K’tan gasped in surprise. “I hadn’t thought of that before.”
“I hadn’t either,” Lorana admitted.
Kindan raised his hands. “Nor I.”
K’tan stroked his chin thoughtfully. “But if you’re right, then we need to isolate the sick ones on the lowest levels.”
Lorana shook her head. “That won’t work,” she said. When the other two looked at her in surprise, she explained, “Because the riders still have to walk across the Bowl—and the dragons wash in the lake.”
“They could be getting it from the waters of the lake, then, couldn’t they?” Kindan said, with an apologetic look at Lorana for countering her theory.
Lorana’s shoulders slumped.
“They could. For that matter, they all eat the same food. The contagion could be spread through the herdbeasts.”
“There’s a map of the weyrs in the Weyrleader’s quarters, I believe,” K’tan said. “Given that any of these theories could be right, wouldn’t it make sense to see if we spot the pattern Lorana suggested?”
“It might,” Lorana agreed. “But if the weyrs aren’t grouped by wings, it probably won’t.”
K’tan gave her a questioning look.
“The dragons could infect each other while they’re training,” she explained sadly.
Kindan groaned. “So we’re no nearer than we were.”
K’tan shook his head. “No, I think there’s some progress—we have a number of good ideas we can follow.” He looked at Lorana. “When your father dealt with sick herdbeasts, what did he do?”
Lorana started to marshal the list of actions in her mind. Seeing that she was preparing a lengthy response, he interrupted her with an upraised palm.
“I mean, what did he do first?”
“He tried to isolate the sick from the healthy,” she said immediately. And then, as she registered the import of the words, she groaned. “Why didn’t we think of this earlier?”
“Because we’ve been too near the problem,” K’tan answered swiftly. “We’ve been too busy dealing with Thread and the day-to-day battle with the sickness.” He shook his head sadly. “M’tal’s off training.”
“Not anymore,” Lorana declared. “I just called Gaminth back.”
Kindan whistled in surprise at her forwardness.
“Now that’s acting like a Weyrwoman,” K’tan said approvingly.
“You were right to call me back,” M’tal said to Lorana when they had explained their purpose. “Fighting this illness is just as important as fighting Thread.”
They were gathered in the Council Room. At M’tal’s invitation, Salina had joined them. Kindan gave M’tal and Salina a quick review of their thinking.
Salina pointed to a slate chart and said, “Here’re the assignments for the riders.” She looked it over and sighed. “I’m afraid it’s not very up-to-date.”
She laid it on the table and the others looked it over. It was arranged by levels, with quarters numbered from the Weyrleader’s weyr.
K’tan found some colored chalks. He circled in red all those weyrs occupied by dragons that had gone between, and in yellow all those who were coughing.
Lorana pursed her lips unhappily. “That tells us how things are now,” she said. “What we want to know is the progression of the sickness.”
“Mm.” K’tan agreed. He went back and started putting numbers beside each illness. Salina’s Breth was, sadly, number one.
“But there were others sick before Breth,” Salina noted.
K’tan grunted agreement, dusted off some numbers and corrected them. They peered at the final arrangement.
“I don’t see a pattern,” Kindan said.
“Well, there wouldn’t be,” M’tal said after a long moment’s silence. “If the sickness is airborne and carried in the dragons’ sneezes, then the sickness would sink down into the Bowl. Because every dragon comes down to the Bowl at some point, they would breathe in the infected air.”
“Although some dragons sleep lower down and would be exposed to the infected air more,” K’tan commented.
M’tal accepted this point with a shrug.
“If the disease was spread by water, then every dragon would have an equal chance of catching it,” Kindan observed. He pointed to the distribution of the sick dragons. “The upper levels are less infected than the lower ones, so perhaps it is an airborne sickness.”
“You can’t rule out something in their food, either,” Salina countered.
Kindan nodded.
M’tal looked up at Lorana. “Gaminth said you had a plan. What was it?”
