Work Text:
2058.07.02
The Weyrleaders – minus those of Benden - assembled once more at Fort Weyr, to discuss some knotty points of logistics for their planned journey forward in time. Foremost in T’ton’s mind was what to do about the weyrling pairs who were not yet of an age to go between. Those not long out of the shell might be carried a-dragonback, but many others were far too large a burden for that to be a possibility. Especially as every dragon would already be laden down with support staff, supplies and personal possessions.
They could push the oldest classes into betweening training ahead of their normal schedule, of course. T’ton grimaced. The casualties of that were likely to be high – it was rare enough that a weyrling class got through between training without a death or two. Hurrying them through early could prove catastrophic. And a sudden flurry of young dragon deaths would not bode well for morale. He did not want his dragonriders crippled with grief for their sons, nephews and brothers on the very cusp of the momentous journey they proposed to undertake.
Perhaps a class or two might be transferred to Benden? He’d mentioned as much to T’kul of High Reaches. But that solution presented problems of its own. It was not just one Weyr, but five who shared the problem. Benden would be overrun.
The group debated the knotty issue a while, chasing possibilities back and forth like wher after a tunnelsnake. Eventually it was D’ram who voiced what they’d all been thinking. “We’ll have to leave behind a second Weyr. Transfer the youngsters to it somehow – by ship perhaps. Ista would make the most sense from that perspective.”
“But there are no Records of a second Weyr staying behind,“ Lessa cried in protest. “Benden discovered the other Weyrs empty…”
“I know, I know!” T’ton cut in. “But we can’t take them with us!”
“Perhaps,” said Mardra thoughtfully. “The Records are false.”
There was a shocked silence at the very idea.
“Perhaps,” she continued. “We do send all the weyrlings to Ista. And then, in a Turn or so, when they are fully mature, they can transfer to Benden. That way Benden would have ample warning of how much accommodation it needed to provide. If their Weyrleaders simply agree to omit any mention of Ista from their Records for the next Turn or two…”
There was a sudden babble of voices as everyone tried to voice their opinion at once.
“It might work,” said G’narish of Igen. “But there is still the problem of how to get the larger dragonpairs there.”
T’ton’s own comment on the matter was cut off unvoiced by an interruption from his bronze. Fidranth. Noith is here. He brings the Masterfisher.
“The Masterfisher?” T’ton was surprised enough to speak the thought out loud, attracting quizzical stares from those assembled. Mardra raised an eyebrow.
Noith says the Masterfisher has an urgent message about Weyrwoman Lessa and a terrible accident at sea.
From Lessa’s confused expression, she too had heard Fidranth’s comment. “But how does your Masterfisher even know I exist?” she asked.
# # #
Masterfisher Rassol had a weather-beaten appearance that could have put his age at anywhere from forty to sixty. He looked, thought Lessa, rather nervous. No that wasn’t the right word. Anxious, perhaps. Not at all like a craftmaster about to speak to those who were his peers in rank.
“Master Rassol, please do sit down.” Mardra offered him a cup of wine, but the man waved it aside.
“Thank you, but no. I need a clear head for this, my Lady.” He carried a leather case which he placed on the table and unfastened to reveal a collection of charts and records. He glanced up from this to stare intently at Lessa. “Would you be Lessa, rider of golden Ramoth, my Lady?”
“Yes,” said Lessa, rather more sharply than she had intended. “And just how do you know that? It is not common knowledge.”
Rassol nodded. “Indeed. I have been sworn to secrecy on the matter. But to answer your question – it was Weyrleader T’ton who informed me and recruited me.”
T’ton made an outraged sound, causing him to choke and splutter over his own cup of wine. R’mart of Telgar helpfully thumped him on the back until the coughing subsided. “I most certainly did not!” T’ton snapped.
Rassol sighed. “Indeed you did, Weyrleader. Almost ten Turns ago to this very day.”
There was a sudden hush in the room.
“Ten Turns ago?” D’ram was the first to break the silence.
“Indeed.”
