He gave the Lord Holder a curt nod. “I have to attend to the injured,” he
said, turning back to his dragon and mounting before Gadran could
respond.
“No, I’m afraid Gadran’s always been like that,” M’tal said when B’nik
approached him that night at dinner.
“What about Gadran?” J’tol called, striding into the Living Cavern, knocking
soot off his riding gear. “He was red-faced and screaming when I left him.
Is there more already?”
B’nik shot his wingsecond a look of alarm.
J’tol grimaced in response. “The fires got out of control; the winds up there
were vicious,” he said. “We had to set backfires on the slopes above Bitra
Hold itself before they were contained.”
“I should have stayed,” B’nik groaned.
“What would you have done?” M’tal asked calmly. He nodded to J’tol.
“J’tol’s worked with fires before and shown his ability. I doubt anyone could
have done better.”
B’nik gave J’tol a consoling look and nodded. “You’re right,” he said to M’tal.
“All the same,” he added with a grin for his wingsecond, “I could have
spared you his ravings.”
A chorus of dragon coughs echoed in from the Bowl outside. All
conversation stopped.
J’tol waved a dismissive hand at the noise. “Some of that’s
our
dragons—they’ve got smoke in their lungs,” he assured the others. “It’ll
clear out soon enough.”
Lorana gave B’nik a probing look and raised her eyebrow inquiringly. B’nik
returned her look with confusion until, with a sudden start, he realized that
she knew about Caranth.
“There are more important things to consider,” she said to him. She paused
to give him a chance to respond and continued only after it was clear that
he would not speak. She gestured to Kindan. “Kindan says that he’s
discovered the words of his song. Did he tell you?”
B’nik shook his head. “We haven’t had time to talk until now.”
“And you shouldn’t be talking, you should be eating,” Tullea quipped,
seating herself beside him. With a glare at Lorana, she urged B’nik to eat
his dinner. “How was the Fall?”
B’nik found himself with a mouthful at her urging, desperately trying to
swallow in order to answer her question.
M’tal took pity on him. “The Fall was not bad and was well flown.” He
nodded to B’nik. “We lost seven, all the same, and another eighteen were
injured.”
“There are only five wings fit to fly,” B’nik added.
“It won’t be long,” Kindan murmured to himself.
Tullea heard him all the same. “It won’t be long before what, Harper?” she
demanded.
Kindan shifted uneasily in his seat. “It won’t be long before there will be no
dragons to fight Thread,” he told her softly. He turned to B’nik. “Which is
why I think it’s vital to get the miners back to find a way beyond that second
door in the Oldtimer room, or another way into wherever that door goes.”
“And kill more dragons?” Tullea asked scornfully. She gestured to Lorana.
“Would you have more people sacrifice their loves and sanity?”
“Would you lose
all
the dragons of Pern?” Lorana asked in response.
Tullea stared at her.
“We cannot say what lies beyond those doors,” Lorana told the group. “But
if we don’t find out, we will have denied ourselves any chance of curing the
dragons.”
“How do you know?” Tullea protested.
“I don’t,” Lorana admitted. “But think about it—those rooms were built for a
reason. They were built with Oldtimer skills—to what purpose?”
“To create the dragons,” Tullea replied, waving her hand dismissively.
“Everyone knows that the Oldtimers created them from the fire-lizards.”
“But they created them in the Southern Continent and fled north,” Kindan
remarked. “These rooms would not be where they made the dragons. In
fact, since Benden was the second Weyr founded, these rooms would not
have been made until long after our ancestors moved north.”
M’tal, J’tol, and B’nik looked thoughtful.
“All the miners’ hammering will disturb Minith,” Tullea protested. “I won’t
permit that!”
“She’s not ready to lay her clutch yet,” Ketan observed. “If the noise
bothers her, you could move the queen’s quarters to the northern side of
the Bowl. There’s a nice set of quarters with a connection into the Hatching
Grounds—that might prove useful for when you want to visit.”
Tullea looked momentarily interested in the proposition, then brushed it
aside. “What makes you so sure that these rooms have the cure?” she
demanded of Lorana.
