DragonStorm Ch. 01

Rejoice, my heart, leave off the quest,

No further need we roam.

But spread our wings to mount the sky,

and claim the Weyr our home!

9th Pass -- Year 25 - June

(Ista Weyr, June 9th)

It wasn't much to look at. Six looping strands of braided thread, curving across a purple caduceus in three concentric circles, ending in an ornate knot at the base. What amused him were the colors, bright orange and black, rather than the soft blue and black he'd expected to wear.

He should have known something was unusual at last evening's gather. There was no particular occasion; no harvest, no wedding, nothing. The Masterhealer had been there, and his friends from Eastern, including the irrepressible Mirrim and N'rad. Their presence at Fort should have warned him. Even the Benden Weyrleaders had come. The only person conspicuously absent was his own Weyrleader, but that was to be expected. Nursing a deep Threadscore didn't lend itself to socializing.

Selana's behavior had raised his curiosity but, once the Benden wine started to flow, he hadn't lent much credence to his suspicions. He still hadn't learned his lesson. She was laughing at him before he realized he was surrounded by Mastersmith Fandarel and his slightly demented brown-riding cohorts, T'marek and N'rad. Masterhealer Oldive did well to get to the celebration's purpose early.

The Craftmaster himself presented the emblem of office, carefully woven in Ista Weyr's colors. Masterhealer! Darian had never held any actual rank in the crafthall, never asked for it, although he'd worked closely with the Masterhealer and was married to a journeyman. Without warning, they had given him the cherished rank of Master. Oldive had indicated to the assembly that the Cygnan was the first Master of Cardio-Vascular and Pulmonary Surgery. A new field had been recognized. Indeed, an auspicious night.

A soft chuckle broke through the daydream. He turned to see his wife grinning while she nursed their six-month old son. "Don't spend all day staring at it, Masterhealer. I still have to sew it on. Besides, you have a patient to check, unless Threadscores are too minor for you now."

"Watch your tongue, journeyman!" he cracked back, "Unless you want to find yourself assigned to High Reaches."

"Oh?" she asked, eyebrow arched. "And who would protect you from that brown-riding lunatic?" Both laughed aloud, the young mother's voice erupting in a bubbling giggle. Their shared humor and affection elicited a satisfied chirrup from the tawny feline reclining at the woman's feet. She reached down to scratch the tufted ears, drawing a contented purr. Across the room, crystal eyes narrowed.

"You never do that for me," Darian complained.

With a quiet cough, the journeyman glanced down at the infant. "Really? Then, where did he come from?" Her soft smile revealed the enchantment she found in the child, especially in the clear blue eyes that gazed up at her lovingly. You could lose yourself in those piercing orbs, with the same elliptical pupils as his father. Whether or not the fangs would grow, only time would tell.

Darian watched his wife's expression change from wonder to admiration, never losing the tenderness that had drawn him to her scarcely five turns past. He let a smile touch his lips, thinking back to their first days together. Pulled from their home planet by the desperation of an injured dragon, he'd been confused, dazed and embittered. She had given him hope, given him stability. Now, she'd given him a second child. The first, a daughter, bore not only the eyes of an avion but, unlike her brother, fully functional wings. Like himself, Mareka displayed a savage love of open air, the dizzying joy of flight. As he thought of the girl, his brow furrowed.

"Have you seen Mareka?"

"Of course," Selana snorted. "She's with Astaroth again. They were diving in the bay a few minutes ago."

"Maybe this time they'll bring some back."

"Maybe it's snowing in Igen."

'Astaroth likes fish,' Loki added hopefully. 'When he fishes, he doesn't get angry.'

Darian rolled his eyes toward the roof of the weyr, shaking his head. 'Loki,' he corrected the stalker, 'Astaroth stays angry. When he fishes, he just gets angry on a full stomach.'

Selana rose from her hardwood bench, crossing to the small crib at the corner of the sleeping chamber. Tiny eyes drooped happily, a full belly making sleep the next imperative. She placed the infant on his stomach, pulling a light covering across him. "He'll be asleep in a minute," she assured her mate. "Let's check on G'dened."

The avion watched as she smoothed her tunic back into place, then ran a hand across her hair. Silently, he glided across the chamber, easing his arms around her. His lips slid down her hair to the back of her neck, then forward. She gave a startled yelp as he nipped the side of her throat. "You sure you want to go just now?" he whispered.

