Part two

By the next morning, the sky over the Weyr was perfectly clear and blue, as if the storm had never happened. Narjol had caught a few restless hours of sleep when he’d been relieved on watch, and woken wondering if the peculiar, dreamlike events of his patrol had actually happened. His foul-weather cape – hung out to dry on the washing line outside the watchhouse – was the only evidence that he’d been out last night at all.

He was last, again, to join the candidate party down the Bowl from the barracks. “You can’t keep being late, boy,” the Weyrlingmaster told him sternly. “You’ll arrive promptly to class each morning, or you’ll give up your place, do you understand?”

“Yessir,” Narjol said, and then, “Each mornin, sir?”

“Each and every one,” D’hor said. “You, especially, need to learn all you can about weyrlinghood, not being born to the Weyr.”

“But my duties –”

“Are secondary to your responsibility to learn the role of a weyrling.” D’hor gave him a sharp look. “While you’re a candidate, your forenoon belongs to me. And if the Chief of Watch takes issue with that, you may tell him to report to me, too. Now go and join the others.”

There was a new girl among the female candidates. Narjol wouldn’t have noticed, too dismayed by the Weyrlingmaster’s reprimand, but Hal did. “Seven girls now,” he said. “I don’t recognise her. Must be a Search.”

“They’re not meant to be Searching at all!” Basalgette complained. “The pool’s already too big!”

“D’sion says there isn’t an official Search,” said Vammers. “But we’re light on girls this time, so if a Search rider finds one by accident, they’re not going to turn them away.”

“That’s what Evie says,” said Svefen. “And she’s not even sure all the girls we’ve got now really want to Impress.”

“Good,” said Ben, the Headwoman’s son. “More for us.”

“You’re such a green lover!” Holned jeered. He was the smallest and youngest candidate, only twelve. And the most prickish, Narjol thought.

“Don’t be a fork,” Vammers told him. “I wouldn’t turn a green away if she wanted me, and neither would you.”

“I would,” said Holned. “I’m going to get a bronze.”

“If every candidate who said he was going to Impress a bronze got a bronze, we wouldn’t be able to move for shaffing bronzes,” said Svefen.

“Yeah, but there’s got to be at least three, haven’t there?” asked Zaffo. “The yellow with blue flecks, the round buff one, and the big silver.”

“Big silver’s mine,” Holned asserted.

“Any bronze worth his hide’s going to see you’re a ginger, and run as fast as possible in the opposite direction,” said Darvalen.

Holned folded his arms. “You can all go and get sore forks if you want, but I’m Impressing a bronze.”

“All right, lads,” the Weyrlingmaster said. “And ladies,” he added, glancing at the small cohort of girls. “Sit yourselves down and pay attention. We’re going to talk about the consequences of overfeeding a dragonet.”

“Why don’t anyone want a green?” Narjol asked Hal quietly, as D’hor droned on about dragonet gag reflexes. They were both sitting on one of the rearmost benches on the weyrling training ground, sweating in the bright morning sunshine.

“Not anyone,” said Hal. “Green’s just never going to be anyone’s first choice, is it? I mean, they’re girls, for a start, and they’re the smallest, and green riders can’t ever make rank.”

“Blues can’t neither, though, can they?” asked Narjol.

“No-o,” Hal said thoughtfully. “But a blue would be all right, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Narjol said, more to be agreeing with his friend than because he really meant it.

“Brown would be really good,” Hal added. “You can be a Wingsecond with a brown.”

“Doesn’t you want a bronze?” asked Narjol.

“Well, sure, of course I do,” said Hal. “But it’s like Svefen said, isn’t it? There’s never enough bronzes for everyone who wants one. And what if you spend the whole Hatching waiting for a bronze, and one doesn’t want you, and then you missed your chance for another colour?”

“Yeah,” said Narjol, gloomily. “Bet that’ll be me.”

“Nah, it won’t,” Hal told him bracingly. “Hey, you know that brown rider who’s really good at predicting Hatchings?”

Narjol didn’t. “Yeah?”

“I heard he reckons the clutch is going to hatch on the seventeenth or eighteenth,” said Hal. When Narjol didn’t react, he spread his hands. “That’s either my Turnday or yours! No way those dragonets are going to refuse us on our Turndays!”

“Does dragons know about Turndays?” Narjol asked, frowning.

“Well…no, probably not!” Hal shook his head. “Just – you know, buck up, Narjol! You have to believe in yourself. Holned’s a little squirt, but you can’t say he’s not confident!”

Narjol looked over the heads of the boys in the rows in front, thinking again about his patrol last night. “What does you think of the Weyrleader, Hal?”

“P’keo?” Hal shrugged. “He’s all right.”

“But what about him?” Narjol insisted. “Doesn’t you think he’s…you know…kinda…strange?”

“How would you know if he’s strange, Jolly?” Hal asked. “You ever talked to him?”

