Dragongirl

EIGHTEEN

The sun had been up for several hours when the riders from Ista burst forth over the lush Keroon plains. They were light, three full wings and a reserve of scarcely twenty-four.

M’tal looked to his left and his right, to his wingseconds, wingmen, and the Wings on either flank. Their spirits were good, he knew, buoyed by the clutching two days before and the sight of a queen egg on the Hatching Grounds.

Even so, they were tired and wing light. The spare Wing was heavy with firestone sacks, ready to rearm the fighting dragons or drop them and join the fighting Wings as replacements, as needs be.

M’tal looked up, scanning the heavens above him for the silvery shimmer of Thread. Beneath him Gaminth rumbled ominously.

It feels wrong, the bronze declared. M’tal said nothing in response; he felt the same. He scanned to the left and right, extending his vision to the distant right and left horizon. Perhaps Thread had been blown off course, he considered nervously, his throat going dry in the hot morning air.

Have the others keep a lookout, M’tal said. Remind them that we’re early on purpose.

Gaminth relayed his thoughts even as M’tal wondered if they could be that early. A gust of wind blew Gaminth to one side and M’tal heard shrieks behind him to indicate that the rest of the Wing had been similarly buffeted.

The wind. Always the fardling wind! It broiled off the ground below, rose and billowed in ways that were unpredictable. He craned his neck to look directly above him, wondering if perhaps the Thread had been blown back up by the heated wind and had only an instant to cry, Shards!

And then the clump of Thread engulfed him and it was too late.

Gaminth gave one horrified shriek and disappeared between, taking himself and his lifelong mate to a cold beyond forever.

S’maj had only a moment to wonder why Gaminth had cried before the Thread struck, lacing into his dragon’s back and then they, too, were between.

The rest of the three Wings disintegrated as their Weyrleader and wingleaders were engulfed from behind by the fickle Thread.

Help! One forlorn cry went out, from whom or where, no one could later say.

Help! Lorana heard the cry. Fiona heard her gasp and turned toward her in surprise. They were in the Hatching Grounds performing their morning check—and praise—of the two queens and their charges.

Ista! Ista needs help! Lorana responded, her words sounding louder than Fiona had heard before.

“We’re not ready!” Fiona cried in warning, as she heard the anxious bellows of dragons echoing around the Weyr Bowl. “T’mar’s drilling, they’ve no firestone!”

Help comes, Lorana called. She turned to Fiona. “They need help now, at this instant.”

Fiona felt the blood draining from her face as she realized what Lorana was saying.

T’mar, she called with no reluctance, we need you to come back and then to time it.

She felt a rustle of surprise and then nothing as the bronze dragon and rider were suddenly no longer where she’d found them. She turned to race toward the Weyr Bowl even as she heard more dragons bellowing outside.

“Get firestone! Get it now!” Fiona shouted as she burst out of the Hatching Grounds. She raced toward the firestone shed and skidded to a surprised halt as she spied a group of weyrfolk lined up outside, sacks of firestone ready in their hands, looking at her in surprise.

“My lady?” Shaneese asked her in surprise. Fiona glanced at her, eyes wide with questions. “You ordered me to prepare the firestone an hour ago, my lady.”

Lorana caught up with her, gasping and holding her belly protectively. She and Fiona exchanged one glance and then Fiona called Talenth! I need you!

The dragon appeared from the Hatching Grounds to the surprise of all.

“Get them loaded up!” Fiona called as she ran to her dragon and clambered up to her perch, ignoring the lack of riding straps, and waving toward the landing Wings of dragons. Talenth, we must go back in time one hour.

I know, Talenth told her calmly. I heard you the first time.

The first time? Fiona asked, surprised.

When you told me not to say anything, Talenth told her calmly. She took two steps and leaped into the air and between in the same instant, ignoring the indignant squawks of the descending dragons.

Fiona had only a few moments between to consider this strange turn of events before they returned from between right above the Weyr Bowl. Talenth flipped one wing up and one down in a sharp turn to avoid flying into the wall of the Weyr itself and executed a neat landing almost in the exact spot from which she’d departed.

How—?

I knew where I would be, Talenth told her smugly. I remembered.

Fiona slapped Talenth’s neck affectionately, her pride in her dragon stronger than words could convey.

Now, you need to tell Shaneese, Talenth said. You weren’t here long before we went back.

Fiona raised an eyebrow in surprise at her queen’s determination and then her lips quirked into a smile as she realized that the young queen was nearly as perplexed by the whole event as she was.

Fiona raced to the Kitchen Cavern and caught Shaneese’s attention as soon as she entered, beckoning the headwoman toward her.

“Weyrwoman?” Shaneese asked, her brows furrowed.

