“With me,” Kindan said with a decisive nod of his head.
“With us,” Fiona corrected. Kindan gave her a questioning look. “Here, in this Weyr—Telgar—where she’s central to everything, where she can speak to all dragons, coordinate with Nuella and the watch-whers, and be surrounded by those who love her.”
“So where is the problem?”
“The problem is with her, Kindan,” Fiona replied tetchily, surprised at his obtuseness. “The problem is that she sees all she is not—not a Weyrwoman, not a mother, not a mate—and it worries her.”
“How do you know so much about her feelings?”
“I didn’t,” Fiona said. “Mostly I learned it from Shaneese and Mekiar.”
“Do they have any suggestions?”
“Patience, sympathy, comfort,” Fiona said with a heavy sigh. “All the things I’m not very good at.”
Kindan grunted in disbelief.
“It’s true!” she said, giving him a sour look. “I’m better at cheering, at encouraging than I am at comforting.”
“I think you’re wrong,” Kindan said. He raised a hand to forestall her hot retort. “It may be that you feel inadequate to meet her needs but I can’t see how”—and he gestured toward Talenth’s egg-laden belly—“you can’t be sympathetic about her pregnancy.”
Fiona let out the breath she had gathered for her argument with a rueful grin. “I suppose I do understand something of that.”
“And,” he continued, his voice going soft, “I expect you’ve dealt with the same issues of being a mate—”
“True.”
“—and I think you can imagine her concerns about not being a Weyrwoman,” Kindan concluded.
“Ever since T’mar’s recovery, I’ve watched her slip deeper and deeper into sorrow,” Fiona said, her expression bleak. Kindan nodded in understanding.
“I’ve seen it, too,” he said. “Although I question whether she wasn’t just distracted from her sorrow when we were flying Zirenth.”
“If I could,” Fiona said, “I’d give her Talenth.”
“No you wouldn’t,” Lorana’s voice answered from outside the weyr. She stepped into Talenth’s weyr and made her way to the queen’s head, reaching up a loving hand to scratch Talenth’s eye ridges. “Once you’ve Impressed, only death can separate you.”
Kindan and Fiona exchanged alarmed glances at Lorana’s words. Lorana caught the look and smiled wanly at them, shaking her head, her hand going to her belly.
“There are other loves than dragons’,” she said, reaching her hand out toward them. Kindan grabbed it firmly and Fiona moved to the taller woman’s side, wrapping an arm around her waist and laying her head on her shoulder.
“I love you,” Kindan told Lorana feelingly.
“So do I,” Fiona added, clutching Lorana tighter even as she wondered in the depths of her soul whether their love would be enough.
A moment later, Fiona felt Lorana stir and pulled away from her far enough to look up into her eyes. “What is it?”
Lorana sighed. “Thread falls at Igen today.”
“M’tal’s a good man, he’ll handle it,” Kindan said.
“They have four full Wings,” Fiona added cheeringly, “more than enough for a Fall.”
Lorana made no argument but Fiona could feel the other woman’s deep sense of foreboding. To distract her, Fiona placed a hand on Lorana’s belly. “Is he sleeping?”
Lorana frowned thoughtfully, then shook her head. She grabbed Fiona’s hand and moved it over slightly. Fiona’s eyes widened and her mouth broke into a huge grin. “He kicked me!” She turned to Kindan, eyes wide in awe, exclaiming, “Our baby kicked me!”
SEVENTEEN
Fly high,
Scan sky.
Brave all,
Fly Fall.
Ista Weyr, afternoon, AL 508.5.5
“We’ll keep one Wing in reserve,” M’tal said, glancing thoughtfully at the three other wingleaders standing in the archway joining Ista’s Kitchen Cavern with the Weyr Bowl. “S’maj, your Wing’s been in the thick of things far too often, I want you to sit back this time.”
The grizzled old dragonrider snorted and nodded. “It’s time you others picked up the slack.”
The two remaining wingleaders chuckled. Both were younger than either M’tal or S’maj, but both had been dragonriders for close to twenty Turns. J’lian, a veteran of J’lantir’s famous “lost Wing,” was the youngest, having “only” thirty-three Turns.
