“If only they had asked!” F’lar looked upward at the fast-dwindling specks of dragons in flight.
“What was that all about?” Lord Warbret of Ista Hold hurried up to them. “Those last two were old or I don’t know dragons as well as I thought I did.”
“The mating flight was open,” F’lar replied, but Warbret was looking at D’ram’s anxious face.
“To old dragons? I thought you stipulated young ones that hadn’t had a chance at a queen before! I don’t see the point myself, in having another older Weyrleader. No offense intended, D’ram. Change upsets holders.” He gazed at the sky. “How’ll they keep up with the younger ones? That’s a gruelling pace.”
“They have the right to try,” F’lar said. “While we await the outcome, some wine, D’ram?”
“Yes, yes, wine. Lord Warbret …” D’ram recovered his composure sufficiently to gesture the Lord Holder to accompany him toward the living cavern. He beckoned to the other guests to follow, but his step was heavy and slow.
“Don’t worry, D’ram. That other dragon might have been quick off the mark,” Lord Warbret said as he thumped D’ram’s shoulder encouragingly, “but I’ve all the faith in the world in G’dened and Barnath. Fine young man! Splendid dragon. Besides he’s mated Caylith before, hasn’t he? That always tells, doesn’t it?”
While Robinton breathed with relief that the Lord Holder was misinterpreting D’ram’s concern, F’lar replied to the questions.
“Yes, Caylith had thirty-four eggs of her first clutch with Barnath. You don’t want a young queen to overlay herself, but her hatchlings were healthy and strong. No queen egg, but that’s often the case when a Weyr has enough queens. The bond of a previous mating can be a strong factor despite a queen’s captiousness, but you never know.”
Robinton noticed that the weyrfolk appeared to be somewhat tense as they served the visitors. He wondered how many had indeed identified the Southerners. He hoped no one blurted out their suspicions in front of the Lord Holder.
T’kul’s Salth must have flown his queen dozens of times and won her. He’d be a canny old fellow, all right, but all his cleverness would be no good if he couldn’t catch the queen in the first few minutes of flight. He simply wouldn’t have the staying power of the younger dragons, and possibly not even the speed for the surge to catch her up. He flew against some fine beasts. Robinton knew how carefully N’ton had chosen the four bronze riders to present themselves from Fort. Each had been wingseconds for Turns, men already proven in Falls as leaders with strong dragons. F’lar had also limited Benden’s three contenders to men well able to lead a Weyr. Robinton could only assume that Telgar, Igen and High Reaches had honored D’ram’s Weyr with good men. Ista was the smallest of the six Weyrs and needed a united folk.
He sipped at his wine, hoping his side would stop aching, wondering what had caused that unnerving pressure. Well, wine cured many ills. He waited until D’ram turned his head and then he refilled the man’s cup, catching F’lar’s approving gaze as he did.
Weyrfolk began to stop at the table now, greeting D’ram and Lord Warbret. Their obvious pleasure in seeing their former Weyrleader was a tonic for D’ram, and he responded with smiles and chatting. He looked tense but anyone would attribute that to understandable concern for the outcome of this flight.
Robinton had a puzzle to chew over: T’kul’s bitter words about the egg. “Why did you take back the egg? How did you find it?” Didn’t T’kul realize that someone from Southern had returned the egg? Then the Harper stiffened. No Southerner had returned that egg, for surely T’kul would have discovered the culprit by now.
Robinton began to hope fervently that neither of the two old dragons would die in their attempt to fly the young queen. Just like the Oldtimers to add a sour note to what ought to be a joyous occasion! Surely life in the Southern Weyr was not so unbearable that T’kul would cold-bloodedly allow his dragon to court death rather than continue there? Robinton knew the Weyr well; the setting in its own small valley was beautiful-a considerable improvement on T’kul’s dour, barren High Reaches Weyr. There was a huge well-constructed hall in the center of a flagstone court where no Thread could find grass to burrow. Food for the picking, wild beasts in plenty to feed dragons, ideal weather, and their only obligation as dragonriders to the small Hold on the coast.