Weyrwoman, your duty is clear—
To the needs of the Weyr adhere.
Choose your mate with greatest care
So all the weyrfolk will best fare.
Fiona was the first to break the embrace. She gave Cisca and K’lior a look that made it clear that she was doing it reluctantly, that nothing would have pleased her more than to stay in their warmth much, much longer. She was not surprised to see Cisca nod in understanding; they had shared too much in the horrifying moments when they had felt the death of all the dragons and riders of Telgar Weyr—and the amazing display of power from Benden.
“I should go,” Fiona said, wiping tears from her eyes. “Talenth is the oldest queen not leading a Weyr; they’ll need us.”
Cisca nodded.
Fiona continued, “Melirth will be sure to lay a gold and …” She trailed off, not certain which words to use.
“We can’t leave Telgar empty with Igen empty, too,” Cisca agreed. “But are you certain you’re up for it?”
Fiona wanted to tell her no, she wasn’t, but her duty was clear. Fort was in good hands; Telgar in none. She didn’t trust her voice, so she forced herself to nod.
K’lior glanced at Cisca in a wordless communion before saying to Fiona, “I’ll send T’mar and a wing with you.”
“We’ll help with the Falls,” Cisca added, glancing to K’lior.
She shook her head, still in shock. “A whole Weyr! Lost in a moment.”
“D’gan’s Kaloth was too confused by the illness,” K’lior reminded her. “They jumped between without proper coordinates.”
“All of them?” Cisca asked, looking to Fiona, even though she knew the answer.
“I think so,” Fiona said. She made a face. “I was only part of it—you felt it—it was like all of me—of us—was grabbed and directed from Benden.”
“Lorana,” Cisca said. “She tried to find D’gan and the others.” She shook her head. “I don’t know how she did it, let alone why she chose you.”
“I’ve never met her,” Fiona said.
Cisca shrugged the issue off. “What do you need for Telgar?”
“I’d like Terin and Xhinna to come,” Fiona said. “I’ll need their help.”
“We’ll send them on with T’mar,” Cisca promised. She looked at K’lior. “Should we send anyone else?”
“Their healer was a dragonrider,” K’lior said with a frown. Whatever else he was going to say was lost as he glanced out toward the Weyr Bowl and saw the growing clusters of dragonriders and weyrfolk approaching.
“I should go now,” Fiona declared. “They’ll be grief-stricken at Telgar.”
She clambered back onto Talenth’s neck. “I’ll send word as soon as I can.”
“I understand,” Cisca said, gesturing Fiona skyward. “Go now, we’ll send others along as soon as we can.”
Fiona was just urging Talenth into the air when a voice cried out, “Wait!”
Xhinna was running toward her, her face wet with tears, her look determined. “You’re not going without me!”
Gladly, Fiona reached down for her. Dragonriders boosted Xhinna up to her and the young weyrgirl clambered up the rest of the way.
“You left me once—you’re not leaving me again!”
Talenth had nearly reached the heights and the Star Stones when Xhinna jerked her head around and pointed, shouting over her shoulder to Fiona, “Look!”
As they drew closer, Fiona saw Seban and Bekka hurrying toward them. Seban was carrying a large carisak and had a coil of something on his shoulder, and Bekka toted a large, lumpy bundle.
“We’re coming with you, Weyrwoman,” Seban announced as Talenth steadied into a hover beside the Weyr’s edge.
“What about the Healer Hall?” Fiona called back in surprise, glancing from Bekka to Seban and back again.
Bekka merely shook her head. “We’re coming with you!”
Fiona smiled at the youngster’s spirit. With an abundance of energy and no lack of courage, Bekka leaped toward Fiona, whose surprised squeak was enough to alert Xhinna; between the two of them, they managed to haul the youngster into position on Talenth’s back. Seban, with a wry look for his daughter, managed a more practiced transition and was soon mounted in front of Xhinna, with Bekka placed carefully between them.
“We’ve got no straps!” Fiona cried, annoyed with herself and chagrined for the time, now Turns past, when she’d berated T’mar for a much milder stunt.
“We’ve straps,” Seban called, whipping a line of leather from around his shoulder and deftly looping it under Talenth’s chest. Catching the far end as it whipped up, he smiled at Fiona and said, “We’ve cargo too precious to lose!”
Even so, Fiona impressed upon Talenth the delicacy of their passengers, but she needn’t have worried: Talenth pumped her great wings smoothly and lifted the four of them effortlessly toward the Star Stones, where the watch dragon bugled in honor and his rider saluted them.