Indeed, noted Lessa, seemed to be the Masterfisher’s favourite word.
The Masterfisher elaborated. “Ten Turns ago T’ton came to me with a plan – a very detailed plan. About what to do when the Weyrs travelled forward four hundred Turns with Lessa gold Ramoth’s rider. The contingency plan, as it were.”
D’ram of Ista was nodding. “Contingency, yes, yes. In case we fail. In case we leave here and don’t arrive in Lessa’s time.”
“What possible contingency could cover that eventuality?” Mardra asked.
“Why the new Weyr, of course,” said Rassol.
# # #
Timing it, mused Lessa, gave you a massive headache. Not the actual doing of it. More the thinking about the consequences of it, and the knots and tangles your brain got into trying to work out the whys and wherefores of it all. Master Rassol’s story was elegantly simple and brain-wrenchingly complicated all at once. Especially since – from her and the Weyrleaders’ point of view – some of it hadn’t happened yet.
Ten Turns ago Weyrleaders T’ton of Fort and D’ram of Ista had appeared at the Seacraft Hall and requested an urgent meeting with the Masterfisher. They had explained how, ten Turns in Rassol’s future, Lessa would appear and appeal to the Weyrs of Pern to travel forward four hundred Turns to her time – a risk that they were more than willing to take.
But if they failed – if they attempted that journey and did not finish it – Lessa’s Pern would perish under an onslaught of Thread that Benden alone could not hope to stave off. They therefore needed to establish a second Weyr, to exist in parallel with Benden. To journey through those four hundred Turns the slow way, day by day.
There was no second Weyr in Lessa’s time. No record of it, no tithes to it. No travellers stumbling across it, no holders sighting its dragons in their skies. Therefore this second Weyr could not exist anywhere on the Northern Continent – they would have to build it somewhere else.
A secret Weyr.
And that’s why they needed Master Rassol. A Weyr was not just dragons, riders and support staff. A Weyr existed as part of a whole infrastructure of holds and halls. F’nor’s expedition had proved that dragonriders could exist with only a stripped down version of that infrastructure for some ten Turns, but a great deal more would be needed to survive four hundred.
When Kylara’s Prideth laid her clutch in Southern, F’nor could send to Benden for Candidates. There was no such option for a Weyr that existed outside Benden’s knowledge. That Weyr would have to have its own pool of youngsters to draw on. It would also need its own holders to tithe to it. Then both Holds and Weyr would need Crafthalls to provide specialist skills and knowledge.
All that took people. Lots and lots of people. Lessa massaged her aching temples. It was all spiralling out of control!
“Fidranth mentioned a terrible accident at sea?” queried T’ton.
“Indeed.” The Masterfisher rummaged in his leather case and pulled out a recent record hide. “The Fair Lady, the Far Traveller, the New Hope and the Moonshadow. All built these past ten Turns. All crewed by men I have chosen myself. All ready to sail off on a voyages of discovery now Thread has gone from our skies. My craft will be anguished by their loss. I myself will be so distraught when the fourth one fails to return that I will ban all further exploration of the Western Sea.” Rassol gave a wry smile.
“I don’t see…” began R’mart.
Lessa gave a snort. “All lost in terrible accidents at sea! You were right, Mardra – Records do lie.”
# # #
Master Rassol had charts. Charts that had people in the room exclaiming as they recognised the handwriting of riders in their own Weyrs amongst the annotations and accompanying notes. There were bare bones maps of the coastline of the Southern Continent, far, far to the west of where F’nor’s expedition made their homes. There were more detailed charts of the coastline of what looked to be a very large island in the Western Sea, many sevendays sail from Tillek. Lessa peered at it with interest. First the extent of the Southern Continent, now a new Ista in the west. Pern seemed very much bigger than she had always imagined it to be.
The western island was represented by very old charts – drawn prior to Thread making its Eighth Pass, Rassol informed them. The start of Threadfall had curtailed any long voyages of discovery. No ship could afford to be caught by Thread out on the open ocean, far from the gaze of dragons and the safety of dragon flame.
