Dragonsinger (dragon riders of pern)

by Anne McCaffrey

  “You’re ready?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Sir?”

  “Very well, young woman, at the beat,” and Domick sternly tapped out the time with a strong stamp.

  It had been fun, always, for Menolly to play with Petiron, particularly when he let her improvise around his melody. It had been a pleasure yesterday to see new music in Talmor’s lesson, but now, the stimulation of playing with three keen and competent musicians gave her such impulsion that she seemed to be an irrelevant medium for fingers that had to play what her eager eyes saw. She was lost completely in the thrall of the music, so that when the rushing finale ended, she suffered a shock as keen as pain.

  “Oh, that was marvelous. Could we play it again?”

  Talmor burst out laughing, Domick stared at her, and Sebell covered his eyes with his hands as he bowed his head over his harp.

  “I didn’t believe you, Talmor,” Domick said, shaking his head. “And I’d played with her myself. True, only basic things. I didn’t think she was up to any demanding standard.” Menolly inhaled sharply, worried that she had somehow erred, as she had with the girls the previous day.

  “And I know,” Domick went on in that tight, dry tone, “that you can’t ever have seen that piece of music before…”

  Menolly stared at the Master. “It was fascinating. The interweaving of melody from flute to harp and gitar. I’m sorry about this section,” and she flipped back the sheets. “I should have used your chords but my hand…”

  Domick stared at her until her voice trailed off. “Did Sebell warn you what would happen this morning?”

  “No, sir, only to say that I mustn’t fail to come today.”

  “Enough, Domick. The child’s worried sick that she’s done something wrong. Well, you haven’t, Menolly,” Talmor said, patting her hand encouragingly. “You see,” he went on, glaring in a good-natured fashion at Domick, “he just finished writing it. You’ve played the fingers off Sebell and me. Domick’s panting for breath. And you’ve managed to plow through one of Domick’s tortuous inventions with…well, I did hear one faulty chording besides the one you just pointed out, but, as you say, your hand…”

  Now Sebell lifted his head, and Menolly stared at him because his eyes were overflowing with tears. But at the same time, he was laughing! Convulsed with mirth he wagged an impotent finger at Domick, unable to speak.

  Domick batted irritably at Sebell’s hand and glared at both journeymen. “That’s enough. All right, so the joke’s on me, but you’ll have to admit that there was good precedent for my skepticism. Anyone can play solo…” He turned on the bewildered Menolly. “Did you play a great deal with Petiron? Or any of the other musicians at Half-Circle?”

  “There was only Petiron who could play properly. Fishing leaves a man’s hands too stiff for any fine music.” She flicked a glance at Sebell. “There were a few drummers and stickmen…”

  Her reply set Sebell laughing again. He hadn’t seemed the sort, Menolly thought, being so calm and quiet. To be sure he was laughing without roaring but…

  “Suppose you tell me exactly what you did do at Half-Circle Sea Hold, Menolly. Musically, that is. Master Robinton’s been too busy to confer with me at any length.”

  Domick’s words implied that he had the right to know whatever it was she might tell Master Robinton, and she saw Sebell nodding his head in permission. So she thought for a moment. Would it be proper, now, to tell the Harpers that she had taught the children after Petiron had died and before the new Harper had come? Yes, because Harper Elgion must have told Master Robinton, and he hadn’t chided her for stepping into a man’s duties. Further, Master Domick had taunted her with telling the truth once before. Rather than antagonize him for any reason, she had best be candid now. So she spoke of her situation at Half-Circle Sea Hold: how Petiron had singled her out when she was old enough to learn Teaching Ballads and Sagas. He had taught her to play gitar and harp, “to help with the teaching,” she assured her listeners, “and with the evening singing.” Domick nodded. And how Petiron had shown her all the music he had, “but he’d only three pieces of occasional music because he said there wasn’t need for more. Yanus, the Sea Holder, wanted music to sing to, not listen to.”

  “Naturally,” Domick replied, nodding again.

