| Catalyst |
| Saroa was an intelligent child, and she remembered and was quiet for nearly two Turns. But she couldn’t avoid the events that unfolded, narrated by the unseen intruders in her head. In the middle of her recitation for Harper Liora, she broke off, head snapping around, eyes searching for the source of the voice. She waited, breathlessly, deaf to Liora’s patient hints to continue. Abruptly, Saroa’s entire face lit up. “Chemith’s caught Rhysilth! He did it! He caught her!” she caroled, dropping her unchildlike dignity without notice. Liora was intrigued. “What’s happened, sweetheart?” “Chemith’s a brown,” explained Saroa impatiently. “He’s just caught Rhysilth. Nobody thought he could do it, but he did! It’s so good for B’ker and Aurelle!” Liora turned out to be very interested. After talking to Saroa, she called Onata to her quarters. “Do you realize what you’ve got here?” the Harper woman said eagerly, leaning forward over her tiny desk. “Saroa’s a natural. She’s already hearing dragons as far away as Moire Weyrhold, and she’s barely seven! The Weyr would love to get their hands on talent like hers. I know it must be hard to support both yourself and a child, and I’d like you to think about sending her to a Weyr…” “Saroa has been hearing dragons since she was born,” Onata said coldly. “She’s not going to any begreened Weyr, and I’ll thank you not to tell the world that my daughter’s an aberration. It’s hard enough without her father as it is.” Liora was quiet for the amount of time it took her to pick up her jaw off the floor. “Look, miss, she won’t have any of the opportunities she’d have at a Weyr if she stays here! I’ve barely got time to teach reading and writing and basic figuring. Saroa’s so bright, I’d hate to see her end up a drudge.” Onata glowered. “I will take care of my child as I see fit,” she said freezingly, and stalked out of the room. The next day, Saroa was withdrawn from the harper-taught classes. In fact, no one saw much of Saroa for almost a month. That month turned Saroa from a child who was merely shy into a flinching recluse, utterly silent unless forced to speak. Only Saroa could have told them what happened, even wordlessly in the fading yellow of bruises and the raised pink lines of welts, but Liora suspected, and the Harper bitterly repented her desire to converse with Onata that fateful day. |
| The Turns passed, and Saroa’s ability grew with her, until the voices of dragons all over the Southern Continent were a constant babble in her mind, distinguishable only with difficulty. More unfortunately, Onata grew less forgiving and more jealous every time she was ‘forced to discipline’ Saroa. Matters came to a head once again when Saroa was thirteen, this time in the close confines of a lambing shed. |
| Saroa was pacing with a drop spindle, the heathered gray wool winding down into neat spools of gray thread. There were only a few ovines left who hadn’t lambed, and she and Onata had been assigned to their care until they’d produced their babes. In return, they were provided with some of the coarser belly wool to do with as they would. Since any clothes provided were usually patched on their patches, even the harsh homespun the belly wool produced was much valued. Onata was carding more wool, most unhappily. By rights it should have been Saroa’s job, but Onata had been forced to cede that chore, for she had never learned to spin, and her thread was unfit to wear. In mid-stride, Saroa screamed, flung the implements away from her, and collapsed on the floor, weeping hysterically. “Eradeith!” she shrieked, as her mother advanced upon her with compressed lips. “No, Eradeith, don’t! Achelth can’t…you mustn’t…ERADEITH!” She was as limp as a rag doll as her mother hauled her to her feet, and the blows fell upon unresisting flesh. Saroa’s eyes were open, but she did not see; she wept silently now, tears soaking her loose tunic every time she blinked. Her harsh panting and the ringing crack of flesh on flesh were the only sounds in the shed. Finally, disgusted, Onata yanked open the trapdoor to the tiny root cellar and shoved the girl down the stairs, slamming it closed and bolting it behind her. Saroa wept on in the darkness, the keening of a thousand dragons echoing on in her head. |
