Dragonheart

by Todd J. McCaffrey

  Fiona raised an eyebrow inquiringly.

  “Well,” Terin continued, “I was thinking that we should celebrate both Turnings, just to keep things in perspective.”

  “But you know, when we come back, we’ll still have this problem,” Fiona warned. “I’ll have nearly seventeen Turns by then.”

  “And I’ll be as old as you are now,” Terin said in agreement. She smiled as she added, “I’ll be nearly a full Turn older than Xhinna!”

  Xhinna! Fiona’s face fell. How would Xhinna react when they returned? What must she be feeling now?

  “She knew I was going,” Terin said, guessing at the thoughts causing Fiona’s expression. “I’m not sure she thought it through, though. And . . .” Her words trailed off miserably.

  “She expected to be with me,” Fiona completed grimly. “But the Weyrwoman said—” She cut herself off with a brisk shake of her head. “Well, there’s nothing for it now. We’ve Turns to go before we return.”

  “Only three days for them,” Terin objected.

  “Turns for us,” Fiona persisted. “And that’s what matters at the moment.” She shook her head again to clear herself of future worries and glanced at the chart. “So, what sort of birthing day are you planning?”

  “I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise,” Terin replied.

  “Not for me,” Fiona said with a grin. “For you!”

  * * *

  Fiona took her “Turning day” celebration that evening in good part, dealing with all the taunts and gibes of the younger and older weyrlings with graceful aplomb, consoling herself all the while that Terin and the others would have their comeuppance later.

  And, truth be told, the dinner and dessert were quite magnificent.

  “I tried some of the hotter peppers that Mother Karina boasted about,” Terin said when Fiona asked about the particularly spicy bean and tomato dish that Terin served with the cornmeal rolls that the desert traders favored. “And cumin and a dash of nutmeg.” She frowned, gesturing toward the stores. “We’ll need more nutmeg.”

  “Whatever you need, headwoman, we’ll get it for you,” T’mar declared, pouring out his third helping of the spicy bean dish. “This dish is worth every effort.”

  Terin glowed with pride.

  She glowed quite differently—red with embarrassment—twelve days later when Fiona, having banished her from the kitchen, presented Terin with her “Turning day” feast.

  The days between the two “Turning days” had been hectic and full of activity for Fiona, Terin, and the dragonriders. Still, Fiona had managed to find the time not only to reinstitute the early morning weyrling glides from the queen’s ledge but also to inveigle T’mar and F’jian into turning their hands to cooking meals.

  T’mar started with Terin’s bean recipe and added roast herdbeast marinated in a hot spicy sauce of his own invention. F’jian preferred to highlight garlic in his cooking, spicing up chicken breasts with a sweet and sour sauce that filled the entire Kitchen Cavern with its tantalizing scent.

  For herself, Fiona concentrated on sweet juices, trying some of the newer fruits that the traders had brought in from Keroon and Ista—pungent fruits with an amazing tang. She mixed these with rice from Ista and produced a pudding that tantalized everyone. Of course, Fiona presented the dessert to Terin as baby food—and delighted as Igen’s headwoman turned nearly as red as the food in front of her.

  After the meal, as the younger weyrlings happily cleaned up—mostly by gorging on the leftovers, Terin sidled up to Fiona and asked with a mischievous look, “And when is T’mar’s Turning Day?”

  Fiona didn’t know and it took her several days and some gentle questioning to discover it, as T’mar firmly deflected every effort.

  K’rall was her source. He had made great progress in his recovery in the three weeks since they’d arrived, and Fiona was now allowing him to talk for an hour each day—and K’rall, deprived of speech for so long, proved to be quite garrulous.

  “So who’s next with their ‘Turning Day’?” he asked after Fiona had checked his injuries.

  “I don’t know,” Fiona admitted. She cocked her head at him and smiled winningly. “Maybe you can help me . . .” and she explained her dilemma.

  K’rall started to laugh, but gritted his teeth as a spasm of pain in his jaw and Fiona’s flashing eyes warned him that he was still recovering from his wound.

