Page 29 of The Ballad of the Last Dragon

Chapter Twenty-Nine

I jolt awake to find I’m alone in a dark, unfamiliar room. Flinging the covers off, I stumble from the bed and make my way to the window.

Silvery light peeks through the panes of glass, spilling across the floor, and illuminating the room. I survey the space, trying to remember how I got here and why my head throbs. A small bed sits tucked against the wall, and a clay mug rests on a low table beside my red cap. I’m still in my performance clothes, save for my shoes, which are neatly placed beside the closed door.

This isn’t the inn… where is Neith?

Everything floods my memory, pulsing painfully along my skull.

The tavern… performing… meeting Jaromir’s betrothed… dwarven whiskey.

I groan, massaging my forehead. I’m in their home because Rhosyn insisted I stay with them. Slipping out of bed, I grab the mug, sniffing for inspection.

Just as I thought. Water. I gulp it down, and already my head feels less foggy. I grab my cap and slip on my shoes. The inn isn’t far, or at least it shouldn’t be. Neith might still be up, but even if she’s fast asleep, I remember which room is ours. I might need help knowing which direction to walk in, but that’s a simple matter.

With a careful touch, I pull the door open a crack. Warm light spills in, and two hushed voices slip through. I should quickly close the door or make my presence known. Nothing good ever comes from eavesdropping.

I hold perfectly still, straining my ears to listen.

Just because nothing good will come of it doesn’t mean I’m not curious.

“—don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jaromir’s voice is low, angry even.

“Don’t I? You think Damir never spoke to me? Never told me of your excursions. Don’t play me for a fool. This isn’t one of your dalliances.”

I wince, because something in Rhosyn’s voice sounds accusing.

“It’s none of your business.”

“Of course it is, you blasted fool!” A chair scuffs against the floor, and Rhosyn lets out a sharp breath. “Look,” she says, gentler this time, “I know you feel responsible. But at some point, you have to decide where your guilt ends and your life begins.”

“You know what will happen. You have no claim on this land, this home. Without me—”

“We’ll manage. As we always have.”

“I don’t want you to manage . I want you and the girls to be safe and cared for.”

“I know, Jaromir. I know. And we are. You’d never turn us out, and we appreciate every bit you send us.”

“It’s not nearly enough.”

“Isn’t it?” Rhosyn’s voice is softer. “You have given much. Given all, it appears. Could you really sacrifice so much and still find contentment?”

Jaromir’s response isn’t immediate, it’s a drawn out silence punctuated by a harsh exhale. “I’m sacrificing nothing, since it’s already lost to me.”

“Surely not—”

“Leave it, Rhosyn.” Jaromir’s voice is a rough growl. “She will not have me. Not that I even deserve her.” Another pause. “She is destined for more, and I would not stand in the way of that. Not when I’m unworthy of a second chance.”

“You’re just giving up? The land wouldn’t fall to me until your death. We have some time—”

“There’s no security in this. Magistrate Ridion is already pressuring me to claim ownership before it’s considered a desertion of inheritance, and he won’t be happy with a verbal agreement of marriage. He’s had his eye on this farm since Damir’s funeral. I won’t have my sister and nieces thrown to the wolves.”

“You should stop calling me your sister to make your point about marriage.”

Oh, goddess.

“Did you hear that?” Rhosyn’s voice rises, her chair scraping the floor again.

I said that out loud, didn’t I?

Footsteps stride for the door I hide behind, and I consider ducking for cover, or at the very least appearing casual as if I haven’t been eavesdropping, but what’s the point?

The door swings open, flooding me in the lamplight from the lantern at the kitchen table. Rhosyn stands over me, a hand on her hip and a warm expression on her face. Jaromir stands so quickly, he knocks his chair back.

I don’t know what to say.

“She’s right, you know. You shouldn’t call your betrothed your sister. It raises a lot of uncomfortable questions.”

Well, I shouldn’t have said that.

Rhosyn gently tugs my hand, pulling me into her kitchen. “Come,” she says, “you and I have much to discuss.”

That sounds particularly unpleasant.

“Actually, I was going to go find Neith…”

“Nonsense. Jaromir, out. Sylvaine and I need a chance to speak privately.”

This is my nightmare, and the single worst way to spend a hangover.

Jaromir glares at her before turning his eyes on me. A wave of longing, so strong it nearly sends me to my knees, washes over me. And once again, the hopelessness of it all pulses its painful reminder.

But maybe this will be the last prod at the still-healing wound.

Seated across the table from the woman Jaromir is set to marry, I fiddle with my steaming mug. It’s dreadfully quiet, and I can’t help but wonder if she insisted on our privacy just to make me sweat under the weight of our mutual silence.

Her home is of sturdy build, with little wood carvings of different animals placed throughout. It reminds me of Jaromir’s craftsmanship. I’ve watched his hands whittle a hunk of wood into something beautiful, intentional. Usually weapons, though. Weapons can be lovely.

“You have a charming home,” I say. “It’s very… homey. Is that the word? There’s a word for the cozy charm you’ve created here. It means something about the significance of family. It’s right on the tip of my tongue, and alas, it eludes me. Don’t you hate it when that happens? I admit, it doesn’t happen to me often, but when it does…” I muster the fortitude to allow my rant to die down.

Rhosyn watches me with a befuddled expression creasing her elegant brows. I gulp down a mouthful of questionably fragrant tea, forgetting it’s boiling hot. It scalds my mouth, creating a fuzzy feeling on my tongue and down the back of my throat. “Ah… excellent… tea.” I cough, wishing I was never caught eavesdropping.

I wish a lot of things were different, actually.

“You seem nervous,” Rhosyn says. “You shouldn’t be.”