“But surely these places will all be ravaged by Thread?” T’ton protested. “It has been falling on them unchecked for fifty Turns. We cannot send people to live in a barren wilderness!”
Master Rassol threw up his hands in surrender. “That is not for me to decide. You requested I built ships and held these charts for you – and I have done so. What happens now is up to dragonriders.”
Yes, thought Lessa, we dragonriders shape Pern’s future, one way or the other.
# # #
The call for riders to explore the South and the Western Sea produced a prodigious supply of volunteers from all five Weyrs. Men used to a life of action and peril found Threadless skies tame by comparison.
Reaching the Southern Continent was not a problem – Lessa explained the method that she and F’nor had used, all those Turns in the future, and D’ram of Ista took his wingleaders on a repeat expedition. By evening Fort Weyr time, coordinates for the coast of Southern had been given to all five Weyrs, and tallies of volunteers were drawn up to explore far to the east and the west of where Southern Weyr would eventually stand.
Master Rassol’s ‘Western Isle’ presented difficulties, however. It was several sevendays journey from Tillek by ship. The nearest coordinates to it was an isolated islet – an extinct volcanic plug – sticking up out of the ocean four or five days sail from Tillek Hold. The islet was a bare dragonlength high and two dragonlengths across, and even the peak could be battered by waves during winter storms. High Reaches riders used its coordinates as a training exercise, and every few Turns there would be some weyrlings who thought it would make an ideal private location for a liaison or a picnic. Copious amounts of wherry guano and howling winds coming in from the Western Sea usually made these liaisons less than romantic.
So the islet could be reached, but thousands of miles of sea stood between it and the Western Isle – a far greater distance than any dragon could hope to fly straight. The dragons could easily blink back between when they tired, of course, but the only coordinates they would have would be for open sea, with nothing but featureless water in every direction. Such unspecific coordinates were a swift path to a fatal accident.
Various possibilities were discussed, but in the end they settled on the slow and steady method – to cajole an ocean-capable fishing vessel from Master Rassol and send two bronzeriders along as passengers. S’newar and R’kent of High Reaches were assigned. Each day the ship crept steadily southwest with the two riders aboard. Their dragons jumped between each day to be near their riders, using the image of the ship and the feeling for their riders’ whereabouts as coordinates. That had dangers of its own, but was deemed an acceptable risk. The two bronzes circled the ship for a time, then returned to High Reaches when they tired or they needed to feed or be oiled. It was not ideal, this separation of dragon and rider, but T’kul and Marika insisted their bronzeriders had the stamina to manage it.
What caused far more moral outrage than riders requiring others to oil and tend to their dragons was the lush vegetation of the Southern Continent. Thread had fallen there unchecked for fifty Turns, yet the jungles and plains that dragonriders flew over were as verdant and healthy as the areas they protected in the North. Mardra almost took it as a personal insult, and asked many accusing questions of Lessa, before she became assured that the Benden Weyrwoman was as baffled as everyone else.
Perhaps, it was theorized, no Thread had fallen on the Southern Continent in the Pass that had just finished. Perhaps the erratic behaviour that caused the Red Star not to rain Thread on Pern for four hundred Turns actually begun with it only affecting the North in the Eighth Pass? It was all speculation, but nothing else seemed to make sense.
They awaited with interest to hear from S’newar and R’kent if the Western Isle was Thread ravaged or lush and verdant.
# # #
It was a sobering experience, R’kent reflected, flying over mile after mile of ground where Thread had been allowed to fall unchecked. This Western Isle really made you appreciate what dragonriders did for Pern.
Soil whipped around in dust devils, with no plant roots to bind it in place. Where rain had washed across the barren land, there were runnels and gullies cut into the loose soil, leaving streams and rivers choked with sediment. Here and there was a patch of vegetation that had somehow survived the onslaught. A strip of grass here. A shrub clinging to a cliff face there. A lone tree in a valley. And once, a whole island of green in the middle of a broad river.
