Dragonseye (Red Star Rising)

Cathay, Telgar Weyr, Bitra Hold, Telgar

P’tero didn’t die, although for some days he wished he had.

The shame of being attacked, of endangering M’leng, of being responsible for the injury of nine dragons - when K’vin had particularly warned everyone to be careful - was almost more than he could bear. M’leng might say that P’tero had saved his life - although he had to have his chest wound stitched but P’tero knew that was incidental in the sequence of the attack. Both Sith and Ormonth had suffered from the fangs and claws of the attacking felines, for the creatures had not been easily quelled. Meranath nursed a bite on her left forearm and a slash on her cheek. P’tero hadn’t yet been able to look Zulaya in the eye. V’last’s Collith’s worst injuries were his forearm, gashed to the bone by the powerful hind legs of the female attacking him. The dragon-lion battle had been fierce while it lasted, for the lions had no fear of the dragons and the entire pride of some fourteen adult beasts had joined battle with them.

Meranath had reacted instantly to Ormonth’s shriek - in fact, so quickly that she actually left Zulaya behind. The Weyrwoman had been astonished: dragons simply didn’t do that. Though later, Leopol told P’tero, she had laughed about it - since she’d been swimming and would not have appreciated being hauled dripping wet to companion her dragon.

She’d followed, quickly enough, with V’last, K’vin and others who answered the mayday call.

“She was some put out, too,” Leopol went on, relishing the telling, “because the dragons made a mess of good lion fur well, what they didn’t eat.”

“The dragons ate the lions?” P’tero gasped.

“Sure, why not?” Leopol shrugged, grinning. “The entire pride attacked the dragons. But they let the cubs go, you know, though some folks thought they ought to get rid of all they could find. V’last said Collith said they were quite tasty, if a bit tough to chew. Waste not, want not. But Zulaya really would have liked a lion fur for her bed.”

P’tero shuddered. He never wanted anything to do with lions ever again.

“You should a seen yourself brought in, P’tero,” Leopol added, gesturing to the temporary quarters which had been set up to tend the badly injured riders. “Charanth himself carried you back in his arms.”

“He did?” P’tero’s chagrin reached a new depth.

“And O’ney’s bronze Queth brought M’leng in. Your wing helped Ormonth and Sith back. Actually, they came in sort of piggy-back on Gorianth and Spelth. They were pretty shaken, you know.”

P’tero had heard echoes of that journey from Ormonth who, bless his heart, had never once criticized his rider: another source of infinite distress to P’tero. The blue had been intensely grateful to his weyrmates for their assistance, as he couldn’t leave his rider out of his sight. It had been all the other dragons could do - although Leopol did not relate this - to reassure Ormonth and Sith that neither of their riders would die.

The Weyr had set up a hasty camp to tend the injured for some, like P’tero and Collith, couldn’t risk being taken between until their wounds had scabbed over. K’vin had sent to Fort for Corey to stitch the worst injuries. Maranis, the Weyr medic, was more than competent for the dragons’ wounds, but he needed reassurance on his treatment of the two injured riders. Messengers had gone back to Telgar Weyr to reassure those whose dragons had reported the accident and to bring back more equipment for an extended stay.

In their innocence, the two young riders had chosen a site just above the cave home of a pride of lions. P’tero had never even heard of lions. Evidently he could thank Tubberman for their existence, for they’d broken out of Calusa and bred quite handily in the wild.

“They were,” Leopol told him with great relish, “some of the sport beasts that Tubberman had been experimenting with. They had got loose, after killing Tubberman.”

This was not much consolation to P’tero while he lay on his stomach to let the deep fang and claw-marks heal.

He worried endlessly that M’leng would no longer love him, with such a scarred and imperfect body. M’leng, however, seemed to dwell so on P’tero’s heroism in protecting him with his own body that the blue rider decided not to mention the fact that it had been entirely involuntary. M’leng had been unconscious from the moment of attack, and had a great lump and a cut on the back of his head as well as the chest wound.

Zulaya had arrived to see P’tero trying to remove the claws from M’leng’s back, so there was little the blue rider could say to contradict the Weyrwoman’s version.

Tisha, coming to give him fellis early one morning, found him in tears, positive that he had lost M’leng with such a marred body.

“Nonsense, my lad,” Tisha had said, soothing back his sweaty hair as she held the straw for his fellis juice to his lips. “He will only see what you endured for his sake, to save him.”

“And those scars will heal quite nicely, thanks to Corey’s neat stitching.” The reference to the skill of the Head Medic almost reduced him to tears again. He’d caused so much fuss, he said.

“Indeed you have, but you’ve livened things up considerably, young man, and taught everyone some valuable lessons.”

“I have?” P’tero would just as soon not have done.

“For one, dragons think they’re invulnerable… and they aren’t. A very good lesson to take into Fall with them, I assure you. Cool some of the hot-heads, so certain that it’s just a matter of breathing fire in the right direction.

“For another, the southern continent has developed its own hazards.

“Did the Weyr ever find out about the grubs?” P’tero asked, suddenly recalling the reason for the excursion.

Tisha burst out laughing, then stifled it though P’tero’s tent was a distance from any others. “There, lad, you’ve a good head as well as a brave heart. Yes, they completed the survey faster’n any other’s ever been done.” P’tero learned later that the grubs had infested yet a few more kilometres westward and southward towards the Great Barrier Range in an uneven wave of expansion. Their progress into the sandy scrub lands east of Landing had slowed to a few meters but the agricultural experts were not particularly concerned; they were more eager to have the rich grass and forest lands preserved.

