When the skies finally looked clear and their frenzied flight slowed, Piemur’s arm muscles were burning; he’d been holding on to the fighting straps so tightly that he was certain he’d never be able to unclench his hands again.
All around them, the other members of the wing were slowing the pace of their flight, dragons and riders turning their heads slowly from side to side as they scanned the skies. When it was clear that no more Thread was falling, the riders called out to one another, exchanging comments of praise, or mild teases, the urgency and tension of their hasty combat immediately forgotten in their easy badinage.
“We’ve got it under control now,” J’hon said, lifting his goggles from his eyes as he turned to face Piemur. The bronze rider’s face was covered in a dark layer of sooty ash, save for where his goggles had rested. He flashed Piemur a toothy grin, his golden eyes sparkling with elation. “Are you still in one piece?” he asked, and Piemur nodded, feeling as if his eyes might pop out of his head.
“It wasn’t a heavy Fall. Must’ve been a break-off clump,” J’hon continued with a shrug. “I can take you to Nabol now, Piemur.”
Piemur nodded, all too aware of the irony of his situation: Never, in a thousand Turns, would he have thought he’d be relieved to be going to Nabol.
They touched down at the edge of a large field, far from the outermost cotholds of Nabol, and farther still from the main Hold, where Lord Deckter resided.
Piemur removed his flying jacket and heavy leggings and handed them to J’hon to keep safe—it would be too difficult to explain to anyone inquisitive enough why he had such distinctive dragonrider garb when he was trying to fob himself off as a holder.
There was no sign of the promised escort, and while he and J’hon stood together on the ground debating the best alternatives, Mirth suddenly trumpeted in anger, stamping his forefeet on the ground and darting his wedge-shaped head from side to side in agitation, his mouth wide open and his huge teeth bared in a snarl. J’hon turned toward his dragon, the flying gear forgotten where it lay draped over his arm. He was frozen to the spot as he silently communicated with Mirth.
Piemur wondered if more Thread was falling where it wasn’t expected. But then the bronze dragonrider turned and looked at Piemur, his dirty face a mask of panic.
“What is it, J’hon?”
“Ramoth has gone berserk!” J’hon said, and his eyes glazed over again as he listened to Mirth. Piemur looked at J’hon in confusion, his brows furrowing.
“She has a clutch of eggs on the Hatching Grounds,” J’hon explained quickly, his features hardening as he continued, “and the queen egg has been stolen!”
“Stolen! There must be a mistake. Who would take it?” Piemur asked, a dozen other questions colliding in his head as he stared, aghast, at the Fort wingsecond.
“Mirth says three dragons flew into the Hatching Grounds and took the queen egg. Ramoth doesn’t know what Weyr they came from. N’ton’s been called to Benden—the Weyr’s in chaos!”
Piemur was about to ask another question when J’hon spoke again with Mirth, whose eyes were whirling a disturbing shade of red.
“Lessa wants revenge!” J’hon reeled in shock.
“Revenge?” Piemur shook his head, grabbing J’hon’s arm to steady him.
“Against whoever did this!” J’hon responded.
“But I don’t understand, J’hon, there must be some mistake. Who would steal the queen egg?” Piemur asked, still holding on to the dragonrider’s arm. Mirth bugled again loudly.
“It could only be the Oldtimers—the exiled ones down in the south. Their queens no longer rise to mate, and their bronzes are dying off.”
Piemur shook his head as he stared, disbelieving, at the shocked dragonrider.
“With the illegal trading they’ve been doing—and all those covert raids and routing parties, plus the endless flaunting of our ways and customs—the Oldtimers have been doing everything they can to get the attention of the Weyrs in the north. It’s as if they actually want to incite discord among us all.”
“But I can’t believe it, J’hon. There must be some mistake. Some way to settle this—you’re all guardians, after all.”
“And they’ve betrayed us, Piemur. Betrayed our code!” J’hon shouted, giving full voice to his anger and outrage.
