“I’m still not seeing the good in this,” Cisca told her.
“When they meet again, it won’t be as Lord Holder and dutiful daughter,” Tannaz explained. “It will be as Lord Holder and tithe-bound Weyrwoman.” She paused, a look of admiration crossing her face. “I’m sure she didn’t plan it, but the break between them will make it much easier for the both of them to adjust to her new role—and it reaffirms in his mind his duty to the Weyr.”
“How do you see that?”
“Fiona asserted herself as a Weyrwoman,” Tannaz said, “and that assertion carries with it the weight of the whole Weyr. Without meaning to, Fiona reminded Lord Bemin that the safety of his Hold depends upon this Weyr and that he’s beholden to us.” An impish grin flashed on her face as she added, “I’ll bet our tithe from Fort will be much better this year than last.”
Cisca looked at the other for a long moment before shaking her head sadly. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to match you for deviousness.”
“Ah, so aren’t you glad that I’m your junior Weyrwoman?”
Cisca reached forward and hugged her. “I certainly am!”
“Maybe it was a bad idea, sending the fire-lizards away,” T’mar said to K’lior at the end of the wingleaders’ meeting some twenty days after that tragic event. T’mar had waited until the other wingleaders had headed down to the Kitchen Caverns to join their wingriders for dinner.
K’lior gave him an inquisitive look.
T’mar went on. “There’s been no word of further outbreaks—”
“Perhaps because the fire-lizards are all gone,” K’lior suggested.
“Perhaps it was a fluke,” T’mar retorted.
K’lior nodded in understanding, then looked over and caught T’mar’s eyes. “Tell me, bronze rider, do you wish to stake your dragon’s life on a fluke?”
T’mar’s face colored.
K’lior made a calming gesture. “I don’t mean to anger you, T’mar,” he said. “I don’t like this any more than you.” Tension had been building in the Weyr; there had been two fights, one involving a dragonrider. K’lior was no fool; he knew that both were reflections of resentment and fear.
“I’ve spoken with Kentai,” he continued, “and he suggests that we should listen for word from Benden—”
“Benden?” the word exploded out of T’mar’s lips.
“Yes, Benden,” K’lior said calmly. “Because Harper Kindan was not only a witness to the death of his own fire-lizard, but he was also a firsthand witness to the Plague that struck the holders nearly twelve Turns back.”
T’mar’s angry look cleared slightly as he absorbed his Weyrleader’s words.
“He may not be a dragonrider,” K’lior said, “but from everything I’ve heard, he regards all life carefully and won’t take chances with the dragons.”
“He’d be a fool to do so this near to the Pass,” T’mar murmured, then shook his head abashedly. “As I was to suggest it,” he said more loudly, meeting K’lior’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Weyrleader, my previous behavior was—”
“No more than to be expected this near the Pass,” K’lior assured him, clapping the older man on the shoulder. “Now come along, your riders are waiting for you.”
Later that evening K’lior recounted the encounter to Cisca as they were preparing for bed.
“So?” Cisca demanded.
“Well, it was odd,” K’lior said.
“But?”
“But,” K’lior said with a sigh, “it could have been nerves.”
Cisca took a dim view of this, saying, “If it’s nerves, he’s had it for over a Turn now—do you really want someone like that leading a wing?”
“His wing is doing well,” K’lior protested. Cisca glared at him and he sighed again. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”
“Thread could come any day now,” Cisca said.
“Thank goodness Verilan discovered those Threadfall charts,” K’lior said. “Once we know the location of the first Fall, we’ll be able to predict the rest.”
“What if those charts were only meant for the Second Pass?” Cisca asked.
“I admit that it’s possible,” K’lior said. “And we’ll be vigilant. But certainly with each consecutive pass matching those charts, we’ll get more confidence.”
“I don’t see how we can fight Thread every seventy-five hours,” Cisca said dubiously.
“Spread among six Weyrs?”
“Five Weyrs,” Cisca corrected. “I’d be happier if it were six.”
“And we’re wing light,” K’lior agreed, his optimism ebbing.
