M’ron’s ringing words for once and all dispensed with that consideration.
“And I believe,” the Masterharper’s exultant voice cut through the answering shouts of agreement, “I believe I have your reference points.” A smile of surprised wonder illuminated his face. “Twenty Turns or twenty-hundred, you have a guide! And M’ron said it. ‘As the Red Star dwindles in the evening sky…’”
LATER, AS THEY plotted the orbit of the Red Star, they found how easy that solution actually was, and chuckled that their ancient foe should be their guide.
Atop Fort Weyr, as on all the Weyrs, were great stones. They were so placed that at certain times of the year they marked the approach and retreat of the Red Star, as it orbited in its erratic, two hundred Turn–long course around their sun. By consulting the Records which, among other morsels of information, included the Red Star’s wanderings, it was not hard to plan jumps between of twenty-five Turns for each Weyr. It had been decided that the complement of each separate Weyr would jump between above its own base, for there would unquestionably be accidents if close to eighteen hundred laden beasts tried it at one point.
Each moment now was one too long away from her own time for Lessa. She had been a month away from F’lar and missed him more than she had thought could be possible. Also, she was worried that Ramoth would mate away from Mnementh. There were, to be sure, bronze dragons and bronze riders eager to do that service, but Lessa had no interest in them.
M’ron and Mardra occupied her with the many details in organizing the exodus so that no clues, past the tapestry and the Question Song which would be composed at a later date, remained in the Weyrs.
It was with a relief close to tears that Lessa urged Ramoth upward in the night sky to take her place near M’ron and Mardra above the Fort Weyr Star Stone. At five other Weyrs, great wings were ranged in formation, ready to depart their own times.
As each Weyrleader’s dragon reported to Lessa that all were ready—reference points, determined by the Red Star’s travels in mind—it was this traveler from the future who gave the command to jump between.
The blackest night must end in dawn,
The sun dispel the dreamer’s fear:
When shall my soul’s bleak, hopeless pain
Find solace in its darkening weyr?
They had made eleven jumps between, the Weyrleaders’ bronzes speaking to Lessa as they rested briefly between each jump. Of the eighteen-hundred-odd travelers, only four failed to come ahead, and they had been older beasts. All five sections agreed to pause for a quick meal and hot klah, before the final jump which would be but twelve Turns.
“It is easier,” M’ron commented as Mardra served around the klah, “to go twenty-five Turns than twelve.” He glanced up at the Red Dawn Star, their winking and faithful guide. “It does not alter its position as much. I count on you, Lessa, to give us additional references.”
“I want to get us back to Ruatha before F’lar discovers I have gone.” She shivered as she looked up at the Red Star and sipped hastily at the hot klah. “I’ve seen the Star just like that, once…no, twice…before at Ruatha.” She stared at M’ron, her throat constricting as she remembered that morning: the time she had decided that the Red Star was a menace to her, three days after which Fax and F’lar had appeared at Ruath Hold. Fax had died on F’lar’s dagger and she had gone to Benden Weyr. She felt suddenly dizzy, weak, strangely unsettled. She had not felt this way as they paused between other jumps.
“Are you all right, Lessa?” Mardra asked with concern. “You’re so white. You’re shaking.” She put her arm around Lessa, glancing, concerned, at her weyrmate.
“Twelve Turns ago I was at Ruatha,” Lessa murmured, grasping Mardra’s hand for support. “I was at Ruatha twice. Let’s go on quickly. I’m too many in this morning. I must get back. I must get back to F’lar. He’ll be so angry.”
The note of hysteria in her voice alarmed both Mardra and M’ron. Hastily the latter gave orders for the fires to be extinguished, for the weyrfolk to mount and prepare for the final jump ahead.
Her mind in chaos, Lessa transmitted the references to the other Weyrleaders’ dragons: Ruatha in the evening light, the Great Tower, the inner Court, and the land at springtime…
A fleck of red in a cold night sky,
A drop of blood to guide them by,
Turn away, Turn away, Turn, be gone,
A Red Star beckons the travelers on.
Between them, Lytol and Robinton forced F’lar to eat, deliberately plying him with wine. At the back of his mind he knew he would have to keep going but the effort was immense, the spirit gone from him. It was no comfort that they still had Pridith and Kylara to continue dragonkind, yet he delayed sending someone back for F’nor, unable to face the reality of that admission: that in sending for Pridith and Kylara, he had acknowledged the fact that Lessa and Ramoth would not return.
Lessa, Lessa, his mind cried endlessly, damning her one moment for her reckless, thoughtless daring; loving her the next for attempting such an incredible feat.
“I said, F’lar, you need sleep now more than wine,” Robinton’s voice penetrated his preoccupation.
F’lar looked at him, frowning in perplexity. He realized that he was trying to lift the wine jug that Robinton was holding firmly down.
“What did you say?”
“Come. I’ll bear your company to Benden. Indeed, nothing could persuade me to leave your side. You have aged years, man, in the course of hours.”
“And isn’t it understandable…?” F’lar shouted, rising to his feet, the impotent anger boiling out of him at the nearest target in the form of Robinton.
Robinton’s eyes were full of compassion as he reached for F’lar’s arm, gripping it tightly.
“Man, not even this Masterharper has words enough to express the sympathy and honor he has for you. But you must sleep; you have tomorrow to endure and the tomorrow after that you have to fight. The dragonmen must have a leader…” and his voice trailed off. “Tomorrow you must send for F’nor…and Pridith.”
F’lar pivoted on his heel and strode towards the fateful door of Ruatha’s Great Hall.
Oh, Tongue, give sound to joy and sing
Of hope and promise on dragon-wing.
Before them loomed Ruatha’s Great Tower, the high walls of the Outer Court clearly visible in the fading light.
The klaxon rang violent summons into the air, barely heard over the ear-splitting thunder as hundreds of dragons appeared, ranging in full fighting array wing upon wing, up and down the valley.
A shaft of light stained the flagstones of the Court as the Hold door opened.
Lessa ordered Ramoth down, close to the Tower, and dismounted, running eagerly forward to greet the men who piled out of the door. She made out the stocky figure of Lytol, a handbasket of glows held high about his head. She was so relieved to see him, she forgot her previous antagonism to the Warder.
“You misjudged the last jump by two days, Lessa,” he cried as soon as he was near enough for her to hear him over the noise of settling dragons.
“Misjudged? How could I?” she breathed.
M’ron and Mardra came up beside her.
“It is not to worry,” Lyton reassured her, gripping her hands tightly in his, his eyes dancing. He was actually smiling at her. “You overshot the day. Go back between, return to Ruatha of two days ago. That’s all.” His grin widened at her confusion. “It is all right,” he repeated, patting her hands. “Take this same hour, the Great Court, everything, but visualize F’lar, Robinton and myself here on the flagstones. Place Mnementh on the Great Tower and a blue dragon on the verge. Now go.”