Dragongirl (34 page)

“If you’re going to do that,” Fiona said, turning to Lorana and then Nuella, “then Nuella should ride with you.”

“What?” Nuella barked.

“Lorana can’t talk to you directly by mind but your ears work well enough,” Fiona said.

“Besides, with Kindan’s eyes, you’ll not need worry about more threadscore,” Zenor added hastily, giving Fiona a grateful wink.

“Can Zirenth manage three?” Kindan asked.

“Of course,” Lorana said with staunch loyalty for her surrogate mount.

It would be an honor to carry the WherMaster
, Zirenth declared with an accompanying rumble from outside.

Nuella’s face lit with a smile, making it clear to Fiona that the bronze’s announcement had been made to all present.

“Well!” Fiona said. “When Zirenth speaks, it’s foolish to argue.”

So it was arranged. Fiona tried her hardest to convert her worry and disappointment into a method of acquiring Sula’s recipe for dainties, but she was thwarted and made the return trip to Telgar in frustrated silence.

“T
hat’s excellent news!” J’lantir said. He glanced at Kindan and Lorana, confiding, “I’d been most concerned about our coordination with the watch-whers.” He paused before adding wistfully, “We at Ista have never had a chance to work with them.”

“Well, you’ll get it tonight,” Fiona said, her tone grumpy. Her worry for Kindan and Lorana increased with each passing moment.

J’lantir frowned and looked over at H’nez. “This is going to be a difficult Fall, even with the aid.”

“How so, sir?” H’nez asked. Fiona was surprised to hear the amount of respect in the usually self-possessed bronze rider and leaned forward to better hear J’lantir’s answer.

“We’ll be flying into the setting sun,” J’lantir said. “It may make it much harder to spot Thread.”

“It could also light it up,” H’nez countered.

“Or both,” Fiona said. She turned to J’lantir. “I see your point. With such conditions a rider could get too self-assured, especially with the falling chill of night to dull the senses.”

“Indeed,” J’lantir said. “And I’m concerned that it may not be dark enough for the watch-whers to use their abilities.”

“Or even to fly,” H’nez said, his face set in a grim frown.

“What can we do, then?” Fiona asked, feeling more desperate than before.

“Fly Thread,” H’nez answered simply.

“Hope for the best,” J’lantir said in agreement. He took a long sip of his
klah
and toyed with the eggs on his plate before saying to H’nez, “If anything happens to me, you lead.”

“Yes sir,” H’nez said and for once Fiona could tell that the bronze rider held no joy in the thought of leading the Weyr.

“Y
ou’ve done a good job,” Fiona said as she inspected the set of the riding straps on Zirenth’s neck and shoulder. “You’ve room enough for four sacks of firestone and yet you’ll all be secure in your mount.”

Kindan nodded. “I should, for all the times I’ve been made to inspect weyrlings.”

“Just part of your training, love,” Lorana assured him with a smile that she extended with a nod toward Fiona. Fiona answered it with the same look, causing Kindan to mutter, “You’d think you’ve got my egg all picked out.”

“I haven’t,” Fiona said, her eyes dancing as she jerked a hand toward her weyr and the sleeping Talenth,
“she
has.”

Kindan snorted in amusement, a sound that died quickly as he began his climb up to his place on the great bronze dragon’s neck. He reached a hand down to Lorana, who climbed quickly to her place behind him, leaving the rearmost position for Nuella.

“Don’t hurt my dragon!” T’mar bellowed from his bed, forcing good cheer into his voice.

“We’ll do our best,” Kindan called back in promise.

“Fly safe,” Fiona said, looking up at the pair of them. “I need you back.”

Kindan said nothing, Lorana nodded gravely in response, and then Zirenth moved away from the ledge, into the Bowl proper, took a leap, cupped air, rose swiftly above the gathering dragons, up to the Star Stones, and was gone,
between
.

“I’ve got to get better,” T’mar grumbled from his bed. Fiona cast one last glance at the after-image of the bronze dragon and his riders, then turned to march briskly back into T’mar’s quarters.

“You will,” she assured him, “if you are willing to rest.”

“By the First Egg,” T’mar swore, “I’ve never known anything harder!”