“So the trip hasn’t been a waste?” P’tero asked, relaxing as he felt the fellis spreading out.

Tisha gave him more maternal pats, settling the furs and making sure nothing was binding across his bottom and legs.

“By no means, lovey. Now you go back to sleep…”

As if he could prevent that, P’tero thought as the fellis took over and blotted out conscious thought as well as the pain.

It was three weeks before P’tero’s wounds had healed sufficiently for the trip back. The makeshift infirmary had more patients since there were other hazards besides large, hungry and territorially-minded felines in the southern continent: the heat, unwary exposure to too much sun, and a variety of other minor injuries. Leopol got a thorn in his foot which had festered, so that he joined P’tero in the infirmary shelter until the poison drained.

Tisha and one of the weyrfolk came down with a fever that had Maranis sending back to Fort for a medic more qualified than he in such matters. The woman recovered in a few days but Tisha had a much harder time of it, sweating kilos off her big frame, to leave her so enervated Maranis was desperately worried about her. K’vin sent to Ista to beg a ship to transport her back north, since he could not subject her to trying to climb aboard a dragon.

Her illness depressed everyone.

“You don’t really know how important someone is,” Zulaya said, having come down to reassure herself on the state of the convalescents, “until they’re suddenly… not there!” Her remark quite sank P’tero’s spirits. And Tisha was not there to jolly him out of his depression. But M’leng was, and appeared in the shelter.

“How dare you be so self-centered?” the green rider said in a taut, outraged tone of voice.

“Huh?”

“Tisha’s illness is not your fault. Leopol wasn’t wearing shoes when he was told to, and so his infected foot also isn’t your fault. In fact, it isn’t even your fault that we picked that rock out of all the ones we could have picked. It was bad luck, but nothing more, and I don’t want to have Ormonth upsetting Sith any more. D’you hear me?” P’tero burst into tears. Just as he’d thought: M’leng didn’t love him any more.

Then M’leng’s gentle arms went around him, and he was pulled to M’leng’s lightly bandaged back and comforted with many caresses and kisses.

“Don’t be such a stupid idiot, you stupid idiot! How could I not love you?”

Later, P’tero wondered how he could ever have doubted M’leng.

When the convalescents did return to Telgar Weyr, they found Tisha once more in charge of the Lower Caverns. If her clothes were still loose on her frame, she was tanned from the sea voyage back from the mouth of the Rubicon and looked completely recovered.

Some of the green and blue riders in the wing had freshened up both P’tero’s and M’leng’s weyrs, with paint and new fabrics. The worn pillows had been replaced with plump ones.

“Because Tisha said you’d need to sit real soft for a while longer,” and Z’gal sniggered into his hand. “Lady Salda let us have feathers from the Turn’s End birds.” Then Z’gal’s lover, T’sen, brought an object from behind his back. P’tero stared at it, puzzled. It seemed to be a pad with very long thongs.

“Ah, what is it?” Z’gal went into a laughing fit which annoyed T’sen, who scowled and kept pushing it to P’tero.

To sit on, of course. It’ll fit between neck ridges. We measured.

Belatedly, but as effusively as he could, P’tero thanked T’sen for such a thoughtful gift. It wasn’t so much his bottom that needed padding, but the muscles in the buttocks and down his legs that needed strengthening and massage to get them back in full working order. Of course, M’leng had been assiduous in the massage sessions, but P’tero was now concerned that he’d be fit for fighting when Threadfall began.

M’leng had been wounded in a much better site; he wouldn’t miss a day’s fighting.

There was wine, biscuits and cheese for a small in-weyr party.

M’leng capped the return celebrations by presenting P’tero with a flat, wrapped parcel.

M’leng’s eyes were shining in anticipation as P’tero untied the string, wondering what on earth this could be.

“Iantine’s back, you know,” M’leng said, breathlessly watching every movement of P’tero’s hands.

The other riders were equally excited and P’tero felt a spurt of petulance that they all knew what this was and were dying to see his reaction.

Naturally, the picture was face down when he finished unwrapping.

P’tero was stunned silent when he turned it over and his eyes nearly bugged out of his head at the scene depicted.

“But… but… Iantine wasn’t even there!”

“He’s so good, isn’t he?” Z’gal said. “Did he get it all right? M’leng described it over and over.”

P’tero didn’t quite know what to say - he was so bewildered.

So much of it was what he would have given his right arm to have actually happened. The lion was clawing his backside, M’leng was sprawled under him, and there were more lions climbing up the rock, their vicious intent vivid in their posture, their open mouths showing fangs longer than a dragon’s.

P’tero was posed in an obvious act of defending his lover, his head turned, one arm upraised in a fist aimed at the attacking lion’s head. But that wasn’t the worst of the inaccuracies: both riders were fully clothed.

“P’tero?” M’leng’s voice was quite anxious.

The blue rider swallowed. “I don’t know what to say!”

Where am I? Ormonth wanted to know, evidently viewing it through his rider’s eyes as a dragon sometimes could.

“There!” and P’tero pointed to the dragons high up in the sky, wings straight up in a landing configuration, claws unsheathed, ready to grab the attacker, eyes a mad whirl of red and orange.

