Viresa slammed items angrily into her pack. It was outrageous, she thought, that she should be sent away from the Hall for refusing to sleep with one of the Masters. They could wrap it up in any way they chose, put a fancy title on her posting, but the truth was that she was being elbowed aside because she hadn’t gone along with Master Hanadel’s disgusting suggestions.

How dare they do this to her, she fumed, storming around the room that had been her home since she walked the tables as a journeywoman three Turns before. She yanked a tapestry that she had woven last year from the wall and it caught on a nail, snagging a thread and puckering up the cloth around it. Looking at it she burst into tears, and sat on her cot, burying her weeping face in the soft material.

She had come here as an apprentice when she was just twelve Turns old, and it had seemed more like home to her, even from the very beginning, than Far Water Hold ever had.

That wasn’t surprising, maybe, when her father had treated her so differently from her siblings. He joked around with her elder brother Dageren and doted on Linnel, the baby, but it had often seemed to Viresa as if she, herself, was totally invisible. Not for her a swift hug, or a handful of sweet cakes he’d swiped from his baking. For her, barely a look. The most attention she was likely to get was a swipe around the ear if she had happened to find herself in Marcon’s way.

Involuntarily, Viresa’s hand went to her nose, stroking gently over the bump at the bridge. She had broken it in a fall from a tree, chasing after Dageren, when she was just seven Turns old. Naturally she had run, screaming, to her father in the hold kitchens, but Marcon had simply snapped at her not to bother him and shooed her off. Since her mother had been away at the time, minding the children of the Lord and Lady Holder while they visited Fourcliffs Hold, the nose had simply gone unset. Somehow its slight crookedness served as a permanent reminder of her father’s indifference toward her.

Marcon had never noticed the way Dageren picked on her either, it seemed, and though Luthia had been tender about applying numbweed salves to her daughter’s many bruises, she had never suggested to her husband that he discipline his son, or taken any action to defend Viresa from Dageren’s bullying. When Viresa had wailed, “It’s not fair!” her mother had just replied, “I know, sweetling, but it’s how it is.” In time, Viresa had learned to fight back, but even so, she had come off worse nine times out of ten, especially once Dageren put on some flesh and was apprenticed to the Hold’s herdmaster.

Small wonder then, that Viresa had travelled happily across the continent to Heligan Hold, when her mother arranged for her to be apprenticed at the Weavercraft Hall. There she had found apprentices who didn’t feel the need to beat up on her the way Dageren had, women who were prepared to show her affection openly, and men who actually seemed to take a fatherly interest in what she did. She settled in quickly and found a niche for herself at last.

No longer finding herself permanently crushed or ignored and no longer subject to idle blows, her natural personality was able to assert itself. She was never going to be able to put herself forward, she thought, but she was no longer scared to make any kind of comment, and she found that she could often reduce her fellow apprentices to howls of glee with a dry aside. She was too retiring to be a clown, but she found that she quickly gained a name as a wit. Her lively intelligence, and her willingness to listen to others made her a few solid friends, and she was as happy as any teenager could expect.

Even so, it had ached her heart that her father couldn’t seem to love her, and she had never stopped trying to win Marcon’s approval. She had applied herself diligently to her studies, and her masters, quickly becoming competent in all the areas of the craft.

She also discovered a talent for colour, and an aptitude for mixing and developing dyes which produced a vibrant hue that didn’t fade. In this area she far outstripped even the masters and so she had walked the tables shortly after her eighteenth birthday. It was one of the quickest transitions from apprentice to journeyman that the southern Weavercraft Hall had seen, and a popular choice.

Now, at last, she had thought, she must have done something to please her father. In recognition of her achievement Masterweaver Yannit had arranged for a blue dragon from Southern Weyr who was visiting Ryslen to give her a ride home, just for a few days so that she could celebrate with her family.

The visit was a disaster.

The dragonrider had dropped her at the entrance to the hold, dressed entirely in clothes made from materials she had weaved, dyed and sewn herself, a gown of a rich green, and a deep russet cloak, her journeyman’s knot proud on her shoulder. The Holder and his Lady had welcomed her warmly, and had assigned a drudge to take her to her family’s lodgings, with the deference due to a craft journeyman.

