TEXT: II Evening (Fort Weyr Time).
  Meeting of the Weyrleaders at Fort Weyr
  III Morning over Lemos Hold
  IV Midday at Southern Weyr
  V Midmorning at Ruatha Hold
  Early Evening at Benden Weyr
  VI Midmorning at Southern Weyr
  Early Morning at Nabol Hold: Next Day
  VII Midmorning at Benden Weyr
  Early Morning at the Mastersmith’s Crafthall
  in Telgar Hold
  VIII Midmorning at Southern Weyr
  IX Afternoon at Southern Weyr: Same Day
  X Early Morning in Harpercrafthall at Fort Hold
  Afternoon at Telgar Hold
  XI Early Morning at Benden Weyr
  XII Morning at Benden Weyr
  Predawn at High Reaches Weyr
  XIII Night at Fort Weyr: Six Days Later
  XIV Early Morning at Ruatha Hold
  Midday at Benden Weyr
  
  men first settled on Rukbat’s third
  world and called it Pern, they had taken little notice of the stranger
  planet, swinging around its adopted
  primary in a wildly erratic elliptical orbit. For two generations, the colo-
  nists gave the bright red star little
  thought — until the desperate path of the wanderer brought it close to its
  stepsister at perihelion.
  When such aspects were harmonious and not distorted by conjunctions
  with other planets in the
  system, the indigenous life of the wanderer sought to bridge the space
  gap to the more temperate and
  hospitable planet.
  The initial losses the colonists suffered were staggering, and it was
  during the subsequent long
  struggle to survive and combat this menace dropping through Pern’s
  skies like silver threads that Pern’s
  tenuous contact with the mother planet was broken.
  To control the incursions of the dreadful Threads (for the Pernese had
  cannibalized their transport
  ships early on and abandoned such technological sophistication as was
  irrelevant to this pastoral planet),
  
  rock, they could emit a flaming gas.
  As the dragons could “fly,” they’d be able to char Thread mid-air, yet es-
  cape its worse ravages themselves.
  It took generations to develop to the full the use of this first phase. The
  second phase of the proposed
  defense against the spore incursions would take longer to mature. For
  Thread, a space-traveling
  mycorrhizoid spore, devoured organic matter with mindless voracity
  and, once grounded, burrowed and
  proliferated with terrifying speed.
  The originators of the two-stage defense program did not compensate
  sufficiently for chance nor for
  the psychological effect of visible extermination of this avid foe. For it
  was psychologically reassuring and
  deeply satisfying to the endangered Pernese to see the menace charred
  to impotence in mid-air. Also, the
  southern continent, where the second phase was initiated, proved un-
  tenable and the entire colony was
  moved to the northern continent to seek refuge from the Threads in the
  natural caves of the northern
  
  small to hold the colonists. Another settlement was started slightly to the
  north, by a great lake conveniently
  nestled near a cave-filled cliff. Ruatha Hold, too, became overcrowded
  in a few generations.
  Since the Red Star rose in the East, it was decided to start a holding in
  the eastern mountains,
  provided suitable accommodations could be found. Suitable accommo-
  dations now meant caves, for only
  solid rock and metal (of which Pern was in distressingly light supply)
  were impervious to the burning score of
  Thread.
  The winged, tailed, fiery-breathed dragons had now been bred to a size
  which required more space
  than the Cliffside Holds could provide. The ancient cave-pocked cones
  of extinct volcanoes, one high above
  the first Fort, the other in the Benden mountains, proved to be adequate,
  needing only a few improvements
  to be made habitable. However, such projects took the last of the fuel
  for the great stonecutters (which had
  been programmed for only diffident mining operations not wholesale cliff
  excavations), and subsequent
  
  Star was at the other end of its erratic orbit, a frozen, lonely captive. No
  Thread fell on Pern’s soil. The
  inhabitants began to enjoy life as they had thought to find it when they
  first landed on the lovely planet.
  They erased the depredations of Thread and grew crops, planted or-
  chards, thought of reforestry for the
  slopes denuded by Thread. They could even forget that they had been
  in grave danger of extinction. Then
  the Threads returned for another orbit around the lush planet — fifty
  years of danger from the skies — and
  the Pernese again thanked their ancestors, now many generations re-
  moved, for providing the dragons who
  seared the dropping Thread mid-air with their fiery breath.
  Dragonkind, too, had prospered during that interval; had settled in four
  other locations, following the
  master plan of interim defense. Men managed to forget completely that
  there had been a secondary
  measure against Thread.
  By the third Pass of the Red Star, a complicated socio-political-
  economic structure had been
  
  time away from the nurture of dragonkind to learn other trades during
  peacetime, nor time away from
  protecting the planet during Passes.
  Settlements, called Holds, developed wherever natural caves were
  found; some, of course, more
  extensive or strategically placed than others. It took a strong man to
  hold frantic terrified people in control
  during Thread attacks; it took wise administration to conserve victuals
  when nothing could safely be grown,
  and extraordinary measures to control population and keep it useful and
  healthy until such time as the
  menace had passed. Men with special skills in metalworking, animal
  breeding, farming, fishing, mining
  (such as there was), weaving, formed Crafthalls in each large Hold and
  looked to one Mastercrafthall where
  the precepts of their craft were taught, and craft skills preserved and
  guarded from one generation to.another. So that one Lord Holder could not
  deny the products of the Crafthall situated in his Hold to others
  of the planet, the Crafts were decreed independent of a Hold affiliation,
  each Craftmaster of a hall owing
  
  naturally, to the Dragonriders to whom all Pern looked for protection
  during Threadfalls.
  The Red Star would swing inexorably close to Pern, but it would also
  Pass again, and life could
  settle into a less frenzied pattern. Occasionally, the conjunction of
  Rukbat’s natural five satellites would
  prevent the Red Star from passing close enough to Pern to drop its
  fearful spores. Sometimes, though, as
  siblings will, Pern’s sister planets seemed to draw the Red Star closer
  still and Thread rained relentlessly on
  the unfortunate victim. Fear creates fanatics and the Pernese were no
  exception. Only the dragonmen
  could save Pern, and their position in the structure of the planet became
  inviolable.
  Mankind has a history of forgetting the unpleasant, the undesirable. By
  ignoring its existence, it can
  make the source of past Terror disappear. And the Red Star did not
  pass close enough to Pern to drop its
  Threads. The people prospered and multiplied, spreading out across the
  rich land, carving more holds out
  
  disrepute.
  When, in the course of natural forces, the Red Star began to spin closer
  to Pern, winking with a
  baleful red eye on its intended, ancient victim, one man, F’lar, rider of
  the bronze dragon, Mnementh,
  believed that the ancient tales had truth in them. His half-brother, F’nor,
  rider of brown Canth, listened to his
  arguments and found belief in them more exciting than the dull ways of
  the lone Weyr of Pern. When the
  last golden egg of a dying queen dragon lay hardening on the Benden
  Weyr Hatching Ground, F’lar and
  F’nor seized this opportunity to gain control of the Weyr. Searching
  through Ruatha Hold for a strong
  woman to ride the soon-to-be hatched young queen, F’lar and F’nor dis-
  covered Lessa, the only surviving
  member of the proud Bloodline of Ruatha Hold. She Impressed young
  Ramoth, the new queen, and
  became Weyrwoman of Benden Weyr. When F’lar’s bronze Mnementh
  flew the young queen in her first
  mating, F’lar became Weyrleader of Pern’s remaining dragonmen. The
  three riders, F’lar, Lessa and F’nor
  
  place and another, Lessa discovered that dragons could teleport be-
  tween time as well. Risking her life as
  well as Pern’s only queen dragon, Lessa and Ramoth went back in time,
  four hundred Turns, before the
  mysterious disappearance of the other five Weyrs, just after the Last
  Pass of the Red Star had been
  completed.
  The five Weyrs, seeing only the decline of their prestige and bored with
  inactivity after a lifetime of
  exciting combat, agreed to help Lessa’s Weyr and came forward to her
  Turn.
  Seven Turns have now passed since that triumphant journey forward,
  and the initial gratitude of the
  Holds and Crafts to the rescuing Oldtime Weyrs has faded and soured.
  And the Oldtimers themselves do
  not like the Pern in which they are now living. Four hundred Turns
  brought too many subtle changes, and
  dissensions mount.
  CHAPTER I
  Morning at Mastercrafthall, Fort Hold
  Several Afternoons Later at Benden Weyr
  
  He fancied the sand begged to be violated with words and notes while
  he, Pern’s repository and glib
  dispenser of any ballad, saga or ditty, was inarticulate. Yet he had to
  construct a ballad for the upcoming
  wedding of Lord Asgenar of Lemos Hold to the half-sister of Lord Larad
  of Telgar Hold. Because of recent
  reports of unrest from his network of drummers and Harper journeymen,
  Robinton had decided to remind the
  guests on this auspicious occasion — for every Lord Holder and Craft-
  master would be invited of the debt
  they owed the dragonmen of Pern. As the subject of his ballad, he had
  decided to tell of the fantastic ride,
  between time itself, of Lessa, Weyrwoman of Benden Weyr on her great
  golden queen, Ramoth. The Lords
  and Craftsmen of Pern had been glad enough then for the arrival of
  Dragonriders from the five ancient
  Weyrs from four hundred Turns in the past.
  Yet how to reduce those fascinating, frantic days, those braveries, to a
  rhyme? Even the most
  stirring chords could not recapture the beat of the blood, the catch of
  breath the chill of fear and the
  
  dismissed as myth, of the thought of burrows of the lightning propagat-
  ing parasites, of themselves walled up
  in the cliff-Holds behind thick metal doors and shutters. They’d been
  ready to promise F’lar their souls that
  day if he could protect them from Thread. And it was Lessa who had
  bought them that protection, almost
  with her life.
  Robinton looked up from the sandtrays, his expression suddenly bleak.
  “The sand of memory dries quickly,” he said softly, looking out across
  the settled valley toward the
  precipice that housed Fort Hold. There was one watchman on the fire
  ridges. There ought to be six, but it
  was planting time; Lord Holder Groghe of Fort Hold had everyone who
  could walk upright in the fields, even
  the gangs of children who were supposed to weed spring grass from
  stone interstices and pull moss from
  the walls. Last spring, Lord Groghe would not have neglected that duty
  no matter how many dragonlengths
  of land he wanted to put under seed.
  Lord Groghe was undoubtedly out in the fields right now, prowling from
  one tract of land to another
  
  nothing of his people, his children nor his fosterlings that he was not
  able to do himself. If he was
  conservative in his thinking, it was because he knew his own limitations
  and felt secure in that knowledge.
  Robinton pulled at his lower lip, wondering if Lord Groghe was an ex-
  ception in his disregard for this
  traditional Hold duty of removing all greenery near habitations. Or was
  this Lord Groghe’s answer to Fort
  Weyr’s growing agitation over the immense forest lands of Fort Hold
  which the Dragonriders ought to
  protect? The Weyrleader of Fort Weyr, T’ron, and his Weyrwoman,
  Mardra, had become less scrupulous
  about checking to see that no Thread burrows had escaped their wing
  riders to fall on the lush forests. Yet
  Lord Groghe had been scrupulous in the matter of ground crews and
  flame-throwing equipment when
  Thread fell over his forests. He had a stable of runners spread out
  through the Hold in an efficient network
  so that if Dragonriders were competent in flight, there was adequate
  ground coverage for any Thread that
  might elude the flaming breath of the airborne beasts.
  
  fresh new green of the
  fields, the yellow blossoms on the fruit trees the neat stone Holds that
  lined the road up to the main Hold, the
  cluster of artisans’ cotholds below the wide ramp up to the Great Outer
  Court of Fort Hold.
  And if his suspicions were valid, what could he do? Write a scolding
  song? A satire? Robinton
  snorted. Lord Groghe was too literal a man to interpret satire and too
  righteous to take a scold.
  Furthermore, and Robinton pushed himself upright on his elbows, if Lord
  Groghe was neglectful, it was in.protest at Weyr neglect of far greater
  magnitude. Robinton shuddered to think of Thread burrowing in the
  great stands of softwoods to the south.
  He ought to sing his remonstrance’s to Mardra and T’ron as Weyrlead-
  ers — but that, too, would be
  vain effort. Mardra had soured lately. She ought to have sense enough
  to retire gracefully to a chair and let
  men seek her favors if T’ron no longer attracted her. To hear the Hold
  girls talk, T’ron was lusty enough. In
  fact, T’ron had better restrain himself. Lord Groghe didn’t take kindly to
  too many of his chattels bearing
  
  the Lord Holders’ side.
  This was not the first time in recent months that Robinton regretted that
  F’lar of Benden Weyr had
  been so eager to relinquish his leadership after Lessa had gone back
  between to bring the five lost Weyrs
  forward in time. For a brief few months then, seven Turns ago, Pern had
  been united under F’lar and Lessa
  against the ancient menace of Thread. Every Holder, Craftmaster,
  landsman, crafter, all had been of one
  mind. That unity had dissipated as the Oldtime Weyr-leaders had reas-
  serted their traditional domination
  over the Holds bound to their Weyr for protection, and a grateful Pern
  had ceded them those rights. But in
  four hundred Turns the interpretation of that old hegemony had altered,
  with neither party sure of the
  translation.
  Perhaps now was the time to remind Lord Holders of those perilous
  days seven Turns ago when all
  their hopes hung on fragile dragon wings and the dedication of a scant
  two hundred men.
  
  Weyr. There’d be other notables
  among Weyr, Lord and Craft to signalize so auspicious an occasion.
  “And among my jolly songs, I’ll have stronger meat.”
  Chuckling to himself at the prospect, Robinton picked up his stylus.
  “I must have a tender but intricate theme for Lessa. She’s legend al-
  ready.” Unconsciously the
  Harper smiled as he pictured the dainty, child-sized Weyrwoman, with
  her white skin, her cloud of dark hair,
  the flash of her gray eyes, heard the acerbity of her clever tongue. No
  man of Pern failed of respect for her,
  or braved her displeasure, with the exception of F’lar.
  Now a well-stated martial theme would do for Benden’s Weyrleader,
  with his keen amber eyes, his
  unconscious superiority, the intense energy of his lean fighter’s frame.
  Could he, Robinton, rouse F’lar from
  his detachment? Or was he perhaps unnecessarily worried about these
  minor irritations between Lord
  Holder and Weyrleader? But without the Dragonriders of Pern, the land
  would be sucked dry of any
  sustenance by Thread, even if every man, woman and child of the
  planet were armed with flame throwers.
  
  the great hands with their delicate skill, the ranging mind in its eternal
  quest for efficiency. Somehow one
  expected such an immense man to be as slow of wit as he was deliber-
  ate of physical movement.
  A sad note, well sustained, for Lytol who had once ridden a Benden
  dragon and lost his Larth in an
  accident in the Spring Games — had it been fourteen or fifteen Turns
  ago? Lytol had left the Weyr — to be
  among dragonfolk only exacerbated his tremendous loss — and taken
  to the craft of weaving. He’d been
  Crafthall Master in the High Reaches Hold when F’lar had discovered
  Lessa on Search. F’lar had appointed
  Lytol to be Lord Warder of Ruatha Hold when Lessa had abdicated her
  claim to the Hold to young Jaxom.
  And how did a man signify the dragons of Pern? No theme was grand
  enough for those huge,
  winged beasts, as gentle as they were great, Impressed at Hatching by
  the men who rode them, flaming
  against Thread, who tended them, loved them, who were linked, mind to
  mind, in an unbreakable bond that
  
  wrote the first word, wondering if he would find some answer himself in
  the song.
  He had barely filled the completed score with clay to preserve the text,
  when he heard the first throb
  of the drum. He strode quickly to the small outer court of the Crafthall,
  bending his head to catch the
  summons; it was his sequence all right, in urgent tempo. He concen-
  trated so closely on the drumroll that he
  did not realize that every other sound common to the Harper’s Hall had
  ceased.
  “Thread?” His throat dried instantly. Robinton didn’t need to consult the
  timetable to realize that the
  Threads were falling on the shores of Tillek Hold prematurely.
  Across the valley on Fort Hold’s ramparts, the single watchman made
  his monotonous round,
  oblivious to disaster.
  There was a soft spring warmth to the afternoon air as F’nor and his big,
  brown Canth emerged from
  their weyr in Benden Weyr. F’nor yawned slightly and stretched until he
  heard his spine crack. He’d been
  
  Grounds. No dragons were dining and the herdbeasts stood in their
  fenced pasture, legs spraddled, heads
  level with their bony knees as they drowsed in the sunlight.
  Sleepy, said Canth, although he had slept as long and deeply as his
  rider. The brown dragon
  proceeded to settle himself on the sun-warmed ledge, sighing as he
  sank down.
  “Slothful wretch,” F’nor said, grinning affectionately at his beast.
  The sun was full on the other side of the enormous mountain cup that
  formed the dragonman’s
  habitation on the eastern coast of Pern. The cliffside was patterned with
  the black mouths of the individual
  dragon weyrs, starred where sun flashed off mica in the rocks. The wa-
  ters of the Weyr’s spring-fed lake
  glistened around the two green dragons bathing as their riders lounged
  on the grass verge. Beyond, in front
  of the weyrling barracks, young riders formed a semi-circle around the
  Weyrlingmaster.
  F’nor’s grin broadened. He stretched his lean body indolently, remem-
  bering his own weary hours in
  
  F’lar, bronze Mnementh’s rider, had believed that there might be truth in
  those old legends. Now
  Thread was an inescapable fact, falling to Pern from the skies with diur-
  nal regularity. Once more, its
  destruction was a way of life for Dragonriders. The lessons these lads
  learned would save their skins, their
  lives and, more important, their dragons.
  The weyrlings are promising, Canth remarked as he locked his wings to
  his back and curled his tail
  against his hind legs. He settled his great head to his forelegs, the
  many-faceted eye nearest F’nor
  gleaming softly on his rider.
  Responding to the tacit plea, F’nor scratched the eye ridge until Canth
  began to hum softly with
  pleasure.
  “Lazybones!”
  When I work, I work, Canth replied. Without my help, how would you
  know which holdbred lad
  would make a good dragonrider? And do I not find girls who make good
  queen riders, too?
  
  identified himself as a Benden Weyr dragonrider. He’d have thought it’d
  be the other way round. Southern
  Boll was weyrbound to Fort Weyr. Traditionally — and F’nor grinned
  wryly since the Fort Weyrleaders T’ron,
  was so adamant in upholding all that was traditional, customary . . . and
  static — traditionally, the Weyr
  which protected a territory had first claim on any possible riders. But the
  five Oldtime Weyrs rarely sought
  beyond their own Lower Caverns for candidates. Of course, thought
  F’nor, the Oldtime queens didn’t
  produce large clutches like the modern queens, nor many golden queen
  eggs. Come to think on it, only
  three queens had been Hatched in the Oldtime Weyrs in the seven
  Turns since Lessa brought them forward..Well, let the Oldtimers stick to
  their ways if that made them feel superior. But F’nor agreed with
  F’lar. It was only common sense to give your dragonets as wide a
  choice as possible. Though the women
  in the Lower Caverns of Benden Weyr were certainly agreeable, there
  simply weren’t enough weyr-born lads
  to match up the quantity of dragons hatched.
  
  groaned. He’d forgotten that the women were making numbweed for
  salve that was the universal remedy
  for the burn of Thread and other painful afflictions. That had been one
  main reason for going on Search
  yesterday. The odor of numbweed was pervasive. Yesterday’s breakfast
  had tasted medicinal instead of
  cereal. Since the preparation of numbweed salve was a tedious as well
  as smelly process, most dragonmen
  made themselves scarce during its manufacture. F’nor glanced across
  the Weyr Bowl to the queen’s weyr.
  Ramoth, of course, was in the Hatching Ground, hovering over her lat-
  est clutch of eggs, but bronze
  Mnementh was absent from his accustomed perch on the ledge. F’lar
  and he were off somewhere, no doubt
  escaping the smell of numbweed as well as Lessa’s uncertain temper.
  She conscientiously took part in
  even the most onerous duties of Weyrwoman, but that didn’t mean she
  had to like them.
  Numbweed stink notwithstanding, F’nor was hungry. He hadn’t eaten
  since late afternoon
  
  queen would permit only two junior queens in Benden Weyr, there were
  two unoccupied Weyr-woman
  quarters. F’nor had appropriated one and did not need to disturb Canth
  when he wished to descend to a
  lower level.
  As he approached the entrance of the Lower Caverns, the aroma of
  boiling numbweed made his
  eyes smart. He’d grab some klah, bread and fruit and go listen to the
  Weyrlingmaster. They were upwind.
  As Wing-second, F’nor liked to take every opportunity to measure up the
  new riders, particularly those who
  were not weyrbred. Life in a Weyr required certain adjustments for the
  craft and holdbred. The freedom and
  privileges sometimes went to a boy’s head, particularly after he was
  able to take his dragon between —
  anywhere on Pern — in the space it takes to count to three. Again, F’nor
  agreed with F’lar’s preference in
  presenting older lads at Impression though the Oldtimers deplored that
  practice at Benden Weyr, too. But,
  by the Shell, a lad in his late teens recognized the responsibility of his
  position (even if he were holdbred) as
  
  precious little sense and, if some silly weyrling let his beast eat too
  much, the whole Weyr suffered through
  its torment. Even an older beast lived for the here and now, with little
  thought for the future and not all that
  much recollection — except on the instinctive level — for the past. That
  was just as well, F’nor thought. For
  dragons bore the brunt of Thread-score. Perhaps if their memories were
  more acute or associative, they’d
  refuse to fight.
  F’nor took a deep breath and, blinking furiously against the fumes, en-
  tered the huge kitchen Cavern.
  It was seething with activity. Half the female population of the Weyr
  must be involved in this operation, F’nor
  thought, for great cauldrons monopolized all the large hearths set in the
  outside wall of the Cavern. Women
  were seated at the broad tables, washing and cutting the roots from
  which the salve was extracted. Some
  were ladling the boiling product into great earthenware pots. Those who
  stirred the concoction with long-handled
  paddles wore masks over nose and mouth and bent frequently to blot
  eyes watering from the acrid
  
  Manora, beckon to him. Her usually
  serene face wore a look of puzzled concern.
  Obediently F’nor crossed to the hearth where she, Lessa, and another
  young woman who looked
  familiar though F’nor couldn’t place her, were examining a small ket-
  tle..“My duty to you, Lessa, Manora — ” and he paused, groping for the
  third name.
  “You ought to remember Brekke, F’nor,” Lessa said, raising her eye-
  brows at his lapse.
  “How can you expect anyone to see in a place dense with fumes?” F’nor
  demanded, making much
  of blotting his eyes on his sleeve. “I haven’t seen much of you, Brekke,
  since the day Canth and I brought
  you from your crafthold to Impress young Wirenth.”
  “F’nor, you’re as bad as F’lar,” Lessa exclaimed, somewhat testily. “You
  never forget a dragon’s
  name, but his rider’s?”
  “How fares Wirenth, Brekke?” F’nor asked, ignoring Lessa’s interruption.
  The girl looked startled but managed a hesitant smile, then pointedly
  looked towards Manora, trying
  
  tempestuous and irresponsible senior Weyrwoman at Southern Weyr,
  when Lessa tapped the empty pot
  before her.
  “Look at this, F’nor. The lining has cracked and the entire kettle of
  numbweed salve is discolored.”
  F’nor whistled appreciatively.
  “Would you know what it is the Smith uses to coat the metal?” Manora
  asked. “I wouldn’t dare use
  tainted salve and yet I hate to discard so much if there’s no reason.”
  F’nor tipped the pot to the light. The dull tan lining was seamed by fine
  cracks along one side.
  “See what it does to the salve?” and Lessa thrust a small bowl at him,
  The anesthetic ointment, normally a creamy, pale yellow, had turned a
  reddish tan. Rather a
  threatening color, F’nor thought. He smelled it, dipped his finger in and
  felt the skin immediately deaden.
  “It works,” he said with a shrug.
  “Yes, but what would happen to an open Thread score with that foreign
  substance cooked into the
  salve?” asked Manora.
  “Good point. What does F’lar say?”
  
  “You’re as bad as he is,” she said, grinning up at the tall Wing-second
  who resembled her
  Weyrmate so closely. Yet the two men, though the stamp of their mutual
  sire was apparent in the thick
  shocks of black hair, the strong features, the lean rangy bodies (F’nor
  had a squarer, broader frame with not
  enough flesh on his bones so that he appeared unfinished), the two men
  were different in temperament and
  personality. F’nor was less introspective and more easygoing than his
  half brother. F’lar, the elder by three
  Turns. The Weyrwoman sometimes found herself treating F’nor as if he
  were an extension of his half
  brother and, perhaps for this reason, could joke and tease with him. She
  was not on easy terms with many
  people.
  F’nor returned her smile and gave her a mocking little bow for the com-
  pliment.
  “Well. I’ve no objections to running your errand to the Mastersmithhall.
  I’m supposed to be
  Searching and I can Search in Telgar Hold as well as anywhere else.
  R’mart’s nowhere near as sticky as
  
  preoccupied and Ramoth was fussing over her latest clutch like a novice
  — which would tend to make Lessa
  more irritable. Strange for a junior Weyrwoman from Southern Weyr to
  be involved in any brewing at
  Benden.
  “A Weyr can’t have too much numbweed,” Manora said briskly.
  “That isn’t the only pot that’s showing cracks, either,” Lessa cut in, tes-
  tily. “And if we’ve got to
  gather more numbweed to make up what we’ve lost . . .”
  “There’s the second crop at the Southern Weyr,” Brekke suggested,
  then looked flustered for
  speaking up..But the look Lessa turned on Brekke was grateful. “I’ve no
  intention of shorting you, Brekke, when
  Southern Weyr does the nursing of every fool who can’t dodge Thread.”
  “I’ll take the pot. I’ll take the pot,” F’nor cried with humorous assurance.
  “But first, I’ve got to have
  more in me than a cup of klah”
  Lessa blinked at him, her glance going to the entrance and the late af-
  ternoon sun slanting in on the
  floor.
  
  have numbweed.”
  F’nor grinned down at his Weyrwoman, aware that Brekke’s eyes were
  wide in amazement at their
  good-natured banter. He was sincerely fond of Lessa as a person, not
  just as Weyrwoman of Benden’s
  senior queen. He heartily approved of F’lar’s permanent attachment of
  Lessa, not that there seemed much
  chance that Ramoth would ever permit any dragon but Mnementh to fly
  her. As Lessa was a superb
  Weyrwoman for Benden Weyr, so F’lar was the logical bronze rider.
  They were well matched as
  Weyrwoman and Weyrleader, and Benden Weyr — and Pern — prof-
  ited. So did the three Holds bound to
  Benden for protection. Then F’nor remembered the hostility of the peo-
  ple at Southern Boll yesterday until
  they learned that he was a Benden rider. He started to mention this to
  Lessa when Manora broke his train
  of thought.
  “I am very disturbed by this discoloration. F’nor,” she said. “Here. Show
  Mastersmith Fandarel
  
  quick enough to make her fosterlings fend for themselves, as his foster
  mother had made him.
  “Don’t drop the pot when you go between, F’nor,” was her parting ad-
  monition.
  F’nor chuckled to himself. Once a mother, always a mother, he
  guessed, for Lessa was as broody
  about Felessan, the only child she’d borne. Just as well the Weyrs prac-
  ticed fostering. Felessan — as likely
  a lad to Impress a bronze dragon as F’nor had seen in all his Turns at
  Searching — got along far better with
  his placid foster mother than he would have with Lessa had she had the
  rearing of him.
  As he ladled out a bowl of stew, F’nor wondered at the perversity of
  women. Girls were constantly
  pleading to come to Benden Weyr. They’d not be expected to bear child
  after child till they were worn-out
  and old. Women in the Weyrs remained active and appealing. Manora
  had seen twice the Turns that, for
  instance, Lord Sifer of Bitra’s latest wife had, yet Manora looked
  younger. Well, a rider preferred to seek his
  
  Cavern. He wondered how the women stood the smell.
  Canth did, too, for the fumes had kept him from napping on the warm
  ledge. He was just as glad of
  an excuse to get away from Benden Weyr.
  F’nor broke out into the early morning sunshine above Telgar Hold, then
  directed brown Canth up
  the long valley to the sprawling complex of buildings on the left of the
  Falls.
  Sun flashed off the water wheels which were turned endlessly by the
  powerful waters of the three-pronged
  Falls and operated the forges of the Smithy. Judging by the thin black
  smoke from the stone
  buildings, the smelting and refining smithies were going at full capacity.
  As Canth swooped lower, F’nor could see the distant clouds of dust that
  meant another ore train
  coming from the last portage of Telgar’s major river. Fandarel’s notion of
  putting wheels on the barges had
  halved the time it took to get raw ore down river and across land from
  the deep mines of Crom and Telgar to
  the Crafthalls throughout Pern.
  
  himself.
  The green Beth, then, had agreed to brown Seventh’s advances. Look-
  ing at her brilliant color, F’nor
  thought their riders shouldn’t have brought that pair away from their
  home Weyr at this phase. As F’nor
  watched, the brown dragon extended his wing and covered the green
  possessively. F’nor stroked Canth’s
  downy neck at the first ridge but the dragon didn’t seem to need any
  consolation. He’d no lack of partners
  after all, thought F’nor with little conceit. Greens would prefer a brown
  who was as big as most bronzes on
  Pern.
  Canth landed and F’nor jumped off quickly. The dust made by his
  dragon’s wings set up twin whirls,
  through which F’nor had to walk. In the open sheds which F’nor passed
  on his way to the Crafthall, men
  were busy at a number of tasks, most of them familiar to the brown
  rider. But at one shed he stopped, trying
  to fathom why the sweating men were winding a coil of metal through a
  plate, until he realized that the
  
  could tell why the big kettle
  had suddenly discolored the vital anesthetic salve. F’nor swung the ket-
  tle to make sure the two sample pots
  were within, and grinned at the self-conscious gesture; for an instant he
  had a resurgence of his boyhood
  apprehension of losing something entrusted to him.
  The entrance to the main Smithcrafthall was imposing: four landbeasts
  could be driven abreast
  through that massive portal and not scrape their sides. Did Pern breed
  Smithcraftmasters in proportion to
  that door? F’nor wondered as its maw swallowed him, for the immense
  metal wings stood wide. What had
  been the original Smithy was now converted to the artificers’ use. At
  lathes and benches, men were
  polishing, engraving, adding the final touches to otherwise completed
  work. Sunlight streamed in from the
  windows set high in the building’s wall, the eastern shutters were bur-
  nished with the morning sun which
  reflected also from the samples of weaponry and metalwork in the open
  shelves in the center of the big Hall.
  
  “And a good day to you, Terry, and you, sirs.” F’nor said, saluting the
  two riders with airy amiability.
  “F’nor, Canth’s rider, of Benden.”
  “B’naj, Seventh’s rider of Fort,” said the taller, grayer of the two riders.
  He obviously resented the
  interruption and kept slapping an elaborately jeweled belt knife into the
  palm of his hand.
  “T’reb, Beth’s rider, also of Fort. And if Canth’s a bronze, warn him off
  Beth.”
  “Canth’s no poacher,” F’nor replied, grinning outwardly but marking
  T’reb for a rider whose green’s
  amours affected his own temper.
  “One never knows just what is taught at Benden Weyr,” T’reb said with
  thinly veiled contempt.
  “Manners, among other things, when addressing Wing-seconds,” F’nor
  replied, still pleasant. But
  T’reb gave him a sharp look, aware of a subtle difference in his manner.
  “Good Master Terry, may I have a
  word with Fandarel?”
  “He’s in his study . . .”
  
  “Fort Weyr manners leave much to be desired,” F’nor said, his teeth
  showing in a smile as hard as
  the grip with which he held T’reb. But now the other Fort Weyr rider in-
  tervened.
  “T’reb! F’nor!” B’naj thrust the two apart. “His green’s proddy, F’nor. He
  can’t help it.”
  “Then he should stay weyrbound.”
  “Benden doesn’t advise Fort,” T’reb cried, trying to step past his Weyr-
  mate, his hand on his belt
  knife..F’nor stepped back, forcing himself to cool down. The whole epi-
  sode was ridiculous. Dragonriders
  did not quarrel in public. No one should use a Craftmaster’s second in
  such a fashion. Outside, dragons
  bellowed.
  Ignoring T’reb, F’nor said to B’naj, “You’d better get out of here. She’s
  too close to mating.”
  But the truculent T’reb would not be silenced.
  “Don’t tell me how to manage my dragon, you . . .”
  The insult was lost in a second volley from the dragons to which Canth
  now added his warble.
  “Don’t be a fool, T’reb,” B’naj said. “Come! Now!”
  
  “You’d better go,” he told the Dragonriders, stepping in front of Terry.
  “We came for the knife. We’ll leave with it,” T’reb shouted and, feinting
  with unexpected speed,
  ducked past F’nor, grabbing the knife from Terry’s hand, slicing the
  smith’s thumb as he drew the blade.
  Again F’nor caught T’reb’s hand and twisted it, forcing him to drop the
  knife.
  T’reb gave a gurgling cry of rage and, before F’nor could duck or B’naj
  could intervene, the
  infuriated green rider had plunged his own belt knife into F’nor’s shoul-
  der, viciously slicing downward until
  the point hit the shoulder bone.
  F’nor staggered back, aware of nauseating pain, aware of Canth’s
  scream of protest, the green’s
  wild bawl and the brown’s trumpeting.
  “Get him out of here,” F’nor gasped to B’naj, as Terry reached out to
  steady him.
  “Get out!” the Smith repeated in a harsh voice. He signaled urgently to
  the other craftsmen who
  now moved decisively toward the dragonmen. But B’naj yanked T’reb
  savagely out of the Hall.
  
  It was Canth, crooning anxiously.
  The green’s voice was suddenly still.
  “Are they gone?” he asked the dragon.
  Well gone, Canth replied, craning his neck to catch sight of his rider.
  You hurt.
  “I’m all right. I’m all right,” F’nor lied, relaxing into Terry’s urgent grip. In
  a blackening daze, he felt
  himself lifted, then the hard surface of bench under his back before the
  dizzying shock and pain
  overwhelmed him. His last conscious thought was that Manora would be
  annoyed that he had not seen
  Fandarel first.
  CHAPTER II
  Evening (Fort Weyr Time).
  Meeting of the Weyrleaders at Fort Weyr
  WHEN MNEMENTH burst out of between above Fort Weyr, he entered
  so high above the Weyr
  mountain that it was a barely discernible black point in the darkening
  land below. F’lar’s exclamation of
  surprise was cut off by the thin cold air that burned his lungs.
  
  F’lar could accomplish little if he stormed in on T’ron and the other
  Weyrleaders, bent on extracting
  justice for his wounded Wing-second. Or if F’lar was still seething from
  the subtle insult implicit in the timing
  of this meeting. As Weyrleader of the offending rider, T’ron had delayed
  answering F’lar’s courteously
  phrased request for a meeting of all Weyrleaders to discuss the unto-
  ward incident at the Craftmasterhall.
  When T’ron’s reply finally arrived, it set the meeting for the first watch,
  Fort Weyr time; or high night, Benden.time, a most inconsiderate hour for
  F’lar and certainly inconvenient for the other easterly Weyrs, Igen, Ista
  and even Telgar. D’ram of Ista Weyr and R’mart of Telgar, and probably
  G’narish of Igen would have
  something sharp to say to T’ron about such timing, though their lag was
  not as great as Benden Weyr’s.
  So T’ron wanted F’lar off balance and irritated. Therefore, F’lar would
  appear all amiability. He’d
  apologize to D’ram, R’mart and G’narish for inconveniencing them, while
  making certain that they knew
  T’ron was responsible.
  
  green dragon was sterile because
  she chewed firestone. Her lust could affect even the most insensitive
  commoners with sexual cravings. A
  mating female dragon broadcast her emotions on a wide band. Some
  green-brown pairings were as loud as
  bronze-gold. Herdbeasts within range stampeded wildly and fowls,
  wherries and whers went into witless
  hysterics. Humans were susceptible, too, and innocent Hold youngsters
  often responded with embarrassing
  consequences. That particular aspect of dragon matings didn’t bother
  weyrfolk who had long since
  disregarded sexual inhibitions. No, you did not take a dragon out of her
  Weyr in that state.
  It was irrelevant to F’lar’s thinking that the second violation stemmed
  from the first. From the
  moment riders could take their dragons between, they were abjured to
  avoid situations that might lead to a
  duel, particularly since dueling was an accepted custom among Craft
  and Hold. Any differences between
  riders were settled in unarmed bouts, closely refereed within the Weyr.
  Dragons suicided when their riders
  
  other smithcrafters present — abrogated these two basic restrictions.
  F’lar experienced no satisfaction that
  the offending rider came from Fort Weyr even if T’ron, the major critic of
  Benden Weyr’s relaxed attitudes
  toward some traditions, was in a very embarrassing position. F’lar might
  argue that his innovations
  breached no fundamental Weyr precepts, but the five Old-time Weyrs
  categorically dismissed every
  suggestion originating from Benden Weyr. And T’ron bleated the most
  about the deplorable manners of
  modern Holders and Crafters, so different — so less subservient, F’lar
  amended — to the acquiescence of
  Holders and Crafters in their distant past Turn.
  It would be interesting, F’lar mused, to see how T’ron the Traditionalist
  explained away the actions
  of his riders, now guilty of far worse offenses against Weyr traditions
  than anything F’lar had suggested.
  Common sense had dictated F’lar’s policy — eight Turns ago — of
  throwing open Impressions to
  likely lads from Holds and Crafts; there hadn’t been enough boys of the
  right age in Benden Weyr to match
  
  the Shell, F’lar hadn’t suggested that the senior queens be flown openly.
  He did not intend to challenge the
  Oldtimer Weyrleaders with modern bronzes. He did feel that they’d profit
  by new blood among their beasts.
  Wasn’t an improvement in Dragonkind anywhere of benefit to all the
  Weyrs?
  And it was practical diplomacy to invite Holders and Crafters to Impres-
  sions. There wasn’t a man
  alive in Pern who hadn’t secretly cherished the notion that he might be
  able to Impress a dragon. That he
  could be linked for life to the love and sustaining admiration of these
  gentle great beasts. That he could
  transverse Pern in a twinkling, astride a dragon. That he would never
  suffer the loneliness that was the
  condition of most men — a dragonrider always had his dragon. So,
  whether the commoners had a relative
  on the Hatching Ground hoping to attach a dragonet or not, the specta-
  tors enjoyed the vicarious thrill of
  being present, at witnessing this “mysterious, rite.” He’d observed that
  they were also subtly reassured that
  
  days to get messages from One coast to the other. The Harpercraft’s
  system of drums was a poor second.when a dragon could transport him-
  self, his rider and an ungarbled message instantly anywhere on the
  planet.
  F’lar, too, was exceedingly aware of the dangers of isolation. In the days
  before the first Thread had
  again fallen on Pern — could it be only seven Turns ago? — Benden
  Weyr had been vitiated by its isolation,
  and the entire planet all but lost. ·Where F’lar earnestly felt that dragon-
  men should make themselves
  accessible and friendly, the Oldtimers were obsessed by a need for pri-
  vacy. Which only fertilized the ground
  for such incidents as had just occurred. T’reb on a disturbed green had
  swooped down on the
  Smithmastercrafthall and demanded — not requested — that a crafts-
  man give up an artifact, which had
  been made by commission for a powerful Lord Holder.
  With thoughts that were more disillusioned than vengeful F’lar realized
  that Mnementh was gliding
  fast toward Fort Weyr’s jagged rim. The Star Stones and the watchrider
  were silhouetted against the dying
  
  High Reaches and Telgar Weyrs missing? Well, T’kul of High Reaches
  was likely late on purpose.
  Odd though; that caustic Oldtimer ought to enjoy tonight. He’d have a
  chance to snipe at both F’lar and
  T’bor and he’d thoroughly enjoy T’ron’s discomfiture. F’lar had never felt
  any friendliness for or from the
  dour, dark-complected High Reaches Weyrleader. He wondered if that
  was why Mnementh never used
  T’kul’s name. Dragons ignored human names when they didn’t like the
  bearer. But for a dragon not to
  name a Weyrleader was most unusual.
  F’lar hoped that R’mart of Telgar would come. Of the Oldtimers, R’mart
  and G’narish of Igen were
  the youngest, the least set in their ways. Though they tended to side
  with their contemporaries in most
  affairs against the two modern Weyrleaders, F’lar and T’bor, F’lar had
  noticed lately that those two were
  sympathetic to some of his suggestions. Could he work on that to his
  advantage today — tonight! He
  wished that Lessa could have come with him for she was able to use
  deft mental pressures against
  
  as quick to find exception and
  slights as T’ron, though once she hadn’t been so touchy. In those first
  days after the Weyrs had come up,
  she and Lessa had been exceedingly close. But Mardra’s friendship had
  gradually turned into an active
  hatred. Mardra was a handsome woman, with a full, strong figure, and
  while she was nowhere near as
  promiscuous with her favors as Kylara of Southern Weyr, she was much
  sought after by bronze riders. By
  nature she was intensely possessive and not, F’lar realized, particularly
  intelligent. Lessa, dainty, oddly
  beautiful, already a Weyr legend for that spectacular ride between time,
  had unconsciously attracted
  attention from Mardra. Mardra evidently didn’t consider the fact that
  Lessa made no attempt to entice any
  favorite from Mardra, did not, indeed, dally with any man (for which F’lar
  was immensely pleased). Add to
  that the ridiculous matter of their mutual Ruathan origin — Mardra con-
  ceived a hatred for Lessa. She
  seemed to feel that Lessa, the only survivor of that Bloodline, had had
  no right to renounce her claim on
  
  Weyr who was apt to make trouble
  for the pure joy of getting attention by disrupting others, and nothing
  would be accomplished Nadira of Igen
  Weyr liked Lessa but in a passive way. Bedella of Telgar Weyr was stu-
  pid and Fanna of Ista, taciturn.
  Merika of the High Reaches was as much a sour sort as her Weyrleader
  T’kul.
  This was a matter for men to settle.
  F’lar thanked Mnementh as he slid down the warm shoulder to the
  ledge, stumbling as his bootheels
  caught on the ridges of claw scars on the edge. T’ron might have put out
  a basket of glows, F’lar thought
  irritably, and then caught himself. Another trick to put everyone in as un-
  receptive a mood as possible.
  Loranth, senior queen dragon of Fort Weyr, solemnly regarded F’lar as
  he entered the main room of
  the Weyr. He gave her a cordial greeting, suppressing his relief that
  there was no sign of Mardra. If Loranth.was solemn, Mardra would have
  been downright unpleasant. Undoubtedly the Fort Weyrwoman was
  sulking beyond the curtain between weyr and sleeping room. Maybe this
  awkward time had been her idea.
  
  F’lar supposed that his Weyrmate
  felt responsible for uprooting the Oldtimers. But the final decision to go
  forward in time had been theirs.
  Well, if Lessa could endure Mardra’s condescension out of gratitude,
  F’lar could try to put up with
  T’ron. The man did know how to fight Thread effectively and F’lar had
  learned a great deal from him at first.
  So, in a determinedly pleasant frame of mind, F’lar walked down the
  short passage to the Fort Weyr Council
  Room.
  T’ron, seated in the big stone chair at the head of the Table, acknowl-
  edged F’lar’s entry with a stiff
  nod. The light of the glows on the wall cast unflattering shadows on the
  Oldtimer’s heavy, lined face. It
  struck F’lar forcibly that the man had never known anything but fighting
  Thread. He must have been born
  when the Red Star began that last fifty-Turn-long Pass around Pern,
  and he’d fought Thread until the Star
  had finished its circuit. Then followed Lessa forward. A man could get
  mighty tired of fighting Thread in just
  seven short Turns. F’lar halted that line of thought.
  
  “I’ll conduct the meetings at Fort Weyr, Benden,” T’ron said in a cold
  harsh voice. “I’ll wait for T’kul
  and R’mart before I have any discussion of your — your complaint.”
  “Agreed.”
  T’ron stared at F’lar as if that hadn’t been the answer he’d anticipated
  and he’d gathered himself for
  an argument that hadn’t materialized. F’lar nodded to T’bor as he took
  the seat beside him.
  “I’ll say this now, Benden,” T’ron continued. “The next time you elect to
  drag us all out of our Weyrs
  suddenly, you apply to me first. Fort’s the oldest Weyr on Pern. Don’t
  just irresponsibly send messengers
  out to everyone.”
  “I don’t see that F’lar acted irresponsibly,” G’narish said, evidently sur-
  prised by T’ron’s attitude.
  G’narish was a stocky young man, some Turns F’lar’s junior and the
  youngest of the Weyrleaders to come
  forward in time. “Any Weyrleader can call a joint meeting if circum-
  stances warrant it. And these do!”
  G’narish emphasized this with a curt nod, adding when he saw the Fort
  Weyrleader scowling at him, “Well,
  
  T’ron’s scowl deepened.
  “Wish Telgar’d get here,” he said in a low, irritated tone.
  “Have some wine, F’lar?” T’bor suggested, an almost malicious smile
  playing on his lips for T’ron
  ought to have offered immediately. “Of course, it’s not Benden Hold
  wine, but not bad. Not bad.”
  F’lar gave T’bor a long warning look as he took the proffered cup. But
  the Southern Weyrleader was
  watching to see how T’ron reacted. Benden Hold did not tithe of its fa-
  mous wines as generously to the other
  Weyrs as it did to the one which protected its lands.
  “When are we going to taste some of those Southern Weyr wines you’ve
  been bragging about,
  T’bor?” G’narish asked, instinctively trying to ease the growing tensions.
  “Of course, we’re entering our fall season now,” T’bor said making it
  seem that Fort was to blame for
  the chill outside — and inside — the Weyr. “However, we expect to start
  pressing soon. We’ll distribute
  what we can spare to you northerners.”
  “What do you mean? What you can spare?” T’ron asked, staring hard at
  T’bor.
  
  was developing. “Fanna’s Mirath laid twenty-five and I’ll warrant we’ve
  half a dozen bronzes in the clutch.”
  “Ista’s bronzes are the fastest on Pern,” F’lar said gravely. When he
  heard T’bor stirring restlessly
  beside him, he reached swiftly to Mnementh with a silent “Ask Orth to
  please tell T’bor to speak with great
  thought for the consequences. D’ram and G’narish must not be antago-
  nized.” Out loud he said, “A weyr
  can never have too many good bronzes. If only to keep the queens
  happy.” He leaned back, watching
  T’bor out of the corner of his eye to catch is reaction when the dragons
  completed the message relay. T’bor
  gave a sudden slight jerk, then shrugged, his glance shifting from D’ram
  to T’ron and back to F’lar. He
  looked more rebellious than cooperative. F’lar turned back to D’ram. “If
  you need some
  likely prospects for any green dragons, there’s a boy . . .”
  “D’ram follows tradition, Benden,” T’ron cut in. “Weyrbred is best for
  Dragonkind. Particularly for
  greens.”
  “Oh?” T’bor glared with malicious intent at T’ron.
  
  Weyr. And Fanna’s Mirath
  hadn’t produced a single golden egg since she’d come time between.
  “We all know Benden’s generosity,” T’ron said in a sneering tone, his
  eyes flicking around the room,
  everywhere but at F’lar. “He extends help everywhere. And interferes
  when it isn’t needed.”
  “I don’t call what happened at the Smithhall interference,” D’ram said,
  his face assuming grave lines.
  “I thought we were going to wait for T’kul and R’mart,” G’narish said,
  glancing anxiously up the
  passageway.
  So, F’lar mused, D’ram and G’narish are upset by today’s events.
  “T’kul’s better known for the meetings he misses than the ones he at-
  tends,” T’bor remarked.
  “R’mart always comes,” G’narish said.
  “Well, they’re neither of them here. And I’m not waiting on their pleasure
  any longer,” T’ron
  announced, rising.
  “Then you’d better call in B’naj and T’reb,” D’ram suggested with a
  heavy sigh.
  
  Benden.
  “Look, we’re here now,” T’bor said, banging his fist on the table irritably.
  “Let’s get on with it. It’s full
  night in southern Weyr. I’d like . . .”
  “I conduct the Fort Weyr meetings, Southern,” T’ron said in a loud, firm
  voice, although the effort of
  keeping his temper told in the flush of his face and the brightness of his
  eyes.
  “Then conduct it,” T’bor replied. “Tell us why a green rider took his
  dragon out of your Weyr when
  she was close to heat.”
  “T’reb was not aware she was that close . . .”
  “Nonsense,” T’bor cut in, glaring at T’ron. “You keep telling us how
  much of a traditionalist you are,
  and how well trained your riders are. Then don’t tell me a rider as old as
  T’reb can’t estimate his beast’s
  condition.”
  F’lar began to think he didn’t need an ally like T’bor.
  “A green changes color rather noticeably,” G’narish said, with some re-
  luctance, F’lar noted. “Usually
  a full day before she wants to fly.”
  
  voice even. He saw T’bor open his mouth to
  protest and kicked the man under the table. “However, according to the
  testimony of Craftmaster Terry, my
  rider urged T’reb repeatedly to take his dragon away. T’reb persisted in
  his attempt to — to acquire the belt
  knife.”
  “And you accept the word of a commoner against a rider?” T’ron leaped
  on F’lar’s statement with a
  great show of surprised indignation and incredulity.
  “What would a Craftmaster,” and F’lar emphasized the title, “gain by
  bringing false witness?”
  “Those smithcrafters are the most notorious misers of Pern,” T’ron re-
  plied as if this were a personal
  insult. “The worst of all the crafts when it comes to parting with honest
  tithe.”
  “A jeweled belt knife is not a tithe item.”
  “What difference does that make, Benden?” T’ron demanded.
  F’lar stared back at the Fort Weyrleader. So T’ron was trying to set the
  blame on Terry! Then he
  knew that his rider had been at fault. Why couldn’t he just admit it and
  discipline the rider? F’lar only
  
  his face. “But for a rider, a Weyrleader, to take the part of a Lord Holder
  against dragonfolk — ” and T’ron
  turned to D’ram and G’narish with a helpless shrug of dismay.
  “If R’mart were here, you’d be — ” T’bor began.
  D’ram gestured at him to be quiet. “We’re not discussing possession but
  what seems to be a grave
  breach of Weyr discipline,” he said in a voice that overwhelmed T’bor’s
  protest. “However, F’lar, you do
  admit that a green, off her feed from Threadscore, can suddenly go into
  heat without warning?”
  F’lar could feel T’bor urging him to deny that possibility. He knew that he
  had made a mistake in
  pointing out that the knife had been commissioned for a Lord Holder. Or
  in taking the part of a Holder not
  bound to Benden Weyr. If only R’mart had been here to speak in Lord
  Larad’s behalf. As it was, F’lar had
  prejudiced his case. The incident had disturbed D’ram so much that the
  man was deliberately closing his
  eyes to fact and seeking any extenuating circumstance he could. If F’lar
  forced him to see the event clearly,
  
  keep his green in the Weyr.”
  “But T’reb’s a Fort Weyr rider,” T’bor began heatedly, jumping to his
  feet. “And I’ve been told often
  enough that . . .”
  “You’re out of order, Southern,” T’ron said in a loud voice, glaring at
  F’lar, not T’bor. “Can’t you
  control your riders, F’lar?”
  “That is quite enough, T’ron,” D’ram cried, on his feet.
  As the two Oldtimers locked glances, F’lar murmured urgently to T’bor,
  “Can’t you see he’s trying to
  anger us? Don’t lose control!”
  “We’re trying to settle the incident, T’ron,” D’ram continued forcefully,
  “not complicate it with
  irrelevant personalities. Since you are involved in this business, perhaps
  I’d better conduct the meeting.
  With your permission, of course, Fort.”
  To F’lar’s mind, that was a tacit admission that D’ram realized, however
  he might try to evade it, how
  serious the incident was. The Istan Weyrleader turned to F’lar, his
  brown eyes dark with concern. F’lar
  
  desired. Pern is much more productive than it was four Hundred Turns
  ago and yet that wealth has not
  been reflected in the tithes. There is four times the population of our
  Time and much, much more cultivated
  land. A heavy responsibility for the Weyrs. And — ” he cut himself off
  with a rueful laugh. “I’m digressing,
  too. Suffice it to say that once it was obvious a dragonrider found the
  knife to his liking, Terry should have
  gifted it him. As craftsmen used to, without any question or hesita-
  tion..“Then,” D’ram’s face brightened slightly, “T’reb and B’naj would have
  left before the green went into
  full heat, your F’nor would not have become involved in a disgraceful
  public brawl. Yes, it is all too plain,”
  and D’ram straightened his shoulders from the burden of decision, “that
  the first error of judgment was on
  the part of the craftsman.” He looked at each man, as if none of them
  had control over what a craftsman
  might do. T’bor refused to meet his eyes and ground a bootheel noisily
  into the stone floor.
  D’ram took another deep breath. Was he, F’lar wondered bitterly, having
  trouble digesting that
  
  . .”
  “A man whose green is in heat is unaccountable for his actions,” T’ron
  said, loud enough to drown
  T’bor out.
  “A green who never should have been out of her weyr in the first place
  no matter how you dance
  around the truth, T’ron,” T’bor said, savage with frustration. “The first er-
  ror in judgment was T’reb’s. Not
  Terry’s.”
  “Silence!” D’ram’s bellow silenced him and Loranth answered irritably
  from her weyr.
  “That does it,” T’ron exclaimed, rising. “I’m not having my senior queen
  upset. You’ve had your
  meeting, Benden, and your — your grievance has been aired. This
  meeting is adjourned.”
  “Adjourned?” G’narish echoed him in surprise. “But — but nothing’s
  been done.” The Igen
  Weyrleader looked from D’ram to T’ron puzzled, worried. “And F’lar’s
  rider was wounded. If the attack was .
  . .”
  “How badly wounded is the man?” D’ram asked, turning quickly to F’lar.
  
  fury on T’bor’s face, the set look on F’lar’s. “A dragonrider can never
  forget his purpose, his responsibility, to
  his dragon or to his Weyr. This can’t happen again. You’ll speak to
  T’reb, of course, T’ron?”
  T’ron’s eyes widened slightly at D’ram’s question.
  “Speak to him? You may be sure he’ll hear from me about this. And
  B’naj, too.”
  “Good,” said D’ram, with the air of a man who has solved a difficult
  problem equitably. He nodded
  toward the others. “It would be wise if we Weyrleaders caution all our
  riders against the possibility of a
  repetition. Put them all on their guard. Agreed?” He continued nodding,
  as if to spare the others the effort.
  “It is hard enough to work with some of these arrogant Holders and
  Crafters without giving them any
  occasion to fault us.” D’ram sighed deeply and scratched his head. I
  never have understood how
  commoners can forget how much they owe Dragonriders!”
  “In four hundred Turns, a man can learn many new things,” F’lar replied.
  “Coming, T’bor?” and his
  
  “Rub his nose in it?” F’lar finished, halting in mid-stride and turning to
  T’bor in the dark of the
  passageway.
  “Dragonriders don’t fight. Particularly Weyrleaders.”
  T’bor let out a violent exclamation of utter disgust.
  “How could you let a chance like that go by? When I think of the times
  he’s criticized you — us — ”
  T’bor broke off. “Never understand how commoners can forget all they
  owe Dragonriders?” and T’bor
  mimicked D’ram’s pompous intonation, “If they really want to know . . .”
  F’lar gripped T’bor by the shoulder, appreciating the younger man’s
  sentiments all too deeply..“How can you tell a man what he doesn’t want to
  hear? We couldn’t even get them to admit that
  T’reb was in the wrong T’reb, not Terry, and not F’nor. But I don’t think
  there’ll be another lapse like today’s
  and that’s what I really worried about.”
  “What?” T’bor stared at F’lar in puzzled confusion.
  “That such an incident could occur worries me far more than who was in
  the wrong and for what
  reason.”
  “I can’t follow that logic any more than I can follow T’ron’s.”
  
  don’t forget, the Oldtimers
  taught us a great deal about Thread fighting we certainly didn’t know.”
  “Why, our dragons can fight circles around the Oldtimers.”
  “That’s not the point, T’bor. You and I, the modern Weyrs have certain
  obvious advantages over the
  Oldtimers — size of dragons, number of queens — that I’m not inter-
  ested in mentioning because it only
  makes for bad feeling. Nevertheless, we can’t fight Thread without the
  Oldtimers. We need the Oldtimers
  more than they need us.” F’lar gave T’bor a wry, bitter grin. “D’ram was
  partly right. A dragonman can
  never forget his purpose, his responsibility. When D’ram said ‘to his
  dragon, to his Weyr’, he’s wrong. Our
  initial and ultimate responsibility is to Pern, to the people we were es-
  tablished to protect.”
  They had proceeded to the ledge and could see their dragons dropping
  off the height to meet them.
  Full dark had descended over Fort Weyr now, emphasizing the weari-
  ness that engulfed F’lar.
  “If the Oldtimers have become introverted, we, Benden and Southern,
  cannot. We understand our
  
  Wings followed him without hesitation. He was not as strong out of the
  skies, however, but with subtle
  guidance had built Southern Weyr into a productive, self-supporting es-
  tablishment. He instinctively looked
  to F’lar and Benden Weyr for direction and companionship. Part of that,
  F’lar was sure, was because of the
  difficult and disturbing temperament of the Southern Weyrwoman, Ky-
  lara.
  Sometimes F’lar regretted that T’bor proved to be the only bronze rider
  who could cope with that
  female. He wondered what subtle deep tie existed between the two rid-
  ers, because T’bor’s Orth
  consistently outflew every bronze to mate with Prideth, Kylara’s queen,
  though it was common knowledge
  that Kylara took many men to her bed.
  T’bor might be short-tempered and not the most diplomatic adherent,
  but he was loyal and F’lar was
  grateful to him. If he’d only held his temper tonight . . .
  “Well, you usually know what you’re doing, F’lar,” the Southern
  Weyrleader admitted reluctantly, “but
  I don’t understand the Oldtimers and lately I’m not sure I care.”
  
