Dragonheart

NINE

FortWeyr , Morning, AL 507.13.26

The pall of disaster the next morning was shattered by the watch dragon’s bugled cry.

Blackdust! The dragon’s cry was echoed throughout the Weyr. FortHoldreports blackdust.

The news galvanized the Weyr.

The Weyrleader wants you in the Records Room, Talenth relayed in a tone of surprise and pride.

“Mmph!” Xhinna complained as Fiona nudged her to get up. “What is it?”

“Dust fall at Fort Hold ,” Fiona told her shortly, jumping out of bed and pulling on her clothes. “The Weyrleader wants to meet with me.”

“Where?” Xhinna called out as Fiona tore out of the room, still adjusting her tunic.

“Records Room!” Fiona called back over her shoulder, and then she was gone, leaving friend and dragon exchanging bemused looks.

“Where’s Xhinna?” Cisca grumbled as Fiona stumbled into the Records Room. The Weyrwoman and Weyrleader were hunched over an old chart, peering closely at it in the dim light of their night glow. “I was hoping she’d bringklah. ”

“Still getting up,” Fiona replied. She stood next to Cisca, leaning her arms on a chair back to look at the chart laid out on the table. She vaguely recognized the shape of Pern’s Northern Continent and she could pick out the symbols for the major Holds and Weyrs, but she didn’t understand the meaning of the wiggly lines that were drawn like snakes over everything. Unless the snakes were Thread or — “Do those lines show the Threadfalls?”

“Yes,” K’lior agreed, glancing at her approvingly. “Master Archivist Verilan and your friend, Kindan, worked them out.”

“If they’re accurate,” Cisca added, “then the next fall should be . . . here — High Reaches Tip.” The tip of her tongue stuck out between pursed lips. “High Reaches again for the next Fall, at Southern Tillek .”

“And then Benden Weyr and Bitra,” K’lior said, pointing to another squiggle. Fiona saw that each line had a number next to it.

“But why is this one marked seven and not one?” she asked, tapping the line for the Fort Hold Fall.

“I don’t know,” K’lior confessed with a shrug. “I suppose that’s a question for Kindan — ”

“Verilan,” Cisca corrected absently, still intent on the chart. “Kindan has enough to deal with at Benden.”

“All Verilan was willing to say was that the charts were the best guess, based on old Records they’d found at the Harper Hall and the Weyrs,” K’lior remarked. He paused, still scanning the chart, and then pointed. “This one here, the twelfth Fall by this chart, that’s when we’ll next see Thread.”

“We must warn Benden,” Cisca said. “If we’re getting blackdust, I suspect it’ll be even colder up High Reaches way, but Benden gets those warm winds from the sea.” She frowned in thought, then asked K’lior, “How warm does it have to be for Thread to survive?”

“Or how cold to freeze?” K’lior replied, turning the question on its head. He shrugged. “I imagine that Thread probably freezes like any other living thing — ” He nodded appreciatively as both Fiona and Cisca shuddered at his use of the word living. “ — and goodness knows it’s cold enough in the sky these days, but beyond that . . .”

“Well, now we know,” Cisca said firmly, indicating the chart. “If these charts are to be believed — ”

“Let’s see if these other falls come as predicted,” K’lior suggested.

“ — then we’ve got a little more than fifteen days to prepare,” Cisca concluded, riding over K’lior’s interjection.

K’lior nodded and took on the distant look of a rider communing with his dragon. “I’ve called a wingleader’s meeting for breakfast.”

Xhinna rushed in at that moment, asking breathlessly, “Weyrleader, Weyrwoman, is there anything I can get you?”

K’lior and Cisca exchanged amused looks. Cisca shook her head. “You’re just in time to escort us to the Kitchen Cavern where we’ll all have breakfast.”

The breakfast with the wingleaders was a somber affair. H’nez professed no faith in the Threadfall charts when K’lior mentioned them.

“Which is why we’ll keep our patrols out,” K’lior assured the grumpy wingleader.

H’nez accepted that decision with a contented look. “We must alert the Weyrs, of course,” he observed.

“Of course,” K’lior agreed drily. “Although I rather suspect that D’gan at Telgar will not take kindly to anything we have to say.”

“D’gan has a problem,” Cisca murmured angrily.

“What about High Reaches?” P’der asked. “D’vin wouldn’t come to your council earlier.”

“I’ve already alerted Lyrinth, the queen dragon there,” Cisca replied.

“I’ll go to Benden,” T’mar offered.

“I’ll go to Ista,” P’der said.

“I can imagine how Weyrleader C’rion will feel to be briefed by a wingsecond,” H’nez drawled.

“Are you offering to go instead?” K’lior asked, cocking his head.

“I’ve my wing to attend to,” H’nez responded. “They suffered grievous losses.”

“We all did,” Cisca replied, her eyes flashing. H’nez did not reply.

“P’der, T’mar, when can you leave?” K’lior asked. The Kitchen Cavern had slowly been filling up as they conferred, and he could feel the concern and grief flowing in equal measures amongst the weyrfolk and dragonriders.

“I can leave now,” T’mar announced, rising from his chair.

“I think — ” H’nez’s words halted T’mar’s motion. “ — that we need to consider the larger issue before we break up.”

