Moreta

by Anne McCaffrey

  “They’ve stirred up the fires, and soon there’ll be some restorative soup. Desdra concocted it. She tended Master Capiam, and he says the soup worked miracles for him.”

  “We shall hope it does for us as well.” As they both heard the sound of coughing, Alessan turned his head sharply toward the door of his bedroom, inhaling apprehensively.

  “Your sister? Well, you’ll see,” K’lon said with conviction. “The vaccine will effect a great improvement in her condition.”

  “I sincerely hope so. She’s all the family I have left.”

  Though Alessan spoke in a light, almost diffident voice, K’lon felt his throat close tightly with compassion.

  “Oh, that serum will moderate the effects of the virus for her, I assure you. I’ve seen amazing recoveries after its administration. In fact, the serum Follen gave her is probably derived from the blood I donated.” K’lon rattled on mendaciously. Others had taken consolation from that fact so he held it out as comfort to this sadly bereaved man.

  Alessan regarded him with a slightly surprised expression and his lips twitched in wry humor. “Ruatha has always been proud of its dragonrider bloodties though they’ve never been so direct.”

  K’ion responded to Alessan’s retort with a thin laugh. “You haven’t lost your wits.”

  “They’re about all I have left.”

  “Indeed, Lord Alessan, you have much more,” K’lon said stoutly. “And you shall have all the help Weyr, Hold, and Hall can supply.”

  “As long as what you have already brought is effective.” Once more Alessan’s head turned toward the room where his sister lay. “It is more than we had hoped for.”

  “I shall have a look at your stores and see what is most needful,” K’lon began, vowing to himself that one of his first tasks would be to remove the Gather banners. If their presence had affronted him as a hideous reminder of that unfortunate occurrence, how cruelly would they affect Lord Alessan.

  The Lord Holder stood far more quickly than he ought to have for he had to steady himself against the chair. “I know exactly what we need. . . .” He walked shakily to the desk at the window, absently stacking dirty dishes as he looked. He found the sheet of hide he wanted with a minimum of search. “Medicines, first of all. We have no aconite, not a gram of febrifuge left, only an ineffective syrup for that wretched cough, no thymus, hyssop, ezob, no flour, no salt. Blackstone is almost depleted, and there have been no vegetables or meat for three days.” He handed the sheet to K’lon, a wry smile on his lips. “See how timely your arrival is? Tuero sent the last drum message this morning before he collapsed. I doubt I should have had the strength to climb to the drum tower.”

  K’lon took the sheet with a hand that shook only slightly less than the hand that offered it. He bowed to hide his face, but when he looked up, he saw that Alessan was gazing out the window, his expression unreadable.

  “Follen told me that scenes like this are repeated throughout the continent.”

  “Not like this,” K’lon said, his voice cracking.

  “Follen didn’t go into detail—how badly are the Weyrs affected?”

  “Well, we have had our casualties, it’s true, but dragonriders have met every Fall.”

  Alessan gave him a long puzzled look, then he turned away again to gaze out the window. “Yes, I suppose they would, if they could. You’re from Fort Weyr?”

  As K’lon knew that Alessan was aware of his affiliation, he sensed that the man was trying to discover something else. Then he remembered what Nesso had said, about Moreta dancing in a scandalous monopoly of the young Lord.

  “Lady Moreta is recovering and so is the Weyrleader. We have had only one death at Fort, an elderly brown rider and his dragon, Koth. The toll was fifteen at Igen, eight at Telgar, and two at Ista but, because of the vaccine, we are hopeful.”

  “Yes, there is hope.”

  Why Alessan should glance from the fields to the mountains, K’lon did not know, but the action seemed to hearten the man.

  “Did you know that we had over a hundred and twenty of the best western racers here a few short days ago, and seven hundred Gatherers to enjoy the dancing, the wine, the feast, the plague . . .”

  “Lord Alessan, do not distress yourself so needlessly! If you had not held the Gather festivities here, the entire Hold could have been destroyed. You were able to prevent the plague’s spread. All Ruathan drumholds have reported in. There are a few deaths reported and some cases of the plague, but you did what had to be done, and did it well!”

