Dragongirl

FOUR

“Xhinna, come on,” Fiona called as she rolled out of bed at Talenth’s warning. She reached to the head of her bed and turned over the glow, its eerie luminance only shadowing the dark of night. Xhinna grumbled irritably, her eyes just gleaming under her eyelashes. “It’s time.”

“Time?” Xhinna repeated, pushing herself up and out from under the blankets in one swift movement. “Serth?”

Fiona nodded grimly. “We have to get moving.”

Talenth, tell Melirth, Fiona thought to her dragon, not certain if the Weyrwoman would want to say farewell.

She sleeps, Talenth replied, obviously reluctant to wake her.

Cisca had said nothing but looked both distracted and unhappy when Fiona had shared her observations on the sick and injured that evening. Fiona had turned to K’lior for guidance, but the Weyrleader looked just as surprised at his mate’s reaction and shook his head minutely, so she didn’t press the matter.

Talenth? Fiona said more in warning than as a question as she and Xhinna rushed from her quarters into the queen’s lair. Talenth was already up and moving. Effortlessly she dropped over the queens’ ledge and sidled back so that Fiona and Xhinna could quickly mount by jumping directly onto her neck.

Before Fiona could say anything, the young queen had leaped up and was beating the foggy air with her huge wings, climbing swiftly, unerringly toward the landing ledge of the fifth level. Fiona had a moment’s irrelevant thought about how T’mar would react if he knew that she and Xhinna were flying without any straps whatsoever before they were at their destination.

Jump down, Talenth told her, shifting her weight so that they could follow her near foreleg to the landing. Fiona flung herself feetfirst off her dragon’s neck, expecting and meeting the guiding leg before landing lightly on her feet on the ledge. She helped Xhinna down and then the two were off, running toward S’ban’s quarters and Serth’s lair even as Talenth quietly beat upward in the dark to take station with the watch dragon at the Star Stones.

“Bekka? S’ban?” Fiona called at the entrance to the blue rider’s quarters. She heard someone call back and quickly entered, passing through S’ban’s rooms, her brows furrowing as she noticed his rumpled, lumpy bed, and into Serth’s lair.

S’ban looked up bleakly from his position beside Serth’s head. Bekka gave them a quick, grateful smile, and then turned back to her father. Terin stood close by, looking desperate to do something useful.

There were others in the room, too. Fiona recognized Merika and suddenly realized that the odd lumps she’d dismissed in S’ban’s bed were probably the younger children. She nodded toward Xhinna, who gave her a quick look of comprehension and headed back into S’ban’s quarters. Shortly she could be heard quietly waking the children and bringing them into Serth’s weyr.

Tajen was there, too, and rose from the sandy floor when Fiona entered. Old L’rian was there, seated with his back against the wall on a chair brought in from S’ban’s room. Fiona waved him back down as he started to rise. Another green rider and—to Fiona’s surprise—H’nez were in attendance.

“S’ban flew in my wing,” H’nez told her quietly as he approached. Fiona could see that he was clearly moved even though he tried to hide it. He turned back to the blue rider and spared a smile for Bekka. “She says that she’s going to be a healer.”

“I expect she will,” Fiona said as she followed his gaze and wondered how it was that someone so young could shoulder such a heavy burden. Xhinna, who had managed to cajole the youngsters into the room and settle them, heard the comment as she rejoined Fiona and followed her gaze, remarking, “She was always bossy.”

Fiona snorted. The irony of the comment was lost on neither of them.

“The Weyrs raise strong women,” H’nez said, his lips pursed tightly at some hidden memory. Mother or lover? Fiona wondered, looking at the prickly, difficult, taciturn bronze rider in a new light.

Serth coughed, a long burble that devolved into a wracking wheeze that brought up more and more of the green mucus.

“We’re all here, S’ban,” Fiona murmured quietly as the blue’s fit passed miserably. As if her words were a signal, all the riders and weyrfolk in the room closed in around them, arms wrapped, hugging.

From his position behind S’ban, H’nez shot Fiona a look, but she shook her head, steeling herself for what she knew she must say to Serth. She shivered in fear until she felt a head rest on her shoulder and another arm wrap around her.

“You can do this,” Xhinna murmured.

