Dragonheart

NINETEEN

Wherhold, Late Evening, AL 500.8.18

Fiona grinned to herself as she gripped Terin tighter to calm her as Talenth steepened her spiral downward to the landing area outside of the Wherhold.

“I thought dragons didn’t see in the dark,” Terin called back over her shoulder nervously.

“They see,” Fiona assured her. “Just not as well as watchwhers.”

Terin’s response was a wordless noise, not quite a squeak.

Terin’s noise was nothing compared to T’mar’s when Fiona had told him her plans earlier that day.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Fiona had assured him. “You and the rest are going to be drilling, Karina is here to keep the pots stirred, and Terin and I need some time with Nuella.” She’d paused, waiting until he opened his mouth in protest before adding, “It’s the polite thing to do.”

T’mar’s protest had turned into a strangled noise.

“As Weyrwoman, it’s my duty to maintain relations with our holds,” Fiona had added, her tone as demure as she could make it without laughing.

T’mar seemed ready to burst with objections and Fiona’s expression dared him to try but the wingleader had finally managed to say only, “As you will, Weyrwoman.”

Fiona had savored his assent for the victory it was. Ever since her almost-kiss with F’jian, and T’mar’s comments about her weight, Fiona had been very careful of her behavior around the male riders. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust them, it was that she didn’t trust herself — or know how to handle her feelings.

Thus the trip to the Wherhold and Nuella, who was nearest her age.

She jumped down first and then helped Terin dismount. The other girl was a bit shaky but recovered quickly.

A figure approached them from the shadows and called out, “Weyrwoman?”

It was Zenor.

“Zenor!” Fiona cried gladly. “How’s the baby?”

“Nalla’s doing fine, Weyrwoman,” Zenor replied with a broad grin. “She’s even sleeping through the night, now.” His grin slipped as he added, “Mostly.”

Nalla was born within the expected time after Nuella’s wedding, just — close enough that Zenor had to endure many good-natured taunts from envious wherholders.

“To what do we owe the honor?” he asked, as he gave her a strong hug and then moved to hug Terin, who squeaked in awkward surprise at the gesture.

“We’re here to beg shelter,” Fiona told him. She gestured for him to lead the way. “In particular, we want to talk with Nuella.”

“Watch-wher business?” Zenor asked.

Fiona felt herself blush. “No, it’s more . . . personal.”

“Ah . . . girl business!” Zenor said knowingly.

“Sort of,” she admitted.

Zenor wrapped an arm around her shoulders comfortingly and led them to the quarters that he and Nuella shared. The air held a touch of the strange odor that Fiona associated with newborns — a mix of many things, including powders, incense, the warm musk of watch-wher, and a faint whiff of used diapers. It was not quite unpleasant nor quite appealing.

From her other side, Terin leaned close and murmured, “It smells like babies.”

“It should,” Zenor replied, much to Terin’s chagrin. “Although it should really smell like just one baby, sometimes it seems as though Nalla is determined to make the stink of three babies.”

“Fiona!” Nuella’s voice called welcomingly from inside the room. “And is that Terin?”

“It is,” Terin said, moving forward into the room. “Fiona’s come to talk about boys.”

“Oh,” Nuella said. Fiona and Zenor entered the room at that moment, and Nuella turned her face toward them, adjusting her grip on Nalla as she did. With a grin toward Zenor, she added, “They have their uses, most times.”

Zenor helped Fiona to a seat and then asked her frankly, “Would you like me to leave you alone?”

“No, stay, Zenor,” Nuella said before Fiona could reply. She nodded toward Fiona. “Anything you say here stays between these walls. Zenor is an excellent listener, a good counsel, and he’s a boy — he has insights I might not.”

“But — ”

“I’ll get some wine,” Zenor said, rising from his chair and leaving quickly.

“Here,” Nuella said, gesturing toward the baby sleeping in her arms, “help me put her in her crib.”

Fiona found herself moving before she thought about it. With a sly grin, Nuella slid the baby into Fiona’s arms before rising from her chair and beckoning to Fiona and Terin to follow her.

They went into the next room, one that had been recently hewn out of the rock to accommodate its newest inhabitant. The walls were finished with touches of wood and daubed with a pink coloring. The smell of new baby was stronger there.

“Bottom first, then slide your arms out from under her head,” Nuella instructed as she nodded toward the crib.

“I know how,” Fiona said with a touch of acerbity in her voice.

“But you’ve never done it before,” Nuella replied, her tone of voice carrying two meanings.

With a tender glance at the beautiful child in her arms, Fiona slid Nalla into her crib.