“Of course, I was unconscious,” M’leng was saying, “but that’s what Ormonth and Sith would have been doing. Wasn’t it?” And he jabbed P’tero warningly.

“Exactly,” P’tero said hurriedly. And it probably was, although he hadn’t seen it since he’d been looking in the other direction.

“Everything happened so fast it’s almost eerie how Iantine has got it all down in one scene!” The amazement and respect in his voice was not the least bit feigned.

“Now,” and M’leng pointed to the wall, “we’ve even got a hook for you to hang it on.” “Wouldn’t you rather have it?” P’tero suggested hopefully.

“I’ve a copy of my own. Iantine did two, one for each of us,” M’leng said, beaming proudly at his lover.

So P’tero had to hang the wretched reminder of the worst day of his life on his own wall, just where he couldn’t miss it every morning of his life when he woke up.

“You’ll never know how much this means to me,” he said and that, too, was quite truthful.

No-one thought it the least bit odd that he got very, very drunk on wine that night.

Lana’th comes, Charanth told his rider.

“So Meranath tells me,” Zulaya said before K’vin could speak. “He wants to know all about our trip south.”

“I thought he’d given up on that notion to practice on the first Falls in the South,” K’vin said. He tried to sound diffident.

Then Zulaya put a finger across her lips and pointed to the sleeping Meranath, a signal to K’vin to guard his thoughts to Charanth outside on the ledge. He nodded understanding.

“You don’t fool me, Kev,” and then she waggled her finger at him. “You and B’nurrin would give your eye-teeth to be in on the first real Fall - even if it does take place in the South where nothing could be hurt. Or, for that matter, saved.”

“The grubs haven’t spread across the entire southern continent, you know.”

“That has nothing to do with seeing Thread for the first time in two hundred years.”

He answered her droll smile with an abashed grin.

“We don’t need to have the dragons stoked up or anything,” he said.

“Yes, but do you really want to have S’nan reproaching you for the rest of your career? That is, if you have one as a Weyrleader with this sort of antic in mind.”

K’vin gave her a long look. “And don’t tell me you like the fact that Sarrai will be leading a queen’s wing in Falls before you will.”

Zulaya rocked back in her chair just enough for K’vin to realize he had made a palpable hit. She was honest enough to grin back.

“We don’t even know that’s what’s on B’nurrin’s mind,” she said.

That’s exactly what was, however, even after both Zulaya and K’vin enumerated the problems they’d had on that ill-favored excursion to the southern continent. However, almost the first thing B’nurrin did was a repetition of Zulaya’s signal to shield their thoughts from their dragons.

“In the first place, we wouldn’t be landing anywhere. And I don’t mean for whole wings to go, Kev,” B’nurrin said, “not like it makes sense to do with the first actual Falls we do get - wherever that actually is…”

“And you’re hoping S’nan doesn’t get first go,” Zulaya said with a malicious grin.

“Too right on that,” B’nurrin agreed in a sour tone. He really gets up my nose, you know. I don’t see any harm in having a look. I mean…” He paused, steeling himself a moment and staring straight into K’vin’s eyes, “I’ll be frank.

“I’m scared I’ll be needing clean pants half a dozen times the first Fall I have to lead.

“I’ve wondered about that myself,” K’vin admitted drolly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he was rather surprised to notice a fleeting expression of approval on Zulaya’s face. “Surely B’ner had never mentioned that even as a remote possibility”?

“So, I figure, if I get a good look at it before I have to act brave and unconcerned - - -“

“Anyone who isn’t concerned about Thread’s a damn fool,” Zulaya put in.

“Agreed.” B’nurrin nodded at her, grinning. “So, will you join me?”

“Because if two of us go, neither of us will be as much to blame?” K’vin asked, one eye on Zulaya’s face.

B’nurrin scratched his jaw. “Yes, I guess that’s the size of it.”

“We’re the first you’ve asked?”

B’nurrin gave a snort. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t suggest it again to S’nan after the way he’s clapped my ears back twice now. I figured you were more likely to than D’miel, though, you know, I think M’shall might come. If the weather’s wrong at Fort and High Reaches, Benden’s might be the first actual Fall we meet.”

“M’shall might just be amenable at that,” Zulaya said, “though he’s the last one of the whole lot of you to doubt his abilities.”

“That’s true enough,” said B’nurrin, “then his enthusiasm got the better of him. But look at it this way, even if old S’nan gets to fight this Pass’s first Fall over Fort, we’ll have been to one before him, so to speak.” The Igen Weyrleader grinned with such boyish delight in the scheme that K’vin had to chuckle.

“How long is there between Southern’s first and ours?” he asked.

He was astonished to see that Zulaya was already unrolling Telgar Weyr’s Thread chart onto the table.

“Roughly two weeks,” she said.

“So we could have gone and seen and not jeopardized the readiness of our own Weyrs,” B’nurrin said, adding one more argument in favor of his idea.

“The first possible Fall over Fort is number seven. Number four is over the Landing Site,” Zulaya went on, tapping her finger on the various Thread corridors. “Five’s no good, but six starts offshore of the mouth of Paradise River, not far from where we just were.”

“What about the first three?” B’nurrin asked, craning his neck to see. “Oh, not really as good for good coordinates, are they?”

