Eena meena up and down
Eena meena all around
Eena meena flies ahead
Count to ten within your head
Eena meena up and down
Eena meena count the beats
In the Wings the bronzes lead
the smaller dragons set the pace
Early afternoon, 14.3.35
High Reaches Weyr
The morning had dawned cold enough to frost the ground. F'ren hadn't woken until almost noon, but even after several hours of warm spring sun the Weyr still wore a glistening coat of rime. High above the Weyr, the air was still well below freezing, and it felt colder still at the speeds a dragon flew. F'ren hunched his shoulders and dipped his chin beneath the collar of his flying jacket as Trath turned into the wind, concentrating on the steady rhythm of the dragon's wingbeats. Even and strong they came, one after another in perfect time with his count, while the landscape rolled fluidly away beneath them. They'd not been out long, nor had they travelled far: the flight pattern F'ren had chosen wouldn't have taxed a nine-month weyrling – he'd modified a standard weyrling drill, in fact – but he hadn't wanted to push things too hard at first. Not that he could have done even if he'd wanted to, not with orders to stay within sight of the Weyr's watchdragon at all times. Between had also been forbidden them. F'ren wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. There was a hesitancy to Trath's mind whenever the dragon thought about it, an instinctive reluctance to go where Kiath's death had taken him. F'ren hoped it would fade alongside the rest of the memories, but they'd have to put between to the test again well before then.
On the ground, Trath's shadow crossed the dark line of the tithe-road. That's our last marker, F'ren noted. We're a dozen beats over our norm, but I think it's good enough. You're still feeling good?
Trath opened his jaws and yawned. I feel like I flew the breadth of the continent yesterday.
Well, that's definitely an improvement on 'all the way to the Red Star and back'. You don't seem as stiff.
No, I'm not. It's half turns next, isn't it? What would you say to something a little more interesting?
Only if you think you're up to it.
Trath snorted. Thread won't be fought with simple half turns.
No, but we can work up from there. I'm not convinced we should fight at all, tomorrow.
I assume you still want me to catch Alaireth? I don't think half-turns will be enough to win a queen.
You won't do either if you're stuck on the ground up to your trailing edge in numbweed, F'ren rebuked, but Trath seemed sincere enough, and driven by more than mere boredom. As short as their flight had been, it had limbered him up well, and the solitary freedom of the empty skies had done even better for both their states of mind. What did you have in mind?
Trath sent his intentions in a brief burst of imagery. The flashy dive, close to one of the spindles, was an easy way to embarrass yourself if you got it wrong, but it ought to have been well within the dragon's capabilities. Trath was testing himself, F'ren realised as they ascended, without the slightest intention of trying to impress any one of the dragons currently sunning themselves on the rim.
At twice the height of the Weyr's tallest spindle, Trath levelled out. I'll take the updraught off the rim as soon as I can feel it.
Knowing that that was all the warning he was going to get, F'ren leant forwards and tucked himself tight against Trath's neck. His innards rose as the bronze dropped, the Weyr's peaks seeming to hurtle forwards towards them, then everything became lost in the blur of freezing, rushing air. Keep it steady. I know we've done this a thousand times before, but...
I know, F'ren. I know what I'm doing. Trust me.
I do. Keeping his head close to the dragon's neck F'ren carefully peered back to check the shape of Trath's offside trailing edge: it was perfectly trimmed, batten-ribs maintaining the dragon's controlled flight even with wings at half-spread. Ahead of them, the southernmost spindle was drawing closer at an ever increasing rate; more than one weyrling had come to grief on its slopes in living memory, but never yet a dragon of Trath's age and experience.
There's a first time for everything! The dragon followed the thought with a flick of his fingerbones that sent him veering into a turn, aiming his flight precisely between the tips of the nearest spindles.
That's meant to inspire trust, is it? It did, actually. It was just as good a test of accuracy in flight as a close pass down the spindle's ridgeline, but far less hazardous should anything go awry. Trath was obviously well aware of his limitations. On the other hand, the fact that he felt confident enough to joke was far better proof of his recovery than any number of successful aerial stunts. F'ren chuckled as Trath let his mental focus slip open, wide enough for the dragon's good humour to filter back to him. Faranth, I'd forgotten how much fun flying could be. Let's take the thermal off the south flank and see where it tops out, shall we?