  need him. I could have used
  his wits beside me tonight. I could have used his thinking on T’ron’s in-
  vidious attempts to switch blame.
  Well, if it had been another rider, wounded under the same circum-
  stances, he couldn’t have brought
  F’nor anyhow. And T’bor with his short temper would still have been
  present, and played right into T’ron’s
  hands. He couldn’t honestly blame T’bor. He’d felt the same burning de-
  sire to make the Oldtimers see the
  facts in realistic perspective. But — you can’t take a dragon to a place
  you’ve never seen. And T’bor’s
  outbursts had not helped. Strange, T’bor hadn’t been so touchy as a
  weyrling nor when he was a Benden
  Weyr Wing-second. Being Weyrmate to Kylara had changed him but
  that woman was enough to unsettle; to
  unsettle D’ram..F’lar entertained the wild mental image of the blonde
  sensual Kylara seducing the sturdy Oldtimer.
  Not that she’d even glanced at the Istan Weyrleader. And she certainly
  wouldn’t have stayed with him. F’lar
  was glad that they’d eased her out of Benden Weyr. Hadn’t she been
  found on the same Search as Lessa?
  
  the watchrider’s query.
  Lessa wasn’t going to like his report of the meeting, F’lar thought. If only
  D’ram, usually an honest
  thinker, had seen past the obvious. He had a feeling that maybe
  G’narish had.
  Yes, G’narish had been troubled. Maybe the next time the Weyrleaders
  met to confer, G’narish
  might side with the modern riders.
  Only, F’lar hoped, there wouldn’t be another occasion for this evening’s
  grievance.
  CHAPTER III
  Morning Over Lemos Hold
  RAMOTH, Benden’s golden queen, was in the Hatching Ground when
  she got the green’s frantic
  summons from Lemos Hold.
  Threads at Lemos. Thread falls at Lemos! Ramoth told every dragon
  and rider, her full-throated
  brassy bugle reverberating through the Bowl.
  Men scrambled frantically from couch and bathing pool, upset tables
  and dropped tools before the
  
  stamp out of the Hatching Cavern.
  Thread at Lemos northeast, Mnementh reported, picking up the infor-
  mation from his mate Ramoth
  as she projected herself toward her weyr ledge for Lessa. Dragons were
  now streaming from every weyr
  opening, their riders struggling into fighting gear or securing bulging fire-
  sacks.
  F’lar didn’t waste time wondering why Thread was falling hours ahead of
  schedule or northeast
  instead of southwest. He checked to see if there were enough riders as-
  sembled and aloft to make up a full
  low altitude wing. He hesitated long enough to have Mnementh order
  every weyrling to proceed
  immediately to Lemos to help fly ground crews to the area and then told
  his dragon to take the wing
  between.
  Thread was indeed falling, a great sheet plummeting down toward the
  delicate new leafing
  hardwoods that were Lord Asgenar’s prime forestry project. Screaming,
  flaming, dragons broke out of
  
  identify the wounded beast,
  both dragon and rider had gone between where the awful cold would
  shatter and break the entangling
  Threads before they could eat into membrane and flesh.
  A casualty minutes into an attack? Even an attack that was so unpre-
  dictably early? F’lar winced.
  Virianth, R’nor’s brown, Mnementh informed his rider as he soared in
  search of a target. He craned
  his sinuous neck around in a wide sweep, eyeing the forest lest Thread
  had actually started burrowing.
  Then, with a warning to his rider, he folded his wings and dove toward
  an especially thick patch, braking his
  descent with neck-snapping speed. As Mnementh belched fire, F’lar
  watched, grinning with intense
  satisfaction as the Thread curled into black dust and floated harmlessly
  to the forests below.
  Virianth caught his wingtip, Mnementh said as he beat upward again.
  He’ll return. We need him.
  This Thread falls wrong.
  “Wrong and early,” F’lar said gritting his teeth against the fierce wind of
  their ascent. If he hadn’t
  
  There was no further time for speculation; only action and reaction.
  Dive. Flame. Firestone for
  Mnementh to chew. Call a weyrling for another sack. Catch it deftly mid-
  air. Fly above the fighting wings to
  check the pattern of flying dragons. Gouts of flame blossoming across
  the sky. Sun glinting off green, blue,
  brown, bronze backs as dragons veered, soared, dove, flaming after
  Thread. He’d spot a beast going
  between, tense until he reappeared or Mnementh reported their retreat.
  Part of his mind kept track of the
  casualties, another traced the wing line, correcting it when the riders
  started to overlap or flew too wide a
  pattern. He was aware, too, of the golden triangle of the queens’ wing,
  far below, catching what Thread
  escaped from the upper levels.
  By the time Thread had ceased to fall and the dragons began to spiral
  down to aid the Lemos Hold
  ground crews, F’lar almost resented Mnementh’s summary.
  Nine minor brushes, four just wingtips; two bad lacings, Sorenth and
  Relth, and two face-burned
  riders.
  
  good riders.
  How could Thread fall northeast in the morning when it wasn’t supposed
  to drop until evening and in
  the southwest? he wondered, savage with frustrated worry.
  Automatically, F’lar started to ask Mnementh to have Canth fly close in.
  But then he remembered
  that F’nor was wounded and half a planet away in Southern Weyr. F’lar
  swore long and imaginatively,
  wishing T’reb of Fort Weyr immured between with Weyrleader T’ron fast
  beside him. Why did F’nor have to
  be absent at a time like this? It still rankled F’lar deeply that Fort’s
  Weyrleader had tried to shift the blame of
  the fight from his very guilty rider to Terry. Of all the specious, contrived,
  ridiculous contentions for T’ron to
  stand by!
  Lamanth is flying well, the bronze dragon remarked, cutting into his
  rider’s thoughts.
  F’lar was so surprised at the unexpected diversion that he glanced down
  to see the young queen.
  “We’re lucky to have so many to fly today,” F’lar said, amused despite
  his other concerns by the
  
  many queens, in spite of the fact that she would mate only with Mne-
  menth. Many queens were the mark of
  virility in a bronze and it was natural for Mnementh to want to flaunt his
  prowess. Benden Weyr had to
  maintain more than one golden queen to placate the rest of the bronzes
  and to improve the breed in
  general, but three?
  After the meeting the other night at Fort Weyr, F’lar hesitated to suggest
  to any of the other
  Weyrleaders that he’d be glad of a home for the new queen: They’d
  probably contrive it to be bad
  management of Ramoth or coddling of Lessa. Still, Benden queens
  were bigger than Old-timer queens, just
  as modern bronzes were bigger, too. Maybe R’mart at Telgar Weyr
  wouldn’t take offense. Or G’narish?
  F’lar couldn’t think how many queens G’narish had at Igen Weyr. He
  grinned to himself, thinking of the
  expression of T’ron’s face when he heard Benden was giving away a
  queen dragon.
  “Benden’s known for its generosity, but what’s behind such a maneu-
  ver?” T’ron would say. “It’s not
  
  painstakingly researched from hundreds of disintegrating Record skins
  in his efforts seven Turns ago to
  prepare his ill-protected planet..Patterns, F’lar thought bitterly, which the
  Oldtimers had enthusiastically acclaimed and used —
  though that was scarcely traditional. Just useful
  Now how could Thread, which had no mind, no intelligence at all, devi-
  ate from patterns it had
  followed to the split second for over seven Turns? How could it change
  time and place overnight? The last
  Fall in Benden’s Weyr jurisdiction had been on time and over upper
  Benden Hold as expected.
  Could he possibly have misread the timetables? F’lar thought back, but
  the carefully drawn maps
  were clear in his mind and, if he had made an error, Lessa would have
  caught it.
  He’d check, double check, as soon as he returned to the Weyr. In the
  meantime, he’d better make
  sure they had cleared the Fall from Edge to Edge. He directed Mne-
  menth to find Asgenar, Lord Holder of
  Lemos.
  
  tried F’lar’s patience. True, those three Holds, Benden, Bitra and Le-
  mos, had conscientiously tithed to
  support Benden Weyr when it was the sole dragonweyr of Pern. But
  Lord Raid and Lord Sifer had an
  unpleasant habit of reminding Benden Weyr riders of their loyalty at
  every opportunity. Gratitude is an ill-fitting
  tunic that can chafe and smell if worn too long.
  Lord Asgenar of Lemos Hold, on the other hand, was young and had
  been confirmed in his honors
  by the Lord Holders’ Conclave only five Turns ago. His attitude toward
  the Weyr which protected his
  Holdlands from Thread was refreshingly untainted by invidious remind-
  ers of past services.
  Mnementh glided toward the expanse of the Great Lake which sepa-
  rated Lemos Hold from upper
  Telgar Hold. The Threads’ advance edge had just missed the verdant
  softwoods that surrounded the
  northern shores. Mnementh circled down, causing F’lar to lean into the
  great neck, grasping the fighting
  straps firmly. Despite his weariness and worry, he felt the sharp surge of
  elation which always gripped him
  
  sardonically at the sight. Let the
  Oldtimers disapprove, let them mutter uneasily when F’lar put non-
  weyrfolk on dragonback, but if F’lar had
  not, Thread would have fallen unseen over those hardwoods.
  Trees! Another bone of contention between Weyr and Hold, with F’lar
  staunchly upholding the
  Lords’ position. Four hundred Turns ago, such timber stands had not
  existed, were not permitted to grow.
  Too much living green to protect. Well, the Oldtimers were eager
  enough to own products of wood,
  overloading Fandarel’s woodcraftsman, Bendarek, with their demands.
  On the other hand, they wouldn’t
  permit the formation of a new Crafthall under Bendarek. Probably be-
  cause, F’lar thought bitterly, Bendarek
  wanted to stay near the hardwoods of Lemos, and that would give Ben-
  den Weyr a Crafthall in its jurisdiction.
  By the Egg, the Oldtimers were almost more trouble than they were
  worth!
  Mnementh landed with sweeping backstrokes that flattened the thick
  meadow grass. F’lar slid down
  
  directed his ground crews personally instead of staying comfortably in
  his main Hold. “Even if Threads have
  begun to deviate. How do you account for all these recent variations?”
  Variations?” F’lar repeated the word, feeling stupid because he some-
  how realized that Asgenar
  was not referring just to this day’s unusual occurrence.
  “Yes! And here we thought your timetables were the last word. To be re-
  lied on forever, especially
  since they were checked and approved by the Oldtimers.” Asgenar gave
  F’lar a sly look. “Oh, I’m not
  faulting you, F’lar. You’ve always been open in our dealings. I count my-
  self lucky to be weyrbound to you.
  A man knows where he stands with Benden Weyr. My brother-in-law
  elect? Lord Larad, has had problems
  with T’kul of the High Reaches Weyr, you know. And since those pre-
  mature falls at Tillek and Upper Crom,
  he’s got a thorough watch system set up.” Asgenar paused, suddenly
  aware of F’lar’s tense silence. “I do
  not presume to criticize weyrfolk, F’lar,” he said in a more formal tone,
  “but rumor can outfly a dragon and.naturally I heard about the others. I can
  appreciate the Weyrs not wishing to alarm commoners but — well
  
  might show him in a bad light, that one
  wouldn’t give coordinates to save a rider’s life.
  No, they’d have had good reason not to mention premature falls to F’lar
  that night. If T’kul had
  confided in anyone. But why hadn’t R’mart let them know?
  “But Benden Weyr’s not caught sleeping. Once is all we’d need in those
  forests, huh, F’lar?”
  Asgenar was saying, his eyes scanning the spongewoods possessively.
  “Yes. All we’d need. What’s the report from the leading Edge of this
  Fall? Have you runners in
  yet?”
  “Your queens’ wing reported it safe two hours past.” Asgenar grinned
  and rocked back and forth on
  his heels, his confidence not a bit jarred by today’s unpredicted event.
  F’lar envied him.
  Again the bronze rider thanked good fortune that he had Lord Asgenar
  to deal with this morning
  instead of punctilious Raid or suspicious Lord Sifer. He devoutly hoped
  that the young Lord Holder would
  not find his trust misplaced. But the question haunted him: how could
  Threads change so?
  
  needlessly.”
  “But it takes every dragon to protect . . .”
  “Are you for or against?” F’lar asked with mild amusement. He gripped
  Asgenar’s shoulder.
  “Instruct your foresters to keep constant watch. Their vigilance is essen-
  tial.”
  “Then you don’t know the pattern in the Thread shifts?”
  F’lar shook his head slowly, unwilling to perjure himself to this man. “I’ll
  leave the long-eyed F’rad
  with you.”
  A wide smile broke the thin troubled face of the Lord Holder.
  “I couldn’t ask, but it’s a relief. I shan’t abuse the privilege.”
  F’lar glanced at him sharply. “Why should you?”
  Asgenar gave him a wry smile. “That’s what the Oldtimers carp about,
  isn’t it? And instant
  transportation to any place on Pern is a temptation.”
  F’lar laughed, remembering that Asgenar, Lord of Lemos, was to take
  Famira, the youngest sister of
  Larad, Lord of Telgar Hold, to wife. While the Telgar lands marched the
  boundaries of Lemos, the Holds
  
  Holder, carefully keeping several dragonlengths between himself and
  the two beasts. For all that every
  Pernese knew the dragons would harm no human, many would never
  lose their fearfulness. Dragons were
  confused by this distrust so that F’lar strolled casually to his bronze and
  scratched the left eye ridge
  affectionately until Mnementh allowed one lid to droop in pleasure over
  the gleaming opalescent eye.
  The runner had come from afar, managing to gasp out his reassuring
  message before he collapsed
  on the ground, his chest heaving with the effort to fill his starved lungs.
  Asgenar stripped off his tunic and
  covered the man to prevent his chilling and made the runner drink from
  his own flask
  “The two infestations on the south slope are char!” Asgenar reported to
  the Weyrleader as he
  rejoined him. “That means the hardwood stands are safe.” Asgenar’s re-
  lief was so great that he took a swig
  on the bottle himself. Then hastily offered it to the dragonrider. When
  F’lar politely refused, he went on,
  
  “That runner came from the south slope? He’s fast.”
  “My forest men are the best in all Pern. Meron of Nabol has twice tried
  to lure that man from me.”.“And?”
  Lord Asgenar chuckled. “Who trusts Meron? My man had heard tales of
  how that Lord treats his
  people.” He seemed about to add another thought but cleared his throat
  instead, glancing nervously away
  as if catching a glimpse of something in the woods.
  “What all Pern needs is an efficient means of communication,” remarked
  the dragonman, his eyes
  on the gasping runner.
  “Efficient?” and Asgenar laughed aloud. “Is all Pern infected with Fan-
  darel’s disease?”
  “Pern benefits by such an illness.” F’lar must contact the Mastersmith
  the moment he got back to
  the Weyr. Pern needed the genius of the giant Fandarel now more than
  ever.
  “Yes, but will we recover from the feverish urge for perfection?” Asge-
  nar’s smile faded as he added,
  in a deceptively casual fashion, “Have you heard whether a decision has
  been reached about Bendarek’s
  
  Lemos!”
  “Every single objection raised has been ridiculous,” Asgenar replied, his
  gray eyes sparkling with
  anger. “You know as well as I that a Craftmaster owes no allegiance to
  a Lord Holder. Bendarek’s as
  unprejudiced as Fandarel as far as loyalty to anything but his craft is
  concerned. All the man thinks of is
  wood and pulp and those new leaves or sheets or what-you-ma-callums
  he’s mucking about with.”
  “I know. I know, Asgenar. Larad of Telgar Hold and Corman of Keroon
  Hold side with you or so
  they’ve assured me.”
  “When the Lord Holders meet in Conclave at Telgar Hold, I’m going to
  speak out. Lord Raid and
  Sifer will back me, if only because we’re weyrbound.”
  “It isn’t the Lords or Weyrleaders who must make this decision,” F’lar
  reminded the resolute young
  Lord. “It’s the other Craftmasters. That’s been my thought since Fan-
  darel first proposed a new craft
  designation.”
  
  added to himself, thinking of
  this Threadfall.) “is going to alarm certain Weyrleaders and Lord Hold-
  ers. Sometimes I think that only the
  Crafts constantly look for change, are interested and flexible enough to
  judge what is improvement or
  progressive. The Lord Holders and the — ” F’lar broke off.
  Fortunately another runner was approaching from the north, his legs
  pumping strongly. He came
  straight past the green dragon, right up to his Lord.
  “Sir, the northern section is clear. Three burrows have been burned out.
  All is secure.”
  “Good man. Well run.”
  The man, flushed with praise and effort, saluted the Weyrleader and his
  Lord. Then, breathing
  deeply but without labor, he strode over to the prone messenger and
  began massaging his legs.
  Asgenar smiled at F’lar. “There’s no point in our rehearsing arguments.
  We are basically in
  agreement. If we could just make those others see!”
  Mnementh rumbled that the wings were reporting an all-clear. He so
  pointedly extended his foreleg
  
  “My regards to your lady.”
  Mnementh bore him upward in an elliptical course that allowed them to
  make one final check of the
  forest lands. Wisps of smoke curled to the north and farther to the east,
  but Mnementh seemed
  unconcerned. F’lar told him to go between. The utter cold of that dimen-
  sion painfully irritated the Thread.scores on his face. Then they were above
  Benden Weyr. Mnementh trumpeted his return and hung, all but
  motionless, until he heard the booming response of Ramoth. At that in-
  stant, Lessa appeared on the ledge
  of the weyr, her slight stature diminished still further by distance. As
  Mnementh glided in, she descended
  the long flight of stairs in much the same headlong fashion for which
  they criticized their weyrling son,
  Felessan.
  Reprimands were not likely to break Lessa of that habit either, thought
  F’lar. Then he noticed what
  Lessa had in her hands and rounded angrily on Mnementh. “I’m barely
  touched and you babble on me like
  a weyrling!”
  
  times when the double bond
  between riders and dragons became a serious disadvantage. Particu-
  larly when Mnementh took the
  initiative, not generally a draconic characteristic.
  Mnementh gave an awkward half jump upward, clearing the way for
  Lessa. She hadn’t changed
  from wher-hide riding clothes and looked younger than any Weyrwoman
  ought as she ran towards them, her
  plaited hair bouncing behind her. Although neither motherhood nor
  seven turns of security had added flesh
  to her small-boned body, there was a subtle roundness to breast and
  hip, and that certain look in her great
  gray eyes that F’lar knew was for him alone.
  “And you complain about the timing of other riders,” she said, gasping,
  as she came to an abrupt
  stop at his side. Before he could protest the insignificance of his injuries,
  she was smearing numbweed on
  the burns. “I’ll have to wash them once the feeling’s gone. Can’t you
  duck ash yet? Virianth will be all right
  but Sorenth and Relth took awful lacings. I do wish that glass craftsman
  of Fandarel’s — Wansor’s his
  
  line which F’lar had finally catalogued as Lessa veering away from a
  painful subject.
  “Lessa! No, don’t look away.” He forced her head up so she had to meet
  his eyes. She who
  couldn’t conceive must find it hard, too, to help terminate unwanted
  pregnancies. Would she never stop
  yearning for another child? How could she forget she had nearly died
  with Felessan? He’d been relieved
  that she had never quickened again. The thought of losing Lessa was
  not even to be thought. “Riding
  between so much makes it impossible for a Weyrwoman to carry to
  term.”
  “It doesn’t seem to affect Kylara,” Lessa said with bitter resentment. She
  had turned away, watching
  Mnementh rend a fat buck with such an intense expression in her eyes
  that F’lar had no difficulty guessing
  that she’d prefer Kylara thus rendered.
  “That one!” F’lar said with a sharp laugh. “Dear heart, if you must model
  yourself after Kylara to
  bear children Weyrwoman, I prefer you barren!”
  
  “It would’ve been courteous of them to have apprised us first,” F’lar said
  so angrily that Lessa
  glanced up at him startled. He told her then what the Lemos Lord Holder
  had said on the mountain
  meadow.
  “And Asgenar assumed that we all knew? That it was simply a matter of
  changing the timetables?”
  Shock faded from her face and her eyes narrowed, flashing with indig-
  nation. “I would I had never gone back
  to get those Old-timers. You’d have figured out a way for us to cope.”
  “You give me entirely too much credit, love.” He hugged her for her loy-
  alty. “However, the
  Oldtimers are here and we’ve got to deal with them.”
  “Indeed we will. We’ll bring them up to date if . . .”
  “Lessa,” and F’lar gave her a little shake, his pessimism dispersed by
  the vehemence of her
  response and the transparency of her rapid calculations on how to bring
  about such changes. “You can’t
  change a watch-wher into a dragon, my love . . .”.Who’d want to? de-
  manded Mnementh from the Feeding Ground, his appetite sated.
  
  Lessa frowned up at the bright midmorning sky. “Only just. I wanted to
  get any last details from the
  Sweepriders.”
  “I’m as hungry as Mnementh. Feed me, woman.”
  The bronze dragon had glided up to the ledge to settle in his accus-
  tomed spot just as a commotion
  started in the tunnel. He extended his wings to flight position, neck
  craned toward the one land entrance to
  the dragonweyr.
  “It’s the wine train from Benden, silly,” Lessa told him, chuckling as
  Mnementh gave voice to a loud
  brassy grumble and began to arrange himself again, completely disin-
  terested in wine trains “Now don’t tell
  Robinton the new wine’s in, F’lar. It has to settle first, you know.”
  “And why would I be telling Robinton anything?” F’lar demanded, won-
  dering how Lessa knew that
  he had only just started to think of the Masterharper himself.
  “There has never been a crisis before us when you haven’t sent for the
  Masterharper and the
  Mastersmith.” She sighed deeply. “If we only had such cooperation from
  our own kind.” Her body went
  
  you know.”
  F’lar waited beside Mnementh as Fidranth circled smartly into the weyr.
  From the Hatching Cavern
  came Ramoth’s crotchety challenge. Mnementh answered her sooth-
  ingly that the intruder was only Fidranth
  and no threat. At least not to her clutch. Then the bronze rolled one
  scintillating eye toward his rider. The
  exchange, so like one between himself and Lessa, drained anger from
  F’lar. Which was as well, for T’ron’s
  opening remarks were scarcely diplomatic.
  “I found it! I found what you forgot to incorporate in those so-called infal-
  lible timetables of yours!”
  “You’ve found what, T’ron?” F’lar asked, tightly controlling his temper. If
  T’ron had found anything
  that would be of help, he could not antagonize the man.
  Mnementh had courteously stepped aside to permit Fidranth landing
  room, but with two huge
  bronze bodies there was so little space that T’ron slid in front of the
  Benden Weyrleader, waving a portion of
  a Record hide right under his nose.
  
  over Tillek and High Crom
  in the past few days!”
  The look of shock and horror on T’ron’s face was too genuine to be
  faked.
  “You’d do better to listen to what commoners say, T’ron, instead of im-
  muring yourself in the Weyr,”
  F’lar told him. “Asgenar knew of it yet neither T’kul nor R’mar thought to
  tell the other Weyrs, so we could
  prepare and keep watch.
  Just luck I had F’rad . . .”
  “You’ve not been housing dragonmen in the Holds again?”
  “I always send a messenger on ahead the day of a Fall. If I didn’t follow
  the practice, Asgenar’s
  forest lands would be gone by now.”
  F’lar regretted that heated reference. It would give T’ron the wedge he
  needed for another of his
  diatribes about over forestration. To divert him, F’lar reached for the
  piece of Record, but T’ron twitched it
  out of his grasp.
  “You’ll have to take my word for it . . .”
  
  is predawn T’ron’s time.”
  “I’d appreciate a cup,” T’ron admitted, as obviously relieved as F’lar by
  the interruption.
  “I apologize for rousing you . . .”
  “I need none, not with this news.”
  Unaccountably F’lar was relieved to realize that T’ron had obviously not
  known of Threadfall. He
  had come charging in here, delighted at an opportunity to put F’lar and
  Benden in the wrong. He’d not have
  been so quick — witness his evasiveness and contradictions over the
  belt-knife fight — if he’d known.
  When the two men entered the queen’s weyr, Lessa was gowned, her
  hair loosely held by an
  intricate net, and seated gracefully at the table. Just as if she hadn’t rid-
  den hard all morning and been
  suited five minutes before.
  So Lessa was all set to charm T’ron again, huh? Despite the unsettling
  events, F’lar was amused.
  Still, he wasn’t certain that this ploy would lessen T’ron’s antagonism.
  He didn’t know what truth there was
  
  sands and that the Oldtimers’ queens laid few gold eggs.
  “I do apologize for starting your day so early,” she went on, deftly serv-
  ing him a neatly sectioned fruit
  and fixing klah to his taste “Rut we need your advice and help.”
  T’ron grunted his thanks, carefully placing the Record hide side down on
  the table.
  “Threadfall could come when it would if we didn’t have all those blasted
  forests to care for,” T’ron
  said, glaring at F’lar through the steam of the klah as he lifted his mug.
  “What? And do without wood?” Lessa complained, rubbing her hands on
  the carved chair which
  Bendarek had made with his consummate artistry. “Those stone chairs
  may fit you and Mardra,” she said in
  a sweet insinuating voice, “but I had a cold rear end all the time.”
  T’ron snorted with amusement, his eyes wandering over the dainty
  Weyrwoman in such a way that
  Lessa leaned forward abruptly and tapped the Record.
  “I ought not to take your valuable time with chatter. Have you discovered
  something here which we
  missed?”
  
  I happened to remember seeing a
  reference to a Pass where all previous Records were no help. One rea-
  son we never bothered with
  timetable nonsense.”
  F’lar was about to demand why none of the Oldtimers had seen fit to
  mention that minor fact, when
  he caught Lessa’s stern look. He held his peace.
  “See, this phrase here is partly missing, but if you put ‘unpredictable
  shifts’ here, it makes sense.”
  Lessa, her gray eyes wide with an expression of unfeigned awe (her
  dissembling nearly choked
  F’lar), looked up from the Record at T’ron.
  “He’s right, F’lar. That would make sense. See — ” and she deftly
  slipped the Record from T’ron’s
  reluctant fingers and passed it to F’lar. He took it from her.
  “You’re right, T’ron. Very right. This is one of the older skins which I had
  to abandon, unable to
  decipher them.”
  “Of course, it was much more readable when I first studied it four hun-
  dred Turns back, before it got
  
  Thread fall out of a pattern they’ve.followed to the second for seven mortal
  Turns this Pass? You yourself told me that you followed a certain
  rhythm in your Time. Did it vary much then?”
  T’ron frowned down at the blurred lines. “No,” he admitted slowly, and
  then brought his fist down on
  the offending scrap. “Why have we lost so many techniques? Why have
  these Records failed us just when
  we need them most?”
  Mnementh began to bugle from the ledge, with Fidranth adding his note.
  Lessa “listened,” head cocked.
  “D’ram and G’narish,” she said. “I don’t think we need expect T’kul, but
  R’mart is not an arrogant
  man.”
  D’ram of Ista and G’narish of Igen Weyrs entered together. Both men
  were agitated, sparing no
  time for amenities.
  “What’s this about premature Threadfall?” D’ram demanded. “Where are
  T’kul and R’mart? You did
  send for them, didn’t you? Were your wings badly torn up? How much
  Thread burrowed?”
  
  “My duty, sirs,” the boy gasped out, “but R’mart’s badly hurt and there’re
  so many wounded men
  and dragons at Telgar Weyr, it’s an awful sight. And half the Holds of
  High Crom are said to be charred.”
  The Weyrleaders were all on their feet.
  “I must send some help — ” Lessa began, to be halted by the frown on
  T’ron’s face and D’ram’s odd
  expression. She gave a small impatient snort. “You heard the boy,
  wounded men and dragons, a Weyr
  demoralized. Help in time of disaster is not interference. That ancient lay
  about Weyr autonomy can be
  carried to ridiculous lengths and this is one of them. Not to help Telgar
  Weyr, indeed!”
  “She’s right, you know,” G’narish said, and F’lar knew the man was one
  step closer to gaining a
  modern perspective.
  Lessa left the chamber, muttering something about personally flying to
  Telgar Weyr. The weyrling
  followed her, dismissed by F’lar’s nod.
  “T’ron found a reference to unpredictable shifts in this old Record Skin,”
  F’lar said, seizing control.
  
  his words.
  But T’ron wasn’t deceived and banged the table so hard that he set the
  crockery jumping. “Just
  waiting for the chance to lodge dragons in Holds and Crafthalls again,
  huh F’lar? Dragonfolk stick together .
  . .”
  “The way T’kul and R’mart are doing by not warning the rest of us?”
  asked D’ram in such an acid
  tone that T’ron subsided.
  “Actually, why should dragonfolk weary themselves when there is so
  much more manpower
  available in the Holds now?” asked G’narish in a surprised way. He
  smiled slightly with nervousness when
  he saw the others staring at him. “I mean, the individual Holds could
  easily supply the watchers we’ll need.”
  “And they’ve the means, too,” F’lar agreed, ignoring T’ron’s surprised
  exclamation. “It’s not so very
  long ago that there were signal fires on every ridge and hill, across the
  plains, in case Fax began another of
  his acquisitive marches. In fact, I shouldn’t be surprised if most of those
  beacon fireguards are still in place.”
  
  licenses. “Let the Holders light fires when Thread masses on the horizon
  — a few strategically placed riders
  could oversee great areas. Use the weyrlings; that’d keep them out of
  mischief and give ‘em good practice.
  Once we know how the Thread falls now, we’ll be able to judge the
  changes.” F’lar forced himself to relax,
  smiling. “I don’t think this is as serious a matter as it first appears. Par-
  ticularly if shifts have occurred
  before. Of course, if we could find some reference to how long the shift
  lasted, if Thread went back to the
  original pattern, it’d help.”.“It would have helped if T’kul had sent word
  as you did,” D’ram muttered.
  “Well, we all know how T’kul is,” F’lar said tolerantly.
  “He’d no right to withhold such vital information from us,” T’ron said,
  again pounding the table.
  “Weyrs should stick together.”
  “The Lord Holders aren’t going to like this,” G’narish remarked, no doubt
  thinking of Lord Corman of
  Keroon, the most difficult one of the Holders bound to his Weyr.
  “Oh,” F’lar replied with more diffidence than he felt, “if we tell them we’ve
  expected such a shift at
  
  “I never explained myself to them, if you’ll think back D’ram I told them
  what had to be done and
  they did it.”
  “They were scared stupid seven Turns ago,” G’narish remarked.
  “Scared enough to welcome us
  with wide-open arms and goods.”
  “If they want to protect all those forests and croplands, they’ll do as we
  suggest or start charring
  their profits.”
  “Let Lord Oterel of Tillek or that idiot Lord Sangel of Boll start disputing
  my orders and I’ll fire their
  forests myself,” said T’ron, rising.
  “Then we’re agreed,” said F’lar quickly, before the hypocrisy he was
  practicing overcame him with
  disgust. “We mount watches, aided by the Holders, and we keep track
  of the new shift. We’ll soon know
  how to judge it.”
  “What of T’kul?” G’narish asked.
  D’ram looked squarely at T’ron. “We’ll explain the situation to him.”
  “He respects you two,” F’lar agreed. “It might be wiser, though, not to
  suggest we knew about . . .”
  
  Lessa came back into the weyr just then, her face flushed, her eyes ex-
  ceedingly bright. Even D’ram
  bowed low to her in making his farewells.
  “Don’t leave, D’ram, T’ron. I’ve good word from Telgar Weyr,” she cried,
  but catching F’lar’s glance,
  did not try to keep them when they demurred.
  “R’mart’s all right?” G’narish asked, trying to smooth over the awkward-
  ness.
  Lessa recovered herself with a smile for the Igen leader.
  “Oh that messenger — he’s only a boy — he exaggerated. Ramoth be-
  spoke Solth the senior queen
  at Telgar Weyr. R’mart is badly scored, yes. Bedella evidently over-
  dosed him with numbweed powder.
  She hadn’t the wit to send word to anyone. And the Wing-second as-
  sumed that we’d all been informed
  because he’d heard R’mart telling Bedella to send messengers, never
  dreaming she hadn’t. When R’mart
  passed out, she forgot everything.” Lessa’s shrug indicated her low
  opinion of Bedella. “The Wing-second
  says he’d be grateful for your advice.”
  
  extent of the Fall there and
  can relay the information to us. I’ll see him to the ledge while you start
  eating.” Lessa was so didactic that
  G’narish chuckled. She tucked her arm in his and started toward the
  corridor. “I’ve not made my duty to
  Gyarmath,” she said, smiling sweetly up at G’narish, “and he’s a favorite
  of mine, you know.”
  She was flirting so outrageously that F’lar wondered that Ramoth wasn’t
  roaring protest. As if
  Gyarmath could ever catch Ramoth in night! Then he heard Mnementh’s
  rumble of humor and was
  reassured..Eat, his bronze advised him. Let Lessa flatter G’narish
  Gyarmath doesn’t mind. Nor Ramoth. Nor I.
  “What I do for my Weyr,” said Lessa with an exaggerated sigh as she
  returned a few moments later.
  F’lar gave her a cynical look. “G’narish is more of a modern mind than
  he knows.”
  “Then we’ll have to make him conscious of it,” Lessa said firmly.
  “Just so long as it is ‘we’ who make him,” F’lar replied with mock sever-
  ity, catching her hand and
  pulling her to him.
  
  “But don’t you see that you were right?”
  F’lar gave her a long incredulous look.
  “By the Egg, Weyrleader, you astonish me. Why can’t there be devia-
  tions? Because you, F’lar,
  compiled those Records and to spite the Oldtimers they must remain
  infallible? Great golden eggs, man,
  there were such things as Intervals when no Threads fell — as we both
  know. Why not a change of pace in
  Threadfall itself during a Pass?”
  “But why? Give me one good reason why.”
  “Give me one good reason why not! The same thing that affects the Red
  Star so that it doesn’t
  always pass close enough to cast Thread on us can pull it enough off
  course to change Fall! The Red Star
  is not the only one to rise and set with the seasons. There could be an-
  other heavenly body affecting not
  only us but the Red Star.”
  “Where?”
  Lessa shrugged impatiently. “How do I know? I’m not long in the eye like
  F’rad. But we can try to
  
  dence in his own prophecy that Thread
  would fall and fear that nothing would rescue the Dragonriders from their
  lethargy. Then the crushing
  realization that those all too few dragonmen were all that could save an
  entire world from destruction; the
  three days of torture between the initial fall over the impending one at
  Nerat Hold and Telgar Hold with
  Lessa who-knew-where. Did he not have a right to relax his vigilance?
  Some freedom from the weight of
  responsibility?
  “I’ve no right to say such things to you,” Lessa was whispering in soft
  remorse.
  “Why not? It’s true enough.”
  “I ought never to diminish you, and all you’ve done, to placate a trio of
  narrow-minded, parochial,
  conservative . . .”
  He stopped her words with a kiss, a teasing kiss that abruptly became
  passionate. Then he winced
  as her hands curving sensuously around his neck, rubbed against the
  Thread-bared skin.
  
  didn’t F’nor just let T’reb have the knife?”
  “F’nor acted with integrity,” F’lar said with stiff disapproval.
  “He could’ve ducked quicker then. And you’re no better.” Her touch was
  gentle but the burns stung.
  “Hmmm. What I have ducked is my responsibility to Our Pern in bringing
  the Oldtimers forward.
  We’ve let ourselves get bogged down on small issues, like whose was
  the blame in that asinine fight at the
  Mastersmith’s Hall. The real problem is to reconcile the old with the
  new. And we may just be able to make
  this new crisis work there to our advantage, Lessa.”
  She heard the ring in his voice and smiled back at him approvingly.
  “When we cut through traditions before the Oldtimers came forward, we
  also discovered how hollow
  and restrictive some of them were; such as this business of minimal
  contact between Hold, Craft and Weyr.
  Oh, true, if we wish to bespeak another Weyr, we can go there in a few
  seconds on a dragon, but it takes
  Holder or Crafter days to get from one place to another. They had a
  taste of convenience seven Turns ago..I should never have acquiesced
  and let the Oldtimers talk me out of continuing a dragon in Hold and Craft.
  
  see if it had hardened.
  “And of course you’ve eaten and rested, too?”
  She got off his lap in one fluid movement, her eyes almost black. “I’ll
  have sense enough to go to
  bed when I’m tired. You’ll keep on talking with Fandarel and Robinton
  long after you’ve chewed your
  business to death. And you’ll drink — as if you haven’t learned yet that
  only a dragon could out drink that
  Harper and that Smith — ” She broke off again, her scowl turning into a
  thoughtful frown. “Come to think of
  it, we’d do well to invite Lytol, if he’d come. I’d like to know exactly what
  the Lord Holders’ reactions are.
  But first, you eat!”
  F’lar laughingly obeyed, wondering how he could suddenly feel so opti-
  mistic when it was now
  obvious that the problems of Pern were coming home to roost on his
  weyr ledge again.
  CHAPTER IV
  Midday at Southern Weyr
  KYLARA whirled in front of the mirror, turning her head to watch her
  slender image, observing the
  
  and again, “but do cultivate
  a pretty one. Think what would happen if your face froze that way.”
  Her posing diverted her until she twisted, trying to assess her profile,
  and again caught sight of the
  swirl of the guilty hem.
  “Rannelly!” she called, impatient when the old woman did not answer in-
  stantly. “Rannelly!”
  “Coming, poppet. Old bones don’t move as fast. Been setting your
  gowns to air. There do be such
  sweetness from that blooming tree. Aye, the wonder of it, a fellis tree
  grown to such a size.” Rannelly
  carried on a continuous monologue once summoned, as if the sound of
  her name turned on her mind.
  Kylara was certain that it did, for her old nurse voiced, like a dull echo,
  only what she heard and saw.
  “Those tailors are no better than they should be, and sloppy about fin-
  ishing details,” Rannelly
  muttered on, when Kylara sharply interrupted her maundering with the
  problem. She exhaled on the note of
  a bass drone as she knelt and flipped up the offending skirt. “Aye and
  just see these stitches. Taken in
  
  with you. I’m the Weyrwoman here at Southern. I ride the queen. No
  one can do anything to me. Don’t
  forget that.”
  “There’s none as forgets my poppet’s . . .”
  “Not that this is a proper Weyr, at all . . .”
  “ . . . And that’s an insult to my nursling, it is, to be in . . .”
  “Not that they care, but they’ll see they can’t treat a Telgar of the Blood
  with such lack of courtesy . .
  .”
  “ . . . And who’s been discourteous to my little . . .”
  “Fix that hem, Rannelly, and don’t be all week about it. I must look my
  best when I go home,” Kylara
  said, turning her upper torso this way and that, studying the fall of her
  thick, wavy blonde hair. “Only good
  thing about this horrible, horrible place. The sun does keep my hair
  bright.”
  “Like a fall of sunbeams, my sweetling, and me brushing it to bring out
  the shine. Morning and night
  I brushes it. Never miss. Except when you’re away. He was looking for
  you earlier . . .”.“Never mind him. Fix that hem.”
  
  almost covered the big bruise on her
  right arm. She could always blame that on a natural accident. Not that
  she cared a whistle what T’bor
  thought but it made for less recrimination. And he never knew what he
  did when he was well wined-up.
  “No good will come of it,” Rannelly was moaning as she gathered up the
  red gown and began to
  shuffle across to her cubby. “You’re weyrfolk now. No good comes of
  weyrfolk mixing with Holders. Stick
  to your own. You’re somebody here . . .”
  “Shut up, you old fool. The whole point of being Weyrwoman is I can do
  what I please. I’m not my
  mother. I don’t need your advice.”
  “Aye, and I know it,” the old nurse said with such sharp bitterness that
  Kylara stared after her.
  There, she’d frowned unattractively. She must remember not to screw
  her brows that way; it made
  wrinkles. Kylara ran her hands down her sides, testing the smooth
  curves sensuously, drawing one hand
  across her Rat belly. Flat even after five brats. Well, there’d be no more.
  She had the way of it now. Just a
  
  dragon’s tone; it was a statement of fact. Mainly the fact that Prideth
  was bored with excursions which
  landed her in Holds rather than Weyrs. When Kylara’s fancy took them
  visiting other dragons, Prideth was
  more than agreeable. But a Hold, with only the terrified incoherencies of
  a watch-wher for company was
  another matter.
  “No, he’s not a dragonrider,” Kylara agreed emphatically a smile of re-
  membered pleasure touching
  her full red lips. It gave her a soft, mysterious, alluring look, she thought,
  bending to the mirror. But the
  surface was mottled and the close inspection made her skin appear dis-
  eased.
  I itch, Prideth said, and Kylara could hear the dragon moving. The
  ground under her feet echoed
  the effect.
  Kylara laughed indulgently and, with a final swirl and a grimace at the
  imperfect mirror, she went out
  to ease Prideth. If only she could find a real man who could understand
  and adore her the way the dragon
  did. If, for instance, F’lar . . .
  
  “Mnementh could be yours, silly one,” she told her beast, scrubbing the
  itchy spot with the long-handled
  brush.
  No. I do not contend with Ramoth.
  “You would quick enough if you were in mating heat,” Kylara replied,
  wishing she had the nerve to
  attempt such a coup. “It’s not as if there was anything immoral about
  mating with your father or clutching
  your mother . . .”
  Kylara thought of her own mother, a woman too early used and cast
  aside by Lord Telgar, for
  younger, more vital bedmates. Why, if she hadn’t been found on
  Search, she might have had to marry that
  dolt 
  what-ever-his-name-had-been. 
  She’d 
  never 
  have 
  been 
  a
  Weyrwoman and had Prideth to love her. She
  scrubbed fiercely at the spot until Prideth, sighing in an excess of relief,
  blew three clusters of blooms off
  their twigs
  You are my mother, Prideth said, turning great opalescent eyes on her
  rider, her tone suffused with
  love, admiration, affection, awe and joy.
  
  at peace momentarily with herself, with the world, the balm of Prideth’s
  love assuaging her discontent..Then she heard T’bor’s voice in the dis-
  tance, ordering the weyrlings about, and she pushed away
  from Prideth. Why did it have to be T’bor? He was so ineffectual. He
  never came near making her feel the
  way Meron did, except of course when Orth was flying Prideth and then,
  then it was bearable. But Meron,
  without a dragon, was almost enough. Meron was just ruthless and am-
  bitious enough so that together they
  could probably control all Pern . . .
  “Good day, Kylara.”
  Kylara ignored the greeting. T’bor’s forcedly cheerful tone told her that
  he was determined not to
  quarrel with her over whatever it was he had on his mind this time. She
  wondered what attraction he had
  ever held for her, though he was tall and not ill-favored; few Dragonrid-
  ers were. The thin lines of Thread
  scars more often gave them a rakish rather than repulsive appearance.
  T’bor was not scarred but a frown of
  apprehension and a nervous darting of his eyes marred the effect of his
  good looks.
  
  him.
  “I need to know how many weyrs are free. Telgar Weyr is asking.”
  “Ask Brekke. How should I know?”
  T’bor’s flush deepened and he set his jaw. “It is customary for the
  Weyrwoman to direct her own
  staff . . .”
  “Custom be Thread-bared! She knows. I don’t. And I don’t see why
  Southern should be constantly
  host to every idiot rider who can’t dodge Thread.”
  “You know perfectly well, Kylara, why Southern Weyr . . .”
  “We haven’t had a single casualty of any kind in seven Turns of
  Thread.”
  “We don’t get the heavy, constant Threadfall that the northern continent
  does, and now I understand
  . . .”
  “Well, I don’t understand why their wounded must be a constant drain
  on our resources . . .”
  “Kylara. Don’t argue with every word I say.”
  Smiling, Kylara turned from him, pleased that she had pushed him so
  close to breaking his childish
  resolve.
  
  “Brekke is twice the woman and far more fit to be Weyrwoman than
  you!” T’bor said In a tight,
  controlled voice.
  “You’ll pay for that, you scum, you sniveling boy-lover,” Kylara screamed
  at him, enraged by the
  unexpectedness of his retaliation. Then she burst out laughing at the
  thought of Brekke as the Weyrwoman,
  or Brekke as passionate and adept a lover as she knew herself to be.
  Brekke the Bony, with no more
  roundness at the breast than a boy. Why, even Lessa looked more
  feminine.
  Thought of Lessa sobered Kylara abruptly. She tried again to convince
  herself that Lessa would be
  no threat, no obstacle in her plan. Lessa was too subservient to F’lar
  now, aching to be pregnant again,
  playing the dutiful Weyrwoman, too content to see what could happen
  under her nose. Lessa was a fool.
  She could have ruled all Pern if she had half-tried. She’d had the
  chance and lost it. The stupidity of going
  back to bring up the Oldtimers when she could have had absolute do-
  minion over the entire planet as
  
  have remembered to invite her, his only full-blood sister, to the wedding,
  but surely there was no reason why
  she should remain distant when her own half sister was marrying the
  Lord Holder of Lemos.
  Brekke was changing the dressing on his arm when F’nor heard T’bor
  calling her. She tensed at the
  sound of his voice an expression of compassion and worry momentarily
  clouding her face.
  “I’m in F’nor’s weyr,” she said, turning her head toward the open door
  and raising her light voice..“Don’t know why we insist on calling a hold
  made of wood a weyr,” said F’nor, wondering at Brekke’s
  reaction. She was such a serious child, too old for her years. Perhaps
  being junior Weyrwoman to Kylara
  had aged her prematurely. He had finally got her to accept his teasing.
  Or was she humoring him, F’nor
  wondered, during the painful process of having the deep knife wound
  tended.
  She gave him a little smile. “A weyr is where a dragon is, no matter how
  it’s constructed.”
  T’bor entered at that moment, ducking his head, though the door was
  plenty high enough to
  
  we accommodate?”
  “Only four, but Varena at West can handle at least twenty.”
  From her expression, F’nor could tell she hoped there weren’t that many
  wounded.
  “R’mart asks to send ten, only one badly injured,” T’bor said, but he was
  still resentful.
  “He’d best stay here then.”
  F’nor started to say that he felt Brekke was spreading herself too thin as
  it was. It was obvious to
  him that, though she had few of the privileges, she had assumed all the
  responsibilities that Kylara ought to
  handle, while that one did much as she pleased. Including complaining
  that Brekke was shirking or stinting
  this or that. Brekke’s queen, Wirenth, was still young enough to need a
  lot of care; Brekke fostered young
  Mirrim though she had had no children herself and none of the Southern
  riders seemed to share her bed.
  Yet Brekke also took it upon herself to nurse the most seriously
  wounded Dragonriders. Not that F’nor
  wasn’t grateful to her. She seemed to have an extra sense that told her
  when numbweed needed renewing,
  
  Dragonriders managed to get well
  in their own Weyrs. Why should the Southern ones be burdened with
  wounded useless men, constantly
  dumped on them to recuperate?”
  “Benden sends very few,” Brekke said quietly.
  “I don’t mean just Benden. Half the men here right now are from Fort
  Weyr. They could as well
  bask on the beaches of Southern Boll . . .”
  “T’ron’s no leader — ” T’bor said in a disparaging tone.
  “So Mardra would like us to believe,” Brekke interrupted with such un-
  characteristic asperity that
  T’bor stared at her in surprise.
  “You don’t miss much, do you, little lady?” said F’nor with a whoop of
  laughter. “That’s what Lessa
  said and I agree.”
  Brekke flushed.
  “What do you mean, Brekke?” asked T’bor.
  “Just that five of the men most seriously wounded were flying in
  Mardra’s wing!”
  “Her wing?” F’nor glanced sharply at T’bor, wondering if this was news
  to him, too.
  
  “On an upper level?” F’nor was stunned. And T’ron had the nerve to
  prate how Fort Weyr kept
  tradition?
  “That’s why so many men are injured in her wing; the dragons fly close
  to protect their queen. A
  flame thrower throws ‘down’ but not out, or wide enough to catch air-
  borne Thread at the speed dragons fly.”
  “That is without doubt . . . ouch!” F’nor winced at the pain of an injudi-
  cious movement of his arm.
  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Does F’lar know?”
  T’bor shrugged. “If he did, what could he do?”
  Brekke pushed F’nor back onto the stool to reset the bandage he had
  disarranged..“What’ll happen next?” he demanded of no one.
  “You sound like an Oldtimer,” T’bor remarked with a harsh laugh. “Be-
  moaning the loss of order, the
  permissiveness of — of times which are so chaotic . . .”
  “Change is not chaos.”
  T’bor laughed sourly. “Depends on your point of view.”
  “What’s your point of view, T’bor?”
  The Weyrleader regarded the brown rider so long and hard, his face
  settling into such bitter lines,
  
  own counsel. And I’ll make my weyrfolk behave. All of them. Even Ky-
  lara if I have to . . .”
  “Shells, what’s Kylara up to now?”
  T’bor gave F’nor a thoughtful stare. Then, with a shrug he said, “Kylara
  means to go to Telgar Hold
  four days hence. Southern Weyr hasn’t been invited. I take no offense.
  “Southern Weyr has no obligation
  to Telgar Hold and the wedding is Holder business. But she means to
  make trouble there, I’m sure. I know
  the signs. Also she’s been seeing the Lord Holder of Nabol.”
  “Meron?” F’nor was unimpressed with him as a source of trouble.
  “Meron, Lord of Nabol, was
  outmaneuvered and completely discredited at that abortive battle at the
  Benden Weyr Pass, eight Turns
  ago. No Lord Holder would ally himself with Nabol again. Not even Lord
  Nessel of Crom who never was
  very bright. How he got confirmed as Lord of Crom by the Conclave, I’ll
  never understand.”
  “It’s not Meron we have to guard against. It’s Kylara. Anything she
  touches gets — distorted.”
  
  of surprise.
  “She didn’t change Thread patterns. No one knows why that happened,”
  T’bor said gloomily.
  “How what happened?” F’nor stood, pushing aside Brekke’s hands.
  “You heard that Thread is dropping out of pattern?”
  “No, I didn’t hear,” and F’nor looked from T’bor to Brekke who managed
  to be very busy with her
  medicaments.
  “There wasn’t anything you could do about it, F’nor,” she said calmly,
  “and as you were still feverish
  when the news came . . .”
  T’bor snorted, his eyes glittering as if he enjoyed F’nor’s discomposure.
  “Not that F’lar’s precious
  Thread patterns ever included us here in the Southern continent. Who
  cares what happens in this part of
  the world?” With that, T’bor strode out of the Weyr. When F’nor would
  have followed, Brekke grabbed his
  arm.
  “No, F’nor, don’t press him. Please?”
  He looked down at Brekke’s worried face, saw the deep concern in her
  expressive eyes. Was that
  
  had fallen hours too soon over Lemos Hold’s wide forests. F’nor was
  disturbed to learn that R’mart of Telgar
  Weyr had been badly scored. He was not surprised that T’kul of High
  Reaches Weyr hadn’t even
  bothered to inform his contemporaries of the unexpected falls over his
  weyrbound territories. But he had to
  agree that he would have worried had he known. He was worried now
  but it sounded as if F’lar was coping
  with his usual ingenuity. At least the Oldtimers had been roused. Took
  Thread to do it.
  “I don’t understand T’bor’s remark about our not caring what happens in
  this part of the world . . .”
  Brekke put her hand on his arm appealingly. “It’s not easy to live with
  Kylara, particularly when it
  amounts to exile.”
  “Don’t I just know it!” F’nor had had his run-ins with Kylara when she
  was still at Benden Weyr and,
  like many other riders, had been relieved when she’d been made
  Weyrwoman at Southern. The only.problem with convalescing here in
  Southern, however, was her proximity. For F’nor’s peace, her interest in
  Meron of Nabol couldn’t have been more fortunate.
  
  got curious but the winds
  turned them back. And eastward, there’s just ocean. It probably extends
  right around to the desert. This is
  the bottom of the earth, you know.”
  F’nor flexed his bandaged arm.
  “Now you listen to me, Wing-second F’nor of Benden,” Brekke said
  sharply, interpreting that gesture
  accurately. “You’re in no condition to go charging back to duty or to go
  exploring. You haven’t the stamina
  of a fledgling and you certainly can’t go between. Intense cold is the
  worst thing for a half-healed wound.
  Why do you think you were flown here straight?”
  “Why, Brekke, I didn’t know you cared,” F’nor said, rather pleased at her
  vehement reaction.
  She gave him such a piercingly candid look that his smile faded. As if
  she regretted that all too
  intimate glance, she gave him a half-playful push toward the door.
  “Get out. Take your poor lonely dragon and lie on the beach in the sun.
  Rest. Can’t you hear
  Canth calling you?”
  
  manded of Canth as he strode
  into the sun-baked wallow behind the weyr and stood glaring at his
  brown dragon.
  You never asked, Canth replied. I like Brekke.
  “You’re impossible,” F’nor said, exasperated, and looked, back in the di-
  rection Brekke had gone.
  “Brekke?” And he stared hard at Canth, somewhat disgusted by his ob-
  tuseness. Dragons as a rule did not
  name people. They tended to project a vision of the person referred to
  by pronoun, rarely by name. That
  Canth, who was of another Weyr, should speak of Brekke so familiarly
  was a double surprise. He must tell
  that to F’lar.
  I want to get wet. Canth sounded so wistful that F’nor laughed aloud.
  “You swim. I’ll watch.”
  Gently Canth nudged F’nor on the good shoulder. You are nearly well.
  Good. We’ll soon be able
  to go back to the Weyr we belong to.
  “Don’t tell me that you knew about the Thread pattern changing.”
  Of course, Canth replied.
  “Why, you, wher-faced, wherry-necked . . .”
  
  lengthy process for someone
  used to instantaneous transport from one place to another, F’nor elected
  to go a good distance west, along
  the coastline, until he found a secluded cove with a deep bay, suitable
  to dragon bathing.
  A high dune of sand, probably pushed up from winter storms, protected
  the beach from the south.
  Far, far away, purple on the horizon, he could just make out the head-
  land that marked Southern Weyr.
  Canth landed him somewhat above the high-water mark in the cove, on
  the clean fine sand, and
  then, taking a flying leap, dove into the brilliantly blue water. F’nor
  watched, amused, as Canth cavorted —
  an unlikely fish — erupting out of the sea, reversing himself just above
  the surface and then diving deeply.
  When the dragon considered himself sufficiently watered, he floundered
  out, flapping his wings mightily until
  the breeze brought the shower up the beach to F’nor who protested.
  Canth then irrigated himself so thoroughly with sand that F’nor was half-
  minded to send him back to
  
  Open one eye carefully, Canth advised.
  Resentful but obedient, F’nor opened one eye. It was all he could do to
  remain limp. Returning his
  gaze was a golden dragon, small enough to perch on his bare forearm.
  The tiny eyes, like winking green-fired
  jewels, regarded him with wary curiosity. Suddenly the miniature wings,
  no bigger than the span of
  F’nor’s fingers, unfurled into gilt transparencies, aglitter in the sunlight.
  “Don’t go,” F’nor said, instinctively using a mere mental whisper. Was he
  dreaming? He couldn’t
  believe his eyes. The wings hesitated a beat. The tiny dragon tilted its
  head.
  Don’t go, little one, Canth added with equal delicacy. We are of the
  same blood.
  The minute beast registered an incredulity and indecision which were
  transmitted to man and
  dragon. The wings remained up but the tautness which preceded flight
  relaxed. Curiosity replaced
  indecision. Incredulity grew stronger. The little dragon paced the length
  of F’nor’s arm to gaze steadfastly
  
  doubt.
  To Canth, F’nor remarked that perspective was impossible for the little
  dragon, one hundredth his
  size.
  Move back then, Canth suggested. Little sister, go with the man.
  The little dragon flew up on blurringly active wings, hovering as F’nor
  slowly rose. He walked
  several lengths from Canth’s recumbent hulk, the little dragon following.
  When F’nor turned and slowly
  pointed back to the brown, the little beast circled, took one look and
  abruptly disappeared.
  “Come back,” F’nor cried. Maybe he was dreaming.
  Canth rumbled with amusement. How would you like to see a man as
  large to you as I am to her?
  “Canth, do you realize that that was a fire lizard?”
  Certainly.
  “I actually had a fire lizard on my arm! Do you realize how many times
  people have tried to catch
  one of those creatures?” F’nor stopped, savoring the experience. He
  was probably the first man to get that
  
  realize that the big beast’s
  draconic complacency was a little shaken.
  F’nor grinned and stroked Canth’s muzzle affectionately. “How could
  you, big one? When we-men-have
  lost so much knowledge and we can record what we know.”
  There are other ways of remembering important matters, Canth replied.
  “Just imagine being able to breed tiny fire lizards into a creature the size
  of you!” He was awed,
  knowing how long it had taken to breed faster landbeasts.
  Canth rumbled restlessly. I am useful. She is not.
  “I’d wager she’d improve rapidly with a little help.” The prospect fasci-
  nated F’nor. “Would you
  mind?”
  Why?
  F’nor leaned against the great wedge-shaped head, looping his arm un-
  der the jaw, as far as he
  could reach, feeling extremely fond and proud of his dragon.
  “No, that was a stupid question for me to ask you, Canth, wasn’t it?”
  Yes.
  “I wonder how long it would take me to train her.”
  To do what?
  
