Dragonquest

CHAPTER XIII

Night at Fort Weyr:

Six Days Later

ROBINTON was weary, with fatigue of the heart and mind that did not lift to the thrill the Masterharper usually experienced on dragonback. In fact, he almost wished he’d not had to come to Fort Weyr tonight. These past six days, with everyone reacting in varying ways to the tragedy at High Reaches, had been very difficult. (Must the High Reaches always push the knottiest problems on Pern?) In a way, Robinton wished that they could have put off this Red Star viewing until minds and eyes had cleared and were ready for this challenge. And yet, perhaps the best solution was to press this proposed expedition to the Red Star as far and as fast as possible – as an anodyne to the depression that had followed the death of the two queens. Robinton knew that F’lar wanted to prove to the Lord Holders that the dragonmen were in earnest in their desire to clear the air of Thread, but for once, the Masterharper found himself without a private opinion. He did not know if F’lar was wise in pushing the issue, particularly now. Particularly when the Benden Weyrleader wasn’t recovered from T’ron’s slash. When no one was sure how T’kul was managing in Southern Weyr or if the man intended to stay there. When all Pern was staggered by the battle and deaths of the two queens The people had enough to rationalize, had enough to do with the vagaries of Threadfall complicating the seasonal mechanics of plowing and seeding. Leave the attack of the Red Star until another time.

Other dragons were arriving at Fort Weyr and the brown on which Robinton rode took his place in the circling pattern. They’d be landing on the Star Stones where Wansor, Fandarel’s glassman, had set up the distance-viewer.

“Have you had a chance to look through this device?” Robinton asked the brown’s rider.

“Me? Hardly, Masterharper. Everyone else wants to. It’ll stay there until I’ve had my turn, I daresay.”

“Has Wansor mounted it permanently at Fort Weyr?”

“It was discovered at Fort Weyr,” the rider replied, a little defensively. “Fort’s the oldest Weyr, you know. P’zar feels it should stay at Fort. And the Mastersmith, he agrees. His man Wansor keeps saying that there may be good reason. Something to do with elevation and angles and the altitude of Fort Weyr mountains. I didn’t understand.”

No more do I, Robinton thought. But he intended to. He was in agreement with Fandarel and Terry that there should be an interchange of knowledge between Crafts. Indisputably, Pern had lost many of the bemoaned techniques due to Craft jealousy. Lose a Craftmaster early, before he had transmitted all the Craft secrets, and a vital piece of information was lost forever. Not that Robinton, nor his predecessor, had ever espoused that ridiculous prerogative. There were five senior harpers who knew everything that Robinton did and three promising journeymen studying diligently to increase the safety factor.

It was one matter to keep dangerous secrets privy, quite another to guard craft skills to extinction.

The brown dragon landed on the ridge height of Fort Weyr and Robinton slid down the soft shoulder. He thanked the beast. The brown rose a half-length from the landing and then seemed to drop off the side of the cliff, down into the Bowl, making room for someone else to land.

Glows had been set on the narrow crown of the height, leading toward the massive Star Stones, their black bulk silhouetted against the lighter night sky. Among those gathered there, Robinton could distinguish the Mastersmith’s huge figure, Wansor’s pear-shaped and Lessa’s slender one.

On the largest and flattest rock of the Star Stones, Robinton saw the tripod arrangement on which the long barrel of the distance-viewer had been mounted. At first glance he was disappointed by its simplicity, a fat, round cylinder, with a smaller pipe attached to its side. Then it amused him. The Smith must be tortured with the yearning to dismantle the instrument and examine the principles of its simple efficiency.

“Robinton, how are you this evening?” Lessa asked, coming toward him, one hand outstretched.

He gripped it, her soft skin smooth under the calluses of his fingers.

“Pondering the elements of efficiency,” he countered, keeping his voice light. But he couldn’t keep from asking after Brekke and he felt Lessa’s fingers tremble in his.

“She does as well as can be expected. F’nor insisted that we bring her to his weyr. The man’s emotionally attached to her – far more than gratitude for any nursing. Between him, Manora and Mirrim, she is never alone.”

“And – Kylara?”

Lessa pulled her hand from his. “She lives!”

Robinton said nothing and, after a moment, Lessa went on.

“We don’t like losing Brekke as a Weyrwoman – ” She paused and added, her voice a little harsher, “And since it is now obvious that a person can Impress more than once, and more than one Dragonkind, Brekke will be presented as a candidate when the Benden eggs Hatch. Which should be soon.”

“I perceive,” Robinton said, cautiously choosing his words “that not everyone favors this departure from custom.”

Although he couldn’t see her face in the darkness, he felt her eyes on him.

“This time it’s not the Oldtimers. I suppose they’re so sure she can’t re-Impress, they’re indifferent.”

“Who then?”

“F’nor and Manora oppose it violently.”

“And Brekke?”

Lessa gave an impatient snort. “Brekke says nothing. She will not even open her eyes. She can’t be sleeping all the time. The lizards and the dragons tell us she’s awake. You see,” and Lessa’s exasperation showed through her tight control for she was more worried about Brekke than she’d admit even to herself, “Brekke can hear any dragon. Like me. She’s the only other Weyrwoman who can. And all the dragons listen to her.” Lessa moved restlessly and Robinton could see her slender white hands rubbing against her thighs in unconscious agitation.

“Surely that’s an advantage if she’s suicidal?”

“Brekke is not – not actively suicidal. She’s craftbred, you know,” Lessa said in a flat, disapproving tone of voice.

“No, I didn’t know,” Robinton murmured encouragingly after a pause. He was thinking that Lessa wouldn’t ever contemplate suicide in a similar circumstance and wondered what Brekke’s “breeding” had to do with a suicidal aptitude.

“That’s her trouble. She can’t actively seek death so she just lies there. I have this incredible urge,” and Lessa bunched her fists, “to beat or pinch or slap her – anything to get some response from the girl. It’s not the end of the world, after all. She can hear other dragons. She’s not bereft of all contact with Dragonkind, like Lytol.”

