F’lar returned his scowl. “Thread falls, dragonman. Igen and Ista fly winglight, with riders helping at Telgar Weyr. Should we feast when others fight?”

“Let Ista and Igen fend for themselves!”

Ramoth screamed on high. The other queens answered her. What she challenged no one knew, but she suddenly winked out. F’lar had no attention to spare to wonder that she’d gone between without Lessa riding for he saw T’ron’s hand on his belt knife.

“We can settle our difference of opinion later, T’ron. In private! Thread falls…”

The bronzes had begun to land outside the Gate, juggling to let as many land close as possible.

The green rider from Igen had directed his beast to perch on the Gate. He was repeatedly yelling his message to the static, tense group below.

T’ron would not stop. “Thread falls, huh, F’lar? Noble Benden to the rescue! And it’s not Benden’s concern.” He let out a raucous shout of derisive contempt.

“Enough, man!” D’ram stepped up to pull T’ron aside. He gestured sharply at the silent spectators.

But T’ron ignored the warning and shook him off so violently that the heavy-set D’ram staggered.

“I’ve had enough of Benden! Benden’s notions! Benden’s superiority! Benden’s altruism! And Benden’s Weyrleader…”

With that last snarled insult, T’ron launched himself toward F’lar, his drawn knife raised for a slashing blow.

As the ragged gasp of fear swept through the ranks of spectators, F’lar held his ground until there was no chance T’ron could change his direction. Then he ducked under the blade, yanking his own out of its ornamental sheath.

It was a new knife, a gift from Lessa. It had cut neither meat nor bread and must now be christened with the blood of a man. For this duel was to the death and its outcome could well decide the fate of Pern.

F’lar had sunk to a semicrouch, flexing his fingers around the hilt, testing its balance. Too much depended on a single belt knife, a half-hand shorter than the blade in his opponent’s fingers. T’ron had the reach of him and the added advantage of being in wherhide riding gear whereas F’lar wore flimsy cloth. His eyes never left T’ron as he faced the older man. F’lar was aware of the hot sun on the back of his neck, the hard stones under his feet, of the deathly hush of the great Court, of the smells of bruised fellis blooms, spilled wines and fried food, of sweat—and fear.