Then, with a determined “No,” Koriana wrapped her arms around Kindan once more and hugged him tightly. She gestured with her free hand toward her father and Kindan was surprised a moment later to feel the Lord Holder embrace him and Koriana both.
“We must get back to work,” Kindan said shortly. Bemin and Koriana broke the embrace. Kindan turned to see the Lord Holder looking at him uncertainly. Kindan turned away, unsure of himself, and noted that some of the cots were empty.
“We must get more people in here,” Kindan said, gesturing toward the cots.
“There’s no one else,” Bemin said. “We could carry some from the cots upstairs but that’s about all.”
“No one else?” Kindan asked in surprise. “Where are they, then?”
“Dead,” Fort’s Lord Holder responded somberly.
A cough distracted them and Kindan turned, nearly swooning as he tried to locate it. Bemin caught his shoulder, steadying him, and felt Kindan’s forehead. He looked grave.
“You’ve got the fever,” the Lord Holder said.
“I’m just tired,” Kindan argued.
“Get some rest,” Bemin ordered, pointing to an empty cot. “You can check on Vaxoram when you wake up.”
“No,” Kindan muttered, trying to keep the room from spinning away around him, “too much to do.”
“Rest, Kindan,” a girl’s voice urged him. Koriana? Here? Or was it Bemin and he misheard?
The room spun out of control and Kindan remembered no more.
The images in his head spun all around and Kindan groaned in hoarse agony. He was fire, burning bright. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t swallow, couldn’t feel anything but pain. And the images—a parachute falling from the sky, its four straps wrapping around his head, covering his mouth and nose, Vaxoram on the ground, corpses everywhere, Lady Sannora on her bed, then Koriana on the same bed, then…darkness.
“Here, drink this,” a voice said in the darkness. Kindan felt his head being lifted, felt the room spin more horribly, feebly tried to bat away the coolness touching his lips, choked on a liquid, choked, and choked, and choked…darkness.
“Come on, Kindan, another sip,” the voice was kindly but not Koriana. Bemin? The Lord Holder was feeding him? Kindan gulped down the liquid as best he could and then his head was lying, peacefully, once more on the cot. He fell asleep.
“Kindan?” The same voice, urgent, called his name. Kindan opened his eyes. The room wasn’t spinning. “Kindan, are you awake? Your fever’s broken.” Lord Bemin sounded near to tears. “You’re going to be all right, Kindan, you’re going to be all right.”
Something hot splashed on his face. Tears? Was the Lord Holder crying for him?
“Kindan, you’ve got to wake up,” Bemin’s voice was insistent. Kindan felt Bemin’s hand under his neck, lifting him up. “Kindan?”
“Yes?” Kindan said, opening his eyes. He hardly recognized Bemin’s face swimming in front of him. The Lord Holder’s cheeks were bristly, his eyes sunken, skeletal. Kindan made himself move, felt the pain in every one of his joints but willed the pain away as he sat up. Beside him, Valla stirred and chirruped encouragingly, nuzzling against his chest.
“That tickles, stop,” Kindan murmured to the fire-lizard.
“Tickles?” Bemin repeated.
“Valla, on my chest,” Kindan explained. He was ravenous, nearly faint with hunger. “I’m hungry.”
“Here,” Bemin said, extending a cup toward him. “Soup. Drink slowly.”
Kindan started to gulp the warm broth down, but Bemin held on to the cup and tilted it away from him so that Kindan wouldn’t choke.
When the glass was empty, Kindan looked up at Bemin. “How long?”
“Three days,” the Lord Holder told him.
Kindan threw his legs over the side of the cot and forced himself upright. He was wobbly, and Bemin steadied him. He glanced around—slowly. More cots were empty. He gestured to the cots. “Dead?”
Bemin nodded sadly. “Most. Some live.” He turned back to Kindan, his eyes despairing.
“What?”
“Kilti is dead,” Bemin said.
Kindan gasped.
“You’re the healer now,” the Lord Holder went on.
