Moreta

by Anne McCaffrey

  “There may not be much of me, but there was a great deal of you to be bathed and oiled.”

  You always say that.

  “So do you.”

  The countercomplaints were lodged with total affection and understanding. Queen and rider had been partnered for nearly twenty Turns, though they had only recently become the leading pair at Fort Weyr when Len’s Holth had not risen to mate the previous winter.

  Moreta gave her head a final scrubbing, then flicked her fingers through her hair to make the short crop settle into natural waves. Wearing a leather cap during Threadfall made her scalp sweat so much that the long blond braids in which she had taken so much pride as a holder girl had been shorn. Once this Pass was completed, she could grow her hair!

  Once the Pass was completed . . . In the act of pulling on a clean undertunic, Moreta paused in surprise. Why, this Pass would end in another eight Turns. No, seven if one counted this Turn a quarter gone. Moreta sternly corrected an optimistic attitude. The Turn was barely seventy days old. Eight Turns then. In eight Turns, she, Moreta, would no longer have to fly with Orlith against Thread. The Red Star would have passed too far to rain the devastating parasitic Thread over Pern’s tired continent. Dragonriders would not have to fly because no Thread would blur the sky.

  Did Thread just stop, Moreta wondered as she slipped on her soft brown shoes, like a sudden summer storm? Or did it dribble off like a winter rain?

  They could use some rain. Snow would be even better. Or a good hard frost. Frost was always a Weyr ally.

  She slipped into the dress now, smoothing it over her rather too broad shoulders, over breasts firm rather than large, a waist that was trim, and buttocks flat from long hours of riding astride. The gown hid muscled thighs that she sometimes resented, but they, too, were the legacy of twenty Turns riding a dragon and little enough inconvenience for being a queen’s rider.

  She did wish that Sh’gall had chosen to come with her. She wasn’t acquainted with the new Ruathan Lord Holder, Alessan. She had a vague recollection that he was the leggy young man with light-green eyes that were an odd contrast to his dark complexion and shaggy black hair. He had always stood most correctly behind the old Lord Holder, his father. Lord Leef had been a stern if just holder from whom the Weyr could expect every traditional duty and the last tittle of tithe: just the sort of man the Weyr, and Pern, needed in command of such a prosperous Hold. But then, at Ruatha traditions had always been zealously maintained, and many of that bloodline had impressed queen as well as bronze.

  None of the many sons that the old Lord Leef had bred had known which would be named his successor. Lord Leef had kept the whole tangle of them in hand, preventing discord. Despite Threadfall and the other dangers of a Pass, Lord Leef had contrived to build several new holds into the sides of Ruatha’s steep valleys, to accommodate the worthiest of his sons and their families. Such expansion had been one of his many schemes to keep order in his Hold. Lord Leef had planned ahead for the end of the Pass as well as for an orderly succession. Moreta could not fault such provisions though Sh’gall, among other dragonriders, had become concerned over the creeping expansion of the hold populations. Six Weyrs, twenty-three hundred dragons, were hard-pressed to keep cultivated lands Threadfree in this Pass. There had been talk of founding another Weyr during the Interval. That would not be her problem, however.

  Moreta set the gold and green jeweled band at her neck and slipped on her heavy bracelets. The light-eyed man must be Alessan. She had often seen him at the end of Fall with the flamethrower gangs. Always correct in his manner, nevertheless Alessan’s presence was felt despite his reserve. For the life of her, Moreta couldn’t remember as distinctly any of the other nine sons though they all seemed to have inherited the strong craggy features of their sire rather than those of their various mothers.

  Today would be Alessan’s first Gather since the Conclave of Lord Holders had confirmed his accession to Ruathan honors at the beginning of the Turn. Rest days, Threadfree days, and clear weather combined infrequently.

  “Since there are the two Gathers, I shall attend Ista’s,” Sh’gall had told her that morning. “I told Alessan so yesterday, and it didn’t displease him.” Sh’gall gave a scornful snort. “He’s got every rag and tag at the race meeting of his so you should enjoy yourself.” Sh’gall did not approve of Moreta’s uninhibited enjoyment of racing and, on those few occasions when they had attended a Gather since Orlith’s mating flight with Kadith, he had put quite a damper on her pleasure in the sport. “I shall enjoy the sun and the seafood. Lord Fitatric always provides superb feasts. I can only hope you’ll do as well at Ruatha.”

