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  Looking across the bucking sea to the high stern of Wind Rider, she saw the outline of a form climbing down toward her. Was it Colfet? She thought she saw his bandage, now hopelessly soaked. She peered forward, squinting. With a sigh of relief, she realized it was Colfet.

  A wave crashed over him and he lost his grip on the rope. Lorana stifled a cry as he hung by his feet and his belt. In an instant Garth and Grenn launched themselves toward him, each grabbing an arm and flapping frantically to help him reach the rope again. A wave engulfed them.

  For a long, terrible instant Lorana was afraid all three had been swept away. She imagined countless days adrift in the small launch with only that horrid memory to dwell upon. And then the wave broke and Colfet had his good hand back on the rope, and the two fire-lizards were circling above him, chirping encouragingly.

  Lorana bit her lip as Colfet’s legs came within reach. Belatedly she found some rope and tied herself to the launch. Then she moved forward and did all she could to help Colfet clamber aboard.

  “There, that wasn’t hard, was it?” Colfet said through gasps as he finally righted himself in the bow of the launch. “Have you got a knife?” When Lorana nodded, he said, “Then cut that line and let’s be out of here.”

  C’rion turned at the sound of feet entering the meeting room. The dragons had only finished their keening. J’lantir, ashen-faced, stood in the entranceway. Silently, C’rion gestured him in.

  “C’rion, I’m sorry—”

  C’rion shook his head. “He was old,” he said. “I’m sure he wanted the rest.”

  J’lantir pursed his lips, still shaken. “If I’d kept a better eye on him—”

  “You did the right thing,” C’rion said. “J’trel made his choice.”

  J’lantir shook his head sadly. “I’m surprised, though,” the Wingleader said after a moment. “He was quite enamored of his current project.”

  C’rion looked puzzled and made a “go on” gesture.

  “Apparently he’d met some young lady—rescued her, in fact—and had taken a great interest in her drawing abilities.”

  C’rion raised an eyebrow.

  “J’trel always appreciated women,” J’lantir explained, “even if he didn’t appreciate women.”

  “Just as Talith was the best on Search,” C’rion agreed.

  “Just so,” J’lantir said, nodding. “Apparently he took this one under his wing and set her aboard that new ship, Wind Rider.”

  “Why?”

  “From what I’ve gathered at the sea hold, the girl was planning on drawing all the plant and animal life she could find from Nerat Tip to Tillek Head,” J’lantir replied.

  The Istan Weyrleader pursed his lips in a silent whistle. “That would be quite something,” he said appreciatively.

  “And she’s good, too,” J’lantir continued. “One of her drawings is on display at Ista Hold.”

  “Someone should find her and give her the news,” C’rion said.

  J’lantir nodded. “I’ll take care of that.”

  “Good,” C’rion replied. “And—I’m sorry. He was a good man.”

  J’lantir sighed. “He was old,” he responded. “I don’t think he’d want to be old when Thread falls again.”

  “Some of us have no choice,” C’rion said softly.

  Colfet’s cry of pain startled Lorana from her half-rest. She pulled away from him, the cold fog digging deeper into her bones, and realized ruefully that she had been the cause of his discomfort. In her sleepy desire to get warmer, she’d wrapped her arm over his chest and had disturbed his broken limb.

  The cold dug deeper into her, but Lorana forced herself to search out the fire-lizards before she settled, carefully, once more against Colfet. Garth and Grenn huddled miserably on the floorboards beneath them.

  They looked only a little less wet and bedraggled than they had been in the worst of the storm. Lorana had pleaded, scolded, cursed, and shoved at them in a vain effort to get them to seek safety, but they had remained steadfast. They made her aware of their fear that if they left, they would not be able to find her again in the storm—and they would not abandon her.

  Colfet’s eyes fluttered open and he bent his head toward her, looking for a question.

  “I nudged your arm,” Lorana said softly. “Sorry.”

  He made a wordless sound through his shivers. He tried again: “C-c-cold.”

  Lorana snuggled against him, placing as much of her body as she dared on top of him, careful of the roll of the little launch and of his broken arm.