Did you know Ruarnoth was here? Trath said as they overflew the bowl. She said H'koll was asking after you, until the queens told her not to speak to me anymore.
F'ren peered down in the rough direction of the greenrider's ledge. H'koll? Isn't he with the weyrlings, wherever it is that they are today?
H'koll is in the infirmary today. Ruarnoth waits for him there. I don't know where the weyrlings are.
Never mind the weyrlings! What's up with H'koll? Nothing serious, I hope?
I don't know. I'm sorry.
Don't be; it's not your fault. I'll ask around, and maybe the healers will let me pay a visit. I'll want Pakall to look you over anyway. F'ren leant out the other way, checking the sun-lit ledges of the lower infirmary weyrs. Just enough were occupied to keep the dragonhealers busy, but not so many that they wouldn't welcome any more patients. Does it bother you, Trath? Not talking to the others?
Not yet, the dragon replied. Today, I think I am glad we are left to ourselves. I listen to you, listening to me. We hear each other. Why would either of us need more than that?
F'ren closed his eyes. Trath was right. The close, continual contact of their minds was tiring in a way he'd never noticed before, but he wouldn't willingly let it slacken, not even by the smallest fraction. He might start remembering again if he did. Right now, he felt as close to Trath as he'd ever done before, unified in togetherness almost as deeply as during a mating flight, but still as separate individuals, conscious equals, aware and appreciative of one another. He could still feel where they didn't quite fit properly together any more, deep, painful places where he and Kiath had wounded them, but at least they were learning the shape of each other's minds again. It felt good. It felt right.
They topped the southern lip of the Weyr and followed the slope of the mountain downwards. Trath opened his wings in good time to slow his descent, channelling speed and strength into an arcing rise that pressed F'ren hard against the neck ridge behind him. He could sense the dragon's discomfort as he eased into the strain of the manoeuvre, but the pains were less than they had been and showed no sign of lingering. Provided Trath didn't stress himself too greatly, or overfly himself before he'd recovered, time and rest would heal him perfectly. A sevenday would be more than sufficient.
Do we have a sevenday? Trath asked wryly.
Did they have a sevenday? Of course we don't. We've got five hours of threadfall tomorrow, and a queen to catch the day after that. F'ren could sense that Trath was tiring fast now, but the exuberance of the dragon's flight was as infectious as ever. He laughed with delight, determined to enjoy it as much as he could. Think you can do it?
He couldn't, of course, and both of them knew it. Attempting either one would mean pushing Trath dangerously close to overflying himself.
Trath rumbled, beat his wings hard twice more, then relaxed into the lift of the thermal. Well, I definitely won't if I think I can't.
True, true. In that case, we'll have to rely on our reputation for achieving the impossible. That, and excuse ourselves from Fall.
We can't do that!
We'll see. As for Alaireth, well, maybe we'll get lucky and everyone else will oversleep. F'ren closed his eyes again, and let his mind drift. Sooner than he expected, the small, controlling motions of Trath's wings intensified, signalling that the dragon had run out of air to work with. He leaned out over Trath's neck and checked on their altitude; there ought still be a little more lift to work with, if Trath could find the best angles and the right patch of air, but he could feel the dragon beginning to struggle in the thin air. Shard it, they weren't that much higher than the usual upper flight altitude. I want us back up here again this evening, once you've rested. Should be a pretty sunset from up here.
His own head was growing slightly fuzzy, he realised. Time to call it a day. Come on. Let's head back to the Weyr.
They were almost back to their weyr when Trath passed on the news that F'ren had been summoned to the Council Chamber. The simple pleasures of flying vanished faster than a threaded plant as the bronze diverted to the bowl, and F'ren started feeling the air's chill once again. Sh'vek had appeared in his weyr at one point during the previous evening for a brief, rather one-sided exchange of unpleasantries, but his memory of what had actually been said didn't go much beyond the knowledge that he and Trath had been confined to the Weyr. Ormaith, was it? Did he say why? Anyone else been called in?
