The White Dragon (Dragonriders of Pern 3)

Canth bellowed and half the fair left Tiroth to minister to him as he splashed about. Ruth watched this preemption of his friends, blinked, gave himself a bit of a shake and meekly took to the water at some distance from the bronze and brown. Four fire-lizards, the banded ones, detached themselves from the big dragons and began to scrub the little white.

“Here, I’ll help you, Jaxom,” Sharra said.

Scrubbing a dragon’s hide free of firestone stink is a tiring job under any circumstances and, although he only had to do one side of Ruth, Jaxom had to grit his teeth to finish.

“I told you not to overdo, Jaxom,” Sharra said, her voice sharp as she straightened from scrubbing the fork of Ruth’s tail and noticed Jaxom leaning against the dragon’s rump. She gestured imperiously toward the beach. “Get out! I’ll bring you some food. You’re whiter than he is!”

“I’m never going to get myself fit if I don’t try!”

“Stop muttering at me under your breath . . .”

“And don’t tell me you’re doing it for my own good . . .”

“No, for mine! I don’t want to have to nurse you through a relapse!”

She glared at him so fiercely that he gathered himself erect and stalked out of the water. Though it wasn’t far to his informal bed under the trees, his legs were leaden as he dragged them through the water. He lay down, heaving a sigh of relief, and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again someone was shaking him, and he discovered Brekke peering at him quizzically. “How do you feel now?”

“I was dreaming?”

“Hmmm. Bad ones again?”

“No, curious ones. Only nothing was in focus.” Jaxom shook his head to clear the miasma of nightmare. He realized that it was midday. Ruth was asleep snoring, at his left. On the far right, he could see D’ram resting against Tiroth’s front legs. There was no sign of F’nor or Canth.

“You’re probably hungry,” Brekke said, holding out the plate of food and the mug she’d brought.

“How long did I sleep?” Jaxom was disgusted with himself. He stretched his shoulders, feeling muscles stiff from the exercise of scrubbing a dragon.

“Several hours. Did you good.”

“I dream an awful lot lately. Aftereffect of the fire-head?”

Brekke blinked, then frowned thoughtfully. “Come to think of it, I’ve been dreaming rather more than usual myself. Too much sun perhaps.”

At that point, Tiroth woke, bellowed, struggled to his feet, sprinkled his rider with sand. Brekke gasped and rose quickly, her eyes on the old bronze as he shook his body free of sand and extended his wings.

“Brekke, I must go!” D’ram shouted. “Did you hear?”

“Yes, I heard. Do go quickly!” she called back, raising her hand in farewell.

Whatever had roused Tiroth excited the fire-lizards who began wheeling, diving, chittering raucously. Ruth raised his head, looked at them sleepily, then laid his head back on the sand, unmoved by the excitement. Brekke turned to regard the white dragon, with a curious frown.

“What’s wrong, Brekke?”

“The bronzes at Ista Weyr are blooding their kills.”

“Oh, Shards and Shells!” Jaxom’s initial surprise melded into disappointed disgust with his weakness. He’d hoped to be allowed to attend that mating flight. He’d wanted to cheer G’dened and Barnath on.

“I’ll know,” Brekke said soothingly. “Canth will be there as well as Tiroth. They’ll tell me all. Now, you eat!”

As Jaxom obeyed, still cursing his unfortunate condition, he noticed that Brekke was staring at Ruth again.

“What’s the matter with Ruth?”

“Ruth? Nothing. Poor dear, he was so proud to fly Thread for you, and he’s too tired to care about anything else right now.”

She rose and as she left him Berd and Grail landed on her shoulders, murmuring softly as she disappeared into the shady forest.

CHAPTER XIV

Early Morning at Harpercraft Hall,

Midmorning at Ista Weyr, Midafternoon

at Jaxom’s Cove, 15.8.28

IN THE DARK of the early morning Robinton was awakened by Silvina.

“Master Robinton, word has come from Ista Weyr. The bronzes are blooding their kill. Caylith will fly soon. You’re wanted there.”

“Oh, yes, thank you, Silvina.” He blinked against the light from the glow baskets she was unshielding. “You didn’t by any chance bring me . . .” He saw the steaming mug by his bed. “Oh, good woman! My undying thanks!”