“We’ll take care of the Fall for you, grandpa,” J’lian said, his eyes twinkling.
“Just make sure you get older, young one,” S’maj growled.
“As long as there are queens in the sky,” J’lian said.
“If we need any more help, we’ll call up the reserves,” M’tal said, referring to the half-wing that he’d decided to leave behind in reserve at the Weyr.
“Well, it’s not like they’ll be shirking,” S’maj said, “seeing as they’re hauling our firestone.”
“All the work and none of the glory,” J’lian said, shaking his head and glancing pointedly at the older wingleader.
“It’s enough to fly, dragonrider,” S’maj said, picking up on the bronze rider’s implied gibe.
M’tal smiled at the banter. He waved for the others to precede him onto the warm sands of the Weyr Bowl where all the fighting dragons clustered in a small portion of the vast expanse.
Thread would be falling over Igen, roiled and tossed by the turbulent air rising from the hot desert sands below. M’tal was worried about that turbulent air, but he kept his fear to himself, projecting a carefully schooled air of professional nonchalance.
“Fly well,” two voices called from behind him. He turned and spied Salina with Dalia by her side. M’tal smiled and sketched a salute to the two women. As he turned away from the two very different women in his life, M’tal found time to send a stray hope in Fiona’s direction that she, Kindan, and Lorana had managed to cement their relationship as well as he had with Dalia and Salina. It helped that both were mature women and not given to fits of jealousy. He couldn’t imagine Tullea in a similar situation but, he reflected as he clambered up Gaminth’s side, perhaps the Benden Weyrwoman would come to surprise him as well.
What! M’tal thought as Gaminth bucked and dipped the moment they came out of between over Igen. He was thrown first forward and then backward violently as Gaminth searched for an altitude where the winds were calmer. The hot air roiling up from the roasting sands below churned and swirled unpredictably, making it impossible to keep formation. The turbulence was far worse than he’d feared.
Spread out! M’tal ordered. Gaminth, have S’maj’s Wing go high as lookout.
The bronze dragon rumbled in agreement as he relayed the messages and the three fighting Wings spread out, seeking desperately to maintain what little formation they could in the fierce winds. Dimly, M’tal had the impression of S’maj’s Wing clawing upward, searching for a less turbulent level from which to scan for Thread.
This is going to be rough, M’tal thought.
The air is troubled, hot, Gaminth thought. Perhaps too hot for Thread?
No, I don’t think so, M’tal responded even as he heard a dragon bugle warningly, its voice distant and thin in the rough air.
S’maj has spotted it, Gaminth said. M’tal nodded, craning his neck upward and twisting from side to side to spy the thin wisps of deadly Thread.
There! he called, pointing at a clump and willing Gaminth to rise to meet it. With a bellow, the bronze surged upward in response to his unspoken command, jaws open, ready to flame. But as they approached, a buffet pushed them to one side while pushing the Thread away to another. Instinctively, Gaminth dove after the twisting Thread, twisting around to follow it as it slipped away again and again, saved by the fickle wind. Finally, to their surprise, the winds favored them, nearly blowing the Thread directly onto them but not before Gaminth’s flame rendered it harmless ash.
; Good! M’tal cried, slapping his dragon affectionately on the neck. Let’s get back to the others.
But even as they resumed their climb, M’tal found himself astonished as he saw how scattered his Wings had become, each dragon following their individual clumps of Thread on the fickle winds.
Shards! M’tal swore to himself as he tried to imagine a way to reunite the dragons into a coherent fighting force. This is going to cost us.
As if in confirmation, two dragons, one after the other, bellowed in pain and vanished between as they tried to fight off Thread that had fallen upon them unseen or were suddenly blown by the churning winds aloft.
One returned quickly, the other, M’tal noted with a grimace, did not return at all.
Tell S’maj to join in, M’tal said. We’re going to need every dragon.
Should we call up the reserves?
No, M’tal said, it’s going to be hard enough to get more firestone without exhausting them beforehand.
