Dragonquest

F’lar, reassured as much by her caustic jibe as her cool and loving caresses, lay back and willed himself to sleep, to health.

CHAPTER XIV

Early Morning at Ruatha Hold

Midday at Benden Weyr

WHEN WORD CAME that the Hatching was likely to occur that bright spring day, Jaxom didn’t know whether he was glad or not. Ever since the two queens had killed each other ten days before, Lytol had been sunk in such a deep gloom that Jaxom had tiptoed around the Hold. His guardian had always been a somber man, never given to joking or teasing, but this new silence u

It was bad, very bad, to lose one queen, Jaxom knew, but to lose two, in such a horrible way! It was almost as if things were pointing toward even direr events. Jaxom was scared, a deep voiceless feeling in his bones. He almost dreaded seeing Felessan. He had never shaken off his sense of blasphemy for invading the Hatching Ground, and wondered if this were his punishment. But he was a logical boy and the death of the two queens had not occurred at Ruatha, not over Fort Weyr to which Ruatha Hold was bound. He’d never met Kylara or Brekke. He did know F’nor and felt sorry for him if half what he’d heard was true – that F’nor had taken Brekke into his weyr and had abandoned his duties as a Wing-second to care for her. She was very sick. Fu

Jaxom wondered about that but knew he couldn’t ask. Just as he couldn’t ask if he and Lytol were really going to the Hatching. Why else would the Weyrleader send them word? And wasn’t Talina a Ruathan candidate for the queen egg? Ruatha ought to be represented at the Hatching. Benden Weyr always had open Impressions, even when the other Weyrs didn’t. And he hadn’t seen Felessan in ages. Not that anyone had done much more than Thread-watch since the wedding at Telgar.

Jaxom sighed. That had been some day. He shivered, remembered how sick, cold and – yes – how scared he’d been (Lytol said a man wasn’t afraid to admit to fear.) All the time he’d watched F’lar fighting T’ron, he’d been scared. He shuddered again, his spine rippling with reaction to that memory. Everything was going wrong on Pern. Dragon queens killing each other, Weyrleaders dueling in public, Thread falling here and there, with no rhyme or reason. Order had slipped away from life; the constants that made his routine were dissolving, and he was powerless to stop the inexorable slide. It wasn’t fair. Everything had been going so well. Everyone had been saying how Ruatha Hold had improved. Now, this past six days, they’d lost that northeastern farmhold and, if things kept up, there wouldn’t be much left of all Lytol’s hard work. Maybe that’s why he was acting so – so odd. But it wasn’t fair. Lytol had worked so hard. And now, it looked as though Jaxom was going to miss the Hatching and see who Impressed that littlest egg. It wasn’t at all fair.

“Lord Jaxom,” gasped a breathless drudge from the doorway, “Lord Lytol said for you to change to your best. The Hatching’s to start. Oh, sir, do you think Talina has a chance?”

“More than a chance,” Jaxom said, rude with excitement, “She’s Ruathan-bred after all. Now get out.” His fingers were clumsy with the fastenings of his trousers and the tunic which had been new for the Telgar wedding. He hadn’t spilled on the fine fabric, but you could still see the greasy fingerprints on the right shoulder where an excited guest had pulled him away from his vantage point on the Telgar Hold steps during the fight.

He shrugged into the cloak, found the second glove under the bed and raced down into the Great Court where the blue dragon waited.

Sight of the blue, however, inevitably reminded Jaxom that Groghe’s eldest son had been given one of the fire-lizard eggs, Lytol had deliberately refused the pair to which Ruatha Hold was entitled. That, too, was a rankling injustice. Jaxom should have had a fire-lizard egg, even if Lytol couldn’t bear to Impress one. Jaxom was Lord of Ruatha and an egg had been his due. Lytol had no right to refuse him that perquisite.

“Be a good day for Ruatha if your Talina Impresses, won’t it?” D’wer, the blue’s rider, greeted him.

“Yes,” Jaxom replied, and he sounded sullen even to himself.

“Cheer up, lad,” D’wer said. “Things could be worse.”

“How?”

D’wer chuckled and, while it offended Jaxom, he couldn’t very well call a dragonman to task.

“Good morning, Trebith,” Jaxom said to the blue, who turned his head, the large eye whirling with color.

They both heard Lytol’s voice, dull-toned but clear as he gave instructions for the day’s work to the stewards.

“For every field that gets scored, we plant two more as long as we can get seed in the ground. There’s plenty of fallow land in the northeast. Move the Holders.”

“But, Lord Lytol . . “

“Don’t give me the old wail about temporary dwellings. There’ll be temporary eating if we aren’t farsighted, and that’s harder to endure than a draught or two.”

Lytol gave Jaxom a cursory inspection and an absent good morning. The tic started in the Lord Holder’s face the moment he climbed up Trebith’s shoulder to take his seat against the neck ridges. He motioned curtly to his ward to get in front of him and then nodded to D’wer.

The blue dragonman gave a slight smile of response, as if he expected no more notice from Lytol, and suddenly they were aloft. Aloft, with Ruatha’s fire height dwindling below. And between with Jaxom holding his breath against the frightening cold. Then above Benden’s Star Stones, so close to other dragons also wincing into the Weyr that Jaxom feared collision at any moment.

“How – how do they know where they are?” he asked D’wer.

The rider gri

Jaxom groaned. How stupid of him to make any reference to the queens’ battle.

“ – Lad, everything reminds us of that,” the blue rider said. “Even the dragons are off color. But,” he continued more briskly, “the Impression will help.”

Jaxom hoped so but, pessimistically, he was sure something would go wrong today, too. Then he clutched wildly at D’wer’s riding tunic for it seemed as if they were flying straight into the rock face of the Weyr Bowl. Or worse, despite D’wer’s reassurance, right into the green dragon also veering in that direction.

But suddenly they were inside the wide mouth of the upper entrance, a dark core that led into the immense Hatching Ground. The whir of wings, a concentration of the musty scent of dragons, and then they were poised above the slightly steaming sands, in the great circle theatre with its tiers of perches for men and beasts.

Jaxom had a dizzying view of the eggs on the Hatching Ground, of the colored robes of those already assembled, and the array of dragon bodies, gleaming eyes and furled wings, the great, graceful, blue, green and brown hides.

Where were the bronzes?

“They’ll bring in the candidates, Lord Jaxom. Ah, there’s the young scamp.” D’wer said, and suddenly Jaxom’s neck was jerked as Trebith backwinged to land neatly on a ledge. “Off you go.”

“Jaxom! You did come!”

And Felessan was thumping him, his clothes so new they smelled of dye and were harsh against Jaxom’s hands as he pounded his friend’s back.

“Thanks so much for bringing him, D’wer. Good day to you, Lord Warder Lytol. The Weyrleader and the Weyrwoman said to give you their greetings and to ask you to stay to eat after Impression, if you would give them a moment of your time.”

It all came out in such a rush that the blue rider gri