Dragongirl

TWENTY-THREE

“Your fever’s broke, you’re lucky,” a voice told her softly as Fiona opened her eyes. The glows that lit the room seemed overly bright and she closed her eyes again.

“The baby?”

“Fine as far as we can tell,” the voice replied. Terin; it was Terin’s voice.

“Lorana’s?” Fiona asked, her stomach knotting in some unreasonable dread.

“Fine, that we know for sure,” Terin told her. “She’s in the bath now, you’ll see her soon.”

“They didn’t move her?”

“She wouldn’t move,” Terin said, adding with a snort, “You can open your eyes, you know. You haven’t got the Plague, just the sort of fever you pick up when you’re overdoing things and go between while wet with sweat.”

“Igen’s a dry heat,” Fiona said in response to the editorial undertone in the other girl’s voice.

“Still, you should have known,” Terin said. Fiona heard her friend stretch and felt her hand touch her forehead in a soft, gentle caress. “You’ve got the whole Weyr on edge.”

Fiona groaned, and rolled over, raising herself on one arm and making to sit up.

“No you don’t, lie back down!” Terin ordered. “Lorana’s still in the bath and I want her to take her time.”

Fiona made a face as she ruefully absorbed her friend’s words. “I stink,” Fiona said sourly.

“You’ve been in bed for four days, of course you do,” Terin said. “You can have a bath when Lorana’s all done and ready.”

“She should be sleeping.”

“Not the least because it’s nighttime,” Terin said in agreement.

“Four days?” Fiona repeated, her mind picking the number over. “Threadfall tomorrow.”

“That’s right,” Terin agreed. “K’lior’s been here, and Seban was here whenever Bekka was; they’ve all looked in on you.” She paused, adding, “I even have a note from Weyrwoman Sonia.”

“Sonia?” Fiona asked. “What did she say?”

“One word,” Terin said, her voice sounding chipper.

“‘Idiot,’” Fiona said, beating the other girl to the punch.

“How’d you know?”

Fiona snorted, glad to be right. “It’s what I would have said to her under the same circumstances.”

“And you’d be right, too.”

“We all make mistakes,” Lorana spoke up from the entrance to the bathroom.

“Some more than others,” Fiona amended glumly.

“Well, after T’mar’s head, your fever is nothing, really,” Terin told her. She stood up briskly, giving Fiona a quick smile before she turned toward the exit into Talenth’s weyr. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a dragon of my own to tend.”

“Oh, I doubt if you’re tending it all on your own,” Fiona teased and was delighted at the expression on Terin’s face. “I’m sure that even at this moment there’s either a gaggle of goggle-eyed weyrkids tending her every need or at least one very attentive bronze rider at her beck and call.”

“Both, actually,” Terin agreed with a grin. With a final wave, she strode off, out of sight.

“F’jian’s keeping an eye on the weyrlings,” Kindan explained as he escorted Fiona and Lorana back to the queen’s weyr that evening after dinner.

Fiona had insisted that as she was “fully recovered,” she was more than able to sit at the high table and mingle with her Weyr.

She was glad she had. The relief visible on the faces of some of the weyrwomen was more than ample vindication of her decision.

“You rest up, now, Weyrwoman!” one of the most sour of them had called as Fiona departed. She was joined by a chorus of agreeing voices, the most heartening of which was one who said: “We don’t want anything to happen to our Weyrwoman!”

Our Weyrwoman. The phrase resonated in Fiona’s mind and cheered her. It had not been all that long since the old Telgar weyrfolk had looked on her with stern faces. Now she was theirs—and they worried about her. It wasn’t just that this was her Weyr, now they were her weyrfolk, too. The realization brought a smile to her lips.

Still, she had to admit that the walk to the Dining Cavern and back was as much exercise as she was good for that evening.

She suspected that her visible fragility was the strongest reason that she and Lorana had for Kindan’s comforting presence. Idly she thought of suggesting that she spend time with T’mar, but she dismissed the thought almost as soon as she had it—she didn’t doubt that Shaneese was with T’mar on this evening before Threadfall. Fiona grinned as she mused that T’mar was probably so tense that Shaneese was there more for her skills as masseuse than as lover.

Lorana was in a mothering mood, demanding that Fiona get in the bed first, then herself, then Kindan.

“I suppose we could fit four,” Fiona mused as they found themselves close, but not without room of their own under the blankets.

“Children are smaller,” Lorana said. “We could fit five.”

“Should I take up with the woodsmith about a new bed?” Kindan asked as he turned the last of the glows and the room went dark.

“Perhaps,” Fiona said. “I’m sure if he made a bed and we didn’t need it, someone would find a place for it.”

“Xhinna’s brood would doubtless love to romp on it, at the very least,” Kindan said in agreement.

Something about his tone alerted Fiona. “And who is handling her brood now that she’s Impressed?”

“She is, for the most part,” Kindan said, his tone going grave.

“I can talk with Shaneese,” Fiona said.

“No,” Kindan said. “I think we should see how this works out.”

Fiona’s agitation prompted him to explain, “If we are to have more women riders, we’re going to have issues like this.” He paused consideringly. “Xhinna and Taria have been handling it well, so far.”

“But what about when they start flying?” Fiona asked.

“That’s two or more Turns in the future and the children of her brood will all be that much older,” Kindan said.

Fiona made a note to herself to spend more time with the weyrlings. She admitted that the reason she hadn’t done so earlier was partly that she didn’t want to monopolize Kindan’s time and partly that she didn’t want to become embroiled in any issues regarding the women riders; she’d heard enough mutterings from H’nez.

Perhaps, though, she had put her worries in front of her duties as a Weyrwoman.

“How are they working out?”

“Well, actually,” Kindan said, sounding pleased, “there are only four girls, Xhinna with her blue, the rest with greens.”

“I wonder if that will change, in future Hatchings,” Lorana mused.

“It takes a particular sort of woman to be a blue rider,” Kindan said.

“It takes a particular sort of person to be a blue rider,” Fiona corrected drowsily. “I can understand greens far more easily.”

Kindan made no reply and slowly Fiona drifted off to sleep with Lorana’s warm presence beside her and the distant susurrations of Kindan’s breathing to comfort her.

“No, no, no! Cold! Cold!” Fiona awoke, startled, to find Lorana thrashing beside her, her words quick and frantic.

“Lorana, wake up!” Fiona said, reaching to push the older woman on the shoulder.