Yes. No. He didn't say.
What about Rahnis? Alaireth still hasn't said anything to you?
Nothing more than reiterating the order that I'm not to go between. That was when we left our weyr. She made it very clear that I wasn't to bespeak her uninvited. I'd rather you didn't ask me to.
Shard it. Shard it! F'ren unbuckled Trath's straps and dropped to the ground, pulling the loose ends along with him. You may as well get something more to eat, swim as well if there's time. No idea how long this will take. He gathered the dragon's straps into loops and slung them over an outcrop of rock, then climbed the steps leading up to the Weyrleaders' quarters. He could already hear the indistinct sound of several different conversations. The noise echoed oddly in the emptiness of Kiath's weyr. He walked down the short corridor that led to the Council Chamber; the closed door swung open just as he raised his hand to knock. Ormaith hadn't been on his ledge outside, but someone had given warning that he was on his way in. F'ren took an awkward step forward, feeling slightly foolish, but also very relieved by what he could see inside the room. Empty chairs bordered the large table in a haphazard mess, while their occupants busied themselves at the wall-slate, arguing the merits of whatever formations were chalked onto it. He'd walked in on a Wing meeting, then; not a perfunctory trial.
Planning for tomorrow's fall, he told Trath as C'nir waved him inside. They brought me in late, but they're not done with it yet, so I doubt I'll be in here longer than it takes to demote me. Don't think everyone's happy with their sectors, either.
F'ren eyed the assembled men speculatively, wondering which of them was now Snowfall's Wingleader. It wasn't long before he found part of the answer amongst the crowd; brownrider G'treb had his back to him, but although his curly orange hair was neither as bright nor as profuse as it had been five turns back, it was still the only head like it amongst the Weyr's riders. G'treb and Dondrith are Snowfall's new wingseconds, from the look of it. I can't see M'arsen anywhere. Wonder where he's got to?
The door's latch clicked noisily into place behind him and a few heads at the back of the group turned to see who had arrived. "Well, look who's here," G'dil said, smiling broadly.
"I believe I'm expected," F'ren said. G'dil was clearly anticipating his inevitable demotion with great delight, but no-one else looked quite so happy to see him. H'rack was scowling – which probably argued for P'lindis as Snowfall's new Wingleader – S'kloss and L'sen looked pitying, and a furious M'gan was being held back by both of his seconds. Trying to ignore M'gan, he walked right through the group all the way to the wall-slate, amused by how easily the other men gave way for him. They must think me contagious, Trath.
He placed his hands on his hips, and gave the chalked markings a proper look. "No wonder everyone looks so miserable. Looks like Snowfall's not the only Wing flying as threadbait tomorrow. "
"You wouldn't have had half the trouble you did with my Wing if you'd stuck to the formations your betters assigned you to," P'lindis said, scowling at him.
That answered one of F'ren's questions, but P'lindis was even more of a sycophantic fool than F'ren had thought him if he actually believed that! "Really?" Judging by the notes chalked above the formation diagrams, the Weyr would be flying densely-packed against a compressed fall of Thread, facing unpredictable crosswinds as well as the updraughts of the Western Mountains. It looked like Sh'vek was expecting the worst from the conditions...but his plans for dealing with it were doomed to fail, at least as far as the upper flight went. They'd face the full force of the fall, too tightly packed to easily break formation, especially with other dragons of their Wing flying and flaming so close beneath them. Add to that the dozens of punishing, rapid turns required by such a compact, fast-paced formation... it was struggle enough imagining P'lindis successfully coordinating his Wing through such manoeuvres under the best of conditions, let alone a Wing enlarged to full strength during a fall like tomorrow's would be.
Faranth, he could predict half a dozen likely points of failure right away. He tapped Snowfall's marker with his knuckles. "You like the look of this formation, do you?"
"It's a sharding fall, F'ren," P'lindis said. "It's not meant to be pretty."
Beside P'lindis, H'rack took a sudden interest in his fingernails. F'ren couldn't really blame him for not speaking out, but surely one of the other Wingleaders ought to have said something about half the Weyr being endangered so callously? "Shard it, are you all blind?"
