Petiron had been her friend, her ally and mentor. She had sung from the heart as he’d taught her: from the heart and the gut Had he heard her song where he had gone?
She raised her eyes to the palisades of the coast: to the white-sanded harbor between the two arms of Half-Circle Hold. The sky had wept itself out in the past three days: a fitting tribute. And the air was cold. She shivered in her thick wherhide jacket. She would have some protection from the wind if she stepped down into the cockpit with the oarsmen. But she couldn’t move. Honor was always accompanied by responsibility, and it was fitting for her to remain where she was until the burial barge touched the stones of Dock Cavern.
Half-Circle Hold would be lonelier than ever for her now. Petiron had tried so hard to live long enough for his replacement to arrive. He’d told Menofly he wouldn’t last the winter. He’d dispatched a message to Masterharper Robinton to send a new Harper as soon as possible. He’d also told Menolly that he’d sent two of her songs to the Masterharper.
‘Women can’t be harpers,” she’d said to Petiron, astonished and awed.
“One in ten hundred have perfect pitch,” Petiron had said in one of his evasive replies. “One in ten thousand can build an acceptable melody with meaningful words. Were you only a lad, there’d be no problem at all.”
“Well, we’re stuck with me being a girl.” “You’d make a fine big strong lad, you would,” Petiron had replied exasperatingly.
“And what”s wrong with being a fine big strong girl?’* Menolly had been half-teasing, half-annoyed.
“Nothing, surely. Nothing.” And Petiron had patted her hands, smiling up at her.
She’d been helping him eat his dinner, his hands so crippled even the lightest wooden spoon left terrible ridges in the swollen fingers.
“And Masterharper Robinton’s a fair man. No one on Pern can say he isn’t And hell listen to me. He knows his duty, and I am, after all, a senior member of the CrafthaH, being taught up in the Craft before him himself. And I’ll require him to listen to you.”
“Have you really sent him those songs you made me wax down on slates?” “I have. Sure I have done that much for you, dear
child.”
He’d been so emphatic that Menolly had to believe that he’d done what he’d said. Poor old Petiron. In the last months, he’d not remembered the time of Turn much less what he’d done the day before.
He was timeless now, Menolly told herself, her wet
cheeks stinging with cold, and she’d never forget him.
The shadow of the two arms of Half-Circle’s cliffs fell across her face. The barge was entering the home harbor. She lifted her head. High above, she saw the diminutive outline of a dragon in the sky. How lovelyl And how had Benden Weyr known? No, the dragonrider was only doing a routine sweep. With Thread falling at unexpected times, dragons were often flying above Half-Circle, isolated as it was by the bogs at the top of Nerat Bay. No matter, the dragon was awing above Half-Circle Hold at this appropriate moment and that was, to Menolly, the final tribute to Petiron the Harper.
The men lifted the heavy oars out of the water, and the barge glided slowly to its mooring at the far end of the Dock. Fort and Tillefc might boast of being the oldest Sea-Holds, but only Half-Circle had a cavern big enough to dock the entire fishing fleet and keep it safe from Threadfall and weather.
Dock Cavern had moorings for thirty boats; storage space for all the nets, traps and lines; airing racks tor sail; and a shallow ledge where hulls could be scraped free of seagrowths and repaired. At the very end of the immense Cavern was a shelf of rock where the Hold’s builders worked when there was sufficient timber for a new hull. Beyond was the small inner cave where priceless wood was stored, dried on high racks or warped into frames.
The burial barge lightly touched its pier.
“Menolly?” The first oarsman held out a hand to her.