Manora regarded Lessa warily. Lessa smiled at her reassuringly.
«You may leave it in my hands, then.»
Manora rose slowly. Without taking her eyes from Lessa, she began to gather up her records.
«It is said that Fort and Telgar had unusually good harvests,» she suggested, her light tone not quite masking her anxiety. «Keroon, too, in spite of that coastal flooding.»
«Is that so?» Lessa murmured politely.
«Yes,» Manora continued helpfully, «and the herds at Keroon and Tillek had good increase.»
«I'm happy for them.»
Manora shot her a measuring look, not at all assured by Lessa's sudden affability. She finished gathering up her Records, then set them down again in a careful pile.
«Have you noticed how K'net and his wingriders chafe at R'gul's restrictions?» she asked, watching Lessa closely.
«K'net?»
«Yes. And old C'gan. Oh, his leg is still stiff, and Tagath may be more gray with age than blue, but he was of Udith's hatching. Her last clutch had fine beasts in it,» she remarked. «C'gan remembers other days .. .»
«Before the world turned and times changed?»
Lessa's sweet voice did not mislead Manora now.
«It is not just as Weyrwoman that you are attractive to the dragonmen, Lessa of Pern,» Manora said sharply, her face stern. «There are several of the brown riders, for instance »
«F'nor?» Lessa asked pointedly.
Manora drew herself up proudly. «He is a man grown, Weyrwoman, and we of the Lower Caverns have learned to disregard the ties of blood and affection. It is as a brown rider, not the son I bore, that I recommend him. Yes, I'd recommend F'nor, as I would also recommend T'sum and L'rad.»
«Do you suggest them because they are of F'lar's wing and bred in the true traditions? Less apt to be swayed by my blandishments »
«I suggest them because they believe in the tradition that the Weyr must be supplied from the Holds.»
«All right.» Lessa grinned at Manora, seeing the woman could not be baited about F'nor. «I shall take your recommendations to heart, for I do not intend . . .» She broke off her sentence. «Thank you for apprising me of our supply problems. We need fresh meat most of all?» she asked, rising to her feet.
«Grains, too, and some of the southern root vegetables would be very welcome,» Manora replied formally.
«Very well,» Lessa agreed.
Manora left, her expression thoughtful.
Lessa reflected for long moments on that interview, sitting like a slim statuette in the capacious stony chair, her legs curled up under her on the padding.
Foremost was the disturbing knowledge that Manora was deeply afraid of the mere prospect of Lessa absent from the Weyr, from Ramoth's side, for any reason, for any length of time. Her instinctive fear reaction was a far more effective argument than any of R'gul's sententious mouthings. However, Manora had given no hint of the reason for that necessity. Very well, Lessa would not try to fly one of the other dragons, with or without the rider, as she had been beginning to think she could.
As for this matter of short supplies, on that Lessa would act. Especially since R'gul would not. And, since R'gul could not protest what he did not know, she would contrive, with the help of K'net or F'nor or however many she needed, to keep the Weyr decently supplied. Eating regularly had become a pleasant habit she did not wish to curtail. She did not intend being greedy, but a little judicious pilfering of a bountiful harvest would go unnoticed by the Hold Lords.
K'net, though, was young; he might be rash and indiscreet. Perhaps F'nor would be the wiser choice. But was he as free to maneuver as K'net, who was, after all, a bronze rider? Maybe C'gan. The absence of a retired blue rider, time heavy on his hands, might not be noticed at all.
Lessa smiled to herself, but her smile faded quickly.
«The day the Weyr has to barter for what should be given . . .» She thrust back the premonitory shudder, concentrated on the ignominy of that situation. It certainly emphasized the measure of her self-delusion.
Why had she thought being at the Weyr would be so different from Ruatha Hold? Had her early childhood training instilled such a questionless reverence for the Weyr that life must alter its pattern because Lessa of Ruatha had been Impressed by Ramoth? How could she have been such a romantic little fool?
Look around you, Lessa of Pern, look around the Weyr with unveiled eyes. Old and hallowed is the Weyr? Yes, but shabby and worn-and disregarded. Yes, you were elated to sit in the Weyrwoman's great chair at the Council Table, but the padding is thin and the fabric dusty. Humbled to think your hands rest where Moreta's and Torene's had rested? Well, the stone is ingrained with dirt and needs a good scrubbing. And your rump may rest where theirs did-but that's not where you have your brains.
