“She is well loved and respected by all Weyrs,” Lessa broke in when Andemon faltered. “Brekke is one of those rare people who can hear any dragon. She will always enjoy a unique and high position with dragonfolk. She may, if she chooses, return to her home…”

“No!” The Masterfarmer was definite about that.

“Brekke is weyrfolk now,” F’nor said on the heels of that denial.

Lessa was a little surprised at such vehemence from both men. She’d had the notion from Andemon’s attitude that perhaps her Craft wanted her back.

“My apologies for being so brusque, my lady. It would be hard for her to live simply again.” His voice turned hard and lost all hesitancy. “What of that adulterous transgressor?”

“She—lives,” and there was an uncompromising echo of the Farmer’s coldness in Lessa’s voice.

“She lives?” The Masterfarmer stopped again, dropping Lessa’s arm and staring at her with anger. “She lives? Her throat should be cut, her body…”

“She lives, Masterfarmer, with no more mind or wit than a babe. She exists in the prison of her guilt! Dragonfolk take no lives!”

The Farmer stared hard at Lessa for a moment longer, then nodded slowly. With great courtesy he offered Lessa his arm when she indicated they should continue.

F’nor did not follow for the events of the day were taking a revenge of fatigue on him.

He watched as Andemon and Lessa joined the others at the main table, saw the Lemos and Telgar Lords come over. Lytol and young Jaxom with his white Ruth were nowhere to be seen. F’nor hoped Lytol had taken Jaxom back to Ruatha. He was more grateful to his discovery of fire-lizards than at any other single time since Grall had first winked at him. He walked quickly toward the steep flight to his weyr, wanting to be with his own. Canth was in his weyr, all but one lid closed over his eyes. When F’nor entered, the final lids sagged shut. F’nor leaned his body against the dragon’s neck, his hands seeking the pulsespots in the soft throat, warm and steadying. He could “hear” the soft loving thoughts of the two lizards curled by Brekke’s head.

How long he stood there he couldn’t gauge, his mind rehearsing the Impression, Brekke’s release, Jaxom’s performance, the dinner, everything that had jammed into one eventful afternoon.

There was much to be done, certainly, but he felt unable to move from the presence of Canth.

Most vividly he recalled Andemon’s shock when the man realized that F’lar had proposed the end of dragonmen. Yet—F’lar hadn’t. He certainly had some alternative in mind.