CHAPTER III

 

Late Fall at Telgar Weyr

 

 

 

ZULAYA BEAMED at Paulin. “Yes, she rather outdid herself, didn’t she?” She turned to regard her queen fondly as the golden dragon hovered proprietarily over the fifty-one eggs which would, by all the signs, hatch sometime this day.

All morning dragons had conveyed in guests and candidates.

“Aren’t the Weyrs overproducing a trifle?” Paulin asked. Benden and Ista Weyrs had also had Hatchings in the past month. He had lost two very promising holder lads to the Weyrs: a felt loss, as riders would no longer be as free as they were during an Interval to journey easily between hold and Weyr, and to learn and practice other professions.

“Frequent clutches are one of the surefire signs that there will be a Pass,” Zulaya said, obviously looking forward to the days when the dragons of Pern started the work for which they were engineered. “Have you heard that song the College sent out?”

“Hmmm, yes, I have,” and Paulin grinned. “In fact, I can’t get it out of my mind.”

“Clisser says they have several more to play for us tonight.”

“Just music?” Paulin asked, scowling. “It’s a device we asked them for . . . something permanent so that no one can deny the imminence of a Pass.”

Zulaya patted his hand encouragingly. “You can ask what progress he’s made on that project.”

K’vin, coming up behind them, casually laid a hand on his Weyrwoman’s shoulder, acting as proprietary of her as her dragon was of her clutch. Amused, Paulin coughed into his hand and hurriedly excused himself.

“He’s worried about that fail-safe,” Zulaya said, almost amused by K’vin’s show of jealousy but not about to remark on it.

“You’re looking very beautiful in that new dress,” he said, eyeing it.

“Do I? Why, thank you, Key,” she said, twisting her hips to make the skirt whirl. “Which reminds me . . .” and she held out a fold of the rich crimson-patterned brocade that she had had made for this Hatching. “Fredig suggested tapestries, hanging in every Weyr and hold, depicting the return of the Red Star—with the formulae in the borders. Make an interesting design, certainly.”

“Colors fade and fabrics certainly deteriorate . . .”

“We’ve some that graced houses in Landing. That Earth-Moon scene . . .”

“Which was made, as I’ve been told, out of synthetic yams which are more durable than what we have now—cotton, linen, and wool. And even they are looking worn and losing color.”

“I’ll have them washed . . .”

“You’ll have them thread-worn . . . oops,” and K’vin grinned at the pun.

“. . . which is not what is wanted, but there’s no reason, Key, not to have a hundred different reminders.”

“Something set in stone . . .” the Weyrleader said in a more sober tone.

“Even stones move . . .”

“Only prior to a Pass. Only how to perpetuate the critical information?”

“I think everyone’s worrying too much. I mean, here we are,” and Zulaya gestured broadly to include the Hatching Ground and the Weyr around them. “Why else have dragons? And Weyrs set apart to preserve them, if not for a very, very good reason. They’re the planet’s only sure defense.”

A sound, subliminal, more than a real noise, alerted them. It issued from Meranath, who reared to her hindquarters, spreading her broad wings, her eyes glowing brightly green and beginning to whirl with excitement.

“Ah, it starts,” Zulaya said, smiling in anticipation. “Oh, I love Hatchings!”

Hand in hand the two Weyrleaders raced to the entrance and called out the news, scarcely needed, for the Telgar dragons were already reacting to the queen’s maternal croon with their deep masculine humming.

The Weyr Bowl became active with dragons a-wing in excitement, flipping here and there on seemingly unavoidable collision courses: with the Weyrlingmaster herding the candidates forward; with parents and friends of the lucky boys and girls rushing across the hot sands to take their places in the amphitheater: hustling to get the best seating for the Impression about to happen.

K’vin sent Zulaya back to keep Meranath company as he urged people inside, checking the nervous white-clad candidates who had been halted in a clump near the entrance until the spectators were all seated.

