Falloner intercepted the ball from Hayon’s hopeful hand and lobbed it neatly through the hoop, catching it deftly and returning to the white line to toss again.
Robinton ignored all that, keeping his eyes on the rapidly disappearing V of dragons.
“Better get used to seeing “em in the sky, or you’ll never get a turn at goal ball,” Falloner said on their way back to the classroom after their recess.
“I suppose, you’re used to it,” Robinton said, “but to see them like that, the way the music says – well, that was special to me.”
Falloner gave his friend an odd look. “Yes, I guess it would be.
Just like you singing as good as any harper I’ve ever heard is a surprise for me. Say, let’s scare the watchwher!” He grinned from ear to ear.
Robinton stared at him. “But you’re weyrbred.”
“So what? They’re not dragons, and it’s good fun to see how loud you can make it so’ Falloner never finished that sentence, because Robinton head-butted him to the dirt and then flopped down on his chest, holding a fist in readiness.
“I don’t let watchwhers get teased, not at Fort, or the Hall, or here!” he said in a loud and forceful voice. “Say you won’t?” And
he cocked his arm further, ready to strike.
“But it’s not hurting them …”
“If they scream, they hurt. Promise?” “Sure, whatever you say, Rob.” “You mean it?” “On my hope of riding a dragon!” Falloner said fervently. “Now let me up. I’ve a stone digging in my ribs.”
Robinton gave his friend a hand up and then brushed him off.
“Just don’t let me catch you breaking your word.”
“I gave it to you!” Falloner said in a surly tone. “Don’t know what’s got into you.”
“I just don’t like to hear them scream.” Robinton gave a convulsive shake. “Goes right through my ears and down to my heel-bones. Like chalk on a slate.”
“It does?” Now Falloner gave himself a shake at the thought of that sound. “Doesn’t me, but …” He held up his hands defensively as Robinton made a fist again. I’ll keep my word.” He shook his head, though. Robinton’s unexpected behaviour was beyond his comprehension.
There were, of course, other teachers at the Hold to cope with the basic reading, writing and figuring which all children were obliged to learn before their twelfth year. After that, they would take up apprenticeships to whatever Hall their inclination suited them, or go on in their family Hold’s work. With a large Hold like Benden, there were enough pupils to be divided by age and ability. But all had their hour of daily musical training with the MasterSinger.
Without ever calling attention to the assignment, Merelan had her son teaching some of the younger children their scales and how to read music, since he was actually well ahead of whatever Falloner and Hayon had learned from the Hold’s previous harper.
Robinton never minded such duties. He liked seeing the little ones learn more quickly because he knew exactly how to get them to do it – the way he had with Lexey. In the privacy of their own quarters, his mother tutored him at his own pace and encouraged him to use one of the instruments when he was composing. For he still wrote music. He couldn’t not write. Tunes, especially when he saw dragons in the sky, just pushed against his temples until he had to put them down. And, accustomed as he had become to not mentioning this activity, no one – not even Falloner – knew that the songs merelan was teaching them had been composed by Robinton.
“This isn’t like the Harper Hall, Robie,” she explained carefully the day before she introduced the first of his melodies, “where everyone knows you. I don’t want to put you at a disadvantage. Do you understand what I mean?”
Robinton thought a moment. “Yeah, Maizella would go all tissy about having to sing something I wrote.” And he made his grin as understanding as he could. “Can we tell her someday, though, Mother?” he added wistfully.
She ruffled his hair. “I can promise you that, my love. When it seems auspicious.”