Moreta - Dragonlady of Pern

CHAPTER VIII

The next morning when Orlith roused Moreta early, the fog had cleared from Fort Weyr's mountain slopes.

«And to the northwest? Toward Nabol and Crom?» Moreta asked as she donned riding gear.

«Sweeprider's gone out. He'll know,» Orlith replied.

«Sh'gall?»

«Awake and dressing. Kadith says he's well and rested.»

«What does Malth say about Berchar?»

The conversation paused while Orlith inquired. «Malth says the man feels worse today than he did yesterday.»

Moreta didn't like the sound of that. If Berchar had been taking sweatroot, the fever should have been sweated from his body.

«Neither you nor the Weyrleader are ill.» Orlith remarked by way of encouragement.

Emerging from her sleeping quarters, Moreta laughed and went to throw her arms around her queen's neck, scratching the eye ridges affectionately. She couldn't help but notice the protruberances marring the curve of Orlith's belly.

«Are you sure you should fly Fall today?»

«Of course I can.» Orlith craned her neck around to look at the bulges. «They will settle once I am airborne.»

«Holth and Leri?»

«They still sleep.»

«Staying awake until the small hours, poring over Records!»

Orlith blinked.

When Moreta had returned the mended strap to Leri after the Weyr meeting, she found the old Weyrwoman deep in her studies.

«Weyrfolk don't get sick,» she had said with considerable disgust. «Bellyache from overeating or drinking raw wines, Threadscore, stupid collision, knife fights, abscesses, kidney and liver infections by the hundreds, but sick? I've looked through twenty Turns after the last Fall,» Leri paused to give a great yawn, «bloody boring. I'll read on, but only because duty requires. Dragonriders are a healthy lot!»

Moreta had been quite willing to take that reassurance with her to bed. Though Nesso might have found it curious that Fortine was sending drum messages, Moreta logically concluded that Capiam was sleeping off the exhaustion of his round of the afflicted Holds. Sh'gall said that the man had been traveling for days. Sh'gall's excessive alarm over the epidemic was likely compounded by his innate antipathy for injury or minor ailments. The Weyrleader had been overreacting. She felt more sanguine about her contact with the diseased runner: It had been so brief that she failed to see how she could be affected.

Consequently, after a good night's sleep, Moreta was able to face Fall in good heart as she stepped out in the brightness of a crisp wintry day. Moreta preferred an early start on a Fall day: that day especially for, with Berchar sick, she must check that the supplies for treating scored dragons had been set out properly.

Declan, Maylone, and six of the weyrfolk were already setting up supplies in the infirmary. Declan and Maylone were runnerhold bred like herself. Searched the previous Turn for Pelianth's clutch, they had not Impressed. Because Declan had proved himself useful to Berchar and Maylone was young enough to Impress again, the two had been allowed to stay on in the Weyr. Even if Declan made a dragonrider, his skill would give Moreta much needed assistance. A Weyr never had enough healers for men and dragons.

Declan, a thin-faced man of nearly twenty Turns, brought Moreta a mug of klah while she checked his efforts. Moreta had briefly considered sending a weyrling to the Healer Hall for a more experienced healer to replace Berchar, but because of the quarantine and the efficiency shown by Declan and Maylone, she decided the Wcyr would be well enough tended. Most riders knew how to treat minor scores on themselves and their dragons.

She was serving herself from the porridge kettle when Sh'gall entered the cavern. He went straight to the dais and pulled all the chairs but one from the table. He sat down, beckoned to a sleepy weyriing, and, when the boy would have mounted the dais, Sh'gall warded him off with a peremptory command. While those in the cavern watched with amused surprise, the boy brought the cup of klah and the cereal bowl, placing them carefully at the far end of the table. Sh'gall waited till the boy had gone before he collected his breakfast.

Moreta felt impatient for such elaborate precautions. The Wcyr had enough on its mind with Fall at midday. Out of deference to the Weyrleader's authority, she kept her expression bland. Nesso had added something flavorful to the cereal, and Moreta concentrated on identifying the addition.

Wingleaders and wingseconds began to arrive, to report the readiness of their wings to Sh'gall. They prudently observed his isolation.

The three queen riders arrived together and sought Moreta. She signaled a weyrling to serve the women and replenish her klah. Kamiana, a few Turns younger than Moreta, was her usual imperturbable self, her short dark hair spiky from the bath, her tanned face smooth. Lidora, who had flown enough Thread not to be unduly anxious, was clearly upset about something, but she had recently changed her weyrmate and her moods were often changeable. Haura, the youngest, was never at her best before Threadfall, but she always settled down once the queens' wing went into action.

«He's taking no risks, is he?» Kamiana said after noting Sh'gall's segregation.

«He did convey Capiam from Ista to Southern and Fort Hold.»

«How's Berchar?»

«Still feverish.» Moreta's gesture intimated that this was only to be expected.

«Hope there's no serious injuries.» Kamiana aimed that remark at Haura, who was a capable if unenthusiastic nurse.

«Holth will fly lead,» Moreta said, reproving Kamiana with a glance. «She's valiant in that position and we can all keep an eye on her. Haura and you fly as wing backs. Lidora and I will do the upper level. Nabol and Crom may not be cursed with fog.»

«Has a sweeprider gone out?»

«Sh'gall's less likely to fly blind than any other Weyrleader I've known,» Moreta told Lidora dryly.

The weyrling returned with the porridge and klah, and served the Weyrwoman. Dragonriders began to arrive in groups, making their way to the breakfast hearth and then drifting to tables. The wingseconds moved about, checking their riders, giving instructions. All in a normal, perfectly routine fashion, despite Sh'gall, until the sweeprider came in.

«The High Reaches rider says it's all clear to the coast,» A'dan announced in a cheerfully loud voice, peeling back his headgear as he strode to the hearth.

«The High Reaches rider says!» Sh'gall demanded. «You spoke to him?»

«Of course.» A'dan turned round to the Weyrleader in surprise. «How else could I know? We met at.»

«Were you not told yesterday,» Sh'gall, appearing to enlarge with anger, rose. He glared at Moreta with piercingly accusative eyes. «Were you not told yesterday that contact with anyone was forbidden?»

