediate mem-

ory of a terrible nightmare that, just as quickly, es-

caped recall. She brushed her hair out of her face and

was surprised to find that she had been sweating

heavily.

"F'lar?" she called in an uncertain voice. He had

evidently risen early. "F'lar," she called again, louder.

He's coming, Mnementh informed her. Lessa sensed

that the dragon was just landing on the ledge. She

touched Ramoth and found that the queen, too, had

been bothered by formless, frightening dreams. The

dragon roused briefly and then fell back into deeper

sleep.

Disturbed by her vague fears, Lessa rose and

dressed, forgoing a bath for the first time since she had

arrived at the Weyr.

She called down the shaft for breakfast, then plaited

her hair with deft fingers as she waited.

Dragonfiighi 191

The tray appeared on the shaft platform just

as F'lar entered. He kept looking back over his shoul-

der at Ramoth.

"Whafs gotten into her?"

"Echoing my nightmare. I woke in a cold sweat."

"You were rieeping quietly enough when I left to

assign patrols. You know, at the rate those dragonets

are growing, they're already capable of limited flight

All they do is eat and sleep, and that's..."

",.. what makes a dragon grow," Lessa finished for

him and sipped thoughtfully at her steaming hot klah.

"You are going to be extra-careful about their drill

procedures, aren't you?"

"You mean to prevent an inadvertent flight be-

tween times? I certainly am," he assured her. "I don't

want bored dragonriders irresponsibly popping in and

out" He gave her a long, stem look.

"Well, it wasn't my fault no one taught me to fly

early enough," she replied in the sweet tone she used

when she was being especially malicious. "If I'd been

drilled from the day of Impression to the day of my

first flight, rd never have discovered that trick."

"True enough," he said solemnly.

"You know, Flar, if I discovered it, someone else

must have, and someone else may. If they haven't

already."

F'lar drank, making a face as the klah scalded his

tongue. "I don't know how to find out discreetly. We

would be foolish to think we were the first. It is, after

all, an inherent ability in dragons, or you would never

have been able to do it."

She frowned, took a quick breath, and then let it

go, shrugging.

"Go on," he encouraged her.

"Well, isn't it possible that our conviction about the

imminence of the Threads could stem from one of us

coming back when the Threads are actually falling? I

mean..."

"My dear girl, we have both analyzed every stray

thought and action—even your dream this morning

192 • Dragonfiight

upset you, although it was no doubt due to all the

wine you drank last night—until we wouldn't know

an honest presentiment if it walked up and slapped us

in the face."

"I can't dismiss the thought that this between times

ability is of crucial value," she said emphatically.

"That, my dear Weyrwoman, is an honest presenti-

ment."

"But why?"

"Not why," he corrected her cryptically. "When."

An idea stirred vaguely in the back of his mind. He

tried to nudge it out where he could mull it

over. Mnementh announced that F'nor was entering

the weyr.

"What's the matter with you?" F'lar demanded of

his half brother, for F'nor was choking and sputtering,

his face red with the paroxysm.

"Dust. . ." he coughed, slapping at his sleeves and

chest with his riding gloves. "Plenty of dust, but no

Threads," he said, describing a wide arc with one arm

as he fluttered his fingers suggestively. He brushed his

tight wher-hide pants, scowling as a fine black dust

drifted off.

F'lar felt every muscle in his body tense as he

watched the dust float to the floor.

"Where did you get so dusty?" he demanded.

F'nor regarded him with mild surprise. "Weather

patrol in Tillek. Entire north has been plagued with

dust storms lately. But what I came in for . . ." He

broke off, alarmed by F'lar's taut immobility.

"What's the matter with dust?" he asked in a baffled

voice.

F'lar pivoted on his heel and raced for the stairs to

the Record Room. Lessa was right behind bun, F'nor

belatedly trailing after.

"Tillek, you said?" F'lar barked at his wingsecond.

He was clearing the table of stacks for the four charts

he then laid out. "How long have these storms been go-

ing on? Why didn't you report them?"

Dragonflighi 193

"Report dust storms? You wanted to know about

warm air masses."

"How long have these storms been going on?.'*

F'lar's voice crackled.

"Close to a week."

"How close?"

"Six days ago the first storm was noticed in upper

Tillek. They have been reported in Bitra, Upper Tel-

gar, Crom, and the High Reaches," F'nor reported

tersely.

He glanced hopefully at Lessa but saw she, too,

was staring at the four unusual charts. He tried to see

why the horizontal and vertical strips had been super-

imposed on Pern's land mass, but the reason was be-

yond him.

F'lar was making hurried notations, pushing first

one map and then another away from him.

"Too involved to think straight, to see clearly, to

understand," the Weyrleader snarled to himself,

throwing down the stylus angrily.

"You did say only warm air masses," Fnor heard

himself saying humbly, aware that he had somehow

failed his Weyrleader.

F'lar shook his head impatiently.

"Not your fault, F'nor. Mine. I should have asked.

I knew it was good luck that the weather held so

cold." He put both hands on F'nor's shoulders, look-

ing directly into his eyes. "The Threads have been

falling," he announced gravely. "Falling into cold air,

freezing into bits to drift on the wind"—Flar imitated

F'nor's finger-fluttering—"as specks of black dust."

" 'Crack dust, blackdust,'" Lessa quoted. "In "The

Ballad of Moreta's Ride,' the chorus is all about black

dust."

"I don't need to be reminded of Moreta right

now," F'lar growled, bending to the maps. "She could

talk to any dragon in the Weyrs."

"But I can do that!" Lessa protested.

Slowly, as if he didn't quite credit his ears, F'lar

turned back to Lessa. "What did you just say?"

194

"I said I can talk to any dragon in the Weyr."

Still staring at her, blinking in utter astonishment,

F'lar sank down to the table top.

"How long," he managed to say, "have you had

this particular skill?"

Something in his tone, in his manner, caused Lessa

to flush and stammer like an erring weyrling.

"I ... I always could. Beginning with the watch-

wher at Ruatha." She gestured indecisively in

Ruatha's westerly direction. "And I talked to Mne-

menth at Ruatha. And . . . when I got here, I

could . . ." Her voice faltered at the accusing look in

F'lar's cold, hard eyes. Accusing and, worse, contemp-

tuous.

"I thought you had agreed to help me, to believe in

me?'

"I'm truly sorry, F'lar. It never occurred to me it

was of any use to anyone, but..."

F'lar exploded onto both feet, his eyes blazing with

aggravation.

"The one thing I could not figure out was how to

direct the wings and keep in contact with the Weyr

during an attack, how I was going to get reinforce-

ments and firestone in time. And you . . . you have

been sitting there, spitefully hiding the..."

"I am NOT spiteful," she screamed at him. "I

said I was sorry. I am. But you've a nasty, smug habit

of keeping your own counsel. How was I to know

you didn't have the same trick? You're F"lar, the

Weyrleader, you can do anything. Only you're just as

bad as R'gul because you never tell me half the

things I ought to know . .."

F'lar reached out and shook her until her angry

voice was stopped.

"Enough We can't waste time arguing like chil-

dren." Then his eyes widened, his jaw dropped.

"Waste time? That's it."

"Go between times?" Lessa gasped.

. "Between times!"

Dragonfiighi 195

Pnor was totally confused. "What are you two

talking about?"

"The Threads started falling at dawn in Nerat,"

F'lar said, his eyes bright, his manner decisive.

Pnor could feel his guts congealing with apprehen-

sion. At dawn in Nerat? Why, the rainforests would

be demolished. He could feel a surge of adrenalin

charging through his body at the thought of danger.

"So we're going back there, between times, and be

there when the Threads started falling, two hours ago.

F'nor, the dragons can go not only where we direct

them but when."

"Where? When?" F'nor repeated, bewildered. "That

could be dangerous."

"Yes, but today it will save Nerat. Now, Lessa,"

and F'lar gave her another shake, compounded of

pride and affection, "order out all the dragons, young,

old, any that can fly. Tell them to load themselves

down with firestone sacks. I don't know if you can talk

across time..."

"My dream this morning .. n

"Perhaps. But right now rouse the Weyr." He piv-

oted to Pnor. "If Threads are falling .. . were falling

... at Nerat at dawn, they'll be falling on Keroon and

Ista right now, because they are in that time pattern.

Take two wings to Keroon. Arouse the plains. Get

them to start the firepits blazing. Take some weyrlings

with you and send them on to Igen and Ista. Those

Holds are not in as immediate danger as Keroon. I'll

reinforce you as soon as I can. And . . . keep Canth

in touch with Lessa."

F'lar clapped his brother on the shoulder and sent

him off. The brown rider was too used to taking orders

to argue.

"Mnementh says R'gul is duty officer and R'gul

wants to know ..." Lessa began.

"C'mon, girl," F'lar said, his eyes brilliant with ex-

citement. He grabbed up his maps and propelled her

up the stairs.

They arrived in the weyr just as R'gul entered with

196 Dragonflight

T'sum. R'gul was muttering about this unusual sum-

mons.

"Hath told me to report," he complained. "Fine

thing when your own dragon ..."

"R'gul, T'sum, mount your wings. Arm them with

all the firestone they can carry, and assemble above

Star Stone. I'll join you in a few minutes. We go to

Nerat at dawn."

"Nerat? I'm watch officer, not patrol..."

"This is no patrol," F'lar cut him off.

"But, sir," T'sum interrupted, his eyes wide,

"Nerat's dawn was two hours ago, the same as ours."

"And that is when we are going to, brown riders."

The dragons, we have discovered, can go between

places temporally as well as geographically. At dawn

Threads fell at Nerat. We're going back, between

time, to sear them from the sky."

F'lar paid no attention to R'gul's stammered de-

mand for explanation. T'sum, however, grabbed up

firestone sacks and raced back to the ledge and his

waiting Munth.

"Go on, you old fool," Lessa told R'gul irascibly.

"The Threads are here. You were wrong. Now be a

dragonman! Or go between and stay there!"

Ramoth, awakened by the alarms, poked at R'gul

with her man-sized head, and the ex-Weyrleader

came out of his momentary shock. Without a word he

followed T'sum down the passageway.

F'lar had thrown on his heavy wher-hide tunic and

shoved on his riding boots.

"Lessa, be sure to send messages to all the Holds.

Now, this attack will stop about four hours from now.

So the farthest west it can reach will be Ista. But I

want every Hold and craft warned."

She nodded, her eyes intent on his face lest she

miss a word.

"Fortunately, the Star is just beginning its Pass, so

we won't have to worry about another attack for a

few days. I'll figure out the next one when I get back.

"Now, get Manora to organize her women. We'll

DragonfligTit 197

need pails of ointment. The dragons are going to be

laced, and that hurts. Most important, if something

goes wrong, you'll have to Wait till a bronze is at

least a year old to fly Ramoth..."

"No one's flying Ramoth but Mnementh," she cried,

her eyes sparkling fiercely.

F'lar crushed her against him, his mouth bruising

hers as if all her sweetness and strength must come

with him. He released her so abruptly that she stag-

gered back against Ramoth's lowered head. She clung

for a moment to her dragon, as much for support as

for reassurance.

That is, i} Mnementh can catch me, Ramoth

amended smugly.

Wheel and turn

Or bleed and burn.

Ply between,

Blue and green.

Soar, dive down,

Bronze and brown

Dragonmen must fly

When Threads are in the sky.

As F'LAR raced down the passageway to the ledge,

firesacks bumping against his thighs, he was suddenly

grateful for the tedious sweeping patrols over every

Hold and hollow of Pem. He could see Nerat clearly

in his mind's eye. He could see the many-petaled

vineflowers which were the distinguished feature of the

rainforest at this time of the year. Then: ivory blossoms

198 Dragonflight 199

would be glowing in the first beams of sunlight like

dragon eyes among the tall, wide-leaved plants.

Mnementh, his eyes flashing with excitement, hov-

ered skittishly over the ledge. F'lar vaulted to the

bronze neck.

The Weyr was seething with wings of all colors,

noisy with shouts and countercommands. The atmos-

phere was electric, but Flar could sense no panic in

that ordered confusion. Dragon and human bodies

oozed out of openings around the Bowl walls. Women

scurried across the floor from one Lower Cavern to

another. The children playing by the lake were sent to

gather wood for a fire. The weyrlings, supervised by

old C'gan, were forming outside their barracks. F'lar

looked up to the Peak and approved the tight forma-

tion of the wings assembled there in close flying order.

Another wing formed up as he watched. He recog-

nized brown Canth, Fnor on his neck, just as the en-

tire wing vanished.

He ordered Mnementh aloft. The wind was cold

and carried a hint of moisture. A late snow? This was

the time for it, if ever.

R'gul's wing and T'bor's fanned out on his left,

Tsum and D'nol on his right. He noted each dragon

was well-laden with sacks. Then he gave Mnementh

the visualization of the early spring rainforest in

Nerat, just before dawn, the vineflowers gleaming,

the sea breaking against the rocks of the High

Shoal. . ..

He felt the searing cold of between. And he felt a

stab of doubt. Was he injudicious, sending them all

possibly to" their deaths between times in this effort to

outtime the Threads at Nerat?

Then they were all there, in the crepuscular light

that promises day. The lush, fruity smells of the rain-

forest drifted up to them. Warm, too, and that was

frightening. He looked up and slightly to the north.

Pulsing with menace, the Red Star shone down.

The men had realized what had happened, their

voices raised in astonishment. Mnementh told F'lar

that the dragons were mildly surprised at their riders'

fuss.

"Listen to me, dragonriders," F'lar called, his voice

harsh and distorted in an effort to be heard by all. He

waited till the men had moved as close as possible. He

told Mnementh to pass the information on to each

dragon. Then he explained what they had done and

why. No one spoke, but there were many nerv-

ous looks exchanged across bright wings.

Crisply he ordered the dragonriders to fan out in a

staggered formation, keeping a distance of five wings'

spread up or down.

The sun came up.

Slanting across the sea, like an ever-thickening mist,

Threads were falling, silent, beautiful, treacherous. Sil-

very gray were those space-traversing spores, spin-

ning from hard frozen ovals into coarse filaments as

they penetrated the warm atmospheric envelope of

Pem. Less than mindless, they had been ejected from

their barren planet toward Pem, a hideous rain that

sought organic matter to nourish it into growth. One

Thread, sinking into fertile soil, would burrow deep,

propagating thousands in the warm earth, rendering it

into a black-dusted wasteland. The southern conti-

nent of Pern had already been sucked dry. The true

parasites of Pern were Threads.

A stifled roar from the throats of eighty men and

dragons broke the dawn air above Nerat's green

.heights—as if the Threads might hear this challenge,

P'lar mused.

As one, dragons swiveled their wedge-shaped heads

to their riders for firestone. Great jaws macerated the

hunks. The fragments were swallowed and more fire-

stone was demanded. Inside the beasts, acids churned

and the poisonous phosphines were readied. When

the dragons belched forth the gas, it would ignite in

the air into ravening flame to sear the Threads

from the sky. And burn them from the soil.

Dragon instinct took over the moment the Threads

began to fall above Nerat's shores.

200 Dragonftight

As much admiration as F'lar had always held for

his bronze companion, it achieved newer heights in

the next hours. Beating the air in great strokes, Mne-

menth soared with flaming breath to meet the down-

rushing menace. The fumes, swept back by the wind,

choked Flar until he thought to crouch low on the lea

side of the bronze neck. The dragon squealed as a

Thread flicked the tip of one wing. Instantly Flar and

he ducked into between, cold, calm, black. The frozen

Thread cracked off. In the flicker of an eye, they were

back to face the reality of Threads.

Around him F'lar saw dragons winking in and out

of between, flaming as they returned, diving, soaring.

As the attack continued and they drifted across Nerat,

P'lar began to recognize the pattern in the dragons*

instinctive evasion-attack movements. And in the

Threads. For, contrary to what he had gathered from

his study of the Records, the Threads fell in patches.

Not as rain will, in steady unbroken sheets, but like

flurries of snow, here, above, there, whipped to one

side suddenly. Never fluidly, despite the continuity

their name implied.

You could see a patch above you. Flaming, your

dragon would rise. You'd have the intense joy of seeing

the clump shrivel from bottom to top. Sometimes, a

patch would fall between riders. One dragon would

signal he would follow and, spouting flame, would dive

and sear.

Gradually the dragonriders worked their way over

the rainforests, so densely, so invitingly green. F'lar

refused to dwell on what just one live Thread burrow

would do to that lush land. He would send back a

low-flying patrol to quarter every foot. One Thread,

just one Thread, could put out the ivory eyes of every

luminous vineflower.

A dragon screamed somewhere to his left. Before

he could identify the beast, it had ducked between.

F'lar heard other cries of pain, from men as well as

dragons. He shut his ears and concentrated, as dragons

did, on the here-and-now. Would Mnementh re-

Dragonflight 201

member those piercing cries later? F'lar wished he

could forget them now.

He, F'lar, the bronze rider, felt suddenly superflu-

ous. It was the dragons who were fighting this en-

gagement. You encouraged your beast, comforted

him when the Threads burned, but you depended on

bis instinct and speed.

Hot fire dripped across F'lar's cheek, burrowing

like acid into his shoulder ... a cry of surprised

agony burst from F'lar's lips. Mnementh took them

to merciful between. The dragonman battled with

frantic hands at the Threads, felt them crumble in the

intense cold of between and break off. Revolted, he

slapped at injuries still afire. Back in Nerat's humid

air, the sting seemed to ease. Mnementh crooned com-

fortingly and then dove at a patch, breathing fire.

Shocked at self-consideration, F'lar hurriedly exam-

ined his mount's shoulder for telltale score marks.

7 duck very quickly, Mnementh told him and

veered away from a dangerously close clump of

Threads. A brown dragon followed them down and

burned them to ash.

It might have been moments, it might have been a

hundred hours later when F'lar looked down in sur-

prise at the sunlit sea. Threads now dropped harm-

lessly into the salty waters. Nerat was to the east of

him on his right, the rocky tip curling westward.

F'lar felt weariness in every muscle. In the excite-

ment of frenzied battle, he had forgotten the bloody

scores on cheek and shoulder. Now, as he and Mne-

menth glided slowly, the injuries ached and stung.

He flew Mnementh high and when they had

achieved sufficient altitude, they hovered. He could

see no Threads falling landward. Below him, the

dragons ranged, high and low, searching for any

sign of a burrow, alert for any suddenly toppling trees

or disturbed vegetation.

"Back to the Weyr," he ordered Mnementh with a

heavy sigh. He heard the bronze relay the command

even as he himself was taken between. He was

202 Dragonflight

so tired he did not even visualize where—much less,

when—relying on Mnementh's instinct to bring him

safely home through time and space.

