Masterharper of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  “For all of that, you’ve not had it that easy,” Shonagar said with a wry smile. They’d just finished a long rehearsal for the Turn’s End concert: Rob, as usual, was singing the solo treble parts. Halanna and Maizella were also soloists, but though Petiron remarked favorably on their performances, he had not so much as a nod for his son. The apprentices, being as astute as they were, did not fail to notice this. But if any complained, he’d shrug and remark that his father expected him to be note-perfect.

  His mother kept up his vocal training, and he had now graduated to apprentice classes. He particularly enjoyed his stint in the drum tower, because at last he got to learn the meaning of the codes that he had been hearing all his life. Like everyone else, he knew that the initial beats indicated the final destination of the message and who had sent it, but it took time to get the sense of the actual message.

  In fact, he was on duty the day Feyrith, Carola’s queen, produced her last clutch—though no one knew at the time that it would be her last. The best news was that there was a queen egg, and the drum message added the extra beats for excitement and major news. A large clutch, too, with nine eggs that looked to be bronzes.

  Robinton spent a few sevendays hoping that there would be a Search and he’d be found acceptable, and become a harper-dragonrider. But no dragons came on Search to Fort Hold or the Harper Hall, and no other Hold reported the arrival of dragons, looking for candidates. Robinton was bitterly disappointed. He had been so sure that the dragons liked him. Didn’t they like him enough to come find him?

  For fear of being ridiculed, he didn’t tell anyone about his thwarted desire. He did ask a few questions of his masters, in case they knew how Searches were conducted, but the answers he got did nothing to assuage his anxiety or hopes. “That’s always up to the Weyr, lad,” or “Who knows what’s in dragon minds?” “Sometimes the dragons don’t Search. Don’t need to. Didn’t you tell me there were lots of lads your age at Benden Weyr?” Which was true enough, but it still didn’t keep him from searching the skies for a dragon, in case he could get one to speak to him. His distraction was noticed in class, and he was given extra duties to encourage him to “pay proper attention to your lessons and stop daydreaming.” He had time, while sweeping down the main court, to see the folly of his disappointment.

  He was on drum tower duty again when the news of the Hatching came in. Swallowing the final vestige of his own disappointment, Robinton just had to find out if Falloner had been Impressed. After all, Falloner had a real right to be Impressed. Greatly daring, he asked permission of the journeyman in charge of the tower to find out.

  “You see, I met a couple of the possible candidates. Falloner, he’s the weyrling who was at the Hold for Mother to teach.” Robinton was not above using what he needed to get to do something as important as this, and he knew that the Journeyman liked his mother. “I know she’d like to know if Falloner Impressed . . .” He let his voice trail off.

  “Oh, go ahead,” the Journeyman said with a smile. “Only keep it short.”

  Robinton worked out the message and the nonurgent coding, got approval, and beat it out himself. He hoped he’d hear back before his duty ended. But he didn’t.

  That evening, however, the Journeyman sought him out at dinner and gave him a slip of hide and a wink.

  Robinton could barely restrain his hurrah! Falloner had Impressed a bronze. So had Rangul and Sellel—though that draconic choice surprised Robinton—and six others whose names he recognized from his visits to the Weyr. The Weavercrafthall lad from High Reaches, Lytonal, was now L’tol and rode brown Larth.

  He caught his mother on her way to evening rehearsal and told her.

  “I suspected that young rascal would make bronze,” she said. “And Rangul. Nine bronzes is a good clutch. A queen egg is even better. It may well be that S’loner is right, after all.” She hurried away then, without explaining her last cryptic remark.

  Robinton wondered if Falloner, now F’lon, would remember his promise to him—that he’d come to the Harper Hall on his bronze so Robinton could meet him. Wouldn’t his dorm mates be amazed! It was a fun thing to think about, but Robinton rather thought that F’lon, now being above a mere Harper Hall apprentice, might not consider he had to honor that promise. Anyway, it took a while for a dragonet to learn to fly.

