DVD Commentary: Dragonlord - John/Rodney - R (Pern/SGA fusion)

[icarus]

Am posting the DVD commentary (several days late, sorry, gblvr) here due to the word count limits on LJ.

It will still need to be in several parts since I'm pet sitting again (I've learned to stick to cats) and, wow, it takes a while to do a DVD commentary on 80,000 words.

Dragonlord is up.

Story: Dragonlord
Author: icarusancalion
Fandom: SGA/Dragonriders of Pern fusion
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: R
Warnings: None, this is pure fantasy fun.
Summary: A bewildered John, lead contender to the Hold of Benden, is caught in the male-bonding, homoerotic culture of the Dragonweyr when he inadvertently Impresses a dragon.

I'd wanted to write a Big Bang for years but I was too busy with Out Of Bounds and couldn't let myself get distracted or else that WIP would never be finished.

Dragonlord started as a meme last January. Seekergeek wondered "did you start an SGA/Pern fusion?" Yeah, no such animal. But, if I had.... She dared me to write it, quote,

"*FLAILS MIGHTILY* OMG, OMG, OMG, THAT IS SUCH AN AWESOME STORY IDEA!

I GOOGOLPLEX-DOG DARE YOU TO WRITE THIS! IF YOU DON'T, I SWEAR THAT I'LL HAVE TO START WEARING ALL BLACK, LISTEN TO NOTHING BUT EVANESCENCE, AND WRITE EIGHT ZILLIONS STORIES ABOUT JOHN CUTTING HIMSELF IN ORDER TO GET OVER THE DISAPPOINTMENT!"

Who can deny that?

It was auburnnothenna who pointed out that John's pretty stupid in my original story idea. Chewing it over, I decided he would be in denial (John's good at denial) about his new role as a dragonrider. You can thank her for the resulting story by reading her mesmerizing Big Bang fic, Unnatural Selection, and sending her detailed, appreciative reviews. How she made Wraith sex hot, I have no idea....

Note that I decided to only use the first three Pern books plus the Harper Hall series as canon. I could say that this was because I felt McCaffrey was retrofitting her universe after the fact, patching holes and moving away from the original premise. But it's really because I didn't read the other books (because she was retrofitting her universe, patching holes, and moving away from the original premise...).

Prologue

In the sky above the planet Pern, a Red Star glows, every so often growing closer and larger. When this gaseous red planet passes near, its poisonous atmosphere erupts like sun spots, spewing spores out into space. Some of these spores drift harmlessly. Others in a cloud are drawn to Pern, entering first in the form of frozen pellets, then melting on entry and falling as a rain of Threads.

Masses of the spores stream along the orbit of the red planet. From outside of the solar system it's a thing of beauty,red streaming away from the sun like a comet's tail. The more violent eruptions gather like clouds of gnats, the solar wind not enough to curtail their momentum.

One large mass, from a previous violent Pass, floats toward the sun. The planet Pern has passed it again and again for decades.

Now the mass has drifted directly into Pern's path.

This prologue was originally toward the end, right before the Thread battle. I was stuck with a placeholder here that said, "prologue, prologue, prologue!" and no ideas. Sarka said, "But you have a prologue."

Oh. Right.

Chapter One: The Lord Holder's Son



The green of Benden's rolling vineyards stretched for dragonlengths around John as he rode, the sea of vines moving, shifting with the blustery wind. Towards the horizon, this green shaded darker into blue, the mountains invisible today, hidden by low, blue-gray clouds that seemed to fade toward the ground into fog. The air was heavy and wet but behind John the sun still streamed, warming his back, its rays white and golden, captured like hanging drops in the misty air.

This entire beginning section, including the dual, the cisterns, the dance, was not in the original draft. But Mad Maudlin, a non-Pern reader, couldn't tell from my story why John loved Benden. She had the impression he was just hanging on to the Hold from a sense of duty. And Whizzy (I think it was Whizzy) started referring to John as "This version of John...." which meant he wasn't John.

Far overhead, the tiny winged shapes of two dragons could be seen, climbing above the storm. They winked out, vanishing into the clouds.

The wind shifted from the west to the north, buffeting John as his runner beast galloped, scattering butterflies and the small birds that made Benden's vineyards their home. If he got caught outside when the storm hit, it would be a warm soaking rain, even this late in the season--pleasant for a few minutes, until he was drenched through.

Racing the weather provided a welcome distraction from his bleak mood. John raised up in the saddle and let wind touch his face and rattle his black formals.

The funeral today had been a small one. The men of Benden Hold had been unsure if they should honor a man who'd tried to kill John, Benden's heir, and stayed home. John had stood apart from his family as his half-brother's body was lowered into the grave. He had declined to speak. It would have been awkward.

Who John had killed become more and more explicit with every draft.

At first I wanted to just hint at who John had killed, make it a big admission to Rodney halfway through the story -- proving John's trust in Rodney. Unfortunately, not knowing who John had killed meant that there was no tension for the reader, because John was killing bandits left and right.

Whizzy definitely wanted a funeral. I have no idea why. But I aim to please.

John had left at the earliest possible moment, his father's voice raised behind him. Whatever he'd said had been swept away by the first breath of the storm. The man couldn't chase John--wouldn't anyway--busy as he was soothing his tearful wife, the sobbing blond wisp wrapped around him. John couldn't feel anything for her. She was the reason his mother had left her ancestral home. Had left John.

John vaulted onto the back of a runner and headed east before any of the servants could find him. He hadn't mentioned where he was going. But he was heir to Benden Hold. Was Benden. Where would he go?

He rode over the crest of a hill and a small Hold sprung into view, suddenly, as if appearing by magic, and not just tucked between two hills after a vast sea of trellises. Beyond it, the base of the eastern mountains had grown visible, half-hidden in the smoke-like clouds.

His runner beast slowed to a canter, recognizing this spot. The creature perked up, long neck craned, ears twitched forward, and he put a little extra life in his stride.

John tied his runner at the gate of the small Hold just as the wind whipped around to the north again, causing the trellises to lean. He knocked at a heavy, shuttered door. Technically, as the Lord Holder's son and heir, he didn't need to knock. He owned all that he could see, right up to the flanks of the mountains. But he had manners. And he liked the Holders who lived here.

"John?" The elderly Nedalia answered the door, her fragile brow furrowed. Over papery skin she wore the jewels of her dowry, even in the kitchens, a quaint and old-fashioned custom. She urged him inside, and tried to invite him to dinner. The Hold was filled with a savory scent.

Finally she asked how he was. Not what was wrong, oh, no; that would have been a stupid question.

"I'm fine," John said in a voice that sounded hollow even to himself. He didn't know how to answer. "Can I-?" He thumbed over his shoulder to the back of the Hold. This place had been a refuge to him when he was growing up, from the time his mother had taught him to ride.

She nodded, of course, and shooed him onward like he was still a child. Behind the Hold was Benden's other, less famous export: flowers the size of an outspread hand. They made a dense weave around and overhead, their scent heady and rich, their bluegreen leaves silencing the wind. John followed a maze-like series of trails through the gardens, till he reached a huge wooden cistern, open to the sky. The first fat drops of rain had begun to fall.

John kicked off his shoes, stripped away his silk shirt and breeches, down to his smallclothes, silver chains jingling. He folded the formals on top of his shoes under a bench, then climbed the side of the cistern. His feet and hands found familiar footholds and he hefted himself over the edge to lower himself into the water. He kicked his feet, treading water until he had fumbled the bench plank into place, a length below the surface. At last he sat, just as the rain decided it had waited long enough. Raindrops danced, shattering the surface of the water. On his bench, finally alone, John sagged. He cupped his forehead in one hand, one shoulder slumped against the cistern wall. With nothing but the rim of sky above him, his eyelashes wet with dangling drops, he shut out the rest of the world.

~*~*~

Two days before, John had strapped on his second best knife sheath. Into it he'd slid his best belt knife, the one that had no decoration, a smooth grip, and razor thin edge. He tightened the belt, loosened it again, then eased it tighter till the sheath sat low on his hip but didn't shift.

It's just not a Pern story without at least one knife fight. Note that the majority of my betas had not read the Dragonrider series before I started: I needed non-Pern fans to help me make sure everything of this Pern world was as clear as if this were the first ever dragonrider book.

That left him with nothing to do but pace. Official messengers shuttled back and forth between John, in the Benden guard changing room, and his challenger, holed up in the mud room by the kitchens. The formal challenge had been issued. Now the formal replies had begun.

I later learned that the negotiation to resolve the dispute was standard practice in the 18th century. Who knew? I thought I'd made it up.

If they could be called formal.

"Just go home and change your pants," John had written, a reference to his half-brother Kort's infamous laughed-till-he-peed-his-pants incident years ago. "I've trained for this. You haven't."

The response came back, "Still playing with dolls, John?"

Except in the 18th century they avoided this kind of backbiting by having friends negotiate on their behalf. Pern still has some catching up to do.

The dolls had belonged to John's mother--as Kort damn well knew. John had kept them after she died. The cousins had mocked John when they'd broken one and caught him tearing up.

"You're second son, not even related to Benden." John's next reply returned to the point. "Maybe when I'm Lord Holder I'll do something for you. But not if you do shit like this."

One of my Pern betas, Rowaine, was concerned about John's swearing. It was jarring to her. She recommended more traditional Pern swear words ("by the Egg" and "put a slither among the wherries"). But that didn't sound like John. I've rebelled against McCaffrey here: I think her swear words suck. A real curse word has to be at least mildly offensive, usually referencing sex, shit, or death. So in addition to real swear words, I've made up a few. It's my contribution to Pern fanon.

John murmured under his breath to his second, Lorne, to ask if there had been any word from their father, Lord Tyr, current Lord Holder of Benden. He could put a stop to this ridiculous duel. All he need do was officially recognize John, the eldest, as his Heir. Then the younger half-brother's challenge would be void. After that, it would be just a matter of confirming John's position with the Conclave of Lord Holders.

Lorne shook his head. His father had not responded.

Dammit. Kort had been fostered out to Keroon for the last decade, at the insistence of John's mother. He'd only been back once a year for Gathers. He didn't know the first thing about Benden.

Took me forever to name Kort. He was "his brother" until just weeks before the deadline. Kort as in "Court" -- get it? He represents all John's courtly battles. Lord Tyr took just as long to name.

A second message came, so fast he must not have waited for John's reply. "Tell you what. I'll let you keep part of Benden Hold. The best part even."

John wrote back furiously, "Benden has been in my family for hundreds of generations. It has never been split, never been held by anyone but the Benden heirs--and never will be."

The reply was just as swift, "Over your mom's dead body, right?"

Oh, that was it. Swinging on a wherhide vest, the only armor allowed in a duel, John strode into the practice yard.

Lorne trailed behind him. "The Lord Benden might still step in."

One regret I have is that I never took the time to describe Lorne physically. On the other hand, that's a failing of the original dragonrider books as well. We only get a sense of what Lessa looks like, and later, F'lar. But the minor characters remain a blur.

People of Benden lined the battlements that afforded a view into the practice yard. Their murmuring grew to a loud buzz when they spotted John. Teenagers climbed up to sit on hot metal rooftops. Spectators leaned against the wooden fence surrounding the practice yard, craning for a view. The craft halls, normally alive with activity this time of day, had fallen silent. Guards held pikes and faced the crowd, tall, and stiff as statues. Half the Hold was there; John would bet pretty much anyone who didn't have to be in the fields had come. Word traveled fast that Kort had officially challenged John for the succession.

Like hell his father was in a meeting.

"He's not coming," John told Lorne.

Kort emerged from the mudroom.

John's in a practice room and Kort's in the mudroom to suggest that it's not common for these challenges to go so far -- there's no official venue for it.

He had grown, taller and lankier than John remembered, though he still had that soft, doughy quality to his face. He had the fair coloring and wispy hair of his own mother, Lord Benden's second wife. John took after his mother, the sole remaining heir to the Benden line, with his hazel eyes and spiky, untamable dark hair. Though he was tall and thin, like his father, a resemblance that John would never admit.

John wore the simple uniform of the guard, with only his family crest betraying who he was. Kort had dressed as a Lord Holder in one of the colorful silk tunics popular now in Keroon, crisscrossed with belts and decorative chains. John's hands opened in a small, sagging gesture of disbelief; he half-turned away as he looked skyward. He could see a dozen ways Kort's clothes alone could trip him up.

"Give it up," John called out to him. The hum of the crowd dimmed. "I haven't drawn my knife. You can still back out of this."

Kort looked affronted. He shook his head and smiled. "Afraid of the midden?"

It had been a long time since John had thought of that. Kort, angry that John's mother wouldn't let him ride John's runners, had shoved John, hard, toppling him backward into a pile of manure.

"That was a long time ago," John said, surprised Kort even remembered it. They circled each other. "I've trained at Ista since then."

"Everybody trains at Ista," Kort said.

Except Kort. A second son wouldn't warrant it.

"I fostered with the guard for a full year," John explained, taking cautious steps that kept his shoulder angled toward Kort, presenting a smaller target.

Kort made a wild jab at John, who stepped clear, a little surprised at his vehemence.

"You're just hoping daddy will step in and save you."