Honor those the dragons heed,

In thought and favor, word and deed.

Worlds are lost or worlds are saved

From those dangers dragon-braved.

CRANING HER neck toward the Star Stone at Ben-

den Peak, Lessa watched from the ledge until she saw

the four wings disappear from view.

Sighing deeply to quiet her inner fears, Lessa raced

down the stairs to the floor of Benden Weyr. She no-

ticed that someone was building a fire by the lake and

that Manora was already ordering her women around,

her voice clear but calm.

Old C'gan had the weyrlings lined up. She caught

the envious eyes of the newest dragonriders at the

barracks windows. They'd have time enough to fly

a flaming dragon. From what Flar had intimated,

they'd have Turns.

She shuddered as she stepped up to the weyrlings

but managed to smile at them. She gave them their

orders and sent them off to warn the Holds, checking

Dragonftight 203

quickly with each dragon to be sure the rider

had given clear references. The Holds would shortly

be stirred up to a froth.

Canth told her that there were Threads at Keroon,

falling on the Keroon side of Nerat Bay. He told her

that F'nor did not think two wings were enough to pro-

tect the meadowlands.

Lessa stopped in her tracks, trying to think how

many wings were already out.

K'nefs wing is still here, Ramoth informed her. On

the Peak.

Lessa glanced up and saw bronze Piyanth spread

his wings in answer. She told him to get between to

Keroon, close to Nerat Bay. Obediently the entire

wing rose and then disappeared.

She turned with a sigh to say something to Manora

when a rush of wind and a vile stench almost over-

powered her. The air above the Weyr was full of

dragons. She was about to demand of Piyanth why he

hadn't gone to Keroon when she realized there were

far more beasts a-wing than K'net's twenty.

But you just left, she cried as she recognized the

unmistakable bulk of bronze Mnementh.

That was two hours ago for us, Mnementh said

with such weariness in his tone that Lessa closed her

eyes in sympathy.

Some dragons were gliding in fast. From their awk-

wardness it was evident that they were hurt.

As one, the women grabbed salve pots and clean

rags and beckoned the injured down. The numbing

ointment was smeared on score marks where wings

resembled black and red lace.

No matter how badly injured he might be, every

rider tended his beast first.

Lessa kept one eye on Mnementh, sure that F'lar

would not keep the huge bronze hovering like that if

he'd been hurt. She was helping T'sum with Munth's

cruelly pierced right wing when she realized the sky

above the Star Stone was empty.

She forced herself to finish with Munth before she

204 DragonfligKt

went to find the bronze and his rider. When she did

locate them, she also saw Kylara smearing salve on

F'lar's cheek and shoulder. She was advancing pur-

posefully across the sands toward the pair when

Canth's urgent plea reached her. She saw Mnementh's

head swing upward as he, too, caught the brown's

thought.

"F'lar, Canth says they need help," Lessa cried. She

didn't notice then that Kylara slipped away into the

busy crowd.

Flar wasn't badly hurt. She reassured herself about

that. Kylara had treated the wicked burns that seemed

to be shallow. Someone had found him another fur to

replace the tatters of the Thread-bared one. He

frowned—winced because the frown creased his burned

cheek. He gulped hurriedly at his klah.

Mnementh, what's the tally of able-bodied? Oh,

never mind, just get 'em aloft with a full load of fire-

stone.

"You're all right?" Lessa asked, a detaining hand

on his arm. He couldn't just go off like this, could he?

He smiled tiredly down at her, pressed his empty

mug into her hands, giving them a quick squeeze.

Then he vaulted to Mnementh's neck. Someone

handed him a heavy load of sacks.

Blue, green, brown, and bronze dragons lifted from

the Weyr Bowl in quick order. A trifle more than sixty

dragons hovered briefly above (he Weyr where eighty

had lingered so few minutes before.

So few dragons. So few riders. How long could they

take such toll?

Canth said Fnor needed more firestone.

She looked about anxiously. None of the weyrlings

were back yet from their messenger rounds. A dragon

was crooning plaintively, and she wheeled, but it

was only young Pridith, stumbling across the Weyr to

the feeding grounds, butting playfully at Kylara as

they walked. The only other dragons were injured or

—her eye fell on C'gan, emerging from the weyrling

barracks,

205

"C'gan, can you and Tagath get more firestone to

F'nor at Keroon?"

"Of course," the old blue rider assured her, his chest

lifting with pride, his eyes flashing. She hadn't thought

to send him anywhere, yet he had lived his life in

training for this emergency. He shouldn't be deprived

of a chance at it

She smiled her approval at his eagerness as

they piled heavy sacks on Tagath's neck. The old blue

dragon snorted and danced as if he were young and

strong again. She gave them the references Canth had

visualized to her.

She watched as the two blinked out above the Star

Stone.

/( isn't fair. They have all the fun, said Ramoth

peevishly. Lessa saw her sunning herself on the Weyr

ledge, preening her enormous wings.

"You chew firestone and you're reduced to a silly

green," Lessa told her Weynnate sharply. She was in-

wardly amused by the queen's disgruntled complaint

Lessa passed among the injured then. B'fol's dainty

green beauty moaned and tossed her head, unable to

bend one wing that had been threaded to bare carti-

lage. She'd be out for weeks, but she had the worst

injury among the dragons. Lessa looked quickly away

from the misery in B'fol's worried eyes.

As she did the rounds, she realized that more men

were injured than beasts. Two in R'gul's wing had

sustained serious head damages. One man might lose

an eye completely. Manora had dosed him uncon-

scious with numb-weed. Another man's arm had been

burned clear to the bone. Minor though most of the

wounds were, the tally dismayed Lessa. How many

more would be disabled at Keroon?

Out of one hundred and seventy-two dragons, fif-

teen already were out ot action, some only for a day

or two, however.

A thought struck Lessa. If riFton had actually

ridden Canth, maybe he could ride out on the next

dragonade on an injured man's beast, since there

206 Dragon flight

were more injured riders than dragons. Flar broke

traditions as he chose. Here was another one to set

aside—if the dragon was agreeable.

Presuming N'ton was not the only new rider able

to transfer to another beast, what good would such

flexibility do in the long run? F'lar had definitely said

the incursions would not be so frequent at first, when

the Red Star was just beginning its fifty-Tum-long

circling pass of Pem. How frequent was frequent? He

would know, but he wasn't here.

Well, he had been right this morning about the ap-

pearance of Threads at Nerat, so his exhaustive

study of those old Records had proved worthwhile.

No, that wasn't quite accurate. He had forgotten to

have the men alert for signs of black dust as well as

warming weather. As he had put the matter right by

going between times, she would graciously allow him

that minor error. But he did have an infuriating habit.

of guessing correctly. Lessa corrected herself again.

He didn't guess. He studied. He planned. He thought

and then he used common good sense. Like figuring

out where and when Threads would strike according

to entries in those smelly Records. Lessa began to feel

better about their future.

Now, if he would just make the riders leam to trust

their dragons' sure instinct in battle, they would keep

casualties down, too.

A shriek pierced air and ear as a blue dragon

emerged above the Star Stone.

Ramoth! Lessa screamed in an instinctive reaction,

hardly knowing why. The queen was a-wing before

the echo of her command had died. For the careen-

ing blue was obviously in grave trouble. He was trying

to brake his forward speed, yet one wing would not

function. His rider had slipped forward over the great

shoulder, precariously clinging to his dragon's neck

with one hand.

Lessa, her hands clapped over her mouth, watched

fearfully. There wasn't a sound in the Bowl but the

napping of Ramoth's immense wings. The queen rose

r

Dragonfiight 207

swiftly to position herself against the desperate blue,

lending him wing support on the crippled side.

The watchers gasped as the rider slipped, lost his

hold, and fell—landing on Ramoth's wide shoulders.

The blue dropped like a stone. Ramoth came to a

gentle stop near him, crouching low to allow the weyr-

folk to remove her passenger.

It was C"gan.

Lessa felt her stomach heave as she saw the ruin

(he Threads had made of the old harper's face. She

dropped beside him, pillowing his head in her lap. The

weyrfolk gathered in a respectful, silent circle.

Manora, her face, as always, serene, had tears in

her eyes. She knelt and placed her hand on the old

rider's heart. Concern flickered in her eyes as she

looked up at Lessa. Slowly she shook her head. Then,

setting her lips in a thin line, she began to apply the

numbing salve.

"Too toothless old to flame and too slow to get

between," C'gan mumbled, rolling his head from side

to side. 'Too old. But •Dragomnen must fly/ when

Threads are in the sky....'" His voice trailed off into

a sigh. His eyes closed.

Lessa and Manora looked at each other in anguish.

A terrible, ear-shattering note cut the silence. Tagath

sprang aloft in a tremendous leap. C'gan's eyes rolled

slowly open, sightless. Lessa, breath suspended,

watched the blue dragon, trying to deny the inevitable

as Tagath disappeared in mid-air.

A low moan sprang up around the Weyr, like the

torn, lonely cry of a keening wind. The dragons ut-

tered tribute.

"Is he ... gone?" Lessa asked, although she knew.

Manora nodded slowly, tears streaming down her

cheeks as she reached over to close C'gan's dead

eyes.

Lessa rose slowly to her feet, motioning to some of

the women to remove the old rider's body. Absently

she rubbed her bloody hands dry on her skirts, trying

to concentrate on what might be needed next.

208 Dragonfiight

Yet her mind turned back to what had just hap-

pened. A dragonrider had died. His dragon, too. The

Threads had claimed one pair already. How many

more would die this cruel Turn? How long could the

Weyr survive? Even after Ramoth's forty matured,

and the ones she soon would conceive, and her queen-

daughters, too?

Lessa walked apart to quiet her uncertainties and

ease her grief. She saw Ramoth wheel and glide aloft,

to land on the Peak. One day soon would Lessa see

those golden wings laced red and black from Thread

marks? Would Ramoth ... disappear?

No, Ramoth would not. Not while Lessa lived.

F'lar had told her long ago that she must learn to

look beyond the narrow confines of Hold Ruatha and

mere revenge. He was, as usual, right. As Weyr-

woman under his tutelage, she had further learned

that living was more than raising dragons and Spring

Games. Living was struggling to do something

impossible—to succeed, or die, knowing you had

tried!

Lessa realized that she had, at last, fully accepted

her role: as Weyrwoman and as mate, to help F'lar

shape men and events for many Turns to come—to

secure Pem against the Threads.

Lessa threw back her shoulders and lifted her chin

high.

Old C'gan had had the right of it.

Dragonmen must fly

When Threads are in the sky!

Worlds are lost or worlds are saved

By those dangers dragon'braved.

As FLAR had predicted, the attack ended by high

noon, and weary dragons and riders were welcomed

by Ramoth's high-pitched trumpeting from the Peak.

Once Lessa assured herself that F'lar had taken no

additional injury, that Fnor's were superficial and that

Manora was keeping Kylara busy in the kitchens, she

applied herself to organizing the care of the injured

and the comfort of the worried.

As dusk fell, an uneasy peace settled on the Weyr

—the quiet of minds and bodies too tired or too hurt-

ful to talk. Lessa's own words mocked her as she

made out the list of wounded men and beasts.

Twenty-eight men or dragons were out of the air for

the next Thread battle. C'gan was the only fatality,

but there had been four more seriously injured drag-

ons at Keroon and seven badly scored men, out of

action entirely for months to come.

Lessa crossed the Bowl to her Weyr, reluctant but

resigned to giving Flar this unsettling news.

She expected to find him in the sleeping room, but

209

210 Dragonfiight

it was vacant. Ramoth was asleep already as Lessa

passed her on the way to the Council Room—also

empty. Puzzled and a little alarmed, Lessa half-ran

down the steps to the Records Room, to find F'lar,

haggard of face, poring over musty skins.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded angrily.

"You ought to be asleep."

"So should you," he drawled, amused.

"I was helping Manora settle the wounded..."

"Each to his own craft." But he did lean back

from the table, rubbing his neck and rotating the un-

injured shoulder to ease stiffened muscles.

"I couldn't sleep," he admitted, "so I thought I'd

see what answers I might turn up in the Records."

"More answers? To what?" Lessa cried, exasper-

ated with him. As if the Records ever answered any-

thing. Obviously the tremendous responsibilities of

Pern's defense against the Threads were beginning to

tell on the Weyrleader. After all, there had been the

stress of the first battle, not to mention the drain of

the traveling between time itself to get to Nerat to

forestall the Threads.

F'lar grinned and beckoned Lessa to sit beside him

on the wall bench.

"I need the answer to the very pressing question of

how one understrength Weyr can do the fighting of

six."

Lessa fought the panic that rose, a cold flood, from

her guts.

"Oh, your time schedules will take care of that,"

she replied gallantly. "You'll be able to conserve the

dragon-power until the new forty can join the ranks."

F'lar raised a mocking eyebrow.

"Let us be honest between ourselves, Lessa."

"But there have been Long Intervals before," she

argued, "and since Pem survived them. Pern can

again."

"Before there were always six Weyrs. And twenty

or so Turns before the Red Star was due to begin its

Pass, the queens would start to produce enormous

Dragonfiighi 211

clutches. All the queens, not just one faithful golden

Ramoth. Oh, how I curse Joral" He slammed to his

feet and started pacing, irritably brushing the lock of

black hair that fell across his eyes.

Lessa was torn with the desire to comfort him and

the sinking, choking fear in her belly that made it

difficult to think at all.

"You were not so doubtful.. .**

He whirled back to her. "Not until I had actually

had an encounter with the Threads and reckoned up

the numbers of injuries. That sets the odds against us.

Even supposing we can mount other riders to unin-

jured dragons, we will be hard put to keep a con-

tinuously effective force in the air and still maintain a

ground guard." He caught her puzzled frown. "There's

Nerat to be gone over on foot tomorrow. I'd be a fool

indeed if I thought we'd caught and seared every

Thread in mid-air."

"Get the Holders to do that They can't just immure

themselves safely in their Inner Holds and let us do

all. If they hadn't been so miserly and stupid..."

He cut off her complaint with an abrupt gesture.

"They'll do their part all right," he assured her. "I'm

sending for a full Council tomorrow, all Hold Lords

and all Craftmasters. But there's more to it than just

marking where Threads fall. How do you destroy a

burrow that's gone deep under the surface? A dragon's

breath is fine for the air and surface work but no good

three feet down."

"Oh, I hadn't thought of that aspect. But the

firepits..."

". . . are only on the heights and around human

habitations, not on the meadowlands of Keroon or on

Nerat's so green rainforests."

This consideration was daunting indeed. She gave a

rueful little laugh.

"Shortsighted of me to suppose our dragons are all

poor Pem needs to dispatch the Threads. Yet . . ."

She shrugged expressively.

"There are other methods," Flar said, "or there

212 Dragonftight 213

were. There must have been. I have run across

frequent mention that the Holds were organizing

ground groups and that they were armed with fire.

What kind is never mentioned because it was so well-

known." He threw up his hands in disgust and sagged

back down on the bench. "Not even five hundred

dragons could have seared all the Threads that fell

today. Yet they managed to keep Pern Thread-free."

"Pem, yes, but wasn't the Southern Continent lost?

Or did they just have their hands too full with Pem

itself?"

"No one's bothered with the Southern Continent in

a hundred thousand Turns," F'lar snorted.

"It's on the maps," Lessa reminded him.

He scowled disgustedly at the Records, piled in un-

communicative stacks on the long table.

"The answer must be there. Somewhere."

There was an edge of desperation in his voice, the

hint that he held himself to blame for not having dis-

covered those elusive facts.

"Half those things couldn't be read by the man who

wrote them," Lessa said tartly. "Besides (hat, it's been

your own ideas that have helped us most so far. You

compiled the time maps, and look how valuable they

have been already."

"I'm getting too hidebound again, huh?" he asked,

a half smile tugging at one comer of his mouth.

"Undoubtedly," she assured him with more confi-

dence than she felt. "We both know the Records are

guilty of the most ridiculous omissions."

"Well said, Lessa. So let us forget these misguiding

and antiquated precepts and think up our own

guides. First, we need more dragons. Second, we need

them now. Third, we need something as effective as a

flaming dragon to destroy Threads which have bur-

rowed."

"Fourth, we need sleep, or we won't be able

to think of anything," she added with a touch of her

usual asperity.

F'lar laughed outright, hugging her.

"You've got your mind on one thing, haven't you?"

he teased, his hands caressing her eagerly.

She pushed ineffectually at him, trying to escape.

For a wounded, tired man, he was remarkably amo-

rous. One with that Kylara. Imagine that woman's

presumption, dressing his wounds.

"My responsibility as Weyrwoman includes care of

you, the Weyrleader."

"But you spend hours with blue dragonriders and

leave me to Kylara's tender ministrations."

"You didn't look as if you objected."

F'lar threw back his head and roared. "Should I

open Fort Weyr and send Kylara on?" he taunted

her.

"I'd as soon Kylara were Turns as well as

miles away from here," Lessa snapped, thoroughly

irritated.

F'lar's jaw dropped, his eyes widened. He leaped to

his feet with an astonished cry.

"You've said ill"

"Said what?"

"Turns away! That's it. We'll send Kylara back,

between times, with her queen and the new drag-

onets." F'lar excitedly paced the room while Lessa

tried to follow his reasoning. "No, I'd better send at

least one of the older bronzes. Fnor, too ... I'd rather

have F'nor in charge.... Discreetly, of course—"

"Send Kylara back . . . where to? When to?" Lessa

interrupted him.

"Good point." F'lar dragged out the ubiquitous

charts. "Very good point. Where can we send them

around here without causing anomalies by being pres-

ent at one of the other Weyrs? The High Reaches are

remote. No, we've found remains of fires there, you

know, still warm, and no inkling as to who built them

or why. And if we had already sent them back,

they'd've been ready for today, and they weren't. So

they can't have been in two places already. . . ." He

shook his head, dazed by the paradoxes.

214 Dragonfiight

Lessa's eyes were drawn to the blank outline of the

neglected Southern Continent.

"Send them there," she suggested sweetly, pointing.

"There's nothing there."

"They bring in what they need. There must be wa-

ter, for Threads can't devour that. We fly in whatever

else is needed, fodder for the berdbeasts, grain. . . ."

F'lar drew his brows together in concentration, his

eyes sparkling with thought, the depression and defeat

of a few moments ago forgotten.

"Threads wouldn't be there ten Turns ago. And

haven't been there for close to four hundred.

Ten Turns would give Pridith time to mature and have

several clutches. Maybe more queens."

Then he frowned and shook his head dubiously.

"No, there's no Weyr there. No Hatching Ground,

no ..."

