Fiona chewed her lip before confessing, “Father said we didn’t have enough spare hands to send them to the Halls for eight Turns of learning.”
The others looked at her inquiringly.
“That’s how long it takes to train a healer,” Fiona told them. “Four Turns in the Harper Hall, four more in the Healer Hall.”
“Why so long?” Cisca asked.
“Why not just teach healing?” Tannaz added.
“Kindan said that a harper learns a lot of healing,” Fiona replied. “The extra turns at the Healer Hall are to learn even more.”
“Fort was hard hit by the Plague,” K’lior remembered.
“Father said it was the same with all the holds and crafts,” Fiona responded. “He said it was getting better now that the holds and crafts were recovering from the Plague, but that there were still fields lying fallow and looms gathering dust.”
“I could see how hard it would be to give up an able body in such times,” Tannaz said. When Cisca looked ready to disagree, Tannaz explained, “The grain from the fields is needed for the cattle for the dragons, as well as for the holders who tend the cattle.”
“Well, we won’t solve that problem here,” Cisca said, dismissing the issue. “The question is, what to do with these sick dragons?”
“The question is, how many are sick, will they recover, and when?” K’lior corrected her. When she looked at him blankly, he reminded her, “Thread will be coming soon and we’ll need every dragon and rider we have.”
Even though the conversation was engrossing and worrying, Fiona found herself so tired from the day’s events and her own efforts that she could only poorly stifle a yawn.
“And we won’t answer them tonight!” K’lior said, rising from his chair. He bowed his head to Fiona. “My apologies, I forgot that not only is your dragon young and growing but so are you.”
“Both of you need your rest,” Cisca agreed. She, too, found herself yawning. “We all need our rest.”
“I’ll talk with Kentai tomorrow,” K’lior said.
“I’ll want to listen in,” Cisca told him.
“Get up,” Tannaz ordered Fiona. “I’ll see you to your Weyr.”
The last thing Fiona remembered was the sight of Tannaz stretching on her tiptoes to reach up and turn over the last glow in her room.
FIVE
Eyes green, delight
Eyes red, fright
Eyes yellow, worry
Eyes closed, no hurry.
FortWeyr , Next Morning, AL 507.13.15
The light of morning streaming in to her room woke her. Fiona leapt out of her bed in horror; she hadn’t meant to sleep so long. One gentle touch to Talenth confirmed that the young queen was still sleeping, though Fiona got the feeling that Talenth’s dreams were troubling her.
As Fiona hastened through her toilet she kept an ear out for any sound of her dragon stirring. She had just finished pulling on her day gown when she heard the unmistakable sound of a dragon coughing.
Talenth? Fiona thought nervously to her dragon. But Talenth did not respond, her mind still sleeping, though twitching with whatever dream bothered her. Fiona raced to her dragon’s weyr to confirm her impression: Sure enough, she could see Talenth’s flanks and wings twitching as though in some dream flight.
Another cough. Fiona spun around toward the noise. She ran out to the ledge that overlooked the Weyr Bowl and connected her weyr with the other queen’s weyrs, her head cocked in the direction of the noise.
It came from her left — that was Tannaz’s weyr.
Fiona raced that way, her nostrils flaring for breath. When she reached Kalsenth’s weyr, Tannaz looked up at her approach, her eyes red with tears, wide with fear and worry.
“She started last night,” Tannaz told her.
“Fiona!” Cisca called, coming into the dragon’s lair from Tannaz’s quarters. “Good, run to the Kitchen, they should have that decoction ready. Bring it back as fast as you can.”
Fiona spun on her heels and took off, racing down the ledge, across the Weyr Bowl, and into the Kitchen Cavern.
“I’m to get the decoction for Kalsenth,” Fiona called as she entered, looking around frantically.
“Over here,” a man’s voice called. She turned to it, saw that it was Kentai, and trotted over, her sides heaving from her run. “It’s nearly ready.”
Whatever it was smelled good, Fiona realized as she neared the steaming pot. Kentai waved her back, then pulled the pot off the coals, grabbed it with wherhide gloves, and poured its contents into a large bucket that had a ladle hanging from its side.
