Anne McCaffrey - Pern 02 - Dragonquest

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DRAGONQUEST

Volume 2 of the Dragonriders of Pern

by: Anne McCaffrey

Contents

Prelude

I Morning at Mastercrafthall, Fort Hold

Several Afternoons Later at Benden Weyr

Midmorning (Telgar Time) at Mastersmith crafthall,

Telgar Hold

II Evening (Fort Weyr Time).

Meeting of the Weyrleaders at Fort Weyr

III Morning over Lemos Hold

IV Midday at Southern Weyr

V Midmorning at Ruatha Hold

Early Evening at Benden Weyr

VI Midmorning at Southern Weyr

Early Morning at Nabol Hold: Next Day

VII Midmorning at Benden Weyr

Early Morning at the Mastersmith's Crafthall

in Telgar Hold

VIII Midmorning at Southern Weyr

IX Afternoon at Southern Weyr: Same Day

X Early Morning in Harpercrafthall at Fort Hold

Afternoon at Telgar Hold

XI Early Morning at Benden Weyr

XII Morning at Benden Weyr

Predawn at High Reaches Weyr

XIII Night at Fort Weyr: Six Days Later

XIV Early Morning at Ruatha Hold

Midday at Benden Weyr

XV Evening at Benden Weyr: Impression Banquet

XVI Evening at Benden Weyr

Later Evening at Fort Weyr

Dragondex

PRELUDE

Rukbat, in the Sagittarian Sector, was a golden G-type star. It had

five planets, two asteroid belts, and a stray planet it had attracted and held

in recent millennia. When men first settled on Rukbat's third world and

called it Pern, they had taken little notice of the stranger planet, swinging

around its adopted primary in a wildly erratic elliptical orbit. For two

generations, the colonists gave the bright red star little thought -- until

the desperate path of the wanderer brought it close to its stepsister at

perihelion.

When such aspects were harmonious and not distorted by conjunctions with

other planets in the system, the indigenous life of the wanderer sought to

bridge the space gap to the more temperate and hospitable planet.

The initial losses the colonists suffered were staggering, and it was

during the subsequent long struggle to survive and combat this menace dropping

through Pern's skies like silver threads that Pern's tenuous contact with the

mother planet was broken.

To control the incursions of the dreadful Threads (for the Pernese had

cannibalized their transport ships early on and abandoned such technological

sophistication as was irrelevant to this pastoral planet), the resourceful men

embarked on a long-term plan. The first phase involved breeding a highly

specialized variety of a life-form indigenous to their new world. Men and

women with high empathy ratings and some innate telepathic ability were

trained to use and preserve these unusual animals. The "dragons" (named for

the mythical Terran beast they resembled) had two extremely useful

characteristics: they could get from one place to another instantly and,

after chewing a phosphine-bearing rock, they could emit a flaming gas. As the

dragons could "fly," they'd be able to char Thread mid-air, yet escape its

worse ravages themselves. It took generations to develop to the full the use

of this first phase. The second phase of the proposed defense against the

spore incursions would take longer to mature. For Thread, a space-traveling

mycorrhizoid spore, devoured organic matter with mindless voracity and, once

grounded, burrowed and proliferated with terrifying speed.

The originators of the two-stage defense program did not compensate

sufficiently for chance nor for the psychological effect of visible

extermination of this avid foe. For it was psychologically reassuring and

deeply satisfying to the endangered Pernese to see the menace charred to

impotence in mid-air. Also, the southern continent, where the second phase

was initiated, proved untenable and the entire colony was moved to the

northern continent to seek refuge from the Threads in the natural caves of the

northern mountain ranges. The significance of the southern hemisphere lost

meaning in the immediate struggle to establish new settlements in the north.

Recollections of Earth receded further from Pernese history with each

successive generation until memory of their origins degenerated past legend or

myth and into oblivion.

The original Fort constructed in the eastern face of the great West

Mountain range soon grew too small to hold the colonists. Another settlement

was started slightly to the north, by a great lake conveniently nestled near a

cave-filled cliff. Ruatha Hold, too, became overcrowded in a few generations.

Since the Red Star rose in the East, it was decided to start a holding

in the eastern mountains, provided suitable accommodations could be found.

Suitable accommodations now meant caves, for only solid rock and metal (of

which Pern was in distressingly light supply) were impervious to the burning

score of Thread.

