“Like all those who weren’t dozy before suddenly became dozy!” Fiona exclaimed in surprise.
T’mar looked at her with eyes narrowed, then slowly nodded. “You think that timing it has caused this?”
“We’re in two places in one time—our younger selves are now at Fort, where we belong, and our older selves are here, where we never were—why wouldn’t that cause strain and distraction?” Fiona responded.
“I don’t feel dozy!” Terin declared.
“That’s because you aren’t a dragonrider,” Fiona told her. She regretted the words the moment she saw how Terin’s face fell sorrowfully.
“At least, not yet,” T’mar told her.
“Not everyone Impresses,” Terin said with a pout.
“There are no guarantees,” T’mar agreed. “But I’m sure you’ll get your chance”—he glanced slyly at Fiona—“when her queen rises.”
Terin’s eyes widened and she glanced apprehensively toward Fiona.
“Of course!” Fiona said. “You and Xhinna—”
“I wish she was here,” Terin interjected.
“We could use her help,” Fiona agreed. She turned back to T’mar, saying, “So this distraction could be caused by timing?”
T’mar pursed his lips. “It could.”
“You don’t sound certain.”
“I’m not,” the bronze rider agreed. “It doesn’t explain why you were . . .”
“Dozy?” Fiona supplied when his words trailed off. “And you? Weren’t you also dozy?”
“Do you think it was an effect from timing it now?” T’mar wondered. A short moment later, he shook his head and answered himself, “But that doesn’t explain why some were affected and not others.”
“Maybe everyone reacts differently,” Fiona suggested with some uncertainty.
“I can understand being distracted when in the same time twice,” T’mar said, his lips pursed again, “but I don’t understand why we would feel it when we weren’t in the same time.”
“Perhaps—” Fiona began but cut herself off. T’mar gave her a questioning look, but she only shook her head in response. She didn’t want to suggest that perhaps they were twice in the same time not now, but back in the “present” Third Pass. T’mar continued to look at her thoughtfully.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “We know that if we’re distracted we can still function: if not at our best, then well enough.”
“The others will be waking soon,” Terin said as she walked back to them, leaving a drying tray full of clean slates. “We should decide on those shifts.”
“I think we can use J’nos,” Fiona said. “He’ll need watching until he gets over being—” She cut an amused look toward Terin who grinned back at her. “—dozy.”
“T’del and Y’gos would be the obvious candidates for the other two positions,” T’mar said.
“Why?” Fiona asked, realizing that she couldn’t remember T’del among the many weyrlings.
They ride browns, Talenth answered.
“Browns are usually wingseconds,” T’mar replied.
“Or wingleaders,” Terin added. T’mar accepted the addition with a nod.
“Why not go by ability?” Fiona wondered.
“Brown and bronze riders are often the ones with the most leadership ability,” T’mar said.
Fiona cocked her head challengingly.
“Oh, you get the occasional blue or green rider who makes a good leader,” he explained, “but more often their skills lie in different areas.”
“Like cavorting!” Terin snickered. “It’s a wonder we don’t have more of them.”
“Greens are sterile,” T’mar reminded her.
Fiona tapped the slates. “We need to concentrate.”
T’mar heaved a sigh and gave Terin an apologetic look. “Maybe we could send you to the traders when there’s a mating flight.”
“I remember the last mating flight,” Terin said. “I’ll be fine.”
Oh, but you’re getting older! Fiona thought. Suddenly she realized that so was she. In fact—“Terin, when’s your birthing day?”
“The twentieth of the seventh month,” Terin replied promptly, surprised by the distraction.
Fiona laughed. “You’re going to have another Turn soon!”
“What?” Terin cried in dismay. “My birth date is months away!” “Not here!” Fiona told her. “Here, we’re in the seventh month already.”
“And when’s your birthday, then?”
“The eighth day of the seventh month,” Fiona told her, her face changing expression as she realized that that date was only five days away.
“And how old will you be?” T’mar asked.
