Dragonheart

by Todd J. McCaffrey

Maybe they could at that, Fiona thought as she lifted up the refilled pan: This one felt right. Moments later she was jumping up and down squealing, “Look, gold! I found gold!”

  “Shh, you’re supposed to be blending in,” Finlar hissed at her desperately, glancing back to the far shore. What he saw made him groan. “Oh, no! Now we’re for it.”

  Fiona was so thrilled with the sight of the two nuggets in her hand, each just about the size of the fingertip of her smallest finger, that it was moments before Finlar’s panic registered.

  “They’re waving us over!” Finlar cried in despair.

  “I found gold!” Fiona exclaimed, still oblivious to the danger.

  “You’re supposed to act like you’ve been doing it for the past half Turn,” Finlar growled at her.

  “Look,” Fiona said eagerly, extending her pan to him. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

  “They?” Finlar repeated, his brows furrowing as he bent closer. “You found two?”

  “Right there,” Fiona said, ducking her chin toward their location in her pan. She glanced up at him, grinning broadly. “Aren’t they pretty?”

  “Most of the times we don’t find two,” Finlar said with awe in his voice. He turned toward the far bank and waved. “Come on, we’ll show them!”

  Fiona walked carefully over, keeping her attention divided between her pan and the placement of her feet: There was a lot of gold dust in the pan, too, and she didn’t want to lose any of it.

  Finlar reached down and grabbed her arm to help her up the bank, where waiting hands reached down to hoist her up.

  At the top, Fiona found herself looking into the amber eyes of a tall, middle-aged man with speckles of gray in his otherwise warm brown hair. He was a dragonrider not just by his garb but by his bearing. She raised her head to greet him, but a nudge from Finlar reminded her of her secret and she dropped her eyes again.

  “You’re always being so bold,” Finlar chided her. “You’ll shame the hold the way you go on.” To the dragonrider, he said, “Please forgive her, my lord.”

  The muted sound of laughter in the distance told Fiona that F’dan could only just contain his mirth at her position.

  “My lord,” Fiona said, bowing in a low curtsy, keeping her pan steady in one hand. “Please forgive me: I was overexcited and too bold.”

  “Nonsense,” the dragonrider assured her, his eyes dancing. “You had every right.” He gestured to the pan. “May I see?”

  She relinquished it to him, feeling for a moment once more like a holder and wondering if she’d lose her treasure to this man. She tamped hard on her pride and could feel, in the distance, F’dan’s mixed emotions of approval and humorous appreciation.

  “As you can see, Lord M’tal,” Terregar spoke from his side, as the dragonrider poked his finger to nudge the two visible nuggets, “we’ve had a lucky find.”

  M’tal! Fiona cringed inwardly. Benden’s Weyrleader himself. She’d seen the man before, of course, but he was younger now than the last time she’d laid eyes on him.

  “And set up a new crafthall?” M’tal asked, looking toward Terregar.

  “And the wherhold,” Zenor added stoutly.

  “It was about the wherhold—and Nuella—that I came,” M’tal replied. He pushed the pan back toward Fiona, telling her, “Well, I’m sure your master will be pleased with your work this day.”

  Fiona glanced toward Terregar, who gave her a look suffused with dread and wonder, and then she piped up, “If you please, my lord, I’d take it as a great favor if you’d accept these pieces for Journeyman Kindan.”

  “Kindan?”

  Fiona dropped another curtsy and pressed the pan back into M’tal’s hands. “We’ve all heard his songs and the ballads about how he helped in the Plague,” she said. “It seems only right—to me, at least.”

  M’tal cocked his head, glancing toward Terregar and Zenor approvingly. “You teach your crafters well.”

  “We haven’t a harper of our own yet, but we do what we can,” Zenor responded, carefully avoiding any glances in Fiona’s direction. Fiona noted that Terregar was eyeing her with renewed interest, clearly reevaluating her.

  “Journeyman Kindan is famous throughout Pern,” Fiona said. “It seems only right, if it’s not too much to ask.”

  “It’s not,” M’tal said, picking the two nuggets out of the pan and returning it to her. “And I thank you for the notion.”

  Zenor eyed the two pieces carefully, saying, “If my lord would, I believe I could fashion those into a ring or small pins.”

