“I can’t sort this all out right now, T’bor. Please mount guards and let me know the instant you’ve any news of any kind. If you do uncover another clutch, I would very much appreciate some of the eggs. Let me know, too, if that little queen returns to Kylara. I grant the creature had reason, but if they frighten between so easily, they may be worthless except as pets.”

F’lar mounted Mnementh and saluted the Southern Weyrleader, reassured by nothing in this visit. And he’d lost the advantage of surprising the Lord Holders with fire-lizards. In fact, Kylara’s precipitous donation would undoubtedly cause more trouble. A Weyrwoman meddling in a Hold not bound to her own Weyr? He almost hoped that these creatures would be nothing more than pets and her action could be soft-talked. Still, there was the psychological effect of that miniature dragon, Impressionable by anyone. That would have been a valuable asset in improving Weyr-Hold relations.

As Mnementh climbed higher, to the cooler levels, F’lar worried most about that Threadfall. It had fallen. It had pierced leaf and grass, drowned in the water, and yet left no trace of itself in the rich earth. Igen’s sandworms would devour Thread, almost as efficiently as agenothree. But the grub life that had swarmed in the rich black swamp mud bore little resemblance to the segmented, shelled worms.

Unable to leave Southern without a final check, F’lar gave Mnementh the order to transfer to the western swamp. The bronze obediently brought him right to the trench his claw had made. F’lar slid from his shoulder, opening the wher-hide tunic as the humid, sticky, sun-steamed swamp air pressed against him like a thick wet skin. There was a ringing, rasping chorus of tiny sound all around him, splashings and burblings, none of which he’d noted earlier in the day. In fact, the swamp had been remarkably silent, as if hushed by the menace of Thread.

When he turned back the hummock of grass by the roots of the berry bush, the earth was untenanted, the gray roots sleekly damp. Kicking up another section, he did find a small cluster of the larvae, but not in the earlier profusion. He held the muddy ball in his hand, watching the grubs squirm away from light and air. It was then that he saw that the foliage of that bush was no longer Thread-scored. The char had disappeared and a thin film was forming over the hole, as if the bush were mending itself.

Something writhed against the skin of his palm and he hastily dropped the ball of dirt, rubbing his hand against his leg.

He broke off a leaf, the sign of Thread healing in the green foliage.

Could the grubs possibly be the southern continent’s equivalent of sandworms?

Abruptly he gave a running jump to Mnementh’s shoulder, grabbing the riding straps.