“What is it?” Kindan asked. “What’s up with her?”

“Cold, no cold!” Lorana wailed. “Lorana, wake up!” Fiona persisted.

“Lorana, shush now, it’s all right,” Kindan added soothingly.

With a start, Lorana woke up, her breath coming in gasps. Fiona could smell her fear and feel the heat coming off of her.

“You had a nightmare,” Fiona told her quietly. “It’s all right.”

“Not a nightmare,” Lorana said, shuddering. “A memory.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Kindan asked in a gentle tone that sounded well-practiced to Fiona’s ears. She closed her own eyes in thought and remembered—it was the tone he’d used to talk to those with nightmares from the Plague.

“You’re both so cold,” Lorana said, shivering. She twitched as Fiona laid a hand on her forehead.

“No, you’re very hot,” the Weyrwoman said. “Kindan, feel her head.”

Kindan’s hand was little warmer than Fiona’s and Lorana gasped once more.

“So we felt cold,” Kindan said as he removed his hand. “Was that it?”

“Yes,” Lorana said quietly.

“You were in bed with two others who were cold?” Fiona guessed.

“My brother and sister.”

“I’m not going to die on you,” Fiona assured her fervently.

“Sometimes,” Lorana said in a pained voice, “you remind me exactly of my sister.”

“And she said the same thing,” Fiona guessed.

“Yes.”

“I’m still here, my heart’s still beating,” Fiona said, moving closer to Lorana, grabbing a resisting hand in her own and dragging it to her heart.

“See? Feel it?”

“No one can predict the future,” Lorana said in protest, pulling her hand free.

“Not unless you go there and look,” Fiona agreed. “But, by the First Egg, I’ll never abandon you: as long as I draw breath, I’ll be there for you.”

“That’s all anyone can ask.” Lorana took a deep, calming breath.

“Well, that and some more blankets,” Fiona said. “Kindan, could you pull the spare ones up?”

The harper complied and moments later, Lorana felt Fiona turn on her side, the length of her warm back closest to her. Kindan reciprocated not long after and Lorana found the heat she’d been missing in her nightmare.

“Everything’s ready here,” Fiona assured T’mar as she steadied him on his climb up to his perch on Zirenth. “Just make sure we don’t need it, okay?”

T’mar swung his right leg over Zirenth’s neck and adjusted his seat, tying himself to the riding straps and checking, once more, the straps that held the sacks of firestone on the harness close to hand.

“We’ll try, Weyrwoman.”

“You come back in one piece, with no nicks or cuts,” Shaneese told him fiercely from where she stood next behind Fiona.

“Of course, headwoman,” T’mar agreed, a broad grin on his face. “I wouldn’t dare disappoint either of you!”

“Just as long as that’s understood,” Fiona said, moving back to grab Shaneese by the hand. Her own mood slipped and she strained upward, using her hold on the headwoman to aid her as she added, “Fly safe.”

T’mar nodded, his grin slipping into a steady look. He took a deep breath, then turned to the rest of his Wing and gave the arm-pumping gesture for them to fly.

Fiona guided Shaneese back as the downdraft from Zirenth’s great wings blew up dirt and pebbles, while behind them more circles of dust rose in the early afternoon air under the other dragons of his Wing.

The Wing itself was half the size of a normal, full-strength Wing, as were the other three Wings that rose with it. Telgar Weyr could count only seventy-three fighting dragons as its strength now.

Fortunately, they would be joined by the eighty-nine dragons of High Reaches Weyr, forming almost two full Flights of dragons. Almost.

Less, really, when the reserve Wing of thirteen dragons was counted. Those thirteen, under C’tov’s leadership, still waited on the ground, ready to fly to aid or to replenish those low on firestone.

Still, Fiona thought with relief, it was much better than the notion of flying with only three short Wings.

She glanced around at the first-aid stations being set up without any real concerns; time and practice had drilled the weyrfolk to a fine pitch. Her eyes narrowed as she caught sight of Lorana arranging bandages near the Hatching Grounds and, suppressing an irritated growl, Fiona sprinted over toward her.

“Don’t say anything!” Lorana said, a hand raised to forestall Fiona’s incipient scolding. “I’m going to sit down as soon as this is arranged and I won’t get up again until I’m needed.”

“You should be getting your rest.”

“No,” Lorana retorted, her lips curving upward in a slight smile, “you should be getting your rest.”

“She’s right,” Shaneese chimed in, having caught up with her peripatetic Weyrwoman. She shook her head at the Weyrwoman in exasperation as she added, “If anyone should be resting, it’s you.”

Fiona glanced back and forth between the two women, caught sight of Bekka and Terin bearing down out of the corner of her eyes, and surrendered sweetly, saying, “How about if I just sit here?”

Lorana examined her carefully, suspicious at her sudden acceptance. “Well …”

“Don’t!” Bekka’s voice cut across hers even as the youngster raced up and halted, nearly breathless, to stand bent over with her hands resting on her knees in front of the table. “Don’t let her get away with anything!”

“I was just—” Fiona began in protest.

Terin caught up with Bekka, her face split in a big grin: She’d heard the whole exchange. She glanced at the young healer, saying facetiously, “So, you’ve heard about our Weyrwoman, have you?”

Bekka ignored her, catching her breath enough to push herself upright once more and tell Fiona, “You get to bed and rest.”

“The Weyrwoman—”

“—has more than enough help and will show that she can follow orders,” Lorana cut across Fiona’s protests. Fiona glared at her, but the older woman was unrelenting. “Didn’t you mention something about setting an example?”

“But—” Fiona spluttered.

“Rest,” Bekka ordered, jerking a thumb toward Fiona’s quarters. She glanced up. “It’s too hot to argue out here and we’ll need our strength for later.”

“Come on, Fiona, I’ll get you settled in,” Terin told her kindly. “You’ve been going nonstop since you woke up this morning, don’t think we haven’t noticed.”

“Do you really want to be in bed with that fever for another four days?” Bekka asked menacingly, her arms on her hips.

“Sometimes,” Fiona said phlegmatically as she allowed Terin to escort her away, “I think it was a mistake to let Bekka come back here.”

“Only sometimes,” Terin said, smiling. “But that’s just a sign that you’re still feverish, you know.”

Fretfully, Fiona allowed herself to be settled in to her quarters, but she stoutly refused to get into her bed.

