Dragongirl

by Todd J. McCaffrey

  “Weyrwoman!” Shaneese bustled over quickly, suppressing a yawn with irritation. “I’d been hoping to find you.”

  “Yes?” Fiona asked, steeling herself for another daunting problem.

  Shaneese noticed and smiled. “I wanted to introduce you to one of our treasures.”

  “Treasures?” Xhinna repeated blankly, turning to Taria with raised eyebrows. Taria met her look with a shrug and then turned back to deal with some rising conflict among the children.

  “At Fort Weyr, we treasured our people,” Fiona said, careful to keep any tone of criticism from her voice.

  Shaneese smiled and turned, gesturing for Fiona to follow her as she made her way to a far corner of the Dining Cavern.

  “I’m not surprised,” she called over her shoulder, halting near an old man who was hunched over a strange table. “So do we.”

  Fiona managed to glance over the old man’s shoulder and frowned. Something was odd about the table: There was something on it and it was spinning. She shifted her gaze and noticed that one of the man’s legs was rising up and down rhythmically as though pumping something.

  Shaneese waved a hand toward the old man, her expression respectful. “This is Mekiar, our pottery master.”

  Alerted by the sound of his name, the white-haired old man glanced behind him. “Oh, you’re here!”

  He rose fluidly from his perch and gestured for Fiona to take his place, his leg still pumping up and down. Now that he was up, she could see that he was pumping a spindle that spun the table. “Sit, sit, Weyrwoman!”

  With a quick glance toward Shaneese, who nodded in encouragement, and a tolerant sigh, Fiona sat at the proffered seat. From behind, Shaneese slipped an apron over her neck and pushed up her sleeves.

  “Put your leg where mine is and raise your hands,” Mekiar ordered. “Keep the wheel turning.”

  Fiona realized that the table was a thin wheel of stone and on it was perched a gray mass. Awkwardly at first, Fiona mimicked the pumping motion she’d seen Mekiar use, adjusted her timing, and grew more absorbed and relaxed as she mastered it.

  “Good,” Mekiar said, leaning over her from behind. His hands reached for hers and raised them to the clump on the table. “Cup your hands like so.”

  She fumbled to match his grasp, perplexed. Mekiar grunted in satisfaction and quickly moved one hand from hers, dipped it in a small bowl that she hadn’t noticed before and pulled out a wet hand. Deftly he sprinkled the water on the lump and grasped her hands again, pressing them into the wet coolness.

  “That’s clay,” Shaneese explained, sensing Fiona’s confusion. “I thought you could use some distraction.”

  Mekiar grunted in a tone that Fiona took to mean that he didn’t want the headwoman distracting her, so she turned her gaze back to the lump that was changing shape under her fingers.

  “What are we shaping?”

  “What would you like?” Mekiar asked, guiding her fingers upward so that the clay rose toweringly. “A vase?”

  He guided her fingers outward, then down with an outward pressure and the clay moved out, took on a different shape. “A bowl?”

  He pressed her hands down once more and out farther and the bowl stretched out, got lower. “A plate?”

  He dipped his hand into the water bowl and let the liquid flow over her hands, wetting the clay once more.

  “What takes your fancy, Weyrwoman?”

  Instead of replying, Fiona shot Shaneese a reproving look. The headwoman met it stubbornly.

  “Don’t look at her, she knows nothing,” Mekiar said. His hand closed around her fingers gently. “Let yourself feel the clay, Weyrwoman, see how you can change it—”

  “Relax!” Shaneese suggested.

  “Go away, master your kitchen,” Mekiar snapped in response, turning his attention once more to Fiona as he muttered, “She’s good at bossing, not at feeling.”

  Something in the old man’s tone soothed her and Fiona found herself nodding, ignoring Shaneese’s contentious snort, and returning her gaze to the clay under her hands. She moved her left hand in symmetry with her right, increasing the curve once more before gently easing out the edges of the soup bowl—yes, it was a soup bowl, she decided with a sense of rightness that she’d only felt a few times before.

  “Good choice,” Mekiar said. “Let the clay decide when you are done with it, and then let your hands free and stop your leg on the wheel—” Fiona had completely forgotten about the comforting rhythmic motion she was keeping with her right leg “—and we’ll see what we’ve got.”

