DragonStorm Ch. 10

"I know. It just doesn't feel right."

A gasp from behind distracted them. The first egg cracked open. Darian remembered thinking that one probably held a brown or a bronze. He was surprised to see a sizable blue emerge. The dragonet screeled its displeasure with the sudden light, then looked around the hatching ground. It stumbled directly into the arms of a kneeling boy. Cheers sounded throughout the cavern. First impression had been made.

Lessa smiled at her weyrmate. "First impression, dearest, and a big blue. Ramoth has done well again."

"True. But a blue from the largest egg? Has Ramoth laid us thirty greens?"

'I do not sire greens,' Mnementh informed his rider. 'My queen will not lay a stunted clutch.'

"Getting testy in his old age," Lessa noted. F'lar smiled.

Another egg shattered. A large brown tottered to its feet, drawing delighted smiles from the gallery and a suitably smug retort from its bronze sire. The Weyrleader chuckled, sharing Mnementh's fatherly pride with an amused Cygnan. Darian shook his head, watching another lad step forward to claim the glistening dragon.

Several eggs opened simultaneously, causing momentary chaos on the sands. As the dragonets quickly found their partners, the confusion abated. Nearly a dozen dragons had already impressed. Ramoth hummed happily from her perch at the rear of the grounds.

Two more eggs rocked violently, splitting at the same moment. Another brown struggled to stand upright. Several feet in front of him, a small metallic beast squawked uncertainly. The little bronze gazed about him, looking for the right face among the anxiously attentive youths. He took a tentative step forward, then halted.

The brown was more decisive. One quick survey of the white-clad candidates revealed his desired objective. Moving forward purposefully, the dragonet failed to see his clutch-mate. Half again the bronze's size, he stumbled clumsily into the confused hatchling. His greater bulk carried him across the bronze, tearing the delicate wing sail under a rear foot.

Darian watched the collision helplessly. An incredible pain surged through his right wing as the brown raked the smaller beast. He gasped, grabbing at his pinion.

F'lar looked down. "What's wrong? You hurt?"

"No, but that bronze is. Excuse me."

The avion extended his wings, flashing onto the hatching grounds. He scooped the injured animal into his arms, heading out of the cavern and toward the infirmary. He took a quick look before leaving the hatching grounds, sending a silent request. 'Brekke, I'll need your help. Join me in the infirmary.'

The response was equally quiet. 'I'm on my way.'

F'lar and Lessa waited until the hatching was complete, then hurried out of the cavern. They were deep into their debate when the healers heard their approaching voices.

"He wasn't impressed," Lessa complained. "He should have waited."

"The little fellow was hurt. He might not have impressed in that much pain. Besides, it's too late now."

"You shouldn't take an unpaired dragon from the hatching grounds."

"Well," F'lar reminded her, entering the infirmary, "we've seen it before. We better hope the little fellow came up with something. Otherwise, he might suicide. But this was odd. Darian felt the bronze's pain. He knew he was hurt just standing by the grandstand."

The queenrider looked up at her mate, a contemplative frown crossing her face. "Do you think Darian and that bronze..."

"It's possible," F'lar concluded.

Lessa stopped as they reached the examining room. The incredible light of impression shone in the Weyrhealer's face. Her eyes glowed, tears streaming down her cheeks. The bronze's wing had been bandaged and splinted. He was crooning in total contentment.

"Brekke!" the Weyrwoman gasped, "Not a bronze!"

Smiling broadly, the woman shook her head. She seemed unable to speak, but her happiness was unmistakable.

F'lar drew a deep breath. "I don't need this," he mumbled. Openly, he addressed the woman. "Alright, Brekke, what's his name?"

"Don't ask me," she replied gently, "ask D'rian."

The Cygnan turned. An enchanted smile stretched across his face. As he pivoted, the Weyrleaders saw his fingers expertly scratching the dragon's eyeridge. The little bronze was in ecstasy. "F'lar, Lessa. Say hello to Tyranth."

F'lar broke into a wide grin, Lessa chuckling beside him. "Well, now, the dragons have chosen again," the Weyrwoman allowed. "Welcome to the Weyr, bronzerider. How's his wing?"

"He'll be fine, won't you, big guy?" D'rian turned back to the crooning dragonet.

Adoring eyes gazed at him, whirling a deep blue. 'I am fine. You are wonderful. My wing will heal soon.'

"Sure it will. You're going to be the strongest, fastest, best dragon on Pern. After all, you've got Mnementh and Ramoth for parents."

'And I have you as my rider.'

Lessa was smiling now, caught up in the Weyrhealer's contagious joy. She took her weyrmate's hand. "He does have a good start, doesn't he?"