“I’ll sit here with Talenth,” she said with a pout. “You can bring me some blankets.”

“I’ll bring you a chair,” Terin said. “You can’t get comfortable on all that stone and dirt, not if you’re going to sleep by yourself.”

“I can’t sleep by myself,” Fiona said. “I can never sleep by myself.”

Despite her words, propped up in a comfortable chair with cushions cheerfully plumped up by Terin, Fiona found herself dozing as the heat of the midday sun warmed the Weyr and the susurrus of Talenth’s steady breathing seemed to lull her into a daze.

She reached out with her mind, hazily, toward Lorana and felt a comforting, humorous response; not quite a rebuff but a gentle pushing away, kind and amused. She heard Kindan’s voice in the distance and opened her eyes long enough to pick him out of the group of weyrlings busily bagging more firestone and stacking it in readiness for the reserve Wing.

Soon, she thought. The Wings would meet Thread, be joined by the High Reaches riders, and the battle would commence.

It was odd, she mused; once before High Reaches had come to Telgar’s aid. Only then—and a chill ran through her—there were no Telgar dragons to fly with. Her eyes snapped open in fright at the thought and she reached out desperately for T’mar, for Zirenth—she couldn’t find them!

They’re fine! Lorana’s voice came to her quickly, soothingly. They’ve just come out of between.

Chagrined, Fiona felt her cheeks burn with shame and sent an apology toward Lorana. The older woman certainly didn’t need such reminders of the grim past.

Still, Fiona couldn’t quite shake off her unease. She took a slow, calming breath and carefully pushed the thought deep inside herself: The last thing she wanted was to worry Lorana with her own fears. She could tell that she was successful because she felt no resonance from the ex–queen rider but, even so, she couldn’t shake off the nagging feeling that something would go horribly wrong.

Memories of her fevered chanting came back to her: Can’t lose the baby, can’t lose the baby, can’t lose the baby! It mixed with Lorana’s nightmare cry, her sweaty, gasping breaths and as Fiona fought to quench her fears she had raked over one horrifying thought—whose baby? Or babies?

That’s it? T’mar thought in surprise as they came to the end of the Fall. Like the Upper Bitra Fall, this one had started way up north in the Snowy Wastes, where Thread could only freeze and die—a pleasant thought—and had crossed into the mountains above Crom, ending a good half hour’s flight from the Hold itself.

The air had been steady if mildly turbulent and the Weyrs had no trouble picking up the Thread and following it as it crossed into the higher mountains and then ended at the foothills and high plains above Crom.

An easy Fall. T’mar snorted derisively. Easy enough: Telgar and High Reaches had each lost two dragons, and both had the same number of injuries. High Reaches had only two dragons badly mauled against Telgar’s three, but while Telgar had the same number of slighter injuries, High Reaches had four dragons and riders who would not fly again for the next month or more.

Zirenth, have C’tov—T’mar cut himself short: C’tov had been one of the injured with another score on his left side. This time, fortunately, it had been his left thigh that had borne the brunt of it, even as Sereth’s neck had been lightly nicked just below—protected by the extra bulk of his rider’s leg. Have C’tov’s wing fly sweep.

Very well, the bronze said. Winurth leads.

J’gerd? T’mar thought in surprise. He hadn’t realized that the brown rider was C’tov’s wingsecond; he’d been injured not all that long ago. T’mar snorted to himself; it was hard to keep track of who flew where these days.

Let’s go back, T’mar thought even as he waved farewell to D’vin and the High Reaches riders.

Even with C’tov’s injuries and the other five injured dragonpairs, the mood at the Weyr that night was one of relief, almost festive.

“Not bad,” F’jian said, sounding very pleased with himself as he raised his glass to Terin for a refill. “If I do say so myself, not bad at all.”

“Well, at least you didn’t come home too battered,” Terin said with a sweet smile to take most of the sting out of her words. F’jian gave her a hurt look, but she shook it off saying, “Don’t let your head get too big for your helmet!”

“I won’t, I won’t,” F’jian protested even as the laughter around the table brought red spots to his cheeks. He glanced at T’mar and raised his glass toward him. “You trained us well.”

“To fly, perhaps,” T’mar said with a grin, adding as he shook his head, “But in drinking … not at all.”

“Flying’s what’s important,” F’jian said merrily, glancing at his riders and raising his glass to them once more. He drained it and held it out to Terin, who cocked her head thoughtfully. “Another glass and you’ll be asleep before the party starts.”

“What?” F’jian roared, waving his free hand around to the folk gathered in the cavern. “This is the party!”

“Well, it’s one party,” Terin agreed, her eyes twinkling suggestively.

F’jian blinked at her in his confusion and Terin sighed.

“I think one party will be enough for him tonight,” Fiona said, coming up behind her. “They fight again in three days.”

Terin turned in her chair to peer up at the Weyrwoman, her expression bleak. “I know.”

Fiona smiled down at her. “If you’d like, I’ll wait with you.”

“No, you’re still supposed to be resting,” Terin said. She turned back to F’jian, gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and then pushed back her chair. “Let me escort you to your quarters.”

“Kindan can—”

“Kindan will be pouring the wine all night long,” Terin said, watching the way the harper was pacing back and forth among the revelers. “And then he’ll be up early in the morning, drilling the weyrlings.”

“Are we working him too hard?” Fiona asked, even as Terin linked arms with her and started off toward the exit to the Weyr Bowl.

“No more than any other,” Terin said. “Of course, with C’tov grounded, I’m sure he’ll find himself with more help.”

“Weyrwoman!” T’mar’s voice called across the distance and Fiona stopped and turned back to face the throng. T’mar raised his glass in toast and she waved back happily in response.

“To the best Weyrwoman on Pern!” F’jian said suddenly, lurching upward and raising his glass high.

“Fiona! Fiona! Fiona!” the rest of the riders cheered in agreement. They quickly drained their glasses and held them out for more.

Fiona waved and cheered them in return before turning back with Terin to the cold night outside. “They’ll feel it in the morning.”

“Good morning!” Fiona called cheerfully as she entered T’mar’s quarters carrying a tray on which she’d perched a pitcher of warm klah, three mugs, two plates, and a basket of fresh, warm rolls.

“Unh!” T’mar groaned in response. Fiona’s smile grew broader as she placed the tray on his day table. She quickly filled a mug and made her way over to him, humming loudly, off-key. “Unh!”

