Authors: Anne McCaffrey
“He’s going to act the martyr for a while,” Leri said with a sigh.
“Better that than a real one.”
Then Leri began to chuckle. “I had the worst time keeping a proper face, Moreta. He was very clever about timing it, I must say. If he hadn’t acquired that suspicious tan and bleached hair, we might never have guessed.”
“He had too much energy! Positively obscene if you knew how dragged out I feel! Can Holth keep track of him?”
“As long as he thinks she is, it doesn’t matter. You will check in on Rogeth now and again, won’t you, my clever love?” Leri thumped her queen with affection. “Now, if you’ll just harness her up, Moreta, we’ll be off to Fall.”
Moreta regarded her friend a long time until Leri gave an impatient shrug.
“Oh, go boil the fellis!” And she wriggled herself off the stone couch.
As Moreta harnessed the old queen, she wondered, in a very private way, if there was any restriction Orlith could put on Holth to prevent their martyrdom.
No.
Moreta blinked with surprise because she had put such a careful cap on her worry. And she didn’t know which dragon had spoken, Orlith or Holth. Then she concentrated hard on the correct placement of the leather fighting straps. When Leri was ready, Moreta saw rider and queen to the ledge and watched them lumber off into the air with the two wings, Fort’s contribution to Pern’s protection against Fall. The bugling farewell from the Weyrbound dragons as the wings went
between
was a curious, prayerful compound of yearning, defiance, and encouragement. Moreta found that seeing so few dragons on the Rim reminded her that the Weyr was vulnerable, all the Weyrs—and Pern. It was hard enough to think of her family’s hold, deserted, emptied by the pandemic in a matter of days. She knew but could not assimilate the fact that her personal loss was duplicated all over Igen, Ista, Telgar, and Keroon as well as at Ruatha. That wonderful Gather! To be so closely followed by such a disaster!
Resolutely Moreta turned from the chill blue skies and busied herself peeling and preparing the
fellis
fruit for juice. Her hands were not as shaky as they had been the day before and for that she was grateful, as the knife was sharp and the tough skins difficult. As the thick pulp was coming to the boil, she ran an inventory of the remaining stocks, amazed that what she had considered ample only six days before could have been reduced to a few bags of this or that. With all the riders vaccinated, the Weyr should not require massive amounts of febrifuges, stimulants, and chest remedies. Which was a good thing, for at that season of the year it would be impossible to restock.
“Where is K’lon?” she asked Orlith.
He is at Igen.
“How is Sh’gall?” Moreta asked out of a sense of duty.
He sleeps deeply and Kadith says that he ate well. He recovers.
Moreta was amused at the indifference in Orlith’s voice—she didn’t care, either, and that suited Moreta perfectly. When Orlith rose to mate again—
HOLTH COMES! Falga and Tamianth are severly wounded!
Moreta paused long enough to take the simmering
fellis
juice from the brazier before she hurried out. Holth emerged above the Star Stones and dove straight for her ledge. Moreta hurried up the stairs. With an agility that Moreta could not believe, Leri swung off her dragon, shedding the cumbersome agenothree tank so that it clanged hollowly on the stone, rolling to the wall.
“Tamianth has taken a terrible scoring, Moreta,” Leri said, her face gray with shock and anxiety. “The healers can manage Falga’s leg, but Tamianth’s wing . . .” Tears runneled the flight dirt on Leri’s face. “Here. Use my jacket! My helmet will fit and the goggles. Oh, go!”
“Orlith can’t!” Moreta felt anguish, sensing Leri’s distress through Holth.
“Orlith can’t, but Holth will!” Leri was shoving her jacket sleeve on Moreta’s outstretched arm. “You’re more use to Falga and Tamianth than anyone else could be. You’ve got to go! Holth won’t mind and neither will Orlith. This is an emergency!”
Both queen dragons were agitated, Orlith coming out to her ledge to croon and bellow, extending her neck up toward her rider, Leri, and Holth. Moreta pulled the jacket on. As Moreta was so much taller than Leri, it didn’t quite come to her waist, and Leri’s flying belt had to be cinched in to the last notch. Moreta crammed on the helmet and eyepieces and swung up on the fighting straps before she could reconsider.
Forgive me, Orlith!
she cried, waving at her queen.
What is to forgive?
“Get going!” Leri bellowed.