“She must have time to recover from the shock . . .”

“I know, I know,” Lessa said irritably, “but we don’t have time. We can’t get her to realize that it’s better to do things . . .”

“Lessa . . .”

“Don’t you ‘Lessa’ me too, Robinton.” In the reflection of the glow lights, the Weyrwoman’s eyes gleamed angrily. “F’nor’s as daft as a weyrling, Manora’s beside herself with worry for them both, Mirrim spends more of her time weeping which upsets the trio of lizards she’s got and that sets off all the babes and the weyrlings. And, on top of everything else, F’lar . . .”

“F’lar?” Robinton had bent close to her so that no one else might hear her reply.

“He is feverish. He ought never to have come to High Reaches with that open wound. You know what cold between does to wounds!”

“I’d hoped he’d be here tonight.”

Lessa’s laugh was sour. “I dosed his klah when he wasn’t looking.”

Robinton chuckled. “And stuffed him with mosstea, I’ll bet.”

“Packed the wound with it, too.”

“He’s a strong man, Lessa. He’ll be all right.”

“He’d better be. If only F’nor – ” and Lessa broke off. “I sound like a wherry, don’t I?” She gave a sigh and smiled up at Robinton.

“Not a bit, my dear Lessa, I assure you. However, it’s not as if Benden were inadequately represented,” and he executed a little bow which, if she shrugged it off, at least made her laugh. “in fact,” he went on, “I’m a trifle relieved that F’lar isn’t here, railing at anything that keeps him from blotting out any Thread he happens to see in that contraption.”

“True enough.” And Robinton caught the edge to her voice. “I’m not sure . . .”

She didn’t finish her sentence and turned so swiftly to mark the landing of another dragon that Robinton was certain she was at odds with F’lar’s wishing to push a move against the Red Star.

Suddenly she stiffened, drawing in her breath sharply. “Meron! What does he think he’s doing here?”

“Easy, Lessa. I don’t like him around any better than you, but I’d rather keep him in sight, if you know what I mean.”

“But he’s got no influence on the other Lords . . .”

Robinton gave a harsh laugh. “My dear Weyrwoman, considering the influence he’s been exerting in other areas, he doesn’t need the Lords’ support.”

Robinton did wonder at the gall of the man, appearing in public anywhere a scant six days after he’d been involved in the deaths of two queen dragons.

The Lord Holder of Nabol strode insolently to the focal point of the gathering, his bronze fire lizard perched on his forearm, its wings extended as it fought to maintain its balance. The little creature began to hiss as it became aware of the antagonism directed at Meron.

“And this – this innocuous tube is the incredible instrument that will show us the Red Star?” Meron of Nabol asked scathingly.

“Don’t touch it, I beg of you.” Wansor jumped forward, intercepting Nabol’s hand.

“What did you say?” The lizard’s hiss was no less sibilantly menacing than Meron’s tone. The Lord’s thin features, contorted with indignation, took on an added malevolence from the glow lights.

Fandarel stepped out of the darkness to his craftsman’s side. “The instrument is positioned for the viewing. To move it would destroy the careful work of some hours.”

“If it is positioned for viewing, then let us view!” Nabol said and, after staring belligerently around the circle, stepped past Wansor. “Well? What do you do with this thing?”

Wansor glanced questioningly at the big Smith, who made a slight movement of his head, excusing him. Wansor gratefully stepped back and let Fandarel preside. With two gnarled fingers, the Smith delicately held the small round protuberance at the top of the smaller cylinder.

“This is the eyepiece. Put your best seeing eye to it,” he told Meron.

The lack of any courteous title was not lost on the Nabolese. Plainly he wanted to reprimand the Smith. Had Wansor spoken so, he would not have hesitated a second Robinton thought.

Meron’s lips slid into a sneer and, with a bit of a swagger, he took the final step to the distance-viewer. Bending forward slightly, he laid his eye to the proper place. And jerked his body back hastily, his face wearing a fleeting expression of shock and terror. He laughed uneasily and then took a second, longer look. Far too long a look to Robinton’s mind.

“If there is any lack of definition in the image, Lord Meron – ” Wansor began tentatively.

“Shut up!” Gesturing him away impatiently, Meron continued his deliberate monopoly of the instrument.

“That will be enough, Meron,” Groghe, Lord of Fort said as the others began to stir restlessly. “You’ve had more than your fair turn this round. Move away. Let others see.”

Meron stared insolently at Groghe for a moment and then looked back into the eyepiece.

“Very interesting. Very interesting,” he said, his tone oily with amusement.

“That is quite enough, Meron,” Lessa said, striding to the instrument. The man could not be allowed any privilege.

He regarded her as he might a body insect, coldly and mockingly.

“Enough of what – Weyrwoman?” And his tone made the title a vulgar epithet. In fact, his pose exuded such a lewd familiarity that Robinton found he was clenching his fists. He had an insane desire to wipe that look from Meron’s face and change the arrangement of the features in the process.

The Mastersmith, however, reacted more quickly. His two great hands secured Meron’s arms to his sides and, in a fluid movement, Fandarel picked the Nabolese Lord up, the man’s feet dangling a full dragonfoot above the rock, and carried him as far away from the Star Stones as the ledge permitted. Fandarel then set Meron down so hard that the man gave a startled exclamation of pain and staggered before he gained his balance. The little lizard screeched around his head.

“My lady,” the Mastersmith inclined his upper body toward Lessa and gestured with great courtesy for her to take her place.

Lessa had to stand on tiptoe to reach the eyepiece, silently wishing someone had taken into account that not all the viewers this evening were tall. The instant the image of the Red Star reached her brain, such trivial annoyance evaporated. There was the Red Star, seemingly no farther away than her arm could reach. It swam, a many-hued globe, like a child’s miggsy, in a lush black background. Odd whit-ish-pink masses must be clouds. Startling to think that the Red Star could possess clouds – like Pern. Where the cover was pierced, she could see grayish masses, a lively gray with glints and sparkles. The ends of the slightly ovoid planet were completely white, but devoid of the cloud cover. Like the great icecaps of northern regions of Pern. Darker masses punctuated the grays. Land? Or seas?

