Dragonseye (Red Star Rising)

Telgar Weyr, Fort Hold

“Guess what I found?” P’tero cried, ushering his guest into the kitchen cavern. Tisha, he’s half frozen and starving of the hunger,” the young green rider added, hauling the tall fur wrapped figure towards the nearest hearth and pushing him into a chair. He deposited the packs he was carrying on to the table.

“Klah, for the love of little dragons, please.”

Two women came running, one with klah and the other with a hastily filled bowl of soup. Tisha came striding across the cavern, demanding to know what the problem was, who had P’tero rescued and from where.

“No-one should be out in weather like this,” she said as she reached the table and grabbed the victim’s wrist to get a pulse.

“All but froze, he is.” Tisha pulled aside the furs wrapped about his neck and - then let him take the cup. He cradled the klah in reddened - fingers, blowing before he took his first cautious sip. He was also shivering uncontrollably.

“I spotted an SOS on the snow - lucky for him that the sun made shadows or I’d never have seen it,” P’tero was saying, thoroughly pleased with himself.

“Found him below Bitra Hold…”

“Poor man,” Tisha interjected.

“Oh, you’re so right there,” P’tero said with ironic fervor, “and he’ll never return. Not that he’s told me all…” and P’tero flopped to a chair when someone brought him a cup of klah.

“Got out of Chalkin’s clutches intact…” and P’tero grinned impishly, “and then survived three nights in a Bitran woodsman’s hold -- with only a half cup of old oats to sustain him.”

Through his explanation, Tisha ordered hot water-bottles, warmed blankets and, taking a good look at the man’s fingers, numb weed and frostbite salve.

“Don’t think they’re more than cold,” she said, removing one of his hands from its fevered grip on the hot cup and spreading the fingers out, lightly pinching the tips. “No, cold enough but not harmed.”

“Thank you, thank you,” the man said, returning his fingers to the warm cup. “I got so cold stamping out that emergency code.”

“And out of doors in such weather with no gloves,” Tisha chided him.

“When I left Domaize Hall for Bitra Hold, it was only autumn,” he said in a grating voice.

“Autumn?” Tisha echoed, widening her fine eyes in surprise.

“How long were you at Bitra Hold then?”

“Seven damned weeks,” the man replied, spitting out the words in a disgusted tone of voice. “I had thought a week at the most.” Tisha laughed, her belly heaving under her broad apron. “What under the stars took you to Bitra in the first place?”

“Painter, are you?” she added.

“How’d you know?” The man regarded her with surprise.

“Still have paint under your nails.” Iantine inspected them and his cold-reddened face flushed a deeper red.

“I didn’t even stop to wash,” he said.

“As well you didn’t, considering the price Chalkin charges for such luxuries as soap,” she said, chuckling again.

The women returned with the things Tisha had ordered.

While they ministered to the warming of him, he clung with one hand or the other to the klah. And then to the soup cup.

His furs, which had kept him from freezing to death, were taken to dry at one fire; his boots were removed and his toes checked for frostbite but he had been lucky there, too, so they were coated with salve for good measure and then wrapped in warm toweling while warmed blankets were snugged about his body. Salve was applied to his hands and face and then he was allowed to finish the hot food.

“Now, your name, and whom shall we contact to say that you’ve been found?” Tisha asked when all this had been done.

“I’m Iantine,” and then he added in wry pride, “portraitist from Hall Domaize. I was contracted to do miniatures of Chalkin’s children.

“Your first mistake,” said Tisha, chuckling.

Iantine flushed. “You’re so right, but I needed the fee.”

“Did you come away with any of it?” P’tero asked, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Oh, that I did,” the artist replied so fiercely that everyone grinned. Then he sighed. “But I did have to part with an eighth at the woodsman’s hold. He had little enough to share, but was willing to do so.”

“At a profit, I’m sure.”

Iantine considered that for a moment. “I was lucky to find any place to wait out the storm. And he did share.” He shrugged briefly, and a dejected look crossed his features as he sighed. “Anyway, it was he who suggested I make a sign in the snow to attract any dragon rider I’m just lucky one saw me.” He nodded thanks to P’tero.