“Now or then?” Fiona asked.
“Which is now and which is then?” Terin asked with a laugh.
“You’d have fourteen Turns at your next Turning,” T’mar remarked. “So here you’d have only four Turns, wouldn’t you?”
“This is very confusing,” Fiona said glumly. “Do I Turn on my birthday here, or wait until the right amount of time would have passed in the future?”
“Why not do both?” Terin asked, giggling. “You could have a Turning for now and a Turning for later.”
“What matters is how old your body is,” T’mar declared. Fiona shot him a glance. Undeterred, he continued, “It’s how we’ll judge the dragons and their readiness to fly or go between.”
“And that speaks to when your dragon will rise to mate!” Terin exclaimed, dissolving into a full-on giggling fit.
What, Fiona wondered anxiously, if Talenth rose to mate back in this time? There were only two bronzes: T’mar’s Zirenth and K’rall’s Seyorth. Well, three, if she counted F’jian’s Ladirth, she corrected herself reluctantly.
“She’s too young,” Fiona heard herself say.
“Not in three Turns’ time!” Terin retorted, her giggles dying away. She took a breath and, when she caught sight of Fiona’s expression, forced herself to stop altogether, murmuring, “Sorry.”
Fiona’s eyes flashed as she dredged up a heated retort, but it died on her lips as Talenth said, When will you be done? I itch.
“I’ve got to oil Talenth,” she said, rising.
“I’ll warm some oil,” Terin said, glad of an excuse to change the topic.
“I’ll finish here,” T’mar said, waving to the charts.
Later, when Terin arrived with more oil, the younger girl tried to apologize to Fiona. “I’m sorry about back there,” she said. “I didn’t mean—”
Fiona waved her apology aside. “You were having fun,” she told her. “There’s no harm in that.”
Terin dipped her head and diligently applied herself to searching out and oiling any flaky patches of Talenth’s skin.
Afterward, they returned to the Kitchen Cavern. Terin snagged the first weyrlings and set them to cooking and sculling duties. “And be sure there’s klah!”
“Make sure we send out a party to find more glow,” Fiona said as she rose after her breakfast. “I think the light’s good enough to see in the Records Room.”
“I’ve detailed the work party to concentrate on getting more of the lower weyrs cleared for the injured,” T’mar said. “I’m going to take the older weyrlings on a patrol—we’ll look for your glows while we’re out.”
Fiona nodded, saying as she departed, “Be sure to check with Terin for anything else we might need.”
The Records Room was a room off of the Weyrwoman’s quarters, as in Fort Weyr. Fiona searched in the dimly lit room for the large mirrors that she knew should be there and found a pair. She snagged the first one and went back into the corridor, mounting it in the holder built into the wall and angling it so that it picked up the morning light and bounced it into the room. Satisfied, she returned to the Records Room and placed the other mirror so that it reflected the light up to the glittering white ceiling, providing the room with nearly the same illumination as light through a window.
In
the center of the room was a long, low table surrounded by chairs. Fiona was surprised at first that the chairs, at least, hadn’t been taken along when the Weyr had been abandoned but, on reflection, realized that Telgar Weyr would already have had sufficient furniture for its Records Room. Some of the Records had obviously been taken, though—a few of the storage cabinets were empty—and she could only hope that enough remained for her purposes.
She found a couple of likely stacks, settled herself at the table, and began to read.
It didn’t take all that long for Fiona to recall her father’s choicer oaths in regards to reading Records. “A boring necessity best delegated,” was the most innocuous of his pronouncements. For a brief moment she toyed with the notion of delegating the work, but curiosity overwhelmed boredom and she soldiered on, stifling a yawn.
She had gone through twenty slates—finding only two of value—before she found a truly tantalizing reference: “Of course, we used the surveyor map to locate the most recent vein of minerals.”
Surveyor map? What was a “surveyor?” She shook her head. It was the idea that mattered, not the word. If there was a map that showed minerals, what else might have been marked on a map? She looked around the room, eyes narrowed. Where would such a map be kept?
