Yet, her rational self said, the damage was already spreading by the time Sh’gall brought her the news. Even she had already innocently compounded her involvement by showing off her sensitivity to impress Alessan. How could anyone at Ruatha Gather have realized the danger in approaching that dying runnerbeast? Why, when Talpan had correlated illness to the journeyings of that caged beast, she and Alessan had probably been watching the races.
You are not at fault, the tender, loving voice of Orlith said. You did no harm to that runnerbeast. You had the right to enjoy the Gather.
“Is there anything we should do about the other Weyrs, Moreta?” Nesso asked. She had stopped weeping but she still twisted and washed her hands in an indecisive way that annoyed Moreta almost as much.
“Has Sh’gall returned?”
“He was here and went off, looking for Leri. He was angry.”
Orlith?
They are busy but unharmed.
“Nesso, did you tell him about the drum messages?”
Nesso cast a desperate look at Moreta and shook her head. “He wasn’t on the ground long enough—really, Moreta.”
“I see.” And Moreta did. Nesso could never have brought herself to inform the Weyrleader of such fateful tidings had there been worlds of time. Moreta would have to present the matters to Sh’gall soon enough, a conversation that would cause more acrimony on a day when both had more problems than hours. “How is Sorth?”
“Well, now, he’s going to be fine,” Nesso said with considerably more enthusiasm for that topic. “He’s just over here. I thought you might like to check over my work.”
The westering sun glinted off the Tooth Crag above Fort Weyr and the glare hurt Moreta’s tired eyes as she looked in the direction Nesso pointed. The repair of Dilenth’s wing had taken far longer than she had realized.
There is still sun on your ledge, Orlith. You should enjoy it. Get the cold of between and Fall out of your hide.
You are as tired. When do you rest?
When I have finished what must be done, Moreta said, but her dragon’s concern was comforting. Moreta scrubbed at her fingertips, which had become insensitive where numbweed had seeped through the oil. She rinsed her hands in redwort and dried them well on the cloth Nesso offered.
A blue dragon wailed plaintively from his ledge, and Moreta looked up, worried.
“His rider only has a broken shoulder,” Nesso said with a sniff. “Torn harness.”
Moreta remembered another blue rider. Orlith, that blue weyrling—has he returned from the ridge?
Yes, there was no Thread. He reported to the Weyrlingmaster. He wants to have a word with you about putting a very young rider at risk.
The lad would have been in more risk continuing his antics, and I’ll have words with the Weyrlingmaster on another score. “Let’s see Sorth,” she said aloud to Nesso.
“He’s an old dragon. I don’t think he’ll heal well.” Nesso babbled out of a nervous desire to regain favor in Moreta’s eyes, for she didn’t know that much about dragon injuries and far too much about how she thought the Weyr should be managed.
Moreta had also come to the conclusion at some point in the last few moments that she would have ordered someone to convey Lord Tolocamp had she been in the Weyr when the message arrived, despite any protest Sh’gall might have raised about breaking quarantine. Fort Hold would need Tolocamp more than Ruatha needed an unwilling guest. She wondered fleetingly if any were sick at Ruatha. If so, how had Alessan permitted Tolocamp to break quarantine?
Sorth had taken a gout of tangled Thread right on the forward wing-fmger, severing the bone just past the knuckle. L’rayl was full of praise for Declan’s assistance, belatedly including Nesso in his recital while she glared at him. They had done a good job of splinting the bone, Moreta noted professionally, tying reeds into position on well-numbed flesh.
“Nasty enough,” Moreta commented as Sorth gingerly lowered the injured wing for her scrutiny.
“A fraction closer to the knuckle and Sorth might have lost tip mobility,” L’rayl said with laudable detachment. The man had a habit of clenching his teeth after he spoke, as if chopping off his words before they could offend anyone.
“A soak in the lake tomorrow will reduce the swelling once ichor has coated the wound,” Moreta said, stroking the old brown’s shoulder.
“Sorth says,” L’rayl answered after a pause, “that floating would feel very good. The wing would be supported by the water and not ache so much.” L’rayl was then caught between a grin and a grimace for his dragon’s courage and, to cover his embarrassment, he turned and roughly scratched Sorth’s greening muzzle.
