Dragonheart

“I held on!” Fiona declared, holding up her aching arm as proof. “Of course you did,” Cisca replied proudly. “You’re a Weyrwoman.” She glanced to K’lior. “We’ve never questioned that.”

“But,” K’lior persisted, “if it had come to letting her go or falling with her — ”

“I would have let her go!” Fiona cried, dropping her head into her hands and shaking it in shame and sorrow. “I would have let her go.”

Strong arms wrapped around her and she was pulled tight against Cisca’s tall body. “Of course you would,” Cisca agreed with her, “because that’s what you would have had to do to protect Pern. You would have hated yourself for it, probably never have forgiven yourself, but you would have done it.” Cisca pushed her away and put a finger under Fiona’s chin, gently raising it so she could see the girl’s eyes. “And that’s what makes a great Weyrwoman: doing what has to be done even when she hates it.”

“That’s why you let Tannaz go,” Fiona said with sudden understanding.

“Yes,” Cisca replied, the words torn out of her, and again she crushed Fiona in a tight embrace, the sort of embrace a mother gives her daughter; the sort of embrace Fiona had always longed for. A short moment later, however, Fiona pushed herself away and glanced toward K’lior. “And that’s why you called me in here.”

The Weyrleader nodded, a corner of his lips turned up in a bitter smile. “Better to know your mettle now than when we are in worse straits.”

Fiona nodded. She stood as tall as she could and said to K’lior, “Weyrleader, I apologize for my outburst at Wingleader T’mar. I was distressed and took my temper out on him. I regret it.”

“Perhaps not all that  much,” Cisca said, eyes dancing. “I know that it’s sometimes tempting to see bronze riders cringe at the lash of a harsh tongue.”

“Cisca!” K’lior said reprovingly. “Not everyone has your evil sense of humor.”

Cisca shook her head, catching Fiona’s eyes. “Remember Melanwy?” Fiona nodded glumly, remembering how she’d influenced Melanwy’s actions. “As Weyrwomen, we have incredible power. The best way to guard against abusing it is to be honest and listen to our fellow Weyrwomen.”

“So if I think you are being unfair, I should tell you?” Fiona replied.

“Of course,” Cisca agreed forcefully. Then she smiled. “I reserve the right to ignore you, of course.”

“In which case,” K’lior said with an evil grin at his Weyrwoman, “come to me and I’ll handle her!”

Cisca snorted derisively. “And Melirth will deal with you !”

“But of course,” K’lior agreed.

“Seriously,” Cisca said, turning again to Fiona, “it is often hard for a young Weyrwoman to accept the realities of her position.”

“To let healers die that I might live,” Fiona said by way of example.

“If that is what is needed to protect your queen and the future of Pern,” Cisca responded emphatically.

“It just doesn’t seem fair,” Fiona said softly.

“It isn’t fair,” Cisca agreed. “It’s up to us — Weyrwomen and Weyrleaders — to make it as fair as we can.”

“And when we can’t,” K’lior added, “it’s our responsibility to make certain that no sacrifice is in vain.”

Fiona nodded; K’lior’s words sounded like something her father would say in similar circumstances.

“So,” Cisca said, “are we ready to greet our new healer?”

“I think we are,” K’lior said, heading toward the doorway.

“I expect you to deal with T’mar on your own,” Cisca murmured in Fiona’s ear as they made their way back in to the Weyr Bowl.

The reason Fiona gave Cisca and K’lior for insisting on showing Tintoval around the Weyr was to make up for her previous behavior, and she was glad that they didn’t question her, particularly as they exchanged dubious looks that made it clear to her that they guessed her other reason — to avoid T’mar as long as possible.

“There are at least fifty dragons with the illness,” Fiona said as Tintoval startled at the coughs echoing around the Weyr Bowl.

“My training is with people,” Tintoval remarked worriedly.

“With Thread injuries such training works for both dragons and riders,” Fiona assured her.

“And the sickness?”

Fiona made a face. “Maybe you can help.”

Tintoval shook her head. “I think our best hope is still at Benden.”

“Maybe,” Fiona agreed, “but that doesn’t mean we should stop trying.”

“No,” the healer agreed wholeheartedly. She paused as Fiona turned toward a stairway. “Are we going to visit the sick dragons now?”

“Not all of them,” Fiona told her. “I doubt we’ll get to see more than ten before dinner.”

“Dinner doesn’t matter to me if that’ll help,” Tintoval offered.

“If only it were that easy,” Fiona replied, shaking her head. “But my father always says that ‘hungry stomachs make dull minds.’ ”

“Does he?” Tintoval replied. “I thought that came from Master Zist.”

Fiona stepped out of the stairwell and turned right, heading toward the third weyr.

“S’ban’s blue Serth started coughing about a fortnight back,” she murmured to the healer as they slowed at the entrance. She shook her head sadly, raised a warning hand to Tintoval, then called out, “S’ban, it’s Fiona with the new healer!”

“A new healer,” the voice inside began hopefully. “Does he — ”

He broke off as they entered. S’ban was dressed elegantly in wherhide breeches and a thick blue sweater accented with a gold chain around his neck. For a moment his face showed his surprise at Tintoval, and then it darkened.

“I’m not sure that Serth will tolerate a woman’s touch,” he warned them. When Fiona opened her mouth to argue, the blue rider amended quickly, “I mean, a woman who is not a queen rider.”

“S’ban, this is Tintoval,” Fiona said by way of introduction. “She’s just been posted master and assigned here.” The blue rider looked, if anything, even more disturbed at the news.

“I grew up at Benden,” Tintoval added, moving deftly around S’ban toward his dragon’s lair. When she spotted Serth curled up miserably with his head just barely free of a thick puddle of mucus, she called, “Why, aren’t you the biggest blue I’ve ever seen!” Over her shoulder to S’ban she remarked, “My father’s dragon was a blue — Talerinth.”

“I met him!” S’ban exclaimed brightly. “T’val was his rider. We competed at the Games before — ”

“Yes,” Tintoval said shortly. “Talerinth was burned by a firestone explosion and they went between. ” She grimaced at the memory, adding, “I had six Turns at the time. I was named Tintoval because father convinced my mother that I was going to be a boy — you know how mad blue riders are for sons!”

“We like daughters, too,” S’ban replied consolingly, moving up to her and looking at her sideways as he continued, “Is that why you chose to be a healer?”

Tintoval nodded faintly, confessing, “I didn’t know at the time that healers can’t mend broken hearts.”

S’ban reached for her hand and patted it awkwardly. “I’m sure if anyone could, it would be you.”

Tintoval smiled at him and, shaking her head to dismiss the issue, turned back to the ailing blue. “Serth, do you mind if I look at you? I can’t promise to help, but I’ll do my best not to hurt.”

She strode forward to the listless blue’s head and forced herself to ignore the poorly stifled sob of his rider.

Seeing that the healer was able to handle herself, Fiona quietly made her way past S’ban, found the bucket and mop she’d brought on an earlier visit, and quietly went to work cleaning up the green ooze near Serth’s head.

“You don’t have to do that,” S’ban protested when he saw her. “I’ll do it later.”

“I want to help,” Fiona told him, continuing undeterred. She gave him a lopsided smile. “Weyrwoman’s right.”

Tintoval glanced up at her with a surprised look, then returned to her examination of the blue dragon.

“His breathing is labored,” she noted. She glanced at his flanks. “And irregular.”

“We tried some mint salve to ease the breathing,” Fiona told her.

“And?”