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It was late on a warm autumn morning when word came to Lord Rigos from Gitarin Hold’s watchmen that a dragon had emerged from between to the east of the hold and was gliding in, its cobalt hide jewel-bright in the brilliant sunlight as it swooped down above the heads of the labourers toiling in the wide fields full of golden grain and pale wine-grapes. As Rigos headed through the main hall to the Hold’s courtyard he could see them beyond the windows, standing with their hands shading their eyes and looking up at the beautiful airborne beast that helped to protect them from the ravages of Thread, its rider proudly astride its broad forequarters.
Rigos narrowed his eyes as it backwinged into the courtyard, kicking up little eddies of dust. There were enough dragonmen attached to Fort Weyr that keeping them all straight could be a chore, especially when they were attired in full leathers with helmet, but this particular blue rider was impossible to mistake for any other. His visible skin was the color of cold hearth ashes and his face was adorned with strange ridges, his neck flaring to a broad spread of scales on either side.
Rigos bowed low once the dragon had touched down and folded his wide wings neatly to his spine. “Good morning, G’rak. My duty to you and Ziolth.”
“Good morning, Lord Rigos.” G’rak was smiling, and as usual nothing less than sincerely polite. He swung out of the saddle and dropped neatly down his dragon’s smooth shoulder to the ground. “The harvest seems to be coming along nicely.”
Rigos nodded, smiling in return as the Offworlder approached, removing his helmet to reveal sleek hair blacker than a starless night. He’d heard rumors that G’rak had plenty of blood on his hands from his days before coming to Pern, but it was hard not to like the man in spite of that, enough to offer him a standing invitation to come and drink at his table. “It is. The Weyr will receive a healthy tithe this season.”
The curve of his grey lips turned sly and his blue eyes gleamed with exaggerated avarice. “Including some of your famous wine, I hope?”
“Of course!” Rigos clapped him on the shoulder as they fell into step side by side. “I wouldn’t dream of depriving you and J’lian of your cups of Gitarin white. And how is your weyrmate?”
“As well as can be expected,” G’rak said affably as they walked through into the Hold’s main hall. “I trust Sivala is also in good health?”
“Indeed, although I’m amazed she can roll out of bed in the mornings. Twins are a blessing but she’s heartily sick of the burden of carrying them.”
G’rak chuckled warmly, then paused in walking and inquired with greater gravity: “Shall I ask Julian to stop by?”
“Sivala would appreciate it, I’m sure.”
G’rak turned his head slightly. “Ziolth, bespeak Amorth, would you? Thank you, love.” Rigos remained respectfully silent as the two communicated mind-in-mind, marvelling as always at the wonders of draconic Impression. While G’rak stood silently listening the Lord Holder turned slightly away and gestured to a servant stationed at the door leading through to the kitchen. The man disappeared at once to fetch wine and sweetbreads: G’rak visited on a regular enough basis that his tastes were known and accommodated.
After a moment G’rak blinked and refocussed on Rigos. “He says he’ll be pleased to assist, but can’t pay a visit until tomorrow in the early morning.”
“That will be most satisfactory.” He gestured G’rak ahead of him and they proceeded to the table they regularly shared, beside a wide low window overlooking the ranks of vines that provided the vintage supplied to the Weyr.
“And before you ask,” G’rak said as he took his seat, “your tunic will be finished within the sevenday, barring another ill-timed Threadfall.”
Rigos grimaced as he sat. “Yes… are the Weyrleaders any closer to understanding why the Falls are out of sequence?”
“Not as far as I know. But of course they’re not likely to tell a mere blue rider, are they?”
Rigos had to grin at his tone of resigned innocence. “True, but some blue riders have a habit of hearing things nobody else seems to get a sniff at.”
“Sometimes the sense of an embroidery lies not in the threads, but in the spaces between them.” He offered one of his enigmatic smiles. “However, in this case there’s not even a single stitch to hang a theory on, I’m afraid.”
“That’s a pity. I’d hate to see my fields unexpectedly devoured. Whatever would you and J’lian drink then?”
G’rak wrinkled his nose. “We’d have to content ourselves with off-vintage swill from Unur, that’s what. May fortune preserve us from such a fate!”
That set Rigos to laughing, and by the time the wine and pastries were brought they were deep in conversation about the relative merits of the product of various Holds and how, in truth, Gitarin’s wineskins had none to compare. They also discussed Rigos’s tunic, which now lay almost finished on G’rak’s worktable: a gorgeous creation of green brocade from Inani Hold, playfully chased with flashes of soft blue-dyed wherry leather. He’d first seen G’rak’s designs on two of his fellow Lord Holders at a conference at Southern Boll five months ago and had immediately resolved to commission a piece of his own, which had led to their first meeting and many informal conversations over Gitarin white since. G’rak was a friendly fellow with a merry laugh and bright eyes, intelligent and quick-witted and full of cunning observations on many different subjects, but Rigos suspected that his status as a dragonrider and his odd facial features had made it difficult for him to find many friends here on Pern.
