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 beyond 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 stumped 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 towards Ramoth and gestured the young brownrider 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 Bloodline’s possessions. Where has it been?” Her eyes were flashing.
“Lady, it is being returned 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 get 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 depicted, foliage was turning yellow from chilly nights. The slaty 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 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. After taking nourishment he could return to his mumbling and drawing.
Fandarel finally decided 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 been 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 years 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 bore down hard on the difficulties she had already experienced.
She had become very thoughtful although she had said nothing.
Therefore, when Fandarel sent word he would like to show F’lar a new mechanism, the Weyrleader felt reasonably safe in allowing Lessa the triumph of returning the purloined 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 at the ledge, just then, reporting that a huge train of firestone was entering the tunnel. Consequently, busy with such details, it was mid-morning 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 him, twice, in fact.
“Twice?”
“Twice, as I said. He would not leave a message with me for you,” and 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 upwards 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.
“That’s 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 the 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 eon 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 the 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. 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 Robinton 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, nor 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.
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,
Cans.
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, round and round. 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 experimentally 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 Fort 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. Comfortingly, 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 restlessly.
“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 M’ron, Weyrleader at Fort.”
M’ron 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,” M’ron
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?” M’ron 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,” M’ron 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.”
M’ron had to agree to that. Lessa waited for the klah to come, sipping gratefully at its stimulating warmth.
LESSA 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 sudden increase in the size of clutches. How she had Impressed Ramoth to become Benden’s Weyrwoman. How F’lar 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 times to the day Fax had invaded Ruath Hold.
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