Dragongirl

TWENTY

Xhinna blearily rubbed her eyes as one of the youngsters whimpered beside her, clearly disturbed by a bad dream. She saw that it was little Darri and moved herself close enough to touch the youngster’s head, crooning, “It’s all right, it’s all right.”

Darri rolled her head away from Xhinna’s hand with a soft sigh as the dream lost its grip on her.

Xhinna spared a fond look for the little girl and then her expression darkened into a frown as she wished that events of the past twelve days could be as easily forgotten.

Sixty-six! That was the total fighting strength of the Weyr at this moment. There were nearly as many injured, but only the thirty-five least wounded could be expected to fight again in the next thirty days.

In the past two Falls, the strength of the Weyr had fallen by more than a full Wing.

Xhinna heard others muttering darkly that Telgar was unlucky, that it was taking a far greater strain than the other Weyrs, that timing it was killing dragon and rider. There was a certain truth in that last moan; it was evident that timing it left both dragon and rider more exhausted and less able to fight a Fall than those who didn’t time it.

The second Fall, the last one over Igen, had been the worse of the two last Falls, causing twenty-one casualties, including ten lost—the majority of the losses occurring when the fighting dragons timed it back to fight again.

Xhinna wondered how anyone could force themselves to jump back in time knowing already that it would mean their death. But the brave words of B’len were echoed time and again by dragonriders, bright-eyed with repressed sorrow as they assured themselves and their lovers that it was for the best; that they were glad to actually know it was their time, that they were glad to have a chance to give a proper farewell.

Xhinna wasn’t sure if T’mar’s practice of allowing enough time between the original fight and the timed return to the Fall made it easier or harder for the riders. Clearly, resting up from a Fall was important, but she wondered if it really helped the riders who knew that they were leaping back in time to their death.

Darri stirred again and Xhinna absently hummed a little melody to ease the child back to sleep even as her eyes darted to the entrance of the darkened Hatching Grounds; she could just make out the first gloaming of morning. She would have to get up soon. Carefully she schooled her worries away, knowing that the little ones would be looking to her for guidance.

She heard Taria stir beside her and smiled; perhaps there would be time for a quick, heartening cuddle before the work of the day overtook them. But Taria was in no cuddling mood, her eyes suddenly going wide as she sprang up, crying, “Get up! Get up! They’re Hatching!”

“Quickly, quickly, put this on!” Fiona urged as she threw the white robes toward Kindan and immediately busied herself dressing him.

“We can manage,” Lorana called from the bed, rolling over and sitting upright with some difficulty. At just over twenty weeks, Lorana’s belly was only beginning to show a bulge with her pregnancy, but she was careful not to jostle the baby and handled her movements protectively. “You go on!”

Fiona needed no further encouragement and tore out of her quarters, through the Weyr Bowl, and into the Hatching Grounds, telling Talenth, I’m coming!

T’mar met her at the entrance, reaching up a hand to point at the cluster of white robes she still had thrown over her shoulder. “What are these for?”

“I’m not sure that Xhinna or Taria got theirs,” Fiona said. She looked around hastily, licking her lips. “And if I can snatch Bekka, I’ll set her out there, too.”

“So you’ve—what?—five girls on the grounds for twenty-one eggs?”

“And thirty boys,” Fiona corrected him archly.

“What about Kindan?”

“That’s including him,” she said as he reached over and grabbed the robes off her shoulder, shifting them from one hand to the other so that he could guide her toward the stands.

“No,” Fiona said, shaking him off, “I want to be down here.”

T’mar gave her a surprised look. “Breaking more Traditions?”

“I’m going to be with Talenth,” she said, snatching the robes back out of his hand. “You head up to the stands and talk nicely to the Holders.”

A roar from Talenth affirmed Fiona’s choice, so T’mar, still shaking his head ruefully, made his way up to the stands even as his Weyrwoman moved toward the clump of eggs nearest her queen.

Fiona reached Talenth’s side as soon as she’d handed out the last of the robes and turned back to stare out across the clutch of eggs toward the light of the Weyr Bowl with an air of fierce possessiveness.

“You were great,” Fiona said aloud as she patted Talenth and felt herself glow with pride as the first cracks appeared in the nearest egg.

A dragonet burst forth, creeling anxiously, and looked in Fiona’s direction.

“That way!” Fiona called, pointing to the waiting Candidates. Talenth bugled in agreement. With another cry, the dragonet awkwardly scrambled out of its shell and wobbled off, skirting the other eggs and searching, neck craning one way and then the other, searching for its mate.

Fiona felt the dragons’ hum grow to a higher pitch as the little dragonet and her new rider found each other with an exclamation of joy. Another egg cracked, and another, and suddenly the Hatching Grounds were filled with creeling, red-eyed, anxious dragonets searching for their mates.

Fiona shouted encouragement to each and every one, lost in the thrill of the moment, and cheered with each Impression.

One green stood in front of Taria creeling anxiously while the youngster waved her away.

“She’s yours!” Fiona shouted. “What’s her name?”

Taria looked toward the Weyrwoman, straightened her shoulders and looked back at the green in front of her, gingerly reaching out a hand to touch the green’s snout even as her own face burst with a look of pure joy. She cried back, “Coranth!”

Finally there were only two eggs left. One was rocking, the other seemed quiescent. Talenth craned her neck over to the still one and wailed.

“Maybe …” Fiona began, wondering how to gently tell her queen her fear that the egg was stillborn.

He needs help! Talenth leaped forward, her jaws agape. She bit at the egg gingerly with her fangs, just breaking the surface. From inside, a creel erupted and then a beak could be seen tearing away at the inner membrane.

Meanwhile, the other shell had torn open and a brown dragonet squirmed out of it, frantically searching for its mate.

“Help him!” Fiona cried, rushing forward to join her queen in freeing the still-struggling blue. Her words were unheard over the din of the creeling brown and the remaining Candidates were distracted by the din.

“He needs help!” Fiona shouted again, looking around frantically even as she reached the egg and bunched her hands into fists to pummel at the hard shell. She spied someone in the distance and shouted, “Xhinna!”

Startled, the girl looked her way and then raced over as Fiona beckoned urgently with one hand while still working away with the other. The blue, eager to escape his shell, nipped her and Fiona snarled back, “I’m trying to help you!”

Xhinna appeared opposite, her eyes darting fretfully to the gash on Fiona’s hand and back to the sharp teeth of the dragonet. She hesitated only an instant, even in the knowledge that he might deal her the same injury, before diving in and pounding and kicking the shell to release the trapped dragonet.

“Come on, come on, you can do it!” Xhinna cried as sweat burst forth from her brow from the speed and strength of her exertions.

Fiona paused, eyes widening as she looked at the desperate girl and the desperate blue …

Xhinna must have felt her gaze for she stopped in her efforts and lifted her eyes to the Weyrwoman in surprise. “But blues are for boys!”

“What’s his name?” Fiona asked her softly, even as she moved forward to gently stroke the wings and back of the dragonet.

Xhinna dodged the answer, looking around frantically for any free Candidate. The blue creeled in a tone mixed with urgency and despair. Xhinna stopped her head in its frantic arc and slowly looked back at the blue.

“But I’m a girl!”

“I don’t think he cares,” Fiona said softly. Xhinna looked up at her, her expression a mix of horror and hope as Fiona repeated the ancient question, “What’s his name, blue rider?”

“Tazith,” Xhinna replied quietly, raising her arms once more to tear apart the shell. She took a deep breath and started smashing the shell open with all the fierceness of a mother protecting her child—or a rider fighting for her dragon.

“Louder,” Fiona called back, gesturing to the great expanse beyond them.

“His name is Tazith!” Xhinna shouted, turning her head back so that her words could echo strongly across the sands.

“Good, blue rider,” Fiona said, grinning at her friend. “Now let’s get him out of this shell.”

