Page 16 of The Ballad of the Last Dragon

Chapter Sixteen

W hen Cadoc returns from his night with Tomas, wearing a smile that refuses to wilt, we hit the road. For once, he doesn’t voice his relief to be traveling.

We agreed to camp earlier in the day to grant us more daylight before dusk falls. The warmth of a low sun trickles through the trees, and the symphony of the night is just beginning its call.

Jaromir has most of the weapons splayed before him while he sharpens and oils the blades. All save for two of Neith’s… we haven’t finished with them yet.

“Th’first thing ye’ll want t’do is get comfortable holding a weapon.” Neith swings her sword with effortless finesse, circling and spinning before she holds the hilt toward me.

I tie my hair back with a leather strap and wipe my sweaty palm on my trousers before reaching tentatively to grasp the handle. She hasn’t forgotten her promise to train me, and now more than ever, it seems imperative that I learn basic combat.

No one has spoken of the circumstances of Aeron’s death. How if I hadn’t been too close, he wouldn’t have had to push me out of the way and take a blade through the back.

They don’t speak of this, but they all know. I can’t be a liability.

I force a smile and begin clumsily swinging her sword. It’s shorter than the one she straps to her back but still heavier than I thought it would be.

“Like this?” I ask between labored breaths.

Neith offers a patient smile and holds her hands out to signal me to stop. “Less movement until it’s firm in yer grasp. Ye have strong hands from playing yer lute, aye?”

“I do, in fact! Quickest fingers in the land. I’m sure there’s an innuendo in there somewhere…”

“Never mind that.” She comes to stand behind me, her hands clamping my wrists to remain strong and taut. “Keep yer hold firm, and work on slow control.” She guides my arm as she speaks, performing a series of slashes, jabs, and parries.

Jaromir watches with his creased brow and assessing gaze. My cheeks do not burn under the weight of his scrutiny; no, they certainly don’t. I turn my attention to my instructor.

“Where did you learn to fight?”

Neith releases my arms, stepping back to watch my form as I complete the circuit she’s just taught me. “Mostly maself. I didnae have anyone around t’teach me.” Her dark eyes are unflinching. “I didnae live up to ma family’s expectations . ”

“What sort of expectations?” My arms are stronger than I thought, and once I get the coordination down, it’s easier to swipe the blade faster.

Neith waves her hand for me to continue the series of moves as she perches on a nearby log. “I hail from th’Western Isles, where yer birth order determines yer role.”

I pause my movements, holding the sword out straight, sun glinting across steel. The Western Isles is a beautiful region of rolling moors and rocky cliffs. I’ve learned ballads of the Isles, and its natural features are their own magic. Magic steeped in tradition. But alongside tradition there comes confinement. To be caged by convention and bound by it. Women are still not considered title holders in the Isles. Granted, here in Targgein, women are only landowners in certain regions that have parted with the old ways. Each city has its own magistrate and under the rule of Queen Dhara has been given leave to break with tradition or uphold it. But in the Isles, women are hardly considered citizens. Their duty remains to their fathers and then to their husbands.

I examine Neith, with her half-shorn hair revealing the thick scar running down the side of her face. “You were the eldest daughter.”

She nods. “Aye, and my advantageous marriage had been planned since birth.” Bitterness coats her words, and I can hear the weight of everything she doesn’t say.

“When did you leave?” It seems the safest question.

“Ten summers past.” She reaches for the short sword I still hold, trading it for her heavier broadsword. Already the difference in its weight tugs on my arms, and I dread the task before me.

“Whit are ye waiting for?” she asks with a quirked brow. “Show me th’series.”

Night chases away the sun, but the fire keeps us warm. I lounge with a satisfying soreness throughout my arms and back. It helps that Cadoc roasted herbed potatoes for dinner tonight, and my belly is full and happy.

An embarrassing groan escapes my lips as I reach for my lute. Jaromir’s mouth twitches at the sound. He’s restringing Cadoc’s bow, but he has a way of seeming fully engrossed in his task while catching every slight change around him. The only time I’ve ever seen him truly distracted was when his hand was busy between my thighs—

A flare of heat burns across my cheeks and deep in my belly. We haven’t gone there again, not since Aeron. But the memory of his touch, of the taste of his kiss, resurfaces with the flush on my skin.

“You going to serenade us tonight, Syl?” Cadoc flashes me a dimpled grin. He’s whittling away at a piece of wood. I can’t tell what shape he’s making, but it looks… interesting.

