You are distressed, Orlith said, her eyes whirling in a soothing blue. You should not be distressed by a runnerbeast.
Moreta leaned against her dragon’s head, stroking the near eye ridge, calming her anxiety with the soft feel of Orlith’s skin.
“It’s not just the runnerbeast, my love. A sickness is in the land. A very dangerous sickness. Where’s Berchar?”
With S’gor. Asleep. It is very early. And foggy.
“And yesterday was so beautiful!” She remembered Alessan’s strong arms about her in the toss dance, the challenge in his light-green eyes.
You enjoyed yourself! Orlith said with deep satisfaction.
“Yes, indeed I did.” Moreta sighed ruefully.
Nothing will change yesterday, Orlith remarked philosophically. So now you must deal with today. As Moreta chuckled over dragon logic, the queen added, Leri wishes to speak with you since you are awake.
“Yes, and Leri might have heard about an epidemic like this. She
Moreta: Dragonlady of Pern 67
might also know how I’m going to break the news to the Weyr the day before Fall.”
Since Sh’gall had gone off with her cloak, Moreta slipped into her riding jacket. Orlith had been correct, as always, about the weather. As Moreta left her weyr and started up the steps to Leri’s, the fog was swirling down from the ranges. Thread would Fall tomorrow, fog or not, so she devoutly hoped the weather would clear. If the wind failed to clear the mist, the possibility of collision would be trebled. Dragons could see through fog but their riders couldn’t. Sometimes riders did not heed their dragons and found themselves in one-sided arguments with bare ridges.
Orlith, please tell the watchrider that no one, dragonrider or holder, is permitted into the Weyr today. And no one is to leave it, either. The order is to be passed to each watchrider.
Who would visit the Weyr in such fog? Orlith asked. And the day after two Gathers.
“Orlith?”
I have relayed the message. Balgeth is too sleepy to question why. Orlith sounded suspiciously meek.
“Good day to you, Holth,” Moreta said courteously as she entered the old Weyrwoman’s quarters.
Holth turned her head briefly in acknowledgment before closing her eyelids and snuggling her head more firmly into her forelegs. The old queen was nearly bronze with age.
Beside her, on the edge of the stone platform that was the dragon’s couch, Leri sat on a heap of pillows, her body swathed in thick woven rugs. Leri said she slept beside Holth as much for the warmth the dragon had stored up in her from so much sunning over so many Turns as to save herself the bother of moving. The last few Turns, Leri’s joints rebelled against too much use. Repeatedly Moreta and Master Capiam had urged the woman to take up the standing invitation to remove to the south to Ista Weyr. Leri adamantly refused, declaring that she wasn’t a tunnel snake to change her skin: She’d been bom in Fort Weyr and intended to live out her Turn with those few old friends who remained, and in her own familiar quarters.
“Hear you enjoyed yourself past the first watch,” Leri said. She raised her eyebrows questioningly. “Was that why Sh’gall was berating you?”
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“He wasn’t berating. He was bemoaning. An epidemic’s loose on Pern.”
Concern wiped the amusement from Leri’s face. “What? We’ve never had an epidemic on Pern. Not that I ever heard about. Nor read either.”
Her movement restricted by her joint ailment, Leri kept the Weyr’s records to allow Moreta more time for her nursing. Leri often browsed through the older Records, for “the gossip,” she said.
“Shards! I’d hoped you’d read something somewhere. Something encouraging! Sh’gall’s in a rare taking and this time with due cause.”
“Perhaps I haven’t read far enough back for exciting things like epidemics.” Leri tossed Moreta a pillow from her pile and pointed imperiously at the small wooden stool set aside for visitors. “We’re a healthy lot, by and large. Tend to break a lot of bones, Threadscores, occasional fevers, but nothing on a continent-wide scale. What sort of disease is it?”
“Master Capiam has not yet identified it.”