Then he looked up in a direct challenge at K’vin. “Will you join me?”

“I’d like to,” K’vin said decisively, pointedly not looking in Zulaya’s direction.

“I think I would, too,” she said, surprising both men. When they regarded her in amazement, “Well, queens’ wings fly a lot lower into danger than the rest of the Weyr does. Makes it quicker for me to change my pants, but that doesn’t mean I want to have to.” Then, when they grinned with relief at her, “So, does Shanna want to come, too?”

Grinning even more broadly, B’nurrin said, “Only if you were going.”

“At least one of you at Igen Weyr has some sense,” said Zulaya. “Let’s just sit on the idea for a few days. Just to be sure.”

“Who will know, if we don’t mention it?” B’nurrin asked, swiveling around to pointedly regard a sleeping Meranath.

Paulin took Jamson with him to Bitra Hold. The older Lord Holder was still furious with his son for voting High Reaches Hold in the impeachment. But he had been unable to fault his son’s management during his two-month convalescence. This had indeed restored Jamson to vigorous health, if not tolerance.

The change in Bitra was obvious from the moment Magrith dropped to the courtyard and Vergerin hurried down the steps to greet his guests.

He had been alerted.

S’nan had insisted on being allowed to convey the two Lords Holder for he had been as stunned by the impeachment as Jamson.

“My word!” the Fort Weyrleader said, staring about him.

Magrith was staring too, and Paulin had to suppress a grin since the dragon was looking in one direction, his rider in the other.

The courtyard was neat and the recent snow swept from the paving which showed fresh cement grouting. The road, in either direction, was no longer bordered by straggling bushes and weed trees. The row of cot holds sported fresh roof slates, repaired chimneys and painted metal shutters, all obviously in good working order. Although some of the upper windows were already shuttered tight, the facade was no longer festooned with dead vine branches. Sunlight glinted off solar panels that had been cleaned and repaired.

Piled under a newly built shed were HNO3 tanks, racked for easy usage, with the hoses and nozzles hung properly on pegs. Kalvi had told Paulin that he’d been asked to deliver the Bitran consignment within a week of Vergerin taking Hold. And the following week he had sent his best teachers to instruct in their use and maintenance.

Vergerin wore a good tunic over his trousers, but they were made of stout material and he had obviously been working before his guests arrived. He greeted Paulin affably and responded courteously to the introduction to Jamson, whose response was frosty.

“You’ve done a lot since you took over, Vergerin,” Paulin said, giving the man the encouragement of his public support. “I wouldn’t have believed it possible, frankly.”

“Well,” and Vergerin grinned in the most charming way, “I found Chalkin’s hoard, so I’ve been able to hire in craftsmen.”

“Even the nearest holders aren’t accustomed to me yet and timid?”

“Scared, more likely,” said Paulin dryly.

“That, too, I’m sure, but I’ve done what I can to supply them with materials to make their own repairs. The Hold was in an appalling state, you know.”

Jamson grunted, but his eyes widened as he saw the quiet order and cleanliness of the first reception room. S’nan made approving noises deep in his throat and even ran a finger across the wide table with its attractive arrangement of winter berries and leaves. A drudge, in livery so new the creases hadn’t been lost, was hurrying across the hall with a heavy tray.

“My office is quite comfortable,” and Vergerin gestured for them to enter.

Paulin noticed that the heavy wooden door gleamed with oil and the brass door plates were polished to a high gloss.

The interior had been totally replaced, with work-tops, tidy shelving and bookcases. A scale map of Bitra Hold was nailed up on the interior wooden wall; beneath that was the northern continent and, oddly enough, the Steng Valley. Did Vergerin plan to reopen the mines there? A fire burned on the hearth, three upholstered chairs cozily arranged, while a low table evidently awaited the tray. Polished metal vases on the deep window-ledge held arrangements of bright orange berries and evergreen boughs: altogether a different room under Vergerin’s management.

“There’s klah, an excellent broth which I do recommend, and wine, mulled or room temperature,” Vergerin said, gesturing for his three guests to take the comfortable chairs.

“You’ve a new cook as well, Vergerin?” Paulin asked, and pointed to the steaming pitcher when Vergerin grinned.” I’ll sample the broth, then.” Jamson didn’t mind if he did, too, but S’nan wanted the klah.

“You remember the back staircase, Paulin?” Vergerin asked, taking the broth as well and pulling up a straight chair for himself.

“I do. Was that where the marks were hidden?”

“Yes, in one of the steps.” Vergerin chuckled. “Chalkin must have forgotten that I knew about that hidey-hole, too. It’s been a life-saver, both to return unnecessary tithings and to buy in supplies. One thing Chalkin did do correctly was keep records. I knew exactly how much he had extorted from his people.” Jamson cleared his throat testily.

“Well, he did, Lord Jamson,” Vergerin said without cavil. “They hadn’t even enough in stores to get by on this winter, let alone have reserves for Fall. I’m still unloading what we couldn’t possibly use from what Chalkin had amassed.” Vergerin gave a mirthless laugh.

“Chalkin would have weathered all fifty years of the Pass from what he had on hand… but none of his people would have lasted the first year. Let alone have the materials to safeguard what they could plant out. Bitra being established after the First Fall, there were no hydroponics sheds although the tanks are stored below.” Jamson gave another snort.

“And the gaming”?

“Have you curtailed that?”