“No problem,” the blue dragon rider said airily. “Glad I came.” He leaned towards Tisha across the table. “He’d’ve been frozen solid in another day!”

“Were you long waiting?”

“Two days after the storm ended, but I spent the nights with ol’ Fendler. If you’re hungry enough, even tunnel snake tastes good,” Iantine added.

“Ah, the poor laddie,” said Tisha and called out orders for a double portion of stew to be brought immediately, and bread and sweetening and some of the fruit that had been sent up from Ista.

By the time Iantine had finished the meal, he felt he had made up for the last four days. His feet and hands were tingling despite the numb weed and salve. When he stood to go and relieve himself, he wobbled badly and clutched at the chair for support.

“Have a care, lad, filling the stomach was only half your problem,” Tisha said, moving to support him with far more alacrity than her bulk would suggest. She gestured for P’tero to lend a hand.

“I need to…” Iantine began.

“Ach, it’s on the way to the sleeping cavern,” Tisha told him and drew one of his arms over her shoulder. She was as tall as he.

P’tero took up the packs again and between them, they got him to the toilet room. And then into a bed in an empty cubicle. Tisha checked his feet again, applied another coat of numb weed and tiptoed out. Iantine only made sure that his packs - and the precious fee were in the room with him before he fell deeply asleep.

While he slept, messages went out - to Hall Domaize and to Benden Weyr and Hold, since Iantine nominally looked to Benden. Although Iantine had taken no lasting harm, M’shall recognized yet another instance of Chalkin taking unfair advantage. Irene had already sent in a substantial list of abuses and irregularities in Chalkin’s dealings generally with folk who had no recourse against his dictates. He held no court in which difficulties could be aired, and had no impartial arbiters to make decisions.

The big traders, who could be counted on for impartial comment, bypassed Bitra and could cite many examples of unfair dealings since Chalkin had assumed the Holding fifteen years before. The few small traders who ventured in Bitra rarely returned.

Following that Oather and its decision to consider deposing Chalkin, M’shall had his sweep riders check in every minor bold to learn if Chalkin had duly informed his people of the imminence of Thread. None had, although Lord Chalkin had increased his tithe on every household. The manner in which he was conducting this extra tithe suggested that he was amassing supplies for his own good, not that of the Hold.

Those in more isolated situations would certainly have a hard time obtaining even basic food supplies. That constituted a flagrant abuse of his position as Lord Holder.

When Paulin read M’shall’s report, he asked if Chalkin’s holders would speak out against him. M’shall had to report that his initial survey of the minor holders indicated a severe lack of civic duty.

Chalkin had his folk so cowed, none would accuse him - especially this close to a Pass, for he had still had the power to turn objectors out of their holds.

“They may change their minds once Thread has started,” K’vin remarked to Zulaya.

“Too late, I’d say, for any decent preparations to be made.” K’vin shrugged. “He’s really not our concern - for which I, for one, am thankful. At least we rescued Iantine.”

Zulaya gave a wry chuckle. “That poor lad! Starting his professional career at Bitra, Not the best place.”

“Maybe that’s all he could aspire to,” K’vin suggested.

“Not if he’s from Hall Domaize,” Zulaya said tartly. “Wonder how long it’ll take his hands to recover?”

“Thinking of a new portrait?” K’vin asked, amused.

“Well, he’s down an eighth of what he needs,” she said.

K’vin gave her a wide-eyed look. “You wouldn’t.”

“Of course I wouldn’t,” she said with an edge to her voice. “He needs something in his pocket of his own. I admire a lad who’d endure Bitra for any reason. And Iantine’s was an honorable one in wanting to pay the transfer fee.”

“Wear that red Hatching dress when you sit for him,” K’vin said. Then he rubbed his chin. “You know, I might have my portrait done, too.” Zulaya gave him a long look.

