Dragonquest

CHAPTER V

Midmorning at Ruatha Hold

Early Evening at Benden Weyr

JAXOM’S PLEASURE in riding a dragon, in being summoned to Benden Weyr, was severely diminished by his guardian’s glowering disapproval. Jaxom had yet to learn that most of Lord Warder Lytol’s irritation was for a far larger concern than his ward’s mischievous habit of getting lost in the unused and dangerous corridors of Ruatha Hold. As it was, Jaxom was quite downcast. He didn’t mean to irritate Lytol, but he never seemed able to please him, no matter how hard he tried. There was such an unconscionable number of things that he, Jaxom, Lord of Ruatha Hold, must know, must do, must understand, that his head swam until he had to run away, to be by himself, to think. And the only empty places to think in in Ruatha, where no one ever went or would bother you, were in the back portions of the hollowed-out cliff that was Ruatha Hold. And while he could, just possibly, get lost or trapped behind a rockfall (there hadn’t been a cave-in at Ruatha in the memory of living man or the Hold Records as far back as they were still legible), Jaxom hadn’t got into trouble or danger. He knew his way around perfectly. Who could tell? His investigations might someday save Ruatha Hold from another invader like Fax, his father. Here Jaxom’s thoughts faltered. A father he had never seen, a mother who died bearing him, had made him Lord of Ruatha, though his mother had been of Crom Hold and Fax his father, of the High Reaches. It was Lessa, who was now Weyrwoman at Benden, who had been the last of Ruathan Blood. These were contradictions he didn’t understand and must.

He had changed his clothes now, from the dirty everyday ones to his finest tunic and trousers, with a wher-hide over-tunic and knee boots. Not that even they could stop the horrible cold of between. Jaxom shuddered with delighted terror. It was like being suspended nowhere, until your throat closed and your bowels knotted and you were scared silly that you’d never again see the light of day, or even night’s darkness, depending on local time of day where you were supposed to emerge. He was very jealous of Felessan, despite the fact that it was by no means sure his friend would be a dragonrider. But Felessan lived at Benden Weyr, and he had a mother and a father, and Dragonriders all around him, and . . .

“Lord Jaxom!” Lytol’s call from the Great Courtyard broke through the boy’s reverie and he ran, suddenly afraid that they’d leave without him.

It was only a green, Jaxom thought with some disappointment. You’d think they’d send a brown at the very least, for Lytol, Warder of Ruatha Hold, one time dragonrider himself. Then Jaxom was overwhelmed by contrition. Lytol’s dragon had been a brown and it was well known that half a man’s soul left him when his dragon died and he remained among the living.

The green’s rider grinned a welcome as Jaxom scrambled up the extended leg.

“Good morning, Jeralte,” he said, slightly startled because he’d played in the Lower Caves with the young man only two Turns back. Now he was a full-fledged rider.

“J’ralt, please, Lord Jaxom,” Lytol corrected his ward.

“That’s all right, Jaxom,” J’ralt said and looped the riding belt deftly around Jaxom’s waist.

Jaxom wanted to sink; to be corrected by Lytol in front of Jer – J’ralt, and not to remember to use the honorific contraction! He didn’t enjoy the thrill of rising, a-dragonback over the great towers of Ruatha Hold, of watching the valley, spread out like a wall hanging under the dragon’s sinuous green neck. But as they circled, Jaxom had to balance himself against the dragon’s unexpectedly soft hide, and the warmth of that contact seemed to ease his inner misery. Then he saw the line of weeders in the fields and knew that they must be looking up at the dragon. Did those bullying Hold boys know that he, Jaxom, Lord of Ruatha, was a-dragon-back? Jaxom was himself again.

To be a dragonman was surely the most wonderful thing in the world. Jaxom felt a sudden wave of overwhelming pity for Lytol who had had this joy and – lost it, and now must suffer agonies to ride another’s beast. Jaxom looked at the rigid back in front of him, for he was sandwiched between the two men, and wished that he might comfort his Warder. Lytol was always fair, and if he expected Jaxom to be perfect, it was because Jaxom must be perfect to be the Lord of Ruatha Hold. Which was no little honor, even if it wasn’t being a dragonrider.

Jaxom’s reflections were brought to an abrupt stop as the dragon took them between.

You count to three slowly, Jaxom told his frantic mind as he lost all sense of sight and sound, of contact, even of the soft dragon hide beneath his hands. He tried to count and couldn’t. His mind seemed to freeze, but just as he was about to shriek, they burst out into the late afternoon, over Benden Weyr. Never had the Bowl seemed so welcome, with its high walls softened and colored by the lambent sun. The black maws of the individual weyrs, set in the face of the inner wall, were voiceless mouths, greeting him all astonished.

As they circled down, Jaxom spotted bronze Mnementh, surely the hugest dragon ever hatched, lounging on the ledge to the queen’s weyr. She’d be in the Hatching Ground, Jaxom knew, for the new clutch was still hardening on the warm sands. There’d be another Impression soon. And there was a golden queen egg in the new clutch. Jaxom had heard that another Ruathan girl had been one of those chosen on Search. Another Ruathan Weyrwoman, he was positive His Hold had bred up more Weyrwomen . . . Mardra, of course, was nowhere near as important as Lessa or Moreta, but she had come from Ruatha. She’d some real funny notions about the Hold. She always annoyed Lytol. Jaxom knew that, because the twitch in his Warder’s cheek would start jumping. It didn’t when Lessa visited. Except that lately Lessa had stopped coming to Ruatha Hold.

The young Lord of Ruatha spotted Lessa now, as they circled again to bring the queen’s weyr in flight line. She and F’lar were on the ledge. The green called, answered by Mnementh’s bass roar. A muffled bellow reverberated through the Weyr. Ramoth, the queen, took notice of their arrival.

Jaxom felt much better, particularly when he also caught sight of a small figure, racing across the Bowl floor to the stairs up to the queen’s weyr. Felessan. His friend. He hadn’t seen him in months. Jaxom didn’t want the flight to end but he couldn’t wait to see Felessan.

Jaxom was nervously conscious of Lytol’s critical eyes as he made his duty to the Weyrwoman and to Weyrleader. He’d rehearsed words and bows often enough. He ought to have it down heart-perfect, yet he heard himself stammering out the traditional words and felt the fool.

“You came, you came. I told Gandidan you’d come,” cried Felessan, dashing up the steps, two at a time. He clearly knocked Jaxom down with his antics. Felessan was three Turns his junior but he was of the dragonfolk, and even if Lessa and F’lar had turned their son over to a foster mother, he ought to have more manners. Maybe what Mardra was always carping about was true. The new weyrmen had no manners.

In that instant, as if the younger boy sensed his friend’s disapproval, he drew himself up and, still all smiles, bowed with commendable grace to Lytol,

“Good afternoon to you, Lord Warder Lytol. And thank you for bringing Lord Jaxom. May we be excused?”

Before any adult could answer, Felessan had Jaxom by the hand and was leading him down the steps.

“Stay out of trouble, Lord Jaxom,” Lytol called after them.