The shabby Weyr reflected the deterioration of its purpose in the scheme of life on Pern. Those handsome dragonriders, too, so brave in their wher-hide accouterments, proud on the necks of their great beasts-they did not submit kindly to dose examination without a few disappointing revelations. They were only men, with manlike lusts and ambitions, full of very human faults and frustrations, unwilling to disrupt their easy existence for the harsh exigencies that would reestablish the Weyr. They had settled too deeply in their isolation from the rest of their race; they did not realize they were little thought of. There was no real leader at their head
F'lar! What was he waiting for? For Lessa to see through R'gul's ineffectiveness? No, Lessa decided slowly, for Ramoth to grow up. For Mnementh to fly her when he can . . . traditionalist that F'lar is, and Lessa thought this excuse to be specious . . . when the mating dragon's rider became, traditionally, the Weyrleader. That rider!
Well, F'lar might just find events not turning out as he planned.
My eyes were dazzled by Ramoth's, but I can see around the rainbow now, Lessa thought, steeling herself against the tenderness that always accompanied any thought of the golden beast. Yes, I can see into the black and gray shadows now, where my apprenticeship at Ruatha should stand me in good stead. True, there's more to control than one small Hold and far more perceptive minds to influence. Perceptive but dense in their own way. A greater hazard if I lose. But how can I? Lessa's smile broadened. She rubbed her palms against her thighs in anticipation of the challenge. They can do nothing with Ramoth without me, and they must have Ramoth. No one can coerce Lessa of Ruatha, and they're as stuck with me as they were with Jora. Only, I'm no Jora!
Elated, Lessa jumped from the chair. She felt alive again. And more powerful in herself than she felt when Ramoth was awake.
Time, time, time. R'gul's time. Well, Lessa had done with marking his time. She'd been a silly fool. Now she'd be the Weyrwoman F'lar had beguiled her to think she could be.
F'lar . . . her thoughts returned to him constantly. She'd have to watch out for him. Particularly when she started «arranging» things to suit herself. But she had an advantage he couldn't know-that she could speak to all the dragons, not just Ramoth. Even to his precious Mnementh.
Lessa threw back her hand and laughed, the sound echoing hollowly in the large, empty Council Room. She laughed again, delighted with an exercise she had had rare occasion to use. Her mirth roused Ramoth. The exultation of her decision was replaced by that of knowing the golden dragon was waking.
Ramoth stirred again and stretched restlessly as hunger pierced slumber. Lessa ran up the passage on light feet, eager as a child for the first sight of the glorious eyes and the sweetness that characterized the dragon's personality.
Ramoth's huge golden wedge-shaped head swiveled around as the sleepy dragon instinctively sought her Weyrmate. Lessa quickly touched her blunt chin, and the searching head was still, comforted. The several protecting lids parted over the many-faceted eyes, and Ramoth and Lessa renewed the pledge of their mutual devotion.
Ramoth had had those dreams again, she told Lessa, shuddering slightly. It was so cold there! Lessa caressed the soft down above her eye-ridge, soothing the dragon. Linked firmly to Ramoth as she had become, she was acutely aware of the dismay those curious sequences produced.
Ramoth complained of an itch by the left dorsal ridge.
«The skin is flaking again,» Lessa told her, quickly spreading sweet oil on the affected area. «You're growing so fast,» she added with mock and tender dismay.
Ramoth repeated that she itched abominably.
«Either eat less so you'll sleep less or stop outgrowing your hide overnight.»
She chanted dutifully as she rubbed in the oil, «The dragonet must be oiled daily as the rapid growth in early development can overstretch fragile skin tissues, rendering them tender and sensitive.»
They itch, Ramoth corrected petulantly, squirming.
«Hush. I'm only repeating what I was taught.»
Ramoth issued a dragon-sized snort that blew Lessa's robe tightly around her legs.
«Hush. Daily bathing is compulsory, and thorough oiling must accompany these ablutions. Patchy skin becomes imperfect hide in the adult dragon. Imperfect hide results in skin ruptures that may prove fatal to a flying beast.»
Don't stop rubbing, Ramoth entreated.
«Flying beast indeed!»
Ramoth informed Lessa she was so hungry. Couldn't she bathe and oil later?
«The moment that cavern you call a belly is full, you're so sleepy you can barely crawl. You've gotten too big to be carried.»
