Dragongirl

SIXTEEN

“Fit to fly?” Fiona asked as she raced up the queens’ ledge toward T’mar. The Weyrleader grinned and nodded emphatically. The air was full of the fresh smell of spring and while clouds danced overhead, Fiona felt that they wouldn’t make rain that day, at least. The morning air was chilly but without the harsh, biting cold of winter.

“Come on, Zirenth, let’s see if you remember!” T’mar called to the bronze dragon, who followed him eagerly out of his weyr. He cocked a glance toward Fiona. “Care to join us?”

Fiona shook her head ruefully. “Talenth is too gravid to be interested.”

“She’s six weeks or so shy of clutching,” T’mar said, his expression growing serious.

“Queens can clutch any time from twelve to fifteen weeks after mating,” Fiona reminded him. “Although the norm seems to be about fourteen.”

“Three and a half months, then,” T’mar said. “So she’s due near the end of next month.”

“Or sooner,” Fiona cautioned.

T’mar raised a hand. “Don’t say that! An early clutch is small.”

“We’ll hope for a late clutch, then,” Fiona said, nodding toward Zirenth.

“And a queen egg,” T’mar said, as he moved to the side of Zirenth’s weyr, allowing the great bronze easy egress.

“Queen eggs are rare on the first Hatching,” Fiona warned him.

“We need queens,” T’mar said, as Zirenth backed up against the ledge and crouched down to let his rider jump on his shoulders.

“Indeed we do,” Fiona agreed. With an approving glance at T’mar’s grasp of his riding straps, she added, “And we need Weyrleaders, too!”

“She won’t rise again until after her clutch hatches,” T’mar reminded her as Zirenth turned away from the ledge and moved out into the Weyr Bowl proper.

“So keep safe and fly well, Weyrleader!” Fiona called, waving merrily after him.

T’mar waved back over his shoulder and then, with two bounds, Zirenth was aloft, pumping mightily toward the Star Stones and being greeted cheerfully by T’mar’s fighting wing. The remaining wings of Telgar Weyr joined them and together they winked between to drill in preparation for the next Threadfall.

After they were gone, Fiona’s expression slipped. The clutching would change things, she was certain. But the steady erosion of the Weyrs’ strength had only been recently reversed by the recovery of the first of the wounded.

Telgar Weyr now had—with T’mar and the other five recovered dragonriders—five full-strength fighting wings, a full wing less than they’d had when the Weyrs had redistributed their strength. And while Telgar was the worst off, none were all that much stronger—as both Fiona and T’mar had taken pains to point out to H’nez, who’d resumed command of the fighting wings after J’lantir’s sudden death.

The wiry, dour bronze rider had grown so distraught over the losses that Jeila had begged Fiona to intervene.

“I’ve heard nothing but good about you,” T’mar had told H’nez when Fiona brought the issue to his attention. “I’ll be hard pressed to match your ability when I return to health.”

“I wish you had recovered a month ago,” H’nez confessed.

“But I didn’t,” T’mar said. “And you’ve not complained in all that time.” He gave H’nez a grin. “Keep up the good work, I’ll soon relieve you!”

T’mar’s encouraging talk was still not enough for H’nez and the bronze rider grumbled that when T’mar recovered, he’d request to be allowed to return to Fort Weyr.

“No, you won’t!” Jeila had told him heatedly. “You’ll stay here, with me, where you belong.”

And that, as Jeila told Fiona later, was that. Although, Fiona thought with a grin, perhaps Jeila had produced some extra inducements as she had confided all this as a prelude to announcing her pregnancy.

“It’s still too early to tell,” Jeila had cautioned when she’d shared the news. “And I’m worried.”

Fiona raised her eyebrows inquiringly.

Jeila gestured to her petite frame and thin waist. “I’m worried that the way I’m built, I might not carry to term.”

“Wasn’t your mother much the same as you?” Fiona had asked. When Jeila had nodded in response, Fiona had continued, “And how many children did she have?”

“Four,” Jeila admitted. “But she miscarried the first.”

“Well,” Fiona had replied, “we’ll guarantee you the best midwife.”

“I want Bekka,” Jeila told her.

“She’s not a midwife.”