"Now, Masterhealer!" she insisted. "I've got enough holes in me for the moment." Despite the mild rejection, the girl turned in his embrace. Warm, moist lips met his. Her answer was no, but the gleam in her eyes said later could be a different story. He had time.

Hand in hand, they stepped out of their living chambers into the maze of tunnels that comprised Ista Weyr. Despite its complexity, the host volcano was small, and the passage to the Weyrleader's quarters was a short one. In minutes, they were looking at the tall, tallow-headed man who directed Ista's fighting dragons. Presently, he didn't have the appearance of one in authority. The Weyrleader was flat on his back, cowering from the glare of a furious yellow-haired woman.

"Good afternoon, Lord G'dened, Lady Cosira. Are we interrupting something?"

"Yes," the Weyrwoman hissed, looking over her shoulder at the healers. "You're interrupting a murder. His!" She turned back to the prostrate dragonman, hands placed threateningly on hips. "I've a good mind to dress that score myself! With salt water!"

Selana and Darian exchanged glances. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "This ought to be interesting," he whispered.

"Honest, Cosira," the Weyrleader pleaded, "we didn't go between. It was just a straight flight, to the hold and back. We were only gone a few hours."

"Likely story," came the sharp retort.

Selana's giggle prompted the queenrider to turn savagely. She glared at the late arrivals. The spark in her azure eyes made it apparent she was enjoying herself greatly. Darian shrugged his shoulders. He wasn't about to interfere.

"Masterhealer," G'dened implored, "tell her I didn't hurt myself. She even scared Barnath off!" At that statement, the physicians craned their necks to peer into the outer weyr. The big bronze was nowhere in sight. Darian chuckled. This was getting better by the minute.

"How can I reassure her," he dissembled, "when I don't know what it is you've done?"

"He rode that winged garbage bucket to Ista Hold last night, after he was told to stay in bed and rest!" She spun on him again. "You wherry-brained, wher-beaked idiot! What are you trying to do, make B'dor Weyrleader? What in the shell does it take to keep you in bed?"

This time, G'dened's eyes flashed. For the first time, the healers saw a smile on his face. He looked at his weyrmate with equal intensity, replying savagely, "You!"

The fire drained from Cosira, her jaw dropping. Selana turned bright red as Darian started to laugh. The Istan queenrider stared from her mate to the Masterhealer to the giggling journeyman.

"You two," she sputtered, glaring at the healers, "you two are as bad as he is! You're impossible!" She gave an exasperated squeal and stalked out of the weyr. Turning toward the queen's chambers, her voice echoed back. "Caylith, get me out of here!"

Darian turned to his Weyrleader with a wry grin. "Violent, isn't she?"

The bronzerider lay back, a content expression on his face. G'dened locked his fingers behind his neck. With a thoroughly evil grin, he confirmed the suggestion. "Oh, yeah!" The gleam in his eyes made Selana blush again.

"Arm seems to be doing nicely," the Masterhealer allowed, pointing at the Thread-scored shoulder. "You have plenty of mobility."

"What, this?" G'dened grimaced, flexing his red-lined arm. "I'm fine, really. I could have made the gather last night, but your journeyman here was being over-cautious." He smiled up at the female healer, accepting her good-natured retort.

The wound was a nasty one, starting at the base of the neck, stretching down the back across his left shoulder blade, forward across the collarbone where it curved to an end under the arm at the fourth rib. Although it had healed nicely, the healer's prohibition against travel had been a sage one. Such a wound, exacerbated by the near absolute cold of between, could easily have proven fatal.

"I disagree, my friend. You're well enough for straight flight. I'll certify that now, with my associate's concurrence. However, between is out of the question. The scar is still livid." He finished by glancing meaningfully at his mate.

Selana nodded soberly. "Straight flight, yes. He's fit enough. Fighting Thread, no. Not yet."

"But Masterhealer, I really am alright. I can lead the Weyr next Fall."

"Your attending physician has made her assessment. As you remain under her expert care, you will continue to follow her instructions." Darian controlled the urge to smile at the Weyrleader's petulant reception of the ruling. G'dened wasn't having a good day. "Either that, or we can leave you to Cosira's tender mercies."

That alternative drew an even deeper groan. "Can I at least sit up and be a proper host?"

"I think that's acceptable," Selana grinned.

The regard she and the bronzerider exchanged caused the avion to hook one fang over his lower lip. Either she was fueling his well-documented jealousy, or there was something about these two he wanted to know.

