Dragonsblood (47 page)

known the reasons for it.

Will it hurt to die?
Arith asked Lorana, her tone both fearful and curious.

Lorana bit her lip, her face a mask of pain and tears as all the love and hope

she had for her dragon tore through her.

You’ll be all right!
she swore fiercely, with all the strength of her being,

willing the stars to change courses, the seasons to halt, and all the pain that

was both today’s and tomorrow’s to stop.

No, I won’t.
Arith responded firmly, sadly.
I’m dying. Will it hurt?

Lorana found that her hands were clenched tightly into claws, that through

her tears her face was contorted in anger. I will not let this happen, she

swore. But as the thought formed in her mind, she realized its futility.

Arith was right—she was dying. Just like all the other dragons on Pern. And

in the Oldtimer room were four drawings and four vials. Lorana turned back

to the room.

Maybe you don’t have to die,
Lorana told her dragon fervently.

As she explained the Oldtimer room to Arith, Lorana reentered and went to

the cabinet against the wall. She opened each drawer in turn, pausing to

examine the contents carefully. She found what she was looking for in the

third drawer. The syringes were in a sealed rectangular container. Lorana

was surprised at the hiss of air rushing into the container when she opened

it. There were five syringes.

Lorana marveled at them. They were much smaller and more delicate than

the syringes her father had used to inject serum into young calves. She

remembered the first time she had helped him, how nervous she had been

at the thought of squirting liquids into a young calf.

The contents of the vials were powder. Clearly they needed to be

liquefied.

Arith, there may be a cure,
Lorana told her dragon.
There are four vials

here; I think one of them has the cure.

Which one?
Arith asked.

Which one, indeed? Lorana asked herself. She could try all four one at a

time, but how long would she have to wait between each dose to know if it

worked? Would Arith have enough time to wait between each dose? How

could she decide?

Lorana swallowed and shook her head fiercely. This was not a decision she

could make alone—there was more than her life involved.

Maybe we should wait,
Lorana thought.

No,
Arith responded, and Lorana could feel her dragon’s sense of

foreboding, her sense of despair.
I think we should do it now.

Which one?
Lorana asked her.

All of them,
Arith responded.
If the others are wrong, they won’t hurt, will

they?

I don’t know,
Lorana told her truthfully.

Let’s try just a little of each, then,
Arith replied. The young gold gave a

mental chuckle.
You know, you can hear all the dragons. I think
I
can

hear more of your thinking than other dragons can. There’s no time to try

them one at a time, is there?

No,
Lorana replied, pulling out one of the syringes.
There isn’t any time.

I’ll meet you at the entrance to the Hatching Grounds,
Arith told her.

Lorana searched through the cabinet, found an empty, sealed beaker, and

opened it. Nervously, she turned to the four larger beakers. How much of

each? Less than for a full-grown dragon because Arith was not full grown,

Lorana guessed, but how much?

There were five needles, she reasoned, so perhaps each held enough for

a full dose. She would need half that much for Arith.

B’nik was shoved roughly awake. He tried to squirm away from his

tormentor, but the shaking continued.

“Get up!” Tullea shouted in his ear.

“Mmph, what is it?” B’nik asked blearily. He turned on his side, facing

Tullea, his eyes blinking furiously as he tried to see in the dim light.

“I need to talk to you,” she told him.

“Can’t it wait until daylight?” he asked.

“Of course not,” Tullea snapped. “It’s about Lorana.”

“What about her?”

“I don’t want her going to the Oldtimer room,” Tullea said. “She’s to be kept

away.”

“Why?”

“For her own good,” Tullea snapped back. Her eyes darted to her dressing

table. B’nik’s sleep-muddled mind recalled that she had been playing with

something silver and small before she’d gone to bed. He didn’t recall her

having a silver brooch or jewelry box.

“What harm could she get into?” he replied, sitting upright.

“I don’t know,” Tullea said, not meeting his eyes. “I just don’t want her there.

It’s not her job anyway.”

“She knows something about healing,” B’nik protested. “She’s been helping

K’tan—”

“Let her help with the injured dragons,” Tullea said. “But she’s not to—”

“Shh!” B’nik said, raising a hand. “Someone’s coming.”

Tullea bespoke her dragon. “It’s Lolanth, from Ista Weyr, and his rider,

J’lantir,” she said, frowning. “It’s awfully late to wake anyone.”

Behind her, B’nik cocked an ironic eyebrow, but wisely refrained from

saying anything. He sprang from the bed, pulling a robe over himself and

thrusting Tullea’s toward her.

“He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important,” he said. He turned to the food

shaft and called down for
klah
and snacks for three, then strode quickly to

the doorway to greet J’lantir.

“Weyrleader B’nik,” J’lantir said in relief when he saw him, “I’m sorry to

wake you.”

B’nik waved the apology aside. “Quite all right,” he said, “I was not asleep.”

He gestured toward the Council Room. “If you’ll step this way, I’m having

some
klah
and snacks sent up. Weyrwoman Tullea will join us shortly.”

J’lantir blinked in surprise. “My apologies to your Weyrwoman,” he said.

“This is a very late hour for me to come here but—”

B’nik gestured him to a seat. “You wouldn’t be here at this hour if it wasn’t

important,” he repeated, trying to calm the older rider.

J’lantir drew a ragged breath. “I don’t know how badly the illness has hit

your dragons—”

“Badly, I’m afraid,” B’nik said.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” J’lantir replied feelingly. “Perhaps this is a fool’s

errand, after all.”

“At this hour?” Tullea drawled from the doorway. She carried in the tray of

klah
and snacks that B’nik had ordered earlier.

B’nik flushed at her tone of voice, but his reaction was mild compared to

J’lantir’s painful wince.

