Dragongirl

SEVEN

Fiona was glad to be warm and realized that it was because she’d managed to amass a large group of people to share her bed. She opened one bleary eye and spied Xhinna, then the top of a smaller blond head—Bekka; another body lying against her other side felt like Terin, and she wondered how she’d managed to pry her away from F’jian when she heard a male snore from the other side of Terin. Anchoring the far side of the bed beyond Bekka was Seban, with an arm wrapped possessively around his daughter.

Fiona closed her eye and smiled as she snuggled further into the warmth of all those bodies.

She was glad to have her friends from Fort Weyr and from her sojourn back in time at Igen Weyr, just as she was glad to learn that many of the Fort Weyr weyrfolk had joined their riders, even whole families. The youngest had immediately found friends among the Telgar children, and Fiona planned to emulate them immediately.

She would have no factions in her Weyr.

A cough caused her to open her eye again as she glanced around, wondering if someone else had heard it. Bekka stirred in her sleep, moaning, then settling as Seban moved sleepily to comfort her. Terin made a slight whimpering sound that was answered by a half-formed murmur from F’jian, echoed by Xhinna.

Fiona closed her eyes, wishing her head weren’t pounding quite so badly. She wasn’t willing to admit it was the wine she’d drank—perhaps it was the noise or cheering or the intense emotions of the night before. Perhaps it was the muzziness that still seemed to cling to her, T’mar, and the others, though they managed to ignore it most of the time. Perhaps—

The cough came again.

Fiona was instantly out of bed and rushing toward Talenth, an inchoate scream filling the room, waking all the others.

I don’t feel well, Telgar’s only queen dragon informed her.

F’jian and Terin arranged breakfast and forced Fiona to eat, setting up a table and chair next to Talenth in her lair.

“You’ve got to keep your strength up,” Terin said.

“I’ll get Norik,” Xhinna said, rushing off.

F’jian and Terin excused themselves, moving back to Fiona’s quarters to wash and prepare for the day.

“She’ll be all right,” Bekka said, looking from the gold dragon to her rider, her face sketching a quick smile. “You’ll see.”

Fiona nodded in acceptance of the calm words; her expression remained bleak. The sickness that had taken so many dragons—starting with Salina’s Breth, Lorana’s Arith, through to Seban’s Serth, had come upon her dragon. Her queen. Her life, her breath, her hopes, her love—the very center of her being. How could she survive without Talenth?

“What will you do?” Seban asked her quietly from his position near Talenth’s head. He’d scratched her eye ridges until she’d closed her eyes and lowered her head to go back to sleep.

“I told her that I wouldn’t let her go without me,” Fiona said, glancing with troubled eyes toward her queen. She frowned at Seban. “But I promised Telgar that I’d stay.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to her,” Bekka declared once more, turning to her father for support. “Tell her, Da! Tell her that her queen’s going to be all right!”

Seban gave his daughter a troubled look, shaking his head sadly.

“You can’t give in!” Bekka said, glancing from Fiona to Seban and back.

“I’m not,” Fiona assured her. “She only started coughing this morning—”

“Maybe you should move weyrs,” Bekka suggested suddenly. “Maybe this weyr has bad air and if you moved—”

“We should have done that first,” Seban interrupted her gently. “Once she’s got the illness, it makes no sense to move.” He paused, his lips tightening before he added, “It’d be more of a hurt to her than a help.”

Bekka sought wildly for another solution. “Tintoval! We should tell her,” she said suddenly. “Maybe she’ll know something. Maybe they’ve learned something new.”

“That’s a good idea,” Fiona agreed with a glance toward Seban. “Why don’t you go ask H’nez if Ginirth can send a message?” She nodded toward Talenth. “I’d ask her but she’s sleeping.”

Relieved at finding something to do, Bekka agreed immediately and raced out of the weyr, jumping off the queens’ ledge and shouting, “H’nez!” at the top of her lungs.

Fiona managed a quick smile before she turned her eyes back to Seban and Talenth. Quietly, she said, “How long have we got?”

“She’s not bad yet. Two sevendays, maybe more,” Seban said judiciously. Then, in an attempt to lift Fiona’s spirits, he added, “She’s a queen, so she may be stronger—”

“Salina’s Breth was the first to go,” Fiona reminded him, her tone devoid of any emotion.

Seban was silent for a long time, so long that Fiona was startled when he spoke again, “Whatever you do, Fiona, I’ll support you.”

Fiona nodded in relieved acceptance and gestured with a hand out toward the Weyr. “They’ve only just started to hope again, it seems terrible to steal it from them so quickly.”