The winged, tailed, fiery-breathed dragons had now been bred to a size

which required more space than the Cliffside Holds could provide. The ancient

cave-pocked cones of extinct volcanoes, one high above the first Fort, the

other in the Benden mountains, proved to be adequate, needing only a few

improvements to be made habitable. However, such projects took the last of

the fuel for the great stonecutters (which had been programmed for only

diffident mining operations not wholesale cliff excavations), and subsequent

holds and weyrs were hand-hewn.

The dragons and the riders in their high places and the people in their

caves went about their separate tasks and each developed habits that became

custom, which solidified into tradition as incontrovertible as law.

Then came an interval-of two hundred Turns of the planet Pern around its

primary -- when the Red Star was at the other end of its erratic orbit, a

frozen, lonely captive. No Thread fell on Pern's soil. The inhabitants began

to enjoy life as they had thought to find it when they first landed on the

lovely planet. They erased the depredations of Thread and grew crops, planted

orchards, thought of reforestry for the slopes denuded by Thread. They could

even forget that they had been in grave danger of extinction. Then the

Threads returned for another orbit around the lush planet -- fifty years of

danger from the skies -- and the Pernese again thanked their ancestors, now

many generations removed, for providing the dragons who seared the dropping

Thread mid-air with their fiery breath.

Dragonkind, too, had prospered during that interval; had settled in four

other locations, following the master plan of interim defense. Men managed to

forget completely that there had been a secondary measure against Thread.

By the third Pass of the Red Star, a complicated

socio-political-economic structure had been developed to deal with this

recurrent evil. The six Weyrs, as the old volcanic habitations of the

dragonfolk were called, pledged themselves to protect all Pern, each Weyr

having a geographical section of the northern continent literally under its

wings. The rest of the population would tithe to support the Weyrs since

these fighters, the dragonmen, did not have any arable land in their volcanic

homes, nor could they take time away from the nurture of dragonkind to learn

other trades during peacetime, nor time away from protecting the planet during

Passes.

Settlements, called Holds, developed wherever natural caves were found;

some, of course, more extensive or strategically placed than others. It took

a strong man to hold frantic terrified people in control during Thread

attacks; it took wise administration to conserve victuals when nothing could

safely be grown, and extraordinary measures to control population and keep it

useful and healthy until such time as the menace had passed. Men with special

skills in metalworking, animal breeding, farming, fishing, mining (such as

there was), weaving, formed Crafthalls in each large Hold and looked to one

Mastercrafthall where the precepts of their craft were taught, and craft

skills preserved and guarded from one generation to another. So that one Lord

Holder could not deny the products of the Crafthall situated in his Hold to

others of the planet, the Crafts were decreed independent of a Hold

affiliation, each Craftmaster of a hall owing allegiance to the Master of that

particular craft (an elected office based on proficiency and administrative

ability). The Mastercraftsman was responsible for the output of his halls,

the distribution, fair and unprejudiced, of all craft products on a planetary

rather than parochial basis.

Certain rights and privileges accrued to the different leaders of Holds

and Masters of Crafts, and naturally, to the Dragonriders to whom all Pern

looked for protection during Threadfalls.

The Red Star would swing inexorably close to Pern, but it would also

Pass again, and life could settle into a less frenzied pattern. Occasionally,

the conjunction of Rukbat's natural five satellites would prevent the Red Star

from passing close enough to Pern to drop its fearful spores. Sometimes,

though, as siblings will, Pern's sister planets seemed to draw the Red Star

closer still and Thread rained relentlessly on the unfortunate victim. Fear

creates fanatics and the Pernese were no exception. Only the dragonmen could

save Pern, and their position in the structure of the planet became

inviolable.

Mankind has a history of forgetting the unpleasant, the undesirable. By

ignoring its existence, it can make the source of past Terror disappear. And

the Red Star did not pass close enough to Pern to drop its Threads. The

people prospered and multiplied, spreading out across the rich land, carving

more holds out of solid rock, and so busy with their pursuits, that they did

not realize that there were only a few dragons in the skies, and only one Weyr

of Dragonriders left on Pern. The Red Star wasn't due back for a long, long

while. Why worry about such distant possibilities? In five generations or

so, the descendants of the heroic dragonmen fell into disfavor. The legends

of past braveries and the very reason for their existence fell into disrepute.

