Dragonsblood

ELEVEN

And you’re sure, D’nal, that the watch dragon has her orders right this time?” D’gan sneered. They were up high at the top of Telgar Weyr, where the watch dragon was posted.

“Yes, I’m sure,” D’nal, the object of Weyrleader D’gan’s derision, replied. “No more fire-lizards will come into the Bowl.”

“No!” D’gan shouted. “No more fire-lizards are to come anywhere near the Weyr!”

D’nal nodded, his fists clenched tightly to his side. D’gan stared at him, jaw clenched, until the shorter rider took a backward step involuntarily.

“How will the holders communicate with us if they can’t send their fire-lizards?” L’rat, leader of the second wing at Telgar, asked.

D’gan raised an eyebrow at L’rat’s question and saw the other dip his eyes, unwilling to match D’gan’s look. He snorted. “They’ll light beacons and raise the call flags,” he replied. “The useless flitters were no good with messages anyway.”

“No one really knows, D’gan, if the fire-lizards brought the illness,” K’rem, the healer, said.

“Well, then, we’ll find out, won’t we?” D’gan returned sourly.

Fifteen. Fifteen dragons had died in the past sevenday, three of them so sick that they could not even go between but expired in their weyrs.

“They were useful for communicating with the Masterhealer,” K’rem added.

D’gan vetoed the idea with a shake of his head. “The Masterhealer concerns himself with people, not dragons.”

“We should tell the other Weyrs-” L’rat began.

“We will tell them nothing!” D’gan roared. He turned away, facing east, away from the Weyr Bowl behind him, away from his Wingleaders, his face into the wind.

“But surely they will have the same problems,” D’nal said.

“Listen, all of you,” D’gan said angrily, whirling around, jabbing a finger at each of them. “Telgar Weyr will take care of itself,” he declared, pointing at D’nal. He turned to L’rat, saying, “I will not have that addled M’tal or that cretin C’rion making fun of us, telling us what to do.

“Remember how they chided when we brought the two Weyrs together? How jealous they were that they hadn’t thought to absorb poor Igen when our last queen died? How envious they were once we started winning the Games, Turn after Turn?

“We are the largest Weyr, the strongest Weyr, the best-trained Weyr,” he said, emphasizing each point by slapping a clenched fist into the palm of his other hand. “We will be the best at fighting Thread,” he declared. He turned eastward toward Benden Weyr, then south toward Ista Weyr. “And then they will come asking us for advice.”

To the healer he said, “If you can figure out a way to defeat this illness, then we’ll have something to talk to the other Weyrs about.”

K’rem pursed his lips tightly. L’rat and D’nal exchanged troubled looks.

“K’rem, have you isolated the sick dragons?” D’gan asked.

“There are thirty dragons that are very sick,” K’rem said with a shake of his head. “I don’t think they should be moved. Another dozen or so are only showing the first signs of a cough-”

“Move them! Move them all,” D’gan commanded. “I told you that already-why did you delay?”

“Do you want to lose more dragons?” K’rem asked. When D’gan’s brows stormed together he continued quickly, “If we move them, they may die. Do you want their deaths on your hands?”

“Do you?” D’gan replied. The healer dropped his gaze and D’gan snorted. “I didn’t think so. Move the sick ones!”

“You will have to break up the wings,” D’nal pointed out.

“Then do it,” D’gan said. He looked at K’rem. “Isn’t this the way the herders isolate sick beasts and save their herds?”

“But these are dragons, D’gan,” L’rat protested. “We don’t know how they are getting sick, how the illness spreads.”

“And we won’t begin to find out until we isolate the sick ones,” D’gan responded with a pointed look at K’rem.

Reluctantly, K’rem nodded. “If we isolate them, who will look after them?” he asked. “My Darth is not ill.”

“Hmm. Good point,” D’gan agreed. He bent his head to his hand in thought. Finally he looked up, decisive. “Have some of the weyrfolk help them.”

He gestured to the others.

“Let’s go to the Star Stones and see how much time we have before the Fall starts,” he said in a suddenly cheerful voice. “Things will sort themselves out when Thread comes, you’ll see.”

M’tal stood back from his observation at the Star Stones of Benden Weyr, grim-faced.

“The Eye Rock has bracketed the Red Star,” he told K’tan and Kindan, gesturing for them to look for themselves.

Kindan told the Weyr healer to go first. K’tan stepped forward and looked through the Eye Rock, aligning his view with the Finger Rock beyond. There, just above the Finger Rock, as the Records had warned, was the Red Star.

They were all warmly bundled against the morning chill, M’tal and K’tan in their riding gear, and even Kindan in a thick wher-hide jacket. M’tal’s Gaminth and K’tan’s Drith lounged on a ledge near the plateau that held the Star Stones, unperturbed by the chill in the air. As the sun rose further into the sky, Kindan could see patches of fog along the coastline to the east. He turned around, looking down into the darkened Bowl far below. When his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he found he could spot a fog-diffused glow at the entrance to the Kitchen Cavern, but nothing more.

“How much time do we have before the first Threadfall?” he asked, turning back to the other two. He had been invited to the morning gathering by the Weyrleader himself.

M’tal shook his head. His face was gaunt with fatigue. “Less than a month, I’d guess.”

“We’ll be flying wing light,” K’tan said, stepping back from the Star Stones. His breath fogged in the chilly air.

Another three dragons had started coughing just that morning, bringing the total to eighteen. Twelve had died in the fortnight since Breth had gone between forever. Counting those hatchlings old enough, there had been over 370 fighting dragons at Benden Weyr. Now there were fewer than 340 fit to fly against Thread.

“It’s worse at Ista,” Kindan said. C’rion had had a brief chance to commiserate with M’tal and Salina and exchange notes with K’tan on the illness. Neither learned anything new, and C’rion had returned to his Weyr as soon as he was able.

Before C’rion left, a messenger from Fort Weyr had arrived. His news arrived before he did: The dragons keened for another four dead. C’rion, M’tal, K’tan, Kindan, and Lorana-invited for her ability to talk to any dragon-had gathered in the Council Room for a hasty conference. They agreed that the Weyrs should close themselves to outsiders, should banish fire-lizards, and should communicate by telepathy as much as possible. When it was revealed that Lorana could hear all the dragons, C’rion had suggested that all communications go through her, as it would be quicker than passing messages from rider to dragon and dragon back to rider.

Kindan had been doubtful. “I don’t know,” he’d said. “It seems that Lorana not only hears dragons but feels them, too.”

C’rion was stunned. “Even when they die?” he asked gently. Lorana nodded.

Memories of the death of the queen, and of all the dragons after her, came at her like physical blows.

“I have Arith,” she said, looking toward the Bowl and their quarters, a wan smile on her lips. “We comfort each other.”