Involuntarily Lessa moved her head, to glance up at the round marks of redness in the night sky that was this child’s toy through the magic of the distance-viewer. Then, before anyone might think she’d relinquished the instrument she looked back through the eyepiece. Incredible. Unsettling. If the gray was land – how could they possibly rid it of Thread? If the darker masses were land . . . Disturbed, and suddenly all too willing that someone else be exposed to their ancient enemy at such close range, she stepped back.

Lord Groghe stepped forward importantly. “Sangel, if you please?”

How like the Fort Lord, Lessa thought, to play host when P’zar who was after all, acting Weyrleader at Fort Weyr, did not act quickly enough to exert his rights. Lessa wished fervently that F’lar had been able to attend this viewing. Well, perhaps P’zar was merely being diplomatic with the Fort Lord Holder. Still, Lord Groghe would need to be kept . . .

She retreated and knew it for a retreat – to Robinton. The Harper’s presence was always reassuring. He was eager to have his turn but resigned to waiting. Groghe naturally would give the other Lord Holders precedence over a Harper, even the Masterharper of Pern.

“I wish he’d go,” Lessa said, glancing sideways at Meron. The Nabolese had made no attempt to re-enter the group from which he had been so precipitously expelled. The offensive stubbornness of the man in remaining where he clearly was not welcome provided a counter irritant to worry and her renewed fear of the Red Star.

Why must it appear so – so innocent? Why did it have to have clouds? It ought to be different. How it ought to differ, Lessa couldn’t guess, but it ought to look – to look sinister. And it didn’t. That made it more fearful than ever.

“I don’t see anything,” Sangel of Boll was complaining.

“A moment, sir.” Wansor came forward and began adjusting a small knob. “Tell me when the view clarifies for you.”

“What am I supposed to be seeing?” Sangel demanded irritably. “Nothing there but a bright – ah! Oh!” Sangel backed away from the eyepiece as if Thread had burned him. But he was again in position before Groghe could call another Lord to his place.

Lessa felt somewhat relieved, and a little smug, at Sangel’s reaction. If the fearless Lords also got a taste of honest dread, perhaps . . .

“Why does it glow? Where does it get light? It’s dark here,” the Lord Holder of Boll babbled.

“It is the light of the sun, my Lord,” Fandarel replied, his deep, matter-of-fact voice reducing that miracle to common knowledge.

“How can that be?” Sangel protested. “The sun’s on the other side of us now. Any child knows that – ”

“Of course, but we are not obstructing the Star from that light. We are below it in the skies, if you will, so that the sun’s light reaches it directly.”

Sangel seemed likely to monopolize the viewer, too.

“That’s enough, Sangel,” Groghe said testily. “Let Oterel have a chance.”

“But I’ve barely looked, and there was trouble adjusting the mechanism,” Sangel complained. Between Oterel’s glare and Groghe trying to shoulder him out of the way, Sangel reluctantly stepped aside.

“Let me adjust the focus for you, Lord Oterel,” Wansor murmured politely.

“Yes, do. I’m not half blind like Sangol there, the Lord of Tillek said.

“Now, see here, Oterel . . .”

“Fascinating, isn’t it, Lord Sangel?” said Lessa, wondering what reaction the man’s blathering had concealed.

He harumphed irritably, but his eyes were restless and he frowned.

“Wouldn’t call it fascinating, but then I had barely a moment’s look.”

“We’ve an entire night, Lord Sangel.”

The man shivered, pulling his cloak around him though the night air was not more than mildly cool for spring.

“It’s nothing more than a child’s miggsy,” exclaimed the Lord of Tillek. “Fuzzy. Or is it supposed to be?” He glanced away from the eyepiece at Lessa.

“No, my Lord,” Wansor said. “It should be bright and clear, so you can see cloud formations.”

“How would you know?” Sangel asked testily.

“Wansor set the instrument up for this evening’s viewing,” Fandarel pointed out.

“Clouds?” Tillek asked. “Yes, I see them. But what’s the land? The dark stuff or the gray?”

“We don’t know yet,” Fandarel told him.

“Land masses don’t look that way as high as dragons can fly a man,” said P’zar the Fort Weyrleader, speaking for the first time.

“And objects seen at a far greater distance change even more,” Wansor said in the dry tone of someone who does know what he’s talking about. “For example, the very mountains of Fort which surround us change drastically if seen from Ruatha Heights or the plains of Crom.”

“Then all that dark stuff is land?” Lord Oterel had difficulty not being impressed. And discouraged, Lessa thought. Tillek’s Lord Holder must have been hoping to press the extermination of Thread on the Red Star.

“Of that we are not sure, replied Wansor with no lessening of the authority in his manner. Lessa approved more and more of Wansor. A man ought not be afraid to say he didn’t know. Nor a woman.

The Lord of Tillek did not want to leave the instrument. Almost as if he hoped, Lessa thought, that if he looked long enough, he’d discover a good argument for mounting an expedition.

Tillek finally responded to Nessel of Crom’s acid remarks and stepped aside.

“What do you think is the land, Sangel? Or did you really see anything?

“Of course I did. Saw the clouds plain as I see you right now.”

Oterel of Tillek snorted contemptuously. “Which doesn’t say much, considering the darkness.”

“I saw as much as you did, Oterel. Gray masses, and black masses and those clouds. A star having clouds! Doesn’t make sense. Pern has clouds!”

Hastily Lessa changed her laugh at the man’s indignation to a cough, but she caught the Harper’s amused look and wondered what his reaction to the Red Star would be. Would he be for, or against this expedition? And which attitude did she want him to express?

“Yes, Pern has clouds,” Oterel was saying, somewhat surprised at that observation. “And if Pern has clouds, and more water surface than land, then so does the Red Star . . .”