  “A harp, perhaps?” M’tal asked.

  Zenor paused for a long moment, consideringly. It was Terregar who spoke up, “A harp it shall be, my lord.” To Zenor he said, “Any lack we’ll make up from other pannings.”

  “A gift from the Wherhold for Kindan’s gift of his watch-wher to our lady Nuella,” Fiona declared grandly. Finlar’s gasp at her side alerted her to her mistake: Her wording was too grand for a mere crafter girl.

  “Well spoken,” M’tal said as he passed the nuggets over to Zenor. “Very well spoken for one without a harper.”

  “We’re a mixed lot,” Terregar told him quickly. “Some from the Smith hall, some from outlying holds and crafts nearby.”

  “Mmm,” M’tal murmured. He glanced at Fiona. “And who should I name to Journeyman Kindan as his benefactor?”

  “Fi—” Fiona began but broke off even before she felt Finlar cringing beside her. “Please just call it a gift from the crafters and holders of the wherhold, my lord.”

  Terregar glanced at her in surprise mixed with admiration. Zenor gave her a knowing nod; he’d formed his opinion of her back at Mine Natalon.

  M’tal turned back to Zenor. “As I was saying,” he began, “my visit here was more to coordinate with Nuella and the wherfolk than to admire your gold.”

  There was a subtle shift in the atmosphere as the crafters absorbed his words.

  Zenor gave him an expectant look.

  “Do you recall how Nuella visited all the holds, Turns back before she bonded with Nuelsk?”

  Zenor nodded. “Indeed I do, my lord,” he replied. “However, if you are here to ask that of her again, I should inform you that she’s just recently bonded with a gold—”

  “Has she, by the First Egg!” M’tal exclaimed, his face breaking into a huge grin. “I’d heard about the accident at the mine, of course, but I hadn’t hoped—” He cut himself off, motioning courteously to Zenor. “Please continue.”

  Zenor cast a nervous glance toward Fiona: What should he say? Fiona thought quickly, passing her pan to Finlar, who grasped it in surprise. “I could go see if she’s awake, sir,” she suggested quickly to Zenor.

  “Yes, do that,” Zenor said gratefully, glancing back to the Weyrleader. “Perhaps we should wait for Nuella.”

  “Perhaps,” M’tal said, glancing toward Finlar and the two pans, “I could try my luck in the river?”

  As Fiona sped away she suppressed a giggle at the sight of Benden’s Weyrleader drenched up to his hips as he happily panned for gold. It was only when she was halfway to nowhere that she realized she wasn’t exactly sure where to find Nuella.

  She scanned around nervously, then settled on the hills. She was certain that Zenor and Terregar would have quarried their stone from the hills, excavating quarters for the watch-whers at the same time as providing housing for the crafters.

  Quickly she discovered that she’d made the right choice. She paused as the dark archway cut into the side of the hill came into view: the craftwork was perfect, the stones laid dry to form a tall archway that was properly recessed the regulation dragonlength into the hill, with room clearly set for two large steel doors, one set behind the other to provide double protection against Thread. She thought she could feel both Zenor’s mining craft and Terregar’s smith craft at work in its formation—a proper blend for Nuella’s queen.

  Again Fiona found herself admonishing herself to remember that Nuella had not yet
made her amazing night flight. The adoration of the Fort riders for the watch-whers was something that had already subtly disturbed the wherhandlers, unused as they were to anything but derision from dragonriders.

  Glows lit the way inside, and Fiona turned to the sound of voices and the smells of cooking.

  “Who are you and what are you doing here?” a woman’s voice demanded brusquely from the nearest hearth. “You’re soaking. Why aren’t you out in the sun, drying off?”

  Fiona’s heart leapt as she took in the flour-smudged face, the stern look and the amazing smells arising all around her. This slim person was clearly of the same mold as her beloved Neesa, the head cook at Fort Hold since before Fiona was born.

  “You must be Sula,” Fiona said, recalling Zenor’s glee at arranging to bring her with them from Mine Natalon.

  “Of course I am. Now get out of here,” Sula responded sharply. “Don’t think to nab a dainty on your way out, either!” To herself she began muttering, “I work all day and all night and these kids just gobble it up without a word of thanks.”

