Dragonflight

  “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 str
ingy 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.”

  “It is reassuring to know we have Ruatha’s loyalty as well 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.”

  F’lar 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,” F’lar 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 F’lar 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 messenger over to the weyrling waiting to escort him to quarters.

  “Read this,” Lessa said, impatiently shoving the skin at the bronze rider as soon as they were again in the Council Room.

  “I expected little else,” F’lar remarked, unconcerned, perching on the edge of the great stone table.

  “And . . .?” Lessa demanded fiercely.

  “Time will tell,” F’lar 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.

  F’lar snorted. “Tilarek says ‘as will please his listeners,’ ” he said in a passable imitation of the man’s speech.

  “You’d better know, too,” F’nor said from the doorway, “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.”

  F’lar tossed the messageskin to the brown rider.

  “As if we didn’t know that,” F’nor 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 that it stung the memories of both dragonmen. The look they turned on her was almost savage. Then F’lar chuckled so that F’nor relaxed with a sour laugh.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  “R’gul and S’lel will undoubtedly get hungry,” F’nor said, shrugging.

  “And you two?”

  F’lar shrugged, too, and, rising, bowed formally to Lessa. “As Ramoth is deep asleep, Weyrwoman, your permission to withdraw.”

  “Get out!” Lessa shouted at them.

  They had turned, 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 hea
r? 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? Raid!”

  “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 together 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?