The first time I really ever paid that much attention to the dragons and their riders was when I heard about the black dragon.

It was big news, I can tell you. Really big. I think the people of Southern Ridge Weyr tried to cover it up, or at least to smother the uproar a little. It's kind of hard to hide a huge black beast that flies around the skies of Pern and is the same size as a small bronze, though. Especially when the dragons of Pern are such incurable gossips. But no, I don't think any Weyr could dull a commotion of that magnitude. Holders are notoriously fidgety people, easily upset. And the birth of a new breed of dragon? What could cause a greater stir?

Not since the white Ruth has a dragon of unusual colour been born. That caused small riots in some Holds, according to the records. But Ruth was small. He was underdeveloped, and was never going to live past a Turn. By the time people realised this was not the case and that he would indeed grow to assist his rider Jaxom in finding AIVAS, they'd calmed down.

A black dragon, for a number of reasons, was far more upsetting.

There came, with time, an explanation to Ruth's odd colouring. Immediately people searched for a reason for the dark hide of the black beast, but none could be found, and it was disturbing. As well as this, black is the colour of night, of char and decay. A bad colour by all accounts. Why people thought this was such a big factor, I didn't know and frankly didn't care. Green is the designated unlucky colour, and green dragons have existed from the very beginning. Surely that would be even worse than a black dragon? But no, people are strange like that.

The main thing was, however, Diarth's size. The smarter of the Weyrfolk noticed the problem here immediately, and eventually the information leaked to those who could understand in the Holds.

He was big, strong and healthy. He would live, and grow large. He was significantly more agile than most bronzes, easily making up for what little he lacked in size. Basically, he was able to catch a queen, and so whatever mutation had occurred in his genes would most likely carry on to the dragons he spawned. Not only that, but by law, the rider of this freak would also become Weyrleader if this happened. D'ryn, the black rider, didn't have much of a reputation as leadership material. It was a scary thought that he might become the master of one of the most successful Weyrs on Pern.

This is where the story begins.

Great roiling clouds rolled slowly in from the east. The wind, already blowing steadily, picked up into a powerful gale, bending trees where they stood and sending leaves scattering. Normally tame waves pounded the sandy shore when they hit their mark and crashed through the Seraph River when they missed, carrying salt and foam far deeper into the seaward-flowing river than usual.

Within Southern Ridge Hold, business was carrying on much as usual, despite the oncoming storm. It was obvious that this was a regular water-cloud, for no silver hazed the horizon. No Thread meant the inescapable continuation of work here in this minor fishing hold.

In truth, Southern Ridge had relatively little business in the craft it claimed itself to be part of. Certainly, as a seaside hold it did fish moderately, but very little of the catch was exported. Most stayed here, some went to Southern Ridge Weyr, but only the tiniest bit went to other holds. There were more successful fishing holds out there, and it was bad business to compete when one could cater for an entirely different clientele. And so this is just what the late Lord Adiren of Southern Ridge did: supported the formation of the business of shipcrafting.

Some of the finest ships on Pern rocked alarmingly in their docked position near the shore as the storm approached. It was generally well-known that if any ship was to stay afloat in a storm, it was a Southern Ridge ship (or Ridger, as they were more commonly known), but the way they quite nearly tipped onto their sides in the wind made for a frightful sight.

Nonetheless, those inside the Hold's walls were relatively unaffected by the presence of the approaching storm. It wasn't an uncommon thing. They were a famously hardy and hale group, the Ridgers, just as their ships. Though they huddled up against a jacket or something else warming as they walked, many were indeed leaving the comforts of home to run an errand or such.

And so, of course, Sehrem stood out a mile.

He always did, though it was not ever his desire. Even walking as one of the crowd, he would be like a magnet to most onlookers' eyes. He did naught to draw eyes to himself. He had a stooped posture and utterly silent disposition, and yet he was well-known here, not by name, but certainly by face.

While it was just about certain that every Ridger had a darkened complexion, it was not a natural trait, but rather a side effect of prolonged exposure to the Rukbat's rays. Sehrem, on the other hand, was naturally dark of skin, with an even and unchanging olive tone, deep eyes of dark brown and short, near-black hair. It was an oddity on Pern to look as he did, with a slightly flattened nose, small but full mouth, and strange singly folded eyelids.* While his lack of great stature was not remarkable in itself, his short, slender and dark countenance made him known as the little shadow. It was not a name meant kindly.

Sehrem sat now in the dirt beside the cobbled road, staring blankly at the dust as it sped across the surface, spurred on by the wind. Leaves danced in front of his vision, jumping along the cobblestone with tiny cracking noises. As usual, grim thoughts entered his mind. This time, it was an observation of the life these leaves appeared to have in their movement.

But it's not real life, he thought with the cold detachment he felt at all times. An empty promise given by the fickle wind, always taken away, and quickly. As if to prove his point, the wind died down momentarily, between gusts, and the dry autumn leaves came to a twitching rest. Soon the wind had returned, however, and the leaves were carried down the road once more, clinging to the invisible and unreliable hope that shifted it.

Not all life is real.

