Flar glanced down at the panorama, the immense cup of rock at the top of the mountain, the tail-like road starting at a mysterious point on the right face, leading down to the lake on the plateau below the Weyr. The water glittered like a gigantic dragon eye. He worried briefly about haring off on this project with Thread falling so erratically. He had set up sweep patrols and sent the diplomatic Nton (again he regretted Fnors absence) to explain the necessary new measures to those Holds for which Benden Weyr was responsible. Raid had sent a stiff reply in acknowledgment, Sifer a contentious rebuke, although that old fool would come round after a nights thought on the alternatives.
Ramoth dipped her wings suddenly and disappeared from sight. Mnementh followed. A cold instant later they were wheeling above Telgars chain of brilliant stair lakes, startlingly blue in the early morning sun. Ramoth was gliding downward, framed briefly against the water, sunlight unnecessarily gilding her bright body.
Shes almost twice the size of any other queen, Flar thought with a surge of admiration for the magnificent dragon
A good rider makes a good beast, Mnementh remarked voluntarily.
Ramoth coyly swooped into a high banking turn before matching her speed with her Weyrmates. The two flew, wingtip to wingtip, up the lake valleys to the Smithcraft. Behind them the terrain dropped slowly seaward, the river which was fed by the lakes running through wide farm and pasture lands, converging with the Great Dunto River which finally emptied into the sea.
As they landed before the Crafthall, Terry came running out of one of the smaller buildings set back in a grove of stunted fellis trees. He urgently waved them his way. The Craft was getting an early start today, sounds of industry issued from every building. Their riders aground, the dragons said they were going to swim, and took off again. As Flar joined Lessa, she was grinning, her gray eyes dancing.
Swimming, indeed! was her comment and she caught her arm around his waist.
So I must suffer uncomforted? But he put an arm around her shoulders and matched his long stride to hers as they crossed the distance to Terry.
You are indeed well come, Terry said, bowing continuously and grinning from ear to ear.
Fandarels already developed a long-distance glass? asked Flar.
Not quite yet, and the Craft-seconds merry eyes danced in his tired face, but not for want of trying all night.
Lessa laughed sympathetically but Terry quickly demurred.
I dont mind, really. Its fascinating what the fine-viewer can make visible. Wansor is jubilant and depressed by turns. Hes been raving all night to the point of tears for his own inadequacy.
They were almost at the door of the small hall when Terry turned, his face solemn.
I wanted to tell you how terribly I feel about Fnor. If Id only given them that rackety knife in the first place, but it had been commissioned as a wedding gift for Lord Asgenar from Lord Larad and I simply …
You had every right to prevent its appropriation, Flar replied, gripping the Craft-seconds shoulder for emphasis.
Still, if I had relinquished it …
If the skies fell, wed not be bothered by Thread, Lessa said so tartly that Terry was obliged to desist from his apologies.
The Hall, though apparently two-storied to judge by the windows, was in fact a vast single room. There was a small forge at one of the two hearths that were centered in each end. The black stone walls, smoothed and apparently seamless, were covered with diagrams and numbers. A long table dominated the center of the room, its wide ends deep sand trays, the rest a conglomerate of Record skins, leaves of paper and a variety of bizarre equipment. The Smith was standing to one side of the door, spread-legged, fists jammed against the wide waist belt, chin jutting out, a deep frown scoring his brow. His bellicose mood was directed toward a sketch on the black stone before him.
It must be a question of the visual angle, Wansor, he muttered in an aggrieved tone, as if the sketch were defying his will. Wansor?