The Masterharper of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  What is it? What brings you so far away from Benden? Robinton asked.

  You. We’ve been to the Hall. They told us you were here.

  F’lon was half-off Simanith’s neck before the big bronze had touched the sand of the beach.

  “I’m a father, Rob, I’m a father!” F’lon shouted, waving one arm and charging up the strand to thump the harper soundly on the back. He had a wineskin thrown over the other shoulder. “A son! Larna gave me a son!”

  “Larna? So you did get her!” Robinton had to dismiss the pang in his heart Kasia had been alive when he’d first learned about F’lon’s interest in the grown-up Larna, who had been such a plaguey nuisance to Falloner, the boy.

  “Dismiss your class, Rob,” F’lon ordered. “Off you go, children. Class again tomorrow.”

  Robinton had to laugh at the dragonrider’s high-handed way, but F’lon’s exultation brought smiles to the fishermen mending nets on the strand. Robinton hurriedly introduced F’lon to Matsen and the others, and then led his old friend to the cot he shared with Karenchok.

  “A fine strong lad, just like his sire,” F’lon boasted, splashing wine into the cups Karenchok hastily set out.

  “Don’t waste this,” Robinton said, having had a taste of the white wine that was being so liberally poured. “It’s Benden, isn’t it?”

  “What else would I provide to toast the health of my first son?” F’lon demanded and quaffed his glass dry.

  It was a merry time, though all too short, because F’lon was anxious to return to Benden and his child.

  “I gather Larna did forgive you for pushing her into the midden, then?” Robinton remarked after listening to F’lon’s ravings.

  The dragonrider gave him a startled look. “I never pushed her into the midden. That was Rangul. R’gul, I should say. That isn’t where he’d’ve liked to push her, but I”—and he slapped his chest proudly—“got her as weyrmate, not R’gul.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be happier with you,” Robinton said, remembering what a stuffy child Rangul had been.

  “Of course she will,” F’lon replied. Finishing his third, or maybe fourth, glass of wine, he decided he had best return to the Weyr, Larna, and his son. “I’ve named him Fallarnon.”

  “A fine choice for a dragonrider-to-be.”

  “Bronze, of course,” F’lon added as he waved a cheerful good-bye to Karenchok.

  “He came all the way from Benden Weyr to tell you that?” Karenchok asked, hobbling to the doorway to watch the dragonrider depart.

  “We’re old friends.”

  “Good friends.” Karenchok lifted his wineglass appreciatively. “You don’t get good Benden often in South Boll.”

  Nine days later a runner brought Robinton a short message from F’lon: Larna had died two days after Fallarnon’s birth. Robinton sent back a message by the same messenger, expressing his condolences. In his heart, though, Robinton envied F’lon, who had a son to remember his love by.

  When Karenchok was finally walking soundly and able to ride again, Robinton reluctantly bequeathed him the Ruathan runner—a much sounder and smarter animal than the weedy elderly runt that had thrown him. He rode Karenchok’s back to the Hall, having no other, and it was indeed the most uncomfortable of riding beasts.

  The first thing he did when he got back to the Harper Hall was to tell the beastholder to get rid of this bag of bones and find him a new riding animal. His second action was to find his mother. He didn’t like what he saw and taxed her with questions about her health.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine, love, really. Just a little tired. It’s been a busy winter, you know.”

  Robinton was not so easily put off and cornered the Masterhealer the next morning.

  “She does seem fine, Rob,” Ginia replied slowly, “but I know, as you do, that she’s not. She’s losing weight, yet I see her eating well at table. I’ve my eye on her, never fear. And Betrice.”

  “Betrice?” Robinton realized that he hadn’t seen the MasterHarper’s spouse, who was usually busy about the Hall someplace. “What’s wrong with Betrice?” Was his whole world crumbling about him? Were all the people he loved and admired suddenly showing their mortality?

  Ginia laid a hand on his arm, her expressive eyes sad. “There is so much we don’t know and can’t help.” She paused and then sighed. “Sometimes people just wear out. But I promise you I’m watching your mother carefully.”

  “And Betrice?”

