Throwing despair away for passion, Fiona let her hands flow over his warm body, and had the reassuring pleasure of his hands moving in response. Slowly they maneuvered, touching, moving, silently, passionately.
Long afterward, Fiona reached a hand up to his cheek and stroked it gently. Kindan cupped her hand with his and smiled down at her. “Three times,” he told her with a smile. Fiona chuckled and raised an eyebrow in challenge.
“What do you mean, I can’t go out?” T’mar demanded testily when Birentir told him. “I waited an extra two days because you said so!”
He turned to Fiona, who was eyeing him with one eyebrow raised archly. “And you—dowsing my wine with fellis juice so I slept an extra day! Give me those crutches!”
Fiona pulled them away from him, saying, “Not until you get some sense in your thick skull. You’re acting like an addle-pated wherry!”
“I’m acting like a Weyrleader,” T’mar declared, but his words lacked conviction.
“A Weyrleader sets an example, or so I’m told,” Birentir said dryly. “And a Weyrleader recovering from a severe pair of injuries would best set an example by listening to the Weyr Healer, wouldn’t he?”
T’mar scowled stubbornly before leaning back in his bed, asking in a grudging tone, “So, healer, what can I do?”
“If you wish to recover fully,” Birentir responded, emphasizing the last word, “you’ll restrict your movements to your weyr for the next sevenday or so.”
“And then?”
“Then we’ll see,” Fiona told him, shaking her head in exasperation as she added, “You’re just as bad as the worst were back in Igen, you know.”
T’mar’s face twisted as the barb struck home. He had vivid memories of the younger Fiona arguing with grizzled old-timers—and winning.
“Ah, you’re remembering,” Fiona said, taking in the look on his face. “Perhaps you’ll also remember that all of my charges recovered and are now fighting Thread?”
“I do,” T’mar growled with a resigned look on his face. He brightened as he turned back to the healer, saying, “So, just around here?”
“If you don’t tire yourself.”
“How will I know?”
“You’ll know when you fall over back into a coma,” Fiona said with a shake of her head. “Or, if you’re sensible, you’ll listen to your body and limit yourself accordingly.”
T’mar jerked his head to Zirenth’s lair. “You could make him stop me.”
“I could,” Fiona agreed, turning with a half-smile toward the slumbering bronze in the weyr beyond. She turned back to T’mar. “But they’re desperate for him and the night crew for the Fall at Fort this evening, so I’m going to rely on your common sense instead.”
And with that, she thrust the crutches toward him, turned, and walked briskly out of the room, passing through Zirenth’s weyr and murmuring a fond greeting to the dozing bronze before moving on to the rest of her day’s business.
Birentir and T’mar were left behind to exchange surprised looks.
“She has a way about her,” Birentir said.
“Makes you forget her Turns, doesn’t she?” T’mar asked with a grin.
“If there’s one thing this Weyr doesn’t lack, it’s a strong Weyrwoman,” Birentir said.
“For which,” T’mar said, his voice straining as he raised himself on his crutches, “I am extremely grateful.”
“And does she know that?”
T’mar greeted the healer’s question with a glowering silence marred by a wince as he took his first step.
“You two will be careful,” Fiona said as she glanced up at Lorana and Kindan perched atop bronze Zirenth later that evening. “And you’ll make sure that Nuella doesn’t get hurt, won’t you?”
“Of course,” Lorana assured her. Kindan added a nod in agreement.
“Zirenth, I hope you’re well rested,” Fiona said, patting the great bronze on his foreleg. The bronze rumbled in amused agreement. “Talenth and I are expecting you to be here for the Hatching, you know.”
“Yes, you’d better take good care of him,” T’mar called from the entrance to Zirenth’s weyr. “He and I expect many more mating flights!”
Fiona smiled at that and, with one last wave to Lorana and Kindan, stepped back from the bronze.
“In which case,” she said to T’mar, “you’ll need to get some rest.”
“Come up here and I’ll show you how much rest I need, Weyrwoman,” T’mar responded teasingly. To his surprise, Fiona jumped up onto the queens’ ledge and trotted over to him, even before Zirenth had leaped up to go between.
