The Master Harper of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  Kasia had managed to throw off the furs and was lying uncovered in the cold room. He quickly covered her and then applied the salve, its pungent smell seeping into his nose and lungs. Then he roused her to take a few sips of the herb drink. He dozed now and then, between forcing her to drink. By morning she was delirious, and he was becoming more and more worried. The herb had seemed effective with everyone else he nursed, but her coughing fits were getting harder and longer.

  He almost cried out with relief when Clostan, red-eyed and weary, came in. Kasia chose that moment to indulge in one of her coughing spasms, and Clostan came swiftly to the bedside.

  "That doesn't sound good," he said, feeling her forehead and cheeks. "You've the salve on? Use more, and repeat it every three hours. Here, let's give her my special remedy."

  He mixed the draught himself and made her drink it.

  "She obeys you more than she does me," Robinton remarked peevishly.

  "You're her spouse," Clostan said with a weary grin. "Mind you, most of your patients have recovered, so I'm sure she will."

  There was, however, a note in Clostan's voice that caught Robinton's ear.

  "You are?"

  "Of course I am. She's young and ... well, she's far less vulnerable than those down the hall." His face fell into sad lines.

  "More deaths?" Robinton asked, and Clostan nodded.

  "The very old have no stamina. And we've got their quarters as warm as an oven."

  He left then, but Juvana arrived shortly afterwards and together they moved Kasia down to a guest room, where a fire roared on the hearth.

  Together Juvana and Robinton nursed Kasia. Clostan came in several times that day, and yet her fever persisted. To Robinton, it seemed that she was hotter every time he felt her forehead. He knew this wasn't the course the illness usually took and remembered what Clostan had said about the elderlies' lack of stamina.

  Did Kasia have enough, having so recently recovered from the ordeal of the storm? He didn't even dare ask Juvana her opinion; her presence verified his fears.

  He never left the bedside, except for essential trips. Juvana ordered a pallet for herself to sleep on. Melongel looked in; so did Minnarden, offering to cover for Robinton so that he could get some sleep.

  Robinton refused. He had promised to care for Kasia, and he would. She had to get well. She had to.

  But she did not. Just before dawn on the fifth day of her burning fever and hacking cough, when Melongel and Clostan had joined the vigil, she opened her eyes, smiled at Robinton leaning over her and, with a sigh, closed them. And was still.

  "No, no. No. No. Kasia. You can't leave me alone."

  He was shaking her, trying to rouse her, when he felt Juvana's hands pulling him away. He clutched Kasia to him, stroking her hair, her cheeks, trying to coax life back into her body.

  It took Melongel and Clostan to pull him away from her, while Juvana arranged her on the bed. And Clostan forced a potion down his throat.

  "We did all we could, Rob, all we could. It's just sometimes not enough." And Robinton heard the pain of the healer as plainly as he felt his own.

  Captain Gostol sailed the Northern Maid with just Vesna and two others to man her – his crew was also decimated by the fever.

  It was Merelan who sang the final farewell, for Robinton couldn't speak. But he did play the harp he had so lovingly made his spouse. And when Merelan held the last note until it died away – as his hope had – he flung the harp to join the body of his beloved as it slipped into the sea. The harp gave one last dissonant chord as the wind of its descent strummed the strings. Then all was silent.

  Even the wind died down in respect for his loss.

  He moved his things back into his bachelor room. Ifor and Mumolon did all they could to bear him company, see that he ate, make him lie down in his bed – for he could seem to do nothing at all. "Got in, get out ..." The refrain haunted him, but he had not the energy to make notations. He felt he could never sing, or compose, again. He tried to rouse himself from this immolation in grief, his terrible loss, but all he seemed to do was sink deeper.

  Days later, he was sprawled in front of the fire, Ifor and Mumolon having gone elsewhere – either because they had duties or because they could no longer stand to be with him and his grief.

  The door swung open and F'lon stood there, staring at him.

  Robinton looked up incuriously, noted that the dragonrider was here, and then stared back at the fire.

  "I only just heard," said F'lon, striding into the room and slamming the door behind him. He picked up what was left of the bottle of wine and poured it into a glass, tossing it back. Td've come earlier if I'd known."

  Robinton nodded. F'lon peered more closely into his face.

  "Say, you really are in a terrible state, aren't you?"

  Robinton didn't dignify the question with an answer, waving a hand to send F'lon on his way. He appreciated the dragonrider coming, but F'lon only reminded him of the last time he had seen him: on his espousal day.

  "That bad, huh?" F'lon looked around him for more wine.

  "Drunk it all up?"

