“Did she do that all night long?” Debera asked.
I am SO hungry.
Debera was all apologies, and so was Sarra who sprinted ahead to fling open both leaves of the door, making a flourishing bow for their exit. Morath immediately crowded against Debera, pushing her to the right, her young nose detecting the enticing smell in the two covered pails on the rack outside the barracks.
Debera lifted the pail down while Morath impatiently nudged off the cover and seemed to inhale the gobbets.
Debera allowed her to fill her mouth and then started shielding the pail with her body.
“You will chew what you eat, Morath, you hear me? You could choke to death, and then where would I be?” Morath gave her such a look of pained astonishment and reproach that Debera couldn’t remain stern.
“Chew,” she said, popping a handful of pieces into Morath’s open mouth. “Chew!” she repeated and Morath obediently exercised her jaws before spreading them wide again for another batch. Debera had not tended the orphaned young animals of her hold without learning some of the tricks.
Whoever had decided on the quantity, Debera thought, knew the precise size of a dragonet’s belly. Morath’s demands had slowed considerably as Debera reached the bottom of the pail and the dragonet sighed before she swallowed the last.
“I see she’s had breakfast,” said T’dam, appearing from behind so suddenly that Morath squawked in surprise and Debera struggled to get to her feet. T’dam’s hand on her shoulder pushed her back down.
“We’re not formal in the Weyr, Debera,” he said kindly.
“Now, lead her over to the lake there,” and he gestured to the right where Debera recognized the large mounds as sleeping dragonets
“Then, when she wakes up from this feed she’ll be just where you can bathe and oil her.” T’dam grinned. “Before you can feed her again, though…” and then he motioned to his left. “Are you squeamish?” he asked.
Debera took a good look in the direction he pointed and saw six skinned carcasses, swaying from butchering tripods.
Weyrlings were busy with knives carving flesh off the bones, or at the table chopping raw meat into dragonet morsels.
“Me?” Debera gave a cynical snort. “Not likely.”
“Good,” T’dam said approvingly. “Some of your peers are.”
“Come now, Morath,” he added in a totally altered tone, loving and kind and wheedling, you’ll need a little rest and the sands by the lake are warm in the sun.
Morath lifted her head, her eyes glistening bluey-green as she regarded the Weyrlingmaster.
He is a nice man, she said and began to waddle towards the lake; her swaying belly bulged lumpily with her meal.
“When you’ve settled her, Debera, be sure to get your own breakfast in the kitchen. Good thing you’re not squeamish” he said, turning away, but his chuckle drifted back to Debera’s ears.
It’s awfully far to the lake, isn’t it, Debera? Morath said, puffing.
“Not really,” Debera said. “Anyway, it’s much too rocky underfoot right here to make a comfortable bed for your nap.”
Morath looked down her long nose, her left fore knocking a stone out of her path. And she sighed. She kept going, Debera encouraging her with every slow step, until they reached the sandier ground surrounding the lake. It had recently been raked, the marks visible between the paw- and tail-prints of the dragonets Debera urged Morath further on to the sand, to an empty spot between two browns who were tightly curled with wings to shield their eyes from the autumn sun pouring down on them.
With a great sigh, Morath dropped her hindquarters to the sand, with an I’m not going a step further attitude and sank slowly over to her right side. She curled her tail about her, curved her head around under her left wing and, with a sweet babyish croon rumbling in her throat, fell asleep.
Once again, Debera could barely bring herself to leave the dragonet, lost in the wonder of having been acceptable to such a marvelously lovable creature.
She’d been lonely and lacking in love for so long - ever since her mother had died and her oldest full brother had left the family Hold.
Now she had Morath, all her very own, and those long years of isolation faded into a trivial moment.
“She’s perfectly safe here,” Debera told herself finally, and forced herself to leave Morath and make her way across that quadrant of the Bowl to the kitchen caverns. Enticing smells of fresh bread and other viands made her quicken her steps.
She hoped she’d have enough restraint not to bolt her food like her dragonet.
The kitchen cavern at Telgar Weyr was actually a series of caves, each with an entrance, varying in size, width and height.
As Debera paused at the entrance of the nearest and smallest one, she saw that hearths or ovens were ranged against the outside wall, each with a separate chimney protruding up the cliff face. Inside, the many long tables where last night guests had been entertained were reduced to the number needed by the regular population of the Weyr.
But the interior was busy as men and women went about food preparation tasks.
“Breakfast’s over there,” a woman said, smiling at Debera and pointing. “Porridge’s still hot and the klah’s fresh made. Help yourself.”
Debera looked to her left to the farthest hearth, which had tables and chairs set invitingly near it.
“There’ll be fresh-baked bread soon, too, and I’ll bring some over,” the woman added and proceeded on her own business.
Debera had only just served herself a heaping of porridge - not a lump in it, nor a fleck of burn - and a cup of klah when two boys, looking bewildered and not at all sure of how to proceed, wandered in.
“The bowls are there, the cups there,” Debera said, pointing.
“And use that hunk of towel to hold the pot while you spoon out the cereal. It’s hot.”
They sent her tentative smiles - they must just be old enough for Impression, she thought, feeling just a trifle older and wiser. They managed - but not without slopping gobs of porridge into the fire and jumping back from the hiss and smell - to get enough in the bowls and to pour klah into their cups.
“C’mon, sit here, I won’t bite,” she said, tapping her table.
They were certainly not a bit sullen or grouchy, like her younger half brothers
“You’ve a green, haven’t you?” the first one asked. He had a crop of black curls that had recently been trimmed very close to his skull.
“Course she has a green, stupid” the other lad said, elbowing the ribs of the first. “I’m M’rak, and Caneth’s my bronze,” he added with a justifiable smirk of pride.
“My bronze is Tiabeth,” the black haired boy said, equally as proud of his dragon, but added modestly, “I’m S’mon.”
“What’s yours called?”
“Morath,” and Debera found herself grinning broadly. Did all new riders feel as besotted as this?
The boys settled into chairs and began to eat, almost as eagerly as dragonets Deliberately Debera slowed the rhythm of her spoon.
This porridge was really too good to gulp down: not a husk nor a piece of grit in it. Obviously Telgar tithed of its best to the Weyr, even with such a staple as oats for porridge. She sighed, grateful for more than Impressing Morath yesterday.
The boys suddenly stopped, spoons half lifted to their mouths and, warned, Debera turned quickly. Bearing down on their table was the unmistakable bulk of Tisha, the head woman of the Lower Cavern. Her broad face was wreathed with a smile as generous as she was.
“How are you today? Settling in all right? Need anything from stores? Parents will pack your Gather best, and you really need your weeding worst,” she said, her rich contralto voice bubbling with good humor. “Breakfast all right?”