“I can. I could even sing a love song if it would land on appreciative ears.”

His hands still, and the color on his cheeks deepens. Ah. Looks like I struck a nerve. He recovers quickly.

“I haven’t the faintest clue what you’re talking about.”

“No?” I shoot Neith a conspiratorial look, and she wears one to match. “Not even if I sang about a handsome barkeep?”

Cadoc chokes but masks it with a cough. “Why—” His voice cracks on the word, and he clears his throat before continuing. “Why would I care to hear that?”

Neith prods him with the toe of her boot. “Does Tomas own Th’Laughing Goat?”

“His uncle owns the place, but Tomas handles most of the work. He’s promised him the deed upon his passing, perhaps even sooner. If you ask me, I’d say Tomas deserves it. You know he rises before the sun to ensure they’re well stocked and everything is accounted for. He even had to cover the work of one of the serving girls he fired when he caught her sneezing into the hunter’s pot. Don’t even get me started on how hard it is to keep good help—”

Cadoc seems to realize he’s incriminating himself and promptly clamps his mouth shut.

Silence falls over the camp, and both Neith and I restrain ourselves from pushing him to share more. Jaromir finishes Cadoc’s bow with a satisfied grunt and lays it beside him.

I begin plucking my lute, swaying with the beat.

“There once was a barkeep with hair of fire and gold—”

“No. You, stop it.” Cadoc’s voice is pained, so I take pity on him and cease my singing.

I keep plucking the tune I’ve decided will be designated to the ballad of Tomas and Cadoc; it’s a working title. I’ll workshop it later.

When Cadoc and Neith retire for the night, and only Jaromir and his pile of weapons remain, I set my lute down and stretch.

Jaromir laughs when I make a strangled groan. “Sore?”

I shake out my hands. “A bit. But I’ve felt worse.” No need to go into specifics about that. I’d much rather not speak of life when I first docked in this country.

Jaromir reaches for his pack and hands me a wineskin. I take a sip, smiling when deep notes of citrus and berry spill over my tongue. We haven’t found a tavern that carries this Hawthokian wine since Cadoc purchased that bottle in Astervale.

“This is my favorite.” I hold up the wineskin, daring him to reveal his secrets.

“Is it?” Jaromir is suspiciously interested in the ground rather than in meeting my gaze.

I swallow another mouthful and pass it back to him. His fingers graze mine, a touch that lasts longer than necessary, and my body hums.

Must be the wine.

“When will we reach the next town?”

Jaromir frowns. “Our next stop isn’t for three more days.”

“Ah.” I focus on the dwindling embers. On the residual smoke still rising from the ashes. Three days of travel means three days of writing. More or less. Sometimes the words come easily. Sometimes they elude me. It’s maddening, really. How fickle the nature of the muse can be. But I’ve since learned to push through, to pen words when they aren’t inspired almost in spite of my mental blocks.

Some days.

“That bothers you?” Jaromir watches me carefully. “Missing the comfort of a soft bed?”

I laugh at that. Don’t get me wrong, I love a soft bed. The softer the better, with enough plush pillows to suffocate me. But I’ve spent most of my life sleeping wherever I can safely rest my head.

“No,” I say, “that doesn’t bother me at all.”

He gives a short grunt of acceptance. I’m learning to speak Jaromir!

“What about you?” I scoot closer to him because it’s silly to whisper from across the dying fire when we’re the only ones still up. His gaze tracks the movement, and he gently pushes the bow and leftover blades he’d been working on further away. “What will you do now that you’ve sharpened every sword, restrung Cadoc’s bow, and fletched a few arrows? Will these days of traveling drive you mad without purposeful distraction?”

I realize I’ve practically climbed into his lap at this point, and my voice is doing that breathless thing it does when I can’t seem to get enough air.

His gaze darkens, and his jaw tightens. “Purposeful distraction?” He says the words so carefully.

Suddenly my intent is so clear to me, it’s ridiculous. My body seems to move faster than my mind, which is shocking, really, but I won’t dismiss the wisdom of my instincts.

“Yes,” I whisper, leaning in even closer. “I’ve found that a worthy distraction can lend purpose to one’s day.” I breathe in his scent, and it makes something warm flip in my stomach. “And I find you terribly distracting.”

“Do you, now?” Jaromir’s hand flexes by his side, and more than anything, I want him to grab me and kiss me hard the way he did the first time. But he waits, adopting utter stillness. Like I’m the predator.

Well, maybe I am.

