Proudly, Jaxom wondered if anyone else noted the economy of Ruth’s deadly flame: just enough, no more than was necessary. He stroked his friend’s neck and felt Ruth’s delight in the praise. Then they were off on another tangent as the queens’ wing headed for a heavier concentration of Thread, eluding an easterly flying wing.
From that moment onward, throughout the Fall, Jaxom had no time for further thought. He became aware of the rhythm to the queens’ wing pattern. Margatta on her golden Luduth seemed to have an uncanny instinct for those heavier patches that could escape even the closest flying wing. Each time the queens would be under the silver rain, destroying it. It became apparent to Jaxom that his position in the queens’ wing was neither sinecure nor protective. The golden dragons could cover more territory in the air, but they were not as maneuverable. Ruth was. Ever maintaining his upper position, the little white dragon could flit from one side of the queens’ V formation to the other, assisting wherever he was needed.
Abruptly, the Thread stopped falling. The upper reaches of the sky were clear of the graying mist. The highest wing began to circle down leisurely, to begin the final phase of the defense, the low-level sweep which assisted ground crews in locating any trace of viable Thread.
The exhilaration of combat drained from Jaxom and his physical discomfort began to manifest itself. His head felt twice its proper size, his eyes were unaccountably filled with grit and ached hotly. His chest felt tighter, his throat raw. The illness had a good hold on him now. He’d been a fool to fight Thread. To compound his miseries, he didn’t even have any sense of personal achievement after four hours of bloody hard work. He was thoroughly depressed. He earnestly wished that he and Ruth could retire now but he had made such an issue of flying with the fighting wings that he must complete the exercise. Dutifully he continued on above the queens.
The big queen says we must go, Ruth said suddenly, before the ground crews see us.
Jaxom glanced down at Margatta and saw her signal of dismissal. He could not suppress the sense of injury that gesture gave him. He hadn’t expected a round of cheers but he did think that he and Ruth had acquitted themselves well enough to rate some indication of approval. Had they done something wrong? He could not think with his head hot and aching. But he obeyed, directing Ruth to change flight to the Hold when he saw Selianth rise toward him. Prilla gave her right fist the pumping motion that signaled well done and thanks.
Her recognition reduced his grievance.
We fought well and no Thread passed us, Ruth said in a hopeful tone. I was quite comfortable sustaining my flame.
“You were marvelous, Ruth. You were such a clever dodger, we didn’t have to go between once.” Jaxom slapped with affectionate force the flight-extended neck. “D’you have more gas to exhale?”
He felt Ruth cough and just the merest trickle flicked beyond his head.
No more flame but I shall be very glad to be rid of the fire-ash. This is the most firestone I have ever chewed!
Ruth sounded so proud of himself that despite his general discomfort, Jaxom laughed, his own spirits buoyed up by Ruth’s ingenuous satisfaction.
It was also obscurely comforting to find the Hold occupied by a few drudges only. The other Thread fighters were hours away from the rewards he could now enjoy. While Ruth drank long and deep at the courtyard well, Jaxom asked a drudge to bring him any warm food available and a mug of wine.
As Jaxom entered his own quarters to change out of his stinking fighting gear, he passed his worktable and, seeing the cove sketch, remembered his promise of the previous evening. He thought longingly of the hot sun in that cove. It’d bake the cold out of his bones and dry the wetness in his head and chest.
I would like to swim in the water, Ruth said.
“You’re not too tired, are you?”
I am tired but I would like to swim in the cove and then lie in the sand. It would be good for you, too.
“It’d suit me down to the shell,” Jaxom said as he stripped off the fighting clothes. He was pulling on fresh riding furs when the drudge, tapping nervously on the half-open door, arrived with the food.
Jaxom gestured toward the worktable and then asked the man to take the discarded clothing to be cleaned and well aired. He was sipping the hot wine, blowing out against the sting of it in his mouth, when he realized that it would be hours before Lytol returned to the Hold and so he couldn’t inform his guardian of his intention. But he needn’t wait. He could be there and back before Lytol had returned to the Hold. Then he groaned. The cove was halfway on the other side of the world, and the sun which he had wanted to bake the illness out of his body would be well down now on the cove’s horizon.
