Fiona glanced at the other two who sat in stunned silence and jerked her head toward the exit. They followed slowly, with backward glances for the ailing healer.
“What do we do?” Lorana asked as soon as they were out of earshot.
“There’s not much we can do,” Fiona said. Kindan looked surprised. “My father said it happened after the Plague, that there were those who chose death over life no matter how hard those around them tried.”
Kindan nodded grimly; he had seen it himself.
Fiona reached out to stroke Lorana’s arm comfortingly, knowing that the older woman was distraught over the healer’s collapse. “You have something to live for,” she told her firmly, nodding toward her growing belly. “And you hear every dragon, that’s not something Ketan has.”
Lorana nodded. Fiona recognized that the ex–queen rider was merely humoring her. She was not convinced.
“I just wish there was something we could do for him,” Lorana said.
“He wants his dragon back,” Fiona said. “I don’t see how you can do that.”
Lorana said nothing.
“Come on, we need to get back before T’mar misses me.”
“Lorana will think of something,” Tullea predicted confidently as she and B’nik prepared to meet the other Weyrleaders and Weyrwoman in their Council Room later that afternoon.
B’nik grunted noncommittally. It had been over a month since T’mar had brought news of his impending doom and the Weyrleader had grown almost anxious to get to the end. He had said his good-byes, had set his affairs in order as best he could—he was lucky in that he had no less than seven bronze riders all capable of running the Weyr after his death. Although, he admitted to himself, only a few would be his first choice, and he was worried about their ages.
S’liran was by far the most confident and poised, he brought order out of chaos in any situation—doubtless, B’nik ruefully admitted, the result of his superlative training by D’vin when he was a weyrling at High Reaches Weyr. That S’liran’s Kmuth was one of the first bronzes born with resistance to the dragon sickness—and the largest bronze he’d ever seen—only added to the young man’s prowess.
W’ner, on the other hand, was an old rider. Experienced, yet prone to rely perhaps too much on others; he loved to hear the sound of his own voice. It was a pleasant voice and what he said with it usually made sense, if it often seemed to B’nik that he could have easily used fewer words to convey the same meaning.
In an odd way, it was somewhat refreshing to realize that the problems of who would lead the Weyr were soon going to be out of his hands. He found himself spending more time relaxing, more time enjoying each new dawn, more time bouncing children on his knee when he visited the Lower Caverns—even despite Tullea’s pointed remarks about their parentage, parentage he didn’t dispute much to her annoyance and his amusement.
In a way, B’nik mused, what I’ll miss most is how I’ve changed. Knowing that he was going to die, B’nik no longer had a reason to put up with Tullea’s antics or demands and Tullea had dropped them as soon as she’d accepted that he was going to die. Their relationship had grown steadily stronger, more intimate, restful.
If he had one regret, it was that he could not live long enough to see how their new relationship would unfold.
“B’nik?” Tullea said, impatient at his lack of a response. “Did you hear what I said?”
“So now we have two full Wings,” T’mar remarked bitterly as he and Fiona ate quietly together in the Records Room. She’d sent Terin to relieve Bekka in her watch of Lorana. Fiona wondered if anyone guessed at the growing sense of unease the Weyrwoman had about the ex–queen rider. Bekka had assured her repeatedly that Lorana’s pregnancy was advancing normally—the young healer was rather tart in her choice of words: “You worry too much!” Still, Fiona worried.
Bekka’s hints that Fiona’s worries were prompted by her own pregnancy were ones that she couldn’t dismiss—that she was merely projecting her own fears onto the other woman was a distinct possibility.
“Two full wings with more to come,” Fiona reminded him, catching and holding his eyes until the Weyrleader nodded, however glumly. “And we’ve more than a fortnight before the next Fall.” She glanced over at the chalk tally board she kept of the Weyr’s injuries, pointing to it as she added, “And we’ll have another thirteen return to the fight in the next sevenday, so we’ll have those to haul firestone and fly in reserve.”
