jhetaling

Short, pale-skinned, and light-haired, Jhetarya’s uncle Mahred looked nothing like her--or much like Al’jan, for that matter. Still, Aljheran did have his father’s loose curls, though his were black instead of sandy brown. And their built was similar, if not their stature. Al’jan was far handsomer than Mahred, though.
“Jheta!” Uncle Mahred greeted her, doing his best to envelope her in a hug. As he was only 5’6, it didn’t always work very well. “Or, should I say, Weyrwoman Jhetarya?”
“Uncle Mahred, don’t be silly. Arosambyth hasn’t changed me that much.” One brick-red hand caressed the exquisite gold fondly. “Although she does do quite a lot. Are you the only one who came?”
“Ha! Half of Telgar came with when we finally got our butts down here. I’m sorry we couldn’t come down for the Hatching, but your cousin Meraiyas was having an awful time carrying twins, and we were just getting into harvest time. The weather’s been nasty, and you know all that grain would be spoiled if we left it out too long.” Mahred looked up at her with a wry smile. “Tarashel, Jhiana, your aunt Ajhoria, Meraiyas and her family, Martan, Ajhored, Thamaiz, Jhashal, Talamin, Jhafaia…everybody came, even Papa, and you know how much he hates flying a-dragonback.”
“Grandfather came?” Jhetarya inquired, delighted. Old Olajhan, mostly inactive as a Journeyman Harper, taught most of the youngsters of Azure Cothold reading and writing. He was, out of all her relatives, the closest to a mentor she’d ever had. Though his granddaughter had a voice unsuited to singing, she loved to read, and Olajhan was happy to oblige her.
Mahred grinned, pleased at her reaction. “Is coming, rather. They couldn’t take the lot of us at once, but I managed to get in first, to warn you. Jhiana’s not pleased that we have to pay, but after all, they’re dragonriders, and they’ve other things to do than ferry the Telgaran tribe about.”
Jhetarya made a face. “Quite true. We don’t live lives of indolence at the Weyr, that’s for certain. But Mother’s always been a sixty-fourth-pincher.”
Laughing, Mahred cast an eye around. “Oh, I won’t deny it. Speaking of indolent, where’d my young scion? Gadding about?”
“Al’jan? Drilling with the rest of my clutchmates, excepting the other goldrider to come out of it. They tutor us differently, you know.”
Mahred tilted his head, curious. “I thought you all trained together, actually.”
“Nah. Goldrider’s got different duties. We get classes in economics, accounting, more detailed dragon healing, public speaking, inventory…and a whole lot of other stuff, as well as being trained with a flamethrower instead of firestone. There’s been more and more greenriders joining us there, though, because it’s fashionable now to let the greens have at least one clutch before they start fighting. It broadens the gene pool, and that’s all for the good. A lot of the golds get insulted, sharing the Sands with a lowly green, though.” Jhetarya made a face.
<<Not me,>> Arosambyth protested, amber hide rippling in distress. <<I like greens. They’re lucky that they can fight with firestone, instead of letting their riders do all the work. I can think of things I’d rather be doing than having endless children and being chased by every high-and-mighty bronze in the Weyr. Browns are only bronzes with manners, you know,>> she confided.
Jhetarya laughed and related her lifemate’s views to her uncle, who chuckled appreciatively. “Can she tell Al’jan that his family’s here? I really don’t know what her capabilities are. Arosambyth, right?”
The ex-Cotholder grinned. “Right, and Arosambyth has a bit more power, really, than…say, a Lord Holder’s Heir. Queens are pretty autonomous, and they aren’t fond of being ordered around. But if I ask very nicely, she’ll tell Fivrith, and Fivrith, we must assume, will tell Al’jan. He’s rather contrary, sometimes…I suppose he’s trying to prove something. Browns have something of a hidden inferiority complex, I think—they want to do everything bronzes do, and better, but they aren’t often up to it. All right, Ambyth, my darling, would you?”
<<But of course. I could never refuse you anything, Jheta,>> the gold replied reasonably. The saffron-and-vinegar of her mental presence lessened to the slightest amber tang as Arosambyth called softly to her clutchsib.
<<Modanteth and Rolajeth are coming in, Sxoith says,>> the gold said after a moment. <<That should be most of the family…no, wait, here’s Quilonth. That’s the last. Fivrith is coming as fast as he can.>>
Grinning, Jhetarya watched the approach of the Azurean tribe. Talamin, who was all of eleven Turns, reached her first, burying his face in her uniform tunic. “I missed you,” he said, words muffled. “When do you get to come home?”
Thamaiz, who was three Turns her elder, embraced her as well, his hug carefully measured around his brother’s bulk. “I told you so,” he said solemnly.
Jhetarya blinked at him. “Told me what?”
“You wouldn’t make a Cotholder. And I was right.” He measured her with laughter bubbling in the depths of the familial blue eyes. “You make a much better Weyrwoman, I think.”
“Oh, Tham,” she sighed, unable to repress a grin. “Must you always be right?”
He kissed her square on the cheek. “I must.”
Jhashal picked her up and spun her around wordlessly, heedless of her dignity. Two Turns her junior, he now had at least five inches on her.
Jhafaia was seventeen, with the carriage of a venerable matriarch. “Jheta!” she squealed, ruining the impression entirely as she clasped her hands before her. “I can’t believe it! I can’t believe that I’m sister to a goldrider! None of the hold brats believe me, either,” she said with some petulance.
Her parents—Tarashel and Jhiana—greeted her more sedately, but pride glowed in their eyes. From the corner of her eye, she saw Al’jan arrive, only to be mobbed by his family.
Olajhan was the only one who wasn’t smiling. He greeted her stiffly, and shied away from Arosambyth when Jhetarya attempted to introduce them.
By the end of the visit, Jhetarya was thoroughly confused, and a little hurt. Her grandfather had said barely five words to her his entire stay, and his eyes were cold and disapproving. Olajhan’s farewell was no more than a cool nod as he painfully made his way up Rolajeth’s side.