Dragonriders of Pern 4 - Dragonsinger

by Anne McCaffrey

  She means it, Domick,” Talmor said in the pause that followed.

  “Oh, I do. It’s the most exciting thing I’ve ever played. Only…”

  “Only what?” urged Talmor when she faltered.

  “I didn’t play it right. I should have studied the music longer before I started playing because I was so busy watching the notes and time changes that I didn’t, I couldn’t, follow the dynamic markings… I am sorry.”

  Domick brought his hand against his forehead in an exasperated smack. Sebell dissolved again into his quiet laughter. But Talmor just howled, slapping his knee and pointing at Domick.

  “In that case, Menolly, we will play it again,” Domick said, raising his voice to drown the amusement of the others. “And this time…” he frowned at Menolly, an expression which no longer distressed her because she knew that she had touched him, “watching those dynamic signs, which I put in for very good reason. Now, on the beat…”

  They did not play the music through. Domick stopped them, time and again, insisting on a retard here, a variation of the designated time here, a better balance of the instruments in another section. In some respects, this was as satisfying as playing for Menolly, since Domick’s comments gave her insights to the music as well as its composer. Sebell had been right about her studying with Domick. She had a lot to learn from a man who could write music like this, pure music.

  Then Talmor began to argue interpretation with Domick, an argument cut short by the eerie sound that began softly and increased in volume and intensity so that it was almost unbearable in the closed room. Abruptly her fire lizards appeared.

  “How did they get in here like that?” Talmor demanded, hunching his shoulders to protect his head as the study got overcrowded with nervous fire lizards.

  “They’re like dragons, you know,” Sebell said, equally wary of claw and wing.

  “Tell those creatures to settle down, Menolly,” commanded Domick.

  “The noise bothers them.”

  “That’s only the Threadfall alarm,” said Domick, but the men were putting down their instruments.

  Menolly called her fire lizards to order, and they settled on the shelves, their eyes wheeling with alarm.

  “Wait here, Menolly,” Domick said as he and the others made for the door. ‘We’ll be back. That is, I will…”

  “And I,” “I, too,” said the others, and then they all stamped out of the room.

  Menolly sat uneasily, aware that the Hall was preparing for Threadfall, as she had prepared for the menace all her conscious years. She heard racing feet in the corridors, for the door was half ajar. Then the clanging of shutters, the squeal of metal, many shouts and a gradual compression of air in the room. The sudden throb as the great ventilating fans of the Hall were set into motion for the duration of Threadfall. Once again, she found herself wishing to be back in the safety of her seaside cave. She had always hated being closed in at Half-Circle Sea Hold during Threadfall. There never seemed to be enough air to breathe during those fear-filled times. The cave, safe but with a reassuringly clear view of the sea, had been a perfect compromise between security and convention.

  Beauty chirped inquiringly and then sprang from the shelf to Menolly’s shoulder. She wasn’t nervous at being closed in, but she was very much aware of Thread’s imminence, her slim body taut, her eyes whirling.

  The clatter and clangs, the shouts and stampings ceased. Menolly heard the low murmur of men’s voices on the steps as Domick and the two journeymen returned.

  “Granted that your left hand won’t do octave stretches yet,” Domick said, addressing Menolly but more as if he were continuing a conversation begun with the two journeymen, “how much harp instruction did Petiron give you?”

  “He had one small floor harp, sir, but we’d such a desperate time getting new wire, so I sort of learned to…”

  “Improvise?” asked Sebell, extending his harp to her. She thanked him and politely proffered the gitar in its place, which he, with equally grave courtesy, accepted.

  Domick had been riffling through music on the shelves and brought over another score, worn and faded in spots but legible enough, he said, for the purpose.

  Menolly rubbed her fingertips experimentally. She’d lost most of the harp-string calluses, and her fingers would be sore but perhaps… She looked up at Domick and receiving permission, plucked an arpeggio. Sebell’s harp was a joy to use, the tone singing through the frame, held between her knees, like liquid sound. She had to shift her fingers awkwardly to make the octave run. Despite the fact that her scar made her wince more than once, she became so quickly involved in the music that the discomfort could be ignored. She was a bit startled when she reached the finale to realize that the others had been playing along with her.

  “In the slow section,” she asked, “is the major seventh chord accented throughout? The notation doesn’t say.”

  “Whether it is or not must wait for another day,” Domick said, firmly taking the harp from her and handing it back to Sebell. ‘You’ll live to play harp another time, Menolly. No more now.” He turned her left hand over so she was forced to notice that the scar had split and was bleeding slightly from the tear.

  “But…”

  “But…” Domick interrupted her more gently than he usually spoke, “it’s time to eat. Everyone has to eat sometime, Menolly.”