“I’m not sure I’m ready,” Fiona said, as she slid her arm slowly out from under Nalla’s head.

“If you think you’re not ready, you’re not ready,” Nuella assured her. “There’s no reason to rush.”

“I know that,” Fiona replied, her tone just short of a snap. “It’s just that . . .”

“I see,” Nuella said after it was clear that Fiona had finished speaking. “Sometimes you’d like to, is that it?”

Fiona nodded before remembering that Nuella was mostly blind, then said, “Yes.”

“And you’re afraid that you might?” Nuella asked.

“I’m afraid of the consequences,” Fiona said, nodding toward the sleeping baby. “Not just that, but also how it will affect the other riders.”

“Worry about yourself,” Nuella told her. “You can’t control how the riders will feel, and besides, they will have feelings whether you do anything or not — you and Terin are the only two eligible women for them.”

“There are trader girls, too,” Terin piped up.

“Not eligible,” Nuella said. “They won’t be going back to your time in nine months.”

“Nine months,” Fiona repeated thoughtfully.

“That’s not much time at all,” Terin said.

“And then it will be more than seven Turns before I’ll see either of you again,” Nuella mused regretfully. She gestured toward her sleeping daughter. “She’ll have over seven Turns then.”

“I’ll have almost fourteen,” Terin said. She glanced at Fiona. “I’ll be nearly the same age as you were when we came here.”

They heard the sounds of Zenor returning in the other room and moved to join him.

“Wine,” Zenor said as he placed a tray on their dining table, snaking glasses around to each in turn. He poured for Nuella first and carefully placed the glass in her outstretched hand. He waited until she’d tasted it and pronounced it “Wet” before he served the others.

“Are you trying to get us drunk?” Fiona asked as she eyed the large glass Zenor had filled to the brim in front of her.

“Of course!” Zenor agreed pleasantly. He filled his own glass and raised it. “To Fiona, Weyrwoman of Pern!”

“Fiona!” Terin and Nuella echoed enthusiastically. Fiona went bright red. Terin took a large gulp of her wine and giggled.

“To Nuella, Wherwoman of Pern!” Terin cried, raising her glass once more. Fiona sipped her cool wine only to find Zenor scowling at her.

“This is not Benden white, Weyrwoman,” Zenor told her brusquely. “This wine is meant to be gulped!”

“It is?”

Zenor nodded emphatically. “I said to Silstra, ‘Silstra, I’ve two very nervous weyrfolk who need to talk and laugh — what sort of drink would you recommend?’ ”

“You told Silstra?” Fiona cried, aghast.

“I did indeed,” Zenor said, raising his glass again and gesturing that she should do the same. “And she said, ‘Well, if it were the Weyrwoman, she’d have to have Benden white, but as I know it isn’t, then you should have this instead. It doesn’t cost much and they won’t remember in the morning.’ ”

“And you believed her?” Terin demanded in surprise.

“I wasn’t sure,” Zenor confessed, refilling their glasses. “I imagine I’ll find out in the morning.”

What Fiona found out in the morning was that her head ached terribly, her mouth felt funny, and she was sure she’d said far more to Zenor about her worries than she’d ever imagined.

Somewhere between the third and the fourth bottle of wine — they seemed to appear from between — Fiona found herself pouring out all her worries and fears to Zenor. Nuella had quietly taken herself off to bed.

“ . . . and I almost kissed him!” Fiona exclaimed as she summed up her encounter with F’jian.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Terin murmured beside her, her eyes carefully fixed on her glass.

“He’s cute but he’s not my kind,” Fiona admitted, dimly becoming aware that she was missing something from Terin’s response.

“Tell me more about F’jian,” Zenor said to Terin. She blushed but, under his gentle questioning, proceeded to regale them with tales about his kindness, his smile, his strong arms —

“I’ll say!” Fiona agreed, earning a scowl from her friend. Again feeling that she was missing something, Fiona turned to Zenor appealingly, but the goldcrafter only cut his eyes toward Terin, indicating that she should keep listening.

“What does he think of you?” Zenor asked Terin softly.

“I don’t think he knows I exist,” Terin said morosely.

“He likes your cooking,” Fiona told her, earning herself another glower from Terin.

“I think she’s looking for more than that,” Zenor told Fiona quietly.

“Oh,” Fiona said, suddenly understanding. Her face split into a broad grin and she turned to Terin. “You fancy him!”

“He seems like a good choice to me,” Zenor observed smoothly, smiling at Terin. He refilled Fiona’s glass and nodded for her to have some more wine while he said to Terin, “And if he likes you, he’ll show excellent sense.”