“Did you sleep well?” Fiona asked loudly, as the bronze rider sat up in his bed, wincing at the cold stone beneath his feet and cupping his forehead feebly in his hands. She relented enough to waft the warm mug in front of his nose and say quietly, “Fresh klah for the weary Weyrleader.”

“Mnh,” T’mar said, lowering one hand to grasp the mug and bring it to his lips. He drank slowly, lowered the mug, raised it again and took another sip.

“F’jian is apparently not feeling too well this morning,” Fiona went on with a quick smile. “Terin served him his breakfast about an hour ago.”

“Unh,” T’mar grunted once more, bringing his mug up for another swallow. He raised his head enough to give her a bleary-eyed look. “And to what do I owe my extra rest?”

“I’m not as mad at you as Terin is with him,” Fiona told him simply. She shrugged, adding, “Anyway, I know you drank less than most and needed more sleep than others.”

She craned her head around toward the bathroom and called out loudly, “I’ve klah and rolls, Shaneese!”

“Thank you!” the headwoman called back softly. A moment later the dusky woman appeared, wrapped in a robe. She clucked sympathetically at T’mar and gratefully accepted the mug Fiona poured for her.

“I let you sleep in,” Fiona told the headwoman, smirking at T’mar’s expression. She went to the tray at the table, filled the last mug and, peering over the edge, told the other two, “I’ll leave you to it; just know that Kindan’s going to be drilling the weyrlings in another half an hour or so.”

Shaneese smiled at her and blew a kiss in her direction. “Thank you for the warning!”

Fiona nodded and spun about, mug cradled in one hand as she made her way briskly out onto the queens’ ledge beyond. As she made her way into Talenth’s weyr and saw Kurinth peer curiously into one of the still vacant weyrs, she thought: Pretty soon we’ll have to rearrange things.

Telgar was laid out differently than some Weyrs, with the senior queen’s and junior queens’ quarters all on one side. She wondered at that as there was room available on the other side of the Weyr Bowl for another queen’s weyr. Fiona guessed that D’gan must have decided to leave Lina on the side of the Weyr closest to the kitchens while he quartered on the farther side. It made some sense to have all the queens together, but only when the Weyrwoman was not actively fighting Thread.

As it was now, T’mar was quartered in one of the junior queens’ weyrs, close to Fiona. She made a note to talk the arrangements over with Shaneese—two more queens and they would have the decision taken out of their hands.

Not, she mused as Kurinth snorted in surprise at something inside the empty weyr, that it was much of a problem now—Kurinth was quite willing to share a weyr with Ladirth, doubtless encouraged by her rider. All the same, as was easy to see from the young queen’s curiosity, it was probably time she settled in her own weyr.

Fiona furrowed her brows as she looked around, wondering why the young queen was so far from her normal weyr. Her eyes widened as a whirl of dust whisked through the air and Kurinth just barely dodged it, snorting, eyes whirling red, craning her neck back in surprise.

“There!” Fiona heard Terin exclaim grumpily. She continued on to herself, “Thinks he can stay up all night!” She snorted. “Expects me to carry him back to his weyr!” Another cloud of dust erupted. “Wants me to bring him breakfast!”

“Can I help?” Fiona asked, brushing past Kurinth and suddenly sneezing as another cloud of dust filled the air.

“You can—oh!” Terin looked up, saw the dust settling over Fiona and stopped, her expression halfway between contrition and mirth.

“It’s high time you had your own weyr,” Fiona said, glancing at the pile of clothes strewn in one corner. “If you’ll wait a moment, I’m sure that Shaneese can find you some help to straighten it out.” She glanced back at Kurinth who blinked up at her. “And Kurinth is getting big enough that she’ll need a proper weyr of her own.”

“You know that’s not it!” Terin growled, eyes flashing.

“And in your own weyr,” Fiona continued smoothly, ignoring the young weyrwoman’s response, “you can entertain as you see fit.”

“Oh!” Terin’s brow puckered as Fiona’s words registered. Her anger evaporated. “Oh, I suppose I can.”

“And people who get too much into their cups will have to find their own weyr, without disturbing you or—” Fiona paused, glancing around in surprise “—where are your usual helpers?”

“I don’t know if I’ll have them anymore,” Terin said. “Most of them were taken away last night by their mothers.”

Fiona thought that that was probably just as well. She could also imagine how the older, Thread-seasoned bronze rider might find it difficult to maintain his best behavior surrounded by small ones who viewed him with awe.

“I’ll have Kindan send some food over for Kurinth,” Fiona said. She paused and met Terin’s green eyes frankly. “And how was his head this morning?”

Terin straightened and her eyes danced as she reported gladly, “F’jian was not feeling at all well this morning!”

“Hmm,” Fiona said. “Well, perhaps you should consider that in”—she glanced outside—“a few minutes, Kindan will start exercising the weyrlings.”

Terin gave her a blank look and then comprehension dawned and her face took on a wicked smile. “Oh!”

After she’d got Terin settled in and they’d both gleefully watched as Kindan drilled the weyrlings—who shouted quite loudly—Fiona left to check on Lorana. She found her in the Records Room with a basket of glows near at hand.

“It can’t be done,” Fiona said as she peered over Lorana’s shoulder, looking down at the contents of the slates spread in front of the ex–queen rider.

“There’s no mention of timing it in any of the Records I’ve found,” Lorana said.

“That’s because it’s not a wise thing to do,” Fiona said. “Too many accidents, too much confusion.” She shrugged. “You know.”

“Like B’nik,” Lorana agreed.

“Like all those who got to see their own deaths hours before they went to them,” Fiona said. She sighed, eyes downcast as a litany of faces came to her mind: faces sad but resigned—those of the riders; faces fearful and forlorn—those of the bereaved. “He can no more escape his fate than they.” She sighed, walked around the table and dropped into the seat opposite. Lorana looked up at her. “You know, T’mar told me that some of the riders—the ones who had timed it—actually waved at themselves in farewell, tried to comfort their past selves.”

Lorana gazed at her, shaking her head.

Fiona tried a different tack, saying, “Tullea’s no different from any of those who get this bad news.” She shook her head sadly. “She’ll recover in time.”

“I don’t know,” Lorana said. “I think she’s so desperate, so … hurt—in pain—that she really would follow him between.”

