J’trel and Munori to precede her.
A fire-lizard’s chirp challenged them as they entered.
“They’re friends, Garth,” Lorana called out.
“You’ve two!” J’trel exclaimed as he caught sight of the beautiful gold
fire-lizard posting guard over the injured brown.
“I tried to get Coriel . . .” Lorana began defensively.
“How many times do we have to tell you that you’ve nothing to apologize
for?” Munori asked in exasperation. She explained to the dragonrider,
“Lorana was watching the eggs for my daughter when they hatched and,
well . . .”
The brown fire-lizard gave a plaintive sound. Seeing that his wing was
splinted and immobilized, J’trel began crooning reassurances.
“There, lad,” he said. “Let’s have a look at you.” He moved closer, but
stopped when the little queen gave him a haughty and challenging look.
“Talith, could you—?” J’trel said aloud to his dragon.
The gold gave a startled squawk as the dragon spoke to her. Then, with a
very dignified air, she moved away from her injured friend.
“I’ve never seen the like,” J’trel said admiringly, examining the splint. “A
break like this . . .”
“I did my best,” Lorana said.
“You did the best I’ve ever seen,” he told her. “Our Weyr healer could take
lessons from you.”
Gently he spread the wing, examined the splint, and then returned the wing
to its original position. “How long ago did this occur?”
“About a sevenday,” Lady Munori told him. “When we first came upon the
three of them, we thought we’d lost them all, father, daughter, fire-lizard. But
then that one—” She pointed at the gold. “—started squawking at us, and
we realized that her Lorana was still alive.”
“Will the wing heal?” Lorana asked, worried that she might have
condemned her fire-lizard to a fate worse than death.
“The bones are aligned properly,” J’trel judged. “And he seems well-fed,”
he added, with a grin at the brown’s bulging stomach. “I’d say that his
chances are good.” Privately, though, he wasn’t so sure.
“Is there anything else I should do?” Lorana asked. “And when will it be
safe for him to fly again?”
J’trel pursed his lips thoughtfully. Something in the girl’s demeanor, in her
worry and her determination, sparked his compassion.
“Why don’t you come with me and we’ll take him someplace safe and warm
where he can rest until his wing is healed,” he suggested.
Lorana’s eyes grew round with surprise.
“But wouldn’t the dragons at the Weyr—”
“I wasn’t thinking of the Weyr, lass,” J’trel interrupted. “I know a very nice
warm place where dragons—and fire-lizards—can curl up and rest all day
long.” He wagged a finger toward the brown fire-lizard. “I think the best thing
we can do is encourage this one to rest and
not
to fly until his wing is
healed.”
Lady Munori beamed at Lorana. “You can’t go wrong with an offer like that.”
Lorana smiled at the dragonrider, a smile that lit her face. “Thank you!”
It took a month of careful attention for Grenn’s wing to heal in the warmth of
a southern sun. During that time, J’trel was pleased to provide Lorana with
pencil and paper to sketch upon—and amazed when he saw the results.
They had been together in the sunny warmth for two sevendays before
Lorana really opened up to the old dragonrider. It happened the evening
after J’trel had announced that he was certain Grenn’s wing would heal.
Lorana had just finished sketching the splint design she’d put on Grenn and
started a new page. J’trel hadn’t been paying attention until he heard her
stifle a sob. Looking over, he saw that she was drawing a face.
“Is that your father?” he asked. He had guessed that, as soon as she knew
her fire-lizard was safe, Lorana would allow herself to grieve.
Lorana nodded. Haltingly, with J’trel’s gentle questioning, she told him her
story.
Lorana had been helping her father since she could toddle; indeed, since
the Plague took the rest of her family—mother, brother, and sister—she
had been his only helper.
She recounted huddling amongst the cold bodies while her father stood in
the doorway shielding them from the outraged holders who feared his
roaming ways had brought the Plague with him. It was only when they
discovered that nearly all the bodies beyond him had gone cold that they
relented.
Lorana had used all her wits—particularly her skill at drawing—to bring her
distraught father out of the despair that overtook him after that fateful day.