“But I’ve not yet thirteen Turns!”

“Age has nothing to do with it,” Zenor told her kindly. He smiled fondly as he continued, “Nuella hadn’t more than twelve Turns when she first kissed me.”

“What was it like?” Fiona asked in wonder.

Zenor blushed bright red. “It was marvelous.”

Terin let out a deep sympathetic sigh and Fiona found herself following, although in her mind’s eye it wasn’t F’jian she thought of kissing — the person was a nebulous image, taller, older, but no one she could quite identify with certainty.

“Maybe you should just kiss him,” Fiona suggested to Terin. “Like Nuella.”

Terin’s eyes grew huge at the notion and she shook her head in mute denial.

“From what I’ve heard,” Zenor began, “from Fiona — ” He nodded to the Weyrwoman. “ — and T’mar and countless others, you’re the sort of woman that any dragonrider would be proud to call his mate — ”

“Ew!” Terin exclaimed, scrunching up her face. “I don’t want to . . .” She trailed off uncomfortably.

“Well, you want to kiss him, don’t you?” Fiona demanded matter-of-factly. Reluctantly Terin nodded, and Fiona’s face took on a triumphant expression, but before she could speak, Zenor said, “Kissing is a good thing.” Fiona glanced at him sharply, but he persisted, “A kiss is good enough by itself for most people I know.”

Fiona closed her mouth, considering his words.

“And a kiss isn’t such a big thing that it would of itself cause anyone to talk too much,” Zenor continued, topping off Terin’s glass and passing it to her. She sipped reflexively. Zenor turned the conversation to Fiona, asking, “And who would you kiss, Weyrwoman?”

It was Fiona’s turn to blush then. Sometime later she felt the warmth of Terin’s head resting on her shoulder and realized that the younger woman had fallen asleep.

Zenor seemed not to notice, as he was engaged in a lengthy account of Silstra’s wedding and Kindan’s part in it, a topic which Fiona found quite engaging.

“M’tal said that he’s with Lorana now,” Fiona broke in as Zenor paused to sip his wine.

“I don’t know who that is,” Zenor told her and raised a hand to stop her from telling him, saying, “And if she’s from the future, I think it best if I know nothing more.”

Fiona stopped, frustrated, until Zenor asked if she would share her memories of Kindan, which she gladly did. Somehow her memories reminded her of her flight to Fort Hold with T’mar and that got her talking about T’mar.

“ . . . he’s so demanding, always saying, ‘Do it three times, then you’ll know!’ ” she exclaimed, shaking her head and suddenly wishing she hadn’t. The room started spinning. Zenor was instantly at her side, deftly removing the glass from her hand and steadying her, offering her a drink from a glass of water and talking soothingly all the while.

When she recovered, she shrugged off Zenor’s suggestion that she get some rest. She had to tell him something, she was certain, but she couldn’t think what. It took him a while to realize that something was troubling her but the moment he did, he peered directly into her eyes and asked her quietly, “Are you in love with him?”

“Kindan?” Fiona asked in response. “Or T’mar?”

“Or both?”

“A Lady Holder doesn’t — ” Fiona responded instantly, her face set in a frown.

“A Weyrwoman can, ” Zenor told her kindly.

“But he has Lorana!” Fiona objected.

“And you would never come between him and the one he loves,” Zenor observed respectfully. “But you don’t have to tear your heart apart to save his, no more than you have to avoid kissing T’mar.”

“Why would I want to kiss T’mar?” Fiona had asked, suddenly feeling very tired and very confused.

“I wouldn’t know,” Zenor admitted with a slight shake of his head. He rubbed the back of his neck wearily. “Perhaps I was seeing things where they weren’t.” He gestured to Terin. “I think we should get her to a proper bed before she gets a crick in her neck.”

Fiona turned to gaze down at her friend, stroking her dark hair fondly. “She is such a good one.”

“She is at that,” Zenor agreed, rising as he extended an arm toward Fiona. With some effort, she found her feet and helped Terin to hers, and somehow they found their bed and slipped into it.

It was no surprise to Fiona to find that she had slept in her clothes, nor that Terin’s breath was foul. She suspected hers was just as bad and turned her head away to spare the young headwoman from it.

They returned to the Weyr much later than Fiona had expected, both somewhat relieved and somewhat subdued by their night’s festivities, seen off by a weary Zenor and a warm and wakeful Nuella.

“Don’t forget that you have a home here,” Nuella said, hugging each of them in turn.

“Next time, we’ll let you change the baby,” Zenor added with a grin.

“Deal,” Terin replied, rubbing her temples wearily, “as long as you don’t serve us any wine.”

