Dragonsblood (2 page)

of Thread falling from the sky.

Now that peace would end.

The Red Star’s return would bring the Thread that would try, once more, to

devour all life on Pern.

For the next fifty Turns, the dragons would rise to the skies, flame Thread

into lifeless char, or, failing, watch in horror as it burrowed into the rich soil

of Pern to destroy all organic material with mindless voracity.

“Telgar’s ready, K’lior,” D’gan declared. He turned back from the Star

Stones and the dawning light to gaze at the others, who were obscured by

the sharp shadows of the early morning light. His words were firmly

emphasized by the distant rumbling of his bronze, Kaloth. “My wings are at

full strength and I’ve two clutches on the Hatching Grounds—”

One of the other Weyrleaders cleared his throat loudly, but D’gan’s fierce

glare could not pierce the shadows to identify the culprit.

“Yes, we were lucky,” he continued in answer to the unknown heckler, “but

the fact remains that Telgar will be wing heavy when Thread falls. And our

holders have tithed fully so we’ve no lack of equipment or firestone.”

K’lior shifted uneasily, for he had been frank in relaying his difficulties in

getting Fort’s full tithe. “But you don’t agree to pooling resources?” he

asked again.

He had called this meeting of the Weyrleaders to propose just that. As

none of them had ever fought Thread, K’lior felt that his notion of “fly

together, learn together” had merit, and would promote communication

among the Weyrs. He was shocked when D’vin of High Reaches had

refused the invitation and was even further shocked by D’gan’s attitude.

Telgar’s Weyrleader was Igen-bred, after all. K’lior had hoped that D’gan’s

experience would have made him more amenable to working together, not

less.

D’gan favored the wiry Fort Weyrleader with a superior look. “If you’re still

wing light when Thread falls, K’lior, I’m sure I could spare some of my

own.”

“I’ll bet they’re all bronzes,” a voice muttered dryly. It came from the

direction of the Benden and Istan Weyrleaders.

The implication that D’gan might want to reduce the competition for Telgar’s

next mating flight was obvious. Not that D’gan’s Kaloth had to fly
all
Telgar’s

queen dragons to remain Weyrleader—just the senior queen.

D’gan stiffened angrily at the remark, turned to K’lior, and said, “I’ve a Weyr

to attend, Fort. I must return.”

“Let me call someone to guide your way, D’gan,” K’lior offered pleasantly,

worried about slippery walkways under unfamiliar feet.

The offer annoyed D’gan, who snapped, “I can find my own dragon well

enough, Fort.”

K’lior jogged after D’gan, still hoping to soothe the other’s foul mood.

“C’rion, you
know
he’s got a thin skin. Why do you insist on pricking it?”

M’tal asked the Istan Weyrleader in exasperation.

C’rion chuckled at the Benden Weyrleader’s remark. “Oh, you know, M’tal,

he’s not all that bad—when he stops taking himself so seriously. I feel it’s

my duty as an older, more experienced Weyrleader, to spill the wind from

his sails when he takes on airs like that.”

“D’gan
is
the sort to swear his Egg cracked the wrong way,” M’tal agreed.

C’rion snorted a laugh. “I suspect that D’gan will be a lot more acceptable

after his first dose of numbweed. And K’lior will steady up after his first

Threadfall.”

M’tal pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I’m not so sure about D’gan.”

C’rion shrugged. “I’ve been worried ever since it was decided to abandon

Igen Weyr and incorporate those dragonriders into Telgar.”

“It made sense at the time,” M’tal said, “what with the drought in Igen, the

death of their last queen, and the good harvests at Telgar.”

C’rion raised a hand to ward off further discussion. “All true. But D’gan

himself worries me. He drills his riders hard. Telgar Weyr has never lost the

Games since he became Weyrleader—but will all that be worth anything

when Thread comes?”

M’tal nodded emphatically. “If there’s one thing I could never imagine, it

would be D’gan shirking his duty. We dragonriders know what to expect

when Thread comes.” He waved a hand at the Star Stones. “And we know it

will come soon.”

