Chapter 5
Ainsworth had to admit that Honey, Quiddle, and Bren had done a spectacular job of creating a jovial atmosphere downstairs.
To his delight, the largest table in front of the hearth was heavy with dishes, and Ainsworth’s stomach growled as he spotted a platter of roasted hare, spiced with sprigs of rosemary and thyme.
A large loaf slathered with honey was accompanied by a mighty serving bowl of steaming vegetable stew, a poised ladle awaiting hungry hands.
Glasses filled with a thimble of golden amber liquid lingered between the empty plates.
Quiddle was already seated, eyes alight and assessing the feast in front of him.
Bren swatted the boy’s wandering hands away from the bread before taking his own seat and—Ainsworth almost gasped at the sight—the solitary Ashe sat silently at the end of the table, her silver hair shining as she sipped from a large tankard.
“Welcome down, brave travelers!” Honey beamed as Ainsworth, Fig, and Fern walked into the room.
Ainsworth knew he was not included in the “brave traveler” label, and was therefore surprised when Honey also aimed her warm smile at him.
He could not fault her politeness and hospitality, and found himself returning the gesture.
“We have prepared a farewell feast to see you off—fitting, we hope, for courageous souls such as yourself. We are currently understaffed and at the end of our supplies, but I do hope what we have prepared will suffice!”
Fig swooped in and took Honey’s hands in his own before she could pull a seat out for him.
“Gracious innkeeper, we are honored to be the recipient of such glorious and generous hospitality. We can think of no better way to spend the night ahead of our journey, and we will do our best to spread the word of your generosity far and wide.” He raised her hands to his lips and kissed them sincerely, earning a small squeal from Honey and generating a curious, burning feeling in Ainsworth’s stomach—most likely secondhand embarrassment.
The following hour was filled with good food and surprisingly delightful conversation, Honey’s blush from Fig’s thanks—flushing the skin of her cheeks almost violet—still lingering long after they had all taken their seats to begin the meal.
Fig and Fern, it transpired after Honey’s questioning (she would make an exquisite social or historical researcher, Ainsworth thought), had quite the noble motive for wishing to conquer Mount Vengeance.
One that made Ainsworth’s heart overflow with admiration for them—and for the prospect of getting to immortalize their tale.
“We never knew our father, and our mother was left with us two kits squalling and hungry. She gave everything so that we wouldn’t go without.
Willow, her name was. She scrubbed taverns and cleaned the streets, eventually finding her place in a bakery after she impressed the local owner with her kneading skills.
But before our fourteenth year, the Iron Flux came for our town and for her, too.
” Fern’s eyes glistened as she spoke, and even the boisterous Fig spent a few moments in silent reflection after she recounted that part of their tale. “We’re doing this for her.”
“She…wished for you to traverse Mount Vengeance?” Honey asked after a delicate sip of wine.
“Goodness, not quite that specific!” said Fern, who reached for another serving of hare. “I mean, we’re doing it to make her proud. We wanted to be folk who made something of themselves. Folk their mother would take pride in.”
“And we cannot wait to see the world beyond Mount Vengeance—the cities of Sylethus,” said Fig.
“You’ll have to slay a few beasties before you get there,” Bren said, heavy brows raised, and Honey gave him a pointed look.
Ashe nodded from the other end of the table. “Just two of you against that whole range? It will be difficult.”
Fern grinned. “We have each other, and that is more than enough. What a tale we’ll be able to give you, eh, Ainsworth?”
“But just the two of you to slay a dragon?” asked Quiddle incredulously.
“They did not say they would slay it, Quiddle,” said Honey.
“We’re not setting out to face the dragon, but we are not naive enough to believe it will simply let us pass unchecked.
Should we need to defend ourselves against the dragon, we will be ready.
I secured slivang arrowheads back in Wistward.
” Fern slammed her drink on the table triumphantly, as though she had been waiting to announce this feat.
Honey shuddered. “My, that’s nasty—and rare—stuff. How did you come across that without spending a fortune?”
“Happened to save the hide of a very respected yet very cowardly sorcerer, who had an abundance of it. It took a fair amount of time and coin to find a blacksmith who would dare work with it, however,” said Fig.