  “And Betrice,” Ginia said with a nod.

  At dinner that evening, Robinton sat next to Betrice, noting the slight wobble in her hand as she ate, and trying not to see it. So he regaled her with the funniest incidents he could remember and her laughter was as ready as ever. Once their eyes met and locked and she gave him a funny little smile and patted his hand.

  “Don’t worry, Rob,” she said in a low voice, turning her head away from her spouse, who was involved in a lengthy explanation of some legal point with a journeyman whom Robinton remembered as another of Shonagar’s voice students.

  “Just you take good care of yourself, too, Betrice,” Robinton said with as much love as he could put in his low tone.

  “Oh, I do. I do.”

  Robinton had to be content with such reassurance and the next morning accepted the assignment Master Gennell had for him: this time in Keroon.

  “You haven’t been to the plains yet, have you? Good experience, Rob, good experience. Again it’s a short contract.” Gennell passed Robinton a piece of hide. “These are the holds you do not go to.”

  “Do not . . .?” Robinton was surprised and scanned the nine names listed.

  “Yes,” the MasterHarper said. “I’m sorry to say, harpers are not always regarded with the respect they formerly were, as I think you’ve discovered a time or two.”

  Robinton grimaced. “But why? We’re only trying to help. We don’t tell people lies . . .”

  Gennell cocked his head, a sad smile turning down the corner of his expressive mouth. “There are many who feel that the Duty Song is lies.”

  “Honoring the dragonriders?”

  Gennell nodded. “That’s one so-called lie. You have realized that, even in the larger holds, some feel that the Weyr and its riders are relics of a past danger we no longer need to consider.”

  “But, Master Gennell . . .”

  The MasterHarper held up his hand and gave a brief smile. “You have had a long association with the one remaining Weyr. Many nowadays have never even seen a dragon in the sky, much less met a dragonrider. Sometimes Search is misinterpreted, too, although there have been few enough of them lately.” He sighed and gestured to the list. “Just save yourself grief and avoid those holds. We can’t force people to learn when they’ve no wish to listen.”

  As Robinton was on his way out of the courtyard on the new young Ruathan runnerbeast he had used his savings to purchase, a runner came trotting in. A runner who was very familiar to him.

  Robinton had formally met Gennell’s invisible minion in the MasterHarper’s office on two occasions.

  “Call me Nip, if my lack of name offends you,” the man had said with an amused grin. “I nip in and out, you see.”

  Master Gennell had smiled. “And you’re never to see him, Rob.”

  “I know,” Robinton had replied. But this time he needed information the runner might be able to provide.

  “Ah, you, runner, wait a minute . . .” As Robinton reined his mount about, the runner dutifully halted and turned to face him. Robinton smiled. “I thought it was you.”

  Nip smiled briefly. “I’ve fooled many.”

  “Ah, but I’m a harper and as trained to notice details as you are. Did you find Mallan?” he asked.

  Hope died as the man’s face drained of any expression. He shook his head. “He died in the mines. That much I discovered.” Then his expression altered to a fierce hatred. “I’ll get Fax yet.”

  “If you don’t, I will.” And with that promise, Robinton rode out of
the courtyard.

  Though he was welcomed wherever he went on the Keroon plains, Robinton occasionally felt the resistance to some of the traditional Teaching Ballads and did his best to discuss the concepts with the adults in the hold, reminding them of the Charter’s provisions. Often his evenings were spent in copying out that document so that it would be available to counteract the question of “lying.” He did feel that he got his message across to the doubters.

  Several times he was warned by his host that “yon feller’s not so friendly” and, if asked to play in the evening, Robinton carefully restricted his selections to unremarkable love songs or dance tunes. Even so, he sometimes had to ignore sullen looks and manners.

  One evening, at Red Cliff Hold, he was astonished to see Nip arrive, dressed as a runner, and bearing a Crafthall reply for the holder. Robinton waited for a chance to speak to Nip and, by asking him to take a letter directed to his mother at the Harper Hall, managed a few private words with him.

  “Didn’t expect to see you here,” Robinton said, flourishing the letter as if that was what was under discussion.