Ramoth's tart rejoinder was interrupted by a low chuckle. Lessa whirled, hastily controlling the annoyance she felt at seeing F'lar lounging indolently against the archway to the ledge-corridor.
He had obviously been flying a patrol, for he still wore the heavy wher-hide gear. The stiff tunic clung to the flat chest, outlined the long, muscular legs. His bony but handsome face was still reddened by the ultra-cold of between. His curiously amber eyes glinted with amusement and, Lessa added, conceit
«She grows sleek,» he commented, approaching Ramoth's couch with a courteous bow to the young queen.
Lessa heard Mnementh give a greeting to Ramoth from his perch on the ledge.
Ramoth rolled her eyes coquettishly at the wingleader. His smile of almost possessive pride in her doubled Lessa's irritation.
«The escort arrives in good time to bid the queen good day.»
«Good day, Ramoth,» F'lar said obediently. He straightened, slapping his heavy gloves against his thigh.
«We interrupted your patrol pattern?» asked Lessa, sweetly apologetic.
«No matter. A routine flight,» F'lar replied, undaunted. He sauntered to one side of Lessa for an unimpeded view of the queen. «She's bigger than most of the browns. There have been high seas and flooding at Telgar. And the tidal swamps at Igen are dragondeep.» His grin flashed as if this minor disaster pleased him.
As F'lar said nothing without purpose, Lessa filed that statement away for future reference. However irritating F'lar might be, she preferred his company to that of the other bronze riders.
Ramoth interrupted Lessa's reflections with a tart reminder: If she had to bathe before eating, could they get on with it before she expired from hunger?
Lessa heard Mnementh's amused rumble without the cavern.
«Mnementh says we'd better humor her,» F'lar remarked indulgently.
Lessa suppressed the desire to retort that she could perfectly well hear what Mnementh said. One day it was going to be most salutary to witness F'lar's stunned reaction to the knowledge that she could hear and speak to every dragon in the Weyr.
«I neglect her shockingly,» Lessa said, as if contritely.
She saw F'lar about to answer her. He paused, his amber eyes narrowing briefly. Smiling affably, he gestured for her to lead the way.
An inner perversity prompted Lessa to bait F'lar whenever possible. One day she would pierce that pose and flay him to the quick. It would take doing. He was sharp-witted.
The three joined Mnementh on the ledge. He hovered protectingly over Ramoth as she glided awkwardly down to the far end of the long oval Weyr Bowl. Mist, rising from the warmed water of the small lake, parted in the sweep of Ramoth's ungainly wings. Her growth had been so rapid that she had had no time to coordinate muscle and bulk. As F'lar set Lessa on Mnementh's neck for the short drop, she looked anxiously after the gawky, blundering queen.
Queens don't fly because they can't, Lessa told herself with bitter candor, contrasting Ramoth's grotesque descent with Mnementh's effortless drift.
«Mnementh says to assure you she'll be more graceful when she gets her full growth,» F'lar's amused voice said in her ear.
«But the young males are growing just as fast, and they're not a bit» She broke off. She wouldn't admit anything to that F'lar.
«They don't grow as large, and they constantly practice »
«Flying! . . .» Lessa leaped on the word, and then, catching a glimpse of the bronze rider's face, said no more. He was just as quick with a casual taunt.
Ramoth had immersed herself and was irritably waiting to be sanded. The left dorsal ridge itched abominably. Lessa dutifully attacked the affected area with a sandy hand.
No, her life at the Weyr was no different from that at Ruatha. She was still scrubbing. And there was more of Ramoth to scrub each day, she thought as she finally sent the golden beast into the deeper water to rinse. Ramoth wallowed, submerging to the tip of her nose. Her eyes, covered by the thin inner lid, glowed just below the surface-watery jewels. Ramoth languidly turned over, and the water lapped around Lessa's ankles.
All occupations were suspended when Ramoth was abroad. Lessa noticed the women clustered at the entrance to the Lower Caverns, their eyes wide with fascination. Dragons perched on their ledges or idly circled overhead. Even the weyrlings, boy and dragonet, wandered forth curiously from the fledgling barracks of the training fields.
A dragon trumpeted unexpectedly on the heights by the Star Stone. He and his rider spiraled down.
«Timings, F'lar, a train in the pass,» the blue rider announced, grinning broadly until he became disappointed by the calm way his unexpected good news was received by the bronze rider.
