Anne McCaffrey - Pern 01 - Dragonrider

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DRAGONRIDER
by
Anne McCaffrey
Anne McCaffrey Editor's note; What follows is selfcontained and
selfexplanatory. That's obvious; how else could it have won an award?
At the same time, it is the concluding half of a larger work, part of which
appeared in Nebula Three. Therefore Karen Anderson has prepared a synopsis of
what went before. You may well prefer to skip that and go directly on to the
gorgeously colored world of dragons and their riders which Anne McCaffrey has
created for you. On the other hand, many travelers prefer to read a guidebook
before they leave home.
On the world called Pern, the human inhabitants have no tradition of Earth or
of space travel. There is a legendary vagueness about the menace of the
Threads which fall when the freakish orbit of the Red Star (a captured planet)
brings it close to Pern. Though nobles and commoners are in awe of the
Dragons and the elite corps who ride them, they are ignorant of the nature of
the powers bred into both Dragons and riders.
In the Hold of Ruatha, young Lessa had for half her life used her inborn
mental powers to camouflage herself from the men of Fax, the brigand lord who
slaughtered her entire family to secure his seizure of their Hold. She also
managed, by small subtle interferences, to disrupt all the workings of Ruatha,
so that Fax had no profit from his conquest.
Fax did not know of her existence; but when the dragonrider F'lar inspected
Fax's Holds in search of a potential Weyrwoman, he knew that someone at Ruatha
had the abilities he was looking forespecially when he realized that he had
been maneuvered into a duel with Fax. The latter dead, Lessa claimed Ruatha.
But in the fury to which she had provoked him, Fax had renounced this
unprofitable Hold in favor of his youngest son, born that night. F'lar told
Lessa that the infant's claim must stand, but that she had the Power needed in
a Weyrwoman. She agreed to go with him to the Weyr.
This had fallen very low in prestige, due in part to the incompetence of the
last Weyrwoman, Jora, now dead. The last clutch of the dying queen-dragon
Nemorth included one queen-egg; they had been sired by Hath, and consequently
his rider R'gul was Weyrleader. On hatching, the queen-chick chose Lessa after
clumsily injuring two other candidates. At the moment their eyes met, their
minds joined in joyful rapport. Lessa and the golden dragon Ramoth would now
be devoted to each other for the rest of their lives. R'gul remained
Weyrleader while Ramoth grew up, and taught Lessa her duties. Meanwhile few
Holds sent tithes and the Lords of the others called the dragonriders
parasites, the legendary Threads a lie. After Lessa secretly encouraged raids
on the herds of disaffected Holds to make up the shortage of food, there was
active revolt. But by the time troops marched on the Weyr, the situation had
drastically changed. Ramoth, now two Turns old, was full-grown and larger even
than F'lar's bronze Mnementh. She had made her nuptial flight, and Mnementh
had claimed her. Their rapport with the dragons brought F'lar and Lessa
together with the same passion.
The new Weyrieader F'lar was quick-witted and decisive: he sent parties of
dragonriders to make hostages of the womenfolk of the rebel lords. Their Holds
were unguarded, for they had forgotten that a dragon can fly between, passing
almost instantly from one place to another. So the tithes would be paid; the
Weyr would prosper again.
The Finger points
At an Eye blood-red.
Alert the Weyrs
To sear the Thread.
"You STILL doubt, R'gul?" F'lar asked, appearing slightly amused by the older
bronze rider's perversity.
R'gul, his handsome features stubbornly set, made no reply to the weyrleader's
taunt. He ground his teeth together as if he could grind away F'lar's
authority over him.
"There have been no Threads in Pern's skies for over four hundred Turns. Thkre
are no more!"
"There is always that possibility," F'lar conceded amiably.
There was not, however, the slightest trace of tolerance in his amber eyes.
Nor the slightest hint of compromise in his manner.