They rejoined the forward line of dragons in their fight against Thread. Gaminth spotted and dove for a new clump, burned it, and rose again in search of more prey—all with the ease of previous Falls. Perhaps they were beyond the turbulent air, M’tal mused hopefully.
A sudden shout, a hiss of air and a dragon’s bellow were all the warning M’tal had as another dragon dove over his head, its jaws agape with flame roaring into a clump of Thread directly above and just behind him.
M’tal had only a moment to recognize that the other rider’s sudden appearance was all that had saved Gaminth from a terrible Threading—and probably death—before the dragon and rider veered upward sharply and disappeared once more between. They were not gone so quickly that M’tal didn’t get a good look at the rider’s back—and the large double black bars encased in a bright red diamond on the back of his leathers.
M’tal knew those colors well, for he’d worn them himself for many Turns. The man who saved him was wearing the colors of Benden’s Weyrleader.
M’tal had barely time to send an unspoken thanks after the rider before another clump appeared and he and Gaminth dove upon it, flaming it quickly to char.
As they scanned for more Thread, M’tal glanced over the condition of his Wings and saw that all were spread out, ragged, many had holes left by missing dragons—injured or killed by the Thread blown erratically by the hot desert air.
Here and there, however, M’tal spotted another dragon winking into existence above them, burning through unseen clumps in the same manner as he’d been saved. Each time, it was the same dragon and, whenever he could see, the rider the Benden Weyrleader’s badge. Light glinted off the dragon’s hide, specks of gold mixed in with darker colors.
A rumble from Gaminth distracted him and M’tal leaned forward as his dragon burned through another clump of Thread and another. M’tal forgot about the Benden Weyrleader as he resumed his fight against the fickle Thread.
“Shards, M’tal, I don’t know what you’re talking about!” B’nik protested once again, pulling back from the older dragonrider’s hearty embrace.
“You don’t?” M’tal repeated, his hands on B’nik’s shoulders, pushing the other man away from him so that he could see his eyes. B’nik had not much of a sense of humor, but it was foul enough that he might try to play a trick on his ex-Weyrleader, especially if Tullea had urged him on.
“No,” B’nik repeated firmly, using his own hands to push M’tal’s hands off him and stepping further away, “I don’t.”
M’tal’s face fell. “Then if it wasn’t you, who stole your jacket?”
“My jacket?” B’nik repeated blankly.
“Your Weyrleader’s jacket,” M’tal insisted. “I might have been mistaken in you—the distance was great—but the jacket and its emblem are unmistakable.” Which hardly bore the mention, as the purpose of the Weyrleader’s jacket was to be visible at all distances.
“No one stole my jacket,” B’nik assured him. “It’s in my quarters, just oiled.”
“Someone rode Fall with us,” M’tal said. “Someone rode Fall and saved us.”
“But it wasn’t me.”
“No,” M’tal said after a moment of thoughtful silence, “I think it was.”
B’nik drew breath to make a heated retort but M’tal raised a hand placatingly. “Not today, but perhaps some time in the future.”
“You mean I timed it?” B’nik asked in surprise.
“Yes,” M’tal said. “I expect you did.”
“But when?” B’nik asked. “And why only me? Why not a full Wing at least?”
“I don’t know,” M’tal said. “I suspect perhaps you wanted firsthand knowledge of the effects.”
B’nik pursed his lips thoughtfully. “That would be prudent.”
“Indeed it would,” M’tal said. “Nothing less than I’d expect from you.”
“Expect what?” Tullea demanded as she strode up to join them in the Weyr Bowl.
“M’tal thinks I timed it back to his Fall today,” B’nik said.
“Saved my hide,” M’tal said.
Tullea paled. “Timed it?” she said to B’nik. “When?”
“Not yet, apparently,” B’nik said, “or I’d remember.”
“You certainly would,” Tullea agreed feelingly. She turned to M’tal. “How many others were there?”
“I only saw him,” M’tal told her. He glanced over to B’nik’s quarters and Caranth lounging in his weyr. His eyes narrowed as he added, “Caranth looked darker than he does now.”