“That doesn’t bother me,” Cisca said, poking him playfully in the ribs and grinning impishly. “Between Tannaz’s Kalsenth and my Melirth, I think we’ll have the Weyr up to strength pretty soon.”
But the Weyrleader shook his head. “Melirth won’t rise again for months yet. And then we’ve got at least three Turns—”
“A Turn and a half,” Cisca interjected.
“Only if we force weyrlings into fighting wings early,” K’lior told her. “And the Records—”
“We’ll survive,” Cisca interjected.
“Of course we will!” K’lior replied. “Oh, we may have it hard for the first Turn or so, but we’ll manage.”
“With two hundred and eighty-five fighting dragons?” Cisca snorted. “I expect we’ll do more than manage.”
K’lior managed a weak smile, thinking about Cisca’s concerns over T’mar and his own concerns over what had happened to Kindan’s fire-lizard.
“It’s been nearly three sevendays; maybe we’ll be able to bring the fire-lizards back,” Cisca said, much to K’lior’s surprise. In response to his look, she explained, “They’ll bring up morale for everyone.”
K’lior gave her a doubtful smile and was about to say something but stopped suddenly, turning toward the weyr and his dragon.
Cisca felt a sudden disquiet from Melirth.
Kamenth of Ista is no more, her dragon told her, rushing out of her weyr and into the Weyr Bowl, keening sorrowfully.
“Was it the—”
Jalith of Telgar is no more, Melirth said then. The Weyr was filled with the voices of hundreds of distressed dragons.
“Two dragons!” K’lior groaned.
“Was it the illness?” Cisca wondered. Before she could repeat the question to her grieving queen, the keening of the dragons increased to a fever pitch.
Breth of Benden is no more!
FOUR
Their lungs melted,
Their breath turned green.
Sick, listless, ailing,
Dragons fled between.
Fort Weyr, AL 507.13.12
Fiona groaned when she awoke. The sun was high in the sky. Her muscles were all sore, aching from the awkward position in which she’d finally found sleep after the awful nighttime awakening that she and all the dragonriders had experienced. But the ache in her muscles was nothing to the ache in her heart. She felt hollow. So hollow that for one frantic instant, she looked around wildly for Talenth only to stop, realizing that the bulk of the young dragon lay beneath her. She pulled back and spent several long, tense moments watching her queen, searching for signs of life. She didn’t realize that she’d been holding her breath until she let it out in a sigh as she saw Talenth’s chest rise and fall in the steady breathing of an exhausted dragonet.
Then, to her surprise and annoyance, Fiona’s stomach grumbled loudly. She nearly hissed at it in anger, afraid that it might disturb the sleeping queen. When it rumbled again, she beat a hasty retreat from the queen’s lair, rushing out into the Weyr Bowl.
Out there, Fiona was struck by silence. She glanced at the sun overhead in confirmation of the late hour and frowned—usually by this time the Weyr Bowl was bustling with dragons, riders, and weyrfolk.
Had something happened to the whole Weyr, she wondered, a jolt of fear running down her spine. At a half-trot she rushed down the incline onto the Bowl proper and over to the Kit
chen Cavern.
It was a moment before she spotted anyone and then her sigh of relief carried through the entire room.
Tannaz beckoned to her. Fiona closed the distance quickly, her brain teeming with questions, but when she got to Tannaz’s table, she found that she could only sit numbly and stare at the small basket of rolls.
Tannaz caught the look and pushed the basket to her, sliding over a tub of butter with her other hand.
“You’ll feel better when you eat,” the older Weyrwoman told her. “I know I did.”
“Better?” Fiona repeated, startled by the hollowness in Tannaz’s voice. She was surprised at the sound of her own voice: hoarse, empty, lifeless.
“Eat.” Tannaz leaned forward and grabbed a roll, setting the example.
Fiona followed suit and buttered her roll slowly. There was something reassuring, almost peaceful, in the way the cool butter spread on the roll. Normal.
She took a bite and chewed slowly. The butter and the fresh bread were wonderful! Fiona finished her first bite and took another bigger bite of her roll. She could hardly believe how good the roll was, how fresh the butter was.
“Tastes good, doesn’t it?” Tannaz asked before taking another bite herself.
