TEXT: Anne McCaffrey is a lovely lady, and she writes the way she
  looks. This story, calculated to end the book on a romantic
  note, may contain a universe only Jack Vance, Andre Norton
  or Anne McCaffrey could have dreamed up, but the afflatus
  is that which only this dear lady is capable of providing. For
  all that, much modem writing is pretty dreary. This piece,
  though, serves to show that, as Dante noted in at least three
  places, at the end of everything there are always stars. If her
  husband won't punch me in the nose, I'd like to confess that
  I'm in love with her, and that I hope she writes at least a
  thousand more stories like this one, which was good enough
  to come in second for the Nebula in this category. This book
  needs das ewigweibliche to zieht uns hinan, and this is the
  place for the feminine spirit lo take over and tell Messrs.
  Bollard, Ellison, Wright, Delany, Leiber, Moorcock, (me?)
  the way a woman sees the Game we've been playing. Ergo, I
  won't tell you a bloody thing about the following tale, save
  that I like it, I chose it, and it, too, occurs in another time
  and another place.
  WEYR SEARCH
  Anne McCaffrey
  When is. a legend legend? Why is a myth a myth? How old
  and disused must a fact be for it to be relegated to the
  category: Fairy tale? And why do certain facts remain in-
  controvertible, while others lose their validity to assume a
  shabby, unstable character?
  Rukbat, in the Sagittarian sector, was a golden G-type
  star. It had five planets, plus one stray it had attracted and
  held in recent millennia. Its third planet was enveloped by
  air man could breathe, boasted water he could drink, and
  possessed a gravity which permitted man to walk confidently
  erect. Men discovered it, and promptly colonized it, as they
  did every habitable planet they came to and thenwhether
  callously or through collapse of empire, the colonists never
  discovered, and eventually forgot to askleft the colonies to
  fend for themselves.
  When men first settled on Rukbafs third world, and named
  it  Pern,  they  had  taken  little  notice  of  the  stranger-planet,
  swinging around its primary in a wildly erratic elliptical orbit.
  Within a few generations they had forgotten its existence.
  The desperate path the wanderer pursued brought it close to
  its stepsister every two hundred {Terran} years at perihelion.
  When the aspects were harmonious and the conjunction
  with its sister-planet close enough, as it often was, the in-
  digenous life of the wanderer sought to bridge the space gap
  to the more temperate and hospitable planet.
  It was during the frantic struggle to combat this menace
  dropping through Pern's skies like silver threads, that Pern's
  contact with the mother-planet weakened and broke. Recol-
  lections of Earth receded further from Pernese history with
  each successive generation until memory of their origins de-
  generated past legend or myth, into oblivion.
  To forestall the incursions of the dreaded Threads, the
  Pernese, with the ingenuity of their forgotten Yankee fore-
  bears and between first onslaught and return, developed a
  highly specialized variety of a life form indigenous to their
  
  adopted planetthe winged, tailed, and fire-breathing drag-
  ons,  named for  the  Earth legend  they  resembled.  Such
  humans as had a high empathy rating and some innate tele-
  pathic ability were trained to make use of and preserve this
  unusual animal whose ability to teleport was of immense
  value in the fierce struggle to keep Pern bare of Threads.
  The dragons and their dragonmen, a breed apart, and the
  shortly renewed menace they battled, created a whole new
  group of legends and myths.
  As the menace was conquered the populace in the Holds
  of Pern settled into a more comfortable way of life. Most of
  the dragon Weyrs eventually were abandoned, and the de-
  scendants of heroes fell into disfavor, as the legends fell into
  disrepute.
  This, then, is a tale of legends disbelieved and their restora-
  tion. Yethow goes a legend? When is myth?
  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 ever-
  lastingly clammy stone walls. Cold with the prescience of a
  danger greater than when, ten full Turns ago, she had run,
  whimpering, to hide in the.watch-wher's odorous lair.
  Rigid with concentration, Lessa lay in the straw of the
  redolent cheese room, sleeping quarters shared with the other
  kitchen drudges. There was an urgency in the ominous
  portent unlike any other forewarning. She touched the aware-
  ness of the watch-wher, slithering on its rounds in the court-
  yard. It circled at the choke-limit of its chain. It was restless,
  but oblivious to anything unusual in the predawn darkness.
  The danger was definitely not within the walls of Hold
  Ruath. 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 th<s
  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, towards .the Pass, farther than she had eyer
  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 Hold Ruath 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 why he had subjugated the once proud and profitable
  Hold.
  Lessa picked her way among the sleeping drudges, hud-
  dled together for warmth, and glided up the worn steps to
  the kitchen-proper. She slipped across the cavernous kitchen
  to the stable-yard door. 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. 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 towards 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 which 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.
  For the first time in many Turns, Lessa gave thought to
  matters beyond Pern, beyond her dedication to vengeance on
  the murderer Fax for the annihilation of her family. Let him
  but come within Ruath Hold now and he would never leave.
  But the brilliant ruby sparkle of the Red Star recalled the
  Disaster Balladsgrim narratives of the heroism of the drag-
  onriders as they braved the dangers of between to breathe
  fiery death on the silver Threads that dropped through Pern's
  skies. Not one Thread must fall to the rich soil, to burrow
  deep and multiply, leaching the earth of minerals and fer-
  tility.  Straining her eyes  as if vision would bridge the gap
  between periol and person, she stared intently eastward. The
  watch-wher's thin, whistled question reached her just as the
  prescience waned.
  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 grew where it should not, died
  where it should flourish. An odd brooding smile curved
  Lessa's lips. 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. East lay Fax's an-
  cestral and only legitimate Hold. Northeast lay little but bare
  and stony mountains and Benden, the remaining Weyr, which
  protected Pern.
  Lessa stretched, arching her back, inhaling the sweet, un-
  tainted wind of morning.
  A cock crowed in the stableyard. Lessa whirled, her face
  alert, eyes darting around the outer Hold lest she be ob-
  served in such an uncharacteristic pose. She unbound her
  hair, letting it 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 lurred
  piteously, its great eyes blinking against the growing daylight.
  Oblivious to the stench of its rank breath, she bugged the
  scaly head to her, scratching its ears and eye ridges. The
  watch-wher was ecstatic with pleasure, its long body trem-
  bling, its clipped wings rustling. It alone knew who she was or
  cared. And it was the only creature in all Pern she trusted
  since the day she had blindly sought refuge in its dark stink-
  ing lair to escape Fax's 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. Crying out, the watch-wher darted into its dark nest.
  Lessa crept back to the kitchen and into the cheese room.
  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. Plar checked the formation au-
  tomatically; as precise as at the moment of 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 aver-
  sion 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 tight-
  ened 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 which had been so miserly,
  so grudgingly presented would, under pain of firestoning, flow
  with decent generosity into the Dragon weyr.
  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 dis-
  mount. 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
  dragon-man from the parapet slits and the cliff windows.
  F'lar did not turn as a rush of air announced the arrival
  of the rest of the wing. He knew, however, when F'nor, the
  brown rider, his half-brother, took the customary position on
  his left, a dragon-length to the rear. F'lar caught a glimpse
  of F'nor's boot-heel twisting to death the grass crowding up
  between the stones.
  An order, muffled to an intense whisper, issued from
  within the great court, beyond the open gates. Almost im-
  mediately 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 many faceted eyes,
  on a level with F'lar's head, fastened with disconcerting in-
  terest 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 at-
  tack 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 informa-
  tion was also correct in describing Fax as a greedy man. It
  showed in the restless eyes which 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 which
  flashed on Fax's left hand. The overlord's right hand re-
  mained 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 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 a new queen, hm-m-m?"
  he continued, his eyes darting across the rank of the ring,
  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 towards the dragonman.
  For a pulse beat, F'lar wondered if the man were deliber-
  ately provoking him with such subtle insults. The name of
  bronze riders should be as well known throughout Pern as
  the name of the Dragonqueen 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 bead,
  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 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 empha-
  sized 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. "Nothing good
  comes from Ruath Hold." Then he 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 maneu-
  vered 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 re-
  minder that they 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 re
  instilled in modern 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.
  "You would prefer to see your quarters first?" Fax coun-
  tered.
  F'lar flicked an imaginary speck from his soft wher-hide
  sleeve and shook his head. Was the man buying time to
  sequester his ladies as the old time lords had?
  "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 decided he had guessed correctly.
  F'lar and F'nor followed at a slower pace through the
  double-doored entry with its massive metal panels, into the
  great hall, carved into the cliffside.
  "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.
  "Young roasts and tender," F'nor said in a bitter under-
  tone, "while the stringy, barren beasts are delivered up to
  us."
  "The change is overdue," F'lar murmured, then raised his
  voice to conversational level. "A well-favored hall," he was
  saying amiably as they reached Fax. Their reluctant host
  stood in the portal to the inner Hold, which, like all such
  Holds, burrowed deep into stone, traditional refuge of all in
  time of peril.
  Deliberately, F'lar turned back to the banner-hung Hall.
  'Tell me. Lord Fax, do you adhere to the old practices and
  mount a dawn guard?"
  
  Fax frowned, trying to grasp F'lar's meaning.
  "There is always a guard at the Tower."
  "An easterly guard?"
  Fax's eyes jerked towards F'lar, then to F'nor.
  "There are always guards," he answered sharply, "on all
  the approaches."
  "Oh, just the approaches," and F'lar nodded wisely to
  F'nor.
  "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," and Fax jerked
  his shoulders straighten
  F'lar affected not to understand.
  "Lord Fax is the overlord of six other Holds," F'nor re-
  minded his wingleader.
  "Of course," F'lar assented, with exactly the same inflec-
  tion 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 af-
  firmative, he stalked into the glow-lit corridors. The dragon-
  men followed.
  The women's quarters in Fax's Hold had been moved from
  the traditional innermost corridors to those at cliff-face.
  Sunlight poured down from three double-shuttered, deep-
  casement windows in the outside wall. F'lar noted that the
  bronze hinges were well oiled, and the sills regulation spear-
  length. Fax had not, at least, diminished 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-streamed, her face lined with disap-
  pointments 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 with-
  out pride or cordiality.
  "My Lady" F'lai 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 Hold's hospitality."
  "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 nor the
  fact that Gemma had no trouble naming him. His smile was
  warmer than courtesy demanded, warm with gratitude and
  sympathy. Looking at the number of women in these
  quarters, F'lar thought there might be one or two Lady
  Gemma could bid farewell without regret.
  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 her. Fax, no doubt, was stud, not lover.
  Some of the covey had not all winter long made much use
  of water, judging by 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, too old.
  The amenities over. Fax ushered his unwelcome guests
  outside, and led the way to the quarters he had assigned the
  bronze rider.
  "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. They have been
  fed recently," he commented, pointing up Fax's omission in
  inquiring. "I request liberty to wander through the craft-
  hold."
  Fax sourly granted what was a dragonman's traditional
  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 from the stamping retreat.
  F'nor and the men had settled themselves in a hastily
  vacated'barrackroom. The dragons were perched comfortably
  on the rocky ridges above the Hold. Each rider kept his
  dragon in light, but alert, charge. There were to be no in-
  cidents 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 gi-in, 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 Fax's women.
  By all logic, the pick of the High Reaches should be in
  Fax's chief Holdbut 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 P'nor left the barracks. Thtf
  men would follow, unobtrusively, in pairs or singly, to reo-
  onnoiter 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 Fort to high north lgen. 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
  Firestone: from the grass-free heights to ridge-running gut-
  ters. 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 eBthusiasm," 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 stofle 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 dis-
  regard of simple safety precautions. Growing things were
  forbidden near the habitations of mankind.
  "News travels fast," F'nor chuckled, nodding at a hurry-
  ing 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, wash-
  ing 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 caus-
  tically.
  "We'll visit the Clothmen's Hall first. If my memory serves
  me right . . ."
  "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 al-
  ways excelled in the Games. None ever floundered in be-
  tween 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 phosphene 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 phosphene 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, with a polite, if curt, request for them to follow
  him.
  They were led to the right of the entrance, to a small of-
  fice,  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 blinked constantly.
  "I am now Lytol," he said in a harsh voice.
  F'lar nodded acknowledgment.
  "You would be F'lar," Lytol said, "and you, F'nor. You've 
  both 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 aware-
  ness of exile. He essayed a smile.
  "Dragons in the sky! The news spread faster than
  Threads."
  "Nemorth has a new queen."
  "Jora dead?" Lytol asked concemedly, his face cleared of *"
  its  nervous  movement  for  a  second.
  F'lar nodded.
  Lytol grimaced bitterly. "R'gul again, hub." He stared off
  in the middle distance, his eyelids quiet but the muscles
  along his jaw took up the constant movement. "You've 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,"
  and his tone expressed utmost disdain.
  "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 drew himself up, squaring his shoulders, turning
  full to the two dragonmen. His expression was vindictive, his
  voice low and tense.
  "Kill that tyrant, 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 preoccupa-
  tion with his curious theory.
  Lytol stared at the bronze rider. "Did I not say it?"
  "What of Ruath 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 Ruath
  Hold in these times? Well, all of that 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 hos-
  pitality 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, unable to contradict the man's pitiful
  attempt at self-esteem.
  "No," and Lytol chuckled softly. "Fax gets nothing from
  that Hold but trouble. And the women Fax used to take . . ."
  his laugh turned nasty in tone.  "It is  rumored he was
  impotent for months afterwards."
  