G'dened indicated the small table, then called down the service shaft for wine. He drew three glasses from the covered recess next to the small lift, joining his guests on the benches. "How's Seradan?"

"Asleep," the journeyman replied. "He's growing like a dragon."

"And eating like one," the proud father appended, although he tried hard to act the maligned husband. G'dened caught the inference and turned curious eyes on the young woman.

"Really, Selana, you should take better care of him. Or am I taking too much of your attention?" He winked at her with exaggerated suggestiveness, watching the Cygnan from the corner of his eye.

"G'dened!" The journeyman caught her breath, pulling back from the table. Her jaw dropped while she turned wide, innocent eyes on Darian.

He stared at her thoughtfully, eyes narrowed, fingertips drumming a rapid, irritated rhythm. The twitch at the corner of his lip and the exposed tip of one fang further confused her.

"You don't believe him, do you?" she cried.

The slow rise and fall of his chest were almost as intimidating as his stare. She watched an icy gaze travel from her to the Weyrleader, carefully scrutinizing the Istan. She knew that Darian considered the bronzerider a potential rival, but she hadn't expected G'dened to play up to the suspicion.

"No," the Cygnan said quietly, "I don't think I do. But I have been gone a lot recently, and this score has received an unusual amount of attention. Successfully, I must add." He gave her a formal bow that did nothing to relieve the discomfort she felt.

G'dened chuckled. He reached across the table to take the Cygnan by the arm. "Don't take things so seriously, Masterhealer! Much as I'd like to, the only way Selana would let me get next to her was if she were unconscious. Somehow, I don't think that would be much fun."

Darian relaxed, satisfied. He shared a quick look with his wife. "Oh, I don't know. There've been times I thought she WAS unconscious."

"Darian!" Selana squealed, turning blood red. He wasn't sure if it was embarrassment or anger, but it was genuine. The resounding slap to his shoulder seemed angry enough. "Betrella was right. You dragonriders are all alike!" She shot to her feet and stormed out of the weyr.

"Oops," G'dened breathed, peering at his visitor. "Did we just make a mistake?"

"I don't know," Darian smiled, staring after his departed consort. "I should know better. She's never liked those kind of comments." His thoughts were interrupted by a squeaking rumble.

As the noise increased in volume, G'dened rose and walked to the service shaft. The sound halted abruptly, and he withdrew a tray with a corked flask on it.

"Why do they bother with a tray?" the Weyrleader asked rhetorically. He removed the wineskin, starting the lift on the return trip. Moving back to the table, two glasses were promptly filled with a tart white vintage.

"To your continued success," the bronzerider lifted his glass. "My apologies for not being there last night."

The healer sipped at his libation. "No need, Weyrleader. You didn't miss much."

"That's not what I heard," G'dened grinned. "I'm told it was rather entertaining."

"From Selana, no doubt?" The avion's tone was bitter, almost accusatory.

G'dened lowered his glass to the table. The smile disappeared from his face. In its place was the unreadable guise of a man used to leadership, used to handling difficult situations. The signs of strain between his Weyrhealers were unexpected and unsettling. "Darian," he said quietly, "if T'marek couldn't land her, there's nobody at Ista, including me, who's any threat to you. I've never seen anyone as devoted to another person as she is to you. What's bothering you?"

The Cygnan took a long swallow from his goblet. He kept his eyes averted. Perhaps, the realization that he harbored such concerns was more troublesome than the suspicions themselves. After all, Selana had never given him any reason to doubt her. Much the opposite, she was almost annoyingly possessive.

"I don't know," he finally answered. A wry smile creased his face. "T'marek's just a brownrider. I'm more concerned about you bronzeriders around my queen."

"Not this bronzerider. I've got enough trouble with one queen."

G'dened caught the avion's eye, sharing a silent laugh. Both men reached for their glasses. The Weyrleader lifted his high, indicating a toast. "To queens and their riders," he said. "May they fly high and far."

Darian suppressed a snicker. Mirroring the action, he added, "And may we have the patience to deal with them."

Both men allowed themselves a hearty chuckle before concluding the salutation. Their glasses returned to the table empty.

"If you don't mind my asking, what made you a healer? Seems a strange choice of professions."