“Weyrwoman,” L’rian said from her other side. “It’s time.”

Fiona took a deep, steadying sigh.

Serth, if you’re ready, you can go, she called. From on high, Talenth bugled encouragingly, the sound of her voice echoing around the Weyr before other, quieter voices responded.

With an unsteady heave, Serth found his legs, stumbled forward to the ledge outside, and fell into the air. For a moment his wings cupped the night sky, and then he was gone, between.

“No!” S’ban wailed desperately, trying to follow his blue but being restrained by all those who surrounded him. “No, no, no …” His voice faded into silence broken only by the sobs of those who surrounded him, enfolding him in all the love they could muster.

He is gone, Talenth said, her keen complete.

“Fiona!” Cisca’s angry shout echoed around the Weyr Bowl at first light that morning.

Fiona rose quickly—but still quietly enough not to alarm Xhinna. The two had just barely returned from the wake that had started with the loss of Serth and had ended when S’ban—Seban, now—had collapsed, drunk beyond his pain, to be carried by H’nez and L’rian to his bed, where he was tucked in with his current partner and surrounded by piles of small children.

“He’ll make it,” L’rian had declared as he leaned on Xhinna’s strong shoulders. He glanced at Fiona and gave her an approving nod. “Thank you, Weyrwoman. I know how hard it is for you.”

Fiona had found no words for a reply, but L’rian hadn’t expected any. Talenth picked them up at the ledge and flew them back to the queens’ ledge, let them dismount, and clambered up to her bed, to curl up and fall immediately into a deep sleep.

Now, heading out to Talenth’s weyr, she found the gold dragon awake, her eyes whirling a troubled red. Before Fiona could ask what was wrong, Weyrwoman Cisca barged in.

“You should have told me!” Cisca bellowed, her brown eyes flashing. “How dare you tell a dragon of my Weyr—” She cut off abruptly, her eyes going wide as Melirth bellowed from the Weyr beyond.

“What is it?” Fiona asked, suddenly more alarmed by Cisca’s silence than her rage.

The bronzes are blooding their kills, Talenth replied, her tone sounding eager, excited, passionate in a way that Fiona had never heard from her before.

“Go!” Cisca cried. “Take Talenth!” And with that, she turned on her heel and rushed out of the room.

“Talenth?” Fiona repeated in confusion.

Xhinna appeared in the doorway, looking bleary-eyed and disheveled. “What’s going on?”

“The bronzes are blooding their kills,” Fiona reported.

“Talenth?” Xhinna asked, rising and glancing to the weyr beyond. There was a bellow from Melirth, as the gold soared by outside, heading for the cattle pens. Xhinna gave Fiona a shove. “Take Talenth and go!”

“Go?” Fiona repeated. Talenth was already moving, her eyes whirling excitedly; she was more alive, more alert, even more sleek-looking than Fiona remembered ever seeing. “Where?”

“Anywhere! Melirth is rising to mate!”

As soon as the words penetrated Fiona’s brain she raced over to Talenth and forced the queen out and over the ledge, jumping onto her back and urging her into the air. Cisca’s bizarre rage made sense now: The Weyrwoman had been responding unconsciously to her dragon’s emotions.

But I want to stay! Talenth protested, seeming ready to fight with Fiona over the issue.

No! Fiona snapped, urging Talenth up and up until they were over the Star Stones. Where to go? Fort Hold was too close. Igen Weyr was—she checked herself and brought up the image of Igen Weyr, remembered the time, pictured the sun bright in the sky, and gave Talenth the image. The gold was still reluctant, becoming more excited as she heard the bronzes bugling and Melirth’s taunting responses, but Fiona persisted and then—they were between.

Talenth grumbled irritably as they emerged from between into the early morning heat of Igen. Fiona could hardly blame her; the heat was so great it felt like a physical blow and she wasn’t straining her wings to keep them airborne.

Just land at the Star Stones, she instructed soothingly. Talenth complied, altering her flight into a slightly turning glide that brought them to a perfect stop beside the Star Stones.

As she’d hoped, there was a breeze flowing up there. Down in the Weyr Bowl, she knew, it would be stifling even at this time of year. By night it would be as cold as it was at Fort Weyr, but night was eight or nine hours away and the hottest part of the day was still to come.

