Floating in the sky,
Dragonriders do trust
Thread will soon be nigh.
Fort Weyr, Morning, AL 507.13.26
The pall of disaster the next morning was shattered by the watch dragon’s bugled cry.
Blackdust! The dragon’s cry was echoed throughout the Weyr. Fort Hold reports blackdust.
The news galvanized the Weyr.
The Weyrleader wants you in the Records Room, Talenth relayed in a tone of surprise and pride.
“Mmph!” Xhinna complained as Fiona nudged her to get up. “What is it?”
“Dust fall at Fort Hold,” Fiona told her shortly, jumping out of bed and pulling on her clothes. “The Weyrleader wants to meet with me.”
“Where?” Xhinna called out as Fiona tore out of the room, still adjusting her tunic.
“Records Room!” Fiona called back over her shoulder, and then she was gone, leaving friend and dragon exchanging bemused looks.
“Where’s Xhinna?” Cisca grumbled as Fiona stumbled into the Records Room. The Weyrwoman and Weyrleader were hunched over an old chart, peering closely at it in the dim light of their night glow. “I was hoping she’d bring klah.”
“Still getting up,” Fiona replied. She stood next to Cisca, leaning her arms on a chair back to look at the chart laid out on the table. She vaguely recognized the shape of Pern’s Northern Continent and she could pick out the symbols for the major Holds and Weyrs, but she didn’t understand the meaning of the wiggly lines that were drawn like snakes over everything. Unless the snakes were Thread or—“Do those lines show the Threadfalls?”
“Yes,” K’lior agreed, glancing at her approvingly. “Master Archivist Verilan and your friend, Kindan, worked them out.”
“If they’re accurate,” Cisca added, “then the next fall should be . . . here—High Reaches Tip.” The tip of her tongue stuck out between pursed lips. “High Reaches again for the next Fall, at Southern Tillek.”
“And then Benden Weyr and Bitra,” K’lior said, pointing to another squiggle. Fiona saw that each line had a number next to it.
“But why is this one marked seven and not one?” she asked, tapping the line for the Fort Hold Fall.
“I don’t know,” K’lior confessed with a shrug. “I suppose that’s a question for Kindan—”
“Verilan,” Cisca corrected absently, still intent on the chart. “Kindan has enough to deal with at Benden.”
“All Verilan was willing to say was that the charts were the best guess, based on old Records they’d found at the Harper Hall and the Weyrs,” K’lior remarked. He paused, still scanning the chart, and then pointed. “This one here, the twelfth Fall by this chart, that’s when we’ll next see Thread.”
“We must warn Benden,” Cisca said. “If we’re getting blackdust, I suspect it’ll be even colder up High Reaches way, but Benden gets those warm winds from the sea.” She frowned in thought, then asked K’lior, “How warm does it have to be for Thread to survive?”
“Or how cold to freeze?” K’lior replied, turning the question on its head. He shrugged. “I imagine that Thread probably freezes like any other living thing—” He nodded appreciatively as both Fiona and Cisca shuddered at his use of the word living. “—and goodness knows it’s cold enough in the sky these days, but beyond that . . .”
“Well, now we know,” Cisca said firmly, indicating the chart. “If these charts are to be believed—”
“Let’s see if these other falls come as predicted,” K’lior suggested.
“—then we’ve got a little more than fifteen days to prepare,” Cisca concluded, riding over K’lior’s interjection.
K’lior nodded and took on the distant look of a rider communing with his dragon. “I’ve called a wingleader’s meeting for breakfast.”
Xhinna rushed in at that moment, asking breathlessly, “Weyrleader, Weyrwoman, is there anything I can get you?”
K’lior and Cisca exchanged amused looks. Cisca shook her head. “You’re just in time to escort us to the Kitchen Cavern where we’ll all have breakfast.”
The breakfast with the wingleaders was a somber affair. H’nez professed no faith in the Threadfall charts when K’lior mentioned them.
“Which is why we’ll keep our patrols out,” K’lior assured the grumpy wingleader.
H’nez accepted that decision with a contented look. “We must alert the Weyrs, of course,” he observed.
