We listen, too, you know, harper boy, a voice said in his head, almost throwing him off his harmony.
That explained much to Robinton, but he didn't have time then to think it all through: he had to keep singing so as not to disappoint.
There were calls for old favourites from the gathering, and it wasn't until Robinton's voice cracked with fatigue that Merelan called a reluctant halt to the evening's entertainment.
'We've imposed outrageously on you, Merelan and young Robinton,' S'loner said, rising to his feet and scissoring his hands at the requests still being shouted from the tables. 'It's late, even for a Weyr gathering, and you've been more than generous with your time and repertoire.'
'The Harper Hall's tithe to the Weyr,' she replied, dipping her knees in her elegant bow and spreading her left hand to include the entire audience. 'It is a pleasure to sing for you.'
'Our dragons have enjoyed it almost as much as we have,' the Weyrleader said, and looked from her to Robinton, winking.
Suddenly the elation which had sustained him through a very long performance seemed to drain out of Robinton, and he wavered on his feet.
'Falloner, take young Robinton to bed,' S'loner said arbitrarily, pointing towards the dormitory area.
'I'm near as tired as he is,' Falloner said and, throwing an arm about his friend's shoulders, he led him off.
'As for you, my dear Merelan, Carola will escort you to our guest weyr, one that should be occupied by a queen dragon. Well, soon enough, soon enough ...' S'loner was saying as the two boys left for the Lower Cavern.
The next day, S'loner himself took them back to Benden Hold, Robinton and his mother quite conscious of the honour even if they were both still fatigued by their exertions. Even Falloner was not his usual self, silent in his father's presence.
'I shall sleep all week,' Merelan said as they waved farewell to the bronze rider and Chendith. 'But what a splendid evening, Robie.
That was a glorious performance. I know I've never sung so well before, and you were fabulous. I only hope that you keep that treble a while longer.' She sighed and ruffled his hair as they climbed the steps into the Hold. 'And have a mature voice too, of course.'
Lady Hayara arrived, waddling awkwardly since she was nearly at the end of this pregnancy. 'I was sure they would keep you overnight when you didn't arrive at a decent hour,' she said as she accompanied them into the Hold and towards the main stairs. 'You look exhausted ... did it go well? You have a glow about you, you know. Do you need anything? I won't go up the stairs with you today, I think.' She gave a breathy sigh and fanned her face with her hand. 'I had hoped to be delivered on time this time ...'
Commiserating with the Lady and assuring her that they were all right, Merelan led her son up to their quarters, her shoulders sagging only when they were out of Hayara's sight.
'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
