Later, as they plotted the orbit of the Red Star, they found how easy that solution actually was and chuckled that their ancient foe should be their guide.
Atop Fort Weyr, as on all the Weyrs, were great stones. They were so placed that at certain times of the year they marked the approach and retreat of the Red Star, as it orbited in its erratic two hundred Turn-long course around their sun. By consulting the Records which, among other morsels of information, included the Red Star’s wanderings, it was not hard to plan jumps between of twenty-five Turns for each Weyr. It had been decided that the complement of each separate Weyr would jump between above its own base, for there would unquestionably be accidents if close to eighteen hundred laden beasts tried it at one point.
Each moment now was one too long away from her own time for Lessa. She had been a month away from F’lar and missed him more than she had thought possible. Also, she was worried that Ramoth would mate away from Mnementh. There were, to be sure, bronze dragons and bronze riders eager to do that service, but Lessa had no interest in them.
T’ton and Mardra occupied her with the many details in organizing the exodus, so that no clues, past the tapestry and the Question Song that would be composed at a later date, remained in the Weyrs.
It was with a relief close to tears that Lessa urged Ramoth upward in the night sky to take her place near T’ton and Mardra above the Fort Weyr Star Stone. At five other Weyrs great wings were ranged in formation, ready to depart their own times.
As each Weyrleader’s dragon reported to Lessa that all were ready, reference points determined by the Red Star’s travels in mind, it was this traveler from the future who gave the command to jump between.
The blackest night must end in dawn,
The sun dispel the dreamer’s fear:
When shall my soul’s bleak, hopeless pain
Find solace in its darkening Weyr?
THEY HAD MADE eleven jumps between, the Weyrleaders’ bronzes speaking to Lessa as they rested briefly between each jump. Of the eighteen hundred-odd travelers, only four failed to come ahead, and they had been older beasts. All five sections agreed to pause for a quick meal and hot klah before the final jump, which would be but twelve Turns.
“It is easier,” T’ton commented as Mardra served the klah, “to go twenty-five Turns than twelve.” He glanced up at the Red Dawn Star, their winking and faithful guide. “It does not alter its position as much. I count on you, Lessa, to give us additional references.”
“I want to get us back to Ruatha before F’lar discovers I have gone.” She shivered as she looked up at the Red Star and sipped hastily at the hot klah. “I’ve seen the Star just like that, once . . . no, twice . . . before at Ruatha.” She stared at T’ton, her throat constricting as she remembered that morning: the time she had decided that the Red Star was a menace to her, three days after which Fax and F’lar had appeared at Ruatha Hold. Fax had died on F’lar’s dagger, and she had gone to Benden Weyr. She felt suddenly dizzy, weak, strangely unsettled. She had not felt this way as they paused between other jumps.
“Are you all right, Lessa?” Mardra asked with concern. “You’re so white. You’re shaking.” She put her arm around Lessa, glancing, concerned, at her Weyrmate.
“Twelve Turns ago I was at Ruatha,” Lessa murmured, grasping Mardra’s hand for support. “I was at Ruatha twice. Let’s go on quickly. I’m too many in this morning. I must get back. I must get back to F’lar. He’ll be so angry.”
The note of hysteria in her voice alarmed both Mardra and T’ton. Hastily the latter gave orders for the fires to be extinguished, for the Weyrfolk to mount and prepare for the final jump ahead.
Her mind in chaos, Lessa transmitted the references to the other Weyrleaders’ dragons: Ruatha in the evening light, the Great Tower, the inner Court, the land at springtime. . . .
A fleck of red in a cold night sky,
A drop of blood to guide them by,
Turn away, Turn away, Turn, be gone,
A Red Star beckons the travelers on.
BETWEEN THEM, LYTOL and Robinton forced F’lar to eat, deliberately plying him with wine. At the back of his mind F’lar knew he would have to keep going, but the effort was immense, the spirit gone from him. It was no comfort that they still had Pridith and Kylara to continue dragonkind, yet he delayed sending someone back for F’nor, unable to face the reality of that admission: that in sending for Pridith and Kylara, he had acknowledged the fact that Lessa and Ramoth would not return.
