Dragonheart

by Todd J. McCaffrey

  “What are they?” Fiona asked, peering at the jackets. “They look hot.”

  “Hot but fashionable,” Terin said with a grin as she picked one up by the shoulders and proudly displayed the back. “What all Weyrwomen and Weyrleaders should wear.”

  “I’m not a Weyrleader,” T’mar said, holding up his hands in a warding gesture.

  “Close enough,” K’rall allowed. “Especially with regards to the markings.”

  Fiona glanced more carefully at the large diamond woven onto the back of the wherhide jacket: It was sandy and showed three mounds—the Igen Weyr markings.

  “Oh, wouldn’t that rile D’gan!” T’mar exclaimed.

  “We thought it might provide some amusement,” K’rall said, including Terin with a gesture.

  “And given all that I’ve heard about Telgar, it might be a good idea to be quickly seen as from another Weyr,” Terin added.

  “I’ll roast in that!” Fiona declared in a feeble attempt to avoid wearing the jacket, but she knew, even as she spoke, that she not only would wear it, she wanted to.

  “So put it on only when you’re in the air,” Terin replied sensibly, tossing the jacket to her. Fiona caught it awkwardly, groaning. Terin took pity on her and walked over. “Of course, if you want, I could help you with it now. Maybe that would be easier.”

  Fiona made no protest as Terin, aided by K’rall, helped her into the jacket.

  “There!” Terin declared proudly. “All set.”

  “You look a proper Weyrwoman,” K’rall said approvingly.

  “I’m too young.”

  “It’s not the age,” K’rall said solemnly, “it’s the decorum.”

  Fiona couldn’t argue with that, particularly as the words made her beam with pride. She turned to T’mar, who bowed slightly to show his approval.

  “So, how far will I have to walk?” Fiona grumbled quietly to T’mar as Zenor approached.

  “Not far,” T’mar said. “We’ll be sure to land you as close as we can to the Smith Hall.”

  “Are you sure that I’m needed?” Fiona asked, directing her question to both T’mar and Zenor.

  “I can’t say for certain,” Zenor told her, “but given that Nuella can’t come, I’d be grateful for the support.”

  Nuella was sleeping with Nuellask. The watch-wher was too young to be left alone for any length of time.

  “And I’d honestly prefer it if you were there as Weyrwoman,” T’mar told her. He looked awkwardly at the wherhide jacket he’d looped over his forearm. “I’d prefer not to claim honors I haven’t earned.” He met her eyes. “You have the right to claim to be Igen’s Weyrwoman.”

  Fiona’s eyes danced in delight even as she shook her head demurely.

  “You do,” T’mar assured her. “And I don’t doubt that your time at your father’s Hold will help in our dealings.”

  “Please give me a hand up, then,” Fiona said, directing her words to K’rall. T’mar hid a smile as he clambered up to his position on Zirenth’s back and reached down to grab Fiona. Zenor came up next, and then Fiona’s crutches were strapped on to Zirenth’s harness. T’mar made certain that all the flying straps were secure, with Fiona in front, Zenor in the middle, and himself in the rear.

  “Fly well!” K’rall called with a wave as Zirenth rose into the air.

  As they flew toward the Star Stones, Zenor followed Fiona’s gaze and saw a gold head sticking out of the queen’s weyr. “We’ll be back before dinner,” he said to cheer her up.

  “I know,” Fiona said with a sigh.

  “I’ll make certain that no one shoots arrows at you or sets dogs on you,” T’mar promised, his voice light.

  Fiona sighed again, more deeply. She hadn’t thought that the reason for her discomfort was that obvious. She certainly wanted the best for the Weyr, but she was getting close to the point where she’d be willing to trade a sevenday’s coddling for another injury.

  “You are carrying the weight of the Weyr on you, I know,” T’mar said, seeming to divine her thinking. He reached forward and patted her lightly on the shoulder.

  “I’ll survive,” Fiona declared, wishing she’d drunk more klah.

  “You will,” T’mar agreed. “Things will settle down soon enough. Perhaps you’ll even be bored.”

  Fiona snorted in disbelief.

  With a thought from T’mar, Zirenth went between.

