“You all know what Thread does to a man. And you know what happens when a dragon dies. Or must I remind you of that, too? Do you honestly believe that the dragonriders wish to prolong such conditions, such occurrences? What do they get out of it? Not much! Not much! Are the scores they suffer worth a few bags of grain, or a blade from the Smith’s? Is a dragon’s death truly recompensed by a length of goods or a scrawny herdbeast?
“And if there have been instruments for man with his puny eyes to view that bauble in the sky, why do we still have Thread? If it’s just a question of finding coordinates and taking that jump? Could it be that it has been tried by dragonriders before? And they failed because those gray masses we see so clearly are not water, or land, but uncountable Threads, seething and writhing, until the topmost can, by some mysterious agency, win free to plague us? Could it be because, although there are clouds, they do not consist of water vapor as Pern’s clouds, but something deadly, far more inimical to us than Thread? How do we know we will not find the bones of long-lost dragons and riders in the dark blots of the planet? There is so much we do not know that, yes, I think it wiser that we keep this distance between us. But I think the time for wisdom is now past and we must rely on the folly of the brave and hope that it will suffice them and us. For I do believe,” and the Harper turned slowly toward Lessa, “though my heart is heavy and I am scared soulless, that the dragonmen of Pern will go to the Red Star.”
“That is F’lar’s intention,” Lessa said in a strong, ringing voice, her head high, her shoulders straight. Unlike the Harper, she could not admit her fear, even to herself.
“Aye,” rumbled Fandarel, nodding his great head slowly up and down, “for he has enjoined me and Wansor to make many observations on the Red Star so that an expedition can be sent as soon as possible.”
“And how long must we wait until this expedition takes place?” Meron asked, as if the Harper’s words had never been spoken.
“Come now, man, how can you expect anyone to give a date—a time?” asked Groghe.
“Ah, but Benden Weyr is so adept at giving times and dates and patterns, is it not?” Meron replied so unctuously that Lessa wanted to scratch his face.
“And they saved your profit, Nabol,” Oterel put in.
“Have you any idea, Weyrwoman?” Sangel asked Lessa in an anxious tone.
“I must complete the observations,” Wansor put in, nervously dithering. “It would be folly—madness—until we have seen the entire Red Star, and plot in the distinctive features of the various color masses. See how often the clouds cover it. Oh, there is much preliminary investigation to be done. And then, some kind of protective . . .”
“I see,” Meron broke in.
Would the man never cease smiling? And yet, Lessa thought, his irony might work in their favor.
“It could be a lifelong project,” he went on.
“Not if I know F’lar,” the Harper said dryly. “I’ve recently entertained the notion that Benden’s Weyrleader takes these latest vagaries of ancient scourge as a personal insult, since we had rather thought we’d got them neatly slotted in time and place.”
There was such good-humored raillery in the Harper’s tone that Oterel of Tillek gave a snort. Lord Groghe looked more thoughtful, probably not quite recovered from F’lar’s rebuttal the other day.
“An insult to Benden?” asked Sangel, baffled. “But his timetables were accurate for Turns. Used them myself and never found them wrong until just recently.”
Meron stamped his foot, his affected pose gone.
“You’re all fools. Letting the Harper sweet-talk you into complacency. We’ll never see the end of Thread. Not in his lifetime or ours. And we’ll be paying tithes to shiftless Weyrs, deferring to dragonriders and their women as long as this planet circles the sun. And there’s not one of you great Lords, not one, with the courage to force this issue. We don’t need dragonriders. We don’t need ’em. We’ve fire lizards which eat Thread . . .”
“Then shall I inform T’bor of the High Reaches Weyr that his wings need no longer patrol Nabol? I’m certain he would be relieved,” Lessa asked in her lightest, sweetest voice.
The Nabolese Lord gave her a look of pure hatred. The fire lizard gathered itself into a hissing launch position. A single clear note from Ramoth all but deafened those on the heights. The fire lizard disappeared with a shriek. Strangling on his curses, Meson stamped down the lighted path to the landing, calling harshly for his dragon. The green appeared with such alacrity that Lessa was certain Ramoth had summoned him, even as she had warned the little lizard against attacking Lessa.
“You wouldn’t order T’bor to stop patrolling Nabol, would you, Weyrwoman?” asked Nessel, Lord of Crom. “After all, my lands march with his . . .”
“Lord Nessel,” Lessa began, intending to reassure him that she had no such authority in the first place and in the second . . . “Lord Nessel,” she repeated instead, smiling at him, “you notice that the Lord of Nabol did not request it, after all. Though,” and the sighed with dramatic dedication. “we have been sorely tempted to penalize him for his part in the death of the two dragon queens.” She gave Nessel a wan, brave smile. “But there are hundreds of innocent people on his lands, and many more about him, who cannot be permitted to suffer because of his—his—how shall I phrase it—his turn behavior.”
“Which leads me to ask,” Groghe said, hastily clearing his throat. “what is being done with that—that Kylara woman?”
“Nothing,” Lessa said in a flat hard voice, trusting that would end the matter.
“Nothing?” Groghe was incensed. “She caused the death of two queens and you’re doing nothing . . .”