“Both here and elsewhere,” Vergerin said, flushing a little. “I haven’t so much as touched dice or card since that game with Chalkin.”

“What about his games men?”

Vergerin’s smile was grim. “They had the choice of signing new contracts with me - for I will not honor the old ones or leaving. Not many left!”

S’nan barked out a cackle of a laugh. “Not many would, considering the hazards of being holdless during a Pass. You have done well, Vergerin.” He nodded in emphasis.

“You’ve had a second chance, Vergerin,” Jamson said, waggling his finger, “so see that you continue to profit by such good fortune.” He had finished the broth and now stood. “We will go on a quick survey of the holds, if you please.”

“Of course,” and Vergerin rose hastily, pushing back his chair. “By horse.”

“No, no.” Jamson dismissed that. “You’ve no need to accompany us. Better if you don’t.” “Now, Jamson,” Paulin began, for it was discourteous of the High Reaches Holder even to suggest Vergerin stay behind.

“Certainly, as you wish.” Vergerin motioned them to pause at the map and indicated directions. “We’ve managed to complete all the necessary repairs on the holds adjacent to or not far from the major link roads. Those high up have had to wait on supplies. I can’t overdo my welcome at Benden Weyr, though M’shall has been far more obliging than I thought he’d be.”

“It’s to his advantage to oblige,” S’nan said stiffly, at the merest hint of criticism of a Weyrleader.

Jamson had opened the door into the Hall and stopped so short, staring at the opposite wall, that Paulin nearly walked up his heels.

Jamson muttered something under his breath and, pointing at the wall, turned to Vergerin.

“Why under the sun are you hanging his portrait there?” he demanded, almost outraged.

Paulin and S’nan peered in the direction indicated.

And Paulin had to laugh.

“When did Iantine get a chance to redo it?” he asked.

Vergerin, who was also broadly grinning, answered “I got it yesterday,” and he walked across the Hall to stand beneath it. “I think the likeness is now excellent.”

There was a moment of silence as they all viewed the portrait, now altered to an honest representation of the former Bitran Lord close-set eyes, bad complexion, scanty hair and the mole on his chin.

S’nan sniffed. “Why would you want his face around at all, Vergerin?”

“One, to remind me to improve my management of Bitra, and two, because it’s traditional to display the likenesses of previous Lord Holders.” He gestured up the double-sided staircase where hung the portraits of previous incumbents.

Jamson harrumphed several times. “And Chalkin? How’s he doing?” Paulin shrugged and looked to S’nan, for only dragon riders could get to the exile’s island.

“He was supplied with all he needs. There is no need to exacerbate his expulsion by further contact.”

“And his children?” Jamson asked, eyes glinting coldly.

Vergerin grinned, ducking his head. “I feel they have improved in health, well-being and self-discipline.”

“They stood in great need of the latter,” Paulin added.

“They may surprise you, Lord Paulin,” Vergerin said with a sly smile.

“I could bear it.”

“As the branch is bent, so it will grow,” Jamson intoned piously.

“Come this way,” Vergerin said, putting a finger to his lips to indicate silence.

He led them down the corridor, towards what Paulin remembered as one of the gaming rooms. They could hear muted singing: Paulin instantly recognized the melody as one of the College’s latest issues.

As they got closer to the source, he heard the words of the ‘Duty Song.’ Jamson gave another one of his harrumphs and sniffed.

Carefully Vergerin opened the door on a mightily altered room.

The students - and there were far more of them than Paulin had expected - were seated with their backs to the door. The teacher - and Paulin was surprised to recognize Issony back at Bitra - gave an additional nod to his head to acknowledge their presence as he continued to beat the tempo of the song.

Children’s voices - even those who couldn’t carry the tune - are always appealing; perhaps it is the innocence of the tone and the guilelessness in their rendition of the song’s dynamics.

Even Jamson smiled, but then the verse they were singing was about the Lord Holder’s responsibilities.

“Which ones are Chalkin’s?” Paulin whispered to Vergerin.

He pointed, and only then could Paulin pick out the children in the front rows: the girls on the one side and the boys on the other.

They were much better clothed than the others but no less attentive to their teacher, and singing lustily: the older girl had the most piercing voice. Somewhat like her mother’s, Paulin thought.

Vergerin motioned for them to withdraw, grinning.

Issony’s been right that those youngsters needed competition.

“The holder kids need no incentives; they want to learn, and Chaldon is determined not to let mere holders get better grades than he. Oh, there’s still whinings and pleadings and tantrums, but Issony has my permission to deal with them.”

“And he does. Most effectively.”

“Nadona?” Paulin asked.

Vergerin raised his eyebrows. “She’s learning much the same lessons as her children, but she’s not as quick a study, as Issony would say. She has her own quarters,” and he inclined his head towards the upper levels. She stays within.”

“And leaves you to get on with the real work?” Paulin asked in a droll tone.

“Exactly.”

“Hmm, yes, well, that’s it here, I think,” Paulin said, and then made much of fastening his riding jacket to indicate his willingness to depart on the inspection tour. “Do you agree, Jamson?” Jamson harrumphed, but the fact that he did not have questions Paulin took as a good sign.

When they left the house, men and women were busy putting on the flame-thrower tanks.

“I’ve scheduled a drill. Have to make up for lost time, you know,” Vergerin said by way of explanation. Jamson and S’nan exchanged such fatuous glances that Paulin did his best not to laugh out loud.

