Dragonheart

“We can’t do nothing !” T’mar persisted, looking from Kentai, to Cisca, to K’lior, and finally at Fiona. “Thread is coming and we’ll need all our dragons.”

“I think we all know that, T’mar,” K’lior said soothingly. T’mar simmered under the Weyrleader’s gaze.

“Is there anything you suggest we do differently?” Kentai inquired.

T’mar glared at the harper, muttering, “If we had a healer . . .”

“If we had a healer he’d tell us no more than we know,” Kentai retorted. He gestured to the Bowl outside and up toward the drumheights by the Star Stones. “I’ve been in constant communication and no one has a better solution than Kindan’s.”

“He’s  no healer,” T’mar persisted rebelliously.

“No,” Kentai responded agreeably, “he’s not. But it was Kindan who thought of the ways that helped the Holders during the Plague, and Kindan is the only one who has bonded with a watch-wher and Impressed a fire- lizard.”

“I trust Kindan,” Fiona declared hotly. “He saved my life.”

T’mar gave her a surprised look, then lowered his eyes and muttered, “He’s no dragonrider.”

“But Lorana is,” Kentai responded. “And it is her herbal we have been using.”

T’mar gave the harper a mulish look but said nothing, instead reaching for a mug and the pitcher of klah.  He knocked the mug over and broke it.

“Here,” Fiona said, pushing her mug toward him. “Have mine.”

“No, I’ll get my own,” T’mar declared.

“T’mar!” Cisca called to him in surprise. The bronze rider looked her way, his brows raised. “Are you sure you want to do that? It’s never wise to turn down the favors of a Weyrwoman.”

T’mar was about to respond angrily but caught himself. He shook his head and said to Cisca, “My apologies, Weyrwoman, I’m not myself.”

Cisca nodded in acknowledgment, then looked pointedly toward Fiona.

T’mar turned toward the younger queen rider. “Weyrwoman, I apologize for my poor manners,” he said. “If you’d accept my apology, I’d be most grateful.”

The tension at the table was palpable and Fiona felt it as she never had before. It was hers to own; she could deny T’mar’s apology and fan the flames or she could cool things off. She shook her head; she was too exhausted for anger to burn long in her.

T’mar caught her movement and mistook it. Affronted, he started to rise, only to stop when Fiona reached across the table and grabbed his hand.

“I was shaking my head at my own foolishness,” she said, catching his eyes. “Please sit back down and do  take my mug. We’ve all been through too much; we’re all worried, and all tired.”

She tugged on his hand and T’mar, with a lopsided grin, eased back into his chair.

“I’ll pour, if you’ll let me, dragonrider,” Kentai offered. At T’mar’s grateful nod, the harper filled the mug with the warm klah.

“I’m sorry to have snapped at you, too,” T’mar said as he curled his fingers around the now-warm mug.

“If we’re going to survive this,” Fiona was surprised to hear herself say, “we are going to have to forgive our outbursts and accept our pain.”

“ ‘Accept our pain,’ ” Cisca repeated, giving Fiona a curious look.

It was something that Kindan had said, Fiona realized, on one of the rare occasions when she’d managed to get him to talk about the Plague.

“Yes,” she said, not caring to elaborate; she felt it would not be a good idea at this moment to mention Kindan again.

“We don’t know how long this will last,” Kentai said into the silence that fell. He smiled at Fiona. “I think our newest Weyrwoman is right: We are going to have to forgive our outbursts and accept our pain.”

“So what are we going to do for the sick dragons?” T’mar wondered.

“Keep them as comfortable as possible; have someone be with them and their riders as often as needed,” Fiona replied, remembering other words — this time from her father — about the Plague. In response to T’mar’s scrutiny, she explained, “That’s what Father said they did during the Plague.”

“And I don’t think there’s much more we can do,” Cisca agreed. “Wait,” T’mar surmised dully.

“And hope,” Fiona added.

T’mar ran a weary hand through his hair and back down his neck, massaging his tense tendons. “It doesn’t seem all that much.” “It’s all we can do,” K’lior replied.

“It’s more than watching and waiting,” Fiona added. “It’s being someone who listens, someone who helps, a kind word, an understanding touch.”

“You’ve done this before?” T’mar asked, his expression making it clear that he was dramatically reevaluating the young queen rider opposite him.

“Once,” Fiona confessed. “With an old uncle.”

She could see that the others wanted to know more. “He died holding my hand,” she explained. Her face crumpled in memory as she added, “I cried for a sevenday.”

The others looked at her expectantly. Fiona wiped her eyes and summoned a smile. “That was nearly two Turns back, just before I turned twelve.”

“Your father made you do that?” T’mar asked, sounding offended.

“I am — was — a Lord Holder’s daughter,” she said. “It was my duty.” T’mar’s expression remained clouded, so Fiona went on, “I asked  to be there.” She forced back a sob. “If — if it were to happen to me, I’d want to know that someone would be with me, too.”

Cisca rose and stood behind her, rubbing her shoulders soothingly. “Queen dragons never make mistakes when it comes to their mates.”

“Obviously!” T’mar and Kentai agreed emphatically. K’lior merely nodded, with a special smile for Cisca.

“Very well, then,” the Weyrleader said after a moment. “I believe that Weyrwoman Fiona has made an excellent suggestion: We shall arrange for someone to be in attendance of our sick dragons and their riders at all times.”

“I’d best return to Tannaz, then,” Fiona said, starting to rise. But Cisca pushed her back into her seat.

“She’ll survive with Melanwy long enough for you to break your fast.”

Before Fiona could draw breath to protest, K’lior added, “You’re no use to anyone half-starved.”

“There’ll be fresh bread in a few minutes,” Ellor called from her place by the ovens. “And some buns, too.”

“There,” Cisca said as though Ellor’s words had closed the subject. “You can’t leave until you’ve tried the buns and some bread.” “I’ll stay if you’ll stay,” Fiona declared to T’mar. The older rider gave Fiona an odd look, then nodded.

“I’ll get us some more klah, ” Kentai said, rising from his chair.

“Sit! Sit!” Ellor shouted. “There’ll be someone along in a moment to do that.” She turned back to her ovens, muttering to herself, “Never let harpers near the food.”

By the time Fiona had finished her breakfast, the cavern had filled with weyrfolk. As dragonriders entered, they usually called out a greeting to the Weyrleader or Weyrwoman, or were greeted by K’lior or Cisca in turn.

“I didn’t know there were so many children,” Fiona said as she spotted a group of nearly thirty children arrive at once from one of the entrances at the far side of the cavern.

“Most of a Weyr is children,” Kentai told her. He gave the dragonriders an apologetic look and rose. “Which reminds me: I’ll need to get started with classes soon, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course,” K’lior said. Cisca nodded and waved to him.

“You’re wondering, why so many children?” T’mar guessed from Fiona’s expression. Fiona nodded.

“The answer’s simple,” Cisca replied with a mischievous grin. K’lior must have kicked her under the table, for the Weyrwoman started and stuck her tongue out at him. She turned to Fiona. “Given that there can be up to five hundred dragonriders in a Weyr, and that each of them is expected to do his — ”

“ — or her,” K’lior interjected.

“ — duty to the Weyr,” Cisca continued with a scowl for her Weyrleader, “you’d expect there to be upward of a thousand youngsters of various ages.”