It will remain warm enough long enough, Ruth said. I really want to go there.
“We’ll go, we’ll go!” Jaxom gulped down the last of the hot wine, and reached for the toasted bread and cheese. He didn’t feel hungry. In fact the smell of the food made his stomach queasy. He rolled up one of his sleeping furs, to keep the sand off his skin, slung the small pack over his shoulder and started out of his quarters. He’d leave word with the drudge. No, that wasn’t sufficient. Jaxom whirled back to his table, the pack banging against his ribs. He wrote a quick note to Lytol and left it propped up between mug and plate where it was clearly visible.
When are we going? Ruth asked, plaintive now with his impatience to be clean and to wallow in the warm sands.
“I’m coming. I’m coming!” Jaxom detoured through the kitchens, scooping up some meatrolls and cheese. He might be hungry later.
The head cook was basting a roast and the smell of it, too, made him feel nauseated.
“Batunon, I’ve left a message for Lord Lytol in my room. But, if you see him first, tell him I’ve gone to the cove to wash Ruth.”
“Thread is gone from the sky?” Batunon asked, ladle poised above the roast.
“Gone to dust, all of it. I’m away to wash the stink from both our hides.”
The yellow tinge in Ruth’s whirling eyes was reproachful but Jaxom paid that no heed as he scrambled to the dragon’s neck, loosely fastening the fighting straps which would need to be soaked and sunned as well. They were airborne in such haste that Jaxom was glad he had the straps about him. Ruth achieved only the barest minimum of wing room before he transferred them between.
CHAPTER XIII
A Cove in the Southern Continent, 15.7.7–15.8.7
Jaxom roused,felt something wet slip down from his forehead across his nose. He irritably brushed it aside.
You are feeling better? Ruth’s voice held a volume of wistful hope that astonished his rider.
“Feel better?” Not quite awake, Jaxom attempted to lift himself up on one elbow but he couldn’t move his head, which seemed to be wedged.
Brekke says to lie still.
“Lie still, Jaxom,” Brekke ordered. He felt her hand on his chest preventing his movement.
He could hear water dripping somewhere nearby. Then another wet cloth, this one cool and aromatic with scent, was placed on his forehead. He could feel two large blocks, padded because they lay along his cheeks to his shoulder, on either side of his head, presumably to keep him from moving his head from side to side. He wondered what was wrong. Why was Brekke there?
You’ve been very sick, Ruth said, anxiety coloring his tone. I was very worried. I called Brekke. She is a healer. She heard me. I couldn’t leave you. She came with F’nor on Canth. Then F’nor went for the other one.
“Have I been sick a long time?” Jaxom was dismayed to think he’d needed two nurses. He hoped that the “other one” wasn’t Deelan.
“Several days,” Brekke replied, but Ruth seemed to think a longer period of time. “You’ll be all right now. The fever’s finally broken.”
“Lytol knows where I am?” Jaxom opened his eyes then, found them covered by the compress and reached to pull it away. But spots danced in front of his eyes, even shielded by the fabric of the compress, and he groaned and closed his li
ds.
“I told you to lie still. And don’t open your eyes or try to remove the bandage,” Brekke said, giving his hand a little slap. “Of course Lytol knows. F’nor took word to him immediately. I sent word when your fever had broken. Menolly’s has too.”
“Menolly? How could she catch my cold? She was with Sebell.”
Someone else was in the room because Brekke couldn’t speak and laugh at the same time. She began quietly explaining that he hadn’t had a cold. He’d had an illness known as fire-head to Southerners; its initial symptoms were similar to those of a cold.
“But I’m going to be all right, aren’t I?”
“Are your eyes bothering you?”
“I don’t really want to open them again.”
“Spots? As if you were staring at the sun?”
“That’s it.”
Brekke patted his arm. “That’s normal, isn’t it, Sharra? How long do they generally last?”
“As long as the headache. So keep your eyes covered, Jaxom.” Sharra spoke slowly, almost slurring her words but her low voice had a rich lilt that made him wonder if she looked as good as her voice sounded. He doubted it. No one could. “Don’t you dare look about. You’ve still got that headache, haven’t you? Well, keep your eyes closed. We’ve got the place as dark as we can but you could do permanent damage to your eyes if you’re not careful right now.”
