Nerilka's Story (2 page)

Suriana had known my situation and my disappointments and had repeatedly expressed the hope that she could talk Lord Leef into permitting me to make an extended visit with her at Ruatha. She was certain that once she was pregnant, he would accede to her request. But Suriana had died, and even that glimmer of hope had been dashed, even as she had been dashed to the ground by the untrained young runner she had been riding. Racing, more likely, I often thought in my bitterest moods. She had confided in me that Alessan had managed to breed some startlingly agile runners when his father had ordered him to produce a sturdier, multipurpose strain. I had only the details that were made public: Suriana had broken her back while riding, and had died without regaining consciousness despite all that the hastily summoned Masterhealer could do. Master Capiam, who was generally willing to discuss medical matters with me, since he knew me to be as competent as my rank allowed me to be, had been markedly silent about the tragedy.

Chapter II

3.11.43–1541

H
EARTBREAKINGLY ENOUGH, THE
new Ruathan tragedy began at precisely the same hour in which I had learned of Suriana’s death, as the Harper Hall’s drum tower vibrated with Capiam’s quarantine command. I was measuring spices for the kitchen warder, and only the sternest control kept my hand from trembling and spilling the expensive spice. Exerting the same control, for the warder did not understand drum code and I wished an edible dinner that night, I finished measuring his requirements, carefully closed the jar, placed it exactly in its habitual spot, and locked the cabinet. The drum message was being repeated for emphasis by the time I had reached the upper level of the Hold proper, but the second message differed in no particular from the first. I could hear Campen bellowing for explanations from his office as I left the Hold.

Fortunately, so many other people were racing toward the Harper Hall that my indecorous haste went unnoticed. The courtyard of the Hall was filled with anxious apprentices and journeymen, harper and healer. There has always been excellent discipline in the two Crafts, so there was no panic, though some anxiety was evident and many questions circulated.

Yes, there had been calls for Master Capiam from more than just Keroon Beasthold and Igen Sea Hold. Telgar had asked for his presence and counsel; it was rumored he had been taken dragonback to Ista Gather and from there to South Boll at Lord Ratoshigan’s express orders, conveyed by no less than Sh’gall, the Fort Weyrleader, on bronze Kadith.

The moment Master Fortine, accompanied by Journeywoman Desdra of the Healer Hall and Masters Brace and Dunegrine of the Harper Hall, appeared on the broad stairs, all fell silent.

“You are naturally anxious about the drum message,” Master Fortine began, clearing his throat ostentatiously. He is a good theoretical healer, but has none of the ease that marks the Masterhealer Capiam. Master Fortine raised his voice to an unnecessarily loud, high pitch. “You must realize that Master Capiam would not invoke such emergency procedures without due cause. Would all harpers or healers who attended either Gather present themselves immediately to Journeywoman Desdra in the Small Hall. I will address all healers immediately in the Main Hall, if you would be so kind as to assemble there. Master Brace . . .”

Master Brace stepped forward, adjusting his belt and clearing his own throat. “Master Tirone is from the Hall mediating that dispute in the mines. In accordance with custom, as Senior Master, I assume his authority in this crisis until he has returned to the Hall.”

“Hoping that Master Tirone is either caught in the quarantine or dies of the disease . . .” I heard someone mutter nearby. He was immediately shushed by his neighbors, so there would have been no point in my turning to catch out the dissident even if the matter had concerned me more acutely.

Before acceding to the rank of Masterharper, Tirone had once been the tutor to Lord Tolocamp’s children, so I knew the man well. He had his faults, but to listen to his rich mellow voice had always been a pleasure no matter what message his words were trying to implant in dull or uninterested minds. A man was never voted to be Master of his Crafthall unless he had more than a glorious baritone voice to recommend him to his fellow Masters. I have heard it said by the disaffected that the only time Tirone has lost a mediation was when he had laryngitis; otherwise, he talked his opponents into surrendering to his decisions.