“I’m glad of that,” C’rion had said feelingly. “This must be a very hard time for you.”

“I think it’s harder for others,” Lorana had replied. “I still have my dragon.”

Something jarred Kindan back from his wool-gathering to the cold morning air and the ominous view through the Star Stones. “Shouldn’t Tullea be here?” he asked M’tal.

M’tal pursed his lips. “She decided that she needed her rest,” he said. It was obvious that he was torn between disapproval and sympathy. Kindan could understand that-the toll on all of them had been great.

“What about the other bronze riders?”

“B’nik said that he would trust my observation,” M’tal responded. “The others agreed.”

With the death of Breth, Tullea’s Minith was the senior queen at Benden Weyr. When she rose to mate, the leadership of the Weyr would pass to the rider of the bronze she chose. Everyone expected it would be B’nik, even though Tullea had already found the time to tease several of the other riders. M’tal had pointedly not risen to any of her taunts, preferring to spend all his spare time consoling Salina.

In fact, that was where Lorana was at the moment-with Salina. Kindan thought he knew, through his bond with the watch-wher Kisk and later through the bond he had had with his fire-lizard, some of the great pain Salina and all the other newly dragonless must be feeling. The harpers’ laments captured that pain-a pain greater than the loss of a loved one, greater than that of a parent losing a child. The pain was all that and the tearing of a limb-half a heart, half a soul, and more.

Some never recovered. They refused to eat, refused comfort, and simply wasted away. Others managed to find solace from loved ones and rebuilt their lives. But Kindan had never heard of a dragonrider remaining in the Weyr after losing a dragon.

K’tan and M’tal gave a start and headed toward their dragons.

“Lorana has asked us to return,” K’tan explained. “Arith is hungry and Lorana needs to watch her.”

“I’ll stay here a bit more, if that’s all right,” Kindan said.

“It’s a long walk down,” K’tan cautioned. “Ten dragonlengths or more.”

“That’s all right,” Kindan said, waving them away. “I can use the exercise.”

“If you’re sure,” M’tal said.

“I’m sure,” Kindan said. M’tal mounted his dragon and waved farewell to Kindan, and then the two glided away, back down to the Weyr Bowl.

“You’ll find me in the Records Room,” K’tan said from his perch on Drith’s neck.

Drith leapt into the air and glided down to the Bowl below. After they had receded from view, Kindan turned back toward the rising sun. It was just over the horizon and its brilliance obscured his view eastward. Looking southward away from the sun, Kindan could make out the Tunnel Road and the plateau lake as the mountains fell away from high Benden Weyr to the plains below.

Kindan was a miner’s child, so to him, Benden Weyr was a special marvel, one that the dragonriders and weyrfolk who had grown up there took for granted. But for him, with his trained eye, the Weyr was an engineering miracle. He turned around, northward, toward the artfully constructed reservoir even higher than the Star Stones. Over its sluices came a constant stream of water, guided into channels that spilled northward and southward into the rock of the Weyr. The streams ran centrally through the Weyr, servicing each of the nine different levels of individual weyrs-living quarters-carved into the walls of the Weyr before falling down to the next level and down again until the waste stream finally plunged deep into a huge septic dome way beneath a lush field far below and south of the Weyr itself.

The weyrs on each level all adjoined a long corridor toward the outside edge of the Weyr. The corridors were punctuated by wide flights of stairs leading down to the Bowl. Each weyr, or those that were finished-there were many partially made weyrs still unused and unfurnished-had a bedroom, a meeting room, and a lavatory for the rider, and a large cavernous weyr proper for a dragon. The walls of the finished weyrs were usually whitewashed with lime, although several had been treated with dyes in marvelous shades of blue, green, bronze, gold; some occupants had even opted for accents of purple, pink, and tan.

Kindan could always tell newer stonework from the original-while there was clear craftsmanship in every bit of rock carving done in the Weyr, the new work was never as smooth or as clean as the original. The stairs leading from the top level of the Weyr up to the Standing Stones were a case in point. Instead of a handrail of smooth-melted rock, a rope had been bolted at intervals into the wall. The stairs themselves were nearly perfect, but Kindan’s legs noted a subtle unevenness as he descended to the Weyr.

Kindan wondered if the original settlers, who had created the dragons from the fire-lizards, could have come up with a cure for whatever was killing both fire-lizard and dragon alike. The problem seemed more than the people of his time could handle, given the skills available at the end of the Second Interval and the start of the Third Pass. How would the original settlers have felt if they realized that their great weapon against Thread would be annihilated scarcely five hundred Turns later, all their amazing craftsmanship and effort undone by disease and Thread, and the Weyrs left as lifeless, empty shells, ghostly monuments to a failed past?

Kindan made his way to the First Stairs, those on the south nearest the Hatching Grounds, climbed down to the Second Level, turned right, and entered the second opening, into the Records Room.

“Find anything?” he asked as he spied K’tan. The Weyr healer was propped against one side of the opening to the Bowl below, an old parchment angled toward it to get more light. Kindan realized that the healer’s head was on his chest and his eyes closed at the same moment that his words startled the dozing man into wakefulness.

“Huh? Ah, Kindan,” K’tan said, shaking himself and gesturing with the parchment to the light outside. “I was trying to get more light and must have dozed off.”

“I’m not surprised,” Kindan replied. “You haven’t slept in a sevenday and you practically live here. Does your dragon know you still exist?”

K’tan gave him a sour look at the gibe. “Drith, at least, has manners.”

Kindan saw the pitcher of klah on the table in the center of the room, felt the side of it-cold-and shook his head.

“At the very least you should be drinking warm klah,” he rebuked the healer.

“It was warm,” K’tan replied absently, placing another Record on one stack and pulling a new one in front of him.

“When? Yesterday?” Kindan grabbed the tray with the pitcher and carried it and the half-empty mugs back down the corridor to the service shaft. He placed the tray in the down shaft, rang the service bell, and shouted, “Klah and snacks for two!”

A moment later he heard Kiyary’s muffled voice drift back up to him: “On the way, Kindan! I’ve sent extra, just in case.”

Kindan waited until a fresh tray arrived on the up shaft, grabbed it, and shouted down, “Thank you!”

Back in the Records Room, he poured a fresh mug of klah and handed it to K’tan, who had moved from the window to a chair but was still nodding off.

“Thanks,” K’tan said. He took a sip from the mug, eyes widening as he tasted the fresh, hot klah, and said again with more enthusiasm, “Thanks!”

“Did you find anything?” Kindan asked after pouring himself a mug and choosing a snack.

“Nothing,” the healer said, frowning. He reached for a snack. For a moment the two chewed in silence.

“I did notice that the holders seem to get sick much more often than weyrfolk,” K’tan said at last.

Kindan cocked his head at him encouragingly, still chewing.