Fiona took a deep, steadying breath and pulled the image of Telgar into her mind, corrected it for the later time of day, and said to Talenth, Let’s go.
It looks abandoned, Fiona thought sadly as Talenth wheeled once more over the heights of Telgar Weyr. No dragon challenged them. Below, no one moved.
The air was cold, full of winter, with less of the dampness that she always felt at Fort Weyr.
There is so much to guard here, Fiona thought as she scanned past the Weyr Bowl and southward beyond to the great wheat plains of Telgar and then westward toward Crom and the coal mountains to its north.
She felt Xhinna’s hand grip her thigh tightly and realized that she wasn’t the only one who felt the pall that had fallen on the Weyr below them. She wondered if Xhinna also recognized the great importance of this Weyr. Without Telgar, the center of Pern could not survive against Thread.
Who, she wondered suddenly, was flying the Fall now raining at Upper Crom?
Talenth, check with Lyrinth; there’s a Fall at Crom, Fiona said.
Lyrinth says that it is all right and asks you to stay at Telgar, Talenth responded a moment later.
“We’ll land,” Fiona announced to the others.
“This must be the very worst for them,” Bekka said sympathetically. She glanced up at her father’s back, then turned back to Fiona, sharing her feelings with her eyes. Fiona had no trouble interpreting the look: The very worst was even worse than Seban losing his dragon.
“Yes, it must be,” Fiona agreed. “Our job is to make it better.”
Talenth descended smoothly into the Weyr Bowl. Just as she was ready to pull up and land, she let out a great bellow that echoed once around the Weyr, and then she repeated it, modulating her tone to a keen, a warble of pain and anguish.
Fiona was surprised at Talenth’s behavior, but quickly comprehended her purpose: The queen had returned, the Weyr would live, it would prosper—she declared it.
My beautiful, beautiful love! Fiona cried in praise.
This is our Weyr now, we will do well here, Talenth told her.
“Talenth has declared this to be her Weyr,” Fiona told the others as she threw her right leg over her queen’s neck and slid full-tilt toward the ground, certain that Talenth would cushion her fall with a well-placed leg. And so she did.
Xhinna was next, then Bekka, lowered down gingerly by Seban, who followed her with their baggage and then leaped nimbly down himself.
Fiona looked around, trying to decide what to do next. Talenth decided for her. With another loud bugle, the gold dragon took to the air, climbed steadily, passing by each and every opening until she arrived at the Star Stones, and with a sorrowful cry, took station: watch dragon for a mourning Weyr.
“We’ll need some klah,” Fiona said, spotting the Kitchen Cavern and setting off toward it. “And then some food and then—”
“A fitting ballad,” a grim voice spoke up from the distance. Fiona and the others turned to see a middle-aged man, stooped and stricken, dressed in harper’s blue, approaching from near the Hatching Grounds.
Fiona nodded to her companions, and Seban and Bekka continued on toward the Kitchen Cavern, intent on providing sustenance for the doubtless weary weyrfolk. Xhinna elected to wait for the harper, who said as he approached, “Norik, Weyr Harper.”
“Xhinna of Fort Weyr,” Xhinna replied. Then she shook her head. “Of Telgar now.”
“There is no Telgar,” Norik said.
“By the First Egg, there is!” Fiona exclaimed. She hadn’t meant to yell, but she heard her voice echoing off the Bowl walls. From on high, Talenth cried in loud agreement.
“Who says so?” Norik demanded, sweeping a hand around the empty Weyr. “Who will fly the Thread that falls even now at Upper Crom?”
“I say so,” Fiona roared back, turning to stare down the weary man. “I, Fiona of Igen, Talenth’s rider, say that there is a Telgar Weyr and that we will fight Thread whenever and wherever it falls!”
As if in answer, Talenth bugled once more, this time in challenge.
Fiona only had a moment to marvel at her actions: How much of her outburst had been her and how much her dragon? She didn’t know if what she was doing was right; to her knowledge, no one had ever done it before. But, just as she felt Talenth’s stalwart declaration, she felt that it was the right thing to tell those who survived at Telgar that there was a queen dragon who was theirs—and a Weyrwoman who would stand for them.
Her call was answered loudly by bronze Zirenth, bronze Ladirth, bronze Ginirth, and more than twenty browns, greens, and blues.
