Page 14 of The Ballad of the Last Dragon

Chapter Fourteen

“ I ’ll have another ale,” Cadoc calls out with a wink. Jaromir dutifully ignores him in favor of studying his cards with far more interest than they warrant. The four of us arrived in Bucklebrook earlier this evening and claimed a table at The Laughing Goat Tavern. We began a game of Sinners and Saints—a truly loathsome card game if you ask me. No one has asked, but I make my displeasure known.

“I still don’t understand why the supposed Saints cards carry more value. If anything, my Thief here should defeat an Errant Knight in cunning alone.”

Cadoc groans. This isn’t the first time I’ve complained this round nor the last. It’s far too enjoyable witnessing the corner of Jaromir’s mouth lift each time I provide much-needed commentary.

“True enough,” Neith says in a somber tone, “but things never work out th’way they should.”

I fall silent at that. Neith hasn’t discussed Aeron directly, but I feel the weight of his presence over every word both spoken and unspoken. Part of me longs to take her aside and push her to share everything she’s thinking and feeling. But I know it wouldn’t be welcomed.

Not yet anyway.

Two tables to my left sits the man who was kind enough to purchase Jaromir’s horse, at a steep discount, of course. Cadoc patched the horse up the best he could and assured Jaromir she would live. But we couldn’t bring her on our journey, not after the injury she sustained. It was only when Jaromir whispered a brief goodbye to the horse that I learned her name: Chessa.

I let my gaze fall to the boisterous room around us. Heavy posts and beams, all etched with goats in various poses, adorn the space. How did they add such detail in the strangest places? Unless they designed the wood before reinforcing the structure. Either way, an odd if not delightful choice. I can already guess what Kingsley’s reaction would be if I suggested such a thing. It would start with a laugh and end with a stern reprimand. Always so averse to change. Someone at The Laughing Goat Tavern had some interesting ideas and enough pull to see them through. Above the bar, a row of clay tankards, painted dark green against a silhouette of a goat, hang from hooks. They appear firmly held in place, but I can’t help imagining a strong gust of wind knocking them all to shatter against the polished bar top.

Jaromir clears his throat, pulling my attention from the precarious mugs and back to the furrow of concentration between his dark brows.

“So, now that I know you hold a Thief in your hand, my Errant Knight calls to arms.” Jaromir tosses his card onto the table with a flick of his wrist. The armored figure framed in embellished filigree stares up at me.

I glare at him and whip my card toward his chest. “Have it then, but know I accept defeat under protest, for this is a silly game with unrealistic outcomes.”

Massaging my temples, I debate the likelihood they’d notice if I just slipped out the door. It’s too hot. And loud. And crowded. All conditions I normally enjoy in a tavern, but this night it makes my skin feel too tight for my body.

Jaromir eyes me and frowns. “You all right?”

I don’t want his scrutiny. So with a theatrical sigh, I roll my eyes. “I’d be better if I didn’t play with lousy cheats.”

“You’re just sore you lost.” He collects the rest of the cards and begins shuffling them with practiced ease. “It’s your turn to get the next round.”

“But I’ve had to get every round.”

“Mmhmm.” He cuts the deck and begins tossing us each our seven card hands.

I shove my chair back and stomp my way over to the bar. Cadoc calls out about his ale again.

I’m clipped by a broad shoulder, and it jerks my head to the side. My hands are over my cap before I can think, checking and holding. The man grunts his apology before shuffling off. My chest is still tight, my heart a battering ram against my ribs. I need to relax. And watch where I’m walking.

I glance behind me. Jaromir is watching with a steady gaze, and I offer what I’m sure is a feeble wave. I’m fine. Twitchy, but fine.

The barkeep pops up from where he must have been crouching below the bar, and I jump at his sudden appearance. He has a head of messy auburn hair, some of it hanging in his green eyes. His skin is warm in tone, far deeper than I’d expect of a red-haired fellow. He’s younger than I thought. A teasing smile curls his mouth, dimpling his bronze skin.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, pulling the towel off his shoulder and wiping down the wood surface between us. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

I’m still trying to calm the prestissimo tempo of my heart. “I didn’t expect to lose so quickly.”

The barkeep chuckles, flinging the cloth back in place over his shoulder. The action is so like Kingsley, my stomach lurches.

