Dragonheart

good-bye to her father and Kelsa, making sure to hug each of them an equal number of times and assuring Kelsa once again, “I am so  glad you’re doing this!”

T’mar insisted upon putting Tintoval up front, with Fiona squashed between them.

“We don’t have enough straps,” Fiona remarked as she buckled herself on.

“You didn’t really need them on the way here,” T’mar replied, airily waving a hand, “and you don’t need them now.”

Fiona ignored him. Secretly she latched a hand onto the bottom of Tintoval’s jacket and wrapped her other arm under and around the straps in front of her, assuring a secure grip.

Even so, she lurched slightly as Zirenth leapt into the air, and then they went once more between  and back to Fort Weyr .

Back over the Star Stones at Fort Weyr , Zirenth gave a grunt of surprise and dropped precipitously as they flew into a pocket of lighter air. Tintoval flew up out of her perch, and it was only Fiona’s tight grip that kept her from falling off. But the effort strained the arm clutching the healer and sharply wrenched the one wrapped in the fighting straps. Fiona groaned in pain. T’mar grabbed her the moment he felt the lurch, but without being anchored to the fighting straps, he could only use one arm himself.

On the ground, T’mar had no sympathy for Fiona’s groans. “You shouldn’t have done that! Tintoval was safe enough.”

“Only because I held on to her!”

“You could have fallen, too!” T’mar retorted.

“So you admit she was in danger!”

“We can’t afford to lose you,” T’mar replied, his tone pained.

“And we can afford to lose a healer?” Fiona demanded, her fury in full flight.

“Better than a queen rider,” Tintoval interjected. “We hardly had enough queens, and with the losses at Benden and here — ”

“So this is all about my queen?” Fiona demanded. “All that matters is her?”

“Yes,” T’mar told her, his voice going steely cold. “We’ve only the two, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“And we’ve only the one  healer,” Fiona retorted, jerking her thumb at Tintoval.

T’mar gathered breath for a response, but a bellow from Melirth put a halt to all conversation. They turned to see Cisca storming toward them, her eyes flashing dangerously.

Fiona felt herself cringing, overwhelmed by the barely controlled power emanating from the Weyrwoman.

“Come with me,” Cisca ordered Fiona and turned away once more, certain of obedience.

For a moment Fiona thought to stand her ground, but then —

What’s wrong?  Talenth demanded anxiously.

Nothing,  Fiona lied. I was just scared.

Talenth emerged from her lair, eyes whirling red, finding Fiona and crooning at her anxiously.

It’s all right,  Fiona assured her, projecting warmth and love toward the young queen. I’m getting over it.

Cisca, walking quickly, led her into the Council Room. K’lior was already there, seated, and looking grave.

The instant the two looked at her, Fiona, feeling that her safety lay in taking the offensive, declared, “T’mar wasn’t worried about the new healer!”

“That won’t work,” K’lior told her, his tone steady but firm.

Fiona glared at him for a moment more, then dropped her eyes guiltily.

“What did you hope to accomplish back there?” the Weyrleader demanded, waving a hand back toward the Weyr Bowl.

“Well — I — ” Fiona spluttered.

“You didn’t think,” Cisca told her. “It’s not uncommon at your age — ”

“At my age!”

“Yes, at your age,” Cisca repeated. “News of your behavior will be heard by everyone soon enough.”

“But T’mar was — ”

“ — wrong,” K’lior finished for her. “He should have used the straps.”

“He said he didn’t have any,” Fiona protested.

“He could have borrowed some from the Harper Hall,” K’lior replied. “Master Zist is used to dealing with dragonriders and is smart enough to keep some on hand.”

“As, no doubt, does your father,” Cisca added.

“Then you agree — ”

“I do not agree with your public humiliation of a wingleader,” K’lior interjected harshly. “T’mar’s a good man; he would have learned his lesson without your childish outburst.”

“Childish!”

“Childish,” Cisca agreed, but her tone was softer than K’lior’s and she shot the Weyrleader a look that Fiona couldn’t fathom. K’lior shrugged in response, leaving Cisca to continue, “An adult would have realized that T’mar would punish himself harshly for his error and — ”

“ — an adult would accept the realities of being a queen rider,” K’lior finished.

“And let someone else die?” Fiona demanded in anguish and fury, her eyes filling with tears.

“If need be,” Cisca answered softly. She gestured to herself and Fiona. “Without us, there would be no queens. And without the queens, there will be no Pern.”

“So our queens are nothing but brood mothers?” Fiona demanded sourly. “And you and I are — ” She found she couldn’t finish the sentence and so said instead, “But what about Tannaz? Why did you let her go between ?”

“It wasn’t my choice,” Cisca told her. She shook her head sadly. “You know that it wasn’t really Tannaz’s choice, either. Kelsanth was dying; there was no cure.”

“There’s no cure now,” Fiona reminded them grimly. But she remembered the words she’d heard: It will be all right.  The words had been spoken with such faith that she couldn’t set them aside. “We can’t give up,” K’lior told her firmly.

“Why not?” Fiona demanded petulantly. “Tannaz did. There’s still  no cure.”

“We can’t give up because we are dragonriders,” K’lior told her.

“Did your father give up during the Plague?” Cisca demanded.

“Yes, he did,” Fiona replied, her voice a near whisper. “After my mother and my brothers all died, he kept hope, but when Koriana . . .” She trailed off, remembering her father telling her about the Plague, about how Kindan had refused to give up even when Lord Holder Bemin himself had surrendered to despair.

It will be all right.  Was it Kindan who had spoken to her? No, the voice had sounded different. But the words had Kindan’s faith, his surety, his steadfast refusal to admit despair . . .

“Kindan didn’t, though,” Fiona said out loud, raising her head and glancing first to Cisca and then to K’lior. “He never gave up.”

“Nor will I,” K’lior vowed.

“Nor I,” Cisca said. She lifted her chin up challengingly to Fiona. “So, Weyrwoman, daughter of a Lord Holder, Plague survivor, who will you follow: your father in his despair, or Kindan?”

Stung by the question, Fiona loyally declared, “My father vowed never again to give in to despair.” She met Cisca’s brown eyes. “He has never failed his Hold.”

“And you, Weyrwoman? What of your Weyr?” K’lior asked softly.

Before Fiona could answer, Cisca raised a hand and cautioned her, “Since Impression, you’ve been a Weyrwoman — that is unquestionable. The question is: What sort of Weyrwoman will you be? Will you be a leader and an inspiration, or will you be a whiner and an embarrassment? Will you bear your responsibilities, or bow under them?”

“But — to let her fall!” Fiona wailed. A torrent of emotions broke over her and she began to cry.

Realization dawned on K’lior’s face. “You aren’t angry at T’mar — you’re angry because you would have let her go!”