The White Dragon (Dragonriders of Pern 3)

“A harper’s room, for the very young learning first Teaching Songs and Ballads,” the Harper said, not nearly as disappointed as the others since the building applied to his Craft.

“Well, then,” Benelek added and, turning on his heel, pointed to the mound immediately on the left. “This is where the advanced students would be. If, of course,” he sounded dubious, “the ancients followed a logical sequence and progressed to the right in any circular formation.” He executed a curt bow to the Weyrleaders and the three Craftmasters and, gesturing to one of the apprentices, marched decisively out, picked a shovel from the pile and proceeded to cut the grass from the inner end of the chosen mound.

Lessa, waiting until Benelek was out of hearing, gave way to laughter. “And if the ancients disappoint him, will he bother with any more mysteries?”

“It’s time to unearth my large mound today,” F’lar said, trying to imitate Benelek’s decisiveness as he gestured the others to pick up tools and join him.

Bearing in mind that the entrances tended to be on the short ends, they abandoned F’lar’s original trench on the roof. Ramoth and Mnementh obligingly shifted enormous mounds of the curious gray-black soil from the center of the end. The entrance was shortly revealed as a door, large enough to admit a green dragon, sliding on rails; a smaller opening pierced one corner. “Man size,” F’lar said. It opened on hinges that were not of metal, a fact which delighted and puzzled Masters Nicat and Fandarel. Just as they opened the small door, Jaxom and Ruth arrived. No sooner had they landed on the mound’s top, than three more dragons burst into the air.

“D’ram,” Lessa said, “and two Benden browns that went south to help.”

“Sorry to take so long, Master Robinton,” Jaxom said, handing the Harper a meat roll as if it were of no moment. “Good morning, Lessa. What was in Nicat’s building?”

The Harper tucked the roll carefully in his belt pouch, pleased with Jaxom’s dissembling. “A children’s hall. Go take a look.”

“Could I have a word with you, Master Robinton? Unless . . .” Jaxom waved his hands toward the mound and the little door hanging so invitingly open.

“I can wait until the air is cleared out,” Robinton said, having noticed the tense look in Jaxom’s eyes and his air of polite entreaty. He moved with the young man to one side of the others. “Yes?”

“Sharra is being restrained at Southern by her brother,” Jaxom said in a low voice that did not reveal his agitation.

“However did you find that out?” Robinton asked, glancing up at the circling bronze that bore the Southerner.

“She told Ruth. Toric has plans for her to marry one of his new holders. He considers the Northern lordlings useless!” There was a dangerous glint in Jaxom’s eyes and a sternness to his features which, for the first time since Robinton had known the lad, gave him the look of his father, Fax, a resemblance which afforded Robinton some small pleasure.

“Some of the lordlings undoubtedly are,” Robinton replied, amused. “What have you in mind, Jaxom?” he added, for there was no answering response to his drollery in the grim-faced young man. Somehow, the Harper had failed to appreciate the maturing that had occurred in Ruatha’s Lord Holder during the past eventful two seasons.

“I intend to get her back,” Jaxom said in a quiet firm tone, and gestured to Ruth. “Toric forgot to reckon with Ruth.”

“You’d fly into Southern and just carry her off?” Robinton asked, trying to keep his expression straight, though Jaxom’s romantic manner made it difficult.

“Why not?” Suddenly the glint of humor was restored to Jaxom’s eyes. “I doubt if Toric expects me to take direct action. I’m one of those useless Northern lordlings!”

“Ah, but not before you receive some direct action yourself, I fancy,” Robinton said in a quick undertone.

Toric and his group had dismounted in the clear space between two of the mound ranks. He had left his people to sort themselves out and, stripping off his flying gear, was striding toward Lessa and those clustered about the mound door. But, after giving her a greeting, he changed directions and there was no doubt his goal was Jaxom.

“Harper!” he said, coming to a halt with a courteous nod for Robinton before he looked at Jaxom.

To Robinton’s pleasure, Ruatha’s Lord did not so much as straighten his shoulders or turn to face Toric.

“Holder Toric,” Jaxom said over his shoulder in a cool indifferent greeting. The title, which was certainly proper as Toric had never been invited to take full rank by the other Lord Holders of Pern, brought the Southerner up short. His eyes narrowed as he looked keenly at Jaxom.

