"They have been estranged so long," Hayara said through her tears, "and it was only after that song of yours, Rob, that they started speaking to each other. I thought it was such a good sign, but I couldn't hear what they were saying because--" She cut off what negative comment she had been about to make, though her disgust with the Weyrwoman was plain.
F'lon, R'gul and S'lel were trying to sober up Jora with strong klah, but she was boneless and kept sliding down the chair and having to be propped up to get any of the restorative liquid down her throat.
Healer Tinamon, assisting, put forward a tentative theory.
"S'loner may have looked strong and healthy, but he was having chest pains far too frequently," he said. "I'd given him the usual remedy, although I wanted him to call in a MasterHealer or at least visit the Healer Hall. He said he would after Impression."
That did not explain why Maidir had accompanied S'loner on what was his last flight, although Lady Hayara said that her spouse was very tired and might have requested either a place to rest here at the Weyr or the courtesy of a return to Benden Hold.
"Oh, please will someone take me back to the Hold immediately?" Lady Hayara asked piteously. "Maidir may be there and have some explanation for us."
R'gul promptly volunteered, and Manora, the quiet weyr girl who had spoken to C'gan earlier, had the good sense to bring Lady Hayara's riding jacket. Together they escorted her into the darkness of the Bowl where Nemorth, still keening, waited.
C'rob, M'ridin and C'vrel, the oldest of the wingleaders, were holding a conference, which F'lon joined as if he had the right.
Plainly the other riders did not think so.
"The next mating flight will decide that, F'lon, so let's not jump to any premature assumptions. And with Jora the way she is, that's likely to take a few Turns," M'ridin said in a low but angry voice.
"I suggest we clear the Weyr of all visitors," C'rob said. "This Impression is over."
"And marred by a death, which is not good, not good at all," C'vrel added, shaking his head.
"Keeping the dragons busy is the best thing for them," M'ridin went on. "Only be bloody sure to remind riders to give the clearest coordinates they ever had in their minds."
"Wouldn't it be better to let people stay ..." C'vrel suggested.
"No, the Weyr must mourn its own," C'rob said. I'll ask only the older riders to convey passengers." He ignored F'lon and went to choose those whom he considered responsible enough.
S'lel and another stalwart weyr man were now carrying Jora up the steps to her quarters, having failed to rouse her. On the ledge, Nemorth was still keening loudly for her mate, swaying her head and neck back and forth, her eyes whirling with the muddy purples shot with orangey yellows of extreme distress. It was then that Robinton realized the sides of the Weyr were punctuated by many pairs of whirling, distressed dragon eyes, like coloured glow-baskets of unusual size. He remembered that long after other details of the terrible evening faded: the whirling eyes and the sad, bone-shaking keening from several hundred dragon throats echoing back and forth across the Bowl, all night long.
A drum message brought the information that Lady Hayara had not found Maidir at Benden Hold. The fatal accident had taken all three in that brief instant between. Robinton asked C'gan to convey himself and Raid, who was probably now the Lord Holder of Benden, back to the Hold. His stepmother would need his support and what comfort could be given her. Robinton was packing up his music and instrument when F'lon came up to him.
"You'll want to go back," the young bronze rider said in a weary voice.
"I've asked C'gan ..."
"Why him?" F'lon was angry.
"You've just lost your father, man," Robinton said, gripping the rider tightly on the arm. "I could scarcely impose on you ..."
F'lon brushed hair back from his forehead in an irritable gesture and swung this way and that. "It's not as if we were close -weyrbred not taking that much store in relationships – and shards!
But he's messed things up dying like this!"
Whether or not that outburst was F'lon's way of expressing his grief, Robinton was never sure, but the dragonrider was certainly furious. Robinton knew that the young bronze rider had been proud of being the Weyrleader's son. He'd always affected an attitude of disdain for the relationship, but at least he had had one with his father. Robinton envied him that.
"The others are too nervous as it is," F'lon went on savagely, looking every way but at the harper. He kicked at the dirt of the Bowl and kept shaking his head. "I told him he was chancing it with those chest pains. Listen to his son? Oh, no, he knew it all."
In the glowbaskets, Robinton now noticed the wet streaks on F'lon's cheeks and he wished he could find something to say that would ease his loss. There was nothing.
"Oh, go on, Rob. You're safer with C'gan anyway. At least right now."
"Keep me posted how things are here, will you, F'lon? I know you can drum."
He gripped the bronze rider's arm in what he hoped expressed his sympathy and regret and then, picking up his carisaks, made his way out of the brightly lit area to the blackness of the Bowl – the silhouetted shape of C'gan's blue Tagath, and the glimmering shine of sad dragon eyes, dotting the wall of the Weyr.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
His first act on returning to Benden was to search for Maizella and find out how Lady Hayara was doing. The girl looked almost as haggard as her stepmother had.
"She's had a healer's draught and will sleep her grief out," she said. "And I'm about to take one myself. I still can't believe what's happened. Couldn't there still be a chance they'll emerge from between?"
Robinton shook his head. "The dragons would know. And they know that Chendith is no more. I'm so sorry, Maizelie."
"I know you are, Rob," she said, touching his arm. "And Raid's taking charge," she added with a touch of bitterness. "Could he not have waited until morning? Oh, he wants you on the Drum Tower..."
That was Robinton's second act, sending out the sad report of the double tragedy. Raid had already composed the message and thrust it abruptly at Robinton the moment the harper reached the top of the Tower. As he got his wind back, Robinton read it.
Different temperaments responded to tragedy in different ways, he reflected. He did not, as Maizella evidently did, think that Raid was heartless and unaffected. Rather he was proceeding with what he had been trained to do: take over the Hold and do whatever that new responsibility required of him.
The Lord Holders of Fort, South Boll, Tillek and High Reaches, where it was only early evening, immediately drummed requests for dragons. There were messages later that long night from Telgar, Ista, Igen and Nerat as men were roused with the tragic news.
By morning, all the major Holds knew and had responded. And by morning, a stream of Benden holders started arriving, some with wine or food. The women went either to the kitchens to help or upstairs to the family, to express their grief. The harpers from the outlying holds arrived to relieve Robinton at the drums: his hands were swollen from constant use of the sticks and he could barely concentrate on incoming messages, much less reply confidently.
With the Tower manned, he collapsed for a few hours' needed sleep and was roused when F'lon, looking pale and exhausted, woke him with klah and slabs of bread.
"I brought Faroguy in, with two of his family," the bronze rider said. "They didn't know I was S'loner's son." He gave a snort as he collapsed on the foot of the bed, slumping against the wall and nursing the hot klah on his chest. "You learn a lot more that way."
"What more?" Robinton struggled to a sitting position. "Who came with Faroguy?" he asked, the mere fumes of the strong klah sparking his instincts.