Dragonsblood (49 page)

creatures have more of a purpose—”

“What?” K’tan asked, catching the surprised look on Kindan’s face.

“The song,” Kindan said slowly, in amazement. “I remember the title.”

K’tan urged him to go on, but Kindan was transfixed in thought.

Finally, the healer said, “The title, Kindan, what is it?”

Kindan shook himself out of his musings and gave K’tan an apologetic

look.

“ ‘Wind Blossom’s Song.’ ”

“I said get out!” Tullea shouted for the third time at Tilara. “I’ll call you when

you’re needed.”

With a worried look toward Lorana, Tilara retreated from Tullea’s anger.

“It’s not like she needs a whole guard,” Tullea muttered to herself as she

heard Tilara’s feet hasten down the corridor. “Probably going to tell Mikkala.

Well, let her.
I’m
the Weyrwoman. Not even Salina can criticize me.”

She looked down at Lorana, lying on her back, motionless, in her bed.

“I tried to keep you away,” Tullea said, almost apologetically. “But you had

to do it your way. Wouldn’t tell anyone. The first we hear is you and your

dragon shrieking in the middle of the night.”

Her voice rose as her anger grew. “You didn’t deserve that dragon, you

know? You were so sure, so certain, so willing to risk everything. You

deserved to lose her, do you hear? You
deserved it
!” Tullea realized that

she was shouting at the top of her lungs into Lorana’s ear and pulled back,

both appalled at her own behavior and amazed by Lorana’s

unresponsiveness.

“You can’t die,” Tullea said. “Salina was with her Breth for ten times more

Turns than you had months with your dragon, and she didn’t die.

“You can’t die. You’re not allowed, do you hear me? It wouldn’t be right.

You’re not allowed, you’re not . . .”

Tullea found herself on her knees at Lorana’s bedside, cradling the

woman’s head in her arms, her tears falling onto Lorana’s hair like rain.

“
Please
don’t die,” Tullea whispered, begging.
“Please.”

For all his Fort riders’ work, K’lior was certain that some Thread had fallen

through to the ground in the night Fall over Southern Boll. He shuddered at

the thought of what the ground might look like in the morning.

Take us to the Hold, Rineth,
K’lior said.
I must speak with the Lord

Holder.

Contrary to K’lior’s fears, Lord Egremer was effusive with his praise of the

dragons and their riders.

“We’ll have ground crews out at first light, I promise,” Egremer said. He

looked nervously northward, toward where Thread had fallen. “How bad is it,

do you suppose?”

K’lior shook his head. “We did our best,” he said. “But the warm weather

meant that every Thread was alive. The watch-whers were overwhelmed

and we’d never trained with them, so our coordination was lousy.”

Lady Yvala’s eyes grew wide with alarm.

“We’ll have sweepriders out at first light,” K’lior promised. “As soon as we

see anything, we’ll let you know.”

“I’d hate to lose the stands of timber to the north,” Lord Egremer said.

“They’re old enough to be harvested, but I was hoping to hold off until

mid-Pass, when we’ll really be needing the wood.”

K’lior nodded. “We’ll do our best,” he promised.

“And we’re grateful for all that you’ve done,” Egremer replied.

Wearily, K’lior mounted Rineth and gave him the image for Fort’s Bowl.

The morning dawned gray, cold, and cloudy. Even Cisca was subdued.

“The reports are in from T’mar on sweep,” she said as she nudged K’lior

awake, handing him a mug of steaming
klah.
“Five burrows.”

K’lior groaned. Cisca made a face and he gave her a go-on gesture.

“Two are well-established. They’ll have to fire the timber stands.”

K’lior sat up, taking a long sip of his
klah.
He gave Cisca a measuring look,

then said, “Casualties?”

Cisca frowned. “Between the illness and Thread, twenty-three have gone

between.
F’dan and P’red will be laid up with injuries for at least the next six

months. Troth, Piyeth, Kadorth, Varth, and Bidanth are all seriously injured

and will also take at least six months to heal. There are eleven other riders

or dragons with injuries that will keep them from flying for the next three

months.”