Naturally the diplomatic Masterharper would take great pains not to offend the Fort Lord Holder despite Craft autonomy, so I had never witnessed that sort of pertinacity in Master Tirone.

What struck me as odd in this moment was that Master Brace should make such an announcement at all—and that Desdra and Fortine represented the healers. Where was Master Capiam? It was totally unlike him to delegate an invidious task. As harpers and healers began to file into the two assembly points, I slipped away from the Hall, not much wiser and with much to worry about.

My lady mother, my four sisters, and my father were now immured at Ruatha. Unworthily, I thought that was another reason why they ought to have taken me. My demise would have been no loss. And I could have been of considerable use as a nurse, really my only talent and mainly unused outside the family. I remonstrated with myself for such reflections and purposefully turned my steps to the lower level of the Hold, where the storerooms were situated.

If this disease had required quarantine, I could occupy myself profitably by checking over supplies. While the Healer Hall had viable stocks of most herbs and medicines, most Holds and Halls were expected to supply their own needs according to their individual requirements. But this situation might require uncommon herbal remedies not normally laid by in sufficient quantity. Campen spotted me, however, and came charging over, huffing as he did when agitated.

“Rill, what’s abroad? Did I hear quarantine? Does that mean Father is stuck at Ruatha? What do we do now?” He recalled that if he was acting Lord Holder, he ought not to be requesting advice from any lesser entities, especially his sister. He cleared his throat noisily and poked his chest forward, assuming a stern expression that I found ludicrous. “Have we sufficient fresh herbs for our people?”

“Indeed we do.”

“Don’t be flippant, Rill. Not at a time like this.” He frowned ponderously at me.

“I’m on my way to assess the situation, brother, but I can say without fear of contradiction that our supplies will prove more than adequate for the present emergency.”

“Very good, but be sure to give me a written report of supplies on hand.” He patted my shoulder as he would his favorite canine and bustled off, huffing as he went. To my jaundiced eye, he appeared unsure as to what he should be doing in this catastrophe.

Sometimes I am appalled at the waste in our storerooms. In spring, summer, and autumn, we gather, preserve, salt, dry, pickle, and store more food than ever Fort Hold could need. Each Turn, despite Mother’s conscientious efforts, the oldest is not used first, and gradually the backlog grows. The tunnel snakes and insects take care of that in the darker recesses of the supply caves. We girls often make judicious withdrawals to be smuggled out to needy families, as neither Father nor Mother condone charity, even when the harvests have failed through no fault of the holder. Father and Mother are always saying that it is their ancient duty to supply the entire Hold in time of crisis, but somehow they have never defined “crisis.” And we keep increasing the unused and unusable stores.

Of course herbs, properly dried and stored, keep their efficacy for many Turns. The shelves of neat bags and bound stalks, the jars of seeds and salves bulged. Sweatroot, featherfern, all the febrifuges that had been traditional remedies since Records began. Comfrey, aconite, thymus, hissop, ezob: I touched each in turn, knowing we had it in such quantities that Fort Hold could treat every one of the nearly ten thousand inhabitants if necessary. Fellis had been a bumper crop this Turn. Had the land known its future needs? Aconite, too, was in generous supply.

Much relieved by such husbandry, I was about to quit the storeroom when I saw the shelves on which the Hold’s medicinal Records were kept—the recipes for compound mixtures and preparations as well as the notations of whichever person dispensed herb, drug, and tonic.

I opened the glowbasket above the reading table and wrestled with the stack to remove the oldest of the Records from the bottom shelf. Perhaps this illness had occurred before in the many long Turns since the Crossing. It was dusty, and pieces of the cover flaked away in my hand. If Mother’s assiduous housekeeping had not required it to be dusted off, it was unlikely she would notice the damage. The tome stank with antiquity as I opened it, carefully, not wishing to desecrate it any more than absolutely necessary. I ought to have saved myself the trouble—the ink had faded, leaving only linear splotches on the hide that looked like freckles. I wondered why we bothered to store them anymore. But I could just imagine Mother’s reaction if I suggested disposing of these ancestral artifacts.

