Page 30 of The Ballad of the Last Dragon

Chapter Thirty

N eith swings her sword with the practiced moves of a dance. The impossible symmetry of her face is on full display, her thick scar catching the light and highlighting her ruthless beauty. She’s braided the hair she wears long so it hangs in a thick plait down her back, swinging with her movements. Each series she performs is a lesson in grace and lethality. She deflects invisible enemies with a swift cut of the blade, steel glimmering in the midmorning sunlight.

I am not as graceful.

Everyone assumes elves have this natural ability, this keen penchant for dance. And don’t get me wrong, I’ve been known to dance a mean jig even whilst playing my lute. But this is awkward and clumsy. Each time the blade passes, I flinch thinking I’m going to cut my thigh.

“Why do ye fear yer own weapon?” Neith doesn’t pause her movements, she speaks as fluidly as the journey of her sword.

“Because,” I pant, “you made me use the heavy one.”

My short sword is safely packed away, along with the rest of my travel gear. Neith insisted we rise before the sun to get some extra training before we depart. She also insisted I use her spare sword, the one she named Reaper . A bit of a tall order if you ask me. I’m supposed to be the harbinger of death while I swing a sword I can barely hold steady?

“Ye’re no’ tryin’.”

“Of course I am!” Heat dots my cheeks as my anger rises. I wipe the sweat from my eyes to glare at her. “Look, we both know I’m not some great warrior, and I won’t be. So, let’s just… call it what it is. I’ve learned enough to not be completely useless or stab myself. Good enough?”

Our destination is little more than a day’s journey away. Perhaps one more night, and we’ll reach the valley. The last staircase to the mountaintop. To the dragon’s cave. Everything we’ve worked for will reach its crescendo.

I can’t decide if I wish to prolong the end of our journey or hurry up and get it over with. Imagining either outcome leaves a sharp pain in my chest.

“Good enough?” Neith’s voice dips to a dangerous decibel, a chilling calm coming over her. Finally, she’s halted her movements, and all I want is for her to scoff and keep swinging her sword. She advances on me, and I take a few skittered steps back. Reaper drags against the ground, drawing a line in the earth. “Tell me, was it good enough when that mercenary drew his blade, an’ Aeron took th’blow knowin’ ye couldnae block?”

Her words land their mark, sinking like a stone in my belly. I tighten my grip on the sword, tears stinging my eyes. “Stop it.”

“Was it good enough when ye could barely lift Jaromir’s sword, when he’d fallen unconscious on th’riverbank, th’only thing standin’ between life an’ death was ye?”

Her words are another jab I fail to deflect. “I don’t need this.” I make to brush past her, but Neith angles herself to stand in my way.

“Was it good enough when ye were flat on yer back, legs forced apart?”

“Stop!” I don’t remember raising my sword. I don’t remember aiming to cut her down, but her sword catches mine, and the force of impact shudders through my arms.

I spin my sword free, but she catches my blade again, forcing me into a defensive stance. Rage blooms in me, like pouring ink into a basin of water, and the only thing that feels right is to lunge, advancing and thrusting with every bit of hot anger coursing through me. Steel meets steel, again and again, and my teeth vibrate against each blow. It isn’t fair for her to use these things against me. It isn’t fair, and if she isn’t planning on sticking with me long enough to ensure those things never happen, then why is she pushing? Everyone is always pushing, always demanding, and when all this is over, what will I have left? I’ll have nothing. I have nothing. I am—

Neith pivots, her riposte far stronger than my attack. She knocks the sword from my shaking hand and levels her blade at my throat.

“Syl.” Her voice is soft, careful, which is funny considering how harsh she was a moment ago. “I didnae mean t’wound ye.”

She lowers her sword, and I wipe my tear-stained cheeks. I want to say, ‘you didn’t.’ But we’d both know that’s a lie. She’s prodding at poorly healed hurts. Of course it’s wounding. I search for the least vulnerable response I can offer, the one that will mask the painful thudding in my chest.

She continues before the words find me.

“But good enough doesnae exist for people like—”

“Me?” I laugh, and it’s a strangled sound. “Nothing will ever be good enough for people like me? Because there will always be someone who hates me for nothing I’ve done but for every lie they cling to in their feeble-minded fear? That an elven bard has a target on their back from every idiot who believes I can influence their thoughts with my voice? You think I don’t know this? You think this hasn’t occurred to me? That even when I stood over my attacker, and he was the one in the dirt while I held the sword, I couldn’t fucking do it? Once a victim, always a victim, isn’t that right?”

