The Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey [23]
Lessa shook her head to dispel the aura of tragedy and self-revulsion that threatened to overwhelm her. She had no time for regret or contrition. Not now. Not when, by affecting Fax’s death, she could avenge not only her own wrongs but Gemma’s!
That was it. And she had the lever. The child . . . yes, the child. She’d say it lived. That it was male. The dragonman would have to fight. He had heard and witnessed Fax’s oath.
A smile, not unlike the one on the dead woman’s face, crossed Lessa’s as she hurried down the corridors to the Hall.
She was about to dash into the Hall itself when she realized she had permitted her anticipation of triumph to destroy her self-discipline. Lessa halted at the portal, deliberately took a deep breath. She dropped her shoulders and stepped down, once more the colorless drudge.
The harbinger of death was sobbing in a heap at Fax’s feet.
Lessa gritted her teeth against redoubled hatred for the overlord. He was glad the Lady Gemma had died, birthing his seed. Even now he was ordering the hysterical woman to go tell his latest favorite to attend him, doubtless to install her as his first lady.
“The child lives,” Lessa cried, her voice distorted with anger and hatred. “It is male.”
Fax was on his feet, kicking aside the weeping woman, scowling viciously at Lessa. “What are you saying, woman?”
“The child lives. It is male,” she repeated, descending. The incredulity and rage that suffused Fax’s face was wonderful to see. The Warder’s men stifled their minadvertent cheers.
“Ruatha has a new Lord.” The dragons roared.
So intent was she on achieving her purpose that she failed to notice the reactions of others in the hall, failed to hear the roaring of the dragons without.
Fax erupted into action. He leaped across the intervening space, bellowing denials of the news. Before Lessa could dodge, his fist crashed down across her face. She was swept off her feet, off the steps, and fell heavily to the stone floor, where she lay motionless, a bundle of dirty rags.
“Hold, Fax!” F’lar’s voice cut across the silence as the Lord of the High Reaches lifted his leg to kick the unconscious body.
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 dragon-men. 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, one sweeping gesture of scorn dismissing them all.
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. Glow-light flickered off his circling blade as he advanced on Fax.
“Women! Parasites on Pern. The Weyr power is over! Over for good,” roared Fax, 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 away 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. He told himself sternly that wasn’t much advantage. Fax had had much more actual hand-to-hand killing experience than had he whose duels had always ended at first blood on