You? Never! Talenth replied, twisting her head down a little. Just there. That feels great.
Fiona chuckled at Talenth’s so readily apparent pleasure and redoubled her efforts.
It had been less than two months, she mused to herself, and she couldn’t imagine life without Talenth.
A loud cough from nearby startled her.
As one, dragon and rider turned toward the sound.
“Kalsenth,” Fiona murmured, her heart suddenly heavy in her chest.
She’s not getting better, Talenth observed. What will happen if she doesn’t get better?
Fiona shook her head, not daring to answer.
SIX
Brave dragons, fly high, fly true
Gold, bronze, brown, green, and blue.
Fort Weyr, Seven Days Later, AL 507.13.22
“There’s no need to worry about more herbals,” Tannaz said to Fiona as she entered Kalsenth’s weyr early that morning, bearing a steaming bucket full of the pleasant-smelling brew. “It’s not working.”
Fiona began a protest, but the older woman silenced her with a raised hand. “It hasn’t worked at all these last three days.”
Tannaz was a shrunken remnant of herself, eyes red-rimmed, hair oily and lank, her skin nearly hanging on her frame. She’d been up every night, twitching with every snort or cough her dragon made—and sometimes she’d started in terror to the sound of other dragons whose coughs echoed in the Weyr Bowl with an eery irrevocability, a harbinger of death.
Kalsenth’s breath came and went in wheezes, punctuated erratically by louder coughs that wracked her great gold body from end to end; Fiona cringed to see the beautiful queen in such straits.
“Tell Cisca that I want to move to a higher Weyr,” Tannaz said, turning away from Fiona and back to her dragon.
“Tannaz . . . ?” Fiona began but the older, smaller Weyrwoman waved her away with a hand thrown up dismissively.
In a mood that bordered on terror, Fiona left swiftly, calling to her dragon, Talenth, tell Cisca that Kalsenth has gotten worse.
After a moment’s pause, Fiona’s queen, who had clearly been dozing, responded, I have. She says to meet her in the kitchen.
Thanks, Fiona replied, altering her trajectory toward the Kitchen Cavern. As she made out the glow of the kitchen fires through the early morning fog, she spotted the darker form of a person near by.
“How’s Tannaz this morning?” Melanwy asked. “How’s her dragon?”
“Worse,” Fiona told her brusquely. Melanwy had taken to skulking around Tannaz’s quarters, always ready to help, but Fiona got the distinct impression that the old woman was personifying the old saying: Misery loves company. Fiona was growing to hate the older woman’s presence but said nothing as Tannaz had made no protest.
“She’s addled,” Tannaz had told Fiona the only time the younger Weyrwoman had commented on it, her tone making it clear that she had expected more compassion from Fiona. “She thinks that I’m Nara, the old Weyrwoman, half the time.” Seeing Fiona’s still-troubled expression, Tannaz added, “I don’t mind the company. You can’t be here all the time; you’ve got your own dragon to tend.”
Fiona couldn’t help but hear the resentment in Tannaz’s tone at that, the unspoken “Your dragon is healthy, at least.”
“I’ll see to her,” Melanwy said now. As the old woman hobbled off, Fiona heard her add, “Haven’t I always seen to her?”
“Fiona, what is it?” Ellor asked as Fiona entered the Kitchen Cavern.
Fiona was still so unnerved by Melanwy’s bizarre behavior that she could only shake her head.
“The Weyrwoman’s over there,” Ellor said, pointing. She pushed a tray into Fiona’s arms. “There’s klah here and something warm for this cold morning.”
Still bemused, Fiona trudged over to the Weyrwoman and set the tray down, sitting only when Cisca gestured for her to do so. The Weyrwoman was so caught up in her own thoughts that it wasn’t until she’d offered Fiona a cup of klah for the second time that she realized the younger queen rider hadn’t responded.
“Fiona!”
Fiona looked up at her, dazed.
“What is it?”
“She’s not going to make it, is she?” Fiona said quietly to Cisca. “Neither Kelsanth nor Tannaz, are they?” When Cisca said nothing, Fiona continued, her voice rising along with her anger. “And Melanwy’s there every day, just waiting and hoping for the time when—”
“Drink some klah,” Cisca said, her voice commanding. She pushed a mug into Fiona’s numb hands.
