Dragonheart

nearly as dazed as you did.”

Fiona pondered that for a moment. “Maybe that’s because I haven’t been asked to do much more than I did back at Fort Hold .”

Cisca looked thoughtful. “That could  be it; I hadn’t realized how much was expected of you there.”

“If I wanted to be around my father, I was expected to behave,” Fiona said with a shrug. “And because I wanted to be around my father very often, I learned quickly to behave very well.”

“Hmm,” Cisca murmured. “Well, I can’t say I’m not glad of it, considering the times we’re in, but I wish that you might have had longer to be a child.”

“No one who survived the Plague could remain a child,” Fiona told her, shaking her head.

Cisca turned back to survey the group of young dragonriders arrayed before them. “I hope the same is not true for this lot,” she sighed. Then, with a characteristic headshake, she put the moment aside and turned back to the business at hand, waving to Ellor and calling out, “They’re ready!”

What followed was more amusing than instructive: Many of the riders could only poorly explain their or their dragon’s symptoms, most of the young weyrfolk were confused and disorganized, and the older ones weren’t much better.

“This was to be expected,” Cisca murmured for Fiona’s ears alone. “Don’t act alarmed, or they’ll feel bad.”

Fiona nodded; her father had said something similar to her when they’d held a fire drill not a Turn before.

Then Cisca said something that shocked Fiona: “Remember that you  may be conducting this drill next time.”

“I don’t think I could manage if anything happened to you,” Fiona protested. The loss of Tannaz was still too fresh in her mind.

“I don’t plan on it,” Cisca told her firmly, adding with a grimace, “but it’s my duty as a Weyrwoman to be prepared for the worst.” After a pause, she said, “And your duty, too.”

A cold shiver went down Fiona’s spine as she imagined seeing Cisca mounting a sick and dying Melirth for a final ride between.

Suddenly Cisca grabbed Fiona’s arm and yanked her around so that she could meet her eyes squarely. “That  is exactly what I need you to avoid,” the Weyrwoman said sharply. In the distance, Fiona heard Talenth’s plaintive cry, and she could almost feel the alarm spreading through the weyrfolk and weyrlings. “They look to us, Fiona. We  set the tone. Our dragons reflect it.”

A shadow fell beside her and Fiona felt her free hand grasped by someone else. Xhinna.

“It’s all right.” Fiona’s words of reassurance echoed exactly Xhinna’s words of reassurance. The two girls looked at each other in surprise for a moment and then burst out laughing. Fiona could feel their mood travel to the others, could feel Talenth’s worry disappear.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Xhinna apologized.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Cisca told her. “You can stand with Talenth and keep her company.”

“Get her to tell you about her first flight,” Fiona suggested, still grinning.

“You know she talks to me sometimes?” Xhinna asked, clearly worried, turning from Fiona to Talenth and back again.

“Really?” Cisca responded in surprise. “How often?”

Xhinna shrugged. “Not that often.”

“I ask her to,” Fiona said, waving it away. But Xhinna’s eyes still looked worried.

“Sometimes when you don’t ask her to,” Xhinna added quietly, casting her eyes down to the ground.

“Xhinna,” Fiona replied slowly, firmly, “if Talenth wants to talk with you, then I’m glad.”

Xhinna looked up, her eyes lighting in hope and surprise. “You are?”

“You are my friend,” Fiona declared stoutly. “I’m glad that she likes you, too.” Deep in her thoughts, she wondered again why Talenth only sometimes referred to Xhinna by name, but she knew it wasn’t because her dragon loved Xhinna more than Fiona. It was something else . . . but Fiona couldn’t imagine what it might be.

“Well, this is great,” Cisca declared. “But, Xhinna, we’re working on medical drills this morning.”

“I heard,” Xhinna said quickly, ducking her head again. “I’m sorry, Weyrwoman but — ”

“No, don’t apologize.” Cisca held a hand up to halt her. “I was just going to ask if you’d be Talenth’s partner while Fiona and I follow the drill.”

“You don’t mind?” Xhinna asked Fiona.

“Of course not.”

“Very well,” Cisca called at the end of the second drill. “That went better than the first time.” Rueful looks greeted that declaration. It had  gone better than the first time, but only just.

“We’ll take our lunch break now,” Cisca told the gathered weyrfolk and weyrlings. “Then, before we work with the fighting wings, we’ll do one last drill — only this time, the weyrlings will be our aidsmen and the weyrgirls will be the victims.”

A snort of surprise erupted from the collected group while the older women chuckled appreciatively.

The drill after lunch was the best of the three.

“Right,” Cisca called across the field as they finished the drill. “Weyrlings, send your dragons back to their lairs because I think — ” and the air grew dark with the wings of the much larger fighting dragons “ — that we might have more injured to deal with.”

T’mar’s wing arrived in good formation, except for his own dragon, who dropped precipitously in front of Fiona, causing her and many of the other girls to gasp in fright until Zirenth caught the air at the last moment and managed to land, with one wing precariously folded, as though grievously injured.

“Go! Help them!” Cisca’s bellow echoed throughout the Weyr. Fiona and Xhinna rushed to T’mar and his bronze. Just as they neared, T’mar rolled dramatically off his perch and fell to the ground.

“Catch him!” Xhinna shrieked. Fiona caught him just in time and crumpled painfully under his weight. When she managed to get out from underneath him, she saw that his face was covered in a hideous red.

“He’s been Threadscored.” Cisca’s voice reached her ears. “Quick, what are you going to do?”

Fiona wrenched her distraction over his face aside as she reached into her training; more into what she’d learned at Fort Hold over several Turns than what she’d learned today at the Weyr.

“Is he breathing?” she asked herself aloud, leaning forward to cup her ear over his mouth while simultaneously pressing his neck with two fingers to feel for a pulse. “Yes, he’s breathing,” she called aloud as she’d been trained.

“What’s your assessment?” Cisca demanded.

“Threadscore of the face, possible involvement of the eyes,” Fiona said, suddenly realizing that she’d pressed her ear against his “wounds” and berating herself silently for the error.

“What about the dragon?” Cisca asked sharply. Fiona looked up, aghast that she had forgotten to examine Zirenth. She was furious with herself for her mistakes — it wasn’t like her to be so unclearheaded.

“The right mainsail is shredded,” Xhinna called from the far side. “He’ll need stitching.”

“Assess!” Cisca bellowed at Fiona. All around her the shouting and quick movements were repeated as older weyrfolk demanded diagnoses and assessments from the young weyrlings and weyrfolk.

“T’mar’s wounds are superficial — numbweed and fellis for the moment, first aid later,” Fiona said, rising to her feet while being careful not to jar T’mar’s head as she lowered it to the ground. “Numbweed and sutures for Zirenth’s wing.”

“Do it!” Cisca shouted right next to Fiona. Fiona was momentarily startled by her intensity until she realized that it was part of the process of the drill: The Weyrwoman was shouting in order to create the stress that would be present in a real emergency. Fiona scampered around to the far side of Zirenth and found Xhinna.

“Have we got the sutures?” she asked, examining the “wound,” which was really an old torn sheet.

“Here,” Xhinna said, lifting up a large needle and a spool of suture material.

“You do it!” Cisca shouted to Fiona. “Now!”

Fiona took two tries to get the suture material through the eye of the needle, all the while being berated by Cisca, and then carefully she began the process of joining the two torn halves of the “wound” together. She became totally absorbed in the task, imagining how much harder it would be to work up to the wing, worrying about any