I close the distance, finally tasting his mouth again. He tastes sweet and warm, and all notions of gentleness are lost when I climb into his lap fully. He lets out a soft moan, and finally, finally, those hands are gripping my hips, pulling me roughly against his arousal. Directing and grinding me down upon him until I’m practically seeing stars.

His beard scratches my jaw, and I shiver, clutching his broad shoulders for dear life.

“Syl,” he murmurs against my neck; the scrape of his teeth sets my nerves alight. “We should–”

But whatever he was going to say is lost in another heated kiss. He parts my lips, sweeping his tongue into my mouth, and I can’t think, I can only feel. He breaks away with a ragged exhale, holding my face in his large hands.

“Wait.” The desperation in his voice is almost my undoing.

“I’m sorry. Do you wish to stop?”

“ Gods, no,” he says. “My tent is right there.”

I glance over my shoulder to his tent and bedroll not ten paces away. “But that’s so far.”

He laughs, standing while still holding me. I yelp and wrap my legs around his waist. “I’ll make it up to you.”

Anticipation trembles through me. “I’ll hold you to that.”

He rips open the flaps to his tent and lowers me gently inside. Crawling over me, his large body overcrowds the tiny space. I revel in feeling him everywhere, and yank him down to press against me.

He claims my mouth again, and I’m eagerly tugging at the laces to his trousers. A strong grip pries my hands away, pressing my wrists to the bedroll beside my head. I fight to pull free, but he only tightens his hold.

“Be still,” he growls in my ear, and heat shoots through my blood. His hands release their hold to run down my arms, leaving chills in their wake.

I nod as if I’m going to obey his command, but I have no intention of doing so. My hand snakes down to grasp him through his trousers, and I delight in the hiss I receive at the contact.

“Gods, Syl. Give me a moment.” His voice is strained and needy, and in this moment, the most glorious sound I’ve ever heard.

“Jaromir.” It’s meant to sound chiding, but it comes out as a desperate plea.

He kisses me again, tugging my trousers and smallclothes down. Cool air hits my wet heat, and I try to close my legs, but his hand is so much faster, so much stronger. His fingers slide down with gentle precision, and sparks fly through my veins.

He groans against my neck. “ Fuck , you’re so wet for me already.”

I make a choked sound in response.

“Good?” He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, caressing my skin as his other hand plays music against me.

“Good,” I whisper back. When his finger fills me, I gasp. Pleasure shoots through my body, and my hips begin to move in time with his motions.

His mouth falls open, his gaze searing. “Look at you,” he says, adding another finger. “You’re a fucking masterpiece.”

I can’t seem to form words. Every part of me tingles, and my blood is on fire. He leans over me, kissing me with slow languid movements of his mouth, and then his thumb is rubbing at the juncture of my thighs. The place that makes my vision blur and my skin feel too tight.

I claw at his arm, and suddenly I’m clenching, waves and waves of pulsing heat shuddering all the way down to my toes.

He works me through the last wave, until I shove him away with a trembling hand.

I’m shaky and sweaty, and it feels like every bone in my body has turned to liquid.

Jaromir brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting them with a ravenous enjoyment, watching me with a challenge in his eyes. I laugh because what else can I do after having my mind melted and my body turned to a puddle.

He grins and sits up. It’s only then that I realize we never actually got my boots off, so my trousers and smallclothes have been hastily shoved to my ankles. Jaromir yanks them back up over my hips, ignoring my protests.

“It’s late, and Cadoc is due to wake for his watch soon.”

Damn Jaromir, his magic hands, and his penchant for logic.

I suck in a breath. “I’ll have you know, it’s poor manners to leave a lady’s clothing in disarray while getting her off. And all without the courtesy of giving her leave to touch you! I have half a mind to write a ballad about this. And don’t you think for a moment I won’t, because I will. These are the risks of falling into bed, or in this case, onto a bedroll with a bard—”

Jaromir kisses me senseless, stalling my tirade. When he releases my mouth, he’s grinning. “You were awfully quiet when I was touching you. Is that what it takes to get some peace? Must I dedicate myself to your pleasure if only to keep your mouth from getting you into trouble?”

I actually need to think about this. On the one hand, he’s offering to touch me again, an outcome I’m highly in favor of. On the other hand, he’s being a right prick, and maybe I should write that ballad just to spite him.

“Perhaps I was quiet because you didn’t do a very good job.”

His grin turns wolfish, and he presses me down against the bedroll. “Sounds like I need more practice.”

A breathless laugh escapes my chest. “I won’t object to that.”