Moreta

by Anne McCaffrey

  Go to Ruatha with them, Orlith said. After a flicker of a pause, she added, Holth agrees.

  Illogically, Moreta resisted that gratuitous permission—and wondered why. She had a perfectly natural wish to see the results of Alessan’s experiment, not necessarily Alessan. Was she resisting the attraction she felt for him? She was not normally bothered by indecision.

  You have always liked runnerbeasts. They deserve your help now. Holth—Orlith was speaking, Moreta decided from the doubly deep tone. You will have to see Ruatha sometime again. That, undeniably, was spoken only by Orlith.

  Moreta sighed deeply and sadly. Orlith had touched the core of her resistance, for Moreta did not want to see Ruatha in the ruins K’lon had described.

  “I think, Capiam,” she said slowly, steeling her mind, “that I should accompany you.”

  Arith is more than willing. He likes the girl, Orlith said. She unsheathed her claws from the queen egg. From the Bowl, Arith bugled agreement.

  “Which girl?” Moreta was surprised at the remark.

  Orlith shrugged and went about making a depression in which she rolled her egg. So, trying not to appear resigned, Moreta collected her flying gear.

  “Arith says he will take us to Ruatha Hold.”

  “You can leave her?” Capiam looked toward the queen.

  “My going is her idea. She’s not a broody dragon, like some who must have their rider in constant attendance. Leri and Holth are nearby. I shan’t be gone very long, you know.” She gave Capiam a dour glance and then smiled at his startled expression.

  When Moreta and Capiam reached the Bowl, Jallora was talking earnestly with a dark-haired woman who was standing a few lengths from M’barak and Arith. Desdra was older than Moreta had expected from K’lon’s comments, older than Moreta herself, but then Jallora had said that the woman was taking her mastery at the Fort Healer Hall. Desdra had a reserved air about her, not quite haughty but certainly a woman who kept herself to herself—a trait that did not, however, keep her from being keenly aware of the activity in the Bowl. Two wings from Fort would fly later across Bitra and Lemos. Sh’gall had gone forward to Benden to see K’dren. The Benden Weyrleader was tactful, as M’tani of Telgar was not, and Moreta counted on K’dren to smooth matters over in the day’s consolidation. She would be everlastingly grateful when the Weyrs could return to traditional territories.

  “Desdra, Moreta is coming with us to Ruatha,” Capiam was saying. “It would seem that Lord Alessan has anticipated the matter of runner vaccine.”

  Desdra inclined her head courteously to the Weyrwoman, her large gray eyes calmly taking Moreta’s measure.

  “Don’t let Desdra make you uncomfortable, Moreta,” Capiam said. “She takes no one at face value; claims detachment is required of a healer.”

  “Jallora has told me of the superb reconstruction work you do on Threadscored dragon wing,” Desdra replied in a low unhurried voice, her eyes flicking a glance to Moreta’s hands as she put on her gloves.

  “When there is time again, please return and examine Dilenth. The Istan Weyr Healer, Ind, taught me the technique. I’ve had opportunity to perfect it.”

  “I’d forgot about Fall today, Moreta,” Capiam was saying uncertainly, as he looked about and saw the unmistakable preparations.

  “I must be back for the end of Fall, certainly,” Moreta replied, now perversely compelled to go to Ruatha. “As it happens, the wings have taken fewer injuries since the plague. It might just be that flying against other Weyrs has improved performances.”

  “Really? How interesting.” Capiam’s surprise was genuine.

  Then M’barak courteously gestured for Moreta to mount Arith first. She did so, settling herself at the back and assisting Desdra. Although Desdra made no comment and appeared perfectly composed, Moreta decided that the healer had not often ridden adragonback.

  Capiam was clearly delighted, twisting about to grin past Desdra at Moreta then checking discreetly that Desdra was comfortable. “Four riders are not excessive weight for your Arith, M’barak?” he, asked as the blue rider swung into his forward position.

  “Not my Arith,” the boy replied stoutly, “or I’d’ve mentioned it.”