In a locked cabinet, Fiona decided. She rose and walked around the room, exploring. At last she ended up back at the cabinet where she’d first started. Had she looked carefully enough? She squatted down in front of it, studying the open cubbies. Yes! The bottommost cubby had a door, and there was a keyhole in that door! So, where was the key?
She spent many fruitless minutes hunting through the other cabinets before she wondered if perhaps some blockheaded Telgar-bound rider had pocketed the key. If that were the case, how could the door be opened?
Returning to the closed cubby, she knelt and carefully inserted a fingernail into the keyhole. She gently tugged. She was so surprised when the door swiveled open that she fell back on the stone floor.
The cubby was filled with tightly rolled . . . maps?
Fiona pulled out the top roll. It was as long as the cubby was deep. With a triumphant cry, she brought it to the table, pushed aside the boring Records, and unrolled it.
It was a map made of strange material, smooth, almost silky—definitely something made by the Ancients. She placed a slate on one corner to hold the edge down and then spread it out fully, trapping the far edge under another slate.
Talenth! she called excitedly. Tell T’mar to come to the Records Room—quick!
“And see, there, that’s the symbol for gold, isn’t it?” Fiona said an hour later as she and T’mar pored excitedly over the map, each with a mug of klah nearby.
“Where?” T’mar asked, diverting his attention from a place where he’d spotted good pastureland—a possible gathering for wild herdbeasts.
“There,” she said, pointing again to a series of turns in a river. “Over by Plains Hold.”
“I wonder that the Mastersmith hasn’t seen this,” T’mar said thoughtfully.
“I wonder why we don’t have one of these at Fort Weyr,” Fiona countered.
“Fort was the first Weyr,” T’mar mused. “I suspect they had this already at the Harper Hall and didn’t see the need at the Weyr.”
“Mmph!” Fiona snorted. “I don’t recall anything like this in the Hold Records.”
“But didn’t Kindan find similar Records when he was searching for the new firestone?”
Fiona shrugged—she didn’t know and didn’t care—and tapped her chosen spot on the map to gain T’mar’s attention. The wingleader, with a quick grin, bent to inspect the markings.
“I think you’re right,” he said as he straightened up again. And then, in surprise, he bent down once more, eyes wide. “That’s exactly where the Wherhold is!”
“No,” Fiona corrected triumphantly. “It’s exactly where the Wherhold will be.”
“And when Zenor is mining the gold—”
“—and Igen is getting a dutiful tithe—” Fiona added, her face splitting into a huge grin.
“—we’ll have enough to trade for our needs!”
Despite the excitement of their discovery, neither T’mar nor Fiona were able to devote much attention to it for the next several days, spending the bulk of their time engaged in the effort required to settle up a Weyr—and one full of convalescents, at that.
Fiona found herself crawling into bed in the heat of the afternoon only to wake at the first cooling of the evening. Her whole sleep schedule was rearranged—she spent more time sleeping in the day than at night—and it did her temper no good at all.
But she had cause to be pleased, not annoyed: After only five days in their new Weyr, enough weyrs had been cleared to house all the injured dragons and riders; the work teams had been trained in the basics of first aid and dressings; T’mar and his scouting parties had located several good grazing areas and had filled them with herdbeasts; they had started a well-composted herb garden and had located and identified several varieties of wild crops and fruits that they could harvest to add to their stores. All in all, as Fiona woke early on the morning of her fifth day, leaving Terin to sleep in for once, it seemed that things were well in hand.
She turned the glow enough to manage her toilet, then turned it over again to its dim side, slid quietly past the sleeping Talenth, and made her way to the Kitchen Cavern, where she discovered the last of the evening crew getting ready for rest and the beginnings of the day crew coming on watch.