  They were all grinning at her and, emboldened by the rapport she’d had with them during their practice, she smiled back. Now she smelled the aroma of roasted meat and spices and was mildly astonished to feel her stomach churning with hunger. To be sure, she hadn’t eaten much at the cot, with everyone glaring at her so.

  Some of her elation with the morning’s satisfying work was dampened by the realization that she’d have to sit with the girls. But that was a small blemish on the pleasure of the hours gone past. To her surprise, however, there were no girls at the hearth table, and the great metal doors of the Hall were locked tight, the windows shuttered, the dining hall lit by the great central and corner baskets of glows; in some obscure way, the hall looked more friendly than she’d seen it before.

  Everyone else was seated, though her quick glance did not show Master Robinton to be in his customary place at the round table. Master Morshal was and frowned at her until Master Domick gave her a shove toward her place as he drew out his own chair. Sebell and Talmor seemed in no way abashed as they went late to the oval journeymen’s tables. But Menolly felt more conspicuous than ever as she walked awkwardly toward the hearth table. And it wasn’t her imagination: every eye in the room was on her.

  “Hey, Menolly,” said a familiar voice in a harsh but carrying whisper, “hurry up so we can get fed.” She saw Piemur slapping the empty place beside him. “See?” he said to his neighbor, “I told you she wouldn’t be hiding in the Hold with the others.” Then he added, under the cover of the noise of everyone taking their seats, “You aren’t afraid of Thread, are you?”

  ‘Why should I be?” Menolly was being truthful, but it obviously stood her in good credit with the boys near enough to hear her reply. “And I thought you said you weren’t supposed to sit at the girls’ table?”

  “They’re not here, are they? And you said you wanted someone to talk to. So here I am.”

  “Menolly?” asked the boy with the protuberant eyes who usually sat opposite her, “do fire lizards breathe fire like dragons and go after Thread?”

  Menolly glanced at Piemur to see if he were back of the question. He shrugged innocence.

  “Mine never have, but they’re young.”

  “I told you so, Brolly,” replied Piemur. “Dragonets in the Weyrs don’t fight Thread, and fire lizards are just small dragons. Right, Menolly?”

  “They do seem to be,” she said, temporizing slightly, but neither debater noticed.

  “Then where are they now?” Brolly wanted to know, slightly sneering.

  “In Master Domick’s study.”

  The meat reached them and further
discussion was suspended. Today Menolly blithely speared four slices of juicy meat to her plate. She reached for bread, beating Brolly’s grab for some. And she dished Piemur some of the redroots, which he wasn’t going to take. He was much too small not to eat properly.

  Whether it was Piemur’s company or the absence of the girls, or both, Menolly didn’t know, but suddenly she was included in the table conversations. The boys opposite her had question after question about her fire lizards: how she had accidentally discovered the queen’s clutch in the sand; how she’d saved the hatchlings from destruction by Thread; how she had found enough food to support their voracious appetites; how she’d dragged a wherry from the mire to provide oil for her fire lizards’ patchy skins. She sensed that the boys gradually became reconciled to her possession of so many fire lizards because it was obviously no gather day to take care of them. They had the most bizarre theories about fire lizards and a few unsubtle queries about when would her queen fly to mate and how soon would there be a clutch and how many in it.

  “The masters and journeymen would get first crack anyhow,” Piemur said, disgruntled.

  “It ought to be free choice, the way the dragons choose their riders,” said Brolly.

  “Fire lizards aren’t quite the same as dragons, Brolly,” said Piemur, glancing at Menolly for support. “Look at Lord Groghe. What dragon would've picked him if it had had another choice?”

  The boys shushed him, glancing nervously about to see if anyone had overheard his indiscreet remark.

  “The Weyrs have control of the fire lizards any road,” said Brolly. “You can just bet the Weyrs’re going to hand ’em out where they’ll keep the Lord Holders and Craft Masters happy.”

  Menolly sighed for the truth of that surmise.

  Yes, but you can't make a fire lizard stay with you if you’re mean to him,” said Piemur flatly. “I heard that Lord Meron’s disappears for days.”

  “Where do they go?” asked Brolly.

  As Menolly didn’t know, she was just as glad that the eerie sound, which Domick had said was the Thread alarm, sounded, effectively ending the conversation.

  “That means Thread is directly over us,” said Piemur, hunching his shoulders and pointing toward the ceiling. “Look at that!” And Brolly’s startled exclamation made everyone turn about.

  On the mantel behind her were ranged all nine fire lizards; their eyes sparkling with rainbow reflections of intense agitation, their wings spread, talons unsheathed. They were hissing, retracting and extending their tongues as if licking imaginary Thread from the air.

  Menolly half rose, glancing toward the round table. She saw Domick nodding permission to her as he, too, got to his feet. He was gesturing to someone at the journeymen’s tables.

  “The alarm chorus would be appropriate, Brudegan,” he called as he crossed to the hearth, a wary eye on the fire lizards.