“Of course,” K’lior agreed drily. “Although I rather suspect that D’gan at Telgar will not take kindly to anything we have to say.”
“D’gan has a problem,” Cisca murmured angrily.
“What about High Reaches?” P’der asked. “D’vin wouldn’t come to your council earlier.”
“I’ve already alerted Lyrinth, the queen dragon there,” Cisca replied.
“I’ll go to Benden,” T’mar offered.
“I’ll go to Ista,” P’der said.
“I can imagine how Weyrleader C’rion will feel to be briefed by a wingsecond,” H’nez drawled.
“Are you offering to go instead?” K’lior asked, cocking his head.
“I’ve my wing to attend to,” H’nez responded. “They suffered grievous losses.”
“We all did,” Cisca replied, her eyes flashing. H’nez did not reply.
“P’der, T’mar, when can you leave?” K’lior asked. The Kitchen Cavern had slowly been filling up as they conferred, and he could feel the concern and grief flowing in equal measures amongst the weyrfolk and dragonriders.
“I can leave now,” T’mar announced, rising from his chair.
“I think—” H’nez’s words halted T’mar’s motion. “—that we need to consider the larger issue before we break up.”
“And that is?” K’lior asked politely.
“The question is,” H’nez replied as though speaking to a particularly slow weyrling, “how are we going to survive Threadfall with sick dragons?”
“That has been the question since the fire-lizards first took ill,” Cisca retorted in exasperation. “We”—and she gestured to K’lior and herself—“have been trying to answer that ever since.”
“I’ll want all the wings at the Weyr ready for drill after lunch,” K’lior declared. He glanced at P’der and T’mar, adding, “If you’re not back by then, we’ll work without you. We know that we’ll have casualties when we fight Thread, so it makes sense to practice for that now.”
“By the First Egg, that’s more like it,” H’nez declared. To T’mar he said, “You go and spend time with M’tal, while we do real work back here.”
“His job is no less important, H’nez,” K’lior said warningly. He waved T’mar and P’der away. “And now,” he said, reaching for a fresh roll, “I think we should finish our breakfast and get ready for the work of the day.”
“T’mar!” Cisca called as the bronze rider prepared to mount Zirenth. They were in the Weyr Bowl, less than half an hour after the end of their breakfast.
“Weyrwoman?” T’mar responded, turning around to face her.
Cisca crossed the distance between them so that she could speak in a normal voice. “You understand that there’s a risk, going to Benden.”
T’mar nodded.
“We can’t say how the illness spreads,” she continued, relieved at his easy response, “so don’t stay any longer than necessary.”
“I will,” he assured her. With a grin he added, “I want to get back in time to see how my wing flies without me!”
“Fly well!”
“Always, Weyrwoman.” With a last respectful nod, T’mar turned back to climb onto his dragon.
Let’s go, he told his dragon. Zirenth flexed his hind legs and leapt into the air. He beat his wings once, twice, and was gone between.
Cisca turned at a sound behind her and spotted Fiona rushing from the Kitchen Cavern, looking distraught. “I wanted to say good flying!”
“Did you, now?” Cisca murmured to herself, giving the young rider a probing look. Louder,
she responded, “He’ll be back soon enough.”
Fiona spent the next several days with Xhinna and Cisca, with the Weyrwoman constantly presenting her with new and often arduous tasks that left her too tired to think—even with plenty of klah. After the first day, she realized that that was part of Cisca’s purpose—to exhaust her.
That obvious ploy didn’t bother her as much as it might have under other circumstances. Fiona realized how numb and useless she felt. The loss of Tannaz and Kelsanth was magnified by the losses of all the other riders and ill dragons that had gone with her—particularly those whom Fiona had visited for hours on end. No one knew of a cure for the illness. As far as Fiona knew, it was only a matter of time before all the dragons succumbed, including her own lovely, marvelous—and so young!—Talenth.
If the loss of her own dragon wasn’t enough to terrify her, Fiona also realized that without the dragons of Pern, soon all the planet would be covered in burrows, with Thread sucking all life from the soil—and those Pernese that didn’t succumb quickly to the falling Thread would slowly starve.