“Will you be able to manage?” he asked as he handed her the bucket.
Breathless, Fiona nodded and took off again, running nearly as fast as she had on the way down. Her legs complained and she caught a stitch in her side just as she started to climb the incline of the ledge to the weyrs.
“Great,” Cisca called, grabbing the bucket from her and leaving Fiona to lean against the wall, panting to regain her wind. “Tannaz, they say that the Weyrwoman at Benden recommended it,” Cisca said. Tannaz looked up at her, hollow-eyed. “You know, the one who Impressed that gold before Breth . . .”
Tannaz looked down, then back to her dragon. Fiona stumbled over to her, knelt beside her, and hugged her tight. Tannaz did not react. Worriedly, Fiona exchanged looks with Cisca, but the other only shook her head slightly and frowned down at the bucket, stirring it with the ladle to cool it more quickly.
“Tannaz . . .” Fiona began but was cut off by another cough from Kalsenth. Again Fiona noticed that sickly smell. Tannaz crumpled against her dragon’s side.
Fiona? Talenth called from her weyr.
Wait, Fiona replied, surprising herself. Tannaz was so strong, she couldn’t give in now, so soon, she just couldn’t!
Setting her jaw, Fiona leaned forward, grabbed Tannaz by the shoulders, and pulled her back.
Tannaz looked up at her, her expression one of mingled surprise and anger.
“You need to take care of your dragon,” Fiona said, looking down at her. “You need to feed her this stuff that they use in Benden.” A faintly puzzled look entered Tannaz’s eyes. “You are her rider; you must be strong.”
Fiona leaned back, getting her feet under her and urging Tannaz to rise with her.
“Come on, Tannaz,” Cisca added, scooping some of the liquid into the ladle. “Fiona’s right.”
Tannaz looked at the ladle, looked at her dragon, and nodded.
“Kalsenth,” she said aloud, “open your mouth.” Before she poured the liquid down her dragon’s throat, she checked the temperature against the inside of her wrist. “It’s not too hot, you should like it.”
“It smells good,” Cisca added encouragingly.
The gold dragon waited until Tannaz retracted her arm before closing her mouth and raising her head to swallow the liquid.
“Feed it all to her,” Cisca said, extending the bucket to Tannaz.
“There,” Fiona said as the gold opened her mouth once more and Tannaz ladled in another dollop, “that’s better, isn’t it?”
The bucket was empty in no time. Kalsenth lay her head back down and closed her eyes. In a short while she was asleep again.
“You should get some sleep, too,” Cisca said to Tannaz. Fiona darted into Tannaz’s quarters and returned with pillows and blankets. Tannaz took them gratefully and curled up against her gold.
“We’ll check on you later,” Cisca promised, passing the empty bucket and ladle over to Fiona and gesturing for her to leave through the weyr entrance.
As Fiona followed the Weyrwoman down the ramp toward the Kitchen Cavern, she spotted Talenth peering timidly out of her weyr. Cisca noticed and nodded to Fiona, “See to her and meet me when you can.”
Fiona insisted upon oiling Talenth before feeding her, and between the two tasks it was over an hour before she had the dragonet back in her weyr, sated, scrubbed, and somnolent. Fiona failed to stifle a yawn herself a
s she headed down the incline toward the Kitchen Cavern, wishing that times were such that she could curl up with her dragon.
Cisca wasn’t in the Kitchen Cavern when Fiona arrived. Zirana directed her to a doorway at the back of the cavern and Fiona found herself in a corridor she’d never been in before.
As with all of Fort Weyr , the walls were just as smooth as those at Fort Hold . Fiona ran her hands along them, delighting in the cold smoothness. She knew from her times at other holds and at the Harper Hall that whatever the Oldtimers had used to create such smoothness had failed before all the holds or Weyrs were finished, and she was glad that, having left Fort Hold, she’d been lucky enough to come to Fort Weyr with its reassuring similarities.
I wonder if the layouts are the same? Fiona thought, turning to the right to follow her hunch. She’d been told that Cisca was in the storerooms, and at Fort Hold , the storerooms had been set to the right of the lower corridors.
A faint smell of herbs came to her, and Fiona smiled to herself: She’d guessed right.