“Yes,” Seban agreed, eyeing her with renewed respect. “It does, indeed, Weyrwoman!”

“Help me keep my hope,” Fiona begged him in a small voice.

Seban gave Talenth a final pat and walked over to her, placing his arms in a circle around her shoulders sympathetically. Fiona allowed herself to lean back until her head was on his chest and closed her eyes in silent communion with the ex-dragonrider.

H’nez found them that way several minutes later when he came striding briskly into the weyr.

“Weyrwoman,” he called, glancing over to the sleeping queen. “I came as soon as I heard.”

“Thank you,” Fiona said. “Did they have any news at Fort?”

H’nez shook his head. “They’ve more ill there, too.”

At noon, the Dining Cavern was not as full as it had been the day before; still Fiona was glad to see that many of the weyrfolk had gathered there. She acknowledged their looks in her direction with a smile or a nod as appropriate and went over to the hearth to see what was cooking.

“Sit down, Weyrwoman, sit down!” one of the cooks called. “We’ll bring you something in a trice.”

“It’s no problem,” Fiona said. “I was used to shifting for myself at Igen.”

“And now, Weyrwoman,” Shaneese spoke up from her side, “you’re here at Telgar.”

Fiona recognized the peremptory tone and, with a quirk of her lips toward the headwoman, demurely took her seat at the head table.

Terin rushed up with a full tray, giving Fiona a stern look.

“This is not Igen,” Terin scolded her as she set the plates out. “There are people here to care for you; it’s their duty.”

“I was just—”

“I know,” Terin said, her tone softening. She leaned in closer to Fiona. “They need to know they’re needed, you can’t change them too quickly.”

Fiona ducked her head meekly and Terin, who knew her too well, snorted. “Just give them a sevenday before you put everything on its ear.”

“I’m afraid that’s too late,” Seban murmured as he approached them. He smiled at Fiona and nodded to Terin as he continued, “Word about Bekka’s efforts has already caused quite a stir.”

“Besides,” Fiona admitted sadly, “I may not have that much time myself.”

She caught Terin’s and Seban’s worried looks and explained, “At least until Talenth …” Her voice trailed off and she let out a deep sigh to hide her worry.

Terin set the tray on the table and quickly wrapped her arms around Fiona’s shoulders. “Whatever you decide will be all right with me.”

“I’m not giving up!” Fiona told her forcefully. She forced a smile for Seban. “Kindan never gave up, and I won’t give up.”

Terin sniffed, patted Fiona on the shoulders once more, then picked up her tray, repeating before she bustled off, “Whatever you decide.”

From above her someone cleared his throat. It was H’nez. “Do you mind if I join you?”

Fiona shook her head, gesturing to a seat with her free hand. He smelled of firestone and of the cold between: He’d been drilling the wings. Fiona approved of his thoroughness even in these trying times. “I was expecting it.”

“Normally, I’d insist,” H’nez said by way of agreement. He gave her a brittle smile. “But with things the way they are, I’d prefer meeting as many of the weyrfolk as I can.”

Fiona nodded in understanding.

H’nez reached to grab the mug at his place setting and poured it full of klah. He took a quick drink. “Normally, before a Fall, the Weyr sends out a watch rider but—” He paused, shaking his head in consternation.

“We’re shorthanded,” Fiona agreed. “Perhaps I should visit Nerra first.”

H’nez pursed his lips tightly.

“You’re not one of those who thinks women shouldn’t be Lord Holders, are you?” Fiona asked, glancing at him sharply. She was willing to bet that he was; H’nez had always struck her as a stickler for tradition.

“If I ever were,” H’nez replied slowly, his eyes dark, “my experience with Weyrwoman Cisca—and with you—would have cured me.” He paused. “No, I was worried about your queen. Is she up to it?”

Fiona checked with Talenth who, having had a good, long sleep only occasionally interrupted by coughing, informed her that she would love to go flying. “She is,” Fiona told him. “Why?”

“I think that given what we’ve heard of D’gan’s dealings, it might make more sense if you and your queen met with the Lord Holders,” H’nez said regretfully. Fiona could easily imagine how much he’d prefer cementing alliances with the Lord Holders himself rather than relinquishing the duty to her.

“I suspect you’re right,” Fiona agreed after she swallowed. The food was good. She detected some subtle seasoning in the vegetable that she associated with Terin’s cooking, but she had no problem with the flavors of the spiced roast or the other dishes that clearly hadn’t felt Terin’s hand.

