Dragonheart

by Todd J. McCaffrey

  K’lior and Cisca greeted the healer warmly and gestured for her to sit beside them. Fiona glanced to see if there was a place for her, but a sharp look from Cisca dissuaded her and she made her apologies, climbing back down from the raised platform and scanning the large cavern again for T’mar.

  She found him seated with his wing at a table near the northern entrance.

  Well, there was nothing for it, Fiona told herself grimly. She straightened her back and raised her head, recalling her father’s instructions. “When apologizing, do it quickly and be forthright,” Lord Bemin had told her Turns back over an incident involving one of the cook’s favorite serving bowls. “And be certain that you mean it. There’s nothing worse than a half-hearted apology.”

  But she could have died! Fiona protested to herself, wondering how her father would have responded.

  “She didn’t,” he would probably have said, “and you weren’t angry with the bronze rider because of that.” She could imagine him sighing and drawing her close. “Lying does not become a Lady Holder, particularly if she lies to herself.”

  Yes, Father, Fiona thought in an end to the imaginary conversation, you’re right as always.

  She was at T’mar’s table. The riders there all stopped talking when they saw her.

  “Weyrwoman,” T’mar said, inclining his head respectfully.

  “Wingleader T’mar,” Fiona began, “I wish to apologize to you for my outburst this morning. I should not have been angry with you.” She bit her lip and forced herself to continue. “The truth you spoke was not one I was prepared to hear. I regret my harsh words.”

  T’mar regarded her for a moment, then gestured for her to take a seat. His wingman hastily rose and moved to the end of the table, brushing aside Fiona’s protests with a shake of his head and a smile.

  T’mar waited until she was seated, then leaned in close to her. “You are not weyrbred; you learned something today that our children know as soon as they can talk.”

  “I am holdbred,” Fiona agreed, “but my father is a Lord Holder and many of the same truths apply to Lady Holders as it does to Weyrwomen.” She frowned. “It’s just hard to accept.”

  “Harder as a Weyrwoman, I believe,” T’mar told her. “As a Lady Holder you could renounce your claim, but as a Weyrwoman . . .” He shook his head.

  “Is it always this hard?” Fiona asked him frankly. “Am I the only one . . . ?”

  “No,” T’mar assured her. “I think every Weyrwoman battles with this issue.” He waved a hand toward Cisca. “I know that she did, before Melirth rose.”

  Fiona pursed her lips, her chest tight as she worried about how she would deal with Talenth’s first mating.

  “You’ve Turns yet, Fiona,” T’mar said, guessing her thoughts from her expression. He grabbed her hands with one of his and clasped them tightly, reassuringly. “You’ll do fine, I’m certain.”

  “Cisca . . . ?” Fiona asked tentatively.

  T’mar grimaced and shook his head. “If she chooses to tell you, she will,” he replied. “Let’s just say that there was a great deal of relief that Rineth flew her.”

  Fiona noticed that T’mar glanced down at the table immediately thereafter, as though reliving some painful experience.

  She was wondering how she could learn more—perhaps Ellor would tell her?—when the night was pierced by a strange noise, not the sound of a dragon but of something else, a noise Fiona instantly recognized: a watch-wher!

  “I didn’t know watch-whers came here!” she exclaimed, craning her neck toward the entrance.

  “They don’t,” T’mar said, pushing himself up and away from the table.

  Fiona saw that Cisca and K’lior were also rising and looking toward the entrance.

  Talenth, Fiona thought quickly, ask the watch-wher’s name.

  Her name is Nuellask, Talenth responded immediately. Can I meet her?

  Wait, Fiona replied, she might be frightened.

  Of me? Talenth asked in amazement. Fiona assured her that that was probably not the case while still managing to keep her young queen from prancing out into the Bowl.

  “It’s Nuellask,” Fiona said, following T’mar. “She’s Nuella’s gold watch-wher.”

  “Thread’s not due for two days,” T’mar said. “I wonder why she’s here?”

  “Maybe she wants to coordinate with us,” Fiona suggested.

  Cisca caught sight of her as they reached the exit and, shaking her head at the exodus, told Fiona, “Keep them back.”

