Vaxoram’s eyelids slid up, then down. Kindan shook him harder. “Wake up!”
Vaxoram’s eyelids slid open, focused briefly before his body spasmed in a long wracking cough. Kindan covered his face with his hand. For a moment it seemed as though Vaxoram could not draw in a new breath but then, with a hoarse wheezing noise, the apprentice’s lungs filled once more.
“I’m dying,” Vaxoram declared on this exhalation. His words were faint but clear, and his eyes blazed.
“No, you’re not,” Kindan lied stoutly. “You’ll get better.”
“No,” Vaxoram said with another labored, hoarse breath. “Dead by morning.”
Kindan knew he was right.
“Tell—tell Nonala,” Vaxoram whispered hoarsely.
“I will,” Kindan promised. “I’ll tell her that you love her.”
“Wish I were journeyman,” Vaxoram wheezed. “Might have a chance then.”
Kindan’s throat closed in anguish. “You will be,” he promised, tears filling his eyes from some newly tapped wellspring.
Vaxoram shook his head. “Gotta walk the tables,” he said. “I can’t walk the tables.”
“You will!” Kindan declared, his voice rising. He stood up, grabbing Vaxoram’s hand and pulled the larger apprentice up out of his cot. “Bemin!”
“Kindan, what is it?” the Lord Holder called back, rushing over.
“Help me,” Kindan cried, staggering to keep Vaxoram upright. “Help me with him.”
“We could carry him,” Bemin suggested, his eyes wide with concern.
“No, he has to walk,” Kindan snapped. “He has to walk the tables.” He spoke to Vaxoram, “You can do it, you can do it now.”
He turned to the startled holders. “Pull a table out from the wall.”
“Do as he says,” Bemin called firmly. The holders obeyed. Bemin turned to Kindan. “He’s dying, you know.”
“Not until he walks the tables,” Kindan declared fiercely. “Then he’ll be a journeyman.”
Beside him, Bemin grabbed Vaxoram tighter, rising to his full height.
The table seemed forever away. “We’re nearly there, Vaxoram,” Kindan said encouragingly. “Stay with us, we’re nearly there. You’re going to walk the tables.”
“You’re not a Master,” Vaxoram slurred slowly.
“Yes, yes, he is,” Bemin declared firmly. “My word as Lord Holder, he is.” Together, he and Kindan lengthened their stride, supporting Vaxoram.
Finally, they reached the edge of the table.
“See? We’re here, Vaxoram, we’re here,” Kindan said. “You’re going to walk the tables now, do you understand?”
“Come on, harper, walk,” Bemin added sternly, his face crumpled with emotion.
“I can’,” Vaxoram protested.
“You can,” Kindan swore. “You will. One step at a time, moment by moment.”
And, one step at a time, moment by moment, Vaxoram walked around the Great Hall table, supported by Kindan and the Lord Holder of Fort Hold.
“See, Vaxoram?” Kindan cried as they reached their starting point. “See, you did it! You’re a journeyman now. See, Vaxoram?”
“Kindan,” Bemin said softly, his voice torn with sorrow. “I think he’s dead.”
CHAPTER 12
Harper mourn,
Holder cry,
Every Turn
Till tears run dry.
FORT HOLD
We’ll take him from here,” one of the holders said as Kindan and Bemin stood in shock and grief, still holding Vaxoram’s dead body between them.
“Let us carry him now,” said the other.
“Thank you, Jelir,” Bemin said, shifting his grip with the holder. “Let go, Kindan, you’ve done all you can for him.”
“For him,” Kindan agreed, looking at the long line of cots in the Great Hall. He started back toward Koriana, but his legs buckled under him and only Bemin’s quick movements kept him from slamming against the floor.
“You should get some rest,” Bemin said, guiding him back toward the cots.
Kindan saw the two holders carrying Vaxoram’s body and shook his head.
“No, I should see to him,” Kindan protested, trying to alter their course.
“Kindan,” Bemin said slowly, looking down at the young harper, “our duty is to the living. How would that serve them?”
“I need to say good-bye,” Kindan pleaded.