That hit close enough to sting. Why didn't his father put a stop to this? Was it personal? John had backed a small Holder's claim against his father's excessive taxes. Austerity measures and centralizing had been necessary during lean times when Benden had been devastated by Thread, sure, but it had been nearly two decades. It was past time to let the small Holders savor a little of their profits.

Kort took another jab, this time cutting inside John's defenses. John's knife was out just in time to catch it, but he felt the heat of pain. He glanced down to a cut on his arm, blood welling and staining his white shirt for all to see. A superficial wound. But first blood was symbolic.

Whizzy at first didn't want the duel, though I was never sure why. We batted this scene back and forth in chat. The first few drafts John came across as a cold-blooded killer, deliberately butchering his brother.

They were committed now. One or the other could concede. But the duel was on record.

John crouched in defense, hands out, knife extended. One's arms needed to be mobile, fluid in a knife fight. An opponent could win just by disabling your arms. "Why are you doing this?" John said. "It makes no sense."

"Better than waiting for you to fall off a runner," Kort said, making the same move again.

John dodged it easily, settling the grip on his own knife. "I'd take care of you. You wouldn't be left Holdless," John said, frowning in confusion. They circled each other.

"You think so."

"Well, yeah," John said, though he hadn't really thought about it. All his attention had been on the day-to-day running of the Hold, and wondering how much more he had to do before his father would admit that John was his Heir.

"And now?" Kort pointed out.

True. John couldn't show favor to someone who'd challenged him. It just invited other challenges: no price if they lost. He lied, in his most calming voice, "Nothing will happen to you if you just put the knife down."

Kort would be stripped of his rank and set to work in the fields, that's what would happen.

Kort glanced over his shoulder. There was a cluster of young men in the front row, also dressed in Keroon tunics. Tough kids, second sons, with one or two looking no better than bandits. They'd had to have arrived first to have the best seats in the house. They must have known about this.

John took a sudden jab into Kort's defenses, lightning fast--then bounded back. Just testing. Kort's reaction time was slow and ... mushy. No sharpness or speed. He backed away rather than moving in toward the blade, a rookie mistake.

For a brief moment John saw the light of fear in Kort's eyes.

Kort's jaw tightened. He cut closer in a string of slices. John didn't even bother to flinch from the obvious feints.

Kort growled, "I'm second son. Whatever I get in this life, I have to take."

John had no answer. It was true. There were no provisions for alternate heirs except the generosity of the eventual Lord Holder. And Kort didn't know John; no more than John knew him. They'd been separated from birth, first by the chasm in their status, then by Kort's fostering as a child. John had seen his cousins from Ruatha more.

These days Kort only returned to escort Benden's tithe to the dragon Weyr, a symbolic role his mother had fought tooth and nail to give him. Last John heard, Kort considered it a chore. Something had changed his ambitions.

Grimly, John took deliberate steps around his half-brother. "You can't win this."

Kort glanced back again at his friends. John sighed, with a light shake of dismay at the obvious telegraphing of his next move. Sure enough, Kort dove in, lancing for a killing stroke under John's ribs.

Training took over. John shifted his shoulders sideways, causing Kort to strike air, stumble, even as John moved into Kort's blade which over-reached--three swift strokes and it was done. Kort sagged over his knee, looking startled, like he never thought this could happen to him.

Me neither, John thought.

His body went limp in John's arms, eyes going glassy, like one of his mother's dolls.

The first draft of this line was just had "eyes going glassy, like a doll." My betas didn't get that I was deliberately referring to the broken doll that had belonged to John's mother--it was too subtle--and John came across as cold. Adding "one of his mother's dolls" and suddenly John's feelings became clear.


~*~*~

Heavy raindrops spattered the surface of the cistern, struck John's face, making it impossible to see. The water level had already risen over his shoulders. John's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. He forced down a surge of emotion that welled up as if to strangle him.

He'd have to toughen up. He couldn't be the carefree kid who'd jumped off the crafthall and terrified his mother by running on the roof of Benden. Not anymore.

Because in all likelihood, that had been just the first challenge.

This is the moment where John became ambitious. Prior to this, he assumed he would be Lord Holder. Though it's not clear in the story, one reason he begins to learn the political ins and outs is to get recognized as Heir early so he doesn't have to fight another duel.


~*~*~

Master Andross of the Tailors Guild measured John's arms with tape. He unrolled and held up a bolt of bright blue cloth to John's chin, clicking his tongue. John surveyed the room from the height of his chair, looking down on two drudges who scrubbed the tile by the fireplace. Technically, they were supposed to do that when the Heir Apparent wasn't in the room but John did nothing. Being fostered out to the guard of Ista had taught him to place the efficient running of a household first. The Lady of Telgar had actually forced them to drill at midnight for a week, simply because she didn't like the noise of practice blades in the morning. (John suspected that was because of her hangover every morning.)

"You have the most magnificent eyes," Master Andross said, holding up a deeper blue cloth to John's cheek.

John schooled his face in a smooth expression, wondering what he wanted. Everyone thwarted by his father came next to John.

"Like the color of the bottom of the ocean. And just as impossible to match."

"Have you actually seen the bottom of the ocean?" John said, one eyebrow raised. "It's pretty far down."

"I have seen it from above, from the deck of a ship, begging your Lord's pardon," Master Andross said. Okay, that was better than the usual. He had a basis for his comparison at least. "It is the green of mossy stones combined with the clarity of the sky at high noon."

John could see how Master Andross had managed to come so far in his field. It was a rare man who knew how to make a stale compliment fresh. John had been told about his eyes since birth. And how much he looked like his mother. "I'm not a big fan of flattery," John pointed out. And his eyes were hazel, not blue-green.

"I meant no disrespect," Master Andross replied. "I merely speak what I see, in words as I see it."

Deciding to return the favor, John said, "A compliment is better if it's one they've never heard before." He smiled to make it clear he wasn't correcting the man but passing on political knowledge, to assist him in his dealings with others of rank. If he was going to run in these circles he needed to know how to play the game. John no longer took it for granted he would be named Heir and had worked all year to earn the support in the Conclave. He just hoped it was enough. He adjusted his cuffs. "Compliment a beautiful woman on her artistry; a powerful man on his grace; a harper on his sobriety."

And now, a year later, John's a politician: a tactical move to cut off any interlopers. It's not a good look on him. I kind of like the contrast of John looking pretty on the outside, getting measured for a new tunic, while on the inside he's turning into this ... this--This.

"Is there a sober harper in these parts?" Andross asked, eyes twinkling up at John.

John laughed. "None for miles."

He decided he liked Andross and might help him with whatever he wanted, if it wasn't too much. Though he would have helped him sooner without all the buttering up.

No, he wouldn't have, but John doesn't see that he's becoming more like his father. A question came up from Whizzy during the duel scene: is the conflict between John and Kort, or between John and his father? It really is between John and his father. Kort just got caught up in the gears, fueled by his own circumstances (the result of the stalemate between John's mother and Kort's mother) and the ambitions of his friends.

"You would leave me with nothing to say to your Lordship," Andross explained. "For every compliment has already been spent. And I have not yet seen your sword work...." Andross stiffened, leaving that sensitive topic quickly.

"Then you're the only one," John said, not letting him drop it. His eyes drilled into the craftmaster, daring him to broach the matter further.

John kind of resents the small Holders, just a bit, for standing around and watching his duel with Kort like it was some kind of spectacle. I don't know if it's fair of him, but he does feel that having an audience forced Kort to not yield the fight.

The craftmaster busied himself pinning fabric around John's legs, his bald head down, voice muffled. "I was not there, Lord Heir Apparent. But I hear it was a short duel, and that you far outmatched your opponent."

Delicately the man had reminded John that he was not yet the Lord of Benden nor even the official Heir. He also had the decency to not mention the name of the dead in John's presence, something John appreciated. But at that moment, John didn't want him around and wished the drudges gone too.

And here the arrogance really comes out.

"Can the lace be dyed to match?" John asked, his head dipped to the business at hand, to move matters along. He suspected Andross was just fussing to buy time for his request.

Sigh. And he's deliberately cultivating the foppishness that comes with the young Lord Holder role, the very thing he made fun of when he battled Kort. Note that I've put more emphasis on fashions than we see in the first three Pern books. The Harper Hall series describes the uniforms of the craft halls in detail, so I expect a corresponding importance placed on dress in the Holds. I think that during peace time, when there's no Thread, we'd see more courtly fashions and trends, as displays of wealth and power.

"It will be difficult, the fabrics take the dye so differently, but aye, yes."

"Great. When I return from the Dragonweyr I'll inspect the dye work."

"The Weyr?" Andross' eyes widened.

"I'm escorting Benden's tithe to Benden Weyr in my half-brother's absence," John said, his voice dripping with irony. 'Absence' was the way his father had phrased it, like Kort still walked the halls.

"A dangerous journey," Andross said. He'd learned what not to pursue. "The bandits alone...."

"Dragonriders don't bother to patrol roads they don't need," John agreed. "Even with the best of Pern going through there."

"Not everyone sends their best these days," Andross commented, not making a suggestion, no, but no doubt wishin his own work out of the hands of bandits.

This is part of what drives Rialta's treatment of John later. It's been over twenty years since the last Threadfall, and the Holds are starting to hold back on their tithes. She's the one who sees the shortfall.

"Benden does," John said.

"If Thread were falling those landless curs wouldn't dare live Holdless." Andross shuddered.

The craftmaster looked old enough to have seen the last cycle of Threadfall, to witness as devouring spores hissed to the ground and burrowed into living matter. His generation turned pale at any mention of Thread. For John and others his age, however, Thread was an abstract, like a Harper's tale or a distant battle: known to be true, but in effect little more than a bogeyman to scare children.

Those had been hard times, John knew. Benden had barely survived, and his mother had been orphaned because of Threadfall. But sometimes, John wished he could have seen the flaming dragons soar over Benden, searing the deadly Thread from the sky.

"That won't happen in our lifetime," John said.

Ah-ha-ha, you are so wrong, John!

He examined the vine pattern worked through his sleeve. The pile of the fabric made the leaves appear and disappear as he rolled his arm, which he liked. "Is there any way you can have it ready for tonight?"

Master Andross bowed his head. "Without the lace, I believe so, though I would need to set two journeymen on it right away." Seeming to sense his opportunity, he began, "I wondered if you might aid the craft hall in a small matter...."

John held his breath. For actual small matters they just asked. If it needed a preface, it promised to be a pain in the ass.

For all his game playing, John really does do for his people. And here's where he proves it.

"Weaver Hall has been abandoned many Turns. It is near our Hall and would suit us very well. Lord Benden, however, insists that we build new."

John squeezed his eyes shut.

In theory, the crafts were independent. In practice though, certain Holds were known for their craft halls, a feather in the Lord Holder's cap. The Lord Holders exercised authority over the structures, if not the production of the crafts.

John's mother had taken the famous Ruathan weavers in her entourage back to Ruatha since they'd been brought to Benden in her mother's entourage. Their departure had become a major sore point with Lord Benden.

"I'll see what I can do," John said with a sigh. Maybe if he allowed them to use the hall for storage ... at first. He'd found a policy of determined encroachment had proved effective against his father.

But doing for his people doesn't mean John doesn't also use it in his battle with his father.


~*~*~

John squared his shoulders in front of the mirror, adjusting his cuffs. A valet attached the last of John's silver chains, laying them carefully across his chest. The sound of laughter and music wafted up from the courtyard below. Through the window John glimpsed two strolling Harpers, journeymen from the intricate knotwork on their shoulders.

The pampering is something we don't see in the Pern books. We see drudges and servants cooking and serving, but we never see, say, Lord Jaxom in The White Dragon being dressed for a ball. But I think it's a logical extension.

Banners lined the hill overlooking the courtyard, where they were stuck in the ground, waving in the desultory breeze. The brown and red of Ruatha had been one of the first to appear, but Nara, John's betrothed, hadn't come to see him yet. She'd probably accompanied her father to pay her respects to Lord Benden first. Which meant ... which could mean any number of things.

John tried not to read into it. Ruatha was here early. That in itself was a good sign. He only hoped that his father wouldn't piss off the Lord of Ruatha tonight. The two Lord Holders did not get on. Ruatha was John's grandmother's Hold, and they'd harbored John's mother when she left his father.

Whizzy demanded back story, and I found that my other betas simply assumed that John's back story would parallel SGA canon unless stated otherwise. So. Here it is. Backstory. I don't usually go for this much exposition. Normally my backstory stays in my notes. As a consequence of writing this so fast, 80,000 words in 12 weeks, the data dump that usually goes into my notebook ended up on the page. I'm not sure if it's a good thing or a bad thing. Rowaine loved it and wanted a follow-up book about John's mother and Lord Tyr. Other betas thought my original version had too much exposition.

Over John's shoulder, the portrait of his mother reflected in the mirror, her clear hazel eyes a match for his own. He'd rescued it from storage. His father removed it after she'd stormed out of Benden over Lord Benden's marriage to his second wife. John thought his father should have expected that reaction. Multiple wives was a High Reaches custom.

His father had said nothing about the painting's new location. But he didn't set foot in John's sitting room anymore. Nara called it "Tyr repellent."

