“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 his 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.”
“He didn’t mind me and Ruth following him?”
“No.” N’ton was genuinely surprised at Jaxom’s question. “No, lad, I think he was surprised that he’d been missed and gratified that he’s still needed as a dragonrider.”
“N’ton!” Brekke’s call was firm.
“I was told I couldn’t stay long.” Jaxom could hear N’ton’s feet scraping on the ground as he rose. “I’ll come again, I promise.” Jaxom could hear Tris complaining and he visualized the little fire-lizard clutching N’ton’s shoulder for balance.
“How’s Menolly? Is she recovering? Tell Lytol that I’m very sorry to cause him worry!”
“He knows that, Jaxom. And Menolly’s much better. I’ve seen her, too. She had a lighter touch of fire-head than you did. Sebell recognized the symptoms almost immediately and called in Oldive. Don’t be in a rush to get up, though.”
As glad as he’d been for N’ton’s visit, Jaxom was relieved that it had been short. He felt limp and his head began to ache.
“Brekke?” Could he be having a relapse?
“She’s with N’ton, Jaxom.”
“Sharra! My head is aching.” He couldn’t help the waver in his voice.
Her cool hand touched his cheek. “No fever, Jaxom. You tire quickly, that’s all. Sleep now.”
The reasonable words, spoken in her gentle rich voice lulled him and, though he wanted to remain awake, his eyes closed. Her fingers massaged his forehead, descended to his neck, gently smoothing the tension, all the while her voice encouraged him to rest, to sleep. And he did.
The cool, moist sea breeze roused him at dawn, and he fumbled irritably to cover his exposed legs and back for he’d been sleeping on his stomach, tangled in the light blanket. Having rearranged himself with some difficulty, he couldn’t drop back to sleep again though he had closed his eyes, expecting to do so. He opened them again, fretfully gazing beyond the raised curtains of the shelter. He exclaimed in surprise, tensing, just then aware that his eyes were no longer bandaged and his vision was unimpaired.
“Jaxom?”
Twisting around, he saw Sharra’s tall figure swing from the hammock, noticed the length of dark hair streaming about her shoulders, obscuring her face.
“Sharra!”
“Your eyes, Jaxom?” she asked in a hushed worried tone and walked swiftly to his bed.
“My eyes are just fine, Sharra,” he replied, catching her hand in his, keeping her where he could see her face clearly in the dim light. “Oh, no, you don’t,” he said with a low laugh as she tried to break his hold. “I’ve been waiting to see what you looked like.” With his free hand, he pushed aside the hair that covered her face.
“And?” She drawled the word in proud defiance, unconsciously straightening her shoulders and tossing her hair back.
Sharra was not pretty. He’d expected that. Her features were too irregular, in particular her nose was too long for her face, and though her chin was well shaped it was a shade too firm for beauty. But her mouth had a lovely double curve, the left side twitching as she contained the humor which her deep-set eyes echoed. She arched her left eyebrow slowly, amused by his scrutiny.
“And?” she repeated.
“I know you may not agree but I think you’re beautiful!” He resisted her second attempt to free her hand and rise. “You must be aware that you have a beautiful speaking voice.”
“I have tried to cultivate that,” she said.
“You’ve succeeded.” He exerted pressure on her hand, pulling her still closer. It was immensely important to him to determine her age.
She laughed softly, wriggling her fingers in his tight grasp. “Let me go now, Jaxom, be a good boy!”
“I am not good and I am not a boy.” He had spoken with a low intensity which drove the good-natured amusement from her expression. She returned his gaze steadily and then gave him a small smile.
“No, you’re neither good nor a boy. You’ve been a very sick man and it’s my job,” she stressed the word just slightly as he let her withdraw her hand from his, “to make you well again.”
“The sooner, the better.” Jaxom lay back, smiling up at her. She’d be nearly his height when he stood, he thought. That they would be able to look eye to eye appealed to him.
She gave him one long, slightly puzzled look and then, with a cryptic shrug, turned away from him, gathering her hair and twining it neatly about her head as she left the room.
Although neither of them mentioned that dawn confidence, afterward Jaxom found it easier to accept the restraints of his convalescence in good grace. He ate what he was given without complaint, took the medicines, and obeyed instructions to rest.
One worry fretted him until he finally blurted it out to Brekke.
“When I was fevered, Brekke, did I . . . I mean . . .”
Brekke smiled and patted his hand reassuringly. “We never pay any attention to such ramblings. Generally, they’re so incoherent they make no sense whatever.”
Some note in her voice bothered him, though. “. . .so incoherent, they make no sense?” He had babbled his head off, then. Not that he minded about Brekke if h
e had said something about that dratted queen egg. But if Sharra had heard? She was from the Southern Hold. Would she be as quick to discount his ramblings about that double-blasted shard-shelled egg? He couldn’t relax. What wretched luck to fall ill when you had a secret that must be kept! He worried over that until he fell asleep, and picked right up on the same train of thought the next morning, though he forced himself to be cheerful as he listened to Ruth bathing with the fire-lizards.
