Late morning, day 15 of month 9, Ista Island, Turn 157
Blue sky stretched as far as the eye could see, spotted here and there with clouds, but otherwise clear, cerulean blue, and below, white-capped blue waves, rolling ever onwards to an unseen shore.
Evane shut her eyes, forgetting the monotonous landscape to allow herself to be swept into the soft rise and fall of wing beats, and the feel of sinuous hide beneath her thighs. Alhameth soared higher still, wings stretched as far as they would go, whisper-light caresses her only contact with the still, unfocused mind of her lifemate.
Evane felt she could stay in the skies forever, completely adrift from the day-to-day concerns of the world below – just her and Alhameth, soaring and diving as the whim struck. She could sense, without words needing to be shared, that Alhameth would not object to such a life, either – that as long as the two of them were together, that was enough.
She knew before being told that their trip was over, though, as Alhameth's mental touch hesitated, then released a reluctant sigh into her own mind. Kanyeth's wants to see you. He's-- She projected, rather than tell, spilling forth a sense of frustration, of mourning, of impatience.
Tell him we're coming, Evane told her lifemate, sighing as she opened her eyes again, stretching out her shoulders just once more. You'd better take us back, sweetness.
She'd barely presented the necessary visual for Alhameth before the bitter cold of Between engulfed them, and she shivered, though it was as much for the news she suspected was awaiting them, as for the cold itself. She counted, and on the eighth count, they burst into the world again, Ista stretching out beneath them, sunlit and beautiful, but not-- not freedom.
Alhameth circled only briefly, returning the welcoming rumble of the watch-dragon, then diving towards her ledge, hundreds of feet below. Evane briefly exhilarated in the thrill, though it lasted not nearly long enough, and then they were landing upon the sunny ledge, and she was, with great reluctance, sliding down towards the ground. Council chambers? she asked, and, upon receiving a silent note of confirmation from the dragon, she hurried for the stairs, dropping her helmet and jacket on the way, and trying to finger comb her hair.
She intended to catch her breath just outside the council chambers, but the heavy door was open, and M'lak was waiting for her, sitting in the Weyrleader's chair at the far end, and he was clearly watching for her. She took a deep breath, and stepped past the threshold, swallowing thickly under the bronzerider's gaze.
He waved her into a seat at the foot of the table, but didn't wait until she'd sat before he began, his deep voice filling the chamber, making her wish she'd shut the door behind her. "You can't just wander off like that, Evane. Not now. You're needed here."
"I just needed some air," she began, hopeful, trying to explain. He waved her off.
"Not now," he told her, placing both, meaty hands upon the tabletop. "I don't have time. This morning, while you have been off enjoying yourself, I have been consulting with the healers."
Evane bowed her head. She'd known, of course, that this was coming, but it was one thing to know, and quite another entirely to have everything confirmed.
"Jenesy is to be kept in bed for the rest of her pregnancy. If – and remember, this is only an if – she survives childbirth, it's likely to be months before she is back on her feet. You understand, of course, what this means."
"But it's only temporary, right?" she blurted out, without really thinking, leaning forward, begging with her eyes. "Just until she's back up."
M'lak glowered at her, and she sunk back into her chair, knowing the answer without even needing to be told. "We can't be without a Weyrwoman for that long, Evane, and you know it. Not when there's no guarantee Jenesy--" He broke off. "We will make the announcement tonight, and when Alhameth rises – before the end of the turn, I imagine – it will become official."
Evane felt a lead weight form in the pit of her stomach, felt the shackles in her heart. "What if Seskiath rises first?" she heard herself say, not quite conscious of opening her mouth to do so.
"Seskiath is not due for half a turn or more," M'lak stated, baldly, shaking his head. "Alhameth is due. And there will be no stunts this time."
Evane swallowed.
"I don't understand you, Evane," M'lak continued, his frustrated gaze resting on her in such a way that she wished she could sink through the stone floor. "You've been a Weyrwoman for longer than Jenesy and Magian combined, yet you won't stand up. Maggy has only been here three turns – three, Evane – but she'd do her duty, and gladly, if it were Seskiath. Why won't you?"
