“Oh, please, let’s land by Xhinna!” Terin said, as she spotted the weyrgirl. “Wait until she sees that I’m taller than her now!”

Three Turns. Three days. Xhinna had been her best friend before she’d left for Igen, but much had happened since, and Fiona realized that Xhinna had become a memory, nearly lost in all that time. Now Xhinna was only three days older, while Fiona had aged three Turns. Could they just pick up where they had left off? Or start anew?

Seeing Cisca, Fort’s Weyrwoman, walking toward her as she leaped down from Talenth aroused further apprehension. At Igen, Fiona had been a Weyrwoman among boys and injured riders. Could she now return to her junior role under Cisca? It would be safe, she knew. It would be easy, too. But the part of her that stored and cherished the images of her father and Kindan, both so strong and determined, urged her to do more. And then Fiona wondered: Were leaders always scared?

If it was any warmer down in the Weyr Bowl, Fiona couldn’t tell it from the cold stares she received. She couldn’t place the reaction at first, until she realized: They didn’t recognize her.

Terin’s hand slipped into hers and Fiona guessed that the younger girl was coming to the same realization. Terin waved her free hand at Xhinna. “Xhinna, it’s me!”

The weyrgirl turned in their direction, her blue eyes sad and careworn.

“She looks like she lost her best friend,” Terin said to Fiona.

“She has,” Cisca said, having gotten close enough to overhear. Fiona looked at her, surprised that she was nearly eye level with the Weyrwoman. “Three days ago the weyrlings and—”

Even Cisca didn’t know who she was. Fiona felt a lump in her throat. It was hard to speak. “Me, Weyrwoman.”

“The gold rider brought us,” Terin said, glancing up to Cisca and then quickly away, her eyes drifting back to Xhinna.

Cisca was staring intently at Fiona, studying her face. Then she let out a sob. “Fiona?” She grabbed Fiona and clutched her tightly, bruisingly, and Fiona felt guilty as the Weyrwoman’s hot tears rained down on her. “We thought—” She pushed away from Fiona, her face clouding as anger replaced relief.

“I brought them back, Cisca,” Fiona said hurriedly, waving an arm to the riders and dragons behind her, hoping to avoid the Weyrwoman’s wrath. “They’re ready to fight. All of them.”

Cisca looked beyond her to the riders and dragons in the Weyr Bowl. “The weyrlings?”

“Trained and ready,” Fiona said, letting justifiable pride creep into her voice. This much she had done. She had fought, she had succeeded, she had overcome her own fears and kept them hidden from all: She had been a Weyrwoman.