Dragonquest

CHAPTER XII

Morning at Benden Weyr

Predawn at High Reaches Weyr

As SOON as he could, F’nor left the Council Room in search of F’lar. He retrieved the pot of revolting grubs which he’d left in a shadowed recess of the weyr corridor.

He’s in his quarters, Canth told his rider.

“What does Mnementh say of F’lar?”

There was a pause and F’nor found himself wondering if dragons spoke among themselves as men spoke to them.

Mnementh is not worried about him.

F’nor caught the faintest emphasis on the pronoun and was about to question Canth further when little Grall swooped, on whirring wings, to his shoulder. She wrapped her tail around his neck and rubbed against his cheek adoringly.

“Getting braver, little one?” F’nor added approving thoughts to the humor of his voice.

There was a suggestion of smug satisfaction about Grall as she flipped her wings tightly to her back and sunk her talons into the heavy padding Brekke had attached to the left tunic shoulder for that purpose. The lizards preferred a shoulder to a forearm perch.

F’lar emerged from the sleeping room, his face lighting with eagerness as he realized F’nor was alone and awaiting him.

“You’ve the grubs? Good. Come.”

“Now, wait a minute,” F’nor protested, catching F’lar by the shoulder as the Weyrleader began to move toward the outer ledge.

“Come! Before we’re seen.” They got down the stairs without being intercepted and F’lar directed F’nor toward the newly opened entrance by the Hatching Ground. “The lizards were parceled out fairly?” he asked, grinning as Grall tucked herself as close to F’nor’s ear as she could when they passed the Ground entrance.

F’nor chuckled. “Groghe took over, as you probably guessed he would. The Lord Holders of Ista and Igen, Warbret and Laudey, magnanimously disqualified themselves on the grounds that their Holds were more likely to have eggs, but Lord Sangel of Boll took a pair. Lytol didn’t!”

F’lar sighed, shaking his head regretfully.

“I didn’t think he would but I’d hoped he’d try. Not a substitute for Larth, his dead brown, but – well . . .”

They were in the brightly lit, newly cleaned corridor now, which F’nor hadn’t seen. Involuntarily he glanced to the right, grinning as he saw that any access to the old peephole on the Grounds had been blocked off.

“That’s mean.”

“Huh?” F’lar looked startled. “Oh, that. Yes. Lessa said it upset Ramoth too much. And Mnementh agreed.” He gave his half brother a bemused grin, half for Lessa’s quirk, half for the mutual nostalgic memory of their own terror-ridden exploration of that passage, and a clandestine glimpse of Nemorth’s eggs. “There’s a chamber back here that suits my purpose . . .”

“Which is?”

F’lar hesitated, giving F’nor a long, thoughtful look.

“Since when have you found me a reluctant conspirator?” asked F’nor.

“It’s asking more than . . .”

“Ask first!”

They had reached the first room of the complex discovered by Jaxom and Felessan. But the bronze rider did not give F’nor time to examine the fascinating design on the wall or the finely made cabinets and tables. He hurried him past the second room to the biggest chamber where a series of graduated, rectangular open stone troughs were set around the floor. Other equipment had obviously been removed at some ancient time, leaving puzzling holes and grooves in the walls, but F’nor was startled to see that the tubs were planted with shrubs, grasses, common field and crop seedlings. A few small hardwood trees were evident in the largest troughs.

F’lar gestured for the grub pot which F’nor willingly handed over.

“Now, I’m going to put some of these grubs in all but this container, F’lar said, indicating the medium-sized one. Then he started to distribute the squirming grubs.

“Proving what?”

F’lar gave him a long deep look so reminiscent of the days when they had dared each other as weyrlings that F’nor couldn’t help grinning.

“Proving what?” he insisted.

“Proving first, that these southern grubs will prosper in northern soil among northern plants . . .”

“And . . .”

“That they will eliminate Thread here as they did in the western swamp.”

They both watched, in a sort of revolted fascination, as the wriggling gray mass of grubs broke apart and separately burrowed into the loose dark soil of the biggest tub.

“What?”

F’nor experienced a devastating disorientation. He saw F’lar as a weyrling, challenging him to explore and find the legendary peekhole to the Ground. He saw F’lar again, older, in the Records Room, surrounded by moldering skins, suggesting that they jump between time itself to stop Thread at Nerat. And he imagined himself suggesting to F’lar to support him when he let Canth fly Brekke’s Wirenth . . .

“But we didn’t see Thread do anything,” he said, getting a grip on perspective and time.

“What else could have happened to Thread in those swamps? You know as surely as we’re standing here that it was a four-hour Fall. And we fought only two. You saw the scoring. You saw the activity of the grubs. And I’ll bet you had a hard time finding enough to fill that pot because they only rise to the surface when Thread falls. In fact, you can go back in time and see it happen.”