Piemur stared at the young wingsecond, slowly shaking his head in denial.
“Don’t you see? It’s as if they’ve stolen a newborn child from his parents, Piemur! Stolen the most precious, the most revered among us. They’ve been fighting every little improvement we’ve brought about, always flouting the changes we’ve made. And even though all of us look to Benden as the premier Weyr, they refuse to do so. Now this, Piemur! It’s absolutely the final straw!”
Piemur stared at J’hon, an expression of horror on his face. Was J’hon really saying what he thought he was saying? He couldn’t believe it.
Mirth stamped his feet again, his head darting in a tight motion from side to side.
“What do you mean, J’hon?” Piemur had to ask.
“They’re trying to force our hand, Piemur! They want to go back to their old ways—the way they lived four hundred Turns ago! And they’re trying to force Benden’s hand to step down, to yield to them.” Mirth turned his head toward J’hon, who locked eyes with him.
“What is it? What’s he saying now?” Piemur asked.
“They’re talking about dragon fighting dragon!”
“No!” Piemur cried. “Dragons don’t fight one another!”
“I have to go, Piemur, N’ton is calling us back!” J’hon shouted, having lost all composure. He looked frantic, Piemur thought, seeing the strange expression in J’hon’s eyes as the bronze rider submitted to a summons too strong to ignore.
It was a distressing sight to see—a dignified and noble dragonrider caught in such a tumult of wild emotions. If only this was a horrid mistake, Piemur thought. Or, if not, at the very least if the egg was found and safely returned to its rightful place…soon!
J’hon dumped Piemur’s flying gear on the ground and without a word vaulted onto Mirth’s shoulder, quickly pulling himself onto the bronze’s back.
Mirth looked as if he were ready to hop out of his skin, mincing from one foot to the other, a deep rumble rising up through his gullet and culminating in an anguished bugle as he waited for J’hon to settle himself in place. In powerful, frenzied wingbeats they rose up into the air over Piemur’s head, Mirth bellowing his distress, and then his cries were cut short, swallowed up, as they flew between.
The rising sun felt warm as the lone, mud-caked dragon and his rider arrowed in over the backs of the drowsing bronze dragons and their napping riders. It was crucial the pair from the north succeeded in recovering the egg from the Oldtimers, returning it from this place and time, back to its rightful home in Benden Weyr. Too much would be lost if they failed.
They flew in fast and, in one deft swoop, before the startled bronzes could rise to their feet, the mud-covered dragon grabbed the egg in his sturdy forearms and lunged upward. They’d done it! They’d snatched back the queen egg!
The rider looked over his shoulder as they were gaining height and, to his horror, he clearly saw a blue dragon with his rider and a passenger flying in low over the backs of the three startled bronzes.
Shards! Have they seen us? the rider asked, but his dragon didn’t reply as he beat his wings down hard through the air, quickly achieving enough height so they could go between.
* * *
—
The looting dragon and rider went unseen by Meria and B’naj as Seventh flew them into the cove, toward the sunrise. Their attention was wholly focused on the ground, not the air, so they failed to see the dragon clutching the queen egg.
Meria was afraid B’naj hadn’t timed their flight correctly. She knew exactly when and wher
e T’kul, B’zon, and the other rider had taken Benden’s queen egg, but from her position on Seventh, behind B’naj, she couldn’t see any sign of it in the sands below. It was imperative that they be quick and remain unseen as they snatched back the egg! But where was it?
Meria fervently wished her eyes would adjust quicker to the change in light from where they’d just been, between, to the light they were flying into now. If the rising sun were only a little higher in the sky she could see more clearly. She could make out the shadowlike figures of two dragonriders as they ran out from under the shade of a grove of frond trees. They were waving their arms and shouting something. They ran toward their dragons, and then she could hear them shouting again.
Meria squeezed B’naj’s shoulder to get his attention. “Can we get any closer, B’naj? I can’t see the egg.”
