A chorus of dragon coughs echoed in from the Bowl outside. All conversation stopped.
J’tol waved a dismissive hand at the noise. “Some of that’s our dragons-they’ve got smoke in their lungs,” he assured the others. “It’ll clear out soon enough.”
Lorana gave B’nik a probing look and raised her eyebrow inquiringly. B’nik returned her look with confusion until, with a sudden start, he realized that she knew about Caranth.
“There are more important things to consider,” she said to him. She paused to give him a chance to respond and continued only after it was clear that he would not speak. She gestured to Kindan. “Kindan says that he’s discovered the words of his song. Did he tell you?”
B’nik shook his head. “We haven’t had time to talk until now.”
“And you shouldn’t be talking, you should be eating,” Tullea quipped, seating herself beside him. With a glare at Lorana, she urged B’nik to eat his dinner. “How was the Fall?”
B’nik found himself with a mouthful at her urging, desperately trying to swallow in order to answer her question.
M’tal took pity on him. “The Fall was not bad and was well flown.” He nodded to B’nik. “We lost seven, all the same, and another eighteen were injured.”
“There are only five wings fit to fly,” B’nik added.
“It won’t be long,” Kindan murmured to himself.
Tullea heard him all the same. “It won’t be long before what, Harper?” she demanded.
Kindan shifted uneasily in his seat. “It won’t be long before there will be no dragons to fight Thread,” he told her softly. He turned to B’nik. “Which is why I think it’s vital to get the miners back to find a way beyond that second door in the Oldtimer room, or another way into wherever that door goes.”
“And kill more dragons?” Tullea asked scornfully. She gestured to Lorana. “Would you have more people sacrifice their loves and sanity?”
“Would you lose all the dragons of Pern?” Lorana asked in response. Tullea stared at her.
“We cannot say what lies beyond those doors,” Lorana told the group. “But if we don’t find out, we will have denied ourselves any chance of curing the dragons.”
“How do you know?” Tullea protested.
“I don’t,” Lorana admitted. “But think about it-those rooms were built for a reason. They were built with Oldtimer skills-to what purpose?”
“To create the dragons,” Tullea replied, waving her hand dismissively. “Everyone knows that the Oldtimers created them from the fire-lizards.”
“But they created them in the Southern Continent and fled north,” Kindan remarked. “These rooms would not be where they made the dragons. In fact, since Benden was the second Weyr founded, these rooms would not have been made until long after our ancestors moved north.”
M’tal, J’tol, and B’nik looked thoughtful.
“All the miners’ hammering will disturb Minith,” Tullea protested. “I won’t permit that!”
“She’s not ready to lay her clutch yet,” Ketan observed. “If the noise bothers her, you could move the queen’s quarters to the northern side of the Bowl. There’s a nice set of quarters with a connection into the Hatching Grounds-that might prove useful for when you want to visit.”
Tullea looked momentarily interested in the proposition, then brushed it aside. “What makes you so sure that these rooms have the cure?” she demanded of Lorana.
“I don’t know,” Lorana replied honestly. She chewed her lip hesitantly, then glanced at Kindan. “Although if that song, ‘Wind Blossom’s Song,’ was meant for our times, then there would have to be a reason that I was to come to Benden Weyr,” she added. “And those rooms are the most obvious reason, aren’t they?”
B’nik looked troubled. Lorana caught his gaze. “How many more dragons will die?” she asked him pointedly. He flinched.
“Will this Weyr be emptied of all dragons?” She turned to the others. “ ‘Dragonmen must fly when Thread is in the sky,’ ” she quoted. Shaking her head, Lorana continued, “I don’t see any other way to cure this sickness. I’ve tried-and I know Ketan has tried-every remedy we’ve ever heard of that could help. This sickness is new to dragons. I think that without help from the past, all the dragons of Pern will perish.”
She turned to B’nik. “Weyrleader, bring the miners back. Let us find the other rooms. They might be our only hope.”
“And if they aren’t,” M’tal added glumly, “then at least we’ll know the worst.”
B’nik raised his eyes bleakly to M’tal. “Send for the miners, please.”
“T’mar!” K’lior exclaimed as the bronze rider dismounted from his dragon, a grin spread from ear to ear. K’lior hurtled over to the other rider and grabbed him in a gleeful hug.
“How did it go?” K’lior asked, pushing himself back from the grinning bronze rider, oblivious to the rest of the Weyr surrounding them and hanging on their every word.
T’mar’s grin slipped, and K’lior noticed for the first time the deep bags under the bronze rider’s eyes. K’lior stepped back and took a thorough inventory of the rider and the rest of the dragonriders who had returned from their three-year sojourn between back in time to the empty Igen Weyr of over ten Turns ago. T’mar looked fit, tanned, and healthy-but bone-weary.
“I would never recommend it, Weyrleader,” T’mar replied, fighting to keep on his feet, “except in direst circumstances.
“The dragons were fine, but even the youngest riders felt… stretched and constantly drained,” he went on. “I even had fights among the injured riders, tempers were that frayed by timing it.”
He gave his Weyrleader a strained look.
“We were in the same time for too long, we could hear echoes of our younger selves, it was-” He shook his head, unable to find further words.
“But you’re here now,” K’lior said, surveying the full-strength wings landing behind him in the Bowl.
T’mar straightened and smiled, his hand sweeping across the Bowl. “Weyrleader, I bring you one hundred and twenty-two fighting dragons.”
“Good,” K’lior replied firmly, clapping T’mar on the shoulder. “Get them bedded down and then get some rest.” He spoke up for the crowd. “We’ve Thread to fight in three days’ time.” He turned back to T’mar. “I can let you rest tomorrow, but we’ll have to start practicing the next day.”
“Thread in three days?” T’mar asked, puzzled. “Did I time it wrong?”
“No,” K’lior replied. “You timed it perfectly. We’re going to help Ista Weyr.” He beckoned to his wingsecond, P’dor, to join them.
“In fact,” he said as P’dor drew close, “we’re going to help all the Weyrs.” He nodded to P’dor. “Let them know what we’ve done and discovered.”
P’dor jerked his head in acknowledgment and turned away.
“Wait!” T’mar called after him. “You’ll need my reports.”
K’lior raised a hand to dissuade him, but T’mar shook his head, lifting his carisak from his side. “I wrote ’em out before we left.”
“Excellent!” K’lior replied enthusiastically. Then he wagged a finger at the exhausted bronze rider. “Now, get some rest.”
“I’m sorry, J’ken, but I can’t risk it,” B’nik said solemnly to the stricken bronze rider. “Turn your wing over to T’mac.”
“But it’s just a cough!” J’ken exclaimed desperately, turning to M’tal, Ketan, and the others for support. “And you need every fighting dragon-”
“Exactly,” B’nik cut across him. “I can’t risk any accidents. That’s why J’tol and half my wing aren’t flying, either. Limanth has the sickness, so you and he won’t fly Thread.”