Dragonheart

by Todd J. McCaffrey

  “Are you afraid they have this illness?” K’lior asked, suddenly alarmed. “Could her fire-lizard have spread it to the dragons?”

  “No,” Cisca replied, “although that’s a horrible possibility.” She frowned, mulling the notion over, then shook her head. “Have you noticed how they all seem so tired?”

  “And distracted,” K’lior agreed. “They seem only half here—T’jen was muttering about it just this morning.”

  “And you paid attention?” Cisca asked, amused. It was almost tradition that every Weyrlingmaster was convinced that the latest group of weyrlings was the worst ever.

  “Yes,” K’lior agreed. “Because he’d just told off the same rider twice for the same silly thing—he couldn’t get his practice harness on properly.”

  “With the Plague, though, it was the strongest who succumbed,” Cisca remarked.

  “That was humans, not dragons,” K’lior said. “We can’t be sure of anything.”

  “Well, it’s clear that the fire-lizards must go,” Cisca said. “If things work out, perhaps we can have them return.”

  “That’d please a lot of our weyrfolk,” K’lior agreed.

  There were no signs of pleasure the next morning as dragonriders and weyrfolk collected in the Kitchen Cavern. K’lior could tell that most of the dragonriders knew what was coming: Those with fire-lizards had placed themselves near those weyrfolk who had fire-lizards.

  Looking upon the sea of faces, most many Turns older than he, K’lior had never been more aware of how young he was to be a Weyrleader.

  “I have grave news from Benden Weyr,” he announced, his voice loud enough to fill every corner of the great room. “M’tal informs me that they have identified a sickness among the fire-lizards—”

  “The fire-lizards!” several exclaimed at once.

  “Yes,” K’lior agreed. “Kindan’s bronze Valla succumbed to it yesterday. The symptoms are a cough that doesn’t get better, and green sputum—”

  “Can it affect the dragons?” someone shouted from the back of the room.

  “We don’t know,” Cisca said, stepping up beside her mate. “But—”

  “We can’t take the risk!” another of the weyrfolk called. “ ‘Dragonmen must fly when Thread is in the sky!’”

  There was a chorus of assent.

  “What do you want us to do, Weyrleader?” J’marin, Asoth’s rider, asked. His gold fire-lizard Siaymon sat nestled on his shoulder.

  “We’re going to have to send the fire-lizards away,” Cisca said. “We think we can send them to the Southern Continent.”

  J’marin stepped forward, his expression grim. He was more than twenty Turns older than either Cisca or K’lior. “Not all will make it.”

  “That may be so,” K’lior agreed, leaving unspoken the acknowledgment that the others would go between. He spoke up to the rest of the Weyr. “We have to protect the dragons—it is our duty. I called you here to tell you what we must do and to give those of you with fire-lizards a chance to say farewell.”

  “Daddy’s fire-lizard has to go away?” Janal, J’marin’s sturdy lad of seven Turns, piped up.

  J’marin knelt beside his son. “Yes,” he said, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “Say good-bye to Siaymon.”

  “ ‘Bye Siaymon!” Janal said. He turned to his father. “Will we ever see her again?”

  “I don’t know,” J’marin admitted, tears leaking beyond his control as he stroked the beautiful gold fire-lizard who had brought so many clutches of fire-lizard eggs to the Weyr. “But she’ll be all right. She’ll play in the sun of Southern.”

  “Can we visit her there?” Janal asked hopefully.

  “No,” J’marin said. “She and the others have to go so that the dragons will be safe.”

  “Safe?” Janal repeated, peering past his father to the Bowl and the dragon weyrs above. “The dragons can’t be hurt.”

  “That’s right,” J’marin agreed. “And Siaymon will protect them by going away.” He stroked his precious gold one last time. “Have you said good-bye, son?”

  “Good-bye, Siaymon,” Janal said. “I love you.”

  J’marin nodded. “That was well said,” he told the youngster, ruffling his hair before turning his attention back to the gold fire-lizard. “I love you. Farewell.”

  Asoth, tell Siaymon she must go to the Southern Continent, J’marin said to his dragon, tears now streaming freely down his face.

  She must go? Asoth asked sadly.

  Yes, she must, J’marin repeated. To protect the dragons.