  “How do you think Master Gennell knows where not to send harpers?” Nip said. “Station Masters are the best ones to ask, by the way, should you be in doubt.” Taking the letter from Robinton, he altered his tone and spoke more loudly. “Wal, now, Harper, I’ll be sure to take good care a’ this ’un fer ye.”

  When Robinton had done his round in Keroon, Master Gennell sent him on to Nerat, to a settlement that was, happily, devoted to the old ways. Robinton was able to relax his vigilance and do a proper job of instructing the young in their Traditional Songs and Ballads. He was relieved to see that dragonriders often visited this area, collecting fresh fish for the Weyr. He always sent back greetings to F’lon and tried to speak to the dragons. They would look at him, surprised, but they never responded.

  Remembering how freely Simanath had spoken to him as a boy and a man, he was baffled by their reticence. But then, he didn’t know their riders as well as he had known F’lon and his bronze.

  When he returned in the spring to the Harper Hall, one look at his mother had him in a panic. She was nothing but skin and bones, all the beauty leeched out of her face, with dry hair and a hard cough constantly racking her. She leaned on Petiron to walk even the shortest distance.

  “You’re not all right, Mother, not at all,” Robinton said, glaring at Petiron, who nodded, his expression doleful and worried.

  “That’s why you’re home, Rob,” Ginia said when he stormed into the Healer Hall in search of her.

  He stood stock-still. “Why I’m home?” He could not seem to comprehend what her words implied.

  She pressed his arm, her face full of regret and pity. “Yes, I know she’s wanted you here. She doesn’t have much time left.”

  “But . . .” Robinton clenched his fists at his sides . . . “I’ve only just lost Kasia!”

  “I know, Rob dear, I know.” He could see the tears in her eyes. “She’s my dearest friend. All I can do is be sure she feels no pain.”

  He nodded acceptance of that, feeling the coldness of grief yet to come spreading throughout his body.

  “You must help her. And Petiron.”

  “Her, yes. Petiron . . .”

  “He has lived for her, Robinton.”

  And I never had the chance to live for my Kasia, Robinton thought bitterly.

  If he had thought the days after his spouse’s death were bad, those he endured while his mother slowly lost all strength, and finally, the breath in her body, were worse. Without discussing it, either he or Petiron was with her, Robinton playing her songs, even the humorous setting of “Got into, get out of,” which made her smile and even chuckle. Petiron played for her, too; music seemed to soothe her.

  It was Ginia who roused Robinton from an uneasy sleep before dawn three days later. “The end is near.”

  He threw on pants and shirt and followed her, filled with dread.

  The end was unexpectedly peaceful. He held one of Merelan’s hands and Petiron the other, and she managed a feeble smile and a press of her gaunt fingers. Then she sighed, as Kasia had done, and was still. Neither man could move. Neither wished to relinquish the lifeless hand he held.

  It was Ginia who gently unwrapped their fingers and laid first one hand, then the other across her frail chest.

  Petiron broke first, sobbing bitterly. “How could you leave me, Merelan? How could you leave me?”

  Robinton looked up at the man who was his father and thought that Petiron was taking Merelan’s death as a personal affront. But Petiron had been possessive of her all her life. Why should he change at her death? And yet, Robinton felt immense pity for the man.

  “Father . . .” he said, rising slowly to his feet.

  Petiron blinked and looked at his son as if he shouldn’t be there. “You must leave. She was all I ever had. I must be alone with her in my grief.”

  “I grieve, too. She was my mother.”

  “How can you possibly know my pain?” The older man clutched at his chest, fingers digging into fabric and flesh.

  Robinton almost laughed. He heard an inarticulate sound come from Ginia and held up his hand to answer for himself.

  “How could I possibly know, Petiron? How can you say that to me? I know far too well how you must feel right now.”

  Petiron’s eyes widened and he stared at his son, remembering. Then his sobbing renewed, his spirit so devastated by Merelan’s death that Robinton, moving without thought, came around the bed and took his father in his arms to comfort him.

