Her tears were still wet on her cheeks when she caught sight of a light above, toward the entrance to her room. It was multifaceted, like a fire-lizard’s eye.
“Garth?” she called out. “Grenn?”
No answer. The light in the room was growing, and Lorana saw another glittering jewel in the room beyond.
The shapes were wrong for fire-lizard eyes. She frowned in concentration. Slowly the light grew and she realized that the faceted lights were always brighter than the light in the rest of the room.
She turned on her side, propped herself up on an elbow, and pushed herself upright in the bed, legs dangling over the floor.
She felt light-headed but not quite faint. The room threatened to twist drunkenly away from her, but she forced herself to concentrate on the faceted light and find the horizon above her.
Lips tightened in determination, she pushed herself to her feet.
She was shaky.
I should be resting, she told herself. But the lights tempted her.
Her first step was awkward and ungainly, but she found her feet and slowly walked toward the door.
Standing in the doorway, she could see the next room clearly. In the ceiling were more of the bright jewels. Lines of light stretched from jewel to jewel. One line of light seemed to be coming toward the jewel in her doorway from the jewel in the center of the room.
She gasped in amazement.
The jewels were some sort of glass, she realized, placed to mirror light into the rooms. The whole effect was beautiful.
She followed the line of light from her ceiling jewel to the one in the center of the room, pivoting around to see all the rays reflected from it to still more jewels.
Wind Rider had had something like these jewels to bring light from the deck down to the lower deck, but that glass had been fogged and green. The glass in these jewels practically shone with glistening clarity.
Tottering slightly, Lorana turned back to her own room to retrieve the paper and stylus Kindan had left behind for her.
Quickly she drew a sketch of the bejeweled ceiling. When she was done, she walked into the hallway, intent on following the line of jewels to their outside source. The hallway was anticlimactic, as the jewels and light path disappeared into the ceiling above.
Still, she followed the line of white light above her until she came out into the great Weyr Bowl and the warm morning light.
“Oh!” she gasped, looking up into the sky. “Oh!” Her eyes locked on the scene above her, she fell to her knees, laid the paper on them, and, fingers flying, tried to capture the images she was seeing.
The sky was full of dragons and fire-lizards cavorting like clouds of light brought to life in the early morning softness. Blue, green, bronze, brown, and gold. The fire-lizards flitted like swarms of dutiful attendants around the soaring dragons, who took in the attentions of their smaller cousins with the pleasure of elders for infants.
The chitters of the fire-lizards and bugles of the dragons were reflected in her head by the deep mental voices of the dragons and the flighty feelings of the fire-lizards—and Lorana thought that never had she seen a more beautiful dawn chorus or had a more enjoyable moment in her life.
The moment was shattered, horribly, in an instant as from somewhere in the swarm, Lorana heard an unmistakable cough. It was echoed, moments later, by another.
Dragons don’t get sick. J’trel’s words resounded horribly in Lorana’s mind.
It seemed that as Lorana’s strength grew, Valla’s strength ebbed. In a sevenday, Lorana was nearly back to her full health, while the little fire-lizard had become listless and nearly lifeless.
Lorana did everything she could to help Kindan and his fire-lizard. She and K’tan conferred often on herbal remedies, and K’tan even visited the Healer Hall at Fort Weyr in search of more suggestions, but nothing seemed to help.
At K’tan’s request, Lorana remained sequestered in her room, even though she was much mended.
“We don’t want you to wear yourself out and relapse,” K’tan had said with a wag of his finger.
But Lorana, recalling her father’s words about quarantine, suspected that was not his only reason for the injunction.
A hoarse, wracking cough woke her in the middle of the night. Sounds came from the large room outside her quarters. A shadow approached her.
“I brought you some colored pencils,” Kindan called out. “I was hoping you’d draw . . .”
Lorana sat up, found the glowbasket, and quickly turned it. The glow did not light the room brightly, but it was enough to see Kindan’s worried face and the limp fire-lizard he cradled in one arm.