“And that is?” K’lior asked politely.

“The question is,” H’nez replied as though speaking to a particularly slow weyrling, “how are we going to survive Threadfall with sick dragons?”

“That has been the question since the fire-lizards first took ill,” Cisca retorted in exasperation. “We ” — and she gestured to K’lior and herself — “have been trying to answer that ever since.”

“I’ll want all the wings at the Weyr ready for drill after lunch,” K’lior declared. He glanced at P’der and T’mar, adding, “If you’re not back by then, we’ll work without you. We know that we’ll have casualties when we fight Thread, so it makes sense to practice for that now.”

“By the First Egg, that’s more like it,” H’nez declared. To T’mar he said, “You go and spend time with M’tal, while we do real work back here.”

“His job is no less important, H’nez,” K’lior said warningly. He waved T’mar and P’der away. “And now,” he said, reaching for a fresh roll, “I think we should finish our breakfast and get ready for the work of the day.”

“T’mar!” Cisca called as the bronze rider prepared to mount Zirenth . They were in the Weyr Bowl, less than half an hour after the end of their breakfast.

“Weyrwoman?” T’mar responded, turning around to face her.

Cisca crossed the distance between them so that she could speak in a normal voice. “You understand that there’s a risk, going to Benden.”

T’mar nodded.

“We can’t say how the illness spreads,” she continued, relieved at his easy response, “so don’t stay any longer than necessary.”

“I will,” he assured her. With a grin he added, “I want to get back in time to see how my wing flies without me!”

“Fly well!”

“Always, Weyrwoman.” With a last respectful nod, T’mar turned back to climb onto his dragon.

Let’s go, he told his dragon. Zirenth flexed his hind legs and leapt into the air. He beat his wings once, twice, and was gone between.

Cisca turned at a sound behind her and spotted Fiona rushing from the Kitchen Cavern, looking distraught. “I wanted to say good flying!”

“Did you, now?” Cisca murmured to herself, giving the young rider a probing look. Louder, she responded, “He’ll be back soon enough.”

Fiona spent the next several days with Xhinna and Cisca, with the Weyrwoman constantly presenting her with new and often arduous tasks that left her too tired to think — even with plenty of klah. After the first day, she realized that that was part of Cisca’s purpose — to exhaust her.

That obvious ploy didn’t bother her as much as it might have under other circumstances. Fiona realized how numb and useless she felt. The loss of Tannaz and Kelsanth was magnified by the losses of all the other riders and ill dragons that had gone with her — particularly those whom Fiona had visited for hours on end. No one knew of a cure for the illness. As far as Fiona knew, it was only a matter of time before all the dragons succumbed, including her own lovely, marvelous — and so young! — Talenth.

If the loss of her own dragon wasn’t enough to terrify her, Fiona also realized that without the dragons of Pern, soon all the planet would be covered in burrows, with Thread sucking all life from the soil — and those Pernese that didn’t succumb quickly to the falling Thread would slowly starve.

So she was secretly glad that Cisca kept her too busy to think and that Xhinna never left her alone for more than the barest few minutes.

Fiona knew, from the dreaded sounds of coughing, that more dragons had fallen ill, but she purposely did not try to discover who they were, preferring to concentrate on T’jen’s Salith, the last of the original sick dragons.

T’jen was as tough as they came, as befit a Weyrlingmaster, even if he had relinquished his responsibilities when Salith took ill.

“You’ll see,” he had declared the day after Tannaz and the others went between. “We’ll find a cure.”

He was constantly consulting with Kentai about possible remedies and was dosing Salith with so many different herbals that it was a wonder the dragon was willing to put up with it.

“He knows we’re trying,” T’jen explained when Fiona was helping the dragonrider give his dragon a particularly noxious infusion. With a wry grin, he added, “Perhaps the smell alone will drive out the illness.”

T’jen kept a steady eye on his weyrlings, even if he was no longer involved in their daily activities.

“See down there?” He pointed out from his place beside Salith, who was dozing on his ledge in the warm afternoon sun. “See the lads all lined up like that?”

“Yes,” Fiona said, peering down at the strange assortment of youngsters. From her high vantage point, they looked more like dots than people.

“They’re practicing drill,” T’jen told her. “They learn to line up and move as a group, then they learn how to spread out like they will with their dragons when they start flying.”

Curiosity caused Fiona to screw up her face as she asked, “How come I don’t do that?”

“I suppose there’s no reason you shouldn’t,” T’jen replied with a shrug. “Those in the queen’s wing should also know how to work together.” But, of course, Fiona reflected sadly, there was only Melirth and Talenth. And not only was Talenth too young, but Fiona and Cisca were too busy to devote any time to drill.

One evening her task came from Kentai — though Fiona didn’t doubt that even this was a piece of Cisca’s efforts to keep her busy. “Weyrwoman,” the harper said to her at dinner. “Tomorrow I’d like to spend some time with you going over the medical procedures. We’ve scheduled training for the morning, and a drill in the afternoon.”

“A drill?” Fiona asked.

“T’mar’s wing and the weyrlings will play the sick and injured,” Cisca informed her, her eyes twinkling as she mentioned the bronze rider.