Holth sprang, moving almost as heavily as egg-bloated Orlith. Moreta experienced confusion, linked for so many Turns to one dragon mind. How on earth was she going to understand Holth, when suddenly she did. Holth was there, with her, and Moreta could sense Orlith hovering protective. Jealously? No, she sensed nothing negative in her own dragon’s mind other than a concern that Moreta could not deal with her friend Holth. Holth was by then airborne, and the first intimate connection Moreta had with the old queen was of her weariness and her compulsion to help Tamianth.
Slow and easy does it,
Moreta said to Holth with all the encouragement and understanding she could muster.
The watchdragon saluted them, wishing Holth and Leri well. As the watchdragon was a green weyrling, mistaking Holth’s rider could be forgiven but it stuck in Moreta’s mind as Holth gallantly plowed upward in the blustery wind.
Moreta envisioned the distinctive ridge of the High Reaches Weyr, a jagged comb with seven unequal spires.
I know where we must go. Trust in me,
the old dragon said.
I do, Holth,
Moreta replied, aware that Holth’s experience was far greater than Orlith’s for all the younger queen’s vigor.
Take us to the High Reaches.
In place of her usual
between
litany, Moreta tried to analyze the difference between the two queen dragons. Holth’s mind-voice was old and tired, but it was firm, rich, and deep, many layers denser than Orlith’s. Perhaps, when Orlith had reached the fine age Holth enjoyed, she, too, would have the depth of Holth’s responsiveness.
Then they were in the warmer air over the High reaches, and Holth was skimming the jagged spindles and swooping in a deep left-hand bank so that Moreta had an unobstructed view of the ground and the injured dragons there. Moreta blinked at the small clusters attending the wounded. Tamianth rated the most assistance. As Holth descended, Moreta could see that Tamianth had lost the trailing edge of all three wingsails. And she was badly scored down her left side.
How did that happen?
Moreta was appalled.
Cross-over and too much to do. She wanted to help the wings,
Holth said, and an echoing sadness welled in Moreta as Holth implanted the incident in her mind. Tamianth had risen at an angle so that Falga could bring the flamethrower into action but they had blundered into an updraft before they could correct. A great gout of Thread had fallen across her wing and into her shoulder. And across Falga’s leg.
Holth could not turn on a wingtip as Orlith could, but the old queen gauged her descent to a finger and glided to a halt a wing-length from the injured Tamianth.
Can you help me ease her pain, Holth?
Moreta asked as she slid in frantic haste from the dragon’s back. Tamianth’s howls had to be muted.
Orlith is with us,
Holth said with great dignity, her eyes churning a brilliant sparkling yellow.
Falga lay to one side on a stretcher, her face turned toward her queen, but she was barely conscious. Two healers were swathing her leg in bandages soaked in numbweed.
Tamianth,
Moreta said, hurrying to the dragon’s injured side, hoping the dragon might hear her and would listen.
I am Moreta to heal you!
Tamianth was thrashing her head and forearms from side to side, movement that hampered the efforts of the weyrfolk trying to apply numbweed to the wingbones. Moreta noticed in a quick glance that they had managed to salve the deep body score from which ichor flowed; the wing was causing Tamianth’s agony.
“Hold her!
” Moreta roared at the top of her voice and her mind.
The other injured dragons and the watchdragon bugled in response. Holth reared onto her hindquarters, trumpeting, her wings extended. From the weyrs emerged High Reaches dragons whose riders were too sick to fly Fall. And suddenly Tamianth was locked by the combined wills of the dragons around her.
“Come
on!
” Moreta exhorted the weyrfolk who were gawking in astonishment. “Get the numbweed on. Now!”
She grabbed a paddle and a pot from the ground and, as she worked rapidly, she assessed the extent of the injury. It was somewhat similar to Dilenth’s. Though he had lost leading edge and sustained damage to bone and finger joints, Tamianth had lost more sail. She would be a long time out of the air.
“Is there anything we can do to help the dragon?” A bright-eyed little man with a broad jaw and a broad nose appeared at her elbow. Another man, not much bigger, frowning anxiously in what seemed a permanent grimace, stood just beyond him. Both wore Healer purple and the shoulder knots of journeymen. Moreta glanced quickly at Falga’s stretcher. “She is unconscious and her wound dressed. That’s all we can do for her right now. I will need oil, reeds, thin gauze, needle, treated thread—”
“I’m not of this Weyr,” the bright-eyed man said and turned to the bigger one who nodded acknowledgment to Moreta and ran off to the low stone building that was High Reaches’ main living quarters. “My name is Pressen, Weyrwoman.”
