Page 9 of The Ballad of the Last Dragon

Chapter Nine

D espite the stone that’s made a home in my belly, sleep finds me. It releases me from its clutches before the first rays of dawn break across the sky. A hint of light smudges the horizon, and I needn’t wake for hours, yet I pull myself from my cot and creep across the floor. I didn’t bother changing out of my clothes last night, but for once, I leave my cap behind and grab my boots from their spot by the door, sneaking out with slow, careful movements. It’s more of a courtesy. I’m sure Neith heard me the moment I stirred.

Yanking my boots into place, I tip-toe down the hall and stairs. The tavern is not yet open for patrons, but that’s not my destination.

Once I’m outside, summer’s cool morning blasts me in the face. It’s thick and damp with the promise of a humid day, but for now the darkened sky keeps the sun’s heat at bay.

I make my way across the quiet square, heading for the apothecary. For Aeron. I still haven’t had the chance to see him conscious, a fact that shames me almost as much as my performance last night.

My gut twists at the thought. I have nothing to be ashamed of. I gave a spirited performance, bringing honor to Aeron’s name as I promised I would. So what if a touch of pettiness laced my verses? Jaromir is no saint, and I don’t need his good opinion.

The door to the apothecary is locked, but Henry left the backdoor unlocked for us to come visit Aeron at any hour. He’s either very trusting, or this village leaves little room for paranoia. We haven’t been here long enough for me to form an opinion, but in my experience, even “good” people fall prey to bad impulses. Still, I’m grateful for the chance to check on Aeron without the others.

When I reach his room, the door’s been left open a crack, warm light spilling out. I poke my head in, finding Aeron leaning against his pillows, studying the book in his hand. His chest is bare, but bandages cover him from his shoulders to just below his ribs. His red hair is tied back in a knot, and concentration creases his forehead.

All the tension leaves my body in a rush. “You’re awake.”

He peers over his book, and that damnable smile lights up his face. “I was wondering when I’d see my favorite bard.”

Taking that as invitation enough, I slip in and find my way to the chair by his bed. “How do you feel?”

He shrugs, then grimaces at the action. “Better and worse. I think I preferred it when I was unconscious and didn’t have to feel my wound.”

“Well, I certainly didn’t prefer that,” I say. “You scared us all with that stunt.”

He places a hand over his heart. “Deepest apologies, my lady. Consider it a one-time offense.”

I sniff as if affronted by the whole ordeal like a proper lady. “Very well.” I glance at the book resting on his bunched-up coverlet. “So long as you aren’t still reading that survival guide.”

He laughs, one of his full chested ones that fills the too-quiet room. “I assure you, I’m not. This is more of a comfort read.”

Now I must know what it is. It’s a fascinating business, the variances in what brings comfort. I slide the book from his grasp and flip it open to the first page. The familiar words, words I’ve read nearly a dozen times, leap out from the page.

“Whispers of Time,” I say with a smile. “This is my absolute favorite story. Favorite not penned by me, I should say.”

Aeron grins. “Truly? It’s my favorite, too. I’ve read it over and over since I was just a boy.”

I can see it. Young Aeron with long, unbound hair lounging in the grass, book in hand, and absently chewing a piece of straw while a cloudless sky hovers above.

The first time I read this book was out loud to a kind woman who had lost her sight to age. For a week, I read to her, and she paid me with baked potatoes, hot enough to warm me from the inside out. I’d clutch my daily potato, eager to sate the gnawing in my belly, but hesitant to lose the warmth in my dirty palms. On the day I read to her for the last time, I tripped over words that never gave me trouble before and had to slow my pace to read each word carefully. She let me keep the book and gave me two potatoes that day, with the promise to find more books I could read to her. But winter was harsh that year, and she didn’t live to see the spring.

Two years, I carried that book around with me. Until one night, when I strayed down the wrong alley. I didn’t mourn the loss of my tattered cloak, nor the few coins I’d stolen from unsuspecting pockets. But that book—a light in the dark—I missed its comfort something fierce.

