DRAGONRIDER by Anne McCaffrey Anne McCaffrey Editor’s note; What follows is

selfcontained and selfexplanatory. That’s obvious; how else could it have won

an award? At the same time, it is the concluding half of a larger work, part

of which appeared in Nebula Three. Therefore Karen Anderson has prepared a

synopsis of what went before. You may well prefer to skip that and go directly

on to the gorgeously colored world of dragons and their riders which Anne

McCaffrey has created for you. On the other hand, many travelers prefer to

read a guidebook before they leave home. On the world called Pern, the

human inhabitants have no tradition of Earth or of space travel. There is a

legendary vagueness about the menace of the Threads which fall when the

freakish orbit of the Red Star (a captured planet) brings it close to Pern.

Though nobles and commoners are in awe of the Dragons and the elite corps who

ride them, they are ignorant of the nature of the powers bred into both

Dragons and riders. In the Hold of Ruatha, young Lessa had for half her

life used her inborn mental powers to camouflage herself from the men of Fax,

the brigand lord who slaughtered her entire family to secure his seizure of

their Hold. She also managed, by small subtle interferences, to disrupt all

the workings of Ruatha, so that Fax had no profit from his conquest. Fax did

not know of her existence; but when the dragonrider F’lar inspected Fax’s

Holds in search of a potential Weyrwoman, he knew that someone at Ruatha had

the abilities he was looking forespecially when he realized that he had been

maneuvered into a duel with Fax. The latter dead, Lessa claimed Ruatha. But in

the fury to which she had provoked him, Fax had renounced this unprofitable

Hold in favor of his youngest son, born that night. F’lar told Lessa that the

infant’s claim must stand, but that she had the Power needed in a Weyrwoman.

She agreed to go with him to the Weyr. This had fallen very low in prestige,

due in part to the incompetence of the last Weyrwoman, Jora, now dead. The

last clutch of the dying queen-dragon Nemorth included one queen-egg; they had

been sired by Hath, and consequently his rider R’gul was Weyrleader. On

hatching, the queen-chick chose Lessa after clumsily injuring two other

candidates. At the moment their eyes met, their minds joined in joyful

rapport. Lessa and the golden dragon Ramoth would now be devoted to each other

for the rest of their lives. R’gul remained Weyrleader while Ramoth grew up,

and taught Lessa her duties. Meanwhile few Holds sent tithes and the Lords of

the others called the dragonriders parasites, the legendary Threads a lie.

After Lessa secretly encouraged raids on the herds of disaffected Holds to

make up the shortage of food, there was active revolt. But by the time troops

marched on the Weyr, the situation had drastically changed. Ramoth, now two

Turns old, was full-grown and larger even than F’lar’s bronze Mnementh. She

had made her nuptial flight, and Mnementh had claimed her. Their rapport with

the dragons brought F’lar and Lessa together with the same passion. The new

Weyrieader F’lar was quick-witted and decisive: he sent parties of

dragonriders to make hostages of the womenfolk of the rebel lords. Their Holds

were unguarded, for they had forgotten that a dragon can fly between, passing

almost instantly from one place to another. So the tithes would be paid; the

Weyr would prosper again. The Finger points At an Eye blood-red. Alert the

Weyrs To sear the Thread. “You STILL doubt, R’gul?” F’lar asked, appearing slightly amused by the older bronze rider’s perversity. R’gul, his handsome features stubbornly set, made no reply to the weyrleader’s taunt. He ground his teeth together as if he could grind away F’lar’s authority over

him. “There have been no Threads in Pern’s skies for over four hundred Turns.

Thkre are no more!” “There is always that possibility,” F’lar conceded amiably. There was not, however, the slightest trace of tolerance in his amber eyes. Nor the slightest hint of compromise in his manner. He was more like F’lon, his sire, R’gul decided, than a son had any right to be. Always so

sure of himself, always slightly contemptuous of what others did and thought.

Arrogant, that’s what F’lar was. Impertinent, too, and underhanded in the

matter of that young Weyrwoman. Why, R’gul had trained her up to be one of the

finest Weyrwomen in many Turns. Before he’d finished her instruction, she’d

known all the Teaching Ballads and Sagas letter-perfect. And then the silly

child had turned to F’lar. Didn’t have sense enough to appreciate the merits

of an older, more experienced man. Undoubtedly she felt a first obligation to

F’lar for discovering her on Search. “You do, however,” F’lar was saying,

“admit that when the sun hits the Finger Rock at the moment of dawn, winter

solstice has been reached?” “Any fool knows that’s what the Finger Rock is for,” R’gul grunted. “Then why don’t you, you old fool, admit that the Eye Rock was placed on Star Stone to bracket the Red Star when it’s about to make a Pass?” burst out K’net. R’gul flushed, half-starting out of his chair, ready to take the young sprout to task for such insolence. “K’net!” F’lar’s voice cracked authoritatively. “Do you really like flying the lgen patrol so much you want another few weeks at it?” K’net hurriedly seated himself, flushing at the reprimand and the threat. “There is, you know, R’gul,

incontrovertible evidence to support my conclusions,” F’lar went on with

deceptive mildness. ” ‘The Finger points/At an Eye blood-red …’ ” “Don’t quote me verses I taught you as a weyriing,” R’gul exclaimed heatedly. “Then have faith in what you taught,” F’lar snapped back, his amber eyes flashing dangerously. R’gul, stunned by the unexpected forcefulness, sank back into his chair. “You cannot deny, R’gul,” F’lar continued quietly, “that no less than half an hour ago the sun balanced on the Finger’s tip at dawn and the Red Star was squarely framed by the Eye Rock.” The other dragonriders, bronze as well as brown, murmured and nodded their agreement to that phenomenon. There was also an undercurrent of resentment for R’gul’s continual contest of F’lar’s policies as the new Weyrleader. Even old S’lel, once R’gul’s avowed

supporter, was following the majority. “There have been no Threads in four

hundred Turns. There are no Threads,” R’gul muttered. “Then, my fellow

dragonman,” F’lar said cheerfully, “all you have taught is falsehood. The dragons are, as the Lords of the Holds wish to believe, parasites on the

economy of Pern, anachronisms. And so are we. “Therefore, far be it from me

to hold you here against the dictates of your conscience. You have my

permission to leave the Weyr and take up residence where you will.” Someone

laughed. R’gul was too stunned by F’lar’s ultimatum to take offense at the

ridicule. Leave the Weyr? Was the man mad? Where would he go? The Weyr had

been his life. He had been bred up to it for generations. All his male

ancestors had been dragonriders. Not all bronze, true, but a decent

percentage. His own dam’s sire had been a Weyrleader just as he, R’gul, had

been until F’lar’s Mnementh had flown the new queen. But dragonmen never left

the Weyr. Well, they did if they were negligent enough to lose their dragons,

like that Lytol fellow at Ruath Hold. And how could be leave the Weyr with a

dragon? What did F’lar want of him? Was it not enough that he was Weyrleader

now in R’gul’s stead? Wasn’t F’lar’s pride sufficiently swollen by having

bluffed the Lords of Pern into disbanding their army when they were all set to

coerce the Weyr and dragonmen? Must F’lar dominate every dragonman, body and

will, too? He stared a long moment, incredulous. “I do not believe we are

parasites,” F’lar said, breaking the silence with a soft, persuasive voice.

“Nor anachronistic. There have been long Intervals before. The Red Star does

not always pass close enough to drop Threads on Pern. Which is why our

ingenious ancestors thought to position the Eye Rock and the Finger Rock as

they did … to confirm when a Pass will be made. And another thing” his

face turned grave “there have been other times when dragonkind has all but

died out … and Pern with it because of skeptics like you.” F’lar smiled

and relaxed indolently in his chair. “I prefer not to be recorded as a

skeptic. How shall we record you, R’gul?” The Council Room was tense. R’gul

was aware of someone breathing harshly and realized it was himself. He looked

at the adamant face of the young Weyrleader and knew that the threat was not

empty. He would either concede to F’lar’s authority completely, though

concession rankled deeply, or leave the Weyr. And where could he go, unless to

one of the other Weyrs, deserted for hundreds of Turns? And R’gul’s thoughts

were savage wasn’t that indication enough of the cessation of Threads? Five

empty Weyrs? No, by the Egg of Faranth, he would practice some of F’lar’s own

brand of deceit and bide his time. When all Pern turned on the arrogant fool,

he, R’gul, would be there to salvage something from the rylns. “A dragonman

stays in his Weyr,” R’gul said with what dignity he could muster. “And

accepts the policies of the current Weyrleader?” The tone of F’lar’s voice

made it less of a question and more of an order. So as not to perjure

himself, R’gul gave a curt nod of his head. Flar continued to stare at him

and, R’gul wondered if the man could read his thoughts as his dragon might. He

managed to return the gaze calmly. His turn would come. He’d wait. Apparently

accepting the capitulation, F’lar stood up and crisply delegated patrol

assignments for the day. “T’bor, you’re weather-watch. Keep an eye on those

tithing trains as you do. Have you the morning’s report?” “Weather is fair at dawning … all across Telgar and Keroon … if all too cold,” T’bor said with a wry grin. “Tithing trains have good hard roads, though, so they ought to be here soon.” His eyes twinkled with anticipation of the feasting that would follow the supplies’ arrival a mood shared by all, to judge by the expressions around the table. F’lar nodded. “S’lan and D’nol, you are to

continue an adroit Search for likely boys. They should be striplings, if

possible, but do not pass over anyone suspected of talent.It’s all well and

good to present for Impression boys reared up in the Weyr traditions.” F’lar

gave a one-sided smile. “But there are not enough in the Lower Caverns. We,

too, have been behind in begetting. Anyway, dragons reach full growth faster

than their riders. We must have more young men to Impress when Ramoth hatches.

Take the southern holds, Ista, Nerat, Fort, and South Boll where maturity

comes earlier. You can use the guise of inspecting Holds for greenery to talk

to the boys. And take along firestone and run a few flaming passes on those

heights that haven’t been scoured in-oh dragon’s years. A flaming beast

impresses the young and arouses envy.” F’lar deliberately looked at R’gul to see the ex-weyrleader’s reaction to the order. R’gul had been dead set against going outside the Weyr for more candidates. In the first place, R’gul had argued that there were eighteen youngsters in the Lower Caverns, some quite

young, to be sure, but R’gul would not admit that Ramoth would lay more than

the dozen Nemorth had always dropped. In the second place, R’gul persisted in

wanting to avoid any action that might antagonize the Lords. R’gul made no

overt protest, and F’lar went on. “K’net, back to the mines. I want the

dispositions of each firestone-dump checked and quantities available. R’gul,

continue drilling recognition points with the weyriings. They must be positive

about their references. If they’re used as messengers and suppliers, they may

be sent out quickly and with no time to ask questions. “F’nor, T’sum”F’lar turned to his own brown riders “you’re clean-up squad today.” He allowed himself a grin at their dismay. “Try Ista Weyr. Clear the Hatching Cavern and enough weyrs for a double wing. And, F’nor, don’t leave a single Record behind. They’re worth preserving. That will be all, dragonmen. Good flying.”

And with that, F’lar rose and strode from the Council Room up to the queen’s

weyr. Ramoth still slept, her hide gloaming with health, its color deepening

to a shade of gold closer to bronze, indicating her pregnancy. As he passed

her, the tip of her long tail twitched slightly. All the dragons were

restless these days, F’lar reflected. Yet when he asked Mnementh, the bronze

.dragon could give no reason. He woke, he went back to sleep. That was all.

F’lar couldn’t ask a leading question for that would defeat his purpose. He

had to remain discontented with the vague fact that the restlessness was some

kind of instinctive reaction. Lessa was not in the sleeping room, nor was she

still bathing. F’lar snorted. That girl was going to scrub her hide off with

this constant bathing. She’d had to live grimy to protect herself in Ruath

Hold, but bathing twice a day? He was beginning to wonder if this might be a

subtle Lessa-variety insult to him personally. F’lar sighed. That girl. Would

she never turn to him of her own accord? Would he ever touch that elusive

inner core of Lessa? She had more warmth for his half brother, F’nor, and for

K’net, the youngest of the bronze riders than she had for F’lar who shared her

bed. He pulled the curtain back into place, irritated. Where had she gone to

today when, for the first time in weeks, he had been able to get all the wings

out of the Weyr just so he could teach her to fly between? Ramoth would soon

be too egg-heavy for such activity. He had promised the Weyrwoman, and he

meant to keep that promise. She had taken to wearing the wherhide riding gear

as a flagrant reminder of his unfulfilled pledge. From certain remarks she had

dropped, he knew she would not wait much longer for his aid. That she would

try it on her own didn’t suit him at all. He crossed the queen’s weyr again

and peered down the passage that led to the Records Room. She was often to be

found there, poring over the musty skins. And that was one more matter that

needed urgent consideration. Those Records were deteriorating past legibility.

Curiously enough, earlier ones were still in good condition and readable.

Another technique forgotten. That girl! He brushed his thick forelock of hair

back from his brow in a gesture habitual to him when he was annoyed or

worried. The passage was dark, which meant she could not be below in the

Records Room. “Mnementh,” he called silently to his bronze dragon, sunning on the ledge outside the queen’s weyr. “What is that girl doing?” Lessa, the dragon replied, stressing the Weyrwoman’s name with pointed courtesy, is talking to Manora. She’s dressed for riding, he added after a slight pause. F’lar thanked the bronze sarcastically and strode down the passage to

the entrance. As he turned the last bend, he all but ran Lessa down. You

hadn’t asked me where she was, Mnementh plaintively answered F’lar’s

blistering reprimand. Lessa rocked back on her heels from the force of their

encounter. She glared up at him, her lips thin with displeasure, her eyes

flashing. “Why didn’t I have the opportunity of seeing the Red Star through

the Eye Rock?” she demanded in a hard, angry voice. F’lar pulled at his hair.

Lessa at her most difficult would complete the list of this morning’s

trials. “Too many to accommodate on the Peak as it was,” he muttered,

determined not to let her irritate him today. “And you already

believe.” “I’d’ve liked to see it,” she snapped and pushed past him toward the weyr. “If only in my capacity as Weyrwoman and Recorder.” He caught her arm and felt her body tense. He set his teeth, wishing, as he had a hundred times since Ramoth rose in her first mating flight, that Lessa had not been virgin, too. He had not thought to control his dragon-incited emotions, and

Lessa’s first sexual experience had been violent. It had surprised him to be

first, considering that her adolescent years had been spent drudging for

lascivious warders and soldier-types. Evidently no one had bothered to

penetrate the curtain of rags and the coat of filth she had carefully

maintained as a disguise. He had been a considerate and gentle bedmate ever

since, but, unless Ramoth and Mnementh were involved, he might as well call it

rape. Yet he knew someday, somehow, he would coax her into responding

wholeheartedly to his lovemaking. He had a certain pride in his skill, and he

was in a position to persevere. Now he took a deep breath and released her arm

slowly. “How fortunate you’re wearing riding gear. As soon as the wings have cleared out and Ramoth wakes, I shall teach you to fly between.” The gleam of excitement in her eyes was evident even in the dimly lit passageway. He heard her inhale sharply. “Can’t put it off too much longer or Ramoth’ll be in no shape to fly at all,” he continued amiably. “You mean it?” Her voice was low and breathless, its usual acid edge missing. “You will teach us today?” He wished he could see her face clearly. Once or twice he had caught an unguarded expression on her face, loving and tender. He would give much to have that look turned on him. However, he admitted wryly to himself, he ought

to be glad that melting regard was directed only at Ramoth and not at another

human. “Yes, my dear Weyrwoman, I mean it. I will teach you to fly between

today. If only,” and be bowed to her with a flourish, “to keep you from trying it yourself.” Her low chuckle informed him his taunt was

well-aimed. “Right now, however,” he said, indicating for her to lead the way back to the weyr, “I could do with some food. We were up before the kitchen.” They had entered the well-lighted weyr, so he did not miss the trenchant look she shot him over her shoulder. She would not so easily forgive

being left out of the group at the Star Stone this morning, certainly not with

the bribe of flying between. How different this inner room was now that

Lessa was Weyrwoman, F’lar mused as Lessa called down the service shaft for

food. During Jora’s incompetent tenure as Weyrwoman, the sleeping quarters

had been crowded with junk, unwashed apparel, uncleared dishes. The state of

the Weyr and the reduced number of dragons were as much Jora’s fault as

R’gul’s, for she had indirectly encouraged sloth, negligence, and gluttony. If

he, F’lar, had been just a few years older when F’lon, his father, had died .

. . Jora had been disgusting, but when dragons rose in mating flight, the

condition of your partner counted for nothing. Lessa took a tray of bread and

cheese, and mugs of the stimulating klah from the platform. She served him

deftly. “You’d not eaten, either?” he asked. She shook her head vigorously, the braid into which she had plaited her thick, fine dark hair bobbing across her shoulders. The hairdressing was too severe for her narrow face, but it did not, if that was her intention, disguise her femininity or the curious beauty

of her delicate features. Again F’lar wondered that such a slight body

contained so much shrewd intelligence and resourceful … cunning yes, that

was the word, cunning. F’lar did not make the mistake, as others had, of

underestimating her abilities. “Manora called me to witness the birth of

Kylara’s child.” F’lar maintained an expression of polite interest. He knew

perfectly well that Lessa suspected the child was his, and it could have been,

he admitted privately, but he doubted it. Kylara had been one of the ten

candidates from the same Search three years ago which had discovered Lessa.

Like others who survived Impression, Kylara had found certain aspects of Weyr

life exactly suited to her temperament. She had gone from one rider’s weyr to

another’s. She had even seduced F’lar not at all against his will, to be sure.

Now that he was Weyrleader, he found it wiser to ignore her efforts to

continue the relationship. T’bor had taken her in hand and had had his hands

full until he retired her to the Lower Caverns, well advanced in

pregnancy. Aside from having the amorous tendencies of a green dragon, Kylara

was quick and ambitious. She would make a strong Weyrwoman, so F’lar had

charged Manora and Lessa with the job of planting the notion in Kylara’s mind.

In the capacity of Weyrwoman … of another Weyr … her intense drives

would be used to Pern’s advantage. She had not learned the severe lessons of

restraint and patience that Lessa had, and she didn’t have Lessa’s devious

mind. Fortunately she was in considerable awe of Lessa, and F’lar suspected

that Lessa was subtly influencing this attitude. In Kylara’s case, F’lar

preferred not to object to Lessa’s meddling. “A fine son,” Lessa was

saying. F’lar sipped his klah. She was not going to get him to admit any

responsibility. After a long pause Lessa added, “She has named him

T’kil.” F’lar suppressed a grin at Lessa’s failure to get a rise from

him. “Discreet of her.” “Oh?” “Yes,” F’lar replied blandly. “T’lar might be confusing if she took the second half of her name as is customary. ‘Tkil, however, still indicates sire as well as dam.” “While I was waiting for Council to end,” Lessa said after clearing her throat, “Manora and I checked the supply caverns. The tithing trains, which the Holds have been so gracious as to send us” her voice was sharp “are due within the week. There will shortly be bread fit to eat,” she added, wrinkling her nose at the crumbling

gray pastry she was attempting to spread with cheese. “A nice change,” F’lar agreed. She paused. “The Red Star performed its scheduled antic?” He nodded. “And R’gul’s doubts have been wiped away in the enlightening red glow?” “Not at all.” F’lar grinned back at her, ignoring her sarcasm. “Not at all, but he will not be so vocal in his criticism.” She swallowed quickly so she could speak. “You’d do well to cut out his criticism,” she said ruthlessly, gesturing with her knife as if plunging it into a man’s heart. “He is never going to accept your authority with good grace.” “We need every bronze rider … there are only seven, you know,” he reminded her pointedly.

“R’gul’s a good wingleader. He’ll settle down when the Threads fall. He

needs proof to lay his doubts aside.” “And the Red Star in the Eye Rock is not proof?” Lessa’s expressive eyes were wide. F’lar was privately of Lessa’s opinionthat it might be wiser to remove R’gul’s stubborn contentiousness. But he could not sacrifice a wingleader, needing every dragon and rider as badly as he did. “I don’t trust him,” she added darkly. She sipped at her hot drink, her gray eyes dark over the rim of her mug. As if, F’lar mused, she

didn’t trust him, either. And she didn’t, past a certain point. She had made

that plain, and, in honesty, he couldn’t blame her. She did recognize that

every action F’lar took was toward one end … the safety and preservation

of dragonkind and weyrfolk and consequently the safety and preservation of

Pern. To effect that end, he needed her full cooperation. When Weyr business

or dragonlore were discussed, she suspended the antipathy he knew she felt for

him. In conferences she supported him wholeheartedly and persuasively, but

always he suspected the double edge to her comments and saw a speculative,

suspicious look in her eyes. He needed not only her tolerance but her

empathy. ‘Tell me,” she said after a long silence, “did the sun touch the Finger Rock before the Red Star was bracketed in the Eye Rock or

after?” “Matter of fact, I’m not sure, as I did not see it myself . The concurrence lasts only a few moments . but the two are supposed to be

simultaneous.” She frowned at him sourly. “Whom did you waste it on? R’gul?”

She was provoked, her angry eyes looked everywhere but at him. “I am

Weyrleader,” he informed her curtly. She was unreasonable. She awarded him one long, hard look before she bent to finish her meal. She ate very little,

quickly and neatly. Compared to Jora, she didn’t eat enough in the course of

an entire day to nourish a sick child. But then, there was no point in ever

comparing Lessa to Jora. He finished his own breakfast, absently piling the

mugs together on the empty tray. She rose silently and removed the

dishes. “As soon as the Weyr is free, we’ll go,” he told her. “So you said.”

She nodded toward the sleeping queen, visible through the open arch. “We

still must wait upon Ramoth.” “Isn’t she rousing? Her tail’s been twitching for an hour.” “She always does that about this time of day.” . F’lar leaned across the table, his brows drawn together thoughtfully as he watched the golden-forked tip of the queen’s tail jerk spasmodically from side to side. “Mnementh, too. And always at dawn and early morning. As if somehow

they associate that time of day with trouble …” “Or the Red Star’s rising?”

Lessa interjected. Some subtle difference in her tone caused F’lar to glance

quickly at her. It wasn’t anger now over having missed the morning’s

phenomenon. Her eyes were fixed on nothing; her face, smooth at first, was

soon wrinkled with a vaguely anxious frown as tiny lines formed between her

arching, well-defined brows. “Dawn … that’s when all warnings come,” she murmured. “What kind of warnings?” he asked with quiet encouragement. “There was that morning … a few days before … before you and Fax descended on Ruath Hold. Something woke me … a feeling, like a very heavy pressure . .

. the sensation of some terrible danger threatening.” She was silent. “The Red Star was just rising.” The fingers of her left hand opened and closed. She gave a convulsive shudder. Her eyes re-focused on him. “You and Fax did come out of the northeast from Crom,” she said sharply, ignoring the fact, F’lar noticed, that the Red Star also rises north of true east. “Indeed we did,” he grinned at her, remembering that morning vividly. “Although,” he added, gesturing around the great cavern to emphasize, “I prefer to believe I served you well that day … you remember it with displeasure?” The look she gave him was coldly inscrutable. “Danger comes in many guises.” “I agree,” he replied amiably, determined not to rise to her bait. “Had any other rude awakenings?” he inquired conversationally. The absolute stillness in the room brought his attention back to her. Her face had drained of all color. “The day Fax invaded Ruath Hold.” Her voice was a barely articulated whisper. Her eyes were wide and staring. Her hands clenched the edge of the table. She said

nothing for such a long interval that F’lar became concerned. This was an

unexpectedly violent reaction to a casual question. “Tell me,” he suggested softly. She spoke in unemotional, impersonal tones, as if she were reciting a Traditional Ballad or something that had happened to an entirely different person. “I was a child. Just eleven. I woke at dawn …” Her voice trailed off. Her eyes remained focused on nothing, staring at a scene that had

happened long ago. F’lar was stirred by an irresistible desire to comfort

her. It struck him forcibly, even as be was stirred by this unusual

compassion, that he had never thought that Lessa, of all people, would be

troubled by so old a terror. Mnementh sharply informed his rider that Lessa

was obviously bothered a good deal. Enough so that her mental anguish was

rousing Ramoth from sleep. In less accusing tones Mnementh informed F’lar that

R’gul had finally taken off with his weyriing pupils. His dragon, Hath,

however, was in a fine state of disorientation due to R’gul’s state of mind.

Must F’lar unsettle everyone in the Weyr … “Oh, be quiet,” F’lar retorted under his breath. “Why?” Lessa demanded in her normal voice. “I didn’t mean you, my dear Weyrwoman,” he assured her, smiling pleasantly, as if the entranced interlude had never occurred. “Mnementh is full of advice these days.” “Like rider, like dragon,” she replied tartly. Ramoth yawned mightily. Lessa was instantly on her feet, running to her dragon’s side, her slight figure dwarfed by the six-foot dragon head. A tender, adoring expression flooded her face as she gazed into Ramoth’s gleaming opalescent

eyes. F’lar clenched his teeth, envious, by the Egg, of a rider’s affection

for her dragon. In his mind he heard Mnementh’s dragon equivalent of

laughter. “She’s hungry,” Lessa informed F’lar, an echo of her love for Ramofh lingering in the soft line of her mouth, in the kindness of her gray

eyes. “She’s always hungry,” he observed and followed them out of the

weyr. Mnementh hovered courteously just beyond the ledge until Lessa and

Ramoth had taken off. They glided down the Weyr Bowl, over the misty bathing

lake, toward the feeding ground at the opposite end of the long oval that

comprised the floor of Benden Weyr. The striated, precipitous walls were

pierced with the black mouths of single weyr entrances, deserted at this time

of day by the few dragons who might otherwise doze on their ledges in the

wintry sun. As F’lar vaulted to Mnementh’s smooth bronze neck, he hoped that

Ramoth’s clutch would be spectacular, erasing the ignominy of the paltry dozen

Nemorth had laid in each of her last few clutches. He had no serious doubts of

the improvement after Ramoth’s remarkable mating flight with his Mnementh. The

bronze dragon smugly echoed his rider’s certainty, and both looked on the

queen possessively as she curved her wings to land. She was twice Nemorth’s

size, for one thing; her wings were half-a-wing again longer than Mnementh’s,

who was the biggest of the seven male bronzes. F’lar looked to Ramoth to

repopulate the five empty Weyrs, even as he looked to himself and Lessa to

rejuvenate the pride and faith of dragonriders and of Pern itself. He only

hoped time enough remained to him to do what was necessary. The Red Star had

been bracketed by the Eye Rock. The Threads would soon be falling. Somewhere,

in one of the other Weyrs’ Records, must be the information he needed to

ascertain when, exactly, Threads would fall. Mnementh landed. F’lar jumped

down from the curving neck to stand beside Lessa. The three watched as Ramoth,

a buck grasped in each of her forefeet, rose to a feeding ledge. “Will her

appetite never taper off?” Lessa asked with affectionate dismay. As a

dragonet, Ramoth had been eating to grow. Her full stature attained, she was,

of course, now eating for her young, and she applied herself

conscientiously. F’lar chuckled and squatted, hunter fashion. He picked up

shale-flakes, skating them across the flat dry ground, counting the dust puffs

boyishly. “The time will come when she won’t eat everything in sight,” he assured Lessa. “But she’s young …” “… and needs her strength,” Lessa interrupted, her voice a fair imitation of R’gul’s pedantic tones. P’lar looked up at her, squinting against the wintry sun that slanted down at them. “She’s a finely grown beast, especially compared to Nemorth.” He gave a contemptuous snort. “In fact, there is no comparison. However, look here,” he ordered peremptorily. He tapped the smoothed sand in front of him, and she saw that his apparently idle gestures had been to a purpose. With a

sliver of stone, he drew a design in quick strokes. “In order to fly a dragon between, he has to know where to go. And so do you.” He grinned at the astonished and infuriated look of comprehension on her face. “Ah, but there are certain consequences to an ill-considered jump. Badly visualized reference

points often result in staying between.” His voice dropped ominously. Her face cleared of its resentment. “So there are certain reference or recognition points arbitrarily taught all weyriings. “That,” he pointed first to his facsimile and then to the actual Star Stone with its Finger and Eye Rock companions, on Benden Peak “is the first recognition point a weyriing learns.

