Balfor exaggerated, too, for the sun was just past zenith.
“Then I shall make the most of it. Don’t go wandering off. I’ll be back directly.”
Moreta angled Holth in takeoff so they both had a good look at the angle of the sun. Then she checked the first label: Keroon River Hold, situated where the river rushed through a gorge in its first wild charge from the higher plateaus. Holth jumped for the sky and went between as Moreta kept the gorge hard in her mind. She was met by the healer of Keroon River Hold and her delivery received with thanks. They had begun to worry since the vaccine had been promised for early morning. Moreta did not dally.
Next they went slightly northeast to the High Plateau Hold where the runners were cleverly penned in a canyon, awaiting the vaccine. The holder wanted reassurance about “this stuff” since they’d only had drum messages and no contact with anyone “below” since the quarantine was sent, and he wanted a fuller account of all that had been going on below. She answered him tersely but told him that once the vaccination had been administered, he could go below and hear the whole story. Her next stop was westward, along the great plateau fault at Curved Hill Hold where there had been a great in-gathering of runners—and that was the last of the first run she did.
She did four more holds, and each time she landed at the Beasthold for more vaccine, the sun had dipped by another hour’s arc, though she and Holth had been on the move hours longer than the sun told. And each jump Holth made seemed just that much shallower. Twice Moreta asked the dragon if she wanted to take time to rest. Each time Holth replied firmly that she was able to continue.
The angle of the sun dominated the coordinates Moreta envisioned for Holth in her valiant leaps: It had become a blazing beacon, turning slowly orange as it dipped farther down in the west. Moreta began to think of the sun as her enemy, fighting the time it took for Holth to recognize each new destination, to glide in to the hold or cot, hand over the bottles of vaccine and the packets of needlethorn, to explain, patiently over and over, exactly the dosage for animal and that for human, repeating instructions already sent by drum and messenger. Yet Moreta had to admit that, despite Master Tirone’s best efforts, there was still panic in the more isolated holds that had not been touched by the plague and dreaded it more for its unexpenenced terrors than its known qualities. Only the fact that she came adragonback allayed some suspicions. Dragons had always meant safety, even to the most secluded settlers. She had to use valuable time reassuring Holth and still make it back to the Beasthold for the next load of vaccine and the next run.
All during the last round, she kept the sun at a mid-afternoon position, feeling the strain of timing it in her bones, in Holth’s heaviness. But when she asked Holth if they should stop, the dragon replied that she wished Keroon had a few mountains instead of all these dreadful plains.
Then they had delivered the last of the vaccine and the net across Holth’s withers was empty at last. They were at a small western hold, stark amid the vast rolling plain, the runners held in an uneasy assembly around the great waterhole that supplied them. The holder was torn between administering the vaccine as long as he had light and offering hospitality to the dragon and rider.
“Go, you have much to do,” she told the man. “This is our last stop.”
Thanking her profusely, the man began to hand out the contents of the net to his handlers. He kept bowing to her and Holth, walking backward to his herd, all the while expressing his gratitude for their arrival.
She watched him go, numbly aware that Holth’s body was shaking under her legs. She stroked the old queen’s neck.
“Orlith is all right?” She had asked the question frequently, too.
I am too tired to think that far.
Moreta looked at the midafternoon sun over Keroon plain and wondered with a terrible lethargy exactly what time it was.
“One last jump, that’s all we have to take, Holth.”
Wearily the old queen gathered herself to spring. Moreta gratefully began her litany.
“Black, blacker, blackest—”
They went between.
“Shouldn’t Moreta be back by now, Leri?” The blue rider had been prowling uneasily in the tiers, occasionally barking his shins.
Leri blinked, looking away from K’lon. His restlessness deepened her anxiety despite the soothing effect of the fellis-laced wine she had been sipping all afternoon. It had eased the pain in her joints caused by the morning’s concentrated flying but did not allay her worry. She jerked her shoulders irritably, arching her back, and peered down at Orlith who lay drowsing beside her clutch of eggs.
