Masterharper of Pern (14 page)

“As ever, Milla,” he replied with an innocent smile.

“Rangul, go fetch the tubers,” she added.

“I had to peel ’em,” he protested.

“All the more reason to serve the product of your labors. Go. Jesken, you get the salad.”

Grumbling under his breath, Rangul pushed back his chair and with no good grace collected the large, steaming bowl. Jesken was back before him with the basket of salad.

Falloner had by then served two big slices to Rob and himself, before passing the platter on. He gestured for Rangul to bring him the tubers. The lad complied, but sullenly: Falloner was clearly not one Rangul cared to antagonize.

“You’re guest,” Jesken said, offering Robinton the salad.

“And he’ll be singing later, too. Good voice, good music.” And Falloner winked at Robinton, who was then rather nervous about anyone finding out who had written the songs Merelan had told him were to be the Weyr’s evening entertainment.

“I suppose we’ll have to listen to you, too,” Rangul said nastily to Falloner, his expression a mixture of irritation and envy.

“I’m the one who can carry a tune,” Falloner said, grinning snidely across the table.

“Those who can’t sing play instruments at the Harper Hall,” Robinton said, sensing this sort of teasing could easily turn nasty. Weyrlads were really no different from Harper Hall apprentices. “Hey, this roast is really good,” he added, hoping to divert the conversation.

“Yeah, it is,” Falloner said, chewing. “Not that we don’t eat well here . . .”

“Most of the time,” Jesken put in, his mouth so full that he had to push the gravy back in with one finger, which he then licked. “Real good tonight. Must have been younger than we usually get.”

“We’ve got Robinton at the table, after all,” Falloner said, grinning.

“You staying up here a while?” Sellel asked, glancing from Falloner to Robinton.

“Tonight for sure,” Falloner said. He nudged Robinton in the ribs. “They’ll have you singing ’till dawn, you know.”

“Then you’ll be singing right with us,” Robinton said, and put another forkful of the tender roast into his mouth. He sort of regretted that he’d have to eat lightly, but he couldn’t sing properly with a full gut.

Sing he did, with Falloner, with his mother, and as a soloist. First, of course, they did the Duty Song, in which the entire audience joined, singing both chorus and verses once Robinton had sung the opening verse. There was applause for him through the first chorus. He rather liked that and took it for the compliment it was.

Then his mother mouthed “Question Song” at him. It was not next on the program, but as she was conducting the concert, he sang it—to a hushed and very thoughtful audience. S’loner was beaming with delight at the weyrfolks’ surprise and attention.

Robinton and Falloner did several of his songs, without saying who the composer was, and these were well received. The Weyr might not have a highly trained harper, but there were a lot of good voices and folk who picked up quickly on tune and chorus. This was a totally different audience from any Robinton had ever sung for—and quite possibly the best. His mother was responding to it, too, because her voice was joyous again, even in the more nostalgic melodies. They had established an unusual rapport with this audience, a new depth of “listening.”

We listen, too, you know, harper boy,
a voice said in his head, almost throwing him off his harmony.

That explained much to Robinton, but he didn’t have time then to think it all through: he had to keep singing so as not to disappoint.

There were calls for old favorites from the gathering and it wasn’t until Robinton’s voice cracked with fatigue that Merelan called a reluctant halt to the evening’s entertainment.

“We’ve imposed outrageously on you, Merelan and young Robinton,” S’loner said, rising to his feet and scissoring his hands at the requests still being shouted from the tables. “It’s late, even for a Weyr gathering, and you’ve been more than generous with your time and repertoire.”

“The Harper Hall’s tithe to the Weyr,” she replied, dipping her knees in her elegant bow and spreading her left hand to include the entire audience. “It is a pleasure to sing for you.”

“Our dragons have enjoyed it almost as much as we have,” the Weyrleader said, and looked from her to Robinton, winking.

Suddenly the elation that had sustained him through a very long performance seemed to drain out of Robinton, and he wavered on his feet.

“Falloner, take young Robinton to bed,” S’loner said arbitrarily, pointing toward the dormitory area.

“I’m near as tired as he is,” Falloner said and, throwing an arm about his friend’s shoulders, led him off.

