Part three

“Did either of you actually touch the eggs?”

“Weyrwoman –” Narjol began

“I didn’t ask you, Watch,” Fianine told him curtly. She hadn’t taken her eyes off Holned and Zaffo, shifting her angry gaze from one boy to the other. “I want to hear what these two have to say for themselves. Well? Zaffolde? Holned? Did you?”

“No,” said Zaffo.

“Yeah,” said Holned, at the same instant, and then threw a contemptuous glance at the other boy. “I did.”

The Weyrleader hurried in at that moment, looking dishevelled, as if he’d been rudely awoken from sleep – which, Narjol supposed, he probably had. “What’s all this about?” he asked, looking around the Weyrwoman’s office, to which the two offending boys – and Narjol himself – had been marched by a furious Fianine.

“These two little snakes invited themselves into the Hatching Ground,” the Weyrwoman said. “At night! When Cherganth was sleeping!” He nostrils flared with contained rage.

Narjol could’ve sworn he saw a grin crook the corner of P’keo’s mouth for just an instant before the Weyrleader put his hand up to rub his chin gravely. “Well, that won’t do, will it?” he said, fixing the two offenders with a stern look. “That won’t do at all.”

“We wouldn’t’ve had to if you hadn’t cut us from the pool,” Holned insisted.

P’keo turned his attention to Narjol. “And what about you, Watch?” The Weyrleader frowned, then looked more closely. “I say – you were a candidate, too, weren’t you?”

“What?” Fianine asked sharply.

“Yes, yes, you were!” P’keo exclaimed. “I thought I recognised you yesterday when I addressed the pool, but I didn’t make the connection, out of your tabard!”

“Then this one was in cahoots with the other two?” the Weyrwoman demanded.

“No, ma’am –”

“Did you let Holned and Zaffolde into the Hatching Ground?” asked P’keo.

“Nosir,” said Narjol, indignant. “I would never.”

“Did you contrive to get the night patrol so you could turn a blind eye to their invasion?” Fianine snapped.

“No, ma’am,” said Narjol.

“He didn’t,” Holned piped up. “I didn’t even know he was there until he nabbed –”

“Be silent!” Fianine told him, and the boy gulped and shut up.

P’keo was looking at Narjol with a furrowed brow. “You’ve been patrolling the Hatching Ground the last two nights, haven’t you, son?”

“Yessir, I have, sir,” said Narjol.

“And during your patrols, did you – hmm – did you happen to touch one of Cherganth’s eggs?”

“Faranth’s teeth,” Fianine swore.

Narjol straightened his shoulders. He looked first P’keo and then Fianine straight in the eye, as his father had taught he should when reporting. “Nosir. No, ma’am.”

“Well, then –” P’keo began.

And then, despite himself, Narjol blurted, “’Cept…”

Fianine raked him with her withering glare. “Except what?”

“When I grabbed Zaffo,” said Narjol. “He pushed me back a step. I put my hand out. For balance, like.” He hesitated, feeling like a trundlebug writhing on a pin beneath the Weyrwoman’s piercing eye. “I think…I think I mighta brushed an egg. Not on purpose. On accident.”

“Faranth, Jolly!” Holned breathed, half in horror, half in envy.

“Brushed,” Fianine repeated. “You didn’t deliberately lay your hands on it. You didn’t concentrate on it?”

“No, ma’am,” said Narjol. “I grabbed my hand away soon as I realised.”

“And which egg was this?” the Weyrwoman asked.

He shook his head. “I dunno. It were dark. I couldn’t rightly see.”

Weyrwoman and Weyrleader exchanged a look.

“Cherganth says her eggs have taken no harm,” Fianine said, sounding fractionally mollified. “And if it was accidental contact, not intentional –”

P’keo did something strange then. He mouthed something silently. Narjol wasn’t sure, but he thought it looked like make eggs action forty watchman.

Then the Weyrleader said, “I think, perhaps, better safe than sorry, Fianine.”

Fianine blinked. “What?”

“Even if the contact was inadvertent, the dragonets are very close to Hatching now, and this is the first time they’ve been exposed to a male prospect.” Then P’keo went on, as if lighting on a new argument, “And with the young watchman – what’s your name, son?”

“Narjol,” he said, wondering why the Weyrleader didn’t remember him from the night of the storm.

“With young Narjol here having been in the Hatching Ground the last couple of nights,” P’keo continued, “if any candidate has come to the attention of a nascent dragonet, it would surely be him.”

Fianine looked Narjol up and down. “Why was he cut from the pool?”

“D’hor had listed him among the youngsters,” said P’keo.

“Youngsters?” Fianine repeated incredulously. “He’s surely not underage!” She stared at Narjol. “How old are you, Watch?”

“I’m fourteen, ma’am,” he said, “though I’ll be fifteen, day after tomorrow.”

“The day after tomorrow!” P’keo exclaimed. “Faranth’s teeth, why didn’t you say so?” He looked at Fianine. “I did wonder at this young man being cut, well-grown as he is. D’hor adhered to the letter of the cut-off age, but not the spirit, I’m guessing.”

“So it would seem,” she agreed, in a chilly tone that made Narjol feel sorry for the Weyrlingmaster.

“Well,” said P’keo, jovially. “I think that’s settled, then. Narjol, you’re reinstated. Can’t run the risk that the egg you happened to touch might have your dragon inside, eh?”

“N-no, sir,” Narjol stammered, unable to believe his luck.

“And as for you two scoundrels,” the Weyrleader went on, frowning at Zaffo and Holned.