“Keep applying numbweed, Pressen. All down the bones. I want them thickly coated, especially the joints. Just as you’d do any Threadscore on a human. And keep it thick on the body wound, too. I don’t want her losing so much ichor.”
An old woman stumbled up with a bucket of redwort, shouting at three children behind her to bring the oil and not dawdle. Two riders, each with bandaged scores, approached Moreta; their dragons, a blue and a brown—both scored—settled to the rocky ground, their eyes, spinning with distress, on Tamianth.
Moreta suddenly had more help than she could use effectively so she sent the riders to help the other healer find her requirements and the children to get a table for her to stand on. The old woman informed her that the Weyr’s healers had died and the two new ones knew absolutely nothing about dragons but were willing. She used to help but her hands had “a trembling.”
Moreta sent her off to find the gauze—that was her most urgent need. In the time it took Moreta to complete her preparations to repair the wing, Tamianth’s crushing pain had been reduced to a throbbing ache, according to Holth-Orlith. Tamianth’s wing was considerably larger than Dilenth’s and the sail fragments fewer. The two riders were of great assistance in sorting the pieces onto the gauze. “I never would have thought of gauze,” Pressen had murmured, fascinated at the reconstruction. He was able to assist her in the finer stitching, for his small hands were extremely deft. Nattal, the ancient High Reaches headwoman, forced Moreta to take time for a cup of soup, claiming that she knew the Fort Weyrwoman was only just recovered from the plague and it would give the High Reaches a bad name if Moreta collapsed on them, and then what would happen to Tamianth? It was soon obvious to Moreta that the soup contained a stimulating ingredient, for when she resumed her delicate repair it was with improved concentration and precision.
Nonetheless, Moreta was trembling with fatigue by the time she finished.
We must return,
Holth said in an inarguable tone.
Moreta was more than willing, but oddly disturbed by some nonspecific anxiety. She looked toward Falga, who was either unconscious or sleeping under the furs of the stretcher. Troubled, Moreta looked over the rocky Bowl, at the other injured dragons.
“You look very pale, Moreta,” Pressen said, lightly touching her arm with his red-stained hand. “I’m sure we can handle any other injuries. It was just that—the whole wing! Your work was an inspiration.”
“Thank you. Just keep the bones saturated with numbweed. Once the joints have started to produce ichor, that will coat the wounds and the healing process will begin.”
“I had never really considered that dragons get injured by Thread,” Pressen said, his expression respectful as he flicked his eyes to the dragons on the ledges and the seven pinnacles.
Come! Mount!
Holth’s tone was more urgent, and there was nothing of Orlith in her voice.
“I must leave.” Moreta swung up onto Holth’s back, noting in the back of her mind that Holth was leaner than Orlith and no longer as tall in the shoulder. Or maybe it was the way Holth had of assuming a half-crouch.
As the old queen gathered herself, Moreta suppressed a concern that the dragon was too tired for a standing start. Her hindquarters—Moreta’s head snapped back as Holth sprang powerfully upward, and she devoutly hoped that the queen had been unable to track her secret doubts. To cover her embarrassment, Moreta visualized the Star Stones of Fort Weyr, the largest of those monuments, and the mountain peak that soared behind the Stones.
Please take us to Fort, Holth!
Holth complied without clearing the High Reaches Weyr rim. During the searing moment of cold
between,
Moreta’s hands stung in the gloves. She ought to have oiled them again. She was always acquiring little nicks and needle scratches during a repair. The green weyrling greeted them on their return, bugling on an unexpectedly joyful note.
Holth glided to her ledge, coming in a shade too fast, Moreta thought, bracing herself for the landing.
You are needed,
Holth said as Moreta loosened the straps and slid down.
“I’ll just remove your harness—”
I need you now!
Orlith’s voice was petulant.
I’ve been waiting for you!
“Of course you have, love, and very good-natured you were to let me go—”
Leri says you shouldn’t waste any time,
Holth added, the facets of her eyes beginning to whirl faster.