  “I’ve never found fault with Ruathan hospitality.” Something in Sh’gall’s tone required her to defend the Hold. Sh’gall had been awed by Lord Leef, but not by the new young Lord. Moreta did not always agree with Sh’gall’s snap judgments so she would wait and form her own opinion of Alessan.

  “Besides, I’ve promised to convey Lord Ratoshigan to Ista. He does not care to attend Ruatha. He does wish to see the curious new animal to be displayed at Ista.”

  “Oh?”

  “Thought you might have heard.” Sh’gall’s tone implied she should have known what he was talking about. “Seamen from Igen Sea Hold found the beast adrift in the Great Current, clinging to a floating tree. They’d never seen its like and took it to the Master Herdsman in Keroon.”

  Ah, Moreta thought, that was why she should have known. Why Sh’gall assumed she knew everything that transpired in her native hold she did not know. She was firmly and totally committed to Fort Weyr, and had been for ten Turns.

  “It’s some species of feline, I hear,” Sh’gall added. “Probably something left behind on the Southern Continent. Quite a fierce beast. Wiser to leave that sort.”

  “With the way we’re being overrun by tunnel snakes, a fierce, hungry feline might be useful. The canines aren’t quick enough.” Her comment annoyed Sh’gall, who gave her one of his dark, ambiguous glares and stalked out of the weyr. His unexpected reaction irritated Moreta. Not for the first time, she heartily wished that Sh’gall’s Kadith had not flown Orlith a second time. Then she told herself firmly that old L’mal had considered Sh’gall one of the ablest wingleaders. Until the end of the Pass, Fort Weyr needed the ablest wingleader. Everyone had thought L’mal would last out the Pass, so his sudden illness and death had been a great loss. Moreta had always liked L’mal, and Leri spoke very highly of him as a weyrmate. Sh’gall was young, Moreta reminded herself; this was not an easy time to assume Weyrleadership, and Sh’gall suffered by comparison to the older, more experienced L’mal. Time would teach Sh’gall tolerance and understanding. Meanwhile Moreta must have those qualities in full measure to survive his learning period.

  As Moreta lifted the fur cape about her shoulders, the bracelets slid up her arms. They had been the gift of old Lord Leef for her having ridden Thread down—perilously close for the safety of Orlith—to the Lord’s cherished fruit trees, which were threatened by the parasite. Aided by Orlith’s agile maneuvering, Moreta had seared the Thread to harmless char with her flamethrower. She had been very young then, just transferred to Fort Weyr from Ista and eager to prove to her new folk just how keen and clever Orlith was. She wouldn’t take such a risk now, though it was not due to the memory of the rage in the eyes of L’mal, who had been Weyrleader then, when he had berated her for recklessness. Leef’s gift had not appreciably lessened her disgrace or eased her conscience, but they looked well with her new gown.

  Are we going to the Gather at all? Orlith asked wistfully.

  “Yes, we are going to the Gather,” Moreta replied, shaking her head clear of such reflections.

  She’d have a good Gather, too, for Ruatha Hold would be gay and bright, dominated by the young Alessan’s young friends. Sh’gall had said that they were still full of their success, that he’d had to remind Alessan that Thread brought no joy and he must attend his duties as Lord Holder before attending to
his pleasures.

  “Perhaps it’s just as well Sh’gall decided to go to Ista . . . and take Lord Ratoshigan with him,” Moreta told Orlith, convincing herself in the process.

  He and Kadith are well occupied, Orlith said complacently as she followed her rider from their weyr.

  Orlith paused on the ledge, glancing around the Weyr Bowl. Most of the sun-struck ledges usually occupied by dragons were empty.

  Have they all gone? Orlith asked in surprise, craning her neck to see the shadowed west ledges.

  “With two Gathers? Of course. I hope we’re not too late for the racing.”

  Orlith blinked her great, many-faceted eyes. You and your racing.

  “You enjoy it as much as I do and generally have a far better view on the fire-heights. Don’t fret. It’s fun to watch, but I ride only you.”

