Moreta (Dragonlady of Pern) Page 26

Ruatha Hold and Fort Weyr, Present Pass, 3.19.43

  Alessan had to stop. Sweat was beaded on his forehead, ran down his cheeks and chin. His hands were sweaty on the plowhandles and the team panting as hard as he from their labors in the rain heavy field. Ignoring the sting of the blisters he had acquired in the last two days, he dried his hands finger by finger on the grimy rag attached to his belt. Then Ruatha Hold's Lord Holder rubbed the sweat from his face and neck, took a swallow from the flask of water, picked up the reins, slapped the rumps of his reluctant team, and managed to grab the handles of the unwieldy plow before the runners had pulled it out of the furrow.

  Another day and he was sure they'd forget they'd ever been trained to race. Of course, he told himself that every day. One day, it would have to be true. He had mastered feistier beasts to the saddle, and he must‑if he wished to Hold‑prove equally capable at retraining. With bitter humor, Alessan wondered if his predicament could be a retribution for his defiance of his father's wishes. Yet none of that breeding had survived. The heavier runners, the draft and plow animals, the sturdy long‑distance beasts, had been especially susceptible to the lung infections that had swept the racers' camp after the first days of the plague. The light wiry runners of his breeding had survived to graze contentedly on the lush river pastures. Until he had had to harness them, and himself, to the plows.

  The land had to be tilled, crops sown, the tithe offered, the Hold fed no matter how the Lord Holder managed to accomplish those responsibilities. He came to the edge of the field and wrestled the team into the wide arc, turning back on the furrows. They were uneven but the earth had been turned. He looked briefly out at the other fields of the Hold proper, to check on the other teams. He also had a view of the northern road and the mounted man approaching along it. He shaded his eyes, cursing as the off‑sider took advantage of his momentary distraction. As he lined it up again with its teammate and the plow righted, he was certain that he saw a flash of harper blue. Tuero must be back from his swing of the northern holds. Who else would be brave enough to venture to Ruatha? Alessan had drummed for heavy plowbeasts and been told that no one had any to offer. Neither threats of withholding nor doubling the marks brought better results.

  "It's the plague, Alessan," Tuero had said, for once unsmiling. "It was at its worst here in Ruatha. Until Master Capiam has sent the vaccine round to everyone, they won't come here. And even then they won't bring animals, I think, because so many died here."

  Alessan had cursed futilely. "If they won't come, I'll have to go! I'll bring teams in myself! They can't deny their Lord Holder to his face!" While Alessan railed at his people, he understood their viewpoint‑especially since he himself had not yet had the courage to send for Dag, Fergal, and the bloodstock. Follen had given him the most strict assurance that the plague was passed by coughing or sneezing, personal contact, and could not be in the soil of the race flats or the pickets where so many beasts had died, but Alessan would not risk the few priceless breeders that Dag had whisked away the morning after the accursed Gather.

  After considerable discussion with Tuero, Deefer, and Oklina, his inner council, it had been decided that he couldn't leave the Hold proper, for there was no one else of sufficient rank to enforce his orders. He hadn't wanted Tuero to make the journey as the harper was only just out of bed. But Tuero had been a wily talker, which was why, Tuero had said at the conclusion of the council, he was a harper and why he was the best emissary to send. A few days or so in the fresh spring air on an untaxing mission would complete his recovery. After all, while a harper was generally able to turn his hand to most tasks, Tuero couldn't plow. Alessan hadn't believed a word of Tuero's cheery bluff but he had no one else to send.

  Despite the awkward height of its rider, Tuero's lean mount moved easily, with a quick high step, head held high and eager once it knew itself to be home. Tuero's feet were level with the wiry beast's knees, and the harper's gaunt frame towered above its ears. Certainly not the mount that Alessan would have assigned Tuero by choice, but they seemed to have gotten along. They were riding at a right angle to Alessan's field, but he could not remove his hands from the plow to hail Tuero. He'd reached the downslope of the field and the team was fractious with the pole hitting against their hocks. The field was nearly done; he'd finish it! Once he had he could give all his attention to Tuero's news.

