The White Dragon

  He sighed, repentant. Of course, they’d be worried about him when he’d stormed out of the Hold like that. Not that he was likely to go anywhere but to the lake. Not that he could possibly come to harm with Ruth, and not that he and Ruth could go anywhere on Pern where fire-lizards couldn’t find them.

  His resentment flared anew, this time against the silly fire-lizards. Why, of all dragons, did every fire-lizard have an insatiable curiosity about Ruth? Wherever they went on Pern, every fire-lizard in the neighborhood came popping in to gawk at the white dragon. This activity used to amuse Jaxom because the fire-lizards would give Ruth the most incredible images of things they remembered, and Ruth would pass the more interesting ones to him. But today, as with everything else, amusement had soured to irritation.

  “Analyze,” Lytol was fond of directing him. “Think objectively. You can’t govern others until you can control yourself and see the broader, forward-looking view.”

  Jaxom took a couple of deep breaths, the kind Lytol recommended he take before speaking, to organize what he was going to say.

  Ruth had winged over the deep-blue waters of the little lake now, fire-lizards outlining his graceful figure. He suddenly folded his wings and dove. Jaxom shuddered, wondering how Ruth could enjoy the biting cold waters fed by the snowcapped peaks of the High Ranges. In the muggy midsummer heat, Jaxom often found it refreshing, but now, with winter barely past? He shuddered again. Well, if dragons didn’t feel the three-times-more-intense cold of between, a plunge in an icy lake would not be bothersome.

  Ruth surfaced, waves lapping against the bank at Jaxom’s feet. Jaxom idly stripped a branch of its thick needles and launched them one after another into the incoming ripples. Well, one wave of reaction to this morning’s outburst was the dispatch of fire-lizards to find him.

  Another, the look of stunned amazement on Dorse’s face. That had been the first time Jaxom had ever rounded on his milkbrother, though, Shells, it was only the thought of Lytol’s displeasure at his loss of control that had kept Jaxom’s temper in check so long. Dorse loved nothing better than to taunt Jaxom about Ruth’s lack of stature, masking his malicious jibes in mock-brotherly quarrels, knowing all too well that Jaxom could not retaliate without a rebuke from Lytol for conduct unbecoming his rank and station. Jaxom had long outgrown the need for Deelan’s fussing but innate kindness and gratitude to her for the milk which had nourished him after his premature birth had long prevented Jaxom from asking Lytol to retire her.

  So why, today, had all this suddenly come to a boil?

  Ruth’s head emerged from the waters again, the many-faceted eyes reflecting the bright morning sun in greens and brilliant clear blues. The fire-lizards attacked his back with rough tongues and talons, scrubbing off infinitesimal motes of dirt, splashing water over him with their wings, their own hides darkened by the wetting.

  The green turned to batter her nose at one of the two blues and swatted the brown with her wing to make him work to her satisfaction. Despite himself, Jaxom laughed to see her scolding. She was Deelan’s green and so much in manner like his milkmother that he was reminded of the weyr axiom that a dragon was no better than his rider.

  In that way, Lytol had done Jaxom no disservice. Ruth was the best dragon in all Pern. If—and now Jaxom recognized the underlying cause of his rebellion—Ruth was ever allowed to be. Immediately all the frustrated anger of the morning returned, disrupting what little objectivity he had gained at the peaceful lakeside. Neither he, Jaxom, Lord of Ruatha, nor Ruth, the white runt of Ramoth’s clutch, were allowed to be what they really were.

  Jaxom was Lord Holder in name only, because Lytol administered the Hold, made all its decisions, spoke in Council for Ruatha. Jaxom had yet to be confirmed by the other Lord Holders as Lord of Ruatha. True, a matter of form only since there was no other male on Pern with Ruathan Blood. Besides, Lessa, the only living full-blooded Ruathan, had relinquished her blood right to Jaxom at the moment of his birth.

  Jaxom knew he could never be a dragonrider because he had to be Lord Holder of Ruatha. Only he was not really a Lord Holder because he couldn’t go up to Lytol and just say: “I’m old enough to take over now! Thanks and good-bye!” Lytol had worked too hard and long to make Ruatha prosper to take second place to the bumblings of an untried youth. Lytol only lived for Ruatha. He’d lost so much else: first his own dragon, then his small family to Fax’s greed. All his life now centered about Ruathan fields and wheat, and runners, and how many wherry bucks . . .

