Page 8 of The Ballad of the Last Dragon

Chapter Eight

I ’ve known fear. I’ve been afraid I won’t find my next meal. Afraid the men at the docks will examine too closely and find something they like. That someone will hate my ears enough to do more than insult me. That I won't survive the night to see the dawn.

I’ve been afraid I’ll disappear as if I never existed, too insignificant for anyone to remember.

But I’ve never known this type of fear that settles beneath one’s skin like a slow-creeping dread. The spike of my rapid pulse has waned, and my limbs are heavy. But something itches inside me. A worry refusing to settle. It’s a numbing sort of fear that’s quiet and waits in the dark.

I don’t much like the quiet. Or the dark.

The town of Astervale is still a bit of a mystery to me. Apart from the healer living above the apothecary, I haven’t had a chance to survey our surroundings. The moon was tucked behind a thick swath of clouds when we arrived, so all I saw was the sleepy face of a man, shadows etched along his features as candlelight danced over his surprised expression. He had quickly let us in and showed us to his private rooms where he could examine Aeron fully. I wanted to suggest he wake up more first, but he seemed to snap into awareness upon catching sight of the arrow. Jaromir had carried Aeron into a room behind the healer, and the door shut with a finality. Once Aeron’s lodging was secure, the hunter fled our company. It’s just as well. What could he really do other than serve as a reminder not to don branches like antlers lest you be shot with an arrow?

Here I sit, back against the wall in a dark corridor, while Cadoc paces the floor, and Neith rests against the spindles at the top step.

I won’t pretend there’s honor in the tightness of my chest. Of course I don’t wish any ill will toward Aeron. He’s sweet and has a good heart. His smile alone is enough inspiration to write a swoon-worthy ballad. But I don’t know him well enough to mourn the idea of his loss.

The loss of my adventure, though. This is a thorn in my mind, refusing to let my thoughts turn elsewhere.

I’m a terrible person.

The door opens, and I jolt to my feet. The healer wipes blood from his hands with a rag, heaving a deep sigh. “He’s stable for the moment. His body is fighting off an infection, thus the fever.”

I nod as if I knew about the fever.

“I’ll keep him here for a few days for observation. When I’m satisfied with his progress, he’ll be free to go.” The healer has a gravelly voice I find oddly soothing. A frown forms on his weathered face. “You may all spend the night, but on the morn, you’ll need to arrange lodging elsewhere. I can’t house the lot of you—I’ve a business to run.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you for all you’ve done.” Cadoc reaches to shake the man’s hand. “May we see him?”

The healer nods. “He’s unconscious, and he needs rest. But you can head on in.”

Cadoc and Neith rush through, leaving me in the hallway with the man who may or may not have saved Aeron’s life. I should thank him. He could have turned us away. Welkin knows, it must have been quite a shock to receive callers in the middle of the night and his kindness is not lost on me.

“How much will this cost?”

His brow raises, and I curse my tongue as my cheeks flame. But I know better than most, nothing is free, and an unnamed debt is a terrible thing to owe.

“It has been handled. Your friend in there—”

“Henry,” Jaromir’s voice calls out as he appears in the doorway, clapping the healer’s back, “you’ve done enough for one night. You deserve rest more than any of us.”

Henry nods, rubbing his forehead. “You remember where I keep the spare linens?”

“Under the stairs where Lyla could never find them.” Jaromir smiles, and it isn’t like Aeron’s smile, which brightens a dim room with the strength of a high sun. It’s an ember in the dark—a soft warmth I want to bask in. “I’ll never understand purposely picking a fight with your wife.”

“That’s because you’ve never had makeup sex.”

I cringe. I’m sure Henry is very spry for his age, but good goddess, I don’t want to picture that.

Henry shuffles off, presumably to bed.

Jaromir and I are alone in the darkened hallway. Flickering candlelight spills out of Aeron’s room and bathes the side of Jaromir’s face. His dark eyes are unreadable, and his mouth tightens.

“He’ll be okay,” he says, his voice soft as a caress. He clears his throat. “I know you were worried, but Henry is the best in the business. So long as Aeron rests and hydrates, he’ll recover fully.”

