The boys huddled together, terrified by the coldness in her voice, even if it was directed toward the Weyrleader.

“In the corridor behind the Hatching Ground. Oh, don’t fuss, Lessa. That’s all part of growing up in the Weyr, isn’t it, Lytol? I did it when I was Felessan’s age.”

“You’ve been aware of these excursions, Manora?” Lessa demanded imperiously, ignoring F’lar.

“Certainly, Weyrwoman,” Manora replied, unintimidated. “And kept track to be sure they all returned. How long ago did they set out, Gandidan? Did they play with you for a time?”

“No wonder Ramoth’s been so upset; I kept thinking she was only being broody. How could you allow such activities to continue?”

“Come now, Lessa,” F’lar said soothingly. “It’s a matter of adolescent pride,” and F’lar dropped his voice to a whisper and widened his eyes dramatically, “not to shrink from the challenge of dark, dusty corridors; dim, flickering glows. Will the glows last long enough to get us to the peekhole and back? Or will we be lost forever in the blackness of the Weyr?”

The Harper was grinning, the boys stunned and openmouthed. Lytol was not amused, however.

“How long ago, Gandidan?” Manora repeated, tipping the boy’s face up. When he seemed unable to speak, she glanced at the scared expressions of the others. “I think we’d better look. It’s easy to take the wrong turning if you have inadequate glows. And they did.”

There was no lack of searchers, and F’lar quickly split them up into sections to explore each corridor segment. Sounds echoed through halls undisturbed for hundreds of Turns. But it was not long before F’lar and Lytol led their group to the guiding light. Once they saw the figures lying in the patch of light, F’lar sent for the others.

“What’s the matter with them?” Lytol demanded, supporting his ward against him, and anxiously feeling for his pulse. “Blood?” He held up stained fingers, his face bleak, cheek a-twitch.

So, thought F’lar, Lytol’s heart had unfrozen a little. Lessa was wrong to think Lytol too numb to care for the boy. Jaxom was a sensitive boy and children needed affection, but there are many ways of loving.

F’lar gestured for more glows. He turned back the dusty linen of the boy’s shirt, baring the horizontal scratches.

“Doesn’t look to me like more than scrapes. Probably stumbled against the wall in the dark. Who’s got some numbweed on him? Don’t look like that, Lytol. The pulse is strong.”

“But he’s not asleep. He doesn’t wake.” Lytol shook the limp figure, at first gently, then more insistently.

“There isn’t a mark on Felessan,” the Weyrleader said, turning his son in his arms.