The Masterharper of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Well, no need to get huffy,” he said, suddenly noticing her stiff posture and angry glare. “I’ll get more at lunch.” He started out of the room and then turned back. “Who did write those tunes? You?” He smiled in an effort to appease her anger. “Not bad.”

  She was so angry at his condescending smile and tone that she blurted out the truth. “Your son wrote them.”

  Petiron blinked in astonishment. “Robie wrote those?” He started back to her worktop, but she moved swiftly from the door to stand in front of it. “My son is already writing music? You’re helping him, of course,” he added, as if that explained much.

  “He writes them with no help from anyone.”

  “But he must have had some help,” Petiron said, trying to reach around her for access to the drawer. “The scores were well-written, even if the tunes are a trifle childish.” Then his jaw dropped. “How long has he been writing tunes?”

  “If you were any sort of a father to him, paid any attention to what he does, ever asked him a single question about his classes,” Merelan said, letting rip all her long-bottled-up frustration, “you’d know he’s been writing music”—she stressed the word—“for several years. You’ve even heard the apprentices singing some of the melodies.”

  “I have?” Petiron frowned, unable to understand either of his mate’s shortcomings: not telling him about his own son’s musicality and not informing him that apprentices were learning songs written by his own son. “I have!” he said, thinking back to the tunefulness he’d heard from Washell’s classes. Of course, the songs were suitable to the abilities of the age group but . . . He stared at Merelan, coming to grips with a sense of betrayal that he had never expected from her, his own spouse. “But why, Merelan? Why keep his abilities from me? His own father?”

  “Oh, so now he’s your son, instead of mine,” Merelan snapped back. “Now that he shows some prowess, he’s all yours.”

  “Yours, mine, what difference does it make? He’s what—seven Turns old?”

  “He’s nine Turns old,” she snarled, and stalked out of the room, slamming the door hard behind her.

  Petiron stood staring at the closed door, the echo of the definitive slam ringing in his ears, the hand that held the clean sheets held up in entreaty.

  “Well, I never . . .” And he sank back against the worktop, struggling to cope with her attitude and this incredible revelation about his—no, their—son. He let a full breath escape, trying to assimilate the revelation, as well as his spouse’s bewildering accusations. Then he shook himself and returned to his study, anxious to transcribe it from the sandtable. But as he sat down, he found himself unable to pick up where he had left off, not after Merelan’s stunning disclosure.

  If a nine-Turn-old boy had composed those tunes, youthful and simple as they seemed in his cursory glance at them, then his—their—son already had sufficient musicality to warrant serious training. Their son was nine? How had the Turns gone by so quickly? Of course, inundated by music as the child had been, he would undoubtedly have absorbed certain facets of basic education. His little tunes might only be variations on themes he had heard, rather than original. But what had upset Mere so much? Why had she taken such offense at his mistaking the boy’s age? Well, he would certainly look more closely at that roll of music. Even if they proved only to be variations, that was creditable enough to require some special tutoring to hone a perhaps genuine gift up to a good professional standard. Why, his son could be a journeyman!

  The thought unexpectedly pleased Petiron, and he realized that he had never given much thought to Robinton’s future. One didn’t, did one, until a child approached his teens and an apprenticeship. Although Petiron thought himself well able to be impartial toward his own flesh and blood when it came to giving the boy proper musical education, he might run into some criticism. It might be better if he apprenticed Robinton to one of the better traveling masters—at a good hold, where the boy would learn to appreciate his own Hall the better by comparison. Yes, that was a good solution, and it would leave both himself and Merelan more time for their important work. Merelan had been oddly distracted lately. She needed to concentrate on the more important aspects of her general teaching.

