“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’d 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 yourself…”
“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 which 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 venturers 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 weyrling 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 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 for the night.
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 would 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 luminescence 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 bronze dragon relayed the message to her.
She has done so and the green dragon will come 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 thankful that Lessa could talk to any dragon in the Weyr. 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 to reach 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 towards the Thread burrow. At a nod from his 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 remain
s. 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 moaner in their wake, they were escorted by the junglemen to another undisturbed burrow on the seaside of the rainforest. The Threads had entered the earth by the side of a huge tree which 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 round, 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…Hm-m-m. 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,” 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 Fandarel’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. I like the idea of flamethrowers,” the Smith said, his eyes gleaming 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 towards 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 summons. However,” and Robinton emphasized the distinction by pointing a long, callus-tipped 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 afterwards, 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 tithe 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. “Nerat, in the tropics, or island Ista would be better choices 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 tune—if one cares to call it a tune at all, and I don’t—nor does it answer any questions! It poses them.”
“For us to answer?” suggested F’lar softly.
“Aye,” and 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 blinked, 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 sou
thern venture would have problems. But how do they get here—if here is when they came. They aren’t here now. And how would they have known they were needed—or when they were needed? And this is the real problem, how 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 worth 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 vice-like 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 round 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 vaulted 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.
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