Chapter 6

 

The tears I feel today

I’ll wait to shed tomorrow.

Though I’ll not sleep this might

Nor find surcease from sorrow.

My eyes must keep their sight:

I dare not be tear-blinded.

I must be free to talk

Not choked with grief, clear-minded.

My mouth cannot betray

The anguish that I know.

Yes, I’ll keep my tears till later:

But my grief will never go.

 

Menolly’s “Song for Petiron”

 

Beauty woke her at sunrise. The other fire lizards were awake, too, though one thing was sure, no one else in the cot was awake yet.

Last night, when Menolly had reached the relative safety of her room, she had closed and barred the door, and then opened the shutters to admit her friends. She had recovered her composure by oiling their patchy skin with Master Oldive’s salve. This was the first opportunity she’d had since they’d left the cave by the Dragon Stones to tend and fondle each one. They, too, were communicative. She got many impressions from them, mostly that they’d been bathing daily in the lakes above Fort Hold, which weren’t much fun because there weren’t any waves to sport in. Menolly caught pictures from their minds of great dragons and of a Weyr, differing in shape from Benden. Beautys pictures were the sharpest. Menolly had enjoyed her quiet evening with them; it had made up for Dunca’s irrational attitudes.

Now, as she became aware of the early morning stillness, she knew she’d have time to do a few tasks for herself. She could get a bath and wash the fruit stains out of her tunic. It ought to dry quickly on the window ledge in the morning sun. There should be time before Threadfall, for she remembered that would occur today.

Quietly she unbarred the door, listening in the corridor, and heard only the faintest echo of a snore. Probably Dunca. Adjuring her fire lizards to silence, she walked noiselessly down the steps to the bathing room at the back of the first level. She’d always heard of the thermal pools in the big Holds and Weyrs, but this was her first experience with them. The fire lizards came clustering in behind her, and she hushed their excited twitterings at the sight of the waist-high trough of steaming water. Menolly dipped her fingers in the pleasant warm water, checked to see if there were sandsoap and then, throwing her clothes on the floor, slipped into the bath.

The water was delightfully warm and soft to her skin, a change from the harsh sea or the mineral-heavy water in Half-Circle Sea Hold. Menolly submerged completely and came up, shaking her hair. She’d wash all over. One of the others pushed Auntie Two into the bath, and she let out a high-pitched squeal of protest and fright, then paddled happily about in the warm water. The next thing Menolly knew, all the fire lizards were splashing about, their talons unexpectedly catching her bare skin or tangling in her hair. She hushed them often and sternly, because she wasn’t sure how far noise carried from the bathing room: all she’d need, after last night, was for Dunca to come charging in, roused from her night’s rest by her least-wanted guests.

Menolly sandsoaped all of the fire lizards thoroughly, rinsed them well, got herself, her hair and finally her clothes well washed, then got back to her room without anyone the wiser for her early morning activity. She was oiling a rough patch on Mimic’s back when she heard the first stirrings outside: the cheery greetings of the herdsmen going to attend their beasts who would be holdbound today with Threadfall due. She wondered how Fall would affect the business of the Harper Hall: probably the apprentices and journeymen were required to assist the holders in flame-thrower details. Thank goodness no one had asked her what she’d done after Fall in Half-Circle. She heard the slamming of a door below and decided that Dunca was up. Menolly slipped into her only other clothes, the patched tunic and trousers of her cave days. They were at least clean and neat.

They were not, however, it was pointed out to Menolly at the breakfast table, suitable attire for a young lady living in Dunca’s cot. When Menolly explained that she had only the one other change, which was now drying, Dunca let out a shriek of outrage and demanded to know where the clothes were drying. Menolly was emphatically told that she had committed yet another unwitting sin by hanging her washing-like the commonest field worker-on the window ledge. She was ordered to bring down the offending garments, still damp, and shown by the fuming Dunca where such laundry was to be hung, in the inner recesses of the cot. Where, Menolly was sure, they would take days to dry and smell musty besides with no air to freshen them.

Very much aware of her disgrace and destitute condition, Menolly finished her breakfast as quickly as possible. But when she rose from the table, Dunca. demanded to know where she thought she was going.