  His cast had disintegrated before the first hour of the storm had passed. He had banged the break painfully as he’d wrestled a storm anchor over the stern. When the storm anchor had torn loose hours later, he had insisted upon bailing with both arms, as he and Lorana had fought to keep the launch from foundering.

  He had so injured and worn himself out that by the time they had bailed out the worst of the water, he was incapable of setting another storm anchor and had to shout instructions to Lorana until he lost his voice.

  Lorana had made two mistakes in setting the new storm anchor: She’d used their oars; and she’d tied them to the tiller. When a particularly violent gust had nearly scuppered the launch, the resulting drag had torn not only the oars but also the tiller off of the stern.

  When the storm broke and the fog had replaced it, Lorana had made a new storm anchor out of the launch’s boom.

  “Storm coming,” Colfet said drowsily. “Two, maybe three hours away.”

  Lorana glanced about. Yes, there was a wisp of wind—and it was cold.

  The storm engulfed the launch without warning. Lorana found herself grabbing the fire-lizards and shoving them down behind Colfet in a hectic instant, blinded by the sea spray and drenching rain. She barely had time to brace herself in the bottom of the launch before the little boat was whipped violently around by the fierce winds of the new storm.

  After that, time ceased to exist. Lorana was tossed about, frozen, inundated with freezing rain and roiling sea.

  When the water level got too high in the boat, she started bailing, desperately fighting the incoming rain and sea, all the while terrified that one more wave would sink them. When Garth and Grenn tried to help her, she cursed them.

  “Go! Go!” She wailed at them. Garth’s mouth opened in response but her voice was lost on the wind. Lorana didn’t need to hear the fire-lizard to recognize her stubborn resolve. Grenn hadn’t even bothered to slow down in his efforts.

  Nor did Lorana. Still bailing, she grieved at the thought of her fire-lizards needlessly sacrificing themselves for her. Numbly she tried to organize new arguments to convince them to leave her.

  “Lorana!” Colfet’s hoarse voice barely rose above the howl of the storm, and the warning came too late for her to do anything. The launch heeled horribly, nearly capsizing as it was tossed by a sudden swell.

  Lorana knew instantly that the sea anchor had torn loose. She dropped the bailer. The only thing left to use was the launch’s mast. She bent down and started untying the stays that had kept it secure, all the while tossed horribly as the launch lurched on the sea.

  Finally, she got the mast secured to the stern of the launch and was ready to place it overboard.

  As she kneeled to push the mast out over the stern, another wave hit the bow of the launch and Lorana tumbled overboard.

  In an instant the launch was lost from her sight. A wave crashed over her, submerging her. She returned to the surface gasping for breath, frozen to the core.

  “Lorana!” Colfet shouted from the distance.

  “No!” Lorana shouted back, but the wind whipped her words away.

  Flitters of brown and gold appeared above her, battling the wind to avoid being slammed into the sea.

  “Go away!” Lorana shouted at them. “Save yourselves!”

  Garth and Grenn ignored her, diving to grab at her hair and yanking painfully on it. The pain was nothing compared to Lorana’s outraged gr
ieving that her two fire-lizards would waste themselves for her.

  “Go!” she shouted again, trying to bat away their hold on her hair. Something bumped into her and she grabbed at it. It was the mast. Lorana closed her eyes against tears. Colfet must have cut the mast free, hoping it would get to her as a float. Her wail was inarticulate. He had thrown away his life for hers.

  I’m not worth it, she told herself. He’ll die, Garth and Grenn will die—all for nothing. Me.

  Arms wrapped around the mast for support, Lorana caught her breath. The sea rose all around her. Lightning flashed in the distance. She was doomed.

  “Garth,” she said, her words a whisper echoing her thoughts as she tried to find the gold fire-lizard in the air above her. “Grenn. You must go. Leave me. Find someone else. I can’t survive this and I can’t bear the thought of you dying with me.”

  She felt a wash of steadfast warmth from the two fire-lizards in response. They would not leave her. They would not abandon her.

