Exuberantly, he pulled Lessa into position, all but holding her head down to the eyepiece. “If you can’t see clearly, move this knob until you can.”

Lessa complied, but with a startled exclamation, jumped back. Robinton stepped up before F’lar could.

“But that’s fantastic,” the Harper muttered, playing with the knobs and quickly taking a comparative look at the actual hair.

“May I?” asked F’lar so pointedly that Robinton grinned an apology for his monopoly.

Taking his place, F’lar in turn had to check the specimen to believe in what he saw through the instrument. The strand of hair became a coarse rope, motes of dust sparkling in the light along it, fine lines making visible segmentation points.

When he lifted his head, he turned toward Fandarel, speaking softly because he almost dared not utter this fragile hope aloud.

“If there are ways of making tiny things this large, are there ways of bringing distant objects near enough to observe closely?”

He heard Lessa’s breath catch, was aware that Robinton was holding his, but F’lar begged the Smith with his eyes to give him the answer he wanted to hear.

“I believe there ought to be,” Fandarel said after what seemed to be hours of reflection.

“F’lar?”

He looked down at Lessa’s white face, her startled eyes black with awe and fear, her hands half-raised in frightened protest.

“You can’t go to the Red Star!” Her voice was barely audible.

He captured her hands, cold and tense, and though he drew her to him reassuringly, he spoke more to the others.

“Our problem, gentlemen, has always been to get rid of Thread. Why not at its source? A dragon can go anywhere if he’s got a picture of where he’s going!”

—

When Jaxom woke, he was instantly aware that he was not in the Hold. He opened his eyes bravely, scared though he was, expecting darkness. Instead, above him was a curving roof of stone, its expanse sparkling from the full basket of glows in its center. He gave an inarticulate gasp of relief.

“Are you all right, lad? Does your chest hurt?” Manora was bending over him.

“You found us? Is Felessan all right?”

“Right as rain, and eating his dinner. Now, does your chest hurt?”

“My chest?” His heart seemed to stop when he remembered how he got that injury. But Manora was watching him. He felt cautiously. “No, thank-you-for-inquiring.”

His stomach further embarrassed him with its grinding noises.

“I think you need some dinner, too.”

“Then Lytol’s not angry with me? Or the Weyrleader?” he dared to ask.

Manora gave him a fond smile, smoothing down his tousled hair.

“Not to worry, Lord Jaxom,” she said kindly. “A stern word or two perhaps. Lord Lytol was beside himself with worry.”

Jaxom had the most incredible vision of two Lytols side by side, cheeks a-twitch in unison.