Dragonsdawn (35 page)

“Meat, quickly,” Sorka called, beckoning to a sleepy steward. Hoping that the heat in the building had not soured the meat, she ran to meet the man, grabbed the bowl, and returned to thrust it into Sean’s hands. She had never seen that utterly rapt look in his eyes before.

“He says his name is Carenath, Sorka. He knows his own name!” Sean transferred food from the bowl into Carenath’s mouth as fast as he could shovel it. “More meat. Hurry, I need more meat.”

Everyone in the Hatching Ground was wakened by his vibrant voice. Then the other egg broke open, and a golden female sauntered forth, chittering and looking about urgently. Sorka was too busy passing bowls of meat to Sean to notice until Betsy tugged at her arm.

“She’s looking for you, Sorka. Look at her!”

Sorka turned her head and suddenly she, too, felt the indescribable impact of a mind on hers, a mind that rejoiced in finding its equal, its lifelong partner. Sorka was filled with an exultation that was almost painful.

My name is Faranth, Sorka!

“W
E HAVE ACTUALLY
learned a great deal from eggs that didn’t hatch,” Pol told Emily and Paul when he, Wind Blossom, and Bay made their report two evenings later.

“So far, so good?” Paul asked hopefully.

“Oh, very good,” Bay said enthusiastically, grinning and nodding her head vigorously. Wind Blossom managed a prim, set smile. The air of impenetrable gloom that had surrounded her on the Hatching Day had been exchanged for an aloof superiority.

“Then you do believe that the eighteen hatchlings will all become viable adults?’ Paul asked Wind Blossom.

She inclined her head. “We must await their maturity with patience.”

“But they
will
be able to produce flame from phosphinebearing rocks and go
between
as the dragonets do?” Paul asked her.

“I am, myself, much encouraged,” Pol said, when Wind Blossom said nothing. “Bay is, too, by the way in which mentasynth has provided a strong empathic bond and telepathic communication.”

“A genuine mind-to-mind contact,” Bay added with a smile of satisfaction. “Especially strong for Sorka and Sean.”

“The dragons were
designed
,” Wind Blossom added pompously, “to make Impression with other than their own ancestral species. In that much, the program has succeeded.” She held up her hand. “We must contain impatience and strive to achieve the perfect specimen.”

“The stablization of Impression to another species was the most important aspect,” Pol said, his brows creasing slightly.” After all, the dragonets have teleported as naturally as they breathe.”

“The
dragonets
have,” Wind Blossom said coolly. “We have yet to see if the dragons can.”

“Kitti Ping did not alter those capabilities, you know. They will, of course, have to be refined and controlled,” Pol went on. He did not like Wind Blossom’s attitude, her refusal to concede the triumphs already achieved. “I must say, I am very glad that the young Connells both Impressed. With their veterinary training and their general competence, not to mention their proven ability to discipline their dragonet fairs, we couldn’t ask for better mates.”

Wind Blossom made a slight noise, which the listeners took as disapproval.

“They’re qualified,” Bay said with unexpected heat. “Someone must make the beginning.”

“Their progress must be strictly monitored,” Wind Blossom said, “so that we will know what mistakes must be avoided the next time.”

“Next time?” Emily blinked in surprise and noticed that Bay and Pol were reacting similarly.

“I do not yet know if these creatures will perform on the other design levels, either natural or imposed.” Her sepulchral tone indicated that she had grave doubts.

“How can you not be encouraged—” Pol began with some heat.

A decisive gesture of dismissal cut him off, and he stared at Wind Blossom.

“I will begin anew,” Wind Blossom informed them in a tone that almost implied martyrdom. Pol and Bay regarded her in astonishment. “With what we learned from the post mortem examinations, I cannot be sure that any of the living will be fertile or reproduce. More importantly—reproduce themselves! I must try again, and again, until success is assured. This experiment is only begun.”

“But, Wind Blossom—” Pol began, astounded.

“Come, you shall assist me.” With an imperious gesture, she swept from the room.

Neither the veterinarians nor the xenobiologists had any criteria by which to judge the health of eighteen representatives of a new species. But the dragons’ hearty appetites, the vibrant color of their suedelike hides, and the ease of their physical exertions—which consisted mainly’ of eating and exercising their wings—were taken as measures of well-being. In the first week of life, each had grown at least a handspan taller and had filled out; they looked considerably more substantial. And as the toughness of their transparent wings became more and more evident, those who had worried, about their fragility were relieved.

