Chapter 21
Later that afternoon, Ainsworth paused to inspect his ankle.
Thankfully, Ashe’s blood had helped reverse the decomposition from the previous day, and his skin was a shiny pink where the beast had clawed at him—not unlike a healed burn.
It was still tender to the touch, though, and small punctures from the beast’s teeth remained stubbornly open.
“I think if we get you back to the inn with more salves and poultices, and maybe slather some mashed oats and butter on it, we will reduce the likelihood of a scar,” Ashe suggested when she caught him inspecting it.
“That would be most welcome, but also…” He shrugged as he pulled his torn trouser leg back down. “I don’t mind if a scar cannot be avoided.”
And he meant it. He was not surrounded by people who cared for appearances in the same way those in his circle back in Hinslyth did.
He winced as he once recalled mocking a sorcerer for the pockmarks on his face after a potions mishap.
Ainsworth had made his circle of friends laugh with his cruel jest—made all the more despicable by the vain pride he had taken in his own appearance that night.
Who was that person? And when, Ainsworth wondered, did he disappear? He was mortified at his toxic tongue and felt a great shame wash over him. If he ever saw that sorcerer again, he would make it up to him somehow.
They continued on. A gentle drizzle had begun falling again when Ashe suddenly exclaimed in delight: “It’s Quiddle!”
Indeed, the lad was flying up the hill toward them. They were still an hour or so from the inn, Ainsworth reckoned, but he must have been looking for them, and Ainsworth reflected with a pang that it was his fault; he had made them late.
“Ainsworth! Ainsworth! Ainsworth!” the boy cried as he darted up the hill with a speed that had Ashe laughing in admiration.
“Quiddle! It’s all right! We’re all right!
” Ainsworth called back. But the boy did not stop until he was doubled over and panting right in front of them.
He finally gave them a quick once-over when he caught his breath.
“Aye, I know. We thought you’d maybe just had a bit of trouble with the spell or somethin’, but Honey said you’d turn up soon. ”
Oh. How very practical of her.
“But—I wanted to see you home—so I figured I’d—come this way, for a few hours,” he wheezed. “You—left your route with Bren, and I—reversed it. Thought I might bump into you.”
Ashe raised a brow. “Well, I hope it was worth the running. If you could help Ainsworth with this last stretch—his ankle was shredded by a gnycht—then I can wildeshift into a bird and fly down to ensure the appropriate salves are prepared and—”
“Your ankle will have to wait!” Quiddle exclaimed, and Ainsworth then understood that the boy carried news.
“What’s happened?” Ainsworth asked urgently.
“It’s the Transportation Circle! It’s been approved!” Quiddle whooped.
It took a few moments for Quiddle’s words to sink in. “I— What? You’re certain?”
“Yes! There’s a scholar back at the inn now, and he said I might get to try it out! Me! A Transportation Circle! For free!” he cried, literally jumping in his excitement. “But he said we couldn’t activate it without the presence and signature of—”
“—of the awardee. Which is me. Yes, yes—onward, then! We must return! But Quiddle…Who has come to administer the circle?” Ainsworth asked with a spike of anxiety.
He knew two people in the transportation office at the Skarrow Library, and because the application was for a project funded by the library—as opposed to the wider institution—he figured it would be one of the two.
One was a warmhearted sorcerer named Myla, but since Quiddle had said “he,” Ainsworth dreaded to think it would be the hard-hearted Tertul.
The sorcerer would expect Ainsworth to conduct himself as befitted a member of the Skarrow Library, even when off campus.
He groaned as he thought of his clothes.
He was not in his robes, nor in anything that Tertul would consider even slightly formal.
This would get back to Lyria, and although she would not care, others at her level might judge her for managing her mentees poorly.
He chewed his lip as he attempted to smooth down his hair and think through rationalizations.
He had been traveling, after all. Surely there would be some clemency granted for that?
Quiddle shrugged as they began the procession down the hill. “I didn’t actually get his name.” Ainsworth winced at the pain in his ankle as he tried to put more weight on it and hurry things on. Best to get this over with quickly.
“Don’t rush!” Ashe hissed as she noticed his faltering step.
“Sounds like this scholar can’t leave until you arrive to sign the forms, anyway.
