“Seban has reminded me that you are the senior rider here,” Fiona said. H’nez nodded, his expression blank. “So, until Talenth rises, you have the duties of the Weyrleader.”

Again, the tall, lanky bronze rider nodded.

“There’s a Fall in three days’ time,” H’nez said. “Lower Telgar.”

“I’m sure that we can get help.”

“We’ll need to visit the Holds and Crafts before then,” H’nez observed. “To let them know that they are protected.”

“We should go to the Smithcrafthall and see if we can get some of those new flamethrowers,” Fiona said.

H’nez nodded in agreement.

“But our most immediate concern is housing our dragons and riders,” he said.

“They could stay in the Hatching Grounds,” Fiona suggested.

H’nez shook his head. “That would make their stay here seem temporary, and it would probably upset the weyrfolk.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“It is a custom of Fort Weyr,” H’nez began slowly, “to settle the remains of a lost dragon and rider as quickly as possible, then reallocate their weyr.”

“But they’ve just lost so many!” Fiona cried in horror at the thought.

“I don’t know what the tradition is here,” H’nez told her. “We should find out and honor it.”

“I could look in the Records …” Fiona trailed off as she realized what that would entail: entering the Weyrwoman’s quarters.

“I could come with you, if you’d like,” H’nez offered.

Fiona shook her head reflexively. “It’s my job.”

“Then, I’ll leave you to it,” H’nez said, turning back to the Kitchen Cavern. He paused just a moment, before turning back and asking, “You’ll inform the other bronzes?”

He meant their riders. Fiona nodded, sent a quick message to Talenth who sent it on to the Zirenth and Ladirth.

“I’ve told them.”

H’nez paused a moment longer, seeming about to say something, then turned and strode away purposefully on his long, lanky legs.

As she made her way farther into the dark corridors behind the Kitchen Cavern, she heard a gitar being strummed in a slow mournful tune: Norik practicing his ballad.

She turned to where, at Fort Weyr, there were the larger teaching and play rooms. She was rewarded with the sound of voices in the distance and increased her pace, thinking back to when she had met Xhinna Turns past and yet not so long ago.

As she saw the dim light of glows softly filling the corridor, she drew herself up, prepared to make a grand entrance, in the tradition impressed upon her by her father.

She took a step, and stopped. These people are hurting, she thought, letting her shoulders settle. They want words of comfort, not grand displays.

She took a deep breath to settle her nerves, then walked into the room. Silence fell but Fiona pretended not to notice, her father’s words echoing in her head, “Leaders lead.”