“I must feed my fire lizards, Dunca, and I was told to report to Master Domick this morning . . .”

“No message was received by me to such effect.” Dunca drew herself up in officious disbelief.

“Master Domick told me yesterday.”

“He made no mention of such instructions to me.” Dunca’s manner implied that Menolly was making up the order.

“Probably because yesterday’s message went astray.”

And, while Dunca stammered and stuttered, Menolly slipped out of the room and out of the cot, trotting across the road, the fire lizards gracefully swirling above her head until they were sure she was headed toward the Harper Hall. Then they disappeared.

They were perched on the window ledges when she reached the kitchen comer, their eyes whirling redly in anticipation of breakfast. There seemed to be more than the usual amount of confusion in the kitchen, but Camo, once he caught sight of her, immediately put down the side of herdbeast he’d been lugging and left the carcass, its legs obscenely dropping across the passage, while he disappeared back into the storeroom. He emerged with yet a bigger bowl, scraps spilling down its sides as be jogged to meet her. Suddenly he gave a startled cry; and Menolly, peering in the window, saw that Abuna, wooden spoon upraised, was chasing after him. He slithered by, but her dress got caught on the extruding legs of the carcass.

Menolly ducked into the space between the windows, fervently hoping that Camo’s preoccupation with the feeding of fire lizards was not going to cause a major breach with Abuna. There might be nothing to fear from harpers, but the women in the Harper Hall were certainly possible enemies.

“Menolly, am I too late Piemur came charging across the courtyard from the apprentice dormitory, his boots half-fastened, his tunic laces untied and his face and hair showing signs of half-hearted washing.

Before he could assemble his clothing properly, Rocky, Lazy and Mimic attached themselves to him: Camo, came out of the kitchen to be assaulted by his three; and the three humans were exhorted by shrill hungry creelings to be fed.

Camo’s great bowl was finally emptied, and as if on cue, Abuna’s voice rose to command Camo back to his duties. Menolly hurriedly thanked the man and pushed him urgently down the kitchen steps, assuring him that he’d saved quite enough food for the pretties, that the pretties could not stuff in another mouthful.

When the breakfast gong sounded, Menolly stayed in the kitchen corner until the courtyard was cleared of the hungry harpers. She had to see Master Domick, for which interview she would need her gitar. She went to the archroom to collect it and lingered there, since everyone was still eating. She tuned the gitar, delighting afresh in its rich sweet tone. She attempted some of the bridges from the music she’d played in the abortive lesson with the girls, stretching and stretching against the pull of the scar until her hand muscles went into a spasm of cramping. All of a sudden, she remembered her other chore; to check the fire lizard eggs. But, if the Masterharper were still asleep . . . No way of telling from here. She ran lightly down the steps, pleased that her feet were less stiff and tender this morning. She paused in the main hall, listening, and heard the distinctive sound of the Masterharper’s voice at the round table. So she hurried up the steps and down the corridor to his room.

The fire lizard pots were warm on the side away from the fire, so they’d obviously just been turned. She uncovered each egg and checked the shells for hardness, for any sign of cracking or striation. They were fine. She gently covered them with sand and replaced the lids.

As she emerged from the Masterharper’s rooms, she heard Master Domick’s voice on the steps. With him were Sebell, carrying a small harp, and Talmor, gitar slung across his back.

“There she is,” Sebell said. “You checked the eggs, Menolly?”

“I did, sir. They’re fine.”

“Come this way, then, step lively now . . . if you can . . .” Domick said, frowning as he belatedly recalled her disability.

“My feet are nearly as good as new now, sir,” she told him.

“Well, you’re not to run any races with Thread today, hear?”

Menolly wasn’t certain, as she followed the three men into the study, if Domick were teasing her or not. He sounded so sour, it was difficult to tell, but Sebell caught her eye and winked.

Domick’s study, well-lit by huge baskets of glows, was dominated by the biggest sandtable Menolly had ever seen, with all its spaces glass-covered, though she politely averted her eyes from the inscriptions. Domick might not like people peering at his music. The shelves were jammed with loose record hides, and thin, white-bleached sheets of some substance evenly cut along the edges. She tried to get a closer look at them, but Master Domick called her to attention by telling her to take the middle stool.

