“Did your family come?”
“No, Weyrwoman Lessa, my parents are dead. The Hall raised me.”
In an uncharacteristic gesture, Lessa laid her hand on Breda’s arm. “And you are to call me Lessa, my dear. We are both queen riders.”
Breda’s eyes widened.
“Who knows, my dear?” F’lar said, half joking. “You may be a Weyrwoman, too, one day soon.”
Astonished, the girl stopped in her tracks. Amaranth pushed at her, urgently creeling her hunger.
Lessa tightened her hand on Breda’s arm and led her briskly to meet the weyrfolk bearing huge bowls heaped with herdbeast flesh. “It is a possibility, you know. But first, we’ll show you how to feed Amaranth. Don’t let her bleating bother you. They always think they’re starving after they’ve hatched.”
Breda needed little instruction in feeding Amaranth, settling to the task with such ease that Lessa thought the girl had probably had to feed youngsters in the Hall that had raised her. Life in the Weyr was going to be quite different: Breda had just acquired a huge family.
Then Lessa turned to discharge the less enjoyable task of an Impression day: comforting the unsuccessful candidates. F’lar had already begun that process among the young men and boys. When Lessa looked about her for Nataly and Lord Groghe, she found them in a family knot at one of the tables. Manora was there before her, serving wine, klah, and fruit juices. Nataly was struggling to hide her disappointment and managing nobly, Lessa decided. Better than Silga and Tumara, who were in tears, with their families not really knowing what to say to console them. Cona was nowhere to be seen. Lessa wondered who had spirited her away, but decided that the girl’s preferred kind of consolation might mend matters more effectively than any other available method.
She paused long enough to speak to Nataly and Lord Groghe and then moved on to help assuage the disappointment of Silga and Tumara.
The harpers had started to play, and although there were some long faces among the visitors, the music would soon brighten them. Weyrfolk were already busy pouring from wine sacks and serving enormous platters of the pit-roasted herdbeasts and wherries. Food was so often a sovereign remedy, Lessa reflected.
Finally, once the sated hatchlings were asleep on their pallets in the barracks, the Weyrlingmaster permitted the new dragonriders to join their families. With the honored guests present, the festivities went into full swing.
“A most positive young queen, hmmm?” Robinton said, sliding into an empty space beside Lessa. He raised his cup in a toast to F’lar, opposite her. “Made rather an entrance, didn’t she?”
Lessa smiled and offered to fill Robinton’s glass from the skin of Benden white that hung on her chair.
“Is Amaranth why F’lessan’s been so interested in the vacant stakeholds in the South?” Robinton delivered his query in the guileless fashion that told Lessa and F’lar that he guessed a new Weyr was required.
F’lar gave a knowing snort. “He offered.”
“He’s more in Landing than he is here,” Lessa added wryly. With three sons by as many weyrgirls, F’lessan had need to be absent from their entreaties. He had provided well for each of his children, but he was no more ready to settle down with one than any young, handsome, and popular bronze rider. Manora had even suggested that the absence of that young charmer for a while might result in one or more of the girls settling for an older rider in a more stable, lasting attachment.
Robinton cocked an eyebrow, suggesting to Lessa that he already knew about the demands on F’lessan. “He’s an excellent choice of explorer. Is a Weyr situation the only thing he’s to investigate?”
F’lar picked up on that. “Why? Is Toric restless again?”
Robinton took a judicious sip from his cup. “Not really. Now that Denol’s tenure of the Big Island has been settled, Toric’s making up for lost time with Aivas.”
“And?” F’lar prompted.
“He hid his chagrin rather well when he discovered just how . . . mmm . . . less than vast the Southern Continent actually is. Fortunately he’s decided that Southern must have Halls of both new Crafts. I believe that he and Hamian had rather a vociferous confrontation over the filler plant Hamian’s been developing as an insulating material.”
“The fibrous stuff that Bendarek’s been going on about?” Lessa asked. “You know that he’s genuinely concerned about the amount of trees that are needed to supply the demand for paper.”
“Indeed.” Robinton nodded vigorously. “I do see his point that a weed that grows rampant in Southern should be utilized instead of chopping down those magnificent forests of his.”
“I thought that Sharra discovered the plant and recognized its usefulness,” Lessa added.
