“I’m sick of stringy old flesh, of bad bread, of wood-tasting roots,” D’nol was shouting, thoroughly incensed. “Pern prospered this Turn. Let some spill over into the Weyr as it ought!”
T’bor, standing belligerently beside him, growled agreement, his eyes fixing on first one, then another of the silent bronze riders. Lessa caught at the hope that T’bor might act as substitute for S’lar.
“One move from the Weyr at this moment,” R’gul interrupted, his arm raised warningly, “and all the Lords will move—against us.” His arm dropped dramatically.
He stood, squarely facing the two rebels, feet slightly apart, head high, eyes flashing. He towered a head and a half above the stocky, short D’nol and the slender T’bor. The contrast was unfortunate: the tableau was of the stern patriarch reprimanding errant children.
“The roads are clear,” R’gul went on portentously, “with neither rain nor snow to stay an advancing army. The Lords have kept full guards under arms since Fax was killed.” R’gul’s head turned just slightly in F’lar’s direction. “Surely you all remember the scant hospitality we got on Search?” Now R’gul pinned each bronze rider in turn with a significant stare. “You know the temper of the Holds, you saw their strength.” He jerked his chin up. “Are you fools to antagonize them?”
“A good firestoning . . .” D’nol blurted out angrily and stopped. His rash words shocked himself as much as anyone else in the room.
Even Lessa gasped at the idea of deliberately using firestone against man.
“Something has to be done . . .” D’nol blundered on desperately, turning first to F’lar, then, less hopefully, to T’bor.
If R’gul wins, it will be the end, Lessa thought, coldly furious, and reacted, turning her thoughts toward T’bor. At Ruatha it had been easiest to sway angry men. If she could just . . . A dragon trumpeted outside.
An excruciatingly sharp pain lanced from her instep up her leg. Stunned, she staggered backward, unexpectedly falling into F’lar. He caught her arm with fingers like iron bands.
“You dare control . . .” he whispered savagely in her ear and, with false solicitude, all but slammed her down into her chair. His hand grasped her arm with vise-fingered coercion.
Swallowing convulsively against the double assault, she sat rigidly. When she could take in what had happened, she realized the moment of crisis had passed.
“Nothing can be done at this time,” R’gul was saying forcefully.
“At this time . . .” The words ricocheted in Lessa’s ringing ears.
“The Weyr has young dragons to train. Young men to bring up in the proper Traditions.”
Empty Traditions, Lessa thought numbly, her mind seething with bitterness. And they will empty the very Weyr itself.
She glared with impotent fury at F’lar. His hand tightened warningly on her arm until his fingers pressed tendon to bone and she gasped again with pain. Through the tears that sprang to her eyes, she saw defeat and shame written on K’net’s young face. Hope flared up, renewed.
With an effort she forced herself to relax. Slowly, as if F’lar had really frightened her. Slowly enough for him to believe in her capitulation.
As soon as she could, she would get K’net aside. He was ripe for the idea she had just conceived. He was young, malleable, attracted to her anyway. He would serve her purpose admirably.
“Dragonman, avoid excess,” R’gul was intoning. “Greed will cause the Weyr distress.”
Lessa stared at the man, honestly appalled that he could clothe the Weyr’s moral defeat with hypocritical homily.
Honor those the dragons heed
In thought and favor, word and deed.
Worlds are lost or worlds are saved
From the dangers dragon-braved.
“WHAT’S THE MATTER? Noble F’lar going against tradition?” Lessa demanded of F’nor as the brown rider appeared with a courteous explanation of the wingleader’s absence.
Lessa no longer bothered to leash her tongue in F’nor’s presence. The brown rider knew it was not directed at himself, so he rarely took offense. Some of his half brother’s reserve had rubbed off on him.
His expression today, however, was not tolerant; it was sternly disapproving.
“He’s tracing K’net,” F’nor said bluntly, his dark eyes troubled. He pushed his heavy hair back from his forehead, another habit picked up from F’lar, which added fuel to Lessa’s grievance with the absent weyrman.
“Oh, is he? He’d do well to imitate him instead,” she snapped.
F’nor’s eyes flashed angrily.
Good, thought Lessa. I’m getting to him, too.
