The bronze rider broke away from Fiona’s gaze, his face flushing as he met the eyes of his fellow wingleaders and nodded mutely.

“Congratulations, man!” C’tov said, rising from his chair and patting the older rider hard on the shoulder, his face split ear to ear with a huge smile. “I can see why you’re concerned!”

“But it also means you’ve got something to live for,” F’jian added, trying to puzzle out why the wingleader was so glum.

“I think our ancestors, back when the first Threads destroyed their crops and their dwellings, must have felt the same way,” Fiona said to H’nez. “And they found a way to overcome the menace.”

H’nez turned back to look at her. “Dragons.”

“And watch-whers,” a new voice spoke up, closing in from the exit to the Weyr Bowl. It was Kindan. He nodded toward Fiona and H’nez and pulled up a seat opposite the wiry bronze rider. “You know what killed Lorana’s queen, H’nez?”

The bronze rider shook his head.

“She didn’t know it at the time,” he went on, his expression bleak, “but one of the four vials was meant to be kept separate.” A sour look crossed his face, which he schooled away with effort. “The vials were mixed up and we didn’t know …”

He shook himself out of his grim reverie. “The fourth vial was meant to make a watch-wher into a dragon.”

“So if we lose all our dragons, we could start over?” C’tov asked.

“Only if there were still watch-whers,” H’nez muttered.

“Does Nuella know?” Fiona asked.

Kindan nodded.

“Good,” Fiona said to herself. She glanced back to H’nez. “So there is still reason to hope, as much or more than our ancestors had.”

“How are the weyrlings?” T’mar asked of Kindan, to change the subject.

“They’re doing well,” the harper said. Adding, with a grin, “Xhinna is showing her mettle.”

“A woman riding a blue,” H’nez muttered darkly.

“The dragon chooses its rider,” Fiona reminded him.

“Strange dragon,” the wiry rider said.

“We’ll see,” T’mar said, turning back to Kindan. “But we’ve Turns yet.”

“If we sent them back in time—” F’jian began.

“Igen was the only unused Weyr and we filled it with our injured,” T’mar said.

“Well,” F’jian said, groping for a solution and looking up, eyes bright with sudden inspiration, “why not send them forward in time, to after the Fall?”

H’nez’s dark look made it clear to Fiona what he was thinking: assuming anyone lives.

“How?” C’tov asked the younger bronze rider.

“It’s too far a jump,” T’mar said. “It was dangerous enough”—he shot Fiona an accusing look—“to go back ten Turns in time; but to go forward fifty?” He shook his head at the impossibility of it.

“I suppose so,” F’jian agreed, his shoulders slumping.