Moreta (Dragonlady of Pern)

by Anne McCaffrey

  An enterprising baker passed among the finish‑line crowds with a tray of hot spiced rolls. Moreta hadn't realized how hungry she was until the aroma wafted over to her.

  "I'm host today," Alessan said, noticing her reaction. He took her arm and they pushed their way through to the baker.

  The flaky pastry was stuffed with a savory mix, and Moreta quickly devoured three rolls.

  "Don't they feed you in the Weyr on a Gather day?" Alessan asked.

  "Oh, the stew pot's always simmering in the Cavern," she replied, licking her fingers appreciatively. "But stew wouldn't taste half as good as these spiced rolls do right now."

  Alessan was eyeing her, a curious expression on his face.

  "You're not at all what I expected in Weyrwoman Moreta," he said in a candid tone that captured her complete attention. Wearily she wondered what Sh'gall had said of her. Alessan went on, "I got to know Leri rather well. She usually stays on for a word with the ground crews ..."

  "I would if I could," Moreta said, countering his tacit criticism, "but I have to return to the Weyr immediately after Fall."

  "Have to?" Alessan's right eye quirked high.

  "Did you never wonder who takes care of dragon injuries?" She spoke more sharply than she intended because she had been able to forget that they would rise to Fall in two more days, and more dragons might be injured. "I'd thought that the Weyr must have the best of the healers, of course." Alessan's reply was so formal that Moreta regretted the quick retort. She laid her hand on his arm, hoping to restore the ease of their relationship.

  "I never realized it might be you." He smiled and covered her hand with his. "What about another spiced roll before someone else eats them all?"

  "Lord Alessan ..." Dag came rolling up to them. "Runel's going on about Squealer being a sport. I tol'im the breeding, but he won't take it from me." Alessan's expression became pained, and he closed his eyes briefly.

  "I was hoping to avoid Runel this Gather."

  "You done pretty well with everyone else, Lord, but I can't do this for you." Alessan inhaled the breath of one resigned.

  "Who's Runel?" Moreta asked. The two men regarded her with astonishment. "You mean, you've escaped Runel?" Amusement chased resignation from Alessan's expression. "Well, you must meet him at least once."

  Dag made a sound, half protest, half fear.

  "And the race is due to start," Alessan reminded Dag. "Weyrwoman, that's the only thing, short of Fall, that will halt Runel's recitations."

  By now, Moreta was intrigued.

  "He's over there, with those cronies of his." Dag pointed.

  Moreta noted first that the three men stood isolated by a clear space from any immediate neighbors. Two were holders by their badges, one from Fort and the other wearing Ruathan colors; the third was a wizened herdsman whose clothes reeked of his craft despite the fact that they looked well brushed. The tallest of the men, the Ruathan holder, drew himself up proudly as he noticed Alessan's I approach. He spared Moreta only a passing glance.

  "About that sprinter of mine, Runel," Alessan began briskly, addressing himself to the herdsman. "I bred the beast myself, four Turns ago, out of the sprint mare Dextra, Lord Leef's by Vander's brown stallion, Evest."

  Runel's expression altered dramatically. He threw back his head and unfocused his eyes, wide‑opened. "Alessan's sprinter, Squealer, won the first sprint race at the Ruathan Gather, third month, forty third Turn of the sixth Pass, bred by Alessan out of Dextra, five times winner at sprint races in the west, Leef by Vander's Evest which was nine times winner over sprint distances. Dextra's sire, twice winner, by Dimnal out of Tran, nineteen times winner. Dimnal by Fairex out of Crick, Fairex ..."

  "There he goes," Dag said to Moreta in an undertone, shaking his head ruefully.

  "He just keeps on?"

  "And on and on. He'll recite the lineage of Squealer back to the Crossing," Alessan murmured, standing with hands clasped in front of him and seeming to give Runel the courtesy of his attention.

  "He's only good with western racing, though," Dag added critically.

  "He's eidetic? I've heard about them, but I've never heard one personally."

  "Just give him a name of a racer and he's away. Trouble is he has to start at the beginning."

  "Isn't he starting at the end with Squealer's win today?"

  Runel's voice had settled into the sing‑song of winners, sires, and dams.

  "The latest race is his beginning, Lady Moreta."

  "Does he go to all the Gathers?"

  "Those he can get to." Dag shot Alessan a look.