  As if to prove his ability, Arith leaped from the ground so enthusiastically that his passengers were abruptly pressed backward. Moreta instinctively locked her legs and grabbed the ridge behind her to balance Desdra, who was pushed back by Capiam’s weight. Arith made a quick adjustment as M’barak rapped his neck. Conscious of his Weyrwoman’s presence, M’barak made a ceremony of taking leave of the watchrider, accepting and returning salutes as Arith winged to a respectable altitude. M’barak looked back at Moreta with a warning nod of his head before he gave Arith directions.

  “Black, blacker, blackest—”

  Moreta’s litany broke as they appeared in the sky again above Ruatha. She caught her breath, closing her eyes against the sickening view of the violated field, the rutted racing flat, the great fire circles, and the appalling burial mounds. She knew that her grip on Desdra’s waist had locked and she was aware, too, of warm hands that lay gently on hers in shared sympathy and dismay.

  All too clearly, Moreta could recall her compliments to Alessan on Ruatha’s Gather gaiety, a bitter memory now that she was faced with the grim reality of the Gather’s aftermath. Arith glided across the racing flats, directly at the Hold. Moreta could see the starting poles forlornly tumbled about where the spectacular dead heat of the last race had been run. Moreta forced herself to look at the raw earth of the burial mounds and accept the fact of so many casualties from that carefree throng of visitors in their Gather finery. And to accept as well the cremation fires that had consumed dead animals, winners and losers both, of the ten races that had drawn them to Ruatha on that fatal occasion. For a callous moment she thought that Alessan could have found the time to clear the pathetic debris of travel wagons, trunks, and Gather stands from the roadway and the fields. She marked where campfires had blackened the stubble field from which she and the young Lord Holder had so blithely watched the racing. Where banners had brightly flown, the upper tiers of Ruatha Hold were shuttered, unneeded, reminders that Ruatha had withstood a siege more savage than any Threadfall.

  Yet, even as her heart contracted at the disheveled look of the proud Hold, her eyes went to the fields and the runners grazing there—not the large, solid beasts that Alessan had bred on Lord Leef’s instructions but the wiry, thin-boned runners of Squealer’s ilk. The irony helped restore her composure. Her tears would not comfort Alessan now.

  Arith was not going to land at the forecourt, for which mercy Moreta was extremely grateful. His line was taking them along the roadway to the beasthold where considerable activity was evident. Three runners were being disengaged from plows, saddles lay on the ground, and a small cart had been pulled from storage. People were rushing up the road, carrying baskets with careful haste. The basic vitality of Ruatha appeared resurgent.

  “M’barak says that he has seen Alessan at the beasthold,” Desdra said to Moreta, projecting her voice sufficiently to counter the glide breeze. Nothing in her expression indicated that she was aware of Moreta’s painful first reaction to the plague-scarred Hold.

  Those at the beasthold had become aware of the dragon’s approach and, just as Arith landed neatly on the far side of the roadway, two men emerged. Both were tall and their faces in shadow but Moreta identified Alessan on- the right. That he recognized her was apparent by his sudden start before he strode to meet his visitors as fast as a Lord’s dignity would allow. And he walked like the Lord of Ruatha again, Moreta was relieved to see—confident and proud.

  “Sorry to arrive at an awkward moment, Lord Alessan,” Capiam called as he dismounted.

  “Your arrival could never be awkward, your appearance is always welcome,” Alessan replied, but his eyes held Moreta’s for a long instant before he courteously handed Capiam to the ground. “Tuero and I”—he indicated the tall harper who had followed him—�
�were composing a message to you.” Then Alessan abandoned his formal manner and grinned broadly up at Moreta. “Dag saved Squealer! We’ve foals, too. Three fine males!” He shouted the last sentence, giving vent to a joy he could no longer contain.

  “Oh, how marvelous, Alessan!” Moreta swung her right leg over and behind her and dropped down Arith’s side. Fortunately, for Arith was rather higher than she had thought, Alessan caught her about the waist and eased her to the ground. She turned in his arms, very much aware of his hold on her, his light-green eyes bright with elation and, she hoped, her unexpected visit. “And to think it’s Squealer’s breed that survived! And foals! Oh, how relieved you must be!”

  “I’m only just back from the nursery meadows,” he told her as he led her away from Arith, his hands moving along her arm, anxious to remain in contact with her and happy at a civil excuse to do so. “I didn’t have enough vaccine with me. I never counted on foals. And Dag’s got a broken leg so we have to send the cart. There’ll be Fall here in six days! But Dag saved bboodstock for us. He saved enough and he’s saved Ruatha!”