Sh'vek arched an eyebrow. "You are no longer in any position to criticise."
"What are you going to do, Sh'vek? Demote me?" F'ren could feel Trath tugging at his mind, urging him to caution, but he was too angry to be silenced by anyone, even his own dragon. "No, I've never been better placed to speak my mind. And if you're mad enough to send the Wings out to fight like that I'd be derelict in my duty not to. Faranth! Tightly layered rows, upper flight to target the densest regions of the Fall...oh, they'll cut a swathe in it, I'm sure, but more from the breadth of well-scored wings than the heat of their flame. Calling it sharding threadbait is me being generous. If the upper flight lasts longer than a single shift before the first Wing cracks, Trath's a green wher. Not that I have any intention of being there to see it."
The brief silence that met his words was broken by Sh'vek's laughter. "F'ren, are you trying to bait me? You harp on about duty one moment, only to declare your intention to abscond from fall in the very next? I can't say I ever expected to hear such rank cowardice from your lips. Unless conditions improve, High Reaches Weyr will fly at full strength against tomorrow's fall. I expect to see every dragon capable of flight in the air, including yours."
"You're not grounding me then?"
"Not yet, no."
"I can't imagine why not," F'ren muttered. He hoped that some of the others might start wondering about that, too. Then again, the confines of his own weyr were a considerably safer place than the upper flight during a bad fall.
"But seeing as you're so desperate to help out with the preparations," Sh'vek continued, "you can report to the firestone bunker immediately after the next change of watch. M'arsen will know to expect you. Sit back down everyone." He gestured at the other men, waving them back towards the table, before swinging his hand back to level a finger in F'ren's direction. "Except you. Let's get this over and done with."
For once, F'ren agreed with the Weyrleader; there was no sense in prolonging this particular spectacle. He started working on the cords looped around his left shoulder, wishing he'd thought to remove them earlier.
"I see you understand why you were summoned?" Sh'vek drawled. He pulled out his chair and sat down. "Get on with it, then."
Irritated by how long the knots were taking to come loose, F'ren's composure broke. "Oh, absolutely, Weyrleader." He picked at the cords furiously with his fingernails. "Demotions for incompetence were on the last meeting's agenda." That wiped the smile off G'dil's face! "Today...well."
Slowly, Trath said. The dragon was a comforting, constant presence at the back of F'ren's mind. You'll never get it loose if you pull the wrong ends.
F'ren fought down his impatience with a sigh. I know. In truth, this wasn't half as humiliating as his last demotion from Wingleader had been, and if luck and Alaireth were on his side he'd be needing a different set soon enough anyway. Finally working the cords loose enough to slip them free, F'ren stepped forward and tossed them onto the table just out of Sh'vek's reach.
Ignoring them, the Weyrleader motioned for him to move back towards the door. It wasn't quite a dismissal; sure enough, as soon as F'ren had rounded the table Sh'vek leaned forwards in his chair and spoke again.
"Bronzerider F'ren. Yesterday, the Weyr at large was told that we believed that you and Maenida were both victims of Kiath's demise." His voice was level, his expression impassive. "The circumstances of the tragedy were, initially, very confused. That situation has now changed. You stand accused of murdering Weyrwoman Maenida and, through her, Maenida's queen, Kiath. And, although your guilt cannot be presumed before your trial concludes, it would be grossly inappropriate to permit you to continue as Snowfall's Wingleader. You are hereby stripped of all rank and privileges."
F'ren forced himself to nod, glad of Trath's silent mental support.
"Formal charges will be entered into the Weyr's records later today." Sh'vek tapped the tabletop thoughtfully with his fingers. "Do you wish to register any protest?"
Against a murder charge that should never have been made at all? What would be the point? It wasn't going to be a trial that saw him absolved or condemned, it would be the will of the man sitting in Sh'vek's chair a sevenday from now. "No."
"Good." Sh'vek selected one of the hides on the table in front of him, and added a short note to the bottom. "Your trial will be prosecuted under the auspices of your Weyrleaders as soon as M'arsen has finished assembling the case against you."
