Moreta (2 page)

CHAPTER I

Fort Weyr, Present Pass, 3.10.43–1541, and Ruatha Hold

“S
H’GALL IS OUT
on other Weyr business,” Moreta told Nesso for the third time, beginning to loosen her sweat- and oil-stained tunic as a hint.

“His Weyr business should be accompanying you to Ruatha Gather.” Nesso’s voice had a whining note to it in the best of her humors. Now the Fort Weyr Headwoman was filled with aggrieved indignation at the fancied slight to her Weyrwoman, and her voice grated like a bone saw in Moreta’s ear.

“He saw Lord Alessan yesterday. A Gather is not a time to discuss serious matters.” Moreta rose, seeking to end an interview she hadn’t wanted to give, one that could continue as long as Nesso could dredge up complaints, real or imaginary, against Sh’gall. Their antagonism was mutual, and Moreta often found herself in the position of placating or explaining the one to the other. She could not change Sh’gall and was loathe to displace Nesso for, despite her faults, the woman was an exceedingly efficient and hard-working Headwoman. “I must bathe, Nesso, or I’ll be unpardonably late at Ruatha. I know you’ve arranged a good meal for those who remain. K’lon’s comfortable now that the fever has broken. Berchar will look in on him. Just leave him alone.”

Moreta fixed Nesso with an admonitory gaze, reinforcing her injunction. Nesso had an officious habit of “taking” Moreta’s place whenever the Weyrwoman was absent unless specifically ordered not to. “Away with you now, Nesso. You’ve enough to do, and I’m longing to be clean.” Moreta accompanied her words with a smile as she gave Nesso a gentle shove toward the exit from her sleeping room.

“Sh’gall should go with you. He should,” the irrepressible woman muttered as Moreta held aside the vivid door-curtain. Only when Nesso neared the sleeping queen dragon did she cease her imprecations.

Heavy with egg, Orlith dozed on, oblivious to the woman’s passing. The golden dragon had arranged herself on the stony couch so as not to mar the fine gleam of oil that Moreta had rubbed into her hide as part of the morning’s preparation for the Gather at Ruatha. Moreta was heading for her own much-needed wash when she was asked to examine K’lon, so she’d been late for her chat with Leri to be sure the old Weyrwoman had what she required for the day. Leri would have no ministrations from Nesso’s hands.

The interview with Nesso had proved unavoidable. The Headwoman had “heard” that Sh’gall and Moreta had “had words” that had caused the Weyrleader’s abrupt departure, dressed in riding gear rather than in his Gather finery. Nesso had also to be reassured that K’lon was not wasting from a virulent fever that would spread rapidly through the Weyr, it being only three days to a Fall.

Moreta stripped off her clothes. She ought to have been at the Gather long since, getting through the obligatory courtesies before the racing started.

“Orlith?” Moreta called softly, concentrating the strength of her gentle summons in her head. As always, the sleepy response of her queen cheered her of Nesso’s petulance. “Rouse yourself, my golden beauty. We’ll be leaving soon for Ruatha’s Gatherday.”

It’s still sunny at Ruatha?
Orlith asked hopefully.

“It should be. T’ral did the morning sweep,” Moreta said, opening her robe chest. The new gown lay in gold and soft, warm-brown folds, colors that would accent Moreta’s eyes. “You know how accurate T’ral’s weather sense is.”

The dragon rumbled with satisfaction, and Moreta could hear her stretching and turning.

“Don’t roll too much now,” Moreta said politely.

I know. I mustn’t lose my shine.
Orlith spoke with patient acknowledgment.
I will keep clean until we reach Ruatha. And then I’ll sun. When I get hot enough, I’ll swim in Ruatha Lake.

“Would that be wise so close to clutching, my dear? That lake’s cold as
between.
” Moreta shivered at her memory of those ice-fed waters.

Nothing is colder than
between. Orlith spoke definitively.

Having laid out her Gather finery, Moreta strode into the bathing room. She grabbed a handful of sweet sand, then swung her legs over the lip of the raised pool, whose surface was faintly steaming. Standing waist deep, she sanded her body until her skin tingled. Submerging for a moment, she surfaced, tipping her head until her short hair fanned out in the water. Then she pushed back to the edge of the pool, reaching for more sand, which she scrubbed into her scalp and hair.

You take a long time to get clean though there’s not much of you,
Orlith remarked, somewhat impatient now that she was fully awake.