“No, you’re not!” Fiona declared firmly. She glanced from Lorana toward Kindan. “I completely understand your desire, Kindan, but Lorana will stay here. She needs her rest and you aren’t going to be getting any for the first fortnight at the least, probably the first two months.”

“Well, you’re too small to keep her warm,” Kindan returned hotly. “And who’s going to help her sore back?”

“T’mar,” Fiona told him simply. She raised a hand imperiously as both partners drew breath for hot retorts. “He’s large enough to keep us both warm and he’s got good hands—” a smile flicked across her face “—I can assure you.”

Kindan gave her a mulish look and opened his mouth to argue, but she beat him to it. “It’s settled, Weyrlingmaster.”

From his look, however, it was clear that it was not settled and Fiona’s choice of title was inappropriate. She held up both hands placatingly. “T’mar’s honorable, Kindan,” she told him in a softer tone. “Let him honor Lorana and help your child grow in a calm environment.”

Kindan snorted, his eyebrows twitching with humor. “If I was hoping for a calm environment, I couldn’t imagine you as part of it.”

Fiona gave him a hurt look which was compounded by defensive noises from Lorana.

“All right, all right!” Kindan declared, raising his own hands in capitulation. “I’ll grant that T’mar is honorable and that my place is with the weyrlings although, to be honest, with Xhinna on hand, I’m not at all certain that they’ve any need of me.”

“Xhinna is good with children, not dragonets.”

“But still,” and Kindan raised a hand to indicate that he hadn’t finished making his point, “I don’t see why Jeila couldn’t stay with you, after all—”

“She’s smaller than I am, Kindan,” Fiona said, stamping a foot impatiently.

“And she’ll soon need all the cosseting she can get.” Fiona regretted her choice of words and went on quickly to cover her gaffe. “Tolarth’s clutch will hatch next week, after all.” Kindan gave her a dubious look.

“It’s too early to say for certain,” Fiona told him, remembering that “nothing is ever kept long from a harper’s hearing” and guessing that he’d already heard rumors of Jeila’s pregnancy.

“Even so,” Fiona persisted, “Lorana’s going to need strong arms to help her up morning and evening.”

“And while we both expect and hope those arms will be yours,” Lorana added smoothly, “I think we all have to recognize that you might not always be available.”

“This is my child we’re talking about,” Kindan said, still not entirely pleased.

“This is our child,” Fiona corrected. “We will raise him together, all three—four—of us.”

“You’ve mentioned this to T’mar?” Kindan asked, eyebrows arched high.

“Not … officially,” Fiona temporized. Kindan’s expression deepened. “I told him that he was to expect to provide lots of aid and support as he would need the practice.”

“Wouldn’t it simply be easier for you to stay with T’mar and Lorana with me, then?” Kindan asked in a reasonable tone.

“No,” Fiona said in a small voice. “T’mar will have duties that keep him out at all hours, and so will you and I can’t sleep alone!”

A smile played across Kindan’s lips. “I remember that,” he said softly, turning toward Lorana to explain. “She used to invent every excuse to crawl in with me when she was little.”

“And if not you, then someone,” Fiona said. She gave them a troubled look as if weighing whether to relay a deep confidence and then admitted, “I’ve always wanted a large family.”

Kindan nodded slowly, glancing quickly to Lorana who was herself nodding in agreement. He had come from a large family himself and while he never recalled the times he shared his bed with two brothers fondly, he could understand how a young survivor of the Plague that had swept through Pern twelve Turns back would feel the need of the comforting warmth of others. How was it, he wondered even as he realized that once again he would relent to Fiona’s whims, that such a young person could possess such a forceful personality?

“And lots of kids,” Lorana added, her eyes reflecting Fiona’s quiet fervor.

“I’m a good sharer,” Fiona said to Lorana hopefully. Lorana nodded and smiled back at the younger woman.

“You are at that.”

“Good,” Fiona said with a firm nod, grinning up at Kindan. “Because now I’m going to share with you two the joy of explaining the new arrangements to T’mar!”

“Look at this shell,” T’mar said, tossing a chunk of egg to Kindan as he, Fiona, and Lorana entered his quarters minutes later. Kindan made the catch easily and glanced down at the proffered shard for a long moment before looking back up again to the Weyrleader. At a gesture from Lorana, the harper passed the piece over.

“It’s thick,” Lorana said after a moment, glancing up to Kindan and T’mar to see if they agreed. She passed the piece to Fiona. “This was from Tazith’s egg?”

“No,” T’mar said, reaching for another, even thicker shard of egg. “This is.”

Kindan cocked his head thoughtfully, gesturing for T’mar to pass him the piece. “Mmm, much thicker.”

Fiona peered up from her inspection of the first piece and craned her head over the piece the harper held. “I can see why he had such a hard time breaking out.”

“I’m surprised more didn’t have trouble,” T’mar said, his lips pursed tautly. Lorana and Kindan exchanged a troubled look.

“You think this might have something to do with the cure?” Fiona asked.

“It certainly seems the case,” Kindan said reluctantly. Beside him, Lorana nodded, her face bearing a glum expression.

“You two!” Fiona snorted. “It’s as well you’ve agreed to be separated or you’d take responsibility for all of Pern’s woes!”

“She’s right,” T’mar said, raising a hand to forestall Kindan’s protests. “Oh, it could well be an unwanted effect from the cure, but it could also be a desired effect or even a result of merely having the cure.”

“How so?” Lorana asked.

“I could see that Wind Blossom might have decided that the shells would need extra protection,” T’mar said, hefting the thicker shell. “I imagine this would be proof against most Thread.”

Something in his words caused Fiona’s eyes to light with interest but they dimmed again as he continued, “Of course, it’s also possible that Talenth had eaten enough shell material to make thicker shells or that, as a result of her recovering from the sickness, she had extra shell material.”

“If that were the case, queens who weren’t sick would make normal eggs,” Kindan said.

“And as Talenth is the first queen to clutch, we won’t know one way or another for the next sevenday,” T’mar said. He glanced at the other three, brows narrowing as he added, “It is certain that the clutches will hatch next week, isn’t it?”

“The Records all agree,” Fiona said. “The time from mating to clutching is variable, but the time from clutching to Hatching is always five weeks.”

“I imagine if the sands were colder it might be longer,” Kindan said.

“Or shorter if hotter,” Fiona agreed with a shrug.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Lorana said, cocking her head at Kindan and intoning:“Count three months and more,

And five heated weeks,A day of glory and

In a month, who seeks?”

“That is what the Teaching Ballads say,” Kindan agreed.

T’mar frowned, saying, “I’m not sure I understand them, even now.”

Kindan gave him an expectant look, so the Weyrleader continued, “Well, it seems that the three months and more is the time from mating to clutching, correct?”

“That’s how I learned it,” Kindan said.

“And so the five heated weeks would be the time the eggs are on the Hatching Grounds,” T’mar said.

“All the Records I’ve read agree on that,” Fiona told him, clearly wondering what he was getting at.

“And, ‘A day of glory’ refers to Impression, doesn’t it?” T’mar asked, keeping his attention on Kindan. The harper nodded. “So then, what’s the last part mean: ‘And in a month, who seeks?’”

“I’ve always thought that referred to the time when a queen could rise again,” Fiona said quietly, not surprised to feel heat rising from her cheeks.

“It seems out of place, though, doesn’t it?” T’mar persisted. “Why bring that up when the rest of the verse is about eggs and Impression?”

Kindan thought it over and nodded. “I hadn’t really thought on it too much, as no one’s ever questioned it before.”

“It all seemed to make sense,” T’mar said. “And,” he added with an apologetic grin, “we’re all used to the way harpers take license with the truth.”

“Anything to keep a rhyme,” Fiona said with a sardonic look at Kindan.

“But what else could it mean?” Lorana asked, recalling her own memories of Arith. “Unless that it refers to the time a weyrling can fly.”

