“Are the Lord Holders doing anything about Meron?” she asked, glancing sternly at the four present. There was a long silence. “I must return to Benden Weyr. The dawn and another day’s watch come all too soon there. We’re keeping Wansor and Fandarel from the observations that will make it possible for us to go to that Star.”
“Before they monopolize the thing, I’d like another look,” Oterel of Tillek said loudly. “My eyes are keen . . .”
Lessa was tired as she called Ramoth to her. She wanted to go back to Benden Weyr, not so much to sleep as to reassure herself about F’lar. Mnementh was with him, true, and he’d have reported any change in his rider’s condition . . .
And I’d’ve told you, Ramoth said, sounding a little hurt.
“Lessa,” the Harper’s low voice reached her, “are you in favor of that expedition?”
She looked up at him, his face lighted by the path glows. His expression was neutral and she wondered if he’d really meant what he’d said back at the Star Rocks. He dissembled so easily, and so often against his own inclination, that she sometimes wondered what his candid thoughts were.
“It scares me. It scares me because it seems so likely that someone must have tried. Sometime. It just doesn’t seem logical . . .”
“Is there any record that anyone, besides yourself, ever jumped so far between times?”
“No.” She had to admit it. “Not so far. But then, there hadn’t been such need.”
“And there’s no need now to take this other kind of a jump?”
“Don’t unsettle me more.” Lessa was unsure of what she felt or thought, or what anyone felt or thought, should or shouldn’t do. Then she saw the kind, worried expression of the Harper’s eyes and impulsively gripped his arm. “How can we know? How can we be sure?”
“How were you sure that the Question Song could be answered – by you?”
“And you’ve a new Question Song for me?”
“Questions, yes.” He gave her a smile as he covered her hand gently with his own. “Answer?” He shook his head and then stepped back as Ramoth alighted.
But his questions were as difficult to forget as the Question Song which had led her between times. When she returned to Benden, she found that F’lar’s skin was hot to the touch; he slept restlessly. So much so that, although Lessa willed herself to sleep beside him on the wide couch, she couldn’t succeed. Desperate for some surcease from her fears – for F’lar, of the intangible unknown ahead – she crept from their couch and into the weyr. Ramoth roused sleepily and arranged her front legs in a cradle. Lulled by the warm, musty comfort of her dragon, Lessa finally did sleep.
By the morning, F’lar was no better, querulous with his fever and worried about her report on the viewing.
“I can’t imagine what you expected me to see,” she said with some exasperation after she had patiently described for the fourth time what she had seen through the distance-viewer
“I expected,” and he paused significantly, “to find some – some characteristic for which the dragons could fly between.” He plucked at the bed fur, then pulled the recalcitrant forelock back from his eyes. “We have got to keep that promise to the Lord Holders.”
“Why? To prove Meron wrong?”
“No. To prove it is or is not possible to get rid of Thread permanently.” He scowled at her as if she should have known the answer.
“I think someone else must have tried to discover that before,” she said wearily. “And we still have Thread.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” he countered in such a savage tone that he began to cough, an exercise which painfully contracted the injured muscles across his waist.
Instantly Lessa was at his side, offering him distilled wine, sweetened and laced with fellis fruit juice.
“I want F’nor,” he said petulantly.
Lessa looked down at him for the coughing spasm had left him limp.
“If we can pry him away from Brekke.”
F’lar’s lips set in a thin line.
“You mean, only you, F’lar, Benden Weyrleader, can flout tradition?” she asked.
“That isn’t . . .”
“If it’s your pet project you’re worrying about, I had N’ton secure Thread . . .”
“N’ton?” F’lar’s eyes flew open in surprise.
“Yes. He’s a good lad and, from what I heard at Fort Weyr last night, very deft in being exactly where he is needed, unobtrusively.”
“And . . . ?”
“And? Well, when the next queen at Fort Weyr rises, he’ll undoubtedly take the Leadership. Which is what you intended, isn’t it?”
“I don’t mean that. I mean, the Thread.”
Lessa felt her guts turn over at the memory. “As you thought, the grubs rose to the surface the instant we put the Thread in. Very shortly there was no more Thread.”
F’lar’s eyes shone and he parted his lips in a triumphant smile.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
At that, Lessa jammed both fists against her waist and awarded him one of her sternest looks. “Because there have been a few other things to occupy my mind and time. This is not something we can discuss in open session, after all. Why, if even such loyal riders as . . .”
“What did N’ton say? Does he fully understand what I’m trying to do?”
Lessa eyed her Weyrmate thoughtfully. “Yes, he does, which is why I chose him to substitute for F’nor.”
That seemed to relieve F’lar, for he leaned back against the pillows with a deep sigh and closed his eyes. “He’s a good choice. For more than Fort Weyrleadership. He’d carry on. That’s what we need the most, Lessa. Men who think, who can carry on. That’s what happened before.” His eyes flew open, shadowed with a vague fear and a definite worry. “What time is it at Fort Weyr now?”
Lessa made a rapid calculation. “Dawn’s about four hours away.”
“Oh. I want N’ton here as soon as possible.”
“No wait a minute, F’lar, he’s a Fort rider . . .”
F’lar grabbed for her hand, pulling her down to him. “Don’t you see,” he demanded, his voice hoarse, his urgency frightening, “he’s got to know. Know everything I plan. Then, if something happens . . .”
Lessa stared at him, not comprehending. Then she was both furious with him for frightening her, irritated with his self-pity, and terrified that he might indeed be fatally ill.
“F’lar, get a grip on yourself, man,” she said, half-angry, half-teasing; he felt so hot.
He flung himself back down on the bed, tossing his head from side to side.
“This is what happened before. I know it. I don’t care what he says, get F’nor here.”
Lioth is coming and a green from Telgar, Mnementh announced.
Lessa took consolation from the fact that Mnementh didn’t seem the least bit distressed by F’lar’s ravings.
F’lar gave a startled cry, glaring accusingly at Lessa.
“Don’t look at me. I didn’t send for N’ton. It isn’t even dawn there yet.”
The green is a messenger and the man he bears is very excited, Mnementh reported, and he sounded mildly curious.
Ramoth, who had taken herself to the Hatching Ground after Lessa awakened, rumbled a challenge to bronze Lioth. N’ton came striding down the passageway, accompanied by Wansor, certainly the last person Lessa expected to see. The rotund little man’s face was flushed with excitement, his eyes sparkling despite red rims and bloodshot whites.
“Oh, Weyrlady, this is the most exciting news imaginable. Really exciting!” Wansor babbled, shaking the large leaf under her nose. She had an impression of circles. Then Wansor saw F’lar. All the excitement drained out of his face as he realized that the Weyrleader was a very sick man. “Sir, I had no idea – I wouldn’t have presumed . . .”
“Nonsense, man,” F’lar said irritably. “What brings you? What have you there? Let me see. You’ve found a coordinate for the dragons?”
Wansor seemed so uncertain about proceeding that Lessa took charge, guiding the man to the bed.