F’nor grimaced, remembering that it had taken a long time to find enough grubs. It’d been a strain, too, with every nerve of man, dragon and lizard alert for a sign of T’kul’s patrols. “I should have thought of that myself. But – Thread’s not going to fall over Benden . . .”

“You’ll be at Telgar and Ruatha Holds this afternoon when the Fall starts. This time, you’ll catch some Thread.”

If there had not been an ironical, humorous gleam in his half-brother’s eyes, F’nor would have thought him delirious.

“Doubtless,” F’nor said acidly, “you’ve figured out exactly how I’m to achieve this.”

F’lar brushed the hair back from his forehead.

“Well, I am open to suggestion . . .”

“That’s considerate, since it’s my hand that’s to be scored.”

“You’ve got Canth, and Grall to help . . .”

“If they’re mad enough . . .”

“Mnementh explained it all to Canth . . .”

“That’s helpful . .”

“I wouldn’t ask you to do it if I could myself!” And F’lar’s patience snapped.

“I know!” F’nor replied with equal force, and then grinned because he knew he’d do it.

“All right.” F’lar grinned in acknowledgment. “Fly low altitude near the queens. Watch for a good thick patch. Follow it down. Canth’s skillful enough to let you get close with one of those long-handled hearthpans. And Grall can wipe out any Thread which burrows. I can’t think of any other way to get some. Unless, of course, we were flying over one of the stone plateaus, but even then . . .”

“All right, let us assume I can catch some live, viable Thread,” and the brown rider could not suppress the tremor that shook him, “and let us assume that the grubs do – dispose of them. What then?”

With a ghost of a smile on his lips, F’lar spread his arms wide. “Why then, son of my father, we breed us hungry grub by the tankful and spread them over Pern.”

F’nor jammed both fists into his belt. The man was feverish.

“No, I’m not feverish, F’nor!” the bronze rider replied, settling himself on the edge of the nearest tank. “But if we could have this kind of protection,” and he picked up the now empty pot, turning it back and forth in his hand as if it held the sum of his theory, “Thread could fall when and where it wanted to without creating the kind of havoc and revolution we’re going through.

“Mind you, there’s nothing remotely hinting at such events in any of the Harper Records. Yet I’ve been asking myself why it has taken us so long to spread out across this continent. In the thousands of Turns, given the rate of increase in population over the last four hundred, why aren’t there more people? And why, F’nor, has no one tried to reach that Red Star before, if it is only just another kind of jump for a dragon?”

“Lessa told me about Lord Groghe’s demand,” F’nor said, to give himself time to absorb his brother’s remarkable and logical questions.

“It isn’t just that we couldn’t see the Star to find coordinates,” F’lar went on urgently. “The Ancients had the equipment. They preserved it carefully, though not even Fandarel can guess how. They preserved it for us, perhaps? For a time when we’d know how to overcome the last obstacle?”

“Which is the last obstacle?” F’nor demanded, sarcastically, thinking of nine or ten off hand.

“There’re enough, I know.” And F’lar ticked them off on his fingers. “Protection of Pern while all the Weyrs are away – which might well mean the grubs on the land and a well organized ground crew to take care of homes and people. Dragons big enough, intelligent enough to aid us. You’ve noticed yourself that our dragons are both bigger and smarter than those four hundred Turns older. If the dragons were bred for this purpose from creatures like Grall, they didn’t grow to present size in the course of just a few Hatchings. Any more than the Masterherdsman could breed those long-staying long-legged runners he’s finally developed, it’s a project that I understand started about four hundred Turns ago G’narish says they didn’t have them in the Oldtime.”

There was an undercurrent to F’lar’s voice, F’nor suddenly realized. The man was not as certain of this outrageous notion as he sounded. And yet, wasn’t the recognized goal of dragonmen the complete extermination of all Thread from the skies of Pern? Or was it? There wasn’t a line of the Teaching Ballads and Sagas that even suggested more than that the dragonmen prepare and guard Pern when the Red Star passed. Nothing hinted at a time when there would be no Thread to fight.

“Isn’t it just possible that we, now, are the culmination of thousands of Turns of careful planning and development?” F’lar was suggesting urgently. “Look, don’t all the facts corroborate? The large population in support, the ingenuity of Fandarel, the discovery of those rooms and the devices, the grubs – everything . . .”

“Except one,” F’nor said slowly, hating himself.

“Which?” All the warmth and fervor drained out of F’lar and that single word came in a cold, harsh voice.

“Son of my father,” began F’nor, taking a deep breath, “if dragonmen clear the Star of Thread, what further purpose is there for them?”

F’lar, his face white and set with disappointment, drew himself to his feet.

“Well, I assume you’ve an answer to that, too,” F’nor went on, unable to bear the disillusion in his half-brother’s scornful regard. “Now where’s that long-handled hearthpan I’m supposed to catch Thread in?”

When they had thoroughly discussed and rejected every other possible method of securing Thread, and how they were to keep this project a secret – only Lessa and Ramoth knew of it – they parted, both assuring the other that he’d eat and rest. Both certain that the other could not.