“The drills are a lot of fun,” Xhinna told Fiona. When Fiona looked at her, surprised, she added, “We’ve been doing them at least once a month for the past Turn.”

“All because your Weyrwoman believes in being prepared,” K’lior remarked, casting a fond look at Cisca.

After dinner, Fiona went to check on T’jen and Salith, and Xhinna, as usual, accompanied her.

T’jen’s weyr was on the fifth level, on the east side of the Weyr, toward the southern end, almost above the lake. To get to it, they took the east stairwell and walked halfway around the corridor south to his lair.

“It’s a good workout,” T’jen had noted when Xhinna had arrived breathless on their first visit. “But worth the view.”

He didn’t exaggerate: T’jen’s quarters had a magnificent view of the entire Weyr, with the Tooth Crag nearly straight ahead of him, and the Star Stones and Landing just at the limit of vision on his right.

It had become a habit, in the short time since they’d started their visits, that before entering, Fiona and Xhinna would stop for a brief rest so that T’jen wouldn’t twit them about being out of shape — the ex-Weyrlingmaster was a stickler for exercise.

“You’re going to be riding a dragon, young lady, you shouldn’t be out of breath just climbing five flights of stairs and walking a quarter of the way around the Weyr,” he had observed sharply when Fiona had commented on the distance.

Until now, however, they hadn’t realized that their heavy breathing was audible to T’jen from their halting point near his weyr.

“Don’t come in,” he called wearily as they stood catching their breath.

“T’jen,” Fiona repeated in surprise, “are you all right?”

“No, I’m not,” he replied mournfully. “Send for the Weyrleader.”

Fiona was surprised by the request, knowing that T’jen’s Salith could more easily alert K’lior, and then —

Talenth, Fiona thought even as her eyes filled with tears, please tell Melirth that we need Cisca and K’lior at Salith’s weyr.

Melirth asks — Talenth halted and continued, They come.

Thank you, Fiona responded. Aloud, she said, “They’re coming.” Xhinna gave her a quizzical look that slowly drained away as she figured it out. “How come the dragons didn’t keen?” she asked Fiona.

“He passed away in his sleep,” T’jen — who would from now on be known by his birth name, Tajen — said in answer. “I don’t think the dragons know yet.”

Fiona beckoned to Xhinna, and together they entered the brown dragon’s lair.

“Oh!” Xhinna murmured in anguish as she saw Salith lying lifeless, a final trickle of green mucus still snaking down his snout to puddle on the floor.

“I don’t know what we’ll do with the body,” Tajen said sadly. Fiona could tell by his stance that the brown rider had followed their journey across the floor of the Weyr Bowl from his vantage point at Salith’s ledge and, she guessed, had turned to Salith only to find the brown dead. Tears were flowing freely, ignored, down his cheeks. “I thought he’d go between. ”

“Weren’t you going to go with him?” Fiona asked quietly, moving forward to stand beside him and pat Salith’s huge head, idly moving her hand to his eye ridge as though in some half-formed hope that the dragon might revive with her ministrations.

“No,” Tajen replied firmly, “we’d talked it over, Salith and I.” He paused, his lips screwing up into a grimace. “I didn’t want to set such an example for the weyrlings, even though I never wanted to lose Salith. Sometimes, all you have are bad choices.”

The sound of feet rushing around the corridor alerted them to the approach of Cisca, K’lior, H’nez, T’mar, and M’kury. Cisca entered first, something in her stance and the way she moved making it clear that the others were to wait for her.

“Tajen,” Cisca said quietly, “I grieve for your loss.”

K’lior entered, bowed to the ex-dragonrider, and repeated her words. “Tajen, I grieve for your loss.”

“Tajen,” H’nez said, his eyes downcast and tear-streaked, “I grieve for your loss.”

“He was a great dragon, you were a great pair,” T’mar said when he approached. “I grieve for your loss.”

M’kury came forward then, but even though his mouth worked, he could make no words, instead reaching out beseechingly with one hand to Tajen, who took it. M’kury grabbed the stricken brown rider and embraced him in a tight hug. When finally they broke apart, M’kury found the words: “I grieve for your loss.”

“And I recognize your courage for remaining behind,” H’nez added into the silence.

“It wasn’t courage — ” Tajen protested. “I needed to set the right example for the weyrlings. No matter what may come: ‘Dragonmen must fly when Thread is in the sky!’ ”

He looked up at K’lior. “I don’t know what we’re going to do with the body, however.”

“I do,” Cisca replied. All eyes turned to her. She nodded to K’lior as she explained, “K’lior and I have talked about this already.”

“We’ll use slings and hoists to lift the body out of the weyr, and then dragons will bring it between, ” K’lior explained.

“It’s too dark to do it tonight,” M’kury observed, idly patting the brown dragon’s body.

“No, we’ll do it first thing in the morning,” Cisca replied. She looked at Tajen. “Would you like us to keep watch with you?”

Tajen thought it over and shook his head.

“I’ll stay,” Xhinna said quietly. Fiona thought she looked surprised by her own words.

Tajen glanced at her, then said, “Thank you.”

As the others shuffled out, Fiona managed to get Xhinna aside.

“That was awfully kind of you,” Fiona said to her.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Xhinna asked.

“No, Talenth and I will be fine,” Fiona replied firmly.

