That did not explain why Maidir had accompanied S’loner on what was his last flight, although Lady Hayara said that her spouse was very tired and might have requested either a place to rest here at the Weyr or the courtesy of a return to Benden Hold.
“Oh, please will someone take me back to the Hold immediately?” Lady Hayara asked piteously. “Maidir may be there and have some explanation for us.”
R’gul promptly volunteered, and Manora, the quiet weyr girl who had spoken to C’gan earlier, had the good sense to bring Lady Hayara’s riding jacket. Together they escorted her into the darkness of the Bowl where Nemorth, still keening, waited.
C’rob, M’ridin and C’vrel, the oldest of the wingleaders, were holding a conference, which F’lon joined as if he had the right.
Plainly the other riders did not think so.
“The next mating flight will decide that, F’lon, so let’s not jump to any premature assumptions. And with Jora the way she is, that’s likely to take a few Turns,” M’ridin said in a low but angry voice.
“I suggest we clear the Weyr of all visitors,” C’rob said. “This Impression is over.”
“And marred by a death, which is not good, not good at all,” C’vrel added, shaking his head.
“Keeping the dragons busy is the best thing for them,” M’ridin went on. “Only be bloody sure to remind riders to give the clearest coordinates they ever had in their minds.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to let people stay …” C’vrel suggested.
“No, the Weyr must mourn its own,” C’rob said. I’ll ask only the older riders to convey passengers.” He ignored F’lon and went to choose those whom he considered responsible enough.
S’lel and another stalwart weyr man were now carrying Jora up the steps to her quarters, having failed to rouse her. On the ledge, Nemorth was still keening loudly for her mate, swaying her head and neck back and forth, her eyes whirling with the muddy purples shot with orangey yellows of extreme distress. It was then that Robinton realized the sides of the Weyr were punctuated by many pairs of whirling, distressed dragon eyes, like coloured glowbaskets of unusual size. He remembered that long after other details of the terrible evening faded: the whirling eyes and the sad, bone-shaking keening from several hundred dragon throats echoing back and forth across the Bowl, all night long.
A drum message brought the information that Lady Hayara had not found Maidir at Benden Hold. The fatal accident had taken all three in that brief instant between. Robinton asked C’gan to convey himself and Raid, who was probably now the Lord Holder of Benden, back to the Hold. His stepmother would need his support and what comfort could be given her. Robinton was packing up his music and instrument when F’lon came up to him.
“You’ll want to go back,” the young bronze rider said in a weary voice.
“I’ve asked C’gan …”
“Why him?” F’lon was angry.
“You’ve just lost your father, man,” Robinton said, gripping the rider tightly on the arm. “I could scarcely impose on you …”
F’lon brushed hair back from his forehead in an irritable gesture and swung this way and that. “It’s not as if we were close -weyrbred not taking that much store in relationships – and shards!
But he’s messed things up dying like this!”
Whether or not that outburst was F’lon’s way of expressing his grief, Robinton was never sure, but the dragonrider was certainly furious. Robinton knew that the young bronze rider had been proud of being the Weyrleader’s son. He’d always affected an attitude of disdain for the relationship, but at least he had had one with his father. Robinton envied him that.
“The others are too nervous as it is,” F’lon went on savagely, looking every way but at the harper. He kicked at the dirt of the Bowl and kept shaking his head. “I told him he was chancing it with those chest pains. Listen to his son? Oh, no, he knew it all.”
In the glowbaskets, Robinton now noticed the wet streaks on F’lon’s cheeks and he wished he could find something to say that would ease his loss. There was nothing.