Chapter 7

The Games stopped. Without any discussion, everyone in the Weyr knew there would be no further mention of the Games this year. The air itself seemed gray with grief, and every dragon in the Weyr was tinged with gray around eyes and muzzles, in the manner of a grieving dragon. The other dragons in L'tol's wing spent two days huddled in a heap near the Weyr lake, faded colors and limp wings tangled over each other. Tuenth was with them.

S'lel was not so welcome, or perhaps he had voluntarily absented himself. But for two days, no one saw either S'lel or L'tol. On the third day after Larth died, F'lon walked S'lel into the Lower Caverns and seated them both at a table. Perhaps they'd made arrangements beforehand, because one of the women tending the hearth brought them plates of food. F'lar was at a table with other junior riders, and all conversation stopped.

H'pan, who was sitting with D'wer, the blue rider from S'lel's Wing, gave an almost inaudible whistle of sympathy, shaking his head. "I wouldn't fancy that sort of help."

"He must feel so guilty," D'wer said, his voice unsteady.

H'pan put an arm around D'wer's shoulders.

"It wasn't his fault, D'wer," H'pan said gently. "It wasn't S'lel's fault."

F'lar wondered how he could say something so ridiculous, but the challenge in H'pan's expression brought him up short. H'pan wanted F'lar to ask what he was talking about, and for that reason, F'lar decided not to say a word.

V'sen, another Wingleader, approached F'lon and S'lel. "Is this seat taken?"

F'lon gestured for him to sit with them. Slowly, another four senior riders joined F'lon and S'lel, including B'refli, rider of a brown dragon in S'lel's Wing. There was no conversation, but at least they were there, eating dinner and sipping klah together.

H'pan kept glaring at F'lar, his expression getting angrier as D'wer got sadder. F'lar refused to rise to the bait, not wanting anything to mar what F'lon was trying to do for S'lel right now. He couldn't understand why H'pan would try to pick a fight on an evening like this one.

D'wer's sadness eventually gave way to quiet tears. H'pan gently massaged his shoulders, and invited him to come away. Still crying, D'wer left the table with H'pan. H'pan threw another look of anger at F'lar as the two of them left the dining area. Several of the other blue and green riders at the table shot angry looks in F'lar's direction.

V'van, who had kept his head down since he'd caught sight of F'lon and S'lel, risked a glance at F'lar. He gave him a relieved look, a cautious smile, and then ducked his head back down. It appeared that H'pan's unexplainable grudge against F'lar was now spreading throughout the other green and blue riders, though V'van was still willing to be loyal to him.

"Do you know why H'pan doesn't like me?" F'lar asked V'van quietly.

V'van looked so ill-at-ease that F'lar regretted asking the question. "Do you mean in general, or just tonight? You know – I hear Jizith calling. He's needed lots of extra attention these past couple days. I shouldn't keep him waiting. Good evening to you, F'lar." And V'van was gone.

F'lar looked over at G'toril, who simply refused to look back. He wondered if the brown rider had any idea what was going on. The atmosphere at the table was so obviously against him that F'lar left within a couple of minutes. He wanted Mnementh.

The big dragon was drooping with the rest of them by the weyr's lake. He raised his head and bugled a restrained welcome as F'lar approached. Some of the other dragons raised their heads, and then dropped them again. Mnementh didn't get up, so F'lar climbed into the crook of his foreleg and leaned against Mnementh's chest, closing his eyes and listening for the beating of his heart. His hand went up to scratch his dragon's soft hide. Mnementh's soft croon helped erase the uncomfortable episode at dinner. F'lar didn't feel like spending the evening in the Lower Caverns tonight, nor did he want to read Records. And for the first time in a month, he wasn't in the mood to invite Tirina to his weyr either. It was enough to relax here with Mnementh. The tension and sadness bled out of him until he started to doze, propped up against Mnementh.

She is here, Mnementh said.

F'lar opened his eyes.

"I didn't mean to wake you," Tirina said.

"I wasn't really sleeping."

Mnementh shifted, and now there was room for Tirina to seat herself against Mnementh's shoulder.

"I saw L'tol."

