Thought of Lessa sobered Kylara abruptly. She tried again to convince herself that Lessa would be no threat, no obstacle in her plan. Lessa was too subservient to F’lar now, aching to be pregnant again, playing the dutiful Weyrwoman, too content to see what could happen under her nose. Lessa was a fool. She could have ruled all Pern if she had half-tried. She’d had the chance and lost it. The stupidity of going back to bring up the Oldtimers when she could have had absolute dominion over the entire planet as Weyrwoman to Pern’s foremost queen! Well, Kylara had no intention of remaining in the Southern Weyr, meekly tending the world’s wounded weyrmen and cultivating acres and acres of food for everyone else but herself. Each egg hatched a different way, but a crack at the right time speeded things up.

And Kylara was all ready to crack a few eggs, her way. Noble Larad, Lord of Telgar Hold, might not have remembered to invite her, his only full-blood sister, to the wedding, but surely there was no reason why she should remain distant when her own half-sister was marrying the Lord Holder of Lemos.

Brekke was changing the dressing on his arm when F’nor heard T’bor calling her. She tensed at the sound of his voice, an expression of compassion and worry momentarily clouding her face.

“I’m in F’nor’s weyr,” she said, turning her head toward the open door and raising her light voice.

“Don’t know why we insist on calling a hold made of wood a weyr,” said F’nor, wondering at Brekke’s reaction. She was such a serious child, too old for her years. Perhaps being junior Weyrwoman to Kylara had aged her prematurely. He had finally got her to accept his teasing. Or was she humoring him, F’nor wondered, during the painful process of having the deep knife wound tended.

She gave him a little smile. “A weyr is where a dragon is, no matter how it’s constructed.”

T’bor entered at that moment, ducking his head, though the door was plenty high enough to accommodate his inches.

“How’s the arm, F’nor?”

“Improving under Brekke’s expert care. There’s a rumor,” F’nor said, grinning slyly up at Brekke, “that men sent to Southern heal quicker.”

“If that’s why there are always so many coming back, I’ll give her other duties.” T’bor sounded so bitter that F’nor stared at him. “Brekke, how many more wounded can we accommodate?”

“Only four, but Varena at West can handle at least twenty.”

From her expression, F’nor could tell she hoped there weren’t that many wounded.

“R’mart asks to send ten, only one badly injured,” T’bor said, but he was still resentful.

“He’d best stay here then.”