She could feel Alhameth in the back of her mind, fretting quietly, but she shut her out, staring down at the table, unable to verbalise all that was going through her head.
M'lak waited, waited longer than was even polite, silence making the room even more uncomfortable than the words before it. He broke first, sighing, rustling the papers in front of him. "No stunts, Evane, do you hear me? You're thirty-five turns old, and it's about time you started acting it."
"No stunts," she promised, in a voice that scarcely seemed her own, so dull and lifeless it sounded. "May I go?"
She could sense his disappointment, though she kept her gaze away, and she could hear his sigh. "I'm sure you have work to do," he agreed, finally. "But we'll see you at dinner, of course, ready to make the announcement. We're going to have to work together, now, Evane, you and I. I hope you'll play fair with me. Trust me."
She couldn't find any words at all to respond to that; she nodded, blindly, then turned and fled.
Alhameth probed at her mind, as she made her way, much more slowly this time, from the Council Chambers towards the stairs that would take her back to the ledge. She ignored the queen, for once, pausing to lean against the stone wall, her head tilted back and her eyes closed. Play fair. Trust him. Her skin crawled.
Logically, she knew she couldn't – shouldn't, at least – keep blaming M'lak, but even now, in her head, she could replay the scene with such vividness she found it hard not to cry out. Dragon lust – yes, of course. But she'd been unprepared, and he'd been so callous, not just during her deflowering, but afterwards, blaming her for not 'fixing it' first, and then... She swallowed. Taking her again, as if trying to prove that – that what? That it could be pleasurable? He hadn't, if that had been his aim. He hadn't proven anything, except that he was hateful, and she would have nothing to do with him.
But that was going to prove difficult, now. She'd managed just fine, for a few turns, after that. She'd adjusted to weyr life, or pretended well enough that no one seemed to notice. 'Forgotten' her holder values, embraced her duties, supported her Weyrwoman. And then everything had gone wrong, when Weyrwoman Syva died, and when everything settled, it was M'lak who sat in the chair that had been B'derin's – and it was all her fault.
She sunk down the wall, ending in a seated position on one of the steps, just far enough down that Alhameth could not quite see her from the ledge. But what should she have done differently? She'd never asked for any of this. Not even as a little girl, dreaming of the future. Her dreams had been of husband and family, not dragons – and so-called glory. Not that she regretted Alhameth, as such, but...
She could hear the queen, above, letting out a long, low cry, and tried to shut this out, too. Of course she loved Alhameth. Of course she did. That wasn't the issue.
It was the cage, binding tight, and tighter, and tighter still. Always tighter, until she felt like there was no way out, ever, and she'd never have any of the freedoms she craved. No reprieve. Nothing. Ever. And this time she wouldn't even have K'teric to help.
--
Early morning, Spring, Ista Weyr, Turn 150 (Seven turns previous)
Evane work with a start, memories of the events of yesterday flooding back with aching clarity. She probed silently at Alhameth, noting with relief that the queen was still fast asleep, her dreamy thoughts contented and fulfilled, mentally entwined with her captor-turned-lover. Evane envied her lifemate, silently, for that contentedness.
She turned her attention, then, to her immediate surroundings. She was in her own weyr, in her own bed, but there was a body next to her, feet twined with hers, a hand draped over her bared breast possessively. Swallowing a sigh, she attempted to manoeuvre herself free without waking him, slipping his hand away, disentangling her feet.
The morning air was warm already, despite the coolness of the stone around her, and she felt utterly naked, not just physically, which, of course, she was, but mentally and emotionally, too. Unwilling to cause more noise than was strictly necessary, she slid on yesterday's clothes rather than finding new ones, and ignored the wild mess of her dark, curly hair.
She wasn't really sure where she was going, except that she didn't want to be here, in the space that she'd made her own; it didn't feel like her own, with a body in the bed, another dragon on the ledge. Alhameth was entwined with her mate even now, bronze and gold wrapped about each other and glistening in the morning sun. They made quite a picture, she had to admit.
"They compliment each other."