If F’nor appreciated the audacity of F’lar’s project, he also counted up the flaws and the possible disasters. And then he realized that he still hadn’t had a chance to broach the innovation he himself desired to make. Yet, for a brown dragon to fly a queen was far less revolutionary than F’lar wanting to terminate the Weyrs’ duties. And, reinforced by one of F’lar’s own theories, if the dragons were now big enough for their ultimate breeding purpose, then no harm was done the species if a brown, smaller than a bronze, was mated to a queen – just this once. Surely F’nor deserved that compensation. Comforted that it would be merely an exchange of favors, rather than the gross crime it might once have been considered, F’nor went to borrow the long-handled hearthpan from one of Manora’s helpers.

Someone, probably Manora, had cleaned his weyr during his absence at Southern. F’nor was grateful for the fresh, supple skins on the bed, the clean, mended clothes in his chest, the waxed wood of table and chairs. Canth grumbled that someone had swept the sandy accumulation from his weyr-couch and he had nothing to scour his belly hide with now.

F’nor dutifully sympathized as he lay back on the silky furs of his bed. The scar on his arm itched a little and he rubbed it.

Oil is for itching skin, said Canth. Imperfect hide cracks in between.

“Be quiet, you. I’ve got skin, not hide.”

Grall appeared in his room, hovering over his chest, her wings wafting cool air across his face. She was curious, a curiosity with slight overtones of alarm.

He smiled, generating reassurance and affection. The gyrations of her lovely jewel-faceted eyes slowed and she made a graceful survey of his quarters, humming when she discovered the bathing room. He could hear her splashing about in the water. He closed his eyes. He would need to rest. He did not look forward to the afternoon’s endeavor.

If the grubs did live to eat Thread, and if F’lar could maneuver the scared Lords and Craftsmen into accepting this solution, what then? They weren’t fools, those men. They’d see that Pern would no longer be dependent on Dragonriders. Of course, that’s what they wanted. And what under the sun did out-of-work Dragonriders do? The Lords Holders Groghe, Sangel, Nessel, Meron and Vincet would immediately dispense with tithes. F’nor wouldn’t object to learning another trade, but F’lar had relinquished their tentative hold on the southern continent to the Oldtimers, so where would dragonmen farm? What commodity would they barter for the products of the Crafthalls?

F’lar couldn’t be under the impression that he could mend that breach with T’kul, could he? Or maybe – well, they didn’t know how large the southern continent was. Past the deserts to the west or the unexplored sea to the east, maybe there were other, hospitable lands. Did F’lar know more than he said? Grall chirruped piteously in his ear. She was clinging to the fur rug by his shoulder, her supple hide gleaming golden from her bath. He stroked her, wondering if she needed oil. She was growing, but not at the tremendous rate dragons did in the first few weeks after Hatching.

Well, his thoughts were disturbing her as well as himself. “Canth?”

The dragon was asleep. The fact was oddly consoling.

F’nor found a comfortable position and closed his eyes, determined to rest. Grall’s soft stirrings ended and he felt her body resting against his neck, in the curve of his shoulder. He wondered how Brekke was doing at the High Reaches. And if her small bronze was as unsettled by Weyrlife in a cliff as Grall. A memory of Brekke’s face crossed his mind. Not as he had last seen her, anxious, worried, rapidly mobilizing her wits to cope with moving so precipitously after T’kul had swooped down on the unsuspecting settlement. But as loving had made her, soft, gentled. He’d have her soon to himself all to himself, for he’d see that she didn’t over extend herself fighting everyone’s battles except her own. She’d be asleep now, he realized, for it was still night at High Reaches . . .

Brekke was not asleep. She had awakened suddenly, as she was accustomed to doing in the morning, except that the dark stillness around her was not simply that of an inner room in the weyr cliff, but was full of the soft solitude of night. The fire lizard, Berd, roused too, his brilliant eyes the only light in the room. He crooned apprehensively. Brekke stroked him, listening for Wirenth, but the queen was sound asleep in her stony couch.

Brekke tried to compose herself back into sleep, but even as she made her body relax, she realized it was a useless attempt. It might be late watch here at High Reaches, but it was dawn in Southern, and that’s the rhythm her body was still tuned to. With a sigh, she rose, reassuring Berd who rustled around anxiously. But he joined her in the pool – bath, splashing with small vehemence in the warm water, utilizing the superfluous suds from her cleansing sands to bathe himself. He preened on the bench, uttering those soft voluptuous croons that amused her. In a way, it was good to be up and about with no one to interrupt her for there was so much to be done to settle the weyrfolk in their new habitation. She’d have to plan around some of the most obvious problems. There was little fresh food. T’kul had gratuitously left behind the oldest, scrawniest bucks, the worst furnishings, had made off with most of the supplies of cloth, cured woods, leathers, all the wine, and managed to prevent the Southern folk from taking enough from their stores to make up the deficits. Oh, if she’d had even two hours, or any warning . . .

