Masterharper of Pern (36 page)

Living in Tillek Hold was hard on Robinton, for it was filled with memories: one moment he would think he saw Kasia, just turning that corridor; the next, he would hear the echo of her voice in the room. He was still numb with his grief and tried very hard to overcome it with work and just living.

He briefly roused when Minnarden and Melongel told him that they had proof now of Lord Faroguy’s death.

“We asked for confirmation of Faroguy’s well-being,” Melongel said. “Gave the inaccuracy of the last message as our excuse.”

“The one that came back was nearly as badly drummed as the first, and all the towers asked for several repeats to be sure they had heard it correctly before passing it along,” Minnarden said. Then he shook his head. “Lobirn never sent so badly formed a message. And Mallan was always good at drumming.”

“So we sent . . . a friend.” Melongel paused to nod significantly at Robinton. “A runner who keeps his eyes and ears open in the course of his duties. His report has disturbed us all.” By “all,” Robinton knew Melongel meant the Lord Holders.

“Then is Farevene Lord Holder?”

“No.” Melongel’s tone was sharp. “Farevene’s dead. In a duel.”

“With Fax? Then where’s Bargen?”

Melongel shrugged. “The runner heard nothing about him, and Lady Evelene is evidently grieving in her apartments. I hope that much is true.”

“Then will there be a Council to confirm the new Lord Holder?”

“A Council is convened at the request of the heir. The heir has not been heard from,” Melongel said, his face shadowed by anger and doubt.

“Then Fax is in control.” Robinton stated that as a fact. An anger and a fear took off a corner of his sorrow. He got to his feet to pace. “That man’s dangerous, Melongel. And he’s not going to be satisfied with just High Reaches.”

“Oh, come now, Rob,” Melongel said. “He has the Hold he coveted, yes. But that’s large enough to satisfy anyone’s ambitions.”

“Not Fax’s. And where are Lobirn and Mallan? And Bargen?”

“Yes.” Minnarden’s voice was anxious. “I worry about them.”

“We should,” Robinton said, still pacing, and smoothing the hair back from his face. He needed to have it trimmed again . . . Kasia had done it the last time . . . Quickly he seized on Fax’s aggression as distraction. “First he takes over the holding from an uncle. He refuses to allow harpers to teach what every holder has the right to know. Then he ‘acquires’ other holds, dueling the legitimate holders to death and ousting their families from their homes. You can’t let him continue unopposed, Melongel.”

“Lord Holders are autonomous within their property,” Melongel said wearily, as if trying to convince himself.

“Not if they have taken illegal possession.”

“That’s not specified,” Melongel said.

“It will seem,” Minnarden began carefully, “as if silence confirms him in the position of Lord Holder of High Reaches.”

“I know. I know. And you’ve sent my messages to the other Lord Holders,” Melongel said testily. “You know their response.”

“They’ll let Fax get away with this?” Robinton was indignant. Couldn’t they realize that they were taking an awful risk? “I’d guard my borders, brother.”

Melongel shot him a hard look, then relaxed and gave a little smile. “I have. So far all they’ve done is succor those fleeing Fax’s new management. He’s a hard man.”

“And will the Lord Holders act?” Robinton demanded.

Melongel twisted his head slightly to indicate uncertainty, lifting his hands in helplessness. “I cannot act on my own.”

Robinton sighed, knowing that that would be foolish. “Lord Grogellan would support you—especially since Groghe can support your word.”

“Grogellan would, but I doubt I could get much support from old Lord Ashmichel at Ruatha Hold. His son, Kale, though . . .” Melongel thoughtfully fingered his chin. “Telgar’s another matter, but his Hold borders High Reaches.”

“Lord Tarathel’s protective, and his foresters are very well trained,” Minnarden ventured.

“Lord Raid is too far away to feel anxiety,” Robinton said with a touch of asperity.

“I know that Master Gennell wants to know about Lobirn and Mallan,” Minnarden said, exchanging another glance with Melongel. “If he isn’t satisfied with the answers, he’ll withdraw all harpers from the Hold.”

Robinton snorted, still pacing. “That would suit Fax perfectly. No one to tell anyone in his Hold what their rights are.” Then he paused. “I know High Reaches Hold well. How to get in and how to get out.”