When, in the course of natural forces, the Red Star began to spin closer

to Pern, winking with a baleful red eye on its intended, ancient victim, one

man, F'lar, rider of the bronze dragon, Mnementh, believed that the ancient

tales had truth in them. His half-brother, F'nor, rider of brown Canth,

listened to his arguments and found belief in them more exciting than the dull

ways of the lone Weyr of Pern. When the last golden egg of a dying queen

dragon lay hardening on the Benden Weyr Hatching Ground, F'lar and F'nor

seized this opportunity to gain control of the Weyr. Searching through Ruatha

Hold for a strong woman to ride the soon-to-be hatched young queen, F'lar and

F'nor discovered Lessa, the only surviving member of the proud Bloodline of

Ruatha Hold. She Impressed young Ramoth, the new queen, and became Weyrwoman

of Benden Weyr. When F'lar's bronze Mnementh flew the young queen in her

first mating, F'lar became Weyrleader of Pern's remaining dragonmen. The

three riders, F'lar, Lessa and F'nor forced the Lord Holders and Craftsmen to

recognize their imminent danger and prepare the almost defenseless planet

against Thread. But it was distressingly obvious that the scant two hundred

dragons of Benden Weyr could not defend the sprawling settlements. Six full

Weyrs had been needed in the olden days when the settled land had been much

smaller. In learning to direct her queen dragon between one place and

another, Lessa discovered that dragons could teleport between time as well.

Risking her life as well as Pern's only queen dragon, Lessa and Ramoth went

back in time, four hundred Turns, before the mysterious disappearance of the

other five Weyrs, just after the Last Pass of the Red Star had been completed.

The five Weyrs, seeing only the decline of their prestige and bored with

inactivity after a lifetime of exciting combat, agreed to help Lessa's Weyr

and came forward to her Turn.

Seven Turns have now passed since that triumphant journey forward, and

the initial gratitude of the Holds and Crafts to the rescuing Oldtime Weyrs

has faded and soured. And the Oldtimers themselves do not like the Pern in

which they are now living. Four hundred Turns brought too many subtle

changes, and dissensions mount.

CHAPTER I

Morning at Mastercrafthall, Fort Hold

Several Afternoons Later at Benden Weyr

Midmorning (Telgar Time) at

Mastersmithcrafthall, Telgar Hold

How to begin? mused Robinton, the Masterharper of Pern.

He frowned thoughtfully down at the smoothed, moist sand in the shallow

trays of his workdesk. His long face settled into deep-grooved lines and

creases, and his eyes, usually snapping blue with inner amusement, were

gray-shadowed with unusual gravity.

He fancied the sand begged to be violated with words and notes while he,

Pern's repository and glib dispenser of any ballad, saga or ditty, was

inarticulate. Yet he had to construct a ballad for the upcoming wedding of

Lord Asgenar of Lemos Hold to the half-sister of Lord Larad of Telgar Hold.

Because of recent reports of unrest from his network of drummers and Harper

journeymen, Robinton had decided to remind the guests on this auspicious

occasion -- for every Lord Holder and Craftmaster would be invited of the debt

they owed the dragonmen of Pern. As the subject of his ballad, he had decided

to tell of the fantastic ride, between time itself, of Lessa, Weyrwoman of

Benden Weyr on her great golden queen, Ramoth. The Lords and Craftsmen of

Pern had been glad enough then for the arrival of Dragonriders from the five

ancient Weyrs from four hundred Turns in the past.

Yet how to reduce those fascinating, frantic days, those braveries, to a

rhyme? Even the most stirring chords could not recapture the beat of the

blood, the catch of breath the chill of fear and the hopeless surge of hope of

that first morning after Thread had fallen over Nerat Hold, when F'lar had

rallied all the frightened Lords and Craftmasters at Benden Weyr and enlisted

their enthusiastic aid.

It had not been just a sudden resurgence of forgotten loyalties that had

prompted the Lords, but the all too real sense of disaster as they envisioned

their prosperous acres blackened with the Thread they had dismissed as myth,

of the thought of burrows of the lightning propagating parasites, of

themselves walled up in the cliff-Holds behind thick metal doors and shutters.

They'd been ready to promise F'lar their souls that day if he could protect

them from Thread. And it was Lessa who had bought them that protection,

almost with her life.

Robinton looked up from the sandtrays, his expression suddenly bleak.

"The sand of memory dries quickly," he said softly, looking out across

the settled valley toward the precipice that housed Fort Hold. There was one

watchman on the fire ridges. There ought to be six, but it was planting time;

Lord Holder Groghe of Fort Hold had everyone who could walk upright in the

fields, even the gangs of children who were supposed to weed spring grass from

stone interstices and pull moss from the walls. Last spring, Lord Groghe

would not have neglected that duty no matter how many dragonlengths of land he

wanted to put under seed.

