Cisca stepped up to the ledge in Melirth’s quarters and peered down to K’lior. “Of course we need time,” she agreed, mostly to humor him.
“No, no, no,” K’lior shouted back. “The weyrlings and the injured riders, they all need time to grow and recover.”
“Make sense, K’lior,” Cisca returned irritably.
K’lior took a deep breath and gave her a huge smile. “We’ll time it. Send them back in time somewhere so—”
“So they can recover!” Cisca finished with a joyful cry and a leap. “K’lior, that’s brilliant!”
When K’tan approached M’tal and Salina at dinner that evening, M’tal gave Salina a worried look.
“Salina, may I talk with you?” K’tan asked, his eyes pleading, his face pale. “It’s about Drith.”
Salina responded with a weary smile and a small shake of her head. Really, she was getting used to this, although she hadn’t expected K’tan to be the next dragonrider to ask to speak to her alone.
M’tal leaned back in his chair, reflectively fingering a glass of wine on the table. Salina rose from her chair and gave him a peck on the cheek before following the Weyr healer out of the Living Cavern.
“How long has it been?” she asked K’tan as soon as they were out of earshot.
“Over two sevendays,” he replied grimly, his face lined with the pain of so many burdens piled on top of each other—the dying, Lorana, and now his own dragon’s sickness. “I keep telling myself that the next potion, the next herbal infusion will turn the tide but—”
Salina laid a hand gently on his arm. K’tan took a shuddering breath.
“I must go check on Lorana,” he said finally, ducking away from Salina’s gaze. He turned back, eyes puzzled, and told her, “I see her body shudder every time a dragon goes between, but she makes no sound.”
“I know,” Salina replied softly. “I think she feels every dragon’s death.” She looked up at him. “You must know something of how she feels, for all your years healing.”
“Is it terribly lonely, losing your dragon?” K’tan asked, fighting to keep his voice steady.
“It’s the worst feeling there is,” Salina told him honestly. She grabbed him and hugged him tight. “But as long as you have people to live for . . .”
Overwhelmed by her words and enveloped in her comforting embrace, K’tan’s composure broke in one soft, heart-torn sob. Clumsily he pushed himself away.
“I’ll be all right,” he declared. “Thank you.”
“I’m sure you will be,” Salina agreed, accepting his lie.
K’tan turned quickly, saying, “I must check on Lorana.”
“Give her my love,” Salina called as the healer strode off deliberately.
By the time K’tan arrived in Lorana’s quarters, he had his emotions back under control. After all, he chided himself, he had had Turns of consoling the bereaved, of keeping quiet watch as sick and injured slipped away forever; he should be used to this. And he owed it to his patients and weyrmates. Those who were suffering deserved no less than the best he could give them.
He heard a voice from inside Lorana’s quarters and quickened his pace, arriving breathless. Perhaps—
“What are you doing here?” he demanded abruptly, spotting the Weyrwoman as he entered Lorana’s quarters.
“My duty as Weyrwoman,” Tullea snapped, her cheeks flushing. She stood up from Lorana’s bedside, hands clenched by her side. Her features tightened severely as her anger grew.
“Let me relieve you, then,” K’tan said crisply.
Tullea glared at him through narrowed eyes, then spun on her heels and was out of the room before K’tan could react.
He couldn’t, for a moment, imagine that Tullea was watching Lorana out of any concern or compassion for the dragonless woman. He knelt beside Lorana, took her pulse, and checked her temperature and breathing, assuring himself that she hadn’t suffered from Tullea’s attentions.
K’tan searched the room for a chair, found it, dragged it up beside Lorana’s bed, and sat in it, leaning back and stretching out his legs in readiness for a long, patient wait. The room smelled of fresh high-bloom flowers. Had Tullea brought them? Probably Salina, K’tan decided.
As long as you have people to live for. Salina’s words echoed sourly in his memory. Who did Lorana have to live for? Her family was gone, she was new at the Weyr, and Tullea, the senior Weyrwoman, clearly had no love for her.