Lorana paused before answering. “I noticed repeated references to Fort Weyr. It seems that every time the Weyrleader encounters something extraordinary, there’s a trip made to Fort—”
“No,” M’tal said shaking his head. “I can guess what you’re thinking and we can’t risk it. No one knows how the sickness spreads and we don’t want to spread—”
“But the fact that more dragons have gotten sick since we imposed the quarantine indicates that however the sickness was first acquired, it’s being spread by our own dragons now,” K’tan interjected.
“Maybe our dragons can’t get sicker,” M’tal said, “but we can’t say whether Fort Weyr’s dragons could.” He shook his head. “It’s a risk I don’t want to take. And I can’t ask K’lior to take it, especially as he’s fighting his first Fall tomorrow.”
“Perhaps after?” Lorana suggested forlornly.
M’tal drew a loud, thoughtful breath. He let it out again in a sigh, shaking his head. “No.”
Kindan started to speak, but Lorana grabbed his arm, shaking her head. “Very well,” she said. “We’ll do what we can.”
“Have you heard from Masterharper Zist?” M’tal asked Kindan.
Kindan shook his head. “Not yet. I’ve got a weyrling up on the watch heights listening for the drums.”
“Perhaps he’ll have good news for us,” M’tal said wearily. He looked at the others. “Well, if that’s all, I think I’ll get back to B’nik’s training flight.”
“It’s time to do our rounds, anyway,” K’tan said, rising from his seat. He gestured to Lorana. “Coming?”
Lorana roused herself from her musings over the chart. “What? Oh, yes! I want to see Denorith’s wing.”
FOURTEEN
Thread falls
Dragons rise
Dragonriders scan the skies
Dragons flame, Thread dies.
Fort Weyr, Third Pass, 6th day, AL 508
Wake up! Come on, K’lior, get up—it’s time to fight Thread,” Cisca called from across the room, full of irrepressible enthusiasm.
K’lior rolled over and up. In truth, he hadn’t slept and even though he had gone to bed very early in the morning, he had found himself faking sleep so as not to upset Cisca.
“You were faking last night,” she said as she came across the room and kissed him.
K’lior groaned. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
“I couldn’t sleep either,” she admitted. “But it’s time: Thread falls over lower Nabol and upper Ruatha in less than two hours.” She gestured toward the bathing room. “Get a good bath, start the day right.”
K’lior smiled. If there was any mantra to Cisca’s high energy life, it was “get a good bath.” It was about the only time he could get her to slow down. Well, one of the only times, he corrected himself with a wicked grin.
“I heard that!” Cisca called from the bathing room.
“I didn’t say anything,” K’lior returned mildly.
Cisca reentered the room, grabbed his hand, and tugged him playfully toward the waiting bath. “I heard it anyway,” she said.
Wisely, K’lior said nothing. As he eased into the bath, he opened his mouth to ask for some breakfast but Cisca hushed him with a raised finger.
“I’ve already sent down for some klah and scones,” she informed him. “Eat light up here, so that you can eat a hearty brea
kfast with the riders.”
K’lior nodded: That had been his plan. He once again blessed his luck that his Rineth had managed to catch Melirth when she rose. He had been so afraid that one of the older, wiser dragons—and his rider—would have managed to outmaneuver the young bronze on his first mating flight. He and Cisca had already formed a strong attachment before her gold rose for the first time, and while he understood and accepted the ways of the Weyr, he was honest enough to admit that he did not want any other dragonman entwined with her.
“I know that look,” Cisca said, returning with a tray. She put it down beside the bathing pool and sat herself beside it. “You’re worrying about me again.”
K’lior could never understand how his thoughts could be so transparent, no matter how hard he worked to keep his face expressionless.
“Afraid I might let another ride Melirth, eh?” she teased, punching him lightly on his exposed shoulder. “Well,” she said consideringly, “I will, too, if you don’t behave.”
“I’ll do my best,” he promised somberly.
Cisca flicked water at him, grinning. “That’s the spirit! Now finish bathing so we can get downstairs and make a suitable appearance.”
“There are two hundred and twenty-two fighting dragons, excluding the three queens, and they will all fly!” D’gan shouted at V’gin and Lina. For the third time since the last Fall, they had asked him to keep the sick dragons behind. Now he took a breath and let his anger ride out with a deep sigh.
