Jaxom didn’t like the trend of the conversation now. After all, Ruatha Hold was weyrbound to Fort Weyr and while he didn’t much like Mardra, he ought not listen to such talk.
“Well, this one’s not so big. Looks like a wherry egg. It’s half the size of even the smallest one of the others,” and he touched the smooth shell of an egg that lay almost against the rock wall, apart from the others
“Hey, don’t touch it!” Felessan protested, visibly startled.
“Why not? Can’t hurt it, can I? Hard as leather,” and Jaxom rapped it gently with his knuckles and then spread his hand flat on the curve. “It’s warm.”
Felessan pulled him away from the egg.
“You don’t touch eggs. Not ever. Not until it’s your turn. And you’re not weyrbred.”
Jaxom looked disdainfully at him. “You’re scared to.” And he caressed the egg again to prove that he was not.
“I am not scared. But you don’t touch eggs,” and Felessan slapped at Jaxom’s impious hand. “Not unless you’re a candidate. And you’re not. And neither am I, yet.”
“No, I’m a Lord Holder,” and Jaxom drew himself up proudly. He couldn’t resist the urge to pat the small egg once more because, while it was all right to be a Lord Holder, he was more than a little jealous of Felessan, and fleetingly wished that he, too, could look forward to being a dragonrider one day. And that egg looked lonely, small and unwanted, so far from the others.
“Your being a Lord Holder wouldn’t matter a grain of sand in Igen if Ramoth came back and caught us here,” Felessan reminded him and jerked Jaxom firmly toward the slit
A sudden rumble at the far end of the Hatching Ground startled them. One look at the shadow on the sand by the great entrance was enough. Felessan, being more agile and faster, got to the exit first and squeezed through. This time Jaxom did not object at all as Felessan frantically yanked him past the rock. They didn’t even stop to see if it really was Ramoth, returning. They grabbed the glow baskets and ran.
When the light from the slit was lost in the curve of the corridor, Jaxom stopped running. His chest hurt from his exertions as well as from his rough passage through the fissure.
“C’mon,” Felessan urged him, halting several paces further.
“I can’t. My chest . . .”
“Is it bad?” Felessan held his glow up; blood traced smeared patterns on Jaxom’s pale skin. “That looks bad. We’d better get you to Manora quick.”
“I . . . got . . . to . . . catch . . . my . . . breath.”
In rhythm with his labored exhalations, his glow sputtered and darkened completely.
“We’ll have to walk slow then,” Felessan said, his voice now shakier with anxiety than from running.
Jaxom got to his feet, determined not to show the panic he was beginning to feel; a cold pressure gripped his belly, his chest was hot and painful, while sweat was starting to creep down his forehead. The salty drops fell on his chest and he swore one of the wardguard’s favorites.
“Let’s walk fast,” he said and, holding onto the now useless glow basket, suited action to words.
By common consent they kept to the outer edge of the corridor, where the now dimly seen footsteps gave them courage.
“It’s not much further, is it?” Jaxom asked as the second glow flickered ominously.
“Ah—no. It better not be.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Ah—we’ve just run out of footprints.”
They hadn’t retraced their steps very far before they ran out of glow, too.
“Now what do we do, Jaxom?”
“Well, in Ruatha,” Jaxom said, taking a deep breath, a precaution against his voice breaking on him, “when they miss me, they send out search parties.”
“In that case, you’ll be missed as soon as Lytol wants to go home, won’t you? He never stays here long.”
“Not if Lytol gets asked to dinner and he will, if dinner is as close as you said it was.” Jaxom couldn’t suppress his bitterness at this whole ill-advised exploration. “Haven’t you any idea where we are?”
“No,” Felessan had to admit, sounding suddenly out of his depth. “I always followed the footprints, just like I did now. There were footprints. You saw them.”
Jaxom didn’t care to agree for that would mean he was in part to blame for their predicament.
“Those other corridors we passed on the way to the hole, where do they go?” he finally asked.
“I don’t know. There’s an awful lot of the Weyr that’s empty. I’ve—I’ve never gone any farther than the slit.”
“What about the others? How far in have they gone?”
“Gandidan’s always talking about how far he’s gone but—but—I don’t remember what he said.”
“For the Egg’s sake, don’t blubber.”
“I’m not blubbering. I’m just hungry!”
“Hungry? That’s it. Can you smell dinner? Seemed to me we could smell it an awful long ways down the corridor.”
They sniffed at the air in all directions. It was musty but not with stew. Sometimes, Jaxom remembered, you could smell fresher air and find your own way back. He put out a hand to touch the wall; the smooth, cold stone was somehow comforting. In between, you couldn’t feel anything, though this corridor was just as dark. His chest hurt and throbbed, in a steady accompaniment to his blood.
With a sigh, he backed up against the smooth wall and, sliding down it, settled to the ground with a bump.
“Jaxom?”
“I’m all right. I’m just tired.”
“Me, too,” and with a sigh of relief, Felessan sat down, his shoulder touching Jaxom’s. The contact reassured them both.
“I wonder what it was like,” Jaxom mused at length.
“Wonder what what was like?” asked Felessan in some surprise.
“When the Weyrs and the Holds were full. When these corridors were lighted and used.”
“They’ve never been used.”
“Nonsense. No one wastes time carving out corridors that’ll lead nowhere. And Lytol said there are over five hundred weyrs in Benden and only half-used . . .”
“We have four hundred and twelve fighting dragons at Benden now.”
“Sure, but ten Turns ago there weren’t two hundred, so why so many weyrs if they weren’t all used once? And why are there miles and miles of halls and unused rooms in Ruatha Hold if they weren’t used once . . .”
“So?”
“I mean, where did all the people go? And how did they carve out whole mountains in the first place?”
Clearly the matter had never troubled Felessan.
“And did you ever notice? Some of the walls are smooth as . . .”
Jaxom stopped, stunned by a dawning realization. Almost fearfully he turned and ran his hand down the wall behind him. It was smooth. He gulped and his chest hurt more than the throb of the scratches. “Felessan . . .?”
“What—what’s the matter?”
“This wall is smooth.”
“So what?”
“But it’s smooth. It’s not rough!”
“Say what you mean.” Felessan sounded almost angry.
“It’s smooth. It’s an old wall.”
“So?”
“We’re in the old part of Benden.” Jaxom got to his feet, running a hand over the wall, walking a few paces.
“Hey!” Jaxom could hear Felessan scrambling to his feet “Don’t leave me. Jaxom! I can’t see you.”
Jaxom stretched his hand back, touched fabric, and jerked Felessan to his side.