Тодд Маккефри: Dragonheart

“But her hatchling can’t be more than — ” M’kury began.

“She’s younger than Talenth!” H’nez exclaimed. “How can you expect a dragonet to say anything sensible at that age?”

“Lorana spoke directly to Melirth,” Cisca replied. With a slightly wistful look, she continued, “She can speak to any dragon.”

“Like Torene?” Fiona blurted in surprise.

“Like Torene,” Cisca agreed. “Although I got the feeling from Melirth that . . .” Her voice trailed off and she shook herself, saying, “Anyway, she told Melirth about Kindan’s fire-lizard and Salina ’s Breth.”

“And?” H’nez demanded. Cisca turned her head slowly toward him, her dark eyes simmering. The bronze rider cleared his throat hastily and bobbed his head. “My apologies, Weyrwoman.”

Cisca held his gaze for a moment more, then looked away, dismissing him from her regard as she said to K’lior, “They can’t be certain what is causing the illness or how long it lasts.”

“Do they have a cure?” K’lior asked.

Cisca closed her eyes, linking with her dragon, then opened them again. “Lorana is not answering; she may be asleep.”

“No help there, then,” H’nez growled.

“When people are sick,” Tannaz spoke into the ensuing silence, “we quarantine them.”

“We started that with the fire-lizards,” T’jen agreed. He looked down to the floor a long moment, then brought his chin up jerkily, saying, “Salith and I should be kept away from the weyrlings at the very least.”

“Nonsense!” H’nez declared loudly. “Who will teach them?”

“If they are coughing,” Fiona spoke up nervously, “could we put masks on them like they did in the Plague?”

A few riders nodded thoughtfully, but H’nez shattered it with a loud guffaw. “Who would put a mask on a dragon?”

“I would,” Tannaz declared. “Especially if it helped prevent infection.”

K’lior pursed his lips and shook his head. “Perhaps we should wait until we know more.”

“How many dragons will die before then?” H’nez demanded angrily.

“Until we know what’s causing it, we won’t know whether we’re helping or hurting,” Cisca shouted. Outside, they heard a dragon bellow, and then another — closer — bellowed back.

“That’s you put in your place,” Tannaz murmured to herself, recognizing the sounds of bronze Ginirth and gold Melirth.

“But we should do something, ” H’nez protested.

“Yes,” T’mar agreed heatedly. “We should think and not act rashly.”

“As long as Salith isn’t near the hatchlings,” T’jen said.

K’lior glanced consideringly at the Weyrlingmaster, then nodded. “Take Salith to one of the unused weyrs at the far end of the Bowl.” He glanced at T’mar. “I want you to take over the weyrlings.”

T’mar looked ready to argue, then paused and finally nodded in acquiescence. “Yes, Weyrleader.”

“Everyone is to keep an eye and ear out for any more signs of the illness,” K’lior declared. “Report it to me or Cisca immediately.” He rose decisively and, with a polite gesture for Cisca to precede him, left the room. Tannaz followed immediately after.

Their departure startled Fiona. She remained seated as the other wingleaders slowly drifted past grumbling darkly among themselves.

“He’s too young,” she heard H’nez mutter heatedly to himself as he bustled by her. “ You should have flown her.” The rumble of agreement in the Bowl beyond belonged to Ginirth.

Long after everyone had left, Fiona sat, trembling. It was only when she heard Talenth’s plaintive, I itch!, that she roused herself and left the darkening Council Room.

After she finished oiling Talenth into contented slumber, Fiona set off in search of the other Weyrwomen. She found Tannaz first.

“Can you help?” Tannaz asked as she caught sight of her. When Fiona nodded, the older Weyrwoman slumped against the corridor wall and closed her eyes in relief. “Good.”

“What do I do?”

“Oh, sorry,” Tannaz said shaking herself and standing upright again. “We need to talk to the riders, check on the dragons . . . that sort of stuff.”

“Deal with sick aunties?” Fiona murmured, unable to contain herself. “Old uncles?”

“Dragonriders,” Tannaz corrected her firmly. Fiona felt herself burn in shame. Tannaz noticed, even in the shadows of the corridor, and relented. “Yes, they probably are a bit like old uncles at this moment, but they’ll be protecting those sick aunties.” She nodded forcefully. “So don’t forget that.”

“What do I say to them?” Fiona asked, working to keep a whining tone out of her voice.

“You know how they feel,” Tannaz said, her voice turning softer, warmer. “Probably more than most, since you lost your fire-lizard.”

Fiona bit her lip, then shook herself fiercely and nodded for the Weyrwoman to continue.

“So talk to them about how they feel, how you feel. Don’t lie but be positive.” Tannaz put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed firmly. “You are a Weyrwoman now.”

Something in the other’s tone made Fiona realize that Tannaz was bestowing upon her a gift, not weighing her with a burden. Tannaz must have seen it, too, for she let go of the young girl and told her brusquely, “Off you go, now!”

As Fiona started off down the corridor in the direction Tannaz had indicated, she realized that she didn’t know where to start and slowed down, dithering between going back and asking the other Weyrwoman or just picking a spot and starting.

As if reading her thoughts, or recognizing her omission, Tannaz called after her, “First weyr after the stairwell.”

Fiona picked up her pace again, looking anxiously in each entrance to see if it was a stairwell. After a while her pace slowed down again as she began to think about what she was going to do. What did one say to grieving dragonriders? Fiona wondered. She mulled on this, growing more and more anxious with each step until, by the time she reached the stairwell, she was nearly trembling with fear.

I can’t do this, she thought miserably, stopping one pace before the entrance to the weyr. I’ve only thirteen Turns!

She thought of turning back, of telling Tannaz that everyone had made a mistake, that Talenth had made a mistake in choosing her — and that thought, that horrible thought, brought her up short. She reached out and touched the sleeping queen lightly with her mind. She felt Talenth’s fatigued response, realized that the queen was groping slowly toward full consciousness in response to Fiona’s needs, and pulled away.

Back to sleep, little one, she thought fondly to her mate.

Kindan had no one, Fiona chided herself, and he was your age when the Plague struck. He saved you and everyone at Fort.

Well, she corrected herself, tears filling her eyes, almost everyone. He couldn’t save Mother, or my brothers, or even my sister, the girl he loved.

But he saved me, she remembered, and thought of the tales her father had told her of Kindan’s bravery. With those in mind, along with images of her own Impression, she lifted her head and stepped forward.

I can do this, she thought, and she called out, “Hello?”

“Who’s there?” From the sound, Fiona guessed that the rider was calling from his dragon’s weyr.

“Fiona, Talenth’s rider,” she replied, walking through the rider’s quarters to the entrance to the dragon’s weyr.

“The new Weyrwoman?” the rider muttered to himself. Then he said, “See, Danorth, that’s the youngster we saw Impressing that queen at the last Hatching.”

Fiona heard a dragon make an inquiring noise and stepped into view. Danorth was a green dragon. Her rider was an older man, older even that H’nez but, at least from first appearances, not nearly as irascible.