Dragonquest

  “You’ll pay for that, you scum, you snivelling boy-lover,” Kylara screamed at him, enraged by the unexpectedness of his retaliation. Then she burst out laughing at the thought of Brekke as the Weyrwoman, or Brekke as passionate and adept a lover as she knew herself to be. Brekke the Bony, with no more roundness at the breast than a boy. Why, even Lessa looked more feminine.

  Thought of Lessa sobered Kylara abruptly. She tried again to convince herself that Lessa would be no threat, no obstacle in her plan. Lessa was too subservient to F’lar now, aching to be pregnant again, playing the dutiful Weyrwoman, too content to see what could happen under her nose. Lessa was a fool. She could have ruled all Peru if she had half-tried. She’d had the chance and lost it. The stupidity of going back to bring up the Oldtimers when she could have had absolute dominion over the entire planet as Weyrwoman to Pern’s foremost queen! Well, Kylara had no intention of remaining in the Southern Weyr, meekly tending the world’s wounded weyrmen and cultivating acres and acres of food for everyone else but herself. Each egg hatched a different way, but a crack at the right time speeded things up.

  And Kylara was all ready to crack a few eggs, her way. Noble Larad, Lord of Telgar Hold, might not have remembered to invite her, his only full-blood sister, to the wedding, but surely there was no reason why she should remain distant when her own half sister was marrying the Lord Holder of Lemos.

  Brekke was changing the dressing on his arm when F’nor heard T’bor calling her. She tensed at the sound of his voice, an expression of compassion and worry momentarily clouding her face.

  “I’m in F’nor’s weyr,” she said, turning her head toward the open door and raising her light voice.

  “Don’t know why we insist on calling a hold made of wood a weyr,” said F’nor, wondering at Brekke’s reaction. She was such a serious child, too old for her years. Perhaps being junior Weyrwoman to Kylara had aged her prematurely. He had finally got her to accept his teasing. Or was she humoring him, F’nor wondered, during the painful process of having the deep knife wound tended.

  She gave him a little smile. “A weyr is where a dragon is, no matter how it’s constructed.”

  T’bor entered at that moment, ducking his head, though the door was plenty high enough to accommodate his inches.

  “How’s the arm, F’nor?”

  “Improving under Brekke’s expert care. There’s a rumor,” F’nor said, grinning slyly up at Brekke, “that men sent to Southern heal quicker.”

  “If that’s why there are always many coming back, I’ll give her other duties.” T’bor sounded so bitter that F’nor stared at him. “Brekke, how many more wounded can we accommodate?”

  “Only four, but Varena at West can handle at least twenty.” From her expression, F’nor could tell she hoped there weren’t that many wounded.

  “R’mart asks to send ten, only one badly injured,” T’bor said, but he was still resentful.

  “He’d best stay here then.”

  F’nor started to say that he felt Brekke was spreading herself too thin as it was. It was obvious to him that, though she had few of the privileges, she had assumed all the responsibilities that Kylara ought to handle, while that one did much as she pleased. Including complaining that Brekke was shirking or stinting this or that. Brekke’s queen, Wirenth, was still young enough to need a lot of care; Brekke fostered young Mirrim though she had had no children herself and none of the Southern riders seemed to share her bed. Yet Brekke also took it upon herself to nurse the most seriously wounded dragonriders. Not that F’nor wasn’t grateful to her. She seemed to have an extra sense that told her when numbweed needed renewing, or when fever was high and made you fretful. Her hands were miracles of gentleness, cool, but she could be ruthless, too, in disciplining her patients to health.

  “I appreciate your help, Brekke,” T’bor said. “I really do.”

  “I wonder if other arrangements ought to be made,” F’nor suggested tentatively.

  “What do you mean?”

  Oh-ho, thought F’nor, the man’s touchy. “For hundreds of Turns, dragonriders managed to get well in their own Weyrs. Why should the Southern ones be burdened with wounded useless men, constantly dumped on them to recuperate?”

  “Benden sends very few,” Brekke said quietly.

  “I don’t mean just Benden. Half the men here right now are from Fort Weyr. They could as well bask on the beaches of Southern Boll . . .”

  “T’ron’s no leader—” T’bor said in a disparaging tone.

