Chapter 2
The rain picked up outside, lashing against the arched windows loudly enough to dim the crackling of the fire in the hearth.
Ainsworth slumped in a seat close to the bar, and it was a testament to how irritated he was that he tried to run his hands through his hair—a motion he had not attempted since he was a young boy.
He cursed as his hand bumped against his antlers, but remembered fondly how his mother would ruffle his golden curls before the horns made their appearance in his teenage years.
A skinny hauflin boy, perhaps in his late teens and standing at half Ainsworth’s height, slammed a wooden tankard of ale in front of Ainsworth. The handle had little carved bees scurrying across it, and they shimmered in the glaze of spilled drink. “Thank you,” Ainsworth said wearily.
The boy did not move. Where he stood, his eyes—an intriguing peacock green—were at a level with Ainsworth’s.
“I do not require anything else,” Ainsworth said when the silence stretched a moment too long.
“I usually get a coin for my service, sir.”
“Oh, right. And how much is the ale in question? I had assumed meals and drink were covered in my fee.” The slight clink, clink, clink of Honey counting his coins served as a gentle backdrop to their conversation.
Ainsworth had left his grant money at the counter as Honey fussed and worried about what she would charge him for a long-term stay.
It did not bode well for her competence as an innkeeper, Ainsworth reflected sourly.
She’d barely last a day if she tried to run such an establishment in Hinslyth.
“Well, it isn’t included, sir. But you can settle wi’ Bren at the end of the night.” The boy wiped his nose on his cuffed sleeve—a fine fabric. Ainsworth winced at the treatment of it.
“The innkeeper has my money, so I’ll be sure to see you are appropriately compensated once everything is settled.”
“Eh. All right, then.” The boy clambered into the seat in front of Ainsworth and promptly began wiping the mess he’d made with a small embroidered handkerchief from the pocket of his amber apron.
“What brings you here? Bren said it didn’t sound like you wanted to set out for the hill in the morning. ”
Ainsworth suppressed a laugh. Mount Vengeance was the pinnacle of the Dubhrach Mountains—one of the largest mountain ranges on the continent—that straddled the border between the Saltquart Kingdom and the Republic of Sylethus.
Like much of the wild terrain across both nations, the territory was home to an abundance of fearsome magical beasts that typically drew adventuring parties seeking to establish themselves and prove their mettle.
Ainsworth retrieved pieces of folded parchment from his breast pocket. “No, I am not heading out for ‘the hill,’ as you call it. Can you read?”
“Aye, ’course.” The boy nodded, and the topknot he had tied his russet hair into bobbed furiously. “Common, and Sàlais of course.”
“Of course,” said Ainsworth, raising a brow and passing the copy of his great-grandfather’s letter across the table.
He guessed the boy may have stressed his use of Sàlais as they were so close to the republic’s border; maybe the lad was unaware his accent marked him firmly as someone from western Saltquart.
And just what was he doing all the way out here?
“My parents passed some time ago, but a family friend recently sent me a chest of their belongings left in their old home. I discovered this letter inside.”
The hauflin cleared his throat. “ ‘My dearest Irina. My sincerest apologies for the delay between my last letter and this one—’ ”
“You can read it to yourself, you know,” said Ainsworth, taking a sip of his drink. The letter was rather lengthy, and the boy’s voice was alarmingly loud. Fortunately, he obliged, and Ainsworth ruminated on the letter’s contents in the blissful silence.
His great-grandfather Artan seemed to have left their village—and his wife and children—and set out for adventures unknown for several years.
The letter recounted Artan’s plans to visit Mount Vengeance and his excitement at hearing from locals of a route that was said to offer a swifter passage up the mountain—the “tourist” route, a shop owner had joked to Ainsworth when he inquired about it during his journey here.
The route in question was said to be less populated by fearsome fauna and a good starting point for those who wished to seek the dragon’s hoard, should anyone be brave enough to slay it.
A route that started just behind the very inn Ainsworth found himself sitting in.
The boy finished the letter and looked at Ainsworth expectantly. “Is there another page or something? It cuts off in the middle.”
