Masterharper of Pern (13 page)

“This song is very old, and although it’s supposed to be in every harper’s repertoire, it has lately been sadly neglected. I don’t even find it in the very comprehensive Benden library, so it’s about time I reintroduced it to you all.” She smiled at the audience. “You children will be learning it next week, so listen closely.” With that she put the mouthpiece to her lips and nodded to her son.

Gone away, gone ahead,

Echoes roll unanswered.

Empty, open, dusty, dead,

Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?

Where have dragons gone together?

Leaving Weyrs to wind and weather?

Setting herdbeasts free of tether?

Gone, our safeguards, gone but whither?

Have they flown to some new Weyr

When cruel Threads some others fear?

Are they worlds away from here?

Why, oh, why, the empty Weyr?

There was a stunned silence when Robinton let the last note die away and his mother lowered the flute. Almost an embarrassing silence, and yet he knew he had sung it well. Everyone looked at the pair of them, as if they couldn’t believe their ears.

Then there was the noise of chair scraping, and S’loner rose to his feet, his expression almost severe.

“I thank you, Mastersinger, for that beautiful rendition of the classic Question.” And he inclined his body to them both with the greatest respect. “It has haunted every Benden Weyrleader for generations. I learned it as a weyrling, but I haven’t heard it in . . . oh, decades now. I think it needs to be heard more often. Maybe someone will find its answer.”

“Then, S’loner, do you believe that Thread will return?” asked a man, rising from the far end of the head table. Robinton hadn’t seen him before, but he must be a Benden holder of some prosperity to judge by his clothing and where he was seated.

Robinton was close enough to see Carola tug at S’loner’s sleeve, her brows drawn together in a scowl. Rob glanced over to where Falloner still sat and saw an eager expression on his friend’s face. The entire audience seemed to hold their breaths.

“We’ve another fifty Turns to go before the Star Stones will tell us yea or nay, my friend. But the dragons are here and Benden keeps up its strength. That is the pledge we made to Hold and Hall when the first dragon cracked its shell. It is one that I, and every Weyrleader after me, will keep!” Then he bowed again to Merelan, caught Robinton’s eyes briefly, and sat down.

Quickly then, Merelan gestured for the instrumentalists to strike up a merry tune. That was also the signal for the drudges to come and clear the tables, to make space for dancing in the center of the Hall. There was a lot more talking while the tables were cleared, dismantled, and stored to one side, chairs rearranged, and the younger children taken off to their beds.

Robinton was playing hand drum for the early sessions of the dancing, so he didn’t get a chance to speak to Falloner that evening. But the next morning in music class, the moment he and his mother entered the room, Falloner leaped on him, hauling him by his shirt to one side.

“Who told you to sing that?” he demanded in a harsh whisper, his expression intense, almost accusing.

“Mother,” Robinton said, having hoped to hear something else from his best friend, maybe “You sang that well.”

“Shards but it had Carola going!” Falloner grinned. “S’loner must’ve been over the moons with delight. Our old harper didn’t know it and couldn’t find it even when S’loner made him hunt through the Records for it. He only knew that he’d learned it. It’s possible G’ranad, the Weyrleader before him, struck it out of our Teaching.”

“It’s in Harper Hall Records,” Robinton said. “I had to copy it out several times for harpers going off on assignment.”

“Well, one thing sure, you made my father very happy.”

“Why?”

“Because he
knows
—” Falloner paused significantly, his expression oddly intense. “—that Thread will come again. And he’s fighting to get others to believe it. That song
is
a warning, as well as a riddle.” He clapped Robinton on the back. “And I’ll be following him, on a fighting bronze. Just you see if I’m not.”

“But, even if Thread comes, it’s not due for another fifty Turns or more, and you and I will be
old
.”

“Fifty isn’t old when most dragonriders live to their tenth decade and better. Old M’odon’s nearly one hundred and ten, and there’s nothing decrepit about his brown Nigarth.”

“Does he remember Threadfall?”

“Naw, he’s too young for that, but his great-grandfather flew it.”

Just then Merelan called the class to order. “We’re going to learn the new song, today, the Question Song. Weyrleader S’loner particularly asked me to teach it. Robinton, if you’ll sing it again for us so we can start learning the melody, we will honor that request, as we should honor all dragons and their riders.”

Five days later a green rider came with an invitation for the Mastersinger and her son to dine at the Weyr and, if she would be so kind, to bring some of the new music that had been heard in Benden Hold.