  “If you’ve dainties, you might want to send them down to the river,” Fiona said over Sula’s mutterings. The cook glanced at her sharply, and Fiona explained, “Weyrleader M’tal is here, looking for Nuella.”

  Sula clasped flour-whitened hands to her cheeks, adding to the smudges already there, as she exclaimed, “Why didn’t you say so immediately!” She began bustling about the kitchen, twice as busy as she’d been before. “Oh, my!” She raised her voice to a bellow. “Silstra! Silstra, get over here, we’ve got company!”

  She glanced again at Fiona. “Well, what are you still doing here? You’ve delivered your message, you—”

  Silstra bustled into the room, her face set to scold whoever had caused her to be disturbed. She stopped the moment she caught sight of Fiona and dropped a curtsy. “Weyrwoman, what are you doing here?”

  “Actually, I was here to get Zenor to propose,” Fiona admitted, “but Weyrleader M’tal has dropped in and wants a word with Nuella.”

  “Did he recognize you?” Silstra asked, her expression going anxious.

  “No,” Fiona replied. “They sent me into the river to pan and I found some nuggets and—” She cut herself short. “He thinks I’m a crafter or holder, and I’ve been sent to get Nuella before M’tal starts asking questions that Zenor and Terregar can’t handle.”

  Silstra snorted. “Then you’d best be quick—neither of them are good at lying.”

  Sula, who had been staring bug-eyed at Fiona ever since Silstra had identified her, finally found breath enough to gasp, “My lady, I’m so sorry! I didn’t—”

  Fiona stopped her with a raised hand and a grin. “You reminded me of our cook back at the Hold. It felt like being home.”

  “Shards!” Sula exclaimed, shaking her head in dismay. “That a cook would talk so to a Lady Holder!”

  “If she hadn’t, I’d be the size of a barge,” Fiona replied, still grinning. “I was always stealing from the kitchen.”

  “I had you marked for a rascal,” Silstra murmured approvingly. Sula gasped in surprise. “You couldn’t manage your Weyr at this age if you hadn’t been a hellion as a child.”

  “I only hunted tunnel snakes,” Fiona said in her defense.

  “Exactly!” Silstra said. She turned to Sula. “But the Weyrwoman’s right about your dainties. Do be a gem and set out a platter that I can bring down.”

  “And some iced klah,” Sula said in agreement, nodding toward Fiona. “We’re so glad that you weyrfolk brought us that.”

  “It’s the only way to survive in the heat,” Fiona said. “But I think you’d best send down warm klah, as it’s really chilly out and, also, we don’t want to have to explain the ice.”

  “Oh!” Sula exclaimed, smudging yet more flour onto her cheeks with her hands. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “I’ll lead you to Nuellask’s weyr,” Silstra said, turning so quickly that Fiona had to scurry to follow her. On the way, Silstra said over her shoulder, “I’m glad you’re here; I’ve about run out of things to say to Zenor.” She shook her head, adding fondly, “The lad’s afraid he’s not good enough for her.”

  Fiona thought briefly of Kindan, wondering if he felt the same, and then realized that her previous mention of him and her meeting now with his oldest sister brought a pang of longing and familiarity to her heart.

  “It seems to me that he loves her,” Fiona replied. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “Sometimes,” Silstra said. “I think he’s afraid that she’ll say no, fearing that she’ll end up having to choose between him or her queen.”

  “She won’t,” Fiona declared. “At least, she hadn’t in my time.”

  “Don’t tell her that,” Silstra cautioned. “I can see how right you are to keep the future clouded. If she knew what she did, she’d feel trapped and without choice.”

  “Yes,” Fiona agreed. “That’s one reason.”

  Silstra paused outside a darkened archway. “Nuellask is in there.”

  Talenth? Fiona called. I’m here at the wherhold. Could you ask Nuellask if I can come in?

  A moment later a curious chirp echoed in the corridor.

  “She doesn’t usually do that,” Silstra muttered, surprised.

  “I asked Talenth to speak with her,” Fiona explained.

  “Who’s there?” Nuella called groggily from the entrance.

  “It’s Silstra,” Silstra replied. “Weyrwoman Fiona is here with me.”

  “M’tal’s down by the river,” Fiona added. “He’s asking questions.”

