Anne Mccaffrey - Pern 01 - Dragonflight

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DRAGONFLIGHT

Anne McCaffrey

To forestall the incursions of the dreadful Threads, the Pernese, with the ingenuity of

their forgotten Terran forebears, developed a highly specialized variety of a life-form

indigenous to their adopted planet. Such humans as had a high empathy rating and

some innate telepathic ability were trained to use and preserve this unusual animal

whose ability to teleport was of great value in the fierce struggle to keep Pern bare of

Threads.

The winged, tailed, and fiery-breathed dragons (named for the Earth legend they

resembled), their dragonmen, a breed apart, and the menace they battled, created a

whole new group of legends and myths.

Once relieved of imminent danger, Pern settled into a more comfortable way of life.

The descendants of heroes fell into disfavor, as the legends fell into disrepute.

PART I

Weyr Search

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 everlastingly clammy stone

walls. Cold with the prescience of a danger stronger than the one ten full Turns ago

that had then sent her, whimpering with terror, to hide in the watch-wher's odorous

lair.

Rigid with concentration, Lessa lay in the straw of the redolent cheeseroom she

shared as sleeping quarters with the other kitchen drudges. There was an urgency in

the ominous portent unlike any other forewarning. She touched the awareness of the

watch-wher, slithering on its rounds in the courtyard. It circled at the choke limit of its

chain. It was restless, but oblivious to anything unusual in the predawn darkness.

Lessa curled into a tight knot of bones, hugging herself to ease the strain across her

tense shoulders. Then, forcing herself to relax, muscle by muscle, joint by joint, she

tried to feel what subtle menace it might be that could rouse her, yet not distress the

sensitive watch-wher.

The danger was definitely not within the walls of Ruatha Hold. 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 the 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, toward the Pass,

farther than she had ever 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 Ruatha Hold 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 he had subjugated the once proud and

profitable Hold.

Relentlessly compelled to identify this oppressing menace, Lessa groped in the straw

for her sandals. She rose, mechanically brushing straw from matted hair, which she

then twisted quickly into a rude knot at her neck.

She picked her way among the sleeping drudges, huddled together for warmth, and

glided up the worn steps to the kitchen proper. The cook and his assistant lay on the

long table before the great hearth, wide backs to the warmth of the banked fire,

discordantly snoring. Lessa slipped across the cavernous kitchen to the stable-yard

door. She opened the door just enough to permit her slight body to pass. 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. Comfortingly, she fondled the creases of the sharp-tipped ears as it matched

her stride. 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 toward 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 that 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. Incoherent fragments

of tales and ballads about the dawn appearance of the red star flashed through her

mind, too quickly to make sense. Moreover, her instinct told her that, though danger

might come from the northeast, too, there was a greater peril to contend with from due

east. Straining her eyes as if vision would bridge the gap between peril and person,

she stared intently eastward. The watch-wher's thin, whistled question reached her just

as the prescience waned.

Lessa sighed. She had found no answer in the dawn, only discrepant portents. She

must wait. The warning had come and she had accepted it. She was used to waiting.

Perversity, endurance, and guile were her other weapons, loaded with the

inexhaustible patience of vengeful dedication.

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, Lessa mused, grew where it should not,

died where it should flourish. Lessa could hardly remember now how Ruatha Valley

had once looked, sweetly happy, amply productive. Before Fax came. An odd

brooding smile curved lips unused to such exercise. 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. West lay Fax's ancestral and only legitimate Hold. Northeast lay little but bare

and stony mountains and the Weyr that protected Pern.

Lessa stretched, arching her back, inhaling the sweet, untainted wind of morning.

A cock crowed in the stable yard. Lessa whirled, her face alert, eyes darting around

the outer Hold lest she be observed in such an uncharacteristic pose. She unbound her

hair, letting the rank mass 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 cried piteously, its great eyes blinking against the growing daylight.