“Perhaps,” T’mar said, not sounding convinced. He dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand, saying, “Well, I was just wondering. It’s not something that should concern us at the moment.”

“Nor should thick shells,” Fiona asserted, “especially when we’ve only the one clutch—and Talenth’s first, at that—to gauge by.”

“If Tolarth’s clutch is the same, then we’ll have to reconsider,” T’mar said.

“In the meantime,” Fiona said, “what are you going to do about the next Fall?”

T’mar’s face darkened and he shook his head.

“Fort’s the strongest, they could loan us a Wing,” Fiona suggested.

“They’ve less than five Wings.”

“And we have little more than two,” Fiona said. She cocked her head at him consideringly. “You’re not thinking of timing it with just two Wings, are you?”

“It may come to that.”

“But not now!”

“It might be better to find out now, rather than later,” T’mar said.

“Only if you’ve got support arranged beforehand,” Fiona retorted quickly. She gave him another suspicious look, then declared, “You’ve talked with K’lior!”

“I have,” T’mar admitted, nodding. “I’ve discussed it with H’nez as well.”

“So that explains the strange looks he was giving you this evening!”

“Partly,” T’mar said. Fiona eyed him again and shook her head in exasperated admiration, saying, “He had some suggestions regarding our casualties, did he?”

T’mar’s expression betrayed him and Fiona’s temper flared up and she shouted, “As if he could do any better!”

T’mar raised a hand in a calming gesture but it was pointless.

“Telgar’s going to take more casualties than the other Weyrs because Telgar is fighting over a greater area than the other Weyrs.”

“Not that much,” T’mar said.

“Enough,” Fiona said, glancing at Kindan for agreement. Reluctant to be drawn into the argument, Kindan cleared his throat before saying, “Telgar and Benden tie at six Falls each cycle for the greatest number of Falls.”

“Things would be different if Igen were flying.”

“There are still not enough dragons, no matter how many Weyrs you put them in,” Fiona said.

“It doesn’t matter,” T’mar said, giving Fiona a quelling look. “I’m the Weyrleader—”

“Until Talenth rises again!” Fiona snorted angrily.

“—and I’ve made the best decision I can,” T’mar finished, acknowledging her interjection with a sad nod. “As it stands, Telgar has the greatest experience in timing it and our dragons and riders are trained the best in coping with it.

“I felt that it would be more dangerous to introduce a new wing into our ranks, given that we would probably have to time it even with their numbers, so I decided we would perform the experiment.”

“And how many will die in this experiment?” Fiona demanded hotly, then quickly brought her hand up to her face in horror, her eyes wide with guilt and sorrow. “T’mar, I’m sorry! That was uncalled for!”

“Fewer perhaps than would die the other way,” T’mar responded, his voice cold with anger. “Although, as we’ll be certainly fighting twice, the chances of your needing a new Weyrleader are clearly doubled.”

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” Fiona growled, then offhandedly said to T’mar, “Not you, me. I should never have said anything of the like; it’s only that I am worried about you.” She caught his eyes with hers and added in a softer voice, “I’m afraid that you’ll make the mistake B’nik made.”

“He hasn’t made the mistake yet,” T’mar said, reaching up a hand to accept her apology. His eyes narrowed as he continued half to himself, “In fact, it might not even be him.”

“I thought you said you recognized him?”

“Not him,” T’mar replied with a quick shake of his head, “his jacket.” He took a breath and continued, “I saw the Benden Weyrleader’s jacket quite clearly before the Thread consumed it.”

“Well, I couldn’t imagine B’nik just giving that away!”

“No, I couldn’t, either,” T’mar admitted. “But it could be possible that a different person inherited it.”

“Not as long as Tullea’s senior!” Kindan said, chuckling.

“Indeed,” T’mar said. “But until it happens, we won’t really know who wore the Benden Weyrleader’s jacket when it did happen.”

“But it seems fair to guess that whoever was wearing it was the Benden Weyrleader,” Kindan said. “Even if this Weyrleader is from the distant future, he was still destroyed by Thread.”

“And just as true if it really was B’nik,” T’mar said. “But my point is that we don’t know when this will happen, when some future B’nik jumps between to save us—after saving M’tal beforehand.”

“Although, with our numbers so low, it could be soon,” Fiona said with a grim look.

“It could be,” T’mar said. “But it gives me hope that perhaps we can survive longer before that day comes to hand.”

“Long enough for our weyrlings to grow to fighting strength?”

T’mar shrugged at the notion but Fiona could tell he was hopeful.

“So …” Fiona began slowly, “because B’nik’s not dead yet, you’re hoping that this will somehow mean that you won’t die when you fly the same Fall twice, am I right?”

T’mar’s hopeful look faded as he stammered, “I wasn’t quite looking at it that way.”

T’mar was not completely surprised when Fiona arranged for Kindan to stay with Lorana that night with only the thin excuse, “Xhinna needs a chance to prove herself.”

Nor was he surprised to be awoken by her quietly slipping into his bed not much later.

“If you are going to get yourself killed, bronze rider, then I’m going to need something to remember you by,” Fiona told him firmly. As his lips quirked up in a smile, she added severely, “And more than just one good night.”

She put actions to her words and gave herself so completely and demanded so much of him that neither was in doubt afterward of the nature of the gift, the willingness with which it had been given, nor the love with which it had been received.

Later, in the afterglow, Fiona propped her head on one arm and told him, “And when you come back, you’re to make more time for Shaneese.” She smiled as she plumbed the depths of his expression. “As I told Lorana, I share. And I plan to get all the help raising children I can.”

Wisely, Telgar’s Weyrleader said nothing.

“You came back, you came back!” Fiona cried flinging herself into T’mar’s arms two days later as they returned from their first round of flying the Fall.

“We still have to fly again,” T’mar warned her.

“But you’ll come back from that, too,” Fiona said, gesturing toward Lorana in the distance, before burying herself once more against his chest. “She knows.”

“I see,” T’mar said, hugging her back tightly. He pushed her away gently, his eyes filled with pain as he asked, “And does she know how many we’ve lost?”

“Yes,” Fiona replied, equally grim, casting her eyes upward to avoid meeting his. “Seven lost—two now, five more when you go back. Three severely injured and five moderately injured in addition to more than the usual number of scrapes, cuts, and near-misses.”

“How did she take it?”

Fiona raised a hand, gesturing toward the distant figures of Lorana and Kindan as they went from rider to rider.

“She’s taking it well,” Fiona said. She moved away from the Weyrleader, adding, “I’m going to make my farewells.”

T’mar let her go with a solemn nod; he needed to rest a moment before he went to speak with those riders he knew wouldn’t be returning.

“Here, drink this!” a voice piped up beside him. He looked toward it and saw Shaneese proferring a large mug of steaming klah. “Fiona said you’d need it.”

“She’s right,” T’mar agreed wholeheartedly, taking a long draught of the warming liquid. He gave Shaneese a quizzical look as he swallowed. When he found his breath, he said, “You’ve added something.”

“A bit of spice,” Shaneese agreed. “Nutmeg, it gives it a special kick.”

“It’s very good,” T’mar said and, recalling Fiona’s words, gave the headwoman a very grateful smile. “It’s clear that you show proper respect for a Weyrleader!”

“I certainly try,” Shaneese replied, a smile dimpling her face. She glanced around to distant throngs of riders and dragons, adding, “I know that the Weyrwoman sometimes gets too … involved to notice such matters.”

“Usually she’s very good,” T’mar said in agreement, “but sometimes she lets her youth carry her away.” He smiled down at the dusky-skinned headwoman. “I’m pleased to see that you are so able to alleviate her deficiencies.”

“She and I try to work as a team,” Shaneese said, glancing up shyly at the Weyrleader.

“Together, I’m sure you’re more than the sum of your parts,” T’mar said, draining his mug and holding it apologetically to the headwoman. “I’m afraid it’s all gone.”

