Dragonheart

by Todd J. McCaffrey

  “So that we can have the festivities before you leave?” Fiona asked, smiling.

  “But of course,” F’dan replied. “After all, we blues are known for our conviviality!”

  “Are you offering me a ride?” Fiona asked teasingly. F’dan had complained of aches and pains nearly every time he’d ridden his Ridorth—except when practicing with the glows.

  “Do you know, Weyrwoman, I believe I am,” F’dan said, rising from his seat and bowing courteously to her. “It would be our honor—Ridorth’s and mine—to escort you on this quest.”

  “I’ll have to check with—” Fiona began, meaning to say that she would have to check with T’mar, but she cut herself off. After all, wasn’t she the Weyrwoman here? True, it was only by dint of her being the only queen rider at Igen Weyr but, really, after all these more than six months at the Weyr, wasn’t she entitled to the perks of the title as well as the duties?

  She checked herself and her impulse. She was Weyrwoman, and she’d spent the last six months learning the role—both here and back at Fort. There was a reason to check with T’mar.

  “I’ll check with T’mar first,” Fiona said. “I’d hate to foul any plan he might have made already.”

  “Of course,” F’dan agreed, walking toward her and offering an arm. “Shall we go down together?”

  “Certainly,” she said, taking the proffered arm and smiling. She knew that his offer of an arm was more for his benefit than hers; by the time they’d reached the level of the Bowl, she didn’t doubt that she’d been holding him up and not the other way around.

  T’mar was not in the Kitchen Cavern when they arrived.

  “I’ll just sit over here,” F’dan said, pulling a seat near the large hearth.

  “Don’t get too comfortable,” Fiona warned him. Talenth, where’s T’mar?

  Inspecting the weyrling barracks.

  “Come on, he’s with the weyrlings,” Fiona told F’dan, cocking her head toward the Bowl.

  F’dan made a great effort out of getting up from his chair, but Fiona glared at him, arms crossed, not buying the act for a moment. He’d recovered enough that he could rise from a chair unaided—it was only walking long distances that taxed his strength.

  “Better,” she murmured archly as he caught up with her. The blue rider shrugged unrepentantly.

  They found T’mar, J’keran, and J’gerd inspecting the weyrling quarters. T’mar made a great show of dismay at the merest speck of dust or the slightest error of placement.

  “Attention to detail,” he said, shaking his head at the collected riders. “If you are not constantly alert, you risk getting yourself Threaded—or, worse, getting your dragon Threaded.”

  “He’s right, by the egg of Faranth,” F’dan added urgently. “If I had been just a moment more attentive, I would have spotted the clump that got me.”

  “Every rider makes mistakes,” T’mar said with a wave toward F’dan. “With a six-hour Fall, it can happen at any moment. The better practiced you are at keeping your eyes open, on insisting on following every ballad and instruction, the better chance you have of surviving even the worst encounter.”

  “We were lucky to get between so quickly,” F’dan agreed.

  “May we have a word, wingleader?” Fiona asked. T’mar glanced at her, then said to J’keran, “Will five minutes be enough?”

  “Certainly, wingleader,” J’keran said promptly.

  T’mar turned to Fiona and F’dan, raising his hands invitingly.

  “F’dan suggested that perhaps we should see if Zenor needs some help,” Fiona said.

  “With?”

  “Proposing!” F’dan exclaimed. “Before we all expire from old age.”

  T’mar’s eyes twinkled, and his lips curved upward as he asked Fiona, “And you are qualified in this matter, how?”

  It was a good question, but Fiona was only willing to admit that to herself. “I’m the Weyrwoman around here and have a certain weight at the wherhold.”

  T’mar grinned, shaking his head. “So you are proposing to frighten him into marriage?” He shook his head. “It seems to me that fear is his current problem. I can’t see that increasing it will help any.”

  “But we’ll have to go back soon, and if he doesn’t propose we’ll miss the wedding!” F’dan objected.

  “So you two hatched this scheme just so the Weyr could show off night flying?” T’mar asked sardonically.