“We’ve seen worse,” T’mar agreed. He glanced up again to catch Fiona’s eyes as he admitted, “It’s just that, lately, I’ve been feeling like something is going to happen.”
“Something worse?” Fiona asked in a matching tone of dread.
T’mar nodded.
“That’s why I’ve had someone with Lorana,” Fiona said. “She hasn’t been quite the same since we returned from Benden.”
“Because of Tullea—”
“No,” Fiona interrupted, “I think because of Ketan.”
“The healer?”
“He lost his dragon not long after hers,” Fiona said. “I think his collapse has caused her to question her own feelings.”
“The pregnancy—”
“Oh, it could be the pregnancy,” Fiona agreed quickly. “In fact, some of it must be.” She pursed her lips. “But it seems like there’s more, like she’s all ready to give up hope.”
“She’s got Kindan—”
“Whose presence as Weyrlingmaster merely reminds her of the dangers we all face,” Fiona cut him off.
“She’s got you,” T’mar tried again.
“And I’ve got a queen, and I’ve got you, and I’ve got Kindan,” Fiona said. “Sometimes I think that she might not be so happy to have me.”
T’mar eyed her thoughtfully for a moment before saying, “So you are worried, too?”
Fiona bit her lip. She knew what the Weyrleader meant—that she was not just worried about Lorana, but also worried about their situation: the losses, the slim numbers, the lack of hope.
“I’ll never admit that,” Fiona said after a moment, shaking her head firmly. She lowered her head for a moment, avoiding his eyes and then raised it again, her expression set. “I’m worried about Lorana.”
T’mar suppressed a chuckle. It was clear that Fiona was sublimating all her other fears into this one.
“Well, I think she’ll be fine,” he told her cheerfully.
“You take care of yourself,” Tullea told B’nik feelingly as the bronze rider sat astride Caranth as he prepared to lead three full Wings of fighting dragons—with two half-wings ready to haul firestone and provide reserves—into the first combined fight of Benden and High Reaches Weyrs eleven days later.
“We’ll be fine,” B’nik assured her with a grin, gesturing to include all the fighting dragons. “D’vin’s a fine leader and his Weyr is the best-trained of us all.”
“But you’re fighting the rising sun!” Tullea wailed. Around them, dragons and riders were just becoming visible as dark night gave way to the predawn half-light.
“We’ll do fine, don’t worry.”
“Oh?” Tullea demanded, her brows arched. “So I suppose I should tell Mikkala and Ketan to stand down, that you won’t be needing their services?”
“Tullea!” B’nik’s tone was one of exasperation mixed with understanding. He leaned down toward her to bring his face closer to hers. “We’ll be all right.”
“You’d better!”
B’nik smiled and waved at her before straightening up once more and turning to the dragons nearby, making the ancient signal to fly.
Caranth was up first, followed in rapid succession by the rest of his Wing, then S’liran’s Wing, followed by L’moy’s Wing and then by the two half-wings led by D’kel and J’han.
Tullea waited until the last of them blinked out, just visible in the gloom. She sighed, her shoulders slumped, before turning around to survey the injured riders, weyrlings, and weyrfolk left behind.
&
nbsp; “What are you waiting for? Get to work!” Tullea bellowed and was glad to see them all scampering off.
“One thing, my lady,” a voice spoke up in the darkness. Tullea turned and found herself looking at a small dark blob: Lin, the new queen rider.
“What?”
“If he’s flying with the Weyr, he can’t go back in time,” Lin said.
“Of course,” Mikkala called out quickly from her position at the aid station nearest the kitchen, “if he gets injured then he certainly can’t go back in time.”
“Why not?”
“Because there were no reports of his being injured,” Ketan spoke up from the darkness. He snorted. “So I wonder if we should be hoping that he gets injured now?”
Tullea snorted in disgust at the notion. “What a thing to say!”
A little injury wouldn’t stop him, she thought, wondering if she could survive seeing him scored or his Caranth horribly injured. She shook her head; no she couldn’t.
“Lorana will think of something,” she told herself. “She saved us all before.”