The same portrait was sold on miniature medallions all over Benden; that and the portrait of her with a much younger John. They were popularized after his mother's death of fever in Ruatha. She'd become Benden's tragic heroine.

These three paragraphs with the portrait my betas never saw. In my final read-through, just hours before posting, I couldn't stand the exposition. (I try to read everything out loud to smooth out the phrasing.) I switched it out with a symbol of the tensions between John's parents, the small Holds, and John's role in it: the portrait. Once Whizzy pulled the backstory out of me in chat, Whizzy felt sorry for Lord Benden: he'd done a good job but wasn't appreciated by the small Holders of Benden.

Lord Ruatha and Lord Benden had pledged their eldest children to heal the rift, but the betrothal was broken off and renewed with every change in the wind.

The servants tucked John's cuffs into soft boots designed for dancing, interrupting his thoughts. He waved away the perfumer an instant too late. "No, thanks."

Great. Nara teased him when he smelled like a girl.

This exposition was such a struggle. First we had exposition A: the family tensions, leading into exposition B: Nara. At first I moved it to the scene towards the end where John meets Nara in the orchard and she discovers he's a dragonrider. But Enname felt it deserved to be here, and she was right: we needed to understand the seriousness of their relationship. Finally, I just used the servant to break it up.

I'm mildly amused that I complain about Anne McCaffrey's exposition in the Pern books, and yet, like her, I have tons of exposition in my Pern book.

Family drama had been background noise to the Lord Holders' children. As a child, John used to drop overripe fruit on Nara, enjoying her rants of fury as she threatened him with a stick if he ever came down from the trees. When they were teenagers he'd toss grapes down her cleavage to make her stretch her bodice open to fetch them. She'd oblige with a knowing, accusing look, then torture him as she took her time lacing back up. Nara and he were technically cousins--second cousins, since John's grandmother was from Ruatha--but they'd had years to adjust to the idea they'd marry. Have a wedding night. Have children. He'd sleep beside her. Watch her brush her hair.

Eventually. If Ruatha would return the damned weavers.

The weavers are a late addition. I hadn't explained what Master Andross' request was and Rowaine was curious. Sarka felt I'd left it hanging. Then towards the end of the story the weavers came up in a conversation between John and Lorne -- and click. They were important. The editing quill came out.

Taking a deep breath, John brushed away the fussing valet (lint didn't matter, this fabric would collect it no matter what), loosened his collar till it was more comfortable than fashionable, and made for the feast. He pushed the double doors open with both palms and took the curving stone stair with sure steps, his hand on his belt knife.

By the end of the night he'd be Heir, rather than just Heir Apparent. Unless the full Conclave of Lord Holders objected.

No more duels. No more waiting for whatever tidbits of information his father chose to share. He'd have a right to attend Conclave meetings himself, sworn in as "Regent in the case of any infirmity, and to act as your Lord's representative to Hearth, Hold, and Hall." The latter John already did, unofficially. Most of the small Holders preferred to petition John as an alternative to his irascible father. And he more or less ran the vineyards of Benden.

And yet, even though Lord Benden has given John this much responsibility, John doesn't acknowledge that he is his father's chosen Heir. Lord Benden doesn't want to give up the reins to John yet: the official Heir title would give John a great deal more power.

John paused outside the entrance of the main hall, sweating already in the too-warm tunic. The buzz and noise of the party was palpable. Colorfully dressed noble ladies in long gowns held their palms high in a complex new dance, laughing as one of them bungled it.

Benden's open beam rafters were strung with glows and bright banners hung to the floor. The first course of the harvest feast, the excuse for the Conclave, was already spread out on trestle tables pushed aside to make room for the dancers. Cheap as ever, John's father had somehow managed to convince the other Holders to bring "examples of delicacies" of their lands. Much of what was displayed was not from Benden: sugar-dusted candies of Nerat and Igen, and exotic cheeses from Southern Boll were settled among ubiquitous trays of Benden's grapes. Of course, Benden provided its famous wines.

The Conclave must have already begun. Not a Lord Holder was in sight.

John eased any trace of tension from his face and, with a professional smile, stepped in as the merry tune ended.

Transition courtesy of Mad Maudlin, pacing beta extraordinaire. She's really good at timing--comes from her natural comic ability, I think--and made me fix, well, virtually every transition in the entire book. I'd splattered them onto the page in Dr Wicked's Write Or Die, writing scenes hurriedly and out of order, and it's the transitions that suffer in that scenario. Dr Wicked was the only way I got this written in twelve weeks. I highly recommend it.

~*~*~

The guests were considerably drunker, and the music wilder and more breathless, by the time the conspicuously absent Lord Holders began to trickle into the feast. John had joined the dancers by then. As he bent his knee and bowed he searched the doorway for his father's tall thin frame and pointed black beard. But there was no sign of him. John turned and found himself face to face with Nara, who'd replaced his previous partner. She had luminous skin dusted with powder and wavy dark hair that escaped a jeweled hairnet. Her eyes danced when she laughed--usually at him.

"Hey...." John said breathlessly with a wide smile.

She circled him so that his back would be to the door, hiding her. "I'm not supposed to be seen with you," she whispered.

John's head slumped to one side. "Not again...."

"I had the opportunity to serve my Lord father during the Conclave," she said, not answering his implied question. She spread her skirts in an elaborate curtsy. There was humor to this dance, mocking the elaborate mannerisms of Keroon.

They really do slag Keroon, don't they?

John shifted his feet, and followed with the wrist spin that mimicked a womanish bow. "Naturally you didn't overhear a word." He smirked.

"I wouldn't dream of it," she said with a little dancing skip to the left. "But if one were to ask to be confirmed as Heir, one should first be certain one is supported within one's own house."

It took John a beat to get it. He forgot a step, then caught up. "He didn't."

John is not as politically adept as he thinks he is. He really should have seen this coming.

"The Lord of Benden felt the time was 'not yet ripe,'" she quoted, her eyes flashing, "for one so 'impetuous and young.'"

"Impet--!" John cut himself off, and said in a lower voice. "I work my ass off around here."

Her smile was thin with fury. "They decided the duel was not a sign of maturity."

"My father could have prevented it by naming me Heir in the first place," John said through gritted teeth. "He's pissed at me for winning."

He's pissed at you for killing his son, John. You may not have known Kort well, but you can bet Tyr knew his boy better.

"They say you should have let him withdraw."

"I offered! He refused," John said.

"It's not your fault," she assured him.

John sighed. Too many Lord Holders had their reigns cut short by their sons. The old High Reaches saw went that two sons were best pitted against each other so that they spared their father. "Are we still engaged?" he asked.

High Reaches in the series is where Fax is from. In the Pern canon, Fax attacked and took over multiple Holds.

"As far as I'm concerned," she said. She spun away, smiling at her next partner in the dance. Which was no answer at all.

John found himself facing a blandly pretty stranger. He'd had no chance to tell Nara that he was headed to Benden Weyr the next day, replacing his half-brother in what was technically an honor, but in reality, was time he couldn't take off from his responsibilities.

John took in the room. The Lord Holder of Telgar held a large bowl-sized cup of wine, his shoulder turned away from John, not meeting his eyes. Guilty. So he'd supported John's father. The elderly Lord of Ista, one of John's staunchest friends, gave him a rueful raise of his brow, while his lady gave John a lingering sympathetic look. The Lord of Boll held up a glass to John in a silent toast, while John's own father, finally making an appearance, stood with a stiff back to John, his proud head high, stroking his beard as he conversed with two dragonriders in full wherhide riding gear. The riders hadn't accepted any of the feast and stood, their manner businesslike, boots muddy and riding gloves tucked into their belts as if they intended to leave soon. Lord Benden didn't deign to make eye contact with John, though John caught a sly glance in his direction, so he was aware of John's gaze.

I'm following the pattern suggested in the early books, that the Lord Holders would be expected to marry within in their rank and their parents would use marriage to cement alliances. This means that although the Holds are separate, there is an incestuous closeness among the Lord Holders.

It was tempting to leave, to storm out to the vineyards and take in the air under the stars. Leave his father to his party and all the power he clutched.

But Benden Hold was his, dammit, and running would only prove the point about his being "impetuous" and "too young." His father had done well, putting Benden back on its feet, but to the small Holders he would always be the tight-fisted man from the High Reaches, which prided itself on squeezing harvests out of stone. John belonged to Benden.

John steeled his will to get through the rest of the night. In fact, he opted to be doubly charming. He held out his hand to the elderly Lady of Boll and offered to show her the newest dance.

"Oh, dear, I'm too old for such things," she said in a quavering voice, a palm pressed to her chest. But her cheeks turned pink at the attention.

"Nonsense," John said, and swept her onto the floor, her embroidered hem skimming the ground.

~*~*~

Servants moved the tables back to the center of the hall and removed the empty trays of fruit, and the guests were invited to sit as the remaining courses were served. John had been given the chair to his father's immediate right, a tacit admission that he was still Lord Holder Heir Apparent, if not yet the official Heir. The chair on his left stood empty: his wife refused to go to any banquet John attended, seeming not to realize that John considered this a relief. The Lord of Ruatha and his family were seated at the upper table, but at the farthest end away from them. John wasn't sure if that was due to a current break in their relationship with Ruatha, or intelligent planning on the part of the chamberlain to preserve the peace.

One of the young Lordlings of Telgar had taken the empty seat beside Nara. She laughed and smiled, her eyes casting now and again in John's direction. The young guy was handsome, but useless with a sword; plus he was third son, in line to receive exactly nothing from his father. John wasn't worried.

Beside John, Ista's youngest daughter kept up a running commentary in a voice like a bubbling brook. The food was so beautifully prepared, Benden has such wonderful wine, isn't this a marvelous evening, the dances were so exciting! It was as if everything she saw had to immediately pass her lips. John nodded at all the appropriate intervals and watched Nara with her Lordling.

Nara caught John's gaze. Then leaned in to whisper to the young fellow, within nuzzling distance, not taking her eyes off John for a moment. John could practically feel the buzz of it, how her breath would be hot against his hair, under his chin, against his neck. John's breath deepened and slowed.

With a lascivious smile to Nara, he turned to the girl beside him, "You know, the best way to drink wine is with your hands." His gaze still locked with Nara's, he dipped his fingers in his own glass. "Like this." And he held his fingers up to drip it into her mouth. The girl licked wine from her chin where it missed, her lips brushing his fingertips, but John only had eyes for Nara, and watching her dark eyes heat.

Nara wiped her mouth with her napkin. She took her Lordling's hand to turn it, palm up, ostensibly to show him old the Gather trick of reading one's future. She traced the lines of his hand delicately. She'd done this to John once when he was a teenager, before the stakes in their relationship had been raised. It had tickled all over, like his hand was linked to his entire body. Nara's eyes glittered with amusement at John. He squirmed, squeezing his thighs together.

And the game was on.

None of this game between John and Nara, nor the dance, was in the original draft. We went from the fitting for his tunic as a thin excuse to introduce dragonriders and Thread, to John's trek to the Weyr. Whizzy's demanding more backstory really helped make this story much richer.

By the end of the feast, John was flushed, while Nara was able to leave sooner, glancing back at him laughingly. She didn't have to wait for certain things to calm down.

The two dragonriders approached John's father to take their leave, still in their muddy uniforms. They'd circulated through the party, eating little and conversing less, but attracting clouds of girls. The luster of heroes. John was pleased to note that Nara hadn't given them a second glance.

"Did you find what you sought?" Lord Benden asked them, seeming bored.

One dragonrider gave John a quick, sharp look. "None of the right gender."

I wonder how many people caught on that they would have taken John in this Search if he were female.

Lord Benden's head nodded, as if he'd expected as much. His fingers lifted from the arm of his chair in a careless approximation of a wave. "Then I wish you good fortune on your Search."

John was relieved no one from Benden was taken. No one knew much about the goings on at the Weyrs. Heroes or not, there were wild rumors about the dragonriders, everything from tales of sexual prowess to depraved acts to virgin sacrifices. The Weyrs claimed the women found on Search rode the queen dragons, but too many women were taken for that to be true. There were only six Weyrs on Pern, with as many Weyrwomen, and Holders could count.

In the first book, Dragonflight, we learn that the Holds distrust the dragonriders. In the beta of my initial outline (in Big Bangs people beta the outline! Who knew?), Auburn and I discussed where that distrust might come from. I decided that the Holders wouldn't necessarily know about green riders having a gay sex, so the "catamite" issue wouldn't be there--plus that would spoil the "surprise" for John later--but taking women on Search would be a problem. In this period, it's only been about 20 years since the last Threadfall, so the Holds aren't miserly with their tithes yet. But they're less willing to give up their daughters.

After the dragonriders departed, Lord Tyr leaned over, his sallow face drawn in a scowl. "There is no impropriety between you and the daughter of Ista." It wasn't a question, more a demand that it be so.

"No, sir," John said.

"She has no dowry, and no land to Hold," John's father continued.

"She is light in the head," John assured him. "Not her skirts."

"You are promised already," his father said, emphatic.

Elated, John realized his betrothal must still be on.