The voice startled her more than she could have imagined. She spun about in surprise, despite knowing already that the body that had been in her bed was no longer there – he was standing behind her, naked as the day he was born, and he was smiling at her. "Good morning, Weyrwoman."
"Don't call me that." She pushed past him, back into the weyr, leaning down to gather up his clothes, which she shoved into his arms as he turned to follow her. "Just go."
"Evvy, sweetheart--"
"Please don't."
She almost took pity on him, standing there with his clothes in his arms, his expression utterly bewildered. She couldn't help but notice how muscular those shoulders of his were, how well built. She swallowed. "It isn't you, Ket. I'm not angry at you. But you need to leave."
He dropped the clothes unceremoniously, crossing the space between them in a matter of moments, and drew her back to the bed, sitting her down solemnly. "I'm not leaving, Evane, not until we talk about what's bothering you. We have to work together, now. I didn't – that is, we weren't chasing to be Weyrleader, Brioneth and I. But we caught, so we're here. I won't shirk my duty."
He was younger than she was, still only a few turns out of his weyrling training, and so earnest. She turned away, unable to look him in the eye. "But I will."
He frowned. She didn't need to look at him to know that much; she could feel it in the hand he was holding hers with. "What do you mean, Evvy?"
"I'm stepping down. Today. This morning, if I can. Lannanth will rise in a few months. What does a few more months matter? It's better, this way."
His hand left hers, and for a moment, she thought that maybe he was about to storm out on her. Instead, K'teric grasped her head lightly with both hands, turning it so that she was facing him, unable to look away. "I will support you in whatever you have to do, Evvy. But you don't need to. You're going to be an excellent Weyrwoman for Ista, and-- and I'll just have to do my best to be a good Weyrleader, too."
"No." She shook her head, forcing his hands away. "I can't. I don't want it. I never did. Lannanth was supposed to rise first. Everyone knew that. Jenesy will make a much better Weyrwoman. Alhameth was supposed to wait." She could feel a rising wail in her voice, and desperately tried to swallow it. "It has to be like this."
K'teric sought her eyes again, his deep blue ones meeting her brown ones. "I don't think it does, Evvy. But if it's what you want--"
"I do."
"Then that's what we'll do." He sounded, for a moment, as leaderly as any bronzerider she'd met in her turns at Ista. She felt a pang of regret, that she was taking that role from him, too, but mostly, all she could feel was relieved. Free. She was going to be free.
--
Early afternoon, day 15 of month 9, Ista Island, Turn 157
"How did it go, Mel?" Jenesy's voice sounded, to M'lak's ears, even weaker than it had when he'd seen her earlier in the day. But she was propped up against the pillows, and smiling at him, a little blonde nymph, her belly distended far beyond the rest of her petite form.
He grasped at her hand, holding it tightly within his two, larger ones, as he sank into the chair beside her bed. "How does it ever go with her, Jenny? She argued, and then she was sullen, and then she pretty much walked out without a word. I don't understand her, my love."
Jenesy was placid, twining her fingers about his. "She's never been happy here, you know that. She probably should never have been picked up on Search."
"But she was, and she Impressed, and now she's been here nearly as long as she spent at that middle-of-nowhere hold of hers. Shouldn't she be used to it here?"
"I don't think she wants to be."
He glanced down at her, and found himself smiling despite himself. He couldn't help it, with Jenesy: she just had to look at him, and his heart would start thumping away. Nearly seven turns, and she still did it to him. It never should have worked – he was nearly twice her age! - but when she smiled at him... He knew it was right.
"But how am I supposed to work with her, Jenny? She hates me. She resents all of this. She'd pull that same stunt over again, even at her age, if she thought she could get away with it."
"You'll figure it out, darling. I have faith in you. I'm sorry for putting you in this position."
He grabbed her other hand, squeezing it, too. "Don't apologise, my love. Never apologise. If anything, it's my fault. We shouldn't have tried."
She shook her head, solemnly. "But I want your babies. And I don't care if they make me sick, now, as long as I get to hold them in my arms, and know that they're ours. Our babies. Our family, Mel. And I wish they weren't making me so sick, but... I don't regret it."
