Anne McCaffrey is a lovely lady, and she writes the way she
looks. This story, calculated to end the book on a romantic
note, may contain a universe only Jack Vance, Andre Norton
or Anne McCaffrey could have dreamed up, but the afflatus
is that which only this dear lady is capable of providing. For
all that, much modem writing is pretty dreary. This piece,
though, serves to show that, as Dante noted in at least three
places, at the end of everything there are always stars. If her
husband won't punch me in the nose, I'd like to confess that
I'm in love with her, and that I hope she writes at least a
thousand more stories like this one, which was good enough
to come in second for the Nebula in this category. This book
needs das ewigweibliche to zieht uns hinan, and this is the
place for the feminine spirit lo take over and tell Messrs.
Bollard, Ellison, Wright, Delany, Leiber, Moorcock, (me?)
the way a woman sees the Game we've been playing. Ergo, I
won't tell you a bloody thing about the following tale, save
that I like it, I chose it, and it, too, occurs in another time
and another place.

WEYR SEARCH

Anne McCaffrey

When is. a legend legend? Why is a myth a myth? How old
and disused must a fact be for it to be relegated to the
category: Fairy tale? And why do certain facts remain in-
controvertible, while others lose their validity to assume a
shabby, unstable character?
Rukbat, in the Sagittarian sector, was a golden G-type
star. It had five planets, plus one stray it had attracted and
held in recent millennia. Its third planet was enveloped by
air man could breathe, boasted water he could drink, and
possessed a gravity which permitted man to walk confidently
erect. Men discovered it, and promptly colonized it, as they
did every habitable planet they came to and thenwhether
callously or through collapse of empire, the colonists never
discovered, and eventually forgot to askleft the colonies to
fend for themselves.
When men first settled on Rukbafs third world, and named
it  Pern,  they  had  taken  little  notice  of  the  stranger-planet,
swinging around its primary in a wildly erratic elliptical orbit.
Within a few generations they had forgotten its existence.
The desperate path the wanderer pursued brought it close to
its stepsister every two hundred {Terran} years at perihelion.
When the aspects were harmonious and the conjunction
with its sister-planet close enough, as it often was, the in-
digenous life of the wanderer sought to bridge the space gap
to the more temperate and hospitable planet.
It was during the frantic struggle to combat this menace
dropping through Pern's skies like silver threads, that Pern's
contact with the mother-planet weakened and broke. Recol-
lections of Earth receded further from Pernese history with
each successive generation until memory of their origins de-
generated past legend or myth, into oblivion.
To forestall the incursions of the dreaded Threads, the
Pernese, with the ingenuity of their forgotten Yankee fore-
bears and between first onslaught and return, developed a
highly specialized variety of a life form indigenous to their
adopted planetthe winged, tailed, and fire-breathing drag-
ons,  named for  the  Earth legend  they  resembled.  Such
humans as had a high empathy rating and some innate tele-
pathic ability were trained to make use of and preserve this
unusual animal whose ability to teleport was of immense
value in the fierce struggle to keep Pern bare of Threads.
The dragons and their dragonmen, a breed apart, and the
shortly renewed menace they battled, created a whole new
group of legends and myths.
As the menace was conquered the populace in the Holds
of Pern settled into a more comfortable way of life. Most of
the dragon Weyrs eventually were abandoned, and the de-
scendants of heroes fell into disfavor, as the legends fell into
disrepute.
This, then, is a tale of legends disbelieved and their restora-
tion. Yethow goes a legend? When is myth?
Drummer, beat, and piper, blow,
Harper, strike, and soldier, go.
Free the flame and sear the grasses
Till the dawning Red Star passes.
Lessa woke, cold. Cold with more than the chill of the ever-
lastingly clammy stone walls. Cold with the prescience of a
danger greater than when, ten full Turns ago, she had run,
whimpering, to hide in the.watch-wher's odorous lair.
Rigid with concentration, Lessa lay in the straw of the
redolent cheese room, sleeping quarters shared with the other
kitchen drudges. There was an urgency in the ominous
portent unlike any other forewarning. She touched the aware-
ness of the watch-wher, slithering on its rounds in the court-
yard. It circled at the choke-limit of its chain. It was restless,
but oblivious to anything unusual in the predawn darkness.
The danger was definitely not within the walls of Hold
Ruath. Nor approaching the paved perimeter without the
Hold where relentless grass had forced new growth through
the ancient mortar, green witness to the deterioration of th<s
once stone-clean Hold. The danger was not advancing up the
now little used causeway from the valley, nor lurking in the
craftsmen's stony holdings at the foot of the Hold's cliff. It
did not scent the wind that blew from Tillek's cold shores.
But still it twanged sharply through her senses, vibrating
every nerve in Lessa's slender frame. Fully roused, she
sought to identify it before the prescient mood dissolved. She
cast outward, towards .the Pass, farther than she had eyer
pressed. Whatever threatened was not in Ruatha . . . yet.
Nor did it have a familiar flavor. It was not, then, Fax.
Lessa had been cautiously pleased that Fax had not shown.
himself at Hold Ruath in three full Turns. The apathy of
the craftsmen, the decaying farmholds, even the green-etched
stones of the Hold infuriated Fax, self-styled Lord of the
High Reaches, to the point where he preferred to forget the
reason why he had subjugated the once proud and profitable
Hold.
Lessa picked her way among the sleeping drudges, hud-
dled together for warmth, and glided up the worn steps to
the kitchen-proper. She slipped across the cavernous kitchen
to the stable-yard door. The cobbles of the yard were icy
through the thin soles of her sandals and she shivered as the
predawn air penetrated her patched garment.
The watch-wher slithered across the yard to greet her,
pleading, as it always did, for release. Glancing fondly down
at the awesome head, she promised it a good rub presently. It
crouched, groaning, at the end of its chain as she continued
to the grooved steps that led to the rampart over the Hold's
massive gate. Atop the tower, Lessa stared towards the east
where the stony breasts of the Pass rose in black relief
against the gathering day.
Indecisively she swung to her left, for the sense of danger
issued from that direction as well. She glanced upward, her
eyes drawn to the red star which had recently begun to
dominate the dawn sky. As she stared, the star radiated a
final ruby pulsation before its magnificence was lost in the
brightness of Pern's rising sun.
For the first time in many Turns, Lessa gave thought to
matters beyond Pern, beyond her dedication to vengeance on
the murderer Fax for the annihilation of her family. Let him
but come within Ruath Hold now and he would never leave.
But the brilliant ruby sparkle of the Red Star recalled the
Disaster Balladsgrim narratives of the heroism of the drag-
onriders as they braved the dangers of between to breathe
fiery death on the silver Threads that dropped through Pern's
skies. Not one Thread must fall to the rich soil, to burrow
deep and multiply, leaching the earth of minerals and fer-
tility.  Straining her eyes  as if vision would bridge the gap
between periol and person, she stared intently eastward. The
watch-wher's thin, whistled question reached her just as the
prescience waned.
Dawnlight illumined the tumbled landscape, the unplowed
fields in the valley below. Dawnlight fell on twisted orchards,
where the sparse herds of milchbeasts hunted stray blades of
spring grass. Grass in Ruatha grew where it should not, died
where it should flourish. An odd brooding smile curved
Lessa's lips. Fax realized no profit from his conquest of
Ruatha . . . nor would he, while she, Lessa, lived. And he
had not the slightest suspicion of the source of this undoing.
Or had he? Lessa wondered, her mind still reverberating
from the savage prescience of danger. East lay Fax's an-
cestral and only legitimate Hold. Northeast lay little but bare
and stony mountains and Benden, the remaining Weyr, which
protected Pern.
Lessa stretched, arching her back, inhaling the sweet, un-
tainted wind of morning.
A cock crowed in the stableyard. Lessa whirled, her face
alert, eyes darting around the outer Hold lest she be ob-
served in such an uncharacteristic pose. She unbound her
hair, letting it fall about her face concealingly.  Her body
drooped into the sloppy posture she affected. Quickly she
thudded down the stairs, crossing to the watch-wher. It lurred
piteously, its great eyes blinking against the growing daylight.
Oblivious to the stench of its rank breath, she bugged the
scaly head to her, scratching its ears and eye ridges. The
watch-wher was ecstatic with pleasure, its long body trem-
bling, its clipped wings rustling. It alone knew who she was or
cared. And it was the only creature in all Pern she trusted
since the day she had blindly sought refuge in its dark stink-
ing lair to escape Fax's thirsty swords that had drunk so
deeply of Ruathan blood.
Slowly she rose, cautioning it to remember to be as vicious
to her as to all should anyone be near. It promised to obey
her, swaying back and forth to emphasize its reluctance.
The first rays of the sun glanced over the Hold's outer
wall. Crying out, the watch-wher darted into its dark nest.
Lessa crept back to the kitchen and into the cheese room.
From the Weyr and from the Bowl
Bronze and brown and blue and green
Rise the dragonmen of Pern,
Aloft, on wing, seen, then unseen.
F'lar on bronze Mnementh's great neck appeared first in
the skies above the chief Hold of Fax, so-called Lord of the
High Reaches. Behind him, in proper wedge formation, the
wingmen came into sight. Plar checked the formation au-
tomatically; as precise as at the moment of entry to between.
As Mnementh curved in an arc that would bring them
to the perimeter of the Hold, consonant with the friendly
nature of this visitation, F'lar surveyed with mounting aver-
sion the disrepair of the ridge defenses. The firestone pits
were empty and the rock-cut gutters radiating from the pits
were green-tinged with a mossy growth.
Was there even one lord in Pern who maintained his Hold
rocky in observance of the ancient Laws? F'lar's lips tight-
ened to a thinner line. When this Search was over and the
Impression made, there would have to be a solemn, punitive
Council held at the Weyr. And by the golden shell of the
queen, he, F'lar, meant to be its moderator. He would
replace lethargy with industry. He would scour the green and
dangerous scum from the heights of Pern, the grass blades
from its stoneworks. No verdant skirt would be. condoned
in any farmhold. And the tithings which had been so miserly,
so grudgingly presented would, under pain of firestoning, flow
with decent generosity into the Dragon weyr.
Mnementh rumbled approvingly as he vaned his pinions
to land lightly on the grass-etched flagstones of Fax's Hold.
The bronze dragon furled his great wings, and F'lar heard
the warning claxon in the Hold's Great Tower. Mnementh
dropped to his knees as F'lar indicated he wished to dis-
mount. The bronze rider stood by Mnementh's huge wedge-
shaped head, politely awaiting the arrival of the Hold lord.
F'lar idly gazed down the valley, hazy with warm spring
sunlight. He ignored the furtive heads that peered at the
dragon-man from the parapet slits and the cliff windows.
F'lar did not turn as a rush of air announced the arrival
of the rest of the wing. He knew, however, when F'nor, the
brown rider, his half-brother, took the customary position on
his left, a dragon-length to the rear. F'lar caught a glimpse
of F'nor's boot-heel twisting to death the grass crowding up
between the stones.
An order, muffled to an intense whisper, issued from
within the great court, beyond the open gates. Almost im-
mediately a group of men marched into sight, led by a
heavy-set man of medium height.
Mnementh arched his neck, angling his head so that his
chin rested on the ground. Mnementh's many faceted eyes,
on a level with F'lar's head, fastened with disconcerting in-
terest on the approaching party. The dragons could never
understand why they generated such abject fear in common
folk. At only one point in his life span would a dragon at-
tack a human and that could be excused on the grounds of
simple ignorance. F'lar could not explain to the dragon the
politics behind the necessity of inspiring awe in the holders,
lord and craftsman alike. He could only observe that the fear
and apprehension showing in the faces of the advancing
squad which troubled Mnementh was oddly pleasing to him,
F'lar.
"Welcome, Bronze Rider, to the Hold of Fax, Lord of the
High Reaches. He is at your service," and the man made
an adequately respectful salute.
The use of the third person pronoun could be construed,
by the meticulous, to be a veiled insult. This fit in with the
information F'lar had on Fax; so he ignored it. His informa-
tion was also correct in describing Fax as a greedy man. It
showed in the restless eyes which flicked at every detail of
F'lar's clothing,  at the slight  frown when the  intricately
etched sword-hilt was noticed.
F'lar noticed, in his own turn, the several rich rings which
flashed on Fax's left hand. The overlord's right hand re-
mained slightly cocked after the habit of the professional
swordsman. His tunic, of rich fabric, was stained and none
too fresh. The man's feet, in heavy wher-hide boots, were
solidly planted, weight balanced forward on his toes. A man
to be treated cautiously, F'lar decided, as one should the
conqueror of five neighboring Holds. Such greedy audacity
was in itself a revelation. Fax had married into a sixth . . .
and had legally inherited, however unusual the circumstances,
the seventh. He was a lecherous man by reputation.
Within these seven Holds, F'lar anticipated a profitable
Search. Let R'gul go southerly to pursue Search among the
indolent, if lovely, women there. The Weyr needed a strong
woman this time; Jora had been worse than useless with
Nemorth. Adversity, uncertainty: those were the conditions
that bred the qualities F'lar wanted in a weyrwoman.
"We ride in Search," F'lar drawled softly, "and request
the hospitality of your Hold, Lord Fax."
Fax's eyes widened imperceptibly at mention of Search.
"I had heard Jora was dead," Fax replied, dropping the
third person abruptly as if F'lar had passed some sort of test
by ignoring it. "So Nemorth has a new queen, hm-m-m?"
he continued, his eyes darting across the rank of the ring,
noting the disciplined stance of the riders, the healthy color
of the dragons.
F'lar did not dignify the obvious with an answer.