“I’m not here, don’t tell anyone,” Fiona said. “You’re to get the weyrfolk readying firestone for a Fall.”

“For a Fall?” Shaneese said. “But Thread’s not due until tomorrow, my Lady.”

“We’ll be flying Thread in an hour,” Fiona assured her. “Get your people moving, I’ve got to get back!”

“Back?”

“To the future,” Fiona told her. “I’ll be just as surprised when I find you then as you are surprised to find me now.”

Outside Talenth rumbled in agreement, echoed a moment later by Talenth from her spot in the Hatching Grounds.

“You timed it?”

Fiona nodded and, with a wave, raced back to her queen.

As she clambered into her place on Talenth’s back, she told her, When we return, we’ll go to the Star Stones. I don’t want to cause any accidents.

As they returned between and Talenth answered the watch dragon’s challenge, Fiona felt relief in the wisdom of her decision: The Weyr was a rainbow of colors as dragons hastily landed, loaded firestone, and leaped airborne once more, re-forming into their fighting Wings.

Fiona had Talenth land near the Hatching Grounds, understanding the queen’s dilemma, torn between the need to guard her eggs and the excitement of the moment.

“Go on, you’ve done your part,” Fiona said, as Talenth’s eyes whirled with a reddish tinge of worry. “Although I’m sure that Tolarth wouldn’t let anything happen to your eggs while we were gone.”

From within the Hatching Grounds came Tolarth’s strident assurance. Fiona laughed and patted her queen once more before urging, “Go on, you can count your eggs for yourself, just to be certain!”

Talenth scrambled inside, a small echo of surprise winding back to Fiona as the queen thought: How did she know that she was counting her eggs?

I’m your rider, I know everything! she called as she turned and raced back to the work parties hastily loading the fighting dragons.

“I’m Weyrleader, how come I didn’t know about this?” T’mar asked in an inverted echo of Fiona’s earlier words when she caught up to him.

“Because there wasn’t time,” Fiona said. He glared at her. “I had just enough time to realize that I would have to time it myself, not enough time to explain.”

“Well,” T’mar said, sounded slightly less mulish, “Lorana explained it to me while you were gone.”

“So you asked merely to vent at me?” Fiona said, eyebrows arching menacingly.

“I don’t see how we’ll get there in time,” T’mar continued, ignoring her. “We’ve taken the better part of an hour.”

“Lorana will give you the coordinates,” Fiona said.

“But they’ve been fighting unaided for an hour.”

“No,” Fiona told him, “they haven’t.”

“They haven’t?” T’mar said. “Then who’s been helping them? And why are we going?”

“You’ve been helping them and that’s why you’re going,” Fiona said, smiling as she took in his confusion and dawning comprehension. “You’re going to time it, too.”

“It’s the only way,” Lorana assured him from where she stood beside the work parties. She flinched, as though struck by a burning brand—or as though struck by a searing strand of Thread—and hissed in pain before adding, with a look of concern, “Fly carefully.”

T’mar gave her a long, hard look and then nodded slowly.

“I’ll bear that in mind,” he said, moving toward Zirenth. He turned back to Lorana. “How bad is it?”

“Best not to know,” she told him. “Besides, the Fall’s not over.”

T’mar’s eyes widened as he realized that she would already have felt the pain of the injured Telgar dragons—the same dragons who had yet to go back in time to Ista’s aid.

“You’ll take charge as soon as you get there,” Fiona said, distracting him. “M’tal’s dead.”

T’mar nodded slowly, his lips pursed tightly. Fiona raced to his side, wrapped him in a quick hug and whispered, “Fly safe.” He hugged her back and she looked up at him, her eyes firm as she told him, “Be certain you come back to me.”

“I will,” T’mar declared, then turned and vaulted up to his perch on Zirenth’s back. He urged Zirenth into the air, found his place with his Wing, and made the hand signal for the dragonriders of Telgar to go between, back in time, to fight a Threadfall they’d not anticipated, a Threadfall they’d been fighting for over an hour already.

A silence descended upon the Weyr and Fiona turned to Lorana. “He will come back, won’t he?”

Lorana looked at her a long time before turning away, saying sympathetically, “He hasn’t been injured yet; I can no more see the future than you.”

“We should set up the aid stations,” Fiona said after a moment, turning to Shaneese and the weyrfolk.

She gave good coordinates, Zirenth said in approving tones as they burst out into the hot morning air over Keroon. T’mar nodded silently as he gazed out over the flight of Istan dragons arrayed before them.

