“The Smiths support Benden Weyr!” Fandarel boomed out.
“The Harpers do!” Robinton’s baritone was answered by Chad’s tenor from the sentry walk.
“The Miners!”
“The Weavers!”
“The Tanners!”
The Lord Holders began to call out their names, loudly, as if by volume they could redeem themselves. A cheer rose from the guests to fall almost instantly to a hush as F’lar turned slowly to the other Weyrleaders.
“Ista!” D’ram’s cry was a fierce, almost defiant hiss, overtaken by G’narish’s exultant “Igen” and T’bor’s enthusiastic “Southern!”
“What can we do?” cried Lord Asgenar, striding to F’lar. “Can Lemos runners and groundmen help Igen Hold now?”
F’lar lost his immobility, tightened the belt one further notch, hoping the stricture would dull the pain.
“It’s your wedding day, man. Enjoy what you can of it. D’ram, we’ll follow you. Ramoth’s already called up the Benden wings. T’bor, bring up the Southern fighters. Every man and woman who can fit on the dragons!”
He was asking for more than complete mobilization of the fighters and T’bor hesitated.
“Lessa,” for she had her arms around him now. He pushed them gently to one side. “Assist Mardra. Robinton, I need your help. Let it be known,” and he raised his voice, harsh and steely enough to be heard throughout the listening Court. “Let it be known,” and he stared down at Mardra, “that any of Fort Weyr who do not care to follow Benden’s lead must go to Southern.” He looked away before she could protest “And that applies to any craftsman, Lord Holder or commoner, as well as dragonfolk. There isn’t much Thread in Southern to worry you. And your indifference to a common menace will not endanger others.”
Lessa was trying to undo his belt He caught her hands tightly, ignoring her gasp as his grip hurt.
“Where was Thread seen?” he yelled up to the Igen rider still perched atop the Gate Wall.
“South!” The man’s response was an anguished appeal. “Across the bay from Keroon Hold. Across the water.”
“How long ago?”
“I’ll take you there and then!”
The ripple of cheering grew as it spread back, as people were reminded that the Weyrs would go between time itself and catch Thread, erasing the interval of time lost in the duel.
Dragonriders were moving toward beasts who were impatiently keening outside the walls. Wher-hide tunics were being thrust at riders in dress clothes. Firestone sacks appeared and flame throwers were issued. Dragons ducked to accept riders, hopping awkwardly out of the way, to launch themselves skyward. The Igen green hovered aloft, joined by D’ram and his Weyrwoman Fanna, waiting for Mnementh.
“You can’t come, love,” F’lar told Lessa, confused that she was following him out to Mnementh. She could handle Mardra. She’d have to. He couldn’t be everywhere at once.
“Not till you’ve had this numbweed.” She glared up at him as fiercely as Mardra had and fumbled at his belt again. “You won’t last if you don’t. And Mnementh won’t take you up until I do.”
F’lar stared at her, saw Mnementh’s great eye gleaming at him and knew she meant it.
“But—he wouldn’t—” he stammered.
“Oh, wouldn’t he?” flashed Lessa, but she had the belt loose, and he gasped as he felt the cold of the salve on the burning lips of the wound. “I can’t keep you from going. You’ve got to, I know. But I can keep you from killing yourself with such heroics.” He heard something rip, saw her tearing a sleeve from her new gown into bandage-length strips. “Well, I guess they’re right when they say green is an unlucky color. You certainly don’t get to wear it long.”
She quickly pressed the material against him, his wound already numbing. Deftly overlapping the outsized tunic, she tightened the wide belt to hold the bandage securely in place.
“Now, go. It’s shallow but long. Get the Threadfall under control and get back. I’ll do my part here.” She gave his hand a final grip and, picking up her skirts, half-ran up the ramp, as if she were too busy to watch him leave.
She’s worried. She’s proud: Let’s go.
