| Copper skin is weathered, rough over the taut height of cheekbones, scorched darker across the narrow bridge of long, aquiline nose. Lips, thin and disapproving, are the color of cinnamon, and set angrily over sharp square chin. Faint crow’s-feet are at the corners of her narrow, slanted eyes, their irises black as her pupils, and the hard glint frozen in their dusky depths. Age, though an earlycomer to her, has begun to till the stubborn black waves of her hair, making long gray furrows from her temples. Dry, parchmentlike, copper skin continues over the heavy bones of her frame, over long slim fingers with bulky joints and thin bony shoulders. Narrow hips and long strong legs boost her to a height of 5’7. Stark and austere, harsh and demanding--this is Khuraute. Khuraute wears a no-frills white canvas shirt, durable and absorbent, with three-quarter length sleeves. An undyed leather vest, thin and soft from use, drapes down to her hips, where a broad black belt drapes asymmetrically from right hip to left thigh. Her pants are of a light, loosely woven linen, cut off at the calf, and are colored dull ochre. Narrow, callused feet are bare, but a pair of soft leather shoes dangle by their laces from her belt. Khuraute is on the shady side of thirty-five. “You! Boy! Where is the Weyrwoman?” Weyrhealer Terin of Dark Moon Weyr arched an eyebrow at the rough voice of the SeaCrafter, and slowly pivoted to face her. A tall, leggy woman of around forty Turns—maybe less—was staring imperiously at him, black eyes daring him to ignore her. She had a death grip on a sleek, driftwood-gray cane, its handle an elegant maze of scrimshaw work. “I need to see the Weyrwoman,” repeated the woman, gritting her teeth. Her knuckles were white around the cane’s head. Terin sighed. “She should be in the council room, miss…” “Khuraute. SeaCrafter Khuraute. Where’s this council room?” Khuraute sighed as the young man rolled his eyes, and another wave of dizziness shook her. She swallowed painfully, lips thin. It was shameful that a SeaCrafter lose her balance like this—as if the land were rocking, and she was a landlubber herself. Grimly determined, she followed the young Healer as he led her into the bowels of the Weyr. Finally, he opened a door and gestured her through. “The Weyrwoman should be here, SeaCrafter Khuraute.” The Weyrwoman, who was rather young and, in Khuraute’s opinion, entirely too pretty for her own good, was seated at a table with an Archivist at her side, going over the records of the Weyr. “What can I do for you?” Azala inquired politely, marking her place in the book and gently closing it. “Ma’am,” she started, and coughed. “Weyrwoman, all my life, I’ve been plagued with dragons. Dragons talking in my head, and dragons dropping out of the sky to take me away. I never went with any of the Searchriders, because I still had the ocean, and I love the sea far more, I think, than I could love a Weyr. They were still asking after me long after I Turned thirty, but I always told them no.” Khuraute leaned forward on the table. “And then, not too long ago, I started falling. Falling out of the rigging, falling when I got out of bunk, even falling on deck, with the sea a millpond all over. It wasn’t long until I was falling on dry land. The Healers at the Seahold say it’s something wrong with my inner ear, and I don’t know what that has to do with anything, but I have no balance, and I get real dizzy sometimes. If I can get out into the breezes, ma’am, it tends to help.” Earnestly, black eyes meet the Weyrwoman’s hazel. “I can’t be on the sea anymore, Weyrwoman Azala. I’m a liability there. But if the dragons still want me, I’m game. You can’t fall off with fightin’ straps, and there’s plenty of breezes when you’re flying. I hear that it’s a green-clutch this time, and that’s good, because I’m not fit to be in such exalted ranks as you, ma’am. But I want to help, and if you will, please, lady, let me Stand.” She waited, breathing heavily, for the Weyrwoman’s reply. A moment stretched to eternity…what would her answer be? Azala smiled, slowly, brilliantly. "You may Stand as you wish, Candidate Khuraute." Eyes bright, Khuraute took a breath and bowed, solemnly, heedless of the roaring in her ears. Crow's-feet crinkled, and the severe mouth pulled in an incredulous smile. "My thanks, Weyrwoman Azala," she said softly, and it was enough. |
| Khuraute |
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