unwillingness to change it—was of such widespread concern.”
“There’s no lack of people at this Gather,” Moreta said. The stalls were still doing a good business despite the numbers attracted by the racing.
People had already begun to take places at the tables about the dancing square. The aromas of roasting meats wafted enticingly on the wind, the pungency of spiced wherry dominating.
Alessan had ridden straight up across the field and now turned their mount up the roadway. Moreta glanced up to the fire-heights, covered in sun-baking dragons. There seemed to be more, and she noticed Orlith flanked by another queen. Tamianth of the High Reaches, judging by her size and color.
“Some creatures like the sun and the warm,” Alessan said. “Does all the sunning help them endure the cold of
between
?”
Moreta shivered involuntarily, and Alessan’s arms tightened about her. She rather enjoyed the unexpected intimacy.
“When we fly Thread, I’m grateful to the cold of
between,
” she replied obliquely, her thoughts on the Fall in two days.
Then Alessan reined the beast up the ramp to the forecourt, its heavy feet clumping hollowly and alerting the guests there. Moreta waved cheerfully at Falga, the High Reaches Weyrwoman.
“Wasn’t your new gown ready, Moreta?” Falga asked as she walked to meet them while Alessan halted their mount.
“A new gown?” Alessan’s startled question fell on Moreta’s ears only.
“You’ll see it next Gather, Falga,” Moreta replied blithely. “This is my race-watching dress.”
“Oh, you and your races!” Falga smiled tolerantly and turned back to the holders with whom she’d been talking.
Suddenly Tolocamp appeared, his genial smile not completely masking his disapproval of Moreta’s dusty appearance.
“I’ll just slide off, thank you, Lord Tolocamp,” she said, politely ignoring his offer of assistance.
“If you’ll follow me, Lady Moreta,” Lady Oma said, breaking through the press of people and taking charge.
Relieved to be able to retire gracefully from Tolocamp’s critical gaze, Moreta followed Alessan’s mother. In the instant her eyes met Lady Oma’s, Moreta knew the woman disapproved of her as much as Tolocamp did but more for upsetting her own plans for her son’s afternoon entertainment than for Moreta’s hoyden behavior. As they proceeded through the Hall, splendidly decorated for the Gather, and up the stairs into the Hold’s private corridors, Moreta felt the weight of Lady Oma’s rebuke in her silence. In Lady Oma’s own apartments, however, a variety of gowns, skirts, and tunics had been hastily assembled, and from the bathroom drifted the moist scent of perfumed water and the giggles of the girls who were preparing it.
“Your gown has been cleaned, Lady Moreta,” Lady Oma said, closing the door behind Moreta. “But I doubt it will be dry before the dancing.” She cast a measuring glance at Moreta, ignoring the dusty brown shift. “You’re thinner than I’d thought. Perhaps the rust . . .” She indicated the garment, then canceled that suggestion with an impatient gesture of her hand. It was reminiscent of Alessan. “It is in no way comparable to your own gown. This green one is more suited to your rank.”
Moreta went to the rust dress, fingering the texture of the plain but soft fabric. She held it up to her waist and shoulders. The fit would be good through the body, though the skirt was short above her ankles. She glanced at the fine material of the green dress. She’d sweat in it dancing the way she intended to dance for having lost part of her racing.
“The rust will do very well, and I’m grateful for the loan of it.” She smiled around at the women in the room, trying to locate the donor but no one met her glance. “This will be fine. I won’t be long,” she added, smiling again as she entered the bathing room and pulled the curtain across. She hoped they would all take the hint and leave.
She lolled
“There’s no lack of people at this Gather,” Moreta said. The stalls were still doing a good business despite the numbers attracted by the racing.
People had already begun to take places at the tables about the dancing square. The aromas of roasting meats wafted enticingly on the wind, the pungency of spiced wherry dominating.
Alessan had ridden straight up across the field and now turned their mount up the roadway. Moreta glanced up to the fire-heights, covered in sun-baking dragons. There seemed to be more, and she noticed Orlith flanked by another queen. Tamianth of the High Reaches, judging by her size and color.
“Some creatures like the sun and the warm,” Alessan said. “Does all the sunning help them endure the cold of
between
?”
Moreta shivered involuntarily, and Alessan’s arms tightened about her. She rather enjoyed the unexpected intimacy.
“When we fly Thread, I’m grateful to the cold of
between,
” she replied obliquely, her thoughts on the Fall in two days.
Then Alessan reined the beast up the ramp to the forecourt, its heavy feet clumping hollowly and alerting the guests there. Moreta waved cheerfully at Falga, the High Reaches Weyrwoman.
“Wasn’t your new gown ready, Moreta?” Falga asked as she walked to meet them while Alessan halted their mount.
“A new gown?” Alessan’s startled question fell on Moreta’s ears only.
“You’ll see it next Gather, Falga,” Moreta replied blithely. “This is my race-watching dress.”
“Oh, you and your races!” Falga smiled tolerantly and turned back to the holders with whom she’d been talking.
Suddenly Tolocamp appeared, his genial smile not completely masking his disapproval of Moreta’s dusty appearance.
“I’ll just slide off, thank you, Lord Tolocamp,” she said, politely ignoring his offer of assistance.
“If you’ll follow me, Lady Moreta,” Lady Oma said, breaking through the press of people and taking charge.
Relieved to be able to retire gracefully from Tolocamp’s critical gaze, Moreta followed Alessan’s mother. In the instant her eyes met Lady Oma’s, Moreta knew the woman disapproved of her as much as Tolocamp did but more for upsetting her own plans for her son’s afternoon entertainment than for Moreta’s hoyden behavior. As they proceeded through the Hall, splendidly decorated for the Gather, and up the stairs into the Hold’s private corridors, Moreta felt the weight of Lady Oma’s rebuke in her silence. In Lady Oma’s own apartments, however, a variety of gowns, skirts, and tunics had been hastily assembled, and from the bathroom drifted the moist scent of perfumed water and the giggles of the girls who were preparing it.
“Your gown has been cleaned, Lady Moreta,” Lady Oma said, closing the door behind Moreta. “But I doubt it will be dry before the dancing.” She cast a measuring glance at Moreta, ignoring the dusty brown shift. “You’re thinner than I’d thought. Perhaps the rust . . .” She indicated the garment, then canceled that suggestion with an impatient gesture of her hand. It was reminiscent of Alessan. “It is in no way comparable to your own gown. This green one is more suited to your rank.”
Moreta went to the rust dress, fingering the texture of the plain but soft fabric. She held it up to her waist and shoulders. The fit would be good through the body, though the skirt was short above her ankles. She glanced at the fine material of the green dress. She’d sweat in it dancing the way she intended to dance for having lost part of her racing.
“The rust will do very well, and I’m grateful for the loan of it.” She smiled around at the women in the room, trying to locate the donor but no one met her glance. “This will be fine. I won’t be long,” she added, smiling again as she entered the bathing room and pulled the curtain across. She hoped they would all take the hint and leave.
She lolled
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