Although they had to fly straight toward the beaches, an irritatingly lengthy process for someone used to instantaneous transport from one place to another, F’nor elected to go a good distance west, along the coastline, until he found a secluded cove with a deep bay, suitable to dragon bathing.

A high dune of sand, probably pushed up from winter storms, protected the beach from the south. Far, far away, purple on the horizon, he could just make out the headland that marked Southern Weyr.

Canth landed him somewhat above the high-water mark in the cove, on the clean fine sand, and then, taking a flying leap, dove into the brilliantly blue water. F’nor watched, amused, as Canth cavorted—an unlikely fish—erupting out of the sea, reversing himself just above the surface and then diving deeply. When the dragon considered himself sufficiently watered, he floundered out, flapping his wings mightily until the breeze brought the shower up the beach to F’nor who protested.

Canth then irrigated himself so thoroughly with sand that F’nor was half-minded to send him back to rinse, but Canth protested, the sand felt so good and warm against his hide. F’nor relented, and when the dragon had finally made his wallow, couched himself on a convenient curl of tail. The sun soon lulled them into drowsy inertia.

F’nor, Canth’s gentle summons penetrated the brown rider’s delicious somnolence, do not move.

That was sufficient to dispel drowsy complacence, yet the dragon’s tone was amused, not alarmed.

Open one eye carefully, Canth advised.

Resentful but obedient, F’nor opened one eye. It was all he could do to remain limp. Returning his gaze was a golden dragon, small enough to perch on his bare forearm. The tiny eyes, like winking green-fired jewels, regarded him with wary curiosity. Suddenly the miniature wings, no bigger than the span of F’nor’s fingers, unfurled into gilt transparencies, aglitter in the sunlight.

“Don’t go,” F’nor said, instinctively using a mere mental whisper. Was he dreaming? He couldn’t believe his eyes.

The wings hesitated a beat. The tiny dragon tilted its head.

Don’t go, little one, Canth added with equal delicacy. We are of the same blood.

The minute beast registered an incredulity and indecision which were transmitted to man and dragon. The wings remained up but the tautness which preceded flight relaxed. Curiosity replaced indecision. Incredulity grew stronger. The little dragon paced the length of F’nor’s arm to gaze steadfastly into his eyes until F’nor felt his eye muscles strain to keep from crossing.

Doubt and wonder reached F’nor, and then he understood the tiny one’s problem.

“I’m not of your blood. The monster above us is,” F’nor communicated softly. “You are of his blood.”

Again the tiny head cocked. The eyes glistened actively as they whirled with surprise and increased doubt.