When I take you aloft, you will reach an altitude just above the Star Stone,

near enough for you to be able to see the hole in the Eye Rock clearly. Fix

that picture sharply in your mind’s eye, relay it to Ramoth. That will always

get you home.” “Understood. But how do I learn recognition points of places I’ve never seen?” He grinned up at her. “You’re drilled in them. First by your instructor,” and he pointed the sliver at his chest, “and then by going there, having directed your dragon to get the visualization from her instructor,” and he indicated Mnementh. The bronze dragon lowered his wedge-shaped head until one eye was focused on his rider and his mate’s rider.

He made a pleased noise deep in his chest. Lessa laughed up at the gleaming

eye and, with unexpected affection, patted the soft nose. F’lar cleared his

throat in surprise. He had been aware that Mnementh showed an unusual

affection for the Weyrwoman, bue he had had no idea Lessa was fond of the

bronze. Perversely, he was irritated. “However,” he said, and his voice sounded unnatural to himself, “we take the young riders constantly to and from the main reference points all across Pern, to all the Holds so that they have eyewitness impressions on which to rely. As a rider becomes adept in picking out landmarks, he gets additional references from other riders. Therefore, to

go between, there is actually only one requirement: a clear picture of where

you want to go. And a dragon!” He grinned at her. “Also, you should always plan to arrive above your reference point in clear air.” Lessa frowned. “It is better to arrive in open air”F’lar waved a hand above his head”rather than underground,” and he slapped his open hand onto the dirt. A puff of dust rose wamingly. “But the wings took off within the Bowl itself the day the Lords of the Hold arrived,” Lessa reminded him. F’lar chuckled at her uptake. “True, but only the most seasoned riders. Once we came across a dragon and a rider entombed together in solid rock. They … were … very young,” His eyes were bleak. “I take the point,” she assured him gravely. “That’s her fifth,”

she added, pointing toward Ramoth, who was carrying her latest kill up to the

bloody ledge. “She’ll work them off today, I assure you,” F’lar remarked. He rose, brushing off his knees with sharp slaps of his riding gloves. “Test her temper.” Lessa did so with a silent, Had enough? She grimaced at Ramoth’s indignant rejection of the thought. The queen went swooping down for a huge fowl, rising in a flurry of gray, brown and white feathers. “She’s not as

hungry as she’s making you think, the deceitful creature,” F’lar chuckled and saw that Lessa had reached the same conclusion. Her eyes were snapping with

vexation. “When you’ve finished the bird, Ramoth, do let us learn how to fly between,” Lessa said aloud for F’lar’s benefit, “before our good Weyrleader changes his mind.” Ramoth looked up from her gorging, turned her head toward the two riders at the edge of the feeding ground. Her eyes gleamed. She bent her head again to her kill, but Lessa could sense the dragon would obey. It was cold aloft. Lessa was glad of the fur lining in her riding gear, and the

warmth of the great golden neck which she bestrode. She decided not to think

of the absolute cold of between which she had experienced only once. She

glanced below on her right where bronze Mnementh hovered, and she caught his

amused thought. F’lar tells me to tell Ramoth to tell you to fix the alignment

of the Star Stone firmly in your mind as a homing. Then, Mnementh went on

amiably, we shall fly down to the lake.You will return from between to this

exact point. Do you understand? Lessa found herself grinning foolishly with

anticipation and nodded vigorously. How much time was saved because she could

speak directly to the dragons! Ramoth made a disgruntled noise deep in her

throat. Lessa patted her reassuringly. “Have you got the picture in your

mind, dear one?” she asked, and Ramoth again rumbled, less annoyed, because

she was catching Lessa’s excitement. Mnementh stroked the cold air with his

wings, greenish-brown in the sunlight, and curved down gracefully toward the

lake on the plateau below Benden Weyr. His flight line took him very low over

the rim of the Weyr. From Lessa’s angle, it looked like a collision course.

Ramoth followed closely in his wake. Lessa caught her breath at the sight of

the jagged boulders just below Ramoth’s wing tips. It was exhilarating, Lessa

crowed to herself, doubly stimulated by the elation that flowed back to her

from Ramoth. Mnementh halted above the farthest shore of the lake, and there,

too, Ramoth came to hover. Mnementh flashed the thought to Lessa that she was

to place the picture of where she wished to go firmly in her mind and direct

Ramoth to get there. Lessa complied. The next instant the awesome,

bone-penetrating cold of black between enveloped them. Before either she or

Ramoth were aware of more than that biting touch of cold and impregnable

darkness, they were above the Star Stone. Lessa let out a cry of pure

triumph. It is extremely simple. Ramoth seemed disappointed. Mnementh

reappeared beside and slightly below them. You are to return by the same route

to the Lake, he ordered, and before the thought had finished, Ramoth took

off. Mnementh was beside them above the lake, fuming with his own and F’lar’s

anger. You did not visualize before transferring. Don’t think a first

successful trip makes you perfect. You have no conception of the dangers

inherent in between. Never fail to picture your arrival point again. Lessa

glanced down at F’lar. Even two wingspans apart, she could see the vivid anger

on his face, almost feel the fury flashing from his eyes. And laced through

the wrath, a terrible sinking fearfulness for her safety that was a more

effective reprimand than his wrath. Lessa’s safety, she wondered bitterly, or

Ramoth’s? You are to follow us, Mnementh was saying in a calmer tone,

rehearsing in your mind the two reference points you have already learned. We

shall jump to and from them this morning, gradually learning other points

around Benden. They did. Flying as far away as Benden Hold itself, nestled

against the foothills above Benden Valley, the Weyr Peak a far point against

the noonday sky, Lessa did not neglect to visualize a clearly detailed

impression each time. This was as marvelously exciting as she had hoped it

would be, Lessa confided to Ramoth. Ramoth replied: yes, it was certainly

preferable to the time-consuming methods others had to use, but she didn’t

think it was exciting at all to jump between from Benden Weyr to Benden Hold

and back to Benden Weyr again. It was dull. They had met with Mnementh above

the Star Stone again. The bronze dragon sent Lessa the message that this was a

very satisfying initial session. They would practice some distant jumping

tomorrow. Tomorrow, thought Lessa glumly, some emergency will occur or our

hard-working Weyrleader will decide today’s session constitutes keeping his

promise and that will be that. There was one jump she could make between,

from anywhere on Pern, and not miss her mark. She visualized Ruatha for Ramoth

as seen from the heights above the Hold … to satisfy that requirement. To

be scrupulously clear, Lessa projected the pattern of the firepits. Before

Fax, invaded and she had had to manipulate its decline, Ruatha had been such a

lovely, prosperous valley. She told Ramoth to jump between. The cold was

intense and seemed to last for many heartbeats. Just as Lessa began to fear

that she had somehow lost them between, they exploded into the air above the

Hold. Elation filled her. That for F’lar and his excessive caution! With

Ramoth she could jump anywhere! For there was the distinctive pattern of

Ruatha’s fire-guttered heights. It was just before dawn, the Breast Pass

between Crom and Ruatha, black cones against the lightening gray sky.

Fleetingly she noticed the absence of the Red Star that now blazed in the dawn

sky. And fleetingly she noticed a difference in the air. Chill, yes, but not

wintry … the air held that moist coolness of early spring. Startled, she

glanced downward, wondering if she could have, for all her assurance, erred in

some fashion. But no, this was Ruath Hold. The Tower, the inner Court, the

aspect of the broad avenue leading down to the crafthold were just as they

should be. Wisps of smoke from distant chimneys indicated people were making

ready for the day. Ramoth caught the tenor of her insecurity and began to

press for an explanation. This is Ruatha, Lessa replied stoutly. It can be no

other. Circle the heights. See, there are the firepit lines I gave

you…. Lessa gasped, the coldness in her stomach freezing her

muscles. Below her in the slowly lifting predawn gloom, she saw the figures

of many men foiling over the breast of the cliff from the hills beyond Ruatha,

men moving with quiet stealth like criminals. She ordered Ramoth to keep as

still as possible in the air so as not to direct their attention upward. The

dragon was curious but obedient. Who would be attacking Ruatha? It seemed

incredible. Lytol was, after all, a former dragonman and had savagely repelled

one attack already. Could there possibly be a thought of aggression among the

Holds NOW that F’lar was Weyrleader? And what H6ld Lord would be foolish

enough to mount a territorial war in the winter? No, not winter. The air was

definitely springlike. The men crept on, over the firepits to the edge of the

heights. Suddenly Lessa realized they were lowering rope ladders over the face

of the cliff, down toward the open shutters of the Inner Hold. Wildly she

clutched at Ramoth’s neck, certain of what she saw. This was the invader Fax,

now dead nearly three Turns Fax and his men as they began their attack on

Ruatha nearly thirteen Turns ago. Yes, there was the Tower guard, his face a

white blot turned toward the Cliff itself, watching. He had been paid his

bribe to stand silent this morning. But the watchwher, trained to give alarm

for any intrusion why was it not trumpeting its warning? Why was it

silent? Because, Ramoth informed her rider with calm logic, it senses your

presence as well as mine, so how could the Hold be in danger? No, No! Lessa

moaned. What can I do now? How can I wake them? Where is the girl I was? I was

asleep, and then I woke. I remember. I dashed from my room. I was so scared. I

went down the steps and nearly fell. I knew I had to get to the watchwher’s

kennel… . I knew… . Lessa clutched at Ramoth’s neck for support as

past acts and mysteries became devastatingly clear. She herself had warned

herself, just as it was her presence on the queen dragon that had kept the

watchwher from giving alarm. For as she watched, stunned and speechless, she

saw the small, gray-robed figure that could only be herself as a youngster,

burst from the Hold Hall door, race uncertainly down the cold stone steps into

the Court, and disappear into the watchwher’s stinking den. Faintly she heard

it crying in piteous confusion. Just as Lessa-the-giri reached that doubtful

sanctuary, Fax’s invaders swooped into the open window embrasures and began

the slaughter of her sleeping family. “Back-back to the Star Stone!” Lessa cried. In her wide and staring eyes she held the image of the guiding rocks like a rudder for her sanity as well as Ramoth’s direction. The intense cold acted as a restorative. And then they were above the quiet, peaceful wintry

Weyr as if they had never paradoxically visited Ruatha. F’lar and Mnementh

were nowhere to be seen. Ramoth, however, was unshaken by the experience. She

had only gone where she had been told to go and had not quite understood that

going where she had been told to go had shocked Lessa. She suggested to her

rider that Mnementh had probably followed them to Ruatha so if Lessa would

give her the proper references, she’d take her there. Ramoth’s sensible

attitude was comforting. Lessa carefully drew for Ramoth not the child’s

memory of a long-vanished, idyllic Ruatha but her more recent recollection of

the Hold, gray, sullen, at dawning, with a Red Star pulsing on the horizon.

And there they were again, hovering over the valley, the Hold below them on

the right. The grasses grew untended on the heights, clogging firepit and

brickwork; the scene showed all the deterioration she had encouraged in her

effort to thwart Fax of any profit from conquering Ruath Hold. But, as she

watched, vaguely disturbed, she saw a figure emerge from the kitchen, saw the

watchwher creep from its lair and follow the raggedly dressed figure as far

across the Court as the chain permitted. She saw the figure ascend the Tower,

gaze first eastward, then northeastward. This was still not Ruatha of today

and now! Lessa’s mind reeled, disoriented. This time she had come back to

visit herself of three Turns ago, to see the filthy drudge plotting revenge on

Fax. She felt the absolute cold of between as Ramoth snatched them back,

emerging once more above the Star Stone. Lessa was shuddering, her eyes

frantically taking in the reassuring sight of the Weyr Bowl, hoping she had

not somehow shifted backward in time yet again. Mnementh suddenly erupted into

the air a few lengths below and beyond Ramoth. Lessa greeted him with a cry of

intense relief. Back to your weyr! There was no disguising the white fury in

Mnementh’s tone. Lessa was too unnerved to respond in any way other than

instant compliance. Ramoth glided swiftly to their ledge, quickly clearing the

perch for Mnementh to land. The rage on F’lar’s face as he leaped from

Mnementh and advanced on Lessa brought her wits back abruptly. She made no

move to evade him as he grabbed her shoulders and shook her violently. “How

dare you risk yourself and Ramoth? Why must you defy me at every opportunity?

Do you realize what would happen to all Pern if we lost Ramoth? Where did you

go?” He was spitting with anger, punctuating each question that tumbled from his lips by giving her a head-wrenching shake. “Ruatha,” she managed to say, trying to keep herself erect. She reached out to catch at his arms, but he shook her again. “Ruatha? We were there. You weren’t. Where did you go?” “Ruatha!” Lessa cried louder, clutching at him distractedly because he kept jerking her off balance. She couldn’t organize her thoughts with him jolting her around. She was at Ruatha, Mnementh said firmly. We were there twice, Ramoth added. As the dragons’ calmer words penetrated F’lar’s fury, he

stopped shaking Lessa. She hung limply in his grasp, her hands weakly plucking

at his arms, her eyes closed, her face gray. He picked her up and strode

rapidly into the queen’s weyr, the dragons following. He placed her upon the

couch, wrapping her tightly in the fur cover. He called down the service shaft

for the duty cook to send up hot klah. “All right, what happened?” he

demanded. She didn’t look at him, but he got a glimpse of her haunted eyes.

She biinked constantly as if she longed to erase what she had just

seen. Finally she got herself somewhat under control and said in a low, tired

voice. “I did go to Ruatha. Only … I went back to Ruatha.” “Back to Ruatha?” F’lar repeated the words stupidly; the significance momentarily eluded him. It certainly does, Mnementh agreed and flashed to F’lar’s mind the two scenes he had picked out of Ramoth’s memory. Staggered by the import

of the visualization, F’lar found himself slowly sinking to the edge of the

bed. “You went between times?” She nodded slowly. The terror was beginning to leave her eyes. “Between times,” F’lar murmured. “I wonder …” His mind raced through the possibilities. It might well tip the scales .of survival in the Weyr’s favor. He couldn’t think exactly how to use this extraordinary ability, but there must be an advantage in it for dragonfolk. The service

shaft rumbled. He took the pitcher from the platform and poured two

mugs. Lessa’s hands were shaking so much that she couldn’t get hers to her

lips. He steadied it for her, wondering if going between times would regularly

cause this kind of shock. If so, it wouldn’t be any advantage at all. If she’d

had enough of a scare this day, she might not be so contemptuous of bis orders

the next time; which would be to his benefit. Outside in the weyr, Mnementh

snorted his opinion on that. F’lar ignored him. Lessa was trembling violently

now. He put an arm around her, pressing the fur against her slender body. He

held the mug to her lips, forcing her to drink. He could feel the tremors ease

off. She took long, slow, deep breaths between swallows, equally determined to

get herself under control. The moment he felt her stiffen under his arm, he

released her. He wondered if Lessa had ever had someone to turn to. Certainly

not after Fax invaded her family Hold. She had been only eleven, a child. Had

hate and revenge been the only emotions the growing girl had practiced? She

lowered the mug, cradling it in her hands carefully as if it had assumed some

undefinable importance to her. “Now. Tell me,” he ordered evenly. She took a long deep breath, and began to speak, her hands tightening around the mug.

Her inner turmoil had not lessened; it was merely under control now. “Ramoth and I were bored with the weyriing exercises,” she admitted candidly. Grimly F’lar recognized that, while the adventure might have taught her to be more circumspect, it had not scared her into obedience. He doubted that anything would. “I gave her the picture of Ruatha so we could go between there.” She did not look at him, but her profile was outlined against the dark fur of the rug. “The Ruatha I knew so well 1 accidentally sent myself backward in time to the day Fax invaded.” Her shock was now comprehensible to him. “And …”

he prompted her, his voice carefully neutral. “And I saw myself” Her voice broke off. With an effort she continued. “I had visualized for Ramoth the designs of the firepits and the angle of the Hold if one looked down from the pits into the Inner Court. That was where we emerged. It was just dawn” she

lifted her chin with a nervous jerk “and there was no Red Star in the sky.”

She gave him a quick, defensive look as if she expected him to contest this

detail. “And I saw men creeping over the firepits, lowering rope ladders to

the top windows of the Hold. I saw the Tower guard watching. Just watching.”

She clenched her teeth at such treachery, and her eyes gleamed

malevolently. “And I saw myself run from the Hall into the watchwher’s lair.

And do you know why”her voice lowered to a bitter whisper”the watchwher did not alarm the Hold?” “Why?” “Because there was a dragon in the sky, and I, Lessa of Ruatha, was on her.” She flung the mug from her as if she wished she could reject the knowledge, too. “Because I was there, the watchwher did not alarm the Hold, thinking the intrusion legitimate, with one of the Blood on a dragon in the sky. So I” her body grew rigid, her hands clasped so tightly that the knuckles were white”I was the cause of my family’s massacre. Not Fax!

If I had not acted the captious fool today, I would not have been there with

Ramoth and the watchwher would” Her voice had risen to an hysterical pitch of recrimination. He slapped her sharply across the cheeks, grabbing her, robe and all, to shake her. The stunned look in her eyes and the tragedy in her face alarmed him. His indignation over her willfulness disappeared. Her unruly

independence of mind and spirit attracted him as much as her curious dark

beauty. Infuriating as her fractious ways might be, they were too vital a part

of her integrity to be exorcised. Her indomitable will had taken a grievous

shock today, and her self-confidence had better be restored quickly. “On the contrary, Lessa,” he said sternly, “Fax would still have murdered your family.

He had planned it very carefully, even to scheduling his attack on the morning

when the Tower guard was one who could be bribed. Remember, too, it was dawn

and the watchwher, being a nocturnal beast, blind by daylight, is relieved of

responsibility at dawn and knows it. Your presence, damnable as it may appear

to you, was not the deciding factor by any means. It did, and I draw your

attention to this very important fact, cause you to save yourself, by warning

Lessa-the-child. Don’t you see that?” “I could have called out,” she murmured, but the frantic look had left her eyes and there was a faint hint of normal color in her lips. “If you wish to flail around in guilt, go right ahead,” he said with deliberate callousness. Ramoth interjected a thought

that, since the two of them had been there that previous time as Fax’s men had

prepared to invade, it had already happened, so how could it be changed? The

act was inevitable both that day and today. For how else could Lessa have

lived to come to the Weyr and impress Ramoth at the hatching? Mnementh

relayed Ramoth’s message scrupulously, even to imitating Ramoth’s egocentric

nuances. F’lar looked sharply at Lessa to see the effect of Ramoth’s

astringent observation. “Just like Ramoth to have the final word,” she said with a hint of her former droll humor. F’lar felt the muscles along his neck and shoulders begin to relax. She’d be all right, he decided, but it might be wiser to make her talk it all out now, to put the whole experience into proper

perspective. “You said you were there twice?” He leaned back on the couch, watching her closely. “When was the second time?” “Can’t you guess?” she asked sarcastically. “No,” he lied. “When else but the dawn I was awakened, feeling the Red Star was a menace to me? … Three days before you and Fax came out of the northeast.” “It would seem,” he remarked dryly, “that you were your own premonition both times.” She nodded. “Have you had any more of these presentiments … or should I say reinforced warnings?” She shuddered but answered him with more of her old spirit. “No, but if I should, you go. I don’t want to.” F’lar grinned maliciously. “I would, however,” she added, “like to know why and how it could happen.” “I’ve never run across a mention of it anywhere,” he told her candidly. “Of course, if you have done it and you undeniably have,” he assured her hastily at her indignant protest, “it obviously can be done. You say you thought of Ruatha, but you thought of it as it was on that particular day. Certainly a day to be remembered. You

thought of spring, before dawn, no Red Star yes, I remember your mentioning

that so one would have to remember references peculiar to a significant day to

return to between times to the past.” She nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “You used the same method the second time, to get to the Ruatha of three Turns ago.

Again, of course, it was spring.” He rubbed his palms together, then brought his hands down on his knees with an emphatic slap and rose to his feet. “I’ll be back,” he said and strode from the room, ignoring her half-articulated cry of warning. Ramoth was curling up in the weyr as he passed her. He noticed that her color remained good in spite of the drain on her energies by the morning’s exercises. She glanced at him, her many-faceted eye already covered

by the inner, protective lid. Mnementh awaited his rider on the ledge, and

the moment F’lar leaped to his neck, took off. He circled upward, hovering

above the Star Stone. You wish to try Lessds trick, Mnementh said,

unperturbed by the prospective experiment. F’lar stroked the great curved

neck affectionately. You understand how it worked for Ramoth and Lessee? As

well as anyone can, Mnementh replied with the approximation of a shrug. When

did you have in mind? Before that moment F’lar had had no idea. Now,

unerringly, his thoughts drew him backward to the summer day R’gul’s bronze

Hath had flown to mate the grotesque Nemorth, and R’gul had become

weyrleader in place of his dead father, F’lon. Only the cold of between gave

them any indication that they had transferred; they were still hovering above

the Star Stone. F’lar wondered if they had missed some essential part of the

transfer. Then he realized that the sun was in another quarter of the sky and

the air was warm and sweet with summer. The Weyr below was empty; there were

no dragons sunning themselves on the ledges, no women busy at tasks in the

Bowl. Noises impinged on his senses: raucous laughter, yells, shrieks, and a

soft crooning noise that dominated the bedlam. Then, from the direction of

the weyriing barracks in the Lower Caverns, two figures emerged , a stripling

and a young bronze dragon. The boy’s arm lay limply along the beast’s neck.

The impression that reached the hovering observers was one of utter dejection.

The two halted by the lake, the boy peering into the unruffled blue Waters,

then glanting upward ‘toward the queen’s weyr. F’lar knew the boy for

himself, and compassion for that younger self filled him. If only he could

reassure that boy, so torn by grief, so filled with resentment, that he would

one day become weyrleader… . Abruptly, startled by his own thoughts,

he ordered Mnementh to transfer back. The utter cold of between was like a

slap in his face, replaced almost instantly as they broke out of between into

the cold of normal winter. Slowly, Mnementh flew back down to the queen’s

weyr, as sobered as F’lar by what they had seen. Rise high in

glory, Bronze and gold. Dive entwined, Enhance the Hold. Count three

months and more, And five heated weeks, A day of glory and In a month, who

seeks? A strand of silver In the sky … With heat, all quickens And all

times fly. “I don’t know why you insisted that F’nor unearth these

ridiculous things from Ista Weyr,” Lessa exclaimed in a tone of exasperation.

“They consist of nothing but trivial notes on how many measures of grain were used to bake daily bread.” F’lar glanced up at her from the Records he was studying. He sighed, leaned back in his chair in a bone-popping stretch. “And I used to think,” Lessa said with a rueful expression on her vivid, narrow face, “that those venerable Records would hold the total sum of all dragonlore and human wisdom. Or so I was led to believe,” she added pointedly. F’lar chuckled. “They do, but you have to disinter it.” Lessa wrinkled her nose.

“Phew. They smell as if we had … and the only decent thing to do would be to rebury them.” “Which is another item I’m. hoping to find … the old preservative technique that kept the skins from hardening and smelling.” “It’s stupid, anyhow, to use skins for recording. There ought to be something better. We have become, dear Weyrleader, entirely too hidebound.” While F’lar roared with appreciation of her pun, she regarded him impatiently. Suddenly she jumped up, fired by another of her mercurial

moods. “Well, you won’t find it. You won’t find the facts you’re looking for.

Because I know what you’re really after, and it isn’t recorded!” “Explain yourself.” “It’s time we stopped hiding a rather brutal truth from ourselves.” “Which is?” “Our mutual feeling that the Red Star is a menace and that the Threads will come! We decided that out of pure conceit and then went back between times to particularly crucial points in our lives and strengthened that notion, in our earlier selves. And for you, it was when you

decided you were destined” her voice made the word mocking “to become

Weyrleader one day. “Could it be,” she went on scornfully, “that our ultraconservative R’gul has the right of it? That there have been no Threads for four hundred Turns because there are no more? And that the reason we have so few dragons is because the dragons sense they are no longer essential to

Pern? That we are anachronisms as well as parasites?” F’lar did not know how long he sat looking up at her bitter face or how long it took him to find

answers to her probing questions. “Anything is possible, Weyrwoman,” he heard his voice replying calmly. “Including the unlikely fact that an eleven year old child, scared stiff, could plot revenge on her family’s murderer and against all odds succeed.” She took an involuntary step forward, struck by

his unexpected rebuttal. She listened intently. “I prefer to believe,” he went on inexorably, “that there is more to life than raising dragons and playing spring games. That is not enough for me. And I have made others look further, beyond self-interest and comfort. I have given them a purpose, a

discipline. Everyone, dragonfolk and Holder alike, profits.

I am not looking in these Records for reassurance. I’m looking for solid

facts. “I can prove, Weyrwoman, that there have been Threads. I can prove

that there have been Intervals during which the Weyrs have declined. I can

prove that if you sight the Red Star directly bracketed by the Eye Rock at the

moment of winter solstice, the Red Star will pass close enough to Pern to

throw off Threads. Since I can prove these facts, I believe Pern is in danger.