“That’s what you always say,” Silvina replied, chuckling as she left him to proceed with his wake-up routine.

He dressed quickly to avoid the predawn chill. Zair took his accustomed shoulder perch, squeaking softly as Robinton paced down the corridor.

With a glow torch to cast some light in the dark lower hall, Silvina awaited him at the massive iron doors. She whirled the release wheel and the great bar lifted from ceiling and floor. He gave the yank required to open the huge door and wondered at the sudden stitch in his side. Then Silvina passed him his gitar, stoutly encased against the bitter cold of between.

“I do hope Bamath flies Caylith,” she said. “Look, here’s Drenth now.”

The Harper saw the brown dragon backwinging to land and he ran down the hall steps. Drenth was excited, his eyes gleaming orange and red in the night. Robinton greeted the dragon’s rider, paused to sling his gitar across his back and then, reaching for D’fio’s hand, climbed to the brown’s back.

“How does the wagering stand?” he asked the rider.

“Ah, now, Harper; Barnath is a fine beast. He’ll fly Caylith. Although,” a certain element of doubt tinged the man’s voice, “the four bronzes N’ton is permitting to try are good strong young beasts, and mighty eager for the chance. It could be an upset. Put your mark where you will, it’ll give you good value.”

“I wish I could bet, but it’s not the sort of thing I ought to do . . .”

“Now, if you were to pass me the marks, Master Robinton, I’d swear on the Shell of Drenth here that they were mine!”

“After the flight as well as before?” Robinton asked, amusement warring with his unprofessional desire to gamble.

“I’m a dragonrider, Master Robinton,” D’fio said gruffly, “not one of those faithless Southerners.”

“And I’m Masterharper of Pern,” said Robinton. But he leaned into the man’s back, pressing a two-mark piece into his hand. “Barnath, of course, and please let none be the wiser.”

“As you wish, Master Robinton,” D’fio sounded pleased. They rose above the black shadow of the Fort Hold cliffs, the lighter darkness of night sky, moonless at this hour and season, just barely discernible. He felt the tension in D’fio’s back, drew his own breath in sharply as they transferred between, and abruptly emerged with Drenth calling out his name to the Ista Weyr watchdragon.

Robinton shielded his eyes from the brilliance of the sun slanting off the water. As he glanced below, he saw the dramatic half-peak of Ista Weyr, the black stone like giant jagged fingers pointing to the bright blue skies. Ista was the smallest of the Weyrs, some of its complement of dragons making weyrs in the forest that surrounded the base. But the broad plateau beyond the cone was crowded with bronze beasts, their riders forming a cluster close to the golden queen who was crouched over her kill, sucking the blood from its body. At a farther and safe distance from this spectacle a large group of people looked on. Toward this area, Drenth glided.

Zair took wing from Robinton’s shoulder, to join other fire-lizards in an aerial display of excitement. Robinton noticed that the little creatures kept a distance from the dragons. At least the fire-lizards were appearing at Weyrs again.

D’fio dismounted, too, and sent his brown for a swim in the warm waters of the bay below the Weyr plateau. Other dragons, uninvolved in this flight, were already taking advantage of the bathing at Ista Island.

Caylith vaulted from the ground toward the herd of beasts

in the Weyr’s corral. Cosira half-followed, keeping a firm control on her young queen so that she wouldn’t gorge the meat and be too heavy for this all-important mating flight. Robinton counted twenty-six bronzes ringing the killing ground, gleaming in the harsh sunlight, their eyes wheeling red in rut agitation, their wings half-furled, their bodies at a crouch that would send them skyward the instant the queen ascended. They were all young, as F’lar had recommended, almost equal in size as they waited, never taking their glistening eyes from the object of their interest.

Caylith growled deep in her throat as she sucked the blood from the buck carcass. She raised her head to snarl contemptuously back at the bronze ring.

Suddenly the watchdragon roared a challenge and even Caylith turned to look. Arrowing in from the south, over the sea, came two bronzes.