He was more like F'lon, his sire, R'gul decided, than a son had any right to
be. Always so sure of himself, always slightly contemptuous of what others did
and thought. Arrogant, that's what F'lar was. Impertinent, too, and
underhanded in the matter of that young Weyrwoman. Why, R'gul had trained her
up to be one of the finest Weyrwomen in many Turns. Before he'd finished her
instruction, she'd known all the Teaching Ballads and Sagas letter-perfect.
And then the silly child had turned to F'lar. Didn't have sense enough to
appreciate the merits of an older, more experienced man. Undoubtedly she felt
a first obligation to F'lar for discovering her on Search.
"You do, however," F'lar was saying, "admit that when the sun hits the Finger
Rock at the moment of dawn, winter solstice has been reached?"
"Any fool knows that's what the Finger Rock is for," R'gul grunted.
"Then why don't you, you old fool, admit that the Eye Rock was placed on Star
Stone to bracket the Red Star when it's about to make a Pass?" burst out
K'net.
R'gul flushed, half-starting out of his chair, ready to take the young sprout
to task for such insolence.
"K'net!" F'lar's voice cracked authoritatively. "Do you really like flying the
lgen patrol so much you want another few weeks at it?"
K'net hurriedly seated himself, flushing at the reprimand and the threat.
"There is, you know, R'gul, incontrovertible evidence to support my
conclusions," F'lar went on with deceptive mildness. " 'The Finger points/At
an Eye blood-red . . .' " "Don't quote me verses I taught you as a weyriing,"
R'gul exclaimed heatedly.
"Then have faith in what you taught," F'lar snapped back, his amber eyes
flashing dangerously.
R'gul, stunned by the unexpected forcefulness, sank back into his chair.
"You cannot deny, R'gul," F'lar continued quietly, "that no less than half an
hour ago the sun balanced on the Finger's tip at dawn and the Red Star was
squarely framed by the Eye Rock."
The other dragonriders, bronze as well as brown, murmured and nodded their
agreement to that phenomenon. There was also an undercurrent of resentment for
R'gul's continual contest of F'lar's policies as the new Weyrleader. Even old
S'lel, once R'gul's avowed supporter, was following the majority.
"There have been no Threads in four hundred Turns. There are no Threads,"
R'gul muttered.
"Then, my fellow dragonman," F'lar said cheerfully, "all you have taught is
falsehood. The dragons are, as the Lords of the Holds wish to believe,
parasites on the economy of Pern, anachronisms. And so are we.
"Therefore, far be it from me to hold you here against the dictates of your
conscience. You have my permission to leave the Weyr and take up residence
where you will."
Someone laughed. R'gul was too stunned by F'lar's ultimatum to take offense at
the ridicule. Leave the Weyr? Was the man mad? Where would he go? The Weyr had
been his life. He had been bred up to it for generations. All his male
ancestors had been dragonriders. Not all bronze, true, but a decent
percentage. His own dam's sire had been a Weyrleader just as he, R'gul, had
been until F'lar's Mnementh had flown the new queen.
But dragonmen never left the Weyr. Well, they did if they were negligent
enough to lose their dragons, like that Lytol fellow at Ruath Hold. And how
could be leave the Weyr with a dragon?
What did F'lar want of him? Was it not enough that he was Weyrleader now in
R'gul's stead? Wasn't F'lar's pride sufficiently swollen by having bluffed the
Lords of Pern into disbanding their army when they were all set to coerce the
Weyr and dragonmen? Must F'lar dominate every dragonman, body and will, too?
He stared a long moment, incredulous.
"I do not believe we are parasites," F'lar said, breaking the silence with a
soft, persuasive voice. "Nor anachronistic. There have been long Intervals
before. The Red Star does not always pass close enough to drop Threads on
Pern. Which is why our ingenious ancestors thought to position the Eye Rock
and the Finger Rock as they did . . . to confirm when a Pass will be made. And
another thing" his face turned grave "there have been other times when
dragonkind has all but died out . . . and Pern with it because of skeptics
like you." F'lar smiled and relaxed indolently in his chair. "I prefer not to
be recorded as a skeptic. How shall we record you, R'gul?"
