Dragonquest

Volume II of The Dragonriders of Pernr, the legendary series by award-winning author Anne McCaffrey Since Lessa and Ramoth, her golden queen dragon, traveled into the past to bring forward a small army of dragons and riders to save their world from deadly alien spores, fear and desperation have spread across the land. But while the dragonriders struggle with threats both otherworldly and human, a young rider named F’nor and his brown dragon, Canth, hatch a bold plan to destroy the alien scourge at its source--the baleful red star that fills the heavens and promises doom to all.

Auteur

Anne McCaffrey

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FINALIST FOR THE LOCUS AWARD • The second novel in the legendary and magical New York Times bestselling series featuring dragons, adventure, romance, and heroism, from Hugo and Nebula Award–winning author Anne McCaffrey
 
“Pern was one of the first fantasy worlds I fell into, and I am forever grateful.”—Leigh Bardugo, author of Ninth House
 
Lessa and her golden queen dragon may have given their world a fighting chance against the deadly Thread by bringing several hundred dragons and their riders forward in time, but this has also caused other problems to arise. The Oldtimers, as they are known, are having a difficult time adjusting to their more modern world, and tensions are rising. Worse, Threadfall is becoming more unpredictable, which makes it harder to combat.
 
Inspired by Lessa’s example, brown dragonrider F’nor hatches a bold plan to cut through these growing tensions by destroying the Thread at its source: the mysterious Red Star. But his quest to go where no man—or dragon—has gone before will risk not only his life, but the heart of a woman who has already lost far more than she can bear. 
 
Don’t miss the original trilogy from Anne McCaffrey’s beloved Dragonriders of Pern series:
DRAGONFLIGHT • DRAGONQUEST • THE WHITE DRAGON

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Chapter I

Morning at Mastercrafthall, Fort Hold

Several Afternoons Later at Benden Weyr

Midmorning (Telgar Time) at Mastersmithcrafthall, Telgar Hold

How to begin? mused Robinton, the Masterharper of Pern.

He frowned thoughtfully down at the smoothed, moist sand in the shallow trays of his workdesk. His long face settled into deep-grooved lines and creases, and his eyes, usually snapping blue with inner amusement, were gray-shadowed with unusual gravity.

He fancied the sand begged to be violated with words and notes while he, Pern’s repository and glib dispenser of any ballad, saga or ditty, was inarticulate. Yet he had to construct a ballad for the upcoming wedding of Lord Asgenar of Lemos Hold to the half-sister of Lord Larad of Telgar Hold. Because of recent reports of unrest from his network of drummers and Harper journeymen, Robinton had decided to remind the guests on this auspicious occasion—for every Lord Holder and Craftmaster would be invited—of the debt they owed the dragonmen of Pern. As the subject of his ballad, he had decided to tell of the fantastic ride, between time itself, of Lessa, Weyrwoman of Benden Weyr on her great golden queen, Ramoth. The Lords and Craftsmen of Pern had been glad enough then for the arrival of dragonriders from the five ancient Weyrs from four hundred Turns in the past.

Yet how to reduce those fascinating, frantic days, those braveries, to a rhyme? Even the most stirring chords could not recapture the beat of the blood, the catch of breath, the chill of fear and the hopeless surge of hope of that first morning after Thread had fallen over Nerat Hold; when F’lar had rallied all the frightened Lords and Craftmasters at Benden Weyr and enlisted their enthusiastic aid.

It had not been just a sudden resurgence of forgotten loyalties that had prompted the Lords, but the all too real sense of disaster as they envisioned their prosperous acres blackened with the Thread they had dismissed as myth, of the thought of burrows of the lightning propagating parasites, of themselves walled up in the cliff-Holds behind thick metal doors and shutters. They’d been ready to promise F’lar their souls that day if he could protect them from Thread. And it was Lessa who had bought them that protection, almost with her life.

Robinton looked up from the sandtrays, his expression suddenly bleak.

“The sand of memory dries quickly,” he said softly, looking out across the settled valley toward the precipice that housed Fort Hold. There was one watchman on the fire ridges. There ought to be six, but it was planting time; Lord Holder Groghe of Fort Hold had everyone who could walk upright in the fields, even the gangs of children who were supposed to weed spring grass from stone interstices and pull moss from the walls. Last spring, Lord Groghe would not have neglected that duty no matter how many dragonlengths of land he wanted to put under seed.

Lord Groghe was undoubtedly out in the fields right now, prowling from one tract of land to another on one of those long-legged running beasts which the Masterherdsman Sograny was developing. Groghe of Fort Hold was indefatigable, his slightly protuberant blue eyes never missing an unpruned tree or a badly harrowed row. He was a burly man, with grizzled hair which he wore tied in a neat band. His complexion was florid, with a temper to match. But, if he pushed his holders, he pushed himself as well, demanding nothing of his people, his children nor his fosterlings that he was not able to do himself. If he was conservative in his thinking, it was because he knew his own limitations and felt secure in that knowledge.

Robinton pulled at his lower lip, wondering if Lord Groghe was an exception in his disregard for this traditional Hold duty of removing all greenery near habitations. Or was this Lord Groghe’s answer to Fort Weyr’s growing agitation over the immense forest lands of Fort Hold which the dragonriders ought to protect? The Weyrleader of Fort Weyr, T’ron, and his Weyrwoman, Mardra, had become less scrupulous about checking to see that no Thread burrows had escaped their wing riders to fall on the lush forests. Yet Lord Groghe had been scrupulous in the matter of ground crews and flame-throwing equipment when Thread fell over his forests. He had a stable of runners spread out through the Hold in an efficient network so that if dragonriders were competent in flight, there was adequate ground coverage for any Thread that might elude the flaming breath of the airborne beasts.

But Robinton had heard ugly rumors of late, and not just from Fort Hold. Since he eventually heard every derogatory whisper and accusation uttered in Pern, he had learned to separate fact from spite, calumny from crime. Not basically an alarmist, because he’d found much sifted itself out in the course of time, Robinton was beginning to feel the stirrings of alarm in his soul.

The Masterharper slumped in his chair, staring out on the bright day, the fresh new green of the fields, the yellow blossoms on the fruit trees, the neat stone Holds that lined the road up to the main Hold, the cluster of artisans’ cotholds below the wide ramp up to the Great Outer Court of Fort Hold.

And if his suspicions were valid, what could he do? Write a scolding song? A satire? Robinton snorted. Lord Groghe was too literal a man to interpret satire and too righteous to take a scold. Furthermore, and Robinton pushed himself upright on his elbows, if Lord Groghe was neglectful, it was in protest at Weyr neglect of far greater magnitude. Robinton shuddered to think of Thread burrowing in the great stands of softwoods to the south.

He ought to sing his remonstrances to Mardra and T’ron as …