“Lord Jaxom!” Lytol’s call from the Great Courtyard broke through the boy’s reverie and he ran, suddenly afraid that they’d leave without him.

It was only a green, Jaxom thought with some disappointment. You’d think they’d send a brown at the very least, for Lytol, Warder of Ruatha Hold, one time dragonrider himself. Then Jaxom was overwhelmed by contrition. Lytol’s dragon had been a brown and it was well known that half a man’s soul left him when his dragon died and he remained among the living.

The green’s rider grinned a welcome as Jaxom scrambled up the extended leg.

“Good morning, Jeralte,” he said, slightly startled because he’d played in the Lower Caves with the young man only two Turns back. Now he was a full-fledged rider.

“J’ralt, please, Lord Jaxom,” Lytol corrected his ward.

“That’s all right, Jaxom,” J’ralt said and looped the riding belt deftly around Jaxom’s waist.

Jaxom wanted to sink; to be corrected by Lytol in front of Jer – J’ralt, and not to remember to use the honorific contraction! He didn’t enjoy the thrill of rising, a-dragonback over the great towers of Ruatha Hold, of watching the valley, spread out like a wall hanging under the dragon’s sinuous green neck. But as they circled, Jaxom had to balance himself against the dragon’s unexpectedly soft hide, and the warmth of that contact seemed to ease his inner misery. Then he saw the line of weeders in the fields and knew that they must be looking up at the dragon. Did those bullying Hold boys know that he, Jaxom, Lord of Ruatha, was a-dragon-back? Jaxom was himself again.

To be a dragonman was surely the most wonderful thing in the world. Jaxom felt a sudden wave of overwhelming pity for Lytol who had had this joy and – lost it, and now must suffer agonies to ride another’s beast. Jaxom looked at the rigid back in front of him, for he was sandwiched between the two men, and wished that he might comfort his Warder. Lytol was always fair, and if he expected Jaxom to be perfect, it was because Jaxom must be perfect to be the Lord of Ruatha Hold. Which was no little honor, even if it wasn’t being a dragonrider.

Jaxom’s reflections were brought to an abrupt stop as the dragon took them between.

You count to three slowly, Jaxom told his frantic mind as he lost all sense of sight and sound, of contact, even of the soft dragon hide beneath his hands. He tried to count and couldn’t. His mind seemed to freeze, but just as he was about to shriek, they burst out into the late afternoon, over Benden Weyr. Never had the Bowl seemed so welcome, with its high walls softened and colored by the lambent sun. The black maws of the individual weyrs, set in the face of the inner wall, were voiceless mouths, greeting him all astonished.

As they circled down, Jaxom spotted bronze Mnementh, surely the hugest dragon ever hatched, lounging on the ledge to the queen’s weyr. She’d be in the Hatching Ground, Jaxom knew, for the new clutch was still hardening on the warm sands. There’d be another Impression soon. And there was a golden queen egg in the new clutch. Jaxom had heard that another Ruathan girl had been one of those chosen on Search. Another Ruathan Weyrwoman, he was positive His Hold had bred up more Weyrwomen . . . Mardra, of course, was nowhere near as important as Lessa or Moreta, but she had come from Ruatha. She’d some real funny notions about the Hold. She always annoyed Lytol. Jaxom knew that, because the twitch in his Warder’s cheek would start jumping. It didn’t when Lessa visited. Except that lately Lessa had stopped coming to Ruatha Hold.

The young Lord of Ruatha spotted Lessa now, as they circled again to bring the queen’s weyr in flight line. She and F’lar were on the ledge. The green called, answered by Mnementh’s bass roar. A muffled bellow reverberated through the Weyr. Ramoth, the queen, took notice of their arrival.

Jaxom felt much better, particularly when he also caught sight of a small figure, racing across the Bowl floor to the stairs up to the queen’s weyr. Felessan. His friend. He hadn’t seen him in months. Jaxom didn’t want the flight to end but he couldn’t wait to see Felessan.

Jaxom was nervously conscious of Lytol’s critical eyes as he made his duty to the Weyrwoman and to Weyrleader. He’d rehearsed words and bows often enough. He ought to have it down heart-perfect, yet he heard himself stammering out the traditional words and felt the fool.

“You came, you came. I told Gandidan you’d come,” cried Felessan, dashing up the steps, two at a time. He clearly knocked Jaxom down with his antics. Felessan was three Turns his junior but he was of the dragonfolk, and even if Lessa and F’lar had turned their son over to a foster mother, he ought to have more manners. Maybe what Mardra was always carping about was true. The new weyrmen had no manners.

In that instant, as if the younger boy sensed his friend’s disapproval, he drew himself up and, still all smiles, bowed with commendable grace to Lytol,

“Good afternoon to you, Lord Warder Lytol. And thank you for bringing Lord Jaxom. May we be excused?”

Before any adult could answer, Felessan had Jaxom by the hand and was leading him down the steps.

“Stay out of trouble, Lord Jaxom,” Lytol called after them.

“There’s little trouble they can get into here,” Lessa laughed.

“I had the entire Hold mustered this morning, only to find him in the bowels of the Hold itself, where a rock-fall . . .”

Now why did Lytol have to tell Lessa? Jaxom groaned to himself, with a flash of his previous discontent.

“Did you find anything?” Felessan demanded as soon as they were out of earshot.

“Find anything?”

“Yes, in the bowels of the Hold.” Felessan’s eyes widened and his voice took on Lytol’s inflections.

Jaxom kicked at a rock, pleased by the trajectory and the distance it flew. “Oh, empty rooms, full of dust and rubbish. An old tunnel that led nowhere but an old slide. Nothing great.”

“C’mon, Jax.”

Felessan’s sly tone made Jaxom look at him closely.

“Where?”

“I’ll show you.”

The weyrboy led Jaxom into the Lower Cavern, the main chamber with a vaulting roof where the Weyr met for sociability and evening meals. There was a smell of warm bread and simmering meats. Dinner preparations were well along, tables set and women and girls bustling about, making pleasant chatter. As Felessan veered past a preparation table, he snatched up a handful of raw roots.

“Don’t you dare spoil your dinner, you young wher-whelp,” cried one of the women, swinging at the retreating pair with her ladle. “And a good day to you, Lord Jaxom,” she added.

The attitude of the weyrfolk toward himself and Felessan never failed to puzzle Jaxom. Why, Felessan was just as important as a Lord Holder, but he wasn’t always being watched, as if he might break apart or melt.

“You’re so lucky,” Jaxom sighed as he accepted his share of Felessan’s loot.

“Why?” the younger boy asked, surprised.

“You’re – you just are, that’s all.”

Felessan shrugged, chomping complacently on the sweet root. He led Jaxom out of the Main Cavern and into the inner one, which was actually not much smaller, though the ceiling was lower. A wide, banistered ledge circled the Cavern a half-dragonlength above the floor, giving access to the individual sleeping rooms that ringed the height. The main floor was devoted to other homey tasks. No one was at the looms now, of course, with dinner being prepared, nor was anyone bathing at the large pool to one side of the Cavern, but a group of boys Felessan’s age were gathered by the miggsy circle. One boy made a loud, meant-to-be-over-heard remark which was fortunately lost in the obedient loud cackles of laughter from the others.

“C’mon, Jaxom. Before one of those baby boys wants to tag along,” Felessan said.

“Where are we going?”

Felessan shushed him peremptorily, looking quickly over his shoulder to see if they were being observed. He walked very fast, making Jaxom lengthen his stride to keep up.