The Istan Weyrleader licked his lips. “We have lost seven more dragons in

the past day to the illness,” he announced.

Tullea and B’nik exchanged horrified looks.

“Thread falls at Ista Hold in less than two days’ time, and we have only

forty-six dragons fit to fly it,” J’lantir continued.

“Then you shall have Benden flying at your side,” B’nik announced. Tullea

gave him a scathing look, but B’nik ignored her. “We have six full wings of

dragons, and our next Threadfall is not for another twelve days.”

“Three wings—one flight—would be more than enough,” J’lantir said, his

face brightening with relief. “It’s a night fall, as you know, and won’t last too

long.”

“Very well,” B’nik said. “I’ll ask M’tal to be the flight leader—you’ve worked

with him before. He’ll report to you in the morning.”

J’lantir’s smile widened into a broad grin. “That would be excellent!” He

rose and grabbed B’nik’s hand in his. “Thank you! Ista will ride with you

anytime.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” B’nik replied. “Would you like some
klah
before you

depart?”

“No, no,” J’lantir said, shaking his head. “I’ve been beside myself trying to

figure out how—and I didn’t want to—”

“I understand,” B’nik interrupted, nodding fervently. He knew how hard and

humiliating this decision must have been for the older dragonrider. “We are

all living in hard times—”

A shriek from the Bowl outside cut through the evening air.

Lorana’s hands were trembling as she mixed the serum. Each time she

scooped in powder from the next vial, the mixture would change color and

then slowly return to a clear liquid. If the proportions were too small, she

would have wasted the precious powders. Perhaps the Oldtimers had

known this and made their powder behave this way on purpose. Lorana

hoped so. She hoped that she was supposed to mix all four vials together.

That she had the right quantities.

She was done. Outside, in the distance, she heard Arith scrabbling from the

Bowl into the Hatching Grounds. Lorana took a deep, stilling breath and

then carefully filled the syringe with the contents of the small beaker. She

gently squeezed the air out of the needle until a small spurt of the precious

liquid dripped out. She was ready.

I’m ready,
Arith told her.

Lorana didn’t remember walking back to the Hatching Grounds. She did

remember stopping in her tracks as she caught sight of Arith, small and

fragile, standing in the dim light that leaked through to the Hatching

Grounds.

It is
our
decision,
Arith said.
I am young. I am strong. If this works, we can

help the others.

Lorana forced herself to move again. She showed the syringe to Arith.

Will it hurt?
the gold dragon asked.

Don’t look at it,
Lorana cautioned. She found a spot on Arith’s neck, felt for

and found a large vein. She paused then, overcome by the enormity of the

moment.

Is it over?
Arith asked hopefully. With a sigh, Lorana gently plunged the

needle in and slowly pushed the plunger down.

Now it’s over,
she told her dragon. She quickly removed the syringe and

then, realizing she had nowhere to put it, held it numbly in her hand.

Good,
Arith said.
I don’t feel any different.
She sneezed.

Lorana jumped.

No, it’s—
Arith stopped, her eyes whirling to red. She turned her head from

one side to another.
I don’t feel good.

Lorana looked at her in the dim light. Arith’s skin looked splotchy, different.

The young queen made an irritated noise and turned to snap at her side.

It itches!
Arith yelled.
Lorana, it burns!

I’ll go get some numbweed,
Lorana declared but her feet were rooted to

the spot.
I’ll call for help.

It’s—it’s—oh, it hurts!
Arith wailed.
It’s wrong, Lorana, it’s wrong!
And then,

suddenly, she wasn’t there.

Arith!
Lorana shouted, reaching for her dragon. She reached
between,

dove after her, found a fleeting glimpse in the distance, but it was too far.

Frantically, she reached for all the other dragons of the Weyr and followed

Arith, desperate to bring her dragon back. Arith fought to get away, pushed

against her call, against the strength that Lorana had called from the

dragons of the Weyr, fought, and fought—and, suddenly, she found a place

where she could go—

No, no, no!

Arith was gone.

Lorana had one fleeting glimpse, one sliver of a feeling that Arith had felt

some other calling—and then she was gone.

With one last, heart-tearing scream, Lorana collapsed, unconscious, on the

floor of the Hatching Grounds.

SEVENTEEN

Any Eridani Adept willing to change an ecosystem must commit her

bloodline to maintaining that ecosystem eternally.

—Edicts of the Eridani, XXIVth Concord

College, First Interval, AL 58

Lightning tore through the sky over the College, with thunder following right

on its heels in vengeful intensity. Wind Blossom turned over in her bed,

willing herself to sleep in spite of the noise outside. She needed her rest,

she knew it. But her mind, traitorous in the night, insisted on turning over

and over the problems she would face in the morning.

What did it matter that fire-lizards sometime in the future had gotten sick?

Would the same illness affect dragons? Kitti Ping and she had tried to

guard against that, even while knowing that nature and environment would

work against them.

How could she convince the Weyrleaders and the Holders to devote their

energies to guarding against some unseen future that might never come to

pass?

“In the morning.” Kitti Ping’s saying came back to her. “There is always

enlightenment in the morning.”

Her mother was right, Wind Blossom knew. Often the problems that

plagued her in the night would be solved in the morning. She often

wondered how much of the solution came from her worrying and how much

from a good night’s sleep.

Sleep was harder to come by these days, she mused. With this lightning

and thunder, it would be a wonder if she would have
any
energy come the

morning. She closed her eyes and tried to will herself back to sleep once

more.

A thunderclap, loud and without lightning, startled her completely out of

sleep. There was something more, something special, urgent, like a voice

crying in the night. Electrified, she threw off her covers and raced down the

stairs to the courtyard, despite the pouring rain.