Fiona laughed, then elbowed his arms away, finishing her work of clipping on to the fighting straps. “I do, if you aren’t going to clip in!”
“Very well, Weyrwoman,” T’mar agreed with a sigh. When he was done, he wrapped his arms around her once more, recalling for Fiona memories from when she was a child on a cold day and her father similarly wrapped his arms around her. She leaned back against his chest and closed her eyes, warm with the memory.
The sudden leap into the air and the sound of Zirenth’s great wings propelling them swiftly up and out of the Weyr Bowl did nothing to disturb Fiona’s happiness, and even when they went into the cold nothingness of between, she felt safe.
The weather over Fort Hold and the adjoining Harper Hall was much as at Fort Weyr — wispy drifts of snow could be seen at the edges of buildings and the base of the cliffs, and the air was crisp, cold, and dry with the harsh winds of winter. The sun was bright and the sky cloudless as they descended to the landing midway between the Harper Hall and Fort Hold . Fiona took a quick breath of the frigid air through the scarf wrapped over her face and let it out just as quickly — it felt as though it still had the cold of between in it and it hurt her lungs. She took a second, smaller, shorter breath and felt better.
The air on the ground was warmer, and as soon as they dismounted, Fiona and T’mar unbuttoned their wherhide jackets. T’mar waved affectionately as Zirenth leapt up again, seeking out a perch on the cliffs above Fort Hold .
“I don’t know why he bothers,” he said with a chuckle and a shake of his head. “I told him we wouldn’t be long.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t believe you,” Fiona suggested with a grin. “After all, they serve Benden wine.”
“That would be enticement enough for M’kury,” T’mar said, “but I’m made of sterner stuff.”
“Wouldn’t you want some nicely mulled red wine on a crisp day like to day?”
“Klah, ” T’mar corrected tersely. “As you mentioned earlier, I am still exhausted from last night.”
“So why didn’t you send someone else?” Fiona asked. T’mar didn’t answer, merely shaking his head.
They were scarcely under the Harper Hall’s arches when someone shouted and Fiona felt herself lifted off her feet. She had to control her impulse to kick out with her foot when her assailant cried joyfully in her ear, “Fiona! What a delight!”
“Verilan?” Fiona cried, astonished that the Master Archivist would engage in such a display of emotion and exercise.
“Fiona!” Verilan cried again, hugging her tight. Presently he put her back down and pushed her away from him, saying, “Let me look at you!”
Fiona felt herself blushing, both surprised and touched by Verilan’s exuberance, particularly as her strongest memories of him were of numerous scoldings for “playing in the inks — again!”
“You’re taller,” he said, finishing his examination. “You’ve grown — what? — two centimeters?”
“Nearly three,” T’mar put in from behind her. Fiona craned her neck around in surprise — since when did he keep tabs on her? The explanation came quickly enough, as he continued, “I heard Ellor groaning about it just the other day.”
“That’s not quite a record,” Verilan responded. “I believe greatest growth in a three-month period for a girl your age was recorded at Telgar Hold some eighty Turns ago when Lord Holder Predder’s eldest daughter grew three and a half centimeters — ”
“Verilan,” Fiona broke in, fearing that she had somehow unleashed another outpouring of the Archivist’s prodigious memory, “we’re here because of the signal.”
“Yes,” Verilan said, visibly pulling himself out of his recitation. “Master Zist had it set.” He gestured vaguely toward the Masterharper’s quarters. “You should go there.”
“Verilan?” Fiona said, her tone pleading for more information.
“I think you’ll find your father there,” he added.
“Is he all right?” Fiona asked immediately, despite reason telling her that if he were injured he’d be in the Infirmary, not the Masterharper’s quarters.
“All right?” Verilan repeated, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “I think that depends upon one’s criteria for such things.”
Fiona shook her head in exasperation, grabbed T’mar’s wrist, and tugged the bronze rider into a trot behind her. “We’d better hurry!”
T’mar made no comment at the incongruity of being led by a young, blond Weyrwoman who was not only half his age but also more than a full head shorter than himself; he had seen enough of Weyrwomen in his time to realize that he was probably lucky not to have to endure worse. He even kept his silence when Fiona banged on Zist’s door and announced herself.