“Her and her mother, then,” Jeila had replied.

“I’ll see what we can do,” Fiona said. “After all, I’ve reason to believe that Lorana may have need of one soon.”

“And what about you?” Jeila had asked, casting a probing look her way.

“I think two will be enough to getting on with,” Fiona had replied, turning the question aside. Jeila had given her a thoughtful look but had not pressed the matter.

It was just possible that she was with child, but Fiona had always been erratic in her cycle, so she wasn’t entirely certain. Surely she hadn’t noticed any change in her eating habits and, if she felt a bit more emotional, it was far too easy to ascribe to the current mood of the Weyr—even, of all Pern.

There was no escaping the steady, slow attrition of the fighting strength of the Weyrs. High Reaches had fared best of all, while the other Weyrs found themselves nearly a full wing short—and this after only two months of fighting. With losses up to a wing every two months, there would be no dragons flying at any Weyr—save perhaps High Reaches—when the still-unclutched hatchlings were barely old enough to fly.

The advent of the new agenothree throwers eased the requirement of the dragonriders to perform endless patrols looking for any stray burrow after a Fall—except that, alarmingly, more and more Thread had made it through in the latest Falls to cause burrows larger than the holders could contain.

Fiona heard that Lord Holder Gadran of Bitra was practically dyspeptic with fury when Weyrleader B’nik of Benden had to burn yet another of the Bitran’s forests to check the spread of burrows. Telgar had been no luckier, having to fire two valleys—one in Telgar Hold and the other in Crom—much to the despair of all involved.

The discussion around the Weyrleaders’ table of late had turned to the issue of when to start going between times to previous Threadfalls.

“Hold off as long as you can,” Fiona had urged. “The dangers of timing it are so great that I fear you’ll lose more than you’ll save.”

“It matters not,” T’mar had said. Fiona looked at him sharply and he shrugged. “You can be certain we won’t be timing it until after we’ve timed it.”

“You mean that the first we’ll know of timing it will occur when a flight from the future comes to our aid?” H’nez asked.

“Precisely,” T’mar said, raising a hand to disguise a yawn, a move not unobserved by Fiona who snorted and handed him his mug of klah.

“Well, at least you know the dangers,” she’d observed sourly. Thoughtfully, she added, “Although, given how tired you are, going between times might be doubly dangerous.”

“Perhaps I’m tired because I’ve already done it,” T’mar said. “Perhaps we’re more accustomed to the effects.”

H’nez gave the Weyrleader a doubtful look, then turned imploringly to Fiona, who snorted and told T’mar, “And perhaps you’re eager to let H’nez have the Weyrleader’s position permanently!”

“I’ll be careful,” T’mar said.

Fiona bit back a tart rejoinder and converted her breath into a long sigh.

“Our strength is returning,” T’mar told her soothingly. “We’ve five fighting wings as of today—we’ve been as low as four.” He turned to H’nez. “We’ve time enough before the next Fall, I think we should practice timing it.”

“If you are, then I’m coming with you,” Fiona warned.

“If you can get Talenth roused, we’ll be happy to have you,” T’mar said, knowing that the gravid queen was spending most of her time resting. Fiona glared at him in response, turned on her heel and stomped off.

“I’ll be happy when her queen clutches,” T’mar admitted to H’nez once she was out of earshot.

“It’ll be awhile yet,” H’nez said. T’mar nodded in agreement, then shook his head to clear it of distractions, before saying to H’nez, “Now, let’s consider how best to practice timing it.”

“I would never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,” F’jian said as the dragonriders milled around the Dining Cavern later that evening. He pointed at T’mar. “There he was”—and then he pointed to a spot above him—“and there he was—two of him!”

“Two of you, as well?” Terin asked, her expression troubled.

“I didn’t see me,” F’jian said, “I was too busy looking at the Weyrleaders.” He shook his head in bemusement. “If I hadn’t seen it myself, I never would have believed it.”

The conversation was a sample of the murmuring throughout the Cavern as dragonriders joked and swapped tales of seeing themselves—“I never knew I was that fat!” “We did!”—and explaining to the wary weyrfolk the events of the day.