“You’ve long enough to wait on the hot sands as it is,” T’dam, the Weyrlingmaster, told them. “Singe your feet, you could, out there . . .”

All this time the humming was rising in volume: Meranath joined by all the other dragons in a chorus of tones that Sheledon—and others—had tried to imitate without quite succeeding. Meranath’s throat was swollen with her sound, which continued unabated and seemingly without her needing to draw breath. Soon, as the volume increased, her chest and belly would begin to vibrate, too, with the intensity of her humming. K’vin was aware of the usual response in himself, a jumble of emotions; a joy that threatened to burst his heart through his chest, pride, hope, fear, yearning—oddly enough, hunger was part of it—and a sadness that, on some occasions, could make him weep. Zulaya always wept at Hatchings—at least, until Impressions began. Then she was jubilant, picking up on her queen’s acceptance of her clutch’s partnering.

In Fort Hold’s storage there were file boxes full of early psychological profiles about the effect of Hatching on riders, dragons, and the new weyrlings. The bonding that occurred was of such complexity and depth that no other union could be compared to it: almost overwhelming in the initial moment of recognition, and certainly the most intense emotion the young candidates had ever experienced. Some youngsters had no trouble at all adapting to the intense and intrusive link: some suffered feelings of inadequacy and doubt. Every Weyr had its own compendium of information about what to do in such-and-such a situation. And every weyrling was assiduously trained and supported through the early months of the relationship until the Weyrleaders and Weyrlingmaster deemed he/she was stable enough to take responsibility for her/himself and her/his dragon.

But then, a rider was the dragon, and the dragon the rider, in a partnership that was so unwavering, its cessation resulted in suicide for the dragon who lost his mate. The unfortunate rider was as apt to take his life as not. If he lived, he was only half a man, totally bereft by his loss. Female riders were less apt to suicide: they at least had the option of sublimating their loss by having children.

When the little fire-lizards, who had supplied the genetic material to bioengineer the larger dragons, had still been available, a former male rider found some solace in such companionship. Only three fire-lizard clutches had been found in Ista in the last five decades; though it was thought more might be found in the Southern Continent, that quest had so far been futile. The vets had decided that some sort of odd disease had infected the creatures on northern warm beaches, reducing their numbers and/or their clutches. Whatever the reason, no one had fire-lizard companions anymore.

As soon as most of the guests had crossed the hot sands, T’dam allowed the candidates to make a loose circle around the eggs. There was no golden egg in this clutch—a circumstance that had both relieved and worried the Weyrleaders. They had five junior queens, which was quite enough for Telgar’s low-flight wing. In fact, there was no dearth of queens in any of the Weyrs, but there was safety in having enough breeders.

Five girls stood on the Hatching Ground. There should have been six, but the girl’s family had refused to give her up on Search since they claimed a union had been arranged and they could not go back on that pledge. As K’vin thought that a good third or even half of this clutch might be greens, he hoped there’d be enough suitable candidates to Impress all the green hatchings. Green dragons were valuable to a Weyr for their speed and agility, even if they didn’t have the stamina of the larger dragons. Still, they were perhaps the most problematic when it came to Threadfighting. Greens with male riders tended to be more volatile, apt to ignore their Weyrleaders’ orders in the excitement of a Fall—in short, they tended to unnecessarily show off their bravery to the rest of the Weyr. Female riders, on the other hand, while more stable, tended to get pregnant frequently, unless they were very careful, since the greens were usually very sexually active. Even spontaneous abortions due to the extreme cold of between required sensible convalescence, so female green riders were all too often off the duty roster for periods of time. “Taking a short dragon-ride” was now a euphemism for ending an unwanted pregnancy. Still, K’vin had fallen on the side of preferring females when Search provided them.

The draconic humming—what Clisser called a prebirth lullaby—was reaching an almost unendurable level, climaxing when the first egg cracked open. The spectators were exhibiting the usual excitability, jumping about, weeping, singing along with the dragons. They’d calm down, too, once the Hatching had begun.