“Yes, sir?” Holned asked, sitting up straight with hope shining on his face.

P’keo looked at Fianine. “Total exclusion from the Hatching Ground.”

“What?” Holned wailed.

“You’ll be confined nearby,” the Weyrleader went on relentlessly. “If a dragonet won’t take anyone else, and it seems like you have had an influence, you’ll be brought in front of it. Otherwise, you’re banned from the Hatching.”

“But –”

“Shut up, Holned,” Zaffo hissed, elbowing the younger boy in the ribs.

“And your foster-mothers will be instructed to apply any punishment they see fit,” P’keo continued. He looked at Fianine. “Right, Weyrwoman?”

Fianine was frowning slightly, her gaze focused on some indistinct middle-distance. “They’re early.”

“Weyrwoman?” P’keo repeated, and then exclaimed, “Oh!”

Narjol looked at Holned and Zaffo. “What is it?”

Zaffo shrugged, as puzzled as he, but Holned cocked his head, listening.

“Oh, no,” he cried, distraught. “They’re humming!”

“Who’s humming?”

“Watch,” said P’keo. “Candidate Narjol, that is.” His round face had flushed with sudden anticipation. “Report to the Weyrlingmaster. Take these two reprobates with you and he’ll tell you where to put them. Then you’d best make your preparations.”

“But what for, sir?” Narjol asked, bewildered.

“The Hatching, son,” said P’keo. “The dragons are humming. The eggs will have hatched by the end of the day.”

“Shaffing Void, Jolly!” Hal shouted, and almost knocked Narjol over, jumping on his back. “You’re in the pool and the eggs are Hatching! This is the best day ever!”

From the dirty looks some of the other candidates threw at Narjol when they arrived on the training ground, Hal was in the minority. Basalgette, devastated by Zaffo’s exclusion not only from the pool but from the entire Hatching, wouldn’t talk to him. But Vammers came to congratulate him on his reinstatement, and Narjol thought that was good of him. If Vammers didn’t Impress this time, neither he nor his older brother Pan would have another chance.

The Weyr had been seething with activity since dawn. Cherganth’s clutch hadn’t been expected for several more days, and nothing was ready. Most of the candidates – Narjol included – didn’t even have robes, and half the Weyr had been pressed into service washing dishes and setting tables in the dining hall. “It’s a bloodbath down at the butchery,” Pettra reported with a shudder. “And not just because of all the meat they’re preparing for the dragonets. It’s all the extra animals they’re having to slaughter to feed the guests. It’s awful.”

“At least there aren’t many coming who’ve got candidates on the Sands,” said Svefen.

“My mum’s coming, and my aunt,” said Hopajan.

“T’reno said he’d go and get my mum and my little sister,” said Schanna.

“Haven’t you got a mum somewhere, Jolly?” asked Vammers.

“She died,” Narjol said. “It were her uncle K’stey who was –”

“A brown rider at the Peninsula,” Hal and Svefen chorused.

Narjol flushed. “Well, he was.”

“Sorry about your mum, Jolly,” said Evie.

He flushed even more. The girls didn’t often talk to him. He didn’t have much experience of women at all, truth be told. The watchhouse was an entirely male domain, though some of the men had families in the Weyr proper.

“How much longer?” Bostrocke complained.

“Not long, I don’t think,” said Vammers. “Last time the humming started around dinnertime and the eggs Hatched just before middle watch. Everyone was half asleep.”

Liggary, Hal’s mother, came through the door, followed by a procession of other lower caverns women, each carrying a heaped laundry basket. “Here you are, boys and girls,” she announced, setting down her burden. “Robes!” She took one from under her arm. “Frahaligger, I’ve yours here.”

Hal looked embarrassed as she held the robe up against him. “All right, mum,” he complained. “Don’t make a fuss.”

“Oh, nonsense,” she told him. “You only stand at your first Impression once.”

“Well, what about Jolly?” Hal asked. “It’s his first too.”

Liggary frowned at Narjol. “Shells, you are a big chap, aren’t you? I’m not sure we have anything in your size.” She fished a tape from her pocket. “Come here. I’ll take your measurements.”

“You needn’t,” Narjol objected, embarrassed.

“Don’t be silly,” said Liggary. “You can’t go out on the Hatching Sands with those great hairy knees on show, can you? Now stand still.”

Narjol obeyed, keeping as motionless as possible while Liggary measured him, though it was weird and uncomfortable being touched by a woman, even one as old as Hal’s mother.

“There,” she said. “Give me half an hour and I’ll run something up for you.”

“Thanks,” Narjol said, ducking his head awkwardly. When Liggary had bustled off, he said, “Your mum’s really nice, Hal.”

Hal shrugged. “She’s all right. Glad I’m a candidate, or I’d be up to my neck in vegetable peelings by now!”

Some of the boys were stripping off to put on their robes, to the general disgust of the female candidates. “Come on, ladies,” said Evie, putting her arms around Schanna and Wiklia, the two Searched girls. “I think we should go somewhere a bit more private and less – urgh – sweaty, to get dressed for the Hatching.”

The girls, now numbering nine with the addition of Pettra, who was almost twenty Turns old, and Rinely who’d apparently been persuaded to stand at the last minute, trooped off after Evie.

It grew warmer as the bright summer day wore on, and the boys sitting on the training ground benches perspired in the sun. Narjol sweated more than most in his regular clothes. The Weyrlingmaster came to do a headcount. “Where’s your robe, boy?” he queried, sounding agitated.

“Liggary said she’d make one for me,” said Narjol.