“The boy may find it as hard to leave Telgar Weyr as it was Bitra. With a much fuller pouch and no maintenance subtracted And soap and hot water and decent food,” Zulaya said.

“According to Tisha, he’ll need feeding up. He’s skin and bones.”

When the singing woke Iantine, he was totally disoriented.

No-one had sung a note at Bitra Hold. And he was warm!

The air was redolent of good eating odors, too. He sat up.

Hands, feet and face were stiff, but the tingling was gone. And he was exceedingly hungry.

The curtain across the cubicle rustled and a boy’s head popped through.

“You’re awake, Artist Iantine?” the lad asked.

“Indeed, I am,” and Iantine looked around for his clothes.

Someone had undressed him and he didn’t see his own clothes.

“I’m to help you if you need it,” the boy said, pushing half-way through the curtains. “Tisha laid out clean clothes.” He wrinkled a snub nose.

“Yours were pretty ripe,” she said.

Iantine chuckled. “They probably were. I ran out of soap for washing three weeks ago.”

“You waz at Bitra. They charge for everything there,” and the boy threw up both arms in disgust. “I’m Leopol,” he added.

Then he lifted the soft slippers from the pile on the Stool.

“Tisha said you’d better wear these, not your boots. And you’re to use the salve first.” He held up the lidded jar.

“Dinner’s ready.” Leopol then licked his lips.

“And you must wait your meal until I’m ready, huh?”

Leopol nodded solemnly and then grinned. “I don’t mind. I’ll get more because I waited.”

“Is food in short supply at this Weyr?” Iantine asked jokingly as he began to dress in the clean gear.

Odd how important simple things, like freshly laundered clothing, assumed the level of luxury when you’ve had to do without.

Leopol helped him spread the salve on his feet. They were still tender to the touch and even the act of applying the salve made them suddenly itchy. Fortunately the numb weed or whatever it was, reduced that sensation.

When he had relieved himself again and gingerly washed face and hands, he and Leopol made their way to the Lower Cavern where the evening meal was in progress.

The lad led him to a side table near the hearth which had been set for two. Instantly cooks descended with plates overflowing with food, wine for him and klah for Leopol.

“There now, Artist man,” the cook said, nodding appreciation as Iantine attacked the roast meat, eat first and then the Weyrleaders would like a few words with you, if you’re not too tired.” Iantine murmured thanks and understanding and addressed himself single-mindedly to his food. How long had it been since he’d eaten a decent meal?

He would have had additional servings of the main course, but his stomach felt uneasy: too much good food after several days of semi-fasting, probably. Leopol brought him a large serving of the sweet course, but he couldn’t finish it all because the back of his throat felt raw and sore. He would have gone back to his bed then, but he saw the Weyrleaders advancing on him. Leopol made a discreet exit, grinning reassurance at him. Iantine tried to stand in courtesy to his hosts, but he wobbled on his numbed feet and dropped back into the chair.

“We don’t stand much on ceremony here,” Zulaya said, gesturing for him to stay seated as K’vin pulled out one chair for her.

He carried the wine-skin from which he filled all the glasses.

Iantine took a polite sip - it was a nice crisp wine - but even the one sip made his stomach feel sourer.

“Messages have been sent, and acknowledgments received, that you’ve been rescued,” K’vin said, grinning over the last word. Master Domaize was becoming worried, so we saved him a messenger to Bitra.”

“That’s very good of you, Zulaya, K’vin,” Iantine said, thankful that part of his training at Hall Domaize had included knowing the important names in every Hold, Weyr and Hall.

“I certainly appreciated P’tero’s rescue.” Zulaya grinned. He’ll be dining out on that one for the rest of the year. But it proves the wisdom of sweep riding even during the Interval.”

“You should know,” Iantine blurted out, “that Lord Chalkin doesn’t believe there will be a Pass.”

“Of course not,” K’vin replied easily. “It doesn’t suit him to. Bridgely and M’shall would like a report from you, though, concerning your visit there.”

“You mean, there’s something that can be done about him?” Iantine was amazed. Lord Holders were autonomous within their borders; he hadn’t known there’d be any recourse.

