“We’re in for it now,” Jaxom said.
“Not as bearers of good tidings, we’re not. Concentrate on that.”
“I’m too bloody tired to concentrate on anything,” Jaxom replied with more feeling than he’d intended. His skin itched, probably the sand. Or too much sun, but he was uncomfortable.
I am very hungry, Ruth said, looking wistfully toward the fenced killing ground of the Weyr.
Jaxom groaned. “I can’t let you hunt here, Ruth.” He gave his friend an encouraging pat and, noticing F’lar and Lessa waiting for them, he hitched up his trousers, settled his tunic and gestured to Menolly that they’d better go.
They’d taken no more than three steps, during which time Mnementh had turned his wedge-shaped head to F’lar, when the Weyrleader had spoken to Lessa and the two Benden leaders started down the steps, F’lar gesturing to Jaxom to move Ruth on to the killing ground.
Mnementh is a kind friend, Ruth said. I may eat here. I am very very hungry.
“Let Ruth go, Jaxom,” F’lar was calling across the intervening distance. “He’s gray!”
Ruth did indeed look gray, Jaxom realized, which was the shade he himself felt, now that the exhilaration of their quest was ebbing. Relieved, he signaled the white dragon to proceed to the ground.
As he and Menolly walked toward the Weyrleaders, he felt his knees weaken unaccountably and he lurched against Menolly. She had her hand under his arm instantly.
“What’s the matter with him, Menolly? Is he ill?” F’lar strode to her assistance.
“He jumped back twenty-five Turns to find D’ram. He’s exhausted!”
The next few moments were a blank to Jaxom. He re-established contact with the here and now when someone held a rank-smelling vial under his nose, the fumes of which cleared his head and made him back away from the stink. He realized that he was sitting on the steps to the queen’s weyr, his body braced between F’lar and Menolly, with Manora and Lessa in front of him, everyone looking extremely anxious.
A high-pitched squeal told him that Ruth bad killed and, curiously, he felt better immediately.
“Drink this slowly,” Lessa ordered, curling his fingers about a warm cup. The soup was rich with meat juice, savory with herbs and just the right temperature for drinking. He took two long gulps and opened his mouth to speak when Lessa gestured him imperiously to keep drinking.
“Menolly’s given us the salient points,” the Weyrwoman said, pulling a disapproving grimace. “But you disappeared long enough to scare Menolly out of her harpered wits. How under the sun did you conclude he’d gone twenty-five Turns back? Don’t answer that yet. Drink. You’re transparent and I’d never hear the last of it from Lytol if you came to any harm over this numbwitted escapade.” She glared at her weyrmate. “Yes, I’ve been worried over D’ram but not to the point where I would risk a fingertip of Ruth’s hide to find him if he’s trying that hard to be lost. Nor am I very pleased to find firelizards involved.” She was tapping one foot now and her glare was divided equally between Menolly and Jaxom. “I still think they’re pests. Barging in where they’re not wanted. I suppose that unmarked fair that popped in followed you up from the South? I won’t sanction that.”
“Well, I can’t keep them from following Ruth,” Jaxom said, too weary to be prudent. “Don’t think I haven’t tried!”
“I’m sure you have, Jaxom,” Lessa said in a milder tone.
A series of frightened wherry whistles was plainly heard from the killing ground. They saw Ruth swoop to dispatch a second fowl.
“He certainly is neat,” Lessa remarked approvingly. “Doesn’t run a flock to bone making a choice. Can you stand, Jaxom? I think you’d best plan on spending the night here. Send one of those dratted firelizards of yours to Ruatha Hold, Menolly, and tell Lytol. It’ll take Ruth time to digest anyhow and I won’t permit this lad to risk between tired out of his mind and on a tired and sated dragon.”
Jaxom got to his feet.
“I’m all right now, thank you.”
“Not when you’re leaning at that angle,” F’lar said with a snort as he slipped one arm around Jaxom. “Up to the weyr.”