Chapter 24
Ainsworth dreamed he was being pursued by a dragon.
He stood at the entrance to the Misnich Inn and squinted at the deep-blue blur circling the slopes of Mount Vengeance.
Then he realized what it was, and that it was coming for him.
Yet it did not occur to him to retreat to the inn.
Instead, he somehow thought he could outrun the beast. Instincts from his grandmother’s line, perhaps.
But of course it was not long before he felt the enormous presence above him.
His best effort was not enough; he was soon snatched up in its claws.
He yelped as darkness and a strange warmth enveloped him—
And then something curious happened. When he was scooped within its claws, held close to its body, he felt…safe. It was not the relief of the chase being over and the knowledge of a swift death that calmed him. No, it was an overwhelming feeling of belonging that washed over him.
Almost immediately, the dragon let go again and Ainsworth landed on his feet.
And despite the comfort its touch had imparted, his instincts had him running away again.
But he was lost, unsure what direction to go, not knowing if he even wished to escape.
It caught him again, then let go, over and over, and the ensuing turmoil of emotions that played out left him drained.
Finally, once the dragon had released him for a fifth time, he cried to the skies: “What do you want from me?”
The dragon soared overhead, not snatching him up this time, revealing a shimmering underbelly.
What do you want?
The voice echoed through his very being—the words unspoken physically but very much heard. He felt that he knew that voice, but it was also ethereal and unlike anything he had ever heard before.
Ainsworth woke then, shaking and more exhausted than he had been before he went to sleep.
The gray light of dawn was creeping through the windows, so Ainsworth resigned himself to getting up for the day.
As he got dressed, with Enach stirring in the bed across from him, he could still hear the dragon’s voice reverberating through his mind, and he ran the question over and over in his head.
What do you want? What do you want? What do you want?
He was still pondering that question when the time finally came to depart the Misnich Inn. How many guests had he seen stand at Honey’s reception, turning away from their quest? And now he was here doing the same thing. And yet—
What do you want? What do you want? What do you want?
He did not know. Yet it occasionally felt like those words stopped his legs from taking another step, and had him almost reaching for Enach to tell him: No, I do not want this.
At other moments, he was filled with a confidence in his decision—the call of Hinslyth, the home he had made for himself, beckoning him.
He had to go back. He had to go home.
All the staff but Bren came to say farewell, Ruraidh scuttling off as soon as he gave Ainsworth a quick hug, sparing a fearful glance toward Enach before he returned to his duties. Ainsworth had tried to leave a generous tip for Ruraidh on the table in his room, but Enach had prevented it.
Honey was last to see them off, clutching Ainsworth’s smaller pack that he had taken on his journey with Ashe.
“You left a few things in the common room, including your small pocketbook, and I’ve also put a few of the diaries in here from the archive.
In case you need them,” she said, pressing the pack into his hands.
Enach’s nose seemed to wrinkle at the smell; it was a little worse for wear after days of rain and, of course, being dropped in mud and blood during that frantic spell with the gnycht.
“And also…” She disappeared briefly as she ducked beneath the counter. When she arose, she held a woolen bundle in her arms. “I made you this. I finished it last night—I thought you should have it before you leave. Hinslyth sounds quite chilly, from what you’ve said.”
Ainsworth was speechless as she walked around the counter, removing that barrier between them. He was silent still as she looped the scarf—a shade ridiculously close to the Skarrow Library robes—around his neck, leaning in as if about to whisper in his ear as she did so.
His heart stopped. Was she going to say something?
Ask me to stay, he thought desperately. He did not think he’d be able to resist such a request.
For the briefest of moments, she hesitated, and Ainsworth closed his eyes as he felt her breath against his ear. But, as if she thought better of it, she instead placed a light kiss on his cheek and muttered a quick “Good luck, Ains,” as though that was what she’d intended all along.
His mouth had gone so dry he feared he could not speak. “Th-thank you, Honey. This is— This is beautiful,” he said, clutching one end of the scarf.
“We really should be going, Ains. Settle the bill, will you?” Enach said, doing little to hide the irritation in his voice. He then walked out the door, waiting outside for Ainsworth to settle up.
As Honey returned the grant money he had paid up front for the following moon’s turn, she whispered softly: “Is this what you want, Ainsworth?”
It was too much. The effect of her words was somehow dizzying, as though she had breathed an enchantment over him. Ainsworth dropped the bag on the table, coins from the top of the pile bouncing out onto the countertop with a clatter.
“Ainsworth!”
“I’m fine, Honey,” he muttered, leaning on the reception desk with one hand for support, the other still clutching his pack. Quiddle came over and took the latter from him while Honey, hesitating only a moment, placed a hand on his shoulder to steady him.
“What’s the holdup?” Enach called from outside.
“Ainsworth is feeling a bit unwell,” Alvea shouted, in the process of dragging over a chair.
“It’s because you insisted on leaving before breakfast,” Ashe snapped at Enach as he walked back through the door. “He still isn’t right after his injury.”
Enach tutted. “Come, then. This is all the more reason to get him back home. I’ll take you to the healer this afternoon, Ains.”
Honey gave Ainsworth’s shoulder a meaningful squeeze. It was as though she did not want to let him go. He was reminded of the dream dragon’s clutch—safe, warm, wanted.
