Above her, on the High Tower, the great bronze dragon gave forth a weird croon, his many-faceted eyes sparkling in the gathering darkness.
Unconsciously she silenced him as she would have done the watch-wher. Ah, that watch-wher. He had not come out of his den at her passing. She knew the dragons had been at him. She could hear him gibbering in panic.
The slant of the road toward the crafthold lent impetus to her flying feet and she had to brace herself to a sliding stop at the birthing-woman’s stone threshold. She banged on the closed door and heard the frightened exclamation within.
“A birth. A birth at the Hold,” Lessa cried.
“A birth?” came the muffled cry and the latches were thrown up on the door. “At the Hold?”
“Fax’s lady and, as you love life, hurry! For if it is male, it will be Ruatha’s own lord.”
That ought to fetch her, thought Lessa, and in that instant, the door was flung open by the man of the house. Lessa could see the birthing-woman gathering up her things in haste, piling them into her shawl. Lessa hurried the woman out, up the steep road to the Hold, under the Tower gate, grabbing the woman as she tried to run at the sight of a dragon peering down at her. Lessa drew her into the Court and pushed her, resisting, into the Hall.
The woman clutched at the inner door, balking at the sight of the gathering there. Lord Fax, his feet up on the trestle table, was paring his fingernails with his knife blade, still chuckling. The dragonmen in their wher-hide tunics, were eating quietly at one table while the soldiers were having their turn at the meat.
The bronze rider noticed their entrance and pointed urgently towards the inner Hold. The birthing-woman seemed frozen to the spot. Lessa tugged futilely at her arm, urging her to cross the Hall. To her surprise, the bronze rider strode to them.
“Go quickly, woman, Lady Gemma is before her time,” he said, frowning with concern, gesturing imperatively towards the Hold entrance. He caught her by the shoulder and led her, all unwilling, Lessa tugging away at her other arm.
When they reached the stairs, he relinquished his grip, nodding to Lessa to escort her the rest of the way. Just as they reached the massive inner door, Lessa noticed how sharply the dragonman was looking at them—at her hand, on the birthing-woman’s arm. Warily, she glanced at her hand and saw it, as if it belonged to a stranger: the long fingers, shapely despite dirt and broken nails; her small hand, delicately boned, gracefully placed despite the urgency of the grip. She blurred it and hurried on.
An unintelligible ululation raised the waiting men to their feet, startled from private meditations and the diversion of Bonethrows. Only Fax remained unmoved at the alarm, save that the slight sneer, which had settled on his face hours past, deepened to smug satisfaction.
“Dead-ed-ed,” the tidings reverberated down the rocky corridors of the Hold. The weeping lady seemed to erupt out of the passage from the Inner Hold, flying down the steps to sink into an hysterical heap at Fax’s feet. “She’s dead. Lady Gemma is dead. There was too much blood. It was too soon. She was too old to bear more children.”
F’lar couldn’t decide whether the woman was apologizing for, or exulting in, the woman’s death. She certainly couldn’t be criticizing her Lord for placing Lady Gemma in such peril. Flar, however, was sincerely sorry at Gemma’s passing. She had been a brave, fine woman.
And now, what would be Fax’s next move? Flar caught F’nor’s identically quizzical glance and shrugged expressively.
“The child lives!” a curiously distorted voice announced, penetrating the rising noise in the Great Hall. The words electrified the atmosphere. Every head slewed round sharply towards the portal to the Inner Hold where the drudge, a totally unexpected messenger, stood poised on the top step.
“It is male!” This announcement rang triumphantly in the still Hall.
Fax jerked himself to his feet, kicking aside the wailer at his feet, scowling ominously at the drudge. “What did you say, woman?”
“The child lives. It is male,” the creature repeated, descending the stairs.
Incredulity and rage suffused Fax’s face. His body seemed to coil up.
“Ruatha has a new lord!” Staring intently at the overlord, she advanced, her mien purposeful, almost menacing.
The tentative cheers of the Warder’s men were drowned by the roaring of the dragons.
Fax erupted into action. He leaped across the intervening space, bellowing. Before Lessa could dodge, his fist crashed down across her face. She fell heavily to the stone floor, where she lay motionless, a bundle of dirty rags.
“Hold, Fax!” F’lar’s voice broke the silence as the Lord of the High Reaches flexed his leg to kick her.
Fax whirled, his hand automatically closing on his knife hilt.
“It was heard and witnessed, Fax,” F’lar cautioned him, one hand outstretched in warning, “by dragonmen. Stand by your sworn and witnessed oath!”
“Witnessed? By dragonmen?” cried Fax with a derisive laugh. “Dragonwomen, you mean,” he sneered, his eyes blazing with contempt, as he made one sweeping gesture of scorn.
He was momentarily taken aback by the speed with which the bronze rider’s knife appeared in his hand.
“Dragonwomen?” F’lar queried, his lips curling back over his teeth, his voice dangerously soft. Glowlight flickered off his circling knife as he advanced on Fax.
“Women! Parasites on Pern. The Weyr power is over. Over!” Fax roared, leaping forward to land in a combat crouch.
The two antagonists were dimly aware of the scurry behind them, of tables pulled roughly aside to give the duelists space. F’lar could spare no glance at the crumpled form of the drudge. Yet he was sure, through and beyond instinct sure, that she was the source of power. He had felt it as she entered the room. The dragons’ roaring confirmed it. If that fall had killed her… He advanced on Fax, leaping high to avoid the slashing blade as Fax unwound from the crouch with a powerful lunge.
F’lar evaded the attack easily, noticing his opponent’s reach, deciding he had a slight advantage there. But not much. Fax had had much more actual hand-to-hand killing experience than had he whose duels had always ended at first blood on the practice floor. F’lar made due note to avoid closing with the burly lord. The man was heavy-chested, dangerous from sheer mass. F’lar must use agility as his weapon, not brute strength.
Fax feinted, testing F’lar for weakness, or indiscretion. The two crouched, facing each other across six feet of space, knife hands weaving, their free hands, spread-fingered, ready to grab.
Again Fax pressed the attack. F’lar allowed him to dose, just near enough to dodge away with a back-handed swipe. Fabric ripped under the tip of his knife. He heard Fax snarl. The overlord was faster on his feet than his bulk suggested and F’lar had to dodge a second time, feeling Fax’s knife score his wher-hide jerkin.
Grimly the two circled, each looking for an opening in the other’s defense. Fax plowed in, trying to corner the lighter, faster man between raised platform and wall.
F’lar countered, ducking low under Fax’s flailing arm, slashing obliquely across Fax’s side. The overlord caught at him, yanking savagely, and Flar was trapped against the other man’s side, straining desperately with his left hand to keep the knife arm up. F’lar brought up his knee, and ducked away as Fax gasped and buckled from the pain in his groin, but Fax struck in passing. Sudden fire laced F’lar’s left shoulder.