“Oh, there’s plenty more where it came from,” Shaneese said, turning toward the Kitchen Caverns. “Shall I get you some?”

“Maybe later,” T’mar said. “We’ve another Fall—rather the same one again—to ride.” He smiled. “And when I get back, I fear I shall be too weary to do much more than crawl into bed.”

“I’ll see to it that hot stones are ready for you,” Shaneese offered.

“I’m sure you’ll be just as busy and weary as I will,” T’mar allowed, his senses not so dull that he couldn’t detect the double meaning. “I’d hate to think of delaying you from your bed just for that.”

“It would be no trouble.”

“I could ask Fiona to bring them with her to bed,” T’mar said, wondering how far to push this exchange.

“That would be difficult for her, as I understand she’s decided to sleep in the Hatching Grounds to keep Tolarth and Jeila company,” Shaneese said. “She suggested you would be too tired to put up with her this evening.”

“She did, did she?” T’mar said. “And she thought I’d appreciate a cold bed by myself?”

“No,” Shaneese said, her lips curving upward in a smile.

“Well, if she’s not going to be there and you’re going to bring the hot stones, I see no reason for you to have to traipse across the cold Weyr Bowl back to your quarters by yourself.”

“I really couldn’t ask you to escort me back after flying two Falls,” Shaneese demurred.

“And I,” T’mar confessed, “couldn’t imagine myself capable.” He paused as if in thought. “But if you’ll be so kind as to bring the hot stones, then—if you don’t mind—you could just as easily rest with me.” He added quickly, “Not that I’ll be much company, with two Falls flown.” He held up a cautioning hand as he added, “I’ll probably snore.”

“Fiona says that your snores are cute,” Shaneese said, grinning. Her grin faded as she added, “I’d like to hear them.”

“Then, if you wish, you shall,” T’mar told her, placing a hand on her shoulder companionably.

“I’ll look forward to it,” the headwoman said, her face blossoming with a grin that again showed her marvelous dimples.

“Now, I’d best be about my duties,” she said, turning away and gently removing the hand he’d placed on her shoulder, her own grasp lingering for a moment before she let him go. “I’d hate for people to say I was monopolizing you.”

“Of course,” T’mar allowed with a smile of his own. Much refreshed, he turned to survey the rest of the group in the Weyr Bowl. The riders and dragons were a small knot nearly lost in the growing dusk.

Small, T’mar thought grimly, and soon to be smaller. His eyes sought out the slim form of Fiona. He spotted her and saw that she was looking in his direction. He waved at her, smiling.

That girl takes on entirely too much to herself, he mused. And yet, he had to admit that now he was looking forward to his return from the Fall in a way he would not have expected—and he owed it to her forethought and caring. He raised his hand to his mouth and expansively blew her a kiss. Fiona theatrically caught the kiss, clasped it to her breast, held her hand there while raising her other hand to her lips and returning the gesture to him in the grandest style.

If anything were to happen to her, I don’t know what I’d do, T’mar thought grimly.

You’d survive, Zirenth responded, surprising T’mar, who’d believed that he’d kept his thought to himself. He got a glimmer of feeling from his bronze and the chord resonated with him: She’ll see to that.

Is that why, T’mar mused, his heart suddenly going cold, she arranged this evening with Shaneese?

True to his word, T’mar practically stumbled into his bed that evening when he returned from the Fall. He was extremely grateful that Shaneese was there and quickly demolished all her attempts to leave him alone. He was glad that he did; the headwoman was older and more mature in the ways of people than Fiona, but she was nearly the same size while more pleasantly rounded. Her brilliant eyes and bright teeth shown in her dark face with an intensity that Fiona’s blue eyes and tanned skin would never realize, but there was a similarity between the two that T’mar couldn’t identify in his exhaustion.

“Thank you,” he said a moment later as Shaneese rubbed his back with a warm oiled stone. “I didn’t think about that.”

“Fiona suggested it,” Shaneese murmured quietly.

“She suggested the whole evening,” T’mar grumbled. He felt Shaneese stiffen for a moment and then she continued moving the oiled stone over his sore muscles. She sighed, and T’mar turned his head back to cast her an inquiring glance.

“Can you love more than one person?” she asked him softly, her hands not pausing in their work.

“Yes,” T’mar said. He thought for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “It takes time and effort and caring but it can be done. Fiona does it.”

“Fiona is a world unto herself.”

“No,” T’mar replied slowly, “not really.” He felt the headwoman’s surprise and added, “She doesn’t even want to be her own world; she wants all of us in it and she’ll do whatever is required to make that so.”

Shaneese thought on that, moving the oiled stone to another tight spot and rubbing.

“She snares people in her delusions,” she suggested at last.

“No, honestly, I think she inspires them to share her dreams.”

“Even now?” Shaneese asked, her question encompassing all the pain and loss that Telgar and every Weyr had endured since the beginning of the Third Pass.

“Particularly now,” T’mar replied. He thought for a moment, adding, “She is not without limits. I know that she’s afraid and that she hurts—”

“I’ve seen that, too.”

“—but as long as she can keep her spirits up, she’ll keep our spirits up,” T’mar finished. “She knows that if we lose hope, we’ll lose everything.”

“And so she arranged for me to be here tonight to keep up your hopes?” Shaneese asked with a trace of irritation creeping into her voice.

“No,” T’mar replied, “I think she expects that to come in the morning.” He turned over and grabbed the stone from her hand, dropping it back into the basket at the side of his bed as he gestured for her to lie down, telling her with a mischievous grin, “And for that, you’ll need your rest.”

Shaneese closed her eyes for a while and then opened them when she was certain he was asleep. She could see his eyelids flutter and his mouth work in silent pain as his dreams replayed the events of the last Fall. A feeling of tenderness overwhelmed her and she ran her hand across his cheek, stroking him out of his nightmare and back into relaxed slumber. She looked at him as he slipped into a deeper sleep and then laid her head beside his.

Weyrwoman, I accept, she thought as his slow breathing turned into gentle snores.

“What are you doing here?” Kindan’s voice betrayed his surprise as he spied Fiona curled up on the warm sands of the Hatching Grounds.

“Waiting for you,” Fiona replied with a smile, taking great enjoyment in the harper’s increased surprise.

“I was just shooing—”

“—the shell-seekers,” Fiona finished for him, her brows furrowing in confusion. “I’ve never quite understood the logic …”

“It’s complicated,” Kindan agreed, turning back to herd the last of the weyrling riders out of the Hatching Grounds and back to their beds. Fiona waited patiently, carefully settling the most disturbed knot of youngsters who were camped out near Tolarth’s clutch. She was satisfied with them pretending to sleep, knowing that they would soon bubble up again, their excitement overwhelming their fatigue. Fiona smiled; she hadn’t guessed that the first Hatching would increase the interest the younglings had in the second clutch. She suspected that Shaneese or any of the older weyrfolk could have told her but Shaneese—Fiona’s face lit with a wicked grin—was otherwise indisposed at the moment, or at least so she hoped, and all the other weyrfolk were probably too busy with their anticipated joy at the Weyrwoman’s discomfort. That they were wrong in their assessment pleased Fiona even more; she liked children and enjoyed their wide-eyed excitement, breathless babbling, and the sheer joy they brought to every activity.

“Complicated, you said?” Fiona murmured to Kindan several minutes later as he, having finally seen off the last of the weyrlings, made ready to head back to the weyrling barracks himself.

“Complicated,” Kindan agreed, willing to put off his next duty for a moment. He frowned, gesturing toward the children. “And why is it, Weyrwoman, that you are in charge of this brood?”

“It’s part of a deal with Xhinna and Taria,” Fiona said, adding quickly, “So what about this seeking egg shards is complicated?”

Kindan shrugged. “First, it depends upon the seeker.”

Fiona raised an eyebrow politely and Kindan’s lips curved upward as he acknowledged her restrained response.

