Even as her fingers reported their sensations, Fiona felt a counter pull from high above her as wings beat, hearts pounded, lungs pumped, all joyfully, purposely. Tension grew, threatened to pull her apart until—finally—
Fiona felt the maleness of Kindan come to her through her connection with Lorana. She felt T’mar’s steady, calm breathing, felt the passion of his breath on her cheek, felt the roar of the wind high in the sky above, felt Lorana’s heat as she stood next to Kindan, felt Zirenth’s growing elation—mixed with approval—felt herself at the potter’s wheel, felt—
Suddenly she gasped and opened her eyes. The clay was a misshapen mess, all mashed together.
“Sometimes that happens, too,” Mekiar said softly from beside her, his words sounding somewhat forced. She looked up at him and he smiled calmly, then she saw his work.
He must have stopped spinning his wheel early on. For on his wheel stood a mix of wings and limbs, as though dragons and riders were each clutched in the same mating embrace.
He frowned at it. “I’m not sure if that’ll fire well.”
“It’s beautiful all the same,” Fiona said, even as her breathing returned to normal.
“I’m afraid we can’t keep it,” Mekair said sadly, folding the wings inward and slowly lumping the shape back into a ball. “Some beauty is only for an instant, to be admired just in the moment.”
Fiona nodded in understanding. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”
“My pleasure as well, in your company,” the ex-dragonrider said.
From on high, a loud contented bellow filled the sky.
“Ginirth,” Fiona said.
“About as I would have expected,” Mekiar said. Fiona raised an eyebrow at him questioningly. “There was a way the lass looked at the lad, and she came back here on purpose.”
Fiona nodded once more in understanding. Then a thought struck her. “And me? Could you tell?”
Mekiar smiled. “You, Weyrwoman, love everyone.”
Fiona looked at him in confusion.
“It’s your way,” he told her gently. “And it would be foolish to deny it.” He saw the pained look in her eyes and added, “If your heart is big enough, there is nothing better than to love as many as you can.”
“And is my heart big enough?”
“Only you know the answer to that.”
THIRTEEN
Bronze and gold,
Fleet and bold.
Entwined as one,
Passion’s done.
Telgar Weyr, morning, AL 508.2.13
“So, Jeila plans to stay here,” M’tal said as he saw her and H’nez arrive for breakfast the next morning.
Fiona glanced over at the two, nodding and smiling encouragingly in their direction. Jeila responded with a big grin while H’nez merely gave her a dignified nod. Jeila leaned in close to the taller bronze rider and said something that Fiona didn’t catch. H’nez jerked upright, then glanced down in surprise at the diminutive woman by his side. Jeila looked back toward Fiona, shaking her head ruefully, but her eyes were dancing.
“She seems to have him well in hand,” M’tal said quietly even as Jeila changed their direction toward the head table.
“Weyrwoman,” H’nez said stiffly as they approached. Fiona schooled her expression, gesturing to empty seats, saying, “Wingleader, please join us.”
H’nez sat woodenly, seeming surprised at the offer.
“A good flight, from all accounts,” M’tal said, nodding to Jeila and H’nez. He grinned at the tall, thin bronze rider and added, with a gleam in his eyes, “Although you’d best be careful next time. Gaminth swears that he’s got the way of it with two mating flights in the same day.”
H’nez regarded the ex-weyrleader seriously for a moment until Jeila’s snort alerted him that M’tal was joking.
“Ginirth is ready any time, sir,” H’nez said, joining into the spirit of things.
“Two queens on the Hatching Grounds at the same time,” M’tal said. “I don’t think I remember a time when such ever happened at Benden.”
“Kindan and Lorana insisted on spending time in the Records Room to see if they found any Records of that occurring here,” Fiona said. She smiled at Jeila, as she added, “But I’m not worried: Neither Talenth nor Tolarth seem at all concerned.”
