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 it quietly. But when so much kept coming in, we cut our operations down. It’s a case of too much too soon, since the Hold Lords are getting imprudent enough to retaliate. Think, Lessa of Pern,” and F’nor leaned toward her, his smile bitter, “what R’gul’s reaction will be. You didn’t stop to think of that, did you? Think, now, what he will do when the well-armed Lords of the Hold appear, to demand satisfaction?”

Lessa closed her eyes, appalled at the scene she could picture all too clearly. She caught at her chair arm, limply sat down, undone by the knowledge she had miscalculated. Overconfident because she had been able to bring haughty Fax to his death, she was about to bring the Weyr to its ruin through that same arrogance.

There was suddenly noise enough for half the Weyr to be storming up the passageway from the ledge. She could hear the dragons calling excitedly to each other, the first outburst she had heard from them in two months.