Dragonheart

ELEVEN

FortHold , Morning, AL 508.1.19

Cisca found her there, sleeping beside Talenth, early the next morning.

“Arith — ”

“ — has gone between, ” Fiona said grimly.

Cisca looked startled.

“Didn’t you hear it happen?” Fiona asked her, surprised. Cisca shook her head. “I heard Arith cry, ‘It burns!’ and then Lorana cried, ‘Arith!’ and then Arith went between and . . . I collapsed.”

“I’ve never heard of this happening before,” Cisca said, looking troubled.

“And then I heard another voice,” Fiona said.

“What did it say?”

“It said, ‘It will be all right.’ ”

“I certainly hope so,” Cisca agreed fervently, but she looked dubious. She looked off into the distance for a long, thoughtful moment and then seemed to come to a decision. “Whether it will or not, that’s how we should act.”

“Like it will be all right?”

“Yes,” Cisca said. She leaned over and extended a hand to Fiona. “And so you’d best make yourself presentable. Meet me in the Kitchen Cavern. I’m sure others will want that reassurance — to see that it will be all right.”

Fiona took Cisca’s hand gratefully and stood up, feeling sore from her awkward sleeping position.

“So if Arith has gone between, what will Lorana do?” Fiona asked.

“She’ll grieve,” Cisca said, her eyes bright with tears.

“What about the cure, was she working on that?” Fiona wondered.

Cisca’s eyes widened in horror. “Arith said, ‘It burns!’ What if the cure was what killed her dragon . . .” Cisca’s voice trailed off. From her expression, Fiona could see that Cisca was speaking to Melirth, but then the Weyrwoman stopped abruptly.

“Benden flies today with Ista; I won’t add to their worries,” she declared. “We can find out later.” She nodded to herself firmly, then told Fiona, “Get! Go have a bath, and meet me when you’re ready.”

“Yes, Weyrwoman.”

Fiona discovered just how fast news traveled in the Weyrs when she arrived at the Weyrleader’s table for breakfast.

“If Arith went between, what does that mean for our weyrlings? They’re nearly the same age,“ M’kury was saying as Fiona sat. Getting no response from the Weyrleaders, he turned to her. “What do you think, Weyrwoman?”

“I think it will be all right,” Fiona replied, trying to sound as if she believed it.

“They were working on a cure, weren’t they?” K’rall asked from his side of the table. His eyes rested on Fiona so she felt obliged — if utterly unqualified — to answer.

“I know no more than you,” Fiona told him honestly.

“Well, I hope they hurry,” M’kury said. “I’ve got three sick dragons in my wing.”

“I doubt two of mine will last the day,” K’rall said by way of agreement.

“How many will be left to fight the next Threadfall?” H’nez demanded.

“More than Ista,” M’valer said morosely.

“Fighting Thread is hard enough without this illness eating away at our strength,” V’ney observed, disheartedly spooning up some cereal.

“Too right!” M’kury agreed sourly. “And the illness itself — it’s hard enough when you can tell with the sneezing, but Jakoth, he was fine one moment and then just gone — how can we tell if we’re taking sick dragons against Thread?”

“It will be all right,” Fiona ventured again, wishing she could find the same conviction as whoever had spoken to her earlier.

V’ney looked across at her, disbelief written on his face. “No offense, Weyrwoman, but you’re young, and the young are always convinced they’ll live forever.”

“Lorana’s Arith was not much older than your Talenth,” H’nez observed. He turned to K’lior. “Are we certain that none of the weyrlings are sick?”

His implication was not lost on Fiona, who suddenly found it harder to be optimistic and lost her appetite for her roll. Cisca shot her a quick look, her eyes dropping to Fiona’s food, and getting the hint, Fiona forced herself to take a bite.

“None that we’ve noticed,” T’mar said. The other wingleaders looked less than reassured at this, so he continued, “Tajen has been keeping a special eye on them.”

The implication that Tajen, who had lost his dragon to the illness, would be a diligent observer was not lost on the wingleaders.

“That’s good,” V’ney said.

K’rall wasn’t so pleased. “Ah, but his dragon was coughing up that green infection before — ”

“Wingleaders,” K’lior said, raising his voice to cut across K’rall’s words, “in six days we ride Fall over Ruatha Hold and our own Weyr. For now, I think that should be all that concerns us.”

The wingleaders nodded in reluctant assent, returning their attention to the food on their plates.

After breakfast, K’lior had the wingleaders assemble their wings for more practice drills.

“You’ll have the weyrlings today, Weyrwoman,” T’mar informed Fiona as she strode out into the Weyr Bowl with him after breakfast. Fiona couldn’t hide her surprise, and T’mar chuckled.

“Just tell them to go about their chores, then drill them like we did the other day and — if they’re good — let them have another romp on the Weyrwomen’s ledge,” he told her.

“What about you? Tajen?” Fiona asked worriedly.

“We’re going to try your trick with the firestone,” T’mar told her with a grin. He laughed when he saw her stricken expression. Turning away to wave to Tajen, he called over his shoulder, “The rewards of a job well done!”

Another job, Fiona thought, remembering that her father had often said the same thing to her. The thought of him braced her and she squared her shoulders and turned toward the weyrling barracks.

J’gerd and J’keran were joking with F’jian, the young bronze rider, off to one side.

“Weyrwoman,” J’keran said, nodding respectfully when she approached.

“You’re to finish your chores, then drill the older wings,” she said, glancing at J’gerd to see that he understood. The curly-headed youth pursed his lips in readiness of some objection, then thought the better of it and nodded in acceptance. Satisfied, Fiona turned to F’jian. “When the younger weyrlings are done with their chores, let me know. We’ll be drilling on the ground.”

F’jian nodded, somewhat surprised at hearing her give orders — he was a good head taller than she and at least a full Turn older. “Yes, Weyrwoman.”

Xhinna joined her before the chores were done, so Fiona took her aside for a hasty conference.

“T’mar says I’m to drill the younger weyrlings today,” Fiona told her, allowing her panic to show.

“You’ll do fine,” Xhinna assured her. As Fiona began to shake her head, Xhinna added, “Just pretend like you mean everything as a test — especially any orders you get wrong.”

With Xhinna by her side, murmuring encouragement, the drill went well enough, especially when Fiona had the brilliant idea to have Talenth join in again and also tried alternating who gave the drills — she even surprised everyone by giving Xhinna a chance.

“ ‘Just pretend like you mean everything as a test,’ ” Fiona quoted back at her as she rushed off to lead Talenth. The other girl’s eyes flashed angrily, but then she grinned.

Despite the weyrlings’ initial mutinous murmurs, Xhinna proved as adept at drill as Fiona had expected, giving her orders in a well-timed cadence that actually made the drills work better.

“That was amazing!” Xhinna told Fiona when they finally called halt, her eyes shining with joy. “I could almost feel how they’d be in the air and — ” She cut herself off abruptly and dropped her eyes to the ground.

Fiona could guess what the other girl was thinking: that it was something she’d never experience. She wanted to say something to reassure her, to give her hope, but she couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t sound false or silly.

“Help me walk Talenth to the lake,” she said instead, leading them to the tail of the long line of weary but exhilarated weyrlings.

Why is she sad? Talenth asked, turning her faceted eyes toward Xhinna.

She wants to Impress, Fiona told her.

Xhinna, you could Impress one of my hatchlings, Talenth told the younger girl but “loudly” enough that Fiona could hear, adding hurriedly, when I have them.

Xhinna stopped in her tracks, jaw agape as she looked at the young queen. She raced up and wrapped her arms around Talenth’s neck, reaching up toward her head to scratch her eye ridges. “Thank you, Talenth!”

Of course, it will be a while before I’m old enough, Talenth added privately to Fiona. Fiona smiled at her dragon and raced around to her other side, to scratch her other eye ridge. Talenth stopped, momentarily lost in draconic rapture, then realized that the weyrlings were leaving them behind and started forward once more, alternating hopeful looks from side to side in an effort to keep both girls scratching.

The high point of the day for Fiona was back at the Weyrwomen’s ledge watching Talenth and the other weyrlings practice flying again. Finally, though, the practice was over, and she dispersed the tired but happy weyrlings back to their barracks. She had just finished oiling and settling Talenth comfortably in her weyr when T’mar and Tajen returned on bronze Zirenth. She raced over the ledge, jumping high with all the enthusiasm of a weyrling, landed on bent knees, and tore off toward them.

“How did it go?” she cried as she approached.

Tajen was first down and he met her grin with one of his own. “It went well.”

“Help me down, will you?” T’mar called irritably from his perch, flapping his injured arm in its sling like a wounded dragon. “I can’t manage yet with this on me!”

Tajen shortly had the bronze rider on the ground.

“I can’t wait to get better,” T’mar said, sourly massaging his shoulder with his free hand.

“I wouldn’t have guessed,” Tajen observed drolly.

The bronze rider’s eyes flashed, then the anger faded as he realized he was being teased. “It’s just — ”

“It was too much for your arm,” Tajen finished, meeting T’mar’s stubborn look squarely. “You shouldn’t have tried so much this first time.”

T’mar started to argue but caught himself and sighed, shaking his head. “You’re right,” he agreed glumly. “But we need every dragon — ”

“And rider,” Tajen interjected.

“ — and rider,” T’mar agreed, “to fight the Fall.”

“We need every healthy rider and dragon,” Fiona corrected him. “It’s no use having sick dragons or injured riders trying to fight Thread.”

T’mar glanced from Tajen to Fiona and back again, deciding not to argue the point.

“Anyway,” Tajen said, returning to Fiona’s original question, “it went well.”

“It would have been better if both of us were uninjured,” T’mar added.

“That slowed things down,” Tajen agreed with a wave of his hand. “Even so, trailing six sacks of firestone was much quicker than trailing two at a time.”

“Why did we never do it this way before?” Fiona wondered.

“Because it only makes sense in certain circumstances,” T’mar replied. “It works when there are grown dragons fit enough to haul firestone but not fit enough to fly a Fall.”

“And when the Weyr is short of able weyrlings,” Tajen added.

“Yes,” T’mar agreed, glancing toward the Hatching Grounds and quickly back at the others as if questioning why there weren’t more weyrlings old enough to haul firestone. “And it’s hard work: hard on the dragon, hard on the riders.”

“More weyrlings is definitely the better choice,” Tajen agreed.

There was a sound above them and all three craned their necks upward: The rest of the Weyr was returning.

Fiona watched in wonder as the dragons of the six fighting wings dispersed, first dropping their riders off and then heading either to the Feeding Grounds or their weyrs for a much-needed rest. Her expression changed as she noticed how ragged each of the wings appeared — small, disordered . . .

“It’s the illness,” Tajen said.

Fiona looked over at him and saw that he’d been watching her. “The wings are disarrayed because of sick or lost dragons.” His voice choked on the word “lost,” and Fiona realized that rarely did anyone refer to the dragons as “dead” — it was just too hard to say.

“But they’ll fight well enough,” T’mar declared, glancing over toward K’lior as he and his riders dismounted.

“I wonder how it went with the others today?” Tajen asked. No one doubted that he meant the other Weyrs.

“We’ll find out soon enough,” T’mar said, slapping the other man on his shoulder. “Let’s get cleaned up and meet with K’lior.”

Cisca wants you. The “voice” was that of a grown female dragon: Melirth.

Where? Fiona asked, craning her neck around the Bowl and not spotting the Weyrwoman.

The Records Room.

Fiona turned to explain her summons to the two men but they were already on their way to their quarters. She walked briskly back to the Weyrwomen’s ledge and on to the Records Room, where she found K’lior, Cisca, and Kentai. The harper had chalk in hand and was writing on a slate. Fiona saw that he had divided the slate into two columns: on the left he listed the names of the Weyrs, and on the right he listed numbers.

“This is the fighting strength of the Weyrs as best we know,” Kentai said out loud.

“Does that include dragons with the illness?” K’lior asked.

“We can’t say for certain,” Cisca replied. “I got the numbers by asking the Weyrwomen of each Weyr.”

“So Benden has one hundred and seventy-five,” K’lior began. “How many did they lose against Thread today?”

“They started with one hundred and eighty-five,” Cisca replied. “But we don’t know how many were injured, or how seriously.”

“Ista has only thirty-four?” Fiona exclaimed as she examined the numbers. Cisca nodded bleakly.

“And this one hundred and fifty for Telgar . . .” K’lior asked skeptically.

“That’s the number Lina’s Garoth gave me,” Cisca replied with a shrug. “It wasn’t too clear if that included dragons with the sickness or not.”

“I wonder if D’gan wouldn’t just think they were all slacking,” K’lior agreed with a sour look on his face.

“Why isn’t there a number for High Reaches?” Fiona asked.

“Because Sonia would only say that they had enough dragons, wouldn’t be able to lend any, and wouldn’t need any more,” Cisca replied, her annoyance undisguised.

“That doesn’t seem very nice,” Fiona remarked.

“D’vin and Sonia have been very aloof for a number of Turns,” K’lior said.

Kentai meanwhile had totaled the numbers and he frowned at the tally.

“Four hundred and ninety-five?” Cisca said, standing up to read over his shoulder. “Between four Weyrs we have less than Telgar started this Pass with?”

