Dragonsblood

FOURTEEN

Wake up! Come on, K’lior, get up-it’s time to fight Thread,” Cisca called from across the room, full of irrepressible enthusiasm.

K’lior rolled over and up. In truth, he hadn’t slept and even though he had gone to bed very early in the morning, he had found himself faking sleep so as not to upset Cisca.

“You were faking last night,” she said as she came across the room and kissed him.

K’lior groaned. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

“I couldn’t sleep either,” she admitted. “But it’s time: Thread falls over lower Nabol and upper Ruatha in less than two hours.” She gestured toward the bathing room. “Get a good bath, start the day right.”

K’lior smiled. If there was any mantra to Cisca’s high energy life, it was “get a good bath.” It was about the only time he could get her to slow down. Well, one of the only times, he corrected himself with a wicked grin.

“I heard that!” Cisca called from the bathing room.

“I didn’t say anything,” K’lior returned mildly.

Cisca reentered the room, grabbed his hand, and tugged him playfully toward the waiting bath. “I heard it anyway,” she said.

Wisely, K’lior said nothing. As he eased into the bath, he opened his mouth to ask for some breakfast but Cisca hushed him with a raised finger.

“I’ve already sent down for some klah and scones,” she informed him. “Eat light up here, so that you can eat a hearty breakfast with the riders.”

K’lior nodded: That had been his plan. He once again blessed his luck that his Rineth had managed to catch Melirth when she rose. He had been so afraid that one of the older, wiser dragons-and his rider-would have managed to outmaneuver the young bronze on his first mating flight. He and Cisca had already formed a strong attachment before her gold rose for the first time, and while he understood and accepted the ways of the Weyr, he was honest enough to admit that he did not want any other dragonman entwined with her.

“I know that look,” Cisca said, returning with a tray. She put it down beside the bathing pool and sat herself beside it. “You’re worrying about me again.”

K’lior could never understand how his thoughts could be so transparent, no matter how hard he worked to keep his face expressionless.

“Afraid I might let another ride Melirth, eh?” she teased, punching him lightly on his exposed shoulder. “Well,” she said consideringly, “I will, too, if you don’t behave.”

“I’ll do my best,” he promised somberly.

Cisca flicked water at him, grinning. “That’s the spirit! Now finish bathing so we can get downstairs and make a suitable appearance.”

“There are two hundred and twenty-two fighting dragons, excluding the three queens, and they will all fly!” D’gan shouted at V’gin and Lina. For the third time since the last Fall, they had asked him to keep the sick dragons behind. Now he took a breath and let his anger ride out with a deep sigh.

“We have only two hundred and twenty-two fighting dragons,” he repeated, ignoring the startled looks on the faces of the other dragonriders milling about the Lower Caverns. They should be used to his shouting by now, he reflected. They should know that his roar was always worse than his flame.

“I know that, D’gan,” Lina said soothingly. “Which is why I still think it might be best if the sick ones don’t fly.”

D’gan shook his head. “They fly. Every dragon that can go between will fly against Thread.” He looked pointedly at Norik, the Weyr harper, who had stood beside the other two to lend support. “Isn’t that the duty as written in the Teaching Songs?”

“It is, but the-”

“No buts!” D’gan replied hotly, his anger coming back. “Harper, I heard no ‘buts’ in the Teaching Songs. It doesn’t say ‘Dragonmen must fly when they feel like it.’ It says, ‘Dragonmen must fly when Thread is in the sky.’ ”

Norik bit his lip and heaved a deep sigh.

“Very well,” D’gan said, confident that this repeated revolt had been snuffed out. “Lina, order the wings to assemble above the Star Stones.” He raised his voice to be heard by the massed riders. “We ride against Thread over Telgar!”

As the riders mounted their dragons, D’gan turned back to Lina. “You’ll want to assemble the queen’s wing to come along on my command.”

Lina opened her mouth to try once more to dissuade him, but the set look on D’gan’s face quelled her. She closed her mouth again and nodded mutely.

Her Garoth was one of the dragons that had most recently started sneezing.

