Moreta (3 page)

Orlith caught the wind flowing down the oblong Bowl, the crater of an extinct volcano which was home to the Weyr. In a distant Turn, an earthslide had rampaged down the range, broken through the southwest part of the Weyr and into the lake. Stonecraftsmen had cleared the lake and shored up the edge in a massive wall but little could be done to clear the lost caverns and weyrs, or restore the symmetry of the Bowl.

“Surveying your Weyr, O Queen?” Moreta asked, indulging Orlith’s leisurely glide.

At height, one sees many details in proper order. All is well.

Moreta’s laugh was blown from her lips, and she had to hang on to the riding straps. Orlith constantly surprised her with gratuitous observations. Conversely, when Moreta needed guidance, Orlith might reply that she didn’t understand any rider but Moreta. The queen could be counted on to comment on the Weyr in general, or on the morale of the fighting wings, or to supply information about the Weyrleader’s dragon, Kadith. Orlith was not so forthcoming about Sh’gall. But, after twenty Turns of their symbiotic relationship, Moreta had learned to discover as much in the queen’s impartiality or evasion as from her candid remarks. Being a queen’s rider was never easy. Being the Weyrwoman, Leri had more than once told Moreta, doubled both honors and horrors. One took the good with the bad and used fellis sparingly.

Now Moreta visualized the fire-heights of Ruatha Hold, with its distinctive pattern of fire-gutters and beacons and the eastern watch rampart.

Take us to Ruatha,
she said to Orlith and clenched her teeth against the cold of
between.

“Black, blacker, blackest; colder beyond frozen things,

Where is
between
when there is naught

To Life but fragile dragon wings.”

Moreta often held the words of the old song as a talisman against the bitter breathless journey. Ruatha was not far from Fort Weyr by any means of travel, and Moreta had only reached “colder” when the warm sun shone on them and on Ruatha’s fire-heights below. The host of dragons lounging on the rocky cliff summit, whole wings of them, voiced greetings at Orlith’s appearance in the air. Orlith’s thoughts echoed her pleasure in the accolade. Dragons met so rarely for pleasure, Moreta mused. Thread was the cause. Soon, in eight Turns . . .

As the queen glided down, Moreta recognized some of the dragons from other Weyrs by the scar patterns on their bodies and wings.

Bronzes from Telgar and High Reaches,
Orlith reported, making her own identifications,
browns, blues, and greens. But Benden has been and gone. We should have come earlier.
The last held a plaintive note because Orlith had a partiality for the Benden bronze Tuzuth.

“Sorry, dear heart, but I had so much to do.”

Orlith snorted. Moreta felt the jerk of chest muscles through the dragon’s withers. She had begun to circle, dropping toward the fire-heights. Anticipating a landing, Moreta tightened her hold on the straps. Orlith overshot the heights, clearly headed down over the roadway crowded with the stalls of the Gather and a milling throng of folk gaily dressed for the occasion. Suddenly Moreta realized that Orlith meant to land in the empty dancing square ringed by lamp standards, trestle tables, and benches.

I do not forget that we are senior now,
Orlith said primly,
and that the Hold’s honors are due the Fort Weyrwoman.

Orlith landed with neat precision in the dance square, her broad pinions vaned high to avoid excessive backwinds. The banners on the lamp standards flapped vigorously, but little dust rose from the square already swept to hard ground.

“Well done, dear heart,” Moreta said, scratching her mount’s back ridge affectionately.

She glanced over at the imposing precipice that housed Ruatha Hold, magnificently topped by ranks of sunbathing dragons. The Hold’s unshuttered windows displayed banners and brightly woven rugs. Tables and chairs had been set out on the open forecourt so distinguished visitors could view the Gather stalls and the dancing square without obstruction. Moreta glanced quickly in the other direction, toward the flats where the racing was held. She could see the picket lines off to the right. The brightly painted starting poles were not in position so she hadn’t missed any racing.

The entire Gather had ceased its activity to watch Orlith’s landing. Now there was a stir among the onlookers, who parted to allow a man to step from their midst.

See! The Lord Holder approaches,
Orlith said.

Moreta swung her right leg over Orlith’s neck, pulling her skirts about, preparatory to dismounting. Then she glanced at the man approaching them. She could just make out his features, which corresponded to her recollection of Lord Leef’s light-eyed son. His broad shoulders were held at a confident angle and his rangy stride was assured, neither diffident nor hasty.

