“Do you think they’ll stay?”
“With such care as you lavish on them, sweeting, they’re not likely to leave. But you have chores which I cannot in conscience permit you to shirk . . .”
“All because of Kylara . . .”
“Mirrim!”
Ashamed, the girl hung her head, but she deeply resented the fact that Kylara gave all the orders and did no work, leaving her tasks to fall to Brekke. It wasn’t fair. Mirrim was very very glad that the little lizards had preferred her to that woman.
“What did old Rannelly mean about your queen? You take good care of Wirenth. She lacks for nothing,” said Mirrim.
“Ssssh. I’ll go see. I left her sleeping.”
“Rannelly’s as bad as Kylara. She thinks she’s so wise and knows everything . . .”
Brekke was about to scold her fosterling when she heard F’nor calling her.
“The green riders are bringing back some of the meat hung in the salt caves,” she said, issuing quick instructions instead. “None of that is to go to the lizards, Mirrim. Now, mind. The boys can trap wild wherries. Their meat is as good, if not better. We’ve no idea what effect too much red-blood meat will have on lizards.” With that caution to inhibit Mirrim’s impulsive generosity, Brekke went out to meet F’nor.
“There’s been no rider in from Benden?” he asked her, easing the arm sling across his shoulder.
“You’d’ve heard instantly,” she assured him, deftly adjusting the cloth at his neck. “In fact,” she added in mild rebuke, “there are no riders in the Weyr at all today.”
F’nor chuckled. “And not much to show for their absence, either. There isn’t a beach along the coastline that doesn’t have a dragon couchant, with rider a-coil, feigning sleep.”
Brekke put her hand to her mouth. It wouldn’t do for Mirrim to hear her giggling like a weyrling.
“Oh, you laugh?”
“Aye, and they’ve made a note of both occasions that I did,” she said with due solemnity, but her eyes danced. Then she noticed that the sling was missing its usual occupant. “Where’s . . .”
“Grall is curled between Canth’s eyes, so stuffed she’d likely not move if we went between. Which I’ve half a mind to do. If you hadn’t told me I could trust G’nag, I’d swear he’d not delivered my letter to F’lar, or else he’s lost it.”
“You are not going between with that wound, F’nor. And if G’nag said he delivered the letter, he did. Perhaps something has come up.”
“More important than Impressing fire lizards?”
“There could be something. Threads are falling out of phase—” Brekke broke off, she oughtn’t to have reminded F’nor of that, judging by the bleak expression on his face. “Maybe not, but they’ve got to get the Lord Holders to supply watchers and fires and it may be F’lar is occupied with that. It certainly isn’t your fault you’re not there to help. Those odious Fort riders have no self-control. Imagine taking a green out of her Weyr close to mating—” Brekke stopped again, snapping her mouth closed. “But Rannelly said ‘my queen,’ not ‘her’ queen.”
The girl turned so white that F’nor thrust his good hand under her elbow to steady her.
“What’s the matter? Kylara hasn’t ducked Prideth out of here when she’s due to mate? Where is Kylara, by the way?”
“I don’t know. I must check Wirenth. Oh, no, she couldn’t be!”
F’nor followed the girl’s swift steps through the great hanging trees that arched over the Southern Weyr’s sprawling compound.
“Wirenth’s scarcely hatched,” he called after her and then remembered that Wirenth was actually a long time out of her shell. It was just that he tended to think of Brekke as the most recent of the Southern Weyrwomen. Brekke looked so young, much too young . . .
She is the same age as Lessa was when Mnementh first flew Ramoth, Canth informed him.
“Is Wirenth ready to rise?” F’nor asked his brown, stopping dead in his tracks.
Soon. Soon. Bronzes will know.
F’nor ticked over in his mind the bronze complement of Southern. The tally didn’t please him. Not that the bronzes were few in number, a discourtesy to a new queen, but that their riders had always contended for Kylara, whether Prideth’s mating was at stake or not. No matter whose bronze flew Wirenth, the rider would have Brekke and the thought of anyone who had vied for Kylara’s bed favor making love to Brekke irritated the brown rider.
Canth’s as big or bigger than any bronze here, he thought resentfully. He had never entertained such an invidious comparison before and ruthlessly put it out of his mind.
Now, if N’ton, a clean-cut lad and a top wingrider just happened to be in Southern? Or B’dor of Ista Weyr. F’nor had ridden with the Istan when his Weyr and Benden joined forces over Nerat and Keroon. Nicely conformed bronzes, both of them, and while F’nor favored N’ton more, if B’dor’s beast flew Wirenth, she and Brekke would have the option of removing to Ista Weyr. They’d only three queens there, and Nadira was a far better Weyrwoman than Kylara, despite her coming from the Oldtime.
Pleased with this solution, though he hadn’t a notion how to accomplish it, F’nor continued along the path to Wirenth’s sun-baked clearing.
He paused at the edge, affected by the sight of Brekke, totally involved with her queen. The girl stood at Wirenth’s head, her body gracefully inclined against the dragon, as she tenderly scratched the near eye ridge. Wirenth was somnolent, one lid turning back enough to prove she was aware of the attention, her wedge-shaped head resting on one foreleg, her hindquarters neatly tucked under and framed by her long, graceful tail. In the sun she gleamed with an orange-yellow of excellent health—a color which would very shortly turn a deeper-burnished gold. All too shortly, F’nor realized, for Wirenth had lost every trace of the fatty softness of adolescence; her hide was sleek and smooth, not a blemish to suggest imperfect care. She was an extremely well-proportioned dragon; not one bit too leggy, short-tailed or wherry-necked. Despite her size, for she was easily the length of Prideth, she had a more lithesome appearance. She was one of the best bred from Ramoth and Mnementh.
F’nor frowned slightly at Brekke, subtly changed in her dragon’s presence. She seemed more feminine—and desirable. Sensing him, Brekke turned, and the languid look of adoration for her queen made her radiant face almost embarrassing to F’nor.
He hastily cleared his throat. “She’ll rise soon, you realize,” he said, more gruffly than he intended.
“Yes, I think she will, my beauty. I wonder how that will affect him,” Brekke asked, her expression altering. She stepped to one side and pointed to the tiny bronze tucked between Wirenth’s jaw and forearm.
“Can’t tell, can we?” F’nor replied and, with another series of throat-clearings, covered his savagery at the thought of Brekke mating any of the bronze riders at Southern.
“You’re not sickening with something, are you?” she asked with concern and was abruptly transformed back into the Brekke he knew best.
“No. Who’s going to be the lucky rider?” he heard himself asking. It was a civil enough question. He was, after all, F’lar’s Wing-second and had a right to be curious about such matters. “You can ask for an open flight, you know,” he added defensively.
She turned pale and leaned back against Wirenth. As if for comfort.
As if for comfort, F’nor repeated the observation to himself, and remembered, with no relief, the way Brekke had looked at T’bor the day before. “It doesn’t matter if the rider’s already attached, you know, not in a first mating.” He blurted it out, then realized like the greenest dolt that that was stupid. Brekke’d know exactly what Kylara’s reaction would be if T’bor’s Orth flew Wirenth. She’d know she would have no peace at all. He groaned at his ineptitude.
“Your arm is hurting?” she asked, solicitous.
“No. Not my arm,” and he stepped forward, gripping her shoulder with his good hand. “Look, it’d be better if you called for an open flight. T
here are plenty of good bronzes. N’ton of Benden Weyr, B’dor of Ista Weyr. Both are fine men with good beasts. Then you could leave Southern . . .”