Robinton was never sure if it was because he had sung the Question Song or because the Weyrleaders wanted his mother to sing more for them.

“Of course it means I’m to sing, love,” she said, grinning at her son, “so we’ll take instruments with us. But I’m glad that you’ve been invited, too. I’ve wanted you to see Benden Weyr.” She paused and then winked conspiratorially at him. “Then, when you have to spend that night up at Fort Weyr, you won’t be the least bit scared.”

“How did you know about that?” The apprentices did not tell anyone, certainly not the girls.

Merelan chuckled. “There’s a lot that goes on in the Hall that is known but not talked about, lovey. Not that, for a single moment, I would think
you’d
be frightened of just an empty place.”

Robinton puffed his chest out. “But aren’t all the Weyrs different?”

Merelan considered this. “Yes, and in fact there are maps of the interiors lodged in the Archives . . . or should be. Another thing that I must check on when we get back.”

“When are we going back, Mother?” Not that he really wanted to, if he was being honest with himself. He really, truly liked it here at Benden, and especially Falloner. He had never had a best friend before.

He felt his mother smoothing his hair.

“Do you miss the Hall?”

“Not when I get my lessons from you,” he said, grinning up at her. “You’re harder on me than Master Washell or Kubisa.”

“I am, am I?”

“And it’s great to have you to myself,” he added and felt her hand hesitate.

“But you don’t, Robie,” she said, and her voice sounded so funny that he looked up at her to see why. He caught the hint of her frown. “You share me with Benden Hold and all its students.”

He thought that over for a moment “Yes, but it’s not the same.”

“No, it isn’t,” she said very slowly. “However, you and I must do some practicing so we’ll show them our mettle.”

Later, Robinton told Falloner about the invitation. “Will you be coming up, too?” he asked, practically dancing in his delight.

“Me? No, why should I be?”

“But . . . but . . . but . . .”

Falloner dismissed the “but” with an indifferent hand and a wry grin. “I’m lucky to be down here at the Hold. I lost my birth mother when I was born, and my foster mother died of a fever the healer couldn’t cool down, and there’s no one up there I
want
to see.”

“Not even your father?”

Falloner cocked his head at his friend. “No more than you want to see yours.”

“I never said anything like that . . .”

“But you never mention him, do you? So you don’t miss him, do you? Besides, I prefer to stay out of Carola’s way and Lady Hayara’s fairer to me than even Stolla . . .” His voice altered to a kinder tone. “But she’s nice, even being headwoman in the Lower Caverns and all.
She’s
the one made S’loner send me down here until it cooled off—” He stopped short, making a horrible grimace as if he’d let his mouth run away with him.

“What cooled off?”

Falloner’s expression turned to bland innocence. “Cooled what off?”

“You just said . . .” And then Robinton stopped, shrugged, and dropped the subject.

It was Lady Hayara’s intervention that saw Falloner going with Robinton.

“For the company,” she told Merelan. “Falloner will show Robinton around without letting him go where he shouldn’t.” She fixed a stern look on Falloner, but let it turn into an understanding smile. “But I expect you not to tease Larna so much anymore.”

“She follows me
everywhere
,” Falloner complained, screwing his face up. “Larna’s Carola’s daughter,” he explained to Merelan, “and a real pain.”

“Now, Falloner,” Lady Hayara said, wagging a warning finger at him, “I know that Rob will be asked to sing, but it’s good for an upcoming harper to learn more about the Weyr than what is sung.”

The brown dragon who collected the invited guests did not quibble about adding Falloner to his back. Nor did his rider, who greeted the boy with a wry grin.

“Allowed back, are you, weyrling?”

“It would seem so, C’vrel. Thanks, Falarth,” Falloner added to the brown as he competently mounted and settled himself behind Robinton.

Robinton would have given anything to know exactly what that meant, but he suspected he’d never be told by Falloner. Before he could reflect further, he felt the brown launch himself off the ground with the usual neck-snapping lunge and Robinton braced himself for
between.
He was especially grateful when he felt Falloner’s hands grip his arms and tighten the moment they went into that bone-searing cold. In
between
he could feel nothing, but he
knew
that Falloner still gripped him. It wasn’t as bad, now he knew what to expect—and then, suddenly, he had the incredible good fortune to see a Weyr from on high.