  “Well . . . yes,” Fiona agreed. “It would be a shame to have the older riders leave without seeing the fruits of their labors.”

  “I would think that recovering from their injuries and returning to fight Thread would constitute the fruits of their labors,” T’mar said, his voice taking on an edge.

  “T’mar!” Fiona said, her tone just short of a whine. “This is our chance to honor Nuella and set a proper example, to show that the Weyrs can work with watch-whers. It’s not just fun.”

  T’mar looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, then ran a hand wearily through his hair. “I suppose if I said no, you’d just go anyway.”

  “No,” Fiona told him, shaking her head emphatically. “I’d want to know why, and if I thought your reasons were totally unacceptable, then I might go.” She blew out a breath before adding, “But I expect that any reasons you have would make sense and I wouldn’t go just out of spite.”

  T’mar gave her a frank look of gratitude.

  “Was F’dan here your last convalescent for the morning?” he asked finally.

  “For the day,” Fiona corrected. “And he’s fit enough that I’ve accused him of shirking. That’s partly why we thought to fly to the wherhold.”

  “The watch-whers will be sleeping soon, if not already,” T’mar remarked.

  “All the better to see Zenor without their knowing,” Fiona replied, her lips curving upward impishly.

  T’mar chuckled, shaking his head.

  “Very well, if you’re set on this,” T’mar told her. “Go now, before the others find out and we have an impromptu performance.”

  Fiona smiled back gratefully, turning and dragging F’dan by the arm before the wingleader could change his mind.

  “But you know,” T’mar called over his shoulder, forcing them to halt and turn around, “as F’dan hasn’t been there yet, he’ll have to fly the whole way.”

  Fiona’s smile broadened, as she said, “Of course! All part of my plan, wingleader.”

  Beside her, F’dan groaned.

  “This will teach you to stint on your therapy,” Fiona told him unsympathetically.

  “It’s not that much farther,” Fiona said to F’dan as he groaned once more.

  “I’d forgotten what it’s like to ride for hours!” the blue rider moaned. “I’m sore in places that haven’t been sore in Turns.”

  “Nothing a good brisk walk on the ground and a warm bath later won’t cure,” Fiona assured him gruffly, glad to have someone else’s pain to distract her from her own: This was the longest she’d ever flown a-dragonback, and while F’dan might not have been sore in places in Turns, Fiona was certain that she’d grown new muscles just for the occasion that had the express purpose of becoming painfully sore.

  She leaned back against him to peer up and out over the right side of Ridorth’s neck.

  “There!” she called, pointing with her right hand, her left tightening its grip on the arm F’dan had wrapped protectively about her waist. “See those foothills?”

  In response, Ridorth began a turn and a steady descent toward the ground. Moments later they landed and Fiona quickly unsnapped her straps, threw her leg over Ridorth’s neck, and slid quickly down to the ground below, landing with knees flexed.

  “Don’t try that fool stunt again, Weyrwoman!” F’dan shouted at her as he climbed down the approved way, using Ridorth’s foreleg. “I’ll not be tending you if you break your legs!”

  “Sorry,” Fiona mumbled, her cheeks hot.

  “Can you imagine what they’d say at the
Weyr if I returned you injured?”

  His tone was bantering now, but Fiona had no illusions that his first angry reaction was the most honest.

  “I was stupid.”

  “Not stupid, just foolish,” F’dan corrected her, stepping around to her side. “And perhaps a bit young, still.”

  Fiona cocked her head up at him: The blue rider wasn’t tall by most standards, but he still stood a head higher than her.

  “You forget that, don’t you?” F’dan said. Her look answered him and he continued sagely, “You know, you’ve the whole Weyr on your shoulders only if you won’t ask for help.” He stepped behind her, quickly resting his hands on her shoulders. “And while there’s no one who doubts your courage, you’ve not cause to bear such a weight.”

  “Cisca does.”

  “Weyrwoman Cisca relies on the help of others and admits her mistakes,” F’dan said as he returned to his place by her side. He leaned down to wag a finger in her face, saying kindly, “Which is not to say that you don’t have the same qualities, Weyrwoman. Just to say that you shouldn’t forget your friends.”