“We’ll jump back tomorrow,” T’mar said to H’nez as they gathered at the wingleaders’ table. Timing it was difficult enough to do but sometimes harder to explain—as they hadn’t jumped back immediately in time after seeing their future selves, the jump from some future point still had yet to occur.

“So soon?” Fiona asked, eyeing him carefully.

“That will give us more time to recover before the next Threadfall,” T’mar said. He frowned. “I’m sure I wouldn’t have considered jumping back any later than that.”

“You didn’t look too tired,” H’nez said.

“The worst of the exhaustion usually sets in after timing it,” Fiona said.

“So it will only be a problem if we don’t have enough time to recover.”

Fiona looked at T’mar and they exchanged a frown, the Weyrleader saying, “I’m not sure it’s quite that easy.”

Fiona pulled the pitcher of klah toward her and refilled T’mar’s mug. “I’m not sure that either of us are good examples,” she said, shaking the pitcher emphatically before placing it back on the table.

“How did Kindan and Lorana do on Winurth?” Fiona asked, glancing toward the couple who sat at the opposite end of the table, engrossed in their own conversation.

“Well enough,” T’mar told her. He pursed his lips, adding, “If we had more injured riders than dragons, this idea of pairing spare riders with dragons would work better.”

“Dragons are larger than riders,” Fiona said, “so they’re more likely to get injured just because of their greater size.”

T’mar flipped the fingers of one hand up in agreement. Dragons were injured nearly eight times more often than riders; Fiona was right, it was a simple question of size.

“We’re doing pretty well all the same,” Fiona said, catching T’mar’s eyes and glancing significantly toward H’nez, who wore a glum look. “We’ve only twenty-three injured, and nine of them only slightly.”

“And twenty-one are lost forever,” H’nez reminded them grimly. Jeila, who was sitting beside him, reached for his near hand and cradled it comfortingly. “Of all the Weyrs, we’ve lost the most.”

“No more than Ista,” Fiona said.

“And High Reaches is close, with nineteen,” T’mar added, shaking his head emphatically. “So, if you’re to make comparisons, H’nez, remember that you’re comparing yourself with M’tal and D’vin—both of whom have been Weyrleaders Turns longer than you’ve been leading Falls.”

H’nez started to reply, thought better of it and, with a sigh, nodded glumly.

“Besides,” Fiona said, “if you’ll recall, J’lantir led the Weyr for the earliest Fall.”

“He was a good man,” H’nez said.

“Even good men can make mistakes,” T’mar said. He shook himself and rose from the table. “And with that, I will say good evening, I think we can all use our rest.”

He cast a questioning look toward Fiona, hand outstretched. She frowned thoughtfully before rising and grabbing his hand. Together they paid their compliments to Shaneese and departed into the darkened Bowl.

Much later, Fiona found herself taking a hurried bath in T’mar’s quarters before quietly sneaking back to her own weyr. She paused in Talenth’s lair for a long time, watching the flanks of her queen as they rose and fell with her breathing. Her stomach had turned lumpy with the growing eggs.

Talenth twitched in her sleep, as though reacting to Fiona’s presence. To soothe her, Fiona moved over to the queen’s great head and gently scratched her eye ridges. Talenth exhaled noisily, twisted slightly on her side as though trying to get comfortable and slid back into a deeper slumber.

A smile played across Fiona’s lips as she watched her queen, marveling that such an amazing person could love her.

A slight noise from the entrance of her quarters warned her that she was not alone. Without turning, she knew it was Kindan. She couldn’t say how long he’d been watching her. Beyond him she felt the comforting presence of Lorana, asleep. For a moment Fiona allowed herself once again to be amazed at how she felt Lorana’s presence, much like she felt Talenth—like fabric brushing against her skin or her hair when the wind tossed it—part of her and, yet, apart.

It was not like that with Kindan. Her heart pounded in her chest and her breath came faster to her, his very presence energized her.

She turned then, her eyes seeking out his in the gloom. For a long moment they stood there; Fiona waiting, expectant, and vaguely surprised at her own serenity. Then Kindan moved forward. She waited for him, only moving when his arms wrapped around her, folding herself into his embrace.

