The Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey [53]
“But it is nice to know that he has a reason for waiting. I just hope it’s valid. That it is not too late already. Because I think it is.”
It was too late when he stopped me from reinforcing T’bor, she thought, but refrained from saying. Instead, she added, “It was too late when R’gul was too cowardly to feel the shame of . . .”
F’nor swung on her, his face white with anger. “It took more courage than you’ll ever have to watch that moment slide by.”
“Why?”
F’nor took a half step forward, so menacingly that Lessa steeled herself for a blow. He mastered the impulse, shaking his head violently to control himself.
“It is not R’gul’s fault,” he said finally, his face old and drawn, his eyes troubled and hurt. “It has been hard, hard to watch and to know you had to wait.”
“Why?” Lessa all but shrieked.
F’nor would no longer be goaded. He continued in a quiet voice.
“I thought you ought to know, but it goes against F’lar’s grain to apologize for one of his own.”
Lessa bit back the sarcastic remark that rose to her lips, lest she interrupt this long-awaited enlightenment.
“R’gul is Weyrleader only by default. He’d be well enough, I suppose, if there hadn’t been such a long Interval. The Records warn of the dangers . . .”
“Records? Dangers? What do you mean by Interval?”
“An Interval occurs when the Red Star does not pass close enough to excite the Threads. The Records indicate it takes about two hundred Turns before the Red Star swings back again. F’lar figures nearly twice that time has elapsed since the last Threads fell.”
Lessa glanced apprehensively eastward. F’nor nodded solemnly.
“Yes, and it’d be rather easy to forget fear and caution in four hundred years. R’gul’s a good fighter and a good wingleader, but he has to see and touch and smell danger before he admits it exists. Oh, he learned the Laws and all the Traditions, but he never understood them in his bones. Not the way F’lar does or the way I have come to,” he added defiantly, seeing the skeptical expression on Lessa’s face. His eyes narrowed, and he pointed an accusing finger at her. “Nor the way you do, only you don’t know why.”
She backed away, not from him but from the menace she knew existed, even if she didn’t know why she believed.
“The moment F’lar Impressed Mnementh, F’lon began training him to take over. Then F’lon got himself killed in that ridiculous brawl.” An expression comprised of anger, regret, and irritation passed over F’nor’s face. Belatedly Lessa realized the man was speaking of his father. “F’lar was too young to take over, and before anyone could intervene, R’gul got Hath to fly Nemorth and we had to wait. But R’gul couldn’t control Jora’s grief over F’lon, and she deteriorated rapidly. And he misinterpreted F’lon’s plan for carrying us over the last of the Interval to mean isolation. Consequently”—F’nor shrugged expressively—“the Weyr lost prestige faster all the time.”
“Time, time, time,” Lessa railed. “It’s always the wrong time. When is now the time?”
“Listen to me.” F’nor’s stern words interrupted her tirade as effectively as if he had grabbed and shaken her. She had not suspected F’nor of such forcefulness. She looked at him with increased respect.
“Ramoth is full-grown, ready for her first mating flight. When she flies, all the bronzes rise to catch her. The strongest does not always get the queen. Sometimes it is the one everyone in the Weyr wants to have win her.” He enunciated his words slowly and clearly. “That was how R’gul got Hath to fly Nemorth. The older riders wanted R’gul. They couldn’t stomach a nineteen-year-old over them as Weyrleader, son though he was to F’lon. So Hath got Nemorth. And they got R’gul. They got what they wanted. And look what they’ve got!” His scornful gesture took in the threadbare weyr.
“It is too late, it is too late,” Lessa moaned, understanding a great deal, too well, too late.
“It may be, thanks to your prodding K’net into uncontrolled raiding,” F’nor assured her cynically. “You didn’t need him, you know. Our wing was handling