“There’s little trouble they can get into here,” Lessa laughed.

“I had the entire Hold mustered this morning, only to find him in the bowels of the Hold itself, where a rock-fall . . .”

Now why did Lytol have to tell Lessa? Jaxom groaned to himself, with a flash of his previous discontent.

“Did you find anything?” Felessan demanded as soon as they were out of earshot.

“Find anything?”

“Yes, in the bowels of the Hold.” Felessan’s eyes widened and his voice took on Lytol’s inflections.

Jaxom kicked at a rock, pleased by the trajectory and the distance it flew. “Oh, empty rooms, full of dust and rubbish. An old tunnel that led nowhere but an old slide. Nothing great.”

“C’mon, Jax.”

Felessan’s sly tone made Jaxom look at him closely.

“Where?”

“I’ll show you.”

The weyrboy led Jaxom into the Lower Cavern, the main chamber with a vaulting roof where the Weyr met for sociability and evening meals. There was a smell of warm bread and simmering meats. Dinner preparations were well along, tables set and women and girls bustling about, making pleasant chatter. As Felessan veered past a preparation table, he snatched up a handful of raw roots.

“Don’t you dare spoil your dinner, you young wher-whelp,” cried one of the women, swinging at the retreating pair with her ladle. “And a good day to you, Lord Jaxom,” she added.

The attitude of the weyrfolk toward himself and Felessan never failed to puzzle Jaxom. Why, Felessan was just as important as a Lord Holder, but he wasn’t always being watched, as if he might break apart or melt.

“You’re so lucky,” Jaxom sighed as he accepted his share of Felessan’s loot.

“Why?” the younger boy asked, surprised.

“You’re – you just are, that’s all.”

Felessan shrugged, chomping complacently on the sweet root. He led Jaxom out of the Main Cavern and into the inner one, which was actually not much smaller, though the ceiling was lower. A wide, banistered ledge circled the Cavern a half-dragonlength above the floor, giving access to the individual sleeping rooms that ringed the height. The main floor was devoted to other homey tasks. No one was at the looms now, of course, with dinner being prepared, nor was anyone bathing at the large pool to one side of the Cavern, but a group of boys Felessan’s age were gathered by the miggsy circle. One boy made a loud, meant-to-be-over-heard remark which was fortunately lost in the obedient loud cackles of laughter from the others.

“C’mon, Jaxom. Before one of those baby boys wants to tag along,” Felessan said.

“Where are we going?”

Felessan shushed him peremptorily, looking quickly over his shoulder to see if they were being observed. He walked very fast, making Jaxom lengthen his stride to keep up.

“Hey, I don’t want to get in trouble here, too,” he said when he realized they were heading still farther into the caves. It was one thing, according to Jaxom’s lexicon, to be adventurous in one’s own Hold, but quite another to invade the sanctity of another’s, much less a Weyr! That was close to blasphemy, or so he’d been taught by his ex-dragonrider guardian. And while he could weather Lytol’s wrath, he never, never, never wanted to anger Lessa . . . or – his mind whispered the name – F’lar!

“Trouble? We won’t get caught. Everybody’s too busy this near dinner. I’d’ve had to help if you hadn’t come,” and the boy grinned smugly. “C’mon!”

They had arrived at a fork in the passageway, one leading left, deeper into the Weyr, the other bending right. This one was ill-lit and Jaxom faltered. You didn’t waste glows on unused corridors.

“What’s the matter?” Felessan asked, frowning back at his reluctant guest. “You’re not afraid, are you?”

“Afraid?” Jaxom quickly stepped to Felessan’s side. “It’s not a question of fear.”

“C’mon then. And be quiet.”

“Why?” Jaxom had already lowered his voice.

“You’ll see. Only be quiet now, huh? And take this.”

From a hidey-hole, Felessan handed Jaxom a half-shielded basket with one feebly gleaming glow. He had another for himself. Whatever objections Jaxom might have had were stilled by the challenge in the younger boy’s eyes. He turned haughtily and led the way down the shadowy corridor. He was somewhat reassured by the footprints in the dust, all leading the same way. But this hall was not frequented by adults. All the footprints were smallish, not a bootheel among ‘em. Where did it lead?

They passed locked, covered doorways, long unused and scary in the flickering light of the dim glows. Why couldn’t Felessan have stolen some new ones while he was about it? These wouldn’t last too long. Jaxom earnestly wanted to know how far they were going. He had no liking for a trip through back halls and dangerous corridors without full illumination to aid his vision and reduce his imagination. But he couldn’t ask. What could there possibly be this far back in the Weyr? A huge rectangle of absolute black rose on his left and he swallowed against terror, as Felessan marched purposefully past it, his weak glow back-lighting the threatening maw into another innocently empty corridor junction.

“Hurry up,” Felessan said, sharply.

“Why?” Jaxom was pleased with the steady, casual tone he managed.

“Because she always goes to the lake about this time of day and it’s the only chance you’ll ever get.”

“Chance to what? Who’s she?”

“Ramoth, thickwit,” Felessan stopped so quickly that Jaxom bumped into him and the glow in his basket began to flicker.

“Ramoth?”

“Sure. Or are you afraid to sneak a look at her eggs?”

“At her eggs? Honest?” Breathless terror battled with insatiable curiosity and the knowledge that this would really put him one up on the Hold boys.

“Honest! Now, C’mon!”

The other corridors they passed held no unknown evils for Jaxom now, with such a promised end to this dark trek. And Felessan did seem to know where he was going. Their passage churned up the dust, further dimming the glows, but ahead was a sliver of light.

“There’s where we’re heading.”

“Have you ever seen an Impression, Felessan?”

“Sure. A whole gang of us watched the last one and ooh, that was the most scary-velous time. It was just great. First the eggs wobbled back and forth, see, and then these great cracks appeared. Zigzaggy ones down the eggs, longwise,” Felessan excitedly illustrated the point with his glow basket. “Then, all of a sudden,” and his voice dropped to a more dramatic pitch, “one enormous, dragon-sized split and the head – comes through. You know what color the first one was?”

“Don’t you know that from the color of the shell?”

“No, except for the queen. They’re biggest and they gleam kinda. You’ll see.”

Jaxom gulped but nothing could have kept him from continuing now. None of the Hold boys or even the other young lordlings had seen eggs, or an Impression. Maybe he could lie a little . . .

“Hey, keep off my heels,” Felessan commanded.

The sliver of light ahead widened, touching the smooth wall opposite with a comforting rectangle. As they got closer and their glows augmented the outside light, Jaxom could make out the end of the corridor just beyond the fissure of the slot. The jumble of rock gave evidence of an ancient slide. But sure enough, they could really spy on the mottled eggs as they lay maturing on the mist-heated sands. Occasionally an egg rocked slightly as Jaxom watched, fascinated.

“Where’s the queen egg?” he asked in a reverent undertone.

“You don’t need to whisper. See? Ground’s empty. Ramoth’s gone to the lake.”

“Where’s the queen egg?” Jaxom repeated and was disgusted when his voice broke.