Fiona slid off Talenth’s neck and clambered down her foreleg to wander over to the Star Stones and leave her gold a moment to stretch.

I like it here, Talenth’s thought came so closely on Fiona’s that for a moment the weyrwoman wasn’t sure who had spoken. Fiona nodded, silent, and padded over to the edge of the Weyr Bowl to peer inward.

Dust swirled as a light wind fanned it, then settled again. Fiona could almost imagine the dust as the result of invisible dragons and riders preparing for a Fall. She smiled to herself. She wondered what F’dan would say about the mating flight and where she had chosen to flee. Then, with a pang of regret, she realized that she would never be able to ask him.

So many ghosts!

She felt Talenth reach out worriedly in her direction, a tendril of comfort in the morning heat, and allowed herself to lean against it, almost as though it were something physical and she could caress herself with it.

Talenth ruffled her wings, offering, Maybe we would be cooler in our weyr.

It’s not our weyr anymore, Fiona reminded her sadly. Who might have occupied it in the seven Turns since their departure? Had any queen dragons been sent back with the injured of the other Weyrs?

Why would they send queen dragons? Talenth asked, picking up Fiona’s unvoiced thought.

Why, indeed? Fiona mused, trying to keep her thoughts more quiet, more to herself. It wasn’t as though there were any injured queens and, as far as she knew, only a handful were as young as Talenth. Fewer now, with the loss of Lorana’s Arith.

But even if all the queens were mature and ready to mate, would the Weyrs be able to recover the losses caused by the sickness? Was that why she had been led back in time here by the mysterious queen rider?

I need to check the Records, Fiona told Talenth. The queen rumbled in annoyance, making it clear that if they weren’t going to their old weyr, then she’d just as soon stay where she was, but Fiona reinforced her request, making it an order, and Talenth irritably unfurled her wings and extended her foreleg for Fiona to climb.

Melirth was rising, Fiona thought to herself in the deepest part of her mind. The bronzes—all of them—would be chasing her. The bronze riders would have only one thought: to catch the queen. Their emotions would be strong, their thoughts concentrated on the passions that emanated from their beasts—

Talenth bugled loudly and Fiona shook herself. It seemed that even when she tried hard to keep her emotions to herself, her dragon could sense them. And, she realized with a mixture of dread and elation, she was feeling her dragon’s arousal. She took a deep, calming breath as she forced images of T’mar, H’nez, K’lior, M’kury and, most of all, Kindan from her mind.

Our time will come, Fiona promised Talenth fiercely.

The sound her queen made in response had no irritation in it at all.

The heat in the Records Room was stifling, the air still, and Fiona was soon sweating profusely as she dragged Record after Record into and out of the range of the thin beam of light she’d managed to coax from the outside by dull mirrors.

She calmed herself first by locating the old Records of the last Fall and was pleased to see that they were exactly where she’d remembered them. If anyone else had bothered with them, they’d clearly put them back carefully, but judging by the layers of dust, Fiona was pretty certain that hers were the last hands to touch them.

She moved slowly, partly to defeat the heat but more to keep her thoughts from intruding into Talenth’s awareness. The queen was drowsing back at the Star Stones, happy with the light breeze even as it tapered off with noonday sun.

She had to keep her notes in her head and found it difficult, especially as the dust made her more parched. She promised herself that she’d stop in at the wherhold later before heading back. It would be good to see Nuella and Zenor again.

She made herself focus on the issue that had driven her here. How often did queens rise when Thread fell? How many eggs were in each clutch? And how long did it take from mating to clutching? Clutching to Hatching? Hatching to being able to go between?

The information was not as difficult to find as it was to pin down. Fiona found herself going through Turns and Turns of Records.

She would get some inkling, and then another mating flight or Hatching would throw her numbers off: Was a clutch twenty-one or thirty-one eggs? Was one gold egg or two gold eggs common? Was it twelve weeks or fifteen weeks from mating flight to Hatching? Whenever she thought she’d got it sorted, nailed down with the certainty of someone like Verilan, the meticulous Master Archivist—or someone worried about exactly how many fighting dragons a Weyr would have by when—she would find some new entry that disagreed with her carefully deduced findings. Worse, the newest Records had been written in the Interval, which was less important to her than the Records of the Second Pass, which had deteriorated and were harder to read.

