Anne McCaffrey - Dragonquest

“It would have helped if T’kul had sent word as you did,” D’ram muttered.

“Well, we all know how T’kul is,” F’lar said tolerantly.

“He’d no right to withhold such vital information from us,” T’ron said, again pounding the table. “Weyrs should stick together.”

“The Lord Holders aren’t going to like this,” G’narish remarked, no doubt thinking of Lord Corman of Keroon, the most difficult one of the Holders bound to his Weyr.

“Oh,” F’lar replied with more diffidence than he felt, “if we tell them we’ve expected such a shift at about this time in the Pass . . .”

“But – but the timetables they have? They’re not fools,” T’ron sputtered.

“We’re the dragonfolk, T’ron. What they can’t understand, they don’t need to know – or worry about,” F’lar replied firmly. “It’s not their business to demand explanations of us, after all. And they’ll get none.”

“That’s a change of tune, isn’t it, F’lar?” asked D’ram.

“I never explained myself to them, if you’ll think back D’ram I told them what had to be done and they did it.”

“They were scared stupid seven Turns ago,” G’narish remarked. “Scared enough to welcome us with wide-open arms and goods.”

“If they want to protect all those forests and croplands, they’ll do as we suggest or start charring their profits.”

“Let Lord Oterel of Tillek or that idiot Lord Sangel of Boll start disputing my orders and I’ll fire their forests myself,” said T’ron, rising.

“Then we’re agreed,” said F’lar quickly, before the hypocrisy he was practicing overcame him with disgust. “We mount watches, aided by the Holders, and we keep track of the new shift. We’ll soon know how to judge it.”

“What of T’kul?” G’narish asked.

D’ram looked squarely at T’ron. “We’ll explain the situation to him.”

“He respects you two,” F’lar agreed. “It might be wiser, though, not to suggest we knew about . . .”

“We can handle T’kul, without your advice, F’lar,” D’ram cut him off abruptly, and F’lar knew that the momentary harmony between them was at an end. The Oldtimers were closing ranks against the crime of their contemporary, just as they had at that abortive meeting a few nights ago. He could console himself with the fact that they hadn’t been able to escape all the implications of this incident.

Lessa came back into the weyr just then, her face flushed, her eyes exceedingly bright. Even D’ram bowed low to her in making his farewells.

“Don’t leave, D’ram, T’ron. I’ve good word from Telgar Weyr,” she cried, but catching F’lar’s glance, did not try to keep them when they demurred.

“R’mart’s all right?” G’narish asked, trying to smooth over the awkwardness.

Lessa recovered herself with a smile for the Igen leader.

“Oh that messenger – he’s only a boy – he exaggerated. Ramoth bespoke Solth the senior queen at Telgar Weyr. R’mart is badly scored, yes. Bedella evidently overdosed him with numbweed powder. She hadn’t the wit to send word to anyone. And the Wing-second assumed that we’d all been informed because he’d heard R’mart telling Bedella to send messengers, never dreaming she hadn’t. When R’mart passed out, she forgot everything.” Lessa’s shrug indicated her low opinion of Bedella. “The Wing-second says he’d be grateful for your advice.”

“H’ages is Wing-second at Telgar Weyr,” G’narish said. “A sound enough rider but he’s got no initiative. Say, you’re Thread-bared yourself, F’lar.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s bleeding,” Lessa contradicted. “And you haven’t eaten a thing.”

“I’ll stop at Telgar Weyr, F’lar, and talk to H’ages,” G’narish said.

“I’d like to come with you, G’narish, if you’ve no objections . . .”

“I’ve objections,” Lessa put in. “G’narish’s capable of ascertaining the extent of the Fall there and can relay the information to us. I’ll see him to the ledge while you start eating.” Lessa was so didactic that G’narish chuckled. She tucked her arm in his and started toward the corridor. “I’ve not made my duty to Gyarmath,” she said, smiling sweetly up at G’narish, “and he’s a favorite of mine, you know.”

She was flirting so outrageously that F’lar wondered that Ramoth wasn’t roaring protest. As if Gyarmath could ever catch Ramoth in night! Then he heard Mnementh’s rumble of humor and was reassured.

Eat, his bronze advised him. Let Lessa flatter G’narish Gyarmath doesn’t mind. Nor Ramoth. Nor I.

“What I do for my Weyr,” said Lessa with an exaggerated sigh as she returned a few moments later.

F’lar gave her a cynical look. “G’narish is more of a modern mind than he knows.”

“Then we’ll have to make him conscious of it,” Lessa said firmly.

“Just so long as it is ‘we’ who make him,” F’lar replied with mock severity, catching her hand and pulling her to him.

She made a token resistance, as she always did, scowling ferociously at him and then relaxed against his shoulder all at once. “Signal fires and sweepriding are not enough, F’lar,” she said thoughtfully. “Although I do believe we’ve worried too much about the change in Threadfall.”

“That nonsense was to fool G’narish and the others, but I thought you’d . . .”

“But don’t you see that you were right?”

F’lar gave her a long incredulous look.

“By the Egg, Weyrleader, you astonish me. Why can’t there be deviations? Because you, F’lar, compiled those Records and to spite the Oldtimers they must remain infallible? Great golden eggs, man, there were such things as Intervals when no Threads fell – as we both know. Why not a change of pace in Threadfall itself during a Pass?”

“But why? Give me one good reason why.”

“Give me one good reason why not! The same thing that affects the Red Star so that it doesn’t always pass close enough to cast Thread on us can pull it enough off course to change Fall! The Red Star is not the only one to rise and set with the seasons. There could be another heavenly body affecting not only us but the Red Star.”

“Where?”

Lessa shrugged impatiently. “How do I know? I’m not long in the eye like F’rad. But we can try to find out. Or have seven full Turns of certainty and schedule dulled your wits?”

“Now, see here, Lessa . . .”

Suddenly she pressed herself close to him, full of contrition for her sharp tongue. He held her close, all too aware that she was right. And yet . . . There had been that long and lonely wait until he and Mnementh could come into their own. The terrible dichotomy of confidence in his own prophecy that Thread would fall and fear that nothing would rescue the Dragonriders from their lethargy. Then the crushing realization that those all too few dragonmen were all that could save an entire world from destruction; the three days of torture between the initial fall over the impending one at Nerat Hold and Telgar Hold with Lessa who-knew-where. Did he not have a right to relax his vigilance? Some freedom from the weight of responsibility?

“I’ve no right to say such things to you,” Lessa was whispering in soft remorse.

“Why not? It’s true enough.”

“I ought never to diminish you, and all you’ve done, to placate a trio of narrow-minded, parochial, conservative . . .”

He stopped her words with a kiss, a teasing kiss that abruptly became passionate. Then he winced as her hands curving sensuously around his neck, rubbed against the Thread-bared skin.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Here, let me – ” and Lessa’s apology trailed off as she swiveled her body around to reach for the numbweed jar.