Dragonflight (13 page)

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.

F’lar . . . 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 precious 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 glorious 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 affected area. “You’re growing 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 outgrowing 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 chuckle. Lessa whirled, hastily controlling the annoyance she felt at seeing F’lar 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, undaunted. He sauntered to one side of Lessa for an unimpeded 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 irritating 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 remarked 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 contritely.

She saw F’lar about to answer her. He paused, his amber eyes narrowing briefly. Smiling affably, he gestured 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 hovered protectingly over Ramoth as she glided awkwardly 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 anxiously after the gawky, blundering queen.

Queens don’t fly because they can’t, Lessa told herself with bitter candor, contrasting Ramoth’s grotesque descent with Mnementh’s effortless drift.

“Mnementh says to assure you she’ll be more graceful 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 practice . . .”

“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 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 languidly 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 entrance to the Lower Caverns, their eyes wide with fascination. Dragons perched on their ledges or idly circled overhead. Even the weyrlings, boy and dragonet, wandered forth curiously from the fledgling barracks of the training fields.

A dragon trumpeted unexpectedly on the heights by the Star Stone. He and his rider spiraled down.

“Tithings, F’lar, a train in the pass,” the blue rider announced, grinning broadly until he became disappointed 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, followed 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 corner 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 their unpopular 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 consideration in all F’lar’s arguments that she leave Ruatha and come to the Weyr. Why
he
had not succumbed to the pernicious indifference that had emasculated 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. Mnementh 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 frequented the feeding grounds and how often.

Ramoth had settled into her weyr again and was 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 glowing 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 impudence. 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 Weyrwoman. 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 messenger had a long look at Ramoth. Tilarek would spread the word on his return journey, properly elaborated 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 F’lar 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 crafthold verge. The harvest has been very good, and the beasts 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 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 widespread 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 emphasized 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. However,” 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 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,” F’lar remarked dryly.

“Begging your pardon”—Tilarek picked up a wizened piece of fruit from the tray—“I’ve 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.”