  “Give me a slate and I’ll write down what I know,” K’rall said. Fiona didn’t have a spare slate with her but promised to return in the evening. After a few more polite remarks and an awkward silence, she rose to leave and continue her rounds of the convalescents.

  “Is there anything else we can do for you?” she asked as she made to leave.

  “Maybe you could,” K’rall told her thoughtfully. “I realize that I’m not supposed to use my jaw too much, but it’s been three sevendays now and my poor Seyorth is beyond restless. Is there something a rider and dragon could do for this Weyr?” he finished in a wistful tone.

  Fiona started to suggest that he consult T’mar but thought better of it. She was the Weyrwoman, after all.

  “I’m sure we can think of something!” she told him with a grin. Then she recalled her earlier discussion with the dragonrider and the fear he had of the reaction to his scarred face. “Why don’t you come down and join us this evening for the meal?”

  K’rall opened his mouth in protest, caught the admonishing look in Fiona’s eyes, and closed his mouth, slowly nodding in acceptance.

  “I’ll have Terin get you a slate and you can write down those dates while you’re there,” Fiona told him. She turned and started to leave, then called back over her shoulder, “We eat at the Weyrwoman’s table, in the back.”

  K’rall’s amused snort followed her down the hall.

  T’mar was not amused when Fiona informed him that evening as they made their way to the Dining Cavern. Fiona could feel his discomfort even as he tried to form a reply.

  “He had to recover sometime,” she told him. “And you’ve been complaining for more than a sevenday at how overworked your wingleaders are.”

  T’mar nodded glumly and Fiona cocked a sideways glance at him. “Are you worried that he’ll challenge your authority?”

  T’mar said nothing.

  “That’s silly,” Fiona said. “I’m the authority here.”

  “I don’t know if K’rall, recovered, will feel that way,” T’mar told her. “You’ve yet to have fourteen Turns.”

  Fiona had spent much time thinking about this, so she had a ready answer. “It’s not age, it’s authority that matters here.”

  T’mar looked at her questioningly.

  “As long as Talenth is the oldest queen, the dragons will defer to her,” Fiona said. “And in deferring to her, they defer to me.”

  T’mar pursed his lips sourly. “You sound like a hardened, tough old rider.”

  “I’m not,” Fiona replied. “But I’m a Lord Holder’s daughter, I’ve been trained from birth to lead others.” She grimaced. “I don’t think I know anything else.”

  “You’re young; you’re going to make mistakes.”

  “What, and older people don’t make mistakes, too?” Fiona snapped, eyes flashing. She shook her head, dismissing her anger. “Being young, I know that I make mistakes, I know that I have much to learn, and I’m willing to ask for help when I need it.” She paused. “So, wingleader, will you help me with K’rall?”

  T’mar let out a long sigh and broke his stride, turning toward her. For a moment as their eyes locked, Fiona felt that T’mar was seeing her in a different light, and it both thrilled and scared her. And then . . . the moment was gone and the tall bronze rider nodded.

  “Of course, Weyrwoman.”

  And Fiona realized that the look he had given her was not for the Weyrowman but for her, Fiona, herself.

  K’rall did not arrive until dinner had already been served, and then he made his way quickly, head down, to the table at th
e rear of the dining cavern. He could not avoid the cheerful calls of the small numbers of ambulatory convalescents, but he acknowledged them only with a curt nod.

  T’mar rose when he noticed the older rider, as did Fiona. Seeing their Weyrwoman rise, the rest of the table followed suit. K’rall sat hastily, but Fiona remained standing, sweeping her gaze over the other tables and commanding them with her presence to rise as well.

  A hush fell throughout the huge room.

  “It’s good to have you join us again, bronze rider,” Fiona said, looking at K’rall. He raised his eyes to hers and then recognized that everyone was standing in his honor. Fiona raised her glass to her lips. “I drink to your continued recovery.”

  There was a moment’s silence, then the hall filled with a chorus of: “K’rall!”