Fascinated, the official medical support group watched as the two Connells bathed and oiled their ten-day-old dragons. Large shallow bathing pools of siliplas had been erected near the homes of all the dragonmates. Faranth was coyly aware of the admiring glances.

“She’s preening, Dad,” Sorka said, amused, as she poured oil on a scaly patch between the dorsal ridges. “Is that the itchy spot, Farrie?”

My name is Faranth and that is
that
itchy spot
, Faranth said in tones that went from reproof to relief.
Another is starting on my hind leg
.

“She doesn’t like to be called by a nickname,” Sorka said tolerantly, grinning at her father. “But jays, she takes scrubbing.” A bristle brush had been made for the purpose, firm enough to rub in oil but not harsh enough to mar the tender, smooth hide.

Suddenly everyone was drenched as Carenath, sweeping his glistening wings forward in the low bath, showered them with water.

“Carenath, behave yourself!” Sorka and Sean spoke in the same sharp tone.

I am already clean, you polka-dotted idiot,
Faranth said in an excellent mimicry of one of Sorka’s favorite admonitions.
I was
nearly
dry
,
and now my oiling has to be done again
.

Sean and Sorka laughed and then hurriedly explained to the drenched men that they were amused by what Faranth had said, not by Carenath’s playfulness. Sean gestured to the dragonets that perched on the rooftree, obviously watching everything below them. Almost instantly, the soaked observers had towels dropped about them.

“Handy critters, Sean,” Red Hanrahan said, drying his face and hands and mopping his clothing.

“Very useful with young dragons, too, Red,” Sean’ replied. “They fish constantly for these walking appetites.”

Am 1 that much trouble to you?
Carenath sounded aggrieved.

“Not at all, pet,” Sean quickly assured him, lovingly caressing the head that was tilted wistfully. “Don’t be silly. You’re young, you have a good appetite, and it’s our job to keep you fed.”

Red was beginning to get accustomed to the sudden non sequiturs from his daughter and son-in-law, but the others were startled. Faranth butted at Sorka for reassurance and when she received it, her eyes settled to the blue of contentment.

“Can’t they be ridden yet? And hunt for themselves?” Phas Radamanth asked.

“You don’t attempt to ride a foal, even a good big one,” Sean replied, brushing oil on the rough patch on Carenath’s broad back. “Kitti Ping’s program suggests waiting a full year before we attempt it.”

“Can we wait long enough for them to mature?” Threadfall and the need to fight it was never far from anyone’s mind.

“I’ve never rushed a horse,” Sean said, “and I’m not about to start with my dragon. However, at the rate they’re growing, and if we can be sure that their skeletal structure—it’s boron-silicate, you know, which is tougher than our calcareous material—is developing properly, I think they’ll be capable of manned flight as scheduled.” Sean grinned. “Jays, what times we’ll have then, old fella, won’t we?”

The tenderness, the concern, and the deep affection in Sean’s voice were almost embarrassing to hear. Red looked at his son-in-law in surprise. So Impression had affected young Connell, as it had changed all the dragonmates. Even Sorka, who had always been caring and capable, seemed somehow strengthened and exuded a radiance that could not all be attributed to her pregnancy.

Young David Catarel had altered in the most spectacular way. Badly scarred mentally as well as physically by that First Fall and Lucy Tubberman’s tragic death, the young man had retreated into a wallow of self-disgust and needless guilt. Not even intensive therapy had broken through the stubborn facade. David fought Thread with a vindictive intensity that was frightening to watch. Only when he had seen how useful dragonets were in ground-crewing had he tolerated their wistful affection.

The renaissance of his personality had begun the moment Polenth nudged his knee. An openly smiling, ecstatic David Catarel had left the hatching sands, solicitously and deftly assisting the staggering little dragon. The changes in the other youths had been felicitous as well, though Catherine Radenlin-Doyle’s tendency to giggle at some unheard comment from her golden mate could be disconcerting. Shih Lao, who had Impressed bronze Firth, also went about with smiles on his once pensive face, Tarrie Chernoff had stopped apologizing for any minor accident or inconsistency, and Otto Hegelman’s stutter had completely disappeared.

“They’re credits to you both,” Caesar Galliani said to Sean and Sorka. “Though Marco’s Duluth, if I say so myself, looks equally as well.”

Sean grinned at the Roma stakeholder. “He does, indeed. As long as they’re eating, sleeping—”

“Being bathed, cosseted, oiled, and scratched, they have
nothing
to complain of,” Sorka finished, giving Faranth’s nose a final swipe. “There now, love, why don’t you curl up and go to sleep?”

