She was flirting so outrageously that F’lar wondered that Ramoth wasn’t roaring protest. As if Gyarmath could ever catch Ramoth in night! Then he heard Mnementh’s rumble of humor and was reassured.

Eat, his bronze advised him. Let Lessa flatter G’narish Gyarmath doesn’t mind. Nor Ramoth. Nor I.

“What I do for my Weyr,” said Lessa with an exaggerated sigh as she returned a few moments later.

F’lar gave her a cynical look. “G’narish is more of a modern mind than he knows.”

“Then we’ll have to make him conscious of it,” Lessa said firmly.

“Just so long as it is ‘we’ who make him,” F’lar replied with mock severity, catching her hand and pulling her to him.

She made a token resistance, as she always did, scowling ferociously at him and then relaxed against his shoulder all at once. “Signal fires and sweepriding are not enough, F’lar,” she said thoughtfully. “Although I do believe we’ve worried too much about the change in Threadfall.”

“That nonsense was to fool G’narish and the others, but I thought you’d . . .”

“But don’t you see that you were right?”

F’lar gave her a long incredulous look.

“By the Egg, Weyrleader, you astonish me. Why can’t there be deviations? Because you, F’lar, compiled those Records and to spite the Oldtimers they must remain infallible? Great golden eggs, man, there were such things as Intervals when no Threads fell – as we both know. Why not a change of pace in Threadfall itself during a Pass?”

“But why? Give me one good reason why.”

“Give me one good reason why not! The same thing that affects the Red Star so that it doesn’t always pass close enough to cast Thread on us can pull it enough off course to change Fall! The Red Star is not the only one to rise and set with the seasons. There could be another heavenly body affecting not only us but the Red Star.”

“Where?”

Lessa shrugged impatiently. “How do I know? I’m not long in the eye like F’rad. But we can try to find out. Or have seven full Turns of certainty and schedule dulled your wits?”

“Now, see here, Lessa . . .”

Suddenly she pressed herself close to him, full of contrition for her sharp tongue. He held her close, all too aware that she was right. And yet . . . There had been that long and lonely wait until he and Mnementh could come into their own. The terrible dichotomy of confidence in his own prophecy that Thread would fall and fear that nothing would rescue the Dragonriders from their lethargy. Then the crushing realization that those all too few dragonmen were all that could save an entire world from destruction; the three days of torture between the initial fall over the impending one at Nerat Hold and Telgar Hold with Lessa who-knew-where. Did he not have a right to relax his vigilance? Some freedom from the weight of responsibility?

“I’ve no right to say such things to you,” Lessa was whispering in soft remorse.

“Why not? It’s true enough.”

“I ought never to diminish you, and all you’ve done, to placate a trio of narrow-minded, parochial, conservative . . .”

He stopped her words with a kiss, a teasing kiss that abruptly became passionate. Then he winced as her hands curving sensuously around his neck, rubbed against the Thread-bared skin.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Here, let me – ” and Lessa’s apology trailed off as she swiveled her body around to reach for the numbweed jar.

“I forgive you, dear heart, for all your daily machinations,” F’lar assured her sententiously. “It’s easier to flatter a man than fight him. I wish I had F’nor here right now!”

“I still haven’t forgiven that old fool T’ron,” Lessa said, her eyes narrowing, her lips pursed. “Oh, why didn’t F’nor just let T’reb have the knife?”

“F’nor acted with integrity,” F’lar said with stiff disapproval.

“He could’ve ducked quicker then. And you’re no better.” Her touch was gentle but the burns stung.

“Hmmm. What I have ducked is my responsibility to Our Pern in bringing the Oldtimers forward. We’ve let ourselves get bogged down on small issues, like whose was the blame in that asinine fight at the Mastersmith’s Hall. The real problem is to reconcile the old with the new. And we may just be able to make this new crisis work there to our advantage, Lessa.”

She heard the ring in his voice and smiled back at him approvingly.

“When we cut through traditions before the Oldtimers came forward, we also discovered how hollow and restrictive some of them were; such as this business of minimal contact between Hold, Craft and Weyr. Oh, true, if we wish to bespeak another Weyr, we can go there in a few seconds on a dragon, but it takes Holder or Crafter days to get from one place to another. They had a taste of convenience seven Turns ago. I should never have acquiesced and let the Oldtimers talk me out of continuing a dragon in Hold and Craft. Those signal fires won’t work, and neither will Sweepriders. You’re absolutely right about that, Lessa. Now if Fandarel can think up some alternative method of . . . What’s the matter? Why are you smiling like that?”

“I knew it. I knew you’d want to see the Smith and the Harper so I sent for them, but they won’t be here until you’ve eaten and rested.” She tested the fresh numbweed to see if it had hardened.

“And of course you’ve eaten and rested, too?”

She got off his lap in one fluid movement, her eyes almost black. “I’ll have sense enough to go to bed when I’m tired. You’ll keep on talking with Fandarel and Robinton long after you’ve chewed your business to death. And you’ll drink – as if you haven’t learned yet that only a dragon could out drink that Harper and that Smith – ” She broke off again, her scowl turning into a thoughtful frown. “Come to think of it, we’d do well to invite Lytol, if he’d come. I’d like to know exactly what the Lord Holders’ reactions are. But first, you eat!”

F’lar laughingly obeyed, wondering how he could suddenly feel so optimistic when it was now obvious that the problems of Pern were coming home to roost on his weyr ledge again.

CHAPTER IV

Midday at Southern Weyr

.

KYLARA whirled in front of the mirror, turning her head to watch her slender image, observing the swing and fall of the heavy fabric of the deep red dress.

“I knew it. I told him that hem was uneven,” she said, coming to a dead stop, facing her reflection, suddenly aware of her own engaging scowl. She practiced the expression, found one attitude that displeased her and carefully schooled herself against an inadvertent re-use.

“A frown is a mighty weapon, dear,” her foster mother had told her again and again, “but do cultivate a pretty one. Think what would happen if your face froze that way.”

Her posing diverted her until she twisted, trying to assess her profile, and again caught sight of the swirl of the guilty hem.

“Rannelly!” she called, impatient when the old woman did not answer instantly. “Rannelly!”

“Coming, poppet. Old bones don’t move as fast. Been setting your gowns to air. There do be such sweetness from that blooming tree. Aye, the wonder of it, a fellis tree grown to such a size.” Rannelly carried on a continuous monologue once summoned, as if the sound of her name turned on her mind. Kylara was certain that it did, for her old nurse voiced, like a dull echo, only what she heard and saw.

“Those tailors are no better than they should be, and sloppy about finishing details,” Rannelly muttered on, when Kylara sharply interrupted her maundering with the problem. She exhaled on the note of a bass drone as she knelt and flipped up the offending skirt. “Aye and just see these stitches. Taken in haste they were, with too much thread on the needle. . .”

“That man promised me the gown in three days and was seaming it when I arrived. But I need it.”

Rannelly’s hands stopped; she stared up at her charge. “You weren’t ever away from the Weyr without saying a word. . . .”