"And, my Lord?" Fax hesitated, expectantly inclining
his head slightly towards the dragonman.
For a pulse beat, F'lar wondered if the man were deliber-
ately provoking him with such subtle insults. The name of
bronze riders should be as well known throughout Pern as
the name of the Dragonqueen and her Weyrwoman. F'lar
kept his face composed, his eyes on Fax's.
Leisurely,  with  the  proper  touch  of  arrogance,  F'nor
stepped forward, stopping slightly behind Mnementh's bead,
one hand negligently touching the jaw hinge of the huge
beast.
"The Bronze Rider of Mnementh, Lord F'lar, will require
quarters for himself. I, F'nor, brown rider, prefer to be
lodged with the wingmen. We are, in number, twelve."
F'lar liked that touch of F'nor's, totting up the wing
strength, as if Fax were incapable of counting. F'nor had
phrased it so adroitly as to make it impossible for Fax to
protest the insult.
"Lord F'lar," Fax said through teeth fixed in a smile, "the
High Reaches are honored with your Search."
"It will be  to  the credit of the High  Reaches," F'lar
replied smoothly, "if one of its own supplies the Weyr."
"To our everlasting credit," Fax replied as suavely. "In
the old days, many notable weyrwomen came from my
Holds."
"Your Holds?" asked F'lar, politely smiling as he empha-
sized the plural. "Ah, yes, you are now overlord of Ruatha,
are you not? "There have been many from that Hold."
A strange tense look crossed Fax's face. "Nothing good
comes from Ruath Hold." Then he stepped aside, gesturing
F'lar to enter the Hold.
Fax's troop leader barked a hasty order and the men
formed two lines, their metal-edged boots flicking sparks
from the stones.
At unspoken orders, all the dragons rose with a great
churning of air and dust. F'lar strode nonchalantly past the
welcoming files. The men were rolling their eyes in alarm
as the beasts glided above to the inner courts. Someone on
the high tower uttered a frightened yelp as Mnementh took
his position on that vantage point. His great wings drove
phosphoric-scented air across the inner court as he maneu-
vered his great frame onto the inadequate landing space.
Outwardly oblivious to the consternation, fear and awe the
dragons inspired, F'lar was secretly amused and rather
pleased by the effect. Lords of the Holds needed this re-
minder that they must deal with dragons, not just With
riders, who were men, mortal and murderable. The ancient
respect for dragonmen as well as dragonkind must be re
instilled in modern breasts.
"The Hold has just risen from table, Lord F'lar, if . . ."
Fax suggested. His voice trailed off at F'lar's smiling refusal.
"Convey my duty to your lady. Lord Fax," F'lar rejoined,
noticing with inward satisfaction the tightening of Fax's jaw
muscles at the ceremonial request.
"You would prefer to see your quarters first?" Fax coun-
tered.
F'lar flicked an imaginary speck from his soft wher-hide
sleeve and shook his head. Was the man buying time to
sequester his ladies as the old time lords had?
"Duty first," he said with a rueful shrug.
"Of course," Fax all but snapped and strode smartly
ahead, his heels pounding out the anger he could not express
otherwise. F'lar decided he had guessed correctly.
F'lar and F'nor followed at a slower pace through the
double-doored entry with its massive metal panels, into the
great hall, carved into the cliffside.
"They eat not badly," F'nor remarked casually to F'lar,
appraising the remnants still on the table.
"Better than the Weyr, it would seem," F'lar replied dryly.
"Young roasts and tender," F'nor said in a bitter under-
tone, "while the stringy, barren beasts are delivered up to
us."
"The change is overdue," F'lar murmured, then raised his
voice to conversational level. "A well-favored hall," he was
saying amiably as they reached Fax. Their reluctant host
stood in the portal to the inner Hold, which, like all such
Holds, burrowed deep into stone, traditional refuge of all in
time of peril.
Deliberately, F'lar turned back to the banner-hung Hall.
'Tell me. Lord Fax, do you adhere to the old practices and
mount a dawn guard?"
Fax frowned, trying to grasp F'lar's meaning.
"There is always a guard at the Tower."
"An easterly guard?"
Fax's eyes jerked towards F'lar, then to F'nor.
"There are always guards," he answered sharply, "on all
the approaches."
"Oh, just the approaches," and F'lar nodded wisely to
F'nor.
"Where else?" demanded Fax, concerned, glancing from
one dragonman to the other.
"I must ask that of your harper. You do keep a trained
harper in your Hold?"
"Of course. I have several trained harpers," and Fax jerked
his shoulders straighten
F'lar affected not to understand.
"Lord Fax is the overlord of six other Holds," F'nor re-
minded his wingleader.
"Of course," F'lar assented, with exactly the same inflec-
tion Fax had used a moment before.
The mimicry did not go unnoticed by Fax but as he was
unable to construe deliberate insult out of an innocent af-
firmative, he stalked into the glow-lit corridors. The dragon-
men followed.
The women's quarters in Fax's Hold had been moved from
the traditional innermost corridors to those at cliff-face.
Sunlight poured down from three double-shuttered, deep-
casement windows in the outside wall. F'lar noted that the
bronze hinges were well oiled, and the sills regulation spear-
length. Fax had not, at least, diminished the protective wall.
The chamber was richly hung with appropriately gentle
scenes of women occupied in all manner of feminine tasks.
Doors gave off the main chamber on both sides into smaller
sleeping alcoves and from these, at Fax's bidding, his women
hesitantly emerged. Fax sternly gestured to a blue-gowned
woman, her hair white-streamed, her face lined with disap-
pointments and bitterness, her body swollen with pregnancy.
She advanced awkwardly, stopping several feet from'her lord.
From her attitude, F'lar deduced that she came no closer to
Fax than was absolutely necessary.
"The Lady of Crom, mother of my heirs," Fax said with-
out pride or cordiality.
"My Lady" F'lai hesitated, waiting for her name to be
supplied.
She glanced warily at her lord.
"Gemma," Fax snapped curtly.
F'lar bowed deeply. "My Lady Gemma, the Weyr is on
Search and requests the Hold's hospitality."
"My Lord F'lar," the Lady Gemma replied in a low voice,
"you are most welcome."
F'lar did not miss the slight slur on the adverb nor the
fact that Gemma had no trouble naming him. His smile was
warmer than courtesy demanded, warm with gratitude and
sympathy. Looking at the number of women in these
quarters, F'lar thought there might be one or two Lady
Gemma could bid farewell without regret.
Fax preferred his women plump and small. There wasn't
a saucy one in the lot. If there once had been, the spirit had
been beaten out of her. Fax, no doubt, was stud, not lover.
Some of the covey had not all winter long made much use
of water, judging by the amount of sweet oil gone rancid in
their hair. Of them all, if these were all, the Lady Gemma
was the only willful one; and she, too old.
The amenities over. Fax ushered his unwelcome guests
outside, and led the way to the quarters he had assigned the
bronze rider.
"A pleasant room," F'lar acknowledged, stripping off
gloves and wher-hide tunic, throwing them carelessly to the
table. "I shall see to my men and the beasts. They have been
fed recently," he commented, pointing up Fax's omission in
inquiring. "I request liberty to wander through the craft-
hold."
Fax sourly granted what was a dragonman's traditional
privilege.
"I shall not further disrupt your routine, Lord Fax, for you
must have many demands on you, with seven Holds to
supervise." F'lar inclined his body slightly to the overlord,
turning away as a gesture of dismissal. He could imagine the
infuriated expression on Fax's face from the stamping retreat.
F'nor and the men had settled themselves in a hastily
vacated'barrackroom. The dragons were perched comfortably
on the rocky ridges above the Hold. Each rider kept his
dragon in light, but alert, charge. There were to be no in-
cidents on a Search.
As a group, the dragonmen rose at F'lar's entrance.
"No tricks, no troubles, but look around closely," he said
laconically.  "Return by sundown with the names of  any
likely prospects." He caught F'nor's gi-in, remembering how
Fax had slurred over some names. "Descriptions are in
order and craft affiliation."
The men nodded, their eyes glinting with understanding.
They were flatteringly confident of a successful Search even
as F'lar's doubts grew now that he had seen Fax's women.
By all logic, the pick of the High Reaches should be in
Fax's chief Holdbut they were not. Still, there were many
large craftholds not to mention the six other High Holds to
visit. All the same . ..
In unspoken accord F'lar and P'nor left the barracks. Thtf
men would follow, unobtrusively, in pairs or singly, to reo-
onnoiter the crafthold and the nearer farmholds. The men
were as overtly eager to be abroad as F'lar was privately.
There had been a time when dragonmen were frequent and
favored guests in all the great Holds throughout Pern, from
southern Fort to high north lgen. This pleasant custom, too,
had died along with other observances, evidence of the low
regard in which the Weyr was presently held. F'lar vowed
to correct this.
He forced himself to trace in memory the insidious
changes. The Records, which each Weyrwoman kept, were
proof of the gradual, but perceptible, decline, traceable
through the past two hundred full Turns. Knowing the facts
did not alleviate the condition. And F'lar was of that scant
handful in the Weyr itself who did credit Records and Ballad
alike. The situation might shortly reverse itself radically if
the old tales were to be believed.
There was a reason, an explanation, a purpose, F'lar felt,
for every one of the Weyr laws from First Impression to the
Firestone: from the grass-free heights to ridge-running gut-
ters. For elements as minor as controlling the appetite of a
dragon to limiting the inhabitants of the Weyr. Although
why the other five Weyrs had been abandoned, F'lar did not
know. Idly he wondered if there were records, dusty and
crumbling, lodged in the\disused Weyrs. He must contrive to
check when next his wings flew patrol. Certainly there was
no explanation in Benden Weyr.
"There is industry but no eBthusiasm," F'nor was saying,
drawing .F'lar's attention back to their tour of the crafthold.
They had descended the guttered ramp from the Hold into
the crafthold proper, the broad roadway lined with cottages
up to the imposing stofle crafthalls. Silently F'lar noted moss-
clogged gutters on the roofs, the vines clasping the walls. It
was painful for one of his calling to witness the flagrant dis-
regard of simple safety precautions. Growing things were
forbidden near the habitations of mankind.
"News travels fast," F'nor chuckled, nodding at a hurry-
ing craftsman, in the smock of a baker, who gave them a
mumbled good day. "Not a female in sight."
His observation was accurate. Women should be abroad
at this hour, bringing in supplies from the storehouses, wash-
ing in the river on such a bright warm day, or going out to
the farmholds to help with planting. Not a gowned figure
in sight.
"We used to be preferred mates," F'nor remarked caus-
tically.
"We'll visit the Clothmen's Hall first. If my memory serves
me right . . ."
"As it always does . . ." F'nor interjected wryly. He took
no advantage of their blood relationship but he was more at
ease with the bronze rider than most of the dragonmen, the
other bronze riders included. F'lar was reserved in a close-
knit society of easy equality. He flew a tightly disciplined
wing but men maneuvered to serve under him. His wing al-
ways excelled in the Games. None ever floundered in be-
tween to disappear forever and no beast in his wing sickened,
leaving a man in dragonless exile from the Weyr, a part of
him numb forever.
"L'tol came this way and settled in one of the High
Reaches," F'lar continued.
"L'tol?"
"Yes, a green rider from S'lel's wing. You remember."
An ill-timed swerve during the Spring Games had brought
L'tol and his beast into the full blast of a phosphene emission
from S'lel's bronze Tuenth. L'tol had been thrown from his
beast's neck as the dragon tried to evade the blast. Another
wingmate had swooped to catch the rider but the green
dragon, his left wing crisped, his body scorched, had died
of shock and phosphene poisoning.
"L'tol would aid our Search," F'nor agreed as the two
dragonmen walked up to the bronze doors of the Clothmen's
Hall. They paused on the threshold, adjusting their eyes to
the dimmer light within. Glows punctuated the wall recesses
and hung in clusters above the larger looms where the finer
tapestries and fabrics were woven by master craftsmen. The
pervading mood was one of quiet, purposeful industry.
Before their eyes had adapted, however, a figure glided
to them, with a polite, if curt, request for them to follow
him.
They were led to the right of the entrance, to a small of-
fice,  curtained  from  the  main  hall.  Their  guide  turned  to
them, his face visible in the wallglows. There was that air
about him that marked him indefinably as a dragonman. But
his face was lined deeply, one side seamed with old burn-
marks. His eyes, sick with a hungry yearning, dominated his
face. He blinked constantly.
"I am now Lytol," he said in a harsh voice.
F'lar nodded acknowledgment.
"You would be F'lar," Lytol said, "and you, F'nor. You've 
both the look of your sire."
F'lar nodded again.
Lytol swallowed convulsively, the muscles in his face
twitching as the presence of dragonmen revived his aware-
ness of exile. He essayed a smile.
"Dragons in the sky! The news spread faster than
Threads."
"Nemorth has a new queen."
"Jora dead?" Lytol asked concemedly, his face cleared of *"
its  nervous  movement  for  a  second.
F'lar nodded.
Lytol grimaced bitterly. "R'gul again, hub." He stared off
in the middle distance, his eyelids quiet but the muscles
along his jaw took up the constant movement. "You've the
High Reaches? All of them?" Lytol asked, turning back to
the dragonman, a slight emphasis on "all."
F'lar gave an affirmative nod again.
"You've seen the women." Lytol's disgust showed through
the words. It was a statement, not a question, for he hurried
on. "Well, there are no better in all the High Reaches,"
and his tone expressed utmost disdain.
"Fax likes his women comfortably fleshed and docile,"
Lytol rattled on. "Even the Lady Gemma has learned. It'd
be different if he didn't need her :family's support. Ah, it
would be different indeed. So he keeps her pregnant, hoping
to kill her in childbed one day. And he will. He will."
