Dragongirl (29 page)

“I suspect M’tal wants a word with us beforehand,” Fiona said.

Bronze and gold settled on the ground, greeted warmly by Talenth and Jeila’s Tolarth, who bugled in greeting.

Bidenth is a great queen
, Talenth declared.

Another sound distracted Fiona and she turned to see Zirenth exit his weyr and Lorana and Kindan climb quickly aboard.

“It’s traditional for the Weyrleader to greet guests,” H’nez said from the corner of his mouth as they approached the new Istan Weyrleader, putting up a cautioning hand and moving ahead of Fiona.

“Bronze rider,” Fiona said tartly, her hand grabbing his and pulling him back, “in case you haven’t yet noticed, I make my
own
traditions.”

“As you will,” H’nez said with a resigned sigh.

“M’tal!” Fiona cried, rushing toward the older man uninhibitedly and throwing herself into his arms. “It’s good to see you!”

M’tal crushed her against him in a quick hug, then pushed her back again. “I’ve not been gone that long, Weyrwoman!” he said. Then, with a worried look, he added, “Has something
else
happened?”

“No,” she assured him with a grin, “I haven’t destroyed anything yet today.”

“The day is young,” M’tal said, entering into the spirit of things.

“You, on the other hand,” Fiona said, “have been quite busy.” She glanced over toward Bidenth and was surprised to see not one but two women dismounting. Her expression cleared instantly and she turned to him with a look of contrition and pride. “Have you found how big your heart is?”

“Let us say that I’ve discovered that it is bigger than I thought,” M’tal replied, his voice soft and sounding troubled in the admission.

“And,” he added, “for all my Turns, I’ve discovered that you and I have much in common.” His eyes twinkled as he declared, “I should have told you that in my youth, I was considered something of a rebel.”

Fiona snorted with amusement. The two women approached and M’tal introduced them. “This is Dalia, Weyrwoman of Ista.”

Dalia’s face was lined, the corners of her eyes marked with crow’s feet and her cheeks with laugh lines. Her eyes were brown and her hair a fading red. Freckles speckled all over her face.

Fiona nodded and extended her hand, feeling her lack of years in the presence of the older woman.

“Congratulations, Weyrwoman,” Fiona said as she released her hand. “I hope you had an excellent mating flight.”

“Well, it was
interesting
, to say the least,” Dalia said drolly. “But perhaps not quite as interesting as the tale of
yours.”
Dalia glanced around. “Where are Kindan and Lorana?”

“They just left on Zirenth,” Fiona said. “They are going to ferry the Holders and Crafters.” She gave the older woman a grin as she added, “I’m not sure if it was Kindan’s idea—to get more time a-dragonback—or Lorana’s—to permit me to greet you first.”

“Probably a little of both,” said the other woman in the party. Salina seemed near the same age as Dalia but was much taller and had an elegant, thin-boned form. Her hair had lost almost all its color but her eyes were still bright blue.

“You must be Salina,” Fiona said, extending her hand again, adding solemnly, “I grieve for your loss.”

“Mine is nothing compared to Lorana’s,” Salina said dismissively, “and from what M’tal’s said, you’ve done more than most to make good her loss.”

“Thank you,” Fiona said. She wasn’t sure that she agreed with Salina; she cast a glance toward Dalia and wondered if the Weyrwoman had the same misgivings about her queen’s mating flight with M’tal’s Gaminth as she had with her Talenth’s mating flight with Zirenth. For all that Lorana denied it, Fiona was still not certain that the ex–queen rider was unhurt by Fiona’s mating-flight relationship with Kindan. And, deeper inside herself, Fiona was still not sure if her own heart was big enough to share a love.

Fiona realized that Salina was eyeing her intently and raised her head to meet the older woman’s gaze. Salina nodded silently as if to herself and raised a hand to break the moment.

“M’tal’s also told me about your work back at Igen,” Salina told her quietly.
“That
accomplishment is yours alone.”

“You’ve acquired a following in Ista,” Dalia added, her lips curving upward. “My daughter was quite impressed with M’tal’s reports, as was I.”

“Thank you,” Fiona said, her cheeks going hot. She sought to change the subject. “As you know, T’mar is still recovering from his fall. H’nez is our senior wingleader and will take his place in the Council.” She glanced around and waved a hand toward H’nez, who strode forward and made his introductions.

“I understand you’re to be congratulated as well!” Dalia said with a grin, adding, “And I’ve heard that Sonia was none too pleased to lose her only other queen to such a handsome man.”

