A Gift of Dragons - Anne McCaffrey [3]
“Half the Weyr-bred lads have already been through several Impressions,” one of the bronze riders said then. “I’d say drop some of them off this time. Give the untried a chance.”
“There’s nothing wrong in presenting a clutch with as wide a choice as possible,” said the Weyrleader, who had joined the table with Lessa, the Weyrwoman.
“Has there ever been a case,” she said, smiling in her odd way at the riders, “where a hatchling didn’t choose?”
Her suggestion was almost heretical and drew astonished gasps from everyone, including the boys.
F’lar laughed. “You say the most outrageous things, Lessa.”
“Well, has there ever been a case where a dragon didn’t choose?”
“Can’t say as I recall one,” K’last replied.
“Then we continue in this tradition,” Lessa said firmly, as if that ended the matter.
But it didn’t. The argument ranged from one table to the other all through dinner, with some favoring a weeding out of the candidates to the most likely, lopping off those who were very young or who had had multiple opportunities to Impress. All the candidates were in a swivet, though such a departure from tradition would be to the advantage of many. As the evening progressed, more riders were favoring eliminating the youngest and those who’d passed four or more Impressions unchosen. Keevan felt he could bear such a dictum only if Beterli were also eliminated. But this seemed less likely than that Keevan would be turfed out, since the Weyr’s need was for fighting dragons and riders.
By the time the evening meal was over, no decision had been reached, although the Weyrleader had promised to give the matter due consideration.
He might have slept on the problem, but few of the candidates did. Tempers were uncertain in the sleeping caverns next morning as the boys were routed out of their beds to carry water and black rock and cover the “glows.” Twice Mende had to call Keevan to order for clumsiness.
“Whatever is the matter with you, boy?” she demanded in exasperation when he tipped black rock short of the bin and sooted up the hearth.
“They’re going to keep me from this Impression.”
“What?” Mende stared at him. “Who?”
“You heard them talking at dinner last night. They’re going to turf the babes from the hatching.”
Mende regarded him a moment longer before touching his arm gently. “There’s lots of talk around a supper table, Keevan. And it cools as soon as the supper. I’ve heard the same nonsense before every hatching, but nothing is ever changed.”
“There’s always a first time,” Keevan answered, copying one of her own phrases.
“That’ll be enough of that, Keevan. Finish your job. If the clutch does hatch today, we’ll need full rock bins for the feast, and you won’t be around to do the filling. All my fosterlings make dragonriders.”
“The first time?” Keevan was bold enough to ask as he scooted off with the rockbarrow.
Perhaps, Keevan thought later, if he hadn’t been on that chore just when Beterli was also fetching black rock, things might have turned out differently. But he had dutifully trundled the barrow to the outdoor bunker for another load just as Beterli arrived on a similar errand.
“Heard the news, babe?” Beterli asked. He was grinning from ear to ear, and he put an unnecessary emphasis on the final insulting word.
“The eggs are cracking?” Keevan all but dropped the loaded shovel. Several anxieties flicked through his mind then: he was black with rock dust—would he have time to wash before donning the white tunic of candidacy? And if the eggs were hatching, why hadn’t the candidates been recalled by the wingsecond?
“Naw! Guess again!” Beterli was much too pleased with himself.
With a sinking heart, Keevan knew what the news must be, and he could only stare with intense desolation at the older boy.
“C’mon! Guess, babe!”
“I’ve no time for guessing games,” Keevan managed to say with indifference. He began to shovel black rock into the barrow as fast as he could.
“I said, guess.” Beterli grabbed the shovel.
“And I said I have no