Lytol drew himself up, squaring his shoulders, turning
full to the two dragonmen. His expression was vindictive, his
voice low and tense.
"Kill that tyrant, for the sake and safety of Pern. Of the
Weyr. Of the queen. He only bides his time. He spreads
discontent among the other lords. He"Lytol's laughter had
an hysterical edge to it now"he fancies himself as good as
dragonmen."
"There are no candidates then in this Hold?" F'lar said,
his voice sharp enough to cut through the man's preoccupa-
tion with his curious theory.
Lytol stared at the bronze rider. "Did I not say it?"
"What of Ruath Hold?"
Lytol stopped shaking his head and looked sharply at F'lar,
his lips curling in a cunning smile. He laughed mirthlessly.
"You think to find a Torene, or a Moreta, hidden at Ruath
Hold in these times? Well, all of that Blood are dead. Fax's
blade was thirsty that day. He knew the truth of those
harpers' tales, that Ruathan lords gave full measure of hos-
pitality to dragonmen and the Ruathan were a breed apart.
There were, you know," Lytol's voice dropped to a confiding
whisper, "exiled Weyrmen like myself in that Line."
F'lar nodded gravely, unable to contradict the man's pitiful
attempt at self-esteem.
"No," and Lytol chuckled softly. "Fax gets nothing from
that Hold but trouble. And the women Fax used to take . . ."
his laugh turned nasty in tone.  "It is  rumored he was
impotent for months afterwards."
"Any families in the holdings with Weyr blood?"
Lytol frowned, glanced surprised at F'lar. He rubbed the
scarred side of his face thoughtfully.
"There were," he admitted slowly. "There were. But I
doubt if any live. on." He thought a moment longer, then
shook his head emphatically.
F'lar shrugged.
"I wish I had better news for you," Lytol murmured.
"No matter," F'lar reassured him, one hand poised to part
the hanging in the doorway.
Lytol came up to him swiftly, his voice urgent.
"Heed what I say. Fax is ambitious. Force R'gul, or who-
ever is Weyrieader next, to keep watch on the High Reaches."
Lytol jabbed a finger in the direction of the Hold. "He
scoffs openly at tales of the Threads. He taunts the harpers
for the stupid nonsense of the old ballads and has banned
from their repertoire all dragonlore. The new generation will
grow up totally ignorant of duty, tradition and precaution."
F'lar was surprised to hear that on top of Lytol's other
disclosures. Yet the Red Star pulsed in the sky and the
time was drawing near when they would hysterically reavow
the old allegiances in fear for their very lives.
"Have you been abroad in the early morning of late?"
asked F'nor, grinning maliciously.
"I have," Lytol breathed out in a hushed, choked whisper.
"I have . . ." A groan was wrenched from his guts and he
whirled away from the dragonmen, his head bowed between
hunched shoulders. "Go," he said, gritting his teeth. And,
as they hesitated, he pleaded, "Go!"
F'lar walked quickly from the room, followed by F'nor.
The bronze rider crossed the quiet dim Hall with long
strides and exploded into the startling sunlight. His momentum
took him into the center of the square. There he stopped so
abruptly that F'nor, hard on his heels, nearly collided with
him.
"We will spend exactly the same time within the other
Halls," he announced in a tight voice, his face averted from
F'nor's eyes. F'lar's throat was constricted. It was difficult,
suddenly, for him to speak. He swallowed hard, several
times.
"To be dragonless . . ." murmured F'nor, pityingly. The
encounter with Lytol had roiled his depths in a mournful
way to which he was unaccustomed. That F'lar appeared
equally shaken went far to dispel F'nor's private opinion
that his half-brother was incapable of emotion.
"There is no other way once First Impression has been
made. You know that," F'lar roused himself to say curtly.
He strode off to the Hall bearing the Leathermen's device.
The Hold is barred
The Hall is bare.
And men vanish.
The soil is barren,
The rock is bald.
All hope banish.
Lessa was shoveling ashes from the hearth when the
agitated messenger staggered into the Great Hall. She made
herself as inconspicuous as possible so the Warder would
not dismiss her. She had contrived to be sent to the Great
Hall that morning, knowing that the Warder intended to
brutalize the Head Clothman for the shoddy quality of the
goods readied for shipment to Fax.
"Fax is coming! With dragonmen!" the man gasped out
as he plunged into the dim Great Hall.
The Warder, who had been about to lash the Head Cloth-
man, turned, stunned, from his victim. The courier, a farm-
Ilolder from the edge of Ruatha, stumbled up to the Warder,
so excited with his message that he grabbed the Warder's
arm.
"How dare you leave your Hold?" and the Warder aimed
his lash at the astonished holder. The force of the first blow
knocked the man from his feet. Yelping, he scrambled out
of reach of a second lashing. "Dragonmen indeed! Fax? Ha!
He shuns Ruatha. There!" The Warder punctuated each
denial with another blow, kicking the helpless wretch for
good measure, before he turned breathless to glare at the
clothman and the two underwarders. "How did he get in here
with such a threadbare lie?" The Warder stalked to the great
door. It was flung open just as he reached out for the iron
handle. The ashenfaced guard officer rushed in, nearly top-
pling the Warder.
"Dragonmen! Dragons! All over Ruatha!" the man gib-
bered, arms flailing wildly. He, too, pulled at the Warder's
arm, dragging the stupefied official towards the outer court-
yard, to bear out the truth of his statement.
Lessa scooped up the last pile of ashes. Picking up her
equipment, she* slipped out of the Great Hall. There was a
very pleased smile on her face under the screen of matted
hair.
A dragonman at Ruatha! She must somehow contrive to get
Fax so humiliated, or so infuriated, that he would renounce
his claim to the Hold, in the presence of a dragonman. Then
she could claim her birthright.
But she would have to be extraordinarily wary. Dragon-
riders were men apart. Anger did not cloud their intelligence.
Greed did not sully their judgment. Fear did not dull their
reactions. Let the dense-witted believe human sacrifice, un-
natural lusts, insane revel. She was not so gullible. And
those stories went against her grain. Dragonmen were still
human and there was Weyr blood in her veins. It was the
same color as that of anyone else; enough of hers had been
spilled to prove that.
She halted for a moment, catching a sudden shallow
breath. Was this the danger she had sensed four days ago at
dawn? The final encounter in her struggle to regain the
Hold? Nothere had been more to that portent than re-
venge.
The ash bucket banged against her shins as she shuffled
down the low ceilinged corridor to the stable door. Fax would
find a cold welcome. She had laid no new fire on the hearth.
Her laugh echoed back unpleasantly from the damp walls.
She rested her bucket and propped her broom and shovel as
she wrestled with the heavy bronze door that gave into the
new stables.
They had been built outside the cliff of Ruatha by Fax's
first Warder,  a subtler man than all eight of his successors,
He had achieved more than all others and Lessa had
honestly regretted the necessity of his death. But he would
have made her revenge impossible. He would have caught
her out before she had learned how to camouflage herself and
her little interferences. What had his name been? She could
not recall. Well, she regretted his death.
The second man had been properly greedy and it had been
easy to set up a pattern of misunderstanding between Warder
and craftsmen. That one had been determined to squeeze
all profit from Ruathan goods so that some of it would drop
into his pocket before Fax suspected a shortage. The crafts-
men who had begun to accept the skillful diplomacy of the
first  Warder  bitterly  resented  the  second's  grasping,  high-
handed ways. They resented the passing of the Old Line
and, even more so, the way of its passing. They were un-
forgiving of insult to Ruatha; its now secondary position in
the High Reaches; and they resented the individual indignities
that holders, craftsmen and farmers alike, suffered under the
second Warder. It took little manipulation to arrange for
matters at Ruatha to go from bad to worse.
The .second was replaced and his successor fared no better.
He was caught diverting goods, the best of the goods at that.
Fax had had him executed. His bony head still hung in the
main firepit above the great Tower.
The present incumbent had not been able to maintain the
Hold in even the sorry condition in which he had assumed
!  its management. Seemingly simple matters developed rapidly
[  into disasters. Like the production of cloth . . . Contrary
I  to his boasts to Fax, the quality had not improved, and the
'  quantity had fallen off.
'  Now Fax was here. And with dragonmen! Why dragon-
men? The import of the question froze Lessa, and the heavy
door closing behind her barked her heels painfully. Dragon-
men used to be frequent visitors at Ruatha, that she knew,
and even vaguely remembered. Those memories were like a
harper's tale, told of someone else, not something within her
own experience. She had limited her fierce attention to
Ruatha only. She could not even recall the name of Queen or
Weyrwoman from the instructions of her childhood, nor could
she recall hearing mention of any queen or weyrwoman by
anyone in the Hold these past ten Turns.
Perhaps the dragonmen were finally going to call the lords
of the Holds to task for the disgraceful show of greenery
about the Holds. Well, Lessa was to blame for much of that
in Ruatha but she defied even a dragonman to confront her
with her guilt. Did all Ruatha fall to the Threads it would
be better than remaining dependent to Fax! The heresy
shocked Lessa even as she thought it.
Wishing she could as easily unburden her conscience of
such blasphemy, she ditched the ashes on the stable midden.
There was a sudden change in air pressure around her. Then
a fleeting shadow caused her to glance up.
From behind the cliff above glided a dragon, its enormous
wings spread to their fullest as he caught the morning up-
draft. Turning effortlessly, he descended. A second, a third,
a full wing of dragons followed in soundless flight and pat-
terned descent, graceful and awesome. The claxon rang be-
latedly from the Tower and from within the kitchens there
issued the screams and shrieks of the terrified drudges.
Lessa took cover. She ducked into the kitchen where she
was instantly seized by the assistant cook and thrust with a
buffet and a kick towards the sinks. There she was put to
scrubbing grease-encrusted serving bowls with cleansing sand.
The yelping canines were already lashed to the spitrun,
turning a scrawny herdbeast that had been set to roast. The
cook was ladling seasonings on the carcass, swearing at having
to offer so poor a meal to so many guests, and some of them
high-rank. Winter-dried fruits from the last scanty harvest
had been set to soak and two of the oldest drudges were
scraping roots.
An apprentice cook was kneading bread; another, care-
fully spicing a sauce. Looking fixedly at him, she diverted
his hand from one spice box to a less appropriate one as he
gave a final shake to the concoction. She added too much
wood to the wall oven, insuring ruin for the breads. She
controlled the canines deftly, slowing one and speeding the
other so that the meat would be underdone on one side,
burned on the other. That the feast should be a fast, the food
presented found inedible, was her whole intention.
Above in the Hold, she had no doubt that certain other
measures, undertaken at different times for this axact con-
tingency, were being discovered.
Her fingers bloodied from a beating, one of the Warder's
women came shrieking into the kitchen, hopeful of refuge
there.
"Insects have eaten the best blankets to shreds! And a
canine who had littered on the best linens snarled at me as
she gave suck! And the rushes are noxious, the best chambers
full of debris driven in by the winter wind. Somebody left the
shutters ajar. Just a tiny bit, but it was enough . .." the
woman wailed, clutching her hand to her breast and rocking
back and forth.
Lessa bent with great industry to shine the plates.
Watch-wher, watch-wher,
In your lair,
Watch well, watch-wheri
Who goes there?
"The watch-wher is hiding something," F'lar told F'nor
as they consulted in the hastily cleaned Great Hall. The
room delighted to hold the wintry chill although a generous
fire now burned on the hearth.
"It was but gibbering when Canth spoke to it,"  F'nor
remarked. He was leaning against the mantel, turning slightly
from side to side to gather some warmth. He watched his
wingleader's impatient pacing.
"Mnementh is calming it down," F'lar replied. "He may
be able to sort out the nightmare. The creature may be more
senile than aware, but . . ."
"I doubt it," F'nor concurred helpfully. He glanced with
apprehension up at the webhung ceiling. He was certain
he'd found most of the crawlers, but he didn't fancy their
sting. Not on top of the discomforts already experienced in
this forsaken Hold. If the night stayed mild, he intended
curling up with Canth on the heights. "That would be more
reasonable than anything Fax or his Warder have suggested."
"Hm-m-m," F'lar muttered, frowning at the brown rider.
"Well, it's unbelievable that Ruatha could have fallen to
such disrepair in ten short Turns. Every dragon caught the
feeling of power and it's obvious the watch-wher had been
tampered with. That takes a good deal of control."
"From someone of the Blood," F'lar reminded him.
F'nor shot his wingleader a quick look, wondering if he
could possibly be serious in the light of all information to
the contrary.
"I grant you there is power here, F'lar," F'nor conceded.
"It could easily be a hidden male of the old Blood. But we
need a female. And Fax made it plain, in his inimitable
fashion, that he left none of the old Blood alive in the Hold
the day he took it. No, no." The brown rider shook his head,
as if he could dispel the lack of faith in his wingleader's
curious insistence that the Search would end in Ruath with
Ruathan blood.
"That watch-wher is hiding something and only someone
of the Blood of its Hold can arrange that," F'lar said emphat-
ically. He gestured around the Hall and towards the walls,
bare of hangings. "Ruatha has been overcome. But she resists
. . . Subtly. I say it points to the old Blood, and power. Not
power alone."
The obstinate expression in F'lar's eyes, the set of his
jaw, suggested that F'nor seek another topic.
"The pattern was well-flown today," F'nor suggested tenta-
tively. "Does a dragonman good to ride a flaming beast. Does
the beast good, too. Keeps the digestive process in order."