“And there’s only that one new queen at Benden,” Fiona said by way of agreement. She grimaced, adding, “I don’t see her binding the wounds that would leave.”

“No, Lin needs seasoning before she’d be able,” Lorana agreed. The new junior weyrwoman at Benden was far too unsure of herself to take charge in Tullea’s stead.

Fiona shrugged. “Well, there are mature queens in the other Weyrs, if it comes to that.”

“I’d be happier if there were another way.”

“Another way,” Fiona said half to herself. “Another way.”

“M’tal saw him and then T’mar …” Lorana began thoughtfully.

“With a whole Wing, no less,” Fiona pointed out.

Lorana nodded then glanced up at Fiona, lips curved up in a thin smile as she added, “And Tullea’s forbidden his Wing to go with him.”

“So he found another Wing, how hard would that be?” Fiona tossed back with a shrug. She frowned again, adding, “And anyway, we don’t know when he timed it—”

“What?” Lorana asked, sitting upright in her chair.

“We don’t know when he timed it,” Fiona repeated, scarcely hiding her exasperation.

“We don’t even know if he timed it.”

“If?”

“We know that someone did,” Lorana said, “but all that anyone saw was a man wearing the Benden Weyrleader’s jacket.”

“So maybe it was a different Weyrleader?” Fiona asked. “From a different time?” She frowned, shaking her head. “It could be but we won’t know until it happens.” She smiled wanly at Lorana and said with a sniff, “For all we know, it could just as easily have been someone who stole B’nik’s jacket.”

“It was just a thought,” Lorana said with a quick shrug. She looked down at the slates once more, sighed, and stood up, swaying slightly with the awkward weight of the baby. She gave Fiona a pleading look, saying, “Would you clean up here? I’m not—I must—”

“Go!” Fiona said, waving her away. She’d heard enough about “peeing for two” to understand. I’ll probably know about it firsthand soon enough, she mused as she reached for the scattered slates and started to put them away. A smile crossed her lips and she started humming happily.

“Well, as of this evening, you’ve seventy-two fighting dragons,” Fiona said proudly to T’mar as they gathered together for dinner. She quirked a quick grin, adding, “C’tov tried to get back to flying, but I sent him to his quarters.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that he’s eager,” T’mar said, glancing at the wingleader, who was seated glumly at the end of the table. He raised his voice to carry, saying to him, “I’m sure that Kindan appreciates your help with the weyrlings.”

“I’ve learned a great deal,” Kindan said, sending a thankful nod in the bronze rider’s direction. C’tov waved a hand in acknowledgment.

“Seventy-two is a good deal less than I’d like,” T’mar said to Fiona.

“I’d prefer three hundred and, if wishes were dragons, that’s what we’d have,” Fiona said.

T’mar pursed his lips grimly, nodding. He glanced at Lorana, telling her, “If it weren’t for you, we’d have none.”

“I know,” Lorana said quietly, looking no happier. T’mar shot a look at Fiona, to which the Weyrwoman responded with a quick shake of her head.

“Well,” T’mar continued, “with Fort’s eighty-six and our seventy-two, we’ll be close to two full Flights in strength.”

H’nez raised his eyebrows at that appraisal: The total number was a full Wing short of two Flights. Beside him, Jeila shook her head quickly, and he grimaced, and resumed his meal without comment.

“Where’s Terin?” T’mar asked, peering down the table and spying F’jian eating glumly by himself.

“She’s in her new quarters,” Fiona said casually. She tilted her head toward the Weyrleader. “Actually, that brings up a good point: We should reconsider the disposition of the lower-level weyrs.”

T’mar raised an eyebrow and motioned for her to continue.

“Traditionally,” Fiona continued, putting a tone of disdain on that word, “the Weyrwoman and Weyrleader have lodged in the weyrs to the north of the Bowl nearest the Hatching Grounds.”

T’mar nodded.

“The junior weyrwomen have all lodged on the opposite side, where we’ve now got you quartered.”

“But your quarters are there, too,” T’mar said.

“True, as is the Records Room that we’re also using as the Council Room,” Fiona said. “But to the north there’s a perfectly good room for the Council to meet in, and another large room with access from both the Weyr Bowl and the Weyrwoman’s quarters for the Records.” She made a face. “I think the current arrangements are a holdover from when Igen integrated with Telgar.

“But with Terin in her quarters, we’ve now got all four of the junior weyrwomen’s quarters filled, and the senior Weyrwoman’s and Weyrleader’s quarters remain empty.”

“So what do you propose?” T’mar asked. He quite liked being close to the Kitchen and Living Caverns—the life of the Weyr centered there—but he could see how crowded they were getting and understood Fiona’s hidden hope that they would soon have enough queens to fill all queen weyrs.

“I don’t know,” Fiona admitted. “Obviously the traditional thing to do would be to move you and me out into the quarters on the north side of the Weyr.”

T’mar chuckled: It was obvious that Fiona was no more enamored of that prospect than he.

“I suppose we could do with the extra exercise,” Fiona said thoughtfully, adding with a flash of her eyes, “after all, no one would want us to get fat, would they?”

“No, I suppose not,” T’mar replied diplomatically. “And I suppose the weyrs are large enough, maybe even larger than our current quarters.”

“But I’ll miss the ease with which I can talk with Jeila and Terin,” Fiona said.

“I’m sure that they will need exercise, too,” T’mar quipped, working to control his smirk. His expression slipped as a new thought came to him. “Of course, that will put us near the weyrlings.”

“Yes,” Fiona agreed blandly.

T’mar gave her a probing look, for rarely was the Weyrwoman bland, and thought on the implications. Being nearer the weyrlings would mean being nearer to Kindan, the Weyrlingmaster. That would put Lorana closer. In fact, the only one who would stand to lose from it would be Shaneese—the headwoman was in no danger of getting fat, having barely a spare gram on her. Still, T’mar admitted privately to himself, the same could be said of Fiona, although in her case she tended more toward wiry strength than even the dusky-toned headwoman.

“If you’re thinking of offering to stay in your weyr for a while longer,” Fiona said, guessing all too accurately at the thrust of his thoughts, “consider that that would put you near Terin and Jeila and ask yourself how that might impact their partners.”

“I’ve no—” T’mar started in protest. He cut himself short as he saw Fiona’s eyes dance once more in amusement. It was true that he was not so foolish as to attempt to dally with the other weyrwomen—Jeila was far too attached and both were far younger than he preferred.