  No, in all fairness, he would simply have to wait until Lytol, who enjoyed vigorous health, died a natural death before he started Holding at Ruatha.

  But, Jaxom continued his thoughts logically, if Lytol is active so that Ruatha Hold is not in dispute, why couldn’t he and Ruth occupy their time learning to be proper dragon and rider. Every fighting dragon was needed now, what with Thread falling from the Red Star at unexpected intervals. Why should he have to trudge about the countryside, lugging a clumsy flamethrower when he could more effectively fight Thread if Ruth were only allowed to chew firestone? Just because Ruth was half the size of the other dragons didn’t mean he wasn’t a proper dragon in all other respects.

  Of course I am, Ruth said from the lake.

  Jaxom grimaced. He’d been trying to think quietly.

  I heard your feelings, not your thoughts, Ruth said calmly. You are confused and unhappy. He arched out of the water to shake his wings dry. He half-paddled, half-flew to the shore. I am a dragon. You are my rider. No man can change that. Be what you are. I am.

  “But not really. They won’t let us be what we are,” Jaxom cried. “They’re forcing me to be everything but a dragonrider.”

  You are a dragonrider. You are also, and Ruth said this slowly as if trying to understand it all himself, a Lord Holder. You are a student with the Mastersmith and the Masterharper. You are a friend of Menolly, Mirrim, F’lessan and N’ton. Ramoth knows your name. So does Mnementh. And they know me. You have to be a lot of people. That is hard.

  Jaxom stared at Ruth, who gave his wings a final flick and then folded them fastidiously across his back.

  I am clean. I feel well, the dragon said as if this announcement should resolve all of Jaxom’s internal doubts.

  “Ruth, whatever would I do without you?”

  I don’t know. N’ton comes to see you. He went to Ruatha. The little brown who followed looks to N’ton.

  Jaxom sucked in his breath nervously. Trust Ruth to know which was whose fire-lizard. He had assumed the brown looked to someone at Ruatha Hold.

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Hurriedly Jaxom made to mount Ruth. He did most urgently want to see N’ton, and he wanted with equal intensity to keep in N’ton’s good favor. The Fort Weyrleader didn’t have that much free time to chat.

  I wanted my swim, Ruth replied. We will be in time. Ruth rose from the ground when Jaxom had barely settled on his back. We will not keep N’ton waiting. Before Jaxom could remind Ruth that they weren’t supposed to go between time, they had.

  “Ruth, what if N’ton finds out we’ve been timing it,” Jaxom said through chattering teeth as they broke out of between into the hot midmorning sun of Telgar over the Mastersmithcrafthall.

  He will not ask.

  Jaxom wished that Ruth wouldn’t sound so complacent. But then, the white dragon wouldn’t have to take N’ton’s tongue-lashing. Timing was bloody dangerous!

  I always know when I’m going, Ruth replied, not at all perturbed. That’s something few other dragons can say.

  They were barely in a landing circle above the Smithcrafthall complex before N’ton’s great bronze Lioth burst into the air above them.

  “And how you know how to time it that close, I’ll never know,” Jaxom said.

  Oh, Ruth said easily, I heard when the brown returned to N’ton and just came to that when.

  Jaxom knew that dragons were not supposed to laugh but the feeling from Ruth was so close to laughter as to make no difference
.

  Lioth winged close enough to Jaxom and Ruth for the young Lord to see the bronze rider’s expression—a pleased grin. Jaxom thought Ruth had said N’ton had been at Ruatha first. Then Jaxom noticed that N’ton raised his hand and was holding what could only be Jaxom’s wherhide riding jacket.

  As they circled downward, Jaxom saw that they were by no means the first arrivals. He counted five dragons, including F’lessan’s bronze Golanth and Mirrim’s green Path who warbled a greeting. Ruth landed lightly on the meadow before the Smithcrafthall with Lioth touching down the next moment. As N’ton slid down the bronze shoulder, his brown fire-lizard, Tris, appeared and settled impertinently on Ruth’s upper chest, chirping smugly.

  “Deelan said you’d gone off without this,” N’ton said and tossed the jacket at Jaxom. “Well, I suppose you don’t feel the cold the way my old bones do. Or are you practicing survival tactics?”

  “Ah, N’ton, not you, too!”

  “Me, too, what, young fella?”

  “You know . . .”