Sebell and Talmor were already settling themselves before the music rack and tuning their instruments. So she took her place and cast a quick glance at the music before them. With a thrill of surprise, she saw that it was for four instruments, and no easy read.

“You’re to play second gitar, Menolly,” Domick said, with the smile of one who is conferring a favor. He picked up a metal pipe with finger stops, one of the flutes that Petiron had told her were used by more accomplished pipers. She politely suppressed her curiosity, but she couldn’t control her delighted surprise when Domick ran a test scale. It sounded like a fire lizard’s voice.

“You’ll need to look through the music,” he said, observing her interest.

“I will?”

Master Domick cleared his throat. “It is customary with music you’ve never seen before.” He tapped the music with his pipe. “That,” and his tone was very acid, “is no children’s exercise. Despite your display for Talmor yesterday, you will not find this easy to read.”

Rebuked, she skimmed the music, trying an alternative chording in one measure to see which would be easier on her hand at that tempo. The complexity of the chording was so fascinating that she forgot she was keeping three harpers waiting. “I beg your pardon.” She turned the music back to the beginning and looked at Domick for him to give them the beat.

“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 fivenote 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 got 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 startled 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 . . .” Dominick 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?”

“My 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 theyre 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 Domick’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.

“Yes, but you can’t make a fire lizard stay with you if you’re mean to him,” said Piemur flatly. “I heard that Lord Meron’s disappears for days.”

“Where do they go?” asked Brolly.

As Menolly didn’t know, she was just as glad that the eerie sound, which Domick had said was the Thread alarm, sounded, effectively ending the conversation.

“That means Thread is directly over us,” said Piemur, hunching his shoulders and pointing toward the ceiling.

“Look at that!” And Brolly’s startled exclamation made everyone turn about.

On the mantel behind her were ranged all nine fire lizards, their eyes sparkling with rainbow reflections of intense agitation, their wings spread, talons unsheathed. They were hissing, retracting and extending their tongues as if licking imaginary Thread from the air.

Menolly half rose, glancing toward the round table. She saw Domick nodding permission to her as he, too, got to his feet. He was gesturing to someone at the journeymen’s tables.

“The alarm chorus would be appropriate, Brudegan,” he called as he crossed to the hearth, a wary eye on the fire lizards.

Menolly motioned to Beauty, but the little queen ignored her, rising to her haunches and starting to keen a piercing series of notes, up and down an almost inaudibly high octave. The others joined her.

“For the sake of our ears, Menolly, can you get your creatures to sing with the chorus now? Brudegan, where’s your beat?”

Feet began to stamp, one, two, three, four, and suddenly the fire lizards’ keen was covered by the mass chorus. Beauty fanned her wings in surprise, and Mimic backwinged himself off the mantel, only missing a drop to the floor by claws biting into the wood.

“Drummer, beat, and piper, blow,

Harper, strike, and soldier, go . . .

 

sang the massed voices. Menolly joined in, singing directly to the fire lizards. She was aware of Brudegan, then Sebell and Talmor coming to stand beside her, but facing the boys. Brudegan directed, cueing in the parts, the descant on the refrain. Above the male voices, pure and piercingly thrilling, rang the fire lizards’ tone, weaving their own harmonies about the melody.

The last triumphant note echoed through the corridors of the Harper Hall. And from the doorway to the outer hall, there came a sigh of pleasure. Menolly saw the kitchen drudges, an utterly entranced Camo among them, standing there, every face wreathed with smiles.

“I’d say that a rendition of ‘Moreta’s Ride’ might be in order, if you think your friends would oblige us,” Brudegan said, with a slight bow to Menolly and a gesture to take his place.

Beauty, as if she understood what had been said, gave a complacent chirp, blinking the first lids across her eyes so that those nearest laughed. That startled her, and she fanned her wings as if scolding them for impudence. That prompted more laughter, but Beauty was now watching Menolly.

“Give the beat, Menolly,” said Brudegan, and because his manner indicated that he expected her obedience, she raised her hands and sketched the time.