“How many riders were injured?” she asked Nesso as they turned toward the infirmary. With eighty-one sick of the plague, they might have to send substitutes.
“More than there should be,” Nesso replied, having recovered her critical tongue.
Nesso hovered while Moreta made her expected brief appearance in the infirmary. Most of the injured riders were groggy with fellis juice or asleep, so she didn’t have to linger. She also seemed unable to extricate herself from Nesso’s company.
“Moreta, what you need right now is a good serving of my fine stew.”
Moreta was not hungry. She knew she ought to eat but she wanted to await the return of Sh’gall and Leri. In a brief flurry of malice, Moreta struck across the Bowl to the Lower Cavern in a long stride that forced Nesso to jog to keep up. Annoyed with herself, Moreta silently put up with Nesso’s fussing to make sure that the cook served Moreta a huge plate. Nesso obsequiously cut bread and heaped slices on Moreta’s plate before making a show of seating the Weyrwoman. Fortunately, before the last of Moreta’s waning penitence was exhausted, one of the fosterlings came running up to say that Tellani needed Nesso “right now.”
“Giving birth, no doubt. She started labor at the beginning of Fall.” Nesso raised her eyes and hands ceilingward in resignation. “We’ll probably never know who the father was for Tellani doesn’t know.”
“Babe or child, we’ll have some trace to go by. Wish Tellani well for me.”
Privately Moreta blessed Tellani for her timing; she would have respite from the Headwoman, and a birth after Fall was regarded as propitious. The Weyr needed a good dollop of luck. A boy, even of uncertain parentage, would please the dragonriders. She’d have a stern talk with Tellani about keeping track of her lovers—surely a simple enough task even for so loving a woman as Tellani. The Weyr had to be cautious about consanguinity. It might just be the wiser course to foster Tellani’s children to other Weyrs.
It was easier to think of an imminent birth than tax her tired mind with imponderables such as sick riders in three Weyrs, a Masterhealer who was not signing outgoing messages, the disciplining of a rider and a harper who disobeyed their Weyrleader, a wing-torn dragon who would be weyrbound for months, and a sick healer who might be dying.
Malth says Berchar is very weak and S’gor is very worried, Orlith told her in a gentle, drowsy voice. We have decided that the woman has carried a male, Orlith continued. Moreta was astonished. Since Orlith very rarely used the plural pronoun, she must be referring to other dragons.
How kind you are, my golden love! Moreta shielded her face with her hands so that no one in the cavern would see the tears in her eyes for her dragon’s unexpected kindly distraction, and her everlasting joy that, of all the girls standing on Ista’s Hatching Ground that day Turns ago, Orlith had chosen the late arrival for her rider.
“Moreta?”
Startled, Moreta looked up to see Curmir, K’lon, and F’neldril standing politely before her table.
“It was I who insisted on conveying Lord Tolocamp,” K’lon said firmly, chin up, eyes shining. “You could say that I hadn’t actually heard the Weyrleader’s order of quarantine since Rogeth and I were asleep in a lower weyr.” Outrageously K’lon winked at Moreta. An older, weyr-bred rider, he had not been best pleased when Sh’gall’s Kadith had flown Orlith, making the
much younger bronze rider Weyrleader in L’mal’s stead. K’lon’s discontent with the change in leadership had been aggravated by Sh’gall’s overt disapproval of K’lon’s association with the Igen green rider A’murry.
Moreta tried to assume a neutral expression but knew from Curmir’s expression that she failed.
“You did as custom dictates!” Moreta would allow that much latitude. “The Fort Holder must be conveyed by this Weyr. You brought his family back?”
“Indeed not, though I did offer. Rogeth would not have objected but Lady Pendra decided that she and her daughters could not break the quarantine.”
Moreta caught Curmir’s gaze again and knew that the harper was as aware as everyone else in the west as to why Lady Pendra would not break the quarantine. Moreta had great sympathy for Alessan’s predicament. Not only was he still saddled with the Fort girls, but all the other hopefuls of the Gather were still at Ruatha.