“I don’t know,” Lorana replied honestly. She chewed her lip hesitantly, then
glanced at Kindan. “Although if that song, ‘Wind Blossom’s Song,’ was
meant for our times, then there would have to be a reason that I was to
come to Benden Weyr,” she added. “And those rooms are the most
obvious reason, aren’t they?”
B’nik looked troubled. Lorana caught his gaze. “How many more dragons
will die?” she asked him pointedly. He flinched.
“Will this Weyr be emptied of all dragons?” She turned to the others. “
‘Dragonmen must fly when Thread is in the sky,’ ” she quoted. Shaking her
head, Lorana continued, “I don’t see any other way to cure this sickness.
I’ve tried—and I know Ketan has tried—every remedy we’ve ever heard of
that could help. This sickness is new to dragons. I think that without help
from the past, all the dragons of Pern will perish.”
She turned to B’nik. “Weyrleader, bring the miners back. Let us find the
other rooms. They might be our only hope.”
“And if they aren’t,” M’tal added glumly, “then at least we’ll know the worst.”
B’nik raised his eyes bleakly to M’tal. “Send for the miners, please.”
“T’mar!” K’lior exclaimed as the bronze rider dismounted from his dragon, a
grin spread from ear to ear. K’lior hurtled over to the other rider and
grabbed him in a gleeful hug.
“How did it go?” K’lior asked, pushing himself back from the grinning
bronze rider, oblivious to the rest of the Weyr surrounding them and
hanging on their every word.
T’mar’s grin slipped, and K’lior noticed for the first time the deep bags
under the bronze rider’s eyes. K’lior stepped back and took a thorough
inventory of the rider and the rest of the dragonriders who had returned
from their three-year sojourn
between
back in time to the empty Igen Weyr
of over ten Turns ago. T’mar looked fit, tanned, and healthy—but
bone-weary.
“I would never recommend it, Weyrleader,” T’mar replied, fighting to keep
on his feet, “except in direst circumstances.
“The dragons were fine, but even the youngest riders felt . . . stretched and
constantly drained,” he went on. “I even had fights among the injured riders,
tempers were that frayed by timing it.”
He gave his Weyrleader a strained look.
“We were in the same time for too long, we could hear echoes of our
younger selves, it was—” He shook his head, unable to find further words.
“But you’re here now,” K’lior said, surveying the full-strength wings landing
behind him in the Bowl.
T’mar straightened and smiled, his hand sweeping across the Bowl.
“Weyrleader, I bring you one hundred and twenty-two fighting dragons.”
“Good,” K’lior replied firmly, clapping T’mar on the shoulder. “Get them
bedded down and then get some rest.” He spoke up for the crowd. “We’ve
Thread to fight in three days’ time.” He turned back to T’mar. “I can let you
rest tomorrow, but we’ll have to start practicing the next day.”
“Thread in three days?” T’mar asked, puzzled. “Did I time it wrong?”
“No,” K’lior replied. “You timed it perfectly. We’re going to help Ista Weyr.”
He beckoned to his wingsecond, P’dor, to join them.
“In fact,” he said as P’dor drew close, “we’re going to help all the Weyrs.”
He nodded to P’dor. “Let them know what we’ve done and discovered.”
P’dor jerked his head in acknowledgment and turned away.
“Wait!” T’mar called after him. “You’ll need my reports.”
K’lior raised a hand to dissuade him, but T’mar shook his head, lifting his
carisak from his side. “I wrote ’em out before we left.”
“Excellent!” K’lior replied enthusiastically. Then he wagged a finger at the
exhausted bronze rider. “Now, get some rest.”
“I’m sorry, J’ken, but I can’t risk it,” B’nik said solemnly to the stricken
bronze rider. “Turn your wing over to T’mac.”
“But it’s just a cough!” J’ken exclaimed desperately, turning to M’tal, Ketan,
and the others for support. “And you need every fighting dragon—”
“Exactly,” B’nik cut across him. “I can’t risk any accidents. That’s why J’tol
and half my wing aren’t flying, either. Limanth has the sickness, so you and
he won’t fly Thread.”
“I made the mistake once,” M’tal added. “And you remember what a
disaster that was.”
J’ken hung his head in resignation.