F'ren drew in a quick breath, alerted by an almost imperceptible shift in Sh'vek's tone. The trial itself didn't matter one bit. The trial was a foregone conclusion. What mattered...what mattered was the satisfaction in the man's voice when he'd spoken of Weyrleaders in plural. And M'arsen would need days at most. Tell me I'm wrong, Trath.
What about?
I think he knows. Ask her, Trath! Ask Alaireth if there's a chance he might suspect. "I'm entitled to an advocate of my choosing," F'ren said, realising that that might offer another means of answering his question. "I believe one of the Wingleaders or a Junior Weyrwoman is traditional."
Finally, Sh'vek smiled. "Should you choose to contest the charge, then yes, it is." He made a point of looking around the room, eyes lingering on each of the Wingleaders in turn. M'gan's jaw was clenched so hard he was like to give himself a headache. "Assuming anyone will agree to do it."
Well, he wasn't planning on asking any of them! "I thought I'd ask weyrwoman Rahnis," F'ren said. What does Alaireth say, Trath?
I'm sorry, F'ren. She still refuses to hear me.
Sh'vek bent his head and added another note to his hide. "Very well. No need to bother her about it now. I'll see to it that the junior weyrwoman is present to argue your case."
The junior weyrwoman, not weyrwoman Rahnis. F'ren felt his blood run cold. Shard it, Trath! Tell her I need to know!
There was a short pause, then the dragon spoke again. Ormaith says that this is his Weyr and what he and his rider don't know about what happens here isn't worth knowing. He also says, if you want specifics, you should ask the Weyrleader outright.
Shard it, he does know! Shard it! F'ren blinked and refocused his vision on his surroundings. Sh'vek was staring at him, his eyes narrow.
"I know Rahnis will be most obliging. Did you have anything more to say? Or a question, perhaps?"
Now he named her! F'ren smiled sickly and shook his head. "No, Weyrleader. Not at present."
"Good. To prevent any prejudice of your trial, you are confined to your weyr excepting only the essential tasks of your dragon's care, wing drills, threadfall, and any other punishments you accrue. You're dismissed, bronzerider." He nodded to C'nir, who rose from his chair.
F'ren could take a hint. "Weyrleader. Wingleaders." Omitting the customary salute, he turned for the door.
F'ren was still fuming when he reached the bowl. It was bad enough that Sh'vek had somehow learned that Delene wouldn't be the Weyr's next Weyrwoman – he needed to warn Rahnis about that, if he could find her – but, in spite of that, it was the more immediate prospect of the following day's threadfall that he couldn't shake from his thoughts.
You really don't think we should fight thread tomorrow, do you? Trath asked.
No. I know you disagree, but I don't see we've any other choice. We've got to maximise your chance of flying Alaireth.
And I have to fight Thread, F'ren. I can't pretend it isn't falling.
It's always falling somewhere. We don't fight it over Benden, do we? Or down in the deserted South? It was a weak argument; one that wouldn't convince a weyrling green. If the rest of the Weyr was fighting, no dragon would find it easy to resist the instinct to join them. F'ren decided to temporarily give up on the issue. I know. I know you don't like it. We'll talk it over later. Has P'lindis told the Wing when they'll be drilling yet? Or what?
I've heard nothing from Kanleth, nor from Simpeth either. Not that it matters; I've eaten well and I expect I shall sleep most of the afternoon. You should eat, too. You weren't ordered to starve yourself.
Probably just an oversight. He was feeling quite hungry, he realised, not that he had much of an appetite for eating, but he'd need the food if he'd be spending the latter part of the afternoon breaking firestone.
You could've avoided that. It'll make you tired. That's not good.
No, Trath, that it isn't.
Inside, the main cavern was as busy as ever. But, busy or not, half the people there seemed to think it necessary to stop whatever they were doing so they could give him a sharding good stare. F'ren looked blankly ahead as he made for leftovers hanging in a pot over the night hearth. For all that he hadn't yet been publicly blamed for Maenida's death, it looked like doubts and rumour had had much the same effect. He helped himself to some stew, and started eating it where he stood. No-one approached him, but a good handful didn't stop staring at him, either. He was staring pointedly back at one group, determined to outlast them, when he caught sight of Rahnis, M'arsen and an unfamiliar man sitting down at one of the better lit tables.