He extended a bundle of colored pencils to her with his other arm.
“I’d be happy to draw Valla, Kindan,” Lorana told him.
“It’s not that—” Kindan began, but just then Valla coughed a long, rasping cough and spat out a gob of green, slimy mucus. Kindan made a face and pointed at the mucus. “It’s that.”
Lorana peered at the discharge for a moment and then took Kindan’s bundle, picked up her new sketchbook—a gift from K’tan—from the bedside table beside, and drew rapidly.
“I’ve seen that sort of discharge from sick herdbeasts,” she said as she finished her sketch and held it up to Kindan.
“Did they survive?” Kindan asked, looking down fondly at his fire-lizard.
Lorana quirked her lips. “Some of them.”
“K’tan’s still asleep and I’d hate to wake him. He was up all hours last night with a sick child,” Kindan said after a moment. He gestured to her drawing. “I can show him this drawing when he wakes. In the meantime, could you make some more of that herbal for Valla?”
“K’tan wants me to stay here,” Lorana protested.
“It’s just a short trip to the Kitchen Cavern and no one’s there—I checked,” Kindan said, his eyes pleading with her. “We’ll be back in no time.”
Reluctantly Lorana nodded, unable to tell him that no herdbeast needing a second dose of herbal had survived.
They walked out into the Weyr Bowl. Lorana looked up at the dim rows of lights that stretched up from the basin of the Bowl to its rim.
“Are those dragons?” she asked Kindan.
“Mostly they’re glows,” Kindan told her. “You can just make them out during the day, but at night . . .”
He gestured and led her into another large cavern.
“This is the Living Cavern,” Kindan told her, gesturing around at the trestle tables laid out in neat, long rows. One wall glowed with banked fires. He led her toward the brightest fire.
“This is the night hearth,” he explained. “If ever you’re hungry, you’ll find something—including klah—here.”
He gestured to a sideboard. “The cooks usually leave some bread and butter here, as well as fruit.”
“Where do they store the herbs?” she asked.
Kindan gave her a puzzled look as he tried to remember, then brightened, pointing to a large cupboard at the far end of the cavern. “I believe the spices are there. Do you need any special herbs?”
“If the cooks keep the usual supply, I should be fine,” Lorana said, heading across the room. She opened the doors and took a deep lungful of the tantalizing smells that came from the stored herbs. With the help of a glow Kindan held up for her, she quickly collected the herbs she required and walked back to the night hearth. In a few short minutes, she had the herbs simmering in a pot of water over the open flames.
“Not much longer,” she said. Kindan nodded and gestured to the nearest chairs.
“Oh, let me!” Lorana said when she saw him trying to seat himself while not disturbing Valla. She pulled the chair at the head of the table out for him and pushed it back in a bit as he sat.
“Thank you.”
Lorana sat herself nearby, angled so she could watch the fire.
An awkward, slightly sleepy silence, descended between them. Lorana found herself concentrating on the wheezy sound of Va
lla’s breathing and dividing her gaze between the sick fire-lizard and his owner.
“I’ve never seen him like this,” Kindan said after a long while, shaking his head sadly. “I’ve seen others, though.”
“Fire-lizards?” Lorana asked in surprise.
“People,” Kindan replied, eyes bleak.
“All my family, except my father, died in the Plague,” Lorana said, shuddering at the memory.
Kindan gave her an encouraging look and Lorana found herself recounting how the illness had taken her family, how the holders had been afraid that with their wandering ways, they might have brought the Plague with them, how—
“I was at the Harper Hall, to start,” Kindan said when Lorana broke off with a sob. He explained how he had been sent to Fort Hold in disgrace after being accused of starting a fire in the Archives room. How he had worked with the healer at Fort as the first few Plague victims fell ill and then, as more and more succumbed, how the healer himself had taken ill and died, leaving Kindan alone, at just fourteen Turns, to carry on as best he could.
“You must have been very brave,” Lorana said in awe.
“I was very tired,” Kindan said with a shake of his head. “I was too tired to be brave.”