Vergerin caught his eye and winked, then bade a polite farewell to his guests before he returned to the ground crew.

“Well, he obviously learned a thing or two,” Jamson said in a sanctimonious tone as they went down the steps to the waiting bronze dragon.

“Yes, it would seem he has,” S’nan said, and then frowned slightly. “Although I cannot like him turning loose Chalkin’s games men. They’ll cause trouble at Gathers, mark my words.”

“No more than they’ve always done,” Paulin said, giving Jamson a discreet helping hand up Magrith’s tall shoulder.

“Probably less without Chalkin exhorting them to squeeze more out of innocent and guileless holders.”

“No gambling should be allowed for any reason in a Weyr”, said S’nan, as portentous as ever.

Paulin mounted silently, hoping that these two would see sufficient in a quick swoop to reassure them about Vergerin’s worth and the wisdom of Chalkin’s impeachment. The brief visit had satisfied him especially the sight of Chalkin’s much improved portrait. He must send a message to Iantine at Telgar Weyr; Bridgely had said the artist had returned there as soon as he was finished at Benden Hold and enquired when he and his spouse could hope to have a sitting.

During the rest of the inspection circuit, Paulin addressed the more important problem of subtly reinstating Gallian in his father’s favor. Paulin didn’t know if it was working, and probably wouldn’t until Jamson died and the succession was in question. There were so many instances of visible repairs and clearings that Jamson could certainly see how poor a Holder Chalkin had been. For once, S’nan’s critical comments were a positive encomium of Vergerin’s effort at taking Hold.

Paulin was well pleased he had taken the trouble to accompany Jamson. He hoped Lady Thea would be able to tell him that Gallian was off the hot seat.

“You are not saving the entire world from Threadfall by yourself, P’tero,” said K’vin, glaring up at the young blue rider.

He was nearly beside himself with rage at P’tero’s utter disregard of common sense. “You are not going to impress M’leng. If this is how you see your role in Threadfall, I think you’ll be a long time on messenger duty.”

“But, but…”

“Furthermore,” and K’vin pointed a finger fiercely under the boy’s nose, “Maranis tells me that your wounds are not well enough healed for you to be back on duty.”

“But… but…” and P’tero, eyes wide with fright, recoiled from his Weyrleader’s fury, clutching the neck ridge before he over-balanced. The pad which T’sen had given him now slipped, the ties torn loose some time during the exercises.

Blood spotted it.

“Get down here,” K’vin roared, pointing to where he wanted P’tero: on the ground. “Right now.”

P’tero obeyed as promptly as he could, but he was stiff from sitting so long during the day’s maneuvers and from the barely healed flesh of his buttocks.

K’vin caught him by the shoulder and whirled him around.

“Not only new blood, but old stains,” he said, his voice trenchant with scorn and fury. “You’re off duty.”

“But… but… Thread’s nearly here!” P’tero cried in anguish, almost in tears with frustration and the fear of being unable to show M’leng just how brave he really was. Not mock-brave, like the lion attack, but brave in the air.

“And Thread’ll be here for fifty years, young man. That’s plenty long enough for it to fear you and Ormonth in the air!

“Report to Maranis immediately. You’re grounded!”

“But I have to be in the first Fall wings,” P’tero cried, anguished.

“That wasn’t the way to get there. Go to Maranis!” K’vin didn’t wait to see if P’tero obeyed. He stormed across the Bowl, the temptation to shake sense into the blue rider so intense that he had to put distance between them.

Ormonth tried to keep him from flying today, Charanth informed his rider.

K’vin halted, now glaring up at his bronze dragon who was settling himself on his weyr ledge to get what sun remained.

Then you’re as bad as the pair of them! K’vin had the satisfaction of seeing Charanth quail at his fury.

From now on, you are to report to me - instantly - when any rider, or his dragon, is not one hundred percent fit for duty. Do you understand me?

Charanth’s eyes whirled, the yellow of anxiety coloring the blue.

His tone was remorseful. I will not fail you again.

If they had been in real danger, I would have warned them off, Meranath said, entering the conversation.

I didn’t ask you! K’vin was so irate he didn’t really care if he offended Meranath, or her rider. But he was not going to lose riders from foolish and vainglorious actions. There were fifty years of Thread fighting ahead of them, and he was not going to lose partners or risk their injuries due to some cockamamie notion of what comprises courageous actions.

If you think that I would jeopardize a single rider…

K’vin took the stairs up to the queen’s weyr three at a time, trying to work out his rage before he had to confront Zulaya and explain why he thought he could speak to her queen in such a peremptory fashion.

I should be informed of ANY unfit rider or dragon, at any time, anywhere. Meranath and you should know that or, by the first egg, why are you senior queen?

“Because I am her rider!” Zulaya came storming out on to the weyr ledge, her eyes sparkling with indignation.

“How dare you address my queen?”

“How dare she withhold information from ME?” Zulaya stared at him, surprised, for K’vin had never reprimanded either her or Meranath, though she had to admit privately that he could have legitimately done so on several occasions she would be embarrassed to admit.

“Did you know about P’tero’s condition?” he demanded, and she backed into the weyr, away from him. He was rather magnificently furious, eyes blazing, face stern, the epitome of indignation.