“You can’t be sure of that,” Sangel protested.

“And there’ll be a way of distinguishing land from water too,” Oterel went on, ignoring the Boll Lord. “Let me have another look, there, Nessel,” he said, pushing the Crom Lord out of the way.

“Now, wait a minute there, Tillek.” And Nessel put a proprietary hand on the instrument. As Tillek jostled him, the tripod tottered and the distance-viewer, on its hastily rigged swivel, assumed a new direction.

“Now you’ve done it,” Oterel cried. “I only wanted to see if you could distinguish the land from the water.”

Wansor tried to get between the two Lords so that he could adjust his precious instrument.

“I didn’t get my full turn,” Nessel complained, trying to keep physical possession of the distance-viewer.

“You’ll not see anything, Lord Nessel, if Wansor cannot have a chance to sight back on the Star,” Fandarel said, politely gesturing the Crom Lord out of the way.

“You re a damned wherry fool, Nessel,” Lord Groghe said, pulling him to one side and waving Wansor in.

“Tillek’s the fool.”

“I saw enough to know there’s not as much dark as there is that gray,” Oterel said, defensively. “Pern’s more water than land. So’s the Red Star.”

“From one look you can tell so much, Oterel?” Meron’s malicious drawl from the shadows distracted everyone.

Lessa moved pointedly aside as he strolled forward, stroking his bronze lizard possessively. It affronted Lessa that the little creature was humming with pleasure.

“It will take many observations, by many eyes,” Fandarel said in his bass rumble, “before we will be able to say what the Red Star looks like with any certitude. One point of similarity is not enough. Not at all.”

“Oh, indeed. Indeed.” Wansor seconded his Craftmaster, his eyes glued to the piece as he slowly swung it across the night sky.

“What’s taking you so long?” Nessel of Crom demanded irritably. “There’s the Star. We can all see it with our naked eyes.”

“And it is so easy to pick out the green pebble you drop on the sands of Igen at high noon?” asked Robinton.

“Ah. I’ve got it,” Wansor cried. Nessel jumped forward, reaching for the tube. He jerked his hand back, remembering what an unwise movement could do. With both hands conspicuously behind him, he looked again at the Red Star.

Nessel, however, did not remain long at the distance-viewer. When Oterel stepped forward, the Masterharper moved quicker.

“My turn now, I believe, since all the Lord Holders have had one sighting.”

“Only fair,” Sangel said loudly, glaring at Oterel.

Lessa watched the Masterharper closely, saw the tightening of his broad shoulders as he, too, felt the impact of that first sight of their ancient enemy. He did not remain long, or perhaps she was deceived, but he straightened slowly from the eyepiece and looked thoughtfully toward the Red Star in the dark heavens above them.

“Well, Harper?” asked Meron superciliously. “You’ve a glib word for every occasion.”

Robinton regarded the Nabolese for a longer moment than he had the Star.

“I think it wiser that we keep this distance between us.”

“Ha! I thought as much.” Meron was grinning with odious triumph.

“I wasn’t aware you thought,” Robinton remarked quietly.

“What do you mean, Meron?” Lessa asked in a dangerously edged voice, “you thought as much?”

“Why, it should be obvious,” and the Lord of Nabol had not tempered his attitude toward her much since his first insult.

“The Harper does as Benden Weyr decrees. And since Benden Weyr does not care to exterminate Thread at source . . .

“And how do you know that?” Lessa demanded coldly.

“And, Lord Nabol, on what grounds do you base your allegation that the Harper of Pern does as Benden Weyr decrees? For I most urgently suggest that you either prove such an accusation instantly or retract it.” Robinton’s hand was on his belt knife.

The bronze lizard on Meron’s arm began to hiss and extend his fragile wings in alarm. The Lord of Nabol contented himself with a knowing smirk as he made a show of soothing his lizard.

“Speak up, Meron,” Oterel demanded.

“But it’s so obvious. Surely you can all see that,” Meron replied with malicious affability and a feigned surprise at the obtuseness of the others. “He has a hopeless passion for – the Benden Weyrwoman.”

For a moment Lessa could only stare at the man in a stunned daze. It was true that she admired and respected Robinton. She was fond of him, she supposed. Always glad to see him and never bothering to disguise it but – Meron was mad. Trying to undermine the country’s faith in dragonmen with absurd, vicious rumors. First Kylara and now . . . And yet Kylara’s weakness, her promiscuity, the general attitude of the Hold and Craft toward the customs of the Weyrs made his accusation so plausible . . .

Robinton’s hearty guffaw startled her. And wiped the smile from Nabol’s face.

“Benden’s Weyrwoman has not half the attraction for me that Benden’s wine has!”

There was such intense relief in the faces around her that Lessa knew, in a sinking, sick way, that the Lord Holders had been halfway to believing Meron’s invidious accusation. If Robinton had not responded just as he had, if she had started to protest the accusation . . . She grinned, too, managed to chuckle because the Masterharper’s fondness for wine, for the Benden wines in particular, was such common knowledge, it was more plausible than Meron’s slander. Ridicule was a better defense than truth.

“Furthermore,” the Harper went on, “the Masterharper of Pern has no opinion, one way or another, about the Red Star – not even a verse. Because that – that – child’s miggsy scares him juiceless and makes him yearn for some of that Benden wine, right now, in limitless quantity.” Robinton had not the slightest trace of laughter in his voice now. “I’m too steeped in the history and lore of our beloved Pern, I’ve sung too many ballads about the evil of the Red Star to want to get any closer to it. Even that – ” and he pointed to the distance-viewer, “brings it far too near me. But the men who have to fight Thread day after day, Turn after Turn, can look upon it with less fearfulness than the poor Harper. And, Meron, Lord Holder of Nabol, you can wager every field and cot and hall upon your lands that the dragonmen of every Weyr would like to be quit of any obligation to keep your hide Threadfree even if it means wiping Thread from every squared length of that Star.” The vehemence in the Harper’s voice caused Meron to take a backward step, to clap a hand on the violently agitated fire lizard. “How can a you, any of you,” and the Harper’s opprobrium fell equally now on the other four Lords, “doubt that the Dragonriders wouldn’t be as relieved as you to see the end of their centuries of dedication to your safety. They don’t have to defend you from Thread. You, Groghe, Sangel, Nessel, Oterel, you all ought to realize that by now. You’ve had T’kul to deal with, and T’ron.

