You’re a dragonrider now, she told herself sternly. It’s time to behave like one.
But, deep down, Fiona knew that her behavior was more to convince herself that she wasn’t some sort of monster.
“I’m rather glad that happened,” Cisca said as she and K’lior entered the Council Room.
“With Fiona, or Melanwy?”
“Both, I think,” Cisca replied, a thoughtful look on her face. She sighed. “ ‘Out of the mouths of babes!’ Xhinna is right that we—I—should replace Melanwy as headwoman but . . .”
“You were afraid?” K’lior teased gently.
Cisca gave him a measuring look, her lips pursed tightly, before finally admitting, “Yes.”
K’lior nodded and said nothing.
“Well, maybe not so much afraid as . . . considerate,” Cisca corrected herself.
“That’s what I thought,” K’lior told her.
“And,” Cisca said, persisting with her self-examination, “because I was hoping that the problem would solve itself without my pushing.”
“And so it did,” K’lior observed.
Cisca shook her head. “Only because Fiona lost her temper and pushed instead.” She furrowed her brow, deliberating internally.
“She’ll be careful now,” K’lior said. “You scared her.”
“I hope I didn’t scare her too much,” Cisca admitted ruefully. She smiled at K’lior. “Such power!”
“She said she was angry,” K’lior remarked.
“Yes, but she compelled Melanwy,” Cisca persisted. “Can you imagine the power that took?”
“Melanwy’s—”
“—getting old, yes,” Cisca said, cutting across his objection, “but she also has had tens of Turns more time to learn resistance to such compulsions.”
“Are you suggesting that Fiona might be a problem?” K’lior asked, his eyes hooded.
“No,” Cisca replied with a firm shake of her head. “I’m saying that she’s going to be an awesome Weyrwoman when the time comes.”
K’lior mulled that over silently until the sound of the wingleaders’ footsteps disturbed him.
As usual, H’nez was first, followed closely by T’mar.
Really, K’lior reflected, it should be the other way around. Carefully he schooled his face to hide his thoughts as he examined his eight wingleaders.
H’nez was hotheaded, bold, decisive, and unwilling to admit error. Not quite foolish, but given to moods.
T’mar . . . T’mar was not himself, K’lior thought in agreement with Cisca’s earlier disturbing observation. T’mar was more than ten—closer to twelve—Turns older than K’lior. In fact, except for an excessive level of restraint, he was the rider that K’lior himself had most hoped to emulate. But something had happened to T’mar, something that left him slightly off his peak, distracted . . . and it had cost him the leadership of the Weyr when Cisca’s Melirth had unexpectedly risen after the death of Nara’s Hinirth.
M’kury was a weyrmate of K’lior’s; they had Impressed at the same time. M’kury was enthusiastic, outgoing, but perhaps overexuberant. He was also blunt in the extreme, which often rubbed people the wrong way. K’lior had no problem with it, as he had learned that M’kury expected no less in return. In fact, K’lior found it refreshing, even if occasionally overwhelming, to know that M’kury would never refrain from speaking his mind.
V’ney was almost the exact opposite; a person for whom manners were of paramount importance. His polish was well rewarded as he was liked—no, adored—by all his riders and had no lack of weyrmates, either. However, he was not as quick as H’nez or T’mar—when he was on form—when it came to handling a wing in flight. He could be counted to perform magnificently in ordinary maneuvers, but he—and his wing—tended to come apart when things got out of hand.
M’valer and K’rall were old, both having been wingleaders ever since K’lior could remember. And while they were steady, K’lior was concerned that they’d spent so much of their lives preparing—they were both nearing their fiftieth Turn as dragonriders—that they would have neither the stamina nor the flexibility when it came time to fight live Thread.
The last two wingleaders came last to the Council Room and looked anxious and out-of-place as they entered. K’lior waved them in and gave them encouraging looks, but he could see the way they stiffened when confronted by H’nez’s glower and K’rall’s half-heard snort.