One item in the newer Records alarmed her more than any other: the recurring mention of few mating flights, right up to the time when Tannaz, the last junior Weyrwoman at Igen, elected to go to Fort Weyr, causing depleted Igen to finally merge with Telgar. Were there supposed to be more mating flights? The Records in the Interval showed no such alarm, and the Records from the Second Pass made no more than passing mention, small gloating entries amid reports of Thread injuries and lost riders and dragons.

Something told her that Talenth had fallen asleep, and Fiona realized with a start that the arousal that had kept her so tense had drained away. Melirth had been flown by Rineth—she could feel it. It was a good thing, she decided even as she got the feeling that H’nez was angrier than ever, up in his weyr, drinking himself into a dazed stupor. She could go back now; she probably should.

Rebelliously, she bent back over the Records. She paused when she came upon a harper’s ballad, part of the Teaching Songs:

That sounded like mating. But “a day of glory”—was that the mating flight or Hatching?

She frowned, picking up another Record she’d placed close by and bringing it into the light. Her frown deepened.

“Three months and more”—that was the time from mating to clutching. Five heated weeks was easy to guess: the time from clutching to Hatching—the “day of glory.” So what did “in a month, who seeks” mean?

In a month, weyrlings could go between? Seek?

Fiona sat back in her chair, out of the light and the heat, her face set sourly as she thought back, trying to remember what Talenth had been like at the end of her first month out of the shell. She shook her head irritably; she couldn’t imagine Talenth going between then.

But you didn’t try.

Fiona raised her head, glancing toward where Talenth was sleeping as she tried to identify the source of the thought. Was it her? Was it Talenth? Was it someone else?

She rose from her chair and carefully piled the Records together, placing them back in their correct locations with all the care she’d take to oil her dragon or run her Weyr.

Run her Weyr. The thought staggered Fiona. She stopped dead in her tracks.

She had been back at Fort Weyr for less than five days before she had returned here. Was she so used to being in charge that she could no longer cooperate with others, could only be the Weyrwoman?

There was only one way to find out: by trying. Igen Weyr was empty now; there was no one here who needed her.

Talenth, Fiona called loudly, rousing the dozing dragon. Let’s go.

Are we going to see Nuellask? Talenth wondered even as she launched herself from her perch and glided down toward their old quarters.

No, we’re going back to the Weyr, Fiona said. They’ll need us there.

One thing she had read over and over in her perusing of the Records was how useful the other queen riders proved on the day of a mating flight—they were the only ones not present during the emotional turmoil of the union and so still able to manage the needs of the Weyr.

Aside from disconsolate bronze riders, there was a Weyr still occupied by sick dragons, injured riders, injured dragons, and worried weyrfolk. They needed Fiona.

She mounted Talenth and built the image of Fort Weyr in her mind even as her great dragon labored to gain altitude.

Cisca will expect us to help out, Fiona told her dragon as she instructed her to go between.

The cold of between was a tonic for her, washing away the numbing heat of hot Igen and revitalizing her in a way that she’d never noticed previously.

She burst into the air above Fort Weyr and was not surprised to find that the watch dragon was slow in challenging her.

He says that Rineth flew her, Talenth reported as she overflew the dragonpair and Fiona waved down in greeting at the rider. The gold’s tone was disgruntled—not just because she already knew that, but also, Fiona discovered, because Talenth felt let down by the whole affair, almost as though she’d had to leave a party that she wanted to join.

You can’t be jealous of your mother, Fiona chided her with a humorous tone. She felt Talenth’s muted response and realized that her queen had already recognized her own feelings and regretted them. Your turn will come soon enough.

Again, she felt Talenth’s mixed emotions. This time she got a good enough distinction that she could soothe her fears. I’ll be fine! Fiona told her with all the confidence she could muster. Remember, I’ve already practiced.

Fiona found that, even though she’d “practiced,” the memory still had her blushing. She knew enough from the mating flights of greens to expect that she would find her emotions tied to her dragon’s desires, and she was certain—no, she corrected herself, she hoped—that she would be able to handle the mating flight.