I remember when I first stumbled into Hollowden. Travel had been… rough. I’d just up and left Birchfield where the sleazy owner of the Red Wyvern Tavern had tried to bribe me into trading sex for food when he found me scraping half eaten food off dirty plates to fill my belly. I hadn’t thought or planned; I’d just run. Nothing but my lute, the few coins I’d earned from my set, and my gorgeous cap crammed down over my ears. When I showed up days later at The Rusty Nail, I could barely stand. But I convinced Kingsley to let me sing, and a woman I’d come to realize was his wife, Brigitta, asked me to sample a few dishes for their Winter Solstice celebration.

Now I know, they were looking out for me.

I blink away the unwelcome emotion blurring my vision and fix my gaze on the barkeep before me. I hadn’t paid much attention to him before, eager in my pursuit to return to the table. But I’m tired of losing, and Cadoc can wait for his damned ale. The barkeep is a stockier build, all thick shoulders on a wide frame. It’s only upon closer inspection I realize he might be of dwarven descent. His mouth quirks, wrinkling the wide cut of his square jaw.

It isn’t strange to see a barkeep of dwarven descent. Now if he were elven, the easy air of camaraderie would likely be replaced with tension and vaguely hostile threats amongst the rowdier drunkards. Perhaps this is due to the Hawthokian alliance with the humans during The Unification, otherwise known as An Call Mòr , The Great Loss, among elves. There was dissent and infighting amongst the dwarves, but those that took up arms were rewarded with land and minor titles in Targgein. Both human and dwarven history has been archived throughout time, painting them as the heroes against the ancient elves—beings of power and malice. Even though a tenuous peace existed for over a century, the uprising of fear and distrust of elves was a seed sown long ago and brought to fruition during the raids. Elven texts were destroyed along with our most sacrosanct structures. Our history has only survived through spoken word. That my da passed down knowledge of the ancient elven alphabet and our history is a rebellion in and of itself.

“Were you going to order anything?”

“Soon. Right now, I’m leading a lesson on delaying gratification.”

“Your name is Syl, right?”

I blink, then nod. “Right. Short for Sylvaine, and you are…?”

“Tomas.” He leans his elbows on the bar, and I find myself leaning in, too, as if we’re in each other’s confidence. “So, Syl, short for Sylvaine, what are you doing with a group of hired swords?” His gaze darts beyond my shoulder, a glimmer of excitement in his eyes, while his cheeks and the tips of his ears flush bright red.

This is just the opener I need. The barkeep, Tomas, is practically begging for me to launch into a performance. My lute rests against Jaromir’s seat, ready and waiting. This is my chance, the first opportunity to prove to the others and myself that this is the right path. That even though Aeron is gone, we can carry on his legacy.

Blood rushes in my ears, and the din of noise muffles to an inaudible garble.

“Home… Wanna go home.”

His words echo in my mind, and images of blood filling the cracks in his dry lips assault me. I squeeze my eyes shut tight as if that will expel the memory of his death.

I can do this. I’m stronger than this.

But the words don’t come. They stall on my tongue, and a shaky panic grips my chest. It stretches and fills until I’m sure something is bound to break. Something wobbly climbs up my throat, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d suspect the pricking in my eyes might be tears.

Tomas’ face flashes in alarm, and before I can protest, he’s rounded the bar to stand before me.

“Are you well?” His hands find my arms, and though it’s harmless comfort he offers, it only serves to heighten the panic clutching my chest.

I can’t catch my breath. I can’t utter a word. So, I shake my head as his face blurs before me. I want to reach up and pull his hands away. I want to fix my hat and make sure my ears are hidden. But my arms remain heavy at my sides as the pressure tightens my throat.

My stomach rolls, and I’m on that ship again. Alone. I’m hunting rats in the gutter to fill my cramping belly while avoiding the lampposts so the city guard doesn’t find me. I’m trapped in the possessive grasp of the tavern owner after he found me eating from the garbage.

I can’t think. Can’t breathe. The room spins, and my knees threaten to buckle. My heart pounds so fast I fear it might leap from my chest. Something terrible is happening, and I can’t stop it.

“Don’t touch her.” The deep rasp of Jaromir’s voice skitters down my spine. I can’t even bring myself to turn and look at him, but every nerve in my body is aware of his presence.

