Piemur wondered, somewhat embarrassed at witnessing this tender exchange, whether anyone on the Hatching Grounds other than F’lar and himself had seen the tears of relief that washed down Lessa’s cheeks before she pressed her face against F’lar’s chest.
When Nimath and Mikay had been ushered off to their weyr and the resident weyrfolk began to disperse from the Hatching Grounds, Piemur and Sebell slowly made their way from their seats higher up in the viewing stands to join the Masterharper, N’ton, and Menolly where they waited down below.
It was taken for granted that none of the usual post-Hatching celebrations would be observed after Nimath’s Impression, but rather they would be delayed until the remaining eggs in the clutch hatched. No one could fault Benden’s Weyrleaders in that decision, as none could have foretold whether the outcome of this Hatching would be a disaster or a success. But relief and exhilaration were both palpable in the air, and Piemur was pretty sure that plenty of weyrfolk would be celebrating anyway, if only in small ways.
He was surprised to find Menolly, N’ton, and the Masterharper talking among themselves with worried looks on their faces. As he and Sebell joined them, Menolly greeted them with, “Have you seen Jaxom?” Her voice was colored with anxiety. “He should be here—it’s his duty. But we can’t see him anywhere.”
Piemur stiffened in surprise and dismay. Shading his eyes with one hand, he began frantically to scan the stands, but Sebell stopped him with a gentle pressure on his arm and a nod toward N’ton. The Fort Weyrleader’s face had taken on the distracted expression that meant he was speaking with his dragon.
After what felt to Piemur like forever, N’ton’s expression cleared and he looked directly at the others. “Lioth says Ruth is asleep in his weyr in Ruatha. Lioth cannot wake him, but Jaxom must be with him.”
“We must assume nothing, Weyrleader,” Robinton said forcefully. “We’ve witnessed the circumvention of a hideous tragedy today with the safe hatching and Impression of the new queen. We cannot let another disaster jeopardize the tenuous balance we have so carefully nurtured over the Turns.” The Masterharper shook his head. “By the First Egg, Lord Jaxom must be all right, though what could have possessed him to miss such an important Hatching doesn’t bear consideration. N’ton, quickly, take me to Ruatha! We must be certain that Jaxom is, indeed, safe and with his dragon.”
He almost turned to leave, but then paused. “Menolly, my dear, come with me, please. Sebell, we cannot all descend on Ruatha, so you and Piemur should wait here until we let you know, hopefully, that everything is fine.”
* * *
—
Not long after, Piemur and Sebell were back at Fort Hold, having flown there on Mirth after a very relieved J’hon informed them that Jaxom had been found in Ruatha. But the young lord’s safety aside, it was still worrisome that he had missed an important event like a queen dragon’s Hatching and Impression. If Masterharper Robinton hoped to convince the other Lord Holders to confirm Jaxom in his position, there could be no doubt in their minds about the young man’s dedication and sense of responsibility. With no further information and deeply anxious to learn the whole story, Piemur and Sebell could do nothing but wait in the Great Hall, cups of klah in hand, and speculate about what might have happened.
By the time Menolly and N’ton arrived to fill them in, Piemur was buzzing with energy from one cup of klah too many. His leg bounced up and down and his fingers drummed the tabletop as Menolly told the tale.
“It was one of the most nerve-racking experiences I’ve ever had,” she said. “When we arrived at Ruatha, all of us were hard-put to appear outwardly calm as we requested a meeting with Lord Jaxom and the Lord Warder, Lytol.”
Piemur could see that Menolly was already assuming the harper role of storyteller as she recounted the events of their trip to Ruatha. She looked from one to the other of them, using that old harper trick of making each of her listeners feel as if she were talking to him alone. Her voice had a lilt to it; though not quite singsong, it flowed effortlessly and was wonderfully easy on the ear. Menolly chose her words well: They sounded practiced, as if she had scripted the story beforehand. Piemur found himself wishing that his own storytelling techniques were as well honed.
