Dragonheart

“What is Threadscore like?”

“We only have the Records to go by,” Cisca said. “According to them, however, the damage from Thread depends upon how long a rider or dragon is exposed to it before they go between  and freeze it off.”

“And if you don’t go between ?”

“Thread eats through flesh and bone very quickly,” Cisca replied, grimacing. “There are Records about some terrible scorings — usually riders getting hit by clumps of Thread.”

“Clumps?”

“Sometimes Thread falls in bunches, sometimes as separate strands,” Cisca told her. She shrugged. “It seems to depend more upon the winds than anything.”

“And when it hits in clumps?”

Cisca gave a long sigh. “A quick dragon or rider can get between  quickly enough to avoid the worst of it,” she said. “A single strand burns a thin line, like a hot poker across the skin.”

“So you’d just treat that like a burn?” Fiona asked. “Numbweed, healing salve, and bandage?”

“Yes,” Cisca agreed, impressed. “But if the score is deeper it must be cleaned carefully and stitched quickly.”

“In a typical Fall, how many dragons are injured?” Fiona asked. “There is no typical Fall,” Cisca replied. “The number varies from a few to several dozen or more.”

Fiona’s eyes grew wide at the thought of so many wounded dragons and riders, but before she could say anything, a deep voice spoke from behind her.

“And that’s why we drill.” It was T’mar, and when Fiona turned to look at him, he smiled reassuringly at her. “So that we can keep those numbers as low as possible.” He nodded to Cisca. “In fact, that’s what brought me here — we’re ready when you are.”

Cisca rose and Fiona followed suit. “We’re ready now.”

Ellor, the new headwoman, saw Cisca rise and motioned for the rest of the assigned weyrfolk to join them. Together they filed outside into the Weyr Bowl, where the sun had risen high enough to burn off the worst of the morning mist and take the chill out of the air.

Kentai, who was already out in the Bowl, made his way toward them. “I think first we should practice with a dozen injured weyrlings,” he suggested.

T’mar gestured to a group of weyrlings near the entrance to the Hatching Grounds. “I’ve already got some positioned.”

Kentai, with Ellor’s help, briskly organized the weyrfolk, while Cisca strode off to a table where he had left slates and writing tools. Following her, Fiona glanced up to her weyr for any sign of Talenth. She was surprised to see her dragon stick her head out, probably wondering what all the noise was about.

We’re drilling on first aid,  Fiona told her.

Great,  Talenth replied cheerfully. Can I help?  Then a moment later, she added, What’s  “first aid ”?

When dragons or people get injured,  Fiona replied, reminded once again that her dragon was still only a baby. Usually during Threadfall.  She went into a fuller explanation as she watched Cisca busily writing on several tablets.

Oh,  Talenth replied, seeming uneasy at the thought. She strode further out onto her ledge and peered over at all the weyrlings. What are they doing?

They’re going to pretend to be injured,  Fiona replied.

Oh, me too! I want to pretend, too!  Talenth responded immediately and so emphatically that Fiona turned to look back up at her. Eyes whirling anxiously, Talenth rushed toward the edge of the ledge and must have misjudged her speed, for she went straight off. Her face took on the most startled expression and Fiona screamed “Talenth!” — just before the weyrling spread her wings and glided easily down to the ground.

Did you see that?  Talenth exclaimed excitedly. I flew!

“Well, you’d better stop flying unless you want to get injured for real!” Fiona yelled at her, her voice carrying clearly above the sudden silence that engulfed the Weyr Bowl as all the weyrfolk and weyrlings watched Talenth’s excited first glide.

“You scared me right out of my skin,” Fiona declared, surprised to hear those words coming out of her mouth: It was what Neesa had always said whenever Fiona had tried something new and dangerous.

I’m sorry.  Talenth eyed her critically, tilting her head from one side to the other. Your skin looks fine from here.

Fiona laughed, striding over to Talenth and grabbing the dragon’s head in her hands. “I meant that you scared me; I was worried that you might get hurt.”

Talenth nudged her, nearly forcing Fiona off her feet.

That was fun,  the young queen said. Can I do it again?

“Only if you’re careful,” Fiona said. “You looked so frightened, it seemed like you’d never remember you had wings!”

I was surprised,  Talenth agreed. She raised her wings and turned her head to look at them. I haven’t used them much.

Everything about you is new,  Fiona replied with a huge grin on her face.

“Why don’t you have her join the other hatchlings?” Cisca suggested, having arrived unnoticed behind Fiona.

“Or she’ll probably distract everyone with her antics?” Fiona asked, silently relaying the request to Talenth, who looked up eagerly, head swiveling to find a likely spot.

“Yes,” Cisca agreed with a laugh. “I remember when Melirth first did that trick — I’d thought that it was some peculiar trait of hers alone.”

“To scare you out of your skin?” Fiona wondered.

“All dragons can do that,” T’mar added from behind them, his gaze settled affectionately on Talenth. “She looks sound.”

“When she isn’t trying to break her neck,” Fiona responded.

“Dragons are sturdier than you’d think,” he corrected her. “They look fragile, but really, they’re rather tough.”

“Well, I’d prefer this one to keep herself in one piece as long as possible,” Fiona replied and then, as her flip words registered, her spirits sank. She remembered Tajen — and Tannaz, J’marin, L’rian, and M’rorin.

“Talenth, over there by Ladirth, if you would,” T’mar said aloud to the queen. Talenth looked over at the hatchlings, gave a chirp of recognition as a bronze arched his head up and back to look at her, and happily stalked off to join the others.

The youngsters — riders and dragons both — followed Talenth’s progress with eager eyes, as they hadn’t seen much of her at all until then. Once she’d arrived on station — and was prompted to remain there by a silent warning from Fiona — the collection of dragons and people returned to their drill.

“First, we’re going to go from station to station and brief all the weyrfolk on first aid, bandages, numbweed, sutures, needles, and the other equipment,” Cisca said to Fiona and Kentai. “Once we’re done with that, we’ll do a quick practice of some injuries, and then we’ll take lunch and be ready for the proper drill.”

They got everyone sorted out, and then Cisca showed each dragonrider one of the half-dozen slates she’d written on. When they got to the young bronze dragon and his rider, Fiona was surprised: F’jian needed Cisca to repeat her instructions no less than three times, finally being told, “If you still can’t remember, ask Fiona.”

F’jian had an open and friendly face, and Fiona could see that his poor memory troubled him, too.

“Another one of you muddleheads,” Cisca remarked to Fiona as they moved off. The Weyrwoman regarded Fiona curiously for a moment, then added, “Although if this is you when you’re not at your best . . .”

“I don’t know,” Fiona replied. “I think I have good days and bad days.”

“We all  do,” Cisca said. “But compared to some of the weyrlings, you don’t seem