“I hear your queen laid a large clutch last week,” C’rion said, changing the

topic. “Congratulations.”

M’tal laughed. “Are you going to make me an offer like our esteemed

Telgar?”

“No, actually, I was going to offer a trade,” C’rion said.

M’tal motioned for him to continue.

“Two queen eggs, by all accounts,” C’rion said. “That would make four

queens all told.”

“No, one of the eggs is a bronze,” M’tal said. “We’d hopes at first, but Breth

nudged it back with the others.” The queen dragons always pushed their

queen eggs into a special spot on the Hatching Grounds, which they

carefully guarded.

“All the same . . .”

“Are you looking for new blood, C’rion?”

“It’s the job of every Weyrleader to see to the strength of the Weyr,” C’rion

agreed. “Actually, I was thinking that to honor a new queen requires a good

selection of candidates. I’m sure you’ll want to Search for a proper

Weyrwoman.”

M’tal burst out laughing. “It’s J’trel, isn’t it? You want to pawn that old

scoundrel off on us!”

“Actually, yes,” C’rion agreed with a laugh of his own. “But he’s not a

scoundrel.
And
it’s no lie that his blue has an eye for good riders, especially

the women.”

“Which is odd, considering his own preferences,” M’tal remarked.

“Well, you know blues,” C’rion agreed diffidently. As blue dragons mated

with green dragons, and both were ridden by male riders, the riders

themselves tended to be the sort who could accommodate the dragons’

amorous arrangements.

“And you want to get him away from Ista so he can forget about K’nad,”

M’tal surmised. K’nad and J’trel had been partners for over twenty Turns.

“K’nad went quickly,” C’rion agreed, “it was a blessing. He was very old, you

know.”

Less than a dozen Turns older than you, M’tal thought to himself dryly.

Somberly he also realized: And only fifteen Turns older than me.

Aloud, he said, “So you want J’trel distracted by new duties?”

C’rion nodded. “It would be easier for us at Ista, too. Thread is coming. It’s

going to be hard on the old-timers.”

There was an uneasy silence. M’tal shook himself. “I’ll have to talk it over

with Salina and the Wingleaders.”

“Of course,” C’rion replied. “There’s no hurry.”

Curious, M’tal asked, “Where is J’trel now?”

C’rion shrugged. “I don’t know. He and his blue took off after the ceremony

for K’nad.” He frowned. “He had that
look
in his eyes, the one he usually

gets just before Ista finds itself with a whole bunch of the biggest fresh fruit

you’ve ever seen.”

“He hasn’t been going to the Southern Continent, has he?” M’tal asked with

a frown of his own. Dragonriders were discouraged from venturing to the

Southern Continent with all its unknown dangers.

“I’ve made it a point never to ask,” C’rion answered dryly. “You
really
have

to try the fruit.”

Lorana sat on her knees, ignoring the hot sun beating down on her, all her

attention concentrated on the tiny creature in front of her. Sketching swiftly,

Lorana used her free hand alternately to keep the little thing from moving

away and to keep her sketchbook from sliding off her lap. She ignored the

beads of sweat rolling down her face until one threatened to drop in her

eye, at which point she broke from her task long enough to wipe it away

hastily.

The creature, which she dubbed a “scatid,” took that moment to burrow

quickly into the dry sand. Lorana examined her sketch and frowned, trying

to decide if she needed more details—the scatid was smaller than the tip of

her thumb, and its six limbs had never stopped moving.

Grenn, the littler of Lorana’s two fire-lizards, cocked his head at the

retreating insect and then looked back at Lorana with an inquiring chirp.

“Of course it ran away,” she said with a laugh in her voice. “You’re ten times

its size.”

The fire-lizard pawed at the hole, looked up at Lorana, and chirped again.

“I’ll know it if I see it again,” Lorana replied, pushing herself up from her

knees and stretching to relieve her cramped muscles. She stowed her

sketchbook in her carisak and slid her sun hat back on her head—she’d

slipped it onto her back when its shade had interfered with her view of the

scatid. She added thoughtfully, “Unless you want it?”