Ginirth says they fly well, Zirenth relayed. T’mar snorted, guessing that behind that observation lay H’nez’s question: What were they doing here? M’tal was in the lead, flying well and—

As suddenly as T’mar could think, a clump of Thread whirled around in a dangerous looping arc, at first unseen in the distance, and was entangled around M’tal. T’mar heard Gaminth’s bellow of pain, saw the bronze rider slump even as the Thread burnt through his wher-hide and into his flesh—and then dragon and rider were gone.

T’mar barely had time to realize that the same thing had happened to three other Istan riders at the same moment—two of them wingleaders—before he cried out, “’Ware, Thread!”

Zirenth lurched suddenly, arching his neck, his muscles straining mightily as his wings fought to gain even more height and his mouth opened in a long arc of flame burning a clump of Thread out of the sky that just a moment before had threatened to engulf them the same way M’tal had been surprised.

Later, T’mar could never remember issuing any orders, but somehow he reoriented his wings upward and in an instant they were far above the Istan riders, dragon flames reaching even higher to sear the steady line of Thread that could just be discerned against the glare of the sun.

Have them get above us! T’mar told Zirenth, who relayed the order to the recovering Istan riders. They went between, returning almost immediately above and behind the Telgar riders. A moment later he issued the same order to his dragons and the two Weyrs leapfrogged until they were as high as they could fly and T’mar could feel his lungs straining for air, his cheeks tingling with the lack, and the color in his eyes wavering, threatening to turn gray.

High enough, T’mar said. He gazed at the Thread in front of them and grunted as he saw it falling in steady, predictable streams.

Some must have gotten through, he reminded himself. We’ll have to send sweepriders later.

But for the moment they could fight Thread, teetering at the very heights at which a man could breathe, every moment wary of going too high or straying too low.

T’mar could sense Zirenth’s concern and felt an echo come in from H’nez through Ginirth, It’s hard to fly this high.

T’mar chuckled at the understatement and then laughed aloud as he saw the Wings tearing into Thread, flaming it into nothingness.

At least we’re on top of the Thread, T’mar said, patting Zirenth lightly on the neck and peering around him to assure himself that the fight was now firmly in hand.

“They’re flying high,” Fiona remarked absently as she and Lorana found a moment alone together. “It will wear the riders out even more.”

Lorana nodded lightly and Fiona narrowed her eyes speculatively. She gestured to Shaneese. “Lorana needs to sit.”

The headwoman nodded and sent a weyrgirl sprinting off with a wave of her finger. The girl came back just as quickly, puffing under the load of one of the canvas chairs, but she smiled brightly as she set it up and conscientiously guided Lorana into it.

“How are the eggs, my lady?” the girl asked, greatly daring.

“They’re doing well,” Fiona told her with a smile. “Perhaps after this Fall is over, we’ll let you have a look.”

“I’m only a girl,” the youngster replied, deflated. “I can’t imagine a queen will want me.”

“It still doesn’t hurt to look, does it?” Fiona asked.

The girl thought it over and shrugged. “It’d be better if I was a boy,” she said after a moment, frowning. “And even if I were, I’d be too young yet.”

“Dragons pick who they will,” Fiona said, gesturing to herself with a grin and then glancing significantly toward Lorana.

“Yes, Weyrwoman,” the girl agreed dutifully.

Fiona snorted at the response and the girl gave her a startled look. “I’ll tell you this: It’d be hard to imagine a dragon Impressing someone who’s so certain she won’t.”

The youngster pondered upon that for moment and then nodded solemnly. “Yes, Weyrwoman.”

“So stop with the long face, and come find me tomorrow, and we’ll see if the queens are ready yet to accept visitors!”

A shriek broke quiet of the Weyr and Fiona glanced up as the first casualty returned to the Weyr.

“I never imagined I could be so tired!” H’nez said as Jeila hauled him into bed later that day. “It’s not even evening and I can—” he yawned widely “—hardly keep my eyes open.”

“The air, timing it, and the stress of fighting,” Jeila said in terse explanation as she drew the covers over him.

“Three days,” H’nez said, fighting back another yawn. “Three and we fight again. How can we be ready?”

Jeila shushed him, leaning down to brush his lips with her own. “Sleep. Rest and we’ll talk later.”

She straightened up, giving her mate an expectant look, surprised that he didn’t have some martial retort ready, but instead the soft, jagged sound of his snores rose up in response. She smiled lovingly, then her expression changed as she asked herself, how could they fight again in just three days?

“I don’t feel as bad as some of the others,” T’mar said the next morning at breakfast, as if in answer to Fiona’s unspoken question of the night before. Fiona quirked an eyebrow questioningly and the Weyrleader shrugged.

“I think it’s because I’ve felt so exhausted these past several Turns that the stress of timing it and flying in thin air didn’t affect me as much as the others,” he said, with a jerk of his head toward H’nez’s empty place.