  Fiona sat down slowly, her cheeks burning as she darted a glance at T’mar, who shook his head imperceptibly, confirming her own feeling that she’d overdone it. Well, she’d made a mistake—she’d learn from it.

  “I’m sorry, K’rall,” she said softly to the bronze rider. “I meant to welcome you, not embarrass you.”

  K’rall glanced over to her and smiled. “I’m not embarrassed,” he told her. “I was just a bit taken aback, is all.”

  “I was telling the Weyrwoman how glad I’ll be to have more wingleaders recovered,” T’mar said. “I don’t know if she’s told you much of our circumstances here, but there’s much to do and few hands to do it with.”

  “I haven’t told you much,” Fiona admitted to K’rall, “because I didn’t want worrying to slow your recovery.”

  “I’m a wingleader, my lady, worrying is part of my job,” K’rall told her, his face set grimly but his eyes resting upon her warmly. “Tell me what needs doing, and I’ll see how I can help.”

  Quickly, with useful interjections from T’mar and J’keran, and occasional nods from the younger F’jian, Fiona sketched the state of the Weyr’s affairs, deftly handling K’rall’s indignant outburst when she dealt with the problems of demanding a tithe and describing their successes to date.

  “I see,” K’rall said when she had finished. He took a moment to slowly chew a bite of his meal, then turned back to her. “And what is it you’d like me to do?”

  “One thing that I absolutely require is for you to start rounds with the other injured riders,” she replied promptly. K’rall raised his eyes at that but Fiona persisted. “It’s vital that injured riders see other riders recovered from their wounds—”

  “Gives them hope,” K’rall murmured approvingly. His eyes twinkled and his craggy features creased as he said, “You’ve your father’s way with words, my lady.”

  “Shh!” Fiona chided him. “You don’t want to strain those muscles too much.”

  K’rall winced in agreement.

  “Speaking of between,” T’mar interposed himself deftly into the conversation, “we’ve discovered a problem with our training.”

  K’rall contented himself with a raised eyebrow in response.

  “Our training on recognition points—” T’mar began then caught himself. “—my training on recognition points was—or will be—nearly eight Turns in the future.” He paused, but K’rall gestured for him to proceed. T’mar plunged on, explaining about the ice—which prompted a surprised yet approving look from the other bronze rider—and the problem with timing it.

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” K’rall admitted. He stabbed his fork toward Fiona and T’mar. “But you’ve a solution . . .”

  T’mar nodded and explained about the traders and learning to navigate by the stars.

  “I would like to learn this,” K’rall said when T’mar had finished. He glanced at Fiona. “You think we can use the stars to guide us between times?”

  “I think someone has done it—or will do it—already,” Fiona replied firmly, recalling their arrival at Igen Weyr.

  K’rall nodded in agreement. “Any idea who the mystery Weyrwoman is?” He paused, then added, “Or will be?”

  T’mar glanced significantly at Fiona, who bristled at the implication and replied heatedly, “No one knows!”

  “Time will tell,” T’mar responded teasingly.

  After dessert, Terin placed a clean slate and chalk by K’rall’s arm and Fiona eyed him meaningfully. K’rall glanced at T’mar and smiled, took the slate, and filled it in quickly before passing it back to Fiona.

  Fiona looked at it for a moment, then passed it over to Terin, tapping at one point significantly.

  “Oh, that will do!” Terin crowed ecstatically.

  Terin and Fiona kept their plans secret until the first day of the next month. That morning they cornered K’rall and J’keran and brought them into the secret.

  “He’s going to hate it!” K’rall declared, his face drawn in as wide a grin as he could manage. Fiona smiled in agreement, then narrowed her eyes as she scrutinized the muscles in his face.

  “We’ll need to get some moisturizer or salve for you,” she declared, motioning to Terin in the private shorthand they had developed to indicate when Fiona wanted the headwoman to make a mental note.

  “This is where it’d be nice to have a healer,” Terin said, frowning thoughtfully.

  “Bah!” K’rall snorted. “I’m well-healed and have you to thank for it. A bit of a pinch is all I feel, and I’m sure that’ll fade as I work the muscles more.”