  "Drinking doesn't help."

  "No. It doesn't."

  Something in F'lon's tone roused Robinton briefly. "What do you mean?"

  "Isn't there any more wine up here? Do I have to go back downstairs to get some?"

  F'lon was angry, which annoyed Robinton, so he pointed to the cupboard. "There should be one more there," he said.

  "You've been counting?"

  Robinton shrugged and sighed. He watched indifferently as F'lon found the skin, made a disgusted noise as he read the label, but pulled the bung and poured a glass for himself. Then he splashed more into Robinton's cup.

  "You're not the only one grieving, but at least you're entitled," he said after taking half the glass.

  "Oh?"

  "L'tol – or should I now call him Lytol – lost Larth. Just about the time Kasia ..." And even brash F'lon could not continue. He downed the rest of that glass and poured another, right to the brim.

  "L'tol? Lost Larth?" That much penetrated.

  "Yes, and he shouldn't have." F'lon slammed the glass down on the table so hard that it broke at the stem. He cursed as the glass cut into the web of finger and thumb, and sucked it.

  "How?" Robinton asked. Dragons seldom died in an Interval.

  "C'vrel decided we should straighten up and get in some firestone practice," F'lon said in a sarcastic tone. "We'd fly wing against wing. M'ridin's Spakinth came out of between flaming and caught Larth all along his side. There were enough of us in the air to cushion Larth back to earth, screaming his head off."

  F'lon gave himself a sudden shake as if the memory of that agony was etched in his mind. "L'tol fell off and the weyrfolk grabbed him, but larth was too badly burned. He went between right there on the ground."

  Robinton saw the tears coursing down the dragonrider's cheeks. He reached out to lay his hand on F'lon's arm, unable to bear his friend's pain.

  F'lon brushed him aside. "You aren't the only one bearing a terrible loss right now."

  "No, I'm not. But I don't seem to be able to bear it either."

  "No, you don't. If you want, you can go too."

  "Go, too?" Robinton looked up at F'lon. "What do you mean?"

  "Couldn't be simpler," the dragonrider said drolly. "We go out to Simanith, he takes you in his arms, we go between and Simanith opens his arms' – which F'lon demonstrated with an upward flourish – "and only the two of us go on to Benden. Simple."

  "Yes, simple," Robinton agreed, thinking almost wistfully of the cold black nothingness of between where one felt nothing, heard nothing, was shortly nothing.

  Tears filled his eyes and his heart seemed to burst. He'd been cold so long now. It would be simple ... but ... it wasn't simple.

  "No, it isn't simple," F'lon said gently, and Robinton realized he had spoken aloud. "There's something in us humans that clings to life even when the most beloved o
ne we have leaves us. Lytol couldn't go when we gave him the option. He was badly burned, and too full of fellis and numbweed to be able to decide. And when he could, he decided to go back to High Reaches with his family."

  Robinton gave a start. "That's not a wise place for anyone to be right now, I think. Much less a... former dragonrider."

  F'lon shrugged. "His choice. He needs his family right now. I saw your mother is still here."

  "Yes, she's been wonderful. Everyone has."

  "So, let's get on with life, shall we?" The kindness in that soft gentle suggestion reached and thawed the cold "nothingness" Robinton had been enduring.

  "Thank you, F'lon," he said and rose. "I think I'd better eat something, and you look as if you could stand a good meal too."

  Indeed, F'lon looked haggard as well as weary, but at Robinton's suggestion his smile flickered. Stretching an arm across the harper's shoulder, he wheeled him to face the door and then accompanied him out of the room and down to the warm kitchen to ask for a meal.

  It was ironic that the grip of terrible weather broke shortly afterwards, and milder weather not only improved those who had been stricken by the feverish cough but also allowed everyone's normal duties to be resumed.

  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. Still numb with his grief, he 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. "Lobira 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 that 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 mirroring anger and doubt.

  "Then Fax is in control." Robinton stated that as a fact. An anger and a fear took a corner off 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 Lobira and Mallan? And BargenT

  "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, duelling 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 succour 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 endorse 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," said Robinton with a touch of asperity.

  "I know that Master Gennell wants to know about Lobira 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," said Minnarden, his face set in denial.

  "I've nothing to lose ..." Robinton began.

  "I have ... brother," said Melongel.

  "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 Lobira, 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 which 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 Lobira 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 Lobira'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 Lobira and Lotricia safely out."

  "I'm going to try for Mallan nex
t. I think I know where I might find him."

  "Why? What happened to him?"

  Lobira and Lotricia had had enough warning to be able 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.