  Fiona kept her hands working a few moments more and then pulled them away, removing her foot from the pedal and watching as the wheel slowed gently to a stop.

  She looked back at the pottery master, noted his dark brows and crinkled bright brown eyes for the first time, and realized from his weathered, weary face that this man had once, Turns before, ridden a dragon.

  “What do we do now?”

  “If you like it, we take it off the wheel and let it dry,” Mekiar told her.

  “If I don’t?”

  “You can ball it up and throw it back in the tub with the rest of the clay, pull out some more, and start over, if you like,” Mekiar said. “As long as it’s wet, you can do what you want with it.”

  “And after it’s dry?”

  “You’re still not done,” Mekiar told her. “We fire it in the ovens, and if it survives, then you can paint it with glaze, fire it once more, and produce a finished piece.” He smiled as he concluded, “And if it’s a soup bowl, you can eat out of it, if you like.”

  “A soup bowl it is,” Fiona declared, adding, “I’ve learned some good recipes.”

  “Then a soup bowl it shall be!” Mekiar agreed. Fiona watched in awe as he quickly but carefully undercut the bowl with a thin, taut wire and lifted if off the wheel to nimbly place it on a nearby drying table. He came back to her and eyed it mournfully.

  “What?” she asked, wondering at his disappointment.

  “Nothing!” Mekiar replied. “Only it seems rather lonely there by itself.” He looked at her, his lips quirked upward. “Have you decided what you’ll do with it?”

  Fiona thought for a moment. “Could I make more?”

  Mekiar nodded, his eyes twinkling. “I believe that you’ve made it rather clear that you are the Weyrwoman here,” he said drolly.

  His emphasis and his tone made her realize that perhaps, if she’d behaved otherwise, she would never have met him and certainly would not have been offered such tutelage.

  “My father will be getting married soon,” Fiona began. “Would it be very difficult to make more?”

  “More?”

  “Say, twenty?” Fiona asked, wondering at the effort required.

  “I’d make twenty-three then,” Mekiar said. “Two spares to allow for accidents and one just in case.”

  He stood and went to the large, covered barrel that held the wet clay, clumped up some more, and brought it back to the pottery table.

  “First, though,” he said, as he began to knead the lump of clay on the table like bread dough, “it might be a help if you tried something different.”

  “Like what?” Fiona asked.

  “How about a mug?” Mekiar offered, gesturing for her to start pumping the wheel. “Or whatever the clay says to you.”

  The clay seemed to say mug. When it was shaped, Fiona was frustrated to learn that she couldn’t form and attach a handle until the mug had dried somewhat. She looked at it sitting by her bowl on the drying table and tried to imagine different handle designs for it.

  “Are you ready for a rest?”

  “Am I keeping you from your work?” Fiona asked.

  “No, my lady,” Mekiar said with a small smile. “Teaching is part of my work.” He gestured toward the rest of the cavern, which had been shut out of Fiona’s perceptions in all her concentration. “But perhaps some food would help. It is past noon.”

  “Is it that late?” Fiona asked in
surprise, glancing around and realizing that the Dining Cavern was filling rapidly. “Master Mekiar, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize—”

  “No need to apologize, my lady,” Mekiar said with obvious pleasure. “I find the clay keeps my mind from things for whole days sometimes.”

  Things like the loss of a dragon, Fiona mused to herself. The smile she gave him in reply was halfhearted until she remembered her manners. “Would you like to join me?”

  “No,” Mekiar said slowly, “I think I’d prefer to eat here and watch your clay.” He winked at her. “Make sure that it gets no foolish ideas while it is drying.”

  Fiona smiled at that and was about to reply when Talenth interrupted her excitedly.

  She comes!

  Who?

  The watch dragon bugled a challenge that was answered by the deep voice of a bronze. The sound was strangely familiar.

  “Excuse me,” Fiona said hastily to Mekiar and rushed out to the Weyr Bowl.

  A large bronze had just landed near the entrance to the Dining Cavern. It bellowed commandingly.

