Page 28 of The Ballad of the Last Dragon

Chapter Twenty-Eight

I haven’t experienced performance anxiety like this since I snapped a lute string on stage at the Sauntering Duck. Wiping my sweating palms on my blue and white striped trousers, I trudge my way to the stage, nearly catching my foot on the stacked barrels in the corner. I didn’t bother requesting permission from the barkeep, who’d likely raise a brow at my lack of instrument. Neith has been tasked with distracting him long enough I can stake my claim and win over my audience before he notices.

Easier said than done.

My heart pounds, and the back of my neck is damp. I straighten my cap, exhale a shaky breath, and try desperately not to meet Jaromir’s eye. We agreed Cadoc would playact as Aeron tonight since Jaromir is known in these parts. Already, folks have stopped by his table, offering him a clap on the back, and stealing his attention for a moment or two.

So far, I haven’t caught sight of his soon-to-be wife. A small blessing; I can go on pretending it won’t pain me to see them together.

I take my spot in the center of the stage, trembling even as the crowd fails to notice me. Again, I check my cap to make sure my ears are safely hidden. I open my mouth—

Silence. I can’t make a sound.

My chest tightens, and I dart my gaze around wildly, searching for something, something , to anchor me here. My stomach twists in knots, and I’m sure the panics are about to set in. I have no lute, nothing to hide behind. I’m a fraud. I’m a fake. I’m not worth my salt, and this crowd of drunken villagers will be the first to know. Word will travel, the bard who choked on her own tongue.

My face burns, and tears blur my vision. I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t—

As I blink away my shame, Jaromir’s face comes into view. He’s seated near the stage, watching me with that damnably intense stare. His dark eyes don’t leave my face, not for one instant, and I focus on that. On him. On the safety he still represents to me. He might not be mine, but he’s here, he’s here , and I hold on to that thought as I clear my throat.

I stomp out a simple beat, the base rhythm of my song. The sound is lost to the overlapping of conversations and laughter, but I stomp away. My hands find another rhythm, clapping a faster and more intricate beat so it blends and weaves with my steady stomp. Voices hush, and finally, finally, I have the initial stirrings of a rapt audience.

“A man there was

By the name of Aeron

All fire and gold

All honor and bold

The first to take a stand

Against the dragon

Seeks the dragon

To claim his hoard

By the tip of his sword

You’ll hear his name again, again

How brave he was

And pure and true

The man with honor

through and through

He comes tonight

You’ll meet him tonight

He comes to you

Riding the summer air”

By the time I’ve settled into the familiar verses of Aeron’s ballad, a few voices join me. I keep stomping and clapping, and others meet my rhythm, some banging tankards against the flats of their tables, others slapping their knees in time. A broad grin stretches across my face as a buoyant joy fills my chest. Word is spreading. It’s working. People know Aeron’s name, they know my ballad, my ballad.

When I finish my song, an eruption of cheers fills the hall with a deafening triumph, and I sweep my hat from my head to bend in a low bow. When I rise, I find Jaromir’s gaze once more. His eyes are all warmth, and part of me wants to tuck away all our pain and take my place in his arms.

I step to the edge of the stage, leap to the floor of the tavern, and stand before him. A table separates us, but by the way our gazes are locked, I’m about ready to climb across it to reach him.

Logical? No. But I’m too invigorated from my performance to care.

Jaromir’s face is so damn hopeful, like he’s waiting for me to close that distance.

But before I can crawl across the sticky table, or better yet, toss it out of my way, a slender pair of pale hands find his shoulders, then slide up to cover his eyes.

My heart sinks to the bottom of my churning stomach, and the floor falls away from my feet. A beautiful woman with wavy dark hair and sharp hazel eyes studies me curiously, all while whispering something against Jaromir’s ear. He pulls her hands away, and his eyes immediately find mine. She lifts her elegantly pointed chin in my direction. By the look of sheer horror claiming his face, my guess is confirmed.

Jaromir’s betrothed has made her appearance.

“Your song was delightful,” she says, offering me a soft smile.

Damn, even her voice is low and sultry. She stands tall, taller than most women, and certainly towers over my height. Wearing a simple woven dress with a blue linen vest and leather belt, her understated outfit does nothing to hide the feminine curves of her ample body. She’s both a true beauty and a hearty looking woman. Her skin is freckled from working in the sun, and she holds herself with an elegant posture that makes me all too aware of how I can’t seem to keep still.

Damn. Damn it all.

I respond with a shaky smile. “Thank you, um…” I hold out my hand, gesturing for her to introduce herself.

I know who she is. Of course I know. But I don’t trust myself to speak. Who knows what might spill from my tongue?

She glances down at Jaromir, as if waiting for him to cut in. He doesn’t. He merely watches me with a pained expression.

“Rhosyn,” she says as she darts her calculating stare between the two of us.