I compromised by going back to the tome still legibly labeled
Fifth Pass.

What boring diarists were my ancestors! I was heartily relieved when Sim came to tell me that the head cook earnestly desired my presence. Well, with Mother away, he was likely to apply to me. I held Sim, who was, in any case, not at all eager to return to his labors in the scullery, and quickly penned a note to Journeywoman Desdra, suggesting that Fort Hold’s apothecary supplies were at her disposal. I would follow that up as soon as I could, for I doubted that I would be permitted such generosity once Mother had returned to take over the storeroom keys.

I think that was the first moment in which it occurred to me that Lady Pendra would be as vulnerable to this disease as anyone else. A pang of fear or anxiety paralyzed my hand over the script until Sim’s throat-clearing roused me. I smiled reassuringly at him. Sim didn’t need to be burdened with my silly fears.

“Take this to the Healer Hall. Give it into the hand of Journeywoman Desdra only! Understand? Do not just hand it over to the nearest body in healer colors.”

Sim bobbed his head up and down, smiling his vapid smile and murmuring reassurances.

I dealt with the cook, who had just been informed by my brother to prepare for an unspecified quantity of guests. He was at a loss to know what to do, as the evening meal was already being prepared.

“Soup, of course—one of your excellent hearty meat soups, Felim, and a dozen or so of the wherries from the last hunt. They will have hung long enough to be used. Excellent as cold meat, the way you have with seasoning them. More roots, for they, too, can be reheated tastefully. And cheese. We’ve plenty of cheese.”

“For how many?” Felim was too conscientious for his own good. He had been so often chastised by my mother for “wastefulness” that his only defense was showing her the records of how many ate at which meal and what was served them.

“I’ll discover that, Felim.”

Campen, it appeared, was certain that every nearby holder would be coming to ask his advice about the present emergency, and thus Fort Hold must be prepared to feast the multitude. But the drum message had unequivocably specified a quarantine situation, and I pointed out that the holders, no matter how worried, would be unlikely to disobey that stricture. Those in the home farms might come, since, in effect, they considered themselves part of the main Hold. I forebore to mention that most of these knew a good deal more about managing themselves than did Campen. Still I did not wish to depress him.

I returned to Felim and advised him to increase the portions only by a quarter but to make up additional klah, get a new cheese and more biscuits. Checking the wine stores, I saw there was sufficient in the tuns already broached.

I then went up to the dayroom on the second story, the aunts and other dependents were already aware of the drum reports and highly agitated. I organized them to ready what empty rooms remained into infirmaries. Stuffing clean cases with straw for makeshift pallets would not be too arduous, and they’d feel better for doing something. I caught Uncle Munchaun’s eye and we managed to get out into the corridor without being followed.

Munchaun was the oldest of my father’s living brothers and my favorite among the pensioners. Until he had been injured in a climbing fall, he had led all hunting parties. He had such great understanding of human frailties, such humor, such humility that I always wondered how my father could have been chosen to Hold, when Munchaun was so much the better human being.

“I saw you coming from the Hall. What’s the verdict?”

“Capiam is now a victim of the disease and Desdra tells the healers to treat the symptoms.”

He raised his finely curved eyebrows, a wry grin on his face. “So they don’t know what they’re dealing with, eh?” When I shook my head, he nodded. “I’ll start looking through the Records. They must be good for something besides keeping us elderly supernumeraries occupied.”

I wanted to deny his self-deprecation, but he smiled knowingly at me and my protestation would have fallen on deaf ears.

That evening, more of the minor holders came than I had anticipated, as well as all the Crafthall Masters, excepting the Harper and Healer Halls, of course. We had ample for them, and they talked well into the night, discussing contingencies and how to shift supplies from hold to hold without breaking the quarantine.

