Even as F’lar had Mnementh relay these orders, he realized his mind had dismissed the matter. All his attention was really on that high-flying pair.
You had better teach her to fly between, Mnementh remarked, one great eye shining directly over F’lar’s shoulder. She’s quick enough to figure it out for herself, and then where are we?
F’lar let the sharp retort die on his lips as he watched, breathless. Ramoth suddenly folded her wings, a golden streak diving through the sky. Effortlessly she pulled out at the critical point and soared upward again.
Mnementh deliberately called to mind their first wildly acrobatic flight. A tender smile crossed F’lar’s face, and suddenly he knew how much Lessa must have longed to fly, how bitter it must have been for her to watch the dragonets practice when she was forbidden to try.
Well, he was no R’gul, torn by indecision and doubt.
And she is no Jora, Mnementh reminded him pungently. I’m calling them in, the dragon added. Ramoth has turned a dull orange.
F’lar watched as the flyers obediently began a downward glide, the queen’s wings arching and curving as she slowed her tremendous forward speed. Unfed or not, she could fly!
He mounted Mnementh, waving them on, down toward the feeding grounds. He caught a fleeting glimpse of Lessa, her face vivid with elation and rebellion.
Ramoth landed, and Lessa dropped to the ground, gesturing the dragon on to eat.
The girl turned then, watching Mnementh glide in and hover to let F’lar dismount. She straightened her shoulders, her chin lifted belligerently as her slender body gathered itself to face his censure. Her behavior was like that of any weyrling, anticipating punishment and determined to endure it, soundless. She was not the least bit repentant!
Admiration for this indomitable personality replaced the last trace of F’lar’s anger. He smiled as he closed the distance between them.
Startled by his completely unexpected behavior, she took a half-step backward.
“Queens can, too, fly,” she blurted out, daring him.
His grin broadening to suffuse his face, he put his hands on her shoulders and gave her an affectionate shake.
“Of course they can fly,” he assured her, his voice full of pride and respect. “That’s why they have wings!”
PART III
Dust Fall
The Finger points
At an Eye blood-red.
Alert the Weyrs
To sear the Thread.
“YOU STILL DOUBT, R’gul?” F’lar asked, appearing slightly amused by the older bronze rider’s perversity.
R’gul, his handsome features stubbornly set, made no reply to the Weyrleader’s taunt. He ground his teeth together as if he could grind away F’lar’s authority over him.
“There have been no Threads in Pern’s skies for over four hundred Turns. There are no more!”
“There is always that possibility,” F’lar conceded amiably. There was not, however, the slightest trace of tolerance in his amber eyes. Nor the slightest hint of compromise in his manner.
He was more like F’lon, his sire, R’gul decided, than a son had any right to be. Always so sure of himself, always slightly contemptuous of what others did and thought. Arrogant, that’s what F’lar was. Impertinent, too, and underhanded in the matter of that young Weyrwoman. Why, R’gul had trained her up to be one of the finest Weyrwomen in many Turns. Before he’d finished her instruction, she’d known all the Teaching Ballads and Sagas letter-perfect. And then the silly child had turned to F’lar. Didn’t have sense enough to appreciate the merits of an older, more experienced man. Undoubtedly she felt a first obligation to F’lar for discovering her on Search.
“You do, however,” F’lar was saying, “admit that when the sun hits the Finger Rock at the moment of dawn, winter solstice has been reached?”
“Any fool knows that’s what the Finger Rock is for,” R’gul grunted.
“Then why don’t you, you old fool, admit that the Eye Rock was placed on Star Stone to bracket the Red Star when it’s about to make a Pass?” burst out K’net.
R’gul flushed, half-starting out of his chair, ready to take the young sprout to task for such insolence.
“K’net!” F’lar’s voice cracked authoritatively. “Do you really like flying the Igen patrol so much you want another few weeks at it?”
K’net hurriedly seated himself, flushing at the reprimand and the threat.
“There is, you know, R’gul, incontrovertible evidence to support my conclusions,” F’lar went on with deceptive mildness. ‘The Finger points/At an Eye blood-red . . .’ ”
“Don’t quote me verses I taught you as a weyrling,” R’gul exclaimed heatedly.