  “No, I don’t know.” N’ton gave Jaxom a closer look. “Or did Deelan’s babbling this morning have real significance?”

  “You didn’t see Lytol?”

  “No. I just asked the first person in the Hold where you were. Deelan was weeping because you’d gone off without your jacket.” N’ton drolly pulled down his lower lip in a trembling imitation of Deelan. “Can’t stand weeping women—at least women that age—so I grabbed the jacket, promised on the shell of my dragon to force it about your frail body, sent Tris to see where Ruth was and here we are. Tell me, did something momentous happen this morning? Ruth looks fine.”

  Embarrassed, Jaxom looked away from the quizzical regard of the Fort Weyrleader and gave himself a bit more time by shrugging into his jacket.

  “I told the entire Hold off this morning.”

  “I told Lytol it wouldn’t be long now.”

  “What?”

  “What tipped the scales? Deelan’s blubbering?”

  “Ruth is a dragon!”

  “Of course he is,” N’ton replied with such emphasis that Lioth turned his head to regard them. “Who says he’s not?”

  “They do. At Ruatha. Everywhere! They say he’s nothing but an overgrown fire-lizard. And you know that’s been said.”

  Lioth hissed. Tris took wing in surprise, but Ruth warbled complacently and the others settled.

  “I know it’s been said,” N’ton replied, taking hold of Jaxom’s shoulders. “But there isn’t a dragonrider I know who hasn’t corrected the speaker—somewhat forcefully on occasion.”

  “If you consider him a dragon, why can’t he act like one?”

  “He does!” N’ton gave Ruth a long look as if the creature had somehow changed in the last moment.

  “I mean like other full fighting dragons.”

  “Oh.” N’ton grimaced. “So that’s it. Look, lad . . .”

  “It’s Lytol, isn’t it? He’s told you not to let me fight Thread on Ruth. That’s why you’ll never let me teach Ruth how to chew firestone.”

  “It’s not that, Jaxom . . .”

  “Then what is it? There isn’t a place on Pern we can’t get to, first time, right on. Ruth’s small but he’s faster, turns quicker midair, less mass to move—”

  “It’s not a question of ability, Jaxom,” N’ton said, raising his voice slightly to make Jaxom hear what he had to say, “it’s a matter of what is advisable.”

  “More evasions.”

  “No!” N’ton’s firm negative cut through Jaxom’s resentment. “Flying with a fighting wing during Threadfall is bloody dangerous, lad. I’m not impugning your courage, but bluntly, however keen you are, however quick and clever Ruth is, you’d be a liability to a fighting wing. You haven’t the training, the discipline . . .”

  “If it’s only training—”

  N’ton grabbed Jaxom by the shoulders to stop his contentiousness.

  “It isn’t.” N’ton drew a deep breath. “I said it’s not a question of Ruth’s abilities or yours; it is solely a question of advisability. Pern can’t afford to lose either you, young Lord of Ruatha, or Ruth, who is unique.”

  “But I’m not Lord of Ruatha either. Not yet! Lytol is. He makes all the decisions . . . I just listen, and nod my head like a sunstruck wherry.” Jaxom faltered, aware he was implying criticism of Lytol. “I mean, I know Lytol has to manage until the Lord Holders confirm me . . . and I don’t really want Lytol to leave Ruatha Hold. But if I could be a dragonrider, it wouldn’t come to that. You see?”

  As Jaxom caught the expression in N’ton’s eyes, his shoulders slumped in defeat. “You see, but the answer’s still no! It would just make different ripples, probably bigger ones, wouldn’t it? So I’ve got to muck on as something in between everything. Not a real Lord Holder, not a real dragonrider . . . not a real anything except a problem. A real problem to everybody!”

  Not to me, Ruth said clearly and reassuringly touched his rider with his muzzle.

  “You’re not a problem, Jaxom, but I do see that you have one,” N’ton said with quiet sympathy. “If it were up to me, I’d say it would do you a world of good to join a wing and teach Ruth to chew firestone. For the firsthand knowledge no other Lord Holder could contest.”

  For one hopeful moment Jaxom thought N’ton was offering him the chance he so wanted.

  “If it were my decision, Jaxom, which it isn’t and can’t be. But,” and N’ton paused, his eyes searching Jaxom’s face, “this is a matter that had better be discussed. You’re old enough to be confirmed as Lord Holder or to do something else constructive. I’ll speak to Lytol and F’lar on your behalf.”

