Anne Mccaffrey_ Dragonriders of Pern 20 (27 page)

“Better than nothing,” the second cook noted.

Neesa made a face, so Kindan asked, “What would be best, then?

“Fruit’d be best, but it’s the wrong time of year,” Neesa told him. She frowned. “There’s many that will recover only to starve from all this.”

“If they recover, I won’t let them starve,” Kindan swore.

Neesa nodded in fierce agreement. “As you say, healer.” She smiled bleakly at him. “We won’t fail you, that’s for sure.”

“I’m counting on it,” Kindan said, smiling at the older woman, too exhausted to be more than vaguely amused at his commanding tone.

“I’ll let you get back to work,” Neesa said. “Sallit or Fiona will be out with those rolls soon.”

“And
klah
?” Kindan asked hopefully.

Neesa shook her head dolefully. “We’ve no bark left worth brewing.”

“Make a list of what we need, then, and add
klah
to it,” Kindan told her.

“Might as well add the fruits of summer,” Neesa grumbled, but she turned toward her chopping table, slapping the sides of her apron in search of a pencil.

Nothing was better—in fact, with the beds refilled and Vaxoram and Kilti dead, things were clearly worse—but somehow Kindan’s spirits lifted. Perhaps it was the warm rolls delivered to those standing by a wide-eyed, solemn Fiona, perhaps it was her shy kiss when Kindan bent down to thank her, or maybe it was the masks keeping the air so much cleaner.

More people were up and about. As he saw them, Kindan was struck again by the uneasy knowledge that the plague killed those in their prime; the survivors were either much older or much younger.

Again and again, Kindan found himself returning to Koriana, checking her temperature, wiping her forehead, changing her soiled sheets, clearing her soiled mask.

“Time to rest,” Bemin told him later that evening, handing him another roll. Kindan bit into it but in the course of the day it had hardened and was tough to chew.

“Call me if you’ve need, my lord,” he said, checking once more on Koriana before lying down on the cot beside her.

“Where’s Fiona?” Bemin asked, looking nervously around the room.

“Probably asleep in the kitchen,” Kindan guessed. “She’s been helping the cooks.”

A faint smile crossed Bemin’s lips. “Her mother liked to help in the kitchens, too.”

Kindan drifted off to a fitful sleep.

Bemin woke him up for his shift and settled down into the same cot, too weary to talk.

Kindan checked on Koriana and was not surprised to see that she had clawed off her mask. Gently he pushed it back up over her mouth and nose. He stopped when he noticed that it was covered with a sticky, red substance. He removed it and brought the mask with him while he searched out Stennel who was helping another man carry yet another body to the grave site.

“Have you seen this?” Kindan asked, waving the mask at Stennel. Stennel recoiled and nearly dropped the body.

“Keep back,” Stennel cried. “I’ve seen that on every dead body we’ve taken since we put the masks on them.” He shook his head. “It’s like they’re coughing up their innards.”

Kindan took the mask through the kitchen, rinsed it in the sink in the necessary, and threw it into the boiling pot. He was surprised to see several others there.

“We’re reusing them,” Neesa told him when he asked back in the kitchen. “You said they’d help.”

“To keep the illness from spreading, yes,” Kindan said. “To save those too sick to—” he cut himself off abruptly.

“Whose mask was that?” Neesa asked. Her eyes went round as she added fearfully, “Not Lord Bemin’s?”

“No,” Kindan told her. “Koriana’s.”

“I’d heard you were sweet on her,” Neesa said, shaking her head sadly. “Seems you’ve time to say good-bye.”

Kindan nodded bleakly and hobbled out of the kitchen as fast as his weary legs would carry him back to Koriana. He found her sprawled beside her cot. Gently he lifted her back into it, ignoring her feeble movements.

“Help,” Koriana murmured deliriously, sitting up.

“I’m helping you,” Kindan said, brushing her lips with a cup of fellis juice. Koriana raised a hand and pushed it away.

“Me help,” Koriana said irritably. “No juice.”

“It’ll help you get better,” Kindan said.

“Hurt too much,” Koriana replied, her eyes opening painfully. “Too bright,” she murmured, closing her eyes again.

Kindan could barely see in the dim light.

“’M dying,” she said, wobbling in the cot. “Get Father.”

“No, drink this,” Kindan insisted, holding the cup back to her lips. This time her hand connected solidly and knocked the cup out of his.

“Get my father,” Koriana said, sounding quite lucid. “Must say good-bye.” She coughed, long and hard, and the force of it caused her to double up in pain. When she looked up again, the front of her dress was covered in bloodred sputum. “Don’t let him see me like this,” she pleaded.

Kindan grabbed the sheets and laid them around her, covering the stain.