“For those who’ve Impressed, the purpose is obvious: The shard represents a memento, a good luck piece,” he explained. Fiona nodded in understanding, then flicked her eyes for him to continue. “For those who didn’t Impress, it’s more like a promise, a token of a future possibility.”

“So did you take a piece?”

“No,” Kindan replied, shaking his head. Fiona gave him an inquiring look. “I have pieces of Kisk’s egg and pieces of Valla’s egg; I think I’ve got all the tokens I need.”

Fiona reached into her vest pocket and pulled out a shard, grabbing one of his hands with her other and placing the shard in his hand, clasping both hands around his and forcing his fingers to close.

“Then this is for you,” she said. Kindan’s brows twitched and he pulled his hand out of her grasp, holding up the piece to the light.

“It’s a blue shard, from Tazith’s shell,” Kindan said as he examined it. His blue eyes looked down to meet hers. “Are you saying that I should set my hopes on a blue?”

Fiona chuckled, shaking her head. “No, I’m saying that you should consider that some shells are harder than others.” She took a quick darting step toward him and stood on her tiptoes to rap him gently on the skull. “But that doesn’t mean there won’t be a hatchling coming forth.”

Kindan met her twinkling eyes with a dour expression. “It’s also possible that not all eggs hatch.”

“That’s an old saying,” Fiona agreed. “But it refers to chickens and other fowl, not dragons.”

Kindan snorted softly at the correction. He glanced around, noticing Talenth curled up in the distance for the first time, and glanced meaningfully in her direction.

“Talenth decided to keep Tolarth company,” Fiona explained. In a whisper she added, “I think it might have more to do with the hot sands, personally.” Fiona turned to Talenth and, impulsively, back to Kindan, grabbing his hand and tugging him after her. “Maybe you should try it, it’s good for muscles.”

“But—”

“Xhinna will take care of the weyrlings,” Fiona told him, carefully keeping her face away from him lest her expression reveal that that was part of her plan.

Much later, as they lay in a quiet sheltered spot that had, Kindan noted, been both carefully chosen and carefully prepared, he muttered to himself, “Good for the muscles!”

“I didn’t say which,” Fiona purred in response, nuzzling up close against him.

A short while later, as Kindan was still trying to decide whether he was glad, angry, or bemused over the whole thing, Fiona rolled over and sat up, staring down at him sleepy-eyed. “You’ve got to go,” she told him, her tone half-sad, half-firm.

“Go?”

“Lorana needs someone to be with her, too, you know,” Fiona said, her eyes losing focus as they peered unseeing into the distance. She glanced back at Kindan and turned to the pile of clothes nearby, pulling out his trousers and sliding them toward him.

“Lorana—” Kindan began in protest but Fiona cut him off.

“—she needs someone to be with her, Kindan, nothing more,” she said chidingly. “I’ve got to watch the weyrfolk here.”

Fiona pulled on a night tunic and snaked a pair of sandals—neither of which Kindan had seen her wearing previously, he noted with some amusement—and then hustled him into getting dressed.

“I’ll walk you to the exit,” she told him, adding a quick kiss and intertwining the fingers of one hand with his.

“What if some of the children see us?”

“Well, those who are old enough to know probably don’t care—and they’re not here, most likely—and the rest are too interested in the eggs to notice us,” Fiona decided with an easy twinkle in her eyes. “Besides, I like children and I’ve discovered I’m pretty good at distracting them when they ask awkward questions.”

“That’s only because there’s not so much difference between you and them,” Kindan said gruffly.

“It may be,” Fiona said easily. “But I like to be prepared, so I think it’s wise to spend time with children, don’t you?”

“So this”—Kindan waved a hand around the Hatching Grounds with a firm nod toward their cozy quiet place—“is all for the children?”

“Yes,” Fiona replied, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Either about keeping them or”—she lowered her voice suggestively—“getting them.”

Kindan groaned.

“Really, Kindan,” Fiona said, her brows arching downward disapprovingly, “you would think, being a harper and all, that you’d understand that at the end of things it’s all about children.”

Kindan gave her an inquiring look.

“Without children there is no future and no reason for living,” Fiona told him. Her mood lifted as she added with a giggle, “Besides, they’re too incredibly cute!”

“You were cute,” Kindan blurted out suddenly.

“I hope I still am,” Fiona said, batting her eyelashes at him outrageously.

Kindan chuckled. “You still are.”

“Then I’ll say good night to you, Harper Kindan, and please give my best to Lady Lorana.”

Kindan waved and took off briskly across the cold Weyr Bowl toward the Weyrwoman’s quarters, wondering how it was that Fiona always seemed to get exactly what she wanted.

It was, he decided as he increased his pace up the ramp toward the weyr and sleeping Lorana, because she quickly decided on her goals and never wavered from them.

Something I learned from you, Kindan heard her saying in his head.

He shook himself, wondering whether he had really heard her or if he was just imagining her response.

“Kindan?” Lorana called from the bed.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” Kindan called back softly, a smile curving his lips as he crossed the last of the distance between the entrance and the bed.

“Fiona’s been tormenting you again, hasn’t she?” Lorana asked in sympathetic humor.

“How—did Talenth—?”

“No,” Lorana replied with a laugh, “it’s just that I understand her.”

“How so?”

“She’s frightened,” Lorana told him sadly. “She’s afraid she’ll lose everything and she’s doing her best to grab what she can.”

“A child?” Kindan asked in surprise. “From me?”

“From you, from T’mar, as many as she can get,” Lorana said.

“She said that children are the future,” Kindan said musingly.

“Without children there is no future,” Lorana corrected in oblique agreement. Kindan could see her glance down in the dim of the glows to her own belly. He threw off his clothes, pulled on a night tunic—not at all surprised to see it ready to hand, draped over the back of a chair—and quickly dove into the bed.

“I love you,” he told Lorana feelingly, wrapping hands around her back and gently kneading the tight muscles he found there.

“I know,” Lorana replied. She exhaled blissfully as Kindan found a knotted muscle and teased it out. She leaned herself against him, her head resting on his shoulder. “I know.”

“Yes, Weyrwoman, five more fighting dragons have recovered,” H’nez said heatedly to Fiona two days later as the wingleaders met in the Council Room, “but that’s no cause for cheer. We’ve still got nearly two full Wings of injured dragons and less than that of fighting dragons.”

“In these days we need to find cheer where we can,” F’jian said.

“We’ll fly in four Wings,” T’mar repeated, firmly reiterating what he’d first said to start the discussion. “That way we’ll have bronzes leading each Wing and we’ll have a reserve to haul firestone.”

“And fourteen dragons in each Wing,” H’nez growled darkly. Fiona shot him a glare and then a beseeching look toward Jeila who, instead of backing her authority, lowered her eyes and glanced away. H’nez saw the exchange and raised a hand placatingly. “Oh, I’m not saying it’s a bad plan! In fact, T’mar, I think it’s the best plan we have, given our circumstances.”

Fiona gave him a surprised look, and glanced at Jeila, who raised her eyes to meet hers again, her lips quirked in a lopsided grin. Fiona smiled and shook her head: She should never have doubted the petite weyrwoman.

“The question is, T’mar, when are we going to be too weak?” H’nez asked him seriously. “And what will we do then?” He paused and glanced around the table. “For, like as not, the day is coming.”

“And soon,” C’tov said in agreement.

“There’ll be another Hatching soon—” Fiona began hopefully.

“And three Turns from now we’ll be grateful for the extra strength,” H’nez said dismissively.

“Two Turns,” C’tov protested. H’nez shot him a look but the scarred bronze rider persisted, “We can get them ready in two Turns.”

“But it won’t solve our problems now.”

“No, it won’t,” T’mar agreed with a sigh. “And I plan on talking with the other Weyrleaders about this—after this Fall.” He glanced at H’nez before continuing, “But for the moment, we’ve a Fall to ride in less than two hours.”