| T’mael of Moire Weyrhold studied the tiny shed with a raised eyebrow. “And you’re sure,” he drawled, tilting his chin in an effort to meet the calm gaze of his blue dragon a story above his head, “that there’s Sand-bait down there?” <<There’s Sand-bait, and Rhysilth wants her. The gold’s got nerve, being so fecund with Chemith as a sire,>> Alnath said with amusement. <<Take a look for me, since I don’t believe the occupants would enjoy me prying their roof off to inspect them. Bring ‘em all out.>> Much to T’mael’s surprise, the woman who answered the door was the only person in the shed. To his eye, she looked far too old to Search, but he smiled politely at her and asked her to come outside. Her face turned scarlet under Alnath’s critical evaluation. <<This is a dismal specimen you’ve brought me, T’mael. Too old, too stiff, and far too angry. Where is the other?>> “She’s the only one in there, Alnath,” the young rider replied, frowning. <<No, she isn’t!>> the blue said, more and more agitated, eyes beginning to whirl red and yellow. <<There is another girl in there. You will find her, T’mael. You must find her.>> “Ma’am, is there someone else in the shed?” the Searchrider asked diffidently, trying not to wince at Alnath’s vehemence. “No one else,” the woman said in a flat voice, still staring at Alnath with an unpleasant expression. <<Search the house.>> “Alnath, I can’t…” <<You will search the house.>> The dragon’s voice was so coldly commanding that T’mael stood stock-still for a moment, shocked that his amiable lifemate could speak to him like this. <<You will find this candidate.>> Wordlessly, T’mael entered the shed. He found the locked trapdoor for the root cellar, and threw it open, uncertain what he might find. The girl he beheld was starving-thin, her face so battered that her eyes were mere slits in her face. The cellar smelled unpleasant, but worse in T’mael’s mind was how she flinched away from him, holding up bloodied hands to shield herself. Hesitantly, he stretched out a hand. “Come with me,” he said softly. “The Weyr is waiting for you.” She blinked at him, drew back, confusion on her face. T’mael tried again. “The dragons want you.” Quick as a flash, the girl rose on unsteady legs, stumbled up the stairs past him, and ran shakily out the door, tangled black hair flying behind her, torn tunic a-flutter. T’mael was quick enough to see her stop dead at the sight of the blue, her eyes widening, her pupils pinpoints in the light of day. “Alnath?” she said, huskily, her voice low and grating from disuse. Her mother looked on with rage in her face. It was the first time T’mael had ever seen his lifemate startled. The long, elegant head whipped around, and the prisms of Alnath’s eyes shone like opals for one long moment. <<How do you know me?>> the blue said at last, sounding almost frightened. <<T’mael has never met you. I do not recognize you.>> But the girl ran to Alnath and threw her arms around his wrist as if she would never let go. “You grieved,” she said hoarsely. “You grieved first for Bjorth, who I did not know. You rejoiced for Rhysilth and Chemith, when he first caught her. And Eradeith,” her voice caught in her throat. “You tried to stop Eradeith. I heard…I saw.” Her eyes went so wide that T’mael could see a rim of white. He looked harder: were they gray, or dark? “You know?” T’mael asked, puzzled. “But nobody outside the Weyrhold was told…it was the worst thing that’s ever happened there. Wait—you heard?” “And saw,” said the girl, shuddering. “This is the first time I’ve seen it.” <<You hear us,>> Alnath said wonderingly, and the girl nodded. “You’ve missed Hacinth’s flight,” she told him, now almost normal. “She was disappointed.” <<But I can’t hear that far,>> Alnath blurted, bewildered. T’mael cut this short. “Alnath, she’s obviously for the Weyr. Let’s take her and let Aurelle sort it out.” He looked at her mother, darkly. “She won’t be coming back.” To the girl, he said, “Climb up, m’lady, you’re Standing for Rhysilth’s new clutch. What’s your name?” “Saroa,” she replied, halfway up Alnath’s shoulder. “Saroa of Barislan.” <<Saroa of Moire, rather,>> Alnath interjected, and beat his wings once, fiercely. <<Come, I would take her to Rhysilth, rider mine!>> |
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