F'lar nodded. "He has the planet's best heritage."

'He has chosen well,' Mnementh added. 'I approve.'

'And I. They will do well.'

The new rider turned back to the Bendenites. He smiled happily at the Weyrwoman. "I'm glad Ramoth approves."

Lessa's eyes narrowed. F'lar allowed himself a wry grin. Shaking his head, he chuckled at the avion. "You can hear them all, can't you?"

"Uh huh. Always could."

A loud hiccup sounded from the table. Tyranth looked up forlornly. 'I'm hungry.'

'Then we'll get you something to eat. What would you like?'

'Anything. You choose for me.'

D'rian turned back to F'lar.

"Hungry, eh? Take him to the weyrling barracks. They'll have meat ready."

'Come with me, my metallic friend. Let's get you some food.' D'rian lifted the dragonet into his arms before walking to the weyr ledge. He opened his wings. Behind him, three grinning Bendenites watched.

"I've never seen that before," F'lar chuckled.

Brekke sniffed, not trying to control her joy. "Which one is the rider?"

"Does it matter?" Lessa wondered. "Who ever heard of a weyrling who already knows how to fly?"

'Barnath and Kelth are here,' Mnementh announced.

'Direct them to the weyrling barracks,' F'lar responded, 'then come for us.' "Do you want to go?" he asked the Weyrhealer. Even as he asked, Canth settled to the ledge.

Brekke smiled, shaking her head. "I'm going back to F'nor. He'll be so happy." She walked away quickly, hiding the catch in her voice. She couldn't hide the memory of a similar moment twenty-two turns ago. Berd swept into the infirmary, lighting on her shoulder. He crooned encouragement to his weeping friend. They walked to the waiting brown dragon and were gone.

Lessa watched her leave. Hatchings were painful for Brekke, but she seemed genuinely happy this time. The Weyrwoman hoped so. Since the death of Wirenth happy moments had been few in her life. Even her strong bond with Canth was a bittersweet one. Whenever the Weyrhealer was near dragons, the shadow of her beloved queen passed over her. The Weyrwoman knew that would never change.

The sound of backwinging dragons reached her. She turned as Ramoth and Mnementh lowered to the ledge. Climbing to the golden neck, she led the way to the weyrling barracks. It was too cold to stay in the weyrbowl, so everyone moved inside, the dragons returning to the warmth of the hatching grounds.

G'dened and T'marek were watching the bronze gobble down chunk after chunk of meat. The Istan grinned as his Benden counterparts approached. He lifted a finger to his lips. A devilish fire danced in his eyes. The brownrider, too, wore a devious smile. They pointed to the new weyrlings.

D'rian was completely involved with his dragon's urgent appetite. The depth of Tyranth's hunger was his only concern. Satisfying the ravenous dragon was his lone desire. He was unaware of being watched until a delighted voice addressed him.

"Good morning, bronzerider."

The Istans broke into open laughter at the expression on the masterhealer. He wore a half-smile, uncertain if he'd been complimented or insulted. Being Tyranth's rider was a laurel of the highest order, but something in the Weyrleader's sarcastic tone confused him.

T'marek's grin was equally unsettling. "Well, well," the brownrider laughed. "All these turns you've hated bronzeriders, and now you is one!"

'Don't you like bronzeriders?' Tyranth asked.

'Not particularly,' the avion chuckled. He reached for his dragon's head-knob, scratching gently.

Tyranth crooned happily. 'But I am a bronze. Don't you like me?'

'I don't like bronzeriders, my friend. You're a bronze, the best bronze ever. Besides, I'm a bronzerider now, so I'd better start liking them, hadn't I?'

'I hope so. I want you to like yourself. I like you.'

All four of the watching riders started laughing. It took a moment for D'rian to realize that their dragons had relayed the conversation. He looked up sheepishly. "Never too late to learn, is it?"

"What's his name?" T'marek grinned.

"Tyranth."

"Sounds appropriate for you. I wonder what Astaroth will think?"

'I approve. He'll help you. Maybe I can get some rest now.'

'Where are you?'

'Ista.'

'Where is who?'

'Astaroth.'

'Who is Astaroth?'

'My other dragon.'

'Other dragon? Don't you want me?'

'Of course, I want you. Astaroth's just a friend. And a teammate. He and I work together.'

'Are you his rider?'

'Not exactly.'

'Not hardly, little bronze. He's all yours.'

'Thank you.'

'You're welcome.'

'Astaroth, stop it. You're confusing him.'

'Alright. Take care of him. I'll see you when you get back. By the way, congratulations.'

'For what?'

'See you later. Enjoy yourself, bronzerider.'

D'rian stared blankly at Tyranth. He turned on the bench, reaching into the bucket for another chunk of meat. He took a bite of the food, handing the rest to the dragon.

