Theran wanted absolutely nothing to do with this horrible place that the Thlarknians called "School." He didn't care to learn how to read, and he certainly didn't want to learn about the so-called glorious history of the nation of Thlarknia. Least of all he did not want to learn magic, and yet they made him do that too.

He looked at himself in the mirror with disgust as he stared at the grey jacket and pants they made him wear as a uniform. The fabric was itchy, uncomfortable, constricting. Back home he usually wore nothing more than his leather hunting pants, and he hardly ever wore anything on top. The long sleeved jacket felt consuming, and he hated it.

They're trying to make me one of them, he thought. But they will not succeed.

He entered a room that smelled of dust and boredom. Several boys his own age, wearing the same clothes but lighter in coloring, stared at the board with glazed-over looks. None of them noticed his entrance. None of them except for one.

"Well what have we got here?" one of the boys asked. He was a tall and intimidating Thlarknian, who looked well-fed as many of The Enemy were. He had smoothely placed blonde hair and grey eyes who stared at him as if he were some sort of filth that needed to be exterminated as quickly as possible.

"Byron, leave him alone, he didn't do nothing to you," said a girl, whose coloring was even paler than Byron's.

"Stay out of this, Ryssa," Byron replied. "You're one of those Easties, ain't ya?"

"I am from Clan Drakken," he replied, standing his ground.

"Yeah whatever, you're still one of the easties with your voo-doo rituals and crazy customs causing all of that trouble. That's probably why you were sent here."

"I was defending my people!" Theran shot back for what felt like the fifty millionth time.

"So you could continue living in your scum-pit in peace? It's probably a good thing you were caught, Eastie."

The bully pushed Byron backwards, but he wasn't about to fall victim so easily. Theran hit him back, causing the overstuffed pig to fall backwards over a desk. The other students in the class laughed, after which Byron, climbing back to his feet, gave them all a dirty look of warning. At that moment, a grey old man who looked like he had absolutely no color whatsoever in his hair, eyes, or flesh, entered the room. The others quickly stood beside their desks, and Theran figured he had to do the same. Byron gave Theran a dirty look, which he quickly returned. He realized he'd been here hardly ten minutes and already he'd made his first enemy. Then he reminded himself that they were all his Enemy. Byron had just proven that point. Oh yes, this School thing was going to be a joy.

School, however, didn't turn out to be quite so bad as he thought it would be. It was boring, certainly -- his mind had been much more stimulated back at home in the village when he was learningthe ways of the Drakkens. But the stuff they learned at Thlarknian school was, though he loathed admitting it, especially to himself, quite interesting.

He didn't know how to read at all, which placed him immediately at the back of the class. Most of the other students laughed at him, saying "How sad, the Eastie is fifteen and he doesn't even know the alphabet ... tehee."

He did his best to ignore them, reminding himself that they were The Enemy and therefore their opinion didn't matter. Learning how to read was difficult, but he found he enjoyed it once he got the hang of it. Not all of the works of the Thlarknians were bold declarations of their own glory. There were stories of kings and dragons and ordinary people, people who lived an existence quite different from Theran's own, yet in many ways quite the same. It was fascinating, and he enjoyed it. Reluctantly.

In another sense he felt as though he was being brainwashed slowly. He wasn't supposed to like this. He was supposed to hate every minute of it and just serve his time in this hell hole so that he could go home and pretend that none of this had ever happened. But he was learning things. And he liked learning things. But they were forbidden things. Evil things. Thlarknian things.

Worse than reading and math was magic. The Drakkens had an innate fear of magic unless it was natural magic, and even thn it was supposed to be used sparingly, reverently. The Thlarknians, on the other hand, used magic fo everything. They used magic to do things that Theran would have never even thought of. They had projectors that would show important political speeches from all over the world, and magic to create special effects in bards' songs and the plays they put on, magic to cook their food, even magic for little children to play with. It all seemed extremely extraneous to Theran, and yet at the same time it had an exciting edge to it. He liked magic. And he was good at it.

He wished that his mother were here to scold him. She would put him straight, he knew. She would tell him that he had better get out of there because they were filling his head with poison, giving him dangerous ideas. He tried to resist these dangerous ideas, but The Enemy was good. Too good.

And yet he couldn't stop thinking, why did this magic have to be evil? Why, when there was so much good that could come of it? Because it went against nature, it went against the way of the Drakkens. But did it have to? Nature was in itself magical. So why could magic and nature not coexist harmoniously? It was a strange idea. A revolutionary idea that many people would hate him for. The Thlarknians would laugh at him, he knew, and his friends back home would cast him out as a blasphemer. But the idea kept growing in his head, and soon it all but consumed him. He loved learning the magical arts, and learned that he hardly ever had to use Thlarkmet -- he could simply draw from his own reserves of magical power.

But was he really a blasphemer, a traitor to his people, for doing this? Were they actually brainwashing him with all of the pretty colors and fireworks? Could he not fight back? He could, but he wasn't sure he wanted to. His people always lived in fear. No matter what it was, they feared it. Theran didn't want to be afraid anymore. But he didn't want to be a traitor, either. He was confused, and depressed, and became even more secluded than before.