“Good. That’s good.” I should go sit with Cadoc and Neith, but my feet won’t seem to move. I’m frozen beneath the weight of his stare.

Jaromir reaches out, his touch ghosting against my hair, and I suck in a breath. A gentle tug, and he removes his hand, a small green leaf tucked between his fingers. Right. I haven’t checked a looking glass yet. I’m sure I’m in quite a state. He’s still holding that blasted leaf, as if unsure what to do with it. Finally, he tucks it in his pocket, burying his hand along with it.

“You just stole my hair accessory.” My words are wooden, stilted by the lack of air behind them. I wait for his grunted reply or some sort of insult.

His gaze runs over my face. Once. Twice. His lips part as if he’s waiting for the words to come. With a nod, he turns away, descending the stairs to the front door and disappearing into the night.

I exhale a shaky breath, and step into Aeron’s room, finally able to move.

“Another round, then I swear on my honor, I will go see Aeron again.” Cadoc places a hand in the middle of his broad chest, his solemn expression lasting a mere moment before a languid grin spills across his face.

“Ye have nae honor.” Neith elbows him and sips from her tankard.

The tavern is a riot of color. Red banners hang from wood beams and yellow ribbons wrap around poles. Off-key songs of harvest and feasting fill the room, and the scent of sweat and sweet wine is intoxicatingly thick. I can’t believe I forgot it was First Fruits Day. Everyone is well into their cups, and a revelatory spirit permeates the already heady air.

It’s glorious.

I adjust the strap of my lute across my chest. No one has asked me to play… yet. My head is hot beneath my red cap, but it’s worth it to finally be exactly where I belong. There’s no stage, but that won’t stop me. I shall not end this night without singing at least one tune—on the bar if I have to.

A busty lass with red curls and a salacious grin keeps eying Jaromir with interest. He doesn’t seem to notice as he sips from his mug and nods at mine where it remains atop the table, untouched.

“Something wrong with your ale?”

“Not at all, apart from it being ale.” I don’t like to drink before a performance. A drunk audience—that I can work with. But a drunk performer? I never know which chance will yield the launch of my dreams, so it’s best to treat each one like my last.

Jaromir frowns as if I’ve insulted his taste. “Suit yourself.”

The balance of our group is off without Aeron. He’s always quick to come to my defense, and his unyielding optimism is the perfect counter to Jaromir’s surliness.

“Do you think Aeron is disappointed he’s missing this?”

Neith shrugs. “Dinnae ken he’s aware o’ much right now.”

Jaromir watches me, the furrow in his brow deepening. I nudge my ale toward him in case he thinks me wasteful.

He pushes away from the table, striding to the bar.

That was strange, but I have neither the energy nor the desire to analyze Jaromir’s actions. Everything I do annoys the man, and it’s exhausting trying to keep up with his reactions.

“Summat else ye’d prefer?” Neith leans over, snagging my cup for her own consumption.

“Oh, no! I find I’m most parched after a performance.”

A brilliant smile lifts Cadoc’s handsome face. “You begin tonight then? Tales of our exploits! The magnificent noble and his motley crew of brave adventurers!” He jumps atop his chair, only slightly swaying. “Hear ye, hear ye. In honor of First Fruits Day, we have a special guest in our midst.”

Neith hisses and grabs Cadoc to yank him down, but he leaps onto our table and dances out of her reach.

“The songbird of the east has migrated west to grace us with her tales!” He loses his footing and slips, landing in Jaromir’s empty chair and crossing his legs as if it was all part of the performance.

Cheers and drunken hollers ring out, along with a few ear-piercing whistles.

Energy lights up my chest. My mouth tugs into a grin as I stand.

“Ignore him,” Neith says, glaring at Cadoc. “Ye needn’t do this just because some drunk idiot announced it.”

Cadoc blows her a kiss.

I adjust my cap and pull my lute into ready position. “But Neith, I wouldn’t waste a warmed-up audience.” A simple plucking tune dances from my fingers as effortless as breathing.

This is what I am meant to do.

