Quickly Tieran cut a part of the dragon’s riding harness, tore off a silver buckle and retreated toward the others. He nodded curtly at one of the groups carrying a barrel of agenothree and, jaw clenched against the pain, plunged his hands into the acid.
“What are you doing?” Wind Blossom shouted again.
“It’s all right,” Tieran said, showing her his hands. They were pitted and raw from where the acid had burned through the oils of his skin. He waved the piece of metal at them. “This will tell us whose dragon this is.”
He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes as the pain from his hands burned through the adrenaline that had carried through his wild act.
“Besides,” he added, gasping in pain, “it doesn’t hurt as much as wher-bite.”
When the cold, gray light of morning finally broke through the scattering clouds, Wind Blossom was still hunched beside the steaming remains of the dragon. The agenothree had eaten all its flesh and left only bleached bone. As each barrel of the nitric acid had burned another layer of flesh and muscle away from the dead dragon, Wind Blossom had felt herself similarly stripped, her emotions laid open and raw to her as they never had been before.
The stream of green mucus that had been forced from the dragon’s nostrils on its impact with the ground had made it crystal clear to Wind Blossom that the dragon had been infected with the same illness as the two fire-lizards.
Over and over again her mind replayed the instant when she had known that she had to go outside, that something was coming. Over and over her memory showed her the images of the dragon appearing, faintly, high in the sky and falling uncontrollably to the ground-dead. The sickening sound of the dragon’s body hitting the ground still made her shudder.
Again she replayed the memory in her mind, fighting with herself to slow it down, to bring every detail into sharp relief. She sighed angrily as she once again failed to determine the precise feeling she had the instant she had known she had to go outside. She had felt it before, when the fire-lizards had appeared. Some connection, something.
Bitterly, Wind Blossom shook her head to rid herself of the problem. There were other problems.
She expected M’hall and maybe even Torene to arrive presently. She wouldn’t be surprised if every dragon on Pern arrived. She had started workmen digging a grave large enough for the skeletal remains of the young dragon. The grave would be lined with lime; even though Wind Blossom was certain that the infection itself had been destroyed by the agenothree, she was not certain enough.
All those images and memories ought to have been enough to keep Wind Blossom awake through the night.
But there was one more. And it alone had kept her up, had kept her from accepting anything more than a winter cloak and hot klah.
It was the image of the dragon’s skin, mottled, patchy, and pockmarked, as though it were changing consistency. She had only seen it for a moment and in the gray of night. The image bothered her for a reason she couldn’t explain. Deep inside her, she knew that what she had seen held some special significance, but she couldn’t identify it. That bothered her-and kept her awake through the night.
“Mother?” Emorra’s voice startled her. “Have you been up all night?”
Wind Blossom nodded. “I’m trying to remember something.”
“Well, come to breakfast-perhaps you’ll remember better when you’re warm,” Emorra suggested.
“M’hall and the others will be here soon,” Wind Blossom said.
“I’ll stay,” Tieran said, walking up with a breakfast roll in one hand. “I…” He trailed off, unable to finish his sentence.
Wind Blossom turned and smiled at him understandingly. Emorra added her smile, as well.
“Go on,” Tieran said. “I’ll direct any dragonriders to you and keep watch here.”
“Thank you,” Wind Blossom said, her throat unexpectedly tight.
Tieran nodded and turned back to survey the charred remains of the dead queen dragon.
To keep watch.
And honor the dead.
EIGHTEEN
I will stay with her. You go get some rest,” Salina declared, shoving Kindan out of Lorana’s quarters.
It had been two days since the Weyr had been jolted awake by Lorana’s grab of all the dragons, by Arith’s horrific cry, and Lorana’s soul-torn shout.
“She’s wasting away,” Kindan cried. “See if you can get her to eat something.”
“I’ll try,” Salina told him. “You get some rest, Kindan. It’s your strength she needs now.”
“Go on,” M’tal declared gruffly, entering the room. “She’s right.”
Kindan gave the dragonrider a wary look that settled as it registered in his sleep-numbed mind that M’tal had comforted Salina on her loss.
“You’re all worn out,” M’tal said, patting the harper on the shoulder as he passed by. “Get a good night’s rest. We’ll call you if she stirs.”
After Kindan left, M’tal spoke to Gaminth, who replied miserably, She won’t hear me. She won’t hear any of us.
M’tal crouched down by Salina. “Gaminth says she’s blocking the dragons’ voices,” he told her.
“Can you blame her?” Salina asked, her voice blurred with sorrow. “I can only imagine how much that would torment her.”
“It would have helped so much today,” M’tal said. He had just returned from flying Fall over Ista. “Two dead, eight injured, three seriously,” he told her.
“That’s good,” Salina murmured approvingly. “In a normal Fall I would have expected five times that many casualties.”
“Ista’s losses were worse,” M’tal continued, grimacing. “Three dead, nine injured. They have only thirty-four dragons left fit to fly.”
“J’lantir must be beside himself with worry.”
“B’nik pledged that, as long as there are dragons at Benden Weyr, Ista would have them at their side,” M’tal said, his voice full of adamant approval.
“He does you proud,” Salina said, grabbing his hand and clenching it tightly.
“He does us all proud,” M’tal agreed. “He always had the makings. He’s risen marvelously to the challenge.”
“If only we could say the same of Tullea,” Salina said. Beside her, M’tal nodded mutely.
The sound of boots outside the doorway alerted them and they looked up to see K’tan enter.
“I’ve come to check on her,” he told them. He looked around the room. “Has Kindan finally left for some rest?”
“I sent him on his way,” M’tal said. He asked Gaminth to get one of the weyrlings to check on the weary harper.
K’tan nodded wearily. “Good.”
He gestured entreatingly to Salina, who stood up and moved away from Lorana’s bedside to give him room to examine her. K’tan listened to her breathing, took her pulse, and then straightened up again.
“Has she eaten anything? Drunk anything?” When Salina shook her head twice in response, K’tan grimaced. He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “You know yourself better than any what this is like. What made you decide to live?”
M’tal gripped Salina’s hand tightly. The ex-Weyrwoman’s eyes shimmered with tears, which she wiped away hastily before explaining, “I couldn’t go. I was needed.”