Jurille hurried out of her weyr to meet Brinda, as the senior most queenpair from Ista landed.
"Welcome and welmet!" She cried as Brinda slid off her dragon's neck. The older woman grinned at her, enveloping her in a hug.
"Good to see you too, Jurille. Come, tell me about what you youngsters have been up to in my absence."
"B'ton?"
The Weyrleader glanced up from the Record he was annotating - it was a copy of Threadfighting techniques, first pioneered by the legendary first Weyrleader, Sean, and refined over the centuries by other Weyrleaders. Many tactics had commentaries in various hands, all laboriously transcribed thirteen Turns before- only B'ton's handwritten notes varied in this volume, as L'stur's had already been added before the Record required transcribing to a newer tome.
L'stur, the Weyrleader before him, and now at the entrance to his weyr. The older man smiled pleasantly. "Is this a good time?"
"Please!" B'ton hooked an extra chair with his foot and dragged it over. "What can I do for you?"
"Thank you," L'stur took the seat and pulled out a scrap of vellum he had written on. "I've been looking over the map of Redell sightings." In the small antechamber, a natural 'bubble' in the lava tube that connected the senior queens' and Weyrleader weyrs to the Lower Caverns, B'ton had hung a map of Pern, and explained to his wingleaders and wingseconds that he wanted a visual record for every sighting of the 'Wherlord' or unnaturally large watchwhers,the first marked with red tags, the second noted with white tags. The bronze and brown riders were encouraged to add to it, especially anytime they heard something from ground crews or Holders. Sometimes Valtree added tags, but she also sent weyrlings to look at the map and point out major Holds as geography tests, so B'ton became used to the constant traffic outside his weyr.
"Yes?" B'ton glanced down at his sheet.
"I have a theory. I'd like permission to check it out." The scrap was a map of the land between Bitra and Lemos, and traced the mountains between the two major holds.
"Make sure there's no Fall when you go and wear your colors." B'ton advised. He had already been approached by a couple brownriders about scouting out Exile Island. That excursion had returned with only a couple rusting bits of metal and a moldy blanket. They had wanted to explore further, noting other nearby islands, but B'ton recalled them, promising them the chance to explore more, with the next couple of Threadfree days. L'stur nodded, tucking the map back into his belt pouch.
"Thank you for checking in with me." B'ton added. He knew that L'stur didn't have to stop in to explain himself to the bronzerider, but he appreciated that the older man took the time to keep him in the loop.
"Naturally." L'stur nodded and headed out, encountering Jurille and Brinda in the passage.
"And where are you off to, youngster?" Brinda asked, her dark eyes mischeivious. L'stur grinned at her. "Joith needs to stretch his wings, and I have a theory involving a very large wher."
"Safe hunting, L'stur. And give Joith my regards." Brinda nodded, her smile slipping a little at the seriousness of his hunt.
"Always, Brinda." He saluted with a wink and disappeared down the passage.
"I almost think not having to be Weyrleader has given him a little more of his humor back." Brinda noted, as the women wandered down to the Council Room.
"Really?" Jurille asked, and offered her a cup of klah from the pitcher awaiting them. Brinda nodded, taking her mug and mixing in an extra large spoonful of sugar.
"He was always so reckless, as a weyrling. Took after his mother." Brinda chuckled softly. "Speaking of queenriders, have you recieved those lists from the others?"
"Yes. Reema tells us that Jentlth is close to rising, so we've got all our bronzes on the upper Wing. Problem is Threadfall. The next few days means everyone is going to be engaged in fighting. If she rises now, most of our 'candidates' are going to be too busy to challenge C'seld." Jurille sighed, and sipped her klah black.
"His service aside, we're going to have to do something about him." Galnees sighed, as she oiled Retributionsk, who curled around her hardening eggs. Twenty one eggs warmed on the sands of the wherery of the underground Hold. Redell, resting on his bronze's rump, nodded.
"Was the girl hurt?" He asked.
"He raped her, my Lord. Hurt does not begin to describe what he did to her." Galnees curled her lip in disdain, it wasn't like there weren't women in the WherHold that would be happy to flip their skirts in exchange for a couple eighth Marks, but the fool liked his bedmates young. Far too young, really.
"With apologies, Glanees. I was unaware." Redell was genuinely troubled, and Galnees allowed herself to been mollified.
"You could just let her brothers have him." Galnees suggested. Redell shook his head. "Anyone else, yes, but it looks bad if I seem to be killing off those that fulfill my darker deeds." He looked over at Galnees, and admired her in the soft glowlight. "He slew Kestle for me, and helped settle accounts with Shaeshel and Garkin. I was hoping to use him in my retribution against Farkin."
"He's knows too much to be turned out." Galnees stated. Redell nodded. "And just enough people know his involvement, it will look like I am simply gathering up loose ends if I execute him." Redell's position was tenuous, in light of the raided 'holdess' holdings. He had managed so far to keep his continent wide association from falling apart, but it was no longer a sure thing.
"Give me time to think of the appropriate punishment for Branth. I will find a solution that works to most's satisfaction." He replied.