  Fiona nodded and found herself herding curious riders and weyrfolk back to their meals, all the while wishing she had a better chance to see Nuella and her gold watch-wher.

  After a few minutes, T’mar returned, beckoning to Fiona. “Cisca wants Nuella to meet you.”

  With a relieved smile, Fiona ceded her job to T’mar and headed out into the darkened Weyr Bowl.

  Even in the dim light, Fiona had no trouble locating the knot of riders clustered around the small gold watch-wher. The watch-wher arched her neck high over the humans as Fiona approached and then snaked it down to bring her head with its huge eyes to bear directly on Fiona, issuing a soft, high-pitched greeting.

  “I’m Fiona,” she told the watch-wher, reaching a hand forward, fingers outstretched tentatively to scratch the watch-wher’s nearest eye ridge. As Nuellask crooned in delight, Fiona smiled. “Forsk likes to have her eye ridges scratched, too.”

  “Did you spend much time with her, then?” a strange woman’s voice asked from close beside her.

  Fiona shook her head, then expanded, “Not really. She was up at nights, and Father always insisted that I be asleep.” She grinned in memory. “But sometimes, when I was lonely, I’d go into her lair and curl up with her when I was tired.”

  “From catching tunnel snakes, no doubt,” the woman, whom Fiona realized must be Nuella, guessed with amusement in her tone. “Kindan complained of it to me on several occasions.”

  “Complained?” Fiona repeated, feeling irked with Kindan. “I got a quarter mark for each head!”

  “And never got bitten, except the once,” Nuella added approvingly.

  Fiona looked at her in surprise. “How did you—how did Kindan know about that?”

  Nuella laughed. “No one keeps secrets from harpers for long.”

  “But I treated myself and kept the cut hidden!”

  “You still needed stores and you had to ask someone, even if hypothetically, about treating snakebites,” Nuella replied, her voice full of humor. She held out a hand, which Fiona took and shook eagerly. “I’m Nuella, as you’ve no doubt guessed.” She continued, “And rest assured, no one would have known except that Kindan was keeping such a careful watch over you.”

  Fiona was too embarrassed to reply.

  “I thought it was a particularly good idea to ask Kelsa if there’d ever been songs written about treating snakebites,” Nuella confided approvingly.

  “She wrote one just afterward,” Fiona remembered, then groaned, glancing over to the older woman in horror, “and she consulted Father on it! You don’t suppose she told him . . . ?”

  Nuella laughed and shook her head. “I have no idea,” she replied. “All I know is that after the song was written, Kindan showed up at my camp very agitated and tried to slyly teach the song to me.”

  “He was afraid you were going to go after tunnel snakes?”

  Nuella shook her head, her grin slipping. “I’d already done that,” she confessed. “I think he was just trying to be certain that I knew how to handle the bites if I ever did again.”

  With a shock of horror, Fiona realized that Nuella was referring to her first watch-wher, the green Nuelsk, who had died of snakebite. She risked a glance at the older woman—who had nearly twice as many Turns as she—and was surprised by their similarities: both were blond and freckled. Nuella’s eyes were more of a pure blue than Fiona’s, but they could have been sisters or, at least, half-sibs.

  “It seems that Kindan�
��s friends are always doing brave things,” Cisca remarked as she strode over to them, K’lior and H’nez trailing just behind her.

  “Kindan sets the example,” Fiona said in unison with Nuella. The two glanced at each other in surprise, then laughed.

  “Can I see your dragon?” Nuella asked when she recovered. “Nuellask said she’d like to meet her.”

  “Of course,” Fiona said, calling to Talenth. The little queen eagerly scampered out of her lair, launching herself for a quick glide in the night. Shaking her head, Fiona called, “Show off!”

  Talenth said nothing in response, just striding quickly over to the gold watch-wher. The two exchanged cautious sniffs, then inspected each other eagerly.

  Can I play with her? Talenth asked hopefully. Fiona could see the attraction: Nuellask was just a bit bigger than the little queen.

  She’s much older than you, Fiona warned her. I don’t think she’ll want to play.

