Degal took several hours, then finally emerged from the Masterweaver's apartments, several leaves of vellum cramped with his tight penmanship. Urlyra said nothing, merely offered him an arm up. Freeth had already relayed the fatal attack that slit the Masterweaver's stomach open, and while the healers could stitch him closed, it was agreed that there was no medicines that could heal the damage the of the poisons leaking from his stomach into his bloodstream. Feeling numb she directed Freeth to Telgar Hold.
"Ma..?" Char scooted over and hugged her mother as the dragons relayed the murder. Zandur's head jerked up, some dragon speaking directly to him as Char whispered the terrible news to her mother. For a moment the Weyrhealer covered his face with one redwort stained hand, then he glanced at his patient. Gwedli caught his eye and nodded, the sort of gesture between adults who have weathered bad news before, and recognize the hard work ahead. Her arms were around both her daughter and the blue dragonet, offering and accepting wordless comfort.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" The journeywoman asked simply, and Zandur felt the ghost of a smile touch his lips. Of course, by now he was used to seeing the thoughtless courage of the dragonfolk, but having been among such communal selflessness for so long he had forgotten the quiet bravery to be found in the Halls and Holds.
"Yes. Conclave will have to be called before Turn Over - the Lord Holders will ask me to verify the autopsy. Can you babysit this mess of lizard bespotten folk when I am asked to give my deposition? "
Gwedli replied with a nod. "It would be an honor to be of service."
"This Turn's Threadfighting season will end soon," snow already laid thick in the most northern mineholds, and dusted the watch perch, "at least you won't have to contend with Threadscore," He wheezed, turning back to his records.
"Small mercies," Gwedli murmured.
"The only kind we get." Zandur concurred, starting a new entry.
"They asked you to do what?" Jurille looked horrified, standing in the Weyrleader's weyr. B'ton merely gazed at her, dark circles under his eyes. He hadn't slept in three days since Kestle's death, which prompted Wubath to bespeak Graesth for Jurille's intercession.
"We created this mess. We let him go eleven Turns ago-"
"He was exiled, to an island that gets no protection from Threadfall." Jurille reminded him firmly. "It was supposed to be a death sentence."
"-We have to end this before anyone else gets hurt." B'ton didn't miss a beat, standing next to his table, covered in maps, the largest of which took up the entirety of one wall, and had different sized cloak pins to indicate where searching had been done, and where it was still to occur.
"Dragonmen protect. That is the equivalent to mind-rape." Jurille's tone was as sharp as her words. It was a given that the dragons liked to listen in to other people's conversations. That they could retrieve such information wasn't unknown - the process of deliberately going into another's mind and extracting that information wasn't as harmless as skimming the surface of their thoughts - according to the records, the victims of such a retrieval had felt such a profound sense of violation that two of them had taken their own lives. Hence the prohibition from the riders' side, and the outright refusal from most dragons.
B'ton shook his head.
"Not going into their minds. Just asking them to do what they naturally do, listen in and report back if an answer is known, not forthcoming." He explained wearily.
"You're flying at the treeline, bronzerider." Jurille warned, frowning at him.
"Then stay with me when I interrogate the boy. Keep me on the right flight path." He asked simply. Jurille took the mug of half drunk klah out of his hand.
"I will, but first you must sleep." She agreed. Thread should have fallen the day before but winter was finally flexing it's hold in the north and that ancient nemesis had froze into ashy dust over the small hardwood forest around Far Cry.
"...Will you sing to me?" He smiled tiredly at her.
"If that's what it takes," she said, taking his hand and drawing him away from the maps, "then I will sing the entire saga of the Star Crossing and the First Fall."
"I'd like that..." he replied, following her into the recesses of his weyr and the sleeping quarters.
Char sat on the floor of the Bowl, propped up against the sun warmed outer wall of the infirmary. She carded wool as Vaeth practiced his windstrokes. All dragonets of their hatching were practicing this exercise now, front legs perched on a tall wooden block, fragile wings beating as Char counted the wingbeats aloud.
"Fifty-two, fifty-three," she paused as Vaeth faltered, then held his wings out straight like they had been instructed to counter the instinct to fold their wings at rest.
"What's the count at?" C'bay asked, carrying his riding straps over to join her.
"In the fifties. Is that good?" Practicing alone as she has been, she has no ruler by which to judge her progress. She placed another bundle of carded wool into an oil sack to be spun.
"It took Mirrth three days to consistantly get into the fifties, so I'd say better than good." C'bay offered, sitting down and threading a needle to repair his riding straps. His dragon was sunning on her ledge, a brilliant emerald in the morning light.
"She almost glows." Char commented, not having seen this phenomena in any of the other greens before.
"Yes... she's close to rising." C'bay said slowly.
"Greens mate even though they're infertile?" Char asked innocently. After all the Teaching Songs didn't mention that.
"Yes." Again hesitancy, but unable to fathom why Char blithely continued her questions.
"Oh. Do dragons have preferences like watchwhers?" Vaeth snorted at her, causing C'bay to laugh and relax.
"Yes, a lot of them do, but Mirrth hasn't said whom she fancies." He explained, as the leather strap under his hand slowly was resown in the places where the stitching was pulling apart.
"Do you get a say in the matter?''