Marcon had given her a long, uncomprehending stare as she stood on the threshold, then asked “Can I help you, Miss? Are you lost?”.

She couldn’t think of a thing to say, faced with this total lack of recognition when her mother’s voice broke in, “Shards Marcon, don’t be stupider than you have to. Surely you can see it’s Viresa, home for a visit--and made journeywoman too!”

“Oh,” was all he’d said, and then turned his back on her, walking away so she could come in. Luthia bustled forward and gathered her daughter into a huge hug, but it hadn’t helped. Viresa realised that her father was more interested in her when he thought she was a stranger than when he knew that this well dressed journeywoman was his daughter. It seemed that whatever she did, she would never please him. The pain was like a hot stone in her belly.

Late that night, after Dada had gone to bed, with no more than an occasional grunt and nod in her direction, she and her mother sat alone drinking klah. Finally, after a long chat about the family and her life in the craft, Viresa asked her the question that she had to have answered, and had wanted to know, it seemed, all her life. “Why does Dada hate me so, Ma? What did I do?”

Her mother looked at her sadly. “It’s not your fault, child, nor his really. It’s not even mine, although it’s more mine than anyone else’s.”

Viresa looked at her, totally confused.

“It’s a long, long time ago, Viresa. Dageren was just a tot, and I was still quite a pretty thing.” She looked at her daughter, “I looked a lot like you then, really, though I was shorter.”

“Some dragonriders flew in on Search, and of course the Lord asked them to stay – the old Lord that was, this one’s father. They all dined well, and drank better, and then made their way to bed. It happened that I was in one of the riders’ rooms putting a hot brick in his bed when he came in.”

She stopped and took a deep breath, and continued, her eyes on her hands.

“I fought him, tooth and nail, but he was drunk, and determined and very strong. To be fair to him, I think he thought I’d been sent to his room to warm his bed in more ways than one, and he was in no fit state to listen to me. Anyway, fight as I might, he had his way with me, and when he was done, and snoring, I slipped back to our rooms with my dress torn half off and my face stained with tears.”

“Oh Ma!” Viresa wasn’t sure what to say, so she just reached out, and put her hands over her mother’s, squeezing them gently to convey her silent sympathy. It happened of course, everyone knew it happened, but it wasn’t supposed to happen to the people you loved. Luthia looked full at Viresa then.

“Your Dada was wonderful. Gentle and tender and loving. He held me close and told me everything would be all right. Then, in the morning, he took me to Lord Barentel and we told him what had happened. He was sympathetic, and kind, but he wanted no trouble with the Weyr. He paid us compensation, and made me nursemaid for his son’s children. And that was that.” Viresa gave her mother’s hands another gentle squeeze, still saying nothing.

“Or, it would have been,” Luthia continued, “If we hadn’t found out a little later that I was breeding. Marcon has always been convinced that the rider fathered you, and that’s the long and the short of it.”

“And did he?” Viresa asked. It might not have been the most tactful question, but she needed to know. “I don’t think so sweetling, I really don’t. He was a dark man, the rider, with dark eyes. You’re fair, with Marcon’s light eyes. Not to mention that the rider had me but once, and Marcon …” her voice faded away.

“But Dada needed someone to blame, and I’m it. That’s the thing really, isn’t it?”

Luthia nodded, sadly.

Viresa sighed. “So nothing I do is ever going to make him proud of me, or care about me, or anything else, because he doesn’t believe I’m his?”

Again, her mother nodded. “That’s about the size of it, sweetling. I’m sorry.”

“Oh Ma! It isn’t your fault. It’s one of those things, I guess, everybody hurt, nobody to blame.”

She stood, and hugged her mother tight, not speaking for several minutes, and then stepped away.

“What was the rider’s name, Ma, what Weyr?” Briefly, ridiculously, Viresa thought that it might help to know, that maybe she could claim a father that wasn’t hers, if her own didn’t want her.

Luthia blushed. “I don’t know his name, his Weyr, even what colour dragon he rode, child. He’s always been just ‘the rider’ to me. I never wanted to know. But Marcon is your father, I’m sure of it.”