  Come to me, Fiona heard. The voice was not Talenth’s. Dragons roared in response and she heard Talenth rushing from her weyr and, from the opposite side of the Bowl, Ladirth leaped into the air to glide down toward the waiting bronze. All of you.

  There was a tone of exasperated humor. Fiona rushed toward the bronze as she realized that there were three people clambering down, one carefully passing a carisak to the lower one.

  I told you I would be all right! Talenth proclaimed cheerfully as she warbled a greeting to the bronze. Lorana has the cure.

  “A cure?” Fiona said, stopping dead in her tracks. She turned toward the figures now assembled at the base of the bronze. “You’ve got a cure?”

  One of the men looked over at her sharply, his eyes wide in shock. “Koriana?”

  He rushed toward her and grabbed her in his arms, hugging her tight to him.

  “I thought—” And then he broke off and pushed himself away from her, confusion and grief distorting his face.

  “An honest mistake,” the other man said as he strode over, a woman—Lorana—close behind him.

  “M’tal?” Fiona cried in surprise.

  “We came as soon as we could,” Lorana said, pausing to kneel and carefully open the carisak. She pulled out a strange-looking object and Fiona frowned as she tried to identify it. Lorana must have sensed her confusion for she glanced up at Fiona and smiled awkwardly. “It’s a syringe from Ancient Times.”

  An eruption of noise overhead heralded the arrival of another dragon. It was a queen, far larger than Talenth.

  “Tolarth is here in case we run out of serum,” Lorana explained as she carefully filled the syringe. “The serum is dragon’s blood: It contains the necessary protection.”

  “Ladirth first,” Fiona said, still recovering from her shock. “Then the others.”

  “Your queen is sick, Cisca told me,” Lorana said in disagreement. “Her first, then the others.”

  “All right, her, then Ladirth—he’s sick as well,” Fiona said. She looked at Kindan again, then at the woman in front of her, this time more carefully. Her dark hair was straight, her skin not as pale as Fiona’s, her dark eyes bright and set slightly slanted in her face. She had a beauty that was born of motion and grace.

  “Are you the one?” Fiona asked, trying to match Lorana’s voice with the one she’d heard so often in her head during the past four Turns of her life.

  “She’s the one who paid with dragon gold,” Kindan said, misunderstanding her question and glancing sympathetically toward Lorana. He glanced back to Fiona and dropped his eyes, ashamed of his words.

  Her eyes were attracted to a shiny brooch worn on his breast—it was a gold harp! Her brooch made real and delivered.

  M’tal followed her gaze. His face was more lined than she remembered.

  “Now, perhaps, Kindan,” he said with a gleam in his eyes, “I should explain to you why I asked you to wear that brooch today.”

  “You look so like her,” Kindan said half in apology, half in sorrow.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Fiona said. “She was my sister.”

  “You look so old,” Kindan persisted, then M’tal’s words registered and he looked down at the brooch. “The brooch?”

  M’tal smiled. “This young lady found the gold that went into it,” he explained. “Although it was not until much later that I realized who she really was.”

  Kindan frowned in thought for a moment then looked up at Fiona accusingly. “You timed it to Igen?”

  “I did,” Fiona said, turning her attention back to Lorana. The ex-dragonrider looked tired.

  A young woman leaped down from the large queen—she looked about Fiona’s age—and rushed over to the group. Her skin was darker than Lorana’s; she looked to have trader blood like Shaneese, she had the same bright, dark eyes, the same white teeth, and the same light air of cultivated assurance.

  “Jeila, Tolarth’s rider,” the girl said by way of introduction. She glanced toward Kindan, then Fiona. “Did you say you timed it to Igen?”

  Fiona held up a hand. “Later, please,” she said, moving toward Lorana. “Let’s see to the dragons.”

  “They all need the serum,” M’tal said as he followed. “It will not only cure the illness but prevent it.”

  “Lorana developed it,” Kindan added, with pride in his tone.

  Lorana was preparing a third syringe.

  “What do I do?” Fiona asked.

  “Jab it in your dragon’s hide, then plunge the liquid in,” Lorana said. She gave Fiona a half-smile as she added, “It won’t hurt—”

  “Dragon hide is thick,” Fiona joined in to finish in unison. Lorana’s smile widened but did not quite reach her eyes.

