B’nik nodded. “We still have seven wings of able dragons,” he said. He saw K’lior’s look of distress and hastily added, “But I don’t know how long that will last—and we started with more dragons than you.”
“What can we do to help?” Cisca asked, looking at Lorana. She frowned. “Are you Tullea?”
“This is Lorana, rider of Arith. Minith rose yesterday,” B’nik said.
“Congratulations!” K’lior said, his face brightening.
“A good flight?” Cisca added, catching K’lior’s hand in hers proprietarily.
B’nik found himself grinning at their obvious affection. “Unexpected,” he admitted. “I had not expected to be Weyrleader today.”
“Well, I can see you’ve already settled in the role,” Cisca pronounced approvingly.
B’nik’s grin broadened.
“I can get nothing from High Reaches Weyr,” Masterharper Zist said to Kindan as he completed his summary.
Kindan quirked an eyebrow. “Is there any reason?”
“The only message I got from G’relly was cryptic,” Zist admitted. “The message was ‘wait.’ ”
“That doesn’t seem too cryptic,” Kindan commented.
“Not at the time,” Zist agreed. “But it’s been nearly a fortnight since then and I’ve heard nothing further.”
Kindan frowned. “What do we know from the other Weyrs, then?”
Masterharper Zist gestured to the Masterhealer.
Masterhealer Perigar sighed. “I cannot—my specialty is humans,” he temporized.
“Surely a disease is a disease no matter whether it affects animals or humans?” Voice craftmaster Nonala asked in exasperation.
“Even if it were so,” Perigar responded, “I don’t have enough information to begin to guess—”
“I do,” Verilan, the Master Archivist, interrupted gruffly. The others all turned to him. “I don’t know anything about disease, but I can read and cipher.”
He pushed a slate across the table. “There are the numbers of dragons sick in all the Weyrs we know of,” he said, tapping one line of numbers.
“And there are the numbers of dragons lost between to this illness.” He tapped another column, then pointed to a third. “And there’s the number of injured from each Fall.”
“What’s this tell us?” Masterharper Zist asked.
“The sickness has accelerated the losses of dragons,” Verilan said. He raised a hand as the others started to protest the obviousness of his statement.
“This sickness has accelerated it so much that the Weyrs are losing half their fighting strength each time they fight Thread.” He raised his hand higher to forestall further protests.
“I know, I know, the numbers are not exact. But the pattern is there,” he pronounced. He gave a deep sigh and continued. “And, given that a Weyr needs at least one Flight—three full wings—of dragons to fly successfully against Thread . . .” He shook his head. “Given that, the Weyrs will be incapable of fighting Thread after the next two Falls.”
“What?” The others were out of their chairs, grabbing at the slate, trying to examine it.
Kindan sat back first, then Masterharper Zist. They ignored the others and the shouting. They had each seen enough of Verilan’s calculations to know that the Master Archivist was right.
Soon—in the next two Falls or less—there would not be enough dragons to protect Pern from Thread.
“Any luck?” B’nik asked cheerfully, sliding a platter of cheeses in Lorana’s direction. She and Cisca looked up from the stacks of Records they had placed in front of them. Lorana shook her head mutely and Cisca looked back down quickly to her reading.
“When did you last eat?” B’nik asked. Lorana’s face took on a puzzled look and before she could respond, he grinned.
“I thought so,” he said. “It’s the first question I ask Tullea, too.” He tapped the platter. “Eat. Now. That’s an order from your Weyrleader.”
Lorana quirked her lips, dropped her Record, and dragged a plate in front of her. B’nik started to pile some cheese and crackers on it for her. With a gesture, he inquired if Fort’s Weyrwoman wanted any.
“I think I’d better check on K’lior,” Cisca said. She rose quickly but turned back to tell Lorana, “I’ll be back.”
“Thanks,” Lorana told her.
“This,” Cisca gestured to the Records spread in front of them, “is for all of us.”
