The Pattern of the Stars (1/2)

Writers: Estelle
Date Posted: 21st October 2024
Series: The Missing Wingleader

Characters: M'gan, Nirzhaya
Description: M'gan remembers a time when he made a foolish boast
Location: Dolphin Cove Weyr
Date: month 2, day 18 of Turn 12

M'gan had always been one of those riders who travelled light. When he'd
arrived at Dolphin Cove, he'd brought little more than riding gear,
leaving his cold-climate clothes and warm rugs behind in High Reaches
for another rider to use with a practical lack of sentiment. Two Turns
later, his weyr was a comfortable home, but its furnishings owed as much
to the advice of the Lower Caverns staff as his own simpler taste.

There were a few things that had stayed with him. A sketch of Isarth as
a young dragon, done by a harper friend of his mother's not long after
they'd joined the Wings, hung on the wall. When he knelt down and opened
the press at the foot of the bed, he found a scarf his wingmates had
given him on his first transfer North, now faded with exposure to the
weather. At the bottom, underneath neatly folded shirts, there was a
bundle of papers with a faintly dusty scent. Records of his transfer,
and from his Wingleaders back at Vista Point - and, before them, from
his old Weyrlingmaster. Now retired, but from what he'd heard, no less
of a terror to his successors than his charges.

He wasn't here to smile over what his superiors had once written about
him, though. Hidden between those and the transfer papers, he found a
piece of hide unlike the others. It was about the size of his hand, with
no writing. Only a pattern of dots on the upper half and lines below -
some straight, a few shaded boxes, and a long, curving double S through
the centre.

He felt Isarth's curiosity as he traced the line with a finger.
Unsurprisingly, and to his relief, the bronze did not remember. It had
been so long. Thirty-five - no, thirty-seven Turns... Soon it would be
forty, that she'd been gone.

}:I do not remember them,:{ Isarth said. }:But I know _when_ that is.:{

M'gan felt that chill again, the strange sensation that was not quite
fear and not quite excitement. Like when they'd been young, flying, and
misjudged an air current - a sudden drop through the air, the wing
formation shifting unexpectedly around them. Memories came into new
focus, like the shapes on the hide in his hands. The lines becoming
ploughed fields, a cluster of hold buildings, a Gather square by a
bridge over a winding river. It was evening, the fires were being lit
and the faint melody of a dance drifted through the night air. And above
them, the precise pattern of the stars...

*** 37 Turns ago ***

The archivist of Vista Point looked up from her work, and hid a smile as
she recognised the auburn-haired young man who'd walked in and was now
gazing around with an nervous expectation. He'd become a familiar face
over the last couple of months, even though he'd not been at all
studious before.

"Good morning, Bronzerider. How can I help?"

"Uhm, just wing records again, Master." The bronzerider looked
suspiciously neatly dressed for studying, too, though he'd had the
presence of mind to bring hides and ink this time. He wasn't quite
twenty, tall but a little awkward, still growing into his full strength
and young enough to be nervous around a girl that he liked very much.

"Well, you know where they are. Enjoy."

He nodded, flushing, and headed down the rows of shelves to the long
study tables. The archives were quiet on this summer morning; most of
the weyrfolk were at their duties, craft work, or outdoors. Threadfall
was a distant legend, only remembered in harpers' tales and the drills
that the Wings practised only to compete against each other in the
regular games. As a boy and a weyrling, he had sometimes wished he could
have lived in a Pass, fighting and perhaps even leading the Weyr against
the old enemy. These days, the most a dragonpair might hope for in the
way of heroics was rescuing a stranded herdbeast or a stuck trader
wagon. He had felt restless, bored and dissatisfied... until a recent
arrival in his wing.

He risked a quick glance at the only other occupant of the archives,
seated at the end of one of the tables, engrossed in a heavy
leather-bound tome and oblivious to his presence. When he pulled down a
folder of records at random and pulled out a chair, she looked up briefly.

"Oh, good morning, M'gan."

"Nirzhaya. Ah, good morning." He rearranged his notes, hoping he hadn't
sounded too eager. "How is Lixanth?"

"Very well." The greenrider's smile was polite. "I think we're finally
getting settled into the Wing, and she's always calmer after she rises.
Isarth?"

"Good. Disappointed," M'gan said, then immediately wished he hadn't. "I
mean, he always is when he doesn't win a green, but he'll get over
it...not that he didn't want to win, very much... Records from the
plague times again?" He gestured towards the book open before her.

If Nirzhaya noticed his swift change of subject, she was tactful enough
not to show it. "Gather records. They show up in the Weyrhold's archives
because there's a demand for dragon transport. You can guess at the
number of visitors and the size of the hold - the bigger, more
prosperous ones rated more dragons, and browns or bronzes. For each
dragon there'll be dozens more who came on foot or by runner. If I can
track the movement of people, we can understand how it spread, and
that'll help with prevention if there's another outbreak."

