Only three days had passed since the Weyrleader’s death. Dalia had known, of course, the instant that C’rion and Nidanth had been lost. She was still in mourning, but she was Weyrwoman-she would not let down C’rion’s men, nor destroy his legacy.
She had appointed J’lantir as interim Weyrleader. The response of the other Wingleaders had been unanimous support.
J’lantir had swallowed his personal misgivings and had drilled the remaining dragonriders as well as he could in the short time between the Threadfall at South Nerat and today.
“I wish the weather were better,” Dalia told him.
“Or worse,” J’lantir responded. “Then we’d have more time to train.”
“Yes, a cold snap or torrential downpour would be best,” Dalia agreed.
“We must fly the Thread we were given,” J’lantir said resignedly.
The dragonrider who had been sent ahead to abandoned Igen Weyr reported that the weather was gusty, with scattered clouds at fifteen hundred meters.
A lousy height, J’lantir thought to himself as he made his way down to the Weyr’s great Bowl. Dragons could fly up to just over three thousand meters in the daylight-as high as a man could fly and not pass out from lack of oxygen.
With clear skies, dragons could fight Thread all the way down to five hundred meters or less. But with the scattered clouds it would be imperative to flame the Thread before they entered the clouds or risk missing clumps as they fell through.
Some of those clumps of Thread would drown in the water of the clouds but, as the clouds were scattered, it was just as likely that some would survive the descent and burrow into the arid plains around Igen Weyr or-worse-into the lush green shoreline of the Igen coast.
J’lantir climbed onto Lolanth, grabbed and secured the firestone sacks handed up by one of the weyrfolk, and surveyed his wing. The other five wings were already airborne above him-all flying wing light.
One hundred and twenty-four dragons and their riders would face Thread today, less than half of the number that had first flown over Keroon on their first Fall. At least there were enough dragons to be certain that they would get most of the Thread that fell.
J’lantir nodded his thanks to the youngling who handed up his last bag of firestone, made sure that it was securely fastened beside him, and, with one final glance at his riders, gave the arm-pumping gesture to fly.
Dalia looked on from the Bowl below as the dragonriders of Ista Weyr arrayed themselves over the Star Stones and then winked out of sight between to fight Thread. She fought the impulse to bite her lips or cross her arms, knowing that the rest of the Weyr was watching her.
Some riders would not come back this time, just as C’rion had not come back the last time, Dalia knew. She and C’rion-her throat suddenly had a lump in it-had known that these days would come since they first Impressed their dragons.
They had pored over the Records together when C’rion’s Nidanth had first flown Bidenth and he had become Weyrleader. They knew that dragons and their riders would be injured fighting Thread. They knew that dragons and their riders would die fighting Thread. That was the way it had to be, that was the price paid for riding a dragon, that was the price that had to be paid to keep Pern from being utterly destroyed by Thread.
Dalia turned away, looking down from the Star Stones to those around her. Her eyes picked out Jassi coming toward her.
“I’ve got the fellis juice up from the store rooms,” Jassi reported. “And we’ve got enough numbweed on hand.”
“And the sick dragons?”
Jassi grimaced, looking down. “Two are getting worse,” she answered. Then she raised her head and added cheerfully, “But the others seem all right.”
Dalia nodded brusquely. “Very well,” she said. “It will be hours before the Fall is over-let’s see what we can do about dinner.”
“That’s handled,” Jassi said. “But I wasn’t sure about which weyrlings should be sent to bring more firestone during the Fall.”
Dalia changed direction, heading to the weyrling barracks. V’rel, the Weyrlingmaster, had insisted on flying Threadfall, and neither she nor J’lantir could turn down an able dragon and rider, particularly as V’rel and Piyolth were several Turns their junior. “Let’s go see, shall we?”
One hundred and twenty-three dragons joined the watch dragon over Igen Weyr.
“Lousy weather,” J’lantir shouted to B’lon, his wingsecond.
“If only it’d get worse,” B’lon agreed. The clouds below them were as reported-scattered and thin. Above them the sky was obscured by wispy high cirrus clouds. B’lon pointed to them. “Is there any chance that the air’s too cold above and the Thread will freeze?”
J’lantir followed his gaze. “It could be,” he said. “But we shouldn’t count on it.”
A noise from behind them caught their attention.
M’kir has sighted Thread, Lolanth reported, at the same turning his head back to J’lantir, jaws wide and ready for firestone. J’lantir opened a sack and began feeding the stones to Lolanth.
Tell the others, J’lantir responded. He gazed up at the skies, picking out the thin Thread among the wispy clouds above them. This is going to be a mess, he thought.
K’tan caught up with Kindan as evening began. They had seen each other earlier in the day while tending to the injured dragons and working with B’nik in plotting which parts of the Weyr to explore for the Oldtimer Rooms. Since then, Kindan had been off checking out the highest places in the Weyr. Now he looked anything but elated.
“Any luck?” K’tan asked him without any hope.
Kindan shook his head. “No,” he said. “You?”
“I’ve spent more time tending the sick than looking,” K’tan told him. He leaned closer to the harper. “I just wanted to remind you that Ista is about to fly Thread.”
Kindan’s confusion showed in his expression.
K’tan nodded toward Lorana’s quarters. “You might want to be there for her,” he said softly.
“Yes,” Kindan agreed quickly. “You’re right.” He started to head off, his stride increasing. Back over his shoulder he called, “Thank you.”
He was halfway across the Bowl when B’nik hailed him.
“Ista should be fighting Threadfall over Igen soon,” the Weyrleader called warningly. Kindan smiled and waved acknowledgment, pointing toward Lorana’s quarters. B’nik nodded.
Kindan found Lorana in Arith’s room, curled up next to her dragon. The room was gloomy, the setting sun cut off by the lip of the Bowl. Arith stirred fitfully as Kindan entered the room, but Lorana’s eyes were already wide open, staring blankly into space. She looked up at Kindan.
“She’s resting,” she reported. “Her breathing seems easier.”
Kindan nodded.
“I just ate a while ago,” Lorana added, as though that were the reason for Kindan’s appearance. Her tone was acerbic as she continued, “Mikkala checked up on me in the last hour.”
Kindan took in her words and tone with a quickly suppressed grimace. If anyone knew the deathwatch drill for a rider and a sick dragon, it would be Lorana. She had held the hands of the distraught riders, had uttered all the comforting words she could imagine, and had held the riders in her arms as they collapsed with grief and despair when their dragons went between forever.
“Thread falls over Igen Weyr soon,” Kindan told her bluntly. “Ista will be fighting it.”
Lorana took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She tilted her head up to look into Kindan’s eyes. “Thank you,” she told him.
“Should I turn on the glows?” he asked, jerking his head toward the nearest glow basket.