/ believe … not the youngster of fifteen Turns ago. F’lar, the bronze

rider, the Weyrleader, believes it!” He saw her eyes reflecting shadowy

doubts, but he sensed his arguments were beginning to reassure her. “You felt constrained to believe in me once before,” he went on in a milder voice, “when I suggested that you could be Weyrwoman. You believed me and …” He made a gesture around the weyr as substantiation. She gave him a weak, humorless smile. “That was because I had never planned what to do with my life once I did have Fax lying dead at my feet. Of course, being Ramoth’s Weyrmate is

wonderful, but” she frowned slightly “it isn’t enough any more, either. That’s why I wanted so to learn to fly and …” “… . that’s how this argument started in the first place,” F’lar finished for her with a sardonic smile. He leaned across the table urgently. “Believe with me, Lessa, until you have cause not to. I respect your doubts. There’s nothing wrong in doubting. It sometimes leads to greater faith. But believe with me until spring. If the

Threads have not fallen by then …” He shrugged fatalistically. She looked at him for a long moment and then inclined her head slowly in agreement. He tried to suppress the relief he felt at her decision. Lessa, as Fax had discovered, was a ruthless adversary and a canny advocate. Besides these, she

was Weyrwoman: essential to his plans. “Now, let’s get back to the

contemplation of trivia. They do tell me, you know, time, place, and duration

of Thread incursions,” he grimied up at her reassuringly. “And those facts I must have to make up my timetable.” “Timetable? But you said you didn’t know the time.” “Not the day to the second when the Threads may spin . down. For one thing, while the weather holds so unusually cold for this time of year, the Threads simply turn brittle and blow away like dust. They’re harmless.

However, when the air is warm, they are viable and … deadly.” He made

fists of both hands, placing one above and to one side of the other. “The Red Star is my right hand, my left is Pern. The Red Star tarns very fast and in

the opposite direction to us. It also wobbles erratically.” “How do you know that?” “Diagram on the walls of the Fort Weyr Hatching Ground. That was the very first Weyr, you know.” Lessa smiled sourly. “I know.” “So, when the Star makes a pass, the Threads spin off, down toward us, in attacks that last six hours and occur approximately fourteen hours apart.” “Attacks last six hours?” He nodded gravely. “When the Red Star is closest to us. Right now it is just beginning its Pass.” She frowned. He rummaged among the skin sheets on the table, and an object dropped to the stone floor with a metallic clatter. Curious, Lessa bent to pick it up, turning the thin sheet over in her

hands. “What’s this?” She ran an exploratory finger lightly across the

irregular design on one side. “I don’t know. Fnor brought it back from Fort

Weyr. It .was nailed to one of the chests in which the Records had been

stored. He brought it along, thinking it might be important. Said there was a

plate like it just under the Red Star diagram on the wall of the Hatching

Ground.” “This first part is plain enough: ‘Mother’s father’s father, who departed for all time between, said this was the key to the mystery, and it came to him while doodling: he said that he said: ARRHENIUS? EUREKA!

MYCORRHIZA… .’ Of course, that part doesn’t make any sense at all,” Lessa snorted. “It isn’t even Pernesejust babbling, those last three words.” “I’ve studied it, Lessa,” F’lar replied, glancing at it again and tipping it toward him to reaffirm his conclusions. “The only way to depart for all time between is to die, right? People just don’t fly away on their own, obviously. So it is a death vision, dutifully recorded by a grandchild, who couldn’t spell very well either. ‘Doodling’ as the present tense of dying!” He smiled

indulgently. “And as for the rest of it, after the nonsenselike most death

visions, it ‘explains’ what everyone has always known. Read on.” “

‘Flamethrowing fire lizards to wipe out the spores. Q.E.D.’?” “No help there, either. Obviously just a primitive rejoicing that he is a dragonman,

who didn’t even know the right word for Threads.” F’lar’s shrug was

expressive. Lessa wet one fingertip to see if the patterns were inked on. The

metal was shiny enough for a good mirror if she could get rid of the designs.

However, the patterns remained smooth and precise. “Primitive or no, they had a more permanent way of recording their visions that is superior to even the well-preserved skins,” she murmured. “Well-preserved babblings,” F’lar said, turning back to the skins he was checking for understandable data. “A badly scored ballad?” Lessa wondered and then dismissed the whole thing. “The design isn’t even pretty.” F’lar pulled forward a chart that showed overlapping horizontal bands imposed on the projection of Pern’s continental mass. “Here,” he said, “this represents waves of attack, and this one” he pulled forward the second map with vertical bandings “shows time zones. So you can see that with a fourteen-hour break only certain parts of Pern are affected in each attack. One reason for spacing of the Weyrs.” “Six full Weyrs,” she murmured, “close to three thousand dragons.” “I’m aware of the statistics,” he replied in a voice devoid of expression. “It meant no one Weyr was overburdened during the height of the attacks, not that three thousand beasts must be available. However, with these timetables, we can manage until Ramoth’s first clutches have matured.” She turned a cynical look on him.

“You’ve a lot of faith in one queen’s capacity.” He waved that remark aside impatiently. “I’ve more faith, no matter what your opinion is, in the startling repetitions of events in these Records.” “Ha!” “I don’t mean how many measures for daily bread, Lessa,” he retorted, his voice rising. “I mean such things as the time such and such a wing was sent out on patrol, how long the patrol lasted, how many riders were hurt. The brooding capacities of queens, during the fifty years a Pass lasts and the Intervals between such

Passes. Yes, it tells that. By all I’ve studied here,” and he pounded

emphatically on the nearest stack of dusty, smelly skins, “Nemorth should

have been mating twice a Turn for the last ten. Had she even kept to her

paltry twelve a clutch, we’d have two hundred and forty more beasts… .

Don’t interrupt. But we had Jora as weyrleader, and we had fallen into

planet-wide disfavor during a four hundred Turn Interval. Well, Ramoth will

brood over no measly dozen, and she’ll lay a queen egg, mark my words. She

will rise often to mate and lay generously. By the time the Red Star is

passing closest to us and the attacks become frequent, we’ll be ready.” She

stared at him, her eyes wide with incredulity. “Out of Ramoth?” “Out of Ramoth and out of the queens she’ll lay. Remember, there are Records of Faranth laying sixty eggs at a time, including several queen eggs.” Lessa could only shake her head slowly in wonder. ” ‘A strand of silver/in the sky.

… With heat, all quickens/And all times fly,’ ” F’lar quoted to

her. “She’s got weeks more to go before laying, and then the eggs must hatch

…” “Been on the Hatching Ground recently? Wear your boots. You’ll be burned through sandals.” She dismissed that with a guttural noise. He sat back, outwardly amused by her disbelief. “And then you have to make Impression and wait till the riders” she went on. “Why do you think I’ve insisted on older boys? The dragons are mature long before their

riders.” “Then the system is faulty.” He narrowed his eyes slightly, shaking the stylus at her. “Dragon tradition started out as a guide … but there comes a time when man becomes too traditional, toowhat was it you said?too hidebound? Yes, it’s traditional to use the weyrbred, because it’s been

convenient. And because this sensitivity to dragons strengthens where both

sire and dam are weyrbred. That doesn’t mean weyrbred is best. You, for

example…” “There’s Weyrblood in the Ruathan line,” she said

proudly. “Granted. Take young Naton; he’s craftbred from Nabol, yet F’nor

tells me he can make Canth understand him.” “Oh, that’s not hard to do,” she interjected. “What do you mean?” F’lar jumped on her statement. They were both interrupted by a highpitched, penetrating whine. F’lar listened intently for a moment and then shrugged, grinnieg. “Some green’s getting herself chased again.” “And that’s another item these so-called all-knowing Records of yours never mention. Why is it that only the gold dragon can

reproduce?” F’lar did not suppress a lascivious chuckle. “Well, for one thing, firestone inhibits reproduction. If they never chewed stone, a green could lay, but at best they produce small beasts, and we need big ones. And, for another thing”his chuckle rolled out as he went on deliberately, grinning mischievously”if the greens could reproduce, considering their amorousness and the numbers we have of them, we’d be up to our ears in dragons in next to no time.” The first whine was joined by another, and then a low hum throbbed as if carried by the stones of the Weyr itself. F’lar, his face changing rapidly from surprise to triumphant astonishment, dashed up the passage. “What’s the matter?” Lessa demanded, picking up her skirts to run after him. “What does that mean?” The hum, resonating everywhere, was deafening in the echo-chamber of the queen’s weyr. Lessa registered the fact that Ramoth was gone. She heard Flar’s boots pounding down the passage to the ledge, a sharp to-ta-tat over the ket-tiedrum booming hum. The whine was so highpitched now that it was

inaudible, but still nerveracking. Disturbed, frightened, Lessa followed

F’lar out. By the time she reached the ledge, the Bowl was a-whir with

dragons on the wing, making for the high entrance to the Hatching Ground.

Weyrfolk, riders, women, children, all screaming with excitement, were pouring

across the Bowl to the lower entrance to the Ground. She caught sight of

F’lar, charging across to the entrance, and she shrieked at him to wait. He

couldn’t have heard her across the bedlam. Fuming because she had the long

stairs to descend, then must double back as the stairs faced the feeding

grounds at the opposite end of the Bowl from the Hatching Ground, Lessa

realized that she, the Weyrwoman, would be the last one there. Why had Ramoth

decided to be secretive about laying? Wasn’t she close enough to her own

weyrmate to want her with her? A dragon knows what to do, Ramoth calmly

informed her. You could have told me, Lessa wailed, feeling much

abused. Why, at the time F’lar had been going on largely about huge clutches

and three thousand beasts, that infuriating dragon-child had been doing it!

It didn’t improve Lessa’s temper to have to recall another remark of F’lar’s

on the state of the Hatching Grounds. The moment she stepped into the

mountain-high cavern, she felt the heat through the soles of her sandals.

Everyone was crowded in a loose circle around the far end of the cavern. And

everyone was swaying from foot to foot. As Lessa was short to begin with, this

only decreased the likelihood of her ever seeing what Ramoth had done. “Let

me through!” she demanded imperiously, pounding on the wide backs of two tall riders. An aisle was reluctantly opened for her, and she went through, looking neither to her right or left at the excited weyrfolk. She was furious, confused, hurt, and knew she looked ridiculous because the hot sand made her

walk with a curious mincing quickstep. She halted, stunned and wide-eyed at

the mass of eggs, and forgot such trivial things as hot feet. Ramoth was

curled around the clutch, looking enormously pleased with herself. She, too,

kept shifting, closing and opening a protective wing over her eggs, so that it

was difficult to count them. No one will steal them, silly, so stop

fluttering, Lessa advised as she tried to make a tally. Obediently Ramoth

folded her wings. To relieve her maternal anxiety, however, she snaked her

head out across the circle of mottled, glowing eggs, looking all around the

cavern, flicking her forked tongue in and out. An immense sigh, like a gust

of wind, swept through the cavern. For there, now that Ramoth’s wings were

furled, gleamed an egg of glowing gold among the mottled ones. A queen

egg! “A queen egg!” The cry went up simultaneously from half a hundred

throats. The Hatching Ground rang with cheers, yells, screams, and howls of

exultation. Someone seized Lessa and swung her around in an excess of feeling.

A kiss landed in the vicinity of her mouth. No sooner did she recover her

footing than she was bugged by someone else she thought it was Manora, and

then pounded and buffeted around in congratulation until she was reeling in a

kind of dance between avoiding the celebrants and easing the growing

discomfort of her feet. She broke from the milling revelers and ran across the

Ground to Ramoth. Lessa came to a sudden stop before the eggs. They seemed to

be pulsing. The shells looked flaccid. She could have sworn they were hard

the day she Impressed Ramoth. She wanted to touch one, just to make sure, but

dared not. You may, Ramoth assured her condescendingly. She touched Lessa’s

shoulder gently with her tongue. The egg was soft to touch and Lessa drew her

hand back quickly, afraid of doing injury. The heat will harden it, Ramoth

said. “Ramoth, I’m so proud of you,” Lessa sighed, looking adoringly up at the great eyes that shone in rainbows of pride. “You are the most marvelous queen ever. I do believe you will redragon all the Weyrs. I do believe you will.” Ramoth inclined her head regally, then began to sway it from side to

side over the eggs, protectingly. She began to hiss suddenly, raising from her

crouch, beating the air with her wings, before settling back into the sands to

lay yet another egg. The weyrfolk, uncomfortable on the hot sands, were

beginning to leave the Hatching Ground now that they had paid tribute to the

arrival of the golden egg. A queen took several days to complete her clutch so

there was no point to waiting. Seven eggs already lay beside the important

golden one, and if there were seven already, this augured well for the

eventual total. Wagers were being made and taken even as Ramoth produced her

ninth mottled egg. “Just as I predicted, a queen egg, by the mother of us

all,” F’lar’s voice said in Lessa’s ear. “And I’ll wager there’ll be ten bronzes at least.” She looked up at him, completely in harmony with the Weyrleader at this moment. She was conscious now of Mnementh, crouching proudly on a ledge, gazing fondly at his mate. Impulsively Lessa laid her hand

on F’lar’s arm. “F’lar, I do believe you.” “Only now?” F’lar teased her, but his smile was wide and his eyes proud. Weyrman, watch; Weyrman, learn S omething new i n every Turn. Oldest may be coldest, too. Sense the right; find the true! IF F’LAR’S orders over the next months caused no end

of discussion and muttering among the weyrfolk, they seemed to Lessa to be

only the logical outcomes of their discussion after Ramoth had finished laying

her gratifying total of forty-one eggs. F’lar discarded tradition right and

left, treading on more than R’gul’s conservative toes. Out of perverse

distaste for outworn doctrines against which she herself had chafed during

R’gul’s leadership, and out of respect for F’lar’s intelligence, Lessa backed

him completely. She might not have respected her earlier promise to him that

she would believe him until spring if she had not seen his predictions come

true, one after another. These were based, however, not on the premonitions

she no longer trusted after her experience between times, but on recorded

facts. As soon as the eggshells hardened and Ramoth had rolled her special

queen egg to one side of the mottled clutch for attentive brooding, F’lar

brought the prospective riders into the Hatching Ground. Traditionally the

candidates saw the eggs for the first time on the day of Impression. To this

precedent F’lar added others: very few of the sixty-odd were weyrbred, and

most of them were in their late teens. The candidates were to get used to the

eggs, touch them, caress them, be comfortable with the notion that out of

these eggs young dragons would hatch, eager and waiting to be Impressed. F’lar

felt that such a practice might cut down on casualties during Impression when

the boys were simply too seared to move out of the way of the awkward

dragonets. F’lar also had Lessa persuade Ramoth to let Kylara near her

precious golden egg. Kylara readily enough weaned her son and spent hours,

with Lessa acting as her tutor, beside the golden egg. Despite Kylara’s loose

attachment to T’bor, she showed an open preference for F’lar’s company.

Therefore, Lessa took great pains to foster F’lar’s plan for Kylara since it

meant her removal, with the new-hatched queen, to Fort Weyr. F’lar’s use of

the Hold-born as riders served an additional purpose. Shortly before the

actual Hatching and Impression, Lytol, the Warder appointed at Ruath Hold,

sent another message. ‘The man positively delights in sending bad news,”

Lessa remarked as F’lar passed the message skin to her. “He’s gloomy,” F’nor agreed. He had brought the message. “I feel sorry for that youngster cooped up with such a pessimist.” Lessa frowned at the brown rider. She still found distasteful any mention of Gemma’s son, now Lord of her ancestral Hold. Yet .

. . as she had inadvertently caused his mother’s death and she could not be

Weyrwoman and Lady Holder at the same time, it was fitting that Gemma’s Jaxom

be Lord at Ruatha. “I, however,” F’lar said, “am grateful for his warnings. I suspected Meron would cause trouble again.” “He has shifty eyes, like Fax’s,”

Lessa remarked. “Shifty-eyed or not, he’s dangerous,” F’lar answered. “And I cannot have him spreading rumors that we are deliberately choosing men of the Blood to weaken Family Lines.” “There are more craftsmen’s sons than Holders’

boys, in any case,” F’nor snorted. “I don’t like him questioning that the Threads have not appeared,” Lessa said gloomily. F’lar shrugged. “They’ll appear in due time. Be thankful the weather has continued cold. When the weather warms up and still no Threads appear, then I will worry.” He grinned at Lessa in an intimate reminder of her promise. F’nor cleared his throat

hastily and looked away. “However,” the weyrleader went on briskly, “I can do something about the other accusation.” So, when it was apparent that the eggs were about to hatch, he broke another long-standing tradition and sent riders to fetch the fathers of the young candidates from craft and Hold. The great Hatching Cavern gave the appearance of being almost full as Holder and

Weyrfolk watched from the tiers above the heated Ground. This time, Lessa

observed, there was no aura of fear. The youthful candidates were tense, yes,

but not frightened out of their wits by the rocking, shattering eggs. When the

ill-coordinated dragonets awkwardly stumbled it seemed to Lessa that they

deliberately looked around at the eager faces as though pre-impressed. The

youths either stepped to one side or eagerly advanced as a crooning dragonet

made his choice. The Impressions were made quickly and with no accidents. All

too soon, Lessa thought, the triumphant procession of stumbling dragons and

proud new riders moved erratically out of the Hatching Ground to the

barracks. The young queen burst from her shell and moved unerringly for

Kylara, standing confidently on the hot sands. The watching beasts hummed

their approval. “It was over too soon,” Lessa said in a disappointed voice that evening to F’lar. He laughed indulgently, allowing himself a rare

evening of relaxation now that another step had gone as planned. The Holder

folk had been ridden home, stunned, dazed, and themselves impressed by the

Weyr and the weyrleader. “That’s because you were watching this time,” he remarked, brushing a lock of her hair back. It obscured his view of her

profile. He chuckled again. “You’ll notice Naton…” “N’ton,” she corrected him. “All right, N’ton Impressed a bronze,” “Just as you predicted,” she said with some asperity. “And Kylara is Weyrwoman for Pridith.” Lessa did not comment on that, and she did her best to ignore his laughter. “I wonder which bronze will fly her,” he murmured softly. “It had better be T’bor’s Orth,”

Lessa said, bridling. He answered her the only way a wise man could. Crack

dust, blackdust, Turn in freezing air. Waste dust, spacedust, From Red Star

bare. LBSSA WOKE abruptly, her head aching, her eyes blurred, her mouth dry

She had the immediate memory of a terrible nightmare that, just as quickly,

escaped recall. She brushed her hair out of her face and was surprised to find

that she had been sweating heavily. “F’lar?” she called in an uncertain voice. He had evidently risen early. “F’lar,” she called again, louder. He’s coming, Mnementh informed her. Lessa sensed that the dragon was just landing on the ledge. She touched Ramoth and found that the queen, too, had been bothered by formless, frightening dreams. The dragon roused briefly and then

fell back into deeper sleep. Disturbed by her vague fears, Lessa rose and

dressed, foregoing a bath for the first time since she had arrived at the

Weyr: She called down the shaft for breakfast, then plaited her hair with

deft fingers as she waited. The tray appeared on the shaft platform just as

F’lar entered. He kept looking back over his shoulder at Ramoth. “What’s

gotten into her?” “Echoing my nightmare. I woke in a cold sweat.” “You were sleeping quietly enough when I left to assign patrols. You know, at the rate those dragonets are growing, they’re already capable of limited flight. All they do is eat and sleep, and that’s …” “… what makes a dragon grow,”

Lessa finished for him and sipped thoughtfully at her steaming hot klah. “You are going to be extra-careful about their drill procedures, aren’t you?” “You mean to prevent an inadvertent flight between times? I certainly am,” he assured her. “I don’t want bored dragonriders irresponsibly popping in and out.” He gave her a long, stern look. “Well, it wasn’t, my fault no one taught me to fly early enough,” she replied in the sweet tone she used when she was being especially malicious. “If I’d been drilled from the day of Impression to the day of my first flight, I’d never have discovered that

trick.” “True enough,” he said solemnly. “You know, F’lar, if I discovered it, someone else must have, and someone else may. If they haven’t already.” F’lar drank, making a face as the klah scalded his tongue. “I don’t know how to find out discreetly. We would be foolish to think we were the first. It is, after all, an inherent ability in dragons, or you would never have been able to do it.” She frowned, took a quick breath, and then

let it go, shrugging. “Go on,” he encouraged her. “Well, isn’t it possible that our conviction about the imminence of the Threads could stem from one of us coming back when the Threads are actually falling? I mean …” “My dear girl, we have both analyzed every stray thought and actioneven your dream this morning upset you, although it was no doubt due to all the wine you drank last nightuntil we wouldn’t know an honest presentiment if it walked up and slapped

us in the face.” “I can’t dismiss the thought that this between times ability is of crucial value,” she said emphatically. “That, my dear Weyrwoman, is an honest presentiment.” “But why?” “Not why,” he corrected her cryptically.

“When.” An idea stirred vaguely in the back of his mind. He tried to nudge it out where he could mull it over. Mnementh announced that F’nor was entering the weyr. “What’s the matter with you?” F’lar demanded of his half brother, for F’nor was choking and sputtering, his face red with the paroxysm. “Dust .

. .” he coughed, slapping at his sleeves and chest with his riding gloves.

“Plenty of dust, but no Threads,” he said, describing a wide arc with one arm as he fluttered his fingers suggestively. He brushed his tight wherhide pants, scowling as a fine black dust drifted off. F’lar felt every muscle in his body tense as he watched the dust float to the floor. “Where did you get so

dusty?” he demanded. F’nor regarded him with mild surprise. “Weather patrol in Tiliek. Entire north has been plagued with dust storms lately. But what I came in for …” He broke off, alarmed by F’lar’s taut immobility. “What’s the matter with dust?” he asked in a baffled voice. F’lar pivoted on his heel and raced for the stairs to the Record Room. Lessa was right behind him, F’nor belatedly trailing after. “Tiliek, you said?” F’lar barked at his wingsecond.

He was clearing the table of stacks for the four charts he then laid out. “How long have these storms been going on? Why didn’t you report them?” “Report dust storms? You wanted to know about warm air masses.” “How long have these storms been going on?” F’lar’s voice crackled. “Close to a week.” “How close?” “Six days ago the first storm was noticed in upper Tiliek. They have been reported in Bitra, Upper Telgar, Crom, and the High Reaches,” F’nor reported tersely. He glanced hopefully at Lessa but saw she, too, was staring at the four unusual charts. He tried to see why the horizontal and vertical

strips had been superimposed on Pern’s land mass, but the reason was beyond

him. F’lar was making hurried notations, pushing first one map and then

another away from him. “Too involved to think straight, to see clearly, to

understand,” the Weyrleader snarled to himself, throwing down the stylus

angrily. “You did say only warm air masses,” F’nor heard himself saying humbly, aware that he had somehow failed his Weyreeader. F’lar shook his head impatiently. “Not your fault, F’nor. Mine. I should have asked. I knew it was good luck that the weather held so cold.” He put both hands on F’nor’s shoulders, looking directly into his eyes.“‘The Threads have been falling,” he announced gravely. “Falling into the cold air, freezing into bits to drift on the wind” F’lar imitated F’nor’s finger-fluttering”as specks of black dust.” ” ‘Crack dust, blackdust,’ ” Lessa quoted. “In ‘The Ballad of Moreta’s Ride,’ the chorus is all about black dust.” “I don’t need to be reminded of Moreta right now,” F’lar growled, bending to the maps. “She could talk to any dragon in the Weyrs.” “But I can do that!” Lessa protested. Slowly, as if he didn’t quite credit his ears, F’lar turned back to Lessa. “What did you just say?” “I said I can talk to any dragon in the Weyr.” Still staring at her, blinking in utter astonishment, F’lar sank down to the table top. “How long,” he managed to say, “have you had this particular skill?” Something in his tone, in his manner, caused Lessa to flush and stammer like an erring weyrling. “I … I always could. Beginning with the watchwher at Ruatha.”

She gestured indecisively in Ruatha’s westerly direction. “And I talked to

Mnementh at Ruatha. And … when I got here, I could …” Her voice

faltered at the accusing look in F’lar’s cold, hard eyes. Accusing and, worse,

contemptuous. “I thought you had agreed to help me, to believe in me.” “I’m truly sorry, F’lar. It never occurred to me it was of any use to anyone, but .

. .” F’lar exploded onto both feet, his eyes blazing with aggravation. “The one thing I could not figure out was how to direct the wings and keep in contact with the Weyr during an attack, how I was going to get reinforcements and firestone in time. And you … you have been sitting there, spitefully

hiding the …” “I am NOT spiteful,” she screamed at him. “I said I was sorry. I am. But you’ve a nasty, smug habit of keeping your own council. How was I to know you didn’t have the same trick? You’re Flar, the Weyrleader, you can do anything. Only you’re just as bad as R’gul because you never tell me

half the things I ought to know …” F’lar reached out and shook her until her angry voice was stopped. “Enough. We can’t waste time arguing like children.” Then his eyes widened, his jaw dropped. “Waste time? That’s it.” “Go between times?” Lessa gasped. “Between times!” F’nor was totally confused. “What are you two talking about?” “The Threads started falling at dawn in Nerat,” F’lar said, his eyes bright, his manner decisive. F’nor could feel his guts congealing with apprehension. At dawn in Nerat? Why, the rainforests would be demolished. He could feel a surge of adrenalin charging through his body at the thought of danger. “So we’re going back there,

between times, and be there when the Threads started falling, two hours ago.

F’nor, the dragons can go not only where we direct them but when.” “Where?

When?” F’nor repeated, bewildered. “That could be dangerous.” “Yes, but today it will save Nerat. Now, Lessa,” and Flar gave her another shake, compounded of pride and affection, “order out all the dragons, young, old, any that can fly. Tell them to load themselves down with firestone sacks. I don’t know if

you can talk across time …” “My dream this morning …” “Perhaps. But right now rouse the Weyr.” He pivoted to F’nor. “If Threads are falling …

were falling … at Nerat at dawn, they’ll be falling on Keroon and Ista

right now, because they are in that time pattern. Take two wings to Keroon.

