Dragonquest

Brekke was herself, weak but no longer lost to reason; F’nor had actually left the girl long enough to eat with the guests; F’lar was recovering his strength and had come to realize that he must delegate some of his new responsibilities. And Lytol, the most distressing problem since Jaxom had Impressed that little white dragon – how could that have happened? – had managed to get roaring drunk, thanks to the tender offices of Robinton who had matched him drink for drink.

The two were singing some utterly reprehensible song that only a Harper could know. The Lord Warder of Ruatha Hold kept falling out of tune, though the man had a surprisingly pleasant tenor voice. Somehow, she’d have thought him a bass; he had a gloomy nature and bass voices are dark.

She toyed with the remains of the sweet cake on her platter. Manora’s women had outdone themselves: the fowls had been stuffed with fermented fruits and breads, and the result was a remission of the “gamy” taste that wherry often had. River grains had been steamed so that each individual morsel was separate and tender. The fresh herbs must have come from Southern. Lessa made a mental note to speak to Manora about sneaking down there. It simply wouldn’t do to have an incident with T’kul. Maybe N’ton had gathered them when he went on his “grubbing” expeditions. She’d always liked the young bronze rider. Now that she’d got to know him better . . .

She wondered what he and F’lar were doing. They’d left the table and gone to the Rooms. They were always there these days, she thought irritably. They must be cleaning the grubs’ orifices. Could she, too, slip away? No, she’d better stay here. It wasn’t courteous for both Weyrleaders to absent themselves on such an auspicious occasion. And people ought to be leaving soon.

What were they going to do about young Jaxom? She looked around, locating Jaxom easily by the white hide of his dragon in the group of weyrlings watering their beasts by the lakeside. The beast had charm, true, but had he a future? And why Jaxom? She was glad that Lytol could get drunk tonight, but that wouldn’t make tomorrow easier for the ex-dragonrider to endure. Maybe they ought to keep that pair here, until the beast died. The consensus was that Ruth would not mature.

At the other end of the long “high” table were Larad, Lord of Telgar, Sifer of Bitra, Raid of Benden Hold, and Asgenar of Lemos with Lady Famira (she really did blush all the time). The Lemos Hold pair had brought their fire lizards – fortunately a brown and a green – which had been the object of much overt interest by Lord Larad, who had a pair hardening on his hearth, and covert inspection by old Raid and Sifer of Bitra, who also had eggs from F’nor’s last find. Neither older Lord Holder was entirely sure of the experiment with fire lizards but they had watched the Lemos pair all evening. Sifer had finally unfrosted enough to ask how to care for one. Would this influence their minds in the matter of Jaxom and his Ruth?

By the Egg, they couldn’t want to disrupt the territorial balance because Jaxom had Impressed a sport dragon that hadn’t a chance in Threadfall of surviving! How could you make an honorific out of Jaxom? J’om, J’xom? Most Weyrwomen chose names for their sons that could be contracted decently. Then Lessa was amused to be worrying over how to shorten a name, a trivial detail in this dilemma. No Jaxom must remain at Ruatha Hold. She’d relinquished her Bloodright on Ruatha Hold to him, Gemma’s son, because he was Gemma’s son and had at least some minute quantity of Ruathan Blood. She certainly would contest the Hold going to any other Bloodline. Too bad Lytol had no sons. No, Jaxom must remain as Lord Holder at Ruatha. Just like men to make a piece of work over something so simple. The little beast would not survive. He was too small, his color – who ever heard of a white dragon? – indicated other abnormalities. Manora’d mentioned that white-ski

A nocturnal dragon?

Obviously Ruth would never grow to full size; new-hatched, he was more like a large fire lizard.

Ramoth rumbled from the heights, disturbed by her rider’s thoughts, and Lessa sent a hundred apologies to her.

“It’s no reflection on you, my darling,” Lessa told her. Why, you’ve spawned more queens than any other three. And the largest of their broods is no better than the smallest of yours, love.”

Ruth will prosper, Ramoth said.

Mnementh crooned from the ledge and Lessa stared up at them, their eyes glowing in the shadows over the glow-lit Bowl.

Did the dragons know something she didn’t? They often seemed to these days, and yet, how could they? They never cared about tomorrow, or yesterday, living for the moment. Which was not a bad way to live, Lessa reflected, a trifle enviously. Her roving eyes fastened on the white blur of Ruth. Why had those two Impressed? Didn’t she have troubles enough?

“Why should I mind? Why should I?” demanded Lytol suddenly in a loud, belligerent voice.

The Harper beamed up at him in an idiotish way. “Tha’s what I say. Why should you?”

“I love the boy. I love him more than if he were flesh and blood of me, of me, Lytol of Ruatha Hold. Proved I love him, too. Proved I care for him. Ruatha’s rich. Rich as when the Ruathan Bloodline ruled it. Undid all Fax’s harm. And did it all, not for me. My life’s spent. I’ve been everything. Been a dragonrider. Oh, Larth, my beautiful Larth. Been a weaver so I know the Crafts. Know the Holds now, too. Know everything. Know how to take care of a white runt. Why shouldn’t the boy keep his dragon? By the First Shell, no one else wanted him. No one else wanted to Impress him. He’s special. I tell you. Special!

“Now, just a moment, Lord Lytol,” Raid of Benden said, rising from his end of the table and stalking down to confront Lytol. “Boy’s Impressed a dragon. That means he must stay in the Weyr.”

“Ruth’s not a proper dragon,” Lytol said, neither speaking nor acting as drunk as he must be.

“Not a proper dragon?” Raid’s expression showed his shock at such blasphemy.

“Never been a white dragon ever,” Lytol said pontifically, drawing himself up to his full height. He wasn’t much taller than the Lord Holder of Benden but he gave the impression of greater stature. “Never!” He appeared to feel that required a toast but found his cup empty. He managed to pour wine with creditable deftness for a man swaying on his feet. The Harper motioned wildly for his own glass to be filled but had trouble keeping it steady under the flow of wine.

“Never a whi’ dragon,” the Harper intoned and touched cups with Lytol.

“May not live,” Lytol added, taking a long gulp.

“May not!”

“Therefore,” and Lytol took a deep breath, “the boy must remain in his Hold. Ruatha Hold.”

“Absolutely must!” Robinton held his cup high, more or less daring Raid to contradict him. Raid favored him with a long inscrutable look.

“He must remain in the Weyr,” he said finally, though he didn’t sound as definite.

“No, he must come back to Ruatha Hold,” said Lytol steadying himself with a firm grip on the table edge. “When the dragon dies, the boy must be where obligations and responsibilities give him a hold on life. I know!”

To that Raid could give no answer, but he glowered in disapproval Lessa held her breath and began to “lean” a little on the old Lord Holder.

“I know how to help the boy,” Lytol went on, sinking slowly back into his chair. “I know what is best for him. I know what it is to lose a dragon. The difference in this case is that we know Ruth’s days are numbered.”

“Days are numbered,” echoed the Harper and put his head down on the table suddenly. Lytol bent toward the man, curiously, almost paternally. He drew back, startled when the Harper began to snore gently.

“Hey, don’t go to sleep. We haven’t finished this bottle.” When Robinton made no response, Lytol shrugged and drained his own cup. Then he seemed to collapse slowly until his head was on the table, too, his snores filling the pause between Robinton’s.