“Of course,” Domick had said. “And when you cut your hand?”
“Oh, the new Harper, Elgion, had arrived so I…wasn’t required to play anymore. And besides,” she held her hand up explanatorily, “it was thought I’d never be able to play again.”
She wasn’t conscious of the silence at first, her head bent, her eyes on her hand, rubbing the scar with her right thumb, because the intensive playing had caused it to ache again.
“When Petiron was here at the Hall, there was no finer musician, no better instructor,” Master Domick said quietly. “I had the good fortune to be his apprentice. You’ve no need ever to be ashamed of your playing…”
“Or of your joy in music,” Sebell added, no laughter in his eyes now as he leaned toward her.
Joy in music! His words were like a release. How could he have known so acutely!
“Now that you’re at the Harper Hall, Menolly, what would you like best to do?” Master Domick asked her, his tone so casual, so neutral that Menolly couldn’t think what answer he expected of her.
Joy in music. How could she express that? In writing the kind of songs Master Robinton needed? How would she know what he needed? And hadn’t Talmor said that Domick had composed the magnificent quartet they had just played? Why did Master Robinton need another composer if he already had Domick in the Hall?
“You mean, play or sing, or teach?”
Master Domick widened his eyes and regarded her with a half-smile. “If that’s what you wish?”
“I’m here to learn, aren’t I?” She avoided his taunt.
Domick acknowledged that that was true enough. “So I’ll learn the things I haven’t had the chance to learn before because Petiron told me there were a lot of things he couldn’t teach me. Like how to use my voice properly. That’s going to take a lot of hard work with Master Shonagar. He only lets me breathe and sing five-note scales…” Talmor grinned so broadly at her, his eyes dancing as if he knew so exactly her feelings that she took encouragement from him. “I’d really love…Then she hesitated because of what Domick might say and she dreaded his clever-edged tongue.
“What do you really want, Menolly?” asked Sebell kindly.
“You’re frightening her, Domick,” Talmor said at the same time.
“Nonsense. Are you frightened of me, Menolly?” He sounded surprised. “It’s having to train idiots that sours me, Menolly,” said Master Domick, but his voice was suddenly gentler. “Now tell me what facet of music appeals to you most?”
He caught her gaze and would not release her eyes, but his phrasing had given her the answer.
“What appeals to me most? Why, playing like this, in a group.” She the words out in a rush, gesturing at the rack in front of her. “It’s so beautiful. It’s such a challenge, to hear the interweaving harmonies and the melody line changing from instrument to instrument. I felt as if I was…was flying on a dragon!”
Domick looked startled and blinked, a slow pleased smile lighting his otherwise dour face.
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.