A Gift of Dragons Read Free Page A

mother said. “Is the numbweed working?” she asked, and when he nodded, she said, “You just rest. I’ll bring you some nice broth.”
    At any other time in his life, Keevan would have relished such cosseting, but now he just lay there worrying. Beterli had been dismissed. Would the others think it was his fault? But everyone was there! Beterli provoked that fight. His worry increased, because although he heard excited comings and goings in the passageway, no one tweaked back the curtain across the sleeping alcove he shared with five other boys. Surely one of them would have to come in sometime. No, they were all avoiding him. And something else was wrong. Only he didn’t know what.
    Mende returned with broth and beachberry bread.
    “Why doesn’t anyone come see me, Mende? I haven’t done anything wrong, have I? I didn’t ask to have Beterli turfed out.”
    Mende soothed him, saying everyone was busy with noontime chores and no one was angry with him. They were giving him a chance to rest in quiet. The numbweed made him drowsy, and her words were fair enough. He permitted his fears to dissipate. Until he heard a hum. Actually, he felt it first, in the broken shinbone and his sore head. The hum began to grow. Two things registered suddenly in Keevan’s groggy mind: the only white candidate’s robe still on the pegs in the chamber was his; and the dragons hummed when a clutch was being laid or being hatched. Impression! And he was flat abed.
    Bitter, bitter disappointment turned the warm broth sour in his belly. Even the small voice telling him that he’d have other opportunities failed to alleviate his crushing depression.
This
was the Impression that mattered! This was his chance to show
everyone
, from Mende to K’last to L’vel and even the Weyrleader that he, Keevan, was worthy of being a dragonrider.
    He twisted in bed, fighting against the tears that threatened to choke him. Dragonmen don’t cry! Dragonmen learn to live with pain.
    Pain? The leg didn’t actually pain him as he rolled about on his bedding. His head felt sort of stiff from the tightness of the bandage. He sat up, an effort in itself since the numbweed made exertion difficult. He touched the splinted leg; the knee was unhampered. He had no feeling in his bone, really. He swung himself carefully to the side of his bed and stood slowly. The room wanted to swim about him. He closed his eyes, which made the dizziness worse, and he had to clutch the wall.
    Gingerly, he took a step. The broken leg dragged. It hurt in spite of the numbweed, but what was pain to a dragonman?
    No one had said he couldn’t go to the Impression. “You are and you aren’t,” were Mende’s exact words.
    Clinging to the wall, he jerked off his bedshirt. Stretching his arm to the utmost, he jerked his white candidate’s tunic from the peg. Jamming first one arm and then the other into the holes, he pulled it over his head. Too bad about the belt. He couldn’t wait. He hobbled to the door, hung on to the curtain to steady himself. The weight on his leg was unwieldy. He wouldn’t get very far without something to lean on. Down by the bathing pool was one of the long crook-necked poles used to retrieve clothes from the hot washing troughs. But it was down there, and he was on the level above. And there was no one nearby to come to his aid: everyone would be in the Hatching Ground right now, eagerly waiting for the first egg to crack.
    The humming increased in volume and tempo, an urgency to which Keevan responded, knowing that his time was all too limited if he was to join the ranks of the hopeful boys standing around the cracking eggs. But if he hurried down the ramp, he’d fall flat on his face.
    He could, of course, go flat on his rear end, the way crawling children did. He sat down, sending a jarring stab of pain through his leg and up to the wound on the back of his head. Gritting his teeth and blinking away tears, Keevan scrabbled down the ramp. He had to wait