” There was a surly, deep note to her voice—not dissimilar to how she used to speak to Ainsworth when he first arrived.
His heart sank a little. The prospect of his scholarly life and his present existence colliding was one that did not feel entirely positive.
“Did he seem…irritable? Stern?” Ainsworth asked.
“Oh no!” Quiddle said brightly. “He was such a laugh, and charming. Honey seemed very taken, and even Bren cracked a smile at his jokes.”
“Oh!” Ainsworth exclaimed. Then who could it be? Perhaps an apprentice or journeyman he had yet to meet? Suddenly, the outlook seemed much brighter.
“And he’s really handsome—does that narrow it down a bit?”
Wait. A handsome scholar? With whom Honey seemed taken?
He increased his pace.
“Ainsworth, I said don’t rush!” Ashe barked, but he took little notice.
When the Misnich Inn came into view, those white walls glowing like starlight against the muddied browns and deep greens of the land surrounding it, Ainsworth’s hair was plastered to his face thanks to the heavy, persistent drizzle.
Ashe had not offered a shield, so he presumed her magic was spent.
Still, the smoke coming from the inn’s chimney and the gentle, honey-colored glow from the windows were a balm to his soul.
He was returning somewhere familiar, somewhere welcoming, and somewhere he wanted to be.
And to someone he wanted to see. Desperately, he realized.
Especially if some handsome scholar was trying to charm her away.
“Ainsworth, Ashe said to watch your ankle!” Quiddle protested as he once again picked up the pace.
“Come on! Don’t you want a warm cup of tea?” Ainsworth urged. Closer with every step! “I may beat you at this rate!”
Finally the three of them stumbled through the door, Quiddle and Ashe laughing and poking fun at him for lagging on the very last stretch.
The warmth was like a blanket, and the gentle smell of baking bread, the burning logs, and the fragrant spice that suggested tea had, indeed, been brewed enveloped him.
When he saw a leather satchel resting on Honey’s reception counter, the golden bow with a tight scroll in place of an arrow insignia on the buckle, he felt positively dizzy with excitement.
Or perhaps that was the infection from his ankle.
But still—how wondrous that his application had succeeded!
“Honey! We’re back! And Ainsworth is here!
” Quiddle called as he ran into the tavern room.
The tables were empty, and Ainsworth staggered toward one that had only recently been vacated.
Two goblets of wine sat briefly abandoned, and scrolls with the relevant Transportation Circle equations and policy had been spread open and anchored at both ends by books.
A mahogany robe was draped over one of the intricately carved seats—belonging, unmistakably, to the Skarrow Library representative.
Before Ainsworth had time to inspect the scene further, the door from the hall burst open and the sounds of jovial laughter flooded into the room.
Honey, her hair unbound and face shining, was beaming at someone behind her.
She carried a tray of cheese and preserves, and as she looked forward to catch the door, she caught sight of Ainsworth.
He felt his chest swell, and suddenly he did not register the pain in his ankle as affection gushed through him.
If possible, her face lit up even more. “Ainsworth! Oh, Ainsworth, you’re back!
And we have such great news! Look—!” She turned back, beckoning to whoever followed.
The only thing that stopped Ainsworth from striding to her and scooping her up into a tight, fierce hug (well, besides the ankle) was the knowledge that he would be observed by the sorcerer.
“Ainsworth’s back! Finally, you can get those papers signed. ”
A clipped laugh came from behind Honey. “Ah, are you in such a rush to be rid of me, madam?”
At the sound of that voice, the world seemed to spin, and Ainsworth reached out to the table in front of him for balance.
“Of course not; don’t be silly! But, Ainsworth, isn’t it great news? The application was approved, and Sorcerer Morrowsil has come from your institution to implement it. I believe you have met?” Honey asked, the inquisitive note in her voice like a knife to his stomach.
“Ainsworth! My dear Ainsworth!” the voice boomed—so unlike its usual drawling tones—as the scholar stepped into view.
His silver hair took on the golden glow of the hearth. He had cut it since the last time Ainsworth saw him. His shirt, braces, and trousers were pristine and crisp, and his polished, laced shoes gleamed as though new.
It took everything Ainsworth had to stand straight. His mouth was dry, his heart hammering, and his ankle throbbing, but he forced himself to smile.
“Hello, Enach.”