Toric would have given much to know who exactly had repeated his words to Sharra. “I mean no offense to Ruatha,” he said, catching the flicker of anger in Lessa’s face though her smile remained in place.
“That would be most unwise, considering my pride in my Bloodline and in the present Holder of that title,” the Weyrwoman said.
Toric did not like the casual tone of her voice.
“Surely you might reconsider the matter, Toric,” Robinton said, as affable as ever despite the warning in his eyes. “Such an alliance, so much desired by the two young people, would have considerable advantages, I think, aligning yourself with one of the most prestigious Holds on Pern.”
“And be in favor with Benden,” Lessa added, smiling too sweetly.
Toric absently rubbed the back of his neck, trying to keep his smile in place. He felt unaccountably light-headed. The next thing he knew, Lessa had put her arm through his and was escorting him to the privacy of her mound.
“I thought we were here to dig up Pern’s glorious past,” he said, managing a good-natured laugh. His head still swam.
“There’s surely no time like the present,” Lessa continued, “to discuss the future. Your future.”
Well, that was more like, Toric thought. F’lar was there, beside Lessa, and the Harper had followed them. The Southern holder shook his head to clear it.
“Yes, with so many ambitious holdless men pouring into Southern,” F’lar was saying, “we’ve been remiss in making certain you’ll have the lands you want, Toric. I don’t fancy blood feuds in the South. Unnecessary, too, when there’s space enough for this generation and several more.”
Toric laughed. The man didn’t realize just how much space there was in the South. He seized his opportunity. “And since there’s so much space, why should I not be ambitious for my sister?”
“You’ve more than one, and we’re not talking of Jaxom and Sharra just now,” Lessa said with a hint of irritability. “F’lar and I had intended to arrange a more formal occasion to set your Holding, but there’s Master Nicat wanting to formalize Minecraft affairs with you, and Lord Groghe is anxious that his two sons do not hold adjacent lands, and other questions have come up recently which require answers.”
“Answers?” Toric leaned against one wall of the cot and crossed his arms on his chest.
“One answer required is how much land any one man should Hold in the south?” F’lar said, idly digging dirt from under his thumbnail. The light emphasis was not lost on Toric.
“And? Our original agreement was that I could Hold all the lands I had acquired by the time the Oldtimers had passed on.”
“Which, in truth, they haven’t,” Robinton said.
“I shan’t insist on waiting,” Toric replied, nodding, “since the original circumstances have altered, And since my hold is thoroughly disorganized by the indigent and hopeful lordlings and holdless men and women, as well as, I am reliably informed, by others who have eschewed our help and landed wherever their ships can be beached.”
“All the more reason to be sure you are not deprived of one length of your just Hold,” F’lar said—far too agreeably, Toric thought. “I know that you have sent out exploring teams. How far have they actually penetrated?”
“With the help of D’ram’s dragonriders”—and Toric saw that F’lar did know of that agency—“we have extended our knowledge of terrain to the foot of the Western Range.” That was safe enough to admit. He had not said when he had extended that knowledge.
“That far?”
“And, of course, Piemur reached the Great Desert Bay to the west,” the Southerner went on determinedly.
“My dear Toric, how can you possibly Hold all that?”
Toric knew the rights of Holding as well as the Weyrleader did. “I’ve small cotholders with burgeoning families along most of the habitable shoreline and at strategic points in the interior. The men you sent me these past few Turns proved most industrious.” The Weyrleaders would have to accept the accomplished fact.
“I suspect they have pledged loyalty to you in return for your original generosity?” F’lar asked.
“Naturally.”
Lessa laughed. She was really a very sensual woman when she wanted to be, Toric realized. “I thought when we met at Benden that you were a shrewd and independent man.”
“There’s land, my dear Weyrwoman, for any man who can hold it.”
“I’d say then,” Lessa went on, “that you’ll have more than enough to occupy you fully and to Hold, from sea to Western Range to the Great Bay…”
Suddenly Toric heard his fire-lizards’ warning. Sharra was running away. He had to leave the Plateau, to get back to the hold.
“To the Great Bay in the West, yes, that is my hope. I do have maps. In my hold, but if I’ve your leave…” He had managed one stride to the door when the Benden queen bugled a warning. Another male voice chimed in, all but drowning his fire-lizards out. F’lar moved swiftly to block his way.
“It’s already too late, Toric.”
And so it was. For when they all filed out of that all too provident meeting, Toric saw the white dragon landing, Sharra and the young lordling on his back. Unsmiling and impotent, Toric watched them approach.
“Toric,” Jaxom said, “you cannot contain Sharra anywhere on Pern where Ruth and I cannot find her. Place and time are no barriers to Ruth. Sharra and I can go anywhere, anywhen on Pern.”
One of Toric’s fire-lizard queens attempted to land on his shoulder. He ignored her piteous chirps and brushed her away. He hated disloyalty.
“Furthermore,” Jaxom went on, “fire-lizards obey Ruth! Don’t they, my friend?” The white sport had followed his rider. “Tell every fire-lizard here on the Plateau to go away.”
In an instant the meadow was empty of the little creatures. Toric did not like the young upstart’s demonstration. When the fire-lizards returned, he allowed his little queen to land on his shoulder, but he never took his eyes from Jaxom’s.
“How did you know so much about Southern? I was told that you’ve never been there!” So that milkbrother had lied. Toric half-turned, looking across the meadow, wondering if Piemur had had a hand in this. That unweyred lordling could not have snatched Sharra back from Southern all by himself: he wouldn’t have had the courage or the knowledge.
“Your informant erred,” Jaxom continued. “Today is not the first time I’ve retrieved something from the Southern Weyr which belongs to the North.” He laid his arm possessively about Sharra’s shoulders.
Toric felt his composure leave him. “You!” He thrust his arm out at Jaxom, wanting to do many things at once, especially swat down that—that—impudent excrescence. He was livid with the indignation of being under obligation to that—that lordling! That leggy, undeveloped boy! He wanted to rend Jaxom limb from body, but little though the white dragon might be, he was bigger than Toric, stronger than any man, and both dam and sire were not far away. There was nothing Toric could do but swallow his humiliation. He could feel the blood suffusing his face, pumping through his extremities. Impossible as it was for him to believe, he was faced with the fact that the boy had dared to retrieve Sharra—dared and done—and now faced him coolly. He had been in error to call the lad a coward! He had allowed himself to be swayed in his judgment by the jaundice of a milk-brother. Young Jaxom had acted like a proper lord, reclaiming the woman of his choice in spite of precautions. “You took the egg back! You and that—but the fire-lizards’ images were black!”
“I’d be stupid not to darken a white hide if I make a night pass, wouldn’t I?” Jaxom asked scornfully.