  The cold, black nothingness of between surrounded them and Fiona was glad of her warm wherhide jacket. Then they were surrounded by light and sound again. The air was cooler, the scene greener, the smells less sharp, more earthy.

  It took no time for Zirenth and T’mar to get their bearings and then they whirled into a steep spiral toward the ground below, buffeted by the tricky winds that flowed in the narrow river-fed valley.

  “We came in low enough that we shouldn’t have been spotted at either the Hold or the Weyr,” T’mar shouted as they descended.

  “If we did, no one at the Weyr would comment on it. Dragon riders from all over come regularly, I’m sure,” Fiona shouted back. “I’m sure they visit here as often as they visit the Harper Hall.”

  She turned her head to look forward again, eyeing the ground rising up below her.

  The first thing she noticed was the Smithcrafthall itself. It was a huge building set tight against the raging Three Forks river, close enough that two large waterwheels dipped into it. There was a lot of activity farther downstream, and Fiona peered at it for a moment, trying to determine what the people were doing.

  They landed in the clearing nearest the Smithcrafthall. T’mar leapt down and helped Fiona dismount, handing her the crutches before turning back to help Zenor.

  “That’s odd,” Fiona said as she surveyed the huge doors of the Smithcrafthall. “I would have thought there’d be a crowd gathered to see us.”

  The huge four-panel doors were built so that very large objects could traverse into and out of the Smithcrafthall. Fiona hobbled toward a smaller side door.

  “They’re not keeping guard,” Zenor muttered.

  “Why would they?” T’mar asked.

  Zenor shrugged, his expression troubled. “I would.”

  At the door, T’mar moved in front of Fiona and pushed it open, then gestured for her to precede him.

  She was met by a cacophony of sound, the bashing of metal with metal, the hiss of hot liquids into molds, the tinkling clatter of small tools on rough-finished goods. No one glanced up as she entered, and she was surprised to find no one near the door.

  “Where is the Mastersmith?” Fiona asked but her voice was lost in all the noise. She turned to Zenor. “Who is the Mastersmith now?”

  “Veclan,” Zenor replied, surprised that she needed to ask. “Isn’t he for you, too?”

  Fiona shook her head, then turned back to the room before them. It was huge, and she began to be less surprised that their entrance had gone unnoted. When she could pick out people among the metal, braziers, furnaces, and jigs, they all seemed to be intent on one task or another, eyes down, gaze intent on their chores.

  “Where would we find him?” T’mar asked.

  Zenor shrugged. “I’ve never been here.”

  “Where would we find Dalor?” Fiona asked. “He’s leading the mine now.”

  “In the thick of things,” Zenor replied, grinning. “Dalor is always where there’s a problem to be solved, and then he’s on to the next one.”

  Fiona nodded; it made sense and was much the same with her father or, come to think of it, with herself at the Weyr.

  She began a careful survey of the work floor, looking for a knot of men. She found one and raised her crutch to point it out before proceeding as quickly as she could with her sore foot trailing behind her. She probably would have walked on it and ignored the crutches, but she knew that both Zenor and T’mar would chide her for it, and to be honest, she knew that the calf still needed rest no matter how much the infirmity galled her.

  The knot thinned
as they approached, then reformed protectively around the oldest member. He reminded Fiona a bit of Master Zist when he was in one of his foul moods, and she had to force herself to keep moving forward. As he took in T’mar’s shoulder knot and recognized him as a dragonrider, his bushy eyebrows narrowed in a sour frown. His gaze settled for a moment on Zenor and his expression altered a bit.

  “Mastersmith Veclan?” Fiona began, shouting more loudly than necessary, hoping that her words would carry over the din to those beyond the small group. “I am Fiona of Igen Weyr, we’ve come to offer you an opportunity we think might benefit Hall and Weyr.”

  Veclan looked surprised, and his gaze went from Fiona to T’mar, to Zenor, and then back to Fiona. His thoughts were obvious: Why was a young girl doing the talking?

  “Igen Weyr?” the man next to Veclan repeated scornfully. “Why don’t you say Telgar?”

  “I wasn’t speaking to you,” Fiona snapped at the rat-faced man. “I was talking to the Mastersmith.”