“Sylvaine, the bard. Storyteller, occasional apple-thrower, and official keeper of history, or something closely resembling history. There’s always wiggle room for a good story.” I reach out my sweaty hand to shake hers with frantic enthusiasm. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. People to see, drinks to consume. You know how it goes.” Corners to curl up and cry in.

“Syl, wait,” Jaromir says, and his brows pinch together. As if there’s any word of comfort he can offer right now.

“I’m sure you have loads to catch up on,” I say, waving him off. “Besides, we’ve been on the road a long, long time, haven’t we? Bet it’s been ages since the two of you have gotten a chance to shoot twixt wind and water.”

Both of them appear horrified, but I can’t seem to stop.

“You know, ride below the crupper, make butter with one’s tail, make the beast with two backs—”

“Syl!” Jaromir’s voice cuts through my tirade, and I’m grateful I’ve run out of euphemisms.

“Right! It was”—I swallow down the tightness in my throat—“a pleasure to meet you, Rhosyn.” I offer a short bow and practically run for the bar—I mean… I make a swift and well-executed retreat. I slip on a wet spot on the floor, punctuating my impeccably smooth introduction to Jaromir’s future wife with an equally impressive scuffle with the floor.

I find my footing before anyone can notice, hopefully, and muster as much dignity as I possess to walk to Neith’s side. Her eyes are tight as she watches me with an expression that’s an even mix of pain and pity.

“Barkeep, I’ll have whatever will make me forget that conversation.”

He nods as if he knows to what I am referring and slides a dusty looking bottle my way. “Free of charge,” he says. “You’ve put everyone in fine spirits tonight.”

I raise the bottle in thanks. “It’s what I do. Bringing joy and happiness to the masses. Digging through my pain to bring smiles to their faces.”

He walks away to wipe down the other side of the bar, clearly done with me.

I yank the cork out with my teeth the way Cadoc does and tip the bottle back. Bitter, vaporous liquid spills over my tongue, and I choke, tears burning my eyes. Despite assaulting my tongue and throat with the nasty substance, it warms my belly, and already my head feels a touch lighter.

That barkeep is a credit to his profession. I should write him a ballad. I’m trying to choose between calling it The Wizard of Whiskey or If Only All Men Were As Reliable As a Barkeep when Neith finally speaks.

“So,” she begins, “that was painful t’watch.”

“Ugh.” I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the memory away. “I don’t wish to talk about it.”

She gently takes the bottle from my hands. “Maybe wait on this, until after Aeron makes his appearance. Then we can leave and finish it off.”

I debate arguing, grabbing the bottle back and, in a display of petulance, downing the entire thing. But she’s right. I have a job to do, and as much as I love a drunk audience, I can’t control the tide as a drunk performer.

I glance over at Jaromir. Rhosyn sits at his side, and the comfort with which they converse twists something in my gut. Jaromir smiles at something she says, and I’m sure whatever I just drank will make another appearance.

I grab the bottle from Neith to take one last sip before straightening my cap and wiping my mouth. It makes no difference how much I hurt.

The show must go on.

Cadoc’s laughter booms through the tavern, his herd of adoring fans surrounding his person. My work is done, and now I’m enjoying the fruits of my labor.

All around me, dozens of conversations flutter in and out of focus like I’m rising and sinking beneath water in a steady current.

“Should I offer Sir Aeron a discounted tumble?”

“ Did you hear about that fire in Greenfell?”

“I thought elves were supposed to be pretty.”

“Rumor has it, a certain someone keeps a lady in every major city.”

“Was she elvish or dwarven? Don’t give me that look, it’s an honest question.”

“A man who leaves a woman compromised and alone has no business keeping the staff between his legs.”

“I bet Sir Aeron would never leave a woman alone to raise his child.”

Their words filter in and out of my awareness, and I commit as many secrets and gossip fodder to memory as my addled brain allows. My head buzzes like it’s filled with a swarm of honeybees, but it isn’t entirely unpleasant. On the contrary, my body is weightless, and the bees in my head are the only fetter I have to this earth.

Or it might be the dwarven whiskey. I like dwarven whiskey. It’s one of many things they’ve mastered. Whiskey, metalworks, and technology. I once heard there was a dwarven fellow who discovered a way to make fire that never burns out. Imagine! Forever fire! Eternal fire? It sounds romantic and worthy of a ballad. But right now, I want to write a song about this whiskey. It stings going down, and I’m sure I’ve burned my esophagus, but it makes everything feel like I’m underwater. Minus the not being able to breathe bit.

Neith once again takes the bottle from my clumsy fingers, her beautifully lethal face filling my view. Right now, her mouth is tight and that little pucker of concern pinches between her brows. “Ah, shite. Ye’re fou as a tipple. Jaromir is going te kill me.”

“He won’t care,” I say with a bright laugh. “I doubt he’ll even notice.”