Oblivious to the stench of its rank breath, she hugged the scaly head to her, scratching

its ears and eye ridges. The watch-wher was ecstatic with pleasure, its long body

trembling, its clipped wings rustling. It alone knew who she was or cared. And it was

the only creature in all Pern she had trusted since the dawn she had blindly sought

refuge in its dark, stinking lair to escape the 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, and, crying out, the

watch-wher darted into its dark nest. Lessa crept swiftly back to the kitchen and into

the cheeseroom.

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. F'lar checked the formation automatically; it

was as precise as on the moment of their 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

aversion 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 tightened 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 that had been so miserly, so

grudgingly presented, would, under pain of firestoning, flow with decent generosity

into the Dragonweyr.

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 dismount. 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 dragonman from the parapet slits and the cliff windows.

F'lar did not turn as the rush of air past him announced the arrival of the rest of the

wing. He knew, however, when F'nor, the brown rider who was coincidentally his half

brother, took the customary position on his left, a dragon length to the rear. From the

corner of his eye, F'lar glimpsed F'nor twisting to death with his boot heel the grass

that crowded up between the stones.

An order, muffled to an intense whisper, issued from within the great Court, beyond

the open gates. Almost immediately 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 manyfaceted eyes, on a level with F'lar's head, fastened with

disconcerting interest 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 attack 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

information was also correct in describing Fax as a greedy man. It showed in the

restless eyes that 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 that flashed on Fax's left hand.

The overlord's right hand remained 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 a 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 laid a queen, hmmm?"

he continued, his eyes darting across the rank of the wing, 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 toward the

dragonman.

For a pulse beat, F'lar wondered if the man was deliberately provoking him with such

subtle insults. The name of the bronze riders should be as well known throughout

Pern as the name of the dragon queen 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 head, 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 return 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 emphasized 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, quickly supplanted by a determinedly affable

grin. Fax 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 maneuvered 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

reminder that they still 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 reinstilled in modem 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.

F'lar was enjoying himself thoroughly. He had not yet been born on the occasion of

the last Search, the one that ill-fatedly provided the incompetent Jora. But he had

studied the accounts of previous Searches in the Old Records that had included subtle

ways to confound those Lords who preferred to keep their ladies sequestered when the

dragonmen rode. For Fax to refuse F'lar the opportunity to pay his duty would have

been tantamount to a major insult, discharged only in mortal combat.

"You would prefer to see your quarters first?" Fax countered.

F'lar flicked an imaginary speck from his soft wherhide sleeve and shook his head.

"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 and F'nor followed at a slower pace through the double-doored entry with its

great metal panels, into the Great Hall, carved into the cliffside. The U-shaped table

was being cleared by nervous servitors, who rattled and dropped tableware as the two

dragon-men entered. Fax had already reached the far end of the Hall and stood

impatiently at the open slab door, the only access to the inner Hold, which, like all

such Holds, burrowed deep into stone, the refuge of all in time of peril.

"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, covering his speech with

his hand as he saw two drudges staggering under the weight on a tray that bore a half-

eaten carcass.

"Young and tender," F'nor said in a bitter undertone, "from the look of it. While the

stringy, barren beasts are delivered up to us."

"Naturally."

"A pleasantly favored Hall," F'lar said amiably as they reached Fax. Then, seeing Fax

impatient to continue, F'lar deliberately turned back to the banner-hung Hall. He

pointed out to F'nor the deeply set slit windows, heavy bronze shutters open to the

bright noonday sky. "Facing east, too, as they ought. That new Hall at Telgar Hold

actually faces south, I'm told. Tell me. Lord Fax, do you adhere to the old practices

and mount a dawn guard?"

Fax frowned, trying to parse F'lar's meaning.

"There is always a guard at the Tower."

"An easterly guard?"

Fax's eyes jerked toward the windows, then back, sliding across F'lar's face to F'nor

and back again to the windows.

