“It was a brilliant flight,” Ellor agreed with a firm nod. She drained her klah and gave Fiona a sly look, saying, “Of course, we all celebrated.”

“Celebrated!”

“Well, you know what I mean,” Ellor replied.

“A good flight.”

Ellor nodded.

“And much needed.”

Ellor’s responding nod was emphatic. “With all those sick and our casualties, it’s been the only glimmer of hope since before the fire-lizards were banished.”

“Thread falls at Nerat and Upper Crom tomorrow,” M’kury remarked conversationally as the wingleaders sat at dinner that night.

“Benden and Telgar,” H’nez said dismissively.

“I thought Benden was understrength,” M’kury persisted, glancing at K’lior. The Weyrleader made no response, his attention focused fondly on Cisca; they were holding hands.

“Benden’s injured and older weyrlings timed it,” M’valer reported. When the others looked at him in surprise, he added, nonplussed, “M’tal contacted me with the news. They have thirty-two healed dragons and riders, twenty-five weyrlings now old enough to fight, and—” He paused dramatically, shifting his gaze to catch K’lior’s eyes. “—ten recovered from the sickness.”

“Ten?”

“Recovered?” Fiona and Tintoval echoed in unison.

“That’s what he said,” M’valer affirmed.

“But that—”

“That’s the first we’ve heard of recoveries,” K’lior said, glancing hopefully at Cisca.

“They lost over sixty and they’ve got more still sick—at least forty,” Cisca replied grimly.

“Ten out of a hundred isn’t so good,” M’kury observed.

“It’s better than none,” H’nez and Fiona objected at the same time. Fiona shot a glance at the bronze rider; he seemed as dismayed by their unified response as she was.

“They’ve nearly four wings for their Threadfall,” M’valer said, sounding hopeful.

“And Telgar’s strength is more than enough,” M’kury said by way of agreement.

“We’ve nearly two weeks before our next Fall,” H’nez remarked.

Fiona couldn’t decipher his tone—was he pleased or upset? Maybe both, she decided, glancing at him thoughtfully.

Fiona noticed Cisca absently chewing on the edge of her finger, a sure sign that the Weyrwoman was worried about something.

“Weyrwoman?” Fiona said, raising an eyebrow inquiringly.

“What is it, Cisca?” K’lior asked with a nod toward Fiona—grateful that she’d commented on the Weyrwoman’s mood.

“It’s not our place, I know,” Cisca said, forcing her hands under her thighs, “but I’m worried about Telgar.”

“Worried, why?” M’kury asked.

“They’ve got the strength; they even sent their injured back in time to Igen,” H’nez said.

“They’ve still got sick dragons, don’t they?” Cisca said, nodding toward K’lior.

“They do,” K’lior said slowly, his expression grim.

“They’re not going to fly with them, are they?” Fiona asked, turning to Tintoval for confirmation. When the healer shrugged, Fiona turned her questioning look to Cisca. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“It is,” Cisca agreed. “M’tal tried it once …”