No.
“Where’d those two queens go?”
They showed me when the egg was taken to. That’s all you wanted. The dragon lowered his head, bereft, like his rider, that he hadn’t insisted the queen fire-lizards who’d guided them here should be made to remain. He noticed a pile of firestone and his eyes, whirling in alarm, caught sight of flame scar on the ground nearby, faded somewhat and overgrown with weeds, but discernible nonetheless.
The rider didn’t feel safe and knew he wouldn’t feel at ease until the egg was back in Benden where it belonged. His dragon began crunching some of the firestone.
What are you doing? You’re not going to flame dragons! the rider said, aghast.
No, of course not, but will they dare approach me if I am flaming?
The dragonrider was unsettled enough not to protest. After a brief pause, he set to loosening the rope he had tied around his waist to make a sling with the fur rug he’d brought to protect the egg. When his makeshift sling was assembled, the rider fitted it comfortably around his dragon’s shoulders and placed the egg carefully inside. He started to check the knots one last time, but then some inner caution urged him to leave immediately, so he ceased his actions and quickly mounted the waiting dragon.
As the dragon made the series of jumps between, into and out of that place where the piercing cold ate at human bones, his rider had time to worry if he was making the jumps too long to keep the egg warm. What if he wasn’t correctly judging the forward jumps through time? Had he killed the little queen trying to save her? His mind reeled with thoughts of between and paradoxes until he latched onto the one idea that made the most sense: At least the most important act, returning the stolen egg, was in process. And dragon had not fought dragon—not yet!
The shimmering midmorning heat of the Keroon desert, a safe haven they’d visited before, warmed their bodies as well as their spirits when they landed in the soft sand, out of imminent danger. Under the caked, black mud, the dragon looked a ghastly color, which added further to his rider’s worries.
Resolute, they released the egg from its sling and lowered it to the sand, covering it to keep it warm after the flight between times. It was not far from the hour when the egg had to be back in the Hatching Grounds, and they still had some time-distance to cover, too. They were both very tired and rested awhile in the hot desert before they made the last, the trickiest, jump. It was imperative that when they jumped between they came out in a position just inside the Hatching Grounds, where the arch of the entrance sloped abruptly downward, obscuring the view of anyone who might be looking from the Bowl into the Grounds.
Without warning, the rider and dragon were roused from their respite by a sudden, utter stillness and a minute change in air pressure. Instinctively they glanced upward, expecting a wing of flaming dragons to bear down on them to reclaim their prize, but the sky above was still and clear and hot. Then they saw it: the silver mist of descending Thread sheeting down across the desert.
They scrambled to the egg, dragon and rider both frantically digging it free of the sand, and then the rider pushed it into the sling, mounted, and glanced up at the sky. Why were there no fighting dragons filling the skies?
They had worked quickly to secure their precious burden in its sling, but their efforts had not been quick enough. Just at the moment the rider urged his dragon upward, the leading edge of Thread fell in a hissing, writhing mass to the sand around them. The dragon gave a belch of flame, trying to clear a path far enough above ground so he could go between, but a ribbon of fire sliced across the rider’s cheek, down his right shoulder, through his wher-hide tunic, and down into his forearm and thigh. The pain was excruciating! Somehow, they made the jump between, away from the thick sheet of falling Thread, but not before the dragon’s foot and leg were also seared.
The cold of between immediately halted the Thread’s progress through their flesh, killing it and cooling their wounds momentarily, and then they were back in light again, finally in the Hatching Grounds at Benden Weyr, where they could hear a distraught Ramoth bellowing. They’d been here before and witnessed the moment the theft had been discovered. The rider started to worry again about the consequences of time paradoxes but quickly shook his head to cast aside those fears. Despite all their traveling between times and places, they had managed to return the egg to Benden Weyr, and only a very short while after it had been taken.
As they landed, the hot sand bit into their wounds, and both dragon and rider were hard-put not to cry out from the cruel pain as they lowered the egg. They were almost home free!