“That number stays in this room,” K’lior said, his voice full of authority. Kentai raised an eyebrow questioningly, and K’lior answered, “Oh, I’ve no doubt that others can do the sums, but I would prefer to leave them to do it on their own.”

“Leave it for gossip rather than fact?” Kentai guessed.

“That and it would be best if this news didn’t come from us,” K’lior said.

“Everyone knows about Ista, though,” Fiona said. “Even the weyrlings are talking about it.”

“I wish we knew how many injured there were at the Weyrs, and how soon they’d be fighting again,” Cisca said, frowning at the numbers.

“We can guess from our own, though,” K’lior said. “We’ve got thirty-five dragons who won’t be flying the next Fall.”

“We can’t know for certain, though,” Kentai reminded him. “There are too many variables.”

“So, are you saying we shouldn’t guess?” K’lior pressed. “That we shouldn’t make plans?”

“No,” Kentai replied with a quick shake of his head. “I’m saying that we shouldn’t put too much faith in our guesses.”

“There are some things we know, though, don’t we?” Fiona asked, looking hopefully at the adults. Cisca quirked her mouth into a half-smile and motioned for her to continue. Fiona hadn’t planned on saying more, so it was a moment before she continued, “We can say that Ista Weyr can’t fly a Fall unaided, right? I mean, it takes at least three wings usually to fly a full Fall, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” K’lior agreed. “Fortunately, Benden has agreed to help out.”

“And we know that High Reaches Weyr won’t help anyone,” Cisca added, her expression grim.

“And I’m not sure if Telgar can be counted on for much,” Kentai remarked.

“So what we know is that we’re pretty much on our own,” K’lior surmised. He glanced at each of the others in turn for agreement, then continued. “And we know that our fighting strength today is just a bit more than four wings.” He paused for a moment and murmured to himself, “We could send out a Flight and have a wing in reserve.”

“They could haul firestone,” Cisca suggested.

“Or carry extra firestone and join the fight after they’ve replenished the rest of the Flight,” Fiona suggested hopefully.

K’lior turned to jab a finger toward her. “That is an excellent idea!”

“It is at that,” Cisca agreed warmly.

“What about the dragons that are ill?” K’lior wondered, glancing toward Cisca. “Could they haul firestone?”

Cisca shook her head. “M’tal said that they lost too many of their feverish dragons between in their first Fall.”

“If they weren’t ill, we’d have fifty more dragons at this moment,” K’lior said with a grimace. “Then we’d have two full Flights!”

“But we don’t,” Cisca said.

“I just wonder how many of the other Weyrs are in the same situation,” K’lior replied.

Cisca shrugged, conceding the point. “If Tannaz hadn’t gone between, Kalsenth would be rising soon . . . she might even have risen by now.”

Fiona reflected on that. “What if she rose during Threadfall?”

“According to the Records, no queen has risen during Threadfall,” Kentai told her.

“Does that mean that the queens know when Thread is coming?” Cisca wondered.

“I suspect it’s simpler than that,” K’lior replied. To Cisca’s raised eyebrows, he explained, “Thread falls every three days, so there are more Threadfree days than not.”

“Hmmm,” Cisca murmured appreciatively.

K’lior pursed his lips and turned to the door. “I think we’ve spent all the time out of the glowlight that we can without it being noticed,” he said to the others. He nodded at Cisca. “Your idea of using the reserve wing to carry extra firestone is a good one — we’ll need to practice it in the morning.”

“What if the riders ask about Arith and Benden?” Cisca asked, turning to follow him.

“It will be all right,” Fiona said. The others looked at her, surprised. “That’s what we’re supposed to say, isn’t it?”

Cisca glanced at K’lior, a smile on her lips. The Weyrleader reflected the smile as he turned back to Fiona. “Yes, that is exactly what we’ll say!”

“Firestone?” H’nez repeated, his expression outraged. “A fighting wing to haul firestone? What are weyrlings for?”

“If they trail multiple sacks, they could replenish the fighting wings in a third the time of the weyrlings,” K’lior said, trying to remain reasonable.

“Coddling weyrlings, by the First Egg!” M’valer muttered disapprovingly.

“We’ve only got eleven fit to fly,” Fiona told them.

“Eleven’s not enough,” S’kan said decisively.

“So who’s in reserve?” H’nez demanded, his irritation undimmed.

“My wing, I should think,” T’mar declared. “I’ve already got experience with this new rig, so I can train them.”

“But your wing’s light!” M’kury complained. In fact, every wing was light.

“We’d have enough dragons if we made the sick ones fly,” K’rall grumbled, glancing toward H’nez for approval. The other bronze rider made no response, his eyes cutting quickly toward K’lior and then back again.

“Sick dragons don’t survive,” T’mar replied.

“And when there are none but sick dragons left, what then?” K’rall demanded.

“Then,” K’lior replied in a controlled, even tone, “we’ll reconsider our options.”

“By then, Pern will be lost,” V’ney said, shifting morosely in his chair. His wing had been hurt the worst by both the illness and bad luck in the Fall, and he had only twelve dragons left.

“We have survived for over five hundred Turns,” Cisca said. “I don’t see why we won’t survive this Pass.”

“We’ll have the wings work together,” K’lior declared. “T’mar and N’jian will be reserve, H’nez and M’valer, M’kury and S’kan, V’ney and K’rall.”

“And you?” H’nez pressed.

“I’ll take point,” K’lior replied as though it should have been obvious. “We’ll start practice at first light.”

Fiona found herself and the weyrlings working hard over the next three days as they helped the Weyr prepare for the next Fall, but no matter how tired they were after a drill, the young hatchlings always found the energy to leap off the Weyrwomen’s ledge and beat their wings into the sky in tentative imitation of the larger, older fighting dragons, always encouraged by their weyrling riders and the invariable group of envious weyrchildren who formed a cluster over by Fiona and Talenth.

On the morning of the Fall, Xhinna and Terin approached Fiona with a new concern.

“How are the dragons going to fight when it gets dark?”

Fiona stared at them. “I don’t know,” she admitted. Then she brightened. “I’m sure K’lior will have an answer.”

She found K’lior with Cisca and Kentai, and broached the subject. His response surprised her.

“I didn’t even think of it!” K’lior exclaimed. “I was so busy concentrating on the wings and — ”

“I should have thought of it,” Kentai said, looking glumly at the parchment written in Verilan’s careful script. “There must be something in the Records…”

“We all should have thought of it,” Cisca said, not wanting the harper to hoard the blame. “But what does it matter?”

“Can the dragons see well enough in the dark?” Fiona asked, allowing relief to creep into her voice. The relief vanished when she saw the look that Cisca and K’lior exchanged.

“If it’s cold enough, won’t the Thread freeze in the night air?” Kentai suggested. He started over to a stack of Records, fumbling through them while murmuring, “I recall reading about it not long ago …”

“But if it doesn’t freeze,” K’lior began slowly, his eyes locked on Cisca’s, “and we can’t see it — ”

“The Thread will fall and burrow,” Cisca finished for him. “Of course, all the Thread that falls up as high as the Weyr will freeze in the snow — ”

“But that doesn’t mean some won’t burrow somewhere,” K’lior interjected.

“And in the morning … ”

“The Thread will spread,” Kentai finished with a heavy sigh.

“We can fight burrows,” Cisca declared.

“If we have the strength,” K’lior agreed.

“The ground crews — ” Kentai began.

“ — will not cover the high hills and mountains,” K’lior finished with an angry shake of his head. He paused, clearly communing with his dragon. “I’ve asked T’mar and M’kury to join us. Together perhaps we can come up with some plans.”

“You’ll have to tell the others,” Cisca cautioned him.

“I’d prefer not talk about this with H’nez until we have a plan,” K’lior admitted. Cisca shrugged; she had no problem with that approach. K’lior took the time while they were waiting for the two wingleaders to say to Fiona, “You have a habit of finding difficult friends, don’t you?”

Fiona looked up and saw that he was smiling at her.

“Don’t stop,” Cisca told her heatedly. “We need these sort of friends; they keep us from making terrible mistakes.”

“Indeed,” K’lior said, his expression thoughtful. He raised an eyebrow toward Cisca in some secret communication that seemed to Fiona as though they were dragons communicating telepathically.

“Yes,” K’lior said after a moment. “I think we should encourage this Terin to stand on the Hatching Grounds.”

“Nothing short of a full revolution for you, is there?” Cisca wondered, her eyes dancing at Fiona.

“ ‘Need drives when Thread arrives,’ ” K’lior quoted in reply.

“What about the watch-whers?” Fiona asked. “I know my father’s Forsk will be eager.”

“Watch-whers?” K’lior repeated, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. “What could they do?”

“They can see at night,” Fiona replied, undaunted. “And I know that father has been training with Forsk, getting guidance from Kindan, M’tal, and Nuella.”

K’lior groaned. Cisca looked at him worriedly. “The watch-whers,” he explained. “When M’tal was here at the Hatching, he wanted us to train with the watch-whers.”

“And you said no,” Cisca guessed.

“And I said no,” K’lior agreed disconsolately. “Could you imagine H’nez . . . ?”

“He would have been apoplectic,” Cisca agreed.

“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now,” K’lior said with a heavy sigh. “We’ll fight the Thread tonight and see if perhaps we can train with the watch-whers before the next Fall.”

The last rays of the sun illuminated the Weyr Bowl as dragons and riders launched into the sky, wing by wing, to form up at the Star Stones and wink out, between. Fiona watched them with mixed emotions, not certain how they would fight Thread they couldn’t see.

“Don’t worry,” T’mar had assured her just before his heavily-laden wing departed. “We’ll be fine.”

But it was hard not to worry when Fiona caught sight of Cisca’s set expression; hard not to worry as she and the remaining weyrfolk scrambled to set up the aid tables; hard not to worry as the younger weyrlings raced each other to bag more firestone; hard not to worry as the sun’s rays faded out completely and the Weyr Bowl was illuminated only by the massed glows, eery splotches of blue, green, and yellow dotted in the dark.

“F’jian,” Fiona called as she approached the firestone room. The young bronze weyrling looked up from his work. “As soon as they’re finished bagging, get the weyrlings over to the Dining Cavern for klah and a chance to warm themselves at the ovens. We won’t be needing anyone for at least an hour; then we’ll want them to help with the injured.”

“Of course, Weyrwoman,” F’jian said, sketching her a quick salute.

Fiona made her own way to the Dining Cavern to get a pitcher of warm klah for those waiting in the Bowl. Inside, she saw Cisca pacing nervously near one of the ovens.

“It will be all right,” Fiona murmured to her. Cisca nodded, her eyes still anxious, then visibly steeled herself, lifted her head high, and nodded.

“Of course it will,” she replied with feigned certainty. She smiled. “It had better,” she continued. “I told K’lior as much.”

“And as Weyrleader, he knows not to gainsay you,” Fiona agreed with a grin.

“Exactly!” Cisca agreed lightly. Fiona smiled at her and moved on to the klah hearth. Her ears were good and tuned to the noises of the night, so she was able to hear Cisca’s low murmur, “Fly well, my love.”

Fiona felt the pang, the mixture of emotions — joy, sorrow, worry — which the Weyrwoman had for K’lior and wondered if she herself would ever feel that way about another.

The moment K’lior’s Rineth touched ground on Fort Weyr ’s Bowl, Cisca was beside the bronze dragon, numbweed at the ready, directing a group of weyrlings to attack the Thread-scored burns. Other groups of weyrfolk scattered around Fort Weyr ’s Bowl as more injured dragons landed by the light of glows.

“What is it?” Cisca asked suspiciously, taking in the joyous look on K’lior’s face as he dismounted beside her. “Tell me.”

K’lior closed his eyes to refresh his memory. “It was amazing,” he said.

“And?” Cisca prompted impatiently. K’lior paused dramatically. “Tell me right now, bronze rider, or you’ll — ”

K’lior held up his hands in surrender, smiling and shaking his head. He touched a finger to her lips but Cisca snapped at it with her teeth.

“Now,” she growled.

“We were getting torn up,” K’lior said after a moment. “Casualties were high — ”

“There can’t be more than two dozen,” Cisca objected, surveying the Bowl critically. “That’s bad, but not high.”

“It would have been higher if we’d fought alone,” K’lior said.

Cisca’s eyes widened in shock. “You didn’t ?” She glanced toward the top of the Bowl, as if expecting burrowed Thread to come over the crest at any moment.

“We had help,” K’lior told her.

“High Reaches?” Cisca asked. “I’m surprised, considering the way — ” She stopped, catching the look in K’lior’s eyes. “Not High Reaches?”

“Not High Reaches,” K’lior agreed.

“Who then?”

“No dragons at all,” K’lior replied, his eyes shining in wonder. “But ground crews couldn’t protect the mountains,” Cisca objected.

“No ground crews,” K’lior agreed. He paused as long as he could, judging Cisca’s growing agitation, until he said, “Watch-whers.”

“Watch-whers? They came?” Cisca said, and K’lior nodded solemnly. “They helped?”

“They more than helped,” P’der, K’lior’s wingsecond, said as he approached them. “They ate the Thread!”

“And they see better in the dark than dragons,” K’lior added, his face bursting into another great grin.

“They know which of the Thread is frozen and which is still alive,” P’der added, shaking his head in admiration. “Those big eyes of theirs . . .”

