Moreta (24 page)

“They have been badly hit . . .”

“Alessan?” She asked about him first because his would be the worst loss there, before he’d even had time to enjoy being a Lord Holder.

“No, he’s recovering, but the decimation among the Gather guests—his brothers, almost all the racers—”

“Dag?”

“I don’t have many names. Igen Weyr and Hold have been shockingly depleted. Lord Fitatric, his Lady, half their children . . .”

“By the Egg, isn’t there
any
place spared?”

“Yes, in fact, Bitra, Lemos, Nerat, Benden, and Tillek have had relatively few cases, and those were isolated promptly to avoid contagion. Those Holds have been magnificent in sending people to the stricken.”

“Why?” Moreta clenched her fists, hunching herself together in a sudden convulsion that was more mental than physical.
“Why?
When we’re so near the end of the Pass? It’s not fair so close to an Interval. Did you know”—Moreta’s voice was hard and intense—“that my family started out after the end of the last Pass? My bloodline started then? And now—just before the next Interval—it’s wiped out!”

“That isn’t known for certain, if what you say of wintering stock applies.
Do
consider that possibility. That probability.” The dragons reinforced Leri’s optimism.

Moreta’s outburst passed almost as swiftly as it had consumed her. She lay back, limp, her eyelids suddenly heavy, her body flaccid. Leri seemed to be retreating from her though she was conscious that the Weyrwoman still sat on the bed.

“That’s right. You sleep now,” Leri said in a gentle croon echoed by two dragon voices.

“I can’t stay awake!” Moreta mumbled and, sighing, relaxed into a potion-induced sleep.

Ruatha Hold, Present Pass, 3.16.43

K’lon was intensly relieved when Journeyman Healer Follen, his lips pulled down in a sorrowful line, emerged from Lord Alessan’s apartment. The death-stench of the cold corridor bothered K’lon, inured though he was to plague-ridden holds.

“I’ve vaccinated the sister and the harper and did that other poor fellow as well. Lord Alessan says that more patients may be found along this corridor, but they did manage to clear the upper levels. I don’t know how the man has managed. I’d no idea it would be so bad or I’d’ve insisted that Master Capiam give us more serum.”

“There isn’t that much to distribute, you know.”

“Don’t I just!”

Follen gave K’lon a thin smile. The previous evening the blue rider had conveyed the journeyman to South Boll Hold when the drums had reported survivors of the plague. As Capiam’s timely visit to South Boll and his recommendations to its healers had in fact prevented the plague from spreading as insidiously as it had in midcontinent, it was only just that all the survivors donate blood for serum. Lord Ratoshigan had been a donor though the ever-irascible Lord Holder had been under the distinct impression—adroitly fostered by blue rider and journeyman—that the blood-taking was part of the prescribed treatment.

“Donations can be taken here,” Follen went on, combing his hair with his fingers. “I’ll give them some of Desdra’s brew first, but judging from Lord Alessan’s tally, the Hold will be able”—Follen gave a dour snort—“to supply those left here. Do ask Lord Shadder if he can find a few more volunteers. I’m sure we can save many of those with secondary infections if we just have enough nurses. We’ve got to try. This Hold has been devastated.”

K’lon acknowledged that with a slow nod of his head. The desolation and ruin of Ruatha Hall had appalled the relief party. K’lon and three Benden green dragons had conveyed Follen, an apprentice healer, and six volunteers from Benden Hold. The spectacle that greeted the party emerging from
between
over the Hold was the worst K’lon had seen. The monstrous burial mounds in the river field, the wide circle of charnel fires near the race flats, the abandoned tents built on Gather-stall frames had indicated the magnitude of Ruatha’s attempt to survive. The sad tatters of the gaudy Gather flags, hanging from the upper tiers of the closely shuttered windows, had struck K’lon as grotesque, a mockery of the gaiety that was Gathering in the midst of the tragedy that had befallen the Hold. Bits and pieces of trash skittered across the forlorn dancing square and the roadway while a kettle swung noisily on its tripod over a long-dead fire, its ladle banging in time to gusts of the bitter-cold wind.

“Lady Pendra?” K’lon began.

A quick shake of Follen’s head made it unnecessary for K’lon to continue. “No, nor any of the daughters he brought to Ruatha Gather. At that, Lord Tolocamp comes out better than Lord Alessan.
He’s
got but the one sister left.”