Benden was unusual in that it was situated in an old double volcanic crater. As Falarth swung round, almost on wingtip, Robinton saw the watch dragon and his rider just beyond the massive Star Stones, which would bracket the Red Star on its next return at solstice. He saw dragons lying on the western facing ledges, asleep in the sun . . . and then the several black maws that gave into the Hatching Ground where a queen’s clutch of eggs hardened until it was time for the weyrling dragons to Hatch and Impress their lifelong partners. As Falarth glided downward, Robinton saw the great golden bulk of Feyrith on her ledge, Chendith lying just above her, his eyes whirling in slow circles as he watched Falarth land lightly in front of the Lower Cavern.

CHAPTER VII

S
O HERE HE
was. Falloner had diplomatically slid down the off-side of Falarth, thus avoiding a meeting with Carola who, with S’loner, greeted their Harper guest and her son, thanking them profusely for accepting the invitation.

“Come to Benden?” Merelan laughed. “I’ve been dying to.”

Then she was introduced to Stolla, the headwoman of the Lower Caverns, a tall woman of middle years who, in turn, introduced the Mastersinger to the blue rider, C’gan, who was Weyrsinger: a slight man whose boyish face was eager and earnest, and so obviously thrilled to meet the Mastersinger. The other woman waiting to be introduced was Miata, who handled basic lessons at the Weyr. Robinton made his best bow to them all, and then S’loner took him by the shoulder.

“Go off with Falloner, Robinton,” he said, grinning broadly. “We’ll take good care of your mother, never fear.”

“I don’t worry, not when she’s in the Weyr,” Robinton answered boldly and, before his mother could reprimand him, he slipped around behind Falarth to meet up with his friend.

“C’mon, there’s a lot to see,” Falloner said and led the way, running across the Bowl to the black maws of the Hatching Ground. “This is the most important place in the Weyr. Any Weyr . . .”

“Is that son of yours to be a harper, Merelan?” Robie heard S’loner asking.

He didn’t hear his mother’s exact answer and he wondered, once again, if maybe he could possibly be harper
and
dragonrider. And he’d Impress a bronze, too. Well . . . he’d settle for a brown and be in Falloner’s wing and fight Thread when it came back.

Falloner showed him everything. The Hatching Ground was awe-inspiring, with the great vaulted roof, the steep rank of seats where guests could watch Impression, and the raised stone couch where the queen stayed, guarding her clutch and viewing the Hatching. Then there were some places that Robinton wasn’t sure visitors were ordinarily shown. Falloner took him up steps at the side of the Hatching Ground and pushed through a door into what had to be the Weyrwoman’s quarters. Robinton gulped, hoping that Feyrith was still fast asleep on her ledge and that Carola did not take a sudden urge to leave his mother. He walked on tiptoe and noticed that Falloner was putting his feet down more quietly than usual. From there, they went to the Council Chamber, with its immense stone oval table and the massive stone chairs where the Weyrleaders and wingleaders sat for meetings. Then down into the musty-smelling rooms that housed the Weyr’s Records.

“Our Archives smell exactly like this, too,” Robinton remarked, feeling a little safer this far from the weyr and Feyrith. As he ran one finger across the spine of one bound volume, leather rubbed off, and he hastily cleaned his finger and hoped the mark wouldn’t show. The Weyr really needed to have these seen to; they were in far worse condition than those Master Ogolly worried over.

Falloner had noticed and now snorted. “That’s another thing I like about Benden Hold—they keep their Records in good condition so you can actually read them.”

Which Rob allowed as true enough. There was one drudge whose sole job was to dust and oil the leather-bound Records, and check that no insects had burrowed into the hide pages. His mother had shown him some of the oldest ones, the ink still bright and who-knew-how-many-hundreds-of-Turns old.

They went back up and out the way they had come in to the Weyrwoman’s quarters and only then did Robinton draw a sigh of relief. He did wonder why Falloner was venturing up here: Did he do it because it was a way to annoy or get back at Carola for not liking him? Sneaking into her private quarters was a bit silly, Robinton thought, but he was glad he had had the chance to see the Council Chamber. This was where the bronze riders would assemble before a Threadfall. But those Records . . . Wouldn’t they be needed then, too? And in much better condition than they were in now?

Moving quickly across the warm sands, Robinton expected to go back to the main living area of the Weyr, but Falloner beckoned him toward the top of the Bowl, a wicked grin on his face.

“Show you something not even many weyrbred know about,” he said. Casting a glance around to be sure that no one was looking in their direction, he ducked around a large boulder. When Robinton hesitated, Falloner hauled him along by his sleeve.