Fiona reached for the klah and topped off both their mugs with a grin, saying, “Well, if it’s only that bad …

“They’ll be ready enough for the next Fall.”

“Only if we don’t have to time it beforehand,” T’mar cautioned.

“On the other hand, if you do have to time it, you might want to tap those who are suffering from this exhaustion,” Fiona said, “if they too prove as unaffected as yourself.”

T’mar raised his hands and spread them wide in a warding gesture, saying, “I wouldn’t consider myself all that well-rested.”

“But you could fight again, if you had the need.”

T’mar accepted her notion with a grimace, saying, “I’d prefer to leave it to another Weyr.”

“True,” Fiona said and was silent for a moment as she spoke with her dragon. “I’ve had Talenth relay the news to Melirth at Fort and Lyrinth at High Reaches.”

“Good thought,” T’mar said. “We should have done that last night.”

Fiona’s eyebrows rose in agreement, adding dryly, “So Sonia has just told me.”

“They know about M’tal, don’t they?”

“Of course,” Fiona said. The loss of a Weyrleader was the sort of news that traveled instantly through all the Weyrs. She shook her head sadly, saying, “It must be a double blow for Dalia, on top of losing C’rion.”

T’mar nodded, his lips pursed tightly. “At least she’s got S’maj,” he said a moment later. “He’s a seasoned rider; that should be some help.”

“But Bidenth won’t rise until after her clutch has Hatched, so there could be a lot of friction beforehand,” Fiona said. She frowned, adding, “I can’t recall all that many bronzes at Ista, come to think of it.”

T’mar thought for a moment. “S’maj’s Capith isn’t much younger than M’tal’s Gaminth.”

“Age has nothing to do with a mating flight.”

“But it can affect the size of the clutch,” T’mar said, “particularly if both dragons are elderly.”

“You know,” Fiona said, shifting abruptly in her chair, “I hadn’t realized how few bronze dragons we now have.”

T’mar bit off a quick retort, instead cupping his chin in his hand thoughtfully. “Not all that many more than the queens themselves,” he agreed after a moment.

“There are more bronzes at Fort, Benden, and High Reaches,” Fiona said.

“Particularly true for Fort, but not so much now with a queen egg,” T’mar said. “Benden probably has the most bronzes per queen, Ista has the least with just the two bronzes and two queens.”

“And we’ve lost quite a number of bronzes in the past half-Turn,” Fiona said, raising her eyes to catch T’mar’s. “We’re likely to go on losing them, as they’re usually wingleaders, too.” She shivered. “What if we lose them all?”

“I suppose you’d have to make do with a brown.”

“Even if a queen would let a brown catch her, wouldn’t the clutch just naturally be smaller because the mating flight would be shorter?”

“Probably,” T’mar agreed with a grim look of his own. “Although, if we keep losing bronze dragons at this rate, we—rather, you—may find out before too long.”

“Perhaps we should consider conserving our bronzes,” Fiona suggested. T’mar shot her a look that she shrugged off, saying, “Just as we do with our queens.”

“So if a Weyr’s strength in bronzes falls to just one, you’d recommend keeping that bronze out of a Fall?” T’mar asked, adding, “I’d like to see you explain that to someone like S’maj.”

“They need someone at Ista to cheer them up,” Fiona said, clearly having reached this conclusion without reference to the rest of the conversation. “Someone like M’kurry.”

“So, are you now going to tell K’lior how to arrange his Weyr?” T’mar asked giving the younger woman a glowering look.

“No, I’ll leave that to Cisca,” Fiona said. She rose from her chair.

“Where are you going?” T’mar asked, anxious at the implications of Fiona’s actions.

“I’m going to talk with Lorana and Kindan if they’re awake,” Fiona said with a victorious smile at his discomfiture.

“And if not?”

“I promised one young girl a chance to view the eggs on the Hatching Grounds,” Fiona replied easily. Her eyes twinkled as she caught the quick turning of heads at her words.

“I expect she’ll have lots of company,” T’mar said in agreement, glancing around at the eager weyrfolk.

“We’ll start small,” Fiona said to him as the girl who’d spoken with her yesterday came scampering up and curtsied, eyes shining with delight and anticipation. “And with small groups, too.” She looked down at the youngster. “Ready?”

“Now, Weyrwoman?” the little girl squeaked in surprise.

“Right now,” Fiona told her crisply, turning toward the Weyr Bowl in the direction of the Hatching Grounds. She glanced down at the girl’s feet. “You’ve sandals on, so you shouldn’t be bothered by the heat of the sands.”

“And I’m wearing white, my lady,” the girl chirped, pulling at the edges of her dress in emphasis.

