Dragonflight by Anne McCaffrey Read Free Book Online Page B

socially correct half-smile.
    “I dare not leave just now, Lord F’lar. He is always dangerous at Ruatha. And it may only be false pangs . . . at my age.”
    F’lar was dubious as he saw another shudder pass through her frame. The woman would have been a fine Weyrwoman, he thought ruefully, if she were younger.
    The Warder, his hands shaking, presented Fax the sliced meats, slivers of overdone flesh, portions of almost edible meats, but not much of either.
    One furious wave of Fax’s broad fist and the Warder had the plate, meats and juice, square in the face. Despite himself, F’lar sighed, for those undoubtedly constituted the only edible portions of the entire beast.
    “You call this food?
You call this food?”
Fax bellowed. His voice boomed back from the bare vault of the ceiling, shaking crawlers from their webs as the sound shattered the fragile strands.
“Slop! Slop!”
    F’lar rapidly brushed crawlers from the Lady Gemma, who was helpless in the throes of a very strong contraction.
    “It’s all we had on such short notice,” the Warder squealed, bloody juices streaking down his cheeks. Fax threw the goblet at him, and the wine went streaming down the man’s chest The steaming dish of roots followed, and the man yelped as the hot liquid splashed over him.
    “My Lord, my Lord, had I but known!”
    “Obviously, Ruatha can
not
support the visit of its Lord. You must renounce it,” F’lar heard himself saying.
    His shock at such words issuing from his mouth was as great as that of everyone else in the Hall. Silence fell, broken by the splat of crawlers and the drip of root liquid from the Warder’s shoulders to the rushes. The grating of Fax’s boot heel was clearly audible as he swung slowly around to face the bronze rider.
    As F’lar conquered his own amazement and rapidly tried to predict what to do next to mend matters, he saw F’nor rise slowly to his feet, hand on dagger hilt.
    “I did not hear you correctly?” Fax asked, his face blank of all expression, his eyes snapping.
    Unable to comprehend how he could have uttered such an arrant challenge, F’lar managed to assume a languid pose.
    “You did mention, my Lord,” he drawled, “that if any of your Holds could not support itself and the visit of its rightful overlord, you would renounce it.”
    Fax stared back at F’lar, his face a study of swiftly suppressed emotions, the glint of triumph dominant. F’lar, his face stiff with the forced expression of indifference, was casting swiftly about in his mind. In the name of the Egg, had he lost all sense of discretion?
    Pretending utter unconcern, he stabbed some vegetables onto his knife and began to munch on them. As he did so, he noticed F’nor glancing slowly around the Hall, scrutinizing everyone. Abruptly F’lar realized what had happened. Somehow, in making that statement, he, a dragonman, had responded to a covert use of the power. F’lar, the bronze rider, was being put into a position where he would
have
to fight Fax. Why? For what end? To get Fax to renounce the Hold? Incredible! But there could be only one possible reason for such a turn of events. An exultation as sharp as pain swelled within F’lar. It was all he could do to maintain his pose of bored indifference, all he could do to turn his attention to thwarting Fax, should he press for a duel. A duel would serve no purpose. He, F’lar, had no time to waste on it.
    A groan escaped Lady Gemma and broke the eyelocked stance of the two antagonists. Irritated, Fax looked down at her, fist clenched and half-raised to strike her for her temerity at interrupting her lord and master. The contraction that rippled across the swollen belly was as obvious as the woman’s pain. F’lar dared not look toward her, but he wondered if she had deliberately groaned aloud to break the tension.
    Incredibly, Fax began to laugh. He threw back his head, showing big, stained teeth, and roared.
    “Aye, renounce it, in favor of her issue, if