The chorus responded at the upstroke, and she experienced a curious sense of power as she realized that these voices were hers to direct. Beauty led the fire lizards in another dizzy climb of sound, but they sang the melody, octaves above the baritones who introduced the first stanza of the Ballad, to the muted humming of the other parts. The baritones, Menolly felt, were not really watching her: she signaled for more intensity because, after all, the Ballad told of a tragedy. The singers gave more depth to their part. Menolly had often led the evening sings at the Half-Circle Sea Hold, so conducting was not new to her. It was the quality of the singers, their responsiveness to her signals, that made as much difference as chalk from cheese.

Once the baritones had finished telling of the dread sickness in the land, which had struck with incredible speed across the breath of Pern, the full chorus quietly introduced the refrain, of Moreta secluded with her queen, Orlith, who is about to clutch in Fort Weyr, while the healers from all holds and Weyrs try to isolate the form of the disease and find a cure. The tenors take up the narration, with increasing intensity, the basses and baritones emphasizing the plight of the land, herdbeasts left untended, wherries breaking into crops as holders, crafters, dragonfolk alike are consumed by the dread fever.

A bass sings the solo of Capiam, Masterhealer of Pern, who isolates the illness and suggests its cure. Those dragonriders who are still able to stay on their beasts, fly to the rain forests of Nabol and Ista, to find and deliver to Capiam the all-important seeds that contain the cure, some riders dying with the effort as they complete their task.

A dialogue between baritone, Capiam, and the soprano; Moreta was sung, Menolly was only vaguely cognizant, by Piemur. Excitement builds as Moreta, once Orlith has clutched, is the only healthy dragonrider at the Fort and one of the few immune to the disease. It is up to her to deliver the medicine. Moreta, pushing herself and her queen to the limits of their endurance, flies between from hold to hold, crafthall to cot, from Weyr to Weyr. The final verse, a dirge with keening descant, this time so appropriately rendered by the fire lizards that Menolly waved the humans silent, ended in the sorrowful farewell of a world to its heroines as Orlith, the dying Moreta on her back, seeks the oblivion of between.

Such a deep silence followed the soft final chord that Menolly shook off the spell of the song with difficulty.

I wonder if we could ever repeat that again,” Brudegan said slowly, thoughtfully, after a further moment of almost unendurable silence. A sigh of release from the thrall of the music spread through the hall.

“It’s the fire lizards,” said the very soft voice of the usually impudent Piemur.

“You’re right, Piemur,” Brudegan replied, considering the suggestion, and there was a murmur of assent from the others.

Menolly had taken a seat, her knees shaking and her insides gripped by a rhythmic shuddering. She took a sip of the klah remaining in her cup; cold or not, it helped.

“Menolly, do you think they’d sing like that again?” Brudegan asked, dropping to the bench beside her.

Menolly blinked at him, as much because she hadn’t had time to recover from the extraordinary experience of directing a trained group as because he, as journeyman, was asking the advice of the newest arrival in the Harper Craft Hall.

“They sang fine with me yesterday, sir,” said Piemur. Then he giggled. “Menolly told Master Shonagar that it’s hard to keep ‘em quiet when you don’t want ‘em singing. Right, Menolly?” Piemur chortled again, all his impudence revived. “That’s what happened the other morning, sir, when you didn’t know who was singing.”

To Menolly’s relief, Brudegan laughed heartily, evidently reconciled. Menolly managed a shy and apologetic smile for that untoward incident, but the chorus leader was watching the fire lizards now. They were preening their wingtips or glancing about the room at all the people, oblivious to the sensation they had just caused.

“Pretties sing pretty,” said Camo, appearing beside Menolly and Brudegan, a pitcher of steaming klah in one hand. He poured some into each empty cup, and then Menolly noticed that the drink was being served throughout the hall.

“You liked their singing, eh, Camo?” asked Brudegan, taking a judicious sip from his mug. “Sing higher than Piemur here, and he’s got the best voice we’ve had in many a Turn. As if he didn’t know it.” Brudegan reached across the table to ruffle Piemur’s hair.

“Pretties sing again?” asked Camo plaintively.