“It’s kinda to that side, out of sight.”

Jaxom craned his neck up and down, trying to get a glimpse of the golden egg.

“You really want to see it?”

“Sure. Talina’s been taken on Search from my Hold and she’ll be a Weyrwoman. Ruathan girls always become Weyrwomen.”

Felessan gave him a long stare, then shrugged. He twisted sideways and inserted his body into the slit, easing his way past the rocks.

“C’mon,” he urged his friend in a hoarse whisper.

Jaxom eyed the slit dubiously. He was heavier as well as taller than Felessan. He presented the side of his body to the slit and took a deep breath. His left leg and arm got through fine but his chest was caught against the rocks Helpfully, Felessan grabbed his left arm and yanked. Jaxom manfully suppressed a yelp as knee and chest were scraped skin deep by rock.

“Eggshells, I’m sorry, Jaxom.”

“I didn’t tell you to pull!” Then he added as he saw Felessan’s contrite expression, “I’m all right, I guess.”

Felessan pulled his tunic up to dab at the young Lord’s bloody bare chest. The rock had torn through fabric. Jaxom slapped his hand away. It smarted enough as it was. Then he saw the great golden egg, reposing by itself, a little apart from the motley group.

“It’s – it’s – so glisteny,” he murmured, swallowing against awe and reverence, and a growing sense of sacrilege. Only the weyrbred had the right to see the Eggs.

Felessan was casting a judicious eye over the gold egg.

“And big, too. Bigger’n the last queen egg at Fort. Their stock is falling off noticeably,” he remarked with critical detachment.

“Not to hear Mardra talk. She says it’s obvious Benden stock is in trouble; the dragons are too large to maneuver properly.”

“N’ton says Mardra’s a pain in the ass, the way she treats T’ron.”

Jaxom didn’t like the trend of the conversation now. After all, Ruatha Hold was weyrbound to Fort Weyr and while he didn’t much like Mardra, he ought not listen to such talk.

“Well, this one’s not so big. Looks like a wherry egg. It’s half the size of even the smallest one of the others,” and he touched the smooth shell of an egg that lay almost against the rock wall, apart from the others.

“Hey, don’t touch it!” Felessan protested, visibly startled.

“Why not? Can’t hurt it, can I? Hard as leather,” and Jaxom rapped it gently with his knuckles and then spread his hand flat on the curve. “It’s warm.”

Felessan pulled him away from the egg.

“You don’t touch eggs. Not ever. Not until it’s your turn. And you’re not weyrbred.”

Jaxom looked disdainfully at him. “You’re scared to.” And he caressed the egg again to prove that he was not.

“I am not scared. But you don t touch eggs,” and Felessan slapped at Jaxom’s impious hand. “Not unless you’re a candidate. And you’re not. And neither am I, yet.”

“No, I’m a Lord Holder,” and Jaxom drew himself up proudly. He couldn’t resist the urge to pat the small egg once more because, while it was all right to be a Lord Holder, he was more than a little jealous of Felessan, and fleetingly wished that he, too, could look forward to being a dragonrider one day. And that egg looked lonely, small and unwanted, so far from the others.

“Your being a Lord Holder wouldn’t matter a grain of sand in Igen if Ramoth came back and caught us here,” Felessan reminded him and jerked Jaxom firmly toward the slit.

A sudden rumble at the far end of the Hatching Ground startled them. One look at the shadow on the sand by the great entrance was enough. Felessan, being more agile and faster, got to the exit first and squeezed through. This time Jaxom did not object at all as Felessan frantically yanked him past the rock. They didn’t even stop to see if it really was Ramoth, returning. They grabbed the glow baskets and ran.

When the light from the slit was lost in the curve of the corridor, Jaxom stopped running. His chest hurt from his exertions as well as from his rough passage through the fissure.

“C’mon,” Felessan urged him, halting several paces further.

“I can’t. My chest . . .”

“Is it bad?” Felessan held his glow up; blood traced smeared patterns on Jaxom’s pale skin, “That looks bad. We’d better get you to Manora quick.”

“I . . . got . . . to . . . catch . . . my . . . breath.”

In rhythm with his labored exhalations, his glow sputtered and darkened completely.

“We’ll have to walk slow then,” Felessan said, his voice now shakier with anxiety than from running.

Jaxom got to his feet, determined not to show the panic he was beginning to feel; a cold pressure gripped his belly, his chest was hot and painful, while sweat was starting to creep down his forehead. The salty drops fell on his chest and he swore one of the wardguard’s favorites.

“Let’s walk fast,” he said and, holding onto the now use less glow basket, suited action to words.

By common consent they kept to the outer edge of the corridor, where the now dimly seen footsteps gave them courage.

“It’s not much further, is it?” Jaxom asked as the second glow flickered ominously.

“Ah – no. It better not be.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Ah – we’ve just run out of footprints.”

They hadn’t retraced their steps very far before they ran out of glow, too

“Now what do we do, Jaxom?”

“Well, in Ruatha,” Jaxom said, taking a deep breath, a precaution against his voice breaking on him, “when they miss me, they send out search parties.”

“In that case, you’ll be missed as soon as Lytol wants to go home, won’t you? He never stays here long.”

“Not if Lytol gets asked to dinner and he will, if dinner is as close as you said it was.” Jaxom couldn’t suppress his bitterness at this whole ill-advised exploration. “Haven’t you any idea where we are?”

“No,” Felessan had to admit, sounding suddenly out of his depth. “I always followed the footprints, just like I did now. There were footprints. You saw them.”

Jaxom didn’t care to agree for that would mean he was in part to blame for their predicament.

“Those other corridors we passed on the way to the hole, where do they go?” he finally asked.

“I don’t know. There’s an awful lot of the Weyr that’s empty. I’ve – I’ve never gone any farther than the slit.”

“What about the others? How far in have they gone?”

“Gandidan’s always talking about how far he’s gone but – but – I don’t remember what he said.”

“For the Egg’s sake, don’t blubber.”

“I’m not blubbering. I’m just hungry!”

“Hungry? That’s it. Can you smell dinner? Seemed to me we could smell it an awful long ways down the corridor.”

They sniffed at the air in all directions. It was musty but not with stew. Sometimes, Jaxom remembered, you could smell fresher air and find your own way back. He put out a hand to touch the wall; the smooth, cold stone was somehow comforting. In between, you couldn’t feel anything though this corridor was just as dark. His chest hurt and throbbed, in a steady accompaniment to his blood.

With a sigh, he backed up against the smooth wall and, sliding down it, settled to the ground with a bump.

“Jaxom?”

“I’m all right. I’m just tired.”

“Me, too,” and with a sigh of relief, Felessan sat down, his shoulder touching Jaxom’s. The contact reassured them both.

“I wonder what it was like,” Jaxom mused at length.

“Wonder what what was like?” asked Felessan in some surprise.

“When the Weyrs and the Holds corridors were lighted and used.”

“They’ve never been used.”