  "Any families in the holdings with Weyr blood?"
  Lytol frowned, glanced surprised at F'lar. He rubbed the
  scarred side of his face thoughtfully.
  "There were," he admitted slowly. "There were. But I
  doubt if any live. on." He thought a moment longer, then
  shook his head emphatically.
  F'lar shrugged.
  "I wish I had better news for you," Lytol murmured.
  "No matter," F'lar reassured him, one hand poised to part
  the hanging in the doorway.
  Lytol came up to him swiftly, his voice urgent.
  "Heed what I say. Fax is ambitious. Force R'gul, or who-
  ever is Weyrieader next, to keep watch on the High Reaches."
  Lytol jabbed a finger in the direction of the Hold. "He
  scoffs openly at tales of the Threads. He taunts the harpers
  for the stupid nonsense of the old ballads and has banned
  from their repertoire all dragonlore. The new generation will
  grow up totally ignorant of duty, tradition and precaution."
  F'lar was surprised to hear that on top of Lytol's other
  disclosures. Yet the Red Star pulsed in the sky and the
  time was drawing near when they would hysterically reavow
  the old allegiances in fear for their very lives.
  "Have you been abroad in the early morning of late?"
  asked F'nor, grinning maliciously.
  "I have," Lytol breathed out in a hushed, choked whisper.
  "I have . . ." A groan was wrenched from his guts and he
  whirled away from the dragonmen, his head bowed between
  hunched shoulders. "Go," he said, gritting his teeth. And,
  as they hesitated, he pleaded, "Go!"
  F'lar walked quickly from the room, followed by F'nor.
  The bronze rider crossed the quiet dim Hall with long
  strides and exploded into the startling sunlight. His momentum
  took him into the center of the square. There he stopped so
  abruptly that F'nor, hard on his heels, nearly collided with
  him.
  "We will spend exactly the same time within the other
  Halls," he announced in a tight voice, his face averted from
  F'nor's eyes. F'lar's throat was constricted. It was difficult,
  suddenly, for him to speak. He swallowed hard, several
  times.
  "To be dragonless . . ." murmured F'nor, pityingly. The
  encounter with Lytol had roiled his depths in a mournful
  way to which he was unaccustomed. That F'lar appeared
  equally shaken went far to dispel F'nor's private opinion
  that his half-brother was incapable of emotion.
  "There is no other way once First Impression has been
  made. You know that," F'lar roused himself to say curtly.
  He strode off to the Hall bearing the Leathermen's device.
  The Hold is barred
  The Hall is bare.
  And men vanish.
  The soil is barren,
  The rock is bald.
  All hope banish.
  Lessa was shoveling ashes from the hearth when the
  agitated messenger staggered into the Great Hall. She made
  herself as inconspicuous as possible so the Warder would
  not dismiss her. She had contrived to be sent to the Great
  Hall that morning, knowing that the Warder intended to
  brutalize the Head Clothman for the shoddy quality of the
  
  goods readied for shipment to Fax.
  "Fax is coming! With dragonmen!" the man gasped out
  as he plunged into the dim Great Hall.
  The Warder, who had been about to lash the Head Cloth-
  man, turned, stunned, from his victim. The courier, a farm-
  Ilolder from the edge of Ruatha, stumbled up to the Warder,
  so excited with his message that he grabbed the Warder's
  arm.
  "How dare you leave your Hold?" and the Warder aimed
  his lash at the astonished holder. The force of the first blow
  knocked the man from his feet. Yelping, he scrambled out
  of reach of a second lashing. "Dragonmen indeed! Fax? Ha!
  He shuns Ruatha. There!" The Warder punctuated each
  denial with another blow, kicking the helpless wretch for
  good measure, before he turned breathless to glare at the
  clothman and the two underwarders. "How did he get in here
  with such a threadbare lie?" The Warder stalked to the great
  door. It was flung open just as he reached out for the iron
  handle. The ashenfaced guard officer rushed in, nearly top-
  pling the Warder.
  "Dragonmen! Dragons! All over Ruatha!" the man gib-
  bered, arms flailing wildly. He, too, pulled at the Warder's
  arm, dragging the stupefied official towards the outer court-
  yard, to bear out the truth of his statement.
  Lessa scooped up the last pile of ashes. Picking up her
  equipment, she* slipped out of the Great Hall. There was a
  very pleased smile on her face under the screen of matted
  hair.
  A dragonman at Ruatha! She must somehow contrive to get
  Fax so humiliated, or so infuriated, that he would renounce
  his claim to the Hold, in the presence of a dragonman. Then
  she could claim her birthright.
  But she would have to be extraordinarily wary. Dragon-
  riders were men apart. Anger did not cloud their intelligence.
  Greed did not sully their judgment. Fear did not dull their
  reactions. Let the dense-witted believe human sacrifice, un-
  natural lusts, insane revel. She was not so gullible. And
  those stories went against her grain. Dragonmen were still
  human and there was Weyr blood in her veins. It was the
  same color as that of anyone else; enough of hers had been
  spilled to prove that.
  She halted for a moment, catching a sudden shallow
  breath. Was this the danger she had sensed four days ago at
  dawn? The final encounter in her struggle to regain the
  Hold? Nothere had been more to that portent than re-
  venge.
  The ash bucket banged against her shins as she shuffled
  down the low ceilinged corridor to the stable door. Fax would
  find a cold welcome. She had laid no new fire on the hearth.
  Her laugh echoed back unpleasantly from the damp walls.
  She rested her bucket and propped her broom and shovel as
  she wrestled with the heavy bronze door that gave into the
  new stables.
  They had been built outside the cliff of Ruatha by Fax's
  first Warder,  a subtler man than all eight of his successors,
  He had achieved more than all others and Lessa had
  honestly regretted the necessity of his death. But he would
  have made her revenge impossible. He would have caught
  her out before she had learned how to camouflage herself and
  her little interferences. What had his name been? She could
  
  not recall. Well, she regretted his death.
  The second man had been properly greedy and it had been
  easy to set up a pattern of misunderstanding between Warder
  and craftsmen. That one had been determined to squeeze
  all profit from Ruathan goods so that some of it would drop
  into his pocket before Fax suspected a shortage. The crafts-
  men who had begun to accept the skillful diplomacy of the
  first  Warder  bitterly  resented  the  second's  grasping,  high-
  handed ways. They resented the passing of the Old Line
  and, even more so, the way of its passing. They were un-
  forgiving of insult to Ruatha; its now secondary position in
  the High Reaches; and they resented the individual indignities
  that holders, craftsmen and farmers alike, suffered under the
  second Warder. It took little manipulation to arrange for
  matters at Ruatha to go from bad to worse.
  The .second was replaced and his successor fared no better.
  He was caught diverting goods, the best of the goods at that.
  Fax had had him executed. His bony head still hung in the
  main firepit above the great Tower.
  The present incumbent had not been able to maintain the
  Hold in even the sorry condition in which he had assumed
  !  its management. Seemingly simple matters developed rapidly
  [  into disasters. Like the production of cloth . . . Contrary
  I  to his boasts to Fax, the quality had not improved, and the
  '  quantity had fallen off.
  '  Now Fax was here. And with dragonmen! Why dragon-
  men? The import of the question froze Lessa, and the heavy
  door closing behind her barked her heels painfully. Dragon-
  men used to be frequent visitors at Ruatha, that she knew,
  and even vaguely remembered. Those memories were like a
  harper's tale, told of someone else, not something within her
  own experience. She had limited her fierce attention to
  Ruatha only. She could not even recall the name of Queen or
  Weyrwoman from the instructions of her childhood, nor could
  she recall hearing mention of any queen or weyrwoman by
  anyone in the Hold these past ten Turns.
  Perhaps the dragonmen were finally going to call the lords
  of the Holds to task for the disgraceful show of greenery
  about the Holds. Well, Lessa was to blame for much of that
  in Ruatha but she defied even a dragonman to confront her
  with her guilt. Did all Ruatha fall to the Threads it would
  be better than remaining dependent to Fax! The heresy
  shocked Lessa even as she thought it.
  Wishing she could as easily unburden her conscience of
  such blasphemy, she ditched the ashes on the stable midden.
  There was a sudden change in air pressure around her. Then
  a fleeting shadow caused her to glance up.
  From behind the cliff above glided a dragon, its enormous
  wings spread to their fullest as he caught the morning up-
  draft. Turning effortlessly, he descended. A second, a third,
  a full wing of dragons followed in soundless flight and pat-
  terned descent, graceful and awesome. The claxon rang be-
  latedly from the Tower and from within the kitchens there
  issued the screams and shrieks of the terrified drudges.
  Lessa took cover. She ducked into the kitchen where she
  was instantly seized by the assistant cook and thrust with a
  buffet and a kick towards the sinks. There she was put to
  scrubbing grease-encrusted serving bowls with cleansing sand.
  The yelping canines were already lashed to the spitrun,
  turning a scrawny herdbeast that had been set to roast. The
  
  cook was ladling seasonings on the carcass, swearing at having
  to offer so poor a meal to so many guests, and some of them
  high-rank. Winter-dried fruits from the last scanty harvest
  had been set to soak and two of the oldest drudges were
  scraping roots.
  An apprentice cook was kneading bread; another, care-
  fully spicing a sauce. Looking fixedly at him, she diverted
  his hand from one spice box to a less appropriate one as he
  gave a final shake to the concoction. She added too much
  wood to the wall oven, insuring ruin for the breads. She
  controlled the canines deftly, slowing one and speeding the
  other so that the meat would be underdone on one side,
  burned on the other. That the feast should be a fast, the food
  presented found inedible, was her whole intention.
  Above in the Hold, she had no doubt that certain other
  measures, undertaken at different times for this axact con-
  tingency, were being discovered.
  Her fingers bloodied from a beating, one of the Warder's
  women came shrieking into the kitchen, hopeful of refuge
  there.
  "Insects have eaten the best blankets to shreds! And a
  canine who had littered on the best linens snarled at me as
  she gave suck! And the rushes are noxious, the best chambers
  full of debris driven in by the winter wind. Somebody left the
  shutters ajar. Just a tiny bit, but it was enough . .." the
  woman wailed, clutching her hand to her breast and rocking
  back and forth.
  Lessa bent with great industry to shine the plates.
  Watch-wher, watch-wher,
  In your lair,
  Watch well, watch-wheri
  Who goes there?
  "The watch-wher is hiding something," F'lar told F'nor
  as they consulted in the hastily cleaned Great Hall. The
  room delighted to hold the wintry chill although a generous
  fire now burned on the hearth.
  "It was but gibbering when Canth spoke to it,"  F'nor
  remarked. He was leaning against the mantel, turning slightly
  from side to side to gather some warmth. He watched his
  wingleader's impatient pacing.
  "Mnementh is calming it down," F'lar replied. "He may
  be able to sort out the nightmare. The creature may be more
  senile than aware, but . . ."
  "I doubt it," F'nor concurred helpfully. He glanced with
  apprehension up at the webhung ceiling. He was certain
  he'd found most of the crawlers, but he didn't fancy their
  sting. Not on top of the discomforts already experienced in
  this forsaken Hold. If the night stayed mild, he intended
  curling up with Canth on the heights. "That would be more
  reasonable than anything Fax or his Warder have suggested."
  "Hm-m-m," F'lar muttered, frowning at the brown rider.
  "Well, it's unbelievable that Ruatha could have fallen to
  such disrepair in ten short Turns. Every dragon caught the
  feeling of power and it's obvious the watch-wher had been
  tampered with. That takes a good deal of control."
  "From someone of the Blood," F'lar reminded him.
  F'nor shot his wingleader a quick look, wondering if he
  could possibly be serious in the light of all information to
  the contrary.
  "I grant you there is power here, F'lar," F'nor conceded.
  