“You all know what Thread does to a man. And you know what happens when a dragon dies. Or must I remind you of that, too? Do you honestly believe that the Dragonriders wish to prolong such conditions, such occurrences? What do they get out of it? Not much! Not much! Are the scores they suffer worth a few bags of grain, or a blade from the Smith’s? Is a dragon’s death truly recompensed by a length of goods or a scrawny herdbeast?

“And if there have been instruments for man with his puny eyes to view that bauble in the sky, why do we still have Thread? If it’s just a question of finding coordinates and taking that jump? Could it be that it has been tried by Dragonriders before? And they failed because those gray masses we see so clearly are not water, or land, but uncountable Threads, seething and writhing, until the topmost can, by some mysterious agency, win free to plague us? Could it be because, although there are clouds, they do not consist of water vapor as Pern’s clouds, but something deadly, far more inimical to us than Thread? How do we know we will not find the bones of long-lost dragons and riders in the dark blots of the planet? There is so much we do not know that, yes, I think it wiser that we keep this distance between us. But I think the time for wisdom is now past and we must rely on the folly of the brave and hope that it will suffice them and us. For I do believe,” and the Harper turned slowly toward Lessa, “though my heart is heavy and I am scared soulless, that the dragonmen of Pern will go to the Red Star.”

“That is F’lar’s intention,” Lessa said in a strong, ringing voice, her head high, her shoulders straight. Unlike the Harper, she could not admit her fear, even to herself.

“Aye,” rumbled Fandarel, nodding his great head slowly up and down, “for he has enjoined me and Wansor to make many observations on the Red Star so that an expedition can be sent as soon as possible.”

“And how long must we wait until this expedition takes place?” Meron asked, as if the Harper’s words had never been spoken.

“Come now, man, how can you expect any one to give a date – a time?” asked Groghe.

“Ah, but Benden Weyr is so adept at giving times and dates and patterns, is it not?” Meron replied so unctuously that Lessa wanted to scratch his face.

“And they saved your profit, Nabol,” Oterel put in.

“Have you any idea, Weyrwoman?” Sangel asked Lessa in an anxious tone.

“I must complete the observations,” Wansor put in, nervously dithering. “It would be folly – madness – until we have seen the entire Red Star, and plot in the distinctive features of the various color masses. See how often the clouds cover it. Oh, there is much preliminary investigation to be done.

And then, some kind of protective . . .”

“I see,” Meron broke in.

Would the man never cease smiling? And yet, Lessa thought, his irony might work in their favor.

“It could be a lifelong project,” he went on.

“Not if I know F’lar,” the Harper said dryly. “I’ve recently entertained the notion that Benden’s Weyrleader takes these latest vagaries of our ancient scourge as a personal insult since we had rather thought we’d got them neatly slotted in time and place.”

There was such good-humored raillery in the Harper’s tone that Oterel of Tillek gave a snort. Lord Groghe looked more thoughtful, probably not quite recovered from F’lar’s rebuttal the other day.

“An insult to Benden?” asked Sangel, baffled. “But his time tables were accurate for Turns. Used them myself and never found them wrong until just recently.”

Meron stamped his foot, his affected pose gone.

“You’re all fools. Letting the Harper sweet-talk you into complacency. We’ll never see the end of Thread. Not in his lifetime or ours. And we’ll be paying tithes to shiftless Weyrs deferring to Dragonriders and their women as long as this planet circles the sun. And there’s not one of you great Lords, not one, with the courage to force this issue. We don’t need Dragonriders. We don’t need ‘em. We’ve fire lizards which eat Thread . . .”

“Then shall I inform T’bor of the High Reaches Weyr that his wings need no longer patrol Nabol? I’m certain he would be relieved,” Lessa asked in her lightest, sweetest voice.

The Nabolese Lord gave her a look of pure hatred. The fire lizard gathered itself into a hissing launch position. A single clear note from Ramoth all but deafened those on the heights. The fire lizard disappeared with a shriek. Strangling on his curses, Meron stamped down the lighted path to the landing, calling harshly for his dragon. The green appeared with such alacrity that Lessa was certain Ramoth had summoned him, even as she had warned the little lizard against attacking Lessa.

“You wouldn’t order T’bor to stop patrolling Nabol, would you, Weyrwoman?” asked Nessel, Lord of Crom. “After all, my lands march with his . . .”

“Lord Nessel,” Lessa began, intending to reassure him that she had no such authority in the first place and in the second . . . “Lord Nessel,” she repeated instead, smiling at him, “you notice that the Lord of Nabol did not request it, after all. Though,” and she sighed with dramatic dedication, “we have been sorely tempted to penalize him for his part in the death of the two dragon queens.” She gave Nessel a wan, brave smile. “But there are hundreds of innocent people on his lands, and many more about him, who cannot be permitted to suffer because of his – his – how shall I phrase it – his irrational behavior.”

“Which leads me to ask,” Groghe said, hastily clearing his throat, “what is being done with that – that Kylara woman?”

“Nothing,” Lessa said in a flat hard voice, trusting that would end the matter.

“Nothing?” Groghe was incensed. “She caused the deaths of two queens and you’re doing nothing . . .”

“Are the Lord Holders doing anything about Meron?” she asked, glancing sternly at the four present. There was a long silence. “I must return to Benden Weyr. The dawn and another day’s watch come all too soon there. We’re keeping Wansor and Fandarel from the observations that will make it possible for us to go to that Star.”