  He would have wished to see Tuero returning with a sturdy team, but there did seem to be something in his pack. Two more furrows and the day's stint was done.

  As he drove the weary team back to the beasthold, the sowers were still busy setting seed. They'd have some sort of a crop in spite of the bloody plague. That is, if the weather held, and some other disaster, like a Thread burrowing, did not overtake wretched Ruatha.

  To Alessan's surprise, Tuero was waiting for him in the beasthold, sitting on an upturned pail, his saddlebags at his feet and a look of satisfaction on his long face. His mount was munching sweetgrass in its stall, all saddle marks rubbed from its back.

  "I saw you at your labors, Lord Alessan," Tuero began, a sparkle of amusement in his eyes as he rose to take the bridles of the team. "Your furrows improve."

  "They could stand to." Alessan began to unhook the harness.

  "Your example inspires many. In fact, your industry and occupation are already legend in the Hold. Your participation does you no disservice."

  "But brought me no team. Or is there more bad news?" Alessan paused before he removed the heavy collar from the off‑sider.

  "No more than you've probably figured out for yourself." Tuero nodded to the saddlebags and took the collar from the other runner. "I've some bits and stashes but I saw myself how bare the cupboards are of what is needed most. At least in the north."

  "And?" Alessan liked all his bad news at once so he could absorb the different shocks according to their merits.

  "Others have started working the land but in some of those holds," Tuero gestured north with the twist of straw he made to rub the mount's sweat marks‑"they had severe losses. Some Gatherers left before the quarantine and made it to their homes, bringing the virus with them. I've made a list of the deaths, a sad total it is, too, and no way I can ease the telling of it. They say misery loves company, and I suppose if you're of a dismal temperament, you get joy of it." Tuero quirked his eyebrows. "I've a list of needs and musts and worries. But I'd a thought on my way back which may sweeten all.

  "I was right about people's being afraid to come here, to Ruatha Hold proper. I was right about their not wanting to send good stock to their deaths for all the marks you'd be willing to give. I had a time of it to get them to let Skinny there in their holds. They were afraid."

  "Afraid?"

  "Afraid it carries the plague."

  "That runner survived it!"

  "Precisely. It survived, you and I survived. I got over my bout faster because I had the serum. Wouldn't serum from recovered runners protect others the way it protects people?" He grinned at Alessan's reaction. "If that notion's valid, you got a field full of cures. And a good trade item."

  Alessan stared at Tuero, condemning himself for not having thought of vaccinating runners. So many of his smallholders depended on their runner breeding that he could not, in conscience, have demanded his right to a portion of their labor in this emergency, recognizing their fear of bringing plague back to their holds.

  "I'm disgusted I didn't think of it myself!" he said to the grinning harper. "Come on. Let's put these two away. I need a little chat with Healer Follen." He gave his beast an exultant swat on the rear to impel it into its stall. "How could I have been so dense?"

  "You have had a few other problems on your mind, you know!"

  "Man! You've revived me!" Alessan gave the lean harper a clout on the shoulder, grinning in the first respite from grim reality that he had enjoyed since Oklina had recovered. "And to think I hesitated about sending you."

  "You may have, I didn't," Tuero said impudently, scooping up his saddlebags and
following Alessan's quick lead to the Hold Hall.

  They found Follen quickly enough, in the main Hall tending the sick. Alessan felt his nostrils pinch against the odors that the incense could not mask. He avoided the Hall whenever possible, the coughing, the rasping breaths, and the moans of the patients were a constant reminder of the sad hospitality he had offered. Follen's anxious expression cleared when Tuero raised the saddlebags. When the men had converged into the Hold office Follen now occupied, his hopefulness waned as he examined the bags and twists of herbs. Alessan had to repeat his question about vaccinating runners.

  "The premise is sound enough, Lord Alessan, but I'm not conversant with animal medicines. The Masterherdsman ... oh, yes, well, I forgot. But there must be someone at Keroon Beasthold who could give you a considered opinion."

  Tuero sighed with disappointment. "It's too late now to drum across to Keroon. They wouldn't thank us for rousing them from their beds."

