Dragonheart

“Thread does not yet fall,” Karina reminded him. “Even when it does, Igen Weyr prepares in the early morning and late evening. Avoid the sun whenever you can.”

Azeez entered behind her. Karina turned to him.

“Everything is ready,” Azeez told her respectfully.

“The night awaits,” Karina said, turning to follow Azeez.

“Let us see you on your way,” Fiona offered, trotting after them.

They made their way through darkened corridors dimly lit by half-charged glows until they reached a deeper darkness where the heights of the Weyr Bowl shaded them from the moon’s light. Stars glittered beckoningly in the night sky.

Azeez climbed up to his perch on the first dray. “We shall see you soon.”

“Expect us before the next sevenday,” Karina amended.

Whips cracked, encouraging the large herdbeasts to start moving. With Azeez in the lead, the drays began to move slowly out into the dark night. When they could no longer be seen, T’mar turned to lead the way back.

“So, klah  or tea?” Terin repeated when they returned to the Kitchen Cavern.

“Klah, ” Fiona replied. “And I’ll help you get started with breakfast.”

T’mar raised his eyebrows in a wordless question.

“I don’t think that I’ll be able to get back to sleep,” Fiona explained. “And while we haven’t enough charged glows to do much, I think I’d prefer to start adopting Karina’s suggestion.”

“Karina’s suggestion works well for those who bring wares from one place to another,” T’mar said, “but not so well for those who need eyes to see what wares to gather.”

Fiona nodded in agreement.” We must see if there are any light mirrors in storage,” she said. “We could do with more light in the lower quarters, and I’d like to examine the Records.”

“You could bring them here, into the Kitchen,” T’mar suggested.

“They’re heavy; I don’t think I could carry many.”

“Get the weyrlings to help.”

“They’ll be busy enough tending the injured,” Fiona said. “We should plan how we’re going to do it.” She gestured for T’mar to take a seat. “Terin, do you have a spare slate and some chalk?”

Terin’s cheeks dimpled — if there was one thing on which Fiona could rely, it was that Terin would never be far from her tools.

“Our worst injured are N’jian, P’der,” T’mar began, ticking off the list on his fingers as Terin delivered the slate to Fiona, “F’dan’s Ridorth, K’ranor’s Troth — ”

“Hold it!” Fiona interjected. “You’re going faster than I can write, for one, and for two, we should be talking injuries and treatments.”

T’mar replaced the frown on his face with an apologetic look. His brows rose in surprise as Fiona snagged the cuff of her sleeve and used it to erase the half-filled slate.

“Very ladylike,” he teased her.

Fiona glared at him, but without any real feeling. “I think we should have separate slates: one for injured riders, the other for injured dragons.”

“It’s a pity that we couldn’t bring the healer,” Terin remarked.

“But — ” Fiona began to protest, then paused. “Actually, you’re right.”

“It would have made sense if we’d decided to bring the most injured back in time,” T’mar corrected. “As it was, we deemed it too risky.” He glanced up at Fiona, the merest hint of accusation in his eyes, as he added, “Until we got our unexpected help.”

Fiona shook her head in irritation. “You know  that I have no idea who it was — ”

“I do,” T’mar cut across her. “But it is not something I would put past your older self.”

“I can’t say for certain that it wasn’t me from some time in the future,” Fiona admitted, not bothering to hide her frustration, “but it doesn’t matter — they’re here now and we’ll have to care for them as best we can.”

She glanced down at the two slates she now had, one of which had been silently placed in front of her during her latest exchange with T’mar.

“So,” she said, turning back to the problem at hand, “we’ve got P’der and . . .”

“N’jian,” T’mar supplied, his face devoid of feeling. “His right side was severely Thread-scored.”

“Fortunately they went between  before the Thread ate far into his chest,” Terin said. Fiona glanced over to the younger girl — Terin looked queasy but persisted. “His injuries are to the skin and muscle of the chest and abdomen.”

“His right side looks like a slab of meat badly butchered,” T’mar said, grimacing. He continued bleakly, “Whether he survives or not is up to us.”

“What do we need to do?” Fiona asked.

“We need to keep his wounds clean, keep him flat on his back, give his skin a chance to grow again, and then — slowly — help him to recover his strength,” T’mar replied. He gestured for the slate, but then pointed at the other one instead, writing down a list of dragon names. After a moment he glanced up at Terin. “We’ll need more slates — at least two.”

Terin nodded and rushed off, grabbing a glowbasket as she passed out into the darkened storeroom corridors.

“Troth, Piyeth, Kadorth, Varth, and Bidanth are all the worst injured dragons,” T’mar said as he wrote down their names.

“When it gets light enough, I’ll start a search of the Records,” Fiona told him. “I’ll look for descriptions of treatments, as well.”

“As well as what?”

“Just about everything,” Fiona replied with a shrug. “Watering holes, cattle and herdbeast plains, crops grown, glow supplies, herb gardens, local medicines, weather reports — ”

“Whoa!” T’mar interjected, raising a hand to fend her off. “You’ll need a Turn before you find all that.”

“I hope not,” Fiona replied with a shake of her head; she regretted the movement instantly, as her longer bangs whipped across her face, causing her to irritably blow them aside and run her hands through her rebellious locks to pull them back once more behind her ears.

When she was finished, she was surprised by the look on T’mar’s face. “What?”

“Nothing,” the bronze rider replied, glancing hastily down to the slates.

“What?” Fiona persisted.

T’mar reluctantly looked back up at her. “It’s just that you looked cute when you did that.”

Fiona felt her cheeks flush and a thrill run through her at his words. Cute!

T’mar looked away again and ended the awkward silence by clearing his throat. “Of the dragons, I’m most worried about the damage to Troth’s and Varth’s wing joints — if they don’t grow back fully, they’ll never be able to fly again.”

Fiona nodded, suppressing a shiver.

Terin returned at that moment with a stack of slates, her glowbasket perched precariously on top. She returned the glowbasket to its place, trotted over to the table, picked up two, and blew the dust off them, coughing. She placed those two slates in front of Fiona, scooping up the rest and saying, “Whew! These were left behind when they abandoned the Weyr. They’re all musty and dirty, so I’m going to wash and dry them.”

“You know,” T’mar said as he took one of the proffered slates, “we really need a slate for every injury, so that we can keep track.”

“Seventy-seven slates?” Terin called from her place by the hearth. “I don’t think that’s practical.”

“Why?” Fiona returned, glad to be distracted from T’mar.

“How would you cart them all around?” Terin asked. “And how would you keep them from being erased?”

“We should set up a Flight board,” T’mar declared. Fiona didn’t hide her confusion, so he explained, “We have them back at the Weyr.”

“This is  a Weyr,” Fiona reminded him.

T’mar gave her an irritated look.

“I think it’s a pity it was abandoned,” Fiona said.