Free Dragonflight by Anne McCaffrey Page A

stared at the finger he pointed at her, as if it were dangerous.
    “By the First Egg, girl, you’ve power in you to spare when you can turn a dragonman, all unwitting, to do your bidding. Ah, but never again, for I am now on guard against you.”
    Mnementh crooned approvingly, the sound a soft rumble in his throat. He arched his neck so that one eye was turned directly on the girl, gleaming in the darkness of the Court.
    F’lar noticed with detached pride that she neither flinched nor blanched at the proximity of an eye greater than her own head.
    “He likes to have his eye ridges scratched,” F’lar remarked in a friendly tone, changing tactics.
    “I know,” she said softly and reached out a hand to do that service.
    “Nemorth has laid a golden egg,” F’lar continued persuasively. “She is close to death. This time we must have a strong Weyrwoman.”
    “The Red Star?” the girl gasped, turning frightened eyes to F’lar. That alone surprised him, for she had never once evinced any fear.
    “You’ve seen it? You understand what it means?” He saw her swallow nervously.
    “There is danger . . .” she began in a bare whisper, glancing apprehensively eastward.
    F’lar did not question by what miracle she appreciated the imminence of danger. He had every intention of taking her to the Weyr by sheer force if necessary. But something within him wanted very much for her to accept the challenge voluntarily. A rebellious Weyrwoman would be even more dangerous than a stupid one. This girl had too much power and was too used to guile and strategy. It would be a calamity to antagonize her with injudicious handling.
    “There is danger for all Pern. Not just Ruatha,” he said, allowing a note of entreaty to creep into his voice. “And
you
are needed. Not by Ruatha.” A wave of his hand dismissed that consideration as a negligible one compared to the total picture. “We are doomed without a strong Weyrwoman. Without you.”
    “Gemma said all the bronze riders were needed,” she murmured in a dazed whisper.
    What did she mean by that statement? F’lar frowned. Had she heard a word he had said? He pressed his argument, certain only that he had already struck one responsive chord.
    “You’ve won here. Let the babe”—he saw her startled rejection of that idea and ruthlessly qualified it—“Gemma’s babe—be reared at Ruatha. You have command of all the Holds as Weyrwoman, not ruined Ruatha alone. You’ve accomplished Fax’s death. Leave off vengeance.”
    She stared at F’lar with wondering eyes, absorbing his words.
    “I never thought beyond Fax’s death,” she admitted slowly. “I never thought what should happen then.”
    Her confusion was almost childlike and struck F’lar forcibly. He had had no time or desire to consider her prodigious accomplishment. Now he realized some measure of her indomitable character. She could not have been above ten Turns of age herself when Fax had murdered her family. Yet somehow, so young, she had set herself a goal and managed to survive both brutality and detection long enough to secure the usurper’s death. What a Weyrwoman she would be! In the tradition of those of Ruathan Blood. The light of the paler moon made her look young and vulnerable and almost pretty.
    “You can be Weyrwoman,” he repeated with gentle insistence.
    “Weyrwoman,” she breathed, incredulous, and gazed around the inner Court bathed in soft moonlight. He thought she wavered.
    “Or perhaps you enjoy rags?” he said, making his voice harsh, mocking. “And matted hair, dirty feet, and cracked hands? Sleeping in straw, eating rinds? You are young . . . that is, I assume you are young.” His voice was frankly skeptical. She glared at him coolly, her lips firmly pressed together. “Is this the be-all and end-all of your ambition? What are you that this little corner of the great world is
all
you want?” He paused, then with utter contempt added, “The Blood of Ruatha has thinned,