Dragonsblood

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Dragonsblood Page 34

by Todd McCaffrey


  Lorana straightened and turned to the tabletop where the four vials were placed. Did the four patterns match the four vials somehow?

  Were the patterns supposed to tell someone which vial to use? Could it be that the knowledge represented by those drawings had been so common when they were first drawn that no one had ever considered that the method of reading them might be forgotten and that was why there were only the vials and the drawings? Read the drawings and pick the vial?

  But Lorana couldn’t read the drawings. And Arith was dying. She knew it, she tried to deny it, and she would never think it while Arith was awake and might hear her thought, but it was so. No dragon who had gotten the sickness had survived.

  Four vials. Four drawings. Four illnesses? Was one of the vials the one that could cure the dragons?

  Lorana felt Arith stir, could sense which cough was hers among the several that punctuated the deep night.

  I’ll be right there, Lorana told her dragon, racing from the room. Time is running out, she thought fleetingly as she left the room that held Arith’s only hope.

  She stopped in the doorway and turned back to the four vials. Arith?

  I’m all right, the young queen lied valiantly.

  Lorana’s response was not spoken or thought, but just as clearly as if she had spoken aloud, Arith knew that Lorana had seen through the lie and had known the reasons for it.

  Will it hurt to die? Arith asked Lorana, her tone both fearful and curious.

  Lorana bit her lip, her face a mask of pain and tears as all the love and hope she had for her dragon tore through her.

  You’ll be all right! she swore fiercely, with all the strength of her being, willing the stars to change courses, the seasons to halt, and all the pain that was both today’s and tomorrow’s to stop.

  No, I won’t. Arith responded firmly, sadly. I’m dying. Will it hurt?

  Lorana found that her hands were clenched tightly into claws, that through her tears her face was contorted in anger. I will not let this happen, she swore. But as the thought formed in her mind, she realized its futility.

  Arith was right—she was dying. Just like all the other dragons on Pern. And in the Oldtimer room were four drawings and four vials. Lorana turned back to the room.

  Maybe you don’t have to die, Lorana told her dragon fervently.

  As she explained the Oldtimer room to Arith, Lorana reentered and went to the cabinet against the wall. She opened each drawer in turn, pausing to examine the contents carefully. She found what she was looking for in the third drawer. The syringes were in a sealed rectangular container. Lorana was surprised at the hiss of air rushing into the container when she opened it. There were five syringes.

  Lorana marveled at them. They were much smaller and more delicate than the syringes her father had used to inject serum into young calves. She remembered the first time she had helped him, how nervous she had been at the thought of squirting liquids into a young calf.

  The contents of the vials were powder. Clearly they needed to be liquefied.

  Arith, there may be a cure, Lorana told her dragon. There are four vials here; I think one of them has the cure.

  Which one? Arith asked.

  Which one, indeed? Lorana asked herself. She could try all four one at a time, but how long would she have to wait between each dose to know if it worked? Would Arith have enough time to wait between each dose? How could she decide?

  Lorana swallowed and shook her head fiercely. This was not a decision she could make alone—there was more than her life involved.

  Maybe we should wait, Lorana thought.

  No, Arith responded, and Lorana could feel her dragon’s sense of foreboding, her sense of despair. I think we should do it now.

  Which one? Lorana asked her.

  All of them, Arith responded. If the others are wrong, they won’t hurt, will they?

  I don’t know, Lorana told her truthfully.

  Let’s try just a little of each, then, Arith replied. The young gold gave a mental chuckle. You know, you can hear all the dragons. I think I can hear more of your thinking than other dragons can. There’s no time to try them one at a time, is there?

  No, Lorana replied, pulling out one of the syringes. There isn’t any time.

  I’ll meet you at the entrance to the Hatching Grounds, Arith told her.

  Lorana searched through the cabinet, found an empty, sealed beaker, and opened it. Nervously, she turned to the four larger beakers. How much of each? Less than for a full-grown dragon because Arith was not full grown, Lorana guessed, but how much?