"You should marry that one off quickly," an elderly woman's voice cut in. John turned and recognized the matron of Boll he'd danced with earlier. "Else you'll have grandchildren quick as you think." She snapped her fingers. "And no dowry to show for it."

My betas liked the elderly matron of Boll, and I think Rowaine wanted more about her, but there just wasn't space for it.


~*~*~

The very first draft of Dragonlord started here, with this scene:

John plucked a wide leaf from one of the mountain bushes and swiped it across the flat of his blade. He flung it, blood-stained, to the ground and withdrew a soft cloth from his belt to clean his sword more thoroughly. The young bandit lay dead at his feet, not much older than John's half-brother had been. John sheathed his sword, saddened.

Originally, I had no direct mention of John's half-brother here: I was trying to be subtle, have it haunt John, and eventually he'd spill it to Rodney but ... no. Too much else going on in this story.

The rest of the band had fled, no doubt surprised by the well-armed tithe guard. John smirked at that. He called out to his second, Lorne, "Any losses?"

Around him, the long train of laden runner beasts made a jagged line. His men dragged the body aside, off the overgrown path.

"One saddle strap cut but we kept the goods. We'll have to redistribute them among the other runners," Lorne answered. He slung the ruined saddle to the ground.

"We'll borrow a saddle from the Weyr," John said.

"If you say so, sir," Lorne answered dryly.

"Hey. They can't refuse people who've fed them for the last Turn, and Benden's good for it," John insisted.

I've envisioned Benden as a very wealthy Hold, though it's never really stated in the early books whether it is or not. I figure luxury products like wines tend to fetch high profit margins, and the series does talk a great deal about Benden wines....

Lorne didn't respond. John had picked Lorne as his second for this journey partially because they'd served together at Ista, partially because he didn't trust Kort's men.

The patrol John had sent after the retreating bandits finally returned, breathing hard and glaring, their frustration evident. John noticed they had no captured bandits among them. Too bad. John would love to know where they were based.

"We chased those culls past the third set of hills, sir," Alerin said between heaving breaths, his hands on his knees. "The area's wild. No signs of patrol marks, nothing."

John grimaced and didn't answer. They had another half day's ride and then the return trip. But at least they could overnight at the Weyr and be under cover for one night.

"If Threads were still falling, these vermin--" Alerin prodded a second body with his boot, this one a gaunt man in his thirties. "--would have to be in a Hold."

Bandits don't appear in the original series, but most of the books are set during Threadfall where it would be too dangerous to live outdoors. I liked exploring what would happen in peace time. We know that certain Holders took advantage and expanded their territories. It seems reasonable bandits would also appear.

"Not mine," John said, folding his arms.

And John sticks with that, right to the end. He's never less than loyal to his Hold.

"If the Weyr maintained their roads, we wouldn't have a problem," Lorne said.

John shielded his eyes against the sun, tipping his head to the side. A brief shadow, like a fast-moving cloud, passed over the group. Wings. John shook his head. "They're patrolling."

"And they couldn't help us?" Lorne said.

"Maybe they would have," John said, forestalling his men's complaints. "If they saw we couldn't handle it." He gave them a cocky grin, because of course poorly armed bandits were no match for the best of the Benden Guard. John ordered, "Give these rodents a sky burial and let's move out." They'd make Benden Weyr before nightfall if it killed them.

The men tossed the bodies over a cliff for the carrion birds--a respectable burial for the nameless; many would have left the bodies to rot. Then John rode to the rear of the tithe train, just in case there were more. It was not customary for the Heir Apparent to take the rearguard. More than one of his men glanced back at him, then at his second, but John took personal responsibility for their safety and they'd been surprised once already.

I like John better as a soldier than as a politicking Lord Holder. He seems to be more in his element. I've made up the burial tradition here: borrowed "sky burial" from the Tibetans in the Himalayas, where other types of burial aren't feasible.

Hours later, the sun lay low on the horizon, warming their backs as they made their way up the pass. They mounted the rocky path until the wind caught their runners' tassels and made the saddle blankets flap. John rode through to the front and the late autumn heat blew warm in his face. He shoved his runner's long neck out of the way so he could see. On the opposite side of the valley stood a blown out extinct volcano, lower than the mountains beside it, its peak broken like jagged teeth.

What runners look like became a problem. The Pern sites said they were horses, not native to Pern. Yet the artist rendering for the Pern books gave them longer necks. *headscratch* We finally went with a combination. They're illustrated for Dragonlord here.

Wheeling about in the red and purple sky above it were creatures, dozens of them, filmy wings spread as they lazily coasted and dove and rode the evening updrafts. A vee-shaped squadron circled the Weyr once, then headed due north in disciplined array. From this distance they seemed bird-tiny, but with the mountain as a reference point they were clearly massive.

What I wanted more than anything else was to see the Weyr. The first books are skimpy when it comes to descriptions. So seeing the dragonweyr from a distance... sigh. Merry Christmas.

Dragons. John caught his breath and thought he saw one spouting flame, but he couldn't be sure in this light. He clucked his teeth to his runner, "tscha, tscha," and led the caravan forward, eyes on their destination.

The shadow passed overhead again, this time larger, and close enough for John to hear wing beats. His runner snorted its nervousness. Glancing around, John caught sight of a blue dragon as it passed at high speed. It banked around and glided back toward them. John could see the rider so small on the great giant's neck. Then his runner reared up in panic and the entire caravan fell into disarray, plunging beasts keening, knocking into each other as they tried to turn and run on the narrow pass. Legs tight, hauling his runner's head down, hard, John controlled the beast, forcing it into a tight circle. He looked up and found his men had done the same. And that the dragon had landed. Its blue scales were really a pattern of steely-gray, shading to blue with darker patches down its tail. Beautiful.

The rider had the good manners to dismount, dropping to the ground from man-height. He approached the caravan. John wondered how he was going to get back up. Climb?

Something else that's never described in the books. I had a ball with this later on.

"Sorry about that," said a bright young voice. The rider couldn't have been more than seventeen Turns. "I'm D'rander," he said, using the honorific contraction of a dragonrider. He thumbed over his shoulder to the dragon. "Treth here wouldn't touch one of your beasties but I guess they don't know that."

"Yeah," John said, interrupted in his attempt to shake hands when his mount reared up in a bounce again, jolting him.

"Anyhow, Rialta--she's sort of our tithemaster--sent me out to check on you. Um, which Hold are you from?" the kid said.

"Benden," John answered.

"Great! We're short of wine." D'rander grinned. "I'll let her know you're here." He ran back to his dragon, who regarded the runners with a sidelong glance. The dragon, apparently well-trained, stuck out its foreleg and the kid planted his foot on it at a run and swung his other leg over. He landed hard enough to make John's eyes water in sympathy. There was a sharp metallic click and the rider fiddled with a few straps.

Then turning with surprising agility, the dragon dove off the ridge. Within two wing beats, it disappeared Between. On the other side of the valley, the blue dragon reappeared, hanging in midair just over the Weyr. It spiraled downward until out of sight.

The dragons' ability to go Between, transporting themselves instantly anywhere in the world, could have saved them a five-day journey, if the dragonmen would just consent to fetch their own tithes.

John drew a long breath and shook himself. "Well, you heard him. A measure of Benden's best for everyone if we get there before the sun dips below the ridge line." He pointed.

With a shout, his men roused their beasts. Hooves rumbled on the hard rock as they crossed into Weyr territory. If there were bandits here, John would eat his hat.

Fridge logic would point out that John's not wearing a hat....

~*~*~

John looked up at the looming mountain. From ledge upon ledge above them, dragon eyes gleamed, whirling gold and blue in the dusk. Only a dim red glow outlined the ridge beyond the valley, though John planned to reward his men anyway as they'd been forced to travel single file along a overgrown and unmaintained road. John shook his head at the Weyr's poor planning. How many tithes arrived that way every harvest? He wondered if he should mention it when he met with Weyrleader D'rec, or if he should save it for another time.

I've totally made up the unmaintained roads, just for the sake of this period and to emphasize D'rec's mismanagement.

He decided to save it. Better not to correct the man in their first meeting, not when they'd likely work together for years. John looked forward to a cup of klah with the Weyrleader and idly wondered if he'd meet the Weyrwoman, the queen dragon rider, on this visit. He'd heard dragonriders didn't sequester their women like the Lords of Keroon, though he doubted they had the independence of Ruathan women. There was even a female Lord Holder in Ruatha's matriarchal line.

In this canon, I've made bigger regional distinctions than we see in the first three books. Because of the distance between Holds and the fact that dragonriders aren't obligingly giving instant transportation all over Pern, distance would allow the Holds to develop their own cultures. I've written High Reaches as a hard scrabble Hold that's poor and had a lot of infighting over what wealth they have. Keroon is portrayed has having strict controls over women, Ruatha as being a place where women are far more independent (I'm extrapolating from the fact that many queen riders in the series are proudly from Ruatha).

The trail led to an open sandy cavern which lacked even a door. Clearly the Weyr feared no attack. John frowned. It seemed unwise, even for a dragon Weyr. The bandits had grown increasingly bold and a great deal of the wealth of Pern flowed to the Weyrs. When he met with the Weyrleader he decided to at least explain about the false caravans that had infiltrated and plundered some of the smaller Holds.

A woman clad in a plaited leather dress, out of fashion if lavish by Hold standards, stood in the entrance.

"On, on," she said, waving them in. Her braids swung. "You need to take the wine to the lower caverns to sit; in this heat it could have spoiled. Rialta will tell you where to put the rest."

"We'll need water for our mounts," John told her. "And food for my men. Though we brought our own drink." He cast a smile over his shoulder. The guards chuckled.

"Unload first," the woman commanded. His men glanced around in confusion.

"Where are your drudges?" John frowned at her.

She spread her arms wide. "You're looking at it. Receiving, and tithe accounting for Rialta. Hop to, we haven't got all night." She clapped her hands briskly.

"I'd like to see this Rialta," John said. His eyes narrowed.

"She's busy but be my guest," the woman replied with an off-handed gesture vaguely indicating somewhere behind her. "Up six flights, second door on the left, go twelve dragonlengths along the passage ramp, take the right-hand fork--the left lands you in the feeding ground--and then go through the wider cavern entrance, up two flights on the wall stairway. She's in the kitchen, the fifth--no, sixth--door on the right. Can't miss it."

Another thing I wanted to see was the interior of the Weyr. I imagine it as vast and maze-like, with three or four routes to every destination. My imagining is mostly based on the fact that there are abandoned rooms in the first few books that are discovered hundreds of years later. You can't lose track of entire sections unless the place is a bit of maze to begin with. Mostly though, this is just fun. (My betas made me cut some of the other times John got lost in the Weyr. Okay, okay, it was a bit excessive.)

John paused. "Why don't you just show me?" he said with utmost politeness. He gave her his most charming smile and dismounted, handing the reins to Lorne.

~*~*~

"The Weyr's not in the habit of keeping runners."

The inestimable and quite buxom Rialta was in the process of explaining why John couldn't have a spare saddle. She was a middle-aged woman, thick around the waist, with gray-blond hair tied in an untidy bun. She barely glanced at John as she answered.

Behind her a largely female kitchen staff tended huge vats of what looked to be some sort of stew. A cluster of children, roughly aged six through ten Turns, galloped around the kitchen, howling like bandits. Off to John's right, six dragonriders clad in riding leathers leaned on a countertop, murmuring amongst themselves, their heads close. They sipped from cups of klah and ignored both John and the general chaos. Four more threaded their way through, treating the kitchen as a kind of shortcut. Women worked around the din, shouting to each other over the noise of banging pots and the burbling hiss of water.

In the series we hear about Manora running the Lower Caverns and reporting on the tithe to the queen rider, but we never really see what goes on in other parts of the Weyr (like the kitchens). I was linked to discussions of the questionable role of women in the Weyr. I decided to double-underline it by having the women and this time period's Manora slaving away while the (male) dragonriders just sit around sipping klah.

"Surely you've received a saddle as a tithe at some point. We can replace it once we return to our Hold," John assured Rialta. "I even know just where one is located. Now--" he said, switching to the mode he used with difficult traders. "--about unloading. My men have been on the trail for five days. The last two we've fought off bandits. Who tend to attack at night, strangely enough."

She clicked her teeth, her expression stern. "Those bandits are getting to be a problem. The Holders should do something about that."

Heh. Given John thinks the dragonriders should patrol their own roads....

John dipped his head, smiling firmly as he held his tongue. He brought the conversation back on track. "Anyhow, it's a bit much to ask my men to unload after such a hard journey."

"We can't leave it on the beasts." She gave a wide shrug.

"No," John agreed.

"You arrived at the evening meal. Earlier, I could have assigned some Weyrlings to help you," she said, gesturing to the children.

"Help us," John repeated. He glanced around at the wild youngsters and thought it would have amounted to babysitting. "All right, fine. But my men need to eat first."

She stared at him. "That will make for a very late departure."

"Late?"

"Certainly. Unless they eat quicker than hungry dragons," she said while she stirred the steaming pot in front of her.

"We leave after the morning meal," John said. But he had a sudden sinking feeling.

