The Masterharper of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Don’t you dare chide her, Petiron,” Merelan said, intercepting him after the performance. “She’s done well, all things considered. No one can beat joy into music unless it comes from the heart.”

  “But her voice . . .” Petiron was beside himself with dismay. “She could so easily have risen to the occasion.”

  “Give her time, love, give her time. She may not be as rebellious or arrogant as she was when she first came here, but give her time to realize how much she has learned and how much her voice has improved. If you can’t say anything complimentary, say nothing.” She looked over to where Halanna was being surrounded by Fort Hold guests who were complimenting her on her lovely voice and splendid performance. “She was note-perfect, you know, and her breath support was excellent. And her presence couldn’t have been improved on. Say that. She’ll know where she failed.”

  Petiron opened his mouth and, while Merelan knew he wanted to complain that his satisfaction had been diminished by her lackluster performance, he observed Halanna accepting the compliments with a genuine modesty.

  “Oh, well. You were splendid, Mere.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” she said, and if her tone was a little dry, Petiron missed it as he was surrounded by those wishing to congratulate composer and Mastersinger.

  CHAPTER IV

  OF HALANNA’S FAMILY, only the second brother, Landon, was able to attend the Turnover performance, since Halibran had unavoidable hold obligations. She was glad enough to see her brother, and he seemed more affectionately inclined toward her. Patently impressed by her demeanor as well as her singing, he remarked several times that he didn’t recognize his own sister, she’d changed so much for the better.

  Merelan took him to one side after his third loud pronouncement.

  “I wouldn’t make so much of her . . . good behavior, Landon,” she said kindly.

  “But she has changed,” he protested.

  “Yes, but do you have to rub it in?”

  “Oh, yes . . .” He rubbed his tanned chin and gave Merelan a charmingly penitent smile. “I see what you mean. But she’s certainly turned inside out, and not before time, if you ask me, though you didn’t. When she was a toddler, she was such a sweet thing . . .” His voice trailed off. “Who’s that?” he asked, suddenly suspicious as he noticed a young man in elegant Turnover finery leading his sister onto the dance floor.

  Merelan recognized one of the younger Ruathan nephews, Donkin, who was currently fostering with Lord Grogellan. As he had a good strong tenor voice, he usually joined the Harper Hall chorus. He’d been no more attentive to Halanna than half a dozen others brought in for the Turnover performance. But, being from Ruathan Bloodlines, he’d be quite acceptable to the most particular of fathers as a possible spouse.

  “Ruathan, you say?” Landon echoed, quite able to recognize Donkin’s suitability. “Is she showing any preference?”

  “Not that we’ve observed.”

  “Still keeping your eye on her?”

  “No more than we keep our eyes on any of the young women in our care,” Merelan replied pointedly.

  “She has learned her lesson, then?”

  Merelan thought his attitude was a shade arch, but he was himself young and had spoken to and treated his sister kindly since his arrival. “She has learned a good deal more about the mechanics of both producing her voice and music in general. She has proved a good student.”

  “My father said she may stay on, if you think she should.” Now he sounded less self-confident and there was a hint of plea in his tone.

  “She has scarcely begun to learn the repertoire suitable for her range,” Merelan told him willingly. “And she has learned to play flute and gitar well enough to do ensemble work. We would certainly like to train her as far as she is willing to go.”

  “She’ll be willing, I fancy,” Landon said, his eyes watching Halanna going through the steps of the dance with the agile Donkin. The two were obviously enjoying themselves.

  Halanna was smiling more tonight than she had done since her father’s disciplining. And about time, too, Merelan thought.

  “Come, Landon, you can’t spend all your time as observer. I’d be happy to introduce you to any number of girls here.”

  “I’d like to dance with you, if you’d permit it, Mastersinger.” He managed not only a charming smile but a graceful bow.