“You might think now that you’ll never drink again,” Zenor warned her. “But I suspect you’ll be wrong.”

“Oh,” Terin replied, “I might drink again. Just never that much.”

Now, as Talenth was challenged by the watch dragon, Fiona felt a sense of relief to be back at Igen. Her questions and worries were not all resolved, but she felt certain that they would not overwhelm her.

T’mar greeted them with a mixture of relief and concern: glad to have them back but worried about their demeanor. “I take it you were not served Benden white.”

“How did you guess?” Terin wondered.

“You wouldn’t have such awful hangovers this late in the day,” T’mar replied with a humorous snort.

“Silstra was told that she wasn’t serving the Weyrwoman,” Terin replied, glancing over to Fiona with a grin.

“I’m glad to hear that,” T’mar said. “I’d hate to think that the Weyrwoman of Igen was being served second-class wine.”

“The Weyrwoman of Igen is not sure she wants to be served any wine for a long time,” Fiona told him.

“I understand,” T’mar said with feeling. “All the same, I’m glad that you two had some time to yourselves, away from all this . . .” He gestured to the gathering riders, groping for the right word.

“Maleness?” Fiona suggested.

“I was going for exuberance,” T’mar said, “but I think you’ve got the better word for it.” He paused a moment before adding solicitously, “Is it a great strain for you two?”

“Being the only women who came from our time?” Fiona asked in clarification. At T’mar’s reluctant nod, she continued, “Yes, it is. A strain and a temptation, too.”

T’mar sighed. “I was afraid that it would come to that at some point.”

“But do you think that you could have managed without us?”

T’mar pondered the question for only a moment before shaking his head resolutely. “No.”

“So,” Fiona continued, “that being the case, we shall just have to persevere, shan’t we?”

“You’re old enough, and Talenth is old enough, that you two could go back to Fort Weyr — ”

“Oh, no!” Fiona cut across him. “I’m Igen’s Weyrwoman, wingleader, and I will stay until we all go back!”

Wisely, T’mar said nothing in reply.

But if T’mar said nothing, he made up for it in his actions over the next several months. There wasn’t a day when the dragonriders weren’t drilling: flaming or practicing formations or practicing formations and flaming or practicing formations, flaming, and going between all at the same time. He drove everyone to exhaustion. Tempers flared, but no blows were exchanged until the beginning of the third month since Fiona’s visit to the wherhold.

Fiona and Terin, for their part, had found themselves often at the Wherhold — one of them was there at least one night every sevenday. Terin and Fiona both had experience changing Nalla’s diapers, feeding her, and wiping spittle and other bodily fluids off of her and themselves when things went wrong. Partly this was a consequence of Terin’s insistence that they provide Nuella and Zenor with time to themselves. Privately, Fiona was pretty certain that Zenor and Nuella had no lack of volunteers from among the remaining holders — after all, for all their humility, they were the Lord and Lady of the wherhold, and even if they found it strange, the rest of the holders from Silstra on down felt it not only their duty but their honor to treat them with the respect and deference that would be given any Lord Holder.

Terin’s services were more than simple repayment of a kindness: They were part of a trade she’d arranged with Zenor and Nuella — to help her find and fashion a suitable gold ring. Terin kept silent on her intent with the ring, but Fiona was willing to bet, in the silence of her mind at least, that the ring would be sized to fit a young man’s hand — probably that of a certain bronze rider. So it was a double shock when the riders returned that evening to land in the Weyr Bowl to see F’jian leap from his bronze Ladirth, race over to J’gerd’s brown Winurth, and bodily drag the brown rider down to the ground.

“How dare you!” F’jian shouted as he slammed J’gerd to the ground.

From her seat on the queen’s ledge beside Fiona, Terin let out a shriek.

“Hold!” Fiona cried, her voice echoing loudly around the Weyr, her power of command surging as she reached out to Talenth and, in an instant, stilled both riders and dragons as though they’d been frozen in the wastes.

T’mar raced over to the two as they stood grappled but unmoving, cast a mixed look of admiration and — fear? — toward Fiona, then gestured for her to release them.

Fiona did nothing of the sort, instead racing from her perch on her ledge to stand beside T’mar, gazing at the two riders as they stood breathing raggedly, fighting against her control.

Let them go, a voice urged her. Fiona glanced around in surprise for the source and found no one — all eyes were locked on the two riders. With a hiss, she released her hold on the two even as J’keran and J’nos reached for the two riders and drew them apart.

“What happened?” Fiona demanded, glancing from F’jian to J’gerd and then to T’mar. The wingleader shrugged.

