T’mar gave the older rider a grateful look. “I’m sure you would have done the same.”
“I’m not so sure,” K’rall said, shaking his head. Glancing frankly at Fiona, he added, “I’m afraid I might have decided that this one here was too young for such duties.”
“And perhaps I am,” Fiona said. Before K’rall could argue with her she continued, “We won’t really know until we return to our time, ready and able to fight Thread with four full wings.”
“She’s right,” T’mar said. “The test comes when we’re needed.”
“I just hope all this — this — ” He framed his head with his hands to indicate the muzzy-headedness that affected them all. “ — noise will go away when we get back.”
“I’ve been dealing with it since I Impressed,” Fiona said. “I’m sure you’ll handle it.”
“It’s got something to do with timing it, I’m certain,” K’rall said. “And that’s another good reason to take people forward as soon as they’re able — this strain puts everyone on edge; we’ll have fights if we’re not careful.”
“T’mar and I, and some of the other weyrlings, have managed without fighting,” Fiona said.
“But you prove my point,” K’rall told her. “You and T’mar and some of the weyrlings have been fighting this since before we came back in time and it’s cost you — you could have done so much more without the distraction.” He shook his head irritably, adding, “But that’s not my point. If it affects you so differently from most, there’s no telling if it won’t affect others even worse.”
“Well, we’ve had no fights yet,” T’mar said not quite refuting the older rider.
“We’ve been here just more than two months,” K’rall reminded him. “What will you be like three Turns from now?”
T’mar smiled and shook his head. “I suppose you’ll have to find out.”
“Of course,” Fiona said, “if you leave now, you’ll miss the wedding.” There was no need to specify which wedding: all the Weyr was talking about Zenor and Nuella.
“But he hasn’t even proposed yet!” K’rall exclaimed.
“He hasn’t made the ring yet, so he can’t propose,” Fiona said.
“He’s started practicing,” Terin said with a smile. “I heard from Arella that he’s been cursing nonstop since Stirger set up that solar forge.” With a shrug, she added, “Of course that might have been for the price he charged.”
The others smiled. Journeyman Stirger was a prickly, ill-tempered, opinionated, arrogant, and stubborn man, but he was honest enough to admit it. He was also quick to apologize and admit his mistakes. His apology to Fiona had almost had her forgive him, and had caused her to realize that she had some of her father’s tendencies to hold on to a grudge longer than sensible.
“Ah, but once Stirger thought up the idea, it was Zenor who figured how to mass produce them and market them,” Fiona said. “And with that he’s recouped Stirger’s price twice over.”
“And found himself rated apprentice to the Smithcraft,” T’mar remarked, remembering the dazed look of the young man when Mastersmith Veclan had sent down the package containing smith garb and badges.
“At least Terregar is there to keep order,” K’rall remarked. He had a grudging respect for red-haired, hot-tempered Zenor, but Terregar’s steadiness was more in keeping with K’rall’s temperament and though he had more than ten Turns on the smith, they had forged a bond of friendship.
“Terregar!” Fiona exclaimed with a snort. “It’s Silstra that runs the place.” She shook her head as she mused, “I’m surprised Veclan was willing to let her go; she was doing much the same at the Smith Hall.”
“Ah, but she’s a wise woman and she’d been training her replacement,” Terin said, with a touch of wistfulness. She’d spent some time helping Silstra. The older woman had been to the Weyr on Fiona’s invitation, and her sharp eyes missed nothing as she examined the Kitchen Cavern, the supply rooms, and the rest of the Weyr, she was both free with her praise and profuse with her advice. Terin glanced around the large Kitchen Cavern now as she added almost mournfully, “And she managed to get Sula from Mine Natalon to handle the hearth so as to let her concentrate on other holding matters.”
“And you watched her every move, memorized the best of them, and ever since have been hounding the weyrlings like a queen dragon about to mate,” K’rall said, wagging a finger at her while his eyes danced with humor.
“It’s only sensible,” Terin muttered not quite sure whether his words were meant as ridicule or praise.
“Which brings us back to cattle,” T’mar said.
“So it does,” K’rall agreed, lowering his hand back to his lap. He was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, there was sorrow in his voice. “While I’d hate to miss the wedding, I don’t think we can afford to wait.”
T’mar made a face but could offer no dissent. He lowered his head, resting his chin on an upraised hand, his elbow propped on the table in his favorite thinking position.
“It’ll mean more work for the older weyrlings,” Terin said.
“The younger ones won’t be ready to fly for at least another seven months,” K’rall observed.