“Take a hint from Orlith. She’s relaxed enough. And I won’t disrupt their concentration with an unnecessary question at what could be an awkward moment,” she replied testily. “They’ll be very tired. They’ll have had to fight time and make every minute into twenty to get the vaccine distributed.” Leri balled one hand into a fist and pounded her thigh. “I’m going to rend M’tani.” She flexed her fingers as if to encircle M’tani’s neck. “Holth’ll rake that bronze of his into shreds.”
K’lon regarded her with startled awe. “But I thought Sh’gall—”
Leri gave a snort of contempt. “L’mal would not have needed to ‘discuss’ the matter with K’dren and S’ligar. He’d have been at Telgar, demanding satisfaction.”
“He would? What?”
“No Weyrleader can disregard a continental emergency. Capiam has not revoked his priority. Well, M’tani will wish he had cooperated. And”—Lerii’s smile was malicious—“Dalgeth will answer to the other queens.”
“Really?”
“Hmm. Yes. Really!” Leri drummed her fingers on the stem of her wine cup. “As soon as Moreta comes back, you’ll see.”
K’lon peered out of the Hatching Ground. “The sun’s nearly down now. It must be dark in Keroon . . .”
Afterward, K’lon realized that both the rider and the dragon knew in the same instant. But Orlith’s reaction was vocal and spectacular. Her scream, tearing at his taut nerves, brought him round to witness the initial throes of her bereavement. Orlith had been lying at the rear of the Ground, her eggs scattered on the sand before her. Now she neared up on her hind legs, her awkwardly coiled tail all that prevented her from crashing backward as she arched her head back, howling her despair. The sounds she emitted were ghastly ululations in weird dissonances, like throat-cut shrieks. Then, in an incredible feat, Orlith launched herself from that fully extended posture, over her eggs, missing them by a mere handspan. She sprawled, muzzle buried in the sand as all color faded from her golden hide. Then she began to writhe, thrashing her head and tail, oblivious to the fact that she had caught her right wing under her, flailing the air with the left.
Holth is no more, Rogeth told K’lon.
“Holth dead? And Moreta?” K’lon could barely comprehend that statement and frantically tried to deny the corollary even as he watched its effect on the stricken queen.
Leri!
“Oh, no!”
K’lon whirled. Leri lay against the cushions, gasping, her mouth working, her eyes protruding. One hand was pressed to her chest, the other clawed at her throat. K’lon leaped toward her.
She cannot breathe.
“Are you choking?” K’lon asked, horror mounting as he scanned her contorted face. “Are you trying to die?” K’lon was so appalled at the thought of Leri expiring before his eyes that he grabbed at her shoulders and shook her violently. The action forced breath back into her lungs. With a thin wail more piteous than Orlith’s shattering cries, Leri went limp in his arms, her body wracked with sobs.
Hold her. Rogeth’s voice was curiously augmented.
“Why?” K’lon cried, suddenly aware that in his selfish panic, he had thwarted Leri. If Holth was dead, she had the right to die, too. His heart swelled with a crippling ache of compassion, anguish and remorse. “How?” he demanded, unable to comprehend what terrible circumstance could have robbed Orlith of More
ta and Leri of Holth.
They were too tired. They ought not to have continued so long. They went between . . . to nothing, the composite voice replied in the sad conclusion perceived by all the dragons in the Weyr.
“Oh, what have I done?” Tears streamed down K’lon’s face as he rocked the frail body of the old Weyrwoman in his arms. “Oh, Leri, I’m so sorry. Forgive me. I’m so sorry. Rogeth! Help me! What have I done?”
What was necessary, the augmented Rogeth spoke in a tone ineffably sad. Orlith needs her to stay.
Now the air was filled with the lamentations of the Weyr’s dragons as they joined Orlith’s dreadful keen. Sound battered the Hatching Ground, echoing wildly in the great stony cavern. As K’lon rocked Leri, the dragons were respectfully gathering at the entrances to the Ground. They lowered their great heads, their eyes dulled to gray as they shared the grief of a dragon who was unable to follow her rider in death, held to the Ground by the clutch of hardening eggs.