“Before they monopolize the thing, I’d like another look,” Oterel of Tillek said loudly. “My eyes are keen . . .”

Lessa was tired as she called Ramoth to her. She wanted to go back to Benden Weyr, not so much to sleep as to reassure herself about F’lar. Mnementh was with him, true, and he’d have reported any change in his rider’s condition . . .

And I’d’ve told you, Ramoth said, sounding a little hurt.

“Lessa,” the Harper’s low voice reached her, “are you in favor of that expedition?”

She looked up at him, his face lighted by the path glows. His expression was neutral and she wondered if he’d really meant what he’d said back at the Star Rocks. He dissembled so easily, and so often against his own inclination, that she sometimes wondered what his candid thoughts were.

“It scares me. It scares me because it seems so likely that someone must have tried. Sometime. It just doesn’t seem logical . . .”

“Is there any record that anyone, besides yourself, ever jumped so far between times?”

“No.” She had to admit it. “Not so far. But then, there hadn’t been such need.”

“And there’s no need now to take this other kind of a jump?”

“Don’t unsettle me more.” Lessa was unsure of what she felt or thought, or what anyone felt or thought, should or shouldn’t do. Then she saw the kind, worried expression of the Harper’s eyes and impulsively gripped his arm. “How can we know? How can we be sure?”

“How were you sure that the Question Song could be answered – by you?”

“And you’ve a new Question Song for me?”

“Questions, yes.” He gave her a smile as he covered her hand gently with his own. “Answer?” He shook his head and then stepped back as Ramoth alighted.

But his questions were as difficult to forget as the Question Song which had led her between times. When she returned to Benden, she found that F’lar’s skin was hot to the touch; he slept restlessly. So much so that, although Lessa willed herself to sleep beside him on the wide couch, she couldn’t succeed. Desperate for some surcease from her fears – for F’lar, of the intangible unknown ahead – she crept from their couch and into the weyr. Ramoth roused sleepily and arranged her front legs in a cradle. Lulled by the warm, musty comfort of her dragon, Lessa finally did sleep.

By the morning, F’lar was no better, querulous with his fever and worried about her report on the viewing.

“I can’t imagine what you expected me to see,” she said with some exasperation after she had patiently described for the fourth time what she had seen through the distance-viewer

“I expected,” and he paused significantly, “to find some – some characteristic for which the dragons could fly between.” He plucked at the bed fur, then pulled the recalcitrant forelock back from his eyes. “We have got to keep that promise to the Lord Holders.”

“Why? To prove Meron wrong?”

“No. To prove it is or is not possible to get rid of Thread permanently.” He scowled at her as if she should have known the answer.

“I think someone else must have tried to discover that before,” she said wearily. “And we still have Thread.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” he countered in such a savage tone that he began to cough, an exercise which painfully contracted the injured muscles across his waist.

Instantly Lessa was at his side, offering him distilled wine, sweetened and laced with fellis fruit juice.

“I want F’nor,” he said petulantly.

Lessa looked down at him for the coughing spasm had left him limp.

“If we can pry him away from Brekke.”

F’lar’s lips set in a thin line.

“You mean, only you, F’lar, Benden Weyrleader, can flout tradition?” she asked.

“That isn’t . . .”

“If it’s your pet project you’re worrying about, I had N’ton secure Thread . . .”

“N’ton?” F’lar’s eyes flew open in surprise.

“Yes. He’s a good lad and, from what I heard at Fort Weyr last night, very deft in being exactly where he is needed, unobtrusively.”

“And . . . ?”

“And? Well, when the next queen at Fort Weyr rises, he’ll undoubtedly take the Leadership. Which is what you intended, isn’t it?”

“I don’t mean that. I mean, the Thread.”

Lessa felt her guts turn over at the memory. “As you thought, the grubs rose to the surface the instant we put the Thread in. Very shortly there was no more Thread.”

F’lar’s eyes shone and he parted his lips in a triumphant smile.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

At that, Lessa jammed both fists against her waist and awarded him one of her sternest looks. “Because there have been a few other things to occupy my mind and time. This is not something we can discuss in open session, after all. Why, if even such loyal riders as . . .”

“What did N’ton say? Does he fully understand what I’m trying to do?”

Lessa eyed her Weyrmate thoughtfully. “Yes, he does, which is why I chose him to substitute for F’nor.”

That seemed to relieve F’lar, for he leaned back against the pillows with a deep sigh and closed his eyes. “He’s a good choice. For more than Fort Weyrleadership. He’d carry on. That’s what we need the most, Lessa. Men who think, who can carry on. That’s what happened before.” His eyes flew open, shadowed with a vague fear and a definite worry. “What time is it at Fort Weyr now?”

Lessa made a rapid calculation. “Dawn’s about four hours away.”

“Oh. I want N’ton here as soon as possible.”

“No wait a minute, F’lar, he’s a Fort rider . . .”

F’lar grabbed for her hand, pulling her down to him. “Don’t you see,” he demanded, his voice hoarse, his urgency frightening, “he’s got to know. Know everything I plan. Then, if something happens . . .”

Lessa stared at him, not comprehending. Then she was both furious with him for frightening her, irritated with his self-pity, and terrified that he might indeed be fatally ill.

“F’lar, get a grip on yourself, man,” she said, half-angry, half-teasing; he felt so hot.

He flung himself back down on the bed, tossing his head from side to side.

“This is what happened before. I know it. I don’t care what he says, get F’nor here.”

Lioth is coming and a green from Telgar, Mnementh announced.

Lessa took consolation from the fact that Mnementh didn’t seem the least bit distressed by F’lar’s ravings.

F’lar gave a startled cry, glaring accusingly at Lessa.

“Don’t look at me. I didn’t send for N’ton. It isn’t even dawn there yet.”

The green is a messenger and the man he bears is very excited, Mnementh reported, and he sounded mildly curious.