“I wish she wouldn’t do that,” T’mar muttered for her ears alone. “She should take him up to the Star Stones first.”
“She said she always knows where and when she is,” Fiona assured him.
“It’s not that,” T’mar told her, shaking his head, “it’s that it sets a bad example for the rest of the Weyr.”
“Good point,” Fiona said. “We should tell her when they get back.”
“We should,” T’mar said, jerking his head invitingly toward his weyr. “In the meantime, perhaps you’d care for a demonstration of my newly regained strength.”
Fiona gave him an arch look. “Are you so desperate to put yourself in a coma?”
T’mar snorted. “Really, Weyrwoman, I think you overestimate yourself.”
“Probably,” Fiona agreed. “But there are some experiments I’m not willing to try.”
T’mar’s expression softened at the tone in her voice. “So, exactly what experiments are you willing to try?”
Fiona snorted and waved for him to precede her into his quarters.
They were lying together, asleep, much later when the sound of Zirenth’s wings awoke them. Fiona untangled herself from him and, with a restraining look, gestured for him to remain while she went and helped Kindan and Lorana.
They reeked of firestone, as did Zirenth.
“You’ve been flaming?”
Fiona said, her lips set disapprovingly. “Had to,” Kindan said. “When one of the wingleaders was injured, K’lior assigned us to take over.” Fiona’s eyes widened in surprise.
“It was for the best,” Lorana said. “It got us closer to the fighting, so we could coordinate better.” She smiled as she looked at Kindan. “He did all the fighting while Nuella and I did the controlling.”
“It worked out well enough,” Kindan said diffidently as they walked into T’mar’s rooms.
“You had my dragon flaming?” T’mar asked, sitting up in his bed.
“As you knew,” Lorana said without any sign of apology. “You were in touch with Zirenth so much you nearly distracted him.”
“You were?” Fiona said, glaring at the Weyrleader. “Even while we …?”
“No, not then,” T’mar assured her hastily.
“I’m sorry,” Fiona said to Lorana, “if I had realized he was interfering, I would have distracted him more fully.”
“Don’t,” Lorana said with a smile for T’mar, “you’ll only encourage him.”
Kindan’s features sharpened grimly as he absorbed their banter, eyeing Fiona appraisingly. Fiona sensed that he was disappointed somehow and her elated mood evaporated.
“It’s late,” Kindan said, “we shouldn’t detain you too long, Weyrleader.”
“How bad was it?” T’mar asked.
“They lost four dragons, had two seriously injured, and two who will take a good month to recover,” Lorana reported.
“High Reaches flies at night in three days’ time,” T’mar said with a sigh. He glanced up at Kindan. “They’ll want you again, won’t they?”
Kindan didn’t reply, looking distracted, so it was Lorana who answered, “I expect so, Weyrleader, if that’s all right with you.”
“It’s for the good of Pern,” T’mar said. He cocked his head toward Kindan, adding, “Though I’ll be happy when you get your own dragon.”
Kindan glanced sharply at T’m
ar and shook his head. “I’m not sure that’ll happen, Weyrleader.”
“Only because the right dragon’s not been hatched,” T’mar declared stoutly. Fiona and Lorana nodded emphatically in agreement but Kindan kept his doubtful expression.
For the next three days, until the next night Fall at High Reaches Weyr, Fiona felt Kindan grow more distant from her. At first, she put it down to nerves, exhaustion, and drill, but when he returned from the second night Fall at High Reaches, his attitude toward her was unmistakable. Rather than speaking to her, he made his report to T’mar only, excluding her from his line of vision and holding tightly to Lorana while he spoke.
“A lot of their losses were because they were unused to flying with the watch-whers and wouldn’t listen to Lorana,” Kindan said, running a hand through his dark hair in exasperation.
“How bad was it?” Fiona asked. Kindan said nothing; it was Lorana who replied, looking up from the seat into which she’d half-fallen on their return. “Bad. They lost three dragons, had three seriously injured, and five minor injuries.”
“Between their losses from the first night Fall and this one, they’ve only five wings now fit to fly,” Kindan said.
