Moreta (29 page)

“Yes, the colors are different!” Pressen saw the greenish flesh and the darker green ichor that was dragon blood, the curious shining fiber that was dragon muscle. He was absorbed. “Has she had any supply to the wing at all?” His nimble fingers were suturing the first severed vein.

“Not really enough.”

“Thirsty! Thirsty. Water, please, water!” Falga raved.

“Can’t that idiotic woman do anything? There’s a lake full of water out there!”

There was suddenly a great amount of noise, the hollow sound of metal banging against another object, the sleepy complaints of young voices. The smell of desperately desired water roused the dragon from her stupor.

Hidden from sight behind the droop of the wing, Moreta could not see what was happening but she heard the bong of the kettle being dropped and the
plash
of buckets of water being poured. She heard the greedy slurping of Tamianth as the dragon sucked water down a parched throat.

“By the Egg, she’d drink barrels!” said the bemused voice of an older man. “She mustn’t have too much at once, boys, so take your time with the refills. Anything else I can do—” The Weyrlingmaster ducked carefully under the wing and stared in surprise at Moreta. “I thought your queen had clutched, Moreta.”

“She has, but this one would have died . . .”

When Moreta pointed to the ichor-stained puddle on the floor, the disapproval in the Weyrlingmaster’s face turned to shock.

“S’ligar’s down with a touch of the plague, despite the vaccine,” Cr’not said. “But”—he gestured impotently toward Pressen, at the sound of Diona’s voice thanking the weyrlings—”I could hear Falga calling for water . . .”

“It’s no one’s fault, Cr’not. Everyone’s tired, pushed beyond their strength or trying to take on unfamiliar tasks.
I
should have examined this wound two days ago!”

“Sometimes I think it’s only the momentum of routine that keeps any of us going,” Cr’not said, rubbing at his face and eyes.

“You could be right. There. That’s the last! Thank you, Pressen. You’ve the makings of a good Weyr healer!”

“Once I get accustomed to such large patients!” Pressen smiled back at Moreta.

“And you’re about to learn another invaluable technique for healing dragons,” Moreta said, beckoning to Pressen to follow her. She took the largest syringe from Barly’s kit, fitted a needlethorn to its opening, soaked a pad quickly in redwort and then ducked under Tamianth’s wing.
“Diona!
”

“Oh, no,” Diona moaned timorously, spreading her arms to protect her queen. “Tamianth’s looking ever so much better. Her color’s improved enormously.”

“I should hope so, but, if we don’t get some ichor on her joints, she may never fly again. Holth, tell Kilanath!”

Cr’not moved toward the weyrwoman, his expression ferocious, and Diona moaned again.

“It doesn’t take long, and it won’t hurt Kilanath.”

The queen was a good deal more cooperative than her rider, dipping her wing as she knelt for Moreta’s ministration.

“Pressen, see? Here, where the vein crosses the bone?” As Pressen nodded, Moreta rubbed on some redwort, turning the golden skin brown. The fine sharp needlethorn entered hide and vein so smoothly that the dragon never felt the prick. Moreta deftly drew ichor into the tube: It glistened green and healthy in the glowlight.

“Most interesting,” Pressen said, his expression intent. Neither of them paid any attention to Diona’s moaning or Cr’not’s exclamation of disgust.

“Now we will apply this”—Moreta returned to Tamianth, Pressen right beside her—“to the joints and the cartilage. See how dry the cartilage is? Soaks the ichor right up. Well, ah, here, nearest the shoulder, see how the beads are forming? Tamianth’s beginning to function again. We’ll save that wing yet!” She grinned at the little man whose face beamed back at her. “And color’s returning to Tamianth’s eyes, too.”

“Why, so there is! Is she winking at me?”

Moreta chuckled. The gray had certainly receded from Tamianth’s huge eyes and the ‘winking’ was just the sparkle returning to the facets as the dragon improved. “I believe so. She knows who’s helped her.”

“And Falga is sleeping.” Pressen hurried to the cot, feeling the pulse along Falga’s neck. He sighed with relief. “She’s much quieter now.”

Holth?
Moreta asked, aware of other obligations.

They sleep!
Holth was unperturbed.

“I must get back to Fort. Cr’not, will you keep checking on the wing for me? Pressen knows how to draw ichor and where to put it but not when. You would.”

“I will!” Cr’not nodded solemnly. “Now, you ought not to leave your queen,” he added, shaking his head worriedly.

“There is a point at which
ought
has little to do with actions, Cr’not. I was sent for! I came! Now I’m going!” She gave him a curt nod. Weyrlingmasters were a breed of their own and felt they could criticize with impunity anyone in a Weyr. As she collected her riding gear, she gave Pressen a saucy wink and then strode out of the building.