“You should have seen them,” K’lior told her. “We were being torn apart by Thread, couldn’t see, couldn’t help our dragons, and then all the sudden we saw these points of light rise up from below us — ”

“Their eyes,” P’der interjected, nodding enthusiastically. “They reflected the night sky so much they were like jewels coming up from the ground.”

“And then she told us that they could handle the rest of the Fall, that we should go back,” K’lior finished.

“She?” Cisca asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Nuella, of course,” P’der said. “The queen watch-wher’s rider.”

“The WherMaster,” K’lior added in agreement.

“Of course, there were hardly enough watch-whers,” P’der added. “If they had had to fight a full daytime Fall, when all the Thread is warm enough to be alive, they would have been overwhelmed.”

“We would have fought the Fall, then,” K’lior said.

“I don’t know,” P’der said, shaking his head. “There are some times, particularly down Boll way, when those warm winds keep the evening hot.”

“Let’s hope that doesn’t happen, then,” K’lior said. He looked at Cisca. “Remind me to talk with Nuella in the morning. It was amazing.”

“So you got to see watch-whers flying at night?” Cisca asked. K’lior nodded. “Eating Thread?” K’lior nodded again. Cisca huffed angrily at him. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“You know that we agreed that the queens wouldn’t fly until the sickness is gone.”

Cisca glared at him.

“The next Fall’s at night, down at Boll,” P’der observed helpfully.

“I’ll be there,” Cisca said, daring K’lior to contradict her.

“It’ll be late in the evening,” K’lior said, thinking aloud. “The Thread will probably all be dead, so there’s probably no harm in it.”

Above them, sounding all around the Bowl, there was a chorus of dragon coughs. K’lior exchanged looks with his Weyrwoman and wingsecond.

“There are over fifty coughing from the sickness,” Cisca said somberly.

“We lost three between in the Fall,” P’der added.

“So we have just over a hundred dragons fit to fly the next Fall in three days’ time,” K’lior surmised. Cisca and P’der nodded gloomily. K’lior straightened up, threw back his shoulders, and gave them both a cheering look. “With the watch-whers’ help, that will be more than enough.”

“And we’ll have six days’ rest after that Fall,” Cisca added with a similar attempt at cheer.

“P’der, have the wingleaders meet me in the Council Room in the morning. We can go over our organization then.”

P’der nodded curtly and strode off toward his quarters.

K’lior gestured to Cisca, who took his hand, and the two strolled around the Bowl, checking on injuries and doing their best to cheer up riders and dragons both.

“You should have seen it,” K’lior said. “There I was, wondering how we were going to manage, when this voice comes out of the night sky — ”

“Which voice?”

“Nuella’s,” K’lior said, “only I didn’t know it at the time. Nearly scared me off my perch.”

“How could she call to you?” Cisca asked.

“She was right above me,” K’lior told her.

“So she called down over her watch-wher? She was riding the watch-wher?”

“She was riding the watch-wher,” K’lior affirmed. “But she didn’t call over it.”

Cisca gave him an irritated look.

“She was flying upside down,” K’lior told her, his face once again wide in a grin. “So she just leaned her head back and talked to me. She was about as far from me as you are, actually.”

“Upside down?” Cisca repeated in amazement.

“Well, she’s blind,” K’lior answered, as if that explained everything. “Probably didn’t notice.”

“Even blind, she’d have to notice that she was upside down,” Cisca replied acerbically.

“Yeah, she probably did,” K’lior agreed wistfully. “But she was having the time of her life.”

“I’ll bet her mate’ll have her ears for that stunt,” Cisca predicted.

“Only if he finds out about it,” K’lior said softly.

Cisca stopped mid-stride, gripping K’lior’s hand and turning toward him. “Don’t you go getting any ideas!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” K’lior replied innocently.

“You did a good job,” H’nez told Fiona as she checked on his Ginirth late the next morning. “His wing looks like it’s already healing.”

Fiona smiled and shook her head; she’d already heard the same line from S’kan about his Lamorth.

“You, as a wingleader — ”

“Flightleader,” H’nez corrected immediately.

“ — flightleader, then,” Fiona accepted the change without rancor. “You know that Ginirth’s wingtip will need time to recover. You won’t be flying the next Fall.”

Actually, Fiona wondered, why should any of the dragons fly the next Fall? From what she’d heard, the watch-whers were well up to the task.

“You’re right,” H’nez agreed absently. He raised a hand to Ginirth’s eye ridge and scratched where the dragon liked it the most. “I was hoping to convince myself otherwise.”

“You figured that if you could convince me, you’d convince yourself?” Fiona recalled some of the old ones she’d known as a child back at Fort Hold — they’d tried much the same trick with her father and had had no more luck with him than H’nez was having with her. “It’s an old trick, flightleader, and one not only practiced by dragonriders.”

H’nez smiled and shook his head. Then he sobered again, gesturing with his free hand toward Ginirth. “So how long do you think before he’ll be ready to fly again?”

“How long do you think the wound will take to heal?” Fiona asked in return.

“Maybe a sevenday, maybe less,” H’nez told her.

“I’d say he’ll be ready then,” Fiona replied.

H’nez brightened. “Did you hear that, Ginirth? Less than a sevenday!”

“I said maybe less,” Fiona reminded him.

“Less than a sevenday,” H’nez repeated stubbornly.

Fiona rolled her eyes in exasperation, then returned to her examination. Satisfied, she straightened up and made her way back from Ginirth’s withers, where his wingtip rested, to the bronze dragon’s head, searching in her carisak for a jar of salve.

“Numbweed,” she said, handing it to H’nez, “if he needs it.”

H’nez nodded and pocketed the small jar, still scratching Ginirth’s eye ridge.

With a backward wave, Fiona left him and headed down to the Dining Cavern for lunch, her rounds completed.

T’mar shouted to her as she reached the entrance, so she changed direction toward him.

“The watch dragon reports that the Harper Hall is asking for a dragon,” he told her, “so Zirenth and I are going — did you want to come?”

“Yes, please!” Fiona was anxious to check on Forsk and her father. She searched the cavern, looking to ask Cisca. T’mar noticed and said, “I’ve already asked the Weyrwoman for you.”

“Oh, thank you.”

“We can go after lunch,” T’mar said, gesturing her toward a seat.

Fiona sat and regarded T’mar thoughtfully. “You must still be exhausted from last night.”

Outside, a number of dragon coughs echoed in the Weyr Bowl. T’mar glanced at her expectantly.

“Fifty,” she told him, grimacing. “That’s our best guess.”

“Guess?”

Fiona shrugged. “The ones who are sickest are easy to tell,” she replied. “It’s the ones who are just coming down with the illness that are hard to know about.”

“Maybe they’ll have good news at the Harper Hall,” T’mar said hopefully.

Fiona nodded. They finished the rest of their meal in silence. Afterward, she raced to her quarters to get her flying gear.

“I’m going to the Harper Hall,” she told Xhinna, quickly throwing open her closet.

“You’ll need to put your leggings on,” Xhinna told her. “And boots, scarf, and jacket.”

Fiona was dressed and racing back toward T’mar in less than ten minutes. The wingleader was also dressed in flying gear: wherhide jacket, gloves, and cap.

With a quick word of thanks to Zirenth, Fiona clambered up the bronze’s foreleg to perch on his neck, searching among the flying straps for hooks to secure herself. When T’mar climbed up behind her and saw what she was doing, he laughed. “You don’t need to do that — we’re not fighting Thread!”

“I just want to practice,” Fiona explained. “Besides, didn’t I hear you telling the weyrlings the other day about the dangers of turbulent air?”

T’mar groaned in acknowledgment. “But as long as I’m holding on to you” — and his strong arms braced her from either side — “you’ve nothing to worry about.”

Fiona laughed, then elbowed his arms away, finishing her work of clipping on to the fighting straps. “I do, if you aren’t going to clip in!”

“Very well, Weyrwoman,” T’mar agreed with a sigh. When he was done, he wrapped his arms around her once more, recalling for Fiona memories from when she was a child on a cold day and her father similarly wrapped his arms around her. She leaned back against his chest and closed her eyes, warm with the memory.

The sudden leap into the air and the sound of Zirenth’s great wings propelling them swiftly up and out of the Weyr Bowl did nothing to disturb Fiona’s happiness, and even when they went into the cold nothingness of between, she felt safe.

The weather over Fort Hold and the adjoining Harper Hall was much as at Fort Weyr — wispy drifts of snow could be seen at the edges of buildings and the base of the cliffs, and the air was crisp, cold, and dry with the harsh winds of winter. The sun was bright and the sky cloudless as they descended to the landing midway between the Harper Hall and Fort Hold . Fiona took a quick breath of the frigid air through the scarf wrapped over her face and let it out just as quickly — it felt as though it still had the cold of between in it and it hurt her lungs. She took a second, smaller, shorter breath and felt better.

The air on the ground was warmer, and as soon as they dismounted, Fiona and T’mar unbuttoned their wherhide jackets. T’mar waved affectionately as Zirenth leapt up again, seeking out a perch on the cliffs above Fort Hold .

“I don’t know why he bothers,” he said with a chuckle and a shake of his head. “I told him we wouldn’t be long.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t believe you,” Fiona suggested with a grin. “After all, they serve Benden wine.”

“That would be enticement enough for M’kury,” T’mar said, “but I’m made of sterner stuff.”

“Wouldn’t you want some nicely mulled red wine on a crisp day like to day?”

“Klah, ” T’mar corrected tersely. “As you mentioned earlier, I am still exhausted from last night.”

“So why didn’t you send someone else?” Fiona asked. T’mar didn’t answer, merely shaking his head.

They were scarcely under the Harper Hall’s arches when someone shouted and Fiona felt herself lifted off her feet. She had to control her impulse to kick out with her foot when her assailant cried joyfully in her ear, “Fiona! What a delight!”

“Verilan?” Fiona cried, astonished that the Master Archivist would engage in such a display of emotion and exercise.

“Fiona!” Verilan cried again, hugging her tight. Presently he put her back down and pushed her away from him, saying, “Let me look at you!”

Fiona felt herself blushing, both surprised and touched by Verilan’s exuberance, particularly as her strongest memories of him were of numerous scoldings for “playing in the inks — again!”

“You’re taller,” he said, finishing his examination. “You’ve grown — what? — two centimeters?”

“Nearly three,” T’mar put in from behind her. Fiona craned her neck around in surprise — since when did he keep tabs on her? The explanation came quickly enough, as he continued, “I heard Ellor groaning about it just the other day.”

“That’s not quite a record,” Verilan responded. “I believe greatest growth in a three-month period for a girl your age was recorded at Telgar Hold some eighty Turns ago when Lord Holder Predder’s eldest daughter grew three and a half centimeters — ”

“Verilan,” Fiona broke in, fearing that she had somehow unleashed another outpouring of the Archivist’s prodigious memory, “we’re here because of the signal.”

“Yes,” Verilan said, visibly pulling himself out of his recitation. “Master Zist had it set.” He gestured vaguely toward the Masterharper’s quarters. “You should go there.”

“Verilan?” Fiona said, her tone pleading for more information.

“I think you’ll find your father there,” he added.

“Is he all right?” Fiona asked immediately, despite reason telling her that if he were injured he’d be in the Infirmary, not the Masterharper’s quarters.

“All right?” Verilan repeated, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “I think that depends upon one’s criteria for such things.”

Fiona shook her head in exasperation, grabbed T’mar’s wrist, and tugged the bronze rider into a trot behind her. “We’d better hurry!”

T’mar made no comment at the incongruity of being led by a young, blond Weyrwoman who was not only half his age but also more than a full head shorter than himself; he had seen enough of Weyrwomen in his time to realize that he was probably lucky not to have to endure worse. He even kept his silence when Fiona banged on Zist’s door and announced herself.

“Isn’t T’mar with you?” Zist asked as he pulled open the door. “Ah, yes, he is!”

“Where’s my father?” Fiona demanded, scanning the room and quickly identifying its occupants. Her worries faded as she spotted Bemin seated with Kelsa at Zist’s round table.

“What’s going on?” Fiona demanded, her eyes switching from Zist, to Bemin, to Kelsa and back before finally settling demandingly on Kelsa.

“Your father and I — ” Kelsa began diplomatically, then broke off, pushing herself to her feet and patting her stomach in a manner that seemed both odd and subtly familiar to Fiona. “Well, we’re going to have a baby.”

“About time,” Fiona said. She saw Bemin start to speak and cut through: “Since I already knew — ” She paused at the surprised expressions on Kelsa’s and Master Zist’s faces and realized that her father hadn’t relayed their earlier conversation to either; her guess was confirmed by Kelsa’s glare at her father. “ — I presume this meeting is to let me know formally and also, by its venue — ” She waved a hand around the room. “ — to tell me that there are still some issues to work out.”

Zist wore an expression of approval that warmed Fiona; his approval was hard earned, more often than not.

She turned her attention to Kelsa. “Let me guess: You’re not certain you want to be a lifemate with him, and you want to raise the child here?”

“Actually, we’ve been through that,” Bemin said.

“We really just wanted to ask your blessing,” Kelsa added in an uncertain tone — a rarity in the outspoken Songmaster.

“I think it’s great,” Fiona told her enthusiastically. She looked at her father. “I’d been hoping you’d do something like this.”

“You were?” Bemin replied, surprised.

