Anne McCaffrey: Dragonsinger

Menolly opened it, carefully brushing aside the warm sand that covered the precious fire lizard egg. It was harder, but not much more so than when she had given it to the Masterharper at Benden Weyr the previous evening.

“It’s fine, Master Robinton, just fine. And the pot is warm enough, too,” she said, running her hands down the sides. She replaced the sand and the top and rose. “When we brought the clutch back to Benden Weyr two days ago, Weyrwoman Lessa said it would take a sevenday for them to hatch, so we’ve five days more.”

The Harper sighed with exaggerated relief. “You slept well, Menolly? You’re rested? Awake long?”

“Long enough.”

The Harper burst out laughing as she realized how much chagrin she’d put into her tone.

“Long enough to set a few people by the ears, huh? My dear child, did you not notice the difference in the chorus the second time? Your fire lizards have challenged them. Brudegan was only gruff with surprise. Tell me, can your fire lizards improvise descants to any tune?”

“I don’t really know, Master Robinton.”

“Still not sure, are you, young Menolly?” He didn’t mean the fire lizards’ abilities. There was such kindness in his voice and eyes that Menolly felt unexpected tears behind her eyes.

“I don’t want to be a nuisance…”

“Allow me to differ both to statement and content, Menolly…” Then he sighed. “You’re overyoung to appreciate the value of nuisance, although the improvement in that chorus is a point in my argument. However, it’s much too early in the morning for me to expound philosophy.” He guided her back into the other room, quite the most cluttered place she had ever seen and in direct contrast to the neatness of his bedchamber. While musical instruments were carefully stored on hook and shelf in cases, piles of record skins, drawings, slates—wax and stone—littered every surface and were heaped in corners and against the walls of the room. On one wall was a finely drawn map of the Pern continent, with smaller detailed drawings of all the major Holds and Crafthalls pinned here and there on the borders. The long sandtable by the window was covered with musical notations, some of them carefully shielded by glass to prevent erasure. The Harper had set the tray on the center island, which separated the sandtable into two halves. Now he pulled a square of wood to protect the sand and positioned the tray so he could eat comfortably. He smeared a thick slice of bread with soft cheese and picked up his spoon to eat his cereal, motioning with the spoon for Menolly to seat herself on a stool.

“We’re in a period of change and readjustment, Menolly,” he said, managing to speak and eat simultaneously without choking on food or garbling his words. “And you are likely to be a vital part of that change. Yesterday I exerted an unfair pressure on you to join the Harper Hall… Oh yes, I did, but you belong here!” His forefinger stabbed downward at the floor and then waggled out at the courtyard. “First,” and he paused to swallow klah, washing down bread and cereal, “we must discover just how well Petiron taught you the fundamentals of our craft and what you need to further your gifts. And…” he pointed now to her left hand, “…what can be done to correct that scar damage. I’d still like to hear you play the songs you wrote.” His eyes fell to her hands in her lap so that she was aware of her absentminded kneading of her left palm. “Master Oldive will set that right if anyone can.”

“Silvina said I was to see him today.”

“We’ll have you playing again, more than just those pipes. We need you, when you can craft songs like those Petiron sent me and the ones Elgion found stuck away at the back of the harper’s shelves in Half-Circle. Yes, and that’s a matter I’d better explain…” he went on, smoothing the hair at the back of his neck and, to Menolly’s amazement, appearing to be embarrassed.

“Explain?”

“Yes, well, you obviously hadn’t finished writing that song about the fire lizard queen…”

“No, I hadn’t actually…” Menolly felt that she was not hearing his words properly. For one thing, why did the Masterharper have to explain anything to her? And she’d only jotted down the little tune about the fire lizard queen, yet last night… Now she remembered that he’d mentioned the song, as if all the harpers knew about it. “You mean, Harper Elgion sent it to you?”

“How else would I have got it? We couldn’t find you!” Robinton sounded annoyed. “When I think of you, living in a cave, with a damaged hand, and you hadn’t been allowed to finish that charming song… So I did.”

He got up, rummaged among the piles of waxed slates under the window, extracted one and handed it to her. She looked at the notations obediently but, although they were familiar, she couldn’t make her mind read the melody.

“I had to have something about fire lizards, since I believe they’re going to be far more important than anyone has yet realized. And this tune…” his finger tapped the hard wax surface approvingly, “…was so exactly what I needed, that I just brushed up the harmonics, and compressed the lyric story. Probably what you’d’ve done yourself if you’d had the chance to work on it again. I couldn’t really improve on the melodic line without destroying the integral charm of… What’s the matter, Menolly?”

Menolly realized that she’d been staring at him, unable to believe that he was praising a silly tune she’d only scrawled down. Guiltily, she examined the slate again.

“I never did get a chance to play it… I wasn’t supposed to play my own tunes in the Sea Hold. I promised my father I wouldn’t…so you see—”

“Menolly!”

Startled, she looked up at his stem tone.

“I want you to promise me—and you’re now my apprentice—I want you to promise me to write down any tune that comes into your mind: I want you to play it as often as necessary to get it right…do you understand me? That’s why I brought you here.” He tapped the slate again. “That was a good song even before I tampered with it. I need good songs badly.

“What I said about change affects the Harper Hall more than any other craft, Menolly, because we are the ones who effect change. Just as we teach with our songs, so we also help people accept new ideas and necessary changes. And for that we need a special kind of harpering.

“Now, I still have to consider Craft principles and standards. Especially in your unusual situation, the conventional procedure must be observed. Once we’ve dispensed with the formalities, we can proceed with your training as fast as you want to go. But this is where you belong, Menolly, you and your singing fire lizards. Bless me but that was lovely to hear this morning. Ah, Silvina, good morning and to you, as well, Master Oldive…”

Menolly knew it was impolite to stare at anyone and looked away as soon as she realized that she was staring, but Master Oldive required a long look. He was shorter than herself but only because his head was awry on his neck. His great lean face tilted up from its permanent slant, and she had the impression of enormous dark eyes under very shaggy brows taking in every detail of herself.

“I’m sorry, Master Robinton, have we interrupted you?” Silvina paused on the threshold indecisively.

“Yes, and no. I don’t think I’ve convinced Menolly but that will take time. Meanwhile, we’ll get on with the basics. We’ll speak again, Menolly,” said the Harper. “Go along with Master Oldive now. Let him do his best, or his worst, for you. She must play again, Oldive.” The Harper’s smile as he gestured to Menolly to follow the man implied complete faith in his ability. “And Silvina, Menolly says the egg’s safe enough for four or five days, but you’ll please arrange to have someone—”