“Everyone is to keep an eye and ear out for any more signs of the illness,” K’lior declared. “Report it to me or Cisca immediately.” He rose decisively and, with a polite gesture for Cisca to precede him, left the room. Tannaz followed immediately after.
Their departure startled Fiona. She remained seated as the other wingleaders slowly drifted past grumbling darkly among themselves.
“He’s too young,” she heard H’nez mutter heatedly to himself as he bustled by her. “You should have flown her.” The rumble of agreement in the Bowl beyond belonged to Ginirth.
Long after everyone had left, Fiona sat, trembling. It was only when she heard Talenth’s plaintive, I itch!, that she roused herself and left the darkening Council Room.
After she finished oiling Talenth into contented slumber, Fiona set off in search of the other Weyrwomen. She found Tannaz first.
“Can you help?” Tannaz asked as she caught sight of her. When Fiona nodded, the older Weyrwoman slumped against the corridor wall and closed her eyes in relief. “Good.”
“What do I do?”
“Oh, sorry,” Tannaz said shaking herself and standing upright again. “We need to talk to the riders, check on the dragons . . . that sort of stuff.”
“Deal with sick aunties?” Fiona murmured, unable to contain herself. “Old uncles?”
“Dragonriders,” Tannaz corrected her firmly. Fiona felt herself burn in shame. Tannaz noticed, even in the shadows of the corridor, and relented. “Yes, they probably are a bit like old uncles at this moment, but they’ll be protecting those sick aunties.” She nodded forcefully. “So don’t forget that.”
“What do I say to them?” Fiona asked, working to keep a whining tone out of her voice.
“You know how they feel,” Tannaz said, her voice turning softer, warmer. “Probably more than most, since you lost your fire-lizard.”
Fiona bit her lip, then shook herself fiercely and nodded for the Weyrwoman to continue.
“So talk to them about how they feel, how you feel. Don’t lie but be positive.” Tannaz put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed firmly. “You are a Weyrwoman now.”
Something in the other’s tone made Fiona realize that Tannaz was bestowing upon her a gift, not weighing her with a burden. Tannaz must have seen it, too, for she let go of the young girl and told her brusquely, “Off you go, now!”
As Fiona started off down the corridor in the direction Tannaz had indicated, she realized that she didn’t know where to start and slowed down, dithering between going back and asking the other Weyrwoman or just picking a spot and starting.
As if reading her thoughts, or recognizing her omission, Tannaz called after her, “First weyr after the stairwell.”
Fiona picked up her pace again, looking anxiously in each entrance to see if it was a stairwell. After a while her pace slowed down again as she began to think about what she was going to do. What did one say to grieving dragonriders? Fiona wondered. She mulled on this, growing more and more anxious with each step until, by the time she reached the stairwell, she was nearly trembling with fear.
I can’t do this, she thought miserably, stopping one pace before the entrance to the weyr. I’ve only thirteen Turns!
She thought of turning back, of telling Tannaz that everyone had made a mistake, that Talenth had made a mistake in choosing her—and that thought, that horrible thought, brought her up short. She reached out and touched the sleeping queen lightly with her mind. She felt Talenth’s fatigued response, realized that the queen was groping slowly toward full consciousness in response to Fiona’s needs, and pulled away.
Back to sleep, little one, she thought fondly to her mate.
Kindan had no one, Fiona chided herself, and he was your age when the Plague struck. He saved you and everyone at Fort.
Well, she corrected herself, tears filling her eyes, almost everyone. He couldn’t save Mother, or my brothers, or even my sister, the girl he loved.
But he saved me, she remembered, and thought of the tales her father had told her of Kindan’s bravery. With those in mind, along with images of her own Impression, she lifted her head and stepped forward.
I can do this, she thought, and she called out, “Hello?”
“Who’s there?” From the sound, Fiona guessed that the rider was calling from his dragon’s weyr.
“Fiona, Talenth’s rider,” she replied, walking through the rider’s quarters to the entrance to the dragon’s weyr.
“The new Weyrwoman?” the rider muttered to himself. Then he said, “See, Danorth, that’s the youngster we saw Impressing that queen at the last Hatching.”
