without it being noticed,” he said to the others. He nodded at Cisca. “Your idea of using the reserve wing to carry extra firestone is a good one — we’ll need to practice it in the morning.”
“What if the riders ask about Arith and Benden?” Cisca asked, turning to follow him.
“It will be all right,” Fiona said. The others looked at her, surprised. “That’s what we’re supposed to say, isn’t it?”
Cisca glanced at K’lior, a smile on her lips. The Weyrleader reflected the smile as he turned back to Fiona. “Yes, that is exactly what we’ll say!”
“Firestone?” H’nez repeated, his expression outraged. “A fighting wing to haul firestone? What are weyrlings for?”
“If they trail multiple sacks, they could replenish the fighting wings in a third the time of the weyrlings,” K’lior said, trying to remain reasonable.
“Coddling weyrlings, by the First Egg!” M’valer muttered disapprovingly.
“We’ve only got eleven fit to fly,” Fiona told them.
“Eleven’s not enough,” S’kan said decisively.
“So who’s in reserve?” H’nez demanded, his irritation undimmed.
“My wing, I should think,” T’mar declared. “I’ve already got experience with this new rig, so I can train them.”
“But your wing’s light!” M’kury complained. In fact, every wing was light.
“We’d have enough dragons if we made the sick ones fly,” K’rall grumbled, glancing toward H’nez for approval. The other bronze rider made no response, his eyes cutting quickly toward K’lior and then back again.
“Sick dragons don’t survive,” T’mar replied.
“And when there are none but sick dragons left, what then?” K’rall demanded.
“Then,” K’lior replied in a controlled, even tone, “we’ll reconsider our options.”
“By then, Pern will be lost,” V’ney said, shifting morosely in his chair. His wing had been hurt the worst by both the illness and bad luck in the Fall, and he had only twelve dragons left.
“We have survived for over five hundred Turns,” Cisca said. “I don’t see why we won’t survive this Pass.”
“We’ll have the wings work together,” K’lior declared. “T’mar and N’jian will be reserve, H’nez and M’valer, M’kury and S’kan, V’ney and K’rall.”
“And you?” H’nez pressed.
“I’ll take point,” K’lior replied as though it should have been obvious. “We’ll start practice at first light.”
Fiona found herself and the weyrlings working hard over the next three days as they helped the Weyr prepare for the next Fall, but no matter how tired they were after a drill, the young hatchlings always found the energy to leap off the Weyrwomen’s ledge and beat their wings into the sky in tentative imitation of the larger, older fighting dragons, always encouraged by their weyrling riders and the invariable group of envious weyrchildren who formed a cluster over by Fiona and Talenth.
On the morning of the Fall, Xhinna and Terin approached Fiona with a new concern.
“How are the dragons going to fight when it gets dark?”
Fiona stared at them. “I don’t know,” she admitted. Then she brightened. “I’m sure K’lior will have an answer.”
She found K’lior with Cisca and Kentai, and broached the subject. His response surprised her.
“I didn’t even
“I should have thought of it,” Kentai said, looking glumly at the parchment written in Verilan’s careful script. “There must be something in the Records…”
“We all should have thought of it,” Cisca said, not wanting the harper to hoard the blame. “But what does it matter?”
“Can the dragons see well enough in the dark?” Fiona asked, allowing relief to creep into her voice. The relief vanished when she saw the look that Cisca and K’lior exchanged.
“If it’s cold enough, won’t the Thread freeze in the night air?” Kentai suggested. He started over to a stack of Records, fumbling through them while murmuring, “I recall reading about it not long ago …”
“But if it doesn’t freeze,” K’lior began slowly, his eyes locked on Cisca’s, “and we can’t see it — ”
“The Thread will fall and burrow,” Cisca finished for him. “Of course, all the Thread that falls up as high as the Weyr will freeze in the snow — ”
“But that doesn’t mean some won’t burrow somewhere,” K’lior interjected.
“And in the morning … ”
“The Thread will spread,” Kentai finished with a heavy sigh.
“We can fight burrows,” Cisca declared.
“If we have the strength,” K’lior agreed.
“The ground crews — ” Kentai began.
“ — will not cover the high hills and mountains,” K’lior finished with an angry shake of his head. He paused, clearly communing with his dragon. “I’ve asked T’mar and M’kury to join us. Together perhaps we can come up with some plans.”
“You’ll have to tell the others,” Cisca cautioned him.
“I’d prefer not talk about this with H’nez until we have a plan,” K’lior admitted. Cisca shrugged; she had no problem with that approach. K’lior took the time while they were waiting for the two wingleaders to say to Fiona, “You have a habit of finding difficult friends, don’t you?”
Fiona looked up and saw that he was smiling at her.
“Don’t stop,” Cisca told her heatedly. “We need these sort of friends; they keep us from making terrible mistakes.”
“Indeed,” K’lior said, his expression thoughtful. He raised an eyebrow toward Cisca in some secret communication that seemed to Fiona as though they were dragons communicating telepathically.
“Yes,” K’lior said after a moment. “I think we should encourage this Terin to stand on the Hatching Grounds.”
“Nothing short of a full revolution for you, is there?” Cisca wondered, her eyes dancing at Fiona.
“ ‘Need drives when Thread arrives,’ ” K’lior quoted in reply.
“What about the watch-whers?” Fiona asked. “I know my father’s Forsk will be eager.”
“Watch-whers?” K’lior repeated, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. “What could they do?”
“They can see at night,” Fiona replied, undaunted. “And I know that father has been training with Forsk, getting guidance from Kindan, M’tal, and Nuella.”
K’lior groaned. Cisca looked at him worriedly. “The watch-whers,” he explained. “When M’tal was here at the Hatching, he wanted us to train with the watch-whers.”
“And you said no,” Cisca guessed.
“And I said no,” K’lior agreed disconsolately. “Could you imagine H’nez . . . ?”
“He would have been apoplectic,” Cisca agreed.
“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now,” K’lior said with a heavy sigh. “We’ll fight the Thread tonight and see if perhaps we can train with the watch-whers before the next Fall.”
The last rays of the sun illuminated the Weyr Bowl as dragons and riders launched into the sky, wing by wing, to form up at the Star Stones and wink out,
“Don’t worry,” T’mar had assured her just before his heavily-laden wing departed. “We’ll be fine.”
But it was hard not to worry when Fiona caught sight of Cisca’s set expression; hard not to worry as she and the remaining weyrfolk scrambled to set up the aid tables; hard not to worry as the younger weyrlings raced each other to bag more firestone; hard not to worry as the sun’s rays faded out completely and the Weyr Bowl was illuminated only by the massed glows, eery splotches of blue, green, and yellow dotted in the dark.
“F’jian,” Fiona called as she approached the firestone room. The young bronze weyrling looked up from his work. “As soon as they’re finished bagging, get the weyrlings over to the Dining Cavern for