“Ye–” Narjol began, and then recalling the Weyrleader’s instructions, hastily amended his answer. “No, that is. Course not.”

“Bet you anything Nathronth won’t fly Cherganth again next time, though,” Hal said sagely. “They never do. One Weyrleader’s hardly got his knees under the desk before Fianine picks another!”

Narjol shifted uncomfortably. He’d gone to the Weyrleader’s office last night as commanded. The door was unlocked, but he still hesitated on the threshold, fighting with his instinctive aversion to being somewhere he had no right to be. At last, he gathered up the nerve to venture inside, though he winced with every illicit step. The Weyrleader’s desk was covered in haphazardly piled stacks of slates and records, and it was easy to tuck the little bit of hide underneath a big book that didn’t look like it was moved very often. He hadn’t read what was written on the scroll. The Weyrleader hadn’t said he could, and besides, Narjol didn’t read very well. Tirrol said a watchman didn’t need to, so long as he had a good sharp memory and could read his name and post off a rota. Narjol wondered if a dragonrider needed more letters than that. The Weyrleader certainly must.

The Weyrlingmaster completed his lecture and dismissed the candidate cohort back to their other duties – to general complaints. “Don’t we get to see the eggs again?” Bostrocke protested.

“Cherganth still hasn’t got the stink of unwashed boy out of her nostrils from yesterday,” D’hor said. “And none of you had better even think about trying to sneak in while she’s asleep. I’ve asked the Chief of Watch to put an extra patrol on, just to make sure no one tries it.”

“That true?” Hal asked Narjol, in a low voice.

Narjol raised his shoulders. “Was you gonna try?”

“Nah,” said Hal. “Not worth getting snapped at by Cherganth. Or worse, chewed out by Fianine.” He got up from the bench, stretching his legs. “You off duty now?”

“Nah,” said Narjol. “Gotta go relieve Yarling on gate.”

“Faranth, your dad works you like a shaft wher,” said Hal. “I just have to keep out of Liggary’s sight. I don’t want to spend another afternoon watching Renzy and Tal. I wish she’d remember I’m a candidate, not a shaffing creche mother!” He looked over in the direction of the female candidates, who were still clustered together. “That new girl looks nice, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” said Narjol, following Hal’s gaze. “Actually she looks kinda scared.”

“Yeah, well, she would be, wouldn’t she,” said Hal. “Chucked on a dragon. Coming between. I near peed my undies the first time I went between; didn’t you?”

“I’ve never went between,” said Narjol. “Never been on a dragon, neither.”

“Right. Wow.” Hal shook his head. “You have to be the only candidate that never did!”

“When’d you go?” Narjol asked, envious.

“Oh, a few times, with the caverns women,” said Hal. “For herb picking and the big wherry hunt at Little Madellon before Turn’s End. Renzy’s dad took me last time. How’d you get to the Weyr, then?”

“Rode in a wagon,” Narjol said. “Though Tirrol had me get down and walk some of the way.” He sighed. “I better go. Gotta figure out how to tell him I’m for the Weyrlinmaster every mornin till the Hatchin.”

“Good luck with that,” said Hal, making a face. Then he grinned. “I’m going to go talk to the new girl.”

Narjol made the same face back. “Good luck with that!”

Yarling, and another watchman named Menzies, were standing guard either side of the outer gate of the Weyr when Narjol arrived, tugging his indigo-and-black tabard on over his clothes. “There’s the lad now,” Yarling said, straightening from the slouch that an older watchman could get away with but that would have earned Narjol an irate cuff from the Chief. “Here, Jolly, take my pike.”

“Mebbe he knows more’n we does, hobnobbin wi’ riders in t’Weyr,” said Menzies. “’Ere, lad; ye heard owt about a missin dragon that ent missin?”

Narjol put Yarling’s pike on his shoulder. “How can a dragon be missin and not missin at the same time?”

“See, that’s what I tol’ ye, ent it?” Yarling said to Menzies. “Ye must’ve ’eard wrong.” He looked at Narjol. “Got trundlebugs in ’is ears. Best hope yer young ’uns be sharper! Now, what did ye learn ’bout yon dragins this morn, lad?”

Narjol considered it. He hadn’t really been listening to D’hor’s lesson. “They reckons there’s three bronzes.”

“That so!” Yarling chortled. “Well, ye keep that to yesself, eh, and mebbe I’ll make a bit or two wagerin on t’outcome, eh?”

The remainder of forenoon watch was uneventful, as most gate watches were, except on days with a tithe caravan or stock drive when there might be an unruly wagoner or drover to wrangle. Once relieved, Narjol went straight to the watchhouse mess for something to eat. His father was there, scowling over the roster. “Weyrlinmaster’s tasked me to put a man on ’Atching Ground overnights,” he said abruptly, when Narjol came in. “Like we ain’t stretched thin a’ready.”

Narjol quietly dipped out a mug of soup from the pot on the hearth. “I’ll do ’em, Chief.”

“I’ve you down forenoons.”