“Well, she’d better be quick about it,” said D’hor. “You can’t go on the Sands like that!” He snatched a robe from the picked-over basket and thrust it at him. “Can’t you wear this?”

Narjol held the garment up against himself. It barely reached to mid-thigh. He looked at the Weyrlingmaster mutely.

“At least the dragonets would be able to see you’re a boy,” Gemmarty snickered.

D’hor raised his hands in frustration. “Go and find Liggary,” he told him. “See what’s taking her so long.”

“I’ll come with you,” Hal volunteered.

They headed across the Bowl at a jog: past the weyrling barracks, where a veritable Wing of caverns women were going in and out with mops and buckets and bales of bed linen; past the Hatching Cavern, where dragons were landing, dropping off passengers, and taking off again in a constant stream. “C’mon, there’s a quick way,” Hal said, and led Narjol through a series of storerooms and workshops until they emerged at the sewing room.

“Oh, boys, I was just about to bring this out to you!” Liggary exclaimed, rising from her table. She held out an armful of white fabric. “Pop this on, Narjol, and see if I’ve got the length right. I didn’t have time to baste in the sleeves, but you probably won’t mind showing off those big strong arms of yours.”

Narjol pulled off his shirt and tugged the robe over his head. It fell past his knees, affording him substantially more modesty than the one D’hor had made him try.

Liggary tugged at the hem and pinched some excess fabric at the waist. “I made it a bit big – let’s cinch you in so you don’t look like you’re wearing an entire bedsheet.”

“It does look kind of baggy,” Hal laughed.

Liggary rummaged about and came up with a sash in light grey. “Not white, but I think it’ll do,” she said, tying it around Narjol’s waist and blousing the robe over it. She stepped back to assess her handiwork. “There.” She took him by the shoulders and turned him towards the long mirror on the wall. “How’s that?”

Narjol looked at his reflection. The person looking back at him was…imposing. His arms did look big and muscly in the sleeveless robe, and the white fabric made a striking contrast to his dark skin. For the first time he felt like maybe…maybe he could Impress a dragon. Maybe he really could.

“Look at you, admiring yourself!” Hal exclaimed, grabbing his arm and squeezing his bicep. “Shaff, Jolly, forget about the dragonets – all the girls’ll be after you! Better watch out a green doesn’t nab you!”

“Get off, Hal,” Narjol said, shoving him.

“Yes, you’ll do fine,” said Liggary. “Slip off those boots and trousers, Narjol, and I’ll make sure they find their way back to you after the Hatching.

He obeyed, feeling oddly vulnerable with bare feet and nothing on his legs.

Liggary seized Hal’s face and planted a big kiss on his cheek that made him grimace. “Good luck, darling. Lirenzy and Tallig are down for their naps in the creche, but I’ll be in the stands, cheering you on. And good luck to you too, Narjol!”

Everyone they passed as they trotted back through the caverns to the Bowl had some word of encouragement. Narjol kept feeling slaps on his back from people he didn’t know. He couldn’t help feeling proud at the recognition. Nor could Hal. They exchanged a glance, both grinning fit to crack their faces.

Dragons were still dropping off passengers outside, and it seemed like everyone in the Weyr was pouring into the Hatching Ground. The female candidates were already there, waiting in a cluster, all rather beautiful in their robes. “Weyrlingmaster’s gone to get the other boys,” Evie told them. “I think it’s about to start!”

“Nice robe, Jolly,” Alienne said, eyeing his bare arms speculatively.

“Oh, mum!” Schanna exclaimed suddenly, dashing forward to greet a tall woman and a little girl who’d just been handed down from a green dragon. “Taylie!”

D’hor arrived then with the male candidates surrounding him in a cloud. Most of the ones who’d stood before – Svefen, Vammers, Pan – wore grave expressions. The younger ones, Bostrocke and Darvalen and Gemmarty, were bouncing, jubilant. “Settle down, boys, settle down,” the Weyrlingmaster told them querulously. “Ah, you’re properly attired, Narjol; good. Come along, now, Schanna; you’ll have ample opportunity to see your family after the Hatching. Now, are we all present and accounted for…”

Narjol, curiously, found himself standing near the back with the girls as D’hor started another headcount. Even more curiously, he found he didn’t mind.

And then, “Son,” he heard.

He turned to find Tirrol approaching, out of uniform, and realised that in the excitement of the morning, he hadn’t gone back to the watchhouse to report to his father.

“Chief –” he began.

Tirrol tipped his head back to examine him. “So yer a candidate after all,” he said. The chief’s tone was neutral. Flat. “An after all we talked yes’day.”

“Weyrleader said I was to take my place, Chief,” Narjol said. The other candidates were stepping back from them, giving them space. He could feel his shoulders rounding, his head drooping.

“An you didn’t see fit t’inform me.”

“I’m sorry, Chief, I –”

“You didn’t see fit t’inform me,” Tirrol repeated, stabbing himself in the chest with a finger. “T’get my say so –”

“Don’t bust his balls, Chief. Your loss would be our gain.”

Narjol and Tirrol both startled at the new voice.

It was Sh’ror. The Flightleader had a little girl riding on his broad shoulders and two slightly older children clinging, wide-eyed with excitement, to his hands. They all had Sh’ror’s curly, tawny-blond hair. Behind him, a slender, pretty woman who must have been his weyrmate had a squirming toddler in her arms.

“Flightleader,” Tirrol said, grudgingly nodding his head.

Sh’ror came over to Narjol, grinning his broad, friendly grin. “I’m glad you’re in the pool, kid. I’d be pleased to have a big man like you in my Wing, keeping order among my riders, huh?”