Carenath’s not finished
, Faranth complained even as she was moving to the sun-warmed plascrete she preferred as her couch.
I like him to lean against. I’m a little hungry.

Sorka put her fingers between her front teeth and gave a piercing whistle. The dragonets instantly disappeared.

All clean
, Carenath cried, hopping out of the bath. Warned by Sean, he did not shake himself all over his audience. Carefully he extended his wet glistening wings, holding them aloft in the slight breeze while Sean, with Sorka’s help, mopped his underparts dry.

“D’you need anything, Sean, while we’re here?” Red asked.

“Nope,” Sean grunted as he bent to dry the claw sheaths. The claw design was one of the few physical modifications that Kitti Ping had made from dragonet to dragon. The fingerlike claws would be more useful, she had thought, for grabbing running animals than the dragonets’ pincer-type arrangement. “As soon as they’ve had their snack, we’ll have one, too.”

“Amazing couple,” Phas Radamanth said, smiling up at Red. “Now if that bronze is fertile, and the gold willing, we’ll have our next generation.”

“Let’s not rush too far ahead in our hopes,” Caesar said, looking back over his shoulder at the scene. “Wind Blossom strongly advocates caution about this first batch.”

“Her
grandmother
bioengineered them.” Phas spoke firmly, stopping in his tracks.

“Well, she also produced imperfect ones that didn’t hatch.”

“Eighteen was a very good result, and we learned a great deal from dissecting the aborts,” Phas said.

They were just turning away when the air filled with dragonets, each carrying a fair-sized packtail in its claws. The dragons lifted their heads, opened their mouths, and took the offering as rightful homage. The men grinned and continued their morning round.

Once Faranth and Carenath had their snack, they were quite willing to curl up together, Carenath with his triangular head neatly placed on his outstretched forelegs. Faranth draped her head and neck over his forequarters, her tail twitching occasionally just in front of his muzzle, her wings sagging slightly from their folded position on her back. Both freshly oiled hides gleamed in the sun.

“I will be glad when they
can
hunt for themselves,” Sean murmured to Sorka as they wearily settled on the ground in the shade of the east wall of their home.

“Meanwhile,” Sorka said, reaching for a water jar, “we couldn’t manage it without the fair.” She sent strong feelings of gratitude to Duke, Emmett, Blazer, and the others. Their response, muted in deference to the somnolent dragons, was clearly “You’re welcome.”

“The requirements of dragons were never considered by Landing’s architects,” Sean remarked as he took the water jar in turn. Washing dragons was thirsty business. “When they get bigger, something will have to be done. There aren’t enough places to house people in Landing anymore, much less dragons.”

“D’you think they’d be comfortable in some of Catherine’s caves? She mentioned it again yesterday.”

“Yes, so she did. Then she giggled.”

The two Connells exchanged amused and tolerant grins. The human dragonmates had abruptly found themselves a group set apart, by occupation and dedication, as well as by the subtler changes within them. Though they had the unqualified support and help of every member of the medical, veterinary, and biological teams, they found that talking minor problems over among themselves brought better results. One had to
be
a dragonmate to appreciate the problems—and the joys!

Sorka noted with quiet pride that it was Sean’s opinion that seemed to be sought most frequently by the others. And she agreed. He had always been sensible about animals. But, she realized, she could not really call the dragons “animals.” They were too . . . human. Even their voices: Carenath’s voice sounded just like Sean’s light baritone being spoken through a long tunnel. And Sorka suspected that Faranth’s voice was a version of her own.

From the moment they had brought the two hatchlings to Irish Square, Sorka had realized that she heard both Faranth and Carenath, while Sean heard only Carenath. That Sorka could hear both did not seem to distress either dragon. They were amenable to everything in life as long as they had full bellies and oiled hides. Then, as Sean’s bond with the bronze developed, Sorka heard fewer private exchanges. She, too, had learned, as she suspected each dragonmate had, to communicate telepathically on a private band.

“I’d say they’ll be ready to hunt in another week or two—if we can use a small corral to pen the beasts.” Sean found her hand and squeezed it, then laid his hand over her belly. “All this won’t harm our child, will it?”

Sorka felt guilty. Lately, she had not had time to think about her condition: there was always something to be done for Faranth, or for one of the other young dragons. And she and Sean were still on duty at the dragonet clinic, treating those injured fighting Thread.

“The doctor said I was healthy and could ride . . .” Sorka groaned. “Will
we
be able to teach them to fly
between,
Sean?” Her voice was low, and she clutched his hand apprehensively.