Lord Groghe was undoubtedly out in the fields right now, prowling from

one tract of land to another on one of those long-legged running beasts which

the Masterherdsman Sograny was developing. Groghe of Fort Hold was

indefatigable, his slightly protuberant blue eyes never missing an unpruned

tree or a badly harrowed row. He was a burly man, with grizzled hair which he

wore tied in a neat band. His complexion was florid, with a temper to match.

But, if he pushed his holders, he pushed himself as well, demanding nothing of

his people, his children nor his fosterlings that he was not able to do

himself. If he was conservative in his thinking, it was because he knew his

own limitations and felt secure in that knowledge.

Robinton pulled at his lower lip, wondering if Lord Groghe was an

exception in his disregard for this traditional Hold duty of removing all

greenery near habitations. Or was this Lord Groghe's answer to Fort Weyr's

growing agitation over the immense forest lands of Fort Hold which the

Dragonriders ought to protect? The Weyrleader of Fort Weyr, T'ron, and his

Weyrwoman, Mardra, had become less scrupulous about checking to see that no

Thread burrows had escaped their wing riders to fall on the lush forests. Yet

Lord Groghe had been scrupulous in the matter of ground crews and

flame-throwing equipment when Thread fell over his forests. He had a stable

of runners spread out through the Hold in an efficient network so that if

Dragonriders were competent in flight, there was adequate ground coverage for

any Thread that might elude the flaming breath of the airborne beasts.

But Robinton had heard ugly rumors of late, and not just from Fort Hold.

Since he eventually heard every derogatory whisper and accusation uttered in

Pern, he had learned to separate fact from spite, calumny from crime. Not

basically an alarmist, because he'd found much sifted itself out in the course

of time, Robinton was beginning to feel the stirrings of alarm in his soul.

The Masterharper slumped in his chair, staring out on the bright day,

the fresh new green of the fields, the yellow blossoms on the fruit trees the

neat stone Holds that lined the road up to the main Hold, the cluster of

artisans' cotholds below the wide ramp up to the Great Outer Court of Fort

Hold. And if his suspicions were valid, what could he do? Write a scolding

song? A satire? Robinton snorted. Lord Groghe was too literal a man to

interpret satire and too righteous to take a scold. Furthermore, and Robinton

pushed himself upright on his elbows, if Lord Groghe was neglectful, it was in

protest at Weyr neglect of far greater magnitude. Robinton shuddered to think

of Thread burrowing in the great stands of softwoods to the south.

He ought to sing his remonstrance's to Mardra and T'ron as Weyrleaders

-- but that, too, would be vain effort. Mardra had soured lately. She ought

to have sense enough to retire gracefully to a chair and let men seek her

favors if T'ron no longer attracted her. To hear the Hold girls talk, T'ron

was lusty enough. In fact, T'ron had better restrain himself. Lord Groghe

didn't take kindly to too many of his chattels bearing dragonseed.

Another impasse, thought Robinton with a wry smile. Hold customs

differed so from Weyr morals. Maybe a word to F'lar of Benden Weyr? Useless,

again. In the first place there was really nothing the bronze rider could do.

Weyrs were autonomous and not only could T'ron take umbrage for any advice

F'lar might see fit to offer, but Robinton was sure that F'lar might tend to

take the Lord Holders' side.

This was not the first time in recent months that Robinton regretted

that F'lar of Benden Weyr had been so eager to relinquish his leadership after

Lessa had gone back between to bring the five lost Weyrs forward in time. For

a brief few months then, seven Turns ago, Pern had been united under F'lar and

Lessa against the ancient menace of Thread. Every Holder, Craftmaster,

landsman, crafter, all had been of one mind. That unity had dissipated as the

Oldtime Weyr-leaders had reasserted their traditional domination over the

Holds bound to their Weyr for protection, and a grateful Pern had ceded them

those rights. But in four hundred Turns the interpretation of that old

hegemony had altered, with neither party sure of the translation.

Perhaps now was the time to remind Lord Holders of those perilous days

seven Turns ago when all their hopes hung on fragile dragon wings and the

dedication of a scant two hundred men.

Well, the Harper has a duty, too, by the Egg, Robinton thought,

needlessly smoothing the wet sand. And the obligation to broadcast it.