«Riders aren't anyone,»

«Other riders! Anyone! We must keep this disease from reaching Fort Weyr and that means staying away from everyone. Today, during Pall, no rider of this Weyr is to approach any holder, any rider from High Reaches. Give any necessary orders a-dragonback, preferably on the wing. Touch no one and nothing belonging to anyone outside this Weyr. Have I made my orders perfectly clear this time?» He ended his outburst with another searing look at Moreta.

«What does Sh'gall think he can do to offenders?» Kamiana asked in an undertone meant for Moreta's ears alone.

Moreta gestured peremptorily for Kamiana's silence. Sh'gall had not finished speaking.

«Now,» he went on in a stentorian but less forbidding tone that no one in the Lower Cavern could ignore. «We've Thread Falling today! Only dragons and their riders can keep Pern Threadfree. That is why we live apart, in Weyrs, why we must keep apart, preserving our health. Remember! Only dragonriders can keep Pern Threadfree. We must all be equal to that task!»

«He really is rousing us for Fall, isn't he?» Lidora said, leaning toward Moreta. «How long does he mean to keep us cooped up here?» Irritation colored her voice and sent a flush to her cheeks.

Moreta gave the dark woman a long measuring look, and Lidora caught at her lower lip.

«Aggravating to be sure, Lidora, but few Gather loves are ever caught for long.» She had accurately guessed the source of Lidora's discontent and wondered who had caught the weyrwoman's fancy at Ruatha Gather. Moreta looked away, with apparent unconcern, but she thought again of Alessan and how much she'd enjoyed his company. She'd been showing off a bit, rushing to the runnerbeast's aid, trying to catch his attention.

The scuffling of bootheels and bench legs on stone roused her from her momentary lapse. She rose hastily. Custom dictated that she receive last-minute instructions concerning the queens' wing from Sh'gall. She stopped a few feet from the dais before he looked toward her, his expression warning her to keep her distance.

«Leri insists on flying?»

«There's no reason to stop her.»

«You'll remind her, of course, to stay mounted.»

«She always does.»

Sh'gall shrugged, absolving himself of responsibility for Leri. «Tend your dragons, then. Threadfall is slated for midday.» He turned to beckon the wingleaders forward.

«Is he complaining about Leri again?» Kamiana asked, perversely forgetting her own objections.

«Not really,» Moreta replied then made her way out of the cavern, the queen riders following her.

Around the Bowl, on the ledges or on the ground, riders were harnessing dragons, arranging firestone sacks on dragon necks. Others daubed oil on recent scars and examined rough patches on hide or wing membranes. Wingleaders and wingseconds were busy overseeing the preparations. Weyrlings ducked around riders and dragons on errands. The atmosphere was busy but not frantic. The bustle had the right tone to it, Moreta decided as she made her way to the far side of the Bowl. The activity was routine, familiar, almost comforting when she considered the probability that, elsewhere on Pern, men and beasts might be dying of the plague.

«That is not a good thought,» Oriith said sternly.

«True. And not one to take into Fall. Forgive me.»

«There is no fault. The day is clear! We will meet Thread well.»

Orlith's sturdy confidence imbued Moreta with optimism. The sun streamed in from the east, and the crisp air was invigorating after the clammy weather that had prevailed. A good deep frost now would be most beneficial, she thought as she climbed the stairs. Not too long a cold spell, just enough to freeze the pernicious insects and reduce the snake population.

«I'll do Holth's harness first.»

«Leri has help.»

Moreta grinned at Orlith's impatience. That was a good spirit in a dragon. As she entered the weyr, Orlith was off her couch, her eyes sparkling, their whirl speeding up with anticipation. Orlith lowered her head. In a burst of affection and love for her partner and friend, Moreta flung her arms about the triangular muzzle, squeezing as tightly as she could, knowing that her strongest embrace would be as nothing to the husky beast. Orlith rumbled and Moreta could feel the loving vibration. Reluctantly she released Orlith. Briskly then, she turned to the harness hanging on its wall pegs.

As she arranged the straps, she ran the leather through knowing hands. The cold of between ate into equipment, and most riders changed harnesses three or four times a Turn. Finding all was well with the leather, Moreta then examined Orlith's wings despite the queen's growing impatience to be up on the Star Stone height, overseeing the final preparations. Next Moreta checked the gauge on the agenothree tank, made sure the nozzle head was clean, and strapped on the tank. Then queen and rider moved out to the ledge. On the one above, Holth and Leri were already waiting.

Moreta waved to Leri and received a jaunty salute. Settling her eyepieces, Moreta fastened her helmet, hitched back the cumbersome flamethrower, and mounted Orlith. With a mighty heave, Orlith launched herself toward the Rim.

«That's quite an effort, dear heart,» Moreta said.

«Once I am airborne, there is no effort.»

To allay Moreta's anxiety, Orlith executed a very deft turn and landed with precision near Kadith. The dragon was a good-size beast, a deep rich shade of bronze with green undertones. He was not the largest bronze in Fort Weyr but, in his mating nights with Orlith, he had proved the most agile, daring, and energetic. Kadith looked up at Orlith and affectionately stroked his head on her neck. Orlith accepted the caress demurely, turning her head to touch muzzles.

Then Sh'gall signaled the blue, green, brown, and bronze riders to feed their dragons firestone. Considering it was an essential step in the destruction of Thread, Moreta could never take it as seriously as she ought. She kept her face composed and eyes straight ahead but she knew exactly the expression on the dragons' faces, pensive, eyes half closed as the dragon maneuvered firestone to the grinding surfaces of sturdy teeth, taking the greatest care to set the rock just so before applying pressure. The force that would pulverize firestone could also wreak considerable damage to a dragon's tongue. Dragons chewed firestone cautiously.

Once they'd stopped chewing firestone, the twelve wings of dragons, green, blue, brown, and bronze hides glistening with health in the sunlight, the many-faceted eyes taking on the reddish-yellow battle hue, wings restlessly flicking and tails slapping on the rock of the Rim, were a sight that never failed to inspire Moreta.

Orlith shifted her feet, sat back on her haunches. Moreta thumped her shoulder affectionately and told her to settle.

«They are ready. Their bellies are full of firestone. Why are we not flying? Kadith?»

Moreta was not one of those rare queen riders who could understand any dragon. Kadith turned his molten eyes on Orlith, and she steadied. Orlith was queen of the Weyr, as senior queen, the most powerful dragon in the Weyr, and since Fort was the first and biggest Weyr on the planet, she and her rider were the preeminent partners. But when Thread Fell, the Weyrleader was in command and Orlith had to obey Kadith and Sh'gall. So did Moreta.

