A Gift of Dragons - Anne McCaffrey [2]
“You’d better make sure a dragon sees you, this time, Beterli,” Keevan replied. “You’re almost overage, aren’t you?”
Beterli flushed and took a step forward, hand halfraised. Keevan stood his ground, but if Beterli advanced one more step, he would call the wingsecond. No one fought on the Hatching Ground. Surely Beterli knew that much.
Fortunately, at that moment, the wingsecond called the boys together and led them from the Hatching Ground to start on evening chores. There were “glows” to be replenished in the main kitchen caverns and sleeping cubicles, the major hallways, and the queen’s apartment. Firestone sacks had to be filled against Thread attack, and black rock brought to the kitchen hearths. The boys fell to their chores, tantalized by the odors of roasting meat. The population of the Weyr began to assemble for the evening meal, and the dragonriders came in from the Feeding Ground on their sweep checks.
It was the time of day Keevan liked best: once the chores were done but before dinner was served, a fellow could often get close enough to the dragonriders to hear their talk. Tonight, Keevan’s father, K’last, was at the main dragonrider table. It puzzled Keevan how his father, a brown rider and a tall man, could be his father—because he, Keevan, was so small. It obviously puzzled K’last, too, when he deigned to notice his small son: “In a few more Turns, you’ll be as tall as I am—or taller!”
K’last was pouring Benden wine all around the table. The dragonriders were relaxing. There’d be no Thread attack for three more days, and they’d be in the mood to tell tall tales, better than Harper yarns, about impossible maneuvers they’d done a-dragonback. When Thread attack was closer, their talk would change to a discussion of tactics of evasion, of going between, how long to suspend there until the burning but fragile Thread would freeze and crack and fall harmlessly off dragon and man. They would dispute the exact moment to feed firestone to the dragon so he’d have the best flame ready to sear Thread midair and render it harmless to ground—and man—below. There was such a lot to know and understand about being a dragonrider that sometimes Keevan was overwhelmed. How would he ever be able to remember everything he ought to know at the right moment? He couldn’t dare ask such a question; this would only have given additional weight to the notion that he was too young yet to be a dragonrider.
“Having older candidates makes good sense,” L’vel was saying, as Keevan settled down near the table. “Why waste four to five years of a dragon’s fighting prime until his rider grows up enough to stand the rigors?” L’vel had Impressed a blue of Ramoth’s first clutch. Most of the candidates thought L’vel was marvelous because he spoke up in front of the older riders, who awed them. “That was well enough in the Interval when you didn’t need to mount the full Weyr complement to fight Thread. But not now. Not with more eligible candidates than ever. Let the babes wait.”
“Any boy who is over twelve Turns has the right to stand in the Hatching Ground,” K’last replied, a slight smile on his face. He never argued or got angry. Keevan wished he were more like his father. And oh, how he wished he were a brown rider! “Only a dragon—each particular dragon—knows what he wants in a rider. We certainly can’t tell. Time and again the theorists,” K’last’s smile deepened as his eyes swept those at the table, “are surprised by dragon choice. They never seem to make mistakes, however.”
“Now, K’last, just look at the roster this Impression. Seventy-two boys and only forty eggs. Drop off the twelve youngest, and there’s still a good field for the hatchlings to choose from. Shells! There are a couple of weyrlings unable to see over a wher egg much less a dragon! And years before they can ride Thread.”
“True enough, but the Weyr is scarcely under fighting strength, and if the youngest Impress, they’ll be old