Anne Mccaffrey_ Dragonriders of Pern 20

by Dragon Harper

  “You can eat it, seeds and all,” J’trel told him. “Even the rind.”

  “Excellent!” J’lantir replied. A rustle of noise and wind behind him alerted him and he turned to see C’rion hovering nearby on bronze Nidanth. Surrounding him were the rest of the Weyr, less J’lantir’s wing. A moment later the sky darkened as riders from Benden, Fort, and High Reaches arrived.

  “Attach parachutes to those and we’ll drop them directly,” M’tal called as he jumped off bronze Gaminth and strode over to J’lantir.

  “Parachutes?” J’lantir asked. He turned to his wing. “Come back in another hour.”

  “That’s timing it tight, J’lantir,” B’zim noted.

  “We’ve no time here,” J’lantir told him. B’zim nodded and waved to the other wing riders to mount their dragons.

  “Where are they going?” M’tal asked, peering after the rising wing.

  “Back in time to get more fruit,” C’rion told him.

  “They’re timing it?” M’tal asked in horror.

  “There’s no choice, fruit isn’t ripe in Southern this time of year,” C’rion replied.

  “They’ll be all right,” J’lantir assured the Benden Weyrleader.

  “How do you know?” M’tal asked challengingly.

  “Because they’re the wing I lost for a sevenday,” J’lantir replied with a grin.

  M’tal’s eyes widened as he recalled the story. “So now we know where they went and who took them.”

  “Indeed,” C’rion agreed. He turned back to the task at hand. “How many parachutes for these nets, do you think?”

  M’tal turned his attention to the large cargo nets and gestured for one of his riders to approach him.

  “We must hurry,” the Benden Weyrleader said. “We don’t have time on our side here and now.”

  He turned to another group of descending dragons, frowning. “What are they doing here,” he groaned, “they could be dropping the fellis leaves now. Gaminth, tell them to spread out to the Holds and drop the bundles they’ve got; they don’t need parachutes, the leaves will do fine!”

  As if hearing his bellow, the four wings of dragons winked between to fulfill their mission.

  “That’s the last of the fellis, there,” Neesa told Kindan as she handed him a pitcher. “And the rolls are gone, too.”

  The sun was not yet at midday.

  “Thanks,” Kindan told her. He left the pitcher on the counter and went out to the linen line again. Perhaps he could figure out a way to get some from the Harper Hall.

  He drummed his message quickly, calling for attention. Then he waited. And waited. And waited. There was no response.

  “Conar?” Kindan called out softly, thinking of the young holder boy who had never thought himself worth much.

  Valla appeared at his shoulder, crooning anxiously and preening against Kindan’s neck, but Kindan ignored him, staring down at the dull pot in despair.

  Bemin was right. They were all going to die.

  A shadow dulled the pot. Then another. Kindan looked around and saw more shadows. He gazed upward and started as a bundle landed with a thump not a meter from him. Incredulously, Kindan reached for the bundle.

  Leaves. Only leaves. Was this some—wait! They were fellis leaves.

  “Neesa!” Kindan cried, scooping up two bundles and racing to the kitchen. “Neesa, I’ve got more fellis leaves!”

  “What? How did you find them?” Neesa asked as Kindan thrust the bundles into her arms.

  “They’re in the linen area,” Kindan told her. “They fell from the sky.”

  “Fell from the sky,” Neesa repeated, looking at Kindan as though he’d lost his mind. Then his meaning registered and she clapped her hands to her mouth, tears leaking from her eyes. “Dragonriders! We’re saved!”

  “What is this?” Bemin demanded, attracted by Neesa’s loud bellowing.

  “Fellis,” Kindan said, thrusting a leaf at Bemin. “The dragonriders dropped fellis.”

  For a moment, Bemin had a look of hope on his face. Then it drained away.

  “Fellis will only help the dying,” he said, and turned back to the Great Hall.

  C’rion and M’tal conferred when the first bundles of fruit were ready to drop.

  “The Harper Hall?” C’rion asked.

  “No, J’trel says there are only a few there,” M’tal replied. “Send them to Fort Hold.”

  “You think your friend is still alive?” C’rion asked.