“Never again!” T’mar groaned as he slipped down off Zirenth’s neck. Fiona caught him, disregarding his scolding look. She looked beyond him to Lorana and Kindan as they dismounted Winurth in the distance. Lorana carefully helped Kindan down, his face was as ashen as T’mar’s.

“I feel like I’ve been trampled by Talenth and buried under her eggs,” T’mar said, as he allowed himself to collapse against the Weyrwoman. Fiona gestured desperately for Xhinna and Taria and between the three of them, they managed to guide the fatigued Weyrleader up to his quarters, where he collapsed into his bed.

The rest of the riders were no better. It took no urging from Fiona for the weyrfolk to rush out into the Bowl and, in groups, guide each returning rider to their weyrs.

“Let them rest,” Fiona said as she returned to the Bowl and took in the scene.

“It was like riding a Fall twiceover,” H’nez murmured weakly as Fiona came to Jeila’s aid in propping up the much taller rider. “I’ve never felt so bad.”

Fiona gave him a sympathetic look but secretly she wondered why the riders were so overwhelmed by it all—hadn’t she been dealing with the same problem for Turns? Perhaps it was worse when they actually timed it. Even so, she decided, she would not behave as poorly as the rest of the Weyr.

Hours later, when T’mar had recovered, the Weyrleader told her, “If you think this is anything like what we’ve been feeling, I can assure you that you’re wrong.”

Fiona gave him a studious look but her disbelief leaked into her expression.

T’mar wagged a finger at her. “Just you wait, Weyrwoman, you’ll see.”

“Either way,” Fiona said, dismissing the issue, “if the riders are this fatigued, surely timing it is too dangerous.”

“As compared to letting Thread fall unchecked?” T’mar said, shaking his head. Adding the old Weyr saying, “‘Needs must when the Red Star rises.’”

“All the same.”

“I’m not eager to try it, Weyrwoman, but we had to prepare,” T’mar said.

“Lorana’s warned the other Weyrs,” Fiona said.

“And well she should,” T’mar said. “But the problem remains, the first we’ll know of timing it is when we see ourselves back in time.”

Fiona’s expression darkened as she took in his words. How terrible would it be for riders, exhausted from a Fall, to know that they would soon be even more exhausted going back in time to save themselves?

“Casualties will be heavy,” Fiona said. T’mar nodded in wordless agreement. “It should only be used as a last resort.”

“We may be at last resorts soon,” the Weyrleader said grimly.

“The queens will clutch soon.”

“Those dragons will only be ready to fight three Turns from now,” T’mar said. “It’s today and tomorrow that concern me.”

Fiona had no response to that.

Every three days and three hours, Thread came again. Telgar flew over Igen Weyr, then over north Keroon, then over the Weyr itself and Telgar Hold.

And each time Thread fell, Lorana would grit her teeth in response to the anguish, the pain, and the loss of dragons and riders fighting against it.

Fiona found herself carefully orchestrating a watchful group to tend to the ex-dragonrider’s special needs: Jeila, Terin, Xhinna, Mekiar, Shaneese, even Birentir took part in the comforting, always solicitous, always available.

Kindan was at first resentful and then grew grateful as he realized how much of Lorana’s pain he had taken upon himself.

It was during the last Fall that Fiona discovered that she herself also had a steady group of companions. It was Rhemy, the wide-eyed girl who seemed to have feelings beyond her years, who was most often at Fiona’s side.

“You feel it too,” Rhemy said. As Fiona drew breath to protest, the young girl blurted out, “Maybe not as much but you feel it.” Fiona let out her breath in surprise.

“You do, don’t you?” Rhemy persisted.

“Not as much as Lorana,” Fiona said. She was sure hers was only an echo of the dark-eyed woman’s feeling.

Finally, the Thread fell elsewhere, outside of Telgar’s borders and the Weyr rested, the dragonriders trained, and more recovered to gladly rejoin their Wings. Even so, the Weyr flew only five Wings—and one of those Wings light by four dragons.

While Telgar rested, the other Weyrs were busy. Ista Weyr flew Falls over Igen Hold, then Ista Hold, while High Reaches Weyr flew their Fall over High Reaches Hold and then Fort Weyr flew Fall over Ruatha Hold.