“He may do himself in,” Zulaya said with a grim twist of her lips.

“That would be wonderful,” said Iantine. “Only,” and now honesty forced him to admit this, “he didn’t really do anything to me.”

“Our Weyr artist may not be trained,” K’vin said, “but Waine informed me that it doesn’t take seven weeks to do four miniatures.”

“I actually painted twenty-two to get four that they liked,” Iantine explained, clearing his throat grimly. “The hooker in the contract was the word ‘satisfactory’

“Ah,” Zulaya and K’vin said in chorus.

“I ran out of paint and canvas because I brought only what I thought I’d need.” He lifted his hands, then rubbed them because they were beginning to itch again. “Then the children all got measles and so, rather than have anything deducted from the fee for room and board, I agreed to freshen up the Hold murals… only I hadn’t brought that sort of paint and had to manufacture the colors.”

“Did he charge you for the use of the equipment?” Zulaya asked to Iantine’s astonishment.

“How did you know?” When she only laughed and waved at him to continue his telling.

Iantine went on, “So I excavated what I needed in the midden.”

“Good for you,” Zulaya clapped her hands, delighted by his resourcefulness.

“Fortunately, most of the raw materials for pigments are readily available. You only have to find them and make the colors up. Which I’d have to do anyhow. Master Domaize was good about passing on techniques like that.

“Then I finally got them to accept the miniatures, which weren’t exactly miniature size any more, by the way, just before the first blizzard snowed me in.” Iantine flushed; his narrative showed him to be such a ninny.

“So? What did you contract for then?” Zulaya shot K’vin a knowing look.

“I was a bit wiser. Or so I thought,” he said with a grimace and then told them the clauses he’d insisted on.

“He had you on the drudges’ level at Bitra?” Zulaya was appalled.

“And you a diploma’d artist? I would protest about that! There are certain courtesies which most Holds, Halls and Weyrs accord a student of a craft, and certainly to an artist!”

“So, when Lord Chalkin finally accepted his portrait, I made tracks away as fast as I could!” K’vin clapped him on the shoulder, grinning at the fervor with which that statement came out.

“Not that my conditions improved that much,” Iantine added quickly and then grinned, “until P’tero rescued me.” His throat kept clogging up and he had to clear it again. “I want to thank you very much for that. I hope I didn’t keep him from proper duties.”

“No, no,” K’vin said. “Mind you, I’m not all that sure why he was over Bitra, but it’s as well he was.”

“How are your hands?” Zulaya asked, looking down at him as he washed his itching fingers together.

“I shouldn’t rub the skin, should I?”

Zulaya spoke over her shoulder. “Leopol, get the numb weed for Iantine, please.” The young artist hadn’t noticed the boy’s discreet presence, but he was glad he didn’t have to walk all the way to the cubicle to get the salve.

“It’s just the after-effects of cold,” he said, looking at his fingers, and noticing what Tisha had - pigment under the nails. He curled his fingers, ashamed to be at a Weyr table with dirty hands.

And a deep shiver went down his spine.

“I was wondering, Iantine,” Zulaya began, “if you’d feel up to doing another portrait or two? The Weyr pays the usual rates, and no extras charged against you.”

Iantine protested. “I’d gladly do your portrait, Weyrwoman.”

“It is of yourself you were speaking, isn’t it?” That first shiver was followed by another which he did his best to mask.

“You’ll do it only if you are paid a proper fee, young man,” Zulaya said sternly.

“But…”

“No buts,” K’vin put in. “What with preparations for a Pass, neither Zulaya nor I have had the time to commission proper portraits. However, since you’re here… and willing?”

“I’m willing, all right, but you don’t know my work and I’m only just accredited.”

Zulaya caught his hands in hers, for he’d been wildly gesticulating in both eagerness and an attempt to disguise another spasm.

“Artist Iantine, if you managed to do four miniatures and two formal portraits, and refresh murals for Chalkin, you’re more than qualified. Didn’t you know that it took Macartor five months to finish Chalkin’s wedding-day scene?”