  "There is someone else, much closer, who would know," Alessan said in a thoughtful voice. "And Follen, is there any human vaccine left? Enough for two people?"

  "I can, of course, prepare some."

  "Please do while Tuero and I drum up Fort Weyr. Moreta will know if we can vaccinate runners." Then he added to himself, I can bring Dag back and see what he managed to save.

  Moreta was startled when the request came in to the Weyr drummer. The quarantine no longer applied. Alessan had specifically mentioned that he had been vaccinated and was healthy. She had no reason to deny a meeting and more than a few to grant it, curiosity about why the Lord Holder of Ruatha would urgently require a meeting being the least of them. Orlith was not a broody queen and quite happy to have people admire her clutch, particularly the queen egg, though she kept it always within reach of a forearm. Once she indulged in her post clutch feeding, she had piled the other eggs in a protective circle about the unique one.

  "As if anyone would rob your clutch," Moreta teased her affectionately. She had told Orlith all about her early‑morning visit to High Reaches and received a serene absolution for her errand of mercy.

  "Leri was here. Holth was with you. Fair exchange in those conditions. I slept."

  Moreta slept for a while after her return from the High Reaches, waking nervously almost as if she had expected another summons. She would have preferred to stay at Tamianth's side until she was certain that the ichor was flowing to the wing, but Pressen had learned of the dangers and was able to perform necessary countermeasures. Further, as Tamianth strengthened and Falga recovered from wound fever, another crisis was less likely to develop.

  So Moreta ascribed her nagging sense of apprehension to the tensions of a long day and sent M'barak, Leri's favorite weyrling rider, to Ruatha Hold. K'lon told Leri and Moreta how appalled he had been by Ruatha. Moreta did not like to dwell on the scenes of a derelict Ruatha that her active imagination could conjure. What could she say in condolence to a man who had suffered so many losses?

  Suddenly Alessan, dressed in rough leathers but a clean shirt showing at the neck, stood to one side of the entrance to the Hatching Ground. Beside him was a lanky man in a faded, patched tunic of harper blue. M'barak was grinning at their hesitation and waved them toward the portion of the tiers that Moreta had converted to a temporary living space. Orlith was awake and watched them enter, but displayed no agitation.

  Moreta rose, one hand raised in unconscious protest against the change in Alessan. Too vividly she recalled the assured, handsome, buoyant young man who had greeted her at Ruatha's Gather eight days before. He had lost weight and his tunic was belted tightly to take up the slack. His hair no longer looked trimmed or brushed. She wondered why that detail should matter so much to her. The stains on his hands, witness of his efforts to plow and plant, were honorable ones, as was the redwort on hers. She grieved, too, for the lines of worry and tension in his face, the cynical slant to his mouth, and the wary expression in his light green eyes.

  "This is Tuero, Moreta, who has been invaluable to me over the ... since the Gather." After the slight pause, Alessan's voice deepened as if to ward off comment. "He has a theory against which I can raise no objections, but, as we cannot reach an authority at this hour in Keroon Beasthold, I thought you might give us an opinion."

  "What is it?" Moreta asked, put off by his diffidence. The change in him went far deeper than appearance.

  "Tuero," Alessan gave the harper a slight bow of acknowledgment, "wondered if a vaccine could be made from the blood of runnerbeasts to protect them from the plague."

  "Of course it can! You mean it hasn't been done?" Moreta was consumed by such a surge of fury and frustration that Orlith rose to all four legs from her semi recumbent position, her eyes whirling pinkly, and a worried question rumbled from her throat.

  "No." In the one word, Alessan mirrored her own intense reaction.

  "No one thought of doing it, or there hasn't been the time?" she demanded, sick at the thought of more loss, animal or human. The grim set of Alessan's mouth and the harper's sigh gave the answer. "I would have thought that, " She broke off the angry sentence, closing her eyes and clenching her fists. She recalled the heavy losses at Keroon Beasthold, the emptiness of her family's runnerhold.

  "There have been other priorities," Alessan said. He spoke without bitterness but from a resignation to harsh fact.

  "Yes, of course." She pulled her wits back from useless conjecture. "Have you any healers?"

  "Several."