Pride filled Narjol’s chest so full he almost couldn’t speak. “Yessir,” he said, putting his shoulders back and holding his head high, so he could almost look the bronze rider in the eye.

“And maybe you’ll make me a good sparring partner, too, if you still come down to the ring?” Sh’ror went on. He lifted the child on his right off the ground, to the little lad’s delighted shriek. “At least until Shen here’s big enough to wrestle his old dad.”

“Oh, put him down, Sh’ror,” the Flightleader’s weyrmate told him. “You’ll tear his new shirt!”

“Is he going to be a dragonrider?” the little girl holding his other hand asked.

“I don’t know, Rorenn; what do you think?” asked Sh’ror.

“He’s really big and strong like you,” Rorenn said, looking up at Narjol.

Sh’ror cocked his head to look at the smaller girl on his shoulders. “And what about you, Bheri? Do you think Narjol here’s going to Impress a dragon today?”

His daughter, no more than five Turns old, bounced happily and tugged Sh’ror’s hair. He made a good-natured face. “Bronze dragon, bronze dragon!” she exclaimed.

“I want a bronze dragon!” Shen declared.

“Give it about another, oh, five Turns, and you will,” Sh’ror told him. “But this is Narjol’s day.” He dislodged Shen’s grip from his and extended his hand. “Good luck, kid. I hope you’ll do me the honour of introducing Qualth and me to your dragon later.”

“Yessir,” Narjol said, grasping the Flightleader’s wrist. “I hope so, sir.”

“We should go in, Sh’ror,” his weyrmate said quietly, shifting the restless child in her arms. “Eldoren’s getting fractious.”

“All right, Farren,” said Sh’ror. He turned back to Tirrol. “You should be proud of your son, Chief. It’s not every kid who earns a place on the Sands twice.” He resettled his daughter on his shoulders and took up Shen’s hand again. “Come on, my little dragonlings. Let’s go see if they’ve saved us a good seat.”

Narjol turned back to Tirrol, and realised with a start that, even barefoot, he was taller than his father.

“I’m taking my chance,” he told him, without apology.

“So I see,” said Tirrol.

He walked away without another word. He suddenly looked old. Sad. Defeated.

“Far-anth,” Hal breathed, drifting back over to Narjol. “He basically just said he wants you as a Wingsecond! Sh’ror thinks you’ll make Wingsecond! That’s brown at least! Maybe bronze!”

“Yeah,” said Narjol. He couldn’t help grinning. “Yeah.” He looked around at the other candidates, finally feeling like he belonged among them.

And then he saw Schanna’s face. She was staring after Sh’ror as he led his family into the Hatching Ground, looking…stricken.

“All right, candidates; it’s time!” the Weyrlingmaster called. “Follow me! In an orderly manner, please! No pushing or shoving!”

“This is it,” Hal whispered. “Let’s go!”

Narjol almost felt like he was floating as he walked into the Hatching Cavern. He was near the back of the procession, but that didn’t matter. There were still a lot more candidates than eggs, but that didn’t matter either. He, Narjol, was walking into the Hatching Ground of Madellon Weyr as a candidate, not a watchman, and he was going to Impress his dragon.

“I wonder why Nathronth’s not with Cherganth?” Hal asked quietly, as they approached the clutch.

“She don’t like anyone on the sand with her,” Narjol told him. “Weyrleader said.”

Hal elbowed him in the ribs. “Look at you, knowing something I don’t!” Then he shifted his bare feet uncomfortably. “Shards, it’s hot, isn’t it?”

There was a suddenly collective intake of breath from the stands. Narjol glanced in that direction. He’d never seen so many people all in the same place. The whole Weyr must have been there, and more besides. Up above, dozens of dragons had found perches on a series of galleries up near the roof of the cavern. “What is it? What happened?”

“Look,” Hal whispered. “That egg just fell over!”

Across the clutch, one of the smaller eggs, plain white, had toppled off its pile of sand. And then Narjol realised that others were moving, too. A pale green egg kept rocking to one side and then returning to its original position, as if the dragonet inside was banging intermittently on the same spot inside. The striated shell of another seemed to be splitting along its own banded markings. And one of the big ones, cream-coloured with blue and green speckles, was cracking around the bulge in its side.

By some coincidence, Narjol and Hal had ended up close to the silvery egg that had been the focus of so much speculation. It was in the same place it had been for the last two nights, on the outer edge of the clutch. Narjol looked at it closely, but he couldn’t see it moving yet. His heart was hammering in his chest. What if that was the one he’d touched last night?

Then another egg that hadn’t so much as twitched suddenly fractured, cracked – and hatched.

Every candidate surged forwards as a dark shape emerged from the broken egg. “Step back!” the Weyrlingmaster barked in a low voice.

Not many of the eager boys, and slightly less forward girls, obeyed. Narjol just lifted his head to look over the shorter boys in front of him, staring with fascination at the creature flopping out of the ruins of its shell.

Hal was right. The hatchling was much bigger than the size of its egg had suggested. Narjol could hardly believe that so much neck and tail and wing could possibly have fit in an egg less than two feet high, even if the thing looked more like a tunnel-snake than a dragon: long, skinny, angular. Its eyes seemed too large for its skull, and goo dribbled from one nostril. It made a strangled, whistling shriek, waving its spiny wings like tattered flags.

‘First Out’ by Chrisi S Baily

“Is they meant to look like that?” he asked Hal, in a whisper.

Hal didn’t answer, or didn’t hear him, his eyes riveted to the dragonet.

