Her eyes dancing at this revelation, Fiona nodded in agreement, keeping her eyes on T’mar while their footsteps faded away. She turned then, to look at his bandaged leg. Yes, Bekka was not mistaken, the leg would need re-bandaging soon. Fiona frowned as she compared T’mar’s still body with the lively, energetic dragonrider she knew.

Kindan’s words came back to her: “A person who doesn’t regain consciousness in the first day rarely survives at all.”

But if T’mar didn’t survive, what would happen to Zirenth? Would the bronze remain, bonded to Lorana and Kindan? And what of the Weyr? How would the riders react to having someone like Kindan, a respected harper indeed but no dragonrider, in the position of Weyrleader?

Would Kindan stay? Would Lorana want to stay, under those circumstances? Why did they want to stay now, anyway?

For a moment Fiona regretted Talenth’s choice of mate and the strange outcome that had produced.

But was it Talenth, really? Fiona asked herself, recalling her thoughts from the day before. How much of the outcome had been her own desire?

You love Kindan, she told herself. You always have.

Ah, but how much of it was because he was safe? she taunted herself. How much because he was always there, out of reach, a constant reminder of things lost, of hopes never achieved?

He had Lorana now.

And you would poach his love away from her? she chided herself.

It’s only poaching if you refuse to share, the thought came to her with the force of the spoken word. This was not herself, Fiona realized, this was Lorana.

I would never hurt you!

I know, Lorana responded. Fiona got the impression that Lorana was straining, exerting herself, and needed to focus solely on the events immediately before her. With a soft touch, Fiona released the attachment, with the gentle wish that Lorana be happy.

“What am I?” Fiona asked herself aloud. Did other queen riders behave this way? Had there ever been such a connection? What would happen? How could she handle this?

Below her, she heard a change in T’mar’s breathing and looked down. The bronze rider’s face was contorted in a mixture of pain and pleasure. Touched by his pain and wishing to help, Fiona used her free hand to stroke his cheek.

“Fiona.” The word was the barest whisper.

“I’m here,” she assured him even as her heart leaped and her mind struggled with yet another worry: Do I love him?

“Three times,” T’mar breathed.

“Yes, three times,” Fiona agreed quietly. “Melirth rises. Zirenth is there.”

“Cisca?” T’mar’s brow furrowed, his expression troubled. “I love her.”

“Of course,” Fiona said. T’mar’s expression eased, his lips curling up slightly. Why shouldn’t he love her?

Just then, a wave of emotion engulfed Fiona. A murmur from T’mar proved that he had felt it, too.