“Tell me what to look for,” B’nik said as Lorana spread soft cheese on her cracker, feeling guilty to be eating while the Weyrleader was working.
“Anything that might be useful,” she told him. “Mention of illness, Records of other Weyrleaders consulting the Records, that sort of thing.”
B’nik nodded but his face showed confusion. Lorana shrugged. “We really don’t know what we’re looking for,” she told him. “Dragons don’t get sick.”
“Except now.”
They continued their work silently. Sometime later, K’lior and Cisca joined them, wordlessly pulling more stacks of Records and seating themselves at Fort Weyr’s Records Room table.
It got darker. Glows were brought by the Fort Weyr Headwoman.
Finally, B’nik pushed himself back from his work, sitting upright. Lorana looked at him, expecting him to call it a day—and she was quite ready to end another fruitless search.
But as he drew breath to speak, Cisca, who had been tearing through the Records so fast Lorana wondered how she could read them, sat upright with a gasp of surprise.
“I think I’ve got something,” she told the others. She had a puzzled expression on her face. She tapped a section on the Record she was examining.
“This Record says that there was a special place built just at the beginning of the First Interval.” Cisca immediately had their undivided attention. “There was much argument about it but finally M’hall—” She nodded at B’nik’s surprised expression. “—prevailed and it was built at—”
“Benden Weyr,” B’nik finished.
“. . . so we have found nothing, in our Records or those of the Healercraft, to alter this conclusion?” Masterharper Zist asked, recapping the end of several hours’ worth of intense research and debating.
“I have found nothing in the Archives,” Master Archivist Verilan admitted. He cast a glance around the room, adding, “And I stand by my projections.”
Perigar shook his head ruefully at the Archivist and threw up his hands in resignation. Masterharper Zist cocked an eyebrow at him, awaiting an answer.
“As I’ve said before, I’m not an animal healer. Perhaps the Masterherdsman might give a different answer, but my craft knows nothing that will help the dragons,” the Masterhealer said finally.
The others all sat back from the table, either throwing up their hands or shaking their heads sadly. Except Kelsa. Zist gave her an inquiring look.
“I hesitate to bring this up,” she said. “It’s only a snippet.”
“Anything,” Kindan said desperately.
“I found part of a song, an ancient song,” she said. “It has a sour melody—even if it is haunting—which is doubtless why no one sings it these days, and I’ve only found a verse or two . . .” she cast a meaningful glance at Kindan. “It was poorly copied . . .”
Kindan gasped in horror and recognition. Then he drew a breath and sang:
“A thousand voices keen at night,
A thousand voices wail,
A thousand voices cry in fright,
A thousand voices fail.”
“But that hasn’t happened,” Verilan protested. “There have been no thousand voices—”
Kindan held up a hand for silence, closing his eyes in concentration. He continued:
“You followed them, young healer lass,
Till they could not be seen;
A thousand dragons made their loss
A bridge ’tween you and me.”
Outside, a dragon appeared from between unnoticed as Kindan contin
ued:
“And in the cold and darkest night,
A single voice is heard,
A single voice both clear and bright,
It says a single word.”
He paused, then opened his eyes, shaking his head. “That’s all I can remember.”
“Has there been a healer lass come to Benden Weyr?” Perigar asked of everyone, looking particularly to Kindan.
“Lorana,” Kindan said instantly, certain of his conviction.
“But she’s not a healer,” Perigar protested. His continued protests were halted by Masterharper Zist’s upraised hand. The Masterharper tilted his head toward the corridor outside. Steps were running toward them.
A figure burst through the doorway.
“Kindan, come quick! Arith is sick,” Lorana cried through her tears.
FIFTEEN
Ecosystems are constantly changing, adapting to new life-forms, while simultaneously life-forms are adapting to the ecosystem. To engineer a change to an ecosystem is to commit to a lifetime of monitoring.
—Glossary of terms, Ecosystems: From -ome to Planet, 24th Edition
Tillek Hold, First Interval, AL 58
I wouldn’t quite call Tillek warm this time of year,” M’hall shouted over his shoulder to Wind Blossom as they spiraled down toward the northern Hold.