“Of all Leef’s get?”

“Lord Alessan frets about her. And his runners. More of them survived than guests, I think. You speak to him,” Follen suggested, clapping the blue rider on the shoulder before making off up the dark corridor to the next room.

K’lon squared his shoulders. In the last few days, he had learned how to keep his face from showing his emotions, how to sound not exactly cheerful, which would have been offensive, but certainly positive and encouraging. After all, with the vaccine, there was the hope of mitigating the plague and preventing the disease in those not yet infected. He knocked politely at the heavy door but entered without waiting for an acknowledgment.

Lord Alessan was kneeling by a toss-mattress, bathing the face of the occupant. There was another makeshift bed along the wall leading into the sleeping quarters. K’lon suppressed an inadvertent exclamation at the change in the young Lord Holder. Alessan might regain lost weight and his skin its healthy color, but his face would always bear the prematurely deep lines and the resigned expression that he turned toward the blue rider.

“You are many times welcome, K’lon, rider of Rogeth.” Alessan inclined his head in gratitude and then folded the dampened cloth before placing it on the forehead of the man he was tending. “You may tell Master Tirone that, without the invaluable assistance and ingenuity of his harpers, we would be worse off at Ruatha than we are. Tuero here was magnificent. The journeyman healer—what was his name?” Alessan drew a shaky hand across his forehead as if to coax the identity back.

“Follen.”

“Strange, I can remember so many names . . .” Alessan broke off and stared out the window. K’lon knew the Lord Holder could see the burial mounds and wondered if the distraught man meant the names of those who lay beneath the tumbled soil of the mass graves. “It takes you that way, lying in bed, waiting to . . .” Alessan gave himself a shake and, gripping the top of the table, pulled himself slowly to his feet. “You have brought relief. Follen says that Tuero here, Deefer”—he gestured wearily toward the other bed—“and my sister will recover. He even apologized that he hadn’t more . . . vaccine? Is that what it’s called? Yes, well—”

“Sit down, Lord Alessan—”

“Before I fall down?” Alessan gave a slight smile with his bloodless lips, but he eased himself into the chair, sighing heavily, from a weariness that went beyond any physical fatigue.

“They’ve stirred up the fires, and soon there’ll be some restorative soup. Desdra concocted it. She tended Master Capiam, and
he
says the soup worked miracles for him.”

“We shall hope it does for us as well.” As they both heard the sound of coughing, Alessan turned his head sharply toward the door of his bedroom, inhaling apprehensively.

“Your sister? Well, you’ll see,” K’lon said with conviction. “The vaccine will effect a great improvement in her condition.”

“I sincerely hope so. She’s all the family I have left.”

Though Alessan spoke in a light, almost diffident voice, K’lon felt his throat close tightly with compassion.

“Oh, that serum will moderate the effects of the virus for her, I assure you. I’ve seen amazing recoveries after its administration. In fact, the serum Follen gave her is probably derived from the blood I donated.” K’lon rattled on mendaciously. Others had taken consolation from that fact so he held it out as comfort to this sadly bereaved man.

Alessan regarded him with a slightly surprised expression and his lips twitched in wry humor. “Ruatha has always been proud of its dragonrider bloodties though they’ve never been so direct.”

K’ion responded to Alessan’s retort with a thin laugh. “You haven’t lost your wits.”

“They’re about all I have left.”

“Indeed, Lord Alessan, you have much more,” K’lon said stoutly. “And you shall have all the help Weyr, Hold, and Hall can supply.”

“As long as what you have already brought is effective.” Once more Alessan’s head turned toward the room where his sister lay. “It is more than we had hoped for.”

“I shall have a look at your stores and see what is most needful,” K’lon began, vowing to himself that one of his first tasks would be to remove the Gather banners. If their presence had affronted him as a hideous reminder of that unfortunate occurrence, how cruelly would they affect Lord Alessan.

The Lord Holder stood far more quickly than he ought to have for he had to steady himself against the chair. “I know exactly what we need. . . .” He walked shakily to the desk at the window, absently stacking dirty dishes as he looked. He found the sheet of hide he wanted with a minimum of search. “Medicines, first of all. We have no aconite, not a gram of febrifuge left, only an ineffective syrup for that wretched cough, no thymus, hyssop, ezob, no flour, no salt. Blackstone is almost depleted, and there have been no vegetables or meat for three days.” He handed the sheet to K’lon, a wry smile on his lips. “See how timely your arrival is? Tuero sent the last drum message this morning before he collapsed. I doubt I should have had the strength to climb to the drum tower.”

