Sofia
SOFIA
AGES 8 TO 10
The three types of dragons, while all born of the great mother Quelia, varied based on the areas in the realm they lived. The dragons of the sea were known for their bright white scales and pale blue feathers, which blended in with the ocean surf. The cenote dragons were a pale silver along their scales with deep blue feathers lining their spines and necks. Lastly, the mountain dragons, needing to navigate the rocky peaks were a dark silver and black in their scales with pale silver feathers. While every dragon was unique in their exact powers and strengths, the great mother blessed the dragons with the ability to manipulate the waters of Wueco, from the sea and rivers to the water in the very air. There were even accounts of dragons able to pull the energy from the moon and stars themselves, creating fire in the sky and bringing it crashing down onto the earth.
- In Praise of Dragons and Monsters by Maria Nunes
T he day after was whipped for her fight defending Mina, Ms. Garcia pulled her off latrine duty completely. She was shown around the second floor of the manor and handed a bucket of caustic liquid and strips of fabric made of a nicer material than the dress she wore. Ms. Garcia decided that hiding her away alone in empty rooms was a safer option than trying to get her to cooperate with the other staff members. learned to scrub, shine, and polish, and new muscles were left aching at night as her shoulders and forearms continued to grow and strengthen.
Her duties left her with an independence that she savored and a silence she thrived in. There was no partner to watch her, no Liza to tell her she was doing it wrong, and no Mina to worry over. As long as her rooms along the second floor were scrubbed clean by the end of the day, was given her coins and left to run home. And it was this independence that led to a new type of freedom within her small world.
The library was on the second floor, a large room tucked behind two heavy mahogany doors with intricate carvings of beasts that were only whispered about at night. Dragons . But it was the wonders behind these doors that truly stole ’s attention. She’d seen a few books scattered throughout the house or glimpsed in the doors of Dereyan homes, but behind those heavy doors was a world worth of books.
They lined every wall. Shelves stretched across the room holding even more books, creating secret nooks and shadowy corners. The shelves seemed to tower over her, mythical creatures in and of themselves that might swoop down and eat her. The first few days of cleaning in the room, she tiptoed cautiously around, ready to flee if need be, but over time she became more comfortable with the feel of the rag sliding across the wood shelves, and she’d take a moment to run her fingers along the leather and paper of the books. Some spines were drawn with gold and others worn down to nothing but a bit of torn parchment. Some had symbols that she only vaguely recognized from the few times she’d seen the king’s tongue written down. Others were written in symbols she recognized with a thrill from a single time when she was five cycles old.
She’d found an old children’s book tucked at the bottom of her mother’s trunk, nearly falling apart with age. She had begged her mother to read it to her, but her mother had only gone pale and given her an hour lecture about privacy and responsibility. She’d burned the book in their hearth in front of that night, face pale and eyes watery, but lips pressed in a firm line.
It had been written in dragon-tongue. The king had never been able to eradicate the language completely, too many Dragonborn unable to pick up the smooth consonants of the king’s tongue. He’d ordered all writings in the original language turned over to the crown and destroyed. Perhaps it hadn’t been purposeful; it made it all the more easy to ban Dragonborn’s reading and writing a few cycles later. And over the cycles, generation by generation, even the spoken language was dying—fewer and fewer Dragonborn parents teaching it to their children, preferring they learn the king’s tongue to better blend into society.
But craved knowledge. She craved to know what secrets the books whispered in their pages, tucked between the covers. Her mother’s book hadn’t just been the small scratched symbols. There had been beautifully painted landscapes and colorful animals couldn’t have dreamed up. Would these books look the same?
It took her two weeks to gain the courage to slip the first book off the shelf and open its pages. It was thick and heavy and had the king’s tongue written across the spine. She was disappointed to see the black and white pages with not even a single picture amongst the small symbols. But then she found another book, thinner and covered in colorful art and only the occasional letter. The pictures were of various trees, and after a while she understood what symbols went together to say tree . And then leaf. And bark. Her world expanded, blooming like the midnight flowers that glowed at sundown.
Each day, as she wiped the dust from the library shelves and shined the windows until the sun filtered through gleaming and bright, she looked at the spines of the books and learned. She found the small stack of children’s books in the corner, seemingly forgotten, and she looked until she understood. She read. She devoured.