“Lady Pendra said that she would wait out the four days.”
“Four days, four Turns,” F’neldril said with a snort, “and it wouldn’t change their faces or improve their chances with Alessan.”
“Did you see Master Capiam, K’lon?”
K’lon’s expression changed, reflecting annoyance and remembered offense. “No, Moreta. Lord Tolocamp required me to set him down in the Hold forecourt, so I did. But immediately Lord Campen and Master Fortine and some other men whose names I can’t recall bore him off to a meeting. I wasn’t admitted to the Hall—to protect me, they said, from contagion, and they wouldn’t listen when I explained that I’d had the plague and recovered.”
Before she could speak, the watchrider’s dragon bugled loudly. Sh’gall and his wing had returned at last. As Moreta rose hastily from the table, she could see the dust roiled up by the dragons’ landing.
All are well, Orlith reassured her. Kadith says the Fall ended well but he is furious that there were few ground crews.
“No ground crews,” she told the three men by way of warning.
Sh’gall came striding through the second dust cloud created as the dragons jumped to their weyrs. The riders of Sh’gall’s wing followed a discreet distance behind their Weyrleader. Sh’gall made directly for Moreta, his manner so threatening that K’lon, Curmir, and F’neldril tactfully stepped to one side.
“Crom sent out no ground crews,” Sh’gall shouted, slamming gloves, helmet, and goggles down on the table with a force that sent the gear skidding across the surface and onto the floor. “Nabol mustered two after Leri threatened them! There was no illness at Crom or Nabol. Lazy, ignorant, stupid mountaineers! They’ve used this plague of Capiam’s as an excuse to avoid their obligations to me! If this Weyr can fly, they can bloody well do their part! And I’ll have a word with Master Capiam about those drum messages of his, panicking the holders.”
“There’s been another drum message,” Moreta began, unable to soften her news. “Ista, Igen, and Telgar have sick riders. The Weyrs may find it hard to discharge their obligation.”
“This Weyr will always discharge its duty while I’m Leader!” Sh’gall glared at her as if she had disputed him. Then he whirled and faced those lingering at the dining tables of the cavern. “Have I made myself plain to you all? Fort Weyr will do its duty!”
His declaration was punctuated by the sound that every rider dreaded, the nerve-abrading shrill high shriek of dragons announcing the death of one of their kind.
Ch’mon, bronze rider Igen, died of fever, and his dragon, Helith, promptly went between. He was the first of two from that Weyr. During the evening five more died at Telgar. Fort Weyr was in shock.
Sh’gall was livid as he hauled Curmir with him to send a double-urgent message to the Healer Hall, demanding to know the state of the continent, what was being done to curb the spread, and what remedies effected a cure. He was even more upset when Fortine replied that the disease was now considered pandemic. The response repeated that there had been recoveries: Isolation was imperative. Suggested treatment was febrifuge rather than a diaporetic, judicious use of aconite for palpitations, willowsalic or fellis juice for headache, comfrey, tussilago, or preferred local cough remedy. Sh’gall made Curmir inquire double urgent for a reply from Master Capiam. The Healer Hall acknowledged the inquiry but sent no explanation.
“Does anyone know,” he demanded at the top of his voice as he rampaged back into the Lower Caverns, “if this is what K’lon had?” He glared at the stunned blue rider, his eyes brilliant with an intensity that was beyond mere fury. “What has Berchar been dosing himself with? Do you know?” Now he almost pounced on Moreta where she sat.
“S’gor tells me he has been using what Master Fortine suggests. K’lon has recovered.”
“But Ch’mon has died!”
His statement became an accusation, and she was at fault.
“The illness is among us, Sh’gall,” Moreta said, gathering strength from an inner source whose name was Orlith. “Nothing we can do or say now alters that. No one forced us to attend the Gathers, you know.” Her wayward humor brought grim smiles to several of the faces about her. “And most of us enjoyed ourselves.”
“And look what happened!” Sh’gall’s body vibrated with his fury.
