No great calculation was needed for Capiam to see the enormity of the task of producing the desirable immunity even for the vital few thousand dragonriders, the Lords Holder, and Mastercraftsmen, let alone the healers who must care for the ill and prepare and administer the vaccine.
The door swung before Desdra, who looked flustered for the first time that Capiam could remember. She carried a rush basket and closed the door with a deft hook of her foot.
“I have your requirements and I have found the glass syringes that Master Genjon blew for you. Three were broken, but I have boiled the remainder.”
Desdra carefully deposited the wicker basket by his bed. She pulled his bedside table to its customary place and, on it, she put the Jar of redwort in its strongest solution, a parcel of reeds, the leaf-bound needlethoms, a steaming steel tray that had covered the kettle in which he could see a small glass jar, a stopper, and the Genjon syringes. From her pocket, Desdra drew a length of stout, well-twisted cord. “There!”
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“That is not a two-liter jar.” “No, but you are not strong enough to be reduced by two liters of
blood. Half a liter is all you can lose. K’lon will be here soon
enough.” Desdra briskly scrubbed his arm with the redwort then tied the
cord about his upper arm while he clenched his fist to raise the artery. It was ropy and blue beneath flesh that seemed too white to him. With tongs, she took the glass container from the boiled water. She opened the packet of reeds, then the needlethoms, took one of each and fitted the needlethom to one end of the reed. “I know the technique but I haven’t done this often.” “You’ll have to! My hand shakes!”
Desdra pressed her lips in a firm line, dipped her fingers in redwort, put the glass container on the floor by his bed, tilted the reed end into it, and picked up the needlethom. The tip of a needlethom is so fine that the tiny opening in the point is almost invisible. Desdra punctured his skin and, with only a little force, entered the engorged vein then flipped loose the tourniquet. Capiam closed his eyes against the slight dizziness he felt when his blood pressure lowered as the blood began to flow through the needlethom and down the reed into the container. When the spell had passed, he opened his eyes and was objectively fascinated by his blood dripping into the glass. He pumped his fist and the drip increased to a thin flow. In a curious, detached way, he seemed to feel the fluid leaving his body, being gathered from his other limbs, even from his torso, that the draining was a totally corporeal affair, not just from the fluid in one artery. He really could feel his heart beating more strongly, accommodating the flow. But that was absurd. He was beginning to feel a trifle nauseated when Desdra’s fingers pressed a redwort-stained swab over the needlethom, then removed it with a deft
tweak. “That is quite enough, Master Capiam. Almost three quarters of a
liter. You’ve gone white. Here. Press hard and hold. Drink the spirits.” She placed the drink in his left hand and he automatically held the
compress with his right. The powerful spirit seemed to take up the space left by the release of his blood. But that was a highly fanciful notion for a healer who knew very well the route taken by anything
ingested.
Moreta: Dragonlady of Pern 173
“Now what do we do?” she asked, holding up the closed glass jar of his blood.
“That top firmly screwed on?” And when she demonstrated that it was: “Then wrap the cord tightly around the neck and knot it firmly. Good. Hand it here.”
“What do you think you’re going to do now?” Her face was stern and her gaze stubborn. For a woman who had often preached detachment, she was suddenly very intense.
“Gallardy says that centrifugal force, that is, whirling the jar around, will separate the components of the blood and produce the useful serum.”
“Very well.” Desdra stood back from the bed, made sure she had sufficient clear space to accomplish the operation, and began to swing the jar around her head.