“Then why is everyone leaving?” Jaxom demanded suddenly, jumping to his feet. For there was no one anywhere near the wobbling small egg.
The Ground was busy with riders urging their beasts down to help the weyrlings, or to escort guests of the Weyr back to their Holds. Most of the bronzes, of course, had gone with the new queen. Vast as the Hatching Ground was, its volume shrank with so many huge beasts around. Yet not even the disappointed candidates spared any interest for that one small remaining egg.
“There’s F’lar. He ought to be told, Lytol. Please!”
“He knows,” Lytol said, for F’lar had beckoned several of the brown riders to him and they were looking toward the little egg.
“Go, Lytol. Make them help it!”
“Small eggs can occur in any queen’s laying life,” Lytol said “This is not my concern. Nor yours.”
He turned and began to make his way toward the steps, plainly certain that the boys would follow.
“But they’re not doing anything,” Jaxom muttered, rebelliously,
Felessan gave him a helpless shrug. “C’mon. We’ll be eating soon at this rate. And there’s all kinds of special things tonight.” He trotted after Lytol.
Jaxom looked back at the egg, now wildly rocking. “It just isn’t fair! They don’t care what happens to you. They care about that Brekke, but not you. Come on, egg. Crack your shell! Show ‘em. One good crack and I’ll bet they’ll do something!”
Jaxom had edged along the tier until he was just over the little egg. It was rocking in time with his urgings now, but there was no one within a dragonlength. There was something frenzied about the way it rocked, too, that made Jaxom think the dragonet was desperate for help.
Without thinking, Jaxom swung over the wall and let himself drop to the sands. He could now see the minute striations on the shell, he could hear the frantic tapping within, observe the fissures spreading. As he touched the shell, it seemed like rock to him, it was so hard. No longer leathery as it had been the day of their escapade.
“No one else’ll help you. I will!” he cried and kicked the shell.
A crack appeared. Two more stout blows and the crack widened. A piteous cry inside was followed by the bright tip of the dragonet’s nose, which battered at the tough shell.
“You want to get born. Just like me. All you need is a little help, same as me,” Jaxom was crying, pounding at the crack with his fists. Thick pieces fell off, far heavier than the discarded shells of the other hatchlings.
“Jaxom, what are you doing?” someone yelled at him but it was too late.
The thick inner membrane was visible now and this was what had been impeding the dragonet’s emergence. Jaxom ripped the slippery stuff open with his belt knife and, from the sac, fell a tiny white body, not much larger than Jaxom’s torso. Instinctively Jaxom reached out, helping the back-stranded creature to its feet.
Before F’lar or anyone could intervene, the white dragon had raised adoring eyes to the Lord of Ruatha Hold and Impression had been made.
Completely oblivious to the dilemma he had just originated, the incredulous Jaxom turned to the stunned observers.
“He says his name is Ruth!”
CHAPTER XV
Evening at Benden Weyr: Impression Banquet
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IT HAD been like coming up out of the very bowels of the deepest hold, thought Brekke. And Berd had shown her the way. She shuddered again at the horror of memory. If she slipped back down . . .
Instantly she felt F’nor’s hand tighten on her arm, felt the touch of Canth’s thoughts and heard the chitter of the two fire lizards.
Berd had led her out of the Ground to F’nor and Manora. She’d been surprised at how tired and sad they both looked. She’d tried to talk but they’d hushed her. F’nor had carried her up to his weyr. She smiled now, opening her eyes, to see him bending over her. Brekke put her hand up to the dear, worried face of her lover; she could say that now, her lover, her Weyrmate, for he was that, too. Deep lines from the high-bridged nose pulled F’nor’s mouth down at the corners. His eyes were darkly smudged and bloodshot, his hair, usually combed in crisp clean waves back from his high forehead, was stringy, oily.
“You need cozening, love,” she said in a low voice which cracked and didn’t seem to be hers at all.
With a groan that was close to a sob, F’nor embraced her. At first as if he were afraid of hurting her. Then, when he felt her arms tightening around him – for it was good to feel his strong back under her seeking hands – he almost crushed her until she cried out gladly for him to be careful.
He buried his lips in her hair, against her throat, in a surfeit of loving relief.
“We thought we’d lost you, too, Brekke,” he said over and over while Canth crooned an exuberant descant.
“It was in my mind,” Brekke admitted in a tremulous voice, burrowing against his chest, as if she must get even closer to him. “I was trapped in my mind and didn’t own my body. I think that’s what was wrong with me. Oh, F’nor,” and all the grief that she’d not been able to express before came bursting out of her, “I even hated Canth!”
The tears poured down her cheeks and shuddering sobs shook a body already weakened by fasting. F’nor held her to him, patting her shoulders, stroking her until he began to fear that the convulsions would tear her apart. He beckoned urgently to Manora.
“She’s got to cry, F’nor. It’ll be an easing for her.”
Manora’s anxious expression, the way she folded and unfolded her hands, was strangely reassuring to F’nor. She, too, cared about Brekke, cared enough to let concern pierce that imperturbable serenity. He’d been so grateful to Manora for opposing a re-Impression, though he doubted his blood mother knew why he’d be against it. Or perhaps she did. Manora in her calm detachment missed few nuances or evasions.
Brekke’s frail body was trembling violently now, torn apart by the paroxysm of her grief. The fire lizards took to fluttering anxiously and Canth’s croon held on a distressed note. Brekke’s hands opened and closed pathetically on his shoulders but the tearing sobs did not permit her to speak.
“She can’t stop, Manora. She can’t.”
“Slap her.”
“Slap her?”
“Yes, slap her,” and Manora suited actions to words, fetching Brekke several sharp blows before F’nor could shield her face. “Now into the bathing pool with her. The water’s warm enough to relax those muscles.” “You didn’t have to slap her,” F’nor said, angrily.
“She did, she did,” said Brekke in a ragged gasp, shuddering as they bundled her into the warm pool water. Then she felt the heat penetrate and relax muscles knotted by racking sobs. As soon as she felt Brekke’s body easing, Manora dried her with warmed towels and gestured for F’nor to tuck her back under the furs.
“She needs feeding up now, F’nor. And so do you,” she said, looking sternly at him. “And you are to kindly remember that you’ve duties to others tonight. It’s Impression Day.”
F’nor snorted at Manora’s reminder and saw Brekke smiling wanly up at him.
“I don’t think you’ve left me at all since . . .”
“Canth and I needed to be with you, Brekke,” he cut in when she faltered. He smoothed her hair back from her forehead as if such an action were the most important occupation in the world. She caught his hand and he looked into her eyes.
“I felt you there, both of you, even when I wanted most to die.” Then she felt anger in her guts. “But how could you force me onto the Hatching Ground, to face another queen?”
Canth grumbled a protest. She could see the dragon through the uncurtained archway, his head turned toward her, his eyes flashing a little. She was startled by the unhealthy green tinge to his color.
“We didn’t want to. That was F’lar’s idea. And Lessa’s. They thought it might work and they were afraid we’d lose you.”