“You will be careful, won’t you, old man?” Dalia asked as she and C’rion glided down to the Bowl below them. She had chided C’rion for his decision to relocate the queens and senior wingleaders to the highest weyrs-it ensured that all their meals were either in the Kitchen or cold-but she couldn’t fault his logic. If the sickness was spread from dragon to dragon, and that certainly seemed so, then the dragons’ sneezing was the surest way it spread. So moving the fit dragons to the highest part of the weyr-above the sneezers-seemed a good precaution.

“I’ll be careful,” C’rion promised. Not, he reflected, that being careful was enough these days.

The sickness had more than decimated the Weyr. When he had seen the Red Star bracket the Eye Rock at Fort Weyr, he could count on three hundred and thirty-three fighting dragons. Now he would be taking only one hundred and seventy-six to fight Thread at South Nerat.

Fortunately, the path of the Thread would only graze South Nerat this Fall, and C’rion hoped that his new tactics-and the short Fall-would give the Weyr the thrill of success without the numbing pain of lost dragons.

“You’ll keep an eye on things around here?” C’rion asked.

Dalia grimaced. “I’d rather be going with you,” she admitted. “You still haven’t convinced me that your tactics can make up for missing the queens’ wing.”

C’rion shrugged. “But I can’t have our queens flying underneath any sick dragons.”

“I thought the sick dragons were staying behind?” Dalia asked, brows raised.

“The ones we know about,” C’rion corrected. “Oh, the Wingleaders and the riders themselves understand the risks, but that’s not to say that a dragon who feels fine right now won’t be coughing and sneezing when we arrive over South Nerat.”

Dalia nodded. He was right-the onset of the symptoms was that quick. Why, it had seemed like only minutes had passed between Carth’s first sneeze and the moment Gatrial’s anguished cry was echoed by the keening of the Weyr’s dragons at yet another loss.

In the three days since the last Fall, they had lost twenty-seven dragons to the sickness. Dalia shut her eyes against the painful memory.

It will be all right, Bidenth soothed her. Dalia nodded to herself. A new healer would be sent from the Harper Hall. It might be awhile, because no one would risk sending a dragon to the Harper Hall, so the poor lad would have to travel over land and sea when the sky was Thread free. In the meantime, they would make do.

“Good morning, my lady!” a young woman called cheerfully up from the Bowl below.

Dalia smothered her retort, instead alighting swiftly from Bidenth and striding over to the smiling holder girl.

“Jassi,” she said with a touch of acerbity, “please just call me by my name.”

Jassi dipped a curtsy and bowed her head. “I’m sorry my-Dalia-that takes some getting used to.”

Dalia shook her head but couldn’t help smiling at the holder girl. Jassi had arrived in response to C’rion’s pleading request for anyone who knew anything about Healing.

“I’ve really only dealt with the cuts and scrapes we got at my father’s inn,” Jassi had confessed immediately upon arrival. She ticked off the injuries she’d tended on her fingers. “The odd broken bone, deep puncture, a collapsed lung once, and-”

Dalia had hugged her. “Please, just see what you can do,” she had begged. “If it doesn’t work out, no harm done.”

“I’ll try, my lady,” Jassi had replied, very much on her best manners.

She had nearly bolted when their first charge proved to be a dragon, but Dalia had calmed her down and introduced her to the dragon, who was reeling in pain from a badly scored wing.

After the first day, Dalia couldn’t imagine being without Jassi. The girl had recovered from her initial awkwardness and slipped easily into the role of authority so completely that Dalia suspected the girl had been a major force in the now-closed inn. Jassi had confessed that she felt claustrophobic in the tight society and narrow corridors of Ista Hold.

Now, after nearly a sevenday at the Weyr, Jassi had found herself thoroughly at home and, except for a tendency to address all the dragonriders as “my lord” or “my lady,” had completely adjusted to Weyr life. In fact, Dalia had decided to coax Jassi onto the Hatching Grounds the next time there was a queen egg.

The girl’s cheerfulness was irrepressible, even in the worst of times. Dalia’s eyes watered at the memories of all the hands she had seen Jassi hold while rider lost dragon to the sickness.

“It’s much worse for them,” Jassi had explained when Dalia had carefully steered one of their conversations to the topic. “So I try to keep a good face on it and do what I can.”

And that, Dalia supposed, was all that could be expected of anyone in these terrible times. To do what they could.