As Mnementh wheeled smartly upward, F’lar heard the sound of music, gitars accompanying a ragged chorus. How like the Harper to have the appropriate music for this occasion, he thought
Drummer, beat, and piper, blow.
Harper, strike, and soldier, go.
Free the flame and sear the grasses
Till the dawning Red Star passes.
Odd, thought F’lar, four hours later, as he and Mnementh returned to Telgar with the wings from Igen, it was over Telgar, seven Turns ago, that the massed Weyrs flew against the second Fall of Thread.
He stifled keen regret at the recollection of that triumphant day when the six Weyrs had been solidly in accord. And yet, the duel at Telgar Hold today had been as inevitable as Lessa’s flight backward in time to bring up the Oldtimers. There was a subtle symmetry, a balance of good and bad, a fateful compensation. (His side ached. He suppressed pain and fatigue. Mnementh would catch it and then he’d catch it from Lessa. Fine thing when a man’s dragon acted nursy. But the effects of that half-kettle of numbweed Lessa’d slathered on him were wearing off.) He watched as the wings circled to land. All the riders had been bidden back to Telgar.
So many things were coming back to their starting point: from fire lizards to dragons, a circle encompassing who knows how many thousands of Turns, to the inner circle of the Old Weyrs and Benden’s resurgence.
He hoped T’ron would live; he’d enough on his conscience. Though it might be better if T’ron . . . He refused to consider that, in spite of the fact that he knew it would avoid another problem. And yet, if Thread could fall in Southern to be eaten by those grubs . . .
He wanted very much to see that distance-viewer T’ron had discovered. He groaned with a mental distress. Fandarel! How could he face him? That distance-writer had worked. It had relayed a very crucial message—faster than dragon wings! No fault of the Smith’s that his finely extruded wire could be severed by hot Thread. Undoubtedly he would overcome that flaw in an efficient way—unless he’d thrown up his hands at the idea, what with being presented with a powerful, fully operative distance-viewer to compound the day’s insults. Of all the problems undoubtedly awaiting him, he dreaded Fandarel’s reproach the most.
Below, dragonriders streamed into the Court illumined by hundreds of glow baskets, to be met and absorbed into the throng of guests. The aroma of roasted meats and succulent vegetables drifted to him on the night air, reminding him that hunger depresses any man’s spirits. He could hear laughter, shouts, music. Lord Asgenar’s wedding day would never be forgotten!
That Asgenar! Allied to Larad, a fosterling of Corman’s, he’d be of enormous assistance in executing what F’lar saw must be done among the Holder Lords.
Then he spotted the tiny figure in the gateway. Lessa! He told Mnementh to land.
About time, the bronze grumbled.
F’lar slapped his neck affectionately. The beast had known perfectly well why they’d been hovering. A man needed a few minutes to digest chaos and restore order to his thinking before he plunged into more confusions.
Mnementh agreed as he landed smoothly. He craned his neck around, his great eyes gleaming affectionately at his rider.
“Don’t worry about me, Mnementh!” F’lar murmured in gratitude and love, stroking the soft muzzle. There was a faint odor of firestone and smoke though they’d done little flaming. “Are you hungry?”
Not yet. Telgar feeds enough tonight. Mnementh launched himself toward the fire ridge above the Hold, where the perching dragons made black, regular crags against the darkening sky, their jeweled eyes gleaming down on the festal activities.
F’lar laughed aloud at Mnementh’s consideration. It was true that Lord Larad was stinting nothing, though his guest list had multiplied four-fold. Supplies had been flown in but Telgar Hold bore the brunt of
it.
Lessa approached him with such slow steps that he wondered if something else had happened. He couldn’t see her face in the shadow but as she slipped into step beside him, he realized that she’d been respecting his mood. Her hand reached up to caress his cheek, lingering on the healing Thread score. She wouldn’t let him bend to kiss her.
“Come, love, I’ve fresh clothes and bandages for you.”
“Mnementh’s been telling on me?”
She nodded, still unusually subdued for Lessa.