“After what seemed like an eternal wait, when a drudge, and then a steward came to speak to us, Lytol finally arrived. When he suggested that we wait in a small reception room nearby while he went to try to locate Jaxom, I was nearly fit to scream. None of us said it out loud, but I know we were all thinking the same thing: If even Lytol didn’t know his ward’s whereabouts, then where in the name of the First Egg was he?” Menolly’s voice held all the strain she must have been feeling as she endured the suspense of waiting. She took in a long breath and then leaned forward.
“As we waited, even N’ton’s nerves started to show. Why, he was twisting the fingers of his gloves so hard I thought he’d rip them clean off! And all Master Robinton could do was just sit immobile and ashen-faced in his chair.” She looked to N’ton, who nodded in agreement.
“Then a drudge came into the room, startling us all half to death, and offered klah, which we refused. Who could drink klah at a time like that?”
“Was Lytol gone for very long, Menolly?” Piemur asked, feeling as if the tension they’d lived through was with them now.
“To be honest, Piemur, we probably didn’t have very long to wait at all. It just seemed like an eternity. I was the first to see Jaxom as he entered the room ahead of Lytol, and I think I must’ve said something out loud, because then N’ton swung around, saw Jaxom, and groaned.”
“Why?” Sebell asked, looking to N’ton, not Menolly, for the answer.
“Because there was a fresh wound on Jaxom’s face!” N’ton said. “At first glance I thought he’d been assaulted, but then I saw that it was actually threadscore.”
“Threadscore!” Piemur and Sebell repeated in unison.
“Poor Master Robinton swiveled around in his chair so fast I thought he was going to be flung out of it!” Menolly added.
“The Masterharper did look surprised,” N’ton agreed. “But Menolly sounded the most shocked of us all. Do you remember what you said? ‘Jaxom, you’re threadscored!’ As if he wasn’t already painfully aware of it!” Realizing that he’d embarrassed her, the Weyrleader smiled kindly at Menolly.
She rallied. “Well, I was shocked,” she agreed. “I got so close to look at his wound, the poor man must’ve thought I was about to sit on him!” And then she laughed, shaking her head.
Piemur wasn’t ready for levity. “But why would he take such a risk?” he asked earnestly.
“Believe me,” Menolly said, nodding vigorously, “we all thought that very thing, and erupted into a barrage of questions about Ruth’s health, and comments about Jaxom’s recklessness.”
“Where did he find Thread to fight?” Sebell asked, his voice very quiet. He looked to N’ton.
“I think he must’ve timed it. He has been pushing hard to take on more normal dragon duties with Ruth. In fairness to Jaxom and Lytol,” N’ton said, glancing at Menolly to see if she agreed, “they answered or countered every one of our questions without batting an eyelid. Did you notice that, Menolly? How Lytol stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Jaxom? He was quite resolute and unapologetic. I’ve never seen their bond as strong before—like father and son.”
“So, the young lord has taught his dragon to chew firestone and fight Thread. That’s interesting,” Sebell said, one brow arched. Slowly, his lips curved up into a crooked smile. “Of course, his timing couldn’t be any worse.” Then he smiled broadly, and as Menolly and N’ton laughed at this play on words, Piemur finally broke out into a loud guffaw.
“It’s moot, then,” Sebell continued on a more somber note when their laughter had died down. “From what you’ve said, N’ton, there would be nothing to gain in alerting the Lord Warder to the thr
eat that hangs over Jaxom from the men in Nabol.”
“I honestly think this matter is best kept with as few of us as possible,” N’ton said.
“But I feel the urgency to remove this threat against Jaxom has now increased,” Sebell said. “Especially since the young lord’s whereabouts couldn’t be accounted for when we, ah, lost track of him. I’m sure the Masterharper has the same view.” He placed a heavy hand on Piemur’s shoulder. “I’m afraid you’ll still have to go back to Nabol in time for tomorrow night’s meeting, Piemur.”
“Ah,” Piemur said, frowning hugely.
“But I’ll still be going with you. The sooner we take control of this trouble, the better. We’ll use our fire-lizards to keep in touch.”
