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.