  I would be surprised if the Lord Holder knows half the races Runel attends, Moreta thought to herself.

  "He's not much good otherwise, that's certain," Alessan said, unconcerned. "My father saw that the oldest sons were well apprenticed. Runel's memory serves a purpose,"

  "Bore you to death, it would," Dag muttered unappreciatively, glancing over his shoulder at the race flats. "It's starting!" Reprieve was the overwhelming emotion. "Race!" he said in a loud voice directly at Runel.

  Runel's companions began to tug at his arms. "Race, Runel! Race is starting!"

  Runel came out of his recitation trance and looked about in surprise.

  "Race is starting, Runel," the Fort holder said reassuringly as he began to guide the eidetic toward the finish line.

  Alessan drew Moreta to one side, and Dag scurried behind the Lord Holder while the trio marched off. Moreta could not help but see that a path cleared before Runel more quickly than if Alessan and she had wished passage.

  "You should hear him on the 'begats.'"

  "As you have?"

  "Indeed and I have, at every birthfeast." Alessan spoke with feeling and rolled his eyes upward.

  "I'd've thought the man would be more valuable in the Harper Hall than in a hold."

  "My father had the good sense to prevent that."

  "Why? With that memory ..."

  "Because his granduncle was a harper here and remembered more than was prudent on too many occasions." Alessan grinned with malice. "I think my grandsire made sure to turn the trait to less ... ah, shall we say ... remunerative topics? I believe there have always been blood relations in the Harper Hall, undoubtedly in the Records Rooms, scanning hides and committing them to memory before the ink fades completely."

  They found a place at the line and observed the hotly contested finish of the sixth race. As they passed the wait for the next race, they overheard bits and snatches of conversations. References to the new Lord Holder and the quality of the Gather were in the main complimentary, though Moreta enjoyed Alessan's discomfiture at some of the candid remarks. The weather dominated most discussions.

  "Too warm, too soon. We'll melt this summer."

  "Can't say as I mind mild days instead of rain and blizzard, but it ain't natural. Upsets the rhythm of the Turn."

  "M'herds won't settle with insects hanging on in the warm, pestering 'em. Terrible cases of sores. Beasts don't want to eat. Don't want to move. Muddle and moan together, they do." "A bit of frost would do us the world of good. Freeze down those tunnel snakes. Breeding fierce they are this year with no cold to lay 'em."

  "Can't decide to shear now for a short crop and give 'em relief from the heat or let 'em lose condition panting under long hair."

  "We needs us some snow. We needs it to kill what grubs beneath the soil, what sucks life from our good seed, and what makes a field sour. We needs frost and snow in good measure."

  "You ought to be relieved, Alessan, that all they complain about is the weather. After all, no holder expects the Lord Holder to be able to change the weather. The Weyrs do that, you know." She pulled her mouth down in a grimace that made him grin.

  The final race had a surprise ending for two runners crossed the finish line, right in front of Moreta and Alessan, without so much as a nose between them. The argument over which animal won grew so heated that Alessan came forward to mediate, dragging Moreta with him. To set
tle what could have been a nasty situation, Alessan loudly proclaimed that he doubled the purse so that neither contender would be disappointed for the fine excitement they had provided the Gather.

  That was just the right decision to end the race meeting on a high note. Owners, riders, handlers, and spectators dispersed from the flats in the best of all spirits.

  "You're a sensibly generous man, Alessan."

  "I thank you. Lady Moreta. Ah, just in time," he said, and Moreta turned as a handler led up a big‑boned, long‑backed runnerbeast saddled with a thick pad in Ruathan colors. "My lady, your mount."

  "This is what your father expected you to breed?"

  "This is what I did breed for my father," Alessan replied with a broad grin. "Squealer's type was a bonus." He gave her a leg up and waited while she hooked her leg on the broad pommel before he swung up behind her.

  "I think I prefer your Squealer," she said as the beast lurched forward at Alessan's urging.

  "There speaks the racing enthusiast, not the prudent holder." He turned his head left as they moved off across the stubble field, and Moreta knew that Alessan had only deferred the puzzle of the empty picket lines for the duration of the races.

  "It's not like Ratoshigan to miss a chance for Ruathan marks. They could sail right up the Ruathan River," Alessan said, giving her a tight smile for his inattention. "Soover, you know him from Southern Boll, ought to have come short of Fall, fire, or fog. I hadn't realized that the weather, for all your unwillingness to change it, was of such widespread concern."

