Falloner had spent one evening explaining to Robinton why it was better to be in Weyr or Hall because, if you were a male in line for succession in a Hold, you had to guard yourself against jealous brothers and cousins.
“But don’t the Lord Holders all get together in one of their Councils and decide?” Robinton asked and got a snort for his ingenuousness.
“Sure, they decide, but it’s usually the strongest one they pick, the one who’s survived long enough to present himself as a candidate. Mind you, at the Weyr there’s some scheming and displaying when there’s a queen to mate.” A shrewd look came over the weyr lad’s face. “But no one dies, of course, because dragonriders can’t fight to-the-death duels, and a real smart rider can make certain his bronze gets the queen ahead of the others.”
“How?”
Falloner gave him a patient look. “There’re ways, there are ways! That’s how my father beat out all the other bronze riders when Feyrith rose the last time. Carola wanted C’rob in her weyr, but Spakinth wasn’t as clever as Chendith. Not by half, he wasn’t. And Feyrith’s clutch by Chendith was much larger than her last one by Spakinth.”
“I thought the Weyrleader stayed Weyrleader . . .” Robinton mentally reviewed all the songs he knew about dragonkind.
“Only as long as his dragon flies the queen,” Falloner said, shaking his head.
“I wish you could come with me back to the Harper Hall,” Robinton suggested shyly.
“No way,” Falloner said. “I’ll be back at the Weyr. I don’t want to be away too long, you see.”
“Why? There’re no eggs on the Hatching Ground, and besides you’re not old enough yet.”
“Only another Turn to go,” Falloner said, as cocky as ever. “Not that it hasn’t been great getting to know you, and your mother’s terrific. She’s made sure I’ll be more visible now.”
“Visible?” It seemed to Robinton that Falloner would do better to efface himself instead of getting into so much trouble that he had to be sent away from the Weyr so the Weyrwoman would calm down. Robinton never did find out what his friend’s offense had been.
“Yes, I can help C’gan now that I can read and copy music—almost as good as you can.”
“You learn quickly,” Robinton said generously.
“I have to,” Falloner said, quite serious, “if I’m to be Weyrleader in the next Pass. C’mon, I’ll help you finish packing. You sure got more than you came with.”
“Everyone’s been very kind to me,” Robinton admitted.
“Why not? You’re stepping on no one’s toes here.”
Robinton had a lump in his throat the next afternoon when he had to say good-bye to all those he’d met at Benden—especially Falloner and Hayon.
“Don’t worry, Rob,” Falloner murmured in his ear as they stood by Spakinth’s side, watching as the carisaks were heaved up and over the bronze’s back. “As soon as I’ve a bronze dragon, I’ll come visit. Promise.”
“I’ll expect you,” Robinton told him, grinning broadly to keep the tears back.
“Up you get,” C’rob said and flung him up the bronze’s side.
Robinton knew the trick of grabbing a neck ridge and scrambling into place. Then his mother, more gracefully, seated herself behind him and waved to those on the ground seeing them off. When he heard her sniffing, Robie knew he wasn’t the only one sorry to leave Benden. He did wish they could have stayed on.
It took a little longer to get Maizella up on Cortath, since she had so much baggage to bring with her for her Turn of training at the Harper Hall. Tears were streaming down her face—tears of joy, he knew.
Well, he thought with little charity, she’ll find the Hall quite different from living in Benden Hold. And that thought kept him from sniffling.
Then they were off, Spakinth once more nearly shaking Robinton’s skull from his neck with his skyward jump. He was becoming inured to the fright of between by now and felt only the cold, not the fear. He was rather proud of himself.
Spakinth was showing off: he emerged right over the Harper Hall courtyard, low enough to be on a level with the rooftops as he backwinged and delicately landed.
“Well done, Spakinth,” Merelan said, clapping her hands.
“I’ll kill him later,” C’rob said almost grimly. “Pulling a stunt like that without permission.”
