And among my jolly songs, Ill have stronger meat.
Chuckling to himself at the prospect, Robinton picked up his stylus.
I must have a tender but intricate theme for Lessa. Shes legend already. Unconsciously the Harper smiled as he pictured the dainty, child-sized Weyrwoman, with her white skin, her cloud of dark hair, the flash of her gray eyes, heard the acerbity of her clever tongue. No man of Pern failed of respect for her, or braved her displeasure, with the exception of Flar.
Now a well-stated martial theme would do for Bendens Weyrleader, with his keen amber eyes, his unconscious superiority, the intense energy of his lean fighters frame. Could he, Robinton, rouse Flar from his detachment? Or was he perhaps unnecessarily worried about these minor irritations between Lord Holder and Weyrleader? But without the Dragonriders of Pern, the land would be sucked dry of any sustenance by Thread, even if every man, woman and child of the planet were armed with flame throwers. One burrow, well established, could race across plain and forest as fast as a dragon could fly it, consuming everything that grew or lived, save solid rock, water or metal. Robinton shook his head, annoyed with his own fancies. As if dragonmen would ever desert Pern and their ancient obligation.
Now a solid beat on the biggest drum for Fandarel, the Mastersmith, with his endless curiosity, the great hands with their delicate skill, the ranging mind in its eternal quest for efficiency. Somehow one expected such an immense man to be as slow of wit as he was deliberate of physical movement.
A sad note, well sustained, for Lytol who had once ridden a Benden dragon and lost his Larth in an accident in the Spring Games had it been fourteen or fifteen Turns ago? Lytol had left the Weyr to be among dragonfolk only exacerbated his tremendous loss and taken to the craft of weaving. Hed been Crafthall Master in the High Reaches Hold when Flar had discovered Lessa on Search. Flar had appointed Lytol to be Lord Warder of Ruatha Hold when Lessa had abdicated her claim to the Hold to young Jaxom.
And how did a man signify the dragons of Pern? No theme was grand enough for those huge, winged beasts, as gentle as they were great, Impressed at Hatching by the men who rode them, flaming against Thread, who tended them, loved them, who were linked, mind to mind, in an unbreakable bond that transcended speech! (What was that really like? Robinton wondered, remembering that his youthful ambition had been to be a dragonman.) The dragons of Pern who could transfer themselves in some mysterious fashion between one place and another in the blink of an eye. Between even one Time and another!
The Harpers sigh came from his soul but his hand moved to the sand and pressed out the first note, wrote the first word, wondering if he would find some answer himself in the song.
He had barely filled the completed score with clay to preserve the text, when he heard the first throb of the drum. He strode quickly to the small outer court of the Crafthall, bending his head to catch the summons; it was his sequence all right, in urgent tempo. He concentrated so closely on the drumroll that he did not realize that every other sound common to the Harpers Hall had ceased.
Thread? His throat dried instantly. Robinton didnt need to consult the timetable to realize that the Threads were falling on the shores of Tillek Hold prematurely.
Across the valley on Fort Holds ramparts, the single watchman made his monotonous round, oblivious to disaster.
There was a soft spring warmth to the afternoon air as Fnor and his big, brown Canth emerged from their weyr in Benden Weyr. Fnor yawned slightly and stretched until he heard his spine crack. Hed been on the western coast all the previous day, Searching for likely lads and girls, since there was a golden egg hardening on the Benden Weyr Hatching Grounds for the next Impression. Benden Weyr certainly produced more dragons, and more queens, than the five Oldtimers Weyrs, Fnor thought.