Arouse the plains. Get them to start the firepits blazing. Take some weyrlings

with you and send them on to lgen and Ista. Those Holds are not in as

immediate danger as Keroon. I’ll reinforce you as soon as I can. And …

keep Canth in touch with Lessa.” F’lar clapped his brother on the shoulder

and sent him off. The brown rider was too used to taking orders to

argue. “Mnementh says R’gul is duty officer and R’gul wants to know …”

Lessa began. “C’mon, girl,” F’lar said, his eyes brilliant with

excitement. He grabbed up his maps and propelled her up the stairs.They

arrived in the weyr just as R’gul entered with T’sum. R’gul was muttering

about this unusual summons. “Hath told me to report,” he complained. “Fine thing when your own dragon …” “R’gul, T’sum, mount your wings. Arm them with all the firestone they can carry, and assemble above Star Stone. I’ll join you in a few minutes. We go to Nerat at dawn.” “Nerat? I’m watch officer, not patrol …” “This is no patrol,” F’lar cut him off. “But, sir,” T’sum interrupted, his eyes wide. “Nerat’s dawn was two hours ago, the same as ours.” “And that is when we are going to, brown rider. The dragons, we have discovered, can go between places temporally as well as geographically. At dawn Threads fell at Nerat. We’re going back, between time, to sear them from the sky.” F’lar paid no attention to R’gul’s stammered demand for explanation. T’sum, however, grabbed up firestone sacks and raced back to the ledge and his waiting Munth. “Go on, you old fool,” Lessa told R’gul irascibly. “The Threads are here. You were wrong. Now be a dragonman! Or go between and stay there!” Ramoth, awakened by the alarms,

poked at R’gul with her man-sized head, and the ex-weyrleader came out of his

momentary shock. Without a word he followed T’sum down the passageway. F’lar

had thrown on his heavy wherhide tunic and shoved n his riding

boots. “Lessa, be sure to send messages to all the Holds. Now, this attack

will stop about four hours from now. So the farthest west it can reach will

be Ista. But I want every Hold and craft warned.” She nodded, her eyes intent on his face lest she miss a word. “Fortunately, the Star is just beginning its Pass, so we won’t have to worry about another attack for a few days. I’ll figure out the next one when I get back. Now, get Manora to organize her

women. We’ll need pails of ointment. The dragons are going to be laced, and

that hurts. Most important, if something goes wrong, you’ll have to wait till

a bronze is at least a year old to fly Ramoth …” “No one’s flying Ramoth but Mnementh,” she cried, her eyes sparkling fiercely. F’lar crushed her against him, his mouth bruising hers as if all her sweetness and strength must come with him. He released her so abruptly that she staggered back against

Ramoth’s lowered head. She clung for a moment to her dragon, as much for

support as for reassurance. That is, if Mnementh can catch me, Ramoth amended

smugly. Wheel and turn Or bleed and bum. Fly between, Blue and

green. Soar, dive down, Bronze and brown Dragonmen must fly When Threads

are in the sky. As F’LAR raced down the passageway to the ledge, fire—

sacks bumping against his thighs, he was suddenly grateful for the tedious

sweeping patrols over every Hold and hollow of Pern. He could see Nerat

clearly in his mind’s eye. He could see the many-petaled vineflowers which

were the distinguishing feature of the rainforests at this time of

year. Their ivory blossoms would be glowing in the first beams of sunlight

like dragon eyes among the tall, wide-leaved plants. Mnementh, his eyes

flashing with excitement, hovered skittishly over the ledge. F’lar vaulted to

the bronze neck. The Weyr was seething with wings of all colors, noisy with

shouts and countercommands. The atmosphere was electric, but F’lar could sense

no panic in that ordered confusion. Dragon and human bodies oozed out of

openings around the Bowl walls. Women scurried across the floor from one Lower

Cavern to another. The children playing by the lake were sent to gather wood

for a fire. The weyriings, supervised by old C’gan, were’ forming outside

their barracks. F’lar looked up to the Peak and approved the tight formation

of the wings assembled there in close flying order. Another wing formed up as

he watched. He recognized brown Canth, F’nor on his neck, just as the entire

wing vanished. He ordered Mnementh aloft. The wind was cold and carried a

hint of moisture. A late snow? This was the time for it, if ever. R’gul’s

wing and T’bor’s fanned out on his left, T’sum and D’nol on his right. He

noted each dragon was well-laden with sacks. Then he gave Mnementh the

visualization of the early spring rainforest in Nerat, just before dawn, the

vineflowers gleaming, the sea breaking against the rocks of the High

Shoal…. He felt the searing cold of between. And he felt a stab of doubt.

Was he injudicious, sending them all possibly to their deaths between times in

this effort to outtime the Threads at Nerat? Then they were all there, in the

crepuscular light that promises day. The lush, fruity smells of the rainforest

drifted up to them. Warm, too, and that was frightening. He looked up and

slightly to the north. Pulsing with menace, the Red Star shone down. The men

had realized what had happened, their voices raised in astonishment. Mnementh

told F’lar that the dragons were mildly surprised at their riders’

fuss. “Listen to me, dragonriders,” F’lar called, his voice harsh and

distorted in an effort to be heard by all. He waited till the men had moved as

close as possible. He told Mnementh to pass the information on. to each

dragon. Then he explained what they had done and why. No one spoke, but there

were many nervous looks exchanged across bright wings. Crisply he ordered the

dragonriders to fan out in a staggered formation, keeping a distance of five

wings spread up or down. The sun came up. Slanting across the sea, like

an ever-thickening mist, Threads were falling, silent, beautiful,

treacherous. Silvery gray were those space-transversing spores, spinning from

hard frozen ovals into coarse filaments as they penetrated the warm

atmospheric envelope of Pern. Less than mindless; they had been ejected from

their barren planet toward Pern, a hideous rain that sought organic matter to

nourish it into growth. One Thread, sinking into fertile soil, would burrow

deep, propagating thousands in the warm earth, rendering it into a

blackdusted wasteland. The southern continent of Pern had already been sucked

dry. The true parasites of Pern were Threads. A stifled roar from the throats

of eighty men and dragons broke the dawn air above Nerat’s green heightsas if

the Threads might hear this challenge, F’lar mused. As one, dragons swiveled

their wedge-shaped heads to their riders for firestone. Great jaws macerated

the hunks. The fragments were swallowed and more firestone was demanded.

Inside the beasts, acids churned and the poisonous phosphines were readied.

When the dragons belched forth the gas, it would ignite in the air into

ravening flame to sear the Threads from the sky. And bum them from the

soil. Dragon instinct took over the moment the Threads began to fall above

Nerat’s shores. As much admiration as F’lar had always held for his bronze

companion, it achieved newer heights in the next hours. Beat ing the air in

great strokes, Mnementh soared with flaming breath to meet the down-rushing

menace. The fumes, swept back by the wind, choked F’lar until he thought to

crouch low on the lee side of the bronze neck. The dragon squealed as a Thread

flicked the tip of one wing. Instantly F’lar and he ducked into between, cold,

calm, black. The frozen Thread cracked off. In the flicker of an eye, they

were back to face the reality of Threads. Around him F’lar saw dragons

winking in and out of between, flaming as they returned, diving, soaring. As

the attack continued and they drifted across Nerat, F’lar began to recognize

the pattern in the dragons’ instinctive evasion-attack movements. And in the

Threads. For, contrary to what he had gathered from his study of the Records,

the Threads fell in patches. Not as rain will, in steady unbroken sheets, but

like flurries of snow, here, above, there, whipped to one side suddenly. Never

fluidly, despite the continuity their name implied. You could see a patch

above you. Flaming, your dragon would rise. You’d have the intense joy of

seeing the clump shrivel from bottom to top. Sometimes, a patch would fall

between riders. One dragon would signal he would follow and, spouting flame,

would dive and sear. Gradually thedragonriders worked their way over the

rainforests, so densely, so invitingly green. F’lar refused to dwell on what

just one live Thread burrow would do to that lush land. He would send back a

low-flying patrol to quarter every foot. One Thread, just one Thread, could

put out the ivory eyes of every luminous vineflower. A dragon screamed

somewhere to his left. Before he could identify the beast, it had ducked

between. F’lar heard other cries of pain, from men as well as dragons. He shut

his ears and concentrated, as dragons did, on the here-and-now. Would

Mnementh remember those piercing cries later? F’lar wished he could forget

them now. He, F’lar, the bronze rider, felt suddenly superfluous. It was the

dragons who were fighting this engagement. You encouraged your beast,

comforted him when the Threads burned, but you depended on his instinct and

speed. Hot fire dripped across F’lar’s cheeks, burrowing like acid into his

shoulder … a cry of surprised agony burst from F’lar’s lips. Mnementh took

them to merciful between. The dragonmen battled with frantic hands at the

Threads, felt them crumble in the intense cold of between and break

off. Revolted, he slapped at injuries still afire. Back in Nerat’s humid air,

the sting seemed to ease. Mnementh crooned comfortingly and then dove at a

patch, breathing fire. Shocked at self-consideration, F’lar hurriedly

examined his mount’s shoulder for telltale score marks. / duck very quickly,

Mnementh told him and veered away from a dangerously close clump of Threads. A

brown dragon followed them down and burned them to ash. It might have been

moments, it might have been a hundred hours later when F’lar looked down in

surprise at the sunlit sea. Threads now dropped harmlessly into the salty

waters. Nerat was to the east of him on his right, the rocky tip curling

westward. F’lar felt weariness in every muscle. In the excitement of frenzied

battle, he had forgotten the bloody scores on cheek and shoulder. Now, as he

and Mnementh glided slowly, the injuries ached and stung. He flew Mnementh

high and when they had achieved sufficient altitude, they hovered. He could

see no Threads falling landward. Below him, the dragons ranged, high and low,

searching for any sign of a burrow, alert for any suddenly toppling trees or

disturbed vegetation. “Back to the Weyr,” he ordered Mnementh with a heavy sigh. He heard the bronze relay the command even as he himself was taken

between. He was so tired he did not even visualize wheremuch less, when

relying on Mnementh’s instinct to bring him safely home through time and

space. Honor those the dragons heed, In thought and favor, word and

deed. Worlds are lost or worlds are saved From those dangers

dragon-braved. CRANING HER neck toward the Star Stone at Benden Peak, Lessa

watched from the ledge until she saw the four wings disappear from

view. Sighing deeply to quiet her inner fears, Lessa raced down the stairs to

the floor of Benden Weyr. She noticed that someone was building a fire by the

lake and that Manora was already ordering her women around, her voice clear

but calm. Old C’gan had the weyrlings lined up. She caught the envious eyes of

the newest dragonriders at the barracks windows. They’d have time enough to

fly a flaming dragon. From what F’lar had intimated, they’d have Turns. She

shuddered as she stepped up to the weyrlings but managed to smile at them. She

gave them their orders and sent them off to warn the Holds, checking quickly

with each dragon to be sure the rider had given clear references. The Holds

would shortly be stirred up to a froth. Canth told her that there were Threads

at Keroon, falling on the Keroon side of Nerat Bay. He told her that F’nor did

not think two wings were enough to protect the meadowlands. Lessa stopped in

her tracks, trying to think how many wings were already out. K’net’s wing is

still here, Ramoth informed her. On the Peak. Lessa glanced up and saw bronze

Piyanth spread his wings in answer. She told him to get between to Keroon,

close to Nerat Bay. Obediently the entire wing rose and then disappeared. She

turned with a sigh to say something to Manora when a rush of wind and a vile

stench almost overpowered her. The air above the Weyr was full of dragons.

She was about to demand of Piyanth why he hadn’t gone to Keroon when she

realized there were far more beasts a-wing than K’net’s twenty. But you just

left, she cried as she recognized the unmistakable bulk of bronze

Mnementh. That was two hours ago for us, Mnementh said with such weariness in

his tone that Lessa closed her eyes in sympathy. Some dragons were gliding in

fast. From their awkwardness it was evident that they were hurt. As one, the

women grabbed salve pots and clean rags and beckoned the injured down. The

numbing ointment was smeared on score marks where wings resembled black and

red lace. No matter how badly injured he might be, every rider tended his

beast first. Lessa kept one eye on Mnementh, sure that F’lar would not keep

the huge bronze hovering like that if he’d been hurt. She was helping Tsum

with Munth’s cruelly pierced right wing when she realized that sky above the

Star Stone was empty. She forced herself to finish with Munth before she went

to find the bronze and his rider. When she did locate them, she also saw

Kylara smearing salve on F’lar’s cheek and shoulder. She was advancing

purposefully across the sands toward the pair when Canth’s urgent plea reached

her. She saw Mnementh’s head swing upward as he, too, caught the brown’s

thought. “F’lar, Canth says they need help,” Lessa cried. She didn’t notice then that Kylara slipped away into the busy crowd. F’lar wasn’t badly hurt.

She reassured herself about that. Kylara had treated the wicked burns that

seemed to be shallow. Someone had found him another fur to replace the tatters

of the Thread-bared one. He frowned and winced because the frown creased his

burned cheek. He gulped hurriedly at his klah. Mnementh, what’s the tally of

able-bodied? Oh, never mind, just get ‘em atoft with a full load of

firestone. “You’re all right?” Lessa asked, a detaining hand on his arm. He couldn’t just go off like this, could he? He smiled tiredly down at her, pressed his empty mug into her hands, giving them a quick squeeze. Then he vaulted to Mnementh’s neck. Someone handed him a heavy load of sacks. Blue,

green, brown, and bronze dragons lifted from the Weyr Bowl in quick order. A

trifle more than sixty dragons hovered briefly above the Weyr where eighty had

lingered so few minutes before. So few dragons. So few riders. How long could

they take such toll? Canth said Fnor needed more firestone. She looked about

anxiously. None of the weyrlings were back yet from their messenger rounds. A

dragon was crooning plaintively, and she wheeled, but it was only young

Pridith, stumbling across the Weyr to the feeding grounds, butting playfully

at Kylara as they walked. The only other dragons were injured orher eye fell

on C’gan, emerging from the weyrling barracks. “C’gan, can you and Tagath get more firestone to F’nor at Keroon?” “Of course,” the old blue rider assured her, his chest lifting with pride, his eyes flashing. She hadn’t thought to send him anywhere, yet he had lived his life in training for this emergency.

He shouldn’t be deprived of a chance at it. She smiled her approval at his

eagerness as they piled heavy sacks on Tagath’s neck. The old blue dragon

snorted and danced as if he were young and strong again. She gave them the

references Canth had visualized to her. She watched as the two biinked out

above the Star Stone. It isn’t fair. They have all the fun, said Ramoth

peevishly. Lessa saw her sunning herself on the Weyr ledge, preening her

enormous wings. “You chew firestone and you’re reduced to a silly green,”

Lessa told her Wyermate sharply. She was inwardly amused by the queen’s

disgruntled complaint. Lessa passed among the injured then. B’fol’s dainty

green beauty moaned and tossed her head, unable to bend one wing that had been

threaded to bare cartilage. She’d be out for weeks, but she had the worst

injury among the dragons. Lessa looked quickly away from the misery in B’fol’s

worried eyes. As she did the rounds, she realized that more men were injured

than beasts. Two in R’gul’s wing had sustained serious head damages. One man

might lose an eye completely. Manora had dosed him unconscious with numbweed.

Another man’s arm had been burned clear to the bone. Minor though most of the

wounds were, the tally dismayed Lessa. How many more would be disabled at

Keroon? Out of one hundred and seventy-two dragons, fifteen already were out

of action, some only for a day or two, however. A thought struck Lessa. If

N’ton had actually ridden Canth, maybe he could ride out on the next dragonade

on an injured man’s beast, since there were more injured riders than dragons.

F’lar broke traditions as he chose. Here was another one to set aside if the

dragon was agreeable. Presuming N’ton was not the only new rider able to

transfer to another beast, what good would such flexibility do in the long

run? F’lar had definitely said the incursions would not be so frequent at

first, when the Red Star was just beginning its fifty-Tum long circling pass

of Pern. How frequent was frequent? He would know, but he wasn’t here. Well,

he had been right this morning about the appearance of Threads at Nerat, so

his exhaustive study of those old Records had proved worthwhile. No, that

wasn’t quite accurate. He had forgotten to have the men alert for signs of

black dust as well as warming weather. As he had put the matter right by going

between times, she would graciously allow him that minor error. But he did

have an infuriating habit of guessing correctly. Lessa corrected herself

again. He didn’t guess. He studied. He planned. He thought and then he used

common good sense. Like figuring out where and when Threads would strike

according to entries in those smelly Records. Lessa began to feel better about

their future. Now, if he would just make the riders learn to trust their

dragons’ sure instinct in battle, they would keep casualties down, too. A

shriek pierced air and ear as a blue dragon emerged above the Star

Stone. “Ramoth!” Lessa screamed in an instinctive reaction, hardly knowing why. The queen was a-wing before the echo of her command had died. For the careering blue was obviously in grave trouble. He was trying to brake his forward speed, yet one wing would not function. His rider had slipped forward

over the great shoulder, precariously clinging to his dragon’s neck with one

hand. Lessa, her hands clapped over her mouth, watched fearfully. There

wasn’t a sound in the Bowl but the flapping of Ramoth’s immense wings. The

queen rose swiftly to position herself against the desperate blue, lending him

wing support on the crippled side. The watchers gasped as the rider slipped,

lost his hold, and felllanding on Ramoth’s wide shoulders. The blue dropped

like a stone. Ramoth came to a gentle stop near him, crouching low to allow

the weyrfolk to remove her passenger. It was C’gan. Lessa felt her stomach

heave as she saw the ruin the Threads had made of the old harper’s face. She

dropped beside him, pillowing his head in her lap. The weyrfolk gathered in a

respectful, silent circle. Manora, her face, as always, serene, had tears in

her eyes. She knelt and placed her hand on the old rider’s heart. Concern

flicked in her eyes as she looked up at Lessa. Slowly she shook her head.

Then, setting her lips in a thin line, she began to apply the numbing

salve. “Too toothless old to flame and too slow to get between” C’gan

mumbled, rolling his head from side to side. “Too old. But ‘Dragonmen must

fly/When Threads are in the sky… .’ ” His voice trailed off into a sigh.

His eyes closed. Lessa and Manora looked at each other in anguish. A terrible,

ear-shattering note cut the silence. Tagath sprang aloft in a tremendous leap.

C’gan’s eyes rolled slowly open, sightless. Lessa, breath suspended, watched

the blue dragon, trying to deny the inevitable as Tagath disappeared in mid-air. A low moan sprang up around the Weyr, like the torn, lonely cry of a

keening wind. The dragons uttered tribute. “Is he … gone?” Lessa asked, although she knew. Manora nodded slowly, tears streaming down her cheeks as she reached over to close C’gan’s dead eyes. Lessa rose slowly to her feet, motioning to some of the women to remove the old rider’s body. Absently she

rubbed her bloody hands dry on her skirts, trying to concentrate on what might

be needed next. Yet her mind turned back to what had just happened. A

dragonrider had died. His dragon, too. The Threads had claimed one pair

already. How many more would die this cruel Turn? How long could the Weyr

survive? Even after Ramoth’s forty matured, and the ones she soon would

conceive, and her queen daughters, too? Lessa walked apart to quiet her

uncertainties and ease her grief. She saw Ramoth wheel and glide aloft, to

land on the Peak. One day soon would Lessa see those golden wings laced red

and black from Thread marks? Would Ramoth … disappear? No, Ramoth would

not. Not while Lessa lived. F’lar told her long ago that she must learn to

look beyond the narrow confines of Hold Ruatha and mere revenge. He was, as

usual, right. As Weyrwoman under his tutelage, she had further learned that

living was more than raising dragons and Spring Games. Living was struggling

to do something impossibleto succeed, or die, knowing you had tried! Lessa

realized that she had, at last, fully accepted her role: as Weyrwoman and as

mate, to help F’lar shape men and events for many Turns to cometo secure Pern

against the Threads. Lessa threw back her shoulders and lifted her chin

high. Old C’gan had had the right of it. Dragonmen must fly When Threads are

in the skyl Worlds are lost or worlds are saved By those

dangers dragon-braved. As F’LAR had predicted, the attack ended by high

noon, and weary dragons and riders were welcomed by Ramoth’s highpitched

trumpeting from the Peak. Once Lessa assured herself that F’lar had taken no

additional injury, that F’nor’s were superficial and that Manora was keeping

Kylara busy in the kitchens, she applied herself to organizing the care of the

injured and the comfort of the worried. As dusk fell, an uneasy peace settled

on the Weyrthe quiet of minds and bodies too tired or too hurtful to

talk. Lessa’s own words mocked her as she made out the list of wounded men

and beasts. Twenty-eight men or dragons were out of the air for the next

Thread battle. C’gan was the only fatality, but there had been four more

seriously injured dragons at Keroon and seven badly scored men, out of action

entirely for months to come. Lessa crossed the Bowl to her Weyr, reluctant but

resigned to giving F’lar this unsettling news. She expected to find him in

the sleeping room, but it was vacant. Ramoth was asleep already as Lessa

passed her on the way to the Council Roomalso empty. Puzzled and a little

alarmed, Lessa half-ran down the steps to the Records Room, to find F’lar,

haggard of face, poring over musty skins. “What are you doing here?” she demanded angrily. “You ought to be asleep.” “So should you,” he drawled, amused. “I was helping Manora settle the wounded …” “Each to his own craft.” But he did lean back from the table, rubbing his neck and rotating the uninjured shoulder to ease stiffened muscles. “I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted, “so I thought I’d see what answers I might turn up in the Records.” “More answers? To what?” Lessa cried, exasperated with him. As if the Records ever answered anything. Obviously the tremendous responsibilities of Pern’s defense against the Threads were beginning to tell on the Weyrleader. After all, there had been the stress of the first battle, not to

mention the drain of the traveling between time itself to get to Nerat to

forestall the Threads. F’lar grinned and beckoned Lessa to sit beside him on

the wall bench. “I need the answer to the very pressing question of how one

understrength Weyr can do the fighting of six.” Lessa fought the panic that

rose, a cold flood, from her guts. “Oh, your time schedules will take care of that,” she replied gallantly. “You’ll be able to conserve the dragon-power until the new forty can join the ranks.” F’lar raised a mocking eyebrow. “Let us be honest between ourselves, Lessa.” “But there have been Long Intervals before,” she argued, “and since Pern survived them, Pern can again.” “Before there were always six Weyrs. And twenty or so Turns before the Red Star was due to begin its Pass, the queens would start to produce enormous clutches. All the queens, not just one faithful golden Ramoth. Oh, how I curse Jora!” He slammed to his feet and started pacing, irritably

brushing the lock of black hair that fell across his eyes. Lessa was torn

with the desire to comfort him and the sinking, choking fear in her belly that

made it difficult to think at all. “You were not so doubtful …” He whirled back to her. “Not until I had actually had an encounter with the Threads and reckoned up the numbers of injuries. That Sets the odds against

us. Even supposing we can mount other riders to uninjured dragons, we will be

hard put to keep a continuously effective force in the air and still maintain

a giound guard.” He caught her puzzled frown. “There’s Nerat to be gone over on foot tomorrow. I’d be a fool indeed if I thought we’d caught and seared every Thread in mid-air.” “Get the Holders to do that. They can’t just immure themselves safely in their Inner Holds and let us do all. If they hadn’t been so miserly and stupid …” He cut off her complaint with an abrupt gesture.

“They’ll do their part all right,” he assured her. “I’m sending for a full Council tomorrow, all Hold Lords and all Craftmasters. But there’s more to it than just marking where Threads fall. How do you destroy a burrow that’s gone deep under the surface? A dragon’s breath is fine for the air and surface work

but no good three feet down.” “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that aspect. But the firepits …” “… are only on the heights and around human habitations, not on the meadowlands of Keroon or on Nerat’s so green rainforests.” This consideration was daunting indeed. She gave a rueful little laugh. “Shortsighted of me to suppose our dragons are all poor Pern needs to dispatch the Threads. Yet …” She shrugged expressively. “There are other methods,” F’lar said, “or there were. There must have been. I have run across frequent mention that the Holds were organizing ground groups and that they were armed with fire. What kind is never mentioned because it was so well-known.” He threw up his hands in disgust and sagged back down on the

bench. “Not even five hundred dragons could have seared all the Threads that

fell today. Yet they managed to keep Pern Thread-free.” “Pern, yes, but wasn’t the Southern Continent lost? Or did they just have their hands too full with Pern itself?” “No one’s bothered with the Southern Continent in a hundred thousand Turns,” F’lar snorted. “It’s on the maps,” Lessa reminded him. He scowled disgustedly at the Records, piled in uncommunicative stacks on the long table. “The answer must be there. Somewhere.” There was an edge of desperation in his voice, the hint that he held himself to blame for not having discovered those elusive facts. “Half those things couldn’t be read by the man who wrote them,” Lessa said tartly. “Besides that, it’s been your own ideas that have helped us most so far. You compiled the time maps, and look how valuable they have been already.” “I’m getting too hidebound again, hub?”

he asked, a half smile tugging at one comer of his mouth. “Undoubtedly,” she assured him with more confidence than she felt. “We both know the Records are guilty of the most ridiculous omissions?’ “Well said, Lessa. So let us forget these misguiding and antiquated precepts and think up our own guides. First, we need more dragons. Second, we need them now. Third, we need something as effective as a flaming dragon to destroy Threads which have

burrowed.” “Fourth, we need sleep, or we won’t be able to think of anything,”

she added with a touch of her usual asperity. F’lar laughed outright, bugging

her. “You’ve got your mind on one thing, haven’t you?” he teased, his hands caressing her eagerly. She pushed ineffectually at him, trying to escape. For a wounded, tired man, he was remarkably amorous. One with that Kylara. Imagine that woman’s presumption, dressing his wounds. “My responsibility as

Weyrwoman includes care of you, the Weyrleader.” “But you spend hours with blue dragonriders and leave me to Kylara’s tender ministrations.” “You didn’t look as if you objected.” F’lar threw back his head and roared. “Should I open Fort Weyr and send Kylara on?” he taunted her. “I’d as soon Kylara were Turns as well as miles away from here,” Lessa snapped, thoroughly irritated. F’lar’s jaw dropped, his eyes widened. He leaped to his feet with an astonished cry. “You’ve said it!” “Said what?” ‘Turns away! That’s it.

We’ll send Kylara back, between times, with her queen and the new dragonets.”

F’lar excitedly paced the room while Lessa tried to follow his reasoning. “No, I’d better send at least one of the older bronzes. F’nor, too … I’d rather have F’nor in. charge… . Discreetly, of course” “Send Kylara back …

where to? When to?” Lessa interrupted him. “Good point.” F’lar dragged out the ubiquitous charts. “Very good point. Where can we send them around here without causing anomalies by being present at one of the other Weyrs? The High Reaches are remote. No, we’ve found remains of fires there, you know, still

warm, and no inkling as to who built them or why. And if we had already sent

them back, they’d’ve been ready for today, and they weren’t. So they can’t

have been in two places already… .” He shook his head, dazed by the

.paradoxes. Lessa’s eyes were drawn to the blank outline of the neglected

Southern Continent. “Send them there,” she suggested sweetly,

pointing. “There’s nothing there.” “Then bring in what they need. There must be water, for Threads can’t devour that. We fly in whatever else is needed, fodder for the herdbeasts, grain… .” F’lar drew his brows together in concentration, his eyes sparkling with thought, the depressioa and defeat of a

few moments ago forgotten. “Threads wouldn’t be there ten Turns ago. And

haven’t been there for close to four hundred. Ten Turns would give Pridith

time to mature and have several clutches. Maybe more queens.” Then he frowned and shook his head dubiously. “No, there’s no Weyr there. No Hatching Ground, no …” “How do we know that?” Lessa caught him up sharply, too delighted with many aspects of this project to give it up easily. “The Records don’t mention the Southern Continent, true, but they omit a great deal. How do we know it isn’t green again in the four hundred Turns since the Threads last

spun? We do know that Threads can’t last long unless there is something

organic on which to feed and that once they’ve devoured all, they dry up and

blow away.” F’lar looked at her admiringly. “Now, why hasn’t someone wondered about that before?” ‘Too hidebound.” Lessa wagged her finger at him.

