Brekke was feeding her lizard, Berd, when F’nor entered. She smiled as she heard Grall’s shrill demand, and pushed the bowl of meat toward F’nor.
“I was worried that you might fly between.”
“Canth wouldn’t let me.”
“Canth has sense. How’s the arm?”
“Took no hurt. There wasn’t much to be done.”
“So I hear.” Brekke frowned. “Everything’s askew. I have the oddest sensation . . .”
“Go on,” F’nor urged when she broke off. “What kind of a sensation?” Was Wirenth about to rise? Brekke seemed to remain untouched by so many disturbances, a serene competent personality, tranquilly keeping the Weyr going, healing the wounded. For her to admit to uncertainty was disturbing.
As if she caught his thoughts, she shook her head, her lips set in a fierce line.
“No, it’s not personal. It’s just that everything is going awry—disorienting, changing . . .”
“Is that all? Didn’t I hear you suggesting a minor change or two? Letting a girl Impress a fighting dragon? Handing out fire lizards to placate the common mass?”
“That’s change. I’m talking about a disorientation, a violent upheaval . . .”
“And your suggestions don’t rank under that heading? Oh, my dear girl,” and F’nor suddenly gave her a long, penetrating look. Something in her candid gaze disturbed him deeply.
“Kylara pestering you?”
Brekke’s eyes slid from his and she shook her head. “I told you, Brekke, you can request other bronzes. Someone from another Weyr, N’ton of Benden or B’dor of Ista . . . That would shut Kylara up.”
Brekke shook her head violently, but kept her face averted. “Don’t keep foisting your friends on me!” Her voice was sharp. “I like Southern. I’m needed here.”
“Needed? You’re being shamelessly exploited and not just by Southerners!”
She stared at him, as surprised by the impulsive outburst as he was. For one moment he thought he understood why, but her eyes became guarded and F’nor wondered what Brekke could want to hide.
“The need is more apparent than the exploitation. I don’t mind hard work,” she said in a low voice and popped a piece of meat into the brown’s wide-open mouth. “Don’t rob me of what fragile contentment I can contrive.”
“Contentment?”
“Sssh. You’re agitating the lizards.”
“They’ll survive. They fight. The trouble with you, Brekke, is that you won’t. You deserve so much more than you get. You don’t know what a kind, generous, useful—oh, shells!” and F’nor broke off in confusion.
“Useful, worthwhile, wholesome, capable, dependable, the list is categoric, F’nor, I know the entire litany,” Brekke said with a funny little catch in her voice. “Rest assured, my friend, I know what I am.”
There was such a bitterness in her light words, and such a shadow in her usually candid green eyes that F’nor could not tolerate it. To erase that self-deprecation, to make amends for his own maladroitness, F’nor leaned across the table to kiss her on the lips.
He meant it as no more than a guerdon and was totally unprepared for the reaction in himself, in Brekke. Or for Canth’s distant bugle.
His eyes never leaving Brekke’s, F’nor rose slowly and circled the table. He slid beside her on the bench, pulling her against him with his good arm. Her head fell back on his shoulder and he bent to the incredible sweetness of her lips. Her body was soft and pliable, her arms went around him, pressing him to her with a total surrender to his virility that he had never before experienced. No matter how eager others had seemed, or gratified, there had never been such a total commitment to him. Such an innocence of . . .
Abruptly F’nor raised his head, looking deep into her eyes.
“You’ve never slept with T’bor.” He stated it as a fact. “You’ve never slept with any man.”
She hid her face in his shoulder, the pliancy of her body gone. He gently forced her head up.
“Why have you deliberately let it be assumed that you and T’bor . . .”
She was shaking her head slightly from side to side, her eyes concealing nothing, her face a mask of sorrow.
“To keep other men from you?” F’nor demanded, giving her a little shake. “Why? Whom are you keeping yourself for?”
He knew the answer before she spoke, knew it when she placed her finger on his lips to silence him. But he couldn’t understand her sorrow. He’d been a fool but . . .