And it did. Three shells burst outward simultaneously, fragments raining down on nearby eggs and causing them to crack, as well. K’vin counted nine dragons, six of them wetly green, and revised his “third” of greens closer to “half.”

The hatchlings were so dangerous at this stage, ravenous from their encapsulation, and some of the nearer candidates hastily avoided the bumbling progress of the newborn. Two greens seemed headed for Weyrbred Jule, but the blonde from Ista, already noted in the Weyr for her quick wits, stepped beside one and Impression was made for both. Three of the other greens made for lads who had demonstrated homosexual preferences in their holds. The remaining green, after lunging out of her shell, stood, weaving her head back and forth, crying piteously.

T’dam called out to the remaining girls to converge on her. The brunette girl from Ista made for her and instantly the little green covered the intervening distance, squeaking with relief.

K’vin swallowed against the emotional lump in his throat: that instant of recognition always brought back the moment he had experienced the shock of Impression with Charanth. And the glory of that incredibly loving mind linking with his: the knowledge that they were indissolubly one, heart, mind, and soul.

We are, are we not? Charanth said, his tone rough with the memory of that rapture. Despite the fact that Charanth, like the rest of the Weyr ‘s dragons, was perched up along the ceiling, K’vin could “hear” the dragon’s sigh.

Zulaya grinned up at K’vin, aware of what was taking place within him, tears flowing down her face as the high emotional level of the Hatching affected her.

Absently K’vin thought that the glowing bulk of Meranath behind Zulaya made a great background for her beautiful new gown . . . red against gold.

Then another dozen or so eggs split wide open and the raucous screeching of starving little dragonets reverberated back and forth on the Ground. There was a piercing quality to these screams like lost souls. As each hatchling met its rider, the scream broke off and a mellow croon began. That quickly segued into a piteous “hungry” appeal which was almost more devastating than the earliest screech the weyrlings made. K’vin’s stomach invariably went into empathetic hunger cramps.

The noise of a Hatching, K’vin thought, was unique. Fortunately, because human eardrums were not designed to deal with such decibels and cacophony, it didn’t last too long. He always felt slightly deafened—certainly ear sore—by the end of a Hatching.

He was suddenly aware of another sort of babble and fuss going on just outside the Hatching Ground. K’vin tried to see what was happening, but noting T’dam striding over to investigate, he turned his attention back to the pairing of the last few Hatchings, two browns and the last green. Two lads were homing on the green, desperate expressions on their faces. Abruptly the green turned from them and resolutely charged across the sands to the girl who had just entered. K’vin gave a double take. There were only five girls, weren’t there? Not that he wasn’t glad to see another. And she was the one the green wanted, for the hatchling pushed aside the boy who tried to divert her.

Then three men strode into the Ground, furious expressions on their faces, with T’dam trying to intercept their angry progress toward the lately impressed green pair.

“Debera!” yelled the first man, reaching out and snatching her away from the green dragonet.

That was his first mistake, K’vin thought, running across sands to avert catastrophe. Damn it all. Why did this marvelous moment have to be interrupted so abruptly? Hatchings should be sacrosanct.

Before K’vin could get there, the green reacted to the man’s attempt to separate her from her chosen one. She reared, despite being not altogether sure of her balance on wobbly hindquarters. Extending her short forearms with claws unsheathed, she lunged at the man.

K’vin had one look at the shock on his face, the fear on the girl’s, before the dragon had the man down and was trying to open her jaws wide enough to fit around his head.

T’dam, being nearer, plunged to the rescue. The girl, Debera, was also trying to detach her dragonet from her father, for that’s what she was calling him.

“Father! Father! Leave him alone, Morath. He can’t touch me now, I’m a dragonrider. Morath, do you hear me?”

Except that K’vin was very anxious that Morath might have already injured the man, he was close to laughing at this Debera’s tone of authority. The girl had instinctively adopted the right attitude with her newly hatched charge. No wonder she’d been Searched . . . and at some hold evidently not too far away.