  Above your head.
  Very slowly, F’nor raised one arm, hand outstretched, palm down.
  “Little beauty, come where we can admire you. We mean you no harm.”
  F’nor saturated his mental
  tone with all the reassuring persuasiveness at his command.
  A shimmer of gold flickered at the corner of his eye. Then the little lizard
  hovered at F’nor’s eye
  level, just beyond his reach. He ignored Canth’s amusement that the
  tiny one was susceptible to flattery.
  She is hungry, the big dragon said.
  Very slowly F’nor reached into his pouch and drew out a meatroll. He
  broke off a piece, bent slowly
  to lay it on the rock at his feet, then backed away.
  “That is food for you, little one.”
  The lizard continued to hover, then darted down and, grabbing the meat
  in her tiny claws,
  disappeared again.
  F’nor squatted down to wait.
  In a second, the dragonette returned, ravenous hunger foremost in her
  delicate thoughts along with
  
  The inner lids of the tiny opalescent eyes closed one by one as she
  abandoned herself to the
  caress.
  She is a hatchling. You have Impressed her, Canth told him very softly.
  “A hatchling?”
  She is the little sister of my blood after all and so must come from an
  egg, Canth replied reasonably.
  “There are others?”
  Of course. Down on the beach.
  F’nor, careful not to disturb the little lizard, turned his head over his
  shoulder. He had been so
  engrossed in the one at hand, he hadn’t even heard above the surf
  sounds the, pitiful squawks which were
  issuing from the litter of shining wings and bodies. There seemed to be
  hundreds of them on the beach,
  above the high-tide mark, about twenty dragon lengths from him.
  Don’t move, Canth cautioned him. You’ll lose her.
  “But if they’re hatching . . . they can be Impressed . . . Canth, rouse the
  Weyr! Speak to Prideth.
  Speak to Wirenth. Tell them to come. Tell them to bring food. Tell them
  to hurry. Quickly or it’ll be too
  
  already beating to a height, preparing
  to dive at the unprotected weak fledglings. Every nerve in F’nor’s body
  yearned to go to their rescue, but
  Canth repeated his warning. F’nor would jeopardize his fragile rapport
  with the little queen if he moved. Or,
  F’nor realized, if he communicated his agitation to her. He closed his
  eyes. He couldn’t watch.
  The first shriek of pain vibrated through his body as well as the little liz-
  ard’s. She darted into the
  folds of his arm sling, trembling against his ribs. Despite himself, F’nor
  opened his eyes. But the wherries
  had not stooped yet though they circled lower and lower with rapacious
  speed. The fledglings were
  voraciously attacking each other. He shuddered and the little queen rat-
  tled her pinions, uttering a delicate
  fluting sound of distress.
  “You’re safe with me. Far safer with me. Nothing can harm you with
  me,” F’nor told her repeatedly,
  and Canth crooned reassurance in harmony with that litany.
  The strident shriek of the wherries as they plunged suddenly changed to
  their piercing wail of terror.
  
  right into the middle, they somehow managed to stop.
  Brekke said she has alerted as many as she could, Canth told him.
  “Brekke? Why’d you call her? She’s got enough to do.”
  She is the best one, Canth replied, ignoring F’nor’s reprimand.
  “Are they too late?” F’nor glanced anxiously at the sky and at the dune,
  willing more men to arrive.
  Brekke was wading toward the struggling hatchlings now, her hands
  extended. The other two were
  following her example. Who had she brought? Why hadn’t she got more
  riders? They’d know instantly how
  to approach the beasts.
  Two more dragons appeared in the sky, circled and landed with dizzying
  speed right on the beach
  their riders racing in to help. The skyborne green flamed off the insistent
  wherries, bugling to her fellows to
  help her.
  Brekke has one. And the girl. So does the boy but the beast is hurt.
  Brekke says that many are
  dead.
  Why, wondered F’nor suddenly, if he had only just seen the truth of the
  legend of fire lizards, did he ache for
  
  the green’s rider had a bronze, and the other two riders had blues, one
  with a wrenched wing which Brekke
  feared might never heal properly for flight.
  “Seven out of over fifty,” said Brekke sadly after they had disposed of
  the broken bodies with
  agenothree. A precaution which Brekke suggested as a frustration for
  the carrion eaters and to prevent
  other fire lizards from avoiding the beach as dangerous to their kind. “I
  wonder how many would have
  survived if you hadn’t called us.”
  “She was already far from the others when she discovered us,” F’nor
  remarked. “Probably the first
  to hatch, or on top of the others.”
  Brekke’d had the wit to bring a full haunch of buck, though the Weyr
  might eat light that evening. So
  they had gorged the hatchlings into such a somnolent state that they
  could be carried, unresisting, back to
  the Weyr, or to Brekke’s Infirmary.
  “You’re to fly home straight,” Brekke told F’nor, in much the way a
  woman spoke to a rebellious
  weyrling.
  
  When F’nor reached Southern, it was obvious the news had raced
  through the Weyr. There was
  such an aura of excitement that F’nor began to worry that it might
  frighten the tiny creatures between.
  No dragon can fly when he is belly-bloated, Canth said. Even a fire liz-
  ard. And took himself off to
  his sun-warmed wallow, no longer interested.
  “You don’t suppose he’s jealous, do you?” F’nor asked Brekke when he
  found her in her Infirmary, splinting
  the little blue’s wrenched wing.
  ‘Wirenth was interested, too, until the lizards fell asleep,” Brekke told
  him, a twinkle in her green
  eyes as she looked up at him briefly. “And you know how touchy
  Wirenth is right now. Mercy, F’nor, what is
  there for a dragon to be jealous of? These are toys, dolls as far as the
  big ones are concerned. At best,
  children to be protected and taught like any fosterling.”
  F’nor glanced over at Mirrim, Brekke’s foster child. The two green liz-
  ards perched asleep on her
  shoulders. The injured brown, swathed from neck to tail in bandage,
  was cradled in her lap. Mirrim was
  
  “Oh-ho. The female of the species in staunch defense . . .”.“It’s no teas-
  ing matter, F’nor,” Brekke replied with a sharpness that put F’nor in mind of
  Lessa.
  “Mirrim will do very well. She takes every responsibility to heart.” The
  glance Brekke shot her fosterling was
  anxious as well as tender.
  “I still say she’s young . . .”
  “Is age a prerequisite for a loving heart? Does maturity always bring
  compassion? Why are some
  weyrbred boys left standing on the sand and others, never thought to
  have a chance, walk off with the
  bronzes? Mirrim Impressed three, and the rest of us, though we tried,
  with the creatures dying at our feet,
  only managed to attach one.”
  “And why am I never told what occurs in my own Weyr?” Kylara de-
  manded in a loud voice. She
  stood on the threshold of the Infirmary, her face suffused with an angry
  flush, her eyes bright and hard.
  “As soon as I finished this splinting, I was coming to tell you,” Brekke re-
  plied calmly, but F’nor saw
  her shoulders stiffen
  
  one yourself.”
  Kylara halted, the full skirts of her robe swirling around her feet. She
  glared at him, twitching the
  sleeve of her dress but not before he saw the black bruise on her arm.
  Unable to attack Brekke, she turned,
  spotting Mirrim. She swept up to the girl, staring down in such a way
  that the child looked appealingly
  toward Brekke. At this point, the tension in the room roused the lizards.
  The two greens hissed at Kylara
  but it was the crystal bugle of the bronze on G’sel’s shoulder that di-
  verted the Weyrwoman’s attention.
  “I’ll have the bronze! Of course. The bronze’ll do fine,” she exclaimed.
  There was something so
  repellent about the glitter in her eyes and the nasty edge to her laugh
  that F’nor felt the hair rise on the back
  of his neck.
  “A bronze dragon on my shoulder will be most effective I think,” Kylara
  went on, reaching for G’sel’s
  bronze lizard.
  G’sel put up a warning hand.
  
  “And from what creature on Pern do you think dragons were bred?”
  “Not that old nursery nonsense. How could you possibly make a fighting
  dragon from a fire lizard?”
  She reached again for the little bronze. It spread its wings, flapping them
  agitatedly.
  “If it bites you, don’t blame G’sel,” F’nor told her in a pleasant drawl
  though it cost him much to keep
  his temper. It was too bad you couldn’t beat a Weyrwoman with impu-
  nity. Her dragon wouldn’t permit it but
  a sound thrashing was what Kylara badly needed.
  “You can’t be certain they’re that much like dragons,” Kylara protested,
  glancing suspiciously around
  at the others. “No one’s ever caught one and you just found them.”
  “We’re not certain of anything about them,” F’nor replied, beginning to
  enjoy himself. It was a
  pleasure to see Kylara frustrated by a lizard. “However, look at the
  similarities. My little queen . . .”
  “You? Impressed a queen?” Kylara’s face turned livid as F’nor casually
  drew aside a fold of his
  sling to expose the sleeping gold lizard.
  
  the dragons admit a blood relationship and they have ways of knowing
  beyond ours.”
  “Just how did you Impress them?” Kylara demanded, her intentions
  transparent. “No one’s ever
  caught one before.”
  If it got her out of the Weyr and kept her on sandy beaches and off
  Brekke’s back, F’nor was quite
  agreeable to telling her.
  “You Impress them by being there when they hatch, same as with drag-
  ons. After that, I assume the
  ones which survive stay wild. As to why no one ever caught any before,
  that’s simple; the fire lizards hear.them coming and disappear between.”
  And, my dear, may it be a warm night between before you catch
  one.
  Kylara stared hard at Mirrim and so resentfully at G’sel that the young
  rider began to fidget and the
  little bronze rustled his wings nervously.
  “Well, I want it clearly understood that this is a working Weyr. We’ve no
  time for pets who serve no
  purpose. I’ll deal severely with anyone shirking their duties or — ” She
  broke off.
  
  the Infirmary.
  “There’s no protection against someone like Kylara,” Brekke said, mo-
  tioning the rider to take his
  bandaged blue. “One learns to live with her.”
  G’sel gave an odd gargle and rose, almost unsettling his lizard.
  “How can you say that, Brekke, when she’s so mean and nasty to you?”
  Mirrim cried, and subsided
  at a stern look from her foster mother.
  “Make no judgments where you have no compassion,” Brekke replied.
  “And I, too, will not tolerate
  any shirking of duties to care for these pretties. I don’t know why we
  saved them!”
  “Make no judgments where you have no compassion,” F’nor retorted.
  “They needed us.” Mirrim said so emphatically that even she was sur-
  prised at her temerity, and
  immediately became absorbed in her brown.
  “Yes, they did,” F’nor agreed, aware of the little queen’s golden body
  nestled trustingly against his
  ribs. She had twined her tail as far as it would reach around his waist.
  “And true weyrmen one and all, we
  responded to the cry for succor.”
  
  catching a fire lizard, simply because they resemble small dragons —
  no, don’t interrupt me. You know
  perfectly well that it’s just in these last eight Turns that commoners were
  permitted on the Ground as
  candidates at Impression. Why, I remember my brothers plotting night
  after night in the hope of catching a
  fire lizard, a personal dragon of their own. I don’t think it ever occurred
  to anyone, really, that there might be
  some truth in that old myth that dragons — weyrdragons — were bred
  from lizards. It was just that fire
  lizards were not proscribed to commoners, and dragons were. Out of
  our reach.”
  Her eyes softened with affection as she stroked the tiny sleeping bronze
  in the crook of her arm.
  “Odd to realize that generations of commoners were on the right track
  and never knew it. These creatures
  have the same talent dragons have for capturing our feelings. I oughtn’t
  to take on another responsibility but
  nothing would make me relinquish my bronze now he’s made himself
  mine.” Her lips curved in a very tender
  
  Brekke was a sackful of unexpected reactions.
  She gave him such a stern look that he began to regret his words.
  “If you’ll pardon me, F’nor,” G’sel spoke up, “I think Brekke’s got a good
  thought there. I’m holdbred
  myself. You’re weyrbred. You can’t imagine how I used to feel about
  Dragonriders. I honestly didn’t know
  myself — until I Impressed Roth.” His face lit with a startling joy at the
  memory. He paused, unabashed, to
  savor the moment anew. “It’d be worth a try. Even if the fire lizards are
  dumb, it’d make a difference. They
  wouldn’t understand how much more it is with a dragon. Look, F’nor,
  here’s this perfectly charming
  creature, perched on my shoulder, adoring me. He was all ready to bite
  the Weyrwoman to stay with me.
  You heard how angry he was. You don’t know how — spectacular — it’d
  make a commoner feel.”
  F’nor looked around, at Brekke, at Mirrim, who did not evade his eyes
  this time, at the other riders.
  “Are you all holdbred? I hadn’t realized. Somehow, once a man be-
  comes a rider, you forget he
  
  Midmorning at Ruatha Hold
  Early Evening at Benden Weyr
  JAXOM’S PLEASURE in riding a dragon, in being summoned to Ben-
  den Weyr, was severely
  diminished by his guardian’s glowering disapproval. Jaxom had yet to
  learn that most of Lord Warder Lytol’s
  irritation was for a far larger concern than his ward’s mischievous habit
  of getting lost in the unused and
  dangerous corridors of Ruatha Hold. As it was, Jaxom was quite down-
  cast. He didn’t mean to irritate Lytol,
  but he never seemed able to please him, no matter how hard he tried.
  There was such an unconscionable
  number of things that he, Jaxom, Lord of Ruatha Hold, must know, must
  do, must understand, that his head
  swam until he had to run away, to be by himself, to think. And the only
  empty places to think in in Ruatha,
  where no one ever went or would bother you, were in the back portions
  of the hollowed-out cliff that was
  Ruatha Hold. And while he could, just possibly, get lost or trapped be-
  hind a rockfall (there hadn’t been a
  
  Ruatha, though his mother had been of Crom Hold and Fax his father,
  of the High Reaches. It was Lessa,
  who was now Weyrwoman at Benden, who had been the last of
  Ruathan Blood. These were contradictions
  he didn’t understand and must.
  He had changed his clothes now, from the dirty everyday ones to his
  finest tunic and trousers, with a
  wher-hide over-tunic and knee boots. Not that even they could stop the
  horrible cold of between. Jaxom
  shuddered with delighted terror. It was like being suspended nowhere,
  until your throat closed and your
  bowels knotted and you were scared silly that you’d never again see the
  light of day, or even night’s
  darkness, depending on local time of day where you were supposed to
  emerge. He was very jealous of
  Felessan, despite the fact that it was by no means sure his friend would
  be a dragonrider. But Felessan
  lived at Benden Weyr, and he had a mother and a father, and Dragon-
  riders all around him, and . . .
  “Lord Jaxom!” Lytol’s call from the Great Courtyard broke through the
  boy’s reverie and he ran,
  
  The green’s rider grinned a welcome as Jaxom scrambled up the ex-
  tended leg.
  “Good morning, Jeralte,” he said, slightly startled because he’d played in
  the Lower Caves with the
  young man only two Turns back. Now he was a full-fledged rider.
  “J’ralt, please, Lord Jaxom,” Lytol corrected his ward.
  “That’s all right, Jaxom,” J’ralt said and looped the riding belt deftly
  around Jaxom’s waist.
  Jaxom wanted to sink; to be corrected by Lytol in front of Jer — J’ralt,
  and not to remember to use
  the honorific contraction! He didn’t enjoy the thrill of rising, a-dragonback
  over the great towers of Ruatha
  Hold, of watching the valley, spread out like a wall hanging under the
  dragon’s sinuous green neck. But as
  they circled, Jaxom had to balance himself against the dragon’s unex-
  pectedly soft hide, and the warmth of
  that contact seemed to ease his inner misery. Then he saw the line of
  weeders in the fields and knew that
  they must be looking up at the dragon. Did those bullying Hold boys
  know that he, Jaxom, Lord of Ruatha,
  was a-dragon-back? Jaxom was himself again.
  
  the Lord of Ruatha Hold. Which was no little honor, even if it
  wasn’t being a dragonrider.
  Jaxom’s reflections were brought to an abrupt stop as the dragon took
  them between.
  You count to three slowly, Jaxom told his frantic mind as he lost all
  sense of sight and sound, of
  contact, even of the soft dragon hide beneath his hands. He tried to
  count and couldn’t. His mind seemed
  to freeze, but just as he was about to shriek, they burst out into the late
  afternoon, over Benden Weyr.
  Never had the Bowl seemed so welcome, with its high walls softened
  and colored by the lambent sun. The
  black maws of the individual weyrs, set in the face of the inner wall,
  were voiceless mouths, greeting him all
  astonished.
  As they circled down, Jaxom spotted bronze Mnementh, surely the
  hugest dragon ever hatched,
  lounging on the ledge to the queen’s weyr. She’d be in the Hatching
  Ground, Jaxom knew, for the new
  clutch was still hardening on the warm sands. There’d be another Im-
  pression soon. And there was a
  
  because the twitch in his Warder’s cheek would start jumping. It didn’t
  when Lessa visited. Except that
  lately Lessa had stopped coming to Ruatha Hold.
  The young Lord of Ruatha spotted Lessa now, as they circled again to
  bring the queen’s weyr in
  flight line. She and F’lar were on the ledge. The green called, answered
  by Mnementh’s bass roar. A
  muffled bellow reverberated through the Weyr. Ramoth, the queen, took
  notice of their arrival.
  Jaxom felt much better, particularly when he also caught sight of a small
  figure, racing across the
  Bowl floor to the stairs up to the queen’s weyr. Felessan. His friend. He
  hadn’t seen him in months. Jaxom
  didn’t want the flight to end but he couldn’t wait to see Felessan.
  Jaxom was nervously conscious of Lytol’s critical eyes as he made his
  duty to the Weyrwoman and
  to Weyrleader. He’d rehearsed words and bows often enough. He ought
  to have it down heart-perfect, yet
  he heard himself stammering out the traditional words and felt the fool.
  “You came, you came. I told Gandidan you’d come,” cried Felessan,
  dashing up the steps, two at a
  
  drew himself up and, still all
  smiles, bowed with commendable grace to Lytol,
  “Good afternoon to you, Lord Warder Lytol. And thank you for bringing
  Lord Jaxom. May we be
  excused?”
  Before any adult could answer, Felessan had Jaxom by the hand and
  was leading him down the
  steps.
  “Stay out of trouble, Lord Jaxom,” Lytol called after them.
  “There’s little trouble they can get into here,” Lessa laughed.
  “I had the entire Hold mustered this morning, only to find him in the
  bowels of the Hold itself, where
  a rock-fall . . .”
  Now why did Lytol have to tell Lessa? Jaxom groaned to himself, with a
  flash of his previous
  discontent.
  “Did you find anything?” Felessan demanded as soon as they were out
  of earshot.
  “Find anything?”
  “Yes, in the bowels of the Hold.” Felessan’s eyes widened and his voice
  took on Lytol’s inflections.
  
  The weyrboy led Jaxom into the Lower Cavern, the main chamber with
  a vaulting roof where the
  Weyr met for sociability and evening meals. There was a smell of warm
  bread and simmering meats..Dinner preparations were well along, tables
  set and women and girls bustling about, making pleasant
  chatter. As Felessan veered past a preparation table, he snatched up a
  handful of raw roots.
  “Don’t you dare spoil your dinner, you young wher-whelp,” cried one of
  the women, swinging at the
  retreating pair with her ladle. “And a good day to you, Lord Jaxom,” she
  added.
  The attitude of the weyrfolk toward himself and Felessan never failed to
  puzzle Jaxom. Why,
  Felessan was just as important as a Lord Holder, but he wasn’t always
  being watched, as if he might break
  apart or melt.
  “You’re so lucky,” Jaxom sighed as he accepted his share of Felessan’s
  loot.
  “Why?” the younger boy asked, surprised.
  “You’re — you just are, that’s all.”
  
  the looms now, of course, with dinner being prepared, nor was anyone
  bathing at the large pool to one side
  of the Cavern, but a group of boys Felessan’s age were gathered by the
  miggsy circle. One boy made a
  loud, meant-to-be-over-heard remark which was fortunately lost in the
  obedient loud cackles of laughter from
  the others.
  “C’mon, Jaxom. Before one of those baby boys wants to tag along,”
  Felessan said.
  “Where are we going?”
  Felessan shushed him peremptorily, looking quickly over his shoulder to
  see if they were being
  observed. He walked very fast, making Jaxom lengthen his stride to
  keep up.
  “Hey, I don’t want to get in trouble here, too,” he said when he realized
  they were heading still
  farther into the caves. It was one thing, according to Jaxom’s lexicon, to
  be adventurous in one’s own Hold,
  but quite another to invade the sanctity of another’s, much less a Weyr!
  That was close to blasphemy, or so
  
  into the Weyr, the other
  bending right. This one was ill-lit and Jaxom faltered. You didn’t waste
  glows on unused corridors.
  “What’s the matter?” Felessan asked, frowning back at his reluctant
  guest. “You’re not afraid, are
  you?”
  “Afraid?” Jaxom quickly stepped to Felessan’s side. “It’s not a question
  of fear.”
  “C’mon then. And be quiet.”
  “Why?” Jaxom had already lowered his voice.
  “You’ll see. Only be quiet now, huh? And take this.”
  From a hidey-hole, Felessan handed Jaxom a half-shielded basket with
  one feebly gleaming glow.
  He had another for himself. Whatever objections Jaxom might have had
  were stilled by the challenge in the
  younger boy’s eyes. He turned haughtily and led the way down the
  shadowy corridor. He was somewhat
  reassured by the footprints in the dust, all leading the same way. But
  this hall was not frequented by adults.
  All the footprints were smallish, not a bootheel among ‘em. Where did it
  lead?
  
  couldn’t ask. What could there possibly be this far back in the Weyr? A
  huge rectangle of absolute black
  rose on his left and he swallowed against terror, as Felessan marched
  purposefully past it, his weak glow
  back-lighting the threatening maw into another innocently empty corridor
  junction.
  “Hurry up,” Felessan said, sharply.
  “Why?” Jaxom was pleased with the steady, casual tone he managed.
  “Because she always goes to the lake about this time of day and it’s the
  only chance you’ll ever get.”
  “Chance to what? Who’s she?”
  “Ramoth, thickwit,” Felessan stopped so quickly that Jaxom bumped
  into him and the glow in his
  basket began to flicker.
  “Ramoth?”.“Sure. Or are you afraid to sneak a look at her eggs?”
  “At her eggs? Honest?” Breathless terror battled with insatiable curiosity
  and the knowledge that
  this would really put him one up on the Hold boys.
  “Honest! Now, C’mon!”
  The other corridors they passed held no unknown evils for Jaxom now,
  with such a promised end to
  
  these great cracks appeared.
  Zigzaggy ones down the eggs, longwise,” Felessan excitedly illustrated
  the point with his glow basket.
  “Then, all of a sudden,” and his voice dropped to a more dramatic pitch,
  “one enormous, dragon-sized split
  and the head — comes through. You know what color the first one
  was?”
  “Don’t you know that from the color of the shell?”
  “No, except for the queen. They’re biggest and they gleam kinda. You’ll
  see.”
  Jaxom gulped but nothing could have kept him from continuing now.
  None of the Hold boys or even
  the other young lordlings had seen eggs, or an Impression. Maybe he
  could lie a little . . .
  “Hey, keep off my heels,” Felessan commanded.
  The sliver of light ahead widened, touching the smooth wall opposite
  with a comforting rectangle.
  As they got closer and their glows augmented the outside light, Jaxom
  could make out the end of the
  corridor just beyond the fissure of the slot. The jumble of rock gave evi-
  dence of an ancient slide. But sure
  
  “It’s kinda to that side, out of sight.”
  Jaxom craned his neck up and down, trying to get a glimpse of the
  golden egg.
  “You really want to see it?”
  “Sure. Talina’s been taken on Search from my Hold and she’ll be a
  Weyrwoman. Ruathan girls
  always become Weyrwomen.”
  Felessan gave him a long stare, then shrugged. He twisted sideways
  and inserted his body into the
  slit, easing his way past the rocks.
  “C’mon,” he urged his friend in a hoarse whisper.
  Jaxom eyed the slit dubiously. He was heavier as well as taller than
  Felessan. He presented the
  side of his body to the slit and took a deep breath. His left leg and arm
  got through fine but his chest was
  caught against the rocks Helpfully, Felessan grabbed his left arm and
  yanked. Jaxom manfully suppressed
  a yelp as knee and chest were scraped skin deep by rock.
  “Eggshells, I’m sorry, Jaxom.”
  “I didn’t tell you to pull!” Then he added as he saw Felessan’s contrite
  expression, “I’m all right, I
  
  sense of sacrilege. Only the weyrbred had the right to see the Eggs.
  Felessan was casting a judicious eye over the gold egg.
  “And big, too. Bigger’n the last queen egg at Fort. Their stock is falling
  off noticeably,” he remarked
  with critical detachment.
  “Not to hear Mardra talk. She says it’s obvious Benden stock is in trou-
  ble; the dragons are too large
  to maneuver properly.”
  “N’ton says Mardra’s a pain in the ass, the way she treats T’ron.”
  Jaxom didn’t like the trend of the conversation now. After all, Ruatha
  Hold was weyrbound to Fort
  Weyr and while he didn’t much like Mardra, he ought not listen to such
  talk..“Well, this one’s not so big. Looks like a wherry egg. It’s half the size of
  even the smallest one of
  the others,” and he touched the smooth shell of an egg that lay almost
  against the rock wall, apart from the
  others.
  “Hey, don’t touch it!” Felessan protested, visibly startled.
  “Why not? Can’t hurt it, can I? Hard as leather,” and Jaxom rapped it
  gently with his knuckles and
  then spread his hand flat on the curve. “It’s warm.”
  
  unless you’re a candidate. And you’re not. And neither am I, yet.”
  “No, I’m a Lord Holder,” and Jaxom drew himself up proudly. He couldn’t
  resist the urge to pat the
  small egg once more because, while it was all right to be a Lord Holder,
  he was more than a little jealous of
  Felessan, and fleetingly wished that he, too, could look forward to being
  a dragonrider one day. And that
  egg looked lonely, small and unwanted, so far from the others.
  “Your being a Lord Holder wouldn’t matter a grain of sand in Igen if
  Ramoth came back and caught
  us here,” Felessan reminded him and jerked Jaxom firmly toward the
  slit.
  A sudden rumble at the far end of the Hatching Ground startled them.
  One look at the shadow on
  the sand by the great entrance was enough. Felessan, being more agile
  and faster, got to the exit first and
  squeezed through. This time Jaxom did not object at all as Felessan
  frantically yanked him past the rock.
  They didn’t even stop to see if it really was Ramoth, returning. They
  grabbed the glow baskets and ran.
  
  looks bad. We’d better get you to Manora quick.”
  “I . . . got . . . to . . . catch . . . my . . . breath.”
  In rhythm with his labored exhalations, his glow sputtered and darkened
  completely.
  “We’ll have to walk slow then,” Felessan said, his voice now shakier with
  anxiety than from running.
  Jaxom got to his feet, determined not to show the panic he was begin-
  ning to feel; a cold pressure
  gripped his belly, his chest was hot and painful, while sweat was starting
  to creep down his forehead. The
  salty drops fell on his chest and he swore one of the wardguard’s favor-
  ites.
  “Let’s walk fast,” he said and, holding onto the now use less glow bas-
  ket, suited action to words.
  By common consent they kept to the outer edge of the corridor, where
  the now dimly seen footsteps
  gave them courage.
  “It’s not much further, is it?” Jaxom asked as the second
  glow flickered ominously.
  “Ah — no. It better not be.”
  “What’s the matter?”
  
  long.”
  “Not if Lytol gets asked to dinner and he will, if dinner is as close as you
  said it was.” Jaxom
  couldn’t suppress his bitterness at this whole ill-advised exploration.
  “Haven’t you any idea where we are?”
  “No,” Felessan had to admit, sounding suddenly out of his depth. “I al-
  ways followed the footprints,
  just like I did now. There were footprints. You saw them.”
  Jaxom didn’t care to agree for that would mean he was in part to blame
  for their predicament.
  “Those other corridors we passed on the way to the hole, where do they
  go?” he finally asked.
  “I don’t know. There’s an awful lot of the Weyr that’s empty. I’ve — I’ve
  never gone any farther than
  the slit.”.“What about the others? How far in have they gone?”
  “Gandidan’s always talking about how far he’s gone but — but — I don’t
  remember what he said.”
  “For the Egg’s sake, don’t blubber.”
  “I’m not blubbering. I’m just hungry!”
  “Hungry? That’s it. Can you smell dinner? Seemed to me we could smell
  it an awful long ways
  
  companiment to his blood.
  With a sigh, he backed up against the smooth wall and, sliding down it,
  settled to the ground with a
  bump.
  “Jaxom?”
  “I’m all right. I’m just tired.”
  “Me, too,” and with a sigh of relief, Felessan sat down, his shoulder
  touching Jaxom’s. The contact
  reassured them both.
  “I wonder what it was like,” Jaxom mused at length.
  “Wonder what what was like?” asked Felessan in some surprise.
  “When the Weyrs and the Holds corridors were lighted and used.”
  “They’ve never been used.”
  “Nonsense. No one wastes time carving out corridors that’ll lead no-
  where. And Lytol said there are
  over five hundred weyrs in Benden and only half-used . . .”
  “We have four hundred and twelve fighting dragons at Benden now.”
  “Sure, but ten Turns ago there weren’t two hundred, so why so many
  weyrs if they weren’t all used
  once? And why are there miles and miles of halls and unused rooms in
  Ruatha Hold if they weren’t used
  
  turned and ran his hand
  down the wall behind him. It was smooth. He gulped and his chest hurt
  more than the throb of the
  scratches. “Felessan . . . ?”
  “What — what’s the matter?”
  “This wall is smooth.”
  “So what?”
  “But it’s smooth. It’s not rough!”
  “Say what you mean.” Felessan sounded almost angry.
  “It’s smooth. It’s an old wall.”
  “So?”
  “We’re in the old part of Benden.” Jaxom got to his feet, running a hand
  over the wall, walking a few
  paces.
  “Hey!” Jaxom could hear Felessan scrambling to his feet. “Don’t leave
  me. Jaxom! I can’t see
  you.”
  Jaxom stretched his hand back, touched fabric, and jerked Felessan to
  his side.
  “Now hang on. If this is an old corridor, sooner or later it’ll run out. Into a
  dead end, or into the main
  
  “Hey, warn a guy!” cried Felessan, who had bumped into him.
  “I found something.”
  “What?”.“A crack up and down, evenly.” Excitedly Jaxom stretched both
  arms out, trying to find the other
  side of what might even be a doorway.
  At shoulder height, just beyond the second cut, he found a square plate
  and, in examining it,
  pressed. With a rumbling groan, the wall under his other hand began to
  slide back and light came up on the
  other side.
  The boys had only a few seconds to stare at the brightly lit wonders on
  the other side of the
  threshold before the inert gas with which the room had been flooded
  rushed out to overcome them. But the
  light remained a beacon to guide the searchers.
  “I had the entire Hold mustered this morning, only to find him in the
  bowels of the Hold itself where a
  rockfall had barred his way,” Lytol said to Lessa as he watched the boys
  running toward the Lower Cavern.
  “You’ve forgotten your own boyhood then,” F’lar laughed, gesturing
  courteously for Lytol to proceed
  
  may be proud of him.”
  “Carries himself like a Lord, too,” F’lar ventured to say.
  “I do my best.”
  “And your best is very well indeed,” Lessa said enthusiastically. “Why,
  he’s grown so since the last
  time I saw him!”
  But the tic started in Lytol’s cheek and Lessa fumed, wondering what
  Mardra had been complaining
  about in the boy lately. That woman had better stop interfering . . .
  Lessa caught herself, grimly reminded
  that she could be accused of interfering right now, having invited Jaxom
  here on a visit. When Mardra heard
  that Lytol had been to Benden Weyr . . .
  “I’m glad you think so,” Lytol replied, confirming Lessa’s suspicions.
  Harper Robinton rose to greet Lytol, and the Mastersmith Fandarel’s
  face broke into the almost feral
  expression that passed as his smile. While F’lar seated them, Lessa
  poured wine.
  “The new train is in, Robinton, but not settled enough to serve,” she
  said, grinning down at him. It
  
  for taking you from your business at such short notice, but I . . .”
  “Always glad to come to Benden,” Robinton murmured, his eyes twin-
  kling as he tipped his cup
  again.
  “I have news for you so I was glad of this opportunity,” Fandarel rum-
  bled.
  “And I,” Lytol said in a dark voice, the tic moving agitatedly.
  “My news is very serious and I need to know your reactions. There has
  been premature Threadfall .
  . .” F’lar began.
  “Threadfalls,” Robinton corrected him with no vestige of his previous
  levity. “The drumroll brought
  me the news from Tillek and Crom Holds.”
  “I wish I’d as reliable messengers,” F’lar said bitterly, gritting his teeth.
  “Didn’t you question the
  Weyrs’ silence, Robinton?” He had counted the Harper his friend.
  “My Craft is weyrbound to Fort, my dear F’lar,” the Craftmaster replied,
  an odd smile on his lips,
  “although Weyrleader T’ron does not appear to follow custom in keeping
  the Master Harper advised of
  
  dispatch any messengers.”
  “You mean, that numbwitted Weyrwoman Bedella forgot to,” Lessa in-
  terjected..F’lar nodded and went on. “The first Benden knew of this was
  when Thread fell in Lemos northeast,
  midmorning, when the table indicated southwest and evening. Because
  I always send a rider on ahead to
  act as messenger for any last moment problems, we were able to reach
  Lemos before the leading Edge.”
  Robinton whistled with appreciation.
  “You mean, the timetables are wrong?” Lytol exclaimed. All the color
  had drained from his swarthy
  face at the news. “I thought that rumor had to be false.”
  F’lar shook his head grimly; he’d been watching for Lytol’s reaction to
  this news.
  “They’re not accurate any more; they don’t apply to this shift,” he said.
  “Lessa reminded me, as I do
  you, that there have been deviations in the Red Star’s passage that
  cause long intervals. We must assume
  that something can cause a change in the rhythm of the Fall as well. As
  soon as we can gauge a pattern
  again, we’ll correct the tables or make new ones.”
  
  wine.
  “What do you mean, on top of everything else?” F’lar asked, startled.
  “Why, the way the Weyrs are behaving. That disaster in Esvay valley in
  Nabol, those plantations of
  Lord Sangel’s.”
  “Tell me about the Esvay Valley and Lord Sangel.”
  “You hadn’t heard that either?” Robinton asked in real surprise. ‘ Don’t
  the Weyrs talk to one
  another?” And he glanced from F’lar to Lessa.
  “The Weyrs are autonomous,” F’lar replied. “We don’t interfere . . .”
  “You mean, the Oldtimers keep exchanges with us contemporary radi-
  cals to a bare minimum,”
  Lessa finished, her eyes flashing indignantly. “Don’t scowl at me, F’lar.
  You know it’s true. Though I’m sure
  D’ram and T’ron were as shocked as we were that T’kul would keep
  premature Threadfall a secret. Now,
  what happened at Esvay Vale and in Lord Sangel’s Southern Boll?”
  It was Robinton who answered her in an expressionless voice. “Several
  weeks back, T’kul refused
  to help Meron of Nabol clear some furrows from wooded slopes above
  the Esvay valley. Said it was the job
  
  Sangel protested to T’ron, he was
  told that the wings had reported the Fall under control.
  “On another level but disturbing in the over-all picture, I’ve heard of any
  number of girls, snatched on
  the pretext of Search . . .”
  “Girls beg to come to the Weyr,” Lessa put in tartly.
  “To Benden Weyr, probably,” Robinton agreed. “But my harpers tell me
  of unwilling girls, forced
  from their babes and husbands, ending as drudges to Weyrladies.
  There is deep hatred building, Lady
  Lessa. There has always been resentment, envy, because Weyrlife is
  different and the ease with which
  Dragonriders can move across the continent while lesser folk struggle,
  the special privileges riders enjoy — ”
  The Harper waved his hands. “The Oldtimers really believe in special
  privilege, and that exacerbates the
  dangers inherent in such outdated attitudes. As for matters in the
  Crafthalls, the belt knife incident at
  Fandarel’s is a very minor item in the list of depredations. The crafts
  generously tithe of their products, but
  
  so, “Benden is the backsliding Weyr
  which has forgotten true custom and usage, become lax in their deal-
  ings. Why, they permit Holds bound to
  Benden Weyr to retain dignity, possession and forest. They encourage
  the Crafts to proliferate, hatching
  bastard breeds of who-knows-what. But Benden Weyr,” and Robinton
  was himself again, and angry, “is
  respected throughout Pern.”
  “As a dragonrider, I ought to take offense,” F’lar said, so disturbed by
  this indictment that he spoke
  lightly..“As Benden’s Weyrleader, you ought to take charge,” Robinton
  retorted, his voice ringing. “When
  Benden stood alone, seven Turns ago, you said that the Lord Holders
  and Craftsmen were too parochial in
  their views to deal effectively with the real problem. They at least
  learned something from their mistakes.
  The Oldtimers are not only incurably parochial, but worse — adamantly
  inflexible. They will not, they cannot
  adapt to our Turn. Everything we accomplished in the four hundred
  Turns that separate our thinking is
  
  “Who will change? The Weyrleaders? The Holders? Don’t count on it,
  Lady Lessa.”
  “I have to agree with Robinton,” Lytol said in a tired voice. “There’s been
  precious little cooperation
  from the Weyrs. They’re overbearing, wrongheaded and demanding. I
  find that I, Lytol, ex-dragonrider,
  resent any more demands on me as Lytol, Lord Warder. And now it ap-
  pears they are incapable even of
  doing their job. What, for instance, can be done right in the present cri-
  sis? Are they willing to do anything?”
  “There’ll be cooperation from the Weyrs, I can guarantee it,” F’lar told
  Lytol. He must rouse the man
  from his dejection. “The Oldtimers were shaken men this morning.
  Ruatha Hold’s weyrbound to Fort and
  T’ron’s setting up Sweepriders. You’re to man the watch fires on the
  heights and light them when Thread
  mass is sighted. You’ll get prompt action the instant a watch fire is
  seen.”
  “I’m to rely on shaken men and fires on the heights?” Lytol demanded,
  eyes wide with disbelief.
  “Fire is not efficient,” Fandarel intoned. “Rain puts it out. Fog hides it.”
  
  knowing there was instant communication with the Weyr.”
  “As I was saying,” Fandarel boomed in such a portentous voice that they
  all turned to him a little
  startled, “there has been a regrettable lack of efficient communication on
  this planet which I believe my craft
  can effectually end. That is the news I brought.”
  “What?” Lytol was on his feet.
  “Why didn’t you speak up sooner, you great lout?” demanded the
  Harper.
  “How long would it take to equip all major Holds and Weyrs?” F’lar’s
  question drowned the others.
  Fandarel looked squarely at the Weyrleader before he answered what
  had been almost a plea.
  “More time, unfortunately, than we apparently have as margin in this
  emergency. My halls have
  been overbusy turning out flame throwers. There’s been no time to de-
  vote to my little toys.”
  “How long?”
  “The instruments which send and receive distance writing are easy to
  assemble, but wire must be
  laid between them. That process is time-consuming.”
  
  trust you!”
  “F’lar couldn’t approach other Lords, not without antagonizing the
  Weyrleaders,” Lessa objected, but
  she too was alert with hope.
  “What the other Weyrleaders don’t know — ” Robinton suggested slyly,
  warming to the strategy.
  “Come, come, F’lar. This is not the time to stick at principles — at least
  ones which have proved untenable.
  Look beyond affiliations. man. You did before and we won. Consider
  Pern, all Pern, not one Weyr,” and he
  pointed a long callused finger at F’lar; “one Hold,” and he swiveled it to
  Lytol; “or one Craft,” and he cocked it
  at Fandarel. “When we five combined our wits seven Turns ago, we got
  ourselves out of a very difficult
  position.”
  “And I set the stage for this one,” Lessa said with a bitter laugh.
  Before F’lar could speak, Robinton was waggling his finger at her. “Silly
  people waste time
  assigning or assuming guilt, Lessa. You went back and you brought the
  Oldtimers forward. To save Pern.
  
  weyrbound to Benden . . .”
  He leaned back suddenly, smiling with great anticipation.
  F’lar said quietly, “Disaffection is apparently universal. We are going to
  need more than words and
  example to change minds.”
  “The Crafts will back you, Weyrleader, to the last Hall,” Fandarel said.
  “You champion Bendarek.
  F’nor defended Terry, and against dragonmen because they were in the
  wrong. F’nor is all right, is he not?”
  The Smith turned questioningly to Lessa.
  “He’ll be back in a week or so.”
  “We need him now,” Robinton said. “He’d be useful at Telgar Hold, the
  commoners account him a
  hero. What do you say, F’lar? We’re yours to command again.”
  They all turned to him, Lessa slipping a hand to his knee her eyes ea-
  ger. This was what she
  wanted, all right; for him to assume the responsibility. It was what he
  knew he had to do, finishing the task
  he had relinquished, hopefully, to those he thought better qualified than
  he to protect Pern.
  
  modic leap and stopped.
  “Marvelous idea,” Robinton cried. “Hope’s a great encourager. Give the
  Lords a reliable means of
  keeping in touch and you’ve undone much of the Weyrs isolation poli-
  cies.”
  “Can you do it, Fandarel?” F’lar asked the Smith.
  “To Telgar I could lay wire. Yes. It could be done.”
  “How is this distance writing done? I don’t understand.”
  Fandarel inclined his head toward the Masterharper. “Thanks to Robin-
  ton, we have a code that
  permits us to send long and complicated messages. One must train a
  man to understand it, to send and
  receive it. If you could spare an hour of your time . . .”
  “I can spare you as much time as you need, Fandarel,” F’lar assured
  him.
  “Let’s go tomorrow. There’s nothing could fall here tomorrow,” Lessa
  urged, excited.
  “Good. I shall arrange a demonstration. I shall put more people to work
  on the wire.”
  “I shall speak to Lord Sangel of Southern Boll and Lord Groghe of Fort
  Hold,” Lytol said. “Discreetly,
  
  hopes of a surer
  deliverance.” Lytol bowed to Lessa. “My duty to you, my lady. I’ll collect
  Lord Jaxom and beg the favor of a
  return flight . . .”
  “You’ve missed your lunch, stay for our dinner.”
  Lytol shook his head regretfully. “There’ll be much to set in motion.”
  “In the interests of conserving dragon strength, I’ll ride with Lytol and
  Jaxom,” Robinton said,
  swallowing the rest of his wine after a rueful toast to such haste. “That
  will leave you two beasts to share
  the burden of Fandarel.”
  Fandarel stood up, a tolerantly smiling giant, his massive bulk dwarfing
  the Harper, who was by no
  measure a short man. “I sympathize with dragons, forced to endure the
  envy of frail, small creatures.”
  None of them left, however, because neither Jaxom nor Felessan could
  be located. One of
  Manora’s women remembered seeing them pilfering vegetables and
  thought they’d gone to join the boys
  playing miggsy. On questioning, one of the children, Gandidan, admitted
  seeing them go toward the back
  
  “What?” Lessa exclaimed, as startled as the boys who had turned to
  guilty statues.
  Before she could berate them, F’lar laughed aloud. “That’s where they
  are, then.”.“Where?”
  The boys huddled together, terrified by the coldness in her voice, even if
  it was directed toward the
  Weyrleader.
  “In the corridor behind the Hatching Ground. Oh, don’t fuss, Lessa.
  That’s all part of growing up in
  the Weyr, isn’t it, Lytol? I did it when I was Felessan’s age.”
  “You’ve been aware of these excursions, Manora?” Lessa demanded
  imperiously, ignoring F’lar.
  “Certainly, Weyrwoman,” Manora replied unintimidated. “And kept track
  to be sure they all returned.
  How long ago did they set out, Gandidan? Did they play with you for a
  time?”
  “No wonder Ramoth’s been so upset; I kept thinking she was only being
  broody. How could you
  allow such activities to continue?”
  “Come now, Lessa,” F’lar said soothingly. “It’s a matter of adolescent
  pride,” and F’lar dropped his
  
  When he seemed unable
  to speak, she glanced at the scared expressions of the others. “I think
  we’d better look. It’s easy to take the
  wrong turning if you have inadequate glows. And they did.”
  There was no lack of searchers, and F’lar quickly split them up into sec-
  tions to explore each corridor
  segment. Sounds echoed through halls undisturbed for hundreds of
  Turns. But it was not long before F’lar
  and Lytol led their group to the guiding light. Once they saw the figures
  lying in the patch of light, F’lar sent
  for the others.
  “What’s the matter with them?” Lytol demanded, supporting his ward
  against him, and anxiously
  feeling for his pulse. “Blood?” He held up stained fingers, his face bleak,
  cheek a-twitch.
  So, thought F’lar, Lytol’s heart had unfrozen a little. Lessa was wrong to
  think Lytol too numb to
  care for the boy. Jaxom was a sensitive boy and children needed affec-
  tion, but there are many ways of
  loving.
  
  first gently, then more
  insistently.
  “There isn’t a mark on Felessan,” the Weyrleader said, turning his son in
  his arms.
  Manora and Lessa came running then, kicking up dust in spite of F’lar’s
  urgent caution. But Manora
  reassured them that the boys were all right and briskly delegated two
  men to carry them back to the Weyr
  proper. Then she turned to the curious crowd that had assembled in the
  corridor.
  “The emergency is over. Everyone back. Dinner’s ready, my lady, my
  lords. Pick up your feet,
  Silon. No need to stir up more dust.” She glanced at the Weyrleader and
  the Mastersmith. As one, the two
  men approached the mysterious doorway, Lessa and Lytol joining them.
  Her crisp instructions cleared the corridor quickly until there were only
  the five remaining.
  “The light is not made by glows,” announced the Mastersmith as he
  peered cautiously into the bright
  room. “And from the smoothness of the walls, this is part of the original
  Weyr.” He scowled at F’lar. “Were
  
  treasure rooms like this one,”
  Robinton suggested slyly. “And what under the sun could this repre-
  sent? Lessa, you’re our expert on wall
  hangings, what do you say?”
  He pointed to a drawing, composed of weird interconnecting varicolored
  rods and balls which
  spread in several ladder-like columns from floor to ceiling.
  “I wouldn’t call it artistic, but the colors are pretty,” she said, peering
  closely at the wall. She
  touched a portion with a finger. “Why, the color is baked on the wall.
  And look here! Someone didn’t like it.although I don’t think their correction
  helps. It’s more a scribble than a design. And it’s not even in the same
  type of coloring.”
  Fandarel scrutinized the drawing, his nose an inch from the wall. “Odd.
  Very odd.” Then he moved
  off to other wonders, his huge hands reverently caressing the metallic
  counters, the hanging shelves. His
  expression was so rapt that Lessa suppressed a giggle. “Simply amaz-
  ing. I believe that this countertop was
  extruded in a single sheet.” He clucked to himself. “If it has been done, it
  can be done. I must think about
  
  “eureka” to older eyes, “is the same. I’d
  swear it. And it was obviously added after the rest of this picture.”
  “If you want to call it a picture,” Lessa said dubiously. “But I do think
  you’re right. Only why would
  they circle this part of the ladder — and that one over there — with a
  scribble?”
  “There are so many, many puzzles in this room,” Fandarel intoned. He’d
  opened a cabinet door,
  struggling briefly with the magnetic catch, then opened and closed it
  several times, smiling absently in
  delight for such efficiency. Only then did he notice the strange object on
  the deep shelf.
  He exhaled in wonder as he took the ungainly affair down.
  “Have a care. It may waddle away,” Robinton said, grinning at the
  Smith’s performance.
  Though the device was as long as a man’s arm, the Smith’s great hands
  seemed to envelop it as his
  fingers explored its exterior. “And they could roll metal without seam.
  Hmmm. It’s coated,” and he glanced
  up at F’lar, “with the same substance used in the big kettles. Coated for
  protection? With what?” He looked
  
  very badly eroded diagram which Wansor showed me not long ago. A
  device,” and his fingers rested lightly
  on the wheels placed alongside the barrel, “which magnifies objects
  hundreds of times their proper size. But
  it takes so long to make lenses, polish mirrors. Hmmm.” He bent again
  and with extremely careful fingers
  played with the knobs at the side of the tube. He glanced quickly at the
  mirror, wiped it with one stained
  finger and looked at it once with his own eye, then again through the
  tube. “Fascinating. I can see every
  imperfection in the glass.” He was completely unconscious of the fact
  that everyone else was watching him,
  fascinated by his behavior. He pulled a coarse short hair from his head
  and held it under the end of the
  barrel, above the mirror, right across a small aperture. Another careful
  adjustment and he gave a bellow of
  joy. “Look. Look. It is only my hair. But look at the size of it now. See
  dust like stones, see the scales, see
  the broken end.”
  Exuberantly, he pulled Lessa into position, all but holding her head
  down to the eyepiece. “If you
  
  his monopoly.
  Taking his place, F’lar in turn had to check the specimen to believe in
  what he saw through the
  instrument. The strand of hair became a coarse rope, motes of dust
  sparkling in the light along it, fine lines
  making visible segmentation points.
  When he lifted his head, he turned toward Fandarel, speaking softly be-
  cause he almost dared not
  utter this fragile hope aloud. “If there are ways of making tiny things this
  large, are there ways of bringing
  distant objects near enough to observe closely?”
  He heard Lessa’s breath catch, was aware that Robinton was holding
  his, but F’lar begged the
  Smith with his eyes to give him the answer he wanted to hear.
  “I believe there ought to be,” Fandarel said after what seemed to be
  hours of reflection.
  “F’lar?”
  He looked down at Lessa’s white face, her startled eyes black with awe
  and fear, her hands half-raised
  in frightened protest..“You can’t go to the Red Star!” Her voice was
  barely audible.
  
  bravely, scared though he was, expecting darkness. Instead, above him
  was a curving roof of stone, its
  expanse sparkling from the full basket of glows in its center. He gave an
  inarticulate gasp of relief.
  “Are you all right, lad? Does your chest hurt?” Manora was bending over
  him.
  “You found us? Is Felessan all right?”
  “Right as rain, and eating his dinner. Now, does your chest hurt?”
  “My chest?” His heart seemed to stop when he remembered how he got
  that injury. But Manora
  was watching him. He felt cautiously. “No, thank-you — for-inquiring.”
  His stomach further embarrassed him with its grinding noises.
  “I think you need some dinner, too.”
  “Then Lytol’s not angry with me? Or the Weyrleader?” he dared to ask.
  Manora gave him a fond smile, smoothing down his tousled hair.
  “Not to worry, Lord Jaxom,” she said kindly. “A stern word or two per-
  haps. Lord Lytol was beside
  himself with worry.”
  Jaxom had the most incredible vision of two Lytols side by side, cheeks
  a-twitch in unison.
  
  scolded. You could always trust
  Manora. And if she knew and wasn’t angry . . . But if she didn’t know
  and he asked, she might be angry .
  . .
  “You found those rooms, Lord Jaxom. I’d rest on my honors, now, were I
  you.”
  “Rooms?”
  She smiled at him and held out her hand. “I thought you were hungry.”
  Her hand was cool and soft as she led him onto the balcony which cir-
  cled the sleeping level. It must
  be late, Jaxom thought, as they passed the tightly drawn curtains of the
  sleeping rooms. The central fire
  was banked. A few women were grouped by one of the worktables,
  sewing. They glanced up as Manora
  and Jaxom passed, and smiled.
  “You said ‘rooms?’ “ Jaxom asked with polite insistence.
  “Beyond the room you opened were two others and the ruins of a stair-
  way leading up.”
  Jaxom whistled. “What was in the rooms?”
  Manora laughed softly. “I never saw the Mastersmith so excited. They
  found some odd-shaped
  
  terrupted the lively
  conversations of the dragonmen and women seated around the big
  dining area. Accustomed as he was to
  such scrutiny, Jaxom straightened his shoulders and walked with meas-
  ured stride. He turned his head
  slowly, giving a grave nod and smile to the riders he knew and those of
  the women he recognized. He
  ignored a sprinkle of laughter, being used to that, too, but a Lord of the
  Hold must act with the dignity
  appropriate to his rank, even if he were not quite turned twelve and in
  the presence of his superiors.
  It was full dark, but around the great inner face of the Bowl, he could
  see the lambent circles of
  dragon eyes on the weyr ledges. He could hear the muted rush of air as
  several stirred and stretched their
  enormous pinions. He looked up toward the star Rocks, black knobs
  against the lighter sky, and saw the
  giant silhouette of the watch dragon. Far down the Bowl, he could even
  hear the restless tramping of the
  
  Do dragons have a sense of humor? he wondered. The watch-wher
  certainly didn’t and he was the
  same breed.
  The relationship is very distant.
  “I beg your pardon?” Jaxom said, startled, glancing up at Manora.
  “For what, young Lord?”
  “Didn’t you say something?”
  “No.”
  Jaxom glanced back at the bulky shadow of the dragon, but Mne-
  menth’s head was turned. Then he
  could smell roasted meats and walked faster.
  As they rounded the bend, Jaxom saw the golden body of the recum-
  bent queen and was suddenly
  guilt-struck and fearful. But she was fast asleep, smiling with an inno-
  cent serenity remarkably like his foster
  mother’s newest babe. He looked away lest his gaze rouse her, and
  saw the faces of all those adults at the
  table. It was almost too much for him. F’lar, Lessa, Lytol and Felessan
  he’d expected, but there was the
  Mastersmith and the Masterharper, too.
  
  that escaped Jaxom. “Jaxom missed
  lunch at the Hold and is several hours hungrier in consequence. He is
  well, Manora?”
  “He took no more harm than Felessan.”
  “He looked a little glassy-eyed as you crossed the weyr.” Lessa bent to
  peer at Jaxom who politely
  looked at her, chewing with sudden self-consciousness. “How do you
  feel?”
  Jaxom emptied his mouth hurriedly, trying to swallow a half-chewed
  lump of vegetable. Felessan
  tendered a cup of water and Lessa deftly swatted him between the
  shoulder blades as he started to choke.
  “I feel fine,” he managed to say. “I feel fine, thank you.” He waited, un-
  able to resist looking at his
  plate and was relieved when the Weyrleader laughingly reminded Lessa
  that she was the one who said the
  boy should eat before anything else.
  The Mastersmith tapped his stained, branchlike finger on the faded Re-
  cord skin which draped the
  table, except where the boys were sitting. Fandarel had one arm
  wrapped possessively around something
  
  upside down to him.
  “I’d swear there were no upper weyr entrances on that side of the Bowl,”
  F’lar muttered, shaking his
  head.
  “There was access to the Bowl on the ground level,” Fandarel said, his
  forefinger covering what he
  ought to be showing. “We found it, sealed up. Possibly because of that
  rockfall.”
  Jaxom looked anxiously at Felessan who became engrossed in his
  plate. When Felessan made
  those faces, had he meant he hadn’t told them? Or he had? Jaxom
  wished he knew.
  “That seam was barely discernible,” the Masterharper said. “The sealing
  substance was more
  effective than any mortar I’ve ever seen; transparent, smooth and
  strong.”
  “One could not chip it,” rumbled Fandarel, shaking his head.
  “Why would they seal off an exit to the Bowl?” Lessa asked.
  “Because they weren’t using that section of the Weyr,” F’lar suggested.
  “Certainly no one has used
  
  teachings?.“We found enough of interest in the dusty, moldy old Records
  that had been ignored as useless,”
  F’lar’s voice went on.
  Jaxom hazarded a glance and saw the Weyrleader tousle Felessan’s
  hair; watched as the man
  actually grinned at him, Jaxom. Jaxom was almost sick with relief. None
  of the adults knew what he and
  Felessan had done in the Hatching Grounds.
  “These boys have already led us to exquisite treasures, eh, Fandarel?”
  “Let us hope that they are not the only legacies left in forgotten rooms,”
  the Mastersmith said in his
  deep rumble of a voice. Absently he stroked the smooth metal of the
  magnifying device cradled in the crook
  of his arm.
  CHAPTER VI
  Midmorning at Southern Weyr
  Early Morning at Nabol Hold:
  Next Day
  HOT, sandy and sticky with sweat and salt, triumph over-rode all minor
  irritations as Kylara stared
  down at the clutch she had unearthed.
  
  inbred sodality. Well, let’s see if
  mighty Meron could Impress a fire lizard. She wasn’t sure which would
  please her more: if he could or if he
  couldn’t. Either way’d work for her. But if he could Impress a fire lizard, a
  bronze, say, and she had a queen
  on her wrist, and the two mated . . . It might not be as spectacular as
  with the larger beasts, but then,
  given Meron’s natural endowment . . . Kylara smiled in sensuous antici-
  pation.
  “You’d better be worth this,” she told the eggs.
  She put the thirty-four hardened eggs into several thicknesses of the
  firestone bagging she’d
  brought along. She wrapped that bundle in wher-hides and then in her
  thick wool cloak. She’d been
  Weyrwoman long enough to realize that a suddenly cooled egg would
  never hatch. And these were mighty
  close to cracking shell.
  So much the better.
  Prideth had been tolerant of her rider’s preoccupation with fire-lizard
  eggs. She had obediently
  
  The watchguard knew the Southern Weyrwoman too well to protest her
  entry and some poor wit was
  dispatched to wake his Lord. Kylara blithely disregarded Meron’s angry
  frown when he appeared on the
  stairs of the Inner Hold.
  “I’ve fire-lizard eggs for you, Lord Meron of Nabol,” she cried, gesturing
  to the lumpy bundle she’d
  had a man bring in. “I want tubs of warm sand or we’ll lose them.”
  “Tubs of warm sand?” Meron repeated with overt irritation.
  So, he’d someone else in his bed, had he? Kylara thought, of half a
  mind to take her treasure and
  disappear.
  “Yes, you fool. I’ve a clutch of fire-lizard eggs about to hatch. The
  chance of your lifetime. You
  there,” and Kylara pointed imperiously at Meron’s holdkeeper who’d
  come shuffling in, half-dressed. “Pour
  boiling water over all the cleansing sand you’ve got and bring it here in-
  stantly.”
  Kylara, born to a high degree in one Hold, knew exactly the tone to take
  with lesser beings, and
  
  just in time,” she said in triumph. “Assemble your men, quickly.
  We’ll want to Impress as many as possible.”
  “I’m trying,” Meron said through gritted teeth as he watched her per-
  formance with some skepticism
  and much malice, “to apprehend exactly how this will benefit anyone.”
  “Use your wits, man,” Kylara replied, oblivious to the Lord Holder’s sour
  reaction to her
  imperiousness. “Fire lizards are the ancestors of dragons and they have
  all their abilities.”
  It took only a moment longer for Meron to grasp the significance. Even
  as he shouted orders for his
  men to be roused, he was beside Kylara, helping her to lay the eggs out
  before the fire.
  “They go between? They communicate with their owners?”
  “Yes. Yes.”
  “That’s a gold egg,” Meron cried, reaching for it, his small eyes glittering
  with cupidity.
  She slapped his hand away, her eyes flashing. “Gold is for me. Bronze
  for you. I’m fairly sure that
  that second one — no, that one — is a bronze.”
  
