“Now, go. It’s shallow but long. Get the Threadfall under control and get back. I’ll do my part here.” She gave his hand a final grip and, picking up her skirts, half-ran up the ramp, as if she were too busy to watch him leave.
She’s worried. She’s proud. Let’s go.
As Mnementh wheeled smartly upward, F’lar heard the sound of music, gitars accompanying a ragged chorus. How like the Harper to have the appropriate music for this occasion, he thought.
Drummer, beat, and piper, blow.
Harper, strike, and soldier, go.
Free the flame and sear the grasses
Till the dawning Red Star passes.
Odd, thought F’lar, four hours later, as he and Mnementh returned to Telgar with the wings from Igen, it was over Telgar, seven Turns ago, that the massed Weyrs flew against the second Fall of Thread.
He stifled keen regret at the recollection of that triumphant day when the six Weyrs had been solidly in accord. And yet, the duel at Telgar Hold today had been as inevitable as Lessa’s flight backward in time to bring up the Oldtimers. There was a subtle symmetry, a balance of good and bad, a fateful compensation. (His side ached. He suppressed pain and fatigue. Mnementh would catch it and then he’d catch it from Lessa. Fine thing when a man’s dragon acted nursy. But the effects of that half-kettle of numbweed Lessa’d slathered on him were wearing off.) He watched as the wings circled to land. All the riders had been bidden back to Telgar.
So many things were coming back to their starting point: from fire lizards to dragons, a circle encompassing who knows how many thousands of Turns, to the inner circle of the Old Weyrs and Benden’s resurgence.
He hoped T’ron would live; he’d enough on his conscience. Though it might be better if T’ron . . . He refused to consider that, in spite of the fact that he knew it would avoid another problem. And yet, if Thread could fall in Southern to be eaten by those grubs . . .
He wanted very much to see that distance-viewer T’ron had discovered. He groaned with a mental distress. Fandarel! How could he face him? That distance-writer had worked. It had relayed a very crucial message – faster than dragon wings! No fault of the Smith’s that his finely extruded wire could be severed by hot Thread. Undoubtedly he would overcome that flaw in an efficient way – unless he’d thrown up his hands at the idea, what with being presented with a powerful, fully operative distance-viewer to compound the day’s insults. Of all the problems undoubtedly awaiting him, he dreaded Fandarel’s reproach the most.
Below, Dragonriders streamed into the Court illumined by hundreds of glow baskets, to be met and absorbed into the throng of guests. The aroma of roasted meats and succulent vegetables drifted to him on the night air, reminding him that hunger depresses any man’s spirits. He could hear laughter, shouts, music. Lord Asgenar’s wedding day would never be forgotten!
That Asgenar! Allied to Larad, a fosterling of Corman’s, he’d be of enormous assistance in executing what F’lar saw must be done among the Holder Lords.
Then he spotted the tiny figure in the gateway. Lessa! He told Mnementh to land.
About time, the bronze grumbled.
F’lar slapped his neck affectionately. The beast had known perfectly well why they’d been hovering. A man needed a few minutes to digest chaos and restore order to his thinking before he plunged into more confusions.
Mnementh agreed as he landed smoothly. He craned his neck around, his great eyes gleaming affectionately at his rider.
“Don’t worry about me, Mnementh!” F’lar murmured in gratitude and love, stroking the soft muzzle. There was a faint odor of firestone and smoke though they’d done little flaming. “Are you hungry?”
Not yet. Telgar feeds enough tonight. Mnementh launched himself toward the fire ridge above the Hold, where the perching dragons made black, regular crags against the darkening sky, their jeweled eyes gleaming down on the festal activities.
F’lar laughed aloud at Mnementh’s consideration. It was true that Lord Larad was stinting nothing, though his guest list had multiplied four-fold. Supplies had been flown in but Telgar Hold bore the brunt of it.
Lessa approached him with such slow steps that he wondered if something else had happened. He couldn’t see her face in the shadow but as she slipped into step beside him, he realized that she’d been respecting his mood. Her hand reached up to caress his cheek, lingering on the healing Thread score. She wouldn’t let him bend to kiss her.
“Come, love, I’ve fresh clothes and bandages for you.”
“Mnementh’s been telling on me?”
She nodded, still unusually subdued for Lessa.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she assured him hastily, smiling. “Ramoth said you were thinking hard.”
He squeezed her and the gesture pulled the muscles, making him wince.
“You’re a trial to me,” she said with mock exasperation and led him into the tower room.
“Kylara came back, didn’t she?”
“Oh, yes,” and there was an edge to Lessa’s voice as she added, “she and Meron are as inseparable as their lizards.”
She’d had a standing tub brought in, the water steaming invitingly. She insisted on bathing him while she reported what had happened while he’d fought Thread. He didn’t argue, it was too pleasant to relax under her ministrations, though her gentle hands sometimes reminded him of other occasions and . . .
T’ron had been taken directly to Southern, swathed in heavy felt. Mardra had contested F’lar’s authority to exile them but her protests fell on the deaf and determined front of Robinton, Larad, Fandarel, Lords Sangel and Groghe. They’d all accompanied Lessa and Kylara when Mardra was escorted back to Fort. Mardra had been certain she’d only to appeal to her weyrfolk to ensure her position as Weyrwoman. When she discovered that her arrogance and shrewishness had robbed her of all but a few adherents, she’d retired meekly to Southern with them.
“We nearly had a fight between Kylara and Mardra but Robinton intervened. Kylara was proclaiming herself Fort Weyrwoman.”
F’lar groaned.
“Don’t worry,” Lessa assured him, briskly kneading the tight muscles across his shoulders. “She changed her mind directly she learned that T’kul and his riders were leaving the High Reaches Weyr. It’s more logical for T’bor and the Southerners to take over that Weyr than Fort since most of the Fort riders are staying.”
“That puts Kylara too near Nabol for my peace of mind.”
“Yes, but that leaves the way clear for P’zar, Roth’s rider, to take over as Fort Weyrleader. He’s not strong but he’s well-liked and it won’t upset the Fort people as much. They’re relieved to be free of both T’ron and Mardra but we oughtn’t to press our luck too far.”
“N’ton’d be a good Wing-second there.”
“I thought of him so I asked P’zar if he’d object and he didn’t.”
F’lar shook his head at her tactics, then hissed, because she was loosening the old, dried numbweed.
“I’m not so sure but what I’d prefer the physician – ” she began.
“No!”
“He’d be discreet but I’ll warn you, all the dragons know.”
He stared at her in surprise. “I thought it odd there were so many dragons shadowing me and Mnementh. I don’t think we went between more than twice.”
“The dragons appreciate you, bronze rider,” Lessa said tartly, encircling him with clean, soft bandages.
“The Oldtimers, too?”
“Most of them. And more of their riders than I’d estimated. Only twenty riders and women followed Mardra, you know, from Fort. Of course,” and she grimaced, “most of T’kul’s people went. The fourteen who stayed are young riders, Impressed since the Weyr came forward. So there’ll be enough at Southern . . .”
“Southern is no longer our concern.”
She was in the act of handing him the fresh tunic and hesitated, the fabric gathered up in her hands. He took it from her, pulling on the sleeves, ducking his head into the opening, giving her time to absorb his dictum.