“Then have faith in what you taught,” F’lar snapped back, his amber eyes flashing dangerously.
R’gul, stunned by the unexpected forcefulness, sank back into his chair.
“You cannot deny, R’gul,” F’lar continued quietly, “that no less than half an hour ago the sun balanced on the Finger’s tip at dawn and the Red Star was squarely framed by the Eye Rock.”
The other dragonriders, bronze as well as brown, murmured and nodded their agreement to that phenomenon. There was also an undercurrent of resentment for R’gul’s continual contest of F’lar’s policies as the new Weyrleader. Even old S’lel, once R’gul’s avowed supporter, was following the majority.
“There have been no Threads in four hundred Turns. There are no Threads,” R’gul muttered.
“Then, my fellow dragonman,” F’lar said cheerfully, “all you have taught is falsehood. The dragons are, as the Lords of the Holds wish to believe, parasites on the economy of Pern, anachronisms. And so are we.
“Therefore, far be it from me to hold you here against the dictates of your conscience. You have my permission to leave the Weyr and take up residence where you will.”
Someone laughed.
R’gul was too stunned by F’lar’s ultimatum to take offense at the ridicule. Leave the Weyr? Was the man mad? Where would he go? The Weyr had been his life. He had been bred up to it for generations. All his male ancestors had been dragonriders. Not all bronze, true, but a decent percentage. His own dam’s sire had been a Weyrleader just as he, R’gul, had been until F’lar’s Mnementh had flown the new queen.
But dragonmen never left the Weyr. Well, they did if they were negligent enough to lose their dragons, like that Lytol fellow at Ruath Hold. And how could he leave the Weyr with a dragon?
What did F’lar want of him? Was it not enough that he was Weyrleader now in R’gul’s stead? Wasn’t F’lar’s pride sufficiently swollen by having bluffed the Lords of Pern into disbanding their army when they were all set to coerce the Weyr and dragonmen? Must F’lar dominate every dragonman, body and will, too? He stared a long moment, incredulous.
“I do not believe we are parasites,” F’lar said, breaking the silence with a soft, persuasive voice. “Nor anachronistic. There have been long Intervals before. The Red Star does not always pass close enough to drop Threads on Pern. Which is why our ingenious ancestors thought to position the Eye Rock and the Finger Rock as they did . . . to confirm when a Pass will be made. And another thing”—his face turned grave—“there have been other times when dragonkind has all but died out . . . and Pern with it because of skeptics like you.” F’lar smiled and relaxed indolently in his chair. “I prefer not to be recorded as a skeptic. How shall we record you, R’gul?”
The Council Room was tense. R’gul was aware of someone breathing harshly and realized it was himself. He looked at the adamant face of the young Weyrleader and knew that the threat was not empty. He would either concede to F’lar’s authority completely, though concession rankled deeply, or leave the Weyr.
And where could he go, unless to one of the other Weyrs, deserted for hundreds of Turns? And—R’gul’s thoughts were savage—wasn’t that indication enough of the cessation of Threads? Five empty Weyrs? No, by the Egg of Faranth, he would practice some of F’lar’s
own brand of deceit and bide his time. When all Pern turned on the arrogant fool, he, R’gul, would be there to salvage something from the ruins.
“A dragonman stays in his Weyr,” R’gul said with what dignity he could muster.
“And accepts the policies of the current Weyrleader?” The tone of F’lar’s voice made it less of a question and more of an order.
So as not to perjure himself, R’gul gave a curt nod of his head. F’lar continued to stare at him and R’gul wondered if the man could read his thoughts as his dragon might. He managed to return the gaze calmly. His turn would come. He’d wait.
Apparently accepting the capitulation, F’lar stood up and crisply delegated patrol assignments for the day.
“T’bor, you’re weather-watch. Keep an eye on those tithing trains as you do. Have you the morning’s report?”
“Weather is fair at dawning . . . all across Telgar and Keroon . . . if all too cold,” T’bor said with a wry grin. “Tithing trains have good hard roads, though, so they ought to be here soon.” His eyes twinkled with anticipation of the feasting that would follow the supplies’ arrival—a mood shared by all, to judge by the expressions around the table.
