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 Jora, she didn’t eat enough in the course of an entire day to nourish a sick child. But then, there was no point in ever comparing Lessa to Jora.

He finished his own breakfast, absently piling the mugs together on the empty tray. She rose silently and removed the dishes.

“As soon as the Weyr is free, we’ll go,” he told her.

“So you said.” She nodded toward the sleeping queen, visible through the open arch. “We still must wait upon Ramoth.”

“Isn’t she rousing? Her tail’s been twitching for an hour.”

“She always does that about this time of day.”