F'lar nodded sober agreement. "Let R'gul temporize as he
chooses. It is fitting and proper to ride a firespouting beast
and these holders need to be reminded of Weyr power."
"Right now, anything would help our prestige," F'nor com-
mented sourly. "What had Fax to say when he hailed you
in the Pass?" F'nor knew his question was almost impertinent
but if it were, F'lar would ignore it.
F'lar's slight smile was unpleasant and there was an omi-
nous glint in his amber eyes.
"We talked of rule and resistance."
"Did he not also draw on you?" F'nor asked.
F'lar's  smile  deepened.  "Until  he  remembered  I  was
dragon-mounted."
"He's considered a vicious fighter," F'nor said.
"I am at some disadvantage?" F'lar asked, turning sharply
on his brown rider, his face too controlled.
"To my knowledge, no," F'nor reassured his leader quickly.
F'lar had tumbled every man in the Weyr, efficiently and
easily. "But Fax kills often and without cause."
"And because we dragonmen do not seek blood, we are
not to be feared as fighters?" snapped F'lar. "Are you
ashamed of your heritage?"
"I? No!" F'nor sucked in his breath. "Nor any of our
wing!" he added proudly. "But there is that in the attitude of
the men in this progression of Fax's that . . . that makes me
wish some excuse to fight."
"As you observed today. Fax seeks some excuse. And,"
F'lar added thoughtfully, "there is something here in Ruatha
that unnerves our noble overlord."
He caught sight of Lady Tela, whom Fax had so cour-
teously assigned him for comfort during the progression,
waving to him from the inner Hold portal.
"A case in point. Fax's Lady Tela is some three months
gone."
F'nor frowned at the insult to his leader.
"She giggles incessantly and appears so addlepated that one
cannot decide whether she babbles out of ignorance or at
Fax's suggestion. As she has apparently not bathed all winter,
and is not, in any case, my ideal, I have"F'lar grinned
maliciously"deprived myself of her kind offices."
F'nor hastily cleared his throat and his expression as Lady
Tela approached them. He caught the unappealing odor from
the scarf or handkerchief she waved constantly. Dragonmen
endured a great deal for the Weyr. He moved away, with
apparent courtesy, to join the rest of the dragonmen entering
the Hall.
F'lar turned with equal courtesy to Lady Tela as she
jabbered away about the terrible condition of the rooms
which Lady Gemma and the other ladies had been assigned.
"The shutters, both sets, were ajar all winter long and
you should have seen the trash on the floors. We finally got
two of the drudges to sweep it all into the fireplace. And
then that smoked something fearful 'til a man was sent up."
Lady Tela giggled. "He found the access blocked by a
chimney stone fallen aslant. The rest of the chimney, for
a wonder, was in good repair."
She waved her handkerchief. F'lar held his breath as the
gesture wafted an unappealing odor in his direction.
He glanced up the Hall towards the inner Hold door and
saw Lady Gemma descending, her steps slow and awkward.
Some subtle difference about her gait attracted him and he
stared at her, trying to identify it.
"Oh, yes, poor Lady Gemma," Lady Tela babbled, sighing
deeply. "We are so concerned. Why Lord Fax insisted on
her coming, I do not know. She is not near her time and
yet . . ." The lighthead's concern sounded sincere.
F'lar's incipient hatred for Fax and his brutality matured
abruptly.  He left his partner chattering to thin air  and
courteously extended his arm to Lady Gemma to support
her down the steps and to the table. Only the brief tightening
of her fingers on his forearm betrayed her gratitude. Her face
was very white and drawn, the lines deeply etched around
mouth and eyes, showing the effort she was expending.
"Some attempt has been made, I see, to restore order to
the Hall," she remarked in a conversational tone.
"Some," F'lar admitted dryly, glancing around the grandly
proportioned Hall, its rafter festooned with the webs of many
Turns. The inhabitants of those gossamer nests dropped from
time to time, with ripe splats, to the floor, onto the table
and into the serving platters. Nothing replaced the old ban-
ners of the Ruathan Blood, which had been removed from
the stark brown stone walls. Fresh rushes did obscure the
greasy flagstones. The trestle tables appeared recently sanded
and scraped, and the platters gleamed dully in the refreshed
glows. Unfortunately, .the brighter light was a mistake for it
was much too unflattering.
"This was such a graceful Hall," Lady Gemma murmured
for F'lar's ears alone.
"You were a friend?" he asked, politely.
"Yes, fn my youth." Her voice dropped expressively on
the last word, evoking for F'lar a happier girlhood. "It was a
noble linel"
"Think you one might have escaped the sword?"
Lady Gemma flashed him a startled look, then quickly
composed her features, lest the exchange be noted. She gave
a barely perceptible shake of her head and then shifted her
awkward weight to take her place at the table. Graciously
she inclined her head towards F'lar, both dismissing and
thanking him.
F'lar returned to his own partner and placed her at the
table on his left. As the only person of rank who would
dine that night at Ruath Hold, Lady Gemma was seated on
his right; Fax would be beyond her. The dragonmen and
Fax's upper soldiery would sit at the lower tables. No guild-
men had been invited to Ruatha. Fax arrived just-then with
his current lady and two underleaders, the Warder bowing
them effusively into the Hall. The man, F'lar noticed, kept
a good distance ftom his overlordas well as a Warder might
whose responsibility was in this sorry condition. F'lar flicked a
crawler away. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lady
Gemma wince and shudder.
Fax stamped up to the raised table, his face black with sup-
pressed rage. He pulled back his chair roughly, slamming it
into Lady Gemma's before he seated himself. He pulled the
chair to the table with a force that threatened to rock the
none too stable trestle-top from its supporting legs. Scowling,
he inspected his goblet and plate, fingering the surface, ready
to throw them aside if they displeased him.
"A roast and fresh bread, Lord Fax, and such fruits and
roots as are left. Had I but known of your arrival, I could
have sent to Crom for . . ."
"Sent to Crom?" roared Fax, slamming the plate he was
inspecting into the table so forcefully the rim bent under
his hands. The Warder winced again as if he himself had
been maimed.
"The day one of my Holds cannot support itself or the visit
of its rightful overlord, I shall renounce it."
Lady Gemma gasped. Simultaneously the dragons roared.
F'lar felt the unmistakable surge of power. His eyes in-
stinctively sought F'nor at the lower table. The brown rider
all the dragonmenhad experienced that inexplicable shaft
of exultation.
"What's wrong, Dragonman?" snapped Fax.
F'lar,  affecting unconcern,  stretched bis  legs under the
table and assumed an indolent posture in the heavy chair.
"Wrong?"
"The dragons!"
"Oh, nothing. They often roar . . . at the sunset, at a flock
of passing wherries, at mealtimes," and F'lar smiled amiably
at the Lord of the High Reaches. Beside him his tablemate
gave a squeak.
"Mealtimes? Have they not been fed?"
"Oh, yes. Five days ago."
"Oh. Five . . . days ago? And are they hungry . . . now?"
Her voice trailed into a whisper of fear, her eyes grew round.
"In a few days," F'lar assured her. Under cover of his
detached amusement, F'lar scanned the Hall. That surge bad
come from nearby. Either in the Hall or just outside. It must
have been from within. It came so soon upon Fax's speech
that his words must have triggered it. And the power had
had an indefinably feminine touch to it.
One of Fax's women? F'lar found that hard to credit.
Mnementh had been close to all of them and none had
shown a vestige of power. Much less, with the exception of
Lady Gemma, any intelligence.
One of the Hall women? So far he had seen only the
sorry drudges and the aging females the Warder had as house-
keepers. The Warder's personal woman? He must discover if
that man had one. One of the Hold guards' women? F'lar
suppressed an intense desire to rise and search.
"You mount a guard?" he asked Fax casually.
"Double at Ruath Hold!" he was told in a tight, hard
voice, ground out from somewhere deep in Fax's chest.
"Here?" F'lar all but laughed out loud, gesturing around
the sadly appointed chamber.
"Here! Food!" Fax changed the subject with a roar.
Five drudges, two of them women in brown-gray rags
such that F'lar hoped they had had nothing to do with the
preparation of the meal, staggered in under the emplattered
herdbeast. No one with so much as a trace of power would
sink to such depths, unless . . .
The aroma that reached him as the platter was placed on
the serving table distracted him. It reeked of singed bone and
charred meat. The Warder frantically sharpened his tools as
if a keen edge could somehow slice acceptable portions from
this unlikely carcass.
Lady Gemma caught her breath again and F'lar saw her
hands curl tightly around the armrests. He saw the convulsive
movement of her throat as she swallowed. He, too, did not
look forward to this repast.
The drudges reappeared with wooden trays of bread. Burnt
crusts had been scraped and cut, in some places, from the
loaves before serving. As other trays were borne in, F'lar
tried to catch sight of the faces of the servitors. Matted hair
obscured the face of the one who presented a dish of legumes
swimming in greasy liquid. Revolted, F'lar poked through the
legumes to find properly cooked portions to offer Lady Gem-
ma. She waved them aside, her face ill"concealing her dis-
comfort.
As F'lar was about to turn and serve Lady Tela, he saw
Lady Gemma's hand clutch convulsively at the chair arms.
He realized that she was not merely nauseated by the un-
appetizing food. She was seized with labor contractions.
F'lar glanced in Fax's direction. "The overlord was scowling
blackly at the attempts of the Warder to find edible portions
of meat to serve.
F'lar touched Lady Gemma's arm with light fingers. She
turned just enough to look at F'lar from the corner of her
eye. She managed a socially correct half-smile.
"I dare not leave just now, Lord F'lar. He is always
dangerous at Ruatha. And it may only be false pangs."
F'lar was dubious as he saw another shudder pass through
her frame. The woman would have been a fine weyrwoman,
he thought ruefully, were she but younger.
The Warder, his hands shaking, presented Fax the sliced
meats. There were slivers of overdone flesh and portions of
almost edible meats, but not much of either.
One furious wave of Fax's broad fist and the Warder had
the plate, meats and juice, square in the face. Despite him-
self, F'lar sighed, for those undoubtedly constituted the only
edible portions of the entire beast.
"You call this food? You call this food?" Fax bellowed.
His voice boomed back from the bare vault of the ceiling,
shaking crawlers from their webs as the sound shattered the
fragile strands. "Slop! Slop!"
F'lar rapidly brushed crawlers from Lady Gemma who was
helpless in the throes of a very strong contraction.
"It's all we had on such short notice," the Warder squealed,
juices streaking down his cheeks. Fax threw the goblet at him
and the wine went streaming down the man's chest. The
steaming dish of roots followed and the man yelped as the
hot liquid splashed over him.
"My lord, my lord, had I but known!"
"Obviously, Ruatha cannot support the visit of its Lord.
You must renounce it," F'lar heard himself saying.
His shock at such words issuing from his mouth was as
great as that of everyone else in the Hall. Silence fell, broken
by the splat of falling crawlers and the drip of root liquid
from the Warder's shoulders to the rushes. The grating of
Fax's bootheel was clearly audible as he swung slowly around
to face the bronze rider.
As F'lar conquered his own amazement and rapidly tried
to predict what to do next to mend matters, he saw F'nor
rise slowly to his feet, hand on dagger hilt.
"I did not hear you correctly?" Fax asked, his face blank
of all expression, his eyes snapping.
Unable to comprehend how he could have uttered such an
arrant challenge, F'lar managed to assume a languid pose.
"You did mention," he drawled, "that if any of your Holds
could not support itself and the visit of its rightful overlord,
you would renounce it."
Fax stared back at F'lar, his face a study of swiftly sup-
pressed emotions, the glint of triumph dominant. F'lar, his
face stiff with the forced expression of indifference, was cast-
ing swiftly about in his mind. In the name of the Egg, had
he lost all sense of discretion?
Pretending utter unconcern, he stabbed some vegetables
onto his knife and began to munch on them. As he did so,
he noticed F'nor glancing slowly around the Hall, scrutiniz-
ing everyone. Abruptly F'lar realized what had happened.
Somehow, in making that statement, he, a dragonman, had
responded to a covert use of the power. F'lar, the bronze
rider, was being put into a position where he would have to
fight Fax. Why? For what end? To gef Fax to renounce the
Hold? Incredible! But, there could be only one possible rea-
son for such a turn of events. An exultation as sharp as pain
swelled within F'lar. It was all he could do to maintain his
pose of bored indifference, all he could do to turn his atten-
tion to thwarting Fax, should he press for a duel. A duel
would serve no purpose. He, F'lar, had no time to waste on
it.
A groan escaped Lady Gemma and broke the eye-locked
stance of the two antagonists. Irritated, Fax looked down at
her, fist clenched and half-raised to strike her for her temer-
ity in interrupting her lord and master. The contraction that
contorted the swollen belly was as obvious as the woman's
pain. F'lar dared not look towards her but he wondered if
she had deliberately groaned aloud to break the tension.
Incredibly, Fax began to laugh. He threw back his head,
showing big, stained teeth, and roared.
"Aye, renounce it, in favor of her issue, if it is male . . .
and lives!" he crowed, laughing raucously.
"Heard and witnessed!" F'lar snapped, jumping to his feet
and pointing to his riders. They were on. their feet in the
instant.  "Heard and witnessed!" they averred in the tradi-
'tional manner.
With that movement, everyone began to babble at once in
nervous relief. The other women, each reacting in her way
to the imminence of birth, called orders to the servants and
advice to each other. They converged towards Lady Gemma,
hovering undecidedly out of Fax's range, like silly wherries
disturbed from their roosts. It was obvious they were torn
between their fear of the lord and their desire to reach the
laboring woman.
