The watch-wher, shrieking terror, anger and hatred, was lunging violently to the end of its chain, trying to come to Lessa’s aid. It grabbed at F’lar as he strode to the two.
“You’ve courage enough, girl,” he admitted, resting one hand casually on Mnementh’s upper claw. Mnementh was enormously pleased with himself and swiveled his head down for his eye ridges to be scratched.
“You did not lie, you know,” F’lar said, unable to resist taunting the girl.
Slowly she turned towards him, her face impassive. She was not afraid of dragons, F’lar realized with approval.
“The babe lives. And it is male.”
She could not control her dismay and her shoulders sagged briefly before she pulled herself erect.
“Ruatha is mine,” she insisted in a tense low voice.
“Aye, and it would have been, had you approached me directly when the wing arrived here.”
Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“A dragonman may champion anyone whose grievance is just. By the time we reached Ruath Hold, I was quite ready to challenge Fax given any reasonable cause, despite the Search.” This was not the whole truth but F’lar must teach this girl the folly of trying to control dragonmen. “Had you paid any attention to your harper’s songs, you’d know your rights. And,” F’lar’s voice held a vindictive edge that surprised him, “Lady Gemma might not now lie dead. She suffered far more at that tyrant’s hand than you.”
Something in her manner told him that she regretted Lady Gemma’s death, that it had affected her deeply.
“What good is Ruatha to you now?” he demanded, a broad sweep of his arm taking in the ruined court yard and the Hold, the entire unproductive valley of Ruatha. “You have indeed accomplished your ends; a profitless conquest and its conqueror’s death.” F’lar snorted: “All seven Holds will revert to their legitimate Blood, and time they did. One Hold, one lord. Of course, you might have to fight others, infected with Fax’s greed. Could you hold Ruatha against attack… now… in her decline?”
“Ruatha is mine!”
“Ruatha?” F’lar’s laugh was derisive. “When you could be Weyr-woman?”
“Weyrwoman?” she breathed, staring at him.
“Yes, little fool. I said I rode in Search… it’s about time you attended to more than Ruatha. And the object of my Search is… you!”
She stared at the finger he pointed at her as if it were dangerous.
“By the First Egg, girl, you’ve power in you to spare when you can turn a dragonman, all unwitting, to do your bidding. Ah, but never again, for now I am on guard against you.”
Mnementh crooned approvingly, the sound a soft rumble in his throat. He arched his neck so that one eye was turned directly on the girl, gleaming in the darkness of the court.
F’lar noticed with detached pride that she neither flinched nor blanched at the proximity of an eye greater than her own head.
“He likes to have his eye ridges scratched,” F’lar remarked in a friendly tone, changing tactics.
“I know,” she said softly and reached out a hand to do that service.
“Nemorth’s queen,” F’lar continued, “is close to death. This time we must have a strong Weyrwoman.”
“This time—the Red Star?” the girl gasped, turning frightened eyes to F’lar.
“You understand what it means?”
“There is danger…” she began in a bare whisper, glancing apprehensively eastward.
F’lar did not question by what miracle she appreciated the imminence of danger. He had every intention of taking her to the Weyr by sheer force if necessary. But something within him wanted very much for her to accept the challenge voluntarily. A rebellious Weyrwoman would be even more dangerous than a stupid one. This girl had too much power and was too used to guile and strategy. It would be a calamity to antagonize her with injudicious handling.
“There is danger for all Pern. Not just Ruatha,” he said, allowing a note of entreaty to creep into his voice. “And you are needed. Not by Ruatha,” a wave of his hand dismissed that consideration as a negligible one compared to the total picture. “We are doomed without a strong Weyrwoman. Without you.”
“Gemma kept saying all the bronze riders were needed,” she murmured in a dazed whisper.
What did she mean by that statement? F’lar frowned. Had she heard a word he had said? He pressed his argument, certain only that he had already struck one responsive chord.
“You’ve won here. Let the babe,” he saw her startled rejection of that idea and ruthlessly qualified it, “… Gemma’s babe… be reared at Ruatha. You have command of all the Holds as Weyrwoman, not ruined Ruatha alone. You’ve accomplished Fax’s death. Leave off vengeance.”
She stared at F’lar with wonder, absorbing his words.
“I never thought beyond Fax’s death,” she admitted slowly. “I never thought what should happen then.”
Her confusion was almost childlike and struck F’lar forcibly. He had had no time, or desire, to consider her prodigious accomplishment. Now he realized some measure of her indomitable character. She could not have been much over ten Turns of age herself when Fax had murdered her family. Yet somehow, so young, she had set herself a goal and managed to survive both brutality and detection long enough to secure the usurper’s death. What a Weyrwoman she would be! In the tradition of those of Ruathan blood. The light of the paler moon made her look young and vulnerable and almost pretty.
“You can be Weyrwoman,” he insisted gently.
“Weyrwoman,” she breathed, incredulous, and gazed round the inner court bathed in soft moonlight. He thought she wavered.
“Or perhaps you enjoy rags?” he said, making his voice harsh, mocking. “And matted hair, dirty feet and cracked hands? Sleeping in straw, eating rinds? You are young… that is, I assume you are young,” and his voice was frankly skeptical. She glared at him, her lips firmly pressed together. “Is this the be-all and end-all of your ambition? What are you that this little corner of the great world is all you want?” He paused and with utter contempt added, “The blood of Ruatha has thinned, I see. You’re afraid!”
“I am Lessa, daughter of the Lord of Ruath,” she countered, stung. She drew herself erect. Her eyes flashed. “I am afraid of nothing!”
F’lar contented himself with a slight smile.
Mnementh, however, threw up his head, and stretched out his sinuous neck to its whole length. His full-throated peal rang out down the valley. The bronze communicated his awareness to F’lar that Lessa had accepted the challenge. The other dragons answered back, their warbles shriller than Mnementh’s bellow. The watch-wher which had cowered at the end of its chain lifted its voice in a thin, unnerving screech until the Hold emptied of its startled occupants.
“F’nor,” the bronze rider called, waving his wingleader to him. “Leave half the flight to guard the Hold. Some nearby lord might think to emulate Fax’s example. Send one rider to the High Reaches with the glad news. You go directly to the Cloth Hall and speak to L’to… Lytol.” F’lar grinned. “I think he would make an exemplary Warder and Lord Surrogate for this Hold in the name of the Weyr and the babe.”