  "It could easily be a hidden male of the old Blood. But we
  need a female. And Fax made it plain, in his inimitable
  fashion, that he left none of the old Blood alive in the Hold
  the day he took it. No, no." The brown rider shook his head,
  as if he could dispel the lack of faith in his wingleader's
  curious insistence that the Search would end in Ruath with
  Ruathan blood.
  "That watch-wher is hiding something and only someone
  of the Blood of its Hold can arrange that," F'lar said emphat-
  ically. He gestured around the Hall and towards the walls,
  bare of hangings. "Ruatha has been overcome. But she resists
  . . . Subtly. I say it points to the old Blood, and power. Not
  power alone."
  The obstinate expression in F'lar's eyes, the set of his
  jaw, suggested that F'nor seek another topic.
  "The pattern was well-flown today," F'nor suggested tenta-
  tively. "Does a dragonman good to ride a flaming beast. Does
  the beast good, too. Keeps the digestive process in order."
  F'lar nodded sober agreement. "Let R'gul temporize as he
  chooses. It is fitting and proper to ride a firespouting beast
  and these holders need to be reminded of Weyr power."
  "Right now, anything would help our prestige," F'nor com-
  mented sourly. "What had Fax to say when he hailed you
  in the Pass?" F'nor knew his question was almost impertinent
  but if it were, F'lar would ignore it.
  F'lar's slight smile was unpleasant and there was an omi-
  nous glint in his amber eyes.
  "We talked of rule and resistance."
  "Did he not also draw on you?" F'nor asked.
  F'lar's  smile  deepened.  "Until  he  remembered  I  was
  dragon-mounted."
  "He's considered a vicious fighter," F'nor said.
  "I am at some disadvantage?" F'lar asked, turning sharply
  on his brown rider, his face too controlled.
  "To my knowledge, no," F'nor reassured his leader quickly.
  F'lar had tumbled every man in the Weyr, efficiently and
  easily. "But Fax kills often and without cause."
  "And because we dragonmen do not seek blood, we are
  not to be feared as fighters?" snapped F'lar. "Are you
  ashamed of your heritage?"
  "I? No!" F'nor sucked in his breath. "Nor any of our
  wing!" he added proudly. "But there is that in the attitude of
  the men in this progression of Fax's that . . . that makes me
  wish some excuse to fight."
  "As you observed today. Fax seeks some excuse. And,"
  F'lar added thoughtfully, "there is something here in Ruatha
  that unnerves our noble overlord."
  He caught sight of Lady Tela, whom Fax had so cour-
  teously assigned him for comfort during the progression,
  waving to him from the inner Hold portal.
  "A case in point. Fax's Lady Tela is some three months
  gone."
  F'nor frowned at the insult to his leader.
  "She giggles incessantly and appears so addlepated that one
  cannot decide whether she babbles out of ignorance or at
  Fax's suggestion. As she has apparently not bathed all winter,
  and is not, in any case, my ideal, I have"F'lar grinned
  maliciously"deprived myself of her kind offices."
  F'nor hastily cleared his throat and his expression as Lady
  Tela approached them. He caught the unappealing odor from
  
  the scarf or handkerchief she waved constantly. Dragonmen
  endured a great deal for the Weyr. He moved away, with
  apparent courtesy, to join the rest of the dragonmen entering
  the Hall.
  F'lar turned with equal courtesy to Lady Tela as she
  jabbered away about the terrible condition of the rooms
  which Lady Gemma and the other ladies had been assigned.
  "The shutters, both sets, were ajar all winter long and
  you should have seen the trash on the floors. We finally got
  two of the drudges to sweep it all into the fireplace. And
  then that smoked something fearful 'til a man was sent up."
  Lady Tela giggled. "He found the access blocked by a
  chimney stone fallen aslant. The rest of the chimney, for
  a wonder, was in good repair."
  She waved her handkerchief. F'lar held his breath as the
  gesture wafted an unappealing odor in his direction.
  He glanced up the Hall towards the inner Hold door and
  saw Lady Gemma descending, her steps slow and awkward.
  Some subtle difference about her gait attracted him and he
  stared at her, trying to identify it.
  "Oh, yes, poor Lady Gemma," Lady Tela babbled, sighing
  deeply. "We are so concerned. Why Lord Fax insisted on
  her coming, I do not know. She is not near her time and
  yet . . ." The lighthead's concern sounded sincere.
  F'lar's incipient hatred for Fax and his brutality matured
  abruptly.  He left his partner chattering to thin air  and
  courteously extended his arm to Lady Gemma to support
  her down the steps and to the table. Only the brief tightening
  of her fingers on his forearm betrayed her gratitude. Her face
  was very white and drawn, the lines deeply etched around
  mouth and eyes, showing the effort she was expending.
  "Some attempt has been made, I see, to restore order to
  the Hall," she remarked in a conversational tone.
  "Some," F'lar admitted dryly, glancing around the grandly
  proportioned Hall, its rafter festooned with the webs of many
  Turns. The inhabitants of those gossamer nests dropped from
  time to time, with ripe splats, to the floor, onto the table
  and into the serving platters. Nothing replaced the old ban-
  ners of the Ruathan Blood, which had been removed from
  the stark brown stone walls. Fresh rushes did obscure the
  greasy flagstones. The trestle tables appeared recently sanded
  and scraped, and the platters gleamed dully in the refreshed
  glows. Unfortunately, .the brighter light was a mistake for it
  was much too unflattering.
  "This was such a graceful Hall," Lady Gemma murmured
  for F'lar's ears alone.
  "You were a friend?" he asked, politely.
  "Yes, fn my youth." Her voice dropped expressively on
  the last word, evoking for F'lar a happier girlhood. "It was a
  noble linel"
  "Think you one might have escaped the sword?"
  Lady Gemma flashed him a startled look, then quickly
  composed her features, lest the exchange be noted. She gave
  a barely perceptible shake of her head and then shifted her
  awkward weight to take her place at the table. Graciously
  she inclined her head towards F'lar, both dismissing and
  thanking him.
  F'lar returned to his own partner and placed her at the
  table on his left. As the only person of rank who would
  dine that night at Ruath Hold, Lady Gemma was seated on
  
  his right; Fax would be beyond her. The dragonmen and
  Fax's upper soldiery would sit at the lower tables. No guild-
  men had been invited to Ruatha. Fax arrived just-then with
  his current lady and two underleaders, the Warder bowing
  them effusively into the Hall. The man, F'lar noticed, kept
  a good distance ftom his overlordas well as a Warder might
  whose responsibility was in this sorry condition. F'lar flicked a
  crawler away. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lady
  Gemma wince and shudder.
  Fax stamped up to the raised table, his face black with sup-
  pressed rage. He pulled back his chair roughly, slamming it
  into Lady Gemma's before he seated himself. He pulled the
  chair to the table with a force that threatened to rock the
  none too stable trestle-top from its supporting legs. Scowling,
  he inspected his goblet and plate, fingering the surface, ready
  to throw them aside if they displeased him.
  "A roast and fresh bread, Lord Fax, and such fruits and
  roots as are left. Had I but known of your arrival, I could
  have sent to Crom for . . ."
  "Sent to Crom?" roared Fax, slamming the plate he was
  inspecting into the table so forcefully the rim bent under
  his hands. The Warder winced again as if he himself had
  been maimed.
  "The day one of my Holds cannot support itself or the visit
  of its rightful overlord, I shall renounce it."
  Lady Gemma gasped. Simultaneously the dragons roared.
  F'lar felt the unmistakable surge of power. His eyes in-
  stinctively sought F'nor at the lower table. The brown rider
  all the dragonmenhad experienced that inexplicable shaft
  of exultation.
  "What's wrong, Dragonman?" snapped Fax.
  F'lar,  affecting unconcern,  stretched bis  legs under the
  table and assumed an indolent posture in the heavy chair.
  "Wrong?"
  "The dragons!"
  "Oh, nothing. They often roar . . . at the sunset, at a flock
  of passing wherries, at mealtimes," and F'lar smiled amiably
  at the Lord of the High Reaches. Beside him his tablemate
  gave a squeak.
  "Mealtimes? Have they not been fed?"
  "Oh, yes. Five days ago."
  "Oh. Five . . . days ago? And are they hungry . . . now?"
  Her voice trailed into a whisper of fear, her eyes grew round.
  "In a few days," F'lar assured her. Under cover of his
  detached amusement, F'lar scanned the Hall. That surge bad
  come from nearby. Either in the Hall or just outside. It must
  have been from within. It came so soon upon Fax's speech
  that his words must have triggered it. And the power had
  had an indefinably feminine touch to it.
  One of Fax's women? F'lar found that hard to credit.
  Mnementh had been close to all of them and none had
  shown a vestige of power. Much less, with the exception of
  Lady Gemma, any intelligence.
  One of the Hall women? So far he had seen only the
  sorry drudges and the aging females the Warder had as house-
  keepers. The Warder's personal woman? He must discover if
  that man had one. One of the Hold guards' women? F'lar
  suppressed an intense desire to rise and search.
  "You mount a guard?" he asked Fax casually.
  "Double at Ruath Hold!" he was told in a tight, hard
  
  voice, ground out from somewhere deep in Fax's chest.
  "Here?" F'lar all but laughed out loud, gesturing around
  the sadly appointed chamber.
  "Here! Food!" Fax changed the subject with a roar.
  Five drudges, two of them women in brown-gray rags
  such that F'lar hoped they had had nothing to do with the
  preparation of the meal, staggered in under the emplattered
  herdbeast. No one with so much as a trace of power would
  sink to such depths, unless . . .
  The aroma that reached him as the platter was placed on
  the serving table distracted him. It reeked of singed bone and
  charred meat. The Warder frantically sharpened his tools as
  if a keen edge could somehow slice acceptable portions from
  this unlikely carcass.
  Lady Gemma caught her breath again and F'lar saw her
  hands curl tightly around the armrests. He saw the convulsive
  movement of her throat as she swallowed. He, too, did not
  look forward to this repast.
  The drudges reappeared with wooden trays of bread. Burnt
  crusts had been scraped and cut, in some places, from the
  loaves before serving. As other trays were borne in, F'lar
  tried to catch sight of the faces of the servitors. Matted hair
  obscured the face of the one who presented a dish of legumes
  swimming in greasy liquid. Revolted, F'lar poked through the
  legumes to find properly cooked portions to offer Lady Gem-
  ma. She waved them aside, her face ill"concealing her dis-
  comfort.
  As F'lar was about to turn and serve Lady Tela, he saw
  Lady Gemma's hand clutch convulsively at the chair arms.
  He realized that she was not merely nauseated by the un-
  appetizing food. She was seized with labor contractions.
  F'lar glanced in Fax's direction. "The overlord was scowling
  blackly at the attempts of the Warder to find edible portions
  of meat to serve.
  F'lar touched Lady Gemma's arm with light fingers. She
  turned just enough to look at F'lar from the corner of her
  eye. She managed a socially correct half-smile.
  "I dare not leave just now, Lord F'lar. He is always
  dangerous at Ruatha. And it may only be false pangs."
  F'lar was dubious as he saw another shudder pass through
  her frame. The woman would have been a fine weyrwoman,
  he thought ruefully, were she but younger.
  The Warder, his hands shaking, presented Fax the sliced
  meats. There were slivers of overdone flesh and portions of
  almost edible meats, but not much of either.
  One furious wave of Fax's broad fist and the Warder had
  the plate, meats and juice, square in the face. Despite him-
  self, F'lar sighed, for those undoubtedly constituted the only
  edible portions of the entire beast.
  "You call this food? You call this food?" Fax bellowed.
  His voice boomed back from the bare vault of the ceiling,
  shaking crawlers from their webs as the sound shattered the
  fragile strands. "Slop! Slop!"
  F'lar rapidly brushed crawlers from Lady Gemma who was
  helpless in the throes of a very strong contraction.
  "It's all we had on such short notice," the Warder squealed,
  juices streaking down his cheeks. Fax threw the goblet at him
  and the wine went streaming down the man's chest. The
  steaming dish of roots followed and the man yelped as the
  hot liquid splashed over him.
  