I haven’t written Aeron’s ballad, not fully, but I can take advantage of this moment.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m honored to tell you the tale of the man who shines brighter than the sun. A man who once spent a year in darkness to better appreciate the sight of dawn setting the sky aflame.” I announce in a clear, ringing voice as I continue to pluck my way through an upbeat melody. Weaving my way through the tavern, around stools and patrons as I meet as many watery eyes as I can. A true storyteller connects with their audience.

“He’s a man of unparalleled courage, untainted honor, and unmatched virility.” I add that last part with a wink, and a few howls and whistles respond. “He embarks on a perilous quest, against unbeatable odds, to face a foe who casts a shadow taller than this very establishment.”

A few gasps ring out, and I smother my smile into a solemn expression.

Time to bring it home.

“When deeds fall short of history, what must we do?” My voice booms with authority that isn’t mine, and yet I command it. My gaze travels over my rapt audience, sweeping over sticky tabletops, cluttered floors, and ruddy-faces brightened by drink. When my stare falls to the bar, my heart plummets to the pit of my stomach.

Jaromir leans against the bar, his broad body twisted away from me. But he isn’t alone. The woman from before—the red-haired beauty he’d previously ignored, now claims his attention. His face is half hidden behind the gentle curve of her jaw. Her auburn curls conceal whatever expression he makes as he whispers against her skin, his chin skimming her pale neck. Her eyes are glazed as her cheeks redden even more. Tangling slender fingers into his dark curtain of hair, she angles his head, seeking his lips.

I can’t feel my hands. Everything’s gone cold. I can only hope my fingers still dance over the strings of my lute as the floor falls away from me.

Clearing my throat, I force my lips to smile. It feels more like I’m baring my teeth. Strength I don’t possess steadies my voice. “My good people, we make history.”

I leap into a heavy-handed strum, infusing every ounce of emotion I have into a major key. Cheers erupt and applause rings out, deafening the roar in my ears. As the crowd blurs before my eyes, I blink, clearing away unnecessary distractions.

After all, the show must go on.

The flame of my cheeks hasn’t abated, but I sing with gusto, dancing on numb feet about the room as if I feel as merry as the tune promises. Never mind the fact that my chest aches with every breath.

Between my renditions of While the Fisherman’s Away and What’s in a Dwarven Whiskey, I could have sworn I heard someone yell out ‘filthy whore,’ but whoever it was, they were silenced quickly enough not to interrupt my performance. But that doesn’t trouble me. I’ve been called worse, and I hardly notice anymore.

If only I could ignore everything so easily.

Why Jaromir and his companion haven’t retired for the night is beyond me. Perhaps she must finish her shift before she’s free to indulge in the giant, growling oaf for the evening. She flits from table to table, while Jaromir orders another drink at the bar. His jaw is a tight line of disapproval, and I can practically feel his glower. Whenever our eyes meet, I quickly find something safer to gaze upon. Like that drooling man with the bushy blond beard and bloodshot eyes.

My treacherous periphery reveals pale hands sliding over Jaromir’s shoulders again. The woman is back, and her appetite hasn’t been sated.

Perhaps I can help. I am, after all, a storyteller.

“Have you ever heard of Sir Aeron Fowler’s kind nature?” I continue without waiting for a response. Most of my audience is too drunk to follow my lead. “He’s a man too big for merely one tale. His heart knows no bounds, and his honor remains unblemished. For in bravery, coin, and friends is he the richest man of all. He’s a collector of wayward souls, offering charity wherever he goes.”

Jaromir’s gaze burns my skin like a brand.

“I once accompanied him on a ride-along as a spectator of his good nature. Would you all like to hear of it?”

I don’t care that half of the patrons have retired for the evening. I don’t care that Cadoc is propped up against Neith’s shoulders, softly snoring while she continues to drink without showing signs of drunkenness—seriously, where is it all going?

I don’t even care that my callouses have ripped open. I pluck a pretty tune and clear my throat.

“ Once we were but specters in the night,

Once we came to the truth of the light,

In the abyss or in Eden, it matters not.

For this nobleman, Aeron, gives more than he’s got.

He found a pitiful beast, alone by the road,

In a puddle of piss, and blood, and soiled.

