Dragonheart

by Todd J. McCaffrey

  “He’ll have met me by now,” Fiona said in agreement. “I mean the ‘me’ of four Turns.”

  “If watch-whers can go between like dragons,” Arella asked, her lips pursed thoughtfully, “can they go between times like dragons, too?”

  Nuella and Fiona gasped at the notion.

  “Weyrwoman?” Nuella said, throwing the question to her.

  Fiona shook her head. “I can’t see why not.”

  “What’s it like, then, going between times?” Arella asked.

  “It’s hard,” Fiona told her. “It’s harder on riders than dragons or weyrfolk. Terin doesn’t feel it at all. But the riders—we feel like there’s a noise or tension, a tingling, a jangle on the senses. It comes and goes and we’re never sure when. Some days are better than others, and the days aren’t the same for all dragonriders. It leaves us both tired and edgy. Klah is good when we’re tired, rest when we’re edgy.” She frowned as she admitted, “There’ve been fights. Fights that shouldn’t have happened.”

  “Fights?” Arella asked, surprised.

  Fiona nodded. “We—T’mar and the wingleaders—handle them. If a douse of cold water won’t bring them to their senses, we put them in a ring with a stuffing suit and let them have at it.”

  “Stuffing suit?” Arella repeated.

  “A set of clothes full of stuffing so that they can hit each other without breaking bones,” Fiona explained. “They usually wind up exhausted, all the fight gone out of them.” She gave Arella a grim look as she added, “And then they’re put on the worst details for the next fortnight or more.”

  “I can imagine,” Nuella said thoughtfully. To Arella she said, “Remember that.”

  “Aye,” Arella responded. She explained to Fiona, “We’re still sorting out how we’re going to handle the wherhold.”

  “Arella’s been used to more watch-whers in the same place than I have,” Nuella said. “So I look to her for knowledge.”

  “You’re the senior,” Arella reminded her. “You’ve got the gold.”

  “You’re following Weyr traditions?” Fiona asked.

  “It seems right,” Nuella explained. “At least until we learn differently.”

  “Besides, all the watch-whers obey the queen,” Arella added.

  “And dragons,” Nuella reminded her. Fiona noted Arella’s sour look as the woman acknowledged that remark. For a moment Fiona wondered what it would be like the other way around, if the dragons obeyed the watch-whers, and then she realized that they already had—in the night flight Nuella had led.

  “I’m not so sure,” Fiona said much to Arella’s surprise. “I think the watch-whers are willing to listen to the dragons much the same way the dragons are willing to listen to their riders.”

  “So, no difference,” Arella said with a dismissive shrug.

  “No,” Nuella responded. “The Weyrwoman has a point. A dragon doesn’t have to obey her rider.”

  “Think of a hatching,” Fiona said suggestively.

  “Or a mating flight,” Arella added appreciatively. “If your dragons are anything like our watch-whers, then a mating flight requires the greatest control a handler—rider—ever needs.”

  “It’s in the Ballads,” Fiona said in agreement, suppressing an internal shudder—could she control Talenth when she rose? She forced herself to be calm; the event was still Turns away. Besides, Fiona couldn’t imagine Talenth ever fighting her.

  “Shh,” Arella hissed warningly to Fiona. “We’re getting near.”

  They found the group indoors, with Terregar leading M’tal on an impromptu tour of the new building.

  “We’ve only got the beams for the second floor but we’re hoping to trade with Lemos for enough wood to lay in decent flooring,” he was explaining as they entered.

  “I hate to say it,” M’tal replied, “but Telgar’s got better wood at lower prices.”

  “I’d prefer not to trade with Telgar,” Zenor replied. “Besides, we figure that here we’re beholden to you, so that it’s good manners to work with other holds beholden to Benden.”

  M’tal gave him a thoughtful look. “In old times this land would have looked to Igen Weyr for protection,” he said.

  He found himself looking at a sea of hopeful faces and added, “I see no reason why Benden Weyr shouldn’t avail itself of such a great tithe. I’ll have a word with C’rion.”

  The group gave a collective sigh of relief, untempered by M’tal’s mention of tithe.