“What you do not realize, Weyrwoman, is that K’net takes your instructions too liberally. A judicious pilfering would raise no protest, but K’net is too young to be circumspect.”
“My instructions?” Lessa repeated innocently. Surely F’nor and F’lar hadn’t a shred of evidence to go on. Not that she cared. “He’s just too fed up with the whole cowardly mess!”
F’nor clamped his teeth down tightly against an angry rebuttal. He shifted his stance, clamped his hands around the wide rider’s belt until his knuckles whitened. He returned Lessa’s gaze coldly.
In that pause Lessa regretted antagonizing F’nor. He had tried to be friendly, pleasant, and had often amused her with anecdotes as she became more and more embittered. As the world turned colder, rations had gotten slimmer at the Weyr in spite of the systematic additions of K’net. Despair drifted through the Weyr on the icy winds.
Since D’nol’s abortive rebellion, all spirit had drained out of the dragonmen. Even the beasts reflected it. Diet alone would not account for the dullness of their hide and their deadened attunement. Apathy could—and did. Lessa wondered that R’gul did not rue the result of his spineless decision.
“Ramoth is not awake,” she told F’nor calmly, “so you do not need to dance attendance on me.”
F’nor said nothing, and his continued silence began to discomfit Lessa.. She rose, rubbing her palms on her thighs as if she could erase her last hasty words. She paced back and forth, glancing from her sleeping chamber into Ramoth’s, where the golden queen, now larger than any of the bronze dragons, lay in deep slumber.
If only she would wake, Lessa thought. When she’s awake, everything’s all right. As right as it can be, that is. But she’s like a rock.
“So . . .” she began, trying to keep her nervousness out of her voice, “F’lar is at last doing something, even if it is cutting off our one source of supply.”
“Lytol sent in a message this morning,” F’nor said curtly. His anger had subsided, but not his disapproval.
Lessa turned to face him, expectantly.
“Telgar and Fort have conferred with Keroon,” F’nor went on heavily. “They’ve decided the Weyr is behind their losses. Why,” and his anger flared hot again, “if you picked K’net, didn’t you keep a close check on him? He’s too green. C’gan, T’sum, I would have . . .”
“You? You don’t sneeze without F’lar’s consent,” she retorted.
F’nor laughed outright at her.
“F’lar did give you more credit than you deserve,” he replied, contemptuous of his own turn. “Haven’t you realized why he must wait?”
“No,” Lessa shouted at him. “I haven’t! Is this something I must divine, by instinct, like the dragons? By the shell of the first Egg, F’nor, no one explains anything to me!
“But it is nice to know that he has a reason for waiting. I just hope it’s valid. That it is not too late already. Because I think it is.”
It was too late when he stopped me from reinforcing T’bor, she thought, but refrained from saying. Instead, she added, “It was too late when R’gul was too cowardly to feel the shame of . . .”
F’nor swung on her, his face white with anger. “It took more courage than you’ll ever have to watch that moment slide by.”
“Why?”
F’nor took a half step forward, so menacingly that Lessa
steeled herself for a blow. He mastered the impulse, shaking his head violently to control himself.
“It is not R’gul’s fault,” he said finally, his face old and drawn, his eyes troubled and hurt. “It has been hard, hard to watch and to know you had to wait.”
“Why?” Lessa all but shrieked.
F’nor would no longer be goaded. He continued in a quiet voice.
“I thought you ought to know, but it goes against F’lar’s grain to apologize for one of his own.”
Lessa bit back the sarcastic remark that rose to her lips, lest she interrupt this long-awaited enlightenment.
“R’gul is Weyrleader only by default. He’d be well enough, I suppose, if there hadn’t been such a long Interval. The Records warn of the dangers . . .”
“Records? Dangers? What do you mean by Interval?”
“An Interval occurs when the Red Star does not pass close enough to excite the Threads. The Records indicate it takes about two hundred Turns before the Red Star swings back again. F’lar figures nearly twice that time has elapsed since the last Threads fell.”
Lessa glanced apprehensively eastward. F’nor nodded solemnly.
