Free Dragonflight by Anne McCaffrey

Hold’s myriad passages. He stared, momentarily confused, at his brown rider.
    “Babe? What babe?”
    “The male child Lady Gemma bore,” F’nor replied, surprised by F’lar’s uncomprehending look.
    “It lives?”
    “Yes. A strong babe, the woman says, for all that he was premature and taken forcibly from the dead dame’s belly.”
    F’lar threw back his head with a shout of laughter. For all her scheming, she had been outdone by Truth.
    At that moment he heard the unmistakable elation in Mnementh’s roar, followed by the curious warble of the other dragons.
    “Mnementh has caught her,” F’lar cried, grinning with jubilation. He strode down the steps, past the body of the former Lord of the High Reaches and out into the main court.
    He saw the bronze dragon was gone from his Tower perch and called him. An agitation drew his eyes upward. He saw Mnementh spiraling down into the Court, his front paws clasping something. Mnementh informed F’lar that he had seen her climbing from one of the high windows and had simply plucked her from the ledge, knowing the dragonman sought her. The bronze dragon settled awkwardly onto his hind legs, his wings working to keep him balanced. Carefully he set the girl on her feet and carefully he formed a cage around her with his huge talons. She stood motionless within that circle, her face turned toward the wedge-shaped head that swayed above her.
    The watch-wher, shrieking terror, anger, and hatred, was lunging violently to the end of its chain, trying to come to Lessa’s aid. It grabbed at F’lar as he strode to the two.
    “You’ve courage enough to fly with, girl,” he admitted, resting one hand casually on Mnementh’s upper claw. Mnementh was enormously pleased with himself and swiveled his head down for his eye ridges to be scratched.
    “You did not lie, you know,” F’lar said, unable to resist taunting the girl.
    Slowly she turned toward him, her face impassive. She was not afraid of dragons, F’lar realized with approval.
    “The babe lives. And it is male.”
    She could not control her dismay, and her shoulders sagged briefly before she pulled herself erect again.
    “Ruatha is mine,” she insisted in a tense, low voice.
    “Aye, and it would have been had you approached me directly when the wing arrived here.”
    Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
    “A dragonman may champion anyone whose grievance is just. By the time we reached Ruath Hold, my lady, I was quite ready to challenge Fax given any reasonable cause, despite the Search.” This was not the whole truth, but F’lar must teach this girl the folly of trying to control dragonmen. “Had you paid any attention to your harper’s songs, you’d know your rights. And”—F’lar’s voice held a vindictive edge that surprised him—“the Lady Gemma might not now lie dead. She, brave soul, suffered far more at that tyrant’s hand than you.”
    Something in her manner told him that she regretted Lady Gemma’s death, that it had affected her deeply.
    “What good is Ruatha to you now?” he demanded, a broad sweep of his arm taking in the ruined Court yard and the Hold, the entire unproductive valley of Ruatha. “You have indeed accomplished your ends, a profitless conquest and its conqueror’s death.”
    F’lar snorted. “As well, too. Those Holds will all revert to their legitimate Blood, and time they did. One Hold and One Lord. Anything else is against tradition. Of course, you might have to fight others who disbelieve that precept: who have become infected with Fax’s greedy madness. Can you hold Ruatha against attack . . . now . . . in her condition?”
    “Ruatha is mine!”
    “Ruatha?” F’lar’s laugh was derisive. “When you could be Weyrwoman?”
    “Weyrwoman?” she breathed, staring at him in shocked amazement.
    “Yes, little fool. I said I rode in Search . . . it’s about time you attended to more than Ruatha. And the object of my Search is . . . you!”
    She