“I have loved you since the first day I saw you. You were so kind to us, yanked away from Craft and Hold, dazed because we’d been brought all the way here on Search for Wirenth. One of us would actually be a Weyrwoman. And you—you were all a dragonman should be, tall and handsome, so kind. I didn’t know then—” and Brekke faltered. To F’nor’s concern, tears filmed her eyes. “How could I know that only bronze dragons fly queens!”
F’nor held the weeping girl to his chest, his lips against her soft hair, her trembling hands folded in his. Yes, there was much about Brekke he could understand now.
“Dear girl,” he said when her tears lessened, “is that why you refused N’ton?”
She nodded her head against his shoulder, unwilling to look at him.
“Then you’re a silly clunch and deserve all the anguish you’ve put yourself through,” he said, his teasing voice taking the sting from his words. He patted her shoulder and sighed exaggeratedly. “And craftbred as well. Have you taken in nothing you’ve been told about dragonfolk? Weyrwomen can’t be bound by any commoner moralities. A Weyrwoman has to be subservient to her queen’s needs, including mating with many riders if her queen is flown by different dragons. Most craft and holdbred girls envy such freedom . . .”
“Of that I’m all too aware,” Brekke said and her body seemed to resent his touch.
“Does Wirenth object to me?”
“Oh, no,” and Brekke looked startled. “I meant—oh, I don’t know what I meant. I love Wirenth, but can’t you understand? I’m not weyrbred. I don’t have that kind of—of—wantonness in my nature. I’m—I’m inhibited. There! I said it I am inhibited and I’m terrified that I’ll inhibit Wirenth. I can’t change all of me to conform to Weyr customs. I’m the way I am.”
F’nor tried to soothe her. He wasn’t sure now how to proceed, for this overwrought girl was a different creature entirely from the calm, serious, reliable Brekke he knew.
“No one wants or expects you to change completely. You wouldn’t be our Brekke. But dragons don’t criticize. Neither do their riders. Most queens tend to prefer one bronze above the others consistently . . .”
“You still don’t understand.” The accusation was a hopeless wail. “I never saw any man I wanted to—to have—” The word was an aspirated whisper. “Not that way. Not until I saw you. I don’t want any other man to possess me. I’ll freeze. I won’t be able to draw Wirenth back. And I love her. I love her so and she’ll be rising soon and I can’t . . . I thought I’d be able to, but I know I’ll . . .”
She tried to break away from him, but even with one arm the brown rider was stronger. Trapped, she began to cling to him with the strength of utter despair.
He rocked her gently against him, removing his arm from the sling so he could stroke her hair.
“You won’t lose Wirenth. It’s different when dragons mate, love. You’re the dragon, too, caught up in emotions that have only one resolution.” He held her tightly as she seemed to shrink with revulsion from him as well as the imminent event. He thought of the riders here at Southern, of T’bor, and he experienced a disgust of another sort. Those men, conditioned to respond to Kylara’s exotic tastes, would brutalize this inexperienced child.
F’nor glanced round at the low couch and rose, Brekke in his arms. He started for the bed, halted, hearing voices beyond the clearing. Anyone might come.
Still holding her, he carried her out of the weyrhold, smothering her protest against his chest as she realized his intention. Th
ere was a place behind his weyrhold, beyond Canth’s wallow, where the ferns grew sweet and thick, where they would be undisturbed.
He wanted to be gentle but, unaccountably, Brekke fought him. She pleaded with him, crying out wildly that they’d rouse the sleeping Wirenth. He wasn’t gentle but he was thorough, and, in the end, Brekke astounded him with a surrender as passionate as if her dragon had been involved.
F’nor raised himself on his elbow, pushing the sweaty, fern-entangled hair from her closed eyes, pleased by the soft serenity of her expression; excessively pleased with himself. A man never really knew how a woman would respond in love. So much hinted at in play never materialized in practice.
But Brekke was as honest in love, as kind and generous, as wholesome as ever; in her innocent wholeheartedness more sensual than the most skilled partner he had ever enjoyed.
Her eyes opened, met his in a wondering stare for a long moment. With a moan, she turned her head, evading his scrutiny.
“Surely no regrets, Brekke?”
“Oh, F’nor, what will I do when Wirenth rises?”