“I’m hoping for a queen egg and thirty others,” Jeila said, as she snagged a roll and put it on H’nez’s plate. She gestured for the butter, which M’tal pushed in her direction, and lathered the roll with it copiously before pushing it toward H’nez’s mouth. The bronze rider looked askance at the treatment until he caught the look in his mate’s eyes, and resignedly took the roll and ate it whole. She nodded appreciatively as he did, saying, “You need some more padding if you’re going to continue to share a weyr with me.” To Fiona, she said, “I thought I was bony!”
“Petite,” H’nez corrected her, his near hand reaching unconsciously for hers. “Thin-boned.”
“Perhaps for not much longer,” Jeila said, glancing up doe-eyed at the bronze rider. “Will you still want me when I get all bloated with child?”
“You’re with child?” H’nez asked, his eyes going round with alarm. “I mean, we just—I didn’t think—”
Jeila’s chuckles silenced him and, as he strove to recover his composure, H’nez looked around the table daring anyone to comment on his reaction. Taking pity on her mate, Jeila turned to Fiona, saying, “And how about you, Weyrwoman?”
H’nez cleared his throat hastily in alarm. Jeila leaned over to him and he bent down for another whispered conversation. When he straightened up again, Jeila was looking in Fiona’s direction with great interest.
“That must have been quite a mating flight,” the smaller weyrwoman told her.
“It was,” Fiona agreed.
“And how is T’mar?”
“When I checked on him this morning, he seemed better,” Fiona said, working to keep her worry out of her voice.
“Seemed?”
“You were there in his quarters during your mating flight,” Fiona reminded her. Jeila glanced up at H’nez, as if to check his response, before nodding in agreement.
“I didn’t pay much attention to T’mar or anyone in the room,” Jeila said. She pursed her lips as she added thoughtfully, “Except that I was surprised, at first, to see Lorana there and not you—and then I was suddenly grateful to have someone there talking me through Tolarth’s gorging.”
Fiona nodded sympathetically. Her eyes caught Jeila’s and the two shared a moment of understanding, tabling parts of the discussion for a time when they could be alone together. Again, Fiona found herself warming to this kind, perceptive person.
“Anyway, Seban said that afterward, he thought he heard T’mar murmur something,” Fiona said, returning to their original topic.
“He spoke?” M’tal asked, surprised. “What did he say?”
“‘Three times,’” Fiona answered, trying and failing to hide her blush.
“Three times?” H’nez repeated in confusion. “What does that signify?”
“I, when we were back at Igen, I decided that I needed some … instruction.” Fiona found herself blushing even redder.
“With T’mar?” Jeila asked, her eyebrows arching high. She pursed her lips tightly, even though there was a definite upward curve to them, before adding judiciously, “From all I’ve heard, he would have been an excellent instructor.”
“Anyway, as with all his lessons, I insisted that we perform the exercise three times,” Fiona finished lamely.
“I see,” H’nez said, his voice more diplomatically neutral than Fiona had thought possible. He glanced at her, asking, “So you feel that he was recalling the same reference?”
“A third mating flight will revive him?” M’tal wondered. He furrowed his brow. “Here or could it be any queen’s mating?”
“Because Minith and Caranth—” Fiona began thoughtfully only to find herself interrupted by a sudden call from Ta
lenth. Come quickly!
“I must go,” Fiona said, rising from her chair. “Talenth wants me in T’mar’s quarters.”
Fiona raced across the Weyr Bowl toward the queens’ ledge. Her intent expression was such that weyrfolk and dragonriders alike veered out of her way, rather than delivering polite greetings and congratulations on the multiple mating flights. She acknowledged their kindness with a quick smile and a wave, keeping her pace quick and her course firm.
She was so quick that she was breathless by the time she made it up the ledge, past her quarters, Jeila’s quarters, and finally to the queen’s quarters that had been allocated to the injured bronze rider and his dragon.
Zirenth regarded her warily as she approached, his head flinching away from her, his eyes whirling a slow, steady red.
In T’mar’s quarters, Fiona found Seban, Bekka, Lorana, and Kindan all huddled around the dragonrider’s bed.
“What is it?” Fiona asked, edging her way in to look down at T’mar.
He was sweating and tossing from side to side.