  And Petiron had taught her how to cut and hole reeds to make pipes, to stretch skin on drum frames, large and small, the principles involved in making a gitar or small harp, but there was no hardwood in the Sea Hold for another harp, and no real need for Menolly to have either harp or gitar. Two Turns ago, however, she’d had to take over the playing of the Teaching because Petiron’s hands had become crippled with the knuckle disease. And then, of course, and now Menolly felt the lump of grief rising in her throat, she’d done all the teaching when Petiron had died because Yanus realized that the young must be kept up in their Teaching Ballads and Songs since he knew his duty to the Weyr, and she was the only person in the Hold who could be spared from the fishing.

  “Of course,” Domick had said. “And when you cut your hand?”

  “Oh, the new Harper, Elgion, had arrived so I…wasn’t required to play anymore. And besides,” she held her hand up explanatorily, “it was thought I’d never be able to play again.”

  She wasn’t conscious of the silence at first, her head bent, her eyes on her hand, rubbing the scar with her right thumb, because the intensive playing had caused it to ache again.

  “When Petiron was here at the Hall, there was no finer musician, no better instructor,” Master Domick said quietly. “I had the good fortune to be his apprentice. You’ve no need ever to be ashamed of your playing…”

  “Or of your joy in music,” Sebell added, no laughter in his eyes now as he leaned toward her.

  Joy in music! His words were like a release. How could he have known so acutely!

  “Now that you’re at the Harper Hall, Menolly, what would you like best to do?” Master Domick asked her, his tone so casual, so neutral that Menolly couldn’t think what answer he expected of her.

  Joy in music. How could she express that? In writing the kind of songs Master Robinton needed? How would she know what he needed? And hadn’t Talmor said that Domick had composed the magnificent quartet they had just played? Why did Master Robinton need another composer if he already had Domick in the Hall?

  “You mean, play or sing, or teach?”

  Master Domick widened his eyes and regarded her with a half-smile. “If that’s what you wish?”

  “I’m here to learn, aren’t I?” She avoided his taunt.

  Domick acknowledged that that was true enough. “So I’ll learn the things I haven’t had the chance to learn before because Petiron told me there were a lot of things he couldn’t teach me. Like how to use my voice properly. That’s going to take a lot of hard work with Master Shonagar. He only lets me breathe and sing five-note scales…” Talmor grinned so broadly at her, his eyes dancing as if he knew so exactly her feelings that she took encouragement from him. “I’d really love…Then she hesitated because of what Domick might say and she dreaded his clever-edged tongue.

  “What do you really want, Menolly?” asked Sebell kindly.

  “You’re frightening her, Domick,” Talmor said at the same time.

  “Nonsense. Are you frightened of me, Menolly?” He sounded surprised. “It’s having to train idiots that sours me, Menolly,” said Master Domick, but his voice was suddenly gentler. “Now tell me what facet of music appeals to you most?”

  He caught her gaze and would not release her eyes, but his phrasing had given her the answer.

  “What appeals to me most? Why, playing like this, in a group.” She the words out in a rush, gesturing at the rack in front of her. “It’s so beautiful. It’s such a challenge, to hear the interweaving harmonies and the melody line changing from instrument to instrument. I felt as if I was…was flying on a dragon!”

  Domick looked sta
rtled and blinked, a slow pleased smile lighting his otherwise dour face.

  She means it, Domick,” Talmor said in the pause that followed.

  “Oh, I do. It’s the most exciting thing I’ve ever played. Only…”

  “Only what?” urged Talmor when she faltered.

  “I didn’t play it right. I should have studied the music longer before I started playing because I was so busy watching the notes and time changes that I didn’t, I couldn’t, follow the dynamic markings… I am sorry.”

  Domick brought his hand against his forehead in an exasperated smack. Sebell dissolved again into his quiet laughter. But Talmor just howled, slapping his knee and pointing at Domick.

