There was a long moment’s silence broken by F’jian’s voice. “We stand for you, Weyrwoman.”
Fiona smiled and nodded low in gratitude. “Then you stand for Telgar.”
With an acknowledging look, H’nez stood back in front of his men. He said one word, loudly, clearly in the night, “Telgar!”
“Telgar!” the riders shouted back, their voices echoing resoundingly around the Weyr.
As if in answer, a slow, steady beat began from the harper’s big drum.
“Memorize your lists,” H’nez told the riders. Fiona took a long moment to examine her list, reciting it to Talenth and repeating it to herself until she had mastered it.
Drawn by the mournful, slow, steady sound of the bass drum, Telgar’s weyrfolk slowly began gathering. Seban marched forward to the dragonriders and collected the lists.
“Are you ready, Weyrwoman?” H’nez asked politely as he placed his list on top of Seban’s pile.
“Yes.”
“Riders of Telgar,” H’nez spoke, his voice low but firm, with a strength Fiona had never heard emanate from him before.
In response, the thirty-nine dragonriders formed into three ranks, each behind a wingleader.
H’nez raised his hand, held it there a moment, then lowered it.
Slowly, steadily, in time to the beating of the drum, the riders of Telgar Weyr moved forward to honor the fallen.
The drummer must have kept a good eye on their movements, for as they entered the end of the ring formed by Telgar’s weyrfolk, he beat a quick double-beat, then stopped.
Norik’s voice came out of the dark, full, rich, drenched in pain and sorrow as he intoned rather than sang the ancient words:
Drummer, beat, and piper, blow,
Soldier strike, healer go.
Guard the keep and sear the passes,
’Til the dawning Red Star passes.
The drummer punctuated each phrase with an appropriate drumbeat. The drums fell silent as Norik finished, letting the silence build up in the evening sky.
Fiona began to worry; the lull seemed too long. As if in response, Seban moved forward to the center of the circle.
“I call the roll,” his voice echoed in the night air.
“Riders of Telgar, you are called,” Norik intoned. “I call for K’lur, rider of Koth the green.”
Silence filled the air and then, slowly, the drumbeat began again, slow, steady: a heartbeat.
From the ranks of riders, M’rorin strode forward.
“I stand for K’lur,” M’rorin called loudly, his voice catching as he spoke the words. “I stand for him for he has passed between.”
“Who stands with K’lur?” Norik called, his eyes searching the weyrfolk. Slowly from the group a woman, carrying a baby and leading two small children, moved forward.
“I stand with K’lur,” the woman said. “For he did his duty, was a good father to his children, fair and kind to all.”
She crossed to M’rorin’s side and together they waited while the slow, steady, heartbeat drum beat four times. Then M’rorin stood forward. “K’lur is no more. I stand for him, a father to his children, his mate. Fair and kind to all.”
The drum started again, slow, steady heartbeat. M’rorin and K’lur’s family moved with him, then stayed as he bowed and moved back to the ranks of dragonriders.
“I call for M’rit, rider of Jalith the blue,” Norik called and the ritual continued, each rider standing forward in stead of the lost rider, weyrmates and weyrchildren standing forward with them, and moving off once more to the slow heartbeat of the drum.
“I call for D’gan, Weyrleader, rider of Kaloth the bronze,” Norik called out in the end.
Fiona moved forward. “I stand for D’gan,” she called loudly, her voice filling the air, her shoulders and head lifted high. She heard some harsh intakes of surprise from the weyrfolk and murmurs of approval. “I stand for him, for he has passed between.”
Norik nodded approvingly and held a long, expectant silence, before calling out, “Who stands with D’gan?”
No one moved. The silence grew. Tension filled the air. Finally, someone moved, a small girl separated from the crowd and moved to join Fiona. It was Bekka.
“I stand with D’gan,” she spoke up, her chin raised high, eyes defiantly searching the faces of the shamed weyrfolk. “I stand with D’gan,” she said again, “Telgar’s Weyrleader, the man who did his duty, no matter the cost.”