“And he had to borrow marks from an engineer to pay off the last of his ‘debt’?” K’vin added. “Here’s Waine to greet you. But you’re not to start work again until you’re completely recovered from the cold.”

“Oh, I’m recovered, I’m recovered,” Iantine said, standing up as the Weyrleaders did, determined to control the next set of shiverings.

After they had introduced him to the little man, Waine, they left him, circulating to other tables as the Weyr relaxed.

There was singing and guitar playing from one side of the room, cheerful noises, above a general level of easy conversation. That was something else which Iantine only now realized had been totally absent at Bitra Hold: music, talk, people relaxing after a day’s work.

“Heard you ran afoul of Chalkin?” Waine said, grinning and ducking his head. Then he brought from behind his back a sheaf of large-sized paper sheets, neatly tied together, and a handful of pencils. “Thought you might need em, like,” he said shyly. “Heard tell you used up all at Bitra.”

“Thank you,” Iantine replied, running his fingers appreciatively over the fine sheets and noticing that the pencils were of different weights of carbon. “How much do I owe you?”

Waine laughed, showing gaps in his teeth. “You been at Bitra too long, Artist man. I’ve colors, too, but not many. Don’t do more’n basics.”

“Then let me make you a range of paints,” Iantine said gratefully, gritting his teeth against yet another onslaught of ague. “You know where to find the raw stuff around here, and I’ll show you how I make the tints.”

Waine grinned toothlessly again. “ That’s a right good trade.”

He held out a hand and nearly crushed Iantine’s fingers with his enthusiasm. But he caught the paroxysm of almost uncontrollable shivering which Iantine could not hide.

“Hey, man, you’re cold.”

“I can’t seem to stop shivering, for all that I’m on top of the fire,” and Iantine had to surrender to the shaking.

“TISHA” Iantine was embarrassed by Waine’s bellow for assistance, but he didn’t resist when he was bundled back into his quarters and the medic summoned while Tisha ordered more furs, hot water-bottles, aromatics to be steeped in hot water to make breathing easier. He made no resistance to the medication that was immediately prescribed for him because, by then, his head had started to ache. So did his bones.

The last thing he remembered before he drifted off to an uneasy sleep was what Maranis, the medic, said to Tisha. “Let’s hope they all have it at Bitra for giving it to him!”

Much later Leopol told him that Tisha had stayed by his bedside three nights while he burned of the mountain fever he had caught, compounding his illness by exposure on the cold slopes. Maranis felt that the old woodsman might be a carrier for the disease: himself immune, but able to transmit the fever.

Iantine was amazed to find his mother there when he woke from the fever. Her eyes were red with crying and she burst into tears again when she realized he was no longer delirious.

Leopol also told him that Tisha had insisted she be sent for when his fever lasted so long.

To Iantine’s astonishment, his mother didn’t seem as pleased to receive the transfer fee as he was to give it.

“Your life isn’t worth the fee,” she told him finally when he was afraid she was displeased with the missing eighth mark he’d had to give the woodsman. “And he nearly killed you for that eighth.”

“He’s a good lad you have for a son,” Tisha said with an edge to her voice, “working that hard to earn money from Chalkin.”

“Oh yes,” his mother hastily agreed as she suddenly realized she ought to be more grateful. “Though why ever you sought to please that old skinflint is beyond me.”

“The fee was right,” Iantine said weakly.

“Don’t take on so, now, Ian,” Tisha said when his mother had to return to the sheep hold “She was far more worried about you than about the marks. Which shows her heart’s in the right place. Worry makes people act odd, you know.” She patted Iantine’s shoulder. “She wanted to take you home and nurse you there,” she went on reassuringly.

“But couldn’t risk your lungs in the cold of between. I don’t think she liked us taking care of you!” She grinned. “Mothers never trust others, you know.”

Iantine managed a grin back at Tisha. I guess that’s it.”