“Nonsense. No one wastes time carving out corridors that’ll lead nowhere. And Lytol said there are over five hundred weyrs in Benden and only half-used . . .”

“We have four hundred and twelve fighting dragons at Benden now.”

“Sure, but ten Turns ago there weren’t two hundred, so why so many weyrs if they weren’t all used once? And why are there miles and miles of halls and unused rooms in Ruatha Hold if they weren’t used once . . .”

“So?”

“I mean, where did all the people go? And how did they carve out whole mountains in the first place?”

Clearly the matter had never troubled Felessan.

“And did you ever notice? Some of the walls are smooth as . . .”

Jaxom stopped, stunned by a dawning realization. Almost fearfully he turned and ran his hand down the wall behind him. It was smooth. He gulped and his chest hurt more than the throb of the scratches. “Felessan . . . ?”

“What – what’s the matter?”

“This wall is smooth.”

“So what?”

“But it’s smooth. It’s not rough!”

“Say what you mean.” Felessan sounded almost angry.

“It’s smooth. It’s an old wall.”

“So?”

“We’re in the old part of Benden.” Jaxom got to his feet, running a hand over the wall, walking a few paces.

“Hey!” Jaxom could hear Felessan scrambling to his feet. “Don’t leave me. Jaxom! I can’t see you.”

Jaxom stretched his hand back, touched fabric, and jerked Felessan to his side.

“Now hang on. If this is an old corridor, sooner or later it’ll run out. Into a dead end, or into the main section. It’s got to.”

“But how do you know you’re going in the right direction?”

“I don’t, but it’s better than sitting on my rump getting hungrier.” With one hand on the wall, the other clinging to Felessan’s belt, Jaxom moved on.

They couldn’t have walked more than twenty paces before Jaxom’s fingers stumbled over the crack. An even crack, running perpendicular to the floor.

“Hey, warn a guy!” cried Felessan, who had bumped into him.

“I found something.”

“What?”

“A crack up and down, evenly.” Excitedly Jaxom stretched both arms out, trying to find the other side of what might even be a doorway.

At shoulder height, just beyond the second cut, he found a square plate and, in examining it, pressed. With a rumbling groan, the wall under his other hand began to slide back and light came up on the other side.

The boys had only a few seconds to stare at the brightly lit wonders on the other side of the threshold before the inert gas with which the room had been flooded rushed out to overcome them. But the light remained a beacon to guide the searchers.

“I had the entire Hold mustered this morning, only to find him in the bowels of the Hold itself where a rockfall had barred his way,” Lytol said to Lessa as he watched the boys running toward the Lower Cavern.

“You’ve forgotten your own boyhood then,” F’lar laughed, gesturing courteously for Lytol to proceed him to the weyr. “Or didn’t you explore the back corridors as a weyrling?”

Lytol scowled and then gave a snort, but he didn’t smile. “It was one thing for me. I wasn’t heir to the Hold.”

“But, Lytol, heir to the Hold or not,” Lessa said, taking the man’s arm, “Jaxom’s a boy, like any other. No, now please, I am not criticizing. He’s a fine lad, well grown. You may be proud of him.”

“Carries himself like a Lord, too,” F’lar ventured to say.

“I do my best.”

“And your best is very well indeed,” Lessa said enthusiastically. “Why, he’s grown so since the last time I saw him!”

But the tic started in Lytol’s cheek and Lessa fumed, wondering what Mardra had been complaining about in the boy lately. That woman had better stop interfering . . . Lessa caught herself, grimly reminded that she could be accused of interfering right now, having invited Jaxom here on a visit. When Mardra heard that Lytol had been to Benden Weyr . . .

“I’m glad you think so,” Lytol replied, confirming Lessa’s suspicions.

Harper Robinton rose to greet Lytol, and the Mastersmith Fandarel’s face broke into the almost feral expression that passed as his smile. While F’lar seated them, Lessa poured wine.

“The new train is in, Robinton, but not settled enough to serve,” she said, grinning down at him. It was a private joke that Robinton visited Benden more for the wine than for companionship or business. “You’ll have to make do with last year’s tithe.”

“Benden wine is always acceptable to me,” Robinton replied suavely, using the compliment as an excuse to take a sip.

“I appreciate your coming, gentlemen,” F’lar began, taking charge of the meeting. “And I apologize for taking you from your business at such short notice, but I . . .”

“Always glad to come to Benden,” Robinton murmured, his eyes twinkling as he tipped his cup again.

“I have news for you so I was glad of this opportunity,” Fandarel rumbled.

“And I,” Lytol said in a dark voice, the tic moving agitatedly.

“My news is very serious and I need to know your reactions. There has been premature Threadfall . . .” F’lar began.

“Threadfalls,” Robinton corrected him with no vestige of his previous levity. “The drumroll brought me the news from Tillek and Crom Holds.”

“I wish I’d as reliable messengers,” F’lar said bitterly, gritting his teeth. “Didn’t you question the Weyrs’ silence, Robinton?” He had counted the Harper his friend.

“My Craft is weyrbound to Fort, my dear F’lar,” the Craftmaster replied, an odd smile on his lips, “although Weyrleader T’ron does not appear to follow custom in keeping the Master Harper advised of auspicious events. I had no immediate, or privy way to bespeak Benden Weyr.”

F’lar took a deep breath; Robinton confirmed the fact that T’ron had not known. “T’kul saw fit not to inform the other Weyrleaders of the unscheduled Fall in Tillek Hold.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” the Harper murmured cynically.

“We learned only today that R’mar was so badly injured in the Fall at Crom Hold that he couldn’t dispatch any messengers.”

“You mean, that numbwitted Weyrwoman Bedella forgot to,” Lessa interjected.

F’lar nodded and went on. “The first Benden knew of this was when Thread fell in Lemos northeast, midmorning, when the table indicated southwest and evening. Because I always send a rider on ahead to act as messenger for any last moment problems, we were able to reach Lemos before the leading Edge.”

Robinton whistled with appreciation.

“You mean, the timetables are wrong?” Lytol exclaimed. All the color had drained from his swarthy face at the news. “I thought that rumor had to be false.”

F’lar shook his head grimly; he’d been watching for Lytol’s reaction to this news.

“They’re not accurate any more; they don’t apply to this shift,” he said. “Lessa reminded me, as I do you, that there have been deviations in the Red Star’s passage that cause long intervals. We must assume that something can cause a change in the rhythm of the Fall as well. As soon as we can gauge a pattern again, we’ll correct the tables or make new ones.”

Lytol stared at him uncomprehendingly. “But how long will it take you? With three Falls, you ought to have some idea now. I’ve acres of new plantings, forests. How can I protect them when I can’t be sure where Thread will fall?” He controlled himself with an effort. “I apologize but this is – this is terrible news. I don’t know how the other Lord Holders will receive it on top of everything else.” He took a quick drink of wine.

“What do you mean, on top of everything else?” F’lar asked, startled.

“Why, the way the Weyrs are behaving. That disaster in Esvay valley in Nabol, those plantations of Lord Sangel’s.”