The Council Room was tense. R'gul was aware of someone breathing harshly and
realized it was himself. He looked at the adamant face of the young Weyrleader
and knew that the threat was not empty. He would either concede to F'lar's
authority completely, though concession rankled deeply, or leave the Weyr. And
where could he go, unless to one of the other Weyrs, deserted for hundreds of
Turns? And R'gul's thoughts were savage wasn't that indication enough of the
cessation of Threads? Five empty Weyrs? No, by the Egg of Faranth, he would
practice some of F'lar's own brand of deceit and bide his time. When all Pern
turned on the arrogant fool, he, R'gul, would be there to salvage something
from the rylns.
"A dragonman stays in his Weyr," R'gul said with what dignity he could muster.
"And accepts the policies of the current Weyrleader?" The tone of F'lar's
voice made it less of a question and more of an order.
So as not to perjure himself, R'gul gave a curt nod of his head. Flar
continued to stare at him and, R'gul wondered if the man could read his
thoughts as his dragon might. He managed to return the gaze calmly. His turn
would come. He'd wait.
Apparently accepting the capitulation, F'lar stood up and crisply delegated
patrol assignments for the day.
"T'bor, you're weather-watch. Keep an eye on those tithing trains as you do.
Have you the morning's report?"
"Weather is fair at dawning . . . all across Telgar and Keroon . . . if all
too cold," T'bor said with a wry grin.
"Tithing trains have good hard roads, though, so they ought to be here soon."
His eyes twinkled with anticipation of the feasting that would follow the
supplies' arrival a mood shared by all, to judge by the expressions around
the table.
F'lar nodded. "S'lan and D'nol, you are to continue an adroit Search for
likely boys. They should be striplings, if possible, but do not pass over
anyone suspected of talent.It's all well and good to present for Impression
boys reared up in the Weyr traditions." F'lar gave a one-sided smile.
"But there are not enough in the Lower Caverns. We, too, have been behind in
begetting. Anyway, dragons reach full growth faster than their riders. We must
have more young men to Impress when Ramoth hatches. Take the southern holds,
Ista, Nerat, Fort, and South Boll where maturity comes earlier. You can use
the guise of inspecting Holds for greenery to talk to the boys. And take along
firestone and run a few flaming passes on those heights that haven't been
scoured in-oh dragon's years. A flaming beast impresses the young and arouses
envy."
F'lar deliberately looked at R'gul to see the ex-weyrleader's reaction to the
order. R'gul had been dead set against going outside the Weyr for more
candidates. In the first place, R'gul had argued that there were eighteen
youngsters in the Lower Caverns, some quite young, to be sure, but R'gul would
not admit that Ramoth would lay more than the dozen Nemorth had always
dropped. In the second place, R'gul persisted in wanting to avoid any action
that might antagonize the Lords.
R'gul made no overt protest, and F'lar went on.
"K'net, back to the mines. I want the dispositions of each firestone-dump
checked and quantities available. R'gul, continue drilling recognition points
with the weyriings. They must be positive about their references. If they're
used as messengers and suppliers, they may be sent out quickly and with no
time to ask questions.
"F'nor, T'sum"F'lar turned to his own brown riders "you're clean-up squad
today." He allowed himself a grin at their dismay. "Try Ista Weyr. Clear the
Hatching Cavern and enough weyrs for a double wing. And, F'nor, don't leave a
single Record behind. They're worth preserving. That will be all, dragonmen.
Good flying." And with that, F'lar rose and strode from the Council Room up to
the queen's weyr.
Ramoth still slept, her hide gloaming with health, its color deepening to a
shade of gold closer to bronze, indicating her pregnancy. As he passed her,
the tip of her long tail twitched slightly.
