Page 18 of The Last Dragon

The mercenary rummaged through his pocket and pulled out a small piece of white stone that looked like chalk.

Tariel didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t want to be separated from Brynjar. At that thought, he felt Brynjar’s warmth fill his soul. The elf didn’t apologize—he hardly ever did, his pride being far too great—but he felt deep down that the golem didn’t hold it against him.

The sound of chalk scraping across the floor began to punctuate the silence of the crypt.

“Dying is just another step,” Cassian continued. “It’s unknown, so it’s frightening—whether you possess magic or not. But this life of humiliation seems to terrify you more than it should. After all, you’re the only one who can decide to stand up to your tormentors.”

Under Cassian’s fingers, strange symbols began to glow, casting a ghostly light into the darkness.

“Tell me about the Heart of Elhë, Tariel. I’m far more interested in that than in those damned gold coins. We’ve got some time to kill before they come back for us.”

The elf didn’t suspect any hidden motive behind this curiosity. As far as he was concerned, the whole world was interested in his people’s artifacts.

“You can keep looking, but I wasn’t even born when the last of them was destroyed,” he replied with feigned nonchalance. “One of them had been in my family for eons, before the Council decided to destroy it. Apparently, it had become too dangerous to keep it in the city… I’ve never really been interested in it.”

Tariel felt Cassian’s weight press harder against his back, but he didn’t protest. What would be the point of complaining? The contact between their bodies enveloped the two prisoners in a reassuring sensation, a strange warmth that fought against the damp cold of the crypt.

“Why such indifference?” retorted the mercenary. “It’s a legacy that must not be neglected. But I sense traces of that crystal in your aura, Tariel. Are you sure you’ve never been in contact with it?”

The elf shook his head, though his companion couldn’t see him.

“I am nothing without my magic, and you have deprived me of it,” he sighed. “I’m carrying a weapon I have absolutely no idea how to use. My magic is all I know. Take that away, and I’m a dead man. You figured that out quickly enough, by the way.”

The feeling of being pathetic washed over Tariel once again with such force that tears welled up in the corners of his eyes. This time, through a fierce effort of will, he managed to swallow them back, refusing to offer that sight to the man whose warmth he could feel against his back. Sinister stranger—that was a title the mercenary truly deserved. Yet, Cassian’s last words intrigued him in spite of himself.

Really, though? Traces of the Crystal in his aura?

Curious, the elf closed his eyes and expanded his inner senses, probing the recesses of his soul as one would explore a room plunged into darkness. He searched for a vibration, a dissonance, a residual spark… Nothing. He perceived only the cold void left by the stasis of his magic. It was disappointing, almost insulting, but he let nothing show.

“There’s nothing foreign in my soul—you must be imagining things,” he finally blurted out. “You’re tired, Cassian, and your wound is making you hallucinate. Perhaps it’s your own magic that you feel reflecting off mine. As for my heritage… I couldn’t care less. My magic comes from there—” Tariel turned slightly to place a hand on his heart, “—and from here,” he added, pointing to his forehead. “I don’t need a pebble to be who I am.”

He spoke with such disarming sincerity that his ignorance seemed almost laughable in the older man’s eyes.

“My magic is unlike any other; it is mine, and I would recognize it anywhere,” Cassian retorted in a hushed voice. “The Heart of Elhë is not ‘a pebble,’ Tariel. It is a power that transcends mortal understanding. Wars have broken out over it. Entire cities have been reduced to ashes, and the mighty have fallen into oblivion. It is the very symbol of life, an inestimable force whose power does not necessarily manifest in mineral form. What on earth have you been learning from your books all this time that you are unaware of one of the celestial powers of this world? Gone or not, I am certain it has a key role to play, and your soul has either been its vessel or has come into direct contact with it.”

A heavy silence fell over the crypt. Cassian rose with an almost comical slowness, his joints creaking under the strain, before sitting back down to face the elf. As he adjusted his position, he added thoughtfully, “Elves lie for the good of their community. They’ve always been that way. They imagine that lies protect souls from the ugliness of the world, when in fact they destroy the most precious thing at its very source. Trust.”

Now seated across from the mercenary, Tariel dared to fix his gaze on him with a curiosity tinged with bitterness. Cassian was strong; he could tell by the width of his shoulders and the discipline that radiated from his body, even though it was ravaged by scars and poison.

The elf felt a twinge of jealousy. His own dagger served only as a bread knife, whereas Cassian seemed able to trade his powers for his fists with irritating ease.

To his great dismay, Cassian also seemed intelligent. He knew a great deal—about magic, about the world… and although that should have excited Tariel, in reality, it annoyed him. Why did he know so much? And why had he never heard of so many things—including his own history—despite his academic achievements?

Tariel pouted, then grumbled dismissively, “Trust… Bullshit. Trust is just a weapon you hand to others so they can stab you in the back. Betrayal, that’s the only fate of your precious trust. If the elves are wary of strangers, know that they’re just as wary of one another.”

He was no longer on the defensive. In fact, he felt so exhausted that his fear and anger seemed to have been numbed, giving way to a dreary calm. Driven by a lingering nervousness, he sat up to watch the blue-eyed man’s every move, running his fingers through his silver hair to brush away imaginary knots. Cassian sighed, then broke the silence by pointing to the patterns he was drawing on the ground.

“Centuries ago, the elves claimed to have eradicated all the dragons of Ennevia. They made it their greatest source of national pride. It was nothing but a lie, Tariel. You’ve seen it with your own eyes. The lands of Morgraves, disfigured by flames. Why persist in pretending there’s peace when you’re incapable of maintaining it? They lied to you, too. Deep down, you know it. I don’t doubt the power of your magic, but if four allied armies weren’t enough, how do you hope to defeat such a monster on your own?

“I know I’m capable of it,” the elf declared.

Tariel was convinced of it. He sensed it like a distant echo, a vibration running through his blood. He possessed within him the spark needed to face the beast. Did he really want to? Not really. But he knew that returning without glory was not an option. He had to face the creature Cassian was drawing on the cold floor.

He looked up and noticed a slender shaft of light filtering through the ceiling again. A faint smile tugged at his lips: he missed his home. The sun shining brightly on the treetops, the scent of the meadows… it all seemed to belong to another life. He stepped into the beam of light, closing his eyes and tilting his head back like a flower seeking to draw one last burst of strength from the rays.

Cassian’s drawing, right beneath his feet, depicted the profile of a dragon with gaping jaws, spewing destructive fire.

“You’re not,” Cassian said coldly. “You know nothing of the outside world. You’ve never crossed paths with a predator of this magnitude, and you’re gravely mistaken about the difficulty of your quest. You’re venturing into enemy territory; I’ll be neither the first nor the last to want your head. The South has no regard for your kind, and the Malveth will show you no respect.”