Lessa, Lessa, his mind cried endlessly, damning her one moment for her reckless, thoughtless daring, loving her the next for attempting such an incredible feat.
“I said, F’lar, you need sleep now more than wine.” Robinton’s voice penetrated his preoccupation.
F’lar looked at him, frowning in perplexity. He realized that he was trying to lift the wine jug that Robinton was holding firmly down.
“What did you say?”
“Come. I’ll bear you company to Benden. Indeed, nothing could persuade me to leave your side. You have aged years, man, in the course of hours.”
“And isn’t it understandable?” F’lar shouted, rising to his feet, the impotent anger boiling out of him at the nearest target in the form of Robinton.
Robinton’s eyes were full of compassion as he reached for F’lar’s arm, gripping it tightly.
“Man, not even this Masterharper has words enough to express the sympathy and honor he has for you. But you must sleep; you have tomorrow to endure, and the tomorrow after that you have to fight. The dragonmen must have a leader. . . .” His voice trailed off. “Tomorrow you must send for F’nor . . . and Pridith.”
F’lar pivoted on his heel and strode toward the fateful door of Ruatha’s great hall.
Oh, Tongue, give sound to joy and sing
Of hope and promise on dragonwing.
BEFORE THEM LOOMED Ruatha’s Great Tower, the high walls of the Outer Court clearly visible in the fading light.
The claxon rang violent summons into the air, barely heard over the earsplitting thunder as hundreds of dragons appeared, ranging in full fighting array, wing upon wing, up and down the valley.
A shaft of light stained the flagstones of the Court as the Hold door opened.
Lessa ordered Ramoth down, close to the Tower, and dismounted, running eagerly forward to greet the men who piled out of the door. She made out the stocky figure of Lytol, a handbasket of glows held high above his head. She was so relieved to see him that she forgot her previous antagonism to the Warder.
“You misjudged the last jump by two days, Lessa,” he cried as soon as he was near enough for her to hear him over the noise of settling dragons.
“Misjudged? How could I?” she breathed.
T’ton and Martha came up beside her.
“No need to worry,” Lytol reassured her, gripping her hands tightly in his, his eyes dancing. He was actually smiling at her. “You overshot the day. Go back between, return to Ruatha of two days ago. That’s all.” His grin widened at her confusion. “It is all right,” he repeated, patting her hands. “Take this same hour, the Great Court, everything, but visualize F’lar, Robinton, and myself here on the flagstones. Place Mnementh on the Great Tower and a blue dragon on the verge. Now go.”
Mnementh? Ramoth queried Lessa, eager to see her Weyrmate. She ducked her great head, and her huge eyes gleamed with scintillating fire.
“I don’t understand,” Lessa wailed. Mardra slipped a comforting arm around her shoulders.
“But I do, I do—trust me,” Lytol pleaded, patting her shoulder awkwardly and glancing at T’ton for support. “It is as F’nor has said. You cannot be several places in time without experiencing great distress, and when you stopped twelve Turns back, it threw Lessa all to pieces.”
“You know that?” T’ton cried.
“Of course. Just go back two days. You see, I know you have. I shall, of course, be surprised then, but now, tonight, I know you reappeared two days earlier. Oh, g
o. Don’t argue. F’lar was half out of his mind with worry for you.”
“He’ll shake me,” Lessa cried, like a little girl.
“Lessa!” T’ton took her by the hand and led her back to Ramoth, who crouched so her rider could mount.
T’ton took complete charge and had his Fidranth pass the order to return to the references Lytol had given, adding by way of Ramoth a description of the humans and Mnementh.
The cold of between restored Lessa to herself, although her error had badly jarred her confidence. But then there was Ruatha again. The dragons happily arranged themselves in tremendous display. And there, silhouetted against the light from the Hall, stood Lytol, Robinton’s tall figure, and . . . F’lar.
Mnementh’s voice gave a brassy welcome, and Ramoth could not land Lessa quickly enough to go and twine necks with her mate.