The dragonriders of Telgar Weyr—and the weyrfolk—kept up to date with the losses of every Fall.

“Fort’s down to four full Wings,” F’jian remarked glumly that evening.

“One hundred and forty fighting dragons,” H’nez said. “That’s nearly five full Wings.”

“Ista’s worse, they’ve got three and a half Wings,” brown rider J’gerd pointed out.

“There’ll be eggs on the Hatching Grounds soon enough,” Terin said, trying to improve F’jian’s mood.

“Not too soon,” H’nez said. “Another fortnight yet.” “They might clutch early,” J’gerd said.

H’nez shook his head. “An early clutch is a light clutch. We need all the dragons we can get.”

“I think I’d prefer some sooner than too many later,” Jeila said.

Fiona listened to the discussion silently. For herself, the sooner Talenth clutched, the happier she’d be. Oh, she didn’t want a small clutch, but she’d be glad when Talenth wasn’t so bogged down with the weight of the eggs, especially the way her gravid state seemed to give her such distressing dreams—dreams that Fiona sensed in a garbled way.

“You are not going to lose your eggs,” Fiona had told her that very morning. “You’re doing fine.”

Talenth rumbled in disagreement.

“It’s your first clutching, you can’t expect everything to be perfect,” Fiona assured her, raising her hand once more to scratch Talenth’s eye ridges, her hands still slippery from her morning oiling of Talenth’s stretched hide.

It just doesn’t feel right, Talenth complained, gently angling her head so that Fiona could reach to a particularly itchy spot on her eye ridge.

Fiona continued scratching and made no response. She’d felt enough of her queen’s dreams to understand Talenth’s words—the dreams had been unnerving—always predicting that something would happen, something horrible.

Fiona dug deep into herself to find enough cheer to spread it to Talenth and counteract the dragon’s despair, but she realized that even her reserves were stretched. She knew how much the rest of the Weyr looked to her, how they shook their heads in amusement when they thought she wouldn’t notice over her ever-cheerful manner, how she managed to find something good in the hardest of times. Oh, the old ones would prattle on and warn her that she was taking things too easily, but Fiona knew with a certainty that the mood of the entire Weyr was influenced by her cheerfulness and that mothers would tell their daughters, “See? The Weyrwoman’s not worrying, why should you?”

Dragonriders, too, took their cues from her, as did Jeila and even Lorana.

Fiona’s lips turned down as she thought of Lorana. The ex–queen rider was finding it increasingly difficult to bear up under the weight of the loss of dragons and riders in Threadfalls, which she felt all too keenly. Fiona had a secondhand glimpse of Lorana’s pain; she felt it more fully than Kindan, but she also knew by dint of the same strange bond that allowed Fiona to feel Lorana’s pain that Lorana purposely shielded her from a lot of it.

Ironically, it was their strange connection that kept up Fiona’s spirits. If two people could form such a tight bond, then anything was possible, wasn’t it? At least, that’s how Fiona reasoned the matter.

Theirs was a strange relationship, Fiona mused. In some ways, Lorana reminded her of Tannaz … Fiona’s hand stopped moving on Talenth’s eye ridge as that notion froze her into stillness. Lorana was like Tannaz; would Lorana choose Tannaz’s course if the situation continued to get worse?

Fiona realized that she’d stopped breathing and forced herself to take a fresh breath. The difference was that Fiona was older, knew herself more—she could help Lorana where she couldn’t help Tannaz. Still …

She started as a hand clasped her back at the base of her neck and turned quickly, her sea-blue eyes flashing, only to find herself looking up into Kindan’s face, his blue eyes framed by stray locks of dark hair.

The harper’s lips were quirked upward. “Woolgathering?”

Since that night three sevendays before, Kindan’s manner with Fiona had thawed into a warm, easy companionship.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Fiona said, glancing back affectionately to her dragon. “She says she feels heavy.”

Kindan chuckled. “No doubt she does with all those eggs weighing her down.”

“How’s Lorana feeling?”

Kindan’s eyebrows furrowed.