“There may not be much of me, but there was a great deal of
you
to be bathed and oiled.”

You always say that.

“So do you.”

The countercomplaints were lodged with total affection and understanding. Queen and rider had been partnered for nearly twenty Turns, though they had only recently become the leading pair at Fort Weyr when Len’s Holth had not risen to mate the previous winter.

Moreta gave her head a final scrubbing, then flicked her fingers through her hair to make the short crop settle into natural waves. Wearing a leather cap during Threadfall made her scalp sweat so much that the long blond braids in which she had taken so much pride as a holder girl had been shorn. Once this Pass was completed, she could grow her hair!

Once the Pass was completed
 . . . In the act of pulling on a clean undertunic, Moreta paused in surprise. Why, this Pass would end in another eight Turns. No, seven if one counted this Turn a quarter gone. Moreta sternly corrected an optimistic attitude. The Turn was barely seventy days old. Eight Turns then. In eight Turns, she, Moreta, would no longer
have
to fly with Orlith against Thread. The Red Star would have passed too far to rain the devastating parasitic Thread over Pern’s tired continent. Dragonriders would not have to fly because no Thread would blur the sky.

Did Thread just stop, Moreta wondered as she slipped on her soft brown shoes, like a sudden summer storm? Or did it dribble off like a winter rain?

They could use some rain. Snow would be even better. Or a good hard frost. Frost was always a Weyr ally.

She slipped into the dress now, smoothing it over her rather too broad shoulders, over breasts firm rather than large, a waist that was trim, and buttocks flat from long hours of riding astride. The gown hid muscled thighs that she sometimes resented, but they, too, were the legacy of twenty Turns riding a dragon and little enough inconvenience for being a queen’s rider.

She did wish that Sh’gall had chosen to come with her. She wasn’t acquainted with the new Ruathan Lord Holder, Alessan. She had a vague recollection that he was the leggy young man with light-green eyes that were an odd contrast to his dark complexion and shaggy black hair. He had always stood most correctly behind the old Lord Holder, his father. Lord Leef had been a stern if just holder from whom the Weyr could expect every traditional duty and the last tittle of tithe: just the sort of man the Weyr, and Pern, needed in command of such a prosperous Hold. But then, at Ruatha traditions had always been zealously maintained, and many of that bloodline had impressed queen as well as bronze.

None of the many sons that the old Lord Leef had bred had known which would be named his successor. Lord Leef had kept the whole tangle of them in hand, preventing discord. Despite Threadfall and the other dangers of a Pass, Lord Leef had contrived to build several new holds into the sides of Ruatha’s steep valleys, to accommodate the worthiest of his sons and their families. Such expansion had been one of his many schemes to keep order in his Hold. Lord Leef had planned ahead for the end of the Pass as well as for an orderly succession. Moreta could not fault such provisions though Sh’gall, among other dragonriders, had become concerned over the creeping expansion of the hold populations. Six Weyrs, twenty-three hundred dragons, were hard-pressed to keep cultivated lands Threadfree in this Pass. There had been talk of founding another Weyr during the Interval. That would not be her problem, however.

Moreta set the gold and green jeweled band at her neck and slipped on her heavy bracelets. The light-eyed man
must
be Alessan. She had often seen him at the end of Fall with the flamethrower gangs. Always correct in his manner, nevertheless Alessan’s presence was felt despite his reserve. For the life of her, Moreta couldn’t remember as distinctly any of the other nine sons though they all seemed to have inherited the strong craggy features of their sire rather than those of their various mothers.

Today would be Alessan’s first Gather since the Conclave of Lord Holders had confirmed his accession to Ruathan honors at the beginning of the Turn. Rest days, Threadfree days, and clear weather combined infrequently.

“Since there are the two Gathers, I shall attend Ista’s,” Sh’gall had told her that morning. “I told Alessan so yesterday, and it didn’t displease him.” Sh’gall gave a scornful snort. “He’s got every rag and tag at the race meeting of his so you should enjoy yourself.” Sh’gall did not approve of Moreta’s uninhibited enjoyment of racing and, on those few occasions when they had attended a Gather since Orlith’s mating flight with Kadith, he had put quite a damper on her pleasure in the sport. “I shall enjoy the sun and the seafood. Lord Fitatric always provides superb feasts. I can only hope you’ll do as well at Ruatha.”

“I’ve never found fault with Ruathan hospitality.” Something in Sh’gall’s tone required her to defend the Hold. Sh’gall had been awed by Lord Leef, but not by the new young Lord. Moreta did not always agree with Sh’gall’s snap judgments so she would wait and form her own opinion of Alessan.