"No. We don't allow camping in our foothills. It's too easy for a dragon to mistake your beasts for prey." She gestured with her spoon. "Holders get so attached to their runners."

"We'd be quartered here...." John said slowly.

She dismissed this with a laugh. "You're dragonriders now, are you?" She lifted the pot from the fire and gave him a chiding smile over her shoulder. "The Weyr is for dragons, not Holders." Heaving the pot chest-high, she poured it into the largest vat.

Lips parted in surprise, John realized this wasn't a negotiation.

And there you have it, folks. The magnificent chasm between Hold and Weyr.

~*~*~

With a heavy breath, John dropped the last wine barrel at the base of the stack. The glow baskets along the walls flickered, clearly needing replenishment. Here was the best of Benden, he thought with a snort. Well, not next year, not if he had anything to say about it. Which he did. They could have the greenest, harshest grapes of the first pressing. Or the dry, withered grapes of the last. He hadn't decided yet.

In McCaffrey's first book, Dragonflight, we see the Weyrs getting the worst of every harvest. I thought we might see how they brought it on themselves.

Earlier, Lorne had attempted to stop John from hauling casks, but John had hefted one to his shoulder and brushed him off. They needed speed if they were going to be leaving tonight. Plus John took perverse pleasure in letting the Weyr dig itself deeper into his ill-graces. When the Weyrleader discovered who he was--if he discovered it, John admitted to himself--there would be hell to pay.

Yes, John's growing arrogance as Lord Holder Heir Apparent is not a pretty sight.

John rested a moment, hands on his hips. Then he withdrew his empty water sack (he'd poured it out on the trail thinking that he'd fill it with fresh water in the morning) and uncorked it. He brought it up to the spigot. The wine hadn't settled yet, but one cup at least wouldn't go to the ungracious, ungrateful dragonmen.

Love that John is so petty, heh. It's one thing he has in common with Rodney.

The cavern had a sandy floor and was open to the central bowl of the Weyr. Above, as high as John could see, round glow lights picked out rocky ledges and highlighted dragons where they perched. A gleaming bronze dragon stretched out, its wings folded flat; a rust-colored brown dragon lifted its nose and sniffed; a bright leaf-green dragon gnawed at its hind claws ... ledge upon ledge upon ledge of them. As he sipped, John paused in his annoyance to take in the strangeness of his surroundings. A roar echoed through the cavern. It was answered by several more. The dragons within view lifted their long necks to reply. Then a large bronze dragon landed on a ledge, far, far above John, letting loose a small rockslide of clattering pebbles.

On the nearest ledge, a blue dragon, its scales shading toward a turquoise green, turned its whirling eyes toward John. John found himself pinned by an intelligent gaze. It tilted its head, regarding him.

John swayed in dizziness, a buzzing, ringing sound in his ears. He shook his head and it passed. He held up the wine sack and decided he shouldn't be drinking on an empty stomach, not when he was so tired from fighting today.

The dragons are trying to communicate with him, and John's sensitive enough to hear it as a buzzing. Not sure that was clear, though I clarify it later in the story.

John looked up and recognized now that there was a pattern to the dragon homes. The large dragons rested on the highest ledges, while the smaller dragons lived close to the ground. The blue-green dragon was young indeed, not more than four times the length of a runner, John noted, feeling more at ease. It was probably young.

The roaring repeated again. The bluish-green dragon raised its throat to bellow in bell-like tones. Then a green dragon, its scales dappled and shading to a shimmering gold, landed on the ground level, and trotting to a halt just a dragon length or two away from John. Its wings stirred a wafting breeze, kicking up dust that John blinked away, turning his face. Even the smaller greens were massive.

Its rider clambered off, grumbling to himself. "I have to deal with the wherry-farming, rock-headed... You!" The man raised his voice and pointed in John's direction.

John looked behind himself for another rider. But he was alone.

"No, I mean the wine casks--yes, you!" The rider approached, head lowered in a stubborn hunch, the wide line of his mouth set in a sideways scowl. "No tourists in the lower caverns."

John patted the nearest cask, deftly maneuvering his wine sack behind his hip. "Just delivering the Benden tithe." He gave the rider a disingenuous smile.

The rider huffed. "Well, you took your sweet time about it." He gazed up at the stack, momentarily derailed. "It's a good haul anyway."

He made a preemptory wave of his hand, shooing John, the Lord Holder Heir Apparent to seat of Benden Hold, like he was a common drudge. "Now scram. We have important dragonrider business beyond your feeble comprehension to attend to."

As far as John could tell, the dragons were just settling in to sleep. But he said, "Sure thing." And smiled, stepping into the glow light to make sure the man got a good look at him. Someday, and John hoped it would be someday soon, the green rider would regret this moment.

"Mredith," the green rider called out. The dragon raised its head as if recognizing its name. John mentally revised his estimate of dragon intelligence upward. "Next time R'dek can do his own scut-work. Let's go home. My ass is bruised and bloody from riding ... no, no, don't worry about it."

I can't read this Rodney scene without thinking: Eeeeeeee! Rodneeeeey!

That's as profound as I get.

Seeming confident John would simply obey, the green rider took off upward into the dark.

John opted to have a second cup.

~*~*~

A good half hour later, John wondered why his men hadn't come down to check on him. If anything, Lorne was a bit overprotective of his Lord Heir (Apparent, John appended with frustration). The dizzying, buzzing sound had returned and John swallowed to clear his ears, tilting his head. It didn't go away this time. In fact, it grew louder.

John looked up to find the dragons were awake, eyes brightly gleaming. With a cold thrill of fear, John noticed they were all looking at him. He drew deeper into the cavern. But the dragons' gazes did not follow him. In fact, some were staring off in a different direction, mostly just straight ahead, wherever they happened to be facing.

The buzzing sound grew to a low hum. No longer in John's ears but a physical noise. All right, he'd had some wine but not enough to imagine that.

A dragon dove from a ledge, riderless. It was a brown, dappled like leaf print. Another rider scrambled aboard his enormous bronze dragon, weyrhide jacket half on, half-off as they swept by John at speed.

Then all at once the others followed in a rush. The air had suddenly filled with dragons, moving full speed, soundless except for that hum. The entire Weyr was on full alert. John thought of the open door to the Weyr, though he couldn't imagine bandits bold enough to take on dragons. What could alarm dragonriders? He thought of the false tithe trains and swore.

John stepped out into the main bowl of the Weyr and followed the dragons at a run as they dove into an open passage large enough for the great river of Ista. The wind of dragon wings passing close overhead made him duck, but he loosened his belt knife in its sheath, ready to come to the Weyr's aid.

A flying dragon, of course, quickly outpaced a man on foot. Before long the cavern was empty. Glowbaskets were placed dragonlengths apart, each glow a distant spark leading him deeper into the Weyr. No doubt they were spread a reasonable distance for a dragon, but John stumbled in the darkness on footprints dug deep in sand. He hissed at the heat of the sand on his palms. It was hot enough to warm his boots. Had bandits set the Weyr on fire? They were known to burn Holds to create a distraction. John frowned but pushed ahead.

He came to a fork in the cavern, marked with numerous glow baskets. To the right, a narrower passage sloped upward. To the left, the cavern widened into darkness. The freshest tracks, small, human footprints mixed with dragon claw marks, led into the larger cavern.

Adjusting his shoulders, John drew his belt knife, and cursed Weyr custom that had required him to leave his sword with his pack. He marched forward along the hot sands into the dim light ahead. The humming here had grown very loud. It pressed upon him like a living presence.

After a large tunnel, John emerged into a vast open space, and looked up. The volcano was hollow. John had a vague impression of hundreds of dragon eyes glowing along ledges all around him, but his attention was immediately drawn to a cluster of young women huddled by the cavern wall, Holder girls by their dress. They clung together as a huge golden queen dragon loomed over them. It roared, the sound filling the cavern.

The girls screamed, clearly terrified. One collapsed to the ground.

All the stories that John had never fully credited--legends of bestial acts and dragonriders giving human sacrifices of girls carried off, never to be seen again--coalesced in his mind. He advanced on the golden dragon, stumbling over a smooth, round object. He glanced down. It was an egg, half-buried in the sand, cracked.

He soldiered on. If he could distract the queen, he could get the girls away. Provided they had the presence of mind to run.

He sized up his options. The large tunnel appeared to be the only exit. One of the girls was standing tall before the queen. Good, if she didn't get eaten first she could lead the others to safety.

John bent down and grabbed a handful of sand. "You!" he yelled, tossing sand at the golden queen dragon to get her attention. The huge head swung toward him, and John had a moment to take in the teeth which were as high as wagon wheels.

"Yeah, you!" He tossed more sand.

The queen reared up, roaring, its foreclaws raking the air.

"Get away from them!" John swiped the air with the laughably tiny knife. He glanced over to locate the brave woman, only to discover that she had moved closer, toward a golden egg.

"Don't be a fool!" he said, and was ignored by her. There was an angry murmur in the cavern, but John was too busy dealing with the emergency to care.

He moved toward the girl, but was cut off in his tracks by the queen dragon. She lowered her head, gnashing her teeth. Her tail whipped the air as she moved toward him, picking up speed. There was nowhere to run. The beast was too big, too fast. John raised his knife, spreading his stance, and hoped for a lucky break.

There was a glittering flash in front of him and John stepped back. A tiny bronze dragon no higher than his hip dove between John and the queen. She reared up. It hissed, its little wet wings fully extended.

You've got spirit, little guy, John thought, stepping beside him.

You are very brave!

John crouched low, not looking away from the queen, no, but his eyes widened as he listened for a source for that voice. It sounded as close as his shoulder ... or more like the memory of a voice in his mind.

Originally, John clued in too quickly, connected the voice immediately to the little dragon right away. *facepalm* Thank you, Whizzy.

You just faced the largest dragon in the world! it continued.

John snorted at the past tense. Someone was leaping to conclusions here. But in fact, the queen had turned aside. The woman by the egg cradled the face of a newly hatched golden dragon. John's head jerked around towards the broken shells of the egg he'd tripped on.

Oh.

John realized the voice had answered him, or rather answered his thoughts. It must have come from the little dragon.

It seemed rude not to reply, so John cleared his throat. "Well, I'd say you were the brave one," he insisted to the little guy. "Given she's a bit bigger than you, no offence."

The bronze turned to John, confirming his guess. She would not have harmed me.

And John was caught in the mesmerizing gaze of whirling dragon eyes, every color of the rainbow, suffused with warmth, love and unstinting admiration. Closer than family, John would never lack a friend and confidant, would always be able to trust him without question.

His devotion was so complete, so intense, it took John's breath away. "You can't ... you don't even know me."

I do.

"I've done ... if you can read my mind, then you have to know." The image of Kort, blood staining the sand, the life draining out of him, arose in John's mind unbidden.

But the little dragon seemed unfazed. This wasn't forgiveness. It simply didn't matter.

And somehow, when Whizzy asked for more, John's buried guilt over his half-brother came out.

My name is Lantis.

And how the dragon knew his own name, John had no idea. He must have just hatched. But he decided to return the favor. He bowed with all the formality he'd offer another Lord. "I am John, Lord Holder Heir Apparent to Benden."

What is Benden? Lantis asked.

"It's where I live," John said, deciding to save the long history of one of the oldest Holds in Pern for another time.

You do not live in the Weyr? Lantis asked.

"No." John laughed, beaming. It hit him that he was talking to a dragon. He hadn't even known they could talk.

Could I have something to eat now? Lantis pleaded. His eyes whirled in shades of orange and red. John could feel the gnawing pangs even though he himself wasn't hungry.

"Sure thing," John said. A group of dragonriders approached at a good clip, so John addressed them. "I don't know if you heard him, if this talking is a dragonrider thing or just something between friends, but Lantis here is hungry. You got a dragon kitchen around somewhere?"

"Yes, yes," the man snapped, and John recognized the rude green rider from earlier. "Attend to your dragon first, of course. But after that, the Weyrwoman wants a word with you, Holder."

"My dragon?" John said.

~*~*~

John fed Lantis into a somnambulant state until he could "hear" nothing but sleepy whispers from him, the half-aware burble and chatter of dreams. Then he followed two dragonriders to the Weyrwoman's quarters. Their arms were stiff and bulging, and they led him through a maze of narrow passageways. John glanced at the two of them, gave one a quick, furtive smile, but the man didn't return it.

I figure the Weyr mostly has little rooms and passageways for private spaces but the majority of the passageways are dragon-sized.

He had the distinct impression he was in trouble.

"Impression" being the word of the hour. Holders were outsiders to the Weyr's secrets, but apparently John had "impressed" a dragon. Rumors had leaked that dragonriders shared a special bond with their dragons, but John had chalked that up to Harper songs and romantic exaggerations; translated it to something he could understand. Like his attachment to a prize runner, for example. But this bond with Lantis was far more profound. He felt Lantis as if he were always there, a warm protective presence in his mind.

The later Pern books in the original series have Holders invited to attend Impressions but that was F'lar and Lessa's innovation.

While John wouldn't give up Lantis, not a chance, the dragonriders had to understand that John was Heir Apparent. He wasn't free to just pack up and go. Although John's main rival for the succession was gone, he had number of cousins who'd be more than happy to stir up trouble. As he stubbed his toe on a staircase that needed more glows--though he could appreciate the difficulty of lighting a place this large--John ran through a list of problems in his mind.