  “Ah, Lady Nuella,” M’tal cried as he caught sight of her. “How kind of you to join us!”

  Nuella’s face split into an honest grin as she rushed toward the sound of his voice, hands outstretched. “My lord!”

  “M’tal,” the dragonrider corrected her. “My friends call me M’tal.”

  Beside her, Fiona felt Arella’s surprise. She guessed that even though the wherhandler had met Benden’s Weyrleader several times before, this impulsive, uncontrolled display of affection for one attached to the watch-whers removed any lingering suspicion that all dragonriders fell into two groups: those who despised the watch-whers, and those who sought to use them for their own purposes.

  “M’tal,” Nuella corrected herself, folding herself into his arms and hugging him cheerfully.

  “It’s been too long, I’m afraid,” M’tal said when they broke apart. “When I’d heard about your Nuelsk, I thought that I should wait until you were settled before asking you—”

  “What?” Nuella wondered.

  “Actually,” M’tal said, gesturing around with a free hand, “I’d meant to inveigle you into something like this.” He smiled and shook his head in awe. “Only I’d no notion of anything quite so grand as your current undertaking.”

  Nuella turned her head toward Fiona, then hastily, as if realizing her error, back to M’tal. “It all just sort of happened, my lord.”

  “I wish we had known about the gold here sooner,” M’tal said wistfully. “It would have eased the pain everywhere, for people are willing to work that much harder in the hopes of getting beautiful jewelry.”

  He glanced toward Terregar. “How did you find it?”

  “It was on some old maps at the Smith Hall,” Fiona improvised quickly, taking in the look of impending terror on Terregar’s face. “I was cleaning—”

  “Hiding,” Terregar corrected acerbically, grinning at Fiona with gratitude hidden in his attitude of long-suffering affection.

  “Ah, so you’re craftbred!” M’tal said to Fiona. He turned back to Terregar, adding, “Quite an honor to the Smithcraft. Master Veclan must have been sorry to let her go.”

  “Actually,” Fiona said in all honesty, “I think he was grateful to see the back of me.”

  Terregar snorted.

  “Lady Silstra is preparing a platter, my lord,” Fiona said, aiming her glance halfway between Terregar and M’tal and throwing in a sloppy curtsy for good measure.

  “I’ve kept you all too long,” M’tal said, turning toward Nuella and politely reaching for her hand. “If I can just have a word with this kind lady—” He paused and glanced at Arella. “—and Arella, too, I’ll let you go back to your work.”

  The look on Arella’s face when she heard M’tal name her was one of surprise suffused with delight.

  Nuella glanced toward Fiona, who caught the look and said, “I’m sorry for having disturbed you, my lady.”

  “Well, it was an important interruption,” Nuella said dismissively. “Just see that all your interruptions are as important.”

  Fiona nodded, then remembered Nuella’s eyes and amplified, “I will, my lady.”

  With one final scrutinizing look and a sardonic mutter of, “Very much an honor to your craft!” M’tal took his leave of Fiona and the others.

  There was a moment of silence as the remaining workers waited for the Weyrleader to move out of earshot, and then they all gave a collective sigh of relief.

  “That was awkward!” F’dan declared as he stepped out of the cro
wd.

  “Did M’tal notice you?” Fiona asked.

  “He did and I told him my rank and Weyr,” F’dan assured her. He glanced toward Terregar. “I wonder if my presence here might have inclined him more toward offering protection.”

  “I’m sure it did,” Terregar said, his lips curving upward. He turned his attention to Fiona. “And now that that latest excitement is out of the way—and, I hope you do not take this badly, I must confess that excitement seems to follow you, Weyrwoman—what was it that you came to see us about?”

  “Rings,” F’dan reminded him.

  “We’ve already negotiated your price.”

  “A day’s work here from both me and my blue,” F’dan told Fiona. From the look on Terregar’s face, Fiona guessed that the smith was still recovering from his shock while simultaneously calculating how to use F’dan and Ridorth to his best advantage. Fiona found herself liking this bearded man and could see why Silstra had found his quiet competence so attractive.

  “With an option for another day for the same price,” Terregar reminded F’dan.