Kindan fell back onto the cot. “Me? I can’t—”
“You can,” a voice murmured beside him. He turned and saw Vaxoram, his face pallid with fever. “You will. Remember—”
“Moment by moment,” Kindan completed for him. “Shh, rest, you’ll be well soon, too.”
As if in answer, Vaxoram’s chest was torn by a wracking cough that seemed to never subside. Helpless, Kindan took his eyes off the older harper and looked to the cot beyond—
“Koriana!” Kindan cried, pushing himself to his feet once more and racing around the head of Vaxoram’s cot.
“She collapsed yesterday,” Bemin said. Kindan looked back at the Lord Holder, guessing his next words. “She was tending you.”
Kindan looked wildly around the Great Hall. “Where’s Fiona? Where’s your youngest?”
Bemin had a momentary look of panic. “By the First Egg, Bemin, where’d you put your child?” The Lord Holder berated himself, pounding on his own chest with his fists, sobbing in dry heaves, “What sort of father are you?”
Kindan spotted a small child in dirty clothes and moved back to the Lord Holder. Gently he grabbed the distraught man’s hands and held them, turning Bemin around. “She’s there, she’s all right.”
With a wordless sob, Bemin staggered over to Fiona and grabbed her, cradling her in his arms. “She’s alive!”
Fiona was alive and seemed well enough, although in shock and hungry. She returned Bemin’s hugs listlessly, but something sparked again in her eyes, some hint of life that had been missing.
“Take her to the kitchen, get her some food,” Kindan ordered. “And get some for yourself.”
Bemin started off, then turned back to Kindan questioningly.
“I’ll be all right,” Kindan told him with a weary wave of his hand. He turned to survey the long line of cots, certain that he was Fort Hold’s youngest healer ever.
“Step by step,” Vaxoram’s words rang in his head. Slowly, deliberately, Kindan put Vaxoram’s advice into practice as, step by step, he moved from one cot to another, checking temperatures, uttering useless soothing words, and finding the will to heal.
He was aided by Valla, who seemed to approve entirely of his recovery and actions, chirping cheerfully at one patient, crooning softly for another, and keeping pace with his movements. Only once did Kindan catch the fire-lizard eyeing him carefully—when Kindan staggered at the side of the cot occupied by the new little girl who had stirred the boiling pot.
“How do you feel?” Kindan asked her softly.
She squirmed, trying to turn away from him. “My head hurts,” she moaned, too exhausted to cry. Kindan nodded and looked around. The fellis juice was all the way back with Vaxoram, it would take forever to get it—
A sudden noise and then the same noise again and Valla dropped the bottle of fellis juice into Kindan’s hands.
“Here,” Kindan said, unstoppering the bottle and pouring a small amount into the child’s mouth, “this will help.”
Moments later, she sighed and closed her eyes again. Kindan rose from her cot and turned to Valla. “Thanks.”
The fire-lizard chirped softly, landed on Kindan’s shoulder just long enough to stroke his head against Kindan’s cheek, and then went airborne again, leading the way to the next patient.
Behind him, a patient coughed loud and long. Kindan turned and identified the patient by the thin cloud of sputum that drifted in the air nearby. The coughing spread the disease, Kindan was certain. Whether it spread other ways also, Kindan did not know. But how could he prevent coughing?
His dream surfaced again, the parachute descending over his face. Not a parachute—a mask!
“Valla, can you get a message to M’tal?” Kindan asked, turning to his fire-liz
ard. He could tell, now that he was alert enough to look closely at the fire-lizard, that Valla was thin and nearly brown with fatigue. But Valla chirped willingly, diving toward a table at the end of the Great Hall near the exit to the kitchens. Kindan followed, brightening when he noticed a chair and a stylus and some scraps of paper. There was the ink bottle he’d used so many days before.
As he seated himself, he saw some crumpled cloth and dried greenish sputum on the table. Perhaps Kilti had lain here before he died. Kindan stared at the spot for a moment, then gently moved the chair over.
He wrote slowly, using more paper than before, but his instructions had to be clear.
“What are you doing?” Bemin’s voice interrupted him brashly.
