Anne McCaffrey - Dragonquest

“That old fool was in the wrong, F’lar, and you know it!”

“Obviously.”

“Then why didn’t you . . .”

“Rub his nose in it?” F’lar finished, halting in mid-stride and turning to T’bor in the dark of the passageway.

“Dragonriders don’t fight. Particularly Weyrleaders.”

T’bor let out a violent exclamation of utter disgust.

“How could you let a chance like that go by? When I think of the times he’s criticized you – us – ” T’bor broke off. “Never understand how commoners can forget all they owe Dragonriders?” and T’bor mimicked D’ram’s pompous intonation, “If they really want to know . . .”

F’lar gripped T’bor by the shoulder, appreciating the younger man’s sentiments all too deeply.

“How can you tell a man what he doesn’t want to hear? We couldn’t even get them to admit that T’reb was in the wrong T’reb, not Terry, and not F’nor. But I don’t think there’ll be another lapse like today’s and that’s what I really worried about.”

“What?” T’bor stared at F’lar in puzzled confusion.

“That such an incident could occur worries me far more than who was in the wrong and for what reason.”

“I can’t follow that logic any more than I can follow T’ron’s.”

“It’s simple. Dragonmen don’t fight. Weyrleaders can’t. T’ron was hoping I’d be mad enough to lose control. I think he was hoping I’d attack him.”

“You can’t be serious!” T’bor was plainly shaken.

“Remember, T’ron considers himself the senior Weyrleader on Pern and therefore infallible.”

T’bor made a rude noise. Despite himself, F’lar grinned.

“True,” he continued, “but I’ve never had a reason to challenge him. And don’t forget, the Oldtimers taught us a great deal about Thread fighting we certainly didn’t know.”

“Why, our dragons can fight circles around the Oldtimers.”

“That’s not the point, T’bor. You and I, the modern Weyrs have certain obvious advantages over the Oldtimers – size of dragons, number of queens – that I’m not interested in mentioning because it only makes for bad feeling. Nevertheless, we can’t fight Thread without the Oldtimers. We need the Oldtimers more than they need us.” F’lar gave T’bor a wry, bitter grin. “D’ram was partly right. A dragonman can never forget his purpose, his responsibility. When D’ram said ‘to his dragon, to his Weyr’, he’s wrong. Our initial and ultimate responsibility is to Pern, to the people we were established to protect.”

They had proceeded to the ledge and could see their dragons dropping off the height to meet them. Full dark had descended over Fort Weyr now, emphasizing the weariness that engulfed F’lar.

“If the Oldtimers have become introverted, we, Benden and Southern, cannot. We understand our Turn, our people. And somehow we’ve got to make the Oldtimers understand them, too.”

“Yes, but T’ron was in the wrong!”

“Would we have been more right to make him say it?”

T’bor bit back an angry response and F’lar hoped that the man’s rebellion was dissipating. There was good heart and mind in the Southern Weyrleader. He was a fine dragonrider, a superb fighter, and his Wings followed him without hesitation. He was not as strong out of the skies, however, but with subtle guidance had built Southern Weyr into a productive, self-supporting establishment. He instinctively looked to F’lar and Benden Weyr for direction and companionship. Part of that, F’lar was sure, was because of the difficult and disturbing temperament of the Southern Weyrwoman, Kylara.

Sometimes F’lar regretted that T’bor proved to be the only bronze rider who could cope with that female. He wondered what subtle deep tie existed between the two riders, because T’bor’s Orth consistently outflew every bronze to mate with Prideth, Kylara’s queen, though it was common knowledge that Kylara took many men to her bed.

T’bor might be short-tempered and not the most diplomatic adherent, but he was loyal and F’lar was grateful to him. If he’d only held his temper tonight . . .

“Well, you usually know what you’re doing, F’lar,” the Southern Weyrleader admitted reluctantly, “but I don’t understand the Oldtimers and lately I’m not sure I care.”

Mnementh hovered by the ledge, one leg extended. Beyond him, the two men could hear Orth’s wings beating the night air as he held his position.

“Tell F’nor to take it easy and get well. I know he’s in good hands down at Southern,” F’lar said as he scrambled up Mnementh’s shoulder and urged him out of Orth’s way.

“We’ll have him well in next to no time. You need him,” replied T’bor.

Yes, thought F’lar as Mnementh soared up out of the Fort Weyr Bowl, I need him. I could have used his wits beside me tonight. I could have used his thinking on T’ron’s invidious attempts to switch blame.

Well, if it had been another rider, wounded under the same circumstances, he couldn’t have brought F’nor anyhow. And T’bor with his short temper would still have been present, and played right into T’ron’s hands. He couldn’t honestly blame T’bor. He’d felt the same burning desire to make the Oldtimers see the facts in realistic perspective. But – you can’t take a dragon to a place you’ve never seen. And T’bor’s outbursts had not helped. Strange, T’bor hadn’t been so touchy as a weyrling nor when he was a Benden Weyr Wing-second. Being Weyrmate to Kylara had changed him but that woman was enough to unsettle; to unsettle D’ram.

F’lar entertained the wild mental image of the blonde sensual Kylara seducing the sturdy Oldtimer. Not that she’d even glanced at the Istan Weyrleader. And she certainly wouldn’t have stayed with him. F’lar was glad that they’d eased her out of Benden Weyr. Hadn’t she been found on the same Search as Lessa? Where’d she come from? Oh, yes, Telgar Hold. Come to think of it, she was the present Lord’s full-blooded sister. Just as well Kylara was in Weyrlife. With her proclivity, she’d have had her throat sliced long ago in a Hold or a Crafthall.

Mnementh transferred them between and the cold of that awful nothingness made his bones ache. Then they emerged over the Benden Weyr Star Stones and answered the watchrider’s query.

Lessa wasn’t going to like his report of the meeting, F’lar thought. If only D’ram, usually an honest thinker, had seen past the obvious. He had a feeling that maybe G’narish had.

Yes, G’narish had been troubled. Maybe the next time the Weyrleaders met to confer, G’narish might side with the modern riders.

Only, F’lar hoped, there wouldn’t be another occasion for this evening’s grievance.

Morning Over Lemos Hold

.

RAMOTH, Benden’s golden queen, was in the Hatching Ground when she got the green’s frantic summons from Lemos Hold.

Threads at Lemos. Thread falls at Lemos! Ramoth told every dragon and rider, her full-throated brassy bugle reverberating through the Bowl.

Men scrambled frantically from couch and bathing pool, upset tables and dropped tools before the first echo had rolled away. F’lar, idly watching the weyrlings drill, was dressed for fighting since the Weyr had expected to be at Lemos Hold late that day. Mnementh, his magnificent bronze, sunning himself on a ledge, swooped down at such a rate that he gouged a narrow trench in the sand of the floor with his left wingtip. F’lar was atop his neck and they were circling to the Eye Rock before Ramoth had had time to stamp out of the Hatching Cavern.

Thread at Lemos northeast, Mnementh reported, picking up the information from his mate Ramoth as she projected herself toward her weyr ledge for Lessa. Dragons were now streaming from every weyr opening, their riders struggling into fighting gear or securing bulging firesacks.