  “So Mardra would like us to believe,” Brekke interrupted with such uncharacteristic asperity that T’bor stared at her in surprise.

  “You don’t miss much, do you, little lady?” said F’nor with a whoop of laughter. “That’s what Lessa said and I agree.”

  Brekke flushed.

  “What do you mean, Brekke?” asked T’bor.

  “Just that five of the men most seriously wounded were flying in Mardra’s wing!”

  “Her wing?” F’nor glanced sharply at T’bor, wondering if this was news to him, too.

  “Hadn’t you heard?” Brekke asked, almost bitterly. “Ever since D’nek was Threaded, she’s been flying . . .”

  “A queen eating firestone? Is that why Loranth hasn’t risen to mate?”

  “I didn’t say Loranth ate firestone,” Brekke contradicted. “Mardra’s got some sense left. A sterile queen’s no better than a green. And Mardra’d not be senior or Weyrwoman. No, she uses a fire thrower.”

  “On an upper level?” F’nor was stunned. And T’ron had the nerve to prate how Fort Weyr kept tradition?

  “That’s why so many men are injured in her wing; the dragons fly close to protect their queen. A flame thrower throws ‘down’ but not out, or wide enough to catch airborne Thread at the speed dragons fly.”

  “That is without doubt . . . ouch!” F’nor winced at the pain of an injudicious movement of his arm. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Does F’lar know?”

  T’bor shrugged. “If he did, what could he do?”

  Brekke pushed F’nor back onto the stool to reset the bandage he had disarranged.

  “What’ll happen next?” he demanded of no one.

  “You sound like an Oldtimer,” T’bor remarked with a harsh laugh. “Bemoaning the loss of order, the permissiveness of—of times which are so chaotic . . .”

  “Change is not chaos.”

  T’bor laughed sourly. “Depends on your point of view.”

  “What’s your point of view, T’bor?”

  The Weyrleader regarded the brown rider so long and hard, his face settling into such bitter lines, that he appeared Turns older than he was.

  “I told you what happened at that farce of a Weyrleaders’ meeting the other night, with T’ron insisting it was Terry’s fault.” T’bor jammed one fist into the palm of his other hand, his lips twitching with a bitter distaste at the memory. “The Weyr above all, even common sense. Stick to your own, the hindmost falls between. Well, I’ll keep my own counsel. And I’ll make my weyrfolk behave. All of them. Even Kylara if I have to . . .”

  “Shells, what’s Kylara up to now?”

  T’bor gave F’nor a thoughtful stare. Then, with a shrug he said, “Kylara means to go to Telgar Hold four days hence. Southern Weyr hasn’t been invited. I take no offense. Southern Weyr has no obligation to Telgar Hold and the wedding is Holder business. But she means to make trouble there, I’m sure. I know the signs. Also she’s been seeing the Lord Holder of Nabol.”

  “Meron?” F’nor was unimpressed with him as a source of trouble. “Meron, Lord of Nabol, was outmaneuvered and completely discredited at that abortive battle at the Benden Weyr Pass, eight Turns ago. No Lord Holder would ally himself with Nabol again. Not even Lord Nessel of Crom who never was very bright. How he got confirmed as Lord of Crom by the Conclave, I’ll never understand.”

  “It’s not Meron we have to guard against. It’s Kylara. Anything she touches gets—distorted.”
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  F’nor knew what T’bor meant. “If she were going to, say, Lord Groghe’s Fort Hold, I’d not be concerned. He thinks she should be strangled. But don’t forget that she’s full blood sister to Larad of Telgar Hold. Besides, Larad can manage her. And Lessa and F’lar will be there. She’s not likely to tangle with Lessa. So what can she do? Change the pattern of Thread?”

  F’nor heard Brekke’s sharp intake of breath, saw T’bor’s sudden twitch of surprise.

  “She didn’t change Thread patterns. No one knows why that happened,” T’bor said gloomily.

  “How what happened?” F’nor stood, pushing aside Brekke’s hands.

  “You heard that Thread is dropping out of pattern?”

  “No, I didn’t hear,” and F’nor looked from T’bor to Brekke who managed to be very busy with her medicaments.

  “There wasn’t anything you could do about it, F’nor,” she said calmly, “and as you were still feverish when the news came . . .”

