Hatchings - 1. Loranth's Hatching

Fifteen was the minimum age to stand on the Hatching Sands at Fort Weyr. It wasn’t written in stone, of course. If there were more eggs in a clutch than candidates who had reached the correct age or a hatchling went for someone younger in the audience, no one would hold them back. However, during a Pass, older boys were generally preferred. No one was allowed to join a Wing until their sixteenth birthday. Anyone who Impressed too early would be forced to wait until they reached that age, which would frustrate both dragon and rider, not to mention wasting Weyr resources. There were all sorts of reasons for this ruling, but in the end it came down to the simple fact that no Wingleader - or the Weyrleader - wanted to see young men and dragons die before they had a chance to fully mature.

Detgar had grown up at the Weyr. He’d been to more Hatchings than he cared to count and had always expected that one day he’d take his turn to put on the traditional white robe and tread gingerly across the hot sands, waiting for his dragon to break its shell. He knew that not everyone Impressed the first time out and that there was no shame in being left standing. It just meant your dragon hadn’t yet hatched. Some of the older boys had stood three or four times before being successful. With at least two Hatchings a Turn (more if you counted the occasions when other Weyrs sent requests for extra candidates) most tended to Impress before the age of seventeen.

‘Think we’ll be lucky?’ Serebrin skimmed another stone across the smooth, unruffled surface of the Weyr lake.

‘We’re always lucky.’ He was the older by a few months, but they’d both be standing first time for Loranth’s latest clutch; twenty-seven eggs which were hardening inside the Hatching Ground even now, the massive bulk of Fort’s senior queen dragon curled protectively around them.

‘The latest betting has you getting a green and me a blue.’

‘We might both get greens.’ Detgar didn’t particularly care what colour dragon decided to choose him. He got on well with most of the green riders; they had the wildest parties and the best sense of humour in the Weyr. He’d not mind joining their number.

‘I wouldn’t like that.’ Serebrin turned to him, a smile curling his lips. ‘I don’t want to have to share you with anyone else.’

Detgar felt himself blushing and cursed his pale complexion which allowed it to show. ’Mating flights don’t count. Everyone knows that.’

Serebrin put an arm around him and pulled him close. ‘And they won’t have to. My dragon will always catch yours.’

Detgar thought he should point out it didn’t always work that way. There were too many variables in a mating flight. But strong relationships weathered that. ‘It doesn’t matter who he’s having sex with right now; it’s me he loves,’ he’d once heard a blue rider saying when his weyrmate’s dragon rose to mate while his own was recovering from a bad Threadscore. ‘Let’s hope so,’ he said. ‘But nothing’s certain.’

For five heated weeks the eggs lay on the Hatching Sands, at the tail end of a dusty summer when late afternoon light turned the Weyr Bowl amber and gold. They’d sneaked in through a seldom used service tunnel to peek at the eggs. Everyone did it; it was a rite of passage among the weyrbrats. You’d ‘borrow’ one of the depleted glow baskets and hope its feeble light didn’t give out as you made your way through the darkness of the Weyr. The first time he’d gone along he’d only been twelve Turns. This time it had felt different; this time, one of those eggs might contain his dragon. ‘Twenty-seven chances,’ he’d whispered to Serebrin, hoping fervently Loranth didn’t hear his voice. She was a very protective mother and was well known for her habit of terrifying the prospective candidates on Hatching Day.

There were thirty-eight candidates for this clutch; Mardra always liked to make sure Loranth’s hatchlings had plenty of choice. Eleven of them would inevitably be disappointed. Detgar had attended enough Hatching feasts to recall the glum faces among those who hadn’t been picked. He worried; he couldn’t help it. What if he Impressed and Serebrin didn’t? Or vice versa. Even if they Impressed next time, they’d still be in different weyrling classes. And if the gamblers predictions turned out right and he got a green, she’d be ready to rise in a Turn or so, maybe before Serebrin’s blue was old enough to want to mate.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Serebrin turned to him.

‘Oh, nothing really.’ He was afraid that if he spoke his worries, they might come to fruition. ‘Thinking about when we both have dragons.’

‘We’ll have to be good boys for a while, you know. Not… do anything.’

That was true enough. Once you’d Impressed any kind of sexual contact with another person was forbidden until the dragons were mature enough not to be confused or upset by it. ‘Better make sure we don’t miss out on any opportunities before that happens, then.’