Viresa wondered briefly if her mother’s determination that Marcon was her father was as irrational as Dada’s certainty that he wasn’t. But, she supposed, in the end it hardly mattered. “I don’t have a father, it seems,” she said, sadly. “I’ll get out of your way first thing in the morning, Ma. I’m sure they can find a guest room for a journeyman in the hold somewhere. Dada would obviously be more comfortable that way. You can visit with me in whatever room they give me.”

She’d done just that, and since then she’d not been back to Far Water, although she had corresponded regularly with Luthia, and last summer, her mother had sent her sister Linnel to visit with her at the Hall for a few weeks. “A change before she’s apprenticed in the kitchens.” she had explained. Viresa found little in common with the talkative girl, who she hadn’t really seen since she was four Turns old, but had made her welcome for their mother’s sake, and sent her back with a huge bundle of cloth much too fine for hold servants, as a gift.

So, truthfully, the Hall was the only real home she had ever had. She had come back here and ‘settled’. She had fully expected to spend the rest of her life here, apart from occasional visits for gathers or meetings. After all, a specialist in dyes wasn’t likely to journey much.

Viresa had a significant area of the Hall’s gardens to grow the plants she used as her primary dye source, and a small army of apprentices to tend them. She had a stillroom dedicated to storing the dried herbs, a studio to turned over to mixing and experimenting with colours. She was established, ensconced.

And last winter had been a triumph. A careful mixing of a number of different plant sources and a certain quartz ground to the finest powder with a binder to fix it into the material had resulted in the perfect bronze for dragons, even to the metallic sheen. She had received praise from the Holds and Weyrs as well as within the craft. She had even been sent on a trip north to share her discovery there – travelling by ship, rather than dragonback, of course. When she had returned Master Yannit had made clear that she was being watched carefully, and was expected to achieve Master rank very early – though not for a year or two yet.

Everything had seemed sweet.

Then Hanadel had transferred to the Crafthall. Erilla, the Hall’s old spinning master had been failing in health for months, and finally decided that her hands were just not capable of demonstrating any longer. Since there was no one in the hall skilled enough to take over, Master Yannit had written to the main Southern Weavercrafthall for aid. Hanadel had been the result.

He was in his fifties perhaps, a shrunken man, almost colourless – paper-white skin, hair so pale it was virtually transparent, eyes of a pale watery blue. He was very, very thin and probably two or three inches shorter than Viresa’s five foot seven. He seemed ghostly to her, and his voice was pitched quiet, little more than a whisper at times, but there was no doubt he was a very fine spinner, and Viresa had noticed a distinct improvement in the materials that were brought to her for dyeing.

Hanadel had seemed innocuous enough when he arrived. He had shown an interest in Viresa’s work and had started simply by being very complimentary about what she did. She had been happy enough to show him the processes she used for extracting dyes from plants, and how she mixed to develop new shades. He had seemed fascinated by everything she showed him.

Her passion for her work had led her to be more animated than she might have been, and she hadn’t objected to the amount of time he had spent in her company – dye-making wasn’t a subject that many people were engrossed by and it was nice having someone to share her enthusiasm with. Of course, she had tended to lean towards him when he spoke, the quietness of his voice meant she couldn’t hear him without. At some point however, she noticed that his voice seemed quieter when he spoke to her than when he addressed other journeymen, or apprentices. He started to stand close to her, very close, often touching, as if by accident, and occasionally looking over her shoulder, apparently attentively, in a way that brought his body against hers.

She began to feel wary and rather irritated, but there was nothing overt she could identify for several months, just a feeling of his eyes being on her, his being just a little too close for comfort.

Until the day in the stillroom.

She was setting the plants out for drying and she brushed her hands over the stems of anglewort, which produced a fine pale blue, gently so as not to bruise them. Master Hanadel had been there, as he often he was, and he sucked in a breath sharply. She turned and found him staring at her, a hungry look in his eyes.

“You have such fine hands, Viresa,” he said, in his whispery voice, “I wonder how they would feel stroking over my body the way they stroke those plants.”

Stunned, she had just gaped, her mouth falling open.

“Ah yes,” he went on, “I would love to feel those hands on me.” And he brought a finger up to her mouth and ran it over her lips. “Hands and mouth both.”

She moved away from him, but the stillroom was small and her back soon hit the wall. “I don’t think…” she began, but he had followed her and shut her protest up with a kiss, his body against her, pushing her against the cold stone. Viresa felt her gorge rise, and she thought for a moment that she would be sick, as she wrenched her head to one side.

