Dragonforce Ch 02

T'gellan brushed lightly at his cheek. The numbweed salve had done its job. He felt no pain, only a tightness at the corner of his mouth. Fortune had been kind, and Monarth had been fast. Oh, that bronze! Scored wing and all, he had ducked between and brought his rider back. Many times they had learned this lesson and once again the Thread had proven it to them: even the most experienced riders and dragons can make mistakes.

'I'm fine,' Monarth reassured him. 'It was only a singe. I'm sorry I was so slow.'

'You weren't slow,' the Weyrleader reminded his dragon. 'We made a mistake. It won't happen again.'

'I'm sorry you were hurt,' the bronze repeated.

'It's not your fault, my friend. Now, enough of this. Get some sleep.' Although he was in the inner weyr, T'gellan could sense the dragon's eyes slowly closing, three sets of eyelids gently sliding shut as sleep eased the pain of the past day.

"You need to be more careful!" a worried female voice chided him. "Weyrleaders can't go around getting Thread-scored all the time!" She gently traced the burn from the hairline just behind the temple, across his cheek, past the corner of his mouth to the crest of the jaw. The fresh numbweed salve would prevent the wound from burning, but true healing would take some time. He would have a permanent scar.

T'gellan gave her a gentle smile. She was still young, just twenty-seven, with close-cropped dark hair and a heavily freckled, cherubic face. She had never been slender, but the subtle roundness of womanhood had taken the awkwardness from her appearance. Her fiery green eyes hinted at the quick temper and sharp tongue which surfaced all too easily and frequently. She hadn't been a popular choice as mate to the Weyrleader. Even Monarth had misgivings but acquiesced to his rider's desires. The bronzerider pulled his head to the right, avoiding yet another application of lotion. "Enough, Mirrim. That will do."

"I'm only trying to help!" she snapped, taking immediate and unwarranted offense at his statement. She stood up petulantly to leave. His hand caught her at the hip and pulled her back down to the bench beside him.

"I know, weyrling, I know." He gave her a quick kiss, smiling at her half-formed protest. He still enjoyed teasing her, reminding her that she hadn't been a candidate, that her impression of the green Path had been a shock to everyone involved in that strange hatching. In fact, she was at Eastern not so much because of his desire to have her as because her wingleader at Benden had grown tired of her irrepressible pranks and volatile temper. At any rate, he had her, and she was his problem now. "Now be quiet," he gently scolded. "Let's have something to eat."

The table before them was set for a meal. Bowls of thick stew, fresh-baked bread, fruits and wine had been set out. They had just started to partake when Betrella entered.

"Pardon me, Weyrleader," she began, bowing to the bronzerider. "Our visitor is awake and hungry. I wondered if you might like to have him eat with you?" She nodded respectfully to Mirrim, acknowledging her presence, a courtesy the Weyrleader deeply appreciated. Few others were willing to accept the greenrider.

"Certainly," T'gellan replied, his eyes bright with anticipation. "Please, invite Darian to eat with us. And bring in some of that shipment of Benden wine we got yesterday!"

As the headwoman left, he rose and walked to the outer weyr. Monarth stirred fitfully but quieted at his rider's touch on the soft nose. T'gellan walked to the ledge, peering to his right at the northern rim, brilliantly lit by the setting sun. He slid his arm around Mirrim, pointing to the dragons sitting at the Weyr lip. The young woman smiled with pride as she saw Regalth, Zarth, the black Astaroth and her own Path. The Weyrleader couldn't resist the chance to tease his mate. "Path isn't getting ideas about that black, is she?"

Mirrim reacted sharply, digging her elbow into T'gellan's ribs and pulling away from him. "Path has no interest in that freak!" she announced. "He's not much different than Jaxom's runt! And why is Zarth sitting with Regalth instead of Monarth?"

The Weyrleader resented her animosity toward the white Ruth, but he was having too much fun to be put off. Mercilessly, he pressed his advantage. "Oh, come now, Mirrim, Astaroth's at least twice Ruth's size. Besides," he chuckled, "his appearance is an excellent match for your temper."

He dodged the slap aimed for his head, spinning Mirrim completely around and pinning her arms behind her. From the Weyrledge, he could hear Path's irritated cry and Zarth's curious warble.

Mirrim continued to struggle as he pulled her against him, kissing her forehead. "Leave me alone, bronzerider!" she demanded. "Path is a proper dragon! Stop insulting her!"