“Lord Jaxom.” Toric’s drawl made an insult of that title, implying that it was not fully Jaxom’s as yet.

Jaxom turned slowly toward him. “Sharra tells me,” he said, noting as Robinton did the surprise twitch of Toric’s eye muscles, and a quick darting glance at the fire-lizards about Ruth, “that you do not favor an alliance with Ruatha.”

“No, lordling. I do not!” Toric flicked a glance at the Harper, a broad smile on his face. “She can do better than a table-sized Hold in the North.” The last word held contemptuous emphasis.

“What did I hear. Toric?” Lessa asked, her voice light but with a hint of steel in her eyes as she squarely ranged herself beside Jaxom.

“Holder Toric has other plans for Sharra,” Jaxom said, his tone more amused than aggrieved. “She can do better, it seems, than a table-sized Hold like Ruatha.”

“I mean no offense to Ruatha,” Toric said quickly when he caught the flicker of anger in Lessa’s face, though the Weyrwoman continued to smile.

“That would be most unwise, considering my pride in my Bloodline and in the present Holder of that title,” she said in the most casual tone.

“Surely, you might reconsider the matter, Toric,” Robinton said, as affable as ever despite the palpable warning he conveyed that the Southerner was on very dangerous ground. “Such an alliance, so much desired by the two young people, would have considerable advantages for you, I think, aligning yourself with one of the most prestigious Holds on Pern.”

“And be in favor with Benden,” Lessa said, smiling so sweetly that Robinton almost chuckled at the man’s predicament.

Toric stood there, absently rubbing the back of his neck, his smile slightly diminished.

“We should discuss the matter. At some length, I think.” Lessa tucked her arm in Toric’s and turned him about. “Master Robinton, will you join us? I think that little cot of mine would be an admirable spot in which to talk undisturbed.”

“I thought we were here to dig up Pern’s glorious past,” Toric said, with a good-natured laugh. But he did not disengage his arm from Lessa’s.

“There’s surely no time like the present,” Lessa continued at her sweetest, “to discuss the future. Your future.”

F’lar had joined them, falling in step at Lessa’s left, apparently aware through the link between Mnementh and Lessa of what had just occurred. The Harper shot a reassuring look over his shoulder to Jaxom but the young man was looking at his dragon.

“Yes, with so many ambitious holdless men pouring into Southern,” F’lar said smoothly, “we’ve been remiss in making certain you’ll have the lands you want, Toric. I don’t fancy blood feuds in the South. Unnecessary, too, when there’s space enough for this generation and several more.”

Toric’s answer was a full-bodied laugh and although he had adjusted his stride to match Lessa’s, he still gave Robinton the impression of invulnerable self-assurance.

“And since there’s so much space, why should I not be ambitious for my sister?”

“You’ve more than one, and we’re not talking of Jaxom and Sharra just now,” Lessa added with a hint of irritability as she dismissed the irrelevant. “F’lar and I had intended to arrange a more formal occasion to set your Holding,” she went on, gesturing to the ancient, empty structure in which they now stood, “but there’s Master Nicat wanting to formal

ize Minecrafthall affairs, and Lord Groghe is anxious that his two sons do not Hold adjacent lands, and other questions have come up recently which require answers.”

“Answers?” Toric asked politely as he leaned against one wall and crossed his arms on his chest.

Robinton began to wonder just how much of that pose of indolence was assumed. Was Toric’s ambition going to overpower good sense?

“One answer required is how much land any one man should Hold in the South?” F’lar said, idly digging dirt from under his thumbnail with his knife point. He had lightly emphasized the one.

“And? Our original agreement was that I could Hold all the lands I had acquired by the time the Oldtimers had passed on.”

“Which, in truth, they haven’t,” Robinton said.

Toric agreed to that. “I shan’t insist on waiting,” he admitted with a slight inclination of his head, “since the original circumstances have altered. And, since my Hold is thoroughly disorganized by the indigent and hopeful lordlings, and holdless men and boys, I am reliably informed that others have eschewed our help and landed wherever their ships can be beached.”