“Yes, and Fax knows your face,” Minnarden said.

“He can’t be everywhere,” Robinton replied.

“You are far too valuable to be sent on that sort of a task,” Minnarden said, his face set in denial.

“I’ve nothing to lose . . .” Robinton began.

“I have . . . brother,” Melongel said.

“You’ve all to lose if you cross Fax,” Minnarden said at the same time. “Master Gennell has men who are versed in quiet investigations. He has arranged all.” His expression said clearly that that was that.

After Robinton left that meeting, he realized how he had shut himself away from what was happening around him. He fretted about Master Lobirn, Lotricia, and Mallan. And, considering what the fleeing women had told Chochol, he worried about pretty Sitta, Triana, and Marcine. He was still worrying about their fates when he sought his bed and it was a long time before he could get his mind to stop and let him sleep.

He completed his summer tour of the upper holds, although sometimes the folk, in expressing their sympathy for his loss, caused him more pain than they knew. Chochol’s hold was enlarged by several tents, sheltering a contingent of armed men who patrolled the high ground.

“More coming in all the time,” Chochol told Robinton in a lugubrious voice, shaking his head at the terror that drove them from their holds. “Someone ought to do something about that man. They say he’s got six, seven spouses, all of ’em pregnant.” Then he chuckled and his droll face lit up. “Can’t seem to get himself a son.”

Robinton laughed, too. “We don’t need more of his ilk.”

So he was there when Lobirn and Lotricia managed to make good their escape, escorted by a small thin man whom Robinton thought he recognized from his Hall days. But he couldn’t be sure. The man had no distinguishing features, being quiet and capable but self-effacing.

“Don’t I recognize you from the Hall?” Robinton asked him much later when he found the man by himself, stuffing food into his carisak. By then, Robinton had heard Lobirn’s account of the last Turn and a half.

“You may, and again you may not, Robinton. Just forget you’ve ever seen me. That’s the safest thing. I’m going back, as you see.”

“Why? You’ve brought Lobirn and Lotricia safely out.”

“I’m going to try for Mallan next. I think I know where I might find him.”

“Why? What happened to him?”

Lobirn and Lotricia had had enough warning to manage to escape the Hold before Fax could arrest them. Mallan had not been so lucky.

“Fax doesn’t waste anything. Even a loathsome harper can work for his living, if you call that work. Or living.”

“What?” Robinton was insistent.

“The mines. The mines always need live bodies.”

Robinton felt a shiver of fear shoot up his spine. Mallan’s hands would be ruined, digging in rock.

“I’ll find him, never fear, Robinton,” the man said, pressing the harper’s hand firmly, and then he was off, down the hills on the High Reaches side, disappearing into the falling dusk.

Robinton and two men escorted the thin, weary Master and his spouse to the next hold, where he stayed to teach while they went forward as fast as they could travel comfortably. Robinton thought of Lotricia, a shadow of her once plump and generous self, and the plates of food she had brought him and Mallan, and hated Fax more than ever—if that was possible.

Returning to Tillek Hold was almost more than he could bear. He hadn’t minded the long journeys between holds, the teaching, even the focus of his thoughts—Kasia’s beautiful sea-green eyes, her laugh, her body, the peace she had given him. But seeing the Hold again in the bright afternoon light, remembering with what hopes he had come back the previous Turn, he almost turned his runner aside.

When he came to give Melongel his formal report, the Lord Holder put it to one side.

“I saw your face when you came back . . . brother,” he said, “and it decided me. Just being here in Tillek is making it worse, not helping. I’m releasing you from our contract. Master Gennell agrees that you should return to the Harper Hall where you won’t always be reminded . . . of Kasia.”

Numbed by the suddenness of that decision and yet grateful that it had been made for him, Robinton nodded. Melongel rose. So did Robinton.

“There is always room for . . . our brother . . . here at Tillek Hold, any time you care to claim it,” the Lord Holder said formally and held out his hand. “I think Master Gennell wants you to bring that good Ruathan runner back with you.” He gave a little smile. “Young Groghe’s to go home, too. You can keep each other company. He’ll make a good Lord Holder when he inherits.”

“He’ll be wary of Fax, too.”

Melongel’s eyebrows rose and his eyes caught Robinton’s. “Yes, he will and that’s all to the good.”