S’kan and N’jian were brown riders, and all of K’lior’s work had not yet reconciled H’nez or K’rall to the fact that there were not enough mature bronzes to lead all the wings. And, in all honesty, K’lior wasn’t sure that even if he’d had enough bronzes, he’d consider displacing these two as wingleaders. For, in constrast to the steady V’ney or the aging K’rall and M’valer, S’kan and N’jian were natural leaders—and natural wingleaders.
In fact, K’lior admitted to himself, it was a pity that queens were almost always caught by bronzes, for these two brown riders would both have made excellent Weyrleaders.
“It’s not right, browns leading wings!” H’nez had complained when K’lior had first implemented his plan, and the grumbling had never ceased since. And no matter how hard K’lior or Cisca praised the brown riders or encouraged them, the resentment of H’nez, K’rall, and M’valer always kept S’kan and N’jian feeling unworthy.
K’lior gestured for the wingleaders to sit as he pulled out a chair for Cisca, but all except for M’kury waited until the Weyrwoman was properly seated. M’kury gave Cisca an unapologetic grin, which she returned; she was used to the prickly bronze rider and preferred his lack of airs to those of some others.
“So why did you call us at this late hour, K’lior?” M’kury began without preamble. “I was already well into a nice beer and looking forward to some—” He broke off with a meaningful glance toward Cisca.
“I’m not sorry to interrupt your revelry,” K’lior replied just as briskly, “particularly as you have made it plain to everyone how tender your backside was after the last time you—”
“All right!” M’kury broke in with a hand upraised, conceding defeat. “Forget I spoke.”
“Forgotten,” Cisca said, her eyes dancing. She wondered which poor weyrfolk was dealing with M’kury’s latest attentions—the young bronze rider seemed to have a different bedwarmer for every one of a sevenday.
“If your reasons for calling us were only to . . .” H’nez began suggestively.
“They were nothing of the sort,” Cisca interjected hotly. “However some of us believe in exchanging pleasantries.”
K’lior cleared his throat loudly. Cisca gave him a look that was not quite sorry but was, at least, attentive.
“I want to start posting riders to the holds,” the Weyrleader announced without preamble.
The outburst was immediate and predictable. “The holds!” “Why now?” “You’d be dispersing our strength!”
“Not that any explanation is required, Weyrleader,” M’kury cut in loudly and clearly, quelling the others into silence, “but I’d like it if you could explain your plan and the duration of the dispersement.”
“We know that Thread is due very soon,” K’lior began, ignoring the expected disgruntled body language displayed by H’nez, K’rall, and M’valer. He hid his surprise at T’mar’s similar expression as he continued, “The weather is cold this time of year and may be cold enough that the Thread will freeze when it falls—”
“Blackdust!” M’kury exclaimed, slapping a hand to his forehead. “By the First Egg, why didn’t I think of that?”
“Perhaps that’s why you’re not the Weyrleader,” V’ney ventured in a tone that suggested that the exuberant rider might consider containing himself and letting K’lior continue.
M’kury smiled and gestured for K’lior to go on, but before he could, H’nez objected, “And what good would it do to send riders to the holds?”
“Not just the holds,” K’lior said, “but all the obvious watch-po
ints where we might spot Thread or blackdust.”
“That’d take two, maybe three wings to manage!” M’valer objected.
K’lior nodded. “I think that we can rotate through the wings, but, yes, I would imagine that to do it properly, with appropriate relief, we would need at least a wing for each major Hold: Ruatha, Fort, and Southern Boll.”
“Surely you’d only need a single dragon for each?” M’kury suggested.
“At the Hold proper, yes,” K’lior replied. “But I want us to cover every hold minor and every major outcropping or vantage point.”
“Oh,” M’kury responded. “Yes, I could see how that would eat up—”
“But not a whole wing, surely!” K’rall protested.
“Of course not,” K’lior agreed. “We would want to rotate dragon and rider, give them a chance to rest, eat, and change vantage points.”
“Why change?” M’valer wondered. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to keep them in the same place?”
