| |
THE ARCHED HALLWAY of the deserted castle dungeon was much darker than Pip had imagined. The stone path was cold and coarse beneath his bare feet. He tried to keep up with Gregory, but the older man was striding ahead at a determined pace.
“Wh-what are we doing down here—ow!” he asked as his toes caught on a gap and stumbled forward.
Pip grabbed his foot and hopped along behind the older man. His fingers stroked his big toe.
“This is your fault,” Gregory harrumphed. The castle caretaker and master custodian stopped to look at Pip.
Pip sighed. He knew the old man was right. He let go of his smarting foot and dragged himself towards the custodian.
The castle halls had not been the same since Pip received the custodial assignment at this year’s Naming Day. His life had become more complicated as well. There were always whispers amongst the staff and castle guards about some threat to the kingdom. He wished he could return to his quiet life on the outskirts of town. He missed his grandmother and her stories of ancient dragons and the lines of dragon masters from which they had descended. He missed her stories about how he was special, the third-born in the third generation of dragon masters.
He remembered the Naming Day Trials—roles assigned not by choice but by success in a series of events. Turned out, his skinny frame and scrawny hands were ill-suited for sword-wielding. His arrows flew untrue, somehow managing to fly into a fire and setting a hay bale aflame. And his attempts at magicka? He mixed up a concoction that not only exploded but left the surrounds in a permanent shade of amber.
He knew then that his grandmother’s stories had been pure fantasy. He was rather unremarkable in almost every way.
“You were the one that spilled the King’s chamber pot on Queen Symphonia’s baby gryphon, after all,” Gregory said. He resumed his deliberate pace, posture rigid.
Pip straightened himself and ran after his master; tears filled his eyes. “Please, don’t lock me away.”
Gregory grumbled. He relaxed his shoulders and shook his head, “Gods help me,” he mumbled. With a sigh, he continued, “What kind of kingdom would this be if we jailed every clumsy apprentice?”
“Bu—” Pip’s eyes were wide as Gregory stopped in front of a cell door. Its arch was twice as tall as Pip and the metal ring that acted as a handle was rusted with age.
Gregory shook his head. “We can’t have you getting clawed to death by an angry gryphon, now can we?”
He pulled the doors open and exposed a large chamber with oval stonework covering the floor.
Pip squinted and leaned forward to look inside.
“When I was young and nervous like you, the King sent me down here to work. There is naught but stone and petrified scale.”
“Nothing to break?” Pip asked nervously.
Gregory shook his head. “And no-one to harm.”
He gestured Pip inside, but the frightened young man hesitated. What if it’s all a trick?
“There are no locks on the door, boy,” Gregory grumbled.
Pip swallowed, nodded, and stepped forward. A song filled the cavernous room. The notes were faint at first, no louder than the scratch of a mouse in the walls. “What”—he looked at Gregory, but the custodian didn’t appear to hear anything—“is this place?”
“The chambers of the great dragon the first King slew two hundred years ago.”
Pip put his hand on top of one of the oval statues. The song erupted to full volume. The words, the language, were unknown to him. He jerked his hand back, and the sound settled back into a whisper. “Uh.” He put his hand back onto the statue.
The music was inspiring, like nothing he had heard from any minstrel.
“Petrified scale,” Gregory said, his voice faint under the sound of the tune. “It retains heat.”
Pip blinked at the man and slipped his hand into his pocket to reduce the urge to touch it again. “What are they supposed to be?”
“Dragon eggs.” Gregory shrugged his shoulders. “Or so I’ve been told, but never mind that fairy tale.”
Gregory handed Pip a thin cloth.
“The King asked for you to polish these dragon eggs.”
Pip raised his eyebrows. “Really?”
The caretaker narrowed his gaze. “I’m not one to play, my boy. The King aims for you to be a stable master someday. He can’t have you accidentally maiming the horses or killing the unicorns. A few months of work down here will settle your nerves.” He eyed Pip and added under his breath, “Besides, we have enough trouble with the treasons to have to deal with you on top of all that.”