“As for you, my dear Merelan, Carola will escort you to our guest weyr, one that should be occupied by a queen dragon. Well, soon enough, soon enough . . .” S’loner was saying as the two boys left for the Lower Caverns.

The next day, S’loner himself took them back to Benden Hold, Robinton and his mother quite conscious of the honor, even if they were both still fatigued by their exertions. Even Falloner was not his usual self, silent in his father’s presence.

“I shall sleep all week,” Merelan said as they waved farewell to the bronze rider and Chendith. “But what a splendid evening, Robie.
That
was a glorious performance. I know I’ve never sung so well before, and you were fabulous. I only hope that you keep that treble a while longer.” She sighed and ruffled his hair as they climbed the steps into the Hold. “And have a mature voice, too, of course.”

Lady Hayara arrived, waddling awkwardly since she was nearly at the end of this pregnancy. “I was sure they would keep you overnight when you didn’t arrive at a decent hour,” she said as she accompanied them into the Hold and toward the main stairs. “You look exhausted . . . did it go well? You have a glow about you, you know. Do you need anything? I won’t go up the stairs with you today, I think.” She gave a breathy sigh and fanned her face with her hand. “I had hoped to be delivered on time
this
time . . .”

Commiserating with the Lady and assuring her that they were all right, Merelan led her son up to their quarters, her shoulders sagging only when they were out of Hayara’s sight.

“Singing like that sure takes it out of one, doesn’t it?” his mother said as they entered their quarters. “Oh!”

They both saw the roll of a large message on the table, its origin obvious by the Harper-blue band spiraling its length. Her hand hesitated above the tube just a moment, but then grasped it firmly and broke the seal as she seated herself. She pulled out a sheaf of music and spread it open. Robinton saw her face pale, and her fingers shake a bit as she read the brief message attached to it.

“No, it’s not from your father.” She looked at the music before finishing the note. “It’s from Master Gennell. Hand me my gitar, Robie.”

He uncased it instantly, surprised at her urgency. It was then that he realized his mother had not sung any of his father’s compositions in the Hold or in the Weyr. He knew that she was probably the only singer who could technically handle the difficult works his father wrote. Seeing her struggle a bit to stop the score from rolling up again, he planted his hands on the edges.

She struck the opening chord, paused to tune the strings slightly, and began again. Halfway through the first page, she looked up at her son, confused and surprised.

“This isn’t at all like your father . . .” She peered closely at the script. “But it is certainly his writing,” she said, and continued playing the notes.

Robie followed the music, and deftly shifted the pages from one to the next. He almost missed one turning because he, too, became touched by the plaintive melody, the minor chordings, the whole tenor of the music. As the last of the gitar notes died away, mother and son looked at each other, Merelan perplexed, Robinton anxious. He wanted her to like it, too.

“I think I can say,” she began slowly, “without fear of contradiction”—a little smile turned up the corners of her mouth—“that this is the most expressive music your father has ever written.” She wrapped both arms around her gitar. “I think he misses us, Robie.”

He nodded. The music had definitely been melancholic, where his father usually wrote more . . . more positive, aggressive music, full of embellishments and variations, with wild cadenzas and other such flourishes. Rarely as simple, and elegant, a melody as this. And it was melodic.

She picked up Master Gennell’s note. “Master Gennell thinks so, too. ‘Thought you ought to see this, Merelan. A definite trend toward the lyric. And, in my opinion, quite likely the best thing he’s ever written, though he’d be the last to admit
that
.’ ” Merelan gave a little laugh. “He’ll never admit it, but I think you’re right, Master Gennell.” She looked at her son. “What do you think, dear? About the music?”

“Me?” Flustered, he couldn’t find the proper words. “Are there any words to it?”

“Why don’t you write some, dear? Then it would be a father and son collaboration. The first, perhaps, of many?”

“No,” Robinton said thoughtfully, though he wished with all his heart right then that there could be a chance his father would use words he had written. “I think you’d better add the words, Mother.”

“I think, my son, we’ll both work on the proper lyrics.” She ruffled his hair, her eyes sad despite the slight smile on her lips. “If we can find appropriate ones . . .”