K’vin assisted Debera while T’dam pulled the fallen man out of the dragon’s reach. Then his companions hauled him even farther away while Morath continued to squeal, and writhed to resume her attack.

He would hurt you. He would own you. You are mine and I am yours and no one comes between us, Morath was saying so ferociously that every rider heard her.

Zulaya joined the group and, bending to check the father’s injuries, called for the medics who were dealing with the minor lacerations that generally occurred at this time. Fortunately, Morath had no fangs yet, and although there were raw weals on the man’s face and his chest had been badly scratched by unsheathed claws—despite their newness—he had been somewhat protected by the leather jerkin he wore.

By now most of the newly hatched were out of the Grounds, being fed their first meal by their new life companions. The spectators, beginning to descend from the amphitheater’s levels, managed to get a peek at the injured man. Undoubtedly they would recount the incident at every opportunity. K’vin hoped the embellishments would stay within reason. Now he had to deal with the facts.

“So, perhaps you would tell us what this is all about?” he asked Debera who, confronted by the Weyrleader and Weyrwoman, was suddenly overcome with remorse and doubt.

“I was Searched,” she said, urgently stroking Morath, who was trying to burrow her head into the girl’s body. “I had the right to come. I wanted to come,” and then she waved an indignant hand at her prostrate father, “and they didn’t even show me the letter telling me to come. He wants me for a union because he had a deal with Boris for a mining site and with Ganmar for taking me on. I don’t want Ganmar, and I don’t know anything about mining. I was Searched and I have the right to decide.” The indignant words rushed out, accompanied by expressions of distaste, resentment, and anger.

“Yes, I remember seeing your name on the Search list, Debera,” Zulaya said, ranging herself beside the girl in .a subtle position of support. The alignment was not lost on the older of the two men attending their fallen friend. “You are Boris?’ she asked him. “So you must be Ganmar,” she said, addressing the younger one. “Did you not realize that Debera had been Searched?”

Ganmar looked very uncomfortable and dropped his eyes, while the scowl on Boris’s face deepened and he jutted his jaw out obstinately.

“Lavel told me she’d refused.”

At that point Maranis, the Weyr’s medic, arrived to have a look at the wounded man. When he had, he sent a helper for litter bearers. Then he began to deal with the injuries, pulling back the tattered jerkin, provoking a groan from the dazed man.

“Well, Boris,” Zulaya said at her sternest. “As you seem to be aware, Debera does have the right . . .”

“That’s what you Weyrfolk always say. But it’s us who suffer from what you call ‘right.’ ”

“Making more trouble, Boris?” asked Tashvi, arriving just then with Salda.

“You agreed, Tashvi,” Boris said with little courtesy for his Lord Holder. “You said we could dig that new mine. You were glad to have me and my son here start. And Lavel was willing for Ganmar to have his daughter . . .”

“Ah, but the daughter seems not to have been so willing,” Lady Salda remarked.

“She was willing, all right, wasn’t you, Deb?” Boris said, staring with angry accusation at the girl, who returned his look by lifting her chin proudly. “Till they came from the Weyr on Search . . .”

“Search has the priority,” Tashvi said. “You know that, Boris.”

“We had it all arranged,” the father said, speaking up now that his pain had been alleviated by the numbweed

Maranis had slathered on his wounds. “We had it arranged!” And the look he gave his daughter was trenchant with angry, bitter reproach.

“You had it all arranged,” Debera said, equally bitter, “between yourselves but not with me, even before the Search.” A wistful moan from Morath interrupted her angry rebuttal. “She’s hungry. I have to feed her. Come along now,” she added in a far more loving tone. Without a backward glance, she led her green dragon out of the Hatching Ground.

“I’d say that the matter was certainly not well arranged, then,” Tashvi said.