Suddenly the farthest wing launched into the sky, high and straight. They would fly the high first westerly stack of the initial three wings. The second level wing moved out, then the third. Once all had achieved their assigned heights, the three wings went between. The north-south wings launched next for a cross-flight of the probable line of Fall. They went between. The diagonal wings, who would start in the northwest, went aloft and disappeared. Sh'gall lifted his arm yet again, and this time Kadith bugled, as impatient to be gone as Orlith. The Weyrleader would take his three wings east, to the line along Crom's plateau where the leading edge of Thread was due. The queens' wing took the final position, sweeping as close to the ground as they safely could. Their slower glide, their more powerful wings gave them more flight stability in erratic wind currents.

Now Kadith leaped from the Rim, Orlith following so quickly that Moreta was jerked back against the fighting straps. Then they were gliding into position. Leri on Holth had joined them, by what feat of acrobatics Moreta had not seen. Haura and Kamiana took their positions, and Lidora joined Moreta on the upper level.

«Kadith says we go between.»

«You have the visual from him?»

«Very clear.»

«Take us between, Orlith!»

«Black, blacker, blackest, coldest beyond living things, Where is life when there is …»

The rugged mountains of Nabol were in the far distance, the sun warm on their backs in its cold season arc. Below lay the bony plains of eastern Crom, glistening in patches and streaks that suggested there had been frost or a heavy dew.

Moreta's second glance was for Leri and Holth, who were perfectly fine. Haura and Kamiana were aligned behind them to form the V. Above were the fighting wings, the highest stack mere motes on a slow western glide. At the other assigned points of the defense, nine more wings were gliding toward the as-yet-unseen enemy. Now Moreta looked back over her shoulder. «Much wind?»

«Not enough to matter.» Orlith veered slightly to the right and left, testing.

Then Thread would make its entry on a slight slant, Moreta thought. There'd be more problems as they neared the mountains of Nabol where drafts would complicate Fall by sudden upward surges or drops. Thread fell at a faster rate during the cold season and, although the temperature was colder than it had been for recent Falls that Turn, the air wasn't frigid.

«It comes!»

Moreta looked back again. She saw that silver smudging of a sky, a blurring that crept inexorably groundward. The Fall of Thread! Leading edge! And Orlith began to pump her great wings, propelling them forward to meet the devastating rain.

Moreta caught her breath, as always exhilarated and apprehensive. She remembered to exhale as she settled against the fighting straps. Moments would pass before the high wings would close with Thread. It would be minutes before she and the other queens might be needed. She spared another glance for Holth.

«She flies well!» Orlith confirmed. The sun is warm on their backs, too.

Leading edge was visible and the sky ahead on either side was starred with quick bursts of flame. Moreta could see the stacks of dragons at their various altitudes covering the edge well. Then, from the pattern of dragon flame, she saw that the Fall was uneven. There were gaps where no dragon breathed to char Thread.

«Kadith says the Fall is ragged. Widen the formations. Second stack is closing. Southern wings have contact.» Orlith would keep up her commentary until the queens' wing was called to use its flamethrowers. Then her attention would be totally involved in keeping herself and her rider unscathed. «High level is dropping down now. No injuries.»

There rarely are, Moreta thought, not in the first few exciting moments of Fall, no matter how badly it drops. The riders are all fresh, their dragons eager. Once they assessed the Fall, thick or thin, racing or languid, then mistakes would occur. The second hour of a Fall was the most dangerous. Riders and dragons lost their initial keenness, they overshot Thread, or they misjudged. Falls don't always follow the pattern of the leading edge, particularly at the end of a Pass.

«Kadith is checking. Kadith is flaming. Char!» Excitement tinged Orlith's previously calm tone. «He's between. Back again. Flaming. All wings are now engaged. First flight returns for second sweep.»

The wind yanked at Moreta's body and she tugged briefly to settle the flamethrower strap on her shoulder. Now the wind carried with it tiny flecks of black charred Thread. On a stormy day, sometimes her eyepieces would be covered by a muddy film. They were under the first edge of Fall now.

«Nothing passed the wings,» Orlith said.

Sometimes great gouts of Thread would descend on the leading edge and riders would be hard put to acquit their duty. Some older riders preferred the first drop to be heavy, swearing that the heavier the leading edge, the lighter the die-off. So many Falls, so many leading edges, so many, many variations possible and so many comparisons. No two accounts, even by riders in the same wing, ever seemed to tally.

Old L'mal had told Moreta that the efficiency of the dragon was only hampered by his rider's ability to brag. However a rider flew, so long as no Thread reached the ground, the flight was well done!

The plains of Crom flowed beneath them. Moreta kept her eyes ranging ahead as did Orlith, in a synchrony of alertness long perfected. Moreta now caught the overvision from Orlith as the dragon saw hers. Moreta often experienced the desire to dive on Thread as the fighting dragons did, swooping down on the target, instead of having to wait passively for stray Thread to appear. Sometimes she envied the greens, who could chew firestone. That effectively sterilized them, which was all to the good or green dragons would overpopulate the planet. The danger was in the fight, but so was the excitement, and the golden queens could not indulge.

«Thread!»

«Haura!»

«Werth sees. Werth follows!»

Moreta watched as the younger queen veered, swung, and came up under the tangle of the deadly parasite. The flamethrower spat. The ash dispersed in the air as Werth accomplished the brief mission.

«They are all alert now,» Orlith told Moreta.

«Tell them to broaden the interval since we're past leading edge. Kamiana is to stay with Leri and Holth. We'll go south. Haura, north!»

Obligingly Orlith turned, gradually picked up air speed and altitude.

That was the hard part of Fall, coursing back and forth. The rich dark soil of the plateau held sufficient mineral nourishment to sustain Thread long enough to waste fields that had been brought to fertility over hundreds of Turns of careful husbandry.

They were nearing the initial rank of hills and the first of Crom's holds. The symmetry of the windows with their metal shutters tightly closed was visible against the protecting hillside. As Moreta and Orlith passed over the burning fire-heights, she wondered if all within the hold were healthy.

«Ask the watchwher, Orlith.»

«It knows nothing.» Orlith's tone was a shade contemptuous. The queen did not enjoy interchanges with the simpleminded beasts.