High over the west branch of the Telgar river, two hundred and thirty-one dragons burst into the sky, perfectly arrayed in a three-layer arrow formation.

“Right, we’re here, where’s the Thread?” P’dor shouted from his position behind K’lior. K’lior smiled at his wingsecond’s jauntiness. He looked up, then looked around.

The sight of his Weyr arrayed behind him made him swell with pride. All the training was going to pay off, he was sure. He looked at the skies behind him. Thread. His bronze dragon, Rineth, bugled as he sensed K’lior’s thrill of alarm.

“Where’s Telgar?” he wondered aloud. To Rineth he said, Have the lower flight remain here and order the other two flights to turn around to face the Thread.

In an awkward flurry the Weyr rearranged itself. Rineth turned back to K’lior for firestone, and then suddenly there was Thread, raining down on them and no one from Telgar in sight.

It was time to fly.

Time to flame.

Time to fight.

Thread would be over Nerat for less than an hour, C’rion reminded himself as he and Nidanth emerged into the morning sunlight. He glanced around, satisfied that the wings were organizing themselves quickly. It was an awkward Fall to fight, just grazing Nerat before sheering back out to sea. So, while it was a short flight, it had its own unique perils. Thread had been falling on the sea for some time already, and the pattern of the Fall had been established-except that the morning breeze had already started, with great thermals roiling the Thread and clumping it unpredictably.

C’rion was glad that it was a short Fall. He considered rearranging the Weyr’s dragons to fight from the shore, rather than pick up the Fall as it came in from the sea and follow it.

There! He could see them, flecks of white against the high clouds. He ordered Nidanth to spread the news. The bronze complied, then turned his massive head back for firestone. C’rion fed it to him, all the while scanning the skies above him, trying to time when to climb up to fight the falling Thread.

J’lantir, arrayed in the wing behind him, saw the menacing clump of Thread as it whirled down and streamed onto C’rion and Nidanth from behind. Before he could even shout a warning, Thread had scoured C’rion’s back bare and had torn great gaps in Nidanth’s inner wings and back. The pair vanished between. J’lantir counted slowly to himself, his eyes scanning the skies around him.

When he reached five, he swallowed hard and said to Lolanth, Tell Pineth to have M’kir take their wing to the rear. Tell the rest of our wing to close up to the front.

Tears streamed down J’lantir’s face as Lolanth relayed the orders and sped up to bring the wing forward to the Thread. And then there was Thread to fight, to flame, to char from the skies.

Grimly, J’lantir did his duty for his Weyr and planet.

Kindan was worried when he didn’t see Lorana come to dinner. They had worked all day together, part of the time in the Records Room, and part of the time helping K’tan tend to the injured dragons and riders-as well as the sick dragons.

Lorana had been cheerful in the early morning, but as the day wore on, and dragons from Fort, Telgar, and Ista Weyrs were lost fighting Thread, her face took on a sickly pallor. Kindan could see her wince visibly with each new loss.

“I’m all right,” she had told him when he’d asked her about it.

Shortly before the evening meal, M’tal came searching for her in the Records Room.

“I just heard from Lolanth,” he began, his eyes troubled.

“I heard,” Lorana said in a flat voice.

“Did you-” M’tal cut himself short. “I was wondering if perhaps you’d felt Nidanth’s passing.”

Lorana shook her head sadly. “There were so many,” she said hoarsely, her voice barely audible. “Less than the first Fall, but still so many.”

M’tal nodded slowly. “C’rion was right, then, to pity you.”

Lorana met his eyes. “I’ll survive,” she said firmly. “It’s hard, but I have Arith to comfort me.”

“If there’s anything you need,” M’tal said, “or anything I or Salina can do to help…”

“Thank you,” Lorana said, forcing a smile. “We’ll manage, Arith and I.”

But now, as Kindan’s eyes scanned the crowded tables, he wondered. With a sigh, he left and headed up to the Records Room. Perhaps she had decided to eat there instead.

He was halfway up the steps when Arith called, Lorana needs the harper.

The dragon’s message made him jump, but as soon as he recovered, he was running down the stairs and across the Bowl to Lorana’s quarters.