“I think Mother would have wished it,” Fiona said. In a quieter voice she added, “And I think so would Koriana.”

She was surprised at her feelings when she spoke of her long-dead, mostly forgotten older and only sister. Ever since she could remember, Fiona had been told how much she looked like her sister, how kind Koriana had been, and how in love Kindan had been with her. It had seemed like Fiona would forever be in Koriana’s shadow . . . until she was freed by her Impression of Talenth. And yet . . . Fiona thought of Kindan, remembered her half-hope that he would be here, remembered how her heart pounded whenever she heard of him, how happy she was whenever he smiled at her — was all that just her following the shadow of her dead sister?

“But you couldn’t have known I’d come,” Fiona realized, glancing over at the Masterharper. “So that wasn’t the only reason.”

Zist smiled at her and nodded. “No, it wasn’t,” he agreed.

“It was my idea,” Bemin added, smiling at his daughter. “I’d heard about your casualties and . . .”

“Healer Tintoval accepted,” Kelsa finished for him, gesturing to the healer, whom Fiona only now noticed in the room.

“As we’ve got the Healer Hall here, Fort Hold really only needs one journeyman healer to make the rounds,” Bemin declared.

“That’s only temporary,” Zist reminded him, “until we get more trained journeymen and masters.”

Fiona looked at the young healer. “You don’t mind that I took your stores for the dragons, do you?”

“Not at all,” Tintoval told her, waving the issue aside. “I’m only sorry to hear that it didn’t work.”

“Have we heard any more from Benden?” T’mar said, turning hopefully to the Masterharper.

Zist shook his head. “Kindan will be doing his best.”

“I’m sure of it,” Fiona agreed ardently.

“As am I,” Tintoval said. “And so will K’tan,” she added, referring to the healer at Benden Weyr.

“Are you sure about this?” Fiona asked. “You wouldn’t want to go to Benden instead?”

Tintoval shook her head. “Benden has a healer.”

“Tintoval is weyrbred and familiar with dragons,” Zist added. “But not with healing them,” Tintoval interjected.

“All healers say that, at first,” T’mar assured her. He bowed to her. “Healer, on behalf of my Weyrleader and Weyrwoman, I wish to extend our hopes that you will come to regard Fort Weyr as your home.”

“Thank you,” Tintoval replied, obviously touched by his sincerity.

“I also have news that you might want to hear,” T’mar said, turning back to Master Zist.

“Well, why don’t you have a seat, and you, too, Weyrwoman, and we’ll hear it over some fresh klah and dainties,” Zist invited, gesturing them toward the empty seats at the table.

“We shouldn’t stay too long,” Fiona cautioned as she sat down. “T’mar fought Thread last night and like all the dragonriders, he’s still exhausted.”

“We saw,” Bemin replied. “In fact, Forsk saw it rather close up.”

“Oh,” T’mar said, deflated. “So my news is known to you.”

“That the watch-whers flew against Thread?” Zist said. “Yes, we know that. What we don’t know is how it worked out for the Weyr.”

“What sort of casualties do you have?” Tintoval asked.

“Eleven severe, thirteen light,” Fiona recited quickly.

“You’ve helped?” Tintoval inquired and, on receiving Fiona’s nod, continued, “How many sick dragons do you have?”

“We’ve fifty,” T’mar told her glumly. “But we may lose some of them any day.”

Selora, the Harper Hall’s head cook, arrived with a tray holding a pitcher, mugs for all, and a plate piled high with delicious-looking, bite-sized dainties. They continued the conversation over hot klah and snacks, talking about dragon injuries, human injuries, and the night flight until Fiona, with a brush of her foot against T’mar’s leg, alerted the bronze rider that it was time to go.

“Masterharper, Lord Holder, Master Kelsa,” T’mar said, standing and nodding to each in turn, “we really should get back to the Weyr. I’m sure Tintoval will want to get settled in, and that Cisca and K’lior will want to greet her personally on her arrival.”

“Yes, yes, we’ve been keeping you too long,” Bemin agreed, rising to his feet and bending over to help Kelsa solicitously to hers. “I’m not that far gone, old man,” Kelsa growled at him, but Fiona noted that her tone was more grateful than grudging.

“In my experience, Master Kelsa,” Tintoval advised, “it’s best to get them used to helping as early as possible; that way, when you really need help, it’ll already be there.”

“Hmm,” Kelsa murmured, glancing consideringly at Bemin.

Tintoval left to retrieve her things, and as T’mar called for Zirenth to meet them at the Landing, Fiona said good-bye to her father and Kelsa, making sure to hug each of them an equal number of times and assuring Kelsa once again, “I am so glad you’re doing this!”

T’mar insisted upon putting Tintoval up front, with Fiona squashed between them.

“We don’t have enough straps,” Fiona remarked as she buckled herself on.

“You didn’t really need them on the way here,” T’mar replied, airily waving a hand, “and you don’t need them now.”

Fiona ignored him. Secretly she latched a hand onto the bottom of Tintoval’s jacket and wrapped her other arm under and around the straps in front of her, assuring a secure grip.

Even so, she lurched slightly as Zirenth leapt into the air, and then they went once more between and back to Fort Weyr .

Back over the Star Stones at Fort Weyr , Zirenth gave a grunt of surprise and dropped precipitously as they flew into a pocket of lighter air. Tintoval flew up out of her perch, and it was only Fiona’s tight grip that kept her from falling off. But the effort strained the arm clutching the healer and sharply wrenched the one wrapped in the fighting straps. Fiona groaned in pain. T’mar grabbed her the moment he felt the lurch, but without being anchored to the fighting straps, he could only use one arm himself.

On the ground, T’mar had no sympathy for Fiona’s groans. “You shouldn’t have done that! Tintoval was safe enough.”

“Only because I held on to her!”

“You could have fallen, too!” T’mar retorted.

“So you admit she was in danger!”

“We can’t afford to lose you,” T’mar replied, his tone pained.

“And we can afford to lose a healer?” Fiona demanded, her fury in full flight.

“Better than a queen rider,” Tintoval interjected. “We hardly had enough queens, and with the losses at Benden and here — ”

“So this is all about my queen?” Fiona demanded. “All that matters is her?”

“Yes,” T’mar told her, his voice going steely cold. “We’ve only the two, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“And we’ve only the one healer,” Fiona retorted, jerking her thumb at Tintoval.

T’mar gathered breath for a response, but a bellow from Melirth put a halt to all conversation. They turned to see Cisca storming toward them, her eyes flashing dangerously.

Fiona felt herself cringing, overwhelmed by the barely controlled power emanating from the Weyrwoman.

“Come with me,” Cisca ordered Fiona and turned away once more, certain of obedience.

For a moment Fiona thought to stand her ground, but then —

What’s wrong? Talenth demanded anxiously.

Nothing, Fiona lied. I was just scared.

Talenth emerged from her lair, eyes whirling red, finding Fiona and crooning at her anxiously.

It’s all right, Fiona assured her, projecting warmth and love toward the young queen. I’m getting over it.

Cisca, walking quickly, led her into the Council Room. K’lior was already there, seated, and looking grave.

The instant the two looked at her, Fiona, feeling that her safety lay in taking the offensive, declared, “T’mar wasn’t worried about the new healer!”

“That won’t work,” K’lior told her, his tone steady but firm.

Fiona glared at him for a moment more, then dropped her eyes guiltily.

“What did you hope to accomplish back there?” the Weyrleader demanded, waving a hand back toward the Weyr Bowl.

“Well — I — ” Fiona spluttered.

“You didn’t think,” Cisca told her. “It’s not uncommon at your age — ”

“At my age!”

“Yes, at your age,” Cisca repeated. “News of your behavior will be heard by everyone soon enough.”

“But T’mar was — ”

“ — wrong,” K’lior finished for her. “He should have used the straps.”

“He said he didn’t have any,” Fiona protested.

“He could have borrowed some from the Harper Hall,” K’lior replied. “Master Zist is used to dealing with dragonriders and is smart enough to keep some on hand.”

“As, no doubt, does your father,” Cisca added.

“Then you agree — ”

“I do not agree with your public humiliation of a wingleader,” K’lior interjected harshly. “T’mar’s a good man; he would have learned his lesson without your childish outburst.”

“Childish!”

“Childish,” Cisca agreed, but her tone was softer than K’lior’s and she shot the Weyrleader a look that Fiona couldn’t fathom. K’lior shrugged in response, leaving Cisca to continue, “An adult would have realized that T’mar would punish himself harshly for his error and — ”

“ — an adult would accept the realities of being a queen rider,” K’lior finished.

“And let someone else die?” Fiona demanded in anguish and fury, her eyes filling with tears.

“If need be,” Cisca answered softly. She gestured to herself and Fiona. “Without us, there would be no queens. And without the queens, there will be no Pern.”

“So our queens are nothing but brood mothers?” Fiona demanded sourly. “And you and I are — ” She found she couldn’t finish the sentence and so said instead, “But what about Tannaz? Why did you let her go between ?”

“It wasn’t my choice,” Cisca told her. She shook her head sadly. “You know that it wasn’t really Tannaz’s choice, either. Kelsanth was dying; there was no cure.”

“There’s no cure now,” Fiona reminded them grimly. But she remembered the words she’d heard: It will be all right. The words had been spoken with such faith that she couldn’t set them aside. “We can’t give up,” K’lior told her firmly.

“Why not?” Fiona demanded petulantly. “Tannaz did. There’s still no cure.”

“We can’t give up because we are dragonriders,” K’lior told her.

“Did your father give up during the Plague?” Cisca demanded.

“Yes, he did,” Fiona replied, her voice a near whisper. “After my mother and my brothers all died, he kept hope, but when Koriana . . .” She trailed off, remembering her father telling her about the Plague, about how Kindan had refused to give up even when Lord Holder Bemin himself had surrendered to despair.

It will be all right. Was it Kindan who had spoken to her? No, the voice had sounded different. But the words had Kindan’s faith, his surety, his steadfast refusal to admit despair . . .

“Kindan didn’t, though,” Fiona said out loud, raising her head and glancing first to Cisca and then to K’lior. “He never gave up.”

“Nor will I,” K’lior vowed.

“Nor I,” Cisca said. She lifted her chin up challengingly to Fiona. “So, Weyrwoman, daughter of a Lord Holder, Plague survivor, who will you follow: your father in his despair, or Kindan?”

Stung by the question, Fiona loyally declared, “My father vowed never again to give in to despair.” She met Cisca’s brown eyes. “He has never failed his Hold.”

“And you, Weyrwoman? What of your Weyr?” K’lior asked softly.

Before Fiona could answer, Cisca raised a hand and cautioned her, “Since Impression, you’ve been a Weyrwoman — that is unquestionable. The question is: What sort of Weyrwoman will you be? Will you be a leader and an inspiration, or will you be a whiner and an embarrassment? Will you bear your responsibilities, or bow under them?”

“But — to let her fall!” Fiona wailed. A torrent of emotions broke over her and she began to cry.

Realization dawned on K’lior’s face. “You aren’t angry at T’mar — you’re angry because you would have let her go!”

“I held on!” Fiona declared, holding up her aching arm as proof. “Of course you did,” Cisca replied proudly. “You’re a Weyrwoman.” She glanced to K’lior. “We’ve never questioned that.”

“But,” K’lior persisted, “if it had come to letting her go or falling with her — ”

“I would have let her go!” Fiona cried, dropping her head into her hands and shaking it in shame and sorrow. “I would have let her go.”

Strong arms wrapped around her and she was pulled tight against Cisca’s tall body. “Of course you would,” Cisca agreed with her, “because that’s what you would have had to do to protect Pern. You would have hated yourself for it, probably never have forgiven yourself, but you would have done it.” Cisca pushed her away and put a finger under Fiona’s chin, gently raising it so she could see the girl’s eyes. “And that’s what makes a great Weyrwoman: doing what has to be done even when she hates it.”

“That’s why you let Tannaz go,” Fiona said with sudden understanding.

“Yes,” Cisca replied, the words torn out of her, and again she crushed Fiona in a tight embrace, the sort of embrace a mother gives her daughter; the sort of embrace Fiona had always longed for. A short moment later, however, Fiona pushed herself away and glanced toward K’lior. “And that’s why you called me in here.”

The Weyrleader nodded, a corner of his lips turned up in a bitter smile. “Better to know your mettle now than when we are in worse straits.”

Fiona nodded. She stood as tall as she could and said to K’lior, “Weyrleader, I apologize for my outburst at Wingleader T’mar. I was distressed and took my temper out on him. I regret it.”

“Perhaps not all that much,” Cisca said, eyes dancing. “I know that it’s sometimes tempting to see bronze riders cringe at the lash of a harsh tongue.”

“Cisca!” K’lior said reprovingly. “Not everyone has your evil sense of humor.”

Cisca shook her head, catching Fiona’s eyes. “Remember Melanwy?” Fiona nodded glumly, remembering how she’d influenced Melanwy’s actions. “As Weyrwomen, we have incredible power. The best way to guard against abusing it is to be honest and listen to our fellow Weyrwomen.”

“So if I think you are being unfair, I should tell you?” Fiona replied.

“Of course,” Cisca agreed forcefully. Then she smiled. “I reserve the right to ignore you, of course.”

“In which case,” K’lior said with an evil grin at his Weyrwoman, “come to me and I’ll handle her!”