“Besides, there’s been no need to bother with it.” “Necessity or is it jealousy hatches many a tough shell.” There was a smile of pure malice on his face, and Lessa whirled away as he reached for her. “The good of the Weyr,”

she retorted. “Furthermore, I’ll send you along with F’nor tomorrow to look.

Only fair, since it is your idea.” Lessa stood still. “You’re not going?” “I feel confident I can leave this project in your very capable, interested hands.” He laughed and caught her against his uninjured side, smiling down at her, his eyes glowing. “I must play ruthless Weyrleader and keep the Hold

Lords from slamming shut their Inner Doors. And I’m hoping” he raised his

head, frowning slightly”one of the Craftmasters may know the solution to the

.third problem getting rid of Thread burrows.” “But…” “The trip will give Ramoth something to stop her fuming.” He pressed the girl’s slender body more closely to him, his full attention at last on her odd, delicate face. “Lessa, you are my fourth problem.” He bent to kiss her. At the sound of hurried steps in ‘the passageway, F’lar scowled irritably, releasing her. “At this hour?” he muttered, ready to reprove the intruder scathingly. “Who goes

there?” “Flar?” It was F’nor’s voice, anxious, hoarse. The look on F’lar’s face told Lessa that not even his half brother would be spared a reprimand, and it pleased her irrationally. But the moment F’nor burst into the room, both weyrleader and Weyrwoman were stunned silent. There was something subtly

wrong with the brown rider. And as the man blurted out his incoherent message,

the difference suddenly registered in Lessa’s mind. He was tanned! He wore no

bandages and hadn’t the slightest trace of the Thread-mark along his cheek

that she had tended this evening! “F’lar, it’s not working out! You can’t be alive in two times at once!” F’nor was exclaiming distractedly. He staggered against the wall, grabbing the sheer rock to hold himself upright. There were deep circles under his eyes, visible despite the tan. “I don’t know how much longer we can last like this. We’re all affected. Some days not as badly as

others.” “I don’t understand.” “Your dragons are all right,” F’nor assured the Weyrleader with a bitter laugh. “It doesn’t bother them. They keep all their wits about them. But their riders … all the weyrfolk … we’re

shadows, half alive, like dragonless men, part of us gone forever. Except

Kylara.” His face contorted with intense dislike. ““AQ she wants to do is go back and watch herself. The woman’s egomania will destroy us all, I’m afraid.”

His eyes suddenly lost focus, and he swayed wildly. His eyes widened, and his

mouth fell open. “I can’t stay. I’m here already. Too close. Makes it twice as bad. But I had to warn you. I promise, F’lar, we’ll stay as long as we can, but it won’t be much longer … so it won’t be long enough, but we

tried. We tried!” Before F’lar could move, the brown rider whirled and ran, half-crouched, from the room. “But he hasn’t gone yetl” Lessa gasped. “He hasn’t even gone yet!” F’lar stared after his half brother, his brows contracting with the keen anxiety he felt. “What can have happened?” Lessa demanded of the Weyrleader. “We haven’t even told F’nor. We ourselves just finished considering the idea.” Her hand flew to her own cheek. “And the Thread-mark.. I dressed it myself tonight it’s gone. Gone. So he’s been gone a long while.” She sank down to the bench. “However, he has come back. So he did go,” F’lar remarked slowly in a reflective tone of voice. “Yet we now know the venture is not entirely successful even before it begins. And knowing this, we have sent him back ten Turns for whatever good it is doing.” F’lar paused thoughtfully. “Consequently we have no alternative but to continue

with the experiment.” “But what could be going wrong?” “I think I know and there is no remedy.” He sat down beside her, his eyes intent on hers. “Lessa, you were very upset when you got back from going between to Ruatha that first time. But I think now it was more than just the shock of seeing Fax’s men invading your own Hold or in thinking your return might have been responsible

for that disaster. I think it has to do with being in two times at once.” He

hesitated again, trying to understand this immense new concept even as he

voiced it. Lessa regarded him with such awe that he found himself laughing

with embarrassment. “It’s unnerving under any conditions,” he went on, “to think of returning and seeing a younger self.” “That must be what he meant about Kylara,” Lessa gasped, “about her wanting to go back and watch herself .

. . as a child. Oh, that wretched girl!” Lessa was filled with anger for

Kylara’s selfabsorption. “Wretched, selfish creature. She’ll ruin

everything.” “Not yet,” F’lar reminded her. “Look, although F’nor warned us that the situation in his time is getting desperate, he didn’t tell us how much he was able to accomplish. But you noticed that his scar had healed to invisibilityconsequently some Turns must have elapsed. Even if Pridith lays

one good-sized clutch, even if just the forty of Ramoth’s are mature enough to

fight in three days’ time, we have accomplished something.

Therefore,Weyrwoman,” and he noticed how she straightened up at the sound of

her title, “we must disregard F’nor’s return. When you fly to the Sounthern

Continent tomorrow, make no allusion to it. Do you understand?” Lessa nodded gravely and then gave a little sigh. “I don’t know if I’m happy or

disappointed to realize, even before we get there tomorrow, that the Southern

Continent obviously will support a Weyr,” she said with dismay. “It was kind of exciting to wonder.” “Either way,” F’lar told her with a sardonic smile, “we have found only part of the answers to problems one and two.” “Well, you’d better answer number four right now!” Lessa suggested.

“Decisively!” Weaver, Miner, Harper, Smith, Tanner, Farmer, Herdsman, Lord, Gather, wingsped, listen well ‘ To the Weyrman’s urgent word. THEY BOTH

managed to guard against any reference to his premature return when they spoke

to F’nor the next morning. F’lar asked brown Canth to send his rider to the

queen’s weyr as soon as he awoke and was pleased to see F’nor almost

immediately. If the brown rider noticed the curiously intent stare Lessa gave

his bandaged face, he gave no sign of it. As a matter of fact, the moment

F’lar outlined the bold venture of scouting the Southern Continent with the

possibility of starting a Weyr ten Turns back in time, F’nor forgot all about

his wounds. “I’ll go willingly only if you send T’bor along with Kylara. I’m not waiting till N’ton and his bronze are big enough to take her on. T’bor and she are as” F’nor broke off with a grimace in Lessa’s direction. “Well, they’re as near a pair as can be. I don’t object to being … importuned,

but there are limits to what a man is willing to do out of loyalty to

dragonkind.” F’lar barely managed to restrain the amusement he felt over

F’nor’s reluctance. Kylara tried her wiles on every rider, and, because F’nor

had not been amenable, she was determined to succeed with him. “I hope two bronzes are enough. Pridith may have a mind of her own, come

matingtime.” “You can’t turn a brown into a bronze!” F’nor exclaimed with such dismay that F’lar could no longer restrain himself. “Oh, stop it!” And that touched off Lessa’s laughter. “You’re as bad a pair,” F’nor snapped, getting to his feet. “If we’re going south, Weyrwoman, we’d better get started. Particularly if we’re going to give this laughing maniac a chance to compose himself before the solemn Lords descend. I’ll get provisions from

Manora. Well, Lessa? Are you coming with me?” Muffling her laughter, Lessa

grabbed up her furred flying cloak and followed him. At least the adventure

was starting off well. Carrying the pitcher of ktah and his cup, F’lar

adjourned to the Council Room, debating whether to tell the Lords and

Craftmasters of this southern venture or not. The dragons’ ability to fly

between times as well as places was not yet well-known. The Lords might not

realize it had been used the previous day to forestall the Threads. If F’lar

could be sure that project was going to be successful well, it would add an

optimistic note to the meeting. Let the charts, with the waves and times of

the Thread attacks clearly visible, reassure the Lords. The visitors were not

long in assembling. Nor were they all successful in hiding their

apprehension and the shock they had received now that Threads had again

spun down from the Red Star to menace all life on Pern. This was going to be a

difficult session, F’lar decided grimly. He had a fleeting wish, which he

quickly suppressed, that he had gone with F’nor and Lessa to the Southern

Continent. Instead, he bent with apparent industry to the charts before

him. Soon there were but two more to come, Meron of Nabol (whom he would have

liked not to include, for the man was a troublemaker) and Lytol of Ruatha.

F’lar had sent for Lytol last because he did not wish Lessa to encounter the

man. She was still overly and, to his mind, foolishlysensitive at having had

to resign her claim to Ruatha Hold for the Lady Gemma’s posthumous son. Lytol,

as Warder of Ruatha, had a place in this conference. The man was also an ex-dragonman, and his return to the Weyr was painful enough without Lessa’s

compounding it with her resentment. Lytol was, with the exception of young

Larad of Telgar, the Weyr’s most valuable ally. S’lel came in with Meron a

step behind him. The Holder was furious at this summons; it showed in his

walk, in his eyes, in his haughty bearing. But he was also as inquisitive as

he was devious. He nodded only to Larad among the Lords and took the seat left

vacant for him by Larad’s side. Meron’s manner made it obvious that that place

was too close to F’lar by half a room. The Weyrleader acknowledged S’lel’s

salute and indicated the bronze rider should be seated. F’lar had given

thought to the seating arrangements in the Council Room, carefully

interspersing brown and bronze dragonriders with Holders and Craftsmen. There

was now barely room to move in the generously proportioned cavern, but there

was also no room in which to draw daggers if tempers got hot. A hush fell on

the gathering, and F’lar looked up to see that the stocky, glowering

ex-dragonman from Ruatha had stopped on the threshold of the Council. He

slowly brought his hand up in a respectful salute to the weyrleader. As F’lar

returned the salute, he noticed that the tic in Lytol’s left cheek jumped

almost continuously. Lytol’s eyes, dark with pain and inner unquiet, ranged

the room. He nodded to the members of his former wing, to Larad and Zurg, head

of his own weavers’ craft. Stiff-legged, he walked to the remaining seat,

murmuring a greeting to T’sum on his left.F’lar rose. “I appreciate your

coming, good Lords and Craftmasters.The Threads spin once again. The first

attack has been met and seared from the sky. Lord Vincet,” and the worried

Holder of Nerat looked up in alarm, “we have dispatched a patrol to the

rainforest to do a low-flight sweep to make certain there are no

burrows.” Vincet swallowed nervously, his face paling at the thought of what Threads could do to his fertile, lush holdings. “We shall need your best junglemen to help” “Help? But you said … the Threads were seared in the sky?” “There is no point in taking the slightest chance,” F’lar replied, implying that the patrol was only a precaution instead of the necessity he knew it would be. Vincet gulped, glancing anxiously around the room for sympathy, and found none. Everyone would soon be in his position. “There is a patrol due at Keroon and at lgen.” F’lar looked first at Lord Corman, then at Lord Banger, who gravely nodded. “Let me say by way of reassurance that there will be no further attacks for three days and four hours.” F’lar tapped the appropriate chart. “The Threads will begin approximately here on Telgar, drift westward through the southernmost portion of Crom, which is mountainous, and on, through Ruatha and the southern end of Nabol.” “How can you be so certain of that?” F’lar recognized the contemptuous voice of Meron of Nabol. “The Threads do not fall like a child’s jackstraws. Lord Meron,” F’lar replied. “They fall in a definitely predictable pattern; the attacks last exactly six hours. The intervals between attacks will gradually shorten over the next few Turns as the Red Star draws closer. Then, for about forty full

Turns, as the Red Star swings past and around us, the attacks occur every

fourteen hours, marching across our world in a time-able fashion.” “So you say,” Meron sneered, and there was a low mumble of support. “So the Teaching Ballads say,” Larad put in firmly. Meron glanced at Telgar’s Lord and went on, “I recall another of your predictions about how the Threads were supposed to begin falling right after Solstice.” “Which they did,” F’lar interrupted him. “As black dust in the Northern Holds. For the reprieve we’ve had, we can thank our lucky stars that we have had an unusually hard and long Cold Turn.” “Dust?” demanded Nessel of Crom. “That dust was Threads?” The man was one of Fax’s blood connections and under Meron’s influence: an older man who had learned lessons from his conquering relative’s bloody ways and had not the wit to improve or alter the original. “My Hold is still blowing with them.

They’re dangerous?” F’lar shook his head emphatically. “How long has the black dust been blowing in your Hold? Weeks? Done any harm yet?” Nessel frowned. “I’m interested in your charts, Weyrleader,” Larad of Telgar said smoothly. “Will they give us an accurate idea of how often we may expect Threads to fall in our own Holds?” “Yes. You may also anticipate that the dragonmen will arrive shortly before the invasion is due,” F’lar went on.“However, additional measures of your own are necessary, and it is for this that I called the Council.” “Wait a minute,” Corman of Keroon growled. “I want a copy of those fancy charts of yours for my own. I want to know what those bands and wavy lines really mean. I want…” “Naturally you’ll have a timetable of your own. I mean to impose on Masterharper Robinton” F’lar nodded respectfully toward that Craftmaster “to oversee the copying and make sure everyone understands the timing involved.” Robinton, a tall, gaunt man with a lined, saturnine face, bowed deeply. A slight smile curved his wide lips at the now hopeful glances favored him by the Hold Lords. His craft, like that of the dragonmen, had been much mocked, and this new respect amused him. He was a

man with a keen eye for the ridiculous, and an active imagination. The

circumstances in which doubting Pern found itself were too ironic not to

appeal to his innate sense of justice. He now contented himself with a deep

bow and a mild phrase. “Truly all shall pay heed to the master.” His voice was deep, his words enunciated with no provincial slurring. F’lar, about to speak, looked sharply at Robinton as he caught the double barb of that single line. Larad, too, looked around at the Masterharper, clearing his throat

hastily. “We shall have our charts,” Larad said, forestalling Meron, who had opened his mouth to speak. “We shall have the dragonmen when the Threads spin.

What are these additional measures? And why are they necessary?” All eyes

were on F’lar again. “We have one Weyr where six once flew.” “But word is that Ramoth has hatched over forty more,” someone in the back of the room declared. “And why did you Search out still more of our young

men?” “Forty-one as yet unmatured dragons,” F’lar said. Privately, he hoped that this southern venture would still work out. There was real fear in that man’s voice. “They grow well and quickly. Just at present, while the Threads do not strike with great frequency as the Red Star begins its Pass, our Weyr

is sufficient … if we have your cooperation on the ground. Tradition is

that” he nodded tactfully toward Robinton, the dispenser of Traditional usage

“you Holders are responsible for only your dwellings, which, of course, are

adequately protected by firepits and raw stone. However, it is spring and our

heights have been allowed to grow wild with vegetation. Arable land is

blossoming with crops. This presents vast acreage vulnerable to the Threads

which one Weyr, at this time, is not able to patrol without severely draining

the vitality of our dragons and riders.” At this candid admission, a

frightened and angry mutter spread rapidly throughout the room. “Ramoth rises to mate again soon,” F’lar continued in a matter-of-fact way. “Of course, in other times, the queens started producing heavy clutches many Turns before the critical solstice as well as more queens. Unfortunately, Jora was ill and old, and Nemorth intractable. The matter” He was interrupted. “Your dragonmen with your high and mighty airs will bring destruction on us all!” “You have yourselves to blame,” Robinton’s voice stabbed across the ensuing shouts.

“Admit it, one and all. You’ve paid less honor to the Weyr than you would your watchwher’s kenneland that not much! But now the thieves are on the heights, and you are screaming because the poor reptile is nigh to death from neglect.

Beat him, will you? When you exiled him to his kennel because he tried to warn

you? Tried to get you to prepare against the invaders? It’s on your

conscience, not the Weyrleader’s or the dragonriders’, who have honestly done

their duty these hundreds of Turns in keeping dragonkind alive … against

your protests. How many of you”his tone was scathing”have been generous in thought and favor toward dragonkind? Even since I became master of my craft, how often have my harpers told me of being beaten for singing the old songs as is their duty? You earn only the right, good Lords and Craftsmen, to squirm

inside your stony Holds and writhe as your crops die a-borning.” He rose. “

‘No Threads will fall. It’s a harper’s winter tale,’ ” he whined, in faultless imitation of Nessel. ” These dragonmen leech us of heir and harvest,’ ” and his voice took on the constricted, insinuating tenor that could only be Meron’s. “And now the truth is as bitter as a brave man’s fears and as difficult as mockweed to swallow. For all the honor you’ve done them, the

dragonmen should leave you to be spun on the Threads’ distaff.” “Bitra, Lemos, and I,” spoke up Raid, the wiry Lord of Benden, his blunt chin lifted belligerently, “have always done our duty to the Weyr.” Robinton swung around to him, his eyes flashing as he gave that speaker a long, slow look. “Aye, and you have. Of all the Great Holds, you three have been loyal. But you others,”

and his voice rose indignantly, “as spokesman for my craft, I know, to the

last full stop in your score, your opinion of dragonkind. I heard the first

whisper of your attempt to ride out against the Weyr.” He laughed harshly and pointed a long finger at Vincet. “Where would you be today, good Lord Vincet, if the Weyr had not sent you packing back, hoping your ladies would be returned you? All of you,” and his accusing finger marked each of the Lords of the abortive effort, “actually rode against the Weyr because … ‘there . .

. were … no … more … Threads!’ ” He planted his fists on either

hip and glared at the assembly. F’lar wanted to cheer. It was easy to see why

the man was Masterharper, and he thanked circumstance that such a man was the

Weyr’s partisan. “And now, at this critical moment, you have the incredible

presumption to protest against any measure the Weyr suggests?” Robinton’s

supple voice oozed derision and amazement. “Attend what the Weyrleader says and spare him your petty carpings!” He snapped those words out as a father might enjoin an erring child. “You were,” and he switched to the mildest of polite conversational tones as he addressed F’lar, “I believe, asking our cooperation, good F’lar? In what capacities?” F’lar hastily cleared his throat. “I shall require that the Holds police their own fields and woods,

during the attacks if possible, definitely once the Threads have passed. All

burrows which might land must be found, marked, and destroyed. The sooner they

are located, the easier it is to e rid of them.” “There’s no time to dig firepits through all the lands … we’ll lose half our growing space,”

Nessel exclaimed. “There were other ways, used in olden times, which I

believe our Mastersmith might know.” F’lar gestured politely toward Fandarel, the archetype of his profession if ever such existed. The Smith Craftmaster was by several inches the tallest man in the Council Room, his massive shoulders and heavily muscled arms pressed against his nearest neighbors,

although he had made an effort not to crowd against anyone. He rose, a giant

tree-stump of a man, booking thumbs like beast-horns in the thick belt that

spanned his waistless midsection. His voice, by no means sweet after Turns of

bellowing above roaring hearths and hammers, was, by comparison to Robinton’s

superb delivery, a diluted, unsupported light baritone. “There were machines, that much is true,” he allowed in deliberate, thoughtful tones. “My father, it was he, told me of them as a curiosity of the Craft. There may be sketches in the Hall. There may not. Such things do not keep on skins for long.” He cast an oblique look under beetled brows at the Tanner Craftmaster. “It is our own hides we must worry about preserving,” F’lar remarked to forestall any intercraft disputes. Fandarel grumbled in his throat in such a way that F’lar was not certain whether the sound was the man’s laughter or a guttural

agreement. “I shall consider the matter. So shall all my fellow craftsmen,”

Fandarel assured the Weyrleader. “To sear Threads from the ground without

damaging the soil may not be so easy. There are, it is true, fluids which burn

and sear. We use an acid to etch design on daggers and ornamental metals. We

of the Craft call it agenothree. There is also the black heavy-water that lies

on the surface of pools in lgen and Boll. It burns hot and long. And if, as

you say, the Cold Turn made the Threads break into dust, perhaps ice from the

coldest northlands might freeze and break grounded Threads. However, the

problem is to bring such to the Threads where they fall since they will not

oblige us by falling where we want them… .” He screwed up his face in a

grimace. F’lar stared at him, surprised. Did the man realize how humorous he

was? No, he was speaking with sincere concern. Now the Mastersmith scratched

his head, his tough fingers making audible grating sounds along his coarse

hair and heat-toughened scalp. “A nice problem. A nice problem,” he mused, undaunted. “I shall give it every attention.” He sat down, the heavy bench creaking under his weight. The Masterfarmer raised his hand tentatively. “When I became Craftmaster, I recall coming across a reference to the sandworms of lgen. They were once cultivated as a protective” “Never heard lgen produced anything useful except heat and sand,” quipped

someone. “We need every suggestion,” F’lar said sharply, trying to identify that heckler. “Please find that reference, Craftmaster. Lord Banger of lgen, find me some of those sandworms!” Banger, equally surprised that his arid Hold had a hidden asset, nodded vigorously. “Until we have more efficient ways of killing Threads, all Holders must be organized on the ground during

attacks, to spot and mark burrows, to set firestone to burn in them. I do not

wish any man to be scored, but we know how quickly Threads burrow deep, and no

burrow can be left to multiply. You stand to lose more,” and he gestured

emphatically at the Holder Lords, “than any others. Guard not just yourselves, for a burrow on one man’s border may grow across to his neighbor’s. Mobilize every man, woman, and child, farm and crafthold. Do it now.” The Council Room was fraught with tension and stunned reflection until Zurg, the Masterweaver, rose to speak. “My craft, too, has something to offer … which is only fair since we deal with thread every day of our lives … in regard to the

ancient methods.” Zurg’s voice was light and dry, and his eyes, in their

creases of spare, lined flesh, were busy, darting from one face in his

audience to another. “In Ruath Hold I once saw upon the wall … where the

tapestry now resides, who knows?” He slyly glanced at Meron of Nabol and then at Bargen of the High Reaches who had succeeded to Fax’s title there. “The work was as old as dragonkind and showed, among other things, a man on foot, carrying upon his back a curious contraption. He held within his hand a

rounded, sword-long object from which tongues of flame … magnificently woven

in the orange-red dyes now lost to us … spouted toward the ground. Above,

of course, were dragons in close formation, bronzes predominating … again

we’ve lost that true dragon bronze shade. Consequently I remember the work as

much for what we now lack as for its subject matter.” “A flamethrower?” the Smith rumbled. “A flamethrower,” he repeated with a falling inflection. “A flamethrower,” he murmured thoughtfully, his heavy brows drawn into a titanic scowl. “A thrower of what sort of flame? It requires thought.” He lowered his head and didn’t speak, so engrossed in the required thought that he lost interest in the rest of the discussion. “Yes, good Zurg, there have been many tricks of every trade lost in recent Turns,” F’lar commented sardonically. “If we wish to continue living, such knowledge must be revived … fast. I would particularly like to recover the tapestry of which Master Zurg speaks.” F’lar looked significantly at those Lords who had quarreled over

Fax’s seven Holds after his death. “It may save all of you much loss. I

suggest that it appear at Ruatha. Or at Zurg’s or at Fandarel’s crafthall.

Whichever is most convenient.” There was some shuffling of feet, but no one

admitted ownership. “It might then be returned to Fax’s son, who is now

Ruatha’s Lord,” F’lar added, wryly amused at such magnanimous justice. Lytol

snorted softly and glowered around the room. F’lar supposed Lytol to be amused

and experienced a fleeting regret for the orphaned Jaxom, reared by such a

cheerless if honest guardian. “If I may. Lord Weyrleader,” Robinton broke in,

“we might all benefit, as your maps prove to us, from research in our own

Records.” He smiled suddenly, an unexpectedly embarrassed smile. “I own I find myself in some disgrace for we Harpers have let slip unpopular ballads and skimped on some of the longer Teaching Ballads and Sagas … for lack of listeners and, occasionally, in the interest of preserving our skins.” F’lar stifled a laugh with a cough. Robinton was a genius. “I must see that Ruathan tapestry,” Fandarel suddenly boomed out. “I’m sure it will be in your hands very soon,” F’lar assured him with more confidence than he dared feel. “My Lords, there is much to be done. Now that you understand what we all face, I leave it in your hands as leaders in your separate Holds and crafts how best to organize your own people. Craftsmen, turn your best minds to our special

problems: review all Records that might turn up something to our purpose.

Lords Telgar, Crom, Ruatha, and Nabol, I shall be with you in three days.

Nerat, Keroon, and Jgen, I am at your disposal to help destroy any burrow on

your lands. While we have the Masterminer here, tell him your needs. How

stands your craft?” “Happy to be so busy at our trade, weyrleader,” piped up the Masterminer. Just then F’lar caught sight of F’nor, hovering about in the shadows of the hallway, trying to catch his eye. The brown rider wore an exultant grin, and it was obvious he was bursting with news. F’lar wondered

how they could have returned so swiftly from the Southern Continent, and then

he realized that F’nor again was tanned. He gave a jerk of his head,

indicating that F’nor take himself off to the sleeping quarters and

wait. “Lords and Craftmasters, a dragonet will be at the disposal of each of you for messages and transportation. Now, good morning.” He strode out of the Council Room, up the passageway into the queen’s weyr, and parted the still swinging curtains into the sleeping room just as F’nor was pouring himself a cup of wine. “Success!” F’nor cried as the weyrleader entered. “Though how you knew to send just thirty-two candidates I’ll never understand. I thought you were insulting our noble Pridith. But thirty-two eggs she laid in four days. It was all I could do to keep from riding out when the first

appeared.” F’lar responded with hearty congratulations, relieved that there

would be at least that much benefit from this apparently illfated venture.

Now all he had to figure out was how much longer F’nor had stayed south until

his frantic visit the night before. For there were no worry lines or strain in

F’nor’s grinning, well-tanned face. “No queen egg?” asked F’lar hopefully.