“It will do for my purposes,” she replied calmly, although she was enjoying her ride on dragonback too much to let anything like a mere chill in the air, or a foggy day, disturb her.
M’hall’s Brianth was wise and experienced—as was Benden’s Weyrleader himself. All the same, the descent through the foggy air was unnerving for both of them. M’hall was just about to give up and order Brianth between to safety when they broke through the cloud cover and saw land beneath—far too close for M’hall’s comfort.
Brianth immediately shifted from a spiral to a hover, allowing his rider to direct him toward a safe landing spot.
The fog was so dense that it wasn’t until M’hall and Wind Blossom were through the gates of Tillek Hold that anyone noticed them.
“At least it’s not cold,” M’hall admitted as they waved at the startled guards. “Da said old Ireland—on Earth where he lived as a boy—could get like this, in the summer, with a fog coming in off the shore.”
He craned his neck up behind him and let out a whistle as a gap in the fog showed the mountains in the distance.
“It is a beautiful view, isn’t it?” a voice called cheerfully to them.
A shadow in the fog resolved into a figure, which grew clearer as they approached. It was a man. He was bearded and wore a heavy-knit sweater. He had seaman’s hands and the swaggering walk that came from months spent at sea.
“Malon of Tillek at your service,” he said, extending a hand first to Wind Blossom and then to M’hall. “Your fire-lizard messenger told me you were coming, but I wasn’t sure in this fog.”
M’hall recalled from L’can that Malon had taken over the running of Tillek Hold just recently, after Jim Tillek’s successor had passed on. The man was about M’hall’s own height, big-boned, brown-haired and brown-eyed, with a pleasant gentleness in his eyes.
“Pleased to meet you,” M’hall said.
“I think the pleasure is ours,” Malon responded, gesturing toward the Great Hall. “We’ve got a hearty fish stew waiting and a warm spot for Wind Blossom for her stay.” He peered down at the diminutive old lady, his curiosity obvious. “Although why you would prefer our shores to the warmer ones of Southern Boll . . .”
“You have a spot picked out for me on the beach?” Wind Blossom asked. “No prying eyes?”
Malon nodded, his expression perplexed. “We do, and a shelter for all occasions.”
“I asked for some other things—were you able to provide them?” Wind Blossom continued.
“With pleasure,” Malon said, white teeth flashing bright against the brown beard. “Although I will confess that you’ve got many people scratching their heads in wonder.”
“An old lady’s folly,” Wind Blossom said. She jerked her hand at the Benden Weyrleader. “M’hall said I needed a rest.” She gestured around at the fog. “This will be restful, I think.”
“You are welcome to whatever we can provide you, Wind Blossom,” Malon told her. He shook his head, adding, “Although I don’t quite know what you’ll want with a bell, a coil of rope, and some planking.”
“It is a science experiment,” Wind Blossom told him. M’hall shot her a penetrating look but she waved it aside. “I wish to see how far sound will travel over foggy water.”
A clattering sound behind them caused Wind Blossom to turn around. A watch-wher approached eagerly, only to be hauled short with a hiss of pain by a stout chain attached to its neck with a collar.
“What is this?” Wind Blossom asked, her voice going dangerously soft.
“One of yours, I think,” Malon said, waving a hand affectionately toward the watch-wher.
Wind Blossom turned to Tillek’s leader and looked up at him with a dangerous intensity. “Why is it chained?”
“Oh, Tilsk here was always getting into mischief,” Malon said dismissively. “It’s for its own good.”
“Watch-whers are ‘he’ or ‘she,’ ” Wind Blossom corrected sternly. “This one is a green; that makes her a ‘she.’ ”
“I’m sorry, she was getting into trouble,” Malon said. “I apologize if chaining her up distresses you.”
“More than distress,” Wind Blossom said. She glanced up at M’hall. “This is bad.”
