Dragonsblood

by Todd McCaffrey

  “There must be a way,” Salina said, “or they wouldn’t have put that verse on the door.”

  “Or built these rooms,” M’tal added.

  “How do we know that?” Lorana asked. “Perhaps these Learning Rooms were meant for others? Perhaps they’ve already been used and we’re not supposed to be here.”

  “No,” Kindan answered firmly. “ ‘Wind Blossom’s Song’ could only refer to you. These rooms were made for us.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully and muttered, “Or you.”

  “Then why,” Lorana cried, her arms flung out in despair, “don’t I know the answer?”

  Ketan looked at her sympathetically. He knew that she was right, that they could just be chasing a phantom hope. But that was the only hope left. If the answers to their problems weren’t behind those doors, then the dragons would all die, of that he was certain. And if the answer was behind the door, then he was equally convinced that Lorana had to be the “healer lass” mentioned in the song. One look at Kindan convinced him that the harper was just as certain.

  In the silence that filled the room after her question, M’tal rose from his chair and stretched. “Let’s go,” he said, “and sleep on this. Tomorrow we may have more answers.”

  “Tomorrow Thread falls over Nerat and Upper Crom,” Lorana protested. “How many more dragons must die before we can open that door?”

  “I don’t know Lorana,” Salina said, rushing over to the younger woman and hugging her fiercely. “But you can only do so much.”

  “I know,” Lorana said miserably, burying her head in the other woman’s shoulder. “But—”

  “Sh, sh,” Salina said soothingly.

  “We must leave now, Lorana,” Ketan said. “We need our rest, and M’tal will be flying Thread tomorrow.”

  “And we’ll be tending to injured dragons,” Lorana noted. “We won’t be here tomorrow.”

  M’tal shooed them all out of the room. As they climbed the stairs back up to the second level, he said, “A day’s rest from this will do us all good.”

  “At least we’ll have enough dragons to fight with,” Kindan added.

  “That’s true,” M’tal rumbled agreeably. Judiciously, he added, “They’re all a bit more green than I would have liked but—”

  A sharp intake of breath from Lorana interrupted him. “What?” he asked.

  “It’s Caranth,” Lorana said. “He’s not feeling well.” She glanced at M’tal. “I don’t think B’nik should lead the Fall tomorrow.”

  As they crested the top of the stairs, a loud barking cough echoed down the corridor from the Weyrleader’s quarters.

  M’tal’s face darkened and he picked up his pace.

  “Well, now, this is much better,” D’gan declared as he flew slowly in front of the ranks of dragons arrayed in front of him. The ones who had timed it still looked a bit off-color, he admitted to himself with a frown, but they represented over two-thirds of the Weyr’s fighting strength.

  “Today we’ll show them how it’s done, won’t we, Kaloth?” he asked, reaching down to pat his bronze dragon affectionately. As if in response, the dragon gave a long, rattling cough, arching his neck and not quite unseating his rider.

  I’m sorry, Kaloth apologized meekly.

  “Not to worry,” D’gan grumbled. “It’s that addled healer—he should have worked up something to help you by now.” He peered over Kaloth’s shoulder and spotted K’rem below, preparing his brown. “Take me down and we’ll talk to him.”

  K’rem glanced up at Kaloth as the bronze dragon landed and his rider slid to the ground. As D’gan strode toward him, the healer carefully schooled the frown off his face.

  “Kaloth’s cough sounds worse,” K’rem commented as soon as D’gan was within hearing. “I had hoped that the last herbal would have helped.”

  “It didn’t, obviously,” D’gan replied sourly.

  “Weyrleader,” K’rem began hesitantly, trying to choose his words carefully, “perhaps it would be best if Kaloth rested today—”

  “What? Deny him the chance to lead the full Weyr?” D’gan cut him off loudly. “No, just because your fardled medicines don’t work, doesn’t mean that my dragon can’t fly when Thread is in the sky.”

  With a pleading look, K’rem came closer to the irate Weyrleader. “D’gan, he’s sick. He needs rest.”

  “Find a cure, Healer,” D’gan ordered, turning back. “Find a cure after we fight this Fall.”

