“Oh, no,” and Brekke looked startled. “I meant—oh, I don’t know what I meant. I love Wirenth, but can’t you understand? I’m not weyrbred. I don’t have that kind of—of—wantonness in my nature. I’m—I’m inhibited. There! I said it. I am inhibited and I’m terrified that I’ll inhibit Wirenth. I can’t change all of me to conform to Weyr customs. I’m the way I am.”

F’nor tried to soothe her. He wasn’t sure now how to proceed, for this overwrought girl was a different creature entirely from the calm, serious, reliable Brekke he knew.

“No one wants or expects you to change completely. You wouldn’t be our Brekke. But dragons don’t criticize. Neither do their riders. Most queens tend to prefer one bronze above the others consistently…”

“You still don’t understand.” The accusation was a hopeless wail. “I never saw any man I wanted to—to have—” The word was an aspirated whisper. “Not that way. Not until I saw you. I don’t want any other man to possess me. I’ll freeze. I won’t be able to draw Wirenth back. And I love her. I love her so and she’ll be rising soon and I can’t…I thought I’d be able to, but I know I’ll…”

She tried to break away from him, but even with one arm the brown rider was stronger. Trapped, she began to cling to him with the strength of utter despair.

He rocked her gently against him, removing his arm from the sling so he could stroke her hair.

“You won’t lose Wirenth. It’s different when dragons mate, love. You’re the dragon, too, caught up in emotions that have only one resolution.” He held her tightly as she seemed to shrink with revulsion from him as well as the imminent event. He thought of the riders here at Southern, of T’bor, and he experienced a disgust of another sort. Those men, conditioned to respond to Kylara’s exotic tastes, would brutalize this inexperienced child.

F’nor glanced round at the low couch and rose, Brekke in his arms. He started for the bed, halted, hearing voices beyond the clearing. Anyone might come.

Still holding her, he carried her out of the weyrhold, smothering her protest against his chest as she realized his intention. There was a place behind his weyrhold, beyond Canth’s wallow, where the ferns grew sweet and thick, where they would be undisturbed.

He wanted to be gentle but, unaccountably, Brekke fought him. She pleaded with him, crying out wildly that they’d rouse the sleeping Wirenth. He wasn’t gentle but he was thorough, and, in the end, Brekke astounded him with a surrender as passionate as if her dragon had been involved.