“Six months, ten days, to be exact,” Fiona corrected with a wry grin. “We make the count every day just to be sure.”
K’rall smiled indulgently at her. “It’s been many, many, many Turns since Seyorth was a weyrling, and I still haven’t forgotten how we were always counting down the days.”
“How about this,” T’mar said, looking up at the others. “We stop by the wherhold tomorrow morning early, and if we can’t glean a definite date, we let K’rall and the others leave tomorrow evening.”
“We can be ready in a day,” K’rall agreed. “I certainly would hate to miss the wedding.”
They found Zenor no more ready to forge his gold wedding ring in the next sevenday than he had been in the sevenday before and so the next evening, reluctantly, K’rall and the other convalescent riders readied themselves for the jump forward in time.
Fiona made a special effort throughout the day to say something in parting to each rider and every dragon that was going forward, while attending to her other duties. Even so, when the thirty-one dragons and riders gathered at dusk in the Weyr Bowl, she had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach as though she were saying good-bye forever.
“When we meet again, Weyrwoman, you’ll be flying between, a true dragonrider,” K’rall said, his eyes gleaming with pride.
Fiona nodded, not trusting her voice. K’rall eyed her for a moment and then grabbed her into a great big hug. Almost as quickly he released her again, seeming abashed at his actions. Fiona leaned forward and up to kiss him on the cheek. “Fly well, K’rall!”
T’mar stepped over to K’rall, repeating the instructions for a final time: “Come between on the night of the first day of the third month in the Turn — ”
“Five hundred and one after Landing,” K’rall finished for him. He gave T’mar a tight nod. “We’ll meet you then.” He turned to Terin, who huddled unobtrusively behind Fiona. “When we meet again, you’ll be as old as the Weyrwoman is now!”
Terin nodded, her eyes gone wide at the thought. K’rall gave her a moment more to speak and, when she remained mute, shook his head. “Can I hope we’ll get a welcome feast?”
“Of course!” Terin said, suddenly bubbling with words. “I’ll cook your favorite meals, and we’ll have ices and — ”
“Glad to hear it, lass.” K’rall cut her off with a wave of his hand. “I’ll leave it for you to surprise us.”
With a final nod to T’mar and Fiona, the older rider clambered up his dragon’s foreleg and settled himself into his riding straps, tightening them with exaggerated motions to make certain that Fiona knew he was being careful.
“Wouldn’t want to fall off in a jump of three Turns,” he called down.
“Fly safe, dragonrider!” Fiona returned, stepping away from Seyorth, her
hand grabbing Terin’s and guiding her back.
In the dim light, Fiona barely made out K’rall’s hand gesture signaling the wing aloft. And then the rustle of thirty-one pairs of wings blew loose sand through the still-hot evening air as the dragons rose into the night sky, climbing heavily and circling over toward the Star Stones.
For a moment, Fiona could almost make them out, a blur of wings and motion, and then they were gone between — and Turns ahead.
Fiona and the younger weyrlings found themselves busier in the days after K’rall and the other convalescents went forward in time, surprised at the return of all the work that they’d gladly shared.
For herself, Fiona was happy to be forced to spend more time at the Weyr and leave the issues of the wherhold to T’mar and the older weyrlings. Still, the Weyr felt emptier, particularly with the thinned numbers at mealtimes.
To make up for it, she began encouraging P’der, K’lior’s wingsecond, and N’jian, the last remaining injured wingleader, to join her at the Weyrwoman’s table.
“It’s part of your therapy,” she told each of them in turn as she slowly ground down their resistance. She made it easier by moving them into lower level weyrs vacated by the departed dragon riders — she moved everyone lower to fill in the empty weyrs. “A change will do you good. And besides, the air is colder lower down.”
By the end of their third month in the past, the worst of the injured dragons were ready to start limited activities, and early mornings and late evenings were filled with the sorry sounds of dragons as they painfully learned to move regrown muscles.
“Start by having them just walk from one end of the Bowl to the other,” T’mar said when Fiona asked for therapy suggestions. “Then, when they can do that without too much pain, have them glide off the queen’s ledge.”
“We’ll have to schedule that carefully,” Fiona said thoughtfully. “We don’t want the sun up, but we want to give the weyrlings a chance for their glide and some breakfast.”
“I’m sure you’ll have no trouble with that.”
Fiona’s look made it plain that she thought it was easier said than done. However, when T’mar made to comment, she raised her hand up angrily, forestalling him. “I’ll manage.”