“He accused me — ” F’jian began hotly but broke off abruptly as he spotted Terin in the distance.

“You should know better — ” T’mar began consolingly.

“Don’t talk to me, wingleader!” F’jian snapped back. “You have no command over me.”

“I do,” Fiona told him softly.

“A Weyrwoman is a Weyrwoman when her dragon rises,” F’jian retorted, the veins on his neck straining with his anger.

“No,” Fiona replied, her voice steady and cold. “A Weyrwoman becomes senior Weyrwoman when her queen is the first to mate in a new weyr.” She gestured around the Bowl. “Do you see any other queen dragons here?” F’jian swallowed and glanced away from her, and she continued, “So we know that if Talenth rises, I will be senior Weyrwoman.”

“It won’t happen here,” F’jian said in a snarl.

“No, it won’t,” Fiona agreed. She leaned in toward him, her eyes narrowed dangerously. “And it doesn’t matter. Because I am a Weyrwoman, here or at Fort Weyr in the future. And because I am, the dragons — and their riders — listen to me.”

F’jian’s eyes started in alarm, but he dropped his head, unwilling to meet her gaze.

Fiona felt herself in a strange place, in a moment in time where she knew that whatever she did was crucial, would alter not only her future but the future of everyone here — perhaps even all of Pern.

You can do it. The voice wasn’t the strange one, it was an echo of Nuella’s faith in her, of Tannaz’s eyes, of Aleesa’s confidence, of Mother Karina’s strength. Without looking, Fiona knew that the old trader woman was near, watching, unable and unwilling to interfere.

The moment was Fiona’s alone.

She walked closer to the young bronze rider, raised a hand under his chin, and forced his head up so that his eyes met hers. “What should we do, bronze rider?”

F’jian met her look with a mixture of shame and horror.

“I can imagine what J’gerd said to you,” Fiona told him calmly, ignoring the sudden shift of the brown rider beside her. “And I’m sure he regrets it.”

“Bronze rider,” J’gerd spoke slowly, miserably, “I apologize for insulting you and your intentions.”

“Pretty lame,” Fiona told him out of the corner of her mouth. “You’ve been teasing him unmercifully for at least a month, I’m sure.”

J’gerd’s reaction confirmed Fiona’s suspicions and she berated herself for not acting sooner. T’mar might be the oldest bronze rider here, but his power over the now-grown weyrlings had been fading every day. And, as it faded, the responsibility for the Weyr fell more and more on Fiona’s shoulders — shoulders that up until this moment she had felt too frail for the strain.

Now, as she felt Talenth’s silent love, approval, and strength, and as she felt something even more — the unspoken fealty not only of dragons to their queen but of their riders to their queen’s rider — now, Fiona knew she’d made a mistake. Risen or not, mated or not, Weyrwoman or not, hers was the responsibility and her shoulders — so much thinner than her father’s — had all the strength of Fort Hold and Fort Weyr supporting them.

“T’mar,” she ordered, “get the suits.” She paused, glancing at J’gerd and F’jian. “These two are going to get their chance to knock the stuffing out of each other.”

Fiona felt but did not see T’mar’s nod and heard him as he turned and delegated a group of riders to bring out the thick stuffing suits.

As the riders set up an impromptu circle, Fiona caught sight of Mother Karina and nodded to her. The old woman took the glance for an invitation and joined her.

“What are they doing?”

“I thought you would have seen this earlier,” Fiona said in surprise. Four riders struggled in, two each to the heavily padded suits that they carried between them. “If riders have a disagreement, we can’t let them fight to the death — their dragons would be lost with them.”

Karina nodded, then gestured to the suits. “And those . . . ?”

“They are heavily padded,” Fiona told her, adding with a smile, “and very restricting.”

The two riders were being helped to drag on the thick trousers and tunic, then were engulfed in fluffy helmets and huge, balled gloves.

“I’ve only seen one other fight myself,” Fiona said, shaking her head. “There is something about being back in time, by the First Egg, that makes riders more irritable.”

“Queen riders, too?” Karina asked softly.

Fiona nodded bleakly. “Queen riders, too.”

“So who knocks the stuffing out of you when you need it?” Karina wondered.

“Usually, I do,” Fiona admitted sourly.

“Hmm,” Karina murmured, her expression neutral.

“They’ll be exhausted before too long,” Fiona predicted as the two riders stood opposite each other and began the formal salute.

“How long will you let them fight?” Terin demanded from behind. Fiona turned to the younger woman and pursed her lips before answering, “Until one of them can’t fight anymore.”

“Won’t or can’t?” Terin persisted.