  T’bor snorted, his eyes glittering as if he enjoyed F’nor’s discomposure. “Not that F’lar’s precious Thread patterns ever included us here in the Southern continent. Who cares what happens in this part of the world?” With that, T’bor strode out of the Weyr. When F’nor would have followed, Brekke grabbed his arm.

  “No, F’nor, don’t press him. Please?”

  He looked down at Brekke’s worried face, saw the deep concern in her expressive eyes. Was that the way of it? Brekke fond of T’bor? A shame she had to waste affection on someone so totally committed to a clutching female like Kylara.

  “Now, be kind enough to give me the news about that change in Thread pattern. My arm was wounded, not my head.”

  Without acknowledging his rebuke, she told him what had occurred at Benden Weyr when Thread had fallen hours too soon over Lemos Hold’s wide forests. F’nor was disturbed to learn that R’mart of Telgar Weyr had been badly scored. He was not surprised that T’kul of High Reaches Weyr hadn’t even bothered to inform his contemporaries of the unexpected falls over his weyrbound territories. But he had to agree that he would have worried had he known. He was worried now but it sounded as if F’lar was coping with his usual ingenuity. At least the Oldtimers had been roused. Took Thread to do it.

  “I don’t understand T’bor’s remark about our not caring what happens in this part of the world . . .”

  Brekke put her hand on his arm appealingly. “It’s not easy to live with Kylara, particularly when it amounts to exile.”

  “Don’t I just know it!” F’nor had had his run-ins with Kylara when she was still at Benden Weyr and, like many other riders, had been relieved when she’d been made Weyrwoman at Southern. The only problem with convalescing here in Southern, however, was her proximity. For F’nor’s peace, her interest in Meron of Nabol couldn’t have been more fortunate.

  “You can see how much T’bor has made out of Southern Weyr in the Turns he’s been Weyrleader here,” Brekke went on.

  F’nor nodded, honestly impressed. “Did he ever complete the exploration of the southern continent?” He couldn’t recall any report on the matter coming in to Benden Weyr.

  “I don’t think so. The deserts to the west are terrible. One or two riders got curious but the winds turned them back. And eastward, there’s just ocean. It probably extends right around to the desert. This is the bottom of the earth, you know.”

  F’nor flexed his bandaged arm.

  “Now you listen to me, Wing-second F’nor of Benden,” Brekke said sharply, interpreting that gesture accurately. “You’re in no condition to go charging back to duty or to go exploring. You haven’t the stamina of a fledgling and you certainly can’t go between. Intense cold is the worst thing for a half-healed wound. Why do you think you were flown here straight?”

  “Why, Brekke, I didn’t know you cared,” F’nor said, rather pleased at her vehement reaction.

  She gave him such a piercingly candid look that his smile faded. As if she regretted that all too intimate glance, she gave him a half-playful push toward the door.

  “Get out. Take your poor lonely dragon and lie on the beach in the sun. Rest. Can’t you hear Canth calling you?”

  She slipped by him, out the door, and was across the clearing before he realized that he hadn’t heard Canth.

  “Brekke?”

  She turned, hesitantly, at the edge of the woods.

  “Can you hear other dragons?”

  “Yes.” She whirled and was gone.

  “Of all the—” F’nor was astounded. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded of Canth as he strode into the sun-baked wallow behind the weyr and stood glaring at his brown dragon.

  You never asked, Canth replied. I like Brekke.

  “You’re impossible,” F’nor said, exasperated, and looked back in the direction Brekke had gone. “Brekke?” And he stared hard at Canth, somewhat disgusted by his obtuseness. Dragons as a rule did not name people. They tended to project a vision of the person referred to by pronoun, rarely by name. That Canth, who was of another Weyr, should speak of Brekke so familiarly was a double surprise. He must tell that to F’lar.

  I want to get wet. Canth sounded so wistful that F’nor laughed aloud.

  “You swim. I’ll watch.”

  Gently Canth nudged F’nor on the good shoulder. You are nearly well. Good. We’ll soon be able to go back to the Weyr we belong to.

  “Don’t tell me that you knew about the Thread pattern changing.”

  Of course, Canth replied.

  “Why, you, wher-faced, wherry-necked . . .”

