couldn’t wait to play her a new tune . . . because, as she thought with some acidity,
she
listened, even if his father did not. But he was asleep before she could ask him what he meant.
Late in the autumn, when everyone knew that there was a clutch of eggs on the Hatching Ground at Benden Weyr, Robinton met dragons for the second time. They came on Search. He already knew about Search, since it was the subject of a Teaching Ballad, about the duty of Hall and Hold to allow any person the dragons chose to go to the Weyr. Most of those who went to a Weyr became dragonriders, a high honor. If dragons liked music, as Cortath had told him they did, maybe they’d like Robinton’s tunes and no one would object to having a dragonrider who had musical training. By the time he was old enough to be Searched, he’d be at least a second-year apprentice.
When the wing landed in Fort Hold’s courtyard, he was playing—hop-it again, actually—with Lexey, Libby, Curtos, and Barba. Barba was not his favorite playmate—she was awful bossy—but the moment the dragons landed, she started shrieking and ran into the Hall. Robinton ran, too: right for the dragons.
“Cortath?” he called out, racing across the vast courtyard as fast as he could toward the three bronzes who had landed to one side. He ducked in among the greens and blues, completely unaware that it was actually the greens and blues who were sensitive to those who might make good Impressions.
Cortath is not here today.
Robie stopped short, breathing hard as he realized that, indeed, his good friend was not there. “But I wanted to talk to him,” he said, almost in tears with disappointment.
I will tell him a harper boy regretted his absence.
“I’m not a harper . . . yet,” Robinton admitted, identifying the not-so-bright bronze as the one who had spoken to him. “Would you mind my talking to you? If you’ve nothing better to do for a moment? May I ask your name?” And he executed a half bow to show he was being respectful.
You may. 1 call myself Kilminth and my rider is S’bran. What is your name?
As if you’ll remember,
said another dragon voice. It was the very dark bronze one.
It is only a child.
Who hears dragons when they speak, so I will talk to him while our riders are busy. It is nice to talk to a child who hears.
He’s not old enough to be Searched.
Don’t mind Calanuth,
Kilminth told Robie in a somewhat supercilious tone.
He’s too young to have much sense.
Who’s talking about having some sense?
Oh, curl up in the sun,
and then Kilminth lowered his head down to Robinton.
Robie was a touch nervous at the size of that head, but the eye nearest him—almost bigger than his sturdy little-boy body—was green and circling idly. He could see himself reflected over and over again in the facets closest to him, making him slightly dizzy. The upper facets, however, reflected the sun and the sky. Did seeing all those different things make a dragon dizzy, too?
No, but it helps us to see Thread coming from above us when it falls.
“When is it going to?”
The dragon seemed to consider this question for such a long moment that Robinton wondered if he should have asked it.
The Star Stones tell us that.
“They talk?” Robinton didn’t know about Star Stones yet. He knew about the Eye and Finger Rocks, but not Star Stones.
They are the Star Stones.
“Oh.”
The dragon swung his head up, staring at a distant mountaintop. The maneuver was a bit frightening to a small boy so close to the ground, but he wouldn’t have budged just then for anything. Talking to another dragon was too precious to be scared of.
Have you not seen the Star Stones at Fort Weyr?
“No one’s allowed up at the Weyr,” Robinton said, eyes wide.
Ah.
“Why does that make you sad, Kilminth?” Robie asked.
The dragon lowered his head again, the eye closest to him tinged with darkness; sadness, Robinton thought.
The Weyr has been empty so long.
“Will
she
listened, even if his father did not. But he was asleep before she could ask him what he meant.
Late in the autumn, when everyone knew that there was a clutch of eggs on the Hatching Ground at Benden Weyr, Robinton met dragons for the second time. They came on Search. He already knew about Search, since it was the subject of a Teaching Ballad, about the duty of Hall and Hold to allow any person the dragons chose to go to the Weyr. Most of those who went to a Weyr became dragonriders, a high honor. If dragons liked music, as Cortath had told him they did, maybe they’d like Robinton’s tunes and no one would object to having a dragonrider who had musical training. By the time he was old enough to be Searched, he’d be at least a second-year apprentice.
When the wing landed in Fort Hold’s courtyard, he was playing—hop-it again, actually—with Lexey, Libby, Curtos, and Barba. Barba was not his favorite playmate—she was awful bossy—but the moment the dragons landed, she started shrieking and ran into the Hall. Robinton ran, too: right for the dragons.
“Cortath?” he called out, racing across the vast courtyard as fast as he could toward the three bronzes who had landed to one side. He ducked in among the greens and blues, completely unaware that it was actually the greens and blues who were sensitive to those who might make good Impressions.
Cortath is not here today.
Robie stopped short, breathing hard as he realized that, indeed, his good friend was not there. “But I wanted to talk to him,” he said, almost in tears with disappointment.
I will tell him a harper boy regretted his absence.
“I’m not a harper . . . yet,” Robinton admitted, identifying the not-so-bright bronze as the one who had spoken to him. “Would you mind my talking to you? If you’ve nothing better to do for a moment? May I ask your name?” And he executed a half bow to show he was being respectful.
You may. 1 call myself Kilminth and my rider is S’bran. What is your name?
As if you’ll remember,
said another dragon voice. It was the very dark bronze one.
It is only a child.
Who hears dragons when they speak, so I will talk to him while our riders are busy. It is nice to talk to a child who hears.
He’s not old enough to be Searched.
Don’t mind Calanuth,
Kilminth told Robie in a somewhat supercilious tone.
He’s too young to have much sense.
Who’s talking about having some sense?
Oh, curl up in the sun,
and then Kilminth lowered his head down to Robinton.
Robie was a touch nervous at the size of that head, but the eye nearest him—almost bigger than his sturdy little-boy body—was green and circling idly. He could see himself reflected over and over again in the facets closest to him, making him slightly dizzy. The upper facets, however, reflected the sun and the sky. Did seeing all those different things make a dragon dizzy, too?
No, but it helps us to see Thread coming from above us when it falls.
“When is it going to?”
The dragon seemed to consider this question for such a long moment that Robinton wondered if he should have asked it.
The Star Stones tell us that.
“They talk?” Robinton didn’t know about Star Stones yet. He knew about the Eye and Finger Rocks, but not Star Stones.
They are the Star Stones.
“Oh.”
The dragon swung his head up, staring at a distant mountaintop. The maneuver was a bit frightening to a small boy so close to the ground, but he wouldn’t have budged just then for anything. Talking to another dragon was too precious to be scared of.
Have you not seen the Star Stones at Fort Weyr?
“No one’s allowed up at the Weyr,” Robinton said, eyes wide.
Ah.
“Why does that make you sad, Kilminth?” Robie asked.
The dragon lowered his head again, the eye closest to him tinged with darkness; sadness, Robinton thought.
The Weyr has been empty so long.
“Will
Similar Books