“Oh come now, don’t play innocent, girl,” the Master chided as he caught her chin in one hand, “This can hardly be a surprise.” Horrified, she felt the other hand close firmly on her shoulder.

“Stop it, Master Hanadel!” she ordered, but he forced her face around to look at him, and the other hand kneaded her flesh.

“Viresa, you must know how I want you,” he said his face only inches from her own. “Surely it wouldn’t be difficult to be nice to me? After all, the patronage of a master could do you no harm, especially if you wish to make Master yourself soon.”

She had wriggled, in attempt to escape, but that had only seemed to inflame him more. Pressing tight against her he had whispered in her ear, in graphic and detailed terms, all he would like to do to her, all he would like her to do to him. His desires were exotic it seemed, and he had no difficulty expressing them explicitly.

Placing both hands on his chest, Viresa gave the master an almighty shove, freeing herself. “I would never do anything like that with you!” she exclaimed. “Even the thought makes me feel sick to the stomach!”

Hanadel looked her up and down.

“Oh, I think you will,” he said harshly. “I could make your life very difficult if you don’t, after all. Now, be a sensible girl, and come to my chamber this evening. We can start gently if you are nervous, but I think you’ll find I have much more than just spinning to teach you,” he gave a terrible leering smile, “and I’m sure you’ll prove just as adept in your study of that as you have in everything else.” He licked his lips lasciviously. “You’ll come to enjoy it very much, I know,” he said, “I can always tell the type. You’re ripe, Viresa, and more than ready for picking.”

That was when she hit him.

With all the force she had learned in fights with Dageren she brought her left arm around in an arc and smacked an open palm across his cheek. The outline of her fingers stood out starkly red against his pale skin, and she had stormed past him to the exit. “I said no,” she declared icily, “and I meant it. Now leave me alone.”

Foolishly, she had imagined that nothing more would be said. She felt that she had made herself clear, and she didn’t intend to be labelled a troublemaker by complaining of one of the masters.

She went to her room, and prepared to get on with her life.

The following afternoon an apprentice had come to her when she was working with a couple of other journeymen, putting together a tapestry as a hatching gift for Senior Weyrwoman Tiyanni, and said “Viresa, Master Hanadel wants to see you in his study, immediately.”

Caught with witnesses, she couldn’t ignore the summons, and anyway she imagined it was so that he could apologise for his behaviour. She stood, and made her way along the corridor where the spinning-master’s study was.

“Come in,” his voice came clearly when she knocked on the door. She entered and found him turned away from her, gazing out of the window.

“Close the door behind you,” he ordered.

When he turned to face her, she saw with shock that he was wearing nothing but a night robe, and that none too tightly fastened.

“I’m giving you one last chance to see sense,” he said. “Of course,” and he gestured to the desk, “this won’t be as comfortable as my cot, but I can hardly send an apprentice to summon you to my bedchamber, can I?”

As Viresa backed towards the door, he sighed.

“Shards, girl, be sensible. Surely you can see how much more pleasant it would be for everyone if you just did as I asked.” His tone was exasperated more than threatening. “Come over here and at least try to enjoy it.”

As his hands undid the fastening of the robe and he slipped it from his shoulders Viresa wrenched open the door and fled, slamming it behind her as much to shut out the sight of his white nakedness as to stop him following.

As she sat on her cot later, she wondered if perhaps it was sex that frightened her, but discarded that thought. If Radner hadn’t been posted away when he was, she mused, thinking back to a journeyman that she’d had a romance with a couple of Turns earlier, she certainly wouldn’t be untouched today. No, it was definitely Hanadel who gave her the chills. If he propositioned her again, she decided regretfully, she was going to have to report him to Yannit.

She never even got the chance.

At the midday meal the following day, Master Yannit had stopped by her seat.

“Ah, Viresa,” he said, “I need to talk to you. Would you come by my study when you have finished eating?”

Viresa nodded, her mouth full, and wondered why the Masterweaver would want to see her. So sure was she that it was Hanadel’s behaviour that was reprehensible it didn’t even cross her mind that he might have spoken to Yannit about her. She had avoided even glancing in his direction while she ate, but if she had, she would have seen his eyes on her and a glint of triumph in them.