She sighed. Obviously Merika had been a worse Weyrwoman than Kylara, for High Reaches was in a bad state of disrepair. Those Holds which tithed to High Reaches Weyr would be in no mood to make up the differences now. Maybe a discreet word to F’nor would remedy the worst of the lacks. . . No, that would suggest incompetency. First, she’d inventory what they did have, discover the most pressing needs, see what they could manufacture themselves . . . Brekke stopped. She’d have to adjust her thinking to an entirely new way of life, a life dependent on the generosity of the Holds. In Southern, you had so much to work with. In her father’s Crafthall, you always made what you could from things to hand – but there were always raw materials – or you grew it – or did without.

“One thing certain, Kylara will not do without!” Brekke muttered. She had dressed in riding gear which was warmer and less hampering if she was to delve into storage caves.

She didn’t like the pinched-faced Meron Lord of Nabol Hold. To be indebted to him would be abhorrent. There must be an alternative.

Wirenth was twitching as Brekke passed her and the dragon’s hide gleamed in the darkness. She was so deeply asleep that Brekke did not even stroke her muzzle in passing. The dragon had worked hard yesterday. Could it really have been only yesterday?

Berd chirped so smugly as he glided past the queen that Brekke smiled. He was a dear nuisance, as transparent as pool water – and she must check and see if Rannelly was right about the Weyr lake. The old woman had complained bitterly last evening that the water was fouled – deliberately; maliciously fouled by T’kul.

It was startling to come out into crisply cold air with the pinch of late frost in the early hour chill. Brekke glanced up at the watchrider by the Star stones and then hurried down the short flight of steps to the Lower Caverns. The fires had been banked but the water kettle was comfortingly hot. She made klah, found bread and fruit for herself and some meat for Berd. He was beginning to eat with less of the barbarous voracity, and no longer gorged himself into somnolence.

Taking a fresh basket of glows, Brekke went into the storage section to begin her investigations. Berd cheerfully accompanied her, perching where he could watch her industry.

By the time the Weyr began to stir, four hours later, Brekke was full of contempt for past domestic management and considerably relieved about the resources on hand. In fact, she suspected that the best fabrics and leathers, not to mention wines, had not gone south with the dissenters.

But the lake water was indisputably fouled by household garbage and would have to be dredged. It wouldn’t be usable for several days at least. And there was nothing in which water could be transported in any quantity from the nearby mountain streams. It seemed silly to send a dragon out for a couple of bucketsful, she reported to T’bor and Kylara.

“I’ll get kegs from Nabol,” Kylara announced, once she had recovered from ranting about T’kul’s pettiness.

While it was obvious to Brekke that T’bor was not pleased to hear her solution, he had too much else to occupy his time to protest. At least, Brekke thought, Kylara was taking an interest in the Weyr and some of the responsibility.

So Kylara circled out of the Bowl, Prideth shining golden in the early morning sun. And T’bor took off with several wings for low-altitude sweeps, to get familiar with the terrain and set up appropriate watch fires and patrol check points. Brekke and Vanira, with the help of Pilgra, the only High Reaches Weyrwoman to stay behind, settled who would supervise which necessary duties. They set the weyrlings to dragging the lake, sent others for immediate supplies of fresh water.

Deeply occupied in counting sacks of flour, Brekke did not hear Wirenth’s first cry. It was Berd who responded with a startled squawk, flying round Brekke’s head to attract her attention.

As Brekke felt for Wirenth’s mind, she was astonished at the incoherence, at the rough, wild emotions. Wondering what could have happened to a queen who’d been so peacefully asleep, Brekke raced through the corridors, to be met in the Lower Cavern by Pilgra, wide-eyed with excitement.

“Wirenth’s ready to rise, Brekke. I’ve called back the riders! She’s on her way to the Feeding Ground. You know what to do, don’t you?”

Brekke stared at the girl, stunned. In a daze she let Pilgra pull her toward the Bowl. Wirenth was screaming, as she glided into the Feeding Ground. The terrified herdbeasts stampeded, keening their distress, adding to the frightening tension in the air.

“Go on, Brekke,” Pilgra cried, pushing her. “Don’t let her gorge. She won’t fly well!”

“Help me!” Brekke pleaded.

Pilgra embraced her reassuringly, with an odd smile. “Don’t be scared. It’s wonderful.”

“I – I can’t . . .”

Pilgra gave Brekke a shake. “Of course you can. You must. I’ve got to scoot with Segrith. Vanira’s already taken her queen away.”

“Taken her away?”

“Of course. Don’t be stupid. You can’t have other queens around right now. Just be thankful Kylara’s at Nabol Hold with Prideth. That one’s too close to rising herself.”

And Pilgra, with one last push at Brekke, ran toward her own queen.