All the dragons were restless these days, F'lar reflected. Yet when he asked
Mnementh, the bronze .dragon could give no reason. He woke, he went back to
sleep. That was all. F'lar couldn't ask a leading question for that would
defeat his purpose. He had to remain discontented with the vague fact that the
restlessness was some kind of instinctive reaction.
Lessa was not in the sleeping room, nor was she still bathing. F'lar snorted.
That girl was going to scrub her hide off with this constant bathing. She'd
had to live grimy to protect herself in Ruath Hold, but bathing twice a day?
He was beginning to wonder if this might be a subtle Lessa-variety insult to
him personally. F'lar sighed. That girl. Would she never turn to him of her
own accord? Would he ever touch that elusive inner core of Lessa? She had more
warmth for his half brother, F'nor, and for K'net, the youngest of the bronze
riders than she had for F'lar who shared her bed.
He pulled the curtain back into place, irritated. Where had she gone to today
when, for the first time in weeks, he had been able to get all the wings out
of the Weyr just so he could teach her to fly between?
Ramoth would soon be too egg-heavy for such activity. He had promised the
Weyrwoman, and he meant to keep that promise. She had taken to wearing the
wher-hide riding gear as a flagrant reminder of his unfulfilled pledge. From
certain remarks she had dropped, he knew she would not wait much longer for
his aid. That she would try it on her own didn't suit him at all.
He crossed the queen's weyr again and peered down the passage that led to the
Records Room. She was often to be found there, poring over the musty skins.
And that was one more matter that needed urgent consideration. Those Records
were deteriorating past legibility. Curiously enough, earlier ones were still
in good condition and readable. Another technique forgotten. That girl! He
brushed his thick forelock of hair back from his brow in a gesture habitual to
him when he was annoyed or worried. The passage was dark, which meant she
could not be below in the Records Room.
"Mnementh," he called silently to his bronze dragon, sunning on the ledge
outside the queen's weyr. "What is that girl doing?"
Lessa, the dragon replied, stressing the Weyrwoman's name with pointed
courtesy, is talking to Manora. She's dressed for riding, he added after a
slight pause.
F'lar thanked the bronze sarcastically and strode down the passage to the
entrance. As he turned the last bend, he all but ran Lessa down.
You hadn't asked me where she was, Mnementh plaintively answered F'lar's
blistering reprimand.
Lessa rocked back on her heels from the force of their encounter. She glared
up at him, her lips thin with displeasure, her eyes flashing.
"Why didn't I have the opportunity of seeing the Red Star through the Eye
Rock?" she demanded in a hard, angry voice.
F'lar pulled at his hair. Lessa at her most difficult would complete the list
of this morning's trials.
"Too many to accommodate on the Peak as it was," he muttered, determined not
to let her irritate him today. "And you already believe."
"I'd've liked to see it," she snapped and pushed past him toward the weyr. "If
only in my capacity as Weyrwoman and Recorder."
He caught her arm and felt her body tense. He set his teeth, wishing, as he
had a hundred times since Ramoth rose in her first mating flight, that Lessa
had not been virgin, too. He had not thought to control his dragon-incited
emotions, and Lessa's first sexual experience had been violent. It had
surprised him to be first, considering that her adolescent years had been
spent drudging for lascivious warders and soldier- types. Evidently no one had
bothered to penetrate the curtain of rags and the coat of filth she had
carefully maintained as a disguise. He had been a considerate and gentle
bedmate ever since, but, unless Ramoth and Mnementh were involved, he might as
well call it rape.
Yet he knew someday, somehow, he would coax her into responding wholeheartedly
to his lovemaking. He had a certain pride in his skill, and he was in a
position to persevere. Now he took a deep breath and released her arm slowly.
"How fortunate you're wearing riding gear. As soon as the wings have cleared
out and Ramoth wakes, I shall teach you to fly between."
The gleam of excitement in her eyes was evident even in the dimly lit
passageway. He heard her inhale sharply.
"Can't put it off too much longer or Ramoth'll be in no shape to fly at all,"
he continued amiably.