“But it was,” Lavel said, jabbing one fist at the dragonriders, “until they came ’round, putting ideas in her head when she was a good, hardworking girl who always did as she was told. Then you riders tell her she’s fit for dragons. Fit! I know what you riders get up to, and Debera’s a good girl. She’s not like you lot—”

“That’s quite enough of such talk,” Zulaya said, drawing herself up, insulted.

“Indeed it is,” Tashvi said, scowling angrily. “The Weyrwoman will realize that you’re not yourself, wounded as you are . . .”

“Wounds got nothing to do with my righteous anger, Lord Holder. I know what I know, and I know we had it all arranged and you should stick up for your holders, not these Weyrfolk and all their queer customs and doings, and I dunno what’ll happen to my daughter.” At that point he began to weep, more in frustrated anger than from the pain of the now well-anesthetized injuries. “She was a good girl until they come. A good biddable girl!”

Tashvi gestured peremptorily to the two litter men to take the man out. Then he turned back to the Weyrleaders.

“I did approve the new mine, and Boris and Ganmar as owners, but I’d no idea that Lavel was in any way involved. He’s a troublemaker from way back,” Tashvi said, absently shifting his feet on the hot sands.

Zulaya gestured for them all to leave the Hatching Ground. Despite the extra lining she’d put in her boots this morning, she was uncomfortable standing there, and Tashvi was wearing light pull-ons.

“And it’s not that he doesn’t have other daughters,” Salda said, taking her husband’s arm to speed up his progress. “He’s got upward of a dozen children and had two wives already. At the rate he’s been making these arrangements of his, he’ll have himself sufficient land among his relatives to start his own hold. Not that anyone in their right mind would want him as a Lord Holder.”

They paused outside the Ground now. Adroitly, Zulaya and K’vin chose a position so that they could also keep a weather eye on the newly hatched who, with the help of their riders, were rapidly devouring the piles of cut meat prepared for their initial feeding.

Debera’s situation was unusual. Most families were glad enough to have a child chosen on Search, because of the advantages of having a dragonrider in the family: the combination of the prestige accrued to the Bloodline as well as the availability of transport.

Listening to the vitriol in Lavel’s criticism of Weyr life upset both Weyrleaders and Lord Holders. It was true that certain customs and habits had been developed in the Weyrs to suit dragon needs, but promiscuity was certainly not encouraged. In fact, there was a very strictly observed code of conduct within the Weyr. There might not be formal union contracts, but no rider reneged on his word to a woman nor failed to make provision for any children of the pairing. And few Weyrbred children, reaching puberty, left the Weyr for the grandparental holds even if they failed to Impress.

By now the festivities had started in the Main Cavern, with the instrumentalists playing a happy tune, one that reflected the triumph of a successful Hatching. Although the new riders were still feeding their dragons or settling them into the weyrling barracks, once the sated dragonets fell asleep, the new dragonmen and women would join their relatives.

Zulaya wondered if she should remind Lavel that the female riders were housed separately from the males. He obviously had no idea at all how much care a new dragonet required from its human. Most days the weyrlings fell into bed too exhausted to do anything but sleep. And had to be rousted out of their bunks by the Weyrlingmaster when they failed to respond to their hungry dragons’ summonses.

The young lad, Ganmar, sulked, looking decidedly uncomfortable in his present situation. Zulaya doubted that his heart was the least bit broken by this turn of events. Of course, if he had to work with that father of his building a new hold, maybe a pretty girl to bed at night would have been a major compensation.

“What I should like to know,” Salda was saying, “is why Debera arrived here so late, on her own and you evidently in hot pursuit. You realize, of course,” and the stern expression in Salda’s eyes was one Zulaya knew well, “that we—Lord Tashvi and I—would not be at all pleased to find that Debera has been denied her holder rights.”

“Holder?” Lavel snorted and then moaned as the injudicious movement caused him pain. “She’ll not be a holder now, will she? She’ll be lost to us forever, she will.”