So she was secretly glad that Cisca kept her too busy to think and that Xhinna never left her alone for more than the barest few minutes.
Fiona knew, from the dreaded sounds of coughing, that more dragons had fallen ill, but she purposely did not try to discover who they were, preferring to concentrate on T’jen’s Salith, the last of the original sick dragons.
T’jen was as tough as they came, as befit a Weyrlingmaster, even if he had relinquished his responsibilities when Salith took ill.
“You’ll see,” he had declared the day after Tannaz and the others went between. “We’ll find a cure.”
He was constantly consulting with Kentai about possible remedies and was dosing Salith with so many different herbals that it was a wonder the dragon was willing to put up with it.
“He knows we’re trying,” T’jen explained when Fiona was helping the dragonrider give his dragon a particularly noxious infusion. With a wry grin, he added, “Perhaps the smell alone will drive out the illness.”
T’jen kept a steady eye on his weyrlings, even if he was no longer involved in their daily activities.
“See down there?” He pointed out from his place beside Salith, who was dozing on his ledge in the warm afternoon sun. “See the lads all lined up like that?”
“Yes,” Fiona said, peering down at the strange assortment of youngsters. From her high vantage point, they looked more like dots than people.
“They’re practicing drill,” T’jen told her. “They learn to line up and move as a group, then they learn how to spread out like they will with their dragons when they start flying.”
Curiosity caused Fiona to screw up her face as she asked, “How come I don’t do that?”
“I suppose there’s no reason you shouldn’t,” T’jen replied with a shrug. “Those in the queen’s wing should also know how to work together.” But, of course, Fiona reflected sadly, there was only Melirth and Talenth. And not only was Talenth too young, but Fiona and Cisca were too busy to devote any time to drill.
One evening her task came from Kentai—though Fiona didn’t doubt that even this was a piece of Cisca’s efforts to keep her busy. “Weyrwoman,” the harper said to her at dinner. “Tomorrow I’d like to spend some time with you going over the medical procedures. We’ve scheduled training for the morning, and a drill in the afternoon.”
“A drill?” Fiona asked.
“T’mar’s wing and the weyrlings will play the sick and injured,” Cisca informed her, her eyes twinkling as she mentioned the bronze rider.
“The drills are a lot of fun,” Xhinna told Fiona. When Fiona looked at her, surprised, she added, “We’ve been doing them at least once a month for the past Turn.”
“All because your Weyrwoman believes in being prepared,” K’lior remarked, casting a fond look at Cisca.
After dinner, Fiona went to check on T’jen and Salith, and Xhinna, as usual, accompanied her.
T’jen’s weyr was on the fifth level, on the east side of the Weyr, toward the southern end, almost above the lake. To get to it, they took the east stairwell and walked halfway around the corridor south to his lair.
“It’s a good workout,” T’jen had noted when Xhinna had arrived breathless on their first visit. “But worth the view.”
He didn’t exaggerate: T’jen’s quarters had a magnificent view of the entire Weyr, with the Tooth Crag nearly straight ahead of him, and the Star Stones and Landing just at the limit of vision on his right.
It had become a habit, in the short time since they’d started their visits, that before entering, Fiona and Xhinna would stop for a brief rest so that T’jen wouldn’t twit them about being out of shape—the ex-Weyrlingmaster was a stickler for exercise.
“You’re going to be riding a dragon, young lady, you shouldn’t be out of breath just climbing five flights of stairs and walking a quarter of the way around the Weyr,” he had observed sharply when Fiona had commented on the distance.
Until now, however, they hadn’t realized that their heavy breathing was audible to T’jen from their halting point near his weyr.
“Don’t come in,” he called wearily as they stood catching their breath.
“T’jen,” Fiona repeated in surprise, “are you all right?”
“No, I’m not,” he replied mournfully. “Send for the Weyrleader.”
Fiona was surprised by the request, knowing that T’jen’s Salith could more easily alert K’lior, and then—
Talenth, Fiona thought even as her eyes filled with tears, please tell Melirth that we need Cisca and K’lior at Salith’s weyr.