“Sending a note to M’tal,” Kindan explained, not looking up. “I think if we get some masks—”
“Masks?” Bemin repeated.
“To cover coughs, prevent the spread—”
“—of the illness,” Bemin finished, nodding so firmly that he wobbled little Fiona in his arms. “That could help, yes.” He frowned and Kindan looked up at him expectantly. “But it may be too late, we’re running out of food.”
“Food?” Kindan repeated blankly. “But the Stores, the grain, the dried fruit—”
“Nothing we can get to without healthy men,” Bemin replied. “And nothing that sick people can digest.”
“Gruel?”
“Takes a cook and water,” Bemin said with a grimace. “And coal, we’re almost out of that as well.”
“There must be something,” Kindan said.
Bemin shook his head resignedly. “You may save them only to have them starve.”
“I’ll think of something,” Kindan promised, attaching his note to Valla’s harness. “First this.” He looked long into his fire-lizard’s eyes.
“Are you up for this?” he asked finally. Valla dipped his long neck twice.
“Make sure you eat something and get some rest before you come back,” Kindan told his fire-lizard firmly. “I’ve put that in the note, so don’t forget.”
Valla made a scolding noise but Kindan would have none of it. “Just come back after you’ve eaten!”
With a final chirp, the bronze leaped into the air and between.
“He’ll be all right,” Bemin told Kindan in a kindly voice.
“I hope so,” Kindan replied fervently. He pushed himself out of the chair and turned to the Lord Holder. “Let’s see what we can do.”
Valla had not returned the next morning and Kindan started to fret. What if he’d sent the tired fire-lizard to his death, lost forever between?
The notion got a grip on him early in the morning as he and Bemin hauled away yet another corpse—there were still too few able men to help—and continued to gnaw at him as the day brightened. Finally at noon, Kindan could take it no longer. He went out to the linen line and found his pot. He beat out a quick staccato: Attention.
He waited a very long time for a response.
Proceed. The drummer was slow and shaky. Not Kelsa.
Kindan closed his eyes in despair, wondering if he’d ever see the gawky harper again, drew in a slow deep breath and let it out determinedly.
Ask J’trel: Did fire-lizard get to Benden?
The answer took an agonizingly long time to return.
Yes. Return soon. Kindan closed his eyes again, this time in relief. Status?
Kilti dead, Kindan drummed back. Vaxoram ill.
Bemin?
Alive.
Help?
Kindan closed his eyes again, tight with pain. The Harper Hall was asking for help…and he couldn’t give it.
Soon. He drummed back in a forlorn promise. Food scarce.
Food gone, the Harper Hall drummer responded.
“No!” the word was flung from Kindan’s lips and he pushed the drum aside in anger and despair. No food, no help, no hope. He pulled the drum back again.
Lenner? he asked.
Dead, the drummer responded. All Masters dead.
“All of them?” Kindan said to himself. He shook his head, feeling helpless, feeling despairing, feeling…angry. Anger rose up and burned inside him, hotter than fever. He would not let this happen. The Harper Hall would survive, he swore. Fort Hold would survive.
“My word as harper,” Kindan said aloud with a fury and forcefulness that he’d never used before. He could feel energy coursing through his veins.
Help will come, he pounded back fiercely in an instant. Hold on.
Soon?
Hold on, Kindan drummed back. But he had no idea how or when help would come, and he knew that it was the same all over Pern. Those not killed by the plague were dying for lack of food, lack of aid.
He returned slowly to the Great Hall, stopping to grab a drink of cold klah in the kitchen. In the Great Hall, he spotted Bemin in the distance, near Koriana and Vaxoram.
“I heard the drums,” Bemin said as Kindan approached. “What did you say?”
Kindan recalled that the Lord Holder had been suspicious of harpers’ drums before; times had changed.
“I asked if Valla had arrived at Benden,” Kindan told him. “They said yes.”
“How would they know?”
“J’trel, the blue rider, is still with them,” Kindan explained. “He was there when the plague broke out.”
Bemin nodded.
“The Harper Hall is out of food,” Kindan continued. “All the Masters are dead.”