F’lar nodded. “S’lan and D’nol, you are to continue an adroit Search for likely boys. They should be striplings, if possible, but do not pass over anyone suspected of talent. It’s all well and good to present, for Impression, boys reared up in the Weyr traditions.” F’lar gave a one-sided smile. “But there are not enough in the Lower Caverns. We, too, have been behind in begetting. Anyway, dragons reach full growth faster than their riders. We must have more young men to Impress when Ramoth hatches. Take the southern holds, Ista, Nerat, Fort, and South Boll where maturity comes earlier. You can use the guise of inspecting Holds for greenery to talk to the boys. And take along firestone and run a few flaming passes on those heights that haven’t been scoured in—oh—dragon’s years. A flaming beast impresses the young and arouses envy.”
F’lar deliberately looked at R’gul to see the ex-Weyrleader’s reaction to the order. R’gul had been dead set against going outside the Weyr for more candidates. In the first place, R’gul had argued that there were eighteen youngsters in the Lower Caverns, some quite young, to be sure, but R’gul would not admit that Ramoth would lay more than the dozen Nemorth had always dropped. In the second place, R’gul persisted in wanting to avoid any action that might antagonize the Lords.
R’gul made no overt protest, and F’lar went on.
“K’net, back to the mines. I want the dispositions of each firestone-dump checked and quantities available, R’gul, continue drilling recognition points with the weyrlings. They must be positive about their references. If they’re used as messengers and suppliers, they may be sent out quickly and with no time to ask questions.
“F’nor, T’sum”—F’lar turned to his own brown riders—“you’re clean-up squad today.” He allowed himself a grin at their dismay. “Try Ista Weyr. Clear the Hatching Cavern and enough Weyrs for a double wing. And, F’nor, don’t leave a single Record behind. They’re worth preserving.
“That will be all, dragonmen. Good flying.” And with that, F’lar rose and strode from the Council Room up to the queen’s weyr.
Ramoth still slept, her hide gleaming with health, its color deepening to a shade of gold closer to bronze, indicating her pregnancy. As he passed her, the tip of her long tail twitched slightly.
All the dragons were restless these days, F’lar reflected. Yet when he asked Mnementh, the bronze dragon could give no reason. He woke, he went back to sleep. That was all. F’lar couldn’t ask a leading question for that would defeat his purpose. He had to remain discontented with the vague fact that the restlessness was some kind of instinctive reaction.
Lessa was not in the sleeping room, nor was she still bathing. F’lar snorted. That girl was going to scrub her hide off with this constant bathing. She’d had to live grimy to protect herself in Ruath Hold, but bathing twice a day? He was beginning to wonder if this might be a subtle Lessa-variety insult to him personally. F’lar sighed. That girl. Would she never turn to him of her own accord? Would he ever touch that elusive inner core of Lessa? She had more warmth for his half brother, F’nor, and for K’net, the youngest of the bronze riders than she had for F’lar who shared her bed.
He pulled the curtain back into place, irritated. Where had she gone to today when, for the first time in weeks, he had been able to get all the wings out of the Weyr just so he could teach her to fly between?
Ramoth would soon be too egg-heavy for such activity. He had promised the Weyrwoman, and he meant to keep that promise. She had taken to wearing the wherhide riding gear as a flagrant reminder of his unfulfilled pledge. From certain remarks she had dropped, he knew she would not wait much longer for his aid. That she should try it on her own didn’t suit him at all.
He crossed the queen’s weyr again and peered down the passage that led to the Records Room. She was often to be found there, poring over the musty skins. And that was one more matter that needed urgent consideration. Those Records were deteriorating past legibility. Curiously enough, earlier ones were still in good condition and readable. Another technique forgotten.
That girl! He brushed his thick forelock of hair back from his brow in a gesture habitual to him when he was annoyed or worried. The passage was dark, which meant she could not be below in the Records Room.
“Mnementh,” he called silently to his bronze dragon, sunning on the ledge outside the queen’s weyr. “What is that girl doing?”