Since then, Sannel had used her ability in drawing, tasking her with
registering all the marks and conformations of their various breedings, and
taking her everywhere he went. When he died, she had been devastated.
When J’trel looked over Grenn that evening by the campfire, he was very
pleased to be able to give Lorana some good news. “I think we should try
to see if he can fly tomorrow morning,” he announced. “When the air is
cold.”
“Because the air is heavier then, right?” Lorana asked.
“Exactly,” he agreed. “And, if he’s all right, I’ll take you back to the Weyr
with me.”
Lorana’s face fell.
J’trel gave her an inquiring look.
“I don’t know if I belong there,” Lorana admitted. When J’trel started to
protest, she held up a restraining hand. “I don’t know
where
I belong.”
J’trel bit back a quick response. He gave her a long glance and nodded
slowly.
“I think I see,” he said at last. “In fact, I feel somewhat the same myself.”
“You do?” Lorana asked, taken aback.
“Not about you,” he added hastily, pointing a finger toward his chest. “About
myself.”
Lorana was surprised.
J’trel let out a long, slow sigh. “I’m old,” he said at last. “I can’t say that I’ll
be any credit when Thread falls again. And I’m tired.”
“Tired?”
“Tired of hurting,” J’trel admitted. “Tired of the pain, tired of memories, tired
of not being able to move the way I used to, tired of making compromises,
tired of the looks the youngsters give me—looks
I
used to give old people.
“It was different with K’nad,” he continued softly, almost to himself. “Then I
had someone to share with. We would groan when our joints hurt and laugh
about it together.”
He shook his head sadly. “I hadn’t planned on anything beyond saying
good-bye to K’nad’s kin,” he admitted. “And then I met you.”
Lorana shook her head, trying to think of something to say.
J’trel waved her unvoiced objections aside. “I’m not complaining,” he
assured her. “In fact, I’m glad to have met you.” He grinned at her. “I’ve
never met a woman more fit to lead a Weyr.”
“Lead a Weyr?” Lorana repeated, aghast. “Weyrwoman? Me? No,
no—I—”
“You’ve more talent than I’ve ever seen,” J’trel told her. “Half the Istan
riders of the past thirty Turns were searched by me and Talith.”
He smiled briefly in pride. “And you can talk to any dragon!” he exclaimed.
Lorana crinkled her forehead in confusion. “What makes you say that?” she
asked. “I’ve only talked with Talith.”
“While it’s true that a dragon can talk to anyone he chooses, only riders
bonded to a dragon can address one—and usually only their own. No rider
can talk to another dragon unless he can hear
all
dragons. Do you know
how few can do that?”
Lorana could only shake her head.
“Torene is the only one I can think of,” J’trel said. “And I don’t think she had
your way with them. It’s more like you
feel
them than talk to them.”
“You don’t?” Lorana asked in surprise. She looked out to Talith and smiled
fondly at the blue. “I’m sorry, I—”
“Lass, when are you going to stop apologizing for your gifts?” J’trel
interrupted her gently.
“It’s just—it’s just—” Lorana couldn’t continue.
“I see,” J’trel said to stop her from tearing herself apart. He grimaced. He
had seen this behavior in many of the survivors of the Plague.
The Plague had come up suddenly twelve Turns earlier. Some said it had
started at Nerat Tip, others said Benden Hold, still others said Bay Head.
Wherever it had started, it had spread quickly, if sporadically, across all of
Pern. While the Holds of Benden Weyr—Bitra, Lemos, and Benden—were
hardest hit, no hold from southeasternmost Nerat Tip to northwesternmost
Tillek Hold had been spared.
In less than six months the Plague had passed, leaving grieving holders
and crafters to recover—and wonder why the dragonriders hadn’t helped
out sooner. Help from the Weyrs had come, but only when the worst of the
Plague had passed. J’trel knew why: He’d heard from his Wingleader,
J’lantir, of the bitter arguments amongst the Weyrleaders over whether to
aid the holders or preserve their own numbers to fight the Thread that was
due to fall in the Turns to come.