«F'nor will see to it,» F'lar told him indifferently. The blue dragon obediently lifted his rider to the wingsecond's ledge.
«Who could it be?» Lessa asked F'lar. «The loyal three are in.»
F'lar waited until he saw F'nor on brown Canth wheel up and over the protecting lip of the Weyr, followed by several green riders of the wing.
«We'll know soon enough,» he remarked. He turned his head thoughtfully eastward, an unpleasant smile touching the comer of his mouth briefly. Lessa, too, glanced eastward where, to the knowing eye, the faint spark of the Red Star could be seen, even though the sun was full up.
«The loyal ones will be protected,» F'lar muttered under his breath, «when the Red Star passes.»
How and why they two were in accord in they unpopular belief in the significance of the Red Star Lessa did not know. She only knew that she, too, recognized it as Menace. It had actually been the foremost consideration in all F'lar's arguments that she leave Ruatha and come to the Weyr. Why he had not succumbed to the pernicious indifference that had emasculated the other dragonmen she did not know. She had never asked him-not out of spite, but because it was so obvious that his belief was beyond question. He knew. And she knew.
And occasionally that knowledge must stir in the dragons. At dawn, as one, they stirred restlessly in their sleep-if they slept-or lashed their tails and spread their wings in protest if they were awake. Manora, too, seemed to believe. F'nor must. And perhaps some of F'lar's surety had infected his wingriders. He certainly demanded implicit obedience to tradition in his riders and received it, to the point of open devotion.
Ramoth emerged from the lake and half-flapped, half-floundered her way to the feeding grounds. Mnementh arranged himself at the edge and permitted Lessa to seat herself on his foreleg. The ground away from the Bowl rim was cold underfoot.
Ramoth ate, complaining bitterly over the stringy bucks that made her meal and resenting it when Lessa restricted her to six.
«Others have to eat, too, you know.»
Ramoth informed Lessa that she was queen and had priority.
«You'll itch tomorrow.»
Mnementh said she could have his share. He had eaten well of a fat buck in Keroon two days ago. Lessa regarded Mnementh with considerable interest. Was that why all the dragons in F'lar's wing looked so smug? She must pay more attention as to who frequented the feeding grounds and how often.
Ramoth had settled into her weyr again and was already drowsing when F'lar brought the train-captain into the quarters.
«Weyrwoman,» F'lar said, «this messenger is from Lytol with duty to you.»
The man, reluctantly tearing his eyes from the glowing golden queen, bowed to Lessa.
«Tilarek, Weyrwoman, from Lytol, Warder of Ruatha Hold,» he said respectfully, but his eyes, as he looked at Lessa, were so admiring as to be just short of impudence. He withdrew a message from his belt and hesitated, torn between the knowledge that women did not read and his instructions to give it to the Weyrwoman. Just as he caught F'lar's amused reassurance, Lessa extended her hand imperiously.
«The queen sleeps,» F'lar remarked, indicating the passageway to the Council Room.
Adroit of F'lar, Lessa thought, to be sure the messenger had a long look at Ramoth. Tilarek would spread the word on his return journey, properly elaborated with each retelling, of the queen's unusual size and fine health. Let Tilarek also broadcast his opinion of the new Weyrwoman.
Lessa waited until she saw F'lar offer the courier wine before she opened the skin. As she deciphered Lytol's inscription, Lessa realized how glad she was to receive news of Ruatha. But why did Lytol's first words have to be:
The babe grows strong and is healthy She cared little for that infant's prosperity. Ah . . .
Ruatha is green-free, from hill crown to crafthold verge. The harvest has been very good, and the beasts multiply from the new studs. Herewith is the due and proper tithe of Ruatha Hold. May it prosper the Weyr which protects us.
Lessa snorted under her breath. Ruatha knew its duty, true, but not even the other three tithing holds had sent proper greetings. Lytol's message contained ominously:
A word to the wise. With Fax's death, Telgar has come to the fore in the growing sedition. Meron, so-called Lord of Nabol, is strong and seeks, I feel, to be first: Telgar is too cautious for him. The dissension strengthens and is more widespread than when I last spoke with Bronze Rider F'lar. The Weyr must be doubly on its guard. If Ruatha may serve, send word.
Lessa scowled at the last sentence. It only emphasized the fact that too few Holds served in any way.
