Moreta (32 page)

“It is not quite noon,” Capiam said tactfully, willing to give the harried Lord Holder the benefit of any doubt. “In theory, serum vaccine ought to produce similar immunization in the runners. Alessan needs all the luck and help he can get.”

Moreta nodded in solemn agreement. “So why does the Healer Hall concern itself suddenly with animal vaccines?”

“Because, unfortunately, I have good reason to believe that the plague is transmitted to man by animals and may break out again—‘zoonotic’ and ‘recrudescent’ are the terms the Ancients used to describe those qualities.”

“Oh!” Moreta struggled to assimilate the information. The ramifications were staggering. “You mean, we could easily have a second epidemic? Shards! Capiam, the continent couldn’t survive a second epidemic!” She threw up her arms in an excess of dismay that had to be vented. “The Weyrs are only barely able to get the requisite number of wings in the air with every Fall, what with riders recovering from secondary infections and new injuries. If the plague went through us again, I doubt there’d be a full wing available!” In her agitation, she began to pace, then she noticed his patient watching. She halted and gave him a closer scrutiny. “If the animal vaccine works, then you could stop the zoonosis? You would vaccinate both man and animal against it? And your challenge is . . .”—she had to smile at the way he had led her to the conclusion—“to the dragonriders for their assistance in distributing the vaccines?”

“Preferably on the same day to all distribution points.” Capiam carefully unfolded a copy of his plan. He peered at her from under his brows, watching her reactions as he handed her the document. “Mass vaccination is the only way to stop the plague. It would require a tremendous effort. My halls have already started to accumulate human vaccine. To be candid, my Hall had not quite evaluated the runner susceptibility. Between Tirone’s reports and Desdra’s exhaustive investigations, we can find no other way than zoonosis for the plague to have spread so rapidly and so far. We now know that the only way to prevent a recurrence of this viral influence is to stop it within the next few days or endure a second wave.”

Moreta shuddered with dread. She studied his plan.

“Of course,” he added, tipping the edge of the parchment, “the scheme depends first on the feasibility of the runner vaccine and the cooperation of the Weyrs to circulate both.”

“Have you approached any of the other Weyrs yet?”

“I needed an answer to my question on runner vaccine and you are the nearest authority.” He grinned at her.

“Surely Lord Tolocamp—”

“I’m leaving Lord Tolocamp to Master Tirone.” There was considerable acrimony in the healer’s voice. “And such a question as this to someone who can give me a rational answer. Not only have I an answer, I have a source.”

“That is also an assumption—”

“Which I will confirm as soon as you can also assure me that the Weyrs can assist us in delivering the vaccines. One of my journeymen is a wizard at figuring out what he calls time-and-motion processes. If we could rely on a minimum of six riders from each Weyr to cover their traditional regions, in a scheduled roster of stops to the various halls, holds, and Weyrs, that would be sufficient.”

Moreta was doing some calculations of her own. “Not unless the riders—” She caught herself and gulped in astonishment. In Capiam’s broadening grin she had an unexpected answer.

“I’ve been doing rather a lot of reading in the Archives, Moreta.” Capiam sounded more pleased than apologetic for the shock he had given her.

“How did that bit of information come to be in the Healer Archives?” she demanded, so infuriated that Orlith came fully alert, claws hooking protectively about the queen egg.

“Why shouldn’t it be?” Capiam asked with deceptive mildness. “After all, my Craft bred the trait into the dragons. Can they really go from one time to another?” he asked wistfully.

“Yes,” she finally replied, as austerely as she could. “But it’s not encouraged at all!” She thought of K’lon, knew very well how often the blue rider had been at the Healer Hall, and wondered about such convenient Records. On the other hand, Capiam’s Craft had been credited with many incredible feats and displays of skill, secrets forgotten by disuse. She chided herself for doubting the integrity of Master Capiam, especially at such a critical hour when any strategy that might restore the continent to balance might be condoned. “Capiam, traveling in time produces paradoxes that can be very dangerous.”

“That’s why I suggested the progressive delivery so there is no overlapping.” The eagerness in his manner was disarming.

“There might be some trouble convincing M’tani of Telgar.”

“Yes, I’d heard of his disaffection. I also know that F’gal of Ista is very ill of a kidney chill and L’bol of severe depressions—which is why I specify the minimum number of riders the effort would require. I don’t know how the continent would have survived without all the assistance the dragonriders have given hall and hold up to this point.”

