“All right, all right. N’ton. Go. It’s the truth I’ve no one else to send,” and F’lar tried not to feel bitter that F’nor was involved with a woman; he was a dragonrider first, wasn’t he? Then F’lar suppressed such uncharitable thoughts. Brekke had been a Weyrwoman; through no fault of hers (and F’lar still berated himself that he had not thought of keeping a closer check on Kylara’s activities—he’d been warned), Brekke was deprived of her dragon. If she found some comfort in F’nor’s presence, it was unforgivable to deprive her of his company. “Go, N’ton. Spot-check. And bring back samples of those grubs from every location. I wish Wansor had not dismantled that other contraption. We could look closely at the grubs. That Masterherder was a fool. The grubs might not be the same in every spot.”

“Grubs are grubs,” Lessa mumbled.

“Landbeasts raised in the mountains are different from landbeasts raised on the plains,” N’ton said. “Fellis trees grown south are larger with better fruit than Nerat’s best.”

“You know too much,” Lessa replied, grinning to take the sting from her words.

N’ton grinned. “I’m a bronze rider, Weyrwoman.”

“You’d best be off. No, wait. Are you sure Fort is not going to need you and Lioth for Thread?” F’lar asked, wanting to be rid of this very healthy youngster who only emphasized his illness.

“Not for a while, sir. It’s full night there still.”

That underscored his youthfulness and F’lar waved him out, trying to suppress jealousy with gratitude. The moment he’d gone, F’lar let out a sudden exasperated oath that brought Lessa, all consideration, to his side.

“I’ll get well, I’ll get well,” he fumed. He held her hand against his cheek, grateful, too, for the cool of her fingers as they curved to fit against his face.

“Of course you’ll get well. You’re never sick,” she murmured softly, stroking his forehead with her free hand. Then her voice took on a teasing note. “You’re just stupid. Otherwise you wouldn’t have gone between, let cold into a wound, and developed fever.”

F’lar, reassured as much by her caustic jibe as her cool and loving caresses, lay back and willed himself to sleep, to health.

CHAPTER XIV

Early Morning at Ruatha Hold

Midday at Benden Weyr

WHEN WORD CAME that the Hatching was likely to occur that bright spring day, Jaxom didn’t know whether he was glad or not. Ever since the two queens had killed each other ten days before, Lytol had been sunk in such a deep gloom that Jaxom had tiptoed around the Hold. His guardian had always been a somber man, never given to joking or teasing, but this new silence unnerved the entire Hold. Even the new baby didn’t cry.