Authors: Anne McCaffrey
“Moreta?”
Startled, Moreta looked up to see Curmir, K’lon, and F’neldril standing politely before her table.
“It was I who
insisted
on conveying Lord Tolocamp,” K’lon said firmly, chin up, eyes shining. “You could say that I hadn’t actually
heard
the Weyrleader’s order of quarantine since Rogeth and I were asleep in a lower weyr.” Outrageously K’lon winked at Moreta. An older, weyr-bred rider, he had not been best pleased when Sh’gall’s Kadith had flown Orlith, making the much younger bronze rider Weyrleader in L’mal’s stead. K’lon’s discontent with the change in leadership had been aggravated by Sh’gall’s overt disapproval of K’lon’s association with the Igen green rider A’murry.
Moreta tried to assume a neutral expression but knew from Curmir’s expression that she failed.
“You did as custom dictates!” Moreta would allow that much latitude. “The Fort Holder must be conveyed by this Weyr. You brought his family back?”
“Indeed not, though I did offer. Rogeth would not have objected but Lady Pendra decided that she and her daughters could not break the quarantine.”
Moreta caught Curmir’s gaze again and knew that the harper was as aware as everyone else in the west as to why Lady Pendra would not break the quarantine. Moreta had great sympathy for Alessan’s predicament. Not only was he still saddled with the Fort girls, but all the other hopefuls of the Gather were still at Ruatha.
“Lady Pendra said that she would wait out the four days.”
“Four days, four Turns,” F’neldril said with a snort, “and it wouldn’t change their faces or improve their chances with Alessan.”
“Did you see Master Capiam, K’lon?”
K’lon’s expression changed, reflecting annoyance and remembered offense. “No, Moreta. Lord Tolocamp required me to set him down in the Hold forecourt, so I did. But immediately Lord Campen and Master Fortine and some other men whose names I can’t recall bore him off to a meeting. I wasn’t admitted to the Hall—to protect
me,
they said, from contagion, and they wouldn’t listen when I explained that I’d had the plague and recovered.”
Before she could speak, the watchrider’s dragon bugled loudly. Sh’gall and his wing had returned at last. As Moreta rose hastily from the table, she could see the dust roiled up by the dragons’ landing.
All are well,
Orlith reassured her.
Kadith says the Fall ended well but he is furious that there were few ground crews.
“No ground crews,” she told the three men by way of warning.
Sh’gall came striding through the second dust cloud created as the dragons jumped to their weyrs. The riders of Sh’gall’s wing followed a discreet distance behind their Weyrleader. Sh’gall made directly for Moreta, his manner so threatening that K’lon, Curmir, and F’neldril tactfully stepped to one side.
“Crom sent out no ground crews,” Sh’gall shouted, slamming gloves, helmet, and goggles down on the table with a force that sent the gear skidding across the surface and onto the floor. “Nabol mustered
two
after Leri threatened them! There was no illness at Crom or Nabol. Lazy, ignorant, stupid mountaineers! They’ve used this plague of Capiam’s as an excuse to avoid their obligations to me! If this Weyr can fly, they can bloody well do their part! And I’ll have a word with Master Capiam about those drum messages of his, panicking the holders.”
“There’s been another drum message,” Moreta began, unable to soften her news. “Ista, Igen, and Telgar have sick riders. The Weyrs may find it hard to discharge their obligation.”
“This Weyr will always discharge its duty while I’m Leader!” Sh’gall glared at her as if she had disputed him. Then he whirled and faced those lingering at the dining tables of the cavern. “Have I made myself plain to you all? Fort Weyr will do its duty!”
His declaration was punctuated by the sound that every rider dreaded, the nerve-abrading shrill high shriek of dragons announcing the death of one of their kind.
Ch’mon, bronze rider Igen, died of fever, and his dragon, Helith, promptly went
between.
He was the first of two from that Weyr. During the evening five more died at Telgar. Fort Weyr was in shock.
Sh’gall was livid as he hauled Curmir with him to send a double-urgent message to the Healer Hall, demanding to know the state of the continent, what was being done to curb the spread, and what remedies effected a cure. He was even more upset when Fortine replied that the disease was now considered pandemic. The response repeated that there had been recoveries: Isolation was imperative. Suggested treatment was febrifuge rather than a diaporetic, judicious use of aconite for palpitations, willowsalic or fellis juice for headache, comfrey, tussilago, or preferred local cough remedy. Sh’gall made Curmir inquire double urgent for a reply from Master Capiam. The Healer Hall acknowledged the inquiry but sent no explanation.
