Dragonheart

“A thousand?” Fiona repeated, mulling the number over. She knew that Fort Hold proper had at least six thousand, and her father had told her that before the Plague there had been ten thousand, but she’d never really thought about how many of those would be children.

“We’ve fewer here now. I doubt we’ve got more than seven hundred,” K’lior said thoughtfully.

“What happens to them all?” Fiona asked. “Where are they now?”

“Some are taking lessons,” Cisca said, gesturing in the direction Kentai had taken. “Some are helping with the weyr.”

“And some are doubtless getting into trouble,” K’lior added with a grin.

“Doubtless,” Cisca agreed. “And several are probably at this very moment on the Hatching Grounds, looking around and dreaming.”

“I doubt it,” K’lior declared. “I suspect it’s a bit too early for that.”

“What do they do when they grow up?” Fiona wondered.

“Some become dragonriders,” K’lior said. “Some stay on and work at the Weyr; some become weyrmates.”

“Most  weyrmates work at the Weyr,” Cisca corrected him.

“Some learn a craft and become apprenticed,” K’lior went on.

“We’ve three in the Harper Hall at this moment,” Cisca pointed out proudly.

“And two at the Smithcrafthall,” K’lior reminded her.

“For which we are most grateful,” Cisca agreed emphatically.

“Why?”

K’lior snorted. “Let us say, simply, that it is not as easy as one should like to get a tithe from the Smithcrafthall.”

“D’gan,” Cisca snarled. “The man’s a cretin.”

“Weyrleader D’gan?” Fiona asked. The Smithcrafthall was located near Telgar, and so came under Telgar Weyr’s protection.

“He makes the rest of you look good,” Cisca said to K’lior impishly.

K’lior shook his head and turned back to Fiona. “Some of them Impress or go to other Weyrs,” he said, continuing the original thread of their conversation.

“And some go to holds,” Cisca added.

“I can’t think of any who came to Fort,” Fiona said.

“You probably wouldn’t,” Cisca agreed. “They usually come as pairs or groups and prefer to stake out new lands. You wouldn’t see many of them at the Hold proper.”

“We’re an independent lot, weyrfolk,” K’lior agreed.

“But you’ll never find weyrfolk unwilling to help,” Cisca added, “if you ask for it.”

“I think I should check on Tannaz now,” Fiona said, feeling a bit out of sorts — the Weyrleaders were going on about how great weyrfolk were, and while she  knew that holderfolk were every bit as kind and good, she didn’t think it would be wise to point that out. Besides, no one had offered to help her  since she’d been in the Weyr; she’d done all the helping.

As she rose from her chair, the bronze dragonrider she recognized as H’nez approached their table, saying, “More dragons coughing this morning, aren’t there?”

Fiona was glad to leave; she liked him even less for that comment than she had before. As if K’lior wasn’t doing everything he could!

Her anger stayed with her as she crossed the Weyr Bowl. The morning fog was all but gone, leaving only thin wisps of mist at the edges of the Bowl. Wishing for some way to vent her pique, Fiona kicked a stone out of her way. A moment later she found another, then another. What began as a way to relieve anger became a game and she proceeded to kick from one stone to the other until she realized that she was wasting her time and avoiding the task at hand. With an angry huff at herself, Fiona took her bearings and started toward her weyr.

She was halfway up the ramp to her ledge, wondering what she was going to say to Tannaz, wondering whether Melanwy would still be with her, when she heard a noise from her weyr and looked up.

There was a figure standing in the archway, looking startled. For a moment, Fiona felt a rush of thoughts race over each other: Was it Kentai? Had someone heard Talenth coughing? Or . . .

The figure dropped its head in shame and started down the ramp toward her. It was a dark-haired girl who looked vaguely familiar, though Fiona couldn’t recall having met her.

“I — I was just tending the glows,” the girl mumbled as she reached Fiona.

Fiona’s anger came back then, redoubled. She lashed out her hand and grabbed the girl’s wrist. “No, you weren’t!”

The girl’s eyes flashed briefly, then she lowered them again and just stood there, trying to free her trapped hand with the other.

“What’s your name?” Fiona demanded.

The girl stopped her struggling. At Fiona’s commanding look, she swallowed and said, “Xhinna.”

Still holding the girl’s wrist, Fiona turned back to her weyr. “Come on.”

“I’ve got chores to do,” Xhinna protested. “I’ll get in trouble.”

“You’re in trouble now,” Fiona told her. “More won’t matter.” She paused to look back at the girl she was pulling along. “You wanted to get a look, didn’t you?”

Xhinna tried out a look of incomprehension, but then gave it up; her face settled into a scowl as she murmured, “She should have been mine.”

Talenth?  Fiona called. Are you okay?  She felt only the young dragon’s sleeping mind. Aloud she said, “The dragon chooses the rider — you know that.”

As they entered Talenth’s weyr, Fiona cast a quick around the large chamber. The glows were still dim, left over from the night before, but she had expected that. Nothing had been disturbed.

“Have a good look at her,” she instructed the dark-haired girl. “But don’t wake her. She’s still asleep and she’ll want oiling the moment she’s up.”

“She’s big,” Xhinna said in awe as she sidled around the weyr toward the entrance to Fiona’s sleeping quarters. Fiona saw Xhinna’s darting glance into the other room, saw the look of longing in her eyes.

Recognition suddenly dawned. “You were the candidate who chased after her,” Fiona exclaimed.

Xhinna’s face darkened in shame. “I was afraid she was going to get away,” she confessed miserably. “And it would have been my fault.”

“Your fault?” Fiona thought that was going too far.

“I shouldn’t have been there,” Xhinna said, grimacing. “I wasn’t Searched.”

“Nor was I,” Fiona remarked, not seeing any harm in that.

Xhinna swallowed hard and raised her eyes to meet Fiona’s as she admitted, “I stole the robe from the laundry and snuck in with the others.” Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “Melanwy said I shouldn’t have been there, that I might have ruined everything.”

“Shh!” Fiona hissed, bringing a finger to her lips. “Melanwy’s next door with Tannaz and Kalsenth.”

Xhinna’s eyes widened in fright and she mouthed a wordless, “Oh!”

“I thought,” Fiona began softly after a long moment in which they both stood still, listening guiltily for any sounds that they might have been heard by Melanwy or Tannaz, “that all weyrfolk were allowed to be candidates at a Hatching.”

“I’m not weyrfolk,” Xhinna murmured in reply. Fiona gave her a surprised look, so Xhinna explained quickly, still in a furtive voice, “They found me all alone in the wild when I was just a baby.”

“But you’re younger than me,” Fiona said in confusion. “It couldn’t have been the Plague.”

Xhinna shrugged. “No one knows. Perhaps my parents or my mother only just survived; perhaps something else happened, not the Plague.”

“But you were raised here,” Fiona protested.

“Not to hear the others tell,” Xhinna said. “The boys tease me, the girls shun me, and Melanwy . . .”

Fiona urged her to continue.

“Melanwy wants to send me away,” Xhinna said so quietly that Fiona had to lean forward to catch her words.

“But she’s not the Weyrwoman!” Fiona protested.