“It’s a bit early for that,” Fiona said. “The eggs won’t hatch for a while yet.”

“And I’m too young,” the girl added by way of agreement.

“I wouldn’t know as I’ve no more idea of your age than I do of your name,” Fiona told her, smiling to remove any sting from her words.

The youngster blushed mightily. “I’m sorry, my lady! I’m Darri, and I’ve nearly eight Turns.”

“Do you know Xhinna and Taria?”

The youngster nodded mutely.

“Well, can you run and get them?” Fiona asked. “Bring them to the Hatching Grounds when you come back.”

Shaneese, who had moved closer to get an ear on the conversation, spoke up warningly. “They’re in one of the back playrooms.”

“Tell them to bring whoever’s with them,” Fiona told Darri, adding to Shaneese, “It will be all right.”

The young girl gave the headwoman a questioning look. Shaneese shrugged and waved her off. After the youngster had scampered away, Shaneese said to Fiona, “Just remember, my lady, that the behavior you encourage is what will persist.”

Fiona smiled. “I’m counting on it,” she said. “I won’t be at all surprised if I’m shortly deluged with all sorts of requests.”

Shaneese’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Which,” Fiona continued, her smile growing broader, “I will soon delegate to Xhinna and Taria.”

“Oh!” Shaneese said. She smiled, adding, “I can see how that will work on many levels.”

Fiona gave her a quick nod and grinned. “I rather thought you might.”

“But what if the queens get too bothered?”

“Then they’ll let Xhinna—or Taria—know,” Fiona said. Anticipating Shaneese’s next question, she added, “I’ve already spoken with Jeila about this and she agrees.”

“So those two young ladies will be hearing directly from the queens?” Shaneese asked, mulling the notion over. Fiona nodded. “It will add to their duties.”

“It will,” Fiona agreed. “I’m sure they’ll manage just fine.”

“I can imagine some riders might complain about letting anyone wander the Hatching Grounds with only the by-your-leave of those two,” Shaneese said.

“Yes, I suppose that’s possible,” Fiona said. “Besides, the queens are agreeable.”

Shaneese raised an eyebrow as she asked, “And H’nez has no problem with this?”

“Wingleader H’nez wasn’t asked,” Fiona retorted crisply. After a moment, she relented under the older woman’s gaze and added, “But, to be honest, I don’t think he’ll mind at all.”

“And I’m certain that Xhinna and Taria will be fair about it,” Shaneese said to herself.

“Oh,” Fiona said with a grin, “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if some of their least favorite duties were … relinquished.”

“You’re not expecting them to get some of the weyrlads to watch the little ones?” Shaneese asked in wonder.

Fiona shrugged. “I imagine they’d even agree to diaper duty if the demand’s high enough.” She gave Shaneese a measured look, adding, “I think that Xhinna’s already well-proven she’s able to do a lad’s work, so why shouldn’t they have to show they can do a lass’s?”

Shaneese snorted loudly at the notion.

“And,” Fiona added a bit more seriously, “I think that those who are willing to undertake some of those more demanding duties are exactly the sort who will appeal most to a new-hatched dragonet.”

Shaneese pursed her lips for a moment, then nodded decisively. “You could well be right there, Weyrwoman.”

“Which is exactly what T’mar said when I mentioned the notion to him.”

Grinning, Shaneese asked, “And did he, before he Impressed, have to do diaper duty at Fort Weyr?”

“I certainly hope so,” Fiona replied tartly. “I have warned him that he’ll definitely be obliged when the time comes.”

Shaneese’s eyebrows rose high in surprise. “I thought—” she cut herself off. Fiona gestured for her to continue. Shaneese cleared her throat, choosing her words carefully. “I mean, and is this a duty he will be expected to perform soon?”

“Perhaps not for me,” Fiona said, surprised both at her own tone and her own feelings in the manner, “but I’ve told him that he can expect to be aiding Kindan as much as I’m aiding Lorana when her first baby comes.”

“I see,” Shaneese said. She screwed up her nerve for another question. “And this is what he wants?”

Fiona shook her head. “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I think that he still doesn’t know himself.” Then she grinned, saying, “Not that I plan to give him any chance to object, regardless.”

Shaneese hesitated once more, then moved closer to Fiona. “Not that it’s my place,” she told the younger woman, “but there aren’t many who don’t get jealous over time.”

“I know,” Fiona agreed with a sigh. “I’m not one of them, nor is Lorana.”

She allowed a wary look to cross her face. “I’m not quite sure what T’mar wants. I think Kindan is still grappling with his feelings.”

“He probably always will be,” Shaneese said. Fiona looked up at her, trying to keep her worries from showing. “You look like the woman he first loved, you aren’t the woman he learned to love next, and yet …”

“And yet he loves me in spite of all that,” Fiona said, hoping that the words made the truth.