People had edged past the guardian dragons now, pausing briefly in deference to Orlith. Then K’lon recognized S’peren and F’neldril, closely followed by the other queen riders and Jallora. Kamiana turned with a peremptory gesture to the weyrfolk to remain at the entrance. But Jallora hurried to the steps, sliding to the blue rider. The healer murmured tenderly to Leri, stroking her hair, before she took the weeping woman from K’lon’s arms.
“She wanted to die,” K’lon stammered, lifting his empty hands in mute apology to Kamiana. “She nearly did.”
“We know.” Kamiana’s face was wretched.
“Pour some wine, Kamiana,” Jallora said, rocking Leri as K’lon had. He was obscurely relieved that he had, at least, done that right. “Use plenty of fellis juice. From that brown vial. Pour a cup for K’lon, too.”
“We could all use some,” Lidora muttered as she helped Kamiana.
But when Jallora held the cup to Leri’s lips, the Weyrwoman pressed them tightly closed over her sobs and turned her head away.
“Drink, Leri.” Jallora’s tone was deep with compassion.
“You must, Leri,” Kamiana insisted, her voice breaking. “You’re all Orlith has.”
The rebuke in Leri’s pained eyes was more than K’lon could stand and he buried his head in his hands, shaking with reaction. F’neldril laid a gentle arm across his shoulders to support him.
“Dear Leri, L’mal would expect it of you. I implore you. Drink the wine. It will help.” S’peren’s voice was hoarse.
“Oh, brave Leri, courageous Leri,” Jallora murmured in approval and K’lon looked up as the old Weyrwoman accepted the wine.
Lidora pressed a cup into his hand. It must be half fellis juice, he thought as he recklessly downed the draught. Not that it would do any good. Not all the wine in Pern could assuage the pain and remorse in his heart. He willed the potion to numb his senses but he couldn’t stop weeping. Even F’neldril’s seamed face was tear-stained as he stroked S’peren’s shoulder in comfort.
“Let’s get her up to her weyr,” Jallora said, motioning for S’peren and F’neldril to assist her.
“No!” Leri’s response was vehement. Orlith screamed in echoing protest.
No, said the voices and K’lon caught S’peren’s arm.
“I’ll stay.” Leri pointed toward Orlith. “I’ll stay here.”
“Will she?” Jallora asked the other queen riders, meaning the dragon.
“Orlith will stay,” Kamiana said in a barely audible voice while Leri slowly nodded affirmation. “She will stay until the eggs are ready to hatch.”
“Then we’ll both go,” Leri added softly.
Her words would forever remain in his mind, K’lon knew, as indelible as the nest of the terrible scene. S’peren and F’neldril stood beside him, drooping in grief, their faces suddenly aged. Haura and Lidora clung to each other weeping, while Kamiana stood to one side, her figure taut. Beyond them, the arched entrances to the Hatching Ground framed the press of dragons, all gray in sorrow, and the silent cluster of weyrfolk bewildered by the grievous loss. Just then there was a stir and three riders slowly moved onto the Ground, Sh’gall escorted by S’ligar and K’dnen. Sh’gall continued forward alone; his body bowed with grief. He fell to his knees, covering his face with his hands, unseen by the inconsolable Orlith who writhed in the soul-rending agony of separation from her beloved rider, Moreta.
AFTERMATH
Present Pass, 4.23.43
The occasion of a Hatching ought to be a joyous one, Master Capiam thought without a single buoyant fiber in his body as he watched the dragons glide to the knots of passengers awaiting conveyance to Fort Weyr.
He had not attended to what Tirone had been saying to him. Then the Masterharper’s parting phrase penetrated his gloomy reflections.
“I will be singing my new ballad, composed in celebration of Moreta!”
“Celebration?” Capiam roared. Desdra caught his arm and prevented him from being trampled on by Rogeth. “Celebration indeed? Has Tirone gone mad?”
“Oh, Capiam!” Desdra’s soft exclamation was unusually gentle for that caustic lady, newly made a Masterhealer. Capiam glanced quickly about to see why. Then he saw K’lon’s grief-stricken face as the rider dismounted.
“Leri and Orlith went before dawn,” K’lon said, his voice breaking. “No one could—would have stopped them. But we had to watch, to be with them. That’s all we could do!” K’lon’s tear-filled eyes begged for solace.