  “I have but I doubt you will, whoever you are,” Kylara snapped.
  There was something, she decided, in what the Oldtimers said: Holders
  were getting far too
  arrogant and aggressive. No one would have dared speak up in her fa-
  ther’s Hold when he was giving
  instructions. No one in the Weyrs interrupted a Weyrwoman.
  “You’ll have to be quick,” she said. “They hatch ravenous and eat any-
  thing in reach. They turn
  cannibal if you don’t stop them.”
  “I want to hold mine till it hatches,” Meron told Kylara in an undertone.
  He’d been stroking the three
  eggs whose mottled shells he fancied contained bronzes.
  “Hands aren’t warm enough” Kylara replied in a loud, flat voice. “We’ll
  need red meat, plenty of it.
  Fresh-slaughtered is the best.”
  The platter which was subsequently brought in was contemptuously
  dismissed as inadequate. Two
  additional loads were prepared, still steamy from the body heat of the
  slaughtered animals. The smell of the
  bloody raw meat was another odor to mingle with the sweat of men, the
  overheated crowded hall and the
  
  “I thought you said they were about to hatch,” Meron said in an ag-
  grieved voice. He was as restless
  as his men and beginning to have second thoughts about this ridiculous
  project of Kylara’s.
  Kylara awarded him a slightly contemptuous smile. “They are, I assure
  you. You Holders ought to
  learn patience. It’s needed in dealing with Dragonkind. You can’t beat
  dragons, you know, or fire lizards, as
  you do a landbeast. But it’ll be worth it.”
  “You’re sure?” Meron’s eyes glittered with unconcealed irritation.
  “Think of the effect on dragonmen when you arrive at Telgar Hold in a
  few days with a fire lizard
  clinging to your arm.”
  The slight smile on Meron’s face told Kylara that her suggestion ap-
  pealed to him. Yes, Meron could
  be patient if it gave him any advantage over dragonmen.
  “It will be at my beck and call?” Meron asked, his gaze avidly caressing
  his trio.
  Kylara didn’t hesitate to reassure him, though she wasn’t at all sure a
  fire lizard would be faithful, or
  
  “Yes, to have solid, dependable communications would mean I’d have
  control. I could tell that
  wherry-blooded High Reaches Weyrleader T’kul to . . .”
  One of the eggs rocked on its long axis and Meron started from his
  chair. Hoarsely he ordered his
  men to come closer, swearing as they halted at the normal distance
  from him..“Tell them again, Weyrwoman, tell them exactly how they are to
  capture these fire lizards.”
  It never troubled Kylara that even after nine Turns in a Weyr and seven
  Turns as a Weyrwoman
  herself, she could not have given the criteria by which one candidate
  was accepted by a dragon and
  another, discernibly as worthy, was rejected by an entire Hatching. Nor
  why the queens invariably chose
  women raised outside the Weyr. (For instance, at the time that boy-thing
  Brekke had Impressed Wirenth,
  there had been three other girls, any of whom Kylara would have
  thought considerably more interesting to a
  dragonette queen. But Wirenth had made a skyline directly to the craft-
  bred girl. The three rejected
  
  who did not become riders usually left, finding places in one of the
  crafts.
  Now, of course, with Benden and Southern Weyrs producing more
  dragons’ eggs than the
  Weyrwomen bore babies, it was necessary to range Pern to find enough
  candidates to stand on the
  Hatching Grounds. Evidently a commoner simply couldn’t realize that
  the dragons, usually the browns or
  bronzes, did the choosing, not their riders.
  There seemed to be no accounting for draconic tastes. A well-favored
  commoner might find himself
  passed over for the skinny, the unattractive.
  Kylara looked around the hall, at the variety of anxious expressions on
  the rough men assembled. It
  could be hoped that fire lizards weren’t as discriminating as dragons for
  there wasn’t much to offer them in
  this motley group. Then Kylara remembered that that brat of Brekke’s
  had Impressed three. In that case,
  anything on two legs in this room would stand a chance. It had been
  handed them, their one big opportunity
  
  them to you with thoughts of affection. A dragon cannot be possessed.”
  “We have fire lizards here, not dragons.”
  “They are the same for our purposes,” Kylara said sharply. “Now heed
  me or you’ll lose the lot of
  them.” She wondered why she’d bothered to sweat and toil and bring
  him a gift, an opportunity which he
  was obviously unable to accept or appreciate. And yet, if she had a gold
  and he a bronze, when they mated
  it ought to be worth her troubles. “Shut out any thought of fear or profit,”
  she told the listening circle. “The
  first puts a dragon off, the second he can’t understand. As soon as one
  will approach you, feed it. Keep
  feeding it. Get it on your hand, if possible, and move to a quiet corner
  and keep feeding it. Think how much
  you love it, want it to stay with you, how happy its presence makes you.
  Think of nothing else or the fire
  lizard will go between. There’s just the short time between its hatching
  and its first big meal in which to
  make Impression. You succeed or you don’t. It’s up to you.”
  “You heard what she said. Now do it. Do it right. The man who fails — ”
  Meron’s voice trailed off
  
  “Laughter is better than threats, Lord Meron. Even you can’t order the
  preference of Dragonkind.
  And tell me, good Lord Meron, will you be subject to the same dire un-
  speakable punishment if you fail?”
  Meron grabbed her arm in a painful grip, his eyes riveted on the cracks
  now showing in one of his
  chosen eggs. He snapped his fingers for meat. Blood oozed from the
  raw handful as he knelt by the eggs,
  his body bowed tautly in his effort to effect an Impression.
  Trying to show no concern, Kylara rose languidly from her chair. She
  strolled to the table and
  picked over the meaty gobbets until she had a satisfactory heap on the
  trencher. She signaled the tense
  guardsmen to supply themselves as she moved sedately back to the
  hearth.
  She could not suppress her own excitement and heard Prideth warbling
  from the heights above the
  Hold. Ever since Kylara had seen the tiny fledglings F’nor and Brekke
  had Impressed, she had craved one
  of these dainty creatures. She would never understand that her imperi-
  ous nature had subconsciously fought
  
  easily control — and physically
  dominate in a way she could not dominate Prideth.
  And in presenting these fire-lizard eggs to a Holder, particularly the most
  despised Holder of all,
  Meron of Nabol, Kylara struck back at all the ignominies and imagined
  slights she had endured at the hands
  of both dragonmen and Pernese. The most recent insult — that the
  dishfaced fosterling of Brekke’s had
  Impressed three, rejecting Kylara — would be completely avenged.
  Well, Kylara would not be rejected here. She knew the way of it and,
  whatever else, she would be a
  winner.
  The golden egg rocked violently, and a massive crack split it lengthwise.
  A tiny golden beak
  appeared.
  “Feed her. Don’t waste time,” Meron whispered to her hoarsely.
  “Don’t tell me how to hatch eggs, you fool. Tend to your own.”
  The head had emerged, the body struggled to right itself claws scrab-
  bling against the wet shell.
  Kylara concentrated on thoughts of welcoming affection, of joy and ad-
  miration, ignoring the cries and
  
  Hunger, hunger, hunger was the
  pulse of the creature’s thoughts and Kylara, reassured by receipt of this
  broadcast, intensified her thoughts
  of love and welcome.
  She had the fire-lizard queen on her hand by the fifth lure. She rose
  carefully to her feet, popping
  food into the wide maw every time it opened, and moved away from the
  hearth and the chaos there.
  For it was chaos, with the over anxious men making every mistake in
  the Record, despite her
  advice. Meron’s three eggs cracked almost at once. Two hatchlings im-
  mediately set upon each other while
  Meron was awkwardly trying to imitate Kylara’s actions. In his greed,
  he’d probably lose all three, she
  thought with malicious pleasure. Then she saw that there were other
  bronzes emerging. Well, all was not
  lost when her queen needed to mate.
  Two men had managed to coax fire lizards to their hands and had fol-
  lowed Kylara’s example by
  removing themselves from the confused cannibalism on the hearth.
  
  often she’d told that to weyrlings
  when she’d had to lecture them as Weyrwoman. Well, Brekke did that
  now, thank the First Egg.
  “But what happens if they go between? How do we keep them?”
  “You can’t keep a dragon. He stays with you. You don’t chain a dragon
  like a watch-wher, you
  know.”
  She became bored with her role as instructor and replenished her sup-
  ply of meat. Then,
  disgustedly observing the waste of creatures dying on the hearth, she
  mounted the steps to the Inner Hold.
  She’d wait in Meron’s chambers — there’d better be no one else there
  now — to see if he had, after all,
  managed to Impress a fire lizard.
  Prideth told her that she wasn’t happy that she had transported the
  clutch to death on a cold, alien
  hearth.
  “They lost more than this at Southern, silly one,” Kylara told her dragon.
  “This time we’ve a pretty
  darling of our own.”
  
  already aloft and waiting.
  “F’nor said it was urgent. It’s about the — ” G’nag said.
  “I’ll read it as soon as I can,” F’lar interrupted him. The man would talk
  your ear off. “My thanks and
  my apologies.”
  “But, F’lar . . .” The rest of the man’s sentence was lost as Mnementh’s
  claws rattled against the
  stone of the ledge and the bronze dragon began to beat his way up.
  It didn’t help F’lar’s temper to realize that Mnementh was making a gen-
  tle ascent. Lessa had been
  so right when she had teased him about staying up drinking and talking
  with Robinton. The man was a
  sieve for wine Around midnight Fandarel had left, taking his treasure of
  a contraption. Lessa had wagered
  that he’d never go to bed, and likely no one in his Hall would either. Af-
  ter extracting a promise from F’lar
  that he’d get some rest soon, too, she’d retired.
  He had meant to, but Robinton knew so much about the different Holds,
  which minor Holders were
  important in swaying their Lords’ mind — essential information if F’lar
  was going to effect a revolution.
  
  the root of Threadfighting from the Oldtimers. Had learned the many
  tricks of dodging Thread, gauging the
  varieties of Fall, of conserving the strength of beast and rider, of turning
  the mind from the horrors of a full
  scoring or a phosphine emission too close. What F’lar didn’t realize was
  how his Weyr and the Southerners
  had improved on the teaching; improved and surpassed, as they could
  on the larger, stronger, more
  intelligent contemporary dragons. F’lar had been able, in the name of
  gratitude and loyalty to his peers, to
  ignore, forget, rationalize the Oldtimers’ shortcomings. He could do so
  no longer as the weight of their
  insecurity and insularity forced him to re-evaluate the results of their ac-
  tions. In spite of this disillusionment,
  some part of F’lar, that inner soul of a man which requires a hero, a
  model against which to measure his
  own accomplishments, wanted to unite all the dragonmen; to sweep
  away the Oldtimers’ intractable
  resistance to change, their tenacious hold on the outmoded.
  Such a feat rivaled his other goal — and yet, the distance separating
  Pern and the Red Star was
  
  Kylara was doing later.
  He glanced below, squeezing his lids shut briefly as the dizzying speed
  affected his unfocusing
  eyes. Yes, N’ton was already directing a crew of men and dragons in
  the removal of the sealed entrance.
  With more light and fresher air flooding the abandoned corridors, explo-
  ration could go on effectively. They’d
  keep Ramoth out of the way so she’d not complain that men were com-
  ing too close to her maturing clutch.
  She knows, Mnementh informed his rider.
  “And?”
  She is curious.
  They were now poised above the Star Rocks, above and beyond the
  watchrider, who saluted them.
  F’lar frowned at the Finger Rock. Now, if a man had a proper lens, fitted
  into the Eye Rock, would he be
  able to see the Red Star? No, because at this time of year you did not
  see the Red Star at that angle. Well
  . . .
  F’lar glanced down at the panorama, the immense cup of rock at the top
  of the mountain, the tail-like
  
  Raid had sent a stiff reply in acknowledgment, Sifer a contentious re-
  buke, although that old fool would come
  round after a night’s thought on the alternatives.
  Ramoth dipped her wings suddenly and disappeared from sight. Mne-
  menth followed. A cold instant
  later they were wheeling above Telgar’s chain of brilliant stair lakes,
  startlingly blue in the early morning sun..Ramoth was gliding downward,
  framed briefly against the water, sunlight unnecessarily gilding her bright
  body.
  She’s almost twice the size of any other queen, F’lar thought with a
  surge of admiration for the
  magnificent dragon
  A good rider makes a good beast, Mnementh remarked voluntarily.
  Ramoth coyly swooped into a high banking turn before matching her
  speed with her Weyrmate’s.
  The two flew, wingtip to wingtip, up the lake valleys to the Smithcraft.
  Behind them the terrain dropped
  slowly seaward, the river which was fed by the lakes running through
  wide farm and pasture lands,
  converging with the Great Dunto River which finally emptied into the
  sea.
  
  “Swimming, indeed!” was her comment and she caught her arm around
  his waist.
  “So I must suffer uncomforted?” But he put an arm around her shoulders
  and matched his long
  stride to hers as they crossed the distance to Terry.
  “You are indeed well come,” Terry said, bowing continuously and grin-
  ning from ear to ear.
  “Fandarel’s already developed a long-distance glass?” asked F’lar.
  “Not quite yet,” and the Craft-second’s merry eyes danced in his tired
  face, “but not for want of trying
  all night.”
  Lessa laughed sympathetically but Terry quickly demurred.
  “I don’t mind, really. It’s fascinating what the fine-viewer can make visi-
  ble. Wansor is jubilant and
  depressed by turns. He’s been raving all night to the point of tears for
  his own inadequacy.”
  They were almost at the door of the small hall when Terry turned, his
  face solemn.
  “I wanted to tell you how terribly I feel about F’nor. If I’d only given them
  that rackety knife in the first
  
  desist from his apologies.
  The Hall, though apparently two-storied to judge by the windows, was in
  fact a vast single room.
  There was a small forge at one of the two hearths that were centered in
  each end. The black stone walls,
  smoothed and apparently seamless, were covered with diagrams and
  numbers. A long table dominated the
  center of the room, its wide ends deep sand trays, the rest a conglom-
  erate of Record skins, leaves of paper
  and a variety of bizarre equipment. The Smith was standing to one side
  of the door, spread-legged, fists
  jammed against the wide waist belt, chin jutting out, a deep frown scor-
  ing his brow. His bellicose mood was
  directed toward a sketch on the black stone before him.
  “It must be a question of the visual angle, Wansor,” he muttered in an
  aggrieved tone, as if the
  sketch were defying his will. “Wansor?”
  “Wansor is as good as between, Craftmaster,” Terry said gently, ges-
  turing toward the sleeping body
  all but invisible under skins on the outsized couch in one corner.
  
  The Smith glanced crossly at the sleeper, grunted with resignation and
  only then noticed Lessa and
  F’lar. He smiled down at the Weyrwoman with real pleasure.
  “You come early, and I’d hoped to have some progress to report on a
  distance-viewer,” he said,
  gesturing toward the sketch. Lessa and F’lar obediently inspected the
  series of lines and ovals, innocently
  white on the black wall. “It is regrettable that the construction of perfect
  equipment is dependent on the
  frailty of men’s minds and bodies. I apologize . . .”
  “Why? It is barely morning,” F’lar replied with a droll expression. “I will
  give you until nightfall before
  I accuse you of inefficiency.”
  Terry tried to smother a laugh; what came out was a slightly hysterical
  giggle..They were all somewhat startled to hear the booming gargle that
  was Fandarel’s laugh. He nearly
  knocked F’lar down with a jovial slap on the shoulder blades as he
  whooped with mirth.
  You give me . . . until nightfall . . . before . . . inefficiency . . .” the Smith
  gasped between
  howls.
  
  to stoke that hulk of his with food once a week.”
  Her insinuation that the Smith was a dragon was not lost on Terry, who
  this time began to laugh
  uncontrollably.
  “I’ll rouse them myself. You’re all next to useless, you men,” she com-
  plained and started for the
  door.
  Terry intercepted her, masterfully suppressing his laughter, and reached
  for a button in the base of a
  square box on the wall. In a loud voice he bespoke a meal for the Smith
  and four others.
  “What’s that?” F’lar asked, fascinated. It didn’t look capable of sending a
  message all the way to
  Telgar.
  “Oh, a loudspeaker. Very efficient,” Terry said with a wry grin, “if you
  can’t bellow like the
  Craftmaster. We have them in every hall. Saves a lot of running
  around.”
  “One day I will fix it so that we can channel the message to the one area
  we want to speak to.” The
  
  writer!”
  It was difficult for Lessa and F’lar to see anything to be proud of in that
  mystifying jumble.
  “The wallbox looks more efficient,” F’lar said at length, bending to test
  the mixture in a pot with a
  finger.
  The Smith struck his hand away.
  “That would burn your skin as quick as pure agenothree,” he exclaimed.
  “Based on that solution,
  too. Now, observe. these tubs contain blocks of metal, one each of zinc
  and copper, in a watered solution
  of sulfuric acid which makes the metal dissolve in such a way that a
  chemical reaction occurs. This gives us
  a form of activity I have called chemical reaction energy. The c.r. pro-
  duced can be controlled at this point,”
  and he ran a finger down the metal arm which was poised over an ex-
  panse of thin grayish material, attached
  at both ends to rollers. The Smith turned a knob. The pots began to
  bubble gently He tapped the arm and a
  series of red marks of different lengths began to appear on the material
  which wound slowly forward. “See,
  
  other needle at the
  Masterminer’s in Crom or at the Crafthall at Igen repeats the line simul-
  taneously.”
  “That would be faster than dragon flight,” Lessa whispered, awed. “What
  do these lines say?
  Where did they go?” She inadvertently touched the material with her fin-
  ger, snatching it back for a quick
  examination. There was no mark on her finger but a blotch of red ap-
  peared on the paper.
  The Smith chuckled raspingly.
  “No harm in that stuff. It merely reacts to the acidity of your skin.”
  F’lar laughed. “Proof of your disposition, my dear!”
  “Put your finger there and see what occurs,” Lessa ordered with a flash
  of her eyes.
  “It would be the same,” the Smith remarked didactically. “The roll is
  made of a natural substance,
  litmus, found in Igen, Keroon and Tillek. We have always used it to
  check the acidity of the earth or
  solutions. As the chemical reaction energy is acid, naturally the litmus
  changes color when the needle
  touches its surface, thus making the message for us to read.”
  
  send messages to either Crom or Igen, or both, by adjusting this dial.”
  “To which did you send that?” Lessa asked, pointing to the lines.
  “Neither, my lady, for the c.r. was not being broadcast. I had the dial set
  to receive messages, not
  send. It is very efficient, you see.”
  At this point, two women, dressed in the heavy wher-hide garb of smith-
  crafters, entered the room,
  laden with trays of steaming food. One was evidently solely for the
  Smith’s consumption, for the woman
  jerked her head at him as she placed the heavy platter on a rest evi-
  dently designed to receive it and not
  disturb work in the sand tray beneath. She bobbed to Lessa as she
  crossed in front of her, gesturing
  peremptorily to her companion to wait as she cleared space on the ta-
  ble. She did this by sweeping things
  out of her way with complete disregard for what might be disarranged or
  broken. She gave the bared
  surface a cursory swipe with a towel, signaled the other to put the tray
  down, then the two of them swept out
  before Lessa, stunned by such perfunctory service, could utter a sound.
  
  got kicked under the long table, seating himself with a fluid movement
  that proved he had long familiarity
  with such makeshift repasts.
  Now that he had food before him, the Smith was eating with single-
  minded intensity.
  “Then it is the wire-laying process that holds you up,” F’lar said, accept-
  ing the klah Lessa poured for
  him and Terry. “How long did it take you to extend it from here to Crom
  Hold, for instance?”
  “We did not stick to the work,” Terry replied for his Craftmaster whose
  mouth was too full for speech.
  “The posts were set up first by apprentices from both halls and those
  Holders willing to take a few hours
  from their own tasks. It was difficult to find the proper wire, and it takes
  time to extrude perfect lengths.”
  “Did you speak to Lord Larad? Wouldn’t he volunteer men?”
  Terry made a face. “Lord Holder Larad is more interested in how many
  flame throwers we can
  make him, or how many crops he can plant for food.”
  Lessa had taken a sip of the klah and barely managed to swallow the
  acid stuff. The bread was
  
  “I wonder you can achieve as much as you do if you have to survive on
  this,” she went on, ignoring
  F’lar’s reprimand.
  “What’s your wife’s name?”
  “Lessa,” F’lar repeated, more urgently.
  “No wife,” the Smith mumbled, but the rest of his sentence came out
  more as bread crumbs than
  words and he was reduced to shaking his head from side to side.
  “Well, even a headwoman ought to be able to manage better than this.”
  Terry cleared his mouth enough to explain. “Our headwoman is a good
  enough cook but she’s so
  much better at bringing up faded ink on the skins we’ve been studying
  that she’s been doing that instead.”
  “Surely one of the other wives . . .”
  Terry made a grimace. “We’ve been so pressed for help, with all these
  additional projects,” and he
  waved at the distance-writer, “that anyone who can has turned crafter —
  ” He broke off, seeing the
  consternation on Lessa’s face.
  “Well, I’ve women sitting around the Lower Cavern doing make-work. I’ll
  have Kenalas and those
  
  managed Benden Weyr’s domestic affairs. “I’m making a decent brew of
  klah. How you could have choked
  down such bitter dregs as this is beyond my comprehension!” She
  swept out the door, pot in hand, her
  angry monologue drifting back to amused listeners.
  “Well, she’s right,” F’lar said, laughing. “This is worse than the worst the
  Weyr ever got.”
  “To tell the truth, I never really noticed before,” Terry replied, staring at
  his plate quizzically.
  “That’s obvious.”
  “It keeps me going,” the Smith said placidly, swallowing a half-cup of
  klah to clear his mouth.
  “Seriously, are you that short of men that you have to draft your women,
  too?”
  “Not short of men, exactly, but of people who have the dexterity, the in-
  terest some of our projects
  require,” Terry spoke up, in quick defense of his Craftmaster.
  “I mean no criticism, Master Terry,” F’lar said, hastily.
  “We’ve done a good deal of reviewing of the old Records, too,” Terry
  went on, a little defensively
  
  illegible now . . .”
  “I contend that we lost more than was saved and useful. Some skins
  were worn out with handling
  and their message obliterated.”
  The two smiths seemed to be exchanging portions of a well-rehearsed
  complaint.
  “Did it never occur to you to ask the Masterharper for help in transcrib-
  ing your Records?” asked
  F’lar.
  Fandarel and Terry exchanged startled glances.
  “I can see it didn’t. It’s not the Weyrs alone who are autonomous. Don’t
  you Craftmasters speak to
  each other?” F’lar’s grin was echoed by the big Smith, recalling Robin-
  ton’s words of the previous evening.
  “However, the Harperhall is usually overflowing with apprentices, set to
  copying whatever Robinton can find
  for them. They could as well take that burden from you.”
  “Aye, that would be a great help,” Terry agreed, seeing that the Smith
  did not object.
  “You sound doubtful — or hesitant? Are any Crafts secret?”
  
  Craftmaster — would like to see all knowledge available to all who need
  it,” Terry said.
  F’lar gazed with increased respect at the stoop-shouldered Craft-
  second. He’d known that Fandarel
  relied heavily on Terry’s executive ability and tactfulness. The man
  could always be counted on to fill in the
  gaps in Fandarel’s terse explanations or instructions, but it was obvious
  now that Terry had a mind of his
  own, whether it concurred with his Craftmaster’s or not.
  “Knowledge has less danger of being lost, then,” Terry went on less
  passionately but just as
  fervently. “We knew so much more once. And all we have are tantalizing
  bits and fragments that do almost
  more harm than good because they only get in the way of independent
  development.”
  “We will contrive,” Fandarel said, his ineffable optimism complementing
  Terry’s volatility.
  “Do you have men enough, and wire enough, to install one of those
  things at Telgar Hold in two
  days?” asked F’lar, feeling a change of subject might help.
  
  see so clearly what needs to be done, without any hedging and hem-
  ming.”
  “You’ve had problems with R’mart?” asked F’lar with quick concern.
  “It’s not that, Weyrleader,” Terry said, leaning forward earnestly. “You
  still care what happens,
  what’s happening.”.“I’m not sure I understand.”
  The Smith rumbled something but there seemed to be no interrupting
  Terry.
  “I see it this way, and I’ve seen riders from every Weyr by now. The
  Oldtimers have been fighting
  Thread since their birth. That’s all they’ve known. They’re tired and not
  just from skipping forward in time
  four hundred Turns. They’re heart-tired, bone-tired. They’ve had too
  much rising to alarms, seen too many
  friends and dragons die, Thread-scored. They rest on custom, because
  that’s safest and takes the least
  energy. And they feel entitled to anything they want. Their minds may be
  numb with too much time
  between, though they think fast enough to talk you out of anything. As
  far as they’re concerned, there’s
  
  ours. And fought in both Times. We can see a way out, a life without
  Thread. They knew only one thing
  and they’ve taught us that. How to fight Thread. They simply can’t see
  that we, that anyone, could take it
  just one step further and destroy Thread forever.”
  F’lar returned Terry’s earnest stare.
  “I hadn’t seen the Oldtimers in just that light,” he said slowly.
  “Terry’s absolutely right, F’lar,” said Lessa. She’d evidently paused on
  the threshold, but moved
  now briskly into the room, filling the Smith’s empty mug from the pitcher
  of klah she’d brewed. “And it’s a
  judgment we ought to consider in our dealings with them.” She smiled
  warmly at Terry as she filled his cup.
  “You’re as eloquent as the Harper. Are you sure you’re a smith?”
  “That is klah!” announced Fandarel, having drunk it all.
  “Are you sure you’re a Weyrwoman?” retorted F’lar, extending his cup
  with a sly smile. To Terry he
  said, “I wonder none of us realized it before, particularly in view of re-
  cent events. A man can’t fight day after
  day, Turn after Turn — though the Weyrs were eager to come forward
  — ” He looked questioningly at
  
  “Talk makes no miracles. To effect an end to Thread we must get the
  dragons to the source. Terry,
  pour a cup of that excellent klah for Wansor and let us attack the prob-
  lem with good heart.”
  As F’lar rose with Lessa, F’nor’s message rustled at his belt.
  “Let me take a look at F’nor’s message, Lessa, before we go.”
  He opened the closely written pages, his eye catching the repetition of
  “fire lizard” before his mind
  grasped the sense of what he was reading.
  “Impressing? A fire lizard?” he exclaimed, holding the letter so that
  Lessa could verify it.
  “No one’s ever managed to catch a fire lizard,” Fandarel said.
  “F’nor has,” F’lar told him, “and Brekke, and Mirrim. Who’s Mirrim?”
  “Brekke’s fosterling,” the Weyrwoman replied absently, her eyes scan-
  ning the message as rapidly
  as possible. “One of L’trel’s by some woman or other of his. No, Kylara
  wouldn’t have liked that!”
  F’lar shushed her, passing the sheets over to Fandarel who was curious
  now.
  “Are fire lizards related to dragons?” asked the Craft-second.
  
  entered, immediately lost in thought.
  “A good point,” F’lar said with a laugh to his remaining audience.
  “F’lar? Remember that flawed piece of metal, with that garble of words?
  The one with the scribble
  like last night’s. It mentioned fire lizards, too. That was one of the few
  words that made sense.”
  “So?”
  “I wish we hadn’t given that plate back to Fort Weyr. It was more impor-
  tant than we realized.”
  “There may be more at Fort Weyr that’s important,” F’lar said, gloomily.
  “It was the first Weyr. Who
  knows what we might find if we could search there!”.Lessa made a face,
  thinking of Mardra and T’ron.
  “T’ron’s not hard to manage,” she mused.
  “Lessa, no nonsense now.”
  “If fire lizards are so much like dragons, could they be trained to go be-
  tween, as dragons can, and
  be messengers?” asked Terry.
  “How long would that take?” asked the Smith, less unaware of his sur-
  roundings than he looked.
  “How much time have we got this Turn?”
  
  limped out of the Weyrhall.
  Brekke had finally found time to see to Mirrim’s wounded brown. He was
  so stuffed with juicy tidbits
  from the hand of his overzealous nurse that he barely opened one lid
  when Brekke inspected him.
  Numbweed worked as well on lizard as on dragon and human.
  “He’s doing just fine, dear,” Brekke told the anxious girl, the greens flut-
  tering on the child’s shoulders
  in response to her exaggerated sigh of relief. “Now, don’t overfeed
  them. They’ll split their hides.”
  “Do you think they’ll stay?”
  “With such care as you lavish on them, sweeting, they’re not likely to
  leave. But you have chores
  which I cannot in conscience permit you to shirk . . .”
  “All because of Kylara . . .”
  “Mirrim!”
  Ashamed, the girl hung her head, but she deeply resented the fact that
  Kylara gave all the orders
  and did no work leaving her tasks to fall to Brekke. It wasn’t fair. Mirrim
  was very very glad that the little
  lizards had preferred her to that woman.
  
  “The green riders are bringing back some of the meat hung in the salt
  caves,” she said, issuing
  quick instructions instead. “None of that is to go to the lizards, Mirrim.
  Now, mind. The boys can trap wild
  wherries. Their meat is as good, if not better. We’ve no idea what effect
  too much red-blood meat will have
  on lizards.” With that caution to inhibit Mirrim’s impulsive generosity,
  Brekke went out to meet F’nor.
  “There’s been no rider in from Benden?” he asked her, easing the arm
  sling across his shoulder.
  “You’d’ve heard instantly,” she assured him, deftly adjusting the cloth at
  his neck. “In fact,” she
  added in mild rebuke, “there are no riders in the Weyr at all today.”
  F’nor chuckled. “And not much to show for their absence, either. There
  isn’t a beach along the
  coastline that doesn’t have a dragon couchant, with rider a-coil, feigning
  sleep.”
  Brekke put her hand to her mouth. It wouldn’t do for Mirrim to hear her
  giggling like a weyrling.
  “Oh, you laugh?”
  
  or else he’s lost it.”
  “You are not going between with that wound, F’nor. And if G’nag said he
  delivered the letter, he did.
  Perhaps something has come up.”
  “More important than Impressing fire lizards?”
  “There could be something. Threads are falling out of phase — ” Brekke
  broke off, she oughtn’t to
  have reminded F’nor of that, judging by the bleak expression on his
  face. “Maybe not, but they’ve got to get.the Lord Holders to supply watch-
  ers and fires and it may be F’lar is occupied with that. It certainly isn’t your
  fault you’re not there to help. Those odious Fort riders have no self-
  control. Imagine taking a green out of
  her Weyr close to mating — ” Brekke stopped again, snapping her
  mouth closed. “But Rannelly said ‘my
  queen,’ not ‘her’ queen.”
  The girl turned so white that F’nor thrust his good hand under her elbow
  to steady her.
  “What’s the matter? Kylara hasn’t ducked Prideth out of here when
  she’s due to mate? Where is
  Kylara, by the way?”
  “I don’t know. I must check Wirenth. Oh, no, she couldn’t be!”
  
  She is the same age as Lessa was when Mnementh first flew Ramoth,
  Canth informed him.
  “Is Wirenth ready to rise?” F’nor asked his brown, stopping dead in his
  tracks.
  Soon. Soon. Bronzes will know.
  F’nor ticked over in his mind the bronze complement of Southern. The
  tally didn’t please him. Not
  that the bronzes were few in number, a discourtesy to a new queen, but
  that their riders had always
  contended for Kylara, whether Prideth’s mating was at stake or not. No
  matter whose bronze flew Wirenth,
  the rider would have Brekke and the thought of anyone who had vyed
  for Kylara’s bed favor making love to
  Brekke irritated the brown rider.
  Canth’s as big or bigger than any bronze here, he thought resentfully.
  He had never entertained
  such an invidious comparison before and ruthlessly put it out of his
  mind.
  Now, if N’ton, a clean-cut lad and a top wingrider just happened to be in
  Southern? Or B’dor of Ista
  
  Pleased with this solution, though he hadn’t a notion how to accomplish
  it, F’nor continued along the
  path to Wirenth’s sun-baked clearing.
  He paused at the edge, affected by the sight of Brekke, totally involved
  with her queen. The girl
  stood at Wirenth’s head, her body gracefully inclined against the dragon,
  as she tenderly scratched the near
  eye ridge. Wirenth was somnolent, one lid turning back enough to prove
  she was aware of the attention, her
  wedge-shaped head resting on one foreleg, her hindquarters neatly
  tucked under and framed by her long,
  graceful tail. In the sun she gleamed with an orange-yellow of excellent
  health — a color which would very
  shortly turn a deeper-burnished gold. All too shortly, F’nor realized, for
  Wirenth had lost every trace of the
  fatty softness of adolescence; her hide was sleek and smooth, not a
  blemish to suggest imperfect care. She
  was an extremely well-proportioned dragon; not one bit too leggy, short-
  tailed or wherry-necked. Despite
  her size, for she was easily the length of Prideth, she had a more lithe-
  some appearance. She was one of
  
  “Yes, I think she will, my beauty. I wonder how that will affect him,”
  Brekke asked, her expression altering.
  She stepped to one side and pointed to the tiny bronze tucked between
  Wirenth’s jaw and forearm.
  “Can’t tell, can we?” F’nor replied and, with another series of throat-
  clearings, covered his savagery
  at the thought of Brekke mating any of the bronze riders at Southern.
  “You’re not sickening with something, are you?” she asked with concern
  and was abruptly
  transformed back into the Brekke he knew best.
  “No. Who’s going to be the lucky rider?” he heard himself asking. It was
  a civil enough question.
  He was, after all, F’lar’s Wing-second and had a right to be curious
  about such matters. “You can ask for an
  open flight, you know,” he added defensively.
  She turned pale and leaned back against Wirenth. As if for comfort.
  As if for comfort, F’nor repeated the observation to himself, and remem-
  bered, with no relief, the way
  Brekke had looked at T’bor the day before. “It doesn’t matter if the
  rider’s already attached, you know, not in.a first mating.” He blurted it out,
  then realized, like the greenest dolt that that was stupid. Brekke’d know
  
  Weyr. Both are fine men with good beasts. Then you could leave
  Southern . . .”
  Brekke’s eyes were closed and she seemed to go limp in his grasp.
  “No! No!” The denial was so soft he barely heard it. “I belong here. Not
  — Benden.”
  “N’ton could transfer.”
  A shudder went through Brekke’s body and her eyes flew open. She
  slipped away from his grip.
  “No, N’ton — shouldn’t come to Southern,” she said in a flat voice
  “He’s got no use for Kylara, you know,” F’nor continued, determined to
  reassure her. “She doesn’t
  succeed with every man, you know. And you’re a very sweet person,
  you know.”
  With a shift of mood as sudden as any of Lessa’s, Brekke smiled up at
  him.
  “That’s nice to know.”
  And somehow F’nor had to laugh with her, at his own blundering inter-
  ference, at the notion of him, a
  brown rider giving advice to someone like Brekke, who had more sense
  in her smallest finger than he.
  
  them that’s not how it’s
  done, they may conform to time-honored couplings.”
  “What I meant was, if the fire lizards — who seem to be miniature drag-
  ons — can be Impressed by
  anyone who approaches them at the crucial moment, then fighting
  dragons — not just queens who don’t
  chew firestone anyhow — could be Impressed by women, too.”
  “Fighting Thread is hard work. Leave it to men.”
  “You think managing a Weyr isn’t hard work?” Brekke kept her voice
  even but her eyes darkened
  angrily. “Or plowing fields and hollowing cliffs for Holds? And . . .”
  F’nor whistled. “Why, Brekke, such revolutionary thoughts from a craft-
  bred girl? Where women
  know there’s only one place for them . . . Oh, you’ve got Mirrim in mind
  as a rider?”
  “Yes. She’d be as good or better than some of the male weyrlings I
  know,” and there was such
  asperity in Brekke’s voice that F’nor wondered just which boys she
  found so lacking. “Her ability to Impress
  three fire lizards indicates . . .”
  
  dragons on Hatching. Others are real
  riders, heart and soul and mind. Dragons are the beginning and end of
  their ambition. Mirrim . . .”
  A dragon broke into the air above the Weyr, trumpeting.
  “F’lar!” With such a wingspan, it could be no other.
  F’nor broke into a run, motioning Brekke to follow him to the Weyr land-
  ing field.
  “No. You go. Wirenth’s waking. I’ll wait.”
  F’nor was relieved that she preferred to stay. He didn’t want her to come
  out with that drastic theory
  in front of F’lar, particularly when he wanted his half-brother to shift
  N’ton and B’dor here for her sake.
  Anything to spare Brekke the kind of scene Kylara would throw if T’bor’s
  Orth flew Wirenth.
  “Where is everyone?” was F’lar’s curt greeting as his brother joined him.
  “Where’s Kylara?
  Mnementh can’t find Prideth. She’s not to be haring off on her own.”
  “Everyone’s out trying to trap fire lizards.”
  “With Thread falling out of pattern? Of all the stupidities . . . This conti-
  nent is by no means
  
  “That was inexcusable of me, F’nor. I beg your pardon.”
  “Accepted, of course. That’s Orth wheeling in right now.” F’nor decided
  to wait before asking F’lar
  what was really bothering him. He could just imagine what Raid of Ben-
  den Hold or Sifer of Bitra Hold had
  had to say about new levies of manpower. Probably felt that the change
  of Threadfall was a personal insult,
  dreamed up by Benden Weyr to annoy the faithful Holds of Pern.
  T’bor landed and strode toward the waiting men.
  Perhaps Brekke was not so far off in her heretical doctrine, F’nor
  thought. T’bor had made Southern
  Weyr self-sufficient and productive, no small task. He’d obviously have
  made a good Holder.
  “Orth said you were here, F’lar. What brings you to Southern? You
  heard our news about the fire
  lizards?” T’bor called, brushing the sand from his clothes as he walked.
  “Yes, I did,” replied F’lar in so formal a tone that T’bor’s welcoming smile
  faded. “And I thought
  you’d heard ours, that Thread is dropping out of pattern.”
  “There’s a rider along every inch of coastline, F’lar, so don’t accuse me
  of negligence,” T’bor said,
  
  shell or corpse. The wherries can make fast work of anything edible.”
  “Were I you, T’bor, I’d not release an entire Weyr to search for lizard
  eggs. There’s no guarantee
  Thread will move in on this continent from the ocean.”
  “But it always has. What little we get.”
  “Thread fell ten hours before schedule across Lemos north when it
  should have fallen on Lemos
  south and Telgar southeast,” F’lar told him in a hard voice. “I have since
  heard that Thread fell, unchecked,”
  and he paused to let that sink in to T’bor’s mind, “in Telgar Hold and
  Crom Hold, both times out of phase
  with the tables, though we do not yet know the time differential. We can’t
  rely on any previous
  performance.”
  “I’ll mount guards immediately and send the wings to sweep as far south
  as we’ve penetrated,” T’bor
  said briskly and, shrugging into his riding jacket, trotted back to Orth.
  They were aloft in one great leap.
  “Orth looks well,” F’lar said and then eyed his half-brother closely before
  he smiled, jabbing a fist
  
  before I go back to Benden.” He glanced northeast, frowning.
  “Shells, can’t I leave Benden Weyr for a week without everything falling
  apart?” F’nor demanded so
  vehemently that F’lar stared at him in momentary surprise before he
  chuckled and seemed to relax. “That’s
  better,” F’nor said, echoing the grin. “Come. There are a couple of the
  lizards in the Weyrhall and I need
  some klah. I was out hunting clutches all morning myself, you know. Or
  would you prefer to sample some
  of Southern’s wine?”
  “Ha!” F’lar made the exclamation a challenge.
  When they entered the Weyrhall, Mirrim was there alone stirring the
  stew in the big kettles. The two
  greens were watching her from the long, wide mantel. She gave the ap-
  pearance of having an odd deformity
  of chest until F’nor realized that she had rigged a sling around her
  shoulders in which the wounded brown
  was suspended, his little eyes pinpoints of light. At the sound of their
  boots on the paving, she swung round,
  her eyes wide with an apprehension which turned to surprise as she
  glanced from F’nor to F’lar. Her mouth
  
  real beauty! Canth in
  miniature,” and F’lar glanced slyly at his half-brother to see if the jibe
  registered. “Will he recover from his
  wounds — ah . . .”.“Mirrim is her name,” F’nor prompted in a bland tone
  that implied his brother’s memory was failing
  him.
  “Oh, no, Weyrleader — he’s healing nicely,” the girl said with another
  bob.
  “Full stomach, I see,” F’lar commented approvingly. He glanced at the
  pair huddled together on the
  mantel and crooned soft encouragement. They began to preen,
  stretching fragile, translucent green wings,
  arching their backs and emitting an echoing hum in pleasure. “You’ll
  have your hands full with this trio.”
  “I’ll manage them, sir. I promise. And I won’t forget my duties, either,”
  she said breathlessly, her
  eyes still wide. With a gasp, she turned to give a splashing stir to the
  contents of the nearest pot, then
  whirled back again before the men could turn. “Brekke’s not here. Would
  you like some klah? Or the stew?
  Or some . . .”
  
  “Can you hear anything from the lizards?” he asked in a low voice.
  “From hers, you mean? No, but I can easily see what they must be
  thinking from their reactions.
  Why?”
  “Idle question. But she’s not from a Search, is she?”
  “No, of course not. She’s Brekke’s fosterling.”
  “Hmmm. Then she’s not exactly proof, is she?”
  “Proof of what, F’lar? I’ve suffered no head injury but I can’t follow your
  thought.”
  F’lar gave his brother an absent smile and then exhaled wearily.
  “We’re going to have trouble with the Lord Holders — they’re disillu-
  sioned and dissatisfied with the
  Oldtime Weyrs and are going to balk at any more expeditious measures
  against Thread.”
  “Raid and Sifer give you a hard time?”
  “I wish it were only that, F’nor. They’d come round.” F’lar gave his half-
  brother a terse account of
  what he’d learned from Lytol, Robinton and Fandarel the day before.
  “Brekke was right when she said something really important had come
  up,’ F’nor said afterward.
  “But . . .”
  
  “And the Threads will wait for that?”
  F’lar snorted. “They may be the lesser evil, frankly. The Threads prove
  to be more flexible in their
  ways than the Oldtimers and less trouble than the Lord Holders.”
  “One of the basic troubles between Lord Holders and Weyrmen are
  dragons, F’lar, and those fire
  lizards might just ease matters.”
  “That’s what I was thinking earlier, considering that young Mirrim had
  Impressed three. That’s really
  astonishing, even if she is weyrbred.”
  “Brekke would like to see her Impress a fighting dragon,” F’nor said in a
  casual way, watching his
  half-brother’s face closely.
  F’lar gave him a startled stare and then threw back his head and
  laughed.
  “Can you . . . imagine . . . T’ron’s reaction?” . . . he managed to say.
  “Well enough to spare myself your version, but the fire lizard may do the
  trick! And, have the added
  talent of keeping Hold in contact with Weyr if these creatures prove
  amenable to training.”
  “If — if! Just how similar to dragons are fire lizards?”
  
  detect basic emotions in the thoughts of mine and they generally inspire
  affection in those who handle
  them.”
  “And they can go between?”.“Grall — my little queen — did. About
  chewing firestone I couldn’t hazard a guess. We’ll have to
  wait and see.”
  “And we don’t have time,” F’lar said, clenching his fists, his eyes restless
  with the current of his
  thoughts.
  “If we could find a hardened clutch, all set to Hatch, in time for that wed-
  ding — that, combined with
  Fandarel’s gadget — ” F’nor let his sentence trail off.
  F’lar got up in a single decisive movement. “I’d like to see your queen.
  You named her Grall?”
  “You’re solid dragonman, F’lar,” F’nor chuckled, remembering what
  Brekke had said. “You had no
  trouble remembering the lizard’s name but the girls — ? Never mind,
  F’lar. Grall’s with Canth.”
  “Any chance you could call her — here?”
  F’nor considered the intriguing possibility but shook his head.
  “She’s asleep, full up to the jawline.”
  
  half-smile on his face as he
  jumped down from Canth’s forearm on which he’d stood to observe her.
  “Hope she grows a little. Canth
  could yawn and inadvertently inhale her.”
  Never, and the brown’s comment did not need to be passed to the
  bronze rider.
  “If we’d only an estimate of how long it would take to train them, if they
  are trainable. But time’s as
  inflexible as an Oldtimer.” F’lar looked his half-brother squarely in the
  eye, no longer hiding the deep worry
  that gnawed at him.
  “Not entirely, F’lar,” the brown rider said, returning his gaze steadily. “As
  you said, the greater evil is
  the sickness in our own . . .”
  A dragon’s brassy scream, the klaxon of Thread attack, stopped F’nor
  mid-sentence. The brown
  rider had swung toward his dragon, instinctively reacting to the alert,
  when F’lar caught him by the arm.
  “You can’t fight thread with an unhealed wound, man. Where do they
  keep firestone here?”
  
  from Tillek and Ista had established a settlement. They acted as ground
  crew. By the time F’lar was
  equipped and aloft, T’bor was issuing the coordinates.
  Thread was falling in the west, at the edge of the desert where the ter-
  rain was swampy, where
  sharp broad-edged grasses were interspersed with dwarfed sponge-
  woods and low berry bushes. For
  Thread, the muddy swamp was superb burrowing ground, with sufficient
  organisms on which to feed as the
  burrow proliferated and spread.
  The wings, fully manned and in good order, went between at T’bor’s
  command. And, in a breath,
  the dragons hung again in sultry air and began to flame at the thick
  patches of Thread.
  T’bor had signaled a low altitude entry, of which F’lar approved. But the
  wing movement was
  upward, seeking Thread at ever higher levels as they eliminated the
  immediate airborne danger. Weyrfolk
  and convalescents swelled the seahold group as ground crew but F’lar
  thought they’d need low ground
  
  turned due north, his head barely skimming the vegetation. He back-
  winged so abruptly that he nearly offset
  his rider. He hovered, peering so intently at the ground, that F’lar leaned
  over the great neck to see what
  attracted him. Dragons could adjust the focus of their eyes to either
  great distances or close inspection.
  Something moved — away, the dragon said.
  The gusts of his backwinging flattened grasses. Then F’lar saw the pin-
  sized, black-rimmed
  punctures of Thread on the leaves of the berry bushes. He stared hard,
  trying to discern the telltale
  evidence of burrows, the upheaval of soil, the consumption of the lush
  swamp greenery. The bush, the
  grass, the soil stood still.
  “What moved?”.Something bright. It’s gone.
  Mnementh landed, his feet sinking into the oozing terrain. F’lar jumped
  off and peered closely at the
  bush. Had the holes been made by droplets of hot Thread during a pre-
  vious Fall? No. The leaves would
  long since have dropped off. He examined every nearby hummock of
  grass. Not a sign of burrows. Yet
  
  gray, gnarly taproots of the bush were thick with the black earth but not
  a sign of Thread.
  Mystified, F’lar raised his eyes in answer to a summons from the hover-
  ing weyrlings.
  They wish to know if this is the Edge of Threadfall, Mnementh reported
  to his rider.
  “It must be further south,” F’lar replied and waved the weyrlings in that
  direction. He stood looking
  down at the overturned earth, at the grubs burrowing frantically away
  from sunlight. He picked up a stout
  barkless branch and jabbed the earth of the trench Mnementh had
  made, prodding for the cavities that
  meant Thread infestations. “It has to be further south. I don’t understand
  this.” He ripped a handful of the
  leaves from a berry bush and sifted them through his gloves. “If this
  happened some time ago, rain would
  have washed the char from the punctures. The damaged leaves would
  have dropped.”
  He began to work his way south, and slightly east, trying to ascertain
  exactly where Thread had
  
  passage of time. He was
  somewhat startled, then, to have T’bor appear overhead, announcing
  the end of Fall. And both men were
  alarmed when the ground-crew chief, a young fisherman from Ista
  named Toric, verified that the Fall had
  lasted a scant two hours since discovery.
  “A short Fall, I know, but there’s nothing above, and Toric here says the
  ground crews are mopping
  up the few patches that got through,” T’bor said, rather pleased with the
  efficient performance of his Weyr.
  Every instinct told F’lar that something was wrong. Could Thread have
  changed its habits that
  drastically? He had no precedent. It always fell in four-hour spans — yet
  clearly the sky was bare.
  “I need your counsel, T’bor,” he said and there was that edge of concern
  in his voice that brought
  the other to his side instantly.
  F’lar scooped up a handful of the brackish water, showing him the fila-
  ments of drowned Thread.
  “Ever notice this before?”
  
  way he had come, where
  ground crews moved without one belch of flame from their throwers.
  “You mean, it’s like that? How far back?”
  “To Threadfall Edge, an hour’s fast walk,” F’lar replied grimly. “Or rather.
  that’s where I assume
  Thread Edge is.”
  “I’ve seen bushes and grasses marked like that in these swampy deltas
  closer to the Weyr,” T’bor
  admitted slowly his face blanched under the tan, “but I thought it was
  char. We mark so few infestations —
  and there’ve been no burrows.”
  T’bor was shaken.
  Orth says there have been no infestations, Mnementh reported quietly
  and Orth briefly turned
  glowing eyes toward the Benden Weyrleader.
  “And Thread was always short-timed?” F’lar wanted to know.
  Orth says this is the first, but then the alarm came late.
  T’bor turned haunted eyes to F’lar.
  “It wasn’t a short Fall, then,” he said, half-hoping to be contradicted.
  Just then Canth veered in to land. F’lar suppressed a reprimand when
  he saw the flame thrower on
  
  “Thread apparently is falling when and where it chooses.”
  “How can Thread choose?” T’bor demanded with the anger of a fright-
  ened man. “It’s mindless!”
  F’lar gazed up at tropical skies so brilliant that the fateful stare of the
  Red Star, low on the horizon,
  wasn’t visible.
  “If the Red Star deviates for four hundred Turn Intervals, why not a
  variation in the way it falls?”
  “What do we do then?” asked T’bor, a note of desperation in his voice.
  Thread that pierces and
  doesn’t burrow! Thread falling days out of phase and then for only two
  hours!”
  “Put out Sweepriders, to begin with, and let me know where and when
  Thread falls here. As you
  said, Thread is mindless. Even in these new Shifts, we may find a pre-
  dictable pattern.” F’lar frowned up at
  the hot sun; he was sweating in the wher-hide fighting clothes more
  suited to upper levels and cold between.
  “Fly a sweep with me, F’lar,” T’bor suggested anxiously. “F’nor, are you
  up to it? If we missed even
  one burrow here . . .”
  
  Threadfree.
  The clearance made T’bor even more apprehensive, but another tour
  seemed pointless. The
  fighting wings went between to the Weyr then, leaving the convales-
  cents to fly straight.
  As T’bor and F’lar glided in over the Weyr compound, the roofs of the
  weyrholds and the bare black
  soil and rock of the dragonbeds flashed under them like a pattern
  through the leaves of the giant fellis and
  spongewood trees. In the main clearing by the Weyrhall, Prideth ex-
  tended her neck and wings, bugling to
  her Weyrmates.
  “Circle once again, Mnementh,” F’lar said to his bronze. First he’d better
  get over the urge to beat
  Kylara, and give T’bor the chance to reprimand her privately. He re-
  gretted once more, that he had ever
  suggested to Lessa that she pressure that female into being a
  Weyrwoman. It had seemed a logical
  solution at the time. And he was sincerely sorry for T’bor although the
  man did manage to keep her worst
  
  “Fighting Thread with no casualties?”
  I like that, Mnementh remarked.
  Somehow that aspect of the day’s encounter unsettled F’lar the most.
  Rather than delve into that,
  F’lar judged it time to land. He didn’t relish the thought of confronting
  Kylara, but he hadn’t had the chance
  to tell T’bor what had been happening north.
  “I told you,” Kylara was saying in sullen anger, “that I found a clutch and
  Impressed this queen.
  When I got back, there wasn’t anyone left here who knew where you’d
  all gone. Prideth has to have
  coordinates, you know.” She turned toward F’lar now, her eyes glitter-
  ing. “My duty to you, F’lar of Benden,”
  and her voice took on a caressing tone which made T’bor stiffen and
  clench his teeth. “How kind of you to
  fight with us when Benden Weyr has troubles of its own.”
  F’lar ignored the jibe and nodded a curt acknowledgment.
  “See my fire lizard. Isn’t she magnificent?” She held up her right arm,
  exhibiting the drowsing
  golden lizard, the outlines of her latest meal pressing sharp designs
  against her belly hide.
  
  “See, you’ve made her uneasy and she’s so near mating again.
  T’bor looked dangerously close to an outburst which, as Weyrleader, he
  could not risk. Kylara’s
  tactic was so obvious that F’lar wondered how the man could fall for it.
  Would it improve matters to have
  T’bor supplanted by one of the other bronze riders here? F’lar consid-
  ered, as he had before, throwing
  Prideth’s next mating flight into open competition. And yet, he owed
  T’bor too much for coping with this —
  this female to insult him by such a measure. On the other hand, maybe
  one of the more vigorous Oldtime
  bronzes with a rider just sufficiently detached from Kylara’s ploys, and
  interested enough in retaining a
  Leadership, might keep her firmly in line.
  “T’bor, the map of this continent’s in the Weyrhall, isn’t it?” F’lar asked,
  diverting the man. “I’d like
  to set the co-ordinates of this Fall in my mind. . “
  “Don’t you like my queen?” Kylara asked, stepping forward and raising
  the lizard right under F’lar’s
  nose.
  
  do not push others to their
  limit!”
  “I’ve limits, too, F’lar of Benden,” she screamed as the two men strode
  quickly toward the Weyrhall.
  “Don’t push me. D’you hear? Don’t push me!” She kept up her curses
  until Prideth, now highly agitated,
  drowned her out with piteous cries.
  At first the two Weyrleaders went through the motions of studying the
  map and trying to figure out
  where Thread might have fallen elsewhere undetected on the Southern
  continent. Then Prideth’s
  complaints died away and the clearing was vacant.
  “It comes down to manpower again, T’bor,- F’lar said. There ought to be
  a thorough search of this
  continent. Oh, I’m aware,” and he held up his hand to forestall a defen-
  sive rebuttal, “that you simply don’t
  have the personnel to help, even with the influx of holderfolk from the
  mainland. But Thread can cross
  mountains,” he tapped the southern chain, “and we don’t know what’s
  been happening in these uncharted
  
  problem.
  “You’ve had more than your share of grief with that woman, T’bor. Why
  not throw the next flight
  open?”
  “No!” And Orth echoed that vehement refusal with a roar.
  F’lar looked at T’bor in amazement.
  “No, F’lar. I’ll keep her in hand. I’ll keep myself in hand, too. But as only
  as Orth can fly Prideth,
  Kylara’s mine.”
  F’lar looked quickly away from the torment in the other’s face.
  “And you’d better know this, too,” T’bor continued in a heavy low voice.
  “She found a full clutch.
  She took them to a Hold. Prideth told Orth.”
  “Which Hold?”
  T’bor shook his head wearily. “Prideth doesn’t like it so she doesn’t
  name it. She doesn’t like taking
  fire lizards away from the weyrs either.”
  F’lar brushed his forelock back from his eyes in an irritated movement.
  This was the most unhealthy
  development. A dragon displeased with her rider? The one restraint they
  had all counted on was Kylara’s
  
  another anticipating his rider’s questions! And F’lar had thought he’d
  had problems seven Turns ago!.“I can’t sort this all out right now, T’bor.
  Please mount guards and let me know the instant you’ve
  any news of any kind. If you do uncover another clutch, I would very
  much appreciate some of the eggs.
  Let me know, too, if that little queen returns to Kylara. I grant the crea-
  ture had reason, but if they frighten
  between so easily, they may be worthless except as pets.”
  F’lar mounted Mnementh and saluted the Southern Weyrleader, reas-
  sured by nothing in this visit.
  And he’d lost the advantage of surprising the Lord Holders with fire liz-
  ards. In fact, Kylara’s precipitous
  donation would undoubtedly cause more trouble. A Weyrwoman med-
  dling in a Hold not bound to her own
  Weyr? He almost hoped that these creatures would be nothing more
  than pets and her action could be soft-talked.
  Still, there was the psychological effect of that miniature dragon, Im-
  pressionable by anyone. That
  would have been a valuable asset in improving Weyr-Hold relations.
  As Mnementh climbed higher, to the cooler levels. F’lar worried most
  about that Threadfall. It had
  
  western swamp. The bronze obediently brought him right to the trench
  his claw had made. F’lar slid from
  his shoulder, opening the wher-hide tunic as the humid, sticky, sun-
  steamed swamp air pressed against him
  like a thick wet skin. There was a ringing, rasping chorus of tiny sound
  all around him, splashings and
  burblings, none of which he’d noted earlier in the day. In fact, the
  swamp had been remarkably silent, as if
  hushed by the menace of Thread.
  When he turned back the hummock of grass by the roots of the berry
  bush, the earth was
  untenanted, the gray roots sleekly damp. Kicking up another section, he
  did find a small cluster of the
  larvae, but not in the earlier profusion. He held the muddy ball in his
  hand, watching the grubs squirm away
  from light and air. It was then that he saw that the foliage of that bush
  was no longer Thread-scored. The
  char had disappeared and a thin film was forming over the hole, as if the
  bush were mending itself.
  Something writhed against the skin of his palm and he hastily dropped
  the ball of dirt, rubbing his
  
  would be at zenith.”
  Mnementh didn’t grumble but his thoughts were plain. F’lar was tired,
  F’lar ought to go back to
  Benden and rest, talk to Lessa. Jumping between time was hard on a
  rider.
  Cold between enveloped them and F’lar hastily closed the tunic he’d
  opened, but not before the cold
  seemed to eat into his chest bone. He shivered, with more than physical
  chill, as they burst out over the
  steamy swamp again. It took more than a few minutes under that blaz-
  ing sun to counteract the merciless
  cold. Mnementh glided briefly northward and then hovered, facing due
  south.
  They didn’t have long to wait. High above, the ominous grayness that
  presaged Threadfall
  darkened the sky. As often as he had watched it, F’lar never rid himself
  of fear. And it was harder still to
  watch that distant grayness begin to separate into sheets and patches
  of silvery Thread. To watch and to
  permit it to fall unchecked on the swamp below. To watch as it pierced
  leaf and green, hissing as it
  
  hummock, smoking with Thread
  penetration Grubs feverishly active, populated the concourse of the
  roots. As he held the hummock up,
  bloated grubs dropped to the ground and frantically burrowed into the
  earth. He dropped that clump,
  uprooted the nearest bush, baring the gray, twisted rootball. It also
  teemed with grub life that burrowed
  away from the sudden exposure to air and light. The leaves of the bush
  were still smoldering from Thread
  puncture.
  Not quite certain why, F’lar knelt, pulled up another hummock and
  scooped up a clump of squirming
  grubs into the fingers of his riding glove. He twisted it tightly shut and
  secured it under his belt..Then he mounted Mnementh and gave him the
  coordinates of the Masterherdsman’s Crafthall in
  Keroon, where the foothills that rose eventually to the massive heights
  of Benden range gently merged with
  the wide plains of Keroon Hold.
  Masterherdsman Sograny, a tall, bald, leathery man so spare of flesh
  that his bones seemed held in
  
  importance of the event, F’lar
  thought it odd that no one had left his tasks. He was led past neat cots
  of immaculately cleaned stone, well-tended
  gardens, past forcing sheds and equipment barns. F’lar thought of the
  absolute chaos that prevailed
  at the Smith’s, but then remembered what marvels that man accom-
  plished.
  “You’ve a problem for the Masterherdsman, have you, Weyrleader?”
  Sograny asked, giving F’lar a
  curt nod, his eyes on the laboring beast in the box stall. “How does that
  happen?”
  The man’s attitude was so defensive that F’lar wondered what D’ram of
  Ista Weyr might have been
  doing to irritate him.
  “Mastersmith Fandarel suggested that you would be able to advise me,
  Masterherdsman,” F’lar
  replied, no trace of levity in his manner and no lack of courtesy in his
  address.
  “The Smithcrafter?” Sograny looked at F’lar with narrowed, suspicious
  eyes. “Why?”
  