In twelve days, Larad, Lord of Telgar, was giving his half-sister,

Famira, to Asgenar, Lord of Lemos Hold. The Masterharper had been enjoined to

appear with appropriate new songs to enliven the festivities. F'lar and Lessa

were invited as Lemos Hold was weyrbound to Benden Weyr. There'd be other

notables among Weyr, Lord and Craft to signalize so auspicious an occasion.

"And among my jolly songs, I'll have stronger meat."

Chuckling to himself at the prospect, Robinton picked up his stylus.

"I must have a tender but intricate theme for Lessa. She's legend

already." Unconsciously the Harper smiled as he pictured the dainty,

child-sized Weyrwoman, with her white skin, her cloud of dark hair, the flash

of her gray eyes, heard the acerbity of her clever tongue. No man of Pern

failed of respect for her, or braved her displeasure, with the exception of

F'lar.Now a well-stated martial theme would do for Benden's Weyrleader, with

his keen amber eyes, his unconscious superiority, the intense energy of his

lean fighter's frame. Could he, Robinton, rouse F'lar from his detachment?

Or was he perhaps unnecessarily worried about these minor irritations between

Lord Holder and Weyrleader? But without the Dragonriders of Pern, the land

would be sucked dry of any sustenance by Thread, even if every man, woman and

child of the planet were armed with flame throwers. One burrow, well

established, could race across plain and forest as fast as a dragon could fly

it, consuming everything that grew or lived, save solid rock, water or metal.

Robinton shook his head, annoyed with his own fancies. As if dragonmen would

ever desert Pern and their ancient obligation.

Now -- a solid beat on the biggest drum for Fandarel, the Mastersmith,

with his endless curiosity, the great hands with their delicate skill, the

ranging mind in its eternal quest for efficiency. Somehow one expected such

an immense man to be as slow of wit as he was deliberate of physical movement.

A sad note, well sustained, for Lytol who had once ridden a Benden

dragon and lost his Larth in an accident in the Spring Games -- had it been

fourteen or fifteen Turns ago? Lytol had left the Weyr -- to be among

dragonfolk only exacerbated his tremendous loss -- and taken to the craft of

weaving. He'd been Crafthall Master in the High Reaches Hold when F'lar had

discovered Lessa on Search. F'lar had appointed Lytol to be Lord Warder of

Ruatha Hold when Lessa had abdicated her claim to the Hold to young Jaxom.

And how did a man signify the dragons of Pern? No theme was grand

enough for those huge, winged beasts, as gentle as they were great, Impressed

at Hatching by the men who rode them, flaming against Thread, who tended them,

loved them, who were linked, mind to mind, in an unbreakable bond that

transcended speech! (What was that really like? Robinton wondered,

remembering that his youthful ambition had been to be a dragonman.) The

dragons of Pern who could transfer themselves in some mysterious fashion

between one place and another in the blink of an eye. Between even one Time

and another!

The Harper's sigh came from his soul but his hand moved to the sand and

pressed out the first note, wrote the first word, wondering if he would find

some answer himself in the song.

He had barely filled the completed score with clay to preserve the text,

when he heard the first throb of the drum. He strode quickly to the small

outer court of the Crafthall, bending his head to catch the summons; it was

his sequence all right, in urgent tempo. He concentrated so closely on the

drumroll that he did not realize that every other sound common to the Harper's

Hall had ceased.

"Thread?" His throat dried instantly. Robinton didn't need to consult

the timetable to realize that the Threads were falling on the shores of Tillek

Hold prematurely.

Across the valley on Fort Hold's ramparts, the single watchman made his

monotonous round, oblivious to disaster.

There was a soft spring warmth to the afternoon air as F'nor and his

big, brown Canth emerged from their weyr in Benden Weyr. F'nor yawned

slightly and stretched until he heard his spine crack. He'd been on the

western coast all the previous day, Searching for likely lads -- and girls,

since there was a golden egg hardening on the Benden Weyr Hatching Grounds --

for the next Impression. Benden Weyr certainly produced more dragons, and

more queens, than the five Oldtimers' Weyrs, F'nor thought.

"Hungry?" he asked courteously of his dragon, glancing down the Weyr

Bowl to the Feeding Grounds. No dragons were dining and the herdbeasts stood

in their fenced pasture, legs spraddled, heads level with their bony knees as

they drowsed in the sunlight.

Sleepy, said Canth, although he had slept as long and deeply as his

rider. The brown dragon proceeded to settle himself on the sun-warmed ledge,

sighing as he sank down.

"Slothful wretch," F'nor said, grinning affectionately at his beast.