Just as Robinton realized that the beasts must have flown in at sea level to get this close to the Weyr undetected, he also realized that these were older beasts, muzzles graying, necks thickened. Southerners. Two of the Oldtimers’ bronzes. That had to be T’kul with Salth, and probably B’zon with Ranilth. Robinton began to run toward the killing ground, toward the queen’s prospective mates, for that was the obvious goal of the two bronzes sweeping in from the south.

Their timing had been perfect, Robinton thought then saw two others making for the landing bronzes—the stocky figure of D’ram and F’lar’s lean body. T’kul and B’zon jumped off their beasts. The dragons took one final leap to range themselves with the other bronzes who hissed and growled at the newcomers. Robinton prayed under his breath that none of the bronze riders would act first, think later. Most of them were so young they’d not recognize T’kul or B’zon. But D’ram and F’lar certainly had.

Robinton felt his heart pounding in his chest and a totally unfamiliar ache that caused him to grimace and slow his trot momentarily. B’zon was facing him, a set smile on his face. The Oldtimer touched T’kul’s arm and the former High Reaches Weyrleader spared the Harper a quick glance. T’kul considered him no threat and turned back toward the two Weyrleaders.

D’ram reached T’kul first. “You fool, this is for young beasts. You’ll kill Salth.”

“What option have you left us?” B’zon demanded just as F’lar and Robinton skidded to either side of the two Southerners. There was a hysterical note in the man’s voice. “Our queens are too old to rise: there are no greens to give the males relief. We must . . .”

Caylith bugled as she left the blood-sucked corpse of the buck and half-flew, half-ran to scatter the herd, one sweeping forepaw impaling another victim on its flank and dragging it back to her.

“D’ram, you declared this flight open, didn’t you?” T’kul asked in a harsh voice, his features fine-drawn despite the tan of Southern suns. He looked from D’ram to F’lar.

“I did, but your bronzes are too old, T’kul.” He gestured toward the eager young dragons. The difference between them and the two older ones was pathetically obvious.

“Salth’s dying anyway. Let him go out flying. I made that choice, D’ram, when I brought him here.” T’kul stared hard at F’lar, the bitterness and hatred so vivid that Robinton sucked in his breath. “Why did you take back the egg? How did you find it?” Desperation broke briefly through T’kul’s cold pride and arrogance.

“Had you come to us, we would have helped you,” F’lar said quietly.

“Or I,” D’ram said, miserable before the plight of his one-time acquaintance.

Ignoring F’lar altogether, T’kul gave the Istan Weyrleader a long scornful glance then, straightening his shoulders, jerked his head at B’zon to move forward. F’lar was in his direct path to the other bronze riders. The Benden Weyrleader opened his mouth to speak, shook his head in regret and stepped to one side. The Southern riders moved the few paces forward just in time. Caylith, raising her bloody muzzle, seemed to pulse more golden than ever. Her eyes were whirling opalescence. With a fierce scream, she launched herself upward. Barnath was the first dragon off the ground after her, and, to Robinton’s surprise, T’kul’s Salth was not far behind the Istan bronze.

T’kul swung back to F’lar, the triumph on his face an insult. Then he strode to Cosira’s side. The Weyrwoman was swaying with the effort of staying in mental contact with her queen. She didn’t notice that it was G’dened and T’kul who were leading her back to her quarters to await the outcome of the flight.

“He’ll kill Salth,” D’ram was muttering, his face stricken.

That odd pressure against his chest kept Robinton from reassuring the worried man.

“And B’zon, too!” D’ram grabbed F’lar’s arm. “Is there nothing we can do to stop it? Two dragons?”

“If they had come to us . . .” F’lar began, placing his hand consolingly on D’ram’s. “But those Oldtimer riders always took! That was their error at the outset!” His face hardened.

“They’re still taking,” Robinton said, wanting to ease D’ram’s distress. “They’ve taken what they wanted from the North all along. Here, there. What pleased them. Young girls, material, stone, iron, jewels. They looted with quiet system ever since they were exiled. I’ve had the reports. I’ve given them to F’lar.”

“If only they had asked!” F’lar looked upward at the fast-dwindling specks of dragons in flight.

“What was that all about?” Lord Warbret of Ista Hold hurried up to them. “Those last two were old or I don’t know dragons as well as I thought I did.”