“Yes,” K’tan went on. “I made notes. It seems that there’s some sort of illness among the holders and crafters once every twenty Turns.”

“Well, we’re good for another four or five Turns at least, what with the Plague behind us,” Kindan commented.

“It didn’t affect the dragonfolk,” K’tan said.

“You dragonfolk are a hearty lot,” Kindan agreed. “I wonder if it’s the thin air-”

He cut himself off, as his words sunk in. K’tan’s eyebrows furrowed thoughtfully.

“Are you thinking that if thin air is good for riders, thinner air might be better for dragons?” the healer asked.

“Or worse for whatever ails them,” Kindan suggested. He mulled the idea over and then shrugged it off. “Well, it’s a thought.”

“Worth keeping,” K’tan replied, finding a stylus and making a note on his slate.

“If thin air is good, what about between?” Kindan mused.

K’tan shook his head. “The illness seems to disorient the dragons-they would never come back from between.”

Kindan frowned and gestured to the records. “You’ve seen nothing about dragon illnesses?”

“I’ve only gone back fifty Turns, Kindan,” K’tan said. “There might be something more.”

“At the Harper Hall, I found that Records over fifty Turns were very hard to read.”

“And they’re probably better kept there than these here,” K’tan said with a wave toward a stack of Records.

“Wouldn’t it make sense, then, to check the Records at the Harper Hall?” Lorana asked from the doorway, startling the other two.

“I’m sorry,” she added, “but I heard you from the Weyrwoman’s quarters.”

“Were we too loud?” K’tan asked.

“No,” Lorana answered. “Not loud enough to wake Salina, at least.” She smiled.

Kindan gestured to the table. “Come in, there’s hot klah and fresh snacks.”

“Did you hear much of our deliberations?” K’tan asked, adding, when Lorana nodded, “And do you have any other insights?”

Lorana entered the room and took a seat at the table. Kindan passed her a mug, which she cradled in her hands, enjoying the warmth.

“I thought Kindan’s idea about thin air might make some sense,” she said, sipping her klah. “Also, cold kills germs, too.”

“So if we could get our sick dragons to cold high places-”

“Without killing them,” Kindan interjected.

“-without killing them,” K’tan agreed, accepting Kindan’s amendment with a nod, “then perhaps…”

Lorana shrugged. “It depends on the infection.”

“We don’t know enough about this infection,” Kindan swore.

Kindan and Lorana sighed in dejected agreement.

“But what about the fire-lizards?” Lorana asked. “Have they ever gotten sick?”

“Not according to those records,” K’tan said with a wave of his hand.

“Maybe we’re looking in the wrong Records,” Kindan suggested. “Maybe we should be looking at the Harper Hall-”

“Or Fort Weyr,” Lorana interjected. When the other two responded with questioning looks, she explained, “Isn’t Fort Weyr the oldest? Wouldn’t the oldest Records of dragons-and fire-lizards-be there?”

K’tan and Kindan exchanged looks.

“She’s right, you know,” Kindan said.

“Mmph,” K’tan agreed. “But the Weyrs are closed to anyone but their own now.”

Kindan pushed his mug away and reached for a Record. “Maybe we’ll find our answers here,” he said dubiously.

The next day, M’tal dispatched watch riders to every Hold, major and minor, with orders to report any signs of Thread. P’gul, the Weyrlingmaster, had the weyrlings bag more sacks of firestone.

“With any luck, the weather will hold either too wet or too cold for the first Threadfalls,” M’tal told the watch riders. “Keep an eye out for drowned Thread or black dust, and let us know immediately.”

“We have Threadfall charts that should tell us when the next Threadfall will occur once we’ve charted the first,” Kindan added. “But at the beginning of a Pass, Thread often falls out of pattern.”

“So watch out for it,” M’tal concluded. “Report in to me or Lorana if you notice anything out of the ordinary.”

“And if you see fire-lizards, stay clear of them,” K’tan warned. “But let us know of any sightings, too,” he continued. His voice dropped as he added, “We’re not sure if there are any fire-lizards left.”

“Good flying!” M’tal called, making the arm gesture to disperse the watch riders. Eighteen riders and their dragons rose high above the Bowl and then blinked out, between, to their destinations.

Gaminth, M’tal said to his dragon, warn the watch-whers.

It is done, Gaminth reported. A few moments later the bronze dragon added, Lorana wonders if you will introduce her to the watch-whers.

M’tal picked Lorana out of the crowd and made his way over to her. “That’s a good idea,” he told her. “But I’m not sure if there’s time.”

“Could someone else train me?” Lorana asked. “From what Kindan has told me, it seems like it would be a good idea if the watch-whers knew me.”

M’tal rubbed a hand wearily across his forehead. “It would be a good idea,” he agreed. “But-”

“Perhaps Nuella would teach her,” Kindan suggested, stepping closer to join the conversation.

“Nuella is at Plains Hold,” M’tal said. “How are you proposing she teach Lorana?”

“She could come here,” Kindan said.

M’tal shook his head. “We don’t know if watch-whers can catch this illness; I don’t think it’s fair to ask her to risk it.”

“A good point,” Kindan conceded. “But watch-whers have been around fire-lizards as much as the dragons have, and I’ve not heard of any watch-wher getting sick.”

“Could they be immune?” Lorana wondered. The idea surprised her-everyone knew that watch-whers and dragons were related.

K’tan had zeroed in on the group and joined it just in time to hear the last exchange between Kindan and Lorana. “If the watch-whers are immune, could they fight Thread?” he asked.

Kindan considered the idea for only a moment before shaking his head. “Watch-whers are nocturnal, and Thread falls during the day.”

“It sometimes falls at night, as well,” K’tan disagreed. Something about his comment troubled Lorana, but she couldn’t determine what.

M’tal’s next comment drove the thought from her mind. “Watch-whers might well be immune, but that might not stop them from carrying the illness. Bringing a watch-wher here might bring more illness, too.”

Kindan nodded in agreement. “I hadn’t thought of that.” He turned to M’tal. “You’re right, Weyrleader, this doesn’t seem to be a good time.”

“A pity,” K’tan murmured.

M’tal’s brows creased in thought. “Perhaps we can use Nuella after all.” The others looked at him questioningly. “She met Lorana at the Hatching, so perhaps she and Nuella could share images with the other watch-whers,” M’tal said. He shrugged. “It wouldn’t mean that Lorana could contact individual watch-whers, but they might be able to contact her.”

“That’s a great idea,” Kindan exclaimed. “We’ll get right on it.” He grabbed Lorana by the arm. “Come on, Lorana, let’s get out of this crowd.”

M’tal waved them away with a look that was nearly cheerful. “That’s one more thing off of my mind,” he said to K’tan.