“Does anyone know,” he demanded at the top of his voice as he rampaged back into the Lower Caverns, “if this is what K’lon had?” He glared at the stunned blue rider, his eyes brilliant with an intensity that was beyond mere fury. “What has Berchar been dosing himself with? Do you know?” Now he almost pounced on Moreta where she sat.
“S’gor tells me he has been using what Master Fortine suggests. K’lon
has
recovered.”
“But Ch’mon has died!”
His statement became an accusation, and she was at fault.
“The illness is among us, Sh’gall,” Moreta said, gathering strength from an inner source whose name was Orlith. “Nothing we can do or say
now
alters that. No one forced us to attend the Gathers, you know.” Her wayward humor brought grim smiles to several of the faces about her. “And most of us enjoyed ourselves.”
“And look what happened!” Sh’gall’s body vibrated with his fury.
“We can’t reverse the happening, Sh’gall. K’lon survived the plague as we have survived Thread today and every Fall the past forty-three Turns, as we have survived all the other natural disasters that have visited us since the Crossing.” She smiled wearily. “We must be good at surviving to have lived so long on this planet.”
The weyrfolk and the riders began to take heart at Moreta’s words, but Sh’gall gave her another long stare of outraged disgust and stalked out of the Lower Caverns.
The confrontation had shaken Moreta. She was drained of all energy, even Orlith’s, and it had become an effort to keep upright. She gripped the edge of her chair, trembling. It wasn’t just Sh’gall’s rage but the unpalatable, unavoidable knowledge that she was very likely the next victim of the plague in the Weyr. Her head was beginning to ache and it was not the kind that succeeded tension or the stress and concentration of repairing dragon injuries.
You are not well,
Orlith said, confirming her self-diagnosis.
I have probably not been well since I went to that runner’s rescue,
Moreta replied.
L’mal always said that runners would be my downfall.
You have not fallen down. You have fallen ill,
Orlith corrected her, dryly humorous in turn.
Come now to the weyr and rest.
“Curmir.” Moreta beckoned the harper forward. “In view of Berchar’s illness, I think we must demand another healer from the Hall. A Masterhealer and at least another journeyman.”
Curmir nodded slowly but gave her a long, searching look.
“S’peren is to contrive a support sling for Dilenth. We cannot expect T’grath to stand under his wing until it heals. Such sacrifices sour weyrmates!” Moreta managed to rise, carefully planting her feet under her so as not to jar her aching skull. Never had a headache arrived with such speed and intensity. She was nearly blinded by it. “I think that’s all for now. It’s been a difficult day and I’m tired.”
Curmir offered her assistance but she discouraged him with a hand gesture and walked slowly from the Lower Cavern.
Without Orlith’s constant encouragement, Moreta would not have been able to cross the Bowl, which, in the sudden chill of the night air, seemed to have perversely grown wider. At the stairs, she had to brace herself several times against the inner wall.
“So, it’s got to you,” Leri said unexpectedly. The older Weyrwoman was sitting on the steps to her weyr, both hands resting on her walking stick.
“Don’t come near me.”
“You don’t see me rising from my perch, do you? You’re probably contagious. However, Orlith appealed to me. I can see why now. Get into your bed.” Leri brandished her cane. “I’ve already measured out the medicine you should take, according to that drum roll of Fortine’s. Willowsalic, aconite, featherfern. Oh, and the wine has a dose of fellis juice from my own stock. The sacrifices I make for you. Shoo! I can’t carry you, you know. You’ll have to make it on your own. You will. You always do. And I’ve done more than enough for one day for this Weyr!”
Leri’s chivvying gave Moreta the impetus to stagger up the last few steps and into the corridor of her weyr. At its end she could see Orlith’s eyes gleaming with the pale yellow of concern. She paused for a moment, winded, her head pounding unbearably.
“I assume that no one in the Lower Caverns suspected you’ve been taken ill?”
“Curmir. Won’t talk, though.”
“Sensible of you in view of the Igen death. She’ll make it, Orlith.” Then Leri waved her cane angrily. “No, you will not help. You’d jam the corridor with your egg-heavy belly. Go on with you, Moreta. I’m
not
going to stand on these chilly steps all night. I need my rest. Tomorrow’s going to be very busy for me.”
“I hoped you’d volunteer.”
“I’m not so lacking in sense that I’d let Nesso get out of hand. Go! Get yourself well,” she added in a kinder tone, heaving herself to her feet.