  As D’gan returned to mount his dragon, his son, D’lin, approached him eagerly.

  “The Weyrlingmaster says Aseth is ready, Father,” D’lin called. “Which wing should we fly with?”

  D’gan shook his head immediately. “No,” he said, “you’re not flying Fall today.”

  D’lin’s face fell. “But, Father . . .”

  “Next time, D’lin,” D’gan told him brusquely. “Today I want you here, ready to ferry firestone and be a messenger.”

  “Yes, Father,” D’lin replied woodenly, and turned away, shoulders slumped, toward his dragon.

  For a moment D’gan thought of calling his son back, of telling him how proud he was and how much he loved him. But then he shook the notion off, reminding himself that the boy had to learn to handle disappointment with discipline. As far as D’gan was concerned, D’lin was a dragonrider first and son second.

  As the sun crested the heights of Benden Weyr, it illuminated a Bowl already bustling with activity. The younger weyrlings, who had not timed it, were busily bagging firestone and building piles of supplies. Dragonriders, up early and already well-fed, were checking riding gear, or were gathered in knots talking tactics with their Wingleaders.

  In a corner not far from the Living Cavern, Ketan and Lorana were setting out supplies and organizing for the inevitable injuries that occurred fighting Thread.

  Caranth peered down morosely from his weyr over the proceedings, occasionally joining the cacophony of dragon coughs, which echoed eerily around the Bowl. Minith’s worried croons to her mate were answered by soothing noises from Caranth, which fooled no one.

  M’tal and B’nik moved from wing to wing, talking with riders and Wingleaders, presenting a calm, united presence that reassured and relieved everyone they met.

  “They’re up too early,” M’tal remarked to B’nik as they moved away from one group.

  “I know,” B’nik agreed. “But you know how it is, the morning of a Fall.”

  “Well, I do now,” M’tal agreed. “After all, we’ve had what—all of five Falls so far.”

  B’nik furrowed his brow. “I hadn’t really counted,” he admitted. “It almost seems like we’ve always been fighting Thread.”

  “It’s been only four sevendays,” M’tal remarked. “How will we be after Turns of this?”

  B’nik shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said reflectively. He twisted his head to try to locate a cough from one of the sick dragons, failed, and turned back to M’tal. “But if we don’t find a cure soon . . .”

  M’tal clapped B’nik on the shoulder. “I know,” he said somberly.

  B’nik glanced at him, gave him a small nod, and then turned to the group they were approaching, calling with forced cheer, “So, J’tol! Ready to lead the wing?”

  The fighting dragons departed an hour before noon—one hour before Threadfall was due at Nerat.

  Lorana watched as the dragons winked between. A nudge from Ketan got her attention; he cocked his head toward B’nik and they both watched as the Weyrleader’s shoulders hunched—and hunched further as another wracking cough from Caranth rent the late morning air.

  “I could—” Lorana began.

  “Why don’t you and Kindan see if you can learn anything more,” Ketan suggested.

  Lorana looked at Kindan, who nodded in agreement.

  “Have someone call for us when we’re needed,” Kindan said over his shoulder as they raced off toward the stairs to the second level. Ketan waved in acknowledgment.

  They were bot
h puffing from exertion as they reached the stairs leading down to the Learning Rooms.

  “It’ll be easier when we can get that door open,” Kindan remarked. “Then, presumably, we’ll be able to come in from the Hatching Grounds.”

  “And all that’s needed to do that is for me to figure out what word I’m supposed to say and how I’m supposed to tell someone who is hundreds of Turns dead,” Lorana said bitterly.

  Kindan ducked his head and concentrated on getting down the stairs and into the first of the Learning Rooms, which he had dubbed “The Classroom.”

  Inside, Lorana seated herself and began once again to study her book.

  It took Kindan longer to settle down in the icy silence that had spread between them. In the end, too full of nervous energy to stay seated, he got up to pace the room, earning a disgruntled look from Lorana. He flashed a smile in apology, was rewarded with a frown and a sigh, and turned his attention to the writing on the door.

  “You know,” he said after a moment, “we’re going about this the wrong way.”

