Unable to comprehend how he could have uttered such an arrant challenge, F’lar managed to assume a languid pose.
“You did mention, my Lord,” he drawled, “that if any of your Holds could not support itself and the visit of its rightful overlord, you would renounce it.”
Fax stared back at F’lar, his face a study of swiftly suppressed emotions, the glint of triumph dominant. F’lar, his face stiff with the forced expression of indifference, was casting swiftly about in his mind. In the name of the Egg, had he lost all sense of discretion?
Pretending utter unconcern, he stabbed some vegetables onto his knife and began to munch on them. As he did so, he noticed F’nor glancing slowly around the Hall, scrutinizing everyone. Abruptly F’lar realized what had happened. Somehow, in making that statement, he, a dragonman, had responded to a covert use of the power. F’lar, the bronze rider, was being put into a position where he would have to fight Fax. Why? For what end? To get Fax to renounce the Hold? Incredible! But there could be only one possible reason for such a turn of events. An exultation as sharp as pain swelled within F’lar. It was all he could do to maintain his pose of bored indifference, all he could do to turn his attention to thwarting Fax, should he press for a duel. A duel would serve no purpose. He, F’lar, had no time to waste on it.
A groan escaped Lady Gemma and broke the eyelocked stance of the two antagonists. Irritated, Fax looked down at her, fist clenched and half-raised to strike her for her temerity at interrupting her lord and master. The contraction that rippled across the swollen belly was as obvious as the woman’s pain. F’lar dared not look toward her, but he wondered if she had deliberately groaned aloud to break the tension.
Incredibly, Fax began to laugh. He threw back his head, showing big, stained teeth, and roared.
“Aye, renounce it, in favor of her issue, if it is male . . . and lives!” he crowed, laughing raucously.
“Heard and witnessed!” F’lar snapped, jumping to his feet and pointing to his riders. They were on their feet in an instant. “Heard and witnessed!” they averred in the traditional manner.
With that movement, everyone began to babble at once in nervous relief. The other women, each reacting in her way to the imminence of birth, called orders to the servants and advice to each other. They converged toward the Lady Gemma, hovering undecidedly out of Fax’s range like silly wherries disturbed from their roosts. It was obvious they were torn between their fear of their Lord and their desire to reach the laboring woman.
He gathered their intentions as well as their reluctance and, still stridently laughing, knocked back his chair. He stepped over it, strode down to the meat stand and stood hacking off pieces with his knife, stuffing them, juice dripping, into his mouth without ceasing to guffaw.
As F’lar bent toward the Lady Gemma to assist her out of her chair, she grabbed his arm urgently. Their eyes met, hers clouded with pain. She pulled him closer.
“He means to kill you, bronze rider. He loves to kill,” she whispered.
“Dragonmen are not easily killed, brave lady. I am grateful to you.”
“I do not want you killed,” she said softly, biting at her lip. “We have so few bronze riders.”
F’lar stared at her, startled. Did she, Fax’s lady, actually believe in the Old Laws? He beckoned to two of the Warder’s men to carry her up into the Hold. He caught Lady Tela by the arm as she fluttered past him in their wake.
“What do you need?”
“Oh, oh,” she exclaimed, her face twisted with panic; she was distractedly wringing her hands. “Water, hot, clean. Cloths. And a birthing-woman. Oh, yes, we must have a birthing-woman.”
F’lar looked about for one of the Hold women, his glance sliding over the first disreputable figure who had started to mop up the spilled food. He signaled instead for the Warder and peremptorily ordered him to send for the birthing-woman. The Warder kicked at the drudge on the floor.
“You . . . you! Whatever your name is, go get her from the crafthold. You must know who she is.”
With a nimbleness at odds with her appearance of extreme age and decrepitude, the drudge evaded the parting kick the Warder aimed in her direction. She scurried across the Hall and out the kitchen door.
Fax sliced and speared meat, occasionally bursting out with a louder bark of laughter as his thoughts amused him. F’lar sauntered down to the carcass and, without waiting for invitation from his host, began to carve neat slices also, beckoning his men over. Fax’s soldiers, however, waited till their Lord had eaten his fill.