He comes, Ruth said suddenly, sounding startled. And D’ram brings him.
“D’ram brings whom?” Jaxom asked.
“Sharra,” Brekke called from the other room, “our guests have arrived. Would you escort them from the beach?” She came quickly into Jaxom’s room, smoothing the light blanket and peering intently at his face. “Is your face clean? How are your hands?”
“Who’s coming that has you in a flurry? Ruth?”
He’s pleased to see me, too. Ruth’s sound of surprise was colored with delight.
Jaxom was forewarned by that remark, but he could only stare, stunned, as Lytol came striding into the room. His face was tense and pale under the flying helmet, and he hadn’t bothered to unfasten his jacket on the walk up from the beach, so perspiration beads formed on his forehead and upper lip. He stood in the doorway, just looking at his ward.
Abruptly, he turned toward the outside wall, harshly clearing his throat, stripping off helmet and gloves, unbelting his jacket, grunting in surprise when Brekke appeared at his elbow to relieve him of the gear. As she passed Jaxom’s bed on her way out of the room, she gave him such an intense look that he couldn’t fathom what she was trying to convey.
She says that he is crying, Ruth told him. And that you are not to be surprised or embarrass him. Ruth paused. She is also thinking that Lytol is healed, too? Lytol hasn’t been ill.
Jaxom didn’t have time to sort out that oblique reference because his guardian had already recovered his composure and turned.
“Hot here after Ruatha,” Jaxom said, struggling to break the silence.
“You want a bit of sun, boy,” Lytol said at the same moment.
“I’m not allowed out of bed, yet.”
“The mountain is just as you sketched it.”
They spoke again simultaneously, answering each other’s comments.
It was too much for Jaxom, who burst out laughing, waving Lytol to sit beside him on the bed. Still laughing, Jaxom grabbed Lytol’s forearm, holding it firmly, trying in that grasp to apologize for all the concern he’d caused. Abruptly he was engulfed in Lytol’s rough embrace, his back soundly thumped when the man released him. Tears sprang to Jaxom’s eyes, too, at the unexpected demonstration. Lytol had always been scrupulous in caring for his ward but the older Jaxom had grown, the more he had wondered if Lytol really liked him at all.
“I thought I had lost you.”
“I’m harder to lose than you’d think, sir.”
Jaxom couldn’t stop grinning foolishly because Lytol actually had a smile on his face: the first one Jaxom recalled.
“You’re nothing but bones and white skin,” Lytol said in his customary gruff manner.
“That’ll pass. I’m allowed to eat all I want,” Jaxom replied. “Care for something?”
“I didn’t come to eat. I came to see you. And I’ll tell you this, young Lord Jaxom, I think you’d better go back to the Mastersmith for more drafting lessons: you did not accurately place the trees along the cove shore in that sketch of yours. Though the mountain is very well done.”
“I knew I had the trees wrong, sir, one of the things I planned to check out. Only when I got back here, it went clean out of my head.”
“So I understand,” and Lytol gave a rusty laugh.
“Give me the news of the Hold.” Jaxom was suddenly eager for those minor details that had once bored him.
They chatted away in a companionable fashion that astonished Jaxom. He’d been ill at ease with Lytol, he realized now, ever since he had inadvertently Impressed Ruth. But that strain had evaporated. If this illness of his did no other good, it had brought him and Lytol closer than Jaxom in his boyhood could ever have imagined.
Brekke entered, smiling apologetically. “I’m sorry, Lord Lytol, but Jaxom tires easily.”
Lytol obediently rose, glancing anxiously at Jaxom.
“Brekke, after Lytol has come all this distance, on dragonback, he must be allowed to . . .”
“No, lad, I can return.” Lytol’s smile startled Brekke. “I’d rather not take a risk with him.” He gave Brekke a second surprise then as he embraced Jaxom with awkward affection before striding from the room.
Brekke stared at Jaxom, who shrugged to indicate she could put her own interpretation on his guardian’s behavior. She quickly left to escort the visitors back to the beach.
He was very glad to see you, Ruth said. He is smiling.
Jaxom lay back, wriggling his shoulders into the rushes to get comfortable. He closed his eyes, chuckling to himself. He had got Lytol to see his beautiful mountain.
Lytol wasn’t the only one to come to see the mountain, and Jaxom. Lord Groghe arrived the next afternoon, grunting and puffing from the heat, shouting at his little queen not to get lost with all those strangers, and not to get completely soaked because he didn’t want a wet shoulder on the way back.