“Oh, don’t, C’rob,” Merelan said, her eyes dancing. “What an entrance! And here comes Cortath with M’ridin and Maizella, rather more circumspectly.”
Grinning, she waved at those gathered on the steps. Then she began to clap again as a chorus from the second-story assembly room sang aloud musical welcome.
We’re glad you’re home
We’re glad you’ve come
We welcome you
With heart and voice
And hope you’ll never leave.
Someone even provided a trumpet flourish and a roll of drums as a finale, which delighted Merelan even more. Only Robinton saw her sweeping gaze looking, just as he was, for his father.
Petiron was not among those standing on the Harper Hall steps, but maybe he was leading the singers. Master Gennell was there, waving enthusiastically along with Betrice, Ginia, Lorra, with her youngest daughter on her hip, Master Bosler, and Master Ogolly, who had an arm about Lexey and Libby. Barba stood on the step below them.
“Don’t mention your father’s melody, Rob, love. Not unless he does,” his mother hurriedly whispered in his ear and then helped him dismount from Spakinth’s high withers as Gennell and Betrice rushed forward to assist.
“My, you’ve grown,” Betrice cried, giving him a big hug before Lexey and Libby could reach him. “And is that young Maizella?” she asked as Master Bosler and Ginia went to help the Benden Holder girl. “Another of Halanna’s stripe? No, there’s not much luggage, is there?”
“Maizella’s all right, and she listens to my mother.” Robie grinned as he opened the heavy jacket he’d worn for between and resettled his shirt.
“Didja miss us?” Lexey wanted to know, dancing about: his expression suggested that he had missed his patient friend very much indeed.
“ ’Course I did, Lexey.” Rob gave him a mock punch. “I learned some great new games, too, Libby,” he added, turning to the girl.
His mother began to introduce her new student to the Master-Harper, his spouse, and the other adults, letting Betrice take charge.
“Robinton . . .” and his mother prompted him to thank Spakinth and C’rob for returning them home.
“Glad to do it, Mastersinger. Any chance of your coming back to sing at the Autumn Gather? I was asked to ask you,” C’rob said, grinning from ear to ear.
“I’ll see if it’s possible, C’rob. I’d certainly like to.” At her words, Robinton nodded vigorously, which made her laugh. “I can see that I’ll be nagged to death until I do,” she added, tousling her son’s hair. “Can you not stop for some klah?”
C’rob shook his head with real regret “Not today. But thanks!”
They stood there, courteously, while both riders remounted; then the dragons launched themselves into the air and turned eastward before disappearing.
Robinton caught the sad little sigh from his mother before she turned back and smiled at those who had welcomed her.
“Come now,” Lorra was saying, taking Merelan by the arm, “I’ve put on a little something to take away the chill of between . . . And you lot be careful with the Mastersinger’s things,” she added, scowling at the apprentices who were halfway up the stairs, burdened with carisaks.
“We weren’t between long enough to get cold,” Robinton said.
“And who’s the seasoned traveler, then?” Lorra asked, amused.
“Mother and I got to the Weyr several times a-dragonback, you know,” he went on.
“Can we come in, too?” Libby asked, hovering in the doorway with Lexey and Barba.
“When were you ever refused food in this Hall?” Lorra demanded. As she resettled young Si
lvina on her hip, she waved them toward the small dining room with its table set with a huge bowl of her special fruit drink and plates of pies and cookies. “Even if you only just got up from lunch? Did Benden feed you just before you left?” she asked the travelers.
“Well, we were given lunch Benden time . . .”
“At least their timing’s right,” the headwoman said almost approvingly.
Merelan swung round from the table when she heard boot steps on the flagstones in the hall, but it was Masters Gennell, Bosler, and Ogolly coming in.
“I’d hoped that Petiron would make it back from Ruatha Hold in time,” Master Gennell said apologetically to Merelan.
“Oh?”