“They can sing any time they like for all of me,” Brudegan replied, nodding to Menolly. “But right now, I want to get some practice done. We’ve that big chorale work to polish properly before Lord Groghe’s entertainment.” With a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet and tapped an empty klah pot for silence. “Don’t stop them if they feel like singing, Menolly,” he added, inclining his head toward the fire lizards. “Now then, you lot. We’ll begin with the tenor solo, Fesnal, if you please . . .” And Brudegan pointed to one of the journeymen who rose to his feet.

Listening to the rehearsal was not quite the same involving experience as directing. Then, Menolly had felt herself to be an extension of the choral group. Now she found it objectively interesting to observe Brudegan’s direction, and to think what she would do with the same passages. About the time she decided that he was an exceedingly clever director, she realized that she’d been setting herself in comparison with a man in every way superior in experience and training.

Menolly almost laughed aloud. Yet, she reflected, this was what life should be in a Harper Hall: music, morning, noon, afternoon and evening. She couldn’t have enough of it, and yet, she could now see the logic of afternoons spent on other chores. Her fingertips ached from the harp strings, and her scar felt hot and pulsed. She massaged her hand, but that was too painful. She’d left the jar of numbweed in the cot, which meant she’d have to wait until after Threadfall to get easement. She wondered if the girls knew what went on in the Harper Hall during Threadfall. Hadn’t Piemur said they were up at the Hold during Fall? She shrugged; she was far happier to be here.

Once more the eerie alarm cut through other sounds. Brudegan abruptly ended the practice, thanking his chorus members for their attention and hard work. Then he stood back politely as a tall older journeyman walked quietly to the fireplace, raising his hands unnecessarily for attention.

“Everyone remembers his duties now?” There was a murmur of assent. “Good. As soon as the doors are open, join your sections. With luck and Fort Weyr’s usual efficiency, we’ll be back in the Hall by suppertime . . .”

“I’ve meatrolls for the outside crews,” announced Silvina, standing up at the round table. “Camo, take the tray and stand by the door!”

A second weird hooting, and then the clang and ring of metal and a ponderous creaking, Menolly half wished that she were in a position to see the Hall doors working as light began to flood the outer hallway. A cheer went up, and the boys surged toward the entrance, some going across the tide to take meatrolls from Camo’s patiently held tray.

Then the dining hall shutters clanked back, the afternoon sunlight an assault on eyes accustomed to the softer illumination from glow baskets.

“Here they come! Here they come!” rose the shout, and the flow toward the door became a scramble, despite the attempts of masters and journeymen to keep an orderly pace.

“We can see as well from the windows, Menolly. Come on!” Piemur tugged at her sleeve.

The fire lizards reacted to the excitement, streaking through the open windows. Menolly saw the spiral of dragons descending in wings to the ground beyond the Hall courtyard. Truly they made a magnificent sight. The sky seemed to be as clogged with dragons as just recently it must have been with Thread. The boys let out a cheer, and Menolly saw the dragonriders lifting their arms in response to the hurray! She might have lost her fear of Thread, of being caught out holdless, but she would never lose that lift of heart at the sight of the great dragons who protected all Pern from the ravages of Thread.

“Menolly!”

She whirled at the sound of her name and saw Silvina standing there, a slight frown creasing her wide forehead. For the first time since morning, Menolly wondered what she had done wrong now.

“Menolly, has nothing been forwarded to you from Benden Weyr in the way of clothes? I know that Master Robinton dragged you out of there with scant time to assemble yourself . . .”

Menolly could say nothing, realizing that Dunca had complained about her tattered trousers to Silvina. The headwoman was giving her clothes a keen scrutiny.

“Well, for once,” and Silvina’s admission was grudging, “Dunca is right. Your clothes are worn to the woof. Can’t have that. You’ll give the Harper Craft a bad name, wandering about in rags, however attached to them you may be.”

“Silvina, I . . .”

“Great shells, child, I’m not angry with you!” And Silvina took Menolly’s chin firmly in her hand and made her look eye to eye. “I’m furious with myself for not thinking! Not to mention giving that Dunca a chance to snipe at you! Only don’t go repeating that, please, for Dunca’s useful to me in her own way. Not that you talk much anyhow. Haven’t heard you put two sentences together yet. There now! What have I said to distress you? You just come along with me.” And Silvina took Menolly firmly by the elbow and marched her toward the complex of storage rooms at the back of the Harper Hall on the kitchen level.