“It’s just that,” Xhinna explained, “of everyone here, I might be the only one who knows how he feels right now.”

Fiona looked at her blankly.

“Outcast, alone,” Xhinna murmured as if to herself.

“You’re not alone,” Fiona declared stoutly.

Xhinna flushed, saying, “Before I met you, I mean.”

“Should I send up some blankets?” Fiona asked, glancing toward Tajen’s quarters. Xhinna smiled at her and shook her head. “I doubt I’ll sleep tonight.”

Fiona shucked off the sweater she’d put on earlier and handed it to Xhinna. “Then you’ll need this.”

Xhinna took it gratefully.

“We’ll be up at first light,” K’lior promised.

“I’ll have the kitchens send up something warming,” Cisca added.

As they made their way down the stairs to the Weyr Bowl, she said to Fiona, “You were right about her.”

“Pardon?”

“Your Xhinna is a good person,” K’lior said, glancing back at Cisca. The Weyrwoman nodded.

When she rose and dressed in the morning, Fiona found Talenth awake and waiting for her on her ledge. The dragon was peering curiously upward. Fiona looked up but could see nothing in the foggy morning mist; only the sounds she heard told her that the men were working to winch Salith out of his weyr.

They’re taking Salith away, Fiona informed her dragon.

When I die, will you go with me? Talenth asked.

“It won’t be for a long, long while,” Fiona replied firmly, needing to say the words out loud. After a long moment of reflection, she added, “And yes, I’ll go with you.”

Good, Talenth responded feelingly. I’d be lonely without you.

“Right now, though, we’ve got other things to do,” Fiona declared. “I’m going to be practicing this morning.”

Practicing what?

“We’re going to practice first aid,” Fiona said.

Me, too? Talenth asked, her eyes whirling anxiously.

I think we can include you, too, Fiona told her. Talenth nudged her affectionately. “I need to get some breakfast.”

With a wave, Fiona leapt from the ledge to the ground below, flexing her knees to absorb the impact, and then walked briskly off. She found the Kitchen Cavern more crowded than usual for this time of the morning and was glad to hear Cisca call her to the Weyrleader’s table.

“Xhinna was up all night with Tajen,” Cisca told her as Fiona sat and a weyrfolk laid a plate and mug in front of her. She cocked an eyebrow toward K’lior, who threw up his hands and glanced pointedly at H’nez. With a snort, Cisca turned back to Fiona and said, “K’lior and I were talking last night: we think Xhinna should be a candidate at the next Hatching.”

Fiona gave her a surprised look, and then her face broke out into a wide grin.

“I wouldn’t say anything to her about it yet,” K’lior warned. “We have more important things to deal with today.”

“Yes, today we have our drill,” Cisca said.

“And I have mine,” K’lior said, wiping his mouth and rising from his chair. With a nod to Fiona and smile for Cisca, he departed, trailed by P’der, his wingsecond, as well as T’mar and M’kury.

“Ellor is with Tajen,” Cisca said to Fiona. “Salith was taken between this morning.”

“I heard them working,” Fiona replied, eyeing a breadroll without much enthusiasm. Cisca followed her gaze, grabbed the breadroll, and dropped it on Fiona’s plate.

“Eat,” the Weyrwoman ordered, grabbing a roll for herself. She leaned closer to Fiona and said quietly, “We must set the example.”

The words rang a chord in Fiona; they were similar to words her father had used with her some Turns back when she had protested against visiting the elderly and sick of Fort Hold . “We are the model all others look to,” Lord Bemin had said to her. “Some of these old ones looked after you when you were little; it’s only fair to return the favor.”

Fiona nibbled her lips nervously, then reached for the butter and spread it on her roll.

“Fresh today,” Cisca said as she saw Fiona’s look of delight at the taste of the butter and bread in her mouth. “Ellor had some of the kitchen up early to churn the butter specially.”

“It’s good,” Fiona agreed, craning her neck around to see if she could spot Ellor and tell her directly. Then she remembered Cisca’s words, that Ellor was with Tajen. “Did she make the butter for him?”

“She had an idea that he’d appreciate a good meal,” Cisca said, wiping a stray crumb from her lip. “I know that he hasn’t eaten well since Salith took ill.” She shook her head sadly, then turned her gaze back to Fiona. “So, today we are going to drill on injuries — what do you know about first aid for dragons?”

“Nothing,” Fiona replied in surprise. “Don’t fellis and numbweed work on them as well as us?”

“They do,” Cisca replied. “And when dealing with Threadscoring, the Records say that numbweed is ‘most efficacious in relieving a dragon’s pain’ but caution that fellis juice is ‘best administered to the rider.’ ”

“Why is that?” Fiona wondered aloud.

Cisca shrugged. “I imagine that more than anything, it’s because it’d take such a large amount of fellis to have any effect on a dragon.” She frowned thoughtfully before adding, “And I suppose it’s not too good for an injured dragon to be drugged into sleep — except in the worst of cases.”

“But why give fellis to the rider?”

“Because,” Cisca replied, giving Fiona a mischievous grin, “you may have noticed that riders and dragons are linked.”

Fiona nodded.

“And so,” Cisca continued, “I imagine that calming the rider has a calming effect on the dragon, too.”

“What is Threadscore like?”