  M’tal shook his head. “I can’t say,” he said. “But it was his idea, and B’ralar says there are still people moving at Fort Hold, so we owe it to him to try first.”

  C’rion nodded and gestured to the laden wing. “Fort Hold!” he called. In an instant they were airborne and gone, between.

  “Let’s hope we’re not too late,” C’rion murmured. Beside him, M’tal nodded glumly, his eyes filled with sorrow.

  Kindan did not follow Bemin. Instead, he waited until Neesa had brewed a fresh decoction of fellis juice, then he took the bottle. In the Great Hall, he worked his way around the room, administering a drop here, two drops there, depending upon the amount of fever indicated by the moodpaste.

  He had just finished the first line of cots when Bemin and Jelir walked back into the Hall, clearly having borne another body to the grave site.

  “It’s almost full, my lord,” Jelir said. “Overfull, if we don’t want scavengers digging among the dead.”

  “Then leave the bodies here,” Bemin replied disconsolately, throwing himself onto a cot and sitting with his head and shoulders hunched over in despair.

  “My lord?” Jelir said in surprise. Fort’s Lord Holder made no response. Desperately, Jelir looked over to Kindan.

  Kindan sighed and straightened his shoulders. He glanced around for Fiona, but she wasn’t in sight; he vaguely recalled a toddler sprawled in the kitchen.

  He dropped to his knees in front of the Lord Holder.

  “You cannot stop now,” he said, peering up to meet Bemin’s eyes.

  “I can’t go on,” Bemin said. “We’ve got no food, only fellis.” He barked a laugh. “We could all drink it and feel no pain.” He raised his head enough to meet Kindan’s eyes. “Mix it with the wine and we’ll all feel no pain!”

  “No,” Kindan said. “This is not the time for wine, my lord. Save it for later.”

  “Later?” Bemin snorted. “When I mourn my wife, my sons, my daughter? Will you drown your sorrows over your lover then? Will the pain ever go away?”

  “I don’t know,” Kindan told him honestly. “I was hoping you would tell me.”

  Bemin grimaced and shook his head. “I have nothing to tell you, harper.” He snorted and said with a lopsided grin, “You’ve dishonored your word once more, you know.”

  “My lord?”

  “Only fellis fell from the sky,” Bemin told him. “You were half right, though, I’ll grant you that.” He snorted again in faint humor. “You keep half your word, harper.”

  “I promised you food from the sky, my lord,” Kindan told him firmly, his voice rising to carry throughout the Great Hall. “On my word as harper.”

  “Harper!” Bemin exclaimed, rising from the cot angrily. “I need no harpers, I need healers!”

  “Lord Bemin, Lord Bemin, come quick!” Neesa shouted from the far end of the hall.

  Bemin’s brows creased in pain.

  “Fiona?” he called, then raced past Kindan toward the kitchen. Kindan followed an instant later.

  But it wasn’t Fiona. Neesa raced past her, shouting, “Come quick, you’ve got to see! You’ve got to see it!”

  They raced out into the linen yard and Neesa pointed into the sky.

  “Dragonriders!” she shouted. “Look at them! They’ve come!”

  “More fellis,” Bemin guessed sourly. Just then, a dragon swooped low and a great bundle fell from the sky, to be slowed an instant later by many large billowing parachutes.

  “They dropped the fellis,�
�� Kindan said in wonder, glancing at the slowly falling bundle. He turned and saw that more bundles were falling in the courtyard outside the Great Hall. He saw yet another bundle dropping toward the cotholds outside Fort Hold.

  “It’s food,” Neesa said, rushing toward the first bundle that crashed onto the ground. “It’s food! Fruit!” She reached through the netting and pulled out a large fruit. “I’ve never seen the like!” She took a huge bite and juices dribbled down her chin. “It’s fresh! And it’s marvelous.” She turned to Bemin. “My lord, you’ve got to try it!”

  Bemin didn’t move. His eyes were on Kindan.

  Slowly the Lord Holder of Fort Hold, the oldest Hold on Pern, knelt before the youngest harper on Pern.

  “You kept your word, harper,” Bemin said, bowing low before him.