Orlith did meet Moreta at the end of the corridor, extending her head so that Moreta could hang onto something to cross the chamber. Orlith crooned encouragement, love and devotion and comfort in almost palpable waves. Then Moreta was in her own quarters, her eyes fastening on the medicine set out on the table. She blessed Leri, knowing what an effort it had been for the old Weyrwoman to navigate the steps. Moreta took the fellis wine down in one swallow, grimacing against the bitterness not even the wine could disguise. How could Leri sip it all day? Without undressing, Moreta slid under the furs and carefully laid her head down on the pillow.
CHAPTER IX
Healer Hall, Present Pass, 3.13.43; Butte Meeting and Fort Weyr, 3.14.43; Healer Hall, 3.15.43
C
APIAM COULD NOT
remain asleep, though he tried to burrow back into the crazy fever-dreams as a more acceptable alternative to the miseries total awareness brought. Something impinged on his semiconsciousness and forced him awake. Something he had to do? Yes, something he had to do. He blinked bleary, crusted eyes until he could focus on the timepiece. Nine of the clock. “Oh, it’s me. Time for my medicine.”
A healer couldn’t even be sick without responding to his professional habits. He hauled himself up on one elbow to reach for the skin on which he was recording his progress through the disease but a coughing spasm interrupted him. The cough seemed to throw tiny knives at his throat. Such spasms were exceedingly painful, and Capiam disliked them even more than the headache, the fever, and the boneache.
Cautiously, lest he provoke another coughing fit, he dragged the note case onto his bed and fumbled for the writing tool.
“Only the third day?” His illness seemed to have made each twenty-four hours an eternity of minor miseries. That day was mercifully three quarters done.
He could take little comfort in noticing that his fever had abated, that the headache was a dullness that could be endured. He placed the fingers of his right hand lightly on the arterial pulse in the left wrist. Still faster than normal, but slowing. He made an appropriate notation and added a description of the hardy, dry, unproductive cough. As if the note was the cue, he was wracked with another fit that tore at his throat and upper chest like a tunnel snake. He was forced to lie in a fetal position, knees up to his chin to relieve the muscle spasms that accompanied the cough. When it had passed, he lay back, sweating and exhausted. He roused enough to take his dose of willow salic.
He must prescribe a cough remedy for himself. What would be the most effective suppressant? He touched his painful throat. What must the lining of his throat resemble?
“This is most humiliating,” he told himself, his voice hoarse. He vowed to be far more sympathetic to the afflicted in the future.
The drum tower began to throb and the message stunned him for condolences were being transmitted from Lord Tolocamp—what was
he
doing in Fort Hold when he should have remained at Ruatha?—to the Weyrleaders of Telgar and Igen for the deaths of . . . Capiam writhed on the bed, convulsed by coughing that left him weak and panting. He missed the names of the dead riders. Dead riders! Pern could ill afford to lose any of its dragonriders.
Why, oh why hadn’t he been called in earlier? Surely nine people in the same Sea Hold falling sick was an unusual enough occurrence to have warrented even a courtesy report to the main Healer Hall? Would he have appreciated the significance?
“Capiam?” Desdra’s query was low enough not to have aroused him had he been asleep.
“I’m awake, Desdra.” His voice was a hoarse caw.
“You heard the drums?”
“Part of the message—”
“The wrong part from the sound of you.”
“Don’t come any closer! How many riders died?”
“The toll is now fifteen at Igen, two at Ista, and eight at Telgar.”
Capiam could think of nothing to say.
“How many are ill, then?” His voice faltered.
“They report recoveries,” Desdra said in a crisper voice. “Nineteen at Telgar, fourteen at Igen, five at Ista, two at Fort are all convalescing.”
“And at Hall and Hold?” He dreaded her answer, clenching his fists to bear the staggering totals.
“Fortine has taken charge, Boranda and Tirone are assisting.” The finality in her tone told Capiam he would not elicit any further information.
“Why are you in my room?” he demanded testily. “You know—”
“I know that you have reached the coughing stage and I have prepared a soothing syrup.”
“How do you know what I would prescribe for my condition?”
“The fool who treats himself has only a fool for a patient.”
Capiam wanted to laugh at her impudence, but the attempt turned into one of the hideously painful, long coughs and, by the time it had passed, tears rolled down his cheeks.
“A nice blend of comfrey, sweetener, and a touch of numbweed to deaden the throat tissues. It ought to inhibit the cough.” She deposited the steaming mug on his table and was swiftly across the room by the door.