“We only have the Records to go by,” Cisca said. “According to them, however, the damage from Thread depends upon how long a rider or dragon is exposed to it before they go between and freeze it off.”

“And if you don’t go between ?”

“Thread eats through flesh and bone very quickly,” Cisca replied, grimacing. “There are Records about some terrible scorings — usually riders getting hit by clumps of Thread.”

“Clumps?”

“Sometimes Thread falls in bunches, sometimes as separate strands,” Cisca told her. She shrugged. “It seems to depend more upon the winds than anything.”

“And when it hits in clumps?”

Cisca gave a long sigh. “A quick dragon or rider can get between quickly enough to avoid the worst of it,” she said. “A single strand burns a thin line, like a hot poker across the skin.”

“So you’d just treat that like a burn?” Fiona asked. “Numbweed, healing salve, and bandage?”

“Yes,” Cisca agreed, impressed. “But if the score is deeper it must be cleaned carefully and stitched quickly.”

“In a typical Fall, how many dragons are injured?” Fiona asked. “There is no typical Fall,” Cisca replied. “The number varies from a few to several dozen or more.”

Fiona’s eyes grew wide at the thought of so many wounded dragons and riders, but before she could say anything, a deep voice spoke from behind her.

“And that’s why we drill.” It was T’mar, and when Fiona turned to look at him, he smiled reassuringly at her. “So that we can keep those numbers as low as possible.” He nodded to Cisca. “In fact, that’s what brought me here — we’re ready when you are.”

Cisca rose and Fiona followed suit. “We’re ready now.”

Ellor, the new headwoman, saw Cisca rise and motioned for the rest of the assigned weyrfolk to join them. Together they filed outside into the Weyr Bowl, where the sun had risen high enough to burn off the worst of the morning mist and take the chill out of the air.

Kentai, who was already out in the Bowl, made his way toward them. “I think first we should practice with a dozen injured weyrlings,” he suggested.

T’mar gestured to a group of weyrlings near the entrance to the Hatching Grounds. “I’ve already got some positioned.”

Kentai, with Ellor’s help, briskly organized the weyrfolk, while Cisca strode off to a table where he had left slates and writing tools. Following her, Fiona glanced up to her weyr for any sign of Talenth. She was surprised to see her dragon stick her head out, probably wondering what all the noise was about.

We’re drilling on first aid, Fiona told her.

Great, Talenth replied cheerfully. Can I help? Then a moment later, she added, What’s “first aid ”?

When dragons or people get injured, Fiona replied, reminded once again that her dragon was still only a baby. Usually during Threadfall. She went into a fuller explanation as she watched Cisca busily writing on several tablets.

Oh, Talenth replied, seeming uneasy at the thought. She strode further out onto her ledge and peered over at all the weyrlings. What are they doing?

They’re going to pretend to be injured, Fiona replied.

Oh, me too! I want to pretend, too! Talenth responded immediately and so emphatically that Fiona turned to look back up at her. Eyes whirling anxiously, Talenth rushed toward the edge of the ledge and must have misjudged her speed, for she went straight off. Her face took on the most startled expression and Fiona screamed “Talenth!” — just before the weyrling spread her wings and glided easily down to the ground.

Did you see that? Talenth exclaimed excitedly. I flew!

“Well, you’d better stop flying unless you want to get injured for real!” Fiona yelled at her, her voice carrying clearly above the sudden silence that engulfed the Weyr Bowl as all the weyrfolk and weyrlings watched Talenth’s excited first glide.

“You scared me right out of my skin,” Fiona declared, surprised to hear those words coming out of her mouth: It was what Neesa had always said whenever Fiona had tried something new and dangerous.

I’m sorry. Talenth eyed her critically, tilting her head from one side to the other. Your skin looks fine from here.

Fiona laughed, striding over to Talenth and grabbing the dragon’s head in her hands. “I meant that you scared me; I was worried that you might get hurt.”

Talenth nudged her, nearly forcing Fiona off her feet.

That was fun, the young queen said. Can I do it again?

“Only if you’re careful,” Fiona said. “You looked so frightened, it seemed like you’d never remember you had wings!”

I was surprised, Talenth agreed. She raised her wings and turned her head to look at them. I haven’t used them much.

Everything about you is new, Fiona replied with a huge grin on her face.

“Why don’t you have her join the other hatchlings?” Cisca suggested, having arrived unnoticed behind Fiona.

“Or she’ll probably distract everyone with her antics?” Fiona asked, silently relaying the request to Talenth, who looked up eagerly, head swiveling to find a likely spot.

“Yes,” Cisca agreed with a laugh. “I remember when Melirth first did that trick — I’d thought that it was some peculiar trait of hers alone.”

“To scare you out of your skin?” Fiona wondered.

“All dragons can do that,” T’mar added from behind them, his gaze settled affectionately on Talenth. “She looks sound.”

“When she isn’t trying to break her neck,” Fiona responded.

“Dragons are sturdier than you’d think,” he corrected her. “They look fragile, but really, they’re rather tough.”

“Well, I’d prefer this one to keep herself in one piece as long as possible,” Fiona replied and then, as her flip words registered, her spirits sank. She remembered Tajen — and Tannaz, J’marin, L’rian, and M’rorin.