  Alessan turned abruptly from the window. “You must bear to Lord Tolocamp my most profound condolences for the loss of Lady Pendra and her daughters. They nursed the sick until they were themselves overcome. They were valiant.” Alessan’s message was no less sincere for the abruptness of its tone.

  K’lon acknowledged the message with a sharp inclination of his head. He was not the only one who would forever fault Lord Tolocamp for running from Ruatha. There were those who held the opinion that Tolocamp had been eminently correct to put the welfare of his Hold above that of his Lady and his daughters. Lord Tolocamp had remained secure in his apartment at Fort Hold while Ruatha suffered and died. Tolocamp would be spared the disease since he had vehemently insisted on being vaccinated despite the priorities set by the Weyrwomen and Master Capiam.

  “I will convey your condolences. All the supplies we brought,” K’lon found himself explaining, “came from Benden or Nerat Holds.”

  Alessan’s eyes sparkled briefly, and he looked at K’lon as if he were seeing the blue rider for the first time.

  “Good of you to tell me that. My profound gratitude for the generosity of Lord Shadder and Lord Gram.” The view from his window again drew Alessan’s glance. His obsession was beginning to perturb K’lon.

  “I must go,” the blue rider said. “There is so much to be done.”

  “There is! Thank you for answering the drums . . . and for your reassurances, K’lon. My duty to Rogeth who brought you.” Alessan held out his hand.

  K’lon crossed the room to take it in both of his. He was almost afraid to return the pressure on the strengthless fingers but he smiled as warmly as he could, thinking that if Ruatha was proud of dragonrider bloodties, he was as proud to be part of it. Perhaps some of his blood had been in that serum batch. K’lon fervently hoped so.

  He quit the apartment as fast as was polite, for he did not wish to give way to the emotions that possessed him. K’lon hurried down the dark corridor—they must put up glowbaskets—into the Main Hall, where two Benden volunteers were cleaning up. Their homey noises were a welcome relief from the preternatural stillness that had shrouded the Hall on their arrival. He told them about the need for glowbaskets and asked them to remove the Gather banners as soon as possible. He could hear Rogeth bellowing outside.

  This place is most distressing, the blue dragon said piteously. It is the most distressing place we have been. How much longer must we stay?

  K’lon gave the Bendenites warm thanks and then rushed out to the forecourt. Rogeth half ran, half flew up the ramp to meet K’lon, his eyes wheeling in distress.

  This place distresses you, too. Can we not see Granth and A’murry now? The “now” was accompanied by an unhappy snort.

  “We can leave now.” K’lon swung up to Rogeth’s back, his gaze inadvertently falling on the dreadful field with its ruined shelters, the race flats, and the burial mounds. Were they what drew Lord Alessan’s eyes? Or the handful of runnerbeasts grazing in the far field? The rumble of the dead cart, a recalcitrant pair of herdbeasts between the shafts, startled K’lon.

  “Get us out of here,” he told Rogeth, sick to the soul of plague and death and desolation. “I must spend some time with A’murry. Then I’ll be able to face this sort of thing.”

  K’lon was overwhelmed with longing for his gentle friend, for the respite of companionship. He should go right back to the Healer Hall. There was so much to be done. Instead he projected for Rogeth the s
un-dappled heights of Igen Weyr, the bright sparkle of the Weyr lake. Rogeth leaped gladly from the ramp into the air and took him between.

  CHAPTER XI

  Fort Weyr, Present Pass, 3.17.43

  “SHARDS!” JALLORA CRIED. “He’s fainted!”

  Kadith, in the outer chamber of the weyr, bellowed, and Moreta jumped up from the chair to reassure the startled dragon as the journeywoman healer examined her reluctant donor.

  What has happened? Orlith asked in concern from her weyr.

  “Sh’gall had a bad reaction,” Moreta replied, knowing perfectly well that Leri would be instantly informed by Holth and know what had really happened. “Calm Kadith down!”

  “It’s generally the big strong ones who faint,” Jallora was saying as Moreta resumed her place. “He’s in no danger. Badly as we need the blood for serum, I wouldn’t risk him.”

  “I didn’t think for a moment that you would, Jallora,” Moreta replied with a slight laugh.