CHAPTER VIII

R
OBINTON DIDN’T KNOW
what his mother wrote in her reply to Master Gennell, but she did explain to her son that she had to finish out her contract with Benden Hold. She also wanted to give C’gan, the Weyrsinger, more training. He was musically sound enough, but needed to develop more confidence in his harpering. She would also insist that a good, voice-training Harper be assigned to Benden Hold when apprentices walked the tables to journeyman status this summer. Benden deserved the best there was.

“For a variety of reasons,” she said. “However, I think we’ll bring Maizella back with us to the Hall. She’ll profit more from working with various masters now that she’s learned the basics.” She gave one of her enigmatic smiles. “She can sing with Halanna.”

Robinton’s opinion wasn’t asked, but he would have much preferred a longer term at Benden Hold and not just because of his friendship with Falloner, Hayon, and the others. He didn’t really want to go back to the Harper Hall, even if, when an excited Maizella started quizzing him about his home, he suddenly missed his friends there, even Lexey.

Maizella’s parents were delighted to think that the Mastersinger even suggested the idea for their daughter. That was after Lady Hayara gave birth to a son.

“I’d have preferred another girl,” she admitted to Merelan when she and Robie dutifully visited her. “It’s so much easier to just marry them off suitably than have to worry about all the rivalry among boys to succeed. I mean, I know that Raid will make a good Lord Holder but . . .” And she never finished her sentence.

Falloner had spent one evening explaining to Robinton why it was better to be in Weyr or Hall because, if you were a male in line for succession in a Hold, you had to guard yourself against jealous brothers and cousins.

“But don’t the Lord Holders all get together in one of their Councils and decide?” Robinton asked and got a snort for his ingenuousness.

“Sure, they decide, but it’s usually the strongest one they pick, the one who’s survived long enough to present himself as a candidate. Mind you, at the Weyr there’s some scheming and displaying when there’s a queen to mate.” A shrewd look came over the weyr lad’s face. “But no one dies, of course, because dragonriders can’t fight to-the-death duels, and a real smart rider can make certain his bronze gets the queen ahead of the others.”

“How?”

Falloner gave him a patient look. “There’re ways, there are ways! That’s how my father beat out all the other bronze riders when Feyrith rose the last time. Carola wanted C’rob in her weyr, but Spakinth wasn’t as clever as Chendith. Not by half, he wasn’t.
And
Feyrith’s clutch by Chendith was much larger than her last one by Spakinth.”

“I thought the Weyrleader stayed Weyrleader . . .” Robinton mentally reviewed all the songs he knew about dragonkind.

“Only as long as his dragon flies the queen,” Falloner said, shaking his head.

“I wish you could come with me back to the Harper Hall,” Robinton suggested shyly.

“No way,” Falloner said. “I’ll be back at the Weyr. I don’t want to be away too long, you see.”

“Why? There’re no eggs on the Hatching Ground, and besides you’re not old enough yet.”

“Only another Turn to go,” Falloner said, as cocky as ever. “Not that it hasn’t been great getting to know you, and your mother’s terrific. She’s made sure I’ll be more visible now.”

“Visible?” It seemed to Robinton that Falloner would do better to efface himself instead of getting into so much trouble that he had to be sent away from the Weyr so the Weyrwoman would calm down. Robinton never did find out what his friend’s offense had been.

“Yes, I can help C’gan now that I can read and copy music—almost as good as you can.”

“You learn quickly,” Robinton said generously.

“I have to,” Falloner said, quite serious, “if I’m to be Weyrleader in the next Pass. C’mon, I’ll help you finish packing. You sure got more than you came with.”

“Everyone’s been very kind to me,” Robinton admitted.

“Why not? You’re stepping on no one’s toes here.”

Robinton had a lump in his throat the next afternoon when he had to say good-bye to all those he’d met at Benden—especially Falloner and Hayon.

“Don’t worry, Rob,” Falloner murmured in his ear as they stood by Spakinth’s side, watching as the carisaks were heaved up and over the bronze’s back. “As soon as I’ve a bronze dragon, I’ll come visit. Promise.”

“I’ll expect you,” Robinton told him, grinning broadly to keep the tears back.

“Up you get,” C’rob said and flung him up the bronze’s side.