“My Ginirth was lucky to catch her.”

“In my experience, which bronze catches a queen is one thing,” Salina corrected him, “what the riders choose later is another.”

“Jeila has asked me to grace her quarters,” H’nez replied, his stiff mask of control slipping for a moment to reveal a nearly boyish glee. Fiona found the expression as charming as it was unexpected. H’nez seemed to notice her reaction and, with a twitch of his eyebrows in acknowledgment, resumed his normally stiff look.

“I think I see why she’d make such an offer,” Dalia said approvingly.

M’tal glanced toward the three weyrwomen’s quarters near the entrance to the Hatching Grounds and said, “How is T’mar? May I see him?”

“He’s querulous, tetchy, irritable, and snappish,” Fiona replied. “But our healer, Birentir—”

“Birentir?” Dalia interrupted. “From Ista?”

Fiona agreed, explaining how she’d borrowed Tintoval from Fort Weyr to examine T’mar and had arranged with Masterhealer Betrony to bring his three journeymen along for observation—and trial.

“Birentir was a very sad and bitter man,” Dalia said when Fiona had finished. “I’m glad that he’s found peace.”

“I’ve been told that I surround myself with difficult people,” Fiona said, careful to keep her gaze from straying in H’nez’s direction.

“The traders call you the desert flower,” M’tal told her with a smile. He nodded toward T’mar’s quarters. “Would it be possible to pay respects to the Weyrleader?”

Fiona frowned, not wanting to overwhelm T’mar with a crowd of visitors. Before she said anything, Dalia spoke up, saying, “I’d like to visit with Birentir, for myself.”

“I’d be happy to escort you,” H’nez said, offering up a hand while glancing at Fiona for agreement.

“We’ll have to keep the visit brief,” Fiona said warningly, nodding permission to H’nez, who directed Dalia on a new course toward the healer’s quarters.

T’mar was awake, lying stretched out on his bed when they came in.

“I’m checking Lorana’s coordinates,” T’mar told them with a strange expression on his face. “She’s on the way here with Verilan, Master Zist, and Betrony.” He made a wry face as he added, “Apparently there was a … discussion with the blue rider sent from Fort Weyr over who would have the honor of bearing the Masters.”

“I’ll bet that was short,” M’tal said.

“The blue bears Bemin and Kelsa,” T’mar said in agreement. He glanced toward M’tal. “Congratulations on your flight, Weyrleader.”

M’tal nodded, saying, “It wasn’t quite what I’d intended.”

“Often things don’t turn out the way we intended,” T’mar said, glancing toward Fiona.

“See,” Fiona said, throwing up a hand in mock disgust, “just as I said, he’s tetchy and irritable.”

The others chuckled.

“Seriously,” T’mar continued, glancing toward Fiona who forced herself not to stick out her tongue in pique, “the Weyrwoman and I have talked, and I’ve talked with Kindan and Lorana about today’s meeting.”

“And now you’ll rest and leave it in our hands,” Fiona told him pointedly.

“I will,” T’mar said. “But as I’ve a chance to stretch the ear of the Istan Weyrleader, I thought I’d mention our worries about the number of fighting dragons once more.”

“There’s been no change since our last conversation, T’mar,” M’tal said. “During that, I agreed that we need to have a meeting of all the Weyrleaders to plan a combined course of action.” He patted the younger man’s shoulder and stood back. “Rest easy, bronze rider, we’ll do our best.”

They left him immediately afterward, Fiona leading the way to the Dining Cavern.

“We would have set up a pavilion in the Weyr Bowl but,” she gestured to the damp ground and shivered at the freezing air, “we decided it would be more difficult than setting aside a meeting place in the Cavern itself.”

“A
ssuming that the losses I’ve read about in the Records are a reliable standard, at our current rate, the strength of the Weyrs will fall below one Flight each—ninety dragons—in less than half a Turn,” Verilan concluded grimly, glancing at each of the Weyrleaders in turn.

“So, even though we’ve found a cure, we have no hope,” Tullea said, turning to the Master Archivist for confirmation.

“If the casualties follow the historical numbers,” Verilan cautioned.

“So the solution is to fight wiser than our ancestors,” H’nez said. He asked Verilan, “What casualty rate is required for us to survive?”

“At the risk of sounding overly pedantic, wingleader, I must ask you what do you mean by survive?” Verilan asked.