T’mar joined them at that moment and the conversation turned to matters of the fighting wings.

“I’m worried about the firestone,” T’mar began without preamble.

H’nez nodded sourly in agreement.

“I’d prefer not to burden K’lior, if possible,” he allowed.

“Where else could we get firestone in time?” T’mar wondered.

The rangy bronze rider twitched a shrug of agreement.

“If we had the hands, we could go back in time to Igen and mine it ourselves,” Fiona said.

T’mar appraised the notion for a moment before shaking his head. “We’ve neither the hands nor the dragons for that.”

“And wouldn’t they be too tired timing it?” H’nez wondered, glancing reflectively at T’mar. “You were certainly exhausted after your time there.”

T’mar’s lips flickered in a frown. “It wasn’t so much going back in time in itself but that we were there for so long.”

“Explain.”

“I noticed it more after the time passed that I’d Impressed Zirenth,” T’mar said. “Up until then, I felt like I’d been in a room with bad air but after that I felt like I was always just too far away to listen on a conversation that I was straining to hear.”

“Yes,” Fiona said in agreement. “It was as though someone was calling to me but I could never find them.”

“It strained the nerves,” H’nez surmised.

“More than that,” T’mar said. “It was like a fingernail running down a slate—every moment of every day.”

H’nez winced appreciatively. “Not a pleasant experience,” he decided. “And not something we’d like to recover from just before a Fall.”

“Which leaves us with the issue of firestone,” T’mar agreed.

A dragon’s sudden warble from outside the Weyr Bowl caused Fiona to turn her head sharply, first surprised, then amused.

“Bekka has decided that Talenth needs to eat,” she informed the concerned wingleaders with a grin.

“Seban was a good rider,” H’nez said as if in consolation. “I’m sure that Bekka has Talenth’s best interests at heart.”

“I’ve no doubt,” Fiona agreed. “Apparently Talenth was surprised at just how much she’s learned from her father.”

A distant cough caused Fiona’s grin to slip and she turned, stricken, toward F’jian.

“That wasn’t yours,” Shaneese said to Fiona as she approached; following the Weyrwoman’s gaze, she groaned, “Oh, no!”

“It’s spreading,” Fiona said grimly, watching as Terin wrapped her arms around the young bronze rider who sat, stunned with fear.

Norik strode over quickly from the entrance at the far side of the Cavern leading from the storerooms and dormitories.

“That’s two in as many days,” he said as he approached. He looked consolingly toward Fiona. “As near as I can tell—with Bekka’s help—Healer V’gin recorded that there was no pattern in the spread of the disease.”

He pursed his lips sourly as he glanced toward Fiona. “But we did discover that the longest a dragon lasted from the onset of the illness was no more than three sevendays.”

“That agrees with what we’ve seen at Fort,” H’nez said. He grimaced as he added, “Two sevendays is the average.”

“Then our time is set,” Fiona said, rising from her chair, anxious to be doing something. “Either we find a cure in the next twelve days or Telgar will lose her queen.”

Shaneese put out a hand toward her, gesturing for her to sit again. “You haven’t finished eating and from what I’ve heard, neither has your dragon.”

Fiona opened her mouth, ready to argue, but Shaneese gave her an imperious look that was so reminiscent of her late grandmother, Mother Karina, that Fiona found herself obeying automatically.

“You can’t handle the work you put on your plate until you’ve finished the food you’ve put there first,” Shaneese told her sternly, before turning back to H’nez, saying, “I understand that there’s an issue with the firestone?”

Fiona swallowed hard, crying in surprise, “How did you know?”

“I’m headwoman, it’s my duty,” Shaneese said, waving Fiona back to her meal, adding to H’nez, “Besides, it was obvious from the Weyrwoman’s surprise and your sudden return.”

Fiona felt Talenth pounce on a small sheep out in the pens at the same moment that she heard the queen’s triumphant whistling. She got the distinct impression that her queen was not all that hungry but had dispatched the sheep merely to placate Bekka.

Eating is important, Fiona chided her dragon and was chagrined to hear Talenth’s sardonic agreement, As you say.

After that, the Weyrwoman concentrated on her food.

She kept a half ear on the conversation and was relieved to discover that Shaneese and her assistants had already devised a plan to dispose of the old firestone. And, Shaneese assured them, there were plenty of hands ready to do the work.