First, he had a hungry dragon. Lantis had just put away a wherry and a half and was going to grow much bigger. Once he could fly (oh, wow, John was going to fly!) they could probably hunt together in the wildlands outside Benden Hold. But it was a serious expense he was taking on, especially come winter.

Second, he had no idea how to train a dragon. The dragonriders did. Clearly he needed to stay here while Lantis grew up.

"So. How long does it take a dragon to grow to full size?" he asked the rider next to him. They'd been so silent, John had felt like a prisoner.

"A bronze grows slower," the rider said with a reluctant glance, like he was giving away secrets to a potential spy. "About eighteen months."

John reeled. He'd been hoping to be back home by spring at the latest. They definitely had a problem.

The rider stopped outside a open door and held the door curtain for John. "Inside," he said. The other rider took up his station on the opposite side of the door.

John ducked under the musty, frayed curtain, and found himself confronted with the sight of the golden dragon, stretched from one end of the ledge to the other. She was rounded like a hill. Beyond her, dawn had begun to shade the sky pink. They had a stellar view of a shimmering lake and misty purple mountains beyond.

There wasn't so much as a railing on that ledge.

"Anyone ever fall off one of these things?" John asked the dragonriders who'd escorted him.

"Not that I've heard of, but their dragons would catch them," said a feminine voice behind him.

Foreshadowing alert! All right, John doesn't fall off a ledge, but... I have accidental foreshadowing. A character, such as John, will make an observation, and then the idea of someone falling will stick in my mind, and eventually someone has to fall.

John spun around to meet the warm brown eyes of a woman at least twenty years his senior. She had chin-length brown hair streaked with gray, and a sardonic, self-mocking smile. He stepped out of the doorway and gestured her through, his arm sketching a bow.

"Weyrwoman," he guessed.

Her smile turned kinder. "Elizabeth, please. Come in."

When I first discussed Elizabeth being Rodney's mom, Auburn was vaguely horrified. :D I think it works because we do have an older Elizabeth in SGA canon, and it demonstrated the incestuous closeness of the Weyr. The latter is what convinced Auburn.

The golden dragon stirred, its eyes blinking sleepily, dim red whirling with blues. Hunger and welcome, John read in that, based on his brief experience with Lantis. He shrank away. "Yeah, I don't think she likes me much."

Instinctively he reached out to Lantis in his thoughts, but Lantis was still deep in slumber.

"Nonsense. Ioreth says you were very polite to Lantis," Elizabeth said, reaching over to stroke her dragon's muzzle. "Introduced yourself with your full title in fact." Her eyebrow raised and that sardonic smile returned. "Lord Holder of Benden?"

"Lord Holder Heir Apparent to Benden," John corrected, and added, belatedly, "John."

"Ah," she said. The set of her shoulders eased. "You'll have to forgive us. Dragons aren't very familiar with titles. Things get garbled being passed from one dragon to another."

"I can imagine," John said, digesting this new information. Dragons talked to each other. It was a huge strategic advantage. Though he should have thought of it sooner; after all, Lantis talked to him. "My men get their orders scrambled all the time unless I call them to assembly and give them myself. And, speaking of which, I've been a little busy what with Lantis and all...."

"Your men are quartered in the lower caverns with the Weyrlings," she said, anticipating his question.

"Good, thank you." Though John wasn't sure how happy Lorne would be, spending the night with those brats. "We rode far with the tithe and they were pretty exhausted," he said, his earlier anger returning, though he kept a smile pasted on his face. "Rialta informed us that, as we weren't dragonriders, we couldn't stay the night in the Weyr."

"She's correct," Elizabeth said with a gracious nod. "But they are quartered here as your guests, J'ohn." She added the extra breath of the honorific contraction, and John heard it, subtle though it was. Or else he was understanding a truth that he'd shoved to the back of his mind, what he'd feared for the last several hours: Impressing a dragon meant he was a dragonrider.

"Oh, no, now wait a minute...." John began, his palm raised.

"If you were Lord Holder that would have posed some difficulty. But as it is you just simply need to abdicate in favor of the next in succession," she said calmly, as if she weren't asking him to more or less jump off that ledge and give up his entire life. Everything he'd sacrificed for.

And killed for, as Mad Maudlin pointed out. But that's what John means when he says sacrificed.

"Yeah, uh, you see, that's a bit of a problem. There's no one else in the succession." He was completely full of it: Kort had a little brother and sister, and Benden's succession had so many uncles, aunts, cousins and collateral lines the family tree looked like a tangled fishing net. But he gambled that the dragonriders knew as much about Hold politics as he knew about the Weyr. "There was someone else, but he died last season. If I abdicate, we're looking at a civil war."

That much was true. He held her eyes.

"I have a half-brother and sister. Age nine and eleven. They won't survive a succession war." Which was also true.

"I see," she said.

"Let me contact my father. Maybe we can work something out," John said. Or was he J'ohn now? His head spun.

"We definitely need to speak to Benden," she agreed.

~*~*~

What John meant to do was send a carefully worded letter, sealed, via Lorne. That would give him several days to imagine solutions and prepare for likely responses. Two or three letters back and forth would give him a good couple of weeks to plan, wheedle, or otherwise coerce his father.

What the Weyrwoman meant was to wake the Lord of Benden at the crack of dawn and bring him to the Weyr immediately. The journey that had just taken John five days was accomplished in a matter of hours. They fetched John from the Hatchling nursery where he'd fed Lantis into a stupor, and then he found himself face to face with the man he least wanted to see.

Lord Tyr of Benden, though thin, drew himself up to his full height. His pointed beard wasn't oiled yet, and his hair was in disarray, like he hadn't even bathed. He had the sallow skin and dark, nearly black eyes of High Reaches Hold, where in fact he was from.

Originally this was our introduction to Lord Tyr of Benden.

He strode forward to Elizabeth, paused a step when he caught sight of the queen, but recovered quickly. He took Elizabeth's hand and folded his other hand over it. "I apologize for my son. He has never been one to mind his betters." Speaking of John as if he were a stripling caught raiding an orchard. John rolled his eyes, though he understood the tactic. His father was playing to her age and the likelihood Elizabeth had her own children. "He'll return your young dragon immediately, no harm done. No doubt you understand: all boys dream of riding a dragon."

Hahahaha, what Holders don't know about dragons.

Now this was a sticky conversation between myself and Lynn. Why didn't John dream of being a dragonrider? His father certainly had.

Well, first, it would mess up my story. But also, John, unlike his father, never saw Threadfall. The dragonriders had withdrawn from the Holds and so were only seen occasionally. For John, becoming a dragonrider just wasn't within the realm of possibility.

For Tyr, dragons were in the sky all the time. He was a second son, like Kort. Eventually he made a good marriage (financially, if not emotionally) but as a boy he'd had no prospects unless his older brother died.

John was raised by his mother as the last living heir to the Benden line. When she kicked Tyr out of her bedroom after John was born (she did not like Tyr, who was chosen by the regent for his business acumen, rather than status, personality, or looks, and she felt robbed, that she could run Benden without Tyr, like her Ruathan foremothers) she took charge of raising John herself. She poured all of her hopes into John. He considered himself to be Benden, so much so that it surprised him when he wasn't instantly anointed Heir the moment he came of age.

The little gleam in his eye told John that his father was one of them. So he'd enjoyed his trip here. Few besides dragonriders and those picked in a Search for rider candidates ever sat dragonback. Good. He wasn't in a bad mood then.

John cleared his throat. "There's a little kink in that plan."

Elizabeth cut in. "No one can return a dragon. J'ohn is a dragonrider now."

His father blinked, startled. He released her hand slightly and she withdrew it. Yeah, that was the bluntness John had been hoping to avoid.

A little cultural difference between Hold and Weyr. John has already noticed that the dragonriders are more direct, less politic, than the Lord Holders.

John explained, "The dragons get kind of ... attached."

"Nothing beyond death can break a dragon's bond with his rider," Elizabeth said.

Lord Tyr gave John a look, like he was willing to oblige in that. "Yet my son has seen to it that he is the only viable Heir in direct line of succession."

John's jaw tightened, throat closing as he swallowed a surge of fury. He was not the one who'd issued the challenge! He'd had no choice. His father could have prevented the duel: all he had to do was support John's claim and anoint John Heir. But no, he preferred to play one son against the other, keeping his options open. And not coincidentally, keeping his own grip on Benden Hold.

What is wrong? Lantis had woken. You are very angry!

"My family is ... difficult," John said under his breath to Lantis, since the dragon could apparently 'hear' over distances. He of course vastly simplified the issue for the young dragon. Louder, John coughed into his fist and said, "It's difficult but I'm sure we can work out some kind of arrangement." He turned to the Weyrwoman. "If my father and I could have a moment alone?"

"Very well," she replied, shooting them both a cautious glance.

The two dragonriders from earlier led them out of the Weyrwoman's quarters, up a series of stairs, then along a rough-hewn hallway. They opened a door to a plain room. It had an unglassed window, shutters open to the sky with curtains blowing in a light morning breeze. A simple long rectangular table took up most of the space and stools were ranged around it haphazardly, as if the previous occupants had left in a hurry. The only adornment was a tapestry that depicted all of Pern with silver dragon pins stuck in it at various points. John's father studied it with interest, stroking his beard. John looked out the window, enjoying the view of the real dragons flying below them. He turned and leaned back, his hands on the ledge, watching his father.

"This is a dragonrider plot to seize the best of Benden," Tyr said. So now, behind closed doors, John was suddenly the best of Benden; he rolled his eyes. "They couldn't take you on Search so they tricked you here."

"It was an accident," John said. "I thought the Weyr...." He decided not to admit to his foolishness. Of course the Weyr hadn't been under attack. "...I followed the dragonriders to their hatching. But this is something we can turn to our advantage."

His father raised both eyebrows. "You think a Weyr will favor a Hold? Simply because you're of Benden."

"A full-grown dragon at Benden? Bound to us?" John countered.

He had no idea if this were possible, nor did he care. He had to get his father to accept Lantis at any cost. Benden had always been peaceful, but his father came from the more violent High Reaches Hold. Neighboring Bitra had always been disturbed by the size of Lord Tyr's Benden Guard.

I've decided that most of Pern during this period is peaceful, unlike the time period where Fax attacked and sacked a half dozen Holds. It's uncommon to have a standing army, though Tyr has expanded the size of Benden's honor guard to more or less equal an army.

"Mmm. None of our rivals can know we have this option in our pocket," Lord Tyr agreed.

"We can tell them I've been fostered out for a year," John said.

"A year?" His father was appalled.

"They're a bit bigger than runners. A dragon takes a while to grow." John could bargain for the additional six months when it came to it, but more than a year and his father would start making arrangements for a new successor. "Lorne can handle my responsibilities while I'm gone--" John held up his hand. "--I'll direct him, don't worry. Once Lantis can--"

"Lantis?" his father queried.

"That's my dragon's name," John explained.

"You've named it already." Lord Tyr gave him a sarcastic smile mixed with fondness, like the time John had brought home a wounded watchwher and begged to keep it.

There are some fond father-son moments in their past, but mostly John inherited his mother's attitudes toward his father. Though some of the tension between them is the fault of Tyr's personality.

"They come pre-named," John said with an impatient gesture. "Anyway, once he's flying, well, you saw how quick a trip it is," he said, urgency creeping into his voice. "I can be back to Benden in a blink of an eye."

"And the dragon will be loyal to Benden?"

"The dragon is bound to his rider," John said, to remind his father that he didn't get the dragon without John. "Unequivocally."

You are my friend, J'ohn, Lantis chimed in out of the blue.

Lantis has been listening to this entire conversation, or rather John's side of it. He's now learned, almost from the shell, that he's going to be moving to Benden Hold once he's full grown.

I will do anything to keep you, John thought, while his father considered it.

Dragons and riders are always together. That is how it is.

At length, Lord Tyr nodded. "You will keep in contact with your household regularly."

"Every day, sir."

"Then I guess..." He held out his hand. "...Congratulations dragonrider J'ohn." They shook on it, John grinning at his father.

~*~*~

John stopped a dragonrider to get directions to his men in the Weyrling's cavern. He became thoroughly lost, so asked for directions to the kitchen instead. Rialta scowled at his reappearance and assigned a Weyrling to guide him.

I originally had more fun with John getting lost here, but Mad Maudlin was right, it dragged.

Lorne had the runners already saddled. The Benden Guard had gathered in the sandy cavern entrance, sipping klah. They seemed both bemused and relaxed at their unexpected stay. John noticed a new saddle dyed Harper blue on one of the runners and shook his head.

No one pestered John with questions about dragons--and one dragon in particular--so John assumed they must not have been told. The Weyr was impressively closed-mouthed about their business.

The Weyr would have to be close-mouthed. Otherwise the fact that male dragonriders sleep together during mating flights would be the talk of Pern. The Holds are far too conservative for that little tidbit. As Auburn and I explored of the possibilities and implications of Pern, it became obvious that Hold-Weyr tensions would arise over boys being made into catamites.