“Talenth, over there by Ladirth, if you would,” T’mar said aloud to the queen. Talenth looked over at the hatchlings, gave a chirp of recognition as a bronze arched his head up and back to look at her, and happily stalked off to join the others.

The youngsters — riders and dragons both — followed Talenth’s progress with eager eyes, as they hadn’t seen much of her at all until then. Once she’d arrived on station — and was prompted to remain there by a silent warning from Fiona — the collection of dragons and people returned to their drill.

“First, we’re going to go from station to station and brief all the weyrfolk on first aid, bandages, numbweed, sutures, needles, and the other equipment,” Cisca said to Fiona and Kentai. “Once we’re done with that, we’ll do a quick practice of some injuries, and then we’ll take lunch and be ready for the proper drill.”

They got everyone sorted out, and then Cisca showed each dragonrider one of the half-dozen slates she’d written on. When they got to the young bronze dragon and his rider, Fiona was surprised: F’jian needed Cisca to repeat her instructions no less than three times, finally being told, “If you still can’t remember, ask Fiona.”

F’jian had an open and friendly face, and Fiona could see that his poor memory troubled him, too.

“Another one of you muddleheads,” Cisca remarked to Fiona as they moved off. The Weyrwoman regarded Fiona curiously for a moment, then added, “Although if this is you when you’re not at your best . . .”

“I don’t know,” Fiona replied. “I think I have good days and bad days.”

“We all do,” Cisca said. “But compared to some of the weyrlings, you don’t seem nearly as dazed as you did.”

Fiona pondered that for a moment. “Maybe that’s because I haven’t been asked to do much more than I did back at Fort Hold .”

Cisca looked thoughtful. “That could be it; I hadn’t realized how much was expected of you there.”

“If I wanted to be around my father, I was expected to behave,” Fiona said with a shrug. “And because I wanted to be around my father very often, I learned quickly to behave very well.”

“Hmm,” Cisca murmured. “Well, I can’t say I’m not glad of it, considering the times we’re in, but I wish that you might have had longer to be a child.”

“No one who survived the Plague could remain a child,” Fiona told her, shaking her head.

Cisca turned back to survey the group of young dragonriders arrayed before them. “I hope the same is not true for this lot,” she sighed. Then, with a characteristic headshake, she put the moment aside and turned back to the business at hand, waving to Ellor and calling out, “They’re ready!”

What followed was more amusing than instructive: Many of the riders could only poorly explain their or their dragon’s symptoms, most of the young weyrfolk were confused and disorganized, and the older ones weren’t much better.

“This was to be expected,” Cisca murmured for Fiona’s ears alone. “Don’t act alarmed, or they’ll feel bad.”

Fiona nodded; her father had said something similar to her when they’d held a fire drill not a Turn before.

Then Cisca said something that shocked Fiona: “Remember that you may be conducting this drill next time.”

“I don’t think I could manage if anything happened to you,” Fiona protested. The loss of Tannaz was still too fresh in her mind.

“I don’t plan on it,” Cisca told her firmly, adding with a grimace, “but it’s my duty as a Weyrwoman to be prepared for the worst.” After a pause, she said, “And your duty, too.”

A cold shiver went down Fiona’s spine as she imagined seeing Cisca mounting a sick and dying Melirth for a final ride between.

Suddenly Cisca grabbed Fiona’s arm and yanked her around so that she could meet her eyes squarely. “That is exactly what I need you to avoid,” the Weyrwoman said sharply. In the distance, Fiona heard Talenth’s plaintive cry, and she could almost feel the alarm spreading through the weyrfolk and weyrlings. “They look to us, Fiona. We set the tone. Our dragons reflect it.”

A shadow fell beside her and Fiona felt her free hand grasped by someone else. Xhinna.

“It’s all right.” Fiona’s words of reassurance echoed exactly Xhinna’s words of reassurance. The two girls looked at each other in surprise for a moment and then burst out laughing. Fiona could feel their mood travel to the others, could feel Talenth’s worry disappear.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Xhinna apologized.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Cisca told her. “You can stand with Talenth and keep her company.”

“Get her to tell you about her first flight,” Fiona suggested, still grinning.

“You know she talks to me sometimes?” Xhinna asked, clearly worried, turning from Fiona to Talenth and back again.

“Really?” Cisca responded in surprise. “How often?”

Xhinna shrugged. “Not that often.”

“I ask her to,” Fiona said, waving it away. But Xhinna’s eyes still looked worried.

“Sometimes when you don’t ask her to,” Xhinna added quietly, casting her eyes down to the ground.

“Xhinna,” Fiona replied slowly, firmly, “if Talenth wants to talk with you, then I’m glad.”

Xhinna looked up, her eyes lighting in hope and surprise. “You are?”

“You are my friend,” Fiona declared stoutly. “I’m glad that she likes you, too.” Deep in her thoughts, she wondered again why Talenth only sometimes referred to Xhinna by name, but she knew it wasn’t because her dragon loved Xhinna more than Fiona. It was something else . . . but Fiona couldn’t imagine what it might be.

“Well, this is great,” Cisca declared. “But, Xhinna, we’re working on medical drills this morning.”