“Can’t,” Fiona told her firmly.

F’jian delivered the first blow, rocking J’gerd back on his heels. The brown rider kept his hands at his sides.

“You wanted this fight!” Fiona shouted at J’gerd angrily. J’gerd looked at her entreatingly, but Fiona shook her head, her anger growing. “You fight, brown rider.”

Reluctantly, J’gerd raised his hands to block F’jian’s blows, but the wiry bronze rider ducked around him and started pummeling the brown rider on his side, harmlessly.

“If you don’t fight now, J’gerd,” Fiona called to him, “I’ll have you fight again tomorrow and the next day until you do fight.”

“Why are you forcing him?” Terin demanded in horror.

“So that he will never want to fight again.”

“That’s stupid!”

“Yes, it is,” T’mar agreed as he crossed to Fiona’s side. “But it is the only way to get them to stop.”

F’jian landed a good blow on J’gerd’s face, bloodying the brown rider’s nose and suddenly J’gerd was fighting. He lunged into F’jian and landed one solid blow, but then the bronze rider dodged, slammed both gloved hands into J’gerd’s back, and sent the brown rider stumbling away.

When J’gerd turned back, F’jian caught him another doublefisted blow in the face, sending J’gerd reeling backward until he stumbled and fell down.

“Enough.” Fiona said the word quietly, but it traveled throughout the circle with a weight of its own. She rushed over to kneel beside J’gerd, eyeing his bruised face with muted sympathy before glancing up at F’jian. The bronze rider was breathing heavily and had a cut over his right eye, that Fiona judged painful but superficial.

“Is honor satisfied now, bronze rider?” she asked him in a tone that dictated the response.

“Yes, Weyrwoman,” F’jian replied. Fiona nodded to the other riders, saying, “Get them out of the suits.”

When F’jian was once more standing in front of her in his riding clothes, Fiona pointed to his cut. “I bet that stings.”

“Not much,” F’jian said cockily.

Before she could have any second thoughts, Fiona raised her hand, spun on her heel, and slapped him hard on the cheek.

“I’ll bet that does,” she growled as she turned back to face him, her hand raised for a repeat performance. In the distance, Talenth rumbled angrily, echoed by the distressed calls of the Weyr’s dragons.

“Yes, it does, Weyrwoman,” F’jian cried, his tough stance disintegrating into the bewildered look of a young man uncertain of his ground and standing.

“Good,” Fiona growled, hating herself even as she said it. “Don’t make it necessary for me to do that ever again.”

As she turned away, Terin rushed past her, crying in sympathy for F’jian’s injuries.

Fiona knew that Terin would be furious at her for days to come, but she also knew that she’d done exactly what was necessary to enforce the discipline of the Weyr. She did not turn back when Terin loudly commiserated with F’jian over his injuries and his hurt pride, but her lips curled upward when she heard Terin kiss him soundly. She had hoped that would happen.

T’mar stepped in front of her, one eyebrow raised questioningly as he glanced back over her shoulder.

“What now, Weyrwoman?”

“Well, they’ll have to be punished,” Fiona said with a sigh. “J’gerd will get extra duties for the next fortnight.”

“And F’jian?”

“Bronze riders are not exempt from Weyr discipline,” Fiona said. “I think I have a special duty for F’jian.”

“And that would be?”

“I think that Talenth and I need to spend more time here,” Fiona said. “And as Terin so often represents the Weyr with the Wherhold, I believe that I shall require F’jian to provide her transport.” Her lips turned upward as she added, “She is trading babysitting duties with Nuella and Zenor for some special trinket.” She paused. “Let him change diapers for a while.”

Beside her, T’mar chuckled evilly.

For the next several sevendays, Terin slept elsewhere than Fiona’s weyr.

“You’ve only solved one problem, you know,” Mother Karina said to Fiona late one evening as they tended the hearth together.

Fiona made an attempt to look quizzical, but the old woman was having none of it. With a sigh, Fiona nodded.

“It’s difficult,” she said.

“It always is,” Karina agreed gently.

“I mean, I’ve got a queen and I’m Weyrwoman,” Fiona objected.

Mother Karina smiled unsympathetically. “I’m an old woman and a trader.”

Fiona fumed to herself at that response, and all the while Mother Karina simply waited patiently until Fiona recovered her composure and carefully examined Karina’s words and compared them to her own. At which point her expression fell and she sighed again, her lips turned down ruefully, as she said, “So we’ve got the same problem, only different.”

Karina nodded silently, her eyes gleaming in congratulation of Fiona’s insight.

“But I’m scared!” Fiona blurted in a wail.

