A Fleeting Memory

Writers: Estelle
Date Posted: 13th October 2024
Series: The Missing Wingleader

Characters: M'gan, Hanayah
Description: M'gan has an unsettling encounter with a trader
Location: Dolphin Cove Weyr
Date: month 2, day 18 of Turn 12
Notes: Mentioned: K'deren

M'gan leaned against his bronze's sun-warmed hide and watched the riders
from the nine he'd been drilling disperse, most of them heading straight
for the lake or the beach. It was one of Dolphin Cove's blazingly hot
summer days, the sky blue and cloudless, and even the dragons were keen
to cool down in the water.

Since K'deren's departure he'd been trying out a few different brown and
bronzeriders leading small groups, with a view to filling the
Wingsecond's position. All had been eager and promising, but he wasn't
sure he'd found the right person yet. They were all less than ten Turns
out of weyrlinghood, and he was used to having a 'second nearer his own
generation. He'd known his old High Reaches wingsecond since their
youth. Perhaps he was being hidebound, but he wondered if he could forge
the right kind of leadership bond with someone young enough to be his son.

**That's the Pass for you,** he thought ruefully. With the Wings at full
strength, experienced wingseconds were hard to come by and jealously
guarded by their leaders. The prestige of a Weyrleader's Wing might
tempt someone, but unless his luck changed in that regard, it looked as
though he'd have to resign himself to training someone up. Young riders
from the big early-Pass clutches were plentiful, at least.

**Perhaps it's time for me to hand over to a younger man instead.** That
half-joking comment earned him a disgusted snort from Isarth. In the
bronze's opinion, he was still in his prime and proved himself by
catching many an agile green. In truth, neither of them could bear the
thought of giving up the fighting Wings.

"Wingleader?"

M'gan straightened and looked down to see a young weyrbrat eyeing him
curiously. "Yes?"

"Sir, I've got a message from one of the traders." The girl gestured
towards a group of wagons pulled up near the entrance to the lower
caverns. "She asked for a few minutes of your time?"

"My time?" He blinked, wondering what that could be about. He hadn't
ordered anything from the traders that he remembered. Was this someone
trying to sell something? "Shouldn't she go to the Headwoman?"

"She asked for you by name, sir."

Perhaps he had purchased something and forgotten about it. **Shells, I
hope I'm not losing my memory.** Or it might be about one of his
wingriders misbehaving, which was an even less welcome prospect. "All
right. Show me."

The wagons were well into the process of being unloaded, and the traders
were assisting the weyr staff to carry various boxes, sacks and rolls of
cloth into the tunnel that led to the main storerooms. He saw the new
Headwoman standing with an older man who looked like the caravan leader,
checking off items on a list. There were a couple of younger children,
too young to help, playing by a covered caravan where M'gan guessed the
traders must have their sleeping quarters. A teenage girl was sitting on
the steps, watching her younger siblings.

The bronzerider's brow creased. He couldn't recollect ever having seen
her before, and yet when he looked at her face he got the oddest feeling
that he _had_. It teased at the back of his mind, but when he tried to
focus on where it might have come from, it slipped from his grasp.

"Over there, sir." The weyrbrat gestured towards the little group.

"Thanks." M'gan found a small mark piece in his pocket for the
messenger, who hurried off before she could be snagged to help unload
the wagons. He tried again to pin down that memory, since it could be
embarrassing if he failed to recognise someone he ought, but it had
vanished. Perhaps he'd simply seen them on a previous visit. Traders did
follow the same routes.

He approached the caravan and cleared his throat. "Excuse me. I'm M'gan
of Isarth. Someone here was looking for me?"

The girl looked up. She was wearing practical traders' garb, but had
chosen a brightly coloured blouse decorated with beads at the neck and
braided her long, dark hair in an intricate style, presumably in honour
of their arrival at the Weyr. That sense of recognition echoed in his
mind again, but he couldn't place it, and she certainly didn't seem to
know him at all.

"Not me, but perhaps it was my mother?" She turned her head to the door.
"Mama!"

At her call, a woman emerged from the caravan, shading her eyes against
the bright sunlight. She was in her mid-thirties, he guessed, with a
similar appearance to her daughter - thick dark hair in a simpler braid,
sun-darkened skin and strong, elegant features.

"Oh, good afternoon, bronzerider - Wingleader," she corrected herself,
seeing his knots. "I'm sorry to bother you, but would you be M'gan,
rider of Isarth? Once of Vista Point Weyr?"

"Yes, ma'am. How can I help?"

"Well, it's a little hard to explain." She seemed disconcerted, as if
she'd been expecting someone different. "Would you mind if we took a
short walk? It won't take long."

The daughter, who'd been listening with interest, pouted. M'gan hoped
that a private chat wasn't a bad sign, but at least she hadn't started
shouting or accusing one of his riders of flirting with her daughters.
"Of course, Trader..."

"Sorry, I should have introduced myself. Hanayah, of Tirhan's caravan.
He's my father-in-law. One moment..." She ducked back inside, then
returned with a bag slung over her shoulder. It was about the size of
the pouches runners carried, but woven from scraps and patches of fabric.

"Let's walk around the lake," M'gan suggested. Hopefully, whatever it
was could be smoothed over without the formality of sitting down in his
office.

"Thank you. Haylat, stay here and look after your brothers," she told
the girl, who sighed, but did as she was told. "I hope I'm not keeping
you from your duties. I wasn't expecting you to be a Wingleader."