“If we fly any lower they will see us, Meria. One moment,” and he fell silent as he conferred with his dragon.
“Seventh says the egg is gone!” B’naj sounded alarmed.
“Gone! Gone where?” Meria exclaimed.
“Seventh says the bronzes don’t know. They only saw a dark shadow.”
“Take us down quickly, B’naj! We have to find out more!”
Meria swallowed hard, trying to stop the panic that was rising up in her chest from overwhelming her. The egg had to be returned to its rightful Weyr! The consequences of not doing so were too huge to imagine.
At B’naj’s command his dragon arrowed down toward the ground. Displaying remarkable agility for such a mature dragon, Seventh drew dangerously close to ground level, but just as it looked as if he was going to crash, he swooped upward out of his dive, backwinging dynamically to slow his forward momentum. He hit the ground with a resounding thud, landing squarely in front of the two bronze dragons, his wings billowing air in mighty sweeps. The force of his maneuver hurled Meria forward and she bumped heavily against B’naj’s back, but hastily she righted herself, jumped off Seventh’s back, and ran to the two bronze riders.
T’kul saw her first. “What are you doing here?” he shouted. “Was it you, healer? Did you take the egg? You traitor!” He was furious. “It was almost ready to hatch—just another day, maybe two. We could’ve had new blood for our Weyr!” His tone was full of venom, and Salth, his dragon, growled, halting Meria in her tracks as she shook her head in denial.
“Wait T’kul! B’zon, please, you have to listen to us,” B’naj pleaded, running up to stand beside Meria, arms straight and fisted hands taut on either side of his big, barrel chest. He was a tall man and well known for his strength, but T’kul, swelling with outrage, seemed to tower over him.
“It’s a brave man who lands a mere brown in the path of two bronzes, B’naj. Or a foolish one. Get out of our way!” B’zon, the other bronze rider, hollered. Both bronze dragons hissed and bared their teeth at Seventh, spurred on by the anger and sense of urgency they felt from their riders. The smaller blue dragon, however, stood his ground unflinchingly. The bronzes bristled, stamping their feet.
“Please!” Meria said fervently, as she stood in front of Seventh, one arm raised in entreaty. “Please, T’kul, B’zon, listen to us. B’naj and I only want what is best for all of us. Stand down, I implore you.” She pointedly looked at the two bronze dragons, whose eyes were whirling a dangerous shade of burgundy, willing them to listen as she mentally begged for calm.
Salth, T’kul’s bronze, rumbled low and slow, his eyes sparkling as they were lit by the rising sun.
“I know what you tried to do, T’kul, and I respect you! You did what you thought had to be done to save the Weyr. Our Weyr.” Meria’s voice resonated with pride. “But this was not the way to do it,” she added, trying to sound calmer, gentler.
“Leave off with your healer platitudes, Meria,” B’zon called snidely. “You left our Weyr of your own free will.” He pointed his index finger at her and then stabbed his chest repeatedly to punctuate his next words. “You mean nothing to us now!” His cruel tone cut through the morning air like a scythe. Meria caught her breath in a single gasp and then looked away. This had been her greatest fear: that she would not be able to get through to them—now, when they needed help the most.
“But what can you possibly do now?” B’naj cried, indicating with one sweep of his hand the hollow indentation in the sand where the egg had lain. “The egg is gone. Who knows to where or when, but it’s no longer in your possession, Weyrleader.”
T’kul’s furrowed brows softened briefly when he heard B’naj call him by that title. T’kul had been the leader in High Reaches Weyr for most of his life, in the old times, and for all too short a time in this Present Pass. But then F’lar exiled them to the Southern Continent and another dragonrider took his place. It had been Turns since anyone had called him Weyrleader. Still, fury overrode his pleasure at being addressed with appropriate respect.
“Shards!” he shouted vehemently. “Somehow Benden must’ve followed us to this place, this time”—he slapped his hand against his thigh—“and waited for the perfect moment to catch us off guard.”