». . . laughed at we were, good F'lar,» Tilarek was saying, moistening his throat with a generous gulp of Weyr-made wine, «for doing as men ought.
«Funny thing, that, for the nearer we got to Benden Range the less laughing we heard. Sometimes it's hard to make sense of some things, being as how you don't do 'em much. Like if I were not to keep my sword arm strong and used to the weight of a blade,» and he made vigorous slashes and thrusts with his right arm, «I'd be put to it to defend myself come a long-drawn fight. Some folk, too, believe what the loudest talker says. And some folk because it frightens them not to. However,» he went on briskly, «I'm soldier-bred and it goes hard to take the gibes of mere crafters and holders. But we'd orders to keep our swords sheathed, and we did. Just as well,» he said with a wry grimace, «to talk soft. The Lords have kept full guard since . . . since the Search»
Lessa wondered what he had been about to say, but he went on soberly.
«There are those that'll be sorry when the Threads fall again on all that green around their doors.»
F'lar refilled the man's cup, asking casually about the harvests seen on the road here.
«Fine, fat and heavy,» the courier assured him. «They do say this Turn has been the best in memory of living man. Why, the vines in Crom had bunches this big!» He made a wide circle with his two huge hands, and his listeners made proper response. «And I've never seen the Telgar grain so full and heavy. Never.»
«Pern prospers,» F'lar remarked dryly.
«Begging your pardon»-Tilarek picked up a wizened piece of fruit from the tray-«I've scooped better than this dropped on the road behind a harvest wagon.» He ate the fruit in two bites, wiping his hands on the tunic. Then, realizing what he had said, he added in hasty apology, «Ruatha Hold sent you its best. First fruits as man ought. No ground pickings from us. You may be sure.»
«It is reassuring to know we have Ruatha's loyalty as well as its full measure,» F'lar assured him. «Roads were clear?»
«Aye, and there's a funny thing this time of year. Cold, then suddenly warm like the weather couldn't remember the season. No snow and little rain. But winds! Like you'd never believe. They do say as how the coasts have been hit hard with high water.» He rolled his eyes expressively and then, hunching his shoulders, confidentially added, «They do say Ista's smoking mountain that does appear and then phffstdisappears . . . has appeared again.»
F'lar looked properly skeptical, although Lessa did not miss the gleam of excitement in his eyes. The man sounded like one of R'gul's ambiguous verses.
«You must stay a few days for a good rest,» F'lar invited Tilarek genially, guiding him out past sleeping Ramoth.
«Aye and grateful. Man gets to the Weyr maybe once or twice in his life,» Tilarek was saying absently, craning his neck to keep Ramoth in sight as F'lar led him out. «Never knew queens grew so big.»
«Ramoth is already much larger and stronger than Nemorth,» F'lar assured him as he turned the messenger over to the weyrling waiting to escort him to quarters.
«Read this,» Lessa said, impatiently shoving the skin at the bronze rider as soon as they were again in the Council Room.
«I expected little else,» F'lar remarked, unconcerned, perching on the edge of the great stone table.
«And . ..?» Lessa demanded fiercely.
«Time will tell,» F'lar replied serenely, examining a fruit for spots.
«Tilarek implied that not all the holders echo their Lords' seditious sentiments,» Lessa commented, trying to reassure herself.
F'lar snorted. «Tilarek says 'as will please his listeners,' « he said in a passable imitation of the man's speech.
«You'd better know, too,» F'nor said from the doorway, «he doesn't speak for all his men. There was a good deal of grumbling in the escort.» F'nor accorded Lessa a courteous if absentminded salute. «It was felt that Ruatha has been too long poor to give such a share to the Weyr its first profitable Turn. And I'll say that Lytol was more generous than he ought to be. We'll eat well for a while.»
F'lar tossed the messageskin to the brown rider.
«As if we didn't know that,» F'nor grunted after he had quickly scanned the contents.
«If you know that, what will you do about it?» Lessa spoke up. «The Weyr is in such disrepute that the day is coming when it can't feed its own.»
She used the phrase deliberately, noticing with satisfaction that it stung the memories of both dragonmen. The look they turned on her was almost savage. Then F'lar chuckled so that F'nor relaxed with a sour laugh.
«Well?» she demanded.
«R'gul and S'lel will undoubtedly get hungry,» F'nor said, shrugging.
«And you two?»