“Besides, I’ve promised to convey Lord Ratoshigan to Ista. He does not care to attend Ruatha. He does wish to see the curious new animal to be displayed at Ista.”

“Oh?”

“Thought you might have heard.” Sh’gall’s tone implied she should have known what he was talking about. “Seamen from Igen Sea Hold found the beast adrift in the Great Current, clinging to a floating tree. They’d never seen its like and took it to the Master Herdsman in Keroon.”

Ah, Moreta thought, that was why she should have known. Why Sh’gall assumed she knew everything that transpired in her native hold she did not know. She was firmly and totally committed to Fort Weyr, and had been for ten Turns.

“It’s some species of feline, I hear,” Sh’gall added. “Probably something left behind on the Southern Continent. Quite a fierce beast. Wiser to leave that sort.”

“With the way we’re being overrun by tunnel snakes, a fierce, hungry feline might be useful. The canines aren’t quick enough.” Her comment annoyed Sh’gall, who gave her one of his dark, ambiguous glares and stalked out of the weyr. His unexpected reaction irritated Moreta. Not for the first time, she heartily wished that Sh’gall’s Kadith had not flown Orlith a second time. Then she told herself firmly that old L’mal had considered Sh’gall one of the ablest wingleaders. Until the end of the Pass, Fort Weyr needed the ablest wingleader. Everyone had thought L’mal would last out the Pass, so his sudden illness and death had been a great loss. Moreta had always liked L’mal, and Leri spoke very highly of him as a weyrmate. Sh’gall was young, Moreta reminded herself; this was not an easy time to assume Weyrleadership, and Sh’gall suffered by comparison to the older, more experienced L’mal. Time would teach Sh’gall tolerance and understanding. Meanwhile Moreta must have those qualities in full measure to survive his learning period.

As Moreta lifted the fur cape about her shoulders, the bracelets slid up her arms. They had been the gift of old Lord Leef for her having ridden Thread down—perilously close for the safety of Orlith—to the Lord’s cherished fruit trees, which were threatened by the parasite. Aided by Orlith’s agile maneuvering, Moreta had seared the Thread to harmless char with her flamethrower. She had been very young then, just transferred to Fort Weyr from Ista and eager to prove to her new folk just how keen and clever Orlith was. She wouldn’t take such a risk now, though it was not due to the memory of the rage in the eyes of L’mal, who had been Weyrleader then, when he had berated her for recklessness. Leef’s gift had not appreciably lessened her disgrace or eased her conscience, but they looked well with her new gown.

Are we going to the Gather at all?
Orlith asked wistfully.

“Yes, we are going to the Gather,” Moreta replied, shaking her head clear of such reflections.

She’d have a good Gather, too, for Ruatha Hold would be gay and bright, dominated by the young Alessan’s young friends. Sh’gall had said that they were still full of their success, that he’d had to remind Alessan that Thread brought no joy and he must attend his duties as Lord Holder before attending to his pleasures.

“Perhaps it’s just as well Sh’gall decided to go to Ista . . . and take Lord Ratoshigan with him,” Moreta told Orlith, convincing herself in the process.

He and Kadith are well occupied,
Orlith said complacently as she followed her rider from their weyr.

Orlith paused on the ledge, glancing around the Weyr Bowl. Most of the sun-struck ledges usually occupied by dragons were empty.

Have they all gone?
Orlith asked in surprise, craning her neck to see the shadowed west ledges.

“With two Gathers? Of course. I hope we’re not too late for the racing.”

Orlith blinked her great, many-faceted eyes.
You and your racing.

“You enjoy it as much as I do and generally have a far better view on the fire-heights. Don’t fret. It’s fun to watch, but I ride only you.”

Mollified by her rider’s teasing assurance, Orlith crouched, setting her forearm so Moreta could climb to her place between the last two neck ridges above her shoulder. Moreta settled her skirts and pulled the cloak about her. Nothing would really keep her warm in the awesome total cold of
between
but the transition lasted only a few breaths, which anyone could endure.

Orlith sprang from the ledge. Though gravid, she was not a lazy dragon, to tumble off into the air before making first use of her wings. The old queen, Holth, trumpeted a farewell; the watchdragon spread his wings, masking the Star Stones on the summit. The watchrider extended his arm, completing the salute as Moreta waved acknowledgment.