“You have enough vaccine for people?”

“We will have. Master Tirone is adroitly broaching the subject to hall and hold.”

“A wise precaution.”

Capiam heaved a sigh. “So, what must be ascertained now is whether or not Lord Alessan has successfully produced the animal vaccine.”

Go to Ruatha with them,
Orlith said. After a flicker of a pause, she added,
Holth agrees.

Illogically, Moreta resisted that gratuitous permission—and wondered why. She had a perfectly natural wish to see the results of Alessan’s experiment, not necessarily Alessan. Was she resisting the attraction she felt for him? She was not normally bothered by indecision.

You have always liked runnerbeasts. They deserve your help now.
Holth—Orlith was speaking, Moreta decided from the doubly deep tone.
You will have to see Ruatha sometime again.
That, undeniably, was spoken only by Orlith.

Moreta sighed deeply and sadly. Orlith had touched the core of her resistance, for Moreta did not want to see Ruatha in the ruins K’lon had described.

“I think, Capiam,” she said slowly, steeling her mind, “that I should accompany you.”

Arith is more than willing. He likes the girl,
Orlith said. She unsheathed her claws from the queen egg. From the Bowl, Arith bugled agreement.

“Which girl?” Moreta was surprised at the remark.

Orlith shrugged and went about making a depression in which she rolled her egg. So, trying not to appear resigned, Moreta collected her flying gear.

“Arith says he will take us to Ruatha Hold.”

“You can leave her?” Capiam looked toward the queen.

“My going is her idea. She’s not a broody dragon, like some who must have their rider in constant attendance. Leri and Holth are nearby. I shan’t be gone very long, you know.” She gave Capiam a dour glance and then smiled at his startled expression.

When Moreta and Capiam reached the Bowl, Jallora was talking earnestly with a dark-haired woman who was standing a few lengths from M’barak and Arith. Desdra was older than Moreta had expected from K’lon’s comments, older than Moreta herself, but then Jallora had said that the woman was taking her mastery at the Fort Healer Hall. Desdra had a reserved air about her, not quite haughty but certainly a woman who kept herself to herself—a trait that did not, however, keep her from being keenly aware of the activity in the Bowl. Two wings from Fort would fly later across Bitra and Lemos. Sh’gall had gone forward to Benden to see K’dren. The Benden Weyrleader was tactful, as M’tani of Telgar was not, and Moreta counted on K’dren to smooth matters over in the day’s consolidation. She would be everlastingly grateful when the Weyrs could return to traditional territories.

“Desdra, Moreta is coming with us to Ruatha,” Capiam was saying. “It would seem that Lord Alessan has anticipated the matter of runner vaccine.”

Desdra inclined her head courteously to the Weyrwoman, her large gray eyes calmly taking Moreta’s measure.

“Don’t let Desdra make you uncomfortable, Moreta,” Capiam said. “She takes no one at face value; claims detachment is required of a healer.”

“Jallora has told me of the superb reconstruction work you do on Threadscored dragon wing,” Desdra replied in a low unhurried voice, her eyes flicking a glance to Moreta’s hands as she put on her gloves.

“When there is time again, please return and examine Dilenth. The Istan Weyr Healer, Ind, taught me the technique. I’ve had opportunity to perfect it.”

“I’d forgot about Fall today, Moreta,” Capiam was saying uncertainly, as he looked about and saw the unmistakable preparations.

“I must be back for the
end
of Fall, certainly,” Moreta replied, now perversely compelled to go to Ruatha. “As it happens, the wings have taken fewer injuries since the plague. It might just be that flying against other Weyrs has improved performances.”

“Really? How interesting.” Capiam’s surprise was genuine.

Then M’barak courteously gestured for Moreta to mount Arith first. She did so, settling herself at the back and assisting Desdra. Although Desdra made no comment and appeared perfectly composed, Moreta decided that the healer had not often ridden adragonback.

Capiam was clearly delighted, twisting about to grin past Desdra at Moreta then checking discreetly that Desdra was comfortable. “Four riders are not excessive weight for your Arith, M’barak?” he, asked as the blue rider swung into his forward position.

“Not my Arith,” the boy replied stoutly, “or I’d’ve mentioned it.”