“Tell me about the Esvay Valley and Lord Sangel.”

“You hadn’t heard that either?” Robinton asked in real surprise. ‘ Don’t the Weyrs talk to one another?” And he glanced from F’lar to Lessa.

“The Weyrs are autonomous,” F’lar replied. “We don’t interfere . . .”

“You mean, the Oldtimers keep exchanges with us contemporary radicals to a bare minimum,” Lessa finished, her eyes flashing indignantly. “Don’t scowl at me, F’lar. You know it’s true. Though I’m sure D’ram and T’ron were as shocked as we were that T’kul would keep premature Threadfall a secret. Now, what happened at Esvay Vale and in Lord Sangel’s Southern Boll?”

It was Robinton who answered her in an expressionless voice. “Several weeks back, T’kul refused to help Meron of Nabol clear some burrows from wooded slopes above the Esvay valley. Said it was the job of the ground crews and Meron’s men were lazy and inefficient. The whole valley had to be fired in order to stop the burrows’ spreading. Lytol sent help; he knows. I went to see some of the families. They’re holdless now and very bitter about dragonmen.

“A few weeks later, Weyrleader T’ron left Southern Boll Hold without clearing with Lord Sangel’s groundchief. They had to burn down three adult plantations. When Lord Sangel protested to T’ron, he was told that the wings had reported the Fall under control.

“On another level but disturbing in the over-all picture, I’ve heard of any number of girls, snatched on the pretext of Search . . .”

“Girls beg to come to the Weyr,” Lessa put in tartly.

“To Benden Weyr, probably,” Robinton agreed. “But my harpers tell me of unwilling girls, forced from their babes and husbands, ending as drudges to Weyrladies. There is deep hatred building, Lady Lessa. There has always been resentment, envy, because Weyrlife is different and the ease with which Dragonriders can move across the continent while lesser folk struggle, the special privileges riders enjoy – ” The Harper waved his hands. “The Oldtimers really believe in special privilege, and that exacerbates the dangers inherent in such outdated attitudes. As for matters in the Crafthalls, the belt knife incident at Fandarel’s is a very minor item in the list of depredations. The crafts generously tithe of their products, but Weaver Zurg and Tanner Belesden are bitterly disillusioned now by the stiff rate of additional levies.”

“Is that why they were so cool to me when I asked for gown material?” Lessa asked. “But Zurg himself helped me choose.”

“I fancy that no one at Benden Weyr abuses privilege,” Robinton replied. “No one at Benden Weyr. After all,” and he grinned toothily, managing to resemble T’ron as he did so, “Benden is the backsliding Weyr which has forgotten true custom and usage, become lax in their dealings. Why, they permit Holds bound to Benden Weyr to retain dignity, possession and forest. They encourage the Crafts to proliferate, hatching bastard breeds of who-knows-what. But Benden Weyr,” and Robinton was himself again, and angry, “is respected throughout Pern.”

“As a dragonrider, I ought to take offense,” F’lar said, so disturbed by this indictment that he spoke lightly.

“As Benden’s Weyrleader, you ought to take charge,” Robinton retorted, his voice ringing. “When Benden stood alone, seven Turns ago, you said that the Lord Holders and Craftsmen were too parochial in their views to deal effectively with the real problem. They at least learned something from their mistakes. The Oldtimers are not only incurably parochial, but worse – adamantly inflexible. They will not, they cannot adapt to our Turn. Everything we accomplished in the four hundred Turns that separate our thinking is wrong and must be set aside, set back for their ways, their standards. Pern has grown – is growing and changing. They have not. And they are alienating the Lord Holders and Craftsmen so completely that I am sincerely concerned – no, I’m scared – about the reaction to this new crisis.”

“They’ll change their minds when Thread falls unexpectedly,” Lessa said.

“Who will change? The Weyrleaders? The Holders? Don’t count on it, Lady Lessa.”

“I have to agree with Robinton,” Lytol said in a tired voice. “There’s been precious little cooperation from the Weyrs. They’re overbearing, wrongheaded and demanding. I find that I, Lytol, ex-dragonrider, resent any more demands on me as Lytol, Lord Warder. And now it appears they are incapable even of doing their job. What, for instance, can be done right in the present crisis? Are they willing to do anything?”

“There’ll be cooperation from the Weyrs, I can guarantee it,” F’lar told Lytol. He must rouse the man from his dejection. “The Oldtimers were shaken men this morning. Ruatha Hold’s weyrbound to Fort and T’ron’s setting up Sweepriders. You’re to man the watch fires on the heights and light them when Thread mass is sighted. You’ll get prompt action the instant a watch fire is seen.”

“I’m to rely on shaken men and fires on the heights?” Lytol demanded, eyes wide with disbelief.

“Fire is not efficient,” Fandarel intoned. “Rain puts it out. Fog hides it.”

“I’ll gladly assign my drummers to you if you think they’d be of help,” Robinton put in.

“F’lar,” Lytol said urgently, “I know Benden Weyr sends messengers ahead to Holds under Threadfall. Won’t the other Weyrleaders agree now to assign riders to the Holds? Just until we know about the shifts and learn to anticipate them? I don’t like most of the Fort Weyr riders, but at least I’d feel secure knowing there was instant communication with the Weyr.”

“As I was saying,” Fandarel boomed in such a portentous voice that they all turned to him a little startled, “there has been a regrettable lack of efficient communication on this planet which I believe my craft can effectually end. That is the news I brought.”

“What?” Lytol was on his feet.

“Why didn’t you speak up sooner, you great lout?” demanded the Harper.

“How long would it take to equip all major Holds and Weyrs?” F’lar’s question drowned the others.

Fandarel looked squarely at the Weyrleader before he answered what had been almost a plea.

“More time, unfortunately, than we apparently have as margin in this emergency. My halls have been overbusy turning out flame throwers. There’s been no time to devote to my little toys.”

“How long?”

“The instruments which send and receive distance writing are easy to assemble, but wire must be laid between them. That process is time-consuming.”

“Man-consuming, too, I warrant,” Lytol added and sat down, deflated.

“No more than watch fires,” Fandarel told him placidly. “If each Lord and Weyr could be made to cooperate and work together. We did once before,” and the Smith paused to look pointedly at F’lar, “when Benden called.”

Lytol’s face brightened and he grabbed F’lar urgently by the arm.

“The Lord Holders would listen to you, F’lar of Benden, because they trust you!”

“F’lar couldn’t approach other Lords, not without antagonizing the Weyrleaders,” Lessa objected, but she too was alert with hope.

“What the other Weyrleaders don’t know – ” Robinton suggested slyly, warming to the strategy. “Come, come, F’lar. This is not the time to stick at principles – at least ones which have proved untenable. Look beyond affiliations. man. You did before and we won. Consider Pern, all Pern, not one Weyr,” and he pointed a long callused finger at F’lar; “one Hold,” and he swiveled it to Lytol; “or one Craft,” and he cocked it at Fandarel. “When we five combined our wits seven Turns ago, we got ourselves out of a very difficult position.”