  Moreta found herself grasping and shaking his hand repeatedly and wondering suddenly if anyone was noticing, but surely she could publicly congratulate him for such splendid good fortune. Then Capiam brought Desdra forward to introduce her, and Moreta saw that Desdra was measuring Alessan with the same penetrating gaze to which she had already been subjected. Moreta felt protective of Alessan and worried that the healer would divine her attraction to him.

  “I deduce that you have produced a serum vaccine and used it.”

  “I have indeed, Capiam, for I couldn’t risk the bloodstock in this infected area.” Alessan’s hand eloquently swept the Hold proper and its fields. “Journeyman Follen is in the process of making more.” He nodded toward the beasthold. “The plague dealt us terrible losses both in men and animals.” He motioned them all to follow him into the beasthold. “We prepared a serum as soon as I returned last evening, and I injected that beast.” Alessan pointed to the lame one, its right front leg pointing despite the depth of the straw of its bed. “It seems none the worse for it . . .

  “It won’t be, I assure you,” Capiam said warmly, adroitly steering them to an isolated area, away from others. “The theory is as sound for animals as it has proved for people. And”—he lowered his voice, peering first at Alessan and then at Tuero with a meaningful stare—“absolutely essential at this juncture.” He shot Desdra a quick look at his inadvertent use of one of Tirone’s favorite phrases. A twist of her lips showed that she had marked it. With a quick motion of his hands, Capiam circled the others closely around him, tucking his hands about Alessan’s and Tuero’s arms. He glanced about to be sure that everyone was busy, Follen with his group around the centrifuge and the holders about the animals being retacked. “Lord Alessan, the plague could break out again.”

  Moreta caught Alessan’s free arm as he staggered back from Capiam. The Healer supported him on the other. Tuero’s first reaction was to see how Alessan coped with the news. The harper’s expression was unusually serious and compassionate.

  “Animals as well as humans must be vaccinated this time round,” Capiam continued. “All across the continent. I have worked out a plan of distribution, and Moreta will seek dragonrider assistance. What is needed is serum from recovered animals. You have them, sufficient at least to supply the needs of this Hold, Fort, Southern Boll, and that portion of Telgar which marches your boundaries. Lord Shadder, I know, will accommodate us in the east.”

  “But the herds in Keroon are vast . . .” Alessan was clearly stunned by the enormity of the project.

  “No longer,” Capiam said gently. “If this Dag of yours has saved bloodstock for you, you are richer than you think. May we have your help?”

  Alessan looked at the Masterhealer, a curious expression playing in his light-green eyes and the oddest twist to his lips.

  “Ruatha lost much—of its people, its herds, its honor, and its pride. Any help which Ruatha can now offer may perhaps remove the stain of our enduring”—-Alessan indicated the burial mounds—“hospitality.”

  There was no bitterness in the young Lord Holder’s voice but there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the aftermath of his first Gather had burned indelibly into his soul.

  “What makes you think that you are responsible for that? Or any of this?” One flourish of Capiam’s hand indicated the burial mounds, the next their meeting in the beasthold and the veterinary preparations being made to one side. “No blame adheres to you, Lord Alessan. Circumstance, unpredictable circumstance, drove the Windtoss from her course. Opportunism prompted its master to land in the Southern Continent, and greed kept him there for three days. What prompted the crew to transport that animal to the unprotected north will never be known for every witness to that reprehensible decision is now dead. But that circumstance was beyond your control. What has been in your control, my Lord Alessan, is the courage with which you have conducted yourself, your care of the sick, your effort to sow crops, and the preservation of Ruathan bloodstock. Most of all”—Capiam drew in a deep breath— “most of all, that you are, in the midst of the severe trials you have endured, willing to help others.

  “When bad fortune occurs, the unresourceful, unimaginative man looks about him to attach the blame to someone else; the resolute accepts misfortune and endeavors to survive, mature, and improve because of it.