“The Pass is over,” M’hall protested. “There is no danger. And, you must admit, an uncontrolled watch-wher can be a menace.”
“A watch-wher needs training, just like a fire-lizard,” Wind Blossom corrected. “Or a dragon,” she said with added emphasis, glaring up at M’hall until the Weyrleader nodded in agreement.
“What if we start chaining up dragons?” she asked, nodding in satisfaction when both Malon and M’hall recoiled in horror. She looked back up at Malon. “It is the same thing, to chain a watch-wher.”
She glanced again at M’hall. “And when Thread comes again, what if the watch-whers are still chained? You know their purpose.”
“Lady Wind Blossom, I meant no disrespect,” Malon told her emphatically. “I know you are attached to your creation—”
“It’s not that, Malon,” M’hall interrupted. “Wind Blossom is right. The watch-whers serve a greater purpose.”
“They fly at night,” Wind Blossom explained, “when the dragons sleep.”
A look of dawning comprehension flowed across Malon’s face. “That was why we chained her in the first place,” he said with a groan. “She went missing one night!”
Wind Blossom nodded. “Eating Thread,” she said, her eyes showing delight. “Good.”
“If I had known . . . I’ll release her at once!”
“No,” Wind Blossom raised a hand. “Pick someone to work with her, like a fire-lizard. Train her, earn her respect, then let her free.”
“They are like fire-lizards then?” Malon asked, brows raised. “If so, she’s too old to bond . . .”
“Apparently they are not quite like fire-lizards or dragons,” M’hall told him.
“More independent,” Wind Blossom agreed. “Able to take care of themselves, if they must.”
“Fortunately, Thread usually freezes at night so their skills are rarely needed,” M’hall added. Wind Blossom nodded approvingly.
“I see,” Malon said. “So I should probably keep this news to myself and not alarm the Hold.”
“That has been our consensus so far, yes,” Wind Blossom agreed.
M’hall raised an eyebrow questioningly, but Wind Blossom gave him a nearly imperceptible shake of her head and he changed the topic.
“I’m glad we could clear that up,” he said. Then he shivered theatrically. “Did you say something about a stew?”
Malon was only too happy to follow the change of topic and lead th
em into his Hold.
Over the next several days the weather cleared and the sun came out—and then for the rest of the week the weather turned foul. Either way, it did not alter Wind Blossom’s routine. She was up with first light and out at her shelter.
She spent her evenings with Malon and the other fishermen, happily relating what little she knew of marine biology and gladly hearing what they had been taught through the cruel lessons of the sea. The oldsters were content to gather around her; many remembered her from the Fever Year, and some even from the Crossing.
Malon soon guessed Wind Blossom’s reason for coming to Tillek Hold.
“I don’t think they’ll come,” he told her after she returned to the Hold on the third evening. He sounded wistful. “I’ve seen them in the warmer waters, but I think it’s too cold up here for them.”
Wind Blossom smiled at him. “Could you give me a supply of fish? Or fish leavings?”
Malon shook his head admiringly. “You don’t give up, do you?”
“I have had years to learn patience,” she replied.
“You would do better in a boat, you know,” Malon said after a moment’s reflection.
“I am not a sailor,” Wind Blossom confessed.
“I could get someone to take you,” he offered.
Wind Blossom shook her head. “Thank you, but that would be . . . unwise.”
“I see you have a secret you are reluctant to share,” Malon observed.
Wind Blossom shook her head. “I have a secret I am sworn to keep,” she corrected.
Malon nodded slowly, taking no offense. “Well, do please let me know if you think of anything else I can do to help.”
“And the fish?” Wind Blossom reminded him.
“Of course.”
The eerie light of glows in one of the classrooms caught Emorra’s attention as she made her way to the kitchen late one night. She paused outside the room. She heard voices. Cautiously she opened the door and peered inside.
Inside, Tieran was standing at the blackboard, which was covered in various block diagrams and chemical formulas. She recognized the one he was working on as a decision tree. “What are you doing?” she asked.
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