“Oh, go on, Rob. You’re safer with C’gan anyway. At least right
now. “
“Keep me posted how things are here, will you, F’lon? I know you can drum.”
He gripped the bronze rider’s arm in what he hoped expressed his sympathy and regret and then, picking up his carisaks, made his way out of the brightly lit area to the blackness of the Bowl – the silhouetted shape of C’gan’s blue Tagath, and the glimmering shine of sad dragon eyes, dotting the wall of the Weyr.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
His first act on returning to Benden was to search for Maizella and find out how Lady Hayara was doing. The girl looked almost as haggard as her stepmother had.
“She’s had a healer’s draught and will sleep her grief out,” she said. “And I’m about to take one myself. I still can’t believe what’s happened. Couldn’t there still be a chance they’ll emerge from between?”
Robinton shook his head. “The dragons would know. And they know that Chendith is no more. I’m so sorry, Maizelie.”
“I know you are, Rob,” she said, touching his arm. “And Raid’s taking charge,” she added with a touch of bitterness. “Could he not have waited until morning? Oh, he wants you on the Drum Tower…”
That was Robinton’s second act, sending out the sad report of the double tragedy. Raid had already composed the message and thrust it abruptly at Robinton the moment the harper reached the top of the Tower. As he got his wind back, Robinton read it.
Different temperaments responded to tragedy in different ways, he reflected. He did not, as Maizella evidently did, think that Raid was heartless and unaffected. Rather he was proceeding with what he had been trained to do: take over the Hold and do whatever that new responsibility required of him.
The Lord Holders of Fort, South Boll, Tillek and High Reaches, where it was only early evening, immediately drummed requests for dragons. There were messages later that long night from Telgar, Ista, Igen and Nerat as men were roused with the tragic news.
By morning, all the major Holds knew and had responded. And by morning, a stream of Benden holders started arriving, some with wine or food. The women went either to the kitchens to help or upstairs to the family, to express their grief. The harpers from the outlying holds arrived to relieve Robinton at the drums: his hands were swollen from constant use of the sticks and he could barely concentrate on incoming messages, much less reply confidently.
With the Tower manned, he collapsed for a few hours’ needed sleep and was roused when F’lon, looking pale and exhausted, woke him with klah and slabs of bread.
“I brought Faroguy in, with two of his family,” the bronze rider said. “They didn’t know I was S’loner’s son.” He gave a snort as he collapsed on the foot of the bed, slumping against the wall and nursing the hot klah on his chest. “You learn a lot more that way.”
“What more?” Robinton struggled to a sitting position. “Who came with Faroguy?” he asked, the mere fumes of the strong klah sparking his instincts.
“Oh, that nephew and the son.”
“Fax?”
F’lon frowned. “I think that was the name he said.”
Robinton swore under his breath. “Watch that one.”
“Oh, I intend to,” F’lon said, cocking his head, his expression fierce. “He doesn’t think much of dragonriders, and he doesn’t think much of harpers, for that matter.”
“I know. I would have thought he’d abstain.”
“Shards no! He was grinning from ear to ear. Although …” And now F’lon paused, knotting his brows. “I think that his coming was a last-minute addition. There were just Faroguy and his oldest waiting for me. Then Fax came rushing out. He was up on to Simanith before I could speak.”
Robinton continued to swear under his breath. He had no desire to confront Fax. He wondered how – and why – Fax had inserted himself into the group from High Reaches. He wasn’t a member of the Council of Lord Holders and Masters. He couldn’t vote on the matter of Raid’s suitability.
“Oh, I also picked up MasterHarper Gennell and Lord Grogellan from Fort. Gennell’s asking for you.”