Fiona obeyed, but it was as if someone else were moving her hands, someone else drinking. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Dragons were always healthy, they never got sick, they never . . .died.
“She’s going to go with her, isn’t she?” ahe asked, absently dropping her mug on the table.
“If she does, it’ll be her choice,” Cisca replied quietly.
“So what’s Melanwy doing?” Fiona demanded.
“I think,” Cisca replied after a moment, “in her own way, she’s trying to help.”
“Help?” Fiona couldn’t believe it.
“In her own way,” Cisca repeated. She looked up as K’lior pulled out a chair opposite Fiona. He looked haggard.
“I just left J’marin,” K’lior told them.
“The herbal didn’t help, did it?” Fiona demanded. She didn’t notice the look that K’lior and Cisca exchanged and only barely heard K’lior’s words: “No, it didn’t.”
“That’s what Tannaz said,” Fiona told them bleakly. She looked up at Cisca. “She said to tell you not to worry about the herbals and that she wants to move to a higher weyr.”
“No,” Cisca said determinedly. “She’ll stay in her weyr.” She caught Fiona’s look and added, “I’ll tell her.”
T’mar approached them and, at K’lior’s gesture, took a seat. “L’rian’s Danorth is not getting better.”
“None of them are,” declared Kentai, approaching from the cavern’s entrance. He grimaced as he added, “I just spoke with our Masterherder.”
“Herder?” T’mar murmured in surprise.
“The herbal is very similar to one she uses for sick herdbeasts,” Kentai continued, seating himself beside Fiona, across from T’mar. He shook his head. “She says that usually if the herbal doesn’t work the first time, the beast will die.”
“Dragons aren’t the same as herdbeasts!” T’mar declared.
“No,” agreed Kentai, “but the herbal is.”
“I’ve spoke with Toma before,” K’lior mused, “and she’s always seemed very knowledgeable in her craft.”
“We can’t do nothing!” T’mar persisted, looking from Kentai, to Cisca, to K’lior, and finally at Fiona. “Thread is coming and we’ll need all our dragons.”
“I think we all know that, T’mar,” K’lior said soothingly. T’mar simmered under the Weyrleader’s gaze.
“Is there anything you suggest we do differently?” Kentai inquired.
T’mar glared at the harper, muttering, “If we had a healer . . .”
“If we had a healer he’d tell us no more than we know,” Kentai retorted. He gestured to the Bowl outside and up toward the drumheights by the Star Stones. “I’ve been in constant communication and no one has a better solution than Kindan’s.”
“He’s no healer,” T’mar persisted rebelliously.
“No,” Kentai responded agreeably, “he’s not. But it was Kindan who thought of the ways that helped the Holders during the Plague, and Kindan is the only one who has bonded with a watch-wher and Impressed a fire-lizard.”
“I trust Kindan,” Fiona declared hotly. “He saved my life.”
T’mar gave her a surprised look, then lowered his eyes and muttered, “He’s no dragonrider.”
“But Lorana is,” Kentai responded. “And it is her herbal we have been using.”
T’mar gave the harper a mulish look but said nothing, instead reaching for a mug and the p
itcher of klah. He knocked the mug over and broke it.
“Here,” Fiona said, pushing her mug toward him. “Have mine.”
“No, I’ll get my own,” T’mar declared.
“T’mar!” Cisca called to him in surprise. The bronze rider looked her way, his brows raised. “Are you sure you want to do that? It’s never wise to turn down the favors of a Weyrwoman.”
T’mar was about to respond angrily but caught himself. He shook his head and said to Cisca, “My apologies, Weyrwoman, I’m not myself.”
Cisca nodded in acknowledgment, then looked pointedly toward Fiona.
T’mar turned toward the younger queen rider. “Weyrwoman, I apologize for my poor manners,” he said. “If you’d accept my apology, I’d be most grateful.”
The tension at the table was palpable and Fiona felt it as she never had before. It was hers to own; she could deny T’mar’s apology and fan the flames or she could cool things off. She shook her head; she was too exhausted for anger to burn long in her.