  "My lord, my lord, had I but known!"
  "Obviously, Ruatha cannot support the visit of its Lord.
  You must renounce it," F'lar heard himself saying.
  His shock at such words issuing from his mouth was as
  great as that of everyone else in the Hall. Silence fell, broken
  by the splat of falling crawlers and the drip of root liquid
  from the Warder's shoulders to the rushes. The grating of
  Fax's bootheel was clearly audible as he swung slowly around
  to face the bronze rider.
  As F'lar conquered his own amazement and rapidly tried
  to predict what to do next to mend matters, he saw F'nor
  rise slowly to his feet, hand on dagger hilt.
  "I did not hear you correctly?" Fax asked, his face blank
  of all expression, his eyes snapping.
  Unable to comprehend how he could have uttered such an
  arrant challenge, F'lar managed to assume a languid pose.
  "You did mention," he drawled, "that if any of your Holds
  could not support itself and the visit of its rightful overlord,
  you would renounce it."
  Fax stared back at F'lar, his face a study of swiftly sup-
  pressed emotions, the glint of triumph dominant. F'lar, his
  face stiff with the forced expression of indifference, was cast-
  ing swiftly about in his mind. In the name of the Egg, had
  he lost all sense of discretion?
  Pretending utter unconcern, he stabbed some vegetables
  onto his knife and began to munch on them. As he did so,
  he noticed F'nor glancing slowly around the Hall, scrutiniz-
  ing everyone. Abruptly F'lar realized what had happened.
  Somehow, in making that statement, he, a dragonman, had
  responded to a covert use of the power. F'lar, the bronze
  rider, was being put into a position where he would have to
  fight Fax. Why? For what end? To gef Fax to renounce the
  Hold? Incredible! But, there could be only one possible rea-
  son for such a turn of events. An exultation as sharp as pain
  swelled within F'lar. It was all he could do to maintain his
  pose of bored indifference, all he could do to turn his atten-
  tion to thwarting Fax, should he press for a duel. A duel
  would serve no purpose. He, F'lar, had no time to waste on
  it.
  A groan escaped Lady Gemma and broke the eye-locked
  stance of the two antagonists. Irritated, Fax looked down at
  her, fist clenched and half-raised to strike her for her temer-
  ity in interrupting her lord and master. The contraction that
  contorted the swollen belly was as obvious as the woman's
  pain. F'lar dared not look towards her but he wondered if
  she had deliberately groaned aloud to break the tension.
  Incredibly, Fax began to laugh. He threw back his head,
  showing big, stained teeth, and roared.
  "Aye, renounce it, in favor of her issue, if it is male . . .
  and lives!" he crowed, laughing raucously.
  "Heard and witnessed!" F'lar snapped, jumping to his feet
  and pointing to his riders. They were on. their feet in the
  instant.  "Heard and witnessed!" they averred in the tradi-
  'tional manner.
  With that movement, everyone began to babble at once in
  nervous relief. The other women, each reacting in her way
  to the imminence of birth, called orders to the servants and
  advice to each other. They converged towards Lady Gemma,
  hovering undecidedly out of Fax's range, like silly wherries
  disturbed from their roosts. It was obvious they were torn
  
  between their fear of the lord and their desire to reach the
  laboring woman.
  He gathered their intentions as well as their reluctance
  and, still stridently laughing, knocked back his chair. He
  stepped over it, strode down to the meatstand and stood
  hacking off pieces with his knife, stuffing them, juice drip-
  ping, into his mouth without ceasing his guffawing.
  As F'lar bent towards Lady Gemma to assist her out of
  her chair, she grabbed his arm urgently. Their eyes met, hers
  clouded with pain. She pulled him closer.
  "He means to kill you. Bronze Rider. He loves to kill,"
  she whispered.
  "Dragonmen are not easily killed, but I am grateful to
  you."
  "I do not want you killed," she said, softly, biting at her
  lip. "We have so few bronze riders."
  F'lar stared at her, startled. Did she, Fax's lady, actually
  believe in the Old Laws?
  F'lar beckoned to two of the Warder's men to carry her up
  into the Hold. He caught Lady Tela by the arm as she
  fluttered past him.
  "What do you need?"
  "Oh, oh," she exclaimed, her face twisted with panic; she
  was distractedly wringing her hands. "Water, hot. Clean
  cloths. And a birthing-woman. Oh, yes, we must have a
  birthing-woman."
  F'lar looked about for one of the Hold women, his glance
  sliding over the first disreputable figure who had started to
  mop up the spilled food. He signaled instead for the Warder
  and peremptorily ordered him to send for the woman. The
  Warder kicked at the drudge on the floor.
  "You . . . you! Whatever your name is, go get her from
  the crafthold. You must know who she is."
  The drudge evaded the parting kick the Warder aimed in
  her dillection with a nimbleness at odds with her appearance
  of extreme age and decrepitude. She scurried across the Hall
  and out the kitchen door.
  Fax sliced and speared meat, occasionally bursting out with
  a louder bark of laughter as his inner thoughts amused him.
  F'lar sauntered down to the carcass and, without waiting for
  invitation from his host, began to carve neat slices also, beck-
  oning his men over. Fax's soldiers, however, waited until
  their lord had eaten his fill.
  Lord of the Hold, your charge is sure
  In thick walls, metal doors and no verdure.
  Lessa sped from the Hall to summon the birthing-woman,
  seething with frustration. So close! So close! How could she
  come so close and yet fail? Fax should have challenged
  dragonman. And the dragonman was strong and young, his
  face that of a fighter, stern and controlled. He should not
  have temporized. Was all honor dead in Pern, smothered by
  green grass?
  And why, oh why, had Lady Gemma chosen that precious
  moment to go into labor? If her groan hadn't distracted Fax,
  the fight would have begun and not even Fax, for all his
  vaunted prowess as a vicious fighter, would have prevailed
  against a dragonman who had herLessa'ssupport! The
  Hold must be secured to its rightful Blood again. Fax must
  not leave Ruatha, alive, again!
  Above her, on the High Tower, the great bronze dragon
  
  gave forth a weird croon, his many-faceted eyes sparkling in
  the gathering darkness.
  Unconsciously she silenced him as she would have done
  the watch-wher. Ah, that watch-wher. He had not come out
  of his den at her passing. She knew the dragons had been
  at him. She could hear him gibbering in panic.
  The slant of the road towards the crafthold lent impetus to
  her flying feet and she had to brace herself to a sliding stop
  at the birthing-woman's stone threshold. She banged on the
  closed door and heard the frightened exclamation within.
  "A birth. A birth at the Hold," Lessa cried.
  "A birth?" came the muffled cry and the latches were
  thrown up on the door. "At the Hold?"
  "Fax's lady and, as you love life, hurry! For if it is male,
  it will be Ruatha's own lord."
  That ought to fetch her, thought Lessa, and in that instant,
  the door was flung open by the man of the house. Lessa
  could see the birthing-woman gathering up her things in
  haste, piling them into her shawl. Lessa hurried the woman
  out, up the steep road to the Hold, under the Tower gate,
  grabbing the woman as she tried to run at the sight of a
  dragon peering down at her. Lessa drew her into the Court
  and pushed her, resisting, into the Hall.
  The woman clutched at the inner door, balking at the
  sight of the gathering there. Lord Fax, his feet up on the
  trestle table, was paring his fingernails with his knife blado,
  still  chuckling.  The  dragonmen  in  their  wher-hide  tunics
  were eating quietly at one table while the soldiers were
  having their turn at the meat.
  The bronze rider noticed their entrance and pointed ur-
  gently towards the inner Hold. The birthing-woman seemed
  frozen to the spot. Lessa tugged futilely at her arm, urging
  her to cross the Hall. To her surprise, the bronze rider strode
  to them.
  "Go quickly, woman, Lady Gemma is before her time,"
  he said, frowning with concern, gesturing imperatively
  towards the Hold entrance. He caught her by the shoulder
  and led her, all unwilling, Lessa tugging away at her other
  arm.
  When they reached the stairs, he relinquished his grip,
  nodding to Lessa to escort her the rest of the way. Just as
  they reached the massive inner door, Lessa noticed how
  sharply the dragonman was looking at themat her hand, on
  the birthing-woman's arm. Warily, she glanced at her hand
  and saw it, as if it belonged to a stranger: the long fingers,
  shapely despite dirt and broken nails; her small hand, deli-
  cately boned, gracefully placed despite the urgency of the
  grip. She blurred it and hurried on.
  Honor those the dragons heed,
  In thought and favor, word and deed.
  Worlds are lost or worlds are saved
  By those dangers dragonbraved.
  Dragonman, avoid excess;
  Greed will bring the Weyr distress;
  To the ancient Laws adhere,
  Prospers thus the Dragon weyr.
  An unintelligible ululation raised the waiting men to their
  feet, startled from private meditations and diversion of Bone-
  throws. Only Pax remained unmoved at the alarm, save that
  the slight sneer, which had settled on his face hours past,
  
  deepened to smug satisfaction.
  "Dead-ed-ed," the tidings reverberated down the rocky cor-
  ridors of the Hold. The weeping lady seemed to erupt out
  of the passage from the Inner Hold, flying down the steps to
  sink into an hysterical heap at Fax's feet. "She's dead. Lady
  Gemma is dead. There was too much blood. It was too soon.
  She was too old to bear more cliildren."
  F'lar couldn't decide whether the woman was apologizing
  for, or exulting in, the woman's death. She certainly couldn't
  be criticizing her Lord for placing Lady Gemma in such
  peril. F'lar, however, was sincerely sorry at Gemma's pass-
  ing. She had been a brave, fine woman.
  And now, what would be Fax's next move? F'lar caught
  F'nor's identically quizzical glance and shrugged expressively.
  ' "The child lives!" a curiously distorted voice announced,
  penetrating the rising noise in the Great Hall. The words
  electrified the atmosphere. Every head slewed round sharply
  towards the portal to the Inner Hold where the drudge, a
  totally unexpected messenger, stood poised on the top step.
  "It is male I" This announcement rang triumphantly in the
  still  Hall.
  Fax jerked himself to his feet, kicking aside the wailer at
  his feet, scowling ominously at the drudge. "What did you
  say, woman?"
  "The child lives. It is male," the creature repeated, de-
  scending the stairs.
  Incredulity and rage suffused Fax's face. His body seemed
  to coil up.
  "Ruatha has a new lord!" Staring intently at the overlord,
  she advanced, her mien purposeful, almost menacing.
  The tentative cheers of the Warder's men were drowned
  by the roaring of the dragons.
  Fax erupted into action. He leaped across the intervening
  space, bellowing. Before Lessa could dodge, his fist crashed
  down across her face. She fell heavily to the stone floor,
  where she lay motionless, a bundle of dirty rags.
  "Hold, Fax!" F'lar's voice broke the silence as the Lord
  of the High Reaches flexed his leg to kick her.
  Fax whirled, his hand automatically closing on his knife
  hilt.
  "It was heard and witnessed. Fax," F'lar cautioned him,
  one hand outstretched in warning, "by dragonmen. Stand by
  your sworn and witnessed oath!"
  "Witnessed? By Dragonmen?" cried Fax with a derisive
  laugh.  "Dragonwomen, you mean," he sneered,  his eyes
  blazing with contempt, as he made one sweeping gesture of
  scorn.
  He was momentarily taken aback by the speed with which
  the bronze rider's knife appeared in his hand.
  "Dragonwomen?" F'lar queried, his lips curling back over
  his teeth, his voice dangerously soft. Glowlight flickered off
  his circling knife as he advanced on Fax.
  "Women! Parasites on Pern. The Weyr power is over.
  Over!" Fax roared, leaping forward to land in a combat
  crouch.
  The two antagonists were dimly aware of the scurry be-
  hind them, of tables pulled roughly aside to give the duelists
  space. F'lar could spare no glance at the crumpled form of
  the drudge. Yet he was sure, through and beyond instinct
  sure, that she was the source of power. He had felt it as she
  