I’m utterly deflated, and a heavy calm pulls over me. Like the rise in anger is balanced with numbing fatigue. I’ve had everything taken away from me. In the span of a blink, I lost my home, my family, my belief that I could be anything of value in a world such as this. But I clawed my way back up. I saw what happens when the spark of life truly leaves one’s eyes—when the finality of death claims a person. When all was lost, I was still alive. And when I found my calling, and I realized there was a way for me to carve out my place in this world, I took it. I spun my tales and songs and found a way to get people to listen to me. If only for a moment.

But somewhere along the line, it wasn’t enough. Something was missing, and I felt its absence like an ache.

I wanted home.

Not charity. Not Kingsley and Brigitta shouldering the burden of feeding me, like I was a stray cat.

I wanted home.

Somewhere I belonged and with people who understood me.

Aeron… I didn’t realize how much he meant until he was gone. He was my friend. And not just because we could help each other, but because he understood me.

Neith and Cadoc… they must still blame me for his loss. I doubt they’ll ever forgive me, but they looked out for me and watched my back when it would have been easier to turn away.

And Jaromir. My heart squeezes at the thought of his name. I thought I belonged with him. With them. I thought…

It doesn’t much matter now.

“Us,” Neith says, watching me with a calculating expression. “I was going t’say, people like us.” She sheaths her sword with a harsh movement. “I gave up everything, everything, t’follow my own path. I’ve burned so many bridges, it’s a wonder I stand on dry land. My family disowned me, in every sense o’ th’word, because I knew I was meant t’be more than a transaction.”

Her fingers catch on something hanging around her neck. Something I never noticed before. It’s a half-circlet of twisted bronze branches, a dark stone nestled in its center. It feels strangely familiar. “I dinnae regret this, and I would do it again. But…” She holds her arms out to the side, gesturing to the world around us. “I’m aimless. I haven’t found th’path I’m meant t’walk but I will never stop searchin’, stop tryin’, stop fightin’, until I prove t’myself what I’ve always known. So, no. I dinnae believe in good enough. I believe in good for today. Better tomorrow . ”

I nod, letting her words sink in. Good for today, better tomorrow. Today, I’m a luteless bard with a broken heart and weak arms. Good for today. Tomorrow, I’ll be a luteless bard with a broken heart, and weak arms, but I’ll be that much closer to the end of Aeron’s tale. To the next chapter of my story, and by Welkin’s guardians and the goddess’ favor, I will have the ending I deserve.

It isn’t much, but somehow it’s just enough. It’s scraping the very dredges of your reserves for the faint pulse of hope. Clawing through the pain of disappointment to endure when the world screams at you to yield.

And maybe this surge in focus and determination is a pathetically fleeting thing. Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow, and the weight of it all will threaten to crush me once more. I’ll find that hope once more and drag myself to the promise of a better day.

“Ye keep talkin’ about the stay of yer hand like it was weakness.” Neith’s voice is unbearably soft. “Ye dinnae ken how strong tha’ makes ye. ‘Tis nae easy t’find mercy in th’face of yer anger, but ye did. There’s a softness in ye, Syl. One ‘is world needs. Dinnae mistake it for weakness. Ye’re stronger than ye ken. Stronger than us all in this. A victim? Nae, Syl. Ye’re a fighter.”

My jolt of disbelief is quickly tempered by warmth unfurling in my belly. In the memory of holding my sword above Donnick, of him shaking with fear beneath my blade, I can’t find regret in my inaction. There’s shame when I consider what the others must think of me, but I would lower my sword again and again and again. No matter how foolish that makes me. It wasn’t a moment of survival, or the final blow against my own death. It was a choice. A moment the world stopped and I had the chance to decide who I wanted to be going forward.

That Neith accepts, even admires this in me?

A squirming feeling dips low in my belly, not wholly unpleasant, but uncomfortable enough I can’t allow the weight of this moment to linger.

I clear my throat. “You can be awfully motivational, Neith. Have you ever thought about public speaking?”

Neith studies me a moment and scoffs before she slings an arm around my shoulders, leading us back to camp. “Ye do enough speakin’ for th’both o’ us. I’ll stick t’weapons.”