“All? Even Lenner?”
“All,” Kindan replied. “The drummer was young, unsteady, an apprentice, I think.” He stopped suddenly as he realized the identity of the drummer. “It was Conar.”
“Conar? From Benden Hold?”
Kindan nodded. “He asked for help.”
“We’ve none to give,” Bemin said, gesturing to his own sorry Hold.
“I know that,” Kindan replied. “But I promised it to them anyway.”
“You promised—”
“At the least they have hope,” Kindan said. “At the best…well…we need food, too.”
“Where would you find enough food to share with the Harper Hall?” Bemin wondered.
“Enough to share with all Pern,” Kindan corrected him, shaking his head. “I don’t know, my lord.” He glanced up, a hint of a smile on his lips. “I was hoping that perhaps you might have an idea?”
“No,” Bemin said, shaking his head. “If I did, I’d share with anyone who asked for it, not that it would do much good.”
Kindan cocked his head at the Lord Holder.
“How would we get it to them?” Bemin explained.
“I don’t know,” Kindan confessed. He leaned down to Vaxoram, felt the heat of his fever before he was even near enough to see the moodpaste, and dabbed the older apprentice’s forehead with some water. He was so hot that the water quickly evaporated. In his delirium, Vaxoram shook his head and coughed once more.
“The masks should come soon,” Kindan said pointlessly.
The day slipped into night and another dozen holders slipped into death.
Someone brought hot klah out to them from the kitchen and some food.
“Give it to her,” Kindan said, gesturing to Fiona. When Bemin started to protest, Kindan added, “I’m not that hungry and she needs nurturing or she’ll not grow strong.”
Bemin shook his head ruefully. “Stubborn harper.”
“I was taught by your daughter, my lord,” Kindan said with lips upturned.
Bemin smiled back at him. “She got it from her mother.”
“Oh, no doubt,” Kindan agreed diplomatically. He gestured to an empty cot. “You should get some sleep, my lord.”
“You’ve just recovered, you should sleep first,” Bemin protested.
“You nursed me back to health,” Kindan replied. “As your healer, I demand it.” When the Lord Holder looked ready to respond, Kindan added, “Besides, I’ll wake you at half-night.”
“We could both sleep, there’s almost enough
standing for a watch,” Bemin offered, gesturing to a group of exhausted holders.
“No, they’ll need a healer and a leader,” Kindan said, surprised to group himself in either category.
“I suppose they will,” Bemin agreed wearily, lying down on the cot. In seconds, he was snoring heavily.
Kindan regarded him for a moment, felt the pull of another empty cot and forced himself to his feet again, roaming the dimly lit halls. He saw that the surviving holders had put out more glows, so it was easier to spot the needy.
Several times that night, he cooled foreheads, administered fellis juice, renewed dabs of moodpaste, or called the holders over to carry away another lifeless body.
When he was too weary, he returned to Bemin and roused him with difficulty.
“I’ll take over,” the Lord Holder said as he sat up. “You rest.”
“Wake me at dawn, or before, if you need to,” Kindan said, lying down on the cot nearest Koriana.
“Don’t think to snuggle with her,” Bemin said, shaking a finger warningly at him. Kindan looked at him in tired outrage. Bemin’s lips lifted as he said, “We can’t afford you getting ill again; wait until she’s recovered.”
Kindan fell asleep with the first grin on his lips in over a fortnight.
It was still dark when Kindan awoke. Something had startled him, some noise—there!
It was a gurgling, rasping sound. Kindan had heard it before: It was the sound of death. His eyes popped open. In alarm, he looked over toward Koriana. She slept feverishly, tossing and turning, but her breathing wasn’t the labored breathing that had woken him. He looked beyond her. Vaxoram.
Kindan rolled out of his cot and onto his feet, his joints aching, his breathing sore, his head spinning, and dragged himself over to Vaxoram’s bed.
The older apprentice’s wheezing was unmistakable. Every breath was arduous, every exhalation ending with a wet cough.
“Vaxoram,” Kindan called, shaking the older lad. “Wake up.”
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