N’ton had always been Piemur’s ideal of a dragonrider: tall, with a really broad set of shoulders, dark brown hair slightly curled from being confined under a riding helmet, an easy, confident air reflected by a direct gaze and a ready smile. The contrast between this present Fort Weyrleader and his disgruntled predecessor, T’ron, was more vividly apparent as N’ton smilingly greeted the harpers’ apprentice.
“Sorry your voice changed, Piemur. I’d been looking forward to Lord Groghe’s Gather and that new Saga I’ve heard so much about from Menolly. Have you ridden dragonback before, Piemur? No? Well, up with you, Menolly. Show Piemur the knack.”
As Piemur attentively watched Menolly grab the riding strap and half-walk up Lioth’s shoulder, swing her leg agilely over the last neck ridge, he still couldn’t believe his good fortune. He could just imagine T’ron permitting a journeyman, much less an apprentice lad, to ride his bronze.
“See how it was done? Good. Up with you then, Piemur!” Sebell gave him an initial boost, and Menolly leaned over with a helping hand and a guide rope. It seemed a long way up a dragon’s shoulder.
Piemur grabbed the rope and just as he planted his booted foot on Lioth’s shoulder, he wondered if he’d hurt the dragon’s smooth hide.
N’ton laughed. “No, you won’t hurt Lioth with your boots! But he thanks you for worrying.”
Piemur was so startled that he almost lost his grip.
“Reach up, Piemur,” Menolly ordered.
“I didn’t know he’d hear me,” he said in a gasp as he settled astride Lioth’s neck.
“Dragons hear what they choose to,” she said, grinning. “Sit back against me. Sebell’s got to fit in front of you!”
The words were barely out of her mouth before Sebell had swung up with the ease of considerable practice and settled himself before Piemur. N’ton followed, passing back the riding straps. Piemur thought that a needless caution. His legs were wedged so tightly between Menolly’s and Sebell’s, he couldn’t have moved if he had to. Then Sebell peered over his shoulder at him.
“You’ll have heard a lot about between, I expect, but I’ll warn you now: it’s scary even when you know what to expect.”
“Right, Piemur,” Menolly added, circling his waist with her arms. “I’ve got you tight, and you hang on to Sebell’s belt.”
“You won’t feel once we’re between,” Sebell continued. “There’s nothing between except cold. You won’t be able to feel Lioth beneath your legs nor our legs against yours, nor your hands about my belt. But the sensation lasts only a few heartbeats. They’ll sound very loud to you. Just count ’em. We’ll be doing the same thing, I assure you!” Sebell’s grin absolved Piemur from any expression of fear or doubt.
Piemur nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He didn’t care what happened between. At least, he would have experienced it, which very few apprentice harpers could say.
Suddenly there was a great heave, and he cracked his chin against Sebell’s shoulderblade. Inadvertently looking down, he saw the ground moving away from him as Lioth sprang skyward. He could feel the great muscles along Lioth’s neck as the fragile-seeming wings took their first all-important downsweep. Then the Gather meadow and the Harper Hall seemed to rush away, and they were on a level with the Hold fire-heights.
Sebell gave Piemur’s hands, clutching his belt, a warning squeeze. The next heartbeat and there was nothing but a cold so intense that it was painful. Except that Piemur couldn’t feel pain with his body, only sense that his lack of tactile contact with reality included everything except the wild beating of his heart against his ribcage. Ruthlessly he clamped down on the instinct to scream. Then they were back in the world again, Lioth gliding effortlessly down to the right, a tremendous expanse of golden ground beneath his wings. Piemur shuddered again and kept his eyes fixed on Sebell’s shoulders. Hard as Piemur wished he wouldn’t, Lioth continued to glide downward, dipping sideways at unnerving angles. Suddenly Piemur could hear fire lizards chittering, and despite his resolve not to look around, found himself watching them zip about the dragon. “It is scary to look down,” Menolly’s voice said in his ear. “It’s worse when they…ahhhhh…”
Piemur felt his stomach drop and, to his horror, his seat seemed to leave the dragon’s neck. He gasped and clutched more tightly at Sebell, feeling the man’s diaphragm muscles move as he chuckled.
“That’s what I mean!” said Menolly. “N’ton says it’s only air currents, pushing the dragons up or letting them down.”
“Oh, is that all?” Piemur managed to get the words out in a rush, but his voice betrayed him. “All” came out in a two-octave crack.
Menolly didn’t laugh, and he felt more kindly toward her than at any other time in their association. “It always scares me,” she said in a comforting shout by his left ear.
He was just getting accustomed to this additional hazard of flying dragonback when Lioth seemed to be diving straight for the Igen River bed. He was pressed back against Menolly and didn’t know whether to clutch more fiercely at Sebell’s belt or relax into the pressure.
“Don’t forget to breathe!” Menolly was shouting and, at that, he barely heard her words as the wind ripped sound away.
Then Lioth leveled and began to circle at a gentler rate of descent toward the now-visible rectangle of a Gather. To the left was the river, a broad, muddy stream between red sandstone banks. Small sailing craft skimmed the surface on a current that must be swifter than the turgid surface suggested. To the right was the broad, clean-swept rock shelf that led up to Igen Hold, a safe distance above the highest flood marks left by the river on the sandstone banks. Behind Igen Hold rose curious, wind-fashioned cliffs, some of which made additional holds for Igen’s people, for there were no rows of cotholds adjoining the main Hold here. Igen Hold also had no fire-heights, not needing any since there was nothing but sand and stone around the Hold proper, to which Thread could do no harm. The lands that supplied Igen Hold were around the next bend of the river, where the waters had been led inland by canals to supply watergrain fields.
Piemur wasn’t sure that he would like living in such a barren-looking Hold, even if no Thread could ever attack it. And it was hot!
Red dust puffed up as Lioth landed, and suddenly Piemur was unbearably warm. He began to unbelt his wherhide jacket before he released the riding strap and noticed that Menolly was as quick to strip helmet, gloves and jacket.
“I always forget how hot it is at Igen,” she said, fluffing out her hair.
“The dragons love it,” said N’ton, pointing beyond the Hold to where the rough shapes that Piemur had assumed were rock now became recognizable as dragons, stretched out to bake in the sun.
It was as he was sliding down Lioth’s shoulder that Piemur noticed the curious construction of the Gather rectangle. There didn’t seem to be any walkway. The only open space was the customary central square for dancing. Though who’d have the energy to dance in this heat he didn’t know.
Then Piemur ducked while Lioth showered them all with sand as he vaulted into the air and winged to join the other sunbathing dragons. The fire lizards—N’ton’s Tris, Sebell’s Kimi and Menolly’s nine—swirled up and away and were met, midair, by other fire lizards, the augmented fair swirling higher and higher in the joy of meeting.
“That’ll occupy them for a while,” said Menolly, then she turned to Piemur. “Give me your flying gear and I’ll leave it at the Hold till you need it again.”
“We must pay our respects to Lord Laudey and the others,” said Sebell, bringing out a handful of marks from his pocket. He presented Piemur with an eighth piece and two thirty-seconds. “I’m not being stingy, Piemur, but you’d be questioned if you had too many marks about you. And I don’t think Igen Hold runs to bubbly pies.”