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, panick-ing 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, He-lith, 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 diaporetic, judicious use of aconite for palpitations, willowsalic 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
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Moreta: Dragonlady of Pern
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 wcyrtblk 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 en-ergy, 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 down-fall
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.”