“All the more reason to be sure you are not deprived of one length of your just Hold,” F’lar said. “I know that you have sent out exploring teams. How far have they actually penetrated?”

“With the help of D’ram’s dragonriders,” Toric said as Robinton noticed how keenly he watched F’lar’s face to see if this unexpected assistance was known to Benden, “we have extended our knowledge of the terrain to the foot of the Western Range.”

“That far?” The bronze rider appeared surprised and perhaps a trifle alarmed.

Robinton knew from that auspiciously discovered map that, while the area from the sea to the Western Range was immense, it was but a small segment of the total area of the vast Southern Continent.

“And, of course, Piemur reached the Great Desert Bay to the west,” Toric was saying.

“My dear Toric, how can you possibly Hold all that?” F’lar seemed politely concerned.

“I’ve small cotholders with burgeoning families along most of the habitable shoreline, and at strategic points in the interior. The men you sent me these past few Turns proved most industrious.” Toric’s smile was more assured.

“I suspect they have pledged loyalty to you in return for your original generosity?” F’lar asked with a sigh.

“Naturally.”

Lessa laughed. “I thought when we met at Benden that you were a shrewd and independent man.”

“There’s more land, my dear Weyrwoman, for any man who can Hold it. Some small holds could turn out to be far more valuable than larger spreads, in the eyes of those who truly appreciate their worth.”

“I’d say then,” Lessa went on, pointedly ignoring Toric’s allusion to Ruatha’s size, “that you’ll have more than enough to occupy you fully and to Hold, from sea to Western Range to the Great Bay . . .”

Suddenly Toric straightened. Lessa had been looking at F’lar, obliquely seeking his approval for what she granted Toric, so it was only Robinton who caught the full alertness, the look of intense surprise and displeasure in the Southerner’s eyes. He recovered himself quickly.

“To the Great Bay in the West, yes, that is my hope. I do have maps. In my Hold, but if I’ve your leave . . .”

He had taken one stride to the door when Ramoth’s bugle halted him. And as Mnementh chimed in, F’lar moved swiftly to block his way.

“It’s already too late, Toric.”

As Jaxom watched the Benden Weyrleaders and the Harper walk toward the excavated house with Toric, he expelled with a deep breath the anger he had contained for Toric’s belittling manner.

“’Ruatha a table-sized Hold?’” Indeed! Ruatha, the second oldest and certainly one of the most prosperous Holds on Pern. If Lessa hadn’t come then, he’d have shown—

Jaxom took another breath. Toric had the height and reach of him. He’d have been slaughtered by the Southerner if Lessa hadn’t interfered and saved him from sheer folly. It had never occurred to Jaxom that Toric might not be honored by an alliance with Ruatha. He’d been stunned when Ruth had informed him of Sharra’s contact—that she had been lured back to Southern—and told that Toric would not countenance a marriage for her in the North. Nor would Toric listen to Sharra’s avowal of a true attachment to Jaxom. So he had set his queen on her two fire-lizards to keep her from sending messages to Jaxom. Toric hadn’t known that Sharra could talk to Ruth, something she had done as soon as she’d awakened that morning. There was a hint of amusement in Ruth’s tone for the secret exchange.

Jaxom waited until the four had entered the little dwelling before he moved to Ruth. “Fly into Southern and carry her off,” the Harper had said in jest, but that was exactly what Jaxom intended.

“Ruth,” he asked in his mind as he closed the distance between them, “are there any fire-lizards of Toric’s about you?”

No! We are going to rescue Sharra? Where shall I tell her to meet us? We’ve only been to the Hatching Grounds in Southern. Shall I ask Ramoth?

“I’d prefer not to involve the Benden dragons in this. We’ll go to the Hatching Ground. That egg is coming in useful to us after all,” he added, appreciating the irony of the situation as he vaulted to Ruth’s back. “Give her the picture, Ruth. Ask her if she can reach the place?”

She says yes.

“Let’s get there then!”

Jaxom began laughing openly as Ruth took them between.

They came in low from the east, just as they had not quite a Turn before. Now, however, the ring of warm sand was unoccupied. Only briefly, for fire-lizards swooped down in cheerful greeting.

“Toric’s?” Jaxom asked, wondering if he should dismount and search for Sharra.