“Must say good-bye,” she repeated.

Kindan got up and walked around her cot to the next one, where Bemin lay sleeping fitfully.

“My lord,” Kindan called softly, shaking Bemin’s shoulder. “My lord, your daughter needs to speak with you.” Tears started down his face, surprising him—he hadn’t thought he had any more.

“What?” Bemin startled out of sleep, eyes not quite focused on Kindan.

“Koriana,” Kindan replied, gesturing. “She wants to talk with you.”

“She needs rest,” Bemin said, laying his head back down on the pillow. “Take care of her.”

“Bemin, she’s not going to make it,” Kindan said, his tears flowing freely now.

The Lord Holder of Fort Hold sat up slowly, took in Kindan’s tears, and looked over to Koriana’s back. He got up and beckoned for Kindan to follow him as they went around to the other side of Koriana’s cot.

“I’m here,” Bemin said as he crouched down in front of Koriana. She was bent double again and when she rose, she looked abashed at the new red stain on the sheets.

“Father,” she said slowly, her words slurred with pain and mucus, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“I’m sorry I let you down,” she replied. Her eyes drifted longingly toward Kindan. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t do as you asked.”

“Don’t worry,” Bemin said soothingly. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

Another cough wracked Koriana and she threw her hands out at the same time that Bemin pulled himself and Kindan back, avoiding the bloodred mist that erupted from her mouth. It seemed to Kindan that the coughing went on forever and that Koriana was coughing her very lungs out. Finally, she let out a hideous, gurgling wheeze and collapsed, bent over double. With a harsh cry, Koriss leaped from the end of the bed and went
between.

“Koriana?” Kindan asked, crouching back down and examining her chest carefully for signs of breathing. He stayed there for a long time, until he was certain that Koriana was no longer in pain. But he knew he was only fooling himself, delaying the inevitable admission that Koriana was dead—only her death would have caused Koriss to go
between
like that, forever.

At some point, Kindan felt one of Bemin’s hands clasp his shoulder tremulously. Long after that, Kindan leaned forward to give Koriana one last kiss, only to have Bemin pull him back.

“To kiss her is to die,” the Lord Holder told him, his voice devoid of all emotion. “Even through your mask.”

Kindan nodded slowly, wishing at that moment that his heart would stop, it hurt so badly.

“Will you—” Bemin’s voice broke. “Will you help me carry her?”

Unable to speak, Kindan nodded and rose, gesturing for the Lord Holder to take her shoulders while he carried her feet.

As they walked slowly out of the Great Hall, Kindan looked on the face of the girl he loved and saw that Koriana was at peace.

Bemin wouldn’t sleep that night, nor did Kindan. They spent the hours walking fitfully among the sick, only paying attention when Jelir or one of the other holders called to them.

Sometime, maybe nearer morning, Neesa came out of the kitchen, bringing some old buns and water.

“We’re nearing the end of the coal,” she said to Bemin. The Lord Holder regarded her blankly for a moment, then looked away.

“And there’s only the one pitcher of fellis juice,” Neesa said to Kindan. Kindan shrugged in response. Neesa turned away, scuttling back to her kitchen.

Sometime later she returned with Fiona.

“She wants her father,” Neesa said, pushing the girl toward Bemin’s arms.

Automatically, Bemin reached out and cradled the small child against his chest, one hand supporting her bottom, the other her shoulders. Slowly, Bemin started shaking. Kindan thought for a moment that the Lord Holder was trying to lull his daughter back to sleep, but then realized that the motion was wrong—Bemin was shaking noiselessly with grief. Kindan circled behind him and reached up, soothingly rubbing the older man’s shoulders with his hands.

“We can’t survive,” Bemin murmured over his daughter’s head. “We’re all going to die.”

Neesa gasped in fright and fled.

“No, my lord, we’re not,” Kindan told him firmly. “We’ll survive. This Hold will survive, your daughter will survive.”

“How?” Bemin demanded, turning to face Kindan. “How do you know? Your word as a harper?”

“Yes,” Kindan said. “My word as a harper.” He responded without tone, without hope, only with the certainty that he would not let Fort’s Lord Holder, Koriana’s father, down. He would find a way to feed them, to save the survivors.

“May as well wish for fruit from the sky,” Bemin snapped irritably. “Your word’s no good.”

Fruit from the sky! Kindan’s eyes lit with hope.

“My word, my lord,” he repeated. “My word. You shall have your fruit from the sky.” He rushed out to the kitchen and beyond to the linen line, searching for his makeshift drum.

CHAPTER 13

Healer with your craft so sure

Sickness we can all endure

Use your skill and healing notions

To save us with your salves and potions.