“After all, there are nearly fifteen hundred weyrfolk,” Shaneese pointed out with a sense of pride. She raised a hand and made another one of her now all-too-familiar peremptory gestures, which was met with the prompt appearance of another woman, several Turns Shaneese’s senior who was introduced as Bevorra, Shaneese’s other assistant headwoman.

“She and the storemaster will arrange everything,” Shaneese said as Bevorra hustled off toward another group of women. She turned to Fiona. “So you only have to meet with the Lord Holders.

“You should probably visit Crom first: From what I’ve heard, Nerra’s more likely to listen to you than Lord Valpinar at Telgar.”

“You shouldn’t go alone,” Norik spoke up from where he’d been standing, near Fiona. She glanced up toward him. “Given the history between D’gan and Lady Nerra, I can’t imagine how you’ll be received in Crom.”

“D’gan was demanding,” Shaneese allowed, clearly reluctant to say more.

“He demanded that his dragon and his Weyr die for his arrogance,” Norik observed icily.

“As you say,” H’nez interposed smoothly, “he paid with his life. His deeds are done; you’ve written his eulogy and his dirge.”

“I have,” Norik said flatly, directing a look of challenge and appraisal toward H’nez. The bronze rider met his eyes unflinchingly until Norik lowered them and sighed wearily. “I’ve written too many sad songs. Perhaps it is time I found different lodgings.”

“No one is asking you to leave!” Fiona declared with an angry look toward H’nez. Suddenly she recalled the stories of H’nez’s long-ago feud with a different harper, a feud that had led to the death and the decline of Fort’s Weyrwoman. Would he, she wondered fleetingly, never stop bickering with harpers?

Apparently H’nez must have guessed some of her thinking for he told Norik contritely, “My apologies, harper. Tempers are short, hearts chaffed.”

“D’gan never would have apologized,” Norik said, obliquely accepting H’nez’s offering. He glanced at Fiona and said in an apparent decision, “Perhaps I could accompany you?”

Fiona started to reply but Norik continued, with a gesture toward Seban, “I believe that Seban and Bekka should accompany us, as we’ve identified several gaps in our medicinal stores.”

Seban smiled at the Weyrwoman. “That is, if your Talenth is up to four.”

Are you up for a journey with four on your back? Fiona asked her dragon who she discovered was trundling back toward her weyr, obediently following Bekka. Fiona got the distinct impression that Talenth found the tiny girl amusing.

Are we taking Bekka? Talenth asked. Fiona was surprised but not shocked to hear such a direct reference to another person. What shocked her was Talenth’s ready agreement, how eager she was to fly; Fiona had expected the queen to want to rest, not to risk exacerbating her cough. For a moment, Fiona felt torn between her need to protect her queen and her desire to enjoy the time they could together. She sensed the deep wistfulness in Talenth’s underlying emotions and knew there was only one answer:

Of course!

“Your little one weighs nothing,” Norik observed twenty minutes later as he hefted Bekka up toward Seban.

“If you can get her to eat, perhaps she’ll get heavier,” Seban answered easily, settling Bekka and reaching a hand down for the harper. Norik took it and flexed his legs to hop up from his position on the top of Talenth’s foreleg and climb up to the gold dragon’s neck. Fiona followed quickly, her enthusiasm for her beautiful, marvelous, huge dragon undimmed by her fear for her health.

Talenth made a pleased noise as she rose to her full height, took a few quick steps forward to gain momentum and leaped on her back legs into the air.

Fiona let out a shout of pure glee as Talenth climbed as strongly as ever toward the watch heights, circled the Star Stones, returned the watch dragon’s greeting, and took them smoothly between to the distant Crom Hold.

“D’gan was a difficult man,” Norik said as they circled above the watch heights of Crom Hold scant moments later. “He used Lord Fenner harshly and provided no aid when the Plague struck.”

“He supported Fenner’s son, Fenril, didn’t he?” Fiona asked.

“He did,” Norik agreed blandly. “His concerns were the Weyr and its proper tithe. He felt that Fenril would provide that.”

“Was Fenril the man who let his people starve while he drank his cellar?” Bekka asked Seban.

“He was,” Norik said.

“I wouldn’t have done that,” Bekka said. “If I were Lord Holder, I’d make certain to take care of my people first.”

Seban hugged her tightly.

“So, Lady Nerra has no call to love our Weyr,” Fiona said in surmise.

“No, my lady, she does not,” Norik agreed.

Fiona felt the loathing emanating from the sullen holders around her the moment Talenth settled on the ground, long before she set foot on the clean cobblestones of the courtyard and had a moment to scan the surrounding walls.