“You can help with the weyrlings,” B’nik offered consolingly. “That will free
up P’gul to fly with Kirth.”
J’ken gave him a stricken look, swallowed, and nodded wearily.
With a jerk of his head to M’tal, B’nik strode away to supervise the rest of
the Weyr in its preparation for Threadfall over Benden.
Ketan and Lorana exchanged looks. He cocked his head toward B’nik and
raised his eyebrows at her questioningly. Lorana sighed and strode off after
B’nik.
“B’nik!” she called out. The Weyrleader stopped and turned back to her,
waving M’tal along.
“This is the last time,” B’nik promised, answering her unspoken question,
his expression bleak, his hands raised halfway in entreaty. “M’tal will lead
the next Fall.”
Lorana nodded and grabbed his hands in hers. “Be careful.”
“I will,” B’nik promised. “For all our sakes.”
“And when you get back, you’ll tell Tullea,” she said.
B’nik let out a deep sigh and nodded. He turned away from her, toward his
dragon.
“Weyrleader!” she called after him. “Safe Fall!”
B’nik raised his arm in salute.
Lorana was surprised to find, after an hour’s searching, that Kindan was in
the Weyr’s Records Room once more.
“I thought we’d exhausted this approach,” she remarked as she entered the
room and dropped into a chair.
Kindan looked up from his reading and flashed her a hesitant smile.
“We did,” he agreed. “I was just looking for maps of the Weyr to show to
Dalor.”
“No luck with that other door, then?”
“No,” Kindan said, shaking his head ruefully. “But Dalor doesn’t want to use
force just yet—he’s afraid of jamming the door shut.”
“Wise,” Lorana agreed. She gestured toward the Records spread out in
front of him. “Any luck?”
Kindan shrugged and slumped further into his chair. “Not yet.”
Dalor stuck his head in the door just then. “There’s a rock slide down the
corridor here, did you know?”
“Yes, that’s the one we talked about the last time you were here. It’s been
that way for Turns,” Kindan replied. “Probably happened during the last
Pass.”
“I’d like to try to clear it,” Dalor said. “It might not be the right way, but it’s not
far above the Oldtimer Room and the corridor walls look smooth, like the
walls to the Oldtimer Room.”
“It’s worth a try,” Lorana agreed.
“Tullea won’t like the noise,” Kindan said.
“She’ll change her tune when B’nik tells her,” Lorana murmured.
“Tells her what?” Dalor asked. Kindan just looked at her.
Lorana frowned, sighing. “Caranth has the illness.”
An uncomfortable silence fell.
“We’ll find the way through that other door,” Dalor declared firmly. With a
nod, he turned and left, calling out orders to his miners.
“He’ll make a good Masterminer,” Kindan said fondly.
“Are you always plotting for your friends?” Lorana asked, grinning.
“Only the good ones,” Kindan replied with a grin of his own. His mood
changed. “Lorana, I want to apologize—”
Lorana raised a hand and shook her head, silencing him. “We have more
important things to consider.”
“Not for me,” Kindan declared, looking her squarely in the face. “I love you.
I—”
“Kindan,” Lorana said softly. She rose from her chair and walked to stand
behind his. In a flash, she leaned over and wrapped her arms around his
neck.
“I love you, too,” she murmured into his ear. Then something on the Record
he had been perusing caught her eye.
“What’s that?” she asked, cocking her head critically and pointing to the
lower corner of the Record.
Kindan bent over to peer closely at the spot, then sat bolt upright. “That’s it!
Those are the Oldtimer Rooms!”
“It looks like there are three,” Lorana remarked, peering over his shoulder.
“And it looks like the corridor that Dalor’s excavating should lead right into
the big one,” Kindan agreed.
“Words are not enough to express our thanks, Weyrleader,” J’lantir called
as K’lior and three full-strength wings of Fort dragons burst into the air over
Keroon.
“You’d do the same if our roles were reversed,” K’lior replied with a
dismissive gesture. “After all, ‘Dragonmen must fly—’ ”
Piyolth reports the leading edge of Thread,
Lolanth relayed.
Gaminth
sends his regards.
J’lantir peered and could see a group of Benden riders, with a bronze in the