“My lord,” V’ney said in the stillness that followed, “I’d like to apologize for any ill will wingleader H’nez might have engendered between your Hold and my Weyr.” He shook his head and continued, “He’s good with his riders and flies well — but he enjoys making trouble with everyone when he’s on the ground.”
“So I had noticed,” Bemin said wryly.
V’ney snorted. “You mean that you couldn’t understand why a dragon would choose to be ridden by an ass?”
Bemin’s lips quirked upward. “I hadn’t put quite
“Then you’re a very tolerant person,” V’ney allowed.
EIGHT
Weyrfolk, keep your duty dear
Provide for dragon and for Weyr.
When the Red Star comes on nigh
By your efforts will dragons fly!
FortWeyr , Afternoon, AL 507.13.25
Xhinna cleared her throat so loudly that Fiona looked up from her position next to J’marin. The blue rider was resting fitfully, having exhausted himself in his ministrations to his ailing blue dragon.
Xhinna’s eyes darted to the entranceway and Fiona followed her gaze. There was a rider standing in the doorway. H’nez. Fiona couldn’t think of a single thing to say to him and merely glanced back down to J’marin.
H’nez crossed the room, his energy intense and compacted like a tunnel snake ready to strike, but he paused as he spotted the bucket full of green mucus and saw the half-cleaned trail near Asoth’s nostrils. The blue dragon gave a rattly breath that startled everyone.
“Asoth!” J’marin exclaimed, raising his head up to look at the dozing blue. Assuring himself that his dragon was no better or worse than before, J’marin glanced around the room. He startled when he caught sight of H’nez and drew himself shakily to his feet.
“Wingleader.”
H’nez waved him back down and crossed the last distance to stand beside his blue rider. J’marin looked at his sleeping dragon.
“I don’t think I could take losing him,” he told H’nez softly.
“What can I do?” H’nez replied. J’marin made ready to reply, then noticed Fiona and Xhinna. H’nez noted his reluctance.
“Weyrwoman,” he said respectfully, including Xhinna with a glance, “you must be very tired yourself. Why don’t you excuse us and I’ll stay with J’marin?”
Xhinna rose instantly to comply, but Fiona was reluctant to leave. Xhinna tugged on her sleeve.
“We’re not wanted,” she told her quietly.
“Speak to Talenth if you need anything,” Fiona said to J’marin. The blue rider nodded. “I will, Weyrwoman, you may count on it.”
“You’ve got your entire wing at hand if you need it,” H’nez assured J’marin as Fiona and Xhinna left.
“I know that,” J’marin replied, “but the Weyrwoman’s been a great comfort.”
The rest of their words were lost to Fiona as she entered the corridor and made her way toward the stairs leading down to the Weyr Bowl.
J’marin’s Asoth was no worse than the other three ailing dragons: M’rorin’s blue Panunth, L’rian’s green Danorth, and, of course, Tannaz’s gold Kelsanth. T’jen’s brown, Salith, was only slightly better off. It seemed to Fiona that Salith’s symptoms were similar to those of the others a sevenday earlier. She didn’t know if other dragons had the illness, but she’d heard enough coughing to believe that there were more infected dragons.
“Melanwy’s up to something,” Fiona muttered to herself as they made their way down the stairs. Behind her, Xhinna pointedly made no comment: Fiona had been over this ground with Xhinna so often that the weyrgirl had no more to say on the subject. “She’s got H’nez involved, now, too.”
“Wingleader H’nez makes his own decisions,” Xhinna reminded her. Fiona snorted in disagreement, in response to which Xhinna continued, “I can see how he might listen to Melanwy, but I do not see how any plans of hers might be to his benefit. And H’nez always works to his own benefit.”
Fiona made no reply. She was certain that Melanwy had, in the guise of consoling the riders of the sickest dragons, concocted some sort of plot. She knew that whenever she entered a room where Melanwy was, the ex- headwoman stopped talking. Even Tannaz now seemed to positively disdain Fiona’s attempts at consoling her.
“Nonsense!” Cisca had declared when Fiona had raised her suspicions with the Weyrwoman. “Tannaz is under a lot of stress and can’t be expected to act normally, under the circumstances.” But she didn’t dismiss Fiona’s concerns completely. “All the same,” she’d added, “if you can keep an eye on Tannaz, Melanwy, and the others, that would help.” She had frowned thoughtfully, then continued, “At least you can provide them comfort.”
Fiona had been making the rounds of the ill dragons and their riders every two days. Talenth was extremely supportive of the effort, often walking out into the Weyr Bowl to croon comfortingly to her ill weyrmates, much to the joy and amazement of all the riders.
Xhinna had remained firmly attached to her side, leaving only long enough to complete any errand Fiona requested of her. If their continued company caused any comment, Fiona did not hear of it. Certainly none of the blue or green riders had any words but kindly ones for Xhinna.
“Just because she’s not right for a queen doesn’t mean she wouldn’t suit a green,” L’rian had assured Fiona the only time the subject had arisen.
“A green?” Fiona had asked. “But greens only have male riders.”
“That’s because no one’s ever thought to put a girl on the Hatching Grounds,” L’rian replied, “ ’cept in front of the queen eggs.” His lips curved up briefly at the notion. “She might even Impress a blue.”
“A blue?” Fiona repeated, surprised.
“The dragons choose,” L’rian had assured her with a knowing look, “not the riders.”
“She’d have to get on the Grounds to have a chance,” Fiona had remarked.
“Seems to me,” L’rian replied with a proper grin this time, “that she’s the sort to
Fiona gave him a questioning look.
“Well,” L’rian replied in a slow drawl, “if she had a queen rider to encourage her, she might take the chance.” He wagged a finger at her. “You bear that in mind, if the time comes.”
“I will, green rider,” Fiona promised.
Fiona could only vaguely imagine the surprised looks of Cisca and K’lior in the unlikely event of Xhinna Impressing a green, but the thought of
“Come on,” she called over her shoulder as they bounded down the stairs. “We can still get something to eat before we have to walk Talenth.”
Talenth was now big enough to eat from the pens by the lakeside, and it had become something of a treat for the gold dragon to walk the two-kilometer distance there and back for her snacks. The first time Fiona had seen her dragon make her kill had been less horrifying and more comical as Talenth had to be practically ordered to dispatch the poor fowl she’d chosen as her first live morsel.
“You’re supposed to chomp it down!” Fiona had shouted in exasperation. “Go on, kill it!” she’d added, startling herself with her own viciousness.
“Remind me never to make you angry,” Cisca had remarked from behind her that day. When Fiona had twirled around, looking entirely too guilty, Cisca had merely chuckled. “They
“Well,” Fiona said after a moment to recover her poise, “I’ve seen the men work in the slaughter pens and