With thirty-two in the one experiment, perhaps they could send a second queen

back and try again. F’nor’s face lengthened. “No, and I was sure there would

be. But there gre fourteen bronzes. Pridith out-matched Ramoth there,”

he added proudly. “Indeed she did. How goes the Weyr otherwise?” F’nor frowned, shaking his head against an inner bewilderment. “Kylara’s … well, she’s a problem. Stirs up trouble constantly. T’bor leads a sad time with her, and he’s so touchy everyone keeps a distance from him.” F’nor brightened a little. “Young N’ton is shaping up into a fine wingleader, and his bronze

may outfly Tbor’s Orth when Pridith flies to mate the next time. Not

that I’d wish Kylara on N’ton … or anyone.” “No trouble then with supplies?” F’nor laughed outright. “If you hadn’t made it so plain we must not communicate with you here, we could supply you with fruits and fresh greens that are superior to anything in the north. We eat the way dragonmen should! F’lar, we must consider a supply Weyr down there. Then we shall never

have to worry about tithing trains and …” “In good time. Get back now.

You know you must keep these visits short.” F’nor grimaced. “Oh, it’s not so bad. I’m not here in this time, anyway.” “True,” F’lar agreed, “but don’t mistake the time and come while you’re still here.” “Hmmm? Oh, yes, that’s right. I forget time is creeping for us and speeding for you. Well, I shan’t be back again till Pridith lays the second clutch.” With a cheerful good-bye, F’nor strode out of the weyr. F’lar watched him thoughtfully as he slowly retraced his steps to the Council Room. Thirty-two new dragons, fourteen of

them bronzes, was no small gain and seemed worth the hazard. Or would the

hazard wax greater? Someone cleared his throat deliberately. F’lar looked up

to see Robinton standing in the archway that led to the Council Room. “Before I can copy and instruct others about those maps, Weyrleader, I must myself

understand them completely. I took the liberty of remaining behind.” “You make a good champion, Masterharper.” “You have a noble cause, Weyrleader,”

and then Robinton’s eyes glinted maliciously. “I’ve been begging the Egg for

an opportunity to speak out to so noble an audience.” “A cup of wine

first?” “Benden grapes are the envy of Pern.” “If one has the palate for such a delicate bouquet.” “It is carefully cultivated by the knowledgeable.” F’lar wondered when the man would stop playing with words. He had more on his mind than studying the time-charts. “I have in mind a ballad which, for lack of explanation, I had set aside when I became the Master of my crafthall,” he said judiciously after an appreciative savoring of his wine. “It is an uneasy song, both the tune and the words. One develops, as a harper must, a certain sensitivity for what will be received and what will be rejected … forcefully,” and he winced in retrospect. “I found that this ballad unsettled singer as well as audience and retired it from use. Now, like that tapestry, it bears rediscovery.” After his death C’gan’s instrument had been hung on the Council Room wall till a new Weyrsinger could be chosen. The guitar was very old, its wood thin. Old C’gan had kept it well-tuned and covered. The Masterharper handled it now with reverence, lightly stroking the

strings to hear the tone, raising his eyebrows at. the fine voice of the

instrument. He plucked a chord, a dissonance. F’lar wondered if the instrument

was out of tune or if the harper had, by some chance, struck the wrong string.

But Robinton repeated the odd discord, then modulating into a weird minor that

was somehow more disturbing than the first notes. “I told you it was an

uneasy song. And I wonder if you know the answers to the questions it asks.

For I’ve turned the puzzle over in my mind many times of late.” Then abruptly he shifted from the spoken to the sung tone. Gone away, gone ahead, Echoes roll unanswered. Empty, open, dusty, dead, Why have all the Weyrfolk fled? Where have dragons gone together? Leaving Weyrs to wind and

weather? Setting herdbeasts free of tether? Gone, our safeguards, gone, but

whither? Have they flown to some new Weyr Where cruel Threads some others

fear? Are they worlds away from here? Why, oh, why, the empty Weyr? . The

last plaintive chord reverberated. “Of course, you realize that the song was first recorded in the craft annals some four hundred Turns ago,” Robinton said lightly, cradling the guitar in both arms. “The Red Star had just passed beyond attack-proximity. The people had ample reason to be stunned and worried over the sudden loss of the populations of five Weyrs. Oh, I imagine at the

time they had any one of a number of explanations, but none … not one

explanation … is recorded.” Robinton paused significantly. “I have found none recorded, either,” F’lar replied. “As a matter of fact, I had all the Records brought here from the other Weyrs … in order to compile accurate attack timetables. And those other Weyr Records simply end” F’lar made a chopping gesture with one hand. “In Benden’s Records there is no mention of

sickness, death, fire, disaster not one word of explanation for the sudden

lapse of the usual intercourse between the Weyrs. Benden’s Records

continue Mithely, but only for Benden. There is one entry that pertains to the

mass disappearance … the initiation of a Pernwide patrol routing, not just

Benden’s immediate responsibility. And that is all.” “Strange,” Robinton mused. “Once the danger from the Red Star was past, the dragons and riders may have gone between to ease the drain on the Holds. But I simply cannot believe that. Our craft Records do mention that harvests were bad and that there had been several natural catastrophes … other than the Threads. Men may be

gallant and your breed the most gallant of all, but mass suicide? I simply do

not accept that explanation … not for dragonmen.” “My thanks,” P’lar said with mild irony. “Don’t mention it,” Robinton replied with a gracious nod. F’lar chuckled appreciatively. “I see we have been too weyrbound as well as too hidebound.” Robinton drained his cup and looked at it mournfully until F’lar refilled it. “Well, your isolation served some purpose, you know, and you handled that uprising of the Lords magnificently. I nearly choked to death laughing,” Robinton remarked, grinning broadly. “Stealing their women in the flash of a dragon’s breath!” He chuckled again, then suddenly sobered, looking F’lar straight in the eye. “Accustomed as I am to hearing what a man does not say aloud, I suspect there is much you glossed over in that Council meeting.

You may be sure of my discretion … and … you may be sure of my wholehearted support and that of my not ineffectual craft. To be blunt, how may my

harpers aid you?” and be strummed a vigorous marching air. “Stir men’s pulses with ballads of past glories and success?” The tune, under his flashing fingers, changed abruptly to a stern but determined rhythm. “Strengthen their mental and physical sinews for hardship?” “If all your harpers could stir men as you yourself do, I should have no worries that five hundred or so additional dragons would not immediately end.” “Oh, then despite your brave words and marked charts, the situation is”a dissonant twang on the guitar accented his final words”more desperate than you carefully did not say.” “It may be.” “The flamethrowers old Zurg remembered and Fandarel must reconstructwill they tip the scales?” F’lar regarded this clever man thoughtfully and made a quick decision. “Even lgen’s sandworms will help, but as the world turns and the Red Star nears, the interval between daily attacks shortens and we have only seventy-two new dragons to add to those we had yesterday. One is now dead and several will not fly for several

weeks.” “Seventy-two?” Robinton caught him up sharply. “Ramoth hatched but forty, and they are still too young to eat firestone.” F’lar outlined F’nor and Lessa’s expedition, taking place at that moment. He went on to F’nor’s reappearance and warning, as well as the fact that the experiment had been successful in part with the hatching of thirty-two new dragons from

Pridith’s first clutch. Robinton caught him up. “How can F’nor already have

returned when you haven’t heard from Lessa and him that there is a breeding

place on the Southern Continent?” “Dragons can go between times as well as places. They go as’ easily to a when as to a where.” Robinton’s eyes widened as he digested this astonishing news. “That is how we forestalled the attack on Nerat yesterday morning. We jumped back two hours between time to meet the Threads as they fell.” “You can actually jump backward? How far back?” “I don’t know. Lessa, when I was teaching her to fly Ramoth, inadvertently returned to Ruath Hold, to the dawn thirteen Turns ago when Fax’s men invaded from the heights. When she returned to the present, I attempted a between

times jump of some ten Turns. To the dragons it is a simple matter to go

between times or spaces, but there appears to be a terrific drain on the

rider. Yesterday, by the time we returned from Nerat and had to go on to

Keroon, I felt as though I had been pounded flat and left to dry for a summer

on lgen Plain.” F’lar shook his head. “We have obviously succeeded in sending Kylara, Pridith, and the others ten Turns between, because F’nor has already reported to me that he has been there several Turns. The drain on humans, however, is becoming more and more marked. But even seventy-two more mature

dragons will be a help.” “Send a rider ahead in time to see if it is

sufficient,” Robinton suggested helpfully. “Save you a few days’

worrying.” “I don’t know how to get to a when that has not yet happened. You must give your dragon reference points, you know. How can you refer him to times that have not yet occurred?” “You’ve got an imagination. Project it.”

“And perhaps lose a dragon when I have none to spare? No, I must continue . .

. because obviously I have, judging by F’nor’s returns … as I decided to

start. Which reminds me, I must give orders to start packing. Then I shall go

over the time-charts with you.” It wasn’t until after the noon meal, which

Robinton took with the Weyrleader, that the Masterharper was confident that he

understood the charts and left to begin their copying. Across a waste of

lonely tossing sea, Where no dragonwings had lately spread, Flew a gold and

sturdy brown in spring, Searching if a land be dead. As RAMOTH and Canth bore

Lessa and F’nor up to the Star Stone, they saw the first of the Hold Lords and

Craftmasters arriving for the Council. In order to get back to the Southern

Continent Of ten Turns ago, Lessa and F’nor had decided it was easiest to

transfer first between times to the Weyr of ten Turns back which F’nor

remembered. Then they would go between places to a seapoint just off the coast

of the neglected Southern Continent which was as close to it as the Records

gave any references. F’nor put Canth in mind of a particular day he

remembered ten Turns back, and Ramoth picked up the references from the

brown’s mind. The awesome cold of between times took Lessa’s breath away, and

it was with intense relief that she caught a glimpse of the normal weyr

activity before the dragons, took them between places to hover over the turgid

sea. Beyond them, smudged purple on this overcast and gloomy day, lurked the

Southern Continent. Lessa felt a new anxiety replace the uncertainty of the

temporal displacement. Ramoth beat forward with great sweeps of her wings,

making for the distant coast. Canth gallantly tried to maintain a matching

speed. He’s only a brown, Lessa scolded her golden queen. He is flying with

me, Ramoth replied coolly, he must stretch his wings a little. Lessa grinned,

thinking very privately that Ramoth was still piqued that she had not

been able to fight with her weyrmates. All the males would have a hard

time with her for a while. They saw the flock of wherries first and realized

that there would have to be some vegetation on the Continent. Wherries needed

greens to live, although they could subsist on little else besides occasional

grubs if necessary. Lessa had Canth relay questions to his rider. The

Southern Continent was rendered barren by the Threads, how did new growth

start? Where did the wherries come from? Ever notice the seed pods split open

and the flakes carried away by the winds? Ever notice that wherries fly south

after the autumn solstice? Yes, but … Yes, but! But the land was

Thread-bared! In less than four hundred Turns even the scorched hilltops of

our Continent begin to sprout in the springtime, F’nor replied by way of

Canth, so it is easy to assume the Southern Continent could revive, too. Even

at the pace Ramoth set, it took time to reach the jagged shoreline with its

forbidding cliffs, stark stone in the sullen light. Lessa groaned inwardly

but urged Ramoth higher to see over the masking highlands. All seemed gray

and desolate from that altitude. Suddenly the sun broke through the cloud

cover and the gray dissolved into dense greens and browns, living colors, the

live greens of lush tropical growth, the browns of vigorous trees and vines.

Lessa’s cry of triumph was echoed by F’nor’s hurrah and the brass voices of

the dragons. Wherries, startled by the unusual sound, rose in squeaking

alarm from their perches. Beyond the headland, the land sloped away to jungle

and grassy plateau, similar to mid-Boll. “Though they searched all morning,

they found no hospitable cliffs wherein to found a new Weyr. Was that a

contributing factor in the southern venture’s failure, Lessa

wondered. Discouraged, they landed on a high plateau by a small lake. The

weather was warm but not oppressive, and while F’nor and Lessa ate their

noonday meal, the two dragons wallowed in the water, refreshing

themselves. Lessa felt uneasy and had little appetite for the meat and bread.

She noticed that F’nor was restless, too, shooting surreptitious glances

around the lake and the jungle verge. “What under the sun are we expecting?

Wherries don’t change, and wild whers would come nowhere near a dragon. We’re

ten Turns before the Red Star, so there can’t be any Threads.” F’nor

shrugged, grimacing sheepishly as he tossed his unfinished bread back into the

food pouch. “Place feels so empty, I guess,” he tendered, glancing around. He spotted ripe fruit hanging from a moonflower vine. “Now that looks familiar and good enough to eat, without tasting like dust in the mouth.” He climbed nimbly and snagged the orange-red fruit. “Smells right, feels ripe, looks

ripe,” he announced and deftly sliced the fruit open. Grinning, he landed

Lessa the first slice, carving another for himself. He lifted it

challengingly. “Let us eat and die together!” She couldn’t help but laugh and saluted him back. They bit into the succulent flesh simultaneously. Sweet juices dribbled from the corners of her mouth, and Lessa hurriedly licked her lips to capture the least drop of the delicious liquid. “Die happy1 will,”

F’nor cried, cutting more fruit. Both were subtly reassured by the experiment

and were able to discuss their discomposure. “I think,” F’nor suggested, “it is the lack of cliff and cavern and the still, still quality of the place, the knowing that there are no other men or beasts about but us.” Lessa nodded her head in agreement. “Ramoth, Canth, would having no Weyr upset you?” We didn’t always live in caves, Ramoth replied, somewhat haughtily as she rolled over in the lake. Sizable waves rushed up the shore almost to where Lessa and F’nor were seated on a fallen tree trunk. The sun here is warm and pleasant, the

water cooling. I would enjoy it here, but I am not to come. “She is out of

sorts,” Lessa whispered to P’nor. “Let Pridith have it, dear one,” she called soothingly to the golden queen. “You’ve the Weyr and all!” Ramoth ducked under the water, blowing up a froth in disgruntled reply. Canth admitted that he had no reservations at all about living Weyrless. The dry earth would be warmer than stone to sleep on, once a suitably comfortable hollow had been

achieved. No, he couldn’t object to the lack of the cave as long as there was

enough to eat. “We’ll have to bring herdbeasts in,” F’nor mused. “Enough to start a good-sized herd. Of course, the wherries here are huge. Come to think of it, I believe this plateau has no exits. We wouldn’t need to pasture it off. I’d better check. Otherwise, this pleateau with the lake and enough

clear space for Holds seems ideal. Walk out and pick breakfast from the

tree.” “It might be wise to choose those who were not Hold-reared,” Lessa added. “They would not feel so uneasy away from protecting heights and stone security.” She gave a short laugh. “I’m more a creature of habit than I suspected. All these open spaces, untenanted and quiet, seem … indecent.”

She gave a delicate shudder, scanning the broad and open plain beyond ‘the

lake. “Fruitful and lovely,” F’nor amended, leaping up to secure more of the orange-red succulents. “This tastes uncommonly good to me. Can’t remember anything this sweet and juicy from Nerat, and yet it’s the same

variety.” “Undeniably superior to what the Weyr gets. I suspect Nerat serves home first, Weyr last.” They both stuffed themselves greedily. Further investigation proved that the plateau was isolated, and ample to pasture a huge herd of foodbeasts for the dragons. It ended in a sheer drop of several

dragonlengths into denser jungle on one side, the sea-side escarpment on the

other. The timber stands would provide raw material from which dwellings could

be made for the Weyrfolk. Ramoth and Canth stoutly agreed dragonkind would be

comfortable enough under the heavy foliage of the dense jungle. As this part

of the continent was similar, weatherwise, to Upper Nerat, there would be

neither intense heat nor cold to give distress. However, if Lessa was glad

enough to leave, F’nor seemed reluctant to start back. “We can go between

time and place on the way back,” Lessa insisted finally, “and be in the Weyr by late afternoon. The Lords will surely be gone by then.” F’nor concurred, and Lessa steeled herself for the trip between. She wondered why the when between bothered her more than the where, for it had no effect on the dragons

at all. Ramoth, sensing Lessa’s depression, crooned encouragingly. The

long, long black suspension of the utter cold of between where and when ended

suddenly in sunlight above the Weyr. Somewhat startled, Lessa saw bundles and

sacks spread out before the Lower Caverns as dragonriders supervised the

loading of their beasts. “What has been happening?” F’nor exclaimed. “Oh, F’lar’s been anticipating success,” she assured him glibly. Mnementh, who was watching the bustle from the ledge of the queen’s weyr, sent a greeting to the travelers and the information that F’lar wished them to join him in the weyr as soon as they returned. They found F’lar, as usual, bent over some of the

oldest and least legible Record skins that he had had brought to the Council

Room. “And?” he asked, grinning a broad welcome at them. “Green, lush, and livable,” Lessa declared, watching him intently. He knew something else, too.

Well, she hoped he’d watch his words. F’nor was no fool, and this

foreknowledge was dangerous. “That is what I had so hoped to hear you say,”

F’lar went on smoothly. “Come, tell me in detail what you observed and

discovered. It’ll be good to fill in the blank spaces on the chart.” Lessa

let F’nor give most of the account, to which F’lar listened with sincere

attention, making notes. “On the chance that it would be practical, I started packing supplies and alerting the riders to go with you,” he told F’nor when the account was finished. “Remember, we’ve only three days in this time in which to start you back ten Turns ago. We have no moments to spare. And we

must have many more .mature dragons ready to fight at Telgar in three days

time. So, though ten Turns will have passed for you, three days only will

elapse here. Lessa, your thought that the farm-bred might do better is

well-taken. We’re lucky that our recent Search for rider candidates for the

dragons Pridith will have come mainly from the crafts and farms. No problem

there. And most of the thirty-two are in their early teens.” “Thirty-two?”

F’nor exclaimed. “We should have fifty. The dragonets must have some choice,

even if we get the candidates used to the dragonets before they’re

hatched.” F’lar shrugged negligently. “Send back for more. You’ll have time, remember,” and F’lar chuckled as though he had started to add something and decided against it. F’nor had no time to debate with the weyrleader, for F’lar immediately launched on other rapid instructions. F’nor was to take his

own wingriders to help train the weyrlings. They would also take the forty

young dragons of Ramoth’s first clutch: Kylara with her queen Pridith, T’bor

and his bronze Piyanth. N’ton’s young bronze might also be ready to fly and

mate by the time Pridith was, so that gave the young queen two bronzes, at

least. “Suppose we’d found the continent barren?” F’nor asked, still puzzled by F’lar’s assurance. “What then?” “Oh, we’d’ve sent them back to, say, the High Reaches,” F’lar replied far too glibly, but quickly went on. “I should send on other bronzes, but I’ll need everyone else here to ride burrow-search on Keroon and Nerat. They’ve already unearthed several at Nerat. Vincet, I’m told, is close to heart attack from fright.” Lessa made a short comment on

that Hold Lord. “What of the meeting this morning?” F’nor asked,

remembering. “Never mind that now. You’ve got to start shifting between by

evening, F’nor.” Lessa gave the weyrleader a long hard look and decided she

would have to find out what had happened in detail very soon. “Sketch me some references, will you, Lessa?” F’lar asked. There was a definite plea in his eyes as he drew clean hide and a stylus to her. He wanted no questions from her now that would alarm F’nor. She sighed and picked up the drawing

tool. She sketched quickly, with one or two details added by F’nor until she

had rendered a reasonable map of the plateau they had chosen. Then, abruptly,

she had trouble focusing her eyes. She felt light-headed. “Lessa?” F’lar bent to her. “Everything’s … moving … circling …” and she collapsed backward into his arms. As F’lar raised her slight body into his arms, he exchanged an alarmed look with his half brother. “I’ll call for Manora,”

F’nor suggested. “How do you feel?” the weyrleader called after his

brother. “Tired but no more than that,” F’nor assured him as he shouted down the service shaft to the kitchens for Manora to come and for hot klah. He needed that, and no doubt of it. F’lar laid the Weyrwoman on the sleeping couch, covering her gently. “I don’t like this,” he muttered, rapidly

recalling what F’nor had said of Kylara’s decline, which F’nor could not know

was yet to come in his future. Why should it start so swiftly with

Lessa? “Time-jumping makes one feel slightly” F’nor paused, groping for the exact wording. “Not entirely … whole. You fought between times at Nerat yesterday… .” “I fought,” F’lar reminded him, “but neither you nor Lessa battled anything today. There may be some inner …mental … stress simply to going between times. Look, F’nor, I’d rather only you came back once you reach the southern Weyr. I’ll make it an order and get Ramoth to inhibit

the dragons. That way no rider can take it into his head to come back even if

he wants to. There is some factor that may be more serious than we can guess.

Let’s take no unnecessary risks.” “Agreed.” “One other detail, F’nor. Be very careful which times you pick to come back to see me. I wouldn’t jump between too close to any time you were actually here. I can’t imagine what would happen if you walked into your own self in the passageway, and I can’t

lose you.” With a rare demonstration of affection, F’lar gripped his half

brother’s shoulder tightly. “Remember, F’nor. I was here all morning and you did not arrive back from the first trip till mid-afternoon. And remember, too, we have only three days. You have ten Turns.” F’nor left, passing Manora in the hall. The woman could find nothing obviously the matter with Lessa, and

they finally decided it might be simple fatigue; yesterday’s strain when Lessa

had to relay messages between dragons and fighters followed by the disjointing

between times trip today. When F’lar went to wish the southern ventures a

good trip, Lessa was in a normal sleep, her face pale, but her breathing easy.

F’lar had Mnementh relay to Ramoth the prohibition he wished the queen to

instill in all dragonkind assigned to the venture. Ramoth obliged, but added

in an aside to bronze Mnementh, which he passed on to F’lar, that everyone

else had adventures while she, the Weyr queen, was forced to stay behind. No

sooner had the laden dragons, one by one, winked out of the sky above the Star

Stone than the young weyriing assigned to Nerat Hold as messenger came

gliding down, his face white with fear. “Weyrleader, many more burrows have

been found, and they cannot be burned out with fire alone. Lord Vincet wants

you.” F’lar could well imagine that Vincet did. “Get yourself some dinner, boy, before you start back. I’ll go shortly.” As he passed through to the sleeping quarters, he heard Ramoth rumbling in her throat. She had settled herself down to rest. Lessa still slept, one hand curled under her cheek, her

dark hair trailing over the edge of the bed. She looked fragile, childlike,

and very precious to him. F’lar smiled to himself. So she was jealous of

Kylara’s attentions yesterday. He was pleased and flattered.’ Never would

Lessa learn from him that Kylara, for all her bold beauty and sensuous nature,

did not have one tenth the attraction for him that the unpredictable, dark,

and delicate Lessa held. Even her stubborn intractableness, her keen and

malicious humor, added zest to their relationship. With a tenderness he could

never show her awake, F’lar bent and kissed her lips. She stirred and smiled,

sighing lightly in her sleep. Reluctantly returning to what must be done,

F’lar left her so. As he paused by the queen, Ramoth raised. her great,

wedge-shaped head; her many-faceted eyes gleamed with bright luminiscence as

she regarded the weyrleader. “Mnementh, please ask Ramoth to get in touch

with the dragonet at Fandarel’s crafthall. I’d like the Mastersmith to come

with me to Nerat. I want to see what his agenothree does to Threads.” Ramoth nodded her head as the dragon relayed the message to her. She has done so,

and the green dragon comes as soon as he can. Mnementh reported to his rider.

It is easier to do, this talking about, when Lessa is awake, he

grumbled. F’lar agreed heartily. It had been quite an advantage yesterday in

the battle and would be more and more of an asset. Maybe it would be better

if she tried to speak, across time, to F’nor … but no, F’nor had come

back. F’lar strode into the Council. Room, still hopeful that somewhere

within the illegible portions of the old Records was the one clue he so

desperately needed. There must be a way out of this impasse. If not the

southern venture, then something else. Something! Fandarel showed himself a

man of iron will as well as sinew; he looked calmly at the exposed tangle of

perceptibly growing Threads that writhed and intertwined obscenely. “Hundreds and thousands in this one burrow,” Lord Vincet of Nerat was exclaiming in a frantic tone of voice. He waved his hands distractedly around the plantation of young trees in which the burrow had been discovered. “These stalks are

already withering even as you hesitate. Do something! How many more young

trees will die in this one field alone? How many more burrows escaped dragon’s

breath yesterday? Where is a dragon to sear them? Why are you just standing

there?” F’lar and Fandarel paid no attention to the man’s raving, both

fascinated as well as revolted by their first sight of the burrowing stage of

their ancient foe. Despite Vincet’s panicky accusations, it was the only

burrow on this particular slope. F’lar did not like to, contemplate how many

more might have slipped through the dragons’ efforts and had reached Nerat’s

warm and fertile soil. If they had only had time enough to set out watchmen to

track the fall of stray clumps. They could, at least, remedy that error in

Telgar, Crom, and Ruatha in three days. But it was not enough. Not

enough. Fandarel motioned forward the two craftsmen who had accompanied him.