“And I set the stage for this one,” Lessa said with a bitter laugh.

Before F’lar could speak, Robinton was waggling his finger at her. “Silly people waste time assigning or assuming guilt, Lessa. You went back and you brought the Oldtimers forward. To save Pern. Now we have a different problem. You’re not silly. You and F’lar, and all of us, must find other solutions. Now we’ve that so conveniently scheduled wedding at Telgar Hold. There’ll be a bevy of Lords and Craftmasters doing honor to Lemos and Telgar. We are all invited. Let us make very good use of that social occasion, my Lady Lessa, my lord F’lar, and bend them all to Benden’s way of thinking. Let Benden weyr be a model – and all the other Holds and Crafts will follow those weyrbound to Benden . . .”

He leaned back suddenly, smiling with great anticipation.

F’lar said quietly, “Disaffection is apparently universal. We are going to need more than words and example to change minds.”

“The Crafts will back you, Weyrleader, to the last Hall,” Fandarel said. “You champion Bendarek. F’nor defended Terry, and against dragonmen because they were in the wrong. F’nor is all right, is he not?” The Smith turned questioningly to Lessa.

“He’ll be back in a week or so.”

“We need him now,” Robinton said. “He’d be useful at Telgar Hold, the commoners account him a hero. What do you say, F’lar? We’re yours to command again.”

They all turned to him, Lessa slipping a hand to his knee her eyes eager. This was what she wanted, all right; for him to assume the responsibility. It was what he knew he had to do, finishing the task he had relinquished, hopefully, to those he thought better qualified than he to protect Pern.

“About that distance-writer of yours, Fandarel, could you rig one to Telgar Hold in time for the marriage?” F’lar asked.

Robinton let out a whoop that reverberated through the chamber, causing Ramoth to grumble from the Hatching Ground. The Smith showed all his stained tusks and clenched his huge fists on the table as if choking any opposition a-borning. The tic in Lytol’s cheek gave a spasmodic leap and stopped.

“Marvelous idea,” Robinton cried. “Hope’s a great encourager. Give the Lords a reliable means of keeping in touch and you’ve undone much of the Weyrs isolation policies.”

“Can you do it, Fandarel?” F’lar asked the Smith.

“To Telgar I could lay wire. Yes. It could be done.”

“How is this distance writing done? I don’t understand.”

Fandarel inclined his head toward the Masterharper. “Thanks to Robinton, we have a code that permits us to send long and complicated messages. One must train a man to understand it, to send and receive it. If you could spare an hour of your time . . .”

“I can spare you as much time as you need, Fandarel,” F’lar assured him.

“Let’s go tomorrow. There’s nothing could fall here tomorrow,” Lessa urged, excited.

“Good. I shall arrange a demonstration. I shall put more people to work on the wire.”

“I shall speak to Lord Sangel of Southern Boll and Lord Groghe of Fort Hold,” Lytol said. “Discreetly, of course, but they know Ruatha is not favored by the Weyr.” He got to his feet. “I have been a dragonrider, and a craftsman, and now I am a Holder. But Thread makes no distinction. It sears wherever, whatever it touches.”

“Yes, we must remind everyone of that,” Robinton said with an ominous grin.

“I shall, of course, agree to whatever T’ron orders me to do, now I have hopes of a surer deliverance.” Lytol bowed to Lessa. “My duty to you, my lady. I’ll collect Lord Jaxom and beg the favor of a return flight . . .”

“You’ve missed your lunch, stay for our dinner.”

Lytol shook his head regretfully. “There’ll be much to set in motion.”

“In the interests of conserving dragon strength, I’ll ride with Lytol and Jaxom,” Robinton said, swallowing the rest of his wine after a rueful toast to such haste. “That will leave you two beasts to share the burden of Fandarel.”

Fandarel stood up, a tolerantly smiling giant, his massive bulk dwarfing the Harper, who was by no measure a short man. “I sympathize with dragons, forced to endure the envy of frail, small creatures.”

None of them left, however, because neither Jaxom nor Felessan could be located. One of Manora’s women remembered seeing them pilfering vegetables and thought they’d gone to join the boys playing miggsy. On questioning, one of the children, Gandidan, admitted seeing them go toward the back corridors.

“Gandidan,” Manora said sternly, “have you been teasing Felessan about the peekhole again?” The child hung his head and suddenly the others couldn’t look at anyone. “Hmmm,” and she turned to the anxious parents. “I’ve been missing used glows again, F’lar, so I imagine there’ve been some trips to look at the eggs.”

“What?” Lessa exclaimed, as startled as the boys who had turned to guilty statues.

Before she could berate them, F’lar laughed aloud. “That’s where they are, then.”

“Where?”

The boys huddled together, terrified by the coldness in her voice, even if it was directed toward the Weyrleader.

“In the corridor behind the Hatching Ground. Oh, don’t fuss, Lessa. That’s all part of growing up in the Weyr, isn’t it, Lytol? I did it when I was Felessan’s age.”

“You’ve been aware of these excursions, Manora?” Lessa demanded imperiously, ignoring F’lar.

“Certainly, Weyrwoman,” Manora replied unintimidated. “And kept track to be sure they all returned. How long ago did they set out, Gandidan? Did they play with you for a time?”

“No wonder Ramoth’s been so upset; I kept thinking she was only being broody. How could you allow such activities to continue?”

“Come now, Lessa,” F’lar said soothingly. “It’s a matter of adolescent pride,” and F’lar dropped his voice to a whisper and widened his eyes dramatically, “not to shrink from the challenge of dark, dusty corridors; dim, flickering glows. Will the glows last long enough to get us to the peekhole and back? Or will we be lost forever in the blackness of the Weyr?”

The Harper was grinning, the boys stunned and open-mouthed. Lytol was not amused, however.

“How long ago, Gandidan?” Manora repeated, tipping the boy’s face up. When he seemed unable to speak, she glanced at the scared expressions of the others. “I think we’d better look. It’s easy to take the wrong turning if you have inadequate glows. And they did.”

There was no lack of searchers, and F’lar quickly split them up into sections to explore each corridor segment. Sounds echoed through halls undisturbed for hundreds of Turns. But it was not long before F’lar and Lytol led their group to the guiding light. Once they saw the figures lying in the patch of light, F’lar sent for the others.

“What’s the matter with them?” Lytol demanded, supporting his ward against him, and anxiously feeling for his pulse. “Blood?” He held up stained fingers, his face bleak, cheek a-twitch.

So, thought F’lar, Lytol’s heart had unfrozen a little. Lessa was wrong to think Lytol too numb to care for the boy. Jaxom was a sensitive boy and children needed affection, but there are many ways of loving.

F’lar gestured for more glows. He turned back the dusty linen of the boy’s shirt, baring the horizontal scratches.

“Doesn’t look to me like more than scrapes. Probably stumbled against the wall in the dark. Who’s got some numb-weed on him? Don’t look like that, Lytol. The pulse is strong.”

“But he’s not asleep. He doesn’t wake.” Lytol shook the limp figure, at first gently, then more insistently.

