M’tal shook his head. “I don’t know. Perhaps we’ll find the answer when we get into those rooms.”
“So why wait for Kindan?”
“Kindan’s miner bred,” M’tal reminded her. “If there’s a cave-in, he’s the right one to handle it.”
“And if he can’t?”
“Then he’s the right one to get help,” M’tal replied, miming a miner holding a pick in two hands. Salina smiled and gestured toward the door of their new, lofty weyr.
“It’s not such a bad idea of Tullea’s to have Kindan sing tonight,” Salina said as they started down the many flights of stairs to the Bowl.
“Mmm?”
“Well, he’s got quite a good voice, and we could use the cheering.”
“Let’s hope, then, that Kindan’s in a cheering mood,” M’tal returned. Neither of them mentioned on the long descent from their weyr that M’tal’s Gaminth could have flown them to the Bowl in a moment: M’tal because he was sure that Salina was still quietly grieving her loss; and Salina because he was right.
As they crossed the Bowl to the Kitchen Cavern, they could hear Kindan’s voice lead off in the opening chorus of “The Morning Dragon Song,” subtly altered:
“He must have changed that for Lorana,” Salina remarked. “That song normally refers to a bronze dragon.”
“But I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Tullea thinks it’s for her,” M’tal said.
Several big fires had been built in braziers outside of the Kitchen Cavern, and the long tables had been pulled out into the cold night air. Torches lined a way through the tables.
The harper and his helpers were set up on one table placed against the wall of the Weyr Bowl itself. The sounds of Kindan’s guitar and voice echoed eerily off the walls of the Bowl. All around them, M’tal could see gleaming pairs of dragon eyes peering down from the heights above.
By the time M’tal and Salina found seats, Kindan had finished his revised version of “The Morning Dragon Song.”
“This is a different song, now,” Kindan said, his voice carrying over the murmurs and chatting of the dragonriders and weyrfolk.
“Not all of it’s remembered, but perhaps its time has come.” He modulated his guitar chords into a dissonant, melancholy sound.
The murmuring of the crowd grew silent as Kindan continued:
M’tal and Salina exchanged worried glances and watched as B’nik and Tullea huddled together in an exchange that could almost be heard over Kindan’s voice as the harper continued:
Salina bent to whisper something in M’tal’s ear, but he gripped her arm tightly and gestured at Kindan. The harper’s look was intent, as one who was desperately trying to remember something. His face brightened and he continued:
Lorana suddenly leapt up from her seat and raced away across the Bowl. M’tal had a fleeting glimpse of her distraught look as she passed him, but before he could react to that, Tullea shouted out: “Enough! That’s quite enough! Harper Kindan, I do not want to hear that song ever again.”
“But I do, Weyrwoman,” Kindan replied firmly. There was a gasp from the crowd. Everyone knew that Kindan could be outspoken, but speaking against the Weyrwoman was an affront to the honor of every dragonrider.
“Tullea is right, Harper,” B’nik said loudly, rising beside his Weyrwoman. “That is not a song for this Weyr.”
Kindan looked ready to argue the point. M’tal cleared his throat loudly, catching Kindan’s eyes and shook his head slowly. For a moment the young harper looked ready to pursue his rebellion. Slowly the color drained from his face and he calmed down.
“Weyrleader, Weyrwoman,” he said with a half-bow from his chair, “my apologies. The song has me perplexed,” he explained. “But I will respect your orders”-he laid a slight emphasis on that word-“and return to more traditional lays.”
“Very well then,” Tullea replied. She waved a hand at him imperiously. “Continue, Harper.”
Kindan gave her another half-bow, signalled to his accompanists, and stood to sing in a strong, martial voice:
“Go see to Lorana,” M’tal said to Salina as soon as he was sure that the situation was back under control.
Salina found Lorana in Arith’s weyr, her arms wrapped around her dragon’s head.
“He means me, doesn’t he?” Lorana asked as Salina entered. She didn’t look up at the ex-Weyrwoman. Her voice was choked with tears.
“I don’t know,” Salina answered honestly. “But I hope he does.”
“You hope?” Lorana asked incredulously, turning to face the Weyrwoman. “How can you?”
“Because that song-if it has anything to do with what’s happening to us-”
“How can it? When was it written?” Lorana demanded. “It’s probably just some old harper song written by someone who’d drunk too much.”
“It could be,” Salina admitted honestly. “And, now that you mention it, that makes the most sense.”
“So why did he sing it?” Lorana cried angrily.
“You think it was about you?” Salina asked.
“Don’t you?”
“I don’t know,” Salina told her. “You’re not a healer, we know that.”
Lorana shook her head angrily, fingering one of the silver pieces of brightwork on Arith’s harness.
“Do you see this?” she asked, pulling the piece off and waving it at Salina. “Do you see how it’s marked? A healer’s mark.”
Salina gasped, startled.
“Exactly!” Lorana cried, turning back to replace the brightwork on Arith’s riding harness. “And everyone will know that, too. So what will they think, Salina?”
“What do you imagine?”
Lorana took a steadying breath and wiped the tears off her cheeks. “I think that the riders will believe that I brought this sickness here with me,” she said slowly.
Salina felt as if she’d been struck in the stomach. She slumped down to her knees as the full impact of Lorana’s words struck home.
If Lorana had brought the sickness, then it was her fault that Breth had died. For a moment Salina felt anger rise up in her and she knew that her face showed it, even without seeing Lorana’s stricken reaction. It would be so much easier, such a relief, if she could blame someone for her loss. But then her brain overcame her emotions, and Salina realized that Lorana stood to lose her own dragon, too, long before her time.