  Merelan glanced about to check on Robie, playing with some other children his own age at the edge of the dance floor, and Petiron, who was explaining something, with considerable gesturing, to one of the harpers home for Turnover. Eventually he would remember that she loved to dance and oblige her, but she was quite willing to start with Landon.

  “I’d love to dance, Holder Landon,” she said and took his offered hand.

  One of the features of the Turnover celebrations was that everyone got a chance to play or sing—even those as young as Robinton and the other nursery children. They performed a song on the second day, each of them using a percussion instrument: tambourine, chimes, triangles, tom-toms, cymbals, and the hand bells. Robie had been chosen to beat the tempo on the small drum with the knucklebone, and Merelan glowed with pride at the fine and complex rhythm he managed.

  She was disappointed that Petiron was too deep in discussion with Bristol, the Telgar Harper, to notice Robinton’s performance. Bristol, like Petiron, was a composer, though his interests lay more in balladic works for the gitar than in full chorus and orchestra. His work was easy to remember and enjoyable to sing—though Merelan grimaced to even think so disloyally.

  She was rather surprised, and certainly gratified, to see Bristol speaking to Robie later that afternoon. Robinton, his little face serious, was explaining something to the harper, who paid him the courtesy of attentive listening. If only Petiron would do the same . . .

  She reminded herself that this was Turnover and the new Turn was nearly on them. Just one more day of freedom from the usual routine. She was pleased with her hour’s recital of the old, traditional airs that had been part of these festivities since Fort Hold was founded. She’d had no trouble holding her audience and the applause had been generously prolonged though she had kept her encores to three. As Mastersinger she knew when enough was enough. There were plenty of other performers to take the Turnover stage.

  Halanna had given young Donkin quite a few dances each evening, but she also partnered other lads, and Merelan was glad to see the girl relaxing and enjoying herself. Maybe that would restore the vibrancy that had initially characterized her rich voice.

  Merelan had overheard Halanna saying something to her brother that puzzled and alarmed her.

  “Petiron’s very strict and makes you measure up to his standard,” the girl told Landon with a little grimace. Then she added in an entirely different, almost spiteful tone, “I can’t wait until he realizes that that kid of his has far more talent in his little finger than he’s got in all his fancy notes and difficult tempi.”

  How had Halanna known of Robie’s innate musicality? She’d never paid any attention to him; in fact, she had steadfastly ignored his existence when she knew the child was in the next room during her lessons with Merelan. And what satisfaction would Halanna take when the father discovered his son’s talent?

  That problem caused Merelan not a few anxious hours, though she kept telling herself that surely Petiron would be delighted to realize his son was musically inclined. “Inclined” was an understatement: Robinton seemed to absorb music as some children absorbed food. She was also aware that the child kept a cache of meticulously written tunes and airs; Washell and Bosler had told her so. They’d said that the music was “delightful.” Then there were the glances they had exchanged. She had been so pleased to hear their good opinion of Robie’s progress that perhaps she had failed to realize the significance of their exchange. That was when she first saw the drum he had made and used in the percussion orchestra at Turnover.

  “Master Gorazde helped,” he had informed her when h
e brought the drum home, “but I painted . . .” He ran a rather dirty finger along the blue and red lines that not too raggedly decorated the rim. “An’ I cutted the skin oh so careful.” His eyes had rounded as he used a pretend knife in his hand to demonstrate how hard it had been to cut the hide. “An’ I nailed it.” His mother did note that the brass nails were well aligned. “Master Gorazde had me make dots where the nails go so they’d look even.” He ran a finger along the shiny line. “Hard work.” And he grinned up at her.

  “Lovie, I don’t know when I’ve seen a better one. I’ll bet you could sell it at the Harper Gather stall!”

  He clutched the drum to his chest, which took doing because it overlapped his chest. “No, not this one, my first ’stament, and I gotta improve a lot before Master Gorazde’ll put a Harper stamp on it for sale.”

  With a pang to her heart, Merelan said nothing as he put it carefully on the shelf near his father’s worktop. Maybe Petiron would notice and comment on it.

