“No,” Manora went on calmly, “traditionally,” and she accorded Lessa a wry smile, “the Weyr is supplied from the first fruits of the soil and hunt. True, in recent Turns we have been chronically shorted, but it didn’t signify. We had no young dragons to feed. They do eat, as you know.” The glances of the two women locked in a timeless feminine amusement over the vagaries of the young under their care. Then Manora shrugged. “The riders used to hunt their beasts in the High Reaches or on the Keroon plateau. Now, however . . .”

She made a helpless grimace to indicate that R’gul’s restrictions deprived them of that victual relief.

“Time was,” she went on, her voice soft with nostalgia, “we would pass the coldest part of the Turn in one of the southern Holds. Or, if we wished and could, return to our birthplaces. Families used to take pride in daughters with dragonfolk sons.” Her face settled into sad lines. “The world turns and times change.”

“Yes,” Lessa heard herself say in a grating voice, “the world does turn, and times . . . times will change.”

Manora looked at Lessa, startled.

“Even R’gul will see we have no alternative,” Manora continued hastily, trying to stick to her problem.

“To what? Letting the mature dragons hunt?”

“Oh, no. He’s so adamant about that. No. We’ll have to barter at Fort or Telgar.”

Righteous indignation flared up in Lessa.

“The day the Weyr has to buy what should be given . . .” and she halted in midsentence, stunned as much by such a necessity as by the ominous echo of other words. “The day one of my Holds cannot support itself or the visit of its rightful overlord . . .” Fax’s words rang in her head. Did those words again foreshadow disaster? For whom? For what?

“I know, I know,” Manora was saying worriedly, unaware of Lessa’s shock. “It goes against the grain. But if R’gul will not permit judicious hunting, there is no other choice. He will not like the pinch of hunger in his belly.”

Lessa was struggling to control her inner terror. She took a deep breath.

“He’d probably then cut his throat to isolate his stomach,” she snapped, her acid comment restoring her wits. She ignored Manora’s startled look of dismay and went on. “It is traditional for you as headwoman of the Lower Cavern to bring such matters to the attention of the Weyrwoman, correct?”

Manora nodded, unsettled by Lessa’s rapid switches of mood.

“I, then, as Weyrwoman, presumably bring this to the attention of the Weyrleader who, presumably,”—she made no attempt to moderate her derision—“acts upon it?”

Manora nodded, her eyes perplexed.

“Well,” Lessa said in a pleasant, light voice, “you have dutifully discharged your traditional obligation. It is up to me now to discharge mine. Right?”

Manora regarded Lessa warily. Lessa smiled at her reassuringly.

“You may leave it in my hands, then.”