The Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey [85]
F’lar felt every muscle in his body tense as he watched the dust float to the floor.
“Where did you get so dusty?” he demanded.
F’nor regarded him with mild surprise. “Weather patrol in Tillek. Entire north has been plagued with dust storms lately. But what I came in for . . .” He broke off, alarmed by F’lar’s taut immobility. “What’s the matter with dust?” he asked in a baffled voice.
F’lar pivoted on his heel and raced for the stairs to the Record Room. Lessa was right behind him, F’nor belatedly trailing after.
“Tillek, you said?” F’lar barked at his wingsecond. He was clearing the table of stacks for the four charts he then laid out. “How long have these storms been going on? Why didn’t you report them?”
“Report dust storms? You wanted to know about warm air masses.”
“How long have these storms been going on?” F’lar’s voice crackled.
“Close to a week.”
“How close?”
“Six days ago the first storm was noticed in upper Tillek. They have been reported in Bitra, Upper Telgar, Crom, and the High Reaches,” F’nor reported tersely.
He glanced hopefully at Lessa but saw she, too, was staring at the four unusual charts. He tried to see why the horizontal and vertical strips had been superimposed on Pern’s land mass, but the reason was beyond him.
F’lar was making hurried notations, pushing first one map and then another away from him.
“Too involved to think straight, to see clearly, to understand,” the Weyrleader snarled to himself, throwing down the stylus angrily.
“You did say only warm air masses,” F’nor heard himself saying humbly, aware that he had somehow failed his Weyrleader.
F’lar shook his head impatiently.
“Not your fault, F’nor. Mine. I should have asked. I knew it was good luck that the weather held so cold.” He put both hands on F’nor’s shoulders, looking directly into his eyes. “The Threads have been falling,” he announced gravely. “Falling into cold air, freezing into bits to drift on the wind”—F’lar imitated F’nor’s finger-fluttering—“as specks of black dust.”
“ ‘Crack dust, blackdust,’ ” Lessa quoted. “In ‘The Ballad of Moreta’s Ride,’ the chorus is all about black dust.”
“I don’t need to be reminded of Moreta right now,” F’lar growled, bending to the maps. “She could talk to any dragon in the Weyrs.”
“But I can do that!” Lessa protested.
Slowly, as if he didn’t quite credit his ears, F’lar turned back to Lessa. “What did you just say?”
“I said I can talk to any dragon in the Weyr.”
Still staring at her, blinking in utter astonishment, F’lar sank down to the table top.
“How long,” he managed to say, “have you had this particular skill?”
Something in his tone, in his manner, caused Lessa to flush and stammer like an erring weyrling.
“I . . . I always could. Beginning with the watch-wher at Ruatha.” She gestured indecisively in Ruatha’s westerly direction. “And I talked to Mnemeuth at Ruatha. And . . . when I got here, I could . . .” Her voice faltered at the accusing look in F’lar’s cold, hard eyes. Accusing and, worse, contemptuous.
“I thought you had agreed to help me, to believe in me.”
“I’m truly sorry, F’lar. It never occurred to me it was of any use to anyone, but . . .”
F’lar exploded onto both feet, his eyes blazing with aggravation.
“The one thing I could not figure out was how to direct the wings and keep in contact with the Weyr during an attack, how I was going to get reinforcements and firestone in time. And you . . . you have been sitting there, spitefully hiding the . . .”
“I am NOT spiteful,” she screamed at him. “I said I was sorry. I am. But you’ve a nasty, smug habit of keeping your own counsel. How was I to know you didn’t have the same trick? You’re F’lar, the Weyrleader, you can do anything. Only you’re just as bad as R’gul because you never tell me half the things I ought to know . . .”
F’lar reached out and shook her until her angry voice was stopped.
“Enough. We can’t waste time arguing like children.” Then his eyes widened, his jaw dropped. “Waste time? That’s it.”
“Go between times?” Lessa gasped.
“Between times!