Fortunately another runner was approaching from the north, his legs pumping strongly. He came straight past the green dragon, right up to his Lord.

“Sir, the northern section is clear. Three burrows have been burned out. All is secure.”

“Good man. Well run.”

The man, flushed with praise and effort, saluted the Weyrleader and his Lord. Then, breathing deeply but without labor, he strode over to the prone messenger and began massaging his legs.

Asgenar smiled at F’lar. “There’s no point in our rehearsing arguments. We are basically in agreement. If we could just make those others see!”

Mnementh rumbled that the wings were reporting an all-clear. He so pointedly extended his foreleg that Asgenar laughed.

“That does it,” he said. “Any idea how soon before we have another Fall?”

F’lar shook his head. “F’rad is here. You ought to have seven days free. You’ll hear from me as soon as we’ve definite news.”

“You’ll be at Telgar in five days, won’t you?”

“Or Lessa will have my ears!”

“My regards to your lady.”

—

Mnementh bore him upward in an elliptical course that allowed them to make one final check of the forest lands. Wisps of smoke curled to the north and farther to the east, but Mnementh seemed unconcerned. F’lar told him to go between. The utter cold of that dimension painfully irritated the Thread scores on his face. Then they were above Benden Weyr. Mnementh trumpeted his return and hung, all but motionless, until he heard the booming response of Ramoth. At that instant, Lessa appeared on the ledge of the weyr, her slight stature diminished still further by distance. As Mnementh glided in, she descended the long flight of stairs in much the same headlong fashion for which they criticized their weyrling son, Felessan.

Reprimands were not likely to break Lessa of that habit either, thought F’lar. Then he noticed what Lessa had in her hands and rounded angrily on Mnementh. “I’m barely touched and you babble on me like a weyrling!”

Mnementh was not the least bit abashed as he backwinged to land lightly by the Feeding Ground. Thread hurts.

“I don’t want Lessa upset over nothing!”

I don’t want Ramoth angry over anything!

F’lar slid from the bronze’s neck, concealing the twinges he felt as the gritty wind from the Feeding Grounds aggravated the cold-seared lacerations. This was one of those times when the double bond between riders and dragons became a serious disadvantage. Particularly when Mnementh took the initiative, not generally a draconic characteristic.