“I heard,” Xhinna said quickly, ducking her head again. “I’m sorry, Weyrwoman but — ”

“No, don’t apologize.” Cisca held a hand up to halt her. “I was just going to ask if you’d be Talenth’s partner while Fiona and I follow the drill.”

“You don’t mind?” Xhinna asked Fiona.

“Of course not.”

“Very well,” Cisca called at the end of the second drill. “That went better than the first time.” Rueful looks greeted that declaration. It had gone better than the first time, but only just.

“We’ll take our lunch break now,” Cisca told the gathered weyrfolk and weyrlings. “Then, before we work with the fighting wings, we’ll do one last drill — only this time, the weyrlings will be our aidsmen and the weyrgirls will be the victims.”

A snort of surprise erupted from the collected group while the older women chuckled appreciatively.

The drill after lunch was the best of the three.

“Right,” Cisca called across the field as they finished the drill. “Weyrlings, send your dragons back to their lairs because I think — ” and the air grew dark with the wings of the much larger fighting dragons “ — that we might have more injured to deal with.”

T’mar’s wing arrived in good formation, except for his own dragon, who dropped precipitously in front of Fiona, causing her and many of the other girls to gasp in fright until Zirenth caught the air at the last moment and managed to land, with one wing precariously folded, as though grievously injured.

“Go! Help them!” Cisca’s bellow echoed throughout the Weyr. Fiona and Xhinna rushed to T’mar and his bronze. Just as they neared, T’mar rolled dramatically off his perch and fell to the ground.

“Catch him!” Xhinna shrieked. Fiona caught him just in time and crumpled painfully under his weight. When she managed to get out from underneath him, she saw that his face was covered in a hideous red.

“He’s been Threadscored.” Cisca’s voice reached her ears. “Quick, what are you going to do?”

Fiona wrenched her distraction over his face aside as she reached into her training; more into what she’d learned at Fort Hold over several Turns than what she’d learned today at the Weyr.

“Is he breathing?” she asked herself aloud, leaning forward to cup her ear over his mouth while simultaneously pressing his neck with two fingers to feel for a pulse. “Yes, he’s breathing,” she called aloud as she’d been trained.

“What’s your assessment?” Cisca demanded.

“Threadscore of the face, possible involvement of the eyes,” Fiona said, suddenly realizing that she’d pressed her ear against his “wounds” and berating herself silently for the error.

“What about the dragon?” Cisca asked sharply. Fiona looked up, aghast that she had forgotten to examine Zirenth. She was furious with herself for her mistakes — it wasn’t like her to be so unclearheaded.

“The right mainsail is shredded,” Xhinna called from the far side. “He’ll need stitching.”

“Assess!” Cisca bellowed at Fiona. All around her the shouting and quick movements were repeated as older weyrfolk demanded diagnoses and assessments from the young weyrlings and weyrfolk.

“T’mar’s wounds are superficial — numbweed and fellis for the moment, first aid later,” Fiona said, rising to her feet while being careful not to jar T’mar’s head as she lowered it to the ground. “Numbweed and sutures for Zirenth’s wing.”

“Do it!” Cisca shouted right next to Fiona. Fiona was momentarily startled by her intensity until she realized that it was part of the process of the drill: The Weyrwoman was shouting in order to create the stress that would be present in a real emergency. Fiona scampered around to the far side of Zirenth and found Xhinna.

“Have we got the sutures?” she asked, examining the “wound,” which was really an old torn sheet.

“Here,” Xhinna said, lifting up a large needle and a spool of suture material.

“You do it!” Cisca shouted to Fiona. “Now!”

Fiona took two tries to get the suture material through the eye of the needle, all the while being berated by Cisca, and then carefully she began the process of joining the two torn halves of the “wound” together. She became totally absorbed in the task, imagining how much harder it would be to work up to the wing, worrying about any sudden flinches by the injured dragon that might further tear the injury. Finally, she was done.

She sat back on her heels for a moment, pleased with her work.

“What did you forget?” Cisca asked in a more normal voice.

Fiona furrowed her brow in thought, then groaned. “The numbweed!”

“Not to mention the rider,” Cisca added tartly. Behind her stood T’mar, his face still dripping with his artificial injury. “The moment you are done tending the dragon you should . . .”

“Consult with the rider, tell him what you’ve done, and check him for shock,” Fiona said, ruefully reciting the drill she’d been taught that morning. She looked at T’mar. “I’m sorry.”

“I’ll live,” T’mar replied with a grin, wiping the “injury” off his face with a hand and licking it. “It’s just sauce.”

Fiona woke, suddenly. She reached out a tendril of thought to Talenth. The young gold seemed fitful in her sleep, as though she might wake at any moment. Fiona spent a moment in comfortable contact with her dragon, then focused her thoughts outward, listening.

A dragon and rider were moving quietly in the Weyr Bowl outside. The dragon coughed.

Fiona threw off her covers, eliciting a sleepy cry from Xhinna. She carefully pushed the covers up against Xhinna’s exposed side and gingerly crawled out of bed, her mouth set tight to muffle any involuntary exclamations as her feet hit the cold weyr floor.

Quickly she found her slippers and gladly slipped into them, then paused long enough to pull on a nightrobe before moving into Talenth’s lair.