He gathered their intentions as well as their reluctance
and, still stridently laughing, knocked back his chair. He
stepped over it, strode down to the meatstand and stood
hacking off pieces with his knife, stuffing them, juice drip-
ping, into his mouth without ceasing his guffawing.
As F'lar bent towards Lady Gemma to assist her out of
her chair, she grabbed his arm urgently. Their eyes met, hers
clouded with pain. She pulled him closer.
"He means to kill you. Bronze Rider. He loves to kill,"
she whispered.
"Dragonmen are not easily killed, but I am grateful to
you."
"I do not want you killed," she said, softly, biting at her
lip. "We have so few bronze riders."
F'lar stared at her, startled. Did she, Fax's lady, actually
believe in the Old Laws?
F'lar beckoned to two of the Warder's men to carry her up
into the Hold. He caught Lady Tela by the arm as she
fluttered past him.
"What do you need?"
"Oh, oh," she exclaimed, her face twisted with panic; she
was distractedly wringing her hands. "Water, hot. Clean
cloths. And a birthing-woman. Oh, yes, we must have a
birthing-woman."
F'lar looked about for one of the Hold women, his glance
sliding over the first disreputable figure who had started to
mop up the spilled food. He signaled instead for the Warder
and peremptorily ordered him to send for the woman. The
Warder kicked at the drudge on the floor.
"You . . . you! Whatever your name is, go get her from
the crafthold. You must know who she is."
The drudge evaded the parting kick the Warder aimed in
her dillection with a nimbleness at odds with her appearance
of extreme age and decrepitude. She scurried across the Hall
and out the kitchen door.
Fax sliced and speared meat, occasionally bursting out with
a louder bark of laughter as his inner thoughts amused him.
F'lar sauntered down to the carcass and, without waiting for
invitation from his host, began to carve neat slices also, beck-
oning his men over. Fax's soldiers, however, waited until
their lord had eaten his fill.
Lord of the Hold, your charge is sure
In thick walls, metal doors and no verdure.
Lessa sped from the Hall to summon the birthing-woman,
seething with frustration. So close! So close! How could she
come so close and yet fail? Fax should have challenged
dragonman. And the dragonman was strong and young, his
face that of a fighter, stern and controlled. He should not
have temporized. Was all honor dead in Pern, smothered by
green grass?
And why, oh why, had Lady Gemma chosen that precious
moment to go into labor? If her groan hadn't distracted Fax,
the fight would have begun and not even Fax, for all his
vaunted prowess as a vicious fighter, would have prevailed
against a dragonman who had herLessa'ssupport! The
Hold must be secured to its rightful Blood again. Fax must
not leave Ruatha, alive, again!
Above her, on the High Tower, the great bronze dragon
gave forth a weird croon, his many-faceted eyes sparkling in
the gathering darkness.
Unconsciously she silenced him as she would have done
the watch-wher. Ah, that watch-wher. He had not come out
of his den at her passing. She knew the dragons had been
at him. She could hear him gibbering in panic.
The slant of the road towards the crafthold lent impetus to
her flying feet and she had to brace herself to a sliding stop
at the birthing-woman's stone threshold. She banged on the
closed door and heard the frightened exclamation within.
"A birth. A birth at the Hold," Lessa cried.
"A birth?" came the muffled cry and the latches were
thrown up on the door. "At the Hold?"
"Fax's lady and, as you love life, hurry! For if it is male,
it will be Ruatha's own lord."
That ought to fetch her, thought Lessa, and in that instant,
the door was flung open by the man of the house. Lessa
could see the birthing-woman gathering up her things in
haste, piling them into her shawl. Lessa hurried the woman
out, up the steep road to the Hold, under the Tower gate,
grabbing the woman as she tried to run at the sight of a
dragon peering down at her. Lessa drew her into the Court
and pushed her, resisting, into the Hall.
The woman clutched at the inner door, balking at the
sight of the gathering there. Lord Fax, his feet up on the
trestle table, was paring his fingernails with his knife blado,
still  chuckling.  The  dragonmen  in  their  wher-hide  tunics
were eating quietly at one table while the soldiers were
having their turn at the meat.
The bronze rider noticed their entrance and pointed ur-
gently towards the inner Hold. The birthing-woman seemed
frozen to the spot. Lessa tugged futilely at her arm, urging
her to cross the Hall. To her surprise, the bronze rider strode
to them.
"Go quickly, woman, Lady Gemma is before her time,"
he said, frowning with concern, gesturing imperatively
towards the Hold entrance. He caught her by the shoulder
and led her, all unwilling, Lessa tugging away at her other
arm.
When they reached the stairs, he relinquished his grip,
nodding to Lessa to escort her the rest of the way. Just as
they reached the massive inner door, Lessa noticed how
sharply the dragonman was looking at themat her hand, on
the birthing-woman's arm. Warily, she glanced at her hand
and saw it, as if it belonged to a stranger: the long fingers,
shapely despite dirt and broken nails; her small hand, deli-
cately boned, gracefully placed despite the urgency of the
grip. She blurred it and hurried on.
Honor those the dragons heed,
In thought and favor, word and deed.
Worlds are lost or worlds are saved
By those dangers dragonbraved.
Dragonman, avoid excess;
Greed will bring the Weyr distress;
To the ancient Laws adhere,
Prospers thus the Dragon weyr.
An unintelligible ululation raised the waiting men to their
feet, startled from private meditations and diversion of Bone-
throws. Only Pax remained unmoved at the alarm, save that
the slight sneer, which had settled on his face hours past,
deepened to smug satisfaction.
"Dead-ed-ed," the tidings reverberated down the rocky cor-
ridors of the Hold. The weeping lady seemed to erupt out
of the passage from the Inner Hold, flying down the steps to
sink into an hysterical heap at Fax's feet. "She's dead. Lady
Gemma is dead. There was too much blood. It was too soon.
She was too old to bear more cliildren."
F'lar couldn't decide whether the woman was apologizing
for, or exulting in, the woman's death. She certainly couldn't
be criticizing her Lord for placing Lady Gemma in such
peril. F'lar, however, was sincerely sorry at Gemma's pass-
ing. She had been a brave, fine woman.
And now, what would be Fax's next move? F'lar caught
F'nor's identically quizzical glance and shrugged expressively.
' "The child lives!" a curiously distorted voice announced,
penetrating the rising noise in the Great Hall. The words
electrified the atmosphere. Every head slewed round sharply
towards the portal to the Inner Hold where the drudge, a
totally unexpected messenger, stood poised on the top step.
"It is male I" This announcement rang triumphantly in the
still  Hall.
Fax jerked himself to his feet, kicking aside the wailer at
his feet, scowling ominously at the drudge. "What did you
say, woman?"
"The child lives. It is male," the creature repeated, de-
scending the stairs.
Incredulity and rage suffused Fax's face. His body seemed
to coil up.
"Ruatha has a new lord!" Staring intently at the overlord,
she advanced, her mien purposeful, almost menacing.
The tentative cheers of the Warder's men were drowned
by the roaring of the dragons.
Fax erupted into action. He leaped across the intervening
space, bellowing. Before Lessa could dodge, his fist crashed
down across her face. She fell heavily to the stone floor,
where she lay motionless, a bundle of dirty rags.
"Hold, Fax!" F'lar's voice broke the silence as the Lord
of the High Reaches flexed his leg to kick her.
Fax whirled, his hand automatically closing on his knife
hilt.
"It was heard and witnessed. Fax," F'lar cautioned him,
one hand outstretched in warning, "by dragonmen. Stand by
your sworn and witnessed oath!"
"Witnessed? By Dragonmen?" cried Fax with a derisive
laugh.  "Dragonwomen, you mean," he sneered,  his eyes
blazing with contempt, as he made one sweeping gesture of
scorn.
He was momentarily taken aback by the speed with which
the bronze rider's knife appeared in his hand.
"Dragonwomen?" F'lar queried, his lips curling back over
his teeth, his voice dangerously soft. Glowlight flickered off
his circling knife as he advanced on Fax.
"Women! Parasites on Pern. The Weyr power is over.
Over!" Fax roared, leaping forward to land in a combat
crouch.
The two antagonists were dimly aware of the scurry be-
hind them, of tables pulled roughly aside to give the duelists
space. F'lar could spare no glance at the crumpled form of
the drudge. Yet he was sure, through and beyond instinct
sure, that she was the source of power. He had felt it as she
entered the room. The dragons' roaring confirmed it. If that
fall had killed her . . . He advanced on Fax, leaping high to
avoid the slashing blade as Fax unwound from the crouch
with a powerful lunge,
F'lar evaded  the  attack  easily, noticing his  opponent's
reach, deciding he had a slight advantage there. But not
much. Fax had had much more actual hand-to-hand killing
experience than had he whose duels had always ended at
first blood  on the  practice  floor.  F'lar made  due  note to
avoid closing with the burly lord. The man was heavy-
chested, dangerous from sheer mass. F'lar must use agility
as his weapon, not brute strength.
Fax feinted, testing F'lar for weakness, or indiscretion.
The two crouched, facing each other across six feet of space,
knife hands weaving, their free hands, spread-fingered, ready
to grab.
Again Fax pressed the attack. F'lar allowed him to dose,
just near enough to dodge away with a backhanded swipe.
Fabric ripped under the tip of his knife. He heard Fax snarl.
The overlord was faster on his feet than his bulk suggested
and P'lar had to dodge a second time, feeling Fax's knife
score his wher-hide jerkin.
Grimly the two circled, each looking for an opening in
the other's defense. Fax plowed in, trying to comer the
lighter, faster man between raised platform and wall.
F'lar countered,  ducking low under Fax's  flailing  arm,
slashing obliquely across Fax's side. The overlord caught at
him, yanking savagely, and F'lar was trapped against the
other man's side, straining desperately with his left hand
to keep the knife arm up. F'lar brought up his knee, and
ducked away as Fax gasped and buckled from the pain in
his groin, but Fax struck in passing. Sudden fire laced F'lar's
left shoulder.
Fax's face was red with anger and he wheezed from pain
and shock. But the infuriated lord straightened up and
charged. F'lar was forced to sidestep quickly before Fax
could close with him. F'lar put the meat table between them,
circling warily, flexing his shoulder to assess the extent of the
knife's slash. It was painful, but the arm could be used.
Suddenly Fax scooped up some fatty scraps from the
meat tray and buried them at F'lar. The dragonman ducked
and Fax came around the table with a rush. F'lar leaped
sideways. Fax's flashing blade came within inches of his ab-
domen, as his own knife sliced down the outside of Fax's
arm. Instantly the two pivoted to face each other again, but
Pax's left arm hung limply at his side.
F'lar darted in, pressing his luck as the Lord of the High
Reaches staggered. But F'lar misjudged the man's condition
and suffered a terrific kick in the side as he tried to dodge
under the feinting knife. Doubled with pain, F'lar rolled
frantically away from his charging adversary. Fax was lurch-
ing forward, trying to fall on him, to pin the lighter dragon-
man down for a final thrust. Somehow F'lar got to his feet,
attempting to straighten to meet Fax's stumbling charge. His
very position saved him. Fax over-reached his mark and
staggered off balance. F'lar brought his right hand over with
as much strength as he could muster and his blade plunged
through Fax's unprotected back until he felt the point stick
in the chest plate.
The defeated lord fell flat to the flagstones. The force of
his descent dislodged the dagger from his chestbone and an
inch of bloody blade re-emerged.
F'lar stared down at the dead man. There was no pleasure
in killing, he realized, only relief that he himself was still
alive. He wiped his forehead on his sleeve and forced him-
self erect, his side throbbing with the pain of that last kick
and his left shoulder burning. He half-stumbled to the
drudge, still sprawled where she had fallen.
He gently turned her over, noting the terrible bruise
spreading across her cheek under the dirty skin. He heard
F'nor take command of the tumult in the Hall.
The dragonman laid a hand, trembling in spite of an ef-
fort to control himself, on the woman's breast to feel for a
heartbeat . . . It was there, slow but strong.
A deep sigh escaped him for either blow or fall could
have proved fatal. Fatal, perhaps, for Pern as well.
Relief was colored with disgust. There was no telling under
the filth how old this creature might be. He raised her in his
arms, her light body no burden even to his battle-weary
strength. Knowing F'nor would handle any trouble efficient-
ly, F'lar carried the drudge to his own chamber.
Putting the body on the high bed, he stirred up the fire
and added more glows to the bedside bracket. His gorge rose
at the thought of touching the filthy mat of hair but none-
theless and gently, he pushed it back from the face, turning
the head this way and that. The features were small, regular.
One arm, clear of rags, was reasonably clean above the elbow
but marred by bruises and old scars. The skin was firm and
unwrinkled. The hands, when he took them in his, were
filthy but well-shaped and delicately boned.
F'lar began to smile. Yes, she had blurred that hand so
skillfully that he had actually doubted what he had first seen.
And yes, beneath grime and grease, she was young. Young
enough for the Weyr. And no born drab. There was no taint
of common blood here. It was pure, no matter whose the
line,  and he rather thought she was indeed  Ruathan.  One
who had by some unknown agency escaped the massacre ten
Turns ago and bided her time for revenge. Why else force
Fax to renounce the Hold?
Delighted and fascinated by this unexpected luck, F'lar
reached out to tear the dress from the unconscious body and
found himself constrained not to. The girl had roused. Her
great, hungry eyes fastened on his, not fearful or expectant;
wary.
A subtle change occurred in her face. F'lar watched, his
smile deepening, as she shifted her regular features into an
illusion of disagreeable ugliness and great age.
"Trying to confuse a dragonman, girl?" he chuckled. He
made no further move to touch her but settled against the
great carved post of the bed. He crossed his arms sternly
on his chest, thought better of it immediately, and eased
his sore arm. "Your name, girl, and rank, too."