There were Records of what happened to those riders who couldn’t control their dragons. Fiona took a steadying breath; some of those Records made grim reading.

Where’s Terin? Fiona asked Talenth as they glided toward her quarters.

She’s with F’jian, Talenth responded.

All right, where’s Bekka? Fiona asked, guessing that the younger weyrfolk would be quickest to recover.

She’s with Xhinna, Talenth replied. Of course. Xhinna would be guarding and protecting the youngsters no matter how much passion beat about her; she was a natural parent.

Take me to them, Fiona said.

They’re in Seban’s quarters, Talenth responded, changing the angle of her flight.

Tell them I’m coming, Fiona said as she leaped down from her dragon and onto the landing ledge.

Seban was sleeping in his bed when Fiona entered the room. Xhinna was seated on a chair beside the bed, with Bekka on her lap. Bekka had a faded smile on her face, the sort of love-everyone look that Fiona recalled from her own experiences of children and mating flights. Xhinna looked very much like a mother or big sister caring for a little one.

“She made the feelings okay,” Bekka murmured, surprising them all. She sat up with the barest hint of an impish grin on her face, rubbed her eyes, and looked at Fiona. “You missed it. Melirth flew Rineth. It was great.”

“Yes,” Fiona agreed. She glanced at Seban. “I just wanted to make sure …” She faltered, not wanting to remind Seban of his loss. “I should go check on the others.”

“By all means, weyrwoman,” Seban said, sitting up in his bed while at the same time carefully plucking Bekka from Xhinna’s lap and setting her on her feet. “Why don’t you take Bekka? She seems to be all recovered now.”

Fiona nodded and glanced at Xhinna. The girl yawned and said to Seban, “Can I stay here a bit?”

“I’d appreciate the company,” Seban told her, then turned to Fiona. “Weyrwoman?”

“Of course,” Fiona said, reaching a hand for Bekka. “Come on, Bekka, we’ll have Talenth take us down to the Kitchen Cavern and see what we can cook up, shall we?”

Bekka’s eyes bugged out. “I can ride your queen?”

“If your father doesn’t mind that I don’t have straps,” Fiona said, glancing at Seban and adding ruefully, “We left in rather a hurry this morning.”

“Please, Daddy?” Bekka begged, making her blue eyes as big as she could, thrilled at the prospect of riding on a queen dragon.

“I’ll be extra careful,” Fiona said, “I promise.”

“I’m sure she’s safe with you, weyrwoman,” Seban said.

“Okay,” Fiona said as she set Bekka down on the ground of the Weyr Bowl, “first we need to see if fires are lit, and if they are …” She raised an eyebrow, inviting the young girl to finish the thought for her.

“Klah!” Bekka declared. “We should make lots of klah!”

“And?”

“Tea.”

“Yes,” Fiona agreed. “Tea would be good. I expect people will be hungry, too. And we’ll probably want to get help.”

“What about the headwoman?”

“What if she needs to rest?” Fiona asked, forcing any hint of a leer out of her expression.

“I’m sure I know some youngsters who’ll help,” Bekka said. She made a slight face as she added, “They’re not all as quick as I am, but they’ll do.”

“Then we should get them,” Fiona agreed as they entered the Kitchen Cavern. “And when we’ve got klah and tea and hot rolls and we’re ready, why don’t you take some to the Weyrleader and Weyrwoman?”

Bekka’s eyes widened and she shook her head.

“You’ll do fine,” Fiona assured her. She gestured toward the hearth. “First, the klah.”

Fifteen short minutes later, Bekka walked slowly out of the Kitchen Cavern, balancing a tray in her hands with exaggerated care. Fiona watched her out of the corner of her eye and then turned her attention to the recovering weyrfolk.

“It was a good flight,” Ellor declared as she bustled in to the Kitchen Cavern and nodded in thanks to Fiona. “Melirth blooded four kills before she took off, and in the instant, all the bronzes were after her.” She paused long enough to shake her head in surprise before adding, “And some browns, too.”

Fiona gave her an encouraging look, so Ellor, after pouring herself a full mug of klah, perched near the hearth and continued. “It seemed forever before the first suitor dropped out, one of the browns. Then a bronze, another bronze, and finally a brown.

