Beginning |
In a lower caverns room, a bitter woman of 30 Turns rests after giving birth. A transplant from the Hold system, she’s a ‘leftover’ of many clutches, Standing, but not Impressing. Power-hungry and intensely disappointed, the woman has long since sought other ways of gaining rank in the Weyr. She was beautiful, and might be again, but the petulance of her repulses. She has summoned a high-ranking possible father of her child to her chambers without telling him her business. Her ego is bare of maternal pride. |
“Saroa,” spat the round, drawn woman in the bed. “Saroa, your daughter.” She sat forward, threat in every line of her, holding out the wrapped infant with disdain. The tall, grave rider stared coldly down at her. “And how can you tell, Onata? You’ve beguiled every man you could get your claws on. How can you blame the child on me?” “Look at her, A’sar!” Onata said shrilly, and the pale, quiet bundle in her arms opened its eyes. One gray as quartz, the other dark as between, they stared wonderingly at the harsh lines of the rider’s face. A green eye and a gray-blue blinked back at her. “Onata, don’t be foolish. I was born with green eyes; the left is discolored by something. Summat wrong with the lens, the Healer said. Can’t think of it.” He frowned, stiffly, and looked at the child appraisingly. “She doesn’t look much like you, Naught, nor me either.” A’sar touched a wisp of straight black hair on the child’s cheek. She bared her teeth. “Don’t call me that.” “Be reasonable. Where would she get these locks? Yours and mine are both curly. Red and brown don’t make black, Nau—Onata. And she’s pale as wax. Matches you, but not me. No, find someone else to pin paternity on. I haven’t the time for the child, and I’ll brook no link with you. Your bitterness poisons the entire Weyr, Onata. I’m not your lover, I’m not your weyrmate, and I’m not the father of your child. Pity the child--she's the one who’ll will suffer.” With that, A’sar turned on heel and stalked out of the room. A moment later, the babe’s mismatched eyes grew wide, and the solemn rosebud lips curved and the child-chubby cheeks rounded. Onata saw her baby’s smile, and angrily threw herself down on her pillow, glowering in sullen silence at the downy black hair on the back of her daughter’s head. |
The child was never claimed by any man Onata approached, and she gave up her machinations after a Turn, begging a ride to a place as far from that Weyr as possible. Barislan Hold was as far as the rider would take her. She worked in the fields and in the Hold, little more than a drudge for all her aspirations. Saroa went with her. |
Onata was scrubbing floors when Saroa said her first word. The child was nearly five, and had been nearly silent since her birth. Onata had even thought, disinterestedly, about getting the Healer to take a look at the brat. It irked her that her child did not do what so many other children were doing. But Saroa touched her lightly on the arm, looked up at her with wondering mismatched eyes, and said clearly, “Who is Bjorth?” Too astonished to reprimand the child, Onata stared. Bubbles glinted as they burst, unheeded, on the motionless scrub-brush. “What are you talking about, Saroa?” Eyes, gray and dark, blinked in Saroa’s oval face. “Bjorth and Anissima have gone to the dark and the cold. Everyone is so horribly sad. Who is Bjorth, Mama?” The ex-Candidate scowled. “I don’t know. You’re talking nonsense. Why don’t you go ask one of the other children?” Anxiously, Saroa nodded and toddled off. Onata thought no more of it until that evening, when she shared a meal with the other laborers. Giyeva, who waited on the Lord Holder, came in late, swallowed a mouthful of river grains and gravy, and began to talk. “Did any of you hear today?” she said excitedly, waving her fork for emphasis. A messenger came on dragonback all the way from a different Weyr! Not Dicytra at all. To say that the Lord’s sister is dead!” A chorus of disbelief followed. “No, really!” Giyeva insisted. “The rider that brought him was weeping as if his heart would break. For a Lord’s sister! It isn’t proper, but that’s what he was doing, plain as day. And here Lord Ian was going to make her babe his heir.” “She died in childbed?” “Heir? He wouldn’t!” Importantly, Giyeva waved her arms. “Childbed, yes. And if the babe lives past this month—unlikely—he might just do it. A pity she died, for her dragon followed her, and it’s doom and gloom in the Weyr when that happens.” Nervously, Onata asked, “She was a Rider?” “Oh, yes. Anissima rode brown Bjorth.” For the first time in her life, Onata actively sought out her daughter. When she inquired of the child-tending young Harper, the girl shrugged and replied that she’d long since given up keeping track of Saroa. Saroa was in the drumheights, sitting at the window with tears drying on her cheeks. She was so aloof, Onata lost some of her annoyance, aghast. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” the sharp-faced woman snapped, rather weakly. “Here,” Saroa replied, listlessly. Onata forcefully turned the girl’s face up toward her, gazing into her eyes. “Saroa, where did you hear about Bjorth?” Her daughter’s expression crumpled. “I don’t want to think about Bjorth anymore,” she said, almost fiercely. “Tell me about Bjorth, Saroa. Tell me, or you’ll be in big trouble.” The child flinched away from the warning lift of the hand. “Alnath?” she said falteringly. “I think Alnath spoke first. Or maybe Eradeith. I’ve never heard Bjorth.” Fear gave way to frustration, then beseechment. “Did you find out who Bjorth was?” “Never mind Bjorth, Saroa! I don’t want to hear you speaking dragon names again, do you hear me? Little girls shouldn’t hear dragons!” Onata, nearly hysterical, was awash with jealousy, fear, and horror. That her daughter could hear dragons now, so young, while none would even look at Onata, was so stunningly unfair that it made her blood boil. |