Go, Now

Writers: Estelle
Date Posted: 14th April 2019

Characters: Lorican
Description: Spooked by events at the Weyr, Lorican decides it's time to leave
Location: Dolphin Cove Weyr
Date: month 9, day 28 of Turn 9
Notes: Mentioned: Urlene
Mentions the events of "A Deadly Message Delivery"

***

Lorican had been in his guest room, putting the finishing touches to his
drawing before he headed to the infirmary for his check-up, when he
heard the dragon roar. The sound was muffled by the rock, but he still
felt a faint vibration through the wooden desk, which left a slight
waver in the line of ink of the paper. He wondered if it was another
mating flight. It had sounded too deep to be the cry of a green, not
that he was an expert. Perhaps one of the chasers.

He carefully replaced his pen in the inkwell and looked at the picture.
A simple line sketch, it showed a woman stepping out of a pool of water.
She faced away, her head slightly turned back towards the observer so
her finely drawn profile was just visible behind the fall of her long
hair. One delicate hand was at her breast, holding up the towel that
draped modestly around her waist, while the other lifted her hair from
her shoulder, revealing the long, elegant curve down from her neck to
her back that haunted his imagination.

He'd never get her exactly right, but this was close.

Lorican lifted the paper and wafted it gently to dry the ink, then slid
it into his folder of designs. He felt warm, half proud and half ashamed
of what he'd done. What would she say if she knew what he'd been working
on, late into the previous night and most of the morning? He would have
to make doubly sure to take it out of his portfolio before he showed her
his work.

The flight ought to be well underway by now, so he replaced the folder
in his desk and left the room. He decided to take the outdoor route.
Perhaps the breeze would cool his flushed cheeks.

But when he set foot outside in the weyrbowl, he saw dragons, crouched
in a posture of tension that he'd not seen before. There were at least
two bronzes and a gold, and their eyes glowed red as the coals in the
forge. As he watched, one of the bronzes roared again, his neck
stretching towards the sky and his claws raking the ground. Alarmed,
Lorican was tempted to go straight back to his room, but he also didn't
want to explain to the healers that he'd missed his appointment because
he'd been scared by a dragon. He turned and went back inside, taking the
longer, more roundabout way through the tunnels to the infirmary.

When he got there, he caught a glimpse through the doorway of a chaotic
scene. He couldn't see much past the backs of the tall dragonriders who
stood just inside the main room, but there was someone on the floor, and
blood, and healers rushing around. Disturbed, Lorican backed away and
headed for the smithy.

Work had stopped there, and the smiths had gathered around Journeywoman
Anderli, who was sitting down beside her anvil. "Telaith says she
doesn't know," she was saying. "She's scared to ask the queen. But he's
still alive, or we would have heard..."

"What's going on?" Lorican asked. "There was some crisis at the
infirmary. I didn't go in."

"Someone's attacked a dragonrider," one of the other journeymen said grimly.

The smith recoiled, stunned. Who would do that? Surely everyone knew
what an injury to a dragonrider would mean for his dragon. As the others
gathered around, speculating, he slipped quietly out and returned to his
room.

***

Once there, Lorican sat down at his desk, trying to think. Who would do
something as monumentally stupid and vile as attacking a dragonrider
in the heart of the Weyr? And why did it have to happen now? He
immediately felt guilty - the lives of a dragon and rider might be
hanging in the balance - but since he could hardly do anything about
that, he couldn't help wondering what it would mean for him.

On the one hand, it would mean that the Weyrleaders would not be
concerning themselves about a minor robbery on the road right now, in
the same way that no one worried about an insect bite when they'd taken
a stab wound to the gut.

On the other hand, if he were in charge he'd be tightening up security
and taking an interest in any strangers who'd arrived recently.
Especially under unusual circumstances.

He leaned heavily on the desk and muttered one of the more creative
curses he'd picked up from the sailors back at Rocky Bay.

**I've got to go, now. Before they close this place up tight, and I get
stuck here. If I don't, it'll be too late.**

Lorican got to his feet, reached under the bed for his tool bag,
thanking the stars he hadn't left it in the smithy. Then, he took out
the clothes he'd arrived in from the press, and changed quickly, leaving
the ones he'd been given behind.

There was, of course, one important reason to stay put. He had not been
cleared by the healers to leave, which presumably meant there was still
danger. But he was walking more easily now, he hadn't had a headache in
days. It was not, he reminded himself, actually a crime to disobey a
healer's orders.

That reminded him of his drawings. He couldn't take those with him where
he was going. They might be damaged. He could leave them with the other
records in the smithy, and hope that he'd be able to retrieve them at
some point in the future - but he absolutely could not leave his sketch
of Urlene there. Nor could he bear to destroy it.

In the end, he stopped off by the Weyr archives on his way out. It was
deserted, fortunately, so he made his way to the dustiest corner, pulled
over a stool and reached up to tuck his folder in between two volumes
that appeared not to have been touched in Turns. It would be safe there
until he could return. And if he didn't - for good or ill - there was a
certain charm in leaving it hidden there. Perhaps decades or even
hundreds of Turns from now, when they were all dead and gone, some
archivist might pull it out, see his drawing, and know that there had
once been a woman like her.

Lorican smiled at his foolish thought and returned to the Weyr bowl.
Fortunately, the dragons seemed to have calmed for now, but he couldn't
help feeling rather exposed as he crossed the open ground and headed for
the coast road. No Fall for three days, he reminded himself. He had time
to get to Trefil Sea Hold. He was just a travelling smith, with a few
bruises from an accident, heading home from the Weyr. No-one of any
interest.

**I'm alive. I'm moving. I'm going to get back the letters, and then
everything will be back to how it was.**

Looking back over his shoulder at the half-circle cliffs of the Weyr, as
they slowly faded into the distance with every step, he felt a sharp
regret, and wondered if he could, ever, go back to life as it had been
before.

Last updated on the May 3rd 2019

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