  “Then you should learn manners, weyrgirl,” the rat-faced man growled back.

  “Weyrwoman,” Fiona corrected, her tone carefully set so as to make her correction sound reflexive, as though she’d spoken absently. She eyed the man a moment, noted the journeyman badge on his breast, then said to Veclan, “I do hope it’s customary for the Mastersmith to do the talking in his own Hall.” She turned to the other man, adding, “And out of courtesy I would speak to you by name.”

  “I am Journeyman Stirger,” the man replied testily.

  “Mastersmith,” Fiona began again, then realized how tired she was of shouting and gestured around the hall, “I hate to distract you from your work, but is there a quieter place we could talk?”

  “What happened to your leg—did you trip on the way down a dragon?” Stirger drawled.

  “Lady Fiona was attacked by dogs that had gone wild at my mine,” Zenor said, stepping forward to catch Stirger’s eyes, his hands raised aggressively.

  “Your mine?”

  “Perhaps someplace quieter?” Fiona repeated.

  Mastersmith Veclan eyed her a moment longer, then nodded. To Stirger he said, “Check on the castings.”

  “But Master—”

  “Kindly ask Silstra to join us in my office,” Veclan said to Stirger. The journeyman waved a hand in acknowledgment and turned rudely away from the others without further word.

  Veclan pointed out the way and nodded to indicate that Fiona should go first. When she turned and he caught sight of the symbol on the back of her jacket, he gasped. “You dare to wear that here!”

  “It’s her right,” T’mar spoke up from behind the old Smith. “Hers is the senior queen at Igen.”

  “The only queen,” Fiona called over her shoulder, feeling compelled to add in honesty, “And she’s not yet had her first Turn.”

  Veclan held his questions until they reached a small office and he ushered them inside. The office housed two tables, one standing off to the side, and the other at the head of the room, clearly his workdesk. Both were cluttered with drawings and half-finished castings or other metal works. When Zenor shut the door behind them, the noise from the work floor diminished appreciably.

  “So, Lord D’gan has decided to reestablish the Weyr?” Veclan asked as he gestured to the nearer table. Zenor pulled a chair out from under a pile of rubble and held it for Fiona, then set to work carefully moving the drawings and other items to clear a space for the others. T’mar looked at him, shaking his head, and set to helping as best he could.

  “That’s not necessary,” Veclan said, “and you’ll only upset Silstra. She’s convinced that I can’t keep the place tidy by myself and she’d feel lost if I didn’t allow the rubbish to pile up.”

  “Silstra?” Zenor perked up in surprise, his nagging feeling from the first time her name had been mentioned hardening into a firm suspicion. “Is she married to Terregar?”

  “How do you—” Veclan began in surprise, then shook his head. “You are from her mine.”

  “Her brother Kindan was my best friend,” Zenor told him. “I helped wash Danil’s watch-wher the night before the wedding.” He shook his head reminiscently. “That was Turns past.” He looked up to Veclan. “Do they have any children?”

  “They lost their first to the Plague,” Veclan told him sadly. “But they’ve another.”

  “Silstra was the best cook and organizer and she knew all about healing and—” Zenor’s enthusiasm was cut short as the door burst open and a young woman rushed in.

  “Silstra?” Zenor asked, his eyes wide.

  Silstra paused, taken aback. She glanced at Zenor, who stood up.

  “Zenor!” she cried. “You survived!” She saw the other two then, and her eyes narrowed. “But what are you doing here with dragonriders?”

  “We have a proposal for you,” Fiona said, taking a deep breath as Silstra’s fierce gaze latched on to her. “Zenor is part of it.” She nudged him, hissing, “Show them!”

  Zenor paused for a moment and reached into his pocket, extracting a heavy bag. He glanced at Fiona one final time, then loosened the bag, upended its contents into his palm.

  “We’d like some help in setting up a hold and craft hall,” he said as the Mastersmith lurched forward, eyes wide, to examine the nuggets resting in Zenor’s hand.

  Veclan motioned questioningly to Zenor, who obediently dumped the contents of his palm into Veclan’s outstretched hand. The Mastersmith held the nuggets close to his face for a moment, then turned to Silstra. “Get Zellany.”