She drew herself upright slowly against the headboard, her
features no longer blurred. They faced each other across the
high bed.
"Fax?"
"Dead. Your name!"
A look of exulting triumph flooded her face. She slipped
from the bed, standing unexpectedly tall. "Then I reclaim
my own. I am of the Ruathan Blood. I claim Ruath," she
announced in a ringing voice.
F'lar stared at her a moment, delighted with her proud
be.aring. Then he threw back his head and laughed.
"This? This crumbling heap?" He could not help but mock
the disparity between her manner and her dress. "Oh, no.
Besides, Lady, we dragonmen heard and witnessed Fax's
oath renouncing the Hold in favor of his heir. Shall I
challenge the babe, too, for you? And choke him with his
swaddling cloth?"
Her eyes flashed, her lips parted in a terrible smile.
"There is no heir. Gemma died, the babe unborn. I lied."
"Lied?" F'lar demanded, angry.
"Yes," she taunted him with a toss of her chin. "I lied.
There was no babe born. I merely wanted to be sure you
challenged Fax."
He grabbed her wrist, stung that he had twice fallen to
her prodding.
"You provoked a dragonman to fight? To kill? When he is
on Search?"
"Search? Why should I care about a Search? I've Ruatha
as my Hold again. For ten Turns, I have worked and waited,
schemed and suffered for that. What could your Search mean
to me?"
F'lar wanted to strike that look of haughty contempt from
her face. He twisted her arm savagely, bringing her to her
feet before he released his grip. She laughed at him, and
scuttled to one side. She was on her feet and out the door
before he could give chase.
Swearing to himself, he raced down the rocky corridors,
knowing she would have to make for the Hall to get out
of the Hold. However, when he reached the Hall, there was
no sign of her fleeing figure among those still loitering.
"Has that creature come this way?" he called to F'nor who
was, by change, standing by the door to the Court.
"No. Is she the source of power after all?"
"Yes, she is," F'lar answered, galled all the more. "And
Ruathan Blood at that!"
"Oh ho! Does she depose the babe, then?" F'nor asked,
gesturing towards the birthing-woman who occupied a seat
close to the now blazing hearth.
F'lar paused, about to return to search the Hold's myriad
passages. He stared, momentarily confused, at this brown
rider.
"Babe? What babe?"
"The male child Lady Gemma bore," F'nor replied, sur-
prised by F'lar's uncomprehending look.
"It lives?"
"Yes. A strong babe, the woman says, for all that he was
premature and taken forcibly from his dead dame's belly."
F'lar threw back his head with a shout of laughter. For
all her scheming, she had been outdone by truth.
At that moment, he heard Mnementh roar in unmistak-
able elation and the curious warble of other dragons.
"Mnementh has caught her," F'lar cried, grinning with
jubilation. He strode down the steps, past the body of the
former Lord of the High Reaches and out into the main
court.
He saw that the bronze dragon was gone from his Tower
perch and called him. An agitation drew his eyes upward.
He saw Mnementh spiraling down into the Court, his front
paws clasping something. Mnementh informed F'lar that he
had seen her climbing from one of the high windows and
had simply plucked her from the ledge, knowing the dragon-
man sought her. The bronze dragon settled awkwardly onto
his  hind  legs,  his  wings  working  to  keep  him  balanced.
Carefully he set the girl on her feet and formed a precise
cage around her with his huge talons. She stood motionless
within that circle, her face towards the wedge-shaped head
that swayed above her.
The watch-wher, shrieking terror, anger and hatred, was
lunging violently to the end of its chain, trying to come to
Lessa's aid. It grabbed at F'lar as he strode to the two.
"You've courage enough, girl," he admitted, resting one
hand casually on Mnementh's upper claw. Mnementh was
enormously pleased with himself and swiveled his head down
for his eye ridges to be scratched.
"You did not lie, you know," F'lar said, unable to resist
taunting the girl.
Slowly she turned towards him, her face impassive. She
was not afraid of dragons, F'lar realized with approval.
"The babe lives. And it is male."
She could not control her dismay and her shoulders sagged
briefly before she pulled herself erect.
"Ruatha is mine," she insisted in a tense low voice.
"Aye, and it would have been, had you approached me
directly when the wing arrived here."
Her eyes widened. "What do you mean?"
"A dragonman may champion anyone whose grievance
is just.  By the time we reached Ruath Hold,  I  was  quite
ready to challenge Fax given any reasonable cause, despite
the Search." This was not the whole truth but F'lar must
teach this girl the folly of trying to control dragonmen. "Had
you paid any attention to your harper's songs, you'd know
your rights. And," F'lar's voice held a vindictive edge that
surprised him, "Lady Gemma might not now lie dead. She
suffered far more at that tyrant's hand than you."
Something in her manner told him that she regretted Lady
Gemma's death, that it had affected her deeply.
"What good is Ruatha to you now?" he demanded, a broad
sweep of his arm taking in the ruined court yard and the
Hold, the entire unproductive valley of Ruatha. "You have
indeed accomplished your ends; a profitless conquest and its
conqueror's death." F'lar snorted:  "All seven Holds will
revert to their legitimate Blood, and time they did. One
Hold, one lord. Of course, you might have to fight others,
infected with Fax's greed. Could you hold Ruatha against
attack . . . now . . . in her decline?"
"Ruatha is mine!"
"Ruatha?" F'lar's laugh was derisive. "When you could be
Weyrwoman?"
"Weyrwoman?" she breathed, staring at him.
"Yes, little fool. I said I rode in Search . . . it's about time
you attended to more than Ruatha. And the object of my
Search is . . . you!"
She stared at the finger he pointed at her as if it were
dangerous.
"By the First Egg, girl, you've power in you to spare when
you can turn a dragonman, all unwitting, to do your bidding.
Ah, but never again, for now I am on guard against you."
Mnementh crooned approvingly, the sound a soft rumble
in his throat. He arched his neck so that one eye was turned
directly on the girl, gleaming in the darkness of the court.
F'lar noticed with detached pride that she neither flinched
nor blanched at the proximity of an eye greater than her
own head.
"He likes to have his eye ridges scratched," F'lar remarked
in a friendly tone, changing tactics.
"I know," she said softly and reached out a hand to do
that service.
"Nemorth's queen," F'lar continued, "is close to death.
This time we must have a strong Weyrwoman."
"This timethe Red Star?" the girl gasped, turning fright-
ened eyes to F'lar.
"You understand what it means?"
"There is danger . . ." she began in a bare whisper, glanc-
ing apprehensively eastward.
F'lar did not question by what miracle she appreciated
the imminence of danger. He had every intention of taking
her to the Weyr by sheer force if necessary. But something
within him wanted very much for her to accept the challenge
voluntarily. A rebellious Weyrwoman would be even more
dangerous than a stupid one. This girl had too much power
and was too used to guile and strategy. It would be a calam-
ity to antagonize her with injudicious handling.
"There is danger for all Pern. Not just Ruatha," he said,
allowing a note of entreaty to creep into his voice. "And you
are needed. Not by Ruatha," a wave of his hand dismissed
that consideration as a negligible one compared to the total
picture.  "We  are doomed without a  strong Weyrwoman.
Without you."
"Gemma kept saying all the bronze riders were needed,"
she murmured in a dazed whisper.
What did she mean by that statement? F'lar frowned. Had
she heard a word he had said? He pressed his argument,
certain only that he had already struck one responsive chord.
"You've won here. Let the babe," he saw her startled
rejection of that idea and ruthlessly qualified it, ". . . Gem-
ma's babe . . . be reared at Ruatha. You have command of
all  the  Holds  as  Weyrwoman,  not  ruined  Ruatha  alone.
You've accomplished Fax's death. Leave off vengeance."
She stared at F'lar with wonder, absorbing his words.
"I never thought beyond Fax's death," she admitted slow-
ly. "I never thought what should happen then."
Her confusion was almost childlike and struck F'lar forc-
ibly. He had had no time, or desire,  to consider her pro-
digious accomplishment. Now he realized some measure of
her indomitable character. She could not have been much
over ten Turns of age herself when Fax had murdered her
family. Yet somehow, so young, she had set herself a goal
and managed to survive both brutality and detection long
enough to secure the usurper's death. What a Weyrwoman
she would be! In the tradition of those of Ruathan blood.
The light of the paler moon made her look young and
vulnerable and almost pretty.
"You can be Weyrwoman," he insisted gently.
"Weyrwoman," she breathed, incredulous, and gazed round
the inner court bathed in soft moonlight. He thought she
wavered.
"Or perhaps you enjoy rags?" he said, making his voice
harsh, mocking. "And matted hair, dirty feet and cracked
hands? Sleeping in straw, eating rinds? You are young . . .
that is, I assume you are young," and his voice was frankly
skeptical. She glared at him, her lips firmly pressed together.
"Is this the be-all and end-all of your ambition? What are
you that this little corner of the great world is all you want?"
He paused and with utter contempt added, "The blood of
Ruatha has thinned, I see. You're afraid!"
"I am Lessa, daughter of the Lord of Ruath," she coun-
tered, stung. She drew herself erect. Her eyes flashed. "I am
afraid of nothing!"
F'lar contented himself with a slight smile.
Mnementh, however, threw up his head, and stretched
out his sinuous neck to its whole length. His full-throated
peal rang out down the valley. The bronze dragon com-
municated his awareness to F'lar that Lessa had accepted the
challenge. The other dragons answered back, their warbles
shriller than Mnementh's bellow. The watch-wher which had
cowered at the end of its chain, lifted its voice in a thin,
unnerving screech until the Hold emptied of its startled oc-
cupants.
"F'nor," the bronze rider called, waving his wingleader to
him. "Leave half the flight to guard the Hold. Some nearby
lord might think to emulate Fax's example. Send one rider to
the High Reaches with the glad news. You go directly to the
Cloth Hall and speak to L'tol . . . Lytol." F'lar grinned. "I
think he would make an exemplary Warder and Lord Sur-
rogate for this Hold in the name of the Weyr and the babe."
The brown rider's face expressed enthusiasm for his mis-
sion as he began to comprehend his leader's intentions. With
Fax dead and Ruatha under the protection of dragonmen,
particularly that same one who had dispatched Fax, the Hold
would have wise management.
"She caused Ruatha's deterioration?" he asked.
"And nearly ours with her machinations," F'lar replied
but having found the admirable object of his Search, he
could now be magnanimous. "Suppress your exultation,
brother," he advised quickly as he took note of F'nor's ex-
pression. "The new queen must also be Impressed."
"I'll settle arrangements here. Lytol is an excellent choice,"
F'nor said.
"Who is this Lytol?" demanded Lessa pointedly. She had
twisted the mass of filthy hair back from her face. In the
moonlight the dirt was less noticeable. F'lar caught F'nor
looking at her with an all too easily read expression. He
signaled F'nor, with a peremptory gesture, to carry out his
orders without delay.
"Lytol is a dragonless man," F'lar told the girl, "no friend
to Fax. He will ward the Hold well and it will prosper." He
added persuasively with a quelling stare full on her, "Won't
it?"
She regarded him somberly, without answering, until he
chuckled softly at her discomfiture.
"We'll return to the Weyr," he announced, proffering a
hand to guide her to Mnementh's side.
The bronze one had extended his head toward the watch-
wher who now lay panting on the ground, its chain limp in
the dust.
"Oh," Lessa sighed, and dropped beside the grotesque
beast. It raised its head slowly, lurring piteously.
"Mnementh says it is very old and soon will sleep itself to
death."
Lessa cradled the bestial head in her arms, scratching it
behind the ears.
"Come, Lessa of Pern," F'lar said, impatient to be up and
away.
She rose slowly but obediently. "It saved me. It knew
me."
"It knows it did well," F'lar assured her, brusquely, won-
dering at such an uncharacteristic show of sentiment in her.
He took her hand again, to help her to her feet and lead
her back to Mnementh. As they turned, he glimpsed the
watch-wher, launching itself at a dead run after Lessa. The
chain, however, held fast. The beast's neck broke, with a
sickeningly audible snap.
Lessa was on her knees in an instant, cradling the repul-
sive head in her arms.
"Why, you foolish thing, why?" she asked in a stunned
whisper as the light in the beast's green-gold eyes dimmed
and died out.
Mnementh informed F'lar that the creature had lived this
long only to preserve the Ruathan line. At Lessa's imminent
departure, it had welcomed death.
A convulsive shudder went through Lessa's slim body.
F'lar watched as she undid the heavy buckle that fastened
the metal collar about the watch-wher's neck. She threw
the tether away with a violent motion. Tenderly she laid
the watch-wher on the cobbles. With one last caress to the
clipped wings, she rose in. a fluid movement and walked
resolutely to Mnementh without a single backward glance.
She stepped calmly to the dragon's raised leg and seated
herself, as F'lar directed, on the great neck.
F'lar glanced around the courtyard at the remainder of his
wing which had reformed there. The Hold folk had retreated
back into the safety of the Great Hall. When his wingmen
were all astride, he vaulted to Mnementh's neck, behind
the girl.
"Hold tightly to my arms," he ordered her as he took hold
of the smallest neck ridge and gave the command to fly.
Her fingers dosed spasmodically around his forearm as the
great bronze dragon took off, the enormous wings working
to achieve height from the vertical takeoff. Mnementh pre-
ferred to fall into flight from a cliff or tower. Like all
dragons, he tended to indolence. F'lar glanced behind him,
saw the other dragonmen form the flight line, spread out to
cover those still on guard at Ruatha Hold.