Two mornings later, having allowed his runner a good rest, Robinton rode south and then east with Groghe, retracing their original route and spending two days with Sucho, Tortole, and their family. He had Saday’s bowl with him and showed her how much he treasured it.

The wall was up, and many of the capping slabs were athwart its expanse, rather than on one side or the other. To Robinton that meant that at least the two holders had resolved their differences. A small satisfaction to take back with him.

CHAPTER XV

I
T WAS EASIER
to be in the Harper Hall again, surrounded by the hopes of the new young apprentices, immersed in his studies for his Mastery, which was what Master Gennell suggested he apply himself to for the rest of the summer.

But it was still a shock when Robinton heard the unmistakable music of his Sonata pouring out the open windows of the rehearsal hall.

How dared they? How had they got the music? He had kept his copy, but he had never . . . Then he remembered that he had given his mother a copy when she’d come for their Espousal. But surely she wouldn’t . . .

He tore out of his room, pounding down the stairs to the rehearsal hall, trying with the noise of his boots to drown out the music he had so lovingly created for his Kasia. He flung open the door, startling the instrumentalists, his mother, and Petiron.

“How dare you play that?” And he advanced on his mother as if he would rip the harp from her lap.

“How dare
you
?” Petiron demanded, infuriated by the interruption.

“It’s
my
music. No one plays it without my permission.”

“Robie . . .” his mother began, rising to her feet and starting to come toward him. She stopped abruptly when he recoiled, holding his hands out in protest, as much against the sympathy and pity in her face as against any contact. He almost hated her. How could she have let Petiron see
his
music, the Sonata he had composed for Kasia, only for her? “I loved Kasia, too, Robinton. I’m playing it for
her.
Every time the Kasia Sonata is played, her memory will be invoked. She lives on in this beautiful music. She will be remembered with it. You must allow her that! You need to allow yourself that.”

He just looked at her, feeling the anger drain away under her stern gaze. The other players remained so motionless that he scarcely noted their presence.

Then his father cleared his throat. “The Sonata is the best music you’ve ever written,” Petiron said, without a trace of condescension in his voice.

Robinton turned slowly to look at the Mastercomposer.

“It is,” he said, and turning on his heel, he left the room.

He put wadding in his ears when he went back to his room so he wouldn’t have to hear the music. But some of it penetrated, and toward the end of the rehearsal, which was almost a straight run-through, given the quality of the musicians performing, he took the wadding out. Listening to the rondo, and the finale, he let the tears run unheeded down his face.

Yes, it was the best piece of music he had written. And listening to it, somehow he found he could think of Kasia without the terrible sense of loss and the constriction around his heart. As the final chords died away, he sighed and went back to his studying.

He did not go to the performance. Instead he saddled his Ruathan runner and took a long ride, camping out overnight. But his dreams were laden with memories of Kasia and he woke sweating, to lie until dawn, still remembering what he had loved about her: her laugh, the crinkling of her eyes, the lilt in her voice, the way she would swing her hips, deliberately enticing him.

Winter was just settling over Fort Hold with an early snow-shower when Master Gennell came looking for him.

“Ah, Rob,” he said, coming toward him. Placing a fatherly arm across Robinton’s shoulders, he guided the younger harper into his office. “We’ve an emergency. Recall Karenchok, thin, dark-skinned journeyman, in the same group as Shonagar?”

“Oh, yes, I do.”

“Well, he’s broken his leg badly and will be unable to complete his rounds. Would you be willing to take over for him down in South Boll? Until he’s able to travel again?”

Robinton was delighted to do so and hastily organized his packs for a noontime departure. He paused only long enough to tell his mother where he was going and why. She listened, nodding her head and giving him an encouraging little smile. As she walked him to the door, she reached up to caress his cheek.

“The Sonata received a tremendous ovation, Rob,” she said softly.

He nodded, took her hand, kissed it, and left.

Karenchok’s home base was a cluster of seaside holds on the eastern shore of South Boll. It was hot and steamy when Robinton arrived, and the Seaholder greeted him enthusiastically.

“We’ve all been worried about him, Journeyman. He’s very popular here, and so we’ve kept someone with him, to help.”

“You’re very kind, Holder Matsen. Master Gennell asked me to thank you for your care.”

