And in presenting these fire-lizard eggs to a Holder, particularly the most despised Holder of all, Meron of Nabol, Kylara struck back at all the ignominies and imagined slights she had endured at the hands of both dragonmen and Pernese. The most recent insult – that the dishfaced fosterling of Brekke’s had Impressed three, rejecting Kylara – would be completely avenged.

Well, Kylara would not be rejected here. She knew the way of it and, whatever else, she would be a winner.

The golden egg rocked violently, and a massive crack split it lengthwise. A tiny golden beak appeared.

“Feed her. Don’t waste time,” Meron whispered to her hoarsely.

“Don’t tell me how to hatch eggs, you fool. Tend to your own.”

The head had emerged, the body struggled to right itself claws scrabbling against the wet shell. Kylara concentrated on thoughts of welcoming affection, of joy and admiration, ignoring the cries and exhortations around her.

The little queen, no bigger than her hand, staggered free of its casing and instantly looked around for something to eat. Kylara laid a glob of meat in its path and the beast swooped on it. Kylara placed a second a few inches from the first, leading the fire lizard toward her. Squawking ferociously, the fire lizard pounced, her steps less awkward, the wings spread and drying rapidly. Hunger, hunger, hunger was the pulse of the creature’s thoughts and Kylara, reassured by receipt of this broadcast, intensified her thoughts of love and welcome.

She had the fire-lizard queen on her hand by the fifth lure. She rose carefully to her feet, popping food into the wide maw every time it opened, and moved away from the hearth and the chaos there.

For it was chaos, with the over anxious men making every mistake in the Record, despite her advice. Meron’s three eggs cracked almost at once. Two hatchlings immediately set upon each other while Meron was awkwardly trying to imitate Kylara’s actions. In his greed, he’d probably lose all three, she thought with malicious pleasure. Then she saw that there were other bronzes emerging. Well, all was not lost when her queen needed to mate.

Two men had managed to coax fire lizards to their hands and had followed Kylara’s example by removing themselves from the confused cannibalism on the hearth.

“How much do we feed them, Weyrwoman?” one asked her, his eyes shining with incredulous joy and astonishment.

“Let them eat themselves insensible. They’ll sleep and they’ll stay by you. As soon as they wake, feed them again. And if they complain about itchy skin, bathe and rub them with oil. A patchy skin breaks between and the awful cold can kill even a fire lizard or dragon.” How often she’d told that to weyrlings when she’d had to lecture them as Weyrwoman. Well, Brekke did that now, thank the First Egg.

“But what happens if they go between? How do we keep them?”

“You can’t keep a dragon. He stays with you. You don’t chain a dragon like a watch-wher, you know.”

She became bored with her role as instructor and replenished her supply of meat. Then, disgustedly observing the waste of creatures dying on the hearth, she mounted the steps to the Inner Hold. She’d wait in Meron’s chambers – there’d better be no one else there now – to see if he had, after all, managed to Impress a fire lizard.

Prideth told her that she wasn’t happy that she had transported the clutch to death on a cold, alien hearth.

“They lost more than this at Southern, silly one,” Kylara told her dragon. “This time we’ve a pretty darling of our own.”

Prideth grumbled on the fire ridge, but not about the lizard so Kylara paid her no heed.

Midmorning at Benden Weyr

Early Morning at the Mastersmith’s

Crafthall in Telgar Hold

F’LAR RECEIVED F’nor’s message, five leaves of notes, just as he was about to set out to the Smithcrafthall to see Fandarel’s distance-writing mechanism. Lessa was already aloft and waiting.

“F’nor said it was urgent. It’s about the – ” G’nag said.

“I’ll read it as soon as I can,” F’lar interrupted him. The man would talk your ear off. “My thanks and my apologies.”

“But, F’lar . . .” The rest of the man’s sentence was lost as Mnementh’s claws rattled against the stone of the ledge and the bronze dragon began to beat his way up.

It didn’t help F’lar’s temper to realize that Mnementh was making a gentle ascent. Lessa had been so right when she had teased him about staying up drinking and talking with Robinton. The man was a sieve for wine Around midnight Fandarel had left, taking his treasure of a contraption. Lessa had wagered that he’d never go to bed, and likely no one in his Hall would either. After extracting a promise from F’lar that he’d get some rest soon, too, she’d retired.

He had meant to, but Robinton knew so much about the different Holds, which minor Holders were important in swaying their Lords’ mind – essential information if F’lar was going to effect a revolution.

Reverence for the older rider was part of Weyrlife, and respect for the able Threadfighter. Seven Turns back, when F’lar had realized humbly how inadequate was Pern’s one Weyr, Benden, and how ill-prepared for actual Threadfighting conditions, he had ascribed many virtues to the Oldtimers which were difficult – now – for him arbitrarily to sweep away. He – and all Benden’s Dragonriders – had learned the root of Threadfighting from the Oldtimers. Had learned the many tricks of dodging Thread, gauging the varieties of Fall, of conserving the strength of beast and rider, of turning the mind from the horrors of a full scoring or a phosphine emission too close. What F’lar didn’t realize was how his Weyr and the Southerners had improved on the teaching; improved and surpassed, as they could on the larger, stronger, more intelligent contemporary dragons. F’lar had been able, in the name of gratitude and loyalty to his peers, to ignore, forget, rationalize the Oldtimers’ shortcomings. He could do so no longer as the weight of their insecurity and insularity forced him to re-evaluate the results of their actions. In spite of this disillusionment, some part of F’lar, that inner soul of a man which requires a hero, a model against which to measure his own accomplishments, wanted to unite all the dragonmen; to sweep away the Oldtimers’ intractable resistance to change, their tenacious hold on the outmoded.

Such a feat rivaled his other goal – and yet, the distance separating Pern and the Red Star was only a different sort of step between. And one man had to take if he was ever to free himself of the yoke of Thread.

The cool air – the sun was not full on the Bowl yet – reminded him of his face scores but it felt good against his aching forehead. As he bent forward to brace himself against Mnementh’s neck, the leaves of the message pressed into his ribs. Well, he’d find out what Kylara was doing later.

He glanced below, squeezing his lids shut briefly as the dizzying speed affected his unfocusing eyes. Yes, N’ton was already directing a crew of men and dragons in the removal of the sealed entrance. With more light and fresher air flooding the abandoned corridors, exploration could go on effectively. They’d keep Ramoth out of the way so she’d not complain that men were coming too close to her maturing clutch.

She knows, Mnementh informed his rider.

“And?”

She is curious.

They were now poised above the Star Rocks, above and beyond the watchrider, who saluted them. F’lar frowned at the Finger Rock. Now, if a man had a proper lens, fitted into the Eye Rock, would he be able to see the Red Star? No, because at this time of year you did not see the Red Star at that angle. Well . . .

F’lar glanced down at the panorama, the immense cup of rock at the top of the mountain, the tail-like road starting at a mysterious point on the right face, leading down to the lake on the plateau below the Weyr. The water glittered like a gigantic dragon eye. He worried briefly about haring off on this project with Thread falling so erratically. He had set up sweep patrols and sent the diplomatic N’ton (again he regretted F’nor’s absence) to explain the necessary new measures to those Holds for which Benden Weyr was responsible. Raid had sent a stiff reply in acknowledgment, Sifer a contentious rebuke, although that old fool would come round after a night’s thought on the alternatives.