Darian agreed. "When you grow up like I did, you learn to take care of yourself. Either that or you die. My team and I were a collection of outcasts. The only reason the agency kept us around was that everyone was afraid of us, and no one would cross us. Unfortunately, we had a hard time getting help if we needed it. Since I'm the only team member with fingers, I learned medicine. At first, it was by necessity, but I enjoyed it. Cygnan physicians were happy to teach me. It meant they didn't have to treat any of us. I learned more medicine in five cycles than most physicians learn in a lifetime."

"How old were you when you started?"

"I'm not sure. Fourteen, maybe. Maybe a bit younger."

G'dened nodded. The description sounded like what happened to many Weyrhealers, medicine by crisis rather than choice. "Didn't they name you Master of cardio-something-or-other surgery?"

"Yeah. Cardio-vascular and pulmonary surgery. I dealt with more injuries than illnesses. Our greatest risk was bleeding to death or being crippled by a fall or impact. I learned a lot about bleeding and breathing, cracked ribs and the sort, but not as much as I should have about illnesses. Master Oldive is the final word there."

He paused for a moment, reflecting on the Craftmaster's abilities. "In fact, considering me a master next to that man is absurd. I'm just lucky that the basic physiology of Pernese and Cygnans is so similar. The difference in blood chemistry is easy to adjust to."

"Hmmm. If you say so. At any rate, congratulations." The Weyrleader refilled the glasses and lifted his in salute. Each took a long sip. G'dened turned thoughtful eyes toward the outer weyr, as though trying to see through the rock walls. After a long pause, he looked back at the avion. "This does create a unique problem."

"How's that?"

"You and Astaroth are valuable members of our fighting strength. Are your duties as Masterhealer going to cause you to withdraw as a Thread fighter?"

Darian inclined his head, considering that notion for the first time. Despite the title, he really didn't see where he fit into the Healer Hall's overall picture. The recognition was gratifying, but the reality of his skills and availability would make the honor essentially titular. At least for the immediate future, he couldn't see it interfering with his flying. "No, at least not immediately. Master Oldive didn't say how he expected me to serve the Hall. He only said I was assigned as Ista Weyr's Masterhealer."

G'dened nodded, his lips pursed in a thoughtful scowl. "Good. But, if you should have to leave for any protracted period of time, will Astaroth fly with us without you?"

"Of course. He doesn't need me. Shells, man, I fly with the queens' wing! Nasty freelances."

"I know. I'm just concerned about communicating with him, much less controlling him."

Darian laughed sourly, getting an irritated glare from across the table. He shook his head. "Nobody controls Astaroth, not even me. If you were going to have problems with him, you'd have had them by now. If you need to communicate with him, have Barnath call Ruth. The little white can hear him." For a moment, the avion was silent. Almost to himself, he added, "I can't believe how much he likes that little guy. Astaroth doesn't like anybody."

G'dened sighed, more with resignation than reassurance. "Okay," he agreed, "that'll have to do. I don't guess I can expect anything else. So, let's get down to business."

"Speaking of which," the Cygnan directed, "why did you go to the hold last night?"

"Lord Warbret called for me. Actually, he wanted you, but he settled for me. That son of his is at it again."

"Seiten? What's he done now?"

"He's sick again. Bilko says he just won't listen, doesn't give himself enough recovery time. Lord Warbret's afraid he's going to seriously injure himself."

Darian shook his head. He didn't care much for Seiten. However, the Istan Lord Holder was a loyal supporter of the Weyr. He'd even remained neutral during the abortive rebellion against Benden in the turns just before the Pass. Accordingly, the Weyrs and Crafthalls supported Warbret. Age was creeping up on him now, and many wondered which of his sons would receive the Lord's blessing as heir. Like Darian, most hoped it wouldn't be the arrogant Seiten. "Bilko's a good healer. Why do they need me?"

G'dened grimaced, echoing the healer's disdain of the situation. The young lord wasn't a major problem, just a constant irritant. He always seemed to pop up at the wrong time. This time, he'd placed everyone in an uncomfortable position. "Warbret's as tired of this as we are," the Weyrleader explained. "Problem is, Seiten doesn't think a journeyman knows enough to treat him. Bilko's pretty well fed up. They both think a Masterhealer will carry enough weight to make the thready little clown listen."

"Alright," Darian said, lips pulled into a tight frown. "When did you tell him I'd be there?"

"I didn't. I said I'd try to get you to go sometime this evening." G'dened had the appearance of someone hoping to be taken off the hook. He lifted an eyebrow, watching the avion expectantly.