Narjol bunched up his courage, and said, “Weyrlinmaster says I’m to be at lessons every day, or I lose my place. I’ll take the night watches to make up.”

“And when ye gonna rest yer head, boy?” Tirrol asked.

Narjol straightened. “I’m young. I can get by on half sleep for a sevenday.”

“Aye, I’d ’ave it you can,” Tirrol grunted, and wrote Narjol’s name on the roster.

“Her name’s Schanna, and she’s from Crookpass Hold in Jessaf,” Hal reported triumphantly the next morning.

Narjol, who’d taken pains not to be late for once, was impressed. “She told you that?”

Hal deflated slightly. “No. I got it from Evie. They’re bunking together.”

“Where is the girls?” Narjol asked, looking around. Only the boys of the candidate pool had assembled on the training ground.

“In with the eggs again,” Hal said. He sighed. “And we still don’t get to touch them yet!”

“When does we get to?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Hal. “Vammers?”

“Probably a couple more days yet,” said Vammers. “Fianine doesn’t like anyone touching them until the last day or so.”

“That’s because of what happened at Ista,” said Basalgette.

“What happened at Ista?” asked Hopajan.

Vammers shook his head. “This old aunties’ tale again?”

Basalgette ignored him. “They always used to let their boys handle the eggs almost from day one. This one time, some candidates had some bad fish and died the sevenday before the Hatching. And when the dragonets hatched, two of them refused to pick a rider.”

“Faranth, what happened?” asked Fastrall.

“They died, didn’t they?” said Basalgette, with relish. “And not that quick. They wouldn’t eat or drink. They just got weaker and weaker until they starved to death.”

“Shaff,” said Zaffo, wide-eyed. “That’s horrible!”

“It’s also not true,” Vammers cut in.

“It is too!” Basalgette insisted.

“It’s not,” said Vammers. “That story’s been doing the rounds since my dad was a weyrling. It’s complete whershit.”

“It isn’t?” asked Darvalen, almost sounding disappointed.

“Dragonets can be fussy, but not to the point that they’d die before choosing someone,” said Vammers. “Though D’sion does reckon that some dragonets choose their riders before they’ve even hatched. Which would make it unfair on candidates joining the pool late, if the Weyrbred ones had spent the whole month pawing at the best eggs. And the late ones might’ve been a better match if not for all that contact with the unhatched dragonets.”

“Then they’re alive in there?” asked Narjol.

“Faranth, Jolly, how thick are you?” said Gemmarty. “Of course they’re shaffing alive!”

Narjol flushed. “I didn’t mean –”

“You think they just suddenly come to life?” Gemmarty mocked. “Like the eggs are just empty and the dragonets get into them out of between?”

“I just thought –”

“You are so thick,” said Fastrall, sniggering.

“Ah, shut up,” Hal told them.

“Everyone shut up,” said Vammers. “Weyrlingmaster’s coming!”

“Hey, is that – that’s Sh’ror with him!” said Zaffo.

“Look sharp,” Vammers hissed.

All the boys straightened up in a way that they never did just for D’hor as the Weyrlingmaster and Flightleader approached. The two riders made a strange pair. D’hor was a stooped, balding, grey old man who commanded more derision than respect from the candidate pool. Sh’ror couldn’t have been more different. The Flightleader was tall and broad-shouldered, with a runner-tail of curly red-blond hair, storm-blue eyes, and a quick, easy smile.

“Gather round, candidates, gather round,” D’hor said, and the boys elbowed and shouldered into a circle around the two riders. “You’ll notice that we’re honoured with Flightleader Sh’ror’s presence today. Can anyone guess what that means you’re going to be learning?”

“How to Impress a bronze!” Holned piped up.

Sh’ror grinned. “Sorry, kid. That’s something you’ll have to figure out on your own.”

“Any other guesses?” asked D’hor.

“Wrestlin,” Narjol muttered, though he didn’t raise his voice.

“What was that?” Hal asked.

“Wrestlin. Best wrestler in the Weyr, is Sh’ror. Tirrol says might be he’s best on Pern.”

“Well, shout it out, then!”

Narjol shook his head.

“Don’t be daft, Jolly!”

“You say it,” Narjol insisted

Hal sighed. “You’re such a watch-wher!” He raised his voice. “Is it – wrestling?”

“Who said that?” Sh’ror asked, looking around.

“That was young Frahaligger,” said D’hor.

“Frahaligger,” Sh’ror repeated, as if to commit the name to memory, and Hal beamed at the Flightleader’s recognition. “Very good shout.”

“Well, close, but not quite,” said D’hor. “The Flightleader is going to talk to you all about how dragonriders can best defend themselves.”

That elicited a positive reaction among the boys, many of whom swung their arms in readiness, or put their fists up, or aimed mock punches at their friends.

“So that’s why the girls aren’t here,” said Basalgette, fending off Zaffo’s jabs. “Gerroff, Zaf!”

