The Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey [69]
Aside from having the amorous tendencies of a green dragon, Kylara was quick and ambitious. She would make a strong Weyrwoman, so F’lar had charged Manora and Lessa with the job of planting the notion in Kylara’s mind. In the capacity of Weyrwoman . . . of another Weyr . . . her intense drives would be used to Pern’s advantage. She had not learned the severe lessons of restraint and patience that Lessa had, and she didn’t have Lessa’s devious mind. Fortunately she was in considerable awe of Lessa, and F’lar suspected that Lessa was subtly influencing this attitude. In Kylara’s case, F’lar preferred not to object to Lessa’s meddling.
“A fine son,” Lessa was saying.
F’lar sipped his klah. She was not going to get him to admit any responsibility.
After a long pause Lessa added, “She has named him T’kil.”
F’lar suppressed a grin at Lessa’s failure to get a rise from him.
“Discreet of her.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” F’lar replied blandly. “T’lar might be confusing if she took the second half of her name as is customary. ‘T’kil’ however, still indicates sire as well as dam.”
“While I was waiting for Council to end,” Lessa said after clearing her throat, “Manora and I checked the supply caverns. The tithing trains, which the Holds have been so gracious as to send us”—her voice was sharp—“are due within the week. There will shortly be bread fit to eat,” she added, wrinkling her nose at the crumbling gray pastry she was attempting to spread with cheese.
“A nice change,” F’lar agreed.
She paused.
“The Red Star performed its scheduled antic?”
He nodded.
“And R’gul’s doubts have been wiped away in the enlightening red glow?”
“Not at all.” F’lar grinned back at her, ignoring her sarcasm. “Not at all, but he will not be so vocal in his criticism.”
She swallowed quickly so she could speak. “You’d do well to cut out his criticism,” she said ruthlessly, gesturing with her knife as if plunging it into a man’s heart. “He is never going to accept your authority with good grace.”
“We need every bronze rider . . . there are only seven, you know,” he reminded her pointedly. “R’gul’s a good wingleader. He’ll settle down when the Threads fall. He needs proof to lay his doubts aside.”
“And the Red Star in the Eye Rock is not proof?” Lessa’s expressive eyes were wide.
F’lar was privately of Lessa’s opinion—that it might be wiser to remove R’gul’s stubborn contentiousness. But he could not sacrifice a wingleader, needing every dragon and rider as badly as he did.
“I don’t trust him,” she added darkly. She sipped at her hot drink, her gray eyes dark over the rim of her mug. As if, F’lar mused, she didn’t trust him, either.
And she didn’t, past a certain point. She had made that plain, and, in honesty, he couldn’t blame her. She did recognize that every action F’lar took was toward one end . . . the safety and preservation of dragonkind and weyrfolk and consequently the safety and preservation of Pern. To effect that end, he needed her full cooperation. When Weyr business or dragonlore were discussed, she suspended the antipathy he knew she felt for him. In conferences she supported him wholeheartedly and persuasively, but always he suspected the double edge to her comments and saw a speculative, suspicious look in her eyes. He needed not only her tolerance but her empathy.
“Tell me,” she said after a long silence, “did the sun touch the Finger Rock before the Red Star was bracketed in the Eye Rock or after?”
“Matter of fact, I’m not sure, as I did not see it myself . . . the concurrence lasts only a few moments but the two are supposed to be simultaneous.”
She frowned at him sourly. “Whom did you waste it on? R’gul?” She was provoked, her angry eyes looked everywhere but at him.
“I am Weyrleader,” he informed her curtly. She was unreasonable.
She awarded him one long, hard look before she bent to finish her meal. She ate very little, quickly and neatly. Compared to