Ketan looked at her sympathetically. He knew that she was right, that they could just be chasing a phantom hope. But that was the only hope left. If the answers to their problems weren’t behind those doors, then the dragons would all die, of that he was certain. And if the answer was behind the door, then he was equally convinced that Lorana had to be the “healer lass” mentioned in the song. One look at Kindan convinced him that the harper was just as certain.
In the silence that filled the room after her question, M’tal rose from his chair and stretched. “Let’s go,” he said, “and sleep on this. Tomorrow we may have more answers.”
“Tomorrow Thread falls over Nerat and Upper Crom,” Lorana protested. “How many more dragons must die before we can open that door?”
“I don’t know Lorana,” Salina said, rushing over to the younger woman and hugging her fiercely. “But you can only do so much.”
“I know,” Lorana said miserably, burying her head in the other woman’s shoulder. “But-”
“Sh, sh,” Salina said soothingly.
“We must leave now, Lorana,” Ketan said. “We need our rest, and M’tal will be flying Thread tomorrow.”
“And we’ll be tending to injured dragons,” Lorana noted. “We won’t be here tomorrow.”
M’tal shooed them all out of the room. As they climbed the stairs back up to the second level, he said, “A day’s rest from this will do us all good.”
“At least we’ll have enough dragons to fight with,” Kindan added.
“That’s true,” M’tal rumbled agreeably. Judiciously, he added, “They’re all a bit more green than I would have liked but-”
A sharp intake of breath from Lorana interrupted him. “What?” he asked.
“It’s Caranth,” Lorana said. “He’s not feeling well.” She glanced at M’tal. “I don’t think B’nik should lead the Fall tomorrow.”
As they crested the top of the stairs, a loud barking cough echoed down the corridor from the Weyrleader’s quarters.
M’tal’s face darkened and he picked up his pace.
“Well, now, this is much better,” D’gan declared as he flew slowly in front of the ranks of dragons arrayed in front of him. The ones who had timed it still looked a bit off-color, he admitted to himself with a frown, but they represented over two-thirds of the Weyr’s fighting strength.
“Today we’ll show them how it’s done, won’t we, Kaloth?” he asked, reaching down to pat his bronze dragon affectionately. As if in response, the dragon gave a long, rattling cough, arching his neck and not quite unseating his rider.
I’m sorry, Kaloth apologized meekly.
“Not to worry,” D’gan grumbled. “It’s that addled healer-he should have worked up something to help you by now.” He peered over Kaloth’s shoulder and spotted K’rem below, preparing his brown. “Take me down and we’ll talk to him.”
K’rem glanced up at Kaloth as the bronze dragon landed and his rider slid to the ground. As D’gan strode toward him, the healer carefully schooled the frown off his face.
“Kaloth’s cough sounds worse,” K’rem commented as soon as D’gan was within hearing. “I had hoped that the last herbal would have helped.”
“It didn’t, obviously,” D’gan replied sourly.
“Weyrleader,” K’rem began hesitantly, trying to choose his words carefully, “perhaps it would be best if Kaloth rested today-”
“What? Deny him the chance to lead the full Weyr?” D’gan cut him off loudly. “No, just because your fardled medicines don’t work, doesn’t mean that my dragon can’t fly when Thread is in the sky.”
With a pleading look, K’rem came closer to the irate Weyrleader. “D’gan, he’s sick. He needs rest.”
“Find a cure, Healer,” D’gan ordered, turning back. “Find a cure after we fight this Fall.”
As D’gan returned to mount his dragon, his son, D’lin, approached him eagerly.
“The Weyrlingmaster says Aseth is ready, Father,” D’lin called. “Which wing should we fly with?”
D’gan shook his head immediately. “No,” he said, “you’re not flying Fall today.”
D’lin’s face fell. “But, Father…”
“Next time, D’lin,” D’gan told him brusquely. “Today I want you here, ready to ferry firestone and be a messenger.”
“Yes, Father,” D’lin replied woodenly, and turned away, shoulders slumped, toward his dragon.
For a moment D’gan thought of calling his son back, of telling him how proud he was and how much he loved him. But then he shook the notion off, reminding himself that the boy had to learn to handle disappointment with discipline. As far as D’gan was concerned, D’lin was a dragonrider first and son second.
As the sun crested the heights of Benden Weyr, it illuminated a Bowl already bustling with activity. The younger weyrlings, who had not timed it, were busily bagging firestone and building piles of supplies. Dragonriders, up early and already well-fed, were checking riding gear, or were gathered in knots talking tactics with their Wingleaders.
In a corner not far from the Living Cavern, Ketan and Lorana were setting out supplies and organizing for the inevitable injuries that occurred fighting Thread.
Caranth peered down morosely from his weyr over the proceedings, occasionally joining the cacophony of dragon coughs, which echoed eerily around the Bowl. Minith’s worried croons to her mate were answered by soothing noises from Caranth, which fooled no one.
M’tal and B’nik moved from wing to wing, talking with riders and Wingleaders, presenting a calm, united presence that reassured and relieved everyone they met.
“They’re up too early,” M’tal remarked to B’nik as they moved away from one group.
“I know,” B’nik agreed. “But you know how it is, the morning of a Fall.”
“Well, I do now,” M’tal agreed. “After all, we’ve had what-all of five Falls so far.”
B’nik furrowed his brow. “I hadn’t really counted,” he admitted. “It almost seems like we’ve always been fighting Thread.”
“It’s been only four sevendays,” M’tal remarked. “How will we be after Turns of this?”
B’nik shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said reflectively. He twisted his head to try to locate a cough from one of the sick dragons, failed, and turned back to M’tal. “But if we don’t find a cure soon…”
M’tal clapped B’nik on the shoulder. “I know,” he said somberly.
B’nik glanced at him, gave him a small nod, and then turned to the group they were approaching, calling with forced cheer, “So, J’tol! Ready to lead the wing?”
The fighting dragons departed an hour before noon-one hour before Threadfall was due at Nerat.
Lorana watched as the dragons winked between. A nudge from Ketan got her attention; he cocked his head toward B’nik and they both watched as the Weyrleader’s shoulders hunched-and hunched further as another wracking cough from Caranth rent the late morning air.
“I could-” Lorana began.
“Why don’t you and Kindan see if you can learn anything more,” Ketan suggested.
Lorana looked at Kindan, who nodded in agreement.
“Have someone call for us when we’re needed,” Kindan said over his shoulder as they raced off toward the stairs to the second level. Ketan waved in acknowledgment.
They were both puffing from exertion as they reached the stairs leading down to the Learning Rooms.
“It’ll be easier when we can get that door open,” Kindan remarked. “Then, presumably, we’ll be able to come in from the Hatching Grounds.”
“And all that’s needed to do that is for me to figure out what word I’m supposed to say and how I’m supposed to tell someone who is hundreds of Turns dead,” Lorana said bitterly.