But she did let him go, and he laughed his dizzy spell off and insisted that he was fine—all the while feeling lost before Enach took his hand and, finally, led him away from the Misnich Inn.
With Enach lingering, his final farewell to Honey had consisted of a mere quick embrace with few words exchanged between them, and Ainsworth could not bring himself to look back during the steep hike to the Transportation Circle, even though the inn was in full view below.
The circle itself, he had to admit, was neat work, and proved a brief distraction from his discomfort.
The circle and Enach’s ward marks were like a constellation burned into the ground.
Sparks flew as Enach lifted a hand against the magical barrier that permitted entry for those who had paid a fee for admittance.
Enach, as administrator, would now forever travel freely through this one, and the magic granted access to Ainsworth, too.
Ainsworth took a deep breath and stepped into it before he could change his mind. His stomach lurched, and it swallowed him up.
It had been some time since Ainsworth had used a Transportation Circle, but never before had he felt like his passage was somehow hangover-inducing.
The trip had felt less seamless than usual, too, as though he had smacked hard against a transparent wall before, begrudgingly, the magic allowed him passage from the inn to its main link in Wenslykirk, and then sent them off to Hinslyth.
“Let us get you home, my dear,” Enach said soothingly as they stumbled from the Hinslyth Transport Office, his deft handling of their arrival paperwork giving Ainsworth time to compose himself.
His dizziness persisted as they took their first steps on Hinslyth’s cobbled streets.
Despite his conflicted feelings over his relationship with Enach these past few months, and his surprising fondness for the remote wilderness of the inn, Ainsworth felt the hint of home under his feet.
His parents had urged him to leave his life behind to pursue his dreams, and even before they both died he had felt the guilt-laden love of this huge city.
He had been warned it might chew him up and spit him out, and he had worked tremendously hard to get it to accept and embrace him.
They were heading, Ainsworth assumed, to his room in the Scholar Quarters, in a building south of the main Skarrow Library tower.
They traversed the bustling street known as the Royal Stretch, and Ainsworth was suddenly a trembling boy with a scholarship again, intimidated by the looming sandstone buildings and the sheer number of people going about their business—a stark contrast with the peaceful goings-on of his previous surroundings.
“I won’t need a healer, I think,” Ainsworth said as they passed his favorite bakery—though there would be no orradan cakes inside, he reflected sadly. “Perhaps just a pause for food?”
Enach laughed, taking his hand. “I thought as much. All you need is some fine food and some finer company. After months of neither of those things, I would be feeling a little off myself.”
“Ah, well, I wouldn’t put it that way…” Ainsworth said, but if Enach heard him he did not react, and they continued on.
Returning to the Scholar Quarters was a more lively affair than Ainsworth had expected.
He received many joyful exclamations at his return from both friends and colleagues who were lingering over breakfast before heading to teach classes or bury themselves in the archives.
It baffled him, but he realized he could now distinguish between those who were genuinely pleased to see him and those who clearly just wanted an account of where he’d been and the status of his “exciting new project.”
“I’ll save you a desk in the reading room, Ainsworth?” chirped one of his first friends at the institution—Jura, a selkie, whose research was mostly to do with urban marine life in the coastal cities. Apparently she, too, had just returned from fieldwork and was to begin her project write-up.
“Sadly, not today, Jura. I need to make arrangements to visit Lyria and discuss my next steps.” He also privately reflected that he had written up most of what he could so far—a vivid description of the inn, its history, and the surrounding landscape; notes for a cartographer and illustrator based on his trips to the standing stones; and his speculation regarding the dragon’s curse.
What he needed was his mentor’s advice on how to proceed—to help him determine where the project could go next.
There was nothing more rewarding than bouncing ideas off Lyria.
She had a truly brilliant mind and was always able to set him in the right direction—though never by simply telling him what to do, but rather by helping him see the right paths to take.
Finally, they reached his room, and Enach paused by Ainsworth’s door. “I need to check in with one of my co-authors for a funding application we’re writing. You’ll be fine, yes? I’ll meet you here before sunset to take you to dinner. Oh, and”—he said before he turned to leave—“welcome home, Ains.”
Enach leaned in to kiss Ainsworth’s cheek, and suddenly Ainsworth felt awash with guilt. What had he been doing all these months, not writing to Enach? Thinking their relationship was over, that Enach did not love him…
As if Enach read the guilt on his face, or perhaps felt the heat of it on Ainsworth’s cheek, he added: “Do you know how much I hated to hear that fiendish innkeeper call you that? As if any of those people were good enough to scrape the dirt from your shoes, never mind call you what I call you.”
Rage burned within Ainsworth, but he held it back. He was desperate to be alone, and the quickest way to achieve that was to let Enach get away with his comment. Indeed, Enach strolled away, satisfied with the sharp edge of his remark.
Ainsworth fumbled with his keys and stepped into his room.
Sunlight streamed through his solitary window in bright rays, revealing the dustiness of the room as his steps disturbed the still, neglected air.
He mustered the energy to open the window before retreating to his bed.
When he sat down, a whiff of dust rose and made him sneeze.
He looked up at the shelf on the opposite wall and saw that the small potted ivy there had long since withered and died.
He hadn’t been able to ask anyone to water it before he left, owing to the circumstances.
The sight of it was too much. He placed his hands over his face and wept.