‘I don’t know how I’m going to be able to keep my hands off you for so long.'

‘We’ll be knackered just looking after our dragons.’ Detgar knew exactly how much work it took feeding, bathing and oiling the fast-growing hatchlings. Plus there were all the usual Weyr duties to be performed and the interruption of Threadfall every couple of days. ‘But once we get in a Wing, we’ll be able to have a weyr of our own.’ He allowed himself a brief daydream of their dragons; blue and green, of course, twining necks on the ledge. ‘It’ll be perfect.’

They both knew the risks of course. Becoming a dragonrider meant fighting Thread and while there was a certain romance in the thought of sitting astride a flaming dragon and searing the deadly spores from the sky as they fell, growing up in the Weyr meant that they were all too familiar with the awful injuries - and deaths - that went with the territory. It was well known that the first couple of Turns as a wing rider were the most dangerous; if you managed to survive those, then you stood a good chance of living a while longer. However, this Pass was coming to its end. Five or six more Turns and Threadfall would be over, at least for another two hundred odd Turns. They’d be able to enjoy the rest of their lives, with nothing more perilous to cope with than routine patrols and the Spring Games.

The next few sevendays were full of anticipation and preparation. Each afternoon they attended the compulsory classes. As the Sands grew hotter and the eggs closer to Hatching, they were given the traditional white wool robes they’d wear on the day. White supposedly made it easier for the hatchlings to see them. Newly hatched dragons were clumsy and starving. Many Hatchings resulted in injuries when some poor candidate got trampled or mauled because he wasn’t quick enough to move aside.

Although no one could predict exactly when the eggs would begin to crack, experience meant the weyrfolk could take a fair guess. The Weyr being what it was, bets had already been placed on when the dragons might begin to hum their welcoming chorus. Plus, of course, on the colour of the dragons that would emerge and which candidates stood the best chance of Impressing.

‘Any day now,’ Serebrin croaked. The past few days he’d been plagued by a cough, which most put down to the dust that swirled around the Bowl every time a Wing took off or landed. One of the healers had prescribed a sticky syrup taken together with a soothing herbal tea, but it didn’t seem to be getting any better.

‘You all right?’ Detgar couldn’t help but be concerned. He rubbed Serebrin’s back as he was wracked with another bout of coughing. ‘Shouldn’t you go and see the healer again?’

‘No,’ he managed to gasp. ‘I’ll be fine.’

But he wasn’t. The next morning the coughing was worse and he’d started running a fever. Despite protests, he was taken to the infirmary and put under observation. When Detgar tried to visit following the afternoon class on dragon care, he was told to go away.

‘It may be contagious. We can’t take any chances, with the Hatching so close.’

‘But I’ve been sleeping with him. Surely I’d have caught it by now if I was going to?’ It was so frustrating. Detgar suddenly had a thought. ‘Will he be all right for the Hatching?’

‘We’ll have to see. He’s in no fit state right now but give him a few days…’

Detgar went straight from the infirmary and found the Weyrlingmaster to tell him the news. ‘So if he’s not fit enough, then I don’t want to stand either.’

‘Don’t be daft, lad. We need every candidate. You know what happens if a dragon can’t Impress.’

It was in one of the more sobering Teaching Ballads. If a hatchling couldn’t find anyone acceptable, either on the Sands or among the audience, they would go between in despair. ‘But that’s not happened in living memory,’ he protested in vain.

‘And it’s not going to happen on my watch, either. There’ll be another clutch in a couple of months, so your friend will get his chance then if he’s not well enough this time.’

Arguing was futile. He spent a sleepless night, worrying about what might happen. Worrying about Serebrin too, as he’d been told on his second visit that there was still no improvement. All right then. They could make him take his place on the Sands, but that didn’t mean he had to actively try and attract a dragon. You were supposed to fill your mind with welcoming thoughts when the eggs began to crack. If he thought of nothing at all, maybe the dragons just wouldn’t notice him. And of course, if it looked like one of them was becoming distressed and searching for him then he’d do what he had to. Just hope it didn’t come to that.

It was mid-afternoon when the humming began and everyone started making their way toward the Hatching Ground. Detgar pulled on his white robe and tried not to think of how it must feel for Serebrin, stuck inside the infirmary, hearing it and knowing he couldn’t be there. What if his dragon Hatched today and he was missing? He might never have another chance. His dragon could die without ever finding him. With all of that going around his head, he was feeling anything but cheerful and welcoming as he was dropped onto the Sands to take his place.