“F
ly well!” Fiona called to J’lantir less than half an hour later as the last of the assembled wings made ready to take to the air. Above them the other five wings of Telgar Weyr circled, ready and eager for the night’s fight.

“We’ll see you in three hours’ time,” J’lantir said. “We hand off the Fall to High Reaches over Nabol.”

Fiona knew this and she was certain that J’lantir knew she knew this, so she gathered that the flightleader was making the announcement for the benefit of the knots of weyrfolk gathered around the outskirts of the Bowl to see off the fighting dragons.

This was only the second Fall since the disastrous time when D’gan and all the dragonriders of the Weyr were lost. Fiona could understand that they were naturally anxious, particularly as in the first Fall since then, their new Weyrleader, T’mar, had been seriously injured.

She could sense the feelings of anticipation and worry and fought to keep them from settling on her, too.

“Good flying!” Fiona called loudly, waving J’lantir and the last wing into flight.

The dragons rose gracefully, assumed their position at the head of the upper Flight, and, together, one hundred and eighty-five dragons disappeared
between
. To Thread. To battle.

“I
t will get darker soon,” Lorana assured Nuella as they followed slowly behind the fighting dragons, gouts of flame marking their progress in the battle against Thread. The dragonriders had been fighting for more than an hour, with only two more hours left before they would meet with the High Reaches riders above Nabol Hold.

Even so, the fight had been difficult. For Lorana, who felt as well as saw the carnage, the first loss was the most shocking, as she saw the small blue and his rider engulfed from behind by a clump of Thread that had been hidden in the gloam of the dusky night air—invisible one moment, mortal the next. She had cried out in unison with the tormented blue, had known that the small dragon had received its deathblow and then—he was gone, forever,
between
.

Nuella had wrapped her arms around her and buried her head against her spine in comfort while Kindan had tried his best to turn in his perch to console her.

“Keep flying!” Lorana had told him. “I’ll recover.”

“Yes, you will!” Nuella had agreed fervently, sitting back enough to rub Lorana’s shoulders in a soothing motion.

Moments later a brown cried out and disappeared, but winked back into the fight, having frozen off an assaulting strand of Thread
between
.

“I think it’s getting darker,” Kindan said now, straining to pick out the dragons in the night air.

“This is the most dangerous time,” Nuella said. “When it is still too light for the watch-whers, and too early for the Thread to have frozen.”

As if in answer, ahead of them, a pair of dragons bellowed in pain, their cries stifled as they went
between
. Only one returned.

“Karalth made it back to the Weyr,” Lorana reported, referring to the missing green. Her lips curved upward in relief as she added, “Fiona’s with him.”

“That’s good to know,” Kindan called back over his shoulder. “I’m going to close up or we’ll lose sight of J’lantir.”

In response, Zirenth swooped forward with easy wingbeats, closing up to the nearest dragons.

Lorana strained forward over his shoulder for a sight of J’lantir.

“There’s J’lantir!” Kindan shouted, raising an arm and pointing.

Lorana strained over his shoulder to follow his aim and had just spotted the flightleader when she shrieked, “J’lantir! Behind you!”

Too late, the bronze rider reacted to the clump of Thread that had twisted on the rising turbulence of the night air to fall directly onto the backs of rider and dragon alike. For one brief moment it flared, gorging upon the leathers of the bronze rider and the skin of the unprotected dragon, and then they were gone
between
—but not before Lorana could make out the pulsing red of blood as Thread ate through the last of J’lantir’s wher-hide jacket and feasted on his flesh, even as it grew in its feeding on Lolanth’s spine.

“He was too late,” Lorana cried, balling her fists and pounding them feebly against Kindan’s back. “Too late!”

J’lantir is no more!
The voice rang out clearly, devoid of hope, bereft of all happiness, dry only with despair.

H’nez, lead the flight
.

Ahead a dragon rumbled in acknowledgment and the dragons of Telgar Weyr hastened to re-form their confused assault against the falling Thread.