  Mollified by her rider’s teasing assurance, Orlith crouched, setting her forearm so Moreta could climb to her place between the last two neck ridges above her shoulder. Moreta settled her skirts and pulled the cloak about her. Nothing would really keep her warm in the awesome total cold of between but the transition lasted only a few breaths, which anyone could endure.

  Orlith sprang from the ledge. Though gravid, she was not a lazy dragon, to tumble off into the air before making first use of her wings. The old queen, Holth, trumpeted a farewell; the watchdragon spread his wings, masking the Star Stones on the summit. The watchrider extended his arm, completing the salute as Moreta waved acknowledgment.

  Orlith caught the wind flowing down the oblong Bowl, the crater of an extinct volcano which was home to the Weyr. In a distant Turn, an earthslide had rampaged down the range, broken through the southwest part of the Weyr and into the lake. Stonecraftsmen had cleared the lake and shored up the edge in a massive wall but little could be done to clear the lost caverns and weyrs, or restore the symmetry of the Bowl.

  “Surveying your Weyr, O Queen?” Moreta asked, indulging Orlith’s leisurely glide.

  At height, one sees many details in proper order. All is well.

  Moreta’s laugh was blown from her lips, and she had to hang on to the riding straps. Orlith constantly surprised her with gratuitous observations. Conversely, when Moreta needed guidance, Orlith might reply that she didn’t understand any rider but Moreta. The queen could be counted on to comment on the Weyr in general, or on the morale of the fighting wings, or to supply information about the Weyrleader’s dragon, Kadith. Orlith was not so forthcoming about Sh’gall. But, after twenty Turns of their symbiotic relationship, Moreta had learned to discover as much in the queen’s impartiality or evasion as from her candid remarks. Being a queen’s rider was never easy. Being the Weyrwoman, Leri had more than once told Moreta, doubled both honors and horrors. One took the good with the bad and used fellis sparingly.

  Now Moreta visualized the fire-heights of Ruatha Hold, with its distinctive pattern of fire-gutters and beacons and the eastern watch rampart.

  Take us to Ruatha, she said to Orlith and clenched her teeth against the cold of between.

  “Black, blacker, blackest; colder beyond frozen things,

  Where is between when there is naught

  To Life but fragile dragon wings.”

  Moreta often held the words of the old song as a talisman against the bitter breathless journey. Ruatha was not far from Fort Weyr by any means of travel, and Moreta had only reached “colder” when the warm sun shone on them and on Ruatha’s fire-heights below. The host of dragons lounging on the rocky cliff summit, whole wings of them, voiced greetings at Orlith’s appearance in the air. Orlith’s thoughts echoed her pleasure in the accolade. Dragons met so rarely for pleasure, Moreta mused. Thread was the cause. Soon, in eight Turns . . .

  As the queen glided down, Moreta recognized some of the dragons from other Weyrs by the scar patterns on their bodies and wings.

  Bronzes from Telgar and High Reaches, Orlith reported, making her own identifications, browns, blues, and greens. But Benden has been and gone. We should have come earlier. The last held a plaintive note because Orlith had a partiality for the Benden bronze Tuzuth.

  “Sorry, dear heart, but I had so much to do.”

  Orlith snorted. Moreta felt the jerk of chest muscles through the dragon’s withers. She had begun to circle, dropping toward the fire-heights. Anticipating a landing, Moreta tightened her hold on the straps. Orlith overshot the heights, clearly headed down over the roadway crowded with the stalls of the Gather and a milling throng of folk gaily dressed for the occasion. Suddenly Moreta realized that Orlith meant to land in the empty dancing square ringed by lamp standards, trestle tables, and benches.

  I do not forget that we are senior now, Orlith said primly, and that the Hold’s honors are due the Fort Weyrwoman.

  Orlith landed with neat precision in the dance square, her broad pinions vaned high to avoid excessive backwinds. The banners on the lamp standards flapped vigorously, but little dust rose from the square already swept to hard ground.

  “Well done, dear heart,” Moreta said, scratching her mount’s back ridge affectionately.

  She glanced over at the imposing precipice that housed Ruatha Hold, magnificently topped by ranks of sunbathing dragons. The Hold’s unshuttered windows displayed banners and brightly woven rugs. Tables and chairs had been set out on the open forecourt so distinguished visitors could view the Gather stalls and the dancing square without obstruction. Moreta glanced quickly in the other direction, toward the flats where the racing was held. She could see the picket lines off to the right. The brightly painted starting poles were not in position so she hadn’t missed any racing.