“There isn’t a mark on Felessan,” the Weyrleader said, turning his son in his arms.

Manora and Lessa came running then, kicking up dust in spite of F’lar’s urgent caution. But Manora reassured them that the boys were all right and briskly delegated two men to carry them back to the Weyr proper. Then she turned to the curious crowd that had assembled in the corridor.

“The emergency is over. Everyone back. Dinner’s ready, my lady, my lords. Pick up your feet, Silon. No need to stir up more dust.” She glanced at the Weyrleader and the Mastersmith. As one, the two men approached the mysterious doorway, Lessa and Lytol joining them.

Her crisp instructions cleared the corridor quickly until there were only the five remaining.

“The light is not made by glows,” announced the Mastersmith as he peered cautiously into the bright room. “And from the smoothness of the walls, this is part of the original Weyr.” He scowled at F’lar. “Were you aware such rooms existed?” It was almost an accusation.

“There were rumors, of course,” F’lar said, stepping inside, “but I don’t think I ever got very far down any of the unused corridors when I was a weyrling. Did you, Lytol?”

The Lord Warder snorted irritably but now that he knew Jaxom was all right, he could not resist looking in.

“Perhaps you should give him leave to prowl in Ruatha if he can find treasure rooms like this one,” Robinton suggested slyly. “And what under the sun could this represent? Lessa, you’re our expert on wall hangings, what do you say?”

He pointed to a drawing, composed of weird interconnecting varicolored rods and balls which spread in several ladder-like columns from floor to ceiling.

“I wouldn’t call it artistic, but the colors are pretty,” she said, peering closely at the wall. She touched a portion with a finger. “Why, the color is baked on the wall. And look here! Someone didn’t like it although I don’t think their correction helps. It’s more a scribble than a design. And it’s not even in the same type of coloring.”

Fandarel scrutinized the drawing, his nose an inch from the wall. “Odd. Very odd.” Then he moved off to other wonders, his huge hands reverently caressing the metallic counters, the hanging shelves. His expression was so rapt that Lessa suppressed a giggle. “Simply amazing. I believe that this countertop was extruded in a single sheet.” He clucked to himself. “If it has been done, it can be done. I must think about it.”

F’lar was more interested in the scribble-design. There was something tantalizingly familiar about it.

“Lessa, I’d swear I’ve seen just such a nonsense before.”

“But we’ve never been here. No one has.”

“I’ve got it. It’s like the pattern on that metal plate F’nor found at Fort Weyr. The one that mentioned fire lizards. See, this word,” his finger traced lines that would read “eureka” to older eyes, “is the same. I’d swear it. And it was obviously added after the rest of this picture.”

“If you want to call it a picture,” Lessa said dubiously. “But I do think you’re right. Only why would they circle this part of the ladder – and that one over there – with a scribble?”

“There are so many, many puzzles in this room,” Fandarel intoned. He’d opened a cabinet door, struggling briefly with the magnetic catch, then opened and closed it several times, smiling absently in delight for such efficiency. Only then did he notice the strange object on the deep shelf.

He exhaled in wonder as he took the ungainly affair down.

“Have a care. It may waddle away,” Robinton said, grinning at the Smith’s performance.

Though the device was as long as a man’s arm, the Smith’s great hands seemed to envelop it as his fingers explored its exterior. “And they could roll metal without seam. Hmmm. It’s coated,” and he glanced up at F’lar, “with the same substance used in the big kettles. Coated for protection? With what?” He looked at it, peered at the top. “Ah glass. Fine glass. Something to look through?” He fiddled with the easily swiveled coated glass that was fitted under a small ledge at the base of the instrument. He placed his eye at the opening on the top of the tube. “Nothing to see but through.” He straightened, his brows deeply furrowed. A rumbling sound issued from him as if the gears of his thinking were shifting audibly. “There is a very badly eroded diagram which Wansor showed me not long ago. A device,” and his fingers rested lightly on the wheels placed alongside the barrel, “which magnifies objects hundreds of times their proper size. But it takes so long to make lenses, polish mirrors. Hmmm.” He bent again and with extremely careful fingers played with the knobs at the side of the tube. He glanced quickly at the mirror, wiped it with one stained finger and looked at it once with his own eye, then again through the tube. “Fascinating. I can see every imperfection in the glass.” He was completely unconscious of the fact that everyone else was watching him, fascinated by his behavior. He pulled a coarse short hair from his head and held it under the end of the barrel, above the mirror, right across a small aperture. Another careful adjustment and he gave a bellow of joy. “Look. Look. It is only my hair. But look at the size of it now. See dust like stones, see the scales, see the broken end.”

Exuberantly, he pulled Lessa into position, all but holding her head down to the eyepiece. “If you can’t see clearly, move this knob until you can.”

Lessa complied, but with a startled exclamation, jumped back. Robinton stepped up before F’lar could.

“But that’s fantastic,” the Harper muttered, playing with the knobs and quickly taking a comparative look at the actual hair.

“May I?” asked F’lar so pointedly that Robinton grinned an apology for his monopoly.

Taking his place, F’lar in turn had to check the specimen to believe in what he saw through the instrument. The strand of hair became a coarse rope, motes of dust sparkling in the light along it, fine lines making visible segmentation points.

When he lifted his head, he turned toward Fandarel, speaking softly because he almost dared not utter this fragile hope aloud. “If there are ways of making tiny things this large, are there ways of bringing distant objects near enough to observe closely?”

He heard Lessa’s breath catch, was aware that Robinton was holding his, but F’lar begged the Smith with his eyes to give him the answer he wanted to hear.

“I believe there ought to be,” Fandarel said after what seemed to be hours of reflection.

“F’lar?”

He looked down at Lessa’s white face, her startled eyes black with awe and fear, her hands half-raised in frightened protest.

“You can’t go to the Red Star!” Her voice was barely audible.

He captured her hands, cold and tense, and though he drew her to him reassuringly, he spoke more to the others.

“Our problem, gentlemen, has always been to get rid of Thread. Why not at its source? A dragon can go anywhere if he’s got a picture of where he’s going!”

When Jaxom woke, he was instantly aware that he was not in the Hold. He opened his eyes bravely, scared though he was, expecting darkness. Instead, above him was a curving roof of stone, its expanse sparkling from the full basket of glows in its center. He gave an inarticulate gasp of relief.

“Are you all right, lad? Does your chest hurt?” Manora was bending over him.

“You found us? Is Felessan all right?”

“Right as rain, and eating his dinner. Now, does your chest hurt?”

“My chest?” His heart seemed to stop when he remembered how he got that injury. But Manora was watching him. He felt cautiously. “No, thank-you – for-inquiring.”

His stomach further embarrassed him with its grinding noises.

“I think you need some dinner, too.”

“Then Lytol’s not angry with me? Or the Weyrleader?” he dared to ask.

Manora gave him a fond smile, smoothing down his tousled hair.

“Not to worry, Lord Jaxom,” she said kindly. “A stern word or two perhaps. Lord Lytol was beside himself with worry.”