  “Have a fruit, my lord,” Kindan said, taking one of the fruits proffered by Neesa. Bemin looked up at him and slowly took the fruit.

  “Then we’ll get back to work,” Kindan added with a grin.

  The Lord Holder of Fort Hold rose slowly, redfruit in one hand, took a bite, then another, and smiled back at Kindan.

  “Fruit from the sky,” Bemin murmured in amazement.

  “We’ve more work to do now, my lord,” Kindan said with a renewed sense of urgency. He gestured to a bundle. “There’s many that will need these, they need them now.”

  Bemin nodded in vigorous agreement, a new light in his eyes—a light of hope.

  CHAPTER 14

  What is this I see

  I cannot believe my eyes

  Fresh fruit and new hope

  Floating in the skies.

  FORT HOLD

  While Bemin distributed the fruits first to the standing able-bodied and then sent out patrols to distribute them to the rest of the Hold, Kindan returned to tending the ill in the Great Hall.

  As he had half guessed, the arrival of fresh food meant the arrival of more patients, newly freed from the back rooms of the Hold by the roving parties that Bemin had sent out.

  Kindan worked tirelessly through the rest of the day and the night. At some point he drifted off, falling asleep half over a cot.

  A hand shook him gently awake much later.

  “Healer,” a woman’s voice called. “Healer Kindan, are you all right?”

  Kindan stirred and pulled himself upright.

  “I’m Merila,” the woman said. “I’m sometimes midwife,” she explained. “Lord Bemin sent me to help you.”

  “The illness?” Kindan asked her.

  “I was way back in the apartments,” Merila said. “The others all died and I was near the same until the men brought me that fruit.”

  “What do you know about the illness?” Kindan asked, pushing himself to his feet. He wobbled and Merila deftly inserted a hand under his shoulder, helping him up.

  “Nothing much,” Merila said. “I had it and I got well, others died.”

  “Those in their prime,” Kindan told her.

  Merila’s brow creased in thought, then she nodded. “That was the way of it,” she agreed. “Couldn’t see it until now.” She looked at him. “Do you know why?”

  “Their lungs were coughed up,” Kindan said. “From the inside. Like their bodies fought so hard, they coughed up their own lungs.”

  “People’ve two lungs, did you try putting them on one side?”

  Kindan nodded. “I tried that with”—he found his throat tightening—“with”—he couldn’t say her name, it hurt too much—“with the Lord Holder’s daughter. It didn’t work.”

  “It was worth trying, all the same,” Merila replied judiciously. She gave Kindan a probing glance and looked ready to ask him another question, but changed her mind. “What can I do to help?”

  “Have they got everyone from the back rooms?” Kindan asked.

  “Not all,” Merila replied. “They’re just starting.”

  A group of holders marched by, carrying a woman; they were trailed by a small group of children.

  “There’s many a mother who’ll die of starvation,” Merila said, shaking her head. “They gave their food to their children.”

  “We’ve got fruit,” Kindan said.

  “But for how long?” Merila wondered.

  “The dragonriders won’t let us down,” Kindan assured her.

  Merila snorted and waved her hand around the Hall. “I don’t see any dragonriders here, harper.”

  “If they catch the plague, they’ll infect their weyrfolk,” Kindan explained. “The last time a plague like this spread over Pern they did just that and it took nearly twenty Turns for the Weyrs to recover.”

  “Twenty Turns?” Merila repeated in surprise. “But Thread’s coming—”

  “Exactly,” Kindan said with a firm nod. “If the weyrfolk were to die from this illness, there’d be no support for the Weyrs, and not enough dragonriders fighting Thread.”

  “And when the illness passes, what then?” Merila asked. “Will they come then?”

  “Who can say when the illness has passed?” Kindan asked her.

  “That would be you,” she told him. Kindan gave her a startled look. “You’re the only healer I see here.”

  “And when you’re done there, check the stables,” Bemin called to a workgroup as he entered the Great Hall from the courtyard. “If we can hitch up a wagon, we can bring food down below and the ill back up.”

  “Aye, my lord,” Jelir called, gesturing to the group of four men behind him as they turned to head back outside.

  Bemin saw Kindan and walked stiffly over to him.