  “Lytol will say that I am Lord Holder, and F’lar will say Ruth isn’t big enough for a fighting wing—”

  “And I won’t say anything if you act like a sulky boy.”

  A bellow overhead interrupted them. Two more dragons were circling, indicating that they wanted to land. N’ton waved acknowledgment, and then he and Jaxom jogged out of the way toward the Smithcrafthall. Just short of the door, N’ton held him back.

  “I won’t forget, Jaxom, only . . .” and N’ton grinned, “for the sake of the First Shell, don’t let anyone catch you giving Ruth firestone. And be bloody careful when you go!”

  In a state of mild shock, Jaxom stared at N’ton as the Weyrleader hailed a friend inside the building. N’ton had understood. Jaxom’s depression lifted instantly.

  As he crossed the threshold of the Smithcrafthall, he hesitated, adjusting his sight to the interior after the bright spring sun. Intent on his own problems, he’d also forgotten how important a session this was to be. Masterharper Robinton was seated at the long work table, cleared for this occasion of its usual clutter, and F’lar, Benden’s Weyrleader, was beside him. Jaxom recognized three other Weyrleaders and the new Masterherdsman Briaret. There were a good half a wing of bronze riders and Lord Holders, the leading smiths and more harpers than any other craft to judge by the color of tunics on men he didn’t recognize immediately.

  Someone was calling his name in an urgent hoarse whisper. Looking to his left, Jaxom saw that F’lessan and the other regular students had gathered humbly by the far window, the girls perched on stools.

  “Half Pern’s here,” F’lessan remarked, pleased, as he made room against the back wall for Jaxom.

  Jaxom nodded to the others who appeared far more interested in watching the new arrivals. “Didn’t think there’d be so many people interested in Wansor’s stars and maths,” Jaxom said in a low voice to F’lessan.

  “What? And miss a chance to ride dragonback?” F’lessan asked with good-natured candor. “I brought four in myself.”

  “A lot of people have assisted Wansor in collating the material,” Benelek said in his usual didactic manner. “Naturally they want to hear what use has been made of their time and effort.”

  “They sure didn’t come for the food,” F’lessan said with a snicker.

  Now why, wonde
red Jaxom, doesn’t F’lessan’s remark annoy me?

  “Nonsense, F’lessan,” Benelek replied, too literal-minded to understand when someone was being facetious. “Food’s very good here. You eat enough of it.”

  “I’m like Fandarel,” F’lessan said. “I make efficient use of anything edible. Sush! Here he is himself. Shells!” The young bronze rider grimaced with disgust. “Couldn’t someone have made him change his clothes?”

  “As if clothes mattered for a man with a mind like Wansor’s.” Benelek dropped his voice but he was nearly sputtering with contempt for F’lessan.

  “Today of all days, Wansor should look tidy,” Jaxom said. “That’s what F’lessan meant.”

  Benelek grunted but did not pursue the subject. Then F’lessan nudged Jaxom in the ribs with a wink for Benelek’ s reaction.

  Halfway inside the door, Wansor suddenly realized that the hall was filled. He stopped, peered around him, at first timidly. Then, when he recognized a face, he bobbed his head and smiled hesitantly. From all sides he met with encouraging grins and murmured greetings and gestures for him to continue to the front of the hall.

  “Well, my, my . . . All for my stars? My stars, my, my!” His reaction sent a ripple of amusement through the hall. “This is most gratifying. I’d no idea . . . Most gratifying. And Robinton, you’re here . . .”

  “Where else?” The Masterharper’s long face was suitably serious but Jaxom thought he saw the man’s lips twitch in an effort not to smile. Robinton then half-guided, half-pushed Wansor toward the platform at the far end of the hall.

  “Come on, Wansor.” Fandarel said in his rolling tones.

  “Oh yes, so sorry. Didn’t mean to keep you waiting. Ah, and there’s Lord Asgenar. How very good of you to come. I say, is N’ton here, too?” Wansor executed a full circle. Being nearsighted, he peered closely at faces, trying to spot N’ton. “He really should be—”

  “Here I am, Wansor.” N’ton raised his arm.

  “Ah.” The worried frown vanished from the round face of the Starsmith as Menolly had impudently, if accurately, labeled him. “My dear N’ton, you must come up front. You’ve done so much work, watching and looking at the most dreadful hours of the night. Come, you must—”