Bemin started to argue but changed his mind. “Very well, then you’ll get some rest.”
“My watch should start any moment,” Kindan argued.
“‘Should’ isn’t what matters,” Bemin replied. “I’ll wake you when we need you, you sleep until then.”
“Only if you sleep the same amount after, Lord Holder,” Kindan replied.
“I’m older, I don’t need that much sleep,” Bemin objected.
“I’m younger, I don’t need that much sleep,” Kindan retorted.
“Let’s pay our last respects to your—our”—Bemin corrected himself—“friend.”
Supported by Bemin, Kindan followed the slow march of the holders as they bore Vaxoram to the far side of Fort Hold and the great ditch that had once been the Lord Holder’s ancestral gardens.
Kindan stifled a gasp as the two holders unceremoniously threw Vaxoram’s body into the ground to rest on top of countless other bodies. Jelir staggered from the toss and nearly toppled down into the mass grave himself, but Bemin reached out just in time and caught him.
“You should get some rest, too,” Bemin said to the holder.
“I’m sorry, my lord,” Jelir apologized. “He was the heaviest we’ve carried tonight, I won’t fall again.”
“Get some rest, we’ll call you if we need you,” Bemin reiterated.
“Night’s over, anyway,” the other older remarked, nodding toward the lightening east. As if in agreement, Valla sprang from Kindan’s shoulder and flew a slow, mournful arc over the grave site.
They had just started back to the Great Hall when the loud noise of a dragon arriving from between startled them. Kindan had time only to realize that it was M’tal once again before the rider threw down four large parcels and disappeared once more between. The parachutes of the parcels opened and they floated down to the ground.
“Catch them!” Bemin ordered, rushing after the farthest bundle. Kindan staggered after him, as did Jelir and the other holder.
“What are they?” Jelir asked as he caught his parcel. “Food?”
“Masks,” Kindan said, snagging his parcel out of the air and opening it excitedly. He took one mask off the top of the bundle—there were easily fifty in his bundle alone, he could tell by the thickness—and wrapped it around his face, tying the straps at the back. “They’ll protect against the plague,” he shouted, his voice muffled.
“How?” Jelir asked.
“It’ll prevent spreading by containing our coughs and protecting us from others’ coughs,” Bemin said, walking back to Kindan with his bundle and holding out his free hand for one of Kindan’s masks.
“Let’s get these on everyone immediately,” Kindan said.
“Even the sick?” Jelir asked, daunted at the size of the task.
“Especially the sick,” Kindan said. “They’re the ones who can spread the disease to us.”
“But you were sick already,” Bemin said. “Doesn’t that protect you from reinfection?”
“I don’t know,” Kindan told him. “Maybe.”
“No point in finding out,” Jelir said, grabbing a mask from Kindan’s pile and fitting it over his nose and mouth hastily.
“But it’s no cure,” complained the other holder.
“It might be,” Kindan said. The others looked at him challengingly. “If the infection can’t spread, then there’ll be no new patients. Once the others have recovered—”
“Or died,” Jelir added despondently.
“—the cycle will be broken,” Kindan finished.
“But how long
before the last of the infection is gone?” Bemin asked.
“I don’t know,” Kindan replied. “It seems like it takes a sevenday for the worst of the symptoms to show.” He paused in thought. “Some recover in four days, others take longer.”
“Anyone who was sick died in a sevenday,” Jelir remarked.
“Yes,” Kindan agreed. “That might be right.”
“Might?” Bemin queried.
“It seems that the healthiest suffer the most from this illness,” Kindan said.
“No, Stennel was healthy as a workbeast and he’s right here,” Jelir said, jerking his head toward the other holder.
“The worst hit were those in their prime,” Bemin said in agreement. “Like my sons.”
“And Vaxoram,” Kindan added. “Those between seventeen and twenty-one Turns or so.”
“Maybe younger,” Bemin said, turning bleakly toward the Great Hall.
“We’re getting nothing done jawing here,” Stennel said, stepping out briskly toward the Great Hall, unwrapping his bundle as he walked.
“Let’s keep the other two wrapped up until we need them,” Kindan said to Bemin and Jelir. The Lord Holder nodded and looked to the other holder for acknowledgment.