  “Such option to expire upon our departure from Igen,” F’dan said, repeating the last part of their agreement.

  Terregar nodded. “You drive a good trade, dragonrider.”

  “I learned it from the best,” F’dan said, and surprised Fiona by glancing in her direction.

  “And what is it you want to trade today, Weyrwoman?” Terregar asked, his attention once again returning to her.

  “Actually, all we want is a moment of Zenor’s time, if we could,” Fiona said, glancing toward the red-haired man. With a smile she added, “And perhaps to see the ring.”

  Terregar’s eyebrows rose. Did Fiona detect a gleam of humor in his eyes?

  “It’s better in the sunlight,” Terregar said. “Zenor, why don’t you take them outside?”

  Zenor, seeming distracted, led them through the doorway and into the midday sunlight. A wind swept the worst of the heat from them, but all the same, Fiona felt they couldn’t stay long before they’d be driven back inside.

  “Come on, Zenor, give,” she said peremptorily, holding out a hand, palm open.

  Zenor reached into his tunic and pulled on the leather thong tied around his neck. He looped it over his head and dropped it into Fiona’s outstretched hand.

  “I don’t think it’s good enough,” Zenor said morosely even as Fiona’s mouth opened in a large “Oh!” of astonishment.

  “Zenor, it’s amazing!” she exclaimed, holding the gold band up close so that she could examine every intricate detail. “Three bands wound together, how did you do it?”

  “I had help from Terregar,” Zenor said. “Although he did say that I was as addled as a wherry to even think of such a piece.”

  “It’s never been done before,” F’dan explained. “There’s never been enough gold of such quality, nor”—he nodded respectfully toward Zenor—“anyone so deft at such workings.”

  “I was always good at making things,” Zenor said with a diffident shrug of his shoulders.

  “You know,” Fiona said judiciously, returning the ring to Zenor, “you’re right. There’s something wrong with that ring.”

  “I knew it,” Zenor groaned. F’dan gave Fiona a startled look of disbelief. “I just knew it,” Zenor continued. With a pleading look he asked Fiona, “What is it?”

  “It’s not on Nuella’s finger!” Fiona exclaimed, her eyes flashing in irritation.

  “Huh?”

  “You can’t see your work in its proper light until it’s in its proper setting,” she told him. “And that ring was made for her finger. That’s its proper setting.”

  She reached for his hand, latched on, and tugged. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?” Zenor asked, lurching after her like a herdbeast being led to pasture.

  “I think I’d best see to Master Terregar,” F’dan said hastily, taking off in the opposite direction. “I’m not sure I should be seen more by Weyrleader M’tal today.”

  Fiona ignored his words, concentrating on keeping Zenor in her grip.

  Halfway toward the wherhold, Zenor grasped her intention and suddenly dug in his heels.

  “No, I can’t, it’s not the right time,” he told Fiona feebly. “I’m not ready.”

  Fiona released his wrist and turned around to face him.

  “Do you love her?” she asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Do you love her?” Fiona repeated. “Kindan told me long ago when he was talking about you, her, and Nuelsk, that when he left he told her that if she kissed you then everyone would know that she loved you.” She paused to let that sink in. “So, knowing that, do you love her?”

  “Well, of course!” Zenor cried in response. “But she’s got the new watch-wher and we’re settling in and—”

  “None of that matters,” Fiona told him calmly. “You need to seize the moment, Zenor, or you might lose her forever.” She paused as a sudden revelation burst upon her. “You’re afraid of losing her, aren’t you? You almost lost her in the Plague.”

  “And what if something happens to me?” Zenor asked. “What then? You’ve seen how hard it was for her after Nuelsk. It was just as hard after her parents and—”

  “Zenor, you’ve answered your own question,” Fiona broke in gently. Zenor gave her a puzzled look. “You can’t deny her the joys of today to save her from the pain of tomorrow. All you are doing is denying her any chance at happiness, not any chance at pain.”

  Zenor’s eyes grew wider as he absorbed the sense in her words.

  “Today is an excellent day to see if that ring fits,” Fiona urged him quietly.