“You’re a brave and compassionate woman, Desdra,” he said, ignoring her sarcastic snort.
“I am also cautious. If at all possible, I would prefer to avoid the agonies which I have observed you enduring.”
“Am I such a difficult patient?” Capiam asked plaintively, seeking more consolation than he could find in a mug of an odd-tasting syrup.
“What cannot be cured must be endured,” Desdra replied.
“By which unkind words I assume that the Records have not given up either an account or a remedy.”
“Master Tirone joined the search with all his apprentices, journeymen, and masters. They proceed backward by the decade for two hundred Turns and forward from the previous Pass.”
Capiam’s groan quickly degenerated into a spasm that again left him gasping for breath. Each of the two hundred bones in his body conspired to ache at once. He heard Desdra rummaging among his bottles and vials.
“I saw an aromatic salve in here. Rubbed on your chest it might relieve you, since you spilled most of that potion.”
“I’ll rub it on myself, woman!”
“Indeed you will. Here it is! Phew! That’ll clear your sinuses.”
“They don’t need it.” Capiam could smell the aromatic from his bed. Odd how the olfactory senses became acute in this disease. Exhausted by the last cough spasm, he lay still.
“Are you experiencing the severe lassitude as well as the dry cough?”
“Lassitude?” Capiam dared not laugh but the word was totally inadequate to describe the total inertia that gripped his usually vigorous body. “Extreme lassitude! Total inertia! Complete incapacity! I can’t even drink from a mug without spilling half of it. I have never been so tired in my life—”
“Oh, then, you’re proceeding well on the course of the disease.”
“How consoling!” He had just enough energy for sarcasm.
“If”—and her emphasis teased him—“your notes are correct, you should be improving by tomorrow. That is, if we can keep you in your bed and prevent secondary infections.”
“How comforting.”
“It should be.”
His head was beginning to buzz again from the willow salic. He was about to commend Desdra on the efficacy of her cough mixture when a totally unprovoked tickle bent him double to cough.
“I’ll leave you to get on with it then,” Desdra said cheerily.
He waved urgently for her to leave the room, then put both hands on his throat as if he could find some grip to ease the pain.
He hoped that Desdra was being careful. He didn’t want her to catch the illness. Why hadn’t those wretched seamen left that animal to drown? Look to what depths curiosity brought a man!
Butte Meeting, 3.14.43
Deep in the plains of Keroon and far from any hold, a granite butte had been forced to the surface during some primeval earthquake. The landmark had often been used as an objective in weyrling training flights. Just then it was the site of an unprecendented meeting of the Weyrleaders.
The great bronze dragons arrived almost simultaneously at the site, coming out of
between
full lengths clear of each other’s wing tip,.utilizing their uncanny perceptions of proximity. They settled to the ground in an immense circle at the southern face of the butte. The bronze riders dismounted, closing to a slightly smaller circle, each rider keeping a wary distance from those on either side until K’dren of Benden, who had an active sense of humor under any conditions, chuckled.
“None of us would be here if we were sickening,” he said, nodding to S’peren who had come in Sh’gall’s place.
“Too many of
us
have,” L’bol of Igen replied. His eyes were red with weeping.
M’tani of Telgar scowled and clenched his fists.
“We have shared each loss,” S’ligar of the High Reaches said with grave courtesy, inclining his head first to L’bol, M’tani, and F’gal of Ista. The other two bronze riders murmured their condolences. “We have gathered here to take emergency measures which discretion keeps from the drum and which our queens are unable to relay,” S’ligar went on. As the oldest of the Weyrleaders, he took command of the meeting. He was also the biggest, topping the other bronze riders by a full head, and the breadth of him through chest and shoulders would have made two of most ordinary men. He was oddly gentle, never taking advantage of his size. “As our Weyrwomen have pointed out, we cannot admit the losses and numbers of the ill that the Weyrs have sustained. There is too much anxiety in the Holds as it is. They are suffering far more than we are.”
“That’s no consolation!” F’gal snapped. “I don’t know how many times I warned Lord Fitatric that overcrowding hold and cot would have dire consequences.”
“None of us had
this
in mind,” K’dren said. “However, none of
us
had to run to see the curious new beastie from the sea. Or attend two Gathers in one day—”
“Enough, K’dren,” S’ligar said. “Cause and effect are now irrelevant. Our purpose here is to discuss how best to insure that the dragonriders of Pern fulfill their purpose.”