"You did?"

Tirina nodded, her brown eyes sad. "He wants to leave the Weyr. He asked me for an introduction to the Master Weaver at the Crafthall at High Reaches Hold. He's going there."

F'lar didn't know what to say. All the words caught in his throat. How could a dragonman leave the Weyr? But how could a man who had lost his dragon bear to stay?

"The scarring isn't terrible. The left side of his face is still bandaged, but the fire didn't disfigure him too badly. The wherhide jacket kept the fire from burning his chest too deeply. Manora wants him to rest a few more days, but I don't think he will. He didn't talk much – just asked me to write an introduction to the Master Weaver," Tirina said.

"I suppose F'lon will take him," F'lar said, just to say something.

"He's going by runnerbeast. Manora made the same offer while I was there and he said he'd never ride a dragon again," Tirina said.

F'lar nodded. "High Reaches? That's so far away – the other side of the continent."

"That's probably why he chose it."

"But Fax is that direction," F'lar said.

"It's still as far away as he can get from the Weyr, and Fax might not conquer a seventh Hold."

F'lar nodded and leaned back into the crook of Mnementh's foreleg. Tirina let the conversation go. Several moments passed in companionable silence.

"F'lar? Have you heard what they're saying?"

"About what?"

"About whose fault it is."

It sickened him that anyone would try to attach blame to what could only be called a terrible accident. "It's no one's fault." But then he reconsidered. If S'lel hadn't changed the pattern to try and get extra style points, Larth wouldn't have been flying so close to Tuenth.

"I've heard them say it, and I don't agree with it, but they're saying it's F'lon's fault."

"What?!" F'lar was so shocked that Mnementh raised his head and trumpeted. F'lar coaxed him back down and patted his muzzle.

"They're saying that if F'lon hadn't convinced S'lel to try a new maneuver, it wouldn't have happened."

"Who is saying it, Tirina?" F'lar demanded.

"I've just heard some murmurs, whispers really."

Suddenly the entire episode at dinner made sense in a twisted way.

"Who?"

"R'gul mostly. D'nol agrees with him, but D'nol usually agrees with him. It's just that everyone is so shocked. It's all just talk, but I thought you should know. You and F'lon are the only ones in the Weyr who believe Thread is coming back, and if you didn't believe it, then F'lon wouldn't be trying to sneak all that new stuff into the Games, and, well, Larth wouldn't have died."

"And that qualifies as reasonable? Why don't we just say that it's the weather's fault, because if it had been cloudy, we would have postponed the event. Or let's blame it on the fact we all got out of bed that morning, because if plague had swept through the Weyr and we all died in our sleep, we wouldn't have flown the event either. Or how about blaming it on S'lel for changing that maneuver and putting Larth too close to Tuenth?"

"Don't yell at me, F'lar. I'm just telling you what they're saying."

"And why are you listening to R'gul and D'nol anyway? I thought your relationship with D'nol was over. You just decided to drop by and ask him his opinion about my father?"

"You're getting caught up in the talk too, F'lar. Everyone knows you agree with F'lon."

"Oh, and now I'm responsible for Larth dying because I think Thread is coming back? Is that it? Do you think I killed Larth?"

"F'lar, you're upsetting the dragons."

"They're upset because Larth died, Tirina!"

Tirina climbed to her feet, tears dripping down her cheeks. "I'm sorry I tried to warn you about what's happening. I thought you should know, but I won't bother you again."

F'lar watched her go and convinced himself that she was crying about L'tol and Larth. He hadn't been yelling at her; he'd just been upset at what she said, and she should understand that.

He couldn't relax with Mnementh anymore. His agitation was so great that he stood up and paced. It was the most unfair accusation he'd ever heard. F'lon was exercising all his authority as Weyrleader to help S'lel right now, to get them all past this terrible accident, and they should all see that. If they started blaming each other, it could only get worse.

~###~

L'tol left the next day. None of the dragonriders saw him leave, but F'lar heard about it from F'nor, who had talked to Manora, who had packed him clothes and food for the journey. Two of the weyrmen went with him, since L'tol didn't know how to ride and care for a runnerbeast.