"There are always guards," he answered sharply, "on all the approaches."

"Oh, just the approaches," and F'lar turned to F'nor and nodded wisely.

"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." Fax jerked his shoulders straighter.

F'lar affected not to understand.

"Lord Fax is the overlord of six other Holds," F'nor reminded his wingleader.

"Of course," F'lar assented, with exactly the same inflection 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 affirmative, he stalked into the glow-lit corridors. The

dragonmen followed.

"It is good to see one Holder keeping so many ancient customs," F'lar said to F'nor

approvingly for Fax's benefit as they passed into the inner Hold. "There are many who

have abandoned the safety of solid rock and enlarged their outer Holds to dangerous

proportions. I can't condone the risk myself."

"Their risk. Lord F'lar. Another's gain," Fax snorted derisively, slowing to a normal

strut.

"Gain? How so?"

"Any outer Hold is easily penetrated, bronze rider, with trained forces, experienced

leadership, and well considered strategy."

The man was not a braggart, F'lar decided. Nor, in these peaceful days, did he fail to

mount Tower guards. However, he kept within his Hold, not out of obedience to

ancient Laws, but through prudence. He kept harpers for ostentation rather than

because tradition required it. But he allowed the pits to decay; he permitted grass to

grow. He accorded dragonmen the barest civility on one hand and offered veiled

insult on the other. A man to be watched.

The women's quarters in Fax's Hold had been moved from the traditional innermost

corridors to those at the cliff-face. Sunlight poured down from the three double-

shuttered, deep-casement windows in the outside wall. F'lar noted that the bronze

hinges were well oiled. The sills were the regulation spearlength; Fax had not given in

to the recent practice of diminishing 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-streaked, her

face lined with disappointments 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 without pride or cordiality.

"My Lady-" F'lar 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

hospitality of the Hold."

"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 or the fact that Gemma had no trouble

naming him. His smile was wanner than courtesy demanded, warm with gratitude and

sympathy. Judging by the number of women in these quarters. Fax bedded well and

frequently. There might be one or two Lady Gemma could bid farewell without regret.

Fax went through the introductions, mumbling names until he realized this strategy

was not going to work. F'lar would politely beg the lady's name again. F'nor, his smile

brightening as he took heed which ladies Fax preferred to keep anonymous, lounged

indolently by the doorway. F'lar would compare notes with him later, although on

cursory examination there was none here worthy of the Search. 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 them. Fax, no doubt, was stud, not lover. Some of the

covey had not all winter long made much use of water, judging from 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 was too old.

The amenities over. Fax ushered his unwelcome guests outside. F'nor was excused by

his wingleader to join the other dragonmen. Fax peremptorily led the way to the

quarters he had assigned the bronze rider.

The chamber was on a lower level than the women's suite and was certainly adequate

to the dignity of its occupant. The many-colored hangings were crowded with bloody

battles, individual swordplay, bright-hued dragons in flight, firestones burning on the

ridges, and all that Pern's scarlet-stained history offered.

"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. The

dragons have all been fed recently," he commented, pointing up Fax's omission in

inquiring. "I request liberty to wander through the crafthold."

Fax sourly granted what was traditionally a dragonman's 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 and listened to the stamping retreat. He waited long enough to be sure Fax

was out of the corridor and then briskly retraced his steps up to the Great Hall.

Bustling drudges paused in setting up additional trestle tables to eye the dragonman.

He nodded pleasantly to them, looking to see if one of these females might possibly

have the stuff of which Weyrwomen are made. Overworked, underfed, scarred by lash

and disease, they were just what they were-drudges, fit only for hard, menial labor.

F'nor and the men had settled themselves in a hastily vacated barrack room. The

dragons were perched comfortably on the rocky ridges above the Hold. They had so

arranged themselves that every segment of the wide valley fell under their scrutiny.