The sun was full on the other side of the enormous mountain cup that

formed the dragonman's habitation on the eastern coast of Pern. The cliffside

was patterned with the black mouths of the individual dragon weyrs, starred

where sun flashed off mica in the rocks. The waters of the Weyr's spring-fed

lake glistened around the two green dragons bathing as their riders lounged on

the grass verge. Beyond, in front of the weyrling barracks, young riders

formed a semi-circle around the Weyrlingmaster.

F'nor's grin broadened. He stretched his lean body indolently,

remembering his own weary hours in such a semicircle, twenty odd Turns ago.

The rote lessons which he had echoed as a weyrling had far more significance

to this present group of Dragonriders. In his Turn, the Silver Thread of

those teaching songs had not dropped from the Red Star for over four hundred

Turns, to sear the flesh of man and beast and devour anything living which

grew on Pern. Of all the dragonmen in Pern's lone Weyr, only F'nor's

half-brother, F'lar, bronze Mnementh's rider, had believed that there might be

truth in those old legends. Now Thread was an inescapable fact, falling to

Pern from the skies with diurnal regularity. Once more, its destruction was a

way of life for Dragonriders. The lessons these lads learned would save their

skins, their lives and, more important, their dragons.

The weyrlings are promising, Canth remarked as he locked his wings to

his back and curled his tail against his hind legs. He settled his great head

to his forelegs, the many-faceted eye nearest F'nor gleaming softly on his

rider.Responding to the tacit plea, F'nor scratched the eye ridge until Canth

began to hum softly with pleasure.

"Lazybones!"

When I work, I work, Canth replied. Without my help, how would you know

which holdbred lad would make a good dragonrider? And do I not find girls who

make good queen riders, too?

F'nor laughed indulgently, but it was true that Canth's ability to spot

likely candidates for fighting dragons and breeding Queens was much vaunted by

Benden Weyr dragonmen.

Then F'nor frowned, remembering the odd hostility of the small holders

and crafters he'd encountered in Southern Boll's Holds and Crafts. Yes, the

people had been hostile until -- until he'd identified himself as a Benden

Weyr dragonrider. He'd have thought it'd be the other way round. Southern

Boll was weyrbound to Fort Weyr. Traditionally -- and F'nor grinned wryly

since the Fort Weyrleaders T'ron, was so adamant in upholding all that was

traditional, customary . . . and static -- traditionally, the Weyr which

protected a territory had first claim on any possible riders. But the five

Oldtime Weyrs rarely sought beyond their own Lower Caverns for candidates. Of

course, thought F'nor, the Oldtime queens didn't produce large clutches like

the modern queens, nor many golden queen eggs. Come to think on it, only

three queens had been Hatched in the Oldtime Weyrs in the seven Turns since

Lessa brought them forward.

Well, let the Oldtimers stick to their ways if that made them feel

superior. But F'nor agreed with F'lar. It was only common sense to give your

dragonets as wide a choice as possible. Though the women in the Lower Caverns

of Benden Weyr were certainly agreeable, there simply weren't enough weyr-born

lads to match up the quantity of dragons hatched.

Now, if one of the other Weyrs, maybe G'narish of Igen Weyr or R'mart of

Telgar Weyr, would throw open their junior queens' mating flights, the

Oldtimers might notice an improvement in size of clutch and the dragons that

hatched. A man was a fool to breed only to his own Bloodlines all the time.

The afternoon breeze shifted and brought with it the pungent fumes of

numbweed a-boil. F'nor groaned. He'd forgotten that the women were making

numbweed for salve that was the universal remedy for the burn of Thread and

other painful afflictions. That had been one main reason for going on Search

yesterday. The odor of numbweed was pervasive. Yesterday's breakfast had

tasted medicinal instead of cereal. Since the preparation of numbweed salve

was a tedious as well as smelly process, most dragonmen made themselves scarce

during its manufacture. F'nor glanced across the Weyr Bowl to the queen's

weyr. Ramoth, of course, was in the Hatching Ground, hovering over her latest

clutch of eggs, but bronze Mnementh was absent from his accustomed perch on

the ledge. F'lar and he were off somewhere, no doubt escaping the smell of

numbweed as well as Lessa's uncertain temper. She conscientiously took part

in even the most onerous duties of Weyrwoman, but that didn't mean she had to

like them.

Numbweed stink notwithstanding, F'nor was hungry. He hadn't eaten since

late afternoon yesterday, and, since there was a good six hours' time

difference between Southern Boll on the western coast and Benden Weyr in the

east, he'd missed the dinner hour at Benden Weyr completely.