T’mar caught her movement and mistook it. Affronted, he started to rise, only to stop when Fiona reached across the table and grabbed his hand.
“I was shaking my head at my own foolishness,” she said, catching his eyes. “Please sit back down and do take my mug. We’ve all been through too much; we’re all worried, and all tired.”
She tugged on his hand and T’mar, with a lopsided grin, eased back into his chair.
“I’ll pour, if you’ll let me, dragonrider,” Kentai offered. At T’mar’s grateful nod, the harper filled the mug with the warm klah.
“I’m sorry to have snapped at you, too,” T’mar said as he curled his fingers around the now-warm mug.
“If we’re going to survive this,” Fiona was surprised to hear herself say, “we are going to have to forgive our outbursts and accept our pain.”
“ ‘Accept our pain,’ ” Cisca repeated, giving Fiona a curious look.
It was something that Kindan had said, Fiona realized, on one of the rare occasions when she’d managed to get him to talk about the Plague.
“Yes,” she said, not caring to elaborate; she felt it would not be a good idea at this moment to mention Kindan again.
“We don’t know how long this will last,” Kentai said into the silence that fell. He smiled at Fiona. “I think our newest Weyrwoman is right: We are going to have to forgive our outbursts and accept our pain.”
“So what are we going to do for the sick dragons?” T’mar wondered.
“Keep them as comfortable as possible; have someone be with them and their riders as often as needed,” Fiona replied, remembering other words—this time from her father—about the Plague. In response to T’mar’s scrutiny, she explained, “That’s what Father said they did during the Plague.”
“And I don’t think there’s much more we can do,” Cisca agreed. “Wait,” T’mar surmised dully.
“And hope,” Fiona added.
T’mar ran a weary hand through his hair and back down his neck, massaging his tense tendons. “It doesn’t seem all that much.” “It’s all we can do,” K’lior replied.
“It’s more than watching and waiting,” Fiona added. “It’s being someone who listens, someone who helps, a kind word, an understanding touch.”
“You’ve done this before?” T’mar asked, his expression making it clear that he was dramatically reevaluating the young queen rider opposite him.
“Once,” Fiona confessed. “With an old uncle.”
She could see that the others wanted to know more. “He died holding my hand,” she explained. Her face crumpled in memory as she added, “I cried for a sevenday.”
The others looked at her expectantly. Fiona wiped her eyes and summoned a smile. “That was nearly two Turns back, just before I turned twelve.”
“Your father made you do that?” T’mar asked, sounding offended.
“I am—was—a Lord Holder’s daughter,” she said. “It was my duty.” T’mar’s expression remained clouded, so Fiona went on, “I asked to be there.” She forced back a sob. “If—if it were to happen to me, I’d want to know that someone would be with me, too.”
Cisca rose and stood behind her, rubbing her shoulders soothingly. “Queen dragons never make mistakes when it comes to their mates.”
“Obviously!” T’mar and Kentai agreed emphatically. K’lior merely nodded, with a special smile for Cisca.
“Very well, then,” the Weyrleader said after a moment. “I believe that Weyrwoman Fiona has made an excellent suggestion: We shall arrange for someone to be in attendance of our sick dragons and their riders at all times.”
“I’d best return to Tannaz, then,” Fiona said, starting to rise. But Cisca pushed her back into her seat.
“She’ll survive with Melanwy long enough for you to break your fast.”
Before Fiona could draw breath to protest, K’lior added, “You’re no use to anyone half-starved.”
“There’ll be fresh bread in a few minutes,” Ellor called from her place by the ovens. “And some buns, too.”
“There,” Cisca said as though Ellor’s words had closed the subject. “You can’t leave until you’ve tried the buns and some bread.” “I’ll stay if you’ll stay,” Fiona declared to T’mar. The older rider gave Fiona an odd look, then nodded.
“I’ll get us some more klah,” Kentai said, rising from his chair.
“Sit! Sit!” Ellor shouted. “There’ll be someone along in a moment to do that.” She turned back to her ovens, muttering to herself, “Never let harpers near the food.”
By the time Fiona had finished her breakfast, the cavern had filled with weyrfolk. As dragonriders entered, they usually called out a greeting to the Weyrleader or Weyrwoman, or were greeted by K’lior or Cisca in turn.