Cisca snorted derisively. “And Melirth will deal with you !”

“But of course,” K’lior agreed.

“Seriously,” Cisca said, turning again to Fiona, “it is often hard for a young Weyrwoman to accept the realities of her position.”

“To let healers die that I might live,” Fiona said by way of example.

“If that is what is needed to protect your queen and the future of Pern,” Cisca responded emphatically.

“It just doesn’t seem fair,” Fiona said softly.

“It isn’t fair,” Cisca agreed. “It’s up to us — Weyrwomen and Weyrleaders — to make it as fair as we can.”

“And when we can’t,” K’lior added, “it’s our responsibility to make certain that no sacrifice is in vain.”

Fiona nodded; K’lior’s words sounded like something her father would say in similar circumstances.

“So,” Cisca said, “are we ready to greet our new healer?”

“I think we are,” K’lior said, heading toward the doorway.

“I expect you to deal with T’mar on your own,” Cisca murmured in Fiona’s ear as they made their way back in to the Weyr Bowl.

The reason Fiona gave Cisca and K’lior for insisting on showing Tintoval around the Weyr was to make up for her previous behavior, and she was glad that they didn’t question her, particularly as they exchanged dubious looks that made it clear to her that they guessed her other reason — to avoid T’mar as long as possible.

“There are at least fifty dragons with the illness,” Fiona said as Tintoval startled at the coughs echoing around the Weyr Bowl.

“My training is with people,” Tintoval remarked worriedly.

“With Thread injuries such training works for both dragons and riders,” Fiona assured her.

“And the sickness?”

Fiona made a face. “Maybe you can help.”

Tintoval shook her head. “I think our best hope is still at Benden.”

“Maybe,” Fiona agreed, “but that doesn’t mean we should stop trying.”

“No,” the healer agreed wholeheartedly. She paused as Fiona turned toward a stairway. “Are we going to visit the sick dragons now?”

“Not all of them,” Fiona told her. “I doubt we’ll get to see more than ten before dinner.”

“Dinner doesn’t matter to me if that’ll help,” Tintoval offered.

“If only it were that easy,” Fiona replied, shaking her head. “But my father always says that ‘hungry stomachs make dull minds.’ ”

“Does he?” Tintoval replied. “I thought that came from Master Zist.”

Fiona stepped out of the stairwell and turned right, heading toward the third weyr.

“S’ban’s blue Serth started coughing about a fortnight back,” she murmured to the healer as they slowed at the entrance. She shook her head sadly, raised a warning hand to Tintoval, then called out, “S’ban, it’s Fiona with the new healer!”

“A new healer,” the voice inside began hopefully. “Does he — ”

He broke off as they entered. S’ban was dressed elegantly in wherhide breeches and a thick blue sweater accented with a gold chain around his neck. For a moment his face showed his surprise at Tintoval, and then it darkened.

“I’m not sure that Serth will tolerate a woman’s touch,” he warned them. When Fiona opened her mouth to argue, the blue rider amended quickly, “I mean, a woman who is not a queen rider.”

“S’ban, this is Tintoval,” Fiona said by way of introduction. “She’s just been posted master and assigned here.” The blue rider looked, if anything, even more disturbed at the news.

“I grew up at Benden,” Tintoval added, moving deftly around S’ban toward his dragon’s lair. When she spotted Serth curled up miserably with his head just barely free of a thick puddle of mucus, she called, “Why, aren’t you the biggest blue I’ve ever seen!” Over her shoulder to S’ban she remarked, “My father’s dragon was a blue — Talerinth.”

“I met him!” S’ban exclaimed brightly. “T’val was his rider. We competed at the Games before — ”

“Yes,” Tintoval said shortly. “Talerinth was burned by a firestone explosion and they went between. ” She grimaced at the memory, adding, “I had six Turns at the time. I was named Tintoval because father convinced my mother that I was going to be a boy — you know how mad blue riders are for sons!”

“We like daughters, too,” S’ban replied consolingly, moving up to her and looking at her sideways as he continued, “Is that why you chose to be a healer?”

Tintoval nodded faintly, confessing, “I didn’t know at the time that healers can’t mend broken hearts.”

S’ban reached for her hand and patted it awkwardly. “I’m sure if anyone could, it would be you.”

Tintoval smiled at him and, shaking her head to dismiss the issue, turned back to the ailing blue. “Serth, do you mind if I look at you? I can’t promise to help, but I’ll do my best not to hurt.”

She strode forward to the listless blue’s head and forced herself to ignore the poorly stifled sob of his rider.

Seeing that the healer was able to handle herself, Fiona quietly made her way past S’ban, found the bucket and mop she’d brought on an earlier visit, and quietly went to work cleaning up the green ooze near Serth’s head.

“You don’t have to do that,” S’ban protested when he saw her. “I’ll do it later.”

“I want to help,” Fiona told him, continuing undeterred. She gave him a lopsided smile. “Weyrwoman’s right.”

Tintoval glanced up at her with a surprised look, then returned to her examination of the blue dragon.

“His breathing is labored,” she noted. She glanced at his flanks. “And irregular.”

“We tried some mint salve to ease the breathing,” Fiona told her.

“And?”

“It only helped for a short while,” Fiona replied. “I was afraid it could make things worse, open up the lungs to more infection.”

“I use it at night, to help him sleep,” S’ban said worriedly. “Should I stop?”

“Does he sleep easier when you do?” Tintoval asked.

“He seems to,” S’ban replied cautiously.

Tintoval glanced to Fiona, who shrugged. Then she turned to the blue rider. “I think that if it helps him to sleep, you should keep on doing it. Sleep is one of the body’s best defenses against illness.”

S’ban nodded in acceptance, but cast a questioning glance toward Fiona.

“It makes sense to me,” Fiona told him. “Besides, I learned Turns back never to argue with a healer.”

“Or a harper, I’ll guess,” Tintoval added drolly.

“I owe my life to a harper turned healer,” Fiona declared.

“That’s right,” Tintoval said, nodding. “You were at Fort Hold when Kindan — ”

“And you can be certain, S’ban, that Kindan will do no less now to fight this illness than he did to fight the Plague,” Fiona cut in, building smoothly on the healer’s start.

“He’ll need to be quick, if Serth is going to survive,” S’ban added, his expression bleakly honest.

“Tintoval,” Fiona murmured to the healer five hours later as they checked in on their tenth sick dragon, “it’s time for dinner.”

The healer nodded silently, her attention still on the sick brown dragon she was examining.

“Go on, healer, you need to keep up your strength,” G’trek told her.

“Will you come with us?” Tintoval asked respectfully.

G’trek shook his head. “No, I think I’ll stay with Korth, in case he needs anything.”

“Send word by Talenth if you have need,” Fiona said.

The brown rider nodded. “You can be certain of it, Weyrwoman.”

Outside, as they walked briskly toward the stairwell, Tintoval asked, “Wouldn’t he need his dragon to ask to talk to you?”

Fiona shook her head. “I’ll ask Talenth to listen for him.”

“And she’s old enough to remember that?”

“Well, yes,” Fiona replied, surprised at the healer’s question and startled that she’d never considered Talenth’s memory remarkable.

“Queens grow quicker than other dragons,” Tintoval commented half to herself. “I just never realized quite how capable they are.”

“I never thought that she couldn’t do that,” Fiona confessed.

“Perhaps that’s why she can,” Tintoval replied. At Fiona’s surprised look the healer shrugged. “In trying times most people rise to the occasion.”

Fiona shook her head ruefully, thinking again of Kindan and how he had risen above his despair to save everyone during the Plague. “Like Kindan.”

“He was the first one to encourage me to consider becoming a healer,” Tintoval told her. “I had barely eight Turns, but he recommended me to K’tan as an understudy.” She shook her head in bemusement at the memory, continuing, “Two Turns later I was at the Harper Hall.”

“I’m surprised we never met,” Fiona said.

“We did,” Tintoval told her with a grin. “But you had all of five Turns and you spent all your time in Kindan’s lap.” She winked at Fiona. “I seem to recall it was your birthing day.”

“It was! I fell asleep,” Fiona remembered. She had never felt more comfortable than curled up on Kindan’s lap.

“Kindan had a smile on his face the whole time,” Tintoval recalled, adding, “I was quite jealous, of course. Even your father couldn’t prise you away.”

“I never got to see much of him,” Fiona said, reminiscing. “And I knew on my birthday no one would make me go away.”

“Wise of you,” Tintoval agreed. “I was never quite that bold.”

Fiona suddenly found herself uncomfortable talking about Kindan like this. She felt as though her memories got tarnished by being shared so openly.

“And now, neither of us have him,” Tintoval continued with a distant look in her eyes. “He has eyes only for Lorana, the new queen rider.”

“So I heard,” Fiona said shortly.

“But she was here!” Tintoval recalled. “Didn’t you meet her?”

“No,” Fiona replied, heat rising to her cheeks as she remembered the reason.

“You weren’t too jealous, were you?” Tintoval asked with a sly grin.

Her taunt trapped Fiona into either replying or, by her silence, tacitly accepting the jibe. “Actually, I was suffering from a concussion,” she said finally. She told the healer the whole story of how she caught T’mar’s full weight, adding, “Perhaps you would have done differently?”

“For T’mar?” Tintoval asked with a broad smile. She shook her head. “No, for him I would have done the same thing.” She wagged a finger down at Fiona. “You’ve got quite an eye for the men, if you don’t mind my saying!”

“I do mind!” Fiona retorted hotly. “I was only trying to save him!”

Tintoval took a step back from the irate queen rider and spread her arms wide in apology. “Your pardon, Weyrwoman,” she said, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Fiona shook her head and gestured for the healer to keep moving as they exited the stairwell and started across the Weyr Bowl. The way was dimly lit with glows and Fiona could make out small groups of riders and weyrfolk heading toward the Dining Cavern.

“And, actually,” Tintoval continued a moment later, “you raised an interesting problem that I hadn’t considered.”

“I did?”

“Yes,” the healer agreed. “The issue of handling riders who are too injured to maintain their mount.”

“I think it’s pretty rare,” Fiona said with a shrug. “Usually the fighting straps keep them secure, but T’mar was unlucky.”

“Perhaps we could discover a better way to catch them,” Tintoval murmured thoughtfully. “Maybe something like Kindan’s parachutes?”

“Wouldn’t they have to be awfully big?” Fiona wondered. They were entering the well-lit Dining Cavern and she paused, glancing around for sight of T’mar.

“Oh, this feels just like home!” Tintoval exclaimed, her face brightening as she scanned the large room filled with dragonriders and weyrfolk.

T’mar wasn’t at the Weyrleader’s table.

“I’m sure that Cisca and K’lior will want to talk with you,” Fiona said, gesturing for the healer to follow her. As they made their way to the back of the cavern, she was pleased to see so many people she recognized and a bit surprised by their reaction to seeing Tintoval for the first time.

“A woman healer!” “Who would have thought?” “I hear that she was weyrfolk at Benden.” “Benden, eh? So why is she here, then?” “Well, they’ve got a healer, haven’t they?”

K’lior and Cisca greeted the healer warmly and gestured for her to sit beside them. Fiona glanced to see if there was a place for her, but a sharp look from Cisca dissuaded her and she made her apologies, climbing back down from the raised platform and scanning the large cavern again for T’mar.

She found him seated with his wing at a table near the northern entrance.

Well, there was nothing for it, Fiona told herself grimly. She straightened her back and raised her head, recalling her father’s instructions. “When apologizing, do it quickly and be forthright,” Lord Bemin had told her Turns back over an incident involving one of the cook’s favorite serving bowls. “And be certain that you mean it. There’s nothing worse than a half-hearted apology.”

But she could have died! Fiona protested to herself, wondering how her father would have responded.

“She didn’t,” he would probably have said, “and you weren’t angry with the bronze rider because of that.” She could imagine him sighing and drawing her close. “Lying does not become a Lady Holder, particularly if she lies to herself.”

Yes, Father, Fiona thought in an end to the imaginary conversation, you’re right as always.

She was at T’mar’s table. The riders there all stopped talking when they saw her.

“Weyrwoman,” T’mar said, inclining his head respectfully.

“Wingleader T’mar,” Fiona began, “I wish to apologize to you for my outburst this morning. I should not have been angry with you.” She bit her lip and forced herself to continue. “The truth you spoke was not one I was prepared to hear. I regret my harsh words.”

T’mar regarded her for a moment, then gestured for her to take a seat. His wingman hastily rose and moved to the end of the table, brushing aside Fiona’s protests with a shake of his head and a smile.

T’mar waited until she was seated, then leaned in close to her. “You are not weyrbred; you learned something today that our children know as soon as they can talk.”

“I am holdbred,” Fiona agreed, “but my father is a Lord Holder and many of the same truths apply to Lady Holders as it does to Weyrwomen.” She frowned. “It’s just hard to accept.”

“Harder as a Weyrwoman, I believe,” T’mar told her. “As a Lady Holder you could renounce your claim, but as a Weyrwoman . . .” He shook his head.

“Is it always this hard?” Fiona asked him frankly. “Am I the only one . . . ?”

“No,” T’mar assured her. “I think every Weyrwoman battles with this issue.” He waved a hand toward Cisca. “I know that she did, before Melirth rose.”

Fiona pursed her lips, her chest tight as she worried about how she would deal with Talenth’s first mating.