She comes! Toric’s queen is with her. Go away! You displease me, watching my friends!

Jaxom had no time to be astonished by his dragon’s fierce attitude. Sharra, trailing a blanket which she was endeavoring to wrap about her thinly clad body, came running across the Ground. She pelted toward him, her expression anxious, and she almost tripped on an edge of her blanket as she looked back over her shoulder.

She says two of Toric’s men are after her. Ruth half-sprang, half-glided toward Sharra, while Jaxom leaned down, holding his hands out to catch her and swing her onto Ruth’s neck. Two men, swords drawn, came tearing onto the Ground. But Ruth launched himself, leaving the two men swearing helplessly at them as the Ground dropped away. The watchdragon of the Southern Weyr called out to Ruth, who replied in a greeting as he beat upward on the warm air.

“I think your brother has miscalculated, Sharra.”

“Take me away from here, Jaxom. Take me to Ruatha! I’ve never been so furious in all my life. I never want to see that brother of mine again. Of all the devious, misguided . . .”

“We have to see your brother again, for I’m not hiding from him. We’ll have it out in the open today!”

“Jaxom!” There was real concern in Sharra’s voice now. She clutched him tightly about the waist. “He’d kill you in a fight.”

“Our affair will cause no duel, Sharra,” Jaxom said with a laugh. “Bundle yourself well in that blanket. Ruth will take us between as quick as he can!”

“Jaxom, I hope you know what we’re doing!”

Ruth took them back to the Plateau, caroling a greeting as he circled down.

“Oh, I’m frozen, but they took my flying gear away,” Sharra cried. Her bare legs on Ruth’s neck were blue with chill. Jaxom leaned over to rub warmth into them. “And there’s Toric. With Lessa, F’lar and Robinton!”

“And the largest of the Benden dragons!”

“Jaxom!”

“Your brother does things his way, I do them in mine! In mine!”

“Jaxom!” There was surprise as well as respect in her voice and her arms tightened again about his waist.

Ruth landed and when they had dismounted, he walked to Jaxom’s left as the

two young lovers went to meet the others. Toric no longer wore his customary smile.

“Toric, you cannot contain Sharra anywhere on Pern where Ruth and I cannot find her!” Jaxom said after the barest of nods to the Benden Weyrleaders and the Harper. There was no hint of compromise in Toric’s hard expression. Nor did he expect it. “Place and time are no barriers to Ruth. Sharra and I can go anywhere, anywhen on Pern.”

A piteously crying queen fire-lizard attempted to land on Toric’s shoulder, but the man brushed her away.

“Further, fire-lizards obey Ruth! Don’t they, my friend?” Jaxom rested his hand on Ruth’s headknob. “Tell every fire-lizard here on the Plateau to go away!”

Ruth did so, adding as the wide meadow was suddenly empty of the little creatures, that they didn’t wish to leave.

Toric’s eyes narrowed slightly at that show of ability. Then the fire-lizards were back. This time he permitted his little queen to land on his shoulder, but his eyes held Jaxom’s.

“How did you know Southern? I was informed that you’ve never been there!” He made a half-turn as if to accuse Lessa and F’lar of complicity.

“Your informant erred,” Jaxom said, wondering if it had been Dorse. “Today is not the first time I’ve retrieved something from the Southern Weyr which belongs to the North.” He laid his arm possessively about Sharra’s shoulders.

Toric’s composure deserted him. “You!” He extended his arm, pointing at Jaxom; his face was a mixture of anger, indignant outrage, disappointment, frustration and, lastly, a grudging respect. “You took the egg back! You and that . . . but the fire-lizards’ images were black!”

“I’d be stupid not to darken a white hide if I make a night pass, wouldn’t I?” Jaxom asked with understandable scorn.

“I knew it wasn’t one of T’ron’s riders,” Toric cried, his fists clenching and unclenching. “But for you to . . . Well now,” and Toric’s whole attitude changed radically. He began to smile again, a trifle sourly as he looked at the Benden Weyrleaders and then the Harper. Then he started to laugh, losing anger and frustration in that laughter. “If you knew, Lordling . . .” again he pointed fiercely at Jaxom, “the plans you ruined, the . . . How many people knew it was you?” Now he did turn accusingly on the dragonriders.