“It is, Weyrleader,” K’tan agreed dubiously.

M’tal shot him a look.

“It’s another thing on Lorana’s mind,” K’tan explained.

“Is she overworked?”

“We’re all overworked,” K’tan said. “You more than most, particularly with Breth gone. But there’s a mating flight soon, and Tullea rides the senior queen.”

M’tal gave the healer an encouraging gesture.

“And I worry,” K’tan continued, “that Tullea might not appreciate having Lorana’s abilities become so necessary to the success of the Weyr.”

M’tal’s lips thinned as he slowly nodded in agreement. “She hasn’t been the same since High Reaches closed their Weyr, three Turns ago.”

“Perhaps she had a lover there,” K’tan mused.

M’tal snorted. “If she did, I’d never heard of it.” He shook his head. “From what I’ve heard, they still take their tithes, but that’s all.”

K’tan cocked his head at the Weyrleader. “Do you suppose they guessed about the illness?”

M’tal frowned thoughtfully, then shook his head. “I can’t see how,” he said. “D’vin and Sonia were always a bit odd, maybe they just got… odder.”

K’tan shrugged in turn. “Well, I need to get back to the Records,” he said, turning toward the First Stairs.

“Speaking of overwork,” M’tal quipped. The Weyr healer flashed a smile over his shoulder, and the Weyrleader waved him away genially.

“And there are no fire-lizards left at all?” Masterharper Zist asked Harper Jofri. The harper nodded.

“I’d heard that the Weyrs have banned them,” said Bemin, Lord Holder of Fort Hold. “But I don’t think any were left by then.”

He had lost his marvelous brown Jokester. After the Plague had carried off his wife and his sons, the loss of his fire-lizard had been easier to bear, if still painful, but his real distress had come in comforting his young only surviving child, Fiona, on her loss of her gold fire-lizard, Fire.

“I’ve heard some people say that the dragonriders were jealous and bothered by the fire-lizards,” Nonala, the Harper Hall’s voice craftmaster added.

“I think it’s mostly grumbling,” Jofri said. “When people are upset and worried, some like to complain.”

“Nonetheless, it is a very real concern,” Bemin said. The others looked at him. “Holders and crafters pay their tithes to the Weyrs and wonder what they get for it.”

He drew another breath to continue, but the Masterharper suddenly raised his hand and the others cocked their heads, listening.

“Dragons? Dead?” Nonala gasped as the drum message rolled in.

“Ista, Benden, Telgar,” Jofri added in a whisper.

“Benden’s queen,” Zist said, with a pained look on his face.

Bemin looked from one to the other as they spoke. It was a moment before he could find his voice. But when he did, it was to declare with the heartfelt pain of a father who has lost children, of a husband who has lost a wife, of someone who knew something of the pain the bereft riders must be feeling, and-last of all-as the Lord Holder of Pern’s oldest Hold. “Whatever I can do, or my Hold, you-or the Weyrs-have only to ask.”

At lunch the next day, Kindan bounded into the Records Room to tell Lorana breathlessly, “Fort Weyr has reported black dust!”

Lorana was up on her Records enough to realize that black dust was what happened when the weather was too cold and Thread froze on the way to the ground.

“When?” she asked.

“M’tal says that K’lior’s watch riders noticed it just around dinnertime-that would make it around lunchtime here,” Kindan said. “M’tal says we can expect Thread to fall from the shoreline over the Weyr and on to Bitra nine days from now.”

Lorana stifled a groan and buried herself back in her Records.

The morning bustle was louder than usual nine days later as the Weyr waited for its first Threadfall. Lorana had just managed to get Salina back into a fellis-laced, troubled sleep when the alert came: Thread falls! Thread falls at the shoreline!

The alert woke Arith out of a fretful sleep and Lorana spent precious moments calming her beloved dragon before she could race down the stairs to help.

“Go back to your rest,” M’tal said when he saw her. “Tullea will handle this.”

Lorana’s eyes widened in surprise at the suggestion, for Tullea was nowhere to be seen. She waited until a disheveled B’nik appeared beside an even more disheveled Tullea, whose mouth smirked at the expressions of the other dragonriders. As their faces remain fixed in disapproval, Tullea’s smirk changed to a pout.

“We were just getting to bed,” she said defensively.

“Thread falls at Upper Bitra,” M’tal told her. He looked past her to B’nik, “Is your wing ready?”

J’tol, B’nik’s wingsecond, appeared beside him. “Just ready now, Weyrleader,” the sturdy brown rider said, his gaze focused directly between the elder M’tal and the younger B’nik, as if casting doubt on whom the title should be conferred.

M’tal chose to ignore the taunt. “Good, good,” he said, moving toward Gaminth as the bronze glided to a landing beside him. “We’ll form up at the Star Stones and go between on my coordinates.”

K’tan says that there are thirty-one dragons with the illness, Lorana heard Drith say to Gaminth. And they are spread throughout the wings.

Tell him that it can’t be helped, we’ll sort it out later, was the reply Gaminth relayed from M’tal.

Kindan, who had started laying out the healer’s medical supplies, saw Lorana wince and approached her. “What is it?”

“The sick dragons are flying, too,” she reported dully.

Far above them, over Benden’s Bowl, wings formed into Flights, and Flights arrayed themselves in attack formation. And then, in one instant, three hundred and fifty-eight dragons disappeared-between.

For over twenty Turns M’tal had led Benden Weyr. In all that time, he had had just one thought: to prepare for Thread. This day-now-was the culmination of all he had worked toward.

It was a disaster.

Three dragons failed to come out of between. Their loss cast an immediate pall on the fight.

Worse, it threw off the organization of the wings.

The teamwork that M’tal had drilled his riders so assiduously in maintaining fell apart before the first of the Thread arrived. Ruefully, M’tal reflected that he had not considered training his dragonriders in sustaining losses.

M’tal’s own wing had lost blue Carianth and his rider, G’niall.

“Close up!” he shouted. “Gaminth, tell them to close up.”

M’tal cast a glance ahead and up, toward where Thread should be falling momentarily, and then another at the dragons in his wing as they re-formed without the blue. M’tal had had the Weyr arrayed in a line of multiple V formations. Now, with Carianth gone, the V of his wing was shorter on the left than on the right.

“Thread!” M’tal heard W’ren cry from behind him. He turned, following W’ren’s arm, and saw them-up high, silvery, shimmery wisps floating in the morning sun. Gaminth let out a bellow, echoed triumphantly in challenge by all the dragons of Benden Weyr, and craned his neck back to M’tal for a mouthful of firestone. M’tal found that he already had some in his hands, not remembering when he pulled it out of his firestone sack, and fed it to the bronze without thinking. That much of the training worked, he thought with bitter satisfaction.