Melirth asks—Talenth halted and continued, They come.
Thank you, Fiona responded. Aloud, she said, “They’re coming.” Xhinna gave her a quizzical look that slowly drained away as she figured it out. “How come the dragons didn’t keen?” she asked Fiona.
“He passed away in his sleep,” T’jen—who would from now on be known by his birth name, Tajen—said in answer. “I don’t think the dragons know yet.”
Fiona beckoned to Xhinna, and together they entered the brown dragon’s lair.
“Oh!” Xhinna murmured in anguish as she saw Salith lying lifeless, a final trickle of green mucus still snaking down his snout to puddle on the floor.
“I don’t know what we’ll do with the body,” Tajen said sadly. Fiona could tell by his stance that the brown rider had followed their journey across the floor of the Weyr Bowl from his vantage point at Salith’s ledge and, she guessed, had turned to Salith only to find the brown dead. Tears were flowing freely, ignored, down his cheeks. “I thought he’d go between.”
“Weren’t you going to go with him?” Fiona asked quietly, moving forward to stand beside him and pat Salith’s huge head, idly moving her hand to his eye ridge as though in some half-formed hope that the dragon might revive with her ministrations.
“No,” Tajen replied firmly, “we’d talked it over, Salith and I.” He paused, his lips screwing up into a grimace. “I didn’t want to set such an example for the weyrlings, even though I never wanted to lose Salith. Sometimes, all you have are bad choices.”
The sound of feet rushing around the corridor alerted them to the approach of Cisca, K’lior, H’nez, T’mar, and M’kury. Cisca entered first, something in her stance and the way she moved making it clear that the others were to wait for her.
“Tajen,” Cisca said quietly, “I grieve for your loss.”
K’lior entered, bowed to the ex-dragonrider, and repeated her words. “Tajen, I grieve for your loss.”
“Tajen,” H’nez said, his eyes downcast and tear-streaked, “I grieve for your loss.”
“He was a great dragon, you were a great pair,” T’mar said when he approached. “I grieve for your loss.”
M’kury came forward then, but even though his mouth worked, he could make no words, instead reaching out beseechingly with one hand to Tajen, who took it. M’kury grabb
ed the stricken brown rider and embraced him in a tight hug. When finally they broke apart, M’kury found the words: “I grieve for your loss.”
“And I recognize your courage for remaining behind,” H’nez added into the silence.
“It wasn’t courage—” Tajen protested. “I needed to set the right example for the weyrlings. No matter what may come: ‘Dragonmen must fly when Thread is in the sky!’ ”
He looked up at K’lior. “I don’t know what we’re going to do with the body, however.”
“I do,” Cisca replied. All eyes turned to her. She nodded to K’lior as she explained, “K’lior and I have talked about this already.”
“We’ll use slings and hoists to lift the body out of the weyr, and then dragons will bring it between,” K’lior explained.
“It’s too dark to do it tonight,” M’kury observed, idly patting the brown dragon’s body.
“No, we’ll do it first thing in the morning,” Cisca replied. She looked at Tajen. “Would you like us to keep watch with you?”
Tajen thought it over and shook his head.
“I’ll stay,” Xhinna said quietly. Fiona thought she looked surprised by her own words.
Tajen glanced at her, then said, “Thank you.”
As the others shuffled out, Fiona managed to get Xhinna aside.
“That was awfully kind of you,” Fiona said to her.
“You don’t mind, do you?” Xhinna asked.
“No, Talenth and I will be fine,” Fiona replied firmly.
“It’s just that,” Xhinna explained, “of everyone here, I might be the only one who knows how he feels right now.”
Fiona looked at her blankly.
“Outcast, alone,” Xhinna murmured as if to herself.
“You’re not alone,” Fiona declared stoutly.
Xhinna flushed, saying, “Before I met you, I mean.”
“Should I send up some blankets?” Fiona asked, glancing toward Tajen’s quarters. Xhinna smiled at her and shook her head. “I doubt I’ll sleep tonight.”
Fiona shucked off the sweater she’d put on earlier and handed it to Xhinna. “Then you’ll need this.”
Xhinna took it gratefully.
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