Chapter 15
“Alvea says she knows she set this challenge, but if you keep her from her kitchen for one more minute—”
“Yes, yes,” said Ainsworth, picking up a small container of his auldfruit preserves to see if it had set. Close enough, he supposed. “This will be the final entry. I am confident!”
“All right,” Quiddle said, shuffling his feet before he scuttled away. Ainsworth knew he was enjoying the—paid—time off, although what the hauflin lad did with that time was beyond him.
No matter; that was not his concern. Instead, the simple, heavy scent of baked oats lay heavy in the air and reminded Ainsworth that, yes, this was right.
And if this was wrong, if the simple, crumbling bannocks did not bring a smile to Alvea’s face, then he would truly give up, for he had run out of options.
He placed a mound of the flat, circular breads on a plate and popped a small dish of butter and his preserves alongside them.
Quickness was of the essence here—the melting, crumbling bannock should be enjoyed warm, the butter slipping into each and every gap in the bread, the preserves warming to the touch alongside it…
His mouth watered and he cleared his throat.
Truly, there was little better than a bannock.
With a flourish, he entered the main room of the tavern. Bren and Spin were off doing their duties, but Honey, Ruraidh, and Quiddle all sat with eager, curious faces.
“About time!” Alvea huffed.
“Ignore her. She’s just hungry,” Honey teased, and the chef scowled in return.
“All the better, then. An even harder challenge to get a smile on that face. But I think I’ve done it this time,” Ainsworth said as he placed the dish on the table.
Quiddle wrinkled his nose. “Bannocks? But they’re so…boring.”
“Quiddle!” Ruraidh reprimanded him, but Ainsworth laughed.
“Yes, they are boring. Extremely boring. Which makes them all the better.”
Alvea looked at the dish, then to Ainsworth.
Was that a hint of a smile already?
“You’ve surprised me, Gladsly,” she said as she reached for a bannock. She took a nibble, and a hiss of steam escaped from within the bread. “Mmm. It’s been a while since I’ve had one of these. I haven’t made them here much, because…” She swallowed. “Well. I don’t know, actually.”
“She isn’t smiling!” Quiddle pointed out, face falling.
“But it isn’t over yet! Alvea, try it with butter and my preserves,” Ainsworth exclaimed. He would not give up so easily!
“Hmm, you know, I’d usually have these with crowdie instead of a preserve…”
“I know, I know,” said Ainsworth. “But I am not well versed in cheesemaking so—just try it!”
“I was about to, don’t fret.”
“Can I have one, Ainsworth?”
“Me, too?”
“Yes, yes,” he said, slightly disappointed that Honey hadn’t asked.
Ruraidh and Quiddle reached for the plate, but Honey’s attention was fixed on Alvea as she spread a generous amount of golden, melting butter and sharp preserves atop the bannock and popped it in her mouth. It felt like an eternity passed, until—
Alvea shook her head, and, upon finishing, gave a roar of laughter.
“Oh—does that count?” Quiddle asked, caught up in the challenge.
“I suppose it does? Ainsworth?” Ruraidh asked anxiously.
“I…” Ainsworth trailed off, a mix of emotions making it difficult to form a complete sentence. Yes, this was all for his research, to attract more people and hopefully adventurers to the inn, but the fact that Alvea liked this dish more than the others…
He sat down across from her and reached for a bannock. “You know, I do think these are my best work.”
“Even better than all your academic scribblings?” Alvea asked, smiling, as she reached for another.
Smiling, for sure.
Ainsworth returned her smile. “Yes. Absolutely.”
Ainsworth and Ruraidh spent that evening and then the following day adding Alvea’s position at the inn, and her renowned food, onto the flyers and posters they had designed.
They spread their materials across the largest table in the tavern room, with the other staff members occasionally coming over to assist. Honey had even joined them for an hour or so after breakfast, and Ainsworth still marveled over the stunning calligraphy that adorned the few flyers she had produced.
He wondered if he might pester her to pen the chapter headings of his book, imagining that perhaps they would catch the eye of the printing team at the Skarrow Library, and they would then extend an invite for her to contribute to more manuscript productions…
Ainsworth cursed as he almost overturned an ink pot in the midst of his daydream.