«They have their uses,» Moreta said. «We can check with all of them today. Sh'gall may not wish us to contact people but we can still learn something.»

Orlith gained more altitude as the second fold of hills loomed. Rider and queen kept the silvery shower in sight, angling from one edge of their appointed line to the other. Over the next plateau they saw Lidora and Ilith swinging along their route.

«Kadith says to converge on Crom Hold,» Orlith told her after several long sweeps.

«Let's join them.»

Moreta thought hard of Crom's fire-heights, chanted her talisman against between, and on 'blackest' arrived in the air above Crom's principal Hold. It was situated near a river, the first cascade of which could be viewed from the Hold windows when unshuttered. The livestock that usually grazed the fields had been gathered in. Moreta remembered the gay and brave decorations on Ruatha's windows and asked Orlith to speak to Crom's watchwher.

«It is only worried about Thread. Knows nothing of illness.» Orlith sounded disgusted. «Kadith says the Fall is heavy now and we should be careful. There have been three minor scorings. All dragons are flaming well and the wings are in order. Cross over!»

Moreta glanced at the spectacular display as all the fighting wings overlapped one another above Crom Hold. Too bad the holders couldn't see it. Cross-over was a magnificent sight but the concentration of the wings in one aerial position left many openings for Thread.

Suddenly Orlith veered. Moreta saw the Thread patch. Saw the blue dragon heading for it.

«We're in a better position,» she cried, knowing that Orlith would warn off the diving blue. She flicked open the nozzle of the flamethrower, leaning well left in her fighting straps as Orlith came up under the tangle. She pressed the button. The gout of fire found its mark but Moreta also had a blurred vision of blue wings and belly. «Too close, you fool. Who was that?»

«N'men, rider of Jelth,» Orlith said. «One of the young blues. You didn't singe him.»

«A singe would teach him discipline.» Moreta fumed, but was relieved that the young rider was unscathed. «Reckless stupidity to fly so low. Didn't he see us? I'll have his eyes for polishing.»

«More Thread!» Orlith was off at another tangent. Lidora had also seen the Thread and she was nearer. Orlith desisted. «Kadith is diverting from cross-over. The others are coming.»

The queens' wing reformed, flying north, fanning out as gobbets of loose Thread Fell in a curious order caused by the dragon's distortions of the air currents. That was work indeed for the queens!

Moreta and Orlith were flying hard after this tangle, that patch, aware that Sh'gall had quickly redeployed sections of several wings to cover the upper levels. Cross-overs were hard to avoid, with the different stacks of dragons flying at varying speeds, especially when the prime requirement was that wings maintain the proper altitude and interval. Then Sh'gall sent sweep riders north to make sure there had been no burrowing.

The Fall continued as the wings reestablished their far-ranging patterns. Riders called for more firestone and set meetings with the weyrlings riding supply. Moreta checked her flamethrower and found half a tank. And Fall continued.

More casualties were reported by Orlith, none serious, wing tips and tails. Orlith and Moreta flew a watching level over the first of the snow-tipped mountains along the irregular border between Crom and Nabol. Thread would freeze and shrivel on those slopes but the queens ranged while Sh'gall and Kadith ordered the wings between to the far side and Nabol.

«Haura said that she and Leri needed new fuel cylinders for their flamethrowers and were dropping down at the mine hold.»

«Leri, please check with the watchwher!»

«Holth says that the watchwhers are all stupid and know nothing of any use to us. I'll keep on asking.»

Any landing was a strain for Holth, who was no longer agile. Moreta watched anxiously, but Leri had allowed for Holth's incapacity and directed the old queen to a wide ledge close to the mine hold. A green weyrling arrived from between, cylinders hanging on both sides of her neck. She landed daintily. Her rider detached one tank and dismounted. He ran toward Holth, up her forearm, clinging to the cylinder straps with one hand and the fighting leather with the other. The exchange of tanks was made as Moreta and Orlith glided over. Holth took several steps forward, leaning into the free air and got in her first downward sweep.

«They pace themselves. All is well,» Oriith said.

«Take us to Kadith!»

They went between and emerged above a rough valley just as a mass of Thread split across the nearest ridge.

«Tapeth follows!»

The green dragon, her wings flat against her dorsal ridge, fell toward the point of impact, her flaming breath searing the crest. Just when it looked as if the dragon would collide with the ridge, she unfolded her wings and swerved off.

«Take us there!» Moreta glanced down at the tank gauge. She'd need more to flood the ridge. No ground crew could get into the blind valley.

Then they were above the sooted stone. Obedient to her rider's mental directions, Orlith hovered so that Moreta could flame the far side of the ridge. Tendrils of Thread hissed and writhed into black ash. Methodically she pumped flame into the area, widening the arc to be sure that not a finger-length of the parasite escaped.

«We'll land a bit away, Orlith. I'll need another tank now.»

«It comes!» Orlith landed easily.

«I want to check that ridge. I couldn't see if it was shelf, sheet, or shale.»

Moreta released her fighting straps and slid down. Her feet, sore from the long ride and slightly numb despite the thick lining of her boots, were jarred by the impact of her jump. She slowly clambered on insensitive soles toward the blackened area, her finger ready on the flamethrower's ignition button. She began to sense the residual heat of the two flame attacks on the rock and moved forward more slowly as much to revive her cold feet as to be cautious. She never liked to rush in on a Thread site, not on foot. However, it had to be done and the sooner the better. Thread burrowed into any crevice or cranny.

The eastern side of the ridge was sheer rock, unmarred by a split or crack to harbor Thread. The western face was also a solid mass. Tapeth's flame must have caught the stuff on landing.

Her feet were beginning to warm up as she made her way back to Orlith. Just then a blue weyrling emerged. His claws were no more than a finger-length from the top of the protruding rock thrust. The next instant the blue backfanned his wings to land. Orlith rumbled and the blue shuddered at the queen's reprimand. The rider's expression altered abruptly from delight to apprehension.

«Don't be clever T'ragel! Be safe!» Moreta shouted at him. «You could have come out in the ridge, not on it! You've never been here before. Hasn't F'neldril drilled it in your skull to have air space landing as well as taking off?»

The young rider fumbled with the straps holding the tank to his blue dragon's side as Moreta stormed over to him, still seething with the fright he had given her. «Caution pleases me much more than agility.»