Rannelly was at Brekke’s elbow suddenly, batting at the excited fire lizard who darted above their heads.

“Get away! Get away! You, girl, get to your queen or you’re no Weyrwoman! Don’t let her gorge!”

Suddenly the air was again full of dragon wings – the bronzes had returned. And the urgency of mating, the necessity of protecting Wirenth roused Brekke. She began to run toward the Feeding Ground, aware of the rising hum of the bronzes, the expectant sensuality of the browns and blues and greens who now perched on their ledges to watch the event. Weyrfolk crowded the Bowl.

“F’nor! F’nor! What shall I do?” Brekke moaned. And then she was aware that Wirenth had come down on a buck, shrieking her defiance; an altered, unrecognizable Wirenth, voracious with more than a blood urge.

“She mustn’t gorge!” someone shouted at Brekke. Someone gripped her arms to her sides, tightly. “Don’t let her gorge, Brekke!”

But Brekke was with Wirenth now, was feeling the insatiable desire for raw, hot meat, for the taste of blood in her mouth, the warmth of it in her belly. Brekke was unaware of extraneous matters. Of anything but the fact that Wirenth was rising to mate and that she, Brekke, would be captive to those emotions, a victim of her dragon’s lust, and that this was contrary to all she had been conditioned to believe and honor.

Wirenth had gutted the first buck by now and Brekke fought to keep her from eating the steaming entrails. Fought and won, controlling herself and her beast for the bond – love she had with the golden queen. When Wirenth rose from the blooded carcass, Brekke became momentarily aware of the heavy, hot, musty bodies crowding around her. Frantic, she glanced up at the circle of bronze riders, their faces intent on the scene on the Feeding Ground, intent and sensual, their expressions changing them from well-known features into strange parodies.

“Brekke! Control her!” Someone shouted hoarsely in her ear and her elbow was seized in a painful vise.

This was wrong! All wrong! Evil, she moaned, desperately crying with all her spirit for F’nor. He had said he’d come. He had promised that only Canth would fly Wirenth . . . Canth! Canth!

Wirenth was going for the throat of the buck, not to blood it, but to rend and eat the flesh.

Two disciplines warred with each other. Confused, distraught, torn as violently as the flesh of the dead buck Brekke nevertheless forced Wirenth to obey her. And yet, which force would finally win? Weyr or Crafthall? Brekke clung to the hope that F’nor would come – the third alternate.

After the fourth buck, Wirenth seemed to glow. With an astonishing leap, she was suddenly aloft. Trumpeting roar reverberated painfully back and forth from the sides of the Weyr as the bronzes leaped after her, the wind from their wings sweeping dust and sand into the faces of the watching weyrfolk.

And Brekke was conscious of nothing but Wirenth. For she was suddenly Wirenth, contemptuous of the bronzes trying to catch her as she sped upward, eastward, high above the mountains, until the land below was hollow black and sand, the flash of blue lake in the sun blinding. Above the clouds, up where the air was thin but speed enhanced.

And then, out of the clouds below her, another dragon. A queen, as glowingly golden as herself. A queen? To lure her dragons from her?

Screaming in protest, Wirenth dove at the intruder, her talons extended, her body no longer exulting in flight but tensed for combat.

She dove and the intruder veered effortlessly, turning so swiftly to rake her talons down Wirenth’s exposed flank that the young queen could not evade the strike. Injured, Wirenth fell, recovering valiantly and swooping into cloud cover. The bronzes had caught up and bugled their distress. They wanted to mate. They wanted to interfere. The other queen – it was Prideth – believing her rival vanquished, called enticingly to the bronzes.

Fury was added to the pain of Wirenth’s humiliation. She exploded from the clouds, bellowing her challenge, her summons to the bronzes.

And her opponent was there! Beneath Wirenth. The young queen folded her wings and dove, her golden body dropping at a fearsome rate. And her dive was too unexpected, too fast. Prideth could not avoid the mid-air collision. Wirenth’s claws sank into her back and Prideth writhed, her wings fouled by the talons which she could not disengage. Both queens fell like Thread, toward the mountains, escorted by the distraughtly bugling bronzes.

With the desperation born of frenzy, Prideth wrenched herself free, Wirenth’s talons leaving gouges to the bone along her shoulders. But as she twisted free, beating for altitude, she slashed at Wirenth’s unprotected head, across one gleaming eye.

Wirenth’s tortured scream pierced the heavens just as other queens broke into the air around them; queens who instantly divided, one group flying for Prideth, the other for Wirenth.

Implacably they circled Wirenth, forcing her back, away from Prideth, their circles ever decreasing, a living net around the infuriated, pain-racked queen. Sensing only that she was being deprived of revenge on her foe, Wirenth saw the one escape route and folding her wings, dropped out the bottom of the net and darted toward the other group of queens.

