Anne McCaffrey - Dragondrums

“He may be the son of the Weyrleaders, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll Impress. Dragon choice can’t be forced.”

“Oh, Felessan’ll Impress,” said a dragonrider, approaching the small hearth, two others just behind him. “Are you tending the pot, Menolly?”

“And a good day to you, T’gellan,” Menolly said with a pert smile for the bronze rider as she poured klah for him.

“How’s yourself, Sebell?” T’gellan went on, seating himself on the bench and gesturing to the other riders to join him.

“Hard put upon,” said Sebell in a long-suffering tone that sounded suspiciously like an imitation of Mirrim. “We just got organized to set up the tables. C’mon, Piemur, before Mirrim lays about us with her ladle.”

Because Menolly had so stoutly championed Mirrim, Piemur kept an eye out for the girl as he and Sebell arranged the additional tables. He spotted Mirrim dashing from one hearth to another, called to assist in trussing wherries for roasting, herdbeasts for the spit. He watched her organize one group of youngsters to peel roots and tubers and another to laying the tables with utensils and platters. He decided that Mirrim had not been puffing up her responsibilities.

Menolly, too, was kept busy, feeding dragonriders and their sleepy-eyed passengers, dragged from their beds for the imminent Hatching.

Sebell and Piemur had just set up the last table when a faint hum reached their ears. Fire lizards reappeared in the cavern, the high notes of their chirruping a counter-cadence to the low bass throb of the humming dragons.

Mirrim, divested of her apron and brushing water stains from her skirt, came dashing toward them. “C’mon, Oharan promised to save us all seats by him,” she cried and led the way across the Bowl at a run.

The Weyr Harper had kept them places in the tiers above the Hatching Ground, though, he informed them, his life had been threatened by Holders and Craftmasters. Piemur could see why as he settled down, for this was a splendid position, in the second tier, close to the entrance so that the view of the entire Ground was clear. There was no queen egg for Ramoth to guard, so the Benden queen dragon was standing to one side of the ground, Lessa and F’lar on the ledge above her. Occasionally the enormous golden dragon looked up at her weyrmate, as if seeking assurance or, Piemur thought, consolation, since the eggs she had clutched were shortly to be taken from her care. The notion amused Piemur, for he’d never have ascribed maternal emotions to Benden’s preeminent queen dragon. Certainly Ramoth with her yellow flashing eyes and restless foot-shifting, wing-rustling, was a far picture from the gentle concern female herdbeast or runners showed their off spring.

A blur of white, seen from the corner of his eye, drew Piemur’s attention to the Hatching Ground entrance. The candidates were approaching the eggs, their white tunics fluttering in the light morning breeze. Piemur suppressed his amusements as the boys, stepping further on the hot sands, began to pick up their feet smartly. When they had reached the clutch, they ranged themselves in a loose semicircle about the gently rocking eggs. Ramoth made a noise like a disapproving growl, which the boys all ignored, but Piemur noticed that the ones nearest her edged surreptitiously away.

A startled murmur ran through the audience as one of the eggs rocked more violently. The sudden snapping of the shell seemed to resound through the high-ceilinged cavern, and the dragons on the upper ledges hummed more loudly than ever with encouragement. The actual Hatching had begun. Piemur didn’t know where to look because the audience was as fascinating as the Hatching: dragonriders’ faces with soft glows as they relived the magic moment when they had Impressed the hatchling dragon who became their life’s companion, minds indissolubly linked. On other faces was hope, breathless and incredulous, as guests and parents of the candidates waited for the moment when their lads would be chosen, or rejected, by the hatchlings. Fire lizards, respectfully quiet, perched on many shoulders in the Ground. And Piemur, who could never aspire to Impress a dragon, was reminded of that unfilled promise, that he would have a fire lizard one day. He wondered if Menolly remembered her promise to him. Or if he’d ever have the opportunity to remind her of it.

“There’s Felessan,” said Menolly, nudging him sharply with her elbow. She pointed to a leggy figure with such a luxuriant growth of dark curling hair that his head seemed oversized.

“He doesn’t even look nervous,” said Piemur, as he noted the signs of apprehension in other candidates who shifted uneasily or twitched unnecessarily at their tunics.

A concerted gasp directed their attention from Felessan, and they saw that several more eggs were rocking violently as the hatchlings struggled to be free. Abruptly an egg split open, and a moist little brown dragon was spilled to his feet on the hot sands. Dragging his fragile-looking damp wings on the ground, he began to lunge this way and that, calling piteously, while the adult dragons crooned encouragement, reinforced by Ramoth’s half-hum, half-howl.

The boys nearest the dragonet tried to anticipate his direction, hoping to Impress him, but he lurched out of their immediate circle, staggering across the sands, his call plaintive, desperate until the next group of boys turned. One, prompted by some instinct, took a step forward. The little brown’s cries turned joyous, he tried to extend his wet wings to bridge the distance between them, but the boy rushed to the dragon’s side, caressing head and shoulders, patting the damp wings while the little hatchling crooned with triumph, his jeweled eyes glowing the blue and purple of love and devotion. The day’s first Impression had been made!

Piemur heard Menolly’s deep and satisfied sigh and knew that she was reliving the moment she had Impressed her fire lizards in the Dragon Stones cave three Turns ago. He was again assailed by a deep stab of envy. When would he rate a fire lizard?

Excited cries brought his attention back to the Hatching Ground as more eggs cracked, exposing their occupants. “Watch Felessan, Piemur! There’s a bronze near him…” cried Mirrim, gabbing Piemur’s arm in her excitement.

“And two browns and a blue,” added Menolly, scarcely less excited as she canted her body in a mental effort to direct the little bronze toward Felessan. “He deserves a bronze! He deserves one!”

“Only if the dragon wants him,” said Mirrim sententiously. “Just because he’s the Weyrleader’s son—”

“Shut up, Mirrim,” said Piemur, exasperated, clenching his fists, urging the Impression to occur.

Felessan was aware of the bronze’s proximity, but so were a handful of other candidates. The little creature, rocking unstably on his wobbly legs, seemed not to see any of them for a moment. Then the wedge-shaped head fell forward and got buried in the sand as his hind legs overbalanced him. It was too much. Felessan gently righted the little beast and then stood transfixed, the expression on his exultant face plainly visible to his friends as Impression was made.

Ramoth’s bugle astonished everyone into a long moment of silence; but it was no wonder, Piemur thought, that F’lar and Lessa were embracing each other at the sight of their one child Impressing a bronze!

The excitement was over too soon, Piemur thought, just moments later. He wished that all the eggs hadn’t hatched at once, so this dizzy happiness could be extended. Not that there wasn’t some disappointment and sadness, too, because far more candidates were presented to the eggs than could Impress. Only one little green had not Impressed, and she was mewling unhappily, butting one boy out of her way, lurching to another and peering up into his face, obviously searching for just the right lad. She had worked her way toward the tiers, despite the efforts of the remaining candidates to attract her attention and keep her well out into the Ground.