“Have enough dragons to fight Thread,” the bronze rider said, glowering at the Master.

“Again, meaning no disrespect, what is enough?” Verilan asked, glancing around the room to include the other Weyrleaders and Weyrwomen present. “The Records tell me that ninety dragons is the bare minimum deemed suitable to fight a Fall, yet even the Records imply that more—two Flights or even the full strength of a Weyr—is preferred.

“Would a mere ninety dragons be enough for all the Falls on Pern? And for how long could they be expected to hold out?” Verilan mused. “Those are questions that the Records do not answer.”

“Because they were never asked,” D’vin said gloomily.

“All the queens—save Darial’s Somarth—have mated recently and will mate again in half a Turn according to the Records,” H’nez said, glaring again at Verilan who met his gaze steadily. “So it would seem to me that all we have to do is wait for these weyrlings to hatch.”

“And how long before they are strong enough to fly Thread?” Tullea asked. She gestured to B’nik, Benden’s Weyrleader, for an answer.

“At Benden,” B’nik told the group, “we prefer to wait three Turns if possible.”

“Eighteen months was the minimum time I found in the Records,” Verilan said. “Although, from what I can read, those riders and dragons fared worse fighting Thread than those who’d trained longer.”

“You’re telling us nothing new in that,” H’nez snorted. “The more time to train and grow, the better the fighting dragon.”

“But we don’t have time,” K’lior, Fort’s Weyrleader, reminded them. He glanced at Verilan. “So, eighteen months and we’ll have how many more dragons?”

“Queens clutch as few as a dozen and as many as three dozen eggs,” Verilan said, thinking aloud. “The first mating flight usually produces fewer eggs than later flights. If we were to take an average number for the eight queens, we could hope for an additional two hundred and forty dragons—somewhat less than three Flights of dragons.” He nodded at K’lior and Cisca, adding, “But the eggs have yet to clutch—let alone hatch—and that adds another four to five months to the number.”

“Nearly two full Turns, then,” M’tal said.

Fiona exchanged a bleak look with Lorana.

“I did not take my calculations out two Turns,” Verilan told the council miserably.

“Why not?” H’nez asked. Fiona kicked him under the table but the bronze rider ignored it. “Given what we know, can’t you tell us how many dragons we’ll have when these hatchlings are ready to fight Thread?”

“Given what I know, bronze rider,” Verilan said quietly, “there will be no dragons left when those hatchlings are ready to fight Thread.”

“None?” Salina gasped.

“My lady, we stopped when we reached fifty-nine fighting dragons,” Verilan said, glancing at his group of apprentices and helpers, who were waiting outside the pavilion.

“And when was that?” D’vin asked.

“Forty-seven weeks from now,” Verilan replied, glancing down at his slate with a sour look.

“And when do your calculations say the total strength will be down to just one Flight of ninety dragons?” H’nez asked.

“Thirty-eight weeks from now,” a voice outside the canvas called in response. Fiona recognized Bekka. She’d seen the girl when she’d arrived with the Master Archivist and assumed that she’d been sent to help Birentir.

“Who dares listen in on this council?” H’nez demanded angrily, rising from his seat.

Bekka poked her head in through the entrance. “I do,” she told him simply, adding, with a shrug, “And pretty much everyone else. After all, this concerns us, too.”

“As indeed it does,” Fiona agreed, raising a hand to pull H’nez back to his seat, “but we already have enough voices in this discussion.” She gestured for Bekka to leave. “Listen if you must, but speak only if absolutely necessary.”

“Something,” Verilan added menacingly, “that I’d already mentioned to you.”

Bekka paled at the Archivist’s words and slunk out of the enclosure.

Fiona turned to him with frank surprise at Bekka’s immediate and fearful obedience of the Master Archivist. “How did you do that?”

Verilan shrugged. “I’ve been dealing with apprentices since not long after you were born, my lady.”

“Which still does nothing for the issue at hand,” Weyrwoman Sonia said.

“No,” Masterharper Zist agreed sadly, “it does not.”

“Have you figured how much better we’d have to fight to survive long enough for the hatchlings to mature to fighting age?” K’lior asked Verilan.

“We’re working on it!” Bekka’s voice called from outside the pavilion. Fiona glanced sharply toward the entrance before giving Verilan a droll expression.

“She is, perhaps, one of the more challenging apprentices,” Verilan allowed.

“Nothing we wouldn’t have expected,” Zist added, “given the source.”