“The mating flight was open,” F’lar replied, but Warbret was looking at D’ram’s anxious face.

“To old dragons? I thought you stipulated young ones that hadn’t had a chance at a queen before! I don’t see the point myself, in having another older Weyrleader. No offense intended, D’ram. Change upsets holders.” He gazed at the sky. “How’ll they keep up with the younger ones? That’s a gruelling pace.”

“They have the right to try,” F’lar said. “While we await the outcome, some wine, D’ram?”

“Yes, yes, wine. Lord Warbret . . .” D’ram recovered his composure sufficiently to gesture the Lord Holder to accompany him toward the living cavern. He beckoned to the other guests to follow, but his step was heavy and slow.

“Don’t worry, D’ram. That other dragon might have been quick off the mark,” Lord Warbret said as he thumped D’ram’s shoulder encouragingly, “but I’ve all the faith in the world in G’dened and Barnath. Fine young man! Splendid dragon. Besides he’s mated Caylith before, hasn’t he? That always tells, doesn’t it?”

While Robinton breathed with relief that the Lord Holder was misinterpreting D’ram’s concern, F’lar replied to the questions.

“Yes, Caylith had thirty-four eggs of her first clutch with Barnath. You don’t want a young queen to overlay herself, but her hatchlings were healthy and strong. No queen egg, but that’s often the case when a Weyr has enough queens. The bond of a previous mating can be a strong factor despite a queen’s captiousness, but you never know.”

Robinton noticed that the weyrfolk appeared to be somewhat tense as they served the visitors. He wondered how many had indeed identified the Southerners. He hoped no one blurted out their suspicions in front of the Lord Holder.

T’kul’s Salth must have flown his queen dozens of times and won her. He’d be a canny old fellow, all right, but all his cleverness would be no good if he couldn’t catch the queen in the first few minutes of flight. He simply wouldn’t have the staying power of the younger dragons, and possibly not even the speed for the surge to catch her up. He flew against some fine beasts. Robinton knew how carefully N’ton had chosen the four bronze riders to present themselves from Fort. Each had been wing-seconds for Turns, men already proven in Falls as leaders with strong dragons. F’lar had also limited Benden’s three contenders to men well able to lead a Weyr. Robinton could only assume that Telgar, Igen and High Reaches had honored D’ram’s Weyr with good men. Ista was the smallest of the six Weyrs and needed a united folk.

H

e sipped at his wine, hoping his side would stop aching, wondering what had caused that unnerving pressure. Well, wine cured many ills. He waited until D’ram turned his head and then he refilled the man’s cup, catching F’lar’s approving gaze as he did.

Weyrfolk began to stop at the table now, greeting D’ram and Lord Warbret. Their obvious pleasure in seeing their former Weyrleader was a tonic for D’ram, and he responded with smiles and chatting. He looked tense but anyone would attribute that to understandable concern for the outcome of this flight.

Robinton had a puzzle to chew over: T’kul’s bitter words about the egg. “Why did you take back the egg? How did you find it?” Didn’t T’kul realize that someone from Southern had returned the egg? Then the Harper stiffened. No Southerner had returned that egg, for surely T’kul would have discovered the culprit by now.

Robinton began to hope fervently that neither of the two old dragons would die in their attempt to fly the young queen. Just like the Oldtimers to add a sour note to what ought to be a joyous occasion! Surely life in the Southern Weyr was not so unbearable that T’kul would cold-bloodedly allow his dragon to court death rather than continue there? Robinton knew the Weyr well; the setting in its own small valley was beautiful—a considerable improvement on T’kul’s dour, barren High Reaches Weyr. There was a huge well-constructed hall in the center of a flagstone court where no Thread could find grass to burrow. Food for the picking, wild beasts in plenty to feed dragons, ideal weather, and their only obligation as dragonriders to the small Hold on the coast.

Then Robinton recalled the pulsing hatred for F’lar in T’kul’s eyes. It was malice and spite that motivated the former High Reaches Weyrleader—and hatred for an exile not of his choosing.

The queens might be too old to rise, but that was only a recent occurrence, Robinton thought, and the bronzes could not be in that hard a case. They were ageing as well and the blood did not so easily quicken, so the old urgencies surely could be contained.