Lord of the Hold, your charge is sure
In thick walls, metal doors, and no verdure.
LESSA SPED FROM the Hall to find the crafthold birthing-woman, her mind seething with frustration. So close! So close! How could she come so close and yet fail? Fax should have challenged the dragonman. And the dragonman was strong and young, his face that of a fighter, stern and controlled. He should not have temporized. Was all honor dead in Pern, smothered by green grass?
And why, oh, why, had the Lady Gemma chosen that precious moment to go into labor? If her groan hadn’t distracted Fax, the fight would have begun, and not even Fax, for all his vaunted prowess as a vicious fighter, would have prevailed against a dragonman who had Lessa’s support. The Hold must be secured to its rightful Blood again. Fax would not leave Ruatha alive!
Above her, on the High Tower, the great bronze dragon gave forth a weird croon, his many-faceted eyes sparkling in the gathering darkness.
Unconsciously she silenced him as she would have done the watch-wher. Ah, that watch-wher. He had not come out of his den at her passing. She knew the dragons had been at him. She could hear him gibbering in his panic. They’d drive him to his death.
The slant of the road toward the crafthold lent impetus to her flying feet, and she had to brace herself to a sliding stop at the birthing-woman’s stone threshold. She banged on the closed door and heard the frightened exclamation of surprise within.
“A birth. A birth at the Hold,” Lessa cried in time to her thumping.
“A birth?” came the muffled cry, and the latches were thrown up on the door. “At the Hold?”
“Fax’s lady and, as you love life, hurry, for if it is male, it will be Ruatha’s own Lord.”
That ought to fetch her, thought Lessa, and in that instant the door was flung open by the man of the house. Lessa could see the birthing-woman gathering up her things in haste, piling them into her shawl. Lessa hurried the woman out, up the steep road to the Hold, under the Tower gate, grabbing the woman as she tried to run at the sight of a dragon peering down at her. Lessa drew her into the Court and pushed her, resisting, into the Hall.
The woman clutched at the inner door, balking at the sight of the gathering there. Lord Fax, his feet up on the trestle table, was paring his fingernails with his knife blade, still chuckling. The dragonmen in their wher-hide tunics, were eating quietly at one table while the soldiers were having their turn at the meat.
The bronze rider noticed their entrance and pointed urgently toward the inner Hold. The birthing-woman seemed frozen to the spot. Lessa tugged futilely at her arm, urging her to cross the Hall. To her surprise, the bronze rider strode to them.
“Go quickly, woman, Lady Gemma is before her time,” he said, frowning with concern, gesturing imperatively toward the Hold entrance. He caught her by the shoulder and led her, all unwilling, toward the steps, Lessa tugging away at her other arm.
When they reached the stairs, he relinquished his grip, nodding to Lessa to escort her the rest of the way. Just as they reached the massive inner door, Lessa noticed how sharply the dragonman was looking at them. At her hand on the birthing-woman’s arm. Warily, she glanced at her hand and saw it, as if it belonged to a stranger—the long fingers, shapely despite dirt and broken nails, a small hand, delicately boned, gracefully placed despite the urgency of the grip. She blurred it.
The Lady Gemma was indeed in hard labor, and all was not well. When Lessa tried
to retire from the room, the birthing-woman shot her such a terrified glance that Lessa reluctantly remained. It was obvious that Fax’s other ladies were of no use. They were huddled at one side of the high bed, wringing their hands and talking in shrill, excited tones. It remained to Lessa and the birthing-woman to remove Gemma’s clothing, to ease her and hold her hands against the contractions.
There was little left of beauty in the gravid woman’s face. She was perspiring heavily, her skin tinged with gray. Her breath was sharp and rasping, and she bit her lips against outcry.
“This is not going well,” the birthing-woman muttered under her breath. “You there, stop your sniveling,” she ordered, swinging around to point at one of the gaggle. She lost her indecision as the requirements of her calling gave her temporary authority over those of rank. “Bring me hot water. Hand those cloths over. Find something warm for the babe. If it is born alive, it must be kept from drafts and chill.”
Reassured by her tyranny, the women stopped their whimpering and did her bidding.
