Anne McCaffrey: Moreta - Dragon Lady Of Pern

Mollified by her rider's teasing assurance, Orlith crouched, setting her forearm so Moreta could climb to her place between the last two neck ridges above her shoulder. Moreta settled her skirts and pulled the cloak about her. Nothing would really keep her warm in the awesome total cold of between but the transition lasted only a few breaths, which anyone could endure.

Orlith sprang from the ledge. Though gravid, she was not a lazy dragon, to tumble off into the air before making first use of her wings. The old queen, Holth, trumpeted a farewell; the watchdragon spread his wings, masking the Star Stones on the summit. The watchrider extended his arm, completing the salute as Moreta waved acknowledgment.

Orlith caught the wind flowing down the oblong Bowl, the crater of an extinct volcano which was home to the Weyr. In a distant Turn, an earthslide had rampaged down the range, broken through the southwest part of the Weyr and into the lake. Stonecraftsmen had cleared the lake and shored up the edge in a massive wall but little could be done to clear the lost caverns and weyrs, or restore the symmetry of the Bowl.

«Surveying your Weyr, O Queen?» Moreta asked, indulging Orlith's leisurely glide.

«At height, one sees many details in proper order. All is well.»

Moreta's laugh was blown from her lips, and she had to hang on to the riding straps. Orlith constantly surprised her with gratuitous observations. Conversely, when Moreta needed guidance, Orlith might reply that she didn't understand any rider but Moreta. The queen could be counted on to comment on the Weyr in general, or on the morale of the fighting wings, or to supply information'about the Weyrleader's dragon, Kadith. Orlith was not so forthcoming about Sh'gall. But, after twenty Turns of their symbiotic relationship, Moreta had learned to discover as much in the queen's impartiality or evasion as from her candid remarks. Being a queen's rider was never easy. Being the Weyrwoman, Leri had more than once told Moreta, doubled both honors and horrors. One took the good with the bad and used fellis sparingly.

Now Moreta visualized the fire-heights of Ruatha Hold, with its distinctive pattern of fire-gutters and beacons and the eastern watch rampart.

«Take us to Ruatha,» she said to Orlith and clenched her teeth against the cold of between.

«Black, blacker, blackest; colder beyond frozen things, Where is between when there is naught To Life but fragile dragon wings.»

Moreta often held the words of the old song as a talisman against the bitter breathless journey. Ruatha was not far from Fort Weyr by any means of travel, and Moreta had only reached 'colder' when the warm sun shone on them and on Ruatha's fire-heights below. The host of dragons lounging on the rocky cliff summit, whole wings of them, voiced greetings at Orlith's appearance in the air. Orlith's thoughts echoed her pleasure in the accolade. Dragons met so rarely for pleasure, Moreta mused. Thread was the cause. Soon, in eight Turns …

As the queen glided down, Moreta recognized some of the dragons from other Weyrs by the scar patterns on their bodies and wings.

Bronzes from Telgar and High Reaches, Orlith reported, making her own identifications, browns, blues, and greens. But Benden has been and gone. We should have come earlier. The last held a plaintive note because Orlith had a partiality for the Benden bronze Tuzuth.

«Sorry, dear heart, but I had so much to do.»

Orlith snorted. Moreta felt the jerk of chest muscles through the dragon's withers. She had begun to circle, dropping toward the fireheights. Anticipating a landing, Moreta tightened her hold on the straps. Orlith overshot the heights, clearly headed down over the roadway crowded with the stalls of the Gather and a milling throng of folk gaily dressed for the occasion. Suddenly Moreta realized that Orlith meant to land in the empty dancing square ringed by lamp standards, trestle tables, and benches.

«I do not forget that we are senior now,» Orlith said primly, and that the Hold's honors are due the Fort Weyrwoman.

Orlith landed with neat precision in the dance square, her broad pinions vaned high to avoid excessive backwinds. The banners on the lamp standards snapped vigorously, but little dust rose from the square already swept to hard ground.

«Well done, dear heart,» Moreta said, scratching her mount's back ridge affectionately.

She glanced over at the imposing precipice that housed Ruatha Hold, magnificently topped by ranks of sunbathing dragons. The Hold's unshuttered windows displayed banners and brightly woven rugs. Tables and chairs had been set out on the open forecourt so distinguished visitors could view the gather stalls and the dancing square without obstruction. Moreta glanced quickly in the other direction, toward the flats where the racing was held. She could see the picket lines off to the right. The brightly painted starting poles were not in position so she hadn't missed any racing.

The entire Gather had ceased its activity to watch Orlith's landing. Now there was a stir among the onlookers, who parted to allow a man to step from their midst.

«See! The Lord Holder approaches,» Orlith said.

Moreta swung her right leg over Orlith's neck, pulling her skirts about, preparatory to dismounting. Then she glanced at the man approaching them. She could just make out his features, which corresponded to her recollection of Lord Leef's light-eyed son. His broad shoulders were held at a confident angle and his rangy stride was assured, neither diffident nor hasty.

He came to an abrupt halt, bowing to Orlith, who lowered her head to acknowledge his greeting. Then he moved on quickly to assist Moreta to dismount, looking intently up at her.

His light-green eyes, unusual in one so dark-skinned, caught hers. His gaze was as formal and impersonal as his hands as he seized her by the waist and swung her down from Orlith's forearm. He bowed, and Moreta couldn't but notice that his shaggy hair had been neatly trimmed and attractively shaped.

«Weyrwoman, welcome to Ruatha Hold. I had begun to think that you and Orlith were not going to attend.» His voice was unexpectedly tenor for a man so tall and lean, his words clearly spoken.

«I bring the Weyrleadcr's regrets.»

«He gave them in advance yesterday. It would have been your regrets which I, and Ruatha, would have been sad to receive. Orlith is in splendid color,» he added, his voice unexpectedly warming, «for a queen so near clutching.»

The queen blinked her rainbow-hued eyes, echoing the surprise that Moreta felt in Alessan's adherence to formalities. Moreta hadn't expected so polished a delivery from so young a man but, after all, Leef had drilled his heir in the proprieties. Besides, she was always ready to discuss Orlith.

«She's in great health and she's always that unusual shade.»

As her reply deviated from the tradition, Alessan hesitated.

«Now, some dragons are so light as to be more pale yellow than gold while others are dark enough to vie with the bronzes. Yet she is not,» Moreta eyed her queen candidly, «the classic shade.»

Alessan chuckled. «Does shade make any difference?»

«Certainly not to me. I would scarcely mind if Orlith were green gold. She is my queen, and I am her rider.» She glanced at Alessan, wondering if he was mocking her. But his green eyes, with their tiny flecks of brown around the pupil, registered only polite query.

Alessan smiled. «And senior at Fort Weyr.»

«As you are Lord of Ruatha.» She felt slightly defensive for, despite the innocuous and formal phrases, she sensed an undercurrent in his speech. Had Sh'gall discussed his Weyrwoman with a Lord Holder?

«Orlith?»

«The fire-height is warm in the full sun,» the dragon replied evasively, swinging her head toward her rider. The many facets of her eyes were tinged with the blue of longing.