Inside the Great Hall, they separated, each one taking a line of cots and a handful of masks. Koriana was the first in Kindan’s line. She was sweating freely and tossing in a fevered sleep; Kindan got the mask on her with difficulty and she shook it off before he could tie it. It took him several more minutes to get it back on her.
The next patient was little better, the third was dead. After that, Kindan moved slowly from cot to cot, growing weaker each time. He ran out of masks and began opening a second bundle just as Stennel reached him.
“I’m out,” the older man said, reaching for a handful of the new masks.
“How many are in the Hall?” Kindan asked. “There are fifty masks in each bundle.”
“There might be that many here,” Stennel said, running his gaze over the Hall. “But there’s thousands more in the rest of the Hold.”
“But the sickest are here, aren’t they?”
Bemin joined them then, having run out of his stack of masks.
“Only those we could find,” Bemin said sadly. “I can’t say how many are still in their quarters…and how many are dead.”
“We’ll have to start moving the dead, or we’ll have worse than this plague to deal with,” Kindan said. “There are things that feed on dead bodies and spread to the living.”
“Bring the living here,” Bemin said, “where we can care for them.”
“Which is more important?” Stennel asked, glancing toward the far end of the Great Hall and back toward the doors into the courtyard with its surrounding quarters.
“Both,” Bemin and Kindan said in unison. They shared a brief grin.
“Here, first,” Bemin said after a moment. “But fill the beds again.”
“As we empty a bed, find someone to fill it, my lord?” Jelir asked. Bemin nodded.
“Your garden will soon be filled, my lord,” Stennel remarked. “Then what?”
“Maybe help will come by then,” Bemin said hopefully.
“If it would’ve come, wouldn’t it have come sooner?” Stennel asked hopelessly.
“One day at a time,” Kindan said, turning to his cot. “My lord, I shall rest as you demanded.”
“Stennel, Jelir, one of you rest, the other come with me,” Bemin said.
Kindan checked on Koriana, who had rolled over on her mask in her delirium. He rolled her back to prevent her from suffocating in her own spit.
“Check that they haven’t rolled over,” Kindan called hoarsely to Bemin as he collapsed onto the nearest cot. Bemin waved in acknowledgment and bent over the nearest cot.
Sometime later Kindan was shaken awake. He rose slowly, exhausted, to see Bemin looking down at him bleary-eyed.
“Rest, my lord,” Kindan said, rising with feigned alacrity.
“The masks are all gone,” Bemin said. “We’ve got two hundred in the cots and many more in the rest of the Hold. The dead…I don’t know if we’ll ever be rid of the smell.”
“A good cleaning, a good airing, and only memories will remain,” Kindan told the Lord Holder cheerfully, but Bemin’s eyes were already closed and he was breathing lightly, on the edge of a deep sleep.
Kindan checked first on Koriana, who had once more rolled over with her face in her pillow. Kindan bundled up some pillows and blankets and propped her firmly on her side.
A sound distracted him and he saw Fiona sitting up in a farther bunk looking around anxiously.
“Hi, Fiona,” Kindan called, forcing himself to smile at her. Shyly, the blond-haired youngster smiled back. Kindan’s heart skipped a beat as he saw the beginnings of the same beauty Koriana possessed. “Are you hungry?”
Silent, Fiona nodded.
“Let’s see what we can find in the kitchens, shall we?” Kindan asked, reaching down to pick her up.
“I walk,” the toddler replied, hopping off the cot and tottering over to him, holding out her hand. Kindan took it and was surprised to note that it wasn’t burning with heat as it had been—just a day ago? He bent down and felt her forehead: cool. Had she recovered?
“I’m hungry,” Fiona complained. Kindan stood up, still holding her hand and led her to the kitchen, stopping every so often to check on a patient.
In the kitchen, Kindan was surprised to find four women all working industriously.
“Why it’s Miss Fiona!” one of the women exclaimed, clapping her cheeks in surprise. “I’d no hope of seeing you again.”
“I’m hungry,” Fiona said.