I shrank away, what a frightful sight.

But Aeron held out his hand, and said, stay for the night.

The creature was no creature but actually a man

Who sniveled and snuffled and begged for a hand

A fae lass had b’witched him, cast a spell on his mind

His condition wouldn’t lessen until the end of time

His tented trousers removed all doubt

I gasped, and shrieked, and threw up in my mouth

But he wept and howled and begged for aid

Said, ‘I’d rather die than live another day of this ache.’

Aeron wouldn’t oblige, not even a mercy kill

For this poor soul had such strength of will

Instead he paid for with coin from his own pocket

All the company of every wench, from here until Denmarket

And when at last Jaromir collapsed and sighed

His condition had fled him, and he was still alive

Jaromir swore an oath, upon the blade of his sword

He’d never touch another woman, he gave his word

If he did, may the fae who bespelled her trick

Once again seek vengeance and remove his prick.”

A few murmurs ripple through the crowd. Somewhere, a deep voice calls out, “Any man who’d pay for another man to whet his sword is a hero!”

A rumble of laughter answers his outburst.

Does Jaromir deserve it?

Well, it made me feel better.

Neith shakes her head with a small smile and raises a brow in my direction. A quick cut of her glance Jaromir’s way, and I know I must face the music.

I can’t avoid his gaze any longer.

The air thickens, and any breath I have flees my chest in a rough exhale.

His dark eyes are so wide, it’s comical. His lips are parted, and the stiffness of his jaw is momentarily abated. As ridiculous as he looks, there’s almost a vulnerability there in the way his brows are lifted in surprise. The auburn-haired beauty who has run her hands over him all night tracks the tension between us with knowing eyes and backs away.

Jaromir stands and takes a step toward the stage.

And that’s my cue! “Well, thank you for being a beautiful audience! Afraid I must go; you can donate to my tab with the barkeep!” I bolt for the door.

In all my haste, I’ve forgotten my room is directly over the tavern, but it’s too late now. Perhaps I can sleep in a barrel somewhere. Wouldn’t be the first time.

Humiliation burns its reminder against my cheeks and neck. Why did I sing that song? Why should I care if he finds company for the night? He could marry her and have a million glowering babies and it would still be none of my business.

Though it is my business to make everything my business, so I wasn’t entirely out of line…

Something grips the back of my collar, wrenching me to a halt. Rough hands spin me and press my shoulder blades against the brick wall of the narrow alley. Jaromir looms over me, crowding my space and making it hard to breathe. I grip my lute tighter and keep it safely between our bodies.

“What in the blazing abyss was that?” His voice is dangerously low, and I resist the urge to shiver.

“That was a song. I believe you’ve heard one before.”

“That was immature and childish.”

I should stick my tongue out at him just to show him how immature I can be. “Not as childish as practically having sex on the bar.”

Jaromir rears back, his brows lifting in confusion. “What—”

“Why couldn’t you go to your room like a normal person to enjoy her company? No one wished to witness that display.” Why am I saying this out loud?

His confusion melts into something sharper. His nostrils flare, and a reddish hue steals across his face. “I stayed to ensure you received no further harassment. You seem incapable of taking care of yourself so—”

“Incapable?” Slinging my lute to hang at my side, I shove my hands against his chest. He doesn’t budge. “I’ll have you know I’ve done just fine on my own without you. I don’t need, nor do I want, anything from you, so stop pretending to care what happens to me.”

This doesn’t feel like our fun prodding to irritation. My throat is tight, and my treacherous eyes blur with what I’m sure couldn’t be tears.

I don’t want to feel whatever this is—this confusing, irrational mix of emotions that bears no justification.

His expression softens to one of contemplation. Like he’s trying to sort out what to do with me.

“Sylvaine.”

The sound of my name on his lips does funny things to my stomach.

I blink any lingering moisture away and fake a smile. It feels tight, like shoes I’ve outgrown.

“Go. I’m sure she’s waiting to assist your cursed prick.” My cheeks begin to ache.

Without waiting for a response, I push past him, back toward the tavern. Neith will probably find her way to our shared room soon, and I need to make sure I appear asleep before she does.