He released her so quickly that she stumbled backward. Regaining her balance, she was about to continue when the odd expression on his face stopped her. He was looking at her with a mixture of sadness, affection and resignation. "I didn't insult her." With a despondent sigh, he turned and reentered the weyr.

A flask bearing the distinctive red and violet seal of Benden Hold was on a tray inside the service lift. He retrieved the container, pouring a cup of the bright red wine. Benden's vintages were the best Pern had to offer. It should have been saved for a more cheerful moment but he needed a drink now. He had enough problems without Mirrim getting thready on him. This morning's Fall had scored several dragons and riders. Kelth's slow recovery and inability to communicate had everyone upset, and yesterday's unexpected excursion by the black had at least one of the minor holders absolutely panic-stricken. The Weyrleader needed some rest, but it didn't appear that he was going to get any. A slight movement from the outer weyr made him look up.

Mirrim was standing at the entrance, staring contritely at him. "I'm sorry, T'gellan," she said quietly.

He shrugged, sighing. No matter how irritating she was, he would always forgive her. Her hold on him was almost as strong as Monarth's. Almost. "Sit down, love," he told her, gesturing to his side. "Let's eat."

From the tunnel, they heard voices approaching. "They can't have come all the way from the upper weyr," he remarked, "not that quickly."

"Unless," Mirrim reminded him, "Betrella's been mind-reading again. She knew you'd say yes, and they were already on their way when she asked you." Her eyes were wide and innocent, as though she didn't want to infer that anyone could be so devious.

T'gellan grimaced, trying hard to keep from smiling. He patted her hand. "No doubt," he agreed.

Betrella entered the weyr, followed by Darian, Selana and that unusual feline. T'gellan was under the impression that the cat belonged to Darian, not that you would know from the way it had attached itself to the healer. He noted with some amusement that the feline's entrance was greeted by the immediate departure of his mate's fire-lizards. The Weyrleader rose, extending a hearty greeting and introducing Mirrim. The lift from the kitchen started to squeak and rumble as the avion took a seat across from his host.

Selana and Betrella retrieved the food from the small opening, placing a sizeable portion of roast wherry, bread and jam in front of their guest, and platters of the meat and trimmings on the table. They poured wine for the trio, then excused themselves. T'gellan would have none of it.

"Stay and eat with us," he said, addressing the women. Mirrim's quick glance reminded him that it was highly unusual for the Weyrleader to invite cavernfolk to eat in his quarters. However, as unique as Eastern was, so was his relationship to the headwoman. He valued her insights, her advice and her company. As Benden was fond of saying, some traditions were long overdue for discarding.

"Thank you, Lord T'gellan," Betrella replied with a respectful bow. "but I can't. I have pressing duties in the lower caverns. However," she paused for impact, looking directly at Selana, "our healer hasn't eaten recently, and would be happy to join you."

Mirrim was about to reprimand the headwoman for her breach of Weyr protocol when a stern look from T'gellan silenced her. The Weyrleader turned with a respectful nod to Betrella, indicating with his left hand that Selana should take a seat next to Darian. "Of course, Betrella," he agreed, "thank you."

The headwoman bowed again then walked out.

"Why do you let her treat you like that?" Mirrim demanded. "You are Weyrleader and I am Weyrwoman. We should give her orders!"

"Betrella is knowledgeable and I value her opinions," the bronzerider explained. "I shouldn't have to remind you that your position here is unusual. You are my weyrmate, not my Weyrwoman." He cocked an eyebrow at her, but the thin set of his lips said he was in earnest. "You are not a queenrider."

She said nothing in response, but the flashing of her eyes told the Weyrleader that her anger had again been kindled. From outside, he heard Path's irate bugle.

Selana reached for a bowl, ladling a portion of stew for the avion. She hoped her activity would break the momentary tension. As she passed the rich broth to her left, T'gellan picked up a portion of the roast and began to eat.

Darian inhaled the meaty vapors rising from his bowl. The aroma triggered his dormant appetite, which now demanded satisfaction. He took a large spoonful of the stew, then quickly grabbed for the wine goblet. Eyes watering, he explained apologetically, "Hot!"

Mirrim glared at him, but her irritation quickly gave way to a giggle. She picked up a slice of the warm bread, dipping it in her stew before biting off a chunk.