As one, the dragons and riders of Benden Weyr rose to meet the incoming Thread. In unison, the dragons belched their fiery breath into the sky. Gouts of flame met clumps of silvery Thread, and the Thread wilted, charred, and fell harmlessly to the ground below.

The ease of the destruction of the Thread elated M’tal and all the riders. The dragons roared and charged to assault the next wave of Thread.

And then everything unraveled. The first cry of a Thread-scored dragon seared M’tal’s ears like a hot poker, thankfully cut off as the dragon went between where the freezing cold would destroy the Thread.

Then another dragon went between, and another-and that one did not return.

M’tal issued sharp orders to his wingleaders to regroup, but try as they might, the increasing casualties meant that they never quite recovered from the initial disorder.

The battle against Thread turned more dangerous, desperate. Worse, Gaminth informed him that many of the dragons going between and not returning to the Fall had not returned to the Weyr, either.

The pain of that additional loss weighed heavily on the remaining riders. Those riding ill dragons responded by doing their best to avoid going between-often with worse results. Four, then five dragons were Threaded at once and went between so terribly Thread scored that M’tal knew nothing could be done to save them.

And then it was over. The Thread tapered off until there were no more in the sky.

M’tal, struggling to create a tally of dead, injured, and able dragons found himself trembling with relief, rage, sorrow, and overexertion.

Have L’tor send out sweepriders, order K’tan back to the Weyr, and let’s go home, M’tal said to his dragon.

He knew that Thread had got through their flight and had burrowed into the grounds of Upper Bitra, where great stands of trees grew up toward the snow line on the mountains. He wished that Salina’s Breth was still alive. With two queens-and no danger from strange illnesses-they could have a small queen’s wing battling any missed clumps of Thread before they reached the ground. The queens, with their greater wingspan, could easily handle flying low to the ground for the length of a Fall. But Breth’s death meant that it was not to be and, because of it, the number of burrows would be higher than normal. It was too dangerous to risk Benden’s remaining adult queen dragon flying alone, let alone the distraction it would give the other dragons.

M’tal took a deep breath, surveyed the area one last time, then put the image of Benden’s Star Stones firmly in his mind and gave Gaminth the word to go home.

Mikkala, the headwoman at Benden Weyr, a stout, bustling woman who said little and kept her eyes open, tutted in disapproval of Kindan’s work.

“Never met a man who’s not happy the minute he’s done the least bit of work,” she said, sending a hard look toward the harper, who raised his hands in mock defense. Her look softened and she shook her head wryly. “Other people will be needing to find these bandages, not just you and the healer!”

“If you’re complaining about a man’s work, then you’ll need to ask Lorana,” Kindan told her.

So Lorana found herself in charge of laying out the medicine and bandages in preparation for injured riders and dragons.

Kiyary was detailed to help, and Lorana found herself so engrossed in setting up first aid trays and assigning tasks to the weyrlings that she didn’t have time to notice that Kindan had disappeared.

She heard the reports from Gaminth of the three dragons that failed to come between from the Weyr to Upper Bitra. She chided herself for not noticing their loss sooner, only to realize that she had felt a momentary worsening of the general pall that hung over her and everyone else in the Weyr, but had put it down to mere nerves.

It was only when Lorana had everything in order and sought to feed Arith that she noticed that the Weyr harper was nowhere in sight. She dismissed the issue in favor of ensuring that Arith was well fed and well oiled. She smiled proprietarily as she realized that her queen was nearly as big as some of the fully-grown smaller green dragons. Still, it would be years before Arith was ready to fly-or to mate, a thought that caused Lorana some vague discomfort.

In the meantime Arith was just as comforting, loving, considerate, confounding, wretched, ill-tempered, and fractious as any youngster could and should be. All of which meant that Lorana was glad to be able to see her marvelous friend happily ensconced on her freshly built bed of warm sand, curling up for a good after-food and after-grooming nap.

Lorana had just decided that Arith was fully asleep when she heard the piteous cries of dragons being Thread scored in the Fall at Upper Bitra. Their pain came to her thankfully dulled, like the remnant soreness of a wound not quite healed.

Arith picked up her unease and an echo of the pain she felt through their link and looked over at her, eyes blinking sleepily.

“I’m sorry,” Lorana cried aloud. “I can’t help it. Try to sleep, little one.”

There is no need to apologize, Arith said. I am glad that you can hear the other dragons. It is a gift.

“A gift?” Lorana repeated.

Yes, the queen replied. You hear us the way we hear each other. It’s special. I like that.

Lorana hadn’t considered her ability in that light. She winced as she heard another dragon bellow in great pain and go between-and then she winced in greater pain when the dragon did not return. She tried to find it between, could feel herself going-

Don’t! Arith cried. Don’t leave me.

Lorana opened her eyes and thrust her arm against the wall for support.

I didn’t mean to, she apologized. I was trying to get Minerth.

Minerth is gone, Arith said firmly. You cannot save her.

Lorana found herself comforted by Arith’s assurance, but deep down she felt that she almost could have brought Minerth and C’len back from wherever they had gone between. But both had been scored by Thread, Minerth fatally so.

Salina comes down with the harper, Arith told her. You should go meet them.

“Are you keeping watch on Salina?” Lorana asked, surprised.

Yes, Arith said. She was the rider of my mother. And she is very sad. I would like to cheer her up.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Lorana said, standing upright once more. “If you get some sleep.”

I’ll try, the queen promised.

Lorana spotted the harper and Weyrwoman easily as she made her way across the Bowl toward the aid station. Kindan was talking animatedly, and Salina-well, Salina looked like one of the dead.

Lorana joined them, adding whatever cheerful comments she could until she managed to get close to Kindan’s ear while Mikkala was offering Salina some special sweets. “I don’t think this is the best thing for her,” she whispered.

“I can’t leave her by herself,” Kindan responded in equally hushed tones. “So many don’t survive the loss of their dragon, you know.”

Lorana pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Maybe-maybe it would be a mercy,” she said carefully.

“But not the best for Benden, not now,” Kindan replied. “Think of what would happen to M’tal. And the Weyr.”

Lorana shuddered. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she confessed.

Around the Weyr, hatchlings bugled fearfully. Lorana and Kindan looked up in time to see a badly scored dragon plummeting down toward them.

Get away! Lorana shouted. The hatchlings veered away from the falling dragon bare moments before it landed-hard-on the floor of the Bowl.

“Get some numbweed!” Lorana shouted over her shoulder as she ran toward the wounded dragon and rider.

The beast was horribly injured-she could see that immediately. Both wings were in tatters, scored repeatedly by Thread. Ichor oozed from hundreds of sharp wounds.

It’s all right, it’s all right, Lorana called soothingly to the dragon.