  I will tell her, Asoth replied.

  In front of him, Siaymon gave one horrified squawk and disappeared between.

  As the others began to send their fire-lizards away, K’lior grabbed Cisca’s hand. She squeezed back, tightly, her grip flexing every time another fire-lizard went between until, finally, the Kitchen Cavern was a silent mix of sad dragonriders and tearful weyrfolk.

  Fiona was in her weyr, curled up tight against Talenth, her arms wrapped tightly around Fire, when the other fire-lizards left.

  “Fiona?”

  She recognized her father’s voice. She made no reply, but clutched Fire tighter. The queen fire-lizard craned her neck around to look at her, her faceted eyes whirling red and green.

  Fiona heard the sound of feet coming toward her.

  “Fiona,” Lord Bemin said. “I came as soon as I heard.” She didn’t move. She heard him bend down, saw his face come into view. Jokester rode on his shoulder. There were tears in her father’s eyes. Fiona closed her own eyes tightly, not wanting to see his tears. Hadn’t he cried enough?

  She closed her eyes, but she couldn’t close her ears.

  “When we came here, to the Hatching,” Bemin said softly, his voice hoarse with emotion, “I never thought that you’d Impress.”

  He sniffed. “My daughter, a queen rider!” She could hear the pride in his voice. She turned away from him, clutching Fire tight.

  “I never hoped, never dreamed that our line would be so honored,” he went on in a whisper. “I thought my heart would break, I was so proud!”

  Fiona turned back to him. “You were?”

  She opened her eyes to peer at his face and saw, beyond the tears, the immense pride he had in her.

  “Yes,” Bemin said. “You bring great honor to our Hold, and to me.” He took a breath and told her gently, “I know this is hard.” He reached up and stroked Jokester on his shoulder. “But you have duties now, duties to your Weyr and to Pern, just as I have mine to Fort Hold.”

  He reached for her with one hand and gently helped her to her feet. “You are of Fort,” he said, his voice becoming firm, commanding. “You are twice of Fort, of Hold and Weyr.” He peered down at her, the corners of his lips quivering upward. “You are my last child and I would not deprive you of anything—”

  “Then I can . . . ?” But her words trailed off as Bemin shook his head gently.

  “You and I have so much,” he told her gently. He gestured to the sleeping queen dragonet, who was trembling in her sleep. “As you have your queen, I have Forsk, the watch-wher. Do you think it would be dutiful to risk all Pern to keep our fire-lizards, too?”

  Fiona sniffed, her eyes catching his pleadingly, but he shook his head again.

  “It is time, now,” he told her, “to say good-bye.” He turned his head to Jokester and reached up his arms, bringing the brown fire-lizard down to settle in his clasped hands. He caught Fiona’s eyes. “Queen rider, ask your queen to send them to the Southern Continent.”

  “Father—” Fiona began, tears streaming down her face, but Bemin once again shook his head and lifted his chin slightly.

  “Head high, Weyrwoman,” he told her.

  Fiona took in a deep breath and nodded, her tears falling unchecked.

  Talenth?

  What is it? the young queen asked sleepily. You sound sad.

  Tell Fire and Jokester they must go. Fiona sobbed as she relayed the thought.


  Go?

  Yes, go, Fiona replied. To the Southern Continent. Her heart broke as she cried, Do it now!

  She heard two surprised squawks, cut off suddenly, between.

  “Oh, Father!”

  THREE

  My small fire-lizard friend

  Frolic in the sun.

  Our love will never end

  No matter where you run.

  Fort Weyr, AL 507.12.20

  The next day dawned bright and sunny, though still full of winter’s cold.

  With effort, drained from the previous day’s events, Fiona roused herself and Talenth to go out into the Weyr Bowl. She had to leave her weyr, if only for a moment. She milled with the sad, nervous, confused weyrlings who were feeding their dragonets. The youngsters, some her age, some not much older, were very interested in her and insisted upon helping her feed Talenth, even to the neglect of their own dragons.

  “Let me tend to her,” Fiona told them finally, with a touch of acerbity. She tried hard not to think of a cheerful chirping voice or a gold streak darting through the air.

  “If you’re looking for distraction, there’s tack to be oiled,” a voice growled from beside her.

