Lady Hayara arrived, waddling awkwardly since she was nearly at the end of this pregnancy. “I was sure they would keep you overnight when you didn’t arrive at a decent hour,” she said as she accompanied them into the Hold and towards the main stairs. “You look exhausted … did it go well? You have a glow about you, you know. Do you need anything? I won’t go up the stairs with you today, I think.” She gave a breathy sigh and fanned her face with her hand. “I had hoped to be delivered on time this time …”
Commiserating with the Lady and assuring her that they were all right, Merelan led her son up to their quarters, her shoulders sagging only when they were out of Hayara’s sight.
“Singing like that certainly takes it out of one, doesn’t it?” his mother said as they entered their quarters. “Oh!”
They both saw the roll of a large message on the table, its origin obvious by the Harper-blue band spiralling its length. Her hand hesitated above the tube just a moment, but then she grasped it firmly and broke the seal as she seated herself. She pulled out a sheaf of music and spread it open. Robinton saw her face pale and her fingers shake slightly as she read the brief message attached to it.
“No, it’s not from your father.” She looked at the music before
finishing the note. “It’s from Master Gennell. Hand me my gitar, Robie.”
He uncased it instantly, surprised at her urgency. It was then that he realized his mother had not sung any of his father’s compositions in the Hold or in the Weyr. He knew that she was probably the only singer who could technically handle the difficult works Petiron wrote. Seeing her struggle a bit to stop the score from rolling up again, he planted his hands on the edges.
She struck the opening chord, paused to tune the strings slightly, and began again. halfway through the first page, she looked up at her son, confused and surprised.
“This isn’t at all like your father …” She peered closely at the script. “But it is certainly his writing,” she said, and continued playing the notes.
Robie followed the music, deftly shifting the pages from one to the next. He almost missed one turning because he too became touched by the plaintive melody, the minor chordings, the whole tenor of the music. As the last of the gitar notes died away, mother and son looked at each other, Merelan perplexed and Robinton anxious. He wanted her to like it, too.
“I think I can say,” she began slowly, “without fear of contradiction” – a little smile turned up the corners of her mouth – “that this is the most expressive music your father has ever written.” She wrapped both arms around her gitar. “I think he misses us, Robie.”
He nodded. The music had definitely been melancholic, where his father usually wrote more … more positive, aggressive music, full of embellishments and variations, with wild cadenzas and other such flourishes. Rarely as simple, and elegant, a melody as this.
And it was melodic.
She picked up Master Gennell’s note. “Master Gennell thinks so, too: “Thought you ought to see this, Merelan. A definite trend towards the lyric. And, in my opinion, quite likely the best thing he’s ever written, though he’d be the last to admit that.”’ Merelan gave a little laugh. “He’ll never admit it, but I think you’re right, Master Gennell.” She looked at her son. “What do you think, dear?
About the music?”
“Me?” Flustered, he didn’t know what to say. “Are there any words to it?”
“Why don’t you write some, dear? Then it would be a father-and-son collaboration. The first, perhaps, of many?”
“No,” Robinton said thoughtfully, though he wished with all his heart right then that there could be a chance his father would use words he had written. “I think you’d better add the words, Mother.”
“I think, my son, we’ll both work on the proper lyrics.” She ruffled his hair, her eyes sad despite the slight smile on her lips. “If we can find appropriate ones …”