"How do we know that?" Lessa caught him up

sharply, too delighted with many aspects of this project

to give it up easily. "The Records don't mention the

Southern Continent, true, but they omit a great deal.

How do we know it isn't green again in the four

hundred Turns since the Threads last spun? We do

know that Threads can't last long unless there is some-

thing organic on which to feed and that once they've

devoured all, they dry up and blow away."

F'lar looked at her admiringly. "Now, why hasn't

someone wondered about that before?"

"Too hidebound." Lessa wagged her finger at him.

"Besides, there's been no need to bother with it."

"Necessity—or is it jealousy?—hatches many a

tough shell." There was a smile of pure malice on his

face, and Lessa whirled away as he reached for her.

"The good of the Weyr," she retorted.

"Furthermore, I'll send you along with F'nor tomor-

row to look. Only fair, since it is your idea."

Lessa stood still. "You're not going?"

"I feel confident I can leave this project in your

very capable, interested hands." He laughed and

caught her against his uninjured side, smiling down at

Dragonfiight 215

her, his eyes glowing. "I must play ruthless Weyr-

leader and keep the Hold Lords from slamming shut

their Inner Doors. And I'm hoping"—he raised his

head, frowning slightly—"one of the Craftmasters

may know the solution to the third problem—getting

rid of Thread burrows."

"But..."

"The trip will give Ramoth something to stop her

fuming." He pressed the girl's slender body more

closely to him, his full attention at last on her odd,

delicate face. "Lessa, you are my fourth problem." He

bent to kiss her.

At the sound of hurried steps in the passageway,

F'lar scowled irritably, releasing her.

"At this hour?" he muttered, ready to reprove the

intruder scathingly. "Who goes there?"

"F'lar?" It was F'nor's voice, anxious, hoarse.

The look on F'lar's face told Lessa that not even his

half brother would be spared a reprimand, and it

pleased her irrationally. But the moment F'nor burst

into the room, both Weyrleader and Weyrwoman were

stunned silent. There was something subtly wrong with

the brown rider. And as the man blurted out his inco-

herent message, the difference suddenly registered in

Lessa's mind. He was tanned! He wore no bandages

and hadn't the slightest trace of the Thread-mark

along his cheek that she had tended this evening!

"F'lar, it's not working out! You can't be alive in

two times at once!" F'nor was exclaiming distractedly.

He staggered against the wall, grabbing the sheer rock

to hold himself upright. There were deep circles

under his eyes, visible despite the tan. "I don't know

how much longer we can last like this. We're all

affected. Some days not as badly as others."

"I don't understand."

"Your dragons are all right," F'nor assured the

Weyrleader with a bitter laugh. "It doesn't bother

them. They keep all they wits about them. But their

riders ... all the weyrfolk . . . we're shadows, half

alive, like dragonless men, part of us gone forever.

216

Except Kylara." His face contorted wilh intense dis-

like. "All she wants to do is go back and watch her-

self. The woman's egomania will destroy us all, I'm

afraid."

His eyes suddenly lost focus, and he swayed wildly.

His eyes widened, and his mouth fell open. "I can't

stay. I'm here already. Too close. Makes it twice as

bad. But I had to warn you. I promise, F'lar, we'll

stay as long as we can, but it won't be much

longer ... so it won't be long enough, but we tried.

We tried!"

Before Flar could move, the brown rider whirled

and ran, half-crouched, from the room.

"But he hasn't gone yetl" Lessa gasped. "He hasn't

even gone yetl"

PART IV

The Cold Between

FLAR stared after his half brother, his brows con-

tracting with the keen anxiety he felt

"What can have happened?" Lessa demanded of

the Weyrleader. "We haven't even told F'nor. We

ourselves just finished considering the idea." Her hand

flew to her own cheek. "And the Thread-mark—I

dressed it myself tonight—it's gone. Gone. So he's

been gone a long while." She sank down to the bench.

"However, he has come back. So he did go," F'lar

remarked slowly in a reflective tone of voice. "Yet

we now know the venture is not entirely successful

even before it begins. And knowing this, we have sent

him back ten Turns for whatever good it is doing."

F'lar paused thoughtfully. "Consequently we have no

alternative but to continue with the experiment."

"But what could be going wrong?"

"I think I know and there is no remedy." He sat

down beside her, his eyes intent on hers. "Lessa, you

were very upset when you got back from going be-

tween to Ruatha that first time. But I think now it was

more than just the shock of seeing Fax's men invading

your own Hold or in thinking your return might have

been responsible for that disaster. I think it has to do

217

218 Drflgonflight

with being in two times at once." He hesitated again,

trying to understand this immense new concept even

as he voiced it.

Lessa regarded him with such awe that he found

himself laughing with embarrassment.

"It's unnerving under any conditions," he went on,

"to think of returning and seeing a younger self."

"That must be what he meant about Kylara,"

Lessa gasped, "about her wanting to go back and

watch herself ... as a child. Oh, that wretched

girll" Lessa was filled with anger for Kylara's

self-absorption. "Wretched, selfish creature. She'll

ruin everything."

"Not yet," F'lar reminded her. "Look, although

Fnor warned us that the situation in his time is getting

desperate, he didn't tell us how much he was able to

accomplish. But you noticed that his scar had healed

to invisibility—consequently some Turns must have

elapsed. Even if Pridith lays only one good-sized

clutch, even if just the forty of Ramoth's are mature

enough to fight in three days' time, we have accom-

plished something. Therefore, Weyrwoman," and he

noticed how she straightened up at the sound of her

tide, "we must disregard Fnor's return. When you fly

to the Southern Continent tomorrow, make no allu-

sion to it. Do you understand?"

Lessa nodded gravely and then gave a little sigh. "I

don't know if I'm happy or disappointed to realize,

even before we get there tomorrow, that the Southern

Continent obviously will support a Weyr," she said

with dismay. "It was kind of exciting to wonder."

"Either way," F'lar told her with a sardonic smile,

"we have found only part of the answers to problems

one and two."

"Well, you'd better answer number four right

now!" Lessa suggested. "Decisivelyl"

Weaver, Miner, Harper, Smith,

Tanner, Farmer, Herdsman, Lord,

Gather, wingsped, listen well

To the Weyrman's urgent word.

THEY BOTH managed to guard against any refer-

ence to his premature return when they spoke to

F'nor the next morning. F'lar asked brown Canth to

send his rider to the queen's weyr as soon as he

awoke and was pleased to see F'nor almost immedi-

ately. If the brown rider noticed the curiously intent

stare Lessa gave his bandaged face, he gave no sign of

it. As a matter of fact, the moment F'lar outlined the

bold venture of scouting the Southern Continent with

the possibility of starting a Weyr ten Turns back in

time, F'nor forgot all about his wounds.

"I'll go willingly only if you send T'bor along

with Kylara. I'm not waiting till N'ton and his bronze

are big enough to take her on. T'bor and she

are as—" F'nor broke on with a grimace in Lessa's

direction. "Well, they're as near a pair as can be. I

don't object to being . . . importuned, but there are

limits to what a man is willing to do out of loyalty to

dragonkind."

F'lar barely managed to restrain the amusement he

felt over F'nor's reluctance. Kylara tried her wiles on

219

r

220

Dragonfiight

Dragonftight

221

every rider, and, because F'nor had not been

amenable, she was determined to succeed with him.

"I hope two bronzes are enough. Pridith may have a

mind of her own, come matingtime."

"You can't turn a brown into a bronzel" Fnor ex-

claimed with such dismay that F'lar could no longer

restrain himself.

"Oh, stop it!" And that touched off Lessa's laugh-

ter. "You're as bad a pair," F'nor snapped, getting to

his feet. "If we're going south, Weyrwoman, we'd bet-

ter get started. Particularly if we're going to give this

laughing maniac a chance to compose himself before

the solemn Lords descend. 111 get provisions from

Manors. Well, Lessa? Are you coming with me?"

Muffling her laughter, Lessa grabbed up her furred

flying cloak and followed him. At least the adventure

was starting off well.

Carrying the pitcher of klah and his cup, F'lar ad-

journed to the Council Room, debating whether to

tell the Lords and Craftmasters of this southern ven-

ture or not. The dragons' ability to fly between times

as well as places was not yet well-known. The Lords

might not realize it had been used the previous day to

forestall the Threads. If F'lar could be sure that pro-

ject was going to be successful—well, it would add an

optimistic note to the meeting.

Let the charts, with the waves and times of

the Thread attacks clearly visible, reassure the Lords.

The visitors were not long in assembling. Nor were

they all successful in hiding their apprehension and

the shock they had received now that Threads had

again spun down from the Red Star to menace all life

on Pem. This was going to be a difficult session, F'lar

decided grimly. He had a fleeting wish, which he

quickly suppressed, that he had gone with F'nor and

Lessa to the Southern Continent. Instead, he bent with

apparent industry to the charts before him.

Soon there were but two more to come, Meron of

Nabol (whom he would have liked not to include, for

the man was a troublemaker) and Lytol of Ruatba.

F'lar had sent for Lytol last because he did not wish

Lessa to encounter the man. She was still overly—

and, to his mind, foolishly—sensitive at having had to

resign her claim to Ruatha Hold for the Lady Gem-

ma's posthumous son. Lytol, as Warder of Ruatha,

had a place in this conference. The man was also an

ex-dragonman, and his return to the Weyr was painful

enough without Lessa's compounding it with her re-

sentment. Lytol was, with the exception of young

Larad of Telgar, the Weyr's most valuable ally.

S'lel came in with Meron a step behind him. The

Holder was furious at this summons; it showed in his

walk, in his eyes, in his haughty bearing. But he was

also as inquisitive as he was devious. He nodded only

to Larad among the Lords and took the seat left va-

cant for nun by Larad's side. Meron's manner made it

obvious that that place was too close to F'lar by half a

room.

The Weyrieader acknowledged S'lel's salute and

indicated the bronze rider should be seated. F'lar had

given thought to the seating arrangements in the

Council Room, carefully interspersing brown and

bronze dragonriders with Holders and Craftsmen.

There was now barely room to move in the generously

proportioned cavern, but there was also no room in

which to draw daggers if tempers got hot.

A hush fell on the gathering, and Flar looked up to

see that the stocky, glowering ex-dragonman from

Ruatha had stopped on the threshold of the Council.

He slowly brought his hand up in a respectful salute

to the Weyrieader. As F'lar returned the salute, he

noticed that the tic in Lytol's left cheek jumped almost

continuously.

Lytol's eyes, dark with pain and inner unquiet,

ranged the room. He nodded to the members of his

former wing, to Larad and Zurg, head of his own

weavers' craft. Stiff-legged, he walked to the remain-

ing seat, murmuring a greeting to T'sum on his left

F'lar rose.

"I appreciate your coming, good Lords and Craft-

222 Dragonfiight

masters. The Threads spin once again. The first attack

has been met and seared from the sky. Lord Vincet,"

and the worried Holder of Nerat looked up in alarm,

"we have dispatched a patrol to the rainforest to do a

low-flight sweep to make certain there are no bur-

rows."

Vincet swallowed nervously, his face paling at the

thought of what Threads could do to his fertile, lush

holdings.

"We shall need your best junglemen to help—"

"Help? But you said ... the Threads were seared

in the sky?"

"There is no point in taking the slightest chance,"

F'lar replied, implying that the patrol was only a

precaution instead of the necessity he knew it would

be.

Vincet gulped, glancing anxiously around the room

for sympathy, and found none. Everyone would soon

be in his position.

"There is a patrol due at Keroon and at Igen."

F'lar looked first at Lord Corman, then at Lord

Banger, who gravely nodded. "Let me say by way of

reassurance that there will be no further attacks for

three days and four hours." F'lar tapped the appro-

priate chart. "The Threads will begin approximately

here on Telgar, drift westward through the southern-

most portion of Crom, which is mountainous, and on,

through Ruatha and the southern end of Nabol."

"How can you be so certain of that?"

F'lar recognized the contemptuous voice of Meron

of Nabol.

"The Threads do not fall like a child's jackstraws,

Lord Meron," F'lar replied. "They fall in a definitely

predictable pattern; the attacks last exactly six hours.

The intervals between attacks will gradually shorten

over the next few Turns as the Red Star draws closer.

Then, for about forty full Turns, as the Red Star

swings past and around us, the attacks occur every

fourteen hours, marching across our world in a time-

able fashion."

Dragonftight 223

"So you say," Meron sneered, and there was a low

mumble of support.

"So the Teaching Ballads say," Larad put in firmly.

Meron glared at Telgar's Lord and went on, "I re-

call another of your predictions about how the

Threads were supposed to begin falling right af-

ter Solstice."

"Which they did," F'lar interrupted him. "As black

dust in the Northern Holds. For the reprieve we've

had, we can thank our lucky stars that we have had

an unusually hard and long Cold Turn."

"Dust?" demanded Nessel of Crom. "That dust was

Threads?" The man was one of Fax's blood connec-

tions and under Meron's influence: an older man who

had learned lessons from his conquering relative's

bloody ways and had not the wit to improve on or al-

ter the original. "My Hold is still blowing with them.

They're dangerous?"

F'lar shook his head emphatically. "How long has

the black dust been blowing in your Hold? Weeks?

Done any harm yet?"

Nessel frowned.

"I'm interested in your charts, Weyrleader," Larad

of Telgar said smoothly. "Will they give us an accurate

idea of how often we may expect Threads to fall in

our own Holds?"

"Yes. You may also anticipate that the dragonmen

will arrive shortly before the invasion is due," F'lar

went on. "However, additional measures of your own

are necessary, and it is for this that I called the Coun-

cil."

"Wait a minute," Corman of Keroon growled. "I

want a copy of those fancy charts of yours for my

own. I want to know what those bands and wavy lines

really mean. I want..."

"Naturally you'll have a timetable of your own. I

mean to impose on Masterharper Robinton"—P'lar

nodded respectfully toward that Craftmaster—"to

oversee the copying and make sure everyone under-

stands the timing involved."

224 Dragonflight

Robinton, a tall, gaunt man with a lined, saturnine

face, bowed deeply. A slight smile curved his wide lips

at the now hopeful glances favored him by the Hold

Lords. His craft, like that of the dragonmen, had been

much mocked, and this new respect amused him. He

was a man with a keen eye for the ridiculous, and an

active imagination. The circumstances in which doubt-

ing Pern found itself were too ironic not to appeal to

his innate sense of justice. He now contented himself

with a deep bow and a mild phrase.

"Truly all shall pay heed to the master." His voice

was deep, his words enunciated with no provincial

cial slurring.

F'lar, about to speak, looked sharply at Robinton

as he caught the double barb of that single line.

Larad, too, looked around at the Masterharper, clear-

ing his throat hastily.

"We shall have our charts," Larad said, forestalling

Meron, who had opened his mouth to speak. "We

shall have the dragonmen when the Threads spin.

What are these additional measures? And why are

they necessary?"

All eyes were on F'lar again.

"We have one Weyr where six once flew."

"But word is that Ramoth has hatched over forty

more," someone in the back of the room declared.

"And why did you Search out still more of our young

men?"

"Forty-one as yet unmatured dragons," F'lar said.

Privately, he hoped that this southern venture would

still work out. There was real fear in that man's voice.

"They grow well and quickly. Just at present, while

the Threads do not strike with great frequency as the

Red Star begins its Pass, our Weyr is sufficient . . .

if we have your cooperation on the ground. Tradition

is that"—he nodded tactfully toward Robinton, the

dispenser of Traditional usage—"you Holders are

responsible for only your dwellings, which, of course,

are adequately protected by firepits and raw stone.

However, it is spring and our heights have been al-

Dragonflight 225

lowed to grow wild with vegetation. Arable land is

blossoming with crops. This presents vast acreage vul-

nerable to the Threads which one Weyr, at this tune,

is not able to patrol without severely draining the vi-

tality of our dragons and riders."

At this candid admission, a frightened and angry

mutter spread rapidly throughout the room.

"Ramoth rises to mate again soon," F'lar continued

in a matter-of-fact way. "Of course, in other times,

the queens started producing heavy clutches many

Turns before the critical solstice as well as more

queens. Unfortunately, Jora was ill and old, and

Nemorth intractable. The matter—" He was inter-

rupted.

"You dragonmen with your high and mighty airs

will bring destruction on us all!"

"You have yourselves to blame," Robinton's voice

stabbed across the ensuing shouts. "Admit it, one and

all. You've paid less honor to the Weyr than you

would your watch-wheres kennel—and that not

much! But now the thieves are on the heights, and you

are screaming because the poor reptile is nigh to death

from neglect. Beat him, will you? When you exiled

him to his kennel because he tried to warn you? Tried

to get you to prepare against the invaders? It's on your

conscience, not the Weyrleader's or the dragonriders',

who have honestly done their duty these hundreds

of Turns in keeping dragonkind alive .. . against your

protests. How many of you"—his tone was scathing—

"have been generous in thought and favor toward

dragonkind? Even since I became master of my craft,

how often have my harpers told me of being beaten

for singing the old songs as is their duty? You earn

only the right, good Lords and Craftsmen, to squirm

inside your stony Holds and writhe as your crops die

a-boming."

He rose.

" 'No Threads will fall. It's a harper's winter tale,'"

he whined, in faultless imitation of Nessel. "'These

dragonmen leech us of heir and harvest,'" and his

226

voice took on the constricted, insinuating tenor that

could only be Meron's. "And now the truth is as bitter

as a brave man's fears and as difficult as mockweed to

swallow. For all the honor you've done them, the drag-

onmen should leave you to be spun on the Threads*

distaff."

"Bitra, Lemos, and I," spoke up Raid, the wiry

Lord of Benden, his blunt chin lifted belligerently,

"have always done our duty to the Weyr."

Robinton swung around to him, his eyes flashing as

he gave that speaker a long, slow look.

"Aye, and you have. Of all the Great Holds, you

three have been loyal. But you others," and his voice

rose indignantly, "as spokesmen for my craft, I know,

to the last full stop in the score, your opinion of drag-

onkind. I heard the first whisper of your attempt to

ride out against the Weyr." He laughed harshly and

pointed a long finger at Vincet. "Where would you be

today, good Lord Vincet, if the Weyr had not sent you

packing back, hoping your ladies would be returned

you? All of you," and his accusing finger marked each

of the Lords of that abortive effort, "actually rode

against the Weyr because . . . 'there . . . were . . .

no ... more . . . Threads!"

He planted his fists on either hip and glared at the

assembly. F'lar wanted to cheer. It was easy to see

why the man was Masterharper, and he thanked cir-

cumstance that such a man was the Weyr's partisan.

