She sat slowly down on the bench, her forehead creased with a slight, worried frown.
He took her hands and kissed them. When she still did not speak, he stroked the hair which had escaped the braids.
“We have to make the break clean, Lessa. They can do no harm there to any but themselves. Some may decide to come back.”
“But they can perpetuate their grievances . . .”
“Lessa. how many queens went?”
“Loranth, the Weyr queen at High Reaches and the other two . . . Oh!”
“Yes. All old queens, well past their prime. I doubt Loranth will rise more than once. The clutches at High Reaches have produced only one queen since they came forward. And the young queen, Segrith, stayed, didn’t she, with Pilgra?”
Lessa nodded and suddenly her face cleared. She eyed him with growing exasperation. “Anyone would think you’ve been planning this for Turns.”
“Then anyone could call me a triple fool for underestimating T’ron, closing my mind to the facts in front of me and defying fortune. What’s the mood among Holders and crafters?”
“Relief,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I admit the laughter has a slightly hysterical tinge, but Lytol and Robinton were right. Pern will follow Benden . . .”
“Yes, until my first mistake!”
She grinned mischievously at him, waggling a finger under his nose. “Ah-ha, but you’re not allowed to make mistakes Benden. Not while . . .”
He caught her hand, pulling her into the crook of his arm, disregarding the stabbing pain at his waist for the triumph of her instant response, the surrender in her slender body. “Not while I have you.” The words came out in a whisper, and because he couldn’t express his gratitude to her, his pride in her, his joy of her any other way, he sought her lips, held them in a long, passionate kiss.
She gave a languorous sigh when he finally released her. He laughed down at her closed eyes, kissing them, too. She struggled to a sitting position and, with another reluctant sigh, rose determinedly to her feet.
“Yes, Pern will follow you, and your loyal advisers will keep you from making mistakes, but I do hope you’ve an answer for pop-eyed old Lord Groghe!”
“Answer for Groghe?”
“Yes,” and she gave him a stern look, “though I’m not surprised you’ve forgotten. He was going to demand that the dragonmen of Pern go directly to the Red Star and put an end to Thread forever.”
F’lar got slowly to his feet.
“I’ve always said that you solve one problem and five more appear from between.”
“Well, I think we’ve contrived to keep Groghe away from you tonight, but we promised to have a joint meeting of Hold and Craft at Benden Weyr tomorrow morning.”
“That’s a blessing.”
In the act of opening the door, he hesitated and groaned again.
“Isn’t the numbweed helping?”
“Not me. It’s Fandarel. Between fire lizards, Threads and T’ron, I can’t face him.”
“Oh, him!” Lessa pulled the door open, grinning up at her Weyrmate. “He’s already deep in plans to bury, coat or thicken those ungrateful wires. He’s planning installations with every Lord Holder and Craft. Wansor’s dancing like a sun-crazed wherry to get his hands on the distance-viewer, all the time wailing that he needn’t’ve dismantled the first apparatus.” She tucked her arm in his, lengthening her stride to match his. “The man who’s really put out is Robinton.”
“Robinton?”
“Yes. He’d composed the most marvelous ballad and teaching songs and now there’s no reason to play them.”
Whether Lessa had deliberately saved that until now, F’lar didn’t know, but they crossed the courtyard, laughing, though it hurt his side.
Their passage would have been noted anyhow, but their smiling faces subtly reassured the diners seated at the make-shift tables about the yard. And suddenly F’lar felt there was indeed something to celebrate.
CHAPTER XI
Early Morning at Benden Weyr
.
“I WISH you’d give me fair warning the next time you rearrange the social and political structure of this planet,” F’nor told his half-brother when he strode into the queen’s weyr at Benden the next morning. There wasn’t, of course, a trace of resentment on his tanned, grinning face. “Who’s where now?”
“T’bor is Weyrleader at the High Reaches with Kylara as Weyrwoman . . .”
“Kylara at High Reaches?” F’nor looked dubious but F’lar waved aside his half-born protest.
“Yes, there are disadvantages to that, of course. All but fourteen of the folk at High Reaches Weyr went with T’kul and Merika. Most of the Fort Weyr people wanted to stay . . .”
F’nor chuckled nastily. “Bet that was hard for Mardra to swallow.” He looked expectantly at Lessa, knowing how often his Weyrwoman had mastered resentment and indignation at Mardra’s hands. Lessa returned his gaze with polite unconcern.
“So P’zar is acting Weyrleader until a queen rises . . .”
“Any chance of making that an open flight for any bronze?”
“That is my intention,” F’lar replied. “However, I think the biggest of the modern bronzes had better be conspicuous by their absence.”
“Then why have you assigned N’ton there as Wing-second?” demanded Lessa in surprise.
F’lar grinned at his Weyrmate. “Because by the time a Fort queen rises in flight, N’ton will be known and well-liked by the Fort Weyrfolk and they won’t mind. He’ll be considered a Fort rider, not a Benden replacement.”
Lessa wrinkled her nose. “He doesn’t have much choice at Fort Weyr.”
“He is quite capable of taking care of himself,” F’lar replied with a wicked grin.
“Well, you seem to have arranged everything to your satisfaction,” F’nor remarked. “I, however, resent having been yanked out of Southern. I’d spotted a very promising clutch of fire-lizard eggs in a certain Southern cove. Not quite hard enough to move with impunity. If you had held off a few more days, I’d – ” He broke off, sliding into the chair Lessa motioned him to. “Say, F’lar, what’s the matter with you? You been time – betweening or something?”
“No, he’s been knifed between his top and bottom,” Lessa answered with a sour glance at her Weyrmate. “And it is with exceptional difficulty that I can keep him in a chair. He belongs in a bed.”
F’lar waved her recriminations aside good-humoredly.
“If you’re – ” F’nor half-rose, his face concerned.
“If you’re – ” mocked F’lar, his look indicating a growing irritation with his disability and their protectiveness.
F’nor laughed, reseating himself. “And Brekke said I was a cantankerous patient. Ha! How bad is it? I heard various tales about that duel, well embroidered already, but not that you’d been clipped. Must it always be belt knives – for our Blood? And the other man armed with a wherry-skewer?”
“And dressed in wher-hide,” Lessa added.
“Look, F’lar, Brekke has pronounced me fit to fly between,” and F’nor flexed his arm, fully but carefully. “I can appreciate your wanting to keep quiet about your injury, so I’ll do all your popping about.”
F’lar chuckled at his half-brother’s eagerness. “Back a-neck and ready to go, huh? Well, resume your responsibilities then. They’ve changed.”
“Noticeably, o exalted one.”
F’lar frowned at that and brushed his forelock back irritably.
“Not that much. Did you see T’kul when he arrived from High Reaches at Southern?”
“No, nor did I want to. I heard him.” F’nor’s right hand clenched. The fighting wings had already gone to join you at Igen for the Threadfall. T’kul ordered everyone, including the wounded, out of Southern in an hour’s time. What they couldn’t pack and take, he confiscated. He made it clear that the southern continent was his to have and hold. That his Sweepriders were challenging any dragon and would flame them down like Thread if they didn’t get the proper response. Some of those Oldtimer dragons are stupid enough to do it, too.” F’nor paused. “You know, I’ve been noticing lately . . .”