  “Agreed, but he can Impress one. And certainly did. We believe that the
  fire lizards are directly
  related to the dragons.”
  “That cannot be proved!” Sograny pulled himself straight up, his eyes
  darting toward his assistants
  who suddenly found tasks far from F’lar and the Masterherdsman.
  “By inference, yes. Because the similar characteristics are obvious.
  Seven fire lizards were
  Impressed on the sands of a beach at Southern. One by my Wing-
  second, F’nor, Canth’s rider . . .”
  “F’nor? The man who fought those two thieving weyrmen at the Smith-
  crafthall?”
  F’lar swallowed his bile and nodded. That regrettable incident had
  hatched an unexpected brood of
  benefits.
  “The fire lizards exhibit undeniable draconic traits. Unfortunately, one of
  them is to stay close to
  their Impressor or I’d have proof positive.”
  Sograny only grunted, but he was suddenly receptive.
  “I was hoping that you, as Masterherdsman, might know something
  about the fire lizards. Igen
  
  probability.
  “Well, they weren’t bred up from watch-whers.”
  “Man can alter size but only so far. He can, of course, breed the largest
  to the largest and improve
  on the original stock,” and Sograny gestured toward the long-legged
  cow. “But to breed a dragon from a fire
  lizard? Absolutely impossible.”
  F’lar wasted no further time on that subject but took the glove from his
  belt and emptied the grubs
  into the other, gloved palm.
  “These, sir. Have you seen such as these . . .”
  Sograny’s reaction was immediate. With a cry of fear, he grabbed F’lar’s
  hand, tumbling the grubs
  to the stone of the barn. Yelling for agenothree, he stamped on the
  squirming grubs as if they were essence
  of evil.
  “How could you — a dragonman — bring such filth into my dwell-
  ings?”.“Masterherdsman, control yourself!” F’lar snapped, grabbing the
  man and shaking him. “They
  devour Thread. Like sandworms. Like sandworms!”
  
  wasted on the man. Sograny
  turned back to his laboring cow as though F’lar had never interrupted
  him.
  F’lar strode off, pulling on his gloves, his forefinger coming into contact
  with the wet, slippery body of
  a grub.
  “See the Masterherdsman, eh?” he muttered under his breath, waving
  aside the services of the
  guide as he left the breeding barn. A bellow from a herdbeast followed
  him out. “Yes, he breeds animals,
  but not ideas. Ideas might waste time, be useless.”
  As he and Mnementh circled upward, F’lar wondered how much trouble
  D’ram was having with that
  old fool.
  CHAPTER IX
  Afternoon at Southern Weyr: Same Day
  IT WAS a long flight, the straight way, from the western swamps to
  Southern Weyr’s headland. At
  first, F’nor rebelled. A short hop between would not affect his healing
  arm, but Canth became unexpectedly
  
  The brown rider had noticed the widespread Thread-scoring. He had
  turned back bush after bush,
  heavily pitted by Threadmark, to find no trace of burrow at all in the
  swamp mud around them. Not once had
  he used his flame thrower. And the ground crews told him they had so
  little to do they wondered the Weyr
  called them at all. Many were from the fishing settlement and they were
  beginning to resent being taken
  from their labors, for they were trying to complete stone holds against
  the winter storms. They all preferred
  Southern to their old homes, though they did not complain against Til-
  lek’s Lord Oterel, or Lord Warbret of
  Ista.
  It had always amused F’nor that people he had scarcely met were will-
  ing to confide in him, but he
  had found that this was often an advantage, despite the hours he’d had
  to spend listening to maundering
  tales. One of the younger men, the ground-crew chief, Toric, informed
  him that he’d staked out a sandy
  cove near his hold. It was almost inaccessible from the landside, but
  he’d seen certain fire-lizard signs. He
  
  when F’nor brusquely cut off his carping recital.
  It was this curious ambivalence of Holder feeling toward dragonmen that
  occupied F’nor’s thought.
  Holders claimed that weyrfolk held themselves aloof, acted patronizing
  or condescending, or plain arrogant
  in their presence. Yet there wasn’t a man or woman, Holder or Crafter,
  who hadn’t at one time or another
  wished he or she had Impressed a dragon. And in many this turned to
  bitter envy. Weyrmen insisted they
  were superior to commoners even while they consistently exhibited the
  same appetites as other men for
  material possessions and nubile women. Yet they did indeed refute the
  Crafter contention that dragonriding
  was a skill no more exacting than any craft on Pern, for in no other craft
  did a man risk life as a matter of
  course. And far worse, the loss of half his life. Reflexively, F’nor’s
  thought sheered sharply away from any
  hint of threat to the great brown he rode.
  The little queen stirred inside the heavy arm sling where he had been
  carrying her..Young Toric, now, would lose some of his bitterness if he did
  Impress a fire lizard. He would feel
  
  pierce the Oldtimers’ blind parochiality. Yet even they, at a crucial mo-
  ment in the sensitive awareness of
  adolescence, had appealed to Dragonkind; they endured cold and pos-
  sible death to fight an endless and
  mindless enemy. But there was more to living than that initial achieve-
  ment and that eternal alert.
  Adolescence was only a step of life, not a career in itself. When one
  matured, one knew there was more to
  living.
  Then F’nor remembered that he’d not had the chance to mention
  Brekke’s problem to F’lar. And
  F’lar would probably have gone back to Benden Weyr by now. F’nor up-
  braided himself for what was
  downright interference. Comes from being a wing-second so long, he
  thought. You cannot go around
  meddling in another’s Weyr. T’bor had enough stress. But, by the First
  Egg, F’nor hated to think of the
  scenes Kylara would subject Brekke to, if Orth flew Wirenth.
  He grew restless with traveling and wasn’t even amused when Canth
  began to croon soothingly.
  
  ately. He stood aside watching
  until the brown settled himself in the warmth of his dusty wallow.
  Grall peeked out of the folds of the sling and F’nor transferred her to his
  shoulder. She squeaked a
  protest as he strode quickly toward Brekke’s weyrhold and dug her
  claws into the shoulder pad for balance.
  She was thinking hungry thoughts.
  Brekke was feeding her lizard, Berd, when F’nor entered. She smiled as
  she heard Grall’s shrill
  demand, and pushed the bowl of meat toward F’nor.
  “I was worried that you might fly between.”
  “Canth wouldn’t let me.”
  “Canth has sense. How’s the arm?”
  “Took no hurt. There wasn’t much to be done.”
  “So I hear.” Brekke frowned. “Everything’s askew. I have the oddest
  sensation . . .”
  “Go on,” F’nor urged when she broke off. “What kind of a sensation?”
  Was Wirenth about to rise?
  Brekke seemed to remain untouched by so many disturbances, a se-
  rene competent personality, tranquilly
  
  dragon? Handing out fire lizards to placate the common mass?”
  “That’s change. I’m talking about a disorientation, a violent upheaval . .
  .”
  “And your suggestions don’t rank under that heading? Oh, my dear girl,”
  and F’nor suddenly gave
  her a long, penetrating look. Something in her candid gaze disturbed
  him deeply.
  “Kylara pestering you?”
  Brekke’s eyes slid from his and she shook her head.
  “I told you, Brekke, you can request other bronzes. Someone from an-
  other Weyr, N’ton of Benden
  or B’dor of Ista . . . That would shut Kylara up.”
  Brekke shook her head violently, but kept her face averted. “Don’t keep
  foisting your friends on me!”
  Her voice was sharp. “I like Southern. I’m needed here.”
  “Needed? You’re being shamelessly exploited and not just by Southern-
  ers!”
  She stared at him, as surprised by the impulsive outburst as he was. For
  one moment he thought
  he understood why, but her eyes became guarded and F’nor wondered
  what Brekke could want to hide.
  
  more than you get. You don’t know what a kind, generous, useful — oh,
  shells!” and F’nor broke off in
  confusion.
  “Useful, worthwhile, wholesome, capable, dependable, the list is cate-
  goric, F’nor, I know the entire
  litany,” Brekke said with a funny little catch in her voice. “Rest assured,
  my friend, I know what I am.”
  There was such a bitterness in her light words, and such a shadow in
  her usually candid green eyes
  that F’nor could not tolerate it. To erase that self-deprecation, to make
  amends for his own maladroitness,
  F’nor leaned across the table to kiss her on the lips.
  He meant it as no more than a guerdon and was totally unprepared for
  the reaction in himself, in
  Brekke. Or for Canth’s distant bugle.
  His eyes never leaving Brekke’s, F’nor rose slowly and circled the table.
  He slid beside her on the
  bench, pulling her against him with his good arm. Her head fell back on
  his shoulder and he bent to the
  incredible sweetness of her lips. Her body was soft and pliable, her
  arms went around him, pressing him to
  
  forced her head up.
  “Why have you deliberately let it be assumed that you and T’bor . . .”
  She was shaking her head slightly from side to side, her eyes conceal-
  ing nothing, her face a mask
  of sorrow.
  “To keep other men from you?” F’nor demanded, giving her a little
  shake. “Why? Whom are you
  keeping yourself for?”
  He knew the answer before she spoke, knew it when she placed her
  finger on his lips to silence him.
  But he couldn’t understand her sorrow. He’d been a fool but . . .
  “I have loved you since the first day I saw you. You were so kind to us,
  yanked away from Craft and
  Hold, dazed because we’d been brought all the way here on Search for
  Wirenth. One of us would actually
  be a Weyrwoman. And you — you were all a dragonman should be, tall
  and handsome, so kind. I didn’t
  know then — ” and Brekke faltered. To F’nor’s concern, tears filmed her
  eyes. “How could I know that only
  bronze dragons fly queens!”
  
  teasing voice taking the sting from his words. He patted her shoulder
  and sighed exaggeratedly. “And
  craftbred as well. Have you taken in nothing you’ve been told about
  dragonfolk? Weyrwomen can’t be
  bound by any commoner moralities. A Weyrwoman has to be subservi-
  ent to her queen’s needs, including
  mating with many riders if her queen is flown by different dragons. Most
  craft and holdbred girls envy such
  freedom . . .”
  “Of that I’m all too aware,” Brekke said and her body seemed to resent
  his touch.
  “Does Wirenth object to me?”
  “Oh, no,” and Brekke looked startled. I meant — oh, I don’t know what I
  meant. I love Wirenth, but
  can’t you understand? I’m not weyrbred. I don’t have that kind of — of
  — wantonness in my nature. I’m —
  I’m inhibited. There! I said it. I am inhibited and I’m terrified that I’ll inhibit
  Wirenth. I can’t change all of me
  to conform to Weyr customs. I’m the way I am.”
  F’nor tried to soothe her. He wasn’t sure now how to proceed, for this
  over wrought girl was a
  
  never saw any man I wanted to
  — to have — ” The word was an aspirated whisper. “Not that way. Not
  until I saw you. I don’t want any
  other man to possess me. I’ll freeze. I won’t be able to draw Wirenth
  back. And I love her. I love her so
  and she’ll be rising soon and I can’t . . . I thought I’d be able to, but I
  know I’ll . . .”.She tried to break away from him, but even with one arm the
  brown rider was stronger. Trapped,
  she began to cling to him with the strength of utter despair.
  He rocked her gently against him, removing his arm from the sling so he
  could stroke her hair.
  “You won’t lose Wirenth. It’s different when dragons mate, love. You’re
  the dragon, too, caught up
  in emotions that have only one resolution.” He held her tightly as she
  seemed to shrink with revulsion from
  him as well as the imminent event. He thought of the riders here at
  Southern, of T’bor, and he experienced
  a disgust of another sort. Those men, conditioned to respond to Kylara’s
  exotic tastes, would brutalize this
  inexperienced child.
  
  He wanted to be gentle but, unaccountably, Brekke fought him. She
  pleaded with him, crying out
  wildly that they’d rouse the sleeping Wirenth. He wasn’t gentle but he
  was thorough, and, in the end, Brekke
  astounded him with a surrender as passionate as if her dragon had
  been involved.
  F’nor raised himself on his elbow, pushing the sweaty, fern-entangled
  hair from her closed eyes,
  pleased by the soft serenity of her expression; excessively pleased with
  himself. A man never really knew
  how a woman would respond in love. So much hinted at in play never
  materialized in practice.
  But Brekke was as honest in love, as kind and generous, as wholesome
  as ever; in her innocent
  wholeheartedness more sensual than the most skilled partner he had
  ever enjoyed. Her eyes opened, met
  his in a wondering stare for a long moment. With a moan, she turned
  her head, evading his scrutiny
  “Surely no regrets, Brekke?”
  “Oh, F’nor, what will I do when Wirenth rises?”
  
  compromised her values and was probably destroying her.
  Instinctively his confused thoughts reached out to Canth, and he found
  himself trying to suppress
  that contact. Canth must never know his rider could fault him for not
  being a bronze.
  I am as large as most bronzes, Canth said with unruffled equanimity.
  Almost as if he was surprised
  he had to mention the fact to his rider. I am strong. Strong enough to out
  last any bronze here.
  F’nor’s exclamation roused Brekke.
  “There’s no reason Canth can’t fly Wirenth. By the Shell, he could out fly
  any bronze here. And
  probably Orth, too, if he puts his mind to it.”
  “Canth fly Wirenth?”
  “Why not?”
  “But browns don’t fly queens. Bronzes do.”
  F’nor hugged her fiercely, trying to impart his jubilation, his almost inar-
  ticulate joy and relief.
  “The only reason browns haven’t flown queens is that they’re smaller.
  They don’t have the stamina
  
  She permitted him to caress her but there was a shadow lingering in her
  eyes and a reluctance in
  her body.
  “I want to, oh how I want to, F’nor, but I’m so scared. I’m scared to my
  bones.”
  He kissed her deeply, ruthlessly employing subtleties to arouse her.
  “Please, Brekke?”
  “It can’t be wrong to be happy, can it, F’nor?” she whispered, a shiver
  rippling along her body.
  He kissed her again, using every trick learned from a hundred casual
  encounters to wed her to him,
  body, soul and mind, aware of Canth’s enthusiastic endorsement.
  Seething with fury, Kylara watched the men walk off and leave her,
  standing in the clearing. Her
  conflicting emotions made it impossible for her to retaliate suitably, but
  she’d make them both regret their.words. She’d pay F’lar back for losing
  the lizard queen. She’d score T’bor for daring to reprimand her, the
  Weyrwoman of Southern, of the Telgar Bloodline, in the presence of
  F’lar. Oh, he’d regret that insult.
  They’d both regret it. She’d show them.
  
  her queen.
  “Your color isn’t good,” she said, her stream of mental vituperation de-
  flected by the habit of concern
  for Prideth’s well-being and the instinctive awareness that she must not
  alienate her dragon.
  Well, she didn’t want to have to look at Brekke’s broad commoner face.
  She certainly didn’t want to
  see a lizard. Not now. Horrible creatures, no gratitude. No real sensitiv-
  ity or the thing would have known it
  was only being shown off. Prideth jumped them to the Feeding Ground
  and landed so smartly that Kylara
  gave a gasp of pain as her arm was jarred. Tears formed in her eyes.
  Prideth, too?
  But Prideth gave a flying jump to the back of a fat, stupid herdbeast and
  began to feed with a
  savagery that fascinated Kylara out of her self-pity. The queen finished
  the beast with ravenous speed. She
  was upon a second buck and disemboweling it so voraciously that Ky-
  lara could not escape the fact that she
  had indeed been neglecting Prideth. She felt herself caught up in the
  hunger and vicariously dissipated her
  
  “Forgive me, Prideth. I didn’t mean to neglect you. But they’ve slighted
  me so often. And a blow at
  me is a slam at your prestige, too. Soon they won’t dare ignore us. And
  we won’t stay immured in this
  dreary, underside Weyr. We’ll have strong men and the most powerful
  bronzes begging us for favors. You’ll
  be oiled and fed and scrubbed and scratched and pampered as you
  ought. You’ll see. They’ll regret their
  behavior.”
  Prideth’s eyes were completely lidded now, and her breath came and
  went with a faint whistle.
  Kylara glanced at the bulging belly. She’d sleep a long time with that
  much to content her.
  “I ought not to have let her gorge so,” Kylara murmured, but there had
  been something so gratifying
  in the way Prideth tore into her meat; as if all indignities and affronts and
  discourtesy had leaked out of
  Kylara as blood from the slaughtered animals had seeped into the pas-
  ture grass.
  Her arm began to hurt again. She’d removed the wher-hide tunic to
  groom Prideth, and sand and
  
  ished by the rippling quality of the
  girl’s voice. She peered in, unobserved, because Brekke had eyes only
  for the dark head bent toward her.
  F’nor! And Brekke?
  The brown rider raised his hand slowly, stroked back a wayward strand
  of hair from Brekke’s cheek
  with such loving tenderness that there was no doubt in Kylara’s mind
  that they had only recently been
  lovers.
  Kylara’s half-forgotten anger burst into cold heat. Brekke and F’nor!
  When F’nor had repeatedly
  turned aside her favors? Brekke and F’nor indeed!
  Because Kylara moved on, Canth did not tell his rider.
  CHAPTER X
  Early Morning in Harpercrafthall at
  Fort Hold
  Afternoon at Telgar Hold.Robinton, Masterharper of Pern, adjusted his
  tunic, the rich green pile of the fabric pleasing to the
  touch as well as the eye. He turned sideways, to check the fit of the tu-
  nic across his shoulders.
  
  boots were a shade darker. They fit
  snug to his calf and foot.
  Green! Robinton grinned to himself. Neither Zurg nor Belesdan had
  been in favor of that shade,
  though it was easily obtainable. About time we shed another ridiculous
  superstition, Robinton thought.
  He glanced out of his window, checking the sun’s position. It was above
  the Fort range now. That
  meant mid-afternoon at Telgar Hold and the guests would be gathering.
  He’d been promised transport.
  T’ron of Fort Weyr had grudgingly acceded to that request, though it
  was a tradition of long standing that the
  Harper could request aid from any Weyr.
  A dragon appeared in the northwest sky.
  Robinton grabbed up his overcloak — the dress tunic would never keep
  out the full cold of between
  — his gloves and felted case that contained the best gitar. He’d hesi-
  tated about bringing it. Chad had a fine
  instrument at Telgar Hold, but fine wood and gut would not be chilled by
  those cold seconds of between as
  mere flesh would.
  
  does?) at Telgar Hold, where he’d
  expected it.
  Green, blue — and ah-ha — bronze dragon wings in the early morning
  sun.
  “Sebell, Talmor, Brudegan, Tagetarl, into your fine rags. Hurry or I’ll skin
  you and use your lazy
  innards for strings,” Robinton called in a voice that projected into every
  room facing the Court.
  Two heads popped out of an upper window of the apprentice barracks,
  two more at the
  journeyman’s Hold.
  “Aye, sir.” “Coming, sir.” “In a moment!”
  Yes, with four harpers of his own, and the three at Telgar Hold — Sebell
  played the best bass line,
  not to mention Chad the Telgar Harper improvising in the treble —
  they’d have a grand loud group.
  Robinton tossed his overcloak to his shoulder, forgetting that the pile of
  the green tunic might crush, and
  grinned sardonically at the wheeling dragons. He half-expected them all
  to wink out again at the discovery
  of this multiplicity.
  
  was obvious that’s where the
  beasts were landing.
  The bronze landed last, which canceled that method of impartial choice.
  The three riders met mid-field,
  some few dragonlengths from the disputed passenger. Each man began
  arguing his claim at once.
  When the bronze rider became the target of the other two, Robinton felt
  obliged to intervene.
  “He’s weyrbound to Fort Weyr. We have the right,” said the green rider
  indignantly.
  “He’s guest of Telgar Hold. Lord Holder Larad himself requested . . .”
  The bronze rider (Robinton recognized him as N’ton, one of the first
  non-weyrbred to Impress a
  dragon at Benden Weyr Turns ago) appeared neither angry nor discon-
  certed.
  “The good Masterharper will know the right of it,” and N’ton bowed gra-
  ciously to Robinton.
  The others gave him scarcely a glance but renewed their quarrel.
  “Why, there’s no problem at all,” Robinton said in the firm, decisive tone
  he rarely employed and
  which was never contradicted.
  
  “I was told to take you,” the Fort Weyr man said in a sour voice.
  “And took such joy of the assignment, it has made my morning merry,”
  Robinton replied crisply. He
  saw the smug look on the blue rider’s face. “And while I appreciate
  Weyrleader R’mart’s thoughtfulness in
  spite of his recent — ah — problems at Telgar Hold, I shall ride the
  Benden Weyr dragon. For they do not
  grudge the Masterharper the prerogative.”
  His craftsmen came racing out of the Hall, riding cloaks askew on their
  shoulders, fitting their
  instruments in felt wrappings as they came. Robinton gave each a cur-
  sory glance as they came to a ragged
  line in front of him, breathless, flushed and, thank the Shell, happy. He
  nodded toward Sebell’s pants,
  indicated that Talmor should adjust his twisted belt, approved Brude-
  gan’s immaculate appearance, and
  murmured that Tagetarl was to smooth his wild hair.
  “We’re ready, sirs,” Robinton announced and, giving a curt bow of his
  head to the other riders,
  turned on his heel to follow N’ton.
  “I’ve half a mind — ” the green rider began.
  
  be played around the land.
  There were no further protests. And Robinton was rather pleased to no-
  tice that N’ton gave no
  indication that there’d been any display of ill nature.
  Robinton on N’ton’s bronze arrived in the air, facing the cliff-palisade
  that was Telgar Hold. The
  swift river that had its source in the great striding eastern range of
  mountains had cut through the softer
  stone and made a deep incision that gradually widened until a series of
  high palisades flanked the green,
  wide Telgar valley. Telgar Hold was situated in one such soaring pali-
  sade, at the apex of a slightly
  triangular section of the cliffs. It faced south, with sides east and west
  and its hundred or so windows, on
  five distinct levels, must make pleasant and well lit rooms. All had the
  heavy bronze shutters which marked
  Telgar Hold for a wealthy one.
  Today the three cliff faces of Telgar Hold were brilliant with the pennants
  of every minor Hold which
  had ever aligned its Blood with theirs. The Great Court was festooned
  with hundreds of flowering branches
  
  superfluous; every Harper who could must have wangled his way in
  here today. Maybe it would be a happy
  occasion, after all.
  I’ll concentrate on positive, happy thoughts, Robinton mused to himself,
  coining Fandarel’s phrase.
  “You’ll be staying on, N’ton?”
  The young man grinned back at the Harper, but there was a serious
  shadow in his eyes. “Lioth and
  I have a sweep to ride, Master Robinton,” he said, leaning forward to
  slap his bronze affectionately on the
  neck. “But I did want to see Telgar Hold, so when Lord Asgenar asked
  me to oblige him by bringing you, I
  was glad of the chance.”
  “I, too,” Robinton said in farewell, as he slid down the dragon’s shoulder.
  “My thanks to you, Lioth,
  for a smooth journey.”
  The Harper has only to ask.
  Startled, Robinton glanced up at N’ton, but the young man’s head was
  turned toward a party of
  brightly garbed young women who were walking up from the pasture.
  
  was a bit glassy in the
  eye. “Brudegan, you know the hall. Take them to the Harper’s room so
  they’ll know their way. And take my
  instrument, too. I’ll not need it until the banquet. Then, lads, you’re to
  mingle, play, talk, listen. You know
  the ditties I’ve been rehearsing. Use them..You’ve heard the drum mes-
  sages. Utilize them. Brudegan, take Sebell with you, it’s his first public
  performance. No, Sebell, you’d not be with us today if I’d no faith in your
  abilities. Talmor, watch that
  temper of yours. Tagetarl, wait until after the banquet to charm the girls.
  Remember, you’ll be a full Harper
  too soon to jeopardize a good Holding. All of you, mind the distilled
  wines.”
  He left them so advised and went up the busy ramp into the Great
  Court, smiling and bowing to
  those he knew among the many Holders, Craftsmen and ladies passing
  to and fro.
  Larad, Lord of Telgar Hold, resplendent in dark yellow, and the bride-
  groom Asgenar, Lord of Lemos,
  in a brilliant midnight blue, stood by the great metal doors to the Hold’s
  Main Hall. The women of Telgar
  
  oughtn’t to look as if he smelled
  something distasteful. Probably not the vicinity, but his neighbors.
  Sograny disapproved of wasting time.
  Masterweaver Zurg and his nimble wife moved constantly from group to
  group. Robinton wondered if they
  were inspecting fabric and fit. Hard to tell, for Weaver Zurg and spouse
  nodded and beamed at everyone
  with good-natured impartiality.
  Masterminer Nigot was deep in talk with Mastertanner Belesden and the
  Masterfarmer Andemon,
  while their women formed a close conversation knot to one side. Lord
  Corman of Keroon was apparently
  lecturing the nine young men ringing him: sons, foster and blood un-
  doubtedly, since most of them bore the
  old man’s nosy signature. They must be recently arrived for, at a signal
  from him, the boys all smartly
  turned on their heels and followed their parent, right up to the steps.
  Lord Raid of Benden was talking to his
  host and, seeing Corman approach, bowed and stepped away. Lord
  Sifer of Bitra gestured for Lord Raid to
  
  most of them leaped skyward again, toward the fire ridges above the
  Hold.
  Robinton made his way hastily to his host then, before the newest arri-
  vals swarmed up the ramp to
  the Great Court.
  There was a hearty cheerfulness about Lord Larad’s greeting that
  masked a deep inner anxiety. His
  eyes, blue and candid, restlessly scanned the Court. The Lord of Telgar
  was a handsome man though there
  was scant resemblance between him and his only full sibling, Kylara.
  Evidently it was Kylara who had
  inherited their sire’s appetites. Just as well.
  “Well come, Master Harper, we all look forward to your entertaining
  songs,” Lord Larad said,
  according the Harper a deep bow.
  “We shall play in tune with the times and the occasion, Lord Larad,”
  Robinton replied, grinning
  broadly at such bluntness. They both heard the ripple of music as the
  young harpers began to move among
  the guests.
  
  ness, to have and to hold.”
  The girl blushed prettily, glancing shyly at Lord Asgenar. Her eyes were
  as blue as her half-brother’s.
  She had her hand on Asgenar’s arm, having known him a long time.
  Larad and Asgenar had
  been fosterlings at the Hold of Lord Corman of Keroon, though Larad
  had been elected earlier to his
  dignities than Asgenar. There’d be no problem with this wedding, al-
  though it remained for the Conclave of
  Lord Holders to ratify it, since the progeny of this marriage might one
  day Hold either Telgar or Lemos. A
  man cast his seed widely if he was a Lord Holder. He had many sons in
  the hope that one male of his Blood
  would train up strong enough to be acceptable to the Conclave, when
  the question of Succession arose.
  Not that that ancient custom was as scrupulously observed as it had
  been. The wise Lord extended
  fosterage to the Blooded children of other Lords, to gain support in Con-
  clave as well as to insure his own
  progeny being well-fostered.
  
  that the discussion wouldn’t be
  limited to the Bloodlines of Telgar and Lemos Holds.)
  So he wandered, every perception tuned high, every nuance, shrug,
  laugh, gesture and frown
  weighed and measured. He observed the groupings, who shifted be-
  tween the lines of region, craft and
  rank. When he realized he had seen nothing of the Mastersmith Fan-
  darel or his Craft-second, Terry, or,
  indeed, any smithcrafters, he began to wonder. Had Fandarel’s dis-
  tance-writer been installed? He took a
  look down the side of the Hold and could see no posts as had been de-
  scribed to him. He chewed
  thoughtfully at a rough spot on his lower lip.
  Voices and laughter seemed to have a strident edge. From his detached
  vantage point, he
  surveyed the Great Court, now so full it appeared as a moving carpet of
  solid bodies, here and there a tight
  knot of bent heads. As if — as if everyone were determined to enjoy
  themselves, frantically grasping
  pleasure . . .
  
  Bloods of Telgar Hold and drew
  Robinton further from the nearest guests.
  “How do you think the Lords will react to Lord Meron of Nabol?”
  “React to Meron?” Robinton snorted derisively. “By ignoring him, of
  course. Not that his opinion
  would influence the Conclave . . .”
  “I don’t mean that. I mean his possession of a fire lizard — ” Lytol broke
  off as the Harper stared at
  him. “You didn’t hear? The messenger went through Ruatha Hold yes-
  terday, bound for Fort Hold and your
  Crafthall.”
  “He missed me or — was he free with his news?”
  “To me, yes. I seem to attract confidences . . .”
  “Fire lizard? What about them? I used to spend hours trying to catch
  one. Never did In fact I never
  heard of one being caught. How did Meron manage the trick?”
  Lytol grimaced, the tic beginning in his cheek. “They can be Impressed.
  There always was that
  nursery tale that fire lizards are the ancestors of dragons.”
  “And Meron of Nabol Impressed one?”
  
  a draconic trait.”
  “How Lord Meron of Nabol acquired one is what bothers me the most,”
  Lytol said, glowering. “That
  Southern Weyrwoman, Kylara, brought him a whole clutch of eggs. Of
  course, they lost most in the
  Hatching, but the few that survived are making quite a stir in Nabol Hold.
  The messenger had seen one,
  and he was all bright-eyed in the telling. ‘A regular dragon in miniature’
  he said, and he’s all for trying his
  luck on the sandy beaches in Southern Boll and Fort from the gleam in
  his eye.”
  “ ‘A regular dragon in miniature,’ huh?” Robinton began to turn the sig-
  nificance of this around in his
  mind. He didn’t like the angles he saw.
  There wasn’t a boy alive on Pern that hadn’t at one time dreamed of
  suddenly becoming acceptable
  to Dragonkind, of Impressing. Of having at his beck and call (little
  dreaming it was more the other way
  round) an immense creature, capable of going anywhere on Pern in a
  breath, of defeating all enemies with
  
  become Lord Holders, unless they were properly Blooded. But there
  was always that tantalizing possibility
  that a dragonrider might choose you to go to the Weyr for an Impres-
  sion. So generations of boys had vainly
  tried to catch a fire lizard, symbolic of that other yearning..And a “regular
  miniature dragon” in the possession of a sly-faced underhanded malcontent
  like
  Meron of Nabol, who was sour about dragonmen anyway (with some
  justification in the matter of the Esvay
  valley against T’kul of the High Reaches Weyr), could be an embar-
  rassment for F’lar at the least, and might
  disrupt their plans for the day at the worst.
  “Well, if Kylara brought the fire-lizard eggs to Nabol Hold, F’lar will
  know,” Robinton told the worried
  Lord Warder. “They keep pretty close tabs on that woman.”
  Lytol’s glower deepened. “I hope so. Meron of Nabol will certainly let no
  chance pass to irritate or
  embarrass F’lar. Have you seen F’lar?”
  They both glanced around, hopefully. Then Robinton caught sight of a
  familiar grizzled head,
  bobbing toward himself and the Warder.
  
  have no choice but to sing it. He felt no compunction about leaving Lytol
  exposed to Lord Raid’s pompous
  manner. Lytol enjoyed an unusual status with the Lord Holders. They
  weren’t certain how to treat a man
  who’d been a dragonrider, Weaverhallmaster, and was now Lord
  Warder of a Ruatha prospering under his
  guidance. He could deal with Raid.
  The Masterharper halted at a point where he could look up at the cliff,
  trying to spot Ramoth or
  Mnementh among the dragons lining the edge.
  Fire lizards? How was Meron going to use a fire lizard? Unless it was
  because Kylara, a
  Weyrwoman, had given him one. Yes. That was guaranteed to sow dis-
  sension. Undoubtedly every Lord
  Holder here would want one, so as to be equal to Meron. There couldn’t
  be enough eggs to go around.
  Meron would capitalize on forgotten yearnings, and chalk up one more
  irritation against dragonmen.
  Robinton found that the meatrolls sat heavily in his stomach. Suddenly
  Brudegan detached himself
  
  stance, they refer to ‘that
  Weyrleader’ meaning their own weyrbound leader. ‘The Weyrleader’ al-
  ways means F’lar of Benden. ‘The
  Weyrleader’ had understood. ‘The Weyrleader’ had tried. ‘She’ means
  Lessa. ‘Her’ means their own
  Weyrwoman. Interesting?”
  “Fascinating. What’s the feeling about Threadfall?”
  Brudegan bent his head to the gitar, twanged strings discordantly. He
  drew his hand across all eight
  in a dissonant chord that ran a chill down the Masterharper’s spine.
  Then Brudegan turned away with a gay
  song.
  Robinton wished that F’lar and Lessa would arrive. He did see D’ram of
  Ista Weyr talking earnestly
  to Igen’s Weyrleader, G’narish. He liked that pair best of the Oldtimers,
  G’narish being young enough to
  change and D’ram essentially too honest to deny a truth when his nose
  was in it. Trouble was, he kept his
  nose inside Ista Weyr too much.
  Neither man looked at ease, as much because there was an island of
  empty space around them —
  
  “Have you seen T’ron or T’kul about? We just arrived.”
  “No, in fact, none of the western people seem to be here except Lord
  Warder Lytol of Ruatha.”
  D’ram clenched his teeth with an audible snap.
  “R’mart of Telgar can’t come,” the Oldtimer said. “He took a bad scor-
  ing.”
  “I’d heard it was wicked at Crom Hold,” Robinton murmured, sympa-
  thetically. “No way to predict it’d
  fall there at that time, either.”
  “I see Lord Nessel of Crom and his Holders are here in strength,
  though,” D’ram said, his voice
  bitter..“He could scarcely stay away without insulting Lord Larad. How
  bad were the Telgar Weyr’s
  casualties? And if R’mart’s out of action, who’s leading?”
  D’ram gave the Harper the distinct feeling that he’d asked an imperti-
  nent question, but G’narish
  answered easily.
  “The wing-second, M’rek, took over but the Weyr is so badly under
  strength that D’ram and I talked it
  over and sent replacements. As it happens, we’ve enough weyrlings
  who’ve just started chewing stone so
  
  tion, Weyrleaders,” Robinton
  said. “Tell me, though, have you had any luck Impressing some fire liz-
  ards? Igen and Ista ought to be good
  hunting grounds.”
  “Impressing? Fire lizards?” D’ram snorted with as much incredulity as
  Robinton had expressed
  earlier.
  “That’d be a trick,” G’narish laughed. “Look, there’s Ramoth and Mne-
  menth now.”
  There was no mistaking the two beasts who were gliding to the fire
  heights. It was also
  unmistakable that the dragons already perched on the pinnacle moved
  aside to make room for them.
  “Now, that’s the first time — ” G’narish muttered under his breath and
  stopped, because a sudden
  lull in the conversation had swept through the assembly, punctuated by
  audible hushings and scrapings as
  people turned to the Gate.
  Robinton watched, with fond pride, as Lessa and F’lar mounted the
  steps to their hosts. They were
  
  Gate. There was a spate of screams and angry protests from those dis-
  commoded which settled into an
  ominous murmur.
  Robinton, his height giving him an advantage, noticed Lord Larad hesi-
  tate in the act of bowing to
  Lessa. He saw Lord Asgenar and the ladies staring intently beyond. Ir-
  ritated that he was missing
  something. Robinton pushed urgently on.
  He broke through to the corner of the stairs, took the first four in two big
  strides and halted.
  Resplendent in red, her golden hair unbound like a maiden’s, Kylara ap-
  proached the Hall entrance,
  her smile composed of pure malice, not pleasure. Her right hand rested
  on the arm of Lord Meron of Nabol
  Hold, whose red tunic was slightly too orange in cast to blend with hers.
  Such details Robinton remembered
  at another time. Now all he saw were the two fire lizards, wings slightly
  extended for balance; a gold one on
  Kylara’s left arm, a bronze on Meron’s. “Regular miniature dragons,”
  beautiful, evoking a feeling of envy and
  
  The golden lizard screamed at his approach, and the little bronze hissed
  in warning. There was an
  irritatingly smug smirk on Meron’s face.
  “Did you know Meron had one?” D’ram demanded in a harsh whisper at
  the Harper’s elbow.
  Robinton raised a hand to still further questions.
  “And here come Kylara of Southern and Lord Meron of Nabol Hold with
  living examples of this small
  token of our best wishes for the happy couple,” F’lar’s voice rang out.
  Utter silence fell as he and Lessa presented felt-wrapped round bundles
  to Lord Asgenar and his
  bride, Lady Famira.
  “They are just now hard,” F’lar said in a loud voice that carried over the
  murmurings, “and must be
  kept in heated sands to crack, of course. They come to you through the
  generosity of one Toric, a
  seaholder at Southern Weyr, from a clutch he discovered only hours
  ago. Weyrleader T’bor brought them to
  me.”
  Robinton glanced back at Kylara. Her flushed face now matched
  Meron’s tunic while he looked
  
  had all they could do to soothe their creatures. To Robinton it was plain
  that whatever effect Meron of Nabol
  had planned had been foiled. He was not the only Lord Holder to own “a
  regular miniature dragon.”
  Two minor Holders, from Nerat to judge by their devices, bore down on
  D’ram and G’narish.
  “As you love your dragons, pretend you knew about the lizards,” Robin-
  ton said in an urgent
  undertone to the two. D’ram started to protest but the anxious Holders
  closed in with a barrage of eager
  questions on how to acquire a fire lizard just like Meron’s.
  Recovering first, G’narish answered with more poise than Robinton
  thought he’d have. Pressing
  against the stone wall, the Harper inched his way up the stairs, to push
  in around the women clustered
  about Lord Asgenar, his lady Famira and F’lar.
  “LORD HOLDERS, OF MAJOR AND MINOR DEGREE, PRESENT
  YOURSELVES FOR THE
  CONCLAVE, boomed out the Telgar Hold guard captain. A brass chorus
  of dragons echoed from the
  heights, satisfactorily stunning the guests into momentary silence.
  
  against the current. She was arguing heatedly with Meron who gave an
  angry shrug, left her and began
  shoving roughly into the Hall, past more polite Holders.
  There was another exodus, Robinton noticed, of Craftmasters who con-
  gregated near the kitchen.
  F’lar needs the Harper.
  Robinton glanced around him, wondering who had spoken amazed that
  so soft a voice had reached
  him over the gabbling. He was alerted by a dissonant twang of strings
  and turning his head unerringly
  toward the sound, spotted Brudegan up on the sentry walk with Chad,
  from the look of him. Had the
  resident Harper of Telgar Hold found a way to over hear the Conclave?
  As Robinton changed his direction for the tower steps, a dragonrider
  confronted him.
  “F’lar wants you, Masterharper.”
  Robinton hesitated, looking back to the two harpers who were urgently
  signaling him to hurry.
  Lessa listens.
  “Did you speak?” Robinton demanded of the rider.
  “Yes, sir. F’lar wants you to join him. It’s important.”
  
  Brudegan strummed an “understand” chord with which Chad apparently
  disagreed. Marks for the
  journeyman, Robinton thought, and whistled the strident trill for “com-
  ply.” He wished the harpers had as
  flexible a code as the one he’d developed for the Smith — and where
  was he?
  That was one man easily spotted in a crowd but, as Robinton followed
  the dragonrider, he didn’t see
  a Smithcrafter anywhere. Of course, the impact of the distance-writer
  would be anticlimactic to the
  introduction of the lizards. Robinton felt sorry for the Smith, quietly per-
  fecting an ingenious means of
  communication only to have it overshadowed by Thread-eating minia-
  ture dragons. Creatures who could be
  Impressed by non-weyrfolk. The average Pernese would be far more
  struck by a draconic substitute than by
  any mechanical miracle.
  The dragonrider had led him to the watchtower to the right of the Gate.
  When Robinton looked back
  over his left shoulder, Brudegan and Chad were no longer visible on the
  sentry walk.
  
  entered. Kylara was standing right under it, glaring furiously at
  T’bor..“Yes, I went to Nabol. My queen lizard was there. And well I did, for
  Prideth saw Thread sign
  across the High Reaches Range!” She had everyone’s attention now.
  Her eyes gleamed, her chin lifted
  and, Robinton noted, the shrewish rasp left her voice. Kylara was a fine
  looking female, but there was a
  hard ruthlessness about her that repelled him.
  “I flew instantly to T’kul.” Her face twisted with anger. “He’s no dragon-
  man! He refused to believe
  me. Me! As if any Weyrwoman wouldn’t know the sign when she sees it.
  I doubt he’s even bothered with
  Sweepriders. He kept harping on the fact that Thread had fallen six days
  ago at Tillek Hold and couldn’t be
  falling this soon at High Reaches. So I told him about Falls in the west-
  ern swamp and north Lemos Hold,
  and he still wouldn’t believe me.”
  “Did the Weyr turn out in time?” F’lar interrupted her coldly.
  “Of course,” and Kylara drew herself up, her posture tightening the
  dress against her full-bosomed
  
  obliquely at D’ram and G’narish, to see
  what effect T’kul’s behavior had on them. Surely now . . . They looked
  strained.
  “You’re a good Weyrwoman, Kylara, and you did well. Very well,” F’lar
  said with such conviction
  that she began to preen and her smile was a smirk of self-satisfaction.
  Then she stared at him.
  “Well, what are you going to do about T’kul? We can’t permit him to en-
  danger the world with that
  Oldtime attitude of his.”
  F’lar waited, half-hoping that D’ram might speak up. If just one of the
  Oldtimers . . .
  “It seems that the Dragonriders had better call a conclave too,” he said
  at length, aware of the
  tapping of Kylara’s foot and the eyes on him. “T’ron of Fort Weyr must
  hear of this. And perhaps we’d all
  better go on to Telgar Weyr for R’mart’s opinion.”
  “Opinion?” demanded Kylara, infuriated by this apparent evasion. “You
  ought to ride out of here
  now, confront T’kul with flagrant negligence and . . .”
  “And what, Kylara?” F’lar asked when she broke off.
  
  pression bleak. “Something
  will have to be done. By all of us. When T’ron comes.”
  More temporizing? F’lar wondered. “Kylara,” he said aloud, “you men-
  tioned your lizard eating
  Thread.” There was a lot more to be discussed in this matter than T’kul’s
  incredible behavior. “And may I
  inquire how you knew your lizard had returned to Nabol?”
  “Prideth told me. She Hatched there so she returned to Nabol Hold
  when you frightened her at
  Southern.”
  “You had her at High Reaches Weyr, though?”
  “No. I told you. I saw Thread over the High Reach Range and went to
  T’kul. First! Once I’d roused
  the Weyr, I realized that there might have been Thread over Nabol so I
  went to check.”
  “And told Meron about the premature Threadfall?”
  “Of course.”
  “Then?”
  “I took the lizard back with me. I didn’t want to lose her again.” When
  F’lar ignored that jibe, she
  
  “Did you give her firestone?” D’ram asked, his eyes keen with real inter-
  est.
  “I didn’t have any. Besides, I want her to mate,” and Kylara’s smile had
  a very odd twist to it as she
  stroked the lizard’s back. “She’ll burrow, too,” she added, extolling her
  creature’s abilities. “A ground
  crewman said he’d seen her enter one. Of course I didn’t know that until
  later.”.“Is the High Reaches Hold clear of Thread now?”
  Kylara shrugged indifferently. “If they aren’t, you’ll hear.”
  “How long did Threadfall continue after you saw it? Were you able to
  determine the leading Edge
  when you flew over to Nabol?”
  “It lasted about three hours. Under, I’d say. That is, from the time the
  wings finally got there.” She
  gave a condescending smile. “As to the leading Edge, I’d say it must
  have been high up in the Range,” and
  she dared them to dispute it, hurrying on when no one did. “It’d fall on
  bare rock and snow there. I did
  sweep the Nabol side but Prideth saw no sign.”
  “You did extremely well, Kylara, and we are exceedingly grateful to you,”
  F’lar said, and the other
  
  but if the Fort Weyrleader found
  himself in a minority of one against the other four Leaders, would he de-
  cide to act against T’kul, even if it did
  mean siding with F’lar? “At Tillek Hold, eight days ago; Upper Crom
  Hold, five; high Lemos Hold north,
  three; Southern far west, two; and now High Reaches Hold. Undoubt-
  edly Thread fell in the Western Sea but
  there is no question that Falls are more frequent and increasing in
  scope. No point on Pern is safe. No
  Weyr can afford to relax its vigil to a traditional six-day margin.” He
  smiled grimly. “Tradition!”
  D’ram looked about to argue, but F’lar caught and held his eyes until the
  man slowly nodded.
  “That’s easy to say, but what are you going to do about T’kul? Or
  T’ron?” Kylara had just realized
  no one was paying her any attention. “He’s just as bad. He refuses to
  admit times have changed. Even
  when Mardra deliberately . . .”
  There was a brisk knock on the door but it swung open instantly, to ad-
  mit the giant frame of
  Fandarel.
  
  such creatures remain to be seen.”
  “The merits — ” Kylara began, ready to explode with outrage.
  Robinton the Harper was beside her, whispering in her ear.
  Grateful to Robinton, F’lar turned to attend the Smith, who had stepped
  to the door, obviously
  wanting the dragonmen to accompany him. F’lar was reluctant to see
  the distance-writer. It wouldn’t
  receive the attention it deserved from the Lords or the people or the rid-
  ers. The distance-writer made so
  much more sense in this emergency than unreliable lizards. And yet, if
  they did eat Thread . . .
  He paused on the threshold, looking back toward Kylara and the Harper.
  Robinton looked directly at
  him.
  Almost as if the Harper read his mind, F’lar saw him smile winningly
  down at Kylara (though F’lar
  knew the man detested her).
  “F’lar, do you think it’s wise for Kylara to go out into that mob! They’ll
  scare the lizard,” said the
  Harper.
  
  F’lar to leave.
  As they stepped out into the bright sunlight, the crowd swirling noisily
  around them, F’lar saw the
  merry-faced young man, gitar in hand, who had answered the Harper’s
  whistle. Undoubtedly Robinton
  would be free to join them in a few moments if he read matters rightly.
  The young journeyman would
  definitely appeal to Kylara’s — ah — nature.
  Fandarel had set up his equipment in the far corner of the Court, where
  the outside wall abutted the
  cliff-Hold, a dragonlength from the stairs. Three men were perched atop
  the wall, carefully handing
  something down to the group working on the apparatus. As the
  Weyrleaders followed Fandarel’s swath.through the press of bodies (the
  fellis blossom fragrance had long since given way to other odors), F’lar was
  the object of many sidelong glances and broken conversations.
  “You watch, you’ll see,” a young man in the colors of a minor Hold was
  saying in a carrying voice.
  “Those dragonmen won’t let us near a clutch . . .”
  “The Lord Holders, you mean,” another said. “Fancy anything trusting
  that Nabolese. What? Oh.
  
  tackle T’ron.
  “Mnementh, what is happening at the Conclave?”
  Talk. They await the other two Lord Holders.
  F’lar tried to see if the Fort Weyrleaders had brought the missing Lords
  Groghe of Fort and Sangel
  of South Boll. Those two wouldn’t take kindly to a Conclave adjudicating
  without them. But if Lord Groghe
  had heard about High Reaches Hold . . .
  F’lar suppressed a shudder, trying to smile with sincere apologies as he
  edged past a group of small
  Holders who apparently couldn’t see him. As if recognizing the smith-
  crafters as neutral, the Weyrwomen
  had gathered in a wary group to the right of the mass of equipment
  which Fandarel’s people were setting up.
  They were pretending great interest, but even G’narish’s pretty Weyr-
  mate, Nadira, looked troubled and she
  was a sweet-tempered lady. Bedella, representing Telgar Weyr, looked
  completely confused but she wasn’t
  bright.
  Just then Mardra broke through the guests, demanding to know what
  was going on. Had T’kul and
  
  slit, widened slightly to allow the
  two Lord Holders to enter. Judging by their expression, it would take
  time and more talk before these two
  were pacified.
  “How much more needs to be done?” asked F’lar as he joined the
  Smith. He tried to remember how
  the distance-writer had looked in the Hall. This collection of tubes and
  wire seemed much too big.
  “We need only attach this wire so,” Fandarel replied, his huge fingers
  deftly fitting word to action,
  “and that one, here. Now. I place the arm in position over the roll and we
  shall send out a message to the
  Hall to be sure all is in order.” Fandarel beamed down at his instrument
  as fondly as any queen over a
  golden egg.
  F’lar felt someone rather too close behind him and looked irritably over
  his shoulder to see
  Robinton’s intent face. The Harper gave him an abstracted smile and
  nodded for him to pay attention.
  The Smith was delicately tapping out a code, the irregular lengths of red
  lines appearing on the gray
  
  mass movement blotted out the sun
  which was lowering over the Telgar Cliffs and sent shadows over the
  guests to still their chatter.
  Groghe told the Lords that T’ron has found a distance-viewer at Fort. He
  has seen the Red Star
  through it. They are upset. Be warned, said Mnementh.
  The doors of the Great Hall swung wide and the Lord Holders came
  striding out. One look at Lord
  Groghe’s face confirmed Mnementh’s report. The Lord Holders ranged
  themselves on the steps, in a solid
  front against the Dragonmen gathered in the corner. Lord Groghe had
  lifted his arm, pointed it accusingly at
  F’lar, when a disconcerting hiss split the pregnant silence.
  “Look!” the Smith bellowed and all eyes followed his hand as the dis-
  tance-writer began receiving a
  message.
  “Igen Hold reports Thread falling. Transmission broken off mid-
  sentence.”
  Robinton reported the sounds as they were printed, his voice growing
  hoarser and less confident
  
  The dragons bugled on the heights just as a green burst into the air over
  the court, causing the
  crowd to scream and duck, scurrying to the walls for safety.
  Threads fall at Igen southwest, came the message loud and clear. To be
  echoed by the
  Dragonriders in the court.
  “Where are you going, F’lar?” bellowed Lord Groghe as the Benden
  Weyrleader followed G’narish’s
  plunge to the Gate. The air was full of dragon wings now, the screams
  of frightened women counterpointing
  the curses of men.
  “To fight Thread at Igen, of course,” F’lar shouted back.
  “Igen’s my problem,” G’narish cried, halting and wheeling toward F’lar,
  but there was gratitude, not
  rebuke in his surprised face.
  “G’narish, wait! Where in Igen?” Lord Laudey was demanding. He
  pushed past the infuriated Lord
  Groghe to catch up with his Weyrleader.
  “And Ista? Is the island in danger?” Lord Warbret wanted to know.
  “We’ll go and see,” D’ram reassured him, taking his arm and urging him
  toward the Gate.
  
  “Let Ista and Igen fend for themselves!”
  Ramoth screamed on high. The other queens answered her. What she
  challenged no one knew,
  but she suddenly winked out. F’lar had no attention to spare to wonder
  that she’d gone between without
  Lessa riding for he saw T’ron’s hand on his belt knife.
  “We can settle our difference of opinion later, T’ron. In private! Thread
  falls . . .”
  The bronzes had begun to land outside the Gate, juggling to let as many
  land close as possible.
  The green rider from Igen had directed his beast to perch on the Gate.
  He was repeatedly yelling
  his message to the static, tense group below.
  T’ron would not stop. “Thread falls, huh, F’lar? Noble Benden to the res-
  cue! And it’s not Benden’s
  concern.” He let out a raucous shout of derisive contempt.
  “Enough, man!” D’ram stepped up to pull T’ron aside. He gestured
  sharply at the silent spectators.
  But T’ron ignored the warning and shook him off so violently that the
  heavy-set D’ram staggered.
  
  was no chance T’ron could change his direction. Then he ducked under
  the blade, yanking his own out of
  its ornamental sheath.
  It was a new knife, a gift from Lessa. It had cut neither meat nor bread
  and must now be christened
  with the blood of a man. For this duel was to the death and its outcome
  could well decide the fate of Pern.
  F’lar had sunk to a semicrouch, flexing his fingers around the hilt testing
  its balance. Too much
  depended on a single belt knife, a half-hand shorter than the blade in his
  opponent’s fingers. T’ron had the
  reach of him and the added advantage of being in wher-hide riding gear
  whereas F’lar wore flimsy cloth. His
  eyes never left T’ron as he faced the older man. F’lar was aware of the
  hot sun on the back of his neck, the
  hard stones under his feet, of the deathly hush of the great Court, of the
  smells of bruised fellis blooms,
  spilled wines and fried food, of sweat — and fear.
  T’ron moved forward, amazingly light on his feet for a man of his size
  and age. F’lar let him come,
  
  backward to avoid, by the thickness of a hair, the hissing stroke of the
  foot long blade. He backed, his arm
  half-numbed, aware of the shock that coursed through him like a
  drenching of icy water.
  For a man blind with anger, T’ron was a shade too controlled for F’lar’s
  liking. What possessed the
  man to pick a quarrel — here and now? For T’ron had pushed this fight,
  deliberately baiting F’lar with that
  specious quibble. D’ram and G’narish had been relieved at his offer of
  help. So T’ron had wanted to fight.
  Why? Then suddenly, F’lar knew. T’ron had heard about T’kul’s flagrant
  negligence and knew that the
  other Oldtimers could not ignore or obliquely condone it. Not with F’lar of
  Benden likely to insist that T’kul
  step aside as Weyrleader of High Reaches. If T’ron could kill F’lar, he
  could control the others. And F’lar’s
  public deal would leave the modern Lord Holders without a sympathetic
  Weyrleader. The domination of
  Weyrs over Hold and Craft would continue unchallenged, and un-
  changed.
  
  another, to save Pern in a duel before half the world.
  F’lar shook his head sharply, rejecting the angry line his thoughts were
  taking. This wasn’t the way
  to survive, not with the odds against him.
  He saw T’ron’s arm move suddenly, swayed back in automatic evasion,
  saw the opening, lunged . .
  .
  The watchers gasped as the sound of torn fabric was clearly heard. The
  pain at his waist had been
  such a quick stab that F’lar had all but decided T’ron’s swipe was only a
  scratch when a wave of nausea
  swept him.
  “Good try. But you’re just not fast enough, Oldtimer!” F’lar heard himself
  saying; felt his lips stretch
  into a smile he was far from feeling. He kept to the crouch, the belt
  pressing against his waist, but the torn
  fabric dangled, jerking as he breathed.
  T’ron threw him a half-puzzled look, his eyes raking him, pausing at the
  hanging rag, flicking to the
  knife blade in his hand. It was clean, unstained. A second realization
  crossed T’ron’s face, even as he
  
  ther, he knew, as he ignored the hot
  agony in his midriff.
  “Yes, Oldtimer,” he said, forcing himself to breathe easily, keeping his
  words light, mocking.
  “Benden Weyr concerns itself with Ista and Igen. And the Holds of
  Nabol, and Crom, and Telgar, because
  Benden dragonmen have not forgotten that Thread burns anything and
  anyone it touches, Weyr and
  commoner alike. And if Benden Weyr has to stand alone against the fall
  of Thread, it will.”
  He flung himself at T’ron, stabbing at the horny leather tunic, praying the
  knife was sharp enough to
  pierce it. He spun aside barely in time, the effort causing him to gasp in
  pain. Yet he made himself dance
  outside T’ron’s reach, made himself grin at the other’s sweaty, exertion-
  reddened face.
  “Not fast enough, are you, T’ron? To kill Benden. Or muster for a Fall.”
  T’ron’s breathing was ragged, a hoarse rasping. He came on, his knife
  arm lower. F’lar backed,
  keeping to a wary crouch, wondering if it was sweat he felt trickling
  down his belly or blood. If T’ron noticed .
  
  aiming for the throat. F’lar’s knife hand flashed up, struck the attacking
  wrist aside, slashed downward at the
  other’s neck, where the wher-hide tunic had parted. A dragon screamed.
  T’ron’s right fist caught him below
  the belt. Agony lashed through him. He doubled over the man’s arm.
  Someone screamed a warning. With
  an unexpected reserve of energy, F’lar somehow managed to pull him-
  self sharply up from that vulnerable
  position. His head rocked from the impact against T’ron’s descending
  knife, but it was miraculously.deflected. Both hands on the hilt of his deco-
  rative blade, F’lar rammed it through wher-hide until it grated
  against the man’s ribs.
  He staggered free, saw T’ron waver, his eyes bulging with shock, saw
  him step back, the jeweled
  hilt standing out beneath his ribs. T’ron’s mouth worked soundlessly. He
  fell heavily to his knees, then
  sagged slowly sideways to the stones.
  The tableau held for what seemed hours to F’lar, desperately sucking
  breath into his bruised body,
  forcing himself to keep to his feet for he could not, could not collapse.
  
  noring the blood that oozed out around
  the knife.
  Someone screamed and beat at his hands. It was Mardra.
  “You’ve killed him. Isn’t that enough? Leave him alone!”
  F’lar stared up at her, frowning.
  “He’s not dead. Fidranth hasn’t gone between.” It made him feel
  stronger somehow to know he
  hadn’t killed the man. “Get wine, someone. Call the physician!”
  He got the belt loose and was pulling at the right sleeve when other
  hands began to help.
  “I need it to fight in,” he muttered. A clean cloth was waved in his direc-
  tion. He grabbed it and,
  holding his breath, jerked loose the knife. He looked at it a second and
  then cast it from him. It skittered
  across the stone, everyone jumping from its path. Someone handed him
  the tunic. He got up, struggling
  into it. T’ron was a heavier man; the tunic was too big. He was belting it
  tightly to him when he became
  aware again of the hushed, awed audience. He looked at the blur of ex-
  pectant faces.
  “Well? Do you support Benden?” he cried.
  