It was Leopol who restored Iantine’s peace of mind. “You gotta real nice mother, you know,” he said, sitting on the end of the bed. “Worried herself sick about leaving until P’tero promised to convey her again if you took any turn for the worst. She’d never ridden a dragon before.”

Iantine chuckled. “No, I don’t think she has. Must have frightened her.”

“Not as much,” and now Leopol cocked a slightly dirty finger at the artist, “as you being so sick she had to be sent for. But she was telling P’tero how happy your father would be to have those marks you earned. Real happy. And she near deafened P’tero, shouting about how she’d always known you’d be a success, and to get the whole fee out of Chalkin was quite an achievement.”

“She did?” Iantine perked up. His mother had been bragging about him?

“She did indeed,” Leopol said, giving an emphatic nod to his head.

Leopol seemed to know a great deal about a lot of matters in the Weyr. He also never seemed to mind being sent on errands as Iantine made a slow convalescence.

Master Domaize paid him a visit, too. And it was Leopol who told the convalescent why the Master had made such a visit.

“That Lord Chalkin sent a complaint to Master Domaize that you had skived out of the Hold without any courtesy and he was seriously considering lodging a demand for the return of some of the fee since you were so obviously very new at your art, and the fee had been for a seasoned painter, not a young upstart.” Leopol grinned at Iantine’s furious reaction.

“Oh, don’t worry. Your master wasn’t born yesterday. M’shall himself brought him to Bitra Hold, and they said that there was not a thing wrong with any of the work you’d done for that Lord Chalkin.” He cocked his head to one side, regarding Iantine with a calculating look.

“Seems like there’s lot of people wanting to sit their portraits with you. Didja know that?” Iantine shook his head, trying to absorb the injustice of Chalkin’s objection. He was speechless with fury. Leopol grinned again.

“Don’t worry, Iantine. Chalkin’s the one should worry, treating you like that. Your Master and the Benden Weyrleader gave out to that Lord Holder about it, too. You’re qualified, and entitled to all the courtesies of which you got none at Bitra Hold. Good thing you didn’t get sick until after Zulaya and K’vin had a chance to hear your side of the story. Not that anyone would believe Chalkin, no matter what he says.”

“Did you know that even wherries won t roost in Bitra Hold?” Convalescence from the lung infection took time and Iantine fretted at his weakness.

“I keep falling asleep,” he complained to Tisha one morning when she arrived with his potion. “How long do I have to keep taking this stuff?”

“Until Maranis hears clear lungs in you,” she said in her no-nonsense tone. Then she handed him the sketch paper and pencils that Waine had given him on his first night in the Weyr. “Get your hand back in. At least doing what you’re best at can be done sitting still.”

It was good to have paper and pencil again. It was good to look about the Lower Caverns and catch poses, especially when the poser didn’t realize he was being sketched. And his eye had not lost its keenness, and if his fingers cramped now and then from weakness, strength gradually returned. He became unaware of the passage of time, nor did he notice people coming up behind him to see what he was drawing just then.

Waine arrived with mortar, pestle, oil, eggs and cobalt to make a good blue. The man had picked up bits of technique and procedures on his own, but picking things up here and there was no substitute for the concentrated drill which Iantine had had: drills that he had once despised but now appreciated when he could see what resulted from the lack of them.

Winter had set in but on the first day of full sun, Tisha insisted on wrapping him up in a cocoon of furs to sit out in the Bowl for the good of fresh air”. As it was bath-time for the dragonets Iantine was immediately fascinated by their antics and began to appreciate just how much hard work went into their nurture. It was also the first chance he’d ever had of seeing dragonets He knew the grace and power of the adult dragons and their awesome appearance. Now he saw the weyrlings as mischievous - even naughty, as one ducked her rider into the lake - and endlessly inventive. None of this last Hatching were ready to fly yet, but some of the previous clutch were beginning to take on adult duties. He had first-hand observation of their not-so-graceful performances.

The next day he saw P’tero and blue Ormonth in the focus of some sort of large class. As he wandered over, he saw that not only the weyrlings from the last three Hatchings were attending but also all youngsters above the age of twelve.

