“You’ve only solved one problem, you know,” Mother Karina said to Fiona late one evening as they tended the hearth together.
Fiona made an attempt to look quizzical, but the old woman was having none of it. With a sigh, Fiona nodded.
“It’s difficult,” she said.
“It always is,” Karina agreed gently.
“I mean, I’ve got a queen and I’m Weyrwoman,” Fiona objected.
Mother Karina smiled unsympathetically. “I’m an old woman and a trader.”
Fiona fumed to herself at that response, and all the while Mother Karina simply waited patiently until Fiona recovered her composure and carefully examined Karina’s words and compared them to her own. At which point her expression fell and she sighed again, her lips turned down ruefully, as she said, “So we’ve got the same problem, only different.”
Karina nodded silently, her eyes gleaming in congratulation of Fiona’s insight.
“But I’m scared!” Fiona blurted in a wail.
“Of course you are,” Karina said, leaning forward to pat Fiona’s hand reassuringly. “That’s natural. You wouldn’t be you if you weren’t.”
Fiona avoided her problem by plunging herself even deeper in Weyr matters, but as sevendays became months and they neared the time when the older dragonriders were due to reappear and the massed riders would return to their proper time at their proper Weyr, Fiona realized that time was forcing her hand.
Terin never quite apologized to Fiona for leaving her, but she did return, although she never spent quite as much time with Fiona after that, preferring to spend most of it in F’jian’s company — that much of Fiona’s plan had worked out so perfectly that she was not at all surprised to find that Terin had given F’jian her hard-earned gold ring as a Turn’s End present. Judging from Terin’s expression the next morning, F’jian’s response had been everything that the young headwoman could desire. As Terin had celebrated her thirteenth Turn several sevendays beforehand — just twelve days after Fiona had herself turned sixteen — Fiona did not feel it necessary to comment to either headwoman or bronze rider on the new arrangement.
For her part, Fiona found herself growing misty-eyed as she caught the sunsets over Igen, the desert all hued with reds and purples in a cloudless sky, the stars suddenly appearing like brilliant jewels visible in an instant, the two moons with their stately progression, the Dawn Sisters waiting to greet her in the early morning or, more often, to find her greeting them in the strange double-day cycles that they had adopted so long ago to manage the unbearable midday heat.
Fiona had found the time to engage Terregar and Zenor in solving the problem of a flamethrower that didn’t require the old firestone.
“The holders would pay plenty for it,” had clinched the argument — she had so intrigued Zenor and Terregar with the difficulties of the project that they only needed the merest incentive for trade to commit themselves wholeheartedly to the project.
Trade flourished between Weyr and Wherhold. Azeez and Mother Karina shrewdly had established a major depot at the wherhold, allowing for a convenient meeting place for the Igen riders and a permanent basis for expansion in the whole central region of Pern.
When Terin was at the Wherhold, Fiona would spend time with Mother Karina and other traders interested in cooking, developing new recipes and perfecting old ones, all the while learning and engaging in the joys of gustatory arts.
But it was T’mar who engaged her attention the most. Since the fight between F’jian and J’gerd, the older bronze rider had treated her differently. Worse, his treatment of her seemed to change and morph almost daily. He would be obsequious one day, disdainful the next, reclusive, fearful, garrulous.
Almost in response, Talenth grew more willful and demanding. She insisted upon being ridden every day and often she would inveigle Fiona to take her for long flights or jumps between to far-off destinations. Her attitude toward the Weyr’s remaining browns and bronzes alternated between standoffish and coquettish almost as frequently as T’mar’s moods changed. Through it all, she was still respectful and adoring of her rider, but Fiona began to find herself fearing that she might wake one morning to a dragon inflamed with the mad bloodlust of a mating queen.
The brown and bronze riders all treated her differently, as did the blue and green riders. She could find none among the latter with whom she could bond as she had with F’dan — she missed him dearly — even if they were easier for her to be around than the sometimes overly sensitive bronzes and browns.
Of all of the riders, J’gerd’s behavior toward her had changed the most. At first he had been fearful of her, but then he had sought her out, at first to apologize and later to confide. It had been his heartfelt loneliness — a loneliness with which Fiona found herself keenly sympathetic — that had decided Fiona to encourage the riders to spend more time mingling with the traders and the wherholders.
T’mar had been reluctant to permit the change until he discovered that it was not his decision to make. Fiona had been careful to limit the meetings so that no long-term relationships could form, only to have to be painfully broken when the dragonriders were forced to return to their time, but they had still left plenty of opportunity for dancing, singing, and an occasional heartfelt romance to blossom.
Resigned to her will, T’mar had enthusiastically joined in with the festivities, and Fiona was reasonably certain that there was at least one holder lass who would devoutly regret his leaving.
“We’ll need to start clearing the unused weyrs,” Fiona said to T’mar at their morning meeting. “The older riders will return in the next fortnight.”
T’mar nodded. “I’ve spent some time with J’keran and F’jian discussing how we’ll drill when they arrive.” He paused before adding in correction, “And it’s thirteen days, actually.”