I glance over to where he and Rhosyn sit. They’ve joined a group of locals; all seem friendly and familiar with Jaromir. There’s an effortless intimacy amongst his group, in the way they laugh, and all seem to know the same stories. He has a whole life I don’t know about.

Neith snorts. “If I wernae lookin’ out for ye, he’d have hauled his arse over and slung ye over his shoulder by now.”

That is a very specific image, almost romantic. In fact, I think I’ve read this very phenomenon before when the bookselling merchants traveled through Hollowden and allowed me to peruse their wares.

“Neith,” I say with a slow smile, “do you read romance serials?”

Her brows pinch even tighter, and a decidedly discomfited expression crosses her lovely face. “Might have found some o’ Aeron’s.”

I laugh, and the force of it nearly sends me off my stool. Neith grabs my arms, steadying me. “That’s brilliant! May I see them?”

She gives me a suspicious look, like she can’t decide if I’m teasing or not. “Ye may…”

“Great!” I leap to my feet. Well, leap is a stretch. I stumble into a large blond fellow, catching myself against his back. “Apologies, sir.”

I don’t let go right away, because my legs are traitorous things, and my stomach roils like an angry sea. Please, stay down, dwarven whiskey. Instead, I clutch his tunic, earning a baffled smile from the man.

Before I can launch into a descriptive tirade explaining why I’m still holding on to him and how I mistrust my legs, a large hand grips my wrist.

I’m yanked away, swiftly enough my vision spins, and I collide with the broad form I know by heart. Jaromir’s scent fills my senses, and I don’t need to lift my gaze to know I’m pressed against his chest. No, I glance up out of need to see his face this close, a position I surely never thought I’d find myself in again.

His eyes are a storm, the union of anger and pain. He tightens his mouth, and goddess, I can’t focus on anything else right now. He’s so close, and all it would take is for me to lift onto my toes and press my lips just so—

Rhosyn is right over there, I should pull away, and I try to, but my legs won’t work. They buckle under the movement, and Jaromir tightens his hold on me.

“Sylvaine.” My name on Jaromir’s lips does nothing to aid in my struggle to remain upright. I smooth my hand up his chest, my palm finding the space where his heart batters against my touch. His eyes search my face, greedy and thorough in their intent.

“Are you all right?” Rhosyn’s smooth voice cuts through the space with the force of a great sword. I immediately fight against Jaromir’s hold, and when he releases me, I stumble back, holding myself up against the bar.

“Seems the whiskey has gone to my head,” I say with a tight laugh. “I best be off to bed.” Oh, that rhymed! “I’m already writing my next song!”

Neith moves to help me, but Rhosyn extends her hand as if to steady me. “She can stay with us.”

No. No. Goddess no, that’s a terrible idea. The worst idea anyone has ever had in the history of ideas. Please, guardians, no.

“My room is just upstairs, right, Neith? I couldn’t possibly—”

“Nonsense. My home is just up the way, and you’ll be far more comfortable. The tavern won’t quiet down for hours.” Rhosyn has already placed a firm hand beneath my arm, helping me stand.

“Rhosyn,” Jaromir’s voice grinds out, “what are you doing?”

“I’m showing your friend the hospitality you should have extended,” she says with a huff. “The girls are staying with Avalie tonight. There’s plenty of room.” She turns back to me. “Come along, now.”

I don’t want to. I don’t want to see their home, into their life, into their future. I throw Neith a desperate look, and her answering expression is indecisive.

“Look,” Rhosyn says, lowering her voice, “you won’t get much grief in these parts. But I’d sleep better knowing you weren’t vulnerable.” She gazes meaningfully at my hat.

Oh.

Not my hat, but what it conceals.

I press my palms against my heated cheeks, cursing my foolishness. How do I appear? A weak, drunk elf.

“No one will harm you,” Jaromir says through a clenched jaw. “No one would dare.”

“No, they won’t,” Rhosyn says, “because she’ll be with us.”

Neith wouldn’t let anyone hurt me anyway. But that shouldn’t be her burden. I exhale a sharp breath, cursing the clarity of hindsight.

“Thank you,” I force out. “I won’t forget this kindness.” Nor my everlasting shame, but there’s room for gratefulness and regret in this overcrowded chest.

Rhosyn nods once, gliding toward the door. I won’t be gliding anytime soon. I stare after her, before glancing down at my feet.

“May I?” Jaromir asks.

I nod, not knowing what exactly he’s asking permission for, but knowing somehow, I trust him. This man who lied and hid his betrothal from me.

He lifts me into his arms, holding me close to his chest, and carries me out the door. It’s not the most dignified position, but I sink into his embrace, reveling in one last chance to feel the warmth of his body against mine.

The night is calm, stars silently watching overhead. I let my eyes slip closed, breathing in Jaromir’s scent. The wind has a bite, and I shiver. His lips press against the space between my brows, and it’s both a balm and a searing brand.