With a parting scratch, F'nor told Canth that he'd get some food, and

started down the stone ramp from his ledge. One of the privileges of being

Wing-second was choice of quarters. Since Ramoth as senior queen would permit

only two junior queens in Benden Weyr, there were two unoccupied Weyr-woman

quarters. F'nor had appropriated one and did not need to disturb Canth when

he wished to descend to a lower level.

As he approached the entrance of the Lower Caverns, the aroma of boiling

numbweed made his eyes smart. He'd grab some klah, bread and fruit and go

listen to the Weyrlingmaster. They were upwind. As Wing-second, F'nor liked

to take every opportunity to measure up the new riders, particularly those who

were not weyrbred. Life in a Weyr required certain adjustments for the craft

and holdbred. The freedom and privileges sometimes went to a boy's head,

particularly after he was able to take his dragon between -- anywhere on Pern

-- in the space it takes to count to three. Again, F'nor agreed with F'lar's

preference in presenting older lads at Impression though the Oldtimers

deplored that practice at Benden Weyr, too. But, by the Shell, a lad in his

late teens recognized the responsibility of his position (even if he were

holdbred) as a dragonrider. He was more emotionally mature and, while there

was no lessening of the impact of Impression with his dragon, he could absorb

and understand the implications of a lifelong link, of an in-the-soul contact,

the total empathy between himself and his dragon. An older boy didn't get

carried away. He knew enough to compensate until his dragonet's instinctive

sensibility unfolded. A baby dragon had precious little sense and, if some

silly weyrling let his beast eat too much, the whole Weyr suffered through its

torment. Even an older beast lived for the here and now, with little thought

for the future and not all that much recollection -- except on the instinctive

level -- for the past. That was just as well, F'nor thought. For dragons

bore the brunt of Thread-score. Perhaps if their memories were more acute or

associative, they'd refuse to fight.

F'nor took a deep breath and, blinking furiously against the fumes,

entered the huge kitchen Cavern. It was seething with activity. Half the

female population of the Weyr must be involved in this operation, F'nor

thought, for great cauldrons monopolized all the large hearths set in the

outside wall of the Cavern. Women were seated at the broad tables, washing

and cutting the roots from which the salve was extracted. Some were ladling

the boiling product into great earthenware pots. Those who stirred the

concoction with long-handled paddles wore masks over nose and mouth and bent

frequently to blot eyes watering from the acrid fumes. Older children were

fetching and carrying, fuelrock from the store caves for the fires, pots to

the cooling caves. Everyone was busy.

Fortunately the nighthearth, nearest the entrance, was operating for

normal use, the huge klah pot and stew kettle swinging from their hooks,

keeping warm over the coals. Just as F'nor had filled his cup, he heard his

name called. Glancing around, he saw his blood mother, Manora, beckon to him.

Her usually serene face wore a look of puzzled concern.

Obediently F'nor crossed to the hearth where she, Lessa, and another

young woman who looked familiar though F'nor couldn't place her, were

examining a small kettle.

"My duty to you, Lessa, Manora -- " and he paused, groping for the third

name. "You ought to remember Brekke, F'nor," Lessa said, raising her eyebrows

at his lapse.

"How can you expect anyone to see in a place dense with fumes?" F'nor

demanded, making much of blotting his eyes on his sleeve. "I haven't seen

much of you, Brekke, since the day Canth and I brought you from your crafthold

to Impress young Wirenth."

"F'nor, you're as bad as F'lar," Lessa exclaimed, somewhat testily.

"You never forget a dragon's name, but his rider's?"

"How fares Wirenth, Brekke?" F'nor asked, ignoring Lessa's

interruption.

The girl looked startled but managed a hesitant smile, then pointedly

looked towards Manora, trying to turn attention from herself. She was a shade

too thin for F'nor's tastes, not much taller than Lessa whose diminutive size

in no way lessened the authority and respect she commanded. There was,

however, a sweetness about Brekke's solemn face, unexpectedly framed with dark

curly hair, that F'nor did find appealing. And he liked her self-effacing

modesty. He was wondering how she got along with Kylara, the tempestuous and

irresponsible senior Weyrwoman at Southern Weyr, when Lessa tapped the empty

pot before her.

"Look at this, F'nor. The lining has cracked and the entire kettle of

numbweed salve is discolored."

F'nor whistled appreciatively.