Tyranth's eyes whirled a mild yellow. 'Are you alright? I'm confused.'

'It's okay. Astaroth's our friend. He has a warped sense of humor.'

'What's a sense of humor?'

'It's how humans and some dragons relieve pressure in their minds.'

'Oh. What is warped?'

'I think I'm getting tired.'

'So am I.'

D'rian dropped his forehead against Tyranth's, pulling the little bronze into his arms.

T'marek grinned at the sight, glancing toward Lessa. "I love it," he admitted. "I flaming love it. I can't wait to see him in a weyrling wing."

G'dened looked at his Benden counterpart. "Uh, what do we do now? He's your bronze and he's my masterhealer."

"I've got enough bronzes. Take him back to Ista."

From the grounds, Ramoth growled her disagreement. Lessa chuckled. 'Now, dearest, you only need one bronze. He's not leaving. Ista will be better off for a Benden bronze.'

Mnementh crooned his agreement, caressing his mate. The queen quieted.

"How soon can he come back?" G'dened asked.

F'lar shrugged. "I've never transferred a weyrling before. I would think when he's dry and been allowed to get his wings spread. A seven-day or two. I can send Brekke and F'nor to Ista until he's ready. What about that wing?"

"A couple of seven-days, maybe," D'rian answered. "I'm not sure. He should heal fairly fast. It's a clean tear." The avion looked at G'dened. "What do you think?"

"Sounds about right. Can't wait too long."

"Why? Something wrong at Ista?"

"There's somebody there who wants to see you."

The avion's eyes narrowed. He couldn't remember any unfinished business at the Weyr. He gazed up at G'dened, shrugging. "I can't think of anything pending there. Who is it? Is El okay?"

"She's fine. That's not who we're talking about. Youngster named Darielyn."

"I don't know anybody by that name."

"You will. Nice looking scamp. Blue eyes, dark hair, but he's a little strange."

"Strange?" Darian repeated. "What's strange about him?"

"Of course, Elysina doesn't think so. She says the wings are beautiful."

It took a moment for the news to penetrate. D'rian stared up, his mouth dropping open. "Wings? Elysina?"

They all started laughing. Tyranth butted his rider, crooning his contentment.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Wings of bronze, wings of gold

Green and brown and blue;

Dragon fierce, rider brave,

To your task be true.

9th Pass -- Year 28 - May

(Ista Weyr, May 5th)

The celebration was unexpected but enthusiastic. Most of the riders, including the defeated bronzeriders, were enjoying a hastily prepared meal and several goblets of wine. Even the weyrlings had joined the impromptu feast.

Because of his age and in deference to his rank, D'rian was not required to sit at the weyrling tables. He circulated freely, permitted to eat with whomever he chose.

In fact, he wasn't a weyrling. Tyranth's training had been unusual. With his rider already keenly aware of formation flying and standard maneuvers, all instruction was concentrated on the young bronze. His small size at hatching had been misleading. He wouldn't be large, but neither was he smaller than his peers. Assigned to Ista, he'd be second in size only to another transplanted Benden bronze. He was flying at four months, unheard of amongst dragons. His efforts were tentative but nonetheless remarkable.

The bond between the bronze and his rider was unusual. The weyrlingmaster found his pupil also had an unorthodox tutor. Astaroth had taken a personal interest in training the young dragon. The wild aerobatics he showed the weyrling raised many an eyebrow. How they could be used in formation flying was questionable, but the young bronze proved an apt student and ardent in practice.

D'rian was in a less than festive mood, but he couldn't gracefully absent himself from the meal. Gazing about the cavern, he located his brownriding confidante.

T'marek grinned as the masterhealer sat down. "Well, you did it. Never thought I'd see the day."

"I didn't do anything," the avion sighed. "Trenth did the work."

He picked up a wineglass, taking a lengthy drink. The roast on his plate looked good, but he didn't have much of an appetite. He was deeply satisfied that Trenth had flown Scylenth. The queen would have a better clutch. That would make everyone in the Weyr happy. Events had proven T'gellan's concern prescient. Her first laying had produced only ten hatchlings from twenty-two eggs. One had been a blue. The nine greens had upset both queen and rider badly. His satisfaction with the second flight only partially masked the emptiness in his stomach.

"You spent a lot of time in the historical files," T'marek remarked to the Cygnan.

"Did you see any mention of two mating flights in the same seven-day before?"

"It's not unheard of," D'rian replied. "Happens late in a pass, when most Weyrs have four or maybe even five queens."

"Well," D'phel shrugged, "I really thought Clarinath would fly her this time. He might have, too, if he hadn't decided to fly Valkryth."