“One hundred and fifty fighting dragons,” Lorana murmured, her eyes wide with worry.
“We’ll find a way through,” Fiona assured her, curving her lips up into a smile. “We’re here now because of you; we won’t fail.”
Lorana made no response. Kindan gave Fiona a sour look that both startled and hurt her.
“We need to rest,” Kindan said to T’mar, gesturing politely toward Lorana and helping her up from her seat. T’mar nodded and waved them away. When they were gone, his eyes sought Fiona’s.
“He hates me,” Fiona said, her voice a hoarse whisper.
“Of course,” T’mar agreed. “Who else could he hate?”
Fiona’s brows furrowed at his question.
“He can’t hate Lorana, and hating himself is much the same,” T’mar told her. “You, on the other hand, are a living reminder of all his faults and failings.” He shook his head wearily. “You are the obvious target.”
“But I didn’t do anything!”
“Which is all the more reason,” T’mar told her with a wry grin. “He hates that he’s so angry that he has to find someone to take it out on. He’s chosen you because you’re the Weyrwoman and he’s hoping you’re strong enough to weather his storm.” T’mar pursed his lips and gave her an inquiring look. “Are you?”
Fiona was about ready to protest once more that it wasn’t fair but the words died on her lips. Was it fair that Koriana died of the Plague? Was it fair that Lorana lost her queen in her attempts to save Pern?
“Is he afraid to love me?” Fiona asked at last, feeling her heart churn heavily in her chest, as though weary of beating.
“Yes,” T’mar told her gently, “just as much as he’s afraid that you don’t love him.”
“What?”
“In that, we’re not all that different, he and I,” T’mar said, glancing up at her from under his eyebrows, his expression guarded.
“I …”
“M’tal and I had several long conversations before he left for Ista,” T’mar said to comfort her. He grinned as he added, “Apparently his obversations about you quickly became pertinent to his own situation.”
“We’ve a saying at Fort Hold: ‘When you’re talking to someone, two pairs of ears are listening,’” Fiona said.
“Precisely,” T’mar said. He laid his head back on his pillow, his eyes gazing unfocused toward the ceiling as he confessed, “It is impossible not to love you.”
“I love you, T’mar,” Fiona replied slowly. “I just don’t know—”
“No, of course you don’t,” T’mar cut her off. “For all your maturity, you’ve still Turns of learning in ways of the heart.” He roused himself and grinned at her wickedly. “I expect you’ll prove as quick a study there as you have with all things related to the Weyr.”
“If I could, without hurting too much,” Fiona said, “I’d love everyone.”
“Actually,” T’mar said, lowering his head once again, “I think you already do—in your own way.” “And that’s the problem.”
“Weren’t you the one who quoted: ‘Problems are just challenges’?”
Fiona snorted at the taunt.
“And aren’t you always up for a challenge?”
“Sleep well, Weyrleader,” Fiona said, marching to Zirenth’s lair. “You need your rest.”
SIXTEEN
Dragonrider:
Dance in clouds
Soar to stars
Touch mountains
Skim rivers.
Telgar Weyr, morning, AL 508.4.15
“Fit to fly?” Fiona asked as she raced up the queens’ ledge toward T’mar. The Weyrleader grinned and nodded emphatically. The air was full of the fresh smell of spring and while clouds danced overhead, Fiona felt that they wouldn’t make rain that day, at least. The morning air was chilly but without the harsh, biting cold of winter.
“Come on, Zirenth, let’s see if you remember!” T’mar called to the bronze dragon, who followed him eagerly out of his weyr. He cocked a glance toward Fiona. “Care to join us?”
Fiona shook her head ruefully. “Talenth is too gravid to be interested.”
“She’s six weeks or so shy of clutching,” T’mar said, his expression growing serious.
“Queens can clutch any time from twelve to fifteen weeks after mating,” Fiona reminded him. “Although the norm seems to be about fourteen.”
“Three and a half months, then,” T’mar said. “So she’s due near the end of next month.”
“Or sooner,” Fiona cautioned.
T’mar raised a hand. “Don’t say that! An early clutch is small.”
