"I think a summer down in South Boll with her family, with absolutely no performances and responsibilities, will see her right. It has been a very hard winter."
She patted Robinton's hand again. "You're a good son, Rob, and your concern does you credit. Now, I'll keep you informed, but you
help me in getting her to take a good long rest, will you?"
"Have you spoken to Master Gennell?"
"Repeatedly," Ginia said, pursing her full mouth with indignation.
"But we all know that the Spring Equinox is important in our calendar and had better go off with no problems ..." She rose, a signal that their interview was at an end, and smiled at him. "You should go with her and be sure she eats well and rests every day."
"I'll try." And he'd take F'lon up on his offer to fly MasterSinger Merelan anywhere.
As it happened, he didn't go with his mother: his father did.
Merelan collapsed after singing the exacting solo at the end of the Equinox Ceremony, and Petiron could no longer ignore the fact that his spouse was ill.
Robinton did send the drum message, requesting F'lon's assistance, and he did help his mother on to Simanith's back. He had to step away as his father mounted behind her. The fact that his father looked distinctly nervous, anxious and worried did not at all alleviate his own fears for her. Just this once – he sent his thoughts at his father -just this once, think of her first!
An hour later, F'lon returned and, over a cool juice drink and more of Lorra's light pastries, gave details of how he had installed Merelan in the cliffside dwelling with its splendid view of the sea, and how Petiron had hovered like an old wherry, fussing until F'lon was sure he'd drive Merelan insane with his attentions. Her youngest sister had appealed to her spouse to take the man away and let Merelan rest, and promised to see that Merelan did do so.
"She was upset when she saw your mother. I remember her being slight at Benden but not ... not ... frail," F'lon said, glancing at Lorra, who nodded.
"I spoke to Ginia, and she believes that a full summer off will restore my mother's health." Even as Rob spoke, he caught Lorra
and F'lon exchanging glances. "Now, look, if there's something I should know, tell me. She's my mother! I have a right to know."
Lorra turned to him, making a sudden decision. "Ginia doesn't know, so what can she tell you? But she's hoping the rest will help.
Merelan has never been very strong ..."
"You mean, after giving birth to a big lug like me?" Robinton demanded. He had overheard his father complaining that having a child had seriously damaged her.
"You weren't that big at birth, for all of you now," Lorra said in her droll fashion, "so don't cover yourself with midden dung in guilty reparation. You have never been at fault." She cleared her throat, realizing that her emphasis implied that she knew who was.
"Merelan's always lived on nerve. It's the energy she uses to sing and perform at the level she does that drains her so. But there comes a time in a woman's life when she isn't as resilient as she was in her twenties."
"Mother would die if she couldn't sing ..."
"It's unlikely to come to that," Lorra said sharply. "But she certainly will have to cut back on these exhausting performances.
It isn't as if Maizella's not capable; or he can write for Halanna, who'd be only too happy to take on Merelan's First Singer duties." Her eyes flashed, and Robinton couldn't resist chuckling at her comment about Halanna. "Your father needs a scare like this," she went on. "He takes Merelan too much for granted."
"She's really the only one capable of singing some of his scores," Robinton said, oddly on the defensive.
"Well, he can just write simpler. Anyway, your songs are the ones anyone can sing and enjoy, Rob." When he started to demur, she flicked her fingers at him. "Oh, I know, I know, but it's the truth, isn't it, dragonrider?"
F'lon grinned, nodding vehemently. Then he rose, brushing pastry flakes from his lips and off his undershirt.
"Any time you want to visit her, give me a roll," he said, beginning to close the fastening on his jacket. "I've got to hunt Simanith on the way back."
When Merelan returned to the Harper Hall in the autumn, she was sun-browned and appeared much restored. Petiron continued to be solicitous and, as Robinton heard Master Bosler remark to a journeyman, he seemed to have mellowed. Well he might have mellowed towards others, Robinton realized later, but never towards him. In fact, if anything, Petiron ignored his son more thoroughly than even There were not even any of the usual pithy complaints levelled at the baritone section. But then, because Robinton was more or less the leader of that section, Petiron had no real cause for complaint. Everyone did better than their best at all times, as a sort of aid to keep him from his father's shafts of criticism. Petiron did smile more frequently, if mainly at the sopranos and altos, and he did praise the trebles more often.
Merelan still coached his soloists, but she was given fewer voices to train.
Master Gennell called Robinton in one morning two seven-days after his parents' return. Sensitive to appearances now, Robinton thought the MasterHarper looked tired, as well as older.
"You've turned fifteen now, haven't you, Rob?" Gennell began.
Robinton nodded. "So how are we going to keep you busy this term?"
The question shook Robinton and he shifted nervously in the chair "I'm not sure what you mean, sir' He paused, cleared his throat, and then blurted out, "Theory and composition are usually third term ..."
"Ah, my lad, you've mastered those long since. I saw the orchestral piece you did for Washell, and none of us can fault it." Gennell smiled reassuringly. Then his expression altered. "But I cannot assign you to your father's class. And I must find suitable studies for you."
Robinton closed his eyes in relief at the knowledge that he would not have to endure a class with his father.
"I'll be plain, Rob, I've never understood your father's antipathy towards you, yet there's never been a word of complaint from you." "He's my father, Master Gennell ..."
"Well, we won't go into that any further since, in effect, the entire Hall has fostered you – and your talent." When Robinton ducked his head with embarrassment, Master Gennell prodded his knee. "Modesty is all very well and good, Robinton, but don't let it get in your way."
Robinton didn't know what to do and looked around the comfortable office for inspiration. His glance caught the map with its little coloured pegs signifying the position of journeymen and Masters across the continent. There were many places without pegs, which meant they were waiting to be assigned a harper.
"Sir, I like teaching," he said, pointing to the map, "and I've had good results with those I've tutored."
"Not that all those unassigned holdings would accept a harper if I had one to assign them," Gennell said drolly. And when Robinton looked apprehensive, he added with a sigh, "There are some holds who profess not to require the services we provide."
"I find that hard to believe," Robinton said, appalled. Not want to learn how to read, and write, and reckon? How could people get along in life without such basic skills?
"Believe it, Rob," Gennell said, shifting in his chair "At least, since there are so many still who do, we're not in any danger of going empty the way the Weyrs did." He cleared his throat, and moved records about on his desk. "You may discover that not everyone respects harpers as we would like them to. However, to a happier topic, would you take on a purely teaching assignment?"
Robinton shifted again, this time with excitement. He knew his room-mates thought him daft to enjoy teaching – lighting the dim-wits, they called it. But Robinton never saw the task as a chore. He looked for the end result, the bright smile of understanding on a student's face when knowledge suddenly seeped in.