  There were five needles, she reasoned, so perhaps each held enough for a full dose. She would need half that much for Arith.

  B’nik was shoved roughly awake. He tried to squirm away from his tormentor, but the shaking continued.

  “Get up!” Tullea shouted in his ear.

  “Mmph, what is it?” B’nik asked blearily. He turned on his side, facing Tullea, his eyes blinking furiously as he tried to see in the dim light.

  “I need to talk to you,” she told him.

  “Can’t it wait until daylight?” he asked.

  “Of course not,” Tullea snapped. “It’s about Lorana.”

  “What about her?”

  “I don’t want her going to the Oldtimer room,” Tullea said. “She’s to be kept away.”

  “Why?”

  “For her own good,” Tullea snapped back. Her eyes darted to her dressing table. B’nik’s sleep-muddled mind recalled that she had been playing with something silver and small before she’d gone to bed. He didn’t recall her having a silver brooch or jewelry box.

  “What harm could she get into?” he replied, sitting upright.

  “I don’t know,” Tullea said, not meeting his eyes. “I just don’t want her there. It’s not her job anyway.”

  “She knows something about healing,” B’nik protested. “She’s been helping K’tan—”

  “Let her help with the injured dragons,” Tullea said. “But she’s not to—”

  “Shh!” B’nik said, raising a hand. “Someone’s coming.”

  Tullea bespoke her dragon. “It’s Lolanth, from Ista Weyr, and his rider, J’lantir,” she said, frowning. “It’s awfully late to wake anyone.”

  Behind her, B’nik cocked an ironic eyebrow, but wisely refrained from saying anything. He sprang from the bed, pulling a robe over himself and thrusting Tullea’s toward her.

  “He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important,” he said. He turned to the food shaft and called down for klah and snacks for three, then strode quickly to the doorway to greet J’lantir.

  “Weyrleader B’nik,” J’lantir said in relief when he saw him, “I’m sorry to wake you.”

  B’nik waved the apology aside. “Quite all right,” he said, “I was not asleep.” He gestured toward the Council Room. “If you’ll step this way, I’m having some klah and snacks sent up. Weyrwoman Tullea will join us shortly.”

  J’lantir blinked in surprise. “My apologies to your Weyrwoman,” he said. “This is a very late hour for me to come here but—”

  B’nik gestured him to a seat. “You wouldn’t be here at this hour if it wasn’t important,” he repeated, trying to calm the older rider.

  J’lantir drew a ragged breath. “I don’t know how badly the illness has hit your dragons—”

  “Badly, I’m afraid,” B’nik said.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” J’lantir replied feelingly. “Perhaps this is a fool’s errand, after all.”

  “At this hour?” Tullea drawled from the doorway. She carried in the tray of klah and snacks that B’nik had ordered earlier.

  B’nik flushed at her tone of voice, but his reaction was mild compared to J’lantir’s painful wince.

  The Istan Weyrleader licked his lips. “We have lost seven more dragons in the past day to the illness,” he announced.

  Tullea and B’nik exchanged horrified looks.

  “Thread falls at Ista Hold i
n less than two days’ time, and we have only forty-six dragons fit to fly it,” J’lantir continued.

  “Then you shall have Benden flying at your side,” B’nik announced. Tullea gave him a scathing look, but B’nik ignored her. “We have six full wings of dragons, and our next Threadfall is not for another twelve days.”

  “Three wings—one flight—would be more than enough,” J’lantir said, his face brightening with relief. “It’s a night fall, as you know, and won’t last too long.”

  “Very well,” B’nik said. “I’ll ask M’tal to be the flight leader—you’ve worked with him before. He’ll report to you in the morning.”

  J’lantir’s smile widened into a broad grin. “That would be excellent!” He rose and grabbed B’nik’s hand in his. “Thank you! Ista will ride with you anytime.”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” B’nik replied. “Would you like some klah before you depart?”