"Is that likely?" M'gan asked, as much to keep the conversation going as
out of concern. The last big plague had burned itself out when he'd been
only a toddler, and Vista Point hadn't been so badly affected as the holds.

"There will always be more plagues. It's one of the truths of the
healercraft." She ran her finger lightly down the page, and made a note.
"Either way, if I finish the project it should count towards earning my
senior journeywoman knots...if I can get the Weyrhealer to take an
interest. He'd rather I spent more time in the clinic."

The bronzerider nodded sympathetically, briefly enthralled by the
perfect little wrinkle of her nose. "It sounds incredibly clever.
Working all that out from Gather transport records."

"It should be. As long as some other bright spark isn't doing the exact
same at the Healer Hall." Nirzhaya pushed back a loose dark curl, an
edge of frustration in her voice. "But of course, they won't share their
research with a woman, much less a greenrider, and I'm limited to the
Weyrhold masters for supervision. I had hopes of Master Gerellos, but he
keeps frowning and comparing my duty hours to the other journeymen, when
they aren't even dragonriders. Perhaps I should have stayed at Thayan
Peak, at least it would have been closer to the action."

M'gan felt a jolt of alarm. Surely the Weyrholders wouldn't agree to a
transfer out, not so soon?

"I'm glad you came here."

"Thanks, that's nice of you to say. And I do like the Wing." She smiled,
though it all sounded no more than a courtesy response. "I just wish I
could see the Healer Hall's archives. They'd be far more complete. Or
the Holds', rather than guessing the population from transport logs when
most smaller holds never even see a dragon. But they're even less likely
to let me poke through their records."

"Maybe I could help. Bronzeriders still get some respect. Sometimes."
They weren't supposed to visit the holds unless invited, but he'd put up
with a lot worse than a lecture from his Wingleader to earn Nirzhaya and
Lixanth's respect.

"That's sweet of you, but you don't know what you're looking for. It'd
need to be a healer, or at least an archive-trained harper."

Not for the first time, M'gan regretted not taking up a Craft. "Well,
their records may not be the best, anyway. From what my parents say, it
was chaotic back then."

"Even if there aren't any records, I could ask the people. It wasn't
even twenty Turns ago, the older ones should remember what it was like
at that time. If only there weren't these stupid bans, if I could talk
to the healers who'd actually been there..."

Afterwards, M'gan could never recall what Nirzhaya had said next,
because there had been something about her choice of words that sparked
a memory. Something he'd learned in weyrling class, Turns ago now, which
had not seemed particularly useful at the time, but now struck him like
a gulp of strong klah after night watch, thrilling him with sudden energy.

"...M'gan, are you okay?"

He blinked, realised he'd been staring. "Oh - yes, sorry - I just...what
if you _could_ talk to them? Before there were any bans, or plagues?"

Her brow furrowed, in a way he found charming, too. "What do you mean?"

"What if you could go back to..." He leaned forward, trying to read the
page from her book, upside down. "That hold, on that date, and just ask
them?"

"What are you talking... Oh."

Nirzhaya regarded him with an expression that could only be described as
pitying. "That's just a story from an old ballad. Dragons can go
/between/ places, but not times. Not in real life."

"No, it's true. They can." He sat up in his chair, his voice rising.
"The Weyrlingmaster said so. It was when he was going over the duties of
bronze and brownriders."

Her lips twitched, and then to his immense chagrin, she giggled, barely
hiding it behind a hand. "M'gan. Have you considered that your
Weyrlingmaster might have been having you on? I mean, from talking to
R'nu, you and your friends caused _him_ a lot of trouble when you were
in his class."

"He was serious," the bronzerider protested, his fair skin shading into
a deep red. "He said wingriders can do it by accident, and you have to
look out for the signs. Over-tiredness, loss of concentration and focus..."

"Right." The greenrider managed to control the giggles, but merriment
still brightened her eyes. "What do you think is more likely - that time
travel is possible, or that the Weyrlingmaster decided to turn the joke
on you? He was probably waiting for you to report some hungover member
of your nine to the Wingleader." She shook her head as if she couldn't
quite believe a grown man could be so gullible. "How would that work,
anyway? What if someone went back in time and, I don't know, stopped
their own parents from meeting?"

"That's why it's dangerous. Time protects itself. Something would happen
to stop you, something not good."

She suppressed a snort. Even _that_ seemed attractive. "'Time protects
itself.' That doesn't sound like something a harper made up at all."

"It's true!" M'gan burned with shame. Had he just made a complete idiot
of himself in front of the greenrider he'd been smitten with since she'd
first walked in to their Wing's common room, her jacket slung over one
shoulder, laughing at something her companion had said? He imagined her
telling the story to their wingmates, their laughter ringing in his ears
at what he had believed.

But he was _sure_ the Weyrlingmaster had been serious. He'd warned them
about it, the same way as he'd stressed the danger of going /between/ at
all. Taking a deep breath, he spoke.

"I'll prove it."

Last updated on the November 4th 2024

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