Shaneese nodded. “I think that’s so.” A moment later she added, “But T’mar?”

“He thinks he’s too old for me, even though he’s not much older than Kindan,” Fiona said. “And he worries that his place is with me only because his bronze flew my gold.”

“But isn’t that so?”

“I can’t say for certain, but I don’t think so,” Fiona said. She met the older woman’s eyes squarely. “He was my first, I chose him. But I think more than that, I love him because he’s honest with me and will tell me truths I don’t want to hear and trusts that I’ll listen to him and respect his words.”

“He is quite a man,” Shaneese said in agreement. She gave the young Weyrwoman a calculating look and raised her hand to wiggle a finger warningly under Fiona’s nose. “And if you do decide that he doesn’t suit you, don’t be surprised to find him with me instead.”

Fiona chuckled at the thought. “You are quite an attractive person,” she said. “And I believe that the two of you would make a good pair.” Then she chuckled mischievously.

“What?”

“Why don’t you find out, then?” Fiona said. The headwoman’s surprise was total, so with another chuckle Fiona turned away from her and started out to the Weyr Bowl, pausing only long enough to call back over her shoulder, “I see nothing wrong with sharing.”

“She should take you up on that,” Lorana said as they stood inside the Hatching Grounds; when she’d met Fiona she’d asked her what was so funny. Fiona had relayed the entire conversation.

“She’d be good for him,” Fiona said. “She’s closer to his age and she’d bolster his confidence.”

“Whereas you,” Lorana said with a twinkle in her eyes, “have entirely too much!”

“Maybe,” Fiona said, shrugging one shoulder. “Sometimes I think it’s all an act and perhaps when I get older I’ll regret all the decisions I’ve made”—she paused, hugging Lorana closer to her—“except this one.”

“Which one?” Lorana asked. “The decision to save Zirenth was mine and the mating flight was a natural result of that first decision.” She pursed her lips. “Unless you’re trying to claim you influenced Talenth in her choice of mate?”

“Not as much as she influenced me,” Fiona said. “But we worked as a team that day, as you and I work as a team now.”

“Do you suppose we could choose to break our bond?”

“I hope not,” Fiona said. “But I suppose it’s possible.” She frowned, adding, “There’s nothing like this in the Records and no guarantee that it will last.” She glanced down to Lorana’s belly. “Perhaps when your baby is born the bond will break.”

“I hope not,” Lorana said softly, surprising Fiona. She caught the young woman’s reaction and patted her on the arm, admitting softly, “I need someone to share this all with—”

“What about Kindan?”

“With him I share what he can’t feel,” Lorana said. “With you, I share what we can feel.”

“We complete each other, don’t we?” Fiona asked, hoping that Lorana would agree and worried that she might not

“The three of us.”

“Four, I think,” Fiona said. “I think T’mar is part of it.” Lorana furrowed her brows questioningly. “If it had been another bronze injured and you and Kindan had bonded with it, I’m not sure I would have reacted the same way; I’m not sure Talenth would have mated with him.”

“And if it had been another man with me than Kindan …?”

“I’m not sure.”

“So what happened required four people to be in love and committed to their best interests,” Lorana said.

“Yes,” Fiona agreed. “I doubt it would happen any other way.” She smiled at Lorana. “And not just any people but four very special people.”

“Each with their own pain and their own need,” Lorana added in agreement. Fiona said nothing; she hugged her tighter.

“So, are we rested?” T’mar asked H’nez, his lips quirked teasingly as the tall, lanky bronze rider and he strode out to their dragons shortly after lunch two days later.

“As much as we can be,” H’nez allowed grimly. He leaned closer to the Weyrleader, lowering his pitch for his ears alone. “I’m still concerned about the Wings.”

“With the split?” T’mar asked, glancing up at the taller man’s troubled brown eyes. “We need a reserve group, riders to get more firestone.”

“That’s exactly what M’tal thought.”

“His reasoning was sound,” T’mar said. “And B’nik reports light winds aloft … as do our watch riders.”

One of the reasons T’mar had decided to keep the twenty-five dragons of Telgar’s fifth Wing in reserve was that it allowed him to send out watch riders who would, after the Fall, be immediately available to sweep for Thread burrows. After the disastrous Fall over Keroon, T’mar’s exhausted riders had discovered no less than three well-established burrows. Fortunately, all were quickly dispatched, aided in particular by the flamethrowers that Fiona had inspired the Smithhall to develop ten Turns ago when they were back in time at Igen Weyr.

T’mar shook his head and slapped the lanky rider on the arm affectionately. “Don’t worry.”