“I believe that’s Toric’s contention,” Robinton replied, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “That she found it on his holding while on a sweep for him.”
“Will the man never be satisfied?” Lessa demanded with some heat.
“I doubt it,” Robinton replied equably.
“Will we end up having to fight him for holdings in the South?” Lessa went on, shooting him a fierce glance for his casual manner.
“My dear Lessa, no one, absolutely no one, is going to challenge a man, or a woman, mounted a-dragon! And let us devoutly hope that there never is a point at which that is even remotely possible.”
“Southern Weyr?” F’lar reminded the Harper severely.
“Well, yes, now, but that was not aggression—it was abduction.” Robinton had good cause to remember the time Ramoth’s egg had disappeared from the Hatching Ground and how very near Benden dragons had come to fighting the Oldtimer Southern dragons. Not wishing to remind the Weyrleaders that they had ostracized him at that point in time, Robinton held up his glass, looking plaintively at the wineskin hanging on Lessa’s chair. She filled it for him. “Mind you, I think you’re wise to send F’lessan to explore the tantalizing potential of Southern. When is he going?”
Lessa grinned, lifting her eyebrows expressively. “He should be there even as we speak.”
The great plains rolled on below F’lessan and Golanth as the big bronze glided on a south-southwest path, aided by high thermals. A slight twinge of guilt marred F’lessan’s happy contemplation of the scenery. He really should have been working up those equations for Aivas, who was under the impression that the young bronze rider’s presence was required at the Benden Hatching. As F’lessan had no wish to have to explain to Nera, Faselly, and Brinna why he couldn’t choose among them, he was glad enough to spend a free day obeying the injunction of F’lar and Lessa.
Golanth was so thoroughly enjoying himself that F’lessan decided it was unsuitable to belabor himself with unnecessary remorse. He had been unusually diligent in his studies—even enjoyed them. In truth, as F’lessan looked back over the past two Turns, he realized that he had devoted more time to Aivas than to the Weyr—save for Threadfall. He often flew as Wingsecond with T’gellan and the Eastern Weyr and with K’van in Southern. He liked fighting Thread, and he and Golanth were exceedingly deft at escaping injury.
One thing he hadn’t dared to ask Lessa and F’lar: If he found a suitable site for another Weyr, was he in line to be Weyrleader? He dismissed that notion almost instantly. F’lessan had few illusions about himself. He was a good Wingleader, he understood draconic abilities, he knew which were the best riders in every Weyr and who were the most likely weyrlings in Benden, but he didn’t think he was anyone’s immediate choice for the next Weyrleader. And he was well aware of how such matters were decided: open mating flight for all unattached bronzes.
I’m big and strong,
Golanth informed him with just a hint of boasting in his tone.
I’d’ve caught Lamanth that time, if Litorth had not done that clip-and-run dive maneuver. He’d been practicing with the greens!
he added petulantly.
F’lessan soothed his dragon with hand and voice. He had been a bit provoked about that himself. Of course, Celina was nearly as old as Lessa, but it was becoming a matter of honor for Golanth to fly a queen, and Celina was a nice sort. Anyone could get along with her.
A dust cloud caught F’lessan’s attention, and he asked Golanth to veer toward it.
I’m not hungry just now,
Golanth replied as they got near enough to distinguish the rumps of fleeing herdbeasts.
Get in a little closer, would you, Golanth? I’ve never seen any like these. Brown and white, and black and white. Big beasts. Nice and juicy,
F’lessan added coaxingly.
If they are big now, they will be bigger when I am ready to eat.
F’lessan chuckled. There were times when Golanth couldn’t be diverted. He glanced at the dial strapped to his arm, checking the time it registered against his reading of the sun. Accurate enough. Aivas called it a watch—and the first time F’lessan had worn it he had indeed watched, mesmerized, as the long second hand made its way around the dial. Jancis had presented it to him on his birthing day. She had designed and executed the device for him personally. F’lessan had felt both honored and elated to be the proud possessor of one of the few wristwatches on Pern. Jancis had only made six: Piemur, of course, wore one; so did Lord Larad and Lady Jissamy; Master Robinton and Master Fandarel were the other lucky recipients.
