“It’s because you conquer your fear,” T’mar spoke up from his bed. All eyes turned toward him. “You still feel it, but you don’t let it rule you.”

“I don’t know about that,” Fiona said. The thought flustered her and she sought a means to divert herself from it. “Regardless, I think that we should get everyone back soonest, including Bekka and Seban.”

“I don’t think Talenth is up to eight,” Kindan said, a quick gesture including himself and Lorana in the count.

“Zirenth needs exercise,” T’mar said. Kindan and Lorana turned to him in surprise. T’mar met the ex–queen rider’s eyes, saying, “If you wish, I’m certain he’ll be happy to carry you.”

“And we’d like to work on this experiment,” Fiona added with a nod toward T’mar for his planning. “We’ve been trying to see if we can mix riders and dragons.”

“Uninjured riders paired with uninjured dragons?” Kindan asked, glancing from T’mar to Fiona and back. He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “That’s an interesting proposition.”

“So go test it,” T’mar said.

“Some more?” Lorana asked. “Remember that we already brought Zirenth to Fort Weyr.”

T’mar’s eyes narrowed. “Really?” he looked distracted as he probed his memories. “I hadn’t realized.”

“You’ve been through a lot,” Fiona told him. “You’re lucky to be alive and, if you don’t get some rest”—she gestured for the others to leave—“I’ll kill you.”

T’mar’s lips twitched but he closed his eyes, resolutely following her orders.

Fiona left it to Lorana and Kindan to organize the loading of Zirenth and Talenth while she went to the Dining Cavern. She was not surprised to find Birentir at one of the pottery wheels, working the clay under the tutelage of Mekiar.

“How is he doing?” Fiona asked, startling the older healer and causing him to ruin the bowl he was forming on the spinning wheel.

“He is learning,” Mekiar replied drolly, glancing up to Fiona. “I would say that at this moment he is learning patience.”

“Good,” she replied, “see that he does.”

Birentir looked askance at her words.

“You’re staying,” she told him. Birentir’s eyes widened further in surprise. “Bekka and her father are going back to the Healer Hall and I don’t need you there causing her grief on a daily basis.”

“You would prefer me causing ‘daily grief’ here?” Birentir asked with a flash of humor.

“You won’t be causing me daily grief, healer,” Fiona assured him. She softened her tone as she confided, “I’m more worried about fighting Thread without enough dragons.”

“I’d heard,” Birentir said, rising from his chair, his expression grave. “How bad is it?”

“No one really knows,” Fiona said. She shook her head, adding, “We all know that it’s bad but we haven’t exact numbers until we can figure our losses per Fall.”

“Master Archivist Verilan could help with that.”

Fiona cocked her head at him measuringly. “So, when you get over the fact that I’m nearly the same age as your late daughter, and deal with me for myself, you are willing to think, aren’t you?”