Dragonheart

Cisca stopped mid-stride, gripping K’lior’s hand and turning toward him. “Don’t you  go getting any ideas!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” K’lior replied innocently.

“You did a good job,” H’nez told Fiona as she checked on his Ginirth late the next morning. “His wing looks like it’s already healing.”

Fiona smiled and shook her head; she’d already heard the same line from S’kan about his Lamorth.

“You, as a wingleader — ”

“Flightleader,” H’nez corrected immediately.

“ — flightleader, then,” Fiona accepted the change without rancor. “You know that Ginirth’s wingtip will need time to recover. You won’t be flying the next Fall.”

Actually, Fiona wondered, why should any of the dragons fly the next Fall? From what she’d heard, the watch-whers were well up to the task.

“You’re right,” H’nez agreed absently. He raised a hand to Ginirth’s eye ridge and scratched where the dragon liked it the most. “I was hoping to convince myself otherwise.”

“You figured that if you could convince me, you’d convince yourself?” Fiona recalled some of the old ones she’d known as a child back at Fort Hold — they’d tried much the same trick with her father and had had no more luck with him than H’nez was having with her. “It’s an old trick, flightleader, and one not only practiced by dragonriders.”

H’nez smiled and shook his head. Then he sobered again, gesturing with his free hand toward Ginirth. “So how long do you think before he’ll be ready to fly again?”

“How long do you think the wound will take to heal?” Fiona asked in return.

“Maybe a sevenday, maybe less,” H’nez told her.

“I’d say he’ll be ready then,” Fiona replied.

H’nez brightened. “Did you hear that, Ginirth? Less than a sevenday!”

“I said maybe  less,” Fiona reminded him.

“Less than a sevenday,” H’nez repeated stubbornly.

Fiona rolled her eyes in exasperation, then returned to her examination. Satisfied, she straightened up and made her way back from Ginirth’s withers, where his wingtip rested, to the bronze dragon’s head, searching in her carisak for a jar of salve.

“Numbweed,” she said, handing it to H’nez, “if he needs it.”

H’nez nodded and pocketed the small jar, still scratching Ginirth’s eye ridge.

With a backward wave, Fiona left him and headed down to the Dining Cavern for lunch, her rounds completed.

T’mar shouted to her as she reached the entrance, so she changed direction toward him.

“The watch dragon reports that the Harper Hall is asking for a dragon,” he told her, “so Zirenth and I are going — did you want to come?”

“Yes, please!” Fiona was anxious to check on Forsk and her father. She searched the cavern, looking to ask Cisca. T’mar noticed and said, “I’ve already asked the Weyrwoman for you.”

“Oh, thank you.”

“We can go after lunch,” T’mar said, gesturing her toward a seat.

Fiona sat and regarded T’mar thoughtfully. “You must still be exhausted from last night.”

Outside, a number of dragon coughs echoed in the Weyr Bowl. T’mar glanced at her expectantly.

“Fifty,” she told him, grimacing. “That’s our best guess.”

“Guess?”

Fiona shrugged. “The ones who are sickest are easy to tell,” she replied. “It’s the ones who are just coming down with the illness that are hard to know about.”

“Maybe they’ll have good news at the Harper Hall,” T’mar said hopefully.

Fiona nodded. They finished the rest of their meal in silence. Afterward, she raced to her quarters to get her flying gear.

“I’m going to the Harper Hall,” she told Xhinna, quickly throwing open her closet.

“You’ll need to put your leggings on,” Xhinna told her. “And boots, scarf, and jacket.”

Fiona was dressed and racing back toward T’mar in less than ten minutes. The wingleader was also dressed in flying gear: wherhide jacket, gloves, and cap.

With a quick word of thanks to Zirenth, Fiona clambered up the bronze’s foreleg to perch on his neck, searching among the flying straps for hooks to secure herself. When T’mar climbed up behind her and saw what she was doing, he laughed. “You don’t need to do that — we’re not fighting Thread!”

“I just want to practice,” Fiona explained. “Besides, didn’t I hear you telling the weyrlings the other day about the dangers of turbulent air?”

T’mar groaned in acknowledgment. “But as long as I’m holding on to you” — and his strong arms braced her from either side — “you’ve nothing to worry about.”

Fiona laughed, then elbowed his arms away, finishing her work of clipping on to the fighting straps. “I do, if you aren’t going to clip in!”

“Very well, Weyrwoman,” T’mar agreed with a sigh. When he was done, he wrapped his arms around her once more, recalling for Fiona memories from when she was a child on a cold day and her father similarly wrapped his arms around her. She leaned back against his chest and closed her eyes, warm with the memory.

The sudden leap into the air and the sound of Zirenth’s great wings propelling them swiftly up and out of the Weyr Bowl did nothing to disturb Fiona’s happiness, and even when they went into the cold nothingness of between,  she felt safe.

The weather over Fort Hold and the adjoining Harper Hall was much as at Fort Weyr — wispy drifts of snow could be seen at the edges of buildings and the base of the cliffs, and the air was crisp, cold, and dry with the harsh winds of winter. The sun was bright and the sky cloudless as they descended to the landing midway between the Harper Hall and Fort Hold . Fiona took a quick breath of the frigid air through the scarf wrapped over her face and let it out just as quickly — it felt as though it still had the cold of between  in it and it hurt her lungs. She took a second, smaller, shorter breath and felt better.

The air on the ground was warmer, and as soon as they dismounted, Fiona and T’mar unbuttoned their wherhide jackets. T’mar waved affectionately as Zirenth leapt up again, seeking out a perch on the cliffs above Fort Hold .

“I don’t know why he bothers,” he said with a chuckle and a shake of his head. “I told him we wouldn’t be long.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t believe you,” Fiona suggested with a grin. “After all, they serve Benden wine.”

“That would be enticement enough for M’kury,” T’mar said, “but I’m made of sterner stuff.”

“Wouldn’t you want some nicely mulled red wine on a crisp day like to day?”

“Klah, ” T’mar corrected tersely. “As you mentioned earlier, I am still exhausted from last night.”

“So why didn’t you send someone else?” Fiona asked. T’mar didn’t answer, merely shaking his head.

They were scarcely under the Harper Hall’s arches when someone shouted and Fiona felt herself lifted off her feet. She had to control her impulse to kick out with her foot when her assailant cried joyfully in her ear, “Fiona! What a delight!”

“Verilan?” Fiona cried, astonished that the Master Archivist would engage in such a display of emotion and exercise.

“Fiona!” Verilan cried again, hugging her tight. Presently he put her back down and pushed her away from him, saying, “Let me look at you!”

Fiona felt herself blushing, both surprised and touched by Verilan’s exuberance, particularly as her strongest memories of him were of numerous scoldings for “playing in the inks — again!”

“You’re taller,” he said, finishing his examination. “You’ve grown — what? — two centimeters?”

“Nearly three,” T’mar put in from behind her. Fiona craned her neck around in surprise — since when did he keep tabs on her? The explanation came quickly enough, as he continued, “I heard Ellor groaning about it just the other day.”

“That’s not quite a record,” Verilan responded. “I believe greatest growth in a three-month period for a girl