Hidden from sight behind the droop of the wing, Moreta could not see what was happening but she heard the bong of the kettle being dropped and the plash of buckets of water being poured. She heard the greedy slurping of Tamianth as the dragon sucked water down a parched throat.

"By the Egg, she'd drink barrels!" said the bemused voice of an older man. "She mustn't have too much at once, boys, so take your time with the refills. Anything else I can do-" The Weyrlingmaster ducked carefully under the wing and stared in surprise at Moreta. "I thought your queen had clutched, Moreta."

"She has, but this one would have died . . ."

When Moreta pointed to the ichor-stained puddle on the floor, the disapproval in the Weyrlingmaster's face turned to shock.

"S'ligar's down with a touch of the plague, despite the vaccine," Cr'not said. "But"-he gestured impotently toward Pressen, at the sound of Diona's voice thanking the weyrlings-"I could hear Falga calling for water . . ."

"It's no one's fault, Cr'not. Everyone's tired, pushed beyond their strength or trying to take on unfamiliar tasks. I should have examined this wound two days ago!"

"Sometimes I think it's only the momentum of routine that keeps any of us going," Cr'not said, rubbing at his face and eyes.

"You could be right. There. That's the last! Thank you, Pressen. You've the makings of a good Weyr healer!"

"Once I get accustomed to such large patients!" Pressen smiled back at Moreta.

"And you're about to learn another invaluable technique for healing dragons," Moreta said, beckoning to Pressen to follow her. She took the largest syringe from Barly's kit, fitted a needlethorn to its opening, soaked a pad quickly in redwort and then ducked under Tamianth's wing. "Diona!"

"Oh, no," Diona moaned timorously, spreading her arms to protect her queen. "Tamianth's looking ever so much better. Her color's improved enormously."

"I should hope so, but, if we don't get some ichor on her joints, she may never fly again. Holth, tell Kilanath!"

Cr'not moved toward the weyrwoman, his expression ferocious, and Diona moaned again.

"It doesn't take long, and it won't hurt Kilanath."

The queen was a good deal more cooperative than her rider, dipping her wing as she knelt for Moreta's ministration.

"Pressen, see? Here, where the vein crosses the bone?" As Pressen nodded, Moreta rubbed on some redwort, turning the golden skin brown. The fine sharp needlethorn entered hide and vein so smoothly that the dragon never felt the prick. Moreta deftly drew ichor into the tube: It glistened green and healthy in the glowlight.

"Most interesting," Pressen said, his expression intent. Neither of them paid any attention to Diona's moaning or Cr'not's exclamation of disgust.

"Now we will apply this"-Moreta returned to Tamianth, Pressen right beside her-"to the joints and the cartilage. See how dry the cartilage is? Soaks the ichor right up. Well, ah, here, nearest the shoulder, see how the beads are forming? Tamianth's beginning to function again. We'll save that wing yet!" She grinned at the little man whose face beamed back at her. "And color's returning to Tamianth's eyes, too."

"Why, so there is! Is she winking at me?"

Moreta chuckled. The gray had certainly receded from Tamianth's huge eyes and the 'winking' was just the sparkle returning to the facets as the dragon improved. "I believe so. She knows who's helped her."

"And Falga is sleeping." Pressen hurried to the cot, feeling the pulse along Falga's neck. He sighed with relief. "She's much quieter now."

Holth? Moreta asked, aware of other obligations.

They sleep! Holth was unperturbed.

"I must get back to Fort. Cr'not, will you keep checking on the wing for me? Pressen knows how to draw ichor and where to put it but not when. You would."

"I will!" Cr'not nodded solemnly. "Now, you ought not to leave your queen," he added, shaking his head worriedly.

"There is a point at which ought has little to do with actions, Cr'not. I was sent for! I came! Now I'm going!" She gave him a curt nod. Weyrlingmasters were a breed of their own and felt they could criticize with impunity anyone in a Weyr. As she collected her riding gear, she gave Pressen a saucy wink and then strode out of the building.

She ran to the stairs and took the steps two at a time.

They sleep, Holth repeated, her eyes whirling serenely.

"And so shall we once we're back home," Moreta said, swinging up onto Holth's lean back. "Take us to Fort Weyr, please, Holth."

Obligingly, Holth sprang from the ledge and, once again, went between as soon as there was free air about her. As the chill of nothingness wrapped them, Moreta wondered if she should mention Holth's curious trick to Leri. Was it just that the queen was old and could not jump as forcefully? Did it not seem an impertinence on Moreta's part to criticize?

Then they were back in the dawn, skimming low above the lake in Fort Weyr. That was the explanation: Holth was practicing stealth. The watchrider was unlikely to notice a dragon leaving so low in darkness.

Holth glided to her own ledge and accepted Moreta's effusive thanks before lurching wearily into her weyr. Moreta ran down the stairs and into the Hatching Ground. To the Weyrwoman's relief, Orlith hadn't so much as changed the angle of her head during her rider's absence. And Leri slept soundly on Moreta's cot.

Alessan had to stop. Sweat was beaded on his forehead, ran down his cheeks and chin. His hands were sweaty on the plowhandles and the team panting as hard as he from their labors in the rainheavy field. Ignoring the sting of the blisters he had acquired in the last two days, he dried his hands finger by finger on the grimy rag attached to his belt. Then Ruatha Hold's Lord Holder rubbed the sweat from his face and neck, took a swallow from the flask of water, picked up the reins, slapped the rumps of his reluctant team, and managed to grab the handles of the unwieldy plow before the runners had pulled it out of the furrow.

Another day and he was sure they'd forget they'd ever been trained to race. Of course, he told himself that every day. One day it would have to be true. He had mastered feistier beasts to the saddle, and he must-if he wished to Hold-prove equally capable at retraining. With bitter humor, Alessan wondered if his predicament could be a retribution for his defiance of his father's wishes. Yet none of that breeding had survived. The heavier runners, the draft and plow animals, the sturdy long-distance beasts, had been especially susceptible to the lung infections that had swept the racers' camp after the first days of the plague. The light wiry runners of his breeding had survived to graze contentedly on the lush river pastures. Until he had had to harness them, and himself, to the plows.

The land had to be tilled, crops sown, the tithe offered, the Hold fed no matter how the Lord Holder managed to accomplish those responsibilities. He came to the edge of the field and wrestled the team into the wide arc, turning back on the furrows. They were uneven but the earth had been turned. He looked briefly out at the other fields of the Hold proper, to check on the other teams. He also had a view of the northern road and the mounted man approaching along it. He shaded his eyes, cursing as the off-sider took advantage of his momentary distraction. As he lined it up again with its teammate and the plow righted, he was certain that he saw a flash of harper blue. Tuero must be back from his swing of the northern holds. Who else would be brave enough to venture to Ruatha? Alessan had drummed for heavy plowbeasts and been told that no one had any to offer. Neither threats of withholding nor doubling the marks brought better results.