“So, we’ve what—seventy dragons and riders fit to fly?”

“Seventy-five,” Cisca corrected, emphasizing the difference. “And we’ve

got over three sevendays before our next Fall. I’m sure that we’ll have more

dragons fit to fly by then.”

“Three sevendays is not enough time,” K’lior grumbled, rising from their

bed and searching out some clothes.

“No you don’t,” Cisca said sharply, getting up and pushing him toward the

baths. “You smell. You’re getting bathed before you do anything else.”

K’lior opened his mouth to protest but Cisca silenced him with a kiss.

“If you’re nice,” she taunted, “I may join you.”

K’lior tried very hard to be nice.

Lord Holder Egremer scowled at the line of smoke in the distance. Forty

Turns’ worth of growth, gone. Three whole valleys had been put to flames

before the dragonriders and ground crews could declare Southern Boll

Hold free from Thread.

The rains would come soon and the burnt land would lose all its topsoil. He

could expect floods to ravage the remnants of those valleys. In the end,

there might be a desert where once there had been lush forests.

It would be worse for his holders. They had expected years of work and

income culling the older trees, planting new, and working the wood into fine

pieces of furniture. Now Southern Boll would be dependent upon its

pottery, spices, and the scant foodstuffs it could raise for trade with the

other Holds.

The Hold would take Turns to recover.

“I’m sorry, Egremer,” a disconsolate K’lior repeated. “If there’s anything the

Weyr can do to help . . .”

Egremer sighed and turned back to the youthful Weyrleader. K’lior was no

more than ten Turns younger than he, and while Egremer wanted

desperately to blame someone, he knew that it would be unfair to blame the

dragonrider.

Egremer forced a smile. “I appreciate that, K’lior,” he replied. “And there

might be more that you can do than you know. If I could have the loan of a

weyrling or two, to help scout out the damage and maybe haul some

supplies . . .”

“Weyrlings we have aplenty,” K’lior said. He shook his head. “It’s full-grown

dragons that are scarce.”

“I’d heard that your losses are high from the illness,” Egremer replied. “Is

there anything
we
can do for
you,
my lord?”

For a moment, K’lior made no reply, staring off into space, thinking.

“Time,” he said at last, angrily. “We need time for the weyrlings to grow up,

time for the wounded to heal.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid you cannot

give that to us, my lord.”

Egremer’s face drained. “How long do we have, then, my lord?”

K’lior’s face grew ashen. “Fort is lucky. We don’t have another Threadfall in

the next three sevendays. We’ll probably be able to fight that.” He shook his

head. “But I can’t say about the Fall after.”

The despair that gripped the Weyrleader was palpable. Egremer looked for

some words of encouragement to give him but could find none. It was K’lior

who spoke next, pulling himself erect and willing a smile back on to his

face.

“We’ll find a way, Lord Egremer,” he declared with forced cheer. “We’re

dragonriders—we always find a way.” He nodded firmly to himself and then

said to Egremer, “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

“Certainly!” Egremer replied. “I’ll see you out. And don’t worry about those

weyrlings, if it’s too much bother. Having them would only save us time.”

K’lior stopped so suddenly that Egremer had to swerve to avoid bumping

into him.

“Time!” K’lior shouted exultantly. He turned to Egremer and grabbed him on

both shoulders. “That’s it! Time! We need time.”

Egremer smiled feebly, wondering if the dragons’ sickness could affect

riders, as well. K’lior just as suddenly let go of the Lord Holder and raced

out of the Hold.

“Thank you, Lord Egremer, you’ve been most helpful,” he called as he

climbed up to his perch on Rineth.

“Any time, Weyrleader,” Egremer called back, not at all certain what he had

done, but willing to use the Weyrleader’s good cheer to elevate that of his

holders, rather than depress them more by looking at the Weyrleader as if

he were mad.

“Cisca, it’s time!” K’lior yelled up from the Bowl to their quarters as soon as

he returned
between
from Southern Boll. “That’s what we need—time!”

Cisca stepped up to the ledge in Melirth’s quarters and peered down to

K’lior. “Of course we need time,” she agreed, mostly to humor him.