He came to an abrupt halt, bowing to Orlith, who lowered her head to acknowledge his greeting. Then he moved on quickly to assist Moreta to dismount, looking intently up at her.

His light-green eyes, unusual in one so dark-skinned, caught hers. His gaze was as formal and impersonal as his hands as he seized her by the waist and swung her down from Orlith’s forearm. He bowed, and Moreta couldn’t but notice that his shaggy hair had been neatly trimmed and attractively shaped.

“Weyrwoman, welcome to Ruatha Hold. I had begun to think that you and Orlith were not going to attend.” His voice was unexpectedly tenor for a man so tall and lean, his words clearly spoken.

“I bring the Weyrleader’s regrets.”

“He gave them in advance yesterday. It would have been your regrets which I, and Ruatha, would have been sad to receive. Orlith is in splendid color,” he added, his voice unexpectedly warming, “for a queen so near clutching.”

The queen blinked her rainbow-hued eyes, echoing the surprise that Moreta felt in Alessan’s adherence to formalities. Moreta hadn’t expected so polished a delivery from so young a man but, after all, Leef had drilled his heir in the proprieties. Besides, she was always ready to discuss Orlith.

“She’s in great health and she’s always that unusual shade.”

As her reply deviated from the tradition, Alessan hesitated.

“Now, some dragons are so light as to be more pale yellow than gold while others are dark enough to vie with the bronzes. Yet she is
not
”—Moreta eyed her queen candidly—“the classic shade.”

Alessan chuckled. “Does shade make any difference?”

“Certainly not to me. I would scarcely mind if Orlith were green-gold. She is my queen, and I am her rider.” She glanced at Alessan, wondering if he was mocking her. But his green eyes, with their tiny flecks of brown around the pupil, registered only polite query.

Alessan smiled. “And senior at Fort Weyr.”

“As you are Lord of Ruatha.” She felt slightly defensive for, despite the innocuous and formal phrases, she sensed an undercurrent in his speech. Had Sh’gall discussed his Weyrwoman with a Lord Holder?

Orlith?

The fire-height is warm in the full sun,
the dragon replied evasively, swinging her head toward her rider. The many facets of her eyes were tinged with the blue of longing.

“Off you go, dear heart.” Moreta gave Orlith’s shoulder a loving thump and then, with Alessan at her side, she walked from the dancing square. As they reached the edge, Orlith leaped, her broad wings clearing the ground in the first downward sweep. The dragon had launched herself in a very shallow angle toward the sheer rock of Ruatha. As the queen flew a mere length above the stalls and gatherers, Moreta could hear the spate of startled cries. Beside her, Alessan stiffened.

Do you know what you’re doing, my love?
Moreta asked, reasonably but firm.
You’re a bit egg-heavy for antics.

I am demonstrating the abilities of their queen. It will do them good and me no harm. See?

Orlith had judged her angle finely, though from Moreta’s perspective, she looked to be in danger of clipping her forearms on the cliff edge. But Orlith cleared the cliff easily and, dropping her shoulder, spun almost on wingtip. She set her hindquarters down directly over the Hold’s main entrance, in the space vacated by other dragons. Then she flipped her wings to her back, sank down, and rested her triangular head on her forearms.

Exhibitionist!
Moreta sent without rancor. “She’s comfortable now, Lord Alessan.”

“I had heard of Orlith’s reputation for close flying,” he replied, his eyes flicking to the jewelry Moreta wore.

So the young Lord knew of the old Lord’s gift.

“An advantage in Threadfall.”

“This is a Gather.” With that slight emphasis on the pronoun, Alessan spoke as Lord Holder.

“And where is it more appropriate to display skill and craft and beauty?” Moreta gestured toward the gaily caparisoned stalls and the richly colored tunics and dresses of the crowd. She removed her hand from his arm, partly to show her annoyance with his criticism and partly to loosen her cloak. The chill of
between
had been replaced by the warmth of the afternoon sun. “Come now, Lord Alessan”—and she linked her arm through his again—“let us have no uncharitable words at your first Gather as Lord of Ruatha and my first outing since the winter solstice.”

They had reached the roadway and the stalls where people were examining wares and bargaining. Moreta smiled up at Lord Alessan to prove her firm intention of enjoying herself. He looked down at her, blinking and creasing his dark brows slightly. His expression cleared to a smile, still reserved but considerably more genuine than his stiff formality.