“I don’t know,” Kindan said, shaking his head. “Seban called me when he first noticed and T’mar’s been getting steadily worse.” His blue eyes met Fiona’s, his expression somber. “With a head injury, there’s a great deal of pain, headaches, nausea, and sometimes memory loss.”
“Memory loss?” Fiona said, wondering how much T’mar might forget.
“Lorana and I were looking for similar cases in the Records,” Kindan said. By his tone, Fiona gathered that he hadn’t found any matches and that what he had found was disturbing. “Sometimes a serious knock on the head can cause the loss of months of memories. Most often the memories return slowly over time.”
“Most often?”
“Sometimes they don’t,” Kindan said, confirming her worst fear. “The Records suggest that a person who is in familiar surroundings recovers quicker than those who are in a strange location.” He waved at the quarters here. He grimaced as he added, “Also, the presence of a long-term relationship, a partner of long standing, has been shown to aid recovery.”
“Is this why he’s thrashing about so?”
“No,” Kindan said, shaking his head. “There was no mention of this in the Records.”
“Among those who survived,” Lorana added darkly. She glanced to Kindan, saying, “Tell her the rest.”
Kindan sighed heavily, and beckoned for Fiona to bend her ear close to his mouth, as he whispered, “A person who doesn’t regain consciousness in the first day rarely survives at all.”
“But why is he moving so? He seems upset,” Fiona protested. “And didn’t Seban hear him speak earlier? Isn’t that a good sign?”
Her eyes narrowed as she examined T’mar closely. Pushing the others aside so that she could kneel, she grabbed his hand and leaned over his face, trying to follow the movements of his lips.
“Three times, is that it, T’mar?” Fiona asked. She was certain that his hand had spasmed briefly around hers.
“If we have to wait for another mating flight, half a Turn or more, he won’t make it,” Kindan said.
“No, not here,” Fiona said, rising and turning to examine Zirenth. “Fort.”
“Fort?” Kindan said. “I’ve heard nothing of Melirth rising.”
Lorana’s eyes grew distant for a moment and then she grabbed Kindan’s arm and pulled him away forcibly, crying, “Come on!”
“Where are we going?” Kindan asked, holding his ground with a worried look toward T’mar.
“We’re going to Fort!” Lorana said, dragging him after her. “The bronzes are blooding their kills. We have to get there in time.”
“But you don’t know the coordinates!” Seban cried in warning.
“I do,” Fiona said, turning to start after them.
Stay here, Lorana told her. Just give us the image. Aloud, she said, “Zirenth! Rouse yourself, we’re going to Fort Weyr!”
To Fiona’s surprise, the bronze dragon stood up quickly and raced out of his weyr, jumping over the queens’ ledge and sidling up close to it, ready to receive Kindan and Lorana.
“You’ve no straps!” Fiona cried.
“Then we’d better not fall off!” Lorana said, increasing her pace into a full sprint. Kindan followed her lead, his reluctance lost.
“What are they doing?” Bekka asked in confusion. She gestured toward T’mar. “All the noise seems to have made him worse.”
“No,” Seban said, “not the noise, the dragons at Fort.” He glanced up at Fiona in confirmation. “He knows that the bronzes are blooding their kills.”
“Yes,” Fiona said. Outside she heard Zirenth’s bellow and the sound of the bronze beating his way into the air, then silence. The bronze, with Lorana and Kindan as his riders, went between to Fort Weyr.
“But if they’re blooding their kills now, how will Zirenth arrive in time for the mating flight?” Bekka asked. “Won’t he need to blood kills, too?”
“Yes he will,” Seban said. He shot a glance toward Fiona before adding, “Which is why Weyrwoman Fiona sent them back in time.”
Fiona took a deep breath and nodded, hoping that Lorana had realized her intent.
A noise from T’mar caused all eyes to turn to him.
“I’ll watch him now,” Fiona said.
Seban caught her eyes and nodded, placing his hands on Bekka’s shoulders and guiding his daughter toward Zirenth’s weyr and the queens’ ledge.