Jaxom had the most incredible vision of two Lytols side by side, cheeks a-twitch in unison.

“However, I wouldn’t advise any more unauthorized expeditions anywhere.” She gave a little laugh. “That is now the special pastime of the adults.”

Jaxom was too busy worrying if she knew about the slit, if she knew the weyrboys had been peeking through. If she knew he had. He endured a little death, waiting to hear her say Felessan had confessed to their crime, then realized she had said they weren’t to be more than scolded. You could always trust Manora. And if she knew and wasn’t angry . . . But if she didn’t know and he asked, she might be angry . . .

“You found those rooms, Lord Jaxom. I’d rest on my honors, now, were I you.”

“Rooms?”

She smiled at him and held out her hand. “I thought you were hungry.”

Her hand was cool and soft as she led him onto the balcony which circled the sleeping level. It must be late, Jaxom thought, as they passed the tightly drawn curtains of the sleeping rooms. The central fire was banked. A few women were grouped by one of the worktables, sewing. They glanced up as Manora and Jaxom passed, and smiled.

“You said ‘rooms?’ “ Jaxom asked with polite insistence.

“Beyond the room you opened were two others and the ruins of a stairway leading up.”

Jaxom whistled. “What was in the rooms?”

Manora laughed softly. “I never saw the Mastersmith so excited. They found some odd-shaped instruments and bits and pieces of glass I can’t make out at all.”

“An Oldtimer room?” Jaxom was awed at the scope of his discovery. And he’d had only the shortest look.

“Oldtimers?” Manora’s frown was so slight that Jaxom decided he’d imagined it. Manora never frowned. “Ancient timers, I’d say.”

As they entered the Main Cavern, Jaxom realized that their passage interrupted the lively conversations of the dragonmen and women seated around the big dining area. Accustomed as he was to such scrutiny, Jaxom straightened his shoulders and walked with measured stride. He turned his head slowly, giving a grave nod and smile to the riders he knew and those of the women he recognized. He ignored a sprinkle of laughter, being used to that, too, but a Lord of the Hold must act with the dignity appropriate to his rank, even if he were not quite turned twelve and in the presence of his superiors.

It was full dark, but around the great inner face of the Bowl, he could see the lambent circles of dragon eyes on the weyr ledges. He could hear the muted rush of air as several stirred and stretched their enormous pinions. He looked up toward the star Rocks, black knobs against the lighter sky, and saw the giant silhouette of the watch dragon. Far down the Bowl, he could even hear the restless tramping of the penned herdbeasts. In the lake in the center, the stars were mirrored.

Quickening his step now, he urged Manora faster. Dignity could be forgotten in the darkness and he was desperately hungry.

Mnementh gave a welcoming rumble on the queen’s weyr ledge, and Jaxom, greatly daring, glanced up at the near eye which closed one lid at him slightly in startling imitation of a human wink.

Do dragons have a sense of humor? he wondered. The watch-wher certainly didn’t and he was the same breed.

The relationship is very distant.

“I beg your pardon?” Jaxom said, startled, glancing up at Manora.

“For what, young Lord?”

“Didn’t you say something?”

“No.”

Jaxom glanced back at the bulky shadow of the dragon, but Mnementh’s head was turned. Then he could smell roasted meats and walked faster.

As they rounded the bend, Jaxom saw the golden body of the recumbent queen and was suddenly guilt-struck and fearful. But she was fast asleep, smiling with an innocent serenity remarkably like his foster mother’s newest babe. He looked away lest his gaze rouse her, and saw the faces of all those adults at the table. It was almost too much for him. F’lar, Lessa, Lytol and Felessan he’d expected, but there was the Mastersmith and the Masterharper, too.

Only drill helped him respond courteously to the greetings of the celebrities. He wasn’t aware when Manora and Lessa came to his assistance.

“Not a word until the child has had something to eat, Lytol,” the Weyrwoman said firmly, her hands pressing him gently to the empty seat beside Felessan. The boy paused between spoonfuls to look up with a complex series of facial contortions supposed to convey a message that escaped Jaxom. “Jaxom missed lunch at the Hold and is several hours hungrier in consequence. He is well, Manora?”

“He took no more harm than Felessan.”

“He looked a little glassy-eyed as you crossed the weyr.” Lessa bent to peer at Jaxom who politely looked at her, chewing with sudden self-consciousness. “How do you feel?”

Jaxom emptied his mouth hurriedly, trying to swallow a half-chewed lump of vegetable. Felessan tendered a cup of water and Lessa deftly swatted him between the shoulder blades as he started to choke.

“I feel fine,” he managed to say. “I feel fine, thank you.” He waited, unable to resist looking at his plate and was relieved when the Weyrleader laughingly reminded Lessa that she was the one who said the boy should eat before anything else.

The Mastersmith tapped his stained, branchlike finger on the faded Record skin which draped the table, except where the boys were sitting. Fandarel had one arm wrapped possessively around something in his lap, but Jaxom couldn’t see what it was.

“If I judge this accurately, there should be several levels of rooms in this section, both beyond the one the boys found and above.”

Jaxom goggled at the map and caught Felessan’s eye. He was excited, too, but he kept on eating. Jaxom spooned up another huge mouthful – it tasted so good – but he did wish that the skin were not upside down to him.

“I’d swear there were no upper weyr entrances on that side of the Bowl,” F’lar muttered, shaking his head.

“There was access to the Bowl on the ground level,” Fandarel said, his forefinger covering what he ought to be showing. “We found it, sealed up. Possibly because of that rockfall.”

Jaxom looked anxiously at Felessan who became engrossed in his plate. When Felessan made those faces, had he meant he hadn’t told them? Or he had? Jaxom wished he knew.

“That seam was barely discernible,” the Masterharper said. “The sealing substance was more effective than any mortar I’ve ever seen; transparent, smooth and strong.”

“One could not chip it,” rumbled Fandarel, shaking his head.

“Why would they seal off an exit to the Bowl?” Lessa asked.

“Because they weren’t using that section of the Weyr,” F’lar suggested. “Certainly no one has used those corridors for the Egg knows how many Turns. There weren’t even footprints in the dust of most of them we searched.”

Waiting for the adult wrath that must surely descend on him now, Jaxom kept his eyes on his plate. He couldn’t bear Lessa’s recriminations. He dreaded the look in Lytol’s eyes when he learned of his ward’s blasphemous act. How could he have been so deaf to all Lytol’s patient teachings?

“We found enough of interest in the dusty, moldy old Records that had been ignored as useless,” F’lar’s voice went on.

Jaxom hazarded a glance and saw the Weyrleader tousle Felessan’s hair; watched as the man actually grinned at him, Jaxom. Jaxom was almost sick with relief. None of the adults knew what he and Felessan had done in the Hatching Grounds.

“These boys have already led us to exquisite treasures, eh, Fandarel?”

“Let us hope that they are not the only legacies left in forgotten rooms,” the Mastersmith said in his deep rumble of a voice. Absently he stroked the smooth metal of the magnifying device cradled in the crook of his arm.