“Isn’t T’mar with you?” Zist asked as he pulled open the door. “Ah, yes, he is!”
“Where’s my father?” Fiona demanded, scanning the room and quickly identifying its occupants. Her worries faded as she spotted Bemin seated with Kelsa at Zist’s round table.
“What’s going on?” Fiona demanded, her eyes switching from Zist, to Bemin, to Kelsa and back before finally settling demandingly on Kelsa.
“Your father and I — ” Kelsa began diplomatically, then broke off, pushing herself to her feet and patting her stomach in a manner that seemed both odd and subtly familiar to Fiona. “Well, we’re going to have a baby.”
“About time,” Fiona said. She saw Bemin start to speak and cut through: “Since I already knew — ” She paused at the surprised expressions on Kelsa’s and Master Zist’s faces and realized that her father hadn’t relayed their earlier conversation to either; her guess was confirmed by Kelsa’s glare at her father. “ — I presume this meeting is to let me know formally and also, by its venue — ” She waved a hand around the room. “ — to tell me that there are still some issues to work out.”
Zist wore an expression of approval that warmed Fiona; his approval was hard earned, more often than not.
She turned her attention to Kelsa. “Let me guess: You’re not certain you want to be a lifemate with him, and you want to raise the child here?”
“Actually, we’ve been through that,” Bemin said.
“We really just wanted to ask your blessing,” Kelsa added in an uncertain tone — a rarity in the outspoken Songmaster.
“I think it’s great,” Fiona told her enthusiastically. She looked at her father. “I’d been hoping you’d do something like this.”
“You were?” Bemin replied, surprised.
“I think Mother would have wished it,” Fiona said. In a quieter voice she added, “And I think so would Koriana.”
She was surprised at her feelings when she spoke of her long-dead, mostly forgotten older and only sister. Ever since she could remember, Fiona had been told how much she looked like her sister, how kind Koriana had been, and how in love Kindan had been with her. It had seemed like Fiona would forever be in Koriana’s shadow . . . until she was freed by her Impression of Talenth. And yet . . . Fiona thought of Kindan, remembered her half-hope that he would be here, remembered how her heart pounded whenever she heard of him, how happy she was whenever he smiled at her — was all that just her following the shadow of her dead sister?
“But you couldn’t have known I’d come,” Fiona realized, glancing over at the Masterharper. “So that wasn’t the only reason.”
Zist smiled at her and nodded. “No, it wasn’t,” he agreed.
“It was my idea,” Bemin added, smiling at his daughter. “I’d heard about your casualties and . . .”
“Healer Tintoval accepted,” Kelsa finished for him, gesturing to the healer, whom Fiona only now noticed in the room.
“As we’ve got the Healer Hall here, Fort Hold really only needs one journeyman healer to make the rounds,” Bemin declared.
“That’s only temporary,” Zist reminded him, “until we get more trained journeymen and masters.”
Fiona looked at the young healer. “You don’t mind that I took your stores for the d
ragons, do you?”
“Not at all,” Tintoval told her, waving the issue aside. “I’m only sorry to hear that it didn’t work.”
“Have we heard any more from Benden?” T’mar said, turning hopefully to the Masterharper.
Zist shook his head. “Kindan will be doing his best.”
“I’m sure of it,” Fiona agreed ardently.
“As am I,” Tintoval said. “And so will K’tan,” she added, referring to the healer at Benden Weyr.
“Are you sure about this?” Fiona asked. “You wouldn’t want to go to Benden instead?”
Tintoval shook her head. “Benden has a healer.”
“Tintoval is weyrbred and familiar with dragons,” Zist added. “But not with healing them,” Tintoval interjected.
“All healers say that, at first,” T’mar assured her. He bowed to her. “Healer, on behalf of my Weyrleader and Weyrwoman, I wish to extend our hopes that you will come to regard Fort Weyr as your home.”
“Thank you,” Tintoval replied, obviously touched by his sincerity.
“I also have news that you might want to hear,” T’mar said, turning back to Master Zist.