With a squawk, Grenn jumped back awkwardly from the hole. Lorana

laughed again. “I’d say that was a ‘no.’ ”

Behind her, golden Garth squeaked an agreement.

“You’ve both been fed, so I know you’re not hungry,” Lorana said, half to

herself. She peered down at the burrow and then at the irrepressible brown

fire-lizard. “
Would
you eat it?”

Grenn examined the burrow for a moment, then dropped down on it and

pawed at the hole, widening it. When the scatid was again uncovered,

Grenn peered at it until the scatid’s diggers snapped at him—whereupon

the fire-lizard gave a startled squawk and sprang away.

“You would eat it, then,” Lorana decided. “You’re just not hungry enough.”

She glanced thoughtfully at the sun overhead. “Or you’re too hot to eat

anything.”

Grenn chirped in agreement. Lorana nodded, saying, “J’trel will be here

soon enough.”

The little fire-lizards, distant cousins to the huge fire-breathing dragons of

Pern, trilled happily at the thought of seeing their large friend again.

“In the meantime, we can walk toward the beach again—there should be a

breeze,” Lorana told them.

The fire-lizards chorused happy assent and disappeared, leaving Lorana to

traipse along after them on foot. She
heard
Garth formulating some plan as

the little queen and her consort went
between.
Deciding that the two

fire-lizards were not getting into too much trouble, Lorana stopped

concentrating on them and focused her attention on the path she was

following.

Her clothing was not meant to cope with the hot Igen sun, but Lorana had

done the best she could with it, loosening her tunic and rolling up her

sleeves and trouser legs. Her outfit would be perfect once onboard the

ship, and was almost warm enough for the cold
between.

Halfway to the beach, she sensed a sudden exultation from Garth and felt

the two fire-lizards go
between.
In no time at all, they reappeared high

above her, chirped a warning, and dropped what they had been holding

between them. Lorana held out her hands and caught a good-sized

roundfruit. She laughed and waved at them. “Thank you!”

The fruit was delicious and moist, easing her dry throat. Energized, she

picked up her pace to the shore.

Grenn swooped low over her and let out a querying squawk, curving back

around toward her, eyes whirling hopefully.

“No,” Lorana said, “you may not perch on my shoulder. You need to stretch

that wing now that it’s healed. Besides, between the carisak and our gear,

I’m carrying enough, thank you.”

Grenn gave her a half-sad, half-wheedling chirp and beat his wings strongly

to regain his lost altitude. High above him, Garth gave him an I-told-you-so

scolding.

As he climbed sunward, Lorana noted that in his antics there was no

residual sign at all of the broken left wing that had nearly cost his life—and

had completely changed hers. With a frown Lorana forced the memory

away and continued on to the beach.

“Why didn’t you wake me, you silly dragon?” J’trel grumbled, pulling off his

riding helmet and running his hand through his stringy white hair as he

searched the darkness below for any sign of Lorana. “You
knew
I’d had too

much wine, but you went off sunning yourself on some rock and fell asleep,

didn’t you? Poor Lorana! Waiting and waiting for us . . . only
we
were

asleep.”

Talith took J’trel’s moaning in good part, knowing that the old dragonrider

was merely practicing his excuse on him. Talith
had
been tired and the sun

had been so warm. J’trel had needed a rest himself and the wine at Nerat

Sea Hold had been so inviting . . . and they had worked hard all these many

days helping Lorana with her explorations.

We were tired,
Talith told his rider.
The sun, the wine, were good.

“Ah, but while we were sunning ourselves, Lorana was doubtless being

fried in the heat or was bitten by one of her subjects, or—it’s turned so cold,

Talith!” J’trel said, pulling his riding helmet back on. “Almost as cold as

between.
What if—”

She is down there,
Talith said, tightening into a steeper dive. J’trel craned

his head out over Talith’s neck and saw a small fire below on the beach.

“She’s probably half frozen,” J’trel chided. “This will never do.”

Lorana leapt from her place at the fire and rushed to greet the old rider as

Talith settled. Grenn and Garth chirped cheerful greetings to Talith, who