Chapter 26
The late-evening sun lent an orange glow to the air, and Ainsworth cursed under his breath as he fussed with the ribbons on the sleeve of his finest silk tunic.
He had not worn the garment—forest green and tailored to his build—in some time, and he struggled to remember how the knot at his cuff was tied.
He recalled it being extremely popular before he left, and he was loath to give Enach anything to sneer about.
They would be joined for dinner, a note under his door had informed him, by Jess and Mal.
Friends of Enach’s—and Ainsworth’s, he supposed—working in alchemical science and literature, respectively.
Dread settled in his stomach at the prospect.
Yes, they were friends—the kind of friends he would have to be on edge around all night, lest some mishap of his be the subject of gossip and whispers the next day.
He knew not everyone was like that at Skarrow—Jura certainly was not, nor Lyria—but he had, for some reason, overlooked the fact that he was constantly watched by many of his peers, waiting for him to slip up and reveal that actually, no, he did not belong there.
Ainsworth reflected that he had been too caught up in proving them wrong to realize that he should not have to prove anything in the first place.
An unpleasant whiff came to him suddenly, and he realized with alarm he had not yet tended to his ankle since his return.
He immediately went to his pack to retrieve the poultice-soaked strips.
He found them swiftly, though he had to remove Beatrice’s diaries to get to them.
As he did so, several sheaths of parchment floated out from within the books, drifting to the floor like feathers.
He shrieked. Had he damaged them? There were no loose sheets when he read the diaries before!
He did not recognize the pages as he pulled them together, but did realize that fresh ink now numbered the bottom of each page, as if the letterer knew Ainsworth would accidentally send them flying. The first sheet of numbered parchment was written in a slightly different hand.
Dear Ainsworth,
I came across a few more diaries while you adventured with Ashe, and realized the contents of this entry relate to you.
I wanted to surprise you with it and read it to you once you were back from the expedition.
Instead, I hope they bring you joy in Hinslyth.
Wasn’t it a letter from your great-grandfather that started your journey, after all?
Yours,
Honey
Ainsworth’s breath seemed to catch in his throat, and he read the paper over and over again—for no reason other than the fact it was a piece of the inn, a piece of Honey. Then he blinked and turned his attention to the pages. Here he found the slimmer, more cursive hand of Honey’s grandmother.
Shiel’s Moon Turn, second week
Two incidents of note this morning. First and foremost, several bags of flour were found ruined—crawling with little mites!
I sent Ryn away to return it. The journey will be long, and it will be no doubt difficult to prove that the flour was infected before our purchase, but I have faith in his excellent ability to wear someone down in any argument in which he is convinced he is right.
He is in this case, of course, but he often isn’t.
Secondly, a lone traveler arrived just after Ryn’s departure. A human, no less—not a hint of magic did I detect around his person, nor a weapon to be brandished by any hand. When he asked to pay for a night’s stay, I asked him: “Do you know where you are? Do you know what lies ahead?”
And he grinned from ear to ear and said: “Yes! I’ve come to look at the rocks.”
Rocks. Rocks! Whoever has heard of someone coming to Mount Vengeance to see the rocks? His name is Artan Gladsly, and he is certainly one of the more enigmatic guests I’ve had recently.
“I used to work in a shop,” he told me, “but the keeper died and it went to his son who didn’t want to keep me on.
I needed work, so I left my family to travel on to the next town and find some.
And then I thought—why stop there? I can travel farther afield, make my way as a trader, a wandering merchant, and send coin back to them—as well as a bundle of stories to bring the world back to my family.
” I told him I did not have any work for him here, nor did he seem to have any wares left to sell.
“I thought I’d never be this far away from home again, so why not see something special?
” he said by way of explanation, although it explains little to me at all.
Something “special” to most people, here, is the dragon they seek, or the treasure the mountain holds.
I find myself fascinated by how far Gladsly’s naivete and positive outlook have carried him.
Even when bereft of his dagger, his one form of protection (the fool lost it in a tavern wager), he continued on, confident he would not need it.
