Dragonheart

Cisca and K’lior exchanged a look.

“I told you that she wasn’t all addled,” Cisca said to the Weyrleader.

“I never said she was,” K’lior responded.

“But,” — Fiona shook her head sadly — ”I don’t know how long Talenth will stay asleep.”

“I’m sure you’ve got at least an hour yet,” Cisca assured her.

“And if not,” K’lior added, “we’ll send word to P’der; he can bring you back and return to Fort Hold for the supplies.”

“I’m sure it would help to have you there,” Cisca told her.

“You could stop at the Hold while P’der goes to the Healer Hall,” K’lior observed. “That would save time.” He looked inward for a moment and then back up at Fiona. “T’mar and Zirenth are waiting for you.” He gestured to the Bowl outside. “You’d best get going.”

“Thank you!” Fiona said, jumping up from her chair and rushing out.

Cisca and K’lior watched her go. Then Cisca turned to the Weyrleader and said, “You know, if this is what she’s like when she’s tired . . .”

K’lior laughed. “She’ll be like you when she’s recovered!”

Cisca gave him a fierce look and poked at him. “Enough of that!”

Compared to her dragonet, the bronze dragon waiting for her in the Weyr Bowl was immense. Zirenth craned his long neck around to peer at her as she came running over, and Fiona waved at him, feeling for the first time in a long while like a young girl again.

T’mar waited for her beside Zirenth’s huge forefoot and helped her climb up onto the dragon’s neck.

“Hold on to the strap, Weyrwoman,” T’mar said as he climbed up behind her. He wrapped one arm around her waist and grabbed the fighting strap with the other.

“I’m used to riding behind,” Fiona warned him just as Zirenth flexed his huge hind legs and leapt into the air.

“I know you are,” T’mar shouted to her as the great bronze’s wings beat down and lifted them up. “I thought you might like to have a taste of what it will be like riding your own dragon.”

My own dragon! Fiona thought, her eyes seeking out Talenth’s weyr. Talenth will be bigger than this puny bronze, she thought with a pride so fierce that it surprised, then gratified her.

“Thank you,” she called back as Zirenth rose up out of the Bowl. She saw T’mar’s hand as he waved to the watch dragon perched near the Star Stones and then they were gliding down, into the valley below the Weyr spires.

“Are you ready?” T’mar called to her.

Fiona raised her arm and pumped it in the ancient dragonriders’ signal of readiness.

A freezing blackness suddenly gripped her, but Fiona was ready for it. Between  only takes as long as it does to cough three times, she reminded herself.

One.

Two.

Three.

They burst out high over Fort Hold and Fiona couldn’t help shouting for joy at the sight.

“You’ll do this on your own before you know it, Weyrwoman,” T’mar promised her.

Fiona’s shout turned into a noise of pure exhilaration as Zirenth banked sharply and spiraled on down to the landing between the Harper Hall and the Hold. Then Zirenth was on the ground, and T’mar jumped down and raised his hands to catch Fiona. She smiled as he deftly lowered her to the ground.

“You’ve got the longer journey,” T’mar said as he stepped away from her.

“I’m the younger,” Fiona reminded him with an impish grin.

T’mar had no reply and merely shook his head before waving her on her way.

“If I’m done before you, I’ll come up to the Hold,” T’mar said as he strode away.

Fiona turned away from him and toward the path up to the Hold. It was a pleasant walk, although she was surprised to realize how tiring it was for her.

Too much time lazing around, she decided.

As Fiona climbed the path that led up to Fort Hold proper, she eagerly examined the streets branching off on either side toward the crafthalls and small cotholds, looking for any of the many Fort Holder children she knew and had played with, but there was no sign of them. It’s lunchtime, she reminded herself, working to keep her good mood.

Still, the memories of the rare times she’d managed to get away from her father’s watchful gaze — and where had  he been? — were among her happiest: hunting tunnel snakes in the bowels of the Hold; getting wet and muddy at the nearest lake; chasing sheep with the herders and herd dogs — all the things that a rambunctious child, though perhaps not the Holder’s daughter, would do when not in fear of a scolding.

The first guard she saw at the Hold’s main gate was someone she did not recognize. Fiona forced a frown off her face — if she hadn’t Impressed, she would know who this new man was. She was just about to introduce herself when another guard rushed down from the watchtower, calling, “Lady Fiona!”

It was Jelir, one of the men who had survived the Plague with her father and Kindan. He and Stennel had carried the dead off to the massed graves, Fiona recalled.

“Your father’s not here, my lady,” Jelir told her as she approached him. He gestured back down the path. “He’s down at the Harper Hall.” The guard next to him smirked, only to have Jelir round sharply on him. “Nellin, this is Lady Fiona, the Lord Holder’s daughter.”

Nellin sobered up immediately, murmuring, “Didn’t mean no harm, my lady.”

What was so funny about her father being at the Harper Hall? Fiona wondered. She shook herself, remembering her task. “I’ve come for some herbals,” she told the guards. “The dragons are sick.”

“We’d heard,” Jelir replied. “All the fire-lizards are gone.”

“Well, don’t let us hold you up, my lady,” Nellin said, waving her inside. “From the sounds of it, you’ve got urgent business.”

Fiona nodded and, with a final wave, made her way through the Hold gates, through the courtyard, and up to the Great Hall gates, which were open to let in the afternoon air.

She was pleased to find Neesa ensconced in the kitchen, and for a brief moment, Fiona felt as though she were a young Lady Holder again, and not a Weyrwoman on an urgent mission.

“Lady Fiona, what a surprise!” Neesa exclaimed when she spotted her. “Can you stay long?”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” Fiona said. “I’ve come from the Weyr to beg for some herbals for the dragons.”

“So it’s real, then?” Neesa asked. “We know about the fire-lizards, of course.”

“It’s real,” Fiona confirmed. “We’ve five up at Fort Weyr who are coughing. And already at least three have gone between  from all the Weyrs, including Breth, Benden’s queen.”

“And the herbals will help?” Neesa asked, her eyes full of concern. “Thread’ll be coming soon enough.”

“We don’t know if the herbals will help,” Fiona said. “But they include echinacea and ginger — ”

“Marla!” Neesa called. “Drat, where is she? She’s as bad as your — ”

“Pardon?” Fiona asked. She hadn’t been looking at Neesa, but rather in the direction she was calling.

“Oh, nothing!” Neesa replied quickly. “It’s just that your father is never around when needed either.”

Fiona felt sure that there was more to it than that, but she really didn’t have time to wheedle the rest of the news out of the head cook, particularly as a youngster, little younger than Fiona herself, came rushing into the kitchen at that moment.

“Marla, take Fiona down to the stores,” Neesa ordered. “She’s to have anything she needs. It’s Weyr business.”

Marla looked confused, frightened, and amazed all at once. “Weyr business?” she repeated.

“Surely you remember Fiona, the Lord Holder’s daughter,” Neesa said acerbically. “And wouldn’t a curtsy be in order?”

Marla hastily curtsied, her face going bright red with embarrassment. “My lady,” she said as she dipped down, then flushed even more. “I mean, Weyrwoman.”

“Not to worry,” Fiona said with a smile and a gesture to ease the other’s discomfort. “I am  in a bit of a hurry, so . . .”