“Well, I can tell you, we were all in a state,” Ellor said. “Particularly when someone shouted that H’nez’s Ginirth was closest.” She paused dramatically. “But Melirth just bugled another challenge and rose higher and flew faster.

“F’jian’s Ladirth was the next to drop out,” she said. She shook her head again. “I don’t know what the boy was thinking.” Then she smirked, saying, “Probably wasn’t thinking, was he?”

Fiona nodded in agreement.

“Ginirth dropped out a moment later, and then it was down to M’valer’s Linth, M’kury’s Burinth, and, of course, K’lior’s Rineth.”

“Rineth flew her,” Fiona said, hoping to hasten Ellor in her story, but the headwoman was not to be rushed.

“He did, but it’s how he did it that’s worth the telling,” Ellor replied, pausing once more, eyes shining brightly as she realized that she’d kept her audience still ensnared. She paused dramatically, then said: “It was M’kury’s Burinth who caught her first!”

“Really?” Fiona asked, surprised.

“Yes, and then Linth,” Ellor continued. “Rineth was a distant third.” Fiona gestured for her to speed up. “Well, Melirth—clever lass—just folded her wings and let the other two try to hold her. They couldn’t, and they had to let go or risk tearing open her belly. So, with a cry of triumph, she fell through them and prepared to soar away when—”

“Rineth caught her,” Fiona guessed.

“Exactly,” Ellor said, not pleased that the weyrwoman had guessed the climax. “Only she tried the same trick, going all limp—”

“But Rineth was strong enough for both of them,” Fiona said.

“No!” Ellor said, her voice a mixture of glee and admiration. “He was smarter than the others! He went limp with her and they plummeted together.”

“Hmm!” Fiona murmured in admiration.

“So finally, just as they were almost too low, Melirth relented and spread her wings and then—”

“They mated,” Fiona concluded.

“It was a brilliant flight,” Ellor agreed with a firm nod. She drained her klah and gave Fiona a sly look, saying, “Of course, we all celebrated.”

“Celebrated!”

“Well, you know what I mean,” Ellor replied.

“A good flight.”

Ellor nodded.

“And much needed.”

Ellor’s responding nod was emphatic. “With all those sick and our casualties, it’s been the only glimmer of hope since before the fire-lizards were banished.”

“Thread falls at Nerat and Upper Crom tomorrow,” M’kury remarked conversationally as the wingleaders sat at dinner that night.

“Benden and Telgar,” H’nez said dismissively.

“I thought Benden was understrength,” M’kury persisted, glancing at K’lior. The Weyrleader made no response, his attention focused fondly on Cisca; they were holding hands.

“Benden’s injured and older weyrlings timed it,” M’valer reported. When the others looked at him in surprise, he added, nonplussed, “M’tal contacted me with the news. They have thirty-two healed dragons and riders, twenty-five weyrlings now old enough to fight, and—” He paused dramatically, shifting his gaze to catch K’lior’s eyes. “—ten recovered from the sickness.”

“Ten?”

“Recovered?” Fiona and Tintoval echoed in unison.

“That’s what he said,” M’valer affirmed.

“But that—”

“That’s the first we’ve heard of recoveries,” K’lior said, glancing hopefully at Cisca.

“They lost over sixty and they’ve got more still sick—at least forty,” Cisca replied grimly.

“Ten out of a hundred isn’t so good,” M’kury observed.

“It’s better than none,” H’nez and Fiona objected at the same time. Fiona shot a glance at the bronze rider; he seemed as dismayed by their unified response as she was.

“They’ve nearly four wings for their Threadfall,” M’valer said, sounding hopeful.

“And Telgar’s strength is more than enough,” M’kury said by way of agreement.

“We’ve nearly two weeks before our next Fall,” H’nez remarked.

Fiona couldn’t decipher his tone—was he pleased or upset? Maybe both, she decided, glancing at him thoughtfully.

Fiona noticed Cisca absently chewing on the edge of her finger, a sure sign that the Weyrwoman was worried about something.

“Weyrwoman?” Fiona said, raising an eyebrow inquiringly.

