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 over wrought 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.
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. There 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 out last any bronze here.
F’nor’s exclamation roused Brekke.
“There’s no reason Canth can’t fly Wirenth. By the Shell, he could out fly 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 well-being 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.