F’lar’s jaw dropped, his eyes widened. He leaped to his feet with an astonished cry.
“You’ve said it!”
“Said what?”
‘Turns away! That’s it. We’ll send Kylara back, between times, with her queen and the new dragonets.” F’lar excitedly paced the room while Lessa tried to follow his reasoning. “No, I’d better send at least one of the older bronzes. F’nor, too … I’d rather have F’nor in. charge… . Discreetly, of course”
“Send Kylara back … where to? When to?” Lessa interrupted him.
“Good point.” F’lar dragged out the ubiquitous charts. “Very good point. Where can we send them around here without causing anomalies by being present at one of the other Weyrs? The High Reaches are remote. No, we’ve found remains of fires there, you know, still warm, and no inkling as to who built them or why. And if we had already sent them back, they’d’ve been ready for today, and they weren’t. So they can’t have been in two places already… .” He shook his head, dazed by the .paradoxes.
Lessa’s eyes were drawn to the blank outline of the neglected Southern Continent.
“Send them there,” she suggested sweetly, pointing.
“There’s nothing there.”
“Then bring in what they need. There must be water, for Threads can’t devour that. We fly in whatever else is needed, fodder for the herdbeasts, grain… .”
F’lar drew his brows together in concentration, his eyes sparkling with thought, the depressioa and defeat of a few moments ago forgotten.
“Threads wouldn’t be there ten Turns ago. And haven’t been there for close to four hundred. Ten Turns would give Pridith time to mature and have several clutches. Maybe more queens.”
Then he frowned and shook his head dubiously. “No, there’s no Weyr there. No Hatching Ground, no …”
“How do we know that?” Lessa caught him up sharply, too delighted with many aspects of this project to give it up easily.
“The Records don’t mention the Southern Continent, true, but they omit a great deal. How do we know it isn’t green again in the four hundred Turns since the Threads last spun?
We do know that Threads can’t last long unless there is something organic on which to feed and that once they’ve devoured all, they dry up and blow away.”
F’lar looked at her admiringly. “Now, why hasn’t someone wondered about that before?”
‘Too hidebound.” Lessa wagged her finger at him. “Besides, there’s been no need to bother with it.”
“Necessity or is it jealousy hatches many a tough shell.” There was a smile of pure malice on his face, and Lessa whirled away as he reached for her.
“The good of the Weyr,” she retorted.
“Furthermore, I’ll send you along with F’nor tomorrow to look. Only fair, since it is your idea.”
Lessa stood still. “You’re not going?”
“I feel confident I can leave this project in your very capable, interested hands.” He laughed and caught her against his uninjured side, smiling down at her, his eyes glowing. “I must play ruthless Weyrleader and keep the Hold Lords from slamming shut their Inner Doors. And I’m hoping” he raised his head, frowning slightly”one of the Craftmasters may know the solution to the .third problem getting rid of Thread burrows.”
“But…”
“The trip will give Ramoth something to stop her fuming.”
He pressed the girl’s slender body more closely to him, his full attention at last on her odd, delicate face. “Lessa, you are my fourth problem.” He bent to kiss her.
At the sound of hurried steps in ‘the passageway, F’lar scowled irritably, releasing her.
“At this hour?” he muttered, ready to reprove the intruder scathingly. “Who goes there?”
“Flar?” It was F’nor’s voice, anxious, hoarse.
The look on F’lar’s face told Lessa that not even his half brother would be spared a reprimand, and it pleased her irrationally. But the moment F’nor burst into the room, both weyrleader and Weyrwoman were stunned silent. There was something subtly wrong with the brown rider. And as the man blurted out his incoherent message, the difference suddenly registered in Lessa’s mind. He was tanned! He wore no bandages and hadn’t the slightest trace of the Thread-mark along his cheek that she had tended this evening!