Kindan leaped up and grabbed the rider, throwing him over his shoulder and carrying him to a clear spot not far from his dragon. Gently, he laid the rider out on the ground. Lorana rushed over to him and knelt on the opposite side of the injured man. Kindan felt the rider’s neck for a pulse and then looked up at Lorana, his eyes bleak.

With an anguished bellow, the dragon rose clumsily to its legs and jumped into the air-gone between.

Lorana rose and spotted Salina approaching in the distance. The Weyrwoman took one look at Lorana and her hand went to her mouth in sorrow.

Another dragon bugled in the sky above them, falling, with just barely more control than the first dragon.

The next several hours were a horrid blur of scored dragons and riders, hasty bandages, numbweed, fellis juice, and, all too often, the forlorn keen of a dragon going between on the death of its rider.

Lorana only vaguely noticed when M’tal and the rest of the Weyr returned. When M’tal asked, “Where’s Tullea?” she could only shake her head and turn back to the injury she was working on. Only later, much later, did it occur to Lorana that Tullea should have been helping tend the injured.

Once, Lorana found herself grabbed by K’tan. “Wash your hands,” he told her. She noticed that her hands were covered in blood from the rider she had been tending. “Blood shouldn’t mix,” the Weyr healer warned.

Lorana’s hand flew to her face but she stopped it just in time, eyes wide. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t wash when I went from Jolinth to Lisalth.”

K’tan shook his head and gave her a pat. “Dragon ichor isn’t the same. You can mix it any time,” he assured her. “It’s just human blood that can cause problems. People have different blood, and mixing it can cause fevers.”

“I’ll remember,” Lorana promised, washing her hands in a bucket that one of the weyrlings had brought over at K’tan’s beckoning.

Some time later, as Lorana rose from bandaging another dragon’s wing tip, she swayed and the world wheeled around her. Hands reached out and steadied her, and she found herself looking up into a face.

It was Kindan. “When did you last eat?” he asked her.

Lorana tried to remember but couldn’t. She feebly shook her head.

“Come on,” Kindan said decisively. When Lorana tried to resist, he added, “K’tan’s back; he can handle things for a while.”

“Eat!” K’tan agreed loudly from where he was working on a wounded dragonrider.

“We’ll send you something, too!” Kindan promised as he led Lorana toward the caverns.

“I have to get back as soon as I can,” Lorana said.

“No,” Kindan replied firmly. “You need to rest. You’ve done enough, more than enough, for one day.”

“But-but there’s a fracture to set on Aliarth,” Lorana protested.

“K’tan will see to it,” Kindan said. “Or it will wait until I’m sure you’re up for it.” He shook his head in amazement. “You’ve been working for ten hours!”

“So have you,” she retorted.

Kindan was taken aback. “Well, so I have!” he agreed. “It’s a wonder I’m not fainting of hunger myself.”

They were scarcely seated before they were served a hot bowl of thick soup and a mug of mulled wine. Fresh-baked bread with butter was set beside the soup.

“There’s more where that came from,” their server told them with a broad smile. Kindan recognized her as Tilara.

“Thank you,” he replied, gesturing for Lorana to eat.

“There’s no need,” Tilara responded. She looked at Lorana and told her, “I saw the way you stitched up Jolinth’s wing.” She gave Lorana an admiring look. “I never would have believed it possible, but it looks like he’ll fly again.”

Kindan remembered her as one of the women sweet on K’lar, Jolinth’s rider.

“Is K’lar resting, now?” he asked.

Tilara smiled wickedly and hefted a large pitcher she’d been holding in her other hand. “He is now. I doused his wine with fellis juice.”

“Rest is what he’ll need,” Lorana agreed. K’lar had been scored, a nasty sear from forehead to cheek which fortunately required only a clean bandage and some numbweed for the pain.

“Ah, look at me!” Tilara protested. “Here you’re supposed to be eating and I’m jawing away at you.” She turned away, then called over her shoulder, “Eat up, because I’ll be bringing seconds shortly. And dessert.”

Lorana found that she was far hungrier-and thirstier-than she’d realized. The soup bowl was empty before she realized, and she reached for the bread and butter, only to have Kindan catch her hand.

“Allow me,” he said, passing her the platter.

Lorana nodded her thanks and proceeded to pile butter on bread. Tilara was back and had refilled their bowls before they noticed.

“Would you be ready for something heartier after the soup?” she asked. “There’s a nice bit of spiced wherry just about ready. And tubers, and fresh peas.”

“That would suit me very well,” Kindan said. He quirked an eyebrow at Lorana, who caught his look and nodded, her mouth full.

“Food for two!” a voice called from nearby. Lorana recognized it as Tullea. She looked over. The queen rider looked fresh and rested. Beside her, B’nik made shushing motions.

“You there!” Tullea shouted at Tilara, ignoring B’nik’s gestures. “Did you hear me?”

“I’m busy,” Tilara responded. She added in a voice that only Kindan and Lorana could hear, “I’m helping those who helped the Weyr.”

She took herself off, oblivious to Tullea’s shouts. Tullea rose from her seat and was about to go after Tilara when M’tal entered.

“Tullea, I was looking for you,” the Weyrleader called. Tullea turned to him, face still red with anger, but before she made any response, B’nik placed a hand on her arm, soothingly. None of the scene escaped M’tal’s eyes, tired though he was.

“What are the casualty figures?” he asked Tullea as he closed the distance.

“What?”

M’tal rephrased his question. “How many riders and dragons are too injured to fly in the next Fall, and how long will it take for them to recover?”

“I don’t know,” Tullea snapped. She thrust a hand toward Lorana. “Ask her.”

W’ren, M’tal’s wing-second, entered the Cavern and placed himself beside his Weyrleader.

“I am asking you,” M’tal said. “With the loss of Breth, you have become the Weyrwoman of Benden. It’s your duty to keep track of the injured.”

Tullea recoiled from M’tal’s words and then, as the full import dawned on her, her eyes gleamed and she gave him a wicked smile.

“That’s right, I am, aren’t I?” she said with unconcealed glee. She gave B’nik a knowing look and then returned her gaze to the Weyrleader. “And when Minith rises, who knows who’ll be Weyrleader then?

“Mind your manners, M’tal, you wouldn’t want to upset your queen, would you?” Tullea purred.

M’tal gave her a hard, penetrating look. “Your duty is to the Weyr, Weyrwoman.”

“I’ll do my duty,” Tullea snapped, “when my queen mates. As for now, ask her.” She cocked her head toward Lorana.

“Tullea,” B’nik said pleadingly. Tullea looked down at him and merely shook her head.

“And there’ll be changes in the Caverns, too,” she said in a louder voice before she sat back down. “I’m tired, B’nik-get us some food.”

The bronze rider looked between the Weyrleader and Tullea, sighed, and gave the Weyrleader an apologetic look as he rose and headed over to the hearth.