He has also not yet amassed any great fortune, and in my opinion is overly confident in his abilities as a traveling merchant.
He has a partner and child at home, and I cannot say I understand the recklessness of him—especially considering he is a short-lived human.
He is armed with one thing, though—parchment, bundled between leather-bound covers, an array of charcoal, and one fine writing instrument.
He wrote several letters to his family, giving them to a retreating adventurer to post on their return journey.
I warned him that even the lower slopes of the mountain can be dangerous, and that he has not the equipment to attempt to climb any farther, but he merely shrugged and told me he wanted to capture the beauty of the mountain’s rocks.
For no reason other than he is interested in them, and it would make him happy.
While I worry for him, I do suspect he possesses an uncanny amount of luck, and I cannot deny that such a motivation pleases me very much.
I will therefore happily see him off on his travels tomorrow, and perhaps join him for part of the way.
Ainsworth reached the end of the excerpt.
He turned the parchment, hoping for more, but alas.
His hands shook slightly as he re-read the account of his great-grandfather—a man he had never met—and his seemingly inconsequential reason for tackling Mount Vengeance.
Yes, it was Artan’s letter boasting about the inn that set Ainsworth on the path to Mount Vengeance.
But, in other ways, they were so very different.
While his great-grandfather undertook the journey merely for a sense of personal fulfillment and joy, an add-on to the quest to help his family, Ainsworth—while he still got some personal fulfillment, of course—mostly walked his path initially for prestige, grants, publications, and recognition.
To belong to a class of people he had so admired, even as he knew he would have to fight to be admitted to their ranks.
It did raise one question, though. Ainsworth and his family had assumed his great-grandfather met his demise on the mountain. But if he did not tackle Mount Vengeance for the dragon, then why did he never return?
Ainsworth started to read the letter for the third time, hoping for clues, when someone knocked briskly at his door. “Ainsworth? We were supposed to meet in the lobby. What is holding you?”
“Sorry, Enach,” he shouted, scrambling to his feet and gathering up the papers.
The streets of Hinslyth were heavy with the evening’s chill, and people ventured out bundled in hats, thick scarves, and coats.
Ainsworth could not focus on the chatter Jess, Mal, and Enach idly shared as they walked toward their destination—a rare occurrence in itself, because Enach had not had time to book a carriage in advance.
It seemed like an eternity had passed since Ainsworth had ventured into a fine dining establishment.
He felt more than saw the eyes of all the other diners and patrons upon them as they entered—each taking stock of who was in the room, wondering what they might have done to deserve a place in it, and desperately searching for any misstep, any misconduct, that would provide much-needed gossip they’d feast on the following day even more avidly than on their meal tonight.
Enach had taken Ainsworth’s arm and escorted him to his seat—a gesture so unlike him it made Ainsworth again recall the dragon’s question, its scrutiny.
What do you want?
“What will it be, sir?” asked the server, as she approached moments later.
Ainsworth blinked. “I’m not…” He had not been listening to her recital of the drinks. The conversation among Jess, Mal, and Enach had washed over him, too.
“He has spent so long in the country, drinking filth, that he is overwhelmed by the choice in front of him!” Enach remarked, and Jess and Mal made no effort to hide their laughter.
Jess in particular seemed to laugh a little too hard, and Ainsworth noted the hand she placed on Enach’s arm.
Ainsworth also noticed Enach doing nothing to shrug it off.
Ah. Perhaps there had been someone for Enach in Ainsworth’s absence, then.
“That’s not quite true,” Ainsworth began, but before he knew it Enach had ordered two bottles of wine for them to share, and ordered their food, too.
As Ainsworth sipped a smoky red wine and nibbled on the shellfish-stuffed vegetables, he admitted that, yes, he did like these things.
But they did not, as he had once assumed, make him truly happy.
No, it was more the act of sharing food and drink in jovial company that made it a pleasure.
Even enjoying a solitary moment with the fine food he so savored was much better when he was content, happy.
Like Honey’s orradan cakes, enjoyed under the stars by the fire while Ashe slept on.
On those nights, he had been certain of the path he was following, and of the company he was keeping.