"Well, Vista Point was a long time ago. I have matured a bit since
then." He smiled as they strolled in the direction of the lake, though
he wasn't quite sure what to make of that. She'd clearly heard something
about him. Disreputable stories from his youth?

"Oh, no, I meant that... To tell the truth, I thought you'd be retired
by now."

M'gan couldn't help it - he burst out laughing, which only embarrassed
the trader woman even more. "I'm not that old! Plenty of dragonriders
keep flying into their sixth or seventh decade, or even longer, if they
stay fit. And most do, if they're not injured."

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to suggest...I can see you're not..."
Hanayah twisted the strap of her bag between her hands. "Perhaps I'd
better explain. I thought perhaps you might have known my family. You
see, I lost my mother a few Turns ago."

The bronzerider sobered. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. You think I might
have met her?" He wondered for a an unsettling moment if he was about to
discover another unexpected child. Could that explain the sense of
familiarity he'd felt?

"No - not exactly." She'd clearly had the same thought. "My mother
didn't, ah - know any dragonriders, not as far as I'm aware. The person
I'm thinking of is her mother. My grandmother."

"I see." M'gan wasn't sure he did, but that would explain why she'd
expected an older man. "Did you ask at Vista Point? Perhaps someone
confused me with another rider."

"I did, when we were passing through, and they said you'd long since
transferred. But that's not where I found your name." Hanayah frowned,
as if trying to grasp a puzzle she couldn't quite make out. "My mother
was part of this caravan, too. We've been a trader family as long as
anyone can remember. When she fell ill, we stopped at a hold for a
while, working in the fields for our keep, but the healer couldn't do
anything for her." She took a breath, clearly remembering a time of
great pain, and M'gan waited quietly until she spoke again. "After she
passed away, when we were clearing out her caravan, I found some papers.
One of them mentioned you."

She opened up the bag she'd been carrying, took out a folded sheet of
paper and handed it to M'gan. It felt smooth and of good quality,
something a trader might have access to but only use for a special purpose.

"Israye?" His finger brushed over the name written on the folded side.
Unlike the woman's appearance, it didn't spark any memories.

"My mother's name. My grandmother wrote it to her... You can look."

M'gan opened the letter. It was a single sheet, covered in neat writing
that flowed with a scribe's ease.

"Dear Daughter, I'm writing this for when you're old enough to
understand, in case I'm not there to tell you myself. I hope it won't be
needed, but there's been so much illness and loss this last Turn..."

His voice trailed off and he skimmed over the words. Although she'd
given him permission, it felt too personal, though it seemed mainly to
be practical advice: to take care of and respect her father, to stay
with the traders and find a good husband. 'These Turns will be hard for
women in the Holds...' Was she talking about the plagues, and the craft
bans? If the daughter - Hanayah's mother - had been about his age, the
timing would be right, though it seemed unusually prescient.

His own name caught his eye, near the bottom of the page.

'If you ever have need, there's a dragonrider at Vista Point, M'gan,
rider of bronze Isarth. Tell him my name and not to feel any regret,
that it wasn't his fault. I've enjoyed every moment of my adventure.'
Then, squeezed in at the end of the line like an afterthought and
underlined, another three words.

"'Not before 1179?'" He frowned. "What is that - a Turn?"

"I think so?" Hanayah looked where he was pointing. "I didn't understand
that either. Although, perhaps it does make sense now. You'd have only
been a child before then."

"I was nineteen that Turn. I suppose I wouldn't have been much use to
her before." It still didn't explain how the grandmother could have
known him - or thought she had. He looked down at the letter again. It
was signed only "your loving mother". "What was her name - your
grandmother?"

"I never knew her. My father told me she was called Zaya, I think. Does
that mean anything to you?"

M'gan shook his head. There was that feeling again, the ghost-like,
fleeting memory that he couldn't place. "I don't think so. I wonder if
someone used my name, pretending to be a bronzerider... Wait.
Something's not right here." He read over those words again. "'When
you're old enough to understand...' And then, 'There's been so much
illness and loss this last Turn.' Do you know when she wrote this?"

"You mean the date? The plague Turn, 1160, or near enough. That's when
my mother was born." The trader woman's eyes unfocused as she counted
the Turns. "Wait, that doesn't make sense. _You_ would have been a baby,
too."

"I certainly wasn't a dragonrider. Yet." The uneasy feeling returned,
only this time it was like the chill of /between/. The grandmother could
have guessed what name a boy might take on Impression, but how could she
possibly have known his dragon's name, Turns before he was Hatched?

"Are you sure that was the Turn? Maybe it was later, when your mother
was a teenager. There were other minor plagues."

"No, it can't be." The trader woman met his gaze, confused and with
growing distrust. "It had to be then."

M'gan came to a halt suddenly and turned to face her. The lake spread
out before them, glittering in the afternoon sunlight, but his face was
as pale as it had been in the worst of the High Reaches winter. He had a
sudden, awful idea that he knew what this was about. Hanayah might think
he wasn't being honest, but she wasn't a bronzerider. She didn't know
what he did about what dragons could do.

What he and Isarth had done, once, when they'd been too young and
foolish to understand the risk.

"Why?" he asked, still hoping he might be wrong, that there was some
reasonable explanation. "The letter's not dated."

"It's not, but it couldn't have been written much later." She met his
gaze, and M'gan knew she could tell he was hiding something, though she
couldn't possibly understand what. "My grandmother died when my mother
was only a Turn old."

Last updated on the October 17th 2024

Series: The Missing Wingleader [Next: The Pattern of the Stars (1/2)]

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A Fleeting Memory