  "Runner blood would produce the same serum by the same method, centrifugal separation. More blood can be drawn from runners, of course, and the vaccine should be administered in proportion to body weight. The heavier, "

  Alessan cocked his left eyebrow just enough for her to realize that there were no more of the heavier beasts at Ruatha.

  "Would you have any spare needlethorns?" Alessan asked, breaking the silence.

  "Yes." At that moment Moreta would have given Alessan anything he needed to alleviate his problems. "And whatever else is needed by Ruatha."

  "We've been promised a supply train from Fort," Tuero said, "but until we can assure the wagoners that man and animal in Ruatha are plague‑free, no one will venture near the Hold."

  Moreta assimilated that information with a slow nod of her head, her eyes on Alessan. They might be discussing something completely foreign to him to judge by his detachment. How else could he have survived his losses?

  "M'barak, please take Lord Alessan and Journeyman Tuero to the storeroom. They may have anything they need from our supplies."

  M'barak's eyes widened.

  "I'll be right with you," Alessan told Tuero and M'barak, who left him. Alessan swung down the pack he carried. "I did not come," he said with a wry smile, "in expectation of bounty. I can, however, return your gown." He took out the carefully folded gold and brown dress and presented it to her with a courteous bow.

  She managed to take it from him but her hands trembled. She thought of the racing, the dancing, her joy in a Gather as one should be, her delight in the perfection of that Gather evening as she and Oklina had made their way to the dancing square for an evening she would never forget. The pent‑up frustrations, angers, suppressed griefs, the mandatory absences from Orlith that she thought of as betrayals of Impression, the whole accumulation burst the barrier of self‑control and she buried her face in the dress, weeping uncontrollably.

  As Orlith crooned supportively, Moreta was taken into Alessan's embrace. The touch of his arms, fierce in their hold, the mixed odors of human and animal sweat, of damp earth, combined to free her tears. Abruptly she felt the heave and swell of his body as his grief found expression at last. Together they comforted and were comforted by each other's release.

  "You needed this," Orlith said to Moreta but she knew that the dragon included Alessan in her compassion.

  It was Moreta who recovered from the catharsis first. She continued to hold Alessan tightly, to ease his shuddering body, as she murmured reassurances and e
ncouragements, repeating all the praise for his indomitable spirit and fortitude that had come to her through K'lon. Trying to make her voice and hands convey her own respect, admiration, and empathy. She felt the shuddering subside and then, with one final deep sigh, Alessan was purged of the aggregation of sorrow, remorse, and frustration. She relaxed her grip and his arms became less fierce and clinging. Slowly they leaned apart so that they could look into each other's eyes. The lines of pain and worry had not diminished but the strain had eased about his mouth and brow. Alessan raised his hand and with gentle fingers smoothed the tears from her cheeks. His hands tightened and he pulled her toward him again, bending his head to one side so that she could evade him if she chose. Moreta tilted her head and accepted his kiss, thinking to put the seal of comfort to their shared sorrow with that age‑old benison. Neither expected their emotions to flare to passion, Moreta because she had stopped thinking of relationships outside the Weyr, Alessan because he had thought himself spent from his losses at Ruatha.

  Orlith crooned serenely, almost unheard by Moreta, who was caught up by the surge of emotion, the flow of sensuality so remarkably aroused by Alessan's touch, the hard strength of his thighs against hers, the sensation of being vital again. Not even her girlhood love for Talpan had waked such an uninhibited response, and she clung to Alessan, willing the moment to endure.

  Slowly, reluctantly, Alessan raised his mouth from hers, looking down at her with incredulous intensity. Then he, too, became aware of the dragon's crooning and looked, startled, in the queen's direction.

  "She doesn't object!" That amazed him further, and he was sensible of the risk he had taken.

  "If she did, you'd know about it." Moreta laughed. His expression of dismay swiftly altering to delight was marvelous. Joy welled up from a long‑untapped source in her body.

  Oriith's croon changed to as near a trill as the dragon larynx could manage. With great reluctance, Moreta stepped back from Alessan, her smile expressing that regret.

  "They'll hear it?" he asked, smiling back at her ruefully, his hands clinging as he released her.