The little queen stirred inside the heavy arm sling where he had been carrying her.
Young Toric, now, would lose some of his bitterness if he did Impress a fire lizard. He would feel that his claim was vindicated. And if fire lizards did take to anyone, and could carry messages back and forth, what a boon that would be. A lizard for everyone? That would be quite a battle cry. F’nor chortled as he thought of the Oldtimers’ reactions to that. Do them good, it would, and he chuckled at the vision of T’ron trying to lure a fire lizard which ignored him to be Impressed by a lowly crafterchild. Something had better pierce the Oldtimers’ blind parochiality. Yet even they, at a crucial moment in the sensitive awareness of adolescence, had appealed to Dragonkind; they endured cold and possible death to fight an endless and mindless enemy. But there was more to living than that initial achievement and that eternal alert. Adolescence was only a step of life, not a career in itself. When one matured, one knew there was more to living.
Then F’nor remembered that he’d not had the chance to mention Brekke’s problem to F’lar. And F’lar would probably have gone back to Benden Weyr by now. F’nor upbraided himself for what was downright interference. Comes from being a wing-second so long, he thought. You cannot go around meddling in another’s Weyr. T’bor had enough stress. But, by the First Egg, F’nor hated to think of the scenes Kylara would subject Brekke to, if Orth flew Wirenth.
He grew restless with traveling and wasn’t even amused when Canth began to croon soothingly. But when the journey was accomplished, and they were circling down into the late afternoon sun over Southern, he felt no fatigue. A few riders were feeding their beasts in the pasture and he inquired if Canth wished to be fed.
Brekke wants to see you, Canth advised F’nor as he landed neatly in his weyr.
“Probably to scold me,” F’nor said, slapping Canth’s muzzle affectionately. He stood aside watching until the brown settled himself in the warmth of his dusty wallow.
Grall peeked out of the folds of the sling and F’nor transferred her to his shoulder. She squeaked a protest as he strode quickly toward Brekke’s weyrhold and dug her claws into the shoulder pad for balance. She was thinking hungry thoughts.
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?”