“Perhaps after?” Lorana suggested forlornly.
M’tal drew a loud, thoughtful breath. He let it out again in a sigh, shaking his head. “No.”
Kindan started to speak, but Lorana grabbed his arm, shaking her head. “Very well,” she said. “We’ll do what we can.”
“Have you heard from Masterharper Zist?” M’tal asked Kindan.
Kindan shook his head. “Not yet. I’ve got a weyrling up on the watch heights listening for the drums.”
“Perhaps he’ll have good news for us,” M’tal said wearily. He looked at the others. “Well, if that’s all, I think I’ll get back to B’nik’s training flight.”
“It’s time to do our rounds, anyway,” K’tan said, rising from his seat. He gestured to Lorana. “Coming?”
Lorana roused herself from her musings over the chart. “What? Oh, yes! I want to see Denorith’s wing.”
FOURTEEN
Wake up! Come on, K’lior, get up-it’s time to fight Thread,” Cisca called from across the room, full of irrepressible enthusiasm.
K’lior rolled over and up. In truth, he hadn’t slept and even though he had gone to bed very early in the morning, he had found himself faking sleep so as not to upset Cisca.
“You were faking last night,” she said as she came across the room and kissed him.
K’lior groaned. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
“I couldn’t sleep either,” she admitted. “But it’s time: Thread falls over lower Nabol and upper Ruatha in less than two hours.” She gestured toward the bathing room. “Get a good bath, start the day right.”
K’lior smiled. If there was any mantra to Cisca’s high energy life, it was “get a good bath.” It was about the only time he could get her to slow down. Well, one of the only times, he corrected himself with a wicked grin.
“I heard that!” Cisca called from the bathing room.
“I didn’t say anything,” K’lior returned mildly.
Cisca reentered the room, grabbed his hand, and tugged him playfully toward the waiting bath. “I heard it anyway,” she said.
Wisely, K’lior said nothing. As he eased into the bath, he opened his mouth to ask for some breakfast but Cisca hushed him with a raised finger.
“I’ve already sent down for some klah and scones,” she informed him. “Eat light up here, so that you can eat a hearty breakfast with the riders.”
K’lior nodded: That had been his plan. He once again blessed his luck that his Rineth had managed to catch Melirth when she rose. He had been so afraid that one of the older, wiser dragons-and his rider-would have managed to outmaneuver the young bronze on his first mating flight. He and Cisca had already formed a strong attachment before her gold rose for the first time, and while he understood and accepted the ways of the Weyr, he was honest enough to admit that he did not want any other dragonman entwined with her.
“I know that look,” Cisca said, returning with a tray. She put it down beside the bathing pool and sat herself beside it. “You’re worrying about me again.”
K’lior could never understand how his thoughts could be so transparent, no matter how hard he worked to keep his face expressionless.
“Afraid I might let another ride Melirth, eh?” she teased, punching him lightly on his exposed shoulder. “Well,” she said consideringly, “I will, too, if you don’t behave.”
“I’ll do my best,” he promised somberly.
Cisca flicked water at him, grinning. “That’s the spirit! Now finish bathing so we can get downstairs and make a suitable appearance.”
“There are two hundred and twenty-two fighting dragons, excluding the three queens, and they will all fly!” D’gan shouted at V’gin and Lina. For the third time since the last Fall, they had asked him to keep the sick dragons behind. Now he took a breath and let his anger ride out with a deep sigh.
“We have only two hundred and twenty-two fighting dragons,” he repeated, ignoring the startled looks on the faces of the other dragonriders milling about the Lower Caverns. They should be used to his shouting by now, he reflected. They should know that his roar was always worse than his flame.
“I know that, D’gan,” Lina said soothingly. “Which is why I still think it might be best if the sick ones don’t fly.”
D’gan shook his head. “They fly. Every dragon that can go between will fly against Thread.” He looked pointedly at Norik, the Weyr harper, who had stood beside the other two to lend support. “Isn’t that the duty as written in the Teaching Songs?”
“It is, but the-”
“No buts!” D’gan replied hotly, his anger coming back. “Harper, I heard no ‘buts’ in the Teaching Songs. It doesn’t say ‘Dragonmen must fly when they feel like it.’ It says, ‘Dragonmen must fly when Thread is in the sky.’ ”
Norik bit his lip and heaved a deep sigh.
“Very well,” D’gan said, confident that this repeated revolt had been snuffed out. “Lina, order the wings to assemble above the Star Stones.” He raised his voice to be heard by the massed riders. “We ride against Thread over Telgar!”
As the riders mounted their dragons, D’gan turned back to Lina. “You’ll want to assemble the queen’s wing to come along on my command.”
Lina opened her mouth to try once more to dissuade him, but the set look on D’gan’s face quelled her. She closed her mouth again and nodded mutely.
Her Garoth was one of the dragons that had most recently started sneezing.
“You will be careful, won’t you, old man?” Dalia asked as she and C’rion glided down to the Bowl below them. She had chided C’rion for his decision to relocate the queens and senior wingleaders to the highest weyrs-it ensured that all their meals were either in the Kitchen or cold-but she couldn’t fault his logic. If the sickness was spread from dragon to dragon, and that certainly seemed so, then the dragons’ sneezing was the surest way it spread. So moving the fit dragons to the highest part of the weyr-above the sneezers-seemed a good precaution.
“I’ll be careful,” C’rion promised. Not, he reflected, that being careful was enough these days.
The sickness had more than decimated the Weyr. When he had seen the Red Star bracket the Eye Rock at Fort Weyr, he could count on three hundred and thirty-three fighting dragons. Now he would be taking only one hundred and seventy-six to fight Thread at South Nerat.
Fortunately, the path of the Thread would only graze South Nerat this Fall, and C’rion hoped that his new tactics-and the short Fall-would give the Weyr the thrill of success without the numbing pain of lost dragons.
“You’ll keep an eye on things around here?” C’rion asked.
Dalia grimaced. “I’d rather be going with you,” she admitted. “You still haven’t convinced me that your tactics can make up for missing the queens’ wing.”
C’rion shrugged. “But I can’t have our queens flying underneath any sick dragons.”
“I thought the sick dragons were staying behind?” Dalia asked, brows raised.
“The ones we know about,” C’rion corrected. “Oh, the Wingleaders and the riders themselves understand the risks, but that’s not to say that a dragon who feels fine right now won’t be coughing and sneezing when we arrive over South Nerat.”