His attachment to Fiona was still something of a mystery to him. What had started as a simple act of kindness had solidified into something that caused him much pain, but which he knew would cause him even more pain to finish. He met her eyes frankly and peered deeply into them, once again amazed at their depths. She was, in far too many ways, still a child and yet … she was Weyrwoman to her core, more so even than Cisca or Sonia.

“I wouldn’t want to be that far from you,” T’mar said. He caught Fiona’s shudder of joy and she reached for his hand, grabbed it tight in hers. She let it go a moment later, glancing around to be sure that no one had noticed.

“Good,” she said. “Then it’s decided.”

“Can we wait until we aren’t so pressed for time?”

“I wasn’t thinking of starting until after this Fall,” Fiona said. “I merely wanted your decision on the matter.”

“Thank you,” T’mar said, warmly surprised that she’d wanted his decision and not his approval.

Fiona accepted his words with a nod, continuing, “And now that we’ve decided, when we’re done we’ll have two empty weyrs there, at least temporarily.”

T’mar cocked an eyebrow at her wonderingly. What was she getting at?

“I think, as we’re moving around, we should arrange it so that your wing lodges above us—they can come down the central stairs,” Fiona told him. T’mar nodded, that much seemed reasonable, but he was certain that Fiona had more and he motioned for her to continue. “That will leave us free then to move H’nez’s wing above the queens’ weyrs,” Fiona continued. “And, as we’ll have two empty weyrs there, if he wants, he could take the one nearest to Jeila.”

T’mar’s eyes widened as he caught on to her plan.

“I’m sure that would make the weyrwoman happy,” T’mar agreed with a twinkle in his eyes; it would hardly make H’nez unhappy. “And F’jian?”

“Well, I think it best if we consider putting his wing over the Caverns,” Fiona said, her tone losing some of its levity. T’mar gave her a startled look and she continued, “We could perhaps change that later, but for the time being, that’s a good location for him—I mean, for his wing.”

“Around the back, toward the lake?” T’mar asked. He knew full well that there were choice locations in the Weyr and places no one wanted—being located just above the lake and the feeding pens was one of the least desired locations: noisy and noisome both. It was, traditionally, the place where irate Weyrleaders or Weyrwomen placed those who had earned their wrath.

“Perhaps not quite there,” Fiona said, pursing her lips. “Although that might not be a bad idea.”

“It’s far from the wine,” T’mar said.

“Then, by all means, whatever you think best, Weyrleader,” Fiona said in the blandest of tones.

T’mar glanced down toward F’jian and wondered what, exactly, the young bronze rider had done to annoy his lady so much that the Weyrwoman wanted revenge.

“I’ll have to think about it,” T’mar said after a long pause.

“Don’t think too long,” Fiona told him warningly. “Or if you must, talk with Shaneese first.”

“Shaneese?” T’mar asked in surprise. From the sound of it, Fiona had already conveyed her impressions to the headwoman and, to T’mar’s surprise, it was clear that Shaneese had emphatically agreed with her.

“I think it’s important that the lesson be well and truly learned,” Fiona said with a sour look.

“Should we do more?”

Fiona sighed and shook her head, leaning closer to T’mar to tell him, “No, it was a foolish mistake. I just want to make sure that he doesn’t consider repeating it.”

“I’ll talk to Shaneese then,” T’mar said making it clear in his tone that he considered that only a formality.

“Best do it before you come to bed,” Fiona said. T’mar gave her another surprised look. She pushed back from her chair, having finished her meal a while back, and called out to the group, “Dragonriders, Thread falls tomorrow and I must rest!”

The riders all rose dutifully and nodded to her, eyeing the Weyrleader warily. T’mar rose, too, giving his half-eaten dessert a quick, rueful glance before adding, “A good night’s sleep would serve us all well!”

The others needed no more hints and slowly the dragonriders finished eating and, in small groups, made their way from the Dining Cavern to their weyrs, some accompanied by other riders, some by werymates and family.

Fiona was waiting for him in his quarters.

“Kindan is spending the night with Lorana,” Fiona told him. “Xhinna and the others know to call Talenth or Tolarth if they’ve need.”

“And you?” T’mar asked, gesturing to his room.

Fiona smiled and cocked her head up at him. “I’d like to stay with you tonight.”

T’mar smiled. “I’ve learned that it’s never good to disappoint the Weyrwoman.”

Later, much later, as Fiona rested her head on his shoulder, she asked, “What are we going to do?”

“Do?”

“Every Fall we lose two more,” Fiona said with a sigh. “Sometimes more, sometimes less but, on average, two. And with seventy-two fighting dragons, that gives us less than thirty-six Falls.”

“Much less,” T’mar said. “Really, we can’t hope to fight with less than a full Flight.”

“You could time it,” Fiona said, nuzzling deeper into his shoulder.

“The casualties would increase.”

“So we don’t have the time,” Fiona said.

T’mar was silent: He had no answer for her.

“It can’t be like this,” Fiona said. “Our children should grow up in the Weyr, strong, happy, and healthy—”

“And be dragonriders?”

“If they wish,” Fiona said. “But we shouldn’t have to face the end of everything, the last dragon, the last rider, the last Weyr.” She shook her head. “That shouldn’t happen.”

“No, it shouldn’t,” T’mar said. Which didn’t change the fact that it would. Thirty-six Falls would come in little more than four months—five at the most. It would take the weyrlings just hatched another twenty-three months at the least to mature and grow strong enough to join the Weyrs. “We could send them back in time.”

“The weyrlings?” Fiona guessed. “Where to? We can’t send them back to Igen, all the time there was used.”

“Southern?”

“We sent the fire-lizards there,” Fiona reminded him. “The dragons are cured now, but I don’t know if they couldn’t get sick again.” She paused in silent thought for a long while. When she moved again it was to prop herself up on one arm. She leaned forward and kissed T’mar gently on the lips.

“You’ve a Fall tomorrow, you shouldn’t be worrying,” she said before bending back down to tease his lips once more.

Fiona woke early, eyes narrowed, inhaling deeply of the morning air: Something disturbed her. With a tender glance at T’mar, she shifted the blankets and quickly rose out of bed. She slid her feet into her slippers, found the robe she’d left at the end of the bed, shrugged it over her shoulders, and felt around for the small glowbasket at the front of the bed. Its light was weak and in need of recharging, which suited her as she only needed it to provide her with a clear view of her path into Zirenth’s lair.