“She didn’t save her dragon,” a voice grated in the darkness: Ketan.
“B’nik swiveled in his seat to look left and right, surveying the formation of his Wing and the other two Wings arrayed on either side. They looked good.
He turned and peered behind him, trying to pick out the two half-wings trailing behind, ready to provide more firestone or enter the fight as reserves. If he committed one half-wing, they would release their extra firestone—they’d need the extra speed they’d get without the weight of the firestone. He couldn’t make them out against the brilliance of the rising sun, especially with the added glare of the icy snow below them.
This Fall started in the Snowy Wastes and slanted down through the mountains above Benden and Bitra. Once below the snow, the high mountain peaks were mostly inaccessible to humans, except where special roads had been made to get at the hardy timber that grew there. Burrows were especially difficult to find in this area and B’nik suppressed a shudder at how well-established a burrow might get before it became apparent to a sweeprider. Few lived in those tree-covered mountain ranges, so there would be no ground crews—and a burrow would be just as deadly.
I hope D’vin gets here soon, B’nik thought, worried about getting their formations straightened with the brilliant glare of the sun in the same place as the falling Thread.
Caranth, have Doohanth take his Wing up high to scan for Thread, B’nik told his bronze. He scanned behind him and grunted in satisfaction as, a moment later, he dimly made out shapes moving upward in the air.
J’han’s half-wing had just barely gained position when a bellow announced the arrival of the High Reaches dragons.
B’nik’s elation was dashed with the cry of: Thread!
J’han’s half-wing bellowed and bucked, diving away from the menace—as reserve forces, they had not yet chewed enough firestone to flame.
Rise up! B’nik ordered his riders even as he grimaced at the first wails of injured dragons. A sudden commotion from behind him startled him and he turned in time to catch one of the half-wings dumping its extra firestone even as its dragons were chewing their own firestone, ready to join the fray.
A sinking feeling came to B’nik as he belatedly realized that the Weyr now had only half the firestone it needed for the first part of the Fall.
Caranth suddenly veered right, falling.
Sorry, the bronze dragon apologized as he fought to regain his position. It’s the wind.
B’nik’s position on Caranth’s neck was scarcely more protected, but he hadn’t felt the gust that had thrown Caranth’s left Wing high into the air. He twisted around, looking to the left and the right—as he expected, the gusts had unsettled his formations. Behind him, higher in the sky, the dragons of High Reaches had fared no better. Among them, in the glare of the sun, he spotted gouts of fire as they found Thread to destroy.
Ask D’vin if we should support them, B’nik said. No sooner had he made the offer than one of his wingseconds let out a bellow and he spotted a flurry of Thread coming their way.
In an instant everything was chaos, a constant blend of motion, of sight, of glaring sun and snow-capped mountains while’ B’nik fought to keep himself and his dragon free of Thread, flaming into char all that could be found.
Order collapsed, and B’nik was too overwhelmed with his own immediate survival to reestablish it.
From the sounds above him, neither could D’vin.
Fiona was with Lorana when she gave her first tortured cry.
“What is it?” Fiona asked, rushing from her place beside Talenth toward the ex–queen rider. “Is it the baby?”
It was too early, far too early for the baby, Fiona thought desperately even as she had Talenth order Birentir and Bekka to their aid.
“No, it’s the dragons!”
It took a moment for Fiona to grasp her meaning. “Benden?”
“The sun, the glare, the winds,” Lorana gasped in response. She looked up and met Fiona’s eyes. “They’ve lost ten already.”
“We should go help.”
“I’m not sure Tullea would—”
“I’ll send Jeila to her, along with Birentir,” Fiona said, sending the orders to Talenth. She glanced at Lorana, her lips pursed in thought. “You can’t come, it wouldn’t be good for the baby.”
“We wouldn’t be between that long.”
“No, we wouldn’t,” Fiona agreed. “But I don’t want you to have the added stress of tending the injured while also growing a baby.” She smiled wryly, adding, “Besides, you’d be too tired.”
Lorana sighed in agreement.