A sudden noise burst faintly in the evening sky and the watch dragon bugled in amazement as, overhead, a huge phalanx of dragons descended steeply in the night air, their riders dismounting quickly and marching at speed toward Fiona.
At the edge of the ring they paused. One stepped forward.
“I stand with D’gan,” the rider called out. It was K’lior, Weyrleader of Fort Weyr. “He was a demanding man, he expected nothing less than the best of his riders. Fort stands with Telgar.”
Another rider strode forward, wearing Istan colors.
“I stand with D’gan,” the man said. Fiona didn’t recognize him. “He showed us the meaning of duty. Ista stands with Telgar.”
“I stand with D’gan,” a strong-featured man said as he strode forward. “He set high standards. High Reaches stands with Telgar.”
“I stand with D’gan,” B’nik, Benden’s Weyrleader declared as he stepped toward the center. “He showed me the meaning of valor. Benden stands with Telgar.”
A fifth man joined the others with a woman at his side; they were holding hands.
“We stand for D’gan,” the man said, raising their clasped hands high. “His last thoughts were for the Weyrs, his last warning was to all the Weyrs of Pern.”
The woman moved forward, turning challengingly toward Fiona. “Who stands for Telgar?”
“I do,” Fiona responded immediately, controlling her surprise at the woman’s unexpected behavior.
“I do,” the woman echoed then, meeting her eyes.
“I do,” the man at her side added.
“I do,” the High Reaches Weyrleader declared.
“I do,” B’nik, Benden’s Weyrleader affirmed.
“I do!” called Ista Weyr’s leader.
“I do!” K’lior said loudly, proudly, for Fort Weyr.
“I do!” H’nez’s voice rang in the night, joined almost immediately by T’mar, F’jian, and the rest of the riders.
“Telgar?” Norik’s voice rose above all the others. “Who stands?”
“I do!” The riders and weyrfolk shouted back.
“Telgar!” Norik shouted, striding forward with a torch in his hand and lighting the bonfire that had been laid at the lakeside.
Overhead, watch-whers streamed by, bearing glows in their paws, lighting the night. Dragons roared in challenge.
“Telgar!” Norik shouted again.
“Telgar, Telgar, Telgar!” the gathering shouted back, filling the Bowl with a wave of sound that drowned out all echoes.
“Telgar!” shouted all those gathered in the Weyr reborn.
SEVEN
Heart and mind together
Impressed, bound forever.
Telgar Weyr, early morning, AL 508.2.9
Fiona was glad to be warm and realized that it was because she’d managed to amass a large group of people to share her bed. She opened one bleary eye and spied Xhinna, then the top of a smaller blond head—Bekka; another body lying against her other side felt like Terin, and she wondered how she’d managed to pry her away from F’jian when she heard a male snore from the other side of Terin. Anchoring the far side of the bed beyond Bekka was Seban, with an arm wrapped possessively around his daughter.
Fiona closed her eye and smiled as she snuggled further into the warmth of all those bodies.
She was glad to have her friends from Fort Weyr and from her sojourn back in time at Igen Weyr, just as she was glad to learn that many of the Fort Weyr weyrfolk had joined their riders, even whole families. The youngest had immediately
found friends among the Telgar children, and Fiona planned to emulate them immediately.
She would have no factions in her Weyr.
A cough caused her to open her eye again as she glanced around, wondering if someone else had heard it. Bekka stirred in her sleep, moaning, then settling as Seban moved sleepily to comfort her. Terin made a slight whimpering sound that was answered by a half-formed murmur from F’jian, echoed by Xhinna.
Fiona closed her eyes, wishing her head weren’t pounding quite so badly. She wasn’t willing to admit it was the wine she’d drank—perhaps it was the noise or cheering or the intense emotions of the night before. Perhaps it was the muzziness that still seemed to cling to her, T’mar, and the others, though they managed to ignore it most of the time. Perhaps—
The cough came again.
Fiona was instantly out of bed and rushing toward Talenth, an inchoate scream filling the room, waking all the others.
I don’t feel well, Telgar’s only queen dragon informed her.
F’jian and Terin arranged breakfast and forced Fiona to eat, setting up a table and chair next to Talenth in her lair.