"And now, at this critical moment, you have the

incredible presumption to protest against any meas-

ure the Weyr suggests?" Robinton's supple voice

oozed derision and amazement. "Attend what the

Weyrleader says and spare him your petty carpings!"

He snapped those words out as a father might enjoin

an erring child. "You were," and he switched to the

mildest of polite conversational tones as he addressed

F'lar, "I believe, asking our cooperation, good F'lar?

In what capacities?"

F'lar hastily cleared his throat.

"I shall require that the Holds police their own

Dragonflight 227

fields and woods, during the attacks if possible, def-

initely once the Threads have passed. All burrows

which might land must be found, marked, and de-

stroyed. The sooner they are located, the easier it is to

be rid of them."

"There's no time to dig firepits through all the

lands . . . we'll lose half our growing space," Nessel

exclaimed.

"There were other ways, used in olden times, which

I believe our Mastersmith might know." F'lar gestured

politely toward Fandarel, the archetype of his profes-

sion if ever such existed.

The Smith Craftmaster was by several inches the

tallest man in the Council Room, his massive shoulders

and heavily muscled arms pressed against his nearest

neighbors, although he had made an effort not to

crowd against anyone. He rose, a giant tree-stump of

a man, hooking thumbs like beast-homs in the thick

belt that spanned his waisfless midsection. His voice,

by no means sweet after Turns of bellowing above

roaring hearths and hammers, was, by comparison to

Robinton's superb delivery, a diluted, unsupported

light baritone.

"There were machines, that much is true," he al-

lowed in deliberate, thoughtful tones. "My father, it

was he, told me of them as a curiosity of the Craft.

There may be sketches in the Hall. There may not.

Such things do not keep on skins for long." He cast an

oblique look under beetled brows at the Tanner

Craftmaster.

"It is our own hides we must worry about preserv-

ing," F'lar remarked to forestall any intercraft dis-

putes.

Fandarel grumbled in his throat in such a way that

F'lar was not certain whether the sound was the man's

laughter or a guttural agreement.

"I shall consider the matter. So shall all my fellow

craftsmen," Fandarel assured the Weyrleader. "To

sear Threads from the ground without damaging the

soil may not be so easy. There are, it is true, fluids

228 Dragonfiiglit

which bum and sear. We use an add to etch design on

daggers and ornamental metals. We of the Craft call it

agenothree. There is also the black heavy-water that

lies on the surface of pools in Igen and Boll. It bums

hot and long. And if, as you say, the Cold Turn made

the Threads break into dust, perhaps ice from the

coldest northlands might freeze and break grounded

Threads. However, the problem is to bring such to

the Threads where they fall since they will not oblige

us by falling where we want them. . . ." He screwed

up his face in a grimace.

Flar stared at him, surprised. Did the man realize

how humorous he was? No, he was speaking with sin-

cere concern. Now the Mastersmith scratched his

head, his tough fingers making audible grating sounds

along his coarse hair and heat-toughened scalp.

"A nice problem. A nice problem," he mused, un-

daunted. "I shall give it every attention." He sat

down, the heavy bench creaking under his weight.

The Masterfarmer raised his hand tentatively.

"When I became Craftmaster, I recall coming

across a reference to the sandworms of Igen. They

were once cultivated as a protective—"

"Never heard Igen produced anything useful ex-

cept heat and sand," quipped someone.

"We need every suggestion," Flar said sharply, try-

ing to identify that heckler. "Please find that refer-

ence, Craftmaster. Lord Banger of Igen, find me some

of those sandworms!"

Banger, equally surprised that his arid Hold had a

hidden asset, nodded vigorously.

"Until we have more efficient ways of killing

Threads, all Holders must be organized on the ground

during attacks, to spot and mark burrows, to set fire-

stone to bum in them. I do not wish any man to be

scored, but we know how quickly Threads burrow

deep, and no burrow can be left to multiply. You

stand to lose more," and he gestured emphatically at

the Holder Lords, "than any others. Guard not just

yourselves, for a burrow on one man's border may

Dragonflighi 229

grow across to his neighbor's. Mobilize every man,

woman, and child, farm and crafthold. Do it now."

The Council Room was fraught with tension and

stunned reflection until Zurg, the Masterweaver, rose

to speak.

"My craft, too, has something to offer . .. which is

only fair since we deal with thread every day of our

lives ... in regard to the ancient methods." Zurg's

voice was light and dry, and his eyes, in their creases

of spare, lined flesh, were busy, darting from one face

in his audience to another. "In Ruath Hold I once

saw upon the wall... where the tapestry now resides,

who knows?" He slyly glanced at Meron of Nabol and

then at Bargen of the High Reaches who had

succeeded to Fax's title there. "The work was as old

as dragonkind and showed, among other things, a

man on foot, carrying upon his back a curious con-

traption. He held within his hand a rounded,

sword-long object from which tongues of flame . . .

magnificently woven in the orange-red dyes now lost

to us ... spouted toward the ground. Above, of

course, were dragons in close formation, bronzes

predominating . . . again we've lost that true dragon-

bronze shade. Consequently I remember the work as

much for what we now lack as for its subject matter."

"A flamethrower?" the Smith rumbled. "A flame-

thrower," he repeated with a falling inflection. "A

flame-thrower," he murmured thoughtfully, his heavy

brows drawn into a titanic scowl. "A thrower of what

sort of flame? It requires thought." He lowered his

head and didn't speak, so engrossed in the required

thought that he lost interest in the rest of the discus-

sion.

"Yes, good Zurg, there have been many tricks of

every trade lost in recent Turns," Flar commented

sardonically. "If we wish to continue living, such

knowledge must be revived . . . fast. I would particu-

larly like to recover the tapestry of which Master Zurg

speaks,"

230 Dragonflight

F'lar looked significantly at (hose Lords who had

quarreled over Fax's seven Holds after his death.

"It may save all of you much loss. I suggest that it

appear at Ruatha. Or at Zurg's or Fandarel's craft-

hall. Whichever is most convenient."

There was some shuffling of feet, but no one ad-

mitted ownership.

"It might then be returned to Fax's son, who is now

Ruatha's Lord," F'lar added, wryly amused at such

magnanimous justice.

Lytol snorted softly and glowered around the room.

F'lar supposed Lytol to be amused and experienced

a fleeting regret for the orphaned Jaxom, reared by

such a cheerless if honest guardian.

"H I may. Lord Weyrieader," Robinton broke in,

"we might all benefit, as your maps prove to us, from

research in our own Records." He smiled suddenly,

an unexpectedly embarrassed smile. "I own I find my-

self in some disgrace for we Harpers have let slip un-

popular ballads and skimped on some of the longer

Teaching Ballads and Sagas ... for lack of listeners

and, occasionally, in the interest of preserving our

skins."

F'lar stifled a laugh with a cough. Robinton was a

genius.

"I must see that Ruathan tapestry," Fandarel sud-

denly boomed out.

"I'm sure it will be in your hands very soon," F'lar

assured him with more confidence than he dared feel.

"My Lords, there is much to be done. Now that you

understand what we all face, I leave it in your hands

as leaders in your separate Holds and crafts how

best to organize your own people. Craftsmen, turn

your best minds to our special problems: review all

Records that might turn up something to our purpose.

Lords Telgar, Crom, Ruatha, and Nabol, I shall be

with you in three days. Nerat, Keroon, and Igen, I

am at your disposal to help destroy any burrow on

your lands. While we have the Masterminer here, tell

him your needs. How stands your craft?"

Dragonflight 231

"Happy to be so busy at our trade, Weyrieader,"

piped up the Masterminer.

Just then F'lar caught sight of Fnor, hovering about

in the shadows of the hallway, trying to catch his eye.

The brown rider wore an exultant grin, and it was ob-

vious he was bursting with news.

F'lar wondered how they could have returned so

swiftly from the Southern Continent, and then he real-

ized that Fnor—again—was tanned. He gave a jerk

of his head, indicating that F'nor take himself off to

the sleeping quarters and wait.

"Lords and Craftmasters, a dragonet will be at the

disposal of each of you for messages and transporta-

tion. Now, good morning."

He strode out of the Council Room, up the pas-

sageway into the queen's weyr, and parted the still

swinging curtains into the sleeping room just as Fnor

was pouring himself a cup of wine.

"Successi" Fnor cried as the Weyrieader entered.

"Though how you knew to send just thirty-two candi-

dates I'll never understand. I thought you were in-

sulting our noble Pridith. But thirty-two eggs she laid

in four days. It was all I could do to keep from riding

out when the first appeared."

F'lar responded with hearty congratulations, re-

lieved that there would be at least that much benefit

from this apparently ill-fated venture. Now all he had

to figure out was how much longer Fnor had stayed

south until his frantic visit the night before. For there

were no worry lines or strain in F'nor's grinning, well-

tanned face.

"No queen egg?" asked Flar hopefully. With thirty-

two in the one experiment, perhaps they could send a

second queen back and try again.

F'nor's face lengthened. "No, and I was sure there

would be. But there are fourteen bronzes. Pridith out-

matched Ramoth there," he added proudly.

"Indeed she did. How goes the Weyr otherwise?"

F'nor frowned, shaking his head against an inner

232 Dragonfiighi

bewilderment. "Kylara's . . . well, she's a problem.

Stirs up trouble constantly. Tbor leads a sad time with

her, and he's so touchy everyone keeps a distance

from him." F'nor brightened a little. "Young N'ton is

shaping up into a fine wingleader, and his bronze may

outfly Tbor's Orth when Pridith flies to mate the next

time. Not that I'd wish Kylara on N'ton ... or any-

one."

"No trouble then with supplies?"

F'nor laughed outright. "If you hadn't made it so

plain we must not communicate with you here, we

could supply you with fruits and fresh greens that

are superior to anything in the north. We eat the way

dragonmen should! F'lar, we must consider a supply

Weyr down there. Then we shall never have to worry

about tithing trains and ..."

"In good time. Get back now. You know you

must keep these visits short"

Fnor grimaced. "Oh, it's not so bad. Pm not here

in this time, anyway."

"True," Flar agreed, "but don't mistake the time

and come while you're still here."

"Hmmm? Oh, yes, that's right I forget time is

creeping for us and speeding for you. Well, I shan't be

back again till Pridith lays the second clutch."

With a cheerful good-bye, Fnor strode out of the

weyr. Flar watched him thoughtfully as he slowly re-

traced his steps to the Council Room. Thirty-two new

dragons, fourteen of them bronzes, was no small gain

and seemed worth the hazard. Or would the hazard

wax greater?

Someone cleared his throat deliberately. F'lar

looked up to see Robinton standing in the archway

that led to the Council Room.

"Before I can copy and instruct others about those

maps, Weyrleader, I must myself understand them

completely. I took the liberty of remaining behind."

"You make a good champion, Masterharper."

"You have a noble cause, Weyrleader," and then

Dragonfiight 233

Robinton's eyes glinted maliciously. "I've been beg-

ging the Egg for an opportunity to speak out to so

noble an audience."

"A cup of wine first?"

"Benden grapes are the envy of Pern."

"If one has the palate for such a delicate bouquet."

"It is carefully cultivated by the knowledgeable."

F'lar wondered when the man would stop playing

with words. He had more on his mind than studying

the time-charts.

"I have in mind a ballad which, for lack of expla-

nation, I had set aside when I became the Master of

my crafthall," he said judiciously after an appreciative

savoring of his wine. "It is an uneasy song, both the

tune and the words. One develops, as a harper must,

a certain sensitivity for what will be received and what

will be rejected . . . forcefully," and he winced in ret-

rospect. "I found that this ballad unsettled singer as

well as audience and retired it from use. Now, like

that tapestry, it bears rediscovery."

After his death C'gan's instrument had been hung

on the Council Room wall till a new Weyrsinger

could be chosen. The guitar was very old, its wood

thin. Old C'gan had kept it well-tuned and covered.

The Masterharper handled it now with reverence,

lightly stroking the strings to hear the tone, raising his

eyebrows at the fine voice of the instrument.

He plucked a chord, a dissonance. F'lar wondered

if the instrument was out of tune or if the harper

had, by some chance, struck the wrong string.

But Robinton repeated the odd discord, then mod-

ulating into a weird minor that was somehow more

disturbing than the first notes.

"I told you it was an uneasy song. And I wonder if

you know the answers to the questions it asks. For I've

turned the puzzle over in my mind many times

of late."

Then abruptly he shifted from the spoken to the

sung tone.

234 Dragonflight

Gone away, gone ahead,

Echoes away, die unanswered.

Empty, open, dusty, dead,

Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?

Where have dragons gone together?

Leaving Weyrs to wind and weather?

Setting herdbeasts free of tether?

Gone, our safeguards, gone but whither?

Have they flown to some new Weyr

Where cruel Threads some others fear?

Are they worlds away from here?

Why, oh, why, the empty Weyr?

The last plaintive chord reverberated.

"Of course, you realize that the song was first re-

corded in the craft annals some four hundred Turns

ago," Robinton said lightly, cradling the guitar in both

arms. "The Red Star had just passed beyond attack-

proximity. The people had ample reason to be stunned

and worried over the sudden loss of the populations of

five Weyrs. Oh, I imagine at the time they had any one

of a number of explanations, but none... not one

explanation... is recorded." Robinton paused signifi-

cantly.

"I have found none recorded, either," F'lar replied.

"As a matter of fact, I had all the Records brought here

from the other Weyrs... in order to compile accurate at-

tack timetables. And those other Weyr Records simply

end—" F'lar made a chopping gesture with one hand. "In

Benden's Records there is no mention of sickness, death,

fire, disaster—not one word of explanation for the sud-

den lapse of the usual intercourse between the Weyrs.

Benden's Records continue blithely, but only for Benden.

There is one entry that pertains to the mass dis-

appearance ... the initiation of a Pern-wide patrol rout-

ing, not just Benden's immediate responsibility. And that

is all."

"Strange," Robinton mused. "Once the danger from

the Red Star was past, the dragons and riders may

Dragonflight 235

have gone between to ease the drain on the Holds. But

I simply cannot believe that. Our craft Records do

mention that harvests were bad and that there had

been several natural catastrophes . . . other than the

Threads. Men may be gallant and your breed the most

gallant of all, but mass suicide? I simply do not accept

that explanation... not for dragonmen."

"My thanks," F'lar said with mild irony.

"Don't mention it," Robinton replied with a gra-

cious nod.

F'lar chucked appreciatively. "I see we have been

too weyrbound as well as too hidebound."

Robinton drained his cup and looked at it mourn-

fully until F'lar refilled it.

"Well, your isolation served some purpose, you

know, and you handled that uprising of the Lords

magnificently. I nearly choked to death laughing,"

Robinton remarked, grinning broadly. "Stealing their

women in the flash of a dragon's breath!" He chuckled

again, then suddenly sobered, looking F'lar straight in

the eye. "Accustomed as I am to hearing what a man

does not say aloud, I suspect there is much you glossed

over in that Council meeting. You may be sure of my

discretion . . . and . . . you may be sure of my whole-

hearted support and that of my not ineffectual craft.

To be blunt, how may my harpers aid you?" and he

strummed a vigorous marching air. "Stir men's pulses

with ballads of past glories and success?" The tune,

under his flashing fingers, changed abruptly to a stem

but determined rhythm. "Strengthen their mental and

physical sinews for hardship?"

"If all your harpers could stir men as you yourself

do, I should have no worries that five hundred or so

additional dragons would not immediately end."

"Oh, then despite your brave words and marked

charts, the situation is"—a dissonant twang on the gui-

tar accented his final words—"more desperate than

you carefully did not say."

"It may be."

236 Dragonfiight

"The flamethrowers old Zurg remembered and Fan-

darel must reconstruct—will they tip the scales?"

F'lar regarded this clever man thoughtfully and made

a quick decision.

"Even Igen's sandworms will help, but as the world

turns and the Red Star nears, the interval between

daily attacks shortens and we have only seventy-two

new dragons to add to those we had yesterday. One is

now dead and several will not fly for several weeks."

"Seventy-two?" Robinton caught him up sharply.

"Ramoth hatched but forty, and they are still too

young to eat firestone."

F'lar outlined F'nor and Lessa's expedition, taking

place at that moment. He went on to F'nor's reappear-

ance and warning, as well as the fact that the experi-

ment had been successful in part with the hatching of

thirty-two new dragons from Pridith's first clutch.

Robinton caught him up.

"How can F'nor already have returned when you

haven't heard from Lessa and him that there is a

breeding place on the Southern Continent?"

"Dragons can go between times as well as places.

They go as easily to a when as to a where."

Robinton's eyes widened as he digested this astonish-

ing news.

"That is how we forestalled the attack on Nerat

yesterday morning. We jumped back two hours be-

tween tune to meet the Threads as they fell."

"You can actually jump backward? How far back?"

"I don't know. Lessa, when I was teaching her to

fly Ramoth, inadvertently returned to Ruath Hold, to

the dawn thirteen Turns ago when Fax's men invaded

from the heights. When she returned to the present, I

attempted a between times jump of some ten Turns.

To the dragons it is a simple matter to go between

times or spaces, but there appears to be a terrific drain

on the rider. Yesterday, by the time we returned

from Nerat and had to go on to Keroon, I felt as

though I had been pounded flat and left to dry for a

summer on Igen Plain." F'lar shook his head. "We

Dragonfiight 237

have obviously succeeded in sending Kylara, Pridith,

and the others ten Turns between, because F'nor has

already reported to me that he has Been there several

Turns. The drain on humans, however, is becoming

more and more marked. But even seventy-two more

mature dragons will be a help."

"Send a rider ahead in time to see if it is sufficient,"

Robinton suggested helpfully. "Save you a few days*

worrying."

"I don't know how to get to a when that has not yet

happened. You must give your dragon reference

points, you know. How can you refer him to times that

have not yet occurred?"

"You've got an imagination. Project it."

"And perhaps lose a dragon when I have none to

spare? No, I must continue . . . because obviously I

have, judging by Fnor's returns ... as I decided to

start. Which reminds me, I must give orders to start

packing. Then I shall go over the time-charts with

you."

It wasn't until after the noon meal, which Robinton

took with the Weyrleader, that the Masterharper was

confident that he understood the charts and left to be-

gin their copying.

Across a waste of lonely tossing sea,

Where no dragon-wings had lately spread,

Flew a gold and a sturdy brown in spring,

Searching if a land be dead.

As RAMOTH and Canth bore Lessa and Fnor up to

the Star Stone, they saw the first of the Hold Lords

and Craftmasters arriving for the Council.

In order to get back to the Southern Continent of

ten Turns ago, Lessa and Fnor had decided it was

easiest to transfer first between times to the Weyr of

ten Turns back which F'nor remembered. Then they

would go between places to a seapoint just off the

coast of the neglected Southern Continent which was

as close to it as the Records gave any references.