  He did his lessons in the Archives with everyone else, but mostly he copied special files for Master Ogolly, since he was the fastest and most accurate of them all. He had already made some instruments and had received the Harper mark, which allowed his work to be sold at Gathers. Now he learned how to repair broken frets and stems, and drum frames, and string harps and gitars and do fine marquetry. He was content in a way he had never known before, away from the tension that had become so constant in his parents’ rooms. His mother, too, smiled more frequently at the head table or during her lessons with him. So his departure had indeed made life easier for her.

  His treble voice lasted until the growth spurt in his thirteenth summer when his body, as well as his throat and speaking equipment, altered dramatically. He and his mother were rehearsing an Equinox duet when suddenly his voice made a dramatic octave drop.

  “Well, now, that’s that, I guess, dear,” she said, resting her arm on the crook of her gitar. She smiled at the appalled look on his face. “Now, love, it isn’t really the end of the world, though I daresay your father will be annoyed to have to make changes in the soloist so close to Equinox. Your voice won’t last until then.”

  “But who’ll—” In his dismay, Robie’s voice broke again. “—sing it with you?”

  “Recall that delicate-looking blond lad from Tillek who auditioned last week?” Merelan raised her eyebrows in a droll fashion. “He’s not the musician you are, and I’ll have to work him hard, but he has the range, if not your skill and experience.”

  “What’s Father going to say?” Robinton asked fretfully. He really didn’t want to be around to hear.

  Merelan chuckled. “He’ll consider that you did this on purpose, of course, to disarrange his concert. He’ll rant a bit about your letting him down at a critical time, and then require me to take the lad on for special sessions.” She regarded her son with a tilt to her head and an affectionate smile. “You’ll probably end up a baritone, you know. You’ve the right facial structure. And your father’s a baritone.”

  “I’ve never heard him sing,” Robie protested.

  Merelan chuckled. “Oh, he can. He just doesn’t feel he sings well enough.” She gave a little chuckle. “But, if you listen closely, you’ll hear him joining the baritone line in the choral parts. He had a very good natural voice when he first came to the Hall. He just didn’t think it was solo quality.” She made a little grimace, followed by a light sigh. “He has to be perfect in anything he does.”

  “Mother,” Robie began, because the problem was becoming more and more pressing, “what will I do when Father takes me for composition as a journeyman?” His unreliable voice cracked on the second syllable.

  “Walk the tables first, love, and don’t worry. Though I must be truthful and say that I wonder how we’re going to keep from upsetting him over that. You already know as much as he does about theory, composition, and even orchestration. Fortunately, I think your particular forte is with vocal, rather than instrumental, music, so you won’t be in direct competition with him. He may not see it in the same light, but neither of us can help that, can we? Let’s go have some klah, shall we?” She put her gitar carefully back in the case and reached up to caress his cheek. “I still can’t get accustomed to the sudden height of you. I wonder how tall you’ll be. All the men in my family certainly are tall.”

  “I remember Rantou.” Robie grinned, because he would never forget how upset his father had been at Rantou’s preference for working as a lumberman, when he had the voice and musicality to be a harper. At least Robinton was not the only one whom his father expected to be perfect.

  When his voice finally settled int
o the baritone range, he was nearly the tallest of the second-year apprentices. His father relegated him to the back row of the chorus, where Robinton was quite happy to be. His mother, however, beginning to instruct him in his new voice, was delighted with its flexibility and depth.

  “It’s a lovely voice, Robie.” She flicked her fingers in an excess of delight, smiling at him. “Velvety and rich. Now, we won’t force it but I think it’s solo quality.”

  “Even if my father’s isn’t?”

  Merelan made a face. “Yours has a totally different timbre, and a better range. We can work it into something special.”

  “Something appropriate for simple songs?”

  Her grimace darkened and she slapped his arm. “Simple songs that everyone loves to hear, play, and sing! Don’t you dare belittle what you do so very well. Far better than he ever could. The only real music he ever wrote—” She stopped, pursing her lips in irritation.