V'line groaned. "Don't remind me. I still can't walk straight."

T'marek chuckled, drawing a slight smile from the avion. "He'll learn to stick to his own weyr. El must have worn him out."

"I wouldn't know," D'rian snickered. He reached for a fork, preparing to try the meat.

"Doesn't really matter, does it?" asked a greenrider seated beside the wingsecond. "I'll bet Selana has the walking problems when K'trin gets done with her."

The fork slipped from D'rian's fingers, falling to the cavern floor. He brushed off T'marek's hand, stood up and walked out.

The brownrider hissed disgustedly. "N'del, damn it! She's his wife!" He couldn't think of anything appropriate to say, but his anger was obvious. The new wingman really should have known better.

"But" the youngster stuttered, looking at V'line. "I thought she was your weyrmate."

"She was," the wingleader confirmed, "but she's still D'rian's wife."

T'marek looked at his friend with deep concern. "She was?"

V'line sighed. "Yes, was," he revealed quietly. "Selana loves K'trin. Has since she found out what really happened at Fort. He loves her. I may not get her back."

"Why do you think that?" the wingsecond asked.

"Sel's been disappearing a lot lately. He tends to disappear at about the same time."

"You think she's been having an affair with K'trin?"

The bronzerider nodded. "Yeah, I'm fairly sure of it. Started just after he transferred in here. I'm not surprised."

The greenrider looked at the two senior riders, confusion and consternation in his eyes. "I don't get it," he admitted. "What does any of this have to do with D'rian? He's Elysina's weyrmate."

The wingleader looked at the young rider, then at the rest of his wing seated at the table. "There's a long story behind this. If any of you really want to know about it, T'marek or I can tell you, when we have the time. Either way, I don't want to hear any more smart-ass comments about Selana! You got that?! She was my weyrmate. I love her. Don't push me." A series of mumbled "Yes, sir" responses circled the table. The riders returned to their meal.

He looked to his wingsecond. Letting out a long breath, he asked, "Should we talk to him?"

"No," the brownrider frowned. "Just leave him alone. Shells."

The avion was airborne the moment he left the cavern. He lifted high above the Weyr, ignoring the watch dragon's call.

The challenge received its response from the bronze sliding up beside the Cygnan. 'Where are we going?'

'Out of here.'

'Would you like to ride me? I can take us between to somewhere.'

'Let's just fly, Ty. Okay?'

'Of course. If you want to.'

They flew northwest, Cygnan leading Pernese dragon. Two hours later, D'rian started his landing glide. He was mildly surprised to find himself above the cove at which Astaroth had coerced him and Elysina. It seemed a strange destination.

Tyranth followed him down, curious and slightly worried. 'You're upset. What's wrong?'

'The mating flight. I thought it would be different this time. I thought I could handle it. Even with Trenth it feels just as bad.'

'I'm sorry. I'm still too small. I didn't mean to fail you.'

'You haven't failed me. You're just not ready. Another turn and there won't be a queen on Pern that's safe from you. You're already faster than most of the bronzes.'

'We're fast and we fly well. I'm just small. Will that be a problem?'

D'rian chuckled. 'I'm not very big either and it hasn't been much of a problem for me. We're gonna be fine. In fact, I think we'll be in a fighting wing in just a couple of months. And you're not small. You're still growing. Only Clarinath will be bigger than you.'

'We learn faster than the others. Why is that?'

'We have quite an advantage. I'm older than the other weyrlings and I've been fighting Thread for turns. You're faster than the others. You're also Mnementh's. That means a lot.'

'Who's wing will we be in?'

'I don't know. V'line wants us in his wing, probably in T'marek's section. I'd like that. K'trin wants us, too.'

'I like all of them. Clarinath is a good fighter. Not as good as Kelth, but a good leader. Trenth is good, too.'

'Whoa there, my little upstart. How can you tell? You haven't fought with any of them yet.'

'I can watch them fly and I know your thoughts. You think Kelth is the best Thread-fighter in the Weyr. You like Clarinath and Trenth. If you think they are good, they are good.'

The Cygnan smiled. He did like Clarinath, and his rider. With V'line fully recovered, Valkryth's flight had been no contest. Barnath hadn't risen and Kirth was outclassed despite a valiant effort. Sanadanth had chased, but the young bronze was hopelessly outclassed by the other pair. He'd hoped Astaroth would chase the queen, but the black had been off with Mareka chasing packtails. That might have been for the better, anyhow. A strong Clarinath could have outflown Trenth, and D'rian really wanted to see K'trin take Selana, since Astaroth still refused to fly Scylenth. It galled him that the black would miss both flights. He would have enjoyed another mating frenzy with either queenrider.