“Igen?” Norik repeated numbly, his gaze stuck on the approaching wing of dragons like a dying man offered a final glimmer of hope. “You come from Igen?”
“I was there, Turns back,” Fiona said, surprised by her own words. She raised her voice as she continued, “High Reaches flies for Telgar today, and Fort has sent its wings.”
“That is good,” Norik said, shaking his head. “But there is still no Telgar.”
“There will always be a Telgar,” Fiona said firmly.
Norik looked doubtful as he glanced toward the Bowl and the dragons and riders dispersing within it. “This is a sad day.”
“You were right: We will need a ballad,” Fiona told him, nodding consolingly. “And I would like you to write it, if you can.” She held his eyes. “Honor is due this day.”
“For the living or the dead?” Norik wondered.
“Both,” T’mar said as he approached. “You are Norik, the harper.”
The harper looked at him, straining as he examined T’mar, his eyes going wider as he recognized him. “You look like T’mar, but you seem older.”
“Three Turns at Igen,” T’mar agreed calmly. Norik mouthed the word “Igen” with something like hope. T’mar held out his hands to the anguished man, saying, “I grieve for your loss.”
“What’s he doing here?” Fiona asked, pointing toward H’nez, as they settled themselves at the nearest table in the Kitchen Cavern and she had a chance to survey the riders K’lior had dispatched.
“He claimed the right,” T’mar told her quietly. “He’d argued for the first available transfer and this was it.”
Fiona frowned. She’d forgotten H’nez’s argument with K’lior, so many Turns ago for her and those who had come back in time from Igen Weyr, so recently for the bronze rider. H’nez had demanded the right to transfer to the first available Weyr.
“We need all the riders we can get,” T’mar reminded her. “We’ve only forty in all.”
“More would have come,” F’jian added with a nod toward her. “When K’lior asked for volunteers, nearly every man in the Weyr stepped forward.” He grinned as he told her, “All those who’d been with us in Igen, of course, but even those who hadn’t were eager.”
“Well, K’lior has his own Falls to fight,” Fiona said agreeably. Her expression fell as she glanced at H’nez once more.
“Don’t be fooled by him,” Seban spoke up from where he sat, nodding toward H’nez, as he helped Bekka tend a pot near the hearth. Fiona shot him a surprised look and the ex-dragonrider explained, “He’s a good leader, he looks after his riders and makes them look after his dragons.”
“You were in his wing.”
“And proud of it, weyrwoman,” Seban declared. She noticed that he hadn’t stressed her title and took it for the reproof it was.
“He needs a smaller head,” she muttered.
“Unlike some,” Seban teased in response, surprising her at his hearing.
Fiona dimpled, then made a dismissive gesture with her hand and turned back to T’mar, who gave her a worried look.
“What?”
“Until your Talenth rises, the question of who is senior wingleader is a problem,” T’mar told her.
“It’s not a problem at all,” Seban declared, jerking his head toward H’nez. “He Impressed Ginirth Turns before any bronze here.”
“Shards!” Fiona said.
If H’nez noticed that he was the topic of conversation, he didn’t show it. In fact, Fiona realized, he was busy playing with some of the younger weyrfolk; he’d coaxed them out of hiding with the promise of sweets in return for work and information. He was, she admitted sourly, doing exactly what she was supposed to be doing.
“We’ll have a hot lunch soon,” Terin said as she plopped down next to F’jian. The bronze rider smiled at her and tousled her hair affectionately. She batted his hand away, snarling, “Not now or I’ll have you scrubbing up.” She glanced toward Fiona. “So what now, weyrwoman?”
“Seban?” Fiona called over to the ex-dragonrider. “Do you think you and Bekka are up for a tour?”
The young girl looked up from the boiling pot, her eyes alight.
Fiona stepped over to them, gesturing for the cooking glove. “Terin and I can handle the cooking, I need you two to get to know people here.” She glanced challengingly at Bekka. “How many people do you think you can meet in the next two hours?”
“Two hours?” Bekka repeated thoughtfully, before breaking into a huge grin. “Why all of them, Weyrwoman!”
“As many as you can would be fine by me,” Fiona told her with a smile and a glance at Seban, who gave her a somber nod of assurance. As the two started out into the Weyr Bowl, Fiona called after them, “Don’t forget, we’ll be having lunch in the Dining Cavern, let everyone know!”
“The Dining Cavern hasn’t enough tables set out for that many people,” Terin observed quietly.