  Two days later it was no longer in view, and when she looked for the drum, she finally found it hidden in his clothes chest. He never played it again.

  “Drum? What drum?” Petiron asked, surprised when she casually mentioned it.

  “The one Robie made for the percussion group at Turnover.”

  Petiron frowned, and she was so distressed by his genuine puzzlement that she wished she hadn’t asked. That the little drum, so lovingly constructed, had been so carefully concealed ought to have been warning enough.

  “Oh, that one,” Petiron said, turning back to checking apprentice papers. “If Robinton really did have a hand in making it, I wouldn’t have passed it for a Harper stamp.”

  Merelan abruptly rose and, murmuring that she must see Lorra, left the room before she either burst into tears or threw something at her insensitive spouse.

  As she stormed downstairs and out into the crisp evening air, pausing only to throw a jacket over her shoulders, she knew that she would never, ever, mention Robie’s efforts to Petiron again. He didn’t deserve to have such a talented child.

  “He’s far ahead of the other youngsters,” Kubisa told Merelan during the teacher’s usual spring evaluation. “He’s poring over any Record Ogolly lets him see. In fact, Ogolly’s having him copy some of the more legible documents from the last Fall. I also don’t think it’s wise to isolate him from his own age group. He needs their companionship. All children do. But I’ll say this for him: he won’t stand for any teasing or bullying.”

  “You don’t have any problems with that, do you?”

  Merelan knew that the apprentices were often apt to pick on a lad who tried to push himself forward, and occasionally they would taunt a slower boy, but the masters kept a tight rein on any physical violence and chastised culprits for verbal harangue. Some of the final-year apprentices were apt to take grudges against one another, but those were generally settled by a wrestling match overseen by a journeyman. To be a harper conferred sufficient dignity and privilege that few would jeopardize their chance to achieve journeyman status by gross misconduct. Inevitably, there were subtle competitions during the fourth year.

  “I have to be truthful, Merelan. Some of them are jealous of his quick mind.”

  “Well, I can scarcely punish him for that,” Merelan said, trying to suppress a spurt of outrage.

  Kubisa held up both hands in simulated defense. “Easy, mother, and I won’t tell you who, either,” she added before Merelan could open her mouth. “That’s for me to know and handle. And I have. I ask Rob to take one of the slower ones off to hear their lesson. He’s actually very patient—more so than I would be with that rascal, Lexey.”

  “Lexey? Bosler’s youngest?”

  “I know you know that Lexey has learning difficulties, but Rob has him repeat his lessons until he knows them by heart.” Kubisa sighed. “Sometimes late life babies are a little . . . backward. And Rob made up another tune, one that Lexey can actually remember, to help him with place names.” She reached into the folder and brought out a scrap of hide, cleaned so often that it was almost transparent, and handed it to Merelan. “Robie’s a caring child and a born teacher.”

  The Mastersinger had no trouble identifying the writer of the tiny, precisely placed notes and hummed the tune. Simple and very easy, up the C scale and then down by thirds.

  Fort was first, South Boll then

  Ruatha came and Tillek, too.

  Benden next and north Telgar . . .

  Easy enough for a child to sing, but effective with the tune itself as an aid to memory.

  “That’s not bad,” Merelan said.

  “Not bad?” Kubisa stared at her in disgust. “For a child five Turns old? It’s incredible. Washell wants me to use it in class as a Teaching Ballad.”

  “He does?”

  “He does, and we don’t intend to tell Petiron, either.” Kubisa’s tone was almost defensive. “I never ask Rob to do these. He just does them. Should I discourage him, Merelan?” She couldn’t quite keep her expression neutral.

  “No, don’t discourage him, Kubisa. And thank you for your understanding.”