  “Yes,” Zenor agreed, drawing himself up to his full height, his eyes roaming off into the distance . . . or the future. “You’re right.”

  He started off, his gait purposeful and long, leaving Fiona to trot after him.

  Zenor didn’t break his stride as they entered the dimly lit hold, nor did he pause to find his bearings, setting a course directly for the kitchen. Presently Fiona heard the tenor voice of M’tal.

  “Nuella,” Zenor began the moment he burst into the room, halting all discussion.

  Nuella looked toward him expectantly. Zenor closed the distance between them and he reached for the leather thong around his neck, pulling it off in one fluid movement even as he sank to his knees, his free hand grasping Nuella’s.

  There was a moment’s silence as everyone took in the scene, then Zenor placed the gold ring in Nuella’s palm. “Will you marry me?”

  Nuella gasped in surprise, her eyes suddenly wet with tears. “Marry you? Of course, with all my heart!”

  “That went very well, my lady,” F’dan said as he hoisted Fiona up in front of him and busied himself with tightening her riding straps firmly. “You have quite the social knack, if I may observe.”

  “I just had to think of all the moaning you’d make if I failed,” Fiona replied teasingly. Really, it was a joy to spend time with F’dan because he treated her like a full-grown person, able to take on any burden, sometimes demanding more of her than she thought she could give. And he did it all with a manner that was always respectful, always supportive. And, of course, he swore like some of her father’s guards—when they thought no one from the Hold was listening.

  “We lowly blues are always willing to take on the tasks we’re called to,” F’dan replied drolly as Ridorth leapt nimbly into the air. “Of course,” he added, “I’ll certainly need a long massage for all the kinks I’ve got in my poor recovering body this day.”

  “I’ll send a weyrling,” Fiona retorted icily. Massaging was one of the therapies that she’d initially feared the most but had ultimately found to be the most enjoyable and relaxing work. It had taken her two sessions to cure her of any lingering squeamishness when dealing with human flesh, particularly male human flesh, and to become absorbed in the art of gentling muscles back into health.

  “Oh, be sure to send a pretty one,”
F’dan teased. “I like it when you send a pretty one.”

  Fiona snarled playfully but said nothing as the darkness of between took hold of them.

  “I’ll do your hair if you do my leg,” F’dan offered as they burst back out into the daylight over Igen Weyr. Beneath them Ridorth bugled a response to the challenge from the watch dragon perched on the heights near the Star Stones.

  “Wash, brush, and trim?”

  “Deal.”

  It had given Fiona a sublime sense of relief when she discovered that riders of blues and greens, while deferential to her as a Weyrwoman, treated her womanness as something unimportant to their relationship with her. Fiona had always understood intellectually why that was so, but it was only when she recognized it on a subconscious level that she truly allowed herself to open up to them. These older men, who did not see her as a potential mate, were free to see her as the person she was.

  Of all the riders, perhaps because of his lengthy recovery, Fiona had become fondest of F’dan and was most comfortable being herself with him.

  “You are truly a beautiful girl, you know,” F’dan said as he toweled off her hair while she sat before him. Fiona couldn’t help blushing with pride. F’dan threaded a lock of her gold hair through his fingers. “Your hair is silky, your freckles mark your face and shoulders delicately, your nose is—” He sniffed. “—well, you’ll survive with your nose.”

  “What’s wrong with my nose?”

  “Nothing.” F’dan chuckled. “Just teasing.” He finished toweling and picked up a comb, running it slowly through her hair. He held up the ends and peered at them. “Yes, you need a trim. You’re getting all raggedy.” He hissed through his teeth as he added, “And this sun’s not good for the condition—you’re all dried out. Aren’t you using that oil we’d discovered?”

  “We ran out,” Fiona replied drowsily. She loved when he played with her hair.

  “Mmm,” F’dan murmured in a tone that informed her he would check on the veracity of that statement.

  “We used the last of it on your leg, if you recall,” she told him, not quite finding the energy to sound testy. She’d insisted upon their return on massaging his leg first and was glad she had: the exercise had done him much good, but his muscles had definitely been tight and had needed the massage to relax them.