The big bronze was sleeping, his breath coming in slow, steady waves. Clearly he was no more disturbed than T’mar. Fiona crept quietly past him, leaving the unnecessary glow at the weyr’s exit.

She stood there in silence, her senses stretched, trying to locate the cause of her worry. Frowning, she turned her head toward her own weyr, and listened. Her eyebrows rose in surprise as she recognized a noise closer, coming from Terin’s new weyr.

The sound was an odd mix and it was only when she ducked away from a sudden gust of dust that Fiona could make sense of it: Terin was sweeping Kurinth’s lair and muttering—no, crying—to herself.

“Terin?” Fiona called softly, having stepped away to avoid another cloud of dust.

The younger weyrwoman stopped sweeping and muttering abruptly. A moment later she spoke, sounding miserable. “Fiona?”

Fiona entered the lair and saw that poor Kurinth was huddled in one far corner, her eyes whirling a distressed red as she eyed her mate with alarm. Fiona stepped forward briskly and grabbed the broom from Terin’s hands. The youngster looked up at her in surprise, her lower lip quivering. Even in the dim light, Fiona could tell that she’d been crying: Her eyes were red-rimmed and her cheeks tear-streaked.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Terin confessed miserably. She gave Fiona an anxious look as she added, “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Come here,” Fiona said, turning toward Terin’s darkened quarters as she reached for the younger girl’s hand. She led them to Terin’s bed and sat down, pulling the young weyrwoman down beside her. She pulled Terin’s head onto her shoulder and held it, stroking the young dragonrider’s soft red-blond hair soothingly. “Talk.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Terin repeated. When Fiona remained patiently silent, she added, “I kept thinking of him.” She lifted her head off Fiona’s shoulder and turned her head up to face her, her eyes flashing dimly in the low light. “He got drunk because he’s afraid,” she said, her voice miserable. She choked back a sob before continuing, “He’s afraid he’s going to die. Or worse.”

“Worse: See all those around him die first,” Fiona guessed.

Terin’s eyes widened in surprise even as she breathed, “Yes.”

“Well, we’ve over four Wings’ worth of weyrlings between the five Weyrs and more to come,” Fiona reminded her in a light voice. “That’ll—”

“I’m sorry Fiona, but that won’t be enough,” Terin interrupted firmly. “I can do the sums, and even if somehow we could bring them all back in time and have them grow up, that would still be nearly two thousand dragons too few to save Pern.”

“Well,” Fiona said, turning to a different tack, “with your queen and the pair we’ve got already, we’ll have easily another four Wings from them in a Turn.”

“And in two Turns, they’ll be able to fight Thread,” Terin replied, shaking her head.

“We’ll think of something.”

“What?” Terin demanded. “And will it be soon enough to save F’jian?”

“Or T’mar,” Fiona added, allowing a bitter tone to creep into her voice. “Or H’nez. Or C’tov, even.”

Terin was surprised at her tone.

“Go find him, go talk to him,” Fiona said, rising from the bed and dragging the younger girl with her. “There are never any guarantees in life, Terin. The only things we can hold are the memories we’re given.”

“I’m not ready to—”

“I’m not saying that!” Fiona cut her off with a snort. “But if you’re hurting this much just worrying about him, then you at least owe it to him to let him know that.”

“Okay,” Terin said reluctantly. She paused as they entered Kurinth’s lair and turned to her queen, kneeling down and stroking the dragonet lovingly. “I’d better feed her first.”

“No!” Fiona said. “Don’t dawdle! I’ll feed her, if she’s willing.” She paused, smiling down at the pretty little queen. “Or I’ll ask Lorana, if she prefers.” She turned back to the entrance and jerked a thumb toward it. “Go! Go now.”

“What if he’s asleep?” Terin asked, temporizing.

“You’ll figure it out,” Fiona said, turning back to Kurinth and putting the young queen rider out of her sight. She remained in that position, assuming Terin’s squatting position to rub the young queen’s eye ridges until she heard Terin scamper away. To the young queenling she apologized, “She’s really a good choice, you know.”

Yes, Kurinth agreed, angling her neck so that Fiona could reach the itchiest patch.

“You’ll be big before you know it,” Fiona promised, surprised at how small the recently hatched queen seemed to her own Talenth.

Yes, I know, Kurinth said. Fiona wondered at the dragon’s certainty and shrugged; it was probably just youth and an intense desire to have that particular itch scratched.

How long they remained like that, exchanging words for caresses, Fiona didn’t know or care. She only turned away from the young queen when she heard sounds behind her outside the weyr.

“Well?” Fiona asked as she turned, expecting to see Terin return with a broad grin on her face.

It wasn’t Terin she saw. It was Lorana. The older woman was looking out over the Weyr Bowl, looking up into the air with a quizzical expression.

“Lorana?” Fiona asked, making her way quickly to the ex–queen rider, unable to keep a tinge of worry from her voice.

“Mmm?” Lorana murmured, her eyes still focused skyward.

Fiona followed her gaze but could see nothing but the Weyr—brighter now in the morning sun. Dust, probably left over from Terin’s exertions hung in the air, flickering in the morning light.

“Are you all right?”

“Just looking,” Lorana returned dreamily. Fiona cocked her head in worry but said nothing, standing beside the older woman, ready if she needed help. She half-expected Lorana to collapse or something by the way she was staring so intently at the dust motes.

“What color are they?” Lorana asked suddenly.

“Color?”

“The specks,” Lorana said, half-raising a hand.

“It’s just dust, Lorana,” Fiona said, trying to keep her voice normal.

“Dust is usually brown, isn’t it?”

“On the ground, maybe,” Fiona said, wondering why Lorana found the topic so fascinating. “It sparkles like gold in the air, though.”

“Gold?” Lorana asked, cocking her head to one side critically.

“Well, goldy, I suppose,” Fiona allowed. “Or bronzy, maybe.”

“Mmm, bronze,” Lorana agreed. She dropped her head suddenly and turned to face Fiona, catching her eyes. There was no sign of any strangeness in them. “Could you and Talenth bring me to Benden? I want to talk with Ketan.”

“Ketan?” Fiona asked. “There’s a Fall today, Lorana, we’ve got to get ready soon.” She paused, adding, “And Benden’s got a Fall, too.”