“What colour is it?” someone asked.

There was a pause, and then, “Green,” came the answer, repeated in a disappointed whisper all along the ring of candidates surrounding the clutch. “Green. It’s just a green.”

“Girls,” D’hor directed.

Pettra was first to step forward. She approached the ugly thing, holding her hand out cautiously. “Hello,” she said softly. “Are you for me?”

Narjol didn’t see what happened with them. Three more eggs broke open and spilled screaming, slimy hatchlings onto the sand. One was pale blue, the next another green, and the third –

“Is that a bronze?” someone whispered.

An older candidate Narjol didn’t know suddenly walked unhesitatingly forward, straight towards the third dragonet. It turned its misshapen snout up towards him and its shrieking cry stuttered and then stopped.

“Aylanth,” the candidate said, reaching down to the wet, ugly head. “Aylanth, he says he’s Aylanth!”

A cheer went up from the crowd, almost completely drowning out a second exclamation. “Her name’s Amillioth!” It was Evie, and she was hugging the dragonet that had hatched out first.

“Look, that big one’s splitting!” Hal said, pointing at the speckled egg.

They weren’t the only ones to notice. Fully half the boys had their eyes on the bulging cream shell. With shocking abruptness, a pointed muzzle broke through the cracked area, and then the eggshell collapsed all at once as the dragonet shook itself free.

“Another brown,” someone said, and the forward surge of boys ceased again.

“That was s’posed to be a bronze, wasn’t it?” Narjol asked.

“Yeah…” Hal was still looking at the brown that was shaking a back foot loose of a tangle of shell. It was just as ugly, though less spindly, more beefy, than the others.

More eggs cracked or shattered or just yielded holes big enough for their occupants to slither through. Narjol looked from creature to creature. A pair of blues, another brown, three more greens. Wiklia stepped forward suddenly and a hatchling staggered and stumbled to meet her, screeching. Most of the boys were still holding back, but suddenly a blue swung its overlarge head on its overlong neck in Pan’s direction. Its cry made a shift from pathetic to excited, and Pan ran forwards and fell to his knees in front of it.

There were suddenly dragonets everywhere, crawling over each other and between eggs both intact and wrecked. A green quested towards Pettra, who stepped forwards again, and then the hatchling turned aside and flung itself against Schanna’s knees. “Oh, oh, Etymonth!” the Hold girl exclaimed, putting her hand to her own head. “Yes, I hear you, I can hear you!”

“Where are the bronzes?” Fastrall asked, sounding as confused as Narjol felt.

Three eggs remained uncracked: the silver, the buff, and a medium-sized grey and blue. Over a dozen green, blue, and brown dragonets still roamed the chaotic landscape, their screams blending into a discordant, desperate symphony.

“Ah, shaff the bronzes!” Hal shouted above the cacophony, running forwards.

Two dragonets, a brown and a blue, went for him at the same instant. The blue got its claws into the hem of his robe, and the brown shrieked and lunged at its smaller sibling. For a horrible moment Narjol was certain Hal was going to get caught in a fight between the pair. And then the brown – the big one from the speckled egg – windmilled its oversized forepaws at the blue, and the smaller dragon fell over, crying, taking a scrap of Hal’s robe with it. The brown took one threatening step after its smaller sibling, its bug eyes reddish orange and angry.

Then Hal said, “Don’t, Valth, I don’t want him, I want you!”

And as Narjol’s friend hugged the dragonet’s slavering muzzle to his chest, the brown’s furious squawking transformed into a happy cry.

“If you boys want to Impress dragons, stop thinking about bronzes and step forward now!” D’hor ordered the candidates. “Girls, you too!”

The Weyrlingmaster almost didn’t need to bark the command. Hal’s daring had galvanised the other candidates. Two of the girls stepped back, afraid of or repelled by the grotesque hatchlings, but there was a sudden push forward into the mass of shells and dragons.

Narjol went, too. He looked around for a brown like Hal’s, but one had its forepaws up on Svefen’s chest, and as he watched, another made for Basalgette. A nearby blue caught his eye, and he tried to attract its attention, but it completely ignored him. Another shouldered casually past him on its way to Darvalen. He couldn’t see another unpaired brown. There were boys everywhere, hugging dragonets, laughing, crying. Vammers had a green on his lap. Bostrocke almost tripped over a blue, and his voice cracked as he shouted, “Ivorth, he’s called Ivorth!”

Suddenly the only dragonets left unmatched were greens. Pettra had tears running down her face as she stumbled from dragonet to dragonet. Gemmarty sudden stopped backing away from the pair of greens converging on him and collapsed in a heap beside the smaller of the two. The larger one turned around abruptly and rushed in Pettra’s direction.

And Narjol stood, frozen and stupid, amidst the chaos.

Greens is for girls, and boys what like it like girls, Tirrol had said.

Green lover! Holned had sneered.

Green’s just never going to be anyone’s first choice, is it? Hal had said.

But with all the other dragonets taken, and no sign that the last three eggs were ever going to hatch, it seemed that the only alternatives left to Narjol were green – or nothing.

And then he thought about how satisfied his father would be at his failure.

How Sh’ror would be disappointed to have been wrong about him.

How the Weyr boys, most of them weyrlings now, would crow that they’d been right about poor, thicko Jolly being of no interest at all to a dragonet.

But what if it’s a bronze would want me? The insidious little thought wormed its way into his racing mind. Maybe next time there’d be a bronze for him. Or a brown. Even a blue. Pan had had to wait for his blue, hadn’t he? Maybe that’s what Narjol had to do. Be patient. Wait for the next Hatching.