She ran to the stairs and took the steps two at a time.

They sleep,
Holth repeated, her eyes whirling serenely.

“And so shall we once we’re back home,” Moreta said, swinging up onto Holth’s lean back. “Take us to Fort Weyr, please, Holth.”

Obligingly, Holth sprang from the ledge and, once again, went
between
as soon as there was free air about her. As the chill of nothingness wrapped them, Moreta wondered if she should mention Holth’s curious trick to Leri. Was it just that the queen was old and could not jump as forcefully? Did it not seem an impertinence on Moreta’s part to criticize?

Then they were back in the dawn, skimming low above the lake in Fort Weyr. That was the explanation: Holth was practicing stealth. The watchrider was unlikely to notice a dragon leaving so low in darkness.

Holth glided to her own ledge and accepted Moreta’s effusive thanks before lurching wearily into her weyr. Moreta ran down the stairs and into the Hatching Ground. To the Weyrwoman’s relief, Orlith hadn’t so much as changed the angle of her head during her rider’s absence. And Leri slept soundly on Moreta’s cot.

CHAPTER XIII

Ruatha Hold and Fort Weyr, Present Pass, 3.19.43

A
LESSAN HAD TO
stop. Sweat was beaded on his forehead, ran down his cheeks and chin. His hands were sweaty on the plowhandles and the team panting as hard as he from their labors in the rain-heavy field. Ignoring the sting of the blisters he had acquired in the last two days, he dried his hands finger by finger on the grimy rag attached to his belt. Then Ruatha Hold’s Lord Holder rubbed the sweat from his face and neck, took a swallow from the flask of water, picked up the reins, slapped the ramps of his reluctant team, and managed to grab the handles of the unwieldy plow before the runners had pulled it out of the furrow.

Another day and he was sure they’d forget they’d ever been trained to race. Of course, he told himself that every day. One day it would have to be true. He had mastered feistier beasts to the saddle, and he must—if he wished to Hold—prove equally capable at retraining. With bitter humor, Alessan wondered if his predicament could be a retribution for his defiance of his father’s wishes. Yet none of
that
breeding had survived. The heavier runners, the draft and plow animals, the sturdy long-distance beasts, had been especially susceptible to the lung infections that had swept the racers’ camp after the first days of the plague. The light wiry runners of his breeding had survived to graze contentedly on the lush river pastures. Until he had had to harness them, and himself, to the plows.

The land had to be tilled, crops sown, the tithe offered, the Hold fed no matter how the Lord Holder managed to accomplish those responsibilities. He came to the edge of the field and wrestled the team into the wide arc, turning back on the furrows. They were uneven but the earth had been turned. He looked briefly out at the other fields of the Hold proper, to check on the other teams. He also had a view of the northern road and the mounted man approaching along it. He shaded his eyes, cursing as the off-sider took advantage of his momentary distraction. As he lined it up again with its teammate and the plow righted, he was certain that he saw a flash of harper blue. Tuero must be back from his swing of the northern holds. Who else would be brave enough to venture to Ruatha? Alessan had drummed for heavy plowbeasts and been told that no one had any to offer. Neither threats of witholding nor doubling the marks brought better results.

“It’s the plague, Alessan,” Tuero had said, for once unsmiling. “It was at its worst here in Ruatha. Until Master Capiam has sent the vaccine round to everyone, they won’t come here. And even then they won’t bnng animals, I think, because so many died here.”

Alessan had cursed futilely. “If they won’t come, I’ll have to go! I’ll bring teams in myself! They can’t deny their Lord Holder to his face!” While Alessan railed at his people, he understood their viewpoint—especially since he himself had not yet had the courage to send for Dag, Fergal, and the bloodstock. Follen had given him the most strict assurance that the plague was passed by coughing or sneezing—personal contact—and could not be in the soil of the race flats or the pickets where so many beasts had died, but Alessan would not risk the few priceless breeders that Dag had whisked away the morning after the accursed Gather.

After considerable discussion with Tuero, Deefer, and Oklina—his inner council—it had been decided that he couldn’t leave the Hold proper, for there was no one else of sufficient rank to enforce his orders. He hadn’t wanted Tuero to make the journey as the harper was only just out of bed. But Tuero had been a wily talker, which was why, Tuero had said at the conclusion of the council, he was a harper and why he was the best emissary to send. A few days or so in the fresh spring air on an untaxing mission would complete his recovery. After all, while a harper was generally able to turn his hand to most tasks, Tuero couldn’t plow. Alessan hadn’t believed a word of Tuero’s cheery bluff but he had no one else to send.