“What does it do?” asked Quiddle, cheek resting on his hand. He stared wistfully at the serving plate, now devoid of honeyed bread.
Honey opened her mouth to speak, but Ainsworth couldn’t resist interjecting.
“It’s one of the few metals that can pierce through most enchantments on a foundational level, and it has been theorized it can even pierce through the hide of a dragon.
All knowledge, of course, has come from accounts of adventurers, and no full experiments have taken place, but it has long been assumed in folklore passed from generation to generation that should you face a dragon, a weapon of slivang is what you should seek.
Some even say it manifested originally for the heroes that rose up against the dragons during the Great Sweep, piercing the hearts of the dragon rulers and allowing those that could not use magic a defense of their own.
Oh, Fern, although I pray for your safety, please do tell me every detail of what happens if you strike the dragon with one of these! ”
Ainsworth thought he might topple over from the excitement. He might have the opportunity to contribute to scholarship on dragon-hide with such an account! He’d gain an audience with some of the most intelligent, powerful, and well-connected scholars in the Skarrow Library.
Fern’s laughter brought him back to the table. “Well, we’ll only strike if it strikes us first!”
“Let’s say it strikes you, then you strike it and kill it. Would you go rooting for its treasure?” asked Quiddle.
Fig gave a good-natured laugh. “We take each day and opportunity as it comes, lad. We’ll see what happens.”
Honey fiddled with one of the trinkets on her horn as she spoke—a small crescent-moon charm that appeared to have become entangled with an adjacent charm depicting a shooting star.
“The dragon has never shown its head around here, nor has it given us any trouble. Like some of its kin across the kingdom, it seems to have slinked away with its tail between its legs. It may just let you pass if you do not pester it.” Bren sat a little straighter at Honey’s words.
“As it has never given us trouble, I do not think it an unreasonable beast—if it is indeed, as they say, presiding over a great hoard hidden there. But— Well, these musings do not make the stuff of songs! Move the table, Bren, and the rest of you move your chairs closer to the hearth, and I shall grab my harp. I’ll sing a song befitting your quest to give you courage for tomorrow. ”
Honey perched on a small velvet stool next to the flickering flames of the hearth, the amber light setting her usually cold visage aglow.
The blue hues of her skin were infused with warmth and light, complementing the surprisingly husky, melodious tone of her singing voice.
Her tail seemed to sway in time to the beat of the song she spun, interlacing Fern and Fig’s shared history with their courage, making the days ahead sound like a small challenge for such bravery.
Ainsworth cursed himself for not having his writing materials and watched Honey intently, committing her words to memory.
Surprised and mesmerized by Honey’s performance, he leaned forward in his chair as the song progressed, as though being physically closer to her would envelop him further in the exquisite notes.
What a talent! Her songs, he decided, must be included in his manuscript—a starting point for spreading the legend of the Misnich Inn and its adventurers far and wide.
It might even raise Honey’s name to prominence, cementing her as a bard whose tales were worth circulating across the kingdom.
Ainsworth could be responsible for helping her escape such a dreary, isolated life here at the foot of Mount Vengeance.
At one point, her eyes flickered to his, and upon meeting his intense gaze, she seemed to fumble the next note in surprise. But such was her skill that she covered the almost-slip, her only tell a deepened flush on her face that could easily be explained away by the heat of the fire.
When she finished, the staff and guests whooped and applauded, then Honey launched into more lively, well-known songs.
Fig and Fern sprang up with glee as Honey began the jaunty number depicting the chase between Gwyneth, the Huntswoman, and the Borderlands Boar, and Ainsworth straightened in his seat.
He knew such a song only existed because of the account made of the adventure by a Skarrow scholar, and he had even examined the original manuscript (with the utmost care) in his first semester of study.
He turned to share such information with Quiddle, but the boy had already jumped up to join the rest.
Spinning and laughing, the guests and Quiddle carved a space for dancing.
Bren swayed happily on his stool, his cup miraculously full despite it never being far from his lips.
Quiddle tried, in vain, to get Ashe to dance with him, but she instead sat with folded arms and laughed at his pleading.
He finally turned to Ainsworth. “Come on, sir! Honey never brings out these tunes!”