“Tisha remarked that Maranis wasn’t pleased with him assuming duty. The scar tissue is thin.”

“And you said nothing to me?”

“He’s only a blue rider.”

“EVERY ONE OF MY RIDERS IS IMPORTANT TO ME!” K’vin roared, clenching his fists at his sides because they wanted to grab something to release the pent-up fury in him.

“Threadfall is two days away. I need to have a Weyr in full readiness. I need to be sure of everyone I ask to face Thread in two days’ time. I don’t need secrets or evasions or…”

“K’vin,” Zulaya began, reaching out a hand to him, “Kev, it’s all right. The Weyr is ready perhaps tuned a little too tight, but that’s all to the good.”

“ALL TO THE GOOD?” and K’vin batted her hand away, “when we have unfit riders taking positions they couldn’t possibly manage in their condition?” He began pacing now and Zulaya watched him, smiling with relief and pride. He was going to be a splendid Weyrleader, much better than B’ner would have been.

He halted just short of where she stood - his eyes, brilliant with his anger and frustration, fixed on her face.

“What on earth can you find to grin about right now?” he demanded - suspiciously, for there was a quality in her smile that he’d never seen before.

“That you’re in full control,” she said, leaving her smile in place.

“Oh, I am, am I?” Then, as she had always hoped he would, he took her in his arms and began kissing her with the full authority of his masculinity and his position as her Weyrleader, without a trace of hesitation or deference. Just what she had always hoped she’d provoke him to do.

K’vin was still very much in complete control even very early the next morning, before dawn in fact, when Meranath told them that B’nurrin and Shanna were waiting for them.

“Waiting for what?” K’vin asked, pulling himself reluctantly away from Zulaya to reach for his pants.

It is time to go, Charanth added.

“Go where?” asked K’vin in a querulous tone of voice.

“Go where?” Zulaya echoed sleepily.

South, they say, Meranath and Charanth echoed.

Suddenly K’vin remembered. Today was the day they would go to see Thread. He said that very, very quietly in the back of his mind where Charanth might not hear it. Both dragons had been asleep when B’nurrin had made his visit.

Which was just as well, or the whole Weyr might have been privy to the notion of a pre-viewing of Thread.

“B’nurrin wants us to join him,” K’vin said, giving Zulaya a cautionary look.

She frowned for a moment, then her face cleared abruptly as she said, “Oh.” With a conspiratorial grin, she was out of the bed, trailing the sheet on her way to her riding gear.

When they passed each other once in the course of dressing, she pulled his head down to her mouth. “I could bring my flame-thrower.”

“Might as well paint your destination on your forehead,” he murmured back. “We’re only going to watch.”

“Yes, watch.” Then she asked more loudly, “Where do we meet B’nurrin, Meranath?”

“We know that, too, remember?” K’vin said, grabbing Zulaya and giving her arm a little shake. Then he mouthed “Landing.”

“Yes, how could I forget?”

If the dragon and rider on watch on the Rim wondered why the two Weyrleaders were slipping away long before dawn, neither asked and the rider gave a cheery swing of his arm as they passed over him.

Ianath says to count to three and then go, Charanth told his rider, still mystified.

Landing is where we’re going, K’vin replied, glancing across the space between his dragon and Meranath. Zulaya showed him a thumb’s-up signal to signify she had had the same message. Visualizing the arid sweep of desolate volcanic ash from Mount Garben down to Monaco Bay, K’vin nodded his head three times.

GO!

Abruptly Charanth rumbled deep in his belly while his mind said in surprised shock OH! K’vin felt him shift. Consequently he was perhaps not as surprised as he might have been to realize that the airspace around them, and Meranath and Zulaya, was well occupied. With that extra sense dragons had, the two had averted a collision. In fact, as K’vin swiveled about to check, the only two Weyrleaders he didn’t see were S’nan and Sarrai, although they might well have been among those who winked out of sight between so as not to be recognized.

K’vin caught flashes of blue, brown and even one or two green hides in the southern sun before they disappeared. Nor was this meeting composed now only of Weyrleaders and dragons; some thirty or so bronzes and browns were present.

The sight was too much for K’vin’s sense of the ridiculous and it was a good thing that he was clipped into his safety harness. He was seized with such a laughing fit that he reeled back and forth against Charanth’s neck ridges.

Had every rider on Pern been possessed of the compulsion to come here this morning? Of course, the particular site of Landing was well known to all riders. But for so many to decide independently to come here… Probably every one certain he or she’d be the only ones daring enough!

Nor was K’vin the only one laughing hard. Right now he was more in danger of wetting his breeches from mirth - not fright at seeing Thread for the first time. Which reminded him why he was here. Again that realization became universal.

Laughter faded as every dragon and rider irresistibly turned north-eastward.

It was there, too, the much-described silvery-grey haze on the upper levels of the blue sky. Not a dragon wing moved, not a rider recoiled as the silver stuff began to drop on to the sea. THREAD! And so aptly called. THREAD!

The word seemed to rumble from dragon to dragon and K’vin had to grab hold of the neck ridge as Charanth started to lurch towards what he had known all his life as his adversary.

I have no firestone! How can I flame it? What is wrong?

Why have you brought me here where there is Thread and I have no fire to char it!

It’s all right, Charanth. We’re here to watch. To see.

But it is Thread! I must chew to flame. Why may I not flame when there is THREAD!