  “Was the music he wrote while we were at Benden.” Robinton finished the sentence for her. “And you’re right. Speaking quite objectively as a harper, my father’s compositions are technically perfect and demanding, brilliant for instrumentalists and vocal dexterity, but scarcely for the average holder and craftsman.”

  She waggled her finger under his nose. “And don’t you ever forget that!”

  Robinton caught the threatening finger and kissed it lovingly.

  “Oh, Robie,” she said in a totally different voice. “How different it all could have been.” She leaned against him in regret, taking consolation in his tall, strong form and his embrace.

  “Well, it wasn’t, Mother, and we can’t alter what has been.” He patted her back soothingly.

  Abruptly, and in another lightning change of mood, she pushed away from him, poking him in the ribs. “Will you ever fill out? I swear, you’re nothing but bones.”

  “And there’s Lorra complaining I eat twice as much as any other three apprentices. You’re a fine one to complain,” he added, noting a distinctive pallor in her complexion. She flushed, moving away completely.

  “It’s nothing.” She gave a funny laugh. “Change of life, Ginia says.”

  “You’re not that old, surely,” Robinton protested, vehemently denying that his mother would ever age. “Why, your voice is better than ever.”

  She laughed with real humor. “Proof, son of mine, that I’m in my prime, not my decline.”

  The Harper Bell chimed the turn of the hour and she gave him a little push. “Your harp awaits you.”

  He kissed her cheek and was out the door to the accompaniment of another chuckle. But he knew she understood his eagerness to put the finishing touches on the lap harp that had caused him so much anxiety. It was one of the four pieces he had to finish creditably to become a journeyman, and he wanted it so that even his father could not find fault with it.

  When his work was displayed anonymously with the others, his father passed it by without comment and dismissed someone else’s instead. Of course, Robinton had been careful not to repeat patterns of embellishment that he had used on other items. It amused him that never did his father find fault with anything of his amongst those inspected.

  The highlight of his second year as an apprentice came in the spring. Robinton was in the semi-basement workshop at the front end of the Hall rectangle when suddenly a bronze dragon landed in the center of the courtyard and the rider cupped his hands and yelled, “Robinton? Robinton! Apprentice Robinton!” That final call was almost a taunt, coming out in a singsong tone.

  “By the First Egg! It’s you the dragonrider wants, Rob,” Master Bosler said.

  Robinton peered up out of the half-window and saw nothing but bronze dragon feet and belly. “May I go?”

  “My dear boy, if a dragonrider calls for anyone,” the Master said, grinning, “that person had better hop it . . . Off with you!”

  Robinton raced up the steps and out the right-hand door into the courtyard. “I’m here, F’lon!” he yelled, racing across the courtyard to the bronze, who had craned his neck around, eyes bright blue and whirling with excitement.

  “I told you I’d come . . .” and F’lon modified his tone as he dismounted gracefully to meet his old friend, embracing him in his eagerness.

  Once again, Rob was struck by F’lon’s unusual amber eyes, which sparkled with delight.

  “You also told me you’d Impress bronze . . .” Rob looked politely at the watching dragon. “What’s your name, if you don’t mind?”

  The dragon blinked.

  “Ah, he’s shy.” F’lon’s wicked smile belied that. “His name is Simanith.” The dragon put his head close to his rider’s body, his eyes on Robinton. “You can always speak to my friend Robinton, if you want. He’s going to be MasterHarper—when he gets old enough.”

  “Now, wait a minute!” Robinton exclaimed, holding up his hands defensively and laughing at the very thought. MasterHarper was not only a position he had no desire for but one his father would certainly veto.

  “Dream, man, that you make Harper. I dreamed and look . . .” F’lon gestured dramatically at Simanith, a broad proud grin nearly splitting his face in two.

  “I was in the drum tower when the news came in, and I got permission to find out who Impressed bronze, so I’ve known,” Rob told his friend.

  “And never sent me word?” F’lon scowled in mock disgust as he stripped off the close-fitting riding helmet.

  “Well, you’re not supposed to send private messages. I got the whole list though, Rangul and Sellel . . .”

