So many things were coming back to their starting point: from fire-lizards to dragons, a circle encompassing who knows how many thousands of Turns, to the inner circle of the Old Weyrs and Benden’s resurgence.

He hoped T’ron would live; he’d enough on his conscience. Though it might be better if T’ron…He refused to consider that, in spite of the fact that he knew it would avoid another problem. And yet, if Thread could fall in Southern to be eaten by those grubs…

He wanted very much to see that distance-viewer T’ron had discovered. He groaned with a mental distress. Fandarel! How could he face him? That distance-writer had worked. It had relayed a very crucial message—faster than dragon wings! No fault of the Smith’s that his finely extruded wire could be severed by hot Thread. Undoubtedly he would overcome that flaw in an efficient way—unless he’d thrown up his hands at the idea, what with being presented with a powerful, fully operative distance-viewer to compound the day’s insults. Of all the problems undoubtedly awaiting him, he dreaded Fandarel’s reproach the most.

Below, dragonriders streamed into the Court illumined by hundreds of glow baskets, to be met and absorbed into the throng of guests. The aroma of roasted meats and succulent vegetables drifted to him on the night air, reminding him that hunger depresses any man’s spirits. He could hear laughter, shouts, music. Lord Asgenar’s wedding day would never be forgotten!

That Asgenar! Allied to Larad, a fosterling of Corman’s, he’d be of enormous assistance in executing what F’lar saw must be done among the Holder Lords.

Then he spotted the tiny figure in the gateway. Lessa! He told Mnementh to land.

About time, the bronze grumbled.

F’lar slapped his neck affectionately. The beast had known perfectly well why they’d been hovering. A man needed a few minutes to digest chaos and restore order to his thinking before he plunged into more confusions.

Mnementh agreed as he landed smoothly. He craned his neck around, his great eyes gleaming affectionately at his rider.

“Don’t worry about me, Mnementh!” F’lar murmured in gratitude and love, stroking the soft muzzle. There was a faint odor of firestone and smoke though they’d done little flaming. “Are you hungry?”

Not yet. Telgar feeds enough tonight. Mnementh launched himself toward the fire ridge above the Hold, where the perching dragons made black, regular crags against the darkening sky, their jeweled eyes gleaming down on the festal activities.

F’lar laughed aloud at Mnementh’s consideration. It was true that Lord Larad was stinting nothing, though his guest list had multiplied four-fold. Supplies had been flown in but Telgar Hold bore the brunt of it.