Kindan slowed as he neared Lorana’s rooms, halting just before the door, catching his breath and listening. Through the curtain, he heard the soft sounds of sobbing.

“Lorana?” he called. “May I come in?”

“Yes.”

Kindan pushed the curtain aside. He noticed that the tapestries were covered with drawings pinned to them. They were drawings of dragons and riders. Some he recognized as dragons from the Weyr-all dragons lost to Thread or the sickness. He guessed the other dragons were those lost from other Weyrs, although he couldn’t imagine how Lorana knew enough to draw them. As he peered closer, he saw that she didn’t-the characteristic features of a dragon’s face, the shape of its eye ridges, the spacing of the snout, the shape and number of teeth were all left as nebulous, shadowy hints. But he could plainly see their riding harness, the faces of their grief-stricken riders-and Kindan was struck by the amount of pain that he saw in those faces, pain that he knew Lorana must have felt directly.

He noticed the light reflected off Arith’s whirling eyes as the dragon looked in worriedly from her lair toward her rider.

As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw Lorana lying in her bed. He went over and sat on the edge. She was lying on her stomach, face in her pillow, her upper arms and back uncovered. For a moment he sat there, silent. He started to put a hand on her shoulder, paused, and pulled it back.

“Do you have any lotion?” he asked.

“What?” Lorana turned over to face him. In the dim light, Kindan could see her blotchy face and the streaks where tears had washed down her face. He had seen people like this before, worn out with pain, bodies tight with grief and sorrow.

“Lotion,” Kindan repeated. “Or scented oil?”

“There’s some oil by the bath,” she answered, sounding quizzical.

Kindan went to the bathing room, found the oil and returned. He placed it close to the bed.

He took some oil into his hands and rubbed it until it was warm. Then he leaned forward and gently began to massage the tight muscles of her neck.

“Turn over, I need to do your hands,” he ordered her softly. He could sense her puzzled look. “You can’t have done all those drawings without cramping your hands,” he explained. “Turn over.”

He gathered more lotion and, gently grasping her left hand in his right, he stroked over it with the oil, teasing out the kinks in her fingers and working the tight muscle at the base of her thumb. Slowly he worked up her arm, relieving tension in the forearm, biceps, and shoulder.

Lorana let out a deep sigh of contentment.

Kindan allowed himself a small smile, then returned to his work. He worked her other shoulder and arm.

He spent a great deal of time working the kinks out of the arch of her foot and her heel, knowing how much tension got wound into the balls of the feet. He repeated his efforts on the other leg.

At last Kindan let out a deep breath and looked down at Lorana, lying relaxed beneath him. Quietly he stood up and tiptoed out of the room.

In the morning, Lorana awoke suddenly with a burning passion, fierce and nearly frightening in its intensity.

Kindan ducked his head in, eyes snapping with emotion. “Tullea’s Minith has blooded her kills.”

“She will mate soon,” Lorana said, stretching her senses and feeling the young queen’s passion. She looked up at Kindan, her eyes warm but also challenging. “Stay with me?”

Kindan gave her a surprised, half-hoping look. Lorana sat up in her bed and patted it.

“I’ve never been near a dragon’s mating flight,” she explained.

Kindan moved to her and, at her beckoning, sat on the bed beside her.

“The emotions from dragons mating are very strong,” he said, his voice low.

At that moment, Lorana gasped as she felt Minith being caught in her mating flight and-

When she could speak again, she leaned up and captured Kindan’s mouth with hers, kissing him deeply.

Kindan responded by clutching her more tightly, returning her kiss as ardently as she had given it. Like dragons entwined, they drew together, burning with a passion born on dragonwings.

Afterward, they broke apart, still touching each other loosely. Lorana looked at him as he lay beside her and traced the line of his jaw lovingly. Kindan turned his head, caught her hand, kissed it, and released it again, all with a gentle smile.

“Who was it?” he asked, referring to the mating flight.

“B’nik’s Caranth flew her,” Lorana told him immediately. She had known the dragon’s touch instantly.

Kindan sighed and Lorana heard a world of unspoken thoughts in that sigh. Things would change at Benden Weyr. She reached for his hand, grabbed it, brought it to her lips, and kissed it.

