“Those who don’t had better hide deep in their Holds,” cried Lord Larad of Telgar, stepping down on a level with Lord Groghe and Lord Sangel, his hand on his knife belt, his manner challenging.

“The Smiths support Benden Weyr!” Fandarel boomed out.

“The Harpers do!” Robinton’s baritone was answered by Chad’s tenor from the sentry walk.

“The Miners!”

“The Weavers!”

“The Tanners!”

The Lord Holders began to call out their names, loudly, as if by volume they could redeem themselves. A cheer rose from the guests to fall almost instantly to a hush as F’lar turned slowly to the other Weyrleaders.

“Ista!” D’ram’s cry was a fierce, almost defiant hiss, overtaken by G’narish’s exultant “Igen” and T’bor’s enthusiastic “Southern!”

“What can we do?” cried Lord Asgenar, striding to F’lar. “Can Lemos runners and groundmen help Igen Hold now?”

F’lar lost his immobility, tightened the belt one further notch, hoping the stricture would dull the pain.

“It’s your wedding day, man. Enjoy what you can of it. D’ram, we’ll follow you. Ramoth’s already called up the Benden wings. T’bor, bring up the Southern fighters. Every man and woman who can fit on the dragons!”

He was asking for more than complete mobilization of the fighters and T’bor hesitated.

“Lessa,” for she had her arms around him now. He pushed them gently to one side. “Assist Mardra. Robinton, I need your help. Let it be known,” and he raised his voice, harsh and steely enough to be heard throughout the listening Court. “Let it be known,” and he stared down at Mardra, “that any of Fort Weyr who do not care to follow Benden’s lead must go to Southern.” He looked away before she could protest. “And that applies to any craftsman, Lord Holder or commoner, as well as dragonfolk. There isn’t much Thread in Southern to worry you. And your indifference to a common menace will not endanger others.”

Lessa was trying to undo his belt. He caught her hands tightly, ignoring her gasp as his grip hurt.

“Where was Thread seen?” he yelled up to the Igen rider still perched atop the Gate Wall.

“South!” The man’s response was an anguished appeal. “Across the bay from Keroon Hold. Across the water.”

“How long ago?”

“I’ll take you there and then!”

The ripple of cheering grew as it spread back, as people were reminded that the Weyrs would go between time itself and catch Thread, erasing the interval of time lost in the duel.

Dragonriders were moving toward beasts who were impatiently keening outside the walls. Wher-hide tunics were being thrust at riders in dress clothes. Firestone sacks appeared and flame throwers were issued. Dragons ducked to accept riders, hopping awkwardly out of the way, to launch themselves skyward. The Igen green hovered aloft, joined by D’ram and his Weyrwoman Fanna, waiting for Mnementh.