Fnor put Canth in mind of a particular day he re-

membered ten Turns back, and Ramoth picked up

the references from the brown's mind. The awesome

cold of between times took Lessa's breath away, and

it was with intense relief that she caught a glimpse of

the normal weyr activity before the dragons took them

between places to hover over the turgid sea.

Beyond them, smudged purple on this overcast and

gloomy day, lurked the Southern Continent. Lessa felt

238

Dragonfiigkt 239

a new anxiety replace the uncertainty of the temporal

displacement. Ramoth beat forward with great sweeps

of her wings, making for the distant coast. Canth gal-

lantly tried to maintain a matching speed.

He's only a brown, Lessa scolded her golden queen.

If he is ftying with me, Ramoth replied coolly, he

must stretch his wings a little.

Lessa grinned, thinking very privately that Ramoth

was still piqued that she had not been able to fight

with her weyrmates. All the males would have a hard

time with her for a while.

They saw the flock of wherries first and realized

that there would have to be some vegetation on the

Continent. Wherries needed greens to live, although

they could subsist on little else besides occasional grubs

if necessary.

Lessa had Canth relay questions to his rider. If the

Southern Continent was rendered barren by the

Threads, how did new growth start? Where did the

wherries come from?

Ever notice the seed pods split open and the flakes

carried eway by the winds? Ever notice that wherries

fly south after the autumn solstice?

Yes, but...

Yes, but!

But the land was Thread-bared!

In less than four hundred Turns even the scorched

hilltops of our Continent begin to sprout in the spring-

time, F'nor replied by way of Canth, so it is easy to

assume the Southern Continent could revive, too.

Even at the pace Ramoth set, it took time to reach

the jagged shoreline with its forbidding cliffs, stark

stone in the sullen light. Lessa groaned inwardly but

urged Ramoth higher to see over the masking high-

lands. All seemed gray and desolate from that altitude.

Suddenly the sun broke through the cloud cover and

the gray dissolved into dense greens and browns, liv-

ing colors, the live greens of lush tropical growth, the

browns of vigorous trees and vines. Lessa's cry of tri-

umph was echoed by F'nor's hurrah and the brass

240 Dragonflight

voices of the dragons. Wherries, startled by the unusual

sound, rose in squeaking alarm from their perches.

Beyond the headland, the land sloped away to jun-

gle and grassy plateau, similar to mid-Boll. Though

they searched all morning, they found no hospitable

cliffs wherein to found a new Weyr. Was that a con-

tributing factor in the southern venture's failure, Lessa

wondered.

Discouraged, they landed on a high plateau by a

smaU lake. The weather was warm but not oppressive,

and while F'nor and Lessa ate their noonday meal, the

two dragons wallowed in the water, refreshing them-

selves.

Lessa felt uneasy and had little appetite for the

meat and bread. She noticed that F'nor was restless,

too, shooting surreptitious glances around the lake and

the jungle verge.

"What under the sun are we expecting? Wherries

don't charge, and wild whers would come nowhere

near a dragon. We're ten Turns before the Red Star, so

there can't be any Threads."

F'nor shrugged, grimacing sheepishly as he tossed

his unfinished bread back into the food pouch.

"Place feels so empty, I guess," he tendered,

glancing around. He spotted ripe fruit hanging from a

moonflower vine. "Now that looks familiar and good

enough to eat, without tasting like dust in the mouth."

He climbed nimbly and snagged the orange-red fruit.

"Smells right, feels ripe, looks ripe," he announced

and deftly sliced the fruit open. Grinning, he handed

Lessa the first slice, carving another for himself. He

lifted it challengingly. "Let us eat and die together!"

She couldn't help but laugh and saluted him back.

They bit into the succulent flesh simultaneously. Sweet

juices dribbled from the comers of her mouth, and

Lessa hurriedly licked her lips to capture the least

drop of the delicious liquid.

"Die happy—I will," F'nor cried, ratting more fruit.

Both were subtly reassured by th», experiment and

were able to discuss their discomposure.

Dragonfiight 241

Dragonfiight

"I think," F'nor suggested, "it is the lack of cliff and

cavern and the still, still quality of the place, the know-

ing that there are no other men or beasts about but

us."

Lessa nodded her head in agreement. "Ramoth,

Canth, would having no Weyr upset you?"

We didn't always live in caves, Ramoth replied,

somewhat haughtily as she rolled over in the lake.

Sizable waves rushed up the shore almost to where

Lessa and F'nor were seated on a fallen tree trunk.

The sun here is warm and pleasant, the water cool-

ing. I would enjoy it here, but I am not to come.

"She is out of sorts," Lessa whispered to F'nor. "Let

Pridith have it, dear one," she called soothingly to the

golden queen. "You've the Weyr and all!"

Ramoth ducked under the water, blowing up a

froth in disgruntled reply.

Canth admitted that he had no reservations at all

about living Weyrless. The dry earth would be

warmer than stone to sleep on, once a suitably com-

fortable hollow had been achieved. No, he couldn't

object to the lack of the cave as long as there was

enough to eat.

"We'll have to bring herdbeasts in," F'nor mused.

"Enough to start a good-sized herd. Of course, the

wherries here are huge. Come to think of it, I believe

this plateau has no exits. We wouldn't need to pasture

it off. I'd better check. Otherwise, this plateau with the

lake and enough clear space for Holds seems ideal.

Walk out and pick breakfast from the tree."

"It might be wise to choose those who were not

Hold-reared," Lessa added. "They would not feel so

uneasy away from protecting heights and stone-

security." She gave a short laugh. "I'm more a creature

of habit than I suspected. All these open spaces, un-

tenanted and quiet, seem . . . indecent." She gave a

delicate shudder, scanning the broad and open plain

beyond the lake.

"Fruitful and lovely," Pnor amended, leaping up to

secure more of the orange-red succulents. "This tastes

242 Dragonflight

uncommonly good to me. Can't remember anything

this sweet and juicy from Nerat, and yet it's the same

variety."

"Undeniably superior to what the Weyr gets. I sus-

pect Nerat serves home first, Weyr last."

They both stuffed themselves greedily.

Further investigation proved that the plateau was

isolated, and ample to pasture a huge herd of food-

beasts for the dragons. It ended in a sheer drop of

several dragonlengths into denser jungle on one side,

the sea-side escarpment on the other. The timber

stands would provide raw material from which dwell-

ings could be made for the Weyriolk. Ramoth and

Canth stoutly agreed dragonkind would be comfortable

enough under the heavy foliage of the dense jungle.

As this part of the continent was similar, weatherwise,

to Upper Nerat, there would be neither intense heat

nor cold to give distress.

However, if Lessa was glad enough to leave, Fnor

seemed reluctant to start back.

"We can go between time and place on the way

back," Lessa insisted finally, "and be in the Weyr by

late afternoon. The Lords will surely be gone by then."

F'nor concurred, and Lessa steeled herself for the

trip between. She wondered why the when between

bothered her more than the where, for it had no effect

on the dragons at all. Ramoth, sensing Lessa's depres-

sion, crooned encouragingly. The long, long black sus-

pension of the utter cold of between where and when

ended suddenly in sunlight above the Weyr.

Somewhat startled, Lessa saw bundles and sacks

spread out before the Lower Caverns as dragonriders

supervised the loading of their beasts.

"What has been happening?" F'nor exclaimed.

"Oh, F'lar's been anticipating success," she assured

him glibly.

Mnementh, who was watching the bustle from the

ledge of the queen's weyr, sent a greeting to the trav-

elers and the information that F'lar wished them to

join him in the weyr as soon as they returned.

243

DragonftigJit

They found F'lar, as usual, bent over some of the

oldest and least legible Record skins that he had had

brought to the Council Room.

"And?" he asked, grinning a broad welcome at

them.

"Green, lush, and livable," Lessa declared, watch-

ing him intently. He knew something else, too. Well,

she hoped he'd watch his words. F'nor was no fool,

and this foreknowledge was dangerous.

"That is what I had so hoped to hear you say," F'lar

went on smoothly. "Come. tell me in detail what you

observed and discovered. Itll be good to fill in the

blank spaces on the chart."

Lessa let F'nor give most of the account, to which

Flar listened with sincere attention, making notes.

"On the chance that it would be practical, I started

packing supplies and alerting the riders to go with

you," he told F'nor when the account was finished.

"Remember, we've only three days in this tune in

which to start you back ten Turns ago. We have no

moments to spare. And we must have many more ma-

ture dragons ready to fight at Telgar in three days'

time. So, though ten Turns will have passed for you,

three days only will elapse here. Lessa, your thought

that the farm-bred might do better is well-taken.

We're lucky that our recent Search for rider candidates

for the dragons Pridith will have come mainly from

the crafts and farms. No problem there. And most of

the thirty-two are in then: early teens."

"Thirty-two?" Fnor exclaimed. "We should have

fifty. The dragonets must have some choice, even if

we get the candidates used to the dragonets before

they're hatched."

F'lar shrugged negligently. "Send back for more.

You'll have time, remember," and F'lar chuckled as

though he had started to add something and decided

against it.

F'nor had no time to debate with the Weyrleader,

for F'lar immediately launched on other rapid in-

structions.

244 Dragonftight

F'nor was to take his own wingriders to help train

the weyrlings. They would also take the forty young

dragons of Ramoth's first clutch: Kylara with her

queen Pridith, T'bor and his bronze Piyanth. N'ton's

young bronze might also be ready to fly and mate by

the time Pridith was, so that gave the young queen

two bronzes at least.

"Suppose we'd found the continent barren?" F'nor

asked, still puzzled by F'lar's assurance. "What then?"

"Oh, we'd've sent them back to, say, the High

Reaches," F'lar replied far too glibly, but quickly

went on. "I should send on other bronzes, but I'll

need everyone else here to ride burrow-search on

Keroon and Nerat. They've already unearthed several

at Nerat. Vincet, I'm told, is close to heart attack

from fright."

Lessa made a short comment on that Hold Lord.

"What of the meeting this morning?" F'nor asked,

remembering.

"Never mind that now. You've got to start shifting

between by evening, F'nor."

Lessa gave the Weyrleader a long hard look and

decided she would have to find out what had happened

in detail very soon.

"Sketch me some references, will you, Lessa?"

P'lar asked.

There was a definite plea in his eyes as he drew

clean hide and a stylus to her. He wanted no questions

from her now that would alarm F'nor. She sighed and

picked up the drawing tool.

She sketched quickly, with one or two details added

by F'nor until she had rendered a reasonable map of

the plateau they had chosen. Then, abruptly, she had

trouble focusing her eyes. She felt light-headed.

"Lessa?" F'lar bent to her.

"Everything's . . . moving . . . circling . . ." and

she collapsed backward into his arms.

As F'lar raised her slight body into his arms, he ex-

changed an alarmed look with his half brother.

Dragonflight 245

"How do you feel?" the Weyrleader called after his

brother.

"Tired but no more than that," F'nor assured him as

he shouted down the service shaft to the kitchens for

Manora to come and for hot klah. He needed that,

and no doubt of it.

F'lar laid the Weyrwoman on the sleeping couch,

covering her gently.

"I don't like this," he muttered, rapidly recalling

what F'nor had said of Kylara's decline, which F'nor

could not know was yet to come in his future. Why

should it start so swiftly with Lessa?

"Time-jumping makes one feel slightly—" F'nor

paused, groping for the exact wording. "Not entirely

. . . whole. You fought between times at Nerat yester-

day. ..."

"I fought," F'lar reminded him, "but neither you nor

Lessa battled anything today. There may be some in-

ner . . . mental . . . stress simply to going between

times. Look, F'nor, I'd rather only you came back

once you reach the southern Weyr. I'll make it an or-

der and get Ramoth to inhibit the dragons. That way

no rider can take it into his head to come back even

if he wants to. There is some factor that may be more

serious than we can guess. Let's take no unnecessary

risks."

"Agreed."

"One other detail, Pnor. Be very careful which

times you pick to come back to see me. I wouldn't

jump between too close to any time you were actually

here. I can't imagine what would happen if you walked

into your own self in the passageway, and I can't lose

you."

With a rare demonstration of affection, Flar gripped

his half brother's shoulder tightly.

"Remember, F'nor. I was here all morning and you

did not arrive back from the first trip till midaftemoon.

And remember, too, we have only three days. You

have ten Turns."

F'nor left, passing Manora in the halL

246 Dragonfiight

The woman could find nothing obviously the matter

with Lessa, and they finally decided it might be simple

fatigue; yesterday's strain when Lessa had to relay

messages between dragons and fighters followed by the

disjointing between times trip today.

When F'lar went to wish the southern venturers a

good trip, Lessa was in a normal sleep, her face pale,

but her breathing easy,

F'lar had Mnementh relay to Ramoth the prohibi-

tion he wished the queen to instill in all dragonkind

assigned to the venture. Ramoth obliged, but added in

an aside to bronze Mnementh, which he passed on to

F'lar, that everyone else had adventures while she,

the Weyr queen, was forced to stay behind.

No sooner had the laden dragons, one by one,

winked out of the sky above the Star Stone than the

young weyrling assigned to Nerat Hold as messenger

came gliding down, his face white with fear.

"Weyrleader, many more burrows have been found,

and they cannot be burned out with fire alone. Lord

Vincet wants you."

F'lar could well imagine that Vincet did.

"Get yourself some dinner, boy, before you start

back. I'll go shortly."

As he passed through to the sleeping quarters, he

heard Ramoth rumbling in her throat. She had settled

herself down to rest.

Lessa still slept, one hand curled under her cheek,

her dark hair trailing over the edge of the bed. She

looked fragile, childlike, and very precious to him.

F'lar smiled to himself. So she was jealous of Kylara's

attentions yesterday. He was pleased and flattered.

Never would Lessa leam from him that Kylara, for all

her bold beauty and sensuous nature, did not have one

tenth the attraction for him that the unpredictable,

dark, and delicate Lessa held. Even her stubborn in-

tractableness, her keen and malicious humor, added

zest to their relationship. With a tenderness he would

never show her awake, F'lar bent and kissed her lips.

She stirred and smiled, sighing lightly in her sleep.

Dragonfiight 247

Reluctantly returning to what must be done, F'lar

left her so. As he paused by the queen, Ramoth raised

her great, wedge-shaped head; her many-faceted eyes

gleamed with bright luminescence as she regarded the

Weyrleader.

"Mnementh, please ask Ramoth to get in touch with

the dragonet at Fandarel's crafthall. I'd like the Mas-

tersmith to come with me to Nerat. I want to see

what his agenothree does to Threads."

Ramoth nodded her head as the bronze dragon re-

layed the message to her.

She has done so, and the green dragon comes as

soon as he can. Mnementh reported to his rider. It is

easier to do, this talking about, when Lessa is awake,

he grumbled.

F'lar agreed heartily. It had been quite an advan-

tage yesterday in the battle and would be more and

more of an asset.

Maybe it would be better if she tried to speak, across

time, to F'nor... but no, F'nor had come back.

F'lar strode into the Council Room, still hopeful

that somewhere within the illegible portions of the old

Records was the one clue he so desperately needed.

There must be a way out of this impasse. If not the

southern venture, then something else. Something!

Fandarel showed himself a man of iron will as well

as sinew; he looked calmly at the exposed tangle of

perceptibly growing Threads that writhed and in-

tertwined obscenely.

"Hundreds and thousands in this one burrow," Lord

Vincet of Nerat was exclaiming in a frantic tone of

voice. He waved his hands distractedly around the

plantation of young trees in which the burrow had been

discovered. "These stalks are already withering even

as you hesitate. Do something! How many more young

trees will die in this one field alone? How many more

burrows escaped dragon's breath yesterday? Where is

248 Dragonflight

a dragon to sear them? Why are you just standing

there?"

F'lar and Fandarel paid no attention to the man's

raving, both fascinated as well as revolted by their

first sight of the burrowing stage of their ancient foe.

Despite Vincet's panicky accusations, it was the only

burrow on this particular slope. F'lar did not like to

contemplate how many more might have slipped

through the dragons' efforts and had reached Nerat's

warm and fertile soil. If they had only had time

enough to set out watchmen to track the fall of stray

clumps. They could, at least, remedy that error in

Telgar, Crom, and Ruatha in three days. But it was

not enough. Not enough.

Fandarel motioned forward the two craftsmen who

had accompanied him. They were burdened with an

odd contraption: a large cylinder of metal to which

was attached a wand with a wide nozzle. At the

other end of the cylinder was another short pipe-length

and then a short cylinder with an inner plunger. One

craftsman worked the plunger vigorously, while the

second, barely keeping his hands steady, pointed the

nozzle end toward the Thread burrow. At a nod from

this pumper, the man released a small knob on the

nozzle, extending it carefully away from him and over

the burrow. A thin spray danced from the nozzle and

drifted down into the burrow. No sooner had the spray

motes contacted the Thread tangles than steam hissed

out of the burrow. Before long, all that remained of

the pallid writhing tendrils was a smoking mass of

blackened strands. Long after Fandarel had waved the

craftsmen back, he stared at the grave. Finally he

grunted and found himself a long stick with which he

poked and prodded the remains. Not one Thread wrig-

gled.

"Humph," he grunted with evident satisfaction.

"However, we can scarcely go around digging up every

burrow. I need another."

With Lord Vincet a hand-wringing moaner in their

wake, they were escorted by the junglemen to another

Dragonflight 249

undisturbed burrow on the sea-side of the rainforest.

The Threads had entered the earth by the side of a

huge tree that was already drooping.

With his prodding stick Fandarel made a tiny hole

at the top of the burrow and then waved his crafts-

men forward. The pumper made vigorous motions at

his end, while the nozzle-holder adjusted his pipe be-

fore inserting it in the hole. Fandarel gave the sign to

start and counted slowly before he waved a cutoff.

Smoke oozed out of the tiny hole.

After a suitable lapse of time, Fandarel ordered the

junglemen to dig, reminding them to be careful not to

come in contact with the agenothree liquid. When the

burrow was uncovered, the acid had done its work,

leaving nothing but a thoroughly charred mass of tan-

gles.

Fandarel grimaced but this time scratched his head

in dissatisfaction.

"Takes too much time, either way. Best to get them

still at the surface," the Mastersmith grumbled.

"Best to get them in the air," Lord Vincet chattered.

"And what will that stuff do to my young orchards?

What will it do?"

Fandarel swung around, apparently noticing the dis-

tressed Holder for the first time.