But as the egg slid out of the sling, it began to roll down the slight incline of the Hatching Grounds, away from them.
Oh, no, we’ll be seen! the rider silently cried as he clambered onto his dragon’s back. Hurry!
In one final, powerful jump, the mud-caked dragon and his weary rider leapt toward the vaulted ceiling above the Hatching Grounds and then vanished.
* * *
—
T’ron shouted vehemently, pounding his closed fist on the table.
“By the First Shell, what have you done? Your actions have put us all in an indefensible position!”
When Mardra had haltingly told T’ron about the foiled attempt to get a queen egg, his initial response was one of shock, but those feelings were quickly supplanted by outrage. How had matters grown so distorted that the members of his own Weyr had forgotten their purpose? Had he failed them—and himself—so badly? In the past, he might have wallowed in his own ineffectiveness, his sense of inadequacy as a leader, but now a steely resolve ignited in T’ron’s gut and exploded outward. He had to force them to see their error and then lead them out of this disastrous mess. He felt as if he had shrugged a heavy, ill-fitting cloak from his shoulders, and divested himself of an unwanted weight.
“You should be flogged in turn by each and every member of this Weyr! What have you done?” he demanded again, his voice rising as he spat out the last word, glaring darkly at Mardra and T’reb, and then at the ashen faces of T’kul and B’zon.
“But, T’ron, it would’ve given the Weyr a fighting chance—” B’zon started to explain, but T’ron didn’t allow him to continue.
“A fighting chance for what?” he hollered, glaring first at B’zon and then at the silent faces of T’kul, Mardra, and T’reb. “Pitting dragon against dragon? Have you lost your minds?”
“But I couldn’t bear it any longer, T’ron,” Mardra said beseechingly, clasping her hands together. “Loranth’s been off color for so long—and then she was so distraught after that last clutch. I had to do something to ease her grief—our grief!”
“We had to help our queen!” T’reb cried.
“And you thought stealing another queen’s egg was the answer? I see time has not only deprived you of youth, but also taken your sanity with it!” T’ron roared, and his audience stared at him in silence. He felt as if he was growing stronger, as if this new feeling of purpose was coursing through his veins like an extra life-blood, injecting him with authority and vitality.
T’reb looked as if he was going to be sick to his stomach, T’ron noted, and T’kul, possibly for the first time in his life, had a look of worry stamped across his countenance rather than his usual mien of arrogance. Granted, the jump between times twenty-five Turns had turned his wingsecond’s face a sickly shade of gray, but he could tell that there was more than timing fatigue at work in T’kul.
As the other dragonriders stood around him in silence, T’ron racked his brains, wondering what he could possibly do to salvage his Weyr and repair the damage these riders had done. It was a pity that B’naj and Meria hadn’t been successful in regaining control of the egg and returning it to Benden. That would have been the best outcome. T’ron had been astounded when T’kul and B’zon had flown into the compound, roaring wildly at all the other riders, demanding to know who had snatched the eg
g from them. But no one in Southern Weyr admitted responsibility, and T’ron could tell, from the looks of shock on their faces, that no other members of his Weyr had taken the egg, much less known about the foiled plan.
He sighed heavily, knowing that they had only one option left to them.
“We must leave. Right now,” he declared decisively. Outside, his bronze, Fidranth, bellowed and was answered by many of the other dragons. A low murmur of voices could be heard coming from the dragonriders who waited tensely outside.
“Leave the Weyr?” Mardra looked about her frantically.
“Yes! We must leave here, right now, every last one of us. Leave this time, this Pass, so no other dreadful event can occur to compound the situation. If we go to some other when, then at least we’ll be able to think clearly and carefully. Think of a way out of this mess. Time, at least, will favor us in this instance. It’s not the best solution, but for now it will have to do.”
“But what good will that serve? They have the egg back,” T’kul said.
“It will keep us alive, you fool,” T’ron spat, but T’kul frowned at him.
