The Everlasting

I HAD READ and re-read every version of your battle with the last dragon. I could—and had, on several regrettable social occasions—recite Montmer’s account in the original Middle Mothertongue.

It began: It was there, in that burnt and barren place, where Una met the dragon, last of his kind.

Cloven Hill was, to Montmer’s credit, fairly barren. There were no towns or villages here, or even the lonely camps of shepherds or hunters. There was nothing but bare stone and wind-stunted pines, and the shifting clouds that kept the peaks partly obscured, like poorly kept secrets.

And yet: The earth was not scorched. The air was not sulfurous.