  Menolly motioned to Beauty, but the little queen ignored her, rising to her haunches and starting to keen a piercing series of notes, up and down an almost inaudibly high octave. The others joined her.

  “For the sake of our ears, Menolly, can you get your creatures to sing with the chorus now? Brudegan, where’s your beat?”

  Feet began to stamp, one, two, three, four, and suddenly the fire lizards’ keen was covered by the mass chorus. Beauty fanned her wings in surprise, and Mimic backwinged himself off the mantel, only missing a drop to the floor by claws biting into the wood.

  “Drummer, beat, and piper, blow,

  Harper, strike, and soldier, go…”

  sang the massed voices. Menolly joined in, singing directly to the fire lizards. She was aware of Brudegan, then Sebell and Talmor coming to stand beside her, but facing the boys. Brudegan directed, cueing in the parts, the descant on the refrain. Above the male voices, pure and piercingly thrilling, rang the fire lizards’ tone, weaving their own harmonies about the melody.

  The last triumphant note echoed through the corridors of the Harper Hall. And from the doorway to the outer hall, there came a sigh of pleasure. Menolly saw the kitchen drudges, an utterly entranced Camo among them, standing there, every face wreathed with smiles.

  “I’d say that a rendition of ‘Moreta’s Ride’ might be in order, if you think your friends would oblige us,” Brudegan said, with a slight bow to Menolly and a gesture to take his place.

  Beauty, as if she understood what had been said, gave a complacent chirp, blinking the first lids across her eyes so that those nearest laughed. That startled her, and she fanned her wings as if scolding them for impudence. That prompted more laughter, but Beauty was now watching Menolly.

  “Give the beat, Menolly,” said Brudegan, and because his manner indicated that he expected her obedience, she raised her hands and sketched the time.

  The chorus responded at the upstroke, and she experienced a curious sense of power as she realized that these voices were hers to direct. Beauty led the fire lizards in another dizzy climb of sound, but they sang the melody, octaves above the baritones who introduced the first stanza of the Ballad, to the muted humming of the other parts. The baritones, Menolly felt, were not really watching her: she signaled for more intensity because, after all, the Ballad told of a tragedy. The singers gave more depth to their part. Menolly had often led the evening sings at the Half-Circle Sea Hold, so conducting was not new to her. It was the quality of the singers, their responsiveness to her signals, that made as much difference, as chalk from cheese.

  Once the baritones had finished telling of the dread sickness in the land, which had struck with incredible speed across the breath of Pern, the full chorus quietly introduced the refrain, of Moreta secluded with her queen, Orlith, who is about to clutch in Fort Weyr, while the healers from all holds and Weyrs try to isolate the form of the disease and find a cure. The tenors take up the narration, with increasing intensity, the basses and baritones emphasizing the plight of the land, herdbeasts left untended, wherries breaking into crops as holders, crafters, dragonfolk alike are consumed by the dread fever.

  A bass sings the solo of Capiam, Masterhealer of Pern, who isolates the illness and suggests its cure. Those dragonriders who are still able to stay on their beasts, fly to the rain forests of Nabol and Ista, to find and deliver to Capiam the all-important seeds that contain the cure, some riders dying with the effort as they complete their task.

  A dialogue between baritone, Capiam, and the soprano; Moreta was sung, Menolly was only vaguely cognizant, by Piemur. Excitement builds as Moreta, once Orlith has clutched, is the only healthy dragonrider at the Fort and one of the few immune to the disease. It is up to her to deliver the medicine. Moreta, pushing herself and her queen to the limits of their endurance, flies between from hold to hold, crafthall to cot, from Weyr to Weyr. The final verse, a dirge with keening descant, this time so appropriately rendered by the fire lizards that Menolly waved the humans silent, ended in the sorrowful farewell of a world to its heroines as Orlith, the dying Moreta on her back, seeks the oblivion of between.

  Such a deep silence followed the soft final chord that shook off the spell of the song with difficulty.

  “I wonder if we could ever repeat that again,” Brudegan said slowly, thoughtfully, after a further moment of almost unendurable silence. A sigh of release from the thrall of the music spread through the hall.

  “It’s the fire lizards,” said the very soft voice of the usually impudent Piemur.

  “You’re right, Piemur,” Brudegan replied, considering the suggestion, and there was a murmur of assent from the others.

  Menolly had taken a seat, her knees shaking and her insides gripped by a rhythmic shuddering. She took a sip of the klah remaining in her cup; cold or not, it helped.

  “Menolly, do you think they’d sing like that again?” Brudegan asked, dropping to the bench beside her.

  Menolly blinked at him, as much because she hadn’t had time to recover from the extraordinary experience of directing a trained group as because he, as journeyman, was asking
the advice of the newest arrival in the Harper Craft Hall.