Of course he had J’lian, whom Rigos had met twice: a tall handsome fellow with a winning smile of his own and brown eyes full of compassion and an intelligence to match his weyrmate’s. He was glad that the Fort Weyr Healer was willing to see his wife on such short notice. No doubt Sivala was perfectly fine but this was her third pregnancy, one of which had ended in a bloody miscarriage late in her term, and Rigos was inclined to be overly concerned on her behalf. J’lian’s Offworld instruments were renowned for being able to see through skin and bone to the underlying structures of a person’s body; Rigos would feel much more at ease in his mind if they revealed no difficulties, the reassuring and seasoned opinions of his own Healer notwithstanding.
They were just starting their second glasses of white when G’rak’s gaze was suddenly directed past him, toward the far end of the hall where they’d entered. “Well,” he remarked softly, “isn’t that interesting?”
Before Rigos could ask him what he was referring to he heard the sound of a small scraping footstep in the archway and turned in his seat to see Silvena, his oldest niece, standing hesitantly against one of the open doors. She was a rather plain child, with long reddish-brown hair of that shade unique to his family and large dark eyes; the latter were current fixed on G’rak, which wasn’t surprising given how intimidated she’d always been by dragonmen. The Offworlder, however, inspired special shyness, no doubt due to his exotic appearance. At least Silvena didn’t seem outright disgusted by him, not the way some of Rigos’s servants had been at first.
“Come in, child!” He waved her forward, and after a moment she entered the hall on feet trying their very best to be silent. When he turned back to G’rak he found the rider smiling at her with open friendliness.
“Hello — Silvena, isn’t it?” G'rak's voice was gentle and kind. Rigos felt a moment of surprise: he couldn’t recall having introduced his niece to him before, nor G’rak being particularly interested in any of the Hold’s other children.
Silvena, reaching the side of Rigos’s chair with her eyes downcast, nodded tentatively in response and immediately focussed her attention on her uncle. Her voice was a whisper: “My Lord, Aunt Sivala wants to see you.”
“Immediately?” He frowned at her, then quickly stilled his expression: Silvena tended to take such expressions as evidence of personal wrongdoing. When the girl nodded again he asked: “Did she say why?”
A shake of the head this time. He turned apologetically to G’rak, only to find the blue rider studying his niece with a gaze of startling intensity above his pleasant smile. Silvena couldn’t even bring herself to look at him. “My regrets, G’rak, but —”
“Of course, I understand completely.” His eyes never left the girl’s profile. “May I have a quick word with you before I go, my Lord? In private?”
Puzzled, Rigos nodded and dismissed Silvena, who was manifestly glad to be gone. As the muted banner of her hair disappeared through the arch he turned a questioning expression on his guest. “How did you know her name?”
“Ziolth told me.” At last G’rak’s gaze returned to his face. He was no longer smiling. “Did you know that names are a particular failing of dragons? They remember next to none, beyond the designation of their rider and perhaps his weyrmate and one or two of his closest friends. And Ziolth is utterly typical in that respect.”
“Then how did he know what to call her?”
“He says he heard one of her friends shouting to her during a previous visit.” G’rak leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “And dragons also have a very hazy grasp of past events. That he should remember such a detail — and a personal name, at that — is very telling.”
Rigos was now sincerely curious. “And what, exactly, does it tell you, dragonrider?”
G’rak’s smile was back, slight and mysterious. “Have you heard that Ryaleth rose to mate less than a sevenday ago?”
“No, I had not. A blessing on your Weyr!”
“Indeed. Which means that in a few more sevendays a queen egg will be hardening on the sands at Fort.” He rose to his feet, inclining his chin in a little bow. “I’ll be back with your tunic much sooner than that, Lord Rigos, and several times afterwards for some more of your fine vintage, I’m sure. But on one of those visits I’ll come on Search, and I’d advise you to have young Silvena ready to accompany me back to the Weyr if she’s willing to stand for Impression.”
Very few things caught Rigos of Gitarin Hold utterly flatfooted. Now he gaped up at his guest. “Silvena?” he repeated. “But she’s… she’s so…”
“Shy? Unprepossessing? Yes, I’d agree. But dragons see things that we mere men cannot perceive, and Ziolth finds her very interesting indeed.” Another little bow. “I’ll leave you to attend your Lady, shall I? Good day, my Lord!”
Rigos stared after his departing back, his mouth still slightly open and his mind racing. Silvena? Quiet little Silvena, who wouldn’t say boo to a wherry? It scarcely seemed possible!
But G’rak, as full of wit and jest and clever half-truths as he could be on almost any other matter, had never been anything but serious when it came to Weyr business. Rigos could not but believe that he was speaking the truth.
When he heard the sweep of beating wings ascending from the courtyard he was still in his seat, the wine forgotten, wondering if the girl who couldn’t even look at dragonrider in the eyes could have any possible future in Pern’s oldest Weyr. As Silvena’s guardian the final word was his. Could he take such a risk with her life?
Could he afford not to?
THE END