“Are the Lord Holders doing anything about Meson?” she asked, glancing sternly at the four present. There was a long silence. “I must return to Benden Weyr. The dawn and another day’s watch come all too soon there. We’re keeping Wansor Fandarel from the observations that will make it possible for us to go to that Star.”
“Before they monopolize the thing, I’d like another look,” Oterel of Tillek said loudly. “My eyes are keen . . .”
Lessa was tired as she called Ramoth to her. She wanted go back to Benden Weyr, not so much to sleep as to Benden herself about F’lar. Mnementh was with him, true, and he’d have reported any change in his rider’s condition . . .
And I’d’ve told you Ramoth said, sounding a little
“Lessa,” the Harper’s low voice reached her, “are you in favor of that expedition?”
She looked up at him, his face lighted by the path glows. His expression was neutral and she wondered if he’d really meant what he’d said back at the Star Rocks. He disabled so easily, and so often against his own inclination, that she sometimes wondered what his candid thoughts were.
“It scares me. It scares me because it seems so likely that must someone must have tried. Sometime. It just doesn’t seem logical . . .”
“Is there any record that anyone, besides yourself, ever jumped so far between times?”
“No.” She had to admit it. “Not so far. But then, there hadn’t been such need.”
“And there’s no need now to take this other kind of a jump?”
“Don’t unsettle me more.” Lessa was unsure of what she felt or thought, or what anyone felt or thought, should or shouldn’t do. Then she saw the kind, worried expression of the Harper’s eyes and impulsively gripped his arm. “How can we know? How can we be sure?”
“How were you sure that the Question Song could be answered—by you?”
“And you’ve a new Question Song for me?”
“Questions, yes.” He gave her a smile as he covered her hand gently with his own. “Answer?” He shook his head and then stepped back as Ramoth alighted.
But his questions were as difficult to forget as the Question Song which had led her between time. When she returned to Benden, she found that F’lar’s skin was hot to the touch; he slept restlessly. So much so that, although Lessa w
illed herself to sleep beside him on the wide couch, she couldn’t succeed. Desperate for some surcease from her fears—for F’lar, of the intangible unknown ahead—she crept from their couch and into the weyr. Ramoth roused sleepily and arranged her front legs in a cradle. Lulled by the warm, musty comfort of her dragon, Lessa finally did sleep.
By the morning, F’lar was no better, querulous with his fever and worried about her report on the viewing.
“I can’t imagine what you expected me to see,” she said with some exasperation after she had patiently described for the fourth time what she had seen through the distance-viewer.
“I expected,” and he paused significantly, “to find some—some characteristic for which the dragons could fly between.” He plucked at the bed fur, then pulled the recalcitrant forelock back from his eyes. “We have got to keep that promise to the Lord Holders.”
“Why? To prove Meron wrong?”
“No. To prove it is or is not possible to get rid of Thread permanently.” He scowled at her as if she should have known the answer.
“I think someone else must have tried to discover that before,” she said wearily. “And we still have Thread.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” he countered in such a savage tone that he began to cough, an exercise which painfully contracted the injured muscles across his waist.
Instantly Lessa was at his side, offering him distilled wine, sweetened and laced with fellis fruit juice.
“I want F’nor,” he said petulantly.
Lessa looked down at him for the coughing spasm had left him limp.
“If we can pry him away from Brekke.”
F’lar’s lips set in a thin line.
“You mean, only you, F’lar, Benden Weyrleader, can flout tradition?” she asked.
“That isn’t . . .”
“If it’s your pet project you’re worrying about, I had N’ton secure Thread . . .”
“N’ton?” F’lar’s eyes flew open in surprise.
“Yes. He’s a good lad and, from what I heard at Fort Weyr last night, very deft in being exactly where he is needed, unobtrusively.”
“And . . .?”
“And? Well, when the next queen at Fort Weyr rises, he’ll undoubtedly take the Leadership. Which is what you intended, isn’t it?”
“I don’t mean that. I mean, the Thread.”
Lessa felt her guts turn over at the memory. “As you thought, the grubs rose to the surface the instant we put the Thread in. Very shortly there was no more Thread.”
F’lar’s eyes shone and he parted his lips in a triumphant smile.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
At that, Lessa jammed both fists against her waist and awarded him one of her sternest looks.
“Because there have been a few other things to occupy my mind and time. This is not something we can discuss in open session, after all. Why, if even such loyal riders as . . .”
“What did N’ton say? Does he fully understand what I’m trying to do?”
Lessa eyed her Weyrmate thoughtfully. “Yes, he does, which is why I chose him to substitute for F’nor.”
That seemed to relieve F’lar, for he leaned back against the pillows with a deep sigh and closed his eyes. “He’s a good choice. For more than Fort Weyrleadership. He’d carry on. That’s what we need the most, Lessa. Men who think, who can carry on. That’s what happened before.” His eyes flew open, shadowed with a vague fear and a definite worry. “What time is it at Fort Weyr now?”
Lessa made a rapid calculation. “Dawn’s about four hours away.”
“Oh. I want N’ton here as soon as possible.”
“No wait a minute, F’lar, he’s a Fort rider . . .”
