CHAPTER EIGHT
Robinton didn’t know what his mother wrote in her reply to Master Gennell, but she did explain to her son that she had to serve out her contract with Benden Hold. She also wanted to give C’gan, the Weyrsinger, more training. He was musically sound enough, but needed to develop more confidence in his harpering. She would also insist that a good, voice-training harper be assigned to Benden Hold when apprentices walked the tables to journeyman status this summer. Benden deserved the best there was.
“For a variety of reasons,” she said. “However, I think we’ll bring Maizella back with us to the Hall. She’ll profit more from working with various Masters now that she’s learned the basics.” She gave one of her enigmatic smiles. “She can sing with Halanna.”
Robinton’s opinion wasn’t asked, but he would have much preferred a longer term at Benden Hold – and not just because of his friendship with Falloner, Hayon and the others. He didn’t really want to go back to the Harper Hall, even if-when an excited Maizella started quizzing him about his home – he suddenly missed his friends there, even Lexey.
Maizella’s parents were delighted to think that the MasterSinger even suggested the idea for their daughter. That was after Lady Hayara gave birth to another son.
“I’d have preferred another girl,” she admitted to Merelan when
she and Robie dutifully visited her. “It’s so much easier just to marry them off suitably than have to worry about all the rivalry among boys to succeed. I mean, I know that Raid will make a good Lord Holder but …” And she never finished her sentence.
Falloner had spent one evening explaining to Robinton why it was better to be in Weyr or Hall because, if you were a male in line for succession in a Hold, you had to guard yourself against jealous brothers and cousins.
“But don’t the Lord Holders all get together in one of their Councils and decide?” Robinton asked, and got a snort for his ingenuousness.
“Sure, they decide, but it’s usually the strongest one they pick, the one who’s survived long enough to present himself as a candidate.
Mind you, at the Weyr there’s some scheming and displaying when there’s a queen to mate.” A shrewd look came over the weyr lad’s face. “But no one dies, of course, because dragonriders can’t fight to-the-death duels, and a real smart rider can make certain his
bronze gets the queen ahead of the others.”
“How?”
Falloner gave him a patient look. “There are ways, there are ways! That’s how my father beat out all the other bronze riders when Feyrith rose the last time. Carola wanted C’rob in her weyr, but Spakinth wasn’t as clever as Chendith. Not by half, he wasn’t.
And Feyrith’s clutch by Chendith was much larger than her last one by Spakinth.”
“I thought the Weyrleader stayed Weyrleader …” Robinton mentally reviewed all the songs he knew about dragonkind.
“Only as long as his dragon flies the queen,” Falloner said, shaking his head.
“I wish you could come back to the Harper Hall with me,” Robinton suggested shyly.
“No way,” Falloner said. I’ll be back at the Weyr. I don’t want to be away too long, you see.”
“Why? There’re no eggs on the Hatching Ground – and besides, you’re not old enough yet.”
“Only another Turn to go,” Falloner said, as cocky as ever. “Not that it hasn’t been great getting to know you, and your mother’s terrific. She’s made sure I’ll be more visible now.”
“Visible?” It seemed to Robinton that Falloner would do better to
efface himself instead of getting into so much trouble that he had to be sent away from the Weyr so the Weyrwoman would calm down. Robinton never did find out what his friend’s offence had been.
“Yes, I can help C’gan now that I can read and copy music -almost as well as you can.”
“You learn quickly,” Robinton said generously.
“I have to,” Falloner said, quite serious, “if I’m to be Weyrleader in the next Pass. C’mon, I’ll help you finish packing. You’ve sure got more than you came with.”
“Everyone’s been very kind to me,” Robinton admitted.