  Lorana slammed her book shut and peered over her shoulder at him. “What should we do, then?”

  “We should concentrate on what we know first, and then worry about what we don’t know,” he said. Lorana’s look was not encouraging but he pressed on. “For example, what would this word be?”

  Lorana’s face relaxed into a thoughtful frown, and she turned away to get into a position more comfortable for thinking.

  “Maybe they need to know if the infection is bacterial or viral,” Kindan suggested.

  Lorana shook her head. “I don’t think that’s it,” she said after a moment’s further thought. “The textbook hints that the problem is one of data reduction. It would seem that there wouldn’t be all that much difference between antibacterial and antiviral methods.

  “It must have something to do with how the disease is spread,” she said softly to herself. She got up and walked over to where Kindan stood in front of the door, once again reading the inscription on it:

  “That word is what you now must say

  To open up the door

  In Benden Weyr, to find the way

  To all my healing lore.”

  “Well,” Kindan commented as he followed the lines with his eyes again, “at least it’s not the most disturbing part.”

  Lorana cocked an eye at him, and Kindan sang,

  “A thousand voices keen at night,

  A thousand voices wail,

  A thousand voices cry in fright,

  A thousand voices fail.”

  As he sang it, Lorana’s eyes widened with fear and she started shivering.

  “What is it?” Kindan asked, grabbing her shoulder with his hand. “Lorana, are you all right?”

  But Lorana wasn’t hearing him.

  “D’gan, no!” she shrieked.

  D’gan looked over his shoulder one final time at the arrayed dragons of Telgar Weyr. Beneath him Kaloth shook with a long gargling cough. He saw K’rem turn to look at him and, impatient to get at Thread, he ordered Kaloth to take them between.

  Just as the cold of between enveloped D’gan, he felt Kaloth give another shuddering cough.

  Not long now, he told his dragon. Kaloth coughed again. D’gan began to think that perhaps he would keep Kaloth back on the next Fall. Let D’nal or L’rat lead—it would do them good.

  Kaloth coughed again. A chill ran down D’gan’s spine, colder than the cold of between.

  Between only lasts as long as it takes to cough three times, D’gan recalled.

  Kaloth had coughed three times.

  Kaloth coughed again—and in that instant, D’gan realized his error.

  All the dragons of Telgar Weyr had gone beyond between.

  The Weyrs! They must be warned! D’gan thought in terror as the last of his consciousness seeped away.

  D’lin swallowed hard as he watched the dragons of Telgar wink between. He had worked hard for his first chance to fight Thread. Soon, he thought to himself, the Weyr would appear over Upper Crom, ready to flame the deadly menace from the sky.

  Aseth turned his huge head to stare down at his rider. Our turn will come soon.

  Of course, D’lin agreed fervently, not wanting his beautiful Aseth to think for a moment that he was in any way less than the most perfect dragon ever hatched on all Pern.

  I do not hear them, Aseth thought a moment later, craning his neck up high in the sky.

  And then the world collapsed. D’lin felt as though someone had punched him both in the stomach and just as hard in the brain, if that were possible. He was overwhelmed by pain and fear.

  The Weyrs! They must be warned! D’lin heard the thought as though it were his own. Aseth bellowed in horror and defiance. Without thinking, D’lin leapt on his dragon and urged him up, out of the Bowl.

  Benden will be nearest, D’lin thought, his sight masked by the waves of tears that were streaming down unchecked.

  Come on, Aseth, between! And with that, overwhelmed by despair, hopelessness, and pure courage, D’lin urged his dragon between—

  —without envisioning his destination.

  Two thousand Turns later, their bodies would be discovered, entombed in solid rock at Benden Weyr.

  M’tal looked back with satisfaction at the wings behind him. Every wing, including those who had gone back in time, was formed up neatly.

  Thread ahead, Gaminth informed him.

  I see it, M’tal replied, signaling the wings behind him to rise up to meet the incoming Thread. And then—

  —a wave of horror, wrenching loss, and fear wracked him. Gaminth bellowed in pain, his cry echoed by every dragon.

  What is it? M’tal asked his dragon fearfully.