  Fiona wanted to ask her all sorts of questions, but she felt Lorana’s detachment and determination and settled for a quick, light touch of thanks on the older woman’s shoulder before rushing off to Talenth.

  Didn’t I tell you? Talenth said cheerfully, not even reacting as Fiona jabbed her and plunged the life-saving dragon ichor into her neck.

  How did you know?

  You told me.

  Before Fiona could overcome her shock at Talenth’s declaration, Terin rushed up to her, breathless, eyes huge. “There’s a cure?”

  Fiona nodded.

  “That’s it?”

  Fiona nodded again. She gestured toward the others. “Lorana discovered it.”

  “And Ladirth?”

  “As cured as Talenth,” Fiona assured her.

  “Oh, thank goodness!” Terin said, bursting into tears and burying herself against Fiona, who, unbalanced, fell against Talenth before she could wrap an arm around her friend.

  As if Terin’s relief was a signal, Fiona felt tears flood down her own cheeks.

  What is it? Talenth asked in concern. Why are you crying?

  Because you’re safe! Fiona told her. Because you’re not going to die without me.

  Talenth rumbled happily as she reminded her rider, Didn’t I tell you?

  Fiona clung tighter to Terin, letting relief wash over her until they were both cried out. Terin pulled away long enough to wipe her eyes on her sleeve, disregarding Fiona’s scowl, and laughing when the Weyrwoman ruefully realized she was no better placed to clean her face and, in chagrin, wiped her own eyes the same way.

  “How did Tenniz know?” Terin wondered as she stood up. Fiona raised an eyebrow in confusion. “That Lorana would come here?” Terin elaborated.

  Fiona felt her face drain of color and she shook her head, suddenly feeling full of dread. Knowing that Lorana would come here, what message had Tenniz sent her?

  Surely it would be a note of congratulations, she told herself. After all, what more could be asked of the woman who’d sacrificed her queen to save Pern?

  She shoved her thoughts aside. “We need to inject the others,” Fiona declared, putting her words into action and returning to L
orana, who directed her in refilling the syringe.

  There were only three syringes so Fiona, Terin, and Jeila were kept very busy injecting all the remaining dragons.

  “They’ll probably feel tired,” M’tal warned.

  “You don’t look so good yourself,” Kindan said just as Fiona opened her mouth to make the same comment. She gave the harper a rueful look before gesturing M’tal toward the Dining Cavern. “Perhaps you’d care for something to eat or some klah?” she offered.

  “Both,” Kindan said decisively with a humorous glance at the older man. “I don’t think he’s eaten since … when was the last time you ate?”

  “When was the last time you ate?” M’tal retorted.

  Fiona scrutinized all the Benden riders appraisingly. “Terin!” she called. The younger woman glanced up from where she was helping Lorana, quickly followed Fiona’s gaze, looked consideringly at Lorana, then rose to her feet, calling over her shoulder as she trotted toward the Dining Cavern, “I know! Food for foolish riders!”

  M’tal chuckled at her words, saying to Fiona, “She was with you at Igen.”

  “Yes,” Fiona said shortly. “She’s well-versed in the ways of foolish riders.”

  A sudden noise from nearby distracted them, and Fiona moved just in time to prevent Jeila from collapsing onto the ground.

  “She’s exhausted,” Fiona said. She glanced at the riders and weyrfolk clustered around, then shook her head, saying to M’tal, “Help me get her to my quarters.”

  “We’re done here,” Lorana called as she packed up.

  “You’re welcome to join us.”

  “Your dragons should rest,” Lorana said as she and Kindan fell in behind her.

  Talenth, Fiona said, tell Terin that we are in my rooms.

  She knows, Talenth replied.

  You should get some rest, Fiona told her queen. You need to recover.

  She heard Talenth rumble in agreement and start ambling along behind them. Another set of footsteps caused her to turn. It was H’nez. He appeared worried. With a look, she invited him to follow them.

  They climbed the incline of the queens’ ledge and entered Fiona’s weyr. She and M’tal gently laid Jeila down in her bed and then she gestured for the others to take seats around her day table.