Dragonheart

his longing.

Kindan couldn’t remember who waved him toward the sleeping quarters or quite how he got himself into bed. The evening had been a raucous celebration at which he had sung much, danced much, and drank much — far more than his usual. He had no idea why he’d drunk so much, nor why he’d worked so hard that evening . . . until he woke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.

The Weyr was silent, but the silence seemed more oppressive than comforting. The sound of his labored breathing came harshly to his ears and he sat up in his cot, glancing around nervously to check if his nightmare had disturbed anyone else to whom he’d have to make a quick apology.

He heard no one.

In the distance a dragonet creeled uneasily. Then silence.

Kindan sighed and swung his legs over the side of the cot.

It wasn’t as if he was the only one who had nightmares of the Plague, but he hadn’t had many in the past several Turns, so he was surprised that he’d had one now. Something about the day before must have reminded him subconsciously, so that he sang so hard and drank so much to keep away the pain. Not that it had worked, obviously.

The Plague that had swept across Pern and then — just as quickly — disappeared, had struck when he had only fourteen Turns, leaving him solely in charge of Fort Hold’s sick when the aged healer had himself succumbed to the disease. So many had died.

So many, including Koriana, Lord Bemin’s daughter and Fiona’s older sister.

“Koriana,” Kindan whispered. The sound of her name brought both joy and pain, like a rose: pretty smell, prickly thorns. He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

I tried,  he thought. But he wondered, as he always wondered: Did I try hard enough?

Resolutely, Kindan lay back in the cot and closed his eyes. Presently, his breathing eased and he relaxed, but he did not sleep. And in that space between sleeping and waking, he heard the sound of a dragon departing between.

Talenth’s creel woke Fiona instantly.

What is it?  she asked, jumping out of her bed and rushing to the young queen’s lair.

He hurts,  Talenth whimpered. Fiona knelt and pulled the young queen’s head into her lap.

I’m sorry,  she thought to her dragon, gently caressing the leathery hide.

He hurts and you feel it,  Talenth said. How is it that you feel it?

Fiona furrowed her brow in surprise. At first she thought that Talenth was referring to her father, but then she forced herself to be honest. She had wheedled and whined her very best to convince her father to bring her to this Hatching, all because she knew that Kindan would be here.

I don’t know,  she confessed. I just do. I’m sorry that it hurts you, too.

Can you help him?

Fiona bent to cradle Talenth’s head with her whole body. I’m not sure,  she said. But deep inside her, Fiona knew that was a lie. As she considered it, she heard a noise — a dragon going between.

We’ve been here long enough, let’s go,  the rider thought to the dragon under her.

As you wish,  the dragon responded. With a great heave of its hind legs, the dragon leapt into the air and went between.

TWO

Skin stretch

Flake, peel.

Oil, scratch,

Feed, creel.

FortWeyr, The Next Day

“I’ll be just fine, Father,” Fiona assured Lord Holder Bemin as he took his leave of her the next morning. “You can send Jokester to check on me — ” Catching herself, she gestured lovingly down to the gold queen beside her. “ — us, whenever you need.”

“It’s just that — ”

“You must get back to the Hold, Father,” Fiona told him firmly. “I’ll be fine —” she paused, raising her hand to stifle a yawn. “ — here.”

“You look exhausted,” Bemin said, glancing to the Weyrleader and Weyrwoman for support.

“A late night and a stressful day,” Fiona assured him, again stifling a yawn. She smiled ruefully down at Talenth. “We’ll be fine.”

Lord Bemin gave his daughter one final, worried look. “I’ll send Jokester to check on you.” The bronze fire- lizard perched on his shoulder made a cheerful noise of agreement.

“T’mar will see you back to your Hold, my Lord,” Weyrwoman Cisca said, gesturing to a sturdy rider and his bronze dragon waiting nearby. She glanced at Fiona, adding, “He’ll be able to guide your fire-lizard back on his return.”

“Thank you,” Fiona said, much relieved. She couldn’t wait to see Fire’s reaction to the larger gold queen.

“Wingleader,” Bemin nodded absently, gesturing for the rider to precede him.

With T’mar’s help, he mounted the great dragon easily enough and had time to look down once more at Fiona and her dragon. Despite another yawn, she waved merrily as the bronze leapt into the air, rose above the Weyr, and winked out between.

For Fiona, the next few sevendays passed in a frenzy of feeding, oiling, scratching, and tending the baby gold dragon whose only activities were eating, sleeping, and complaining.

Her fire-lizard, Fire, after hours in a state of mixed surprise, delight, and jealousy, found herself helping joyfully, often finding the itchiest spots and scratching them with her own claws.

You know,  Fiona had admitted to the dragonet early on, I’m only doing this because it’s you.

And you love me,  Talenth had agreed, turning over so that Fiona could reach another offending itch. With a laugh, Fiona obliged, sweat running down her nose as she scratched the flaking skin and poured more oil on it.

As Talenth grew, the job of scratching and oiling her grew as well, until Fiona began to wonder if she’d ever done anything else. Occasionally she saw others in the Weyr. She knew she ate, but her memories of both food and sleep were truncated and foggy at best.

In fact, “foggy” was a great description of her time so far at the Weyr. She had only a foggy map of the Weyr: She had traveled only once from the Hatching Grounds into the Weyr Bowl and up the short ramp into her Weyrwoman’s quarters, and had made only a few trips to the Kitchen Cavern before before figuring out how to use the Weyr’s amazing conveyor system to order food for her quarters. Fiona could never remember feeling so at odds and disjointed. She envied the weyrbred riders who already knew their way around and had been more prepared for these first weeks with a new weyrling.

“She’s growing well.”