Jaxom felt Brekke adjust the compress. “Menolly got sick, too?”
“Yes, but Master Oldive sent word that she’s responding to the medicine very well.” Brekke hesitated. “Of course, she hadn’t flown Thread or gone between, which aggravated the illness for you.”
Jaxom groaned. “I’ve gone between with a cold before and got no worse for it.”
“With a cold, yes, not with fire-head,” Sharra said. “Here, Brekke. This is ready for him now.”
He felt a reed placed at his lips. Brekke told him to suck through it as he should not lift his head to drink.
“What is this?” he mumbled around the straw.
“Fruit juice,” Sharra said so promptly that Jaxom sipped warily. “Just fruit juice, Jaxom. You need liquid in your body right now. The fever dried you out.”
The juice was cool in his mouth and so mild in taste that he couldn’t figure out from which fruit it came. But it was just what he wanted, not tart enough to irritate moisture-starved tissues in his mouth and throat, and not sweet enough to be nauseating to his empty stomach. He finished it and asked for more, but Brekke told him he’d had enough. He should try to sleep now.
“Ruth? Are you all right?”
Now that you are yourself again, I will eat. I will not go far. I don’t need to.
“Ruth?” Alarmed by the thought that his dragon had neglected himself, Jaxom injudiciously tried to raise his head. The pain was incredible.
“Ruth is perfectly all right, Jaxom,” Brekke said in a stern voice. Her hands had already pushed his shoulders flat to the bed. “Ruth’s been covered with fire-lizards, and he’s been bathed regularly morning and evening. He’s never been more than two lengths from you. I’ve reassured him on every concern.” Jaxom groaned, having completely forgotten that Brekke could speak to any dragon. “F’nor and Canth have hunted for him because he wouldn’t leave you so he’s by no means the skin and bones you are. He’ll hunt now, none the worse for the waiting. You go to sleep.”
He had no option and suspected as he drifted away from consciousness that there had been something besides fruit in that drink.
When he woke, feeling rested and restless, he remembered not to move his head. He began to cast back through distorted memories of being hot and cold. He distinctly remembered reaching the cove, staggering into the shade, collapsing at the base of a redfruit tree, struggling to reach the cluster of fruit, longing for the liquid to cool his parched mouth and throat. That must have been when Ruth realized he was ill.
Jaxom could vaguely recall fevered glimpses of Brekke and F’nor, could remember pleading with them to bring Ruth to him. He supposed they had erected some kind of temporary hold for shelter. Sharra had said something to that effect. He extended his left arm slowly, moved it up and down, without contacting more than the frame of the bed. He extended his right arm.
“Jaxom?” He heard Sharra’s soft voice. “And Ruth too fast asleep himself to warn me. Are you thirsty?” She didn’t sound contrite that she’d been asleep. She made a small sound of dismay as she touched the now dry compress. “Don’t open your eyes.”
She removed the bandage and he heard her dipping it in liquid, wringing it out and then he shivered at its touch on his skin. He reached up, holding the bandage against his forehead, lightly at first and then with more confident pressure.
“Hey, it doesn’t hurt—”
“Ssssh. Brekke’s asleep and she wakes so easily.” Sharra’s voice had been muted; now her fingers closed his lips.
“Why can’t I move my head from side to side?” Jaxom tried not to sound as startled as he felt.
Sharra’s low laugh reassured him. “We’ve got two blocks wedging your head so you can’t move. Remember?” She guided his hands to them, then moved the restraints aside. “Turn your head, just a little now, from side to side. If your skin is no longer sensitive, you may be over the worst of the fire-head.”
Gingerly he rotated his head, left and then right. He made a bolder motion. “It doesn’t hurt. It actually doesn’t hurt.”
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Sharra grabbed his wrist as he reached for the compress. “I’ve a night light on. Wait till I shield it. The less light, the better.”
He heard her fumbling with a glow-basket shield. “All right now?”