Her solution was very popular: With the consent of the riders, she arranged for the younger weyrlings to “assist” them in exercising their dragons, including some of the more tedious warming-up exercises and culminating in the glide off Talenth’s ledge.
I like having everyone around me, Talenth said when Fiona wondered whether it was too much for the young dragon. Anyway, I’m their queen.
Fiona laughed at that, but not without a nagging thought crossing her mind: How would Talenth react on her return to Fort Weyr and her position as a lesser queen? Come to think of it, Fiona realized that she wasn’t sure how wellshe’d manage adjusting to a secondary role. She shrugged off the thought as F’jian and one of the recovering greens made a particularly long glide; the problem was Turns ahead.
The hot summer that had so alternately impressed and dismayed the dragonriders turned colder, and finally, as the four hundred and ninety-eighth Turn since men first settled on Pern neared its end, the weather turned bitter and frigid.
“Is there any chance of getting more heat up here?” F’dan asked petulantly one morning as Fiona completed her inspection of his wounds.
“No,” Fiona told him bluntly. “You’re fully recovered. If you want to be warm, then get off your arse and hike on down to the Kitchen Cavern — the exercise will do you good.”
F’dan snorted at her tone and her choice of words. His had been a hard recovery, and he had learned early on in his physical therapy that Fiona had heard enough swearing from her father’s guards that he could only rarely cause her to blush. She had responded by teasing him about it, using his own words against him.
“I’d be happier back at the Weyr,” he said wistfully.
“Talk to T’mar, then,” Fiona said. “If he thinks you’re ready to go, he’ll probably send all the older riders off into the future.”
“Not before the wedding, I hope!” F’dan said, looking shocked. “Not with all the practice we’ve had!”
The wedding was one of the constant topics of conversation at the Weyr ever since Fiona had first broached her wild idea to T’mar and P’der.
“I think we should do something special for Nuella and Zenor on their wedding,” Fiona had said, unaware that her eyes were gleaming in a way that telegraphed to any who knew her that she had a plan already set in her mind. T’mar and P’der exchanged glances: They knew.
“And what would that plan be, my lady?” P’der asked, carefully keeping his expression neutral.
“Well, do you remember Silstra’s wedding?” Fiona asked.
“I believe I’ve heard of it before,” P’der had said, his eyes dancing. Fiona flashed him a quelling look that did little to dampen his humor. Well, perhaps she and Terin had rather gone on about stories they’d heard about the wedding, but even Silstra, normally quite reserved, had reminisced fondly about the late-night wedding, and the way it had been illuminated by a basket of glows carried by Dask, her late father’s watch-wher.
“Good,” Fiona said tartly in response to his teasing tone. “Then perhaps you’ll see why I think having the whole Weyr illuminate the procession would be a fitting tribute — ”
“Fiona, that’s excellent!” T’mar had declared, his face beaming.
“She doesn’t know what she’ll be doing ten Turns from now, but we do — an excellent tribute!” P’der had concurred.
The plan, Fiona was pleased to recall, had been enthusiastically adopted by every dragon and rider in the Weyr. Glow swamps had been raided, and glow balls large enough for a dragon to hold in forelegs had been shaped from the nearby river clay; practice had become a new drill involving ever more complex maneuvers and routines until the nights were a-gleam with swirling patterns that kept all enraptured.
“I wish we’d thought of this in our time,” T’mar had said as he and Fiona watched the entire flying Weyr perform an intricate maneuver involving formations of red, blue, and green glows. He had purposely excluded himself from the drill, guessing that he would have duties at the wedding which would keep him earthbound.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” Fiona had asked by way of agreement.
“Not just that,” T’mar replied, shaking his head, “but we can adapt it to fighting tactics, as well — and see where we’ve got gaps in our wings.”
“We could aid the dragons in night flights, too,” P’der added. “I’m sure the glows don’t bother the watch-whers.”
“That’s something I hadn’t considered,” T’mar admitted appreciatively. He nodded toward the final formation as it flew overhead. “We’ll have to remember this.”
“It’d be hard to forget,” P’der had replied.
“And do we have any idea when the wedding will take place?” F’dan now asked.
Fiona shook her head with a grimace. “I’m not sure that Zenor has asked.”
“But I thought he’d finished his ring a fortnight back!” F’dan exclaimed.
“He did,” Fiona said, smiling. “Of course, he’d melted down three perfectly good attempts before deciding on this one, so . . .”
“Weyrwoman,” F’dan told her seriously. “I would take it as a personal favor if you would sit down with the young man and impel him forward in his quest.”
“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 yo
u 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.
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