Tagath landed neatly quite close to the entrance to the Hatching Ground, deftly avoiding two groups of holders running in. A hum warned both Harper and dragonrider that the event was almost upon them.
Robinton slid down the blue’s side, thanking him and C’gan, then joined those streaming in.
“Over here, Rob!” F’lon roared, vigorously beckoning the Harper to join him on the raised section of the Ground where Nemorth was hunched. “I’ve been waiting for you!” Robinton could not fail to notice Jora on the other side of her queen, a large bulk in a vivid green gown which did nothing to hide her obesity or enhance what had once been a pretty face. He bowed ceremoniously to her and then to Nemorth, whose attention was on the small clutch of eggs in the centre of the hot Hatching Sands.
Jora gave him a nervous grin, her fat fingers making wet creases in the stuff of her gown. He always tried to be nice to her, knowing that F’lon gave her a difficult time.
“I was beginning to think you might not be at the Hall,” F’lon said, grabbing Robinton by the hand and shaking it so hard that Robinton exclaimed.
“I’ll need it to play for you, F’lon,” he said, pulling back his hand and making a show of examining it for injury.
“Yes, yes, of course, and you’ll make a song for my sons” Impression?”
Robinton did not laugh at the proud and eager father. F’lon’s emotions were so obvious: he was torn between the certainty that both his sons must Impress and the fear that neither would.
“Point them out to me, will you?” Rob asked. “Lads grow so fast at this time of their lives …”
“The two there to the left … See? In white of course, but Fallamon has my hair. And Famanoran resembles his mother. You remember Manora? The one who kept her head the night S’loner died?”
“They also resemble each other,” Robinton remarked, having identified the two by that more than by F’lon’s excited description.
“Well-grown lads.”
“Fallamon’s the taller,” F’lon added nervously.
“Relax, F’lon,” Robinton said. “They’ll Impress.” “Are you sure?” F’lon’s query was anxious.
“You’re asking me?” “Yes, I’m asking you.”
He really is asking you, Simanith’s voice echoed in Robinton’s
ears.
“Of course they will. How could they not, F’lon? Relax. Enjoy this moment.”
F’lon rubbed hands nearly as nervous as Jora’s. She kept peeking around her dragon’s neck and she certainly looked agitated.
Robinton felt more sympathy for the poor woman.
“Simanith says they will,” Robinton added mendaciously, glancing up at the bronze who was crouched on the ledge above his queen. Simanith blinked.
“He would know, wouldn’t he?” F’lon said and, at the first sharp cracking sound, took hold of Robinton’s arm in a vice-like grip.
Robinton tried not to wince, highly amused by the spectacle of the usually supremely confident, proud and aggressive Weyrleader in such a state.
“It’s a bronze!” F’lon cried, his hands tightening perceptibly on Robinton’s forearm.
“I’ll need this to play,” Robinton said again, peeling the drug-onrider’s fingers free.
“A bronze first is a good sign,” F’lon told him urgently. “There’re
only nine of them, you know.”
“Easy!”
The little bronze shattered its shell with a second decisive blow of its nose.
“Oh, well done!” F’lon cried. “Do you see that, Robinton?” Robinton nodded, but he’d also seen the expression on Jora’s flushed and frantic face. The outcome of this Impression was possibly even more important to her.
The little bronze creeled his hunger, nodding his head in a semicircle, then without another moment’s hesitation he lurched directly at F’lon’s two sons. Imperiously he butted the taller lad as the young boy stepped out.of the way.
“His name is Mnementh!” the boy cried exultantly, clasping the wet head to his chest.
F’lon let out a gasp that was as much a sob as a cheer. “He’s done it. He’s done it. He’s done it!”
Robinton was now seized by the arms and shaken, and dropped back on to his own feet in the next instant as F’lon ran across the hot sands to assist the newly Impressed pair.
Jora gave a mewling sound and tears streamed down her face.