  “A fishing ship is blown off course in an unseasonal squall and that minor event has influenced us all.” Capiam’s expression was rueful. He glanced at Desdra, who was staring at him in a baffled manner. “If you view justice as the foundation of your life, then it has been served—for captain, crew, and cargo are dead. We live. And we have work to do.” Capiam gripped Alessan by the shoulder, emphasizing his words by shaking him. “Lord Alessan, take no blame to yourself for any of this. Take credit for your vision!”

  Outside Arith suddenly bugled in welcome and was answered by a deeper note.

  “A bronze? Here?” Moreta hastily made her way to the entrance of the beasthold. M’barak stood by Arith, who was gazing skyward. The blue was not agitated even if Moreta feared that Sh’gall might have followed. “M’barak! Who comes?” Why hadn’t Orlith contacted her?

  “Nabeth and B’lerion,” M’barak said without concern, shielding his eyes from the sun.

  “B’lerion!” Moreta was relieved but, when a slender figure rushed down the ramp from the Hold, she began to understand B’lerion’s presence.

  Arith rose on his hindquarters, emitting what Moreta could only interpret as a challenge.

  “I don’t know what’s got into him, Moreta,” M’barak cried, embarrassed. “He’s gotten to be awfully protective of Lady Oklina.”

  “There is a queen egg on the Hatching Ground, M’barak,” she said, and added when it was obvious her explanation eluded the weyrling. “Blue dragons are often very keen on Search. Arith would seem to be precocious, though.” She frowned, observing Oklina awaiting B’lerion. “I don’t think Fort Weyr has the right to deplete Ruathan resources . . .”

  She swiveled around. Alessan was escorting Capiam, Desdra, and Tuero to the centrifuge. The big wheel was slowing and the next batch of serum could be examined. Turning her head, she saw that Nabeth had landed and B’lerion was sliding gracelessly from the bronze back. Oklina greeted him with restraint, pointing toward the beasthold. B’lerion caught her hand, and the girl fell in step with him willingly enough but did not reclaim her hand. As the pair turned down the roadway, Moreta could see B’lerion’s left arm was in a sling. He could not fly Threadfall. Had he been glad to escape from his Weyr when the High Reaches wings rose? Did B’lerion feel—as she did when the wings rose without her—an irrational compulsion to be with them? Or did he feel the injury was little more than a valid excuse to visit Oklina?

  Drawing back into the shadow, Moreta turned to join the group by the centrifuge, standing a little to one side—the better to watch Alessan—as t
he healers discussed the quantity of vaccine they would need, the minimum effective dose, and how they could discreetly discover how many runners were in-holded.

  “Body weight is always the factor,” Moreta said, slipping into the conversation.

  “We must make the determination of dosage as easy for the uncertain and the inept as possible,” Alessan said. “Some of the handlers in the back holds are going to be incompetent as well as skeptical. Where handlers are still alive, that is.” He flushed as Capiam fixed him with a reproving eye.

  “We have been relocating capable people and trying to ascertain where more might be needed. It is amazing what people can do when they have no other options available.”

  “Master Capiam, how crucial is it that the runners be vaccinated . . . at this juncture?” Desdra asked, her gray eyes intent on the Healer’s face.

  “With zoonosis the determining factor—and I thought we had agreed on that point—”

  “We have, but we cannot also waste effort.” Desdra indicated the ornamental glass, the layers of blood now at rest. “I am forced to admit to you now that we have barely enough needlethorn to vaccinate the people, much less the animals. It would be unwise to reuse needle-thorns,” Desdra went on softly. “The danger of contagion—”

  “I know. I know.” Capiam pulled his hand across his forehead and down his cheek, rubbing at his jaw. He gave a weak laugh, tossing his hand in the air in a futile gesture before he eased himself to a bale of straw. “And we can only be sure of eradicating the threat of plague if we vaccinate both.”

  “It is just needlethorn which you lack?” Moreta asked, catching Capiam’s despondent gaze. The Masterhealer’s eyes began to widen and his stricken expression changed to incredulity as he realized what her question implied.

  “And will lack, unfortunately, until autumn,” Desdra was saying, turning away from the disappointment she had just inflicted on her master. She did not see the exchange that passed between Moreta and Capiam. “I have appealed to every hall and hold on the drum network to send us their inventory. As it is, we may be forced to exclude some people—”