Such a union of disparates, K’tan thought to himself as he watched Lorana and Kindan enter the Main Cavern later that evening, not too far from Tullea and B’nik. M’tal and Salina were already seated.

Tullea walked with the obvious soreness of a woman recovering from her dragon’s mating. B’nik looked equally uncomfortable.

Lorana, on the other hand, moved through her pain, a smile close to her lips, her hand entwined in Kindan’s, projecting the sense that the pain served a purpose that she accepted and welcomed.

She and the harper made a good pair, he reflected, and he was glad that some were happy with the day’s events.

The same could not be said from the looks of Tullea and B’nik. They had been lovers, and passionately so, for many Turns, so K’tan would have expected Minith’s mating to be a great pleasure to them. But from Tullea’s red-rimmed eyes and the way she winced as she strode, he got the impression that it had not been so.

The mating flight had taken place early in the morning, just after Minith awoke. K’tan could not remember how many bronze riders had gathered around Tullea as the enraged queen started blooding her kills. He remembered B’nik screaming at Tullea not to let her gorge, and Tullea looking back at him with a smirk in her eyes. Whether it was from Tullea’s contrariness or her inability to control her dragon, Minith managed to eat two whole herdbeasts before a bellow from Caranth and more loud shouts from B’nik got her under control. She blooded only two more kills before leaping into the air, chased by the lusty bronzes.

The mating flight had not been that long. Indeed, all the bronzes were still flying strongly when Minith dove into them and was snared by Caranth. K’tan sighed, shaking his head at the memory. A short mating flight, gorging on her food-those spoke of a small clutch and more problems for the Weyr with a Weyrwoman who would not control her dragon.

M’tal and Salina rose as they caught sight of Tullea and B’nik. The new Weyrwoman noticed their movement but deliberately turned toward a different table. Obviously not accepting the affront, M’tal gestured to Salina and they walked over to the table Tullea had chosen.

“Congratulations Weyrwoman, Weyrleader on your mating flight,” M’tal began the traditional greeting. “May your hatchlings be many.”

Tullea glowered at him. B’nik looked pained at that part of the traditional salutation but nodded politely to M’tal and Salina.

“I want you out of B’nik’s quarters by tomorrow,” Tullea told M’tal. “The Weyrleader needs to be close to the Records Room.” She glanced at Kindan and Lorana, who had stopped in their tracks. “Lorana, you and Kindan will conduct your research elsewhere.”

It was an obvious taunt. Lorana deflected it with a polite nod. “If you wish, we could continue our research in my quarters.”

Tullea sniffed. “I don’t care where, as long as it’s not in the Records Room.” A new thought entered her mind and she turned to M’tal, a sly smile on her face. “As Weyrwoman, it is my duty to arrange assignment of quarters,” she declared. “I think, Wingleader M’tal, that your wing would be best up on the highest level. You may move there immediately. B’nik’s wing will occupy the quarters yours vacates.”

M’tal accepted the order with a nod and a smile. “Thank you, Weyrwoman,” he said. “I have heard it said that the higher levels are more likely to be free of the sickness.”

Tullea’s eyes widened in shock, then narrowed again as she decided he was toying with her.

“Weyrleader, your wing may begin moving tomorrow,” she told B’nik with a purr.

B’nik looked nonplussed. He told M’tal, “My men won’t be ready by then. Please ask yours to move at their convenience.”

“Yes, Weyrleader,” M’tal replied. He gestured to Salina and they departed, leaving Tullea no happier than she had been.

The night air was broken by the sound of a dragon coughing. Startled looks went around the Cavern as they tried to identify the dragon, only to change to looks of anguish as everyone realized that yet another dragon had fallen ill. B’nik bent his head toward Tullea, engaging her in a rapid conversation.

M’tal’s wing had moved to the upper levels before noon the next day, although they were left with a lot of cleaning still to do.

“It’s our due for having it so easy in the training,” he teased them. They responded in kind, but there was a marked strain in their humor.

Lorana and Kindan decided to move their research to the harper’s quarters, as they were on the Lower Caverns and closer to the Records Room than Lorana’s rooms. They took only as many Records as they felt they could sort through in a sevenday. The smaller piles gave them a false sense that the task would be easier.

