“Have you noticed the way Fiona behaves?”

“I don’t know how else she could behave, given the news,” K’lior replied.

“Have you talked with the weyrlings recently?”

“Are you afraid they have this illness?” K’lior asked, suddenly alarmed. “Could her fire-lizard have

spread it to the dragons?”

“No,” Cisca replied, “although that’s a horrible possibility.” She frowned, mulling the notion over, then

shook her head. “Have you noticed how they all seem so tired?”

“And distracted,” K’lior agreed. “They seem only half here—T’jen was muttering about it just this

morning.”

“And you paid attention?” Cisca asked, amused. It was almost tradition that every Weyrlingmaster

was convinced that the latest group of weyrlings was the worst ever.

“Yes,” K’lior agreed. “Because he’d just told off the same rider twice for the same silly thing—he

couldn’t get his practice harness on properly.”

“With the Plague, though, it was the strongest who succumbed,” Cisca remarked.

“That was humans, not dragons,” K’lior said. “We can’t be sure of anything.”

“Well, it’s clear that the fire-lizards must go,” Cisca said. “If things work out, perhaps we can have

them return.”

“That’d please a lot of our weyrfolk,” K’lior agreed.

There were no signs of pleasure the next morning as dragonriders and weyrfolk collected in the

Kitchen Cavern. K’lior could tell that most of the dragonriders knew what was coming: Those with

fire-lizards had placed themselves near those weyrfolk who had fire-lizards.

Looking upon the sea of faces, most many Turns older than he, K’lior had never been more aware of

how young he was to be a Weyrleader.

“I have grave news from Benden Weyr,” he announced, his voice loud enough to fill every corner of

the great room. “M’tal informs me that they have identified a sickness among the fire-lizards—”

“The fire-lizards!” several exclaimed at once.

“Yes,” K’lior agreed. “Kindan’s bronze Valla succumbed to it yesterday. The symptoms are a cough

that doesn’t get better, and green sputum—”

“Can it affect the dragons?” someone shouted from the back of the room.

“We don’t know,” Cisca said, stepping up beside her mate. “But—”

“We can’t take the risk!” another of the weyrfolk called. “ ‘Dragonmen must fly when Thread is in the

sky!’”

There was a chorus of assent.

“What do you want us to do, Weyrleader?” J’marin, Asoth’s rider, asked. His gold fire-lizard

Siaymon sat nestled on his shoulder.

“We’re going to have to send the fire-lizards away,” Cisca said. “We think we can send them to the

Southern Continent.”

J’marin stepped forward, his expression grim. He was more than twenty Turns older than either Cisca

or K’lior. “Not all will make it.”

“That may be so,” K’lior agreed, leaving unspoken the acknowledgment that the others would go