  Fiona looked up, startled, to see a grizzled older dragonrider standing beside her.

  “T’jen, Salith’s rider,” the man said, gesturing up toward a brown dragon that was peering down at them from several levels above. “Weyrlingmaster.”

  He waved at the weyrlings. “They weren’t disturbing you, were they, Weyrwoman?”

  Fiona knew instantly that T’jen had heard her entire exchange with the weyrlings. She smiled at him, shaking her head. “They were just trying to help.”

  “They could help themselves more by tending to their chores,” T’jen grumbled loudly enough that several weyrlings glanced worriedly in his direction and suddenly looked more energetic.

  After the weyrlings were out of earshot, T’jen murmured to her, “I can understand the ones in your Hatching carrying on the way they do, but the older ones . . .” He shook his head.

  “But—” Fiona began, her thoughts all jumbled. “I mean, isn’t this normal?”

  “What, Weyrwoman?” T’jen asked, turning to face her directly. “Tell me how you feel.”

  “I’m all right,” Fiona said immediately. “Talenth’s fine—”

  “And you’d know, being a Weyrwoman for . . . ?” T’jen asked her, raising his brows in curiosity, a faint smile on his lips.

  Fiona blushed in response. She thought back, her blush clearing into a smile as she remembered her amazing Impression of Talenth. How long ago had it been? It seemed forever. But how long? Her frown deepened as she realized she couldn’t quite remember.

  “This is the twentieth day of the twelfth month,” T’jen supplied helpfully.

  “Oh!” Fiona said. “Then it’s been—it’s been—” Angrily she chided herself, This is simple! There are twenty-eight days—four sevendays—in each month, and she’d Impressed Talenth on the seventeenth of the month before so that meant that . . .

  “Thirty-one days, Weyrwoman,” T’jen told her softly. Fiona looked up at him, chagrined. “You’re not the only one confused. All of my weyrlings, even the steadiest of them, are acting like you.”

  “Is it the sickness?” Fiona asked with a feeling of dread knotting her stomach.

  “I hope not,” T’jen said fervently. “And there’s no sign of distress among the dragonets—they’re merely a bit sleepier than I’d expect at this age.”

  “I thought they always slept a lot when they’re this young,” Fiona said.

  “They do, but not this much,” T’jen told her. “It’s difficult enough to wake them to eat, much less anything else.”

  “And that’s not normal?”

  “No,” T’jen replied, shaking his head. “It’s not.”

  “Have you told the Weyrwoman?”

  “She pointed it out to me, actually,” he admitted.

  It took Fiona a moment to follow his thought through to its conclusion. “Because of me?”

  The weyrlingmaster smiled. “Well, you are the newest Weyrwoman, she’s right to keep an eye on you,” he told her. “You never know . . .”

  “Know what?” Fiona prompted.

  “Know when you’ll become Weyrwoman,” T’jen said sadly. He met her eyes. “It happened quick enough for Cisca.”

  “How?”

  “You’d have to ask her,” he said. “It’s her story to tell or not.” Fiona yawned and T’jen laughed. “Not that you’d be awake long enough.”

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized.

  “Don’t be,” he told her. “Whatever it is, you need your rest, so go get it.” He turned to the massed weyrlings. “You lot, on the other hand, still have work to get done before you can take a break.”

  A chorus of groans greeted his words.

  “ . . .So I’d say that she’s the same as the rest,” T’jen concluded in his recounting to the Weyrleader and Weyrwoman over dinner that night. “Even the older weyrlings are acting odd.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you sooner,” K’lior said to the old Weyrlingmaster. “You’d said this last Turn when the others Impressed, but I thought . . .”

  “You thought I was just moaning,” T’jen finished for him with a snort.

  “I’ve never heard a Weyrlingmaster praise his charges, after all,” K’lior said defensively.

  “And by the First Egg, I hope you never do!” T’jen replied. Thoughtfully, he added, “And if you ever do, Weyrleader, you should let the man go. As you know: ‘There’s—‘“

  “ ‘—always better from a weyrling,’ ” K’lior finished with T’jen.

  “Exactly.”