H
ARPER
H
ALL

Y
ou look so thin, Conar,” Kelsa said as she looked up at the young holder boy gently dabbing at her head with a cloth. “Are you sure you’ve had enough to eat?”

Conar nodded.

“You eat this,” he told her, sitting her up and spooning some porridge into her mouth. He had scrounged it from the kitchen, unable to find anything else not moldy.

“But—”

“It’s only fair,” Conar replied, “you brought me back to health, now it’s my turn.”

Kelsa saw that it was useless to argue, especially as Conar placed the spoon on her tongue.

“It’s awful!” she groaned as she swallowed. Her throat was so raw from coughing that swallowing the porridge felt like swallowing hot coals. Now she knew how dragons must have felt with that old firestone. Conar—dragons sing his praise—had a cup of cool water to her lips in an instant. But the cool water was almost as much torment on her throat as the porridge.

“Another mouthful,” Conar said, filling another spoon. Kelsa twisted her head away rebelliously. Conar opened his mouth to utter another encouragement when they heard the sound of drums.

“Kindan?” Kelsa said in wonder. Conar nodded, listening.

“Fruit?” Kelsa muttered as the drum message beat out. “Where can we find fruit?”

“Did he say, ‘J’trel?’” Conar asked.

“He did,” Kelsa agreed. “Get him, tell him Kindan’s message.”

“He’s busy with Druri and the baby,” Conar said. The blue dragonrider had been working tirelessly with Jalenna’s children ever since she had succumbed to the plague four days earlier. Before that, it had been only the efforts of Jalenna, J’trel, and Conar that had kept the others alive. Kelsa didn’t know how many had died; Conar refused to tell her.

“Go get him, tell him it’s important,” Kelsa said, ignoring the pain of her tortured throat.

Conar scuttled off, moving more slowly than Kelsa liked. He looked thin, too. She wondered, had he been skimping on his meals?

Conar slowed down once he was out of the makeshift infirmary, stopping to gasp for breath and get rid of the spots that darted before his eyes. He hadn’t eaten in days. He was smaller than the rest, he told himself, he could do without for longer.

“J’trel, Kindan sent a message,” Conar said as he caught sight of the blue rider.

J’trel looked up at him, his face gaunt and cheeks full of days-old beard.

“He said for you to get fruit,” Conar told him.

“Fruit?” J’trel repeated wearily. “Was that all?”

“Fresh fruit,” Conar said, remembering the message and wishing he was much better with drums.

“There’s no fruit this time of year,” J’trel exclaimed, shaking his head angrily.

Conar screwed up his face, trying to remember the exact message. “He said: ‘J’trel, fresh fruit, south of Ista.’”

“South of—?” J’trel repeated, dumbfounded. “There’s no land south of—” He stopped suddenly, his eyes going wide. He looked outward, beyond the room to the meadow where his blue dragon rested. “Talith…”

“What is it, J’lantir?” C’rion, Ista’s Weyrleader, asked as the bronze rider caught up with him. C’rion had returned from a patrol over the infected Holds and was not happy. He had followed M’tal’s suggestion because it made too much sense—if the weyrfolk were as decimated by the plague as the holders, the Weyrs would be incapable of fighting Thread when it came. But that didn’t stop C’rion’s stomach from knotting every time he flew over empty fields or saw people waving helplessly at him from below.

They did what they could, guiding unwatched herdbeasts to makeshift corrals, dropping the masks that M’tal had mentioned, but it was too little and too late.

C’rion was itching to do something.

“I just had word from J’trel,” J’lantir said.

“How is the Harper Hall?”

“He didn’t say,” J’lantir replied. “He said that the holders need fruit, fresh fruit—”

“It’s the middle of winter, there’s none to be had,” C’rion objected.

“
South of Ista,
” J’lantir finished.

“South?” C’rion repeated his eyes going wide. “The Southern Continent?”

“The seasons would be reversed there, it’s summer,” J’lantir observed.

“Then there’s no hope there, either, the fruit wouldn’t be ripe,” C’rion objected.

“Do you remember Turns back, before we met young Kindan and the watch-whers, how I once lost my wing for a sevenday?” J’lantir said.

C’rion nodded slowly, uncertain about the sudden change of topic.

“I think I know where they went,” J’lantir told him. “If not precisely
when
they went.”

“To feed all the holds—”

“We could drop the fruit, if we found the right sort, just as we’re dropping those masks,” J’lantir cut in quickly.

C’rion mulled the notion over only for an instant before he said briskly, “Do it.”

“You approve?”

“I was about to send a flight of dragons out to help, only I had not the slightest notion what we could do,” C’rion told him. “
Now,
there’s a chance.”

J’lantir smiled broadly and turned to go.