All had been fed before leaving the Weyr, and each rider kept his dragon in light but

alert charge. There were to be no incidents 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 grin,

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 all

of Fax's women. By all logic, the pick of the High Reaches should be in Fax's chief

Hold, but 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 F'nor left the barracks. The men would follow,

unobtrusively, in pairs or singly, to reconnoiter 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 Nerat to high Tillek. 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 Firestones, from the grass-free heights to ridge-

running gutters. 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 enthusiasm," 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 stone 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 disregard of simple safety precautions.

Growing things were forbidden near the habitations of mankind.

"News travels fast," F'nor chuckled, nodding at a hurrying 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, washing 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 caustically.

"We'll visit the Clothmen's Hall first. If my memory serves me ..."

"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 always excelled in the Games. None ever floundered in between

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 phosphine 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 phosphine 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, muttering a polite if

curt request for them to follow nun.

They were led to the right of the entrance, to a small office, 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 bunked constantly.

"I am now Lytol," he said in harsh voice.

F'lar nodded acknowledgment.

"You would be F'lar," Lytol said, "and you F'nor. You both have 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 awareness of exile. He essayed a smile.

"Dragons in the sky! The news spread faster than Threads."

"Nemorth has laid a female."

"And Jora dead?" Lytol asked concernedly, his face cleared of its nervous movement

for a second. "Hath flew her?"

F'lar nodded.

Lytol grimaced bitterly. "R'gul again, huh?" He stared off in the middle distance, his

eyelids quiet but the muscles along his jaw taking up the constant movement. "You

have 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." His tone expressed utmost disdain. He eased himself down to the heavy

table that half-filled one comer of the small room. His hands were clenched so tightly

around the wide belt that secured the loose tunic to his body that the heavy leather

was doubled.

"You would almost expect the opposite, wouldn't you?" Lytol continued. He was

talking too much and too fast. It would have been insultingly rude in another, lesser

man. It was the terrible loneliness of the man's, exile from the Weyr that drove him to

garrulity. Lytol skimmed the surfaces with hurried questions he himself answered,

rather than dip once into matters too tender to be touched-such as his insatiable need

for those of his kind. Yet he was giving the dragonmen exactly the information they

needed. "But 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's laughter grated unpleasantly.

"When Fax came to power, any man with wit sent his daughters down from the High

Reaches or drew a brand across their faces." He paused, his countenance dark and

bitter memory, his eyes slits of hatred. "I was a fool and thought my position gave me

immunity."

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, dragonmen, 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 preoccupation with his curious theory.

Lytol stared at the bronze rider. "Did I not say it? The best either died under Fax or

were sent away. What remains is nothing, nothing. Weak-minded, ignorant, foolish,

vapid. You had that with Jora. She-" His jaw snapped shut over his next words. He

shook his head, scrubbing his face to ease his anguish and despair.

"In the other Holds?"

Lytol shook his head, frowning darkly. "The same. Either dead or fled."

"What of Ruatha 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 Ruatha Hold in these times? Well,

bronze rider, all of Ruathan 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 hospitality 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, unwilling to deprive the man of such a sop to his self-esteem.

"No, there is little, very little left in Ruatha Valley." Lytol chuckled softly. "Fax gets

nothing from that Hold but trouble." This reflection restored Lytol to a semblance of

normal behavior, and his face twisted into a better humor. "We of this Hold are now

the best clothmen in all Pern. And our smithies turn out a better tempered weapon."

His eyes sparkled with pride in his adopted community. "The conscripts from Ruatha

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DRAGONFLIGHTAnneMcCaffreyToforestalltheincursionsofthedreadfulThreads,thePernese,withtheingenuityoftheirforgottenTerranforebears,developedahighlyspecializedvarietyofalife-formindigenoustotheiradoptedplanet.Suchhumansashadahighempathyratingandsomeinnatetelepathicabilityweretrainedtouseandpreservethis...

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Anne Mccaffrey - Pern 01 - Dragonflight

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