“You’ve Turns yet, Fiona,” T’mar said, guessing her thoughts from her expression. He grabbed her hands with one of his and clasped them tightly, reassuringly. “You’ll do fine, I’m certain.”

“Cisca . . . ?” Fiona asked tentatively.

T’mar grimaced and shook his head. “If she chooses to tell you, she will,” he replied. “Let’s just say that there was a great deal of relief that Rineth flew her.”

Fiona noticed that T’mar glanced down at the table immediately thereafter, as though reliving some painful experience.

She was wondering how she could learn more — perhaps Ellor would tell her? — when the night was pierced by a strange noise, not the sound of a dragon but of something else, a noise Fiona instantly recognized: a watch-wher!

“I didn’t know watch-whers came here!” she exclaimed, craning her neck toward the entrance.

“They don’t,” T’mar said, pushing himself up and away from the table.

Fiona saw that Cisca and K’lior were also rising and looking toward the entrance.

Talenth, Fiona thought quickly, ask the watch-wher’s name.

Her name is Nuellask, Talenth responded immediately. Can I meet her?

Wait, Fiona replied, she might be frightened.

Of me? Talenth asked in amazement. Fiona assured her that that was probably not the case while still managing to keep her young queen from prancing out into the Bowl.

“It’s Nuellask,” Fiona said, following T’mar. “She’s Nuella’s gold watch-wher.”

“Thread’s not due for two days,” T’mar said. “I wonder why she’s here?”

“Maybe she wants to coordinate with us,” Fiona suggested.

Cisca caught sight of her as they reached the exit and, shaking her head at the exodus, told Fiona, “Keep them back.”

Fiona nodded and found herself herding curious riders and weyrfolk back to their meals, all the while wishing she had a better chance to see Nuella and her gold watch-wher.

After a few minutes, T’mar returned, beckoning to Fiona. “Cisca wants Nuella to meet you.”

With a relieved smile, Fiona ceded her job to T’mar and headed out into the darkened Weyr Bowl.

Even in the dim light, Fiona had no trouble locating the knot of riders clustered around the small gold watch-wher. The watch-wher arched her neck high over the humans as Fiona approached and then snaked it down to bring her head with its huge eyes to bear directly on Fiona, issuing a soft, high-pitched greeting.

“I’m Fiona,” she told the watch-wher, reaching a hand forward, fingers outstretched tentatively to scratch the watch-wher’s nearest eye ridge. As Nuellask crooned in delight, Fiona smiled. “Forsk likes to have her eye ridges scratched, too.”

“Did you spend much time with her, then?” a strange woman’s voice asked from close beside her.

Fiona shook her head, then expanded, “Not really. She was up at nights, and Father always insisted that I be asleep.” She grinned in memory. “But sometimes, when I was lonely, I’d go into her lair and curl up with her when I was tired.”

“From catching tunnel snakes, no doubt,” the woman, whom Fiona realized must be Nuella, guessed with amusement in her tone. “Kindan complained of it to me on several occasions.”

“Complained?” Fiona repeated, feeling irked with Kindan. “I got a quarter mark for each head!”

“And never got bitten, except the once,” Nuella added approvingly.

Fiona looked at her in surprise. “How did you — how did Kindan know about that?”

Nuella laughed. “No one keeps secrets from harpers for long.”

“But I treated myself and kept the cut hidden!”

“You still needed stores and you had to ask someone, even if hypothetically, about treating snakebites,” Nuella replied, her voice full of humor. She held out a hand, which Fiona took and shook eagerly. “I’m Nuella, as you’ve no doubt guessed.” She continued, “And rest assured, no one would have known except that Kindan was keeping such a careful watch over you.”

Fiona was too embarrassed to reply.

“I thought it was a particularly good idea to ask Kelsa if there’d ever been songs written about treating snakebites,” Nuella confided approvingly.

“She wrote one just afterward,” Fiona remembered, then groaned, glancing over to the older woman in horror, “and she consulted Father on it! You don’t suppose she told him . . . ?”

Nuella laughed and shook her head. “I have no idea,” she replied. “All I know is that after the song was written, Kindan showed up at my camp very agitated and tried to slyly teach the song to me.”

“He was afraid you were going to go after tunnel snakes?”

Nuella shook her head, her grin slipping. “I’d already done that,” she confessed. “I think he was just trying to be certain that I knew how to handle the bites if I ever did again.”

With a shock of horror, Fiona realized that Nuella was referring to her first watch-wher, the green Nuelsk, who had died of snakebite. She risked a glance at the older woman — who had nearly twice as many Turns as she — and was surprised by their similarities: both were blond and freckled. Nuella’s eyes were more of a pure blue than Fiona’s, but they could have been sisters or, at least, half-sibs.

“It seems that Kindan’s friends are always doing brave things,” Cisca remarked as she strode over to them, K’lior and H’nez trailing just behind her.

“Kindan sets the example,” Fiona said in unison with Nuella. The two glanced at each other in surprise, then laughed.

“Can I see your dragon?” Nuella asked when she recovered. “Nuellask said she’d like to meet her.”

“Of course,” Fiona said, calling to Talenth. The little queen eagerly scampered out of her lair, launching herself for a quick glide in the night. Shaking her head, Fiona called, “Show off!”

Talenth said nothing in response, just striding quickly over to the gold watch-wher. The two exchanged cautious sniffs, then inspected each other eagerly.

Can I play with her? Talenth asked hopefully. Fiona could see the attraction: Nuellask was just a bit bigger than the little queen.

She’s much older than you, Fiona warned her. I don’t think she’ll want to play.

“And you’re supposed to be sleeping, aren’t you?” Nuella added with a laugh. Sensing Fiona’s surprise, the wherhandler told her, “Nuellask gave me an idea of your queen’s eagerness.”

“She wants to play,” Fiona admitted.

“I could see the attraction,” Nuella agreed. She turned toward Talenth, shaking her head. “I’m afraid that Nuellask and I have to get back to our lair. We’ll be flying Thread in two days’ time.”

Talenth hung her head until Nuellask chirped at her soothingly.

“I’m sure you’ll meet again,” Nuella promised the queen dragon, “when you’re older.” She turned to Fiona, adding, “When you’re both older.”

Before Fiona could respond, Nuella turned toward the knot of riders, saying to K’lior, “Then it’s agreed, Weyrleader, that the watch-whers will ride the Fall?”

“After your last performance, I wouldn’t have it any other way,” K’lior replied feelingly. “But if there’s any danger — ”

“Your H’nez will be on duty at Southern Boll,” Nuella interjected. “If there’s any need, we’ll contact him.”

“I still think it’s a bad idea,” H’nez grumbled. “The Records say nothing of watch-whers fighting Thread — ”

“Actually,” Cisca interrupted smoothly, “they do.”

“When?” H’nez asked abruptly.

“As of last night, when I wrote the report,” the Weyrwoman told him.

H’nez was not amused. “If they’re so useful, why was there no mention before?”

“I doubt anyone ever thought to mention it because it was obvious,” K’lior told him. “Watch-whers watch at night and guard holds — we all know that. Probably no one thought it worth mentioning that at night they also guard the holds from Thread. ”

“We haven’t trained for this,” H’nez protested.

“I accept responsibility for that,” K’lior said.

“If all goes well, we won’t need you,” Nuella assured H’nez.

“Not need . . . ?” H’nez repeated, his tone full of disbelief.

“If the weather holds, the Thread will all be dead,” Nuella said, “and then neither dragon nor watch-wher will have to fight.”

“That would be good,” K’lior said. “And it would give us time, afterward, to train together.”

“I thought dragons didn’t like flying at night,” Fiona said.

“They don’t,” Cisca agreed. “But they hate missing Thread more.”

“I must return,” Nuella said, turning back toward her watch-wher and feeling for the saddle. Nuellask gave her an encouraging chirp, turning her head to guide Nuella. After Nuella mounted, the others stood back as the queen watch-wher beat her tiny wings, rose slightly in the night air, and was gone between.

“Let’s hope the Thread freezes,” K’lior said.

The new day dawned cold with snow flurries falling, clothing the Weyr in a damp blanket of slush and mist — snow rarely stayed long in the warm Bowl of the Weyr. Farther up, in the weyrs, it was a different matter.

“I don’t know how this cold will affect the sick dragons,” Tintoval said when she met Cisca for breakfast that morning. “I know that dragons are usually not bothered by cold but — ”

“ — dragons don’t usually get sick,” Cisca finished for her, nodding in agreement.

“We could ask them,” Fiona suggested. The other two looked at her in surprise.

“I suppose we could, at that,” Cisca said.

“But would they know?” Tintoval wondered. The two Weyrwoman glanced at her. “People who have a fever feel cold when they’re really hot, and those who’ve suffered from being frozen sometimes think they’re too warm.”

“Would it hurt to keep them warmer?” Xhinna wondered. “Even if they felt all right, would it hurt?”

“I think we should worry about the riders,” Fiona said. “If they’re cold, then it’s likely that their dragons are, too.”

“And they don’t have the illness, so they’ll know,” Tintoval added approvingly.

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Cisca cautioned.

“Why?”

“Dragons and riders share a bond,” Cisca replied, “and a dragon’s confusion can fuddle a rider.”

Tintoval bit her lip and nodded.

“It’s better than nothing,” Fiona said.

“Yes, it is,” Cisca agreed.

“I’m going to be busy getting ready for the Fall,” Fiona said to Tintoval. “Do you think you can manage on your own?”

“If not, see me,” Cisca said.

“Can I have Xhinna?” Tintoval asked.

Fiona turned to her friend. “Do you think you can survive a day without trying to beat the weyrlings at sacking firestone?”

Xhinna spent a moment torn between her desire and her sense of duty. Duty won. “Of course, Healer.”

“I’m glad we’ve got the right firestone,” T’mar remarked as he and Fiona watched the younger weyrlings preparing spare sacks of firestone. “In this weather, the older stuff would have to be salted and then rolled in grease before we could bag it.”

“And even then it was still dangerous,” Tajen added as he eyed the weyrlings’ efforts critically. “This is much better.”

“We’ve got enough for a full Flight,” Terin reported after a final glance at her tally slate. “Do we need more?”

T’mar glanced up at the darkening sky, still flecked with falling snow, and shook his head. “I don’t think we’ll need it.”

“The weather will be different down at Southern Boll,” Tajen cautioned.

“But it’s still winter there,” T’mar said.

Tajen flipped open his hand in a gesture of agreement.

H’nez, M’valer, and K’rall departed on Thread watch shortly before dark.

“Send word at any sign of black dust,” K’lior reminded them before they departed.

“I expect all the Thread will drown,” M’valer said with a sour look.

“That would be good,” K’lior said. “We could use the rest.”

“Rest!” H’nez exclaimed. “We’ll be up all night.”

“I’ve never found that a problem,” M’kury called from beside K’lior. He turned to the Weyrleader. “Perhaps you should send me instead?”

H’nez’s disgusted snort echoed around the Weyr Bowl, un-dampened by the muffling snow.

“Good flying, wingleaders!” K’lior called in the ceremonial salute.

A moment later, the three wingleaders were gone, between.

When K’lior returned to the Living Caverns, Cisca greeted him with, “Why the troubled look?”

“I don’t know,” K’lior replied, shaking his head. “I suppose I’m concerned with the way H’nez and the others are so convinced they’ve nothing to worry about. They don’t seem ready. Alert.”

“I can understand them,” Cisca replied. “With this beastly weather, as long as the watch-whers are on duty, there’ll be no call for dragons.”

K’lior pursed his lips, then nodded absently.

“But it’s warmer down south,” Fiona remarked.

“We shouldn’t worry,” Cisca decided. “Not with Nuella minding the watch-whers.”

Her words did little to assure either Fiona or K’lior, who exchanged worried looks.

“Nuella’s been training for this for a long while,” Tintoval said in reassurance. “She’ll have no trouble managing the watch-whers, I’m sure.”

“I said no,” Zenor repeated forcefully, turning Nuella toward him. Behind her, Nuellask gave them a questioning chirp. “You can’t do this.”

“But I must,” Nuella replied calmly. “You know that.”

“The first time, yes,” Zenor agreed. “You needed it for peace of mind, if nothing else. But Nuellask” — and he shot the gold watch-wher an acknowledging nod — “knows what to do now, so she doesn’t need you.”

Nuella drew breath to argue, but Zenor placed a restraining finger on her lips. “You’ve got children, Nuella. What would they do if anything happened to you?”

“They would survive,” Nuella answered softly, pushing herself against Zenor and nuzzling in tightly. “They have the best father on all Pern — ”

“So it’s my duty to ensure that they keep their mother, too,” Zenor finished.

“If anything happened to Nuellask and I wasn’t there — ”

“It would hurt terribly, I know,” Zenor said. And Nuella had to admit that he did know. Not only had he helped her through the torment of losing her first watch-wher, Nuelsk, but he had also survived the wrenching loss of his own two fire-lizards.

“But you would survive,” Zenor concluded. And this, Nuella knew bitterly, was also true. The bond between watch-wher and whermate was strong, but it was nowhere near as deep as that between a rider and her dragon.

“I have to go, Zenor,” Nuella said at last, pushing herself away from him more reluctantly than her brusqueness showed. “It’s my duty.”

