If he had thought the days after his spouse’s death were bad, those he endured while his mother slowly lost all strength, and finally the breath in her body, were worse. Without discussing it, either he or Petiron was with her, Robinton playing her songs, even the humorous setting of “Got into, get out of,” which made her smile and even chuckle. Petiron played for her too: music seemed to soothe her.
It was Ginia who roused Robinton from an uneasy sleep before dawn three days later. “The end is near.”
He threw on pants and shirt and followed her, filled with dread.
The end was unexpectedly peaceful. He held one of Merelan’s hands and Petiron the other, and she managed a feeble smile and a press of her gaunt fingers. Then she sighed, as Kasia had done, and was still. Neither man could move. Neither wished to relinquish the lifeless hand he held.
It was Ginia who gently unwrapped their fingers and laid first one hand, then the other across her frail chest.
Petiron broke first, sobbing bitterly. “How could you leave me, Merelan? How could you leave me?”
Robinton looked up at the man who was his father and thought that Petiron was taking Merelan’s death as a personal affront. But Petiron had been possessive of her all her life. Why should he change at her death? And yet, Robinton felt immense pity for the man.
“Father …” he said, rising slowly to his feet.
Petiron blinked and looked at his son as if he shouldn’t be there.
“You must leave. She was all I ever had. I must be alone with her in my grief.”
“I grieve, too. She was my mother.”
“How can you possibly know my pain?” The older man clutched at his chest, fingers digging into fabric and flesh.
Robinton almost laughed. He heard an inarticulate sound come from Ginia and held up his hand to answer for himself.
“How could I possibly know, Petiron? How can you say that to me? I know far too well how you must feel right now.”
Petiron’s eyes widened and he stared at his son, remembering.
Then his sobbing renewed, his spirit so devastated by Merelan’s death that Robinton, moving without thought, came round the bed and took his father in his arms to comfort him.
Petiron never wrote another note of music. Merelan had been his inspiration. Her death altered him as she could have wished he had altered during her lifetime. He and Robinton never became friends, but Petiron grew easier in his son’s company. Master Gennell remarked on how much grief had mellowed the man. The apprentices and journeymen studying composition might not have agreed, for he was as difficult as ever to satisfy, but none of them could fault the depth and knowledge he was able to drill into their heads.
Master Gennell took up where Minnarden had left off in Tillek Hold, bringing Robinton on in his Mastery studies. Gennell worked him ruthlessly on Charter clauses and mediation techniques, had him read endless accounts of arbitration and Conclave proceedings.
Such intense study, and Gennell turned into a drill master as exacting as Petiron, was a good way to distract a heart that was grieving, and Robinton was truly grateful to his Master.
Robinton was resident in the Hall when Betrice died of a sudden failure of her heart. So he was able to help Master Gennell deal with that loss. The entire Hall felt it, from the youngest apprentice to Petiron; and Halanna, now a sedate and plumply happy spouse and mother, put in an unexpected appearance.
“I owe that woman a great deal,” she said. “Almost as much as I owed your mother, Master Robinton.” She gave him an odd glance out of the corner of her eye. “In spite of what a nasty child I was then, it was those two who finally stuffed some sense in my conceited head. May I sing for her, with you? And for merelan? I’ve always kept my voice going, you know.”
“I didn’t know, but I’m glad you have. My mother would be pleased,” Robinton replied and he meant it.
So Halanna sang the music Petiron chose for the occasion, and her voice was warmer and more expressive than it had ever been while she had trained at the Harper Hall. In fact, it was such a fine voice that Master Gennell, once he had dried his eyes, wistfully commented that it was a shame there were so few women training at the Harper Hall these days.