  The journeywoman had interrupted an interview between Moreta and Sh’gall in which he had been determined to find fault with every provision made in the Weyr since the onset of his illness. He utterly discounted the fact that Moreta had not made any of the decisions or that she herself had only just recovered.

  “His sort don’t generally make good patients, either,” Jallora went on conversationally, though her attention was on the blood dripping into a glass container.

  “Will his go to Ruatha?”

  “Most of it, once the rest of your riders are vaccinated.” When Moreta gestured warningly at Sh’gall, she added diplomatically, “I perfectly understand, I assure you. He’s still out of it. There! That’s all I’ll take but he could donate more and never miss it.” Deftly she pressed a small pad over the needlethorn, extracted it, and motioned for Moreta to continue the pressure as she dealt with the apparatus. “He’ll regain consciousness in just a few minutes.” Jallora began packing her tray, carefully covering the container. “F’duril told me that you did the reconstruction on Dilenth’s wing. Fine work.”

  “The wing is healing well, isn’t it?” Recognition of her achievement by another healer was gratifying to Moreta.

  “Fortunately, so is F’duril and that nice young A’dan. I’ve never visited a Weyr before. And—you know something else? It never occurred to me that dragons suffered so from Thread. They’re so impressive—”

  “Unfortunately not invulnerable.”

  “We can thank our lucky stars they didn’t catch this viral influence!”

  Just then Sh’gall moaned. Jallora hurried to gather up the rest of her paraphernalia.

  “There now! Back again, Weyrleader?” She took the glass of orange liquid from the table and, deftly propping Sh’gall’s pillows behind him with her free hand, put the glass to his lips. “Drink this and you’ll be just fine.”

  “I don’t really think it was wise of you to take—” Sh’gall sounded petulant and took the glass from her with a bad grace.

  “The riders of Fort need it, Weyrleader. They must all be vaccinated, you know, to insure that no more have to endure what you’ve just been through.”

  The journeywoman took exactly the right tone with Sh’gall. Moreta could wish herself so fortunate as Sh’gall permitted Jallora to make a discreet departure.

  “I don’t think she should have!” Sh’gall repeated when he was certain Jallora was out of earshot.

  “She got mine.” Moreta pushed up her sleeve to exhibit the tiny bruise at the bend of her elbow. Sh’gall looked away. “We’ve a hundred and eighty-two riders out of action, sick or disabled.”

  “Why didn’t Capiam attend us instead of that—woman?”

  “Jallora is an experienced journeywoman healer. She was sitting her mastery exams when this plague occurred. Capiam is only just out of bed himself and he has the whole continent to worry about.”

  “I cannot believe that Leri did not know of my preference for P’nine as Leader.” Sh’gall picked up his complaints as if Jallora had not interrupted the acrimonious interview.

  “Leri made appropriate decisions based on her experience as a Weyrwoman. Kindly remember that she was one before you or I had Impressed.”

  “Then why does Kadith tell me that T’ral is taking two wings to Tillek today?” Sh’gall demanded angrily. “T’ral’s a wingsecond.”

  “With the exception of the High Reaches, the Weyrs are still being led by wingseconds at this point. The sooner you can take over, the best pleased all the Weyrs will be.”

  That comment startled Sh’gall, but he didn’t look pleased. “I’ve been ill. I’ve been very ill.”

  “I sympathize.” Moreta tried not to sound facetious. “Believe me, you’ll be feeling much better by evening.”

  “I don’t know about that . . .” Sh’gall’s voice faded.

  “I do! I’ve been through it, too, don’t forget.”

  Sh’gall gave her a look of pure loathing, but Moreta could not relent. Some of the burden of continuous Falls had to be removed from S’ligar’s shoulders. Sh’gall was a damn good Leader and his abilities were desperately needed.

  “Nerat’s after Tillek,” she went on. “You’ll be in luck: They can supply ground crews.”

  “I didn’t believe Kadith when he said that there hadn’t been any ground crews. Don’t holders realize—”

  “The holders realize what this viral epidemic is like a lot more acutely than we do, Sh’gall. Talk to K’lon for a few minutes. He’ll tell you a few hard unpleasant truths.” She stood up. “I’ve a lot to do. Jallora said you must rest today. Tomorrow you can rise. Kadith may, of course, call me if you need anything today.”

