McCaffrey, Anne – DragonQuest. Chapter 7, 8

“There’s a rider along every inch of coastline, F’lar, so don’t accuse me of negligence,” T’bor said, his smile returning. “Dragons don’t need to be a-wing to spot Thread. Shells, man, you can hear it hissing across the water.”

“I assume you were looking for fire lizard eggs?” F’lar sounded testy and not completely reassured by T’bor’s report. “Have you found any?”

T’bor shook his head. “There’s evidence, far to the west, of another clutch, but there isn’t a sign of shell or corpse. The wherries can make fast work of anything edible.”

“Were I you, T’bor, I’d not release an entire Weyr to search for lizard eggs. There’s no guarantee Thread will move in on this continent from the ocean.”

“But it always has. What little we get.”

“Thread fell ten hours before schedule across Lemos north when it should have fallen on Lemos south and Telgar southeast,” F’lar told him in a hard voice. “I have since heard that Thread fell, unchecked,” and he paused to let that sink in to T’bor’s mind, “in Telgar Hold and Crom Hold, both times out of phase with the tables, though we do not yet know the time differential. We can’t rely on any previous performance.”

“I’ll mount guards immediately and send the wings to sweep as far south as we’ve penetrated,” T’bor said briskly and, shrugging into his riding jacket, trotted back to Orth. They were aloft in one great leap.

“Orth looks well,” F’lar said and then eyed his half-brother closely before he smiled, jabbing a fist affectionately at F’nor’s good shoulder. “You do, too. How’s the arm healing?”

“I’m at Southern,” F’nor replied in oblique explanation. “Are Threadfalls really that erratic?”

“I don’t know,” F’lar said with an irritable shrug. “Tell me about these fire lizards if you please. Are they worth the time of every able-bodied rider in this Weyr? Where’s yours? I’d like to see it for myself before I go back to Benden.” He glanced northeast, frowning.

“Shells, can’t I leave Benden Weyr for a week without everything falling apart?” F’nor demanded so vehemently that F’lar stared at him in momentary surprise before he chuckled and seemed to relax. “That’s better,” F’nor said, echoing the grin. “Come. There are a couple of the lizards in the Weyrhall and I need some klah. I was out hunting clutches all morning myself, you know. Or would you prefer to sample some of Southern’s wine?”

“Ha!” F’lar made the exclamation a challenge.

When they entered the Weyrhall, Mirrim was there alone stirring the stew in the big kettles. The two greens were watching her from the long, wide mantel. She gave the appearance of having an odd deformity of chest until F’nor realized that she had rigged a sling around her shoulders in which the wounded brown was suspended, his little eyes pinpoints of light. At the sound of their boots on the paving, she swung round, her eyes wide with an apprehension which turned to surprise as she glanced from F’nor to F’lar. Her mouth made an “o” of astonishment as she recognized the Benden Weyrleader by his resemblance to F’nor.

“And you’re the — the young lady who Impressed three?” F’lar asked, crossing the big room to her.

Mirrim bobbed a series of nervous curtsies, causing the brown to squawk in protest to such bouncing.

“May I see him?” F’lar asked and deftly stroked a tiny eye ridge. “He’s a real beauty! Canth in miniature,” and F’lar glanced slyly at his half-brother to see if the jibe registered. “Will he recover from his wounds — ah …”

“Mirrim is her name,” F’nor prompted in a bland tone that implied his brother’s memory was failing him.

“Oh, no, Weyrleader — he’s healing nicely,” the girl said with another bob.

“Full stomach, I see,” F’lar commented approvingly. He glanced at the pair huddled together on the mantel and crooned soft encouragement. They began to preen, stretching fragile, translucent green wings, arching their backs and emitting an echoing hum in pleasure. “You’ll have your hands full with this trio.”

“I’ll manage them, sir. I promise. And I won’t forget my duties, either,” she said breathlessly, her eyes still wide. With a gasp, she turned to give a splashing stir to the contents of the nearest pot, then whirled back again before the men could turn. “Brekke’s not here. Would you like some klah? Or the stew? Or some …”