“We shouldn’t linger here,” Fiona cautioned him, accepting his correction with an irritated look.
“We think that we can get enough drill done in seventeen days.”
“Is that enough?”
“It’s all we can afford,” T’mar told her simply.
Fiona narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously.
“Talenth will have three Turns then,” he explained.
“What’s that — oh,” Fiona responded, breaking off in chagrin. “She’ll be ready to rise.”
“I thought you would want to have the largest choice possible,” T’mar told her softly. “She deserves no less.”
It was a moment before Fiona could find her voice. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes, that’s very considerate.”
T’mar made a slight half-bow in his chair. “I try, Weyrwoman.” He finished his klah, rose, and said to her, “And, with your permission, we will drill this morning and clean after midday.”
“Yes, that seems good,” Fiona agreed, also rising from the table. Karina, who had sat at the far side watching them in silence, glanced from one to the other and shook her head sadly. Fiona noticed and shot her a challenging look.
“You will be leaving in thirty days,” Karina told her, pushing back her chair. “We must get ready.”
Fiona grinned at her. “Last chance for ice!”
The cleaning, as Fiona had expected, was tiring and irritating. None of the riders were pleased with her as they sat for their evening meal, especially faced, as they were, with the knowledge that they would be repeating their efforts in other weyrs for the next sevenday at the least.
F’jian groaned as he stretched after dessert, glancing apologetically toward the Weyrwoman, but he was less out of sorts than many of the others who had not had to do such menial duties for the better part of a Turn.
“We need to leave the Weyr better than we found it,” Fiona reminded, trying vainly to suppress a glower.
“I know Weyrwoman,” F’jian replied apologetically. “It’s just that my muscles forget.”
“It’ll be easier tomorrow,” she assured him.
“Or the next day,” J’k
eran muttered sardonically from his seat at the far end of the table.
“Or the next,” Fiona agreed.
“They grumble but they’re not upset.” T’mar’s voice coming from right beside her was startling; he had been silent throughout dinner. He seemed ready to say more but restrained himself.
“What?” Fiona prompted.
T’mar hesitated before replying, “I only wanted to say that I think you’re doing a great job as Weyrwoman.” He paused, again obviously weighing his words carefully, and seemed ready to remain silent until Fiona gave him a challenging look. “I hope you won’t be angry at this, but I wonder how you will handle becoming a Weyrwoman when we return, and you are not the Weyrwoman.”
“It’ll be a relief,” Fiona responded impulsively. T’mar raised an eyebrow at her questioningly, and Fiona reassessed her feelings. “I’ll miss it, certainly, but I think I’m too young — ”
“Once, maybe,” T’mar interjected softly, shaking his head in firm denial. Fiona found herself meeting his soft brown eyes, really looking into them, and felt herself flush.
“Excuse me,” she said hastily and rose from the table, moving as quickly as she could without attracting too much notice through the Dining Cavern and out into the still night of the Weyr Bowl.
She didn’t know what she was doing; her feet moved instinctively until she found herself in Talenth’s lair, her head leaning on the hinge of her beautiful gold’s jaw, just in sight of her calmly whirling green eyes.
How long she stayed there, she couldn’t say. It was only when she heard boots softly climbing up the queen’s ledge and entering T’mar’s weyr that she realized her purpose, and with a final caress of her beautiful queen, Fiona stepped out onto the queen’s ledge and turned left, toward Zirenth’s lair.
A noise, the sound of her shoe dislodging a rock, alerted him to her presence.
“Weyrwoman,” T’mar said, coming from his bathroom, dressed in his sleeping tunic, “you startled me.”
Fiona’s eyes were wide, her breath rapid as she forced herself to cross the distance between them and looked up at him.
“Talenth will rise soon,” she blurted, not saying the words she’d rehearsed before.
T’mar’s eyes narrowed as he glanced toward the queen’s weyr in alarm, then he looked back down at her. “Not today, surely.”
“Soon,” Fiona repeated. She raised a hand to stroke his cheek and was surprised at how smooth it felt. “I — I don’t want her first time to be . . . my first time.”
“I see,” T’mar replied softly into the silence that stretched between them. He regarded her silently for a moment. “What about Kindan?”
Fiona shook her head soundlessly and buried her face against his chest, her arms loose around him.
T’mar drew back, raised a hand, and gently drew her chin up until she was looking into his eyes once more. And then he leaned down, draped one arm around her waist, and kissed her.
Much, much, much later, as T’mar lay breathing softly beside her, Fiona leaned over and twitched his chest sharply. T’mar’s eyes flew open and met hers in surprise as she leaned over him, her hands moving toward places she had never been before. “You always say that to get it right, you must do it three times.”
The bronze rider had only time for a startled smile before Igen’s Weyrwoman leaned heavily into him for another kiss.
Drifting through euphoria and back to mere consciousness the words were said:
“I love you.”
“I know.”
But Fiona could never remember who said them, or if they were spoken simultaneously, or even uttered aloud.