  “In that case, Menolly, we will play it again,” Domick said, raising his voice to drown the amusement of the others. “And this time…” he frowned at Menolly, an expression which no longer distressed her because she knew that she had touched him, “watching those dynamic signs, which I put in for very good reason. Now, on the beat…”

  They did not play the music through. Domick stopped them, time and again, insisting on a retard here, a variation of the designated time here, a better balance of the instruments in another section. In some respects, this was as satisfying as playing for Menolly, since Domick’s comments gave her insights to the music as well as its composer. Sebell had been right about her studying with Domick. She had a lot to learn from a man who could write music like this, pure music.

  Then Talmor began to argue interpretation with Domick, an argument cut short by the eerie sound that began softly and increased in volume and intensity so that it was almost unbearable in the closed room. Abruptly her fire lizards appeared.

  “How did they get in here like that?” Talmor demanded, hunching his shoulders to protect his head as the study got overcrowded with nervous fire lizards.

  “They’re like dragons, you know,” Sebell said, equally wary of claw and wing.

  “Tell those creatures to settle down, Menolly,” commanded Domick.

  “The noise bothers them.”

  “That’s only the Threadfall alarm,” said Domick, but the men were putting down their instruments.

  Menolly called her fire lizards to order, and they settled on the shelves, their eyes wheeling with alarm.

  “Wait here, Menolly,” Domick said as he and the others made for the door. ‘We’ll be back. That is, I will…”

  “And I,” “I, too,” said the others, and then they all stamped out of the room.

  Menolly sat uneasily, aware that the Hall was preparing for Threadfall, as she had prepared for the menace all her conscious years. She heard racing feet in the corridors, for the door was half ajar. Then the clanging of shutters, the squeal of metal, many shouts and a gradual compression of air in the room. The sudden throb as the great ventilating fans of the Hall were set into motion for the duration of Threadfall. Once again, she found herself wishing to be back in the safety of her seaside cave. She had always hated being closed in at Half-Circle Sea Hold during Threadfall. There never seemed to be enough air to breathe during those fear-filled times. The cave, safe but with a reassuringly clear view of the sea, had been a perfect compromise between security and convention.

  Beauty chirped inquiringly and then sprang from the shelf to Menolly’s shoulder. She wasn’t nervous at being closed in, but she was very much aware of Thread’s imminence, her slim body taut, her eyes whirling.

  The clatter and clangs, the shouts and stampings ceased. Menolly heard the low murmur of men’s voices on the steps as Domick and the two journeymen returned.

  “Granted that your left hand won’t do octave stretches yet,” Domick said, addressing Menolly but more as if he were continuing a conversation begun with the two journeymen, “how much harp instruction did Petiron give you?”

  “He had one small floor harp, sir, but we’d such a desperate time getting new wire, so I sort of learned to…”

  “Improvise?” asked Sebell, extending his harp to her. She thanked him and politely proffered the gitar in its place, which he, with equally grave courtesy, accepted.

  Domick had been riffling through music on the shelves and brought over another score, worn and faded in spots but legible enough, he said, for the purpose.

  Menolly rubbed her fingertips experimentally. She’d lost most of the harp-string calluses, and her fingers would be sore but perhaps… She looked up at Domick and receiving permission, plucked an arpeggio. Sebell’s harp was a joy to use, the tone singing through the frame, held between her knees, like liquid sound. She had to shift her fingers awkwardly to make the octave run. Despite the fact that her scar made her wince more than once, she became so quickly involved in the music that the discomfort could be ignored. She was a bit startled when she reached the finale to realize that the others had been playing along with her.

  “In the slow section,” she asked, “is the major seventh chord accented throughout? The notation doesn’t say.”

  “Whether it is or not must wait for another day,” Domick said, firmly taking the harp from her and handing it back to Sebell. ‘You’ll live to play harp another time, Menolly. No more now.” He turned her left hand over so she was forced to notice that the scar had split and was bleeding slightly from the tear.

  “But…”

  “But…” Domick interrupted her more gently than he usually spoke, “it’s time to eat. Everyone has to eat sometime, Menolly.”