Narjol looked at Hal. “Your name’s Fr – Fral…?”

“Frahaligger,” Hal said, screwing up his face. “Mum wasn’t sure who my dad was, so she gave me the longest, stupidest name in the Weyr, to cover all the possibilities.”

“Settle down!” the Weyrlingmaster shouted over the general volume.

“All right,” said Sh’ror. He looked around the circle of candidates. “Faranth, there’s a whole Flight of you.” His gaze fell on Narjol. “It’s Narjol, isn’t it? Tirrol’s son?”

Narjol ducked his head. “Yessir.”

“How come he knows his name?” Fastrall asked incredulously. “He’s just a watchman.”

“This young man’s father is the quickest out with a blade I’ve ever seen,” Sh’ror said. “If he has half his dad’s talent, you could all learn from him. Come over here, Narjol.”

Narjol obeyed, half proud at Sh’ror’s recognition of Tirrol’s skill, half self-conscious about being singled out.

“Don’t slouch, Narjol,” Sh’ror told him. “Stand up straight. Shoulders back. I know it’s not easy being the big man, at your age, but don’t be ashamed of it. Own your size. Don’t let it own you.”

Narjol tried to do what Sh’ror asked. It was oddly reassuring to be physically smaller than someone for a change.

“All right. You’re a dragonrider at a Gather, somewhere outside Madellon, and I’m some guy who’s just –” Sh’ror abruptly came at Narjol, clipping him with his burly shoulder and spinning him halfway round. “Barged into you. Right?”

“Yessir,” Narjol said instinctively.

Sh’ror’s demeanour changed instantly. He squared up to Narjol, scowling. “Watch where you’re shaffing going, you stupid fork!”

The sudden change made Narjol blink, but he’d been trained to stand his ground when challenged. “You walked into me!”

“I walked into you?” Sh’ror looked Narjol up and down. “Oh, you’re a dragonrider, are you? Think you’re better than me, do you?”

“Nosir,” said Narjol. He found he was sweating, both from the unexpected confrontation, and from knowing that all the other candidates were watching. “I didn’t do nothin, sir.”

“‘Sir’? Are you shaffing mocking me, you soft-handed little dragonman?” Sh’ror’s angry glare shifted to Narjol’s watchman rank knot. Sh’ror stabbed a finger into Narjol’s chest. “You’re one of those sissy green riders, are you?”

That provoked titters from the watching candidates. “I ain’t no sissy,” Narjol insisted, feeling his cheeks go hot.

“You won’t even defend yourself, will you, you shaffing coward!” Sh’ror barked. “Sissy. Coward.” And then Sh’ror slapped Narjol right in the face. “Dragon woman!”

Narjol just reacted. “Get your hands offa me!” he shouted, smacking Sh’ror’s hand away.

In a flash, Sh’ror seized his wrist, caught him in an armlock, and twisted so severely that Narjol went to his knees with an embarrassing squawk.

The watching boys whooped and hooted.

Sh’ror didn’t sustain the hold an instant longer than necessary. “Sorry, lad,” he said, releasing the painful armbar and offered Narjol a hand to get up. “I always like to make that point using the biggest candidate, and I knew you’d be able to take it.”

Narjol rubbed his arm, mumbling, “Yessir.”

The bronze rider clapped him companionably on the shoulder. “Go on back to your buddies, Narjol. Well done.” He looked around. “All right, boys. Narjol here is the biggest and strongest of you lot. So what’s the lesson?”

“Jolly’s a big sissy!” shouted Darvalen.

Sh’ror fixed him with a stare, and Darvalen withered. “Does someone else who isn’t too stupid to learn want to give me a proper answer?”

“That even the biggest and strongest dragonrider could run into someone who’s bigger and stronger,” said Vammers.

Then Svefen added, “Or a better fighter.”

“Correct,” said Sh’ror. He pointed at Holned. “Come here, kid.”

Holned swaggered up to him. His head barely reached the middle of Sh’ror’s chest. The big Flightleader leaned down and spoke to him. Holned nodded eagerly. Then Sh’ror took a step back. “This time, I’m the dragonrider,” he said, “and this lad is the holder who has a problem with me.”

“Dragonriders are stupid and you’re stupid!” Holned cried, and kicked Sh’ror hard in the shin.

“Think you can take on a dragonrider, boy?” Sh’ror grabbed Holned by the front of his shirt, lifting him bodily into the air with no discernible effort. “You little –”

And stopped.

Several boys gasped.

Holned had the tip of his belt-knife pressed against the centre of Sh’ror’s broad chest.

“Shaff,” Hal breathed.

Sh’ror set Holned back on his feet. The red-haired boy sheathed his knife and made an exaggerated bow to the other candidates.

“And this lesson?” Sh’ror asked, into the sudden hush.

“Even a stupid little brat could kill you if he’s got a knife,” said Des.

