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.