"You mean it?" Her voice was low and breathless, its usual acid edge missing.
"You will teach us today?" He wished he could see her face clearly.
Once or twice he had caught an unguarded expression on her face, loving and
tender. He would give much to have that look turned on him. However, he
admitted wryly to himself, he ought to be glad that melting regard was
directed only at Ramoth and not at another human.
"Yes, my dear Weyrwoman, I mean it. I will teach you to fly between today. If
only," and be bowed to her with a flourish, "to keep you from trying it
yourself."
Her low chuckle informed him his taunt was well-aimed.
"Right now, however," he said, indicating for her to lead the way back to the
weyr, "I could do with some food. We were up before the kitchen."
They had entered the well-lighted weyr, so he did not miss the trenchant look
she shot him over her shoulder. She would not so easily forgive being left out
of the group at the Star Stone this morning, certainly not with the bribe of
flying between.
How different this inner room was now that Lessa was Weyrwoman, F'lar mused as
Lessa called down the service shaft for food. During Jora's incompetent tenure
as Weyr- woman, the sleeping quarters had been crowded with junk, unwashed
apparel, uncleared dishes. The state of the Weyr and the reduced number of
dragons were as much Jora's fault as R'gul's, for she had indirectly
encouraged sloth, negligence, and gluttony. If he, F'lar, had been just a few
years older when F'lon, his father, had died . . . Jora had been disgusting,
but when dragons rose in mating flight, the condition of your partner counted
for nothing.
Lessa took a tray of bread and cheese, and mugs of the stimulating klah from
the platform. She served him deftly.
"You'd not eaten, either?" he asked.
She shook her head vigorously, the braid into which she had plaited her thick,
fine dark hair bobbing across her shoulders. The hairdressing was too severe
for her narrow face, but it did not, if that was her intention, disguise her
femininity or the curious beauty of her delicate features.
Again F'lar wondered that such a slight body contained so much shrewd
intelligence and resourceful . . . cunning yes, that was the word, cunning.
F'lar did not make the mistake, as others had, of underestimating her
abilities.
"Manora called me to witness the birth of Kylara's child."
F'lar maintained an expression of polite interest. He knew perfectly well that
Lessa suspected the child was his, and it could have been, he admitted
privately, but he doubted it. Kylara had been one of the ten candidates from
the same Search three years ago which had discovered Lessa. Like others who
survived Impression, Kylara had found certain aspects of Weyr life exactly
suited to her temperament. She had gone from one rider's weyr to another's.
She had even seduced F'lar not at all against his will, to be sure. Now that
he was Weyrleader, he found it wiser to ignore her efforts to continue the
relationship. T'bor had taken her in hand and had had his hands full until he
retired her to the Lower Caverns, well advanced in pregnancy.
Aside from having the amorous tendencies of a green dragon, Kylara was quick
and ambitious. She would make a strong Weyrwoman, so F'lar had charged Manora
and Lessa with the job of planting the notion in Kylara's mind. In the
capacity of Weyrwoman . . . of another Weyr . . . her intense drives would be
used to Pern's advantage. She had not learned the severe lessons of restraint
and patience that Lessa had, and she didn't have Lessa's devious mind.
Fortunately she was in considerable awe of Lessa, and F'lar suspected that
Lessa was subtly influencing this attitude. In Kylara's case, F'lar preferred
not to object to Lessa's meddling.
"A fine son," Lessa was saying.
F'lar sipped his klah. She was not going to get him to admit any
responsibility.
After a long pause Lessa added, "She has named him T'kil."
F'lar suppressed a grin at Lessa's failure to get a rise from him.
"Discreet of her."
"Oh?"
"Yes," F'lar replied blandly. "T'lar might be confusing if she took the second
half of her name as is customary. 'Tkil, however, still indicates sire as well
as dam."