“The ground crews are ready,” Kindan said, glancing at Fiona, who nodded in agreement. This Fall would be over both Telgar Hold and the Weyr itself, and Weyrwoman Fiona was responsible both for the care of the injured and the Weyr’s ground crews. Kindan, as Weyrlingmaster, had been tasked with detailing weyrlings to ground crews—part of the revised training that he, T’mar, and H’nez had all unanimously agreed upon.

“We’re going to have the reserve Wing deposit crews and equipment up with the herds and the other outliers,” Fiona said, nodding toward C’tov, who’d been elected to lead the reserves.

“So,” T’mar said, rising from his chair, “I think we’ve covered everything we can. Wingleaders, prepare your Wings.”

The others nodded, rose, and filed out of the room. After a moment, Kindan shuffled off after them, nodding to both weyrwomen as he departed.

Fiona sat for a long while, her eyes darting toward Jeila, who kept her head bowed and remained silent.

Fiona waited patiently.

“This baby will have a father,” Jeila said.

“Of course.”

The other weyrwoman glanced up to her, glaring, challenging, dark eyes brooding. “Can you guarantee that?”

“No,” Fiona told her softly, rising from her chair and coming around to where Jeila sat. She crouched down behind her, placing her arms on the petite woman’s shoulders. “I can’t guarantee anything except that as long as I draw breath I will do everything to protect you, your children, and your loves.”

Silently, tears started down Jeila’s face and the weyrwoman leaned her head on Fiona’s right hand where it rested on her shoulder. “I’m not like you, I can’t live without him.”

“Yes you can,” Fiona told her encouragingly. “You can because you’ll have the baby. If you lose him, you’ll still have that part of him.”

After a moment, Fiona stood and, grabbing Jeila’s arms, forced the weyrwoman to rise out of her chair.

“You have the strength of the desert in you, Jeila,” Fiona told the dark-haired woman quietly. “You’ll not succumb to a drought, or to sorrow.”

Jeila’s eyes brightened as she looked up into Fiona’s blue eyes. She wiped her tears away and smiled tentatively, telling the taller Weyrwoman, “You do realize that you are every bit as difficult as my relatives said you were?”

“Did they say that?”

“They did,” Jeila declared with a nod. “Stubborn, prideful, cheerful, indomitable, and”—she paused to gather breath, her lips curving up in a tentative smile—“the best hope of Pern.”

“By the First Egg, I certainly hope not!” Fiona chuckled, feeling the discomfort of the weight of all those expectations bearing down on her shoulders.

“You and Lorana.”

“We can’t do it on our own,” Fiona said, marveling again at the other woman’s thin bones and petite frame. She grinned at Jeila, adding, “I’d like to think we’ll get help.”

“If I lose him …”

“It’s never wise to take sorrow before its time,” Fiona said, wondering where she had first heard the phrase … Kindan? She wrapped her arms around the other woman and hugged her tightly.

“So you’re pregnant,” Fiona murmured after a while. “When’s the date?”

Jeila drew in a sharp breath and stepped back so that she could look up, incredulously, into Fiona’s eyes. “You, too?”

“We were incredibly lucky,” T’mar said when he returned from the Fall for the first time, “we only lost three.”

He frowned as he glanced at two disconsolate riders and those grouped mournfully around them. “Rather, we lost one now and we’ll lose two more when we go back in time to fly again.”

“I know,” Fiona said, gearing herself up for the renewed loss. “How many were injured from those that timed it?”

T’mar pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Two, three?”

“We’ve one mauled and two injured now,” Fiona said, nodding toward the weyrfolk who were working to patch up one badly scored green dragon and her rider. She wrinkled her nose distastefully. “Why does it always have to be greens and blues?”

“Because there are so many of them,” T’mar said, glancing around the shadows of the night darkened Bowl. “When we return, it’ll be the middle of the night.”

“We’ll be ready,” Fiona said. She shrugged, adding, “Although it’d be nicer if I knew how many injuries I had to deal with, then I could let helpers get more sleep.”

“Doesn’t Lorana know?”

“She can talk to any dragon, but she can’t talk into the future,” Fiona said. “Imagine how awful that would be, if she could!”

T’mar, too tired from Threadfall, merely nodded. He turned to the others, then back to Fiona. “Have Lorana let them know that we fly again in two hours’ time.”

“Go to your quarters, take a break,” Fiona suggested. “I’ll come along later.”

T’mar gave her a guarded look and Fiona smiled. “You’ll have enough time to let me work on some of those knotted muscles! I won’t do anything to put you to sleep, but there’s no point in having you fight the same Thread twice if you’re too sore to move!”

“I wish someone could do the same for Zirenth,” T’mar said feelingly, as he and the bronze trotted off to their weyr.

When Fiona found him later, he was seated at his desk, his legs stretched out under the table, a tray with a pitcher of klah and a mug before him, the steam still rising from the mug.

“Shaneese brought it,” he said as he gestured for her to sit down. He smiled as he added, “And someone must have mentioned my whining to her as Zirenth had a whole wing of weyrfolk oiling him not much later.”

Fiona went around behind him, laying her hands on his shoulders. They were as hard as stone. Silently she began kneading the muscles, working her hands up to his neck, particularly at the base.

“Get up,” she told him after a few minutes.

T’mar rose as instructed, eyebrows raised. “Should I lie down on the bed?”

“No, just sit backward in your chair,” Fiona said, reaching around him to turn the chair around and shoving him toward it. “If you’re not too cold, you might lift your tunic, so I can get to your muscles directly.”

Smiling, T’mar pulled off his shirt, draped it over the back of the chair, and then sat down in reverse position, with his chest pressing against the shirt.

“This is something I learned from Bekka,” Fiona said as she crouched down and began working her hands over his hips.

“From Bekka?”

“She learned it from her mother, to ease knots out of expectant mothers,” she said as she leaned into her work. A moment later, just when she expected to get the greatest rise, she added, “I expect you to take careful note; you’ll need it.”

However, instead of even twitching at her revelation, T’mar said nothing.

“T’mar?” Fiona asked, irritated that he hadn’t responded as she’d hoped. She peered around to look him in the eyes: They were closed. The Weyrleader was snoring gently, asleep, his head bowed.

“That’s the last of them,” Fiona told Terin as she and the youngster stood, bathed in the green dragon ichor that they’d been drenched in while sewing up the worst of the injured dragons.

Fiona reached for a towel, threw it to Terin, and grabbed another for herself, wiping off her hands, arms, face, and then what was left of her clothes. She had sensibly dressed in older clothes: a tunic and trousers with soft shoes. Her feet hurt from standing so long, her back hurt, her shoulders and hands felt cramped, but she smiled at the younger woman. “That wasn’t so bad.”

“It could have been worse,” Terin agreed, stifling a yawn.

“Get to bed!” Fiona ordered, jerking her head in the direction of F’jian’s weyr.

“Bath first, I think,” Terin said, sniffing herself reflectively.

“Then come with me,” Fiona said. “If you bathe alone you’re likely to fall asleep and drown.”

Terin’s eyes flashed but another yawn stifled her retort and with a sheepish look she gestured for the Weyrwoman to precede her.

As they made their way through Talenth’s empty weyr and into Fiona’s quarters, she whispered, “We’ll need to be quiet, I don’t want to disturb Lorana.”

“I can’t sleep anyway,” a voice from the bed startled them. The room grew lighter as Lorana turned over a glow. She gave the two others a quizzical smile as she explained, “The baby’s kicking.”

“We’re going to wash off all this muck,” Fiona said, gesturing to the remnants of the dragon ichor, “why don’t you join us?”

“A warm bath might help,” Lorana agreed. Fiona moved quickly to her side, gesturing for Terin to help. Solicitously they helped Lorana out of bed, ignoring her protests—“I’m not that big!”

Somewhere along the way, Fiona dozed off to be woken by a dig from a giggling Terin.