Prideth’s tail protruded, and on this Wirenth fastened her teeth, dragging the other from protective custody. No sooner were they clear than Wirenth bestrode the older queen’s back, talons digging deeply into her wing muscles, her jaws sinking into the unprotected neck.

They fell, Wirenth making no attempt to stop their dangerous descent. She could see nothing from her damaged eye. She paid no attention to the screams of the other queens, the circling bronzes. Then something seized her body roughly from above, giving her a tremendous jerk.

Unable to see on the right, Wirenth was forced to relinquish her hold to contend with this new menace. But as she turned, she caught a glimpse of a great golden body directly below Prideth. Above her – Canth! Canth? Hissing at such treachery, she was unable to realize that he was actually trying to rescue her from sure death on the dangerously close mountain peaks. Ramoth, too, was attempting to stop their plunge, supporting Prideth with her body, her great wings straining with effort.

Suddenly teeth closed on Wirenth’s neck, close to the major artery at the junction of the shoulder. Wirenth’s mortal scream was cut off as she now struggled for breath itself. Wounded by foe, hampered by friends, Wirenth desperately transferred between, taking Prideth with her, jaws death-locked on her life’s blood.

The bronze fire lizard, Berd, found F’nor preparing to join the wings at the western meadows of Telgar Hold. The brown rider was so astonished at first to see the little bronze in Benden so far from his mistress that he didn’t immediately grasp the frenzied creature’s thoughts.

But Canth did.

Wirenth has risen!

All other considerations forgotten, F’nor ran with Canth to the ledge. Grall grabbed at her perch on his shoulder, wrapping her tail so tightly around F’nor’s neck that he had to loosen it forcibly. Then Berd could not be brought to roost and precious moments were lost while Canth managed to calm the little bronze sufficiently to accept instruction. As Berd finally settled, Canth let out so mighty a bugle that Mnementh challenged from the ledge and Ramoth roared back from the Hatching Ground.

With no thought of the effect of their precipitous exit or Canth’s exceptional behavior, F’nor urged his dragon upward. The small pulse of reason that remained untouched by emotion was trying to estimate how long it had taken the little bronze to reach him, how long Wirenth would blood before rising, which bronzes were at High Reaches. He was thankful that F’lar had not had time to throw mating flights open. There were some beasts against whom Canth stood no chance.

When they broke into the air again over High Reaches Weyr, F’nor’s worst fears were realized. The Feeding Ground was a bloody sight and no queen fed there. Nor was there a bronze among the dragons who ringed the Weyr heights.

Without order, Canth wheeled sharply down at dizzying speed.

Berd knows where Wirenth is. He takes me.

The little bronze hopped down to Canth’s neck, his little talons gripping the ridge tightly. F’nor slid from Canth’s shoulder to the ground, staggering out of the way so the brown could spring back aloft.

Prideth also rises! The thought and the brown’s scream of fear were simultaneous. From the heights the other dragons answered, extending their wings in alarm.

“Rouse Ramoth!” F’nor shouted, mind and voice, his body paralyzed with shock. “Rouse Ramoth! Bronze riders! Prideth also rises!”

Weyrfolk rushed from the Lower Cavern, riders appeared on their ledges around the Weyr face.

“Kylara! T’bor! Where’s Pilgra? Kylara! Varena!” Shouting with a panic that threatened to choke him. F’nor raced for Brekke’s weyr, shoving aside the people who crowded him, demanding explanations.

Prideth rising! How could that happen? Even the stupidest Weyrwoman knew you didn’t keep a queen near her weyr during a mating flight – unless they were broody. How could Kylara . . .

“T’bor!”

F’nor raced up the short flight of steps, pounded down the corridor in strides that jolted his half-healed arm. But the a pain cleared his head of panic. Just as he burst into the weyr cavern, Brekke’s angry cry halted him. The bronze riders grouped around her were beginning to show the effects of the interrupted mating flight.

“What’s she doing here? How dare she?” Brekke was shrieking in a voice shrill with lust as well as fury. “These are my dragons! How dare she! I’ll kill her!” The litany broke into a piercing scream of agony as Brekke doubled up, right shoulder hunching as if to protect her head.

“My eye! My eye! My eye!” Brekke was covering her right eye, her body writhing in an uncontrollable, unconscious mimicry of the aerial battle to which she was tuned.

“Kill! I’ll kill her! No! No! She cannot escape. Go away!” Suddenly Brekke’s face turned crafty and her whole body writhed sensuously.

The bronze riders were changing now, no longer completely in the thrall of the strange mental rapport with their beasts. Fear, doubt, indecision, hopelessness registered on their faces. Some portion of the human awareness was returning, fighting with the dragon responsiveness and the interrupted mating flight. When T’bor reached for Brekke, human fear was reflected in his eyes.

But she was still totally committed to Wirenth, and the incredible triumph on her face registered Wirenth’s success in evading capture, in dragging Prideth from the encircling queens.

