In response, the thirty-nine dragonriders formed into three ranks, each behind a wingleader.

H’nez raised his hand, held it there a moment, then lowered it.

Slowly, steadily, in time to the beating of the drum, the riders of Telgar Weyr moved forward to honor the fallen.

The drummer must have kept a good eye on their movements, for as they entered the end of the ring formed by Telgar’s weyrfolk, he beat a quick double-beat, then stopped.

Norik’s voice came out of the dark, full, rich, drenched in pain and sorrow as he intoned rather than sang the ancient words:

Drummer, beat, and piper, blow,
Soldier strike, healer go.
Guard the keep and sear the passes,
’Til the dawning Red Star passes.

The drummer punctuated each phrase with an appropriate drumbeat. The drums fell silent as Norik finished, letting the silence build up in the evening sky.

Fiona began to worry; the lull seemed too long. As if in response, Seban moved forward to the center of the circle.

“I call the roll,” his voice echoed in the night air.

“Riders of Telgar, you are called,” Norik intoned. “I call for K’lur, rider of Koth the green.”

Silence filled the air and then, slowly, the drumbeat began again, slow, steady: a heartbeat.

From the ranks of riders, M’rorin strode forward.

“I stand for K’lur,” M’rorin called loudly, his voice catching as he spoke the words. “I stand for him for he has passed between.”

“Who stands with K’lur?” Norik called, his eyes searching the weyrfolk. Slowly from the group a woman, carrying a baby and leading two small children, moved forward.

“I stand with K’lur,” the woman said. “For he did his duty, was a good father to his children, fair and kind to all.”

She crossed to M’rorin’s side and together they waited while the slow, steady, heartbeat drum beat four times. Then M’rorin stood forward. “K’lur is no more. I stand for him, a father to his children, his mate. Fair and kind to all.”

The drum started again, slow, steady heartbeat. M’rorin and K’lur’s family moved with him, then stayed as he bowed and moved back to the ranks of dragonriders.

“I call for M’rit, rider of Jalith the blue,” Norik called and the ritual continued, each rider standing forward in stead of the lost rider, weyrmates and weyrchildren standing forward with them, and moving off once more to the slow heartbeat of the drum.

“I call for D’gan, Weyrleader, rider of Kaloth the bronze,” Norik called out in the end.

Fiona moved forward. “I stand for D’gan,” she called loudly, her voice filling the air, her shoulders and head lifted high. She heard some harsh intakes of surprise from the weyrfolk and murmurs of approval. “I stand for him, for he has passed between.”