  Sometimes a dragon knows what’s best for his rider. You have to be well to fight Thread. I want to swim. And there was no arguing with Canth further, F’nor knew. Aware he’d been manipulated, F’nor also had no redress with Canth so he put the matter aside. Once he was well, his arm completely healed, however . . .

  Although they had to fly straight toward the beaches, an irritatingly lengthy process for someone used to instantaneous transport from one place to another, F’nor elected to go a good distance west, along the coastline, until he found a secluded cove with a deep bay, suitable to dragon bathing.

  A high dune of sand, probably pushed up from winter storms, protected the beach from the south. Far, far away, purple on the horizon, he could just make out the headland that marked Southern Weyr.

  Canth landed him somewhat above the high-water mark in the cove, on the clean fine sand, and then, taking a flying leap, dove into the brilliantly blue water. F’nor watched, amused, as Canth cavorted—an unlikely fish—erupting out of the sea, reversing himself just above the surface and then diving deeply. When the dragon considered himself sufficiently watered, he floundered out, flapping his wings mightily until the breeze brought the shower up the beach to F’nor who protested.

  Canth then irrigated himself so thoroughly with sand that F’nor was half-minded to send him back to rinse, but Canth protested, the sand felt so good and warm against his hide. F’nor relented, and when the dragon had finally made his wallow, couched himself on a convenient curl of tail. The sun soon lulled them into drowsy inertia.

  F’nor Canth’s gentle summons penetrated the brown rider’s delicious somnolence, do not move.

  That was sufficient to dispel drowsy complacence, yet the dragon’s tone was amused, not alarmed.

  Open one eye carefully, Canth advised.

  Resentful but obedient, F’nor opened one eye. It was all he could do to remain limp. Returning his gaze was a golden dragon, small enough to perch on his bare forearm. The tiny eyes, like winking green-fired jewels, regarded him with wary curiosity. Suddenly the miniature wings, no bigger than the span of F’nor’s fingers, unfurled into gilt transparencies, aglitter in the sunlight.

  “Don’t go,” F’nor said, instinctively using a mere mental whisper. Was he dreaming? He couldn’t believe his eyes.

  The wings hesitated a beat. The tiny dragon tilted its head. Don’t go, little one, Canth added with equal delicacy. We are of
the same blood.

  The minute beast registered an incredulity and indecision which were transmitted to man and dragon. The wings remained up but the tautness which preceded flight relaxed. Curiosity replaced indecision. Incredulity grew stronger. The little dragon paced the length of F’nor’s arm to gaze steadfastly into his eyes until F’nor felt his eye muscles strain to keep from crossing.

  Doubt and wonder reached F’nor, and then he understood the tiny one’s problem.

  “I’m not of your blood. The monster above us is,” F’nor communicated softly. “You are of his blood.”

  Again the tiny head cocked. The eyes glistened actively as they whirled with surprise and increased doubt.

  To Canth, F’nor remarked that perspective was impossible for the little dragon, one hundredth his size.

  Move back then, Canth suggested. Little sister, go with the man.

  The little dragon flew up on blurringly active wings, hovering as F’nor slowly rose. He walked several lengths from Canth’s recumbent hulk, the little dragon following. When F’nor turned and slowly pointed back to the brown, the little beast circled, took one look and abruptly disappeared.

  “Come back,” F’nor cried. Maybe he was dreaming.

  Canth rumbled with amusement. How would you like to see a man as large to you as I am to her?

  “Canth, do you realize that that was a fire lizard?”

  Certainly.

  “I actually had a fire lizard on my arm! Do you realize how many times people have tried to catch one of those creatures?” F’nor stopped, savoring the experience. He was probably the first man to get that close to a fire lizard. And the dainty little beauty had registered emotion, understood simple directions and then—gone between.

  Yes, she went between, Canth confirmed, unmoved.

  “Why, you big lump of sand, do you realize what that means? Those legends are true. You were bred from something as small as her!”

  I don’t remember, Canth replied, but something in his tone made F’nor realize that the big beast’s draconic complacency was a little shaken.

  F’nor grinned and stroked Canth’s muzzle affectionately. “How could you, big one? When we—men—have lost so much knowledge and we can record what we know.”