Dragonheart

“The older weyrlings have been this way for over a Turn,” T’mar pointed out, his tone suggesting that perhaps the issue wasn’t that important.

“It’s affected their training,” J’marin objected. “And they are  sicker than most.”

“ ‘There’s always better,’ ” T’mar repeated the old saw with a sour look toward the Weyrlingmaster.

“As you’ve said yourself,” K’lior reminded the wingleader in a lighter tone. He turned his attention back to Tannaz. “So what do you think of our newest Weyrwoman?”

Tannaz pursed her lips in thought, then said tersely, “She’ll do.” K’lior raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Oh, she’s got her plate full with all the things bothering her — not the least that she’s little more than thirteen Turns to her name — ”

“And we all know how difficult that  can be,” Cisca inserted with a sympathetic wince.

“That’s a harder age for girls than boys,” J’marin observed.

“But it’s a good age to Impress, boy or  girl,” T’mar said.

K’lior waved the conversation aside. He had his answer, not that there was much he could do — the dragon had chosen her rider and that was that. “Did Kentai have a chance to talk with her?”

“I brought her down to his quarters for lunch,” Tannaz said. She smiled, adding, “We fed her a full mug of hot, strong klah — that woke her right up. Anyway, Kentai told me later that her knowledge of Holder duties was well advanced, and she knows more about the Weyrs than most of our weyrlings.” She turned to Cisca, concluding, “I don’t think she’ll need much training from the harper.”

“Good.” Cisca gave the other Weyrwoman a firm nod. “You and I will manage her then.”

K’lior smiled at his mate, then turned back to the others. “In the meanwhile, I want us all to be alert for any similar signs in our riders.”

“If they’re like D’lanor, you should have noticed already,” J’marin noted sourly.

“So we should be looking carefully at those who are not  like D’lanor,” K’lior observed affably, rising from the table and terminating the discussion.

Afterward, in their quarters, Cisca turned to K’lior. “You know, everyone expected T’mar’s Zirenth to fly Melirth.”

“Yes, I know,” K’lior replied, one brow quirked irritatedly, adding, as he snuggled in closer to her, “You choose an odd time to remember that.”

Cisca shook her head, a gesture that was more felt than seen in the darkened room. “That was not a complaint,” she told him. “It’s just that before then, everyone was certain Zirenth would outfly Rineth, but not long before, T’mar started acting odd.”

“And that’s not usual coming up to a mating flight that will determine who is the new Weyrleader?”

“It just struck me as odd, K’lior,” Cisca replied with a touch of frost.

“He’s an able wingleader and he’s never begrudged me my position,” K’lior told her. “I wouldn’t want to belabor him with unwarranted suspicions.”

“Unwarranted!” Cisca repeated and, with a huff, rolled away from him.

It took the Weyrleader a solid sevenday to regain the good graces of his Weyrwoman. They neither bickered nor fought openly, but K’lior knew that Cisca was irritated with him and worked hard to repair the rift.

“It’s not all  the weyrlings,” K’lior remarked to Cisca over dinner on the seventh day.

Cisca raised an eyebrow to indicate her interest.

“Some of them behave no different than any other weyrlings I’ve seen,” K’lior said.

“And you’ve seen so many,” Cisca snapped.

K’lior shrugged. He’d barely finished his weyrling training himself when his Rineth had flown Cisca’s Melirth and he’d become Weyrleader.

“Even so,” K’lior persisted. “It’s not so much that I’ve seen so many weyrlings as that I knew some of these weyrlings particularly well — ”

“You played with them not all that long ago,” Cisca interjected.

“Precisely,” K’lior agreed with a slight smile. “And while D’lanor was always . . .” He waved a hand, inviting Cisca to supply a word.

“Dim,” Cisca said. K’lior winced and Cisca tried again, “Slow.”

“Challenged,” K’lior ventured. “But his heart was always in the right place.”

“He follows orders, understands his place, and will make a great green rider,” Cisca said.

“J’nos, on the other hand, is one of the best I’ve seen.”

“Pilenth is  well-formed,” Cisca admitted with an understandable touch of pride in her dragon’s offspring.

K’lior nodded quickly in agreement. “Mind you, neither’s flown yet — ”

“J’nos was holder born, wasn’t he?”

“I don’t think it’s a question of origin,” K’lior said. “F’jian was Searched and he’s nearly as bad as D’lanor.”

“On the whole . . . ?” Cisca prompted.

“On the whole, T’jen is right,” K’lior said, his expression grim. “The same is true for the older weyrlings.”

“And T’mar,” Cisca muttered.

K’lior opened his mouth to protest but shut it again. After a moment he sighed, “Possibly.”

“I knew you’d get there in the end,” Cisca told him. “So now what do we do?”

“There’s no sign of this fire-lizard illness,” K’lior said.

“Certainly it doesn’t sound like it would linger for over a Turn without more symptoms,” Cisca observed.

“I can’t figure out what it could be, though.”

“You will,” Cisca assured him, gesturing to his plate, “after you’ve had a chance to eat and sleep.”

K’lior wisely chose not to argue.

The relief Fiona felt at knowing she was not alone was quickly banished by her exhaustion and dulled mental state. The klah  helped. She returned to her daily activities of feeding Talenth, oiling Talenth, praising Talenth, catching a nap when she could, and hurriedly eating the meals that were delivered directly to her quarters. Except for the constant muzziness, this would have been a time of unalloyed joy for two reasons: first, because she got to spend every waking moment with her marvelous, brilliant, and fabulous Talenth; and, second, because her time was for once completely her own. She could be slovenly, she could forgot to bathe for a whole day, she could be angry, she could curse, and she didn’t have to worry about being judged, frowned at, or silently derided because she was the Lord Holder’s daughter and the sole representative of Fort Hold’s future. Never mind that she was a girl and expected to marry the man who would be future Lord Holder, she was still required to “Set an example, Fiona!” “People look up to you!” “What would your father say if he saw you look that way?”

It was really only here, in the freedom of Fort Weyr, as Talenth’s Weyrwoman, that Fiona would ever have realized how much her role as Fort’s Lady Holder — in waiting — was a position that stifled her, that restricted her, and that caused her to wake every morning with dread. She was free! She was a queen rider, and soon, when Talenth was old enough, she could go anywhere, do anything and —

“Fiona!” a voice called from her doorway. “We’ve brought you some company.”

Company? Fiona looked up from her perch between Talenth’s legs where she was lying, still covered in the oil and muck of Talenth’s morning’s ablutions. I’m not ready for company!

“Fiona?” another voice, deeper, called. It was her father.

A lifetime of training had her scampering to her feet before she had a moment to think.

“My lord?”

“Well, perhaps we should not have surprised her like that,” Cisca said later that evening as she and Tannaz met to discuss the day’s events.

“She looked like a chicken cornered by a tunnel snake,” Tannaz agreed with a sigh.

“She really didn’t handle it well,” Cisca continued. “Lord Bemin was clearly desperate to see her; I don’t know why she insisted on keeping him waiting while she bathed first.”