“Well, then,” the woman replied brusquely, “we’ll have to feed you, won’t we?” She turned her gaze on Kindan and bowed her head, “You’re the boy that’s been healing us.”
“I—”
“You mustn’t remember me,” the woman interrupted. “I was sick as could be two days ago and you came by and wiped my forehead and dripped some fellis in my mouth. Tasted bitter but stopped the pain.” The woman nodded to herself. “I’ll never forget that, healer.”
“He’s the healer?” another woman called from back by the ovens. She came out, wiping her hands on her apron before holding one out. “I just want to shake your hand, sir, for all the kindness you’ve done.”
“But—” Kindan said, shaking his head.
“There’s them that gave up all hope, until you came,” the second woman said. “I was one of them. Then I saw you and—” She stopped to dab her tears out of her eyes.
“—you spoke so kindly and I could see it in your eyes that you wanted me to live. So I said, ‘Right, then, I’m going to live. I’m going to live and make that lad some bubbly pies.’” She nodded toward the oven. “There’s no fruit, but we’ve got some sweet buns cooking for you and everyone.”
Kindan could only shake his head mutely.
“You’ve gone and embarrassed him,” the first cook said scoldingly, but Kindan knew she was just covering for him.
“Thank you,” Kindan managed to say at last.
“How about we take the miss off your hands, then?” the second cook offered. She peered down at Fiona. “Would you like to help Neesa and me in the baking?” Fiona nodded, wide-eyed at the prospect.
The first cook, Neesa, beckoned Kindan in closer. “I’ve no wish to add to your troubles, but bread’s all we can make just now,” she told him. “And that for not much longer, certainly not enough to feed the whole Hold, or what’s left of it.”
“I know,” Kindan replied. “The sick won’t be able to swallow it, it’ll be too hard for them.”
“I’d guessed,” Neesa replied. “They’ll be weak as lambs if they recover.”
“When they recover,” Kindan corrected. Neesa didn’t contradict him. “What about the stores?”
“Too heavy to move without a team of ten at least,” Neesa replied. “Even a barrel of fish and that’d
be awful eating.”
“Better than nothing,” the second cook noted.
Neesa made a face, so Kindan asked, “What would be best, then?
“Fruit’d be best, but it’s the wrong time of year,” Neesa told him. She frowned. “There’s many that will recover only to starve from all this.”
“If they recover, I won’t let them starve,” Kindan swore.
Neesa nodded in fierce agreement. “As you say, healer.” She smiled bleakly at him. “We won’t fail you, that’s for sure.”
“I’m counting on it,” Kindan said, smiling at the older woman, too exhausted to be more than vaguely amused at his commanding tone.
“I’ll let you get back to work,” Neesa said. “Sallit or Fiona will be out with those rolls soon.”
“And klah?” Kindan asked hopefully.
Neesa shook her head dolefully. “We’ve no bark left worth brewing.”
“Make a list of what we need, then, and add klah to it,” Kindan told her.
“Might as well add the fruits of summer,” Neesa grumbled, but she turned toward her chopping table, slapping the sides of her apron in search of a pencil.
Nothing was better—in fact, with the beds refilled and Vaxoram and Kilti dead, things were clearly worse—but somehow Kindan’s spirits lifted. Perhaps it was the warm rolls delivered to those standing by a wide-eyed, solemn Fiona, perhaps it was her shy kiss when Kindan bent down to thank her, or maybe it was the masks keeping the air so much cleaner.
More people were up and about. As he saw them, Kindan was struck again by the uneasy knowledge that the plague killed those in their prime; the survivors were either much older or much younger.
Again and again, Kindan found himself returning to Koriana, checking her temperature, wiping her forehead, changing her soiled sheets, clearing her soiled mask.
“Time to rest,” Bemin told him later that evening, handing him another roll. Kindan bit into it but in the course of the day it had hardened and was tough to chew.
“Call me if you’ve need, my lord,” he said, checking once more on Koriana before lying down on the cot beside her.
“Where’s Fiona?” Bemin asked, looking nervously around the room.
Anne Mccaffrey_ Dragonriders of Pern 20 Page 23