"Little man, agenothree in diluted form is what you

use to fertilize your plants in the spring. True, this field

has been burned out for a few years, but it is not

Thread-full. It would be better if we could get the

spray up high in the air. Then it would float down and

dissipate harmlessly—fertilizing very evenly, too." He

paused, scratched his heaed gratingly. "Young dragons

could carry a team aloft. . . . Hmmm. A possibility,

but the apparatus is bulky yet." He turned his back on

the surprised Hold Lord then and asked F'lar if the

tapestry had been returned. "I cannot yet discover

how to make a tube throw flame. I got this mechanism

from what we make for the orchard farmers."

"I'm still waiting for word on the tapestry," F'lar

250 Dragonfiight

replied, "but this spray of yours is effective. The

Thread burrow is dead."

"The sandwonus are effective too, but not really

efficient," Fandarel grunted in dissatisfaction. He beck-

oned abruptly to his assistants and stalked off into the

increasing twilight to the dragons.

Robinton awaited their return at the Weyr, his out-

ward calm barely masking his inner excitement. He

inquired politely, however, of Fandarel's efforts. The

Mastersmith grunted and shrugged.

"I have all my craft at work."

"The Mastersmith is entirely too modest," Flar put

in. "He has already put together an ingenious device

that sprays agenothree into Thread burrows and sears

them into a black pulp."

"Not efficient. I like the idea of flamethrowers,"

the smith said, his eyes gleaming in his expressionless

face. "A thrower of flame," he repeated, his eyes un-

focusing. He shook his heavy head with a bone-popping

crack. "I go," and with a curt nod to the harper and

the Weyrleader, he left.

"I like that man's dedication to an idea," Robinton

observed. Despite his amusement with the man's ec-

centric behavior, there was a strong undercurrent of

respect for the smith. "I must set my apprentices a task

for an appropriate Saga on the Mastersmith. I under-

stand," he said, turning to F'lar, "that the southern

venture has been inaugurated."

F'lar nodded unhappily.

"Your doubts increase?"

"This between times travel takes its own toll," he

admitted, glancing anxiously toward the sleeping

room.

"The Weyrwoman is ill?"

"Sleeping, but today's journey affected her. We need

another, less dangerous answeri" and F'lar slammed

one fist into the other palm.

"I came with no real answer," Robinton said then,

briskly, "but with what I believe to be another part of

the puzzle. I have found an entry. Four hundred Turns

Dragonfiight 251

ago the then Masterharper was called to Fort Weyr not

long after the Red Star retreated away from Pern in

the evening sky."

"An entry? What is it?"

"Mind you, the Thread attacks had just lifted and

the Masterharper was called one late evening to Fort

Weyr. An unusual summons. However," and Robin-

ton emphasized the distinction by pointing a long,

callous-tipped finger at F'lar, "no further mention is

ever made of that visit. There ought to have been, for

all such summonses have a purpose. All such meetings

are recorded, yet no explanation of this one is given.

The record is taken up several weeks later by the Mas-

terharper as though he had not left his crafthall at all.

Some ten months afterward, the Question Song was

added to compulsory Teaching Ballads."

"You believe the two are connected with the aban-

donment of the five Weyrs?"

"I do, but I could not say why. I only feel that the

events, the visit, the disappearances, the Question Song,

are connected."

F'lar poured them both cups of wine.

"I have checked back, too, seeking some indica-

tions." He shrugged. "All must have been normal right

up to the point they disappeared. There are Records

of tithing trains received, supplies stored, the list of

injured dragons and men returning to active patrols.

And then the Records cease at full Cold, leaving only

Benden Weyr occupied."

"And why that one Weyr of the six to choose

from?" Robinton demanded. "Island Ista would be a

better choice if only one Weyr was to be left. Benden

so far north is not a likely place to pass four hundred

Turns."

"Benden is high and isolated. A disease that struck

the others and was prevented from reaching Benden?"

"And no explanation of it? They can't all—dragons,

riders, weyrfolk—have dropped dead on the same in-

stant and left no carcasses rotting in the sun."

"Then let us ask ourselves, why was the harper

252 Dragonftight

called? Was he told to construct a Teaching Ballad

covering this disappearance?"

"Well," Robinton snorted, "it certainly wasn't meant

to reassure us, not with that tune—if one cares to call

it a tune at all, and I don't—nor does it answer any

questions! It poses them."

"For us to answer?" suggested Flar softly.

"Aye." Robinton's eyes shone. "For us to answer,

indeed, for it is a difficult song to forget. Which

means it was meant to be remembered. Those ques-

tions are important, Flar!"

"Which questions are important?" demanded Lessa,

who had entered quietly.

Both men were on their feet. F'lar, with unusual

attentiveness, held a chair for Lessa and poured her

wine.

"I'm not going to break apart," she said tartly, al-

most annoyed at the excess of courtesy. Then she

smiled up at F'lar to take the sting out of her words.

"I slept and I feel much better. What were you two

getting so intense about?"

Flar quickly outlined what he and the Master-

harper had been discussing. When he mentioned the

Question Song, Lessa shuddered.

"That's one I can't forget, either. Which, I've always

been told," and she grimaced, remembering the hateful

lessons with R'gul, "means it's important. But why? It

only asked questions." Then she bunked, her eyes went

wide with amazement

" 'Gone away, gone . . . aheadi'" she cried, on her

feet. "That's it! All five Weyrs went , . . ahead. But

to when?"

F'lar turned to her, speechless.

"They came ahead to our time! Five Weyrs full

of dragons," she repeated in an awed voice.

"No, that's impossible," F'lar contradicted.

"Why?" Robinton demanded excitedly. "Doesn't

that solve the problem we're facing? The need for fight-

ing dragons? Doesn't it explain why they left so sud-

denly with no explanation except that Question Song?"

Dragonfiight 253

F'lar brushed back the heavy lock of hair that over-

hung his eyes.

"It would explain their actions in leaving," he ad-

mitted, "because they couldn't leave any clues saying

where they went, or it would cancel the whole thing.

Just as I couldn't tell F'nor I knew the southern ven-

ture would have problems. But how do they get here

—if here is when they came? They aren't here now.

How would they have known they were needed—or

when they were needed? And this is the real problem

—how can you conceivably give a dragon references

to a when that has not yet occurred?"

"Someone here must go back to give them the proper

references," Lessa replied in a very quiet voice.

"You're mad, Lessa," F'lar shouted at her, alarm

written on his face. "You know what happened to you

today. How can you consider going back to a when

you can't remotely imagine? To a when four hundred

Turns ago? Going back ten Turns left you fainting

and half-ill."

"Wouldn't it be worth it?" she asked him, her eyes

grave. "Isn't Pern worth it?"

F'lar grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her, his

eyes wild with fear.

"Not even Pern is worth losing you, or Ramoth.

Lessa, Lessa, don't you dare disobey me in this." His

voice dropped to an intense, icy whisper, shaking with

anger.

"Ah, there may be a way of effecting that solution,

momentarily beyond us, Weyrwoman," Robinton put

in adroitly. "Who knows what tomorrow holds? It cer-

tainly is not something one does without considering

every angle."

Lessa did not shrug off F'lar's viselike grip on her

shoulders as she gazed at Robinton.

"Wine?" the Masterharper suggested, pouring a mug

for her. His diversionary action broke the tableau of

Lessa and F'lar.

"Ramoth is not afraid to try," Lessa said, her mouth

set in a determined line.

254

F'lar glared at the golden dragon who was regarding

the humans, her neck curled around almost to the

shoulder joint of her great wing.

"Ramoth is young," F'lar snapped and then caught

Mnementh's wry thought even as Lessa did.

She threw her head back, her peal of laughter

echoing in the vaulting chamber,

"I'm badly in need of a good joke myself," Robin-

ton remarked pointedly.

"Mnementh told F'lar that he was neither young nor

afraid to try, either. It was just a long step," Lessa

explained, wiping tears from her eyes.

F'lar glanced dourly at the passageway, at the end

of which Mnementh lounged on his customary ledge.

A laden dragon comes, the bronze warned those in

the Weyr. It is Lytol behind young B'rant on brown

Fanth.

"Now he brings his own bad news?" Lessa asked

sourly.

"It is hard enough for Lytol to ride another's dragon

or come here at all, Lessa of Ruatha. Do not increase

his torment one jot with your childishness," F'lar said

sternly.

Lessa dropped her eyes, furious with F'lar for speak-

ing so to her in front of Robinton.

Lytol stumped into the queen's weyr, carrying one

end of a large rolled rug. Young B'rant, struggling to

uphold the other end, was sweating with the effort.

Lytol bowed respectfully toward Ramoth and gestured

the young brown rider to help him unroll their burden.

As the immense tapestry uncoiled, F'lar could under-

stand why Masterweaver Zurg had remembered it. The

colors, ancient though they undoubtedly were, re-

mained vibrant and undimmed. The subject matter was

even more interesting.

"Mnementh, send for Fandarel. Here's the model he

needs for his flamethrower," F'lar said.

"That tapestry is Ruatha's," Lessa cried indignantly.

"I remember it from my childhood. It hung in the

Great Hall and was the most cherished of my Blood

Dragonflight 255

Line's possessions. Where has it been?" Her eyes were

flashing.

"Lady, it is being returned to where it belongs," Lytol

said stolidly, avoiding her gaze. "A masterweaver's

work, this," he went on, touching the heavy fabric with

reverent fingers. "Such colors, such patterning. It took

a man's life to set up the loom, a craft's whole effort

to complete, or I am no judge of true craftsmanship."

F'lar walked along the edge of the immense arras,

wishing it could be hung to afford the proper perspec-

tive of the heroic scene. A flying formation of three

wings of dragons dominated the upper portion of half

the hanging. They were breathing flame as they dove

upon gray, falling clumps of Threads in the brilliant

sky. A sky just that perfect autumnal blue, F'lar de-

cided, that cannot occur in warmer weather. Upon the

lower slopes of the hills, foliage was depicted as turning

yellow from chilly nights. The slatey rocks suggested

Ruathan country. Was that why the tapestry had hung

in Ruatha Hall? Below, men had left the protecting

Hold, cut into the cliff itself. The men were burdened

with the curious cylinders of which Zurg had spoken.

The tubes in their hands belched brilliant tongues of

flame in long streams, aimed at the writhing Threads

that attempted to burrow in the ground.

Lessa gave a startled exclamation, walking right onto

the tapestry, staring down at the woven outline of

the Hold, its massive door ajar, the details of its bronze

ornamentation painstakingly rendered in fine yams.

"I believe that's the design on the Ruatha Hold

door," F'lar remarked.

"It is ... and it isn't," Lessa replied in a puzzled

voice.

Lytol glowered at her and then at the woven door.

"True. It isn't and yet it is, and I went through that

door a scant hour ago." He scowled down at the door

before his toes.

"Well, here are the designs Fandarel wants to

study," F'lar said with relief, as he peered at the flame-

throwers.

256 Dragonfiight

Whether or not the smith could produce a working

model from this woven one in time to help them three

days hence F'lar couldn't guess. But if Fandarel could

not, no man could.

The Mastersmith was, for him, jubilant over the

presence of the tapestry. He lay upon the rug, his nose

tickled by the nap as he studied the details. He grum-

bled, moaned, and muttered as he sat cross-legged to

sketch and peer.

"Has been done. Can be done. Must be done," he

was heard to rumble.

Lessa called for klah, bread, and meat when she

learned from young B'rant that neither he nor Lytol

had eaten yet. She served all the men, her manner gay

and teasing. F'lar was relieved for Lytol's sake. Lessa

even pressed food and klah on Fandarel, a tiny figure

beside the mammoth man, insisting that he come away

from the tapestry and eat and drink before he could

return to his mumbling and drawing.

Fandarel finally decided that he had enough sketches

and disappeared, to be flown back to his crafthold.

"No point in asking him when he'll be back. He's

too deep in thought to hear," F'lar remarked, amused.

"If you don't mind, I shall excuse myself as well,"

Lessa said, smiling graciously to the four remaining

around the table. "Good Warder Lytol, young B'rant

should soon be excused, too. He's half asleep."

"I most certainly am not, Weyrlady," B'rant assured

her hastily, widening his eyes with stimulated alertness.

Lessa merely laughed as she retreated into the

sleeping chamber. F'lar stared thoughtfully after her.

"I mistrust the Weyrwoman when she uses that par-

ticularly docile tone of voice," he said slowly.

"Well, we must all depart," Robinton suggested, ris-

ing.

"Ramoth is young but not that foolish," F'lar mur-

mured after the others had left.

Ramoth slept, oblivious of his scrutiny. He reached

for the consolation Mnementh could give him, without

response. The big bronze was dozing on his ledge.

Black, blacker, blackest,

And cold beyond frozen things.

Where is between when there is naught

To Life but fragile dragon wings?

"I JUST want to see that tapestry back on the wall

at Ruatha," Lessa insisted to F'lar the next day. "I

want it where it belongs."

They had gone to check on the injured and had

had one argument already over F'lar's having sent

N'ton along with the southern venture. Lessa had

wanted him to try riding another's dragon. F'lar had

preferred for him to leam to lead a wing of his own in

the south, given the Turns to mature in. He had

reminded Lessa, in the hope that it might prove inhibit-

ing to any ideas she had about going four hundred

Turns back, about F'nor's return trips, and he had

borne down hard on the difficulties she had already

experienced.

She had become very thoughtful, although she had

said nothing.

Therefore, when Fandarel sent word that he would

like to show F'lar a new mechanism, the Weyrleader

felt reasonably safe in allowing Lessa the triumph of

returning the purloined tapestry to Ruatha. She went

258 Dragonftiglzt

to have the arras rolled and strapped to Ramoth's back.

He watched Ramoth rise with great sweeps of her

wide wings, up to the Star Stone before going between

to Ruatha. R'gul appeared on the ledge just then, re-

porting that a huge train of firestone was entering the

Tunnel. Consequently, busy with such details, it was

midmoming before he could get to see Fandarel's

crude and not yet effective flamethrower . . . the fire

did not "throw" from the nozzle of the tube with any

force at all. It was late afternoon before he reached

the Weyr again.

R'gul announced sourly that F'nor had been looking

for him—twice, in fact.

"Twice?"

"Twice, as I said. He would not leave a message

with me for you." R'gul was clearly insulted by F'nor's

refusal.

By the evening meal, when there was still no sign of

Lessa, F'lar sent to Ruatha to leam that she had in-

deed brought the tapestry. She had badgered and

bothered the entire Hold until the thing was properly

hung. For upward of several hours she had sat and

looked at it, pacing its length occasionally.

She and Ramoth had then taken to the sky above

the Great Tower and disappeared. Lytol had assumed,

as had everyone at Ruatha, that she had returned to

Benden Weyr.

"Mnementh," F'lar bellowed when the messenger

had finished. "Mnementh, where are they?"

Mnementh's answer was a long time in coming.

I cannot hear them, he said finally, his mental voice

soft and as full of worry as a dragon's could be.

F'lar gripped the table with both hands, staring at

the queen's empty weyr. He knew, in the anguished

privacy of his mind, where Lessa had tried to go.

Cold as death, death'bearing,

Stay and die, unguided.

Brave and braving, linger.

This way was twice decided.

BELOW THEM was Ruatha's Great Tower. Lessa

coaxed Ramoth slightly to the left, ignoring the drag-

on's acid comments, knowing that she was excited, too.

That's right, dear, this is exactly the angle at which

the tapestry illustrates the Hold door. Only when that

tapestry was designed, no one had carved the lintels or

capped the door. And there was no Tower, no inner

Court, no gate. She stroked the surprisingly soft skin

of the curving neck, laughing to hide her own tense

nervousness and apprehension at what she was about

to attempt.

She told herself there were good reasons prompting

her action in this matter. The ballad's opening phrase,

"Gone away, gone ahead," was clearly a reference to

between times. And the tapestry gave the required

reference points for the jump between whens. Oh, how

she thanked'the Masterweaver who had woven that

doorway. She must remember to tell him how well he

had wrought. She hoped she'd be able to. Enough of

that. Of course, she'd be able to. For hadn't the Weyrs

259

260 Dragonfiighi

disappeared? Knowing they had gone ahead, knowing

how to go back to bring them ahead, it was she, ob-

viously, who must go back and lead them. It was

very simple, and only she and Ramoth could do it.

Because they already had.

She laughed again, nervously, and took several

deep, shuddering breaths.

"All right, my golden love," she murmured. "You

have the reference. You know when I want to go.

Take me between, Ramoth, between four hundred

Turns."

The cold was intense, even more penetrating than

she had imagined. Yet it was not a physical cold. It

was the awareness of the absence of everything. No

light. No sound. No touch. As they hovered, longer,

and longer, in this nothingness, Lessa recognized

full-blown panic of a kind that threatened to over-

whelm her reason. She knew she sat on Ramoth's

neck, yet she could not feel the great beast under her

thighs, under her hands. She tried to cry out inad-

vertently and opened her mouth to ... nothing . . .

no sound in her own ears. She could not even feel the

hands that she knew she had raised to her own cheeks.

/ am here, she heard Ramoth say in her mind.

We are together, and this reassurance was all that kept

her from losing her grasp on sanity in that terrifying

aeon of unpassing, timeless nothingness.

Someone had sense enough to call for Robinton.

The Masterharper found F'lar sitting at the table, his

face deathly pale, his eyes staring at the empty weyr.

The craftmaster's entrance, his calm voice, reached

F'lar in his shocked numbness. He sent the others out

with a peremptory wave.

"She's gone. She tried to go back four hundred

Turns," F'lar said in a tight, hard voice.

The Masterharper sank into the chair opposite the

Weyrleader.

"She took the tapestry back to Ruatha," F'lar con-

261

tinued in that same choked voice. 'Td told her about

F'nor's returns. I told her how dangerous this was. She

didn't argue very much, and I know going between

times had frightened her, if anything could frighten

Lessa." He banged the table with an important fist. "I

should have suspected her. When she thinks she's

right, she doesn't stop to analyze, to consider. She just

does it!"

"But she's not a foolish woman," Robinton reminded

him slowly. "Not even she would jump between times

without a reference point. Would she?"

" 'Gone away, gone ahead'—that's the only clue we

have!"

"Now wait a moment," Robinton cautioned him,

then snapped his fingers. "Last night, when she walked

upon the tapestry, she was uncommonly interested in

the Hall door. Remember, she discussed it with Lytol."

F'lar was on his feet and halfway down the passage-

way.

"Come on, man, we've got to get to Ruatha."

Lytol lit every glow in the Hold for F'lar and Robin-

ton to examine the tapestry clearly.

"She spent the afternoon just looking at it," the

Warder said, shaking his head. "You're sure she has

tried this incredible jump?"

