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| “Fhandi,” G’yr said awkwardly, arms tentatively cradling a leather-wrapped bundle. He cast one blue eye skyward, encouraged by an errant breeze. The weather had been clear and mild, balm to anyone who had stood the Sands for nine heated weeks. He was very glad that Jyvadoth’s children had finally decided to hatch. The delicate blonde cocked her head at him, and he found himself marveling over the fragility of her, and the youth. He was six full Turns her senior, but there was still something alluring about the mistreated drudge-turned-dragonrider, something that made her mature beyond her Turns. G’yr was astonished that she even tolerated him—he, who had not even known her name when her maiden Wenaveth had been flown by his equally inexperienced Jyvadoth. That he had arrived for the flight at all had been nothing short of miraculous; that he had won was barely believable. That she had not despised the sharp-tongued, ascetic bluerider that had popped out of nowhere to claim her lifemate still made him wonder. How, under Rukbat, had he been so lucky? Noting that the silence stretched inquisitively toward his ears, G’yr coughed and held out the wherhide-swathed ovoid he had labored long for. “I…wanted to get something for you. You’ve been so forbearing, and so kind—the Sands could try the patience of an Apprentice-Master—and I think you deserve something for it. I don’t know if you wear jewelry or not, and I haven’t the marks for anything that would be,” he swallowed, “special enough. I thought you might like this instead.” The words limped, and G’yr winced. “It’s from Falas Weyr. The previous owner assured me it had something…special inside.” Puppyish eyes looked mournfully, hopefully down at Fhandi, and pen-creased hands gently peeled the firelizard egg’s wrapping away, so the pale, klah-and-cream swirled shell gleamed against the cracked wherhide. |