Chapter 11
Those who know of Mount Vengeance’s existence may have heard the whispers of the dragon protecting its hoard upon it.
Dragons are now the rarest of beings—completely at odds from their reign during the Great Sweep, almost annihilating civilization before the first adventuring parties rose to the challenge and pushed back.
Their current diminished existence suggests they are content with an isolated, lonely life treasuring whatever hoard they have collected—with the odd attacks against their local territories confirming their presence for scholars and adventuring parties.
The pursuit of the dragon that inevitably follows is a reminder to dragon-kind that heroic adventurers will go to great lengths to gain glory from their demise.
Nevertheless, a dragon’s magic and might are no deterrent for the adventurers who take it upon themselves to slay them—or, as some accounts suggest, trade with them.
But the dragon who resides on Mount Vengeance—name currently unknown—has, in one instance, placed a “curse” upon a traveler, freezing her into what looks like stone.
It is perhaps indicative of the vengeance Byrniel the bard suggests this dragon wishes to bestow upon civilization—
The moment Ainsworth stopped the scratching of his quill, the ever-anxious Ruraidh scuttled over to him. “Are you finished? Would you mind if I— I just need to wipe that table down, then I can move on to the next room.”
“Ah! Apologies, Ruraidh. My work should not have kept you from your own. I will finish this at another table.”
Ruraidh did not quite smile, but he managed to meet Ainsworth’s eyes for longer than a few seconds.
“No harm done. It’s usually Quiddle’s untidiness I have to deal with; this is nothing.
Are you almost finished for today, then?
” he asked, deftly reaching with his cloth for the surface that was Ainsworth’s workspace.
Ainsworth reddened slightly at the crumbs beneath, and the small drop of tea from earlier.
He should have noticed and cleaned it himself.
“I— Thank you for this, Ruraidh. And no, not quite. I need to research beyond Honey’s oral history to make sure what I print is truly credible research.”
“Well, good luck with that,” Ruraidh squeaked, returning his cloth to his bucket, picking it up and moving, it seemed, as fast as possible to the next room.
Bren’s light snores drifted over from one of the large windows, an unfinished sketch of a bird dangling from his slack hand. Ashe poked her head in from the open front door. “Honey speaks the truth. You do not need to look elsewhere to confirm her words.”
“I know, I know,” Ainsworth replied hurriedly.
The topic was too close to their earlier argument.
He had apologized profusely upon their return yesterday for his accusations and attitude, and the guardswoman had accepted his words with a mere nod.
She had not retracted any of her statements, however, which meant his wound from the argument was still an open one.
But he would not sulk or expect her to apologize for speaking the truth about how his actions and attitude had made her feel.
“It’s just, I— I came across diaries in the attic from someone I believe to be Honey’s great-great-great-grandmother, given the date. ”
“Tyflans typically live a little longer than humans,” Ashe replied.
“All right. Perhaps it is only ‘great-great-grandmother,’ then; I shall have to ask her to clarify,” Ainsworth conceded.
Tyflans, although many lived in the Kingdom of Saltquart, primarily resided in the republic.
Considering how close they were to Sylethus, he wondered if that was where Honey’s family came from.
“I need written permission from Honey before I can read and report on them. If this innkeeper has written anything firsthand about the dragon, don’t you see how valuable that would be?
How it would reassure my readers of the credibility of my work? ”
He tried to keep the fervor out of his voice.
Earlier that morning, he discovered, from skimming a few pages, that some leather-bound bundles he had assumed were more stock inventories were in fact the personal diaries of the individual who had established the inn.
The individual, Honey had confirmed yesterday, who had received the dragon’s curse all those years ago.
Finally, his little makeshift archive was producing results!
Letters from previous guests would be the next thing he would seek, but for now, he had a source and a purpose—to find a written account of the dragon’s curse and document it for his readers.
“I suppose I see your point,” Ashe replied, then returned to her post. Conversation over. The amicableness of it delighted Ainsworth, and he turned in search of Honey.
He also had an idea he wished to present to her, and he was not sure which of his requests she would object to the most.