She almost wrenched the tank from his hand.

«Get down. To make up for your error in judgment, stay until the ridge cools. Check for infestation. There's moss just below. You know how to use a flamethrower? Good. What's left in my tank should suffice. But have your dragon call if you see anything moving on that ridge. Anything!»

An hour or so's cold watch with fear as his companion would cool the young rider's ardor for fancy landings. No matter how often they were cautioned by the Weyrlingmaster and Weyrleader, weyrlings inexplicably disappeared and the older dragons grieved. The casualties were such a waste of the Weyr's resources.

She remounted Orlith, aware that the boy had taken a sentry's stance, but as close to the comfort of his blue dragon as possible. They looked shaken and forlorn.

«Kadith calls!»

«We must be nearing the end of Fall!» Moreta clipped back her fighting straps, remembering to tug them secure. Her harangue would lose its force if she came adrift on take-off.

«B'lerion rides!»

Moreta smiled as she told Orlith to get them airbound, to take them between to join the wings. She wondered, in the blackest of cold, just how B'lerion had fared with Oklina.

Then they were on the western side of the Nabol Range with Thread falling thick and fast. Moreta had no time to express gratitude for the presence of the fresh dragons and their riders. Moreta and Orlith had just dispatched a low snarl of Thread when Orlith announced abruptly. «The Fall is over!»

As the queen slowed her forward motion into a leisurely glide, Moreta leaned wearily into the fighting straps, the nozzle heavy in her tired hand. She felt the dull ache in her head from having to see too much at once, from having to concentrate on drift, and glide, and angle of the flame.

«Casualties?»

«Thirty-three, mostly minor scorings. Two badly damaged wings. Four riders with cracked ribs and three with dislocated shoulders.»

«Ribs and shoulders! That's bad flying!» Yet Moreta was relieved at the total. But two wings! She hated having to mend wings, but she'd had lots of practice.

«B'lerion hails us. Bronze Nabeth flew well.» Orlith was admiringly craning her neck as the High Reaches bronze matched their speed and level. B'lerion waved his arm in greeting.

«Ask him if he had a good Gather.» Any diversion not to think of the Thread-laced wings to be mended.

«He did.» Orlith sounded amused. «Kadith says we should get back to the injured wings at the Weyr.»

«First ask B'lerion what he's heard of the epidemic.»

«Only that it exists.» Then she added, «Kadith says Dilenth is very badly injured.

Moreta waved farewell to B'lerion, wishing that Sh'gall or Kadith, or both, did not consider B'lerion and Nabeth rivals. Perhaps they were. Orlith liked B'lerion's bronze, and Moreta thought it would be far more pleasant spending the Interval with someone as merry as B'lerion.

«Take us back to the Weyr.»

The utter still coldness of between acted as a bracer to Moreta. Then they were low over the Bowl, Orlith having judged her reentry as fine as that blue weyrling had earlier. The ground was studded with wounded dragons, each surrounded by a cluster of attendants. The piercing cry of wounded and distressed dragons filled the air and imbued Moreta with the most earnest desire to reduce their keening to a bearable level. «Show me Dilenth,» Moreta asked Orlith as the queen swung in over the Bowl.

«His main wingsail is scored. I will soothe him! Pity deepened the queen's tone as she circled as close as was prudent above the thrashing blue. Riders and weyrfolk were trying to apply numbweed to the injured wing, but Dilenth was writhing with pain, making that impossible. As Orlith obligingly hovered, Moreta had a clear view of the crippled wing, its forestay tip flopping awkwardly in the dust.

It was a serious injury. From elbow to finger joint, the leading edge of Dilenth's wing had taken the brunt of the havoc wrought by Thread. The batten cartilages had wilted and were crumpled into the mass of the main wingsail; Moreta thought there was also some damage to the fingersail between the joint and batten ribs, where Thread had glanced off as Dilenth had tried to take belated evasive action. More damage marred the lub side of the wing than the leech. The spar sail appeared relatively whole. Nor could she discern if the finger rib was broken. She devoutly hoped it wasn't for without ichor to the head of the mainsail, the dragon might never regain full use and fold of his wing.

Dilenth's injury was one of the worst a dragon could sustain since both the leading and trailing edges of the mainsail were involved. Healed wing membrane might form cheloid tissue and the aileron would become less sensitive, imbalancing the dragon's glide. First Moreta would have to sort the puzzle pieces of the remaining tissue and support it, hoping that there was enough membrane left to structure repair. Dilenth was young, able to regenerate tissue, but he would be on the injured list for a long time.

Moreta saw Nesso bustling about in the group attending Dilenth. His rider, F'duril, was doing his best to comfort the dragon but Dilenth continually broke loose from his rider's grip, flailing his head about in anguish.

Orlith landed just in front of the blue dragon. As soon as her hind feet met the ground, Moreta released the fighting straps and slid to the ground. Weyrlings appeared to take the agenothree tank, her outer gear.

«Where's redwort to wash in?» she demanded loudly, more to mask the sound of the keening that beat between her ears. «Orlith, control him!»

The intensity of Dilenth's cries dwindled abruptly as the queen locked eyes with the blue. His head steadied and he submitted to his rider's ministration. The relieved F'duril alternately entreated Dilenth to be brave and thanked Orlith and Moreta.

«Half the noise is shock,» Moreta said to F'duril as she scrubbed her hands in the basin of redwort. The solutions stung her cold fingers.

«The lacerations are major. The wingsail is nothing but rags and shreds,» said Nesso at her elbow. «How will it ever mend?»

«We'll just see,» Moreta replied, resenting Nesso for airing the doubts she herself entertained. «You can get me that bolt of fine wide cloth and the thinnest basket reeds you've got. Where're Declan and Maylone?»

«Declan's with L'rayl. Sorth took a mass of Thread on his withers.

Maylone is somewhere or other with a dragon.» Nesso was distracted by so many urgent requirements. «I've had to leave the injured riders with only their weyrmates and the women to tend them. Oh, why did Berchar have to be sick?»

«Can't be helped. Haura will be back shortly to help you with the riders.» Moreta took a firm hold on her frustration and banished impatience as a useless luxury. «Just get me the cloth and the basket reeds. I'll want my table here, in front of the wing. Send me someone with steady hands, oil, and thin numbweed, then get back to the riders. And my needle case and that spool of treated thread.»