“You’ve got to keep your strength up,” Terin said.
“I’ll get Norik,” Xhinna said, rushing off.
F’jian and Terin excused themselves, moving back to Fiona’s quarters to wash and prepare for the day.
“She’ll be all right,” Bekka said, looking from the gold dragon to her rider, her face sketching a quick smile. “You’ll see.”
Fiona nodded in acceptance of the calm words; her expression remained bleak. The sickness that had taken so many dragons—starting with Salina’s Breth, Lorana’s Arith, through to Seban’s Serth, had come upon her dragon. Her queen. Her life, her breath, her hopes, her love—the very center of her being. How could she survive without Talenth?
“What will you do?” Seban asked her quietly from his position near Talenth’s head. He’d scratched her eye ridges until she’d closed her eyes and lowered her head to go back to sleep.
“I told her that I wouldn’t let her go without me,” Fiona said, glancing with troubled eyes toward her queen. She frowned at Seban. “But I promised Telgar that I’d stay.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to her,” Bekka declared once more, turning to her father for support. “Tell her, Da! Tell her that her queen’s going to be all right!”
Seban gave his daughter a troubled look, shaking his head sadly.
“You can’t give in!” Bekka said, glancing from Fiona to Seban and back.
“I’m not,” Fiona assured her. “She only started coughing this morning—”
“Maybe you should move weyrs,” Bekka suggested suddenly. “Maybe this weyr has bad air and if you moved—”
“We should have done that first,” Seban interrupted her gently. “Once she’s got the illness, it makes no sense to move.” He paused, his lips tightening before he added, “It’d be more of a hurt to her than a help.”
Bekka sought wildly for another solution. “Tintoval! We should tell her,” she said suddenly. “Maybe she’ll know something. Maybe they’ve learned something new.”
“That’s a good idea,” Fiona agreed with a glance toward Seban. “Why don’t you go ask H’nez if Ginirth can send a message?” She nodded toward Talenth. “I’d ask her but she’s sleeping.”
Relieved at finding something to do, Bekka agreed immediately and raced out of the weyr, jumping off the queens’ ledge and shouting, “H’nez!” at the top of her lungs.
Fiona managed a quick smile before she turned her eyes back to Seban and Talenth. Quietly, she said, “How long have we got?”
“She’s not bad yet. Two sevendays, maybe more,” Seban said judiciously. Then, in an attempt to lift Fiona’s spirits, he added, “She’s a queen, so she may be stronger—”
“Salina’s Breth was the first to go,” Fiona reminded him, her tone devoid of any emotion.
Seban was silent for a long time, so long that Fiona was startled when he spoke again, “Whatever you do, Fiona, I’ll support you.”
Fiona nodded in relieved acceptance and gestured with a hand out toward the Weyr. “They’ve only just started to hope again, it seems terrible to steal it from them so quickly.”
“Yes,” Seban agreed, eyeing her with renewed respect. “It does, indeed, Weyrwoman!”
“Help me keep my hope,” Fiona begged him in a small voice.
Seban gave Talenth a final pat and walked over to her, placing his arms in a circle around her shoulders sympathetically. Fiona allowed herself to lean back until her head was on his chest and closed her eyes in silent communion with the ex-dragonrider.
H’nez found them that way several minutes later when he came striding briskly into the weyr.
“Weyrwoman,” he called, glancing over to the sleeping queen. “I came as soon as I heard.”
“Thank you,” Fiona said. “Did they have any news at Fort?”
H’nez shook his head. “They’ve more ill there, too.”
At noon, the Dining Cavern was not as full as it had been the day before; still Fiona was glad to see that many of the weyrfolk had gathered there. She acknowledged their looks in her direction with a smile or a nod as appropriate and went over to the hearth to see what was cooking.
“Sit down, Weyrwoman, sit down!” one of the cooks called. “We’ll bring you something in a trice.”
“It’s no problem,” Fiona said. “I was used to shifting for myself at Igen.”
“And now, Weyrwoman,” Shaneese spoke up from her side, “you’re here at Telgar.”