“We have only two hundred and twenty-two fighting dragons,” he repeated, ignoring the startled looks on the faces of the other dragonriders milling about the Lower Caverns. They should be used to his shouting by now, he reflected. They should know that his roar was always worse than his flame.
“I know that, D’gan,” Lina said soothingly. “Which is why I still think it might be best if the sick ones don’t fly.”
D’gan shook his head. “They fly. Every dragon that can go between will fly against Thread.” He looked pointedly at Norik, the Weyr harper, who had stood beside the other two to lend support. “Isn’t that the duty as written in the Teaching Songs?”
“It is, but the—”
“No buts!” D’gan replied hotly, his anger coming back. “Harper, I heard no ‘buts’ in the Teaching Songs. It doesn’t say ‘Dragonmen must fly when they feel like it.’ It says, ‘Dragonmen must fly when Thread is in the sky.’ ”
Norik bit his lip and heaved a deep sigh.
“Very well,” D’gan said, confident that this repeated revolt had been snuffed out. “Lina, order the wings to assemble above the Star Stones.” He raised his voice to be heard by the massed riders. “We ride against Thread over Telgar!”
As the riders mounted their dragons, D’gan turned back to Lina. “You’ll want to assemble the queen’s wing to come along on my command.”
Lina opened her mouth to try once more to dissuade him, but the set look on D’gan’s face quelled her. She closed her mouth again and nodded mutely.
Her Garoth was one of the dragons that had most recently started sneezing.
“You will be careful, won’t you, old man?” Dalia asked as she and C’rion glided down to the Bowl below them. She had chided C’rion for his decision to relocate the queens and senior wingleaders to the highest weyrs—it ensured that all their meals were either in the Kitchen or cold—but she couldn’t fault his logic. If the sickness was spread from dragon to dragon, and that certainly seemed so, then the dragons’ sneezing was the surest way it spread. So moving the fit dragons to the highest part of the weyr—above the sneezers—seemed a good precaution.
“I’ll be careful,” C’rion promised. Not, he reflected, that being careful was enough these days.
The sickness had more than decimated the Weyr. When he had seen the Red Star bracket the Eye Rock at Fort Weyr, he could count on three hundred and thirty-three fighting dragons. Now he would be taking only one hundred and seventy-six to fight Thread at South Nerat.
Fortunately, the path of the Thread would only graze South Nerat this Fall, and C’rion hoped that his new tactics—and the short Fall—would give the Weyr the thrill of success without the numbing pain of lost dragons.
“You’ll keep an eye on things around here?” C’rion asked.
Dalia grimaced. “I’d rather be going with you,” she admitted. “You still haven’t convinced me that your tactics can make up for missing the queens’ wing.”
C’rion shrugged. “But I can’t have our queens flying underneath any sick dragons.”
“I thought the sick dragons were staying behind?” Dalia asked, brows raised.
“The ones we know about,” C’rion corrected. “Oh, the Wingleaders and the riders themselves understand the risks, but that’s not to say that a dragon who feels fine right now won’t be coughing and sneezing when we arrive over South Nerat.”
Dalia nodded. He was right—the onset of the symptoms was that quick. Why, it had seemed like only minutes had passed between Carth’s first sneeze and the moment Gatrial’s anguished cry was echoed by the keening of the Weyr’s dragons at yet another loss.
In the three days since the last Fall, they had lost twenty-seven dragons to the sickness. Dalia shut her eyes against the painful memory.
It will be all right, Bidenth soothed her. Dalia nodded to herself. A new healer would be sent from the Harper Hall. It might be awhile, because no one would risk sending a dragon to the Harper Hall, so the poor lad would have to travel over land and sea when the sky was Thread free. In the meantime, they would make do.
“Good morning, my lady!” a young woman called cheerfully up from the Bowl below.
Dalia smothered her retort, instead alighting swiftly from Bidenth and striding over to the smiling holder girl.