  “No, no,” J’lantir said, shaking his head. “I’ve been beside myself trying to figure out how—and I didn’t want to—”

  “I understand,” B’nik interrupted, nodding fervently. He knew how hard and humiliating this decision must have been for the older dragonrider. “We are all living in hard times—”

  A shriek from the Bowl outside cut through the evening air.

  Lorana’s hands were trembling as she mixed the serum. Each time she scooped in powder from the next vial, the mixture would change color and then slowly return to a clear liquid. If the proportions were too small, she would have wasted the precious powders. Perhaps the Oldtimers had known this and made their powder behave this way on purpose. Lorana hoped so. She hoped that she was supposed to mix all four vials together. That she had the right quantities.

  She was done. Outside, in the distance, she heard Arith scrabbling from the Bowl into the Hatching Grounds. Lorana took a deep, stilling breath and then carefully filled the syringe with the contents of the small beaker. She gently squeezed the air out of the needle until a small spurt of the precious liquid dripped out. She was ready.

  I’m ready, Arith told her.

  Lorana didn’t remember walking back to the Hatching Grounds. She did remember stopping in her tracks as she caught sight of Arith, small and fragile, standing in the dim light that leaked through to the Hatching Grounds.

  It is our decision, Arith said. I am young. I am strong. If this works, we can help the others.

  Lorana forced herself to move again. She showed the syringe to Arith.

  Will it hurt? the gold dragon asked.

  Don’t look at it, Lorana cautioned. She found a spot on Arith’s neck, felt for and found a large vein. She paused then, overcome by the enormity of the moment.

  Is it over? Arith asked hopefully. With a sigh, Lorana gently plunged the needle in and slowly pushed the plunger down.

  Now it’s over, she told her dragon. She quickly removed the syringe and then, realizing she had nowhere to put it, held it numbly in her hand.

  Good, Arith said. I don’t feel any different. She sneezed.

  Lorana jumped.

  No, it’s—Arith stopped, her eyes whirling to red. She turned her head from one side to another. I don’t feel good.

  Lorana looked at her in the dim light. Arith’s skin looked splotchy, different. The young queen made an irritated noise and turned to snap at her side.

  It itches! Arith yelled. Lorana, it burns!

  I’ll go get some numbweed, Lorana declared but her feet were rooted to the spot. I’ll call for help.

  It’s—it’s—oh, it hurts! Arith wailed. It’s wrong, Lorana, it’s wrong! And then, suddenly, she wasn’t there.

  Arith! Lorana shouted, reaching for her dragon. She reached between, dove after her, found a fleeting glimpse in the distance, but it was too far. Frantically, she reached for all the other dragons of the Weyr and followed Arith, desperate to bring her dragon back. Arith fought to get away, pushed against her call, against the strength that Lorana had called from the dragons of the Weyr, fought, and fought—and, suddenly, she found a place where she could go—

  No, no, no!

  Arith was gone.

  Lorana had one fleeting glimpse, one sliver of a feeling that Arith had felt some other calling—and then she was gone.

  With one last, heart-tearing scream, Lorana collapsed, unconscious, on the floor of the Hatching Grounds.

  SEVENTEEN

  Any Eridani Adept willing to change an ecosystem must commit her bloodline to maintaining that ecosystem eternally.

  —Edicts of the Eridani, XXIVth Concord

  College, First Interval, AL 58

  Lightning tore through the sky over the College, with thunder following right on its heels in vengeful intensity. Wind Blossom turned over in her bed, willing herself to sleep in spite of the noise outside. She needed her rest, she knew it. But her mind, traitorous in the night, insisted on turning over and over the problems she would face in the morning.

  What did it matter that fire-lizards sometime in the future had gotten sick? Would the same illness affect dragons? Kitti Ping and she had tried to guard against that, even while knowing that nature and environment would work against them.

  How could she convince the Weyrleaders and the Holders to devote their energies to guarding against some unseen future that might never come to pass?

  “In the morning.” Kitti Ping’s saying came back to her. “There is always enlightenment in the morning.”