  Fiona gave him a questioning look but found herself afraid to speak.

  “Bold as I am, I count myself among them,” F’dan added. He looked ahead—giving Fiona time to wipe her suddenly teary eyes—and scanned their surroundings critically. Then he looked back down to her, raising his eyebrows. “Where to, my lady?”

  Fiona glanced around. North of the river she made out the outlines of a large stone shed with a sloped roof and long overhang; her guess that it was a barn was reinforced when she noted the thin line of a stone fence adjoining it. Closer, by the river, there was a long, low building, again in proper stone and with the requisite roofing. The building looked odd and she squinted at it. The roof overhung the river and—

  “There!” Fiona declared, setting off toward the knot of men working beside the building.

  Shortly her hunch was rewarded when she caught sight of a red-haired man in the group.

  “What are they doing?” F’dan murmured as they got close enough to make out the details.

  “I think they’re setting up a waterwheel,” Fiona said, watching a group of men struggle with hoists and tackle.

  Their presence wasn’t noted by the workers. Fiona, with a smile, indicated to F’dan that they should remain quiet, watching the work. It took the toiling men and women a good quarter of an hour to get the wheel mounted and seated on the stone shaft, and then they all stood back appreciatively as the water rolled off the plume to start the wheel turning, at which point there was a quiet cheer. A handsome bearded man with just a hint of gray in his beard stood away from the group and called, “Well done, lads! Now we can get to the real work.”

  He was met by a chorus of good-natured groans.

  “Finding the gold, that is,” he explained.

  “That’s Terregar,” Fiona told F’dan.

  “That’s Terregar?” F’dan asked, eyeing the other man with renewed interest. “His work in gold and jewels is—”

  “Just starting now,” Fiona reminded him abruptly.

  “So this is a good time to set him a commission, isn’t it?” F’dan asked with a grin.

  “Probably,” Fiona agreed. “Have you anything in mind?”

  “A ring, I should think,” F’dan said, glancing down at his barren fingers meditatively. He looked over to her, adding, “You might consider it, too.”

  “The way you lot fly, it’d only get dirty with blood or ichor,” Fiona exclaimed.

  “You never know when a pair might come in useful,” F’dan replied judiciously.

  Fiona jerked her head toward the group and started forward, calling back to F’dan, “Come on, while they’re still on break.” To the group she called, “Zenor!”

  The red-haired lad cocked his eyes toward the sound and his face broke into a smile as he identified her.

  “Weyrwoman!” he called back. “You’re just in time!” He gestured to the waterwheel, now turning at a steady pace. “Did you see?”

  “We got here just as you were mounting it,” Fiona told him. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Terregar point out a new task to the rest of the workers and then detach himself in their direction. “

  We’re a bit busy,” Terregar called as he approached, his glance falling to Zenor.

  Zenor glanced reprovingly at the older man’s brusqueness, then turned to Fiona. “To what do we owe the honor?”

  “We were wondering about rings,” F’dan said, essaying a grin toward Terregar.

  “Actually, we were wondering about one in particular and its current disposition,” Fiona said, having noted the flash of Terregar’s eyes at F’dan’s words. She glanced toward the smith. “Although if you were looking for commissions, I’m sure we could arrange a fair trade.”

  Terregar’s angry look faded. He glanced down to the ground, abashed. “I’m not used to fair dealings with dragonriders,” he said, glancing up again. “I’m sorry.”

  “As are we,” Fiona replied. “Although once we are fighting Thread, we won’t have time for fair trade.”

  “I don’t know,” Zenor objected, “I think the sweat of your brow, the blood of your bone, the ichor of your dragons, the risk of your lives or worse, is hard to price.”

  Fiona smiled at him. “I suppose there is that.”

  Terregar eyed Zenor thoughtfully, clearly reassessing his own beliefs.

  “You could be a harper,” F’dan declared appreciatively.

  A sound from above, more felt than heard, heralded the arrival of a dragon from between. Fiona glanced up in surprise; it was a bronze.