I poured a last round of klah, though I think only Campen drank any, and retired to my room, where I read the old Record as long as I could keep my eyes open.

Chapter III

3.12.43

W
HEN
I
HEARD
the drums, I jumped out of my bed and ran into the corridor where I could distinguish their pulse. The message was terrifying. Before its echoes had died, another came in from the south: Ratoshigan demanding assistance from the Healer Hall. It was very early indeed for the drums to be speaking. I left my door open as I hastily donned a work tunic and trousers and belted on the heavy ring of Hold keys. I put on boots, too, for the soft house shoes were no protection against the cold stone floors of the lower level, or the roads without.

The drums banged on with more casualties reported at Telgar, Ista, Igen, and South Boll, and more requests for reassurance from distant Holds and Healer Halls. There were volunteers, which was heartening, and offers of assistance from Benden, Lemos, Bitra, Tillek, and High Reaches, places so far untouched by the catastrophe. I found that encouraging, and worthy of the spirit of Pern.

I was halfway across the Field when the first of the coded reports came in from Telgar Weyr: there were dead riders and, because of their deaths, dragon suicides. Passing field workers on their way to the beastholds, I carefully controlled my agitation, nodding and smiling but hastening so that no one would be brash enough to stop me. Or perhaps they did not wish to learn more bad news on top of yesterday’s. Hard on the echoes of Telgar’s grim news, Ista began citing its report.

Why I had thought that dragonriders would be immune from this disease, I do not know, except that they seemed so invulnerable astride their great beasts, seemingly untouched by the ravages of Thread—though I knew well enough that dragons and riders were often badly scored—and impervious to other minor ailments and anxieties that were visited on lesser folk. Then I recalled that dragonriders often flitted from one Gather to another, and there had been two Gathers on the same day, Ista as well as Ruatha, to lure them from their mountain homes. Two—and plague well advanced in both! Yet Ista was halfway east. How could the disease spring up so quickly in two so distant places?

I hurried on and entered the Harper Hall Court. Everyone here was already up, half of them holding runnerbeasts, saddled and burdened for long trips, their tack in healer colors. Above us the drums continued their grim beatings. From Healer Hall to Hold and Weyr, the messages were sent by Master Fortine. Where then was Master Capiam?

Desdra swung down the shallow steps of the Hall, saddlebags draped on each shoulder and weighing down her hands. Behind her, two more apprentices as laden as she hurried by. The woman looked as if she had not slept, and her face, usually so bland and composed, was etched with strain and impatience, and heavy with anxiety. I edged around the court, hoping to converge on her path as she began to distribute the saddlebags to the mounted men and women.

“No, no change,” I heard her say to a journeyman. “The disease must run its course with Capiam as with anyone else. Use these remedies as symptoms warrant. That is the only advice I have now. Listen to the drums. We’ll use the emergency codes. Do not send open messages at any time.”

She stepped back as the healers urged their runners out of the court, and I had a chance to approach her.

“Journeywoman Desdra.”

She swung toward me, not identifying me even as one of the Fort Horde.

“I am Nerilka. If the Hall’s supplies are drained by the demand, please come to me—” I emphasized that point by touching hand to chest “—for we’ve enough to physic half the planet”

“Now, there is no need for concern, Lady Nerilka,” she began, mustering a reassuring expression.

“Nonsense.” I spoke more sharply than I intended, and then she did look at me and see me. “I know every drum code but the Masterharper’s, and can guess at that. He’s apparently on the mountain road home.” I had her full attention now. “When you need more supplies, ask for me at the Hold. Or if you need another nurse . . .”

Someone called urgently to her, and with a quick nod of apology to me, she walked off. Then the eastern drums began a fresh dispatch of bad news from Keroon. I walked back with the knowledge that hundreds were dying in that tragic Hold, and that four smaller mountain holds did not answer their drumroll.