“What is it, Cisca?” K’lior asked with a nod toward Fiona—grateful that she’d commented on the Weyrwoman’s mood.

“It’s not our place, I know,” Cisca said, forcing her hands under her thighs, “but I’m worried about Telgar.”

“Worried, why?” M’kury asked.

“They’ve got the strength; they even sent their injured back in time to Igen,” H’nez said.

“They’ve still got sick dragons, don’t they?” Cisca said, nodding toward K’lior.

“They do,” K’lior said slowly, his expression grim.

“They’re not going to fly with them, are they?” Fiona asked, turning to Tintoval for confirmation. When the healer shrugged, Fiona turned her questioning look to Cisca. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“It is,” Cisca agreed. “M’tal tried it once …”

“And it was a disaster,” K’lior finished. He shook himself.

“The Weyrs are autonomous, they rule themselves,” H’nez said.

“Maybe …” Cisca began tentatively. All eyes turned toward her and she flushed. “Well, it would be awkward, but perhaps we could offer to help them.”

“Help?” H’nez exclaimed, eyebrows arched in surprise. “Help a full-strength Weyr?”

“I doubt D’gan at Telgar would appreciate such an offer,” M’kury said with a sideways glance toward H’nez.

“I’m not sure I’d appreciate such an offer in similar circumstances,” K’lior said. Cisca gave him a shocked look. “Coordinating different riders from other Weyrs can be difficult, can even cause greater injuries.”

“So we’re to say nothing to Telgar?” Cisca asked, glancing at the wingleaders, including K’lior. K’lior pursed his lips in a grimace and then nodded. “Even though his dragon is among the sick?”

The others looked at her in surprise, so she added, “Didn’t you hear the drum message to Kentai this morning?”

“I did,” Fiona said. She flushed as she confessed, “But I didn’t think about what it might mean.”

H’nez glanced at her, then said to Cisca: “You can’t ask a man like D’gan to—”

“See reason?” Cisca asked.

“Stand down in the face of his duty,” K’lior corrected her.

“No,” Cisca said with a sigh, “I suppose not.”

Fiona reached over and patted the Weyrwoman on the shoulder. “It will be all right.”

Cisca glanced up at her and shook her head. “You can’t say for certain.”

“No,” Fiona agreed, “but we can hope.”

Tintoval caught her eye. “Could you help me with the last of the rounds?”

“Of course,” Fiona said. Immediately, she summoned Talenth, who carried them up to the first level on which they had patients.

“You seem to have read my mind,” Tintoval said as Fiona helped her dismount. “I was hoping we’d avoid the stairs this time.”

“Actually, I wasn’t really thinking,” Fiona admitted.

“What did you do during the mating flight?”

“I went to Igen,” Fiona said. “I thought reading Records might distract me.”

“And did your search of the Records give you any hints on how to deal with Weyrwomen?”

Fiona shook her head.

“I would have thought as much myself,” Tintoval said to Fiona’s surprise. With a laugh, the healer explained, “They were written by the Weyrwomen, mostly.”

“Oh,” Fiona said, “I missed that.”

“So what would have helped were Records of how they dealt with their terrible, upstart, snappish, recalcitrant junior weyrwomen,” Tintoval said, smiling. “Take that and just reverse it for how to deal with Weyrwomen.”

Fiona frowned. The topic was not something she wished to pursue at the moment. The healer seemed to notice, for she merely gestured with a nod for Fiona to precede her as they made their way to their first patient.

It was late when Fiona finally settled back in her bed, exhausted by the day’s events and her efforts, but also strangely nervous, anticipatory, strung out. Xhinna had decided to stay at Seban’s that night, along with Bekka, to keep the ex-dragonrider company.

Fiona slept fitfully, as she always did when she had to spend the night by herself. Even so, she still slept better than she’d ever slept in her old home at Fort Hold: Here, she always had Talenth’s comforting presence in the back of her mind, a constant reassurance that she was never truly alone.

She arose shortly before dawn, cold and anxious. She heard Talenth in the weyr beyond, shaking and making strange noises in her sleep. Perplexed, Fiona sat up, pulled on her nightgown, found her slippers, and paced over to her queen.