Lessa stood where Ramoth had left her, unable to move. She was aware that Mardra and T’ton were beside her. She was conscious only of F’lar, racing across the Court toward her. Yet she could not move.
He grabbed her in his arms, holding her so lightly to him that she could not doubt the joy of his welcome.
“Lessa, Lessa,” his voice raggedly chanted in her ear. He pressed her face against his, crushing her to breathlessness, all his careful detachment abandoned. He kissed her, hugged her, held her, and then kissed her with rough urgency again. Then he suddenly set her on her feet and gripped her shoulders. “Lessa, if you ever . . .” he said, punctuating each word with a flexing of his fingers, then stopped, aware of a grinning circle of strangers surrounding them.
“I told you he’d shake me,” Lessa was saying, dashing tears from her face. “But, F’lar, I brought them all . . . all but Benden Weyr. And that is why the five Weyrs were abandoned. I brought them.”
F’lar looked around him, looked beyond the leaders to the masses of dragons settling in the Valley, on the heights, everywhere he turned. There were dragons, blue, green, bronze, brown, and a whole wingful of golden queen dragons alone.
“You brought the Weyrs?” he echoed, stunned.
“Yes, this is Martha and T’ton of Fort Weyr, D’ram and . . .”
He stopped her with a little shake, pulling her to his side so he could see and greet the newcomers.
“I am more grateful than you can know,” he said and could not go on with all the many words he wanted to add.
T’ton stepped forward, holding out his hand, which F’lar seized and held firmly.
“We bring eighteen hundred dragons, seventeen queens, and all that is necessary to implement our Weyrs.”
“And they brought flamethrowers, too,” Lessa put in excitedly.
“But—to come . . . to attempt it . . .” F’lar murmured in admiring wonder.
T’ton and D’ram and the others laughed.
“Your Lessa showed the way . . .”
“. . . with the Red Star to guide us . . .” she said.
“We are dragonmen,” T’ton continued solemnly, “as you are yourself, F’lar of Benden. We were told there are Threads here to fight, and that’s work for dragonmen to do . . . in any time!”
Drummer, beat, and piper, blow,
Harper, strike, and soldier, go.
Free the flame and sear the grasses
Till the dawning Red Star passes.
EVEN AS THE five Weyrs had been settling around Ruatha Valley, F’nor had been compelled to bring forward in time his southern weyrfolk. They had all reached the end of endurance in double-time life, gratefully creeping back to quarters they had vacated two days and ten Turns ago.
R’gul, totally unaware of Lessa’s backward plunge, greeted F’lar and his Weyrwoman, on their return to the Weyr, with the news of F’nor’s appearance with seventy-two new dragons and the further word that he doubted any of the riders would be fit to fight.
“I’ve never seen such exhausted men in my life,” R’gul rattled on, “can’t imagine what could have gotten into them, with sun and plenty of food and all, and no responsibilities.”
F’lar and Lessa exchanged glances.
“Well, the southern Weyr ought to be maintained, R’gul. Think it over.”
“I’m a fighting dragonman, not a womanizer,” the old dragonrider grunted. “It’d take more than a trip between times to reduce me like those others.”
“Oh, they’ll be themselves again in next to no time,” Lessa said and, to R’gul’s intense disapproval, she giggled.
“They’ll have to be if we’re to keep the skies Thread-free,” R’gul snapped testily.
“No problem about that now,” F’lar assured him easily.
“No problem? With only a hundred and forty-four dragons?”
“Two hundred and sixteen,” Lessa corrected him firmly.
Ignoring her, R’gul asked, “Has that Mastersmith found a flamethrower that’ll work?”
“Indeed he has,” F’lar assured R’gul, grinning broadly.
The five Weyrs had also brought forward their equipment. Fandarel all but snatched examples from their backs and, undoubtedly, every hearth and smithy through the continent would be ready to duplicate the design by morning. T’ton had told F’lar that, in his time, each Hold had ample flamethrowers for every man on the ground. In the course of the Long Interval, however, the throwers must have been either smelted down or lost as incomprehensible devices. D’ram, particularly, was very much interested in Fandarel’s agenothree sprayer, considering it better than thrown-flame, since it would also act as a fertilizer.