As Nesso rushed off, shouting for helpers, Moreta continued her survey of the injured wing. The main wingbones were unscathed, which was a boon, but so much numbweed had been applied that she couldn't see if ichor was forming. Fragments of the leading sail dangled from elbow and finger joint. There might just be enough for reconstruction. Any shred would help. She flexed her fingers which were still stiff from the cold flying of Fall. Dilenth's keening was muted but now another sound, a human one, penetrated her concentration. «You know I had my feeling! You know we've both been uneasy. I thought we weren't flying true!» F'duril's litany of self-reproach reached Moreta. «I should have held us between a breath longer. You couldn't help yourself. It isn't your fault, Dilenth. It's mine! You'd no air space to dodge that Thread. And I let you back in too soon. It's all my fault.» Moreta rounded on the man to shock him out of his hysterics.

«F'duril, get a grip on yourself. You're upsetting Dilenth far more than,» Moreta broke off, suddenly noting the Threadscores on F'duril's body. «Has no one tended you yet, F'duril?»

«I made him drink wine, Moreta.» A rider in soot-smeared leathers appeared from Dilenth's left side. «I've got numbweed dressings for him.»

«Then apply them!» Moreta looked around in exasperation. «Where is Nesso now? Can't she organize anything today?»

«How bad is Dilenth?» the rider asked while capably slitting away the remains of F'duril's riding jacket. Moreta now identified the slender young man as A'dan, F'duril's weyrmate. He spoke in a low worried voice.

«Bad enough!» She took a longer look at A'dan, who was coping deftly with the dressings he wrapped about F'duril. «You're his weyrmate? Have you a steady hand?»

A solicitous weyrmate was preferable to no help, and certainly more acceptable to Moreta than Nesso's moaning and pessimistic outlook. Beads of ichor were beginning to seep through the numbweed on Dilenth's wingbone.

«Where are my things, Nesso?»

Moreta had taken but one pace toward the cavern to collect her requirements when the stout Headwoman floundered into view, laden with reeds, a pot of thin numbweed liquid, the jug of oil, and Moreta's needle box. Behind her marched three weyrlings, one of them carrying a hide-wrapped bolt of cloth as tall as himself and a washing bowl while the other two wrestled the table close to the blue dragon's wing.

«Oh, a long time healing if it heals whole,» Nesso moaned in a dismal undertone while shaking her head. She took one look at the expression on Moreta's face and scurried off.

Moreta took a long, settling breath then exhaled and reached for the oil. As she began coating her hands against contact with numbweed, she issued instructions to A'dan and the weyrlings.

«You, D'ltan.» She pointed to the weyrling with the strongest looking hands. «Cut me lengths of that cloth as long as Dilenth's leading edge. A'dan, wash your hands with this oil and dry them, then repeat the process twice, just patting your hands dry after the third. We'll have to oil our hands frequently or get benumbed by the weed as we work. You, M'barak.» Moreta indicated the tall weyrling. «Thread me needles with this much thread,» she held her oily hands apart to the required length, «and keep doing 'em until I tell you to stop. You, B'greal,» she looked toward the third boy, «will hand me the reeds when I ask for them. All of you wash your hands in redwort first.

«We're going to support the wing underneath with cloth stitched to the wingbone and stretched from the dorsal to the finger joint,» she told A'dan, watching his face to see if he understood. «Then we must, if you have to get sick, A'dan, do it now and get it over with. Dilenth and F'duril both will find it reassuring to have you helping me. F'duril knows you'll be the most loving and gentle nurse that Dilenth could have. A'dan!» She spoke urgently because she needed his help. «Don't think of it as a dragon wing. Think of it as a fine summer tunic that needs mending. Because that's all we'll be doing. Mending!»

Her hands oiled, she took the fine-pointed needle from the weyrling's hand, willing A'dan to fortitude. «Orlith?»

«I can only speak to his green, T'grath.» Orlith said a bit tartly. «Dilenth needs all my concentration and none of the other queens has returned to help.»

In the next second, however, A'dan shook himself, finished washing his hands, and turned resolutely to Moreta. His complexion was better and his eyes steady though he swallowed convulsively.

«Good! Let's begin. Remember! We're mending!»

Moreta jumped up on the sturdy table, beckoned him to follow, and then reached for the first length of cloth. As Moreta made her first neat tacks along the dorsal, Dilenth and A'dan twitched almost in unison. With Orlith's control and all the numbweed on the bone, Dilenth could not be experiencing any pain. A'dan had to be anticipating the dragon's reaction. So Moreta talked to him as she stitched, occasionally asking him to stretch or relax the fine cloth.

«Now I'll just fasten this to the underside. Pull to your left. The leading edge of the wing will be thick, no help for it, but if we can just save enough of the mainsail … There! Now, A'dan, take the numbweed paddle and smear the cloth. We'll lay on it what wingsail fragments remain. This is a very fragile summer tunic. Gently does it. M'barak, cut me another length. That tendon's been badly stretched but luckily it's still attached to the elbow. Orlith, do stop him flicking his tail. Any movement makes this operation more difficult.»

Moreta was grateful when Dilenth's exertions abruptly ceased. Probably another queen had arrived to support Orlith. She thought she saw Sh'gall but he didn't stop. He wasn't attracted to this aspect of Threadfall. «Retaining that tendon is a boon,» she said, realizing that her verbal encouragement to A'dan had faltered. «I'll have those reeds now, B'greal. The longest one. You see, A'dan, we can brace the trailing edge this way, using gauze as support. And I think there're enough fragments of membrane. Yes. Ah, yes, he'll fly again, Dilenth will! Slowly now, very gently, let's lay the tatters on the gauze. M'barak, can I have the thinner salve? We'll just float the pieces … so …»

As she and A'dan patiently restored the main wingsail, she could see exactly how the clump of Thread had struck Dilenth. Had F'duril and the blue dragon emerged from between a breath earlier, F'duril would have been bowled off Dilenth by the searing mass. She must remember to point out to F'duril that good fortune had attended their reentry.

They retrieved more sail fragments than she'd initially dared believe. Moreta began to feel more confident as she stitched a reed to the tendon. In time the whole would mend although the new growth, overlapping the old, would be thicker and unsightly for seasons to come, until windblown sand had abraded the heavier tissue. Dilenth would learn to compensate for the alteration on the sail surface. Most dragons readily adapted to such inequalities once they were airborne again.