"Would you know what it is the Smith uses to coat the metal?" Manora

asked. "I wouldn't dare use tainted salve and yet I hate to discard so much

if there's no reason."

F'nor tipped the pot to the light. The dull tan lining was seamed by

fine cracks along one side.

"See what it does to the salve?" and Lessa thrust a small bowl at him,

The anesthetic ointment, normally a creamy, pale yellow, had turned a

reddish tan. Rather a threatening color, F'nor thought. He smelled it,

dipped his finger in and felt the skin immediately deaden.

"It works," he said with a shrug.

"Yes, but what would happen to an open Thread score with that foreign

substance cooked into the salve?" asked Manora.

"Good point. What does F'lar say?"

"Oh, him." Lessa screwed her fine delicate features into a grimace.

"He's off to Lemos Hold to see how that woodcraftsman of Lord Asgenar's is

doing with the wood pulp leaves."

F'nor grinned. "Never around when you want him, huh, Lessa?"

She opened her mouth for a stinging reply, her gray eyes snapping, and

then realized that F'nor was teasing.

"You're as bad as he is," she said, grinning up at the tall Wing-second

who resembled her Weyrmate so closely. Yet the two men, though the stamp of

their mutual sire was apparent in the thick shocks of black hair, the strong

features, the lean rangy bodies (F'nor had a squarer, broader frame with not

enough flesh on his bones so that he appeared unfinished), the two men were

different in temperament and personality. F'nor was less introspective and

more easygoing than his half brother. F'lar, the elder by three Turns. The

Weyrwoman sometimes found herself treating F'nor as if he were an extension of

his half brother and, perhaps for this reason, could joke and tease with him.

She was not on easy terms with many people.

F'nor returned her smile and gave her a mocking little bow for the

compliment.

"Well. I've no objections to running your errand to the

Mastersmithhall. I'm supposed to be Searching and I can Search in Telgar Hold

as well as anywhere else. R'mart's nowhere near as sticky as some of the

other Oldtime Weyr-leaders." He took the pot off the hook, peering into it

once more, then glanced around the busy room, shaking his head. "I'll take

your pot to Fandarel but it looks to me as though you've already got enough

numbweed to coat every dragon in all six -- excuse me -- seven Weyrs." He

grinned at Brekke for the girl seemed curiously ill at ease. Lessa could be

snap-tempered when she was preoccupied and Ramoth was fussing over her latest

clutch like a novice -- which would tend to make Lessa more irritable.

Strange for a junior Weyrwoman from Southern Weyr to be involved in any

brewing at Benden.

"A Weyr can't have too much numbweed," Manora said briskly.

"That isn't the only pot that's showing cracks, either," Lessa cut in,

testily. "And if we've got to gather more numbweed to make up what we've lost

. . ."

"There's the second crop at the Southern Weyr," Brekke suggested, then

looked flustered for speaking up.

But the look Lessa turned on Brekke was grateful. "I've no intention of

shorting you, Brekke, when Southern Weyr does the nursing of every fool who

can't dodge Thread."

"I'll take the pot. I'll take the pot," F'nor cried with humorous

assurance. "But first, I've got to have more in me than a cup of klah"

Lessa blinked at him, her glance going to the entrance and the late

afternoon sun slanting in on the floor.

"It's only just past noon in Telgar Hold," he said, patiently.

"Yesterday I was all day Searching at Southern Boll so I'm hours behind

myself." He stifled a yawn.

"I'd forgotten. Any luck?"

"Canth didn't twitch an ear. Now let me eat and get away from the

stink. Don't know how you stand it."

Lessa snorted. "Because I can't stand the groans when you riders don't

have numbweed."

F'nor grinned down at his Weyrwoman, aware that Brekke's eyes were wide

in amazement at their good-natured banter. He was sincerely fond of Lessa as

a person, not just as Weyrwoman of Benden's senior queen. He heartily

approved of F'lar's permanent attachment of Lessa, not that there seemed much

chance that Ramoth would ever permit any dragon but Mnementh to fly her. As

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DRAGONQUESTVolume2oftheDragonridersofPernby:AnneMcCaffreyCopyright1971ContentsPreludeIMorningatMastercrafthall,FortHoldSeveralAfternoonsLateratBendenWeyrMidmorning(TelgarTime)atMastersmithcrafthall,TelgarHoldIIEvening(FortWeyrTime).MeetingoftheWeyrleadersatFortWeyrIIIMorningoverLemosHoldIVMiddayatSo...

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Anne McCaffrey - Pern 02 - Dragonquest

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