“It could have been a trick of the light,” B’nik said.
“Possibly,” M’tal said, shrugging off his doubts. “I only caught glimpses of you.”
“So you’re going to time it, eh?” Tullea asked, turning her head up appraisingly to her Weyrleader and mate.
“Apparently.”
“In a way, I’m saddened,” M’tal said. The others looked at him in surprise. “I was hoping that we wouldn’t need to time it.”
Tullea gave murmured heartfelt agreement.
“Why?” B’nik asked, turning from her to M’tal.
“Because it means that we soon won’t have the strength to fly alone,” the older dragonrider said.
B’nik pursed his lips and nodded in grim agreement.
“The baby’s fine,” Lorana told Fiona, barely keeping her irritation out of her voice. “Why don’t you check on Talenth? She’s ready to clutch.”
“She’s got nearly a fortnight before that,” Fiona said, glancing from their quarters back to Talenth’s weyr, where the gold was dozing; shifting once in a while to find a more comfortable position. Fiona turned back to Lorana and added quietly, “But if you want time to yourself, I’ll let you be.”
Lorana gave her a grateful smile. “I appreciate your efforts but—”
“You need some time to yourself,” Fiona finished for her with a smile.
“I understand.” She rose and made her way to Talenth’s weyr and the Weyr Bowl beyond, turning back to add, “Call if you need anything.”
Lorana raised a hand in weary acknowledgment and then stretched herself out on the bed. Shaneese and Bekka both assured her that she would feel worse before the baby arrived, but for the moment Lorana did her best not to consider the notion. She was only in her sixteenth week with easily another twenty-four before the baby was born, but she was already heartily sick of “peeing for two” as Shaneese had so succinctly put it.
The baby certainly seemed to enjoy its confinement to the fullest extent possible, going so far as to kick his mother awake in the middle of the night. And, through their strange and special link, whenever Lorana woke, Fiona woke with her. Deep inside her, Lorana recognized how much of a gift that was. She was extremely grateful that the younger woman not only never complained but positively delighted in doing everything she could to help. A warm flood of love for Fiona’s kind nature warred within Lorana against her need to vent, to release all the tension that was forever building in her, to get away fro
m all the demands of her life.
And lately, she’d been having dark dreams. Her mind went to the strange brooch Tenniz had given her and his note: The way forward is dark and long. A dragon gold is only the first price you’ll pay for Pern.
The first price? Lorana thrust the thought away as the baby kicked once more, as if in protest.
“You’re worrying too much,” Bekka said as soon as she caught sight of Fiona in the Kitchen Cavern. Bekka and Seban had been delighted with the request that they return—as healer apprentices—to Telgar and between them had convinced Jeila, Lorana, and Fiona that they and Telgar’s established midwives would be more than capable of handling any pregnancy. The two were welcomed back to the Weyr with such enthusiasm that Fiona suspected it would be hard for them to consider returning to the Healer Hall. Not only that, but Seban exerted a steadying influence on Birentir while still maintaining a respectful deference for the journeyman’s greater medical knowledge. Fiona got the distinct impression that while Masterhealer Betrony would sorely miss Bekka and her father, that he’d been quite happy to force Birentir to take on the mentoring role. For her part, Fiona found herself looking at Birentir as someone who was being groomed as a future Master himself.
Fiona’s eyes danced with delight at the young girl’s complete lack of respect. She gestured toward an empty table, saying, “Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”
Bekka followed her and sat opposite, immediately continuing, “You worry too much about Lorana.”
“She practically threw me out of our quarters,” Fiona confessed. She raised her eyes to meet Bekka’s and her tone shifted. “I do worry about her,” she said. “She’s like a big sister to me, more even, and Kindan loves her so and it’s his child, so …”
“It’s going to be all right,” Bekka told her firmly. The incongruity of the small, ever-active young girl assuring the senior Weyrwoman was not lost on her. She leaned forward to peer up into Fiona’s face. “I’ve seen a lot of pregnancies, there’s nothing wrong with this one.”
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