She finished up her meal, in a leisurely way – there had been no urgency in Yannit’s tone, after all – then walked briskly to the Master’s study. The door was open, and she went straight in.

She found Yannit seated at his desk, with his Craftsecond, Elidor standing beside him. He looked up as she entered and gave a rather strained smile. “Ah, um, Viresa,” he murmured, “do take a seat.”

She sat, and looked expectantly at him.

“I’ve noticed you haven’t actually been posted away from the Hall yet, Viresa,” he said, “I think it might be a good idea for you to spend some time away. What do you think?”

“Master?” her voice showed her bewilderment.

“Journeywomen journey, Viresa. You haven’t.”

“No, but my work is here, Master Yannit. All my plants and equipment are here. And it isn’t as if a dyer needs to journey. We just send the cloth and dyes where they’re needed.”

Yannit looked to Elidor for aid.

“Journeying broadens the craftsman, Viresa dear, introduces them to new experiences,” the slim Craftsecond put in smoothly, “and allows for, um, tensions to ease. We think now might be a good time for you to take up a posting.”

“Tensions?” Viresa stood up abruptly. “This is about Master Hanadel, isn’t it?”

“Not entirely, of course,’ Yannit replied. “We have been thinking for some time that it would be a good idea to study what happens to dye-bearing plants when they grow in soils with different nutrients – how it affects the colour. You would be the ideal person to study this. Of course your, um, clash with Master Hanadel has made now a good time for you to go.”

“This is outrageous!” Viresa was almost spluttering, “Uprooting me because…”

“If you could overcome those tensions,” Elidor interrupted, “we could rethink the posting, of course.”

“So you are telling me that to stay in the Crafthall I have to do what Hanadel…”

“Master Hanadel.”

“What Master Hanadel wants. Have I got this right?” “As Elidor said, if you can sort out your clash with the spinning master, we could postpone the posting.”

Yannit confirmed, his voice bland, and calm. “I don’t think,” Viresa replied, pulling herself up to her full height, “that I wish to stay in a hall where a journeywoman is forced into a master’s bed to keep her position. Where are you sending me?”

Yannit looked dumbstruck. “Forced into a master’s bed? What are you talking about Viresa? Master Hanadel tells us you are insubordinate and antagonistic towards him. He is a well respected master weaver, yet I noticed you ignored him today, when he spoke, and now, when I call you to task, you make ridiculous accusations. This will not do.”

“Master Hanadel, that well-respected master weaver, has twice tried to coerce me into sleeping with him,” Viresa stated, resolutely.

She could see they didn’t believe her, and bit her tongue to stem the scathing words rising in her throat.

“Perhaps Hanadel has shown an, um, intimate interest in you, Viresa,” Master Yannit conceded. “It has been obvious to everyone for some time that he was attracted to you. But, as far as I can see, you have spent a lot of time with him, and have never discouraged any attention. I realise you may not have meant to encourage him, and may now be in a position where you feel uncomfortable, and embarrassed at knowing you did so, when you don’t find him attractive. That is your problem, and it does not excuse insubordinate behaviour or unfounded slander. You are a valuable addition to the craft, but you are just a journeywoman, and Hanadel is a master. Either come to some arrangement with Master Hanadel whereby the Hall can run smoothly, or accept this posting. The choice is yours.”

“I’ll go.” Viresa stated, her eyes sparkling defiantly. I would rather eat a festering tunnelsnake than 'come to some arrangement' with Master Hanadel.  She added silently to herself before marching smartly out of the room.

So it was that they were sending her on posting to Ryslen Weyr, (a Weyr of all places!) to ostensibly study the effect of phosphor-rich soils on dye-bearing plants.

Viresa dried her eyes and made her way down to the courtyard, where a brown dragon, with a young boy mounted on it, was waiting to bear her off. She paused as she closed the door to her room, her home, taking a last, regretful look.

As she stepped out of the building, Master Hanadel’s whispery voice came from an alcove by the door. “Goodbye, Viresa. Think of me when you’re in the Weyr,” and his rasping chuckle echoed in her ears as she clambered onto the dragon’s back and the young rider fastened straps around her.

“Ready?” the boy asked.

“Completely,” she replied, and she didn’t even glance back as the beast launched itself into the air.