T’mar, because of his need to scout the surrounding lands, was on the day crew, and she was not surprised to see him enter the Kitchen Cavern not long after she had set herself down at the Weyrleader’s table with a basket of warm rolls, some preserves, and a pot of klah.
“I wish we had butter,” T’mar grumbled as he joined her, leaning over to examine the various preserves.
“To have butter we’d need milch cows, cowherds to herd them, milkers to milk them, a churner to churn the butter, and a cool place to store it,” Fiona said as she chewed her roll. But, she admitted to herself, a little butter would be nice.
“We could trade,” T’mar said.
“We have nothing to trade with yet,” Fiona pointed out. “Anyway, in this heat, how long would butter last?”
“There must be a way to keep it cool,” T’mar said.
“Some of the storage rooms might work . . .”
“Not for long, you’d need some ice—”
“Ice!” Fiona’s shout caused everyone in the room to turn toward her. “T’mar, that’s it! We can get ice!”
“What?”
“It isn’t enough to have a tithe of gold,” Fiona continued on excitedly. “We need something we can trade with anyone at any time.”
“Most people will do without ice if they’ve other needs,” T’mar warned her.
“But those that want it will pay dearly,” Fiona said, her enthusiasm unabated. “Think of it, particularly here in this heat! Not only can you keep food fresh, but if you set up a fan—and we’ve no lack of wind here to drive one—you could cool a room!”
T’mar stroked his chin thoughtfully, staring absently in the distance in front of him.
“Some of our riders would do better if their quarters were cooler,” he murmured. Then he shook himself out of his musings and turned his attention back once again to the young queen rider in front of him. “It’s the middle of summer and we’re in one of the hottest places on Pern, where were you planning on finding ice?” he demanded. A moment later he added, “And without getting us caught. Don’t forget that none of the riders in this time know of our presence here.”
Fiona waved aside his objections with an airy flick of one hand. “Where, bronze rider, is it cold all Turn?”
“You can’t make ice between!” T’mar objected.
“No, not between,” Fiona said, her tone exasperated. She pointed toward with her finger. “North! In the Snowy Wastes!”
T’mar l
ooked at her as if she were sun-touched.
“Think of it, it’s just a jump between for us and then we’re back again with as much ice as we can carve out of the ground.”
“Where would you go?” T’mar asked. “This idea is so good, I’d be very surprised if D’gan or one of the other Igen riders hasn’t already thought of it—in which case we stand a very good chance of running right into them.”
“Then we go where they don’t,” Fiona said. “We go north of Benden or Nabol.”
“We could use the coastline to guide us,” T’mar mused appreciatively. “That would give us an easy mark to follow.” Then he frowned again. “Except that the coast is often fog-shrouded, which could spell disaster.”
Fiona gave him a questioning look.
“A dragon needs a good visual image to go between,” he told her, remembering that she had yet to take Talenth between on her own.
Fiona knew what happened without a good image—at best, the dragon would not go between. At worst . . . it would be lost forever, trapped between.
“Wait a moment,” T’mar exclaimed. “Why didn’t I think of it before?”
“What?”
“The Far Watchers!” T’mar told her, his expression triumphant. “Every weyrling is drilled on them; they’re not part of the standard recognition points so we don’t drill them often, but even so . . .”
“Far Watchers?” Fiona repeated, confused.
T’mar gestured to her apologetically, explaining, “They’re two very tall peaks at the northern edge of the Benden Mountains—weyrlings are taught about them to get an idea of the sort of weather that’s too cold for Thread to survive.” He grinned. “To the north of the peaks the ground is always frozen, covered in layers of ice.” He nodded to her as he continued, “Layers of marvelous, easily cut and hauled, tradeable ice.”
“So when can we go?”
“We,” T’mar said, “aren’t going anywhere. Now that you’ve given me the idea, I’ll take a group of the older weyrlings there later today when we have a chance.” He gestured toward her. “You will want to arrange a special storage room for the ice, maybe two, as we’ll need to experiment to find the best way to store it as long as we can.”
Dragonheart Page 35