When she was done with the children’s books, memorizing the tales of the Dereyans—with their trolls and goblins that only the king and his men could defeat—she moved on to the other books. She found those without pictures and those written by her people, translated into the tongue of the king. Stories of Dragonborn men and women who fought the creatures of the rainforest, men who protected their families and their tribes, women who could defeat the darkest of faeries. And for the first time, she saw all of the things her parents only ever whispered about behind closed doors.
* * *
Once she’d memorized every faerytale story she could get her hands on, moved to books on medicine and hunting and geography. The Dereyans, despite their distaste for the nature of Wueco, had cataloged much of the land, including the plants and animals that resided just outside the wall. It was in these books she learned about shifters, ciervados , and weeping willows. They were the things out of her faerytales, but they were written down and measured out on these pages like a scientific study. They were written on the same pages as drawings of mushrooms labeling which were poisonous and which tasted best cooked in oil.
She might have gone to her parents and asked the questions that spun through her mind had this been a normal world where reading was encouraged instead of punished. Instead, she could only absorb the words on the pages, trying to understand everything.
Perhaps it was why she didn’t notice when the library lock clicked and the door opened with the soft woosh of air. The moment the heel of a well-polished boot hit the wood floor in front of her, though, her head snapped up, eyes wide and stomach dropping with dread.
The chief commander—head of the king’s army and master of the house—towered above, looking down at the book in her hands and the words scrawled across the pages. She was on a chapter detailing the specific trees that made up the mangroves southwest of the city.
Maybe if the pages she was looking at had had some drawings across their faces, she could have gotten away with punishment for her sloth. But when her eyes met his above the pages, staring into their black depths, she knew that he knew. She had been reading—a charge worthy of losing her job and her freedom.
Her entire body tensed up, waiting for the blow that was sure to come. She swore she saw the twitch of his fingers against his thigh loosening and clenching as the two of them stared at each other in silence.
But he didn’t lash out. Instead, his hand reached forward, palm up and she followed his silent instructions, placing the book in his grip before she stood, head bowed.
“Come with me,” he said, voice as cold as his eyes. She followed, eyes tracking his feet as she walked. She expected him to bring her to the kitchens where Ms. Garcia would dole out her punishment. Or he’d just throw her into the prison himself. But they went down the hall a few paces. He waved her in when she hesitated outside his office door. She looked up again, meeting his eyes but unable to understand what he was asking of her. His face was blank and he only pushed her, a hand on her shoulder until she was forced to step into the room.
“Sit,” he said, moving around his desk and easing himself into his large chair. She took the only chair on the other side of the desk, an ornately carved thing that left her feet dangling several inches from the ground. The cushion was soft and she sank into it before she made her muscles go rigid. “What’s your name?”
She knew from faerytales that giving one’s name was a risky thing—an act of trust and an exchange of power. But she didn’t have a choice.
“, sir.” Her eyes were tracing the wood grain of the desk. She wondered if someone could tell what type of tree the wood came from by the pattern.
“Who taught you how to read?”
Her eyes flew up and met his. She knew the question behind that one and quickly shook her head.
“No one, sir. I taught myself. My parents don’t know.”
“You taught yourself how to read?”
“Yes, sir. I swear it.”
“How old are you?” He was examining her like a specimen.
“Ten, sir.”
“And do you know the punishment for being caught reading?”
Despite the shake in her hands, she held his eyes as she spoke the words. “The labor farms.”
He nodded, giving her a look somewhere between approval and pride. It made her stomach twist.
“How would you like to continue working here? To not go to the farms?”
Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped before she could control her face.
“I won’t even punish your parents for allowing your crimes.” He said the words warmly, as if they weren’t part threat. She dug her nails into the skin of her wrist, picking at the skin there as she tried to pull her face into something neutral. “I need an assistant. Someone to help me with copying letters, tracking my schedule, and cataloging my books.”
She stared blankly, not understanding how his statement applied to her but he was staring expectantly, a pale eyebrow raised in question.
“Me?”
“If you’re stupid, tell me now.”
“No, sir. Yes, I can do that.”
He leaned back, nodding and still inspecting her more than looking at her. “Good, then all we need to do is talk about punishment.”
Her stomach dropped. “Punishment?”
“I can’t let you get away with your crimes without any form of punishment.”
“Sir?” She hated how small her voice sounded.
“A finger, I think,” he said, nodding to himself. “A finger seems a fair price to pay.”
And perhaps it was.
But as walked home that night, her hand throbbing beneath the bandage, she wondered if it would be the last punishment she faced for daring to think.