“The Weyrs are dying,” Ketan said.

“But the Hatchings! There are weyrlings now—”

“Who’ll not reach fighting age before burrows of Thread bury us all,” Ketan cut across her sharply. He grimaced in apology for his harsh words. “You’ve patched them up—you know.” He glanced at Lorana. “We patch them up, they fly, they die.” He dropped his mug onto his desk with a loud thump and followed shortly with his head which he cradled in his hands. “Drith, my Drith! Why wouldn’t you let me go with you?”

“He said that you had to stay, had to find a cure,” Lorana reminded him softly.

“And now that we’ve found a cure, what?” Ketan barked, turning his head so that his eyes raked her. “What now? And how, if we only hatch twenty-two eggs, are we supposed to repopulate the Weyrs?” He shook his head and closed his eyes. “No, Weyrwoman, we tried and we came up with a cure.” He let out a deep sigh and screwed his eyes tighter. “And the cure’s killing Pern.”

Fiona glanced at the other two who sat in stunned silence and jerked her head toward the exit. They followed slowly, with backward glances for the ailing healer.

“What do we do?” Lorana asked as soon as they were out of earshot.

“There’s not much we can do,” Fiona said. Kindan looked surprised. “My father said it happened after the Plague, that there were those who chose death over life no matter how hard those around them tried.”

Kindan nodded grimly; he had seen it himself.

Fiona reached out to stroke Lorana’s arm comfortingly, knowing that the older woman was distraught over the healer’s collapse. “You have something to live for,” she told her firmly, nodding toward her growing belly. “And you hear every dragon, that’s not something Ketan has.”

Lorana nodded. Fiona recognized that the ex–queen rider was merely humoring her. She was not convinced.

“I just wish there was something we could do for him,” Lorana said.

“He wants his dragon back,” Fiona said. “I don’t see how you can do that.”

Lorana said nothing.

“Come on, we need to get back before T’mar misses me.”

“Lorana will think of something,” Tullea predicted confidently as she and B’nik prepared to meet the other Weyrleaders and Weyrwoman in their Council Room later that afternoon.

B’nik grunted noncommittally. It had been over a month since T’mar had brought news of his impending doom and the Weyrleader had grown almost anxious to get to the end. He had said his good-byes, had set his affairs in order as best he could—he was lucky in that he had no less than seven bronze riders all capable of running the Weyr after his death. Although, he admitted to himself, only a few would be his first choice, and he was worried about their ages.