“We can’t reverse the happening, Sh’gall. K’lon survived the plague as we have survived Thread today and every Fall the past forty-three Turns, as we have survived all the other natural disasters that have visited us since the Crossing.” She smiled wearily. “We must be good at surviving to have lived so long on this planet.”
The weyrfolk and the riders began to take heart at Moreta’s words, but Sh’gall gave her another long stare of outraged disgust and stalked out of the Lower Caverns.
The confrontation had shaken Moreta. She was drained of all energy, even Orlith’s, and it had become an effort to keep upright. She gripped the edge of her chair, trembling. It wasn’t just Sh’gall’s rage but the unpalatable, unavoidable knowledge that she was very likely the next victim of the plague in the Weyr. Her head was beginning to ache and it was not the kind that succeeded tension or the stress and concentration of repairing dragon injuries.
You are not well, Orlith said, confirming her self-diagnosis.
I have probably not been well since I went to that runner’s rescue, Moreta replied. L’mal always said that runners would be my downfall.
You have not fallen down. You have fallen ill, Orlith corrected her, dryly humorous in turn. Come now to the weyr and rest.
“Curmir.” Moreta beckoned the harper forward. “In view of Berchar’s illness, I think we must demand another healer from the Hall. A Masterhealer and at least another journeyman.”
Curmir nodded slowly but gave her a long, searching look.
“S’peren is to contrive a support sling for Dilenth. We cannot expect T’grath to stand under his wing until it heals. Such sacrifices sour weyrmates!” Moreta managed to rise, carefully planting her feet under her so as not to jar her aching skull. Never had a headache arrived with such speed and intensity. She was nearly blinded by it. “I think that’s all for now. It’s been a difficult day and I’m tired.”
Curmir offered her assistance but she discouraged him with a hand gesture and walked slowly from the Lower Cavern.
Without Orlith’s constant encouragement, Moreta would not have been able to cross the Bowl, which, in the sudden chill of the night air, seemed to have perversely grown wider. At the stairs, she had to brace herself several times against the inner wall.
“So, it’s got to you,” Leri said unexpectedly. The older Weyrwoman was sitting on the steps to her weyr, both hands resting on her walking stick.
“Don’t come near me.”
“You don’t see me rising from my perch, do you? You’re probably contagious. However, Orlith appealed to me. I can see why now. Get into your bed.” Leri brandished her cane. “I’ve already measured out the medicine you should take, according to that drum roll of Fortine’s. Willowsalic, aconite, featherfern. Oh, and the
wine has a dose of fellis juice from my own stock. The sacrifices I make for you. Shoo! I can’t carry you, you know. You’ll have to make it on your own. You will. You always do. And I’ve done more than enough for one day for this Weyr!”
Leri’s chivvying gave Moreta the impetus to stagger up the last few steps and into the corridor of her weyr. At its end she could see Orlith’s eyes gleaming with the pale yellow of concern. She paused for a moment, winded, her head pounding unbearably.
“I assume that no one in the Lower Caverns suspected you’ve been taken ill?”
“Curmir. Won’t talk, though.”
“Sensible of you in view of the Igen death. She’ll make it, Orlith.” Then Leri waved her cane angrily. “No, you will not help. You’d jam the corridor with your egg-heavy belly. Go on with you, Moreta. I’m not going to stand on these chilly steps all night. I need my rest. Tomorrow’s going to be very busy for me.”
“I hoped you’d volunteer.”
“I’m not so lacking in sense that I’d let Nesso get out of hand. Go! Get yourself well,” she added in a kinder tone, heaving herself to her feet.
Orlith did meet Moreta at the end of the corridor, extending her head so that Moreta could hang onto something to cross the chamber. Orlith crooned encouragement, love and devotion and comfort in almost palpable waves. Then Moreta was in her own quarters, her eyes fastening on the medicine set out on the table. She blessed Leri, knowing what an effort it had been for the old Weyrwoman to navigate the steps. Moreta took the fellis wine down in one swallow, grimacing against the bitterness not even the wine could disguise. How could Leri sip it all day? Without undressing, Moreta slid under the furs and carefully laid her head down on the pillow.
CHAPTER IX
Moreta Page 17