“Well, the misbegotten runner got me into the ditch; it was up to me to get out.”
The phrases caught Robinton’s attention: “Got into, get out!” Notes began once more to spin in his head.
He didn’t get the rest of the tune until much later, but it was a start, and he was grateful to be able to think music again.
Although he had spent some time with his mother’s family on the west coast, this part of eastern South Boll was quite different, with land sloping down into fine beaches and piers thrust far out to where the water was deep enough to accommodate the fishing boats. He even forced himself to go out to sea in Matsen’s sloop, though it was five times the size of the sloop he and Kasia had sailed. But he made another step forward out of grief by doing so.
Tactful questioning of Karenchok elicited the information that Laela was her own person, beholding to none. She gave her favours where she would, and Karenchok was grateful for her generosity.
So was Robinton, although he winced when she boldly claimed that she would lift the sadness from his eyes. It annoyed her that she couldn’t – though she tried often enough during his winter stay at the SeaHold.
Just after turn’s End at the SeaHold, a dragon was spotted in the skies. The children Robinton was teaching at that moment could not contain their excitement: it wasn’t often that dragons came this far south. As Robinton shielded his eyes from the brightness of the
morning sun on the water, he tentatively spoke the name.
“Simanith? Is that you?”
It is, and there was such a note of joyfulness in the dragon’s voice – so like F’lon’s – that Robinton grinned.
“What is it? What brings you so far away from Benden?” Robinton asked.
You. We’ve been to the Hall. They told us you were here.
F’lon was half-off Simanith’s neck before the big bronze had touched the sand of the beach.
“I’m a father, Rob, I’m a father!” F’lon shouted, waving one arm and charging up the strand to thump the harper soundly on the back. He had a wine-skin thrown over the other shoulder. “A son!
Lama gave me a son!”
“Lama? So you did get her!” Robinton had to dismiss the pang in his heart. Kasia had been alive when he’d first learned about
F’lon’s interest in the grown-up Lama, who had been such a plaguey nuisance to Falloner, the boy.
“Dismiss your class, Rob,” F’lon ordered. “Off you go, children!
Class again tomorrow.”
Robinton had to laugh at the dragonrider’s high-handed way, but F’lon’s exultation brought smiles to the fishmen mending nets on the strand. Robinton hurriedly introduced F’lon to Matsen and the others, and then led his old friend to the cot he shared with Karenchok.
“A fine strong lad, just like his sire,” F’lon boasted, splashing wine into the cups Karenchok hastily set out.
“Don’t waste this,” Robinton said, having had a taste of the white wine that was being so liberally poured. “It’s Benden, isn’t it?”
“What else would I provide to toast the health of my first son?” F’lon demanded, and he quaffed his glass dry.
It was a merry time, though all too short because F’lon was anxious to return to Benden and his child.
“I gather Lama did forgive you for pushing her into the midden, then?” Robinton remarked after listening to F’lon’s ravings.
The dragonrider gave him a startled look. “I never pushed her into the midden. That was Rangul. R’gul, I should say. That isn’t where he’d’ve liked to push her, but I’ – and he slapped his chest proudly – “got her as weyrmate, not R’gul.”
“I’m sure she’ll be happier with you,” Robinton said, remembering what a stuffy child Rangul had been.
“Of course she will,” F’lon replied. Finishing his third, or maybe fourth, glass of wine, he decided he had best return to the Weyr,
Lama and his son. “I’ve named him Fallamon.”
“A fine choice for a dragonrider-to-be.”
“Bronze, of course,” F’lon added as he waved a cheerful goodbye to Karenchok.
“He came all the way from Benden Weyr to tell you that?” Karenchok asked, hobbling to the doorway to watch the drug-onrider depart.