“I fear I have none of my dam’s virtues, Lady Moreta.”

“And all of your sire’s vices?”

“My good Lord Leef had no vices,” Alessan said very properly, but his eyes had begun to gleam with an amusement that proved to Moreta that the man had at least a vestige of his sire’s humor.

“The races haven’t started yet?”

Alessan missed a stride and glanced sharply at her.

“No, not yet.” His tone was wary. “We have been waiting for late arrivals.”

“There seemed to be a good number at the pickets. How many races?” She gave him a quick glance. Didn’t he approve of racing?

“Ten races are planned, but the entries have been lighter than. I had anticipated. You enjoy racing, Lady Moreta?”

“I came from a runnerhold in Keroon, Lord Alessan, and I have never lost my interest in the breed.”

“So you know where to place your wagers?”

“Lord Alessan,” she said in a determinedly light tone, “I never wager. The sight of a good race well run is always a pleasure and excitement enough.” His manner was still uncertain so she changed the subject. “I believe that we’ve missed the eastern visitors.”

“The Benden Weyrwoman and Weyrleader have only just left us.” Alessan’s eyes sparkled at having acted the host to such prestigious guests.

“I had hoped to exchange news with them.” Moreta’s regret was sincere, but she was also relieved. The Benden Weyrleaders did not like Orlith’s fascination with Tuzuth, the Benden bronze, any more than she herself did. Such cross-weyr interests were encouraged in young queens but not in seniors. “Did Benden’s Lord Holder come, too?”

“Yes.” Pleasure tinged Alessan’s tone. “Lord Shadder and I had only the briefest but most congenial of talks. Most congenial. East and West don’t often have much chance to meet. Have you met Lord Shadder?”

“When I was in Ista Weyr.” Moreta smiled back at Alessan, for Shadder of Benden was undoubtedly the most popular Lord Holder on Pern. His warmth and concern always seemed intensely personal. She sighed. “I really wish I had been able to come sooner. Who else attends?”

The briefest of frowns crossed Alessan’s face. “At the moment,” he said briskly, “holders and Craftmasters from Ruatha, Fort, Crom, Nabol, Tillek and High Reaches. A long journey for some, but everyone seems well pleased that the warm weather has held for the Gather.” He glanced about the crowded stalls, noting trades in the making. “Tillek’s Lord Holder may arrive later with the High Reaches Weyrleader. Lord Tolocamp rode in an hour ago and is changing.”

Moreta grinned in sympathy with Alessan. Lord Tolocamp was an energetic, forceful man who spoke his mind and gave his opinion on every topic as if he were the universal expert. As he did not have the least sense of humor, exchanges with him were apt to be awkward and boring. Moreta preferred to avoid his company whenever possible. But, as she was now senior Weyrwoman, she had fewer excuses to do so.

“How many of his ladies came with him?”

“Five.” Alessan’s voice was carefully neutral. “My mother, Lady Oma, always enjoys a visit with Lady Pendra.”

Moreta had to choke back a laugh and turned her face slightly away. All Pern knew that Lady Pendra was angling to get Alessan to marry one of her numerous daughters, nieces, or cousins. Alessan’s young wife, Suriana, had died the previous Turn in a fall. At the time, Lord Leef had not pressed his son to make another marriage, a fact that many had taken to mean that Alessan was not to succeed. As the Fort Hold girls were as plain as they were capable, Moreta didn’t think much of Fort’s chances, but Alessan would be obliged to marry soon if he wished his own bloodline to succeed.

“Would it please the Fort Weyrwoman for Lord Alessan to take a Fort Holder as wife?” His voice was cold and stiff.

“You can surely do better than that,” Moreta replied crisply and then laughed. “I’m sorry. It is not really a subject for levity, but you don’t know how you sound.”

“And how do I sound?” Alessan’s eyes glinted.

“Like a man sorely pressed in a direction he does not wish to travel. This is your first Gather. You should enjoy it, too.”

“Wifi you help me?” Pure mischief played across his face now.

“How?”

“You’re my Weyrwoman.” His face assumed a proper respect. “Since Sh’gall has not accompanied you
,
I must be your partner.”

“In conscience, I could not monopolize your time.” Even as she spoke, Moreta realized that that was what she would rather like to do. There was a rebellion in him that attracted her.