Dragonquest

By evening some order had been restored to the badly demoralized High Reaches Weyr. The bronze dragons had all returned, been fed, and the bronze riders weyred with their beasts, sufficiently drugged to sleep.

Kylara had been found. Or, rather, returned, by the green rider assigned to Nabol Hold.

“Someone’s got to be quartered there,” the man said, his face grim, “but not me or my green.”

“Please report, S’goral.” F’lar nodded his appreciation of the rider’s feelings.

“She arrived at the Hold this morning, with some tale about the lake here being fouled and no kegs to hold any supply of water. I remember thinking that Prideth looked too gold to be out. She’s been off cycle, you know. But she settled down all right on the ridge with my green so I went about teaching those Holders how to manage their fire lizards.” S’goral evidently did not have much use for his pupils. “She went in with the Nabolese Holder. Later I saw their lizards su

“You did as you should, S’goral,” F’lar told him.

“There wasn’t anything else I could do,” the man insisted, as if he could not rid himself of some lingering feeling of guilt.

“We were lucky you were there at all,” Lessa said. “We might never have known where Kylara was.”

“What I want to know is what’s going to happen to her – now?” A hard vindictiveness replaced the half-shame, half-guilt in the rider’s face.

“Isn’t loss of a dragon enough?” T’bor roused himself to ask.

“Brekke lost her dragon, too,” S’goral retorted angrily, “and she was doing what she should!”

“Nothing can be decided in heat or hatred, S’goral,” F’lar said, rising to his feet. “We’ve no precedents – ” He broke off, turning to D’ram and G’narish. “Not in our time, at least.”

“Nothing should be decided in heat or hatred,” D’ram echoed, “but there were such incidents in our time.” Unaccountably he flushed. “We’d better assign some bronzes here, F’lar. The High Reaches men and beasts may not be fit tomorrow. And with Thread falling every day, no Weyr can be allowed to relax its vigilance. For anything.”

CHAPTER XIII

Night at Fort Weyr:

Six Days Later

ROBINTON was weary, with fatigue of the heart and mind that did not lift to the thrill the Masterharper usually experienced on dragonback. In fact, he almost wished he’d not had to come to Fort Weyr tonight. These past six days, with everyone reacting in varying ways to the tragedy at High Reaches, had been very difficult. (Must the High Reaches always push the knottiest problems on Pern?) In a way, Robinton wished that they could have put off this Red Star viewing until minds and eyes had cleared and were ready for this challenge. And yet, perhaps the best solution was to press this proposed expedition to the Red Star as far and as fast as possible – as an anodyne to the depression that had followed the death of the two queens. Robinton knew that F’lar wanted to prove to the Lord Holders that the dragonmen were in earnest in their desire to clear the air of Thread, but for once, the Masterharper found himself without a private opinion. He did not know if F’lar was wise in pushing the issue, particularly now. Particularly when the Benden Weyrleader wasn’t recovered from T’ron’s slash. When no one was sure how T’kul was managing in Southern Weyr or if the man intended to stay there. When all Pern was staggered by the battle and deaths of the two queens The people had enough to rationalize, had enough to do with the vagaries of Threadfall complicating the seasonal mechanics of plowing and seeding. Leave the attack of the Red Star until another time.

Other dragons were arriving at Fort Weyr and the brown on which Robinton rode took his place in the circling pattern. They’d be landing on the Star Stones where Wansor, Fandarel’s glassman, had set up the distance-viewer.

“Have you had a chance to look through this device?” Robinton asked the brown’s rider.

“Me? Hardly, Masterharper. Everyone else wants to. It’ll stay there until I’ve had my turn, I daresay.”

“Has Wansor mounted it permanently at Fort Weyr?”

“It was discovered at Fort Weyr,” the rider replied, a little defensively. “Fort’s the oldest Weyr, you know. P’zar feels it should stay at Fort. And the Mastersmith, he agrees. His man Wansor keeps saying that there may be good reason. Something to do with elevation and angles and the altitude of Fort Weyr mountains. I didn’t understand.”

No more do I, Robinton thought. But he intended to. He was in agreement with Fandarel and Terry that there should be an interchange of knowledge between Crafts. Indisputably, Pern had lost many of the bemoaned techniques due to Craft jealousy. Lose a Craftmaster early, before he had transmitted all the Craft secrets, and a vital piece of information was lost forever. Not that Robinton, nor his predecessor, had ever espoused that ridiculous prerogative. There were five senior harpers who knew everything that Robinton did and three promising journeymen studying diligently to increase the safety factor.

It was one matter to keep dangerous secrets privy, quite another to guard craft skills to extinction.

The brown dragon landed on the ridge height of Fort Weyr and Robinton slid down the soft shoulder. He thanked the beast. The brown rose a half-length from the landing and then seemed to drop off the side of the cliff, down into the Bowl, making room for someone else to land.

Glows had been set on the narrow crown of the height, leading toward the massive Star Stones, their black bulk silhouetted against the lighter night sky. Among those gathered there, Robinton could distinguish the Mastersmith’s huge figure, Wansor’s pear-shaped and Lessa’s slender one.

On the largest and flattest rock of the Star Stones, Robinton saw the tripod arrangement on which the long barrel of the distance-viewer had been mounted. At first glance he was disappointed by its simplicity, a fat, round cylinder, with a smaller pipe attached to its side. Then it amused him. The Smith must be tortured with the yearning to dismantle the instrument and examine the principles of its simple efficiency.

“Robinton, how are you this evening?” Lessa asked, coming toward him, one hand outstretched.

He gripped it, her soft skin smooth under the calluses of his fingers.

“Pondering the elements of efficiency,” he countered, keeping his voice light. But he couldn’t keep from asking after Brekke and he felt Lessa’s fingers tremble in his.

“She does as well as can be expected. F’nor insisted that we bring her to his weyr. The man’s emotionally attached to her – far more than gratitude for any nursing. Between him, Manora and Mirrim, she is never alone.”

“And – Kylara?”

Lessa pulled her hand from his. “She lives!”

Robinton said nothing and, after a moment, Lessa went on.