  “And what about now?” Cisca asked. “Does not ‘always better’ mean we should be pushing these weyrlings further? Particularly as the next Pass is nearly upon us.”

  “Actually,” K’lior replied diffidently, “that’s a good reason to go slow.”

  Cisca gave him a questioning look.

  “The Weyrleader’s right, Weyrwoman,” T’jen told her. “With Thread coming, it’s more important to have these youngsters trained the best we can rather than put them and their young dragons against Thread too early.”

  “We can expect the most losses in the first Turn of Threadfall,” K’lior said in agreement. In response to Cisca’s look, he explained, “It’s in the Records. I think it’s because it always takes time to adjust to the reality of fighting Thread.”

  T’jen nodded. “Any mistake fighting Thread can be the last mistake a rider or dragon makes.”

  “So we should go slow with these weyrlings?” Cisca asked.

  “And keep an eye on them, as well,” T’jen said. “We don’t want them doing something foolish because they’re too drowsy to think clearly.”

  “What does the harper say?” Cisca asked.

  “He’s got no better idea than I,” T’jen said. “It could be this sickness that affected the fire-lizards, but there’s been no sign of coughing from anyone.” He paused, his brow furrowed, then shook his head. “No, I don’t think they’re related—but I don’t know what is affecting the weyrlings so.” A moment later, he added, “They’ve got good days and bad days, some more than others.”

  “Does anything help?” K’lior asked.

  “Klah,” T’jen said with a shrug. “The stronger, the better. For some, it’s klah in the morning, at noon, and mid-evening. That’s for the worst of them, though.”

  “So we just leave it at that?” Cisca asked, perturbed.

  “I’d say it’s all we can do, for the moment,” T’jen replied.

  “And I think Tannaz and I will keep a closer eye on our young Weyrwoman,” Cisca said.

  The next morning Cisca found Fort’s second Weyrwoman in her quarters just as she finished her daily grooming of her queen, Kalsenth.

  “Good morning,” Cisca called brightly to Tannaz and her dragon as she entered. “Kalsenth, if you can spare
her, I’ve got a task for your rider.” And she repeated the conversation she’d had with K’lior the night before.

  “I’d heard about the older weyrlings,” Tannaz said when she was done, “but not the younger ones.”

  “And the new queen,” Cisca added.

  The two queen riders were a study in contrasts: Cisca was tall, broad-shouldered and muscled without appearing so, with shoulder-length brown hair and eyes to match, while Tannaz was short, thin, wiry; her eyes, so dark they looked black, were set in a stark face of dusky skin surrounded by wavy black hair that announced her Igen origins to anyone looking at her.

  Their personalities were even less matched than their forms, and for a time Cisca had been concerned that the older woman—for Tannaz had been three Turns older than Cisca when she Impressed—would cause problems. She had refused to return to Igen Weyr when she Impressed, which had perhaps been the final death blow for the desert Weyr. Having met D’gan, Igen’s Weyrleader—and heard K’lior’s recounting of their meeting—Cisca did not begrudge Tannaz her choice, even while she worried that she and the older woman would come to blows.

  But it was not so, partly because they were both fundamentally too good and concerned for the Weyr’s well-being to allow any disagreements to exist between them for long. In fact, Cisca had come to value Tannaz’s fiery spirit, quick wit, and steadfast loyalty.

  “So what would you like me to do?” Tannaz asked.

  “I think we should both spend more time with Fiona,” Cisca said. As Tannaz’s eyes narrowed, Cisca added quickly, “I don’t want her to feel that we’re intruding or being overly cautious, so I think if we trade off, that will cause her less concern.”

  “Great, I’ll be happy to help,” Tannaz told her cheerfully. Cisca gave her an inquiring look and Tannaz shrugged, saying, “I wanted to get to know her; we’ll be working together for Turns to come.”

  “We will, at that,” Cisca agreed, surprised that she hadn’t thought to introduce her two junior Weyrwomen earlier. She paused long enough to reflect on the matter: A large part of the reason she hadn’t thought of it sooner was simply because she was, as Senior Weyrwoman, quite busy, but she was also honest enough to recognize that it was partly due to her concern that the other two might find they liked each other more than her. It was a silly notion really, she admitted to herself, but she sometimes forgot that she was the Weyrwoman now.