"I understand that you're responsible for our good luck," Lorne greeted him. He handed John a fresh cup of klah, piping hot, which reminded John that while he'd fed Lantis, he'd forgotten to eat anything himself. He retrieved some provisions from his saddlebags.

I think it was Lynn who pointed out that in an initial version of the story, John didn't eat for nearly thirty-six hours. Ooops. I slipped in a little bit of food here.

"And I hear you were housed with the kids." John winced in apology. "Sorry about that."

"Actually, we got our own room. This place is huge!" Lorne said. "You must be a fast talker to convince them." He gave John a meaningful, bug-eyed look, with a quick glance back at the guard.

Ah. His father must have spoken with Lorne then. "Yes. I talked them into it," John repeated their story with dry humor. "My father is fostering me out for a year," he said for the benefit of anyone listening. Lorne would have the full truth, though probably a highly slanted version of it.

"Really? A year?" Lorne looked shocked. True, usually only young boys without responsibilities were fostered out for so long.

"I think it's punishment for the duel."

Lorne chuckled. "More, huh?"

"I pay and pay," John said. "I'm going to need you to hold down the fort for me at Benden. I'll send regular instructions by mail. But for anything that's not routine, use your best judgment."

He laid a hand on Lorne's shoulder, his ebullience fading. This was the last of his own kind he'd see in over a year. Though maybe Lantis would be able to fly before he was full-grown and John could visit. But regardless, from here on he'd be stuck with dragonriders. "I trust you."

Lorne shook his head. "I hope I can live up to it."

He pounded Lorne's back and said, "Good man." He drew Lorne aside by the arm. "Now let me bring you up to date...."

It was a good hour of instruction later, from crop yields, to the small Holders who were behind on tithe portions who John was protecting from his father's wrath, the flirtation between John's youngest cousin, age ten, and a farm boy, age twelve, repairs that needed to be complete before the winter rains set in, and purchases to be made before then as well. Even the payment owed for the new tunic.

Finally, John unhooked one of the silver chains he wore beneath his uniform and pressed it into Lorne's hand. "Give this to my lady Nara of Ruatha. Tell her...." John wracked his brain, squeezing his eyes closed. "Tell her that the battle is won, but we fight yet for the heart of my father."

I suspect the Holders had the habit of wearing jewelry that could also act as funds in a pinch.

"He broke off your betrothal again?" Lorne asked, eyebrow cocked quizzically. He pocketed the chain, sealing it inside his belt pouch.

"No, it's on. My father still wants Ruatha to hand back our weavers."

"So it's shaky."

"He has to let me marry sometime," John said, hands spread. He let his arms drop. "If he wants grandchildren, that is."

"They might grow up to be competition," Lorne said with a sour expression. "Sorry."

"It's all right," John said, laughing as he shook his head. "It's true."

Lorne leaned closer. "Pardon my saying this, but you're betrothed. You should just take your right with her. If she's amenable, that is."

"Oh, she's amenable...." John said, bashful.

"If she were pregnant then that would force the issue."

"We'd lose the dowry."

"Ruatha wouldn't mind," Lorne joked.

John snorted his agreement. No doubt that's a large part of why the Lord of Ruatha had put it off, hoping they'd get impatient. It was working.

I've completely invented this betrothal custom, that if it's a shotgun wedding, the wife's family isn't obligated to pony up the dowry. From the first books of Pern we don't know anything of the marriage customs of Pern.

"Benden's wealthy. Your father would get over it," Lorne said, his hands spread.

John winced and dug at the ground with his boot heel. "I just don't want my first to be born illegitimate. I've had enough problems of my own to muddy the succession."

"It's a minor problem that could be resolved later by the Conclave," Lorne urged under his breath. "In the meantime, we'd have you, solidly in line for the title, with a bun in the oven. No one would even imagine anyone else."

"Looks like you're ready for the politics of my job," John said mildly, evading the issue.

"The small Holders want you," Lorne said, standing. "You're the only one that looks out for them."

It occurs to me that Lorne is more worried about John being gone a year than John is. I think, for all his politicking, John's overconfident. He thinks Benden is his no matter what. I think Lorne instinctively knows that a year is too long.

John watched his men leave from the open entrance of the Weyr, standing at parade rest, as if reviewing the troops. The Benden Guard in their familiar bluegreen uniforms saluted him as they passed, then rode toward the overgrown trail. They disturbed the brush, ducking under branches that closed behind them, obscuring them from view.

The tithe train crossed again in the open, further up the hill. John could see Lorne at the head of the caravan one last time. Then they disappeared over the hillcrest one by one. And John was left alone with the unfamiliar sounds of the dragon Weyr.

~*~*~

Chapter Two: The Dragonet

Thin, trailing tendrils, like translucent smoke drifting through space, touch the upper atmosphere of Pern. Seen from the ground the stars seem to blur.

The first trace of Thread is burnt on entry. The air superheats and the detritus that accompanies Thread spores falls as meteor showers. The sparks flame out at a height only dragons can reach, leaving a smog that smells like burnt metal mixed with mold.

Sarka gets full credit for the Thread intros to each chapter. It was her idea after we moved the Thread scene to the prologue.

Oh. I have, like, 250 more pages to comment on and this is due today. Maybe I shouldn't comment every other paragraph, eh?

When John turned nineteen, he'd been fostered out to Ista Hold for military training. Ista had set up a suite for him in the inner Hold providing him with his own bath, a receiving room, and a separate changing area. They'd assigned one of the Lord's own manservants to see to his needs. John had turned it all down flat, insisting to be barracked with his men. The Lord of Ista had expected John to dine at his table. After a day or two, John had begged off that as well, either eating at his bunk or taking meals in the chow line.

It had made him popular, though mostly it made John feel he was getting a real military experience, not living on satin pillows. But he'd been forced to stand his ground. Even those of high military rank had deferred to him, and the other fosterlings had attempted to curry favor. He'd finally shouted them all down, shouldered aside privilege, until his commanders accepted him as part of the military unit and not another figurehead marking time. He was one of the few Lord Holders worth anything with a sword as a result.

That said, he'd had to insist.

John's always been a man of the people. More about that later.

"Now, don't do me any favors," John said to his empty weyr once his guides had abandoned him.

The main room was pitch dark and smelled dank. The long, heavy curtain over the doorway wafted a musty smell when he dropped it shut behind him. There was no door.

A cool breath of air pushed past John's cheek. There were holes in that curtain to be sure. The draft wasn't too bad for autumn, but John had a feeling it would be damned unpleasant come winter.

He felt along the wall till he found a hook with a basket of glows. He unshielded it. Three half-dead glows rolled about like peas in the bottom of a pail. Not enough to light a privy. John looked up in exasperation. It wasn't as if he knew which servant to ask to fetch more. In fact, as far as he could tell, the dragonriders did a lot for themselves.

John held the dim basket of glows high and explored his new home. It was spacious, he'd grant them that. As large as a craft hall, and wide open, without decoration or wall dividers. Unlike the rest of the Weyr, the walls of the cave were unworked, though worn smooth along the sides, dragon-high. Stalagmites pointed down from the dome of the ceiling. Right about then John was grateful for the dim light. He'd discovered the room's sole decoration: festoons of cobweb, like the delicate silk scarves worn by the ladies of Keroon.

There was no furniture to speak of. Sliding his hand along one wall he discovered a shadowed area that turned out to be an arched doorway that led into a bedroom. Stepping in, he saw a wooden single bed with a straw-ticked mattress. The bed frame was well-used, scuffed, and carved with initials and a bit of profanity here and there. There were no pillows. He pressed his hand to it; the straw poked through thin fabric. It wasn't even filled with rushes like a common mattress and a smell of dust and mold puffed out. John shook his head in disbelief.

"You've got to be kidding me."

Student housing sucks everywhere.

His voice echoed back to him. He turned a slow circle. The ceiling was lower in here. Fortunately there were no swathes of cobweb, one small favor. Over a tiny apprentice's desk there was a window, its shutters were closed tight. He held his hand up to it: no gaps for a draft.

Leaving his bedroom for a moment--John blinked at the very idea--he explored the wide space of the main cavern. He hoped that he wouldn't have to wander the Weyr looking for some group toilet, and prayed that he had more than a bucket for a privy. He'd slept rough in the woods on the way here but it wasn't something he wanted to do every day.

At the farthest end of the main room, around another curve, he discovered the source of that draft. His ledge was small but similar to the one in the Weyrwoman's place, open to the stars, and as he'd seen from outside, perhaps ten spans up. The voices of two dragonriders passed below him.

"--Caught him easy in the time trials."

"He was sluggish from bad Keroon water! Next year you can bet on Trenth for the melee. Now, what do you think of the Hatchlings?"

"Oh, come on." The rider laughed. "It's too early to tell."

"You know what they say. 'Quick from the shell is quick in the air.'"

"His rider was in danger. It doesn't count...."

Their voices faded away. John wondered if they were discussing Lantis. He attempted to reach his dragon (he had a dragon! His dragon) and shut his eyes ... he swayed on his feet when he met a well of deep sleep, and was nearly sucked under, like hitting a strong current. Blinking the fuzzy feeling away, John left the ledge.

On the left-hand wall from the door (well, curtain) he found another bend in the cavern, wide and ax-hewn. He nearly stumbled over a hole in the floor whose purpose was obvious. There was no smell, so either the Weyr had put in fresh lyme--he kind of doubted that--or they had some other means to dispose of waste. A shuttle with a few chunks of firestone and a striker answered that question. A ridiculous expense, akin to using gems as paving stones, but John figured firestone must be easier to acquire in the Weyrs.

Thus answering one of those basic questions about the Weyr, since everywhere else in Pern uses privvies.

He followed a hairpin turn. The faint damp of steam bathed his skin and a sharp mineral tang filled the air. The draft had cut off by now and the floor was warm underfoot.

Holding the glow basket up, the light picked out a glimmering pool in the midst of a rough cavern, the ledge encircling it large enough for a dragon. Or a smallish dragon anyway. John bent and dipped his hand in the water. Warm, not too hot.

Now this was more like it. A tin bucket of soapsand beside the pool was half full, though it had to be jostled to loosen the hardened crust on top.

One thing that McCaffrey describes thoroughly is the bathing rooms of the Weyr. One suspects her of hedonistic baths with candles, incense and scented bath crystals.

Feeling satisfied he'd seen the whole place, and not having bathed with more than a wet rag the last few days, John could suddenly smell himself. Whew, yeah, okay, maybe he couldn't blame the dragonfolks for not wanting to put his men up. He ended that line of thought, as it reminded him he was alone among dragonriders now. Instead he set down the glow basket, stripped off his tunic and riding pants, and discarded his shoes. He sank into the cool-warm water up to his chin. It was as deep as one of Ista's family bathing rooms. He dunked his head and threw the water back in a splash. Breaking off a chunk of soapsand (it wasn't herb scented like his own, but by now he didn't expect that) and scrubbed it through his hair, soaped the hair on his chest and under his arms.

After he'd soaked long enough for the water to feel tepid to him, John shook his hair--no doubt it stood out in dark spikes--and lifted himself out on his arms. He cast about for a towel.

When a place is mismanaged, it's the little things that hit you first and worst.

He silently cursed himself and the dragon Weyr. There had been no pillows in his bedroom. Of course there were no towels! He dried off with his shirt, which now smelled rank with sweat to him, and wrapped it around his waist. He scooped up his trousers and the glow basket. He needed to fetch his saddlebags. And find his dragon. As if on cue, he felt the faint stirrings of Lantis in the back of his mind.

"You're awake?" John said aloud, thinking he sounded like a crazy person, talking to himself.

Mmm... I am hungry, Lantis answered.

Of course he was. "Where are you?" John asked.

I am here, Lantis replied.

"Where is here?" John clarified.

Where I was before.

That was helpful. John had been hoping for directions.

You do not know where I am? Lantis asked, sounding worried. John had to bear in mind that Lantis could hear his stray thoughts.

"Don't worry, I'll find you." John soothed him.

An image of the feeding nursery next to the Hatching ground forced its way into John's mind. John could think of nothing else. He got the view from Lantis' perspective, looking over the curve of a little dragon's rump where he was curled close to his sleeping littermates. He'd woken first. Now the other dragonets started to stir. Lantis' image was tinged with concern, hunger, and a wish for John to hurry, hurry.

That was useful. Well, the image wasn't. John knew where Lantis was, just not how to get there. But he hadn't known dragons could send images as well as words. With effort John pushed the image away so he could see his own surroundings again.

One thing I wanted to clarify and make explicit was how the riders experience the abilities of dragons, with the same level of detail McCaffrey uses to describe Impression.

You are lost? Lantis queried.

John had the impression his dragonet was ready to send a dragon search party roaring through the Weyr. That would go over big. He felt new surging pangs of Lantis' hunger, red hot and gnawing, and threw his clothes on, though he left his small clothes on the floor.

"Keep in mind that everyone knows where you are," John said, counting on the self-absorption of his dragon as he laced his boots.

True. Lantis settled down. John caught the image of Lantis sitting back on his haunches to wait.