Ormonth had one wing extended and was gazing at it in an abstract fashion, as if he’d never seen it before. The expression was too much for the artist in Iantine and he flipped open his pad and sketched the scene. P’tero noticed, but the class was being extremely attentive.

What T’dam was saying slowly reached through Iantine’s absorption with line and pose.

“Now, records show us that the worst injuries occur on wing edges, especially if Thread falls in clumps and the partners are not sharp enough to avoid em. A dragon can fly with one third of his exterior sail damaged” and T’dam ran his hand along the edge of Ormonth’s wing.

“However,” and T’dam looked up at Ormonth, “if you would be good enough to close your wing slightly, Ormonth,” and the blue did so.

“Thank you “ T’dam had to stand slightly on tip-toe to reach the area of the inner wing. Injuries in here are far more serious as Thread can, depending on the angle of its fall, sear through the wing and into his body. This,” and he now ducked under the wing and tapped the side, is where the lungs are and injury here can even be fatal.” There was a gasp around the semi-circle of his students.

“That’s why you have to be sharp every instant you’re in flight. Go between the instant you even suspect you’ve been hit.”

“How do we know?” someone asked.

“Ha!” T’dam propped his fists on his thick leather belt and paused. “Dragons are very brave creatures for the most part, considering what we ask them to do. But,” and he stroked Ormonth in apology, “they have exceedingly quick responses… especially to pain.

“You’ll know!” He paused again. “Some of you were here when Missath broke her sail bone, weren’t you?” and he pointed around the group until he saw several hands raised. “Remember how she squealed?”

“Went right through me like a bone cutter.” a big lad said and shivered convulsively.

“She was squealing the instant she lost her balance and actually before she snapped the bone. She knew she would hurt even as she fell.”

“Now, you don’t have quite the same immediacy in Threadfall since you’ll be high on adrenalin, but you’ll know. So, this brings up a point that we make constantly in all training procedures, always, ALWAYS have a point to go to in your head. During Fall, it had better be the Weyr since everyone here,” and now the sweep of his hand included those Iantine recognized as non-riders, “will be ready to help.

“DON’T make the mistake of coming in too low. Going between will have stopped Thread burrowing further into your dragon…” A muted chorus of disgust and fearfulness greeted that concept. ”So you can make as orderly a landing as injuries permit. What you don’t need is a bad landing which could compound the original Thread score. Start encouraging your dragon as soon as you know he’s been hit. Of course, you may be hit too, and I appreciate that, but you’re riders and you can certainly control your own pain while seeing to your dragon’s.

“He’s the important one of you, remember.

“Without him you don’t function as a rider.

“Now, the drill is,” and once again he swept his glance around his students, “slather!” He picked up the wide brush from the pail at his feet and began to ply it on Ormonth’s wing: water, to judge the way it dripped. The blue regarded the operation with lightly whirling eyes.

“Slather, slather, slather,” and T’dam emphasized each repetition with a long brush stroke. “You can’t put too much numb weed on a dragon’s injuries to suit him or her,” and he grinned at the female green riders, “and the injury will be numb in exactly three seconds at least the outer area. It does take time to penetrate through the epidermis to what passes for the germinative layer in a dragon’s hide. So you may have to convince your dragon that he’s not as badly hurt as he or she feels. Your injured dragon needs all the reassurance you can give… No matter how bad you think the injury looks, don’t think that at the dragon. Tell him or her what a great brave dragon they are, and that the numb weed is working and the pain will go away.

“Now, if a bone has been penetrated - - -

“Why, you’ve got P’tero to the life,” said an awed voice softly in Iantine’s ear, and he shot a glance at the tall lad standing behind him: M’leng, green Sith’s rider, and P’tero’s special friend. Iantine had seen the two riders, always together, in the kitchen cavern. Oooh, is there any chance I could have that corner?” And he tapped the portion which contained P’tero and Ormonth.

