“Yes, sister dear,” Kasia said, beaming on her intended. “He’s been friends with F’lon, bronze rider of Simanith, ever since he and
his mother spent a winter at Benden Hold.”
“Really? How useful.”
“You wouldn’t mind a dragonrider?”
“Who could possibly be so dense as to ignore that sort of a connection?” Juvana asked parenthetically. Robinton thought of Fax. And he had occasionally encountered the notion – from men who knew little beyond their cotholds – that the Weyr and the dragonriders were an encumbrance, maintained long past their usefulness.
“I’ll see if F’lon is willing. I think he might like to come to the espousal.”
“I think my parents would very much enjoy coming a-dragonback,” Juvana said wistfully. “Is it as exciting as I’ve heard.”?”
Robinton was quite happy to give her a full accounting of his various trips a-dragonback.
He and Kasia enjoyed the next two seven-days, until they were separated by his duties as the Turn moved into summer, fair weather and long days when the journeymen had to travel to the outlying holds to make sure the Teaching Ballads were being correctly taught and sung. Mumolon and Ifor envied Robinton his smooth-paced Ruathan runner, so he volunteered to take the furthest assigned sweep.
“If I can travel faster and more smoothly than you can, it’s only right for me to go further,” he said, grinning. It also meant longer distances, which he could use to work on his sonata. He had done no more than the opening measures so far, and the music was plaguing him.
“You won’t get a protest from me,” Mumolon said.
“You’ll learn, you’ll learn,” Ifor teased him. “Days more away from the lovely Kasia, though.”
Robinton controlled the spurt of rage he felt, reminding himself that, with his intentions announced, his claim to her affections would no longer be challenged. So he made his lips smile and sloughed off the irritation … and retired to his room to write a few more measures of the music that wouldn’t leave his head.
Before he left, he had an ecstatic and very long letter from his mother, delighted by his news, asking for a sketch of Kasia and so many details that, laughingly, he suggested that Kasia had better answer. Which Kasia immediately did, including a sketched portrait which Marlifin was able to do for her. Master Gennell sent felicitations and thought he would accompany Merelan, to be sure she made it safely to Tillek Hold. Kasia’s parents, Bourdon and Brashia, expressed delight in her upcoming espousal and readily accepted the possibility – though Robinton was still waiting for an answer from F’lon – of a quick and safe transfer to the west coast.
At last F’lon sent a drummed message that he would be there -with whoever needed conveyance.
After a loving and reluctant farewell to Kasia, he set his runner on the north-eastern route, up to the Piro River which separated Tillek from High Reaches Hold. From there he headed across the plateau into the highlands and down the Greeney River to the sea in the corner of Tillek and Fort. There was a rapidly expanding series of holds along the Greeney River, some so new that the hard-set was still drying – or so the longer-established holders said with grins. That tour took him most of the summer and into the cooler nights and shorter days of the autumn. Occasional runner notes from Kasia sustained him. And each evening he faithfully recorded his doings to be returned, often by the same runner.
He was very grateful when he reached the apex of his journey, a hill holding right below the High Reaches border. He stayed four days, teaching the children, who were at first very shy with him but warmed as he taught them the ballads and sang them the humorous songs with which he had relaxed many a nervous student. On his final night Chochol, the holder, had taken him – and a skin of the rough white Tillek wine – to see the two moons rise, and then unburdened his mind to the harper.
“Once, twice, maybe, Harper,” Chochol said in his rough voice, pitched low so that not even the herd-beasts grazing near by could hear what he said, “I would not worry. Anyone can come to a disagreement with his Holder. But there have been eight lots and they arrive scared of their shadows. Wounded, and the pretty ones have been badly handled.” He paused, indicating with a nod what he wouldn’t say about their condition. “Badly handled.” He emphasized the repetition with a second sharp nod. Then he pointed down the hillside, which was grassland with a few stunted trees. “Twice’ – he held up two thick, work-callused fingers – “the women were sure that Lord Faroguy must be dead for such things to happen in High Reaches.