Not that this is a proper Weyr, at all …
… And thats an insult to my nursling, it is, to be in …
Not that they care, but theyll see they cant treat a Telgar of the Blood with such lack of courtesy …
… And whos been discourteous to my little …
Fix that hem, Rannelly, and dont be all week about it. I must look my best when I go home, Kylara said, turning her upper torso this way and that, studying the fall of her thick, wavy blonde hair. Only good thing about this horrible, horrible place. The sun does keep my hair bright.
Like a fall of sunbeams, my sweetling, and me brushing it to bring out the shine. Morning and night I brushes it. Never miss. Except when youre away. He was looking for you earlier …
Never mind him. Fix that hem.
Oh, aye, that I can do for you. Slip it off. There now. Ooooh, my precious, my poppet. Whoever treated you so! Did he make such marks on …
Be quiet! Kylara stepped quickly from the collapsed dress at her feet, all too aware of the livid bruises that stood out on her fair skin. One more reason to wear the new gown. She shrugged into the loose linen robe she had discarded earlier. While sleeveless, its folds almost covered the big bruise on her right arm. She could always blame that on a natural accident. Not that she cared a whistle what Tbor thought but it made for less recrimination. And he never knew what he did when he was well wined-up.
No good will come of it, Rannelly was moaning as she gathered up the red gown and began to shuffle across to her cubby. Youre weyrfolk now. No good comes of weyrfolk mixing with Holders. Stick to your own. Youre somebody here …
Shut up, you old fool. The whole point of being Weyrwoman is I can do what I please. Im not my mother. I dont need your advice.
Aye, and I know it, the old nurse said with such sharp bitterness that Kylara stared after her.
There, shed frowned unattractively. She must remember not to screw her brows that way; it made wrinkles. Kylara ran her hands down her sides, testing the smooth curves sensuously, drawing one hand across her Rat belly. Flat even after five brats. Well, thered be no more. She had the way of it now. Just a few moments longer between at the proper time and …
She pirouetted, laughing, throwing her arms up to the ceiling in a tendon-snapping stretch and hissing as the bruised deltoid muscle pained her.
Meron need not … She smiled languorously. Meron did need to, because she needed it.
He is not a dragonrider, said Prideth, rousing from sleep. There was no censure in the golden dragons tone; it was a statement of fact. Mainly the fact that Prideth was bored with excursions which landed her in Holds rather than Weyrs. When Kylaras fancy took them visiting other dragons, Prideth was more than agreeable. But a Hold, with only the terrified incoherencies of a watch-wher for company was another matter.
No, hes not a dragonrider, Kylara agreed emphatically a smile of remembered pleasure touching her full red lips. It gave her a soft, mysterious, alluring look, she thought, bending to the mirror. But the surface was mottled and the close inspection made her skin appear diseased.
I itch, Prideth said, and Kylara could hear the dragon moving. The ground under her feet echoed the effect.
Kylara laughed indulgently and, with a final swirl and a grimace at the imperfect mirror, she went out to ease Prideth. If only she could find a real man who could understand and adore her the way the dragon did. If, for instance, Flar …
Mnementh is Ramoths, Prideth told her rider as she entered the clearing which served as gold queens Weyr in Southern. The dragon had rubbed the dirt off the bedrock just beneath the surface. The southern sun baked the slab so that it gave off comfortable heat right through the coolest night. All around, the great fellis trees drooped, the pink clustered blossoms scenting the air.