“No, no, no,” K’lior shouted back. “The weyrlings and the injured riders, they

all need
time
to grow and recover.”

“Make sense, K’lior,” Cisca returned irritably.

K’lior took a deep breath and gave her a huge smile. “We’ll time it. Send

them back in time somewhere so—”

“So they can recover!” Cisca finished with a joyful cry and a leap. “K’lior,

that’s brilliant!”

When K’tan approached M’tal and Salina at dinner that evening, M’tal gave

Salina a worried look.

“Salina, may I talk with you?” K’tan asked, his eyes pleading, his face pale.

“It’s about Drith.”

Salina responded with a weary smile and a small shake of her head. Really,

she
was
getting used to this, although she hadn’t expected K’tan to be the

next dragonrider to ask to speak to her alone.

M’tal leaned back in his chair, reflectively fingering a glass of wine on the

table. Salina rose from her chair and gave him a peck on the cheek before

following the Weyr healer out of the Living Cavern.

“How long has it been?” she asked K’tan as soon as they were out of

earshot.

“Over two sevendays,” he replied grimly, his face lined with the pain of so

many burdens piled on top of each other—the dying, Lorana, and now his

own dragon’s sickness. “I keep telling myself that the next potion, the next

herbal infusion will turn the tide but—”

Salina laid a hand gently on his arm. K’tan took a shuddering breath.

“I must go check on Lorana,” he said finally, ducking away from Salina’s

gaze. He turned back, eyes puzzled, and told her, “I see her body shudder

every time a dragon goes
between,
but she makes no sound.”

“I know,” Salina replied softly. “I think she
feels
every dragon’s death.” She

looked up at him. “You must know something of how she feels, for all your

years healing.”

“Is it terribly lonely, losing your dragon?” K’tan asked, fighting to keep his

voice steady.

“It’s the worst feeling there is,” Salina told him honestly. She grabbed him

and hugged him tight. “But as long as you have people to live for . . .”

Overwhelmed by her words and enveloped in her comforting embrace,

K’tan’s composure broke in one soft, heart-torn sob. Clumsily he pushed

himself away.

“I’ll be all right,” he declared. “Thank you.”

“I’m sure you will be,” Salina agreed, accepting his lie.

K’tan turned quickly, saying, “I must check on Lorana.”

“Give her my love,” Salina called as the healer strode off deliberately.

By the time K’tan arrived in Lorana’s quarters, he had his emotions back

under control. After all, he chided himself, he had had Turns of consoling

the bereaved, of keeping quiet watch as sick and injured slipped away

forever; he should be used to this. And he owed it to his patients and

weyrmates. Those who were suffering deserved no less than the best he

could give them.

He heard a voice from inside Lorana’s quarters and quickened his pace,

arriving breathless. Perhaps—

“What are you doing here?” he demanded abruptly, spotting the

Weyrwoman as he entered Lorana’s quarters.

“My duty as Weyrwoman,” Tullea snapped, her cheeks flushing. She stood

up from Lorana’s bedside, hands clenched by her side. Her features

tightened severely as her anger grew.

“Let me relieve you, then,” K’tan said crisply.

Tullea glared at him through narrowed eyes, then spun on her heels and

was out of the room before K’tan could react.

He couldn’t, for a moment, imagine that Tullea was watching Lorana out of

any concern or compassion for the dragonless woman. He knelt beside

Lorana, took her pulse, and checked her temperature and breathing,

assuring himself that she hadn’t suffered from Tullea’s attentions.

K’tan searched the room for a chair, found it, dragged it up beside Lorana’s

bed, and sat in it, leaning back and stretching out his legs in readiness for a

long, patient wait. The room smelled of fresh high-bloom flowers. Had

Tullea brought them? Probably Salina, K’tan decided.

As long as you have people to live for.
Salina’s words echoed sourly in his

memory. Who did Lorana have to live for? Her family was gone, she was

new at the Weyr, and Tullea, the senior Weyrwoman, clearly had no love for

her.

Kindan? The harper was certainly a possibility, K’tan decided, although his