“Yes, and it’d be rather easy to forget fear and caution in four hundred years. R’gul’s a good fighter and a good wingleader, but he has to see and touch and smell danger before he admits it exists. Oh, he learned the Laws and all the Traditions, but he never understood them in his bones. Not the way F’lar does or the way I have come to,” he added defiantly, seeing the skeptical expression on Lessa’s face. His eyes narrowed, and he pointed an accusing finger at her. “Nor the way you do, only you don’t know why.”
She backed away, not from him but from the menace she knew existed, even if she didn’t know why she believed.
“The moment F’lar Impressed Mnementh, F’lon began training him to take over. Then F’lon got himself killed in that ridiculous brawl.” An expression comprised of anger, regret, and irritation passed over F’nor’s face. Belatedly Lessa realized the man was speaking of his father. “F’lar was too young to take over, and before anyone could intervene, R’gul got Hath to fly Nemorth and we had to wait. But R’gul couldn’t control Jora’s grief over F’lon, and she deteriorated rapidly. And he misinterpreted F’lon’s plan for carrying us over the last of the Interval to mean isolation. Consequently”—F’nor shrugged expressively—“the Weyr lost prestige faster all the time.”
“Time, time, time,” Lessa railed. “It’s always the wrong time. When is now the time?”
“Listen to me.” F’nor’s stern words interrupted her tirade as effectively as if he had grabbed and shaken her. She had not suspected F’nor of such forcefulness. She looked at him with increased respect.
“Ramoth is full-grown, ready for her first mating flight. When she flies, all the bronzes rise to catch her. The strongest does not always get the queen. Sometimes it is the one everyone in the Weyr wants to have win her.” He enunciated his words slowly and clearly. “That was how R’gul got Hath to fly Nemorth. The older riders wanted R’gul. They couldn’t stomach a nineteen-year-old over them as Weyrleader, son though he was to F’lon. So Hath got Nemorth. And they got R’gul. They got what they wanted. And look what they’ve got!” His scornful gesture took in the threadbare weyr.
“It is too late, it is too late,” Lessa moaned, understanding a great deal, too well, too late.
“It may be, thanks to your prodding K’net into uncontrolled raiding,” F’nor assured her cynically. “You didn’t need him, you know. Our wing was handling it quietly. But when so much kept coming in, we cut our operations down. It’s a case of too much too soon, since the Hold Lords are getting imprudent enough to retaliate. Think, Lessa of Pern,” and F’nor leaned toward her, his smile bitter, “what R’gul’s reaction will be. You didn’t stop to think of that, did you? Think, now, what he will do when the well-armed Lords of the Hold appear, to demand satisfaction?”
Lessa closed her eyes, appalled at the scene she could picture all too clearly. She caught at her chair arm, limply sat down, undone by the knowledge she had miscalculated. Overconfident because she had been able to bring haughty Fax to his death, she was about to bring the Weyr to its ruin through that same arrogance.
There was suddenly noise enough for half the Weyr to be storming up the passageway from the ledge. She could hear the dragons calling excitedly to each other, the first outburst she had heard from them in two months.
Startled, she jumped up. Had F’lar failed to intercept K’net? Had K’net, by some horrible chance, been caught by the Lords? Together she and F’nor rushed out into the queen’s weyr.
It was not F’lar and K’net and an angry Lord—or several—in tow who entered. It was R’gul, his cautious face distorted, his eyes wide with excitement. From the outside ledge Lessa could hear Hath generating the same intense agitation. R’gul shot a quick glance at Ramoth, who slumbered on obliviously. His eyes as he approached Lessa were coldly calculating. D’nol came rushing into the weyr at a dead run, hastily buckling on his tunic. Close on his heels came S’lan, S’lel, T’bor. They all converged in a loose semicircle around Lessa.
R’gul stepped forward, arm outstretched as if to embrace her. Before Lessa could step back, for there was something in R’gul’s expression that revolted her, F’nor moved adroitly to her side, and R’gul, angry, lowered his arm.
“Hath is blooding his kill?” the brown rider asked ominously.
“Binth and Orth, too,” T’bor blurted out, his eyes bright with the curious fever that seemed to be affecting all the bronze riders.
Ramoth stirred restlessly, and everyone paused to watch her intently.
“Blood their kill?” Lessa exclaimed, perplexed but knowing that this was strangely significant.