K’tan stopped in to check on them late in the afternoon.

“I went to the weyrwomen’s quarters first, thinking you’d be there,” he told them as he ducked inside the doorway. He glanced around Kindan’s cozy rooms and nodded approvingly. “This makes more sense.”

“Well, it’s really harper’s work anyway,” Kindan said by way of agreement. “How are the sick ones doing?”

K’tan grimaced, shaking his head. “Worse. And more of them,” he replied.

Kindan turned back to the piles of Records. “Then I guess we’d better get to work.”

“We won’t find anything here,” Lorana protested, jumping out of her seat in frustration. “We need to go to Fort.”

K’tan looked at her questioningly.

“That’s where the oldest Records are,” she explained. “And that’s where every Weyrleader has gone when they couldn’t find an answer in their own Records.”

“M’tal said that you can’t go,” Kindan told her reprovingly.

“M’tal’s not the Weyrleader anymore,” Lorana shot back rebelliously.

“Well, Arith’s too young to take you,” Kindan continued. “So how were you planning on getting there?”

“I could take you.” Startled, they turned to see B’nik standing in the doorway. “I need to see K’lior, anyway.”

“But-the sickness,” Kindan protested.

“They have it at Fort, as well,” B’nik said. “K’lior’s agreed.” He turned his attention to Lorana. “When would you be ready to go?”

“I’d like to come also,” Kindan said.

B’nik shook his head. “I need you and K’tan to stay here, caring for the sick and injured.”

Lorana pulled out a slate and stylus. “When can we go?”

“Whenever you’re ready,” he replied. “I believe that Tullea and Minith are still sleeping,” he added disingenuously.

“Very well, then,” Lorana responded pertly. She glanced back at the others and then to the new Weyrleader. “Arith still sleeps, but she’ll be hungry in another hour or two.”

B’nik nodded thoughtfully. “Then we’ll be certain to return before she needs to feed, no matter how long we’re gone,” he told her.

“Is it such a wise idea to time it, Weyrleader, just after the mating flight?” K’tan asked solicitously. He knew how tiring going between times was on both rider and dragon-and the mating flight had been no less exhausting.

“Caranth is up for it,” B’nik declared. “And I may need the practice,” he added ambiguously. He gestured to Lorana. “Weyrwoman?”

As they were heading out of sight, Kindan turned to K’tan. “Do you think you could hold things down without me?”

K’tan thought it over and shrugged. “Some of the weyrfolk will help, I’m sure.”

“Thanks,” Kindan said, racing after the others.

“B’nik!” Kindan called when he caught sight of the new Weyrleader. B’nik paused, turning back to watch Kindan as he raced up to them.

“I think it’d be a good idea if I stopped in at the Harper Hall. Could Caranth carry another?” Kindan asked.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” B’nik said, after a moment’s consideration. “I’d planned to bring the Masterharper up to date on our affairs-you could fill him in for me. That will save time.”

He nodded toward the Bowl. “Come along, by all means. Caranth can carry three.”

Lorana craned her neck over B’nik’s shoulders as they spiraled down into Fort Weyr’s Bowl. The watch dragon’s bugle had already challenged them, and Lorana had heard Caranth’s response and the watch dragon’s wary greeting.

Kindan had been left at the Harper Hall, where B’nik had been congratulated and had exchanged brief pleasantries with Masterharper Zist.

“We’re expected,” B’nik relayed unnecessarily but politely to Lorana. The Weyrleader’s attitude during the whole trip puzzled and pleased Lorana, who had been used to his silent obsequiousness with Tullea. The man was displaying depths she had not seen before.

Caranth alighted lightly and then, after dropping off rider and passenger, took to the air again to seek a place on the Weyr heights.

“Fort Weyr sees the sun six hours after we do at Benden,” B’nik commented as he examined the early morning sun rising over them.

“Won’t we still have to time it on our return?” Lorana asked.

“Indeed we will,” B’nik told her. “Have you ever gone between times?”

“Once with J’trel,” she told him.

“Were you very tired afterward?”

Lorana nodded.

“That is the price of going between times,” B’nik said. “If it weren’t for our pressing need, I’d never risk it.” He looked as if he were ready to say more but decided against it. Instead, he scanned the area and noticed a group approaching them. “Ah, here we are.”