H’nez glanced down at him, frowning. He let out a deep sigh, releasing his worries with it. “We’ll do our duty.”

T’mar mounted Zirenth quickly, waving back at Fiona, who very ostentatiously blew him kisses while, standing next to her, Jeila did the same with H’nez—causing the swarthy rider to color noticeably. T’mar smiled, wagging an admonishing finger at his Weyrwoman and totally spoiled the effort immediately afterward by blowing a kiss back at her.

“Fly safe!” Fiona called loudly.

T’mar grinned, surprised at the warmth of his feelings for the difficult young woman who chose her own ways to love and, with one final glance into her eyes, raised his arm in the ages-old signal for the dragons to fly.

Fiona’s grin faded the instant the last of the dragons winked between. Grimly she turned to Jeila. “Help Shaneese finish setting up, would you?”

Jeila accepted the request with a nod, adding, “Where will you be?”

“I’m going to check on Lorana and the Hatching Grounds,” Fiona said, trying to keep her tone light. But, as she turned to leave, Jeila reached out with a hand to restrain her. Fiona turned back, worry plain in her eyes.

“What is it?” Jeila asked softly.

“I don’t know,” Fiona said. “I just feel that something is going to happen.”

“Something bad?”

“Maybe,” Fiona said. Then, with a shrug, “Probably.” She shook Jeila’s hand off her arm and strode off purposely toward the Hatching Grounds.

Kindan caught up with her just as she arrived. “Have you seen Lorana?”

Fiona shook her head. Kindan’s eyes narrowed as he sensed the stress in her motions and followed her.

“Weyrwoman!” a voice called out excitedly as soon as she was visible.

“It’s the Weyrwoman!” another young girl’s voice piped up in excitement.

In a moment, Fiona and Kindan were surrounded by a small cluster of wide-eyed, excited, happy, weyrchildren who all seemed intent on telling their particular story with all the excitement of the very young. Fiona noticed that even though they all wanted to be heard, they were all very careful to keep their voices down, not wanting to disturb the two queens indulgently watching the proceedings from their respective nests on the warm sands of the Hatching Grounds.

Xhinna appeared and walked briskly toward the cluster, looking anxiously around for Taria.

“I’m sorry, Fiona, I was—”

“—just looking at the eggs,” Fiona finished for her, smiling. “That’s what you’re here for.”

“Taria and I are supposed to be watching—”

Fiona cut her off with an upraised hand. “Have you seen Lorana?”

Xhinna’s brows rose in surprise and she shook her head. “I think she was here earlier,” she said, glancing around.

“She left,” Taria said, approaching with a gaggle of youngsters trailing behind. “She was here earlier.”

“Where?” Xhinna asked abruptly.

“I don’t know,” Taria replied, sounding cross herself.

Fiona sensed Kindan glancing at her pointedly, but she didn’t need the harper’s presence to guess that the two had been quarreling. She’d heard some rumblings through Mekiar and Shaneese already; apparently Taria was convinced that Xhinna would Impress a queen and leave her, while Xhinna feared exactly the same of Taria.

Fiona searched for something to say to defuse their fears, but gave up with a shrug: Finding Lorana was more important to her at the moment. With an arch look, she turned and strode out of the Hatching Grounds, heading for her quarters.

Thread! Zirenth called as they entered the air over Crom, diving suddenly to avoid the menace, then turning and twisting back up while at the same time flaming, charring and burning the threatening Thread with sinuous grace.

T’mar had only a moment to wonder at the speed of the assault before he was completely engaged in the instant-to-instant fight against the streams of falling Thread that threatened his life and his planet.

He heard and grunted in surprise at each injured bellow, keeping a half-count in his head as dragon after dragon went between to freeze off tenacious Thread, trying to count back all who returned to the fray, but he was too overwhelmed by his own efforts and those of his bronze to keep any more than a vague number in his head.

Dive, rise, turn, twist, bend, flame. Reach down, grab a bag of firestone, haul it up, toss the stones into Zirenth’s open maw, turn back to scan the skies overhead and flame again.

Too much, too quick, T’mar thought in a sudden, grim, chilling realization. He peered from side to side and then over his shoulder, craning to count the dragons of his wing and the wings on either side of him.

Call in the others!

A new group of dragons suddenly appeared, the reserves. With an eager bellow, the twenty fresh dragons joined the fray and for a moment, T’mar felt safe. And then—

“They’re too heavy with firestone,” T’mar growled to himself as first one, then two and finally three dragons screamed in pain and blinked between. Only two returned.

A bronze dragon suddenly appeared beside him: H’nez. One quick look at H’nez’s expression was enough to confirm T’mar’s worst fears.