Lessa, the dragon replied, stressing the Weyrwoman’s name with pointed courtesy, is talking to Manora. She’s dressed for riding, he added after a slight pause.
F’lar thanked the bronze sarcastically and strode down the passage to the entrance. As he turned the last bend, he all but ran Lessa down.
You hadn’t asked me where she was, Mnementh plaintively answered F’lar’s blistering reprimand.
Lessa rocked back on her heels from the force of their encounter. She glared up at him, her lips thin with displeasure, her eyes flashing.
“Why didn’t I have the opportunity of seeing the Red Star through the Eye Rock?” she demanded in a hard, angry voice.
F’lar pulled at his hair. Lessa at her most difficult would complete the list of this morning’s trials.
“Too many to accommodate as it was on the Peak,” he muttered, determined not to let her irritate him today. “And you already believe.”
“I’d’ve liked to see it,” she snapped and pushed past him toward the weyr. “If only in my capacity as Weyrwoman and Recorder.”
He caught her arm and felt her body tense. He set his teeth, wishing, as he had a hundred times since Ramoth rose in her first mating flight, that Lessa had not been virgin, too. He had not thought to control his dragon-incited emotions, and Lessa’s first sexual experience had been violent. It had surprised him to be first, considering that her adolescent years had been spent drudging for lascivious warders and soldier-types. Evidently no one had bothered to penetrate the curtain of rags and the coat of filth she had carefully maintained as a disguise. He had been a considerate and gentle bedmate ever since, but, unless Ramoth and Mnementh were involved, he might as well call it rape.
Yet he knew someday, somehow, he would coax her into responding wholeheartedly to his lovemaking. He had a certain pride in his skill, and he was in a position to persevere.
Now he took a deep breath and released her arm slowly.
“How fortunate you’re wearing riding gear. As soon as the wings have cleared out and Ramoth wakes, I shall teach you to fly between.”
The gleam of excitement in her eyes was evident even in the dimly lit passageway. He heard her inhale sharply.
“Can’t put it off too much longer or Ramoth’ll be in no shape to fly at all,” he continued amiably.
“You mean it?” Her voice was low and breathless, its usual acid edge missing. “You will teach us today?” He wished h
e could see her face clearly.
Once or twice he had caught an unguarded expression on her face, loving and tender. He would give much to have that look turned on him. However, he admitted wryly to himself, he ought to be glad that melting regard was directed only at Ramoth and not at another human.
“Yes, my dear Weyrwoman, I mean it. I will teach you to fly between today. If only,” and he bowed to her with a flourish, “to keep you from trying it yourself.”
Her low chuckle informed him his taunt was well-aimed.
“Right now, however,” he said, indicating for her to lead the way back to the weyr, “I could do with some food. We were up before the kitchen.”
They had entered the well-lighted weyr, so he did not miss the trenchant look she shot him over her shoulder. She would not so easily forgive being left out of the group at the Star Stone this morning, certainly not with the bribe of flying between.
How different this inner room was now that Lessa was Weyrwoman, F’lar mused as Lessa called down the service shaft for food. During Jora’s incompetent tenure as Weyrwoman, the sleeping quarters had been crowded with junk, unwashed apparel, uncleared dishes. The state of the Weyr and the reduced number of dragons were as much Jora’s fault as R’gul’s, for she had indirectly encouraged sloth, negligence, and gluttony.
If he, F’lar, had been just a few years older when F’lon, his father, had died . . . Jora had been disgusting, but when dragons rose in mating flight, the condition of your partner counted for nothing.
Lessa took a tray of bread and cheese, and mugs of the stimulating klah from the platform. She served him deftly.
“You’d not eaten, either?” he asked.
She shook her head vigorously, the braid into which she had plaited her thick, fine dark hair bobbing across her shoulders. The hairdressing was too severe for her narrow face, but it did not, if that was her intention, disguise her femininity or the curious beauty of her delicate features. Again F’lar wondered that such a slight body contained so much shrewd intelligence and resourceful . . . cunning—yes, that was the word, cunning. F’lar did not make the mistake, as others had, of underestimating her abilities.