T'gellan refilled the wine goblets. He swallowed the meat he was chewing, placing the leg portion on his plate. "You've been asleep awhile," he said, watching Darian attack the stew.

"So I've been told," his guest responded, "although I find it rather hard to believe." He took a slice of bread, spreading it with the fruit jam, and bit into it. His eyes caught the whitened streak stretching across T'gellan's face. Swallowing quickly, he asked, "What happened to your face?"

"A minor Threadscore. Nothing serious."

The sharp 'humph' from the bronzerider's left informed everyone that Mirrim disagreed with that assessment.

"Threadscore?" he asked with a slight mumble. "What's that?"

The Weyrleader nodded, locking eyes with the avion. Here was another question to be answered, or another several questions. He had to know what a Threadscore was. No one on Pern, especially not a healer, could avoid a painful awareness of the burning injuries inflicted by their mortal enemy. "A Threadscore. You don't know what Thread is?"

Darian shook his head.

T'gellan's eyes narrowed, a dubious frown on his face. "Thread is the silver spore that falls like rain. It eats anything organic that it touches. I didn't dodge fast enough."

The avion's puzzled "Oh," wasn't terribly convincing, but the Weyrleader didn't feel like pursuing the subject. He had another matter in mind.

"Your dragon gave us quite a run the other day," he announced. It had been amusing, he recalled, although a bit embarrassing, to watch the black outfly bronzes and browns like they were hovering. Only Zarth's clever use of between had headed him, but not before the holder was in a total panic and at least one herdbeast short. He smiled at his guest, feeling a wholesome respect for the strange dragon and his equally unusual rider.

Now Darian's eyes narrowed. His forehead creased and his lips drew into a frown. Placing his meat on the plate in front of him, the avion placed his hands on the edge of the table. "With respect, Weyrleader," he began, "why do you refer to Astaroth as 'my' dragon? I don't own him."

T'gellan shrugged his shoulders, a bit surprised by the reaction. After all, dragonriders were immensely proud of their animals, who were equally possessive of their riders. "I mean no offense, Darian. He's a fine dragon. We just assumed that you and he were weyrlings together. You were at his hatching, weren't you?"

The avion gave a short, harsh laugh. With an incredulous look, he answered the question. "Astaroth is nearly two hundred cycles old. I'm only twenty-four."

Silence fell on the gathering. Mirrim's mouth was open, her eyes fixed on Darian. Selana appeared shocked. Even the Weyrleader was frozen in place. For whatever reason, the blackrider mused, his revelation had carried quite an impact.

Behind them, Monarth roused suddenly, startled by his rider's reaction. His disturbed bugle was answered by several other dragons, rousing T'gellan from his astonishment. "It's alright, Monarth," he called out, "Go back to sleep."

'Are you alright?' the bronze requested, 'What's wrong?'

'Nothing,' the Weyrleader repeated. 'Get some rest.' Through the doorway to the outer weyr, he watched the great wedge-shaped head descend to a resting position. The massive tail slid across the dragon's nose, shutting out the sunlight and hiding the bronze's face from his rider. Behind that tail, T'gellan could sense, the great eyes were whirling.

He refocused on Darian, who had turned at Monarth's roar. Once more, the visitor had answered one question by posing another. The time to determine what was happening had arrived. "Then you're not impressed?" he continued.

Darian looked back with a scowl. This line of questioning was not only irrelevant, it was ridiculous. What did his age have to do with anything? How could anyone expect a living avion to have been around at a mature dragon's birth? "Of course, I'm impressed. He's an impressive dragon. But that has nothing to do with being around at his hatching."

The Weyrleader frowned. He felt his question was being avoided. There was an impatient edge to the next query. "I meant, aren't the two of you mind-linked?"

Darian nodded. "We're all mind-linked. That's how we communicate. It's normal for our species."

"Oh," Mirrim said brightly, "then you are impressed after all!"

The Cygnan turned on her with an expression just short of anger. These people didn't seem to want to listen. What was this big deal about being impressed, anyhow? "I'm not sure I understand the question," he countered. "Astaroth and I are the senior members of a quadriplex enforcement team. We're responsible for sectors three and four of the Timor Mountain Range and the Nandesal Plateau. All four of us communicate telepathically and empathically. It has nothing to do with being impressed with each other. It's just the way we are. It's normal on Cygnus."

The greenrider looked down contritely. She hadn't meant to offend the man. Maybe it would help if she asked about something he was familiar with. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry. Where is Cygnus?"