If it survives, the words echoed in Lessa’s mind. Survives to be Lord of Ruatha. One of Fax’s get? That had not been her intention, although . . .
The Lady Gemma grabbed blindly for Lessa’s hands, and despite herself, Lessa responded with such comfort as a strong grip would afford the woman.
“She bleeds too much,” the birthing-woman muttered. “More cloths.”
The women resumed their wailing, uttering little shrieks of fear and protestation.
“She should not have been made to journey so far.”
“They will both die.”
“Oh, it is too much blood.”
Too much blood, thought Lessa. I have no quarrel with her. And the child comes too early. It will die. She looked down at the contorted face, the bloodied lower lip. If she does not cry out now, why did she then? Fury swept through Lessa. This woman had, for some obscure reason, deliberately diverted Fax and F’lar at the crucial moment. She all but crushed Gemma’s hands in hers.
Pain from such an unexpected quarter roused Gemma from her brief respite between the shuddering contractions that seized her at shorter and shorter intervals. Blinking sweat from her eyes, she focused desperately on Lessa’s face.
“What have I done to you?” she gasped.
“Done? I had Ruatha almost within my grasp again when you uttered your false cry,” Lessa said, her head bent so that not even the birthing-woman at the foot of the bed could hear them. She was so angry that she had lost all discretion, but it would not matter, for this woman was close to death.
The Lady Gemma’s eyes widened. “But . . . the dragonman . . . Fax cannot kill the dragonman. There are so few bronze riders. They are all needed. And the old tales . . . the star . . . star . . .” She could not continue, for a massive contraction shook her. The heavy rings on her fingers bit into Lessa’s hands as she clung to the girl.
“What do you mean?” Lessa demanded in a hoarse whisper.
But the woman’s agony was so intense that she could scarcely breathe. Her eyes seemed to start from her head. Lessa, hardened though she had become to all emotion save that of revenge, was shocked to the deeper feminine instinct of easing a woman’s pain in her extremity. Even so, the Lady Gemma’s words rang through her mind. The woman had not, then, protected Fax, but the dragonman. The star? Did she mean the Red Star? Which old tales?
The birthing-woman had both hands on Gemma’s belly, pressing downward, chanting advice to a woman too far gone in pain to hear. The twisting body gave a convulsive heave, lifting from the bed. As Lessa tried to support her, Lady Gemma opened her eyes wide, her expression one of incredulous relief. She collapsed into Lessa’s arms and lay still.
“She’s dead!” shrieked one of the women. She flew, screaming, from the chamber. Her voice reverberated down the rock halls. “Dead . . . ead . . . ead . . . ddddd,” echoed back to the dazed women, who stood motionless in shock.
Lessa laid the woman down on the bed, staring amazed at the oddly triumphant smile on Gemma’s face. She retreated into the shadows, far more shaken than anyone else. She who had never hesitated to do anything that would thwart Fax or beggar Ruatha further was trembling with remorse. She had forgotten in her single-mindedness that there might be others motivated by a hatred of Fax. The Lady Gemma was one, and one who had suffered far more subjective brutalities and indignities than Lessa had. Yet Lessa had hated Gemma, had poured out that hatred on a woman who had deserved her respect and support rather than her condemnation.
Lessa shook her head to dispel the aura of tragedy and self-revulsion that threatened to overwhelm her. She had no time for regret or contrition. Not now. Not when, by affecting Fax’s death, she could avenge not only her own wrongs but Gemma’s!
That was it. And she had the lever. The child . . . yes, the child. She’d say it lived. That it was male. The dragonman would have to fight. He had heard and witnessed Fax’s oath.
A smile, not unlike the one on the dead woman’s face, crossed Lessa’s as she hurried down the corridors to the Hall.
She was about to dash into the Hall itself when she realized she had permitted her anticipation of triumph to destroy her self-discipline. Lessa halted at the portal, deliberately took a deep breath. She dropped her shoulders and stepped down, once more the colorless drudge.
The harbinger of death was sobbing in a heap at Fax’s feet.
Lessa gritted her teeth against redoubled hatred for the overlord. He was glad the Lady Gemma had died, birthing his seed. Even now he was ordering the hysterical woman to go tell his latest favorite to attend him, doubtless to install her as his first lady.