Kindan? The harper was certainly a possibility, K’tan decided, although his blunder in singing “Wind Blossom’s Song” may have soured Lorana on him.
The dragons? K’tan snorted his opinion of that prospect. While he got the impression that Lorana was more in tune with the dragons than anyone he’d heard of, even in the Ballads, he couldn’t see them, dying in such droves, providing her with a reason for living.
And what of me? K’tan asked himself.
You will stay, Drith told him groggily. Even in the distance, K’tan could pick out the Drith’s raspy cough from all the others. You will stay, she will stay. You must. Both of you.
K’tan was surprised at his dragon’s fierce tone.
The answer is here, Drith continued. You and Lorana must find it. K’tan wondered how much of Drith’s conviction was simply a reflection of K’tan’s own beliefs.
We will find it, he promised his dragon. Lorana will recover soon, and we’ll find it. Rest up, old friend.
In the distance, K’tan could hear Drith’s answering rumble turn into another long, raspy cough.
K’tan shot out of his chair and headed for the door. I’m coming, Drith!
No, Drith responded. I must do this now while I still can.
“No!” K’tan shouted both out loud and in his mind.
I will always love you, Drith told him fondly.
And then—he was gone.
“No!” K’tan shouted again, reaching with his mind to follow Drith. He jerked as he felt another presence join him, searching in the darkness of between for the brown dragon. Together they roamed, searching all that they could find—but there was no sign of Drith.
Gasping for breath, K’tan found himself once again feeling his body. “Drith, no!”
“Come back!” Lorana cried in unison with him.
Across the room, K’tan—Ketan—locked tear-soaked eyes with Lorana.
“I tried,” Lorana called to him, struggling to get out of her bed. “I tried, K’tan, but he fought me. He wouldn’t come back.”
Ketan stumbled back to Lorana’s bedside.
“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “I tried.”
Ketan grabbed one of her hands and stroked it comfortingly, his need to reassure her overcoming his own grief.
“I know, lass, I know,” he told her. “I felt you there with me.” He closed his eyes and reached once more for his beloved Drith. Nothing. For a long moment, Ketan wished he could follow his dragon, realized he would have ridden Drith on that last journey between if he’d had the chance. With a chilling shock, Ketan realized that Drith had known that, too. “We must end this.”
Lorana’s hand tightened on his, and the ex-dragonrider opened his eyes again to see a look of fierce determination in her red-rimmed brown eyes.
“We will end this,” she promised.
NINETEEN
Symbiont: A life-form that lives in harmony with its host, often performing valuable functions for the host, e.g.: E. coli in the human gut.
College, First Interval, AL 58
Tieran spotted M’hall and Brianth circling through the clouds above and sent Grenn up to them.
“Tell them it’s safe, but to land at a distance,” Tieran told his fire-lizard. Grenn gave him a chirp to show that he understood and flew on up to the huge bronze dragon.
Moments later, Brianth landed, cautiously far from the still-smoldering remains of the young queen, and M’hall approached on foot. The Benden Weyrleader’s jaw was set, and his eyes bleak.
“Did Wind Bl
ossom order this?” he asked Tieran as he neared.
“Yes,” Tieran said. “The queen fell from the sky and was dead either from the impact or before that.”
M’hall peered closely at the remains. “It seems small for a queen. Are you sure it wasn’t a green?”
“It was a queen,” Tieran replied firmly. “Not just from the color but there”—he pointed at the blackened skull—“you can see from the shape of the skull and the teeth that it’s a young dragon, months old, probably less than six—”
“Less than six?” M’hall was amazed. “And that big? A six-month-old queen shouldn’t be that big.”
“But it was,” Tieran replied. “That would be about the size expected at about the thirtieth generation, or so.”
“The thirtieth generation?” M’hall repeated, amazed. “How would you know?”
Tieran shrugged. “Wind Blossom explained it,” he said. “There were limits on the original work they had done and they knew that the first generations would be smaller than the final generations. That,” he added, pointing to the skeleton, “is close to as large as they get, though.”
