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:
Count three months and more,
And five heated weeks,
A day of glory and
In a month, who seeks?
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 mea
ns, 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.”
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