  “And you’re supposed to be sleeping, aren’t you?” Nuella added with a laugh. Sensing Fiona’s surprise, the wherhandler told her, “Nuellask gave me an idea of your queen’s eagerness.”

  “She wants to play,” Fiona admitted.

  “I could see the attraction,” Nuella agreed. She turned toward Talenth, shaking her head. “I’m afraid that Nuellask and I have to get back to our lair. We’ll be flying Thread in two days’ time.”

  Talenth hung her head until Nuellask chirped at her soothingly.

  “I’m sure you’ll meet again,” Nuella promised the queen dragon, “when you’re older.” She turned to Fiona, adding, “When you’re both older.”

  Before Fiona could respond, Nuella turned toward the knot of riders, saying to K’lior, “Then it’s agreed, Weyrleader, that the watch-whers will ride the Fall?”

  “After your last performance, I wouldn’t have it any other way,” K’lior replied feelingly. “But if there’s any danger—”

  “Your H’nez will be on duty at Southern Boll,” Nuella interjected. “If there’s any need, we’ll contact him.”

  “I still think it’s a bad idea,” H’nez grumbled. “The Records say nothing of watch-whers fighting Thread—”

  “Actually,” Cisca interrupted smoothly, “they do.”

  “When?” H’nez asked abruptly.

  “As of last night, when I wrote the report,” the Weyrwoman told him.

  H’nez was not amused. “If they’re so useful, why was there no mention before?”

  “I doubt anyone ever thought to mention it because it was obvious,” K’lior told him. “Watch-whers watch at night and guard holds—we all know that. Probably no one thought it worth mentioning that at night they also guard the holds from Thread.”

  “We haven’t trained for this,” H’nez protested.

  “I accept responsibility for that,” K’lior said.

  “If all goes well, we won’t need you,” Nuella assured H’nez.

  “Not need . . . ?” H’nez repeated, his tone full of disbelief.

  “If the weather holds, the Thread will all be dead,” Nuella said, “and then neither dragon nor watch-wher will have to fight.”

  “That would be good,” K’lior said. “And it would give us time, afterward, to train together.”

  “I thought dragons didn’t like flying at night,” Fiona said.

  “They don’t,” Cisca agreed. “But they hate missing Thread more.”

  “I must return,” Nuella said, turning back toward her watch-wher and feeling for the saddle. Nuellask gave her an encouraging chirp, turning her head to guide Nuella. After Nuella mounted, the others stood back as the queen watch-wher beat her tiny wings, rose slightly in the night air, and was gone between.

  “Let’s hope the Thread freezes,” K’lior said.

  * * *

  The new day dawned cold with snow flurries falling, clothing the Weyr in a damp blanket of slush and mist—snow rarely stayed long in the warm Bowl of the Weyr. Farther up, in the weyrs, it was a different matter.

  “I don’t know how this cold will affect the sick dragons,” Tintoval said when she met Cisca for breakfast that morning. “I know that dragons are usually not bothered by cold but—”

  “—dragons don’t usually get sick,” Cisca finished for her, nodding in agreement.

  “We could ask them,” Fiona suggested. The other two looked at her in surprise.

  “I suppose we could, at that,” Cisca said.

  “But would they know?” Tintoval wondered. The two Weyrwoman glanced at her. “People who have a fever feel cold when they’re really hot, and those who’ve suffered from being frozen sometimes think they’re too warm.”

  “Would it hurt to keep them warmer?” Xhinna wondered. “Even if they felt all right, would it hurt?”

  “I think we should worry about the riders,” Fiona said. “If they’re cold, then it’s likely that their dragons are, too.”

  “And they don’t have the illness, so they’ll know,” Tintoval added approvingly.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Cisca cautioned.

  “Why?”

  “Dragons and riders share a bond,” Cisca replied, “and a dragon’s confusion can fuddle a rider.”

  Tintoval bit her lip and nodded.

  “It’s better than nothing,” Fiona said.

  “Yes, it is,” Cisca agreed.

  “I’m going to be busy getting ready for the Fall,” Fiona said to Tintoval. “Do you think you can manage on your own?”

  “If not, see me,” Cisca said.