  “The Harpers do!” Robinton’s baritone was answered by Chad’s tenor
  from the sentry walk.
  “The Miners!”
  “The Weavers!”
  “The Tanners!”
  The Lord Holders began to call out their names, loudly, as if by volume
  they could redeem
  themselves. A cheer rose from the guests to fall almost instantly to a
  hush as F’lar turned slowly to the other
  Weyrleaders.
  “Ista!” D’ram’s cry was a fierce, almost defiant hiss, over-taken by
  G’narish’s exultant “Igen” and
  T’bor’s enthusiastic “Southern!”
  “What can we do?” cried Lord Asgenar, striding to F’lar. “Can Lemos
  runners and groundmen help
  Igen Hold now?”
  F’lar lost his immobility, tightened the belt one further notch, hoping the
  stricture would dull the pain.
  “It’s your wedding day, man. Enjoy what you can of it. D’ram, we’ll follow
  you. Ramoth’s already
  
  harsh and steely enough to be heard
  throughout the listening Court. “Let it be known,” and he stared down at
  Mardra, “that any of Fort Weyr who
  do not care to follow Benden’s lead must go to Southern.” He looked
  away before she could protest. “And
  that applies to any craftsman, Lord Holder or commoner, as well as
  dragonfolk. There isn’t much Thread in
  Southern to worry you. And your indifference to a common menace will
  not endanger others.”
  Lessa was trying to undo his belt. He caught her hands tightly, ignoring
  her gasp as his grip hurt.
  “Where was Thread seen?” he yelled up to the Igen rider still perched
  atop the Gate Wall.
  “South!” The man’s response was an anguished appeal. “Across the bay
  from Keroon Hold.
  Across the water.”.“How long ago?”
  “I’ll take you there and then!”
  The ripple of cheering grew as it spread back, as people were reminded
  that the Weyrs would go
  between time itself and catch Thread, erasing the interval of time lost in
  the duel.
  
  “You can’t come, love,” F’lar told Lessa, confused that she was following
  him out to Mnementh. She
  could handle Mardra. She’d have to. He couldn’t be everywhere at once.
  “Not till you’ve had this numbweed.” She glared up at him as fiercely as
  Mardra had an fumbled at
  his belt again. “You won’t last if you don’t. And Mnementh won’t take
  you up until I do.”
  F’lar stared at her, saw Mnementh’s great eye gleaming at him and
  knew she meant it.
  “But — he wouldn’t — ” he stammered.
  “Oh, wouldn’t he?” flashed Lessa, but she had the belt loose, and he
  gasped as he felt the cold of
  the salve on the burning lips of the wound. “I can’t keep you from going.
  You’ve got to, I know. But I can
  keep you from killing yourself with such heroics.” He heard something
  rip, saw her tearing a sleeve from her
  new gown into bandage-length strips. “Well, I guess they’re right when
  they say green is an unlucky color.
  You certainly don’t get to wear it long.”
  She quickly pressed the material against him, his wound already numb-
  ing. Deftly overlapping the
  
  As Mnementh wheeled smartly upward, F’lar heard the sound of music,
  gitars accompanying a
  ragged chorus. How like the Harper to have the appropriate music for
  this occasion, he thought.
  Drummer, beat, and piper, blow.
  Harper, strike, and soldier, go.
  Free the flame and sear the grasses
  Till the dawning Red Star passes.
  Odd, thought F’lar, four hours later, as he and Mnementh returned to
  Telgar with the wings from
  Igen, it was over Telgar, seven Turns ago, that the massed Weyrs flew
  against the second Fall of Thread.
  He stifled keen regret at the recollection of that triumphant day when the
  six Weyrs had been solidly
  in accord. And yet, the duel at Telgar Hold today had been as inevitable
  as Lessa’s flight backward in time
  to bring up the Oldtimers. There was a subtle symmetry, a balance of
  good and bad, a fateful
  compensation. (His side ached. He suppressed pain and fatigue. Mne-
  menth would catch it and then he’d
  
  circle of the Old Weyrs and Benden’s
  resurgence.
  He hoped T’ron would live; he’d enough on his conscience. Though it
  might be better if T’ron . . .
  He refused to consider that, in spite of the fact that he knew it would
  avoid another problem. And yet, if
  Thread could fall in Southern to be eaten by those grubs . . .
  He wanted very much to see that distance-viewer T’ron had discovered.
  He groaned with a mental
  distress. Fandarel! How could he face him? That distance-writer had
  worked. It had relayed a very crucial
  message — faster than dragon wings! No fault of the Smith’s that his
  finely extruded wire could be severed
  by hot Thread. Undoubtedly he would overcome that flaw in an efficient
  way — unless he’d thrown up his
  hands at the idea, what with being presented with a powerful, fully op-
  erative distance-viewer to compound
  the day’s insults. Of all the problems undoubtedly awaiting him, he
  dreaded Fandarel’s reproach the most.
  Below, Dragonriders streamed into the Court illumined by hundreds of
  glow baskets, to be met and
  
  menth to land.
  About time, the bronze grumbled.
  F’lar slapped his neck affectionately. The beast had known perfectly well
  why they’d been hovering.
  A man needed a few minutes to digest chaos and restore order to his
  thinking before he plunged into more
  confusions.
  Mnementh agreed as he landed smoothly. He craned his neck around,
  his great eyes gleaming
  affectionately at his rider.
  “Don’t worry about me, Mnementh!” F’lar murmured in gratitude and
  love, stroking the soft muzzle.
  There was a faint odor of firestone and smoke though they’d done little
  flaming. “Are you hungry?”
  Not yet. Telgar feeds enough tonight. Mnementh launched himself to-
  ward the fire ridge above the
  Hold, where the perching dragons made black, regular crags against the
  darkening sky, their jeweled eyes
  gleaming down on the festal activities.
  F’lar laughed aloud at Mnementh’s consideration. It was true that Lord
  Larad was stinting nothing,
  
  wouldn’t let him bend to kiss her.
  “Come, love, I’ve fresh clothes and bandages for you.”
  “Mnementh’s been telling on me?”
  She nodded, still unusually subdued for Lessa.
  “What’s wrong?”
  “Nothing,” she assured him hastily, smiling. “Ramoth said you were
  thinking hard.”
  He squeezed her and the gesture pulled the muscles, making him
  wince.
  “You’re a trial to me,” she said with mock exasperation and led him into
  the tower room.
  “Kylara came back, didn’t she?”
  “Oh, yes,” and there was an edge to Lessa’s voice as she added, “she
  and Meron are as
  inseparable as their lizards.”
  She’d had a standing tub brought in, the water steaming invitingly. She
  insisted on bathing him
  while she reported what had happened while he’d fought Thread. He
  didn’t argue, it was too pleasant to
  relax under her ministrations, though her gentle hands sometimes re-
  minded him of other occasions and . . .
  
  When she discovered that her arrogance and shrewishness had robbed
  her of all but a few adherents, she’d
  retired meekly to Southern with them.
  “We nearly had a fight between Kylara and Mardra but Robinton inter-
  vened. Kylara was proclaiming
  herself Fort Weyrwoman.”
  F’lar groaned.
  “Don’t worry,” Lessa assured him, briskly kneading the tight muscles
  across his shoulders. “She
  changed her mind directly she learned that T’kul and his riders were
  leaving the High Reaches Weyr. It’s
  more logical for T’bor and the Southerners to take over that Weyr than
  Fort since most of the Fort riders are
  staying.”
  “That puts Kylara too near Nabol for my peace of mind.”
  “Yes, but that leaves the way clear for P’zar, Roth’s rider, to take over
  as Fort Weyrleader. He’s not
  strong but he’s well-liked and it won’t upset the Fort people as much.
  They’re relieved to be free of both
  T’ron and Mardra but we oughtn’t to press our luck too far.”
  “N’ton’d be a good Wing-second there.”
  
  ons shadowing me and
  Mnementh. I don’t think we went between more than twice.”
  “The dragons appreciate you, bronze rider,” Lessa said tartly, encircling
  him with clean, soft
  bandages.
  “The Oldtimers, too?”
  “Most of them. And more of their riders than I’d estimated. Only twenty
  riders and women followed
  Mardra, you know, from Fort. Of course,” and she grimaced, “most of
  T’kul’s people went. The fourteen
  who stayed are young riders, Impressed since the Weyr came forward.
  So there’ll be enough at Southern .
  . .”
  “Southern is no longer our concern.”
  She was in the act of handing him the fresh tunic and hesitated, the fab-
  ric gathered up in her hands.
  He took it from her, pulling on the sleeves, ducking his head into the
  opening, giving her time to absorb his
  dictum.
  She sat slowly down on the bench, her forehead creased with a slight,
  worried frown.
  
  “Loranth, the Weyr queen at High Reaches and the other two . . . Oh!”
  “Yes. All old queens, well past their prime. I doubt Loranth will rise more
  than once. The clutches
  at High Reaches have produced only one queen since they came for-
  ward. And the young queen, Segrith,
  stayed, didn’t she, with Pilgra?”
  Lessa nodded and suddenly her face cleared. She eyed him with grow-
  ing exasperation. “Anyone
  would think you’ve been planning this for Turns.”
  “Then anyone could call me a triple fool for underestimating T’ron, clos-
  ing my mind to the facts in
  front of me and defying fortune. What’s the mood among Holders and
  crafters?”
  “Relief,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I admit the laughter has a slightly
  hysterical tinge, but Lytol and
  Robinton were right. Pern will follow Benden . . .”
  “Yes, until my first mistake!”
  She grinned mischievously at him, waggling a finger under his nose.
  “Ah-ha, but you’re not allowed
  to make mistakes Benden. Not while . . .”
  
  She gave a languorous sigh when he finally released her. He laughed
  down at her closed eyes,
  kissing them, too. She struggled to a sitting position and, with another
  reluctant sigh, rose determinedly to
  her feet.
  “Yes, Pern will follow you, and your loyal advisers will keep you from
  making mistakes, but I do hope
  you’ve an answer for pop-eyed old Lord Groghe!”
  “Answer for Groghe?”
  “Yes,” and she gave him a stern look, “though I’m not surprised you’ve
  forgotten. He was going to
  demand that the dragonmen of Pern go directly to the Red Star and put
  an end to Thread forever.”
  F’lar got slowly to his feet.
  “I’ve always said that you solve one problem and five more appear from
  between.”
  “Well, I think we’ve contrived to keep Groghe away from you tonight, but
  we promised to have a joint
  meeting of Hold and Craft at Benden Weyr tomorrow morning.”
  “That’s a blessing.”
  In the act of opening the door, he hesitated and groaned again.
  
  he needn’t’ve dismantled the first apparatus.” She tucked her arm in his,
  lengthening her stride to match his.
  “The man who’s really put out is Robinton.”
  “Robinton?”
  “Yes. He’d composed the most marvelous ballad and teaching songs
  and now there’s no reason to
  play them.”
  Whether Lessa had deliberately saved that until now, F’lar didn’t know,
  but they crossed the
  courtyard, laughing, though it hurt his side.
  Their passage would have been noted anyhow, but their smiling faces
  subtly reassured the diners
  seated at the make-shift tables about the yard. And suddenly F’lar felt
  there was indeed something to
  celebrate.
  CHAPTER XI
  Early Morning at Benden Weyr
  “I WISH you’d give me fair warning the next time you rearrange the so-
  cial and political structure of
  this planet,” F’nor told his half-brother when he strode into the queen’s
  weyr at Benden the next morning.
  
  went with T’kul and Merika. Most of the Fort Weyr people wanted to stay
  . . .”
  F’nor chuckled nastily. “Bet that was hard for Mardra to swallow.” He
  looked expectantly at Lessa,
  knowing how often his Weyrwoman had mastered resentment and in-
  dignation at Mardra’s hands. Lessa
  returned his gaze with polite unconcern.
  “So P’zar is acting Weyrleader until a queen rises . . .”
  “Any chance of making that an open flight for any bronze?”
  “That is my intention,” F’lar replied. “However, I think the biggest of the
  modern bronzes had better
  be conspicuous by their absence.”
  “Then why have you assigned N’ton there as Wing-second?” demanded
  Lessa in surprise.
  F’lar grinned at his Weyrmate. “Because by the time a Fort queen rises
  in flight, N’ton will be known
  and well-liked by the Fort Weyrfolk and they won’t mind. He’ll be con-
  sidered a Fort rider, not a Benden
  replacement.”
  Lessa wrinkled her nose. “He doesn’t have much choice at Fort Weyr.”
  
  I’d — ” He broke off, sliding into the chair Lessa motioned him to. “Say,
  F’lar, what’s the matter with you?
  You been time — betweening or something?”
  “No, he’s been knifed between his top and bottom,” Lessa answered
  with a sour glance at her
  Weyrmate. “And it is with exceptional difficulty that I can keep him in a
  chair. He belongs in a bed.”
  F’lar waved her recriminations aside good-humoredly.
  “If you’re — ” F’nor half-rose, his face concerned.
  “If you’re — ” mocked F’lar, his look indicating a growing irritation with
  his disability and their
  protectiveness.
  F’nor laughed, reseating himself. “And Brekke said I was a cantanker-
  ous patient. Ha! How bad is
  it? I heard various tales about that duel, well embroidered already, but
  not that you’d been clipped. Must it
  always be belt knives — for our Blood? And the other man armed with a
  wherry-skewer?”
  “And dressed in wher-hide,” Lessa added.
  “Look, F’lar, Brekke has pronounced me fit to fly between,” and F’nor
  flexed his arm, fully but
  
  “No, nor did I want to. I heard him.” F’nor’s right hand clenched. The
  fighting wings had already
  gone to join you at Igen for the Threadfall. T’kul ordered everyone, in-
  cluding the wounded, out of Southern
  in an hour’s time. What they couldn’t pack and take, he confiscated. He
  made it clear that the southern
  continent was his to have and hold. That his Sweepriders were chal-
  lenging any dragon and would flame
  them down like Thread if they didn’t get the proper response. Some of
  those Oldtimer dragons are stupid
  enough to do it, too.” F’nor paused. “You know, I’ve been noticing lately
  . . .”
  “Did the Fort Weyr people arrive?”
  “Yes, and Brekke checked T’ron to be sure he’d survived the trip.” F’nor
  scowled.
  “He’ll live?”
  “Yes, but . . .”
  “Good. Now, I rather suspected that T’kul would react in that fashion To
  be sure we’ve all of Igen,
  Ista and Southern Boll as breeding ground for fire lizards, but I want you
  to get Manora to rig you something
  
  stuffy?”
  “Yes,” F’lar replied so emphatically that F’nor pretended alarm. “That
  courtesy did more good than
  harm. It’ll be standard procedure at all the Weyrs now.”
  “And you’ve talked the Leaders into assigning riders to Hold and Hall?”
  F’nor’s eyes gleamed when
  F’lar nodded.
  Can you slip through whatever patrol T’kul has mounted in Southern?”
  F’lar asked.
  “No problem. There isn’t a bronze there that Canth can’t out fly. Which
  reminds me . . .”
  “Good. I’ve two errands for you. Pick up those fire-lizard eggs and, do
  you remember the
  coordinates for the Threadfall in the western swamp?”
  “Of course, but I wanted to ask you . . .”
  “You saw the grub life in the soil there?”
  “Yes . . .”
  “Ask Manora for a tightly covered pot. I want you to bring me back as
  many of those grubs as you
  can. Not a pleasant job, I know, but I can’t go myself and I don’t want
  this — ah — project discussed.”
  
  “The day F’nor doesn’t tease you I’ll start to worry,” Lessa said, encir-
  cling his neck with her arms.
  She laid her cheek against his for an instant. “It’s T’bor,” she added,
  moving away just as the new High
  Reaches Weyrleader strode in.
  The man looked as if he hadn’t slept enough but he carried his shoul-
  ders back and his head high
  which made the Benden Weyrleader more aware of the worried and
  wary expression on his face.
  “Kylara’s — ” F’lar began, remembering that she and Meron had been
  gabbling together all the last
  night.
  “Not Kylara. It’s that T’kul who thought himself such a great
  Weyrleader,” T’bor said with utter
  disgust. “As soon as we brought our people up from Southern, I had the
  wings do a sweep check, really
  more to familiarize themselves with the coordinates than anything else.
  By the first Egg, I don’t like seeing
  anyone run from dragonmen. Run. And hide!” T’bor sat down, automati-
  cally taking the cup of klah Lessa
  
  Weyr.”
  T’bor took a deep breath. “It took time to calm Lord Holder Oterel down
  to the point where I could
  tell him what had happened. And it seemed to me “ and the Southerner
  looked nervously first at Lessa and
  then at F’lar, “that the only way to restore his confidence was to leave
  him a dragon. So — I left him a
  bronze and stationed two greens in those minor Holds along the Bay. I
  also left weyrlings at vantage
  heights along the Tillek Hold range. Then I asked Lord Oterel to accom-
  pany me to Lord Bargen’s Hold at
  High Reaches. I’d a good idea I might not get past his guard at all. Now,
  we’d six eggs left over from that
  clutch Toric of the Seahold unearthed and so — I gave two each to the
  Lords and two to the
  Masterfisherman. It seemed the only thing to do. They’d heard Lord
  Meron had one — at Nabol Hold.”
  T’bor straightened his shoulders as if to endure F’lar’s opprobrium.
  “You did the right thing, T’bor,” F’lar told him heartily. “You did exactly
  the right thing. You couldn’t
  have done better!”
  
  with P’zar, the acting
  Weyrleader from Fort, very close behind them. The Telgar Weyr Wing-
  second introduced himself as M’rek,
  Zigeth’s rider. He was a lanky, mournful-looking man, with sandy hair,
  about F’lar’s age. As they settled
  themselves at the big table, F’lar tried to read D’ram’s mood. He was the
  crucial one still, the oldest of the
  remaining Oldtimers and, if he’d cooled down from the stimulus of yes-
  terday’s tumultuous events and had
  changed his mind after sleeping, the proposal F’lar was about to sug-
  gest might die a-hatching. F’lar
  stretched his long legs under the table trying to make himself comfort-
  able.
  “I asked you here early because we had little chance to talk last night.
  M’rek, how’s R’mart?”
  “He rests easily at Telgar Hold, thanks to the riders from Ista and Igen.”
  M’rek nodded gravely to
  D’ram and K’dor.
  “How many at Telgar Weyr wish to go south?”
  “About ten, but they’re old riders. Do more harm than good, feeding
  nonsense to the weyrlings.
  
  “There was talk about an expedition to the Red Star,” F’lar replied in a
  casual tone. Apprehension
  made the Telgar Weyrman’s face more mournful than ever. “But there’re
  more immediate undertakings.”
  F’lar straightened cautiously. He couldn’t get comfortable. “And the Lord
  Holders and other craftsmen will
  be here soon to discuss them. D’ram, tell me frankly, do you object to
  placing riders in Holds and Crafthalls
  while we can’t pattern Thread — that is, until we can find another reli-
  able form of quick communication?”
  “No, F’lar, I’ve no objections,” the Istan Weyrleader replied, slowly, not
  looking at anyone. “After
  yesterday — ” He stopped and, turning his head, looked at F’lar with
  troubled eyes. “Yesterday, I think I
  finally realized just how big Pern is and how narrow a man can get, wor-
  rying so much about what he ought
  to have, forgetting what he’s got. And what he’s got to do. Times have
  changed. I can’t say I like it. Pern
  had got so big — and we Oldtimers kept trying to make it small again
  because, I guess, we were a little
  
  yet — so different. T’ron was a good man, F’lar. I don’t say I knew him
  well. None of us ever really got to
  know each other, you know, keeping to our Weyrs mostly and resting
  between Threadfalls. But all
  dragonmen are — are dragonmen. For a dragonman to go to kill an-
  other one — ” D’ram shook his head
  slowly from side to side. “You could’ve killed him.” D’ram looked F’lar
  straight in the eye. “You didn’t. You
  fought Thread over Igen Hold. And don’t think I didn’t know T’ron’s knife
  got you.”
  F’lar began to relax.
  “Nearly made two of me, in fact.”.“D’ram gave another one of his snorts
  but the slight smile on his face as he leaned back in his chair
  indicated his approval of F’lar.
  Mnementh remarked to his rider that everyone was arriving at once. A
  bigger ledge was needed.
  F’lar swore softly to himself. He’d counted on more time. He couldn’t
  jeopardize the fragile new accord with
  D’ram by springing distasteful innovations on the man.
  “I don’t believe the Weyrs can remain autonomous these days,” F’lar
  said, discarding all the ringing,
  
  man grows stale, careless, riding over ground he knows too well. We
  need public Impressions . . .”
  They could all hear the rumble of greetings and the scuffling of heavy
  boots in the corridor.
  “Ista Weyr followed Benden Weyr yesterday,” D’ram interrupted him, his
  slow smile reaching his
  dark eyes. “But have a care which traditions you overset. Some cannot
  be discarded with impunity . . .”
  They rose then as Lord Holders and Craftmasters strode into the weyr.
  Lord Asgenar, Mastersmith
  Fandarel and his wood Craftmaster, Bendarek, were first; Lord Oterel of
  Tillek Hold and Meron, Lord Holder
  of Nabol, his fire lizard squawking on his arm, arrived together, but Lord
  Oterel immediately sought
  Fandarel. A restless, eager atmosphere began to build, palpable with
  questions unanswered the previous
  evening. As soon as most were assembled, F’lar led the way into the
  Council Room. No sooner had the
  Weyrleaders arranged themselves behind him, facing the gathering of
  Lords and Craftsmen, than Larad,
  Lord of Telgar Hold, rose.
  
  Keroon, staring pointedly at
  D’ram on F’lar’s left.
  “Until every Hold and Craft has an efficient communications system.”
  “I’ll need men,” Mastersmith Fandarel rumbled from his cramped posi-
  tion in the far corner. “Do you
  all really want those flame throwers you’ve been plaguing me for?”
  “Not if the dragonmen come when we call.” It was Lord Sangel of Boll
  Hold who answered, his face
  grim, his voice bitter.
  “Is Telgar Weyr prepared to ride today?” Lord Larad went on, still hold-
  ing the floor.
  M’rek, the Telgar Weyr Wing-second, rose, glanced hesitantly at F’lar,
  cleared his throat and then
  nodded.
  “High Reaches Weyr will fly with Telgar riders!” T’bor said.
  “And Istal” D’ram added.
  The unexpected unanimity sent a murmurous ripple through the meet-
  ing, as Lord Larad sat down.
  “Will we have to burn the forests?” Lord Asgenar of Lemos rose to his
  feet. The quiet question was
  the plea of a proud man.
  
  self. Enough time’s been wasted.
  You keep saying your dragons’ll go anywhere, anywhen you tell ‘em to.”
  “A dragon’s got to know where he’s going first, man,” G’narish, the Igen
  Leader, protested, jumping
  up excitedly.
  “Don’t put me off, young man! You can see the Red Star, plain as my
  fist,” and Lord Groghe thrust
  out his closed hand like a weapon, “in that distance-viewer! Go to the
  source. Go to the source!”
  D’ram was on his feet beside G’narish now, adding his angry arguments
  to the confusion. A dragon
  roared so loudly that all were deafened for a moment.
  “If that is the desire of the Lords and Craftsmen,” F’lar said, “then we
  shall mount an expedition to fly
  on the morrow.” He knew D’ram and G’narish had turned to stare at him,
  dumbfounded. He saw Lord
  Groghe bristle suspiciously, but he had the attention of the entire room.
  He spoke quickly, clearly. “You’ve
  seen the Red Star, Lord Groghe? Could you describe the land masses
  to me? Would you estimate that we.had to clear as large an area as, say,
  the northern continent? D’ram, would you agree that it takes about
  
  flame thrower on the continent. Now, dragonmen, I admit we don’t know
  if we can traverse such a distance
  without harm to ourselves and the dragons. I assume that since Thread
  survives on this planet, we can
  exist on that one. However . . .”
  “Enough!” Groghe of Fort Hold bellowed, his face flushed, his eyes pro-
  truding from their sockets.
  F’lar met Groghe’s eyes steadily so that the choleric Lord Holder would
  realize that he was not being
  mocked; that F’lar was in earnest.
  “To be at all effective, Lord Groghe, such an undertaking would leave
  Pern totally unprotected. I
  could not in conscience order such an expedition now that I see how
  much is involved. I hope you will agree
  that it is far more important, at this time, to secure what we have.” Better
  to risk Groghe’s pride if necessary
  to defeat that premature ambition. He couldn’t afford to evade an issue
  that could become a convenient
  rallying cry for the disaffected. “I’d want to get a good look at the Red
  Star before I took such a leap, Lord
  
  The fire lizard on Lord Meron’s arm squawked nervously, causing an in-
  stant, violent reaction from
  every man.
  “Probably that Record deteriorated, too,” F’lar said, raising his voice to a
  level audible above the
  restless scraping and throat-clearing. “Lord Groghe, Fort is the oldest of
  the Holds. Is there a chance that
  your back corridors, too, hide treasures we can use?”
  Groghe’s reply was a curt nod of his head. He seated himself abruptly,
  staring straight ahead. F’lar
  wondered if he had alienated the man beyond reconciliation.
  “I don’t think I’d ever fully appreciated the enormity of such a venture,”
  Corman of Keroon Hold
  remarked in a thoughtful drawl.
  “One jump ahead of us, again, Benden?” asked Larad of Telgar Hold
  with a rueful grin.
  “I shouldn’t say that, Lord Larad,” F’lar replied. “The destruction of all
  Thread at its source has been
  a favorite preoccupation of dragonmen Turn after Turn. I know how
  much territory one Weyr can cover, for
  
  where as difficult a condition as we
  were seven Turns ago but we have all been guilty of misunderstandings
  which have deflected us from the
  important concern. We have no time to waste in assigning guilt or
  awarding compensation. We are still at
  the mercy of Thread though we are better equipped to deal with it.
  “Once before we found answers in old Records, in the helpful recollec-
  tions of Master Weaver Zurg,
  Masterfarmer Andemon, Masterharper Robinton, and the efficiencies of
  Mastersmith Fandarel. You know
  what we’ve found in abandoned rooms at Benden and Fort Weyrs —
  objects made long Turns ago when we
  had not lost certain skills and techniques.
  “Frankly,” and F’lar grinned suddenly, “I’d rather rely on skills and tech-
  niques we, in our Turn, right
  now, can develop.”
  There was an unexpected ripple of assent to that.
  “I speak of the skill of working together, the technique of crossing the
  arbitrary lines of land, craft
  and status, because we must learn more from each other than the sim-
  ple fact that none of us can stand
  
  caught his eye and smiled broad
  encouragement. So F’lar had no choice but to let them unwind. They
  might as well infect each other with.enthusiasm — probably with more ef-
  fect than his best — chosen arguments. He looked around for Lessa
  and saw her slipping toward the hallway where she stopped, evidently
  warned of a late arrival.
  It was F’nor who appeared in the entrance.
  “I’ve fire-lizard eggs,” he shouted. “Fire-lizard eggs,” and he pushed into
  the room, an aisle opening
  for him straight to the Council Table.
  There was silence as he carefully placed his cumbersome felt-wrapped
  burden down and glanced
  triumphantly around the room.
  “Stolen from under T’kul’s nose. Thirty-two of them!”
  “Well, Benden,” Sangel of Southern Boll demanded in the taut hush,
  “who gets preference here?”
  F’lar affected surprise. “Why, Lord Sangel, that is for you,” and his ges-
  ture swept the room
  impartially, “to decide.”
  Clearly that had not been expected.
  
  so much more to do this
  morning but he’d do it the better for a little break. And the eggs would
  occupy the Lords and Craftsmen.
  They wouldn’t notice his absence.
  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 corri-
  dor.
  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
  
  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 in-
  tercepted 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.
  
  “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 equip-
  ment had obviously been removed at
  
  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
  
  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 . . .”
  
  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.
  
  dragon?”
  “Lessa told me about Lord Groghe’s demand,” F’nor said, to give him-
  self 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 Fan-
  darel 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
  
  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.
  
  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 revolution-
  ary 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 compen-
  sation. 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.
  
  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
  
  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 unset-
  tled 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
  
  customed 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, re-
  assuring Berd who rustled around
  anxiously. But he joined her in the pool — bath, splashing with small ve-
  hemence 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
  
  She sighed. Obviously Merika had been a worse Weyrwoman than Ky-
  lara, 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 in-
  debted to him would be
  
  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 be-
  ginning 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
  
  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 ter-
  rain 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 neces-
  sary duties. They set the weyrlings to
  dragging the lake, sent others for immediate supplies of fresh water.
  
  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 herd-
  beasts 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
  
  Suddenly the air was again full of dragon wings — the bronzes had re-
  turned. 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
  
  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 expres-
  sions changing them from well-known
  features into strange parodies.
  “Brekke! Control her!” Someone shouted hoarsely in her ear and her el-
  bow 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
  
  And Brekke was conscious of nothing but Wirenth. For she was sud-
  denly 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.
  
  Prideth writhed, her wings fouled by the
  talons which she could not disengage. Both queens fell like Thread, to-
  ward 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 al-
  titude, 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.
  
  queens, the circling bronzes. Then
  something seized her body roughly from above, giving her a tremen-
  dous 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 it-
  self. Wounded by foe, hampered by
  friends, Wirenth desperately transferred between, taking Prideth with
  her, jaws death-locked on her life’s
  blood.
  
  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 excep-
  tional 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
  
  Prideth also rises! The thought and the brown’s scream of fear were si-
  multaneous. 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
  
  “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 regis-
  tered on their faces. Some portion of
  the human awareness was returning, fighting with the dragon respon-
  siveness 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 en-
  circling queens.
  “Prideth has risen, T’bor! The queens are fighting,” F’nor shouted.
  
  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 shoul-
  der, 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
  
  “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
  
  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
  
  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 curt-
  sey and blot her nose on her
  
  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.”
  
  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 wey-
  red with their beasts, sufficiently
  drugged to sleep.
  Kylara had been found. Or, rather, returned, by the green rider assigned
  to Nabol Hold.
  
  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
  
  “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 do-
  ing 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.”
  CHAPTER XIII
  Night at Fort Weyr:
  Six Days Later
  
  Robinton wished that they could have put off this Red Star viewing until
  minds and eyes had cleared and
  were ready for this challenge. And yet, perhaps the best solution was to
  press this proposed expedition to
  the Red Star as far and as fast as possible — as an anodyne to the de-
  pression that had followed the death
  of the two queens. Robinton knew that F’lar wanted to prove to the Lord
  Holders that the dragonmen were
  in earnest in their desire to clear the air of Thread, but for once, the
  Masterharper found himself without a
  private opinion. He did not know if F’lar was wise in pushing the issue,
  particularly now. Particularly when
  the Benden Weyrleader wasn’t recovered from T’ron’s slash. When no
  one was sure how T’kul was
  managing in Southern Weyr or if the man intended to stay there. When
  all Pern was staggered by the battle
  and deaths of the two queens The people had enough to rationalize,
  had enough to do with the vagaries of
  Threadfall complicating the seasonal mechanics of plowing and seed-
  ing. Leave the attack of the Red Star
  until another time.
  
  I’ve had my turn, I
  daresay.”
  “Has Wansor mounted it permanently at Fort Weyr?”
  “It was discovered at Fort Weyr,” the rider replied, a little defensively.
  “Fort’s the oldest Weyr, you
  know. P’zar feels it should stay at Fort. And the Mastersmith, he agrees.
  His man Wansor keeps saying
  that there may be good reason. Something to do with elevation and an-
  gles and the altitude of Fort Weyr
  mountains. I didn’t understand.”
  No more do I, Robinton thought. But he intended to. He was in agree-
  ment with Fandarel and Terry
  that there should be an interchange of knowledge between Crafts. In-
  disputably, Pern had lost many of the
  bemoaned techniques due to Craft jealousy. Lose a Craftmaster early,
  before he had transmitted all the
  Craft secrets, and a vital piece of information was lost forever. Not that
  Robinton, nor his predecessor, had
  ever espoused that ridiculous prerogative. There were five senior
  harpers who knew everything that
  
  of the cliff, down into the Bowl, making room for someone else to land.
  Glows had been set on the narrow crown of the height, leading toward
  the massive Star Stones,
  their black bulk silhouetted against the lighter night sky. Among those
  gathered there, Robinton could
  distinguish the Mastersmith’s huge figure, Wansor’s pear-shaped and
  Lessa’s slender one.
  On the largest and flattest rock of the Star Stones, Robinton saw the tri-
  pod arrangement on which
  the long barrel of the distance-viewer had been mounted. At first glance
  he was disappointed by its
  simplicity, a fat, round cylinder, with a smaller pipe attached to its side.
  Then it amused him. The Smith
  must be tortured with the yearning to dismantle the instrument and ex-
  amine the principles of its simple
  efficiency.
  “Robinton, how are you this evening?” Lessa asked, coming toward him,
  one hand outstretched.
  He gripped it, her soft skin smooth under the calluses of his fin-
  gers..“Pondering the elements of efficiency,” he countered, keeping his
  voice light. But he couldn’t keep
  
  Robinton said nothing and, after a moment, Lessa went on.
  “We don’t like losing Brekke as a Weyrwoman — ” She paused and
  added, her voice a little harsher,
  “And since it is now obvious that a person can Impress more than once,
  and more than one Dragonkind,
  Brekke will be presented as a candidate when the Benden eggs Hatch.
  Which should be soon.”
  “I perceive,” Robinton said, cautiously choosing his words “that not eve-
  ryone favors this departure
  from custom.”
  Although he couldn’t see her face in the darkness, he felt her eyes on
  him.
  “This time it’s not the Oldtimers. I suppose they’re so sure she can’t re-
  Impress, they’re indifferent.”
  “Who then?”
  “F’nor and Manora oppose it violently.”
  “And Brekke?”
  Lessa gave an impatient snort. “Brekke says nothing. She will not even
  open her eyes. She can’t
  be sleeping all the time. The lizards and the dragons tell us she’s
  awake. You see,” and Lessa’s
  
  “Brekke is not — not actively suicidal. She’s craftbred, you know,” Lessa
  said in a flat, disapproving
  tone of voice.
  “No, I didn’t know,” Robinton murmured encouragingly after a pause. He
  was thinking that Lessa
  wouldn’t ever contemplate suicide in a similar circumstance and won-
  dered what Brekke’s “breeding” had to
  do with a suicidal aptitude.
  “That’s her trouble. She can’t actively seek death so she just lies there. I
  have this incredible urge,”
  and Lessa bunched her fists, “to beat or pinch or slap her — anything to
  get some response from the girl.
  It’s not the end of the world, after all. She can hear other dragons. She’s
  not bereft of all contact with
  Dragonkind, like Lytol.”
  “She must have time to recover from the shock . . .”
  “I know, I know,” Lessa said irritably, “but we don’t have time. We can’t
  get her to realize that it’s
  better to do things . . .”
  “Lessa . . .”
  
  her reply.
  “He is feverish. He ought never to have come to High Reaches with that
  open wound. You know
  what cold between does to wounds!”
  “I’d hoped he’d be here tonight.”
  Lessa’s laugh was sour. “I dosed his klah when he wasn’t looking.”
  Robinton chuckled. “And stuffed him with mosstea, I’ll bet.”
  “Packed the wound with it, too.”
  “He’s a strong man, Lessa. He’ll be all right.”
  “He’d better be. If only F’nor — ” and Lessa broke off. “I sound like a
  wherry, don’t I?” She gave a
  sigh and smiled up at Robinton.
  “Not a bit, my dear Lessa, I assure you. However, it’s not as if Benden
  were inadequately
  represented,” and he executed a little bow which, if she shrugged it off,
  at least made her laugh. “in fact,” he
  went on, “I’m a trifle relieved that F’lar isn’t here, railing at anything that
  keeps him from blotting out any
  Thread he happens to see in that contraption.”.“True enough.” And
  Robinton caught the edge to her voice. “I’m not sure . . .”
  
  keep him in sight, if you
  know what I mean.”
  “But he’s got no influence on the other Lords . . .”
  Robinton gave a harsh laugh. “My dear Weyrwoman, considering the in-
  fluence he’s been exerting
  in other areas, he doesn’t need the Lords’ support.”
  Robinton did wonder at the gall of the man, appearing in public any-
  where a scant six days after he’d
  been involved in the deaths of two queen dragons.
  The Lord Holder of Nabol strode insolently to the focal point of the gath-
  ering, his bronze fire lizard
  perched on his forearm, its wings extended as it fought to maintain its
  balance. The little creature began to
  hiss as it became aware of the antagonism directed at Meron.
  “And this — this innocuous tube is the incredible instrument that will
  show us the Red Star?” Meron
  of Nabol asked scathingly.
  “Don’t touch it, I beg of you.” Wansor jumped forward, intercepting
  Nabol’s hand.
  “What did you say?” The lizard’s hiss was no less sibilantly menacing
  than Meron’s tone. The
  
  Wansor glanced questioningly at the big Smith, who made a slight
  movement of his head, excusing
  him. Wansor gratefully stepped back and let Fandarel preside. With two
  gnarled fingers, the Smith
  delicately held the small round protuberance at the top of the smaller
  cylinder.
  “This is the eyepiece. Put your best seeing eye to it,” he told Meron.
  The lack of any courteous title was not lost on the Nabolese. Plainly he
  wanted to reprimand the
  Smith. Had Wansor spoken so, he would not have hesitated a second
  Robinton thought.
  Meron’s lips slid into a sneer and, with a bit of a swagger, he took the fi-
  nal step to the distance-viewer.
  Bending forward slightly, he laid his eye to the proper place. And jerked
  his body back hastily, his
  face wearing a fleeting expression of shock and terror. He laughed un-
  easily and then took a second, longer
  look. Far too long a look to Robinton’s mind.
  “If there is any lack of definition in the image, Lord Meron — ” Wansor
  began tentatively.
  
  into the eyepiece.
  “Very interesting. Very interesting,” he said, his tone oily with amuse-
  ment.
  “That is quite enough, Meron,” Lessa said, striding to the instrument.
  The man could not be allowed
  any privilege.
  He regarded her as he might a body insect, coldly and mockingly.
  “Enough of what — Weyrwoman?” And his tone made the title a vulgar
  epithet. In fact, his pose
  exuded such a lewd familiarity that Robinton found he was clenching his
  fists. He had an insane desire to
  wipe that look from Meron’s face and change the arrangement of the
  features in the process.
  The Mastersmith, however, reacted more quickly. His two great hands
  secured Meron’s arms to his
  sides and, in a fluid movement, Fandarel picked the Nabolese Lord up,
  the man’s feet dangling a full
  dragonfoot above the rock, and carried him as far away from the Star
  Stones as the ledge permitted.
  Fandarel then set Meron down so hard that the man gave a startled ex-
  clamation of pain and staggered
  
  the Red Star reached her brain, such.trivial annoyance evaporated. There
  was the Red Star, seemingly no farther away than her arm could
  reach. It swam, a many-hued globe, like a child’s miggsy, in a lush black
  background. Odd whit-ish-pink
  masses must be clouds. Startling to think that the Red Star could pos-
  sess clouds — like Pern. Where the
  cover was pierced, she could see grayish masses, a lively gray with
  glints and sparkles. The ends of the
  slightly ovoid planet were completely white, but devoid of the cloud
  cover. Like the great icecaps of northern
  regions of Pern. Darker masses punctuated the grays. Land? Or seas?
  Involuntarily Lessa moved her head, to glance up at the round marks of
  redness in the night sky that
  was this child’s toy through the magic of the distance-viewer. Then, be-
  fore anyone might think she’d
  relinquished the instrument she looked back through the eyepiece. In-
  credible. Unsettling. If the gray was
  land — how could they possibly rid it of Thread? If the darker masses
  were land . . . Disturbed, and
  suddenly all too willing that someone else be exposed to their ancient
  enemy at such close range, she
  
  Groghe would need to be kept . . .
  She retreated and knew it for a retreat — to Robinton. The Harper’s
  presence was always
  reassuring. He was eager to have his turn but resigned to waiting.
  Groghe naturally would give the other
  Lord Holders precedence over a Harper, even the Masterharper of Pern.
  “I wish he’d go,” Lessa said, glancing sideways at Meron. The Nabolese
  had made no attempt to
  re-enter the group from which he had been so precipitously expelled.
  The offensive stubbornness of the
  man in remaining where he clearly was not welcome provided a counter
  irritant to worry and her renewed
  fear of the Red Star.
  Why must it appear so — so innocent? Why did it have to have clouds?
  It ought to be different.
  How it ought to differ, Lessa couldn’t guess, but it ought to look — to
  look sinister. And it didn’t. That made
  it more fearful than ever.
  “I don’t see anything,” Sangel of Boll was complaining.
  “A moment, sir.” Wansor came forward and began adjusting a small
  knob. “Tell me when the view
  
  taste of honest dread, perhaps . . .
  “Why does it glow? Where does it get light? It’s dark here,” the Lord
  Holder of Boll babbled.
  “It is the light of the sun, my Lord,” Fandarel replied, his deep, matter-of-
  fact voice reducing that
  miracle to common knowledge.
  “How can that be?” Sangel protested. “The sun’s on the other side of us
  now. Any child knows that
  — ”
  “Of course, but we are not obstructing the Star from that light. We are
  below it in the skies, if you
  will, so that the sun’s light reaches it directly.”
  Sangel seemed likely to monopolize the viewer, too.
  “That’s enough, Sangel,” Groghe said testily. “Let Oterel have a
  chance.”
  “But I’ve barely looked, and there was trouble adjusting the mechanism,”
  Sangel complained.
  Between Oterel’s glare and Groghe trying to shoulder him out of the
  way, Sangel reluctantly stepped aside.
  “Let me adjust the focus for you, Lord Oterel,” Wansor murmured po-
  litely.
  
  The man shivered, pulling his cloak around him though the night air was
  not more than mildly cool
  for spring..“It’s nothing more than a child’s miggsy,” exclaimed the Lord
  of Tillek. “Fuzzy. Or is it supposed to
  be?” He glanced away from the eyepiece at Lessa.
  “No, my Lord,” Wansor said. “It should be bright and clear, so you can
  see cloud formations.”
  “How would you know?” Sangel asked testily.
  “Wansor set the instrument up for this evening’s viewing,” Fandarel
  pointed out.
  “Clouds?” Tillek asked. “Yes, I see them. But what’s the land? The dark
  stuff or the gray?”
  “We don’t know yet,” Fandarel told him.
  , “Land masses don’t look that way as high as dragons can fly a man,”
  said P’zar the Fort
  Weyrleader, speaking for the first time.
  “And objects seen at a far greater distance change even more,” Wansor
  said in the dry tone of
  someone who does know what he’s talking about. “For example, the
  very mountains of Fort which surround
  
  authority in his manner. Lessa
  approved more and more of Wansor. A man ought not be afraid to say
  he didn’t know. Nor a woman.
  The Lord of Tillek did not want to leave the instrument. Almost as if he
  hoped, Lessa thought, that if
  he looked long enough, he’d discover a good argument for mounting an
  expedition.
  Tillek finally responded to Nessel of Crom’s acid remarks and stepped
  aside.
  “What do you think is the land, Sangel? Or did you really see anything?
  “Of course I did. Saw the clouds plain as I see you right now.”
  Oterel of Tillek snorted contemptuously. “Which doesn’t say much, con-
  sidering the darkness.”
  “I saw as much as you did, Oterel. Gray masses, and black masses and
  those clouds. A star
  having clouds! Doesn’t make sense. Pern has clouds!”
  Hastily Lessa changed her laugh at the man’s indignation to a cough,
  but she caught the Harper’s
  amused look and wondered what his reaction to the Red Star would be.
  Would he be for, or against this
  expedition? And which attitude did she want him to express?
  
  Lord out of the way.
  “Now, wait a minute there, Tillek.” And Nessel put a proprietary hand on
  the instrument. As Tillek
  jostled him, the tripod tottered and the distance-viewer, on its hastily
  rigged swivel, assumed a new
  direction.
  “Now you’ve done it,” Oterel cried. “I only wanted to see if you could dis-
  tinguish the land from the
  water.”
  Wansor tried to get between the two Lords so that he could adjust his
  precious instrument.
  “I didn’t get my full turn,” Nessel complained, trying to keep physical
  possession of the distance-viewer.
  “You’ll not see anything, Lord Nessel, if Wansor cannot have a chance
  to sight back on the Star,”
  Fandarel said, politely gesturing the Crom Lord out of the way.
  “You re a damned wherry fool, Nessel,” Lord Groghe said, pulling him to
  one side and waving
  Wansor in.
  “Tillek’s the fool.”
  
  affronted Lessa that the little creature was humming with pleasure.
  “It will take many observations, by many eyes,” Fandarel said in his
  bass rumble, “before we will be
  able to say what the Red Star looks like with any certitude. One point of
  similarity is not enough. Not at all.”
  “Oh, indeed. Indeed.” Wansor seconded his Craftmaster, his eyes glued
  to the piece as he slowly
  swung it across the night sky..“What’s taking you so long?” Nessel of
  Crom demanded irritably. “There’s the Star. We can all see
  it with our naked eyes.”
  “And it is so easy to pick out the green pebble you drop on the sands of
  Igen at high noon?” asked
  Robinton.
  “Ah. I’ve got it,” Wansor cried. Nessel jumped forward, reaching for the
  tube. He jerked his hand
  back, remembering what an unwise movement could do. With both
  hands conspicuously behind him, he
  looked again at the Red Star.
  Nessel, however, did not remain long at the distance-viewer. When
  Oterel stepped forward, the
  Masterharper moved quicker.
  
  toward the Red Star in the dark
  heavens above them.
  “Well, Harper?” asked Meron superciliously. “You’ve a glib word for
  every occasion.”
  Robinton regarded the Nabolese for a longer moment than he had the
  Star.
  “I think it wiser that we keep this distance between us.”
  “Ha! I thought as much.” Meron was grinning with odious triumph.
  “I wasn’t aware you thought,” Robinton remarked quietly.
  “What do you mean, Meron?” Lessa asked in a dangerously edged
  voice, “you thought as much?”
  “Why, it should be obvious,” and the Lord of Nabol had not tempered his
  attitude toward her much
  since his first insult.
  “The Harper does as Benden Weyr decrees. And since Benden Weyr
  does not care to exterminate
  Thread at source . . .
  “And how do you know that?” Lessa demanded coldly.
  “And, Lord Nabol, on what grounds do you base your allegation that the
  Harper of Pern does as
  
  “But it’s so obvious. Surely you can all see that,” Meron replied with ma-
  licious affability and a
  feigned surprise at the obtuseness of the others. “He has a hopeless
  passion for — the Benden
  Weyrwoman.”
  For a moment Lessa could only stare at the man in a stunned daze. It
  was true that she admired
  and respected Robinton. She was fond of him, she supposed. Always
  glad to see him and never bothering
  to disguise it but — Meron was mad. Trying to undermine the country’s
  faith in dragonmen with absurd,
  vicious rumors. First Kylara and now . . . And yet Kylara’s weakness, her
  promiscuity, the general attitude
  of the Hold and Craft toward the customs of the Weyrs made his accu-
  sation so plausible . . .
  Robinton’s hearty guffaw startled her. And wiped the smile from Nabol’s
  face.
  “Benden’s Weyrwoman has not half the attraction for me that Benden’s
  wine has!”
  There was such intense relief in the faces around her that Lessa knew,
  in a sinking, sick way, that
  
  “Furthermore,” the Harper went on, “the Masterharper of Pern has no
  opinion, one way or another,
  about the Red Star — not even a verse. Because that — that — child’s
  miggsy scares him juiceless and
  makes him yearn for some of that Benden wine, right now, in limitless
  quantity.” Robinton had not the
  slightest trace of laughter in his voice now. “I’m too steeped in the his-
  tory and lore of our beloved Pern, I’ve
  sung too many ballads about the evil of the Red Star to want to get any
  closer to it. Even that — ” and he
  pointed to the distance-viewer, “brings it far too near me. But the men
  who have to fight Thread day after
  day, Turn after Turn, can look upon it with less fearfulness than the poor
  Harper. And, Meron, Lord Holder
  of Nabol, you can wager every field and cot and hall upon your lands
  that the dragonmen of every Weyr
  would like to be quit of any obligation to keep your hide Threadfree even
  if it means wiping Thread from.every squared length of that Star.” The ve-
  hemence in the Harper’s voice caused Meron to take a backward
  step, to clap a hand on the violently agitated fire lizard. “How can a you,
  any of you,” and the Harper’s
  
  when a dragon dies. Or
  must I remind you of that, too? Do you honestly believe that the Dragon-
  riders wish to prolong such
  conditions, such occurrences? What do they get out of it? Not much!
  Not much! Are the scores they suffer
  worth a few bags of grain, or a blade from the Smith’s? Is a dragon’s
  death truly recompensed by a length
  of goods or a scrawny herdbeast?
  “And if there have been instruments for man with his puny eyes to view
  that bauble in the sky, why
  do we still have Thread? If it’s just a question of finding coordinates and
  taking that jump? Could it be that it
  has been tried by Dragonriders before? And they failed because those
  gray masses we see so clearly are
  not water, or land, but uncountable Threads, seething and writhing, until
  the topmost can, by some
  mysterious agency, win free to plague us? Could it be because, al-
  though there are clouds, they do not
  consist of water vapor as Pern’s clouds, but something deadly, far more
  inimical to us than Thread? How do
  
  soulless, that the dragonmen of Pern will go to the Red Star.”
  “That is F’lar’s intention,” Lessa said in a strong, ringing voice, her head
  high, her shoulders straight.
  Unlike the Harper, she could not admit her fear, even to herself.
  “Aye,” rumbled Fandarel, nodding his great head slowly up and down,
  “for he has enjoined me and
  Wansor to make many observations on the Red Star so that an expedi-
  tion can be sent as soon as possible.”
  “And how long must we wait until this expedition takes place?” Meron
  asked, as if the Harper’s
  words had never been spoken.
  “Come now, man, how can you expect any one to give a date — a
  time?” asked Groghe.
  “Ah, but Benden Weyr is so adept at giving times and dates and pat-
  terns, is it not?” Meron replied
  so unctuously that Lessa wanted to scratch his face.
  “And they saved your profit, Nabol,” Oterel put in.
  “Have you any idea, Weyrwoman?” Sangel asked Lessa in an anxious
  tone.
  “I must complete the observations,” Wansor put in, nervously dithering.
  “It would be folly —
  
  “It could be a lifelong project,” he went on.
  “Not if I know F’lar,” the Harper said dryly. “I’ve recently entertained the
  notion that Benden’s
  Weyrleader takes these latest vagaries of our ancient scourge as a per-
  sonal insult since we had rather
  thought we’d got them neatly slotted in time and place.”
  There was such good-humored raillery in the Harper’s tone that Oterel
  of Tillek gave a snort. Lord
  Groghe looked more thoughtful, probably not quite recovered from
  F’lar’s rebuttal the other day.
  “An insult to Benden?” asked Sangel, baffled. “But his time tables were
  accurate for Turns. Used
  them myself and never found them wrong until just recently.”
  Meron stamped his foot, his affected pose gone.
  “You’re all fools. Letting the Harper sweet-talk you into complacency.
  We’ll never see the end of
  Thread. Not in his lifetime or ours. And we’ll be paying tithes to shiftless
  Weyrs deferring to Dragonriders
  and their women as long as this planet circles the sun. And there’s not
  one of you great Lords, not one, with
  
  launch position. A single clear note from Ramoth all but deafened those
  on the heights. The fire lizard
  disappeared with a shriek. Strangling on his curses, Meron stamped
  down the lighted path to the landing,
  calling harshly for his dragon. The green appeared with such alacrity
  that Lessa was certain Ramoth had
  summoned him, even as she had warned the little lizard against attack-
  ing Lessa.
  “You wouldn’t order T’bor to stop patrolling Nabol, would you,
  Weyrwoman?” asked Nessel, Lord of
  Crom. “After all, my lands march with his . . .”
  “Lord Nessel,” Lessa began, intending to reassure him that she had no
  such authority in the first
  place and in the second . . . “Lord Nessel,” she repeated instead, smil-
  ing at him, “you notice that the Lord
  of Nabol did not request it, after all. Though,” and she sighed with dra-
  matic dedication, “we have been
  sorely tempted to penalize him for his part in the death of the two
  dragon queens.” She gave Nessel a wan,
  brave smile. “But there are hundreds of innocent people on his lands,
  and many more about him, who
  
  queens and you’re doing nothing .
  . .”
  “Are the Lord Holders doing anything about Meron?” she asked, glanc-
  ing sternly at the four present.
  There was a long silence. “I must return to Benden Weyr. The dawn and
  another day’s watch come all too
  soon there. We’re keeping Wansor and Fandarel from the observations
  that will make it possible for us to
  go to that Star.”
  “Before they monopolize the thing, I’d like another look,” Oterel of Tillek
  said loudly. “My eyes are
  keen . . .”
  Lessa was tired as she called Ramoth to her. She wanted to go back to
  Benden Weyr, not so much
  to sleep as to reassure herself about F’lar. Mnementh was with him,
  true, and he’d have reported any
  change in his rider’s condition . . .
  And I’d’ve told you, Ramoth said, sounding a little hurt.
  “Lessa,” the Harper’s low voice reached her, “are you in favor of that
  expedition?”
  
  just doesn’t seem logical . . .”
  “Is there any record that anyone, besides yourself, ever jumped so far
  between times?”
  “No.” She had to admit it. “Not so far. But then, there hadn’t been such
  need.”
  “And there’s no need now to take this other kind of a jump?”
  “Don’t unsettle me more.” Lessa was unsure of what she felt or thought,
  or what anyone felt or
  thought, should or shouldn’t do. Then she saw the kind, worried expres-
  sion of the Harper’s eyes and
  impulsively gripped his arm. “How can we know? How can we be sure?”
  “How were you sure that the Question Song could be answered — by
  you?”
  “And you’ve a new Question Song for me?”
  “Questions, yes.” He gave her a smile as he covered her hand gently
  with his own. “Answer?” He
  shook his head and then stepped back as Ramoth alighted.
  But his questions were as difficult to forget as the Question Song which
  had led her between times.
  When she returned to Benden, she found that F’lar’s skin was hot to the
  touch; he slept restlessly. So much
  
  ried about her report on the
  viewing.
  “I can’t imagine what you expected me to see,” she said with some ex-
  asperation after she had
  patiently described for the fourth time what she had seen through the
  distance-viewer.“I expected,” and he paused significantly, “to find some —
  some characteristic for which the dragons
  could fly between.” He plucked at the bed fur, then pulled the recalci-
  trant forelock back from his eyes. “We
  have got to keep that promise to the Lord Holders.”
  “Why? To prove Meron wrong?”
  “No. To prove it is or is not possible to get rid of Thread permanently.”
  He scowled at her as if she
  should have known the answer.
  “I think someone else must have tried to discover that before,” she said
  wearily. “And we still have
  Thread.”
  “That doesn’t mean anything,” he countered in such a savage tone that
  he began to cough, an
  exercise which painfully contracted the injured muscles across his waist.
  