When they had reached a sufficient altitude, he told Mne-
menth to transfer, going between to the Weyr.
Only a gasp indicated the girl's astonishment as they hung
between. Accustomed as he was to the sting of the profound
cold, to the awesome utter lack of light and sound, F'lar
still  found  the  sensations  unnerving.  Yet  the  uncommon
transfer spanned no more time than it took to cough thrice.
Mnementh rumbled approval of this candidate's calm re-
action as they flicked out of the eerie between.
And then they were above the Weyr, Mnementh setting
his wings to glide in the bright daylight, half a world away
from night-time Ruatha.
As they circled above the great stony trough of the Weyr,
F'lar peered at Lessa's face, pleased with the delight mir-
rored there; she showed no trace of fear as they hung a
thousand lengths above the high Benden mountain range.
Then, as the seven dragons roared their incoming cry, an
incredulous smile lit her face.
The other wingmen dropped into a wide spiral, down,
down while Mnementh elected to descend in lazy circles.
The dragonmen peeled off smartly and dropped, each to his
own tier in the caves of the Weyr. Mnementh finally com-
pleted his leisurely approach to their quarters, whistling
shrilly to himself as he braked his forward speed with a
twist of his wings, dropping lightly at last to the ledge. He
crouched as F'lar swung the .girl to the rough rock, scored
from thousands of clawed landings.
"This leads only to our quarters," he told her as they
entered the corridor, vaulted and wide for the easy passage
of great bronze dragons.
As they reached the huge natural cavern that had been
his since Mnementh achieved maturity, F'lar looked about
him with eyes fresh from his first prolonged absence from
''                                                                 the                      Weyr.                      The                       huge                       chamber                    was                   unquestionably                    big,                      cer-
tainly larger than most of the halls he had visited in Fax's
procession. Those halls were intended as gathering places
for men, not the habitations of dragons. But suddenly he saw
. his own quarters were nearly as shabby as all Ruatha. Ben-
den was, of a certainty, one of the oldest dragon weyrs, as
Ruatha was one of the oldest Holds, but that excused noth-
ing. How many dragons had bedded in that hollow to make
solid rock conform to dragon proportions! How many feet
had worn the path past the dragon's weyr into the sleeping
chamber, to the bathing room beyond where the natural
warm spring provided everfresh water! But the wall hangings
were faded and unraveling and there were grease stains on
lintel and floor that should be sanded away.
He noticed the wary expression on Lessa's face as he
paused in the sleeping room.
"I must feed Mnementh immediately. So you may bathe
first," he said, rummaging in a chest and finding clean clothes
for her, discards of other previous occupants of bis quarters,
but far more presentable than her present covering. He care-
fully laid back in the chest the white wool robe that was
traditional Impression garb. She would wear that later. He
tossed several garments at her feet and a bag of sweetsand,
gesturing to the hanging that obscured the way to the bath.
He left her, then, the clothes in a heap at her feet, for
she made no effort to catch anything.
Mnementh informed him that F'nor was feeding Canth
and that he, Mnementh, was hungry, too. She didn't trust
F'lar but she wasn't afraid of himself.
"Why should she be afraid of you?" F'lar asked. "You're
cousin to the watch-wher who was her only friend."
Mnementh informed F'lar that he, a fully matured bronze
dragon, was no relation to any scrawny, crawling, chained,
and wing-clipped watch-wher.
F'lar, pleased at having been able to tease the bronze one,
chuckled to himself. With great dignity, Mnementh curved
down to the feeding ground.
By the Golden Egg of Faranth
By the Weyrwoman, wise and true,
Breed a flight of bronze and brown wings,
Breed a flight of green and blue.
Breed riders, strong and daring,
Dragon-loving, born as hatched,
Flight of hundreds soaring skyward,
Man and dragon fully matched.
Lessa waited until the sound of the dragonman's footsteps
proved he had really gone away. She rushed quickly through
the big cavern, heard the scrape of claw and the whoosh of
the mighty wings. She raced down the short passageway,
right to the edge of the yawning entrance. There was the
bronze dragon circling down to the wider end of the mile-
long barren oval that was Benden Weyr. She had heard of
the Weyrs, as any Pemese had, but to be in one was quite a
different matter.
She peered up, around, down that sheer rock face. There
was no way off but by dragon wing. The nearest cave mouths
were an unhandy distance above her, to one side, below her
on the other. She was neatly secluded here.
Weyrwoman, he had told her. His woman? In his weyr?
Was that what he had meant? No, that was not the impres-
sion she got from the dragon. It occurred to her, suddenly,
that it was odd she had understood the dragon. Were com-
mon folk able to? Or was it the dragonman blood in her
line? At all events, Mnementh had inferred something great-
er, some special rank. She remembered vaguely that, when
dragonmen went on Search, they looked for certain women.
Ah, certain women. She was one, then, of several con-
tenders. Yet the bronze rider had offered her the position as
if she  and she,  alone,  qualified.  He had his own  generous
portion of conceit, that one, Lessa decided. Arrogant he was,
though not a bully like Fax.
She could see the bronze dragon swoop down to the run-
ning herdbeasts, saw the strike, saw the dragon wheel up to
settle on  a far ledge to  feed.  Instinctively  she  drew back
from the opening, back into the dark and relafcve safety of
the corridor.
The feeding dragon evoked scores of horrid tales. Tales at
which she had scoffed but now . . . Was it true, then, that
dragons did eat human flesh? Did . . . Lessa halted that
trend of thought. Dragonkind was no less cruel than man-
kind. The dragon, at least, acted from bestial need rather
than bestial greed.
Assured that the dragonman would be occupied a while,
she crossed the larger cave into the sleeping room. She
scooped up the clothing and the bag of cleansing sand and
proceeded to the bathing room.
To be clean! To be completely clean and to be able to
stay that way. With distaste, she stripped off the remains
of the rags, kicking them to one side. She made a soft mud
with the sweetsand and scrubbed her entire body until she
drew blood from various half-healed cuts. Then she jumped
into the pool, gasping as the warm water made the sweetsand
foam in the lacerations.
It was a ritual cleansing of more than surface soil. The
luxury of cleanliness was ecstasy.
Finally satisfied she was as clean as one long soaking
could make her, she left the pool, reluctantly. Wringing out
her hair she tucked it up on her head as she dried herself.
She shook out the clothing and held one garment against her
experimentally. The fabric, a soft green, felt smooth under
her water-shrunken fingers, although the nap caught on her
roughened hands. She pulled it over her head. It was loose
but the darker-green over-tunic had a sash which she pulled
in tight at the waist. The unusual sensation of softness
against her bare skin made her wriggle with voluptuous
pleasure. The skirt, no longer a ragged hem of tatters, swirled
heavily around her ankles. She smiled. She took up a fresh
drying cloth and began to work on her hair.
A muted sound came to her -ears and she stopped, hands
poised, head bent to one side. Straining, she listened. Yes,
there were sounds without. The dragonman and his beast
must have returned. She grimaced to herself with annoyance
at this untimely interruption and rubbed harder at her hair.
She ran fingers through the half-dry tangles, the motions ar-
rested as she encountered snarls. Vexed, she rummaged on
the shelves until she found, as she had hoped to, a coarse-
toothed metal comb.
Dry, her hair had a life of its own suddenly, crackling
about her hands and clinging to face and comb and dress. It
was difficult to get the silky stuff under control. And her hair
was longer than she had thought, for, clean and unmatted, it
fell to her waistwhen it did not cling to her hands.
She paused, listening, and heard no sound at all. Appre-
hensively, she stepped to the curtain and glanced warily into
the sleeping room. It was empty. She listened and caught the
perceptible thoughts of the sleepy dragon. Well, she would
rather meet the man in the presence of a sleepy dragon than
in a sleeping room. She started across the floor and, out of
the corner of her eye, caught sight of a strange woman as
she passed a polished piece of metal hanging on the wall.
Amazed, she stopped short, staring, incredulous, at the
face the metal reflected. Only when she put her hands to her
prominent cheekbones in a gesture of involuntary surprise
and the reflection imitated the gesture, did she realize she
looked at herself.
Why, that girl in the reflector was prettier than Lady Tela,
than the clothman's daughter! But so thin. Her hands of
their own volition dropped to her neck, to the protruding
collarbones, to her breasts which did not entirely accord
with the gauntness of the rest of her. The dress was too
large for her frame, she noted with an unexpected emergence
of conceit born in that instant of delighted appraisal. And
her hair . . . it stood out around her head like an aureole. It
wouldn't lie contained. She smoothed it down with impatient
fingers, automatically bringing locks forward to hang around
her face. As she irritably pushed them back, dismissing a
need for disguise, the hair drifted up again.
A slight sound, the scrape of a boot against stone, caught
her back from her bemusement. She waited, momentarily ex-
pecting him to appear. She was suddenly timid. With her
face bare to the world, her hair behind her ears, her body
outlined by a clinging fabric, she was stripped of her accus-
tomed anonymity and was, therefore, in her estimation, vul-
nerable.
She controlled the desire to run awaythe irrational fear.
Observing herself in the looking metal, she drew her shoul-
ders back, tilled her head high, chin up; the movement
caused her hair to crackle and cling and shift about her
head. She was Lessa of Ruatha, of a fine old Blood. She
no longer needed artifice to preserve herself; she must stand
proudly bare-faced before the world . . . and that dragon-
man.
Resolutely she crossed the room, pushing aside the hang-
ing on the doorway to the great cavern.
He was there, beside the head of the dragon, .scratching
its eye ridges, a curiously tender expression on his face. The
tableau was at variance with all she had heard of dragon-
men.
She had, of course, heard of the strange affinity between
rider and dragon but this was the first time she realized that
love was part of that bond. Or that this reserved, cold man
was capable of such deep emotion.
He turned slowly, as if loath to leave the bronze beast. He
caught sight of her and pivoted completely round, his eyes
intense as he took note of her altered appearance. With
quick, light steps, he closed the distance between them and
ushered her back into the sleeping room, one strong hand
holding her by the elbow.
"Mnementh has fed lightly and will need quiet to rest,"
he said in a low voice. He pulled the heavy hanging into
place across the opening.
Then he held her away from him, turning her this way
and that, scrutinizing her closely, curious and slightly sur-
prised.
"You wash up . . . pretty, yes, almost pretty," he said,
amused condescension in his voice. She pulled roughly away
from him, piqued. His low laugh mocked her. "After all,
how could one guess what was under the grime of . . . ten
full Turns?"
At length he said, "No matter. We must eat and I shall
require your services."  At her startled  exclamation,  he
turned, grinning maliciously now as his movement revealed
the caked blood on his left sleeve. "The least you can do is
bathe wounds honorably received fighting your battle."
He pushed aside a portion of the drape that curtained the
inner wall. "Food for two!" he roared down a black gap in
the sheer stone.
She heard a subterranean echo far below as his voice
resounded down what must be a long shaft.
"Nemorth is nearly rigid," he was saying as he took sup-
plies from -another  drape-hidden shelf,  "and the Hatching
will soon begin anyhow."
A coldness settled in Lessa's stomach at the mention of
a Hatching. The mildest tales she had heard about that part
of dragonlore were chilling, the worst dismayingly macabre.
She took the things he handed her numbly.
"What? Frightened?" the dragonman taunted, pausing as
he stripped off his torn and bloodied shirt.
With a shake of her head, Lessa turned her attention to
the wide-shouldered, well-muscled back he presented her,
the paler skin of his body decorated with random bloody
streaks. Fresh blood welled from the point of his shoulder
for the removal of his shirt had broken the tender scabs.
"I will need water," she said and saw she had a flat pan
among the items he had given her. She went swiftly to the
pool for water, wondering how she had come to agree to
venture so far from Ruatha. Ruined though it was, it had
been hers and was familiar to her from Tower to defep cellar.
At the moment the idea had been proposed and insidiously
prosecuted by the dragonman, she had felt capable of any-
thing, having achieved, at last. Fax's death. Now, it was all
she could do to keep the water from slopping out of the pan
that shook unaccountably in her hands.
She forced herself to deal only with the wound. It was a
nasty gash, deep where the point had entered and torn down-
ward in a gradually shallower slice. His skin felt smooth
under her fingers as she cleansed the wound. In spite of her-
self,  she  noticed  the  masculine odor  of him,  compounded
not unpleasantly of sweat, leather, and an unusual muskiness
which must be from close association with dragons.
She stood back when she had finished her ministration.
He flexed his arm experimentally in the constricting bandage
and the motion set the muscles rippling along side and back.
When he faced her, his eyes were dark and thoughtful.
"Gently done. My thanks." His smile was ironic.
She backed away as he rose but he only went to the chest
to take out a clean, white shirt.
A muted rumble sounded, growing quickly louder.
Dragons roaring? Lessa wondered, trying to conquer the
ridiculous fear  that rose within her.  Had  the  Hatching
started? There was no watch-wher's lair to secrete herself in,
here.
As if he understood her confusion, the dragonman laughed
good-humoredly and, his eyes on hers,  drew aside the wall
covering just as some noisy mechanism inside the shaft pro-
pelled a tray of food into sight.
Ashamed of her unbased fright and furious that he had
witnessed it, Lessa sat rebelliously down on the fur-covered
wall seat, heartily wishing him a variety of serious and pain-
ful injuries which she could dress with inconsiderate hands.
She would not waste future opportunities.
He placed the tray on the low table in front of her, throw-
ing down a heap of furs for his own seat. There was meat,
bread, a tempting yellow cheese and even a few pieces of
winter fruit. He made no move to eat nor did she, though
the thought of a piece of fruit that was ripe, instead of
rotten, set her mouth to watering. He glanced up at her, and
frowned.