Robinton knew the trick of grabbing a neck ridge and scrambling into place. Then his mother, more gracefully, seated herself behind him and waved to those on the ground seeing them off. When he heard her sniffing, Robie knew he wasn’t the only one sorry to leave Benden. He did wish they could have stayed on.

It took a little longer to get Maizella up on Cortath, since she had so much baggage to bring with her for her Turn of training at the Harper Hall. Tears were streaming down her face—tears of joy, he knew.

Well, he thought with little charity, she’ll find the Hall quite different from living in Benden Hold. And that thought kept him from sniffling.

Then they were off, Spakinth once more nearly shaking Robinton’s skull from his neck with his skyward jump. He was becoming inured to the fright of
between
by now and felt only the cold, not the fear. He was rather proud of himself.

Spakinth was showing off: he emerged right over the Harper Hall courtyard, low enough to be on a level with the rooftops as he backwinged and delicately landed.

“Well done, Spakinth,” Merelan said, clapping her hands.

“I’ll kill him later,” C’rob said almost grimly. “Pulling a stunt like that without permission.”

“Oh, don’t, C’rob,” Merelan said, her eyes dancing. “What an entrance! And here comes Cortath with M’ridin and Maizella, rather more circumspectly.”

Grinning, she waved at those gathered on the steps. Then she began to clap again as a chorus from the second-story assembly room sang aloud musical welcome.

We’re glad you’re home

We’re glad you’ve come

We welcome you

With heart and voice

And hope you’ll never leave.

Someone even provided a trumpet flourish and a roll of drums as a finale, which delighted Merelan even more. Only Robinton saw her sweeping gaze looking, just as he was, for his father.

Petiron was not among those standing on the Harper Hall steps, but maybe he was leading the singers. Master Gennell was there, waving enthusiastically along with Betrice, Ginia, Lorra, with her youngest daughter on her hip, Master Bosler, and Master Ogolly, who had an arm about Lexey and Libby. Barba stood on the step below them.

“Don’t mention your father’s melody, Rob, love. Not unless he does,” his mother hurriedly whispered in his ear and then helped him dismount from Spakinth’s high withers as Gennell and Betrice rushed forward to assist.

“My, you’ve grown,” Betrice cried, giving him a big hug before Lexey and Libby could reach him. “And is that young Maizella?” she asked as Master Bosler and Ginia went to help the Benden Holder girl. “Another of Halanna’s stripe? No, there’s not much luggage, is there?”

“Maizella’s all right, and she listens to my mother.” Robie grinned as he opened the heavy jacket he’d worn for
between
and resettled his shirt.

“Didja miss us?” Lexey wanted to know, dancing about: his expression suggested that he had missed his patient friend very much indeed.

“ ’Course I did, Lexey.” Rob gave him a mock punch. “I learned some great new games, too, Libby,” he added, turning to the girl.

His mother began to introduce her new student to the Master-Harper, his spouse, and the other adults, letting Betrice take charge.

“Robinton . . .” and his mother prompted him to thank Spakinth and C’rob for returning them home.

“Glad to do it, Mastersinger. Any chance of your coming back to sing at the Autumn Gather? I was asked to ask you,” C’rob said, grinning from ear to ear.

“I’ll see if it’s possible, C’rob. I’d certainly like to.” At her words, Robinton nodded vigorously, which made her laugh. “I can see that I’ll be nagged to death until I do,” she added, tousling her son’s hair. “Can you not stop for some klah?”

C’rob shook his head with real regret “Not today. But thanks!”

They stood there, courteously, while both riders remounted; then the dragons launched themselves into the air and turned eastward before disappearing.

Robinton caught the sad little sigh from his mother before she turned back and smiled at those who had welcomed her.

“Come now,” Lorra was saying, taking Merelan by the arm, “I’ve put on a little something to take away the chill of
between . . .
And you lot be careful with the Mastersinger’s things,” she added, scowling at the apprentices who were halfway up the stairs, burdened with carisaks.

“We weren’t
between
long enough to get cold,” Robinton said.

“And who’s the seasoned traveler, then?” Lorra asked, amused.

“Mother and I got to the Weyr several times a-dragonback, you know,” he went on.

“Can we come in, too?” Libby asked, hovering in the doorway with Lexey and Barba.