  Where had she put those tunes? They’d been to the left in the drawer. He began to rummage about. She was usually very precise where music was concerned, but the contents of the drawer were in considerable disarray. There was no sign of the roll. She must have taken it with her when she had been so incensed with him for not knowing Rob’s age. But however did a man relate to his son until the boy was old enough to understand his father’s precepts and philosophies? Able to appreciate his father’s achievements? Able to accept his father’s training? No, Petiron decided at that instant, he would keep Robinton under his direction, to be sure that he received the requisite training. Nor would Petiron make a favorite of his son in the Hall simply because of their relationship. The boy would have to measure up to the same standards as every other apprentice . . .

  “Robinton!” he called as he strode purposefully to the boy’s small room in their quarters. The door was ajar and the room rather neat, considering that a child lived in it. The bed was made, the few toys were neatly stacked on the shelf; and then he noticed the pipes beside the toys, and the small harp case. Someone else was teaching his son how to play the harp!

  Now Petiron began to feel a righteous anger. Merelan was behaving in a most peculiar fashion. First by her silence over Robinton’s ability and then by letting someone else train his son . . .

  He strode out of the room and out of his quarters; he was starting down the stairs when Master Gennell came out of his rooms at the top of the steps.

  “Ah, Petiron, I need a moment of your time . . .”

  Petiron stopped, glancing down the steps, wondering where Merelan had gone in such a huff and where his son might be. The MasterHarper had the right to a moment of his time whenever he so chose. This was not a good moment, however, for any interview, no matter how pressing. For once common sense, rather than professional courtesy, prompted the Mastercomposer. He had to find both his spouse and his son. Now! Before more damage could be done in the matter of Robinton’s training.

  “Now, Petiron,” Master Gennell said, frowning when he saw the hesitation, the conflict of duties.

  “With respect, Master . . .” Petiron began, barely keeping his tone civil.

  “Now, MasterComposer,” Gennell said firmly.

  “My son . . .” Petiron tried the only viable excuse available.

  “It is about your son I wish to speak with you,” Gennell said, and his frown so surprised Petiron that he found himself altering his direction toward the MasterHarper’s rooms.

  “About Robinton?”

  Gennell nodded and ushered the Mastercomposer into his workroom, shutting the door firmly behind him.

  “About Robinton.” He waved Petiron to a seat before he sat, opposite, clasping his hands in a way that indicated a matter of grave importance was about to be discussed. “As MasterHarper I have certain duties and responsibilities toward those in my Hall.” Petiron nodded and Gennell went on. “I have assigned Merelan to Benden Hold for the next year.”

  “But you can’t—” Petiron half rose from the chair in surprised indignation.

  “I can and I have,” Gennell said in such a flat tone that Petiron sank back again. “Oh, I know you are already composing new arias only she has the voice to sing, but I think you’ve been overworking her—” And Gennell held up one finger. “—and have been totally ignoring your son.”

  “My son . . . I need to discuss my son with you, Gennell. He has written—”

  Gennell held up a second finger. “You are apparently the only one in the entire Hall who is unaware of Robinton’s genius.”

  “Genius? A few simple tunes . . .

  “Petiron!” Gennell’s voice echoed the impatience in his scowl. “The boy reads music—even music you have written—and plays it on pipe or g
itar without hesitation or error. He has made instruments that are good enough to have a Harper stamp.”

  “That drum he made was not up to standard,” Petiron began.

  “At that, his first drum was nearly good enough. The others he has made in the past few months have already been sold. So have the multiple pipes and his first flute—”

  “The pipes are in his room . . .”

  “He is already considered an apprentice by the rest of the Hall’s masters, Mastercomposer Petiron,” Gennell said. “We are careful to take him only at his own pace—and his progress has him ahead of most second-year apprentices.”

  Petiron’s mouth dropped. “But he’s my son . . .”

  “A fact that you only seem to have recognized very recently,” Gennell said in much the tone he would take with an erring journeyman. Then his expression softened. “You are the best composer we have had in the Hall in over two hundred Turns, Petiron, and you are honored as such. It is your single-mindedness that can produce such extravagant and complex music, but it has also given you less than perfect vision about other, equally important matters: such as your son and your spouse. Therefore, since I had a request from Benden Hold for a master in the vocal traditions, I have assigned Merelan to the post. At her request. As the Benden Lord Holder has children Robinton’s age, he will accompany his mother.”