“I know,” Lorana said. “If you could take me now, that would work, wouldn’t it?”

“Right now?”

“We could be changed in ten minutes,” Lorana said, glancing down at her robe and slippers with some surprise. “I really need to talk with Ketan.”

“Well …” Fiona temporized then said decisively, “All right. But we have to be careful.” She pointed to Lorana’s midriff.

“Three coughs only,” Lorana swore.

Kindan was already gone. Lorana explained that he had gone to rouse the weyrlings early and she’d escorted him as far as the weyr ledge. They dressed quickly even though Lorana found that, to her embarrassment, she had to have Fiona’s help.

“I expect I’ll be asking you to help me soon enough!” Fiona said as she laughed off the older woman’s discomfort.

Even so, they were ready in less than the ten minutes Lorana had promised. Fiona spent longer working with Talenth’s riding straps, partly because she still felt some misgivings over Lorana’s state of mind. She waved at T’mar, but the Weyrleader was busy with the preparations for the Fall.

Finally, she could delay no more. Talenth took up a position below the queens’ ledge, her forewing raised so that Lorana could climb aboard without difficulty. And then Fiona was on and Talenth stepped away from the ledge, bugled a challenge to the whole Weyr, took one leap and was between.

They appeared again over Benden Weyr moments later even as Fiona was still berating herself for letting the queen set such a bad example by going between so close to the ground. Her worries and shame vanished as the Benden watch dragon challenged them and Talenth roared in response. Her bellow was greeted by a rousing chorus from the Weyr Bowl even as she wheeled sharply and spun her way down to the ground, Fiona crying in pure joy at her queen’s wild maneuver.

“What are you doing here?” Tullea demanded as soon as she got within earshot. She made out the form of Lorana and her expression changed, rushing forward she cried, “Have you found it?”

Fiona shot the older Weyrwoman an irritated look as she gingerly guided Lorana down to the ground below. Couldn’t Tullea at least wait until they were safe?

“I need to talk with Ketan, if he’s available,” Lorana said, her soft contralto voice sounding calm and collected; focused in a way that she had not been with Fiona on the ledge earlier. Lorana turned back to Fiona, who was starting to dismount and held up a hand. “You should get back,” she told her with a grateful smile. “I’m sure Tullea will give me a lift, when I need it.”

“If you’re going to help, you can take Minith yourself,” Tullea offered, glancing around the Weyr, her eyes full of dread. “Anything to save B’nik.”

“Where’s Ketan?” Lorana asked, looking around. When she didn’t find him, she turned back to Fiona. The young Weyrwoman made no attempt to disguise her concern. Lorana smiled up at her. Go on, Kindan will be worried.

Relieved at hearing Lorana’s words, Fiona smiled and nodded. I’m here if you need me. Aloud she said, “Come on Talenth, Thread’s coming soon!”

She nodded toward Tullea and this time instructed Talenth to climb up to the proper spot above the watch dragon before departing once more between for Telgar and home.

“You’ll probably find him in his quarters, drunk,” Tullea said as she watched the Telgar queen climb up toward the heights. Her eyes narrowed as she added, “What does he have to do with B’nik?”

“I don’t know,” Lorana said. “I want to talk with him first.”

“Very well,” Tullea said sourly. “If you need me, come find me. We’ve got Thread to fight today.”

“And if I need to borrow Minith?” Lorana asked.

“Take her,” Tullea said with a wave as she trotted off toward a knot of dragonriders. “Do what you must.”

“Very well,” Lorana said, turning toward the healer’s quarters. “I’m going to have to go to High Reaches later.”

Tullea made no response beyond another wave of her arm and then she was lost in the throng of riders.

Lorana found him in the healer’s quarters, head down on his arm, snoring loudly.

“Ketan,” she called. He stirred then resumed his snores. Lorana’s eyes narrowed and she sighed, moving forward to grab his shoulders.

“Ketan!” she shouted, shaking him roughly.

“Wh-what?” the ex-dragonrider said muzzily, lifting his head up and waving his hands. “Go ‘way!”

“It’s me, Lorana!”

“Lorana?” Ketan pried one eye open and peered at her. He jerked back in surprise and pulled himself upright, his neck craning around to peer at her. “What are you doin’ here? You’re at Telgar.”

“I wanted to talk with you,” Lorana told him, her expression softening. “I wanted to talk with you about Drith.”

“Drith!” Ketan’s voice was a thready wail. “My beautiful, beautiful Drith!”

Lorana gave the healer a long, thoughtful look, took a deep breath, and said quietly, “Do remember the last words you had with him?”

“Why?” Ketan demanded angrily. “He’s gone and I’m here and—oh, Drith! How I hurt without you!”

“Ketan,” Lorana began again softly, “I’m not trying to hurt you.”

“Go ‘way!” the healer replied, turning back to his table and dropping his head on it, eyes closed firmly as if by not seeing Lorana he could make her disappear.

“Didn’t he say: ‘I must do this while I still can’?” Lorana asked quietly.

“Yes, to die!” Ketan growled, his eyes snapping open in anger and then closing again in hopes that his tormenter would leave him.

“T’mar saw the Benden Weyrleader die,” Lorana said. “He saw him come back in time, he saved him just as he saved M’tal.”

“So?” Ketan demanded. “He dies, they die, we all die.” He paused. “And then I’ll be with Drith.”

“I think you can be with Drith before that,” Lorana said, her heart beating loudly in her chest. “I think you can save three lives.”

Ketan had opened his eyes again at her words. He lifted his head off the table and craned it up so that he could see her from the corner of his wide-open eyes.

“Would you be willing to steal B’nik’s jacket?”

“Steal his—” the healer jerked upright and jumped out of his chair. “Steal his jacket? But I’ve no dragon!”

“No dragon now.”

The healer’s expression slowly changed from one of surprise and despair to one of hope.

“I’m not offering you much,” Lorana cautioned. “A chance to ride Drith again, and to make a difference—”

“My lady, to be a dragonrider again, just once!” Ketan shook his head, his eyes brimming with tears. “For that, I’d do anything.”

“First, the jacket.”

“And then?”

“We go to High Reaches.”

“High Reaches?” Ketan looked perplexed and then illumination struck. “Oh! And then the wherhold, no doubt.”

“We’ll see Nuella,” Lorana agreed. “But not until after.”

“And then?”

“And then, K’tan, you’ll get your last ride.”