Chapter 25
After he had composed himself—although he could not bring himself to unpack—Ainsworth took a walk to clear his head and find something to eat before meeting with Lyria.
As he crossed the Skarrow grounds, he politely deflected the occasional overeager colleague keen to hear about his work and instead hurried toward the city streets, hoping to lose himself in the crowds.
The cobbles beneath his feet almost tripped him, and he wondered when the rough, rocky terrain of the mountains had become easier to traverse than Hinslyth’s pavements.
He had thought he would find comfort among the towering buildings, with their elegant taverns and shopfronts that held his favorite foods, drinks, clothing, and supplies, but suddenly everything seemed to be closing in.
The walls of each establishment were more formidable than the slopes of Mount Vengeance, and the air—he could not ignore the way it seemed to clog his throat, laden as it was with the essence of a city that reached to claim him once again.
He pulled Honey’s scarf up higher around his neck, burying his nose in the fabric and savoring the lingering scent of the inn as he did so, as though it were a barrier against the air of the city.
He clutched his chest and felt every eye upon him.
His hair was still unruly, his clothes shabby and worn, and even if he had wanted to step inside the places he had spent so much time and coin in these past few years, he did not think he would be welcome.
He was not wearing his Skarrow cloak, and he was not used to such disdainful looks from those in the streets.
But why? He was still the same Ainsworth, was he not?
Despite his desperate need for some new clothes and a meal, Ainsworth did not stop.
He continued on, the sun reaching toward noon before he arrived at the River Etivon, which cut the city neatly in half, and crossed the grand, stone bridge across it.
His ankle was throbbing at this point, and he felt the wounds seeping through their dressing, but he could not stop—even though he had no clue what he was seeking.
He only knew that he had not yet experienced feeling fully at home and was set on taking in as much of the city as he could until he felt it.
Ainsworth only started to slow when the streets became more broken, the pavements cracked and neglected.
The buildings here had a sheen of green across their stone, and Ainsworth was soon faced with an old, cracked sign, welcoming him to Brinequarter—the district in which he had first lived when he arrived in Hinslyth.
His feet found their way to his old boardinghouse.
Black, scorched stone from a fire long before Ainsworth arrived had still not been cleaned away, and he smiled as he saw the window of his old room thrown open, a figure breathing in the fresh(ish) air of the day.
He hoped the new resident was admiring the changes a young Ainsworth had insisted on making with the landlord before he left—including a mattress that was not infested with all manner of mites.
Ainsworth’s scholarship for the duration of his student days had covered accommodation costs, yes—but not enough to reside in or near the Skarrow Library grounds.
Upon his arrival, he had been unaware of the way the city had been split up—of how some individuals perceived certain areas as prestigious and others like dirt to be scraped from a shoe.
To Ainsworth, the city was the city. It was larger than his village, and he had basked in the pride of earning his place within it, never doubting that he would be accepted.
But when he told a classmate where he lived during those early days, and was met with astonished and hurtful laughter, he quickly started to learn.
He learned how to hide where he came from and how he spent his summers—never admitting they were mostly spent working endless days and nights in the warehouse around the corner from where he now stood, all so he could move closer to the Skarrow Library in his second year.
He learned how to mold his voice, his opinions, his personality—to blend in among the upper echelons of his classmates in order to rise up with them.
He had learned a lot during his years at the Skarrow Library, but these were the lessons he was now starting to regret.
Head spinning, he told himself it was mere lightheadedness due to hunger.
It was then he sensed a familiar scent in the air, and he realized he had arrived on market day.
His heart leapt in anticipation as he made his way to the small square in the center of the Brinequarter neighborhood, and he was met with a scene far grander than he remembered—more stalls with brightly colored signage had appeared, and not all selling food as they had in his day.
It had been such a long time since he had visited, and he wished he had more time to admire the books, clothes, and trinkets he knew Honey would adore.
But he soon found the stall he was seeking.
While the market had grown and changed, the vendor was still the same—although a little more grizzled, perhaps.
The hauflin man frowned as he looked up at Ainsworth, the steam from the hot tray of aiknuts in front of him almost blending in with the whiteness of his hair.
Then his face split in a grin. “Why, if it isn’t little Ainsworth!
You aren’t half as scrawny as you used to be. I almost didn’t recognize you!”
Ainsworth laughed as he pulled his scarf away from his mouth, his restlessness from the day finally dispersing. “It has been a long time, Wickon. I didn’t— I wasn’t sure you’d remember me.”
“I never forget a face. Or a pair of antlers. So, what have you been up to?” Wickon began scooping a large lump of aiknuts from the tray, sizzling and popping, then slid them into an adjacent container holding the spice and sugar mix that had Ainsworth’s mouth watering.
Ainsworth took the bag he was offered, the warmth of it seeping into his hands. “Oh, not much really. What about you?”
Calmness radiated from every nook of Heritage Master Lyria’s office, which was perched in the south tower of the Skarrow Library. Ainsworth always had to avoid the window lest the magnificent view tempt him with a daydream and make him lose his train of thought.
The many trinkets that adorned the walls, along with the shelves of scrolls and manuscripts, were the same as always.
Swirling shells, sea glass, and strange dried corals adorned one shelf, while the one below it held little clay pots painted in warm tones—one of them, he noted with a swell of pride, still contained the dried wildflowers he had gifted her in the spring.
Precariously placed candles dripped wax slowly and silently onto the desk and the shelves they were placed upon.
He had never understood her aversion to candleholders or sconces in the walls.
The door opened rather suddenly, causing Ainsworth to jolt in his seat as Lyria walked in, and it seemed to Ainsworth she was trying to compose herself after the abrupt entrance. Indeed, one of her usually slick black feathers was somewhat rumpled atop her head.