That’s interesting coming from the woman who insisted on a private discussion and then followed it up with a staring contest.

“I don’t enjoy anticipating a conversation. I’d much rather just have it. Anticipation leads to anxiety which leads to me thoughtlessly spewing words. I’d much rather not fill the silence with incoherent ramblings but it tends to happen anyway.” I hope she realizes what a true threat this is. I’ve been told I have impressive lung capacity, and I’m not afraid to use it.

Her eyes widen, her elegant hands cradling her steaming cup. “You are… not what I expected.”

From a bard? An elf? From the woman who has pleasured every nook and cranny of her betrothed? Ugh. Nook and cranny . I’m utterly grateful I didn’t voice that thought aloud.

“And yet… it makes so much sense why Jaromir loves you. You know, he would have spent the night guarding your door had I let you sleep above the tavern.”

Her words halt the breath in my lungs.

I knew this conversation wasn’t going to be pleasant, but I certainly didn’t expect her to lead with that. Though thrown off guard, I won’t lie to her.

“We’ve made no declarations,” I say, flattening my voice. “No promises.”

“You’re too clever to mistake me for ignorant.” She sighs, exasperation elevating the sound. “Jaromir is… difficult. He’s always assumed the responsibility of everyone around him. I grew up with him, and I’ve seen every side of his. Did you know when his father died, Jaromir and Damir were meant to inherit in equal parts? Jaromir didn’t want any of the land, had no interest in the farm, wouldn’t even let Damir buy out his share. All he wanted were a few sentimental items, his mother’s scarf—small tokens. He was always this way. Only accepting the smallest piece while granting the lion’s share to someone else. I think… somewhere along the line, he got it in his head that his worth is measured by how much he gives to others. To his detriment.” She examines her tea, a brief flash of pain alighting her face. “He’s lost so much, we all have, and part of me thinks he truly believes he doesn’t deserve to be happy.”

I don’t know what to say, a rarity for me, and I’m afraid I’ll break whatever spell she’s under that allows her to speak her truth so freely. So, I take another sip of this awful tea and wait for her to continue.

“I harbor no interest in marrying Jaromir,” she says with a shake of her head. “But I don’t want my girls to lose their home. Damir built this. It feels like part of him is still with me when I walk these halls. A creak of the floorboard, the nail in the third step he forgot to hammer down all the way. I can’t bring my girls’ father back. But I’ve found comfort in knowing his touch is all around us. His father’s land, and his father’s before him, it’s where we dreamed of our future, our life. The life we wanted for our daughters.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Her smile turns wistful. “I’ve always struggled with Jaromir’s insistence on our marriage. We’re planning a winter union, and to be honest, I’ve dreaded the coming days. It was agreed we would live as if we’re unattached, he was free to seek his own pleasure as was I, but when we married, we would take the rites seriously. We’ve known each other our whole lives, and I’ve only ever thought of him as Damir’s brother and my friend. But some small part of me hoped, with time and circumstance, we might grow to love one another. We already have friendship and respect.”

Pain rips anew in my chest at her words. Winter. That’s only a few short months away. Autumn in the central regions of Targgein is notoriously short. Once we reach Harvest Day, it’s practically a matter of weeks until winter.

I bite my cheek, chiding my foolish disappointment. What difference does it make when? I knew it was coming, and the sooner the better, so I might finally be free of the ridiculous idea that anything might change.

“That sounds like a strong foundation for a marriage,” I say.

Rhosyn laughs. “But then I saw you. I remembered Damir teasing Jaromir about a bard they’d seen in a tavern in Birchfield. About how he was too nervous to speak to her but watched her all night. About how he hummed her song the entire journey home.”

My vision blurs, and I stare at my tea as I blink the moisture away.

“Somehow, you’re here now. And watching the way he looks at you…” She trails off, shaking her head. “He’ll never look at me like that.”

I hate how her words crawl inside the space in my chest. I hate how she’s making me feel guilty for our feelings. Perhaps I have his affection for now, but she has his future. She’ll have her home with him.

I clear my increasingly thick throat. “Give it time. He’ll forget me, and you’ll live happily ever after or some version of it.”

The corner of her mouth downturns. “What usually happens in the stories that end in sacrifice?”

Sacrifice. Isn’t everything a sacrifice of some sort?

I rap my knuckles against the table in a steady rhythm. “The stories don’t really tell what happens after the big adventure, do they? How after the hero slays the dragon and hangs up their sword, they find a new adventure. A quiet one. How each day brings its own challenges and triumphs. And sometimes, the hero looks back on that one great adventure, and for a moment, they wish they could feel that way again. But ultimately, they know this is the real story. The one forgotten by all but remembered by the people who matter. The story that doesn’t exist in songs and tales because it’s the life they fought for. And they turn the page, thanking their lucky stars they’re right where they belong.”

Rhosyn stares at me, her face unreadable.

I cough, uncomfortable by her unrelenting stare. “Or maybe the hero falls into the creek and dies of a terribly boring and inconvenient illness.”

She blinks. “You are… delightfully strange, Sylvaine.”

I flash her my stage smile, and it’s tight against my cheeks. “I take that as the highest compliment. So, if there’s nothing else you wish to say—” I stand, eager to escape this conversation and the emotions it’s pulling from me.

“If only there was a way to give Jaromir the end to the tale he deserves,” she says.

My smile dims, even as I try to keep it firmly in place. If only. Those are the words I loathe to write in any story. The words that echo after a great loss. My da once told me those two words are useless. If only can yield a thousand outcomes.

If only things were different, but they’re not.

“You both will be fine,” I say as I pull my cap back atop my head. “I have a nose for good stories, and yours will end in comfort. And really, after the long road to home, isn’t that what we all want?”