“Very brave,” Lorana insisted.
“They needed me,” he said simply, his voice full of emotion. “I couldn’t leave them.”
“What about your family?” Lorana asked, trying to change the subject to something less painful for the harper.
“I have a sister still alive,” he told her. “My father and all my brothers are dead.” He grimaced. “Most died in a cave-in; the last died of the Plague.”
“I’m sorry.”
“My story’s not that different from many others,” Kindan replied with a shrug. “And better than some.”
Not sure what else to say, Lorana went to check the herbal brew. Satisfied, she poured some into a tall glass.
“We’ll have to let that cool,” she said. She sniffed it. “It smells right.”
“You can tell by smell?” Kindan asked, eyebrows raised.
“No,” Lorana admitted. “I can only tell if something’s not right—like if I left out an ingredient.”
“I should have asked you for the ingredients, then I could have made it myself,” Kindan apologized.
“With a sick fire-lizard in your arms?” Lorana asked, shaking her head. “Anyway, I’m happy to help.”
“Well, thanks again,” Kindan said. Valla snorted and turned. Lorana leaned forward and held a hand just above the fire-lizard’s head, careful not to touch it.
“I can feel the heat from here,” she said.
Valla coughed green phlegm, which coated Lorana’s hand before she could pull it away.
“I’m sorry,” Kindan said.
“Don’t apologize,” Lorana said, rising to her feet. “I’ll just wash it off. Perhaps I can find a small measuring spoon while I’m up.”
“They’re over there,” Kindan said, pointing.
“You certainly know your way around a kitchen,” Lorana answered with a grin.
“Only this one,” Kindan agreed. “And mostly I know where to find the medicinals for a late night of harpering—headaches from the wine, sore throat from singing.”
Lorana washed her hands, then chose a small measuring spoon and brought it back to where Kindan sat. She poured some of the herbal tea into the spoon and gestured to Kindan. With Kindan holding Valla still, Lorana managed to pry the fire-lizard’s mouth open and coax him to swallow the dose.
“And now we wait,” Kindan guessed. He looked over to Lorana. “You should go get your rest—it’ll be dawn soon.”
Lorana nodded, stifling a yawn, and left.
Back in her room, she found herself looking up at the ceiling once more, watching as the brilliant light jewels started to glow with light from the early morning sun.
Inspired, she rose again, found her sketchbook and the colored pencils Kindan had brought, and strode out into the Bowl.
Just as before, the Bowl slowly filled with fire-lizards and dragons, rousing and going to the lake at the far end to wash and drink, or between to the Feeding Grounds outside the Weyr. She sketched quickly, filling page after page with the brilliant colors of the dragons and fire-lizards frolicking in the warm morning sun. She stopped when she ran out of paper and, eager to show her work, rushed to the Kitchen Cavern.
She found Kindan just where she’d left him. He looked up at her, and his bleak expression told all she needed to know.
“He’s gone,” the harper said in a choked voice.
“How is he taking it?” M’tal asked K’tan later that morning when the Weyr healer gave him the news of the loss of Valla.
“As well as any,” K’tan replied, shaking his head. “He’s survived the loss of a watch-wher, and he lived through the Plague.”
“Which is more than some of us can say,” M’tal acknowledged ruefully, for he still felt guilty over his decision to close the Weyr when news of the Plague first reached them.
“It was the only choice we could make,” K’tan told the Weyrleader firmly.
“Which does not make it any less painful.”
K’tan nodded. “We helped as much as we could when the Plague was over.”
M’tal grunted and made a throwaway gesture, signaling an end to the topic.
“We have another hard choice,” K’tan told the Weyrleader after a moment of silence.
M’tal nodded in understanding. “Do we know if Valla’s death was from contagion?”
“Other fire-lizards are coughing,” K’tan said.
M’tal froze for a long moment. His question, when he asked it, was dire. “Can the dragons catch this sickness?”
“I don’t know,” K’tan admitted.