“Well then, get some riders to pull out the extra tables,” Fiona replied. “Besides, it’s not so much the eating they’ll need as the assurance.”
“I’d say you’re right there, Weyrwoman,” Norik agreed from his place nearby. He was hovering over a small slate, a stick of chalk hanging limply in one hand. He still hadn’t written a single word.
F’jian noticed and walked over to him. “Would this do,” he asked respectfully, opening his mouth and singing quietly in a soft tenor voice:
They flew for their Weyr
They flew for their Hold
They flew who knows where
They’re lost, those so bold.
“It’s a start,” Norik agreed after a moment of awestruck silence. He bent to the slate. “What were the first words again, bronze rider?”
Fiona forced herself out of her chair rather than let the writing of Telgar’s dirge to be a further reason to put off her conversation with H’nez.
H’nez glanced up at her approach and carefully worked her in to the conversation he was having with the youngsters, nodding toward her and saying, “And this is Weyrwoman Fiona. She was holder bred, her father was the Lord Holder of Fort Hold. Does anyone remember his name from the Teaching Ballads?”
A number of hands shot up and H’nez pointed to an older boy.
“Lord Holder Bemin,” the boy replied promptly.
“Very good,” H’nez said. “And what’s your name?”
“Belivan,” the boy replied proudly. “My father is—was—” his eyes fell “—a brown rider.”
“My father rode a blue,” a younger girl piped up.
“And mine a green,” another sobbed.
“They must have been great riders,” Fiona said.
The children nodded in agreement.
“And they did their duty to Weyr, Hold, and Craft,” H’nez added smoothly. They all nodded once again. “And so, tonight, we will honor them.”
It didn’t take much coaxing from Terin to get some of the older children to start helping her around the Kitchen even if they were, at first, more nuisance than aid. Some knew where the stores were and others knew where the cooking pots were kept and still another group knew where the spices were placed.
Satisfied that Terin had them well in hand, Fiona made her way to the back corridor to search out the holders of the lower level. Before she did, however, she found a few moments alone with H’nez.
“Seban has reminded me that you are the senior rider here,” Fiona said. H’nez nodded, his expression blank. “So, until Talenth rises, you have the duties of the Weyrleader.”
Again, the tall, lanky bronze rider nodded.
“There’s a Fall in three days’ time,” H’nez said. “Lower Telgar.”
“I’m sure that we can get help.”
“We’ll need to visit the Holds and Crafts before then,” H’nez observed. “To let them know that they are protected.”
“We should go to the Smithcrafthall and see if we can get some of those new flamethrowers,” Fiona said.
H’nez nodded in agreement.
“But our most immediate concern is housing our dragons and riders,” he said.
“They could stay in the Hatching Grounds,” Fiona suggested.
H’nez shook his head. “That would make their stay here seem temporary, and it would probably upset the weyrfolk.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“It is a custom of Fort Weyr,” H’nez began slowly, “to settle the remains of a lost dragon and rider as quickly as possible, then reallocate their weyr.”
“But they’ve just lost so many!” Fiona cried in horror at the thought.
“I don’t know what the tradition is here,” H’nez told her. “We should find out and honor it.”
“I could look in the Records …” Fiona trailed off as she realized what that would entail: entering the Weyrwoman’s quarters.
“I could come with you, if you’d like,” H’nez offered.
Fiona shook her head reflexively. “It’s my job.”
“Then, I’ll leave you to it,” H’nez said, turning back to the Kitchen Cavern. He paused just a moment, before turning back and asking, “You’ll inform the other bronzes?”
He meant their riders. Fiona nodded, sent a quick message to Talenth who sent it on to the Zirenth and Ladirth.
H’nez paused a moment longer, seeming about to say something, then turned and strode away purposefully on his long, lanky legs.
As she made her way farther into the dark corridors behind the Kitchen Cavern, she heard a gitar being strummed in a slow mournful tune: Norik practicing his ballad.
She turned to where, at Fort Weyr, there were the larger teaching and play rooms. She was rewarded with the sound of voices in the distance and increased her pace, thinking back to when she had met Xhinna Turns past and yet not so long ago.
As she saw the dim light of glows softly filling the corridor, she drew herself up, prepared to make a grand entrance, in the tradition impressed upon her by her father.
She took a step, and stopped. These people are hurting, she thought, letting her shoulders settle. They want words of comfort, not grand displays.