“She’s right,” a small voice piped up from behind Zenor. “ ‘Dragonriders must fly when Thread is in the sky.’ ”

Zenor glanced over his shoulder to smile at Nalla, their eldest.

“Mummy hasn’t got a dragon,” little Zelar corrected.

“It’s the same thing,” Nalla protested.

“You two were supposed to be in bed,” Zenor said with a sigh. He turned, still holding Nuella’s hand. “But as you’re not, you can give your mother a kiss good-bye. She’ll return it when she comes back.”

Nuella’s hand tightened thankfully on Zenor’s. The two youngsters needed no further urging and rushed to their mother. Nuella bent over to receive their hugs and kisses.

“Now off to bed with you,” Zenor said, making shooing motions. “I’m surprised Silstra let you stay up this late.”

“She doesn’t know,” Nalla returned as she was leaving. “She was watching the baby.”

“Well, Sula, then.”

“She was making bread,” Zelar said, rolling his eyes.

After they had left, Zenor helped Nuella into the saddle he and Terregar had constructed specially for her. He strapped her in tight.

“No flying upside down this time,” he chided her.

“It musses up my hair,” Nuella responded, not — Zenor noted — necessarily ceding to his request.

“Bring her back,” Zenor said to Nuellask. “She and I have more babies to make.”

“Gladly!” Nuella responded with a laugh. “I want six, at least.”

“Excellent,” Zenor agreed, his eyes dancing.

“And Nuellask wants a few more clutches herself, I’m sure.”

“Which is a good thing,” Zenor said, “as it seems that your babies start with hers.”

Nuella smiled and said nothing. Zenor gave her hand one last tight clasp and then released her, stepping well back from the watch-wher.

“Fly safe,” he called fervently.

The gold watch-wher gave a loud cry, alerting all the other watch-whers in the compound, then sprang up into the air on her hind legs and disappeared between.

The night was silent, the air was still. Zenor shivered at the sudden cold.

The night air of Fort Weyr was torn by a cry Cisca had never heard before, but she reacted before she could think.

“Melirth!” she shouted as her eyes caught sight of the plummeting object. The great queen was airborne before any other dragon in the Weyr could respond, and swiftly brought herself up under the stricken flier.

Cisca grabbed a pot of numbweed automatically and raced across the Bowl. “K’lior!”

Alerted by her previous call, K’lior had already started toward her along with the rest of his wing’s riders.

At the last possible moment, Melirth moved to let the injured flier tumble gently to the ground. Two cries of pain, one female, one draconic, filled the night air.

“It’s Boll! You’ve got to come!” Nuella cried out as she heard the voices approaching. “The Thread is still alive! The air’s too hot; the watch-whers are getting slaughtered.”

Rineth! K’lior’s call was all that was needed.

Cisca clenched her jaw tightly as she caught sight of Nuella’s back, Thread-scored to the bone from right shoulder to left pelvis. The score continued on the left side of the gold watch-wher.

Get the healer here, Cisca told her dragon, oblivious to the sounds of the dragonriders forming up. She took a dab of numbweed and gently smeared it down the length of Nuella’s burn.

Nuella hissed first in pain, then relief. “Please, how bad is Nuellask? She says she isn’t hurt much but . . .”

“You took most of the score yourself,” K’lior announced as he joined his mate. Tintoval and Fiona rushed up, with Xhinna following slightly behind them.

“Always the rider, never the dragon,” Cisca added in a mixture of exasperation and admiration.

“We have to go back,” Nuella said, trying to find the buckles that strapped her to her watch-wher.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Cisca pronounced. “Except maybe to bed.”

“We’ll take it from here, Nuella,” K’lior reassured her.

“No!” Nuella said. “You can’t see the Thread, your dragons can’t see the Thread, it’s too dark. Only the watch-whers can see the Thread, and they scattered when we got hurt.

“We’ve got to go back, to rally them and get them to point out the Thread for your dragons,” she finished, struggling feebly.

Cisca and K’lior exchanged looks.

“Your watch-wher is not hurt too badly,” K’lior said consideringly. “She could guide us.”

“No, you’ll need me, too,” Nuella said. “Nuellask needs me to help her get the watch-whers under control.”

Cisca made up her mind and reached for the buckles of Nuella’s saddle. “If that’s the case, there’s no time to lose,” she said. “You’ll fly with me.”

She turned to K’lior. “Go on, we’ll be along presently.”

“But the queens shouldn’t fly!” K’lior protested as Melirth moved closer to her rider.

“This one is,” Cisca declared, unbuckling the last of Nuella’s straps and helping the WherMaster out of her saddle. She turned to Fiona, her eyes flashing in the night air and the younger Weyrwoman nodded in reluctant acceptance of the unspoken request — that if anything should happen to Cisca or Melirth, Fiona would continue on regardless.

“You’ll be all right,” Fiona declared staunchly, adding, “Talenth and I will guard the Weyr while you’re away.”

Cisca grabbed Fiona in a quick, grateful hug before releasing her and turning back to Nuella.

“You’ll ride behind me,” she said, as she guided Nuella toward Melirth.

“That’s fine,” Nuella told her, trying not to wince as the torn leather of her flying gear rubbed against her wound. “With your eyes, I won’t have to worry about Thread.”

K’lior and the dragonriders of Fort Weyr arrived over Southern Boll Hold in darkness. K’lior ordered the Weyr to hold in place, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He had just started to make out the watch-whers in their desperate fight against Thread when Melirth burst from between.

Cisca wants to know what are you waiting for? Rineth relayed, getting Cisca’s impatient tone down pat.

We can’t see, K’lior responded.

Cisca says that the watch-whers will see for us, Rineth said, sounding confused. Nuella suggests assigning a half-wing to each watch-wher.

Precious moments were lost as the plan was implemented. The first watch-wher bolted between when it found itself guidon for over half a dozen flaming dragons, but it soon returned, giving the dragons a partly apologetic, partly challenging blerp and directing them toward another clump of Thread.

Even with the watch-whers guiding them to the clumps, the night fight was awful. Dragon after dragon bellowed in pain as unseen Thread scored and they ducked between. Some did not return.

The watch-whers fared worse. K’lior soon learned not to wince at the painful high-pitched scream of a fatally Threaded watch-wher.

Nuellask was everywhere, rallying the watch-whers, chiding the dragons, chewing Thread. She paid the price for her leadership and several times bellowed in pain before going between to rid herself of Thread.

When Nuella at last relayed that the Thread had moved on to fall over the sea, where it would drown, K’lior gratefully gave the orders to return to the Weyr.

Tell Nuellask that all injured watch-whers should follow us, K’lior added. And remind me to send a sweep wing to look for burrows in the morning.

For all their work, K’lior was certain that Thread had fallen through to the ground in the darkness. He shuddered at the thought of what the ground might look like in the morning.

Take us to the Hold, Rineth, K’lior said. I must speak with the Lord Holder.

Contrary to K’lior’s fears, Lord Egremer was effusive with his praise of the dragons and their riders.

“We’ll have ground crews out at first light, I promise,” he said. He looked nervously northward, toward where Thread had fallen. “How bad is it, do you suppose?”

K’lior shook his head. “We did our best,” he said. “But the warm weather meant that every Thread was alive. The watch-whers were overwhelmed and we’d never trained with them, so our coordination was lousy.”

Lady Yvala’s eyes grew wide with alarm.

“We’ll have sweepriders out at first light,” K’lior promised. “As soon as we see anything, we’ll let you know.”

“I’d hate to lose the stands of timber to the north,” Lord Egremer said. “They’re old enough to be harvested, but I was hoping to hold off until mid-Pass, when we’ll really be needing the wood.”

K’lior nodded. “We’ll do our best.”

“And we’re grateful for all that you’ve done,” Egremer replied. Wearily, K’lior mounted Rineth and directed him home.

The morning dawned gray, cold, and cloudy. Even Cisca was subdued.

“The reports are in from T’mar on sweep,” she said as she nudged K’lior awake, handing him a mug of steaming klah. K’lior raised an eyebrow inquiringly. Cisca made a face. “Five burrows.” K’lior groaned. Cisca made a worse face and K’lior gave her a go-on gesture.

“Two are well-established. They’ll have to fire the timber stands.”

K’lior sat up, taking a long sip of his klah. He gave Cisca a measuring look, then asked, “Casualties?”

Cisca frowned. “Between the illness and Thread, twenty-three have gone between. F’dan and P’der will be laid up with injuries for at least six months. Troth, Piyeth, Kaderth, Varth, and Bidanth are all seriously injured and will also take at least six months to heal. There are eleven other riders or dragons with injuries that will keep them from flying for the next three months.”

“So, we’ve what — seventy dragons and riders fit to fly?”

“Seventy-five,” Cisca corrected. “And we’ve got over three seven days before our next Fall. I’m sure that we’ll have more dragons fit to fly by then.”

“Three sevendays is not enough time,” K’lior grumbled, rising from their bed and searching out some clothes.

“No, you don’t,” Cisca said sharply, getting up and pushing him toward the baths. “You smell. You’re getting bathed before you do anything else.”

K’lior opened his mouth to protest, but Cisca silenced him with a kiss.

“If you’re nice,” she teased, “I may join you.”

K’lior tried very hard to be nice.

Lord Holder Egremer scowled at the line of smoke in the distance. Forty Turns’ worth of growth, gone. Three whole valleys had been put to flames before the dragonriders and ground crews could declare Southern Boll Hold free from Thread.

The rains would come soon and the burnt land would lose all its topsoil. He could expect floods to ravage the remnants of those valleys. In the end, there might be a desert where once there had been wide forests.

It would be worse for his holders. They had expected years of work and income culling the older trees, planting new, and working the wood into fine pieces of furniture. Now Southern Boll would be dependent upon its pottery, spices, and the scant foodstuffs it could raise for its trade with the other Holds.

The Hold would take Turns to recover.

“I’m sorry, Egremer,” a disconsolate K’lior repeated. “If there’s anything the Weyr can do to help — ”

Egremer sighed and turned back to the Weyrleader. K’lior was a good ten Turns younger than himself, and while Egremer wanted desperately to blame someone, he knew that it would be unfair to blame the dragonrider.

He forced a smile. “I appreciate that, K’lior,” he replied. “And there might be more that you can do than you know.”

K’lior gave him an inquiring look.

“If I could have the loan of a weyrling or two, to help scout out the damage and maybe haul some supplies . . .”

“Weyrlings we have a-plenty,” K’lior said. He shook his head. “It’s full-grown dragons that are scarce.”

“I’d heard that your losses are high from the illness,” Egremer replied. “Is there anything we can do for you, Weyrleader?”

For a moment, K’lior made no reply, staring off into space, thinking.

“Nothing,” he said at last, angrily. “You can’t give us more mature dragons, or heal our wounded more quickly.”

Egremer’s face drained. “How long do we have, then?”

K’lior’s face grew ashen. “Fort is lucky. We don’t have another Threadfall in the next three sevendays. We’ll probably be able to fight that,” he answered, adding with a shake of his head, “but I can’t say about the next Fall.”

The despair that gripped the Weyrleader was palpable. Egremer looked for some words of encouragement to give him but could find none. It was K’lior who spoke next, pulling himself erect and willing a smile back on to his face.

“We’ll find a way, Lord Egremer,” he declared with forced cheer. “We’re dragonriders, we always find a way.” He nodded firmly and then said to Egremer, “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

“Certainly!” Egremer replied. “I’ll see you out. And don’t worry about those weyrlings, if it’s too much bother. Having them would only save us time.”

K’lior stopped so suddenly that Egremer had to swerve to avoid bumping into him.

“Time!” K’lior shouted exultantly. He turned to Egremer and grabbed him on both shoulders. “That’s it! Time! We need time.”

Egremer smiled feebly, wondering if the dragon’s sickness could affect riders as well. K’lior just as suddenly let go of the Lord Holder and raced out of the Hold.

“Thank you, Lord Egremer, you’ve been most helpful,” he called as he climbed up to his perch on Rineth.

“Any time, Weyrleader,” Egremer called back, not at all certain what he had done, but willing to use the Weyrleader’s good cheer to elevate that of his holders rather than depress them more by looking at the Weyrleader as if he were mad.

“Cisca, it’s time!” K’lior yelled up from the Bowl to their quarters as soon as he returned between from Southern Boll. “That’s what we need, time!”

Cisca stepped up to the ledge in Melirth’s quarters and peered down to K’lior. “Of course we need time,” she agreed, mostly to humor him.

“No, no, no,” K’lior shouted back. “The weyrlings and the injured riders — they all need time to grow and recover.”

“Make sense, K’lior,” Cisca returned irritably.

K’lior took a deep breath and gave her a huge smile. “We’ll time it. Send them back in time somewhere so — ”

“So they can recover!” Cisca finished with a joyful cry and a leap. “K’lior, that’s brilliant!”

“There’s only one place we can go,” K’lior told the assembled wingleaders. “Igen. It’s the only Weyr that’s empty. And we can’t go back too far — we don’t want to have to worry about the Plague.”

“I’d recommend going back ten Turns,” Tintoval, who was there at Cisca’s invitation, said.

“Why not just three?” M’valer asked querulously.

“Three gives no margin for error,” Tintoval replied.

The bronze riders exchanged looks, and K’lior said, “Ten Turns, then.”