“I was saying,” Terin told her making it clear that she’d spoken before she’d noticed Fiona’s slumber, “that this is the first time that the three of us, recipients of Tenniz’s gifts, have been together for months.” She frowned at Fiona thoughtfully as she added, “Have you gotten any closer to figuring out his meaning?”

“Well,” Fiona began slowly, “as there’s a queen egg on the sands, I suspect we know what your gift means.”

Terin sniffed wistfully. “I wouldn’t presume that egg is meant for me.” She turned to Lorana. “Wouldn’t it be for you instead?”

Lorana gave her a questioning look and Terin responded, “I mean, your prophecy implies that you’ll have another queen, doesn’t it?”

Lorana flicked her eyes away, expression grim.

“Well, mine makes it clear enough,” Fiona said cheerfully, “Tenniz said it would all work out.” She glanced Lorana’s way, adding, “And in many respects, I think it already has.” She caught Lorana’s dubious look and continued, “We’ve weyrlings and eggs on the ground, we’ve dragons that can fly when just months before we feared we’d have none—and new life on the way. I think things will only go on getting better.”

Even if she didn’t quite believe it herself, Fiona knew that she had a duty to appear unworried, cheerful. And, maybe there was more truth than hope in what she’d said. Perhaps things were getting better.

They finished quickly and Fiona made certain that Terin made it back to her weyr before turning in. By the time she got into bed, Lorana already looked to be asleep. Fiona pursed her lips as she wondered whether to continue their earlier discussion, but, with a weary sigh, decided to leave it for morning.

When she woke the next morning, the demands of the day and injured dragons and riders drove the issue completely from her mind. Kindan arrived early with a pitcher of steaming klah and a smile on his face; Fiona took a mug for herself and bustled off to the Dining Cavern for a proper breakfast, leaving Kindan and Lorana time alone together.

She found T’mar and the wingleaders already in deep discussion, breaking their fast almost as an afterthought.

“Make them eat or they’ll be useless,” Shaneese said urgently as she came by to place a basket of fresh steaming rolls temptingtly in front of the Weyrleader. She gave Fiona a probing look and added, “And make sure you eat your share; don’t forget the juice.”

Fiona looked at her in surprise and the headwoman continued brusquely, “You’re eating for two now; even if you thought you had no need, you’ve got to consider the other.”

The other? Fiona glanced around furtively to see if any of the wingleaders had noted the exchange and was surprised at her sense of disappointment when she realized they hadn’t. Men, she snorted disgustedly before glancing back up to the headwoman, her eyebrows raised in inquiry.

“Think Tenniz was the only one with gifts?” Shaneese asked. “You’re the right age and you’ve been trying so hard—wouldn’t be surprised if you had two.”

“That’d be a good start,” Fiona said.

Shaneese smiled, saying, “I suppose it would, for you, at that.” She reached over, grabbed a moisture-beaded pitcher, snagged a clear glass, and deftly poured a large helping of the juice, placing it near Fiona’s right hand and the pitcher just above it. “Be sure you drink at least two glasses, then,” Shaneese ordered. “Every meal.”

“But you’ve never …?” Fiona uttered, trailing off in surprise. She judged Shaneese to be within ten Turns of her own age and not yet a mother.

“I’ve a mother and sisters,” Shaneese replied. She glanced openly toward T’mar and added in a poorly concealed tone of joy and surprise, “After L’rat, I never thought the right one would come along for me.”

Fiona hefted her juice glass, half-turned and raised it high in salute to the headwoman before draining it in one go. She put the glass back down on the table, her brows raised in surprise as she exclaimed, “Tart but sweet!”

“Good for you, too,” Shaneese said, reaching over to refill her glass pointedly. Dutifully Fiona emptied the second glass. As she reached for the pitcher of klah, Shaneese warned, “You might want to be careful with that, I’ve heard it said that some babies’ll keep their parents awake at night if they’ve had too much.”

“It’s better to be awake at night than asleep in the day,” Fiona said, punctuating her words with a wide yawn. She poured the klah and gratefully downed a portion before adding, “I don’t know how I’d survive without this.”

“Talk to Bekka and Birentir before you get too far along,” Shaneese said, resting a comforting hand on the Weyrwoman’s shoulder.

Fiona turned again to look up at her questioningly.

Shaneese responded with a troubled look, then leaned down close to Fiona’s ear to confide worriedly, “This may not be the best time for you.” Fiona’s eyes widened but she said nothing. “If that’s so, there’s ways—”

“Ways?”

“‘Seven breaths between keeps a body flat and lean’ is what I’ve heard,” Shaneese said, her tone devoid of any emotion.

“I’d heard eleven,” Fiona said. “Are you saying that I should be careful going between?”

“At least you should know your choices,” Shaneese said. She gestured toward the pitcher of klah. “You’ve still no understanding of why you’re so tired—”

“Nor does T’mar!”

“But he’s not growing a baby, is he?”

“No, just flying Thread,” Fiona reminded her, surprised at her own clashing emotions. She was irritated at the headwoman’s suggestion; she knew what she was doing and why, but she hadn’t considered that her weariness might provide complications. Come to think of it, was there a correlation between the tired riders and injuries? She glanced at the wingleaders, saw T’mar and F’jian both stifle yawns—which, Fiona conceded, could just as easily be from their ongoing fatigue as from their exertions flying Thread. She made a note to herself to follow the issue up later.

“I’ll support you either way, Fiona,” Shaneese said, grasping some of the younger woman’s feelings better than the Weyrwoman did herself, “but I’d be remiss if I didn’t make you aware of your options and your risks.”

“Thank you,” Fiona said, aware that her tone was stiff but unable to control it. The thought of terminating the pregnancy was nearly as frightening as the thought of losing it to her fatigue.

Shaneese rubbed her shoulder affectionately. “Talk to Bekka and Birentir, they’ll know better.”

“I will.”

Shaneese moved away, not without a worried glance back over her shoulder as she left. Fiona returned to her breakfast, switching partway through her mug of klah to another glass of the juice, somewhat surprised that the smell of the klah wasn’t as pleasant this morning as it usually was.

As she self-consciously chewed on a roll, Fiona found herself paying more attention to the wingleaders’ discussion. It was a moment before she realized that they had stopped and were staring at her.

“I asked, Weyrwoman,” T’mar told her with a smile, “if you knew the strength of High Reaches?”

“Ninety-two,” she replied quickly to disprove any notion that she might not be fully alert. A moment later she added, “Ninety-four later, when two of their wounded are cleared back to flying.”

“And don’t forget that five of our own injured should be cleared tomorrow,” F’jian said, glancing pointedly toward H’nez. “We’ll have fifty-five then.”

“Less than two Wings.”

“Benden will have another five as well tomorrow,” Fiona said. “So that’ll give them over three Wings—three and a half.”

There was a moment of polite silence before T’mar cleared his throat, saying, “Yes, we’d already mentioned that.”

“Oh,” Fiona said, sitting back in her chair, feeling heat rise in her cheeks even as she explained, “I was talking with Shaneese.”

H’nez glanced pointedly away from her and back toward T’mar. “So the fighting strength of all Pern”—he cast a glance quickly in Fiona’s direction—“tomorrow will be four hundred and seventy-nine.”

“That’s over five Flights,” C’tov pointed out.

“And yet we should expect at this moment to have better than eighteen Flights with all six Weyrs,” T’mar said with a sigh and an acknowledging look toward H’nez. “We know the situation is grave, but it is less than it was when the sickness was taking dragons every day.”

H’nez turned to Fiona. “Was there ever a time, in all the Records that you read, that a Weyr’s fighting strength was less than a Flight?”

Fiona shook her head. “Igen had a time in the Interval when it was down to two Flights, but that’s the worst I recall.”

“And their solution was to merge with Telgar,” T’mar said, grimacing.

H’nez nodded, returning his gaze to Fiona as he asked, “And so, even given that we survive the next Fall, on what do you base your hopes that Pern will find the missing Flights—more than four Weyrs’ worth—before we are all annihilated?”