The pall of grief over the Weyr lifted with L'tol's departure, but only enough to allow tempers to flare. With the Games ended prematurely, and no one scheduled to ride sweep patrols, the dragonriders all stayed in the Weyr, idle. The grief started working its way into anger and blame, finding its way into old grudges and conflicts like a tunnel snake seeking the easiest path to its prey. R'gul's idea about blaming F'lon came up more and more. It was impossible to avoid hearing it now, but they might have gotten past it if S'lel hadn't decided to believe it too.

Relieved of the blame for Larth's death, S'lel became a victim of F'lon's unreasonable Weyr policies and his ridiculous obsession with Thread returning. F'lon had pressured him into flying that maneuver in the Games. R'gul was loudest about sympathizing with S'lel and assuring him that he wasn't to blame for his lapse in judgment – a bronze rider ought to be able to trust his Weyrleader, and it wasn't his fault they had one who wasn't trustworthy.

The betrayal cut F'lon deeply. F'lar could see it in the lines that appeared overnight around his mouth, and in his eyes that looked a thousand Turns old. The sixth day after Larth's death, R'gul reversed F'lon's compassionate attempt to reintegrate S'lel into the cadre of senior riders by isolating F'lon at the dinner table. The junior riders, weyrlings and women all watched it happen – every senior rider served himself from the hearth, and then chose a seat away from F'lon. F'lar watched desperately for C'latan to come to dinner. Surely F'lon's Wingsecond would sit with him.

Then F'lar remembered C'latan had complained of ill health that afternoon. He might not be coming to dinner.

Mnementh! Bespeak Kogath and tell him C'latan is needed at the dining tables. F'lon needs him!

There was a brief pause, and then Mnementh replied, He will come.

The minutes were too long, but eventually C'latan came to the dining area, served himself, and pulled out the empty chair next to F'lon. He nodded at the other senior riders, most of whom were giving him black looks, greeted F'lon as if nothing were out of order, and proceeded to eat dinner.

The tension didn't break. F'lon was losing the Weyr. He couldn't be deposed as Weyrleader unless another bronze dragon flew Nemorth, but he could be made useless as a leader. Jora had proved that – position didn't grant authority.

"Say it openly! I've heard the rumors, and if you want to accuse me, say it to my face!" F'lon roared out the demand, standing up so quickly his chair fell backwards.

The tension snapped and anger rushed into the breach.

"If you weren't so sharding obsessed with Thread, this never would have happened!" R'gul shouted back. "You've cracked your shell, F'lon, and this is the result!"

"He changed the maneuver! Larth and Tuenth never should have been flying so close!" F'lon yelled.

"Don't you cast blame on me! It should have been Simanith who died!" S'lel roared back.

With a wordless cry of rage and despair, F'lon swung a blow over the table at S'lel. It never landed. R'gul shoved the table over against F'lon and he staggered back, but when he regained his footing, his knife was in his hand.

R'gul and S'lel pulled their knives too; ignoring C'latan's protest.

"Drop your knives!" C'gan bellowed. He was only a blue rider, but he'd been weyrlingmaster for so long that most of them had trained under him. Belt knives and daggers skittered along the tables and dropped to the floor and the fight swirled widely enough to draw them all in.

As the Weyr's leadership blew apart in a brawl, several brown, green and blue riders shoved the other tables back, pushing junior riders and weyrlings back towards the women and children, forming a protective line. Children began to wail, girls hustling them away deeper into the living quarters. Someone was clutching F'lar's arm so tightly it began to tingle when the blood flow stopped, and he turned to see F'nor.

"They'll pile on him," F'nor said in a hoarse whisper.

It was true. With C'latan staying at the fringes of the fight, F'lon was alone in the melee.

The bodies were too thick, the light from the fire and glows too uneven, for F'lar and his brother to see what was happening, but within a few minute, they heard a terrible ear-shattering note from a dragon, its tone of shocked rage slowing the fight as all the dragonriders responded to a dragon's distress. They heard the wind of a hasty launch, and then all the dragons in the Weyr gave voice to the eerie, hair-raising, barely audible, high keening note that signified the passing of one of their kind.