Fiona recognized the peremptory tone and, with a quirk of her lips toward the headwoman, demurely took her seat at the head table.
Terin rushed up with a full tray, giving Fiona a stern look.
“This is not Igen,” Terin scolded her as she set the plates out. “There are people here to care for you; it’s their duty.”
“I was just—”
“I know,” Terin said, her tone softening. She leaned in closer to Fiona. “They need to know they’re needed, you can’t change them too quickly.”
Fiona ducked her head meekly and Terin, who knew her too well, snorted. “Just give them a sevenday before you put everything on its ear.”
“I’m afraid that’s too late,” Seban murmured as he approached them. He smiled at Fiona and nodded to Terin as he continued, “Word about Bekka’s efforts has already caused quite a stir.”
“Besides,” Fiona admitted sadly, “I may not have that much time myself.”
She caught Terin’s and Seban’s worried looks and explained, “At least until Talenth …” Her voice trailed off and she let out a deep sigh to hide her worry.
Terin set the tray on the table and quickly wrapped her arms around Fiona’s shoulders. “Whatever you decide will be all right with me.”
“I’m not giving up!” Fiona told her forcefully. She forced a smile for Seban. “Kindan never gave up, and I won’t give up.”
Terin sniffed, patted Fiona on the shoulders once more, then picked up her tray, repeating before she bustled off, “Whatever you decide.”
From above her someone cleared his throat. It was H’nez. “Do you mind if I join you?”
Fiona shook her head, gesturing to a seat with her free hand. He smelled of firestone and of the cold between: He’d been drilling the wings. Fiona approved of his thoroughness even in these trying times. “I was expecting it.”
“Normally, I’d insist,” H’nez said by way of agreement. He gave her a brittle smile. “But with things the way they are, I’d prefer meeting as many of the weyrfolk as I can.”
Fiona nodded in understanding.
H’nez reached to grab the mug at his place setting and poured it full of klah. He took a quick drink. “Normally, before a Fall, the Weyr sends out a watch rider but—” He paused, shaking his head in consternation.
“We’re shorthanded,” Fiona agreed. “Perhaps I should visit Nerra first.”
H’n
ez pursed his lips tightly.
“You’re not one of those who thinks women shouldn’t be Lord Holders, are you?” Fiona asked, glancing at him sharply. She was willing to bet that he was; H’nez had always struck her as a stickler for tradition.
“If I ever were,” H’nez replied slowly, his eyes dark, “my experience with Weyrwoman Cisca—and with you—would have cured me.” He paused. “No, I was worried about your queen. Is she up to it?”
Fiona checked with Talenth who, having had a good, long sleep only occasionally interrupted by coughing, informed her that she would love to go flying. “She is,” Fiona told him. “Why?”
“I think that given what we’ve heard of D’gan’s dealings, it might make more sense if you and your queen met with the Lord Holders,” H’nez said regretfully. Fiona could easily imagine how much he’d prefer cementing alliances with the Lord Holders himself rather than relinquishing the duty to her.
“I suspect you’re right,” Fiona agreed after she swallowed. The food was good. She detected some subtle seasoning in the vegetable that she associated with Terin’s cooking, but she had no problem with the flavors of the spiced roast or the other dishes that clearly hadn’t felt Terin’s hand.
T’mar joined them at that moment and the conversation turned to matters of the fighting wings.
“I’m worried about the firestone,” T’mar began without preamble.
H’nez nodded sourly in agreement.
“I’d prefer not to burden K’lior, if possible,” he allowed.
“Where else could we get firestone in time?” T’mar wondered.
The rangy bronze rider twitched a shrug of agreement.
“If we had the hands, we could go back in time to Igen and mine it ourselves,” Fiona said.
T’mar appraised the notion for a moment before shaking his head. “We’ve neither the hands nor the dragons for that.”
“And wouldn’t they be too tired timing it?” H’nez wondered, glancing reflectively at T’mar. “You were certainly exhausted after your time there.”
T’mar’s lips flickered in a frown. “It wasn’t so much going back in time in itself but that we were there for so long.”
Todd McCaffrey Page 10