Before his eyes the world gradually darkened, and before long spots of darker hue began to appear in sparse numbers on the street. As more and more came into view, he began to feel the cold prick of rain on his exposed arms. As was so typical in Southern Ridge Hold, it was a matter of moments before Sehrem would not have been able to see an arm's length past his own nose had he raised his head. He did not move, though some others sought shelter from the downpour. He did not see it necessary. And thus again, through lack of any sort of action, he unwittingly made himself noticed.

At the same time, Korelia stood and gazed out across the landscape.

The day was fine and clear. As the sun climbed inexorably from her right to the sky's zenith, light glinted off a barely discernible line on the horizon – the distant ocean. For a Weyr on this continent, it was placed very strangely, inland from the ocean and on the tallest of a range of mountains.

She was south of Southern Ridge Hold. Far south. Much further than even Nerat Hold, which was three main rivers south of Southern Ridge Hold. She was across the ocean, in the southern continent, at much the same longitude. In Southern Ridge Weyr.

Though she had only sixteen Turns to her name, Korelia was senior Weyrwoman of the second youngest and yet third largest Weyr on all of Pern. Even at its young age of nineteen Turns, the Weyr was thriving under the command of its second Weyrwoman and already had three Holds beholden to it: the eldest, Southern Ridge Hold, Keratin Hold, and the nearly Turn-old Shaft Hold. Though Korelia had been in power for less time than Shaft had even been in existence, she was proud to say that she hadn't caused disrepute for her Weyr. Not yet.

But she was beginning to worry that she would soon. No, that was wrong. She'd worried about that from the day of the Impression of her Farith. It had been a momentous day, not only for the joy of a successfully Impressed, healthy young gold in a Weyr that severely lacked such comforts. The entire Weyr had begun to worry about the black dragon that had also hatched from that clutch, and the responsibility for that beast had naturally landed squarely on her inexperienced shoulders.

Diarth had matured with remarkable speed, and had already risen to successfully fly two separate greens. That was all very well and good, with the relationships between the various riders of those dragons completely their own affair. But when a dragon like Diarth was as big as he was... it was all fine if he was just a dark, oversized blue or brown. Greens could not clutch. But what if he managed to fly Farith?

This was her problem. In theory, she should be able to prevent it. But Farith had never risen before. Korelia had no idea how to handle the situation when it came. And it would come very soon. Oh yes, it was just about time for Korelia to get into a relationship more intimate than she had ever experienced before, and most likely with a man she barely knew or liked.

She'd been advised to at least get to know D'ryn, because of the chance that his unusual dragon would catch Farith. She'd put that off, though. She didn't want to get to know the source of her worries and fears. Besides, from what she knew of him, he was a dimglow with regards to social practices, sarcastic, arrogant and nasty. He just wasn't the sort of person she liked as company. Anyway, if she didn't know him as well as the bronzeriders, maybe it would lower Diarth's chance of success. Maybe. She could only hope for a normal flight in the next few days.

She sighed quietly as she turned from the view to head back into her weyr. It was the topmost weyr in the mountain, constantly cold and only accessible on dragonback. With the view she had, it was just as well she was fairly good with heights. But then, if she was afraid of heights, she couldn't be a dragonrider, could she?

Within his own weyr, a way down from the Weyrwoman's, D'ryn was only waking.

He wasn't much of a morning person, really. He'd always woken in the later hours of the morning, with the sun quite high in the sky. He was also very bad at getting to sleep of an evening, but that was of no consequence at the moment.

Gooood morning!

D'ryn groaned as the cheery 'voice' spoke loudly in his mind. He might sleep from late until late, but his dragon slept only from about midday until twilight. It wasn't a very good arrangement, and D'ryn always resented the fact that the dragon could be so lively when the rider felt so sluggish.

Oh, shut up.

At least he didn't have to open his lips to speak to his dragon. It was a blessing and a half. All he could ever manage vocally for the first few moments was a grunt.

Now now. That's not very nice.

All right. Good morning then, he amended irritably, wondering where by the first egg his lifemate could be.

Better.

The dragon landed then on the lip of the ledge, making himself visible. He'd obviously been out flying somewhere, keeping himself entertained while waiting for his rider to wake. D'ryn rose from his cot, standing on unsteady legs before proceeding to get dressed. He quickly threw on a wher-hide breeches and a coat. The weather was cooling – this would not be unbearably hot any more. Rubbing the blurring from his eyes with a yawn, he turned to face his dragon.

Diarth was waiting impatiently on the ledge, his thin wings half-spread in an instinctive retaliation to the wind that prevailed in these heights. Now there was something D'ryn hadn't noticed before, which was surprising in a way. While the beast's hide was mostly jet-black, the membranous drapings of hide between the claw-like protrusions in his wings were actually a very dark grey. Perhaps that was the true colour of the beast. Probably none would ever know.

D'ryn quickly clambered onto Diarth's ridged neck, and the black dragon turned. He spread his wings – quite an impressive wingspan – and lazily fell from the precipice, only tilting his wings enough to catch the air after a moment of lax freefalling. In wide circles he glided, slowly nearing the dusty ground below. It took a good three minutes of circling before D'ryn decided he was close enough to the ground to just drop from his dragon's back and let the beast get away without bothering to land.

