a voice from the crowd.
“She’s going to hurt herself,” said Mirrim in an agitated mutter and pushed past the three people seated between her and the stairs. “She’ll bruise her wings on the walls.”
The little green did hurt herself, slipping off the first step and banging her muzzle so sharply on the stone that she let out a cry of pain, echoed by a fierce bugle from Ramoth who began to move across the sands.
“Now, listen here, you silly thing, the boys you want are out there on the Ground. Turn yourself around and go back to them,” Mirrim was saying as she made her way down the steps to the little green. Her fire lizards, calling out in wildly ecstatic buglings, halted her. She stared for a long moment at the antics of her friends, and then, her expression incredulous, she looked down at the green hatchling determinedly attacking the obstacle of steps. “I can’t!” Mirrim cried, so panic-stricken that she slipped on the steps herself and slid down three before her flailing hands found support. “I can’t!” Mirrim glanced about her for confirmation. “I’m not supposed to Impress. I’m not a candidate. She can’t want me!” Awe washed over the consternation on her face and in her voice.
“If it’s you she wants, Mirrim, get down there before she hurts herself!” said F’lar, who had by now reached the scene, Lessa beside him.
“But I’m not—”
“It would seem that you are, Mirrim,” said Lessa, her face reflecting amusement and resignation. “The dragon’s never wrong! Come! Be quick about it, girl. She’s scraping her chin raw to get to you!”
With one final startled look at her Weyrleaders, Mirrim half-slid the remaining steps, cushioning the little green’s chin from yet another harsh contact with the stone of the step.
“Oh, you silly darling! Whatever made you choose me?” Mirrim said in a loving voice as she gathered the green into her arms and began to soothe the hatchling’s distressed cries. “She says her name is Path!” The glory on Mirrim’s face caused Piemur to look away in embarrassment and envy.
For one brief moment, Piemur had entertained the bizarre notion that maybe the little green dragon had been looking for him. A deep sigh fluttered through his lips, and a hand was laid gently on his shoulder. Schooling his expression, he turned to see Menolly watching him, a deep pity and understanding in her eyes.
“I promised you Turns ago that you’d have a fire lizard, Piemur. I haven’t forgotten. I will keep that promise!”
As one they turned their heads back to watch Mirrim fussing over her Path, her fire lizards hopping on the sands, chattering away as if welcoming the little green in their own fashion.
“Come on, you two,” said Sebell, as Mirrim began to encourage Path to walk out of the Hatching Ground. “We’d better see Master Robinton. This is going to cause problems.” The last he said in a low voice.
“Why?” asked Piemur, making sure they weren’t overheard. But everyone was filing out of the tiers now, eager to congratulate or condole. “She’s weyrbred.”
“Greens are fighting dragons,” began Sebell.
“In that case, Mirrim’s well paired, isn’t she?” asked Piemur with droll amusement.
“Piemur!”—
At Menolly’s shocked remonstrance, Piemur turned to Sebell and saw an answering gleam, though the journeyman turned quickly and started down the steps.
“Sebell’s right, though,” Menolly said thoughtfully as they started across the hot sands, quickening their pace as the heat penetrated the soles of their flying boots.
“Why?” asked Piemur again. “Just because she’s a girl?”
“There won’t be as much shock as there might be,” Sebell went on. “Jaxom’s Impression of Ruth set a precedent.”
“It’s not quite the same thing, Sebell,” Menolly replied. “Jaxom is a Lord Holder and has to remain so. And then the weyrmen did think the little white dragon mightn’t
“She’s going to hurt herself,” said Mirrim in an agitated mutter and pushed past the three people seated between her and the stairs. “She’ll bruise her wings on the walls.”
The little green did hurt herself, slipping off the first step and banging her muzzle so sharply on the stone that she let out a cry of pain, echoed by a fierce bugle from Ramoth who began to move across the sands.
“Now, listen here, you silly thing, the boys you want are out there on the Ground. Turn yourself around and go back to them,” Mirrim was saying as she made her way down the steps to the little green. Her fire lizards, calling out in wildly ecstatic buglings, halted her. She stared for a long moment at the antics of her friends, and then, her expression incredulous, she looked down at the green hatchling determinedly attacking the obstacle of steps. “I can’t!” Mirrim cried, so panic-stricken that she slipped on the steps herself and slid down three before her flailing hands found support. “I can’t!” Mirrim glanced about her for confirmation. “I’m not supposed to Impress. I’m not a candidate. She can’t want me!” Awe washed over the consternation on her face and in her voice.
“If it’s you she wants, Mirrim, get down there before she hurts herself!” said F’lar, who had by now reached the scene, Lessa beside him.
“But I’m not—”
“It would seem that you are, Mirrim,” said Lessa, her face reflecting amusement and resignation. “The dragon’s never wrong! Come! Be quick about it, girl. She’s scraping her chin raw to get to you!”
With one final startled look at her Weyrleaders, Mirrim half-slid the remaining steps, cushioning the little green’s chin from yet another harsh contact with the stone of the step.
“Oh, you silly darling! Whatever made you choose me?” Mirrim said in a loving voice as she gathered the green into her arms and began to soothe the hatchling’s distressed cries. “She says her name is Path!” The glory on Mirrim’s face caused Piemur to look away in embarrassment and envy.
For one brief moment, Piemur had entertained the bizarre notion that maybe the little green dragon had been looking for him. A deep sigh fluttered through his lips, and a hand was laid gently on his shoulder. Schooling his expression, he turned to see Menolly watching him, a deep pity and understanding in her eyes.
“I promised you Turns ago that you’d have a fire lizard, Piemur. I haven’t forgotten. I will keep that promise!”
As one they turned their heads back to watch Mirrim fussing over her Path, her fire lizards hopping on the sands, chattering away as if welcoming the little green in their own fashion.
“Come on, you two,” said Sebell, as Mirrim began to encourage Path to walk out of the Hatching Ground. “We’d better see Master Robinton. This is going to cause problems.” The last he said in a low voice.
“Why?” asked Piemur, making sure they weren’t overheard. But everyone was filing out of the tiers now, eager to congratulate or condole. “She’s weyrbred.”
“Greens are fighting dragons,” began Sebell.
“In that case, Mirrim’s well paired, isn’t she?” asked Piemur with droll amusement.
“Piemur!”—
At Menolly’s shocked remonstrance, Piemur turned to Sebell and saw an answering gleam, though the journeyman turned quickly and started down the steps.
“Sebell’s right, though,” Menolly said thoughtfully as they started across the hot sands, quickening their pace as the heat penetrated the soles of their flying boots.
“Why?” asked Piemur again. “Just because she’s a girl?”
“There won’t be as much shock as there might be,” Sebell went on. “Jaxom’s Impression of Ruth set a precedent.”
“It’s not quite the same thing, Sebell,” Menolly replied. “Jaxom is a Lord Holder and has to remain so. And then the weyrmen did think the little white dragon mightn’t
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