“Speaking of fire-lizards, Sebell,” Piemur said, looking around the Hall and then sucking in his breath slowly, “Farli might not be the best of help, I’m afraid. She’s been really off color of late, and not at all reliable. I wonder if she’s getting ready to—” But his words were cut off as Farli darted into the room and promptly landed on Piemur’s shoulder, her eyes whirling a contented shade of blue as she rubbed her head against his cheek.
“She’s made you eat your words, Piemur,” Menolly said, and then laughed heartily. “That image of an egg and flaming dragons—was she showing that to you, too?”
When Piemur nodded, she flapped a hand at him as if his fire-lizard’s behavior was nothing. “Everyone’s fire-lizards were sharing the same images. It must’ve had something to do with the theft of the egg, or at least that’s the best reason I can come up with. My lot settled down soon after Nimath made Impression. Master Robinton noticed it with his Zair, too.”
“Well,” Piemur said, rubbing the side of Farli’s head gently, “it’s good to have my old girl back again. You were behaving like a scatty wherry, my little friend.” Farli cooed at him, her voice rising in a perfect trill to emphasize her point.
The Hall was steadily growing noisier as the residents of Fort Hold and the Harper Hall began to gather for their evening get-together. As usual, a large number of dragonriders from the Weyr were also arriving.
A young apprentice with bright eyes and a mop of short curly hair trotted up to Sebell with an ornately inlaid, twelve-string gitar and a flat drum in her hands, giggling nervously while she carefully handed over the instruments to the journeyman masterharper. Sebell placed the flat drum on the table and set himself to tuning the gitar while Menolly excused herself to retrieve her own instruments.
Piemur looked around the Hall, suddenly feeling ill at ease. Everyone was getting ready to make music. It had always been so easy for him in the past, when his voice was good. Back then he couldn’t wait for the evenings, after the final meal of the day, when the harpers, holders, and dragonriders at Fort would congregate for the evening’s entertainment. It was always a relaxed affair, and anyone who wanted to sing or play, relate a story, or tell an anecdote was welcomed wholeheartedly.
Piemur could feel his palms starting to sweat, and he wished he could disappear from the big Hall as easily as Farli flew between. He rose from his seat, on the verge of standing upright, and then he faltered, sitting back down again quickly. Everywhere he looked, harpers were pushing their chairs around to form loose circles, their musical instruments at the ready. Piemur saw N’ton and J’hon who, along with about a dozen other dragonriders, had found seats at a table with some of the younger singers. Scores of people were tuning instruments, and some of the younger apprentices were pummeling their tables with their hands, making rhythmic drumming sequences, eager to begin the music.
Sebell looked up from tuning his gitar and smiled distractedly at Piemur. Was it Piemur’s imagination, or had the journeyman masterharper moved closer to him? He wasn’t sure. Sebell cocked his head to one side, listening to his gitar while he tuned it. Then he looked across the table at one of the other harpers, who was holding a complex-looking set of wooden pipes.
“Give me a D, please, will you, Sousa?” Sebell said. “I can hardly hear myself with all this commotion, never mind tune my gitar.”
Sousa promptly obliged, and Sebell made minute adjustments on two keys of his gitar and then looked up, satisfied. He strummed a major chord in D and then, while the notes were still reverberating, leaned a little closer to Piemur and spoke very quietly, so only he could hear.
“You shouldn’t feel excluded tonight, Piemur, so I had one of my drums brought here if you wish to join in. You’re a mighty fine percussionist, you know.” Sebell smiled, seeming to understand that, possibly for the very first time in his life, Piemur was feeling uncomfortable among the harpers he’d known since he was nine Turns old.
Dumbfounded to hear that Sebell believed his musical talent wasn’t limited solely to his obsolete singing voice, Piemur felt himself color. He picked up the flat drum from the table.
“I’ve got some sticks for you to choose from, too, because I couldn’t remember which you preferred. There’s a wooden tipper, and a bone one, too, as well as the beater.”
