For it was chaos, with the overanxious men making every mistake in the Record, despite her advice. Meron’s three eggs cracked almost at once. Two hatchlings immediately set upon each other while Meron was awkwardly trying to imitate Kylara’s actions. In his greed, he’d probably lose all three, she thought with malicious pleasure. Then she saw that there were other bronzes emerging. Well, all was not lost when her queen needed to mate.

Two men had managed to coax fire-lizards to their hands and had followed Kylara’s example by removing themselves from the confused cannibalism on the hearth.

“How much do we feed them, Weyrwoman?” one asked her, his eyes shining with incredulous joy and astonishment.

“Let them eat themselves insensible. They’ll sleep and they’ll stay by you. As soon as they wake, feed them again. And if they complain about itchy skin, bathe and rub them with oil. A patchy skin breaks between and the awful cold can kill even a fire-lizard or dragon.” How often she’d told that to weyrlings when she’d had to lecture them as Weyrwoman. Well, Brekke did that now, thank the First Egg.

“But what happens if they go between? How do we keep them?”

“You can’t keep a dragon. He stays with you. You don’t chain a dragon like a watch-wher, you know.”

She became bored with her role as instructor and replenished her supply of meat. Then, disgustedly observing the waste of creatures dying on the hearth, she mounted the steps to the Inner Hold. She’d wait in Meron’s chambers—there’d better be no one else there now—to see if he had, after all, managed to Impress a fire-lizard.

Prideth told her that she wasn’t happy that she had transported the clutch to death on a cold, alien hearth.

“They lost more than this at Southern, silly one,” Kylara told her dragon. “This time we’ve a pretty darling of our own.”

Prideth grumbled on the fire ridge, but not about the lizard so Kylara paid her no heed.

CHAPTER VII

Midmorning at Benden Weyr

Early Morning at the Mastersmith’s Crafthall in Telgar Hold

F’LAR RECEIVED F’NOR’S message, five leaves of notes, just as he was about to set out to the Smithcrafthall to see Fandarel’s distance-writing mechanism. Lessa was already aloft and waiting.

“F’nor said it was urgent. It’s about the—” G’nag said.

“I’ll read it as soon as I can,” F’lar interrupted him. The man would talk your ear off. “My thanks and my apologies.”

“But, F’lar…” The rest of the man’s sentence was lost as Mnementh’s claws rattled against the stone of the ledge and the bronze dragon began to beat his way up.