Fiona heard a dragon make an inquiring noise and stepped into view. Danorth was a green dragon. Her rider was an older man, older even that H’nez but, at least from first appearances, not nearly as irascible.
“I’m forgetting my manners!” he exclaimed, rising to his feet and bowing his head. “I am L’rian, Danorth’s rider, at your service, Weyrwoman.”
Fiona smiled and nodded back.
“Fiona . . .” he murmured thoughtfully, then comprehension brightened his expression. “You were Lord Bemin’s child, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” Fiona replied, not seeing the need to state that she still was Bemin’s child.
“She was just a baby back then,” L’rian said, speaking mostly to his dragon, then caught himself. “My apologies, Weyrwoman, but I often find myself talking aloud to Danorth, just to hear my voice.”
“But you get out, don’t you?” Fiona asked quickly. The man appeared no older than her father, but then Fiona remembered that weyrfolk aged better than holders, so perhaps he was nearing sixty Turns or even the seventy Turns that Masterharper Zist had.
“Indeed I do!” L’rian replied, straightening up. “My bones might be old, but the mind’s still able.”
“You knew me as a baby?” Fiona asked uneasily.
“Indeed, I did,” L’rian replied. “I was lucky enough to be on the Weyrleader’s wing back then, and there was many a time when I’d attend a Gather at Fort Hold.”
“Did you know my mother?” Fiona asked, curious. The only memories she had were so dim that she was never willing to put much faith in them.
“I did,” L’rian told her, shaking his head sadly. “I knew her before she was Lady Holder, even.” He smiled at her. “She looked a lot like you, actually.
“She came from Ruatha,” he continued, pleased to see that he had such a willing audience. “At first she spent time at the Harper Hall.” L’rian winked at her. “Rumor was that she was sweet on a harper, even though she was the eldest of Ruatha’s daughters.”
Fiona listened, entranced, for the next half hour while L’rian reminisced.
“Oh, I can go on, can’t I?” he said in apology when he realized how long they’d been talking. He smiled. “But it’s good to talk to fresh ears; all the stories become new again.”
Fiona smiled back. “Thank you for telling me.”
“Was that the purpose of your visit?” L’rian asked, somewhat bemused. “I can’t think of anyone who might know that I’d met your mother, you know.”
“No,” Fiona said, rising to her feet and looking anxiously toward the door. “Tannaz asked me to—”
“Check on us?” L’rian guessed with a knowing look.
Fiona thought of prevaricating but realized it was futile. “The loss of the dragons—”
“That was horrible,” L’rian confessed. “Even for the weyrfolk, who can only know what’s been lost, not what was had.”
“Some of them had fire-lizards,” Fiona remarked.
“So they did,” L’rian agreed. “And those would understand, even if they were still in pain. But only someone who has Impressed can really understand what it is to lose a dragon.” He pursed his lips, then leaned closer to Fiona, saying conspiratorially, “If anything were to happen to Danorth, if she were to get ill, I think I’d go between with her.”
“But what about your loved one
s?” Fiona asked in dismay.
“I’ve seen many of the ones I’ve loved go between already,” L’rian told her. “My sons and daughters are all grown, their mothers are well partnered, and my best mates are in the past. I’ll have no regrets when the time comes.”
“Except one,” Fiona corrected. “Fighting Thread.”
L’rian barked a laugh. “Fighting Thread!” He turned back to Danorth. “Did you hear that? She thinks we’ll fight Thread!”
“It’s coming soon,” Fiona replied hotly. “And we’ll need all dragonriders then.”
L’rian paused then, absorbing her words. “I suppose we will at that, if only to carry firestone to the fighting wings,” he allowed.
“There, you see, you’ve something to live for, then,” Fiona told him.
L’rian smiled and gave her a tolerant look. After a moment, he grinned and wagged a finger at her. “I’ll tell you better.”
Fiona looked at him inquiringly.
“I’ll wait around until your gold rises, and then we can have some serious conversations,” the green rider teased.