“Call in K’net and F’lar,” F’nor ordered with more authority than a brown rider should use in the presence of bronzes.
R’gul’s laugh was unpleasant.
“No one knows where they went.”
D’nol started to protest, but R’gul cut him off with a savage gesture.
“You wouldn’t dare, R’gul,” F’nor said with cold menace.
Well, Lessa would dare. Her frantic appeal to Mnementh and Piyanth produced a faint reply. Then there was absolute blankness where Mnementh had been.
“She will wake,” R’gul was saying, his eyes piercing Lessa’s. “She will wake and rise ill-tempered. You must allow her only to blood her kill. I warn you she will resist. If you do not restrain her, she will gorge and cannot fly.”
“She rises to mate,” F’nor snapped, his voice edged with cold and desperate fury.
“She rises to mate with whichever bronze can catch her,” R’gul continued, his voice exultant.
And he means for F’lar not to be here, Lessa realized.
“The longer the flight, the better the clutch. And she cannot fly well or high if she is stuffed with heavy meat. She must not gorge. She must be permitted only to blood her kill. Do you understand?”
“Yes, R’gul,” Lessa said, “I understand. For once I do understand you, all too well. F’lar and K’net are not here.” Her voice grew shrill. “But Ramoth will never be flown by Hath if I have to take her between.”
She saw naked fear and shock wipe R’gul’s face clear of triumph, and she watched as he got himself under control. A malevolent sneer replaced surprise at her threat. Did he think her defiance was empty?
“Good afternoon,” said F’lar pleasantly from the entrance. K’net grinned broadly at his side. “Mnementh informs me that the bronzes blood their kill. How kind of you to call us in for the spectacle.”
Relief temporarily swept her recent antagonism for F’lar out of Lessa’s mind. The sight of him, calm, arrogant, mocking, buoyed her.
R’gul’s eyes darted around the semicircle of bronze riders, trying to pick out who had called in these two. And Lessa knew R’gul hated as well as feared F’lar. She could sense, too, that F’lar had changed. There was nothin
g passive or indifferent or detached about him now. Instead, there was tense anticipation. F’lar was done with waiting!
Ramoth roused, suddenly and completely awake. Her mind was in such a state that Lessa candidly realized F’lar and K’net had arrived none too soon. So intense were Ramoth’s hunger pangs that Lessa hastened to her head to soothe her. But Ramoth was in no mood for placation.
With unexpected agility she rose, making for the ledge. Lessa ran after her, followed by the dragonmen. Ramoth hissed in agitation at the bronzes who hovered near the ledge. They scattered quickly out of her way. Their riders made for the broad stairs that led from the queen’s weyr to the Bowl.
In a daze Lessa felt F’nor place her on Canth’s neck and urge his dragon quickly after the others to the feeding grounds. Lessa watched, amazed, as Ramoth glided effortlessly and gracefully in over the alarmed, stampeding herd. She struck quickly, seizing her kill by the neck and furling her wings suddenly, dropping down on it, too ravenous to carry it aloft.
“Control her!” F’nor gasped, depositing Lessa unceremoniously to the ground.
Ramoth screamed defiance of her Weyrwoman’s order. She sloughed her head around, rustling her wings angrily, her eyes blazing opalescent pools of fire. She extended her neck skyward to its full reach, shrilling her insubordination. The harsh echoes reverberated against the walls of the Weyr. All around, the dragons, blue, green, brown, and bronze, extended their wings in mighty sweeps, their answering calls brass thunder in the air.
Now indeed must Lessa call on the strength of will she had developed through hungry, vengeful years. Ramoth’s wedge-shaped head whipped back and forth; her eyes glowed with incandescent rebellion. This was no amiable, trusting dragon child. This was a violent demon.
Across the bloody field Lessa matched wills with the transformed Ramoth. With no hint of weakness, no vestige of fear or thought of defeat. Lessa forced Ramoth to obey. Screeching protest, the golden dragon dropped her head to her kill, her tongue lashing at the inert body, her great jaws opening. Her head wavered over the steaming entrails her claws had ripped out. With a final snarl of reproach, Ramoth fastened her teeth on the thick throat of the buck and sucked the carcass dry of blood.
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