“No, I wasn’t referring to that,” Fiona said. Lorana was just starting her twelfth week and only just beginning to show—although, having been in close proximity with her for some time, Fiona had known that she was pregnant for a while. Her lips tightened into a frown, as she added thoughtfully, “Though that might have something to do with it.”

Kindan nodded. “She’s at the stage where going between should be avoided.”

Fiona turned back toward him, eyes flashing. “That’s not it at all, Kindan!”

The harper took a step back, arms raised defensively, alarmed at her fierce reaction.

“What is it, then?” Kindan asked, lowering his arms and stretching out his hands beseechingly.

“It’s … everything,” Fiona said, throwing her arms open wide. “It’s that Talenth and Tolarth both will soon clutch, that we’re losing dragons every three days and all the clutches on Pern will be too little too late and that, on top of it all, she has a child coming into the world and she doesn’t know where she fits.”

“With me,” Kindan said with a decisive nod of his head.

“With us,” Fiona corrected. Kindan gave her a questioning look. “Here, in this Weyr—Telgar—where she’s central to everything, where she can speak to all dragons, coordinate with Nuella and the watch-whers, and be surrounded by those who love her.”

“So where is the problem?”

“The problem is with her, Kindan,” Fiona replied tetchily, surprised at his obtuseness. “The problem is that she sees all she is not—not a Weyrwoman, not a mother, not a mate—and it worries her.”

“How do you know so much about her feelings?”

“I didn’t,” Fiona said. “Mostly I learned it from Shaneese and Mekiar.”

“Do they have any suggestions?”

“Patience, sympathy, comfort,” Fiona said with a heavy sigh. “All the things I’m not very good at.”

Kindan grunted in disbelief.

“It’s true!” she said, giving him a sour look. “I’m better at cheering, at encouraging than I am at comforting.”

“I think you’re wrong,” Kindan said. He raised a hand to forestall her hot retort. “It may be that you feel inadequate to meet her needs but I can’t see how”—and he gestured toward Talenth’s egg-laden belly—“you can’t be sympathetic about her pregnancy.”

Fiona let out the breath she had gathered for her argument with a rueful grin. “I suppose I do understand something of that.”

“And,” he continued, his voice going soft, “I expect you’ve dealt with the same issues of being a mate—”

“True.”

“—and I think you can imagine her concerns about not being a Weyrwoman,” Kindan concluded.

“Ever since T’mar’s recovery, I’ve watched her slip deeper and deeper into sorrow,” Fiona said, her expression bleak. Kindan nodded in understanding.

“I’ve seen it, too,” he said. “Although I question whether she wasn’t just distracted from her sorrow when we were flying Zirenth.”

“If I could,” Fiona said, “I’d give her Talenth.”

“No you wouldn’t,” Lorana’s voice answered from outside the weyr. She stepped into Talenth’s weyr and made her way to the queen’s head, reaching up a loving hand to scratch Talenth’s eye ridges. “Once you’ve Impressed, only death can separate you.”

Kindan and Fiona exchanged alarmed glances at Lorana’s words. Lorana caught the look and smiled wanly at them, shaking her head, her hand going to her belly.

“There are other loves than dragons’,” she said, reaching her hand out toward them. Kindan grabbed it firmly and Fiona moved to the taller woman’s side, wrapping an arm around her waist and laying her head on her shoulder.

“I love you,” Kindan told Lorana feelingly.

“So do I,” Fiona added, clutching Lorana tighter even as she wondered in the depths of her soul whether their love would be enough.

A moment later, Fiona felt Lorana stir and pulled away from her far enough to look up into her eyes. “What is it?”

Lorana sighed. “Thread falls at Igen today.”

“M’tal’s a good man, he’ll handle it,” Kindan said.

“They have four full Wings,” Fiona added cheeringly, “more than enough for a Fall.”

Lorana made no argument but Fiona could feel the other woman’s deep sense of foreboding. To distract her, Fiona placed a hand on Lorana’s belly. “Is he sleeping?”

Lorana frowned thoughtfully, then shook her head. She grabbed Fiona’s hand and moved it over slightly. Fiona’s eyes widened and her mouth broke into a huge grin. “He kicked me!” She turned to Kindan, eyes wide in awe, exclaiming, “Our baby kicked me!”