“Well,” R’gul admitted gloomily, “a flamethrower or two will be some help day after tomorrow.”
“We have found something else that will help a lot more,” Lessa remarked and then hastily excused herself, dashing into the sleeping quarters.
The sounds that drifted past the curtain were either laughter or sobs, and R’gul frowned on both. That girl was just too young to be Weyrwoman at such a time. No stability.
“Has she realized how critical our situation is? Even with F’nor’s additions? That is, if they can fly?” R’gul demanded testily. “You oughtn’t to let her leave the Weyr at all.”
F’lar ignored that and began pouring himself a cup of wine.
“You once pointed out to me that the five empty Weyrs of Pern supported your theory that there would be no more Threads.”
R’gul cleared his throat, thinking that apologies—even if they might be due from the Weyrleader—were scarcely effective against the Threads.
“Now there was merit in that theory,” F’lar went on, filling a cup for R’gul. “Not, however, as you interpreted it. The five Weyrs were empty because they . . . they came here.”
R’gul, his cup halfway to his lips, stared at F’lar. This man also was too young to bear his responsibilities. But . . . he seemed actually to believe what he was saying.
“Believe it or not, R’gul—and in a bare day’s time you will—the five Weyrs are empty no longer. They’re here, in the Weyrs, in this time. And they shall join us, eighteen hundred strong, the day after tomorrow at Telgar, with flamethrowers and with plenty of battle experience.”
R’gul regarded the poor man stolidly for a long moment. Carefully he put his cup down and, turning on his heel, left the weyr. He refused to be an object of ridicule. He’d better plan to take over the leadership tomorrow if they were to fight Threads the day after.
The next morning, when he saw the clutch of great bronze dragons bearing the Weyrleaders and their wingleaders to the conference, R’gul got quietly drunk.
Lessa exchanged good mornings with her friends and then, smiling sweetly, left the weyr, saying she must feed Ramoth. F’lar stared after her thoughtfully, then went to greet Robinton and Fandarel, who had been asked to attend the meeting, too. Neither Craftmaster said much, but neither missed a word spoken. Fandarel’s great head kept swiveling from speaker to speaker, his deep-set eyes blinking occasionally. Robinton sat with a bemused smile on his face, utterly delighted by ancestral visitors.
F’lar was quickly talked out of resigning his titular position as Weyrleader of Benden on the grounds that he was too inexperienced.
“You did well enough at Nerat and Keroon. Well indeed,” T’ton said.
“You call twenty-eight men or dragons out of action good leadership?”
“For a first battle, with every dragonman green as a hatchling? No, man, you were on time at Nerat, however you got there,” and T’ton grinned maliciously at F’lar, “which is what a dragonman must do. No, that was well flown, I say. Well flown.” The other four Weyrleaders muttered complete agreement with that compliment. “Your Weyr is understrength, though, so we’ll lend you enough odd-wing riders till you’ve gotten the Weyr up to full strength again. Oh, the queens love these times!” And his grin broadened to indicate that bronze riders did, too.
F’lar returned that smile, thinking that Ramoth was about ready for another mating flight, and this time, Lessa . . . oh, that girl was being too deceptively docile. He’d better watch her closely.
“Now,” T’ton was saying, “we left with Fandarel’s crafthold all the flamethrowers we brought up so that the groundmen will be armed tomorrow.”
“Aye, and my thanks,” Fandarel grunted. “We’ll turn out new ones in record time and return yours soon.”
“Don’t forget to adapt that agenothree for air spraying, too,” D’ram put in.
“It is agreed,” and T’ton glanced quickly around at the other riders, “that all the Weyrs will meet, full strength, three hours after dawn above Telgar, to follow the Thread’s attack across to Crom. By the way, F’lar, those charts of yours that Robinton showed me are superb. We never had them.”
“How did you know when the attacks would come?”
T’ton shrugged. “They were coming so regularly even when I was a weyrling, you kind of knew when one was due. But this way is much, much better.”
Dragonflight Page 27