“Are you sure your boss will be fine with using your supplies like this?” Ruraidh asked as he sliced another section off the enchanted parchment scroll, which produced page after blank page when and as you needed it.
“Well, yes,” said Ainsworth, wiping ink from his fingers.
“I have written in my report all the materials used as I embarked on my research—I believe, if I am audited, I have the relevant trail to justify my actions. And besides, the cost of the spell was paid for many research projects ago. I am one of many scholars who have used this particular stack of parchment.”
“Fascinating,” Ruraidh mused, dipping his quill in ink to illustrate a small auldfruit pie next to Alvea’s name on the flyer. “In all my years here, I haven’t seen an enchantment like it.”
“How long have you been here, Ruraidh?” Ainsworth asked, rather suddenly.
He had not yet wanted to formally interview Ruraidh, who was so skittish and flighty, the process felt invasive rather than curious.
But over the past few weeks, Ainsworth had come to consider him a friend, and now he genuinely wished to know.
“Oh, about…eight years, I think?”
“Eight!” Ainsworth exclaimed. Invasiveness be damned. “But you— Ruraidh, forgive the rudeness of this question and you do not have to answer if you’d rather not, but…How old are you? You look younger than I am!”
Ruraidh gave a shy smile, brushing some of his white hair away from his silver eyes. “Well, since you asked so nicely…We have similar life spans to elves. I’ll turn forty this year.”
Forty! “Goodness, Ruraidh! We should make sure to organize sufficient birthday celebrations for you.”
His silver cheeks flushed somewhat. “Th-that won’t be necessary but…thank you.”
They continued for some moments in silence before Ainsworth decided to press on. “So…why did you come to the Misnich Inn? Why did you stay?”
“Um, well…I’m from a dunelfen dwelling that sticks to our roots—you know, living in and around mountain ranges.”
Ainsworth nodded. Many dunelfen did so in the Saltquart Kingdom, but he also knew a few who resided in Hinslyth.
The dunelfen who made their dwellings in deep mountain ranges often faced prejudice regarding their ability to live in such close proximity to dark magical beast territory, and were thus said to have an affinity for the same kind of magic.
The term dark magic primarily referred to that which drained and ended the essence of life, although the categorization of magic and its origins was constantly up for scholarly debate.
Ainsworth subscribed to the fairly common belief that magical ley lines infused the land, strengthening and weakening at spots, changing in what they offered.
There were others who firmly believed in the spiritual origins of magic: that the Matron Above gifted magic, and dark magic was the result of a soul corrupting the gift.
Some, like Ainsworth’s grandmother, instead argued the Matron Below enhanced the land beneath their feet to be channeled and used.
But whether it was spiritual or environmental in origin, none of it changed the fact that Ainsworth wasn’t particularly good at using it!
Ruraidh continued. “What you call the Dubhrach mountain range is vast, but my community dwelled closer to the Saltquart side, near Mount Vengeance.”
Ainsworth yelped in surprise. “Ruraidh! How could you not tell me this? Your story is definitely one that should be in my book! You lived in such close proximity to Mount Vengeance.”
“But not on the actual mountain. A-and I live closer to it now, here at the inn, than I did before. Also…” His voice went small.
“I wasn’t brought up by particularly nice people.
It was not a life I enjoyed. We…often killed travelers and adventurers for their possessions.
Some Dwellings are happy to let adventuring parties pass through their territory peacefully, offer hospitality and trade… but not mine.”
Ainsworth was, again, stunned. Ruraidh, who skulked about anxiously with his broom and constant apologies? “You— You attacked?”
“Oh!” He finally looked up. “Not me personally, no. I never really…got on with my family—though they weren’t my family, I suppose.
I didn’t know my parents—they died when I was young—so I was brought up by the rest of the Dwelling.
” Ruraidh sighed, reaching for a fresh scrap of parchment.
“I’ve never been able to use magic well. I find it so hard to grasp, you know?”
Ainsworth nodded; he very much did.
“They tried to train me in various other combats,” Ruraidh continued, “but I was…hopeless. I was on what was to be my first expedition to challenge any travelers we came across. You see, I wouldn’t be considered a proper member of the Dwelling until I had my first plunder to show for it.
Only…I didn’t want to hurt anyone!” He looked over at Ainsworth anxiously.
“Of course you didn’t, Ruraidh! I know that.”