“Where is its rider?” M’hall asking, looking around for another burn circle.
“There was no rider,” Tieran told him.
“Could it have been an accident? A queen so young going between?” M’hall asked in vain hope.
Tieran shook his head. “I don’t know,” he answered. “But if it did, then it was sick with what looked to be the same thing this one—” He reached up to stroke Grenn, who had perched again on his shoulder, reassuringly. “—was ill with.
“Thirty generations would be over four hundred years from now,” he added.
M’hall whistled in awe. “You’re saying that this dragon and your fire-lizard come from four hundred years in the future?”
Tieran nodded, opening his hand. “I pulled this off the dragon’s riding harness.”
M’hall gave Tieran a questioning look and, at the young man’s nod, picked up the small object and peered at it intently.
“That’s the Benden Weyr mark,” he said instantly, pointing at a small section on the silver oblong. “Those other marks look like”—he glanced up incredulously at Tieran—“the same ones on your friend’s beadwork! Animal healer.”
“That’s what I thought,” Tieran agreed.
To his surprise, Tieran did not find himself on duty escorting all the various craftmasters, Holders, and Weyrleaders past the newly-raised mound that marked the queen dragon’s final resting place and on into the College’s Dining Room, hastily rearranged as a meeting place. Instead, he found himself bustling back and forth between Wind Blossom, Emorra, and Janir, carrying notes, bearing messages, and generally being run off his feet.
The undercurrents in the room were deep and numerous. Just from his own hearing, he knew that the Lord Holders not only warred with themselves over the disposition of Colony resources but also had numerous issues of trade to resolve. The Weyrleaders seemed united, if somewhat restless, willing to follow M’hall’s direction.
But the real issue was Wind Blossom’s. Those who hadn’t actually seen the dragon’s burnt skeleton were dubious of the claim, although not quite willing to voice out loud their lack of faith in Wind Blossom’s reasoning or abilities.
It promised to be an interesting and perhaps contentious session. Tieran caught a whiff of the snacks Moira and Alandro were baking and was surprised when his stomach gave a disgusted heave. Apparently this interesting session meant more to him than he was willing to admit.
The tables of the Dining Room had been arranged in a large oval. Emorra and the other collegians were gathered at the end nearest the kitchen. Opposite them were the Weyrleaders. In between, on the left and on the right, were the leaders of the Holds.
Tieran was surprised when the first person to speak was Emorra.
“Does everyone have a copy of the agenda?” she asked. Hearing no dissent, she continued. “Very well, I propose we start with the first item: the issue of the queen dragon and Wind Blossom’s findings—”
“It seemed awfully small to be a queen,” Lord Kenner of Telgar noted quaveringly, glancing around the room nervously, his beak-like nose bobbing this way and that.
“That’s because it was an immature dragon,” Tieran responded. “Judging by its teeth, it was under six months old, probably as little as two.”
“And you agree with this assessment?” Mendin asked, looking pointedly at M’hall.
M’hall nodded. “Yes.”
Mendin turned back to Tieran and nodded for him to continue. Tieran looked at Emorra and raised an eyebrow.
Emorra continued. “It is our opinion—”
“Whose?” Mendin demanded challengingly.
“The medical staff and faculty at this College,” she replied testily. “Kindly let me continue uninterrupted.”
Mendin looked ready to argue the point but desisted after catching sight of M’hall’s glare.
“It is our opinion that the queen dragon was a hatchling from somewhere between the thirtieth and fortieth generation,” Emorra said. The Lord Holders gave her blank stares, while the Weyrleaders who hadn’t heard this before all sat bolt upright in their chairs.
“Emorra, could you tell us what dragon generation we are at now?” Malon of Tillek asked courteously.
“The newest generation is the sixth generation,” Emorra answered.
“So the dragon came from the future,” K’nel of Ista said.
“How can dragons travel through time?” Kenner asked.
“It is a property of their ability to teleport,” Wind Blossom replied. “Any movement through space implies a movement through time.”