M’leng was a handsome young man, with almond-shaped green eyes in an angular face. The light breeze in the Bowl ruffled tight dark brown curls on his head.

“Since I owe P’tero my life, let me make a larger sketch for you.”

“Oh, would you?” And a smile animated M’leng’s rather solemn face.

“Can we settle a price? I’ve marks enough to do better than Chalkin did you!” He reached for his belt pouch.

Iantine tried to demur, pleading he owed P’tero.

“Tero was only doing his duty for once,” M’leng said with a touch of asperity. “But I really would like a proper portrait of him. You know, what with Threadfall coming and all, I’d want to have something…” M’leng broke off, swallowed, and then reinforced his pleading.

“I’ve to do a commission for the Weyrleaders…” Iantine said.

“Is that the only one?” M’leng seemed surprised. “I’d’ve thought everyone in the Weyr would be after you.”

Iantine grinned. “Tisha hasn’t released me from her care yet.”

“Oh, her,” and M’leng dismissed the head woman with a wave of his hand. “She’s so fussy at times. But there’s nothing wrong with your hand or your eye… and that little pose of P’tero, leaning against Ormonth, why it’s him!”

Iantine felt his spirits rise at the compliment because the sketch of the blue rider was good - better than the false ones he had done at Bitra Hold. He still cringed, remembering how he had allowed himself to compromise his standards by contriving such obsequious portrayals. He hoped he would never be in such a position again. M’leng’s comment was bal to his psyche.

“I can do better But I like the pose.”

“Can’t you just do it? I mean,” and M’leng looked everywhere but at Iantine, “I’d rather P’tero didn’t know… I mean…”

“Is it to be a surprise for him?”

“No, it’s to be for me!” And M’leng jabbed his breastbone with his thumb, his manner defiant. “So I’ll have it.”

At such intransigence, Iantine was at a loss and hastily agreed before M’leng became more emotional. His eyes had filled and he set his mouth in a stubborn line.

“I will, of course, but a sitting would help.”

“Oh, I can arrange that, so he still doesn’t know. You’re always sketching,” and that came out almost as an accusation.

Iantine was - thanks to the lecture he had been overhearing considerably more aware now of the dangers dragons, and their riders, would shortly face. If M’leng was comforted by having a portrait of his friend, that was the least Iantine could do.

“This very night,” M’leng continued, single-minded in his objective, “I’ll see we sit close to where you usually do. I’ll get him to wear his good tunic so you can paint him at his very best.”

“But suppose…” Iantine began, wondering how he could keep P’tero from knowing he was being done.

“You do the portrait,” M’leng said, patting Iantine’s arm to still his objections. “I’ll take care of P’tero - - -“ and he added under his breath, “as long as I have him.”

That little afterthought made the breath stop in Iantine’s throat. Was M’Leng so sure that P’tero would die?

“I’ll do my best, M’leng, you may be sure of that!”

“Oh, I am,” said M’leng, tossing his head up so that the curls fell back from his face. He gave Iantine a wry smile. I’ve been watching how you work, you see.” He extended a hand soft with the oils riders used to tend their dragons. Iantine took it and was astonished at the strength in the green rider’s grip.

“Waine said a good miniature - which is what I want,” and he patted his breast pocket to show the intended site of the painting, “by an artist is priced at four marks. Is that correct?” Iantine nodded, unable to speak for the lump in his throat.

Surely M’leng was dramatizing matters? Or was he? In the background, Iantine could hear T’dam advising his listeners on the types and severity of injuries and the immediate aid to be given to each variety.

What a bizarre, and cruel, lecture to give to the weyrlings!

And yet - the thought stopped him - was it not kinder to be truthful now and ease the shock of what could possibly happen?

“This evening?” M’leng said firmly.

“This very evening, M’leng,” Iantine agreed, nodding his head.

When the green rider had left him, it took the young artist some long moments before he could return to his sketching.

Well, this was one thing he could do as a gift to the Weyr for all their kindnesses to him - he could leave behind a graphic gallery of everyone currently living in Telgar Weyr!