She took a deep breath to settle her nerves, then walked into the room. Silence fell but Fiona pretended not to notice, her father’s words echoing in her head, “Leaders lead.”
She spoke quickly to the women inside, who were clustered about in small groups, some working at tables, some dandling babies, others just sitting quietly, bereft. She told them who she was, assured them that Telgar would recover, that she rode a queen who would rise soon, and that they should be prepared for the noon meal and a wake in the evening.
“My man, L’rat, what’s to become of his things?” a woman asked quietly from the far corner. She was dark-haired, with dark, shiny eyes and brilliant teeth. To Fiona, she seemed like one with trader blood.
“They’ll be handled in the usual way, when a rider is lost,” Fiona assured her.
“How soon will your riders want to move in?” another woman demanded.
“Your riders,” Fiona replied, “are here already and need quarters now.”
“So who’ll clean out near five hundred weyrs?” the short, dark-haired woman demanded.
“Hush, Shaneese, that’s no way to talk!” the other woman chided her.
“You’ve quarters of your own, Vikka, so you’ve no concern,” Shaneese retorted, “but others lived with their mates and it’ll take more than one afternoon to find new quarters.”
“I’m not throwing anyone out,” Fiona declared sternly. “Shaneese, can you get me a list of those who live in the weyrs?”
The short woman eyed her warily for a moment before giving her a stiff nod.
“Good,” Fiona said. “There are only forty riders now, so it should be possible to find them accommodations without displacing any families.” She glanced toward the woman named Vikka. “You have quarters of your own?”
“Aye, Weyrwoman,” Vikka said with a curt nod. “I’m storeswoman and need to be close to the main gates.”
“How are we for stores?”
“Oh, we’ll not run out for a long time, Weyrwoman!” Vikka declared, with a hard to read expression on her face. “D’gan was good at providing for the Weyr.”
Someone snorted derisively and Fiona glanced in the direction of the noise to spot a tall, blond woman who looked back furtively.
“Weyrleader D’gan believed in the rights of the Weyr,” Vikka explained to Fiona. She jerked her head toward the blond woman. “Tevora was a crafter’s daughter before …”
Fiona felt a moment of revulsion for the dead Weyrleader. She glanced at Tevora with renewed interest.
“Which craft?” she asked her quietly.
“Smith,” Tevora said with a snivel. “I was taken—”
“It’s an honor to be brought to the Weyr!” Shaneese snarled.
“It’s an honor when you want to go!” Tevora snapped back, advancing on the smaller woman angrily.
“No one stays at the Weyr against their will,” Fiona said, glancing around the room for any signs of similarly mistreated women.
“So you say!” Tevora shot back angrily.
“Yes,” Fiona told her calmly. “So I say.” She glanced around the room. “We’re cooking lunch, and we’ll have a proper mourning this evening, please tell everyone.”
Some of the quieter women looked up hopefully at that.
“It will take time to heal, I know,” Fiona told them. “And things will change, as they do whenever there’s a new Weyrleader.”
“And who would our Weyrleader be?” Shaneese asked, none too politely.
“For the time being, the senior bronze rider is H’nez of Fort Weyr,” Fiona replied. She cocked her head toward the Weyr Bowl. “My Talenth has reached three Turns—”
“Three Turns!” Vikka exclaimed, brows furrowed. “I don’t recall a Talenth in the Ballads for Fort.”
“She was of Melirth’s last clutch,” Fiona explained. “We went back in time to Igen, and remained there for three Turns to allow our weyrlings time to mature.”
“So she’ll rise any day now,” Vikka said with a knowing nod.
“And then what?” Shaneese demanded. The other women in the room looked at her with various displays of anger or irritation but she brushed them off, continuing, “The sickness, has a cure been found?”
Fiona shook her head.
“So how long before your dragons start coughing?” Shaneese persisted. “How long before they die?” Her gaze bore into Fiona as she added, “Will your queen even last long enough to clutch?”
“Shaneese!” Vikka exclaimed, bearing down angrily on the smaller woman. To Fiona she said, “You must forgive her, Weyrwoman, she so loved her L’rat.”
“There’s no forgiveness necessary,” Fiona said, forcing herself to remain calm despite the black-haired woman’s onslaught. She glanced at Shaneese. “Kindan and Lorana at Benden Weyr have been working on a cure.”
“Lorana?” Shaneese repeated. “The one who lost her queen?” She snorted in derision. “Why should she want to help others?”