There was also Thread. Shrivelled and desiccated strands lay on the sterile soil, where they had found nothing to devour. Elsewhere there was evidence of burrows – some intact, some long since collapsed. A tentative ground inspection by R’kent and S’newar found that the Thread was as dead as its victims. Some was a stinking, rotting morass, only recently deceased. Most was Turns, possibly decades old.
It brought home to him just how mindless Thread was. Even when it got things all its own way, it did not have the survival instinct to prosper – just to eat and eat until it doomed itself to starvation.
Russith’s rider asks if we are to go much further. R’kent’s bronze Centarth intruded into his thoughts. He says this land is dead.
R’kent glanced to where S’newar and Russith paralleled their flight. It could be replanted. he said absently. We have four hundred Turns, after all. But S’newar was right. So far they had not found much of use to dragonriders. They were following a chain of low mountains, a couple of which had been hopefully conical in shape, leading them to inspect the terrain for signs of volcanic heating. But although the rocks were volcanic, they were also cold and dead.
R’kent scanned the horizon. Tell Russith we’ll veer east. Head for that ridge of hills that reaches the coast. We can set down there for a rest.
We head for the crater? asked Centarth.
What crater? R’kent’s eyes could pick out a line of hills that curved towards the sea, but no crater. He sent that image to Centarth.
The bronze rumbled in amusement and sent back what long-sighted dragon eyes could detect – that the curve extended towards the horizon, forming an enormous circle, broken on one flank by the sea. It is a very big crater.
R’kent was flabbergasted. ‘Very big’ barely began to describe what Centarth was showing him. In fact ‘bloody enormous’ hardly covered it. If Centarth was right and it was a crater, then it could swallow all the Weyrs of Pern whole and still have room for some Holds and a Crafthall or two! It was miles and miles across.
# # #
“The crater is about ten miles across, at its greatest extent.” R’kent and S’newar made their report to the Weyrleaders’ Council. R’kent pointed out the features that the pair of them had sketched out on a map. “A freshwater spring in the western rim, which drains into a swampy area. There is still plenty of plant life there. And there is a small river drains into the crater from the highlands to the north. Down in the southwest is an area of hot springs, so that has potential to heat our Hatching Grounds. The sea has breached the eastern rim of the crater, so perhaps the Seacraft could build a harbour there.” R’kent shrugged. He had little knowledge of the Seacraft, and several sevendays on a boat had assured him he did not wish to learn any more.
“Caves and tunnels?” asked T’kul. “The Weyrfolk will need somewhere to live, after all.”
R’kent shook his head. “Nothing substantial. A green might shelter from the rain for a time, but you couldn’t live in them.”
“But there are crevasses,” S’newar butted in. “The rim has deep gullies and indents cut into it here and there. Perhaps those could be roofed over…?”
“Perhaps.” T’kul raised an eyebrow, looking inquiringly at his fellow Weyrleaders.
“It certainly sounds more hopeful than anywhere we’ve found in Southern so far, even with the lack of plants for the herdbeasts,” said T’ton of Fort. “This idea of Lessa’s that dragonmen can live on beaches or in wooden shacks like witless Holders, frankly sticks in my craw. A Weyr needs solid rock walls, proper Hatching Grounds, a Bowl…”
“Even if the Bowl is so large you can’t see to the other side of it at ground level?” asked G’narish with a wry grin. T’ton scowled at his levity.
D’ram studied the map thoughtfully. “The Weyrsmiths would know,” he said. “They would know if it was feasible – making roofs or enlarging caves.”
There was a general mutter of agreement. R’kent knew what he and S’newar’s next assignments were, even before T’kul uttered the words: “Then that’s what we should do. R’kent can take the High Reaches Weyrsmith as soon as it is dawn in the Western Isle. S’newar can visit the other Weyrs to provide coordinates and copies of this map.”
T’ton was nodding vigorously. “Yes, yes. If the Weyrsmiths can build it, then let’s get them set to that task as soon as possible.”