«Dilenth will fly again,» Orlith said placidly as Moreta stepped back from the repaired wing. «You've done as much as you can here.»

«Orlith says we've done a good job, A'dan,» she told the greenrider with a weary smile. «You were marvelous assistants, M'barak, D'ltan, B'greal!» She nodded gratefully to the three weyrlings. «Now, we'll just get Dilenth over to the ground weyrs, and you can all collapse.»

She jumped down from the table and would have sprawled had A'dan's hand not steadied her. His wry grin heartened her. She propped herself against the table edge for a moment. Nesso appeared, dispensing wine to Moreta first and then the others.

Dilenth, released from Orlith's rigid control, began to sag on his legs, tilting dangerously to his right. Orlith reasserted her domination while Moreta looked around for F'duril.

«He'll be no help to anyone,» Nesso observed sourly as they all watched the blue rider sinking slowly to the ground in a faint.

«It was the strain and his wound,» A'dan said as he rushed to his weyrmate.

Dilenth moaned and lowered his muzzle toward his rider.

«He's all right, Dilenth,» A'dan said, gently turning F'duril over. «A little sandy.»

«And a lot drunk!» M'barak murmured as he signaled the other two lads to aid A'dan with F'duril.

«The worst is over now!» A'dan said with brisk cheer.

«He doesn't know what worst is,» Nesso muttered gloomily at Moreta's side as the blue dragon lurched away, supported on one side by A'dan's Tigrath and K'lon and blue Rogeth on the other.

It took Moreta a few moments to realize that K'lon and Rogeth should not be about. «K'lon? …»

«He volunteered.» Nesso sounded peeved. «He said that he was fine and he couldn't stand being idle when he was so badly needed. And he the only one!»

«The only one?»

Nesso averted her face from the Weyrwoman. «It was a command the Weyr could not ignore. An emergency, after all. He and F'neldril decided that he must respond to the drum message.»

«What drum message are you talking about, Nesso?» Abruptly Moreta understood Nesso's averted gaze. She'd been overstepping her authority as Headwoman again.

«Fort Hold required a dragonrider to convey Lord Tolocamp from Ruatha to Fort Hold. Urgently. There is illness at Ruatha and more at Fort Hold, which cannot be deprived of its Lord Holder during such a disaster.» Nesso blurted out the explanation in spurts, peering anxiously up at Moreta to gauge her reaction. «Master Capiam is sick, he must be, for it is Fortine who replies to messages, not the Masterhealer.» Nesso grimaced and began to wring her hands, bringing them by degrees to her mouth as if to mask her words. «And there are sick riders at Igen, Ista, and many at Telgar. There's Fall in two days in the south … I ask you, who will fly against Thread if three Weyrs have no riders to send?»

Moreta forced herself to breathe slowly and deeply, absorbing the sense of Nesso's babbling. The woman began to weep now, whether from the relief of confession or from remorse Moreta couldn't ascertain.

«When did this drum message come?»

«There were two. The first one, calling for a conveyance for Lord Tolocamp, just after the wings left for Fall!» Nesso mopped at her eyes, appealing mutely to Moreta for forgiveness. «Curmir said we had to respond!»

«So you did!» Nesso's blubbering irritated Moreta. «I see that you could not delay until we had returned from Fall. Surely Curmir responded that the Weyr was at Fall?»

«Well, they knew that. But F'neldril and K'lon were here, no, there,» Nesso had to find the exact spot near the Cavern, «so we all heard the drum message. K'lon said immediately that he could go. He said, and we had to agree with him, that since he had been ill of the fever, he was unlikely to contract it. He wouldn't let F'neldril or one of the weyrlings or the disabled take the risk.» Nesso's eyes pleaded for reassurance. «We tried to ask Berchar about the danger of infection, but S'gor would not let anyone see him and could not answer for him. And we had to respond to Lord Tolocamp's request! It is only right that a Lord Holder be in his Hold during such a crisis. Curmir reasoned that, in such an unusual instance, we were constrained by duty to assist the Lord Holder even if it meant disobeying the Weyrleader!»

«Not to mention the Masterhealer and a general quarantine.»

«But Master Capiam is at Fort Hold,» Nesso protested as if that sanctioned all. «And what will be happening at Fort Hold in Lord Tolocamp's absence I cannot imagine!»

It was the happenings at Ruatha Hold that concerned Moreta more vitally, and the second drum message.

«What is this of sick riders? Did it come in on open code?»

«No, indeed! Curmir had to look it up in his Record. We did nothing about that. Not even forward it for it didn't have the pass-on cadence. F'neldril and K'lon said you should know. There are forty five riders ill at Telgar alone!» Nesso placed one hand on her chest in a dramatic gesture. «Nine are very ill! Twenty-two are ill at Igen and fourteen at Ista.» Nesso seemed obscurely pleased by the numbers.

Eighty-one riders ill of this epidemic? Despair and fear welled through Moreta. Riders ill? Her mind reeled. It was Fall! All the dragonriders were needed. Fort Weyr was down thirty in strength from the last Fall, and thirty-three from this one. It would be a full Turn before Dilenth flew. Why this? Only eight Turns remained in this Pass and then the riders would be free of the devastation that Thread wrought on dragons, themselves, and Pern. Moreta shook her head in an effort to clear her thinking. She ought to have paid more heed to Sh'gall's agitated report of illness instead of discounting the truth because it was unpalatable. She knew that Master Capiam was not in the habit of issuing arbitrary orders. But riders were healthy, fit, less susceptible to minor ailments. Why should they, in their splendid isolation, pursuing their historic occupation, be vulnerable to an infection rampant in crowded holds, halls, and among beasts?

Yet, her rational self said, the damage was already spreading by the time Sh'gall brought her the news. Even she had already innocently compounded her involvement by showing off her sensitivity to impress Alessan. How could anyone at Ruatha Gather have realized the danger in approaching that dying runnerbeast? Why, when Talpan had correlated illness to the journeyings of that caged beast, she and Alessan had probably been watching the races.

«You are not at fault, the tender, loving voice of Orlith said. «You did no harm to that runnerbeast. You had the right to enjoy the Gather.»

«Is there anything we should do about the other Weyrs, Moreta?» Nesso asked. She had stopped weeping but she still twisted and washed her hands in an indecisive way that annoyed Moreta almost as much.