Fiona could only nod, her mouth full.
“That’s because you’re hungry,” Tannaz told her. She pushed a pitcher over to her and gestured toward a mug. “The klah’s cold, try it.”
Fiona wasn’t much of a fan of klah at the best of times, and cold wasn’t the best. But the scent wafted over to her and she found herself filling the mug without thinking.
“It’s great!” she exclaimed after her first sip. She was thirsty, and at that moment the cold, spicy brew was better than the freshest stream water. She finished her mug and filled it again.
Tannaz chortled. “That’s because you’re thirsty.”
“Where are the others?” Fiona asked. She already felt more awake.
“Grieving,” Tannaz told her flatly.
“Well, they can’t grieve any longer,” a voice boomed from the entrance. Fiona turned and saw Cisca. Reflexively, she rose.
“Have some food,” Tannaz murmured, her mouth half-full, as she got to her feet with the basket of rolls in one hand.
As Cisca crossed the distance between them her expression changed from one of anger to one of hunger. She took the proffered roll and, sitting down, slathered it with butter from the tub Fiona pushed in her direction. Two rolls later she said, “You’re right, I was hungry.”
“Klah,” Tannaz said, sliding the pitcher in her direction.
“It’s cold,” Fiona warned.
Cisca acknowledged the warning with a nod and looked around for a mug. Tannaz offered hers, and the Weyrwoman took it gladly.
“Better, huh?” Tannaz asked as Cisca gulped down the cold liquid. Cisca nodded wordlessly. Two rolls and another mug of cold klah later the Weyrwoman confessed, “I didn’t realize I was that hungry.”
Tannaz rose to her feet and gestured for Fiona to follow her. “We’ll rouse the weyrfolk and get a proper meal,” she declared. “You stay here and rest.”
Cisca nodded gratefully.
“You’ll probably have to bring food to the riders,” a voice declared from the entrance.
“Ah, Kentai,” Tannaz called to the man garbed in harper blue, “we’ll be glad of your help.”
The harper’s lips turned up, the nearest anyone had come to a smile so far that day.
“Is it like this across Pern?” Fiona wondered.
“Very likely,” Kentai said. “Certainly at the Weyrs.”
“It’s not just the news—it’s what it means,” Tannaz elaborated.
“Well, this illness hasn’t affected Fort.” Fiona recognized T’jen’s voice before she spotted the Weyrlingmaster striding in from the brilliance of the midday sun. He nodded briefly to the Weyrwomen and again to the harper. “The weyrlings have started to recover,” he told them. “The rest of the Weyr will be back on their feet soon, I’m sure.”
“It was the shock,” Tannaz declared, shaking her head. “I was so certain that it wasn’t going to happen—”
“It’s yet to happen here,” T’jen reiterated. “If we close the Weyr, we’re not likely to be—” He broke off, alerted by a sound, and turned quickly, looking back the way he’d come. Fiona turned in the same direction, listening intently. The sound echoed around the Weyr: the deep noise of a dragon coughing.
“Salith!”
“What are you going to do?” H’nez demanded as K’lior entered the Council Room.
“Give him a chance to sit at least,” M’kury snapped.
K’lior used the moment of their bickering to take a deep breath and look around the room. Before the wingleaders had settled down, he heard the rustle of cloth behind him and was not surprised when Cisca, Tannaz, and Fiona entered the room.
H’nez glared at them, but M’kury rose from his seat, gesturing politely to Cisca. “Weyrwoman.”
Cisca nodded her thanks and settled herself in the chair beside K’lior.
“Well?” M’kury demanded of the rest of the room. “Are you going to leave our Weyrwomen standing?” His eyes settled challengingly on H’nez.
T’mar and P’der rose quickly and gestured to the Weyrwomen.
“I want them to sit by me,” Cisca said, glancing at H’nez. The grizzled rider grimaced before relinquishing his chair to Tannaz.
A younger rider, wearing the knots of a wingleader, vacated the seat on Cisca’s other side. “Sit here, little one,” he said to Fiona.
“Thank you, V’ney,” Cisca said as he moved to the edge of the room. The young man nodded back courteously.