  Anger shook her. They would die if they stayed with her. And it would be such a waste.

  “You must go!” Lorana’s voice carried above the roar of the storm. Feeling her heart stiffen, she hardened her will and thrust it at the two fire-lizards. Go!

  Garth and Grenn shrieked in the night sky. A flash of lightning peeled across the sky. Lorana gathered all her strength, felt herself like a thunderbolt, and threw herself at the fire-lizards. Go!

  Somewhere safe, Lorana thought. Somewhere where you’ll be loved. Another flash of lightning lit the sky, and again she pushed the fire-lizards away from her. Go!

  And they were gone. Lorana heaved a sigh that was more like a whimper and laid her head on the mast. Safe, she thought. At least I’ve saved them.

  As she lay there, she felt the last of the warmth and comfort the fire-lizards had given her fade away, like a lost dream. And then, as she drifted into a numbed sleep, at the very end, Lorana thought she felt something—an answering warmth at the end of the long tunnel that connected her to Garth and Grenn. A frozen smile played across her lips. Good, she thought dimly, someone will take care of them.

  SIX

  Terrome: (i) the biological portion of the ecosystem of Terra, the third planet of solar system Sol; (ii) the information and materials required to produce a functioning ecosystem based on the Terran ecosystem. (See terraforming.)

  —Glossary of terms, Ecosystems: From -ome to Planet, 24th Edition

  Fort Hold, First Pass, Year 50, AL 58

  Sunlight streamed through the room, bathing Wind Blossom’s cot in warmth. Wind Blossom woke, startled by the sun. You should have been up hours ago, she chided herself.

  Her old, stiff bones resisted her efforts to rise quickly. Wind Blossom forced herself up anyway. With a deep, relaxing sigh she began her morning exercises.

  As she completed her exercises, the Drum Tower boomed out an alert. She wondered if the drummer were Tieran. She had only seen him fleetingly in the two years since his father had died and he’d fled to the Drum Tower. He’d be eighteen now, near his full growth, and quite capable of pounding the drums as loud as they were being pounded now.

  Wind Blossom tensed, then relaxed again immediately as she recognized why she had slept so late: The Drum Tower had been silent. With this realization, she knew why the tower had been silent earlier and what its message now would be—Threadfall.

  That also explained why her newest trainee had failed to wake her this morning: The young lady was helping prepare the HNO3 tanks for the ground crews, whose job it was to search out stray Thread missed by the dragons and burn it before it could burrow into the ground.

  Wind Blossom’s place was in the infirmary, to deal with any mishaps beyond the expertise of her alumni. She changed with a conservative haste and proceeded down the stairs, clutching the railing carefully; it would not do to let rushing make her the first patient of the day.

  One of the new trainees—Mirlan, Wind Blossom thought it was—saw her approach and strode over to offer a hand.

  Wind Blossom snatched her own hand away from the proffered support. “I am not enfeebled, child!” she said, bitter that the whole effect was spoiled by her scratchy voice.

  “I do need something to drink, however,” she added as soon as she could trust her voice again.

  Mirlan escorted her to Admissions and then hurried off for some food and drink.

  Janir—when had he gotten so tall?—approached her.

  “The current pool is guessing that there’ll be two severe, one minor, and three stupidities this Fall,” he said, his eyebrows quirking with amusement. Long ago Wind Blossom had started a guessing game with the students to help prepare them for those wounded in Threadfall. Long ago it had ceased to be amusing to Wind Blossom. But it was still educational, so she pretended to enjoy it.

  “Two minor, two stupidities,” Wind Blossom guessed. Janir pursed his lips speculatively.

  “Is that a wager?” a new voice asked. Wind Blossom turned to see Josten, another of the new ones, appear behind her.

  “If it is, it is between myself and the senior surgeon,” Wind Blossom replied. She noticed that the room had fallen silent. Mirlan returned with some food.

  “This Threadfall will last six hours, yes?” Wind Blossom asked rhetorically. Around her, heads nodded.