  Her mother was right, Wind Blossom knew. Often the problems that plagued her in the night would be solved in the morning. She often wondered how much of the solution came from her worrying and how much from a good night’s sleep.

  Sleep was harder to come by these days, she mused. With this lightning and thunder, it would be a wonder if she would have any energy come the morning. She closed her eyes and tried to will herself back to sleep once more.

  A thunderclap, loud and without lightning, startled her completely out of sleep. There was something more, something special, urgent, like a voice crying in the night. Electrified, she threw off her covers and raced down the stairs to the courtyard, despite the pouring rain.

  Tieran was there, too, with his fire-lizard—Wind Blossom remembered that fire-lizards did not like the rain—skittering and chittering above him.

  “Look!” Tieran shouted above the thunder and the rainfall. He darted out from under the courtyard tunnel and onto the roadway that led from the College.

  Wind Blossom followed him. She looked up. There was a shape high up in the air, falling. Before she could react, the shape hit the ground in front of them with a sickening thud.

  It was a dragon. Wind Blossom peered at it through the rain and dark night until another lightning bolt illuminated it. She gasped in horror.

  “Rouse the College!” she shouted over the rain. “Get the agenothree!”

  “Wind Blossom, what is it?” a voice called from behind her. She recognized it as Emorra’s. “Get the agenothree! We must burn this corpse. We must burn it now!”

  “It’s infected?” Emorra asked, gesturing to the others behind her and quickly issuing orders.

  “And worse,” Wind Blossom agreed, as teams formed up with barrels of agenothree. “Pour it on. Don’t stop. All of Pern depends on this.”

  As the first agenothree hissed over the young dragon’s corpse, Tieran rushed forward, his belt knife in his hand.

  “Tieran!” Wind Blossom shouted, her voice merging with Emorra’s at her side. “What are you doing?”

  Quickly Tieran cut a part of the dragon’s riding harness, tore off a silver buckle and retreated toward the others. He nodded curtly at one of the groups carrying a barrel of agenothree and, jaw clenched against the pain, plunged his hands into the acid.

  “What are you doing?” Wind Blossom shouted again.

  “It’s all right,” Tieran said, showing her his hands. They were pitted and raw from where the acid had burned through the oils of his skin. He waved the piece of metal at t
hem. “This will tell us whose dragon this is.”

  He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes as the pain from his hands burned through the adrenaline that had carried through his wild act.

  “Besides,” he added, gasping in pain, “it doesn’t hurt as much as wher-bite.”

  When the cold, gray light of morning finally broke through the scattering clouds, Wind Blossom was still hunched beside the steaming remains of the dragon. The agenothree had eaten all its flesh and left only bleached bone. As each barrel of the nitric acid had burned another layer of flesh and muscle away from the dead dragon, Wind Blossom had felt herself similarly stripped, her emotions laid open and raw to her as they never had been before.

  The stream of green mucus that had been forced from the dragon’s nostrils on its impact with the ground had made it crystal clear to Wind Blossom that the dragon had been infected with the same illness as the two fire-lizards.

  Over and over again her mind replayed the instant when she had known that she had to go outside, that something was coming. Over and over her memory showed her the images of the dragon appearing, faintly, high in the sky and falling uncontrollably to the ground—dead. The sickening sound of the dragon’s body hitting the ground still made her shudder.

  Again she replayed the memory in her mind, fighting with herself to slow it down, to bring every detail into sharp relief. She sighed angrily as she once again failed to determine the precise feeling she had the instant she had known she had to go outside. She had felt it before, when the fire-lizards had appeared. Some connection, something.

  Bitterly, Wind Blossom shook her head to rid herself of the problem. There were other problems.

  She expected M’hall and maybe even Torene to arrive presently. She wouldn’t be surprised if every dragon on Pern arrived. She had started workmen digging a grave large enough for the skeletal remains of the young dragon. The grave would be lined with lime; even though Wind Blossom was certain that the infection itself had been destroyed by the agenothree, she was not certain enough.

 

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