The Song of the Six

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. The sorcerer’s oligarchy saw to that. With stolen magic they’d siphoned from the eld wyrms they’d murdered through despicable betrayal, they built their power over the centuries until they had enough to depose the world’s benevolent masters. They constructed their stronghold there in the Valley of Carrador, hunkering down in darkness and deceit, with a triad of ancient drakes imprisoned to feed their insatiable desire for power. Shielded from retaliation while draining the land of all magic through their three captives, they hoarded every trace of it for themselves.

In these dark times, it is said, one day the sorcerers will fall, and that their reign will come to an end. That dragonkind will rise again to reclaim their rightful place and restore order and magic to all. But those are only whispers behind hands and wishful dreams of children who huddle in bed at night, for the dark collective has ruled for two hundred years and none have dared challenge them.

The oligarchy is all.

Long live the dragons.

~~~

Ella ran up the stone steps to the dining hall, the weight of the silver platter in her arms making her shoulders ache, minute adjustments to her grip easing one muscle while straining the next. Never mind the rumbling of her hunger at the heady scent of the steaming meat she carried. She'd be fed with the rest once her job was done. The single time she'd tried to sneak a bite for herself, she'd paid for it with bruised fingers and a solid beating she'd limped through for three days.

A hard lesson, but she knew her place, at least, whether she liked it or not. Ella squashed her momentary flare of rebellion at the injustice, toe catching the lip of the next step and almost sending her sprawling. Terror replaced anger as she righted herself, the tray's contents still intact if slightly off-kilter.

Sullen resentment would get her nothing but another round of punishment. Best to put her head down and carry on.

She paused at the top of the narrow staircase, blowing a stray bit of hair out of her face, composing herself before she pushed through the heavy wooden door to the room beyond. The masters hated it when she showed any sign of effort. It was hard for her to control, her pink cheeks overly freckled prone to blotchiness under duress now sheened with sweat, heavy red curls barely contained in the thick leather strand the head cook wrapped it in to try to keep it from flying out everywhere.

“Mind you serve Master Julis first,” Marta reminded her as Ella accepted the overburdened platter of roasted meat in her arms, fingers curling around the front edge of the silver to secure it before she spun and headed out for her next delivery. “He’ll have you thrashed if you don’t!”

Ella knew that well enough, had enough of the lashings in her short lifetime to do her, thank you very much, so the moment her brown sandal touched the stone floor of the dining hall, she beelined immediately for the massive puddle of magic and might who crouched like a bloated goartoad in the giant chair at the head of the table. Not that she’d call him such out loud, of course, though his pale, round face and muddy green eyes sunken so far into the folds of his cheeks only accentuated the reference in her estimation.

She curtsied, head down as was proper, noting a stain on the front of her dress she hadn’t seen before while fighting off a shiver of worry he might notice that she’d tipped the platter just a bit too far toward her and spilled some of the juice on herself.

To her good fortune, he didn’t even look at her today, fork making aggressive work into the pile of meat, four hearty slabs disappearing in a wink.

“Save some for the rest of us, Julis,” Master Rubo snarked from the other side of the table, his wrinkled face an old apple of lines and valleys under a thatch of white hair, looking tiny inside his heavy black robes, a skivmole of a man who seemed out of place in this grand chamber of polished stone and towering portraits lined in gold.

“There’s more where this came from,” Julis snapped back. Ella almost moved away when he paused but held her ground. She’d made that mistake before and learned from it. While she might only have been elevated to server a fortnight ago, she’d been lessoned quickly—and painfully—in what to do and what was utterly unacceptable to the circle of men who indulged themselves at the dinner table. And while the opportunity had been an excellent one for someone of her station, it had come with a learning curve she had to learn quickly or suffer the consequences.

She was tired of suffering.

“Tell me it’s not stotebeast again.” Master Unger rolled his bulging eyes, pudgy hands heavy with rings waving her over. He always complained about the food but never failed to take his share, his awkwardly round self dubbed a tartortoise in her mind.

“Better than gosowl,” Master Miner said, thin nose in the air, sniffing at the platter, tiny eyes magnified by the round glasses perched in front of them. His giant teeth and overlarge ears had fired Ellas’s imagination and assigned him as a mirehare. And while granting each of the powerful sorcerers animal counterparts might have been considered, at the very least rude and the very worst foolhardy, it gave her something to focus on when their wrath came down on her.

She’d been right to wait, the master choosing yet another two slices before waving for her to carry on. She spun and made her offering to the next in line, Master Kalus more skeletal in contrast, who took his time selecting a single slice while her arms trembled from the delay. It took her a bit to decide he was a skycrane, something she settled on last eve, and was now positive of the perfection in that choice.

Small amusements helped her tolerate her new position and as long as she kept them to herself, what was the harm?

“Less talk about food,” the last of the diners said, Ella looking up from under her lowered lashes as Master Bolivar took his share, slicked black hair forming a point at his brow, dark eyes languid, long face pale and made even more so by the thick mustache that curved down to his chin over his thin lips. While Ella found it easy to assign creatures to the other masters, Bolivar always made her so uncomfortable she’d never been able to pin him down.

“Oh, do sod off, Bolivar,” Unger grumbled.

“You’re making nothing from nothing,” Rubo agreed, smacking his lips as he slurped up a slice of roast.

“And yet,” Bolivar said, waving Ella off, “we can all agree that any whisper of dragons is cause for concern, and worthy of investigation.”

Ella stumbled. She didn’t mean to, caught herself quickly, jaw tightening and terror in her heart one of them noticed. She’d be beaten for sure if they’d seen, but her stumble was understandable.

Dragons? Did he say dragons?

“There are always rumors,” Julis grunted, heavy arm lifting to wave in Bolivar’s direction, that weighty limb falling with a dull thud a moment later to the arm of his chair. The whole thing trembled from the blow despite its heavy solidity. “There will always be rumors.” The others muttered in agreement, all but the narrow-eyed Bolivar. “If you want to look into it, fine. Do so. But I’ll hear no more talk of dragons,” he snarled that word like it was poison he’d found in his food while Ella quivered in delight, “at this table.”

More agreement, louder this time. Bolivar shrugged elegantly, sitting back, steepling his hands in front of him. “As you wish,” he said. In a tone that made Ella’s joy turn to a shiver.

She’d meanwhile returned to Master Julis and wasn’t surprised when he then emptied the remainder of the meat from her tray. Her aching arms and back breathed a sigh of relief even if she wasn’t able to until she was out of their sight. She curtsied and spun, heading back to the door and the kitchen, the towering, black-armored soldiers flanking it still making her nervous. So, it wasn’t until she was on the other side of the door she stopped, sagging and gasping for air in lungs that didn’t seem to work very well, and excitement she was surprised to find made her heart race.

“Dragons,” she whispered to herself, a secret delight to say that word out loud. Before drawing a breathless inhale at her audacity. She’d grown up on secret stories of the fabled creatures, old wives’ tales told in the quiet dark after children were supposed to be in bed. The mere mention in earshot of the sorcerer's guards, however, was grounds for beatings, imprisonment, or worse. And yet, that lovely, single word blossomed inside her, promising hope and magic and a healthy and happy land where life was good, and the people prospered.

She sighed then, shook her head at her foolishness, setting off at the sound of footsteps heading up toward her. If she was caught dilly-dallying, she’d be thrashed and she’d had enough beatings since she’d been chosen to serve to last her a lifetime.

Still. Dragons. Could it be true, like the legends said, one day they’d return?

Likely not, and yet. Why did the mere mention make her heart sing?