But there wasn’t going to be a next Hatching for someone like him.

I could be a green rider, he told himself. I could. Be better than no dragon at all, wouldn’t it?

And no sooner had he made up his mind, he saw her.

No one wants me. Everyone’s ignoring me. Are you going to ignore me, too?

He met her eyes across the Sands. They weren’t bulgy or bug-like at all. They were shining and precious and blue, like a Master Harper’s sapphire pin. They were beautiful. She was beautiful. Her hide was dark, rich and deep, like the forests of Kellad where Narjol had grown up, dappled with lighter smudges, like sunlight on the canopy. She had a smear of sand on her rather broad nose, like a blaze on a runnerbeast. His fingers itched to wipe it off for her. She was crying, and the sound made his chest hurt.

Don’t cry! He found he was clambering over the piled wreckage of eggshells to get to her. She was making for him too, though her weak, gangly back legs and short forelegs kept snagging on her floppy wings. Don’t hurt yourself, neither! Stay there! I’m comin!

She was already there in his mind before he reached her. But when Narjol took her blunt muzzle in his hands it was like grasping a mug of hot klah on a bitterly cold day: warming, fortifying, wonderful. She loved him. She loved him. He’d never been so certain of anything in his life. In the next instant he was just as certain that he loved her. He loved her harder than he’d ever thought he could love anything. He loved her so much.

He hugged her sticky, sandy head to his chest. She’d stopped crying the instant he’d touched her, but he realised that tears were pouring down his own cheeks. He hadn’t wept since he was nine Turns old and his father had come to tell him that his mother had died in the night. In the next breath Tirrol had told him to dry his tears, because men didn’t cry, and Narjol had to grow up and be a man, now. He couldn’t believe how wrong his father had been, because he was a man, now, wasn’t he, a dragonman, like Sh’ror had said, and crying seemed like the only possible thing he could have done.

Don’t cry, his dragon told him, and her tongue lapped his face, rasping over his cheek. That is, you can if you like, but you needn’t. Then she added, My name can be Kistrith.

“Kistrith,” Narjol said aloud, and he laughed with the pleasure of feeling the lovely shape of the word in his mouth for the very first time. “Kistrith, Kistrith!”

That’s what I said. Kistrith. And you’re Narjol and you’re my rider, and I’m starving! Isn’t there something to eat?

“Eat,” Narjol repeated, so stupidly happy that it took him a moment to remember that it was his job to feed her now. Now that he was Kistrith’s rider. Kistrith’s rider! “Yeah, there’s meat. Meat to eat!”

You’re leaking, said Kistrith, curving her sleek beautiful neck towards the ground. Oh, does it hurt?

Narjol looked down and saw that his foot was bleeding from a laceration between his toes. He hadn’t even noticed it in his haste to reach Kistrith. “It’s nothin,” he promised her. “Musta stepped on somethin, big clumsy idiot I am!”

You are not a big clumsy idiot, she told him. You are my rider. Though I don’t think I’m big enough to carry you, yet.

“Carry me,” Narjol repeated. The notion that this darling little creature – his dragon, his dragon! – would one day carry him was an extraordinary thought. “No, but I can carry you!”

He stooped to pick her up. She wasn’t heavy – about the same as a sack of coal – though her long tail unbalanced him and so did her wings until she worked out how they folded. Then she hooked her back feet in his belt, got her forepaws on his shoulder, and put her chin on top of his head. Look, I’m riding you!

“Yeah, you is,” Narjol said, grinning so hard he thought his face might split.

His awareness of the Hatching cavern came back to him in a rush. He’d been so completely and adoringly wrapped up in Kistrith he’d forgotten all about the people watching from the stands. As he limped towards where the other boys had converged with their new dragonets, Kistrith’s tail swaying from side to side and almost tripping him with every step, Narjol scanned the tiers for his father. He didn’t see him, and while a few people pointed at him, smiling, the faces he saw looked strangely disappointed.

“Put that dragonet down, boy!” the Weyrlingmaster told him as he joined the other candidates – weyrlings. “She has functional legs, doesn’t she?”

“Yessir,” said Narjol, too happy, for once, to mind being told off.

Oh, Kistrith complained as he set her down, her claws catching for a moment in the fabric of his robe, which was no longer white and clean.

“Her name?” D’hor asked.

“Kistrith,” Narjol replied, grinning.

“Jolly?” It was Hal. He turned around from his dragonet with hands bloody to the elbows. “Hey, you did it!”

“Yeah, you too!” said Narjol. He felt not one speck of envy for the colour of Hal’s dragon, which wasn’t half as nice as Kistrith’s pretty green hide, but he said, “You got a brown, wow!”

“Valth!” Hal said, with gusto. “Isn’t he great? And, um, Kistrith? Look at her!” Then he frowned. “You haven’t started feeding her yet, have you? Your foot’s all bloody!”

“Weyrling, did you step on eggshell?” D’hor interrupted irritably. “For Faranth’s sake! You’re bleeding everywhere. You’ll have to get that seen to once your dragonet’s down. A septic foot’s the last thing we need!”

The next hour or so happened in a rush. Kistrith fell upon her first meal with great enthusiasm and some very sharp fangs, although she didn’t have any chewing teeth yet. Then she needed to be oiled, after which she became very sleepy, and asked him to carry her from the Hatching Ground. None of the other weyrlings were carrying their dragonets, and Narjol was mindful of the Weyrlingmaster’s reprimand, but he did pick her up and put her on one of the big raised platforms when they reached the weyrling barracks. He had to move her again, when D’hor said that the green riders were all to take the smaller couches at the back of the barracks. He discovered that three other boys had greens – Vammers, Gemmarty, and Ben – and then, with Kistrith already fast asleep, the Weyrlingmaster ordered Narjol and Svefen, whose dragonet had scratched him quite badly, to change out of their no-longer-white robes and present themselves at the Weyr’s infirmary.