“I am aware. Unfortunately, the rest of the contents have been lost. But as you have read, my great-grandfather stayed in this inn some fifty years ago. As far as my father knew, Artan never made it home. My grandparents never spoke of him, apparently, and he never returned to our village. I’m intrigued. Perhaps the mountain claimed him.”
“So you’re here to find his remains, then?”
Ainsworth choked on his ale. “No! I’m a scholar from the Skarrow Library, and Artan’s mention of the Misnich Inn caught my eye.
Such an inn should be central to many songs about brave adventurers who took on Mount Vengeance.
Yet when I did some digging, I found there is no written document in the Skarrow Library of any adventurers going to Mount Vengeance at all, never mind those that mention the inn—and there are no official songs or poems from established bards recorded in our hall of songs, either.
And we are the biggest library and educational institution in the kingdom!
I even made inquiries at an institution in the Republic of Sylethus. But alas, nothing turned up.”
The boy scratched his nose. “Maybe the dragon and the beasts killed all the adventurers, then?”
His tone was far too light for Ainsworth’s liking.
“Um, well, a more optimistic theory is that there has merely been a shortfall of prominent bards to recall the tale of the adventurers, along with little prior interest from scholars or historians, and as a result this mountain’s stories simply remain untold as of yet.
When I shared this letter and my findings with a few of my colleagues, they said that I had identified an area ripe for study—one that would lead to an original contribution to knowledge of adventuring party culture. ”
In truth, when he had passed the letter to the department head some moon’s turns ago, he had expected a pat on the back, the kind of gratitude that would result in a future favor and his name mentioned in the acknowledgments of whatever poor sod ended up conducting the research.
Ainsworth had suggested it would be the perfect subject for a research assistant to first feel out and report on—perhaps even a final-year heritage student.
He had been in the middle of putting together a substantial research proposal and grant application for a project of his own making.
One that would have kept him firmly within the range of the high society, culture, and comfort that he very much enjoyed, and one that would be his first major project with Enach.
But once his supervisor, Lyria, got wind of the Mount Vengeance project, she insisted he take the lead on it, practically pushing Ainsworth out the door and claiming this would be the project to promote him to senior research fellow.
“I don’t see why it must be me just because of my familial tie to the research lead! ” Ainsworth had complained.
Lyria would not hear of it. “At the very least, don’t you want to find out what happened to Artan?”
Now that he was here at the Misnich Inn, Ainsworth had to admit that answering this question could be an upside of all this.
His grandparents had never alluded to an adventurer in the family, and the question of just what happened to Artan remained, as there was now no one left in his family to ask.
Ainsworth had only himself and his impeccable instincts as a researcher to uncover this particular family mystery.
“I have also been tasked with documenting the history of the Misnich Inn alongside my written account of what adventurers discover and face on the mountain. Establishments such as these are important aspects of adventuring culture and should be recorded in history as such.” Lyria had reminded him of this when convincing him of the project’s potential scope and value should he find the Misnich Inn.
It wasn’t that Ainsworth disagreed; he merely objected to the project’s location and duration, which practically exiled him.
The boy’s eyes seemed unfocused, and he fiddled with the curling edge of the letter. Had he even heard a word of what was said? “The ‘Sparrow Library’ sounds nice. Where’s that, then?”
Ainsworth felt his brows twitch, and he fought tremendously hard not to snap at the lad. This day was truly just one thing after another. “Skarrow Library. In Hinslyth. Come now, you must have heard of it. All the greatest minds of the kingdom reside there!”
The boy shook his head. “Never heard of it.”
“What? You haven’t—”
“Quiddle! What do you think you’re doing, bothering the gentleman? Or wait, are you a human—?” Honey had strutted over but now paused, flustered at the potential misstep.
Ainsworth waved away her awkwardness. “ ‘Gentleman’ is fine. These”—he pointed to his antlers and ears—“are the legacy of my grandmother, a druid-blood of the binneach. My own parents are—mostly—human. But some of her druid heritage seemed to have been bestowed upon me.”
“Quiddle, prepare the vegetables for dinner, please.” Honey shooed the boy away before sliding into his vacant seat. “I do apologize. Now, here are your remaining coins.” She placed the bag into his hand. It was much heavier than he expected.
“Really, I must insist you charge more. I have requested such a long stay—”