  "There's no lack of people at this Gather," Moreta said. The stalls were still doing a good business despite the numbers attracted by the racing.

  People had already begun to take places at the tables about the dancing square. The aromas of roasting meats wafted enticingly on the wind, the pungency of spiced wherry dominating.

  Alessan had ridden straight up across the field and now turned their mount up the roadway. Moreta glanced up to the fire‑heights, covered in sun‑baking dragons. There seemed to be more, and she noticed Orlith flanked by another queen. Tamianth of the High Reaches, judging by her size and color.

  "Some creatures like the sun and the warm," Alessan said. "Does all the sunning help them endure the cold of between?"

  Moreta shivered involuntarily, and Alessan's arms tightened about her. She rather enjoyed the unexpected intimacy.

  "When we fly Thread, I'm grateful to the cold of between," she replied obliquely, her thoughts on the Fall in two days.

  Then Alessan reined the beast up the ramp to the forecourt, its heavy feet clumping hollowly and alerting the guests there. Moreta waved cheerfully at Falga, the High Reaches Weyrwoman.

  "Wasn't your new gown ready, Moreta?" Falga asked as she walked to meet them while Alessan halted their mount.

  "A new gown?" Alessan's startled question fell on Moreta's ears only.

  "You'll see it next Gather, Falga," Moreta replied blithely. "This is my race‑watching dress."

  "Oh, you and your races!" Falga smiled tolerantly and turned back to the holders with whom she'd been talking.

  Suddenly Tolocamp appeared, his genial smile not completely masking his disapproval of Moreta's dusty appearance.

  "I'll just slide off, thank you. Lord Tolocamp," she said, politely ignoring his offer of assistance.

  "If you'll follow me, Lady Moreta," Lady Oma said, breaking through the press of people and taking charge.

  Relieved to be able to retire gracefully from Tolocamp's critical gaze, Moreta followed Alessan's mother. In the instant her eyes met Lady Oma's, Moreta knew the woman disapproved of her as much as Tolocamp did but more for upsetting her own plans for her son's afternoon entertainment than for Moreta's hoyden behavior. As they proceeded through the Hall, splendidly decorated for the Gather, and up the stairs into the Hold's private corridors, Moreta felt the weight of Lady Oma's rebuke in her silence. In Lady Oma's own apartments, however, a variety of gowns, skirts, and tunics had been hastily assembled, and from the bathroom drifted the moist scent of perfumed water and the giggles of the girls who were preparing it.

  "Your gown has been cleaned, Lady Moreta," Lady Oma said, closing the door behind Moreta. "But I doubt it will be dry before the dancing." She cast a measuring glance at Moreta, ignoring the dusty brown shift. "You're thinner than I'd thought. Perhaps the rust ..." She indicated the garment, then cancelled that suggestion with an impatient gesture of her other hand. It was reminiscent of Alessan. "It is in no way comparable to your own gown. This green one is more suited to your rank."

  Moreta went to the rust dress, fingering the texture of the plain but soft fabric. She held it up to her waist and shoulders. The fit would be good through the body, though the skirt was short above her ankles. She glanced at the fine material of the green dress. She'd sweat in it dancing the way she intended to dance for having lost part of her racing.

  "The rust will do very well, and I'm grateful for the loan of it." She smiled around at the women in the room, trying to locate the donor but no one met her glance. "This will be fine. I won't be long," she added, smiling again as she entered the bathing room and pulled the curtain across. She hoped they would all take the hint and leave.

  She lolled longer in the warm scented water than she intended, easing muscles made tense by the afternoon's excitements. Only when she finally emerged and was rubbing her hair dry did she hear a noise in the outer chamber and realize that someone was waiting for her.

  "Lady Oma?" she called out, dreading the answer.

  "No, it's only Oklina," an apologetic young voice replied.

  "Did you find the shift?"

  "I'm in it."

  "Do you need help with your hair?"

  "It's short enough to dry quickly."

  "Oh!"

  Moreta smiled to herself for the chagrin in the young voice. "I'm distressingly self‑sufficient, Lady Oklina," Moreta said, pulling the rust dress over her head, "except that I cannot do up the back of the gown." She pulled the curtain aside as Oklina rushed forward, nearly colliding with Moreta and almost collapsing with embarrassment at her awkwardness.

