Chap. 7 The Unmasking

Chap. 7  The Unmasking

The Craftsman requested to speak with the Weyrleader and B'rant, the Weyrling Master

A young teen stood by his side, nervously clutching a pack.

"My Lord, I apologize for being here so late. I'm a cheesemaker from the Lay River Crafthall. My son, here, was chosen on your last Search but didn't turn 15 until two

days ago. He's a good boy, sir, keen as a knife and hard working."

 The Weyrleader looked at B'rant with a big question mark on his face.

Was it going to hurt the boy's chances of Impressing on such short

notice?

B'rant, looked the boy over for several minutes, mulling the situation.

"Excuse me for a moment, please?" He turned and walked away,

re-appearing after a few minutes.

Turning his attention to the boy, he said, "It's not your fault that

you came of age so close to this Hatching. But you've missed several

weeks of preparation for Impression.  So, I'm going to give it to you

in one big mug that you must drink all at once. Are you ready?"

The boy nodded, solemnly. B'rant walked to a nearby table and

placed a small wooden box on it. The lid was engraved with a

beautifully carved dragon. He gestured the boy over and looked him in

the eye.

"I don't know of a boy or girl, a man or woman on this planet, that

wouldn't want to Impress a dragon. Everyone knows that you gain a

soulmate for life. Everyone wants that special bond.

Everyone wants that freedom to go anywhere on our world, in an instant.

But that freedom comes at a price."

Reverently, he opened the box and began removing dragon rider braids.

As he did, he spoke. "A dragon rider rides to fight Thread. It's a

dangerous job. Thread is mindless and yet seems to have a mind of its

own. It is relentless. It kills without mercy.

No matter how you prepare, or train, or plan, people-and dragons-sometimes die while fighting Thread. Weyrlings make mistakes."

 He placed a large handful of Weyrling braids down.

"Riders have accidents." He put down several rider braids.

 "Sometimes, no matter how many years he or she has been fighting

Thread, even Leaders lose."

 The last braid was that of a Weyrleader.

 "All these braids came from dragonriders who've died through

accidents, or by making mistakes, or by being scored by Thread."

Behind him, the father and the Weyrleader had their hearts in their

throats. Unseen by them all, Mariko had arrived, silent as the fog.

"There are things worse than death, though…sometimes, they DON'T die.

Sometimes only their dragon dies. Usually, the dragons' rider cannot

bear having his heart crushed and the flame in his soul snuffed out,

and he finds a way to follow his dragon. But sometimes the rider lives

on, broken into pieces, pieces like the shell his dead dragon came

from."

There wasn't a sound in the office. No one could move.

 "So, lad, I want you to think hard and carefully. It's not just the

joy of having a dragon, it's the lifestyle that you are choosing. Once

you Impress a dragon, you have set the pattern for your life. There is

no going back, no changing your mind, once you Impress."

 He picked up the braids, carefully, respectfully, and replaced them in the box.

 "If you decide that fighting Thread is not the life you want, there

is no shame. No one will ever accuse you of cowardice. No one.  If you

decide that you cannot take on that lifelong commitment, you will be

respected for who you are and what you make of yourself, as much as

any dragon rider."

"You must listen to your soul and accept what it says-and trust that

it knows what is best for you."

 All eyes were now on the boy.

"So, my lad, look into your soul. Listen to it, and it will tell you

what to do."

 The teen shut his eyes. The others, surreptitiously wiping their

eyes, stood in respectful silence, giving the boy time.  Finally,

after what seemed an eternity, he sighed and opened his eyes. Throwing

his shoulders back, he took a deep breath and said,

 "Sir, I want to be a dragonrider."

His father pounded him on the back in happiness.

Mariko, tears glistening in her eyes, approached the Weyrleader.

"My Lord, I beg your pardon for interrupting. I would discuss this

with the Weyrwoman but she's having to be in a dozen places at once.

May I have a word with you?"

The Weyrleader excused himself and took her aside to converse in private.

Smiling, B'rant sized the boy up with his Weyrling master's eye. He was

small, but that made no difference. In fact, on the right dragon, it

would be an advantage.

 "Alright, then, let's carry on. What's your name, son?" he said.

"Borost, sir."

 Shocked, B'rant thought, What?  Two Candidates with the same name?

That was a new one. He could see all sorts of troubles with

contractions, should both Impress.

"Odd, we already have a Borost."

The Craftsman's jaw dropped. The boy's face screwed up in indignation.

 "Do you know where he's from, this 'other' Borost?" he asked,

suspicion in his eyes.

 "Said he was a cheesemaker, just like you."

 "So that's where he went," the man said, nodding in sudden understanding.

The teen came to the same conclusion.

 "He stole my name. He stole my name!!"

 "I'm sorry?" B'rant asked.

 "Sir, my son here, IS Borost. I had an older boy, a foster, named

Betzil. He's been nothing but a burden from the start. Lazy, larcenous,

gluttonous, refused to learn a thing about cheese making.  I've never

had more misfortune than when I took him into my home. The same day

your Searchers were at my Crafthall, Betzil vanished. That same day, he'd raped one

of the drudges in my hall when she refused his advances. He also stole

some marks. We had the dogs out searching for him but he'd vanished.

Not sure how he got here, but there are plenty of riverboat men who'll take

passengers with money, no questions asked.

Is 'your' Borost about this tall, blond hair and brown eyes, with a gut

on him?"

"Yes, that fairly describes him. Has a chip on his shoulder the size

of a fellis tree."

Mariko thanked the Weyrleader and left. He returned to the small

group. B'rant told him what had just been discussed. Nobody had any

troubles making the connections.

"Seems to me, Crafter, that your troublemaker flew right to my Weyr. I

believe your Betzil is here and is planning on Impressing a dragon."

 __________________________________________________________________________

"Where have YOU been?" Kandar asked, drying off after getting out of the bath.

"What's it to you?" Betzil grumbled.

"Nuthin, just wondering. You look, no, you smell, like you've been

sleeping with the pigs."

Betzil turned, doubling his fists, and lunged at Kandar.

Kandar, relishing the chance to finally punish the bully, waited. But the attack was forestalled.

 "Perhaps you should reconsider your actions, Betzil," B'rants voice

boomed behind him.

 Betzil froze, shock, terror and then fury on his face. He whirled.

Behind the Werylingmaster was the Weyrleader, the Crafter and the real

Borost. And two very large men, bearing cudgels and chains.

"That's him, alright."

 "You stole my name! You pig! You stole my name!" If his father hadn't

restrained him, Borost would have attacked Betzil.

 "You didn't like sleeping in the kennels with the dogs?" the Weyrleader said.

 Betzil bolted, right into the men's arms. They were not gentle ones.