He leaned down, planting a kiss upon her forehead. "And neither do I. But that doesn't stop me from wishing, my love."
"I know," she told him, smiling. "But cheer up. Maybe Kanyeth won't catch Alhameth, when she rises."
M'lak shook his head. "He'll catch. He has to. I don't trust her on her own, Jen. I love this Weyr too much to trust anyone else to manage her. Even if it means being Weyrleader to another."
She nodded. "I understand. As long as you come home to me."
"Always."
--
Evening, day 15 of month 9, Ista Island, Turn 157
Wish me luck, love, Evane told Alhameth as she strode through the great passageway leading in to the Living Cavern, that evening. She felt awkward in her formal best, her hair pinned up, her knot pinned on straight. She felt more awkward than ever about the news that was soon to be shared; she could still feel that lead weight in her stomach, heavier than ever, and her throat was sandpaper dry.
M'lak met her at the doorway, and offered her his arm. She could see in his eyes a clear enough indication that refusal was not an option, so obediently hooked her arm about his, and let him lead her up past the resident and rider tables, and onto the dais, where the formal table sat. She never sat up here, if she could help it; she ate late, she ate early, but never, if it were even vaguely possible, when she might have to join the formal dinner.
Awkwardly, she sank into the chair he pulled out – the Weyrwoman's chair, she noted, no subtly at all. She could feel all the eyes in the room on her, or so it felt. M'lak sat down beside her, in the Weyrleader's chair – and Magian, from the seat next to hers, reached out to squeeze her hand. Maggy was a nice girl: sweet, honest, focused. Utterly capable. If it weren't for her age, she would be the perfect choice for Weyrwoman.
"You're going to be brilliant," Maggy told her in an undertone. And then: "Smile. Just a little. For me?"
Evane forced her face into a smile, though as a server came down the line to pour wine, she hastily grasped up her glass to sip at it, instead. She felt better with something in her hands.
The meal passed with relative ease, despite Evane's trepidation. She didn't spill anything, and as M'lak spent most of the meal talking to his Wingsecond, she was saved from awkward conversation. Maggy chattered cheerfully, and in such a way that required little response, for which Evane was doubly graceful.
But the lump in her throat grew larger than ever as the dishes were cleared away, and M'lak rose to his feet to address the Weyr. In his fifties, but tall, dark, beefy – he looked the part. He sounded it, too. "As you are all aware, the Weyrwoman has been having some difficulties with her pregnancy. After consultation with the Healers this morning, it is with some sadness that I announce she will be stepping down from her position, effective immediately, though, of course, we do hope that in due course, she will be well enough to take up active duties once more, under our new Weyrwoman."
There was a rustle and a murmur spreading through the assembled weyrfolk; Evane could not make out individual words and comments, but the response was unequivocally sad. It was, she knew, to be expected, for Jenesy had always been a well-liked Weyrwoman.
"I know I speak for us all, in sharing with the Weyrwoman my regret at this unhappy circumstance. Nonetheless, I also know that you will give our new Weyrwoman your respect and support, as she settles in to her new position. As always, the next queen to rise, be it Seskiath or Alhameth,"
Now, Evane really could feel the eyes on her. Most weyrfolk knew perfectly well that Seskiath was not due for some time – and that Alhameth was. They knew. And even those who had not been here, seven turns ago, knew the rest of the story. Evane felt her cheeks burn.
"In the meantime," M'lak continued, sparing only a few moments for discussion among the caverns, "As our eldest weyrwoman, Evane will be taking on the position in an acting capacity, until such time as the leadership can be confirmed. As I said, I know you will give Evane your full support, though with her experience, we know she will do an excellent job."
Maggy reached over to squeeze her hand again, whispering something Evane couldn't hear over the clamour in the caverns. M'lak nodded, once, then concluded: "In the meantime, have a good evening, Ista, and thank you for your time."
Evane was surprised. She'd expected to have to say a few words – that was usually how these things went. Did... did M'lak simply not trust her enough to do even that? For the first time, she found herself wishing that Alhameth would just rise, and get it over with. Maybe then she'd be dealing with something who, well. Wasn't M'lak.