The caretaker lowered his hand onto the top of an egg and rubbed. He lifted his palm. His hand was covered in soot, and for a second, Pip thought the egg had a glassy finish where he had rubbed.
“It took me years to master the polish,” Gregory said. “The eggs seem intent to retain the dust. As soon as you polish it, it reappears. When all of the eggs are polished in full, or when you can finally control your nerves, come see me. Not a second before.”
Pip put his hand and the polishing cloth to the egg and stroked it. The melody returned, loud and hopeful.
He didn’t even notice Gregory leave.
Pip polished the eggs over the span of days, weeks, months; he couldn’t even remember anymore. He languished over them, joined in their song, learned their words, took them deep within his soul. Before long, he seemed to be able to have entire conversations with the voices. He retold them all of his grandmother’s stories, and the stories of the castle guards about the impending war. In turn, they told him about the history of the kingdom and their dragon ancestors’ roles in creating it. They told him of their desire to join in that bold heritage and their need to see peace across the land.
Many months later, as war had broken through the castle gates, Pip stood at the entrance of the room and trembled. Blasts of magic and swordplay echoed into the chambers from above. He touched one of the eggs and was overwhelmed with a desire to set the incubating throng free.
He stepped through the room and patted each egg, called them by their names, willed them to be free.
They all responded to it with exuberant draconic chatter.
“I’m ready. Are you ready?”
“The world needs us.”
“Time. Time.”
“Let’s go.”
The room quaked. All around him Pip heard the flapping of wings. The eggs rocked back and forth. Tiny cracks grew and splintered into more. The first little white dragon emerged from its oval and happily flew around Pip.
“Bensvelk! Bensvelk! Bensvelk!” it cried.
“Hullo, Buhray!” Pip said, extending his quivering arm. The whelpling landed on his bicep and let out a tiny puff of glittery smoke. Pip laughed then coughed as it filled his lungs. His mind cleared and a kind of euphoria and steadfastness took its place despite hearing, feeling, the conflict in the castle above. Instead of cowering in fear, he straightened his back and relaxed his shoulders.
Dozens of whelplings smashed through their eggs, flying in circles around the grand room, singing and chattering in their tiny voices. “Yth letoclo! Sulta wer aryte, troth wer zaneunisal.” [We help! End the war, protect the kingdom.]
Determined and dauntless, Pip sprinted down the halls of the dungeon, up the stairs of the castle, and onto the castle grounds, his dragons following as if they were tethered to his shadow.
The King and his men were caught in a losing battle against the enemy forces. A flurry of wings echoed all around Pip. With a flourish of his hands and a spin on his heels, he sent his first suggestion out to the whelplings. In a simultaneous display, the dragons made a great circle and sent out puffs of glittery smoke, filling the fighters on the grounds with their magic.
The combatants dropped their weapons, their growls, and even their shoulders. In a scene Pip had never beheld before, the men and women lowered themselves to the ground and relaxed. Despite the chaos, the King remained where he stood, shoulders back and chest out.
“Pip, pip, pip,” the dragon whelplings sang.
“Oh, my dear boy,” the King said. “You confirmed what I had already suspected. With your dragons, you will begin an era of peace in our world.”
Pip squinted at the king. “Wha—?”
“You’re the third born in the third generation of dragon masters, and your dragonkin are the purest bastions of light there is.”
The whelplings sang, “Master, protector, friend.”
Pip’s eyes grew wide, and a smile spread across his face. Their joy was his joy, and suddenly for the first time in his life, he understood his place in the world.
––––––––
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: MELONY R Boseley is a writer of both fiction and nonfiction. She was born in Texas but migrated to Australia in 2006. She now resides in Queensland with her husband, an Aussie bloke, and her two dogs and two cats. Her writing can usually be found on her blog at melonyboseley.wordpress.com. Her work can also be seen in two anthologies, titled Sensorially Challenged Vol 1 and 72 Hours of Insanity, and a creative nonfiction piece on Sammiches and Psych Meds. She is currently working on a middle grade fantasy book.
