Robinton nodded, but he'd also seen the expression on Jora's flushed and frantic face. The outcome of this Impression was possibly even more important to her.
The little bronze creeled his hunger, nodding his head in a semicircle, then without another moment's hesitation he lurched directly at F'lon's two sons. Imperiously he butted the taller lad as the young boy stepped out.of the way.
'His name is Mnementh!' the boy cried exultantly, clasping the wet head to his chest.
F'lon let out a gasp that was as much a sob as a cheer. 'He's done it. He's done it. He's done it!'
Robinton was now seized by the arms and shaken, and dropped back on to his own feet in the next instant as F'lon ran across the hot sands to assist the newly Impressed pair.
Jora gave a mewling sound and tears streamed down her face.
She gave Robinton a glance both piteous and triumphant.
Three other eggs cracked and bronze dragons emerged.
Robinton wondered just how good an omen for the Weyr that was.
Then he paid more attention to the pairing of the lads. In their white, it was difficult to know if all the candidates were weyrbred or not. Then loud cheers and shrieks of delight from one group informed him that at least one new rider was hold-bred. And so were the newly Impressed blue and the three greens. A brown dragon broke his shell, and suddenly he was the only dragonling left.
He cried out, craning his neck as high as he could to see around the others. Then, with a sort of hiccuping yip, he veered and stumbled towards the youngest boy on the sands: Famanoran, F'lon's second son. Famanoran had been just standing there quietly, watching, his expression blank, but once he realized that the little brown dragon was heading towards him, and him alone, he raced across the sands to meet him.
'F'lon!' Robinton shouted over the din made by new dragons and riders, and pointed towards this final pairing.
F'lon swivelled about, his mouth dropping open, and caught the moment of Impression.
'His name is Canth!' Famanoran cried, tears of joy marking his face as he patted and stroked his new friend.
'I told you so,' Robinton remarked frequently to the exultant Weyrleader father that evening at the feasting. He also had a chance to speak to F'lar and F'nor, for that was how they decided to shorten their names in the dragonrider tradition.
'I don't think F'lon would have forgiven us if we hadn't Impressed,' F'lar admitted to the Harper with a rueful grin.
'You had to, F'lar ...' F'nor began, and then added loudly, 'It didn't matter that much about me ...'
'Of course it did,' Robinton contradicted him immediately.
'Canth is rather large for a brown, isn't he?'
'Yes, he is,' F'nor said with soft pride, grinning foolishly.
Robinton located Manora, already busy making sure that food was reaching the various tables and that everyone had a seat. He congratulated her and she smiled almost absently, her eyes darting from one corner of the Lower Cavern to the other, checking on servers and the served.
'Such a good day,' she said with quiet satisfaction.
'You must be proud of them.'
'I am,' she said. With her usual understated dignity she moved off to take a seat by Jora, who had been left more or less to herself at the high table. The Weyrwoman was paying absolutely no attention to anything but clearing the food from the overflowing plate in front of her. Manora ate slowly and with relish, as dignified as she had been as a young girl.
Robinton took advantage of the fine Benden white which was being served. Lord Raid was present, as he should be for a Benden Hatching, and he was quite relaxed and pleasant to Robinton when they exchanged greetings and remarked on F'lon's double joy.
When he got back to the Hall, Nip had been there and left him a message.
'And what do you bet me that Nabol will fall to him next?'
That was one bet that Robinton would never have taken. Even a Bitran would have passed it up.
Perhaps that acquisition was another reason why Tarathel scheduled an ambitious Gather, inviting everyone, including Fax.
Vendross, Tarathel's invaluable guard captain, had flushed out a large group of Fax's men in the foothills of Telgar where such a party should not have been. Since he was commanding a much larger patrol, he had the advantage. Their excuse that they had had to detour from winter-damaged tracks to get back to the High Reaches was not well received by Vendross who escorted them as fast as possible back to the main Crom road. Tarathel was determined to have a few private words with this self-styled Lord of Five Holds to ensure Fax did not try to encroach on Telgar lands.
Nip was as surprised as Robinton that Fax accepted.
'As you can see, I maintain several fully trained companies of guards, Master Robinton,' Tarathel told Robinton and F'lon who had arrived early in the Gather morning. Indeed, the Hold and its grounds seemed to be swarming with men in Telgar liveries.
F'lon nodded approvingly. 'The man has got to be stopped, Tarathel.'
The Telgar Holder scowled, unused to such familiarity from a much younger man, even if a Weyrleader was equal in rank to a
Lord holder Robinton nudged the bronze rider in the ribs, hoping to jar him into more discretion. F'lon ignored the hint.
'And it's up to you Lord Holders to set him right. When Thread comes, he'll be unable to provide adequate help to the holds he's taken over.'
Tarathel raised the black and bushy eyebrows which gave him such a formidable appearance. 'Really, Weyrleader? I had no idea the return was so imminent. May I ask what Benden Weyr will be able to do to provide adequate help to us?'
F'lon stiffened and Robinton kept his expression bland with an effort. As far as the MasterHarper knew, this was the first time a Lord Holder had openly challenged the Weyr. Clearly F'lon didn't like it one bit.
'Benden Weyr will be ready to meet Thread when it comes, Lord Tarathel. On that you can rely,' he said with such dignity and purpose that Tarathel nodded approval.
'When it comes,' he murmured as he moved off to greet the next wave of guests arriving by dragon.
'Look, F'lon, I've been your ffiend since we were boys,' Robinton said, drawing the dragonrider to one side for privacy, 'but you've as much tact as a tunnel snake. It doesn't do the Weyr, or you, any good to antagonize all the Lord Holders.'
'I don't, but Tarathel's as hide-bound as Raid, and that's saying a lot.'
'Tarathel will be long dead before Thread comes. Were I you, I'd start right now getting young Larad on your side. Unless, of course,
Fax decides to duel with him and remove competition.' 'Humph!'
Robinton was relieved to note that F'lon did not dismiss that suggestion out of hand. In fact, the bronze rider made a point of seeking out the lad who, like any male his age, was gratified to be in a Weyrleader's company.
What happened later that afternoon was so grotesque that afterwards Robinton cursed himself, plagued with a sense of guilt that his idle remark could have had such devastating consequences.
He saw the beginning: a lad wearing Fax's colours knocking into Larad, at F'lon's side, and then irritably demanding an apology.
Larad was surprised and started to comply, but F'lon stopped him.
'You knocked into Larad, boy,' F'lon told the lad. 'You will apologize to young Lord Larad. He ranks you.'
'I'm with Lord Fax, Dragonrider.' The boy's tone and sneer were contemptuous.
Robinton had not yet reached the little group when F'lon backhanded the boy, cutting his lip.
'You will keep a civil tongue in your head and you will apologize to Lord Larad, who is of Telgar Blood. I doubt you can claim even half-Blood rights.'
'Kepiru? Who gave you a bloody lip?' And a heavyset man, also wearing Fax's colours and the shoulder knot of a captain – though generally those were reserved for ships' captains – pushed through those watching the encounter.