John moved at a fast walk out of his rooms, and had no compunction about tapping the nearest dragonrider for directions. He discovered that the phrase "my baby dragon's hungry" got him instant results, though it took him two tries to find the place. By the time John reached the nursery the other dragonets were already gulping bloody chunks of raw meat from their riders' hands. John noticed for the first time that all the dragonets' riders were teenagers, ranging from around fourteen to nineteen Turns.

Lantis, miserable from having had to watch the others eat, bleated at John while John grabbed a bucket and strode toward a bin of meat. The young riders shot him dirty looks but only one person's feelings mattered to John at the moment.

"Sorry, baby," John said, handing over a fistful. Lantis nearly took his hand off. "Hey, hey, don't choke!" He pulled it out of reach when Lantis tried to take it all in one bite.

You said you would hurry.

"I did. I got lost."

The shoulders of the teenage rider closest to John relaxed.

As Lantis' feeding slowed to steady pace, the kid closest to John offered, "You were coming from your weyr? On the dragonet level?"

"Yeah," John said.

"Just go straight down. If you take the left-hand turn you'll circle for hours."

McCaffrey doesn't tell us much about the inside of the Weyr, but in a place that houses four hundred dragons, I assume that everything would have to be huge.

"Thanks," John said, pausing a moment. The kid had sandy-blond hair, a lock of which fell across one close-set eye. He was the oldest of the group, perhaps nineteen, and almost as tall as John.

"No problem," the kid gave him a flash of a smile. He stood, his own bucket empty, and regarded Lantis, talking in the manner of a farmer looking over his crops with satisfaction. "Lord Holder, huh?"

Lantis whimpered, so John returned his attention to his dragon.

"Lord Holder Heir Apparent," John explained, wondering how many people knew his business.

"That's going to piss people off," the kid said, matter of fact.

"Yep. My dad was pretty upset," John said, adopting the same tone.

The kid gave him a quizzical look. "You impressed a bronze," he explained, as if this were supposed to mean something to John. He extended a hand. "I'm Ter--I mean, T'rence." He blushed.

J'ohn wiped his blood-covered hand on his pants and took it. "J'ohn." It surprised him how easy it was to say the honoriffic.

The kid had a firm grip and turned to Lantis again. Lantis rattled his wings in a bid for more food. "He eats a lot," said T'rence.

"That he does."

John's completely missed what T'rence means. Behind the scenes, the dragonriders are buzzing about John, and pissed that a Lord Holder is a position to possibly become Weyrleader.


~*~*~

Lantis frisked in the main room of John's new quarters, not at all upset with the conditions. Suddenly, with a live dragon in it, the space seemed tiny. John dumped his saddlebags on the floor.

My weyr, Lantis said.

John corrected himself: these were Lantis' new quarters. He looked up at the cobwebbed ceiling again.

"I don't suppose you can do something about that."

Lantis' wedge-shaped head swung upward, looking around. John added a mental image, trying this out, letting the image zoom in on the cobwebs.

You dislike them, Lantis said, as if he were trying to ascertain the problem.

"Yes. Maybe you can flame them out? They're a little high up, even for me," John explained.

You are very tall, Lantis added proudly. Taller than the other riders.

"Yes, yes I am," John said.

Lantis paused as if considering it. Ioreth tells me that I must wait to chew firestone. I am too little, she says.

"She? Ioreth--oh, right, the queen dragon. Mom," John added.

I am her favorite, Lantis said, sounding surprised and pleased.

"That's because you're the pick of the litter." John grinned.

Dragons have Clutches. Not litters. Watchwhers have litters, Lantis said. Ioreth says I must explain such things to you.

"Well, I'm not from around here," John said.

No. You're from Benden Hold! Lantis announced it like he already knew Benden was the finest Hold in all of Pern. Which it was.

Of course. Lantis picked that up from John. And he believes he'll be moving there.

"That's right."

I am ready to chew firestone now, Lantis insisted.

"Maybe we'll wait on that one," John said.

I am hungry, Lantis said.

"Again?"

~*~*~

After a sleepless night with his dragon waking him for food, bright daylight edged the shutters, marking a square outline on one wall. John shoulders were stiff from having slept in the cold without a blanket, the arm on the side he slept rubbed raw, indented with pick-marks and straw patterns. After bringing Lantis to their rooms he hadn't had time to locate bedding, and he'd been up all night at the Hatching the night before. It struck John how quickly his life had changed. Thirty-six hours before he'd ridden in at the head of the tithe caravan, the rising Lord of Benden.

Rousing himself, he unlatched and swung wide the shutters in his bedroom. Light poured through. Voices from below echoed in, cheerful conversations vague and indistinct. Heavy wing beats passed overhead and dragons took up a chorus of roars. John guessed it to be about three hours past dawn. Rubbing his eyes, he scuffed into the main room.

McCaffrey mentions the dragons roaring to each other on departure and arrival at various points in the books, but generally from the perspective of the dragonrider whose dragon is roaring (or being roared at). Can you imagine sleeping through that? Depending on where your weyr is, it would be like living at an airport. No doubt the queen rider's weyr is far above the noisiest sections, but John's quarters really are crappy on every level. Not just uncomfortable, but near major walkways and the landing field.

Lantis had curled against one wall, his belly distended from having gorged himself last night. He slumbered heavily. John for his part was hungry enough to eat some raw meat himself--he'd forgotten to get any food since that cup of klah he'd shared with Lorne. But the pail was nearly empty. Not to mention flies circled it.

With the thought of Lorne, John returned to where his saddlebags leaned against the wall by the door. There was a large claw hole where Lantis had stepped on one. With a sigh, John ate the last crumbs of his trail rations and determined that anything breakable had to stay in his bedroom. The lack of decoration in the main room now made a lot of sense.

John's still so much an outsider that he's not even eating Weyr food, and he's been here thirty-six hours.

Lorne would be halfway to Benden by now, less likely to be harried by bandits without a tithe under guard. If John sent a letter today it should arrive around the time when Lorne did. The last wine pressing was still to be done, and he'd remembered a few things Lorne wouldn't know. John searched his bags until he found a writing stylus and skin.

An hour or so later, Lantis was still asleep. It appeared dragons were nocturnal and slept through the heat of day. John finished his letter, having added a few notes of advice on dealing with his father, and sealed it, now very hungry. But his responsibilities to Lantis and Hold came first. He tucked the letter into his shirt.

Hoping to return before Lantis woke, John set out to find how one sent a letter in the Weyr and to collect more meat. He swung the bucket in hand, walking at a fast clip down the main hallway. He took the branch straight ahead rather than bearing left as young T'rence had warned. The passage narrowed into a stairway which brought him to the stands above the Hatching Ground. John hesitated a moment, then followed the sound of voices. He came out in the right place for a change, or near enough to it he only had to hop a railing down onto the sands of the nursery.

A woman was cleaning out the empty meat bin.

"Uh," John said, holding up his bucket.

She shook her head. "At this hour you need to go to the kitchens and see Rialta."

Oh no... John's favorite person.

John winced at that name. "I'm going to have a hungry hatchling on my hands in a minute." That explanation had worked on every dragonrider so far.

She sighed. "You should have thought of that before. Meat is supplied at dawn and two hours past, no exceptions." She frowned at him, squinting closer. "You're that Lord Holder, right?"

"Heir Apparent," John said, starting to wonder if dragonriders understood the distinction.

"Handsome fellow," she commented, looking him up and down acquisitively. "Though the hair's a mess."

While John was left blinking at this frank observation, one hand to his head to flatten his hair, she gave a curt gesture. "Follow me. Rialta will eat you if you bother her about dragon food at such an hour. You'll need someone to protect you. You were supposed to bring a bucket with you to your weyr last night."

"He ate it all," John explained, striding behind her as she took another, completely unfamiliar stairway. They wound at speed through a mind-boggling array of back halls.

"Hmph," she said. "Must be a big guy."

"A bronze," John said, picking up on the pride dragonriders had in this. Bronzes were the largest of the dragons.

"Yes, yes. Everyone knows 'the Holder' Impressed a bronze," she said.

Oh yeah, the Weyr's buzzing about John. "The Holder" and "That Holder" Impressed a bronze. Everyone gets the implications except John.

The kitchen was as crowded as it had been the prior day. Rialta looked right past John's new friend to give John a look worthy of spoiled meat. He realized belatedly that he'd made a mistake in turning her against him. He held up his empty bucket with a meek, sheepish smile, while his new benefactor spoke on his behalf.

"Clean that out," Rialta snapped at him. "You're not to feed a dragon out of a filthy pail or they'll get stomach cramps."

John looked about helplessly. Lord Holders didn't work in kitchens. In fact, he'd only set foot in his own to sneak sweets as a child.

With an exasperated, "Holders...." she pointed at an ancient device topped with a wheel stuck in the floor. A wide ceramic basin was set below it. John regarded it a moment, then turned the wheel. It gurgled but nothing came out.

"It's not working," he explained. Kitchen girls glanced in his direction and giggled.

"Any excuse not to work. Here." Rialta crossed the kitchen. She cranked the wheel several times. The gurgling device chugged, made a sound like it was throwing up, then water spurted into the basin. As John watched, she snatched the bucket from him, stuck it under the flow, swirled water around, then dumped it out. She stuffed the bucket back into John's hands, hard enough to knock the wind out of his stomach, then strode away.

Rialta's from the Holds (Ista, actually) but from the small Holders, not the larger Holds. She has her own opinions "lazy Lord Holders" from the heavily taxed small Holds, combined with the Weyr's dismissive attitude towards Holders. While John has sheltered struggling small Holders from his dad's taxes, not everyone has a Lord Holder's son to stick up for them. Since Rialta deals with the tithes, she also knows that the Lord Holders are starting to skimp. (We know from the books that in the long Intervals the Holders start to resent the tithes paid to the Weyrs.) John's getting the brunt of all her feelings about Lord Holders.

On no level is this fair, because we know Benden doesn't skimp, and John has stood up for the small Holders who can't pay their taxes.

Looking around, John saw a pile of chopped wherry on one of the counters, piled next to a girl with a cleaver. "This is for...?" he began.

The girl busy with the cleaver nodded to him. She was a rather pretty woman with long blond hair tied back with a scarf, and she pounded the cleaver into the cutting board with surprising power, slicing through a wherry thigh in one stroke. Then she scraped the meat aside. She whacked it again. John watched her, fascinated. His benefactor had left, but the girl, though busy, looked up at him with a distracted smile. John found himself inadvertently smoothing his hair. That smile widened.

"You must be one of the new bronze riders," she said. "The Lord Holder?"

Abruptly, John gave up on correcting people. "Yes," he said. He scooped up meat till his bucket was near to overflowing.

Her smile turned warmer. Thwack! went the cleaver. "The Harper was looking for you." She glanced over her shoulder at him with a shy smile. Thwack!

"He was?" John said.

"You missed your first class. They should be getting out any moment," she offered. She scraped meat aside. "But he has an afternoon session just for the Holder girls."

"Okay," John said. What classes a dragonrider might need he had no idea. Then he felt a gnawing hunger and looked up, alarmed, unsure how to get back to his room. But when he reached for Lantis with his mind, he found Lantis was still asleep. Oh. He was the one hungry this time.

She'd paused to sweep meat off the cutting board, then ran her thumb and finger along the cleaver to clean it.

"Um," he said, glancing over to where Rialta had gone. She was nowhere in sight. "I kind of was up all night with Lantis and...."

"Missed breakfast, hmm? The first night's the hardest. My brother's a brown rider." She gave him a smile, revealing attractive dimples.

Swallowing, John stared, and reminded himself that he was betrothed.

"Here." She wiped her hands on her jumpsuit and led him to another corner of the kitchen. A mountain of folded meatrolls, lightly browned and steaming fresh from the ovens, sat on one table. She pulled a cloth off a towel rack and wrapped several in it. "They're for tonight but no one will miss a few."

She patted his cheek twice, wrinkling her nose at him, then returned to her cleaver.

Because the purpose of the bronze dragons is basically stud service to the queen, a little of that rep has rubbed off on the bronze riders.

John internally pinwheeled, trying to recover from the casual handling. Lord Holders didn't get their cheeks patted like runner beasts, not even when they were children.

Here's our first hint of the fact John's a virgin. Now, I'm going against the books in this case. In The White Dragon, young Lord Jaxom finds a pretty small Holder's daughter to sleep with, and treats her abominably, too. There's a scene that amounts to date rape, and Jaxom treats her as an object and resents her passionate response to sex which doesn't conform to his objectification of her.

John has been raised as the true man of the people, and his mother's support against his father has come from the small Holders. There's an odd sort of heroic distance that's come from people carrying around little portraits of him and his mother.

He's not aware that he's treated with a little more awe than most Lord Holder's sons, but he has always sensed the distinction of his position. So he's confined his fooling around to girls who don't treat him this way, namrly girls of his own class (of which there are few).

It's just his bad luck that he picked Nara ... and then they ended up betrothed. So she held off for their wedding night. Which then kept getting put off, again, and again, and again. For six years.

Annnnnd I've hit the deadline on the DVD commentary. Hope you enjoyed it so far. This is the first commentary I've done. Turns out that 80,000 words is a lot to comment on, so I'll continue this in, uh, more than one part.