Despite the awkward height of its rider, Tuero’s lean mount moved easily, with a quick high step, head held high and eager once it knew itself to be home. Tuero’s feet were level with the wiry beast’s knees, and the harper’s gaunt frame towered above its ears. Certainly not the mount that Alessan would have assigned Tuero by choice, but they seemed to have gotten along. They were riding at a right angle to Alessan’s field, but he could not remove his hands from the plow to hail Tuero. He’d reached the downslope of the field and the team was fractious with the pole hitting against their hocks. The field was nearly done; he’d finish it! Once he had he could give all his attention to Tuero’s news.

He would have wished to see Tuero returning with a sturdy team, but there did seem to be something in his pack. Two more furrows and the day’s stint was done.

As he drove the weary team back to the beasthold, the sowers were still busy setting seed. They’d have some sort of a crop in spite of the bloody plague. That is, if the weather held, and some other disaster—like a Thread burrowing—did not overtake wretched Ruatha.

To Alessan’s surprise, Tuero was waiting for him in the beasthold, sitting on an upturned pail, his saddlebags at his feet and a look of satisfaction on his long face. His mount was munching sweetgrass in its stall, all saddle marks rubbed from its back.

“I saw you at your labors, Lord Alessan,” Tuero began, a sparkle of amusement in his eyes as he rose to take the bridles of the team. “Your furrows improve.”

“They could stand to.” Alessan began to unhook the harness.

“Your example inspires many. In fact, your industry and occupation are already legend in the Hold. Your participation does you no disservice.”

“But brought me no team. Or is there more bad news?” Alessan paused before he removed the heavy collar from the off-sider.

“No more than you’ve probably figured out for yourself.” Tuero nodded to the saddlebags and took the collar from the other runner. “I’ve some bits and stashes but I saw myself how bare the cupboards are of what is needed most. At least in the north.”

“And?” Alessan liked all his bad news at once so he could absorb the different shocks according to their merits.

“Others have started working the land but in some of those holds”—Tuero gestured north with the twist of straw he made to rub the mount’s sweat marks—“they had severe losses. Some Gatherers left before the quarantine and made it to their homes, bringing the virus with them. I’ve made a list of the deaths, a sad total it is, too, and no way I can ease the telling of it. They say misery loves company, and I suppose if you’re of a dismal temperament, you get joy of it.” Tuero quirked his eyebrows. “I’ve a list of needs and musts and worries. But I’d a thought on my way back which may sweeten all.

“I was right about people’s being afraid to come here, to Ruatha Hold proper. I was right about their not wanting to send good stock to their deaths for all the marks you’d be willing to give. I had a time of it to get them to let Skinny there in their holds. They were afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“Afraid it carries the plague.”

“That runner
survived
it!”

“Precisely. It survived, you and I survived. I got over my bout faster because I had the serum. Wouldn’t serum from recovered runners protect others the way it protects people?” He grinned at Alessan’s reaction. “If that notion’s valid, you’ve got a field full of cures. And a good trade item.”

Alessan stared at Tuero, condemning himself for not having thought of vaccinating runners. So many of his smallholders depended on their runner breeding that he could not, in conscience, have demanded his right to a portion of their labor in this emergency, recognizing their fear of bringing plague back to their holds.

“I’m disgusted I didn’t think of it myself!” he said to the grinning harper. “Come on. Let’s put these two away. I need a little chat with Healer Follen.” He gave his beast an exultant swat on the rear to impel it into its stall. “How could I have been so dense?”

“You have had a few other problems on your mind, you know!”

“Man! You’ve revived me!” Alessan gave the lean harper a clout on the shoulder, grinning in the first respite from grim reality that he had enjoyed since Oklina had recovered. “And to think I hesitated about sending you.”

“You
may have, I didn’t.” Tuero said impudently, scooping up his saddlebags and following Alessan’s quick lead to the Hold Hall.

They found Follen quickly enough, in the main Hall tending the sick. Alessan felt his nostrils pinch against the odors that the incense could not mask. He avoided the Hall whenever possible—the coughing, the rasping breaths, and the moans of the patients were a constant reminder of the sad hospitality he had offered. Follen’s anxious expression cleared when Tuero raised the saddlebags. When the men had converged into the Hold office Follen now occupied, his hopefulness waned as he examined the bags and twists of herbs. Alessan had to repeat his question about vaccinating runners.