I was halfway across the Field when I heard the unmistakable sound of a dragon trumpeting. A chill hand clutched at my innards. What could a dragon be doing at Fort Hold—now? I ran back to the Hall. The massive Hold door was wide open, and Campen stood on the top step, his arms half-raised in astonished disbelief. A small group of anxious Crafthall Masters and two of the nearer minor holders were grouped below him on the steps; all now turned away from Campen and toward the blue dragon who dominated the courtyard. I remember thinking that the dragon was a trifle off-color. Then all else was forgotton as, incredulous, I watched my father striding up the steps, shoving holder and Craftmaster aside.

“There is a quarantine! There is death stalking the land. Did you not hear the message? Are you all deaf that you gather in such numbers? Out! Out! To your homes! Do not quit them for any reasons! Out! Out!”

He shoved the nearest holder down the steps, toward the runnerbeasts which the drudges were only just leading to the stablehold. Two Craftmasters stumbled into each other in order to avoid his flailing arms.

In moments, the courtyard was clear of its visitors, the dust of the precipitous departures already settling on the road.

The blue dragon trumpeted again, adding his own impetus to the scrambling retreat of holder and Master. Then he leapt skyward, going
between
before he had cleared the Harper Hall tower.

Father turned on us all, for my brothers had come to investigate the unexpected arrival of a dragon.

“Have you run mad to assemble folk? Did none of you pay heed to Capiam’s warning? They’re dying like flies at Ruatha!”

“Then why are you here, sir?” my rather stupid brother Campen had the gall to ask.

“What did you say?” Father drew himself up like a dragon about to flame, and even Campen drew back from the contained fury in his stance. How Campen escaped a clout I did not then understand.

“But—but—but Capiam said quarantine . . .”

Father tilted his handsome head up, and extended his arms, palms up and outward, to fend off a proximity none of us was at all likely to make.

“I am in quarantine from any of you as of this moment. I shall immure myself in my quarters, and none of you,” he said, shaking his heavy forefinger at us, “shall come near me until—” he paused dramatically “—that period is over and I know myself to be clean.”

“Is the disease infectious? How contagious is it?” I heard myself asking, because it was important for us to establish that.

“Either way I shall not jeopardize my family.” His expression was so noble I nearly laughed.

Nor did any of my siblings dare ask further about our mother and sisters.

“All messages are to be slipped under my door. Food will be left in the hall. That is all.”

With that, he motioned us aside and stomped into the Hold. We could follow his progress across the Hall and to the stairs by the angry pounding of his boots on the flagstones. Then a sort of muffled sob broke the spell.

“What of Mother?” Mostar asked, his eyes wide with anxiety.

“What of Mother indeed!” I said. “Well, let’s not stand here, making a spectacle of ourselves.” I cocked my head toward the roadway where small groups of cotholders had gathered, attracted first by the dragon’s arrival and then our tableau on the Hold steps.

Of one accord we retired into the Hall. I was not the only one to glance up at the now closed door to the first level.

“It isn’t fair,” Campen began, sitting down heavily in the nearest chair. I knew that he meant Father’s early return.

“She’d know how to cure us,” Gallen said, fear in his eyes.

“So do I, for she trained me,” I said curtly, for I think I knew then that Mother would not return. And it was also important for the family not to panic or give any show of apprehension. “We’re a hardy lot, Gallen. You know that. You’ve never been sick in your life.”

“I had the spotted fever.”

“We all had that,” Mostar said derisively, but the rest of them began to relax.

“He oughtn’t to have broken quarantine, though,” Theskin said very thoughtfully. “It doesn’t set a good example. Alessan ought to have kept him at Ruatha.”

I wondered about that, too, although Father can be so overbearing that even Lords older than himself have given way to his wishes. I didn’t like to think that Alessan was ineffective, even if he had courteously deferred to Father’s wishes. A quarantine was a quarantine!