As if to prove his ability, Arith leaped from the ground so enthusiastically that his passengers were abruptly pressed backward. Moreta instinctively locked her legs and grabbed the ridge behind her to balance Desdra, who was pushed back by Capiam’s weight. Arith made a quick adjustment as M’barak rapped his neck. Conscious of his Weyrwoman’s presence, M’barak made a ceremony of taking leave of the watchrider, accepting and returning salutes as Arith winged to a respectable altitude. M’barak looked back at Moreta with a warning nod of his head before he gave Arith directions.

“Black, blacker, blackest—”

Moreta’s litany broke as they appeared in the sky again above Ruatha. She caught her breath, closing her eyes against the sickening view of the violated field, the rutted racing flat, the great fire circles, and the appalling burial mounds. She knew that her grip on Desdra’s waist had locked and she was aware, too, of warm hands that lay gently on hers in shared sympathy and dismay.

All too clearly, Moreta could recall her compliments to Alessan on Ruatha’s Gather gaiety, a bitter memory now that she was faced with the grim reality of the Gather’s aftermath. Arith glided across the racing flats, directly at the Hold. Moreta could see the starting poles forlornly tumbled about where the spectacular dead heat of the last race had been run. Moreta forced herself to look at the raw earth of the burial mounds and accept the fact of so many casualties from that carefree throng of visitors in their Gather finery. And to accept as well the cremation fires that had consumed dead animals, winners and losers both, of the ten races that had drawn them to Ruatha on that fatal occasion. For a callous moment she thought that Alessan could have found the time to clear the pathetic debris of travel wagons, trunks, and Gather stands from the roadway and the fields. She marked where campfires had blackened the stubble field from which she and the young Lord Holder had so blithely watched the racing. Where banners had brightly flown, the upper tiers of Ruatha Hold were shuttered, unneeded, reminders that Ruatha had withstood a siege more savage than any Threadfall.

Yet, even as her heart contracted at the disheveled look of the proud Hold, her eyes went to the fields and the runners grazing there—not the large, solid beasts that Alessan had bred on Lord Leef’s instructions but the wiry, thin-boned runners of Squealer’s ilk. The irony helped restore her composure. Her tears would not comfort Alessan now.

Arith was not going to land at the forecourt, for which mercy Moreta was extremely grateful. His line was taking them along the roadway to the beasthold where considerable activity was evident. Three runners were being disengaged from plows, saddles lay on the ground, and a small cart had been pulled from storage. People were rushing up the road, carrying baskets with careful haste. The basic vitality of Ruatha appeared resurgent.

“M’barak says that he has seen Alessan at the beasthold,” Desdra said to Moreta, projecting her voice sufficiently to counter the glide breeze. Nothing in her expression indicated that she was aware of Moreta’s painful first reaction to the plague-scarred Hold.

Those at the beasthold had become aware of the dragon’s approach and, just as Arith landed neatly on the far side of the roadway, two men emerged. Both were tall and their faces in shadow but Moreta identified Alessan on- the right. That he recognized her was apparent by his sudden start before he strode to meet his visitors as fast as a Lord’s dignity would allow. And he walked like the Lord of Ruatha again, Moreta was relieved to see—confident and proud.

“Sorry to arrive at an awkward moment, Lord Alessan,” Capiam called as he dismounted.

“Your arrival could never be awkward, your appearance is always welcome,” Alessan replied, but his eyes held Moreta’s for a long instant before he courteously handed Capiam to the ground. “Tuero and I”—he indicated the tall harper who had followed him—“were composing a message to you.” Then Alessan abandoned his formal manner and grinned broadly up at Moreta. “Dag saved Squealer! We’ve foals, too. Three fine males!” He shouted the last sentence, giving vent to a joy he could no longer contain.

“Oh, how marvelous, Alessan!” Moreta swung her right leg over and behind her and dropped down Arith’s side. Fortunately, for Arith was rather higher than she had thought, Alessan caught her about the waist and eased her to the ground. She turned in his arms, very much aware of his hold on her, his light-green eyes bright with elation and, she hoped, her unexpected visit. “And to think it’s Squealer’s breed that survived! And foals! Oh, how relieved you must be!”

“I’m only just back from the nursery meadows,” he told her as he led her away from Arith, his hands moving along her arm, anxious to remain in contact with her and happy at a civil excuse to do so. “I didn’t have enough vaccine with me. I never counted on foals. And Dag’s got a broken leg so we have to send the cart. There’ll be Fall here in six days! But Dag saved bboodstock for us. He saved enough and he’s saved Ruatha!”