“Ainsworth!” she said, beaming with delight, and something within him lit up at her tone. Then, abruptly, he felt the overwhelming urge to cry.
“Oh, Ainsworth! Whatever is the matter?” she crooned as a tear made good its threat, spilling down his cheek. She rushed over, her feathered arm reaching to pat his back. The talons of her hand briefly snagged on the collar of his shirt.
“Apologies, Lyria. It is just—”
He wanted to say good to be back, but he could not bring himself to do so. Instead he settled on: “I have been gone for so long, and…”
“I know, I know,” she said, settling down on her side of the desk.
She reached out to take his hands in hers and gave them a squeeze.
Her grip was rather painful against his human skin, but he appreciated the gesture all the same.
As one of the preachan-mhith, Lyria always underestimated her own strength.
“It is not my place to pry into your personal life, Ainsworth. But considering the way we parted before your trip, and considering I overheard Sorcerer Morrowsil discussing your return together in the Reading Room entranceway just now…I was pleased to get your message and knew you were back, but…”
She trailed off, and something twisted in him that she had been in such a hurry to see him, concerned for his welfare, after…everything. He cleared his throat. “Enach administered the Transportation Circle link to Wenslykirk and the Misnich Inn I requested.”
“Ah. I heard about that. And are you…?”
“Everything is fine,” he said, regretting his clipped tone immediately.
But she did not seem to care. She still regarded him with warmth as she said: “All right, if you insist. I am glad to hear it. But you know I am always available to talk, and to support you, Ainsworth.”
“I know. Thank you.”
“Right, then. Report, please, before I tell you about the excitement you’ve generated here!”
“Ah, right. Well, about that…”
And so he launched into a thorough account of the highs and lows of his research project.
His last communication had been filled with optimism for the adventurers who were yet to come, and he had assumed he would have the kinds of contacts he’d need by now.
He had predicted he would have perhaps even spoken to a participant by now, too—someone who had long since finished their quest. He announced that, while he had failed in these expectations and the book would most likely follow a different path than they both originally thought, there were other outcomes to show for his time away.
He spoke of the attic archive, Honey’s family diaries, and how he had enough material to produce a heritage-work of the Misnich Inn and some of its surroundings.
That he could produce a written account of the legend of the mountain and the dragon who resided there—and its potential curse.
“But I do not think I will hear from any adventurers,” Ainsworth said after he had finished. “Nor will the book feature an actual account of the mountain above the lower slopes I have already explored.”
“How curious!” Lyria chirped. “Oh, Ainsworth, this is shaping into something interesting, don’t you think? Although I am sorry you haven’t gotten any answers about your great-grandfather yet.”
He frowned. “But…the funding council wanted an account of the journey, of the—”
She leaned toward him over the desk in her enthusiasm.
“It’s also the Misnich Inn that has seized their interest. Yes, it’s a shame that we may not get an account of an actual, heroic journey to inspire the bards.
But—a small site that’s all but forgotten and yet is steeped in legend and folklore, and now you say there is a strange affliction that seems to be keeping adventurers away from the very mountain at the bottom of which it sits? ”
“Lyria,” he said, smiling, “you make it sound more like the topic of a—a gossip rag or whispers, not an academic project. A history to be explored.”
She laughed before leaning back in her chair. “I suppose, but the work is not yet complete, Ainsworth! Can you write up what you have here, and then—?”
“I actually have a draft of what was to be the first half of the book, in which I discuss the fringes of the Allfhraoch region where the inn resides, describe the lower slopes of the mountain, and give a partial account of the inn’s history—though I am still unraveling that.
I have a copy here, as a matter of fact. ”
“Oh, you are an excellent scholar, Ainsworth. I still don’t know how you weren’t snapped up by some of my peers before I got to you, you know that?”
He gave a modest laugh, and when Lyria offered a dram of whisky to celebrate, he did not refuse.
“I can apply for further funding if needs be, Ainsworth, we just need to think of new angles to approach this. Perhaps you could travel to some of the areas surrounding the Misnich Inn and collect formal testament from villagers and—”
“Yes, that is a good idea,” he said, his heart lifting at the prospect. “So you think—I should go back? For the work, I mean,” he added hastily as she threw a knowing look his way.
“Ainsworth. This is your project. But more important, this is your life. The way you described these past couple of moon’s turns…It is as though someone has ignited a flame within you. I haven’t seen you like this since— Well, ever!”
He raised his brows, startled at her observation.
“Truly, it is the opposite! Life at the inn was so…peaceful. There was no pressure for me to be anyone, to do anything. Actually, it made me…” He struggled for words.
“I don’t know. If I was before a roaring flame, burning for success, I am now more akin to… candlelight.”
“Well, candlelight does a marvelous job, does it not?” She smiled, gesturing to the small flames dotted around the room. “What a magnificent way to live, don’t you think?”
As she said it, however, he became aware that the inner peacefulness he had felt during his time at the inn was starting to shift, the candle beginning to burn a little more intensely as he was reminded of his original ambitions, of the success and acclaim of those who surrounded him in Hinslyth.
He wished to speak of this to Lyria but could not find the words to articulate the conflict he felt stirring within himself.
Later, as he turned to leave, Lyria grabbed his sleeve.
“Ainsworth. This is your project. You have started something of note here, followed a thread no other researcher has yet followed. It has given you freedom within this institution that you have not been afforded before. Do not waste it, my boy. And with the Transportation Circle at the Misnich Inn established…” Her eyes seemed to twinkle in the candlelight.
“Make sure your next steps are not missteps, all right? Follow your heart on this one, not your head. It has served you well thus far.”
He told himself that the whisky had gotten to her, but as he made his way down the stairs, spiraling into the darker corridors of the library, the dream-dragon’s words returned with a vengeance.
What do you want?