Frazni seemed to encourage his magical training, and even seemed to be quite pleased with it. If the sacred drakeling liked it, did that mean it was okay? It was really hard to tell. For the most part, he trusted his drakeling's judgement. But he supposed it wasn't impossible that his companion was being brainwashed, too.

Then the dragonriders came to the school for an educational demonstration.

Dragonriders were the epitome of everything that the Drakkens feared and despised. Dragons were sacred, powerful beings, meant to be left alone. The magestorms were the will of nature, meant to be tampered with. The Fall of Darkness had been a sign from the gods that the dragonriding needed to end. These were all the things that he had been taught his entire life.

Yes, he thought, And it was also Nature's Will that Bryony was killed in the magestorm that day. Gods forbid that there be any dragonriders to save her from Nature's Will.

Theran suppressed the thought quickly. Ever since that aweful day, it had taken great will power not to obsess over the painful memories, and he was not about to start now.

The dragonriders seemed like such noble people upthere on their magnificent dragons. The dragons seemed happy with their riders, and his lessons in history class told him that when humans arrived on Cyrna the draconic society was crumbling and they had been reduced to a near extinction after a great war that had nearly shattered the world. The bond of human and dragon had saved both of Cyrna's sentient races. But was this truth, or just more brainwashing?

"You look troubled, lad," one of the dragonriders, an older silver haired man with nevertheless youthful blue eyes, said to him. He sensed that this man belonged to the silver-black dragon whom he'd been admiring -- and all at once fearing. He also carried an intricately carved harp under his arm, made from the same wood as the desk in the office he'd visited on his first day in Thlarknia. For some reason, Theran sensed that this man would never disrespect Sacred Nature, even if he was a Thlarknian. For no reason whatsoever, he felt like he could trust him.

"Dragons are magnificent," he said, "And so are dragonriders. But I think ... maybe ... they are forbidden."

"You're from the Eastern Tribes," the rider said with an air of infinite wisdom and understanding, but not the same condescending air he had picked up from most other Thlarknians.

He nodded. "I do not want to turn traitor. I feel I am being brainwashed. But what can I do? Perhaps my people are the ones who are wrong. I am very confused."

"I can tell from your clan braid. You are Drakken. The Drakkens are, in general, a good People. They are tenacious and they never give up and they prefer peace but are not afraid to fight. They give dearest Mother Nature the proper respect she deserves which could never be said about my own people." He laughed, and then continued, "But their one great flaw is that they are afraid all the time. They are a terrified people, and attack everyone who is alien to them, good or bad. They fear magic because magic is change. And they would rather accept things the way they are than improve them. You do not have to betray your people to follow your dreams. Just remember that the Drakkens are a good, proud people, but no nation is perfect. Thlarknia most certainly isn't, and I can still find myself perfectly loyal to my homeland while still singing of nature and moondust and dragons and elemental magic and all sorts of things my people might crucify me for. But that does not make me any less Thlarknian. Just as you admiring dragonriders -- or even becoming one -- would not make you any less a member of Clan Drakken."

Theran nodded, wanting desparately to believe that this man was right. His words sounded so nice to hear, but he was a bard, that was how it was supposed to work. He suddenly realized that he couldn't stay here anymore. He had to leave Thlarknia. But go where? He wasn't sure he wanted to go back to the village, not now, not after all he'd learned. He still felt a great loyalty to his people, but he was not certain that they would feel any obligation whatsoever to remain loyal to him. He had nowhere to go.

He just knew he had to leave, and leaving he was, without even bothering to catch the name of the old bard/rider who had given him such profound advice. He left the school, and headed down the path into the forest, having no clue where he was going, just knowing that he needed to get out, needed time to think.

"My oh my, who are you?" someone asked, and he saw a woman standing next to a beautiful silver dragon.

"What?" he asked. "Oh, I'm Theran," he said, thinking I thought all the dragonriders were back at the party.

"I am Aislinn. Where might you be headed?" the woman asked.

"Nowhere," he replied, quite honestly.

"Well good then," she replied with a smile. "As long as you have no place to go, you might as well come with me."

"Come with you where?" he asked, suddenly confused.

"To Draco's Inferno Weyr," she replied. "There's a clutch on the sands and the eggs are this close to bursting and you'd be a wonderful candidate so if you'd please come along..."

Slowly it dawned on Theran. "You wish for me to become a dragonrider?"

She nodded. "You have a strong magical talent. I think you'd do very well bonding a dragon."

He sighed. His mother would disown him for sure if he did this. But ... being a dragonrider might be the answer to what he wanted. Frazni chirped in enthusiasm, completely amenable to the idea. He could defend his people and maybe even teach them that not all change was bad. He could fight magestorms, show them that life could be better without them. He could avenge Bryony's death. It was a difficult decision, and he wondered if he was about to make the right one. But it was the words of the bard-stranger which made his mind up.

"All right," he said, "I'll do it."