I hand the book back, clearing my throat. “Everyone should read this story as many times as their life allows.”

Aeron lowers his head, running his finger along the book’s spine. “On this, we agree. Though my father wouldn’t say the same.”

“On the choice of book or revisiting a favorite for pleasure?”

Aeron snorts. “Pleasure is not a word my father used. He thought of pleasure as listlessness or indulgence. Though, to be honest, I don’t think there’s much he and I ever saw eye to eye on.”

I raise a brow in question. In my experience, one can freely comment on the shortcomings of their own kin, but if I were to chime in, he might take offense. It’s best if I let him carry on this conversation without much input.

He takes the hint to continue. “As the youngest of five brothers, I’m the epitome of the spare . The unnecessary addition to a long line of heirs.” He gives me a weak smile that stretches his dry lips. “For a time, I relished the freedom it brought me. You understand, I was unburdened by the mantle of responsibility. And with my family’s fortune at my disposal…” He sighs, his shoulders slumping. “I pursued any venture I liked. Any passion, leisure, or interest that struck my fancy. Did you know I once decided I’d be the next great painter?”

I shake my head. “You paint?”

“I wanted to. Badly enough, I told my father it was my life’s calling, boarded the next ship to Lindale, and spent the spring season proving I hadn’t the focus nor the talent.” He laughs, and it’s a thick wheezing sound. “I was fortunate, there’s no denying that. But somewhere down the road, I played the part of the fool so well, I negated any trust or good opinion my family might have formed of me.”

I reach out to grab his hand, and he squeezes back. “For what it’s worth, I see no fault in pursuing passions, even if they’re fleeting in nature. Passion is the first ember of creation. Without art, what are we?”

“Are you a bard or a philosopher?”

“You jest to deflect my question. Perhaps I’ll write that into your ballad. ‘Aeron Fowler couldn’t take the discomfort of someone agreeing with him.’ It has a ring to it.”

His answering smile softly lingers before the crease returns to his brow. “I’m tired of being the family punchline. The burden.” He meets my gaze with an intensity I’ve never seen in his eyes. “I’m meant for more.”

The fervor in his voice and the grip of his hand clenches something in my chest. I know this feeling all too well.

“Yes, you are, and you’ll have it.” I lean forward. “And I’ll make damn sure the world knows you.”

A creak of the floorboard makes us both jump. I spin around to see Jaromir hovering in the doorway, an unreadable storm on his face. He is likely still sore about the ballad. His gaze drops to where Aeron’s and my hand remain joined, and I quickly pull away.

“I see you’re awake.” Jaromir’s voice is thick and gruff, and his eyes are everywhere but on me now.

“That I am,” Aeron says, sitting up taller. “I was just about to regale Syl with the details of where I heard of the dragon.”

Now this snags my attention.

“Oh, do tell! I could work some of these details into your ballad.”

Jaromir groans, and at Aeron’s confused expression, I explain.

“I began my work last night.”

“Slander. She began her slander.” Jaromir glares at me.

Aeron shifts his attention between the two of us. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“I was singing your praises, and Jaromir didn’t appreciate the artistic license I took with a few details.”

“You dragged my name into it.”

“Now you’re famous.”

“You gave me a cursed prick.”

“Yes, but Aeron did lift the curse in the end.”

To Aeron’s credit, he tightens his mouth against the smile threatening to spread. “I need to heal and get out of this bed. It sounds like I’m missing an awful lot of excitement.” He pats the space on the quilt next to him because I’ve taken the chair, and with a huff, Jaromir stomps over and sits. The bed compresses under his weight. I angle away from him so I can’t tell if he smells like a perfumed woman has been pressed against him all night.

“Now, do you want to hear how I learned about the dragon?”

“I don’t need to be here for this,” Jaromir says quickly.

“I want my friend by my side.”