“Correct.” Sh’ror looked around the circle. “Some of you are big guys already, like Narjol and Frahaligger. Some of you will get big by the time you’re finished growing. When you Impress your dragons in a few sevendays’ time, you’re going to have a best friend who’s orders of magnitude bigger and stronger than you. And none of that matters a damn if some drunk holder stabs you because you smiled at his wife.” The bronze rider’s intense blue gaze met one pair of eyes after another. “Dragonriders don’t get into fights. Not with words, not with fists. We keep out of trouble, and if we find ourselves in trouble, we walk away. It doesn’t matter if your pride’s hurt. It doesn’t matter if you’ve been accused of being a boy-lover. It doesn’t matter if that illiterate, shit-shovelling, three-toothed peasant has just looked you in the eye and told you the Weyrwoman’s a filthy whore who’d open her legs for a watch-wher.” That got a couple of sharp intakes of breath. The Weyrlingmaster pursed his lips. Sh’ror nodded, grinning savagely at the outraged reaction. “I’ve heard worse. You’ll hear worse. And you’ll walk away.”

“But what if you can’t?” Narjol heard himself say it. He regretted it immediately as all eyes turned back to him, but he set his shoulders. “Chief says sometimes, no matter what you do, if there’s gonna be a fight, there’s gonna be a fight.”

“The chief’s right,” said Sh’ror. “Sometimes you can’t walk or talk your way out of a confrontation. That’s why you will learn to defend yourselves, with belt knives and with empty hands. But standing your ground will always be the last resort. Injured pride won’t kill you, but a knife in your gut will. Walk away. Run away. Hide if you have to. It’ll keep you alive, and it’ll keep your dragon alive. You’re all boys now, but when you Impress your dragons, you’ll become men and the one thing that every man understands is that nothing in the world matters more than keeping the ones you love, the ones who rely on you, safe.”

“All right, candidates, settle down,” said D’hor, over the burst of excited chatter that erupted when Sh’ror had finished speaking. “I said settle down!” he repeated, when they didn’t heed him.

“Enough, boys,” Sh’ror said, his voice rising over the hubbub, and that did make the buzz subside. “Listen to your Weyrlingmaster.”

D’hor put them into groups of four, and they spent the rest of the class practising how to break out of several common ways that someone might grab them by their clothes. Sh’ror walked among them, demonstrating and assisting, which made most of the boys more keen than usual to show off.

“See what I mean about how he’d be a great Weyrleader?” Vammers said, as Hal grabbed Hopajan by his tunic and Hopajan tried to break his grip.

“Why doesn’t he want to be, anyway?” asked Hal.

“Yeah, why don’t he?” asked Narjol.

“He’s a family man,” said Hopajan, bringing his arms up between Hal’s two-handed grip and striking outwards to break it. “I was in his weyr with a crew last sevenday. The pipes in his bathing room were leaking, and we fixed them. He’s got a weyrmate and a whole pile of little kids.”

“Why doesn’t he just put them in the creche like all the other riders do?” Hal asked, and then exclaimed, “Ow!” as Hopajan’s second attempt broke his grip.

“Well, he’s not Weyrbred, is he?” said Vammers. He grabbed the front of Narjol’s jacket. “His nephew’s the new Lord Holder of Kellad. So he thinks like a holder when it comes to family.”

“How do you know all this stuff, Vammers?” Hal complained. “You should’ve been a Harper!”

Narjol struck Vammers’ hands off his tunic with trivial ease. “Have you heard anythin ’bout a missin dragon?”

“What, missing from Madellon?” Vammers shook his head. “Why? What have you heard?”

Narjol lifted a shoulder awkwardly. “Dunno. Just that there’s a missin dragon.”

“I think they’d have noticed if someone had gone missing,” said Vammers.

“Yeah,” said Narjol. “Sorry. It’s stupid.”

“Pretty stupid,” Hopajan agreed. “You shouldn’t repeat every rumour you hear, Jolly.”

Narjol didn’t venture anything further for the rest of the training session. Afterwards, Hal thumped his back. “Don’t let Hop wind you up. He’s been at Madellon longer than you, in the lower caverns too, and he still doesn’t know much about anything.”

“Still knows more than stupid Jolly,” Narjol mumbled. “They ain’t never gonna accept me, is they?”

Hal made a face. Even he couldn’t deny that truth. “Well, you’ll just have to Impress a bronze and show them all up, won’t you?”

“Yeah,” Narjol agreed moodily, but he increasingly didn’t believe it himself.

Cherganth eyed Narjol sharply when he entered the Hatching Ground that night.

P’keo was with the Weyrwoman in the stands nearby. “I asked Chief Tirrol to put a man on,” he told her. “I know Cherganth detests having anyone on her sands, but I thought one watchman doing a round might keep any other visitors at bay.”

Fianine, Madellon’s fearsome Weyrwoman, glanced at Narjol’s quartered tabard and pike, then disregarded him. “Show me this list again,” she told the Weyrleader.

Narjol moved out of earshot, painfully conscious of not eavesdropping. If P’keo recognised him from the other night, the Weyrleader showed no indication of it.