  “Can I have Xhinna?” Tintoval asked.

  Fiona turned to her friend. “Do you think you can survive a day without trying to beat the weyrlings at sacking firestone?”

  Xhinna spent a moment torn between her desire and her sense of duty. Duty won. “Of course, Healer.”

  * * *

  “I’m glad we’ve got the right firestone,” T’mar remarked as he and Fiona watched the younger weyrlings preparing spare sacks of firestone. “In this weather, the older stuff would have to be salted and then rolled in grease before we could bag it.”

  “And even then it was still dangerous,” Tajen added as he eyed the weyrlings’ efforts critically. “This is much better.”

  “We’ve got enough for a full Flight,” Terin reported after a final glance at her tally slate. “Do we need more?”

  T’mar glanced up at the darkening sky, still flecked with falling snow, and shook his head. “I don’t think we’ll need it.”

  “The weather will be different down at Southern Boll,” Tajen cautioned.

  “But it’s still winter there,” T’mar said.

  Tajen flipped open his hand in a gesture of agreement.

  H’nez, M’valer, and K’rall departed on Thread watch shortly before dark.

  “Send word at any sign of black dust,” K’lior reminded them before they departed.

  “I expect all the Thread will drown,” M’valer said with a sour look.

  “That would be good,” K’lior said. “We could use the rest.”

  “Rest!” H’nez exclaimed. “We’ll be up all night.”

  “I’ve never found that a problem,” M’kury called from beside K’lior. He turned to the Weyrleader. “Perhaps you should send me instead?”

  H’nez’s disgusted snort echoed around the Weyr Bowl, un-dampened by the muffling snow.

  “Good flying, wingleaders!” K’lior called in the ceremonial salute.

  A moment later, the three wingleaders were gone, between.

  When K’lior returned to the Living Caverns, Cisca greeted him with, “Why the troubled look?”

  “I don’t know,” K’lior replied, shaking his head. “I suppose I’m concerned with the way H’nez and the others are so convinced they’ve nothing to worry about. They don’t seem ready. Alert.”

  “I can understand them,” Cisca replied. “With this beastly weather, as long as the watch-whers are on duty, there’ll be no call for dragons.”

  K’lior
pursed his lips, then nodded absently.

  “But it’s warmer down south,” Fiona remarked.

  “We shouldn’t worry,” Cisca decided. “Not with Nuella minding the watch-whers.”

  Her words did little to assure either Fiona or K’lior, who exchanged worried looks.

  “Nuella’s been training for this for a long while,” Tintoval said in reassurance. “She’ll have no trouble managing the watch-whers, I’m sure.”

  “I said no,” Zenor repeated forcefully, turning Nuella toward him. Behind her, Nuellask gave them a questioning chirp. “You can’t do this.”

  “But I must,” Nuella replied calmly. “You know that.”

  “The first time, yes,” Zenor agreed. “You needed it for peace of mind, if nothing else. But Nuellask”—and he shot the gold watch-wher an acknowledging nod—“knows what to do now, so she doesn’t need you.”

  Nuella drew breath to argue, but Zenor placed a restraining finger on her lips. “You’ve got children, Nuella. What would they do if anything happened to you?”

  “They would survive,” Nuella answered softly, pushing herself against Zenor and nuzzling in tightly. “They have the best father on all Pern—”

  “So it’s my duty to ensure that they keep their mother, too,” Zenor finished.

  “If anything happened to Nuellask and I wasn’t there—”

  “It would hurt terribly, I know,” Zenor said. And Nuella had to admit that he did know. Not only had he helped her through the torment of losing her first watch-wher, Nuelsk, but he had also survived the wrenching loss of his own two fire-lizards.

  “But you would survive,” Zenor concluded. And this, Nuella knew bitterly, was also true. The bond between watch-wher and whermate was strong, but it was nowhere near as deep as that between a rider and her dragon.

  “I have to go, Zenor,” Nuella said at last, pushing herself away from him more reluctantly than her brusqueness showed. “It’s my duty.”

  “She’s right,” a small voice piped up from behind Zenor. “ ‘Dragonriders must fly when Thread is in the sky.’ ”