«Has Sh'gall returned?»

«He was here and went off, looking for Leri. He was angry.»

«Orlith?»

«They are busy but unharmed.»

«Nesso, did you tell him about the drum messages?»

Nesso cast a desperate look at Moreta and shook her head. «He wasn't on the ground long enough-really, Moreta.»

«I see.» And Moreta did. Nesso could never have brought herself to inform the Weyrleader of such fateful tidings had there been worlds of time. Moreta would have to present the matters to Sh'gall soon enough, a conversation that would cause more acrimony on a day when both had more problems than hours. «How is Sorth?»

«Well, now, he's going to be fine,» Nesso said with considerably more enthusiasm for that topic. «He's just over here. I thought you might like to check over my work.»

The westering sun glinted off the Tooth Crag above Fort Weyr and the glare hurt Moreta's tired eyes as she looked in the direction Nesso pointed. The repair of Dilenth's wing had taken far longer than she had realized.

«There is still sun on your ledge, Orlith. You should enjoy it. Get the cold of between and Fall out of your hide.»

«You are as tired. When do you rest?»

«When I have finished what must be done,» Moreta said, but her dragon's concern was comforting. Moreta scrubbed at her fingertips, which had become insensitive where numbweed had seeped through the oil. She rinsed her hands in redwort and dried them well in the cloth Nesso offered.

A blue dragon wailed plaintively from his ledge, and Moreta looked up, worried.

«His rider only has a broken shoulder,» Nesso said with a sniff. «Torn harness.»

Moreta remembered another blue rider. «Orlith, that blue weyrling, has he returned from the ridge?»

«Yes, there was no Thread. He reported to the Weyrlingmaster. He wants to have a word with you about putting a very young rider at risk.»

The lad would have been in more risk continuing his antics, and I'll have words with the Weyrlingmaster on another score. «Let's see Sorth,» she said aloud to Nesso.

«He's an old dragon. I don't think he'll heal well.» Nesso babbled out of a nervous desire to regain favor in Moreta's eyes, for she didn't know that much about dragon injuries and far too much about how she thought the Weyr should be managed.

Moreta had also come to the conclusion at some point in the last few moments that she would have ordered someone to convey Lord Tolocamp had she been in the Weyr when the message arrived, despite any protest Sh'gall might have raised about breaking quarantine. Fort Hold would need Tolocamp more than Ruatha needed an unwilling guest. She wondered fleetingly if any were sick at Ruatha. If so, how had Alessan permitted Tolocamp to break quarantine?

Sorth had taken a gout of tangled Thread right on the forward wingfinger, severing the bone just past the knuckle. L'rayl was full of praise for Declan's assistance, belatedly including Nesso in his recital while she glared at him. They had done a good job of splinting the bone, Moreta noted professionally, tying reeds into position on well numbed flesh.

«Nasty enough,» Moreta commented as Sorth gingerly lowered the injured wing for her scrutiny.

«A fraction closer to the knuckle and Sorth might have lost tip mobility,» L'rayl said with laudable detachment. The man had a habit of clenching his teeth after he spoke, as if chopping off his words before they could offend anyone.

«A soak in the lake tomorrow will reduce the swelling once ichor has coated the wound,» Moreta said, stroking the old brown's shoulder.

«Sorth says,» L'rayl answered after a pause, «that floating would feel very good. The wing would be supported by the water and not ache so much.» L'rayl was then caught between a grin and a grimace for his dragon's courage and, to cover his embarrassment, he turned and roughly scratched Sorth's greening muzzle.

«How many riders were injured?» she asked Nesso as they turned toward the infirmary. With eighty-one sick of the plague, they might have to send substitutes. «More than there should be,» Nesso replied, having recovered her critical tongue.

Nesso hovered while Moreta made her expected brief appearance in the infirmary. Most of the injured riders were groggy with fellis juice or asleep, so she didn't have to linger. She also seemed unable to extricate herself from Nesso's company.

«Moreta, what you need right now is a good serving of my fine stew.»

Moreta was not hungry. She knew she ought to eat but she wanted to await the return of Sh'gall and Leri. In a brief flurry of malice, Moreta struck across the Bowl to the Lower Cavern in a long stride that forced Nesso to jog to keep up. Annoyed with herself, Moreta silently put up with Nesso's fussing to make sure that the cook served Moreta a huge plate. Nesso obsequiously cut bread and heaped slices on Moreta's plate before making a show of seating the Weyrwoman. Fortunately, before the last of Moreta's waning penitence was exhausted, one of the fosterlings came running up to say that Tellani needed Nesso 'right now'.

«Giving birth, no doubt. She started labor at the beginning of Fall.» Nesso raised her eyes and hands ceilingward in resignation. «We'll probably never know who the father was for Tellani doesn't know.»

«Babe or child, we'll have some trace to go by. Wish Tellani well for me.» Privately Moreta blessed Tellani for her timing; she would have respite from the Headwoman, and a birth after Fall was regarded as propitious. The Weyr needed a good dollop of luck. A boy, even of uncertain parentage, would please the dragonriders. She'd have a stern talk with Tellani about keeping track of her lovers, surely a simple enough task even for so loving a woman as Tellani. The Weyr had to be cautious about consanguinity. It might just be the wiser course to foster Tellani's children to other Weyrs.

It was easier to think of an imminent birth than tax her tired mind with imponderables such as sick riders in three Weyrs, a Masterhealer who was not signing outgoing messages, the disciplining of a rider and a harper who disobeyed their Weyrleader, a wing-torn dragon who would be weyrbound for months, and a sick healer who might be dying.

«Malth says Berchar is very weak and S'gor is very worried,» Orlith told her in a gentle, drowsy voice. «We have decided that the woman has carried a male,» Orlith continued. Moreta was astonished. Since Orlith very rarely used the plural pronoun, she must be referring to other dragons.

«How kind you are, my golden love!» Moreta shielded her face with her hands so that no one in the cavern would see the tears in her eyes for her dragon's unexpected kindly distraction, and her everlasting joy that, of all the girls standing on Ista's Hatching Ground that day Turns ago, Orlith had chosen the late arrival for her rider.

«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 the 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 Wcyr 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 Wcyr 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 of 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 diaphoretic, judicious use of aconite for palpitations, willow salic 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. Willow salic, 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.