Fiona felt herself turning bright red, and L’rian burst into a loud, long laugh. She brought herself under control enough to declare, “Heard and witnessed!” which wiped the smirk off the old man’s face. She turned to his quarters, saying, “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must check on the others.”
“Go, lass!” L’rian called after her. “Go and may you bring as much joy to the others as you’ve done to me.” As she left she heard him muttering to his dragon, “Did you hear that, Danorth? We’re staying on for another three Turns if we can make it. Staying on to talk with the wee one after her dragon rises.” There was a thoughtful pause and she heard, just before she moved out of hearing distance, “We might even stick around for her Hatching!”
Fiona schooled herself to spend less time with the next rider and was glad that she managed to spend no more than a quarter of an hour with each of the next six. However, she did promise herself that she would find more time in the coming months to talk with more riders. So many of them reminded her of her father’s guards, sturdy men who worked hard and determinedly to provide peace and protect the Lord Holder if the need ever arose.
However, the riders were also different; a breed apart. They spoke of firestone. The older ones spoke of spicy firestone, the sort that burned the throats of their dragons. They spoke of riding straps and tack, they shared with her their horror stories of oiling patchy dragonhide, and they shared memories of past Games, and reminiscences of past mating flights.
While none seemed too overwhelmed by the death of the four dragons, Fiona had been in her father’s company long enough to note those who spoke with a forced heartiness—she’d heard the same tone in prideful holders who had over-farmed their lands or were afraid to admit other shortcomings. Often the neediest Fort holder was the one least likely to ask for aid. Lord Bemin was constantly visiting the smaller holds, always on the pretext of preparing or collecting tithe, but even with only thirteen Turns to her, Fiona had noticed the times when her father had ordered some of the guards to help out with a planting or a fencing, or had sent back to the Hold for some special spices or tubers.
“I’ve so many tubers in our root cellars that I’ll have to get rid of them or let them rot,” she recalled him saying to one farmer whose entire crop had been ravaged by tunnel snakes. “Would you do me the favor of taking some?”
Or, “My men have grown soft on this trip; would you let me put them to work on that field over there?”
She knew that she still had a lot to learn, so she found it easy enough to listen to the dragonriders and sometimes surprised herself by suggesting that she was hungry—even when she wasn’t—and would they have some food with her. Then she’d order down or have their dragon bespeak the watch dragon and have some food brought up to them, and that way she could be certain that the rider ate something that day.
She was genuinely sorry, hours later, to have to interrupt her latest meeting when Talenth woke.
“I’ve got to go oil her—her skin’s itching again!” Fiona declared as she made her departure.
“Go! Give her a good oiling,” the brown rider told her, waving her to the door.
“I could come back,” she offered tentatively.
“No, I’ll need to oil my own beast,” he told her kindly. “You go on and see to the others.”
Fiona nodded gratefully and rushed back down to the center stairwell and across the bowl to her weyr and itching dragon. She was pleased with her efforts; she’d managed to see everyone on her half of the level.
She oiled Talenth quickly, making sure to lavish lots of praise—using some of the new phrases she’d heard from the older riders—and then rushed off, promising to return when needed.
Go! Be Weyrwoman, Talenth replied with a mixture of pride and curiosity—she was still too young to grasp all the responsibilities of her rider, but she was pleased to know that Fiona was doing what was expected of her.
As Fiona crossed the Weyr Bowl again, she saw that there were many dragons on the ground and in the air: The activity at Fort Weyr looked more normal.
“Fiona!” Tannaz called to her from near the Kitchen Cavern. Fiona waved and rushed over.
“Cisca said we should stop what we’re doing and help with the evening activities,” Tannaz told her as she got closer. She smiled at the younger Weyrwoman. “Kentai is going to put on a performance and the cooks are putting on a feast.”
So, with a mixture of relief and regret, Fiona turned her skills to the evening’s activities, and was soon busy learning things she’d never known about Southern Boll cooking from the head cook, Zirana.
“Do you sing?” Kentai asked her at one point.
“Sing?” Fiona repeated, wrestling her attention away from the pungent smells and thinly-sliced meats and vegetables being quickly cooked in front of her. She couldn’t help but make a face as she answered, “I sing when I can’t avoid it.”