The rocky walls of the Hatching Ground were full of dark crevices and shadowy holes, any of which might have been an illicit way in. Narjol made a slow first circuit of the huge cavern, shining his glowbasket into hollows and poking his pike into cracks. Cherganth watched him for a while, and then, apparently deciding that he was no threat, ignored him.

She was rearranging her eggs: rolling this one over, moving that one closer to the centre, banking more sand around a third. Narjol watched from the corner of his eye as the queen studied one of the biggest eggs for several long minutes, then passed it over without touching it.

He walked the perimeter a couple of times. He climbed the steps to the top of the stands and tried each of the doors to the lower caverns to make sure they were locked. He went out into the Bowl and stood there for a bit, peering into the darkness. Then he went back in and did it all again.

By his third circuit, the Weyrleaders had gone, presumably back to their weyrs. By the fifth, Cherganth was asleep. Around and around Narjol walked, alive to every tiny sound in the Hatching ground: the crunch of sand beneath his boots, the squeak of his glowbasket’s handle, the soft snoring of the queen dragon. It was the very early hours of the morning, late in middle watch. Narjol thought he was probably the only soul awake at Madellon, other than the watchdragon and his rider.

Cherganth’s dead to the world by this hour, the brown rider on watch had said, the night of the storm.

Narjol looked at the eggs. The queen lay curled around them as always, but a small group of them were quite far from her: three with speckled white shells, a round beige one, a spotty yellow oval – and the big silver egg.

He wiped the sudden film of perspiration from his top lip.

Who would know?

Moving almost without thinking, Narjol leaned his pike against the wall. He dried his sweaty palms on his trousers, one and then the other. He kept the glowbasket. It was dark, and he didn’t want to miss his footing and fall on an egg. The thought made him shudder.

Step by soft step, Narjol walked towards the clutch. The sand grew steadily hotter underfoot as he approached the eggs. His feet were swimming with sweat inside his boots, and he could feel dampness sticking his tunic to his back under his stiff heavy tabard.

Closer…closer…. If he reached out now, he could almost touch –

And his glowbasket went squeak.

Beyond the clutch, Cherganth roused.

In the instant between the queen’s eyelids slitting redly open and full awakening, Narjol ran.

He felt like he had a target painted on his back. He cringed at the thought of the queen’s fury, at the notion of her lungeing for him, teeth bared. He braced himself for her inevitable trumpet of rage at his sacrilegious approach.

It never came.

Narjol snatched up his pike, symbol of his right to be there – and turned, gingerly, back towards the clutch.

Cherganth was licking her forearm, perfectly at ease.

Narjol leaned on the shaft of his polearm, weak with relief, and resolved never to try approaching the eggs uninvited, ever again.

‘Cherganth’ by Chrisi S Baily

There was a palpable tension among the candidates the next morning. Boys were standing with their heads together in groups of three and four, talking in intense low voices.

“What’s goin on, Hal?” he asked his friend.

Hal was talking urgently with Basalgette and Zaffo. “Something’s happened,” he said. “It’s not good.”

Narjol thought of his near-miss with Cherganth and felt his face warming. What if she had noticed his intrusion after all? “Is the eggs all right?”

“It’s not the eggs,” said Basalgette. “It’s the candidates.” He motioned with his head. “Look.”

Narjol followed his gaze. A group of older boys – young men, really – he’d not seen before were standing near the Weyrlingmaster. D’hor had a record slate in each hand, and he was looking from one to the other and frowning. “Is they new?”

“They’re old,” said Basalgette. “That’s Pan, Vammers’ brother. His older brother.”

“And Barillion’s next to him,” said Hal. “The one who looks about thirty.”

“Why the shaff are they here?” Zaffo demanded. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, in high agitation. “They’re way too old!”

“Oh, shards,” said Basalgette. “Look. Weyrleader.”

P’keo was walking down from the lower caverns, looking sombre.

“Shaff,” said Hal.

“Shaff,” Narjol echoed.

“Settle down, boys,” D’hor called. “I’d like the following to step over here.” He consulted one of his slates. “Altonder. Holned. Mabbron. Narjol.”

Narjol stiffened at his name. He looked at Hal uncertainly. Hal spread his hands helplessly. “You’d better go.”

The Weyrlingmaster was still reading out names as Narjol joined the trickle of boys moving reluctantly towards him. By the time he got there, they numbered almost twenty, close to a third of the candidate pool. And as he glanced around at the other lads who’d been summoned, he realised that they had something in common. They were all young.

Zaffo came up next to Narjol, looking miserable. “You too?” Narjol asked.

“Yeah,” Zaffo said, looking anxiously back towards Basalgette.

“Attention on the Weyrleader,” D’hor told them.

