Page 19 of The Ballad of the Last Dragon

Chapter Nineteen

W hen the fire dies down, Cadoc offers to stay with Jaromir, but I won’t leave his side.

“Do you need to observe in case his condition worsens?”

“No,” Cadoc says with a shrug. “But after the day you’ve had, I figured you’d want the rest.”

“Honestly? I won’t be able to sleep until I know he’s well.”

He helps me bring Jaromir into his tent, and I crawl in beside him.

Cadoc pokes his head through the flaps. “The fever should break by morning, and we’ll wait an additional day before travel so you can catch up on rest then.” His mouth tightens. “You’re sure you want to stay with him?”

“Of course.” I’m good at reading people, and his raised shoulders show discomfort. Not in my staying awake—that makes no sense—but in my desire to sit by his side.

I’d rather change the subject than suffer his scrutiny.

“Are we in danger here?” Staying another day… it must leave us vulnerable to another attack.

Cadoc’s expression resumes its casual nature. “Doubtful. I’ll restore the fire and keep it burning tonight. You guys disrupted what appeared to be a nest. It’s no one’s fault, none of us could have known, but if there was a nest here in camp, we’d know it by now.”

I nod, finding little comfort in that.

Cadoc gives me one last reassuring smile before letting the tent flaps close behind his departure. I debate tying them closed, but in case Jaromir needs Cadoc’s assistance, it’s best to leave them undone. From what I understand, Cadoc has already done what he can, and the venom needs to run its course. But I’d rather err on the side of caution. I don’t know how much time passes, but soon Jaromir is tossing and turning. His face tightens.

“Damir,” he cries out. “Damir, no.”

I gently place my hand against his burning forehead. Cadoc left me a lantern so I might observe Jaromir. The small flame dances against the glass and illuminates the tent. Beads of sweat dot his forehead, and his dark brows are pulled together as if he’s in pain.

“Damir!” He jolts awake, sitting up and reaching for nothing. I rub his back, hoping he can feel my presence in any way and hoping it helps. He glances around as if taking in his surroundings.

Would it have been better to allow Cadoc to watch over him? Am I being presumptuous? We’ve had our physical encounters, and I’d call us friends. He’s shared enough with me; I know what nightmares plague him in this feverish state. But do I have any claim over him in this way? To take the role of nursemaid when he’s sick?

It suddenly feels far too intimate.

Jaromir turns, finally looking at me. Not through me, at me. “It’s you,” he says, his voice soft. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“It’s me,” I say with a little flourish, as if it will lessen any lingering tension.

But he answers with a broad grin that crinkles his eyes. “I thought I imagined it all.”

I laugh and resist the urge to push the hair from his face. The notion that I’ve been doing this, and all while he’s been semi-unconscious, is wildly disturbing.

“No such luck. I’m real, and so is the nasty gash you received. Also, the venom coursing through your blood, that’s real, too! Been a bit of a shite day, if you ask me. But at least you’re alive and likely never to attempt to take a woman out in nature again. What would you call it? Coitus interruptus? A clever narrative can use this plot device sparingly, but in real life I find it rather obnoxious—”

I clamp my mouth shut. His grin, though amused, has turned increasingly baffled at my tangent.

“That’s… a lot,” he says. He lies back down and pinches the bridge of his nose. “My head… it feels like my skull is on fire.”

“It kind of is.” See, this is why I’d never make it as a healer. I lack the fundamentals of bedside manner. Jaromir’s eyes are clearer now, and I take it as a good sign that the worst is over. “I never did get a chance to thank you for saving me.”

Jaromir studies me with that intent look I’ve missed so damn much. “Thank you for saving me, too.”

An unwilling smile tugs my mouth. “Remembered that, did you? How was my form?”

He laughs, but it’s tight and weak. “It was excellent considering my sword is almost larger than you.”

That’s an exaggeration. There’s a sexual implication somewhere in there, I just know it.

“And of course, I remember. I remember everything about you.” He threads his fingers through mine, and his hand is like an oven. “I remember the way your voice sounds as I fall asleep. How I’ve never seen eyes so green ’til I saw yours. How you have sunlight in your hair. The way you never stop speaking.” A wicked curve of a smirk transforms his sweet expression into something positively roguish. “I remember the noises you make when my tongue is buried between your thighs.”

“Jaromir!” My cheeks burn even as something warm and slippery pools in my stomach. I’m ignoring all the pretty things he says about me—the things I’m sure he’ll blame the fever for. This is the most chatty he’s ever been, so he’s clearly not in his right mind. “Keep it in your pants until you heal, at least.”

He only grins at me, rubbing his thumb in circles against the top of my hand. “I remember how much you hated me.”

“Hate is such a strong word. I prefer ‘consciously made it my mission to annoy you.’ It has a ring to it.”

“You are gifted at getting under my skin. Always have been.” His smile is all fond indulgence, and I take that compliment proudly. “I remember the first time I heard you sing.”

I snort, shaking my head. “I remember that, too. You were decidedly unimpressed.”

His eyes widen. “I watched you the entire night like a transfixed fool. And months later, I still couldn’t get your voice out of my head.”

That doesn’t sound right. We haven’t even been on the road for months. “Jaromir, I think that’s the fever talking. It’s only been a few weeks since Hollowden.”

He shakes his head. “No, it was two years ago. I was at the Red Wyvern in Birchfield, and when you sang”—his eyes drift closed as if reliving the memory—“it was like I was finally awake.”

Two years ago; that timeline for my stint in Birchfield lines up. That was right before I was driven away by that handsy owner who stank of onions and goat cheese. It was how I ended up in Hollowden with Kingsley and Brigitta. I wrack my brain, searching for Jaromir’s face in my memory of nights in that crowded tavern, but all I recall is my hands shaking with hunger. The uneven stool that rocked under me when I played. The gnawing in the pit of my stomach.

The final night in Birchfield comes to me. I remember stumbling my way through a jig before settling on a lullaby my mama used to hum whenever I was scared. The words were always both my comfort and my sorrow, and I let myself feel it all that night. Every ache. Every lament. Every forlorn wish for a better future. I remember my empty cup, how no one deigned to toss a coin apart from one man—

Large build, dark hair, and a glower on his face. He threw five silvers in my cup, and I nearly wept with joy. It allowed me to eat. To escape. To live.

Jaromir is fading back into slumber again. His eyes stay relaxed, shut softly against the warm light of the tent and the weight of the truth he just dropped in my lap.

He heard me sing two years ago? He thought of me?

“Syl,” he grunts as if trying to prevent himself from falling asleep. “Sing to me?”

Something warm fills my chest. A comforting swell of affection for this man.

“Of course.” I lean over and give him a kiss on his forehead, pushing the hair away. I’d say I have leave to do so.

“My love waits past the heather and o’er the moor,

Oh how I wish I were there,

‘Neath the tall, branching oak,

My love sits alone and waits for me.

I cannot follow where she goes, save for my heart.

It’s always with she, always with she.

I am the lyre, she is the strings;

But no music sounds, not without my beloved

I cannot follow where she goes, save for my heart.

It haunts her steps, even as she leaves me behind.”