# # #
Mardra had called the Senior Weyrwomen from High Reaches, Ista, Igen and Telgar to meet at Fort Weyr, to discuss which goldriders would stay behind when the Five Weyrs went ahead. Lessa of future-Benden was there as well, of course, but that was a courtesy more than anything else. This concerned goldriders of the current Weyrs, so it was the Weyrwomen of those Weyrs who would make the decisions. Mardra, being Weyrwoman of Fort Weyr – oldest and thus most senior of all Pern’s Weyrs – would, of course, have the casting vote if anything came to an impasse. Such Traditions were of great importance.
When they had all been through the pleasantries and idle chit chat that always preceded such gatherings, Mardra called the meeting to order. “Goldriders,” she began with a gracious nod to the gathering in front of her, “bronzerider volunteers we have aplenty, but we need to determine which of our Weyrs’ golds shall be staying behind to be the weyrwomen of this Weyr-in-the-West. So I suppose I ought to get the most obvious question out of the way first – are any of you volunteering to stay behind?” She gave them all a bright smile, to indicate that she didn’t view this as a serious question. After all, who would want to be Weyrwoman of what would amount to a building site for Turns to come?
“I do,” said Clionie of Telgar.
Mardra gaped at her uncomprehendingly for a moment. There were gasps of surprise from Marika of High Reaches and Nadira of Igen. Fanna of Ista just stared. Lessa looked confused at the others’ reactions.
Mardra tried to gather her wits and reassert her status as chairwoman. “Really?” she asked. “May I ask why?”
Clionie nodded. “I am nearly sixty Turns old . My Ordovith and I have been fighting Thread for over forty Turns. We are tired. We need a rest from it all.” The Telgar Weyrwoman looked round the assembled goldriders and gave a weary smile at the polite protests from Marika and Nadira.
Mardra held up a hand to forestall further comments, and nodded at Clionie to continue.
The old woman obliged. “In addition, the dragonhealers are in agreement that my Ordovith has only a few clutches left in her – three, perhaps four. So in four or so Turns Ordovith will no longer be senior at Telgar – when she no longer rises to mate a younger queen will challenge her dominance and take her place.” She shrugged. “Such is the way of dragons.”
“That will still happen if you stay behind,” pointed out Marika.
“Yes. Yes it will,” Clionie agreed. “But I would like it to happen in a new Weyr, with plenty of challenges to keep me and Ordovith occupied. I don’t want to become a toothless old auntie harping on about the good old days when I used to lead the Telgar Queens’ Wing in ‘Fall. I’d like to think that even an eggless queen can be an explorer or adventurer.”
“Well,” said Mardra, not quite sure what to say. In her opinion, a few sevendays of living in a semi-constructed Weyr with scant comforts would have the whole population harping on about ‘the good old days’ and wishing they’d chosen to travel forward to the Ninth Pass. Still, Clionie was a Senior Weyrwoman of many decades experience, and thus an excellent choice for leadership of the new weyr. It certainly would calm T’ton’s gruffly voiced worry that this Western Weyr would end up being run by ‘a bunch of bloody twelve year olds’. “Well,” she repeated. “I guess that is settled, then. Clionie will be Weyrwoman of the new Weyr. Any more volunteers?”
She let the laughter die away before she asked the pertinent question: “So who will take your place at Telgar?”
“Bedella, gold Solth’s rider,” came the reply. “She has been Weyrwoman Second for a number of Turns now, and I believe she will rise to the experience of becoming Senior. Her Solth is more than capable of being the dominant gold of the Weyr. And R’mart’s Branth has flown her several times. If he continues to do so, then it will offer continuity of Weyrleadership.”
Personally Mardra thought that Bedella was fine on everyday matters, but a complete flitterbrain in a crisis. Still, it would not do to voice such an opinion – the Weyrs were autonomous, and if Telgar ended up with a dominant gold with a wherryhead for a rider, it was no business of Fort’s.
“In which case, we ought to have Bedella sit in on future planning meetings,” Mardra noted. “Now… which other golds should go?”
Fanna chipped in: “Ista has a gold that has barely cracked shell - Namkth. That whole clutch is staying, so she’ll be one.”