They were burdened with an odd contraption: a large cylinder of metal to which

was attached a wand with a wide nozzle. At the other end of the cylinder was

another short pipe-length and then a short cylinder with an inner plunger. One

craftsman worked the plunger vigorously, while the second, barely keeping’ his

hands steady, pointed the nozzle end toward the Thread burrow. At a nod from

this pumper, the man released a small knob on the nozzle, extending it

carefully away from him and over the burrow. A thin spray danced from the

nozzle and drifted down into the burrow. No sooner had the spray motes

contacted the Thread tangles than steam hissed out of the burrow. Before long,

all that remained of the pallid writhing tendrils was a smoking mass of

blackened strands. Long after Fandarel had waved the craftsmen back, he stared

at the grave. Finally he grunted and found himself a long stick with which he

poked and prodded the remains. Not one Thread wriggled, “Humph,” he grunted with evident satisfaction. “However, we can scarcely go around digging up every burrow. I need another.” With Lord Vincet a hand-wringing meaner in their wake, they were escorted by the junglemen to another undisturbed burrow

on the sea-side of the rainforest. The Threads had entered the earth by the

side of a huge tree that was already drooping. With his prodding stick

Fandarel made a tiny hole at the top of the burrow and then waved his

craftsmen forward. The pumper made vigorous motions at his end, while the

nozzle-holder adjusted his pipe before inserting it in the hole. Fandarel gave

the sign to start and counted slowly before he waved a cutoff. Smoke oozed out

of the tiny hole. After a suitable lapse of time, Fandarel ordered the

junglemen to dig, reminding them to be careful not to come in contact with the

agenothree liquid. When the burrow was uncovered, the acid had done its work,

leaving nothing but a thoroughly charred mass of tangles. Fandarel grimaced

but this time scratched his head in dissatisfaction. “Takes too much time,

either way. Best to get them still at the surface,” the Mastersmith

grumbled. “Best to get them in the air,” Lord Vincet chattered. “And what will that stuff do to my young orchards? What will it do?” Fandarel swung around, apparently noticing the distressed Holder for the first time. “Little man, agenothree in diluted form is what you use to fertilize your plants in the spring. True, this field has been burned out for a few years, but it is not Thread-full. It would be better if we could get the spray up high in the

air. Then it would float down and dissipate harmlessly fertilizing very

evenly, too.” He paused, scratched his head gratingly. “Young dragons could carry a team aloft… . Hmmm. A possibility, but the apparatus is bulky yet.” He turned his back on the surprised Hold Lord then and asked F’lar if

the tapestry had been returned. “I cannot yet discover how to make a tube

throw flame. I got this mechanism from what we make for the orchard

farmers.” “I’m still waiting for word on the tapestry,” F’lar replied, “but this spray of yours is effective. The Thread .burrow is dead.” “The sandworms are effective too, but not really efficient,” Fandarel grunted in dissatisfaction. He beckoned abruptly to his assistants and stalked off into the increasing twilight to the dragons. Robinton awaited their return at the

Weyr, his outward calm barely masking his inner excitement. He inquired

politely, however, of Pandarel’s efforts. The Mastersmith grunted and

shrugged. “I have all my craft at work.” “The Mastersmith is entirely too modest,” F’lar put in. “He has already put together an ingenious device that sprays agenothree into Thread burrows and sears them into a black pulp.” “Not efficient. / like the idea of flamethrowers,” the smith said, his eyes gloaming in his expressionless face. “A thrower of flame,” he repeated, his eyes unfocusing. He shook his heavy head with a bone-popping crack. “I go,”

and with a curt nod to the harper and the Weyrleader, he left. “I like that

man’s dedication to an idea,” Robinton observed. Despite his amusement

with the man’s eccentric behavior, there was a strong undercurrent of respect

for the smith. “I must set my apprentices a task for an appropriate Saga on

the Mastersmith. I understand,” he said, turning to F’lar, “that the southern venture has been inaugurated.” F’lar nodded unhappily. “Your doubts increase?” “This between times travel takes its own toll,” he admitted, glancing anxiously toward the sleeping room. “The Weyrwoman is ill?” “Sleeping, but today’s journey affected her. We need another, less dangerous answer!” and F’lar Slammed one fist into the other palm. “I came with no real answer,” Robinton said then, briskly, “but with what I believe to be another part of the puzzle. I have found an entry. Four hundred Turns ago the then Masterharper was called to Fort Weyr not long after the Red Star retreated away from Pern in the evening sky.” “An entry? What is it?” “Mind you, the Thread attacks had just lifted and the Masterharper was called one late evening to Fort Weyr. An unusual supimons. However,” and Robinton emphasized the distinction by pointing a long, calloustipped finger at F’lar,

“no further mention is ever made of that visit. There ought to have been, for all such summonses have a purpose. All such meetings are recorded, yet no

explanation of this one is given. The record is taken up several weeks later

by the Masterharper as though he had not left his crafthall at all. Some ten

months afterward, the Question Song was added to compulsory Teaching

Ballads.” “You believe the two are connected with the abandonment of the five Weyrs?” “I do, but I could not say why. I only feel that the events, the visit, the disappearances, the Question Song, are connected.” F’lar poured them .both cups of wine. “I have checked back, too, seeking some indications.” He shrugged. “All must have been normal right up to the point they disappeared. There are Records of tithing trains received, supplies

stored, the list of injured dragons and men returning to active patrols. And

then the Records cease at full Cold, leaving only Benden Weyr occupied.” “And why that one Weyr of the six to choose from?” Robinton demanded. “Island Ista would be a better choice if only one Weyr was to be left. Benden so far north is not a likely place to pass four hundred Turns.” “Benden is high and isolated. A disease that struck the others and was prevented from reaching

Benden?” “And no explanation of it? They can’t all dragons, riders, weyrfolk have dropped dead on the same instant and left no carcasses rotting in the sun.” “Then let us ask ourselves, why was the harper called? Was he told to construct a Teaching Ballad covering this disappearance?” “Well,” Robinton snorted, “it certainly wasn’t meant to reassure us, not with that tuneif one cares to call it a tune at all, and I don’tnor does it answer any questions!

It poses them.” “For us to answer?” suggested F’lar softly. “Aye.”

Robinton’s eyes shone. “For us to answer, indeed, for it is a difficult song

to forget. Which means it was meant to be remembered. Those questions are

important, F’lar!” “Which questions are important?” demanded Lessa, who had entered quietly. Both men were on their feet. F’lar, with unusual

attentiveness, held a chair for Lessa and poured her wine. . “I’m not going

to break apart,” she said tartly, almost annoyed at the excess of courtesy.

Then she smiled up at F’lar to take the sting out of her words. “I slept and I feel much better. What were you two getting so intense about?” F’lar quickly outlined what he and the Masterharper had been discussing. When he mentioned the Question Song, Lessa shuddered. “That’s one I can’t forget, either.

Which, I’ve always been told,” and she grimaced, remembering the hateful

lessons with R’gul, “means it’s important. But why? It only asked questions.”

Then she biinked, her eyes went wide with amazement. ” ‘Gone away, gone …

ahead!’ ” she cried, on her feet. “That’s it! All five Weyrs went … ahead.

But to when?” F’lar turned to her, speechless. “They came ahead to our time!

Five Weyrs full of dragons,” she repeated in an awed voice. “No, that’s impossible,” F’lar contradicted. “Why?” Robinton demanded excitedly. “Doesn’t that solve the problem we’re facing? The need for fighting dragons? Doesn’t it explain why they left so suddenly with no explanation except that Question Song?” F’lar brushed back the heavy lock of hair that overhung his eyes. “It would explain their actions in leaving,” he admitted, “because they couldn’t leave any clues saying where they went, or it would cancel the whole thing.

Just as I couldn’t tell F’nor I knew the southern venture would have problems.

But how do they get hereif here is when they came? They aren’t here now. How

would they have known they were neededor when they were needed? And this is

the real problemhow can you conceivably give a dragon references to a when

that has not yet occurred?” “Someone here must go back to give them the proper references,” Lessa replied in a very quiet voice. “You’re mad, Lessa,”

F’lar shouted at her, alarm written on his face. “You know what happened to

you today. How can you consider going back to a when you can’t remotely

imagine? To a when four hundred Turns ago? Going back ten Turns left you

fainting and half-ill.” “Wouldn’t it be worth it?” she asked him, her eyes grave. “Isn’t Pern worth it?” F’lar grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her, his eyes wild with fear. “Not even Pern is woyth losing you, or Ramoth.

Lessa, Lessa, don’t you dare disobey me in this.” His voice dropped to an

intense, icy whisper, shaking with anger. “Ah, there may be a way of

effecting that solution, momentarily beyond us, Weyrwoman,” Robinton put in

adroitly. “Who knows what tomorrow holds? It certainly is not something one does without considering every angle.” Lessa did not shrug off F’lar’s viselike grip on her shoulders as she gazed at Robinton. “Wine?” the

Masterharper suggested, pouring a mug for her. His diversionary action broke

the tableau of Lessa and F’lar. “Ramoth is not afraid to try,” Lessa said, her mouth set in a determined line. F’lar glared at the golden dragon who was regarding the humans, her neck curled around almost to the shoulder joint of her great wing. “Ramoth is young,” F’lar snapped and then caught Mnementh’s wry thought even as Lessa did. She threw her head back, her peal of laughter echoing in the vaulting chamber. “I’m badly in need of a good joke myself,”

Robinton remarked pointedly. “Mnementh told F’lar that he was neither young

nor afraid to try, either. It was just a long step,” Lessa explained, wiping

tears from her eyes. F’lar glanced dourly at the passageway, at the end of

which Mnementh lounged on his customary ledge. A laden dragon comes, the

bronze warned those in the Weyr. it is Lytol behind young B’rant on brown

Fanth. “Now he brings his own bad news?” Lessa asked sourly. “It is hard enough for Lytol to ride another’s dragon or come here at all, Lessa of Ruatha. Do not increase his torment one jot with your childishness,” F’lar

said sternly. Lessa dropped her eyes, furious with F’lar for speaking so to

her in front of Robinton. Lytol slumped into the queen’s weyr, carrying one

end of a large rolled rug. Young B’rant, struggling to uphold the other end,

was sweating with the effort. Lytol bowed respectfully toward Ramoth and

gestured the young brown rider to help him unroll their burden. As the immense

tapestry uncoiled, F’lar could understand why Masterweaver.Zurg had remembered

it. The colors, ancient though they undoubtedly were, remained vibrant and

undimmed. The subject matter was even more interesting. “Mnementh, send for

Fandarel. Here’s the model he needs for his flamethrower,” F’lar said. “That tapestry is Ruatha’s,” Lessa cried indignantly. “I remember it from my childhood. It hung in the Great Hall and was the most cherished of my Blood Line’s possessions. Where has it been?” Her eyes were flashing. “Lady, it is being returned to where it belongs,” Lytol said stolidly, avoiding her gaze.

“A masterweaver’s work, this,” he went on, touching the heavy fabric with reverent fingers. “Such colors, such patterning. It took a man’s life to set up the loom, a craft’s whole effort to complete, or I am no judge of true craftsmanship.” F’lar walked along the edge of the immense arras, wishing it could be hung to afford the proper perspective of the heroic scene. A flying formation of three wings of dragons dominated the upper portion of half the hanging. They were breathing flame as they dove upon gray, falling clumps of

Threads in the brilliant sky. A sky just that perfect autumnal blue, F’lar

decided, that cannot occur in warmer weather. Upon the lower slopes of the

hills, foliage was depicted as turning yellow from chilly nights. The slatey

rocks suggested Ruathan country. Was that why the tapestry had hung in Ruatha

Hall? Below, men had left the protecting Hold, cut into the cliff itself. The

men were burdened with the curious cylinders of which Zurg had spoken. The

tubes in their hands belched brilliant tongues of flame in long streams, aimed

at the writhing Threads that attempted to burrow in the ground. Lessa gave a

startled exclamation, walking right onto the tapestry, staring down at the

woven outline of the Hold, its massive door ajar, the details of its bronze

ornamentation painstakingly rendered in fine yarns. “I believe that’s the

design on the Ruatha Hold door,” F’lar remarked. “It is … and it isn’t,”

Lessa replied in a puzzled voice. Lytol glowered at her and then at the woven

door. “True. It isn’t and yet it is, and I went through that door a scant hour ago.” He scowled down at the door before his toes. “Well, here are the designs Fandarel wants to study,” F’lar said with relief, as he peered at the flamethrowers. Whether or not the smith could produce a working model from this woven one in time to help them three days hence F’lar couldn’t guess. But

if Fandarel could not, no man could. The Mastersmith was, for him, jubilant

over the presence of the tapestry. He lay upon the rug, his nose tickled by

the nap as he studied the details. He grumbled, moaned, and muttered as he sat

cross-legged to sketch and peer. “Has been done. Can be done. Must be done,”

he was heard to rumble. Lessa called for klah, bread, and meat when she

learned from young B’rant that neither he nor Lytol had eaten yet. She served

all the men, her manner gay and teasing. F’lar was relieved for Lytol’s sake.

Lessa even pressed food and klah on Fandarel, a tiny figure beside the mammoth

man, insisting that he come away from the tapestry and eat and drink before he

could return to his mumbling and drawing. Fandarel finally decided that he

had enough sketches and disappeared, to be flown back to his crafthold. “No

point in asking him when he’ll be back. He’s too deep in thought to hear,”

F’lar remarked, amused. “If you don’t mind, I shall excuse myself as well,”

Lessa said, smiling graciously to the four remaining around the table. “Good

Warder Lytol, young B’rant should soon be excused, too. He’s half asleep.” “I most certainly am not, Weyrlady,” B’rant assured .her hastily, widening his eyes with simulated alertness. Lessa merely laughed as she retreated into the sleeping chamber. F’lar stared thoughtfully after her. “I mistrust the

Weyrwoman when she uses that particularly docile tone of voice,” he said

slowly. “Well, we must all depart,” Robinton suggested, rising. “Ramoth is young but not that foolish,” F’lar murmured after the others had left. Ramoth slept, oblivious of his scrutiny. He reached for the consolation Mnementh could give him, without response. The big bronze was dozing on his ledge. Black, blacker, blackest, And cold beyond frozen things. Where is

between when there is naught To Life but fragile dragon wings? “I JUST want to see that tapestry back on the wall at Ruatha,” Lessa insisted to F’lar the next day. “I want it where it belongs.” They had gone to check on the injured and had had one argument already over F’lar’s having sent N’ton along with the southern venture. Lessa had wanted him to try riding another’s dragon. F’lar had preferred for him to learn to lead a wing of his own in the south, given

the Turns to mature in. He had reminded Lessa, in the hope that it might prove

inhibiting to any ideas she had about going four hundred Turns back, about

F’nor’s return trips, and he had borne down hard on the difficulties she had

already experienced. She had become very thoughtful, although she had said

nothing. Therefore, when Fandarel sent word that he would like to show F’lar

a new mechanism, the weyrleader felt reasonably safe in allowing Lessa the

triumph of returning the pur-loined tapestry to Ruatha. She went to have the

arras rolled and strapped to Ramoth’s back. He watched Ramoth rise with great

sweeps of her wide wings, up to the Star Stone before going between to Ruatha.

R’gul appeared on the ledge just then, reporting that a huge train of

firestone was entering the Tunnel. Consequently, busy with such details, it

was midmoming before he could get to see Fandarel’s crude and not yet

effective flamethrower … the fire did not “throw” from the nozzle of the tube with any force at all. It was late afternoon before he reached the Weyr again. R’gul announced sourly that F’nor had been looking for himtwice, in fact. “Twice?” “Twice, as I said. He would not leave a message with me for you.” R’gul was clearly insulted by F’nor’s refusal. By the evening meal, when there was still no sign of Lessa, F’lar sent to Ruatha to learn that she had indeed brought the tapestry. She had badgered and bothered the entire Hold

until the thing was properly hung. For upward of several hours she had sat and

looked at it, pacing its length occasionally. She and Ramoth had then taken to

the sky above the Great Tower and disappeared. Lytol had assumed, as had

everyone at Ruatha, that she had returned to Benden Weyr. “Mnementh,” F’lar bellowed when the messenger had finished. “Mnementh, where are

they?” Mnementh’s answer was a long time in coming. I cannot hear them, he

said finally, his mental voice soft and as full of worry as a dragon’s could

be. F’lar gripped the table with both hands, staring at the queen’s empty

weyr. He knew, in the anguished privacy of his mind, where Lessa had tried to

go. Cold as death, death-bearing, Stay and die, unguided. Brave and

braving, linger. This way was twice decided. BELOW THEM was Ruatha’s Great

Tower. Lessa coaxed Ramoth slightly to the left, ignoring the dragon’s acid

comments, knowing that she was excited, too. Thafs right, dear, this is

exactly the angle at which the tapestry illustrates the Hold door. Only when

that tapestry was designed, no one had carved the lintels or capped the door.

And there was no Tower, no inner Court, no gate. She stroked the surprisingly

soft skin of the curving neck, laughing to hide her own tense nervousness and

apprehension at what she was about to attempt. She told herself there were

good reasons prompting her action in this matter. The ballad’s opening phrase,

“Gone away, gone ahead,” was clearly a reference to between times. And the tapestry gave the required reference points for the jump between whens. Oh, how she thanked the Masterweaver who had woven that doorway. She must remember to tell him how well he had wrought. She hoped she’d be able to. Enough of

that. Of course, she’d be able to. For hadn’t the Weyrs disappeared? Knowing

they had gone ahead, knowing how to go back to bring them ahead, it was she,

obviously, who must go back and lead them. It was very simple, and only she

and Ramoth could do it. Because they already had. She laughed again,

nervously, and took several deep, shuddering breaths. “All right, my golden

love,” she murmured. “You have the reference. You know when I want to go. Take me between, Ramoth, between four hundred Turns.” The cold was intense, even more penetrating than she had imagined. Yet it was not a physical cold. It was the awareness of the absence of everything. No light. No sound. No touch. As

they hovered, longer, and longer, in this nothingness, Lessa recognized

full-blown panic of a kind that threatened to overwhelm her reason. She knew

she sat on Ramoth’s neck, yet she could not feel the great beast under her

thighs, under her hands. She tried to cry out inadvertently and opened her

mouth to … nothing … no sound in her own ears. She could not even feel

the hands that she knew she had raised to her own cheeks. I am here, she

heard Ramoth say in her mind. We are together, and this reassurance was all

that kept her from losing her grasp on sanity in that terrifying aeon of

unpassing, timeless nothingness. Someone had sense enough to call for

Robinton. The Masterharper found F’lar sitting at the table, his face deathly

pale, his eyes staring at the empty weyr. The craftmaster’s entrance, his calm

voice, reached F’lar in his shocked numbness. He sent others out with a

peremptory wave. “She’s gone. She tried to go back four hundred Turns,” F’lar said in a tight, hard voice. The Masterharper sank into the chair opposite the Weyrleader. “She took the tapestry back to Ruatha,” F’lar continued in that same choked voice. “I’d told her about F’nor’s returns. I told her how dangerous this was. She didn’t argue very much, and I know going between times had frightened her, if anything could frighten Lessa.” He banged the table

with an impotent fist. “I should have suspected her. When she thinks she’s

right, she doesn’t stop to analyze, to consider. She just does it!” “But she’s not a foolish woman,” Robinton reminded him slowly. “Not even she would jump between times without a reference point. Would, she?” ” ‘Gone away, gone ahead’that’s the only clue we have!” “Now wait a moment,” Robinton cautioned him, then snapped his fingers. “Last night, when she walked upon the tapestry, she was uncommonly interested in the Hall door. Remember, she discussed it with Lytol.” F’lar was on his feet and halfway down the passageway. “Come on, man, we’ve got to get to Ruatha.” Lytol lit every glow in the Hold for F’lar and Robrnton to examine the tapestry clearly. “She spent the afternoon just looking at it,” the Warder said, shaking his head. “You’re sure she has tried this incredible jump?” “She must have. Mnementh can’t hear either her or Ramoth anywhere. Yet he says he can get an echo from Canth many Turns away and in the Southern Continent.” F’lar stalked past the tapestry. “What is it about the door, Lytol? Think, man! It is much as it is now, save that there are no carved lintels, there is no outer Court or Tower …” “That’s it.

Oh, by the first Egg, it is so simple. Zurg said this tapestry is old. Lessa

must have decided it was four hundred Turns, and she has used it as the

reference point to go back between times.” “Why, then, she’s there and safe,”

Robinton cried, sinking with relief in a chair. “Oh, no, harper. It is not as easy as that,” F’lar murmured, and Robinton caught his stricken look and the despair echoed in Lytol’s face. “What’s the matter?” “There is nothing between,” F’lar said in a dead voice. “To go between places takes only as much time as for a man to cough three times. Between four hundred Turns… .” His voice trailed off. Who wills, Can. Who tries, Does. Who loves, Lives. THERE WERE voices that first were roars in her aching ears and then hushed beyond the threshold of sound. She gasped as the whirling, nauseating

sensation apparently spun her, and the bed which she felt beneath her, around

and around. She clung to the sides of the bed as pain jabbed through her head,

from somewhere directly in the middle of her skull. She screamed, as much in

protest at the pain as from the terrifying, rolling, whirling, dropping lack

of a solid ground. Yet some frightening necessity kept her trying to gabble

out the message she had come to give. Sometimes she felt Ramoth trying to

reach her in that vast swooping darkness that enveloped her. She would try to

cling to Ramoth’s mind, hoping the golden queen could lead her out of this

torturing nowhere. Exhausted, she would sink down, down, only to be torn from

oblivion by the desperate need to communicate. She was finally aware of a

soft, smooth hand upon her arm, of a liquid, warm and savory, in her mouth.

She rolled it around her tongue, and it trickled down her sore throat. A fit

of coughing left her gasping and weak. Then she experi-mentally opened her

eyes, and the images before her did not lurch and spin. “Who … are …

you?” she managed to croak. “Oh, my dear Lessa …” “Is that who I am?”

she asked, confused. “So your Ramoth tells us,” she was assured. “I am Mardra of Port Weyr.” “Oh, F’lar will be so angry with me,” Lessa moaned as her memory came rushing back. “He will shake me and shake me. He always shakes me when I disobey him. But I was right. I was right. Mardra? … Oh, that …

awful … nothingness,” and she felt herself drifting off into sleep, unable to resist that overwhelming urge. Comfortably, her bed no longer rocked

beneath her. The room, dimly lit by wallglows, was both like her own at Benden

Weyr and subtly different. Lessa lay still, trying to isolate that difference.

Ah, the weyr-walls were very smooth here. The room was larger, too, the

ceiling higher and curving. The furnishings, now that her eyes were used to

the dim light and she could distinguish details, were more finely crafted. She

stirred resUessly. “Ah, you’re awake again, mystery lady,” a man said. Light beyond the parted curtain flooded in from the outer weyr. Lessa sensed rather than saw the presence of others in the room beyond. A woman passed under the man’s arm, moving swiftly to .the bedside. “I remember you. You’re Mardra,”

Lessa said with surprise. “Indeed I am, and here is T’ton, Weyrleader at

Fort.” T’ton was tossing more glows into the wallbasket, peering over his

shoulder at Lessa to see if the light bothered her. “Ramoth!” Lessa

exclaimed, sitting upright, aware for the first time that it was not Ramoth’s

mind she touched in the outer weyr. “Oh, that one,” Mardra laughed with amused dismay. “She’ll eat us out of the Weyr, and even my Loranth has had to call the other queens to restrain her.” “She perches on the Star Stones as if she owned them and keens constantly,” T’ton added, less charitably. He cocked an ear. “Ha. She’s stopped.” “You can come, can’t you?” Lessa blurted out. “Come? Come where, my dear?” Mardra asked, confused. “You’ve been going on and on about our ‘coming,’ and Threads approaching, and the Red Star bracketed in the Eye Rock, and … my dear, don’t you realize the Red Star has been past Pern these two months?” “No, no, they’ve started. That’s why I came back between times…” “Back? Between times?” T’ton exclaimed, striding over to the bed, eyeing Lessa intently. “Could I have some klah? I know I’m not making much sense, and I’m not really awake yet. But I’m not mad or still sick, and this is rather complicated.” “Yes, it is,” Tton remarked with deceptive mildness. But he did call down the service shaft for klah. And he did drag a chair over to her bedside, settling himself to listen to her. “Of course you’re not mad,” Mardra soothed her, glaring at her weyrmate. “Or she wouldn’t ride a queen.” Tton had to agree to that. Lessa waited for the klah to come; when it did, she sipped gratefully at its stimulating warmth. Then she took a deep breath and began, telling them of the Long Interval between the dangerous passes of the Red Star: how the sole Weyr had fallen into

disfavor and contempt, how Jora had deteriorated and lost control over her

queen, Nemorth, so that, as the Red Star neared, there was no sud-den

increase in the size of clutches. How she had Impressed Ramoth to become

Benden’s Weyrwoman. How Flar had outwitted the dissenting Hold Lords the day

after Ramoth’s first mating flight and taken firm command of Weyr and

Pern, preparing for the Threads he knew were coming. She told her by now rapt

audience of her own first attempts to fly Ramoth and how she had inadvertently

gone back between time to the day Fax had invaded Ruath Hold. “Invade …

my family’s Hold?” Mardra cried, aghast. “Ruatha has given the Weyrs many famous Weyrwomen,” Lessa said with a sly smile at which T’ton burst out’

laughing. “She’s Ruathan, no question,” he assured Mardra. She told them of the situation in which dragonmen now found themselves, with an insufficient force to meet the Thread attacks. Of the Question Song and the great tapestry. “A tapestry?” Mardra cried, her hand going to her cheek in alarm.

“Describe it to me!” And when Lessa did, she saw at last belief in both their faces. “My father has just commissioned a tapestry with such a scene. He told me of it the other day because the last battle with the Threads was held over Ruatha.” Incredulous, Mardra turned to T’ton, who no longed looked amused.

“She must have done what she has said she’d done. How could she possibly know about the tapestry?” “You might also ask your queen dragon, and mine,” Lessa suggested. “My dear, we do not doubt you now,” Mardra said sincerely, “but it is a most incredible feat.” “I don’t think,” Lessa said, “that I would ever try it again, knowing what I do know.” “Yes, this shock makes a forward jump between times quite a problem if your F’lar must have an effective fighting force,” T’ton remarked. “You will come? You will?’ “There is a distinct possibility we will,” T’ton said gravely, and his face broke into a lopsided grin. “You said we left the Weyrs … abandoned them, in fact, and left no explanation. We went somewhere … somewhen, that is, for we are still here

now… .” They were all silent, for the same alternative occurred to them

simultaneously. The Weyrs had been vacant, but Lessa had no way of proving

that the five Weyrs reappeared in her time. “There must be a way. There must be a way,” Lessa cried distractedly. “And there’s no time to waste. No time at all!” T’ton gave a bark of laughter. “There’s plenty of time at this end of history, my dear.” They made her rest then, more concerned than she was that she had been ill some weeks, deliriously screaming that she was falling and could not see, could not hear, could not touch. Ramoth, too, they told her, had suffered from the appalling nothingness of a protracted stay between,

emerging above ancient Ruatha a pale yellow wraith of her former robust self.

The Lord of Ruatha Hold, Mardra’s father, had been. surprised out of his wits

by the appearance of a staggering rider and a pallid queen on his stone verge.

Naturally and luckily he had sent to his daughter at Fort Weyr for

help. Lessa and Ramoth had been transported to the Weyr, and the Ruathan Lord

kept silence on the matter. When Lessa was strong enough, T’ton called a

Council of Weyrleaders. Curiously, there was no opposition to going …

provided they could solve the problem of time-shock and find reference points

along the way. It did not take Lessa long to comprehend why the dragonriders

were so eager to attempt the journey. Most of them had been born during the

present Thread incursions. They had now had close to four months of unexciting

routine patrols and were bored with monotony. Training Games were pallid

substitutes for the real battles they had all fought. The Holds, which once

could not do dragonmen favors enough, were beginning to be indifferent. The

weyrleaders could see these incidents increasing as Thread-generated fears

receded. It was a morale decay as insidious as a wasting disease in Weyr and

Hold. The alternative which Lessa’s appeal offered was. better than a slow

decline in their own time. Of Benden, only the Weyrleader himself was privy to

these meetings. Because Beaden was the only Weyr in Lessa’s time, it must

remain ignorant, and intact, until her time. Nor could any mention be made of

Lessa’s presence, for that, too, was unknown in her Turn. She insisted that

they call in the Masterharper because her Records said he had been called. But

when he asked her to tell him the Question Song, she smiled and

demurred. “You’ll write it, or your successor will, when the Weyrs are found to be abandoned,” she told him. “But it must be your doing, not my repeating.” “A difficult assignment to know one must write a song that four hundred Turns later gives a valuable clue.” “Only be sure,” she cautioned him, “that it is a Teaching tune. It must not be forgotten, for it poses questions that I have to answer.” As he started to chuckle, she realized she had already given him a pointer. The discussions how to go so far safely with no sustained sense deprivations grew heated. There were more constructive notions, however impractical, on how to find reference points along the way.