  As Silstra turned to go, Fiona added, “And could you bring Terregar, as well?”

  Silstra paused and turned back, eyeing Fiona dubiously. “Why do you want my husband here?”

  “This concerns him,” Fiona told her.

  “If it concerns him, it concerns me,” Silstra replied tartly.

  “Of course,” Fiona agreed.

  Silstra shot a glance toward Veclan, then demanded of Fiona, “And what business has the Weyr with our crafting?”

  “We’re here mostly to help,” Fiona said, forcing herself to relax. “Our trade—”

  “Trade?” Silstra snorted. “Weyrs don’t trade!”

  “This one does,” Zenor told her stoutly.

  “Would you please get Terregar and whoever else the Master needs,” Fiona begged, “and then we’ll answer all your questions.”

  Silstra glared at her for a moment, then glanced toward Veclan for confirmation before turning once more and leaving.

  “Well, maybe not all their questions,” Zenor murmured to Fiona, eyes twinkling.

  An hour later, Fiona felt drained. Her wounded calf throbbed and she turned pleadingly to Zenor.

  “Let’s go, milady,” he said, rising from his chair. He glared at Stirger, who had invited himself into the meeting halfway through and seemed only to delight in creating discord. “It’s obvious that there is no trade here.”

  “Dragonriders don’t trade,” Stirger declared once more.

  “We would,” Fiona responded, rising from her chair and propping her crutches under her arms. She turned to Silstra.

  “I am sorry we couldn’t come to an agreement,” T’mar said, also rising.

  Zenor glared at Silstra. “Kindan would have listened.”

  “Doubtless,” Stirger drawled. “After all, he is a harper, and likes a good tale.”

  Fiona bit back an angry retort, instead venting her anger and disappointment in a sigh. She turned to Veclan and Zellany, the other master at the Smith Hall, searching for some final words, but found none and shook her head in sorrow.

  “We’re not coming back,” Zenor said to her as they made their way to the door. “We can find another way.”

  Fiona said nothing, too weary to argue. She started forward then stopped, turning to Zenor. “Didn’t you want to ask them about the ring?”

  “What ring?” Silstra demanded, glancing about the room as though looking for something missing.

  “I can make
it myself, I’m sure,” Zenor said. “Gold’s not that hard to work.”

  “You’re going to use your gold to make this—this—” Stirger spluttered, gesturing toward Fiona. “A ring for her finger?”

  “No,” Fiona said, turning toward Silstra. “He’s going to make a ring for Nuella, before he asks her to marry him.” She smiled grimly. “And we were going to fit out our dragons to carry glows to honor them on their wedding night, the way Dask honored you on yours.”

  Silstra went pale and sat down hard in her chair. Terregar glanced at her in shock, then turned to Fiona. “And what do you care? Dask was only a watch-wher!”

  “Watch-whers will fly Thread at night,” T’mar declared hotly. “Dragons and dragonriders will owe their lives to them.”

  “I’d ask that you keep that to yourselves,” Fiona said. “It won’t happen until the Fall over Southern Boll.” She smiled as T’mar reached around her to open the door. The noise of the hall outside was almost welcome after all the bitter talk.

  “Wait a moment!” Veclan’s voice boomed out.

  Fiona paused, then stepped through the door. Behind her she heard quick, heavy steps and muffled gasps, and suddenly Mastersmith Veclan stood before her.

  “My lady, would you please come back inside?”

  “The air in that room is too foul with malice; I prefer the smoke and noise out here.”

  “I am an old man,” Veclan replied, “and my time is more precious to me than it ever was.”

  “You are worried about a successor,” Fiona replied. “You needn’t be.”

  “And why is that?” Veclan asked, frowning.

  “Because the choice is obvious, once you believe what I said,” Fiona told him.

  “And what is it that you’ll gain for your Weyr?” Veclan asked. “We’re not doing this for the Weyr,” Fiona replied. “We’re doing this for Zenor.”

  “Zenor?”

  Fiona nodded. “For him, his wife to be, and their children.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “And I don’t want to tell you more than I must,” Fiona replied. “But think: with his wife riding a gold watch-wher, what better trade could he have than mining gold for her? In her honor?”