“The child lives,” Lessa cried, her voice distorted with anger and hatred. “It is male.”
Fax was on his feet, kicking aside the weeping woman, scowling viciously at Lessa. “What are you saying, woman?”
“The child lives. It is male,” she repeated, descending. The incredulity and rage that suffused Fax’s face was wonderful to see. The Warder’s men stifled their minadvertent cheers.
“Ruatha has a new Lord.” The dragons roared.
So intent was she on achieving her purpose that she failed to notice the reactions of others in the hall, failed to hear the roaring of the dragons without.
Fax erupted into action. He leaped across the intervening space, bellowing denials of the news. Before Lessa could dodge, his fist crashed down across her face. She was swept off her feet, off the steps, and fell heavily to the stone floor, where she lay motionless, a bundle of dirty rags.
“Hold, Fax!” F’lar’s voice cut across the silence as the Lord of the High Reaches lifted his leg to kick the unconscious body.
Fax whirled, his hand automatically closing on his knife hilt.
“It was heard and witnessed, Fax,” F’lar cautioned him, one hand outstretched in warning, “by dragon-men. Stand by your sworn and witnessed oath!”
“Witnessed? By dragonmen?” cried Fax with a derisive laugh. “Dragonwomen, you mean,” he sneered, his eyes blazing with contempt, one sweeping gesture of scorn dismissing them all.
He was momentarily taken aback by the speed with which the bronze rider’s knife appeared in his hand.
“Dragonwomen?” F’lar queried, his lips curling back over his teeth, his voice dangerously soft. Glow-light flickered off his circling blade as he advanced on Fax.
“Women! Parasites on Pern. The Weyr power is over! Over for good,” roared Fax, leaping forward to land in a combat crouch.
The two antagonists were dimly aware of the scurry behind them, of tables pulled roughly aside to give the duelists space. F’lar could spare no glance at the crumpled form of the drudge, yet he was sure, through and beyond instinct sure, that she was the source of power. He had felt it as she entered the room. The dragons’ roaring confirmed it. If that fall had killed her . . . He advanced on Fax, leaping away to avoid the slashing blade as Fax unwound from the crouch with a powerful lunge.
F’lar evaded the att
ack easily, noticing his opponent’s reach, deciding he had a slight advantage there. He told himself sternly that wasn’t much advantage. Fax had had much more actual hand-to-hand killing experience than had he whose duels had always ended at first blood on the practice floor. F’lar made due note to avoid closing with the burly Lord. The man was heavy-chested, dangerous from sheer mass. F’lar must use agility as a weapon, not brute strength.
Fax feinted, testing F’lar for weakness or indiscretion. The two crouched, facing each other across six feet of space, knife hands weaving, their free hands, spread-fingered, ready to grab.
Again Fax pressed the attack. F’lar allowed him to close, just close enough to dodge away with a backhanded swipe. He felt fabric tear under the tip of his knife and heard Fax’s snarl. The overlord was faster on his feet than his bulk suggested, and F’lar had to dodge a second time, feeling the scoring of Fax’s knife across his heavy wher-hide jerkin.
Grimly the two circled, looking for an opening in each other’s defense. Fax plowed in, trying to turn his weight and mass to advantage against the lighter, faster man by cornering him between raised platform and wall.
F’lar countered, ducking low under Fax’s flailing arm, slashing obliquely across Fax’s side. The overlord caught at him, yanking savagely, and F’lar was trapped against the other man’s side, straining desperately with his left hand to keep the knife arm up. F’lar brought up his knee, timing a sudden collapse with that blow. He ducked away as Fax gasped and buckled from the pain in his groin. F’lar danced away, sudden fire in his left shoulder witness that he had not escaped unscathed.
Fax’s face was red with bloody anger, and he wheezed from pain and shock. But F’lar had no time to follow up the momentary advantage, for the infuriated Lord straightened up and charged. F’lar was forced to sidestep quickly before Fax could close with him. F’lar put the meat table between them, circling warily, flexing his shoulder to assess the extent of his injury. The slash felt as if it had been scored by a brand. Motion was painful, but the arm could be used.