  Petiron never wrote another note of music. Merelan had been his inspiration. Her death altered him as she could have wished he had altered during her lifetime. He and Robinton never became friends, but Petiron became easier in his son’s company. Master Gennell remarked on how much grief had mellowed the man. The apprentices and journeymen studying composition might not have agreed, for he was as difficult as ever to satisfy, but none of them could fault the depth and knowledge he was able to drill into their heads.

  Robinton was resident in the Hall when Betrice died of a sudden failure of her heart. So he was able to help Master Gennell deal with that loss. The entire Hall felt it, from the youngest apprentice to Petiron; and Halanna, now a sedate and plumply happy spouse and mother, put in an unexpected appearance.

  “I owe that woman a great deal,” she said. “Almost as much as I owed your mother, Journeyman Robinton.” She gave him an odd glance out of the corner of her eye. “In spite of what a nasty child I was then, it was those two who finally stuffed some sense in my conceited head. May I sing for her, with you? And for Merelan? I’ve always kept my voice going, you know.”

  “I didn’t know, but I’m glad you have. My mother would be pleased,” Robinton replied and he meant it.

  So Halanna sang the music Petiron chose for the occasion, and her voice was warmer and more expressive than it had ever been while she had trained at the Harper Hall. In fact, it was such a fine voice that Master Gennell, once he had dried his eyes, wistfully commented that it was a shame there were so few women training at the Harper Hall these days.

  “Can’t you find us some, Robinton, in your travels?” Master Gennell asked. “To be sure, your mother was unusually dedicated, but here’s Halanna, still singing, and I understand that Maizella does, too. Find me some new females, will you?”

  “You may be sure I’ll look,” Robinton replied fervently. Anything to bring back the twinkle in his Master’s eyes.

  And he did look, listening to many hopeful girls as well as boys and trying to interest the better voices in coming to the Harper Hall to be trained.

  Robinton attained his Mastery the following Turn and continued to be sent by Master Gennell to handle difficult holders or substitute for ailing harpers or to attend Gathers in distant holds. He was also requested as an arbiter in Hold and Hall. When he could, he drummed to Benden Weyr and asked for F’lon’s assistance—and listened to the dragonr
ider talking about his son, Fallarnon, who was being fostered by Manora, the dignified weyrgirl Robinton had noticed when S’loner and Maidir had died. It was no surprise to Robinton to learn that, three Turns after Fallarnon’s birth, she gave F’lon a second son: Famanoran.

  F’lon had two worries. The first, and more important, was that the lazy Nemorth would never get off her couch in the queen’s weyr for another mating flight, so he could become Weyrleader in place of the four-man leadership of C’vrel, C’rob, M’ridin, and M’odon. The second was that no one would take him seriously about the threat posed by the “upstart Lord Holder Fax.”

  Jora seemed to favor C’vrel, which further infuriated F’lon.

  “Ever since S’loner took Lord Maidir between, C’vrel’s been afraid to ‘annoy’ the Lord Holders. I can understand him treading quietly around Raid—and there’s another hide-bound idiot . . .” He glared at Robinton when the harper made a mild protest. “Well, he is. Does everything the way his father did—only Maidir was not only far more tolerant but also fairer-minded. He does send a scrupulous tithe to the Weyr for which we are all grateful.” F’lon grimaced. “I hate being beholden to the man!”

  “It is his duty,” Robinton said mildly.

  F’lon scowled. “Well, we’ll teach him his duty when I’ve flown Nemorth.” Now his grimace was darker. “I dread it, I do, Rob. Jora’s a fat slug. We oversee what Nemorth eats so she’ll be able to climb to a decent height for her flight . . . but she has to be bullied into the air. Jora!” He raised his hands skyward in disgust and frustration. “Imagine having a weyrwoman who’s afraid of heights!”

  “I’ve often wondered how that happened,” Robinton murmured.

  F’lon snorted. “My father fancied her of the other candidates. There were only four, so low has the Weyr sunk in the estimation of the people of Pern it is pledged to protect.”

  That made Robinton sit up. “The Red Star’s returning . . .”

  “No.” F’lon pushed that notion away with one hand. “Not yet. For which I am grateful. Not for another three decades, by my reckoning.”