Buckset and Maulul had more luck at selling their wares than they did at finding information, the harper reported to Degal. The Masterharper quirked a smile at that admission, and finished reading Buckset's report. Redell had gone underground, as far as his spy network was concerned. Well... not entirely. Another informant had been found dead, a shepherd that looked to Scorch. Although he was found at the bottom of a steep canyon, it was too coincidental that he would have his lethal fall so soon after reporting the presence of a massive wher hunting every couple of nights. Degal sighed, and caressed the head of his canine, Fret. Fret was the runt of litter, and even with careful nurturing never grew to full size, but that worked out just fine for the Masterharper, who took comfort in the beast's presence as he potted about his workshop and personal chambers. Fret snuggled closer on the sofa where the Masterharper sat, reading his correspondences. He set aside the harper's report and picked up the reports from the Weyrs. There at least was a glimmer of hope. The Weyrs had been absolutely heroic in their response the Benden's negligence. His own traveling harpers had reported much improvement, although the original tally of child deaths had been a bit disenheartening. With each damning birth and death, and the stories coming from the weyrfolk that had fled to other sanctuaries, it was becoming clear C'seld had well overstepped his authority and that of the Weyr's. Degal wondered how this was going to end. Did the non-Benden Weyrleadership have a plan? Could the Holds and Halls continue to refuse Search and services indefinitely, hoping and praying for C'seld to catch Thread?
With a sigh he leaned back, and contented himself with petting Fret's brindled head. Outside, a storm rumbled overhead, keeping all but the very urgent in. Even the Drumtower were shuttered on all but the leeside from the buffeting rain. Degal spared a thought for the poor apprentices standing watch, and decided action and not more worrying was what he needed. He stood, stretched, and walked down to the kitchen. Catkin smiled up at him when he found her, asked for a several bowls of hot soup. And so laden, he joined the apprentices in the Drumtower, who were surprised but gratified by the Masterharper's presence, but more the soup.
So when the Hold fire lizards began keening, he was in the unique position to hear the entire Hold resound with the death cry mourning the passing of a dragon.
"Who?" It was an anguished question bother queenriders asked at the same time.
Xersith and J'kil.
"How? They were supposed to stay in the Weyr!" Jurille demanded, half standing. Brinda, leaning heavily on the table, grabbed her hand. "Calm yourself, girl. You've just lost a Wingleader. The Weyr needs you in control of your emotions more now than ever before."
Jurille turned and looked into those ancient eyes, before taking a deep breath and and nodding. J'kil had been a well liked, if slightly taciturn, bronzerider, and often sought out by other riders for advice over advanced fighting techniques. He was also Pilana's current weyrmate.
"Please, Brinda, I could use your help."
"Of course, youngster. It's what we are here for."
Kestket enjoyed the fortnight he traveled with Slarjent and Jentka's, learning some of the finer points of wherry hunting from them. He also found himself teaching a couple of carving tricks to the mute lad, who delighted in pointing out windfall timber that could be harvested. Kestket never took much, maybe a thick branch the length of his forearm, but he couldn't fault the boy's keen eye for color, and his saddle quiver, meant to hold arrows, instead held four different colors of wood, and a partially carved stick.
"Look for us if you are in the area." Slarjent said as the men clasps hands at the fork in the road.
"You have my word. And don't hesitate to visit me, when you learn of where I land." Kestket replied, genuinely regretful that their travels together were at an end. Jentka signed something rapidly, Kestket thought it was a goodbye, then hugged the lordling tightly, trying his best not to look upset.
"We will meet again, Jentka" Kestket told him, hugging him back. "And when we do, you will have to tell me what you think of my new carvings." The boy nodded solemnly, one of Kestket's carved fire lizards on a leather thong around his neck. As they struck off together toward the more eastward route Kestket felt a pang of sadness, that he never had the opportunity to know his own father with the same closeness his comrades had. Blackie, his runner, settled into a comfortable walk, and by late noon they arrived at the trio of cots at the convergence of the southward road and a swiftly flowing river.
Kestket looked at the cots painted signs, and knocked on the door below the bent wheat shaft. An older girl opened and glanced him over with a smile. "Auntie! We have a guest!" A young man with thickset features and a dull expression took Blackie around to the stable in the back, and the girl ushered him to an interior room, sparsely furnished, but pleasantly appointed with several perches of fire lizard size. Kestket knew he would be parting with a larger mark amount for this clean and private room, but it was worth it. He thanked the girl, who explained that the evening meal would be ready in an hour, and he was welcome to make use of the bathing room if he so desired. He elected to do just that, for despite being able to bathe only a few days before in a stream, the idea of a warm bath was too tempting. Gurdy joined him, splashing about the milky water with the faintest smell of sulfur. He was just getting comfortable when Gurdy sat up and keened.
"Who was it, Gurdy?'' Kestket may not be attached to the Hold anymore, but he still had a passing knowledge of many of the dragonriders that looked to the Weyr. It took him a moment to place the dragonpair, but he vaguely remembered the bronzerider whose Wing spent a couple days enjoying the Hold's hospitality while his mother was visiting a distant part of the Hold. He hadn't thought Thread was falling today, but it had been months since he last looked at the Fall charts.
"Sir?" There was a faint tapping at the door to the bath.
"Yes?"
"Is everything alright? We heard a noise." It sounded like the girl's voice.
"Yes, I'm fine. A dragon has passed." There was a sharp intact from the other side of the door. "I will explain at dinner, you have my word."
Linguistic notes:
'on the upper Wing' -saying- in on the plan