  “That isn’t . . .”
  “If it’s your pet project you’re worrying about, I had N’ton secure Thread
  . . .”
  “N’ton?” F’lar’s eyes flew open in surprise.
  “Yes. He’s a good lad and, from what I heard at Fort Weyr last night,
  very deft in being exactly
  where he is needed, unobtrusively.”
  “And . . . ?”
  “And? Well, when the next queen at Fort Weyr rises, he’ll undoubtedly
  take the Leadership. Which
  is what you intended, isn’t it?”
  “I don’t mean that. I mean, the Thread.”
  Lessa felt her guts turn over at the memory. “As you thought, the grubs
  rose to the surface the
  instant we put the Thread in. Very shortly there was no more Thread.”
  F’lar’s eyes shone and he parted his lips in a triumphant smile.
  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
  At that, Lessa jammed both fists against her waist and awarded him one
  of her sternest looks.
  “Because there have been a few other things to occupy my mind and
  time. This is not something we can
  
  carry on. That’s what we need the
  most, Lessa. Men who think, who can carry on. That’s what happened
  before.” His eyes flew open,
  shadowed with a vague fear and a definite worry. “What time is it at Fort
  Weyr now?”
  Lessa made a rapid calculation. “Dawn’s about four hours away.”
  “Oh. I want N’ton here as soon as possible.”
  “No wait a minute, F’lar, he’s a Fort rider . . .”
  F’lar grabbed for her hand, pulling her down to him. “Don’t you see,” he
  demanded, his voice
  hoarse, his urgency frightening, “he’s got to know. Know everything I
  plan. Then, if something happens . .
  .”
  Lessa stared at him, not comprehending. Then she was both furious
  with him for frightening her,
  irritated with his self-pity, and terrified that he might indeed be fatally ill.
  “F’lar, get a grip on yourself, man,” she said, half-angry, half-teasing; he
  felt so hot.
  He flung himself back down on the bed, tossing his head from side to
  side.
  
  yet.”.The green is a messenger and the man he bears is very excited,
  Mnementh reported, and he
  sounded mildly curious.
  Ramoth, who had taken herself to the Hatching Ground after Lessa
  awakened, rumbled a challenge
  to bronze Lioth. N’ton came striding down the passageway, accompa-
  nied by Wansor, certainly the last
  person Lessa expected to see. The rotund little man’s face was flushed
  with excitement, his eyes sparkling
  despite red rims and bloodshot whites.
  “Oh, Weyrlady, this is the most exciting news imaginable. Really excit-
  ing!” Wansor babbled,
  shaking the large leaf under her nose. She had an impression of circles.
  Then Wansor saw F’lar. All the
  excitement drained out of his face as he realized that the Weyrleader
  was a very sick man. “Sir, I had no
  idea — I wouldn’t have presumed . . .”
  “Nonsense, man,” F’lar said irritably. “What brings you? What have you
  there? Let me see.
  You’ve found a coordinate for the dragons?”
  
  one, too, which became visible
  toward morning, didn’t it, N’ton?”
  The young bronze rider nodded solemnly but there was a gleam of
  amusement in his blue eyes for
  the glassman’s manner of exposition. “And very faintly, but still visible as
  a sphere, is this third heavenly
  neighbor, to our northeast, low on the horizon. Then, directly south — it
  was N’ton’s notion to look all
  around — we found this larger globe with the most unusual cluster of
  objects moving with visible speed
  about it. Why, the skies around Pern are crowded!” Wansor’s dismay
  was so ludicrous that Lessa had to
  stifle her giggle.
  F’lar took the leaf from the glassman and began to study it while Lessa
  pushed Wansor onto the
  stool by the sick man.
  F’lar tapped the circles thoughtfully as though this tactile contact made
  them more real.
  “And there are four stars in the skies?”
  “Indeed there are many more, Weyrleader,” Wansor replied. “But only
  these,” and his stained
  
  F’lar looked up from the rude sketches, a terrible expression on his face.
  “If these are so near, then does Thread really come from the Red Star?”
  “Oh dear, oh dear,” moaned Wansor softly and began caressing his fin-
  gertips with his thumbs in
  little fluttery gestures.
  “Nonsense,” said Lessa so confidently that the three men glanced at her
  in surprise. “Let’s not
  make more complications than we already have. The ancients who
  knew enough to make that distance-viewer
  definitely stipulate the Red Star as the origin of Thread. If it were one of
  these others, they’d have
  said so. It is when the Red Star approaches Pern that we have Thread.”
  “In that drawing in the Council Room at Fort Weyr there is a diagram of
  globes on circular routes,”
  N’ton said thoughtfully. “Only there are six circles and,” his eyes wid-
  ened suddenly; he glanced quickly
  down at the sheet in Wansor’s hand, “. . . one of them, the next to the
  last, has clusters of smaller
  satellites.”
  “Well, then, except that we’ve seen it with our own eyes, what’s all the
  worry?” demanded Lessa,
  
  asked, “What of the Red Star? Did you see anything that could guide us
  in?”
  “As to that. sir,” N’ton answered after a questioning glance at Wansor,
  “there is an odd-shaped
  protuberance which puts me in mind of the tip of Nerat, only pointed
  east instead of west — ” His voice
  trailed off and he gave a diffident shrug of his shoulders..F’lar sighed
  and leaned back again, all the eagerness gone from his face.
  “Insufficient detail, huh?”
  “Last night,” N’ton added in hurried qualification. “I doubt the following
  nights will alter the view.”
  “On the contrary, Weyrleader,” said Wansor, his eyes wide, “the Red
  Star turns on its own axis
  much as Pern does.”
  “But it is still too far away to make out any details,” Lessa said firmly.
  F’lar shot her an annoyed look. “If I could only see for myself . . .”
  Wansor looked up brightly. “Well, now, you know, I had about figured
  out how to utilize the lenses
  from the magnifier. Of course, there’d be no such maneuverability as
  one can achieve with the ancient
  
  are wrong for any other time of year. But then, I could — no,” Wansor’s
  face was puckered with his intense
  frown. Only his eyes moved, restlessly, as the myriad thoughts he was
  undoubtedly sifting were reflected
  briefly. “I will think about it. But I am sure that I can devise a means of
  your seeing the Red Star,
  Weyrleader, without moving from Benden.”
  “You must be exhausted, Wansor,” Lessa said, before F’lar could ask
  another question.
  “Oh, not to mention,” Wansor replied, blinking hard to focus on her.
  “Enough to mention,” Lessa said firmly and took the cup from his hand.
  half-lifting him from the
  stool. “I think Master Wansor, that you had better sleep here at Benden
  a little while.”
  “Oh, could I? I’d the most fearful notion that I might fall off the dragon
  between. But that couldn’t
  happen, could it? Oh, I can’t stay. I have the Craft’s dragon. Really, per-
  haps I’d just better . . .”
  His voice trailed off as Lessa led him down the corridor.
  “He was up all last night too,” N’ton said, grinning affectionately after
  Wansor.
  
  “There must be some way to get to the Red Star.”
  “I’m sure you’ll find it, sir, when you’re feeling better.”
  F’lar grimaced, thinking that “unobtrusive” was an apt description of this
  young man. He had deftly
  expressed confidence in his superior, that only ill-health prevented im-
  mediate action, and that the ill-health
  was a passing thing.
  “Since that’s the way matters stand in that direction, let us proceed in
  another. Lessa said that you
  procured Thread for us. Did you see how those swamp grubs dealt with
  Thread?”
  N’ton nodded slowly, his eyes glittering.
  “If we hadn’t had to cede the dissidents the continent, I’d’ve had a
  straight-flown Search discover the
  boundaries of the southern lands. We still don’t know its extent. Explo-
  ration was stopped on the west by
  the deserts, and on the east by the sea. But it can’t be just the swampy
  area that is infested with these
  grubs.” F’lar shook his head. He sounded querulous to himself. He took
  a breath, forcing himself to speak
  
  Threadfall is light in the south, but I wished I’d known.”
  “And what would you have thought?” asked Lessa with her usual asper-
  ity as she rejoined them.
  “Nothing. Because until Thread started falling out of phase, and you had
  been at the swampfall, you’d never
  have correlated the information.”
  She was right, of course, but N’ton didn’t have to look so torn between
  agreement with her and
  sympathy for him. Silently F’lar railed at this infuriating debility. He ought
  to be up and around, not forced to
  rely on the observations of others at a critical time like this.
  “Sir, in the Turns I’ve been a dragonrider,” said N’ton, considering his
  words even as he spoke, “I’ve
  learned that nothing is done without purpose. I used to call my sire fool-
  ish to insist that one tanned leather.in just one way, or stretched hide only a
  little at a time, well-soaked, but I’ve realized recently that there is an
  order, a reason, a rhyme for it.” He paused, but F’lar urged him to go on.
  “I’ve been most interested in the
  methods of the Mastersmith. That man thinks constantly.” The young
  man’s eyes shone with such intense
  
  developed the grubs to protect growing fields?”
  “They developed the dragons from fire lizards, didn’t they? Why not
  grubs as ground crews?” And
  N’ton grinned at the whimsy of his thesis.
  “That makes sense,” Lessa said, looking hopefully at F’lar. “Certainly
  that explains why the dragons
  haven’t jumped between to the Red Star. They didn’t need to. Protection
  was being provided.”
  “Then why don’t we have grubs here in the north?” asked F’lar conten-
  tiously.
  “Ha! Someone didn’t live long enough to transmit the news, or sow the
  grubs, or cultivate them, or
  something. Who can tell?” Lessa threw wide her arms. It was obvious to
  F’lar that she preferred this
  theory, subtle as she may have been in trying to block his desire to go to
  the Red Star.
  He was willing to believe that the grubs were the answer, but the Red
  Star had to be visited. If only
  to reassure the Lord Holders that the dragonmen were trustworthy.
  “We still don’t know if the grubs exist beyond the swamps,” F’lar re-
  minded her.
  
  that F’nor was involved with a woman; he was a dragonrider first, wasn’t
  he? Then F’lar suppressed such
  uncharitable thoughts. Brekke had been a Weyrwoman; through no fault
  of hers (and F’lar still berated
  himself that he had not thought of keeping a closer check on Kylara’s
  activities — he’d been warned),
  Brekke was deprived of her dragon. If she found some comfort in F’nor’s
  presence, it was unforgivable to
  deprive her of his company. “Go, N’ton. Spot-check. And bring back
  samples of those grubs from every
  location. I wish Wansor had not dismantled that other contraption. We
  could look closely at the grubs. That
  Masterherder was a fool. The grubs might not be the same in every
  spot.”
  “Grubs are grubs,” Lessa mumbled.
  “Landbeasts raised in the mountains are different from landbeasts
  raised on the plains,” N’ton said.
  “Fellis trees grown south are larger with better fruit than Nerat’s best.”
  “You know too much,” Lessa replied, grinning to take the sting from her
  words.
  N’ton grinned. “I’m a bronze rider, Weyrwoman.”
  
  oath that brought Lessa, all
  consideration, to his side.
  “I’ll get well, I’ll get well,” he fumed. He held her hand against his cheek,
  grateful, too, for the cool of
  her fingers as they curved to fit against his face.
  “Of course you’ll get well. You’re never sick,” she murmured softly,
  stroking his forehead with her
  free hand. Then her voice took on a teasing note. “You’re just stupid.
  Otherwise you wouldn’t have gone
  between, let cold into a wound, and developed fever.”
  F’lar, reassured as much by her caustic jibe as her cool and loving ca-
  resses, lay back and willed
  himself to sleep, to health.
  CHAPTER XIV
  Early Morning at Ruatha Hold
  Midday at Benden Weyr.WHEN WORD CAME that the Hatching was
  likely to occur that bright spring day, Jaxom didn’t know
  whether he was glad or not. Ever since the two queens had killed each
  other ten days before, Lytol had
  been sunk in such a deep gloom that Jaxom had tiptoed around the
  Hold. His guardian had always been a
  
  off his sense of blasphemy for
  invading the Hatching Ground, and wondered if this were his punish-
  ment. But he was a logical boy and the
  death of the two queens had not occurred at Ruatha, not over Fort Weyr
  to which Ruatha Hold was bound.
  He’d never met Kylara or Brekke. He did know F’nor and felt sorry for
  him if half what he’d heard was true
  — that F’nor had taken Brekke into his weyr and had abandoned his du-
  ties as a Wing-second to care for
  her. She was very sick. Funny, everyone was sorry for Brekke but no
  one mentioned Kylara, and she’d lost
  a queen, too.
  Jaxom wondered about that but knew he couldn’t ask. Just as he
  couldn’t ask if he and Lytol were
  really going to the Hatching. Why else would the Weyrleader send them
  word? And wasn’t Talina a
  Ruathan candidate for the queen egg? Ruatha ought to be represented
  at the Hatching. Benden Weyr
  always had open Impressions, even when the other Weyrs didn’t. And
  he hadn’t seen Felessan in ages.
  
  Everything was going wrong on Pern. Dragon queens killing each other,
  Weyrleaders dueling in public,
  Thread falling here and there, with no rhyme or reason. Order had
  slipped away from life; the constants that
  made his routine were dissolving, and he was powerless to stop the in-
  exorable slide. It wasn’t fair.
  Everything had been going so well. Everyone had been saying how
  Ruatha Hold had improved. Now, this
  past six days, they’d lost that northeastern farmhold and, if things kept
  up, there wouldn’t be much left of all
  Lytol’s hard work. Maybe that’s why he was acting so — so odd. But it
  wasn’t fair. Lytol had worked so
  hard. And now, it looked as though Jaxom was going to miss the
  Hatching and see who Impressed that
  littlest egg. It wasn’t at all fair.
  “Lord Jaxom,” gasped a breathless drudge from the doorway, “Lord Ly-
  tol said for you to change to
  your best. The Hatching’s to start. Oh, sir, do you think Talina has a
  chance?”
  “More than a chance,” Jaxom said, rude with excitement, “She’s
  Ruathan-bred after all. Now get
  
  raced down into the Great
  Court where the blue dragon waited.
  Sight of the blue, however, inevitably reminded Jaxom that Groghe’s
  eldest son had been given one
  of the fire-lizard eggs, Lytol had deliberately refused the pair to which
  Ruatha Hold was entitled. That, too,
  was a rankling injustice. Jaxom should have had a fire-lizard egg, even
  if Lytol couldn’t bear to Impress one.
  Jaxom was Lord of Ruatha and an egg had been his due. Lytol had no
  right to refuse him that perquisite.
  “Be a good day for Ruatha if your Talina Impresses, won’t it?” D’wer, the
  blue’s rider, greeted him.
  “Yes,” Jaxom replied, and he sounded sullen even to himself.
  “Cheer up, lad,” D’wer said. “Things could be worse.”
  “How?”
  D’wer chuckled and, while it offended Jaxom, he couldn’t very well call a
  dragonman to task.
  “Good morning, Trebith,” Jaxom said to the blue, who turned his head,
  the large eye whirling with
  color.
  
  farsighted, and that’s harder to endure than a draught or two.”
  Lytol gave Jaxom a cursory inspection and an absent good morning.
  The tic started in the Lord
  Holder’s face the moment he climbed up Trebith’s shoulder to take his
  seat against the neck ridges. He
  motioned curtly to his ward to get in front of him and then nodded to
  D’wer.
  The blue dragonman gave a slight smile of response, as if he expected
  no more notice from Lytol,
  and suddenly they were aloft. Aloft, with Ruatha’s fire height dwindling
  below. And between with Jaxom
  holding his breath against the frightening cold. Then above Benden’s
  Star Stones, so close to other dragons
  also wincing into the Weyr that Jaxom feared collision at any moment.
  “How — how do they know where they are?” he asked D’wer.
  The rider grinned at him. “They know. Dragons never collide — ” And a
  shadow of memory
  crossed D’wer’s usually cheerful face.
  Jaxom groaned. How stupid of him to make any reference to the
  queens’ battle.
  
  dragon also veering in that
  direction.
  But suddenly they were inside the wide mouth of the upper entrance, a
  dark core that led into the
  immense Hatching Ground. The whir of wings, a concentration of the
  musty scent of dragons, and then they
  were poised above the slightly steaming sands, in the great circle thea-
  tre with its tiers of perches for men
  and beasts.
  Jaxom had a dizzying view of the eggs on the Hatching Ground, of the
  colored robes of those
  already assembled, and the array of dragon bodies, gleaming eyes and
  furled wings, the great, graceful,
  blue, green and brown hides.
  Where were the bronzes?
  “They’ll bring in the candidates, Lord Jaxom. Ah, there’s the young
  scamp.” D’wer said, and
  suddenly Jaxom’s neck was jerked as Trebith backwinged to land neatly
  on a ledge. “Off you go.”
  “Jaxom! You did come!”
  
  It all came out in such a rush that the blue rider grinned. Lytol bowed in
  such solemn
  acknowledgment that Jaxom felt a surge of irritation for his stuffy
  guardian.
  Felessan was impervious to such nuances and pulled Jaxom eagerly
  away from the adults. Having
  achieved a certain physical distance, the boy chattered away in so loud
  a whisper that everyone two ledges
  up could hear him distinctly.
  “I was sure you wouldn’t be allowed to come. Everything’s been so sour
  and horrible since the —
  you know — happened.”
  “Don’t you know anything, Felessan?” Jaxom said in a rebuking hiss
  that startled his friend into
  wide-eyed silence.
  “Huh? What’d I do wrong?” he demanded, this time in a more circum-
  spect tone, glancing around
  him apprehensively. “Don’t tell me something’s gone wrong at Ruatha
  Hold?”
  Jaxom pulled his friend as far from Lytol as they could go on that row of
  seats and then sat the
  
  Ground. They obviously wore thin-soled shoes for they kept picking their
  feet up and putting them down in a
  curious mincing motion, totally at variance with their physical appear-
  ance.
  “Didn’t think so many people would come what with all that’s been hap-
  pening,” Felessan murmured
  excitedly, his eyes dancing. “Look at them!” and he pointed out three
  boys, all with the Nerat device on
  their chests. “They look as if they smelled something unpleasant. You
  don’t think dragons smell, do you?”.“No, of course not. Only a little and it’s
  pleasant. They aren’t candidates, are they?” Jaxom asked,
  disgusted.
  “Nooo. Candidates wear white.” Felessan made a grimace for Jaxom’s
  ignorance. “They don’t
  come in till later. Ooops! And later may he sooner. Didja see that egg
  rock?”
  The motion had been observed, for the dragons began to hum. There
  were excited cries from late
  arrivals who now scurried for places. And Jaxom could scarcely see the
  rest of the eggs for the sudden
  
  I didn’t,” Felessan said firmly, glaring at Jaxom. “You touched it “
  “I may have touched it but that doesn’t mean I hurt it,” the young Lord
  Holder begged for
  reassurance.
  “No, touching ‘em doesn’t hurt ‘em. The candidates’ve been touching
  ‘em for weeks and they’re
  rocking.”
  “Why isn’t that one then?”
  Jaxom had difficulty making Felessan understand him for the humming
  had increased until it was a
  constant, exciting thrum reverberating back and forth across the Hatch-
  ing Ground.
  “I dunno,” Felessan shrugged diffidently. “It may not even Hatch. That’s
  what they say, at any rate.”
  “But I didn’t do anything,” Jaxom insisted, mostly for his own comfort.
  “I told you that! Look, here come the candidates.” Then Felessan leaned
  over, his lips right at
  Jaxom’s ear, whispering something so unintelligible that he had to re-
  peat it three times before Jaxom did
  hear him.
  
  his attention was on the
  young boys marching toward the rocking eggs, their faces white and
  purposeful, their bodies in the white
  tunics taut with excitement and anticipation.
  “What do you mean about Brekke re-Impressing? Why? How?” Jaxom
  demanded, his mind
  assaulted by simultaneous conflicts: Lytol astride a dragon all his own,
  Brekke re-Impressing, Talina left out
  and crying because she was Ruathan-bred and should be dragonwo-
  man.
  “Just that. She Impressed a dragon once, she’s young. They said she
  was a far better Weyrwoman
  than that Kylara.” Felessan’s tone echoed the universally bad opinion of
  the Southern ex-Weyrwoman.
  “That way Brekke’d get well. You see,” and Felessan lowered his voice
  again, “F’nor loves her! And I heard
  — ” he paused dramatically and looked around (as if anyone could
  overhear them), “I heard that F’nor was
  going to let Canth fly her queen.”
  Jaxom stared at his friend, shocked. “You’re crazy! Brown dragons don’t
  fly queens.”
  
  “Do they — do they think she can re-Impress?” asked Jaxom, staring at
  the stern profile of his
  guardian and wondering.
  Felessan shrugged. “We’ll know soon. Here they come.”
  And sure enough, out of the black maw of the upper tunnel, flew bronze
  dragons in such rapid
  succession that they seemed nose to tail.
  “There’s Talina!” Jaxom exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “There’s Talina,
  Lytol,” and he crossed to
  pull at his guardian’s arm. Lytol wouldn’t have noticed either Jaxom’s
  importunities or Talina’s entrance.
  The man had eyes only for the girl entering from the Ground level. Two
  figures, a man and a woman, stood
  by the wide opening, as if they could accompany her this far, no fur-
  ther..“That’s Brekke all right,” Felessan said in a hushed tone as he slid
  beside Jaxom.
  She stumbled slightly, halted, seeming impervious to the uncomfortably
  hot sands. She
  straightened her shoulders and slowly walked across to join the five girls
  who wailed near the golden egg.
  
  crooning, their wedge-shaped heads too big for the thin, sinuous necks.
  The young boys stood very still,
  their bodies tense with the mental efforts of attracting the dragonets to
  them.
  The first was free of its encumbrance, staggering beyond the nearest
  boy who jumped adroitly out of
  its way. It fell, nose first at the feet of a tall black-haired lad. The boy
  knelt, helped the dragonet balance on
  his shaky feet, looked into the rainbow eyes. Jaxom saw Lytol close his,
  and saw the fact of Lytol’s terrible
  loss engraved on the man’s gray face, as much of a torture now as the
  day his Larth had died of phosphine
  burns.
  “Look,” Jaxom cried, “the queen egg. It’s rocking. Oh, how I wish . . .”
  Then he couldn’t go on without compromising himself in his friend’s
  good opinion. For much as he
  wanted Talina to Impress which would mean three living Ruathan-bred
  Weyrwomen, he knew that Felessan
  was betting on Brekke.
  Felessan was so intensely involved in the scene below that he hadn’t
  been aware of Jaxom’s
  
  Brekke.
  She was oblivious. To Jaxom, it seemed she didn’t care. She seemed
  limp, broken, pathetic, listing
  to one side. A dragon crooned softly and she shook her head as if only
  then aware of her surroundings.
  The queen’s head turned to Brekke, the glistening eyes enormous in the
  outsized skull. The queen
  lurched forward a step.
  At that moment a small blur of bronze streaked across the hatching
  Ground. With defiant screams,
  a fire lizard hung just above the queen’s head. So close, in fact, that the
  little queen reared back with a
  startled shriek and bit at the air, instinctively spreading her wings as
  protection for her vulnerable eyes.
  Dragons protested from their ledges. Talina interposed her body be-
  tween the queen and her small
  attacker.
  “Berd! Don’t!” Brekke moved forward, arm extended to capture the irate
  bronze. The little queen
  cried out in protest, hiding her face in Talina’s skirts. The two women
  faced one another, their bodies tense,
  
  sounds that ranged from scolding to
  entreaty. The racket sounded so like the cook at Ruatha Hold at dinner-
  time that Jaxom grinned.
  “She didn’t want the queen,” Felessan said, stunned. “She didn’t try!”
  “That fire lizard wouldn’t let her,” Jaxom said, wondering why he was
  defending Brekke.
  “It would be wrong, terribly wrong for her to succeed,” Lytol said in a
  dead voice. He seemed to
  shrink in on himself, his shoulders sagging, his hands dangling limply
  between his knees.
  Some of the newly Impressed boys were beginning to lead their beasts
  from the Ground. Jaxom
  turned back, afraid to miss anything. It was all happening much too
  quickly. It’d be over in a few minutes.
  “Didja see, Jaxom?” Felessan was saying, pulling at his sleeve. “Didja
  see? Birto got a bronze and
  Pellomar only Impressed a green. Dragons don’t like bullies and Pello-
  mar’s been the biggest bully in the
  Weyr. Good for you, Birto!” Felessan cheered his friend.
  “The littlest egg hasn’t cracked yet,” Jaxom said, nudging Felessan and
  pointing. “Shouldn’t it be
  
  “What would a boy your age know of birthing?”
  “I know about mine,” Jaxom replied stoutly, jerking his chin up. “I nearly
  died. Lessa told me so
  and she was there. Can a dragonet die?”
  “Yes,” Lytol admitted heavily because he never lied to the boy. “They
  can die and better so if the
  embryo is misformed .”
  Jaxom looked at his body quickly although he knew perfectly well he
  was as he should be; in fact,
  more developed than some of the other Hold boys.
  “I’ve seen eggs that never hatched. Who needs to live — crippled?”
  “Well, that egg’s alive,” Jaxom said. “Look at it rocking right now “
  “You’re right. It’s moving. But it isn’t cracking,” Felessan said.
  “Then why is everyone leaving?” Jaxom demanded suddenly, jumping
  to his feet. For there was no
  one anywhere near the wobbling small egg.
  The Ground was busy with riders urging their beasts down to help the
  weyrlings, or to escort guests
  of the Weyr back to their Holds. Most of the bronzes, of course, had
  gone with the new queen. Vast as the
  
  “Small eggs can occur in any queen’s laying life,” Lytol said “This is not
  my concern. Nor yours.”
  He turned and began to make his way toward the steps, plainly certain
  that the boys would follow.
  “But they’re not doing anything,” Jaxom muttered, rebelliously,
  Felessan gave him a helpless shrug. “C’mon. We’ll be eating soon at
  this rate. And there’s all
  kinds of special things tonight.” He trotted after Lytol.
  Jaxom looked back at the egg, now wildly rocking. “It just isn’t fair! They
  don’t care what happens
  to you. They care about that Brekke, but not you. Come on, egg. Crack
  your shell! Show ‘em. One good
  crack and I’ll bet they’ll do something!”
  Jaxom had edged along the tier until he was just over the little egg. It
  was rocking in time with his
  urgings now, but there was no one within a dragonlength. There was
  something frenzied about the way it
  rocked, too, that made Jaxom think the dragonet was desperate for
  help.
  Without thinking, Jaxom swung over the wall and let himself drop to the
  sands. He could now see
  
  by the bright tip of the dragonet’s nose, which battered at the tough
  shell.
  “You want to get born. Just like me. All you need is a little help, same as
  me,” Jaxom was crying,
  pounding at the crack with his fists. Thick pieces fell off, far heavier than
  the discarded shells of the other
  hatchlings.
  “Jaxom, what are you doing?” someone yelled at him but it was too late.
  The thick inner membrane was visible now and this was what had been
  impeding the dragonet’s
  emergence. Jaxom ripped the slippery stuff open with his belt knife and,
  from the sac, fell a tiny white body,
  not much larger than Jaxom’s torso. Instinctively Jaxom reached out,
  helping the back-stranded creature to
  its feet.
  Before F’lar or anyone could intervene, the white dragon had raised
  adoring eyes to the Lord of
  Ruatha Hold and Impression had been made.
  Completely oblivious to the dilemma he had just originated, the in-
  credulous Jaxom turned to the
  stunned observers.
  
  chitter of the two fire lizards.
  Berd had led her out of the Ground to F’nor and Manora. She’d been
  surprised at how tired and sad
  they both looked. She’d tried to talk but they’d hushed her. F’nor had
  carried her up to his weyr. She
  smiled now, opening her eyes, to see him bending over her. Brekke put
  her hand up to the dear, worried
  face of her lover; she could say that now, her lover, her Weyrmate, for
  he was that, too. Deep lines from the
  high-bridged nose pulled F’nor’s mouth down at the corners. His eyes
  were darkly smudged and bloodshot,
  his hair, usually combed in crisp clean waves back from his high fore-
  head, was stringy, oily.
  “You need cozening, love,” she said in a low voice which cracked and
  didn’t seem to be hers at all.
  With a groan that was close to a sob, F’nor embraced her. At first as if
  he were afraid of hurting her.
  Then, when he felt her arms tightening around him — for it was good to
  feel his strong back under her
  seeking hands — he almost crushed her until she cried out gladly for
  him to be careful.
  
  my body. I think that’s what was
  wrong with me. Oh, F’nor,” and all the grief that she’d not been able to
  express before came bursting out of
  her, “I even hated Canth!”
  The tears poured down her cheeks and shuddering sobs shook a body
  already weakened by
  fasting. F’nor held her to him, patting her shoulders, stroking her until he
  began to fear that the convulsions
  would tear her apart. He beckoned urgently to Manora.
  “She’s got to cry, F’nor. It’ll be an easing for her.”
  Manora’s anxious expression, the way she folded and unfolded her
  hands, was strangely reassuring
  to F’nor. She, too, cared about Brekke, cared enough to let concern
  pierce that imperturbable serenity.
  He’d been so grateful to Manora for opposing a re-Impression, though
  he doubted his blood mother knew
  why he’d be against it. Or perhaps she did. Manora in her calm detach-
  ment missed few nuances or
  evasions.
  Brekke’s frail body was trembling violently now, torn apart by the parox-
  ysm of her grief. The fire
  
  several sharp blows before
  F’nor could shield her face. “Now into the bathing pool with her. The
  water’s warm enough to relax those
  muscles.” “You didn’t have to slap her,” F’nor said, angrily.
  “She did, she did,” said Brekke in a ragged gasp, shuddering as they
  bundled her into the warm pool
  water. Then she felt the heat penetrate and relax muscles knotted by
  racking sobs. As soon as she felt
  Brekke’s body easing, Manora dried her with warmed towels and ges-
  tured for F’nor to tuck her back under
  the furs.
  “She needs feeding up now, F’nor. And so do you,” she said, looking
  sternly at him. “And you are
  to kindly remember that you’ve duties to others tonight. It’s Impression
  Day.”
  F’nor snorted at Manora’s reminder and saw Brekke smiling wanly up at
  him.
  “I don’t think you’ve left me at all since . . .”
  “Canth and I needed to be with you, Brekke,” he cut in when she fal-
  tered. He smoothed her hair
  
  turned toward her, his eyes flashing a little. She was startled by the un-
  healthy green tinge to his color.
  “We didn’t want to. That was F’lar’s idea. And Lessa’s. They thought it
  might work and they were
  afraid we’d lose you.”
  The empty ache she tried not to remember threatened to become a hole
  down which she must go if
  only to end that tearing, burning pain of loss.
  No, cried Canth.
  Two warm lizard bodies pressed urgently against her neck and face,
  affection and worry so palpable
  in their thoughts it was like a physical touch.
  “Brekke!” The terror, the yearning, the desperation in F’nor’s cry were
  louder than the inner roaring
  and pushed it back, dispersed its threat.
  “Never leave me! Never leave me alone. I can’t stand being alone even
  for a second,” Brekke
  cried.
  I am here, said Canth, as F’nor’s arms folded hard around her. The two
  lizards echoed the brown’s
  
  they love.”
  “Oh, F’nor, if I hadn’t Impressed Berd that day, what would have hap-
  pened to me?”
  F’nor didn’t answer. He held her against him in loving silence until Mir-
  rim, her lizards flying in joyous
  circles around her, came briskly into the weyr, carrying a well-laden tray.
  “Manora had to attend to the seasoning, Brekke,” the girl said in a di-
  dactic tone. “You know how
  fussy she is. But you are to eat every bit of this broth, and you’ve a po-
  tion to drink for sleeping. A good
  night’s rest and you’ll be feeling more yourself.”
  Brekke stared at the young girl, watching in a sort of bemusement while
  Mirrim deftly pushed F’nor
  out of her way, settled pillows behind her patient, a napkin at her throat,
  and began to spoon the rich wherry
  broth to Brekke’s unprotesting lips.
  “You can stop staring at me, F’nor of Benden,” Mirrim said, “and start
  eating the food I brought you
  before it gets cold. I carved you a portion of spiced wherry from the
  breast, so don’t waste prime servings.”
  
  “Now, F’nor, are you going to let poor Canth waste away to a watch-
  wher?” Mirrim asked as she
  began to settle Brekke for the night. “He’s a sorry shade for a brown.”
  “He did eat — ” F’nor began contritely.
  “Ha!” Mirrim sounded like Lessa now.
  I’ll have to take that child in hand, Brekke thought idly, but an enervating
  lassitude had spread
  throughout her body and movement was impossible.
  “You get that lazy lump of brown bones out of his couch and down to the
  Feeding Ground, F’nor.
  Hurry it up. They’ll be out to feast soon and you know what a feeding
  dragon does to commoner appetites.
  C’mon now. You, Canth, get out of your weyr.”
  The last thing Brekke saw as F’nor obediently followed Mirrim out of the
  sleeping room was Canth’s
  surprised look as she bore down on him, reached for his ear and began
  to tug.
  They were leaving her, Brekke thought with sudden terror. Leaving her
  alone . . .
  I am with you, was Canth’s instant reassurance.
  
  shields on the glow baskets so that the.room was dark enough for sleeping.
  “F’nor says you don’t like to be left alone so I’ll wait until he comes
  back.”
  But I’m not alone, Brekke wanted to tell her. Instead, her eyes closed
  and she fell into a deep sleep.
  As Lessa looked around the Bowl, at the tables of celebrants lingering
  long past the end of the
  banquet, she experienced a wistful yearning to be as uninhibited as
  they. The laughter of the hold and
  craftbred parents of the new riders, the weyrlings themselves fondling
  their hatchlings, even the weyrfolk,
  was untinged by bitterness or sorrow. Yet she was aware of a nagging
  sadness, which she couldn’t shake,
  and had no reason to feel.
  Brekke was herself, weak but no longer lost to reason; F’nor had actu-
  ally left the girl long enough to
  eat with the guests; F’lar was recovering his strength and had come to
  realize that he must delegate some of
  his new responsibilities. And Lytol, the most distressing problem since
  Jaxom had Impressed that little white
  
  bass voices are dark.
  She toyed with the remains of the sweet cake on her platter. Manora’s
  women had outdone
  themselves: the fowls had been stuffed with fermented fruits and
  breads, and the result was a remission of
  the “gamy” taste that wherry often had. River grains had been steamed
  so that each individual morsel was
  separate and tender. The fresh herbs must have come from Southern.
  Lessa made a mental note to speak
  to Manora about sneaking down there. It simply wouldn’t do to have an
  incident with T’kul. Maybe N’ton
  had gathered them when he went on his “grubbing” expeditions. She’d
  always liked the young bronze rider.
  Now that she’d got to know him better . . .
  She wondered what he and F’lar were doing. They’d left the table and
  gone to the Rooms. They
  were always there these days, she thought irritably. They must be
  cleaning the grubs’ orifices. Could she,
  too, slip away? No, she’d better stay here. It wasn’t courteous for both
  Weyrleaders to absent themselves
  on such an auspicious occasion. And people ought to be leaving soon.
  
  until the beast died. The consensus was that Ruth would not mature.
  At the other end of the long “high” table were Larad, Lord of Telgar, Sifer
  of Bitra, Raid of Benden
  Hold, and Asgenar of Lemos with Lady Famira (she really did blush all
  the time). The Lemos Hold pair had
  brought their fire lizards — fortunately a brown and a green — which
  had been the object of much overt
  interest by Lord Larad, who had a pair hardening on his hearth, and
  covert inspection by old Raid and Sifer
  of Bitra, who also had eggs from F’nor’s last find. Neither older Lord
  Holder was entirely sure of the
  experiment with fire lizards but they had watched the Lemos pair all
  evening. Sifer had finally unfrosted
  enough to ask how to care for one. Would this influence their minds in
  the matter of Jaxom and his Ruth?
  By the Egg, they couldn’t want to disrupt the territorial balance because
  Jaxom had Impressed a
  sport dragon that hadn’t a chance in Threadfall of surviving! How could
  you make an honorific out of
  Jaxom? J’om, J’xom? Most Weyrwomen chose names for their sons
  that could be contracted decently.
  
  as Lord Holder at Ruatha. Just like men to make a piece of work over
  something so simple. The little beast
  would not survive. He was too small, his color — who ever heard of a
  white dragon? — indicated other
  abnormalities. Manora’d mentioned that white-skinned, pink-eyed child
  from Nerat Hold who hadn’t been
  able to endure daylight.
  A nocturnal dragon?
  Obviously Ruth would never grow to full size; new-hatched, he was
  more like a large fire lizard.
  Ramoth rumbled from the heights, disturbed by her rider’s thoughts, and
  Lessa sent a hundred
  apologies to her..“It’s no reflection on you, my darling,” Lessa told her.
  Why, you’ve spawned more queens than any
  other three. And the largest of their broods is no better than the smallest
  of yours, love.”
  Ruth will prosper, Ramoth said.
  Mnementh crooned from the ledge and Lessa stared up at them, their
  eyes glowing in the shadows
  over the glow-lit Bowl.
  
  loud, belligerent voice.
  The Harper beamed up at him in an idiotish way. “Tha’s what I say. Why
  should you?”
  “I love the boy. I love him more than if he were flesh and blood of me, of
  me, Lytol of Ruatha Hold.
  Proved I love him, too. Proved I care for him. Ruatha’s rich. Rich as
  when the Ruathan Bloodline ruled it.
  Undid all Fox’s harm. And did it all, not for me. My life’s spent. I’ve been
  everything. Been a dragonrider.
  Oh, Larth, my beautiful Larth. Been a weaver so I know the Crafts.
  Know the Holds now, too. Know
  everything. Know how to take care of a white runt. Why shouldn’t the
  boy keep his dragon? By the First
  Shell, no one else wanted him. No one else wanted to Impress him.
  He’s special. I tell you. Special!
  “Now, just a moment, Lord Lytol,” Raid of Benden said, rising from his
  end of the table and stalking
  down to confront Lytol. “Boy’s Impressed a dragon. That means he must
  stay in the Weyr.”
  “Ruth’s not a proper dragon,” Lytol said, neither speaking nor acting as
  drunk as he must be.
  
  deftness for a man swaying on his feet. The Harper motioned wildly for
  his own glass to be filled but had
  trouble keeping it steady under the flow of wine.
  “Never a whi’ dragon,” the Harper intoned and touched cups with Lytol.
  “May not live,” Lytol added, taking a long gulp.
  “May not!”
  “Therefore,” and Lytol took a deep breath, “the boy must remain in his
  Hold. Ruatha Hold.”
  “Absolutely must!” Robinton held his cup high, more or less daring Raid
  to contradict him. Raid
  favored him with a long inscrutable look.
  “He must remain in the Weyr,” he said finally, though he didn’t sound as
  definite.
  “No, he must come back to Ruatha Hold,” said Lytol steadying himself
  with a firm grip on the table
  edge. “When the dragon dies, the boy must be where obligations and
  responsibilities give him a hold on life.
  I know!”
  To that Raid could give no answer, but he glowered in disapproval
  Lessa held her breath and began
  to “lean” a little on the old Lord Holder.
  
  when the Harper began to snore
  gently.
  “Hey, don’t go to sleep. We haven’t finished this bottle.” When Robinton
  made no response, Lytol
  shrugged and drained his own cup. Then he seemed to collapse slowly
  until his head was on the table, too,
  his snores filling the pause between Robinton’s.
  Raid regarded the pair with sour disgust. Then he turned on his heel
  and walked back to his end of
  the head table.
  “I don’t know but what there isn’t truth in the wine,” Larad of Telgar Hold
  commented as Raid
  reseated himself.
  Lessa “leaned” quickly against Larad. He was nowhere near as insensi-
  tive as Raid. When he
  shook his head, she desisted and turned her attentions to Sifer. If she
  could get two of them to agree . . .
  “Dragon and his rider both belong in the Weyr,” Raid said. “You don’t
  change what’s natural for man
  and beast.”.“Well now, take these fire lizards,” Sifer began, nodding to-
  ward the two across the table from him, in
  
  “Catch ‘em now, in nestsful,” Sifer interrupted him. “Pretty things they
  are. Must say I look forward
  to mine hatching.”
  Somehow their quarreling reminded Lessa of old R’gul and S’lel, her
  first “teachers” in the Weyr,
  contradicting themselves endlessly as they purportedly taught her “all
  she’d need to know to become a
  Weyrwoman.” It was F’lar who had done that.
  “Boy has to stay here with that dragon.”
  “The boy in question is a Lord Holder, Raid,” Larad of Telgar reminded
  him. “And the one thing we
  don’t need is a contested Hold. It might be different if Lytol had male is-
  sue, or if he’d fostered long enough
  to have a promising candidate. No, Jaxom must remain Lord at Ruatha
  Hold,” and the Telgar Lord scanned
  the Bowl in search of the boy. His eyes met Lessa’s and he smiled in
  absent courtesy.
  “I don’t agree, I don’t agree,” Raid said, shaking his head emphatically.
  “It goes against all custom.”
  “Some customs need changing badly,” said Larad, frowning.
  
  ing Ground. He realized what he’d
  done. He was as white as the little dragon.” Then Asgenar nodded in
  Lytol’s direction. “Yes, Jaxom’s all
  too aware of what he’s done.”
  Raid harumphed irritably. “You don’t ask youngsters anything. You tell
  ‘em!”
  Asgenar turned to his lady, touching her shoulder lightly, but there was
  no mistaking the warmth of
  his expression as he asked her to request young Jaxom’s presence.
  Mindful of her sleepy green lizard, she
  rose and went on her errand.
  “I’ve discovered recently that you find out a great deal by asking peo-
  ple,” Asgenar said, looking after
  his wife with an odd smile on his face.
  “People, yes, but not children!” Raid managed to get a lot of anger into
  that phrase.
  Lessa “leaned” against him. He’d be more susceptible in this state of
  mind.
  “Why doesn’t he just pick the beast up?” the Benden Lord Holder de-
  manded irritably as he watched
  
  ment Lessa couldn’t tell. He
  began to fidget, rubbing the back of his head with one hand, so she
  stopped her “pushing.”
  The whir of dragon wings back-beating to land caught her attention. She
  turned and saw the gleam
  of a bronze hide in the darkness by the new entrance to the Rooms.
  Lioth brings the Masterfarmer, Ramoth told her rider.
  Lessa couldn’t imagine why Andemon would be required, nor why N’ton
  would be bringing him. The
  Masterfarmerhall had its own beast now. She started to rise.
  “D’you realize the trouble you’ve caused, young man?” Raid was asking
  in a stiff voice.
  Lessa swung round, torn between two curiosities. It wasn’t as if Jaxom
  were without champions in
  Asgenar and Larad. But she did wonder how the boy would answer
  Raid.
  Jaxom stood straight, his chin up, his eyes bright. Ruth’s head was
  pressed to his thigh as if the
  dragonet were aware that they stood on trial.
  “Yes, my good Lord Raid, I am fully aware of the consequences of my
  actions and there may now
  
  dissembler, probably was, for all that
  act he’d pulled earlier.
  “Fully aware, are you?” Raid echoed, and suddenly launched himself to
  his feet. The old Lord
  Holder had lost inches as he gained Turns, his shoulders now rounding
  slightly, his belly no longer flat and
  his legs stringy in the tight hide of his trousers. He looked a caricature
  confronting the slim proud boy.
  “D’you know you’ve got to stay at Benden Weyr now you’ve Impressed
  a dragon? D’you realize that
  Ruatha’s lordless?”
  “With all due respect, sir, you and the other Lords present do not con-
  stitute a Conclave since you
  are not two-thirds of the resident Holders of Pern,” replied Jaxom. “If
  necessary, I should be glad to come
  before a duly constituted Conclave and plead my case. It’s obvious, I
  think, that Ruth is not a proper
  dragon. I am given to understand that his chances of maturing are
  slight. Therefore he is of no use to the
  Weyr which has no space for the useless. Even old dragons no longer
  able to chew firestone are retired to
  
  I would be an embarrassment here in Benden Weyr. We can help
  Ruatha Hold just as the other fire lizards
  do.”
  “Well said, young Lord of Ruatha, well said,” cried Asgenar of Lemos,
  and his applause started his
  lizard shrieking.
  Larad of Telgar Hold nodded solemnly in accord.
  “Humph. Shade too flip an answer for me,” Raid grumbled. “All you
  youngsters act before you think
  these days.”
  “I’m certainly guilty of that, Lord Raid,” Jaxom said candidly. “But I had
  to act fast today — to save
  the life of a dragon. We’re taught to honor Dragonkind, I more than
  most.” Jaxom gestured toward Lytol.
  His hand remained poised and a look of profound sorrow came over his
  face.
  Whether Jaxom’s voice had roused him or the position of his head was
  too uncomfortable was
  debatable, but the Lord Warder of Ruatha Hold was no longer asleep.
  He rose gripping the table, then
  
  “Lord Jaxom of Ruatha Hold is not to blame for today’s events. As his
  guardian, I am responsible —
  if it is an offense to save a life. If I chose to stress reverence for
  Dragonkind in his education, I had good
  reason!”
  Lord Raid looked uneasily away from Lytol’s direct gaze.
  “If,” and Lytol stressed the word as though he felt the possibility was re-
  mote, “the Lords decide to
  act in Conclave I shall strongly urge that no man fault Lord Jaxom’s
  conduct today. He acted in honor and
  at the promptings of his training. He best serves Pern, however, by re-
  turning to his Hold. At Ruatha, young
  Ruth will be cared for and honored — for as long as he is with us.”
  There was no doubt that Larad and Asgenar were of Lytol’s mind. Old
  Sifer sat pulling at his lip,
  unwilling to look toward Raid.
  “I still think dragonfolk belong in Weyrs!” Raid muttered, glum and re-
  sentful.
  That problem apparently settled, Lessa turned to leave and nearly fell
  into F’nor’s arms.
  
  “Yes,” and there was a wealth of relief in the man’s soft affirmative.
  “So, you’d better come with me to the Rooms. I want to find out why
  Masterfarmer Andemon has
  just flown in. And it’s about time you got back to work!”
  F’nor chuckled. “It is, if someone else has been doing my work. Did
  anyone bring F’lar his
  Threads?” There was a note in his voice that told Lessa he was con-
  cerned.
  F’ton did!”.“I thought he was riding Wing-second to F’lar at Fort Weyr!”
  “As you remarked the other morning, whenever you’re not here to keep
  him under control, F’lar
  rearranges matters.” She saw his stricken look and caught his arm,
  smiling up at him reassuringly; he
  wasn’t up to teasing yet. “No one could take your place with F’lar — or
  me. Canth and Brekke needed you
  more for a while.” She gave his hand a squeeze. “But that doesn’t mean
  things haven’t been happening
  and you’d better catch up. N’ton’s been included in our affairs because
  F’lar had a sudden glimpse of his
  mortality when he was sick and decided to stop being secretive. Or it
  might be another four hundred Turns
  
  There was no doubt that he was steady on his feet as the three walked
  toward the glow-marked
  entrance to the Rooms. The stars were brilliant in the soft black spring
  sky, and the glows on the lower
  levels threw bright circles of light on the sands. Above, on weyr ledges,
  dragons watched with gleaming
  opalescent eyes, occasionally humming with pleasure. High up, Lessa
  saw three dragon silhouettes by the
  Star Stones: Ramoth and Mnementh were perched to the right of the
  watch-dragon, their wings
  overlapping. They were both smug tonight; she’d heard Ramoth’s tenor
  often that evening. It was such a
  relief to have her in an agreeable mood for a while. Lessa rather hoped
  there’d be a long interval before the
  queen felt the urge to mate again.
  When they entered the Rooms, the spare figure of the Masterfarmer
  was bending over the largest of
  the tubs, turning the leaves of the fellis sapling. F’lar watched him with a
  wary expression while N’ton was
  grinning, unable to observe the solemnity of the moment.
  
  He recovered and drew F’nor to the tubs.
  “N’ton was able to get Thread and we infected three of the big tubs,”
  F’lar told him, speaking in a low
  undertone as if he didn’t wish to disturb the Masterfarmer’s investiga-
  tions. “The grubs devoured every
  filament. And where the Thread pierced the leaves of that fellis tree, the
  char marks are already healing.
  I’m hoping Master Andemon can tell us how or why.”
  Andemon straightened his body but his lantern jaw remained sunk to his
  chest as he frowned at the
  tub. He blinked rapidly and pursed his thin lips, his heavy, thick-
  knuckled hands twitching slightly in the folds
  of a dirt-stained tunic. He had come as he was when the Weyr messen-
  ger summoned him from the fields.
  “I don’t know how or why, Good Weyrleader. And if what you have told
  me is the truth,” he paused,
  finally raising his eyes to F’lar, “I am scared.”
  “Why, man?” And F’lar spoke on the end of a surprised laugh. “Don’t
  you realize what this means?
  If the grubs can adapt to northern soil and climate, and perform as we
  — all of us here,” his gesture took in
  
  “You saw the Thread devoured by these grubs?”
  The Harper nodded.
  “And that was five days ago?”
  The Harper confirmed this.
  A shudder rippled the cloth of the Masterfarmers tunic. He looked down
  at the tub with the
  reluctance of fear. Stepping forward resolutely, he peered again at the
  young fellis tree. Inhaling and
  holding that deep breath, he poised one gnarled hand for a moment
  before plunging it into the dirt. His eyes
  were closed. He brought up a moist handful of earth and, opening his
  eyes, turned the glob over, exposing
  a cluster of wriggling grubs. His eyes widened and, with an exclamation
  of disgust, he flung the dirt from
  him as if he’d been burned. The grubs writhed impotently against the
  stone floor..“What’s the matter? There can’t be Thread!”
  “Those are parasites!” Andemon replied, glaring at F’lar, badly disillu-
  sioned and angry. “We’ve
  been trying to rid the southern parts of this peninsula of these larvae for
  centuries.” He grimaced with
  
  Andemon stared at him. F’lar moved, grabbing a handful of soil from
  each tub as he circled,
  showing the grubs as proof.
  “It’s impossible,” Andemon insisted, the shadow of his earlier fear re-
  turning.
  “Don’t you recall, F’lar,” Lessa said, “when we first brought the grubs
  here, the plants did seem to
  droop?”
  “They recovered. All they needed was water!”
  “They couldn’t.” Andemon forgot his revulsion enough to dig into another
  tub as if to prove to
  himself that F’lar was wrong. “There’re no grubs in this one!” he said in
  triumph.
  “That’s never had any. I used it to check the others. And I must say, the
  plants don’t look as green
  or healthy as the other tubs.”
  Andemon stared around. “Those grubs are pests. We’ve been trying to
  rid ourselves of them for
  hundreds of Turns.”
  “Then I suspect, good Master Andemon,” F’lar said with a gentle, rueful
  smile, “that farmers have
  
  “They were meant to spread, bred by the same ancestors who bred the
  dragons?”
  “That’s what we believe,” Robinton said. “Oh, I can appreciate your in-
  credulity. I had to sleep on
  the notion for several nights. However, if we check the Records, we find
  that, while there is no mention that
  dragonmen will attack the Red Star and clear it of Thread, there is the
  strong, recurring belief that Thread
  will one day not be the menace it is now. F’lar is reasonably . . .”
  “Not reasonably, Robinton; completely sure,” F’lar interrupted. “N’ton’s
  been going back to Southern
  — jumping between time, as far back as seven Turns, to check on
  Threadfalls in the southern continent.
  Wherever he’s probed, there’re grubs in the soil which rise when Thread
  falls and devour it.
  That’s why there have never been any burrows in Southern
  The land itself is inimical to Thread.”
  In the silence, Andemon stared at the tips of his muddy boots.
  “In the Farmercrafthall Records, they mention specifically that we are to
  watch for these grubs.” He
  
  to shake, his whole torso became involved. Lessa caught F’lar’s eyes,
  concerned, for the man. But he was
  laughing, if only at the cruel irony. “Watch for the grubs, the Records
  say. They do not, they do not say
  destroy the grubs. They say most emphatically ‘watch for the grubs.’ So
  we watched. Aye, we have
  watched.”
  The Harper extended the wine bottle to Andemon.
  “That’s a help, Harper. My thanks,” Andemon said, wiping his lips with
  the back of one hand after a
  long pull at the bottle.
  “So someone forgot to mention why you were to watch the grubs, An-
  demon,” F’lar said, his eyes
  compassionate for the man’s distress. “If only Sograny’d been as rea-
  sonable. Once, so many men must
  have known why you were to watch for the grubs, they didn’t see a need
  for further implicit instructions.
  Then the Holds started to grow and people drifted apart. Records got
  lost or destroyed, men died before
  they’d passed on the vital knowledge they possessed.” He looked
  around at the tubs. “Maybe they
  
  holds ink, stacks neatly and is impervious to anything except fire. We
  can combine knowledge and
  disseminate it.”
  Andemon looked at the Harper, his eyes puzzled. “Master Robinton,
  there are some matters within
  a Craft that must remain secret or . . .”
  “Or we lose a world to the Thread, is that it, Andemon? Man, if the truth
  about those grubs hadn’t
  been treated like a Craft secret, we’d have been hundreds of Turns free
  of Thread by now.”
  Andemon gasped suddenly, staring at F’lar. “And dragonmen — we
  wouldn’t need dragonmen?”
  “Well, if men kept to their Holds during Threadfall, and grubs devoured
  what fell to the ground, no,
  you wouldn’t need dragonmen,” F’lar replied with complete composure.
  “But dragonmen are su — supposed to fight Thread — ” the Farmer was
  stuttering with dismay.
  “Oh, we’ll be fighting Thread for a while yet, I assure you. We’re not in
  any immediate danger of
  unemployment. There’s a lot to be done. For instance, how long before
  an entire continent can be seeded
  
  suddenly, shaking his head from side
  to side.
  “Get a grip on yourself, man,” F’lar said, but it was his attitude which
  caused Andemon the most
  distress.
  “What — what will dragonmen do?”
  “Get rid of Thread, of course. Get rid of Thread.”
  Had F’lar been a feather less confident, F’nor would have had trouble
  maintaining his composure.
  But his half-brother must have some plan in mind. And Lessa looked as
  serene as — as Manora could.
  Fortunately Andemon was not only an intelligent man, he was tena-
  cious. He had been confronted
  with a series of disclosures that both confused and disturbed basic pre-
  cepts. He must reverse a long-standing
  Craft practice. He must rid himself of an inborn, carefully instilled preju-
  dice, and he must accept
  the eventual abdication of an authority which he had good reason to re-
  spect and more reason to wish to
  perpetuate.
  
  it was.
  Andemon was very thoughtful as he watched the unharmed larva bur-
  row quickly back into the tub
  dirt from which he’d extracted it.
  “One wishes fervently,” he said, “to find a release from our long domina-
  tion by Thread. It is just —
  just that the agency which frees us is . . .”
  “Revolting?” the Harper suggested obligingly.
  Andemon regarded Robinton a moment. “Aye, you’re the man with
  words, Master Robinton. It is
  rather leveling to think that one will have to be grateful to such a — such
  a lowly creature. I’d rather be
  grateful to dragons.” He gave F’lar a rather abashed grin.
  “You’re not a Lord Holder!” said Lessa, wryly, drawing a chuckle from
  everyone.
  “And yet,” Andemon went on, letting a handful of soil dribble from his
  fist, we have taken the
  bounties of this rich earth too much for granted. We are from it, part of it,
  sustained by it. I suppose it is only
  mete that we are protected by it. If all goes well.”
  
  “Whether or not the grubs were adaptable to northern conditions.”
  “They are, Weyrleader, they are.” The Farmer was grimly sardonic..“I
  shouldn’t think that would be the major problem, F’lar,” F’nor said.
  “Oh?” The quiet syllable was almost a challenge to the brown rider.
  F’nor hesitated, wondering if
  F’lar had lost confidence in him, despite what Lessa had said earlier.
  “I’ve been watching Master Andemon, and I remember my own reaction
  to the grubs. It’s one thing
  to say, to know, that these are the answer to Thread. Another — quite
  another to get the average man to
  accept it. And the average dragonrider.”
  Andemon nodded agreement and, judging by the expression on the
  Harper’s face, F’nor knew he
  was not the only one who anticipated resistance.
  But F’lar began to grin as he settled himself on the edge of the nearest
  tub.
  “That’s why I brought Andemon here and explained the project. We
  need help which only he can
  give us, once he himself is sure of matters. How long, Masterfarmer,
  does it take grubs to infest a field?”
  