F’nor began to curse then, steadily, hopelessly, as he cradled her now unresponsive body against him. He cursed the differences between Hold and Weyr, the throbbing wound in his arm that signalized the difference which existed even between dragonmen. He railed at the inescapable realization that what he loved most was insufficient to his need. He hated himself, aware that in his effort to help Brekke, he had compromised her values and was probably destroying her.
Instinctively his confused thoughts reached out to Canth, and he found himself trying to suppress that contact. Canth must never know his rider could fault him for not being a bronze.
I am as large as most bronzes, Canth said with unruffled equanimity. Almost as if he was surprised he had to mention the fact to his rider. I am strong. Strong enough to outlast any bronze here.
F’nor’s exclamation roused Brekke.
“There’s no reason Canth can’t fly Wirenth. By the Shell, he could outfly any bronze here. And probably Orth, too, if he puts his mind to it.”
“Canth fly Wirenth?”
“Why not?”
“But browns don’t fly queens. Bronzes do.”
F’nor hugged her fiercely, trying to impart his jubilation, his almost inarticulate joy and relief.
“The only reason browns haven’t flown queens is that they’re smaller. They don’t have the stamina to last in a mating flight. But Canth’s big. Canth’s the biggest, strongest, fastest brown in Pern. Don’t you see, Brekke?”
Her body uncurled. Hope was restoring color to her face, life to her green eyes.
“It’s been done?”
F’nor shook his head impatiently. “It’s time to discard custom that hampers. Why not this one?”
She permitted him to caress her but there was a shadow lingering in her eyes and a reluctance in her body.
“I want to, oh how I want to, F’nor, but I’m so scared. I’m scared to my bones.”
He kissed her deeply, ruthlessly employing subtleties to arouse her. “Please, Brekke?”
“It can’t be wrong to be happy, can it, F’nor?” she whispered, a shiver rippling along her body.
He kissed her again, using every trick learned from a hundred casual encounters to wed her to him, body, soul and mind, aware of Canth’s enthusiastic endorsement.
Seething with fury, Kylara watched the men walk off and leave her, standing in the clearing. Her conflicting emotions made it impossible for her to retaliate suitably, but she’d make them both regret their words. She’d pay F’lar back for losing the lizard queen. She’d score T’bor for daring to reprimand her, the Weyrwoman of Southern, of the Telgar Bloodline, in the presence of F’lar. Oh, he’d regret that insult. They’d both regret it. She’d show them.
Her arm throbbed from the clawing and she cradled it against her, the pain acerbating her other complaints. Where was some numbweed? Where was that Brekke? Where was everyone else at a time when the Weyr compound should be full of people? Was everyone avoiding her? Where was Brekke?
Feeding the lizard. I’m hungry, too, Prideth said so firmly that Kylara looked around in surprise at her queen.
“Your color isn’t good,” she said, her stream of mental vituperation deflected by the habit of concern for Prideth’s wellbeing and the instinctive awareness that she must not alienate her dragon.
Well, she didn’t want to have to look at Brekke’s broad commoner face. She certainly didn’t want to see a lizard. Not now. Horrible creatures, no gratitude. No real sensitivity or the thing would have known it was only being shown off. Prideth jumped them to the Feeding Ground and landed so smartly that Kylara gave a gasp of pain as her arm was jarred. Tears formed in her eyes. Prideth too?
But Prideth gave a flying jump to the back of a fat, stupid herdbeast and began to feed with a savagery that fascinated Kylara out of her self-pity. The queen finished the beast with ravenous speed. She was upon a second buck and disemboweling it so voraciously that Kylara could not escape the fact that she had indeed been neglecting Prideth. She felt herself caught up in the hunger and vicariously dissipated her anger by imagining T’bor as the second buck, F’lar as the third, Lessa as the big wherry. By the time Prideth’s hunger was sated, Kylara’s mind was clear.
She took her queen back to the weyr and spent a long time sanding and brushing her hide until it lost all trace of dullness. Finally Prideth curled in a contented drowse on the sun-warmed rock and Kylara’s guilt was absolved.