P’keo folded his hands soberly behind him as he looked around the straggle of anxious boys. “Well, this isn’t news you’ll want to hear, lads, but I thought it only fair you hear it directly from me.” His gaze fell briefly on Narjol, and the Weyrleader frowned slightly, as though trying and failing to place him. “You’ll be aware that there’s an unusually large group of candidates this time, chiefly because there’s been a long gap since Cherganth’s last clutch. So long, in fact, that some the candidates who had only their first opportunity to Impress last time have recently passed out of the age of candidacy.”

He paused. The assembled candidates shifted their feet uneasily, glancing between themselves.

“There’s no easy way to say this,” P’keo went on. “The Weyrwoman and I have decided that some of those older fellows should be given a second chance at Impression.” He nodded in the direction of the cluster of newcomers. “A decent chance. And since you young gentleman are tender enough of Turns that you’ll still be of age to stand to the next clutch – well, I’m afraid we’ve decided to stand you all down from the candidate pool this time.”

There was an instant’s silence, a moment of speechlessness and sucked-in breaths – and then the angry cacophony broke out.

“What?”

“But that’s not fair –”

“My father promised –”

“Not fair!”

“They already had a chance –”

“Not fair, not fair, not fair!”

Narjol didn’t say anything. His face was hot with emotion, and he was grateful to his dark complexion for hiding it, but it was harder to keep his expression stoic. He held his breath until his chest burned. His stomach felt bruised, like he’d been punched. Beside him, Zaffo was slack-jawed with disbelief. Holned had burst into furious tears.

“That’s enough, lads,” D’hor said, in his thin voice. “I know you’re disappointed, but you’ll all have another chance in the future. Just not this time.”

Narjol turned wretchedly away. Maybe he’d never really believed he’d Impress a dragon, but for a little while, he’d been able to dream of it. Now he wouldn’t even have the experience of standing on the Hatching sands as a story to tell.

“They’ve cut you?” Hal asked incredulously, coming to meet him. “All of you?”

Narjol nodded dejectedly. Zaffo had flung himself into Basalgette’s arms, his shoulders heaving. Other boys were wiping away tears, or being consoled with pats on the back.

“All the young ones,” said Vammers. He looked torn between sympathy and relief. “Anyone under – what, fifteen? The twelve to fourteen-Turn-olds?”

“But you’ll be fifteen in a few days, Jolly,” said Hal. “Maybe even by the Hatching.”

Narjol just shrugged. “Still fourteen now though, ain’t I?”

“I’m going to tell the Weyrleader,” Hal declared. “It’s not fair!”

“Don’t, Hal, don’t,” Narjol said. “It’s not worth it. He might chuck you out.” Then he said, glumly, “I were never gonna Impress anyway.”

“Jolly!” Hal said, scrubbing his hands through his hair, visibly distraught.

His genuine distress made Narjol feel slightly, just slightly, better. “Anyway, it gives you a better chance, don’t it?” he said. “Just – when you got a dragon, will you let me have a ride, one time?”

“Yeah,” said Hal. He lowered his hands. “Yeah, course I will.” He sighed, his face a picture of unhappiness. “Faranth, Jolly. I’m sorry. I really am.”

It was a long and grim walk back to the watchhouse. Narjol spent the time trying to think how he’d tell his father the news. Tirrol would probably be pleased, he thought resentfully. He’d never wanted him to be a candidate anyway. He’d be happy.

But he was wrong. Tirrol was standing in the doorway of the barracks when Narjol got there. His weathered face was set in an unusual expression. “There you is, boy,” he said, when Narjol approached, and then, “Ah, son, I am sorry. I am.”

Narjol raised his head. “You heard already?”

“Bad news travels faster’n a dragon between,” said Tirrol. He clapped Narjol’s shoulder. “It’s shite, son. Gettin yer ’opes up and then dashin ’em last minute. Proper shite.”

“I weren’t gonna Impress anyway,” Narjol said, and then added, with the last shred of pride that remained to him, “prob’ly.”

“You ’ad a claim, Kistrinar’s uncle bein a rider,” Tirrol said. It was the first time he’d ventured any support to the idea of Narjol being capable of Impressing. “P’raps a slim chance, but either way, it’s no way to treat no young man doin ’is best.”

Narjol nodded mechanically. “Yeah.”

“Come on, lad, let’s take a bit o’lunch and a mug o’beer,” Tirrol said bracingly.

“Beer?”

“Aye, beer,” said Tirrol. “Never were a watchman that wouldn’t take a mug. You’re big enough an old enough to learn to ’old it.”

Narjol bobbed his head. “Yes, Chief.”

“And, lad, you’ll not need to stand that watch tonight in the ’Atching Ground.”

“Yessir,” Narjol said, and then, “I mean, nosir. I said I’d stand it and I will. Wasn’t because I were a candidate. Being cut don’t let me off my word.”

Tirrol regarded him with slow approval. “Aye, that it don’t,” he said. “Come now. There’s a mug wi’ my fine big son’s name on it. And we’ve yer future to discuss.”