  F’lar chuckled. “Lemos Hold.”
  “Lemos!”
  “Where else?” and F’lar looked smug. “The forests are the hardest ar-
  eas to protect. Asgenar and
  Bendarek are determined to preserve them. Asgenar and Bendarek are
  both flexible enough to accept such
  an innovation and carry it through. You, Masterfarmer, have the hardest
  task. To convince your crafters to
  leave off killing . . .”
  Andemon raised a hand. “I have my own observations to make first.”
  “By all means, Master Andemon,” and F’lar’s grin broadened, “I’m confi-
  dent of the outcome. I
  remind you of your first journey to the Southern Weyr. You commented
  on the luxuriant growths, the
  unusual size of the trees and bushes common to both continents, the
  spectacular crops, the sweetness of
  the fruits. That is not due to the temperate weather. We have similar
  zones here in the north. It is due,”
  and F’lar pointed his finger first at Andemon and then toward the tubs,
  “to the stimulation, the protection of
  the grubs.”
  
  with Old-timers; we’ve all got re-education
  to do.”
  “Yes, there will be problems.” The magnitude of the undertaking had
  suddenly burst on the
  Masterfarmer.
  “Many,” F’lar assured him blithely. “But the end result is freedom from
  Thread.”
  “It could take Turns and Turns,” Andemon said, catching F’lar’s glance
  and, as if that consoled him
  somehow, straightened his shoulders. He was committed to the project.
  “And well may take Turns. First,” and F’lar grinned with pure mischief in
  his eyes, “we’ve got to stop
  you farmers from exterminating our saviors.”
  An expression of pure shock and indignation passed across Andemon’s
  weather-lined face. It was
  swiftly replaced by a tentative smile as the man realized that F’lar was
  ribbing him. Evidently an unusual
  experience for the Masterfarmer.
  “Think of all the rewriting I have to do,” complained the Harper “I’m dry
  just considering it.” He
  looked mournfully at the now empty wine bottle.
  
  use.
  “One drink then.”.“To seal the bargain of Pern’s fate,” said the Harper,
  dropping his voice to a sepulchral bass and
  looking solemnly portentous and amazingly like Lord Groghe of Fort.
  As they all trooped out of the Rooms, Andemon looked down at Lessa.
  “If it isn’t presumptuous of me, the young woman, Brekke, who lost her
  queen — how is she?”
  Lessa hesitated only a second. “F’nor here can answer you better than I
  They’re Weyrmates.”
  F’nor was forced to step up. “She’s been ill. Losing one’s dragon is a
  tremendous shock. She has
  made the adjustment. She won’t suicide now.”
  The Masterfarmer halted, staring at F’nor. “That would be unthinkable.”
  Lessa caught F’nor’s eye and he remembered he was talking to a com-
  moner.
  “Yes, of course, but the loss is unsettling.”
  “Certainly. Ah, does she have any position at all now?” The words came
  slowly from the Farmer,
  then he added in a rush, “she is from my Crafthall you see, and we . . .”
  “She is well loved and respected by all Weyrs,” Lessa broke in when
  Andemon faltered. “Brekke is
  
  “My apologies for being so brusque! my lady. It would be hard for her to
  live simply again.” His
  voice turned hard and lost all hesitancy. “What of that adulterous trans-
  gressor?”
  “She — lives,” and there was an uncompromising echo of the Farmer’s
  coldness in Lessa’s voice.
  “She lives?” The Masterfarmer stopped again, dropping Lessa’s arm
  and staring at her with anger.
  “She lives? Her throat should be cut, her body . . .”
  “She lives, Masterfarmer, with no more mind or wit than a babe. She
  exists in the prison of her guilt!
  Dragonfolk take no lives!”
  The Farmer stared hard at Lessa for a moment longer, then nodded
  slowly. With great courtesy he
  offered Lessa his arm when she indicated they should continue.
  F’nor did not follow for the events of the day were taking a revenge of
  fatigue on him.
  He watched as Andemon and Lessa joined the others at the main table,
  saw the Lemos and Telgar
  Lords come over. Lytol and young Jaxom with his white Ruth were no-
  where to be seen. F’nor hoped Lytol
  
  the soft throat, warm and steadying. He could “hear” the soft loving
  thoughts of the two lizards curled by
  Brekke’s head.
  How long he stood there he couldn’t gauge, his mind rehearsing the Im-
  pression, Brekke’s release,
  Jaxom’s performance, the dinner, everything that had jammed into one
  eventful afternoon.
  There was much to be done, certainly, but he felt unable to move from
  the presence of Canth. Most
  vividly he recalled Andemon’s shock when the man realized that F’lar
  had proposed the end of dragonmen.
  Yet — F’lar hadn’t. He certainly had some alternate in mind.
  Those grubs — yes, they devoured Thread before it could burrow and
  proliferate. But they were
  repulsive to look at and commanded neither respect nor gratitude. They
  weren’t obvious, or awesome, like
  dragons. People wouldn’t see grubs devouring Thread. They wouldn’t
  have the satisfaction of watching
  dragons flame, sear, char, destroy Thread mid-air before the vicious
  stuff got to earth. Surely F’lar realized
  
  commoner and dragonman.
  CHAPTER XVI
  Evening at Benden Weyr
  Later Evening at Fort Weyr.FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS, F’nor was too
  busy to worry. Brekke was recovering her strength and
  insisted that he return to his duties. She prevailed on Manora to permit
  her to come down to the Lower
  Caverns and be of some use. So Manora put her to tying off the woof
  ends of some finished wall hangings
  where Brekke could also be part of the busy Cavern activities. The fire
  lizards rarely left her side. Grall
  twittered with conflicting wishes when F’nor went off on errands, so he
  would order her to stay with Brekke.
  F’lar estimated correctly that Asgenar and Bendarek would accept any
  solution that might preserve
  the forests. But the incredulity and initial resistance he encountered
  showed him what a monumental task
  he had undertaken. Both Lord Holder and Craftmaster were frankly
  contemptuous of his claims until N’ton
  came in with a panful of live Thread — it could be heard hissing and
  steaming — and dumped it over a tub
  
  could be considered “Threadproof”;
  the length of the grub life cycle, what density of grub life would be nec-
  essary to ensure the chain of
  protection
  But they did decide where to start in Lemos Hold: among the precious
  softwoods so in demand for
  furniture, so vulnerable to Thread incursion.
  Since the former residents of the Southern Weyr had not been farmcraft
  trained they had been
  oblivious to the significance of the larval sacks in the southern woods. It
  was fall now in the southern
  hemisphere but F’nor, N’ton and another rider had agreed to jump be-
  tween to the previous spring. Brekke
  helped, too, knowing as she did so many facets of the Southern man-
  agement that she was able to tell them
  where they would not collide with others in the past. Though farmcraft-
  bred, Brekke had been occupied with
  nursing during her tenure at Southern, and had deliberately stayed away
  from the farming aspects of the
  Weyr to sever connections with her past life.
  
  grubs and horror at being so close to
  live Thread, Terry had been as enthusiastic as anyone could wish. The
  performance of the grubs elicited
  only a deep grunt from the Mastersmith. He had limited his comments to
  a scornful criticism of the long-handled
  hearthpan in which the Thread was captured.
  “Inefficient. Inefficient. You can only open it once to catch the things,”
  and he had taken the pan,
  stalking off toward his waiting dragon-messenger.
  Terry had been profuse in his assurances that the Mastersmith was un-
  doubtedly impressed and
  would cooperate in every way. This was indeed a momentous day. His
  words were cut off by Fandarel’s
  impatient bellow and he’d bowed his way out, still reassuring the some
  what disconcerted Dragonriders.
  “I’d’ve thought Fandarel would at least have found the grubs efficient,”
  F’lar had remarked.
  “He was struck dumb with amazement?” F’nor suggested.
  “No,” and Lessa grimaced, “he was infuriated by inefficiency!”
  They’d laughed and gone on to the next job. That evening a messenger
  arrived from the
  
  The messenger also confided to F’lar that the Mastersmith was having
  difficulties with his distance-writer.
  All wire must be covered with a protective tubing or Thread cut right
  through the thinly extruded
  metal. The Smith had experimented with ceramic and metal casings but
  he could turn neither out in great or
  quick enough quantity. With Threadfall coming so frequently now, his
  halls were besieged with demands to
  fix flame throwers which clogged or burned out. Ground crews panicked
  when equipment failed them mid-Fall
  and it was impossible not to accede to every urgent request for repair.
  The Lord Holders, promised the
  distance-writers, as links between help and isolated Holds, began to
  press for solutions. And for the ultimate
  — to them — solution: the proposed expedition to the Red Star..F’lar
  had begun to call a council of his intimate advisors and Wing-seconds daily
  so that no facet of
  the over-all plan could be lost. They also decided which Lords and
  Mastercraftsmen could accept the
  radical knowledge, but had moved cautiously.
  
  her Lord who had bodily forced his
  blood relative to Benden Weyr for a full explanation and demonstration.
  Larad had been unconvinced and
  furious with what he called “a cruel deception and treacherous breach of
  faith” by dragonmen. When
  Asgenar then insisted Larad come to the softwood tract that was being
  protected and had live Thread
  poured over a sapling, uprooting the young tree to prove that it had
  been adequately protected, the Telgar
  Lord Holder’s rage began to subside.
  Telgar’s broad valleys had been hard hit by the almost constant
  Threadfalls. Telgar’s ground crews
  were disheartened by the prospect of ceaseless vigilance.
  “Time is what we haven’t got,” Larad of Telgar had cried when he heard
  that grub protection would
  be a long-term project. “We lose fields of grain and root every other day.
  The men are already weary of
  fighting Thread interminably, they’ve little energy for anything. At best
  we’ve only the prospect of a lean
  winter, and I fear for the worst if these past months are any indication.”
  
  “Yes,” F’lar replied, holding firmly to an attitude of patient reasonable-
  ness. “It’s been viewed every
  clear night. Wansor has trained a wing of watchers and borrowed the
  most accurate draftsmen from
  Masterweaver Zurg and the Harper. They’ve made endless sketches of
  the masses on the planet. We
  know its faces now . . .”
  “And . . .” Larad was adamant.
  “We can see no feature distinct enough to guide the dragons.”
  The Lord of Telgar sighed with resignation.
  “We do believe,” and F’lar caught N’ton’s eyes since the young bronze
  rider did as much of the
  investigating as Wansor, “that these frequent Falls will taper off in a few
  more months.”
  “Taper off? How can you tell that?” Hope conflicted with suspicion in the
  Telgar Lord’s face.
  “Wansor is of the opinion that the other planets in our sky have been
  affecting the Red Star’s
  motion; slowing it, pulling it from several directions. We have near
  neighbors, you see; one is now slightly
  
  tests. “You’ve surely noticed the
  brightest stars, which are our sister planets, move from west to east
  during the year. Look tonight, you’ll see
  the blue one slightly above the green one, and very brilliant. And the
  Red Star below them. Now, remember
  the diagram in the Fort Weyr Council Room? We’re positive that that is
  the diagram of skies around our
  sun. And you’ve watched your fosterlings play stringball. You’ve played
  it yourself. Substitute the planets
  for the balls, the sun for the swinger, and you get the general idea.
  Some balls swing more rapidly than
  others, depending on the speed of the swing, the length and tension of
  the cord. Basically, the principle of
  the stars around the sun is the same.”
  Robinton had been sketching on a leaf and passed the diagram over to
  Larad.
  “I must see this in the skies for myself,” the Telgar Lord replied, not giv-
  ing an inch.
  “It’s a sight, I assure you,” Asgenar said. “I’ve become fascinated with
  the study and if,” he grinned,
  
  time I go to Fort I’m contending with
  Meron of Nabol for a chance to use the viewer.”
  “Nabol?”
  Asgenar was a little surprised at the impact of his casual remark.
  “Yes, Nabol’s forever at the viewer. Apparently he’s more determined
  than any dragonrider to find
  coordinates.” No one else shared his amusement.
  F’lar looked inquirinrly at N’ton.
  “Yes, he’s there all right. If he weren’t a Lord Holder — ” and N’ton
  shrugged
  “Why? Does he say why?”
  N’ton shrugged again “He says he’s looking for coordinates. But so are
  we. There aren’t any
  features distinct enough. Just shapeless masses of gray and dark gray-
  greens. They don’t change and
  while it’s obvious they’re stable, are they land? Or sea?” N’ton began to
  feel the accusatory tension in the
  room and shifted his feet. “So often the face is obscured by those heavy
  clouds. Discouraging.”
  “Is Meron discouraged?” asked F’lar pointedly.
  
  appreciate the difficulty.” Larad
  stiffened defensively and his lizard hissed, its eyes rollinr. F’lar was not
  put off. ‘The fact that no Records
  exist of any previous attempt to go there stronrly i ndicates that the an-
  cients — who built the distance-viewer,
  who knew enough to plot the neighbors in our sky — did not go. They
  must have had a reason, a
  valid reason. What would you have Me do, Larad?” F’lar demanded,
  pacing in his agitation. “Ask for
  volunteers? You, you and you,” F’lar whirled, jabbing a finger at an
  imaginary line of riders, “you go, jump
  between to the Red Star. Coordinates? Sorry, men, I have none. Tell
  your dragons to take a long look
  halfway there. If you don’t come back, we’ll keen to the Red Star for
  your deaths. But men, you’ll die
  knowing you’ve solved our problem. Men can’t go to the Red Star.”
  Larad flushed under F’lar’s sarcasm.
  “If the ancients didn’t record any intimate knowledge of the Red Star,”
  said Robinton quietly into the
  charged silence, “they did provide domestic solutions. The dragons, and
  the grubs.”
  
  be reassured by today’s demonstrations, I don’t know what more we can
  do or say.”
  “It’s the loss of the summer crops which bothers him,” Asgenar said.
  “Telgar Hold has been
  spreading out, you know. Larad’s attracted many of the small Holders
  who’ve been dissatisfied in Nerat,
  Crom and Nabol and switched their allegiances. If the crops fail, he’s
  going to have more hungry people —
  and more trouble — than he can handle in the winter.”
  “But what more can we do?” demanded F’lar, a desperate note in his
  voice. He tired so easily. The
  fever had left him little reserve strength, a state he found more frustrat-
  ing than any other problem. Larad’s
  obduracy had been an unexpected disappointment. They’d been so
  lucky with every other man
  approached.
  “I know you can’t send men on a blind jump to the Red Star,” Asgenar
  said, distressed by F’lar’s
  anxiety. “I’ve tried to tell my Rial where I want him to go. He gets frantic
  at times because he can’t see it
  
  Holders really expect you to provide a second miracle in similar short
  order.”
  The remark was so preposterous that F’nor laughed out loud before he
  could stop himself. But the
  tension and anxiety dissolved and the worried men regained some
  needed perspective.
  “Time is all we need,” F’lar insisted.
  “Time is what we don’t have,” Asgenar said wearily..“Then let’s use what
  time we have to the best possible advantage,” F’lar said decisively, his
  moment
  of doubt and disillusion behind him. “Let’s work on Telgar. F’nor, how
  many riders can T’bor spare us to
  hunt larval sacks between time at Southern? You and N’ton can work
  out coordinates with them.”
  “Won’t that weaken Southern’s protection?” asked Robinton.
  “No, because N’ton keeps his eyes open. He noticed that a lot of sacks
  started in the fall get blown
  down or devoured during the winter months. So we’ve altered our meth-
  ods. We check an area in spring to
  place the sacks that survive, go back to the fall and take some of those
  which didn’t last. There were a few
  
  be an asset. Let him strain his
  eyes and crick his neck nightly watching the Red Star. As long as he is
  occupied that way, we’ll know we
  have time. The eyes of a vengeful man miss few details he can turn to
  advantage.”
  “Good point, Robinton. N’ton,” and F’lar turned to the young bronze
  rider. “I want to know every
  remark that man makes, which aspects of the Red Star he views, what
  he could possibly see, what his
  reactions are. We’ve ignored that man too often to our regret. We might
  even be grateful to him.”
  “I’d rather be grateful to grubs,” N’ton replied with some fervor. “Frankly,
  sir,” he added, hesitant for
  the first time about any assignment since he’d been included in the
  council, ‘ I’d rather hunt grubs or catch
  Thread.”
  F’lar eyed the young rider thoughtfully for a moment.
  “Think of this assignment then, N’ton, as the ultimate Thread catch.”
  Brekke had insisted on taking over the care of the plants in the Rooms
  once she was stronger. She
  
  Lord’s bitter repudiation of what the
  Weyrs were trying to accomplish, she was visibly disturbed.
  “Larad’s wrong,’ she said in the slow deliberate way she’d adopted
  lately. “The grubs are the
  solution, the right one. But it’s true that the best solution is not always
  easy to accept. And an expedition to
  the Red Star is not a solution, even if it’s the one Pernese instinctively
  crave. It’s obvious. Just as two
  thousand dragons over Telgar Hold was rather obvious seven Turns
  ago.” She surprised F’nor with a little
  smile, the first since Wirenth’s death. “I myself, like Robinton, would
  prefer to rely on grubs. They present
  fewer problems. But then I’m craftbred.”
  “You use that phrase a lot lately,” F’nor remarked, turning her face to-
  ward him, searching her green
  eyes. They were serious, as always, and clear in the candid gaze was
  the shadow of a sorrow that would
  never lift.
  She locked her fingers in his and smiled gently, a smile which did not
  disperse the sorrow. “I was
  
  nails broke the skin.
  “What’s the matter?” He put both arms around her protectively.
  “He has a warped mind,” Brekke said, staring at him with frightened
  eyes. “And he also has a fire
  lizard, a bronze, as old as Grall and Berd. Does anyone know if he’s
  been training it? Training it to go
  between?”
  “All the Lords have been shown how — ” F’nor broke off as he realized
  the trend of her thought.
  Berd and Grall reacted to Brekke’s fright with nervous squeals and fan-
  ning wings. “No, no, Brekke. He
  can’t,” F’nor reassured her. “Asgenar has one a week or so younger and
  he was saying how difficult he
  found it to send his Rial about in his own hold.”
  “But Meron’s had his longer. It could be further along . . .”
  “Nabol?” F’nor was skeptical. “That man has no conception of how to
  handle a fire lizard.”.“Then why is he so fascinated with the Red Star? What
  else could he have in mind but to send his
  bronze lizard there?”
  “But he knows that dragonmen won’t attempt to send dragons. How can
  he imagine that a fire lizard
  
  “Promise you’ll tell F’lar.”
  “I’ll tell him. I’ll tell him, but not in the middle of the night.”
  With a wing of riders to direct between time for larval sacks the next
  day, his promise slipped F’nor’s
  mind until late that evening. Rather than distress her with his forgetful-
  ness, he asked Canth to bespeak
  N’ton’s Lioth to pass the theory on to N’ton. If the Fort Weyr bronze rider
  saw anything that gave Brekke’s
  premise substance, then they’d tell F’lar.
  He had a chance to speak to N’ton the following day as they met in the
  isolated valley field which
  Larad of Telgar Hold had picked to be seeded by grubs. The field, F’nor
  noticed with some jaundice, was
  planted with a new hybrid vegetable, much in demand as a table luxury
  and grown successfully only in some
  upland areas of Telgar and the High Reaches Hold.
  “Brekke may have something, F’nor,” N’ton admitted. “The watchriders
  have mentioned that Nabol
  will stare for a long time into the distance-viewer and then suddenly
  stare into his fire lizard’s eyes until the
  
  F’nor remembered that feature well. A mass of grayness formed like a
  thick dragon tail, pointing in
  the opposite direction from the planet’s rotation.
  “Sometimes,” N’ton chuckled, “the clouds above the star are clearer
  than anything we can see
  below. The other night, for instance, there was a cloud drift that looked
  like a girl,” N’ton made passes with
  his hands to describe a head, and a few to one side of the air-drawn cir-
  cle, “braiding her hair. I could see
  her head, tilted to the left, the half-finished braid and then the stream of
  free hair. Fascinating.”
  F’nor did not dismiss that conversation entirely for he’d noticed the vari-
  ety of recognizable patterns
  in the clouds around the Red Star and often had been more absorbed in
  that show than in what he was
  supposed to be watching for.
  N’ton’s report of the fire lizard’s behavior was very interesting. The little
  creatures were not as
  dependent on their handlers as dragons. They were quite apt to disap-
  pear between when bored or asked to
  
  Nevertheless, Meron would be watched closely. It was just possible that
  he could dominate his fire
  lizard. His mind, as Brekke said, was warped.
  As F’nor entered the passageway to his weyr that evening, he heard a
  spirited conversation going
  on although he couldn’t distinguish the words.
  Lessa is worried, Canth told him, shaking his wings flat against his back
  as he followed his rider.
  “When you’ve lived with a man for seven Turns, you know what’s on his
  mind,” Lessa was saying
  urgently as F’nor entered. She turned, an almost guilty expression on
  her face replaced by relief when she
  recognized F’nor.
  He looked past her to Brekke whose expression was suspiciously blank.
  She didn’t summon even a
  welcoming smile for him.
  “Know what’s on whose mind, Lessa? F’nor asked, unbelting his riding
  tunic. He tossed his gloves
  to the table and accepted the wine which Brekke poured him.
  Lessa sank awkwardly into the chair beside her, her eyes darting eve-
  rywhere but toward him.
  
  gether. He’s the only one who
  can consolidate the Lord Holders, the Craftmasters and the Dragonrid-
  ers. Even the Oldtimers trust him
  now. Him. No one else!”
  Lessa was unusually upset, F nor realized. Grall and Berd came gliding
  in to perch on the posts of
  Brekke’s chair, chirping softly and preening their wings.
  Lessa ignored their antics, leaning across the table, one hand on F’nor’s
  to hold his attention. “I
  heard what the Harper said about miracles. Salvation in three days!” Her
  eyes were bitter.
  “Going to the Red Star is salvation for no one, Lessa!”
  “Yes, but we don’t know that for certain. We’ve only assumed that we
  can’t because the ancients
  didn’t. And until we prove to the Lords what the actual conditions there
  are, they will not accept the
  alternative!”
  “More trouble from Larad?” F’nor asked sympathetically, rubbing the
  back of his neck. His muscles
  felt unaccountably tight.
  
  she underscored her contempt for the old Lord Holders, “are of the
  opinion that Meron of Nabol has found
  coordinates after nights of watching and is maliciously withholding them
  from the rest of Pern.”
  F’nor grinned and shook his head. “N’ton is watching Meron of Nabol.
  The man has found nothing.
  He couldn’t do anything without our knowledge. And he certainly isn’t
  having any luck with his fire lizard.”
  Lessa blinked, looking at him without comprehension.
  “With his fire lizard?”
  “Brekke thinks Meron might attempt to send his fire lizard to the Red
  Star.”
  As if a string in her back had been pulled, Lessa jerked up in her chair,
  her eyes huge and black as
  she stared first at him, then at Brekke.
  “Yes, that would be like him. He wouldn’t mind sacrificing his fire lizard
  for that, would he? And it’s
  as old as yours.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “If he . . .”
  F’nor laughed with an assurance he suddenly didn’t honestly feel. Lessa
  had reacted far too
  
  “There’s got to be something we can do. I tell you, F’nor, I know what
  F’lar has on his mind. I know
  he’s trying to find some way to get to the Red Star if only to prove to the
  Lord Holders that there is no other
  alternative but the grubs!”
  “He may be willing to risk his neck, my dear Lessa, but is Mnementh
  willing?”
  Lessa flashed F’nor a look of pure dislike. “And put the notion in the
  poor beast’s head that this is
  what F’lar wants? I could throttle Robinton. Him and his three-day sal-
  vation! F’lar can’t stop thinking about
  that. But F’lar is not the one to go” and she broke off, biting her lip, her
  eyes sliding toward Brekke.
  “I understand, Lessa,” Brekke said very slowly, her eyes unwinking as
  she held Lessa’s. “Yes, I
  understand you.
  F’nor began to massage his right shoulder. He must have been between
  too much lately.
  “Never mind,” Lessa said suddenly, with unusual force. “I’m just over-
  wrought with all this
  
  once more. Certainly he’s been open with the other Weyrleaders, the
  Craftmasters, being sure that
  everyone knows exactly what the over-all plan is. Nothing will go wrong
  this time. This is one Craft secret
  that won’t get lost because someone can’t read a Record skin!”.Lessa
  rose, her body taut. She licked her lips. “I think,” she said in a low voice,
  “that’s what scares
  me most. He’s taking such precautions to be sure everyone knows. Just
  in case . . .”
  She broke off and rushed out of the Weyr.
  F’nor stared after her. That interpretation of F’lar’s overtness began to
  assume frightening
  significance. Disturbed, he turned to Brekke, surprised to see tears in
  the girl’s eyes. He took her in his
  arms.
  “Look, I’ll get some rest, we’ll eat, and then I’ll go to Fort Weyr. See
  Meron myself. Better still,” and
  he hugged her reassuringly, “I’ll bring Grall along. She’s the oldest
  we’ve got. I’ll see if she’d take the trip.
  If any of the fire lizards would go, she’d be the one. There now! How’s
  that for a good idea?” She clung to
  
  enough about F’lar to confide in
  Brekke and F’nor, she was more deeply concerned than she’d admit.
  Brekke and F’nor must assume such
  responsibility as they could.
  Brekke was a great one for assuming responsibility, F’nor thought with
  affectionate tolerance as he
  roused Canth. Well, it wouldn’t take long to check on Meron. Or to see if
  Grall would consider going to the
  Red Star. That certainly was a better alternative than F’lar making the
  trip. If the little queen lizard would
  consider it.
  Canth was in high good humor as they wheeled first above Benden
  Weyr, then burst out of between
  above Fort Weyr’s Star Stones. There were glows along the crown of
  the Weyr rim and, beyond the Star
  Stones, the silhouettes of several dragons.
  Canth and F’nor of Benden Weyr, the brown dragon announced in an-
  swer to the watchrider’s query.
  Lioth is here and the green dragon who must stay at Nabol, Canth
  added as he backwinged to a light
  
  Canth.”
  The bronze Nabol lizard began to screech with a distress which Grall
  echoed nervously. Her wings
  extended. F’nor stroked them down to her back, emitting the human
  version of a lizard croon which usually
  calmed her. She tightened her wings but started to hop from one foot to
  the other, he eyes whirling
  restlessly.
  “Who’s that?” demanded Meron of Nabol peremptorily. Meron’s shadow
  detached itself from the
  larger one of the rock on which the distance-viewer was mounted.
  “F’nor, Wing-second of Benden Weyr,” the brown rider answered coldly.
  “You’ve no business in Fort Weyr,” Meron said, his tone rasping. “Get
  out of here!”
  “Lord Meron,” N’ton said, stepping in front of F’nor. “F’nor of Benden has
  as much right in Fort Weyr
  as you.”
  “How dare you speak to a Lord Holder in that fashion?”
  “Can he have found something?” F’nor asked N’ton in a low voice.
  N’ton shrugged and moved toward the Nabolese. The little lizard began
  to shriek. Grall extended
  
  eyes were used to the darkness by now and he could see the Lord
  Holder bend to place his eye to the
  viewer. He also saw that the man held tight to his fire lizard though the
  creature was twisting and writhing to
  escape. Its agitated screeching rose to a nerve-twitting pitch.
  The little one is terrified, Canth told his rider.
  “Grall terrified?” F’nor asked the brown dragon, startled. He could see
  that Grall was upset but he
  didn’t read terror in her thoughts.
  Not Grall. The little brother. He is terrified. The man is cruel..F’nor had
  never heard such condemnation from his dragon.
  Suddenly Canth let out an incredible bellow. It startled the riders, the
  other two dragons, and put
  Grall into flight. Before half the dragons of Fort Weyr roused to bugle a
  query, Canth’s tactic had achieved
  the effect he’d wanted. Meron had lost his hold on the fire lizard and it
  had sprung free and gone between.
  With a cry of rage for such interference, Meron sprang toward the
  Dragonriders, to find his way
  blocked by the menacing obstacle of Canth’s head.
  
  cowards, the pack of you! Always
  knew it. Anyone can get to the Red Star. Anyone! I’ll call your bluff, you
  neutered perverts!”
  The green dragon, her eyes redly malevolent, dipped her shoulder to
  Meron. Without a break in his
  ranting denunciation, the Lord of Nabol climbed the riding straps and
  took his place on her neck. She had
  not cleared the Star Stones before F’nor was at the distance-viewer,
  peering at the Red Star.
  What could Meron have seen? Or was he merely bellowing baseless
  accusations to unsettle them?
  As often as he had seen the Red Star with its boiling cover of reddish-
  gray clouds, F’nor still
  experienced a primitive stab of fear. Tonight the fear was like an extra-
  cold spine from his balls to his throat.
  The distance-viewer revealed the westward-pointing tail of the gray
  mass which resembled a featureless,
  backward Nerat. The jutting edge of the swirling clouds obscured it.
  Clouds that swirled to form a pattern —
  no lady braiding her hair tonight. Rather, a massive fist, thumb of darker
  gray curling slowly, menacingly
  
  Clouds, that’s all he could have seen, over backward Nerat!”
  N’ton looked up from the eyepiece, sighing with relief.
  “Cloud formations won’t get us anywhere!”
  F’nor held his hand up for Grall. She came down obediently and when
  she started to hop to his
  shoulder, he forestalled her, gently stroking her head, smoothing her
  wings flat. He held her level with his
  eyes and, without stopping the gentle caresses, began to project the
  image of that fist, lazily forming over
  Nerat. He outlined color, grayish-red, and whitish where the top of the
  imagined fingers might be sun-struck.
  He visualized the fingers closing above the Neratian peninsula. Then he
  projected the image of Grall taking
  the long step between, to the Red Star, into that cloud fist.
  Terror, horror, a whirling many-faceted impression of heat, violent wind,
  burning breathlessness,
  sent him staggering against N’ton as Grall, with a fearful shriek,
  launched herself from his hand and
  disappeared.
  “What happened to her?” N’ton demanded, steadying the brown rider.
  
  “I gave vivid coordinates?”
  Yes.
  “What terrified Grall? You aren’t reacting the way she did and you heard
  the coordinates.”
  She is young and silly. Canth paused, considering something. She re-
  membered something that
  scared her. The brown dragon sounded puzzled by that memory.
  “What does Canth say?” N’ton asked, unable to pick up the quick ex-
  change.
  “He doesn’t know what frightened her. Something she remembers, he
  says.”
  “Remembers? She’s only been hatched a few weeks.”
  “A moment, N’ton.” F’nor put his hand on the bronze rider’s shoulder to
  silence him for a thought
  had suddenly struck him. “Canth,” he said taking a deep breath, “You
  said the coordinates I gave her were
  vivid. Vivid enough — for you to take me to that fist I saw in the
  clouds?”.Yes, I can see where you want me to go, Canth replied so confi-
  dently that F’nor was taken aback.
  But this wasn’t a time to think things out.
  
  “Have a care then,” N’ton advised. “At least we’ve solved one problem
  tonight. Meron can’t make
  that fire lizard of his go to the Red Star ahead of us.”
  F’nor had mounted Canth. He tightened the fighting straps until they
  threatened to cut off
  circulation. He waved to N’ton and the watchrider, suppressing his rising
  level of excitement until Canth had
  taken him high above the Weyr.
  Then he stretched flat along Canth’s neck and looped the hand straps
  double around his wrists.
  Wouldn’t do to fall off during this jump between.
  Canth beat steadily upward, directly toward the baleful Red Star, high in
  the dark heavens, almost as if the
  dragon proposed to fly there straight.
  Clouds were formed by water vapors, F’nor knew. At least they were on
  Pern. But it took air to
  support clouds. Air of some kind. Air could contain various gases. Over
  the plains of Igen where the
  noxious vapors rose from the yellow mountains you could suffocate with
  the odor and the stuff in your lungs.
  
  see to the surface, under the
  cloud cover. One look to settle the matter forever. One look that F’nor —
  not F’lar — would make.
  He began to reconstruct that ethereal fist, its alien fingers closing over
  the westering tip of grayness
  on the Red Star’s enigmatic surface. “Tell Ramoth. She’ll broadcast
  what we see to everyone, dragon,
  rider, fire lizard. We’ll have to go slightly between time, too, to the mo-
  ment on the Red Star when I saw that
  fist. Tell Brekke.” And he suddenly realized that Brekke already knew,
  had known when she’d seduced him
  so unexpectedly. For that was why Lessa had confided in them, in
  Brekke. He couldn’t be angry with
  Lessa. She’d had the courage to take just such a risk seven Turns ago,
  when she’d seen a way back
  through time to bring up the five missing Weyrs.
  Fill your lungs, Canth advised him and F’nor felt the dragon sucking air
  down his throat.
  He didn’t have time to consider Lessa’s tactics because the cold of be-
  tween enveloped them. He
  
  Canth started to open his wings and screamed in agony as they were
  wrenched back. The
  snapping of his strong forelimbs went unheard in the incredible roar of
  the furnace-hot tornadic winds that
  seized them from the relative calm of the downdraft. There was air en-
  veloping the Red Star — a burning hot
  air, whipped to flame-heat by brutal turbulences. The helpless dragon
  and rider were like a feather, dropped
  hundreds of lengths only to be slammed upward end over end, with
  hideous force. As they tumbled, their
  minds paralyzed by the holocaust they had entered, F’nor had a night-
  mare glimpse of the gray surfaces
  toward and away from which they were alternately thrown and removed:
  the Neratian tip was a wet, slick
  gray that writhed and bubbled and oozed. Then they were thrown into
  the reddish clouds that were shot
  with nauseating grays and whites, here and there torn by massive or-
  ange rivers of lightning. A thousand hot
  points burned the unprotected skin of F’nor’s face, pitted Canth’s hide,
  penetrating each lid over the
  
  warned!.Grall returned to Brekke, crying piteously, burrowing into
  Brekke’s arm. She was trembling with fear
  but her thoughts made such chaotic nonsense that Brekke was unable
  to isolate the cause of her terror.
  She stroked and soothed the little queen, tempting her with morsels of
  meat to no effect. The little
  lizard refused to be quieted. Then Berd caught Grall’s anxiety and when
  Brekke scolded him, Grall’s
  excitement and anguish intensified.
  Suddenly Mirrim’s two greens came swooping into the weyr, twittering
  and fluttering, also affected
  by the irrational behavior of the little queen. Mirrim came running in
  then, escorted by her bronze, bugling
  and fanning his gossamer wings into a blur.
  “Whatever is the matter? Are you all right, Brekke?”
  “I’m perfectly all right,” Brekke assured her, pushing away the hand Mir-
  rim extended to her
  forehead. “They’re just excited that’s all. It’s the middle of the night. Go
  back to bed.”
  “Just excited?” Mirrim pursed her lips the way Lessa did when she knew
  someone was evading her.
  
  to keen now, flitting
  around the room, swooping in wild dives as if they wanted to escape
  some unseen danger.
  “Get me some klah,” she repeated, because Mirrim stood watching her
  like a numbwit.
  Her trio of fire lizards had followed her out before Brekke realized her er-
  ror. They’d probably rouse
  the lower Caverns with their distress. She called but Mirrim didn’t hear
  her. Cold chills made her fingers
  awkward.
  Canth wouldn’t go if he felt it would endanger F’nor. Canth has sense,
  Brekke told herself trying to
  convince herself. He knows what he can and can’t do. Canth is the big-
  gest, fastest, strongest brown
  dragon on Pern. He’s almost as large as Mnementh and nearly as
  smart.
  Brekke heard Ramoth’s brassy bugle of alarm just as she received the
  incredible message from
  Canth.
  Going to the Red Star? On the coordinates of a cloud? She staggered
  against the table, her legs
  
  feet, to walk to the ledge.
  The fire lizards kept darting and diving around her, keening wildly; a
  steady, nerve-jangling double trill of
  pure terror.
  She halted at the top of the stairs, stunned by the confusion in the cre-
  puscular gloom of the Weyr
  Bowl. There were dragons on ledges, fanning their wings with agitation.
  Other beasts were circling around
  at dangerous speeds. Some had riders, most were flying free. Ramoth
  and Mnementh were on the Stones,
  their wings outstretched, their tongues flicking angrily, their eyes bright
  orange as they bugled to their
  Weyrmates. Riders and weyrfolk were running back and forth yelling,
  calling to their beasts, questioning
  each other for the source of this inexplicable demonstration.
  Brekke futilely clapped her hands to her ears, searching the confusion
  for a sight of Lessa or F’lar.
  Suddenly they both appeared at the steps and came running up to her.
  F’lar reached Brekke first, for Lessa
  hung back, one hand steadying herself against the wall.
  
  F’lar stiffened and his eyes turned as orange as Mnementh’s. He stared
  at her with a compound of
  fear and loathing that sent Brekke reeling back. As if her movement re-
  leased him, F’lar looked toward the
  bronze dragon roaring stentoriously on the heights.
  His shoulders jerked back and his hands clenched into fists so tight the
  bones showed yellow
  through the skin.
  At that instant, every noise ceased in the Weyr as every mind felt the
  impact of the warning the fire
  lizards had been trying inchoately to project..Turbulence, savage, ruth-
  less, destructive; a pressure inexorable and deadly. Churning masses of
  slick, sickly gray surfaces that heaved and dipped. Heat as massive as
  a tidal wave. Fear! Terror! An
  inarticulate longing!
  A scream was torn from a single throat, a scream like a knife upon raw
  nerves!
  “Don’t leave me alone!” The cry came from cords lacerated by the ex-
  treme of anguish; a command,
  an entreaty that seemed echoed by the black mouths of the weyrs, by
  dragon minds and human hearts.
  
  plunge as fatal as the one which Canth had tried to stop over the stony
  heights of the High Reaches range.
  And there was no consciousness in that plummeting speck, no echo,
  however faint, to her
  despairing inquiry. The arrow of dragons ascended, great wings pump-
  ing. The arrow thickened, once,
  twice, three times as other dragons arrived, making a broad path in the
  sky, steadily striving for that falling
  mote.
  It was as if the dragons became a ramp that received the unconscious
  body of their Weyrmate,
  received and braked its fatal momentum with their own bodies, until the
  last segment of overlapping wings
  eased the broken-winged ball of the bloody brown dragon to the floor of
  the Weyr.
  Half-blinded as she was, Brekke was the first person to reach Canth’s
  bleeding body, F’nor still
  strapped to his burned neck. Her hands found F’nor’s throat, her fingers
  the tendon where his pulse should
  beat. His flesh was cold and sticky to the touch and ice would be less
  hard.
  
  and sucked it out.
  “That’s right, Brekke,” someone cried. That may work. Slow and steady!
  Breathe for yourself or
  you’ll pass out.”
  Someone grabbed her painfully around the waist. She clung to F’nor’s
  limp body until she realized
  that they were both being lifted from the dragon’s neck.
  She heard someone talking urgently, encouragingly to Canth.
  “Canth! Stay!”
  The dragon’s pain was like a cruel knot in Brekke’s skull. She breathed
  in and out. Out and in. For
  F’nor, for herself, for Canth. She was conscious as never before of the
  simple mechanics of breathing;
  conscious of the muscles of her abdomen expanding and contracting
  around a column of air which she
  forced up and out, in and out.
  “Brekke! Brekke!”
  Hard hands pulled at her. She clutched the wher-hide tunic beneath her.
  “Brekke! He’s breathing for himself now. Brekke!”
  They forced her away from him. She tried to resist but everything was a
  bloody blur. She
  
  atmosphere of the thawing
  planet toward Pern, pushed and pulled by the gravitic forces of a triple
  conjunction of the system’s other
  planets.
  The spores dropped through the atmospheric envelope of Pern. Attenu-
  ated by the friction of entry,
  they fell in a rain of hot filaments on the surface of the planet.
  Dragons rose, destroying them with flaming breath. What Thread eluded
  the airborne beasts was
  efficiently seared into harmless motes by ground crews, or burrowed
  after by sand-worm and fire lizard.
  Except on the eastern slope of a northern mountain plantation of hard-
  wood trees. There men had
  carefully drawn back from the leading edge of the Fall. They watched,
  one with intent horror, as the silver.rain scorched leaf and fell hissing into
  the soil. When the leading Edge had passed over the crest of the
  mountain, the men approached the points of impact cautiously, the noz-
  zles of the flames throwers they
  carried a half-turn away from spouting flame.
  The still smoldering hole of the nearest Thread entry was prodded with a
  metal rod. A brown fire
  
  The Benden Weyrleader returned Asgenar’s smile, hooking his thumbs
  in his broad riding belt.
  “And this is the fourth Fall with no burrows and no protection, Lord As-
  genar?”
  The Lord of Lemos Hold nodded, his eyes sparkling. “No burrows on the
  entire slope.” He turned in
  triumph to the one man who seemed dubious and said, “Can you doubt
  the evidence of your eyes, Lord
  Groghe?”
  The ruddy-faced Lord of Fort Hold shook his head slowly.
  “C’mon, man,” said the white-haired man with the prominent, hooked
  nose. “What more proof do
  you need? You’ve seen the same thing on lower Keroon, you’ve seen it
  in Telgar Valley. Even that idiot
  Vincent of Nerat Hold has capitulated.”
  Groghe of Fort Hold shrugged, indicating a low opinion of Vincent, Lord
  Holder of Nerat.
  “I just can’t put any trust in a handful of squirming insects. Relying on
  dragons makes sense.”
  “But you’ve seen grubs devour Thread!” F’lar persisted. His patience
  with the man was wearing
  
  lizard on his shoulder crooned softly and rubbed her down-soft head
  against his cheek. The man’s
  expression softened slightly. Then he recalled himself and glared at
  F’lar. “Spent my whole life trusting
  Dragonkind. I’m too old to change. But you’re running the planet now.
  Do as you will. You will anyhow!”
  He stalked away, toward the waiting brown dragon who was Fort Hold’s
  resident messenger.
  Groghe’s fire lizard extended her golden wings, crooning as she bal-
  anced herself against his jolting strides.
  Lord Corman of Keroon fingered his large nose and blew it out briskly.
  He had a disconcerting habit
  of unblocking his ears that way. “Old fool. He’ll use grubs. He’ll use
  them. Just can’t get used to the idea
  that it’s no good wanting to go to the Red star and blasting Thread on its
  home ground. Groghe’s a fighter.
  Doesn’t sit well with him to barricade his Hold, as it were, and wait out
  the siege. He likes to charge into
  things, straighten them out his way.”
  “The Weyrs appreciate your help, Lord Corman,” F’lar began.
  
  reassuringly. “He’s on his
  feet. Not much the worse for wear,” although F’nor would never lose the
  scars on the cheek where particles
  had been forced into the bone. “Canth’s wings are healing, though new
  membrane grows slowly. He looked
  like raw meat when they got back, you know. There wasn’t a hand-span
  on his body, except where F’nor
  had lain, that hadn’t been scoured bare. He has the entire Weyr hopping
  to when he itches and wants to be
  oiled. That’s a lot of dragon to oil.” F’lar chuckled as much to reassure
  Corman who looked uncomfortable
  hearing a list of Canth’s injuries as in recollection of the sight of Canth
  dominating a Weyr’s personnel.
  “Then the beast will fly again.”
  “We believe so. And he’ll fight Thread, too. With more reason than any
  of us.”
  Corman regarded F’lar levelly. “I can see it’s going to take Turns and
  Turns to grub the continent
  thoroughly. This forest,” and he gestured to the plantation of hardwood
  saplings, “my corner on Keroon
  
  ment. “Cheer up, man,” he
  advised, giving the Lord of Lemos an affectionate clout on the shoulder.
  “Think about it. You ought to know
  by now what dragons do best.”
  Mnementh was settling carefully in the small clearing in response to his
  summons. F’lar closed his
  tunic, preparatory to flying.
  “Dragons go places better than anything else on Pern, good Lord Hold-
  ers. Faster, farther. We’ve
  all the southern continent to explore when this Pass is over and men
  have time to relax again. And there’re
  other planets in our skies to visit.”
  Shock and horror were mirrored in the faces of the two Lord Holders.
  Both had had lizards when
  F’nor and Canth had taken their jump between the planets; they’d
  known intimately what had happened.
  “They can’t all be as inhospitable as the Red Star,” F’lar said.
  “Dragons belong on Pern!” Corman said and honked his big nose for
  emphasis.
  “Indeed they do, Lord Corman. Be assured that there’ll always be drag-
  ons in the Weyrs of Pern. It
  
  High Reaches Weyr Southern Weyr
  Igen Weyr
  THE MAJOR HOLDS AS BOUND TO
  THE WEYRS
  Fort Weyr
  Fort Hold (oldest hold), Lord Holder Groghe
  Ruatha Hold (next oldest), Lord Holder Jaxom,
  Lord Warder Lytol
  Southern Boll Hold, Lord Holder Sangel
  Benden Weyr
  Benden Hold, Lords Holder Raid and Toronas
  Bitra Hold, Lords Holder Sifer and Sigomal
  Lemas Hold, Lord Holder Asgenar
  High Reaches Weyr
  High Reaches Hold, Lord Holder Bargen
  Nabol Hold, Lords Holder Fax, Meron, Deckter
  Tillek Hold, Lord Holder Oterel
  Igen Weyr
  Keroon Hold, Lord Holder Corman
  Parts of Upper Igen
  Southern Telgar Hold
  
  Southern Hold, Holder Toric
  THE PRINCIPAL LORDS
  (AND THEIR HOLDS)
  Asgenar (Lemos)
  Banger (Igen Plains)
  Bargen (High Reaches)
  Begamon (Nerat, 2)
  Corman (Keroon)
  Deckter (Nabol, 3)
  Fax (Nabol, 1)
  Groghe (Fort)
  Jaxom (Ruatha)
  Larad (Telgar)
  Laudey (Igen)
  Lytol (Ruatha Warder)
  Meron (Nabol, 2)
  Nessel (Crom)
  Oterel (Tillek)
  Raid (Benden)
  Sangel (Boll)
  Sifer (Bitra, 1)
  
  Andemon Masterfarmer Nerat Hold
  Arnor Craftmaster, scrivenor Harpercraft Hall
  Fort Hold
  Baldor Weyrharper Ista Weyr
  Belesdan Mastertanner Igen Hold
  Bendarek Craftmaster, woodsmith Lemos Hold
  Benelek Journeyman, machinesmith Smith Hall
  Briaret Masterherder Keroon Hold
  Brudegan Journeyman Harper Harpercraft Hall,
  Fort Hold
  Chad Harper Telgar Weyr
  Domick Craftmaster, composer Harpercraft Hall,
  Fort Hold
  Elgin Harper Half-Circle Sea Hold
  Facenden Craftmaster, smith Smithcraft Hall,.Fandarel Mastersmith
  Smithcraft Hall,
  Telgar Hold
  Idarolan Masterfisher Tillek Hold
  Jerint Craftmaster, instruments Harpercraft Hall,
  Fort Hold
  Ligand Journeyman tanner Fort Hold
  
  Pailm Journeyman baker Smithhall
  Petiron Harper Half-Circle Sea Hold
  Piemur Apprentice/journeyman Harpercraft Hall,
  Fort Hold
  Robinton Masterharper Fort Hold
  Sebell Journeyman/Masterharper Harpercraft Hall,
  Fort Hold
  Sharra Journeyman healer Southern Hold
  Shonegar Craftmaster, voice Harpercraft Hall,
  Fort Hold
  Sograny Masterherder Keroon Hold
  Tagetarl Journeyman Harper Harpercraft Hall,
  Fort Hold
  Talmor Journeyman Harper Harpercraft Hall,
  Fort Hold
  Terry Craftmaster, smith Smithcraft Hall,
  Telgar Hold
  Timareen Craftmaster, weaver Telgar Hold
  Wansor Craftmaster, glassmith Smithcraft Hall,
  Telgar Hold
  Yanis Craftmaster Half-Circle Sea Hold
  
  Corman —
  Deelan green
  Famira green
  F’nor gold Grall
  Groghe queen Merga
  G’sel bronze
  Kylara gold
  Larad green
  Menolly queen Beauty;
  bronzes Rocky, Diver, Poll;
  browns Lazybones, Mimic, Brownie;.greens Auntie One, Auntie Two;
  blue Uncle;
  Meron bronze
  Mirrim greens Reppa, Lok;
  brown Tolly;
  Nessel —
  Nicat —
  N’ton brown Tris;
  Oterel —
  Piemur queen Farlir;
  Robinton bronze Zair;
  
  SOME TERMS OF INTEREST
  Agenothree: a common chemical on Pern, HNO3.
  Between: an area of nothingness and sensory deprivation between here
  and there.
  Black rock: analogous to coal.
  Day Sisters: a trio of stars visible from Pern.
  Dawn Sisters: an alternate name for Day Sisters.
  Deadglow: a numbskull, stupid. Derived from glow.
  Fellis: a flowering tree.
  Fellis juice: a juice made from the fruit of the fellis tree; a soporific.
  Fire-stone: phosphine-bearing mineral which dragons chew to produce
  flame.
  Glow: a light-source which can be carried in a hand-basket.
  High Reaches: mountains on the northern continent of Pern.
  Hold: a place where the common people live; originally they were cut
  into the mountains and
  hillsides.
  Impression: the joining of minds of a dragon and his rider-to-be at the
  moment of the dragon’s
  hatching.
  Interval: the period of time between passes, generally
  
  Month: four sevendays
  Numbweed: a medicinal cream which, when smeared on wounds, kills
  all feeling; used as an
  anesthetic.
  Oldtimer: a member of one of the five Weyrs which Lessa brought for-
  ward four hundred
  Turns in time. Used as a derogative term to refer to one who has moved
  to Southern Weyr.
  Pass: a period of time during which the Red Star is close enough to
  drop Thread on Pern.
  Pern: third of the star Rukbat’s five planets. It has two natural satellites.
  Red Star (sic): Pern’s stepsister planet. It has an erratic orbit.
  Rukbat: a yellow star in the Sagittarian Sector, Rukbat has five planets
  and two asteroid belts.
  Sevenday: the equivalent of a week on Pern.
  Thread: (mycorrhizoid) spores from the Red Star, which descend on
  Pern and burrow into it,
  devouring all organic material they encounter.
  Turn: a Pernese year..Watch-wher: a nocturnal reptile distantly related
  to Dragonkind.
  Weyr: a home of dragons and their riders.
  
  By the Egg
  By the shards of my dragon’s egg
  By the first Egg
  By the Egg of Faranth
  Shells
  Through Fall, Fog, and Fire
  Scorch it
  Shards
  THE PEOPLE OF PERN
  Abuna: Kitchen head at Harpercraft Hall, Fort Hold
  Alemi: Third of Seaholder’s six sons, at Half-Circle Sea Hold
  Andemon: Masterfarmer, Nerat Hold
  Arnor: Craftmaster scrivenor, at Harpercraft Hold
  Balder: Harper, at Ista Weyr
  B’dor: at Ista Weyr
  Bedella: Oldtimer Weyrwoman, at Telgar Weyr, dragon queen Solth
  Belesdan: Mastertanner, Igen Hold
  Bendarek: Craftmaster Woodsmith, at Lemos Hold
  Benelek: Journeyman machinesmith, Smithhall
  Benis: one of Lord Holder Groghe’s 17 sons, at Fort Hold
  B’fol: rider, at Benden Weyr; dragon green Gereth
  
  Briaret: Masterherder (replaces Sograny), Keroon Hold
  Brudegen: Journeyman of chorus, at Harpercraft Hall, Fort Hold
  Camo: a half-wit at Harpercraft Hall, Fort Hold
  Celina: queenrider, at Benden Weyr; dragon queen Lamanth
  C’gan: Weyrsinger at Benden Weyr, dragon blue Tegath
  Corana: sister of Fidello (holder at Plateau), Ruatha Hold
  Cosira: rider, at Ista Weyr; dragon queen Caylith
  Deelan: milkmother to Jaxom, at Ruatha Hold.Dorse: milkbrother to
  Jaxom, at Ruatha Hold
  D’nek: rider, at Fort Weyr; dragon bronze Zagenth
  D’nol: rider of dragon bronze Valenth, at Benden Weyr
  Domick: Craftmaster composer, at Harpercraft Hall, Fort Hold
  D’ram: Oldtimer Weyrleader, at Ista Weyr; dragon bronze Tiroth
  Dunca: cot-holder, girl’s cottage, at Harpercraft Hall, Fort Hold
  D’wer: rider, at Benden Weyr; dragon blue Trebeth
  Elgion: the new Harper at Half-Circle Sea Hold
  Fandarel: Mastersmith, Smithcraft Hall, Telgar Hold
  Fanna: Oldtimer Weyrwoman, at Ista Weyr; dragon queen Miranth
  Fax: Lord of Seven Holds, father of Jaxom
  Felena: second to the Headwoman Manora, at Benden Weyr
  Fidello: holder, at Plateau in Ruatha Hold
  
  Gandidan: a child at Benden Weyr
  Gemma, Lady: First Lady of Fax (Lord of the Seven Holds)
  and mother of Jaxom
  G’dened: Weyrleader-to-be, at Ista Weyr, son of Old-timer Weyrleader
  D’ram,
  dragon bronze Baranth
  G’nag: at Southern Weyr, dragon blue Nelanth
  G’narish: Oldtimer Weyrleader at Igen Weyr; dragon bronze Gyamath
  G’sel: rider, at Southern Weyr; bronze fire-lizard, dragon green Roth
  Groghe: Lord Holder at Fort Hold; fire-lizard queen Merga
  H’ages: Wingsecond at Telgar Weyr; dragon bronze Kerth
  Horon: son of Lord Groghe; Fort Hold
  Idarolan: Masterfisher, Tillek Hold
  Jaxom: Lord Holder (underage) at Ruatha Hold dragon white Ruth
  Jerint: Craftmaster for instruments, at Harpercraft Hall, Fort Hold
  Jora: Weyrwoman preceding Lessa, at Benden Weyr; dragon queen
  Nemorth
  J’ralt: rider, at Benden Weyr; dragon queen Palanth
  Kayla: drudge, at Harpercraft Hall, Fort Hold
  K’der: rider, at Ista Weyr; dragon blue Warth
  Kenelas: a woman of the lower caverns, at Benden Weyr
  
  Prideth
  Lessa: Weyrwoman at Benden Weyr; dragon queen Ramoth
  Lidith: Queen dragon before Nemorth, rider unknown
  Ligand: Journeyman tanner at Fort Hold
  L’tol: rider, at Benden Weyr and, as Lytol, Warder of Ruatha Hold;
  dragon brown Larth (dies)
  L’trel: father of Mirrim, at Southern Weyr; dragon blue Falgrenth
  Lytol: Lord Warder for the underage Lord Holder Jaxom at Ruatha Hold;
  dragon brown Larth (dies)
  Manora: headwoman at Benden Weyr.Mardra: Oldtimer Weyrwoman at
  Fort Weyr, banished to Southern Weyr;
  dragon queen Loranth
  Margatta: senior Weyrwoman at Fort Weyr; dragon queen Ludeth
  Mavi: Seaholder’s (Yanis) Lady at Half-Circle Sea Hold
  Menolly: Journeyman at Harpercraft Hold, Fort Hold, fire-lizards (10):
  gold: Beauty; bronzes: Rocky, Diver, Poll;
  browns: Lazybones, Mimic, Brownie,
  greens: Auntie One and Auntie Two; blue: Uncle
  Menolly: youngest child (daughter) of Seaholder (Yanis) of
  Half Circle Sea Hold
  Merelan: mother of Robinton (Masterharper of Harpercraft Hold)
  
  M’tok: rider, at Benden Weyr; dragon bronze Litorth
  Nadira: Weyrwoman, at Igen Weyr
  Nanira: see Varena
  Nicat: Masterminer, Crom Hold
  N’ton: wingleader at Benden Weyr on dragon bronze Lioth;
  then Weyrleader at Fort Weyr (after T’ron), fire-lizard brown Tris
  Oharan: Journeyman Harper at Benden Weyr
  Oldive: Masterhealer, at Harpercraft Hall, Fort Hold
  Old Uncle: great grandfather of Menolly, at Half-Circle Sea Hold
  Palim: Journeyman baker at Fort Hold
  Petiron: the old Harper at Half-Circle Sea Hold
  Piemur: Apprentice/Journeyman, at Harpercraft Hall, Fort Hold;
  fire-lizard queen Farli; runner-beast Stupid
  Pilgra: Weyrwoman, at High Reaches Weyr; dragon queen Selgrith
  P’llomar: rider at Benden Weyr: dragon green Ladrarth
  Pona: granddaughter to Lord Holder Sangel, Southern Boll Hold
  P’ratan: rider, at Benden Weyr; dragon green Poranth
  Prilla: youngest Weyrwoman, at Fort Weyr; dragon queen Selianth
  Rannelly: nurse and servant of Kylara
  R’gul: Weyrleader before F’lar, at Benden Weyr; dragon bronze Hath
  R’mart: Oldtimer Weyrleader, at Telgar Weyr; dragon bronze Branth
  
  S’goral: rider, at Southern Weyr; dragon green Betunth
  Sharra: Journeyman healer, at Southern Hold; fire-lizards: bronze: Meer
  and brown: Talla
  Shonagar: Craftmaster for voice, at Harpercraft Hall, Fort Hold
  Silon: a child at Benden Weyr
  Silvina: headwoman at Harpercraft Hall, Fort Hold
  S’lan: rider, at Benden Weyr; dragon bronze Binth
  S’lel: rider, at Benden Weyr; dragon bronze Tuenth
  Sograny: Masterherder, Keroon Hold
  Soreel: wife of the First Holder at Half-Circle Sea Hold.Tagetarl: Jour-
  neyman at Harpercraft Hall, Fort Hold
  Talina: Weyrwoman at Benden Weyr; queenrider
  Talmor: Journeyman teacher, at Harpercraft Hall, Fort Hold
  T’bor: Weyrleader at Southern Weyr, later moves to High Reaches
  when the Oldtimers are exiled; dragon bronze Orth
  Tegger: holder at Ruatha
  Tela, Lady: one of Fax’s ladies
  Terry: Craftmaster smith, Smithcraft Hall, Telgar Hold
  T’gran: dragonrider at Benden Weyr; dragon brown Branth
  T’gellan: wingleader at Benden Weyr; dragon bronze Monarth
  T’gor: rider at Benden Weyr; dragon blue Relth
  
  T’ron: Oldtimer Weyrleader at Fort Weyr; banished to Southern Weyr;
  dragon bronze Fidranth; also called T’ton
  T’sel: dragonrider at Benden Weyr; dragon green Trenth,
  fire-lizard bronze Rill
  Vanira: see Varena
  Varena (also called Vanira): rider, at Southern Weyr; dragon queen Ra-
  lenth
  Viderian: fosterling (Seaholder’s son) at Fort Hold
  Wansor: Craftmaster glassmith, Smithcraft Hall, Telgar Hold;
  also called Starsmith
  Yanis: Craftmaster and Seaholder at Half-Circle Sea Hold
  Zurg: Masterweaver, Southern Boll Hold
  ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  Born on April 1, Anne McCaffrey has tried to live up to such an auspi-
  cious natal day. Her first novel
  was created in Latin class and might have brought her instant fame, as
  well as an A, had she attempted to
  write in the language. Much chastened, she turned to the stage and be-
  came a character actress, appearing
  in the first successful summer music circus at Lambertsville, New Jer-
  sey. She studied voice for nine years
  
  to writing.
  Between her frequent appearances in the United States and in England
  as a lecturer and guest of
  honor at SF conventions, Ms. McCaffrey lives at Dragonhold, in the hills
  of Wicklow County, Ireland, with two
  of her children, her gray horse Mr. Ed, four cats and a dog. Of herself,
  Ms. McCaffrey says, “I have green
  eyes, silver hair, and freckles; the rest changes without notice.”
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/Vault2.0.-.Fiction-and-audiobooks/Books/M/Mccaffrey, Anne/Anne McCaffrey - Pern 02 - Dragon Quest.pdf