  They were all grinning at her and, emboldened by the rapport she’d had with them during their practice, she smiled back. Now she smelled the aroma of roasted meat and spices and was mildly astonished to feel her stomach churning with hunger. To be sure, she hadn’t eaten much at the cot, with everyone glaring at her so.

  Some of her elation with the morning’s satisfying work was dampened by the realization that she’d have to sit with the girls. But that was a small blemish on the pleasure of the hours gone past. To her surprise, however, there were no girls at the hearth table, and the great metal doors of the Hall were locked tight, the windows shuttered, the dining hall lit by the great central and corner baskets of glows; in some obscure way, the hall looked more friendly than she’d seen it before.

  Everyone else was seated, though her quick glance did not show Master Robinton to be in his customary place at the round table. Master Morshal was and frowned at her until Master Domick gave her a shove toward her place as he drew out his own chair. Sebell and Talmor seemed in no way abashed as they went late to the oval journeymen’s tables. But Menolly felt more conspicuous than ever as she walked awkwardly toward the hearth table. And it wasn’t her imagination: every eye in the room was on her.

  “Hey, Menolly,” said a familiar voice in a harsh but carrying whisper, “hurry up so we can get fed.” She saw Piemur slapping the empty place beside him. “See?” he said to his neighbor, “I told you she wouldn’t be hiding in the Hold with the others.” Then he added, under the cover of the noise of everyone taking their seats, “You aren’t afraid of Thread, are you?”

  ‘Why should I be?” Menolly was being truthful, but it obviously stood her in good credit with the boys near enough to hear her reply. “And I thought you said you weren’t supposed to sit at the girls’ table?”

  “They’re not here, are they? And you said you wanted someone to talk to. So here I am.”

  “Menolly?” asked the boy with the protuberant eyes who usually sat opposite her, “do fire lizards breathe fire like dragons and go after Thread?”

  Menolly glanced at Piemur to see if he were back of the question. He shrugged innocence.

  “Mine never have, but they’re young.”

  “I told you so, Brolly,” replied Piemur. “Dragonets in the Weyrs don’t fight Thread, and fire lizards are just small dragons. Right, Menolly?”

  “They do seem to be,” she said, temporizing slightly, but neither debater noticed.

  “Then where are they now?” Brolly wanted to know, slightly sneering.

  “In Master D
omick’s study.”

  The meat reached them and further discussion was suspended. Today Menolly blithely speared four slices of juicy meat to her plate. She reached for bread, beating Brolly’s grab for some. And she dished Piemur some of the redroots, which he wasn’t going to take. He was much too small not to eat properly.

  Whether it was Piemur’s company or the absence of the girls, or both, Menolly didn’t know, but suddenly she was included in the table conversations. The boys opposite her had question after question about her fire lizards: how she had accidentally discovered the queen’s clutch in the sand; how she’d saved the hatchlings from destruction by Thread; how she had found enough food to support their voracious appetites; how she’d dragged a wherry from the mire to provide oil for her fire lizards’ patchy skins. She sensed that the boys gradually became reconciled to her possession of so many fire lizards because it was obviously no gather day to take care of them. They had the most bizarre theories about fire lizards and a few unsubtle queries about when would her queen fly to mate and how soon would there be a clutch and how many in it.

  “The masters and journeymen would get first crack anyhow,” Piemur said, disgruntled.

  “It ought to be free choice, the way the dragons choose their riders,” said Brolly.

  “Fire lizards aren’t quite the same as dragons, Brolly,” said Piemur, glancing at Menolly for support. “Look at Lord Groghe. What dragon would've picked him if it had had another choice?”

  The boys shushed him, glancing nervously about to see if anyone had overheard his indiscreet remark.

  “The Weyrs have control of the fire lizards any road,” said Brolly. “You can just bet the Weyrs’re going to hand ’em out where they’ll keep the Lord Holders and Craft Masters happy.”

  Menolly sighed for the truth of that surmise.