Mnementh! Who was it? F'lar cried out in the privacy of his mind.

Simanith. Mnementh's mind-tone was ragged.

But Simanith wouldn't go between without his rider unless . . . F'lon was dead.

For a second, F'lar felt like his mind had gone between as well, but then consciousness returned. Consumed with rage, F'lar forced his way past the green dragonrider who tried to block his way and snatched up a discarded knife. "I'll kill you! You killed him and I'll kill you!" he screamed at R'gul.

R'gul made no move to defend himself, an expression of shock and regret making his strong features haggard. It was V'sen who grabbed F'lar around the waist and C'latan who seized his arm, pressing tendon to bone so painfully that F'lar involuntarily opened his fingers and dropped the knife.

"There will be no more deaths in the Weyr," C'latan said. "Think, F'lar! It has to end!"

"No one intended," R'gul began, and then trailed off.

"You killed him!" F'lar shouted again, straining against the men holding him back.

"I wasn't anywhere near him when he fell," R'gul said.

"Nor was I," S'lel said.

"Nor I."

All the riders in the fight denied being anywhere near F'lon when he took his fatal fall. A few of them moved his body back out from under the table and straightened it, bringing the head back to its proper position.

"Don't you touch him! Get away from him! Murderers!" F'lar was still convulsing with shock and rage.

Mnementh put his head right into the Lower Caverns and bellowed, sending all the young weyr folk into screams as the panicked dragon tried to force his way in. Mnementh's claws scrabbled at the entrance, showering rock and dirt over the floor as he fought for entry.

"Control your dragon!" C'latan shouted at F'lar.

"He killed F'lon!" F'lar shouted back, still trying to break away from V'sen and C'latan and launch himself at R'gul.

Mnementh bellowed again, and the boulders mortared into the entryway crashed to the stone floor under his mighty claws.

"Control your dragon or you're no dragonrider!" Full palm, C'latan slapped F'lar across the face.

F'lar touched Mnementh's mind, then twisted his body and kicked out with both feet, catching V'sen in the chest. With a gasp and stagger, the bronze rider let go and F'lar went running and scrambling over furniture and rocks to reach Mnementh. He threw himself onto Mnementh's neck, not bothering with the riding straps. Mnementh took a step backward and launched himself upward. He was barely a dragonlength above the ground when he went between, where the cold froze the sweat on F'lar's body and the tears on his face.

~###~

Mnementh took them to Whiterock Waterfall. F'lar sat on a rock at the top of the waterfall, watching the water pour over the edge to be pounded into foam on the rocks at the base. Mnementh's muzzle rested on the rock, where F'lar could keep a hand on the soft hide and feel Mnementh's breath against his leg.

F'lar barely registered the arrival of another dragon until he heard Mnementh.

Canth comes. F'nor asked where you were.

F'nor didn't say anything. He sat down on the rock next to him. His shoulder pressed into F'lar's as both of F'lon's sons sat and watched the waterfall pour off the edge.

F'nor started to shake, and F'lar broke his reverie enough to realize F'nor was sobbing soundlessly and without tears, more a convulsion of shock than ordinary grief. F'lar didn't know what to do, so he didn't do anything, but as he turned back to the waterfall, he realized that he had more memories of F'lon than F'nor did. F'nor would never fly in F'lon's Wing, which was surely what their sire intended. His bewildered mind eventually settled on the conclusion that F'nor might envy all the time and memories he had with their sire. F'lar looked at his brother, and then put a hand on his bony shoulder. F'nor was already tall and broad-shouldered, but at sixteen, he was still skinny.

An immense brown claw looped F'nor and plucked him off the rock. An instant later, F'lar was lifted in Mnementh's foreclaws.

You sit too close to the edge. Canth worries, Mnementh explained.

Both striplings were deposited together onto a bare spot of ground carpeted with last fall's dead leaves, then the dragons stretched out to encircle them. Mnementh's muzzle had been tinged with the gray of dragon grief since Larth died, but now it seemed his entire hide was dull with gray. Canth crooned with concern and nudged F'nor, knocking him into the dirt.