At this, Jaromir stops huffing.

“Now, where was I?” Aeron taps his chin thoughtfully. “Oh yes. A traveling merchant came to town selling old maps…”

By the time Aeron finishes his story and curls up to rest once more, the sun is high in the sky, and a headache has made a home behind my eyes. Jaromir also seems worn from his night of debauchery or whatever he got up to once I fled his sight. It’s surprising when he walks me out of Aeron’s room, softly shutting the door and leaving us alone in the hall.

Glancing over at him, I note the dark circles etched beneath his bloodshot eyes. I’d wager he didn’t get a wink of sleep. People know when they look tired; they don’t need to hear it.

“You look like shit.”

Unfortunately, I care little for what he needs.

“I feel worse.”

“I doubt that.” I begin descending the steps to the apothecary. The little bell tinkles above the door, indicating customers are already shopping. Judging by Aeron’s state, we have at least another night before he’s fit enough to travel. Maybe more. Itching restlessness burns the back of my collar. I want back on the road. Stars overhead and forest at my back.

I should use this time to compose the first part of Aeron’s ballad. Yes! That shall be my task today. I can even include that bit about the merchant selling him his quest. Wait… no. That sounds less heroic and more foolish.

As skeptical as I am over his acquisition of this quest, something about the map tells me the merchant didn’t know the value of what he was selling. Though if you listen to Aeron tell the story, it sounds like he was swindled.

That’s the magic of a story. It has the power to shape our heroes, our hopes, our futures.

But right now, his story has the power to spawn ridicule.

I’m following this man… I’m hitching my cart to his wagon, so to speak. So, if he’s the fool, what does that make me?

The wishful fool.

“Where are you going?”

Jaromir’s irritated voice rips me from my thoughts. I didn’t realize he still walked with me. We stand outside the apothecary, beside the fogged crosshatch windows and beneath the hanging wooden sign that reads Tricks for What Afflicts.

“I was going to find a quiet place to write.” My stomach gurgles, reminding me I haven’t had breakfast yet. Food first, then writing.

“I’ll go with you.” At first, I’m not quite sure I’ve heard him correctly. But then he adds, “After we get something wrapped up to bring with us.”

“All due respect, I think not. I can’t imagine I’ll get much done with you glowering over my shoulder the whole time. Furthermore, isn’t there a certain red-haired woman you might wish to speak to? You joined me in Aeron’s room early enough I can guess you snuck out of there like a coward. It’s none of my business, to each his own, but if we are to patron the only tavern in town again tonight, it would be wise not to burn our bridges just yet. In fact, had you informed me of your aims to bed one of their employees, I might have saved you the grief by reminding you not to piss where we drink or however the saying goes.”

Jaromir’s finger presses firmly against my lips, and his touch burns. He shakes his head, eyes widening. “Do you not breathe when you launch into these tirades?”

I shove his hand away, mouth tingling. “Don’t touch me. Just because you get by with a few grunts and growls masquerading as conversation, doesn’t mean the rest of the world lacks the art of speaking.”

His mouth twitches. “It was becoming a safety concern. Wouldn’t want you to swoon from lack of oxygen.”

He’s jesting with me. Damn him, and damn the corner of my mouth when it lifts without my permission.

“Your crusade to keep chivalry alive is a most admirable goal.” I step closer to his warmth, I don’t know why I do it, but it feels appropriate. Like I need to see how far we can push or pull without us setting one another off. I revel in the fact that he doesn’t retreat; he stands his ground while I invade his space. His scent is both clean and earthy. He must have washed her perfume from his skin.

“I don’t know about chivalry.” His voice is rough. “But I know the sound of your stomach is going to keep you from concentrating.” His gaze dips to my mouth. “And you talk entirely too much.”

I roll my eyes and push past him, trying my best to ignore the way my skin ignites at the contact. I don’t need his good opinion or validation. I need a sweet roll and a quiet spot to write.

