Not sweatroot, Moreta was thinking, to bring a fever out of a body. Featherfem to reduce it. Aconite to ease the heart? That bad a fever. And fellis juice for aches. Sh’gall had not reported aches in
80 Moreta: Dragonlady of Pern
Capiam’s symptoms. She wished she’d had a chance to talk to Berchar. Maybe she should see if K’lon was awake.
He sleeps, Oriith said. You should sleep awhile.
Moreta did feel weary now that the stimulus provided by Sh’gall’s startling announcement had worn off. What had begun as’a mist was now an impenetrable fog. She could get lost trying to find the infirmary.
You can always find me, Orhth assured her. Turn slightly to your left and all you’ll have to do is walk straight toward me. I’ll have you back in the weyr safely.
“I’ll just have a few hours’ sleep,” Moreta said. She needed the rest that had been interrupted by Sh’gall’s precipitous entry. She’d done what she could for now, and she’d check on her medicines before she went up the stairs to her weyr. She made the slight left turn.
Now just walk straight, Oriith advised her.
That was far easier for the dragon to say than for Moreta to do. In a few steps she couldn’t even distinguish the bright yellow light from the Lower Caverns; then Orlith’s mental touch steadied her and she walked on confidently, the mist swirling in behind her and pushing away before each time she raised a knee.
K’lon had recovered; her mind dwelled on that thought. Even if holders died, K’lon the dragonrider had survived. Sh’gall had been very tired, hadn’t slept when he burst in on her, perhaps he had not got all his facts straight. No, S’peren had said something about illness. Fall was tomorrow and she’d had such a good day, with the exception of the runnerbeast’s collapse.
Don’t fret so, Oriith advised. You have done all you can with so few people awake to tell. There is sure to be something in the Records. Len will find it.
“It’s the fog, silly. It’s depressing. I feel as if I’m moving nowhere forever.”
You are near me now. You are almost at the steps.
And soon enough for Moreta to be wary. She kicked the bottom step with her right foot. Behind her the mist surged. She found the wall with one hand and then the frame to the storeroom. The tumblers of the lock were so old that Moreta often wondered why they bothered to use it. When the Pass was over, she’d speak to one of the mastersmiths. Now she didn’t even need light for there was a click as
Moreta: Dragonlady of Pern 81
the tumblers fell into place. She heaved at the massive door to start it swinging on its hinges. Even the fog could not mask the compound odors released by its opening. Moreta reached up and nipped open the glowbasket, her senses pleasantly assailed and reassured by the pungent spicyness of stored herbs. As she moved farther into the room, she could identify the subtler fragrances and smells. She didn’t need to uncover the central light; she knew where the febrifuges were stored. To her eyes, the well-filled shelves and the bundles of featherfem drying on the rack looked more than adequate even if everyone in the Weyr were to come down with illness. She could very faintly hear the furtive slither of tunnel snakes. The pests had their own ways in and out of solid rock. She must get Nesso to put down more poison. Aconite was to the right: a square glass container full of the powdered root. Plenty of willow salic, and four large jars of fellis juice. Sh’gall had mentioned a cough. Moreta turned to those remedies: tussilago, comfrey, hyssop, thymus, ezob, borrago. More than enough. When the Ancients had made the Crossing, they had brought with them all the medicinal herbs and trees with which they had eased illness and discomfort. Surely some would answer the problem of the new disease.
She walked back to the door, closed the glow, resting her hand a moment on the door frame, smooth from generations of hands resting just as she did. Generations! Yes, generations that had survived all kinds of bizarre happenings and unusual illnesses, and would survive this one!