“The premise is sound enough, Lord Alessan, but I’m not conversant with animal medicines. The Masterherdsman . . . oh, yes, well, I forgot. But there must be someone at Keroon Beasthold who could give you a considered opinion.”

Tuero sighed with disappointment. “It’s too late now to drum across to Keroon. They wouldn’t thank us for rousing them from their beds.”

“There is someone else, much closer, who would know,” Alessan said in a thoughtful voice. “And Follen, is there any human vaccine left? Enough for two people?”

“I can, of course, prepare some.”

“Please do while Tuero and I drum up Fort Weyr. Moreta will know if we can vaccinate runners.” Then he added to himself, I can bring Dag back and see what he managed to save.

Moreta was startled when the request came in to the Weyr drummer. The quarantine no longer applied. Alessan had specifically mentioned that he had been vaccinated and was healthy. She had no reason to deny a meeting and more than a few to grant it, curiosity about why the Lord Holder of Ruatha would urgently require a meeting being the least of them. Orlith was not a broody queen and quite happy to have people admire her clutch, particularly the queen egg, though she kept it always within reach of a forearm. Once she indulged in her postclutch feeding, she had piled the other eggs in a protective circle about the unique one.

“As if anyone would rob your clutch,” Moreta teased her affectionately. She had told Orlith all about her early-morning visit to High Reaches and received a serene absolution for her errand of mercy.

Leri was here. Holth was with you. Fain exchange in those conditions. I slept.

Moreta slept for a while after her return from the High Reaches, waking nervously almost as if she had expected another summons. She would have preferred to stay at Tamianth’s side until she was certain that the ichor was flowing to the wing, but Pressen had learned of the dangers and was able, to perform necessary countermeasures. Further, as Tamianth strengthened and Falga recovered from wound fever, another crisis was less likely to develop.

So Moreta ascribed her nagging sense of apprehension to the tensions of a long day and sent M’barak, Leri’s favorite weyrling rider, to Ruatha Hold. K’lon told Leri and Moreta how appalled he had been by Ruatha. Moreta did not like to dwell on the scenes of a derelict Ruatha that her active imagination could conjure. What could she say in condolence to a man who had suffered so many losses?

Suddenly Alessan, dressed in rough leathers but a clean shirt showing at the neck, stood to one side of the entrance to the Hatching Ground. Beside him was a lanky man in a faded, patched tunic of harper blue. M’barak was grinning at their hesitation and waved them toward the portion of the tiers that Moreta had converted to a temporary living space. Orlith was awake and watched them enter, but displayed no agitation.

Moreta rose, one hand raised in unconscious protest against the change in Alessan. Too vividly she recalled the assured, handsome, buoyant young man who had greeted her at Ruatha’s Gather eight days before. He had lost weight and his tunic was belted tightly to take up the slack. His hair no longer looked trimmed or brushed. She wondered why that detail should matter so much to her. The stains on his hands, witness of his efforts to plow and plant, were honorable ones, as was the redwort on hers. She grieved, too, for the lines of worry and tension in his face, the cynical slant to his mouth, and the wary expression in his light green eyes.

“This is Tuero, Moreta, who has been invaluable to me over the . . . since the Gather.” After the slight pause, Alessan’s voice deepened as if to ward off comment. “He has a theory against which I can raise no objections, but, as we cannot reach an authority at this hour in Keroon Beasthold, I thought you might give us an opinion.”

“What is it?” Moreta asked, put off by his diffidence. The change in him went far deeper than appearance.

“Tuero”—Alessan gave the harper a slight bow of acknowledgment—“wondered if a vaccine could be made from the blood of runnerbeasts to protect them from the plague.”

“Of course it can! You mean it hasn’t been done?” Moreta was consumed by such a surge of fury and frustration that Orlith rose to all four legs from her semirecumbent position, her eyes whirling pinkly, and a worried question rumbled from her throat.

“No.” In the one word, Alessan mirrored her own intense reaction.

“No one
thought
of doing it, or there hasn’t been the time?” she demanded, sick at the thought of more loss, animal or human. The grim set of Alessan’s mouth and the harper’s sigh gave the answer. “I would have thought that—” She broke off the angry sentence, closing her eyes and clenching her fists. She recalled the heavy losses at Keroon Beasthold—the emptiness of her family’s runnerhold.

“There have been other priorities,” Alessan said. He spoke without bitterness but from a resignation to harsh fact.

“Yes, of course.” She pulled her wits back from useless conjecture. “Have you any healers?”

“Several.”

“Runnerblood would produce the same serum by the same method, centrifugal separation. More blood can be drawn from runners, of course, and the vaccine should be administered in proportion to body weight. The heavier—”