“Only if your eyes don’t get tired of looking at the same place all the time,” V’ney drawled in response.
M’valer glanced at the younger rider for a moment, then snorted. “Well said!”
“So,” K’lior persisted, “we’ll need to send out practically a full Flight of dragons.” As expected, the riders perked up at K’lior’s use of the word, “Flight.”
K’lior nodded to H’nez. “I’d like you to oversee the first effort.” H’nez nodded, his expression veiled. K’lior could only guess at the many possible thoughts in the other’s head, but he didn’t doubt that surprise and a sense of entitlement were among them. “Will you be ready by first light?” K’lior asked.
“Of course,” H’nez responded automatically.
“Good,” K’lior replied, nodding decisively. “I don’t think we’ll ask you to stay out for more than three days, then we’ll rotate.”
“I’d like to have K’rall’s and M’valer’s wings with me,” H’nez declared.
“That was my thinking, too,” K’lior responded. “But I want you to leave the ill dragons behind—I don’t want to stress them any more than necessary.”
“But they’re only coughing!” H’nez declared, his irritation obvious. “I wouldn’t let sick riders stay in their beds; I see no reason—”
K’lior cut across him, turning to K’rall and M’valer to ask, “Do either of you recall dragons coughing, in all your Turns at the Weyr?”
Mutely, K’rall and M’valer shook their heads. K’lior turned his gaze to H’nez. “Because this is something that rare, wingleader, I have decided that we will keep the sick dragons in the Weyr.” He glanced at M’kury and added sardonically, “If it were only because they’d been out all night drinking beer or cavorting, I’d say differently.”
M’kury grinned.
“But,” K’lior continued, turning his gaze back to H’nez, “as dragons don’t get colds or hangovers, I think it’s best if we treat this carefully.”
“Especially given the losses at the other Weyrs,” Cisca added.
“And the fire-lizards,” M’kury added, his usually chipper expression replaced by a much more somber look.
“Yes,” K’lior agreed, “particularly because of the fire-lizards. It has been hard enough for our own weyrfolk to handle their loss. Seeing the dragons may help the holders and crafters cope with the loss of their own fire-lizards.”
“Or it could irritate them,” M’kury said bluntly. K’lior gave him a questioning look. “It could remind them that they lost their fire-lizards while we”—he gestured to indicate the whole Weyr—“have kept our dragons.”
“They know that without the dragons all Pern would be Threaded!” H’nez declared with a contemptuous glare.
“I doubt they’ll be thinking that until Thread actually does fall,” Cisca put in. She saw some of the wingleaders—V’ney, T’mar, S’kan, and N’jian—nod in agreement. “Until then,” she continued, “the loss of their fire-lizards might increase their resentment toward dragonriders.”
“Are you saying that we shouldn’t go on patrol?” H’nez wondered.
“No,” Cisca replied, shaking her head, “I’m saying that we should remember it and behave accordingly.” She gave K’lior a private look that he had come to recognize as a warning that he was shortly going to have a message relayed by his Rineth from her Melirth.
Cisca wonders if maybe you should send different wingleaders out first, Rineth told him an instant later. K’lior caught her eye and shook his head just enough for her to notice.
“The Weyrwoman’s right,” K’lior said out loud. “H’nez, I want you to take that consideration into account as you set up your patrols. Be sure to make a courtesy call at each hold, major and minor, and each crafthall.”
“But—” H’nez protested only to have K’lior cut him off.
“It’s good manners,” K’lior said. “In fact, it makes good sense as we’ll want to be recognizable to their ground crews.” He paused. “In fact, H’nez, can you see to it that you identify the various ground crews, too?”
He pursed his lips for a moment as he considered that question himself. “Perhaps that’s too much,” he decided finally. “We can save that for the next Flight.”
“No, Weyrleader, we can do that,” H’nez declared, clearly upset that K’lior might think him incapable of the extra effort.
“Excellent,” K’lior replied. He looked around the table for any objections, then started on the next topic. “Now, there is one other thing the Weyrwoman wants to discuss with us.”
