Something told her that Talenth had fallen asleep, and Fiona realized with a start that the arousal that had kept her so tense had drained away. Melirth had been flown by Rineth—she could feel it. It was a good thing, she decided even as she got the feeling that H’nez was angrier than ever, up in his weyr, drinking himself into a dazed stupor. She could go back now; she probably should.

Rebelliously, she bent back over the Records. She paused when she came upon a harper’s ballad, part of the Teaching Songs:

Count three months and more,
And five heated weeks,
A day of glory and
In a month, who seeks?

That sounded like mating. But “a day of glory”—was that the mating flight or Hatching?

She frowned, picking up another Record she’d placed close by and bringing it into the light. Her frown deepened.

“Three months and more”—that was the time from mating to clutching. Five heated weeks was easy to guess: the time from clutching to Hatching—the “day of glory.” So what did “in a month, who seeks” mean?

In a month, weyrlings could go between? Seek?

Fiona sat back in her chair, out of the light and the heat, her face set sourly as she thought back, trying to remember what Talenth had been like at the end of her first month out of the shell. She shook her head irritably; she couldn’t imagine Talenth going between then.

But you didn’t try.

Fiona raised her head, glancing toward where Talenth was sleeping as she tried to identify the source of the thought. Was it her? Was it Talenth? Was it someone else?

She rose from her chair and carefully piled the Records together, placing them back in their correct locations with all the care she’d take to oil her dragon or run her Weyr.

Run her Weyr. The thought staggered Fiona. She stopped dead in her tracks.

She had been back at Fort Weyr for less than five days before she had returned here. Was she so used to being in charge that she could no longer cooperate with others, could only be the Weyrwoman?

There was only one way to find out: by trying. Igen Weyr was empty now; there was no one here who needed her.

Talenth, Fiona called loudly, rousing the dozing dragon. Let’s go.

Are we going to see Nuellask? Talenth wondered even as she launched herself from her perch and glided down toward their old quarters.

No, we’re going back to the Weyr, Fiona said. They’ll need us there.

One thing she had read over and over in her perusing of the Records was how useful the other queen riders proved on the day of a mating flight—they were the only ones not present during the emotional turmoil of the union and so still able to manage the needs of the Weyr.