Dragonheart

“Why?” Tannaz retorted hotly. “Would you  greet a Lord Holder dressed in your worst, oil-grimed, sleep-stained clothes with your hair and face all oily from your latest dragon-grooming?”

“Sure,” Cisca responded with a toss of her shoulders. “Why not? It’s only a Lord Holder, after all.” She noticed Tannaz’s look and continued, “Oh, certainly, if I could, I’d prefer to be better dressed, but if the matter was sufficiently urgent, I’d have no problem greeting him at my worst.”

Tannaz mulled Cisca’s response over for a moment before admitting, “I think you could greet him sky-clad and make him feel overdressed.”

Cisca felt herself blushing but could only nod in agreement, grinning. “It would not  be my preference but, yes, if I had to, then I would certainly work to ensure that he felt overdressed.”

Tannaz chortled.

“Still,” Cisca continued when their moment of mirth had passed, “I’m sorry it didn’t work out better. By bringing him here, I’d hoped to cheer up both Lord and rider — or at least raise Fiona from her lethargy.”

“Well, you have to admit she was roused,” Tannaz said with a grin.

“Right — with a screaming match that scared every dragon in the Weyr. Not exactly what I’d had in mind,” Cisca said, her eyes flashing.

Tannas shrugged. “In the end, I think it worked out fine.” When Cisca shook her head in disbelief, Tannaz went on, “If you weren’t weyrbred, you’d understand. Weyrfolk have a different way of looking at things.”

“I should hope.”

“Bemin is a Lord Holder,” Tannaz explained. “He has spent his entire life expecting to be heard and instantly obeyed.”

“So?” Cisca demanded. “He’s still a fair man.”

“He’s a fair man, but it’s become ingrained in him that his word is law.”

“Hmm,” Cisca murmured, looking at the second Weyrwoman thoughtfully.

“Whereas here a Weyrleader’s authority only lasts until the senior queen’s next mating flight,” Tannaz continued. “So no one in the Weyr is used to as much authority as Lord Bemin wields in his Hold.” She paused. “And nowhere is he expected to wield that authority more than in his own Hall, over his own children.”

Cisca nodded in comprehension, then frowned. “I still don’t see why this shouting match can be seen as a good thing.”

“It was an excellent thing,” Tannaz corrected. “The worst alternative would have been for Fiona to respond with meek acquiescence to her father’s every request, fawning over him like a holder drudge. Instead, she lost her temper and told her Lord off in a manner that completely severed that relationship.”

“But he’s still her father,” Cisca said.

“He’s still her father,” Tannaz agreed. “And the wounds will take a while to heal. For both of them.”

“I’m still not seeing the good in this,” Cisca told her.

“When they meet again, it won’t be as Lord Holder and dutiful daughter,” Tannaz explained. “It will be as Lord Holder and tithe-bound Weyrwoman.” She paused, a look of admiration crossing her face. “I’m sure she didn’t plan it, but the break between them will make it much easier for the both of them to adjust to her new role — and it reaffirms in his mind his duty to the Weyr.”

“How do you see that?”

“Fiona asserted herself as a Weyrwoman,” Tannaz said, “and that assertion carries with it the weight of the whole Weyr. Without meaning to, Fiona reminded Lord Bemin that the safety of his Hold depends upon this Weyr and that he’s beholden to us.” An impish grin flashed on her face as she added, “I’ll bet our tithe from Fort will be much better this year than last.”

Cisca looked at the other for a long moment before shaking her head sadly. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to match you for deviousness.”

“Ah, so aren’t you glad that I’m your junior Weyrwoman?”

Cisca reached forward and hugged her. “I certainly am!”

“Maybe it was a bad idea, sending the fire-lizards away,” T’mar said to K’lior at the end of the wingleaders’ meeting some twenty days after that tragic event. T’mar had waited until the other wingleaders had headed down to the Kitchen Caverns to join their wingriders for dinner.

K’lior gave him an inquisitive look.

T’mar went on. “There’s been no word of further outbreaks — ”

“Perhaps because the fire-lizards are all gone,” K’lior suggested.

“Perhaps it was a fluke,” T’mar retorted.

K’lior nodded in understanding, then looked over and caught T’mar’s eyes. “Tell me, bronze rider, do you wish to stake your dragon’s life on a fluke?”

T’mar’s face colored.

K’lior made a calming gesture. “I don’t mean to anger you, T’mar,” he said. “I don’t like this any more than you.” Tension had been building in the Weyr; there had been two fights, one involving a dragonrider. K’lior was no fool; he knew that both were reflections of resentment and fear.

“I’ve spoken with Kentai,” he continued, “and he suggests that we should listen for word from Benden — ”

“Benden?” the word exploded out of T’mar’s lips.

“Yes, Benden,” K’lior said calmly. “Because Harper Kindan was not only a witness to the death of his own fire-lizard, but he was also a firsthand witness to the Plague that struck the holders nearly twelve Turns back.”

T’mar’s angry look cleared slightly as he absorbed his Weyrleader’s words.

“He may not be a dragonrider,” K’lior said, “but from everything I’ve heard, he regards all life carefully and won’t take chances with the dragons.”

“He’d be a fool to do so this near to the Pass,” T’mar murmured, then shook his head abashedly. “As I was to suggest it,” he said more loudly, meeting K’lior’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Weyrleader, my previous behavior was — ”

“No more than to be expected this near the Pass,” K’lior assured him, clapping the older man on the shoulder. “Now come along, your riders are waiting for you.”

Later that evening K’lior recounted the encounter to Cisca as they were preparing for bed.

“So?” Cisca demanded.

“Well, it was  odd,” K’lior said.

“But?”

“But,” K’lior said with a sigh, “it could have been nerves.”

Cisca took a dim view of this, saying, “If it’s nerves, he’s had it for over a Turn now — do you really want someone like that leading a wing?”

“His wing is doing well,” K’lior protested. Cisca glared at him and he sighed again. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“Thread could come any day now,” Cisca said.

“Thank goodness Verilan discovered those Threadfall charts,” K’lior said. “Once we know the location of the first Fall, we’ll be able to predict the rest.”

“What if those charts were only meant for the Second Pass ?” Cisca asked.

“I admit that it’s possible,” K’lior said. “And we’ll be vigilant. But certainly with each consecutive pass matching those charts, we’ll get more confidence.”

“I don’t see how we can fight Thread every seventy-five hours,” Cisca said dubiously.

“Spread among six Weyrs?”

“Five Weyrs,” Cisca corrected. “I’d be happier if it were six.”

“And we’re wing light,” K’lior agreed, his optimism ebbing.

“That  doesn’t bother me,” Cisca said, poking him playfully in the ribs and grinning impishly. “Between Tannaz’s Kalsenth and my Melirth, I think we’ll have the Weyr up to strength pretty soon.”

But the Weyrleader shook his head. “Melirth won’t rise again for months yet. And then we’ve got at least three Turns — ”

“A Turn and a half,” Cisca interjected.

“Only if we force weyrlings into fighting wings early,” K’lior told her. “And the Records — ”

“We’ll survive,” Cisca interjected.

“Of course we will!” K’lior replied. “Oh, we may have it hard for the first Turn or so, but we’ll manage.”