“That
purpose
is dying out, S’ligar,” L’bol cried. “What’s the purpose of flying Thread to protect empty holds? Why preserve
nothing
at the risk of our skins and our dragons? We can’t even defend ourselves from this plague!” L’bol’s dragon crooned and extended his head toward his distressed rider. The other bronzes rumbled comfortingly and moved restlessly on the warm sand. L’bol scrubbed at his face, leaving white runnels where tears had wet his cheeks.
“We will fly Thread because that is the one service we can provide the sick in the Holds. They must not fear the incursions of Thread from without!” S’ligar said in his deep gentle unhurried voice. “We have labored too long as a Craft to surrender Pern now to the ravages of Thread because of a menace we can’t see. Nor do I believe that this disease, however fiercely it spreads, however ruthless it appears, can overcome
us
who have for hundreds of Turns defended ourselves from Thread. A disease can be cured by medicines, defeated. And one day we will fly Thread to
its
source and defeat it.”
“K’lon, Rogeth’s rider, has recovered from the plague,” S’peren announced in the silence following S’ligar’s statement. “K’lon says that Master Capiam is on the mend—”
“Two?” L’bol flung the number derisively back at S’peren. “I’ve fifteen dead, one hundred and forty sick at Igen. Some holds in the mideast no longer respond to their drum codes. And what of the holds which have no drums to make known their needs and the toll of their dead?”
“Capiam on the mend?” S’ligar said, seizing at that hope. “I have every faith in that man’s ability to lick this. And more than those two must have recovered. Keroon Beasthold still drums, and they were the hardest hit by the plague. High Reaches and Fort Weyr have sickness, it is true, but the holds of Tillek, High Reaches, Nabol, and Crom have none.” S’ligar tried to catch L’bol’s despairing gaze. “We have only seven Turns to go before this Pass is over. I have lived under the scourge of Thread all my life.” Suddenly he straightened his shoulders, his face severe. “I haven’t fought Thread as a dragonrider for nearly fifty Turns to quit now over some fever and aches!”
“Nor I,” K’dren added quickly, taking a step toward the High Reacher. “I made a vow, you know”—he gave a short laugh—“to Kuzuth, that we would see this Pass through.” K’dren’s tone turned brisk. “There’s Fall tomorrow at Keroon, and it has become the responsibility of all the Weyrs of Pern. Benden has twelve full wings to fly.”
“Igen has eight!” Anger brought L’bol out of his despondency to glare fiercely at K’dren. Timenth, his dragon, bugled defiance, rearing back onto his haunches and spreading his wings. The other bronzes reacted in surprise, sounding off. Two extended their wings and gazed skyward in alarm. “Igen will rise to Fall!”
“Of course your Weyr will rise,” S’ligar said reassuringly, raising his arm in an incomplete gesture of comfort. “But our queens know how many Igen riders are ill. Fall has become the problem of all the Weyrs, as K’dren said. And we all supply the muster from our healthy riders. Until this epidemic is over, the Weyrs must consolidate. Full wings are essential since in many places, we shall be deprived of ground crews for close encounters with Thread.”
S’ligar took a thick roll of hide from his pouch. With a deft flick of his wrist, the roll fell into five separate sections on the sand. Mindful to make no physical contact with the other Leaders, S’ligar slid a section to each of the other bronze riders.
“Here are the names of my wingleaders and seconds, since naming people seems to be a deficiency in our queens. I’ve listed my riders in order of their competence for assuming command of either wing or Weyr. B’lerion is my choice of a personal successor.” Then a rare and brilliant smile crossed the High Reacher’s face. “With Falga’s complete accord.”
K’dren roared with laughter. “Didn’t she suggest him?”
S’ligar regarded K’dren with mild reproof. “It is the wise Leader who anticipates his Weyrwoman’s mind.”
“Enough!” M’tani called irritably. His dark eyes were angry under heavy black brows. He threw his lists down to join S’ligar’s. “T’grel has always fancied himself a Leader. He reminded me that he hadn’t been to either of the Gathers so I’ll reward his virtue.”
“You’re fortunate,” K’dren said with no humor in his voice. He added his lists to the others. “L’vin, W’ter, and H’grave attended both Gathers. I’ve recommended M’gent. He may be young but he’s got a natural flair for leadership that one doesn’t often see. He wasn’t at the Gathers.”
F’gal seemed unwilling to lose the sheets he unwound. “It’s all on these,” he said wearily, letting them flutter to the sand.