The air is cooler, especially after washing in the stream. I shiver beneath my cloak—it’s the first time I’ve had occasion to wear it. My wet hair is twisted in a braid hanging over my shoulder, and the ends drip on my tunic and trousers.

Jaromir is nowhere to be found. When I asked Neith where he’d gone, she shrugged.

So here I sit, waiting for Neith to return from washing in the stream, and trying desperately not to think about the man who broke my heart. The man betrothed to a woman I can’t claim to hate. Not even dislike.

It would be easier if I hated her.

“Syl?”

I glance up to find Cadoc watching me, wringing his hands. He wears a tight expression. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Is this about me singing of your manhood? I thought that line about ‘Cadoc’s formidable weapon’ was subtle without hiding my meaning. Would you prefer I spell it out plainly?”

Cadoc huffs a laugh. “It isn’t that.” He drops to sit beside me on the log we’d dragged to the center of camp. “I wanted to apologize.”

“Whatever for?”

“I knew about Jaromir’s betrothal.”

Ah. That.

My heart climbs up my throat. “That’s… that’s all right.”

“No, it isn’t.” Cadoc places a hand on my shoulder, forcing me to look at him. His brows gather in a pinched expression. “I understood his situation, and why he wasn’t dishonoring Rhosyn, not with the understanding they shared. But that you got caught up in this, that you were hurt.” His eyes fall closed, and he shakes his head. “I should have voiced my concerns. To both of you. I wasn’t sure about the nature of your attachment… but I had a feeling it was more than physical. And seeing the way both of you are hurting… I’m sorry.”

My eyes sting, and I blink the threat of tears away. “Nothing to be sorry for.” It’s my own fault for getting swept up in the fantasy. Did I really think it would end in a happily ever after ? That we would spend our days traveling together, me performing in every tavern on the continent, him seeking adventure at my side?

Life isn’t a story. There are no neat and tidy endings.

“I’m sorry he’s a stubborn ass who’s determined to sacrifice his own happiness out of guilt.”

Well. When one puts it that way.

“He’ll be fine,” I say, because I wish that for him. He can’t be mine but that doesn’t mean I don’t want him to be happy.

Eventually.

“For what it’s worth,” Cadoc begins, draping an arm around my shoulders, “he’s utterly devastated without you.”

“Stop.” I almost smile, and shrug him off.

“I mean it!” Cadoc grins at me, his dimples on full display. “I even devised my very own drinking game. Every time Jaromir gazes at you longingly, I take a drink. I had to quit playing so I wouldn’t purge all that hard-earned alcohol. And that was only after an hour of playing.”

I elbow him, and he laughs. “Truly, Syl. The man is gone for you. Anyone with eyes can see that.”

I tug my cloak tighter, letting Cadoc pull me into his comforting embrace again. It’s the first time someone other than Jaromir has held me, and the warmth and safety of his touch is both familial and solacing.

“Thank you,” I say, “but his feelings were never the problem.”

The fire burns high into the sky, on this last night of our journey. We’re half a day from the valley, and as long as this trip has taken, it also feels like if I blink, I’ll miss the rest.

The day has passed in a blur while I was lost in my own head, turning Neith’s words over and examining every angle. Aeron had been seeking glory, and Neith—she searches for purpose. For meaning in a life she fought for.

Cadoc… I thought his search was for coin above all, and while that’s still a driving force, the hazy look of besotted longing he gets every time he brings up Tomas tells me it’s no longer his only motivation. Perhaps that’s the reason for our heart-to-heart earlier. Love has softened the previously untethered man.

It’s a good look for him.

Orange light bathes the side of Jaromir’s face, highlighting the silhouette of his angular nose and sharp jaw. He’s made no effort to speak to me, not since my conversation with Rhosyn. There’s a finality to everything, and as much as it aches, at least it’s done. I can stop ripping open the wound and start letting it heal.

“I almost forgot,” Neith says, reaching behind her. She holds up a leather bound book, leaning around the fire to pass it to me.

“What is it?” I turn it over in my hands, examining the cover. It’s the finest book I’ve ever held. When I had occasion to read to the kind woman who paid me in potatoes, her book was fraying and falling apart. I never could bring myself to part with coin unless it was to fill my belly, and Kingsley didn’t own books. A fierce, aching nostalgia for a life that hasn’t been mine for many years slams through my chest.