  entered the room. The dragons' roaring confirmed it. If that
  fall had killed her . . . He advanced on Fax, leaping high to
  avoid the slashing blade as Fax unwound from the crouch
  with a powerful lunge,
  F'lar evaded  the  attack  easily, noticing his  opponent's
  reach, deciding he had a slight advantage there. But not
  much. Fax had had much more actual hand-to-hand killing
  experience than had he whose duels had always ended at
  first blood  on the  practice  floor.  F'lar made  due  note to
  avoid closing with the burly lord. The man was heavy-
  chested, dangerous from sheer mass. F'lar must use agility
  as his weapon, not brute strength.
  Fax feinted, testing F'lar for weakness, or indiscretion.
  The two crouched, facing each other across six feet of space,
  knife hands weaving, their free hands, spread-fingered, ready
  to grab.
  Again Fax pressed the attack. F'lar allowed him to dose,
  just near enough to dodge away with a backhanded swipe.
  Fabric ripped under the tip of his knife. He heard Fax snarl.
  The overlord was faster on his feet than his bulk suggested
  and P'lar had to dodge a second time, feeling Fax's knife
  score his wher-hide jerkin.
  Grimly the two circled, each looking for an opening in
  the other's defense. Fax plowed in, trying to comer the
  lighter, faster man between raised platform and wall.
  F'lar countered,  ducking low under Fax's  flailing  arm,
  slashing obliquely across Fax's side. The overlord caught at
  him, yanking savagely, and F'lar was trapped against the
  other man's side, straining desperately with his left hand
  to keep the knife arm up. F'lar brought up his knee, and
  ducked away as Fax gasped and buckled from the pain in
  his groin, but Fax struck in passing. Sudden fire laced F'lar's
  left shoulder.
  Fax's face was red with anger and he wheezed from pain
  and shock. But the infuriated lord straightened up and
  charged. F'lar was forced to sidestep quickly before Fax
  could close with him. F'lar put the meat table between them,
  circling warily, flexing his shoulder to assess the extent of the
  knife's slash. It was painful, but the arm could be used.
  Suddenly Fax scooped up some fatty scraps from the
  meat tray and buried them at F'lar. The dragonman ducked
  and Fax came around the table with a rush. F'lar leaped
  sideways. Fax's flashing blade came within inches of his ab-
  domen, as his own knife sliced down the outside of Fax's
  arm. Instantly the two pivoted to face each other again, but
  Pax's left arm hung limply at his side.
  F'lar darted in, pressing his luck as the Lord of the High
  Reaches staggered. But F'lar misjudged the man's condition
  and suffered a terrific kick in the side as he tried to dodge
  under the feinting knife. Doubled with pain, F'lar rolled
  frantically away from his charging adversary. Fax was lurch-
  ing forward, trying to fall on him, to pin the lighter dragon-
  man down for a final thrust. Somehow F'lar got to his feet,
  attempting to straighten to meet Fax's stumbling charge. His
  very position saved him. Fax over-reached his mark and
  staggered off balance. F'lar brought his right hand over with
  as much strength as he could muster and his blade plunged
  through Fax's unprotected back until he felt the point stick
  in the chest plate.
  The defeated lord fell flat to the flagstones. The force of
  
  his descent dislodged the dagger from his chestbone and an
  inch of bloody blade re-emerged.
  F'lar stared down at the dead man. There was no pleasure
  in killing, he realized, only relief that he himself was still
  alive. He wiped his forehead on his sleeve and forced him-
  self erect, his side throbbing with the pain of that last kick
  and his left shoulder burning. He half-stumbled to the
  drudge, still sprawled where she had fallen.
  He gently turned her over, noting the terrible bruise
  spreading across her cheek under the dirty skin. He heard
  F'nor take command of the tumult in the Hall.
  The dragonman laid a hand, trembling in spite of an ef-
  fort to control himself, on the woman's breast to feel for a
  heartbeat . . . It was there, slow but strong.
  A deep sigh escaped him for either blow or fall could
  have proved fatal. Fatal, perhaps, for Pern as well.
  Relief was colored with disgust. There was no telling under
  the filth how old this creature might be. He raised her in his
  arms, her light body no burden even to his battle-weary
  strength. Knowing F'nor would handle any trouble efficient-
  ly, F'lar carried the drudge to his own chamber.
  Putting the body on the high bed, he stirred up the fire
  and added more glows to the bedside bracket. His gorge rose
  at the thought of touching the filthy mat of hair but none-
  theless and gently, he pushed it back from the face, turning
  the head this way and that. The features were small, regular.
  One arm, clear of rags, was reasonably clean above the elbow
  but marred by bruises and old scars. The skin was firm and
  unwrinkled. The hands, when he took them in his, were
  filthy but well-shaped and delicately boned.
  F'lar began to smile. Yes, she had blurred that hand so
  skillfully that he had actually doubted what he had first seen.
  And yes, beneath grime and grease, she was young. Young
  enough for the Weyr. And no born drab. There was no taint
  of common blood here. It was pure, no matter whose the
  line,  and he rather thought she was indeed  Ruathan.  One
  who had by some unknown agency escaped the massacre ten
  Turns ago and bided her time for revenge. Why else force
  Fax to renounce the Hold?
  Delighted and fascinated by this unexpected luck, F'lar
  reached out to tear the dress from the unconscious body and
  found himself constrained not to. The girl had roused. Her
  great, hungry eyes fastened on his, not fearful or expectant;
  wary.
  A subtle change occurred in her face. F'lar watched, his
  smile deepening, as she shifted her regular features into an
  illusion of disagreeable ugliness and great age.
  "Trying to confuse a dragonman, girl?" he chuckled. He
  made no further move to touch her but settled against the
  great carved post of the bed. He crossed his arms sternly
  on his chest, thought better of it immediately, and eased
  his sore arm. "Your name, girl, and rank, too."
  She drew herself upright slowly against the headboard, her
  features no longer blurred. They faced each other across the
  high bed.
  "Fax?"
  "Dead. Your name!"
  A look of exulting triumph flooded her face. She slipped
  from the bed, standing unexpectedly tall. "Then I reclaim
  my own. I am of the Ruathan Blood. I claim Ruath," she
  
  announced in a ringing voice.
  F'lar stared at her a moment, delighted with her proud
  be.aring. Then he threw back his head and laughed.
  "This? This crumbling heap?" He could not help but mock
  the disparity between her manner and her dress. "Oh, no.
  Besides, Lady, we dragonmen heard and witnessed Fax's
  oath renouncing the Hold in favor of his heir. Shall I
  challenge the babe, too, for you? And choke him with his
  swaddling cloth?"
  Her eyes flashed, her lips parted in a terrible smile.
  "There is no heir. Gemma died, the babe unborn. I lied."
  "Lied?" F'lar demanded, angry.
  "Yes," she taunted him with a toss of her chin. "I lied.
  There was no babe born. I merely wanted to be sure you
  challenged Fax."
  He grabbed her wrist, stung that he had twice fallen to
  her prodding.
  "You provoked a dragonman to fight? To kill? When he is
  on Search?"
  "Search? Why should I care about a Search? I've Ruatha
  as my Hold again. For ten Turns, I have worked and waited,
  schemed and suffered for that. What could your Search mean
  to me?"
  F'lar wanted to strike that look of haughty contempt from
  her face. He twisted her arm savagely, bringing her to her
  feet before he released his grip. She laughed at him, and
  scuttled to one side. She was on her feet and out the door
  before he could give chase.
  Swearing to himself, he raced down the rocky corridors,
  knowing she would have to make for the Hall to get out
  of the Hold. However, when he reached the Hall, there was
  no sign of her fleeing figure among those still loitering.
  "Has that creature come this way?" he called to F'nor who
  was, by change, standing by the door to the Court.
  "No. Is she the source of power after all?"
  "Yes, she is," F'lar answered, galled all the more. "And
  Ruathan Blood at that!"
  "Oh ho! Does she depose the babe, then?" F'nor asked,
  gesturing towards the birthing-woman who occupied a seat
  close to the now blazing hearth.
  F'lar paused, about to return to search the Hold's myriad
  passages. He stared, momentarily confused, at this brown
  rider.
  "Babe? What babe?"
  "The male child Lady Gemma bore," F'nor replied, sur-
  prised by F'lar's uncomprehending look.
  "It lives?"
  "Yes. A strong babe, the woman says, for all that he was
  premature and taken forcibly from his dead dame's belly."
  F'lar threw back his head with a shout of laughter. For
  all her scheming, she had been outdone by truth.
  At that moment, he heard Mnementh roar in unmistak-
  able elation and the curious warble of other dragons.
  "Mnementh has caught her," F'lar cried, grinning with
  jubilation. He strode down the steps, past the body of the
  former Lord of the High Reaches and out into the main
  court.
  He saw that the bronze dragon was gone from his Tower
  perch and called him. An agitation drew his eyes upward.
  He saw Mnementh spiraling down into the Court, his front
  
  paws clasping something. Mnementh informed F'lar that he
  had seen her climbing from one of the high windows and
  had simply plucked her from the ledge, knowing the dragon-
  man sought her. The bronze dragon settled awkwardly onto
  his  hind  legs,  his  wings  working  to  keep  him  balanced.
  Carefully he set the girl on her feet and formed a precise
  cage around her with his huge talons. She stood motionless
  within that circle, her face towards the wedge-shaped head
  that swayed above her.
  The watch-wher, shrieking terror, anger and hatred, was
  lunging violently to the end of its chain, trying to come to
  Lessa's aid. It grabbed at F'lar as he strode to the two.
  "You've courage enough, girl," he admitted, resting one
  hand casually on Mnementh's upper claw. Mnementh was
  enormously pleased with himself and swiveled his head down
  for his eye ridges to be scratched.
  "You did not lie, you know," F'lar said, unable to resist
  taunting the girl.
  Slowly she turned towards him, her face impassive. She
  was not afraid of dragons, F'lar realized with approval.
  "The babe lives. And it is male."
  She could not control her dismay and her shoulders sagged
  briefly before she pulled herself erect.
  "Ruatha is mine," she insisted in a tense low voice.
  "Aye, and it would have been, had you approached me
  directly when the wing arrived here."
  Her eyes widened. "What do you mean?"
  "A dragonman may champion anyone whose grievance
  is just.  By the time we reached Ruath Hold,  I  was  quite
  ready to challenge Fax given any reasonable cause, despite
  the Search." This was not the whole truth but F'lar must
  teach this girl the folly of trying to control dragonmen. "Had
  you paid any attention to your harper's songs, you'd know
  your rights. And," F'lar's voice held a vindictive edge that
  surprised him, "Lady Gemma might not now lie dead. She
  suffered far more at that tyrant's hand than you."
  Something in her manner told him that she regretted Lady
  Gemma's death, that it had affected her deeply.
  "What good is Ruatha to you now?" he demanded, a broad
  sweep of his arm taking in the ruined court yard and the
  Hold, the entire unproductive valley of Ruatha. "You have
  indeed accomplished your ends; a profitless conquest and its
  conqueror's death." F'lar snorted:  "All seven Holds will
  revert to their legitimate Blood, and time they did. One
  Hold, one lord. Of course, you might have to fight others,
  infected with Fax's greed. Could you hold Ruatha against
  attack . . . now . . . in her decline?"
  "Ruatha is mine!"
  "Ruatha?" F'lar's laugh was derisive. "When you could be
  Weyrwoman?"
  "Weyrwoman?" she breathed, staring at him.
  "Yes, little fool. I said I rode in Search . . . it's about time
  you attended to more than Ruatha. And the object of my
  Search is . . . you!"
  She stared at the finger he pointed at her as if it were
  dangerous.
  "By the First Egg, girl, you've power in you to spare when
  you can turn a dragonman, all unwitting, to do your bidding.
  Ah, but never again, for now I am on guard against you."
  Mnementh crooned approvingly, the sound a soft rumble
  