The five Weyrs had not been ahead in time, and Lessa, in her one gigantic

backward leap, had not stopped for intermediate time marks. “You did say that a between times jump of ten years caused no hardship?” T’ton asked of Lessa as all the weyrleaders and the Masterharper met to discuss this impasse. “None.

It takes … oh, twice as long as a between places jump.” “It is the four hundred Turn leap that left you imbalanced. Hmmm. Maybe twenty or twenty-five Turn segments would be safe enough.” That suggestion found merit until Ista’s cautious leader, D’ram, spoke up. “I don’t mean to be a Hold-hider, but there is one possibility we haven’t mentioned. How do we know we made the jump between to Lessa’s time? Going between is a chancy business. Men go missing often. And Lessa barely made it here alive.” “A good point, D’ram,” Tton concurred briskly, “but I feel there is more to prove that we do-did-will-go forward. The clues, for one thingthey were aimed at Lessa. The very emergency that left five Weyrs empty sent her back to appeal for our help” “Agreed, agreed,” D’ram interrupted earnestly, “but what I mean is can you be sure we reached Lessa’s time? It hadn’t happened yet. Do we know it can?” T’ton was not the only one who searched his mind for an answer to that. All of a sudden he slammed both hands, palms down, on the table. “By the Egg, it’s die slow, doing nothing, or die quick, trying. I’ve had a surfeit of the quiet life we dragonmen must lead after the Red Star passes till we go between in old age. I confess I’m almost sorry to see the Red Star dwindle farther from us in the

evening sky. I say, grab the risk with both hands and shake it till it’s gone.

We’re dragonmen, aren’t we, bred to figh’ the Threads? Let’s go hunting …

four hundred Turns ahead!” Lessa’s drawn face relaxed. She had recognized the validity of D’ram’s alternate possibility, and it had touched off bitter fear in her heart. To risk herself was her own responsibility, but to risk these hundreds of men. and dragons, the Weyrfolk who would accompany their men …

? T’ton’s ringing words for once and all dispensed with that

consideration. “And I believe,” the Masterharper’s exultant voice cut through the answering shouts of agreement, “I have your reference points.” A smile of surprised wonder illuminated his face. “Twenty Turns or twenty hundred, you have a guide! And T’ton said it. As tha Red Star dwindles in the evening sky…” Later, as they plotted the orbit of the Red Star, they found how easy that solution actually was and chuckled that their ancient foe should be their guide. Atop Fort Weyr, as on all the Weyrs, were great stones. They were so placed that at certain times of the year they marked the approach and retreat

of the Red Star, as it orbited in its erratic two hundred Turn-long course

around their sun. By consulting the Records which, among other morsels of

information, included the Red Star’s wanderings, it was not hard to plan jumps

between of twenty-five Turns for each Weyr. It had been decided that the

complement of each separate Weyr would jump between above its own base, for

there would unquestionably be accidents if close to eighteen hundred laden

beasts tried it at one point. Each moment now was one too long away from her

own time for Lessa. She had been. a month away from F’lar and missed him more

than she had thought possible. Also, she was worried that Ramoth would mate

away from Mnementh. There were, to be sure, bronze dragons and bronze riders

eager to do that service, but Lessa had no interest in them. T’ton and Mardra

occupied her with the many details in organizing the exodus, so that no clues,

past the tapestry and the Question Song that would be composed at a later

date, remained in the Weyrs. It was with a relief close to tears that Lessa

urged Ramoth upward in the night sky to take her place near T’ton and Mardra

above the Fort Weyr Star Stone. At five other Weyrs great wings were ranged in

formation, ready to depart their own times. As each Weyrleader’s dragon

reported to Lessa that all were ready, reference points determined by the Red

Star’s travels in mind, it was this traveler from the future who gave the

command to jump between. The blackest night must end in dawn, The sun dispel

the dreamer’s fear: When shall my soul’s black, hopeless pain Find solace in

its darkening Weyr? THEY HAD made eleven jumps between, the Weyrleaders’

bronzes spe.”king to Lessa as they rested briefly between each jump. Of the

eighteen hundred-odd travelers, only four failed to come ahe d. and they had

been older beasts. All five sections agreed to pause for a quick meal and hot

klah before the final jump, which would be but twelve Turns. “It is easier,”

T’ton commented as Mardra served the klah, “to go twcny-five Turns than

twelve.” He glanced up at the Red Dawn Star, their winking and faithful guide.

“It does not alter its position as much. I count on you, Lessa, to give us

additional references.” “I want to get us back to Ruatha before F’lar

discovers I have gone ” Shs shivered as she looked up at the Red Star and

sipped hast’ly at the hot klah. “I’ve seen the Star just like that, once …

no, twice … before at Ruatha.” She stared at T’ton, her throat

constricting as she remembered that morning: the fma she had decided that the

Red Star was a menace to her, three days after which Fax and F’lar had

appeared at Ruatha lo!d. Fax had died on F’lar’s dagger, and she had gone to

Benden Weyr. She felt suddenly dizzy, weak, strangely unsettled. She had not

felt this way as they paused between other jumps. “Are you all right, Lessa?”

Mardra asked with concern. “You’re so white. You’re shaking.” She put her arm around Lessa, glancing, concerned, at her Weyrmate. “Twelve Turns ago I was at Ruatha,” Lessa murmured, grasping Mardra’s hand for support. “I was at Ruatha twice. Let’s go on quickly. I’m too many in this morning. I must get back. I must get back to F’lar. He’ll be so angry.” The note of hysteria in her voice alarmed both Mardra and T’ton. Hastily the latter gave orders for

the fires to be extinguished, for the Weyrfolk to mount and prepare for the

final jump ahead. Her mind in chaos, Lessa transmitted the references to the

other Weyrleaders’ dragons: Ruatha in the evening light, the Great Tower, the

inner Court, the land at springtime… . A fleck of red in a cold night

sky, . A drop of blood to guide them by, Turn away. Turn away. Turn, be

gone, A Red Star beckons the travelers on. BETWEEN THEM, Lytol and Robinton

forced F’lar to eat, deliberately plying him with wine. At the back of his

mind F’lar knew he would have to keep going, but the effort was immense, the

spirit gone from him. It was no comfort that they still had Pridith and Kylara

to continue dragonkind, yet he delayed sending someone back for F’nor, unable

to face the reality of that admission: that in sending for Pridith and Kylara,

he had acknowledged the fact that Lessa and Ramoth would not return. Lessa,

Lessa, his mind cried endlessly, damning her one moment for her reckless,

thoughtless daring, loving her the next for attempting such an incredible

feat. “I said, F’lar, you need sleep now more than wine.” Robinton’s voice penetrated his preoccupation. F’lar looked at him, frowning in perplexity. He realized that he was trying to lift the wine jug that Robinton was holding firmly down. “What did you say?” “Come. I’ll bear you company to Benden.

Indeed, nothing could persuade me to leave your side. You have aged years,

man, in the course of hours.” “And isn’t it understandable?” F’lar shouted, rising to his feet, the impotent anger boiling out of him at the nearest target in the form of Robinton. Robinton’s eyes were full of compassion as he reached for F’lar’s arm, gripping it tightly. “Man, not even this

Masterharper has words enough to express the sympathy and honor he has for

you. But you must sleep; you have tomorrow to endure, and the tomorrow after

that you have to fight. The dragonmen must have a leader… .” His voice

trailed off. “Tomorrow you must send for F’nor … and Pridith.” F’lar pivoted on his heel and strode toward the fateful door of Ruatha’s great

hall. Oh, Tongue, give sound to joy and sing Of hope and promise On

dragonwing. BEFORE THEM loomed Ruatha’s Great Tower, the high walls of the

Outer Court clearly visible in the fading light. The claxon rang violent

summons into the air, barely heard over the earsplitting thunder as hundreds

of dragons appeared, ranging in full fighting array, wing upon wing, up and

down. the valley. A shaft of light stained the flagstones of the Court as the

Hold door opened. Lessa ordered Ramoth down, close to the Tower, and

dismounted, running eagerly forward to greet the men who piled out of the

door. She made out the stocky figure of Lytol, a handbasket of glows held high

above his head. She was so relieved to see him that she forgot her previous

antagonism to the Warder. “You misjudged the last jump by two days, Lessa,”

he cried as soon as he was near enough for her to hear him over the noise of

settling dragons. “Misjudged? How could I?” she breathed. T’ton and Mardra came up beside her. “No need to worry,” Lytol reassured her, gripping her hands tightly in his, his eyes dancing. He was actually smiling at her. “You overshot the day. Go back between, return to Ruatha of two days ago. That’s all.” His grin widened at her confusion. “It is all right,” he repeated, patting her hands. “Take this same hour, the Great Court, everything, but visualize F’lar, Robinton, and myself here on the flagstones. Place Mnementh on the Great Tower and a blue dragon on the verge. Now go.” Mnementh? Ramoth queried Lessa, eager to see her Weyrmate. She ducked her great head, and her huge eyes gleamed with scintillating fire. “I don’t understand,” Lessa wailed. Mardra slipped a comforting arm around her shoulders. “But I do, I do trust me,” Lytol pleaded, patting her shoulder awkwardly and glancing at T’ton for support. “It is as F’nor has said. You cannot be several places in time without experiencing great distress, and when you stopped twelve Turns back, it threw Lessa all to pieces.” “You know that?” T’ton cried. “Of course.

Just go back two days. You see, I know you have. I shall, of course, be

surprised then, hut now, tonight, I know you reappeared two days earlier. Oh,

go. Don’t argue. F’lar was half out of his mind with worry for you.” “He’ll shake me,” Lessa cried, like a little girl. “Lessa!” T’ton took her by the hand and led her back to Ramoth, who crouched so her rider could mount. T’ton took complete charge and had his Fidranth pass the order to return to the references Lytol had given, adding by way of Ramoth, a description of the

humans and Mnementh. The cold of between restored Lessa to herself, although

her error had badly jarred her confidence. But then there was Ruatha again.

The dragons happily arranged themselves in tremendous display. And there,

silhouetted against the light from the Hall, stood Lytol, Robinton’s tall

figure, and … F’lar. Mnementh’s voice gave a brassy welcome, and Ramoth

could not land Lessa quickly enough to go and twine necks with her mate. Lessa

stood where Ramoth had left her, unable to move. She was aware that Mardra and

T’ton were beside her. She was conscious only of F’lar, racing across the

Court toward her. Yet she could not move. He grabbed her in his arms, holding

her so tightly to him that she could not doubt the joy of his

welcome. “Lessa, Lessa,” his voice raggedly chanted in her ear. He pressed her face against his, crushing her to breathlessness, all his careful

detachment abandoned. He kissed her, bugged her, held her, and then kissed her

with rough urgency again. Then he suddenly set her on her feet and gripped

her shoulders. “Lessa, if you ever …” he said, punctuating each word with a flexing of his fingers, then stopped, aware of a grinning circle of

strangers surrounding them. “I told you he’d shake me,” Lessa was saying, dashing tears from her face. “But, F’lar, I brought them all … all but Benden Weyr. And that is why the five Weyrs were abandoned. I brought

them.” F’lar looked around him, looked beyond the leaders to the masses of

dragons settling in the valley, on the heights, everywhere he turned. There

were dragons, blue, green, bronze, brown, and a whole wingful of golden queen

dragons alone. “You brought the Weyrs?” he echoed, stunned. “Yes, this is Mardra and T’ton of Fort Weyr, D’ram and …” He stopped her with a little shake, pulling her to his side so he could see and greet the newcomers. “I am more grateful than you can know,” he said and could not go on with all the many words he wanted to add. T’ton stepped forward, holding out his hand, which F’lar seized and held firmly. “We bring eighteen hundred dragons,

seventeen queens, and all that is necessary to implement our Weyrs.” “And they brought fiamethrowers, too,” Lessa put in excitedly. “But to come …

to attempt it …” F’lar murmured in admiring wonder. T’ton and D’ram and

the others laughed. “Your Lessa showed the way …” “… with the Red Star to guide us …” she said. “We are dragonmen,” T’ton continued solemnly, “as you are yourself, F’lar of Benden. We were told there are Threads here to fight, and that’s work for dragonmen to do … in any time!” Drummer, beat, and piper, blow, Harper, strike, and soldier, go. Free the flame and sear the grasses Till the dawning Red Star passes. EVEN AS the five Weyrs had been settling around Ruatha Valley, F’nor had been compelled to bring forward in time his southern Weyrfolk. They had all reached the end of

endurance in double-time life, gratefully creeping back to quarters they had

vacated two days and ten Turns ago. R’gul, totally unaware of Lessa’s

backward plunge, greeted F’lar and his Weyrwoman, on their return to the Weyr,

with the news of F’nor’s appearance with seventy-two new dragons and the

further word that he doubted any of the riders would be fit to fight. “I’ve

never seen such exhausted men in my life,” R’gul rattled on, “can’t imagine what could have gotten into them, with sun and plenty of food and all, and no responsibilities.” F’lar and Lessa exchanged glances. “Well, the southern Weyr ought to be maintained, R’gul. Think it over.” “I’m a fighting dragonman, not a womanizer,” the old dragonrider grunted. “It’d take more than a trip between times to reduce me like those others.” “Oh, they’ll be themselves again in next to no time,” Lessa said and, to R’gul’s intense disapproval, she giggled. “They’ll have to be if we’re to keep the skies

Thread-free,” R’gul snapped testily. “No problem about that now,” F’lar assured him easily. “No problem? With only a hundred and forty-four dragons?” “Two hundred and sixteen,” Lessa corrected him firmly. Ignoring her, R’gul asked, “Has that Mastersmith found a flamethrower that’ll work?” “Indeed he has,” F’lar assured R’gul, grimmig broadly. The five Weyrs had also brought forward their equipment. Fandarel all but snatched examples from their backs and, undoubtedly, every hearth and smithy through the continent would be ready to duplicate the design by morning. T’ton had told

F’lar that, in his time, each Hold had ample flamethrowers for every man on

the ground. In the course of the Long Interval, however, the throwers must

have been either smelted down or lost as incomprehensible devices. D’ram,

particulariy, was very much interested in Fandarel’s agenothree sprayer,

considering it better than thrown-flame, since it would also act as a

fertilizer. “Well,” R’gul admitted gloomily, “a flamethrower or two will be some help day after tomorrow.” “We have found something else that will help a lot more,” Lessa remarked and then hastily excused herself, dashing into the sleeping quarters. The sounds that drifted past the curtain were either laughter or sobs, and R’gul frowned on both. That girl was just too young to

be Weyrwoman at such a time. No stability. “Has she realized how critical our situation is? Even with Fnor’s additions? That is, if they can fly?” R’gul demanded testily. “You oughtn’t to let her leave the Weyr at all.” F’lar ignored that and began pouring himself a cup of wine. “You once pointed out to me that the five empty Weyrs of Pern supported your theory that there would be no more Threads.” R’gul cleared his throat, thinking that apologieseven if they might be due from the Weyrleader were scarcely effective against the

Threads. “Now there was merit in that theory,” F’lar went on, filling a cup for R’gul. “Not, however, as you interpreted it. The five Weyrs were empty because they … they came here.” R’gul, his cup halfway to his lips,

stared at F’lar. This man also was too young to bear his responsibilities. But

… he seemed actually to believe what he was saying. “Believe it or not,

R’guland in a bare day’s time you willthe five Weyrs are empty no longer.

They’re here, in the Weyrs, in this time. And they shall join us, eighteen

hundred strong, the day after tomorrow at Telgar, with flamethrowers and with

plenty of battle experience.” R’gul regarded the poor man stolidly for a long moment. Carefully he put his cup down and, turning on his heel, left the weyr.

He refused to be an object of ridicule. He’d better plan to take over the

leadership tomorrow if they were to fight Threads the day after. The next

morning, when he saw the clutch of great bronze dragons bearing the

Weyrleaders and their wingleaders to the conference, R’gul got quietly

drunk. Lessa exchanged good mornings with her friends and then, smiling

sweetly, left the weyr, saying she must feed Ramoth. F’lar stared after her

thoughtfully, then went to greet Robinton and Fandarel, who had been asked to

attend the meeting, too. Neither Craftmaster said much, but neither missed a

word spoken. Fandarel’s great head kept swiveling from speaker to speaker, his

deep-set eyes blinking occasionally. Robinton sat with a bemused smile on his

face, utterly delighted by ancestral visitors. Flar was quickly talked out of

resigning his titular position as Weyrlieader of Benden on the grounds that he

was too inexperienced. “You did well enough at Nerat and Keroon. Well

indeed,” T’ton said. “You call twenty-eight men or dragons out of action good leadership?” “For a first battle, with every dragonman green as a hatchling?

No, man, you were on time at Nerat, however you got there,” and T’ton grinned maliciously at F’lar, “which is what a dragonman must do. No, that was well flown, I say. Well flown.” The other four Weyrleaders muttered complete agreement with that compliment. “Your Weyr is understrength, though, so

we’ll lend you enough odd-wing riders till you’ve gotten the Weyr up to full

strength again. Oh, the queens love these times!” And his grin broadened to

indicate that bronze riders did, too. F’lar returned that smile, thinking

that Ramoth was about ready for another mating flight, and this time, Lessa .

. . oh, that girl was being too deceptively docile. He’d better watch her

closely. “Now,” T’ton was saying, “we left with Fandarel’s crafthold all the flamethrowers we brought up so that the ground-men will be armed tomorrow.” “Aye, and my thanks,” Fandarel grunted. “We’ll turn out new ones in record time and return yours soon.” “Don’t forget to adapt that agenothree for air spraying, too,” D’ram put in. “It is agreed,” and T’ton glanced quickly around at the other riders, “that all the Weyrs will meet, full strength, three hours after dawn above Telgar, to follow the Threads’ attack across to Crom. By the way, F’lar, those charts of yours that Robinton showed

me are superb. We never had them.” “How did you know when the attacks would come?” T’ton shrugged. “They were coming so regularly even when I was a weyriing, you kind of knew when one was due. But this way is much, much better.” “More efficient,” Fandarel added approvingly. “After tomorrow, when all the Weyrs show up at Telgar, we can request supplies we need to stock the empty Weyrs,” T’ton grinned. “Like old times, squeezing extra tithes from .the Holders.” He rubbed his hands in anticipation. “Like old times.” “There’s the southern Weyr,” F’nor suggested. “We’ve been gone from there six Turns in this time, and the herdbeasts were left. They’ll have multiplied, and there’ll be all that fruit and grain.” “It would please me to see that southern venture continued,” F’lar remarked, nodding encouragingly at F’nor. “Yes, and continue Kylara down there, please, too,” F’nor added urgently, his eyes sparkling with irritation. They discussed sending for some immediate supplies

to help out the newly occupied Weyrs, and then adjourned the meeting. “It is a trifle unsettling,” T’ton said as he shared wine with Robinton, “to find that the Weyr you left the day before .in good order has become a dusty hulk.”

He chuckled. “The women of the Lower Caverns were a bit upset.” “We cleaned up those kitchens,” F’nor replied indignantly. A good night’s rest in a fresh time had removed much of his fatigue.-T’ton cleared his throat. “According to Mardra, no man can clean anything.” “Do you think you’ll be up to riding tomorrow, F’nor?” F’lar asked solicitously. He was keenly aware of the stress showing in his half brother’s face, despite his improvement overnight. Yet those strenuous Turns had been necessary, nor had they become futile even in hindsight with the arrival of eighteen hundred dragons from past time. When

F’lar had ordered F’nor ten Turns backward to breed the desperately needed

replacements, they had not yet brought to mind the Question Song or known of

the tapestry. “I wouldn’t miss that fight if I were dragonless,” F’nor

declared stoutly. “Which reminds me,” F’lar remarked, “we’ll need Lessa at Telgar tomorrow. She can speak to any dragon, you know,” he explained, almost apologetically, to T’ton and D’ram. “Oh, we know,” T’ton assured him. “And Mardra doesn’t mind.” Seeing F’lar’s blank expression, he added, “As senior Weyrwoman, Mardra, of course, leads the queens’ wing.” F’lar’s face grew blanker. “Queens’ wing?” “Certainly,” and T’ton and D’ram exchanged questioning glances at F’lar’s surprise. “You don’t keep your queens from fighting, do you?” “Our queens? T’ton, we at Benden have had only one queen dragon at a time for so many generations that there are those who denounce the legends of queens in battle as black heresy!” T’ton looked rueful. “I had not truly realized till this instant how small your numbers were.” But his enthusiasms overtook him. “Just the same, queens are very useful with flamethrowers. They get clumps other riders might miss. They fly in low,

under the main wings. That’s one reason D’ram’s so interested in the

agenothree spray. Doesn’t singe the hair off the Holders’ heads, so to speak,

and is far better over tilled fields.” “Do you mean to say that you allow your queens to fly against Threads?” F’lar ignored the fact that F’nor was grinning, and T’ton, too. “Allow?” D’ram bellowed. “You can’t stop them.

Don’t you know your Ballads?” ” ‘Moreta’s Ride’?” “Exactly.” F.nor laughed aloud at the expression on F’lar’s face as he irritably pulled the hanging forelock from his eyes. Then, sheepishly, he began to grin. “Thanks. That gives me an idea.” He saw his fellow weyrleaders to their dragons, waved

cheerfully to Robinton and Fandarel, more lighthearted than he would have

thought he’d be the morning before the second battle. Then he asked Mnementh

where Lessa might be. Bathing, the bronze dragon replied. F’lar glanced at

the empty queen’s weyr. Oh, Ramoth is on the Peak, as usual. Mnementh sounded

aggrieved. F’lar heard the sound of splashing in the bathing room suddenly

cease, so he called down for hot klah. He was going to enjoy this. “Oh, did

the meeting go well?” Lessa asked sweetly as she emerged from the bathing

room, drying-cloth wrapped tightly around her slender figure. “Extremely. You realize, of course, Lessa, that you’ll be needed at Telgar?” She looked at him intently for a moment before she smiled again. “I am the only Weyrwoman who can speak to any dragon,” she replied archly. “True,” F’lar admitted blithely. “And no longer the only queen’s rider in Benden… .” “I hate you!” Lessa snapped, unable to evade F’lar as he pinned her cloth-swathed body to his. “Even when I tell you that Fandarel has a flamethrower for you so you can join the queens’ wing?” She stopped squirming in his arms and stared at him, disconcerted that he had outguessed her. “And that Kylara will be installed as Weyrwoman in the south … in this time? As Weyrleader, I need

my peace and quiet between battles… .” The cloth fell from her body to

the floor as she responded to his kiss as ardently as if

dragon-roused. From the Weyr and from the Bowl, Bronze and brown and blue

and green Rise the dragonmen of Pern, Aloft, on wing; seen, then

unseen. RANGED ABOVE the Peak of Benden Weyr, a scant three hours after dawn,

two hundred and sixteen dragons held their formations as F’lar on bronze

Mnementh inspected their ranks. Below in the Bowl were gathered all the

Weyrfolk and some of those injured in the first battle. All the Weyrfolk, that

is, except Lessa and Ramoth. They had gone on to Fort Weyr where the queens’

wing was assembling. F’lar could not quite suppress a twinge of concern that

she and Ramoth would be fighting, too. A holdover, he knew, from the days when

Pern had only one queen. If Lessa could jump four hundred Turns between and

lead five Weyrs back, she could take care of herself and her dragon against

Threads. He checked to be sure that every man was well loaded with firestone

sacks, that each dragon was in good color, especially those in from the

southern Weyr. Of course, the dragons were fit, but the faces of the men still

showed evidences of the temporal strains they had endured. He was

procrastinating, and the Threads would be dropping in the skies of Telgar. He

gave the order to go between. They reappeared above, and to the south of

Telgar Hold itself, and were not the first arrivals. To the west, to the

north, and yes, to the east now, wings arrived until the horizon was patterned

with the great V’s of several thousand dragon wings. Faintly he heard the

claxon bell on Telgar Hold Tower as the unexpected dragon strength was

acclaimed from the ground. “Where is she?” F’lar demanded of Mnementh. “We’ll need her presently to relay orders …” She’s coming, Mnementh interrupted him. Right above Telgar Hold another wing appeared. Even at .this distance, F’lar could see the difference: the golden dragons .shone in the bright morning sunlight. A hum of approval drifted down the dragon ranks, and despite

his fleeting worry, F’lar grinned with proud indulgence at the glittering

sight. Just then the eastern wings soared straight upward in the sky as the

dragons became instinctively aware of the presence of their ancient

foe. Mnementh raised his head, echoing back the brass thunder of the war cry.

He turned his head, even as hundreds of other beasts turned to receive

firestone from their riders. Hundreds of great jaws masticated the stone,

swallowed it, their digestive acids transforming dry stone into

flame-producing gases, igniting on contact with oxygen. Threads! F’lar could

see them clearly now against the spring sky. His pulses began to quicken, not

with apprehension, but with a savage joy. His heart pounded unevenly.

Mnementh demanded more stone and began to speed up the strokes of his wings in

the air, gathering himself to leap upward when commanded. The leading Weyr

already belched gouts of orange-red flame into the pale blue sky. Dragons

winked in and out, flamed and dove. The great golden queens sped at

cliff-skimming height to cover what might have been missed. Then F’lar

gave the command to gain altitude to meet the Threads halfway in their

abortive descent. As Mnementh surged upward, F’lar shook his fist defiantly at

the winking Red Eye of the Star. “One day,” he shouted, “we will not sit tamely here, awaiting your fall. We will fall on you, where you spin, and sear you on your own ground.” By the Egg, he told himself, if we can travel four hundred Turns backward and across seas and lands in the blink of an eye, what

is travel from one world to another but a different kind of step? F’lar

grinned to himself. He’d better not mention that audacious notion in

Lessa’s presence. Clumps ahead, Mnementh warned him. As the bronze

dragon charged, flaming, F’lar tightened his knees on the massive neck.

Mother of us all, he was glad that now, of all times, he, F’lar, rider of

bronze Mnementh, was a dragonman of Pern!travel from one world to another but

a different kind of step? F’lar grinned to himself. He’d better not mention

that audacious notion in Lessa’s presence. Clumps ahead, Mnementh warned

him. As the bronze dragon charged, flaming, F’lar tightened his knees on the

massive neck. Mother of us all, he was glad that now, of all times

conceivable, he, F’lar, rider of bronze Mnementh, was a dragonman of Pern I

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