“If this works, won’t you want to offer the same chance to the other Weyrs?” Tintoval asked.

“It makes sense,” Cisca said. “But there’s no reason we can’t have an overlap.”

“Not with D’gan,” T’mar murmured. M’valer glared at him, but before he could say anything, M’kury said with a smirk, “No, indeed!”

“No one knows if this is going to work, anyway,” H’nez said. K’lior glanced sourly in his direction — H’nez had been late in joining the fight the night before.

“That’s why we’re going to try it ourselves before we suggest it to the other Weyrs,” K’lior said. He grimaced. “It’s a pity we’ve only got twelve weyrlings able to go between. ”

“But we’ve got seventy-seven injured riders and dragons who can manage,” Cisca pointed out. “Together, that will give us nearly three full Flights of dragons.”

“If they survive,” H’nez reminded her. “If something happens to them — ”

“Then we’ll be just as shorthanded as we are now,” Cisca cut him off.

K’lior turned to T’mar. “When can you be ready?”

“In two hours,” T’mar replied. “When do you need us back?”

“Excuse me,” H’nez said, “but I think I should be the one to go.” K’lior turned to him with a raised brow.

“I’ve had the most experience leading Flights of dragons; I’ll be the best at training them and handling their injuries,” H’nez explained.

“T’mar is handling the weyrlings now,” K’lior said. “And the decision as to who goes is mine.”

H’nez flushed angrily. “Then pick me.”

K’lior eyed him with distaste for a moment, then turned his attention back to T’mar. “The healer will need to stay here.”

T’mar nodded in agreement.

“Weyrleader!” H’nez snapped through gritted teeth. All eyes turned to him. “If you will not let me lead the Flight back to Igen, then I demand that you send me to another Weyr.”

“H’nez!” M’valer gasped.

K’lior merely nodded. “I can not send you until this illness has been cured,” he told H’nez. “At that time, however, you may go to any Weyr that will have you. In the meantime, as we have more wingleaders than wings, you are to fly in M’kury’s wing.”

H’nez nodded stiffly, rose from his chair, and rushed out of the room, ignoring K’rall’s and M’valer’s outraged expressions.

“I could go,” Fiona spoke up in the silence that followed H’nez’s dramatic exit. Everyone looked at her. “I know some healing and I’m a Weyrwoman.”

T’mar smiled kindly at her, shaking his head. “Talenth is too young to go between. ”

“Three Turns is a long time for the Weyr to wait for its next queen,” M’kury said, glancing at the other riders.

Cisca pursed her lips and shook her head. “We can’t risk losing the only other queen we have.”

“If Talenth were older, able to go between, I’d be happy to send you,” K’lior said. He shook his head. “As it is, I can’t allow it.”

“They’re going back in time?” Xhinna repeated in surprise when Fiona filled her in later as they were oiling Talenth. “And that will work?”

“No one knows,” Fiona said. “But they hope so.”

“How will they know how to get there?”

Fiona smiled. “They’re going to use the Red Star as a guide.”

“The Red Star?”

“Yes, they’ll fly to Igen in our time, sight the Red Star in the Star Stones, and work out what the image should be for ten Turns back,” Fiona told her.

“And when they come back, they’ll be three Turns older?” Xhinna said, grappling with the thought.

“In three days, they’ll be three Turns older,” Fiona agreed, her tone wistful. “T’mar’s leading them.”

There! Talenth cried as Fiona found a particularly itchy part. Fiona smiled indulgently and scrubbed harder with her oily rag. Oh, that’s much better!

“When we’re done oiling Talenth, Cisca wants us to meet with Tintoval and make a chest of medicinal supplies,” Fiona said.

“What if something goes wrong?” Xhinna asked. “What if they don’t come back?”

Fiona shook her head. “In that case, we’ll think of something.”

“There are two more sick dragons today,” Xhinna noted darkly.

“That brings the total up to eighteen,” Fiona said, pursing her lips tightly. “And two more dragons went between. ” She’d lost track of how many dragons had succumbed to the illness; she knew it was over fifty, but she couldn’t say by how much. More became ill every day.

“Even if everything goes well, there will be less than two full Flights of dragons.”

“I know, Xhinna,” Fiona replied, grimacing. “We just have to do what we can.”

“I heard that the Benden Weyr healer’s dragon went between today.”

Fiona nodded. Cisca had sent her after breakfast to check on Tintoval; the healer had known K’tan — no, Ketan — it had been his recommendation that had sent her to the Harper Hall.

“How do you bear it?” Xhinna asked, glancing over from her place near Talenth’s neck, her oiling temporarily forgotten. She gestured to Talenth. “How can you stand the thought of losing her?”

“I won’t lose her,” Fiona declared. She patted Talenth forcefully. “No matter what happens, I won’t lose you.”

Talenth chirped happily. I love you.

“I wish I were going to Igen,” Xhinna said wistfully. “I’d like to be away from all this for three Turns.”

“You could ask T’mar,” Fiona said, though her heart wasn’t in it.

Xhinna shook her head. “I’ll stay with you.”

“I think Talenth’s all done for now,” Fiona said, leaning back from her place over Talenth’s itchy patch. “Let’s go find Tintoval.”

The sun was well past its zenith when all the arrangements were complete and the riders and dragons were arrayed in the chilly Bowl, ready to go to Igen and back ten Turns in time. In the end, after much discussion, it was decided that T’mar should take only the forty-seven most lightly injured dragons and riders, as well as the older weyrlings. It would be too dangerous for the thirty more seriously injured dragonpairs to make the leap between times, a point that Fiona emphasized in her discussions with F’jian and the other disgruntled young weyrlings.

“Fly well,” K’lior called to the assembled riders. From perches on high, the rest of the dragons of Fort Weyr looked on.

“I’ll see you in three days,” Tajen said as he helped T’mar settle the last of his gear on Zirenth’s neck. “Try not to get too tanned.”

T’mar laughed and waved his farewell. Tajen stepped back, joining K’lior, Cisca, Fiona, and the others. T’mar turned on his perch, making one final assessment of his charges, then raised his arm and pumped his fist in the ancient signal to ascend.

Sixty dragons leapt into the air and beat their wings, climbing up out of the Bowl to array themselves near the Star Stones, with T’mar’s Zirenth in the van. They remained there for one more instant and then were gone, between.

Dinner that evening was subdued. Fiona kept Xhinna near her for company. Kentai arranged for the children to sing during the meal, which should have lifted everyone’s spirits but even the spritely “Morning Dragon Song” seemed only to punctuate the fact that T’mar and nearly ninety other riders — including those whose dragons were too ill — weren’t sharing the meal with the rest of the weyr.

Three Turns, Fiona mused as she ate without speaking. What would T’mar be like then? All her vague, half-formed images of the bronze rider blurred and dimmed; she’d already known he was too old for her, and these added three Turns just emphasized that difference. If she’d entertained any hopes of a deeper relationship someday, those hopes were now dashed.

As she and Xhinna walked back to their quarters after dinner, F’jian and J’nos caught up with them.

“It’s not fair,” F’jian complained. “They should have let us go, too!”

“Look on the bright side,” Fiona said to him. “At least now you’re the senior weyrling.”

F’jian paused in his surprise. But then, after a long moment, he declared, “I’d still prefer to go to Igen with the others.”

“We can’t even ride our dragons yet,” J’nos reminded him. “How could we survive going between times?”

F’jian didn’t reply, his face set in a stubborn look. “If you could go, you would, wouldn’t you, Weyrwoman?” he asked.

Fiona pursed her lips and hesitated before answering. “I wouldn’t risk Talenth for it.”

“But if it wasn’t a risk, what then?” F’jian persisted.

“And is staying here, with the illness, any less of a risk?” J’nos added.

“It doesn’t matter,” Fiona said with a shrug. She drew herself up haughtily, remembering her responsibility to set the example and grateful that she had the height on the two weyrlings. “We can’t go, so our job is to make the best of what we can do, not moan about what we can’t.”

F’jian sighed. “I suppose you’re right.” His expression brightened. “Can the weyrlings practice gliding again tomorrow?”

“We’ll have to ask Tajen,” Fiona said, “but I see no problem.”

“And we’ll have to practice bagging firestone by ourselves,” Xhinna said eagerly.

“We’ve pretty much been doing that already,” J’nos replied.

“The others will be back long before the next Fall,” F’jian reminded Xhinna.

Xhinna grimaced.

They reached the weyrling barracks, and the two weyrlings waved their good-byes. Fiona and Xhinna trudged along in silence, lost in their own thoughts until they reached the weyr.

I wish I could go, too, Talenth said, peering out of her weyr as they climbed the slope up to the queens’ ledge.

“I know,” Fiona said aloud, pausing long enough to scratch Talenth’s eye ridges. “Our time will come.”

Behind her, Fiona could sense Xhinna’s wistful gaze. She turned to her and beckoned for Xhinna to come to Talenth’s other side. For several minutes both girls were engrossed in indulging the young queen. The moment was broken when Xhinna failed to stifle a yawn and Fiona found herself unconsciously echoing her an instant later.

Grinning, Fiona said, “I guess we need to get some sleep.”

Go! Talenth urged them, butting first Fiona and then Xhinna toward their quarters. The gold dragon curled up but did not put her head under her wing in her usual sleeping posture. Fiona noticed and Talenth told her, I will go to sleep soon. I want to think.

Since when did dragons spend time thinking, Fiona mused as she changed into her nightclothes and crawled into bed. And what did they think about? she wondered just before sleep overwhelmed her.

Fiona woke, suddenly alert. Xhinna lay beside her, a comforting bundle of warmth, her breathing deep and steady. Without turning her head, she glanced toward Talenth’s weyr.

The queen was awake, alert, her gaze intent on something outside in the Bowl.

Fiona. The voice wasn’t Talenth’s, but Fiona felt she recognized it.

Slowly, cautiously, she eased her way out of bed, still not certain that she wasn’t imagining things. Sliding her feet into her slippers, she picked up her robe from its place beside the bed and tiptoed away.

Talenth turned her head toward her, then back out to the Bowl, eyes whirling rapidly.

What is it? Fiona asked.

She wants us to come with her, Talenth told her.

The night air was cold, frozen, quiet, expectant. Fiona found herself warming her nose with the fingers of her left hand as she crept into Talenth’s weyr and peered out into the snow-covered Bowl. Flecks of snow drifted down steadily, adding to the carpet already covering the ground.

Fiona scanned the snow-muffled stillness for a long moment before she spotted a darker shape — a dragon. By her size, she was a queen.

Fiona glanced at the shape for another moment before turning decisively to walk down the queens’ ledge — she never considered jumping down as she usually did, feeling somehow that it was inappropriate.

As she got closer, she made out another shape, a human, standing close beside the dragon.

“Get dressed,” the rider said as Fiona approached. “We must be quick. We can’t wake the others.”

Something about the rider seemed familiar. “Why? Where are we going?”

“Igen.” The word was like a challenge and Fiona shivered, feeling her heart lurch.

“I can’t leave Talenth.”

“She comes, too,” the rider said. “And the weyrlings.” The rider glanced toward the barracks. “They’re coming now.”

Fiona glanced toward the barracks but saw nothing. Who was this woman?

“We have to hurry: They need to see you and Talenth go or they won’t follow.”

“Follow?”

“They need to come with you to Igen.”

“How do you know?” Fiona asked, a sudden thrill of suspicion running down her spine.

“It’s happened already,” the rider told her.

Fiona gasped as realization struck her. “You’re from the future!”

The rider nodded. “You must hurry.”

Fiona darted back inside and pulled on her clothes as quickly as she could. When she returned, she suddenly realized that Xhinna had slept through the commotion.

“Xhinna,” she cried. “I need to — ”

“She stays,” the rider declared in a tone that brooked no argument.

A figure raced into sight from the direction of the Living Caverns.

“You may come,” the rider said as the figure resolved itself into the form of Terin.

Talenth crept out of her weyr and, with a furtive glance toward Melirth’s quarters, hopped down from her ledge.

“We can’t go between, ” Fiona protested. “And Talenth is too young to carry my weight.”

“You’ll ride with me,” the rider told her. “As for between . . . you’ll have to trust me.”

Two shapes appeared from the direction of the weyrling barracks. F’jian and J’nos.

“Hurry!” the rider told Fiona, racing back and mounting her dragon. She leaned a hand down to Fiona. “I know when we’re going!”

“Talenth will be safe, won’t she?” Fiona asked, her voice catching.

“My word on it,” the rider told her, grasping Fiona’s hand and pulling her up. “Quickly, they must see us go between. ”

Talenth!

I have the image, I can see where to go, the little queen told her calmly.

“Doesn’t she have to be flying?” Fiona asked the rider in front of her worriedly.

“Talenth, jump!” the rider said in response. At the same time, the queen they were riding leapt into the air. Fiona only had a moment’s glimpse of Talenth jumping after them, and then she was engulfed in the greater darkness of between.

Talenth! Fiona called frantically.

I am here, Talenth assured her calmly. We are fine.

It will be longer than normal, we are going back in time, Fiona heard the rider say.

Don’t you need to go to Igen now first?

I’ve already been there, the rider replied, her voice certain.

Who was this person? Fiona wondered. Who rode a gold and could bring them back in time?

A growing sense of wonder overcame her as she considered the most obvious answer: Could this be Fiona herself, come back from the future?