  in his throat. He arched his neck so that one eye was turned
  directly on the girl, gleaming in the darkness of the court.
  F'lar noticed with detached pride that she neither flinched
  nor blanched at the proximity of an eye greater than her
  own head.
  "He likes to have his eye ridges scratched," F'lar remarked
  in a friendly tone, changing tactics.
  "I know," she said softly and reached out a hand to do
  that service.
  "Nemorth's queen," F'lar continued, "is close to death.
  This time we must have a strong Weyrwoman."
  "This timethe Red Star?" the girl gasped, turning fright-
  ened eyes to F'lar.
  "You understand what it means?"
  "There is danger . . ." she began in a bare whisper, glanc-
  ing apprehensively eastward.
  F'lar did not question by what miracle she appreciated
  the imminence of danger. He had every intention of taking
  her to the Weyr by sheer force if necessary. But something
  within him wanted very much for her to accept the challenge
  voluntarily. A rebellious Weyrwoman would be even more
  dangerous than a stupid one. This girl had too much power
  and was too used to guile and strategy. It would be a calam-
  ity to antagonize her with injudicious handling.
  "There is danger for all Pern. Not just Ruatha," he said,
  allowing a note of entreaty to creep into his voice. "And you
  are needed. Not by Ruatha," a wave of his hand dismissed
  that consideration as a negligible one compared to the total
  picture.  "We  are doomed without a  strong Weyrwoman.
  Without you."
  "Gemma kept saying all the bronze riders were needed,"
  she murmured in a dazed whisper.
  What did she mean by that statement? F'lar frowned. Had
  she heard a word he had said? He pressed his argument,
  certain only that he had already struck one responsive chord.
  "You've won here. Let the babe," he saw her startled
  rejection of that idea and ruthlessly qualified it, ". . . Gem-
  ma's babe . . . be reared at Ruatha. You have command of
  all  the  Holds  as  Weyrwoman,  not  ruined  Ruatha  alone.
  You've accomplished Fax's death. Leave off vengeance."
  She stared at F'lar with wonder, absorbing his words.
  "I never thought beyond Fax's death," she admitted slow-
  ly. "I never thought what should happen then."
  Her confusion was almost childlike and struck F'lar forc-
  ibly. He had had no time, or desire,  to consider her pro-
  digious accomplishment. Now he realized some measure of
  her indomitable character. She could not have been much
  over ten Turns of age herself when Fax had murdered her
  family. Yet somehow, so young, she had set herself a goal
  and managed to survive both brutality and detection long
  enough to secure the usurper's death. What a Weyrwoman
  she would be! In the tradition of those of Ruathan blood.
  The light of the paler moon made her look young and
  vulnerable and almost pretty.
  "You can be Weyrwoman," he insisted gently.
  "Weyrwoman," she breathed, incredulous, and gazed round
  the inner court bathed in soft moonlight. He thought she
  wavered.
  "Or perhaps you enjoy rags?" he said, making his voice
  harsh, mocking. "And matted hair, dirty feet and cracked
  
  hands? Sleeping in straw, eating rinds? You are young . . .
  that is, I assume you are young," and his voice was frankly
  skeptical. She glared at him, her lips firmly pressed together.
  "Is this the be-all and end-all of your ambition? What are
  you that this little corner of the great world is all you want?"
  He paused and with utter contempt added, "The blood of
  Ruatha has thinned, I see. You're afraid!"
  "I am Lessa, daughter of the Lord of Ruath," she coun-
  tered, stung. She drew herself erect. Her eyes flashed. "I am
  afraid of nothing!"
  F'lar contented himself with a slight smile.
  Mnementh, however, threw up his head, and stretched
  out his sinuous neck to its whole length. His full-throated
  peal rang out down the valley. The bronze dragon com-
  municated his awareness to F'lar that Lessa had accepted the
  challenge. The other dragons answered back, their warbles
  shriller than Mnementh's bellow. The watch-wher which had
  cowered at the end of its chain, lifted its voice in a thin,
  unnerving screech until the Hold emptied of its startled oc-
  cupants.
  "F'nor," the bronze rider called, waving his wingleader to
  him. "Leave half the flight to guard the Hold. Some nearby
  lord might think to emulate Fax's example. Send one rider to
  the High Reaches with the glad news. You go directly to the
  Cloth Hall and speak to L'tol . . . Lytol." F'lar grinned. "I
  think he would make an exemplary Warder and Lord Sur-
  rogate for this Hold in the name of the Weyr and the babe."
  The brown rider's face expressed enthusiasm for his mis-
  sion as he began to comprehend his leader's intentions. With
  Fax dead and Ruatha under the protection of dragonmen,
  particularly that same one who had dispatched Fax, the Hold
  would have wise management.
  "She caused Ruatha's deterioration?" he asked.
  "And nearly ours with her machinations," F'lar replied
  but having found the admirable object of his Search, he
  could now be magnanimous. "Suppress your exultation,
  brother," he advised quickly as he took note of F'nor's ex-
  pression. "The new queen must also be Impressed."
  "I'll settle arrangements here. Lytol is an excellent choice,"
  F'nor said.
  "Who is this Lytol?" demanded Lessa pointedly. She had
  twisted the mass of filthy hair back from her face. In the
  moonlight the dirt was less noticeable. F'lar caught F'nor
  looking at her with an all too easily read expression. He
  signaled F'nor, with a peremptory gesture, to carry out his
  orders without delay.
  "Lytol is a dragonless man," F'lar told the girl, "no friend
  to Fax. He will ward the Hold well and it will prosper." He
  added persuasively with a quelling stare full on her, "Won't
  it?"
  She regarded him somberly, without answering, until he
  chuckled softly at her discomfiture.
  "We'll return to the Weyr," he announced, proffering a
  hand to guide her to Mnementh's side.
  The bronze one had extended his head toward the watch-
  wher who now lay panting on the ground, its chain limp in
  the dust.
  "Oh," Lessa sighed, and dropped beside the grotesque
  beast. It raised its head slowly, lurring piteously.
  "Mnementh says it is very old and soon will sleep itself to
  
  death."
  Lessa cradled the bestial head in her arms, scratching it
  behind the ears.
  "Come, Lessa of Pern," F'lar said, impatient to be up and
  away.
  She rose slowly but obediently. "It saved me. It knew
  me."
  "It knows it did well," F'lar assured her, brusquely, won-
  dering at such an uncharacteristic show of sentiment in her.
  He took her hand again, to help her to her feet and lead
  her back to Mnementh. As they turned, he glimpsed the
  watch-wher, launching itself at a dead run after Lessa. The
  chain, however, held fast. The beast's neck broke, with a
  sickeningly audible snap.
  Lessa was on her knees in an instant, cradling the repul-
  sive head in her arms.
  "Why, you foolish thing, why?" she asked in a stunned
  whisper as the light in the beast's green-gold eyes dimmed
  and died out.
  Mnementh informed F'lar that the creature had lived this
  long only to preserve the Ruathan line. At Lessa's imminent
  departure, it had welcomed death.
  A convulsive shudder went through Lessa's slim body.
  F'lar watched as she undid the heavy buckle that fastened
  the metal collar about the watch-wher's neck. She threw
  the tether away with a violent motion. Tenderly she laid
  the watch-wher on the cobbles. With one last caress to the
  clipped wings, she rose in. a fluid movement and walked
  resolutely to Mnementh without a single backward glance.
  She stepped calmly to the dragon's raised leg and seated
  herself, as F'lar directed, on the great neck.
  F'lar glanced around the courtyard at the remainder of his
  wing which had reformed there. The Hold folk had retreated
  back into the safety of the Great Hall. When his wingmen
  were all astride, he vaulted to Mnementh's neck, behind
  the girl.
  "Hold tightly to my arms," he ordered her as he took hold
  of the smallest neck ridge and gave the command to fly.
  Her fingers dosed spasmodically around his forearm as the
  great bronze dragon took off, the enormous wings working
  to achieve height from the vertical takeoff. Mnementh pre-
  ferred to fall into flight from a cliff or tower. Like all
  dragons, he tended to indolence. F'lar glanced behind him,
  saw the other dragonmen form the flight line, spread out to
  cover those still on guard at Ruatha Hold.
  When they had reached a sufficient altitude, he told Mne-
  menth to transfer, going between to the Weyr.
  Only a gasp indicated the girl's astonishment as they hung
  between. Accustomed as he was to the sting of the profound
  cold, to the awesome utter lack of light and sound, F'lar
  still  found  the  sensations  unnerving.  Yet  the  uncommon
  transfer spanned no more time than it took to cough thrice.
  Mnementh rumbled approval of this candidate's calm re-
  action as they flicked out of the eerie between.
  And then they were above the Weyr, Mnementh setting
  his wings to glide in the bright daylight, half a world away
  from night-time Ruatha.
  As they circled above the great stony trough of the Weyr,
  F'lar peered at Lessa's face, pleased with the delight mir-
  rored there; she showed no trace of fear as they hung a
  
  thousand lengths above the high Benden mountain range.
  Then, as the seven dragons roared their incoming cry, an
  incredulous smile lit her face.
  The other wingmen dropped into a wide spiral, down,
  down while Mnementh elected to descend in lazy circles.
  The dragonmen peeled off smartly and dropped, each to his
  own tier in the caves of the Weyr. Mnementh finally com-
  pleted his leisurely approach to their quarters, whistling
  shrilly to himself as he braked his forward speed with a
  twist of his wings, dropping lightly at last to the ledge. He
  crouched as F'lar swung the .girl to the rough rock, scored
  from thousands of clawed landings.
  "This leads only to our quarters," he told her as they
  entered the corridor, vaulted and wide for the easy passage
  of great bronze dragons.
  As they reached the huge natural cavern that had been
  his since Mnementh achieved maturity, F'lar looked about
  him with eyes fresh from his first prolonged absence from
  ''                                                                 the        
              Weyr.                      The                       huge         
              chamber                    was                   unquestionably   
                 big,                      cer-
  tainly larger than most of the halls he had visited in Fax's
  procession. Those halls were intended as gathering places
  for men, not the habitations of dragons. But suddenly he saw
  . his own quarters were nearly as shabby as all Ruatha. Ben-
  den was, of a certainty, one of the oldest dragon weyrs, as
  Ruatha was one of the oldest Holds, but that excused noth-
  ing. How many dragons had bedded in that hollow to make
  solid rock conform to dragon proportions! How many feet
  had worn the path past the dragon's weyr into the sleeping
  chamber, to the bathing room beyond where the natural
  warm spring provided everfresh water! But the wall hangings
  were faded and unraveling and there were grease stains on
  lintel and floor that should be sanded away.
  He noticed the wary expression on Lessa's face as he
  paused in the sleeping room.
  "I must feed Mnementh immediately. So you may bathe
  first," he said, rummaging in a chest and finding clean clothes
  for her, discards of other previous occupants of bis quarters,
  but far more presentable than her present covering. He care-
  fully laid back in the chest the white wool robe that was
  traditional Impression garb. She would wear that later. He
  tossed several garments at her feet and a bag of sweetsand,
  gesturing to the hanging that obscured the way to the bath.
  He left her, then, the clothes in a heap at her feet, for
  she made no effort to catch anything.
  Mnementh informed him that F'nor was feeding Canth
  and that he, Mnementh, was hungry, too. She didn't trust
  F'lar but she wasn't afraid of himself.
  "Why should she be afraid of you?" F'lar asked. "You're
  cousin to the watch-wher who was her only friend."
  Mnementh informed F'lar that he, a fully matured bronze
  dragon, was no relation to any scrawny, crawling, chained,
  and wing-clipped watch-wher.
  F'lar, pleased at having been able to tease the bronze one,
  chuckled to himself. With great dignity, Mnementh curved
  down to the feeding ground.
  By the Golden Egg of Faranth
  By the Weyrwoman, wise and true,
  