  The entire Gather had ceased its activity to watch Orlith’s landing. Now there was a stir among the onlookers, who parted to allow a man to step from their midst.

  See! The Lord Holder approaches, Orlith said.

  Moreta swung her right leg over Orlith’s neck, pulling her skirts about, preparatory to dismounting. Then she glanced at the man approaching them. She could just make out his features, which corresponded to her recollection of Lord Leef’s light-eyed son. His broad shoulders were held at a confident angle and his rangy stride was assured, neither diffident nor hasty.

  He came to an abrupt halt, bowing to Orlith, who lowered her head to acknowledge his greeting. Then he moved on quickly to assist Moreta to dismount, looking intently up at her.

  His light-green eyes, unusual in one so dark-skinned, caught hers. His gaze was as formal and impersonal as his hands as he seized her by the waist and swung her down from Orlith’s forearm. He bowed, and Moreta couldn’t but notice that his shaggy hair had been neatly trimmed and attractively shaped.

  “Weyrwoman, welcome to Ruatha Hold. I had begun to think that you and Orlith were not going to attend.” His voice was unexpectedly tenor for a man so tall and lean, his words clearly spoken.

  “I bring the Weyrleader’s regrets.”

  “He gave them in advance yesterday. It would have been your regrets which I, and Ruatha, would have been sad to receive. Orlith is in splendid color,” he added, his voice unexpectedly warming, “for a queen so near clutching.”

  The queen blinked her rainbow-hued eyes, echoing the surprise that Moreta felt in Alessan’s adherence to formalities. Moreta hadn’t expected so polished a delivery from so young a man but, after all, Leef had drilled his heir in the proprieties. Besides, she was always ready to discuss Orlith.

  “She’s in great health and she’s always that unusual shade.”

  As her reply deviated from the tradition, Alessan hesitated.

  “Now, some dragons are so light as to be more pale yellow than gold while others are dark enough to vie with the bronzes. Yet she is not”—Moreta eyed her queen candidly—“the classic shade.”

  Alessan chuckled. “Does shade make any difference?”

  “Certainly not to me. I would scarcely mind if Orlith were green-gold. She is my queen, and I am her rider.” She glanced at Alessan, wondering if he was mocking her. But his gr
een eyes, with their tiny flecks of brown around the pupil, registered only polite query.

  Alessan smiled. “And senior at Fort Weyr.”

  “As you are Lord of Ruatha.” She felt slightly defensive for, despite the innocuous and formal phrases, she sensed an undercurrent in his speech. Had Sh’gall discussed his Weyrwoman with a Lord Holder?

  Orlith?

  The fire-height is warm in the full sun, the dragon replied evasively, swinging her head toward her rider. The many facets of her eyes were tinged with the blue of longing.

  “Off you go, dear heart.” Moreta gave Orlith’s shoulder a loving thump and then, with Alessan at her side, she walked from the dancing square. As they reached the edge, Orlith leaped, her broad wings clearing the ground in the first downward sweep. The dragon had launched herself in a very shallow angle toward the sheer rock of Ruatha. As the queen flew a mere length above the stalls and gatherers, Moreta could hear the spate of startled cries. Beside her, Alessan stiffened.

  Do you know what you’re doing, my love? Moreta asked, reasonably but firm. You’re a bit egg-heavy for antics.

  I am demonstrating the abilities of their queen. It will do them good and me no harm. See?

  Orlith had judged her angle finely, though from Moreta’s perspective, she looked to be in danger of clipping her forearms on the cliff edge. But Orlith cleared the cliff easily and, dropping her shoulder, spun almost on wingtip. She set her hindquarters down directly over the Hold’s main entrance, in the space vacated by other dragons. Then she flipped her wings to her back, sank down, and rested her triangular head on her forearms.

  Exhibitionist! Moreta sent without rancor. “She’s comfortable now, Lord Alessan.”

  “I had heard of Orlith’s reputation for close flying,” he replied, his eyes flicking to the jewelry Moreta wore.

  So the young Lord knew of the old Lord’s gift.

  “An advantage in Threadfall.”

  “This is a Gather.” With that slight emphasis on the pronoun, Alessan spoke as Lord Holder.