  The interview troubled Merelan for several days but she could see no way to mention Robie’s abilities to Petiron. As usual, he had music he had to compose—this time for an espousal at Nerat. He planned a duet between Merelan and Halanna, and a very ambitious quartet, making use of a fine young tenor who would soon be walking the tables to become a journeyman. Petiron was always bemoaning the loss of any good tenor voice, and Merelan entertained the wry hope that Robie might end up in the tenor range as an adult. At least he sang on key in his childish treble. Even if his father never noticed. These were the times when she was very glad that she wasn’t able to bear more children, or foster them.

  That spring young Robinton had a revelation that made a tremendous impact on his mind: he met dragons.

  He’d always known they existed, and once in a while, a wing would be seen flying in formation high overhead. He knew that Fort Weyr had been empty for several hundred Turns and no one knew why. He knew, from Teaching Songs and Ballads, why there were dragons: that they kept Thread away—though he didn’t understand why Thread was so dangerous. People’s clothes were made of thread, and they wouldn’t wear something that was dangerous to them, would they? When he asked Kubisa about it in class, she said that Thread was a living organism, not spun and woven as was the undangerous thread that went into clothing. This bad Thread fell from the sky and hungrily ate anything living it touched, from grass to runner- and herdbeasts, and even people. Her listeners got very still at that, and no one even squirmed when she went on to explain how dragons kept Thread away from Halls and Holds. However, she ended on a bright and pleasant note: that bad Thread was not likely to bother them and they might live their whole lives without seeing it fall from the skies.

  “Then why,” the logical Robie asked, “do we keep singing about it?”

  “In appreciation of those times when the dragons did keep the danger away,” she said at her most reassuring.

  Robinton asked his mother about Thread and got much the same answer, which really wasn’t sufficient to satisfy his curiosity. If the dragons were so important, and they were still flying the skies of Pern, they were there to keep Thread away. They were keeping it away, but there weren’t as many as there used to be—not with five Weyrs empty. Would they be enough if Thread came?

  Lexey had told him once—Lexey talked a lot to Rob because he would listen to him—that his mother kept telling him that if he didn’t behave better, they’d leave him out for Thread to get.

  “You know so much, Rob. Would it?” Lexey asked plaintively, scared enough of the threat most times that it achieved the object of making him more obedient—at least for a few days.

  “I never heard of it being done to anyone, no matter how bad you are. And ’sides, there isn’t any Thread in the skies right now.”

  “But, if I was bad enough, would it come to get me?”

&nb
sp; “Hasn’t yet, has it?” was Robinton’s logical reply. “You were awful bad yesterday, making a mess with the colors when you were told to clear them up.”

  “Yes, I was.” Lexey grinned in retrospect, thoroughly pleased with himself. “But it was so fun.” He’d smeared every surface in the classroom while Kubisa was out on an errand. She’d made him clean it all up—which was almost as much fun for Lexey as doing it—but he’d had a real scolding from her and his mother for the state of his clothes. “Mother was real mad at me last night.” But that seemed to give him a satisfaction that Robie couldn’t understand. He always tried very hard not to upset either his mother or his father—especially his father.

  Lexey’s paint smearing occurred the day before the dragons came, so they were sort of on top of Robie’s mind when they came circling down into the big Harper Hall courtyard. His parents were busy packing for their trip to Nerat so he’d been told to go outside and play. He always missed his mother, but it would be nice to stay with Kubisa and her daughter Libby, where he could sing and play his pipe or his drum without worrying about annoying his father. It was his turn to hop-it without smudging the chalk lines on the flags, and his attention was utterly focused on the movement of his feet—until Libby made him miss the longest hop by suddenly pointing skyward in astonishment.

  “Oh, look, Robie!” she cried.

  “That’s not fair . . .”

  His complaint died as he realized that the dragons soaring above were coming closer to the Harper Hall, rather than the Hold, where they usually landed. Half a wing of dragons—six of them. As they swept closer, backwinging, their hind legs stretched downward to land in the Harper Hall quadrangle, Robie, Libby, and Lexey pressed themselves tightly against the wall to stay out of the way. As it was, two of the dragons had to land outside, since the four made the big quadrangle suddenly appear very small.