“When were you ever refused food in this Hall?” Lorra demanded. As she resettled young Silvina on her hip, she waved them toward the small dining room with its table set with a huge bowl of her special fruit drink and plates of pies and cookies. “Even if you only just got up from lunch? Did Benden feed you just before you left?” she asked the travelers.

“Well, we were given lunch Benden time . . .”

“At least their timing’s right,” the headwoman said almost approvingly.

Merelan swung round from the table when she heard boot steps on the flagstones in the hall, but it was Masters Gennell, Bosler, and Ogolly coming in.

“I’d hoped that Petiron would make it back from Ruatha Hold in time,” Master Gennell said apologetically to Merelan.

“Oh?”

“But he was certain he’d be here to greet you,” Gennell went on, “so we didn’t drum a message to delay your return until he was back.” The MasterHarper looked toward the open Hall door as if he expected Petiron to be riding in at any moment. “It’s not that long a journey, and I saw that the harpers were all well-mounted. Their summer Gather, and they’d particularly requested something special from us.”

“Halanna went?” Merelan asked in a bland voice.

“Yes, and Londik, though I’d say,” Gennell added with a frown, “his voice is about to change.”

“That won’t matter now,” she said almost casually, and looked down at her son. “Robie can take over the treble solos. He did all that were needed at Benden, both Hold and Weyr, and it’s not just as his mother I’m proud of him.”

“No, of course not. And did you like visiting the Weyr, Rob?” Master Gennell smiled kindly down at him.

“It was fabulous,” Robinton said. He was quite willing to describe everything; he couldn’t remember if Master Gennell had been to the Weyr. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes, a very special place indeed.” Gennell gave Rob a pat on his head and then turned to Merelan. “So, tell me more about our new soprano, Lord Maidir’s girl.”

“She’s a well-behaved young lady,” Merelan said, chuckling as Master Gennell’s obvious apprehension eased. “I’d scarcely inflict the Hall with another . . .” She cleared her throat and suggested that Robie might like to finish his drink with his friends.

Robinton went off, grinning to himself because he knew what she’d been about to say.

His father did not arrive back at the Hall until the long summer day had nearly ended. Two of the journeymen with him were leading mounts, one of which was very definitely lamed.

“Beast went lame, Mother,” Robinton said from his perch at the front window. “Not Father’s, though,” he added as she hurried in from her bedroom to peer over her shoulder. “See. There he is!” And he pointed to his father’s unmistakable tall, lean figure, dismounting from a Ruathan bay gelding.

He couldn’t understand his mother’s reaction. She’d worried about Petiron not being there, and now she didn’t seem to care that he was safely home.

“It wouldn’t be like Father to hurry on ahead unless everything was all right,” he said.

“Sometimes, Robie,” she told him, putting her hand under his chin and tipping his face up, “you’re too forgiving.”

He didn’t feel so forgiving when it seemed to take an age for his father to greet his family.

“Trouble on the way, Petiron?” his mother asked, turning from the window and the brilliant sunset.

“Two lame beasts, because they thought to get home faster,” he said, swinging saddlebags and instrument case to the bench. “You had the safer way to travel.” He came over to her and gave her a peck on her cheek. “Londik’s voice is gone.”

“I can sing instead, then,” Robinton piped up.

His father, almost as if just realizing his son was in the room, too, frowned slightly. “That’s as it may be. But it is way past your bedtime, Robinton, and your mother and I have a lot to discuss. Good night.”

“And you’ve no more welcome than that for your son, Petiron?” Merelan asked in such a tense voice that Robie was startled.

“It’s all right, Mother. Good night, Father,” he said and left, almost running out of the room in his dismay.

“Petiron, how could you?”

Robie shut the door on whatever reply his father made, glad that he couldn’t hear anything through the thick wooden panels. He flung himself on his bed and wished he was back at Benden Hold. Even Lord Maidir was nicer to him than his father was. Why couldn’t he please his own father? What had he done wrong? Why couldn’t he do something right? He probably oughtn’t to have said that he could take Londik’s place. But he could. He knew he could. His mother had said that his voice was every bit as good as Londik’s, and he was the better musician. And she didn’t
just
say things like that to make you feel good—not about professional matters.