Glancing wildly around him, K’vin realized that he was by no means the only rider having the same difficulty with a frustratedly zealous dragon, rapidly trying to close the gap to Threadfall.

I’ve seen enough, Charanth. Take us back to Telgar.

But THREAD? And the bronze dragon’s tone was piteous, confused and horrified.

We leave. Now!

Leave? But we have not met Thread.

Not here or now or in this place, Charanth.

It took K’vin every bit of will-power and moral strength, and Charanth’s faith in him, to overcome his bronze’s impassioned protest.

Then, all of a sudden, Charanth stopped flying towards Thread.

Oh, all right! The tone was that of a petulant child forced by a senior authority to follow orders totally against the grain.

What?

The queens say we must go to the Red Butte.

Then let us go there. K’vin did not question the order, being far too glad that one was given which the dragon would obey.

The Butte was a training landmark in lower Keroon, a laccolithic dome so difficult to mistake that it figured in all weyrling training programs. And there the would-be observers managed to get their dragons to land. Even the queens eyes were revolving at a stiff red-orange pace, but some of the bronzes were so distraught with anger that their eyes pulsed wickedly, revolving at incredible speed.

K’vin was almost relieved to swing down from Charanth’s neck. But he, and the other Weyrleaders, all kept one hand on their dragons, leg, shoulder or muzzle: some contact was maintained. In a wide outer circle were the brown and bronze riders who had also been rescued”: they remained mounted, soothing their dragons, allowing their leaders the center for discussion.

It was M’shall who spoke first. “Well, that was one good idea gone awry,” he said in a droll tone. “Great minds, all of us!”

“Except for forgetting one simple rule,” Irene added, pulling off her flying cap. Her face was still pale from the fright she must have had.

K’vin glanced at Zulaya who was wiping sweat from her face, so he knew none of the queen riders had had an easy time to get their queens to insist on the disengagement.

“Dragons know what they’re supposed to do when Thread falls,” M’shall said, nodding. And then he started to laugh.

K’vin grinned and, when he heard G’don’s bass chuckle, saw no reason to hold his laughter in any longer. B’nurrin was howling so that he had to clutch at K’vin to keep his balance. Even D’miel looked properly abashed, and Laura’s giggle was infectious enough to increase the volume. Beyond the inner circle, the rest of the riders caught the joke on themselves and joined in the laugh. It was a good release from the fright that they had all just had.

“Did anyone happen to notice a Fort rider disappearing in guilty retreat?” M’shall asked when the laughter died down.

He’d been checking the identity of those on the rim of this informal assembly.

“They’d be the last to admit coming,” said Irene.

“I doubt that, Renee,” G’don said. “S’nan runs a strict Weyr, it’s true, but I’ll wager there’re a few renegades among his wing leaders.”

“I know there are,” Mari agreed, blotting her eyes which were still merry from laughter. “It’s just such a hoot that we all…” and she ringed them with a swirl of her hand, “thought to come and have a peek.”

“It’s not going to inhibit any of the dragons, is it?” Laura asked, turning pale at the sudden thought. “Turning them off like that?”

D’miel wasn’t the only Weyrleader to dismiss that notion derisively. “Hardly! It’s increased rider-credibility a hundredfold. They now know without doubt that what we’ve been telling them since they were Hatched is true!”

“Oh, yes, it would, wouldn’t it?” she said, relieved.

“I myself would like to thank the queen riders for exerting their powerful influence on our bronzes,” G’don said with a formal hand over his heart as he bowed to the five queen riders.

“The advantage of having three very senior queens,” said Zulaya, and two very strong-minded young women.

Laura blushed while Shanna stood even straighter.

“All right then,” M’shall began, having taken note that most of the male dragons’ eyes were resuming normal color and speed. He took a step towards the center of the sandy circle and cupped his hands, turning as he spoke. “All right, then, every one of you. This is a meeting that never happened and isn’t to be referred to in any Weyr for any reason. Do you understand me?” The response was loud and clear.

He nodded and stepped back towards Craigath. “We’ll meet…” he said now to the other leaders, “where Thread first… officially falls North.”

“We’ve sweep riders out all the time,” G’don reminded them.

“And we’re all very sure that S’nan has, too,” B’nurrin put in, grinning.

“So we’ll know when and where to meet again.”

“Wait a moment more, G’don,” K’vin said. “Why don’t we rotate the wings that meet that first Fall, wherever it is?”

A little cheer from the outer circle gave instant approval to that suggestion. “That’ll give even more riders a chance for at least a little experience before the individual Weyrs have to meet Thread on their own.

G’don paused at Chakath’s side, looking around to check the reaction to that idea. “In hourly intervals?” he asked.

“Make it two hours to allow wings to get properly into the routine,” M’shall amended.

“It’s not that we’re green riders or anything,” B’nurrin put in as protest.

“Two hours makes more sense than swapping around every hour.” D’miel said thoughtfully.

“I’d agree on two,” said G’don. “We’ll bring the matter up to S’nan; he deserves that much from us. I’ll initiate the idea,” and he grinned again, since S’nan would listen to him as the oldest Weyrleader where he would summarily dismiss a younger man. “I’ll let you know when we’ll meet to make the changes we’ve already agreed to.” Red dust swirled up in a cloud around the Butte as all the dragons leaped almost simultaneously from the ground.