“You aren’t taking those hatchlings forward with you?” asked Nadira. “We at Igen are taking our youngest dragonets with us – they won’t be hard to carry.”
Fanna shook her head. “No. We decided that a hatchling gold was Ista’s best contribution to the new weyr. The rider – Signatha – is willing to stay.”
Mardra snorted at this. Signatha was a junior goldrider with her dragon barely out of the shell – she’d bloody well do what she was told. At Fort she didn’t hold with mollycoddling or indulging younger weyrwomen. “Well, that’s two golds,” she said. “Who else?”
“Our Brinna’s Insurth has just risen,” said Marika. “She’ll be egg heavy by our departure date, and risks clutching on the journey. Also, we have no knowledge of what travelling between times does to a clutch. We know what a prolonged spell between does to a human pregnancy – I have no wish to inflict that on a queen dragon. So I have informed Brinna that it would be better for her dragon and for her clutch that she moves to this Western Isle and its Weyr.”
Nods of agreement all round from the Weyrwomen of the current Weyrs. Lessa however, Mardra observed, looked somewhat aghast. The penny must have dropped that she could have done herself or her Ramoth some lasting harm with her four hundred Turn jaunt between. That’s what came of having a Weyrwoman who was barely a child – they made rash decisions. Still, rash or not, it had been brave. Mardra had to give her that.
“Brinna will make a good Weyrwoman-Second,” said Clionie. “I’d welcome her at my new Weyr.” She looked around the room. “Unless anyone suggests someone more senior?”
Shaking of heads all round. Nadira piped up about Igen’s contribution: “Our Kella’s Yorkath is not quite old enough to go between. Igen volunteers her.”
“Excellent,” said Mardra, noting the name down. “So that is four golds – Ordovith, Namkth, Insurth and Yorkath. I feel that four is plenty for this Western Isle venture to succeed. Any thoughts on the matter?”
There was some chatter to and fro for a while about the merits of sending five golds rather than four, but no-one voiced a forceful opinion one way or the other, so four it remained. Mardra smiled contentedly. Fort Weyr had, of course, been willing to sacrifice their most junior gold to the venture, had no other Weyrs stepped into the breach. But she was inwardly glad that she did not have to. It would be very undignified for a gold hatching in Fort Weyr – the oldest and most prestigious of Pern’s Weyrs – to have to live out her days in some upstart new Weyr on some Thread blasted island in the middle of nowhere.
Much better that all Fort’s golds remained at Fort, regardless of what Turn they lived in!
# # #
“People, people, people. It always comes back to needing more people.” Lessa gave a weary sigh. She and the other senior Weyrwomen had been collating information on supplies that would be needed for the proposed new Weyr, and making lists of its anticipated needs over the next few Turns.
On the dragonrider side, all was well. They had their volunteers who would stay here in the Eighth Interval, including an adequate number of support staff and sufficient weyrlingmasters to train the weyrling pairs that were being left behind. They had gold dragons who would provide the future clutches. What they didn’t have was a hinterland of holds and halls to provide everything the Weyr would need.
“I’m not entranced by the idea, but now that we know the South is not as damaged by Thread as we expected…” Mardra paused and sniffed haughtily, as if the lack of destruction in the Southern Continent was a personal slight against her. She scowled and then continued. “Well, the dragons can go there to hunt wild prey. That way, we only need the Feeding Grounds for mating flights and youngsters not old enough to go between.”
Fanna of Ista reached for her mug of klah and grimaced as she found that it had gone cold. “Meat is not the problem. It’s cloth, leather, pottery, klah, flour… I daresay that our volunteers might forego wine for a few Turns until someone has the spare time to grow vines and produce a vintage. But if they don’t have bread to eat they’ll be knocking on Benden’s door in short order. We need Holders. We need to transplant a Hold or two, not just a Weyr and a smattering of Seacraft and Harperhall volunteers.”
“We’ve discussed this already,” snapped Mardra. “The more who know, the more likely the secret will get out. That might change the future.”
