“About that distance-writer of yours, Fandarel, could you rig one to Telgar Hold in time for the marriage?” F’lar asked.
Robinton let out a whoop that reverberated through the chamber, causing Ramoth to grumble from the Hatching Ground. The Smith showed all his stained tusks and clenched his huge fists on the table as if choking any opposition a-borning. The tic in Lytol’s cheek gave a spasmodic leap and stopped.
“Marvelous idea,” Robinton cried. “Hope’s a great encourager. Give the Lords a reliable means of keeping in touch and you’ve undone much of the Weyrs isolation policies.”
“Can you do it, Fandarel?” F’lar asked the Smith.
“To Telgar I could lay wire. Yes. It could be done.”
“How is this distance writing done? I don’t understand.”
Fandarel inclined his head toward the Masterharper. “Thanks to Robinton, we have a code that permits us to send long and complicated messages. One must train a man to understand it, to send and receive it. If you could spare an hour of your time . . .”
“I can spare you as much time as you need, Fandarel,” F’lar assured him.
“Let’s go tomorrow. There’s nothing could fall here tomorrow,” Lessa urged, excited.
“Good. I shall arrange a demonstration. I shall put more people to work on the wire.”
“I shall speak to Lord Sangel of Southern Boll and Lord Groghe of Fort Hold,” Lytol said. “Discreetly, of course, but they know Ruatha is not favored by the Weyr.” He got to his feet. “I have been a dragonrider, and a craftsman, and now I am a Holder. But Thread makes no distinction. It sears wherever, whatever it touches.”
“Yes, we must remind everyone of that,” Robinton said with an ominous grin.
“I shall, of course, agree to whatever T’ron orders me to do, now I have hopes of a surer deliverance.” Lytol bowed to Lessa. “My duty to you, my lady. I’ll collect Lord Jaxom and beg the favor of a return flight . . .”
“You’ve missed your lunch, stay for our dinner.”
Lytol shook his head regretfully. “There’ll be much to set in motion.”
“In the interests of conserving dragon strength, I’ll ride with Lytol and Jaxom,” Robinton said, swallowing the rest of his wine after a rueful toast to such haste. “That will leave you two beasts to share the burden of Fandarel.”
Fandarel stood up, a tolerantly smiling giant, his massive bulk dwarfing the Harper, who was by no measure a short man. “I sympathize with dragons, forced to endure the envy of frail, small creatures.”
None of them left, however, because neither Jaxom nor Felessan could be located. One of Manora’s women remembered seeing them pilfering vegetables and thought they’d gone to join the boys playing miggsy. On questioning, one of the children, Gandidan, admitted seeing them go toward the back corridors.
“Gandidan,” Manora said sternly, “have you been teasing Felessan about the peekhole again?” The child hung his head and suddenly the others couldn’t look at anyone. “Hmmm,” and she turned to the anxious parents. “I’ve been missing used glows again, F’lar, so I imagine there’ve been some trips to look at the eggs.”
“What?” Lessa exclaimed, as startled as the boys who had turned to guilty statues.
Before she could berate them, F’lar laughed aloud. “That’s where they are, then.”
“Where?”
The boys huddled together, terrified by the coldness in her voice, even if it was directed toward the Weyrleader.
“In the corridor behind the Hatching Ground. Oh, don’t fuss, Lessa. That’s all part of growing up in the Weyr, isn’t it, Lytol? I did it when I was Felessan’s age.”
“You’ve been aware of these excursions, Manora?” Lessa demanded imperiously, ignoring F’lar.
“Certainly, Weyrwoman,” Manora replied unintimidated. “And kept track to be sure they all returned. How long ago did they set out, Gandidan? Did they play with you for a time?”
“No wonder Ramoth’s been so upset; I kept thinking she was only being broody. How could you allow such activities to continue?”
“Come now, Lessa,” F’lar said soothingly. “It’s a matter of adolescent pride,” and F’lar dropped his voice to a whisper and widened his eyes dramatically, “not to shrink from the challenge of dark, dusty corridors; dim, flickering glows. Will the glows last long enough to get us to the peekhole and back? Or will we be lost forever in the blackness of the Weyr?”
The Harper was grinning, the boys stunned and open-mouthed. Lytol was not amused, however.
“How long ago, Gandidan?” Manora repeated, tipping the boy’s face up. When he seemed unable to speak, she glanced at the scared expressions of the others. “I think we’d better look. It’s easy to take the wrong turning if you have inadequate glows. And they did.”
There was no lack of searchers, and F’lar quickly split them up into sections to explore each corridor segment. Sounds echoed through halls undisturbed for hundreds of Turns. But it was not long before F’lar and Lytol led their group to the guiding light. Once they saw the figures lying in the patch of light, F’lar sent for the others.
“What’s the matter with them?” Lytol demanded, supporting his ward against him, and anxiously feeling for his pulse. “Blood?” He held up stained fingers, his face bleak, cheek a-twitch.
So, thought F’lar, Lytol’s heart had unfrozen a little. Lessa was wrong to think Lytol too numb to care for the boy. Jaxom was a sensitive boy and children needed affection, but there are many ways of loving.
F’lar gestured for more glows. He turned back the dusty linen of the boy’s shirt, baring the horizontal scratches.
“Doesn’t look to me like more than scrapes. Probably stumbled against the wall in the dark. Who’s got some numb-weed on him? Don’t look like that, Lytol. The pulse is strong.”
“But he’s not asleep. He doesn’t wake.” Lytol shook the limp figure, at first gently, then more insistently.
“There isn’t a mark on Felessan,” the Weyrleader said, turning his son in his arms.
Manora and Lessa came running then, kicking up dust in spite of F’lar’s urgent caution. But Manora reassured them that the boys were all right and briskly delegated two men to carry them back to the Weyr proper. Then she turned to the curious crowd that had assembled in the corridor.
“The emergency is over. Everyone back. Dinner’s ready, my lady, my lords. Pick up your feet, Silon. No need to stir up more dust.” She glanced at the Weyrleader and the Mastersmith. As one, the two men approached the mysterious doorway, Lessa and Lytol joining them.
Her crisp instructions cleared the corridor quickly until there were only the five remaining.
“The light is not made by glows,” announced the Mastersmith as he peered cautiously into the bright room. “And from the smoothness of the walls, this is part of the original Weyr.” He scowled at F’lar. “Were you aware such rooms existed?” It was almost an accusation.
“There were rumors, of course,” F’lar said, stepping inside, “but I don’t think I ever got very far down any of the unused corridors when I was a weyrling. Did you, Lytol?”
The Lord Warder snorted irritably but now that he knew Jaxom was all right, he could not resist looking in.
“Perhaps you should give him leave to prowl in Ruatha if he can find treasure rooms like this one,” Robinton suggested slyly. “And what under the sun could this represent? Lessa, you’re our expert on wall hangings, what do you say?”
He pointed to a drawing, composed of weird interconnecting varicolored rods and balls which spread in several ladder-like columns from floor to ceiling.
“I wouldn’t call it artistic, but the colors are pretty,” she said, peering closely at the wall. She touched a portion with a finger. “Why, the color is baked on the wall. And look here! Someone didn’t like it although I don’t think their correction helps. It’s more a scribble than a design. And it’s not even in the same type of coloring.”