"She must have. Mnementh can't hear either her or

Ramoth anywhere. Yet he says he can get an echo

from Canth many Turns away and in the Southern

Continent." F'lar stalked past the tapestry. "What is

it about the door, Lytol? Think, man!"

"It is much as it is now, save that there are no

carved lintels, there is no outer Court or Tower . . ."

"That's it. Oh, by the first Egg, it is so simple. Zurg

said this tapestry is old. Lessa must have decided it

was four hundred Turns, and she has used it as the

reference point to go back between times."

"Why, then, she's there and safe," Robinton cried,

sinking with relief in a chair.

262

Dragon fiight

"Oh, no, harper. It is not as easy as that," F'lar

murmured, and Robinton caught his stricken look

and the despair echoed in Lytol's face.

"What's the matter?"

"There is nothing between," F'lar said in a dead

voice. "To go between places takes only as much time

as for a man to cough three times. Between four hun-

dred Turns...." His voice trailed off.

Who wills,

Can.

Who tries,

Does.

Who loves,

Lives.

THERE WERE voices that first were roars in her ach-

ing ears and then hushed beyond the threshold of

sound. She gasped as the whirling, nauseating sensa-

tion apparently spun her, and the bed which she felt

beneath her, around and around. She clung to the sides

of the bed as pain jabbed through her head, from

somewhere directly in the middle of her skull. She

screamed, as much in protest at the pain as from the

terrifying, rolling, whirling, dropping lack of a solid

ground.

Yet some frightening necessity kept her trying to

Dragonfiight

263

gabble out the message she had come to give. Some-

times she felt Ramoth trying to reach her in that vast

swooping darkness that enveloped her. She would try

to cling to Ramoth's mind, hoping the golden queen

could lead her out of this torturing nowhere. Exhausted,

she would sink down, down, only to be torn from

oblivion by the desperate need to communicate.

She was finally aware of a soft, smooth hand upon

her arm, of a liquid, warm and savory, in her mouth.

She rolled it around her tongue, and it trickled down

her sore throat. A fit of coughing left her gasping and

weak. Then she experimentally opened her eyes, and

the images before her did not lurch and spin.

"Who ... are... you?" she managed to croak.

"Oh, my dear Lessa . . ."

"Is that who I am?" she asked, confused.

"So your Ramoth tells us," she was assured. "I am

Mardra of Fort Weyr."

"Oh, F'lar will be so angry with me," Lessa moaned

as her memory came rushing back. "He will shake me

and shake me. He always shakes me when I disobey

him. But I was right. I was right. Mardra? . . . Oh,

that . . . awful . . . nothingness," and she felt herself

drifting off into sleep, unable to resist that overwhelm-

ing urge. Comfortingly, her bed no longer rocked

beneath her.

The room, dimly lit by wallglows, was both like her

own at Benden Weyr and subtly different. Lessa lay

still, trying to isolate that difference. Ah, the weyr-

walls were very smooth here. The room was larger,

too, the ceiling higher and curving. The furnishings,

now that her eyes were used to the dim light and she

could distinguish details, were more finely crafted. She

stirred restlessly.

"Ah, you're awake again, mystery lady," a man

said. Light beyond the parted curtain flooded in from

the outer weyr. Lessa sensed rather than saw the pres-

ence of others in the room beyond.

A woman passed under the man's arm, moving

swiftly to the bedside.

264 Dragonfiight

"I remember you. You're Mardra," Lessa said with

surprise.

"Indeed I am, and here is T'ton, Weyrleader at

Fort."

T'ton was tossing more glows into the wallbasket,

peering over his shoulder at Lessa to see if the light

bothered her.

"Ramoth!" Lessa exclaimed, sitting upright, aware

for the first time that it was not Ramoth's mind she

touched in the outer weyr.

"Oh, that one," Mardra laughed with amused dis-

may. "She'll eat us out of the weyr, and even my

Loranth has had to call the other queens to restrain

her."

"She perches on the Star Stones as if she owned

them and keens constantly," T'ton added, less chari-

tably. He cocked an ear. "Ha. She's stopped."

"You can come, can't you?" Lessa blurted out.

"Come? Come where, my dear?" Mardra asked, con-

fused. "You've been going on and on about our 'com-

ing,' and Threads approaching, and the Red Star

bracketed in the Eye Rock, and . . . my dear, don't

you realize the Red Star has been past Pem these two

months?"

"No, no, they've started. That's why I came back

between times . . ."

"Back? Between times?" T'ton exclaimed, striding

over to the bed, eyeing Lessa intently.

"Could I have some klaW I know I'm not making

much sense, and I'm not really awake yet. But I'm

not mad or still sick, and this is rather complicated."

"Yes, it is," T'ton remarked with deceptive mildness.

But he did call down the service shaft for klah. And

he did drag a chair over to her bedside, settling him-

self to listen to her.

"Of course you're not mad," Mardra soothed her,

glaring at her weyrmate. "Or she wouldn't ride a

queen."

T'ton had to agree to that. Lessa waited for the klah

Dragonftight 265

to come; when it did, she sipped gratefully at its stim-

ulating warmth.

Then she took a deep breath and began, telling

them of the Long Interval between the dangerous

passes of the Red Star: how the sole Weyr had fallen

into disfavor and contempt, how Jora had deteriorated

and lost control over her queen, Nemorth, so that, as

the Red Star neared, there was no sudden increase in

the size of clutches. How she had Impressed Ramoth

to become Benden's Weyrwoman. How F'lar had out-

witted the dissenting Hold Lords the day after Ra-

moth's first mating flight and taken firm command of

Weyr and Pem, preparing for the Threads he knew

were coming. She told her by now rapt audience of her

own first attempts to fly Ramoth and how she had in-

advertently gone back between time to the day Fax

had invaded Ruath Hold.

"Invade . . . my family's Hold?" Mardra cried,

aghast.

"Ruatha has given the Weyrs many famous Weyr-

women," Lessa said with a sly smile at which T'ton

burst out laughing.

"She's Ruathan, no question," he assured Mardra.

She told them of the situation in which Dragonmen

now found themselves, with an insufficient force to

meet the Thread attacks. Of the Question Song and

the great tapestry.

"A tapestry?" Mardra cried, her hand going to her

cheek in alarm. "Describe it to me!"

And when Lessa did, she saw—at last—belief in

both their faces.

"My father has just commissioned a tapestry with

such a scene. He told me of it the other day because

the last battle with the Threads was held over Ruatha."

Incredulous, Mardra turned to T'ton, who no longer

looked amused. "She must have done what she has

said she'd done. How could she possibly know about

the tapestry?"

"You might also ask your queen dragon, and mine,"

Lessa suggested.

266 Dragonfiight

"My dear, we do not doubt you now," Mardra said

sincerely, "but it is a most incredible feat."

"I don't think," Lessa said, "that I would ever try it

again, knowing what I do know."

"Yes, this shock makes a forward jump between

times quite a problem if your F'lar must have an ef-

fective fighting force," Tton remarked.

"You will come? You will?"

"There is a distinct possibility we will," Tton said

gravely, and his face broke into a lopsided grin. "You

said we left the Weyrs . . . abandoned them, in fact,

and left no explanation. We went somewhere . . .

somewhen, that is, for we are still here now...."

They were all silent, for the same alternative oc-

curred to them simultaneously. The Weyrs had been

left vacant, but Lessa had no way of proving that the

five Weyrs reappeared in her time.

"There must be a way. There must be a way," Lessa

cried distractedly. "And there's no time to waste. No

time at all!"

Tton gave a bark of laughter. "There's plenty of

time at this end of history, my dear."

They made her rest then, more concerned than she

was that she had been ill some weeks, deliriously

screaming that she was falling and could not see, could

not hear, could not touch. Ramoth, too, they told her,

had suffered from the appalling nothingness of a pro-

tracted stay between, emerging above ancient Ruatha

a pale yellow wraith of her former robust self.

The Lord of Ruatha Hold, Mardra's father, had

been surprised out of his wits by the appearance of

a staggering rider and a pallid queen on his stone

verge. Naturally and luckily he had sent to his daughter

at Fort Weyr for help. Lessa and Ramoth had been

transported to the Weyr, and the Ruathan Lord kept

silence on the matter.

When Lessa was strong enough, Tton called a

Council of Weyrleaders. Curiously, there was no op-

position to going . . . provided they could solve the

problem of time-shock and find reference points along

267

the way. It did not take Lessa long to comprehend

why the dragonriders were so eager to attempt the

journey. Most of them had been born during the pres-

ent Thread incursions. They had now had close to four

months of unexciting routine patrols and were bored

with monotony. Training Games were pallid substitutes

for the real battles they had all fought. The Holds,

which once could not do dragonmen favors enough,

were beginning to be indifferent. The Weyrleaders

could see these incidents increasing as Thread-

generated fears receded. It was a morale decay as in-

sidious as a wasting disease in Weyr and Hold. The

alternative which Lessa's appeal offered was better

than a slow decline in their own time.

Of Benden, only the Weyrleader himself was privy

to these meetings. Because Benden was the only Weyr

in Lessa's time, it must remain ignorant, and intact,

until her time. Nor could any mention be made of

Lessa's presence, for that, too, was unknown in her

Turn.

She insisted that they call in the Masterharper be-

cause her Records said he had been called. But when

he asked her to tell him the Question Song, she smiled

and demurred.

"You'll write it, or your successor will, when the

Weyrs are found to be abandoned," she told him. "But

it must be your doing, not my repeating."

"A difficult assignment to know one must write a

song that four hundred Turns later gives a valuable

clue."

"Only be sure," she cautioned him, "that it is a

Teaching tune. It must not be forgotten, for it poses

questions that I have to answer."

As he started to chuckle, she realized she had al-

ready given him a pointer.

The discussions—how to go so far safely with no

sustained sense deprivations—grew heated. There were

more constructive notions, however impractical, on

how to find reference points along the way. The five

Weyrs had not been ahead in time, and Lessa, in her

268

Dragonftight

269

one gigantic backward leap, had not stopped for inter-

mediate time marks.

"You did say that a between times jump of ten years

caused no hardship?" T'ton asked of Lessa as all the

Weyrleaders and the Masterharper met to discuss this

impasse.

"None. It takes . . . oh, twice as long as a between

places jump."

"It is the four hundred Turn leap that left you un-

balanced. Hmmm. Maybe twenty or twenty-five Turn

segments would be safe enough."

That suggestion found merit until Ista's cautious

leader, D'ram, spoke up.

"I don't mean to be a Hold-hider, but there is

one possibility we haven't mentioned. How do we

know we made the jump between to Lessa's tune? Go-

ing between is a chancy business. Men go missing

often. And Lessa barely made it here alive."

"A good point, D'ram," T'ton concurred briskly,

"but I feel there is more to prove that we do—did

—will—go forward. The clues, for one thing—they

were aimed at Lessa. The very emergency that left

five Weyrs empty sent her back to appeal for our

help—"

"Agreed, agreed," D'ram interrupted earnestly, "but

what I mean is can you be sure we reached Lessa's

time? It hadn't happened yet. Do we know it can?"

T'ton was not the only one who searched his mind

for an answer to that. All of a sudden he slammed

both hands, palms down, on the table.

"By the Egg, it's die slow, doing nothing, or die

quick, trying. I've had a surfeit of the quiet life we

dragonmen must lead after the Red Star passes till we

go between in old age. I confess I'm almost sorry to see

the Red Star dwindle farther from us in the eve-

ning sky. I say, grab the risk with both hands and shake

it till it's gone. We're dragonmen, aren't we, bred to

fight the Threads? Let's go hunting . . . four hundred

Turns ahead!"

Lessa's drawn face relaxed. She had recognized the

validity of D'ram's alternate possibility, and it had

touched off bitter fear in her heart. To risk herself was

her own responsibility, but to risk these hundreds of

men and dragons, the weyrfolk who would accompany

their men... ?

T'ton's ringing words for once and all dispensed

with that consideration.

"And I believe," the Masterharper's exultant voice

cut through the answering shouts of agreement, "I

have your reference points." A smile of surprised won-

der illuminated his face. "Twenty Turns or twenty hun-

dred, you have a guide! And Tton said it. As the Red

Star dwindles in the evening sky . .."

Later, as they plotted the orbit of the Red Star, they

found how easy that solution actually was and

chuckled that their ancient foe should be their guide.

Atop Fort Weyr, as on all the Weyrs, were great

stones. They were so placed that at certain times of the

year they marked the approach and retreat of the Red

Star, as it orbited in its erratic two hundred Turn-long

course around then: sun. By consulting the Records

which, among other morsels of information, included

the Red Star's wanderings, it was not hard to plan

jumps between of twenty-five Turns for each Weyr. It

had been decided that the complement of each sepa-

rate Weyr would jump between above its own base, for

there would unquestionably be accidents if close to

eighteen hundred laden beasts tried it at one point.

Each moment now was one too long away from her

own time for Lessa. She had been a month away from

F'lar and missed him more than she had thought

possible. Also, she was worried that Ramoth would

mate away from Mnementh. There were, to be sure,

bronze dragons and bronze riders eager to do that

service, but Lessa had no interest in them.

T'ton and Mardra occupied her with the many de-

tails in organizing the exodus, so that no clues, past the

tapestry and the Question Song that would be com-

posed at a later date, remained in the Weyrs.

It was with a relief close to tears that Lessa urged

270 DragonfiiglT-t

Ramoth upward in the night sky to take her place near

T'ton and Mardra above the Fort Weyr Star Stone. At

five other Weyrs great wings were ranged in forma-

tion, ready to depart their own times.

As each Weyrieader's dragon reported to Lessa that

all were ready, reference points determined by the Red

Star's travels in mind, it was this traveler from the

future who gave the command to jump between.

The blackest night must end in dawn,

The sun dispel the dreamer's fear:

When shall my soul's bleak, hopeless pain

Find solace in its darkening Weyr?

THEY HAD made eleven jumps between, the Weyr-

leaders' bronzes speaking to Lessa as they rested

briefly between each jump. Of the eighteen hundred-

odd travelers, only four failed to come ahead, and they

had been older beasts. All five sections agreed to pause

for a quick meal and hot klah before the final jump,

which would be but twelve Turns.

"It is easier," T'ton commented as Mardra served

the klah, "to go twenty-five Turns than twelve." He

glanced up at the Red Dawn Star, their winking and

faithful guide. "It does not alter its position as much.

I count on you, Lessa, to give us additional references."

Dragonflight 271

"I want to get us back to Ruatha before F'lar dis-

covers I have gone." She shivered as she looked up at

the Red Star and sipped hastily at the hot klah. "I've

seen the Star just like that, once . . . no, twice . . .

before at Ruatha." She stared at T'ton, her throat con-

stricting as she remembered that morning: the time

she had decided that the Red Star was a menace to

her, three days after which Fax and Flar had appeared

at Ruatha Hold. Fax had died on F'lar's dagger, and

she had gone to Benden Weyr. She felt suddenly dizzy,

weak, strangely unsettled. She had not felt this way as

they paused between other jumps.

"Are you all right, Lessa?" Mardra asked with con-

cern. "You're so white. You're shaking." She put her

arm around Lessa, glancing, concerned, at her Weyr-

mate.

"Twelve Turns ago I was at Ruatha," Lessa mur-

mured, grasping Mardra's hand for support. "I was at

Ruatha twice. Let's go on quickly. I'm too many in

this morning. I must get back. I must get back to F'lar.

He'll be so angry."

The note of hysteria in her voice alarmed both

Mardra and T'ton. Hastily the latter gave orders for the

fires to be extinguished, for the Weyrfolk to mount

and prepare for the final jump ahead.

Her mind in chaos, Lessa transmitted the refer-

ences to the other Weyrleaders' dragons: Ruatha in the

evening light, the Great Tower, the inner Court, the

land at springtime. .. .

Dragonflight 273

A fleck of red in a cold night sky,

A drop of blood to guide them by,

Turn away. Turn away. Turn, be gone,

A Red Star beckons the travelers on.

nothing could persuade me to leave your side. You

have aged years, man, in the course of hours."

"And isn't it understandable?" F'lar shouted, rising

to his feet, the impotent anger boiling out of him at the

nearest target in the form of Robinton.

Robinton's eyes were full of compassion as he

reached for F'lar's arm, gripping it tightly.

"Man, not even this Masterharper has words enough

to express the sympathy and honor he has for you. But

you must sleep; you have tomorrow to endure, and the

tomorrow after that you have to fight. The dragonmen

must have a leader. .. ." His voice trailed off. "Tomor-

row you must send for F'nor... and Pridith."

F'lar pivoted on his heel and strode toward the fate-

ful door of Ruatha's great hall.

BETWEEN THEM, Lytol and Robinton forced Plar

to eat, deliberately plying him with wine. At the back

of his mind F'lar knew he would have to keep going,

but the effort was immense, the spirit gone from him.

It was no comfort that they still had Pridith and Kylara

to continue dragonkind, yet he delayed sending some-

one back for F'nor, unable to face the reality of that

admission: that in sending for Pridith and Kylara, he

had acknowledged the fact that Lessa and Ramoth

would not return.

Lessa, Lessa, his mind cried endlessly, damning her

one moment for her reckless, thoughtless daring, lov-

ing her the next for attempting such an incredible feat.

"I said, F'lar, you need sleep now more than wine."

Robinton's voice penetrated his preoccupation.

F'lar looked at him, frowning in perplexity. He real-

ized that he was trying to lift the wine jug that Robin-

ton was holding firmly down.

"What did you say?"

"Come. I'll bear you company to Benden. Indeed,

272

Oh, Tongue, give sound to joy and sing

Of hope and promise on dragonwing.

BEFORE THEM loomed Ruatha's Great Tower, the

high walls of the Outer Court clearly visible in the

fading light.

The claxon rang violent summons into the air, barely

heard over the earsplitting thunder as hundreds of

274 Dragmfiighi

dragons appeared, ranging in full fighting array, wing

upon wing, up and down the valley.

A shaft of light stained the flagstones of the Court

as the Hold door opened.

Lessa ordered Ramoth down, close to the Tower,

and dismounted, running eagerly forward to greet the

men who piled out of the door. She made out the

stocky figure of Lytol, a handbasket of glows held high

above his head. She was so relieved to see him that

she forgot her previous antagonism to the Warder.

"You misjudged the last jump by two days, Lessa,"

he cried as soon as he was near enough for her to hear

him over the noise of settling dragons.

"Misjudged? How could I?" she breathed.

T'ton and Mardra came up beside her.

"No need to worry," Lytol reassured her, gripping

her hands tightly in his, his eyes dancing. He was ac-

tually smiling at her. "You overshot the day. Go back

between, return to Ruatha of two days ago. That's all."