  F’lon wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, R’gul and S’lel are bronze riders, too, though why they were picked out of those presented I will never know.” He rubbed at his sweaty hair. “Hey, you’ve got tall.”

  Robinton stepped back to sweep his friend with an appraising look “You’re not short yourself.”

  F’lon turned sideways and tapped his shoulder. Obediently Robinton stood back to back with him. F’lon’s hand proved their heads were on the same level.

  “Going to grow any more?” F’lon asked.

  Robinton laughed, partly out of elation that F’lon had remembered his promise and partly because they were the object of much attention from the windows overlooking the courtyard—including, Robinton realized, stifling a groan, the rehearsal hall where his father was working with the chorus. He also caught a glimpse of Lorra, standing on the steps of the Hall, beckoning to him. And then he saw her daughter, Silvina, running across the court toward them. She skidded to a stop and passed the dragon at a more decorous pace.

  “Mother . . . says . . . he must have . . . hospitality . . .” she said, catching her breath and looking awed to be so close to dragon and rider.

  “This is my friend from Benden Weyr who is now bronze rider, F’lon,” Rob said, daring to clap F’lon on the back to show that a dragonrider would allow him such familiarity. “This is Silvina, whose mother makes the best cakes and cookies in the world.”

  “Well,” F’lon said, rubbing his hands together appreciatively, “a dragonrider never refuses hospitality!” He paused, looking directly at Simanith. “He’ll wait for me on the heights. Plenty of sun today.”

  Simanith sprang up after his rider and Robinton reached the steps, and his wings still flung dirt and gravel at them.

  “Is riding a dragon as good as you thought it would be?” Rob asked shyly as they entered the Hall.

  F’lon grinned and took a deep breath. “You’ve no idea how good it is.” He slapped his friend on his back. “But I’ll fly you anywhere you need to go, m’friend. Are you still singing?”

  “Baritone now,” Rob said with some satisfaction. “You? Not that it matters if you’re a bronze rider.”

  “Oh, it matters,” F’lon assured him with sufficient emphasis to reassure. “Dragons like music, and I guess I’m baritone, too.” He did a descending scale in what Robinton professionally appraised as a light if pleasant voice.

  “You’re right—baritone. Too bad I’m not al
so a rider.”

  F’lon’s expression changed as he caught the wistful note in his friend’s voice. “There’ve been so few clutches that there were a lot of weyrbred to stand on the Hatching Ground. S’loner decided not to Search. Happens sometimes that way.” F’lon’s rueful smile was genuine. “You’d’ve made a good rider.” Then he paused, his eyes unfocusing briefly.

  I will talk to you, Robinton, if you wish me to, said a voice in Robinton’s mind, a voice that had F’lon’s intonation and texture. The double surprise, that Simanith was speaking to him and in F’lon’s voice, caused Robinton to stumble on the steps. Grinning, the rider helped him regain his balance.

  “Maybe it’s poor substitute, Rob, but the best I can do for you,” F’lon said.

  “Simanith sounds like you,” Robinton managed to remark.

  “Does he?” F’lon considered this. “I hadn’t noticed. We only hear them in our heads, after all, and not really out loud. Anyway, you can talk to him any time you want.”

  “Thanks, I will. When I can think of something appropriate to say.”

  “You will,” F’lon said with great certainty.

  Silvina was waiting at the small dining room door and escorted them in. Robinton introduced his friend to Lorra. Though not as flustered as her daughter, she was clearly pleased to dispense hospitality to a dragonrider.

  “I sent a messenger to your mother, Rob, because I know she’s mentioned Falloner—excuse me, F’lon—as one of her pupils.”

  So a very cordial hour followed Merelan’s entrance. All the cakes were consumed and most of the biscuits, and F’lon promised to fly Merelan anywhere on Pern she wished to go whenever she wished transport. Then she had to excuse herself to give a lesson, but she saw F’lon and Robinton to the entrance, where she assured F’lon she’d take him up on his offer.

  “That is, if you’re allowed,” she said, glancing up at the tall young rider with a mischievous look in her eyes.