Shard Sh'vek's orders! What was one more rule broken, now? Alaireth might not be willing to hear Trath at present, but no-one could stop him talking to her rider. Leaving his bowl on the edge of the nearest table, F'ren started towards them.
Rahnis broke off her conversation as he approached and gave him a slight shake of her head. "I'm busy, F'ren, and I can't talk to you now."
Lower Caverns business would have to wait; this was far too important. "You need to."
"This isn't a good time."
Reaching her table, F'ren leaned on the back of one of the empty chairs. "He knows, Rahnis. Make time." The stranger looked nonplussed by his statement, but F'ren could see that Rahnis knew who he'd meant.
The weyrwoman's lips tightened, and she pushed herself up from her chair. "Damrel, I think we'd be better off discussing this in the Headwoman's office."
M'arsen followed her lead. "Good idea, weyrwoman. Do you want me to deal with this?"
M'arsen's coat hung loosely from his right shoulder, and his arm was bound up in a sling. He wouldn't need to worry about fighting Thread tomorrow, but it would even things up rather nicely between them, F'ren decided. "Piss off, M'arsen, or I'll break the other one."
"Try it, F'ren."
"That won't be necessary, M'arsen," Rahnis said. "F'ren. I really can't talk to you. Find someone else. Better yet, go to your weyr and stay there!"
Alaireth says I must tell you to listen to Rahnis, Trath said.
Oh, so now she's talking to you? Did she say why?
Only that you must not speak to her, now or later, and should do as she asks. She says we should go to our weyr for now, and later you should follow your own advice.
That doesn't make sense! How can I talk to her later when she won't talk to me? Not good enough, Trath. Not nearly good enough.
F'ren. Look at the riders around you. If you do not leave, Alaireth says she will see that they make you go.
What? F'ren checked the tables to either side of him. The group working on new straps had set aside their tools, and the poker-players on the next nearest table had all abandoned their current hand. S'nell was on his feet already.
Trust her, F'ren. Do as Rahnis asks.
"Problem with your ears, rider?" M'arsen said, rounding the table. "She doesn't want to talk to you."
F'ren had been ready to walk away until M'arsen had said that. "Rahnis, you-"
"Faranth, does no-one listen?" Rahnis snapped. "F'ren? Go away, please. You fardling shouldn't need me to tell you not to fight, especially when you're in no condition for it. M'arsen, you're Sh'vek's wher, not mine, but I'm well aware of what his orders were for you today. Your next reminder won't come from me. Damrel, my apologies. The headwoman's office is this way." She turned her back and briskly walked away. The stranger – Damrel, presumably – followed in her wake. M'arsen lingered long enough to give him a good sneer before doing the same.
"What was that all about anyway?" S'nell asked. "I'd a good hand before you interrupted!"
"My mistake," F'ren muttered. He was sure he could feel everyone's eyes on him again as he retreated back towards the night hearth. He found his bowl where he'd left it, and poked at the congealing mess with his spoon. You know what? I don't think I'm hungry after all.
Eat it, Trath insisted. And stop looking at them, if they bother you that much.
F'ren acquiesced to both requests with a sigh. I suppose I should find myself some new cords, after this. Not that it really seems worth it. Why didn't she talk to me, Trath? If things go badly with Alaireth...well, if thread doesn't get us, a transfer is the best we can hope for after my trial. That'll be something to look forward to, won't it?
Perhaps she means to speak to you later? When the brown's rider has left her tail.
You mean when he's singeing mine instead? Not that we've anything better to do than waiting around on our backsides right now. He finished his bowl and tossed it onto the small stack of empties on the shelf beside the hearth. With the weyrlings still absent from the Weyr the main barracks were bound to be locked, so he'd need to raid the Lower Caverns' supply. F'ren took the back tunnel that led the long way round to the cloth rooms and main storage, via the sleeping rooms and nursery. This part of the Weyr was usually deserted during waking hours, and he saw no-one until he reached the passage that led off to the nursery rooms. A pair of women were pacing the halls ahead of him in a vain attempt to soothe the crying babes strapped to their chests. They, at least, had far better things to do than stare at him.
