"Singing like that certainly takes it out of one, doesn't it?" his mother said as they entered their quarters. "Oh!"
They both saw the roll of a large message on the table, its origin obvious by the Harper-blue band spiralling its length. Her hand hesitated above the tube just a moment, but then she grasped it firmly and broke the seal as she seated herself. She pulled out a sheaf of music and spread it open. Robinton saw her face pale and her fingers shake slightly as she read the brief message attached to it.
"No, it's not from your father." She looked at the music before finishing the note. "It's from Master Gennell. Hand me my gitar, Robie."
He uncased it instantly, surprised at her urgency. It was then that he realized his mother had not sung any of his father's compositions in the Hold or in the Weyr. He knew that she was probably the only singer who could technically handle the difficult works Petiron wrote. Seeing her struggle a bit to stop the score from rolling up again, he planted his hands on the edges.
She struck the opening chord, paused to tune the strings slightly, and began again. halfway through the first page, she looked up at her son, confused and surprised.
"This isn't at all like your father ..." She peered closely at the script. "But it is certainly his writing," she said, and continued playing the notes.
Robie followed the music, deftly shifting the pages from one to the next. He almost missed one turning because he too became touched by the plaintive melody, the minor chordings, the whole tenor of the music. As the last of the gitar notes died away, mother and son looked at each other, Merelan perplexed and Robinton anxious. He wanted her to like it, too.
"I think I can say," she began slowly, "without fear of contradiction" – a little smile turned up the corners of her mouth – "that this is the most expressive music your father has ever written." She wrapped both arms around her gitar. "I think he misses us, Robie."
He nodded. The music had definitely been melancholic, where his father usually wrote more ... more positive, aggressive music, full of embellishments and variations, with wild cadenzas and other such flourishes. Rarely as simple, and elegant, a melody as this.
And it was melodic.
She picked up Master Gennell's note. "Master Gennell thinks so, too: "Thought you ought to see this, Merelan. A definite trend towards the lyric. And, in my opinion, quite likely the best thing he's ever written, though he'd be the last to admit that."' Merelan gave a little laugh. "He'll never admit it, but I think you're right, Master Gennell." She looked at her son. "What do you think, dear?
About the music?"
"Me?" Flustered, he didn't know what to say. "Are there any words to it?"
"Why don't you write some, dear? Then it would be a father-and-son collaboration. The first, perhaps, of many?"
"No," Robinton said thoughtfully, though he wished with all his heart right then that there could be a chance his father would use words he had written. "I think you'd better add the words, Mother."
"I think, my son, we'll both work on the proper lyrics." She ruffled his hair, her eyes sad despite the slight smile on her lips. "If we can find appropriate ones ..."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Robinton didn't know what his mother wrote in her reply to Master Gennell, but she did explain to her son that she had to serve out her contract with Benden Hold. She also wanted to give C'gan, the Weyrsinger, more training. He was musically sound enough, but needed to develop more confidence in his harpering. She would also insist that a good, voice-training harper be assigned to Benden Hold when apprentices walked the tables to journeyman status this summer. Benden deserved the best there was.
"For a variety of reasons," she said. "However, I think we'll bring Maizella back with us to the Hall. She'll profit more from working with various Masters now that she's learned the basics." She gave one of her enigmatic smiles. "She can sing with Halanna."
Robinton's opinion wasn't asked, but he would have much preferred a longer term at Benden Hold – and not just because of his friendship with Falloner, Hayon and the others. He didn't really want to go back to the Harper Hall, even if– when an excited Maizella started quizzing him about his home – he suddenly missed his friends there, even Lexey.
Maizella's parents were delighted to think that the MasterSinger even suggested the idea for their daughter. That was after Lady Hayara gave birth to another son.
"I'd have preferred another girl," she admitted to Merelan when
she and Robie dutifully visited her. "It's so much easier just to marry them off suitably than have to worry about all the rivalry among boys to succeed. I mean, I know that Raid will make a good Lord Holder but ..." And she never finished her sentence.
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 are 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 back to the Harper Hall with me," 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 offence had been.
"Yes, I can help C'gan now that I can read and copy music -almost as well 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've 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 goodbye 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 and visit. Promise."