Desdra folded her arms around him, and Capiam stroked his back, offering the blue rider a kerchief that he needed himself in that instant. Desdra didn’t weep but her face was flushed, her jaw muscles tight, and her nose very red.
“They only stayed because of the eggs, to be sure of the day. But we had to see them go.” K’lon sobbed.
Wondering if he should administer a restorative, Capiam caught Desdra’s eye, but she gave, a little shake of her head.
“They were so brave. So gallant! It was dreadful, knowing they would go. Dreadful knowing that one day we would wake up and they would be gone! Just like Moreta and Holth!”
“They could have gone that day . . .” Capiam began, knowing that wasn’t the thing to say, struggling to find something to ease K’lon’s grief.
“Orlith could not have gone till the eggs were hard,” Desdra said. “Leri stayed with her. They had a purpose and now it is accomplished. Today must also be a glad day, for dragons will hatch. Surely that is a good day for going. A day that had begun in unmeasured grief will end in great joy. A new beginning for twenty-five—no, fifty—lives, for the young people who Impress today begin a new life!”
Capiam stared in wonder at Desdra. He could never have expressed it so well. Desdra might not speak often but she chose the right words when she did talk.
“Yes, yes,” K’lon was saying, dabbing at his eyes, “I must concentrate on that. I must think of the beginnings of this day. Not of the endings!” He straightened his shoulders resolutely and remounted the doleful Rogeth.
Dragons did not weep as humans did, but Capiam thought he might prefer tears to the gray tinge that came to their eyes and hides. Rogeth bore the color of mourning. They mounted and K’lon conveyed them to Fort Weyr. Old tears froze briefly on Capiam’s cheeks, to be renewed as he saw the dragon-crowned Rim of Fort Weyr. He’d no time to count but surely even Telgar’s disaffected Weyr must be represented to produce such an assembly. K’lon angled Rogeth to land as close to the Hatching Ground as possible, seemingly a dangerous task for dragons were leaping and landing all over the Bowl.
Everyone will have to make an effort today, Capiam thought and tears streamed down his face again. Desdra was stroking his hands and he knew she was aware of his intense feelings. He knew she wasn’t untouched by the tragedies; but grief can be exhibited in many ways, and her quiet summary to K’lon had given Capiam some comfort, too.
They dismounted quickly from Rogeth, smiling up at K’lon, who had mastered his tears if not his mournful expression. Then the blu
e dragon leaped skyward again.
Capiam noticed that the usual tables and benches had been set outside the Lower Cavern for the Impression feasting. He hoped to get drunk enough at it not to hear Master Tirone’s ballad. Capiam could smell the roast meats but they did not rouse his appetite as they usually did. It was a lovely day. It would have been a magnificent dawn, he thought, and rubbed his face harshly, to stop the ready tears. If the Masterhealer of Pern could not maintain his composure, what a poor example he would set. The day was a beginning not an ending!
As Desdra pulled him toward the Hatching Ground, he inadvertently looked to his right, to where Moreta had lived the last days of her life. He blew his nose fiercely and looked directly ahead of him, now pulling Desdra to a place as far from that tier as was possible within the confines of the Ground.
The eggs took his attention. They lay, neatly spaced, the queen egg separate on a neat mound of sand, lovingly piled to cushion and display it. He blew his nose again and stumbled on the first step of the tier.
There seemed to be a good deal of nose blowing, and kerchiefs of all colors were being flourished. There was no end to the sounds people made in clearing their nasal passages. Obscurely Capiam felt cheered that so many people were affected by the aura.
Could the dragons massed on the Rim have prevented Orlith and Leri going? Capiam chided himself for such wistful futile thoughts. No, the halves that were missing could never be replaced. Orlith yearned for Moreta, and Leri for Holth. As K’lon had done, Capiam must accept the inevitable.
Then he felt the vibration though his boot soles and looked down. It took him only a moment to realize that Hatching was imminent. The dragons had begun their hum. Not just the dragons taking their place at the top of the Ground, but those outside, until the solid rock of Fort Weyr was resonating. The note managed, in some inexplicable manner, to be melancholy as well as expectant. It was low, the crescendo to Hatching, but it produced an impetus. The audience rushed in.
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