"Right now," he snapped, "I couldn't tell you. Where's Pern?"

The outburst was the first indication to any of them that he could become emotional. His irritation was genuine and intense, bringing the stalker to his side, ears back, fur erect, and fangs bared, growling.

No one spoke or moved. Minutes passed while Darian sat, staring into empty space. His hand was on the stalker's shoulder. The reassuring presence calmed the animal, which relaxed into an alert sitting position, watching everyone at the table. Finally, Darian released a long sigh. He reached for his goblet and drained it.

Selana immediately reached for the glass, hesitating when Loki growled. The avion's unspoken command settled the cat, and she proceeded to pour more wine. Across from her, T'gellan bit off a piece of bread, chewing thoughtfully. He saw the healer sip at her drink, eyes wide.

Mirrim started to rise, to be restrained by a strong hand at her elbow. She sat back down abruptly, wincing at her mate's strong grip.

He slowly looked from person to person at the table, ensuring that each was aware of his regard. Then he spoke, not as T'gellan, friend and acquaintance, but as T'gellan, rider of bronze Monarth and Weyrleader of Eastern Weyr. His tone carried every bit of the power and authority that title entailed. "Nothing that has been said in here is to be repeated," he commanded, "and nothing that will be said for the rest of this meeting will be repeated. Is that clear?" He looked directly at his weyrmate.

"Why do you..." Mirrim began petulantly, angered that he directed his icy gaze to her.

"Mirrim!" he cut her off. His voice was sharp, uncompromising. It was obvious that he would accept no dissension. Across the table, Loki growled.

The woman stared at him. This tone was long removed from her, especially from her mate. She gulped and nodded. T'gellan turned back to his visitor.

Each man lifted his goblet, considering the other. There was no need for confrontation, but both sensed they were on delicate ground. The Weyrleader spoke in a controlled voice. "Darian, I've travelled all over Pern. Except for some portions of the Southern Continent, the entire planet's been charted. There are no mountains named Timor, or any plateau by the name you just gave me." He watched the avion, who listened carefully, his emotions hidden behind an unmoving mask of a face. The stalker remained tense and alert, sensitive to the tension in the room. "Further," the Weyrleader continued, "we've never seen a dragon like yours, excuse me, like Astaroth. There are no legless creatures on Pern, at least there weren't, and we have no felines like this. Finally," he concluded, "none of us have wings. Except the dragons."

Darian stared at him silently. Realization of the immensity of what had happened was beginning to dawn on him. He drained his glass again, to have it refilled by the silent healer. "Then, where are we?"

"On Pern," T'gellan explained. "Where are you from?"

"Cygnus IV, the fourth planet of a seven-planet system in the constellation Cygnus. At least, that's what I've been told. I'm not a stargazer."

The Weyrleader nodded, accepting the response at face value. It left, however, the obvious question. "How did you get here?"

Darian shook his head, looking up dazedly. He started to drink, then set the wine firmly on the table. "If you don't mind," he said, "I could use some of that other drink you've been giving me."

"Klah," the bronzerider said, nodding toward Mirrim. Without a word, she rose and proceeded to the service lift, calling down for hot klah and four mugs.

The Cygnan looked up at T'gellan, his lips pursed in a grimace of deep thought. He was trying to comprehend how he and his companions had suddenly, without warning, changed planets. It was mind-boggling. "We were flying patrol over Timor," he explained. "Astaroth indicated he had heard a strange message, like someone in pain." He paused for a moment, his rapt audience listening closely. "We landed and called in Loki and Akira, to see if they had heard or seen anything. But it was only Astaroth. Then, everything was totally dark and intensely cold. I remember being dizzy, nauseated, and blacking out. When I came to, we were in the forest near that volcano and Loki was checking over that brown dragon... "

Darian stopped, noticing that his companions' attention was no longer on him, but that bronze and greenriders were staring at each other.

"Between? " Mirrim said, in a voice so soft it was nearly a whisper.

T'gellan shrugged, frowning. "Sure sounds like it."

"What are you talking about?" Darian interrupted. Something had triggered a strong reaction in his hosts. Their words gave him the impression they recognized something from his description. If they had any idea of what had happened, he wanted to be in on it.

"Between," the Weyrleader explained, "is the way our dragons travel long distances quickly. It's that disappearing and reappearing action that you saw your first night here."