  “I can’t be here, there’s too much work to do in the Hold,” the Lord Holder said. “Can you manage on your own?”

  “I’ll help,” Merila declared.

  “And Neesa will keep the food going,” Bemin added.

  “If only we had some klah,” Merila murmured.

  Bemin cocked an eyebrow at her. “I’ll bet we can find some bark down in the village.”

  “That would be great, my lord,” Kindan said, thinking wistfully of the brew’s restorative powers.

  “We’ll make it our second priority,” Bemin declared. “Right after tending the sick.”

  Kindan nodded in agreement. Bemin turned but seemed reluctant to leave.

  “Go, my lord,” Kindan told him with a wave of his hand. “We’ll manage.”

  As the day progressed, Kindan found it harder and harder to “manage.” Even with the fruit and the fellis, there were over two hundred patients and only two carers, himself and Merila. Merila watched over his shoulder while he dealt with the first three patients, marveled at the usefulness of the moodpaste, then took off on her own.

  Sometime after lunch, Kindan staggered and fell to his knees. Attracted by the motion, Merila rushed to his side.

  “Lie down,” Merila told him.

  “There are more patients,” Kindan protested.

  “You’re no help to them the way you are,” she replied, gesturing to an empty cot. “Lie down. Rest.”

  “Wake me by dinner,” Kindan told her, sitting down on the cot. He was asleep before she answered.

  “Kindan,” Bemin’s voice called to him gently. Kindan’s nose twitched, some distant memory, some—“I’ve got klah.”

  Kindan’s eyes snapped open and he looked up at the Lord Holder, who was clutching Fiona with one hand and proffering a mug with the other.

  Kindan sat up and took the mug eagerly. It was warm, it was tasty, it was great.

  “We didn’t find much,” Bemin explained, eyeing the mug sadly. “Only enough for a pot or two.” He bent down and kissed Fiona on the head to give Kindan a moment to finish his klah. “Merila and Neesa have made a playroom out of the laundry room,” Bemin said, adding wryly, “I nearly had to pry her away.”

  Kindan downed the last of his klah and looked up at the Lord Holder, smiling. “That’s great!” He stretched, ignoring sore muscles, and said, “I haven’t felt this awake in…”

  “A fortnight or so,” B
emin finished with a shrug. “I’ve lost track of time, myself.”

  “Time,” Kindan repeated, his thoughts still muzzy and distracted. The klah was marvelous, but not a complete cure for weeks of sleepless toil. What was so important about time? Merila had said it, Kindan thought to himself, something about time.

  “I must go to the Harper Hall,” Kindan said suddenly.

  Bemin gave him a blank look.

  “No one could answer the drums,” Kindan explained. “They must be even worse off than we are.” He tried to stand up but his legs wouldn’t move. He looked up at Fort’s Lord Holder. “Could you give me a hand up, my lord?”

  Bemin drew a ragged breath. “No,” he said wearily. “You need to rest.”

  “But they need me there!” Kindan protested, again trying to push himself up. Feebly he grabbed for the edges of the cot he’d knelt by, trying to lever himself off the floor, but his arms were no better than his legs.

  Bemin waved a hand at him. “You can’t even stand on your own, lad—what help can you be?”

  Kindan shook his head. “It’s my duty,” he whispered, eyes too drained to cry.

  “Kindan,” Merila called from the far end of the Great Hall. “Rialla has passed on.”

  “Her children,” Bemin groaned softly, clutching Fiona tightly against his chest.

  “I’ll talk to them,” Kindan said. Again he raised a hand to Bemin. “Can you help me up?”

  With a sigh, Bemin reached down and helped the lad up from the floor. He’s nothing but skin and bones, the Lord Holder mused. He found a sick humor in the thought that all of Fort Hold was reliant on the wits of a tall, thin waif of a lad. “Once you’re done with them, you’ll lie back down and get more rest,” he ordered.

  “I can’t,” Kindan replied. “I’ve got to go to the Harper Hall.”

  “You can only walk holding on to my arm,” Bemin reminded him.

  “And no one there can answer the drums,” Kindan told him.

  “Lad,” Bemin began slowly, dreading the question, “what if there is no one to answer to drums?”