“On an upper level?” F’nor was stunned. And T’ron had the nerve to prate how Fort Weyr kept tradition?
“That’s why so many men are injured in her wing; the dragons fly close to protect their queen. A flame thrower throws ‘down’ but not out, or wide enough to catch airborne Thread at the speed dragons fly.”
“That is without doubt . . . ouch!” F’nor winced at the pain of an injudicious movement of his arm. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Does F’lar know?”
T’bor shrugged. “If he did, what could he do?”
Brekke pushed F’nor back onto the stool to reset the bandage he had disarranged.
“What’ll happen next?” he demanded of no one.
“You sound like an Oldtimer,” T’bor remarked with a harsh laugh. “Bemoaning the loss of order, the permissiveness of – of times which are so chaotic . . .”
“Change is not chaos.”
T’bor laughed sourly. “Depends on your point of view.”
“What’s your point of view, T’bor?”
The Weyrleader regarded the brown rider so long and hard, his face settling into such bitter lines, that he appeared Turns older than he was.
“I told you what happened at that farce of a Weyrleaders’ meeting the other night, with T’ron insisting it was Terry’s fault.” T’bor jammed one fist into the palm of his other hand, his lips twitching with a bitter distaste at the memory.
“The Weyr above all, even common sense. Stick to your own, the hindmost falls between. Well, I’ll keep my own counsel. And I’ll make my weyrfolk behave. All of them. Even Kylara if I have to . . .”
“Shells, what’s Kylara up to now?”
T’bor gave F’nor a thoughtful stare. Then, with a shrug he said, “Kylara means to go to Telgar Hold four days hence. Southern Weyr hasn’t been invited. I take no offense. “Southern Weyr has no obligation to Telgar Hold and the wedding is Holder business. But she means to make trouble there, I’m sure. I know the signs. Also she’s been seeing the Lord Holder of Nabol.”
“Meron?” F’nor was unimpressed with him as a source of trouble. “Meron, Lord of Nabol, was outmaneuvered and completely discredited at that abortive battle at the Benden Weyr Pass, eight Turns ago. No Lord Holder would ally himself with Nabol again. Not even Lord Nessel of Crom who never was very bright. How he got confirmed as Lord of Crom by the Conclave, I’ll never understand.”
“It’s not Meron we have to guard against. It’s Kylara. Anything she touches gets – distorted.”
F’nor knew what T’bor meant. “If she were going to, say, Lord Groghe’s Fort Hold, I’d not be concerned. He thinks she should be strangled. But don’t forget that she’s full blood sister to Larad of Telgar Hold. Besides, Larad can manage her. And Lessa and F’lar will be there. She’s not likely to tangle with Lessa. So what can she do? Change the pattern of Thread?”
F’nor heard Brekke’s sharp intake of breath, saw T’bor’s sudden twitch of surprise.
“She didn’t change Thread patterns. No one knows why that happened,” T’bor said gloomily.
“How what happened?” F’nor stood, pushing aside Brekke’s hands.
“You heard that Thread is dropping out of pattern?”
“No, I didn’t hear,” and F’nor looked from T’bor to Brekke who managed to be very busy with her medicaments.
“There wasn’t anything you could do about it, F’nor,” she said calmly, “and as you were still feverish when the news came . . .”
T’bor snorted, his eyes glittering as if he enjoyed F’nor’s discomposure. “Not that F’lar’s precious Thread patterns ever included us here in the Southern continent. Who cares what happens in this part of the world?” With that, T’bor strode out of the Weyr. When F’nor would have followed, Brekke grabbed his arm.
“No, F’nor, don’t press him. Please?”
He looked down at Brekke’s worried face, saw the deep concern in her expressive eyes. Was that the way of it? Brekke fond of T’bor? A shame she had to waste affection on someone so totally committed to a clutching female like Kylara.
“Now, be kind enough to give me the news about that change in Thread pattern. My arm was wounded, not my head.”
Without acknowledging his rebuke, she told him what had occurred at Benden Weyr when Thread had fallen hours too soon over Lemos Hold’s wide forests. F’nor was disturbed to learn that R’mart of Telgar Weyr had been badly scored. He was not surprised that T’kul of High Reaches Weyr hadn’t even bothered to inform his contemporaries of the unexpected falls over his weyrbound territories. But he had to agree that he would have worried had he known. He was worried now but it sounded as if F’lar was coping with his usual ingenuity. At least the Oldtimers had been roused. Took Thread to do it.
“I don’t understand T’bor’s remark about our not caring what happens in this part of the world . . .”
Brekke put her hand on his arm appealingly. “It’s not easy to live with Kylara, particularly when it amounts to exile.”
“Don’t I just know it!” F’nor had had his run-ins with Kylara when she was still at Benden Weyr and, like many other riders, had been relieved when she’d been made Weyrwoman at Southern. The only problem with convalescing here in Southern, however, was her proximity. For F’nor’s peace, her interest in Meron of Nabol couldn’t have been more fortunate.
“You can see how much T’bor has made out of Southern Weyr in the Turns he’s been Weyrleader here,” Brekke went on.
F’nor nodded, honestly impressed. “Did he ever complete the exploration of the southern continent?” He couldn’t recall any report on the matter coming in to Benden Weyr.
“I don’t think so. The deserts to the west are terrible. One or two riders got curious but the winds turned them back. And eastward, there’s just ocean. It probably extends right around to the desert. This is the bottom of the earth, you know.”
F’nor flexed his bandaged arm.
“Now you listen to me, Wing-second F’nor of Benden,” Brekke said sharply, interpreting that gesture accurately. “You’re in no condition to go charging back to duty or to go exploring. You haven’t the stamina of a fledgling and you certainly can’t go between. Intense cold is the worst thing for a half-healed wound. Why do you think you were flown here straight?”
“Why, Brekke, I didn’t know you cared,” F’nor said, rather pleased at her vehement reaction.
She gave him such a piercingly candid look that his smile faded. As if she regretted that all too intimate glance, she gave him a half-playful push toward the door.
“Get out. Take your poor lonely dragon and lie on the beach in the sun. Rest. Can’t you hear Canth calling you?”
She slipped by him, out the door and was across the clearing before he realized that he hadn’t heard Canth.
“Brekke?”
She turned, hesitantly, at the edge of the woods.
“Can you hear other dragons?”
“Yes.” She whirled and was gone.
“Of all the – ” F’nor was astounded. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded of Canth as he strode into the sun-baked wallow behind the weyr and stood glaring at his brown dragon.
You never asked, Canth replied. I like Brekke.
“You’re impossible,” F’nor said, exasperated, and looked, back in the direction Brekke had gone. “Brekke?” And he stared hard at Canth, somewhat disgusted by his obtuseness. Dragons as a rule did not name people. They tended to project a vision of the person referred to by pronoun, rarely by name. That Canth, who was of another Weyr, should speak of Brekke so familiarly was a double surprise. He must tell that to F’lar.
I want to get wet. Canth sounded so wistful that F’nor laughed aloud.
“You swim. I’ll watch.”
Gently Canth nudged F’nor on the good shoulder. You are nearly well. Good. We’ll soon be able to go back to the Weyr we belong to.
“Don’t tell me that you knew about the Thread pattern changing.”