“Prideth has risen, T’bor! The queens are fighting,” F’nor shouted.

One rider began to scream and the sound broke the link of two others who stared, dazed, at Brekke’s contorting body.

“Don’t touch her!” F’nor cried, moving to fend off T’bor and another man. He moved as close to her as possible but her ranging eyes did not see him or anything in the weyr.

Then she seemed to spring, her left eye widening with an unholy joy, her lips bared as her teeth fastened on an imaginary target, her body arching with the empathic effort.

Suddenly she hissed, craning her head sideways, over her right shoulder, while her face reflected incredulity, horror, hatred. As suddenly, her body was seized with a massive convulsion. She screamed again, this time a mortal shriek of unbelievable terror and anguish. One hand went to her throat the other batted at some unseen attacker. Her body, poised on her toes, strained in an agonized stretch. With a cry that was more gasp than scream, she whirled. In her eyes was Brekke’s soul again, tortured, terrified. Then her eyes closed, her body sagged in such an alarming collapse that F’nor barely caught her in time.

The stones of the weyr itself seemed to reverberate with the mourning dirge of the dragons.

“T’bor, send someone for Manora,” F’nor cried in a hoarse voice as he bore Brekke to her couch. Her body was so light in his arms – as if all substance had been drained from it. He held her tightly to his chest with one arm, fumbling to find the pulse in her neck with the free hand. It beat – faintly.

What had happened? How could Kylara have allowed Prideth near Wirenth?

“They’re both gone,” T’bor was saying as he stumbled into the sleeping room and sagged down on the clothes chest, trembling violently.

“Where’s Kylara? Where is she?”

“Don’t know. I left this morning to fly patrols.” T’bor scrubbed at his face, shock bleaching the ruddy color from his skin. “The lake was polluted . . .”

F’nor piled furs around Brekke’s motionless body. He held his hand against her chest, feeling its barely perceptible rise and fall.

F’nor?

It was Canth, his call so faint, so piteous that the man closed his eyes against the pain in his dragon’s tone.

He felt someone grip his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see the pity, the understanding in T’bor’s. “There’s nothing more you can do for her right now, F’nor.”

“She’ll want to die. Don’t let her!” he said. “Don’t let Brekke die!”

Canth was on the ledge, his eyes glowing dully. He was swaying with exhaustion. F’nor encircled the bowed head with his arms, their mutual grief so intense they seemed afire with pain.

It was too late. Prideth had risen. Too close to Wirenth. Not even the queens could help. I tried, F’nor. I tried. She – she fell so fast. And she turned on me. Then went between. I could not find her between.

They stood together, immobile.

Lessa and Manora saw them as Ramoth circled into High Reaches Weyr. At Canth’s bellow, Ramoth had come out of the Hatching Ground, loudly calling for her rider, demanding an explanation of such behavior.

But F’lar, believing he knew Canth’s errand, had reassured her, until Ramoth had informed them that Wirenth was rising. And Ramoth knew instantly when Prideth rose, too, and had gone between to Nabol to stop the mortal combat if she could.

Once Wirenth had dragged Prideth between, Ramoth had returned to Benden Weyr for Lessa. The Benden dragons set up their keen so that the entire Weyr soon knew of the disaster. But Lessa waited only long enough for Manora to gather her medicines.

As she and the headwoman reached the ledge of Brekke’s weyr and the motionless mourners, Lessa looked anxiously to Manora. There was something dangerous in such stillness.

“They will work this out together. They are together, more now than ever before,” Manora said in a voice that was no more than a rough whisper. She passed them quietly, her head bent and her shoulders drooping as she hurried down the corridor to Brekke.

“Ramoth?” asked Lessa, looking down to where her queen had settled on the sands. It was not that she doubted Manora’s wisdom, but to see F’nor so – so reduced – upset her. He was much like F’lar . . .

Ramoth gave a soft croon and folded her wings. On the ledges around the Bowl, the other dragons began to settle in uneasy vigil.

As Lessa entered the Cavern of the Weyr, she glanced away from the empty dragon couch and then halted mid-step. The tragedy was only minutes past so the nine bronze riders were still in severe shock.

As well they might be, Lessa realized with deep sympathy. To be roused to performance intensity and then be, not only disappointed, but disastrously deprived of two queens at once! Whether a bronze won the queen or not, there was a subtle deep attachment between a queen and the bronzes of her Weyr . . .

However, Lessa concluded briskly, someone in this benighted Weyr ought to have sense enough to be constructive. Lessa broke this train of thought off abruptly. Brekke had been the responsible member. She turned, about to go in search of some stimulant for the dazed riders when she heard the uneven steps and stertorous breathing of someone in a hurry. Two green fire lizards darted into the weyr, hovering, chirping excitedly as a young girl came in at a half-run. She could barely manage the heavy tray she carried and she was weeping, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Oh!” she cried, seeing Lessa. She stifled her sobs, tried to bob a curtsey and blot her nose on her shoulder at one and the same time.

