Moreta

by Anne McCaffrey

  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 fire-heights. 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 smiled, 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, fulfillment, and acceptance. So Moreta could smile kindly at Okilna 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,” Okilna confided to Moreta in a sudden whisper.

  “Really?” Moreta was startled. She hadn’t heard that Ruatha Hold had been approached for one of its sons, not since she joined the Weyr ten Turns before.

  “Dag told me.” And Oklina nodded her head vigorously to support her statement. “It was twelve Turns ago. Dag said Lord Leef was in a fury because Alessan was to be the heir, and though Lord Leef told the dragonriders they could have any other member of his Hold, Dag said that no one else was acceptable to the dragons—how do dragons know?”

  “Search dragons know,” Moreta said in a mysterious voice, a rote reply after so many repetitions. “Each Weyr has dragons who sense the potential in youngsters.” Moreta deepened the mystery in her voice. “There are folk, weyrborn, who’ve known dragons and riders all their lives who don’t Impress, and complete strangers—like myself—who do. The dragons always know.”

  “The dragons always know . . .” Oklina’s whisper was half prayer, half imprecation. She stole a quick look up the fire-heights as if she feared the somnolent dragons might take offense if they heard.

  “Come, Oklina,” Moreta said briskly. “I’m dying to dance.”

  CHAPTER III

  Ruatha Hold, Present Pass, 3.11.43

  TO MORETA, OF all the Gathers she’d ever attended, the Ruathan Gather at that moment of dusk evoked best what Gathers should be—folk from weyr, hold, and craft assembled to eat, drink, dance, and enjoy one another’s company. The glowbaskets on their standards cast patches of golden light on the crowded tables, on the dancers, on the clusters of people standing about talking, and on the circles of men near the wine barrels. The darting figures of children wove in and out of the light patches, and occasionally their laughter and shouts cut across the music and the stamping of the dancers. The smell of roasted meats and warm evening air, of dust and pungent glows and wine reinforced all prospect of entertai
nment.

  Nine harpers graced the platform and five more sat waiting their turns. Moreta couldn’t pick out Tirone, but the Masterharper might be circulating among the tables. Alessan might not like the Masterharper, but Tirone would discharge his obligation to the new Lord Holder’s first Gather.

  Moreta and Oklina had reached the edge of the onlookers, who parted while respectfully murmuring greetings as the two moved closer to the dance square. Having guided Moreta to the head table, opposite the harpers’ platform, Oklina would have left, but Moreta took the girl by the hand. When Alessan rose to his feet, gesturing for Moreta to sit beside him, she pulled Oklina down, too, ignoring the girl’s protest.

  “There’s room enough, isn’t there?” Moreta asked, giving Alessan a significant glare. “She was so good about waiting for me.”

  “Room enough, of course,” Alessan replied graciously, motioning to the table’s other occupants to adjust. As Moreta seated herself, Alessan peered at her, a frown beginning to pucker his brows. “Is that the best that could be supplied you?” He pinched at the sleeve with disapproval.

  “This suits me very well. Much better for dancing than mine. Though I had many to choose from,” she added hastily as the reason for his frown became clear to her. “I think I should make it a practice to bring two dresses to a Gather: one to see races in”—she grinned mischievously up at him—“and one to be seen in.” She gave her chin an arrogant tilt and pretended hauteur.

  Placated, Alessan smiled back at her and signaled for wine to be poured in her cup. “I’ve more of the Benden white for you.” He raised his cup in a quick toast.

  She had not had more than a sip when the harpers struck up a loud and lively dance tune.

  “Will you honor me with a dance, Weyrwoman?” Alessan asked, jumping to his feet and extending his hand.

  “Why else am I here?” She turned to Oklina with a smile. “Guard my place and my cup.” Then she took Alessan’s hand and allowed herself to be spun onto the square, finding the beat of the measure and stepping out into the pattern with a strong man’s body against hers and firm hands guiding her.

  She loved to dance and, though the Weyr had musicians and songs in the evening from time to time, dancing was generally reserved for Hatching festivities. Occasionally the blue and green riders indulged in wild acrobatics, usually when they were well into the wine after a bad Fall or the death of a dragon and rider, but Moreta dreaded those dances. Leri and L’mal had felt that such excesses purged the riders, but Moreta preferred to absent herself, taking flight on Orlith to be far from the maddening drum beat and the posturing dance.

  But the Gather’s music soon exorcised those memories, and she was breathless by the time Alessan whirled her back to the table, both of them heartily applauding the harpers’ music, the sweet, uncomplicated, merry, familiar tunes.

  “I must dance now with Falga,” Alessan said, seeing Moreta settled, “but save me another dance?”

  “Did you enjoy dancing with Alessan?” Oklina asked in a shy wistful voice as she set the goblet of Benden Wine before Moreta.

  “Indeed I did. He’s light on his feet and knows the dance well.”

  “Alessan taught me to dance. When there’s music in the Hall, he always asks me at least once, but I don’t expect he’ll be able to tonight with so many other girls.”

  “Then I shall find you another partner.” Moreta turned to search out an idle dragonrider.

  “Oh, I mustn’t.” Oklina looked scared and her eyes flitted nervously to the crowded square where a new dance was forming. “I’m expected to help with the guests.”

  “You are, by making sure of my comfort and guarding my Benden wine.” Moreta smiled warmly at the child. “But you must dance tonight!”

  “Moreta!” A firm hand clasped her on the shoulder, and she looked up at B’lerion, bronze Nabeth’s rider from the High Reaches Weyr. “There’s good music begging your step. And me!”