F'lar shrugged, too, and, rising, bowed formally to Lessa. «As Ramoth is deep asleep, Weyrwoman, your permission to withdraw.»
«Get out!» Lessa shouted at them.
They had turned, grinning at each other, when R'gul came storming into the chamber, S'lel, D'nol, T'bor, and K'net close on his heels.
«What is this I hear? That Ruatha alone of the High Reaches sends tithes?»
«True, all too true,» F'lar conceded calmly, tossing the messageskin at R'gul.
The Weyrleader scanned it, mumbling the words under his breath, frowning at its content. He passed it distastefully to S'lel, who held it for all to read.
«We fed the Weyr last year on the tithings of three Holds,» R'gul announced disdainfully.
«Last year,» Lessa put in, «but only because there were reserves in the supply caves. Manora has just reported that those reserves are exhausted.»
«Ruatha has been very generous,» F'lar put in quickly. «It should make the difference.»
Lessa hesitated a moment, thinking she hadn't heard him right.
«Not that generous.» She rushed on, ignoring the remanding glare F'lar shot her way.
«The dragonets require more this year, anyway. So there's only one solution. The Weyr must barter with Telgar and Fort to survive the Cold.»
Her words touched off instant rebellion.
«Barter? Never'»
«The Weyr reduced to bartering? Raid!»
«R'gul, we'll raid first. Barter never!»
That had stung all the bronze riders to the quick. Even S'lel reacted with indignation. K'net was all but dancing, his eyes sparkling with anticipation of action.
Only F'lar remained aloof, his arms folded across his chest, glaring at her coldly.
«Raid?» R'gul's voice rose authoritatively above the noise. «There can be no raid!»
Out of conditioned reflex to his commanding tone, they quieted momentarily.
«No raids?» T'bor and D'nol demanded in chorus.
«Why not?» D'nol went on, the veins in his neck standing out.
He was not the one, groaned Lessa to herself, trying to spot S'lar, only to remember that he was out on the training field. Occasionally he and D'nol acted together against R'gul in Council, but D'nol was not strong enough to stand alone.
Lessa glanced hopefully toward F'lar. Why didn't he speak up now?
«I'm sick of stringy old flesh, of bad bread, of wood-tasting roots,» D'nol was shouting, thoroughly incensed. «Pern prospered this Turn. Let some spill over into the Weyr as it ought!»
T'bor, standing belligerently beside him, growled agreement, his eyes fixing on first one, then another of the silent bronze riders. Lessa caught at the hope that T'bor might act as substitute for S'lan.
«One move from the Weyr at this moment,» R'gul interrupted, his arm raised warningly, «and all the Lords will move-against us.» His arm dropped dramatically.
He stood, squarely facing the two rebels, feet slightly apart, head high, eyes flashing. He towered a head and a half above the stocky, short D'nol and the slender T'bor. The contrast was unfortunate: the tableau was of the stern patriarch reprimanding errant children.
«The roads are clear,» R'gul went on portentously, «with neither rain nor snow to stay an advancing army. The Lords have kept full guards under arms since Fax was killed.» R'gul's head turned just slightly in F'lar's direction. «Surely you all remember the scant hospitality we got on Search?» Now R'gul pinned each bronze rider in turn with a significant stare. «You know the temper of the Holds, you saw their strength.» He jerked his chin up. «Are you fools to antagonize them?»
«A good firestoning . . .» D'nol blurted out angrily and stopped. His rash words shocked himself as much as anyone else in the room.
Even Lessa gasped at the idea of deliberately using firestone against man.
«Something has to be done . . .» D'nol blundered on desperately, turning first to F'lar, then, less hopefully, to T'bor.
If R'gul wins, it will be the end, Lessa thought, coldly furious, and reacted, turning her thoughts toward T'bor. At Ruatha it had been easiest to sway angry men. If she could just A dragon trumpeted outside.
An excruciatingly sharp pain lanced from her instep up her leg. Stunned, she staggered backward, unexpectedly falling into F'lar. He caught her arm with fingers like iron bands.
«You dare control . . .» he whispered savagely in her ear and, with false solicitude, all but slammed her down into her chair. His hand grasped her arm with vise-fingered coercion.
Swallowing convulsively against the double assault, she sat rigidly. When she could take in what had happened, she realized the moment of crisis had passed.
«Nothing can be done at this time,» R'gul was saying forcefully.