“Well, why don’t you have a seat, and you, too, Weyrwoman, and we’ll hear it over some fresh klah and dainties,” Zist invited, gesturing them toward the empty seats at the table.
“We shouldn’t stay too long,” Fiona cautioned as she sat down. “T’mar fought Thread last night and like all the dragonriders, he’s still exhausted.”
“We saw,” Bemin replied. “In fact, Forsk saw it rather close up.”
“Oh,” T’mar said, deflated. “So my news is known to you.”
“That the watch-whers flew against Thread?” Zist said. “Yes, we know that. What we don’t know is how it worked out for the Weyr.”
“What sort of casualties do you have?” Tintoval asked.
“Eleven severe, thirteen light,” Fiona recited quickly.
“You’ve helped?” Tintoval inquired and, on receiving Fiona’s nod, continued, “How many sick dragons do you have?”
“We’ve fifty,” T’mar told her glumly. “But we may lose some of them any day.”
Selora, the Harper Hall’s head cook, arrived with a tray holding a pitcher, mugs for all, and a plate piled high with delicious-looking, bite-sized dainties. They continued the conversation over hot klah and snacks, talking about dragon injuries, human injuries, and the night flight until Fiona, with a brush of her foot against T’mar’s leg, alerted the bronze rider that it was time to go.
“Masterharper, Lord Holder, Master Kelsa,” T’mar said, standing and nodding to each in turn, “we really should get back to the Weyr. I’m sure Tintoval will want to get settled in, and that Cisca and K’lior will want to greet her personally on her arrival.”
“Yes, yes, we’ve been keeping you too long,” Bemin agreed, rising to his feet and bending over to help Kelsa solicitously to hers. “I’m not that far gone, old man,” Kelsa growled at him, but Fiona noted that her tone was more grateful than grudging.
“In my experience, Master Kelsa,” Tintoval advised, “it’s best to get them used to helping as early as possible; that way, when you really need help, it’ll already be there.”
“Hmm,” Kelsa murmured, glancing consideringly at Bemin.
Tintoval left to retrieve her things, and as T’mar called for Zirenth to meet them at the Landing, Fiona said good-bye to her father and Kelsa, making sure to hug each of them an equal number of times and assuring Kelsa once again, “I am so glad you’re doing this!”
T’mar insisted upon putting Tintoval up front, with Fiona squashed between them.
“We don’t have enough straps,” Fiona remarked as she buckled herself on.
“You didn’t really need them on the way here,” T’mar replied, airily waving a hand, “and you don’t need them now.”
Fiona ignored him. Secretly she latched a hand onto the bottom of Tintoval’s jacket and wrapped her other arm under and around the straps in front of her, assuring a secure grip.
Even so, she lurched slightly as Zirenth leapt into the air, and then they went once more between and back to Fort Weyr .
Back over the Star Stones at Fort Weyr , Zirenth gave a grunt of surprise and dropped precipitously as they flew into a pocket of lighter air. Tintoval flew up out of her perch, and it was only Fiona’s tight grip that kept her from falling off. But the effort strained the arm clutching the healer and sharply wrenched the one wrapped in the fighting straps. Fiona groaned in pain. T’mar grabbed her the moment he felt the lurch, but without being anchored to the fighting straps, he could only use one arm himself.
On the ground, T’mar had no sympathy for Fiona’s groans. “You shouldn’t have done that! Tintoval was safe enough.”
“Only because I held on to her!”
“You could have fallen, too!” T’mar retorted.
“So you admit she was in danger!”
“We can’t afford to lose you,” T’mar replied, his tone pained.
“And we can afford to lose a healer?” Fiona demanded, her fury in full flight.
“Better than a queen rider,” Tintoval interjected. “We hardly had enough queens, and with the losses at Benden and here — ”
“So this is all about my queen?” Fiona demanded. “All that matters is her?”
“Yes,” T’mar told her, his voice going steely cold. “We’ve only the two, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“And we’ve only the one healer,” Fiona retorted, jerking her thumb at Tintoval.