“We’ll hope for a late clutch, then,” Fiona said, nodding toward Zirenth.
“And a queen egg,” T’mar said, as he moved to the side of Zirenth’s weyr, allowing the great bronze easy egress.
“Queen eggs are rare on the first Hatching,” Fiona warned him.
“We need queens,” T’mar said, as Zirenth backed up against the ledge and crouched down to let his rider jump on his shoulders.
“Indeed we do,” Fiona agreed. With an approving glance at T’mar’s grasp of his riding straps, she added, “And we need Weyrleaders, too!”
“She won’t rise again until after her clutch hatches,” T’mar reminded her as Zirenth turned away from the ledge and moved out into the Weyr Bowl proper.
“So keep safe and fly well, Weyrleader!” Fiona called, waving merrily after him.
T’mar waved back over his shoulder and then, with two bounds, Zirenth was aloft, pumping mightily toward the Star Stones and being greeted cheerfully by T’mar’s fighting wing. The remaining wings of Telgar Weyr joined them and together they winked between to drill in preparation for the next Threadfall.
After they were gone, Fiona’s expression slipped. The clutching would change things, she was certain. But the steady erosion of the Weyrs’ strength had only been recently reversed by the recovery of the first of the wounded.
Telgar Weyr now had—with T’mar and the other five recovered dragonriders—five full-strength fighting wings, a full wing less than they’d had when the Weyrs had redistributed their strength. And while Telgar was the worst off, none were all that much stronger—as both Fiona and T’mar had taken pains to point out to H’nez, who’d resumed command of the fighting wings after J’lantir’s sudden death.
The wiry, dour bronze rider had grown so distraught over the losses that Jeila had begged Fiona to intervene.
“I’ve heard nothing but good about you,” T’mar had told H’nez when Fiona brought the issue to his attention. “I’ll be hard pressed to match your ability when I return to health.”
“I wish you had recovered a month ago,” H’nez confessed.
“But I didn’t,” T’mar said. “And you’ve not complained in all
that time.” He gave H’nez a grin. “Keep up the good work, I’ll soon relieve you!”
T’mar’s encouraging talk was still not enough for H’nez and the bronze rider grumbled that when T’mar recovered, he’d request to be allowed to return to Fort Weyr.
“No, you won’t!” Jeila had told him heatedly. “You’ll stay here, with me, where you belong.”
And that, as Jeila told Fiona later, was that. Although, Fiona thought with a grin, perhaps Jeila had produced some extra inducements as she had confided all this as a prelude to announcing her pregnancy.
“It’s still too early to tell,” Jeila had cautioned when she’d shared the news. “And I’m worried.”
Fiona raised her eyebrows inquiringly.
Jeila gestured to her petite frame and thin waist. “I’m worried that the way I’m built, I might not carry to term.”
“Wasn’t your mother much the same as you?” Fiona had asked. When Jeila had nodded in response, Fiona had continued, “And how many children did she have?”
“Four,” Jeila admitted. “But she miscarried the first.”
“Well,” Fiona had replied, “we’ll guarantee you the best midwife.”
“I want Bekka,” Jeila told her.
“She’s not a midwife.”
“Her and her mother, then,” Jeila had replied.
“I’ll see what we can do,” Fiona said. “After all, I’ve reason to believe that Lorana may have need of one soon.”
“And what about you?” Jeila had asked, casting a probing look her way.
“I think two will be enough to getting on with,” Fiona had replied, turning the question aside. Jeila had given her a thoughtful look but had not pressed the matter.
It was just possible that she was with child, but Fiona had always been erratic in her cycle, so she wasn’t entirely certain. Surely she hadn’t noticed any change in her eating habits and, if she felt a bit more emotional, it was far too easy to ascribe to the current mood of the Weyr—even, of all Pern.
There was no escaping the steady, slow attrition of the fighting strength of the Weyrs. High Reaches had fared best of all, while the other Weyrs found themselves nearly a full wing short—and this after only two months of fighting. With losses up to a wing every two months, there would be no dragons flying at any Weyr—save perhaps High Reaches—when the still-unclutched hatchlings were barely old enough to fly.
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