Though there was still a good deal of spring daylight, the space was dimly lit, only showing a cleft in the cliffside through which Falloner disappeared. A moment later, a light sprang up inside, and Robinton nervously gulped as he bravely stepped toward whatever new surprise Falloner had in store for him.

Falloner held a small glowbasket over his head, the glows still bright enough to make shadows on the walls of the narrow fissure.

“Don’t talk loud,” he whispered, his mouth close to Robinton’s ear, “because there’s an echo and anyone near the Ground will hear it.”

Robinton nodded vigorously. He didn’t want his mother to discover that he was doing something possibly forbidden, maybe even dangerous, at Benden Weyr. Falloner led him down the twisting passage. Anyone even two hands taller would have had to duck, and it was as well both boys were slender, because once or twice they’d had to suck in their guts to get past protrusions.

Then suddenly, there was a dull light ahead and they came to an uneven crevice where they could stand erect and look directly out at the Hatching Ground.

“This is where we come to watch the eggs while they’re hardening,” Falloner murmured. “I even got out there and touched the eggs last time we had a clutch.”

“You did?” Robinton was truly impressed by Falloner’s daring. “Did you get caught?” Would that be one of the reasons the Weyrwoman didn’t like him?

“Naw,” Falloner said, flicking his fingers in dismissal.

“What do eggs feel like?” Robinton couldn’t resist asking.

“Sort of rubbery at first . . .”

“At first?” Robinton was shocked.

“Yeah, they get harder every day.” Falloner shrugged. “More fun checking every day or so. They get warmer and then the shells begin to feel thin under your hand. The dragonet eats the stuff around it in its shell, you see, while it’s growing strong enough to hatch. You ever seen a wherry egg when the chick is only half-made?” Robinton hadn’t but he nodded anyway. Lorra had once told him that some of the poultry eggs did that when they weren’t used quickly enough. “Same thing. That’s why dragonets come out of their shell starving to death.”

“But they don’t ever die. Do they?”

“S’loner says some do, but I haven’t seen any eggs that didn’t hatch.” There was the implication of long experience in his tone. “Not that we have that many in a clutch.” Falloner sighed. “We’ll get more, though, nearer to the next Pass.”

“We will have one then?”

“Sure, we will. There’s been Long Intervals before. You’re Harper Hall. You should know that.”

“Sure,” Robinton agreed hastily. He did know that—sort of. But he was going to check upon it once he got back to the Hall. “But none,” he added as he suddenly remembered, “when there weren’t all six Weyrs waiting for the next Fall.”

Falloner was thoughtful. “We’ll be all right,” he said with more conviction than his expression implied. “We keep replacing the old ones who die off. Benden’s at full fighting strength.”

“But there’s only Benden,” Robinton said, whispering, as a sudden pang of fear shot through him.

“Benden will be more than enough,” Falloner said proudly, and then covered his mouth with one hand, for he had spoken more loudly in his surety and his words echoes across the empty Hatching Ground. “C’mon, let’s get out of here. I’ll show you the barracks and have you meet some of my friends.”

They carefully retraced their steps and Falloner hid the glow-basket under a protrusion. Then the weyrbred lad took to his heels and raced toward the right-hand side of the Bowl, beyond the Lower Caverns, where there was a great deal of talking and laughing and general noise. As they flashed by, Rob caught a glimpse of his mother talking to some of the old aunties and uncles at one of the tables. Well, that duty would be over, so he wouldn’t have to nod and smile at the oldsters. The look of them, not to mention sometimes their smell, distressed him. People shouldn’t get
that
old. When harpers could no longer work, they went back to their birthplaces or down to the warmer, southern holds.

The weyrling barracks were empty, since members of the last clutch had long since graduated to individual weyrs, but the place looked in good order for the next hatching. Falloner knew a back way out of the barracks complex, too, which took them into a broad corridor that he said led to the supply caves.

“There’re lots of them,” he said proudly. “Benden, Lemos, and Bitra still tithe properly every year, and the Telgar and Keroon Lord Holders tell us where the dragons can hunt, culling the herdbeasts for them.”

Through other narrow aisles, Falloner led Robinton to the living quarters, showed him the alcove he had shared with three other lads, and then the bathing area: the Weyr’s main bath, steam rising from the water, was big enough to swim in, Rob thought enviously. Beyond, Falloner said, were more storage rooms.

“And a maze of old hallways and too many locked rooms. I’ll get in to see them when I’m Weyrleader.” He chuckled.