F’lar grabbed for her hand, pulling her down to him. “Don’t you see,” he demanded, his voice hoarse, his urgency frightening, “he’s got to know. Know everything I plan. Then, if something happens . . .”
Lessa stared at him, not comprehending. Then she was both furious with him for frightening her, irritated with his self-pity, and terrified that he might indeed be fatally ill.
“F’lar, get a grip on yourself, man,” she said, half-angry, half-teasing; he felt so hot.
He flung himself back down on the bed, tossing his head from side to side.
“This is what happened before. I know it I don’t care what he says, get F’nor here.”
Lioth is coming and a green from Telgar Mnementh announced.
Lessa took consolation from the fact that Mnementh didn’t seem the least bit distressed by F’lar’s ravings.
F’lar gave a startled cry, glaring accusingly at Lessa.
“Don’t look at me. I didn’t send for N’ton. It isn’t even dawn there yet.”
The green is a messenger and the man he bears is very excited, Mnementh reported, and he sounded mildly curious.
Ramoth, who had taken herself to the Hatching Ground after Lessa awakened, rumbled a challenge to bronze Lioth.
N’ton came striding down the passageway, accompanied by Wansor, certainly the last person Lessa expected to see. The rotund little man’s face was flushed with excitement, his eyes sparkling despite red rims and bloodshot whites.
“Oh, Weyrlady, this is the most exciting news imaginable. Really exciting!” Wansor babbled, shaking the large leaf under her nose. She had an impression of circles. Then Wansor saw F’lar. All the excitement drained out of his face as he realized that the Weyrleader was a very sick man. “Sir, I had no idea—I wouldn’t have presumed . . .”
“Nonsense, man,” F’lar said irritably. “What brings you? What have you there? Let me see. You’ve found a coordinate for the dragons?”
Wansor seemed so uncertain about proceeding that Lessa took charge, guiding the man to the bed.
“What’s this leaf mean? Ah, this is Pern, and that is the Red Star, but what are these other circles you’ve marked?”
“I’m not certain I know, my lady, but I discovered them while scanning the heavens last night—or this morning. The Red Star is not the only globe above us. There is this one, too, which became visible toward morning, didn’t it, N’ton?” The young bronze rider nodded solemnly but there was a gleam of amusement in his blue eyes for the glassman’s manner of exposition. “And very faintly, but still visible as a sphere, is this third heavenly neighbor, to our northeast, low on the horizon. Then, directly south—it was N’ton’s notion to look all around—we found this larger globe with the most unusual cluster of objects moving with visible speed about it. Why, the skies around Pern are crowded!” Wansor’s dismay was so ludicrous that Lessa had to stifle her giggle.
F’lar took the leaf from the glassman and began to study it while Lessa pushed Wansor onto the stool by the sick man. F’lar tapped the circles thoughtfully as though this tactile contact made them more real.
“And there are four stars in the skies?”
“Indeed there are many more, Weyrleader,” Wansor replied. “But only these,” and his stained forefinger pointed to the three newly discovered neighbors, “appear so far as globes in the distance-viewer. The others are merely bright points of light as stars have always been. One must assume, then, that these three are also controlled by our sun, and pass around it, even as we do. For I do not see how they could escape the force that tethers us and the Red Star to the sun—a force we know to be tremendous . . .”
F’lar looked up from the rude sketches, a terrible expression on his face.
“If these are so near, then does Thread really come from the Red Star?”
“Oh dear, oh dear,” moaned Wansor softly and began caressing his fingertips with his thumbs in little fluttery gestures.
“Nonsense,” said Lessa so confidently that the three men glanced at her in surprise. “Let’s not make more complications than we already have. The ancients who knew enough to make that distance-viewer definitely stipulate the Red Star as the origin of Thread. If it were one of these others, they’d have said so. It is when the Red Star
approaches Pern that we have Thread.”
“In that drawing in the Council Room at Fort Weyr there is a diagram of globes on circular routes,” N’ton said thoughtfully. “Only there are six circles and,” his eyes widened suddenly; he glanced quickly down at the sheet in Wansor’s hand, “. . . one of them, the next to the last, has clusters of smaller satellites.”
“Well, then, except that we’ve seen it with our own eyes, what’s all the worry?” demanded Lessa, grabbing up the klah pitcher and mugs to serve the newcomers. “We’ve only just discovered for ourselves what the ancients knew and inscribed on that wall.”
“Only now,” N’ton said softly, “we know what that design means.”
Lessa shot him a long look and nearly flooded Wansor’s cup.
“Indeed. The actual experience is the knowing, N’ton.”
“I gather you have both spent the night at that distance-viewer?” asked F’lar. When they nodded, he asked, “What of the Red Star? Did you see anything that could guide us in?”
“As to that, sir,” N’ton answered after a questioning glance at Wansor, “there is an odd-shaped protuberance which puts me in mind of the tip of Nerat, only pointed east instead of west—” His voice trailed off and he gave a different shrug of his shoulders.
F’lar sighed and leaned back again, all the eagerness gone from his face.
“Insufficient detail, huh?”
“Last night,” N’ton added in hurried qualification.
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