“Heard you’d got ill of that fire-head stuff like the Harper girl,” Lord Groghe said, swinging into Jaxom’s room with a vigor that produced instant fatigue in the convalescent.
More unnerving was Lord Groghe’s scrutiny. Jaxom was certain the man counted his ribs, he had looked at them so long. “Can’t you feed him up better than this, Brekke? Thought you were a top-flight healer. Boy’s a rake! Can’t have that. Must say you picked a beautiful place to fall ill in. Must have a look about me since I’m down here. Not that it took all that long to come. Hmmm. Yes, must have a look about.” Groghe stuck his chin out at Jaxom, frowning again. “Did you? Before that sickness got hold of you?”
Jaxom realized that Lord Groghe’s totally unexpected visit might have several objectives: one, to assure the Lord Holders that the Lord of Ruatha was in the land of the living, all rumor to the contrary. The second purpose made Jaxom a little uneasy when he could so clearly recall Lessa’s remark about wanting “the best part of it.”
When Brekke tactfully reminded the blustering and genial Lord Holder that he mustn’t tire her patient, Jaxom nearly cheered.
“Don’t worry, lad. I’ll be back again, never fear.” Lord Groghe waved cheerfully to him from the doorway. “Beautiful spot. Envy you.”
“Does everyone in the North know where I am?” Jaxom asked when Brekke returned.
“D’ram brought him,” she said, sighing heavily and frowning.
“D’ram ought to have known better,” Sharra said, collapsing on the bench and plying a tree frond as a fan in exaggerated relief at the Lord’s departure. “The man’s enough to wear the healthy down, much less the convalescent.”
“I would guess,” Brekke continued, ignoring Sharra’s remarks, “that the Lord Holders needed verification of Jaxom’s recovery.”
“He looked Jaxom over like a herdsman. Did you show him your teeth?”
“Don’t let Lord Groghe’s manner fool you, Sharra,” Jaxom said. “He’s got a mind as sharp as Master Robinton’s. And if D’ram brought him, then F’lar and Lessa must have known he was coming. I don’t think they’ll like him returning—or scouting around here.”
“If Lessa did permit Lord Groghe to come, she’ll hear from me about it, you may be sure,” Brekke replied, thinning her lips in disapproval. “He is not an easy visitor for a convalescent. You might as well know now, Jaxom, that you were ill of that fever for sixteen days . . .”
“What?” Jaxom sat upright in the bed, stunned. “But . . . but . . .”
“Fire-head is a dangerous disease for an adult,” Sharra said. She glanced at Brekke, who nodded. “You nearly died.”
“I did?” App
alled, Jaxom put his hand to his head.
Brekke nodded again. “So, if we seem to be restricting you to a very slow recovery, you will agree that we have cause.”
“I nearly died?” Jaxom couldn’t absorb that news.
“So we will go slowly to ensure your health. Now, I think it’s time you had something to eat,” Brekke said as she left the room.
“I nearly died?” Jaxom turned to Sharra.
“I’m afraid so.” She sounded more amused by his reaction than concerned. “The important thing is that you didn’t die.” Involuntarily she glanced toward the beach and sighed, a quick exhalation of relief. She smiled, a brief one, but Jaxom noticed that her expressive eyes were dark with remembered sorrow.
“Who died of fire-head that saddens you, Sharra?”
“No one you know, Jaxom, and no one I knew very well. It’s just . . . just that no healer likes to lose a patient.”
He could tease no more from her on the subject and stopped trying to when he saw that she had felt that death so keenly.
The next morning, cursing with embarrassment at the unreliability of his legs, Jaxom was assisted to the beach by Brekke and Sharra. Ruth came charging up the sands, almost dangerous in his delight at seeing his friend. Brekke sternly ordered Ruth to stand still lest he knock Jaxom off his unsteady feet. Ruth’s eyes rolled with concern and he crooned with apology as he extended his head very carefully toward Jaxom, almost afraid to muzzle him in greeting. Jaxom flung his arms about his dragon’s neck, Ruth tightening his muscles to take the drag of his friend’s body, almost thrumming with encouragement. Tears flowed down his cheeks which he quickly dried against his friend’s soft hide. Dear Ruth. Marvelous Ruth. Unbidden came the thought to Jaxom’s mind: “If I had died of fire-head . . .”
You did not, Ruth said. You stayed. I told you to. And you are much stronger now. You will get stronger every day and we will swim and sun and it will be good.
Ruth sounded so fierce that Jaxom had to soothe him with words and caresses until Brekke and Sharra insisted that he had better sit down before he fell. They had arranged a matting of woven streamer fronds against a landward-leaning trunk, well back from the shore, to avoid full exposure to the sun. To this couch they assisted him. Ruth stretched out so that his head rested by Jaxom’s side, the jeweled eyes whirling with the lavenders of stress.
The White Dragon Page 24