“We’ve a very good healer, local woman, but trained properly in the Hall. She’s been overseeing his care, but she’s busy, too.”

The holder was a short man, stockily built in the barrel, with thin legs that didn’t look strong enough to hold up the weight he carried. But he moved quickly as he led the way to the cot set back from the little harbor. There was a long chair out in front, made by attaching a flat-topped stool to a padded chair. Vines had been trained over a lattice to shield the front from the morning sun.

“Ho, Karenchok, brought you a guest,” Matsen bellowed, giving advance warning.

A woman appeared in the door, giving the loose long skirt she wore a final twitch. Her smile was guileless as she greeted harper and holder.

“Ah. Laela, that’s where you got to,” Matsen said in a slightly strained voice.

Laela’s smile turned on Robinton, and her eyes widened slightly. Then her manner became subtly seductive and her smile warmer.

“This is Journeyman Harper Robinton,” Matsen said stiffly. “Laela helps Healer Saretta with hold-bound patients.”

“I do my part,” she said in a sultry voice, and Robinton felt his lips twitching. He could not deny her sensuality—or that it was affecting him. It was the first time in the nearly nine months since Kasia’s death that he had felt this way. He didn’t know if this was a good thing or not, but there was no missing the invitation in Laela’s voice and eyes as she slid past him. “Karenchok is in good spirits,” she said, her laughter trailing her departure.

In spite of himself, Robinton turned to see where she went.

“Karenchok is here,” Matsen said, prompting his attention.

“Sorry.”

Matsen cleared his throat and led the way into the cot.

Karenchok was sitting by the table, his splinted leg straight out in front of him and a pair of wooden crutches handily slanted against another chair. Robinton did recognize him: one of Shonagar’s wrestling partners. Seeing Robinton, Karenchok waved a friendly hand.

“I remember you, Robinton,” he said in greeting. “Very good of Gennell to send me help so quickly. Come, sit. Matsen, can you find the wineskin for me?”

Matsen did, and a curious peek at the label on the skin told Robinton that this was a Tillek red, which was likely to be harsh. Well, it was wine and would go down as well as the best.

By late evening he had learned all about Karenchok’s accident and admired the man for the grit it must have taken to crawl, with a leg broken in three places, to a path where someone would find him. He’d been riding back to his cot when his runner—“one of the stupidest ever bred”—had been frightened by a tunnel snake and thrown him down into the gully. Once over its scare, the runner had been in no hurry to return to its home, so it had been late night before a search party went out to find him. When Robinton remarked on his fortitude, Karenchok shrugged.

“Well, the misbegotten runner got me into the ditch; it was up to me to get out.”

The phrases caught Robinton’s attention: “Got into, get out!” Notes began once more to spin in his head.

He didn’t get the rest of the tune until much later, but it was a start, and he was grateful to be able to think music again. Although he had spent some time with his mother’s family on the west coast, this part of eastern South Boll was quite different, with land sloping down into fine beaches and piers thrust far out to where the water was deep enough to accommodate the fishing boats. He even forced himself to go out to sea in Matsen’s sloop, though it was five times the size of the sloop he and Kasia had sailed. But he made another step forward out of grief by doing so.

Tactful questioning of Karenchok elicited the information that Laela was her own person, beholding to none. She gave her favors where she would, and Karenchok was grateful for her generosity. So was Robinton, although he winced when she boldly claimed that she would lift the sadness from his eyes. It annoyed her that she couldn’t. Though she tried often enough during his winter stay at the Seahold.

Just after Turn’s End at the Seahold, a dragon was spotted in the skies. The children Robinton was teaching at the moment could not contain their excitement. It wasn’t often that dragons came this far south. As Robinton shielded his eyes from the brightness of the morning sun on the water, he tentatively spoke the name.

Simanith? Is that you?

It is,
and there was such a note of joyfulness in the dragon’s voice—so like F’lon’s—that Robinton grinned.

What is it? What brings you so far away from Benden?
Robinton asked.

You. We’ve been to the Hall. They told us you were here.

F’lon was half-off Simanith’s neck before the big bronze had touched the sand of the beach.

“I’m a father, Rob, I’m a father!” F’lon shouted, waving one arm and charging up the strand to thump the harper soundly on the back. He had a wineskin thrown over the other shoulder. “A son! Larna gave me a son!”