That night I fell easily into an exhausted sleep but, too restless to sleep well, I awoke very early again. It was so early, in fact, that none of the day staff was about his duties, and I picked up the note tucked under my father’s door. I nearly tore it up when I’d read the message. Oh, the stock of febrifuges he wanted, and the wine and food staples were understandable, but he instructed Campen to bring Anella, and “her family” as he put it, into the safety of the Hold. So he would leave my mother and sisters in danger at Ruatha yet ask his oldest son and heir to bring his mistress to safety? And the two children he had sired on her.

Oh, it was no scandal really. Mother had always ignored the matter. She’d had practice over the Turns, and indeed once I had overheard her say to one of the aunts that relief now and then from his attentions was welcome. But I didn’t like Anella. She simpered, she clung, and if Father couldn’t pretend interest in her, she was quite as happy on Mostar’s arm. Indeed, I think she hoped to be wed to my brother. I longed to tell her that Mostar had other ideas. Still, I wondered if her last son was my father’s issue or Mostar’s.

I chided myself for such snide thoughts. At least the child had a strong family resemblance. With my belt knife, I separated the slip of hide into its two messages and slid Campen’s portion under his door. I bore the discreet half down to the kitchen where sleepy drudges were folding up their pallets before starting their chores. My presence provoked tentative smiles and some apprehension, so I smiled reassurances and told the brightest of the lot what to put on Lord Tolocamp’s morning tray.

Campen met me in the Hall, distractedly waving his portion of our father’s orders. “What am I to do about this, Rill? I can hardly ride out of the Hold proper and bring her back in broad daylight.”

“Bring her in from the fire-heights. No one’ll be looking there today.”

“I don’t like it, Rill. I just don’t like it.”

“When have our likes or dislikes ever mattered, Campen?”

Anxious to get out of range of his querulous confusion, I went off to inspect the Nurseries on the southern side of the level. Here, at least, was an island of serenity—well, as serene as twenty-nine babes and toddlers can be. The girls were going about their routine tasks under the watchful gaze of Aunt Lucil and her assistants. With all the babble there, they would not have heard the drums clearly enough to be worried yet. Since the Nursery had its own small kitchen, I would have to remember to have them close off their section if Fort Hold did surrender to the disease. And I must also remember to have additional supplies sent up—just to be on the safe side.

I checked on the laundry and linen stores and suggested to the Wash Aunt that today, being sunny and not too chill, was an excellent day to do a major wash. She was a good person, but tended to procrastinate out of a mistaken notion that her drudges were woefully overworked. I knew Mother always had to give her a push to get started. I didn’t like to think that I was usurping any of my mother’s duties, even on a temporary basis, but we might be in need of every length of clean linen ever woven in the Hold.

The weavers, when I arrived in the Loft cots, were diligently applying themselves to their shuttles. One great roll of the sturdy mixed yarns, on which my mother prided herself, was just being clipped free of the woof. Aunt Sira greeted me with her usual cool, contained manner. Although she must have heard some of the drum messages over the clack of heddle and shuttle, she made no comment on the world outside.

I had a late breakfast in the little room on the first sublevel, which Mother called her “office,” as grateful as she must often have been for this retreat. Still the drums rolled, acknowledging and then passing on the dire tidings. One didn’t hear it only once, sad to say, but several times. I winced the fourth time Keroon’s code came through, and hummed loudly to keep the latest message from adding to the misery already in my heart. Ruatha was close by. Why had we no messages from them, no reassurance from my mother and my sisters?

A knock on the door interrupted these anxieties, and I was almost glad to learn that Campen awaited me on the first story. Halfway up the stairs, I realized that he must have returned with Anella and that, if he was on the first story, she was expecting to have guest quarters. I myself would have put her on the inner corridor of the fifth story. But the apartment at the end of the first story was more than appropriate for her. There was no way that I would accommodate her in my mother’s suite, with its convenient access to Father’s sleeping room. My father was, after all, in isolation, and my mother was alive in Ruatha