“There’s been so much excitement these days, I haven’t any more wit about me than Camo. But then, every apprentice is supposed to come with two decent sets of clothing, new or nearly new, so it never occurred to me. And you having come from Benden Weyr, I thought . . . though you weren’t there long enough, now, were you?”

“Felena gave me the skirt and tunic, and they took my measure for boots . . .”

“And Master Robinton threw you a-dragonback before you could say a word. Well now, let’s just see,” and Silvina unlocked a door, flipped open a glow basket to illuminate a storeroom stacked from floor to ceiling with bolts of cloth, clothing, boots, hides made or uncut, sleeping furs and rolls of tapestries and rugs. She gave Menolly another appraising look, turning her from side to side. “We’ve more that’s suitable for boys and men from the Weaver and Tanner Halls . . .”

“I’d really prefer trousers.”

Silvina chuckled kindly. “You’re lanky enough to wear them well, I must say, and since you’re to be using an instrument, trousers will be handier than skirts. But you ought to have some finery, child. It does lift the spirit and there’re gathers . . .” She was sorting through folded skirts of black and brown, which she replaced disdainfully. “Now this . . .” and she pulled out a bolt of rich, dark red fabric.

“That’s too fine for me . . .”

“You’d have me dress you in drudges’ colors? Even they have something good!” Silvina was scornful. “You may not be proud in yourself, Menolly. In point of fact, your modesty has done you great service, but you will kindly consider the change in your circumstances. You’re not the youngest child in a family of an isolated Sea Hold. You’re an apprentice harper, and we”-Silvina tapped her chest smartly with her fingers-“have appearances to maintain. You will dress yourself as well as, and if I’ve my way, better than, those fumble-fingered females, or those musical midgets who will never be more than senior apprentices or very junior journeymen. Now, a rich red will become you. Ah, yes, this will suit you well,” she said holding the red up against Menolly’s shoulder. “Until I can have that made up, trous will have to do,” and she held up a pair of dark blue hide pants to Menolly’s waist. “You’re all leg. And here.” She shoved a pair of closewoven blue-green trousers at Menolly. “This should match the leather pants, and it does,” she said tossing to Menolly a dark blue jerkin. “Put that lot on the chest there and try on this wherhide jacket. Yes, that’s not too bad a fit, is it? Here’s a hat and gloves. And tunics. Now these,” and from another chest Silvina extracted breast bands and underpants, snorting as she passed them to Menolly. “Dunca was quite incensed that you’d no underthings at all.” Silvina’s amusement ended as she saw Menolly’s face. “Whyever are you looking so stricken? Because you wore your underthings out? Or because Dunca’s pried into your affairs? You can’t honestly be worried what that fat old fool thinks or says or does? Yes, you can and you are and you would!”

Silvina pushed Menolly backward until she sat abruptly on the chest behind her while Silvina, hands on her hips, regarded her with a curiously intense expression.

“I think,” said Silvina slowly, in a very gentle voice, “that you have lived too much alone. And not just in that cave. And I think you must have been terribly bereft when old Petiron died. He seems to have been the only one in your Hold who understood what’s in you. Though why he left it so long to tell Master Robinton I simply don’t understand. Well, in a way I do, but that’s neither here nor there. One thing certain, you’re not staying on in that cot. Not another night . . .”

“Oh, but Silvina-“

“Don’t ‘oh but Silvina’ me,” the woman said sharply, but her expression was mocking, not stern. “Don’t think I’ve missed Pona’s little tricks, or Dunca’s. No, the cot is the wrong place for you. I thought so when you first arrived, but there were other reasons for plunking you there at first. So we’ll take the long view, as should be done, and shift you here. Oldive doesn’t want you on your feet so much, and sure as Fall’ll come again, the fire lizards are as unhappy at Dunca’s as she is to have them. The old fool! No, Menolly,” and now Silvina was angry with Menolly, “it is not your fault! Besides which, as a full harper apprentice, you really haven’t anything to do with the paying students. Further, you ought to be near those fire lizard eggs until they hatch. So, you’re staying here in the Hall! And that’s the end of the matter.” Silvina got to her feet. “Let’s just gather these clothes, and we’ll settle you right now. Back in the room you had the first night. It’s handy to the Harper’s and all-“

“That’s much too grand a place for me!”

