by Cyle Young
“But Papa, I didn’t make it. Can’t we just go home?”
Papa snapped back, “No son of mine is going to be a poor sport. We are gonna follow this through to the end.”
“Okay.” Avo dumped the rest of the wastewater out on the ground. “I’m sorry.”
* * *
The two walked through the city streets to the center of town. A menagerie of businesses lined the streets and people sold a wide variety of goods and foods. The capitol bustled with life and activity. Normally, Avo loved to come to Hiffendale and investigate all the unique wares imported from every corner of the Kingdom, but not today. He wasn’t in the mood to shop. He just wanted to go home—as soon as possible.
A large church sat on the far side of the town center. A pasture-sized area of cobblestone sprawled out before the ornate cathedral. A wooden stage erected for the ceremony stood at its center. The announcer stood behind a podium beckoning the onlookers to gather round, while Avo and Papa filed in with the crowd.
A man with a long, gray beard exited the front door of the marble church. A cheer erupted from the citizens lingering around the final selection event. The barrel-chested Lord Gundersop straightened his back and waved to the crowd, a big smile across his face. The aged lord walked to the platform in his brown fur coat. Avo watched intently, waiting to see a limp in his step. Lord Gundersop walked a few paces, then his leg hitched for a second, throwing off his stride.
Pointing, Avo looked to his Papa. “Papa, did you see that?”
“Did I see what?”
“The limp? I saw the limp. He’s limped ever since the Battle of the Fallen Timbers.” How could his papa forget? “Don’t you remember Papa?”
“Oh yes, I think I remember the story. Is that the one where Lord Gundersop led the Order of the Brown Bear in victory against a large Bogrin invasion?”
“Yes, Papa. That’s the one. Seven mud draka-riders defeated a whole army.” He loved hearing about that battle. Tovar used to tell him at bedtime, after Mama told them to blow out the candles. It was by far his favorite story. In the fields near home, he’d replayed this battle many times, but the sheep were never very good at playing along.
The lord squeezed into a high-backed wooden chair prompting the announcer to raise his arms. He motioned for the crowd to settle.
“Lord Gundersop, Mud draka-knight and Signeteer of Ol, takes great honor in selecting the first class of wavesons in cycle 1145. When your name is called please step forward to join your fellow wavesons and receive your selection purse as a reward.” The announcer proceeded to call the names of the top seven finishers. One at a time, each selected boy filtered through the crowd. They climbed the stairs to the stage, where a pair of mud draka-knights directed them to shake the lord’s hand. In response, the noble handed each boy a small cloth bag.
“What’s in the bag, Papa?”
“Each boy chosen as a waveson is given 500 gold by the lord.”
“Why?” His brother’s never mentioned the gold. He didn’t realize becoming a waveson would make him rich. That was more money than his family would make in twenty cycles.
One of the newly selected wavesons carried the bag from the lord and handed it to his parents. They waited for their son along with the other parents on the wing of the stage. Faces flushed with anticipation and tears, they embraced their boy.
“After this ceremony, the new wavesons leave in that wagon over there.” Papa pointed down the street just past the church. A covered wagon bearing the logo of the royal seal was hitched to a pair of horses. A group of city guards stood watch over a small group of rider-less horses. “They must say goodbye to their parents, and then ride on horseback to the waveschool in Durban. The 500 gold coins help the family defray the costs of losing their son in service of the kingdom.”
“You mean if I’m selected, I would never get to say goodbye to Mama? Why haven’t you ever told me this before?”
Papa snaked his arm over Avo’s shoulder and squeezed. “Your Mama and I try not to think about it. If it happens, we will deal with it then.”
“Why do they have to leave so quickly?”
“After the selection, the eight wavesons from here in the Eastfold join sixteen other wavesons, eight from the Westfold, and eight from the Greenfold.”
Excited, Avo pushed away and pressed, “And then they get their draka eggs?”
Papa shook his head. “No, once they get to the waveschool, they compete against each other in a series of challenges to establish a ranking. The highest ranked boy in the waveclass chooses the first draka egg in the choosing ceremony. The second-highest rank goes next, and the rest follow in order until there are no more eggs.”
It seemed too convenient that there would also be 24 draka eggs for the choosing. “Are there always twenty-four eggs?”
“No. Many times there are less than twenty-four.”
“What happens then?”
A loud cheer and a round of applause celebrated the first seven newly-selected wavesons.
The announcer waited a moment and then addressed the crowd again. “As per custom, each fold lord may exercise The Lord’s Privilege, and select the last waveson.” The announcer turned to receive a small paper from Gundersop.
Avo held his breath. He knew it would take a miracle, but he secretly waited to hear his name announced. Maybe the lord would choose him.
The announcer continued. “Fold Lord Gundersop will use his privilege and select, Amel Farkirk, as the eighth and final waveson.”
A cheer broke out from a small group of well-dressed spectators to the right. The dark-haired boy hugged his mother, a beaming smile overtook his face. Amel Farkirk strode toward the stage wearing an expensive crocodile-skin vest and matching boots. He shook the lord’s hand and then bowed to the audience.
Avo’s heart sank. He couldn’t believe it. He knew he was better than that boy. Of course it would be some rich man’s son.
“But Papa, it’s not fair,” Avo whined. “I beat Amel in half the events.”
“Son—” Papa wrapped his arm around Avo’s waist and pulled him in close for a light affirming hug. “—the eighth spot goes to whoever pays the highest. Usually it’s a noble or a wealthy merchant’s son. The lord gets richer off these selections. It’s big business. The Farkirk family owns the brewery and half the taverns in Hiffendale. They are very wealthy.”
He turned into Papa’s hug, while tears formed in his eyes. It’s not fair. Why did he have to be born a shepherd’s son?
“I am sure they paid handsomely to secure a spot for their boy. I am sorry my son. It’s not fair. Your brother Tovar placed eighth, but he was passed over because of the lord’s privilege.”
Tovar had explained it to him multiple times, but it never made sense to him then, and it doesn’t make sense to him now. A knot formed in his stomach the more he thought about it.
“Can we go home now?” He pushed away from his father’s embrace.
“Sure,” Papa smiled. “I know your Mama will be happy to see us return soon.”
They walked toward a livery where Papa had stored their donkey. Lost in thought, Avo traveled in silence.
Nearing the livery, he couldn’t help but wonder. “Papa, what happens if there are not enough eggs for all the wavesons?”
“Any waveson who doesn’t receive an egg in the Choosing suffers the Lacking. He is sent home, and his family must return 400 gold to the fold lord.”
Avo’s eyes went wide. “That would be awful.” He’d never heard this before. How often does this happen? What a disgrace on the family.
“I agree, son. Hopefully, you will never have to worry about that.”
About the Author
Cyle Young is a force-sensitive dragon rider trapped in the modern world. When he and his three muggle padawans aren’t racing chocobos, they search for a magical wardrobe or time stone that may help them return home before The Nothing, Skeletor, or Skynet takes over this dimension. Cyle credits his international best
seller status to his discovery of the One Ring to Rule Them All. He lives in the Midwest and can often be found lounging in his hammock beside a tranquil river. More at www.cyleyoung.com
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