K’tan entered the Cavern, caught sight of M’tal, and lengthened his stride to approach the Weyrleader.

“Weyrleader,” K’tan said with a nod of his head.

“How bad is it?” M’tal asked. He had some idea from the fighting itself and from the field of injured dragons and riders spread across the floor of the Bowl.

The Weyrleader had not even tried to hide his tears as he went from rider to dragon, consoling, cheering, doing what he could to comfort and show that he shared their pain-and more. He felt responsible for each and every Thread score. Worse, he knew that his order that the coughing dragons fly Threadfall had immensely increased the losses.

“Forty-five are known to have gone between,” K’tan said. “Another twenty-three are badly injured and will need at least a month before they can fly again. Another thirty-seven have more minor injuries and should be able to fly in the next sevenday.”

M’tal slumped as though he’d been hit in the chest. Nearly a third of the Weyr’s strength had been lost in the first Threadfall. Behind him, W’ren gasped in surprise.

I must think, M’tal told himself. He looked around the cavern and spotted Kindan and Lorana.

“Let’s join them,” he said, gesturing the others toward them.

Kindan spotted them first. He took in M’tal’s grim expression and waved them to seats nearby. Lorana looked up from her soup as the others sat down. Guiltily, she put her spoon in her bowl, waiting for the others to be served.

“No, no, eat, Lorana,” M’tal said. “Someone will come with food soon enough.”

“I’ll see to it myself,” Kindan said, rising to his feet.

“He’s a good lad,” W’ren commented as they watched Kindan approach one of the cavern women and strike up an animated conversation.

“It’s a wonder he never Impressed,” K’tan said.

“Or a blessing,” M’tal added. The pain in his voice was obvious to all.

“Come on, M’tal, it’s not all that bad,” W’ren protested. “We took losses, sure, but the Records show that every Weyr takes losses in its first Fall.”

“One third of the Weyr?” M’tal’s response was full of pain and self-directed anger. He waved a hand toward the Bowl outside. “Did you not see them? They’re littered all across the Bowl.”

“Not anymore,” K’tan responded firmly. When M’tal shot him a look, he explained, “They’re resting in their weyrs, now, Weyrleader.”

“Food for three or five?” a pleasant voice interrupted. Lorana recognized Tilara, back again, laden with food. Kindan bore a huge tray behind her, like a beast of burden.

“Set it for five, Tilara,” Kindan begged. “I couldn’t carry this food back again.”

“That’s because you’re just a lazy harper,” Tilara retorted, but there was no sting in her voice. Quickly, she laid out plates, bowls, and mugs. Then she directed Kindan in the proper placement of the platters of food, pitchers of klah, and baskets of bread. She gave the table one long, satisfied look, then said to Kindan, “If you’ve ever a mind to change professions, you’d do well here in the caverns.”

“Why, thank you, Tilara,” Kindan replied with a slight bow. “But I think I’ve found my craft.”

Tilara laughed and patted him gently on the arm before heading back to her cooking.

“Is that spiced wherry?” K’tan asked, looking longingly at a platter piled high with steaming meats.

“It is indeed, good dragonrider,” Kindan said. He speared several slices and deftly transferred them to the Weyr healer’s plate. He turned to M’tal. “And for you, Weyrleader?”

“I’m not hungry,” M’tal protested.

“You’ll eat,” a voice said from behind them. It was a woman’s voice, firm. “You’ll eat and you’ll like it, old man.”

“Salina?” M’tal cried, rising from his chair and turning around.

The look they exchanged was so full of emotion that Lorana found herself looking away, fearful of intruding on their privacy. Her gaze brought her eyes to Kindan, who had also looked away.

M’tal guided Salina to the chair beside him, which W’ren had vacated as soon as he’d seen Salina arrive.

“Kindan, serve him some of that wherry,” Salina ordered. When Kindan stabbed three slices, Salina shook her head. “Make it five, and see if you can find some raw meat.”

A faint smile crossed M’tal’s lips as he and his mate shared a private joke.

W’ren gestured to Salina with the pitcher of klah. “May I serve you, my lady?”

“Wait until I get this old flame stoked,” Salina told him. All the dragonriders grinned. Satisfied that M’tal’s dinner was laid out to her order, she told him, “Eat.”

Salina sat back in her chair and simply watched M’tal until, with a long-suffering sigh, he started to carve up his meat and chew it.

“Slowly,” Salina told him. M’tal nodded affably and, with great exaggeration, ponderously chewed his meal.

Salina ignored the over-response. “Better.”

“Klah, my lady?” W’ren repeated his offer. Salina accepted with a grateful nod.

“And some soup, to start,” she said. Kindan and Lorana found themselves colliding in their haste to fill the Weyrwoman’s bowl. With a graceful gesture, Kindan let Lorana have the honor.

“Please join me,” Salina said after she’d been served, “if you’re still hungry.”

“I don’t think K’tan has yet eaten, my lady,” Kindan said before the Weyr healer could make any objections.

Salina glared at him balefully until K’tan filled his own soup bowl, then she turned her attention to W’ren, who reddened and filled his plate with the still-hot spiced wherry.

Satisfied, Salina filled her spoon again and brought it toward her lips. Before she sipped the soup, she said to Lorana, “How bad was it?”

“Forty-five dragons went between,” Lorana told her.

The Weyrwoman shuddered, forced herself to finish her mouthful. With her other hand, she gestured for Lorana to tell her the rest.

“Twenty-three with serious injuries, and thirty-seven with minor injuries that will heal in two sevendays or less.”

Salina nodded, placing her spoon back in her bowl. “How many were left dragonless?”

“Four,” K’tan told her, his face tight with pain.

“And they’re being tended?”

“They are in the care of weyrmates or weyrfolk,” K’tan assured her. “With their loved ones whenever possible.”

“Good,” Salina said. She looked at Lorana. “The dragons that went between-did you feel it?”

“Yes,” Lorana replied, her throat tight with pain.

Salina reached out and grabbed Lorana’s hand. “I’m sorry, that’s quite a load to bear,” she said.

“We’re tough, my lady,” Lorana said, “Arith and I.”

“That’s good, for these are tough times,” Salina responded. She looked at the Weyr healer. “What are we going to do about it?”

“I’ll go back to the Records Room. There has to be something there,” K’tan replied, rising from the table.

“Sit, sit,” Salina ordered, gesturing him back into his chair. “You’ve fought Thread, tended the ill… you must be exhausted.”

K’tan met her eyes and nodded frankly.

“You’d miss more than you’d see,” the Weyrwoman continued. She looked at M’tal. “When is the next Threadfall?”

“For our Weyr?” M’tal asked.

Salina nodded.

“Not for another three days. But I don’t know how the other Weyrs will do. Telgar Weyr fought Thread over Igen Weyr today, as well. I wonder how they fared.”