“Kindan lost Koriana and still he found a cure during the Plague,” Vikka replied. She glanced back to Fiona in dawning recognition. “You’re Koriana’s sister, aren’t you?”
“I am,” Fiona said, forcing herself to speak over the lump in her throat. “So I know something of Kindan and I tell you, he won’t let us down.”
Something changed in Shaneese’s manner as she absorbed this. “I see,” she said. “Well, I hope he’s quick because I’m not sure I can handle another dragon dying.”
“Where can I find the headwoman?” Fiona asked, deciding that she had said enough here and it was time to continue her tour.
“That’d be me,” Shaneese said. “At least it was until this morning.”
“If you want to step down, I understand,” Fiona said, recovering quickly from her surprise. She glanced over to Tevora. “When I go to the Smithcrafthall, I can bring you, if you’d like.”
Tevora glanced up nervously, then shook her head. “They probably think I’m dead.”
A mousy-haired woman reached over and patted her on the shoulder. “You are good with metal, Tevora, we could certainly use you here.”
“Dedelia, keep an eye on her,” Shaneese said to the mousy-haired woman. She glanced around the room and started calling out names. “Go help in the kitchen.”
To Fiona she said, “Come on, Weyrwoman.” As she bustled out, she glanced over her shoulder and said to Dedelia, “And get them back to work, there’s clothes to be washed and mended, not to mention the weaving that’s been let go this morning.”
“And, finally, here’s the medicinal storeroom,” Shaneese said as she completed their tour of the first level of the Weyr. She glanced inside and nodded to herself as she spotted two women working, bent over jars and measuring sets. “The stocks are complete, we want for nothing.”
“We want for nothing” seemed to be a catchphrase for Shaneese and Telgar Weyr. Fiona was amazed at the amount of goods amassed in the storage rooms, at the quality of fabrics, hides, and metals that were on hand for the Weyr’s use.
“Say what you want about D’gan, he never let the Weyr be shorted,” Shaneese said as she took in Fiona’s expression. She called to the two women, “This is Fiona, she’s the new Weyrwoman.”
“If a small girl comes running in here all out of breath asking for any herbals or medicinals, give them to her,” Fiona told the two older women. One of them gave her a surprised look. “Her name’s Bekka and she doesn’t sleep. Her father is Seban, who until recently rode blue Serth. She’s agreed to come here as healer in training.”
“Healer in training?” Shaneese looked at Fiona in surprise. “She’ll either learn quick or we’ll all be for it.”
“She doesn’t sleep,” Fiona repeated with a smile. “She reads, she’ll learn.”
“How many Turns has she, then?” Shaneese asked.
“She has twelve Turns,” Fiona said. At Shaneese’s skeptical look she added, “My headwoman at Igen had ten Turns.”
“That’s starting them young!” one of the herbal women exclaimed.
“ ‘Needs must when Thread Falls,’ ” Fiona replied, quoting the old saying. “My ‘old’ headwoman, Terin, came with me; she’s cooking our lunch.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting her,” said Shaneese, adding with a wink to the storeswomen, “especially if she makes a good meal.”
“Well, we’re done here, we should probably see if she needs any more help,” Fiona decided, nodding to the two women in farewell and turning back toward the Kitchen Cavern.
Shaneese examined the kitchen dubiously when she entered, clearly expecting the worst. Her eyebrows rose slowly but steadily as she saw the organized and purposeful bustling of the cooks, the cheerfully helping youngsters setting table, the soft croon of Norik as he strummed on his gitar. Her eyes narrowed as she spotted Terin.
“I thought you said she had ten Turns.”
“She had, when we first came to Igen,” Fiona said. “We were there for three Turns, so she’s nearly fourteen Turns now, even if her birth was just over ten Turns ago.”
“Well, ten or fourteen,” Shaneese said, “she carries herself well.”
Terin smiled as she spotted Fiona and pranced over to her, gesticulating wildly around the room.
“I don’t know where they all came from but they saved the day!” Terin said as she sketched a salute toward Fiona. Her smile dropped a bit as she added in an undertone, “They’re all so quiet, though.”
“I don’t like noise in my kitchen,” Shaneese said. Terin glanced at her inquiringly and the older woman unbent enough to extend a hand, saying, “Shaneese, headwoman of Telgar Weyr.”