“Well, you’re a child with wits about you,” Lessa said briskly, but not without sympathy. She took one end of the tray and helped the girl deposit it on the table. “You brought strong spirits?” she asked, gesturing to the anonymous earthenware bottles.

“All I could find.” And the consonant ended in a sob.

“Here,” and Lessa held out a half-filled cup, nodding toward the nearest rider. But the child was motionless, staring at the curtain, her face twisted with grief, the tears flowing unnoticed down her cheeks. She was washing her hands together with such violent motions that the skin stretched white across her knuckles.

“You’re Mirrim?”

The child nodded, her eyes not leaving the closed entrance. Above her the greens whirred, echoing her distress.

“Manora is with Brekke, Mirrim.”

“But – but she’ll die. She’ll die. They say the rider dies, too, when the dragon is killed. They say . . .”

“They say entirely too much,” Lessa began and then Manora stood in the doorway.

“She lives. Sleep is the kindest blessing now.” She flipped the curtain shut and glanced at the men. “These could do with sleep. Have their dragons returned? Who’s this?” Manora touched Mirrim’s cheek, gently. “Mirrim? I’d heard you had green lizards.”

“Mirrim had the sense to bring the tray,” Lessa said, catching Manora’s eye.

“Brekke – Brekke would expect – ” and the girl could go no further.

“Brekke is a sensible person,” Manora said briskly and folded Mirrim’s fingers around a cup, giving her a shove toward a rider. “Help us now. These men need our help.”

In a daze, Mirrim moved, rousing herself to help actively when the bronze rider could not seem to get his fingers to the cup.

“My lady,” murmured Manora, “we need the Weyrleader. Ista and Telgar Weyrs would be fighting Thread by now and . . .”

“I’m here,” F’lar said from the weyr entrance. “And I’ll take a shot of that, too. Cold between is in my bones.”

“We’ve more fools than we need right now,” Lessa exclaimed, but her face brightened to see him there.

“Where’s T’bor?”

Manora indicated Brekke’s room.

“All right. Then where’s Kylara?”

And the cold of between was in his voice.

By evening some order had been restored to the badly demoralized High Reaches Weyr. The bronze dragons had all returned, been fed, and the bronze riders weyred with their beasts, sufficiently drugged to sleep.

Kylara had been found. Or, rather, returned, by the green rider assigned to Nabol Hold.

“Someone’s got to be quartered there,” the man said, his face grim, “but not me or my green.”

“Please report, S’goral.” F’lar nodded his appreciation of the rider’s feelings.

“She arrived at the Hold this morning, with some tale about the lake here being fouled and no kegs to hold any supply of water. I remember thinking that Prideth looked too gold to be out. She’s been off cycle, you know. But she settled down all right on the ridge with my green so I went about teaching those Holders how to manage their fire lizards.” S’goral evidently did not have much use for his pupils. “She went in with the Nabolese Holder. Later I saw their lizards sunning on the ledge outside the Lord’s sleeping room.” He paused, glancing at his audience and looking grimmer still. “We were taking a breather when my green cried out. Sure enough, there were dragons, high up. I knew it was a mating flight. You can’t mistake it. Then Prideth started to bugle. Next thing I knew, she was down among Nabol’s prize breeding stock. I waited a bit, sure that she’d be aware of what was happening, but when there wasn’t a sign of her, I went looking. Nabol’s bodyguards were at the door. The Lord didn’t want to be disturbed. Well, I disturbed him. I stopped him doing what he was doing. And that’s what was doing it! Setting Prideth off. That and being so close to rising herself, and seeing a mating flight right over her, so to speak. You don’t abuse your dragon that way.” He shook his head then. “There wasn’t anything me and my green could do there. So we took off for Fort Weyr, for their queens. But – ” and he held out his hands, indicating his helplessness.

“You did as you should, S’goral,” F’lar told him.

“There wasn’t anything else I could do,” the man insisted, as if he could not rid himself of some lingering feeling of guilt.

“We were lucky you were there at all,” Lessa said. “We might never have known where Kylara was.”

“What I want to know is what’s going to happen to her – now?” A hard vindictiveness replaced the half-shame, half-guilt in the rider’s face.

“Isn’t loss of a dragon enough?” T’bor roused himself to ask.

“Brekke lost her dragon, too,” S’goral retorted angrily, “and she was doing what she should!”

“Nothing can be decided in heat or hatred, S’goral,” F’lar said, rising to his feet. “We’ve no precedents – ” He broke off, turning to D’ram and G’narish. “Not in our time, at least.”

“Nothing should be decided in heat or hatred,” D’ram echoed, “but there were such incidents in our time.” Unaccountably he flushed. “We’d better assign some bronzes here, F’lar. The High Reaches men and beasts may not be fit tomorrow. And with Thread falling every day, no Weyr can be allowed to relax its vigilance. For anything.”