around her room. It was large, that was
certain, larger than most that went to the
journeymen that lived in the Weyr. That
often evoke some rude comments from
crafters and weyrfolk alike, but it was not
surprising. Fornight Weyr had never been
a place to stick to rigid customs, and so
the Weyrwoman’s daughter was awfully
spoiled. She was – after all – expected to
impress gold at Fornight’s upcoming
hatching. The fact that Philaea could
speak to all the dragons only added to this
belief.
Philaea lay on her bed, wondering if she
would impress. Her mother and father
both assured her that it was destiny, while
everyone treated her as if she were a
goldrider already. What would happen if
she didn’t impress? Would she face
rejection? The Weyrwoman, her mother,
would be disappointed, but Philaea
guessed that the goldrider would just tell
her daughter that there would be another
hatching and that she would impress
then. Philaea hated all the pressure that
was heaped upon her. If she never
impressed, her parents would be
devastated. They had told her over and
over again that it was her destiny, and they
almost had her believing it. Almost.
Her musings were disturbed by a
movement on the other side of the bed.
“Good morning sleepyhead,” Philaea said
with a grin. A tawny head poked out from
underneath the covers. A man? No,
Philaea had no tolerance for them. It was
a small feline, a tabby by its markings.
“Rier, what’re you doing –underneath- the
covers? You usually sleep on top!” The
little cat made a plaintive sound,
complaining about the fact that his
breakfast was not laid out for him.
“Honestly Rier, if it weren’t for you, I’d
have started being a stuck-up brat long
ago. You keep me sane.” This was
obviously of no consequence to the cat,
who mewed again. “I’m going, I’m
going,” Philaea muttered, and dragged
herself out of the bed.
She wore her nightdress, which reached to
her ankles, and was a plain white. Philaea
had insisted on this, while her mother had
wanted her to wear a red velvet
nightgown. The young woman had
plainly refused, and the Weyrwoman knew
better than to argue. Philaea was more
stubborn than a herdbeast. The young
woman walked over to a curtain on one
side of her room, and drew it back,
revealing a hole in the wall. Down
through the shaft she shouted, “Breakfast
for Philaea, and Rier, please!” She never
forgot to add that last word, though many
of the weyrfolk thought her strange for
doing so.
She dropped the curtain and walked over
to her wardrobe. It was a fine chest, made
from pine and carved intricately. Another
gift from her overly-doting mother. She
opened it, and withdrew a pair of tan
pants, made of a streachy fabric that clung
to her frame. It would be an untruth to
say that they were not flattering upon her
slender, curvy form. As for a shirt…she
drew out a sleeveless number, one with
dark brown and tan running in horizontal
zigzags across it. Over that she placed a
light, button-up black sweater. This
sweater was longer than most, falling to
her knees. Around her slim waist she
placed a fine leather belt, another gift
from her mother.
A distant rumble alerted her to the
approaching food. Closing her wardrobe,
she took a few graceful strides over to the
curtain, and lifted it again. There, in the
previously empty shaft, was a tray with
food for both human and feline. “Thank
you!” Philaea called, and picked up the
tray. Then she turned towards the small,
circular table that sat in one corner of the
room. She set down Rier’s food on the
floor, and the little kitten began gulping it
down eagerly. With considerably less
enthusiasm, Philaea began picking at her
breakfast. Again her thoughts turned to
the expectations of the Weyr. However,
any rational thoughts were ended by the
sudden, abrupt noise of the dragons.
“Rier!” Philaea exclaimed, dropping her
food in her haste. “They’re hatching!” She
lept for the wardrobe again, this time
withdrawing a plain, sleeveless white
robe. She striped, and threw the plain
garment over her head. Then she set to
work searching for her sandals. One hand
was thrust under the bed, and it waved
around frantically, until her fingers latched
onto something tangible. Her boots. The
ritual started again, but was interrupted by
a voice at the door.
“Philaea, hurry! They’re starting to
hatch!” It was Orik, one of her many
admirers, and a candidate as well. She
peered under her bed, and saw her sandals
in the far corner. A lucky grab, and a
banged head resulted in victory. Philaea
slipped her feet into the sandals, and ran
out of the door, grabbing Orik by the hand
and dragging him along with her. The boy
just watched in silent admiration.