“I didn’t know there were so many children,” Fiona said as she spotted a group of nearly thirty children arrive at once from one of the entrances at the far side of the cavern.
“Most of a Weyr is children,” Kentai told her. He gave the dragonriders an apologetic look and rose. “Which reminds me: I’ll need to get started with classes soon, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Of course,” K’lior said. Cisca nodded and waved to him.
“You’re wondering, why so many children?” T’mar guessed from Fiona’s expression. Fiona nodded.
“The answer’s simple,” Cisca replied with a mischievous grin. K’lior must have kicked her under the table, for the Weyrwoman started and stuck her tongue out at him. She turned to Fiona. “Given that there can be up to five hundred dragonriders in a Weyr, and that each of them is expected to do his—”
“—or her,” K’lior interjected.
“—duty to the Weyr,” Cisca continued with a scowl for her Weyrleader, “you’d expect there to be upward of a thousand youngsters of various ages.”
“A thousand?” Fiona repeated, mulling the number over. She knew that Fort Hold proper had at least six thousand, and her father had told her that before the Plague there had been ten thousand, but she’d never really thought about how many of those would be children.
“We’ve fewer here now. I doubt we’ve got more than seven hundred,” K’lior said thoughtfully.
“What happens to them all?” Fiona asked. “Where are they now?”
“Some are taking lessons,” Cisca said, gesturing in the direction Kentai had taken. “Some are helping with the weyr.”
“And some are doubtless getting into trouble,” K’lior added with a grin.
“Doubtless,” Cisca agreed. “And several are probably at this very moment on the Hatching Grounds, looking around and dreaming.”
“I doubt it,” K’lior declared. “I suspect it’s a bit too early for that.”
“What do they do when they grow up?” Fiona wondered.
“Some become dragonriders,” K’lior said. “Some stay on and work at the Weyr; some become weyrmates.”
“Most weyrmates work at the Weyr,” Cisca corrected him.
“We’ve three in the Harper Hall at this moment,” Cisca pointed out proudly.
“And two at the Smithcrafthall,” K’lior reminded her.
“For which we are most grateful,” Cisca agreed emphatically.
“Why?”
K’lior snorted. “Let us say, simply, that it is not as easy as one should like to get a tithe from the Smithcrafthall.”
“D’gan,” Cisca snarled. “The man’s a cretin.”
“Weyrleader D’gan?” Fiona asked. The Smithcrafthall was located near Telgar, and so came under Telgar Weyr’s protection.
“He makes the rest of you look good,” Cisca said to K’lior impishly.
K’lior shook his head and turned back to Fiona. “Some of them Impress or go to other Weyrs,” he said, continuing the original thread of their conversation.
“And some go to holds,” Cisca added.
“I can’t think of any who came to Fort,” Fiona said.
“You probably wouldn’t,” Cisca agreed. “They usually come as pairs or groups and prefer to stake out new lands. You wouldn’t see many of them at the Hold proper.”
“We’re an independent lot, weyrfolk,” K’lior agreed.
“But you’ll never find weyrfolk unwilling to help,” Cisca added, “if you ask for it.”
“I think I should check on Tannaz now,” Fiona said, feeling a bit out of sorts—the Weyrleaders were going on about how great weyrfolk were, and while she knew that holderfolk were every bit as kind and good, she didn’t think it would be wise to point that out. Besides, no one had offered to help her since she’d been in the Weyr; she’d done all the helping.
As she rose from her chair, the bronze dragonrider she recognized as H’nez approached their table, saying, “More dragons coughing this morning, aren’t there?”
Fiona was glad to leave; she liked him even less for that comment than she had before. As if K’lior wasn’t doing everything he could!
Her anger stayed with her as she crossed the Weyr Bowl. The morning fog was all but gone, leaving only thin wisps of mist at the edges of the Bowl. Wishing for some way to vent her pique, Fiona kicked a stone out of her way. A moment later she found another, then another. What began as a way to relieve anger became a game and she proceeded to kick from one stone to the other until she realized that she was wasting her time and avoiding the task at hand. With an angry huff at herself, Fiona took her bearings and started toward her weyr.
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