  “That’s not one of ours,” F’dan declared, eyeing the landing dragon carefully.

  “We’re not supposed to be here,” Fiona yelped, looking to Zenor and Terregar for aid. “They can’t know we’re from the future!”

  “Here,” Terregar said, shucking off his tunic and throwing it toward Fiona. “Put this on and go to the others.”

  “You can’t hide me,” F’dan said as the others turned to him. “My blue is yonder.”

  “Just be who you are, only from this time,” Fiona called as she strode off quickly to join the work group.

  “I was much younger then!” F’dan called back.

  Fiona shrugged and then turned her attention to her new role as smith worker.

  “There’s a strange bronze landing,” she explained before the other workers could finish their greeting. “I need to blend in; they can’t know we’re here from the future.”

  “Weyrleader D’gan would have a fit,” one of them said in agreement. He glanced at Fiona assessingly. “Ever panned for gold?”

  Fiona shook her head, grinning from ear to ear.

  “We’ll set you up, then,” the man said, reaching for a pan and tossing it to her. “I’m Klinos, that’s Jenur, Aveln, Torler, and that,” he finished, gesturing to the youngest of the group, a lad of about ten, “is my son, Finlar.”

  “Mine, too,” Jenur put in with a growl. She was the only woman in the group and clearly used to Klinos’s ways. “Or did you forget that you had help?”

  “You’re always a help, love,” Klinos said obtusely. “Finlar, this is the Weyrwoman, only we want to keep that a secret from the other dragonmen.”

  The youngster grinned up at Fiona. This was a challenge that he was sure to revel in.

  “He’ll show you the way of it,” Klinos said, nodding affectionately toward Finlar.

  “Come on Weyrwo—”

  “Fiona will do.”

  Finlar’s eyes got as wide as the mining pan in his hands. In a hushed voice he said, “Fiona.”

  Behind, the others laughed.

  “Go on with you, teach her right!” Jenur called after them. “Be sure she finds some good nuggets.”

  “Most of ’em have already been found,” Finlar complained.

  “Let’s do what we can,” Fiona suggested.

  Finlar led her down to the river bank
and stood for a moment, eyeing it critically.

  “Do you mind getting wet?” he asked and, when she shrugged, started out straight into the river. He glanced back when he noticed that she hadn’t followed and called, “It’s okay, it’s pretty flat here. No big holes.”

  Reluctantly, Fiona followed, wondering if perhaps they weren’t making more of a spectacle of themselves than prudence suggested. The water quickly rose to her knees and then to her waist.

  “It’s cold!”

  “Nah, just chilly,” Finlar corrected. “You get used to it quickly.”

  He peered around and started trudging farther upstream and more toward the far bank. Fiona followed him, wondering if she shouldn’t be reining him back. As if reading her thoughts, he peered back over his shoulder and said, “It’s okay, I know what I’m doing.” After a moment he added, “Besides, if I didn’t, me ma would skin me alive.”

  Fiona grinned.

  “Okay, now lean down, get a good mix of bottom and water,” Finlar told her, matching his actions to his words, “and then stand back up, swirling the water around to spill the dirt out.” He began a swirling motion with his arms and allowed the dirtier water to spill over the edges. “If you’re lucky, when you’re done, you’ll find a nugget. If not, you’ll find gold dust, little flecks of the stuff.” With pride he added, “You always find gold flecks.”

  Fiona repeated Finlar’s steps twice before she felt she had a good grasp of the mechanics. Her first pan revealed only small flecks of gold.

  “Throw it back, you’ll get better,” Finlar said as he inspected her pan.

  “But . . . it’s gold!”

  “The mill’s for those small flecks,” Finlar told her dismissively. “That’s why we’re building it.”

  Seeing her continued reluctance, he leaned over and used his pan to force hers back into the water, spilling the contents. “Trust me, you’ll find better!”

  Fiona sighed but dutifully scooped up another pan. It didn’t seem right to her so she dumped it, moved another step closer to the shore, and tried again.

  “That’s it,” Finlar said encouragingly. “Use your senses.” His dropped his voice. “Sometimes I think we can feel the gold.”