"While I was waiting for Council to end," Lessa said after clearing her
throat, "Manora and I checked the supply caverns. The tithing trains, which
the Holds have been so gracious as to send us" her voice was sharp "are due
within the week. There will shortly be bread fit to eat," she added, wrinkling
her nose at the crumbling gray pastry she was attempting to spread with
cheese.
"A nice change," F'lar agreed.
She paused. "The Red Star performed its scheduled antic?"
He nodded.
"And R'gul's doubts have been wiped away in the enlightening red glow?"
"Not at all." F'lar grinned back at her, ignoring her sarcasm. "Not at all,
but he will not be so vocal in his criticism."
She swallowed quickly so she could speak. "You'd do well to cut out his
criticism," she said ruthlessly, gesturing with her knife as if plunging it
into a man's heart. "He is never going to accept your authority with good
grace."
"We need every bronze rider . . . there are only seven, you know," he reminded
her pointedly. "R'gul's a good wing- leader. He'll settle down when the
Threads fall. He needs proof to lay his doubts aside."
"And the Red Star in the Eye Rock is not proof?" Lessa's expressive eyes were
wide.
F'lar was privately of Lessa's opinionthat it might be wiser to remove R'gul's
stubborn contentiousness. But he could not sacrifice a wingleader, needing
every dragon and rider as badly as he did.
"I don't trust him," she added darkly. She sipped at her hot drink, her gray
eyes dark over the rim of her mug. As if, F'lar mused, she didn't trust him,
either.
And she didn't, past a certain point. She had made that plain, and, in
honesty, he couldn't blame her. She did recognize that every action F'lar took
was toward one end . . . the safety and preservation of dragonkind and
weyrfolk and consequently the safety and preservation of Pern. To effect that
end, he needed her full cooperation. When Weyr business or dragonlore were
discussed, she suspended the antipathy he knew she felt for him. In
conferences she supported him wholeheartedly and persuasively, but always he
suspected the double edge to her comments and saw a speculative, suspicious
look in her eyes. He needed not only her tolerance but her empathy.
'Tell me," she said after a long silence, "did the sun touch the Finger Rock
before the Red Star was bracketed in the Eye Rock or after?"
"Matter of fact, I'm not sure, as I did not see it myself . The concurrence
lasts only a few moments . but the two are supposed to be simultaneous."
She frowned at him sourly. "Whom did you waste it on? R'gul?" She was
provoked, her angry eyes looked everywhere but at him.
"I am Weyrleader," he informed her curtly. She was unreasonable. She awarded
him one long, hard look before she bent to finish her meal. She ate very
little, quickly and neatly. Compared to Jora, she didn't eat enough in the
course of an entire day to nourish a sick child. But then, there was no point
in ever comparing Lessa to Jora.
He finished his own breakfast, absently piling the mugs together on the empty
tray. She rose silently and removed the dishes.
"As soon as the Weyr is free, we'll go," he told her.
"So you said." She nodded toward the sleeping queen, visible through the open
arch. "We still must wait upon Ramoth."
"Isn't she rousing? Her tail's been twitching for an hour."
"She always does that about this time of day." .
F'lar leaned across the table, his brows drawn together thoughtfully as he
watched the golden-forked tip of the queen's tail jerk spasmodically from side
to side.
"Mnementh, too. And always at dawn and early morning. As if somehow they
associate that time of day with trouble ..."
"Or the Red Star's rising?" Lessa interjected.
Some subtle difference in her tone caused F'lar to glance quickly at her. It
wasn't anger now over having missed the morning's phenomenon. Her eyes were
fixed on nothing; her face, smooth at first, was soon wrinkled with a vaguely
anxious frown as tiny lines formed between her arching, well-defined brows.
"Dawn . . . that's when all warnings come," she murmured.
"What kind of warnings?" he asked with quiet encouragement.
"There was that morning . . . a few days before . . . before you and Fax
descended on Ruath Hold. Something woke me . . . a feeling, like a very heavy
pressure . . . the sensation of some terrible danger threatening." She was
silent. "The Red Star was just rising." The fingers of her left hand opened
and closed. She gave a convulsive shudder. Her eyes re- focused on him.