“I’m only permitting you to try,” she stressed the last word as she covered his hand on the bandage with hers, “because it’s a moonless hour of night and you couldn’t do any harm. If you see even the tiniest patch of glare, cover your eyes instantly.”
“It’s that dangerous?”
“It can be.”
Slowly she peeled the bandage back.
“I don’t see anything!”
“Any glare or spots?”
“No. Nothing. Oh!” Something had been obscuring his vision for now he could see dim outlines.
“I had my hand in front of your nose, just in case,” she said.
He could make out the dark blur of her body beside him. She must be on her knees. Slowly his sight improved as he blinked sandy incrustations from his lashes.
“My eyes are full of sand.”
“Just a moment.” Suddenly water was dribbled carefully into his eyes. He blinked furiously, complained loudly. “I told you to hush, you’ll wake Brekke. She’s worn out. Now, does that clear the sand?”
“Yes, it’s much better. I didn’t mean to be so much trouble.”
“Oh? I thought you’d planned all this on purpose.”
Jaxom caught one of her hands and brought it to his lips, holding it as fast as his weakened condition permitted because she gasped at the kiss and withdrew her hand.
“Thanks!”
“I’m putting your bandage back on,” she said, the reproach in her voice unmistakable.
Jaxom chuckled, pleased to have disconcerted her. His only regret was the lack of light. He could see that she was slender. Her voice, despite her firmness, sounded young. Would her face be lovely enough to match that voice?
“Please drink all this juice,” she said, and he felt the straw against his lips. “Another good sleep now and you’re over the worst of it.”
“You’re a healer?” Jaxom was dismayed. Her voice had sounded so young. He’d assumed she was a fosterling of Brekke’s.
“Certainly. You don’t think they’d entrust the life of the Lord of Ruatha Hold to an apprentice? I’ve had a lot of experience getting people through fire-head.”
The familiar floating sensation induced by fellis juice flooded him and he couldn’t have answered her no matter how urgently he wanted to.
To hi
s disappointment, when he awoke the next day, Brekke answered his call. It didn’t seem courteous to inquire where Sharra was. Nor could he ask Ruth since Brekke could hear the exchange. But Sharra had evidently told Brekke of his middle-of-the-night awakening because her voice sounded lighter, almost gay as she greeted him. To celebrate his recovery, she permitted him a cup of weak klah and a bowl of moistened sweetbread.
Warning him to keep his eyes closed, she changed the bandage but the replacement was not as dense and when he opened his eyes, cautiously, he could distinguish light and dark areas about him.
Midday he was allowed to sit up and eat the light meal Brekke provided, but even that slight activity exhausted him. Nonetheless he complained petulantly to Brekke when she offered him more juice to drink.
“Fellis-laced? Am I expected to sleep my life away?”
“Oh, you’ll be making up for this lost time, I assure you,” she replied, a cryptic remark that puzzled him as he drifted off to sleep again.
The next day he chafed further at the restrictions imposed on him. He chafed but, when Sharra and Brekke assisted him to the bench so they could exchange rush-bags on the bed, he was so weak after sitting up a few minutes that he was very grateful to be down again. He was all the more surprised then, that evening, to hear N’ton’s voice in the other room.
“You look a lot better, Jaxom,” N’ton said, walking quietly up to the bed. “Lytol will be immensely relieved. But if you ever,” N’ton’s harsh voice reflected his anxieties, “attempt to fight Thread again when you’re ill, I’ll . . . I’ll . . . I’ll throw you to Lessa’s mercies.”
“I didn’t think I’d more than a stuffed head, N’ton,” Jaxom replied, nervously poking at grassy bumps in his bedbag. “And it was my first Fall on Ruth . . .”
“I know, I know,” N’ton said, his tone considerably less reproving. “You couldn’t have known you were coming down with fire-head. You owe your life to Ruth, you know. F’nor says Ruth has more sense than most people. Half the dragons on Pern wouldn’t have known what to do with their rider delirious; they would have been totally confused by the confusion in their riders’ minds. No, you and Ruth are in very good odor at Benden. Very good! You just concentrate on getting your strength back. And when you’re feeling stronger, D’ram said he’d be glad to bear you company and show you some of the interesting things he found while he was here.”
The Dragonriders of Pern Page 87