“J’lantir,” C’rion called after him. The bronze wingleader turned back. “Have your men pile the fruit by Red Butte, we’ll handle it from there.”

“How much?” J’lantir replied.

“All of it,” C’rion said. “I’ll let the other Weyrs know.” J’lantir’s brows rose in surprise. “You’re to get enough to feed all Pern.”

“For how long?”

“Until we tell you to stop,” C’rion replied, waving the bronze rider away. “Now go and get those miscreants.”

“I promised I’d work them like wherries,” J’lantir said with a smile. He shook his head in admiration, as he added, “And you know, they never told me what they did.”

“You still have to see if you’re right,” C’rion told him.

“Oh, no,” J’lantir called back, crossing the Bowl toward his Lolanth and jumping up onto the bronze’s neck. “I know I’m right, Talith seemed too smug.”

And with that, the bronze dragon and rider leaped into the air above the Bowl. Lolanth stroked his wings once, twice, and was gone
between.

J’lantir timed his jump carefully, arriving just at the last time he’d seen his wing before they’d disappeared so abruptly after five Turns ago. He’d been off, he recalled, talking with C’rion about something, probably complaining once more about the firestone. He snorted at the memory.

“J’lantir!” J’trel called as Lolanth landed in the Bowl.

“J’trel, get the rest of the wing and meet me at Red Butte immediately,” J’lantir ordered briskly.

“But—”

“No time, just do it,” J’lantir replied, urging Lolanth airborne once more. In an instant he was
between,
hovering over the strange landmark that had been a rendezvous for hundreds of Turns and, hopefully, would be for hundreds more to come.

The wing arrived almost immediately after he did.

“J’lantir,” V’sog called as he dismounted, “when J’trel said to meet you here, I thought he was joking.”

“Weren’t you meeting with C’rion?” J’lian asked. “I thought I just saw you—”

“You did,” J’lantir interjected. He gestured for them to gather ’round. “Now listen up, I’ve come back in time—”

“Back in time!” V’sog exclaimed in surprise. “But dragons can’t—we’re not—”

“V’sog, listen up,” J’lantir bellowed. “I went back in time and brought you forward in time. You have to go to the Southern Continent, you have to find the best fruit, fruit that sick people can eat, and collect it all.”

“How much?” J’trel asked.

“Enough to feed all Pern,” J’lantir replied.

“For how long?” V’sog asked, looking at J’lantir anxiously.

“Until I tell you to stop,” J’lantir replied. “Bring it here. Bring it to this same spot one hour from now and keep bringing it.”

“But
—timing
it?” J’lian said, peering around nervously at the rest of the wing.

“Where will you be?” V’sog asked.

“I’ll be coordinating with the rest of the Weyrs,” J’lantir said. “We’ve got to distribute the fruit.”

“To whom?” V’sog demanded.

“I can’t tell you,” J’lantir replied. “When the right time comes, you’ll know.”

“And until then?” J’trel asked.

“Until then, I know nothing,” J’lantir told them. “And you’re not to tell me.”

“Time paradox,” V’sog guessed.

“Exactly,” J’lantir agreed. He looked at B’zim and L’cal. “I want you two to take charge.”

The two senior riders exchanged glances and then nodded in agreement.

“When you’re all done, I’ll know nothing,” J’lantir told them. “I’ll be very angry, but you’re to tell me nothing.”

“Tell you nothing?” J’lian asked, clearly confused. “Why?”

“Why are we doing all this, anyway?” K’nad demanded.

“Trust me,” J’lantir replied, catching each of their eyes in turn, “it’s worth it.”

“All right,” K’nad replied, “if you say so.”

“The Southern Continent!” J’lian exclaimed.

“Timing it!” J’trel added.

“Don’t get hurt,” J’lantir admonished them, then climbed back on his bronze dragon. “I’ll see you soon.”

And, leaving his wing behind, J’lantir and Lolanth vanished
between.
When he came out of
between
once more, the sun had moved an hour further into the sky and the top of the Butte was covered with nets full of fruit.

“Best fruit we could find,” B’zim called as Lolanth settled in the remaining clear spot. The brown rider tossed J’lantir a large redfruit. The bronze rider caught it deftly and sniffed it; its odor was tantalizing.

“You can eat it, seeds and all,” J’trel told him. “Even the rind.”

“Excellent!” J’lantir replied. A rustle of noise and wind behind him alerted him and he turned to see C’rion hovering nearby on bronze Nidanth. Surrounding him were the rest of the Weyr, less J’lantir’s wing. A moment later the sky darkened as riders from Benden, Fort, and High Reaches arrived.

“Attach parachutes to those and we’ll drop them directly,” M’tal called as he jumped off bronze Gaminth and strode over to J’lantir.