“Forgive me, Prideth. I didn’t mean to neglect you. But they’ve slighted me so often. And a blow at me is a slam at your prestige, too. Soon they won’t dare ignore us. And we won’t stay immured in this dreary, underside Weyr. We’ll have strong men and the most powerful bronzes begging us for favors. You’ll be oiled and fed and scrubbed and scratched and pampered as you ought. You’ll see. They’ll regret their behavior.”
Prideth’s eyes were completely lidded now, and her breath came and went with a faint whistle. Kylara glanced at the bulging belly. She’d sleep a long time with that much to content her.
“I ought not to have let her gorge so,” Kylara murmured, but there had been something so gratifying in the way Prideth tore into her meat; as if all indignities and affronts and discourtesy had leaked out of Kylara as blood from the slaughtered animals had seeped into the pasture grass.
Her arm began to hurt again. She’d removed the wherhide tunic to groom Prideth, and sand and dust coated the new scabs. Suddenly Kylara felt filthy, disgustingly filthy with sand and dust and sweat. She was aware of fatigue, too. She’d bathe and eat, have Rannelly rub her well with sweet oil and cleansing sand. First, she’d get some numbweed from little nurse-goody Brekke.
She came past the side window of Brekke’s weyrhold and heard the murmur of a man’s voice and the low delighted laughing response from Brekke. Kylara halted, astonished by the rippling quality of the girl’s voice. She peered in, unobserved, because Brekke had eyes only for the dark head bent toward her.
F’nor! And Brekke?
The brown rider raised his hand slowly, stroked back a wayward strand of hair from Brekke’s cheek with such loving tenderness that there was no doubt in Kylara’s mind that they had only recently been lovers.
Kylara’s half-forgotten anger burst into cold heat. Brekke and F’nor! When F’nor had repeatedly turned aside her favors? Brekke and F’nor indeed!
Because Kylara moved on, Canth did not tell his rider.
CHAPTER X
Early Morning in Harpercrafthall at
Fort Hold
Afternoon at Telgar Hold
ROBINTON, Masterharper of Pern, adjusted his tunic, the rich green pile of the fabric pleasing to the touch as well as the eye. He turned sideways, to check the fit of the tunic across his shoulders. Masterweaver Zurg had compensated for his tendency to slouch, so the hem did not hike up. The gilded belt and the knife were just the proper dress accouterments.
Robinton grimaced at his reflection. “Belt knives!” He smoothed his hair behind his ears, then stepped back to check the pants. Mastertanner Belesdan had surpassed himself. The fellis dye had turned toe soft wherhide into a deep green the same shade as the tunic. The boots were a shade darker. They fit snug to his calf and foot.
Green! Robinton grinned to himself. Neither Zurg nor Belesdan had been in favor of that shade, though it was easily obtainable. About time we shed another ridiculous superstition, Robinton thought.
He glanced out of his window, checking the sun’s position. It was above the Fort range now. That meant midafternoon at Telgar Hold and the guests would be gathering. He’d been promised transport. T’ron of Fort Weyr had grudgingly acceded to that request, though it was a tradition of long standing that the Harper could request aid from any Weyr
A dragon appeared in the northwest sky.
Robinton grabbed up his overcloak—the dress tunic would never keep out the full cold of between—his gloves and felted case that contained the best gitar. He’d hesitated about bringing it. Chad had a fine instrument at Telgar Hold, but fine wood and gut would not be chilled by those cold seconds of between as mere flesh would.
When he passed the window, he noticed a second dragon winging down, and was mildly surprised.
By the time he reached the small court of the Harpercrafthall, he gave a snort of amusement. A third dragon had appeared from due east.
Never around when you want ’em, though. Robinton sighed, for it seemed the problems of the day had already begun, instead of waiting dutifully for him (as what trouble does?) at Telgar Hold, where he’d expected it.
Green, blue—and ah-ha—bronze dragon wings in the early morning sun.
“Sebell, Talmor, Brudegan, Tagetarl, into your fine rags. Hurry or I’ll skin you and use your lazy innards for strings,” Robinton called in a voice that projected into every room facing the Court.