Ainsworth gritted his teeth, held his bundle to his chest, and headed to his room.
No guests tonight, it seemed, but he still kept all his things confined to the space around his bed.
A few boxes of research material he had kept here until the attic was in better shape were now gone; it was no longer damp, smelly, or leaking, so he had returned them upstairs.
The bookshelves were organized and mended under his and Ruraidh’s care, and all the rubbish from the destructive guest or guests who had found their way in was cleared.
Some boxes still remained undocumented, but otherwise Ainsworth had come up with a quick shelving system, and had added little document categorization markings on the shelves to indicate where he might find the stock lists, supply requests, license documentation, guest lists, correspondence, and personal accounts.
This meant his corner of the bedroom was no longer cluttered, and he would make sure it stayed that way.
Honey, when he finally found her, was perched on the stone wall Ainsworth favored in Spin’s garden.
The gardener was humming away and gently watering plants with a dented watering can while Honey sat with her eyes closed and the sun on her face.
The sight stopped him in his tracks. Who was he to interrupt her pleasure in the small joys of the day?
Her mouth was upturned, as it often was, in a secret smile; he never quite knew exactly what piqued her amusement, but he thought he knew her well enough now to know that it would be more than just the warmth of the sun and the rare gust-free stillness of the air.
She kept her eyes closed as she spoke. “Mr. Gladsly. What can I do for you?”
Ainsworth gave a small laugh. “What makes you think I have a request?” He did have one—two, actually—and he did not know why he sparred like this with her. Such a retort would earn him a growl of irritation from Enach.
“When do you not?” Honey placed her hand over her eyes and squinted in his direction.
“I have spent my life in hospitality and servitude, and never have I been quite so hassled by requests until I met you. You are like a child, tottering around my feet and constantly asking for pennies to spend on sweets.”
A life of servitude. As innkeeper yes, but also—
The dragon’s curse.
Ainsworth cleared his throat. “Well then, perhaps I am that transparent, for I have come to tug at the purse strings once again.” He sat down next to her and felt a jolt of pleasure as she leaned her sun-warmed head against his.
She was wearing a dress with puffed sleeves, shorter than usual due to the warm weather, and her long legs were folded against the gray stone.
“And what is it you seek? Sugared spice aiknuts? A square of chewy taiblet? Oh, who am I kidding? I can’t imagine the fancy, fine sweets you well-to-do scholars feast upon in Hinslyth.”
Ainsworth supposed he deserved that. But— “Actually, sugared spice aiknuts were my favorite! When my father had coin to spare, he’d save it for the market day and send me to the only stall in the village that made them piping hot.
” The syrup would get all over his fingers, and he’d resist licking it off until much later in order to prolong the treats, unwilling to touch anything until he was ready for the day to finish.
Honey leaned forward. “Is that so?” she said softly, and he sensed she was trying to hold back the surprise in her voice.
Peasant sweets, that’s what they were—and he hadn’t shared that he favored them with anyone since he moved to Hinslyth. Certainly not Enach, who walked past such stalls on Hinslyth’s streets with distaste should he ever have the misfortune to find himself in a non-affluent part of the city.
“Anyway. Back to the subject at hand,” he said matter-of-factly, straightening as he sat.
“Oh, here we go. When you fix your posture, I know this is going to be research-related.”
“Quite,” he replied, emphasizing his prim-and-proper voice to get a laugh out of her. It worked, and the sense of accomplishment he felt was akin to when he discovered one of his papers had been cited by another scholar. “It’s about your family and the dragon’s curse.”
“Ah. You need more details? Ainsworth, it was so long ago and…it’s not something my family liked to talk about, you know? And when they did, I suppose my memory is somewhat…fuzzy.”
Fuzzy indeed. After they fled down the mountain yesterday, they had finally stopped for respite once the lower slopes of Mount Vengeance were well and truly behind them.
Ainsworth had asked if Honey could share anything about the curse with him as they mustered up the energy to return to the inn, a white spot in the distance.
He did not pester her—she had said it was private, and he respected that—but in the end she found she could talk more openly about it than she thought.