My da had a library. It was meager compared to the libraries I wasn’t allowed to set foot in on account of my mischievous proclivities , but it was a single shelf of books handed down through the generations, and some new ones. Once I learned to read, he’d gift me one new book each nameday. I had ambitious plans to fill the house with more books than one could ever read in a lifetime, even invite anyone and everyone to borrow from my collection, because no one should be barred from stories.

But that day never came.

And I never even got a chance to take a single book with me when I boarded that ship.

Flipping the cover open, I peer down at the title page, shadows dancing across the fading ink.

Whispers of Time.

Excitement flutters in my chest, even as my throat squeezes. I find Neith’s knowing grin through the flames.

“Aeron said he was going t’give it t’ye at th’end of all ‘is. As a thank ye.”

I hug the book to my chest. A strange ache fills me, tightening my ribs. I clear my throat against the lump that’s formed. I can’t begin to explain how much this gift represents to me, and now I’m hit with another wave of regret that Aeron died before I could know him better.

I realize I still haven’t responded to Neith’s gesture, likely a kindness she felt compelled to reveal after the hard fought day I had. Rather than share the sentiment that is sure to result in my tears, I head for safer waters.

“Did you give me this because it’s the only book in Aeron’s collection lacking romance?”

Neith blushes, and her eyes narrow. Cadoc’s eyes light up like a child’s on Feast Day when they find their hidden present.

I guess her penchant for romantic stories wasn’t public knowledge.

Jaromir is dutifully paying close attention to whatever new project he’s working on, refusing to glance up at Neith. She’s still fuming across the fire, and it feels like we’re waiting for the first clap of thunder.

Cadoc crosses his legs and leans closer to her, resting his chin on his hand and grinning with ill-restrained delight. “So… how explicit is the romance in these books? I hate it when they skip the good parts.”

That’ll do it.

Neith kicks his boot hard enough, he loses his balance and nearly tumbles into the fire. But he merely laughs, swatting at her half-heartedly.

Guilt trickles through my chest. At Aeron’s behest, Neith has gifted me my favorite book, and I’ve rewarded her generosity by sharing her secret indulgence. But there’s no shame in reading romance, and the sooner she realizes that, the better.

They dissolve into good-natured ribbing and bickering. The sort that proves how close they are and how long they’ve been friends. It’s a bittersweet thing, being on the outside looking in, but I observe their swift banter and evenly traded remarks.

That’s the thing about not having any roots. Nothing has a chance to grow into anything real—into anything that might stand the test of a storm. Cadoc and Neith have roots in one another, even if they don’t stay in one place very long. It’s beautiful, really, the idea of home not being a fixed point, but the people you love who love you back. I want to say it’s safer that way, harder to take your home if it isn’t measured in bricks or stones or timber or books in a library.

But people can be taken away just as easily.

I sneak a glance at Jaromir, admiring him even as it hurts. If nothing else, I’m glad he’ll be happy.

Tucking my hair behind my ear, I hear a soft melody.

Jaromir hums softly to himself while he works, and the low tone of his voice vibrates through me. By the look on his face, he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, but by the Welkin, the deep growl of his hum is the finest music I’ve ever heard. It floats through me and settles somewhere deep in my chest. When I realize what he’s humming, my breath catches.

It's my mama’s lullaby.

After three days of keeping the sun at our left shoulder through midday travel, the putrid scent of rot and death fills my nose. Tears blur my vision, and I heave. The rising sense of dread that’s made a home in the pit of my stomach only confirms the accuracy of my translations. Traveling closer to danger should call to a primordial instinct of survival, shouldn’t it?

“We’re almost there,” Cadoc calls out, his voice muffled by the scarf tied around his nose and mouth. “This must be why no one settles in Death Valley.”

“Could be the charming name that deters them,” I mumble.

Bealucwelm. When the maps were redrawn, and the Targgein monarchs had the chance to rename this valley, they went with Death Valley?

Foolish.

At first light, we had set off, making good time on the last leg of our journey. Now, I’m wishing we’d tarried so I might have had an empty stomach by the time we arrived. My meager breakfast keeps threatening me with a reappearance.

The air is acrid, and I press my forearm against my nose as bile rises in my throat. As the forest thins, and the valley creeps closer, I’m sure I’ll choke on my own vomit if I have to take another step.

