"You haven't been to the plains yet, have you? Good experience, Rob, good experience. Again it's a short contract." Gennell passed Robinton a piece of hide. "These are the holds you do not go to."
"Do not ...?" Robinton was surprised and scanned the nine names listed.
"Yes," the MasterHarper said. "I'm sorry to say, harpers are not always regarded with the respect they formerly were, as I think you've discovered a time or two."
Robinton grimaced. "But why? We're only trying to help. We don't tell people lies ..."
Gennell cocked his head, a sad smile turning down the corner of his expressive mouth. "There are many who feel that the Duty Song is lies."
"Honouring the dragonriders?"
Gennell nodded. "That's one so-called lie. You have realized that, even in the larger holds, some feel that the Weyr and its riders are relics of a past danger we no longer need to consider."
"But, Master Gennell ..."
The MasterHarper held up his hand and gave a brief smile. "You have had a long association with the one remaining Weyr. Many nowadays have never even seen a dragon in the sky, much less met a dragonrider. Sometimes Search is misinterpreted, too, although there have been few enough of them lately." He sighed and gestured to the list. "Just save yourself grief and avoid those holds. We can't force people to learn when they've no wish to listen."
As Robinton was on his way out of the courtyard on the new young Ruathan runner-beast he had used his savings to purchase, a runner came trotting in: a man who was very familiar to him.
"Ah, you, wait a minute ..." And Robinton reined his mount about. The runner had dutifully halted and turned to face him. "I thought it was you."
The man smiled briefly. "I've fooled many."
"Ah, but I'm a harper and as trained to notice details as you are.
Did you find Mallan?" he asked.
Hope died as the man's face drained of any expression. He shook his head. "He died in the mines. That much I discovered." Then his expression altered to a fierce hatred. "I'll get Fax yet."
"If you don't, I will." And with that promise, Robinton rode out of the courtyard.
Though he was welcomed wherever he went on the Keroon Plains, he occasionally felt the resistance to some of the traditional Teaching Ballads and did his best to discuss the concepts with the adults in the hold, reminding them of the Charter's provisions.
Often his evenings were spent in copying out that document so that it would be available to counteract the question of "lying'. He did feel that he got his message across to the doubters.
Several times he was warned by his host that "yon feller's not so friendly' and, if asked to play in the evening, Robinton carefully restricted his selections to unremarkable love songs or dance tunes. Even so, he sometimes had to ignore sullen looks and manners.
One evening, at Red Cliff Hold, he was astonished when the runner he had spoken to as he left Harper Hall arrived, bearing a CraftHall reply for the holder. Robinton waited for a chance to speak to him and, by asking him to take a letter directed to his mother at the Harper Hall, managed a few private words with him.
"Didn't expect to see you here," Robinton said, flourishing the letter as if that was what was under discussion.
"How do you think Master Gennell knows where not to send harpers?" the runner said. "Station Masters are the best ones to ask, by the way, should you be in doubt." Taking the letter from Robinton, he altered his tone and spoke more loudly. "Wal, now, Harper, I'll be sure to take good care a' this "un fer ye."
When Robinton had finished his contract in Keroon, Master Gennell sent him on to Nerat – to a settlement which was, happily, devoted to the old ways. Robinton was able to relax his vigilance and do a proper job of instructing the young in their traditional songs and ballads. He was relieved to see that dragonriders often visited this area, collecting fresh fish for the Weyr. He always sent back greetings to F'lon and tried to speak to the dragons. They would look at him, surprised, but they never responded.
He returned in the spring to the Harper Hall. One look at his mother had him in a panic. She was nothing but skin and bones, all the beauty leached out of her face, with dry hair and a hard cough constantly racking her. She leaned on Petiron to walk even the shortest distance.
"You're not all right, Mother, not at all," Robinton said, glaring at Petiron who nodded, his expression doleful and worried.
"That's why you're home, Rob," Ginia said when he stormed into the Healer Hall in search of her.
He stood stock-still. "Why I'm home?" He could not seem to comprehend what her words implied.
She pressed his arm, her face full of regret and pity. "Yes, I know she's wanted you here. She doesn't have much time left."
"But ..." Robinton clenched his fists at his sides. "I've only just lost Kasia!"
"I know, Rob dear, I know." He could see the tears in her eyes.
"She's my dearest friend. All I can do is be sure she feels no pain."
He nodded acceptance of that, feeling the coldness of grief yet to come spreading throughout his body.
"You must help her. And Petiron."
"Her, yes. Petiron ..."
"He has lived for her, Robinton."
And I never had the chance to live for my Kasia, Robinton thought bitterly.
If he had thought the days after his spouse's death were bad, those he endured while his mother slowly lost all strength, and finally the breath in her body, were worse. Without discussing it, either he or Petiron was with her, Robinton playing her songs, even the humorous setting of "Got into, get out of," which made her smile and even chuckle. Petiron played for her too: music seemed to soothe her.
It was Ginia who roused Robinton from an uneasy sleep before dawn three days later. "The end is near."
He threw on pants and shirt and followed her, filled with dread.
The end was unexpectedly peaceful. He held one of Merelan's hands and Petiron the other, and she managed a feeble smile and a press of her gaunt fingers. Then she sighed, as Kasia had done, and was still. Neither man could move. Neither wished to relinquish the lifeless hand he held.
It was Ginia who gently unwrapped their fingers and laid first one hand, then the other across her frail chest.
Petiron broke first, sobbing bitterly. "How could you leave me, Merelan? How could you leave me?"
Robinton looked up at the man who was his father and thought that Petiron was taking Merelan's death as a personal affront. But Petiron had been possessive of her all her life. Why should he change at her death? And yet, Robinton felt immense pity for the man.
"Father ..." he said, rising slowly to his feet.
Petiron blinked and looked at his son as if he shouldn't be there.
"You must leave. She was all I ever had. I must be alone with her in my grief."
"I grieve, too. She was my mother."
"How can you possibly know my pain?" The older man clutched at his chest, fingers digging into fabric and flesh.
Robinton almost laughed. He heard an inarticulate sound come from Ginia and held up his hand to answer for himself. "How could I possibly know, Petiron? How can you say that to me? I know far too well how you must feel right now."
Petiron's eyes widened and he stared at his son, remembering. Then his sobbing renewed, his spirit so devastated by Merelan's death that Robinton, moving without thought, came round the bed and took his father in his arms to comfort him.
Petiron never wrote another note of music. Merelan had been his inspiration. Her death altered him as she could have wished he had altered during her lifetime. He and Robinton never became friends, but Petiron grew easier in his son's company. Master Gennell remarked on how much grief had mellowed the man. The apprentices and journeymen studying composition might not have agreed, for he was as difficult as ever to satisfy, but none of them could fault the depth and knowledge he was able to drill into their heads.