You're sharding lazy, you know. He righted himself, dusting his hands off on his breeches. It was hard to land on two feet from that sort of height, and quite beyond D'ryn first thing in the morning.

No worse than Remyth, Diarth replied with a snort loud enough to be heard as he ascended once more.

No, but you should be better than Remyth, the black rider replied smugly.

I am, Diarth retorted before drawing back his mind. It wasn't an easily perceptible thing, the way he did that. It was just a little motion of his conscious mind that signified the end of a conversation.

D'ryn sighed slightly before turning and heading to the kitchens, which were located at the foot of the mountain. As his feet guided him without thought across the dusty yard to the doors of the hall, his mind lingered on the conversation he'd just had with his dragon. A quiet smile formed on his face. Bronze Remyth was Diarth's greatest competition for the position of Farith's mate. His rider, V'lan, had been Weyrleader back when Tiveth had been senior queen and Eilia had been Weyrwoman. Remyth was a very large and arrogant dragon, confident in his proven ability to catch queen dragons. And he hated Diarth with a passion.

It wasn't a common thing, for dragons to hate other dragons. For one to hate anything other than Thread was pretty much unprecedented. But this was the case for Remyth. The worrying thing was that the rest of the mature bronzes in the Weyr – S'nir's Keinth, W'gan's Rath, R'pil's Toguth and M'kar's Halth – all shared that view. It was generally accepted that it was pure jealousy; there had been no competition from other colours in the past for the queen's attention. But D'ryn thought it was something deeper, an instinctive hatred. Not that it worried him that much. Diarth was better than any old bronze, and the black didn't seem phased by the poor sentiment. Nonetheless...

"Good morning, D'ryn. You're up early."

D'ryn stopped, blinking, and noticed where he was standing. He was already through the dining hall, he realised, and was in the heart of the kitchens. A familiar voice had called to him – Lisiel, head mistress of the kitchens.

He turned to his right and his eyes rested on a tall, lithesome woman, dark of feature and clad in loose black cloth. Her back was actually to him, but she was leaning back, soft white hands clinging to the tabletop as she tossed her head back and looked at him in a manner that would make him appear upside down to her eyes. Her long, wavy dark hair fell freely from her head to halfway to the ground, and her pale lips were curved in a grin.

"The early wherry catches the grub," D'ryn replied cheerfully, aware of the pun as he spoke it. He made his way over to her and, passing her completely, peered into the pot in front of her. She straightened as he neared, and made to bat away his hand from her cooking.

"Don't tell me you purposely woke early," she said slyly, a mock scowl cast in his direction.

"Naturally I did," he retorted, craning his neck to catch the aroma that wafted from the open-top pot. It was a stew of sorts, clearly midday meal. "I'm a morning person, you know."

With gentle firmness she pressed her palm to his chest to guide him away from the food. "Well you're too late for breakfast," she told him, a lopsided smile on her face.

He gave her a mournful look. "But it's a good two hours until midday meal!"

Lisiel laughed in her soft fashion. "Oh, all right," she replied with resignation before reaching down to grab a bowl from the cupboard. Swiftly she used a ladle to spoon some of the stew into the bowl, and thrust it in his direction. "Here. Take it."

"Thank you." D'ryn graciously accepted the bowl, then, with a swift kiss for her cheek, he moved out to the dining hall.

It was always empty at this time of day, leaving D'ryn alone with his thoughts as he sat down to eat. He could feel his mind dwelling once again to the problem of Lisiel, and for once he allowed it to remain there. It was a problem he had to sort out some time.

It was clear that the woman had a great deal of affection for him. He was old for a Weyrling, with twenty-four Turns to his name. He hadn't been supposed to Impress. But it was the dragon's choice, and he for one was glad of it. Lisiel had twenty-three, and though she was certainly a beautiful woman, the only reason he allowed her to believe that he shared her feelings was so that he could get this particular meal every day. But that was not the problem. The problem pertaining to her was, of course, Farith's flight in the next few days.

Lisiel had chosen to ignore the fact that Diarth had flown Zeth and Arith. D'ryn didn't know what to think about that little habit of Diarth's. But it had meant that he had taken part in intimate homosexual relations with S'rik and B'len. An... interesting experience, to say the least. Uncomfortable, though, for he had never felt anything but heterosexual attraction before, and still felt no love for either man. Dragon-driven lust was very different to love, as he'd discovered. And Lisiel had chosen to believe just that.

But he knew her fairly well, and could see that this one really counted to her. If Diarth succeeded, it would hurt her. For all D'ryn didn't feel attracted to her, he liked her as a friend, and didn't want her heart to be broken. Plus he wouldn't get this food every morning.

Nonetheless, he did not want Diarth to fail. This was too much of a good thing to miss just for the sake of the short-lived heartache of a cook. Diarth was good enough to catch Farith. Certainly, his mutated genes would probably affect whatever dragons were born, but that was not a problem in D'ryn's point of view. In fact, he thought the presence of multiple black dragons would be beneficial to the Weyr. Surely it couldn't be a bad thing.

Well, they'd all just have to wait and see.

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* Terran Asian.