  Oklina bore a marked resemblance to her brother but none to Lady Oma, if indeed the woman was the girl's mother. The dark complexion, which suited Alessan, did nothing for the girl yet she had a sensitivity in her face and a grace of movement that had its own appeal. And, Moreta noted enviously, thick long black plaits gleamed in the well‑lit room.

  "I'm awfully sorry it's only me. Lady Moreta, but it's time to serve the roasts and with so many guests ..." Oklina deftly settled the bodice to Moreta's hips and began lacing the back.

  "If I had been watching where I walked, "

  "Oh, Marl wanted to sink into the ground with the slops. Lady Moreta. He rushed here to us with your gown and hovered in the washroom, fretting about the stains. You must have been furious to have a new gown ruined in the first wearing, before you had a chance to show it off or dance in it." Oklina's voice reflected her awe, which was quite understandable since she was obviously wearing a dress handed down from older sisters.

  "I shall dance much more easily in this." Moreta twitched experimentally at the rust skirts.

  "Alessan sent word that you had to be enticed with a gown pretty enough to make you stay for the dancing."

  "Oh?"

  "Oh!" Oklina's eyes widened at her indiscretion, and she blinked back sudden tears, her expression very solemn. "He hasn't been to a Gather or danced or sung or been himself since Suriana died. Not even when he became Lord Holder. Tell me, was he pleased when Squealer won?"

  "Ecstatic!" Moreta smiled gently at the girl's obvious adoration of her brother. "Creditable win, too. Five lengths."

  "And he actually smiled? And enjoyed himself?" At Moreta's reassurance, the girl clasped her hands under her chin, her dark eyes shining. "I did see the start," her expressive face clouded briefly, "and heard the yells. I'll bet the loudest was from Alessan. Did you see Squealer afterward? And you met Dag
. Dag is never far from that runner. He's been so devoted. He knows so much about racing because he rode for Lord Leef before he got so old. He can spot winners every time. He had faith in Alessan's breeding when everyone else thought he ought to give it up before Lord Leef," Oklina broke off with a gasp. "I talk too much."

  "I've been listening." Moreta was not unaccustomed to outpourings of repressed emotions. "I think Squealer is going to repay all the time and effort Alessan, and Dag, have put into him."

  "Oh, do you really think so?" The prospect brought a fresh spasm of delight to Oklina. "Listen, the harpers have begun." At the sound of music, the girl wheeled to the window, its metal shutters open to the darkening sky.

  "Well, then, let's go dance. It's time to enjoy ourselves."

  For a moment, Oklina looked apprehensive, as if she wouldn't be allowed to enjoy herself. Younger members of Hold families were often saddled with the onerous duties of a Gather, but Moreta would make it a point to see that Oklina did dance. The girl smiled graciously and gestured for Moreta to precede her from the room.

  The corridors and the Hall were empty, but drudges were opening the glowbaskets arranged on the forecourt as Moreta and Oklina hastened by. Moreta paused on the ramp, to look up to the fireheights. Orlith slept, eyes closed, in the setting sun, likely to remain somnolent until the evening breeze chilled the air. Other dragons, their rainbow‑colored eyes gleaming, watched the scene below.

  "Oh!" Oklina's tone was a yip of delighted fear. "They are such awesome creatures." She paused, then blurted out, "Were you terribly scared?"

  "When I Impressed? Very much so. The Search reached my father's hold the very day of Impression. I was scooped up and taken to Ista in a scurry, told to change, and then shoved onto the Hatching Ground before I knew exactly what was taking place. Orlith," and Moreta could never suppress an exultant smile at the memory, "forgave me for being late!"

  "Ohhhh," Oklina expelled a long sigh of bliss.

  Moreta waited, recognizing the girl's yearning to be found on Search and to impress a queen dragon. Once when faced with such envious yearnings, Moreta had felt unaccountable guilt over her good fortune at Impressing Orlith, her friend, her sure consolation, her life. That reaction had gradually been replaced by the knowledge of the great gap between wish, fulfilment, and acceptance. So Moreta could smile kindly at Oklina while her mind reached out to her sleeping dragon. "If my brother hadn't been my father's successor, he might have been a dragonrider," Oklina confided to Moreta in a sudden whisper.