“Well said, young Lord of Ruatha, well said,” cried Asgenar of Lemos, and his applause started his lizard shrieking.
Larad of Telgar Hold nodded solemnly in accord.
“Humph. Shade too flip an answer for me,” Raid grumbled. “All you youngsters act before you think these days.”
“I’m certainly guilty of that, Lord Raid,” Jaxom said candidly. “But I had to act fast today—to save the life of a dragon. We’re taught to honor dragonkind, I more than most.” Jaxom gestured toward Lytol. His hand remained poised and a look of profound sorrow came over his face.
Whether Jaxom’s voice had roused him or the position of his head was too uncomfortable was debatable, but the Lord Warder of Ruatha Hold was no longer asleep. He rose, gripping the table, then pushing himself away from its support. With slow steps, as if he were forced to concentrate on each movement, Lytol walked the length of the table until he reached his ward. Lytol placed an arm lightly across Jaxom’s shoulders. As though he drew strength from that contact, he straightened and turned to Raid of Benden Hold. His expression was proud and his manner more haughty than Lord Groghe at his worst.
“Lord Jaxom of Ruatha Hold is not to blame for today’s events. As his guardian, I am responsible—if it is an offense to save a life. If I chose to stress reverence for dragonkind in his education, I had good reason!”
Lord Raid looked uneasily away from Lytol’s direct gaze.
“If” and Lytol stressed the word as though he felt the possibility was remote, “the Lords decide to act in Conclave, I shall strongly urge that no man fault Lord Jaxom’s conduct today. He acted in honor and at the promptings of his training. He best serves Pern, however, by returning to his Hold. At Ruatha, young Ruth will be cared for and honored—for as long as he is with us.”
There was no doubt that Larad and Asgenar were of Lytol’s mind. Old Sifer sat pulling at his lip, unwilling to look toward Raid.
“I still think dragonfolk belong in Weyrs!” Raid muttered, glum and resentful.
That problem apparently settled, Lessa turned to leave and nearly fell into F’nor’s arms.
He steadied her. “A weyr is where a dragon is,” he said in a low voice rippling with amusement. The strain of the past week still showed in his face but his eyes were clear and his lips no longer thin with tension. Brekke’s resolution was evidently all in his favor.
“She’s asleep,” he said. “I told you she wouldn’t Impress.”
Lessa made an impatient gesture. “At least the experience snapped her out of that shock.”
“Yes,” and there was a wealth of relief in the man’s soft affirmative.
“So, you’d better come with me to the Rooms. I want to find out why Masterfarmer Andemon has just flown in. And it’s about time you got back to work!”
F’nor chuckled. “It is, if someone else has been doing my work. Did anyone bring F’lar his Threads?” There was a note in his voice that told Lessa he was concerned.
“N’ton did!”
“I thought he was riding Wing-second to P’zar at Fort Weyr!”
“As you remarked the other morning, whenever you’re not here to keep him under control, F’lar rearranges matters.” She saw his stricken look and caught his arm, smiling up at him reassuringly; he wasn’t up to teasing yet. “No one could take your place with F’lar—or me. Canth and Brekke needed you more for a while.” She gave his hand a squeeze. “But that doesn’t mean things haven’t been happening and you’d better catch up. N’ton’s been included in our affairs because F’lar had a sudden glimpse of his mortality when he was sick and decided to stop being secretive. Or it might be another four hundred Turns or so before we control Thread.”
She gathered her skirt so she could move more rapidly over the sandy floor.
“Can I come, too?” asked the Harper.
“You? Sober enough to walk that far?”
Robinton chuckled, smoothing his rumpled hair back into place at his neck. “Lytol couldn’t drink me drunk, my dear Lady Lessa. Only the Smith has the—ah—capacity.”
There was no doubt that he was steady on his feet as the three walked toward the glow-marked entrance to the Rooms. The stars were brilliant in the soft black spring sky, and the glows on the lower levels threw bright circles of light on the sands. Above, on weyr ledges, dragons watched with gleaming opalescent eyes, occasionally humming with pleasure. High up, Lessa saw three dragon silhouettes by the Star Stones: Ramoth and Mnementh were perched to the right of the watchdragon, their wings overlapping. They were both smug tonight; she’d heard Ramoth’s tenor often that evening. It was such a relief to have her in an agreeable mood for a while. Lessa rather hoped there’d be a long interval before the queen felt the urge to mate again.
When they entered the Rooms, the spare figure of the Masterfarmer was bending over the largest of the tubs, turning the leaves of the fellis sapling. F’lar watched him with a wary expression while N’ton was grinning, unable to observe the solemnity of the moment.
As soon as F’lar caught sight of F’nor, he smiled broadly and quickly crossed the room to clasp his half-brother’s arm.
“Manora said Brekke had snapped out of shock. It’s twice a relief, believe me. I’d have been happier still if she’d brought herself to re-Impress . . .”
“That would have served no purpose,” F’nor said, so flatly contradictory that F’lar’s grin faded a little.
He recovered and drew F’nor to the tubs.
“N’ton was able to get Thread and we infected three of the big tubs,” F’lar told him, speaking in a low undertone as if he didn’t wish to disturb the Masterfarmer’s investigations. “The grubs devoured every filament. And where the Thread pierced the leaves of that fellis tree, the char marks are already healing. I’m hoping Master Andemon can tell us how or why.”
Andemon straightened his body but his lantern jaw remained sunk to his chest as he frowned at the tub. He blinked rapidly and pursed his thin lips, his heavy, thick-knuckled hands twitching slightly in the folds of a dirt-stained tunic. He had come as he was when the Weyr messenger summoned him from the fields.
“I don’t know how or why, Good Weyrleader. And if what you have told me is the truth,” he paused, finally raising his eyes to F’lar, “I am scared.”
“Why, man?” And F’lar spoke on the end of a surprised laugh. “Don’t you realize what this means? If the grubs can adapt to northern soil and climate, and perform as we—all of us here,” his gesture took in the Harper and his Wing-second as well as Lessa, “have seen them, Pern does not need to fear Thread ever again.”
Andemon took a deep breath, throwing his shoulders back, but whether resisting the revolutionary concept or preparing to espouse it was not apparent. He looked toward the Harper as if he could trust this man’s opinion above the others.
“You saw the Thread devoured by these grubs?”
The Harper nodded.
“And that was five days ago?”
The Harper confirmed this.
A shudder rippled the cloth of the Masterfarmer’s tunic. He looked down at the tubs with the reluctance of fear. Stepping forward resolutely, he peered again at the young fellis tree. Inhaling and holding that deep breath, he poised one gnarled hand for a moment before plunging it into the dirt. His eyes were closed. He brought up a moist handful of earth and, opening his eyes, turned the glob over, exposing a cluster of wriggling grubs. His eyes widened and, with an exclamation of disgust, he flung the dirt from him as if he’d been burned. The grubs writhed impotently against the stone floor.
“What’s the matter? There can’t be Thread!”