We must get help, T’mar thought, wondering which Weyr to ask, and how soon help could arrive. Another dragon screamed in pain, its bellow cut off midway as it sought the safety of between.

“We’re getting destroyed!” H’nez’s voice carried across the dragonlength’s distance.

T’mar nodded in grim agreement.

“I’m going to ask for help,” T’mar yelled back.

“Who?”

But before T’mar could respond, a bellow from above caused him to glance up and he saw a Wing of dragons burst into existence above him.

“Benden!” H’nez shouted. “We’re saved!” Even as he said it, he urged Ginirth down into a tight dive to circle back and up to the head of his own Wing in flight on T’mar’s right.

T’mar glanced up, a big grin of relief on his face as he picked out the brilliant red diamond with the Benden “II” in the center—B’nik himself had come to their aid!

T’mar waved enthusiastically, and then, as he saw the sudden peril, waved frantically to the Weyrleader hoping to alert him to his peril just as—

—the clump of Thread landed on the rider’s back and, in one instant obliterated the red and diamond of Benden Weyr, engulfed the rider in a haze of blood and death. With one horrible scream, rider and dragon disappeared between forever.

Alone bronze dragon burst into the early evening air above Benden Weyr and dropped quickly into the Weyr Bowl, the rider ignoring Minith’s warbled challenge and racing across the grounds, eyes wide, searching desperately for something.

“What is it? What are you doing?” Tullea shouted to the frantic man. She recognized the shoulder knots of a Weyrleader and the white and black fields of wheat—T’mar of Telgar.

T’mar skidded to a halt in front of her, tears streaming from his eyes, and he fell on his knees in front of her, clasping her around the waist.

“I’m so sorry, so sorry,” T’mar cried, his voice muffled against the folds of her pants.

Tullea raised a hand to her cheek, eyes wide with fright. “B’nik?”

T’mar glanced up at her, his face tear-streaked. “He flew to our aid. Flew to save us and …”

“No!” Tullea cried, herself collapsing to the ground with him. “No, it can’t be!”

Inside the Hatching Grounds, Minith bugled in concern and horror.

“It can’t be!” Tullea repeated, tears starting down her cheeks as she shook her head in the vain hope of shaking off the Telgar Weyrleader’s words.

A rush of air above them and a roar of dragons startled everyone. From within the Hatching Ground, Minith bugled again, this time sounding defiant and proud.

Tullea glanced up at the returning dragons and then over accusingly to T’mar, “You lie! How dare you!”

She threw off his hands and stood up abruptly, reaching down to drag him up beside her.

“There he is! There’s B’nik! And Caranth, safe as can be!” She turned and slapped him hard across the face, palm wide with all the force she could muster. “What sort of a sick trick is this? Did Lorana set you up for this?”

T’mar shook his head, looking from her to B’nik, confusion written in his eyes.

“What’s going on?” B’nik asked, closing the gap between them quickly while pulling off his riding gloves. He recognized the bronze rider. “T’mar! How are you? How was the Fall?”

“B’nik?” T’mar repeated in blank surprise. He turned to Tullea in apology and surprise. “But I saw …”

“Saw what?” Tullea demanded. “This is just some sick joke—” She cut herself off, grabbing B’nik tightly in her arms and growling, “He told me you were dead!”

“Dead?” B’nik said, pushing her away from him, careful to keep a hand on her as he looked over to T’mar.

“We were overwhelmed in the Threadfall, it was falling in clumps and our strength was too little,” T’mar said, his eyes smoldering with the memory, “and then you came with a Wing and—but you’re here!”

“I didn’t come,” B’nik told him. “We never flew to your aid.”

“There was a rider wearing your jacket—the Benden Weyrleader’s jacket,” T’mar said. “He flew with a Wing until—”

“Until what?” Tullea demanded.

“Until he was engulfed in Thread,” T’mar finished in a whisper. He looked imploringly to B’nik. “But if it wasn’t you—” T’mar broke off, his confusion evident.

“Yet,” B’nik said.

“Yet?” Tullea repeated, glancing at her mate demandingly.

“Have Minith talk with Zirenth,” B’nik said in a flat, chill voice.

“Talk with Zirenth?” Tullea repeated dully. “Why would—”

“Because Zirenth saw it, too,” B’nik told her, his expression wooden, his eyes bleak with pain. “T’mar tells the truth.”

“Yet,” T’mar repeated to himself, hissing in a horrified breath as he looked sharply at the Benden Weyrleader. “This is yet to be?”

“Clearly.”

“What?” Tullea cried as she absorbed his meaning. “B’nik, you can’t die!”

“I can’t see how I can’t,” B’nik told her sadly. He waved a hand to T’mar. “It’s already happened.”