“And any chance of bagging her legal land allotment,” Salda said with mock remorse. Lavel growled and tried to turn away from the Lady Holder. “You’ve claimed more than most as it is. I trust Gisa is in good health? Or have you got yet another child on her? You’ll wear her out the same as you did Milla, you know. But I suppose there are women stupid enough to fall for your ever-increasing land masses. Sssh,” and Salda turned from him in disgust. “Get him out of my sight. He offends me. And sullies the spirit of this occasion.”

“He’s not so wounded he can’t travel,” the medic said helpfully.

“Travel?” Boris exclaimed, pretending dismay as he had glanced in the direction of the Lower Cavern, where the roasts were being served.

“I could find him a place overnight,” Maranis began hesitantly.

Just then four young Weyrfolk led up the visitors’ horses, which they had recaptured.

“Ah, here are your mounts, Boris,” Zulaya said. “Let us not keep you from a safe journey home. You should easily make it home before dark. Maranis, give Lavel enough fellis juice to see him to his hold. Lads, help him mount. Come, K’vin, we’re overlong congratulating the happy parents.”

She linked her right arm in K’vin’s and her left with Lady Salda and hauled them along across the Bowl.

“A very good Hatching, I’d say,” she began, without a backward look at the three dismissed holders. “Nineteen greens, fifteen blues, eleven browns, and seven bronzes. Good distribution, too. Good size to the bronzes as well.

I do believe every clutch produces dragons just slightly larger than the last.”

“Dragons haven’t yet reached their design size,” K’vin said, answering her lead. “I doubt we’ll see that in our lifetime.”

“Surely they’re big enough already?” Salda asked, her eyes wide.

Zulaya laughed. “Larger by several hands than the first ones who fought Thread, which will make it all that much easier for us this time ’round.”

“You know what to expect, too,” Tashvi said, nodding approval.

Zulaya and K’vin exchanged brief glances. Hopefully what they could expect did not include unwelcome surprises.

“Indeed we have the advantage of our ancestors in that,” K’vin said stoutly.

Zulaya gave his arm a little squeeze before she released him and strode to the first table, where the families of two new brown riders were sitting. K’vin continued in with Salda and saw her and Tashvi settled at the head table, where he and Zulaya would join them after they’d done their obligatory rounds of the tables. Then, making a private bet with himself, he started at the opposite end of the wide cavern.

By the fourth stop he had won his bet: news of the unusual Impression of the last green dragon was already circulating.

“Is it true,” the holder mother of a bronze rider asked, “that that girl had to run away from her hold?” She, and the others at this table, were clearly appalled at such a circumstance.

“She got here in time, that’s what’s important,” K’vin said, glossing over that query.

“What if she hadn’t come?” asked one of the adolescents, her expression avid. “Would the dragon haveþ”

She stopped abruptly, as if she’d been kicked under the table, K’vin thought, suppressing a grin.

“Ah,” he said, bridging the brief pause, “but I’m sure you saw that other lads crowded ’round, ready and willing. The dragonet would have chosen one of them.”

That was not exactly true. Which was why every Weyr had more than sufficient Candidates on the Ground during a Hatching. Early on, the records mentioned five occasions when a dragonet had not found a compatible personality. Its subsequent death had upset the Weyr to the point where every effort was then made to eliminate a second occurrence, including accepting the dragonet’s choice from among spectators.

There were also cases where an egg did not hatch. In the early days, when the technology had still been available, necropsies had been performed to establish cause. In most of the recorded instances, there had been obvious yolk problems or the creature had been malformed and would not have survived Hatching. Three times, however, the cause of death could not be established, as the fetus had been perfect, with no apparent deficiency or disability. The message was handed down to dispose of such unhatched eggs between immediately: a duty performed on such rare occasions by the Weyrleader and his bronze.

“I saw her ride up,” the girl said, delighted to recount this fact. “And then the men who tried to stop her.”

“You must have had the best seat in the house,” K’vin said, grinning.

The girl shot a vindictive glance around the table. “Yes, I did, didn’t I? I saw it all! Even when the dragonet tried to eat someone. Was that her father?”