“What happened?” T’mar demanded as he rushed into the room, flanked by Bekka and Birentir.
“Benden,” Fiona responded tersely. “I’m going to send Birentir and Jeila to help.”
“Should we send someone to High Reaches as well?” Jeila asked, glancing toward Fiona.
Fiona hesitated.
“Go on, if you want to help,” Lorana told her.
T’mar, sensing her distress, added, “I’ll stay here.”
“I’ll leave Bekka,” Fiona said, turning quickly to her closets and quickly flinging on riding clothes. She paused long enough to be certain that Jeila was getting her Tolarth ready, before shouting to Talenth, who was already waiting below the ledge.
In a moment, queen and rider were airborne and then, gone between.
“What are you doing here, Weyrwoman?” Sonia asked in startlement as she recognized Telgar’s senior queen rider. For a moment, suspecting the worst, Sonia paled, but Fiona’s words revived her, “I’m here to help, Weyrwoman. You’ve got injuries.”
“Not many,” Sonia said, gesturing to the two dragons being tended in the distance. “We’ve more lost than hurt.”
Fiona glanced around and nodded in surprise.
“Lorana says that the wind and the morning sun have made it worse,” Fiona said even as another dragon bellowed in the sky above the Weyr and descended swiftly to the Weyr Bowl. Fiona started, instinctively, toward the dragonpair.
She nodded quickly at the attendants who rushed to aid the scored dragon and rider, hovering just far enough from them to avoid interfering while close enough to be able to examine the wounds.
“If you stay too close, you’ll get them all worried,” Sonia’s voice startled her as the Weyrwoman spoke at her side. Fiona turned to see that the older woman with her startling white forelock was watching her with no small amount of amusement.
“They know what they’re doing,” Fiona said, loud enough for the weyrfolk to hear her. “I just like being close to hand if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“I understand,” Sonia said. “It’s a different way from my own; I tend to wait until someone asks.”
“Your father was a healer, wasn’t he?” Fiona said, recalling a chance comment from C’tov months back.
Sonia nodded.
“I’m still
learning,” Fiona said. “Sometimes I can help, sometimes I can learn something new.”
“I see.” Sonia noticed the way Fiona started to raise her hands, the way the younger woman tensed to speak or move forward, and the way she restrained herself. “It’s hard not to help.”
“It’s not that,” Fiona said even as she clenched her fists once more to restrain her impulse to dart forward, “it’s not knowing when it’s help or hindrance.”
“You are young, you worry too much.”
Fiona turned to meet her eyes. “In these times, can anyone worry too much?”
“The Weyrwoman sets the mood of the Weyr,” Sonia said in answer.
“Yes, I know.” Fiona frowned. “There’s a fine line between trying anything and trying nothing. They can both be signs of despair.”
Sonia’s eyes narrowed as she examined the girl in front of her. “You won’t give in to despair.”
“Ever,” Fiona agreed. “I grew up with the example of Kindan.”
“What about Lorana, then?” Sonia asked, careful to keep her tone casual.
“I think she’s still learning from Kindan,” Fiona said after a moment. “I understand that the Plague was very hard for her.”
Sonia nodded.
“And with Tullea’s demands on top of her feeling all the dragons, it’s a wonder she’s managed to keep her baby,” Fiona added in a rush.
“Tullea’s demands?”
“She wants Lorana to find a way to save B’nik,” Fiona said, quickly recounting Tullea’s conversation with Lorana before adding, “And on top of that, there’s Tenniz’s ‘gift.’”
Sonia gave her a questioning look.
“Tenniz is one of the desert traders I met when I was at Igen,” Fiona said. “When I arrived at Telgar, he had left gifts.”
“He did?”
Fiona nodded. “Well, actually, Mother Karina left the gifts; Tenniz left his words. He was one of the traders who could sometimes see into the future. He knew that I would come to Telgar.” She frowned as she added, “And he left a gift for Terin, a gold fitting for a riding harness with the words: This is yours and no other’s.”
Todd McCaffrey Page 45