Seban, who had been concerned with getting Bekka off Talenth’s neck without injury to child or dragon, noticed only when his daughter found herself pressed tight against him in unfocused fear.

Norik joined them, caught their feeling, and quickly noted the stance of the guards on the walls above.

“Crom hospitality leaves much to be desired if those are arrows I see pointing toward us!” the harper declared in a booming, angry voice.

“Go back to your Weyr!” a voice growled back, echoing around the walls, ominously.

“I am Fiona, formerly of Fort Weyr, now of Telgar Weyr,” Fiona called. “I have news for the Lord of this Hold.”

A huge burly man confronted her as Fiona stepped over the threshold, his arms crossed with his shield raised in front.

Fiona glanced up at him once and immediately had his measure: He was one of the faithful guards who had stood with Nerra against Fenril after the Plague.

“You must be Jefric,” she declared. She felt the man’s surprise. “We heard about you at Fort Hold.”

“You are holder bred?” a woman’s voice called from the far end of the hall.

“Yes, Lady Nerra,” Fiona replied. “My father is Lord Bemin. I am Fiona, last of his line.”

“You ride a Telgar queen?” Nerra asked in surprise, rising from her chair and moving down the hall toward Fiona.

“The only queen now at Telgar,” Norik called out from his position beyond the guard Jefric. Nerra jerked her head toward him in surprise. Sensing her wishes, Jefric stood to one side, allowing her to look directly at the rest of the group. Norik started forward, stopping to bow on one knee in front of Nerra.

“My Lady,” he said, his voice full of sorrow. “I am Norik, the last harper of Telgar Weyr.” He glanced up at her, then down again in shame. “Lord D’gan is no more.”

“He died fighting to save Pern,” Fiona said, glancing down sympathetically toward the harper. “He and all the riders and dragons of Telgar Weyr.”

Nerra’s face drained of color and she raised a hand to her eyes. “All?”

“K’lior dispatched myself and forty dragons—all we could spare,” Fiona explained. “High Reaches Weyr flew the last Fall.”

“The illness took them,” Seban said, stepping forward and sketching a quick nod toward Nerra. “I am Seban, once rider of blue Serth.”

“Jefric,” Nerra called softly, “have the men stand down.”

As if the words released her as well, Nerra suddenly seemed to shed her tension and she gestured gracefully to Fiona and her party, indicating the head table.

“Please,” she said, as she moved toward it, “join me.”

Nerra insisted upon accompanying Fiona when she went to Lord Valpinar at Telgar, while offering Seban and Bekka free run of her herbal stores.

“I’m told he is not well-disposed to dragonriders at the moment,” the Lady Holder said by way of explanation.

“Dragonriders? All of them?”

“His experience has only been with D’gan’s old riders,” Nerra replied, “but …”

“Once bitten, twice shy.”

“Exactly,” Nerra agreed. She craned her neck up toward Talenth’s shoulders and gulped at the distance. The sky above was partly cloudy, the weather cool. Nerra had on her warmest clothes.

“Let me help you up,” Fiona offered, bending down and cupping her fingers together to provide a lift. The courtesy seemed to surprise Nerra, which caused Fiona a moment’s anger at the old Telgar riders: Had they not shown such simple courtesies to their Holders?

Once Nerra was safely perched, Fiona scrambled up behind her and strapped them both in safely.

“Are you ready to fly, my lady?”

Nerra hesitated, then nodded.

Talenth, take us up, Fiona said. The queen rose easily into the air, her upward spiral marred only by a cough just before they reached the cliff heights.

“Is she okay?” Nerra asked in concern.

“She’s got the sickness,” Fiona told her. “But she insisted on coming.”

“The same sickness that took Telgar?”

“The same.”

“Does that worry you?”

“Very much,” Fiona said, fighting back a sob.

“What will happen if she succumbs?”

“I don’t know,” Fiona said. “For now, though, we’ll do what we have to do.”

“Well, I can see why you came rather than your H’nez,” Nerra said.

“You can?”

“And brought your entourage,” Nerra added, turning back to show Fiona her smile. “A Weyrwoman must know how to be charming and diplomatic; a Weyrleader need only know how to lead.”

“Weyrleaders can be diplomatic.”

“Queens command respect,” Nerra said. She glanced down at the scenery below and quickly up again. A moment later she looked down, scanning the fields of her Hold with interest.

“Are you ready to go between, my Lady?”

“Yes,” Nerra said with a firm nod. “I don’t want to tire your queen too much.”

Fiona gave Talenth the image and they went between to Telgar Hold.