C'bay shook his head. "Not really. Sometimes if a rider is already in a relationship, it might sway the dragon, but even that's not a sure thing."
"Ah." She falls silent for a moment, thinking.
"Do you have anyone in mind?" She asks idly, the mess of shorn wool forming into a tidy bundle between the carding combs.
"Yes." C'bay admitted shyly. "But I don't think he fancies men."
Char blinked and looked up at her friend.
"You favor men?" There was no malice in her question, just curiosity. Her father had bred a ram that only showed interest in other rams, and even though it carried a trait he had been trying to breed for Turns he sent it off as part of the tithe. C'bay nodded.
"Huh. Here's to hoping then- oh yes, one, two, three-" Vaeth impatiently began flapping again. C'bay hid his relieved expression in his work, settling into the rhythm of Vaeth's wingstrokes. The blue already had a well developed rhythm, he noted absently, tugging on his work to make sure the stitching was true. Some dragons never figured out wingstroke rhythm before their first flight. His own Mirrth was one such dragonet, although her own flying prowness was now such that no one would have guessed that to be the case. His mind reached out to his sleeping green and felt the faintest drowsy touch of affection. He hoped whomever his mindmate chose it was someone he could come to love. He'd already seen what happened when paired dragons' riders couldn't stand each other.
A shadow fell across them and he looked up as Char broke off counting.
"C'bay," Zandur spoke to him, while staring over at Mirrth, "is it too close to take Mirrth out?" The Weyrhealer's tone was mere questioning, with none of his usual snark behind it.
"I don't think so...?" C'bay replied honestly. "This is her first time, and I don't know for certain."
"Better not risk it then." Zandur nodded. "Consider yourself on vacation until after she rises."
The Hold Healer deemed the single surviving would be assassin well enough for interrogation while B'ton was still asleep, so Jurille stood in. Dressed in a richly embroidered dress and wearing a borrowed fur lined brocade jacket, she carefully directed Graesth to sit in the middle of the courtyard, as a woolly ovine was brought out and chained nearby.
Try not to salivate too much, dearest. She added as the queen scrutinized her offering. Graesth snorted, sending the terrified ovine into panicked circles.
The Guards, under the watchful eye of the healer, brought the bruised boy out. Towering over the boy, (with the help of high heeled sandals Koru swore was all the rage in Southern Boll) she sternly asked, "Boy, do you know who I am?"
Despite his defiant posture and glaring back at her, she noticed him swallow before shaking his head.
"I am Jurille of Graesth, Weyrlady of Telgar." She let that sink in for a moment, her glowering queen behind her, backing up her authority. "What is your name?"
The boy, for that really what he was, a child of ten turns, looked away and mumbled, "Shay."
"Do you know why I am here, Shay?"
Shay shrugged and continued to stare away. Jurille quashed the urge to grab him by the chin and force him to look her in the eyes. Behind her Graesth coughed, her lantern eyes going yellow shot with orange.
Shay flinched and fixed his gaze on the panting ovine, which had long since collapsed in a fatigued heap.
Now?
Not yet, love.
"You attacked the captian of the Guard, Shay. Your friends tried to kill the wherhandlers and someone murdered the Lord Holder. The Holders want to punish someone for that. Should I let them have you?"
Shay scowled. "Worst they'd do is set me out during Fall." He scoffed.
Now dearest.
The ovine's strangled scream was short lived as Graesth snapped up the woolly beast, and suffocated the struggling animal. Jurille, facing away from her dragon, didn't see the way the gold ripped into the carcass, but if the blanching of the Guards was any indication, Graesth was being particularly messy.
I don't often play with my food. Graesth told her coyly. Jurille swallowed her own smile and fixed Shay with a stony look.
"When the Holders demand blood the dragonmen must step forward. Do you want to die?"
Shay's eyes bugged and he trembled like a leaf in the wind.
"No! I didn't kill nobody!"
"Then give me a reason to save you." Jurille softened just a modicum.
"How?" He quavered, unable to look away as Graeth ripped the belly open and pulled out the intestines.
"Tell me what I want to know. Who sent you?"
"WherLord Redell."
WherLord? Graesth didn't sound impressed.
"And where is he now?"
Shay swallowed and burst into hysterical tears.
He doesn't know. Graesth thoughtfully provided, intestine dangling like a noodle from her bloodied maw.
"Calm yourself. I won't feed you to my queen simply because you don't know something." Jurille waved over to Harper Livra, Lithvu's replacement. "Take him back and question him fully. " She ordered, before speaking to Shay one last time. "Boy, you will go with the harper and answer all his question honestly. If you do not know an answer, tell us truly. The harper's firelizard will know if you are lying. " She reminded him. "If you tell the truth, I will allow you to live. If you lie to the harper, well... my dragon feeds every few days..." She let her voice trail off, privately despising herself for threatening him in such a manner.
He will not lie now. Graesth informed her with such conviction, Jurille allowed herself to feel reassured.
You're flying at the treeline= the Pernese version of 'you're skating on thin ice'.
As always if you find any spelling errors or grammatical mistakes, PLEASE let me know ASAP so I can fix them. Thank you as always. I'm going back to once a month updates, although you will be pleased to know my schedule will soon settle into something conductive to more writing.