It was only a green, Jaxom thought with some disappointment. You’d think they’d send a brown at the very least, for Lytol, Warder of Ruatha Hold, one time dragonrider himself. Then Jaxom was overwhelmed by contrition. Lytol’s dragon had been a brown and it was well known that half a man’s soul left him when his dragon died and he remained among the living.

The green’s rider grinned a welcome as Jaxom scrambled up the extended leg.

“Good morning, Jeralte,” he said, slightly startled because he’d played in the Lower Caves with the young man only two Turns back. Now he was a full-fledged rider.

“J’ralt, please, Lord Jaxom,” Lytol corrected his ward.

“That’s all right, Jaxom,” J’ralt said and looped the riding belt deftly around Jaxom’s waist.

Jaxom wanted to sink; to be corrected by Lytol in front of Jer—J’ralt, and not to remember to use the honorific contraction! He didn’t enjoy the thrill of rising, a-dragonback, over the great towers of Ruatha Hold, of watching the valley, spread out like a wall hanging under the dragon’s sinuous green neck. But as they circled, Jaxom had to balance himself against the dragon’s unexpectedly soft hide, and the warmth of that contact seemed to ease his inner misery. Then he saw the line of weeders in the fields and knew that they must be looking up at the dragon. Did those bullying Hold boys know that he, Jaxom, Lord of Ruatha, was a-dragonback? Jaxom was himself again.

To be a dragonman was surely the most wonderful thing in the world. Jaxom felt a sudden wave of overwhelming pity for Lytol who had had this joy and—lost it, and now must suffer agonies to ride another’s beast. Jaxom looked at the rigid back in front of him, for he was sandwiched between the two men, and wished that he might comfort his Warder. Lytol was always fair, and if he expected Jaxom to be perfect, it was because Jaxom must be perfect to be the Lord of Ruatha Hold. Which was no little honor, even if it wasn’t being a dragonrider.

Jaxom’s reflections were brought to an abrupt stop as the dragon took them between.

You count to three slowly, Jaxom told his frantic mind as he lost all sense of sight and sound, of contact, even of the soft dragon hide beneath his hands. He tried to count and couldn’t. His mind seemed to freeze, but just as he was about to shriek, they burst out into the late afternoon, over Benden Weyr. Never had the Bowl seemed so welcome, with its high walls softened and colored by the lambent sun. The black maws of the individual weyrs, set in the face of the inner wall, were voiceless mouths, greeting him all astonished.