“Indeed we do,” Fiona agreed. With an approving glance at T’mar’s grasp of his riding straps, she added, “And we need Weyrleaders, too!”

“She won’t rise again until after her clutch hatches,” T’mar reminded her as Zirenth turned away from the ledge and moved out into the Weyr Bowl proper.

“So keep safe and fly well, Weyrleader!” Fiona called, waving merrily after him.

T’mar waved back over his shoulder and then, with two bounds, Zirenth was aloft, pumping mightily toward the Star Stones and being greeted cheerfully by T’mar’s fighting wing. The remaining wings of Telgar Weyr joined them and together they winked between to drill in preparation for the next Threadfall.

After they were gone, Fiona’s expression slipped. The clutching would change things, she was certain. But the steady erosion of the Weyrs’ strength had only been recently reversed by the recovery of the first of the wounded.

Telgar Weyr now had—with T’mar and the other five recovered dragonriders—five full-strength fighting wings, a full wing less than they’d had when the Weyrs had redistributed their strength. And while Telgar was the worst off, none were all that much stronger—as both Fiona and T’mar had taken pains to point out to H’nez, who’d resumed command of the fighting wings after J’lantir’s sudden death.

The wiry, dour bronze rider had grown so distraught over the losses that Jeila had begged Fiona to intervene.

“I’ve heard nothing but good about you,” T’mar had told H’nez when Fiona brought the issue to his attention. “I’ll be hard pressed to match your ability when I return to health.”

“I wish you had recovered a month ago,” H’nez confessed.

“But I didn’t,” T’mar said. “And you’ve not complained in all that time.” He gave H’nez a grin. “Keep up the good work, I’ll soon relieve you!”

T’mar’s encouraging talk was still not enough for H’nez and the bronze rider grumbled that when T’mar recovered, he’d request to be allowed to return to Fort Weyr.

“No, you won’t!” Jeila had told him heatedly. “You’ll stay here, with me, where you belong.”

And that, as Jeila told Fiona later, was that. Although, Fiona thought with a grin, perhaps Jeila had produced some extra inducements as she had confided all this as a prelude to announcing her pregnancy.

“It’s still too early to tell,” Jeila had cautioned when she’d shared the news. “And I’m worried.”

Fiona raised her eyebrows inquiringly.

Jeila gestured to her petite frame and thin waist. “I’m worried that the way I’m built, I might not carry to term.”

“Wasn’t your mother much the same as you?” Fiona had asked. When Jeila had nodded in response, Fiona had continued, “And how many children did she have?”

“Four,” Jeila admitted. “But she miscarried the first.”

“Well,” Fiona had replied, “we’ll guarantee you the best midwife.”

“I want Bekka,” Jeila told her.

“She’s not a midwife.”

“Her and her mother, then,” Jeila had replied.

“I’ll see what we can do,” Fiona said. “After all, I’ve reason to believe that Lorana may have need of one soon.”