"Ramoth is not awake," she told F'nor calmly, "so you do not need to dance attendance on me."

F'nor said nothing, and his continued silence began to discomfit Lessa. She rose, rubbing her palms on her thighs as if she could erase her last hasty words. She paced back and forth, glancing from her sleeping chamber into Ramoth's, where the golden queen, now larger than any of the bronze dragons, lay in deep slumber.

If only she would wake, Lessa thought. When she's awake, everything's all right. As right as it can be, that is. But she's like a rock.

"So…" she began, trying to keep her nervousness out of her voice, "F'lar is at last doing something, even if it is cutting off our one source of supply."

"Lytol sent in a message this morning," F'nor said curtly. His anger had subsided, but not his disapproval

Lessa turned to face him, expectantly.

"Telgar and Fort have conferred with Keroon," F'nor went on heavily. "They've decided the Weyr is behind their losses. Why," and his anger Flared hot again, "if you picked K'net, didn't you keep a close check on him? He's too green. C'gan, T'sum, I would have..."

"You? You don't sneeze without F'lar's consent," she retorted.

F'nor laughed outright at her.

"F'lar did give you more credit than you deserve," he replied, contemptuous of his own turn. "Haven't you realized why he must wait?"

"No," Lessa shouted at him. "I haven't! Is this something I must divine, by instinct, like the dragons? By the shell of the first Egg, F'nor, no one explains anything to me!

"But it is nice to know that he has a reason for waiting. I just hope it's valid. That it is not too late already. Because I think it is."

It was too late when he stopped me from reinforcing T'bor, she thought, but refrained from saying. Instead, she added, "It was too late when R'gul was too cowardly to feel the shame of..."

F'nor swung on her, his face white with anger. "It took more courage than you'll ever have to watch that moment slide by."

"Why?"

F'nor took a halt step forward, so menacingly that Lessa steeled herself for a blow. He mastered the impulse, shaking his head violently to control himself.

"It is not R'gul's fault," he said finally, his face old and drawn, his eyes troubled and hurt. "It has been hard, hard to watch and to know you had to wait."

"Why?" Lessa all but shrieked.

F'nor would no longer be goaded. He continued in a quiet voice.

"I thought you ought to know, but it goes against F'lar's grain to apologize for one of his own."

Lessa bit back the sarcastic remark that rose to her lips, lest she interrupt this long-awaited enlightenment.

"R'gul is Weyrleader only by default. He'd be well enough, I suppose, if there hadn't been such a long Interval. The Records warn of the dangers..."

"Records? Dangers? What do you mean by Interval?"

"An Interval occurs when the Red Star does not pass close enough to excite the Threads. The Records indicate it takes about two hundred Turns before the Red Star swings back again. F'lar figures nearly twice that time has elapsed since the last Threads fell."

Lessa glanced apprehensively eastward. F'nor nodded solemnly.

"Yes, and it'd be rather easy to forget fear and caution in four hundred years. R'gul's a good fighter and a good wingleader, but he has to see and touch and smell danger before he admits it exists. Oh, he learned the Laws and all the Traditions, but he never understood them in his bones. Not the way F'lar does or the way I have come to," he added defiantly, seeing the skeptical expression on Lessa's face. His eyes narrowed, and he pointed an accusing finger at her. "Nor the way you do, only you don't know why."

She backed away, not from him but from the menace she knew existed, even if she didn't know why she believed.

"The moment F'lar Impressed Mnementh, F'lon began training him to take over. Then F'lon got himself killed in that ridiculous brawl." An expression comprised of anger, regret, and irritation passed over F'nor's face. Belatedly Lessa realized the man was speaking of his father.

"F'lar was too young to take over, and before anyone could intervene, R'gul got Hath to fly Nemorth and we had to wait. But R'gul couldn't control Jora's grief over F'lon, and she deteriorated rapidly. And he misinterpreted F'lon's plan for carrying us over the last of the Interval to mean isolation. Consequently" – F'nor shrugged expressively – "the Weyr lost prestige faster all the time."

"Time, time, time," Lessa railed. "It's always the wrong time. When is now the time?"

"Listen to me." F'nor's stern words interrupted her tirade as effectively as if he had grabbed and shaken her. She had not suspected F'nor of such forcefulness. She looked at him with increased respect.

"Ramoth is full-grown, ready for her first mating flight. When she flies, all the bronzes rise to catch her. The strongest does not always get the queen. Sometimes it is the one everyone in the Weyr wants to have win her." He enunciated his words slowly and clearly. "That was how R'gul got Hath to fly Nemorth. The older riders wanted R'gul. They couldn't stomach a nineteen-year-old over them as Weyrleader, son though he was to F'lon. So Hath got Nemorth. And they got R'gul. They got what they wanted. And look what they've got!" His scornful gesture took in the threadbare weyr.

"It is too late, it is too late," Lessa moaned, understanding a great deal, too well, too late.

"It may be, thanks to your prodding K'net into uncontrolled raiding," F'nor assured her cynically. "You didn't need him, you know. Our wing was handling it quietly. But when so much kept coming in, we cut our operations down. It's a case of too much too soon, since the Hold Lords are getting imprudent enough to retaliate. Think, Lessa of Pern," and F'nor leaned toward her, his smile bitter, "what R'gul's reaction will be. You didn't stop to think of that, did you? Think, now, what he will do when the well-armed Lords of the Hold appear, to demand satisfaction?"

Lessa closed her eyes, appalled at the scene she could picture all too clearly. She caught at her chairarm, limply sat down, undone by the knowledge she had miscalculated. Overconfident because she had been able to bring haughty Fax to his death, she was about to bring the Weyr to its ruin through that same arrogance.

There was suddenly noise enough for half the Weyr to be storming up the passageway from the ledge. She could hear the dragons calling excitedly to each other, the first outburst she had heard from them in two months.

Startled, she jumped up. Had F'lar failed to intercept K'net? Had K'net, by some horrible chance, been caught by the Lords? Together she and F'nor rushed out into the queen's weyr.

It was not F'lar and K'net and an angry Lord-or several-in tow who entered. It was R'gul. his cautious face distorted, his eyes wide with excitement. From the outside, ledge Lessa could hear Hath generating the same intense agitation. R'gul shot a quick glance at Ramoth. who slumbered on obliviously. His eyes as he approached Lessa were coldly calculating D'nol came rushing into the weyr at a dead run, hastily buckling on his tunic. Close on his heels came S'lan, S'lel, T'bor. They all converged in a loose semicircle around Lessa.

R'gul stepped forward, arm outstretched as if to embrace her. Before Lessa could step back, for there was something in R'gul's expression that revolted her, F'nor moved adroitly to her side, and R'gul, angry, lowered his arm.

"Hath is blooding his kill?" the brown rider asked ominously.

"Binth and Orth, too," T'bor blurted out, his eyes bright with the curious fever that seemed to be affecting all the bronze riders.

Ramoth stirred restlessly, and everyone paused to watch her intently.

"Blood their kill?" Lessa exclaimed, perplexed but knowing that this was strangely significant.