F’nor raised himself on his elbow, pushing the sweaty, fern-entangled hair from her closed eyes, pleased by the soft serenity of her expression; excessively pleased with himself. A man never really knew how a woman would respond in love. So much hinted at in play never materialized in practice.

But Brekke was as honest in love, as kind and generous, as wholesome as ever; in her innocent wholeheartedness more sensual than the most skilled partner he had ever enjoyed.

Her eyes opened, met his in a wondering stare for a long moment. With a moan, she turned her head, evading his scrutiny.

“Surely no regrets, Brekke?”

“Oh, F’nor, what will I do when Wirenth rises?”

F’nor began to curse then, steadily, hopelessly, as he cradled her now unresponsive body against him. He cursed the differences between Hold and Weyr, the throbbing wound in his arm that signalized the difference which existed even between dragonmen. He railed at the inescapable realization that what he loved most was insufficient to his need. He hated himself, aware that in his effort to help Brekke, he had compromised her values and was probably destroying her.

Instinctively his confused thoughts reached out to Canth, and he found himself trying to suppress that contact. Canth must never know his rider could fault him for not being a bronze.

I am as large as most bronzes, Canth said with unruffled equanimity. Almost as if he was surprised he had to mention the fact to his rider. I am strong. Strong enough to outlast any bronze here.

F’nor’s exclamation roused Brekke.

“There’s no reason Canth can’t fly Wirenth. By the Shell, he could outfly any bronze here. And probably Orth, too, if he puts his mind to it.”

“Canth fly Wirenth?”

“Why not?”

“But browns don’t fly queens. Bronzes do.”

F’nor hugged her fiercely, trying to impart his jubilation, his almost inarticulate joy and relief.

“The only reason browns haven’t flown queens is that they’re smaller. They don’t have the stamina to last in a mating flight. But Canth’s big. Canth’s the biggest, strongest, fastest brown in Pern. Don’t you see, Brekke?”

Her body uncurled. Hope was restoring color to her face, life to her green eyes.

“It’s been done?”

F’nor shook his head impatiently. “It’s time to discard custom that hampers. Why not this one?”

She permitted him to caress her but there was a shadow lingering in her eyes and a reluctance in her body.

“I want to, oh how I want to, F’nor, but I’m so scared. I’m scared to my bones.”

He kissed her deeply, ruthlessly employing subtleties to arouse her. “Please, Brekke?”

“It can’t be wrong to be happy, can it, F’nor?” she whispered, a shiver rippling along her body.