The eggs were rocking as Loranth did her usual show of menacing the candidates before finally retreating to watch with interest as the first shell cracked open. A blue dragon’s head swivelled slowly around before he managed to split the remaining shell and step out, heading unerringly toward Veesil, a tall seventeen year old who was having his third try at Impressing.

‘His name is Mirlith!’ The pair started to make their way toward the entrance, outside which freshly butchered meat was waiting in large pails.

Most of the candidates stepped closer, encouraged by the ease of the first Impression. Several eggs were showing signs of breaking. Detgar tried to ignore them, concentrating instead on how hot his bare feet felt on the baking sand and letting the dragons intense humming drive every thought from his head. He tried not to even look toward the eggs, blocked as they were by the white robed backs in front of him. Somewhere in the stands, he knew his mother, Agarra would be watching. He realised he should make it seem as if he was genuinely trying to entice a hatchling and stepped a bit closer, while keeping his mind tightly shuttered. It felt wrong. Desperately wrong.

All around he heard names being announced, cheering and clapping from family as boys Impressed. Four or five eggs cracked open at the same time, and several boys ran in their direction. One brown hatchling stumbled and a green got her wing caught on the jagged edge of a shell. There was a cry of pain as a candidate was roughly thrown aside by a bronze dragon who rushed suddenly forward searching for his rider. He was a beautiful looking dragon, Detgar thought, perfectly proportioned. Less ungainly than most of the other hatchlings…

The bronze turned his head as if he sensed the thoughts and was seeking out their source. Detgar shut his eyes and stilled his mind. When he dared to open them again, Kentorl had his arms around the dragon’s neck and was shouting his name to the audience.

There was another flurry of activity as several more dragons freed themselves. Three boys ran towards them. Two Impressed immediately. The other was pushed aside as a small, moss green dragon hopped awkwardly toward another bunch of lads and gleefully bowled one of them over, making happy, crooning noises. A straggling line of newly hatched dragons and their life mates headed for the exit. Loranth had settled and seemed almost content, her huge golden head resting on the sand.

Not many left now. Detgar risked a glance. The sand was strewn with broken shells. Just a few eggs still moved as the hatchlings used up the last of their energy to break through the tough casing. It had all happened so fast. The remaining candidates stood warily, knowing that most of them would end up disappointed. A blue and a brown dragon hatched almost at the same moment. The brown dragon went straight for Celdan while the blue tentatively looked this way and that. Gabreden moved towards him. For a heart-stopping moment the little dragon ignored him, then Impression was made and he was shouting, ‘Jekkoth. His name’s Jekkoth.’

Another egg split, giving a glimpse of emerald green hide. ‘Aren’t you going to try for her?’ Detgar turned to see Mairbrell looking at him quizzically.

He shrugged. ‘If I’m right for her, she’ll find me.’

‘Don’t you want to Impress?’

‘Sure. But you can’t force yourself on a dragon, can you?’ He watched impassively as the green dragon righted herself then made her way toward three boys standing to her left. One broke into a delighted grin. ‘Her name’s Minth,’ he shouted. ‘Minth!’

The final egg took its time. ‘That’s one lazy dragon,’ Mairbrell said. ‘Sleeping in when all his clutchmates have already hatched.’

‘Might be a she,’ Detgar pointed out.

‘No. He’s…’ As the shell shattered into pieces a ruddy brown dragon looked straight at him. ‘He’s Toth.’ Mairbrell met his dragon halfway.

It was all over. Blue riders came down to clear the debris and to ferry any injured candidates away for treatment, although thankfully this time there were only a few minor scrapes and cuts. Detgar walked carefully towards the entrance, not daring to look up into the audience in case he spotted Agarra. She was probably more disappointed than he was. His father had been a rider; which one she wasn’t sure as she’d found herself pregnant after a gold flight during which she’d had more than one partner. Not that it mattered in the Weyr.

Outside, the newly hatched dragons were being fed by their proud new riders. Detgar ignored them all, went back to his bunk and changed into his ordinary clothes. The feast would be starting soon, but he wasn’t hungry. He sat for a while, thinking about what might have been, then realised there was no point in it. He’d done what he set out to do and in a few months, Serebrin and he would stand together on the Sands, as it was meant to be.