Ramoth, who had taken herself to the Hatching Ground after Lessa awakened, rumbled a challenge to bronze Lioth. N’ton came striding down the passageway, accompanied by Wansor, certainly the last person Lessa expected to see. The rotund little man’s face was flushed with excitement, his eyes sparkling despite red rims and bloodshot whites.

“Oh, Weyrlady, this is the most exciting news imaginable. Really exciting!” Wansor babbled, shaking the large leaf under her nose. She had an impression of circles. Then Wansor saw F’lar. All the excitement drained out of his face as he realized that the Weyrleader was a very sick man. “Sir, I had no idea – I wouldn’t have presumed . . .”

“Nonsense, man,” F’lar said irritably. “What brings you? What have you there? Let me see. You’ve found a coordinate for the dragons?”

Wansor seemed so uncertain about proceeding that Lessa took charge, guiding the man to the bed.

“What’s this leaf mean? Ah, this is Pern, and that is the Red Star, but what are these other circles you’re marked?”

“I’m not certain I know, my lady, but I discovered them while scanning the heavens last night – or this morning. The Red Star is not the only globe above us. There is this one, too, which became visible toward morning, didn’t it, N’ton?”

The young bronze rider nodded solemnly but there was a gleam of amusement in his blue eyes for the glassman’s manner of exposition. “And very faintly, but still visible as a sphere, is this third heavenly neighbor, to our northeast, low on the horizon. Then, directly south – it was N’ton’s notion to look all around – we found this larger globe with the most unusual cluster of objects moving with visible speed about it. Why, the skies around Pern are crowded!” Wansor’s dismay was so ludicrous that Lessa had to stifle her giggle.

F’lar took the leaf from the glassman and began to study it while Lessa pushed Wansor onto the stool by the sick man.

F’lar tapped the circles thoughtfully as though this tactile contact made them more real.

“And there are four stars in the skies?”

“Indeed there are many more, Weyrleader,” Wansor replied. “But only these,” and his stained forefinger pointed to the three newly discovered neighbors, “appear so far as globes in the distance-viewer. The others are merely bright points of light as stars have always been. One must assume then, that these three are also controlled by our sun, and pass around it, even as we do. For I do not see how they could escape the force that tethers us and the Red Star to the sun – a force we know to be tremendous . . .”

F’lar looked up from the rude sketches, a terrible expression on his face.

“If these are so near, then does Thread really come from the Red Star?”

“Oh dear, oh dear,” moaned Wansor softly and began caressing his fingertips with his thumbs in little fluttery gestures.

“Nonsense,” said Lessa so confidently that the three men glanced at her in surprise. “Let’s not make more complications than we already have. The ancients who knew enough to make that distance-viewer definitely stipulate the Red Star as the origin of Thread. If it were one of these others, they’d have said so. It is when the Red Star approaches Pern that we have Thread.”

“In that drawing in the Council Room at Fort Weyr there is a diagram of globes on circular routes,” N’ton said thoughtfully. “Only there are six circles and,” his eyes widened suddenly; he glanced quickly down at the sheet in Wansor’s hand, “. . . one of them, the next to the last, has clusters of smaller satellites.”

“Well, then, except that we’ve seen it with our own eyes, what’s all the worry?” demanded Lessa, grabbing up the klah pitcher and mugs to serve the newcomers. “We’ve only just discovered for ourselves what the ancients knew and inscribed on that wall.”

“Only now,” N’ton said softly, “we know what that design means.”

Lessa shot him a long look and nearly flooded Wansor’s cup.

“Indeed. The actual experience is the knowing, N’ton.”

“I gather you have both spent the night at that distance-viewer?” asked F’lar. When they nodded, he asked, “What of the Red Star? Did you see anything that could guide us in?”

“As to that. sir,” N’ton answered after a questioning glance at Wansor, “there is an odd-shaped protuberance which puts me in mind of the tip of Nerat, only pointed east instead of west – ” His voice trailed off and he gave a diffident shrug of his shoulders.

F’lar sighed and leaned back again, all the eagerness gone from his face.

“Insufficient detail, huh?”

“Last night,” N’ton added in hurried qualification. “I doubt the following nights will alter the view.”

“On the contrary, Weyrleader,” said Wansor, his eyes wide, “the Red Star turns on its own axis much as Pern does.”

“But it is still too far away to make out any details,” Lessa said firmly.

F’lar shot her an annoyed look. “If I could only see for myself . . .”

Wansor looked up brightly. “Well, now, you know, I had about figured out how to utilize the lenses from the magnifier. Of course, there’d be no such maneuverability as one can achieve with the ancient device, but the advantage is that I could set up those lenses on your own Star Stones. It’s rather interesting too, because if I put one lens in the Eye Rock and set the other on the Finger Rock, you will see – or, but then you won’t see, will you?” And the little man seemed to debate.

“Won’t see what?”

“Well, those rocks are situated to catch the Red Star only at winter solstice, so of course the angles are wrong for any other time of year. But then, I could – no,” Wansor’s face was puckered with his intense frown. Only his eyes moved, restlessly, as the myriad thoughts he was undoubtedly sifting were reflected briefly. “I will think about it. But I am sure that I can devise a means of your seeing the Red Star, Weyrleader, without moving from Benden.”

“You must be exhausted, Wansor,” Lessa said, before F’lar could ask another question.

“Oh, not to mention,” Wansor replied, blinking hard to focus on her.

“Enough to mention,” Lessa said firmly and took the cup from his hand. half-lifting him from the stool. “I think Master Wansor, that you had better sleep here at Benden a little while.”

“Oh, could I? I’d the most fearful notion that I might fall off the dragon between. But that couldn’t happen, could it? Oh, I can’t stay. I have the Craft’s dragon. Really, perhaps I’d just better . . .”

His voice trailed off as Lessa led him down the corridor.

“He was up all last night too,” N’ton said, grinning affectionately after Wansor.

“There is no way to go between to the Red Star?”