“Of course you are,” Karina said, leaning forward to pat Fiona’s hand reassuringly. “That’s natural. You wouldn’t be you if you weren’t.”

Fiona avoided her problem by plunging herself even deeper in Weyr matters, but as sevendays became months and they neared the time when the older dragonriders were due to reappear and the massed riders would return to their proper time at their proper Weyr, Fiona realized that time was forcing her hand.

Terin never quite apologized to Fiona for leaving her, but she did return, although she never spent quite as much time with Fiona after that, preferring to spend most of it in F’jian’s company — that much of Fiona’s plan had worked out so perfectly that she was not at all surprised to find that Terin had given F’jian her hard-earned gold ring as a Turn’s End present. Judging from Terin’s expression the next morning, F’jian’s response had been everything that the young headwoman could desire. As Terin had celebrated her thirteenth Turn several sevendays beforehand — just twelve days after Fiona had herself turned sixteen — Fiona did not feel it necessary to comment to either headwoman or bronze rider on the new arrangement.

For her part, Fiona found herself growing misty-eyed as she caught the sunsets over Igen, the desert all hued with reds and purples in a cloudless sky, the stars suddenly appearing like brilliant jewels visible in an instant, the two moons with their stately progression, the Dawn Sisters waiting to greet her in the early morning or, more often, to find her greeting them in the strange double-day cycles that they had adopted so long ago to manage the unbearable midday heat.

Fiona had found the time to engage Terregar and Zenor in solving the problem of a flamethrower that didn’t require the old firestone.

“The holders would pay plenty for it,” had clinched the argument — she had so intrigued Zenor and Terregar with the difficulties of the project that they only needed the merest incentive for trade to commit themselves wholeheartedly to the project.

Trade flourished between Weyr and Wherhold. Azeez and Mother Karina shrewdly had established a major depot at the wherhold, allowing for a convenient meeting place for the Igen riders and a permanent basis for expansion in the whole central region of Pern.

When Terin was at the Wherhold, Fiona would spend time with Mother Karina and other traders interested in cooking, developing new recipes and perfecting old ones, all the while learning and engaging in the joys of gustatory arts.

But it was T’mar who engaged her attention the most. Since the fight between F’jian and J’gerd, the older bronze rider had treated her differently. Worse, his treatment of her seemed to change and morph almost daily. He would be obsequious one day, disdainful the next, reclusive, fearful, garrulous.

Almost in response, Talenth grew more willful and demanding. She insisted upon being ridden every day and often she would inveigle Fiona to take her for long flights or jumps between to far-off destinations. Her attitude toward the Weyr’s remaining browns and bronzes alternated between standoffish and coquettish almost as frequently as T’mar’s moods changed. Through it all, she was still respectful and adoring of her rider, but Fiona began to find herself fearing that she might wake one morning to a dragon inflamed with the mad bloodlust of a mating queen.

The brown and bronze riders all treated her differently, as did the blue and green riders. She could find none among the latter with whom she could bond as she had with F’dan — she missed him dearly — even if they were easier for her to be around than the sometimes overly sensitive bronzes and browns.

Of all of the riders, J’gerd’s behavior toward her had changed the most. At first he had been fearful of her, but then he had sought her out, at first to apologize and later to confide. It had been his heartfelt loneliness — a loneliness with which Fiona found herself keenly sympathetic — that had decided Fiona to encourage the riders to spend more time mingling with the traders and the wherholders.

T’mar had been reluctant to permit the change until he discovered that it was not his decision to make. Fiona had been careful to limit the meetings so that no long-term relationships could form, only to have to be painfully broken when the dragonriders were forced to return to their time, but they had still left plenty of opportunity for dancing, singing, and an occasional heartfelt romance to blossom.

Resigned to her will, T’mar had enthusiastically joined in with the festivities, and Fiona was reasonably certain that there was at least one holder lass who would devoutly regret his leaving.

“We’ll need to start clearing the unused weyrs,” Fiona said to T’mar at their morning meeting. “The older riders will return in the next fortnight.”

T’mar nodded. “I’ve spent some time with J’keran and F’jian discussing how we’ll drill when they arrive.” He paused before adding in correction, “And it’s thirteen days, actually.”

“We shouldn’t linger here,” Fiona cautioned him, accepting his correction with an irritated look.

“We think that we can get enough drill done in seventeen days.”

“Is that enough?”

“It’s all we can afford,” T’mar told her simply.

Fiona narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously.

“Talenth will have three Turns then,” he explained.

“What’s that — oh,” Fiona responded, breaking off in chagrin. “She’ll be ready to rise.”

