Тодд Маккефри: Dragonheart

“Fiona?”

She recognized her father’s voice. She made no reply, but clutched Fire tighter. The queen fire-lizard craned her neck around to look at her, her faceted eyes whirling red and green.

Fiona heard the sound of feet coming toward her.

“Fiona,” Lord Bemin said. “I came as soon as I heard.” She didn’t move. She heard him bend down, saw his face come into view. Jokester rode on his shoulder. There were tears in her father’s eyes. Fiona closed her own eyes tightly, not wanting to see his tears. Hadn’t he cried enough?

She closed her eyes, but she couldn’t close her ears.

“When we came here, to the Hatching,” Bemin said softly, his voice hoarse with emotion, “I never thought that you’d Impress.”

He sniffed. “My daughter, a queen rider!” She could hear the pride in his voice. She turned away from him, clutching Fire tight.

“I never hoped, never dreamed that our line would be so honored,” he went on in a whisper. “I thought my heart would break, I was so proud!”

Fiona turned back to him. “You were?”

She opened her eyes to peer at his face and saw, beyond the tears, the immense pride he had in her.

“Yes,” Bemin said. “You bring great honor to our Hold, and to me.” He took a breath and told her gently, “I know this is hard.” He reached up and stroked Jokester on his shoulder. “But you have duties now, duties to your Weyr and to Pern, just as I have mine to Fort Hold .”

He reached for her with one hand and gently helped her to her feet. “You are of Fort,” he said, his voice becoming firm, commanding. “You are twice of Fort, of Hold and Weyr.” He peered down at her, the corners of his lips quivering upward. “You are my last child and I would not deprive you of anything — ”

“Then I can . . . ?” But her words trailed off as Bemin shook his head gently.

“You and I have so much,” he told her gently. He gestured to the sleeping queen dragonet, who was trembling in her sleep. “As you have your queen, I have Forsk, the watch-wher. Do you think it would be dutiful to risk all Pern to keep our fire-lizards, too?”

Fiona sniffed, her eyes catching his pleadingly, but he shook his head again.

“It is time, now,” he told her, “to say good-bye.” He turned his head to Jokester and reached up his arms, bringing the brown fire-lizard down to settle in his clasped hands. He caught Fiona’s eyes. “Queen rider, ask your queen to send them to the Southern Continent.”

“Father — ” Fiona began, tears streaming down her face, but Bemin once again shook his head and lifted his chin slightly.

“Head high, Weyrwoman,” he told her.

Fiona took in a deep breath and nodded, her tears falling unchecked.

Talenth?

What is it? the young queen asked sleepily. You sound sad.

Tell Fire and Jokester they must go. Fiona sobbed as she relayed the thought.

Go?

Yes, go, Fiona replied. To the Southern Continent. Her heart broke as she cried, Do it now!

She heard two surprised squawks, cut off suddenly, between.

“Oh, Father!”

Fort Weyr, AL 507.12.20

The next day dawned bright and sunny, though still full of winter’s cold.

With effort, drained from the previous day’s events, Fiona roused herself and Talenth to go out into the Weyr Bowl. She had to leave her weyr, if only for a moment. She milled with the sad, nervous, confused weyrlings who were feeding their dragonets. The youngsters, some her age, some not much older, were very interested in her and insisted upon helping her feed Talenth, even to the neglect of their own dragons.

“Let me tend to her,” Fiona told them finally, with a touch of acerbity. She tried hard not to think of a cheerful chirping voice or a gold streak darting through the air.

“If you’re looking for distraction, there’s tack to be oiled,” a voice growled from beside her.

Fiona looked up, startled, to see a grizzled older dragonrider standing beside her.

“T’jen, Salith’s rider,” the man said, gesturing up toward a brown dragon that was peering down at them from several levels above. “Weyrlingmaster.”

He waved at the weyrlings. “They weren’t disturbing you, were they, Weyrwoman?”

Fiona knew instantly that T’jen had heard her entire exchange with the weyrlings. She smiled at him, shaking her head. “They were just trying to help.”

“They could help themselves more by tending to their chores,” T’jen grumbled loudly enough that several weyrlings glanced worriedly in his direction and suddenly looked more energetic.

After the weyrlings were out of earshot, T’jen murmured to her, “I can understand the ones in your Hatching carrying on the way they do, but the older ones . . .” He shook his head.

“But — ” Fiona began, her thoughts all jumbled. “I mean, isn’t this normal?”

“What, Weyrwoman?” T’jen asked, turning to face her directly. “Tell me how you feel.”

“I’m all right,” Fiona said immediately. “Talenth’s fine — ”

“And you’d know, being a Weyrwoman for . . . ?” T’jen asked her, raising his brows in curiosity, a faint smile on his lips.

Fiona blushed in response. She thought back, her blush clearing into a smile as she remembered her amazing Impression of Talenth. How long ago had it been? It seemed forever. But how long? Her frown deepened as she realized she couldn’t quite remember.

“This is the twentieth day of the twelfth month,” T’jen supplied helpfully.

“Oh!” Fiona said. “Then it’s been — it’s been — ” Angrily she chided herself, This is simple! There are twenty-eight days — four sevendays — in each month, and she’d Impressed Talenth on the seventeenth of the month before so that meant that . . .

“Thirty-one days, Weyrwoman,” T’jen told her softly. Fiona looked up at him, chagrined. “You’re not the only one confused. All of my weyrlings, even the steadiest of them, are acting like you.”

“Is it the sickness?” Fiona asked with a feeling of dread knotting her stomach.

“I hope not,” T’jen said fervently. “And there’s no sign of distress among the dragonets — they’re merely a bit sleepier than I’d expect at this age.”

“I thought they always slept a lot when they’re this young,” Fiona said.

“They do, but not this much,” T’jen told her. “It’s difficult enough to wake them to eat, much less anything else.”

“And that’s not normal?”

“No,” T’jen replied, shaking his head. “It’s not.”

“Have you told the Weyrwoman?”

“She pointed it out to me, actually,” he admitted.

It took Fiona a moment to follow his thought through to its conclusion. “Because of me?”

The weyrlingmaster smiled. “Well, you are the newest Weyrwoman, she’s right to keep an eye on you,” he told her. “You never know . . .”

“Know what?” Fiona prompted.

“Know when you’ll become Weyrwoman,” T’jen said sadly. He met her eyes. “It happened quick enough for Cisca.”

“How?”

“You’d have to ask her,” he said. “It’s her story to tell or not.” Fiona yawned and T’jen laughed. “Not that you’d be awake long enough.”

“I’m sorry,” she apologized.

“Don’t be,” he told her. “Whatever it is, you need your rest, so go get it.” He turned to the massed weyrlings. “You lot, on the other hand, still have work to get done before you can take a break.”