  D’gan and Telgar, Gaminth replied, sounding shaken in a way that M’tal had never heard before. They’re gone.

  All of them?

  All the fighting dragons, Gaminth confirmed.

  And the Thread? M’tal asked, as he envisioned Thread falling unopposed on the ranges of Upper Crom. But he already knew the answer.

  “Lorana!” Kindan shouted, catching her as she slumped toward the floor. In the distance he could hear dragons keening. “Lorana, what is it?”

  A dragon’s bellow rent the air, answered by another more plaintive one.

  “Is it Caranth?” Kindan asked.

  Lorana opened her eyes, shivering. “It’s Telgar,” she told him dully.

  Caranth? she asked, but the dragon was already aloft, riderless, beating toward the watch heights. In an instant she guessed his intention. Caranth, no!

  Lorana felt the bronze go between, chasing after the dragons and riders of Telgar Weyr. With a cry, she reached out to grab him, bring him back—and found herself dragged along instead.

  “Lorana?” Kindan called softly. But her eyes had gone vacant, just as they had been when she had lost Arith. Kindan’s own soul cry was echoed by Minith. The dragon repeated her cry louder—and then the cry was cut off.

  “Lorana, Minith’s gone after Caranth,” Kindan said, hoping that she would hear the words in her lifeless state. The only response Lorana made was a gasp, as though she’d had the breath knocked out of her.

  A rush of feet echoed down the stairs and Ketan and Salina burst into the room. They looked from Kindan to Lorana and back.

  “She must come back,” Salina rasped. “She can talk to all the dragons. She can bring them back.”

  “How?” Kindan asked, but Salina had moved beside him and grabbed Lorana. With palm wide-open, she slapped Lorana’s face.

  “Lorana! Lorana, you must come back, come back now,” Salina begged. She swung for another slap just as Lorana’s eyes fluttered open and she raised a hand feebly to ward off the blow. “Call them back, Lorana. Bring them back.”

  “I can’t,” Lorana said, her voice choking on tears. “I tried that with Arith and it didn’t work.”

  “You must, Lorana,” Salina said fiercely. “You must. Call all the dragons of Pern. Bri
ng them back.”

  Lorana took a deep steadying breath, glanced at the old Weyrwoman, and nodded slowly. She closed her eyes and reached out, as she had done before when Arith had gone between.

  This time, however, she stretched beyond the confines of the Weyr, reaching first to Gaminth, then to all the dragons of Benden and then beyond—

  —to Ista,

  —to Fort,

  —and to High Reaches.

  There were not enough dragons at High Reaches and she found herself feeling a strange echo. It reminded her somewhat of the echo she’d felt before, but that other echo had had a feeling of old about it—this one didn’t.

  Mentally, Lorana shook the strangeness aside, desperate to find Minith, Caranth, and the dragons of Telgar. She searched, forcing all the dragons of Pern to follow her will, to search with her.

  They were willing accomplices. She felt the presence of Bidenth, the senior queen at Ista, and suddenly all the dragons of Ista were behind her, aligned with the direction of her mind. And then she felt Melirth, the queen of Fort Weyr, and again the strength of dragons merged with her. For a moment Lorana felt as though she were exploding, being stretched beyond all imagining. She fought a moment of panic, won, and redirected her efforts back to Minith.

  There! She found a faint echo, a spark of the queen dragon. And beside it, she felt Caranth. She tugged at them, battling them, willing them to obey her and ruthlessly channeling the power of all the dragons of Pern to her aid.

  She could feel Caranth resist, try to slide away from her. She fastened on to him tightly and pulled against him, pulling him back to here. She felt his resistance crumble, felt a shadow of B’nik as he, too, added a call to his dragon. Relieved, Lorana allowed her mind for just an instant to range further, searching for the dragons of Telgar.

  She felt a faint echo, a response, and turned all her power toward it, compelling Minith to order the dragons of Benden behind her, and weaving Caranth indissolubly into the mix. She reached—

  —and felt a shock, a stab of familiarity. Not the dragons of Telgar, but something different, something she’d felt before.

  Garth? she called. And just then she felt something else, some other presence. Lorana felt herself opening a door, using all the strength of the dragons to push it open.