K’lon took the sheet with a hand that shook only slightly less than the hand that offered it. He bowed to hide his face, but when he looked up, he saw that Alessan was gazing out the window, his expression unreadable.

“Follen told me that scenes like this are repeated throughout the continent.”

“Not like this,” K’lon said, his voice cracking.

“Follen didn’t go into detail—how badly are the Weyrs affected?”

“Well, we have had our casualties, it’s true, but dragonriders have met every Fall.”

Alessan gave him a long puzzled look, then he turned away again to gaze out the window. “Yes, I suppose they would, if they could. You’re from Fort Weyr?”

As K’lon knew that Alessan was aware of his affiliation, he sensed that the man was trying to discover something else. Then he remembered what Nesso had said, about Moreta dancing in a scandalous monopoly of the young Lord.

“Lady Moreta is recovering and so is the Weyrleader. We have had only one death at Fort, an elderly brown rider and his dragon, Koth. The toll was fifteen at Igen, eight at Telgar, and two at Ista but, because of the vaccine, we are hopeful.”

“Yes, there is hope.”

Why Alessan should glance from the fields to the mountains, K’lon did not know, but the action seemed to hearten the man.

“Did you know that we had over a hundred and twenty of the best western racers here a few short days ago, and seven hundred Gatherers to enjoy the dancing, the wine, the feast, the plague . . .”

“Lord Alessan, do not distress yourself so needlessly! If you had
not
held the Gather festivities here, the
entire
Hold could have been destroyed. You were able to prevent the plague’s spread. All Ruathan drumholds have reported in. There are a few deaths reported and some cases of the plague, but you did what had to be done, and did it well!”

Alessan turned abruptly from the window. “You must bear to Lord Tolocamp my most profound condolences for the loss of Lady Pendra and her daughters. They nursed the sick until they were themselves overcome. They were valiant.” Alessan’s message was no less sincere for the abruptness of its tone.

K’lon acknowledged the message with a sharp inclination of his head. He was not the only one who would forever fault Lord Tolocamp for running from Ruatha. There were those who held the opinion that Tolocamp had been eminently correct to put the welfare of his Hold above that of his Lady and his daughters. Lord Tolocamp had remained secure in his apartment at Fort Hold while Ruatha suffered and died. Tolocamp would be spared the disease since he had vehemently insisted on being vaccinated despite the priorities set by the Weyrwomen and Master Capiam.

“I will convey your condolences. All the supplies we brought,” K’lon found himself explaining, “came from Benden or Nerat Holds.”

Alessan’s eyes sparkled briefly, and he looked at K’lon as if he were seeing the blue rider for the first time.

“Good of you to tell me that. My profound gratitude for the generosity of Lord Shadder and Lord Gram.” The view from his window again drew Alessan’s glance. His obsession was beginning to perturb K’lon.

“I must go,” the blue rider said. “There is so much to be done.”

“There is! Thank you for answering the drums . . . and for your reassurances, K’lon. My duty to Rogeth who brought you.” Alessan held out his hand.

K’lon crossed the room to take it in both of his. He was almost afraid to return the pressure on the strengthless fingers but he smiled as warmly as he could, thinking that if Ruatha was proud of dragonrider bloodties, he was as proud to be part of it. Perhaps some of his blood
had
been in that serum batch. K’lon fervently hoped so.

He quit the apartment as fast as was polite, for he did not wish to give way to the emotions that possessed him. K’lon hurried down the dark corridor—they must put up glowbaskets—into the Main Hall, where two Benden volunteers were cleaning up. Their homey noises were a welcome relief from the preternatural stillness that had shrouded the Hall on their arrival. He told them about the need for glowbaskets and asked them to remove the Gather banners as soon as possible. He could hear Rogeth bellowing outside.

This place is most distressing,
the blue dragon said piteously.
It is the most distressing place we have been. How much longer must we stay?

K’lon gave the Bendenites warm thanks and then rushed out to the forecourt. Rogeth half ran, half flew up the ramp to meet K’lon, his eyes wheeling in distress.