“You did say only warm air masses,” F’nor heard himself saying humbly, aware that he had somehow failed his Weyrleader.

F’lar shook his head impatiently.

“Not your fault, F’nor. Mine. I should have asked. I knew it was good luck that the weather held so cold.” He put both hands on F’nor’s shoulders, looking directly into his eyes. “The Threads have been falling,” he announced gravely. “Falling into cold air, freezing into bits to drift on the wind”—F’lar imitated F’nor’s finger-fluttering—“as specks of black dust.”

“ ‘Crack dust, blackdust,’ ” Lessa quoted. “In ‘The Ballad of Moreta’s Ride,’ the chorus is all about black dust.”

“I don’t need to be reminded of Moreta right now,” F’lar growled, bending to the maps. “She could talk to any dragon in the Weyrs.”

“But I can do that!” Lessa protested.

Slowly, as if he didn’t quite credit his ears, F’lar turned back to Lessa. “What did you just say?”

“I said I can talk to any dragon in the Weyr.”

Still staring at her, blinking in utter astonishment, F’lar sank down to the table top.

“How long,” he managed to say, “have you had this particular skill?”

Something in his tone, in his manner, caused Lessa to flush and stammer like an erring weyrling.

“I . . . I always could. Beginning with the watch-wher at Ruatha.” She gestured indecisively in Ruatha’s westerly direction. “And I talked to Mnemeuth at Ruatha. And . . . when I got here, I could . . .” Her voice faltered at the accusing look in F’lar’s cold, hard eyes. Accusing and, worse, contemptuous.

“I thought you had agreed to help me, to believe in me.”

“I’m truly sorry, F’lar. It never occurred to me it was of any use to anyone, but . . .”

F’lar exploded onto both feet, his eyes blazing with aggravation.

“The one thing I could not figure out was how to direct the wings and keep in contact with the Weyr during an attack, how I was going to get reinforcements and firestone in time. And you . . . you have been sitting there, spitefully hiding the . . .”

“I am NOT spiteful,” she screamed at him. “I said I was sorry. I am. But you’ve a nasty, smug habit of keeping your own counsel. How was I to know you didn’t have the same trick? You’re F’lar, the Weyrleader, you can do anything. Only you’re just as bad as R’gul because you never tell me half the things I ought to know . . .”

F’lar reached out and shook her until her angry voice was stopped.

“Enough. We can’t waste time arguing like children.” Then his eyes widened, his jaw dropped. “Waste time? That’s it.”

“Go between times?” Lessa gasped.

“Between times!”

F’nor was totally confused. “What are you two talking about?”

“The Threads started falling at dawn in Nerat,” F’lar said, his eyes bright, his manner decisive.