“Hmm,” Kentai murmured thoughtfully. “Would you prefer to dance?”
“I’d prefer to learn the swords, to be honest,” Fiona told him. She’d grown up on the tales of Nerra of Crom, but no matter how she’d tried, she’d never managed to get her father to agree to her taking lessons.
“Ah, Nerra of Crom!” Kentai said with a knowing nod. “Weyrwomen are more often encouraged to gain skill with the bow, and tonight would not be the time for a display of such skill.”
“Flaming arrows,” Zirana muttered as she poured a batch of thinly-sliced vegetables into a cooking bowl.
“Not after last time!” Kentai laughed. When he caught Fiona’s perplexed look, he explained, “Cisca nearly set the weyrling barracks alight.”
“Strong,” Zirana agreed tersely. She flicked her eyes up to Fiona for a moment. “Good for the Weyr.”
“Why bows?” Fiona inquired of Kentai.
“Tradition,” Kentai replied. “Besides, using a bow is similar to using a flamethrower a-dragonback, or so the Records say.” Before Fiona could ask, he added, “You probably won’t be taught until Talenth is old enough to mate.”
“Probably?” Fiona said, seizing on the word.
Kentai shrugged. “Nothing is for certain in a Weyr.”
“Food is certain,” Zirana corrected him. She made a shooing gesture to Kentai. “Hungry harpers is certain.”
“Harpering is hungry work,” Kentai said reprovingly.
“Cooking is hungry work,” Zirana retorted. She beckoned Fiona to come closer. “Come, learn to cook.”
Fiona didn’t say that she’d been haunting the Fort Hold kitchen since before she could remember, because Zirana’s style of cooking was so completely different from Neesa’s that Fiona wanted to learn all about it. For one thing, it looked like Zirana tended toward lighter fare than Neesa, working with fresh vegetables, thin-sliced meats, all cooked together quickly at high heat. Neesa’s food was more the sort that stewed for half a day or wa
s marinated days in advance. The aroma of cooking food, pungent with fresh spices, banished Fiona’s fatigue.
“Weyrwomen—dragonriders and weyrfolk—must know how to cook,” Zirana declared, waving a wooden spoon threateningly at Kentai, who had sidled back toward the cooking bowls. “Harpers always know how to eat.”
Kentai raised his hands in defeat, saying to Fiona, “Once you’ve learned as much Boll wisdom as this one is willing to teach you, feel free to find me.”
Tannaz, who had been helping one of the dessert cooks preparing fresh fruits, called over to Fiona, “And when you’ve learned from Zirana, you come to me and I’ll teach you proper Igen cooking.”
“Igen!” Zirana swore, tending to her pots. “Igen food is thick and heavy.”
“I’ll teach you how to make desserts from nothing,” the cook at Tannaz’s side piped up.
“You listen to Ellor, here,” Tannaz agreed vehemently. “She’s the best.”
Ellor blushed and bent back down to her work, looking flattered.
“Keep chattering, Melanwy will hear,” Zirana cautioned.
Fiona was startled by the silence that descended. “Who’s Melanwy?”
“Headwoman,” Zirana replied, bending back down to her cooking. Fiona saw that Ellor had also returned intently to her work. When she caught Tannaz’s eye, the older Weyrwoman shook her head quickly, in an obvious “not now” movement. Fiona sighed and turned her attention back to the amazing dishes that Zirana was preparing.
“Ginger, garlic, onions, mushrooms, pernooms, all a good start for cooking,” Zirana explained as she started a fresh cooking bowl, pouring in a quick daub of oil and then throwing in many of the ingredients she’d listed. The smell of ginger, garlic, and pernooms wafted up enticingly. Zirana passed the spoon to Fiona. “You try.”
Fiona gave her a startled look before taking the spoon and quickly swirling the ingredients around the bowl.
“No burning, no sticking,” Zirana instructed. “Just stir fast.”
As Fiona did so, Zirana started throwing in sliced onions, followed by a darkish sauce. “From soya bean,” Zirana explained, smiling as she poured it on. “Now meat.” And Zirana scooped in a cup of thinly sliced wherry meat.
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