A touch to my arm catches my attention. Jaromir holds out another scarf. “I can fasten this for you.” His voice is unsure, as if he thinks I can’t stomach the idea of him touching me, which is fair. But the truth of it is, every nerve in me screams for his touch, even as it burns.

I nod, lifting my hair off my neck. His calluses graze my skin, and I shiver. His touch is careful, deliberate. Lingering.

When he finally pulls away, I turn to face him.

“Thank you.”

He nods, tying his own in place. His dark eyes appraise me over the fabric covering the rest of his face.

I rub the material between my fingers. It’s soft to the touch, but strong enough to blot out most of the smell. Gold is woven into the scarlet fabric, intricate knots and patterns adorning the piece. It seems too fine a cloth to use to block out the smell of death and shit. In fact, I haven’t seen cloth like this anywhere in these parts.

“Where did you get this?”

“It’s from the artisans of Lindale,” he says. His eyes hold mine arrested, as if he doesn’t dare turn away first.

Lindale… that means… “Is this willow infused samite?”

He doesn’t even flinch. “Yes.”

“I can’t use this!” I quickly try to remove the absurdly expensive piece of thickened silk from my face. The cost of such an item could feed a small family for a month. If he wants to live by his honor and provide for his family, he should not be wasting coin like this and why did he tie such a tight knot—

He stills my movements. All I can see are his dark eyes and the way his brows furrow in concentration. “You worry over its worth?”

“Yes,” I spit out. “You should sell this and scrape every coin it fetches to give to Rhosyn and your nieces. Especially, if this proves to be a fruitless journey. We still don’t know what we’ll find, and if you wasted the trip for nothing, it would be good to have a few fast ventures for coin on hand. The fact that you even parted with coin to procure this is wildly irresponsible given your priorities—”

“I didn’t purchase this.”

“You stole it?”

Jaromir scoffs, and for a moment it’s almost easy to stand here berating him while he takes it in stride.

Almost.

“I didn’t steal it.” When my expression remains expectant and waiting, he adds with a sigh, “It was my mother’s.”

Realization hits me square in the gut. His mother’s scarf. One of the only pieces of his inheritance he actually claimed. A remembrance of what he’s lost. Who he’s lost. And he’s so quick to hand it over?

“Take it back! I can’t use your family heirloom to cough and retch into.”

Jaromir’s hands close over my shoulders, and I almost sag into his arms. “I wouldn’t sell it for anything, but I will insist you use it”—his brow lifts—“to cough and retch into.”

A tight laugh leaves my chest, and I thumb the fine fabric circled around my face. Even now, he’s still trying to take care of me. Trying to show how much I mean to him. It would be so much easier, for both of us, if I didn’t mean much at all.

And maybe it really does pain him as much as it pains me that we’re in this situation. Would it have been better if we never felt this way for each other? Part of me wishes to forget, to erase every memory we have together.

But even now, I wouldn’t trade them for anything. Even now, with my still-bleeding heart and the way he keeps ripping it open with each reminder of his care, I wouldn’t trade what we had. Some stories are cut short, and that’s just the way of things.

“Jaromir,” I begin, unsure of what traitorous thoughts I’m about to share. “I—”

“Shit! Guys, you need to see this.”

We exchange a pointed look, a silent promise to discuss this later, before we jog to catch up with the others. We’d tied our horses a few paces back, on account of the fit I threw at the prospect of a dragon cooking our mounts. Turnip doesn’t deserve to go out like that. But now, as my worn boots rub against the blisters on my heels, I wish I hadn’t made such a compelling argument.

When we get to the edge of the forest, the pestilential scent of rotting flesh wafts through the samite scarf around my face. My stomach churns, and a wave of panic and nausea ghosts through me.

There are strange beasts with mottled gray flesh, almost humanoid in their appearance but prowling on all fours. Some of them pick at the remains, two of them start fighting each other over what appears to be a deer carcass. I can’t tear my eyes away from the large, jagged teeth and sloe-black eyes. They’re like the monsters one hears about in tales meant to scare children into behaving—the nightmares one awakes from to find they’re in the comfort of their own bed.

“I’ve never seen an actual nest before.” Cadoc’s voice is a distant thing while I struggle not to tremble.

My voice is thin and reedy, shaking with fear as I ask, “What are those?”

“Those,” Neith says with a shake of her head, “are corpse-eaters.”