  Breed a flight of bronze and brown wings,
  Breed a flight of green and blue.
  Breed riders, strong and daring,
  Dragon-loving, born as hatched,
  Flight of hundreds soaring skyward,
  Man and dragon fully matched.
  Lessa waited until the sound of the dragonman's footsteps
  proved he had really gone away. She rushed quickly through
  the big cavern, heard the scrape of claw and the whoosh of
  the mighty wings. She raced down the short passageway,
  right to the edge of the yawning entrance. There was the
  bronze dragon circling down to the wider end of the mile-
  long barren oval that was Benden Weyr. She had heard of
  the Weyrs, as any Pemese had, but to be in one was quite a
  different matter.
  She peered up, around, down that sheer rock face. There
  was no way off but by dragon wing. The nearest cave mouths
  were an unhandy distance above her, to one side, below her
  on the other. She was neatly secluded here.
  Weyrwoman, he had told her. His woman? In his weyr?
  Was that what he had meant? No, that was not the impres-
  sion she got from the dragon. It occurred to her, suddenly,
  that it was odd she had understood the dragon. Were com-
  mon folk able to? Or was it the dragonman blood in her
  line? At all events, Mnementh had inferred something great-
  er, some special rank. She remembered vaguely that, when
  dragonmen went on Search, they looked for certain women.
  Ah, certain women. She was one, then, of several con-
  tenders. Yet the bronze rider had offered her the position as
  if she  and she,  alone,  qualified.  He had his own  generous
  portion of conceit, that one, Lessa decided. Arrogant he was,
  though not a bully like Fax.
  She could see the bronze dragon swoop down to the run-
  ning herdbeasts, saw the strike, saw the dragon wheel up to
  settle on  a far ledge to  feed.  Instinctively  she  drew back
  from the opening, back into the dark and relafcve safety of
  the corridor.
  The feeding dragon evoked scores of horrid tales. Tales at
  which she had scoffed but now . . . Was it true, then, that
  dragons did eat human flesh? Did . . . Lessa halted that
  trend of thought. Dragonkind was no less cruel than man-
  kind. The dragon, at least, acted from bestial need rather
  than bestial greed.
  Assured that the dragonman would be occupied a while,
  she crossed the larger cave into the sleeping room. She
  scooped up the clothing and the bag of cleansing sand and
  proceeded to the bathing room.
  To be clean! To be completely clean and to be able to
  stay that way. With distaste, she stripped off the remains
  of the rags, kicking them to one side. She made a soft mud
  with the sweetsand and scrubbed her entire body until she
  drew blood from various half-healed cuts. Then she jumped
  into the pool, gasping as the warm water made the sweetsand
  foam in the lacerations.
  It was a ritual cleansing of more than surface soil. The
  luxury of cleanliness was ecstasy.
  Finally satisfied she was as clean as one long soaking
  could make her, she left the pool, reluctantly. Wringing out
  her hair she tucked it up on her head as she dried herself.
  She shook out the clothing and held one garment against her
  
  experimentally. The fabric, a soft green, felt smooth under
  her water-shrunken fingers, although the nap caught on her
  roughened hands. She pulled it over her head. It was loose
  but the darker-green over-tunic had a sash which she pulled
  in tight at the waist. The unusual sensation of softness
  against her bare skin made her wriggle with voluptuous
  pleasure. The skirt, no longer a ragged hem of tatters, swirled
  heavily around her ankles. She smiled. She took up a fresh
  drying cloth and began to work on her hair.
  A muted sound came to her -ears and she stopped, hands
  poised, head bent to one side. Straining, she listened. Yes,
  there were sounds without. The dragonman and his beast
  must have returned. She grimaced to herself with annoyance
  at this untimely interruption and rubbed harder at her hair.
  She ran fingers through the half-dry tangles, the motions ar-
  rested as she encountered snarls. Vexed, she rummaged on
  the shelves until she found, as she had hoped to, a coarse-
  toothed metal comb.
  Dry, her hair had a life of its own suddenly, crackling
  about her hands and clinging to face and comb and dress. It
  was difficult to get the silky stuff under control. And her hair
  was longer than she had thought, for, clean and unmatted, it
  fell to her waistwhen it did not cling to her hands.
  She paused, listening, and heard no sound at all. Appre-
  hensively, she stepped to the curtain and glanced warily into
  the sleeping room. It was empty. She listened and caught the
  perceptible thoughts of the sleepy dragon. Well, she would
  rather meet the man in the presence of a sleepy dragon than
  in a sleeping room. She started across the floor and, out of
  the corner of her eye, caught sight of a strange woman as
  she passed a polished piece of metal hanging on the wall.
  Amazed, she stopped short, staring, incredulous, at the
  face the metal reflected. Only when she put her hands to her
  prominent cheekbones in a gesture of involuntary surprise
  and the reflection imitated the gesture, did she realize she
  looked at herself.
  Why, that girl in the reflector was prettier than Lady Tela,
  than the clothman's daughter! But so thin. Her hands of
  their own volition dropped to her neck, to the protruding
  collarbones, to her breasts which did not entirely accord
  with the gauntness of the rest of her. The dress was too
  large for her frame, she noted with an unexpected emergence
  of conceit born in that instant of delighted appraisal. And
  her hair . . . it stood out around her head like an aureole. It
  wouldn't lie contained. She smoothed it down with impatient
  fingers, automatically bringing locks forward to hang around
  her face. As she irritably pushed them back, dismissing a
  need for disguise, the hair drifted up again.
  A slight sound, the scrape of a boot against stone, caught
  her back from her bemusement. She waited, momentarily ex-
  pecting him to appear. She was suddenly timid. With her
  face bare to the world, her hair behind her ears, her body
  outlined by a clinging fabric, she was stripped of her accus-
  tomed anonymity and was, therefore, in her estimation, vul-
  nerable.
  She controlled the desire to run awaythe irrational fear.
  Observing herself in the looking metal, she drew her shoul-
  ders back, tilled her head high, chin up; the movement
  caused her hair to crackle and cling and shift about her
  head. She was Lessa of Ruatha, of a fine old Blood. She
  
  no longer needed artifice to preserve herself; she must stand
  proudly bare-faced before the world . . . and that dragon-
  man.
  Resolutely she crossed the room, pushing aside the hang-
  ing on the doorway to the great cavern.
  He was there, beside the head of the dragon, .scratching
  its eye ridges, a curiously tender expression on his face. The
  tableau was at variance with all she had heard of dragon-
  men.
  She had, of course, heard of the strange affinity between
  rider and dragon but this was the first time she realized that
  love was part of that bond. Or that this reserved, cold man
  was capable of such deep emotion.
  He turned slowly, as if loath to leave the bronze beast. He
  caught sight of her and pivoted completely round, his eyes
  intense as he took note of her altered appearance. With
  quick, light steps, he closed the distance between them and
  ushered her back into the sleeping room, one strong hand
  holding her by the elbow.
  "Mnementh has fed lightly and will need quiet to rest,"
  he said in a low voice. He pulled the heavy hanging into
  place across the opening.
  Then he held her away from him, turning her this way
  and that, scrutinizing her closely, curious and slightly sur-
  prised.
  "You wash up . . . pretty, yes, almost pretty," he said,
  amused condescension in his voice. She pulled roughly away
  from him, piqued. His low laugh mocked her. "After all,
  how could one guess what was under the grime of . . . ten
  full Turns?"
  At length he said, "No matter. We must eat and I shall
  require your services."  At her startled  exclamation,  he
  turned, grinning maliciously now as his movement revealed
  the caked blood on his left sleeve. "The least you can do is
  bathe wounds honorably received fighting your battle."
  He pushed aside a portion of the drape that curtained the
  inner wall. "Food for two!" he roared down a black gap in
  the sheer stone.
  She heard a subterranean echo far below as his voice
  resounded down what must be a long shaft.
  "Nemorth is nearly rigid," he was saying as he took sup-
  plies from -another  drape-hidden shelf,  "and the Hatching
  will soon begin anyhow."
  A coldness settled in Lessa's stomach at the mention of
  a Hatching. The mildest tales she had heard about that part
  of dragonlore were chilling, the worst dismayingly macabre.
  She took the things he handed her numbly.
  "What? Frightened?" the dragonman taunted, pausing as
  he stripped off his torn and bloodied shirt.
  With a shake of her head, Lessa turned her attention to
  the wide-shouldered, well-muscled back he presented her,
  the paler skin of his body decorated with random bloody
  streaks. Fresh blood welled from the point of his shoulder
  for the removal of his shirt had broken the tender scabs.
  "I will need water," she said and saw she had a flat pan
  among the items he had given her. She went swiftly to the
  pool for water, wondering how she had come to agree to
  venture so far from Ruatha. Ruined though it was, it had
  been hers and was familiar to her from Tower to defep cellar.
  At the moment the idea had been proposed and insidiously
  
  prosecuted by the dragonman, she had felt capable of any-
  thing, having achieved, at last. Fax's death. Now, it was all
  she could do to keep the water from slopping out of the pan
  that shook unaccountably in her hands.
  She forced herself to deal only with the wound. It was a
  nasty gash, deep where the point had entered and torn down-
  ward in a gradually shallower slice. His skin felt smooth
  under her fingers as she cleansed the wound. In spite of her-
  self,  she  noticed  the  masculine odor  of him,  compounded
  not unpleasantly of sweat, leather, and an unusual muskiness
  which must be from close association with dragons.
  She stood back when she had finished her ministration.
  He flexed his arm experimentally in the constricting bandage
  and the motion set the muscles rippling along side and back.
  When he faced her, his eyes were dark and thoughtful.
  "Gently done. My thanks." His smile was ironic.
  She backed away as he rose but he only went to the chest
  to take out a clean, white shirt.
  A muted rumble sounded, growing quickly louder.
  Dragons roaring? Lessa wondered, trying to conquer the
  ridiculous fear  that rose within her.  Had  the  Hatching
  started? There was no watch-wher's lair to secrete herself in,
  here.
  As if he understood her confusion, the dragonman laughed
  good-humoredly and, his eyes on hers,  drew aside the wall
  covering just as some noisy mechanism inside the shaft pro-
  pelled a tray of food into sight.
  Ashamed of her unbased fright and furious that he had
  witnessed it, Lessa sat rebelliously down on the fur-covered
  wall seat, heartily wishing him a variety of serious and pain-
  ful injuries which she could dress with inconsiderate hands.
  She would not waste future opportunities.
  He placed the tray on the low table in front of her, throw-
  ing down a heap of furs for his own seat. There was meat,
  bread, a tempting yellow cheese and even a few pieces of
  winter fruit. He made no move to eat nor did she, though
  the thought of a piece of fruit that was ripe, instead of
  rotten, set her mouth to watering. He glanced up at her, and
  frowned.
  "Even in the Weyr, the lady breaks bread first," he said,
  and inclined his head politely to her.
  Lessa flushed, unused to any courtesy and certainly unused
  to being first to eat. She broke off a chunk of bread. It was
  nothing she remembered having tasted before. For one thing,
  it was fresh baked. The flour had been finely sifted, without
  trace of sand or hull. She took the slice of cheese he prof-
  fered her and it, too, had an uncommonly delicious sharp-
  ness. Made bold by this indication of her changed status,
  Lessa reached for the plumpest piece of fruit.
  "Now," the dragonman began, his hand touching hers to
  get her attention.
  Guiltily she dropped the fruit, thinking she had erred. She
  stared at him, wondering at her fault. He retrieved the fruit
  and placed it back in her hand as he continued to speak.
  Wide-eyed, disarmed, she nibbled, and gave him her full at-
  tention.
  "Listen to me. You must not show a moment's fear, what-
  ever happens on the Hatching Ground. And you must not
  let her overeat." A wry expression crossed his face. "One of
  our main functions is to keep a dragon from excessive eat-
  
  ing."
  Lessa lost interest in the taste of the fruit. She placed it
  carefully back in the bowl and tried to sort out not what he
  had said, but what his tone of voice implied. She looked at
  the dragonman's face, seeing him as a person, riot a symbol,
  for the first time.
  There was a blackness about him that was not malevolent;
  it was a brooding sort of patience. Heavy black hair, heavy
  black brows; his eyes, a brown light enough to seem golden,
  were all too expressive of cynical emotions, 'or cold hauteur.
  His lips were thin but well-shaped and in repose almost
  gentle. Why must he always pull his mouth to one side in
  disapproval or in one of those sardonic smiles? At this mo-
  ment, he was completely unaffected.
  He meant what he was saying. He did not want her to
  be afraid. There was no reason for her, Lessa, to fear.
  He very much wanted her to succeed. In keeping whom
  from overeating what? Herd animals? A newly hatched
  dragon certainly wasn't capable of eating a full beast. That
  seemed a simple enough task to Lessa. . . . Main function?
  Our main function?
  The dragonman was looking at her expectantly.
  "Our main function?" she repeated, an unspoken request
  for more information inherent in her inflection.
  "More of that later. First things first," he said, impatiently
  waving off other questions.
  "But what happens?" she insisted.
  "As I was told so I tell you. No more, no less. Remember
  these two points. No fear, and no overeating."
  "But . . ."
  "You, however, need to eat. Here." He speared a piece
  of meat on his knife and thrust it at her, frowning until she
  managed to choke it down. He was about to force more on
  her but she grabbed up her half-eaten fruit and bit down into
  the firm sweet sphere instead. She had already eaten more at
  this one meal than she was accustomed to having all day at
  the Hold.
  "We shall soon eat better at the Weyr," he remarked,
  regarding the tray with a jaundiced eye.
  Lessa was surprised. This was a feast, in her opinion.
  "More than you're used to? Yes, I forgot you left Ruatha
  with bare bones indeed."
  She stiffened.
  "You did well at Ruatha. I mean no criticism," he added,
  smiling at her reaction. "But look at you," and he gestured
  at her body, that curious expression crossing his face, half-
  amused, half-contemplative. "I should not have guessed you'd
  clean up pretty," he remarked. "Nor with such hair." This
  time his expression was frankly admiring.
  Involuntarily she put one hand to her head, the hair
  crackling over her fingers. But what reply she might have
  made him, indignant as she was, died aborning. An unearthly
  keening filled the chamber.
  The sounds set up a vibration that ran down the bones be-
  hind her ear to her spine. She clapped both hands to her
  ears. The noise rang through her skull despite her defending
  hands. As abruptly as it started, it ceased.
  Before she knew what he was about, the dragonman had
  grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her over to the chest.
  "Take those off," he ordered, indicating dress and tunic.
  
