Dragonheart

“And given all that I’ve heard about Telgar, it might be a good idea to be quickly seen as from another Weyr,” Terin added.

“I’ll roast in that!” Fiona declared in a feeble attempt to avoid wearing the jacket, but she knew, even as she spoke, that she not only would wear it, she wanted  to.

“So put it on only when you’re in the air,” Terin replied sensibly, tossing the jacket to her. Fiona caught it awkwardly, groaning. Terin took pity on her and walked over. “Of course, if you want, I could help you with it now. Maybe that would be easier.”

Fiona made no protest as Terin, aided by K’rall, helped her into the jacket.

“There!” Terin declared proudly. “All set.”

“You look a proper Weyrwoman,” K’rall said approvingly.

“I’m too young.”

“It’s not the age,” K’rall said solemnly, “it’s the decorum.”

Fiona couldn’t argue with that, particularly as the words made her beam with pride. She turned to T’mar, who bowed slightly to show his approval.

“So, how far will I have to walk?” Fiona grumbled quietly to T’mar as Zenor approached.

“Not far,” T’mar said. “We’ll be sure to land you as close as we can to the Smith Hall.”

“Are you sure that I’m needed?” Fiona asked, directing her question to both T’mar and Zenor.

“I can’t say for certain,” Zenor told her, “but given that Nuella can’t come, I’d be grateful for the support.”

Nuella was sleeping with Nuellask. The watch-wher was too young to be left alone for any length of time.

“And I’d honestly prefer it if you were there as Weyrwoman,” T’mar told her. He looked awkwardly at the wherhide jacket he’d looped over his forearm. “I’d prefer not to claim honors I haven’t earned.” He met her eyes. “You have the right to claim to be Igen’s Weyrwoman.”

Fiona’s eyes danced in delight even as she shook her head demurely.

“You do,” T’mar assured her. “And I don’t doubt that your time at your father’s Hold will help in our dealings.”

“Please give me a hand up, then,” Fiona said, directing her words to K’rall. T’mar hid a smile as he clambered up to his position on Zirenth’s back and reached down to grab Fiona. Zenor came up next, and then Fiona’s crutches were strapped on to Zirenth’s harness. T’mar made certain that all the flying straps were secure, with Fiona in front, Zenor in the middle, and himself in the rear.

“Fly well!” K’rall called with a wave as Zirenth rose into the air.

As they flew toward the Star Stones, Zenor followed Fiona’s gaze and saw a gold head sticking out of the queen’s weyr. “We’ll be back before dinner,” he said to cheer her up.

“I know,” Fiona said with a sigh.

“I’ll make certain that no one shoots arrows at you or sets dogs on you,” T’mar promised, his voice light.

Fiona sighed again, more deeply. She hadn’t thought that the reason for her discomfort was that  obvious. She certainly wanted the best for the Weyr, but she was getting close to the point where she’d be willing to trade a sevenday’s coddling for another injury.

“You are carrying the weight of the Weyr on you, I know,” T’mar said, seeming to divine her thinking. He reached forward and patted her lightly on the shoulder.

“I’ll survive,” Fiona declared, wishing she’d drunk more klah.

“You will,” T’mar agreed. “Things will settle down soon enough. Perhaps you’ll even be bored.”

Fiona snorted in disbelief.

With a thought from T’mar, Zirenth went between.

The cold, black nothingness of between  surrounded them and Fiona was glad of her warm wherhide jacket. Then they were surrounded by light and sound again. The air was cooler, the scene greener, the smells less sharp, more earthy.

It took no time for Zirenth and T’mar to get their bearings and then they whirled into a steep spiral toward the ground below, buffeted by the tricky winds that flowed in the narrow river-fed valley.

“We came in low enough that we shouldn’t have been spotted at either the Hold or the Weyr,” T’mar shouted as they descended.

“If we did, no one at the Weyr would comment on it. Dragon riders from all over come regularly, I’m sure,” Fiona shouted back. “I’m sure they visit here as often as they visit the Harper Hall.”

She turned her head to look forward again, eyeing the ground rising up below her.

The first thing she noticed was the Smithcrafthall itself. It was a huge building set tight against the raging Three Forks river, close enough that two large waterwheels dipped into it. There was a lot of activity farther downstream, and Fiona peered at it for a moment, trying to determine what the people were doing.

They landed in the clearing nearest the Smithcrafthall. T’mar leapt down and helped Fiona dismount, handing her the crutches before turning back to help Zenor.

“That’s odd,” Fiona said as she surveyed the huge doors of the Smithcrafthall. “I would have thought there’d be a crowd gathered to see us.”

The huge four-panel doors were built so that very large objects could traverse into and out of the Smithcrafthall. Fiona hobbled toward a smaller side door.

“They’re not keeping guard,” Zenor muttered.

“Why would they?” T’mar asked.

Zenor shrugged, his expression troubled. “I would.”

At the door, T’mar moved in front of Fiona and pushed it open, then gestured for her to precede him.

She was met by a cacophony of sound, the bashing of metal with metal, the hiss of hot liquids into molds, the tinkling clatter of small tools on rough-finished goods. No one glanced up as she entered, and she was surprised to find no one near the door.

“Where is the Mastersmith?” Fiona asked but her voice was lost in all the noise. She turned to Zenor. “Who is the Mastersmith now?”

“Veclan,” Zenor replied, surprised that she needed to ask. “Isn’t he for you, too?”

Fiona shook her head, then turned back to the room before them. It was huge, and she began to be less surprised that their entrance had gone unnoted. When she could pick out people among the metal, braziers, furnaces, and jigs, they all seemed to be intent on one task or another, eyes down, gaze intent on their chores.

“Where would we find him?” T’mar asked.

Zenor shrugged. “I’ve never been here.”

“Where would we find Dalor?” Fiona asked. “He’s leading the mine now.”

“In the thick of things,” Zenor replied, grinning. “Dalor is always where there’s a problem to be solved, and then he’s on to the next one.”

Fiona nodded; it made sense and was much the same with her father or, come to think of it, with herself at the Weyr.

She began a careful survey of the work floor, looking for a knot of men. She found one and raised her crutch to point it out before proceeding as quickly as she could with her sore foot trailing behind her. She probably would have walked on it and ignored the crutches, but she knew that both Zenor and T’mar would chide her for it, and to be honest, she knew that the calf still needed rest no matter how much the infirmity galled her.

The knot thinned as they approached, then reformed protectively around the oldest member. He reminded Fiona a bit of Master Zist when he was in one of his foul moods, and she had to force herself to keep moving forward. As he took in T’mar’s shoulder knot and recognized him as a dragonrider, his bushy eyebrows narrowed in a sour frown. His gaze settled for a moment on Zenor and his expression altered a bit.

“Mastersmith Veclan?” Fiona began, shouting more loudly than necessary, hoping that her words would carry over the din to those beyond the small group. “I am Fiona of Igen Weyr, we’ve come to offer you an opportunity we think might benefit Hall and Weyr.”

Veclan looked surprised, and his gaze went from Fiona to T’mar, to Zenor, and then back to Fiona. His thoughts were obvious: Why was a young girl doing the talking?