N’ton shook his head slowly. “Not that we could see tonight – last night. The same features of dark, reddish masses were turned toward us most of the time we watched. Just before we decided you should know about the other planets, I took a final look and that Nerat-like promontory had disappeared, leaving only the dullish gray-red coloration.”

“There must be some way to get to the Red Star.”

“I’m sure you’ll find it, sir, when you’re feeling better.”

F’lar grimaced, thinking that “unobtrusive” was an apt description of this young man. He had deftly expressed confidence in his superior, that only ill-health prevented immediate action, and that the ill-health was a passing thing.

“Since that’s the way matters stand in that direction, let us proceed in another. Lessa said that you procured Thread for us. Did you see how those swamp grubs dealt with Thread?”

N’ton nodded slowly, his eyes glittering.

“If we hadn’t had to cede the dissidents the continent, I’d’ve had a straight-flown Search discover the boundaries of the southern lands. We still don’t know its extent. Exploration was stopped on the west by the deserts, and on the east by the sea. But it can’t be just the swampy area that is infested with these grubs.” F’lar shook his head. He sounded querulous to himself. He took a breath, forcing himself to speak more slowly and therefore less emotionally. “There’s been Threadfall in the Southern Weyr for seven Turns and not a single burrow. The ground crews have never had to flame out anything. Now, even with the most careful, most experienced, sharpest-eyed riders, some Thread gets to the ground. T’bor insists there were never any burrows to be found anywhere after a Threadfall,” F’lar grimaced. “His wings are efficient and Threadfall is light in the south, but I wished I’d known.”

“And what would you have thought?” asked Lessa with her usual asperity as she rejoined them. “Nothing. Because until Thread started falling out of phase, and you had been at the swampfall, you’d never have correlated the information.”

She was right, of course, but N’ton didn’t have to look so torn between agreement with her and sympathy for him. Silently F’lar railed at this infuriating debility. He ought to be up and around, not forced to rely on the observations of others at a critical time like this.

“Sir, in the Turns I’ve been a dragonrider,” said N’ton, considering his words even as he spoke, “I’ve learned that nothing is done without purpose. I used to call my sire foolish to insist that one tanned leather in just one way, or stretched hide only a little at a time, well-soaked, but I’ve realized recently that there is an order, a reason, a rhyme for it.” He paused, but F’lar urged him to go on. “I’ve been most interested in the methods of the Mastersmith. That man thinks constantly.” The young man’s eyes shone with such intense admiration that F’lar grinned. I’m afraid I may be making a nuisance of myself but I learned so much from him. Enough to realize that there’re gaps in the knowledge that’s been transmitted down to us. Enough to understand that perhaps the southern continent was abandoned to let the grubs grow in strength there . . .”

“You mean, that if the ancients knew they couldn’t get to the Red Star,” Lessa exclaimed, “they developed the grubs to protect growing fields?”

“They developed the dragons from fire lizards, didn’t they? Why not grubs as ground crews?” And N’ton grinned at the whimsy of his thesis.

“That makes sense,” Lessa said, looking hopefully at F’lar. “Certainly that explains why the dragons haven’t jumped between to the Red Star. They didn’t need to. Protection was being provided.”

“Then why don’t we have grubs here in the north?” asked F’lar contentiously.

“Ha! Someone didn’t live long enough to transmit the news, or sow the grubs, or cultivate them, or something. Who can tell?” Lessa threw wide her arms. It was obvious to F’lar that she preferred this theory, subtle as she may have been in trying to block his desire to go to the Red Star.

He was willing to believe that the grubs were the answer, but the Red Star had to be visited. If only to reassure the Lord Holders that the dragonmen were trustworthy.

“We still don’t know if the grubs exist beyond the swamps,” F’lar reminded her.

“I don’t mind sneaking in and finding out,” N’ton said. “I know Southern very well, sir. Probably as well as anyone even F’nor. I’d like permission to go south and check.” When N’ton saw F’lar hesitate and Lessa frown, he went on hurriedly. “I can evade T’kul. That man’s so obvious, he’s pathetic.”

“All right, all right. N’ton. Go. It’s the truth I’ve no one else to send,” and F’lar tried not to feel bitter that F’nor was involved with a woman; he was a dragonrider first, wasn’t he? Then F’lar suppressed such uncharitable thoughts. Brekke had been a Weyrwoman; through no fault of hers (and F’lar still berated himself that he had not thought of keeping a closer check on Kylara’s activities – he’d been warned), Brekke was deprived of her dragon. If she found some comfort in F’nor’s presence, it was unforgivable to deprive her of his company. “Go, N’ton. Spot-check. And bring back samples of those grubs from every location. I wish Wansor had not dismantled that other contraption. We could look closely at the grubs. That Masterherder was a fool. The grubs might not be the same in every spot.”

“Grubs are grubs,” Lessa mumbled.

“Landbeasts raised in the mountains are different from landbeasts raised on the plains,” N’ton said. “Fellis trees grown south are larger with better fruit than Nerat’s best.”

“You know too much,” Lessa replied, grinning to take the sting from her words.

N’ton grinned. “I’m a bronze rider, Weyrwoman.”

“You’d best be off. No, wait. Are you sure Fort is not going to need you and Lioth for Thread?” F’lar asked, wanting to be rid of this very healthy youngster who only emphasized his illness.

“Not for a while, sir. It’s full night there still.”

That underscored his youthfulness and F’lar waved him out, trying to suppress jealousy with gratitude. The moment he’d gone, F’lar let out a sudden exasperated oath that brought Lessa, all consideration, to his side.

“I’ll get well, I’ll get well,” he fumed. He held her hand against his cheek, grateful, too, for the cool of her fingers as they curved to fit against his face.

“Of course you’ll get well. You’re never sick,” she murmured softly, stroking his forehead with her free hand. Then her voice took on a teasing note. “You’re just stupid. Otherwise you wouldn’t have gone between, let cold into a wound, and developed fever.”

F’lar, reassured as much by her caustic jibe as her cool and loving caresses, lay back and willed himself to sleep, to health.