The man in the center of the group was younger than B’nik, handsome and wiry. His long hair was tied at the back of his neck, a style uncommon among dragonriders, but the hair was such a honey-gold and so wavy that Lorana could well imagine the attraction it would hold for some women. Her eye moved to the woman beside him. Cisca was even taller than her Weyrleader, a brown-eyed, brown-haired beauty with a strong, cheerful face. She was much more buxom than Lorana, but she carried herself proudly, her stride neither apologetic nor flaunting.

“Weyrleader B’nik, welcome to Fort Weyr!” K’lior called as he approached the group. Cisca added a welcoming smile of her own.

“Thank you,” B’nik replied. “I wish I were coming at a more pleasant time…”

“As do we all,” Cisca agreed, her lovely features creasing into a frown. “How bad is it at Benden?”

B’nik looked at Lorana.

“There are twenty sick dragons at the Weyr,” Lorana told them. “Three times that number have already gone between.”

K’lior and Cisca exchanged looks. The Weyrwoman spoke. “We have nearly sixty sick dragons and have lost over forty.”

“I’ll be lucky to have five wings able to fight when Thread comes again,” K’lior admitted.

B’nik nodded. “We still have seven wings of able dragons,” he said. He saw K’lior’s look of distress and hastily added, “But I don’t know how long that will last-and we started with more dragons than you.”

“What can we do to help?” Cisca asked, looking at Lorana. She frowned. “Are you Tullea?”

“This is Lorana, rider of Arith. Minith rose yesterday,” B’nik said.

“Congratulations!” K’lior said, his face brightening.

“A good flight?” Cisca added, catching K’lior’s hand in hers proprietarily.

B’nik found himself grinning at their obvious affection. “Unexpected,” he admitted. “I had not expected to be Weyrleader today.”

“Well, I can see you’ve already settled in the role,” Cisca pronounced approvingly.

B’nik’s grin broadened.

“I can get nothing from High Reaches Weyr,” Masterharper Zist said to Kindan as he completed his summary.

Kindan quirked an eyebrow. “Is there any reason?”

“The only message I got from G’relly was cryptic,” Zist admitted. “The message was ‘wait.’ ”

“That doesn’t seem too cryptic,” Kindan commented.

“Not at the time,” Zist agreed. “But it’s been nearly a fortnight since then and I’ve heard nothing further.”

Kindan frowned. “What do we know from the other Weyrs, then?”

Masterharper Zist gestured to the Masterhealer.

Masterhealer Perigar sighed. “I cannot-my specialty is humans,” he temporized.

“Surely a disease is a disease no matter whether it affects animals or humans?” Voice craftmaster Nonala asked in exasperation.

“Even if it were so,” Perigar responded, “I don’t have enough information to begin to guess-”

“I do,” Verilan, the Master Archivist, interrupted gruffly. The others all turned to him. “I don’t know anything about disease, but I can read and cipher.”

He pushed a slate across the table. “There are the numbers of dragons sick in all the Weyrs we know of,” he said, tapping one line of numbers.

“And there are the numbers of dragons lost between to this illness.” He tapped another column, then pointed to a third. “And there’s the number of injured from each Fall.”

“What’s this tell us?” Masterharper Zist asked.

“The sickness has accelerated the losses of dragons,” Verilan said. He raised a hand as the others started to protest the obviousness of his statement.

“This sickness has accelerated it so much that the Weyrs are losing half their fighting strength each time they fight Thread.” He raised his hand higher to forestall further protests.

“I know, I know, the numbers are not exact. But the pattern is there,” he pronounced. He gave a deep sigh and continued. “And, given that a Weyr needs at least one Flight-three full wings-of dragons to fly successfully against Thread…” He shook his head. “Given that, the Weyrs will be incapable of fighting Thread after the next two Falls.”

“What?” The others were out of their chairs, grabbing at the slate, trying to examine it.

Kindan sat back first, then Masterharper Zist. They ignored the others and the shouting. They had each seen enough of Verilan’s calculations to know that the Master Archivist was right.

Soon-in the next two Falls or less-there would not be enough dragons to protect Pern from Thread.