In some places, one out of three holders had perished. In others, only the
very youngest and the very oldest had been affected. Some outlying holds
had been left empty, devoid of all life, and everyone had at least one close
relative or friend who had succumbed to the Plague.
When the Plague had passed and the dragonriders had come to help,
they’d found fields untended, men and women sitting listless and
vacant-eyed. The few healers who hadn’t themselves fallen to the Plague
explained that these people were in deep shock. It took days of comfort
and caring for the survivors to recover.
Everyone felt the same nagging loss, the same wonderment mixed with
shame at their survival—the sense that they were not worthy of their
existence.
“What would you like to do?” J’trel asked her.
Lorana shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “I just don’t think that I’m
ready . . .”
“Perhaps you aren’t,” J’trel agreed. “You could always go back to
Lemos—”
“No!” Lorana exclaimed. She took a deep breath, then continued more
calmly. “Please, Lemos holds too many sad memories—I don’t want to go
back there.”
“Very well,” J’trel said. He pursed his lips. “Perhaps we should look at your
skills . . . ?”
“Well, I guess I’m not bad with broken wings,” Lorana allowed, with a
glance toward the sleeping Grenn.
“And you can draw very well,” J’trel said. He yawned. “Perhaps we should
sleep on it.”
When the sun woke him the next morning, J’trel was struck with an
inspiration. He knew that Lorana would overcome her grief more easily if
she had something to engage her attention, and he recognized that her eye
and training put her in an excellent position to categorize the various
species on Pern.
“No one’s ever drawn all the different creatures of Pern,” he told her. “You
could be the first.”
Lorana was intrigued.
“But how can I get all over Pern?” she asked. “I couldn’t ask you to take me
everywhere.”
“I shall have to ponder that,” J’trel said, admitting, “at some point I’ll have to
get back to my own affairs.”
Then he stood up, slapping his legs with his hands. “But now, I think it’s
time to see whether our charge is ready for his first flight.”
It was only a few moments before the fire-lizard came back down
squawking loudly in complaint.
J’trel looked surprised. “I don’t understand.”
“I do,” Lorana said with a laugh. “We’ve been stuffing him so much, he’s
too fat to fly!”
“J’trel?” Lorana’s voice drew the dragonrider back from his reverie.
She handed her book to him nervously, pointing at her latest sketch. J’trel
could see that she’d done several in rapid succession.
“Is this Captain Tanner?” she asked, pointing to her latest effort.
“That’s him, indeed!” J’trel agreed enthusiastically. “Let’s go aboard, so you
can meet him.”
Aboard, J’trel led her to the stern of the ship. Lorana’s eyes darted all
about, taking in the activity and the sights with relish.
Suddenly they stopped.
Captain Tanner was opposite her. Next to J’trel was another seaman. Two
others stood on either side of Captain Tanner.
Lorana was surprised to realize that Captain Tanner was the youngest of
the men. She guessed that he was near her own age of twenty Turns. The
other seamen all looked older, sea-grizzled, and not nearly as wholesome,
wearing grubby clothes and frowns.
Captain Tanner’s honest brown eyes met hers in quiet appraisal.
“Here’s your ship’s healer, Captain Tanner,” J’trel said, “as promised.”
Tanner’s eyes widened as the words registered. He turned to Lorana, his
expression bleak. “My lord J’trel did not mention that you were a woman.”
“Show him your drawings,” J’trel said.
Numbly, Lorana extended her sketchbook to Captain Tanner. Tanner took
them politely and glanced down at the first drawing.
“Have you ever drawn a ship?”
“Just now from the docks,” she said. “If you turn the page . . .”
Captain Tanner did so and gasped in awe. The sailors near him drew closer
for a better view.
“I’m also interested in the fish and the birds at sea,” Lorana said.
“That’s why Lorana wants to journey with you on the
Wind Rider,
” J’trel put
in.
“And you’d draw them, as well?” one of the older men asked. Lorana