  “I need nothing from you.” Sh’gall turned away from her and jerked the sleeping furs around his ears.

  Moreta was quite willing to leave him to surly convalescence. She sincerely hoped that he would want to lead his Weyr in three days more than he wanted to indulge his fancied grievances. Leading the consolidated Weyrs was a mighty temptation for a man with Sh’gall’s love of power. She tried to consider him more charitably: He was shocked by the devastation caused by the pandemic and seeking refuge from the staggering losses by dwelling on the petty details he could cope with and understand. Like who rose to Fall from where, and how.

  She walked down the steps to Leri’s weyr at a fairly rapid pace, an exercise that did not leave her as breathless as it had the day before. She would harness Holth since she could not dissuade Leri from fighting in the queens’ wing though the old woman was very tired. Then Moreta would distill and mix medicines from the Weyr’s dangerously depleted stores. She knew K’lon had been raiding them but hadn’t the heart to object.

  “He fainted, did he?” Leri crowed in malicious jubilation. “And he wasn’t satisfied with my decisions during his illness, was he?”

  “Was Holth eavesdropping again?”

  “She doesn’t need to. I don’t know another reason why you’d have anger spots on your cheeks. Ha!”

  “I’ve as much trouble making you listen to reason.” Moreta spoke more tartly than she meant and she could feel her cheeks flush again. “You know you’re overreaching your strength—”

  Leri flapped her hand. “I will not forgo the pleasure of flying the queens’ wing. Not while I’m able. And I’m a lot abler today than I have been for Turns!” She sipped from her wineglass.

  “Oh?” Moreta eyed the goblet significantly.

  “I won’t have any more fellis juice until you’ve brewed it, my dear Moreta,” Leri reminded her with a saccharine smile.

  “K’lon said he knew where he could get some dried fruit.”

  “Hmmm.” Both women knew that many of K’lon’s supplies probably came from a hold that didn’t need such medicines any more. “Ah well.” Leri lifted her glass in silent homage.

  Moreta turned to the harness rack, tears stinging her eyes again. She must stop thinking of her family’s empty hold. The memories of that place, shimmering in summer sunshine, children p
laying in the big meadow in front of the Hold, old aunties and uncles basking along the stone walls, seesawed with the present empty lifeless dwelling. Snakes and wild wherries must have . . .

  “Moreta?” Leri’s voice was soft and kind. “Moreta, Holth says K’lon has arrived,” she added in a brisker tone exactly as Orlith told her rider the same news.

  “I sometimes think I have more than two ears and one head.”

  I don’t have ears, Orlith remarked.

  Then K’lon was striding into the weyr, exuding an enormous amount of energy and good spirits. Moreta was suddenly struck by the warm brown tan of his face. Then, as he pulled off his flying helmet, she noticed that his hair was bleached.

  “Nerat has fellis juice to spare, Moreta,” he announced cheerfully, swinging the bulging pack from his back. “And Lemos says they’ve aconite and willow salic.”

  “And how was A’murry when you stopped at Igen?” She gave him a warm smile to show that she didn’t object to a short detour.

  “He’s much, much improved.” K’lon radiated relief. “Of course he’s still weak, but he sits in the sun all day, which is good for his chest, and he’s beginning to get an appetite.”

  “Done a lot of sunning with A’murry, haven’t you, K’lon?” Leri asked.

  Moreta shot her a quick look for her voice was suspiciously coy.

  “When I’ve had the time.” K’lon stammered slightly, fussing nervously with the pack.

  “You mean”—Moreta had at last reached Leri’s conclusion—“you’ve taken time to be with A’murry!”

  “When I think of how hard I’ve worked—” Rogeth bugled outside the weyr.

  “No one is faulting you, K’lon,” Leri said quickly. Holth crooned reassurance, her eyes whirling bluely. “But, my dear boy, you’ve been taking a dreadful risking timing it. You could meet yourself coming and going—”

  “But I haven’t. I’ve been very careful!” K’lon’s tone was defiant and fearful.

  “Just how many hours have you been putting into your days?” Leri spoke with great understanding and compassion, even a hint of amusement.