He and Golanth had been a-wing for the past five hours. If they didn’t sight their objective soon, he was going to ask Golanth to land so that he could eat his lunch and stretch his legs. A six-hour stint during a Fall was one thing—then he was actively involved, too busy to become uncomfortable. Flying straight to a new location was a different matter altogether—always tedious. But it was necessary when one’s destination was unfamiliar, unless one had been given a detailed description or could grab an image of the site from another dragon or rider’s mind—which was not the case today. Golanth was making good time, catching the thermals and air currents to increase his speed, but it was a weary way to go.
Still and all, F’lessan enjoyed being first at something. He was not by nature an envious sort, but it did seem that Piemur and Jaxom had the larger portion of luck with their discoveries. He was very pleased that Lessa and F’lar had entrusted this search to him. They could have sent one of the older bronze riders, or F’nor. Nevertheless, it was F’lessan and Golanth who were winging over the great plains, toward the huge inland sea that the settlers had named Caspian, to a Hold called Xanadu.
Suddenly, off to his right, the sun dazzled him, reflecting off—water?
To our right, Golly,
F’lessan said excitedly.
A very big water,
Golanth added.
As he often had, F’lessan wondered if he would see clearer, better, farther if he had faceted dragon eyes.
I can see anything you wish for you,
Golanth replied meekly.
F’lessan pummeled his neck affectionately.
I know, big fellow, and I’m always grateful for your help. I was just thinking what it might be like, that’s all.
Golanth began to stroke the air, beating upward.
Thermal,
he said cryptically, and F’lessan leaned down against the great bronze neck so as not to impede the ascent. He felt the alteration in the wind current and let out a triumphant yodel when Golanth flattened out and set his wings to glide on the hot air.
And that’s something else you can do which I can’t—tell where the air currents are. How ever
do
you know where the thermals are?
My eyes see the variation of air, I smell the difference, and my hide feels the altered pressure.
Really?
F’lessan was impressed with the explanation.
Been listening in on my aerodynamics lessons with Aivas?
Golanth thought that over.
Yes. You listen to him, so l thought I should. Ruth does, and Path certainly. Ramoth and Mnementh don’t. They prefer to sleep in the sun while Lessa and F’lar are here. Bigath listens, and Sulath and Beerth. Clarinath occasionally, but Pranith always and Lioth whenever his rider’s down. Sometimes the listening is very interesting. Sometimes it’s not.
Not only was that an unusually long speech for Golanth, but it gave F’lessan such food for thought that he was kept occupied with the ramifications until the edge of the vast inland sea became visible.
How are the air currents, Golanth? Shall we cross it, or fly around?
We cross it,
was the immediate and confident answer.
We need a nor’norwest heading, Golanth, to reach the point where the ancients settled. Not that I think we’ll find much.
As they crossed the water, passing through several squalls on the way, they noted all the little islands and the strange pinnacles of rock upthrusts, like bony fingers or clenched fists. On some, odd-shaped trees had managed to find soil enough in the rock crevices to support their roots. In two instances, naked roots twisted down the spires, seeking additional dirt and sustenance. The trees, with their closely packed heads, leaned precariously away from the prevailing winds. Or were those branches that were seeking the summits and sunlight? Sharra would want to know about these—she liked such oddities.
The western coastline was visible at last, a high palisade of cliff. The inland sea must have been formed in a vast subsidence, F’lessan decided, recognizing the geological formation from Aivas’s survey lectures. That would also account for the spires and islands: the tops of sunken mountains. Now if those distant cliff faces also held caves, this would be a splendid place for a Weyr, he thought. All that water! One would never have a dry dragon in one’s weyr.
He was to be disappointed, however, once they got close enough to see the solid granite composition of the high bluffs.
Dragons don’t have cliff weyrs in Southern or Eastern and
they
don’t complain,
Golanth said helpfully.
I know, but I was asked to find a useful old crater or two.
The sun will find me in a clearing, and there are some very good-smelling trees on this continent.
F’lessan thumped Golanth, grinning at the bronze’s effort to console him for the disappointment.
This isn’t the only place I’m supposed to check out. There was a settler’s hold, called Honshu, in the foothills of the Southern barrier range. However, since we’re here, let’s look about for this Xanadu Stake hold.