Kenner looked politely confused.
“Space and time are the same,” M’hall expanded, taking pity on the old Holder. “We’ve done it.”
“You have?” Mendin blurted.
“Yes,” L’can, High Reaches Weyrleader confirmed. “It is quite draining on the rider, though.”
“We estimate that the dragon came from more than four hundred years in the future,” Emorra told the group.
“Well, that’s a relief,” Mendin declared. “We’ve got nothing to worry about, then.” He looked expectantly around the room. “So what’s the next item on the agenda?”
“I don’t think we should move on so quickly,” M’hall replied. He turned to Emorra. “Is there any danger to our dragons?”
“I don’t think so,” she replied. “The young queen was immediately bathed in acid, so all microorganisms should have been destroyed.”
“What about that fire-lizard?” Mendin asked, pointing at the brown fire-lizard curled on Tieran’s shoulder.
“I would not have released the fire-lizard from quarantine had I considered it still a possible source of contagion,” Wind Blossom spoke up from behind her daughter. She met Mendin’s eyes squarely. “The fate of all Pern is at stake.”
“Is?” Mendin repeated. “I thought you said the fire-lizard isn’t a threat?”
“We don’t know why the fire-lizard or the queen dragon found their way back to us,” Emorra replied. “They both appear to have come from about the same time, and there are indications that they had the same human partner.”
“And that the partner was a rider at Benden Weyr,” M’hall added.
“Somewhere in the future, dragons are dying,” L’can marveled mournfully.
“But that’s not an issue for us!” Mendin declared. “I’m sorry to hear about it, but we have issues we need to deal with today.”
“And this is one of them,” Emorra declared fiercely. “Twice now we’ve been lucky.” She nodded toward M’hall and the Weyrleaders. “Every Weyr is now on guard against any other dragons falling out of the future, but it just takes one and the illness could spread here.”
“No, it can’t,” Tieran said to himself. He flushed as the others all looked at him. He shrugged. “If the illness spreads here, then there will be no dra
gons from the future.”
“Could you explain?” M’hall asked, gesturing invitingly.
“If the illness comes back in time,” Tieran replied, “there are two possibilities—either all the dragons will succumb and there will be no more dragons in the future, or the dragons will get better and pass their immunity on, so there will be no sick dragons in the future.”
“I’m afraid there is a third possibility,” Wind Blossom said. Everyone turned to her. “It is possible that the queen from the future is a modified watch-wher.”
“What?” Mendin shouted. “A watch-wher?”
“I have only completed some preliminary evaluations,” she continued unperturbedly, “but I have noticed signs of genetic manipulation in the queen’s genetic code.”
“But if our descendants could manipulate genetic material, wouldn’t they be able to cure this illness in the future?” Mendin asked.
“You are supposing that detailed knowledge of genetics, particularly Pernese genetics, and the tools to manipulate Pernese genetic code would be available four centuries from now,” Emorra said. She turned to him. “Tell me, Lord Mendin, how many base-pairs are there in the Pernese genetic code?”
“Why would I need to know that?” Mendin spluttered indignantly.
“Precisely,” Emorra replied. “Why would anyone need to know that four hundred years in the future?”
Mendin waved a hand to the Weyrleaders. “Perhaps they would know it.”
“I don’t know it now,” M’hall confessed. He glanced at the other Weyrleaders, who also professed ignorance. “I am more concerned with fighting Thread and maintaining a Weyr than the genetic code of the dragons.” He glanced at Emorra. “It would seem that the College would retain this knowledge.”
Emorra shook her head. “I doubt it, Weyrleader,” she said. “Even now there are only three people in this room who can answer my question: myself, my mother, and Tieran.”
“What about Janir, surely he knows this!” Mendin objected.
Janir shook his head. “I know a little about terrestrial genetics, but I specialize in human medicine.”
“Statistically, if only three people know something now,” Emorra said, “then there is a very high likelihood that that knowledge will not survive into the next generation, let alone four centuries from now.”
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