  While she stared at him stupidly, he held up a loose white
  robe, sleeveless and beltless, a matter of two lengths of fine
  cloth fastened at shoulder and side seams. "Take it off, or
  do I assist you?" he asked, with no patience at all.
  The wild sound was repeated and its unnerving tone made
  her fingers fly faster.- She had no sooner loosened the gar-
  ments she wore, letting them slide to her feet, than he had
  thrown the other over her head. She managed to get her
  arms in the proper places before he grabbed her wrist again
  and was speeding with her out of the room, her hair whip-
  ' ping out behind her, alive with static.
  As they reached the outer chamber, the bronze dragon
  was standing in the center of the cavern, his head turned to
  watch the sleeping room door. He seemed impatient to Lessa;
  his great eyes, which fascinated her so, sparkled iridescently.
  His manner breathed an inner excitement of great propor-
  tions and from his throat a high-pitched croon issued, several
  octaves below the unnerving cry that had roused them all.
  With a yank that rocked her head on her neck, the dragon-
  man pulled her along the passage. The dragon padded beside
  them at such speed that Lessa fully expected they would all
  catapult off the ledge. Somehow, at the crucial stride, she was
  a-perch the bronze neck, the dragonman holding her firmly
  about the waist. In the same fluid movement, they were
  gliding across the great bowl of the Weyr to the higher wall
  opposite. The air was full of wings and dragon tails, rent
  with a chorus of sounds, echoing and re-echoing across the
  stony valley.
  Mnementh set what Lessa was certain would be a collision
  course with other dragons, straight for a huge round black-
  ness in the cliff-face, high up. Magically, the beasts filed in,
  the greater wingspread of Mnementh just clearing the sides
  of the entrance.
  The passageway reverberated with the thunder of wings.
  The air compressed around her thickly. Then they broke out
  into a gigantic cavern.
  Why, the entire mountain must be hollow, thought Lessa,
  incredulous. Around the enormous cavern, dragons perched
  in serried ranks, blues, greens, browns .and only two great
  bronze beasts like Mnementh, on ledges meant to accom-
  modate hundreds. Lessa gripped the bronze neck scales be-
  fore her, instinctively aware of the imminence of a great
  event.
  Mnementh wheeled downward, disregarding the ledge of
  the bronze ones. Then all Lessa could see was what lay on
  the sandy floor of the great cavern; dragon eggs. A clutch
  of ten monstrous, mottled eggs, their shells moving spasmod-
  ically as the fledglings within tapped their way out. To one
  side, on a raised portion of the floor, was a golden egg, larger
  by half again the size of the mottled ones. Just beyond the
  golden egg lay the motionless ochre hulk of the old queen.
  Just as she realized Mnementh was hovering over the floor
  in the vicinity of that egg, Lessa felt the dragonman's hands
  on her, lifting her from Mnementh's neck.
  Apprehensively, she grabbed at him. His hands tightened
  and inexorably swung her down. His eyes, fierce and gray,
  locked with hers.
  "Remember, Lessa!"
  Mnementh added an encouragement, one great compound
  eye turned on her. Then he rose from the floor. Lessa half-
  
  raised one hand in entreaty, bereft of all support, even that
  of the sure inner compulsion which had sustained her in her
  struggle for revenge on Fax. She saw the bronze dragon settle
  on the first ledge, at some distance from the other two bronze
  beasts. The dragonman dismounted and Mnementh curved
  his sinuous neck until his head was beside his rider. The man
  reached up absently, it seemed to Lessa, and caressed his
  mount.
  Loud screams and wailings diverted Lessa and she saw
  more dragons descend to hover just above the cavern floor,
  each rider depositing a young woman until there were twelve
  girls, including Lessa. She remained a little apart from them
  as they clung to each other. She regarded them curiously.
  The girls were not injured in any way she could see, so why
  such weeping? She took a deep breath against the coldness
  within her. Let them be afraid. She was Lessa of Ruatha
  and did not need to be afraid.
  Just then, the golden egg moved convulsively. Gasping as
  one, the girls edged away from it, back against the rocky
  wall. One, a lovely blonde, her heavy plait oi -golden hair
  swinging just above the ground, started to step off the raised
  floor and stopped, shrieking, backing fearfully towards the
  scant comfort of her peers.
  Lessa wheeled to see what cause there might be for the
  look of horror on the girl's face. She stepped back involun-
  tarily herself.
  In the main section of the sandy arena, several of the
  handful of eggs had already cracked wide open. The fledg-
  lings, crowing weakly, were moving towards . . . and Lessa
  gulped . . . the young boys standing stolidly in a semi-circle.
  Some of them were no older than she had been when Fax's
  army had swooped down on Ruath Hold.
  The shrieking of the women subsided to muffled gasps. A
  . fledgling reached out with claw and beak to grab a boy.
  Lessa forced herself to watch as the young dragon mauled
  the youth, throwing him roughly aside as if unsatisfied in
  some way. The boy did not move and Lessa could see blood
  seeping onto the sand from dragon-inflicted wounds.
  A second fledgling lurched against another boy and halted,
  flapping its damp wings impotently, raising its scrawny neck
  and croaking a parody of the encouraging croon Mnementh
  often gave. The boy uncertainly lifted a hand and began to
  scratch the eye ridge. Incredulous, Lessa watched as the
  fledgling, its crooning increasingly more mellow, ducked its
  head, pushing at the boy. The child's face broke into an
  unbelieving smile of elation.
  Tearing her eyes from this astounding sight, Lessa saw
  that another fledgling was beginning the same performance
  with another boy. Two more dragons had emerged in the
  interim. One had knocked a boy down and was walking over
  him, oblivious to the fact that its claws were raking great
  -gashes. The fledgling who followed its hatch-mate stopped
  by the wounded child, ducking its head to the boy's face,
  crooning anxiously. As Lessa watched, the boy managed to
  struggle to his feet, tears of pain streaming down his cheeks.
  She could hear him pleading with the dragon not to worry,
  that he was only scratched a little.
  It was over very soon. The young dragons paired off with
  boys. Green riders dropped down to carry off the unaccept-
  able. Blue riders settled to the floor with their beasts and led
  
  the couples out of the cavern, the young dragons squealing,
  crooning, flapping wet wings  as  they staggered off,  en-
  couraged by their newly acquired weyrmates.
  Lessa turned resolutely back to the rocking golden egg,
  knowing what to expect and trying to divine what the suc-
  cessful boys had, or had not done, that caused the baby
  dragons to single them out.
  A crack appeared in the golden shell and was greeted by
  the terrified screams of the girls. Some had fallen into little
  heaps of white fabric, others embraced tightly in their mutual
  fear. The crack widened and the wedge-head broke through,
  followed quickly by the neck, gloaming gold. Lessa won-
  dered with unexpected detachment how long it would take
  the beast to mature, considering its by no means small size
  at birth.  For  the head was  larger than that  of the male
  dragons and they had been large enough to overwhelm sturdy
  boys of ten full Turns.
  Lessa was aware of a loud hum within the Hall. Glancing
  up at the audience, she realized it emanated from the watch-
  ing bronze dragons, for this was the birth of their mate, their
  queen. The hum increased in volume as the shell shattered
  into fragments and the golden, glistening body of the new
  female emerged. It staggered out, dipping its sharp beak into
  the soft sand, momentarily trapped. Flapping its wet wings,
  it  righted  itself,  ludicrous  in  its  weak  awkwardness.  With
  sudden and unexpected swiftness, it dashed towards the
  terror-stricken girls.
  Before Lessa could blink, it shook the first girl with such
  violence, her head snapped audibly and she fell limply to the
  sand. Disregarding her, the dragon leaped towards the second
  'girl but misjudged the distance  and fell,  grabbing out with
  one claw for support and raking the girl's body from shoulder
  to thigh. The screaming of the mortally injured girl distracted
  the dragon  and released the others  from their horrified
  trance. They scattered in panicky confusion, racing, running,
  tripping, stumbling, falling across the sand towards the exit
  the boys had used.
  As the golden beast, crying piteously, lurched down from
  the raised arena towards the scattered women, Lessa moved.
  Why hadn't that silly clunk-headed girl stepped aside, Lessa
  thought, grabbing for the wedge-head, at birth not much
  larger than her own torso. The dragon's so clumsy and weak
  she's her own worst enemy.
  Lessa swung the head round so that the many-faceted eyes
  were forced to look at her . . . and found herself lost in that
  rainbow regard.
  A feeling of joy suffused Lessa, a feeling of warmth, ten-
  derness, unalloyed affection and instant respect and admira-
  tion flooded mind and heart and soul. Never again would
  Lessa lack an advocate, a defender, an intimate, aware in-
  stantly of the temper of her mind and heart, of her desires.
  How wonderful was Lessa, the thought intruded into Les-
  sa's reflections, how pretty, how kind, how thoughtful, how
  brave and clever!
  Mechanically, Lessa reached out to scratch the exact spot
  on the soft eye ridge.
  The dragon biinked at her wistfully, extremely sad that
  she had distressed Lessa. Lessa reassuringly patted the slight-
  ly damp, soft neck that curved trustingly towards her. The
  dragon reeled to one side and one wing fouled on the hind
  
  claw. It hurt. Carefully, Lessa lifted the erring foot, freed
  the wing, folding it back across the dorsal ridge with a pat.
  The dragon began to croon in her throat, her eyes follow-
  ing Lessa's every move. She nudged at Lessa and Lessa
  obediently attended the other eye ridge.
  The dragon let it be known she was hungry.
  -"We'll get you something to eat directly," Lessa assured
  her briskly and biinked back at the dragon in amazement.
  How could she be so callous? It was a fact that this little
  menace had just now seriously injured, if not killed, two
  women.
  She wouldn't have believed her sympathies could swing so
  alarmingly towards the beast. Yet it was the most natural
  thing in the world for her to wish to protect this fledgling.
  The dragon arched her neck to look Lessa squarely in the
  eyes. Ramoth repeated wistfully how exceedingly hungry she
  was,, confined so long in that shell without nourishment.
  Lessa wondered how she knew the golden dragon's name
  and Ramoth replied: Why shouldn't she know her own name
  since it was hers and no one else's? And then Lessa was lost
  again in the wonder of those expressive eyes.
  Oblivious to the descending bronze dragons, uncaring of
  the presence of their riders, Lessa stood caressing the head
  of the most wonderful creature on all Pern, fully prescient of
  troubles and glories, but most immediately aware that Lessa
  of Pern was Weyrwoman to Ramoth the Golden, for now
  and forever.
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/Vault2.0.-.Fiction-and-audiobooks/Books/M/Mccaffrey, Anne/Anne McCaffrey - Pern 17 - Weyr Search.pdf