“Larna? So you
did
get her!” Robinton had to dismiss the pang in his heart Kasia had been alive when he’d first learned about F’lon’s interest in the grown-up Larna, who had been such a plaguey nuisance to Falloner, the boy.

“Dismiss your class, Rob,” F’lon ordered. “Off you go, children. Class again tomorrow.”

Robinton had to laugh at the dragonrider’s high-handed way, but F’lon’s exultation brought smiles to the fishermen mending nets on the strand. Robinton hurriedly introduced F’lon to Matsen and the others, and then led his old friend to the cot he shared with Karenchok.

“A fine strong lad, just like his sire,” F’lon boasted, splashing wine into the cups Karenchok hastily set out.

“Don’t waste this,” Robinton said, having had a taste of the white wine that was being so liberally poured. “It’s Benden, isn’t it?”

“What else would I provide to toast the health of my first son?” F’lon demanded and quaffed his glass dry.

It was a merry time, though all too short, because F’lon was anxious to return to Benden and his child.

“I gather Larna did forgive you for pushing her into the midden, then?” Robinton remarked after listening to F’lon’s ravings.

The dragonrider gave him a startled look. “I never pushed her into the midden. That was Rangul. R’gul, I should say. That isn’t where he’d’ve liked to push her, but I”—and he slapped his chest proudly—“got her as weyrmate, not R’gul.”

“I’m sure she’ll be happier with you,” Robinton said, remembering what a stuffy child Rangul had been.

“Of course she will,” F’lon replied. Finishing his third, or maybe fourth, glass of wine, he decided he had best return to the Weyr, Larna, and his son. “I’ve named him Fallarnon.”

“A fine choice for a dragonrider-to-be.”

“Bronze, of course,” F’lon added as he waved a cheerful good-bye to Karenchok.

“He came all the way from Benden Weyr to tell you that?” Karenchok asked, hobbling to the doorway to watch the dragonrider depart.

“We’re old friends.”

“
Good
friends.” Karenchok lifted his wineglass appreciatively. “You don’t get good Benden often in South Boll.”

Nine days later a runner brought Robinton a short message from F’lon: Larna had died two days after Fallarnon’s birth. Robinton sent back a message by the same messenger, expressing his condolences. In his heart, though, Robinton envied F’lon, who had a son to remember his love by.

When Karenchok was finally walking soundly and able to ride again, Robinton reluctantly bequeathed him the Ruathan runner—a much sounder and smarter animal than the weedy elderly runt that had thrown him. He rode Karenchok’s back to the Hall, having no other, and it was indeed the most uncomfortable of riding beasts.

The first thing he did when he got back to the Harper Hall was to tell the beastholder to get rid of this bag of bones and find him a new riding animal. His second action was to find his mother. He didn’t like what he saw and taxed her with questions about her health.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, love, really. Just a little tired. It’s been a busy winter, you know.”

Robinton was not so easily put off and cornered the Masterhealer the next morning.

“She does seem fine, Rob,” Ginia replied slowly, “but I know, as you do, that she’s not. She’s losing weight, yet I see her eating well at table. I’ve my eye on her, never fear. And Betrice.”

“Betrice?” Robinton realized that he hadn’t seen the MasterHarper’s spouse, who was usually busy about the Hall someplace. “What’s wrong with Betrice?” Was his whole world crumbling about him? Were all the people he loved and admired suddenly showing their mortality?

Ginia laid a hand on his arm, her expressive eyes sad. “There is so much we don’t know and can’t help.” She paused and then sighed. “Sometimes people just wear out. But I promise you I’m watching your mother carefully.”

“And Betrice?”

“And Betrice,” Ginia said with a nod.

At dinner that evening, Robinton sat next to Betrice, noting the slight wobble in her hand as she ate, and trying not to see it. So he regaled her with the funniest incidents he could remember and her laughter was as ready as ever. Once their eyes met and locked and she gave him a funny little smile and patted his hand.

“Don’t
worry
, Rob,” she said in a low voice, turning her head away from her spouse, who was involved in a lengthy explanation of some legal point with a journeyman whom Robinton remembered as another of Shonagar’s voice students.

“Just you take good care of yourself, too, Betrice,” Robinton said with as much love as he could put in his low tone.