“I-” Lorana began. The others glanced at her. “I think they did badly,” she said. Her eyes gleamed with tears. “There were many dragons who went between.”

“And you felt them all?” Salina asked in a voice filled with awe. Lorana nodded.

“My poor dear,” the Weyrwoman replied, reaching for Lorana’s hand once again. “And to think I grieved for one.”

“I-I don’t think I feel their loss as strongly as I would the loss of my own dragon,” Lorana protested.

“And I hope that never happens,” K’tan told her fervently. All the others nodded.

“But even so, the loss of so many dragons,” Salina said, then stopped. “How many dragons, do you know?”

“I don’t,” Lorana confessed. “Maybe a hundred.”

“A hundred,” W’ren exclaimed.

“Maybe more,” Lorana added.

“At the beginning of this Pass, to lose a hundred dragons,” K’tan murmured, shaking his head.

“There were less than three thousand dragons on all Pern,” M’tal said, speaking for the first time. “If a hundred are lost every Threadfall…”

With a roar of anger, D’gan slammed his hand against the table in the Council Room. “How many did you say?”

“Fifty-four are severely wounded and will take six months or more to heal, eighty-three are lightly wounded and may be able to fly in the next three months,” V’gin repeated.

“And we lost seventy,” D’gan added, his anger spent in that one loud outburst. It had been a rotten Fall. The Weyr had been arrayed perfectly, but the air currents over old Igen Weyr had always been difficult and they roiled the Thread up and down unpredictably. Once the wings had taken their first losses, D’gan’s brilliant array of dragons had flown apart and things had only gotten worse.

This was supposed to be his triumph, his first Threadfall, his chance to show everyone who had doubted, after all the success in the Games, after all his tireless efforts, that he, D’gan of Igen Weyr, was the proper Weyrleader of Telgar.

He remembered the sad day when Morene had died and the last queen of Igen had gone between. He remembered how V’lon had grown old, his face seamed with age, practically overnight. How Telgar, Benden, Ista, and Fort had begged off providing Igen with a replacement queen. How in the end, D’gan’s suggestion that Igen ride with Telgar was grudgingly accepted. But on that day, over twenty Turns ago, D’gan had vowed that he’d show them all, that he’d prove to the doubters that Igen riders were the best. He’d vowed to become Telgar’s Weyrleader, to fly their queen and show the rest of Pern his mettle.

And he had. He’d worked tirelessly, still was working tirelessly. But on the way, perhaps after the first mating flight, or even before, D’gan had found that his aspirations had changed. He was more than just a displaced rider finding a home in a new Weyr, he was a Telgar rider and he was a Weyrleader. He would show them-M’tal, C’rion, that young boy, K’lior, all of them-what a true Weyrleader was like.

It had been his Weyr that had won all the Games. His Weyr had the most dragons, his Weyr had the most queens, and his Weyr was responsible for the most territory on Pern.

And now this. He turned to V’gin. “How many dragons will I have to fight the next Fall?” he asked, knowing the answer.

“There are fifteen more dragons showing signs of the fever-”

“They’ll fly the Fall,” D’gan interjected.

V’gin grimaced. “We don’t know how much the sickness contributed to our losses, D’gan.”

“Exactly,” D’gan said, “we don’t know. So they’ll fly. ‘Dragonmen must fly, when Thread is in the sky.’ So, Weyr healer, how many dragons will fly with me over Telgar Weyr and Hold in six days’ time?”

V’gin sighed. “If you include the fifteen sick dragons-”

“And any others that get sick in the meantime,” D’gan said pointedly.

V’gin accepted the correction with a shrug. “Counting them, you’ll have three hundred and thirty-eight fighting dragons and two queens.”

“The queens will stay behind,” D’gan said. “A proper queen’s wing is three or more.” His tone failed to hide how much it galled him that Garoth had not been able to provide the Weyr with another queen dragon. Well, perhaps on the next mating flight, he thought to himself.

“I think you’re right,” Lina, Telgar’s Weyrwoman, agreed. She was older than D’gan, and he often wondered how much of her affections were for him, D’gan, and how much for Telgar’s Weyrleader, even though they had sired a child between them.

“D’lin did well today,” D’gan commented. The youngster was really too young to be hauling firestone, but he had insisted and T’rin, the Weyrlingmaster, had allowed him. Still, it had been a surprise to recognize his own son throwing him a sack of firestone as Thread fell all around them.

Lina smiled, although her eyes were still weary. “I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “He so wants to live up to your example, you know.”

Unconsciously, D’gan felt stung by the comment, even though he knew it had been kindly meant. He was determined to set a standard no other could attain.

C’rion stopped, pulling his back straight and forcing a pleasant expression onto his face before he stepped out onto Ista Weyr’s Bowl. All above him, from one side of the Bowl to the other, the Weyr was full of the sounds of dragons coughing, snorting, and sneezing.

Directly above him, he heard a dragonrider call out, “Valorth! Valorth, no!”

A dragon dived out from its weyr and winked between, leaving behind T’lerin-no, C’rion grimaced, Telerin; the honorific contraction for a dragonrider lasted as long as his dragon. C’rion turned to head toward the ex-dragonrider, to console him as he had consoled so many others in the past three sevendays.

“I’ll do it,” a voice behind him said. C’rion whirled, swaying slightly from fatigue, as he caught sight of J’lantir.

Wearily, C’rion nodded. “Get Giren,” he said, “he’ll know what to do.”

J’lantir shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, just now. T’lerin spent too much time comforting Giren when Kamenth went between.”

C’rion gave him a blank look.

“T’ler-Telerin might blame Giren,” J’lantir explained.

“Then G’trial-I mean, Gatrial-” The look on J’lantir’s face stopped him.

“I’m sorry,” J’lantir said, tears welling up in his eyes. “I was coming to tell you-”

C’rion bowed his head and nodded. He had feared that the Weyr healer would not survive the loss of his dragon, especially after experiencing all the pain and suffering of watching over thirty other dragons succumb.

“It was fellis juice, laced with wine and something else, I couldn’t identify,” J’lantir said. “Dalia said she’ll look after him.”

C’rion shook his head, biting his lips. “No, no, I’ll do it, it’s my duty.”

J’lantir touched his shoulder gently. “You’ve too many duties, Weyrleader. Thread is falling-”

“The Weyr must be led,” C’rion finished, swallowing hard. “How many have we lost so far?”

“Thirty-six,” a new voice answered. Dalia joined them. “I’ve got weyrfolk looking after Telerin,” she said. “We’ve got another thirty or more that don’t look well.”

“Thread falls nine days from now,” C’rion responded.

Dalia smiled grimly, walked wearily up to him and hugged him. “You’ll do all right,” she told him.