“You don’t understand, do you?” T’ron glared at his wingsecond fiercely and then straightened his shoulders, feeling as if he was standing taller than he had in Turns. He cast his gaze on the other dragonriders, noting that they were unable to look him in the eye. How odd, he thought, that he should feel so invigorated in the face of such disaster.
“You foolish people have breached an inviolable code. Your desperate actions have contravened every fiber of what we are—and debased the valor of all our dragons. This act has undermined the very foundations of our purpose—and our future—violating the code of trust our dragons placed in us from the moment their minds graced ours.”
“But the egg would have saved the Weyr!” B’zon cried.
“And what would have happened when the egg hatched? The Weyrs in the north would have retaliated. Think about it! Our fragile order would’ve fallen asunder with tit-for-tat squabbling that would escalate among the riders into outright fighting, pushing the dragons to the point of combat! Then our focus would get skewed from our true purpose and, quite possibly, Threadfall would go unchecked. Imagine the devastation. Can you?
“If Thread were to gain the upper hand and be allowed to fall unchecked, it could ruin a Holder’s entire crop, leave us short of food supplies, burrow underground, and spread. That would lead to more arguing, blame laying, fighting, until the very fabric of the Weyrs, the Holds, and the Crafts would be irreparably rent.”
“But they have the egg! They took it back!” Mardra cried, her features contorting in anguish.
“And still you cannot see what you have done?” T’ron shouted, shaking his head. The dragonriders looked at their Weyrleader, varying degrees of defiance mingling with confusion on their faces.
“You may have defeated our defenders!” T’ron roared, glaring from T’kul to Mardra and then to B’zon and T’reb.
Shouts rose from the dragonriders outside, and scores more dragons joined in. Mardra suddenly seemed to understand the import of T’ron’s words, for her shoulders drooped and she covered her face with her hands. T’kul stood immobile next to her, slowly shaking his head as if the true outcome of their actions was finally resolving into a clear picture in his mind.
Once a proud and respected member of her Weyr, Mardra reacted as if wounded, the cries from the riders outside seeming to cripple her, and as if all the stuffing had been knocked out of her with one invisible blow, she crumpled to the floor. Her hands slid from her face as she wept, and Loranth, feeling her rider’s dreadful despair, keened loudly in response. All the dragons, nearly twelvescore of them, added their voices to Loranth’s lament, filling the air with the shocking, heartrending sound of their anguish.
T’ron stood motionless, appalled to see the woman who’d once helped him lead Pern’s oldest Weyr through Turns of fighting Thread so thoroughly undone. T’kul knelt beside her, his face suffused with shock.
A chill ran down T’ron’s back as the dragons keened together, and he felt their grief like a physical blow. Crossing the room to the open doorway, he looked across the compound to where his dragon, Fidranth, stood.
My friend… he said as he looked into the eyes of his noble lifelong partner. Connecting with his dragon’s distraught consciousness, T’ron found that he was utterly unable to articulate any coherent thought.
Fidranth’s huge eyes, dull with dread, grew a deeper shade of amethyst as he stared at his lifemate.
What has been done?
* * *
—
Piemur stood in shock for a long time, scanning the skies at the empty space where J’hon and Mirth had been. Could he actually be dreaming all this? Had Ramoth’s queen egg really been taken from the Hatching Grounds at Benden? The whole world felt as if it were tottering on a very precarious and dangerous edge.
As if trying to prove that his reality was, indeed, a dream he suddenly remembered his bag and reached one hand behind him, patting his back—but of course the bag was no longer there. Had he really been a witness—practically a participant—in a battle against Threadfall? He’d nearly gotten himself scored by Thread—quite possibly devoured by it!
But his near miss during a Threadfall was nothing compared with what might happen if the dragonriders exercised their anger rather than restraint. Dragons fighting dragons? It was unthinkable!
