Lorana felt Arith stir, could sense which cough was hers among the several that punctuated the deep night.
I’ll be right there, Lorana told her dragon, racing from the room. Time is running out, she thought fleetingly as she left the room that held Arith’s only hope.
She stopped in the doorway and turned back to the four vials. Arith?
I’m all right, the young queen lied valiantly.
Lorana’s response was not spoken or thought, but just as clearly as if she had spoken aloud, Arith knew that Lorana had seen through the lie and had known the reasons for it.
Will it hurt to die? Arith asked Lorana, her tone both fearful and curious.
Lorana bit her lip, her face a mask of pain and tears as all the love and hope she had for her dragon tore through her.
You’ll be all right! she swore fiercely, with all the strength of her being, willing the stars to change courses, the seasons to halt, and all the pain that was both today’s and tomorrow’s to stop.
No, I won’t. Arith responded firmly, sadly. I’m dying. Will it hurt?
Lorana found that her hands were clenched tightly into claws, that through her tears her face was contorted in anger. I will not let this happen, she swore. But as the thought formed in her mind, she realized its futility.
Arith was right-she was dying. Just like all the other dragons on Pern. And in the Oldtimer room were four drawings and four vials. Lorana turned back to the room.
Maybe you don’t have to die, Lorana told her dragon fervently.
As she explained the Oldtimer room to Arith, Lorana reentered and went to the cabinet against the wall. She opened each drawer in turn, pausing to examine the contents carefully. She found what she was looking for in the third drawer. The syringes were in a sealed rectangular container. Lorana was surprised at the hiss of air rushing into the container when she opened it. There were five syringes.
Lorana marveled at them. They were much smaller and more delicate than the syringes her father had used to inject serum into young calves. She remembered the first time she had helped him, how nervous she had been at the thought of squirting liquids into a young calf.
The contents of the vials were powder. Clearly they needed to be liquefied.
Arith, there may be a cure, Lorana told her dragon. There are four vials here; I think one of them has the cure.
Which one? Arith asked.
Which one, indeed? Lorana asked herself. She could try all four one at a time, but how long would she have to wait between each dose to know if it worked? Would Arith have enough time to wait between each dose? How could she decide?
Lorana swallowed and shook her head fiercely. This was not a decision she could make alone-there was more than her life involved.
Maybe we should wait, Lorana thought.
No, Arith responded, and Lorana could feel her dragon’s sense of foreboding, her sense of despair. I think we should do it now.
Which one? Lorana asked her.
All of them, Arith responded. If the others are wrong, they won’t hurt, will they?
I don’t know, Lorana told her truthfully.
Let’s try just a little of each, then, Arith replied. The young gold gave a mental chuckle. You know, you can hear all the dragons. I think I can hear more of your thinking than other dragons can. There’s no time to try them one at a time, is there?
No, Lorana replied, pulling out one of the syringes. There isn’t any time.
I’ll meet you at the entrance to the Hatching Grounds, Arith told her.
Lorana searched through the cabinet, found an empty, sealed beaker, and opened it. Nervously, she turned to the four larger beakers. How much of each? Less than for a full-grown dragon because Arith was not full grown, Lorana guessed, but how much?
There were five needles, she reasoned, so perhaps each held enough for a full dose. She would need half that much for Arith.
B’nik was shoved roughly awake. He tried to squirm away from his tormentor, but the shaking continued.
“Get up!” Tullea shouted in his ear.
“Mmph, what is it?” B’nik asked blearily. He turned on his side, facing Tullea, his eyes blinking furiously as he tried to see in the dim light.
“I need to talk to you,” she told him.
“Can’t it wait until daylight?” he asked.
“Of course not,” Tullea snapped. “It’s about Lorana.”
“What about her?”
“I don’t want her going to the Oldtimer room,” Tullea said. “She’s to be kept away.”
“Why?”
“For her own good,” Tullea snapped back. Her eyes darted to her dressing table. B’nik’s sleep-muddled mind recalled that she had been playing with something silver and small before she’d gone to bed. He didn’t recall her having a silver brooch or jewelry box.
“What harm could she get into?” he replied, sitting upright.
“I don’t know,” Tullea said, not meeting his eyes. “I just don’t want her there. It’s not her job anyway.”
“She knows something about healing,” B’nik protested. “She’s been helping K’tan-”
“Let her help with the injured dragons,” Tullea said. “But she’s not to-”
“Shh!” B’nik said, raising a hand. “Someone’s coming.”
Tullea bespoke her dragon. “It’s Lolanth, from Ista Weyr, and his rider, J’lantir,” she said, frowning. “It’s awfully late to wake anyone.”
Behind her, B’nik cocked an ironic eyebrow, but wisely refrained from saying anything. He sprang from the bed, pulling a robe over himself and thrusting Tullea’s toward her.
“He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important,” he said. He turned to the food shaft and called down for klah and snacks for three, then strode quickly to the doorway to greet J’lantir.
“Weyrleader B’nik,” J’lantir said in relief when he saw him, “I’m sorry to wake you.”
B’nik waved the apology aside. “Quite all right,” he said, “I was not asleep.” He gestured toward the Council Room. “If you’ll step this way, I’m having some klah and snacks sent up. Weyrwoman Tullea will join us shortly.”
J’lantir blinked in surprise. “My apologies to your Weyrwoman,” he said. “This is a very late hour for me to come here but-”
B’nik gestured him to a seat. “You wouldn’t be here at this hour if it wasn’t important,” he repeated, trying to calm the older rider.
J’lantir drew a ragged breath. “I don’t know how badly the illness has hit your dragons-”
“Badly, I’m afraid,” B’nik said.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” J’lantir replied feelingly. “Perhaps this is a fool’s errand, after all.”
“At this hour?” Tullea drawled from the doorway. She carried in the tray of klah and snacks that B’nik had ordered earlier.
B’nik flushed at her tone of voice, but his reaction was mild compared to J’lantir’s painful wince.
The Istan Weyrleader licked his lips. “We have lost seven more dragons in the past day to the illness,” he announced.
Tullea and B’nik exchanged horrified looks.
“Thread falls at Ista Hold in less than two days’ time, and we have only forty-six dragons fit to fly it,” J’lantir continued.
“Then you shall have Benden flying at your side,” B’nik announced. Tullea gave him a scathing look, but B’nik ignored her. “We have six full wings of dragons, and our next Threadfall is not for another twelve days.”