T’mar gathered breath for a response, but a bellow from Melirth put a halt to all conversation. They turned to see Cisca storming toward them, her eyes flashing dangerously.
Fiona felt herself cringing, overwhelmed by the barely controlled power emanating from the Weyrwoman.
“Come with me,” Cisca ordered Fiona and turned away once more, certain of obedience.
For a moment Fiona thought to stand her ground, but then —
What’s wrong? Talenth demanded anxiously.
Nothing, Fiona lied. I was just scared.
Talenth emerged from her lair, eyes whirling red, finding Fiona and crooning at her anxiously.
It’s all right, Fiona assured her, projecting warmth and love toward the young queen. I’m getting over it.
Cisca, walking quickly, led her into the Council Room. K’lior was already there, seated, and looking grave.
The instant the two looked at her, Fiona, feeling that her safety lay in taking the offensive, declared, “T’mar wasn’t worried about the new healer!”
“That won’t work,” K’lior told her, his tone steady but firm.
Fiona glared at him for a moment more, then dropped her eyes guiltily.
“What did you hope to accomplish back there?” the Weyrleader demanded, waving a hand back toward the Weyr Bowl.
“Well — I — ” Fiona spluttered.
“You didn’t think,” Cisca told her. “It’s not uncommon at your age — ”
“At my age!”
“Yes, at your age,” Cisca repeated. “News of your behavior will be heard by everyone soon enough.”
“But T’mar was — ”
“ — wrong,” K’lior finished for her. “He should have used the straps.”
“He said he didn’t have any,” Fiona protested.
“He could have borrowed some from the Harper Hall,” K’lior replied. “Master Zist is used to dealing with dragonriders and is smart enough to keep some on hand.”
“As, no doubt, does your father,” Cisca added.
“Then you agree — ”
“I do not agree with your public humiliation of a wingleader,” K’lior interjected harshly. “T’mar’s a good man; he would have learned his lesson without your childish outburst.”
“Childish!”
“Childish,” Cisca agreed, but her tone was softer than K’lior’s and she shot the Weyrleader a look that Fiona couldn’t fathom. K’lior shr
ugged in response, leaving Cisca to continue, “An adult would have realized that T’mar would punish himself harshly for his error and — ”
“ — an adult would accept the realities of being a queen rider,” K’lior finished.
“And let someone else die?” Fiona demanded in anguish and fury, her eyes filling with tears.
“If need be,” Cisca answered softly. She gestured to herself and Fiona. “Without us, there would be no queens. And without the queens, there will be no Pern.”
“So our queens are nothing but brood mothers?” Fiona demanded sourly. “And you and I are — ” She found she couldn’t finish the sentence and so said instead, “But what about Tannaz? Why did you let her go between ?”
“It wasn’t my choice,” Cisca told her. She shook her head sadly. “You know that it wasn’t really Tannaz’s choice, either. Kelsanth was dying; there was no cure.”
“There’s no cure now,” Fiona reminded them grimly. But she remembered the words she’d heard: It will be all right. The words had been spoken with such faith that she couldn’t set them aside. “We can’t give up,” K’lior told her firmly.
“Why not?” Fiona demanded petulantly. “Tannaz did. There’s still no cure.”
“We can’t give up because we are dragonriders,” K’lior told her.
“Did your father give up during the Plague?” Cisca demanded.
“Yes, he did,” Fiona replied, her voice a near whisper. “After my mother and my brothers all died, he kept hope, but when Koriana . . .” She trailed off, remembering her father telling her about the Plague, about how Kindan had refused to give up even when Lord Holder Bemin himself had surrendered to despair.
It will be all right. Was it Kindan who had spoken to her? No, the voice had sounded different. But the words had Kindan’s faith, his surety, his steadfast refusal to admit despair . . .
“Kindan didn’t, though,” Fiona said out loud, raising her head and glancing first to Cisca and then to K’lior. “He never gave up.”
“Nor will I,” K’lior vowed.
“Nor I,” Cisca said. She lifted her chin up challengingly to Fiona. “So, Weyrwoman, daughter of a Lord Holder, Plague survivor, who will you follow: your father in his despair, or Kindan?”
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