His grin widened at her confusion. "It is all right," he

repeated, patting her hands. 'Take this same hour, the

Great Court, everything, but visualize Flar, Robinton,

and myself here on the flagstones. Place Mnementh

on the Great Tower and a blue dragon on the verge.

Now go."

Mnementh? Ramoth queried Lessa, eager to see her

Weyrmate. She ducked her great head, and her huge

eyes gleamed with scintillating fire.

"I don't understand," Lessa wailed. Mardra slipped

a comforting arm around her shoulders.

"But I do, I do—trust me," Lytol pleaded, patting

her shoulder awkwardly and glancing at T'ton for sup-

port. "It is as F'nor has said. You cannot be several

places in time without experiencing great distress, and

when you stopped twelve Turns back, it threw Lessa

all to pieces."

"You know that?" Tton cried.

"Of course. Just go back two days. You see, I know

you have. I shall, of course, be surprised then, but

now, tonight, I know you reappeared two days earlier.

Dragonflight 275

Oh, go. Don't argue. F'lar was half out of bis mind

with worry for you."

"He'll shake me," Lessa cried, like a little girl.

"Lessa!" T'ton took her by the hand and led her

back to Ramoth, who crouched so her rider could

mount.

T'ton took complete charge and had his Fidranth

pass the order to return to the references Lytol had

given, adding by way of Ramoth a description of the

humans and Mnementh.

The cold of between restored Lessa to herself, al-

though her error had badly jarred her confidence. But

.then there was Ruatha again. The dragons happily

arranged themselves in tremendous display. And

there, silhouetted against the light from the Hall, stood

Lytol, Robinton's tall figure, and ... F'lar.

Mnementh's voice gave a brassy welcome, and Ra-

moth could not land Lessa quickly enough to go and

twine necks with her mate.

Lessa stood where Ramoth had left her, unable to

move. She was aware that Mardra and T'ton were be-

side her. She was conscious only of F'lar, racing across

the Court toward her. Yet she could not move.

He grabbed her in his arms, holding her so tightly to

him that she could not doubt the joy of his welcome.

"Lessa, Lessa," his voice raggedly chanted in her

ear. He pressed her face against his, crushing her to

breathlessness, all his careful detachment abandoned.

He kissed her, hugged her, held her, and then kissed

her with rough urgency again. Then he suddenly set

her on her feet and gripped her shoulders. "Lessa, if

you ever . . ."he said, punctuating each word with a

flexing of his fingers, then stopped, aware of a grinning

circle of strangers surrounding them.

"I told you he'd shake me," Lessa was saying, dash-

ing tears from her face. "But, F'lar, I brought them all

... all but Benden Weyr. And that is why the five

Weyrs were abandoned. I brought them."

F'lar looked around him, looked beyond the leaders

to the masses of dragons settling in the Valley, on the

276 Dragon^ight

heights, everywhere he turned. There were dragons,

blue, green, bronze, brown, and a whole wingful of

golden queen dragons alone.

"You brought the Weyrs?" he echoed, stunned.

"Yes, this is Mardra and T'ton of Fort Weyr, D'ram

and..."

He stopped her with a little shake, pulling her to his

side so he could see and greet the newcomers.

"I am more grateful than you can know," he said

and could not go on with all the many words he wanted

to add.

Tton stepped forward, holding out his hand, which

F'lar seized and held firmly.

"We bring eighteen hundred dragons, seventeen

queens, and all that is necessary to implement our

Weyrs."

"And they brought flamethrowers, too," Lessa put

in excitedly.

"But—to come ... to attempt it . . ." F'lar mur-

mured in admiring wonder.

Tton and D'ram and the others laughed.

"Your Lessa showed the way..."

"... with the Red Star to guide us..." she said.

"We are dragonmen," T'ton continued solemnly,

"as you are yourself, F'lar of Benden. We were told

there are Threads here to fight, and that's work for

dragonmen to do... in any time!"

Drummer, beat, and piper, blow,

Harper, strike, and soldier, go.

Free the flame and sear the grasses

Till the dawning Red Star passes.

EVEN AS the five Weyrs had been settling around

Ruatha Valley, F'nor had been compelled to bring for-

ward in time his southern weyrfolk. They had all

reached the end of endurance in double-time life,

gratefully creeping back to quarters they had vacated

two days and ten Turns ago.

R'gul, totally unaware of Lessa's backward plunge,

greeted F'lar and his Weyrwoman, on then- return to

the Weyr, with the news of F"nor's appearance with

seventy-two new dragons and the further word that he

doubted any of the riders would be fit to fight.

"I've never seen such exhausted men in my life,"

R'gul rattled on, "can't imagine what could have gotten

into them, with sun and plenty of food and all, and no

responsibilities."

F'lar and Lessa exchanged glances.

"Well, the southern Weyr ought to be maintained,

R'gul. Think it over."

"I'm a fighting dragonman, not a womanizer," the

277

278 Dragonflight

old dragonrider grunted. "It'd take more than a trip

between times to reduce me like those others."

"Oh, they'll be themselves again in next to no time,"

Lessa said and, to R'gul's intense disapproval, she gig-

gled.

"They'll have to be if we're to keep the skies Thread-

free," R'gul snapped testily.

"No problem about that now," F'lar assured him

easily.

"No problem? With only a hundred and forty-four

dragons?"

"Two hundred and sixteen," Lessa corrected him

firmly.

Ignoring her, R'gul asked, "Has that Mastersmith

found a flamethrower that'll work?"

"Indeed he has," F'lar assured R'gul, grinning

broadly.

The five Weyrs had also brought forward their

equipment. Fandarel all but snatched examples from

their backs and, undoubtedly, every hearth and smithy

through the continent would be ready to duplicate the

design by morning. T'ton had told F'lar that, in his

time, each Hold had ample flamethrowers for every

man on the ground. In the course of the Long In-

terval, however, the throwers must have been either

smelted down or lost as incomprehensible devices.

D'ram, particularly, was very much interested in Fan-

darel's agenothree sprayer, considering it better than

thrown-flame, since it would also act as a fertilizer.

"Well," R'gul admitted gloomily, "a flamethrower

or two will be some help day after tomorrow."

"We have found something else that will help a lot

more," Lessa remarked and then hastily excused her-

self, dashing into the sleeping quarters.

The sounds that drifted past the curtain were either

laughter or sobs, and R'gul frowned on both. That girl

was just too young to be Weyrwoman at such a time.

No stability.

"Has she realized how critical our situation is? Even

with F'nor's additions? That is, if they can fly?" R'gul

279

demanded testily. "You oughtn't to let her leave the

Weyr at all."

F'lar ignored that and began pouring himself a cup

of wine.

"You once pointed out to me that the five empty

Weyrs of Pern supported your theory that there would

be no more Threads."

R'gul cleared his throat, thinking that apologies—

even if they might be due from the Weyrleader—were

scarcely effective against the Threads.

"Now there was merit in that theory," F'lar went on,

filling a cup for R'gul. "Not, however, as you inter-

preted it. The five Weyrs were empty because they

... they came here."

R'gul, his cup halfway to his lips, stared at F'lar.

This man also was too young to bear his responsibili-

ties. But ... he seemed actually to believe what he

was saying.

"Believe it or not, R'gul—and in a bare day's time

you will—the five Weyrs are empty no longer. They're

here, in the Weyrs, in this tune. And they shall join us,

eighteen hundred strong, the day after tomorrow at

Telgar, with flamethrowers and with plenty of battle

experience."

R'gul regarded the poor man stolidly for a long

moment. Carefully he put his cup down and, turning

on his heel, left the weyr. He refused to be an object

of ridicule. He'd better plan to take over the leader-

ship tomorrow if they were to fight Threads the day

after.

The next morning, when he saw the clutch of great

bronze dragons bearing the Weyrleaders and their

wingleaders to the conference, R'gul got quietly drunk.

Lessa exchanged good mornings with her friends and

then, smiling sweetly, left the weyr, saying she must

feed Ramoth. F'lar stared after her thoughtfully, then

went to greet Robinton and Fandarel, who had been

asked to attend the meeting, too. Neither Craftmaster

said much, but neither missed a word spoken. Fan-

darel's great head kept swiveling from speaker to

280 Dragonftighi

speaker, his deep-set eyes blinking occasionally. Rob-

inton sat with a bemused smile on his face, utterly

delighted by ancestral visitors.

F'lar was quickly talked out of resigning his titular

position as Weyrleader of Benden on the grounds that

he was too inexperienced.

"You did well enough at Nerat and Keroon. Well

indeed," T'ton said.

"You call twenty-eight men or dragons out of action

good leadership?"

"For a first battle, with every dragonman green as

a hatchling? No, man, you were on time at Nerat,

however you got there," and T'ton grinned maliciously

at F'lar, "which is what a dragonman must do. No,

that was well flown, I say. Well flown." The other four

Weyrieaders muttered complete agreement with that

compliment. "Your Weyr is understrength, though, so

we'll lend you enough odd-wing riders till you've got-

ten the Weyr up to full strength again. Oh, the queens

love these times!" And his grin broadened to indicate

that bronze riders did, too.

F'lar returned that smile, thinking that Ramoth was

about ready for another mating flight, and this time,

Lessa ... oh, that girl was being too deceptively do-

cile. He'd better watch her closely.

"Now," Tton was saying, "we left with Fandarel's

crafthold all the flamethrowers we brought up so that

the groundmen will be armed tomorrow."

"Aye, and my thanks," Fandarel grunted. "Well

turn out new ones in record time and return yours

soon."

"Don't forget to adapt that agenothree for air spray-

ing, too," D'ram put in.

"It is agreed," and Tton glanced quickly around at

the other riders, "that all the Weyrs will meet, full

strength, three hours after dawn above Telgar, to fol-

low the Thread's attack across to Crom. By the way,

F'lar, those charts of yours that Robinton showed me

are superb. We never had them."

"How did you know when the attacks would come?"

Dragonftight 281

T'ton shrugged. "They were coming so regularly

even when I was a weyrling, you kind of knew when

one was due. But this way is much, much better."

"More efficient," Fandarel added approvingly.

"After tomorrow, when all the Weyrs show up at

Telgar, we can request what supplies we need to

stock the empty Weyrs," T'ton grinned. "Like old

times, squeezing extra tithes from the Holders." He

nibbed his hands in anticipation. "Like old times."

"There's the southern Weyr," F'nor suggested.

"We've been gone from there six Turns in this time,

and the herdbeasts were left. They'll have multiplied,

and there'll be all that fruit and grain."

"It would please me to see that southern venture

continued," F'lar remarked, nodding encouragingly at

F'nor.

"Yes, and continue Kylara down there, please, too,"

Fnor added urgently, his eyes sparkling with irritation.

They discussed sending for some immediate supplies

to help out the newly occupied Weyrs, and then ad-

journed the meeting.

"It is a trifle unsettling," T'ton said as he shared

wine with Robinton, "to find that the Weyr you left

the day before in good order has become a dusty hulk."

He chuckled. "The women of the Lower Caverns were

a bit upset."

"We cleaned up those kitchens," F'nor replied indig-

nantly. A good night's rest in a fresh time had removed

much of his fatigue.

Tton cleared his throat. "According to Mardra, no

man can clean anything."

"Do you think you'll be up to riding tomorrow,

Fnor?" Flar asked solicitously. He was keenly aware

of the stress showing in his half brother's face, despite

his improvement overnight. Yet those strenuous Turns

had been necessary, nor had they become futile even

in hindsight with the arrival of eighteen hundred

dragons from past time. When F'lar had ordered F'nor

ten Turns backward to breed the desperately needed

282 Dragonflight

replacements, they had not yet brought to mind the

Question Song or known of the tapestry.

"I wouldn't miss that fight if I were dragonless,"

F'nor declared stoutly.

"Which reminds me," F'lar remarked, "we'll need

Lessa at Telgar tomorrow. She can speak to any

dragon, you know," he explained, almost apologeti-

cally, to T'ton and D'ram.

"Oh, we know," T'ton assured him. "And Mardra

doesn't mind." Seeing F'lar's blank expression, he

added, "As senior Weyrwoman, Mardra, of course,

leads the queens' wing."

F'lar's face grew blanker. "Queens' wing?"

"Certainly," and T'ton and D'ram exchanged ques-

tioning glances at F'lar's surprise. "You don't keep

your queens from fighting, do you?"

"Our queens? T'ton, we at Benden have had only

one queen dragon—at a time—for so many gen-

erations that there are those who denounce the legends

of queens in battle as black heresy!"

T'ton looked rueful. "I had not truly realized till

this instant how small your numbers were." But his

enthusiasms overtook him. "Just the same, queens are

very useful with flamethrowers. They get clumps other

riders might miss. They fly in low, under the main

wings. That's one reason D'ram's so interested in the

agenothree spray. Doesn't singe the hair off the Hold-

ers' heads, so to speak, and is far better over tilled

fields."

"Do you mean to say that you allow your queens to

fly—against Threads?" F'lar ignored the fact that

F'nor was grinning, and T'ton, too.

"Allow?" D'ram bellowed. "You can't stop them.

Don't you know your Ballads?"

" 'Moreta's Ride?'»

"Exactly.'

F'nor laughed aloud at the expression on F'lar's face

as he irritably pulled the hanging forelock from his

eyes. Then, sheepishly, he began to grin.

"Thanks. That gives me an idea."

Dragonflight 283

He saw his fellow Weyrieaders to their dragons,

waved cheerfully to Robinton and Fandarel, more

lighthearted than he would have thought he'd be the

morning before the second battle. Then he asked Mne-

menth where Lessa might be.

Bathing, the bronze dragon replied.

F'lar glanced at the empty queen's weyr.

Oh, Ramoth is on the Peak, as usual. • Mnementh

sounded aggrieved.

F'lar heard the sound of splashing in the bathing

room suddenly cease, so he called down for hot klah.

He was going to enjoy this.

"Oh, did the meeting go well?" Lessa asked sweetly

as she emerged from the bathing room, drying-cloth

wrapped tightly around her slender figure.

"Extremely. You realize, of course, Lessa, that you'll

be needed at Telgar?"

She looked at him intently for a moment before she

smiled again.

"I am the only Weyrwoman who can speak to any

dragon," she replied archly.

"True," F'lar admitted blithely. "And no longer the

only queen's rider in Benden...."

"I hate you!" Lessa snapped, unable to evade F'lar

as he pinned her cloth-swathed body to his.

"Even when I tell you that Fandarel has a flame-

thrower for you so you can join the queens' wing?"

She stopped squirming in his arms and stared at him,

disconcerted that he had outguessed her.

"And that Kylara will be installed as Weyrwoman in

the south ... in this time? As Weyrleader, I need my

peace and quiet between battles...."

The cloth fell from her body to the floor as she re-

sponded to his kiss as ardently as if dragon-roused.

From the Weyr and from the Bowl,

Bronze and brown and blue and green,

Rise the dragonmen of Pem,

Aloft, on wing; seen, then unseen.

RANGED ABOVE the Peak of Benden Weyr, a scant

three hours after dawn, two hundred and sixteen drag-

ons held their formations as F'lar on bronze Mnementh

inspected their ranks.

Below in the Bowl were gathered all the weyriolk

and some of those injured in the first battle. All the

weyrfolk, that is, except Lessa and Ramoth. They had

gone on to Fort Weyr where the queens' wing was

assembling. F'lar could not quite suppress a twinge of

concern that she and Ramoth would be fighting, too.

A holdover, he knew, from the days when Pem had

had only one queen. If Lessa could jump four hundred

Turns between and lead five Weyrs back, she could

take care of herself and her dragon against Threads.

He checked to be sure that every man was well

loaded with firestone sacks, that each dragon was in

good color, especially those in from the southern Weyr.

Of course, the dragons were fit, but the faces of the

men still showed evidences of the temporal strains

they had endured. He was procrastinating, and the

Threads would be dropping in the skies of Telgar.

284

Dragonflight 285

He gave the order to go between. They reappeared

above, and to the south of Telgar Hold itself, and

were not the first arrivals. To the west, to the north,

and, yes, to the east now, wings arrived until the hori-

zon was patterned with the great V's of several thou-

sand dragon wings. Faintly he heard the claxon bell

on Telgar Hold Tower as the unexpected dragon

strength was acclaimed from the ground.

"Where is she?" Flar demanded of Mnementh.

"We'll need her presently to relay orders..."

She's coming, Mnementh interrupted nun.

Right above Telgar Hold another wing appeared.

Even at this distance, F'lar could see the difference:

the golden dragons shone in the bright morning sun-

light.

A hum of approval drifted down the dragon ranks,

and despite his fleeting worry, F'lar grinned with proud

indulgence at the glittering sight.

Just then the eastern wings soared straight upward

in the sky as the dragons became instinctively aware

of the presence of their ancient foe.

Mnementh raised his head, echoing back the brass

thunder of the war cry. He turned his head, even as

hundreds of other beasts turned to receive firestone

from their riders. Hundreds of great jaws masticated

the stone, swallowed it, their digestive acids transform-

ing dry stone into flame-producing gases, igniting

on contact with oxygen.

Threads! F'lar could see them clearly now against

the spring sky. His pulses began to quicken, not with

apprehension, but with a savage joy. His heart pounded

unevenly. Mnementh demanded more stone and be-

gan to speed up the strokes of his wings in the air,

gathering himself to leap upward when commanded.

The leading Weyr already belched gouts of orange-

red flame into the pale blue sky. Dragons winked in

and out, flamed and dove.

The great golden queens sped at cliff-skimming

height to cover what might have been missed.

Then F'lar gave the command to gain altitude to

286 Dragonftight

meet the Threads halfway in their abortive descent.

As Mnementh surged upward, F'lar shook his fist de-

fiantly at the winking Red Eye of the Star.

"One day," he Shouted, "we will not sit tamely here,

awaiting your fall. We will fall on you, where you spin,

and sear you on your own ground."

By the Egg, he told himself, if we can travel four

hundred Turns backward and across seas and lands in

the blink of an eye, what is travel from one world to

another but a different kind of step?

F'lar grinned to himself. He'd better not mention

that audacious notion in Lessa's presence.

Clumps ahead, Mnementh warned him.

As the bronze dragon charged, flaming, Flar tight-

ened his knees on the massive neck. Mother of us

all, he was glad that now, of all times conceivable, he,

F'lar, rider of bronze Mnementh, was a dragonman of

Pem!

Dragondex

THE WEYRS IN ORDER OF

FOUNDING

Fort Weyr

Benden Weyr

High Reaches Weyr

Igen Weyr

Ista Weyr

Telgar Weyr

Southern Weyr

287