Narjol regretted his choices later: both his stubborn insistence on taking the overnight watch in the Hatching Ground, and his subsequent decision to try matching his father pint for pint in the watchhouse.

He dragged himself out of bed just before middle watch with a pounding head and a mouth that tasted like a tunnel snake had crawled in there and died. The greasy bacon roll that a chuckling Menzies pressed upon him as he left for his patrol didn’t stay down long. Narjol threw it all up halfway across the Bowl. His only comfort was that at least he hadn’t puked on the actual Hatching Sands.

And it stung, being there. An afternoon of drinking with his father, followed by several soddenly oblivious hours of sleep, hadn’t given him much time to really think about the events of the day. He stayed as far away from the clutch as he could, and kept his eyes off the eggs, but as Narjol walked his solitary route around the Hatching Ground, with only the snoozing Cherganth for company, he had all the uninterrupted time in the world to torture himself with thoughts of what might have been.

“…light…think we’re almost…”

“…shut up, you idiot…”

“…you shut up…”

It was into morning watch, though still almost totally dark, when Narjol registered the snatches of conversation. He raised his glowbasket, peering around the dark Hatching Ground. But the puddle of light from his basket only went so far, and its brightness made it hard for him to see beyond that limited circle. He leaned his pike on his shoulder and closed the glowbasket’s aperture.

For a moment he was completely blind in the pitch-black Hatching Ground. And then a gleam caught his attention, the tiniest flicker of illumination in the darkness. Narjol turned to face that way, straining his aching eyes, gripping the shaft of his pike with urgent fingers.

And across the sands, not far at all from where Cherganth slept, two figures emerged from a crevice in the rocky wall, poorly lit by the faint shine of their own, very dim, glows.

Narjol froze. He hadn’t considered what he’d do if someone actually tried to get into the Sands during his patrol. In over a Turn of watches, he’d never dealt with a real intruder. If he called out a challenge, he’d wake Cherganth, and in the dark, who knew how a startled queen might react? She might harm herself. Or her eggs. She might harm him.

He started instead across the sand towards the bobbing light, first at a fast walk, then a trot, and then, as he realised that the intruders were already almost on top of the clutch, a jog.

“…there…the silver…”

“…I don’t think we should…”

“…don’t be such a girl, Zaff…”

“…what if the queen…”

“…fine…go back then…gimme the basket…”

“…don’t…gerroff, Holned…”

The light danced crazily as the two boys fought over the basket, shining off the curved outlines of the eggs that were perilously close to their struggle.

Narjol broke into a sprint.

And just as Holned – his distinctive red hair catching the flickering glowlight – shoved Zaffo hard enough to send him careening towards the clutch, Narjol dropped his pike and basket, got himself between the staggering boy and the clutch, and seized Zaffo’s shirt to arrest his fall.

As if in slow motion, Zaffo’s momentum carried Narjol backwards. Not even a full step. Just half of one. Just enough to make him throw an arm backwards for balance.

And the fingertips of his left hand grazed something round and smooth and warm.

He snatched his hand back, as if from the burning heat of a stove, lunged at Holned, getting hold of the front of his tunic, and snarled, “Who goes there?” in as low a whisper as he could manage.

“Shaff!” squeaked Holned.

“Faranth, Faranth, Faranth, Faranth!” Zaffo chanted.

“What the shaffin shaff are you doin?” Narjol demanded, shaking the two younger boys fiercely.

Holned squinted at him in the trembling light of the glowbasket that had fallen onto the Sands. “Jolly?”

“What are you doin?” Narjol repeated. “You can’t be in here! You was cut!”

“But don’t you see, that’s why we’re here!” said Holned. “If we touch an egg, that’ll make the dragonets want us! Like Basalgette said happened at Ista, ’cept we won’t be dead, we’ll be right here in the stands!”

“You’re not touchin no egg!” Narjol hissed. “No one’s touchin no egg! Not on my watch!”

“All right, all right!” Holned pawed at Narjol’s hand, to no avail. Clearly, he hadn’t learned much from Sh’ror’s lesson.

He let both boys go. “You’s both shaffin idiots!”

“Don’t dob us in!” Zaffo pleaded, his face slack with fear in the dim green illumination of the fallen glowbasket.

“Yeah, don’t snitch on us, Jolly,” said Holned. “You’re not gonna snitch, are you? You’re our mate, right?”

Narjol glared down at them, two Weyr boys even younger than him. Both just little kids. “I should,” he said at last. “I shaffin should. But I ain’t gonna. You just walk out and don’t come back. Don’t you never come back!”

“Thanks, Jolly,” said Holned, and drove his fist into Narjol’s shoulder. “You’re all right, you are.” He jerked his chin at the grimacing Zaffo. “C’mon, Zaf.”

Still confident, still entitled, Holned snatched up his glowbasket and marched in the direction of the faint starlit exit to the Bowl.

And tripped over the fallen shaft of Narjol’s pike with a yell and a full-face pratfall that brought Cherganth roaring awake.