They were all warmly bundled against the morning chill, M’tal and K’tan in their riding gear, and even Kindan in a thick wher-hide jacket. M’tal’s Gaminth and K’tan’s Drith lounged on a ledge near the plateau that held the Star Stones, unperturbed by the chill in the air. As the sun rose further into the sky, Kindan could see patches of fog along the coastline to the east. He turned around, looking down into the darkened Bowl far below. When his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he found he could spot a fog-diffused glow at the entrance to the Kitchen Cavern, but nothing more.
“How much time do we have before the first Threadfall?” he asked, turning back to the other two. He had been invited to the morning gathering by the Weyrleader himself.
M’tal shook his head. His face was gaunt with fatigue. “Less than a month, I’d guess.”
“We’ll be flying wing light,” K’tan said, stepping back from the Star Stones. His breath fogged in the chilly air.
Another three dragons had started coughing just that morning, bringing the total to eighteen. Twelve had died in the fortnight since Breth had gone between forever. Counting those hatchlings old enough, there had been over 370 fighting dragons at Benden Weyr. Now there were fewer than 340 fit to fly against Thread.
“It’s worse at Ista,” Kindan said. C’rion had had a brief chance to commiserate with M’tal and Salina and exchange notes with K’tan on the illness. Neither learned anything new, and C’rion had returned to his Weyr as soon as he was able.
Before C’rion left, a messenger from Fort Weyr had arrived. His news arrived before he did: The dragons keened for another four dead. C’rion, M’tal, K’tan, Kindan, and Lorana-invited for her ability to talk to any dragon-had gathered in the Council Room for a hasty conference. They agreed that the Weyrs should close themselves to outsiders, should banish fire-lizards, and should communicate by telepathy as much as possible. When it was revealed that Lorana could hear all the dragons, C’rion had suggested that all communications go through her, as it would be quicker than passing messages from rider to dragon and dragon back to rider.
Kindan had been doubtful. “I don’t know,” he’d said. “It seems that Lorana not only hears dragons but feels them, too.”
C’rion was stunned. “Even when they die?” he asked gently. Lorana nodded.
Memories of the death of the queen, and of all the dragons after her, came at her like physical blows.
“I have Arith,” she said, looking toward the Bowl and their quarters, a wan smile on her lips. “We comfort each other.”
“I’m glad of that,” C’rion had said feelingly. “This must be a very hard time for you.”
“I think it’s harder for others,” Lorana had replied. “I still have my dragon.”
Something jarred Kindan back from his wool-gathering to the cold morning air and the ominous view through the Star Stones. “Shouldn’t Tullea be here?” he asked M’tal.
M’tal pursed his lips. “She decided that she needed her rest,” he said. It was obvious that he was torn between disapproval and sympathy. Kindan could understand that-the toll on all of them had been great.
“What about the other bronze riders?”
“B’nik said that he would trust my observation,” M’tal responded. “The others agreed.”
With the death of Breth, Tullea’s Minith was the senior queen at Benden Weyr. When she rose to mate, the leadership of the Weyr would pass to the rider of the bronze she chose. Everyone expected it would be B’nik, even though Tullea had already found the time to tease several of the other riders. M’tal had pointedly not risen to any of her taunts, preferring to spend all his spare time consoling Salina.
In fact, that was where Lorana was at the moment-with Salina. Kindan thought he knew, through his bond with the watch-wher Kisk and later through the bond he had had with his fire-lizard, some of the great pain Salina and all the other newly dragonless must be feeling. The harpers’ laments captured that pain-a pain greater than the loss of a loved one, greater than that of a parent losing a child. The pain was all that and the tearing of a limb-half a heart, half a soul, and more.
Some never recovered. They refused to eat, refused comfort, and simply wasted away. Others managed to find solace from loved ones and rebuilt their lives. But Kindan had never heard of a dragonrider remaining in the Weyr after losing a dragon.
K’tan and M’tal gave a start and headed toward their dragons.
“Lorana has asked us to return,” K’tan explained. “Arith is hungry and Lorana needs to watch her.”
“I’ll stay here a bit more, if that’s all right,” Kindan said.
“It’s a long walk down,” K’tan cautioned. “Ten dragonlengths or more.”
“That’s all right,” Kindan said, waving them away. “I can use the exercise.”
“If you’re sure,” M’tal said.
“I’m sure,” Kindan said. M’tal mounted his dragon and waved farewell to Kindan, and then the two glided away, back down to the Weyr Bowl.
“You’ll find me in the Records Room,” K’tan said from his perch on Drith’s neck.
Drith leapt into the air and glided down to the Bowl below. After they had receded from view, Kindan turned back toward the rising sun. It was just over the horizon and its brilliance obscured his view eastward. Looking southward away from the sun, Kindan could make out the Tunnel Road and the plateau lake as the mountains fell away from high Benden Weyr to the plains below.
Kindan was a miner’s child, so to him, Benden Weyr was a special marvel, one that the dragonriders and weyrfolk who had grown up there took for granted. But for him, with his trained eye, the Weyr was an engineering miracle. He turned around, northward, toward the artfully constructed reservoir even higher than the Star Stones. Over its sluices came a constant stream of water, guided into channels that spilled northward and southward into the rock of the Weyr. The streams ran centrally through the Weyr, servicing each of the nine different levels of individual weyrs-living quarters-carved into the walls of the Weyr before falling down to the next level and down again until the waste stream finally plunged deep into a huge septic dome way beneath a lush field far below and south of the Weyr itself.
The weyrs on each level all adjoined a long corridor toward the outside edge of the Weyr. The corridors were punctuated by wide flights of stairs leading down to the Bowl. Each weyr, or those that were finished-there were many partially made weyrs still unused and unfurnished-had a bedroom, a meeting room, and a lavatory for the rider, and a large cavernous weyr proper for a dragon. The walls of the finished weyrs were usually whitewashed with lime, although several had been treated with dyes in marvelous shades of blue, green, bronze, gold; some occupants had even opted for accents of purple, pink, and tan.
Kindan could always tell newer stonework from the original-while there was clear craftsmanship in every bit of rock carving done in the Weyr, the new work was never as smooth or as clean as the original. The stairs leading from the top level of the Weyr up to the Standing Stones were a case in point. Instead of a handrail of smooth-melted rock, a rope had been bolted at intervals into the wall. The stairs themselves were nearly perfect, but Kindan’s legs noted a subtle unevenness as he descended to the Weyr.
Kindan wondered if the original settlers, who had created the dragons from the fire-lizards, could have come up with a cure for whatever was killing both fire-lizard and dragon alike. The problem seemed more than the people of his time could handle, given the skills available at the end of the Second Interval and the start of the Third Pass. How would the original settlers have felt if they realized that their great weapon against Thread would be annihilated scarcely five hundred Turns later, all their amazing craftsmanship and effort undone by disease and Thread, and the Weyrs left as lifeless, empty shells, ghostly monuments to a failed past?