The Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey [68]
Yet he knew someday, somehow, he would coax her into responding wholeheartedly to his lovemaking. He had a certain pride in his skill, and he was in a position to persevere.
Now he took a deep breath and released her arm slowly.
“How fortunate you’re wearing riding gear. As soon as the wings have cleared out and Ramoth wakes, I shall teach you to fly between.”
The gleam of excitement in her eyes was evident even in the dimly lit passageway. He heard her inhale sharply.
“Can’t put it off too much longer or Ramoth’ll be in no shape to fly at all,” he continued amiably.
“You mean it?” Her voice was low and breathless, its usual acid edge missing. “You will teach us today?” He wished he could see her face clearly.
Once or twice he had caught an unguarded expression on her face, loving and tender. He would give much to have that look turned on him. However, he admitted wryly to himself, he ought to be glad that melting regard was directed only at Ramoth and not at another human.
“Yes, my dear Weyrwoman, I mean it. I will teach you to fly between today. If only,” and he bowed to her with a flourish, “to keep you from trying it yourself.”
Her low chuckle informed him his taunt was well-aimed.
“Right now, however,” he said, indicating for her to lead the way back to the weyr, “I could do with some food. We were up before the kitchen.”
They had entered the well-lighted weyr, so he did not miss the trenchant look she shot him over her shoulder. She would not so easily forgive being left out of the group at the Star Stone this morning, certainly not with the bribe of flying between.
How different this inner room was now that Lessa was Weyrwoman, F’lar mused as Lessa called down the service shaft for food. During Jora’s incompetent tenure as Weyrwoman, the sleeping quarters had been crowded with junk, unwashed apparel, uncleared dishes. The state of the Weyr and the reduced number of dragons were as much Jora’s fault as R’gul’s, for she had indirectly encouraged sloth, negligence, and gluttony.
If he, F’lar, had been just a few years older when F’lon, his father, had died . . . Jora had been disgusting, but when dragons rose in mating flight, the condition of your partner counted for nothing.
Lessa took a tray of bread and cheese, and mugs of the stimulating klah from the platform. She served him deftly.
“You’d not eaten, either?” he asked.
She shook her head vigorously, the braid into which she had plaited her thick, fine dark hair bobbing across her shoulders. The hairdressing was too severe for her narrow face, but it did not, if that was her intention, disguise her femininity or the curious beauty of her delicate features. Again F’lar wondered that such a slight body contained so much shrewd intelligence and resourceful . . . cunning—yes, that was the word, cunning. F’lar did not make the mistake, as others had, of underestimating her abilities.
“Manora called me to witness the birth of Kylara’s child.”
F’lar maintained an expression of polite interest. He knew perfectly well that Lessa suspected the child was his, and it could have been, he admitted privately, but he doubted it. Kylara had been one of the ten candidates from the same Search three years ago which had discovered Lessa. Like others who survived Impression, Kylara had found certain aspects of Weyr life exactly suited to her temperament. She had gone from one rider’s weyr to another’s. She had even seduced F’lar—not at all against his will, to be sure. Now that he was Weyrleader, he found it wiser to