  Petiron rose indignantly. “I’m his father—have I no say in this?”

  “Until a boy child is twelve, it is traditional for him to be in his mother’s care unless fostered to a family.”

  “This has all been conducted with precipitous and unnecessary haste,” Petiron began, clenching and unclenching his fists, trying to control the rage that was boiling up inside him. Not only were his paternal rights being denied, but why was his spouse, usually so understanding, suddenly rejecting him?

  “On the contrary, Master Petiron,” Gennell replied, shaking his head slowly and sadly, “the decision was neither an easy nor an abrupt one.”

  “But . . . she was there!” Petiron waved a shaking hand toward his own quarters on the level above. “She cannot have gone far . . .”

  “A Benden dragon arrived this morning with a further entreaty from Lord Maidir for her to accept the posting, especially as his contracted harper, Evarel, has been advised to rest by the Healer. She took the message up to your quarters to discuss it with you. I admit to being surprised that she returned and accepted it. She told me that she felt it was in both her interests and Robinton’s that she do so.”

  “Because I didn’t know my son’s age?” Petiron heard his voice rise to tenor range in surprise.

  Gennell blinked in such an honest reaction that Petiron had to accept that that subject had not come up. Still, Merelan’s acceptance of any posting away from him, away from the Hall, was so uncharacteristic of her that he could think of no reason at all beyond that rather trite one.

  “About that I do not know, Petiron, but she and the boy will already have reached Benden Hold. She asked Betrice to pack up what she and Robinton will need. Doubtless you will hear from her shortly with a private letter.”

  Petiron stared at his MasterHarper, having great difficulty absorbing what he had just heard.

  “If it is a mother’s right to have her child until he is twelve, then I shall not interfere with her maternal instincts,” he said so harshly that Gennell flinched. “At twelve I shall have him.” With that, both promise and threat, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the MasterHarper’s workroom.

  CHAPTER VI

  HIS MOTHER NEVER did explain exactly why she came to his classroom that morning, to speak quietly and briefly to Kubisa, whose face gave away nothing. She just gave him his heavy jacket to put on, while she cleared the contents of his desk into a carisak, adding the roll of things that Kubisa handed her.

  There was something about his mother’s attitude that warned Robinton not to ask questions. The rest of the children in the classroom were whispering excitedly; two had even left their seats and were peering out the window.

  That was when Robinton saw the wing claws of a bronze dragon in the courtyard.

  “I don’t think you’ll mind riding a dragon today, dear,” his mother said, as she carefully closed the classroom door behind her. She had the half-full carisak clutched under her arm and took his hand to guide him down the steep steps.

  “Ride a dragon?” He stumbled in surprise, and was glad of the tight hold she had on his hand.

  “Yes, we’re going to Benden Hold. Lord Maidir sent a dragon for us.”

  “He sent a dragon for us?”

  Robinton was floored. Yet there were Betrice and Masters Bosler and Washell, handing up carisaks to the bronze rider, who was securing them to the dragon’s harness. As his mother briskly rushed him across the court to the dragon, he looked about for his father.

  “Your father’s not coming with us,” his mother said with an odd catch to her voice. Before he could protest, she had swung him off his feet and up to the bronze rider’s waiting arms. Then she mounted and sat behind him.

  I am Spakinth and my rider is C’rob. Cortath and Kilminth say you hear us.

  “I’m going to get to ride you?” Robinton asked, his voice nearly a squeak in his excitement.

  “You’re certainly getting to ride my dragon,” the rider said.

  Robinton tried to crane his head around and look up at C’rob. “Yes, I am,” he said. Then he realized he was holding on to the neck ridge in front of him in a fierce grip, and instantly relaxed. “Oh, I beg your pardon! I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  Of course not, the ridge is there to hold on to, Spakinth said in the same instant C’rob laughed and said, “You won’t hurt a dragon that way, lad.” And then he leaned to one side and regarded Robinton with raised eyebrows. “But then Spakinth is telling you, too, isn’t he?” The rider seemed surprised.

