Kindan said nothing, Lorana nodded gravely in response, and then Zirenth moved away from the ledge, into the Bowl proper, took a leap, cupped air, rose swiftly above the gathering dragons, up to the Star Stones, and was gone, between.

“I’ve got to get better,” T’mar grumbled from his bed. Fiona cast one last glance at the after-image of the bronze dragon and his riders, then turned to march briskly back into T’mar’s quarters.

“You will,” she assured him, “if you are willing to rest.”

“By the First Egg,” T’mar swore, “I’ve never known anything harder!”

“Fly well!” Fiona called to J’lantir less than half an hour later as the last of the assembled wings made ready to take to the air. Above them the other five wings of Telgar Weyr circled, ready and eager for the night’s fight.

“We’ll see you in three hours’ time,” J’lantir said. “We hand off the Fall to High Reaches over Nabol.”

Fiona knew this and she was certain that J’lantir knew she knew this, so she gathered that the flightleader was making the announcement for the benefit of the knots of weyrfolk gathered around the outskirts of the Bowl to see off the fighting dragons.

This was only the second Fall since the disastrous time when D’gan and all the dragonriders of the Weyr were lost. Fiona could understand that they were naturally anxious, particularly as in the first Fall since then, their new Weyrleader, T’mar, had been seriously injured.

She could sense the feelings of anticipation and worry and fought to keep them from settling on her, too.

“Good flying!” Fiona called loudly, waving J’lantir and the last wing into flight.

The dragons rose gracefully, assumed their position at the head of the upper Flight, and, together, one hundred and eighty-five dragons disappeared between. To Thread. To battle.

“It will get darker soon,” Lorana assured Nuella as they followed slowly behind the fighting dragons, gouts of flame marking their progress in the battle against Thread. The dragonriders had been fighting for more than an hour, with only two more hours left before they would meet with the High Reaches riders above Nabol Hold.

Even so, the fight had been difficult. For Lorana, who felt as well as saw the carnage, the first loss was the most shocking, as she saw the small blue and his rider engulfed from behind by a clump of Thread that had been hidden in the gloam of the dusky night air—invisible one moment, mortal the next. She had cried out in unison with the tormented blue, had known that the small dragon had received its deathblow and then—he was gone, forever, between.

Nuella had wrapped her arms around her and buried her head against her spine in comfort while Kindan had tried his best to turn in his perch to console her.

“Keep flying!” Lorana had told him. “I’ll recover.”