W
hen Fiona finally staggered into her quarters after ensuring that the last of the four injured were comfortably settled into their weyrs and certain to recover, she was too tired to notice much of her surroundings. She shucked her clothes into the bathroom, threw on her nightgown as quickly as tired fingers, spurred by the evening chill, could manage, and slipped herself into the warm bed with a sigh of contentment.

She was surprised to realize that she was looking into Kindan’s eyes.

“Lorana’s keeping an eye on T’mar,” he said.

Fiona murmured noncommittally and closed her eyes. A moment later she opened them again. Kindan was still looking at her.

“Who ordered H’nez to lead the flight?” he asked. “Was that you or Lorana?”

“I think it was me,” Fiona said.

“It sounded mostly like you,” Kindan agreed, his brows furrowed. “But it sounded like Lorana, too.”

“A bit of both,” Fiona agreed.

They looked at each other for a moment longer then, reached out and hugged tightly, comfort against the pain.

Fiona felt her tears come and let them flow freely. When they were gone and Kindan was still in her arms, she felt a different feeling wake in her. Awkwardly she moved her head to peer into his eyes and darted her lips against his for a kiss.

Throwing despair away for passion, Fiona let her hands flow over his warm body, and had the reassuring pleasure of his hands moving in response. Slowly they maneuvered, touching, moving, silently, passionately.

Long afterward, Fiona reached a hand up to his cheek and stroked it gently. Kindan cupped her hand with his and smiled down at her. “Three times,” he told her with a smile. Fiona chuckled and raised an eyebrow in challenge.

“W
hat do you mean, I can’t go out?” T’mar demanded testily when Birentir told him. “I waited an extra two days because you said so!”

He turned to Fiona, who was eyeing him with one eyebrow raised archly. “And you—dowsing my wine with fellis juice so I slept an extra day! Give me those crutches!”

Fiona pulled them away from him, saying, “Not until you get some sense in your thick skull. You’re acting like an addle-pated wherry!”

“I’m acting like a Weyrleader,” T’mar declared, but his words lacked conviction.

“A Weyrleader sets an example, or so I’m told,” Birentir said dryly. “And a Weyrleader recovering from a severe
pair
of injuries would best set an example by listening to the Weyr Healer, wouldn’t he?”

T’mar scowled stubbornly before leaning back in his bed, asking in a grudging tone, “So, healer, what can I do?”

“If you wish to recover fully,” Birentir responded, emphasizing the last word, “you’ll restrict your movements to your weyr for the next sevenday or so.”

“And then?”

“Then we’ll see,” Fiona told him, shaking her head in exasperation as she added, “You’re just as bad as the worst were back in Igen, you know.”

T’mar’s face twisted as the barb struck home. He had vivid memories of the younger Fiona arguing with grizzled old-timers—and winning.

“Ah, you’re remembering,” Fiona said, taking in the look on his face. “Perhaps you’ll also remember that all of my charges recovered and are now fighting Thread?”

“I do,” T’mar growled with a resigned look on his face. He brightened as he turned back to the healer, saying, “So, just around here?”

“If you don’t tire yourself.”

“How will I know?”

“You’ll know when you fall over back into a coma,” Fiona said with a shake of her head. “Or, if you’re sensible, you’ll
listen
to your body and limit yourself accordingly.”

T’mar jerked his head to Zirenth’s lair. “You could
make
him stop me.”

“I could,” Fiona agreed, turning with a half-smile toward the slumbering bronze in the weyr beyond. She turned back to T’mar. “But they’re desperate for him and the night crew for the Fall at Fort this evening, so I’m going to rely on your common sense instead.”

And with that, she thrust the crutches toward him, turned, and walked briskly out of the room, passing through Zirenth’s weyr and murmuring a fond greeting to the dozing bronze before moving on to the rest of her day’s business.

Birentir and T’mar were left behind to exchange surprised looks.

“She has a way about her,” Birentir said.

“Makes you forget her Turns, doesn’t she?” T’mar asked with a grin.

“If there’s one thing this Weyr doesn’t lack, it’s a strong Weyrwoman,” Birentir said.

“For which,” T’mar said, his voice straining as he raised himself on his crutches, “I am extremely grateful.”

“And does she know that?”

T’mar greeted the healer’s question with a glowering silence marred by a wince as he took his first step.