“Any luck?” B’nik asked cheerfully, sliding a platter of cheeses in Lorana’s direction. She and Cisca looked up from the stacks of Records they had placed in front of them. Lorana shook her head mutely and Cisca looked back down quickly to her reading.

“When did you last eat?” B’nik asked. Lorana’s face took on a puzzled look and before she could respond, he grinned.

“I thought so,” he said. “It’s the first question I ask Tullea, too.” He tapped the platter. “Eat. Now. That’s an order from your Weyrleader.”

Lorana quirked her lips, dropped her Record, and dragged a plate in front of her. B’nik started to pile some cheese and crackers on it for her. With a gesture, he inquired if Fort’s Weyrwoman wanted any.

“I think I’d better check on K’lior,” Cisca said. She rose quickly but turned back to tell Lorana, “I’ll be back.”

“Thanks,” Lorana told her.

“This,” Cisca gestured to the Records spread in front of them, “is for all of us.”

“Tell me what to look for,” B’nik said as Lorana spread soft cheese on her cracker, feeling guilty to be eating while the Weyrleader was working.

“Anything that might be useful,” she told him. “Mention of illness, Records of other Weyrleaders consulting the Records, that sort of thing.”

B’nik nodded but his face showed confusion. Lorana shrugged. “We really don’t know what we’re looking for,” she told him. “Dragons don’t get sick.”

“Except now.”

They continued their work silently. Sometime later, K’lior and Cisca joined them, wordlessly pulling more stacks of Records and seating themselves at Fort Weyr’s Records Room table.

It got darker. Glows were brought by the Fort Weyr Headwoman.

Finally, B’nik pushed himself back from his work, sitting upright. Lorana looked at him, expecting him to call it a day-and she was quite ready to end another fruitless search.

But as he drew breath to speak, Cisca, who had been tearing through the Records so fast Lorana wondered how she could read them, sat upright with a gasp of surprise.

“I think I’ve got something,” she told the others. She had a puzzled expression on her face. She tapped a section on the Record she was examining.

“This Record says that there was a special place built just at the beginning of the First Interval.” Cisca immediately had their undivided attention. “There was much argument about it but finally M’hall-” She nodded at B’nik’s surprised expression. “-prevailed and it was built at-”

“Benden Weyr,” B’nik finished.

“… so we have found nothing, in our Records or those of the Healercraft, to alter this conclusion?” Masterharper Zist asked, recapping the end of several hours’ worth of intense research and debating.

“I have found nothing in the Archives,” Master Archivist Verilan admitted. He cast a glance around the room, adding, “And I stand by my projections.”

Perigar shook his head ruefully at the Archivist and threw up his hands in resignation. Masterharper Zist cocked an eyebrow at him, awaiting an answer.

“As I’ve said before, I’m not an animal healer. Perhaps the Masterherdsman might give a different answer, but my craft knows nothing that will help the dragons,” the Masterhealer said finally.

The others all sat back from the table, either throwing up their hands or shaking their heads sadly. Except Kelsa. Zist gave her an inquiring look.

“I hesitate to bring this up,” she said. “It’s only a snippet.”

“Anything,” Kindan said desperately.

“I found part of a song, an ancient song,” she said. “It has a sour melody-even if it is haunting-which is doubtless why no one sings it these days, and I’ve only found a verse or two…” she cast a meaningful glance at Kindan. “It was poorly copied…”

Kindan gasped in horror and recognition. Then he drew a breath and sang:

“But that hasn’t happened,” Verilan protested. “There have been no thousand voices-”

Kindan held up a hand for silence, closing his eyes in concentration. He continued:

Outside, a dragon appeared from between unnoticed as Kindan continued:

He paused, then opened his eyes, shaking his head. “That’s all I can remember.”

“Has there been a healer lass come to Benden Weyr?” Perigar asked of everyone, looking particularly to Kindan.

“Lorana,” Kindan said instantly, certain of his conviction.

“But she’s not a healer,” Perigar protested. His continued protests were halted by Masterharper Zist’s upraised hand. The Masterharper tilted his head toward the corridor outside. Steps were running toward them.

A figure burst through the doorway.

“Kindan, come quick! Arith is sick,” Lorana cried through her tears.