Dragonheart

T’mar shrugged, shaking his head.

“Well, then we’re going to get hungry.”

“T’mar,” a rider called from the distance, “should we post a watch dragon?”

“Of course! But not you, P’der, you need to rest,” T’mar replied.

“I can rest as easily up there,” P’der said.

“No, you cannot!” Fiona shouted at him. “You are going to get well and that means you are going to rest or Cisca and K’lior will have my head!”

“Fiona?” P’der called, squinting to better see her. “What are you doing here?”

“Keeping you from doing something stupid,” Fiona returned tartly. She searched around for one of the weyrlings and beckoned him over. “P’der here is recovering from serious injuries to his neck and back,” she told him. “He’s to rest, lying on his stomach.” She frowned, thinking about how to treat the stubborn scores that had nearly flayed the man. “If he has to sit up, he’s to sit with his chair reversed.” The weyrling looked from her to P’der, Klior’s wingsecond, to T’mar, then back to Fiona, and she gave him an irritated growl. “Once he’s settled, see Terin and find some numbweed. If there’s only reeds, then set a pot to boil — we’ll need a lot of it.”

The weyrling blanched at the thought of making numbweed, a smelly, difficult job that all weyrfolk avoided if at all possible.

“We’re just here to get older, D’lanor,” she told him with a reassuring smile. “These injured riders are here to get well. So it’s our duty to look after them, eh?”

D’lanor replied with a hesitant smile of his own.

“P’der,” Fiona said, cocking her head in the direction of the Living Cavern.

“Yes, Weyrwoman,” P’der replied, and turned to follow the weyrling.

“So, Weyrwoman,” T’mar said, stressing the title and smiling as he said it, “who should we set on watch?”

“That, wingleader, would be up to you, wouldn’t it?” Fiona retorted. And, before he could respond, she turned briskly on her heel and headed over to the weyrling barracks.

An hour later, Fiona sat exhausted by a smoky hearth, taking her turn stirring a smelly pot full of numbweed grass. The air not only was full of the noxious fumes that made her eyes water and her nose run but was also stiflingly hot. Fiona resolved to herself that in future she would boil numbweed only in the cold of the night.

A noise behind her caused her to turn her head and she saw Terin approaching.

“The weyrling barracks are all clean,” the younger girl reported. “The crew cleaning the Hatching Grounds will be done in another hour or so. I set a group to clearing out your quarters.”

“My quarters?” Fiona repeated in surprise. Then her brow furrowed. “How did you manage to get them to obey you?”

“You’re the senior Weyrwoman,” Terin replied with no hint of duplicity. “I just made it clear to them that it’s what you needed.” She smiled as she added, “You know how it is with weyrlings; the boys practically fell over themselves to help.”

“And, after all those firestone drills, they’re used to following your orders,” Fiona guessed.

“It’s not like there are any other weyrfolk around,” Terin agreed. “Shards, you and I are the only two women here!”

Fiona coughed and gestured to the exit into the Bowl. “We need to get out of here.”

“I’ll have J’keran get someone to take over,” T’mar called from the entrance. He gave Fiona a sheepish look as she neared the entrance. “I’m sure that there has to be some weyrling who’s earned it.”

“Don’t you dare!” Fiona cried, eyes widening angrily.

T’mar took a half-step back, his confusion evident.

“This numbweed is for everyone,” Fiona told him. “Everyone  works on it. I will not have people taking it as a punishment. What sort of numbweed do you think you’ll get with an attitude like that?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” T’mar confessed with a frown. “Very well — ”

“Shall I set up a roster?” Terin offered.

“Yes,” Fiona said with a firm nod. “Every person who’s able will be on it — except for you.”

“Why not me?” Terin asked, looking ashamed.

“Because you’re going to be doing all the tallying around here,” Fiona told her firmly.

“You’ll be our Records keeper,” T’mar told her with a suitably grave expression.

“Headwoman,” Fiona corrected.

“Headwoman?” Terin and T’mar echoed in disbelief and surprise.

“Can you think of anyone else more qualified here?”

“I suppose not,” T’mar admitted after a moment. He turned to Terin. “Headwoman it is.”

“Me?” Terin squeaked.

“Yes, and you’d better get to that list; we don’t want the numbweed to burn,” Fiona said. With wide, serious eyes, Terin nodded and scuttled off. Fiona shouted after her, “And don’t let anyone give you trouble!”

“I won’t!” Terin called back over her shoulder, her pace increasing as she raced over to the weyrling barracks.

Talenth,  Fiona called to her dragon, where are you?

I’m in the Hatching Grounds,  Talenth said. I’m helping scare the tunnel snakes away.

Be careful!  Fiona warned.

Of course,  Talenth replied quickly, but Fiona could hear her dragon’s disappointment.

She amended her warning: If you get bit, let me know.

Okay,  Talenth replied more cheerfully. Is that all?

No,  Fiona said, remembering the real reason she’d contacted her dragon. I want you to tell all the dragons that Terin is headwoman.

Okay,  Talenth replied instantly. They know.  A moment later, she added, Zirenth thinks it’s a good idea.

“Your dragon thinks it’s a good idea for Terin to be headwoman,” Fiona reported to T’mar.

“I know,” T’mar replied with a grin. “I told him.”

A weyrling rushed up, ducked his head in acknowledgment of T’mar and even more in acknowledgment of Fiona. “I’m to stir the numbweed.”

T’mar clapped the weyrling on the back and guided him into the Kitchen Cavern. “Let me show you how it’s done.” He turned back to Fiona as he pushed the weyrling forward, saying, “Would you wait here for me, Weyrwoman?”

“Okay,” Fiona replied, surprised at T’mar’s deferential tone. When he returned, he gestured for her to precede him out into the Bowl. Zirenth landed in front of them, turning his head toward them, his multifaceted eyes whirling with eagerness.

“I think it would be a good idea to familiarize ourselves with the surroundings before it gets dark,” T’mar told her, gesturing for her to mount his bronze dragon. Moments later, Zirenth leapt into the sky, his huge wings beating steadily, slowly gaining altitude and clearing the Weyr Bowl.

“Shards!” T’mar exclaimed as he noticed the size of the gap between Zirenth’s claws and the top of the Weyr. “I hadn’t realized how much the heat would affect him.”

“Why would it?”

“Hot air is thinner, so it requires more work to get the same height,” T’mar told her. He reached past her and patted Zirenth’s neck affectionately.

“We should probably warn the injured dragons not to strain themselves,” Fiona said.

“Yes,” T’mar agreed distractedly. His tone was more focused when he told her a moment later, “Done.”

Zirenth found a good updraft into which he swerved to circle up high above the Weyr.

“I can see the sea,” Fiona said, pointing off to the east.

“This land is so dry and hot,” T’mar remarked worriedly.

“Does anything grow here?” Fiona wondered. “Wasn’t that why Igen was abandoned?”