The Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey [46]
The shabby Weyr reflected the deterioration of its purpose in the scheme of life on Pern. Those handsome dragonriders, too, so brave in their wher-hide accouterments, proud on the necks of their great beasts—they did not submit kindly to close examination without a few disappointing revelations. They were only men, with manlike lusts and ambitions, full of very human faults and frustrations, unwilling to disrupt their easy existence for the harsh exigencies that would reestablish the Weyr. They had settled too deeply in their isolation from the rest of their race; they did not realize they were little thought of. There was no real leader at their head . . .
F’lar! What was he waiting for? For Lessa to see through R’gul’s ineffectiveness? No, Lessa decided slowly, for Ramoth to grow up. For Mnementh to fly her when he can . . . traditionalist that F’lar is, and Lessa thought this excuse to be specious . . . when the mating dragon’s rider became, traditionally, the Weyrleader. That rider!
Well, F’lar might just find events not turning out as he planned.
My eyes were dazzled by Ramoth’s, but I can see around the rainbow now, Lessa thought, steeling herself against the tenderness that always accompanied any thought of the golden beast. Yes, I can see into the black and gray shadows now, where my apprenticeship at Ruatha should stand me in good stead. True, there’s more to control than one small Hold and far more perceptive minds to influence. Perceptive but dense in their own way. A greater hazard if I lose. But how can I? Lessa’s smile broadened. She rubbed her palms against her thighs in anticipation of the challenge. They can do nothing with Ramoth without me, and they must have Ramoth. No one can coerce Lessa of Ruatha, and they’re as stuck with me as they were with Jora. Only, I’m no Jora!
Elated, Lessa jumped from the chair. She felt alive again. And more powerful in herself than she felt when Ramoth was awake.
Time, time, time. R’gul’s time. Well, Lessa had done with marking his time. She’d been a silly fool. Now she’d be the Weyrwoman F’lar had beguiled her to think she could be.
F’lar . . . her thoughts returned to him constantly. She’d have to watch out for him. Particularly when she started “arranging” things to suit herself. But she had an advantage he couldn’t know—that she could speak to all the dragons, not just Ramoth. Even to his precious Mnementh.
Lessa threw back her hand and laughed, the sound echoing hollowly in the large, empty Council Room. She laughed again, delighted with an exercise she had had rare occasion to use. Her mirth roused Ramoth. The exultation of her decision was replaced by that of knowing the golden dragon was waking.
Ramoth stirred again and stretched restlessly as hunger pierced slumber. Lessa ran up the passage on light feet, eager as a child for the first sight of the glorious eyes and the sweetness that characterized the dragon’s personality.
Ramoth’s huge golden wedge-shaped head swiveled around as the sleepy dragon instinctively sought her Weyrmate. Lessa quickly touched her blunt chin, and the searching head was still, comforted. The several protecting lids parted over the many-faceted eyes, and Ramoth and Lessa renewed the pledge of their mutual devotion.
Ramoth had had those dreams again, she told Lessa, shuddering slightly. It was so cold there! Lessa caressed the soft down above her eye-ridge, soothing the dragon. Linked firmly to Ramoth as she had become, she was acutely aware of the dismay those curious sequences produced.
Ramoth complained of an itch by the left dorsal ridge.
“The skin is flaking again,” Lessa told her, quickly spreading sweet oil on the affected area. “You’re growing so fast,” she added with mock and tender dismay.
Ramoth