“Maybe I should let you sleep on the outside.” The voice made her jump with fright. Xhinna. Fiona raised two fingers, cautioning her to silence even as she gave the younger girl a thankful look. It was good to have company.

As they made their way out onto the queens’ ledge, Fiona looked toward the entrance to the Hatching Grounds to judge the time. She could dimly make out four glows on either side of the entrance: it was just passing midnight.

Then something obscured one of the glows: Someone was entering the Hatching Grounds. Fiona frowned, wondering who would want to enter the Hatching Grounds this late at night.

A noise from the other end of the Bowl distracted her: the sound of a rider and dragon rising into the thick midnight air. The sounds ended abruptly as rider and dragon went between.

Fiona bowed her head. Another dragon and rider lost to the illness. A cough echoed around the Weyr in the night — still more dragons were ill, but they were not yet so desperate as to go between forever.

Beside her, Xhinna gasped as she realized what had happened. Fiona saw the shadow pass a dimmer glow — the person was going further in. She took a step forward and leapt off the ledge to the ground below her, heading toward the Hatching Grounds.

A moment later, she heard Xhinna jump down and trot up beside her. Together they made their way into the Hatching Grounds. Once inside the entrance and past the glows, it was pitch black.

Fiona paused to let her eyes adjust. Ahead, she heard the sound of feet moving slowly ahead and saw a faint light — someone was carrying a small glow ahead of them. The glow grew brighter as the person turned to face them.

It was Tajen. He waited and Fiona took it as an invitation, so she caught up with him, Xhinna at her side. He nodded wordlessly to each, then turned once more, heading deeper into the Hatching Grounds. She had never realized before quite how large the Hatching Grounds were.

Feeling that she was being invited to participate in something deeply personal, Fiona followed reverently, silently.

It wasn’t until they reached the sands on the far side of the Hatching Grounds, where a queen would lay her eggs, that Fiona began to understand. Beside her, Xhinna’s breath caught, and Fiona was certain that the young weyrgirl had reached the same realization at the same time.

It was not something that could be put into words. It was a feeling, a thought, a shiver.

In this great chamber was the fate of Pern decided. Here and in the Hatching Grounds of the other five Weyrs — four, now that Igen was abandoned — were boys made into dragonriders and girls made into Weyrwomen.

Fiona could practically feel all the Turns of fear and excitement from countless Hatchings radiate around her. There was something special about this place, and her skin tingled with the power she felt in it.

She remembered once more the excited feelings of her first visit to the Hatching Grounds Turns earlier, and even more felt the awe of the Impression that had just so recently changed her life forever. Her lips curved upward in a smile as she reached tenderly for her dragon, still sleeping in her lair. She remembered once more her surprise, fright, and pure pleasure as Talenth had first spoken in her mind.

“This cannot end.” She was surprised at hearing the words: She thought she had not spoken aloud. And then she realized that she hadn’t, that it had been Tajen’s voice that had broken the respectful silence. “Not after hundreds of Turns, not after all the pain, the blood, the effort — ” The glow’s light dimmed and brightened again as it was obscured by Tajen’s shaking head. “No. It cannot happen.”

The glow’s light became visible again as Tajen stood taller, shoulders back, spine braced defiantly.

“The creators of the dragons would never have allowed this,” he said to himself. “They would have realized that the dragons could get ill; they would have provided a solution.”

“Maybe they didn’t know,” Xhinna protested quietly, as though afraid to voice such a painful thought.

Tajen was silent for a long while, his shoulders slumping back down until he raised them again and protested, “But — the dragons!”

Fiona nodded in understanding and agreement. If the settlers of Pern, hundreds of Turns past, had been surprised by Thread, they had recovered quickly and developed the dragons as their defense. Having been surprised once, would they not have worked their hardest to avoid any future surprises? They had depended upon the dragons to save all of Pern; would they not have done everything in their power to ensure that that protection was never lost?

Still . . . perhaps their ancestors had felt certain that the dragons could never get ill.

The silence of the Hatching Grounds answered her. She felt once again all the hundreds of Turns of Impressions, of excitement, love, hope —

“No,” she said loudly, firmly. “Even if our ancestors didn’t think of this, we’ll find a way to survive.” She met Xhinna’s eyes. “We must.”

“And what,” Xhinna began quietly, her voice shaking in sorrow, “if you lose Talenth?”

“I came here,” Tajen said a moment later, into the unsettled silence that had fallen, “to consider what I would say to others when asked the same question.” He gestured to Fiona for her answer.

“I told Talenth that I would go between with her when the time comes,” Fiona said. Xhinna made a sound: half-sob, half-exclamation. “But I told her it wouldn’t be for a long, long time.”

“But you can’t say that,” Tajen told her quietly. “You can’t be sure. You can never be sure that something won’t happen to separate the two of you.”

“You could have an accident,” Xhinna suggested.

“But then Talenth would follow me between, wouldn’t she?”

“No one really knows what between is,” Tajen replied. “If a rider dies with her dragon, does the dragon go between to the same place?”

“Is there a place?” Xhinna wondered.

“The only ones who could tell us never come back,” Tajen replied. He gestured toward the entrance and started them walking back out of the Hatching Grounds. “What does your heart tell you?”

Neither girl had an answer she could put into words.