Meria had to stifle a smile: If T’kul was, indeed, correct, then at the very least the egg was back where it belonged. But she knew that it would’ve been far better if the egg had been returned by members of the Southern Weyr. That small act would have clearly shown to Benden that the majority of dragonriders in Southern were aware of and would not condone the grave offense a small handful of them had committed.
“How many dragons were there?” she asked. “What did you see?”
B’zon rubbed his forehead with one hand, but it was T’kul who replied, though he didn’t look at her.
“We didn’t see anything, but Salth says it was just one dragon, a dark one. Probably a blue. Strange, though, Salth said he was too small to be a blue.” T’kul shook his head wearily. “He took the egg so quickly we had no time to react.”
“We should go look for him and take back the egg!” B’zon said.
“Look for him where? When?” Meria asked, keeping her voice gentle. She didn’t want to rub salt into their already raw wounds.
“There won’t be another chance to take back Benden’s egg, B’zon. Or any other eggs, for that matter,” B’naj said. “The Weyrs will guard against such an occurrence. You may be sure of that. All the Weyrs will be wary of other dragons henceforth.” He shook his head, the true import of his words not lost on any of them. He suddenly had a startling thought and could feel dread dropping like a heavy stone into the pit of his stomach. “Just how long did you have the egg in this when?”
“Ten days,” B’zon replied, his tone leaden.
Meria couldn’t stop herself from gasping; the situation was worse than she had imagined. If the egg had been returned almost immediately after the theft, then the affront to Benden Weyr wouldn’t have been so grave, so unthinkable. But to have kept the egg for a full ten days, hardening outside its rightful Hatching Grounds, showed the thieves’ utter commitment to their plan: to keep the egg for one of their own Candidates to Impress. If Benden chose to wage all-out retribution on the members of Southern Weyr, they would be well within their rights. A profound and deeply uncomfortable silence fell over the group as they stood facing one another in the pretty little cove.
B’zon broke the silence with the thought that was uppermost in all their minds. “What are we going to do now?” he asked, his tone bleak. “Our dragons are all off color, more than half of them. And none of the greens in our Weyr fly to mate anymore—they’re too old.”
“I think I know why the dragons are off color,” Meria declared, trying to sound encouraging. “And it has naught to do with the lack of an active queen.”
“No!” T’kul shouted, his face purple with rage. “You don’t get to do anything now, when it’s too late. I won’t allow you to ease your guilt for abandoning the Weyr!” He stood staring fiercely at Meria for what s
eemed like an age, and then he turned and mounted Salth without a backward glance. B’zon quickly followed suit and the pair took to the air, climbing into the bright, early-morning sky before finally disappearing into the lightless void of between.
* * *
—
The lone pair timed it so they flew between one Turn in time ahead of their sunrise theft. They were back in the pretty little cove, exactly where they had been mere moments earlier, but now they were completely alone. The dragon landed carefully and, with the last bit of strength remaining in his forearms, gently lowered the egg to the warm sands; his rider hopped from his back and checked the egg for any signs of cracks with gloved hands. It seemed hard enough, and still warm, and quite possibly no worse for wear, even though it had traveled through the cold nothingness of between.
The rider quickly scooped armfuls of sand over the egg, banking it as high as possible to maintain the heat. A dragon egg was a delicate thing, and this one was more precious than any the rider had ever handled—apart, of course, from his own dragon’s egg. When he was satisfied the queen egg was well covered, he collapsed on the hot sand, panting to catch his breath.
“We can’t stay long,” he said between gasps. “They might try to find us by jumping forward in time day by day. They’d know we can’t take the egg far at once or we’d risk damaging it in the cold of between.” The dragon signaled accord, his sides still heaving from his exertions. Then he froze, taut with alarm. Startled, his rider turned, too, and saw two fire-lizards, a gold one and a bronze, watching them from the edge of the beach. But as soon as he clapped eyes on them the pair took to the air and disappeared from sight.
“Do we know them?” the rider asked his dragon.
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