hoping to retrieve the roll. Petiron looked from one to the other and, for the first time in his dealings with his son, had a sudden perception.
“You’ – he waved the offending roll in his son’s direction -‘wrote these.”
“Yes …” Robinton had to tell the truth now, if never again. “As exercises,” he heard himself adding when he saw the deepening of the scowl on his father’s face. “Sort of variations …”
“Variations which all the Masters use in their classes. Variations which the instrumentalists constantly use. And twaddle at that, silly tunes that anyone can sing or play. Useless nonsense! Just what has been going on behind my back?”
“Since you have heard the Masters using Robie’s songs in their classes, and the instrumentalists using them, then nothing has been going on behind your back, has it?” Merelan asked calmly and
retrieved the roll from her spouse’s hand.
“He’s been composing?”
“Yes, he’s been composing. Songs.” She did not add that Petiron was looking at some of their son’s very early work. She hoped he did not remember how long he had been hearing his son’s charming, happy tunes. “Wouldn’t it be odd for him to be tone-deaf as well as note-blind in this Hall, saturated by music all the days of his life, and two MasterHarpers daily drumming sound into his head? I’d say it is only logical that he would write music and sing well. Don’t you?”
Petiron stood, looking from one to the other. He watched as Merelan rolled the songs tight and pushed them back into the box.
“You hide from me the fact that he has perfect pitch, has a good treble voice, and has been writing music?”
“No – one – has – been – hiding – a sharding thing from you, Petiron,” merelan said tensely, enunciating every syllable and using a swear word that shocked Robinton as much as it did his father, who recoiled from Merelan’s controlled anger. “You – simply – did not hear, and did not see. Now, act the father for once in your life, and carry this carton to the dormitory. It’s much too heavy for Rob.” She pointed at the burden and then at the windows to the dormitory that Robinton would be using.
Without a word, Petiron picked it up and made his way out of the room.
Robinton looped two more carisaks over one shoulder and took one step forward, but his mother, her head turned towards the hallway, held up her hand.
“Wait a minute, dear.” She turned back to him, her face drawn with sadness and despair. “I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have lost my patience with the man. But I can’t keep on saving his self-esteem, catering to his enormous ego, and always at your expense, Rob.”
“It’s all right, Mother. I understand.”
His mother reached out to caress his cheek – he was nearly her height now – shaking her head sadly, her eyes full of tears. “I’d be surprised if you really did, love, but it shows your good heart and generous spirit. Always keep that, Robie. It’s a saving grace.”
She let him go then and, though he didn’t see his father on the stairs or in the dormitory, the box was on the bed assigned him. He started unpacking, hoping that both the lump in his throat and the sense of having lost something important would go away before any of the other apprentices appeared.
There were twenty-six in his class, quartered in three long rooms: he was lucky enough to be in the six-man one, so there was a trifle more space. By evening, he’d met them all, and they had been vetted by the older apprentices. He kept a suitable expression on his face when the head apprentice, a tall well-built lad from Keroon named Shonagar, rattled off what was expected of first-Turn apprentices, how they were the “lowest’ of the “lowly’ in the Hall, and the traditions of their new status. He also told them about the necessity of spending a night alone in the Weyr to prove their bravery.
“Harpers run into all kinds of problems and difficulties. This isn’t just singing songs to folks in a hold in the evenings. It can be a dangerous life,” he said, thoroughly solemn, “and you have to prove, now, that you can take it.”