“So you’re N’jol, now?” Svefen asked, as they headed across the Bowl in the afternoon sunshine. It seemed impossible that it was still so early in the day. Impossible that his life could have changed so completely in such a short span of hours.

In the flurry of activity, Narjol realised he hadn’t even thought about himself. His mind was full of Kistrith. “I guess so,” he said. “N’jol, Kistrith’s rider.” He grinned as he said it. He loved saying Kistrith’s name. “Is you Sv– Sf–”

The other candidate – the other weyrling – nodded. “S’fen,” he said, “Weddrith’s rider.” He was grinning, too. “And, hey, Jol– N’jol. I owe you an apology for saying you wouldn’t Impress.”

“S’okay,” N’jol said, a little bashfully.

“You all right with a green?” S’fen asked.

“Sure,” said N’jol. “Why wouldn’t I be? Still more rank’n I’d ever get as watchman.”

“Yeah,” said S’fen, “but…” He hesitated. “Wonder what happened with the last three eggs.”

“The ones what didn’t hatch?” asked N’jol.

“There was one at the last Hatching, and I remember one at the first Hatching I saw, when I was just a kid, but to have three not hatch, two of them the big ones, and not a single bronze?” S’fen shook his head. “No way Cherganth ever lets Nathronth fly her again.”

N’jol’s foot started hurting a lot halfway across the Weyr, and he was limping pretty badly by the time they reached the infirmary. “You look worse than me; you should go first,” S’fen told him.

But there was some sort of altercation happening in the Weyr Healer’s domain. Master Firland’s voice, ordinarily so soft and reassuring, was raised in clear agitation. “I don’t know what you’re raving about, Wingsecond, but I think you should drink some water and go and lie down!”

“Lisshen t’me, man, lisshen, for pity’s sake! You gotta…you gotta lisshen!”

S’fen and N’jol exchanged a look. The Weyr Healer was fending off the determined attempts of a brown rider to clutch at his smock. With a shock, N’jol recognised the staggering, slurring man. It was the watch rider who’d been on duty by the Star Stones the night of the storm.

“L’stev, you’re drunk,” Firland said firmly. “How much have you had?”

“Black…black cashroot,” the brown rider insisted. “Tincture of…of…vyrian. Gishcap…”

“Well, if that’s what you’ve been taking, it’s no wonder you’re paralytic!” the Master Healer said. “Especially the giscap! I’d’ve thought you’d be more sensible than to meddle with that sort of herb!” He glanced past the rider. “I have two real patients to see, Wingsecond. There’s no remedy for giscap intoxication except time. I suggest you make your way back to your weyr and sleep it off. Come back in the morning if you’re still drunk.”

He gestured N’jol and S’fen forward. As they approached, the brown rider shambled past them, his head down, his shoulders slumped. He glanced up at them. His face was ashen, his eyes black coals in deep hollows. If he recognised N’jol, he showed no sign of it.

“Sorry about that, boys,” Master Firland said, assessing them briskly with a glance. “Riders get up to all sorts of silly things on a Hatching day. What can I do for you lads –”

S’fen interrupted him. “Weyrlings S’fen and N’jol.”

“Oh; congratulations, then, truly!” said Firland. “I missed it all, of course, on duty here. Do sit now here, weyrling N’jol; you look very sore; indeed, and S’fen, that’s a nasty claw mark, isn’t it? You can tell me how I can help you today, and then you must tell me all about the Hatching….”

“I’m going to run on ahead to the dining hall, Nar– N’jol,” S’fen said, when they’d both been poulticed and bandaged. “Darvalen’s probably only been talking non-stop about himself, but someone’s eventually going to ask about me, and I don’t want him blabbing out Weddrith’s name before I get a chance!”

N’jol made his own slow and footsore way back across the Weyr. He started thinking, with dismay, how he’d be useless on patrol until he healed – and then remembered, with a happy sense of buoyancy in his belly, that he wouldn’t be on patrol anymore, because he was Kistrith’s rider now. When he thought about her, he could feel her in his head, even though she was asleep. It was easy to imagine her there, in a corner of his mind, curled up in a little dark green ball.

And then, as he approached the lower caverns, it occurred to him how Tirrol must be feeling, to have his son Impress a dragon and no longer be living and working with him in the watchhouse. N’jol had never thought far enough beyond the idea of becoming a dragonrider to really consider how it would change everything, not only for himself, but for his father. It was a lot simpler for the Weyrbred weyrlings who’d been expected to Impress and weren’t leaving jobs.

He limped into the dining hall. It was boiling hot in there, much hotter than the Hatching Ground, and noisy, with hundreds of people crammed shoulder to shoulder. He saw Vammers and Pan with their beaming Wingleader father; Basalgette hugging a tearful but smiling Zaffo; Pettra talking to her family, gesticulating extravagantly, and to much applause, in a lively re-enactment of her Impression.

Then the Weyrlingmaster caught sight of him and gestured him peremptorily over. “All patched up, are we?” he asked, and then frowned. “You don’t have a shoulder knot?”

“Nosir,” N’jol said. “I didn’t know I was meant to, sir.”

D’hor pressed his lips together disapprovingly. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter very much, with you Impressing a green.”