“I don’t care if we don’t have enough,” Cisca was saying impatiently as Fiona entered the room. “We’ll send for more. Just get all the dried echinacea and bring it to the cooks — we’ve got to make more of that potion!”
“Just where will you get it?” an older woman’s voice asked tetchily.
“It doesn’t matter,” Cisca said. “Our first need is the sick dragons.”
“Dragons don’t get sick!” the woman replied. “And who do you think you are, the Weyrwoman?”
Fiona entered the doorway in time to identify the irritable woman as Melanwy.
“But she is the Weyrwoman,” Fiona declared, only to be surprised by the shushing motions Cisca was making behind the old woman’s back. The room was filled with cabinets, except for the far end where there was a work desk and some chairs. Glowbaskets hung from hooks on the walls.
Melanwy’s eyes widened in surprise and she said to Fiona, “Who are you?”
“She’s Fiona, Melanwy,” Cisca said. “She cooked for us last night.”
Melanwy’s face drained of expression and she tottered to the table and sat down, hard. She dropped her head into her hands. Finally she looked up at Cisca. “But what happened to Nara ?”
“She went between, Melanwy,” Cisca told her softly.
“She did?” the old woman asked, straining to find the memory. “Oh, now I remember.” There was a long silence as Melanwy absorbed her loss once again and then, with a sigh, the old woman pushed back the chair and stood up again. “What are we doing here?”
“We’re looking for herbs, Melanwy,” Cisca said. “We need echinacea and ginger and — ”
“Why?”
“Because the dragons are getting sick,” Cisca said, trying to keep the weariness out of her voice.
“Dragons don’t get sick,” Melanwy insisted again. Cisca glanced over at Fiona in exasperation.
“What do we need, Weyrwoman?” Fiona asked, stepping into the room and glancing around. “Besides ginger and echinacea?”
With a relieved look, Cisca passed a slate to Fiona. “Here’s the list.”
“Melanwy and I can find them,” Fiona said, and was instantly gratified to see relief on Cisca’s face. “Can’t we, Melanwy?”
“Who are you?” Melanwy asked.
“Fiona,” she replied quickly. “I’m from Fort Hold , Lord Bemin’s daughter.”
“What are you doing here?” Melanwy asked, then remembered her manners. “How delightful to meet you; how is your mother?”
“Perhaps Melanwy can help me, ” Fiona said with a significant glance to Cisca.
Cisca brightened. “I’ll send some folk to help,” she promised, clapping Fiona on the shoulder in thanks as she passed around her and through the doorway.
Fiona turned back to Melanwy. “The Weyrwoman’s offered us some of your stores; we’ll pay them back as soon as we can, but we’ve got a sickness and need some herbs — ”
“What do you need?” Melanwy asked briskly, gesturing for Fiona to hand her the list.
Melanwy was tired when they had finished locating the last of the herbs, so Fiona escorted her back to her quarters before returning to the Kitchen Cavern.
“Take this up to T’jen,” Cisca was saying to one of the kitchen-folk as Fiona entered. She turned to a young rider standing attentively beside her and continued, “Take this to the Harper Hall and see if they can help.”
The rider nodded and left, moving briskly. It was then that Cisca noticed Fiona.
“Melanwy was tired, so I brought her back to her quarters to rest,” Fiona told her.
Cisca gestured her to a table on which were laid out some rolls, butter, mugs, and a pitcher of klah.
“Right now there are five sick dragons,” Cisca told her once as they were seated. “Salith, Asoth, Danorth, Panunth, and Kalsenth.”
Fiona was confused. “Salith is T’jen’s brown, right?”
“Oh, sorry, I forgot that you’ve only been here — how long has it been?” Cisca said, then waved the question away. “Asoth is J’marin’s blue — he’s the one who had the gold fire-lizard, Siaymon — Danorth is L’rian’s green, and Panunth is M’rorin’s blue.”
Fiona tried to fix the names of the riders, the dragons, and their colors in her head but found, to her annoyance, that she couldn’t.
“I used to be good with names,” she said, frowning. “I know all the names of every holder in Fort Hold and all the heads of every hold minor or craft — ”
“Don’t worry,” Cisca assured her. “You’ll learn them all in time.”
