The bronze fire lizard, Berd, found F’nor preparing to join the wings at the western meadows of Telgar Hold. The brown rider was so astonished at first to see the little bronze in Benden so far from his mistress that he didn’t immediately grasp the frenzied creature’s thoughts.
But Canth did.
Wirenth has risen!
All other considerations forgotten, F’nor ran with Canth to the ledge. Grall grabbed at her perch on his shoulder, wrapping her tail so tightly around F’nor’s neck that he had to loosen it forcibly. Then Berd could not be brought to roost and precious moments were lost while Canth managed to calm the little bronze sufficiently to accept instruction. As Berd finally settled, Canth let out so mighty a bugle that Mnementh challenged from the ledge and Ramoth roared back from the Hatching Ground.
With no thought of the effect of their precipitous exit or Canth’s exceptional behavior, F’nor urged his dragon upward. The small pulse of reason that remained untouched by emotion was trying to estimate how long it had taken the little bronze to reach him, how long Wirenth would blood before rising, which bronzes were at High Reaches. He was thankful that F’lar had not had time to throw mating flights open. There were some beasts against whom Canth stood no chance.
When they broke into the air again over High Reaches Weyr, F’nor’s worst fears were realized. The Feeding Ground was a bloody sight and no queen fed there. Nor was there a bronze among the dragons who ringed the Weyr heights.
Without order, Canth wheeled sharply down at dizzying speed.
Berd knows where Wirenth is. He takes me.
The little bronze hopped down to Canth’s neck, his little talons gripping the ridge tightly. F’nor slid from Canth’s shoulder to the ground, staggering out of the way so the brown could spring back aloft.
Prideth also rises! The thought and the brown’s scream of fear were simultaneous. From the heights the other dragons answered, extending their wings in alarm.
“Rouse Ramoth!” F’nor shouted, mind and voice, his body paralyzed with shock. “Rouse Ramoth! Bronze riders! Prideth also rises!”
Weyrfolk rushed from the Lower Cavern, riders appeared on their ledges around the Weyr face.
“Kylara! T’bor! Where’s Pilgra? Kylara! Varena!” Shouting with a panic that threatened to choke him. F’nor raced for Brekke’s weyr, shoving aside the people who crowded him, demanding explanations.
Prideth rising! How could that happen? Even the stupidest Weyrwoman knew you didn’t keep a queen near her weyr during a mating flight – unless they were broody. How could Kylara . . .
“T’bor!”
F’nor raced up the short flight of steps, pounded down the corridor in strides that jolted his half-healed arm. But the a pain cleared his head of panic. Just as he burst into the weyr cavern, Brekke’s angry cry halted him. The bronze riders grouped around her were beginning to show the effects of the interrupted mating flight.
“What’s she doing here? How dare she?” Brekke was shrieking in a voice shrill with lust as well as fury. “These are my dragons! How dare she! I’ll kill her!” The litany broke into a piercing scream of agony as Brekke doubled up, right shoulder hunching as if to protect her head.
“My eye! My eye! My eye!” Brekke was covering her right eye, her body writhing in an uncontrollable, unconscious mimicry of the aerial battle to which she was tuned.
“Kill! I’ll kill her! No! No! She cannot escape. Go away!” Suddenly Brekke’s face turned crafty and her whole body writhed sensuously.
The bronze riders were changing now, no longer completely in the thrall of the strange mental rapport with their beasts. Fear, doubt, indecision, hopelessness registered on their faces. Some portion of the human awareness was returning, fighting with the dragon responsiveness and the interrupted mating flight. When T’bor reached for Brekke, human fear was reflected in his eyes.
But she was still totally committed to Wirenth, and the incredible triumph on her face registered Wirenth’s success in evading capture, in dragging Prideth from the encircling queens.
“Prideth has risen, T’bor! The queens are fighting,” F’nor shouted.
One rider began to scream and the sound broke the link of two others who stared, dazed, at Brekke’s contorting body.
“Don’t touch her!” F’nor cried, moving to fend off T’bor and another man. He moved as close to her as possible but her ranging eyes did not see him or anything in the weyr.
Then she seemed to spring, her left eye widening with an unholy joy, her lips bared as her teeth fastened on an imaginary target, her body arching with the empathic effort.
Suddenly she hissed, craning her head sideways, over her right shoulder, while her face reflected incredulity, horror, hatred. As suddenly, her body was seized with a massive convulsion. She screamed again, this time a mortal shriek of unbelievable terror and anguish. One hand went to her throat the other batted at some unseen attacker. Her body, poised on her toes, strained in an agonized stretch. With a cry that was more gasp than scream, she whirled. In her eyes was Brekke’s soul again, tortured, terrified. Then her eyes closed, her body sagged in such an alarming collapse that F’nor barely caught her in time.
The stones of the weyr itself seemed to reverberate with the mourning dirge of the dragons.
“T’bor, send someone for Manora,” F’nor cried in a hoarse voice as he bore Brekke to her couch. Her body was so light in his arms – as if all substance had been drained from it. He held her tightly to his chest with one arm, fumbling to find the pulse in her neck with the free hand. It beat – faintly.
What had happened? How could Kylara have allowed Prideth near Wirenth?
“They’re both gone,” T’bor was saying as he stumbled into the sleeping room and sagged down on the clothes chest, trembling violently.
“Where’s Kylara? Where is she?”
“Don’t know. I left this morning to fly patrols.” T’bor scrubbed at his face, shock bleaching the ruddy color from his skin. “The lake was polluted . . .”
F’nor piled furs around Brekke’s motionless body. He held his hand against her chest, feeling its barely perceptible rise and fall.
F’nor?
It was Canth, his call so faint, so piteous that the man closed his eyes against the pain in his dragon’s tone.
He felt someone grip his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see the pity, the understanding in T’bor’s. “There’s nothing more you can do for her right now, F’nor.”
“She’ll want to die. Don’t let her!” he said. “Don’t let Brekke die!”
Canth was on the ledge, his eyes glowing dully. He was swaying with exhaustion. F’nor encircled the bowed head with his arms, their mutual grief so intense they seemed afire with pain.
It was too late. Prideth had risen. Too close to Wirenth. Not even the queens could help. I tried, F’nor. I tried. She – she fell so fast. And she turned on me. Then went between. I could not find her between.
They stood together, immobile.
Lessa and Manora saw them as Ramoth circled into High Reaches Weyr. At Canth’s bellow, Ramoth had come out of the Hatching Ground, loudly calling for her rider, demanding an explanation of such behavior.
But F’lar, believing he knew Canth’s errand, had reassured her, until Ramoth had informed them that Wirenth was rising. And Ramoth knew instantly when Prideth rose, too, and had gone between to Nabol to stop the mortal combat if she could.
Once Wirenth had dragged Prideth between, Ramoth had returned to Benden Weyr for Lessa. The Benden dragons set up their keen so that the entire Weyr soon knew of the disaster. But Lessa waited only long enough for Manora to gather her medicines.
As she and the headwoman reached the ledge of Brekke’s weyr and the motionless mourners, Lessa looked anxiously to Manora. There was something dangerous in such stillness.