“Is my father here, sir?” N’jol asked.

D’hor hesitated for a fraction of an instant before he replied. “I don’t believe so. Perhaps he had to cover a patrol.”

“But he ain’t on rota ’til second evening watch.”

“Perhaps something came up,” said D’hor. “He’s the Chief of Watch, weyrling, and Madellon’s never so in need of guarding as when it’s full of strangers, hmm?”

That made sense, N’jol had to admit. “Is Flightleader Sh’ror –”

“Weyrling,” D’hor said. “I know you fancy you have a connection with the Flightleader. I saw your little interaction before the Hatching.” He paused. “But you need to understand your situation, now. You have Impressed a green dragon. A green dragon. An important rider like Sh’ror has much more pressing demands on his time and attention than a boy who’s just Impressed a green dragon.”

“Yessir,” said N’jol, “but, sir, he –”

“You’re my responsibility now, weyrling,” D’hor said. His tone was sharp. “You have, against all expectations, become a dragonrider today, and I appreciate that for a young man of your origins, even the modest achievement of Impressing a green is apt to go to your head. So let me make this perfectly clear. You’ll speak to a ranking rider if spoken to, and not before. Is that understood?”

N’jol ducked his head. “Yessir.”

“If I hear you’ve pestered Flightleader Sh’ror, or any senior rider, there will be consequences,” D’hor went on. “You find yourself a green weyrling, N’jol – a male green weyrling – and you’ll swiftly learn that your new rank comes with expectations and obligations, among which is the importance of knowing your place.”

“Yessir,” said N’jol, dully.

“Good. Now, you may go and celebrate with your – well, your friends, or whomever is here – but I warn you, any overindulgence in either food or drink will trouble you twice over, for your dragonet – Kissith, is it?”

“Kistrith,” N’jol said, lifting his head and looking down at the Weyrlingmaster.

“Yes, well, any bodily distress will upset Kistrith, too,” said D’hor. “You may be accustomed to drinking ale with the watchmen, but I won’t tolerate drunkenness among my weyrlings. Is that clear?”

N’jol found he had to take a deep breath to calm himself. He wished he could declare honestly that he’d never touched a drop of alcohol. Instead, he said, “Yes. Sir.”

His defiance wasn’t lost on D’hor. The Weyrlingmaster looked up at him with narrowed eyes. Then he sighed ill-temperedly, as if resigning himself to something unpleasant. “Dismissed, weyrling.”

Angry, offended, and oddly wounded by Tirrol’s absence, N’jol drifted around the edges of the Hatching feast. No one stopped him to congratulate him on his Impression. All the other weyrlings had shoulder-knots to identify them. By the time he saw Hal with his mother and siblings, he was too resentful and upset to want to join them. And the insult added to injury was witnessing Sh’ror and his family with Schanna and hers, the charismatic Flightleader offering Schanna’s young sister a handkerchief for her sniffling nose where she was playing on the floor with his own energetic children.

No one noticed N’jol leave the dining hall. He limped moodily all the way back to the weyrling barracks. It wasn’t fair. He’d Impressed a dragon, even if only a green. Didn’t he deserve even a little bit of praise?

The barracks smelled awful when he got there, the foetid, rotten egg smell of more than a dozen unwashed dragonets. N’jol passed the browns occupying the prime front spaces, then the blues, until he reached the back, where the four green dragonets who’d been Impressed by boys had been relegated to the darkest, most stifling positions.

And yet his temper evaporated when he laid eyes again on Kistrith. She slept exactly as he’d left her, in a little spiral of forest-green perfection, her muzzle resting on her forearms. He didn’t want to wake her, but he couldn’t stop himself stroking her elegant neck, her fragile wing, the beautiful curve of the ridge above her eye. She shifted towards him in her sleep, breathing a long sigh through her delicate nostrils.

There was a cot beside her platform. It didn’t look much softer than Kistrith’s hard tiled couch, and nor did it look long enough. N’jol dragged the pillow and all the covers off the mean little bed and piled them next to his dragonet. He curled himself around her, so her sleeping exhalations washed over his face.

“I love you, Kistrith,” he mumbled.

And was asleep in moments.

Turns later, N’jol would remember the next few days as a blur, a fever dream both figurative and, ultimately, literal.

For the first three days, he and the other weyrlings of the cohort designated Monsoon Class woke when their dragonets did, fed them, bathed and oiled them, put them back down to sleep. By the time they’d cleaned the barracks and themselves, sat through a lecture from the Weyrlingmaster and wolfed down some food, it was time to cut more meat for the dragonets. They fed four times a day, with the last feed shortly before midnight and the next six hours later, halfway through middle watch, but most of the dragonets still woke hungry in the night, disturbing everyone else with their piteous, starveling pleas for food. No one got much rest. Even N’jol, accustomed to night-time patrols and irregular sleeping patterns, found himself stumbling through Kistrith’s care half stupefied from lack of sleep.

And then, on the fourth day, all five of the girls arrived at morning feeding with sore throats, headaches, and runny noses. By the fifth, most of the boys had come down with the same symptoms. Few of the weyrlings had any contact with the rest of the Weyr – D’hor kept them close to the barracks and their dragonets. N’jol and S’fen, though, continued to report to the infirmary daily for their wounds to be examined and re-dressed. And the few sniffling Weyrbrats sitting in the waiting area with their foster-mothers to be seen by Master Firland’s staff became first a Wing, then a Flight, and eventually a whole Gather full of breathless, feverish children.

N’jol had never been sick in his life.

That was about to change.