Fiona contented herself with a sip from her mug and another bite of her roll. She was surprised that she was so hungry until she remembered that she hadn’t eaten at all that morning . . . which brought her back to the issue she’d been avoiding. “I seem to be in such a muddle all the time,” she confessed to Cisca. She met the Weyrwoman’s eyes. “I didn’t use to be like this.”
Cisca picked up on Fiona’s unspoken plea. “I don’t think it’s the illness,” she told her.
“But you’ve noticed?” Fiona persisted. “Is there something wrong with me?”
“If there is, you’re not alone.” The speaker was K’lior, who was striding up to them. He smiled at Fiona, kissed Cisca on the cheek, and, hooking a chair with his foot, dragged himself up a seat. He looked Fiona over intently. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m tired all the time,” Fiona said. “But isn’t that normal after an Impression? And I’ve thirteen Turns, and all the old ones said that being a teen was tiring.”
K’lior smiled reassuringly at her. “It is normal to be tired for the first few months or more after Impressing a dragonet — it takes time for them to reach their growth!” His eyes twinkled as he added, “And I recall being tired for much of my teens, too.” He looked over at Cisca, questioningly.
Fort’s Weyrwoman spent some time choosing her words. “Both are very tiring,” Cisca began.
“But Kindan had only fourteen Turns when he fought the Plague,” Fiona remarked. She pushed herself up straighter. “If he can do that, I don’t know why I can’t manage a dragon while being a teen.”
“Of course you’ll manage your dragon,” Cisca told her emphatically. With a nod toward the Weyrleader, she added, “Neither K’lior nor I have any doubt about that. ”
“But . . .” Fiona prompted then blushed as she remembered to whom she was speaking. Before she could apologize, K’lior responded, “But we have noticed that you and many others seem more tired than usual, even for those who have newly Impressed.”
“There are even some who Impressed many Turns ago,” Cisca added, thinking of T’mar.
Fiona was only half relieved by the news. “No one knows why we’re feeling this way?”
K’lior shook his head. “No, but we’re keeping an eye on it.”
“So far it hasn’t affected the dragons,” Cisca assured her, “just the riders.”
“A
nd they’re able to do their duty,” K’lior added. Fiona noted the way Cisca glanced at the Weyrleader when he made this pronouncement.
“You don’t agree, do you?” Fiona asked her.
Cisca chewed her lip thoughtfully before saying, to K’lior’s evident irritation, “I have some reservations.”
“We’ve more important matters at the moment,” K’lior said, changing the topic. He turned to Cisca. “How are our stores for that herbal recipe Benden sent?”
Cisca shook her head and grimaced. “We’ll be out before the end of the day, with just these five.”
“We can send riders to the Holds,” K’lior decided. He took on the abstracted look of a rider talking to his dragon, smiled briefly, then said, “I’ve asked T’mar to go to Fort, P’der to go to Southern Boll, and M’kury will go to Ruatha.”
“And V’ney and H’nez?” Cisca wondered.
“They’ll be handling drill today,” K’lior told her.
“Mixed wings?” Cisca asked.
“Of course,” K’lior replied, smiling.
Fiona looked confused, so Cisca explained, “K’lior likes to mix up wings to be sure that every rider can work with every wingleader.”
“Oh.”
“It keeps them on their toes,” K’lior told her with a wink.
“It stops them from being bored,” Cisca allowed.
“Bored?” Fiona asked, surprised that dragonriders could be bored.
“You must remember that some of them have been drilling all their lives,” K’lior said.
“But the Red Star,” Fiona protested. “Thread is coming soon!” “Which is why we drill with mixed wings,” K’lior agreed.
Fiona thought on that for a moment and nodded. “Father often makes his guards change posts.”
“Probably for the same reason,” Cisca said.
A sudden thought caused Fiona to perk up. “Do you suppose, perhaps, that is, if it wouldn’t be too much of a burden — ”
“Spit it out,” Cisca said, gesturing with one hand. She pointed at K’lior. “He won’t bite.”
K’lior gave them a look of feigned indignation.
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