Fiona shook her head in painful admission of her ignorance. The other bronze riders shot angry glances at H’nez, but there was no dodging the question. “I don’t have anything,” Fiona told him slowly, “beyond a feeling, a determination that somehow we will prevail.” She paused before reminding him, “Just as we prevailed against the sickness.”

“I, for one, will go on fighting with my very last breath,” C’tov told the older rider firmly.

“He knows that,” Fiona told him sadly. H’nez raised his eyebrows in surprise. She nodded at the other riders, adding, “He knows that you’ll all give your lives to protect Pern.”

“That’s not the question,” H’nez said in confirmation.

Fiona locked eyes with him. “The question you want answered is: Who will watch over your child when you are no longer. The answer is: I will.”

Mutters went around the table. “Child?” “H’nez?”

The bronze rider broke away from Fiona’s gaze, his face flushing as he met the eyes of his fellow wingleaders and nodded mutely.

“Congratulations, man!” C’tov said, rising from his chair and patting the older rider hard on the shoulder, his face split ear to ear with a huge smile. “I can see why you’re concerned!”

“But it also means you’ve got something to live for,” F’jian added, trying to puzzle out why the wingleader was so glum.

“I think our ancestors, back when the first Threads destroyed their crops and their dwellings, must have felt the same way,” Fiona said to H’nez. “And they found a way to overcome the menace.”

H’nez turned back to look at her. “Dragons.”

“And watch-whers,” a new voice spoke up, closing in from the exit to the Weyr Bowl. It was Kindan. He nodded toward Fiona and H’nez and pulled up a seat opposite the wiry bronze rider. “You know what killed Lorana’s queen, H’nez?”

The bronze rider shook his head.

“She didn’t know it at the time,” he went on, his expression bleak, “but one of the four vials was meant to be kept separate.” A sour look crossed his face, which he schooled away with effort. “The vials were mixed up and we didn’t know …”

He shook himself out of his grim reverie. “The fourth vial was meant to make a watch-wher into a dragon.”

“So if we lose all our dragons, we could start over?” C’tov asked.

“Only if there were still watch-whers,” H’nez muttered.

“Does Nuella know?” Fiona asked.

Kindan nodded.

“Good,” Fiona said to herself. She glanced back to H’nez. “So there is still reason to hope, as much or more than our ancestors had.”

“How are the weyrlings?” T’mar asked of Kindan, to change the subject.

“They’re doing well,” the harper said. Adding, with a grin, “Xhinna is showing her mettle.”

“A woman riding a blue,” H’nez muttered darkly.

“The dragon chooses its rider,” Fiona reminded him.

“Strange dragon,” the wiry rider said.

“We’ll see,” T’mar said, turning back to Kindan. “But we’ve Turns yet.”

“If we sent them back in time—” F’jian began.

“Igen was the only unused Weyr and we filled it with our injured,” T’mar said.

“Well,” F’jian said, groping for a solution and looking up, eyes bright with sudden inspiration, “why not send them forward in time, to after the Fall?”

H’nez’s dark look made it clear to Fiona what he was thinking: assuming anyone lives.

“How?” C’tov asked the younger bronze rider.

“It’s too far a jump,” T’mar said. “It was dangerous enough”—he shot Fiona an accusing look—“to go back ten Turns in time; but to go forward fifty?” He shook his head at the impossibility of it.

“I suppose so,” F’jian agreed, his shoulders slumping.

“But don’t stop thinking,” Fiona told him encouragingly. “There may be something we haven’t yet considered that could help.”

“I’m not sure it would be a good idea to send the weyrlings away,” T’mar said. “It was far too great a risk the last time.”

“We needed them,” Fiona said. “If we hadn’t done it, imagine where we’d be now.”

“And it was K’lior’s idea,” F’jian said, partly in the Weyrwoman’s defense.

“It was K’lior’s suggestion that the least injured go back in time,” T’mar replied quellingly. He glanced toward Fiona, adding, “Someone decided to lead the weyrlings and the most injured back in time as well.”

“Which only emphasizes the need of them,” Fiona responded tartly. “Besides, Weyrleader, we know that it wasn’t my idea, so you can stop with the accusing glares!”

T’mar pursed his lips sourly and sat back in his chair, flipping open a hand in a gesture of defeat.

“Anyway,” C’tov went on, returning to the original subject, “with all the eggs on the sands at all the Weyrs we’ve only got—what?—another three Wings?”

“Twenty-two eggs, one queen in each of the five clutches,” Kindan said, glancing meaningfully toward first T’mar and then Fiona. “One hundred and five fighting dragons and five queens.”

“Well, five queens would be a help,” F’jian said. Fiona caught his eyes and the bronze rider flushed—it was an open secret that he was hoping Terin would Impress the queen from Tolarth’s clutch.

“In three Turns, when they rise,” H’nez remarked sourly.

“But with the Hatching, our queens will soon rise again,” Fiona said. The others looked at her. “The Records show that the queens usually rise twice a Turn, sometimes as many as three.”

“All of which might”—H’nez began and corrected himself when he caught Fiona’s arch look—“will help us in the Turns to come but …” He shrugged.

“It’s not wise to count your eggs before they hatch,” T’mar told F’jian in a reproving tone whose sting was softened by his grin.

The younger bronze rider accepted the rebuke with an easy shrug.

T’mar sat forward decisively, glancing toward Fiona. “The Hatchings will be soon?”

“Probably tomorrow,” Fiona said. She glanced toward Kindan for confirmation as she added, “The Records are very firm that Hatching occurs five weeks after clutching.”

“It’s very consistent,” Kindan agreed.

“I remember, from the Teaching Ballads,” C’tov said, frowning as he recited:“Count three months and more,

And five heated weeks,

A day of glory and

In a month, who seeks?”

He glanced toward Kindan, asking, “I’ve always wondered about the last two lines—what do they mean?”

C’tov’s question sent a chill through Fiona; she’d heard this only days before from Lorana—and read it in the Records even earlier. What did it mean? Clearly it meant something special, that she, Lorana, and now C’tov remarked upon it. She sat back and let the rest of the conversation spill over her, engrossed in thought.

“A day of glory—that’s the Hatching,” H’nez told him chidingly.

“I figured that,” C’tov said with a dismissive glower for the older rider before returning his attention to Kindan, “but what about the last bit: ‘In a month, who seeks?’”

“Well,” Kindan said with a wry look toward Fiona, “the current thinking is that the last line is merely a harper’s twiddle said to make the whole verse rhyme.”

“And how many of the Teaching Ballads are riddled with such twiddles?” H’nez asked archly.

“It’s easier to remember that which rhymes and trips off the tongue, H’nez,” Kindan said without any hint of apology in his tone. “As far as I can recall, though, all the other Teaching Ballads are without embellishments.”

“So what makes this an embellishment?” C’tov asked.

Kindan shrugged. “If it’s not, I can’t decipher its meaning.”

“Maybe that’s when dragons can go between,” Fiona spoke up into the uneasy silence that had fallen. The others turned to her incredulously.

“I suppose it’s possible,” T’mar said. He glanced toward Kindan with a warning look as he added, “But I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“We had Impressed not much more than two months before we went back in time to Igen,” F’jian said.

“And I still wouldn’t recommend it,” T’mar reminded him with a quelling look.

“Anyway, even if they were old enough to go between,” C’tov said thoughtfully, “they’d be too small to fight Thread.”

“Too small to carry firestone!” F’jian snorted in agreement.

“Two Turns at least,” H’nez agreed tersely, looking toward T’mar. “Three is better.”

“Two in a pinch,” T’mar said.

“And we’re in a pinch, there’s no doubt!” F’jian exclaimed.

T’mar nodded, then glanced at Fiona with a sad look. The Weyrwoman needed no dragon to interpret it: Two Turns or three—either was too long for Pern.