He had just rounded the next corner when Trath sent him a quiet, tightly focused thought. Stay where you are. Corhoth's rider wishes to speak to you.
Ah. The Wing meeting must have finished earlier than usual. Someone else come to harangue me. F'ren leaned back against the wall and waited. A minute or so later D'barn appeared, coming down the tunnel from the opposite direction. F'ren eyed him cautiously; he didn't think the man would hold back a second time. "What do you want, D'barn?"
"What do you think I want?" D'barn checked the corridor both ways, then set his back against the opposite wall. "I want to keep my son alive," he said quietly. "You were supposed to be helping me with that F'ren, not making things worse."
Shard it, he wasn't going to stand here and let the man scold him like an old aunty! "Worse?"
"Yes, worse." D'barn repeated. "I don't like what's planned for tomorrow any more than you do, but at least I had the sense not to tell Sh'vek that to his face. That's never been the best way of dealing with him."
Too exasperated to bother hiding it, F'ren rolled his eyes. "No? Is that what you were all doing then, dealing with him? Looked more like boot-licking to me."
D'barn didn't rise to the insult. "We were discussing fall-back formations before you showed your face," he said. "Can't see any of them happening now."
He probably had a valid point there...but it shouldn't have stopped either him or any of the others from insisting on a fall-back before the meeting wound down. "And it's my fault that the rest of you follow his directions like a string of mindless trundlebugs, is it? You're the ones in a position to do something about it, not me."
D'barn shook his head. "Not where it matters. Not in Snowfall."
Shells, Trath, what is it with people's priorities in this Weyr? I'm the last person anyone should be asking favours of right now.
Corhoth's rider trusts you.
Faranth knows why!
So do I.
That wasn't what I meant. I'm not his Wingleader any more, nor Sk'barn's, either. "I am not responsible for Snowfall any more," F'ren said, reminding D'barn and Trath alike of that fact. "In case you hadn't noticed, that's P'lindis' job now."
Up on his ledge, Trath snorted in disdain. If you're not responsible for them, why are you feeling so guilty right now?
F'ren refused to answer that question. Instead, he peered back down the corridor, wishing that someone might appear and scare D'barn off. No-one did. He crossed his arms and glared at the man, willing him to go away. That didn't work, either. "Your boy's a dragonrider, man! He and Sacquith can look out for each other, just the same as everyone else does."
"It's not the same, and you fardling well know it. Not for the Snowfall riders." D'barn extended a hand pleadingly. "I know you and Trath aren't in a good way right now..."
F'ren gave a shallow laugh; now that was an understatement.
"...but you'll still be up there, tomorrow."
We will, will we? F'ren turned on the spot and started walking away. "Don't count on it."
"If you do nothing else, at least you can keep an eye on him for me," D'barn called out at F'ren's back. His boots sounded loudly on the stone floor as he hurried to catch up.
F'ren grimaced, and kept walking.
Corhoth says his rider will follow you all the way back to our weyr if he has to, Trath said. I've told him that that won't be necessary.
You did, did you? Shard it, Trath, this isn't what I need right now.
F'ren stopped in his tracks and rounded on the other bronzerider. "D'barn, have you seen Trath today? I can't afford to watch out for any dragon other than my own right now. Sh'vek taking the Wing off my hands was probably the best decision he's ever made...but even if I was still a Wingleader, he wouldn't miss as good an opportunity as this to order me to stick with the prescribed formation. There is nothing I can say or do that will help you, or me, or Sk'barn, or any of the others a single sharding bit. So if you're that concerned about tomorrow, go find your son and make the most of today. And then get on your knees and beg Sh'vek to move him to Flamestrike!"
This time, D'barn made no attempt follow him. F'ren managed a dozen steps, each one of them seeming harder than the last, before the weight of Trath's silent disapproval became too much.
Oh, you're listening to me now, are you? Trath said as he slowed to a stop.
F'ren squeezed his eyelids shut. Yes.
Then tell me why we can't do as the man asks.
