The dragon veered northward, pivoting slowly on his left wing-tip. The dragons would soon have more important journeys to make. Clisser did observe the majestic snow capped mountains of the Great Northern Range, tinted delicate shades of orange by the rising sun. What Iantine could make of such a scene! Then abruptly all he could see was the black nothingness of between.
“What happens if you wear your fingers out?” Leopol asked Iantine.
The artist hadn’t even been aware of the lad’s presence but the comment - because Iantine was sketching the scene of the dragonets so fast that his elbow was actually aching - caused him to burst out laughing, even though he didn’t pause for a moment.
“I don’t know. I’ve never heard of it happening, though, if that’s any consolation.”
“Not to me, but for you,” Leopol said, cocking his head in his characteristically impudent fashion.
“I’ll miss you, you know,” Iantine told him, grinning down at the sharp expression on Leopol’s face.
“I should hope so, when I’ve been your hands, feet and mouth for months now,” was the irrepressible answer. “You could take me with you. I’d be useful,” and Leopol’s expression was earnest, his grey eyes clouded. “I know how you like your paints mixed, your brushes cleaned, and even how to prepare wood or canvas for portraits.” His pathetic stance could have persuaded almost anyone.
Iantine chuckled and ruffled the boy’s thick black hair. “And what would your father do?”
“Him? He’s winding himself up for Threadfall.” A discreet question to Tisha had produced the information that a bronze rider, C’lim, was the boy’s father; the mother had died shortly after Leopol’s birth. But he, like every other child of the Weyr. had become everyone’s child, loved and disciplined as the need arose. “He doesn’t half pay attention to me any more.”
Which was fair, Iantine thought, since Leopol had become his shadow. “Tisha?”
“Her? She’ll find someone else to mother.”
“Well, I will ask, but I doubt you’d be allowed. The other riders think you’ll Impress a bronze when you’re old enough.”
Leopol tossed off that future with a shrug. What he could do now was more important than what might be three or four years in the future. “D’you have to go?”
“Yes, I have to go. I’m in grave danger of overstaying my welcome here.”
“No, you’re not,” and Leopol looked significantly towards the lake where the weyrlings were having their customary bath. “And you haven’t drawn all the riders yet.”
“Be that as it may, Leo, I’m due at Benden to do the Holders, and that’s a commission I’ve been owing since I started my training at Hall Domaize.”
“When you do those, will you come straight back? You haven’t done Chalkin’s face like he really is, you know, and it isn’t as if you were doing anyone else out of a place to sleep.” Leopol’s face was completely contorted now by his dismay. “Debera really wants you to stay, you know.” Iantine shot him an almost angry look.
“Leopol?” he said warningly.
“Aw,” and the boy screwed his boot toe into the dirt, everyone knows you fancy her, and the girls say that she’s gone on you. It’s only Morath who’s the problem. And she doesn’t have to be. Soon as she can fly, she’ll have a weyr and you’ll have some privacy.”
“Privacy?” Iantine knew that Leopol was precocious but…
Leopol cocked his head and had the grace not to grin.
“Weyrs’re like that. Everyone knows everyone else’s secrets.” Iantine hung amid irritation to relief in the information about Debera and amusement that his carefully hidden interest was so transparent.
He had never thought about loving someone so much that their absence could cause physical discomfort. He never thought he would spend sleepless hours reviewing even the briefest of conversations; identify a certain voice in a crowded cavern; have to rub out sketches of imagined meetings and poses which his fingers did of their own accord.
He kept close guard on his sketch-pads because there were far too many of Debera - and the ever-present Morath. Morath liked him, too. He knew that because she’d told him she did.
That, actually, had been the first encouraging sign he’d had.
He had tried, adroitly, to figure out how significant that might be, as far as Debera’s awareness of him was concerned. He’d ask while he was sketching a rider, as if he was only politely enquiring about what was closest to his model’s heart anyway.
It appeared that a dragon could talk to an yon she/he wished to.
They did so for reasons of their own, which sometimes they did not discuss with their riders. Or they did. None of the other weyrlings, even the greens with whom Iantine was now quite familiar, spoke to him.
It was Morath who counted.
Not that the green dragon - who was the largest of that color from that clutch - ever explained herself. Nor did Iantine ask.
He merely treasured the immense compliment of her conversation.
She did ask to see his sketch-pad once. He noticed the phenomenon of the pad reflected in every one of the many facets of her eyes.
They’d been bluey-green at the time, their normal shade, and whirling slowly.
“Do you see anything?”
Yes. Shapes. You put the shapes on the pad with the thing in your hand?
“I do.” How much could a dragon see with that kind of optical equipment? Still, Iantine supposed it would be useful when Thread was falling from all directions. As the dragon eye protruded out from the head, it obtained overhead images, too. Good design. But then, dragons had been designed, though no-one nowadays knew who could have managed the genetic engineering. It was one thing to breed animals for specific traits, but to begin from the first cell to create a totally new creature? Do you like this one of Debera oiling you?” He tapped his pencil on the one he’d done that morning.
It looks like Debera. It looks like me? and there was plaintive surprise in Morath’s contralto voice. That was when Iantine realized that Morath sounded very much like her rider.
But then, that was only logical since they were inseparable.
Inseparable! That’s what bothered him most. He knew that his love for Debera would be constant, but any love left over from Morath for him could scarcely match his commitment.
Did it have to? After all, he was totally committed to his work.
Could he fault her for being equally single-minded? There was, however, a considerable difference between loving a dragon and loving to paint. Or was there?
Maybe it was as well, Iantine thought, tucking his pencil behind his ear and closing his pad, that he was going to Benden after Turn’s End. Maybe if Debera… and Morath were out of sight, they might also go out of mind and his attachment would ease off.
“You got your Turn’s End clothes ready? Need ironing, er, anything?” Leopol asked, his expression wistful.
“You did ’em yesterday, and I haven’t worn ’em yet,” he said, but he ruffled the boy’s thick hair again and, looping his arm over the thin shoulders, steered him to the kitchen. Let’s eat.”
“Ah, there’s not much to eat,” Leopol said in disgust. “Everyone’s getting ready for tonight.”
“They’ve been getting ready all week,” Iantine said. “But there’s bread and cold meats set out.”
“Huh!” Iantine noticed that Leopol had no trouble making himself several sandwiches of what was available, and had two cups of soup and two apples. He noted that he had no trouble eating, either, though some of the smells emanating from the ovens - and all were in use were more appetizing than lunch.
He intended to enjoy himself this evening.
Then Leopol, eyes wide with excitement, leaped from the table.