“What about asking the Lord of Ruatha?” suggested Clionie of Telgar. “He already knows of Lessa’s existence, as do a whole wing of his holders. An exhausted gold dragon landing on the doorstep is hard to miss!”
As she had been delirious at the time, Lessa had no idea how many holders at Ruatha had witnessed the arrival of her and Ramoth, nor how many had been involved in helping transport them to the Weyr. She certainly imagined once word had got around, then everyone in the Hold would have trooped outside at some point to stare at the sight of a virtually comatose gold dragon. They certainly couldn’t keep that secret, though the Lord had agreed to a cover story about a junior goldrider from a distant Weyr.
“Yes, yes,” said Mardra irritably in response to Clionie. “We can certainly obtain a few people from Ruatha. But as Lessa pointed out, it is lots of people we need, not just a handful.” She sighed and ran her hand through her hair.
“What we really need is a whole Hold or two,” mused Fanna. She glanced across at Lessa with a twinkle in her eye. “I don’t suppose you know of any legends of Holds disappearing in the night, or whole Bloodlines vanishing between?”
Lessa felt the blood drain from her face. “Ruatha…” she whispered. The stylus she was holding dropped from her fingers. She heard Ramoth’s agitated bugle echo around the Weyr.
“Are you all right, dear?” Lessa was peripherally aware of Clionie and Fanna leaning over her, of Marika urging she try a sip of wine, of Nadira’s squeaks of distress, of Mardra’s Loranth saying a healer was on the way. She tried to get a hold of her whirling thoughts… Ruatha… Fax… whole Bloodlines vanishing…
She pushed aside the cup of wine and sent scant reassurance to Ramoth. Then tried to explain to the gaggle of concerned goldriders. “No, I’m all right… it’s just…” She paused, the idea dancing in front of her, alluring and appalling all at the same time. “Ruatha. Ruatha is a Bloodline that vanished. Fax…”
There were exclamations of confusion and alarm from some of those present. “Yes, yes,” Mardra was saying. “You told me that. This – Fax – invaded my family’s Hold and took it over. But surely…?” The Fort Weyrwoman trailed off at Lessa’s bleak look. “He couldn’t! He didn’t?”
Lessa nodded. “He did. All of Ruatha’s Blood were put to the sword.”
“But – no cousins? No nieces or nephews? No fosterlings in another Hold? Surely someone survived?” Mardra was aghast.
“Yes,” said Lessa. “I did.”
“But…”
She nodded, confirming Mardra’s worst fears. “But indeed. I am a dragonrider, so I cannot rule Ruatha. The Ruatha bloodline is no more.”
“That’s outrageous! I won’t stand for it! It mustn’t be allowed to happen!” Mardra was on her feet, pacing about the room in her rage, the other Weyrwomen watching her anxiously.
“Mardra – it has happened. Will happen.” Clionie gestured irritably at the complexities of timelines and time travel. “There is nothing we can do to prevent it. I am deeply, deeply sorry, but the world turns and things come to an end. We will all grieve for Ruatha that was.”
“No, no.” Lessa shook her head vehemently. Her thoughts were still filled with memories of those who had died that day – parents, grandparents, brothers and sisters – but there were other Ruathans. Others of the Blood who existed in the here and now, not in that blood soaked future. The idea became voice. “Ruatha will live! On the Western Isle. On the Southern Continent. Ruatha will live!”
# # #
So, at Lessa’s insistence, another person was added to the great conspiracy of the jump forward and the hidden Weyr. Mardra’s father, Lord Chardro of Ruatha, was told about their plans – but with a minor alteration. The Weyrwomen had agreed telling him about Fax and his descendants being put to the sword was not a good idea. Any Lord worth his salt would change the future by leaving instructions for his descendants or some such thing. Instead, they concocted a story of a plague, such as that of Moreta’s time, which had wiped out the Ruathan Bloodline apart from Lessa herself. A tragedy, but not one that could be planned for or avoided.
Unless, of course, people of the Ruathan Bloodline had been living on a different continent for four hundred Turns. All safe and sound, kept far away from plagues or other disasters.