"Even in the Weyr, the lady breaks bread first," he said,
and inclined his head politely to her.
Lessa flushed, unused to any courtesy and certainly unused
to being first to eat. She broke off a chunk of bread. It was
nothing she remembered having tasted before. For one thing,
it was fresh baked. The flour had been finely sifted, without
trace of sand or hull. She took the slice of cheese he prof-
fered her and it, too, had an uncommonly delicious sharp-
ness. Made bold by this indication of her changed status,
Lessa reached for the plumpest piece of fruit.
"Now," the dragonman began, his hand touching hers to
get her attention.
Guiltily she dropped the fruit, thinking she had erred. She
stared at him, wondering at her fault. He retrieved the fruit
and placed it back in her hand as he continued to speak.
Wide-eyed, disarmed, she nibbled, and gave him her full at-
tention.
"Listen to me. You must not show a moment's fear, what-
ever happens on the Hatching Ground. And you must not
let her overeat." A wry expression crossed his face. "One of
our main functions is to keep a dragon from excessive eat-
ing."
Lessa lost interest in the taste of the fruit. She placed it
carefully back in the bowl and tried to sort out not what he
had said, but what his tone of voice implied. She looked at
the dragonman's face, seeing him as a person, riot a symbol,
for the first time.
There was a blackness about him that was not malevolent;
it was a brooding sort of patience. Heavy black hair, heavy
black brows; his eyes, a brown light enough to seem golden,
were all too expressive of cynical emotions, 'or cold hauteur.
His lips were thin but well-shaped and in repose almost
gentle. Why must he always pull his mouth to one side in
disapproval or in one of those sardonic smiles? At this mo-
ment, he was completely unaffected.
He meant what he was saying. He did not want her to
be afraid. There was no reason for her, Lessa, to fear.
He very much wanted her to succeed. In keeping whom
from overeating what? Herd animals? A newly hatched
dragon certainly wasn't capable of eating a full beast. That
seemed a simple enough task to Lessa. . . . Main function?
Our main function?
The dragonman was looking at her expectantly.
"Our main function?" she repeated, an unspoken request
for more information inherent in her inflection.
"More of that later. First things first," he said, impatiently
waving off other questions.
"But what happens?" she insisted.
"As I was told so I tell you. No more, no less. Remember
these two points. No fear, and no overeating."
"But . . ."
"You, however, need to eat. Here." He speared a piece
of meat on his knife and thrust it at her, frowning until she
managed to choke it down. He was about to force more on
her but she grabbed up her half-eaten fruit and bit down into
the firm sweet sphere instead. She had already eaten more at
this one meal than she was accustomed to having all day at
the Hold.
"We shall soon eat better at the Weyr," he remarked,
regarding the tray with a jaundiced eye.
Lessa was surprised. This was a feast, in her opinion.
"More than you're used to? Yes, I forgot you left Ruatha
with bare bones indeed."
She stiffened.
"You did well at Ruatha. I mean no criticism," he added,
smiling at her reaction. "But look at you," and he gestured
at her body, that curious expression crossing his face, half-
amused, half-contemplative. "I should not have guessed you'd
clean up pretty," he remarked. "Nor with such hair." This
time his expression was frankly admiring.
Involuntarily she put one hand to her head, the hair
crackling over her fingers. But what reply she might have
made him, indignant as she was, died aborning. An unearthly
keening filled the chamber.
The sounds set up a vibration that ran down the bones be-
hind her ear to her spine. She clapped both hands to her
ears. The noise rang through her skull despite her defending
hands. As abruptly as it started, it ceased.
Before she knew what he was about, the dragonman had
grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her over to the chest.
"Take those off," he ordered, indicating dress and tunic.
While she stared at him stupidly, he held up a loose white
robe, sleeveless and beltless, a matter of two lengths of fine
cloth fastened at shoulder and side seams. "Take it off, or
do I assist you?" he asked, with no patience at all.
The wild sound was repeated and its unnerving tone made
her fingers fly faster.- She had no sooner loosened the gar-
ments she wore, letting them slide to her feet, than he had
thrown the other over her head. She managed to get her
arms in the proper places before he grabbed her wrist again
and was speeding with her out of the room, her hair whip-
' ping out behind her, alive with static.
As they reached the outer chamber, the bronze dragon
was standing in the center of the cavern, his head turned to
watch the sleeping room door. He seemed impatient to Lessa;
his great eyes, which fascinated her so, sparkled iridescently.
His manner breathed an inner excitement of great propor-
tions and from his throat a high-pitched croon issued, several
octaves below the unnerving cry that had roused them all.
With a yank that rocked her head on her neck, the dragon-
man pulled her along the passage. The dragon padded beside
them at such speed that Lessa fully expected they would all
catapult off the ledge. Somehow, at the crucial stride, she was
a-perch the bronze neck, the dragonman holding her firmly
about the waist. In the same fluid movement, they were
gliding across the great bowl of the Weyr to the higher wall
opposite. The air was full of wings and dragon tails, rent
with a chorus of sounds, echoing and re-echoing across the
stony valley.
Mnementh set what Lessa was certain would be a collision
course with other dragons, straight for a huge round black-
ness in the cliff-face, high up. Magically, the beasts filed in,
the greater wingspread of Mnementh just clearing the sides
of the entrance.
The passageway reverberated with the thunder of wings.
The air compressed around her thickly. Then they broke out
into a gigantic cavern.
Why, the entire mountain must be hollow, thought Lessa,
incredulous. Around the enormous cavern, dragons perched
in serried ranks, blues, greens, browns .and only two great
bronze beasts like Mnementh, on ledges meant to accom-
modate hundreds. Lessa gripped the bronze neck scales be-
fore her, instinctively aware of the imminence of a great
event.
Mnementh wheeled downward, disregarding the ledge of
the bronze ones. Then all Lessa could see was what lay on
the sandy floor of the great cavern; dragon eggs. A clutch
of ten monstrous, mottled eggs, their shells moving spasmod-
ically as the fledglings within tapped their way out. To one
side, on a raised portion of the floor, was a golden egg, larger
by half again the size of the mottled ones. Just beyond the
golden egg lay the motionless ochre hulk of the old queen.
Just as she realized Mnementh was hovering over the floor
in the vicinity of that egg, Lessa felt the dragonman's hands
on her, lifting her from Mnementh's neck.
Apprehensively, she grabbed at him. His hands tightened
and inexorably swung her down. His eyes, fierce and gray,
locked with hers.
"Remember, Lessa!"
Mnementh added an encouragement, one great compound
eye turned on her. Then he rose from the floor. Lessa half-
raised one hand in entreaty, bereft of all support, even that
of the sure inner compulsion which had sustained her in her
struggle for revenge on Fax. She saw the bronze dragon settle
on the first ledge, at some distance from the other two bronze
beasts. The dragonman dismounted and Mnementh curved
his sinuous neck until his head was beside his rider. The man
reached up absently, it seemed to Lessa, and caressed his
mount.
Loud screams and wailings diverted Lessa and she saw
more dragons descend to hover just above the cavern floor,
each rider depositing a young woman until there were twelve
girls, including Lessa. She remained a little apart from them
as they clung to each other. She regarded them curiously.
The girls were not injured in any way she could see, so why
such weeping? She took a deep breath against the coldness
within her. Let them be afraid. She was Lessa of Ruatha
and did not need to be afraid.
Just then, the golden egg moved convulsively. Gasping as
one, the girls edged away from it, back against the rocky
wall. One, a lovely blonde, her heavy plait oi -golden hair
swinging just above the ground, started to step off the raised
floor and stopped, shrieking, backing fearfully towards the
scant comfort of her peers.
Lessa wheeled to see what cause there might be for the
look of horror on the girl's face. She stepped back involun-
tarily herself.
In the main section of the sandy arena, several of the
handful of eggs had already cracked wide open. The fledg-
lings, crowing weakly, were moving towards . . . and Lessa
gulped . . . the young boys standing stolidly in a semi-circle.
Some of them were no older than she had been when Fax's
army had swooped down on Ruath Hold.
The shrieking of the women subsided to muffled gasps. A
. fledgling reached out with claw and beak to grab a boy.
Lessa forced herself to watch as the young dragon mauled
the youth, throwing him roughly aside as if unsatisfied in
some way. The boy did not move and Lessa could see blood
seeping onto the sand from dragon-inflicted wounds.
A second fledgling lurched against another boy and halted,
flapping its damp wings impotently, raising its scrawny neck
and croaking a parody of the encouraging croon Mnementh
often gave. The boy uncertainly lifted a hand and began to
scratch the eye ridge. Incredulous, Lessa watched as the
fledgling, its crooning increasingly more mellow, ducked its
head, pushing at the boy. The child's face broke into an
unbelieving smile of elation.
Tearing her eyes from this astounding sight, Lessa saw
that another fledgling was beginning the same performance
with another boy. Two more dragons had emerged in the
interim. One had knocked a boy down and was walking over
him, oblivious to the fact that its claws were raking great
-gashes. The fledgling who followed its hatch-mate stopped
by the wounded child, ducking its head to the boy's face,
crooning anxiously. As Lessa watched, the boy managed to
struggle to his feet, tears of pain streaming down his cheeks.
She could hear him pleading with the dragon not to worry,
that he was only scratched a little.
It was over very soon. The young dragons paired off with
boys. Green riders dropped down to carry off the unaccept-
able. Blue riders settled to the floor with their beasts and led
the couples out of the cavern, the young dragons squealing,
crooning, flapping wet wings  as  they staggered off,  en-
couraged by their newly acquired weyrmates.
Lessa turned resolutely back to the rocking golden egg,
knowing what to expect and trying to divine what the suc-
cessful boys had, or had not done, that caused the baby
dragons to single them out.
A crack appeared in the golden shell and was greeted by
the terrified screams of the girls. Some had fallen into little
heaps of white fabric, others embraced tightly in their mutual
fear. The crack widened and the wedge-head broke through,
followed quickly by the neck, gloaming gold. Lessa won-
dered with unexpected detachment how long it would take
the beast to mature, considering its by no means small size
at birth.  For  the head was  larger than that  of the male
dragons and they had been large enough to overwhelm sturdy
boys of ten full Turns.
Lessa was aware of a loud hum within the Hall. Glancing
up at the audience, she realized it emanated from the watch-
ing bronze dragons, for this was the birth of their mate, their
queen. The hum increased in volume as the shell shattered
into fragments and the golden, glistening body of the new
female emerged. It staggered out, dipping its sharp beak into
the soft sand, momentarily trapped. Flapping its wet wings,
it  righted  itself,  ludicrous  in  its  weak  awkwardness.  With
sudden and unexpected swiftness, it dashed towards the
terror-stricken girls.
Before Lessa could blink, it shook the first girl with such
violence, her head snapped audibly and she fell limply to the
sand. Disregarding her, the dragon leaped towards the second
'girl but misjudged the distance  and fell,  grabbing out with
one claw for support and raking the girl's body from shoulder
to thigh. The screaming of the mortally injured girl distracted
the dragon  and released the others  from their horrified
trance. They scattered in panicky confusion, racing, running,
tripping, stumbling, falling across the sand towards the exit
the boys had used.
As the golden beast, crying piteously, lurched down from
the raised arena towards the scattered women, Lessa moved.
Why hadn't that silly clunk-headed girl stepped aside, Lessa
thought, grabbing for the wedge-head, at birth not much
larger than her own torso. The dragon's so clumsy and weak
she's her own worst enemy.
Lessa swung the head round so that the many-faceted eyes
were forced to look at her . . . and found herself lost in that
rainbow regard.
A feeling of joy suffused Lessa, a feeling of warmth, ten-
derness, unalloyed affection and instant respect and admira-
tion flooded mind and heart and soul. Never again would
Lessa lack an advocate, a defender, an intimate, aware in-
stantly of the temper of her mind and heart, of her desires.
How wonderful was Lessa, the thought intruded into Les-
sa's reflections, how pretty, how kind, how thoughtful, how
brave and clever!
Mechanically, Lessa reached out to scratch the exact spot
on the soft eye ridge.
The dragon biinked at her wistfully, extremely sad that
she had distressed Lessa. Lessa reassuringly patted the slight-
ly damp, soft neck that curved trustingly towards her. The
dragon reeled to one side and one wing fouled on the hind
claw. It hurt. Carefully, Lessa lifted the erring foot, freed
the wing, folding it back across the dorsal ridge with a pat.
The dragon began to croon in her throat, her eyes follow-
ing Lessa's every move. She nudged at Lessa and Lessa
obediently attended the other eye ridge.
The dragon let it be known she was hungry.
-"We'll get you something to eat directly," Lessa assured
her briskly and biinked back at the dragon in amazement.
How could she be so callous? It was a fact that this little
menace had just now seriously injured, if not killed, two
women.
She wouldn't have believed her sympathies could swing so
alarmingly towards the beast. Yet it was the most natural
thing in the world for her to wish to protect this fledgling.
The dragon arched her neck to look Lessa squarely in the
eyes. Ramoth repeated wistfully how exceedingly hungry she
was,, confined so long in that shell without nourishment.
Lessa wondered how she knew the golden dragon's name
and Ramoth replied: Why shouldn't she know her own name
since it was hers and no one else's? And then Lessa was lost
again in the wonder of those expressive eyes.
Oblivious to the descending bronze dragons, uncaring of
the presence of their riders, Lessa stood caressing the head
of the most wonderful creature on all Pern, fully prescient of
troubles and glories, but most immediately aware that Lessa
of Pern was Weyrwoman to Ramoth the Golden, for now
and forever.