“But he was certain he’d be here to greet you,” Gennell went on, “so we didn’t drum a message to delay your return until he was back.” The MasterHarper looked toward the open Hall door as if he expected Petiron to be riding in at any moment. “It’s not that long a journey, and I saw that the harpers were all well-mounted. Their summer Gather, and they’d particularly requested something special from us.”
“Halanna went?” Merelan asked in a bland voice.
“Yes, and Londik, though I’d say,” Gennell added with a frown, “his voice is about to change.”
“That won’t matter now,” she said almost casually, and looked down at her son. “Robie can take over the treble solos. He did all that were needed at Benden, both Hold and Weyr, and it’s not just as his mother I’m proud of him.”
“No, of course not. And did you like visiting the Weyr, Rob?” Master Gennell smiled kindly down at him.
“It was fabulous,” Robinton said. He was quite willing to describe everything; he couldn’t remember if Master Gennell had been to the Weyr. “Isn’t it?”
“Yes, a very special place indeed.” Gennell gave Rob a pat on his head and then turned to Merelan. “So, tell me more about our new soprano, Lord Maidir’s girl.”
“She’s a well-behaved young lady,” Merelan said, chuckling as Master Gennell’s obvious apprehension eased. “I’d scarcely inflict the Hall with another . . .” She cleared her throat and suggested that Robie might like to finish his drink with his friends.
Robinton went off, grinning to himself because he knew what she’d been about to say.
His father did not arrive back at the Hall until the long summer day had nearly ended. Two of the journeymen with him were leading mounts, one of which was very definitely lamed.
“Beast went lame, Mother,” Robinton said from his perch at the front window. “Not Father’s, though,” he added as she hurried in from her bedroom to peer over her shoulder. “See. There he is!” And he pointed to his father’s unmistakable tall, lean figure, dismounting from a Ruathan bay gelding.
He couldn’t understand his mother’s reaction. She’d worried about Petiron not being there, and now she didn’t seem to care that he was safely home.
“It wouldn’t be like Father to hurry on ahead unless everything was all right,” he said.
“Sometimes, Robie,” she told him, putting her hand under his chin and tipping his face up, “you’re too forgiving.”
He didn’t feel so forgiving when it seemed to take an age for his father to greet his family.
“Trouble on the way, Petiron?” his mother asked, turning from the window and the brilliant sunset.
“Two lame beasts, because they thought to get home faster,” he said, swinging saddlebags and instrument case to the bench. “You had the safer way to travel.” He came over to her and gave her a peck on her cheek. “Londik’s voice is gone.”
“I can sing instead, then,” Robinton piped up.
His father, almost as if just realizing his son was in the room, too, frowned slightly. “That’s as it may be. But it is way past your bedtime, Robinton, and your mother and I have a lot to discuss. Good night.”
“And you’ve no more welcome than that for your son, Petiron?” Merelan asked in such a tense voice that Robie was startled.
“It’s all right, Mother. Good night, Father,” he said and left, almost running out of the room in his dismay.
“Petiron, how could you?”
Robie shut the door on whatever reply his father made, glad that he couldn’t hear anything through the thick wooden panels. He flung himself on his bed and wished he was back at Benden Hold. Even Lord Maidir was nicer to him than his father was. Why couldn’t he please his own father? What had he done wrong? Why couldn’t he do something right? He probably oughtn’t to have said that he could take Londik’s place. But he could. He knew he could. His mother had said that his voice was every bit as good as Londik’s, and he was the better musician. And she didn’t just say things like that to make you feel good—not about professional matters.
He muffled the sobs he could not control in his pillow. And when he heard some shouting later, he pulled the pillow over his head and pushed it tight against his ears so he couldn’t hear anything except his own pulse.
He had to audition for the position of solo treble singer in front of all the masters. That made him a little nervous. The requirement had made his mother furious.
“Are you doubting my professional opinion, Petiron?” she asked when she heard what was proposed. All the windows were open, making it impossible for Robinton to avoid hearing.
