It was late when Fiona finally settled back in her bed, exhausted by the day’s events and her efforts, but also strangely nervous, anticipatory, strung out. Xhinna had decided to stay at Seban’s that night, along with Bekka, to keep the ex-dragonrider company.

Fiona slept fitfully, as she always did when she had to spend the night by herself. Even so, she still slept better than she’d ever slept in her old home at Fort Hold: Here, she always had Talenth’s comforting presence in the back of her mind, a constant reassurance that she was never truly alone.

She arose shortly before dawn, cold and anxious. She heard Talenth in the weyr beyond, shaking and making strange noises in her sleep. Perplexed, Fiona sat up, pulled on her nightgown, found her slippers, and paced over to her queen.

She slipped her mind close to Talenth’s, resting a hand on the great queen’s neck, trying to ease her fears. The queen wouldn’t quiet, her twitches and noises abating only slightly. Fiona stiffened, feeling some of the pain and worry that was troubling Talenth.

Something bad was about to happen.

Something terrible.

Alarmed, Fiona shook Talenth. Wake up!

The gold dragon startled awake, turning her head to gaze at Fiona in surprise.

What is it? she asked worriedly.

Do you feel anything? Fiona asked, sending a tendril of memory toward her, reminding her of how she’d slept.

Something is coming, something soon, Talenth responded, trembling. Fiona moved beside her, her hand raised to an eye ridge in an attempt to soothe the great queen, but Talenth turned away, her head craning toward the weyr’s entrance, her nostrils flaring.

Fiona moved up beside her, onto the queens’ ledge. The Weyr Bowl was silent and still.

Suddenly fear gripped Fiona as Talenth bugled loudly in the dawn, her cry alerting the watch dragon, who echoed it and—

Fiona was lost, stricken.

“D’gan, no!” The words that tore out of her mouth were not hers. In that moment she felt a wave of horror and wrenching loss. The Weyrs! They must be warned!

The voice wasn’t hers; it came to her from elsewhere, like a horrified echo that raked her mind.

“Fiona! Fiona!” Someone was shaking her. She opened her eyes and looked up, only barely recognizing Cisca. “What is it? What happened?”

“The Weyrs,” Fiona said aloud, tears streaming down her cheeks as panic, fear, and an unbearable sorrow tore through her, “they must be warned.” Her eyes went wide. “D’gan’s Kaloth is too confused by the sickness. D’gan—Telgar—they went to fight Thread but they’re lost. Lost between.”

“Rouse the Weyr!” K’lior’s voice shouted. “Rineth!”