  The bronze rider did not wait for her consent, but took her hand and pulled her into his arms, laughing down at her. “I knew you couldn’t resist me.” And he winked over Moreta’s shoulder at the astonished Oklina as he spun the Weyrwoman off to the square.

  Moreta did not miss the wistful, yearning expression on Oklina’s face, but then B’lerion had that effect on many women. He was handsome and tall with a fine strong body, sparkling dark eyes, a mobile expression, a ready laugh. He always had a quick remark and a fund of light gossip. Moreta and he had enjoyed a brief association when she’d first come to Fort Weyr and she was certain that he was the father of her third child. She regretted that she had had to foster, but she had always been the healer and that duty had priority. Though B’lerion was not the same caliber wingleader as Sh’gall, Moreta had hoped that Nabeth would have flown her queen during that crucial mating flight. But then, the strongest, cleverest dragon flew the queen: That was the only way to improve the breed. Twice Sh’gall’s Kadith had been strongest and fastest. Or so Moreta kept telling herself.

  B’lerion was in a good mood, not yet deep in his wine for his words weren’t slurred and his step was firm. He’d heard of her dousing, teased her about monopolizing the young Lord Holder, told her that her love of racing would be her undoing, and asked why Sh’gall was not there to protect his interests.

  “I never understood why you let Kadith fly your queen when she could have done much better with Nabeth and I’d be Fort Weyrleader. I’m much more fun to be with than Sh’gall. Or so you used to tell me.”

  By the intense gleam in his eyes and the sharp hold he took of her waist for the last figure of the dance, B’lerion was half in earnest, Moreta realized. Moreta reminded herself that B’lerion was always in earnest for the duration of any given encounter. A charming opportunist who didn’t limit his activities to any one Weyr or Hold.

  “What? You be Fort Weyrleader? You don’t like that much responsibility.”

  “With you as Weyrwoman, I’d’ve improved beyond all knowing. And it’s only eight more Turns and then we’re all free to enjoy ourselves.” He pulled her tighter still. “We did enjoy ourselves before, you know.”

  “When didn’t you enjoy yourself, light wing?”

  “True, and tonight is meant for enjoyment, isn’t it.”

  She laughed and swung away from an embrace that had best be broken. B’lerion’s attentions might be misconstrued by some. She owed Sh’gall her undiverted support at least until the Fall ended. As she made her way back to the table, B’lerion followed, smiling at Oklina in imperturbable good humor. Moreta wished he hadn’t followed her, noting Oklina’s breathless reaction as B’lerion smoothly set himself down beside the girl.

  “May I have the next dance with you, Lady Okilna? Moreta will tell you I’m harmless. I’m also B’lerion, bronze Nabeth’s rider from the High Reaches. May I have a sip of your wine?”

  “Oh, that’s Lady Moreta’s wine,” Oklina protested, trying to regain possession of the cup that B’lerion had seized.

  “She’d never deny me a sip of wine, but I’ll drink to you and your big dark eyes.”

  Schooling her own expression, Moreta watched Oklina’s, saw her blushing confusion at B’lerion’s compliments. She could see the pulse of excitement beating in the girl’s slender neck, her quickened breathing. Oklina could not have been more than sixteen Turns. Hold-bred, she’d be married off very soon to some holder or craftmaster to the east or the south, far from Ruatha, strengthening Bloodlines. By the time the Pass ended, Oklina would have children and this Gather day would have been long forgotten. Or, perhaps, better remembered for B’lerion’s attentions. She smiled when the harpers struck up a slow and stately dance and B’lerion lead the delighted girl onto the square.

  As most people felt their talents adequate to that dance, the tables had emptied. Lady Oma remained at one end, listening gravely to a prosperously dressed holderwoman. When both smiled indulgently toward the dance square, Moreta caught sight of Alessan sedately guiding a young girl. The holder
woman’s daughter, possible candidate for second wife? Lady Oma’s faint smile was speculative. As Moreta made her own evaluation, the girl, pretty enough with dark curling hair, smiled simperingly up at Alessan. Such an innocent would never attract Alessan, now that as Lord Holder he could have his choice from any hold or hall on the continent. Then Moreta noticed S’peren, a Fort Weyr bronzerider, watching the dance. She’d thought S’peren had been to Ista.

  “Is the Ista Gather over so soon?” she asked him, surprised.

  “A bit disappointing, really, once they’d taken the animal away. No racing.” S’peren gave her a tolerant smile. “Nowhere near as many people as Ruatha . . .” He nodded with satisfaction at the crowded dance square. “People weren’t in such a festive mood, either. There’s illness in Igen, Keroon, and Telgar.”

  “Runners?” The memory of the beast’s unexpected fall flashed across her mind.

  “Runners? No. People. A fever, I heard. Master Capiam was someplace about, I heard, though I didn’t see him.”

  “Ista’s Weyrleaders are well?” F’gal and Wimmia had been good friends during her Turns at Ista Weyr.

  “And sent you their good wishes, as usual. Oh, by the way, I bear greetings for you from an animal healer named Talpan. Said he knew you from your father’s hold.”

  Strange, Moreta thought, moving on after exchanging pleasantries with the High Reaches riders chatting with S’peren. Until that day she hadn’t been reminded of Talpan in Turns, and now she even had greetings from him.

  The dance ended and she tried to locate Alessan for another with him. He was such a good partner. Then she saw him in the square, partnering a girl whose long black hair made Moreta think at first he was dancing with Oklina. The girl turned slightly, and Moreta realized that he was doing his duty by yet another marriageable woman. She felt great sympathy for Alessan, remembering how bronze riders had besieged her before Orlith rose to mate two Turns ago.