  Robinton grinned back, flexing his fingers around the ridge just for the feel of it. “Cortath and Kilminth have spoken to me, too.”

  “Have they . . .” And then C’rob’s attention was taken by Merelan’s arrival behind him. “Just hang onto my belt there, Mastersinger,” the rider said. “I’ve your son safely tucked forward.”

  “Then may we leave?”

  Robinton thought his mother must be as excited as he was to be mounted on a dragon, because her voice, when she answered, was quavery.

  In the next instant, his head was thrown back against C’rob’s chest as Spakinth sprang upward. Robinton barely heard himself let out a whoosh of “ohhhhhh” over the noise the wings made . . . like all the sheets in the Harper Hall flapping in the wind on the laundry line.

  He squealed again as Spakinth circled eastward, spiraling higher, the tall roofs of the Harper Hall buildings diminishing so fast he hadn’t breath for a second cry of amazement as the spiral took them high over Fort Hold’s massive precipice. Briefly he saw white faces turned skyward and wondered if they could recognize him perched in front of the dragonrider on bronze Spakinth.

  “Don’t be afraid, now, Robinton,” C’rob said, almost shouting in his ear. “We’re going between . . .”

  And then they were! Robinton held his breath, far more terrified of the awful cold nothingness around him than of the worst of his childish nightmares.

  I am here. You ride me with C’rob and the woman. I will keep you safe, young Robinton.

  And before a scream of fear could rise in Robinton’s throat, they were out of the cold and the black and wheeling above another Hold cliff.

  “That’s Benden below you, lad.” C’rob patted his shoulder. “And not a peep out of you. Nor did you wet your breeches.”

  Robinton was stunned by such a shocking suggestion and stiffened under C’rob’s hand. Very quietly, so not even Spakinth could hear and think badly of him, Robinton knew that, just a moment longer in frigid between and he might well have disgraced himself.

  Many do, young Robinton, but never you.

  And young Robinton sat
up straighter and loosened the viselike grip he found he had taken on the neck ridge. He hoped dragons didn’t bruise, and he smoothed the places where his fingers actually had made an imprint. Spakinth said nothing, as he was busy landing, which required powerful backwinging to set himself down just in front of the steps up to the smaller outer court of Benden Hold.

  “They’re here! Spakinth and C’rob brought them. She’s come!” And out of the wide open front door a crowd of children spilled.

  Spakinth curved his neck and lowered his head toward those racing down the steps.

  Always noisy, always noisy, the dragon said, more to himself than to either his rider or Robinton. Robinton was later to learn that C’rob had fathered five children at Benden Weyr, and consequently his dragon was well able to handle the swarm that converged on him, stroking his hide and his eye ridges when he lowered them enough.

  Then Lord Maidir and Lady Hayara, who was carrying one child and obviously pregnant with another, came out to welcome the Mastersinger and her son. As Merelan slid down Spakinth’s side, C’rob settled Robinton between the next two ridges up so he could stand on Spakinth’s lifted foreleg and assist the boy to the ground. Holder children swarmed up the dragon’s side—momentarily stunning Robinton with what seemed like rudeness to him—to untie the carisaks. They weren’t the least bit afraid, as Libby and Lexey had been, but then, Robie thought, they’d be used to dragons at Benden Hold, since Benden Weyr was still inhabited. Each grinned at Robinton, identifying themselves politely, but he was so confused by the onslaught of new impressions and their enthusiasm that he couldn’t remember who was who. Then his mother took him by the hand and led him to be formally introduced to the Holders.

  He bowed before he shook hands, just as he’d been taught, and was rewarded with smiles.

  “We want you to be happy here at Benden Hold,” Lady Hayara said.

  Robinton thought she looked very young, not much older than Halanna, and Lord Maidir looked older than even Master Gennell. Then Lord Maidir gestured for the stocky lad, standing just behind him, to come forward.