Piemur couldn’t bring himself to imagine what the outcome of such an event would be. How would they be able to fend off Thread if the dragons were fighting one another? His thoughts reeled. Why take the egg? It was difficult to understand why anyone would jeopardize the safety of their world: It just didn’t make sense. Piemur knew that if any Weyr fell short of its necessary complement of dragons, the deficiency was made up whenever possible by the other Weyrs. Weyrleaders only had to make the request, and the required dragons were moved accordingly, even queens.
Piemur recalled the Masterharper and Sebell discussing how F’lar had instigated the revision of antiquated practices. Despite the resistance from some of the Oldtimers, F’lar’s foresight had improved how the Weyrs functioned, and especially how they interacted with one another and with the other societal groups. From what Piemur knew, all the Weyrs except Southern were up to fighting strength, and although none of them, apart from Benden, had a clutch of eggs currently hardening on their Hatching Grounds, the queens in the other Weyrs were all in good health.
Could J’hon really be correct? Could the Oldtimers in Southern Weyr have taken Ramoth’s egg? And then it hit him, with the force of a physical blow, and he opened his mouth in astonishment.
Of course, it all made sense now: T’reb talking to B’naj about Mardra’s “idea” and his own, better “plan”; old Loranth moaning over empty eggs; the Oldtimers isolated and too hidebound to break with centuries-old customs and ask for help! And those two chumps T’reb had paid to draw the pretty little cove. The Oldtimers really had stolen the egg! That cove must be where they’d hidden the egg after taking it. He had to get a message to the Masterharper—but how?
Farli! He’d get her to take a message to Robinton!
He tried to quiet the frenetic thoughts bouncing around in his head and took a deep breath. He’d never get Farli to respond to him if he wasn’t thinking clearly. Had she followed behind J’hon and Mirth when they left Fort, arriving in the middle of a Threadfall? What if his little friend had been caught in the Fall and gotten threadscored? It didn’t bear thinking! He took another breath. Farli was too clever to get threadscored; she would’ve blinked between the instant she saw what they’d flown into. He had to believe that.
Farli! Farli, to me. Farli, come to me, he called, pushing the thought out to where he hoped his little queen might sense his summons.
He waited, straining for any whisper of Farli’s reply. Nothing. H
e could feel no thought or nudge, not even a twitch from the fire-lizard’s mind.
“Think, think!” he told himself, frantically looking all around as he racked his brains. J’hon had set them down in a clearing near the base of a rocky hill; a scattering of trees and other forest vegetation grew on the periphery of the clearing. He focused his thoughts and broadcast an image of the clearing, and then realized that what he was looking at could be in any number of places on Pern. He had to show Farli a more precise picture of where he was, with clear landmarks.
Piemur quickly made his way up the side of the hill, grabbing a long stick from the detritus littering the forest floor and using it to beat down the more robust plants that impeded his progress. When he reached the top of the hill and ran out past the trees, the landscape stretched out before him in a huge patchwork of fields and meadows bounded by hedgerows, dotted here and there with small copses and larger groves of trees.
The sky overhead was still dark and heavy with cloud. One mass to his right was full of rain. He could see the curtain of water as it fell, looking at first glance like a descending gray fringe. Guessing that the rain was heading his way, Piemur hunkered down under the shelter of a large, leafy tree and concentrated. He called again to Farli, this time showing her a precise image of the landscape and what he could see from his place at the base of the tree. He pushed his thoughts out hard, hoping Farli could hear them.
There! Down the slope, in the distance! Was that Farli? Two gold bodies flitted through the air toward him, seemingly twinning their wings together in flight, then separating again into two distinct bodies.
“Farli!” Piemur called, standing up from the base of the tree and waving his arms to attract her attention.
At the sound of Piemur’s voice, Farli flew ahead of the other gold fire-lizard and immediately landed on Piemur’s proffered arm, chittering constantly as she broadcast terrified images of angry dragons. He could see a small piece of cloth tied to Farli’s left hind leg. A message!
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