Dalia nodded. He was right-the onset of the symptoms was that quick. Why, it had seemed like only minutes had passed between Carth’s first sneeze and the moment Gatrial’s anguished cry was echoed by the keening of the Weyr’s dragons at yet another loss.
In the three days since the last Fall, they had lost twenty-seven dragons to the sickness. Dalia shut her eyes against the painful memory.
It will be all right, Bidenth soothed her. Dalia nodded to herself. A new healer would be sent from the Harper Hall. It might be awhile, because no one would risk sending a dragon to the Harper Hall, so the poor lad would have to travel over land and sea when the sky was Thread free. In the meantime, they would make do.
“Good morning, my lady!” a young woman called cheerfully up from the Bowl below.
Dalia smothered her retort, instead alighting swiftly from Bidenth and striding over to the smiling holder girl.
“Jassi,” she said with a touch of acerbity, “please just call me by my name.”
Jassi dipped a curtsy and bowed her head. “I’m sorry my-Dalia-that takes some getting used to.”
Dalia shook her head but couldn’t help smiling at the holder girl. Jassi had arrived in response to C’rion’s pleading request for anyone who knew anything about Healing.
“I’ve really only dealt with the cuts and scrapes we got at my father’s inn,” Jassi had confessed immediately upon arrival. She ticked off the injuries she’d tended on her fingers. “The odd broken bone, deep puncture, a collapsed lung once, and-”
Dalia had hugged her. “Please, just see what you can do,” she had begged. “If it doesn’t work out, no harm done.”
“I’ll try, my lady,” Jassi had replied, very much on her best manners.
She had nearly bolted when their first charge proved to be a dragon, but Dalia had calmed her down and introduced her to the dragon, who was reeling in pain from a badly scored wing.
After the first day, Dalia couldn’t imagine being without Jassi. The girl had recovered from her initial awkwardness and slipped easily into the role of authority so completely that Dalia suspected the girl had been a major force in the now-closed inn. Jassi had confessed that she felt claustrophobic in the tight society and narrow corridors of Ista Hold.
Now, after nearly a sevenday at the Weyr, Jassi had found herself thoroughly at home and, except for a tendency to address all the dragonriders as “my lord” or “my lady,” had completely adjusted to Weyr life. In fact, Dalia had decided to coax Jassi onto the Hatching Grounds the next time there was a queen egg.
The girl’s cheerfulness was irrepressible, even in the worst of times. Dalia’s eyes watered at the memories of all the hands she had seen Jassi hold while rider lost dragon to the sickness.
“It’s much worse for them,” Jassi had explained when Dalia had carefully steered one of their conversations to the topic. “So I try to keep a good face on it and do what I can.”
And that, Dalia supposed, was all that could be expected of anyone in these terrible times. To do what they could.
High over the west branch of the Telgar river, two hundred and thirty-one dragons burst into the sky, perfectly arrayed in a three-layer arrow formation.
“Right, we’re here, where’s the Thread?” P’dor shouted from his position behind K’lior. K’lior smiled at his wingsecond’s jauntiness. He looked up, then looked around.
The sight of his Weyr arrayed behind him made him swell with pride. All the training was going to pay off, he was sure. He looked at the skies behind him. Thread. His bronze dragon, Rineth, bugled as he sensed K’lior’s thrill of alarm.
“Where’s Telgar?” he wondered aloud. To Rineth he said, Have the lower flight remain here and order the other two flights to turn around to face the Thread.
In an awkward flurry the Weyr rearranged itself. Rineth turned back to K’lior for firestone, and then suddenly there was Thread, raining down on them and no one from Telgar in sight.
It was time to fly.
Time to flame.
Time to fight.
Thread would be over Nerat for less than an hour, C’rion reminded himself as he and Nidanth emerged into the morning sunlight. He glanced around, satisfied that the wings were organizing themselves quickly. It was an awkward Fall to fight, just grazing Nerat before sheering back out to sea. So, while it was a short flight, it had its own unique perils. Thread had been falling on the sea for some time already, and the pattern of the Fall had been established-except that the morning breeze had already started, with great thermals roiling the Thread and clumping it unpredictably.
C’rion was glad that it was a short Fall. He considered rearranging the Weyr’s dragons to fight from the shore, rather than pick up the Fall as it came in from the sea and follow it.
There! He could see them, flecks of white against the high clouds. He ordered Nidanth to spread the news. The bronze complied, then turned his massive head back for firestone. C’rion fed it to him, all the while scanning the skies above him, trying to time when to climb up to fight the falling Thread.
J’lantir, arrayed in the wing behind him, saw the menacing clump of Thread as it whirled down and streamed onto C’rion and Nidanth from behind. Before he could even shout a warning, Thread had scoured C’rion’s back bare and had torn great gaps in Nidanth’s inner wings and back. The pair vanished between. J’lantir counted slowly to himself, his eyes scanning the skies around him.
When he reached five, he swallowed hard and said to Lolanth, Tell Pineth to have M’kir take their wing to the rear. Tell the rest of our wing to close up to the front.
Tears streamed down J’lantir’s face as Lolanth relayed the orders and sped up to bring the wing forward to the Thread. And then there was Thread to fight, to flame, to char from the skies.
Grimly, J’lantir did his duty for his Weyr and planet.
Kindan was worried when he didn’t see Lorana come to dinner. They had worked all day together, part of the time in the Records Room, and part of the time helping K’tan tend to the injured dragons and riders-as well as the sick dragons.
Lorana had been cheerful in the early morning, but as the day wore on, and dragons from Fort, Telgar, and Ista Weyrs were lost fighting Thread, her face took on a sickly pallor. Kindan could see her wince visibly with each new loss.
“I’m all right,” she had told him when he’d asked her about it.
Shortly before the evening meal, M’tal came searching for her in the Records Room.
“I just heard from Lolanth,” he began, his eyes troubled.
“I heard,” Lorana said in a flat voice.
“Did you-” M’tal cut himself short. “I was wondering if perhaps you’d felt Nidanth’s passing.”
Lorana shook her head sadly. “There were so many,” she said hoarsely, her voice barely audible. “Less than the first Fall, but still so many.”
M’tal nodded slowly. “C’rion was right, then, to pity you.”
Lorana met his eyes. “I’ll survive,” she said firmly. “It’s hard, but I have Arith to comfort me.”
“If there’s anything you need,” M’tal said, “or anything I or Salina can do to help…”
“Thank you,” Lorana said, forcing a smile. “We’ll manage, Arith and I.”
But now, as Kindan’s eyes scanned the crowded tables, he wondered. With a sigh, he left and headed up to the Records Room. Perhaps she had decided to eat there instead.
He was halfway up the steps when Arith called, Lorana needs the harper.
The dragon’s message made him jump, but as soon as he recovered, he was running down the stairs and across the Bowl to Lorana’s quarters.