Silvina gave her a droll look. “I could, of course, move all the furniture out, take down the hangings, and give you an apprentice’s cot and a fold stool . . .”

“I’d feel better about it . . .”

Silvina stared at her so that Menolly broke off, flustered.

“Why, you numbwit. You think I meant that?”

“Didn’t you? Because the things in that room are far too valuable for an apprentice.” Silvina was still staring at her. “Having nine fire lizards is causing enough trouble. The room would be just grand, and if I’ve only the furnishings of any other apprentice, why, that’s proper, isn’t it?”

Silvina gave her one more long, appraising look, shaking her head and laughing to herself.

“You’re right, you know. Then none of the others could quibble about the change. But an apprentice’s cot is narrow, and you’ve the fire lizards to consider.”

“Two apprentice cots? If you have them to spare-?”

“Done! We’ll tie the legs together and heap the rushes high.”

Which is what they did. Without the rich hangings and heavy furniture, the chamber was echoingly empty. Menolly insisted that she didn’t mind; but Silvina said it wasn’t up to her because who was headwoman in this Hall? Hangings that Silvina had removed for shabbiness were recovered from storage, and Menolly was told that she could mend them when she had free time. Several small rugs were spread on the floor. A long table from the apprentices’ study (with a leg mended after being damaged in a brawl), a bench and a small press for storage gave the room some homeyness. Silvina said that the place looked heartlessly plain but certainly no one could fault it for not displaying an apprentice’s lowly state.

“Now then, that’s settled. Yes, Piemur, you were looking for me?”

“No, Silvina. It’s Menolly I’m after. For Master Shonagar. She’s dead late for her lesson.”

“Nonsense, there’re no regular lessons on a Threadfall day. He should know that as well as anyone,” Silvina said, taking Menolly by the arm as she started to leave the room.

“That’s what I told him, Silvina,” said Piemur, grinning from ear to ear, “but be asked me when had Menolly been assigned to a section. And, of course, I know she hasn’t, so he said that she’d have nothing better to do with her time so she’d better learn something constructive. So . . .” And Piemur shrugged his helplessness in the face of such logic.

“Well, girl, you’d better go then. We’re all settled here anyway. And you, Piemur, you pop over to Dunca’s. Ask Audiva, politely, too, you imp, to bundle up Menolly’s things . . . including the skirt and tunic Menolly washed today. What else did you have there, Menolly?”

Silvina smiled as if she knew perfectly well that Menolly was grateful not to have to return to the cot.

“Master Jerint has my pipes so there’s only the medicines.”

“Off with you, Piemur, and mind you make sure it’s Audiva.”

“I’d’ve asked for her anyhow, Silvina!”

“Bold as brass you are,” Silvina called after him as he scampered down the steps. “A good lad at heart. You’ve heard him sing? He’s younger than I like to have them in the Hall, but he does hold his own, rascal that he is, and where else should he be with a glorious treble voice like that? Planting tubers or herding the beasties? No, for such originals as Piemur and yourself, you’re better here. Off with you now, before Master Shonagar starts bellowing. We don’t really need a claxon with him in the Hall, so we don’t.”

Silvina had walked Menolly down the steps and now gave her a gentle shove toward the open Hall doors as she turned toward the kitchen. Menolly watched her for a moment, suffused by an inarticulate gratitude and affection for Silvina’s understanding. The woman wasn’t at all like Petiron, and yet Menolly knew that she could go to Silvina, as she had to Petiron, when she was perplexed or in difficulties. Silvina was like . . . like a storm anchor. Menolly, trotting obediently across the yard to Master Shonagar, smiled at such a seamanly metaphor for a landbound woman.

Master Shonagar did roar and bellow and carry on, but, buoyed by Silvina’s courtesies, Menolly took the berating in silence until he made her promise faithfully that whatever else happened to her during the morning hours, the afternoon was his. Otherwise he’d never make a singer of her. So she was to report to him, please and thank you, through Fall, fog or fire, for how else was she to be a credit to his skill or the Craft Hall that had been pleased to exhibit its secrets for her edification and education?