“Suze, now, that’s enough of that,” said her own father, and the older boy beside her must have pinched her for she shot straight up on the bench and glared at him.

“Yes, it was her father,” K’vin said.

“Didn’t he know any better than to strike a dragon’s rider?” asked Suze’s father, shocked by such behavior.

“I think he has perceived his error,” K’vin said dryly and caught Suze’s startled reaction. “What has your son”—and Charanth, as he always did, supplied the boy’s name so quickly that the pause was almost unnoticeable—“Thomas, decided on for a rider name?”

“Well, I don’t think Thomas dared to hope,” his mother said, but her expression revealed both her pride in his modesty and her delight in his success.

“He never liked being a Thomas,” Suze said, irrepressible. “He’ll pick a new name,” and she gave a snide sideways glance at her parents.

“And here he is, if I don’t miss my guess,” K’vin said, gesturing toward the lad making his way across the cavern floor. K’vin had lectured the candidates on their responsibilities to their dragonets, so he was familiar with many of them. This Thomas, or whatever, bore a strong enough resemblance to both sister and brother to make him easily identifiable. He hoped that a facial resemblance was all Thomas shared with his sister. She was a spiteful one.

“Well done, young man,” K’vin said, holding out his hand. “And how shall we style you now?”

“S’mon, Weyrleader,” the new bronze rider said, still flushed with elation. He had a good firm handshake. “I considered T’om but I never liked the nickname.”

“You said you’d—” Suze got yet another kick under the table for she yipped this time and tears started in her eyes.

“It’s easier to say,” S’mon said. “Tiabeth likes it.” Now he showed the delightful confusion of pride and proprietariness so many brand-new weyrlings exhibited while accustoming themselves to their new condition and duties. As K’vin remembered so vividly, that took time. “And there was a T’mas in the first group at Benden.”

“He’s long dead,” his father said, not altogether pleased with his son’s choice. “Thomas is a family name,” he admitted to K’vin. “I’m Thomas, ninth of my line.”

The boy looked at his father with that curious aloofness of independence that came with being a newly paired dragonrider: sort of “You can’t tell me what to do anymore” and “This is my business, Dad, you wouldn’t understand.”

“Tiabeth and S’mon,” K’vin said, lifting the glass he’d been carrying from table to table and drinking a toast to the partners. The others made haste to repeat it. “Eat, S’mon. You’ll need every meal you get a chance to eat,” he added, and left the boy to follow that very good advice.

At each subsequent table he heard more speculation about the late arrival of Debera. There had been embellishments: one had her father bleeding to death. Another variation suggested that Debera had been the reluctant one and her family had insisted that she try to Impress, having been Searched. Young Suze had had the best seat in the Hatching Ground after all, despite having been so far from the center that she hadn’t had a good view of Impression, but a perfect one for what was happening outside. So K’vin edited the facts to keep the incident from getting out of hand. Fortunately, the music the band was playing, and the lyrics, provided a happy distraction. Most of the music was new. Clisser’s musicians had done their job very well indeed.

He avoided having his glass filled too often, and used slices of the roast wherry and beef to sop up what was required by the obligatory toasting of the new riders.

He had almost completed his circuit when he saw the Telgar holders and T’dam leading Debera in, all moving toward the head table. Salda and Tashvi rose and went to meet her halfway. She still had a dazed look on her face, and glanced, almost wildly, around the crowded cavern. Someone had given her a green gown which showed off a most womanly body, and the style of it as well as the color suited Debera. The deep clear green set off her fine complexion and a head of curling bronze-colored hair which was attractively dressed, not straggling unkempt around a sweaty distraught face. No doubt Tisha, the headwoman, had had a hand in the transformation. Zulaya had once said Tisha treated all the Weyrgirls like live dolls, dressing them up and fussing with their hair. Nor was Tisha herself childless, but her excess of maternal instinct was an asset in the Weyr.