"You and Fax did come out of the northeast from Crom," she said sharply,
ignoring the fact, F'lar noticed, that the Red Star also rises north of true
east.
"Indeed we did," he grinned at her, remembering that morning vividly.
"Although," he added, gesturing around the great cavern to emphasize, "I
prefer to believe I served you well that day . . . you remember it with
displeasure?"
The look she gave him was coldly inscrutable.
"Danger comes in many guises."
"I agree," he replied amiably, determined not to rise to her bait. "Had any
other rude awakenings?" he inquired conversationally.
The absolute stillness in the room brought his attention back to her. Her face
had drained of all color.
"The day Fax invaded Ruath Hold." Her voice was a barely articulated whisper.
Her eyes were wide and staring. Her hands clenched the edge of the table. She
said nothing for such a long interval that F'lar became concerned. This was an
unexpectedly violent reaction to a casual question.
"Tell me," he suggested softly.
She spoke in unemotional, impersonal tones, as if she were reciting a
Traditional Ballad or something that had happened to an entirely different
person.
"I was a child. Just eleven. I woke at dawn . . ." Her voice trailed off. Her
eyes remained focused on nothing, staring at a scene that had happened long
ago.
F'lar was stirred by an irresistible desire to comfort her. It struck him
forcibly, even as be was stirred by this unusual compassion, that he had never
thought that Lessa, of all people, would be troubled by so old a terror.
Mnementh sharply informed his rider that Lessa was obviously bothered a good
deal. Enough so that her mental anguish was rousing Ramoth from sleep. In less
accusing tones Mnementh informed F'lar that R'gul had finally taken off with
his weyriing pupils. His dragon, Hath, however, was in a fine state of
disorientation due to R'gul's state of mind. Must F'lar unsettle everyone in
the Weyr . . .
"Oh, be quiet," F'lar retorted under his breath.
"Why?" Lessa demanded in her normal voice.
"I didn't mean you, my dear Weyrwoman," he assured her, smiling pleasantly, as
if the entranced interlude had never occurred. "Mnementh is full of advice
these days."
"Like rider, like dragon," she replied tartly.
Ramoth yawned mightily. Lessa was instantly on her feet, running to her
dragon's side, her slight figure dwarfed by the six-foot dragon head. A
tender, adoring expression flooded her face as she gazed into Ramoth's
gleaming opalescent eyes. F'lar clenched his teeth, envious, by the Egg, of a
rider's affection for her dragon.
In his mind he heard Mnementh's dragon equivalent of laughter.
"She's hungry," Lessa informed F'lar, an echo of her love for Ramofh lingering
in the soft line of her mouth, in the kindness of her gray eyes.
"She's always hungry," he observed and followed them out of the weyr.
Mnementh hovered courteously just beyond the ledge until Lessa and Ramoth had
taken off. They glided down the Weyr Bowl, over the misty bathing lake, toward
the feeding ground at the opposite end of the long oval that comprised the
floor of Benden Weyr. The striated, precipitous walls were pierced with the
black mouths of single weyr entrances, deserted at this time of day by the few
dragons who might otherwise doze on their ledges in the wintry sun.
As F'lar vaulted to Mnementh's smooth bronze neck, he hoped that Ramoth's
clutch would be spectacular, erasing the ignominy of the paltry dozen Nemorth
had laid in each of her last few clutches. He had no serious doubts of the
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DRAGONRIDERbyAnneMcCaffreyAnneMcCaffreyEditor'snote;Whatfollowsisselfcontainedandselfexplanatory.That'sobvious;howelsecouldithavewonanaward?Atthesametime,itistheconcludinghalfofalargerwork,partofwhichappearedinNebulaThree.ThereforeKarenAndersonhaspreparedasynopsisofwhatwentbefore.Youmaywellprefertos...

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