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“What is going on?” Gr’lin swung into Weyrlingmaster T’brel’s office with one hand on the door frame. “Something happened at the conclave. Everyone came back and went to their rooms. Retalla has everyone packing up the food in the kitchens. Even the staff is missing. No one has explained anything.” Most of the time, Gr’lin was grateful to have Impressed a brown, but it also meant that he was always the last to know things. At least the greens and blues spread word among themselves.
The rumors are scattered like wherries, Fendalth said with a mental shrug. Everyone hates Benden’s Weyrleader. Fort’s Weyrleader had a knife. And now our Weyrleader is waving around a knife, too. Sure enough, the brown sent his rider a mental image of their Weyrleader in his office, his mouth in a snarl and his hand on a hilt. The confusion was evident in Fendalth’s tone as he tried to make sense of it.
“T’ron started a duel with Benden’s Weyrleader at the conclave. A sharding duel. F’lar won, and for some reason he hasn’t just punished Fort. He’s exiled all of us ‘Oldtimers,’ saying we have to bend the knee or move to Southern,” T’brel explained, not looking up. He was skimming through his records, occasionally pulling one and stuffing it into a carrysack. Whatever he was doing, it had to be done fast.
“F’lar gave us four hours to pack, but Tailfork T’kul is giving us one. One hour to uproot our lives again and move to the tropics, as if jumping four hundred turns into the future wasn’t bad enough.” He’d finished with the office and moved to his personal weyr right behind it, talking as he went. After his first carrysack was full, he pulled out another, grateful that he hadn’t accumulated much in his time here.
“Tailfork isn’t giving us the option, either. He’s said we’re leaving, and he’ll fight to the death anyone that tries to stay.” The older man growled, stuffing his clothing into the second sack without even a hint of folding. “If I hadn’t promised our gran that I’d keep him safe, I might just take him up on the offer. He and T’ron are both idiots. Sharding bronzeriders,” he grumbled, angrily trying to wedge his blankets into the bag like they were at fault.
“Am I being exiled, too? I'm not an Oldtimer. I only transferred here a couple of months ago,” Gr’lin asked, looking around like the Weyrleader might pop out of nowhere with a knife. He’d never been too fond of the man, but he didn’t think he was violently insane. Until now, anyway.
“No. You’re fine. You and the other transfers have a choice. You can come with us, or you can stay here if you prefer F’lar. And… T’bor, it was, he’s sending up here. Weyrleader T’bor and his Kylara, with everyone from Southern.” T’brel sighed, looking around his now-empty weyr to see what he’d missed. “I wouldn’t suspect they’re too happy about it either, honestly. To get kicked out of the jungle paradise they just built and sent up to this desolate tundra,” he said, gesturing out the window at the mountain view. He was exaggerating, but not by much. High Reaches was the coldest Weyr on Pern, famed for its dark and snowy winters. The Oldtimers were definitely getting the better end of the deal in that regard.
“But here’s the catch, Gr’lin,” the Weyrlingmaster said, shaking his head. “Those twenty-three eggs hardening on the sands? Ralenth’s and Ladranth’s? They’re staying here. But most of the candidates are headed south. Whatever poor fool they’ve got coming up from Southern is going to have his work cut out for him finding enough options for those hatchlings.”
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Gr’lin nervously walked over to the leadership table, making his way through the slow meandering of people in an unfamiliar environment. Supper was usually over by now, but tonight the dining hall was full of strange faces looking exhausted and bewildered by the day’s events. Southern’s riders and staff had all been too busy unpacking for introductions. Gr’lin wasn’t sure how T’bor even knew of him, much less what he might want. It wasn’t hard for the brownrider to determine who had summoned him - despite just arriving, T’bor held himself like he owned the place. Even without his knots, his confidence gave him away. This was a man of importance. Next to him was who Gr'lin presumed to be their new Weyrwoman, Kylara. She was just as beautiful as they said, her long, loose hair and pristine dress announcing that she hadn’t had to do any packing and toting herself. A whisper of rumors about the pair had preceded them to their new home, but the brownrider knew better than to believe High Reaches gossip.
Maybe they want you for a threesome, Fendalth chimed in with an accompanying mental image. Gr’lin choked, some hot klah stinging its way out of his nose. Rubbing his face with a handkerchief, he hoped no one else saw his reaction. T’bor was more than old enough to be his father, and if the rumors held, Kylara wouldn’t be that desperate for company. Fendalth chuckled, his mission accomplished. The brown loved nothing more than to shock his rider, and he had been far too tense.
“Weyrlingmaster L’tren won’t be coming,” T’bor said, raising an eyebrow at the younger man’s strange reaction as he put down his fork. “He’s… chosen to remain on the Southern Continent,” he explained, spitting out the words like a betrayal. There had been rumors of some of the Southern riders defecting, going off on their own to start a new Weyr rather than following T’bor and Kylara. Maybe there was some truth to it, after all.
“There are eggs on the sands,” he added, as if Gr’lin might not have realized the implications. “You are the only one here with experience,” he added. The color draining from the younger man’s face told him that he had figured it out.
Gr’lin shook his head, backing away from the table. He didn’t know what he had expected the new Weyrleader to need him for, but not this. “I only assisted with the last class, and only for a few months. T’brel was the-” the Weyrleader cut him off with one hand.
“You are the only one here with experience,” he repeated. “Any experience. I know it’s not ideal, but High Reaches needs a Weyrlingmaster. We have twenty-three eggs, including a queen, and only six candidates stayed. Junior weyrwoman Vanira informs me that the eggs are a sevenday or so away from hatching.”
Gr’lin looked at T’bor in disbelief, turning pleading eyes to Kylara at his side. She was too busy speaking with the Wingleader on her other side to take pity on him. Weyrlings were technically the responsibility of the Weyrwoman - wasn’t she concerned? Did she even realize? She seemed far more cheerful than anyone else at the table, so either she was oblivious or simply didn’t care. It wasn’t Prideth’s clutch, after all. “We have a Weyr to run,” T’bor said, pulling the attention back to himself. “This is a difficult transition for everyone, as I’m sure you’ll understand. We need you to do your part, Weyrlingmaster,” he added, leaving no room for discussion.
The title slammed down on Gr’lin’s shoulders like a dragon-sized firelizard. So he was to be the poor fool that T’brel had pitied. Not only will he have to find almost two dozen viable candidates in the next sevenday, but he’ll have to take the entire clutch through Weyrlinghood. His mind went to the Weyrlingmaster’s office, hoping fervently that T’brel had left him something useful. Training records. Lesson ideas. Anything. He was only a few turns out of Weyrlinghood himself, but experiencing something is not the same as teaching it.
You’re flown, Fendalth interjected, his amusement clear. Just because he loved his rider didn’t mean that he didn’t enjoy watching him struggle.
You mean WE’RE flown. You’ll be dealing with the hatchlings, Uncle Fenny. Gr’lin tried to keep the conversation short out of respect for the Weyrleader, who was waiting patiently for him to confer with his dragon.
“We’ll do our best,” Gr’lin answered, trying to portray a confidence he didn’t feel. But what T’bor said was true - like it or not, he was the only one here even remotely qualified, and no one was coming to the rescue. Not with the Weyr in upheaval the way it was. He and Fendalth would have to wing it. T’bor nodded his acknowledgement, satisfied with the younger man’s acceptance of the role. That would be one more thing off of his plate, and it was more than full already. With a flick of the wrist, he dismissed Gr’lin and took another bite of his supper.
I would have preferred the threesome.