  Fiona had reluctantly approved K’rall’s pleas to be allowed full expression of his face again. In the week since his first dinner in the Dining Cavern, her respect and affection for the gruff old rider had grown immensely. K’rall was less conservative in his thinking than Fiona had initially guessed. In fact, she realized that a lot of what she’d branded as hidebound in his behavior was more a result of caution and a certain amount of fear of failure. And a lot of that fear, Fiona had decided, had vanished with his first Thread injury and its slow recovery.

  Father always said that many sticks-in-the-mud were saplings trying to grow new leaves after winter, Fiona reminded herself. She smiled softly at the memory, and was shocked to realize that if she were to go to Fort Hold now, she’d find a father only forty Turns and still in mourning—scarcely a Turn had passed here since the Plague had taken his wife and other children from him. A part of her desperately wanted to go to him, to assure him that she would grow up healthy, wise, and strong under his parenting. She realized how much such knowledge could mean to him at the moment and the notion surprised her.

  “What is it?” K’rall asked, seeing Fiona’s expression. “A burden shared . . .”

  “I was thinking of my father,” Fiona admitted, knowing that the older rider would understand.

  “Your Talenth is still far too young to fly, let alone between,” K’rall admonished her. “And she’s far too sensible to try.”

  “True,” Fiona agreed sardonically. While Talenth was well into her fourth month, it surprised Fiona sometimes how maturely her marvelous queen comported herself. Talenth was insistent that she be last to use her ledge for the now traditional morning weyrling glide and she was the first to greet a newly healed dragon when it tested its wings for the first time in his or her recovery. Fiona cocked her head at the older rider but stifled the question on her lips.

  “Something else, now,” K’rall rumbled, feigning a hint of exasperation. “What is it?”

  “Why are there so many more injured greens?”

  “I don’t know,” K’rall admitted with a shrug. “Perhaps it’s because there are so many more greens than bronzes or browns”—he held up a hand to restrain her from interjecting—“and the blues are smaller, so they’re harder for Thread to hit.”

  Fiona nodded, and K’rall smiled affectionately at her.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Weyrwoman, I’ve duties—more duties—to attend!”

  She waved him away, certain that she’d gained another convert to her secret plan.

  * * *

  Fiona waited until after dinner that evenin
g as the younger weyrlings were clearing the dishes and preparing to bring around the desserts and then, with a nod to K’rall, she rose from her position.

  “If I may have your attention,” she said in a loud, carrying voice. A bugle from a dragon in the Weyr Bowl outside ensured that the Dining Cavern was stone silent.

  T’mar eyed her suspiciously and she grinned at him.

  “As you know,” Fiona began, unable to keep her face straight, “we have taken to celebrating events in here, in this time as well as those that would occur back in our own time at Fort Weyr.” She paused to allow the riders to digest her words. “You may recall that this started with my birthing day and continued with Terin’s.”

  She glanced toward T’mar. “And while it will be some time before we celebrate another birthing day, tonight we celebrate something that I think, for a dragonrider, is far more significant.” She nodded to Terin, who pulled out a nicely decorated cake and started walking ceremoniously toward the high table.

  “Tonight we celebrate the fact that this is the same day, in the same time, that a young Candidate stood on the Hatching Grounds—” Fiona paused dramatically, long enough for the instructed weyrlings to trot toward various other riders with smaller confections. “—and one, in particular, Impressed a bronze.”

  T’mar’s gasp of surprise was matched by Zirenth’s delighted bugle. Several other riders were equally surprised to have small cakes placed in front of them by grinning weyrlings.

  Fiona reached for her glass and raised it high. “To all those who Impressed this day!”

  She was instantly joined by a thunderous roar of approval that rang around the room.

  “I never even thought . . .” T’mar began when he could find his voice again, but it broke and he just sat there, silently shaking his head in shock, surprise, and pure elation. Words came to him again at last as he reached out a hand to Fiona, saying, “Thank you.”