“And we can’t afford to take the risk,” M’tal surmised. He locked eyes with the healer who pursed his lips and nodded reluctantly. “Are you proposing that we ban the fire-lizards from the Weyr?”
K’tan’s nod was nearly imperceptible.
“You must leave,” K’tan said to her.
Lorana looked up from her drawing of the fire-lizards, eyes stricken. Behind him she could see Kindan, his eyes burning with hate.
“You killed the fire-lizards,” Kindan snarled at her. “You brought the sickness.”
“You must leave,” K’tan repeated.
Yes, I must leave, Lorana thought to herself. This is my fault. I must go into quarantine. Until . . . until . . .
Lorana woke with a start, sweating. She looked around, trying to place herself. It was late, dark. She had been dreaming.
It had been nearly four days since M’tal had ordered the fire-lizards from Benden Weyr. Lorana had recovered her strength, but she had remained in the infirmary, scared of being seen by the weyrfolk, particularly those who’d had fire-lizards.
She gathered her gear together and found a carisak to stuff them into. She left the colored pencils and her drawings behind—perhaps they would make payment for all that the weyrfolk had done for her.
Slowly she crept out of the infirmary and toward the Weyr Bowl. Inside, she was numb. She felt nothing.
Except, maybe, hungry. No, definitely hungry. In fact, Lorana was painfully hungry. She could feel it in her belly, she could feel it in a hunger headache pounding in her head. She couldn’t understand how she could feel so hungry so suddenly.
Her ears caught a faint humming. Her nose picked up the scent of food cooking, and her stomach rumbled.
Don’t worry, you’ll get fed, Lorana told her stomach.
But I’m so hungry, her stomach protested. Lorana was momentarily surprised; she couldn’t remember her stomach ever answering her. She pushed the issue aside, allowing that it could be the product of many things—her exhaustion, her exposure, her weakness.
As she neared the end of the corridor, the sound of humming grew louder, and the smell of roasting meat stronger. Her stomach knotted in anticipation. Then, when sh
e reached the torchlit Weyr Bowl, comprehension burst upon her like a wave.
A Hatching! In the Hatching Grounds across the Bowl, dragons were hatching, and new riders were Impressing—and around them all, the adult dragons were humming encouragement.
For a moment, Lorana considered heading toward the sound. To see a Hatching! What a glorious thing!
But, no, she had to get away before anyone found her. Before they knew—
But I’m hungry! her stomach complained.
I’ll feed you, honest, Lorana responded, wondering exactly when her stomach had become so demanding, and also wondering when she’d become so good at placating it.
She heard a murmur of voices growing louder, coming from the Hatching Grounds.
“I’ve never heard of such a thing!” someone said, his voice carrying loudly across to her. It sounded like Kindan.
“Hasn’t a hatchling ever left the Grounds before?” A female voice asked.
Ahead, the darkness split off into three shadows. Two were human shaped, and they seemed to be following something. A hatchling!
What’s a hatchling doing here? Lorana wondered. She shrank against the wall, trying to remain unseen, but the hatchling turned toward her.
I said I was hungry!
Lorana stopped dead, frozen in shock and fear, her breathing shallow, her eyes wide. It could not be. The dragonet couldn’t be talking to her—it had to be her stomach.
Please, my wing hurts. The pitiful voice in her head was accompanied by a painful mewling that Lorana’s ears heard.
Her instincts took over. She could never let an animal suffer. She rushed to the waddling dragonet and quickly untangled its baby clawed feet from its left wing tip.
“There, better?” Lorana asked out loud, oblivious to the crowd gathering around her, concentrating solely on this marvelous young gold dragon who had asked her for help.
Much, thank you, the dragonet replied, butting her head against Lorana’s side. I am Arith.
And in that instant Lorana recognized the impossible. She had Impressed.
Lorana’s sense of shock was overwhelmed by her nurturing instincts. She wobbled but did not fall down. Instead, she crouched beside Arith’s head and began to gently rub, then scratch, the dragonet’s eye ridges.
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