Lord Chardro diligently recruited two of his sons, one daughter, his youngest brother and a whole wing of cousins and by-blows to assure Ruathan blood continued into the future. He and they then selected suitable holders from all across Ruatha. All would be tragically ‘lost at sea’ in the foolish venture to explore for new lands to settle. If the other Lords thought him foolhardy, then no matter – the ends justified the means.
It was just as well, Lessa noted, that the Masterharper was involved in their planning, and could have his harpers quash too much chat on the matter. Otherwise questions might be asked if anyone realised that the number of people missing was enough to fill the Masterfisher’s exploratory fleet several times over.
Still, they had their holders now – some to form a settlement in the Southern Continent, some to re-seed and revitalise the land on the Western Isle. And, more importantly, Ruatha would survive.
She smiled grimly. Fax’s brat might discover he had competition.
# # #
Mardra stood on her ledge and watched as another bawling and thrashing herdbeast was hoisted off the ground in a carry net by a labouring green. The green gained a dragonlength of height, then blinked between. She wondered idly what a herdbeast’s reaction to that black, cold void might be.
There was no need to try and carry their herdbeasts into the future with them – the Pern of Lessa’s time would supply all their needs on that front. Instead the beasts were being divided into three categories – those that would be carried between to the new Weyr and Holds, those that would be eaten on the eve of the Weyrs jumping forward, and a few that would be turned loose. Lessa had been adamant about that last, saying her Question Song contained a line about abandoned livestock. Silly girl. How could a herdbeast or two alter the future?
All their supplies of herdbeast fodder and cromcoal was going to the new Weyr and neighbouring Hold. The South had lush pasture and abundant timber, so could do without such supplies. Indeed, the Weyr would be relying on the South for building materials and food for a good few Turns – and in the short term it would have to be carried adragonback. Mardra sniffed haughtily to herself at the indignity of it all. Imagine! Dragonriders forced to act as beasts of burden – ridiculous! It only hardened her resolve not to allow any senior Fort riders participate in populating this new Weyr.
Fort riders belonged in Fort.
# # #
They were a splendid sight, the massed dragons of High Reaches Weyr. All those that were making the jump forward were ranged across the Bowl and the Rim, the lesser colours burdened with passengers, and all – including the queens – festooned with bundles of personal possessions. A hubbub of human voices and dragon bugles echoed to and fro across the Bowl.
Those that were not making the journey – R’kent and S’newar among them – watched from the steps leading to the Senior Queen’s ledge, sending last minute farewells and good luck messages to friends and family via their dragons.
Salth’s rider tells everyone who is leaving to cease chatter and pay attention, R’kent’s bronze Centarth informed them.
A hush fell across the Weyr, then a heartbeat or two later the gathered dragons began to take to the skies. With the ease of long practice, the wings assembled into formation above High Reaches. R’kent noted, with an unexpected lump in his throat, that there were empty spaces in the formation where he and the others who were staying behind normally flew.
And then, in an instant, they were gone.
“If they succeed in their journey to the Ninth Pass, we’ll be superfluous, won’t we?” mused S’newar.
“No.” R’kent shook his head vehemently. “We’ll be the Seventh Weyr, able to stand alongside the others. Able to protect Pern as well as they do.”
“There is, of course, another possibility.” From the twinkle in S’newar’s eye, he was not being entirely serious. “It could be us that fails to travel four hundred Turns.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, our queens could die in a betweening accident before they’ve laid a single gold egg. We could all perish of some Southern or Western disease that the Weyrhealer knows nothing about. We could—“
“—Go up in a puff of smoke if that volcano isn’t as dormant as we think?” R’kent had caught the frivolous mood and added his own disaster to the list.
“Be wiped out by a tornado!”
“Hit by a giant meteor!”
“Eaten by ravenous wherries!”
“It’s all doomed to failure!”
“No chance of success at all!”
The pair laughed uproariously. They were still laughing when they climbed onto their dragons for the journey back to their new Weyr. Only time would tell.