“Jassi,” she said with a touch of acerbity, “please just call me by my name.”
Jassi dipped a curtsy and bowed her head. “I’m sorry my—Dalia—that takes some getting used to.”
Dalia shook her head but couldn’t help smiling at the holder girl. Jassi had arrived in response to C’rion’s pleading request for anyone who knew anything about Healing.
“I’ve really only dealt with the cuts and scrapes we got at my father’s inn,” Jassi had confessed immediately upon arrival. She ticked off the injuries she’d tended on her fingers. “The odd broken bone, deep puncture, a collapsed lung once, and—”
Dalia had hugged her. “Please, just see what you can do,” she had begged. “If it doesn’t work out, no harm done.”
“I’ll try, my lady,” Jassi had replied, very much on her best manners.
She had nearly bolted when their first charge proved to be a dragon, but Dalia had calmed her down and introduced her to the dragon, who was reeling in pain from a badly scored wing.
After the first day, Dalia couldn’t imagine being without Jassi. The girl had recovered from her initial awkwardness and slipped easily into the role of authority so completely that Dalia suspected the girl had been a major force in the now-closed inn. Jassi had confessed that she felt claustrophobic in the tight society and narrow corridors of Ista Hold.
Now, after nearly a sevenday at the Weyr, Jassi had found herself thoroughly at home and, except for a tendency to address all the dragonriders as “my lord” or “my lady,” had completely adjusted to Weyr life. In fact, Dalia had decided to coax Jassi onto the Hatching Grounds the next time there was a queen egg.
The girl’s cheerfulness was irrepressible, even in the worst of times. Dalia’s eyes watered at the memories of all the hands she had seen Jassi hold while rider lost dragon to the sickness.
“It’s much worse for them,” Jassi had explained when Dalia had carefully steered one of their conversations to the topic. “So I try to keep a good face on it and do what I can.”
And that, Dalia supposed, was all that could be expected of anyone in these terrible times. To do what they could.
High over the west branch of the Telgar river, two hun
dred and thirty-one dragons burst into the sky, perfectly arrayed in a three-layer arrow formation.
“Right, we’re here, where’s the Thread?” P’dor shouted from his position behind K’lior. K’lior smiled at his wingsecond’s jauntiness. He looked up, then looked around.
The sight of his Weyr arrayed behind him made him swell with pride. All the training was going to pay off, he was sure. He looked at the skies behind him. Thread. His bronze dragon, Rineth, bugled as he sensed K’lior’s thrill of alarm.
“Where’s Telgar?” he wondered aloud. To Rineth he said, Have the lower flight remain here and order the other two flights to turn around to face the Thread.
In an awkward flurry the Weyr rearranged itself. Rineth turned back to K’lior for firestone, and then suddenly there was Thread, raining down on them and no one from Telgar in sight.
It was time to fly.
Time to flame.
Time to fight.
Thread would be over Nerat for less than an hour, C’rion reminded himself as he and Nidanth emerged into the morning sunlight. He glanced around, satisfied that the wings were organizing themselves quickly. It was an awkward Fall to fight, just grazing Nerat before sheering back out to sea. So, while it was a short flight, it had its own unique perils. Thread had been falling on the sea for some time already, and the pattern of the Fall had been established—except that the morning breeze had already started, with great thermals roiling the Thread and clumping it unpredictably.
C’rion was glad that it was a short Fall. He considered rearranging the Weyr’s dragons to fight from the shore, rather than pick up the Fall as it came in from the sea and follow it.
There! He could see them, flecks of white against the high clouds. He ordered Nidanth to spread the news. The bronze complied, then turned his massive head back for firestone. C’rion fed it to him, all the while scanning the skies above him, trying to time when to climb up to fight the falling Thread.
J’lantir, arrayed in the wing behind him, saw the menacing clump of Thread as it whirled down and streamed onto C’rion and Nidanth from behind. Before he could even shout a warning, Thread had scoured C’rion’s back bare and had torn great gaps in Nidanth’s inner wings and back. The pair vanished between. J’lantir counted slowly to himself, his eyes scanning the skies around him.
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