  “Is all the equipment ready?” Again, heads nodded.

  “Then is there any reason why you should not be studying?” she asked the collected group. Janir suppressed a grin of remembrance and added his scowl to hers. Hastily the others in the room filed out in search of texts or to work together in groups, practicing various injuries.

  “I shall inspect later,” Wind Blossom said. Janir’s eyes darkened. Wind Blossom noticed it. “What?”

  “Um, my lady—”

  “Spit it out, Janir.”

  “Don’t you remember?” Janir looked embarrassed. Wind Blossom frowned. “After the last Threadfall we had agreed that I should run the infirmary and you would consult.”

  Wind Blossom started to respond, then froze. After a moment she continued, “Of course. May I speak with you alone?”

  Janir nodded and gestured to his examining room.

  Once inside, Wind Blossom turned to him and said in a toneless voice, “Janir, it appears that I am beginning to exhibit signs of senile dementia. Do you concur?”

  Janir closed his eyes briefly, a look of pain lining his face, then nodded. “My lady, this is the second time you’ve told me that.”

  Outwardly, Wind Blossom absorbed this news like a rock; inwardly she reeled like a reed in a storm. “I see. When was the first time?”

  “Only last Threadfall, my lady,” Janir replied. “Since then, you’ve exhibited no memory problems. Perhaps the stress?”

  “Threadfall should not be stressful for me.”

  Janir disagreed. “Threadfall itself is not stressful but, as you yourself said, we must anticipate a number of injuries—I think that is very stressful for you, my lady.”

  “Yes, I believe that is so,” Wind Blossom said. My mind! I am losing my mind! She took a deep, calming breath. “But I am alarmed at the possible implications.”

  Janir gave her an apologetic look. “We’ve been keeping an eye on you, my lady, to be safe.”

  Wind Blossom pursed her lips and nodded. “Thank you. I was considering the broader implication to our aging population. I had expected that we would retain our faculties well through the late eighties, perhaps even our nineties.”

  Janir nodded. “You said this the last time, my lady.”

  Wind Blossom was so troubled by that answer that it took her a second to regain her composure. “I have no memory of that. What else did I say?”

  Janir sighed. “When we talked, we agreed that while some of the early-onset dementia might be due to increased stress, it was more likely that it was due to differences in diet.”

  “There could be other factors, too,” Wind Blossom said. “Could there be environmental fact
ors?”

  “You were concerned that there might be trace elements present or missing in our food that might affect memory and neural function,” Janir replied.

  “We should perform some biopsies on any new cadavers,” Wind Blossom said. Janir gave her a long, discerning look, and she shook her head. “I do remember that we do not have the facilities to maintain a morgue. But if we could get to a corpse early enough, we could obtain some samples.”

  “I agree, my lady,” Janir replied. “Sadly, our older population was depleted during the Fever Years and reports of death usually come after the burial has already taken place.”

  “We would need to locate a cadaver nearby,” Wind Blossom agreed.

  “And if we did, my lady, what then?” Janir asked gently. “Do we have the equipment to identify the contributing factors?”

  A number of scathing arguments sprang into Wind Blossom’s mind. With a kick of her will, she disposed of them. She then spent some moments in deep thought. Finally, she answered, “I think you will say that our staff does not have time to do such extensive studies, and that we could gain more working on solving infant mortality problems.”

  Janir shook his head, a small grin on his lips. “Actually, my lady, you said that in our last conversation. I have to agree, however. Given our current population it is vitally important to ensure that it grows as rapidly as possible. Our biggest gains will be in improving survival through early childhood.”

  Wind Blossom nodded. “And while the young represent new cultural capital, the elderly increasingly become a drain on our precious resources.”

  “You said that, too,” Janir said gently. “But I would like to disagree with you on that score. I have always admired you and wished that I could learn more from you.”

  Wind Blossom smiled and patted his hand. “You were a good student, Janir.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” Janir said, gripping her hand with his.

  Wind Blossom turned to leave. “I think I’ll review my notes in my room.” As Janir nodded understanding, she added, “If you need me—”