“I thought you would want to have the largest choice possible,” T’mar told her softly. “She deserves no less.”

It was a moment before Fiona could find her voice. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes, that’s very considerate.”

T’mar made a slight half-bow in his chair. “I try, Weyrwoman.” He finished his klah, rose, and said to her, “And, with your permission, we will drill this morning and clean after midday.”

“Yes, that seems good,” Fiona agreed, also rising from the table. Karina, who had sat at the far side watching them in silence, glanced from one to the other and shook her head sadly. Fiona noticed and shot her a challenging look.

“You will be leaving in thirty days,” Karina told her, pushing back her chair. “We must get ready.”

Fiona grinned at her. “Last chance for ice!”

The cleaning, as Fiona had expected, was tiring and irritating. None of the riders were pleased with her as they sat for their evening meal, especially faced, as they were, with the knowledge that they would be repeating their efforts in other weyrs for the next sevenday at the least.

F’jian groaned as he stretched after dessert, glancing apologetically toward the Weyrwoman, but he was less out of sorts than many of the others who had not had to do such menial duties for the better part of a Turn.

“We need to leave the Weyr better than we found it,” Fiona reminded, trying vainly to suppress a glower.

“I know Weyrwoman,” F’jian replied apologetically. “It’s just that my muscles forget.”

“It’ll be easier tomorrow,” she assured him.

“Or the next day,” J’keran muttered sardonically from his seat at the far end of the table.

“Or the next,” Fiona agreed.

“They grumble but they’re not upset.” T’mar’s voice coming from right beside her was startling; he had been silent throughout dinner. He seemed ready to say more but restrained himself.

“What?” Fiona prompted.

T’mar hesitated before replying, “I only wanted to say that I think you’re doing a great job as Weyrwoman.” He paused, again obviously weighing his words carefully, and seemed ready to remain silent until Fiona gave him a challenging look. “I hope you won’t be angry at this, but I wonder how you will handle becoming a Weyrwoman when we return, and you are not the Weyrwoman.”

“It’ll be a relief,” Fiona responded impulsively. T’mar raised an eyebrow at her questioningly, and Fiona reassessed her feelings. “I’ll miss it, certainly, but I think I’m too young — ”

“Once, maybe,” T’mar interjected softly, shaking his head in firm denial. Fiona found herself meeting his soft brown eyes, really looking into them, and felt herself flush.

“Excuse me,” she said hastily and rose from the table, moving as quickly as she could without attracting too much notice through the Dining Cavern and out into the still night of the Weyr Bowl.

She didn’t know what she was doing; her feet moved instinctively until she found herself in Talenth’s lair, her head leaning on the hinge of her beautiful gold’s jaw, just in sight of her calmly whirling green eyes.

How long she stayed there, she couldn’t say. It was only when she heard boots softly climbing up the queen’s ledge and entering T’mar’s weyr that she realized her purpose, and with a final caress of her beautiful queen, Fiona stepped out onto the queen’s ledge and turned left, toward Zirenth’s lair.

A noise, the sound of her shoe dislodging a rock, alerted him to her presence.

“Weyrwoman,” T’mar said, coming from his bathroom, dressed in his sleeping tunic, “you startled me.”

Fiona’s eyes were wide, her breath rapid as she forced herself to cross the distance between them and looked up at him.

“Talenth will rise soon,” she blurted, not saying the words she’d rehearsed before.

T’mar’s eyes narrowed as he glanced toward the queen’s weyr in alarm, then he looked back down at her. “Not today, surely.”

“Soon,” Fiona repeated. She raised a hand to stroke his cheek and was surprised at how smooth it felt. “I — I don’t want her first time to be . . . my first time.”

“I see,” T’mar replied softly into the silence that stretched between them. He regarded her silently for a moment. “What about Kindan?”

Fiona shook her head soundlessly and buried her face against his chest, her arms loose around him.

T’mar drew back, raised a hand, and gently drew her chin up until she was looking into his eyes once more. And then he leaned down, draped one arm around her waist, and kissed her.

Much, much, much later, as T’mar lay breathing softly beside her, Fiona leaned over and twitched his chest sharply. T’mar’s eyes flew open and met hers in surprise as she leaned over him, her hands moving toward places she had never been before. “You always say that to get it right, you must do it three times.”

The bronze rider had only time for a startled smile before Igen’s Weyrwoman leaned heavily into him for another kiss.

Drifting through euphoria and back to mere consciousness the words were said:

“I love you.”

“I know.”

But Fiona could never remember who said them, or if they were spoken simultaneously, or even uttered aloud.