He keeps pace beside me, much to my everlasting annoyance.

The bakery has opened its doors, and the scent of sugar and dough reaches my nose. Whatever reaction Jaromir hopes for, I won’t give him the satisfaction.

Neith and Cadoc agree to stay in town with Aeron, taking turns sitting with him while I venture to the outskirts and find a quiet field to write. Wildflowers dot the brow of the green hill in blue, violet, yellow, and white. The sun is warm, and the air is heavy with summer’s embrace.

And I can’t write a single word.

It’s like all the inspiration has abandoned me, and nothing sounds right.

I cross out the nonsensical words I’ve written over and over, and rip yet another page from my book, crumpling it up and shoving it in my satchel.

A soft crinkle is the only indication that Jaromir has slipped the discarded parchment from my bag and smoothed it out to read. He clears his throat pointedly.

I glance up to find he’s holding it out for me to examine, a dark brow arched in silent question. My angrily scrawled words glare up at me.

Why has the muse forsaken me?

“It’s an honest question,” I say with a shrug.

Jaromir crumples it again and shoves it in my bag. “This isn’t working.”

He reaches a hand down to me, and I smack it away without thinking. He is not the expert on my process, and if he plans to condescendingly lecture me on it, I’ll stab him with the point of my quill.

“Let’s find shade. You won’t be able to think straight if you boil from overheating.”

That’s sensible. Reasonable, even. Annoying, most of all.

I shut my book with a firm thud and follow him to the nearby copse of trees at the edge of the woods. It doesn’t take long to find a spot to rest my back against a thick trunk, and I gaze up at the sun filtering through impossibly green leaves. A deep breath, and I sigh. The thick scent of overturned earth fills my senses, and I run my hand through the beams of light illuminating my empty page. Cicadas call out their humming song, and it’s like something out of a dream, a mystical forest where wishes are granted.

And yet… I still can’t make the words come.

Jaromir leans against a tree, watching me with an unreadable expression. “Maybe this is penance for the ballad you sang last night.”

Now he has my attention. “You want me to apologize? Fine, I apologize for temporarily interrupting what I’m sure was a scholarly debate with your companion.”

“That isn’t—”

“A right cerebral discussion of carnal exchange.”

He moves so quickly, I don’t have time to react, not that I could go far with a tree against my back. But he invades my space, crouching to meet me at eye level, and my notebook is all that creates distance between our chests. His dark eyes rove over my face, greedy in their intent.

“Listen to me.” His breath ghosts against my lips, and it’s all I can do not to lean in closer. “I haven’t the faintest idea why you seem fixated on this, but nothing else happened last night.”

I swallow, and the action is tight in my throat. “I don’t care.”

“No, of course not. That’s why you sang of my cock and continue to berate me.”

I’m too stunned at the way my stomach flips hearing that word in the rough rasp of his voice to properly articulate a response.

“After you ran off, I sat at the bar alone, until I retired to my room alone .”

My head spins, and I take a deep breath, only to realize what a mistake that is because I breathe in more of his scent. “It’s none of my business.” My voice is shaky and pathetic.

He laughs, and it’s a low, cruel sound. “And yet, you meddle. Is it so sordid that someone might find comfort in another for a night? That when you live your life on the road, sometimes stolen moments with strangers are the closest thing to intimacy you can have? Does it offend your sensibility? Or is it just me you find so loathsome?”

My cheeks burn. I can’t think straight with him this close, so I say the only thing I think will throw him off guard. “Is that all then? If anyone will do, why didn’t you ask me?”

His eyes flare, and he rears back in shock, the sudden distance both a blessing and a curse. A fresh breath of air untangles the mess of my mind, and finally, I can think clearly again. I knew he was all bluster—trying to overwhelm and outplay me. But I will not be toyed with. It takes more than a handsome face and a broad set of shoulders to intimidate me. He’s all talk and no—

His hand tips my chin and his mouth is on mine before I can gasp out a startled breath.