Salda put an arm about Debera, her head inclined to the shorter girl as she chatted: evidently determined to make up for the lack of family members on what was generally a very happy occasion for holder or Crafter. Had Debera seen the last of her relatives? No matter, she was in the larger, extended family of the Weyr and could find more amiable and sympathetic replacements.

Zulaya was introducing Debera to Sarra, the sun-bleached blonde from Ista who was chatting away with such animation that Debera smiled—tentatively, K’vin thought, but with growing self-confidence.

“You got Morath to sleep all right?” he asked, joining the women.

“I thought she’d never stop eating,” Debera said, a slightly anxious frown on her face. Her green eyes, K’vin saw, were also emphasized by the color of the gown. Tisha had done her proud.

“They’re voracious,” Zulaya said, with a kind laugh. “And so am I. Come, let’s all be seated before there’s nothing left for us.”

Salda gave a good-natured snort, grinning down at Debera. “Not likely. We’ve been sending you the fatted calves for the past week in anticipation.” She turned to the girl as she passed her over to K’vin. “One thing’s sure, girl, you’ll eat higher on the hog here in Telgar than you ever did at home. And not have to cook it.”

Debera was so clearly startled by such jocularity that K’vin took her hand, guiding her to the steps up to the platform on which the head table was placed.

“I think you’ll be very happy here, Debera,” he said gently, “with Morath as your friend.”

Immediately the girl’s face softened with joy and her eyes watered. Her look of vulnerable wonder struck such a responsive chord in him that he stumbled in following her.

“Oh, and she is more than a friend,” she said, more like a prayer than a statement of fact.

“Come, sit beside me,” Zulaya said, pulling out the chair, and signaling K’vin to take the one beyond. They were not in their usual center table position, but quick eye contact with Salda and Tashvi had the holders pulling out those chairs as if such placement was normal. “Listen to that melody. How lovely . . .” she added, tilting her head as the music, not quite martial, but firm, was stopping conversation throughout the cavern.

“So are the words . . .” Salda said, eyes widening in surprise, as well as delight, at what she heard. When her husband started to say something, she hushed him.

K’vin was happy to listen, too.

Sheledon, who had insisted on using the Telgar Impression as the debut of some new music, was very pleased that conversation had trailed off and everyone was hearing what was being sung. Now was the time to spring the big one on them. As soon as the coda on what Jemmy called “Dragonlove” had finished, he held up the music to the Duty Ballad and then pointed it at his soprano spouse, Sydra, who would sing the boy soprano part. They hadn’t found a lad with a suitable voice yet, but she could whiten her voice to approximate the tone. At Sheledon’s signal, Bethany piped the haunting notes of the intro and Sydra rose to sing the opening verse.

All right, they didn’t have enough trained voices to really sock the Ballad to this audience—in his mind, Sheledon “heard” what afull chorus would sound like—but the excellent acoustics in the cavern were a big help. And the music captivated. Sydra managed to sound very young and awed . . . Gollagee came in with his fine tenor as the dragonrider, Sheledon was right on cue with his baritone part, and then, with Bethany singing alto and the Weyr’s own musicians adding their voices, they wound it all up.

There was just one split second’s total silence—the sort that makes performers rejoice—and then everyone was standing, wildly cheering, clapping, stamping their approval. Even the dragons joined in from outside, caught up in their riders’ enthusiasms. Sydra kept bowing and urging the rest of the musicians to stand and accept the accolades. Even Bethany stood, a few tears trickling down her cheek at such a unanimous reception.

They gave five encores of the Ballad—with people adding their voices to the chorus as they quickly picked up on the words. When Sheledon ruefully waved off a sixth repeat, there were calls for the “Dragonlove” song which was so appropriate for this evening.

All in all, Sheledon decided as he caught Sydra’s smiling face, a very successful debut! Jemmy had outdone himself and Clisser would be delighted. Perhaps there was something to Clisser’s notion of redesigning the educational system so less time would be wasted on unessentials and the Real Meaning of Life could be addressed sooner.