“Thanks, Sebell,” Piemur replied, pleased. “I always preferred the bone tipper over a wooden one. There’s something about a bone tipper—I think it makes the drum-sound tighter, and each beat more distinct.”
“Ha!” Sebell exclaimed, his brows arched as he absently strummed a series of chords. “I prefer a bone tipper, too, and for that very same reason.”
All around the Hall harpers were strumming or blowing, tapping or humming as they got ready for the evening’s music session. Lord Groghe, who had excused himself shortly after he’d finished his meal, reentered the Hall and took his seat at the top of the room. He was flanked by several of his sons on one side, and Masterharper Robinton and Voicemaster Shonagar on the other.
Piemur hadn’t spoken to Shonagar in ages. He hadn’t had the heart to return to the Voicemaster’s rooms, set in the depths of the Crafthall’s caverns where the acoustics were so exceptional. He’d been afraid Shonagar would ask about his voice. Piemur couldn’t bear to see the look of disappointment on his old tutor’s face when he admitted that his singing voice was gone for good.
Shonagar was renowned for his droll sense of humor and florid speech, and although all the other apprentices in his group found the Voicemaster’s archaic turns of phrase altogether boring, Piemur had always enjoyed Shonagar’s witty company. The man certainly loved his words. It had been particularly hard for Piemur, after five Turns of being tutored almost exclusively by Shonagar, to be wrenched from the older man’s company and cast out to learn other harper skills. On that horrible day, Shonagar had offered Piemur some advice, standing his young apprentice in front of him, hands on the boy’s shoulders, expression earnest.
“I want you to remember something, Piemur: Just as there is more than one way to sing a note—as you very well know—there’s also more than one way a harper’s voice can be heard.”
Shonagar had released his grip on Piemur’s shoulders then and continued. “You’re becoming a young man, Piemur, and will need to find young-manly tasks to fill your time. You are the most troublesome, ingenious, lazy, audacious, and mendacious apprentice I’ve had to teach, but in spite of yourself, you’ve achieved some measure of success.”
At the time, Piemur hadn’t been quite certain if Shonagar was giving him a compliment or a rebuke, but later, indeed almost a full Turn after he was first posted to the Southern Continent and his duties returned him briefly to the Harper Hall, the Voicemaster had offered further advice.
It was in the evening, while everyone was relaxing and enjoying one another’s company after the last meal of the day. A group of apprentice harpists had commandeered a corner of the Hall and were practicing a complex piece of new music. The more experienced harpers in the Hall left them to it, happy to continue conversing with one another while the mellifluous sounds of the harps played in the background.
Shonagar almost never
stayed in the Hall for long after the evening meal; however, on this particular night he had remained at his table with the other music masters. Piemur only realized afterward that Shonagar must have been watching him throughout the evening, waiting for the right opportunity to speak with him.
“Ah, Piemur,” the Voicemaster called as he approached the table where Piemur was seated with Menolly. Both apprentices stood to greet him when he arrived, exchanging pleasantries for a while until Menolly excused herself.
“You’ve turned as brown as a berry, I see,” Shonagar said, smiling, though he was scrutinizing Piemur’s face intently. “And much taller, too, my goodness! That means you’re thriving. Tell me: Are you enjoying your pursuits in the south?” He raised his chin so that he seemed to be peering down his nose while he waited for Piemur’s reply.
“It was difficult at first, and it took time before I grew accustomed to everything there. It’s so very different from what I’m used…” To his own surprise, Piemur faltered as a rush of repressed emotions filled his chest and momentarily left him confused about who he was, where he belonged, and how he should phrase his next words.
He cleared his throat and then continued. “It’s different from what I was used to—before.” The last word sounded flat, as if it had simply fallen out of his mouth. He doubted that the astute voice teacher had failed to notice.
“Ah, but you’ve reached a juncture point in your life, Piemur, where you’re bound to be assailed with many circumstances that are, as you say, most contrary to that to which you were once accustomed. You must bear in mind that you’ve left the young boy in you behind. Make room now for the young man you’re becoming.
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