He gestured to Cisca, passing the discussion over to her.
“I’d like to ask Melanwy to care for Tannaz and Kelsanth full time,” Cisca said straight out. At the dismayed looks of the riders, she added, “At least until Kelsanth recovers.”
“Will she recover?” V’ney asked softly.
“We don’t know,” K’lior admitted after a moment’s silence.
“What about that herbal they used at Benden Weyr?” T’mar asked.
“It didn’t work; they lost their senior queen,” M’kury declared, obviously surprised that T’mar didn’t remember.
“We’ve more coughing,” M’valer added reluctantly.
“Has any dragon recovered from this?” S’kan wondered out loud.
“Not that we’ve heard,” Cisca replied. “Melanwy’s old enough that looking after Tannaz and her dragon will be enough for her by itself, so I’m going to ask Ellor to stand in as headwoman.”
“Ellor, the dessert cook?” H’nez asked. Cisca nodded and was surprised when the irritable dragonrider responded with, “Good choice. She’s capable.”
A murmur of agreement went around the table.
“Not that it’s our business, anyway,” K’rall pointed out. “Running the Weyr is the Weyrwoman’s job.”
“But it is a good choice,” V’ney observed, daring the older rider to disagree.
“Oh, it is, it is,” K’rall said quickly.
“Good,” K’lior said. He rose from his seat, extending a hand to Cisca, who took it and squeezed it in relief. “Now, it is late and H’nez’s flight will be leaving at first light, so I think we”—he indicated himself and the Weyrwoman—“will bid you a good night.”
“Others,” Cisca chimed in with a grin to M’kury, “might want to carefully consider whether it would be wise to resume their activities.”
“No problem,” M’kury declared. “They’re both waiting for me in my quarters!”
SEVEN
Holder looks up to the skies
For signs of promise and demise.
Thread will fall across the ground
Unless brave dragons do abound.
Fort Hold, Morning, AL 507.13.23
The alarm klaxon from the guard tower startled Lord Bemin and he broke into a run, anxious to leave the Great Hall and discover the cause of the disturbance.
The moment he was outside, several huge shadows fell over him and he instantly k
new the cause—dragons! A full wing by all rights, he noted quickly as he peered upward, half-hoping to see a small gold above him. But that was not to be, for he knew that Fiona’s Talenth was still too young to go between. And then a dreadful thought crossed his mind and his face drained of color. He knew that some dragons had died from this new, unknown illness—could this wing of dragons be an honor guard bearing bad news?
He increased his pace, rushing toward where the largest dragon—a bronze—descended. The rider leapt off quickly but the dragon did not depart; clearly a brief visit was intended.
“My Lord—” Lord Bemin began as soon as he was in earshot, halting as he tried to remember the name of this bronze rider.
“I am H’nez,” the rider drawled in response, glancing at Bemin as though he were a mere drudge, “rider of Ginirth.” He paused for a moment as he examined Bemin and feigned ignorance. “And you are?”
“It has been a long time, Lord H’nez,” Bemin replied stiffly, adding with an equally stiff but not very deep bow, “since you have graced this Hold with your presence. If my memory serves, the last time we met you were not yet a wingleader.”
“I wouldn’t know,” H’nez said, “as I have no idea to whom I’m speaking.”
Bemin’s eyes narrowed in anger; he was wearing his hold colors and his rank was obvious. The dragonrider was being rude—but two could play that game.
“I had heard that dragonriders in the main have excellent eyesight,” Bemin commented with another part-bow. “I did not realize that your eyes have gone so aged as mine that you cannot distinguish the colors of Fort Hold.” He paused just for a moment and added with an obsequious expression, “That is where you wished to be, is it not?”
H’nez snapped to his full height, his eyes flashing. Beside him, his dragon rumbled ominously.
From within her lair, Fort Hold’s watch-wher, usually asleep during the day, bugled a response.
“It is all right, Forsk,” Bemin called to her. “We are honored by dragonriders from the Weyr.”
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