"Leave off, Canth," F'nor said, shoving ineffectually at Canth's thick neck.

Canth put out a foreclaw and gathered F'nor in as delicately as he could. Safe in the dragon's embrace, F'nor started to cry real sobs.

F'lar fell against Mnementh, and accepted the clutching embrace, but he held himself strong and still against the dragon's side. He couldn't cry; he couldn't let himself go like that. There was too much to be done, and with F'lon gone, he was the only one left to do it all.

~###~

F'lar and F'nor came back to the Weyr at full dark. Canth glided down to the weyrling barracks and Mnementh backwinged to land on the ledge to their weyr. F'lar's fingers were clumsy as he worked the riding straps off, and then he stood there for a few minutes before deciding he didn't want to leave Mnementh. He went to his weyr, then returned, dragging the bed furs down the short corridor between his sleeping quarters and the hollow of solid rock near the entrance where Mnementh rested. Mnementh's head came around to watch F'lar, and he put out a foreleg and gathered F'lar in again, studying him with an iridiscent eye, whirling orange with distress.

I will miss F'lon and Simanith too.

"There are few who will," F'lar said bitterly. R'gul may not have intentionally caused F'lon's death, but there were many among the bronze riders who would not regret F'lon's absence.

Mnementh wrapped his other foreleg around F'lar as well, nearly crushing him in a draconic embrace.

"Leave off squashing me, Mnementh. I'm not going anywhere," F'lar said, pushing back at his dragon and feeling the first hint that his devastation might someday ease.

Mnementh loosened his grasp and let F'lar spread out the bed fur.

A gust of wind blew into the weyr as another dragon scrabbled for a hold on the rocky ledge, paused a few seconds, and then launched himself away again.

Jizith, Mnementh identified him.

F'lar was wondering why his blue wingmate would visit his weyr this night of all nights when Tirina walked into the glowlit cavern.

"I asked V'van to bring me," she said.

"Tirina, I just can't tonight."

"You deadglow – this isn't about sex. I didn't think you should be alone tonight, and neither did Manora." Tirina planted a kiss on his forehead, gave Mnementh an absent pat, then walked down the corridor to the sleeping chamber and returned dragging the mattress bag of rushes from F'lar's bed. "Mnementh, is it all right if I sleep here?" Tirina dropped the bag of rushes next to Mnementh's side, and Mnementh rumbled approval.

"I brought fellis if you want some," Tirina said, spreading out another bed fur.

"No."

"Then lie awake all night if that makes you feel better. I'll be right here, F'lar. I'm sorry for your loss; I'll grieve F'lon too, though not as much as you. I know you have Mnementh, but there are a few humans who are fond of you as well, even though you make that so difficult at times," Tirina went on, words divided between scolding him and consoling him.

F'lar settled into Mnementh's foreleg, listening to Tirina say whatever popped into her head, with Mnementh occasionally adding a silent reply. Her voice was pleasant, even though he stopped paying attention to what she was saying. He would never be alone as long as he had Mnementh, but he was thinking it was a comfort to know that there were a few humans whom he could turn to as well. He had Tirina, F'nor, and even Manora, after a fashion. He hoped none of them were alone tonight either. F'nor would be in the weyrling barracks with Canth and a crowd of dragons and weyrlings.

"Tirina?" he interrupted. "Is Manora alone tonight?"

"No. She and Willa are sitting vigil with F'lon's body."

"It's good she's not alone tonight. And F'nor won't be either."

"And neither are you."

"It's good that you came, Tirina. I couldn't have asked, but it's good you came."

"You're welcome, F'lar."

F'lar nodded into the darkness and huddled closer to Mnementh. Through the soft hide, he could feel the slow, steady rhythm of the dragon's heart, accompanied by the even breaths. Tirina stirred briefly, and then her breathing evened out too, though F'lar doubted she'd fallen asleep so quickly.

It's good not to be alone, F'lar said to Mnementh in the privacy of his mind. No one who loves F'lon is alone tonight.

Mnementh opened the outer lid on one gleaming eye.

Jora.