  “M’tal?” Nuella repeated, her voice perking up. “I dreamed about him.”

  “Should I have him come to you here?” Fiona asked. She added, “He doesn’t know about me—he thinks I’m a crafter.”

  “Well, he’s right on that,” Nuella said, her voice approaching them. A moment later she stepped out, one hand outstretched. “Nuellask is sleepy; we can leave her here,” she said as she reached her hand toward Fiona, who grabbed it in response. Nuella smiled. “It’s good to have you here again, Weyrwoman.”

  “We’ve been busy at the Weyr,” Fiona said, “or I would have come more often.”

  “You are always welcome,” Nuella told her.

  “So I did right, then?” Fiona asked, suddenly feeling her age and all the worry that she’d had about forcing the queen on Nuella and the wherfolk to move here.

  “You did,” another voice chimed in from down the corridor. It was Arella. She added teasingly, “Didn’t you know that?”

  “No, not really,” Fiona admitted in a small voice. “I only knew that there was a wherhold, not who was in it—”

  “But you knew you were doing right at the moment, when you forced us to change,” Nuella corrected her. She waved her free hand dismissively. “You should understand how much being tied to the future hurts you.”

  Fiona made a surprised sound.

  Nuella and Arella both burst out laughing and Fiona found herself bristling, her cheeks hot with shame.

  “They mean well, Weyrwoman,” Silstra assured her in a tone that told of long suffering with the wherwomen’s humors.

  “If you just trust yourself, Fiona, you’ll do fine,” Arella explained when at last she recovered from her laughing bout.

  “This wherhold is thriving—will thrive,” Nuella added approvingly. “And it is because of you, only because of you, that it is so.”

  “But I knew it would!” Fiona declared, feeling that that should detract from her honors.

  “No,” Nuella corrected with a shake of her head. “As you said, you only knew some things. You were responsible for making this, even if the future gave you hints.”

  “M’tal’s here,” Silstra said to Arella.

  “He’s down at the river,” Nuella added, raising Fiona’s hand invitingly. “So, Weyrwoman, what shall we tell him?”

  “Hmmph!” Fiona snorted. “After all you’ve just said, it seems to
me that you’ll figure it out.”

  Nuella snorted, then nodded. “I’m sure I will.”

  “He doesn’t know about Fiona or the Igen riders,” Silstra added.

  “F’dan brought me,” Fiona said, “but he’s going to say that he’s from Fort Weyr.”

  “As that’s the truth, there’s no problem with that,” Nuella agreed.

  “I’ll get back to Sula—she’s doubtless in a tizzy by now,” Silstra said, nodding to each of them in turn, then marching quickly away.

  As they made their way down toward the river, Arella and Nuella quizzed Fiona on her meeting with M’tal. Both giggled and glanced at each other when Fiona, red-faced, explained about her gift for Kindan.

  “He’s quite a looker,” Arella told Nuella knowingly.

  “I know,” Nuella agreed. “But I prefer redheads.”

  “We know,” Arella said with a grin.

  “He’s a handsome lad,” Fiona agreed. She saw Arella’s encouraging nod and, not wasting time to wonder how the wherhandler had divined her intentions, plunged on, “He’d be quite a catch.”

  “Only if he’s willing to be caught,” Nuella said with a sigh. “I was hoping maybe when Nuelsk rose . . .”

  Arella burst out laughing, pointing a finger accusingly at Nuella. “I never would have thought that of you!”

  “Why not?” Nuella asked, her innocence vanishing. “I’ve heard enough about mating flights to hope—”

  “You are a sly one!” Arella exclaimed.

  Fiona felt uncomfortable with the tone of the conversation, not scandalized but troubled all the same, feeling somewhat as though she were on the edge of a deeper understanding that only experience could provide.

  “As it is,” Nuella persisted, “I don’t know if I can wait until Nuellask rises.”

  “Ah, but it’d be so much better with a queen!” Arella said, grinning lecherously.

  Something in Nuella’s silence calmed the other wherhandler, who shook her head, glancing toward Fiona with a meaning Fiona couldn’t fathom.

  “M’tal doesn’t know my name,” Fiona told them as they drew near the millhouse.

  “Probably for the best,” Nuella agreed. “Fiona’s not that common a name.”