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