TWENTY
Rider, dragon, hearts be true —
To this creed you always hew:
Flame thread, protect Pern
Fall after Fall, Turn after Turn.
Igen Weyr, Evening, AL 501.3.18
“I will miss you so much!” Fiona cried as she buried her head once more against Mother Karina’s chest.
The last of the traders were gathered in their caravan, ready to return to their depots.
“It is likely you will never see me again,” Karina told her softly, causing Fiona’s tears to redouble in intensity. Fiona resisted as Karina pushed her away from her, forcing her to look her in the eyes as she said, “My life is richer for knowing you, child, and knowing that you will be there in the future to protect my children and their children.”
“And theirs,” Fiona vowed, her voice strong even through her sorrow.
“And theirs,” Karina agreed, hugging Fiona tightly once more before parting again. “Do you know what a gift that is?”
Fiona shook her head and wiped her eyes free of the latest rain of tears.
“You will, one day,” Karina foretold. She shoved Fiona toward her dragon and the assembled dragons and riders.
Fiona paused and turned back, pulling the heavy leather jacket off her shoulders.
“I almost forgot,” she said, as she handed the Igen Weyrwoman’s jacket to Azeez, who stood with an arm draped over his mother’s shoulders. “Would you put this back in the Records Room for me? It belongs to the Igen Weyrwoman.”
“I’ll put it back for you,” Azeez said, raising his eyebrows to add emphasis to his double meaning.
Fiona shook her head at him ruefully. “The next group will be from Benden Weyr. They’ll probably trade with you, I’ve left a complete Record behind.”
“They might trade,” Azeez agreed, waving for her to join the waiting dragonriders. “We’ll be certain to give them the chance, and we’ll leave them goods to start with, as we agreed.”
“Fair trade?”
“More than fair,” Azeez said with a smile. “We are in your debt.”
“If you get the chance, come visit us at Fort Weyr,” Fiona begged.
“We will visit you,” Azeez replied, his expression strangely smug. “Tenniz has seen it.”
Fiona found her lips curving upward in the first happy expression she’d had in a sevenday. “I’ll look forward to it!”
She gave him one final hug and turned away, racing toward Talenth.
At her orders, wing by wing, the healed dragons and riders of Fort Weyr rose and took their positions above the Star Stones, ready to return to their future, their duty, and their fate.
Fiona spared a moment for one final wave to the traders, then took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and told her queen, Let’s go, Talenth!
Above the Star Stones, the dragons blinked between, leaving only the wind and stars to guard the silent, empty Weyr.
EPILOGUE
Drummer, beat, piper, blow.
Harper, sing, and soldier, go.
Free the flame and sear the grasses,
Till the dawning Red Star passes.
Fort Weyr, AL 508.2.2
“We’re here,” Fiona said calmly to Terin perched in front of her as they burst into the skies above Fort Weyr. She signaled to T’mar and the bronze leader spread the word to the rest of the flight. Wing by wing the recovered convalescents of Fort Weyr and the now full-grown weyrlings wheeled and made a triumphant descent into the Weyr Bowl to be greeted by the startled and gleeful cries of their weyrmates. From the Kitchen Cavern a stream of riders and weyrfolk rushed out to greet them, their voices rising and carrying clearly from the Bowl into the air around Fiona.
She waited quietly as she watched K’lior rush to T’mar and grab him in a gleeful bear hug, saw the bronze wingleader give his report, saw K’lior’s reaction as he noticed T’mar’s bone-weariness, stifled a similar twinge of her own, and saw the riders and dragons disperse to their weyrs to rest up and recover from the strangeness of their three-Turn sojourn.
“There’s Xhinna!” Terin called over her shoulder, pointing down to a forlorn figure coming from Fiona’s weyr and scanning the skies above her anxiously. “Wait until she finds out I’m as old as she is!”
Fiona twitched at the words and the worries they aroused in her. Xhinna was a di
stant memory, a treasured friend buried in a mountain of moments they had not and would never share.
Fiona was suddenly aware that Terin had turned her head to face her. “What is it?”
Fiona shook her head slowly, unable to find the words. Somehow, Terin guessed; she looked into Fiona’s eyes and told her, “No matter what the future, you will always be the Weyrwoman to me!”
Fiona smiled gratefully and, buoyed by those words, took Talenth down, back to her Weyr — and her home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am very pleased once more to acknowledge Shelly Shapiro, ace editor at Del Rey, for her patience, encouragement, perseverance, and grit. I would also like to acknowledge, also once again, the marvelous Martha Trachtenberg for her brilliant copyediting. I would like to thank Judith Welsh, my editor at Transworld, for her keen insights and constant encouragement.
Donald Maass has been my literary agent since the very beginning, when he put me through a grueling two-hour phone interview when I first considered writing Dragonsblood. He continues to hold me to everhigher standards.
Of course, none of this would be possible without Mum: Anne McCaffrey — love you!
Needless to say, any errors, omissions, or just strange ol’ words are mine, all mine, and no one else’s.
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