Underneath the table, unseen by the others, Cisca patted K’lior’s knee reassuringly. He looked over to her and smiled, then turned his attention to the rest of the room.
“What are we going to do?” he said, repeating H’nez’s words. He nodded to Kentai, the Weyr harper, who stood against one wall. “Harper, what do you say?”
“I haven’t got much to say,” Kentai admitted, shaking his head sadly. “You all know better than I what happened at the other Weyrs and the symptoms of this illness.” He gestured with one hand vaguely in the direction of T’jen’s weyr.
“And you’re not a healer,” H’nez added, glaring at K’lior. “When are you going to get Zist and Betrony—”
“That’s a question for a later day,” Cisca cut in.
“You know why we’ve no healer, H’nez,” M’kury growled. “It’s because you goaded old Sitarin into that duel.”
H’nez’s jaw worked angrily.
“H’nez,” K’lior said with a restraining hand upraised. The older rider locked eyes with him for a moment then glanced away, letting out a long, slow breath. K’lior glanced at Cisca, asking, “Have you spoken with Benden’s new Weyrwoman?”
Cisca shook her head. “But Melirth has heard from Lorana.”
“Who’s Lorana?” someone muttered from the back of the room.
“I thought Tullea was second Weyrwoman,” someone else added.
“Lorana Impressed at Benden’s latest Hatching,” Cisca said. “She bespoke Melirth at M’tal’s request.”
“But her hatchling can’t be more than—” M’kury began.
“She’s younger than Talenth!” H’nez exclaimed. “How can you expect a dragonet to say anything sensible at that age?”
“Lorana spoke directly to Melirth,” Cisca replied. With a slightly wistful look, she continued, “She can speak to any dragon.”
“Like Torene?” Fiona blurted in surprise.
“Like Torene,” Cisca agreed. “Although I got the feeling from Melirth that . . .” Her voice trailed off and she shook herself, saying, “Anyway, she told Melirth about Kindan’s fire-lizard and Salina’s Breth.”
“And?” H’nez demanded. Cisca turned her head slowly toward him, her dark eyes simmering. The bronze rider cleared his throat hastily and bobbed his head. “My apol
ogies, Weyrwoman.”
Cisca held his gaze for a moment more, then looked away, dismissing him from her regard as she said to K’lior, “They can’t be certain what is causing the illness or how long it lasts.”
“Do they have a cure?” K’lior asked.
Cisca closed her eyes, linking with her dragon, then opened them again. “Lorana is not answering; she may be asleep.”
“No help there, then,” H’nez growled.
“When people are sick,” Tannaz spoke into the ensuing silence, “we quarantine them.”
“We started that with the fire-lizards,” T’jen agreed. He looked down to the floor a long moment, then brought his chin up jerkily, saying, “Salith and I should be kept away from the weyrlings at the very least.”
“Nonsense!” H’nez declared loudly. “Who will teach them?”
“If they are coughing,” Fiona spoke up nervously, “could we put masks on them like they did in the Plague?”
A few riders nodded thoughtfully, but H’nez shattered it with a loud guffaw. “Who would put a mask on a dragon?”
“I would,” Tannaz declared. “Especially if it helped prevent infection.”
K’lior pursed his lips and shook his head. “Perhaps we should wait until we know more.”
“How many dragons will die before then?” H’nez demanded angrily.
“Until we know what’s causing it, we won’t know whether we’re helping or hurting,” Cisca shouted. Outside, they heard a dragon bellow, and then another—closer—bellowed back.
“That’s you put in your place,” Tannaz murmured to herself, recognizing the sounds of bronze Ginirth and gold Melirth.
“But we should do something,” H’nez protested.
“Yes,” T’mar agreed heatedly. “We should think and not act rashly.”
“As long as Salith isn’t near the hatchlings,” T’jen said.
K’lior glanced consideringly at the Weyrlingmaster, then nodded. “Take Salith to one of the unused weyrs at the far end of the Bowl.” He glanced at T’mar. “I want you to take over the weyrlings.”
T’mar looked ready to argue, then paused and finally nodded in acquiescence. “Yes, Weyrleader.”
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