“He shouldn’t exert himself too much, Weyrwoman,” the ex-dragonrider cautioned her.
“I understand.”
“If you have Talenth call us when it’s over, we’ll see about changing his bandages,” Bekka said, a hopeful look flashing across her face when she mentioned Talenth. Fiona smiled and nodded, guessing how exciting it was for the youngster to have Telgar’s senior queen talk to her.
Fiona was pleased to realize that there was a little girl still lurking inside Bekka’s earnest, adult demeanor.
Her eyes dancing at this revelation, Fiona nodded in agreement, keeping her eyes on T’mar while their footsteps faded away. She turned then, to look at his bandaged leg. Yes, Bekka was not mistaken, the leg would need re-bandaging soon. Fiona frowned as she compared T’mar’s still body with the lively, energetic dragonrider she knew.
Kindan’s words came back to her: “A person who doesn’t regain consciousness in the first day rarely survives at all.”
But if T’mar didn’t survive, what would happen to Zirenth? Would the bronze remain, bonded to Lorana and Kindan? And what of the Weyr? How would the riders react to having someone like Kindan, a respected harper indeed but no dragonrider, in the position of Weyrleader?
Would Kindan stay? Would Lorana want to stay, under those circumstances? Why did they want to stay now, anyway?
For a moment Fiona regretted Talenth’s choice of mate and the strange outcome that had produced.
But was it Talenth, really? Fiona asked herself, recalling her thoughts from the day before. How much of the outcome had been her own desire?
You love Kindan, she told herself. You always have.
Ah, but how much of it was because he was safe? she taunted herself. How much because he was always there, out of reach, a constant reminder of things lost, of hopes never achieved?
He had Lorana now.
And you would poach his love away from her? she chided herself.
It’s only poaching if you refuse to share, the thought came to her with the force of the spoken word. This was not herself, Fiona realized, this was Lorana.
I would never hurt you!
I know, Lorana responded. Fiona got the impression that Lorana was straining, exerting herself, and needed to focus solely on the events immediately before her. With a soft touch, Fiona released the attachment, with the gentle wish that Lorana be happy.
“What am I?” Fiona asked herself aloud. Did other queen riders behave this way? Had there ever been such a connection? What would happen? How could she handle this?
Below her, she heard a change in T’mar’s breathing and looked down. The bronze rider’s face was contorted in a mixture of pain and pleasure. Touched by his pain and wishing to help, Fiona used her free hand to stroke his cheek.
“Fiona.” The word was the barest whisper.
“I’m here,” she assured him even as her heart leaped and her mind struggled with yet another worry: Do I love him?
“Three times,” T’mar breathed.
“Yes, three times,” Fiona agreed quietly. “Melirth rises. Zirenth is there.”
“Cisca?” T’mar’s brow furrowed, his expression troubled. “I love her.”
“Of course,” Fiona said. T’mar’s expression eased, his lips curling up slightly. Why shouldn’t he love her?
Just then, a wave of emotion engulfed Fiona. A murmur from T’mar proved that he had felt it, too.
T’mar’s hand spasmed around hers.
Gently, tenderly, with a passion no less intense for her controlling focus, Fiona traced his face with the fingers of her other hand. She traced his brows, which boldly framed thoughtful, passionate eyes, his gentle cheeks, the firm line of his nose, the sweet curve of his lips.
She could see the child still in the man and railed that she’d never had a chance to meet T’mar when he was younger. She could see, mirrored in the crow’s feet around his eyes, the easy smile, the long days spent squinting against the brilliant sun, the pain of friends lost, wounds not healed.
“I love you.” The words were hers. And, in saying them, she realized it to be true. He was a hard taskmaster, a person steadfast in his convictions, sometimes angry, always thoughtful, often kind. But, as his heart beat, so did hers.
“Kindan?” T’mar’s question was barely above a whisper but the name was spoken clearly.
“I love him, too,” Fiona said. She gave him a sad smile. “You’ll have to make do with someone who loves more than one man.”
“’Course, you’re a Weyrwoman,” T’mar said, struggling to open his eyes. “’S your job.”
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