Tomas’ hands vanish from my arms, and the weight in my chest slightly lifts. Stronger hands cover the spots that still itch. Jaromir’s chest is at my back, and I almost sag into him. I’m steered through the room, tripping over my feet as blurred faces pass. A constant stream of voices surrounds me, but it’s like my ears have popped and everything is muffled save for the rapid pulse in my head. He continues his steady march, large hands gripping me and keeping me upright. But it doesn’t feel rough or threatening. He doesn’t stop even when the night air blasts me in the face. He keeps us moving until my feet find their way onto slick grass, and a round moon blankets the field with a silvery glow.

I sink to my knees, and finally, finally, inhale a ragged breath. A choked noise escapes my chest, and my next breath is a pathetic stuttered thing.

Jaromir’s arms come around me, but he doesn’t say a word. He just holds me while the tremors gradually stop and my breathing returns to normal. Bracketed between his thighs, I press into his warmth. My heart is no longer trying to break free from my chest, and the throbbing in my ears fades until the sound of crickets and peeper frogs in the distance fills the silence.

I don’t know how long we sit there. Long enough the heat leaves my skin and my trousers are damp from the grass.

Jaromir hasn’t said a word. Hasn’t asked me what was wrong or sought any answers. It’s a comfort because I’m not sure I could offer any.

I lean into him, resting my head on his chest and filling my lungs with fresh air carrying his scent. He seems in no hurry to move as he rubs slow circles against my back. There’s no intent in this other than to soothe, and goddess, I haven’t been held like this in over a decade. He offers no words, but I feel what he doesn’t say in every stroke of his palm.

I’m here. You’re safe. Breathe.

It’s a strange thing, his silence. I once loathed him for it—found it mocking and cruel—but now I can’t help but wonder if he learned to communicate best without speaking.

I, on the other hand, can’t stay silent a moment longer.

“Thank you.” My voice sounds small, but it lands heavily in the quiet.

Jaromir rumbles a soft grunt of acknowledgement but keeps rubbing my back.

“I don’t know what happened in there.” I know what I felt physically, but it makes no sense.

“My brother used to get caught in these panics,” Jaromir murmurs against my hair. “It happened more when he was stressed. But there was no predicting when or where it would happen or what might set him off.” He’s still rubbing circles against my back, and his voice is a pleasant vibration against my cheek. “He used to say it felt like death that never comes.”

I nod against his chest. That’s exactly what it felt like. “I don’t understand why it happened though.”

“You’ve been through a lot in these few days.”

“We’ve all been through a lot.”

Jaromir tips my chin up to look at him, and it’s only when he wipes his thumb against my cheeks I even realize I’d been crying. “Don’t diminish what you feel. There is no shame in this.”

His eyes search my face, not with the intensity I’ve come to expect from him but with something much softer. I squirm as something unpleasant coils in my gut, and I pull away suddenly needing the distance.

“I’m stronger than this, and I don’t know why my body betrayed me like that. Perhaps it was something I ate. Or rancid ale. Did the ale taste funny to you? I don’t drink enough to pass judgment, but it certainly had a strange flavor to me. In fact, I have half a mind to demand recompense for my near poisoning—”

“Syl.” Jaromir’s hand finds my neck, his thumb brushing over my pulse. “You are strong. This does not counter that truth. There is no shame.” He repeats himself, and something about those words makes my throat constrict.

“You said… you said when we first started our journey I shouldn’t be coming. And you were right. If I’m too weak to handle—” I bite my lip to keep it from trembling.

Anger flashes across his face. “You are not weak. And I was a sodding prick to make you feel unwelcome.” With slow, careful movements, he pulls the cap from my head. Cool air hits my sweaty hairline, and I shiver. He tucks my hair behind my ear, lingering against my skin. “I’m sorry.”

His apology washes over me, and damn him, it fills every ache I didn’t know was there. I lean into his touch, gasping when the full sensation of his fingers against my ear lights a tingle throughout my body.

I crawl back into the safety of his arms, resting my head against his chest. I can’t bring myself to acknowledge what his words mean to me, but I suspect he can understand. I want to stay right here, in this very spot, for as long as I’m able. But my lute yet remains in that tavern, as do Cadoc and Neith. “The others will wonder where we are.”

Jaromir whispers against my hair. “Let them wonder a little while longer.”