“Any singer who is to be a soloist for the Harper Hall has to be auditioned,” his father had answered.
“Only if he hasn’t been heard by all the masters before,” Merelan had said, tight-voiced.
“I do not wish anyone to think that I am pushing my son into a place that another also qualifies for.”
“There is no other treble as qualified! Everyone but you knows very well that Robinton has a splendid treble.”
“Then there is no problem in following protocol, is there?”
“Protocol! Protocol? For your own son?”
“Of course. For him more than any other. Surely you can see that, Merelan.”
“I wish, Petiron, I do sincerely wish that I could.”
Robie flinched when he heard the outer door slam. He felt his throat tighten and then reminded himself sternly that he had no time for that right now. He was harper-trained and he’d prove—especially to his father—that he was well trained.
Because he was, of course, facing his auditors, he caught the little reassuring gestures they made, and his mother’s encouraging expression as she played the introduction to the music they had decided he should present first. He was to sing two songs, an optional piece and then a score he had not seen before.
“That,” his mother had said in an odd voice, “is going to be very difficult because he knows all the music.”
“There will be one he doesn’t know,” his father had said and given his head the one final nod that indicated this subject was closed.
So he sang the Question Song, and that made all the masters sit up, including his father. But the song suited his range and showed good phrasing as well as voice control, as he let the final note die away without breaking it off.
“Odd choice” was his father’s comment after the warm applause had died. Petiron handed him a double sheet. “This would have been Londik’s next solo. Not even he has seen it. You may have a few minutes to look through it.” He held out his hand to take Merelan’s gitar from her and sat on the stool, prepared to accompany his son himself.
With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Robinton turned his eyes down to his father’s bold notations. But by the time he had to turn the page, he felt a surge of relief. If his father thought this would show up his unsuitability, he might even get a pleasant surprise.
“I’m ready,” Robie said, turning the music back to the first page.
“You should take more time than that,” his father said.
“I’ve read it through, Father,” Robinton replied. His father didn’t know how quickly he memorized music, even the complex tempi his father liked to use and the odd intervals he was fond of put
ting in: “To jar the audience awake,” one of the journeymen had said in Robie’s hearing.
“Let’s not make the lad nervous, Petiron,” Master Gennell said. “If he says he’s ready, we’ll have to take him at his word.”
“I’ll play the first measure, then go back to the top,” Petiron said, as if conferring a special favor.
Robinton saw his mother’s warning finger go up so he said nothing. But he was spot perfect coming in at the top. He didn’t need to, but he kept the score in front of his eyes, not wanting to look in his father’s direction. He had no trouble singing the unusual intervals, or keeping an accurate tempo, even when it changed almost every other measure. There was one run, which would have suited Londik’s flexible voice, too, and a trill that Rob had no trouble with, either, his mother having used him to show Maizella how to deal with that sort of vocal embellishment.
“I do believe we have a more than adequate replacement for Londik,” Master Gennell said, rising and speaking over the applause. “That was very well done, Robie. Surprised you, too, didn’t he, Petiron? You’ve been working the lad hard at Benden, Merelan, and it shows. It shows.”
Petiron was looking at his son, his mouth slightly open, his right hand silencing the strings of the gitar.
“I do believe, Petiron, that you’ve forgotten that Robie turned ten while we were in Benden,” Merelan said briskly.
“Yes, I had.” Petiron rose slowly, putting the gitar carefully back in its case. “But you must read the dynamics of a new piece more carefully, son. In the fourth measure—”
Seeing Merelan’s growing ire, Master Gennell jumped in. “Petiron, I don’t believe you,” he said. “The lad did not so much as falter once, singing difficult music—for you don’t write any other kind—which he had never seen before, and you’re quibbling about the dynamics in one measure?”
“If he is to take Londik’s place, he must be accurate in all particulars,” Petiron said. “And he will be. From now on, I shall oversee his musical education. There’s a lot to be done . . .”
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