She slipped her mind close to Talenth’s, resting a hand on the great queen’s neck, trying to ease her fears. The queen wouldn’t quiet, her twitches and noises abating only slightly. Fiona stiffened, feeling some of the pain and worry that was troubling Talenth.

Something bad was about to happen.

Something terrible.

Alarmed, Fiona shook Talenth. Wake up!

The gold dragon startled awake, turning her head to gaze at Fiona in surprise.

What is it? she asked worriedly.

Do you feel anything? Fiona asked, sending a tendril of memory toward her, reminding her of how she’d slept.

Something is coming, something soon, Talenth responded, trembling. Fiona moved beside her, her hand raised to an eye ridge in an attempt to soothe the great queen, but Talenth turned away, her head craning toward the weyr’s entrance, her nostrils flaring.

Fiona moved up beside her, onto the queens’ ledge. The Weyr Bowl was silent and still.

Suddenly fear gripped Fiona as Talenth bugled loudly in the dawn, her cry alerting the watch dragon, who echoed it and—

Fiona was lost, stricken.

“D’gan, no!” The words that tore out of her mouth were not hers. In that moment she felt a wave of horror and wrenching loss. The Weyrs! They must be warned!

The voice wasn’t hers; it came to her from elsewhere, like a horrified echo that raked her mind.

“Fiona! Fiona!” Someone was shaking her. She opened her eyes and looked up, only barely recognizing Cisca. “What is it? What happened?”

“The Weyrs,” Fiona said aloud, tears streaming down her cheeks as panic, fear, and an unbearable sorrow tore through her, “they must be warned.” Her eyes went wide. “D’gan’s Kaloth is too confused by the sickness. D’gan—Telgar—they went to fight Thread but they’re lost. Lost between.”

“Rouse the Weyr!” K’lior’s voice shouted. “Rineth!”

In moments all of Fort Weyr was awake, dragons soaring from their weyrs down to the foggy Weyr Bowl, their cries deafening, wave after wave of sound that beat through Fiona’s chest and reverberated with her heartbeat. Talenth was beside her, reaching for her protectively, grabbing her with her talons, jostling Cisca and K’lior aside as she placed her rider firmly on her back and launched herself into the sky with one blaring scream.

Fiona had only an instant to marvel at Talenth’s behavior before she was struck again from the inside out as though she were being blown open by a force not her own—and then, suddenly, she knew. She felt Rineth and Melirth beside her, T’mar’s Zirenth, felt all the bronzes, all the browns, all the blues, all the greens of Fort Weyr.

Felt them as though they were inside her and she screamed. She screamed with pain, she screamed with awe, and she screamed with power. In desperation, she spread the power to Cisca and then K’lior, and the two stood below her on the queens’ ledge transfixed. The power grew even more and she felt it—thankfully—shift from her.

No longer the sole focus, Fiona found that she could still breathe, that her chest was heaving, her ears were smarting from all the sounds, her eyes were cried out, and her panic was still overwhelming.

The power had gone to Benden. To one person. How could one person hold such power? She felt an echo, the slightest of contacts—was this the person who had brought her back in time to Igen? The sensation felt similar … but not quite the same.

The power was searching, searching, seeking frantically—and not finding. Its desperation grew, and Fiona found herself gasping again as more power surged up through her from the dragons and riders of Fort Weyr to join with Cisca before flowing to Benden … and still failing to find what it sought.

Finally, a lone dragon was found, clasped, recovered. And even as the power triumphed, it felt something that caused it to pause.

And then Fiona was herself once more, gasping and crying out in relief as Talenth stopped bugling, as the dragons settled, as the power faded, and she felt only like someone who had been burned from the inside out.

The pain and suffering, the loss of all those Telgar dragons, felt like a hole inside her, tugging at her with a desperate urgency.

“We need to go,” Fiona whispered to herself. “We need to go to Telgar.”

Talenth rumbled in assent but, exhausted, could only glide back to the ground near their weyr.

“Telgar is no more,” Cisca said. She helped Fiona down from her dragon and wrapped comforting arms around the younger woman. Fiona let herself fall into the embrace and could only make the smallest of sounds when K’lior joined them and the three, Weyrleaders all, silently commiserated over their pain.