“Oh, by the First Egg, that’s a relief!” Terin said, shaking the woman’s hand gladly. She gave Fiona a frank look as she said, “I was afraid I’d never manage all these people by myself.”
“The Weyrwoman says you managed a whole Weyr by yourself for three Turns,” Shaneese said, nodding in Fiona’s direction.
“I did,” Terin agreed, “but I had only dragons and their riders to handle, not thousands of women.”
Shaneese looked at Fiona questioningly.
“We were the only women to go back in time to Igen,” she explained.
“If it weren’t for Mother Karina and the traders—”
“You knew Mother Karina?” Shaneese demanded, her brows bristling.
“Of course!” Terin exclaimed. “She had the most marvelous recipes for hot weather foods.” Terin smiled in memory as she added, “Of course, as time went on, I managed to come up with a few of my own.”
Her expression faded to one of surprise as Shaneese spun on her heels and left the cavern.
“What did I say?” Terin asked, looking crushed. Fiona could only shake her head. She’d sensed a feeling of pity and sadness from Shaneese just before the Telgar headwoman had rushed off, but couldn’t comprehend the reason behind it.
They stood there, perplexed, for only a few moments before Shaneese returned, carrying a small box in her arms.
“I was asked to hold this for you,” Shaneese told them in a small voice as she placed the box down on a nearby table and gestured for them to come over. “She said I’d know when the time was right,” Shaneese continued, shaking her head sadly, “but I never expected—” she broke off and nodded toward the box. “You’re to open it.”
Terin stared at her, open-mouthed.
“Both of you,” Shaneese said, gesturing to Fiona impatiently.
Together, Terin and Fiona lifted the lid of the box. Inside were two small envelopes made of embroidered fabric. One was marked “Terin,” the other “Fiona.”
Shaneese saw the labels. “I guessed right,” she said with some relief in her voice. Fiona glanced at her and Shaneese explained, “I never looked inside.”
Fiona handed the first to Terin and slowly picked up the second. The scent off the envelope was instantly recognizable.
“Mother Karina?” Fiona asked, glancing toward Shaneese. Shaneese nodded. “She used to trade with us. When—just before she passed, she asked me to keep this. She said I would know who to give it to and when.”
Fiona snorted. “She always liked being secretive.”
“She was my grandmother.”
“Mother Karina was your grandmother?”
“Yes.”
“So you knew Tenniz?” Terin asked.
“He’s the reason I came here,” Shaneese said with a tone of resentment in her voice.
“Tenniz, is he still—?”
Fiona’s question was cut off by Shaneese’s curt headshake. She gestured brusquely toward Fiona’s envelope. “Open it.”
Fumbled-fingered, Fiona undid the string that was looped around the button that held the envelope closed. Inside she found a small parchment and a gold brooch. It was shaped like a harp.
She eyed it critically for a moment: The workmanship was both brilliant and unmistakable—Zenor had made it.
She glanced at the note and her breath caught.
I am sorry I cannot give this to you in person, the note read. But I knew that we would not meet again. Tenniz saw it. He said to tell you that it will all turn out right. Love, Mother.
Beside her, Terin sobbed and clasped something to her breast. As Fiona’s eyes fell on her, she turned and extended her hand to her. “I don’t understand,” Terin said with a sob, as she indicated the small gold trinket, “this should be yours.”
It was a gold fitting for a riding harness, in the shape of a queen dragon soaring upward.
“What does the note say?” Fiona asked, wondering if perhaps the labels had been switched and showing Terin her harper’s brooch.
Terin gestured to the note that lay on the table. Fiona looked down and read, “ ‘This is yours and no other’s.’ ”
Fiona felt a shiver as she read the note—a shiver of excitement and hope. Mother Karina had sent her a message with the two notes: The message was one of hope.
“What?” Terin demanded, taking in the look on Fiona’s face.
“I think you should keep it,” Fiona told her. She glanced toward Shaneese. “And I’m proud to meet Mother Karina’s granddaughter.”
“She spoke of you,” Shaneese said, her voice a whisper, her eyes filled with tears. Fiona gave her an inquiring look. “She said that when it seemed the darkest, hope would come and that it would be borne by someone she knew and loved.” She met Fiona’s eyes as she added, “Tenniz told her.”
Fiona was still absorbing that when Terin piped up. “There’s another envelope here.”
Both Shaneese and Fiona glanced over at the small box in surprise. At Shaneese’s insistence, Fiona retrieved the envelope. It was labeled: Lorana.