Faranth, Trath, we've got one opportunity to change things around here for the better. I heard what you were thinking, earlier. How we should fight thread as well as we can because it's our duty to do it, it's what we were both born to do, and all of that. And I know you're right and I'm not even going to try to persuade you otherwise. But we can't fly tomorrow. Not if we want to match Ormaith when Alaireth rises. We've got to make the most of the small chance we have. If that means leaving Thread to the rest of the Weyr, I'd say it's worth it. Trath wouldn't like staying behind, but he'd far rather bear his dragon's shame than see Sh'vek as Weyrleader a single day longer.
Would you? Really?
The dragon's question speared him with guilt right through the heart. I'm sorry.
You shouldn't need to be, F'ren. I can tell when you're lying to yourself, even if you can't. Not fighting thread won't win me my queen, and you know that just as well as I do.
It'll help.
It won't. You know it won't. You don't want us to fight tomorrow because you're afraid and ashamed. Because dragons of our Wing will likely die, and there's nothing we can do to prevent it. Because we are responsible for them, even now.
Tell that to Sh'vek! If we're not there, he might still be persuaded to move them to the lower flight. They deserved better than being in my Wing, every single one of them.
Stop feeling so sorry for yourself! Do you allow his choices to define your values? Your loyalties? Were you their Wingleader or not? Does that duty start and finish with the knots on your shoulder?
OF COURSE IT SHARDING DOESN'T!
This time, Trath's silence was one of comfort, without expectation. F'ren could sense an apology of sorts wound up within it, along with the knowledge that his dragon would defer to his decision, whatever it might be. It wasn't simply a choice between fighting thread or not...and the more F'ren thought about it, the more he realised that he already knew what he wanted to do about it. After all he'd said to Sh'vek back in the council room, how could he not take action? That would be the most cowardly choice of all.
Not that he could manage everything he needed on his own. "D'barn?" he asked, turning back to see if the man was still there.
"Corhoth advised me to wait you out." D'barn walked over to join him, smiling sympathetically. He clapped a hand on F'ren's shoulder. "Never get into an argument with your dragon. Even if you win, you lose."
"He knows me better than I know myself, most of the time." F'ren looked D'barn gravely in the eyes. "I'm going to do everything I possibly can tomorrow, but that doesn't guarantee that any given one of us will come back alive. And, I'm going to need your help. I've forty-three other dragons to worry about tomorrow, as well as Sacquith and Trath."
D'barn frowned, clearly perplexed by the short count. "Forty-five, excluding Lirroth, isn't it?"
"P'lindis and G'treb won't be flying tomorrow," F'ren explained. Giving Second's-knots to a brownrider like G'treb was a decent idea in principle, but he wouldn't have been F'ren's choice for the job. The man was rigid and domineering, a good choice for a Wing with a weak leader and the potential for discipline problems – a perfect match for P'lindis, in fact – but he certainly wouldn't be open to what F'ren planned on doing. "I don't care how it happens, D'barn, just see that it does. And don't involve H'rack in it unless you have to."
"Is that all?"
"No. Tell H'rack he should take a look inside the weyrling barracks when the watch changes." H'koll would have a key, hopefully, and if not there was always that drudge in the laundry. "He might pick up some interesting ideas."
"You're taking the Wing back, aren't you?"
F'ren smiled. "Oh, is that what it looks like?" He gave D'barn a respectful salute, and turned back down the corridor. He had a lot of work to do now, and not much time.
AN: A few comments on the previous chapter's reviews. Scarlet - can other queens manage Alaireth's trick? I imagine they could, if they had the right motivation and practice, but the technique is neither easy nor obvious. A certain level of rapport/existing contact makes all the difference in my mind. Styxamix...hmm, not Fax. Not anyone, actually. He has Lessa's stubborn single-mindedness and certainty in his own decisions, but the rest of his flaws are driven by what would usually be positive qualities gone wrong.
Two more chapters will go up by sunday this week. No promises on specific days.
Thanks to the reviewers, past and present, and equally to the silent majority reading along. It's lovely to have you all along for the ride. (Unless it's just one of you, continually reloading the same page...)