Over his laugh, they heard the muted tones of an enthusiastically rung bell.

“Supper!” And Falloner wasted no time leading Robinton back to the Lower Caverns.

“Are all the Weyrs the same?”

“Well, I’ve only been to Telgar once, and they’ve got the same sort of places, like a Hatching Ground and a queen’s weyr and records hall and stuff like that. Haven’t you ever been up to Fort Weyr?”

“You’re not allowed,” Robinton said cautiously, with a sideways glance at his companion.

Falloner laughed. “Since when did that keep someone from doing something? I’ll bet it’s visited a lot.”

“Well, actually, I think it is, but . . .”

Falloner put a finger over his lips and winked. “No two Weyrs are laid out quite the same, but”—and he gave a shrug—“you been in one, you’ll find your way around Fort after this.”

“I know, and thanks, Fal.”

“Sure thing, Rob.”

They swung into the Lower Caverns then. His mother was standing on the slightly raised platform where a long table had been set up at right angles to the rest of the dining area. There was another dais, too, with music stands, stools, and chairs; that was where they’d perform.

“How many players does the Weyr have?” Rob asked, counting up to fourteen places.

“We got one
good
gitarist, C’gan, one decent fiddler, and the usual pipers and a drummer, though you’re much better than he is.”

Rob considered this and then noticed that the top table was filling up with riders, and not all bronze to judge by the shoulder knots they wore on their Gather shirts.

His mother, seeing him, made a gesture to indicate that he could stay in Falloner’s company. He was delighted. The weyrfolk, summoned to the dining area by the bell, took whatever seat they fancied. Falloner, hauling on Rob’s sleeve, took him to a table occupied by six boys more or less Falloner’s age. He waved vigorously and held up two fingers—in time to prevent some smaller lads from taking the vacant chairs.

“Just made it,” said a black-haired lad, whose curls covered his forehead to his eyebrows. “Go on—there’re plenty of other places,” he added to the nearest of the small lads.

“This is Robinton, from the Harper Hall,” Falloner said, flumping himself down. “That’s Pragal,” he told Robie, pointing to their greeter, “Jesken, Morif, Rangul, Sellel, and Bravonner. He’s my younger brother.”

Robinton thought there wasn’t much resemblance, except for the unusual color—a bright amber, almost gold—of the eyes, but then, they must have had different mothers, since Falloner had said his was dead.

“How come you got back?” Bravonner asked.

“I told you I’m only at Benden for more schooling.” Falloner said in a kindly manner to his sibling. “You been okay?” He glanced accusingly around the table at the others.

“Sure . . .” Bravonner began.

“I promised ya, didn’t I?” Pragal said, bridling. “No one’s bothered him.”

“ ’Cepting you,” Bravonner said with a wicked sideways look at Pragal, who promptly socked him on the arm with mock-ferocity. “You see?” Bravonner added, appealing to his older brother.

“Yeah. I can see that. Something good for dinner?” he asked Rangul.

This lad was of stockier build and well-fleshed, with eyes that darted from one speaker to another. He reminded Robinton of one of the apprentices whom he didn’t much trust, a boy who lied bold-facedly after a dispute at his table and then laid all the blame on another apprentice.

“Roast herdbeast,” Rangul said, smacking his lips. His expression altered to disgust. “And lots of tubers.”

“You should know,” said Jesken, a thin-faced lad with a close-cropped head of hair, “since you had to peel so many of them.” And he laughed.

“Whatcha do to get that duty?” Falloner asked, his expression eager.

“No one’s business but mine,” Rangul said sullenly, with a fierce scowl across the table at the laughing Jesken.

“He pushed Larna in the midden,” Jesken said, raising a protective arm when Rangul reached across the table with his fork to poke him.

“Enough of that,” Falloner said in a crisp tone of command that indicated he often had to intervene between this pair. He glanced quickly around to be sure no one had noticed. “Not that Larna doesn’t need to be taught some manners . . . but you only get in trouble. Who’s minding her now?” He looked around again, and his eyes paused at a table on the other side of the room, occupied by young girls. “Oh, Manora
would
be stuck with her.” He turned back to the other boys. “Didn’t anything interesting happen since I left?”

The report that followed didn’t mean much to Robinton, who didn’t know the weyrfolk named. But shortly a platter of sliced roast was shoved at Falloner, ending the discussion.

“Back, are you?” the serving woman asked sourly. “Make sure there’s no trouble at this table. You hear me?”