Тодд Маккефри - Dragonheart

“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.”

“Why?” Tannaz retorted hotly. “Would you greet a Lord Holder dressed in your worst, oil-grimed, sleep-stained clothes with your hair and face all oily from your latest dragon-grooming?”

“Sure,” Cisca responded with a toss of her shoulders. “Why not? It’s only a Lord Holder, after all.” She noticed Tannaz’s look and continued, “Oh, certainly, if I could, I’d prefer to be better dressed, but if the matter was sufficiently urgent, I’d have no problem greeting him at my worst.”

Tannaz mulled Cisca’s response over for a moment before admitting, “I think you could greet him sky-clad and make him feel overdressed.”

Cisca felt herself blushing but could only nod in agreement, grinning. “It would not be my preference but, yes, if I had to, then I would certainly work to ensure that he felt overdressed.”

Tannaz chortled.

“Still,” Cisca continued when their moment of mirth had passed, “I’m sorry it didn’t work out better. By bringing him here, I’d hoped to cheer up both Lord and rider — or at least raise Fiona from her lethargy.”

“Well, you have to admit she was roused,” Tannaz said with a grin.

“Right — with a screaming match that scared every dragon in the Weyr. Not exactly what I’d had in mind,” Cisca said, her eyes flashing.

Tannas shrugged. “In the end, I think it worked out fine.” When Cisca shook her head in disbelief, Tannaz went on, “If you weren’t weyrbred, you’d understand. Weyrfolk have a different way of looking at things.”

“I should hope.”

“Bemin is a Lord Holder,” Tannaz explained. “He has spent his entire life expecting to be heard and instantly obeyed.”

“So?” Cisca demanded. “He’s still a fair man.”

“He’s a fair man, but it’s become ingrained in him that his word is law.”

“Hmm,” Cisca murmured, looking at the second Weyrwoman thoughtfully.

“Whereas here a Weyrleader’s authority only lasts until the senior queen’s next mating flight,” Tannaz continued. “So no one in the Weyr is used to as much authority as Lord Bemin wields in his Hold.” She paused. “And nowhere is he expected to wield that authority more than in his own Hall, over his own children.”

Cisca nodded in comprehension, then frowned. “I still don’t see why this shouting match can be seen as a good thing.”