Chapter 27
Before he departed, Ainsworth drafted a brief outline of his ongoing research for Lyria—she was his supervisor, after all—and, riddled with errors and smudges as it was in his haste, he still knew she would be delighted to hear his plans.
Primarily, his return to the field. He scribbled a quick, informal thank you in the bottom corner, hoping she would understand that he gave his thanks not for looking at his work but for setting him on the right path all those moon’s turns ago.
In his room, he rearranged his trunk and packed, discarding some of the fine silks and tunics he had not worn at the inn but had insisted on taking with him on that first journey.
He kept a few fine shirts and trousers, though.
He liked them beyond their practicality and knew pretending otherwise would be lying to himself—and he very much planned to stop doing that now.
Though his heart bemoaned the additional weeks to his destination, he would merely retrace his original journey—four weeks of walking, eating hunted and foraged meals, and getting used to life outdoors again. It would be good preparation for tackling the mountain itself, he reasoned.
After a restless sleep, he headed for the bank the moment it opened, skipping breakfast in the Scholar Quarters and instead opting for a bag of aiknuts from a vendor on the high street.
The mix was not quite as good as Wickon’s, but he had no time to venture south of the river.
At the bank, he withdrew a sizable chunk from his savings and then went immediately to the armory.
He paid for a rather fetching gambeson in his favorite forest green for his travels—it probably was not the best defense against a dragon or the beasts of Mount Vengeance, but it was better than what he had worn on his original trip.
Plus, he had seen quite a few adventurers wearing them and was giddy at the prospect of fitting in.
Next, he purchased supplies of dried meat, cheese, and fruit from the grocer, and then went on to the fletcher for the first weapon he had owned since he was a boy. “Do you know how to use that?” the boy behind the counter asked, bravely gesturing to Ainsworth’s antlers.
Ainsworth laughed. “Yes—or at least, I used to. I was taught to hunt from a young age. I may be a bit rusty, but I’ve got time to practice on my journey. I promised myself to never bring down a stag, though.”
The boy grinned. “That would be weird.”
“It would indeed.”
He purchased a flexible bow after trying a few in the shop, and as many arrows as he could afford. As he organized his purchases, he scoffed at the Ainsworth of that first journey who had not even thought to bring something to hunt with, or to defend himself if need be.
When he had everything he needed, his trunk once again levitating alongside him (he could not bring himself to transport his manuscript and other materials in anything else), he left the Skarrow Library again with little fuss or fanfare—only this time he slipped letters under the doors of the few people he considered true friends to explain his lengthy absence, and that he would write to them this time if they’d allow for it after he had so neglected their friendship.
He also slipped his pocket watch under Enach’s door.
He knew the gesture would convey, stronger than any words, that Ainsworth wished never to hear from him again.
He had not the coin to buy a horse outright (he did not even know where he would buy such a thing!), nor did he wish to spend what he had remaining of his own money on hiring anyone to take him onward.
He had his grant money for his accommodation, but he wished to save as much as possible to pay for a lengthy stay at the Misnich Inn this time around.
He was not looking forward to returning to Hinslyth, and he had yet to even set foot on the road that would lead him out of the city.
When he finally left Hinslyth’s borders, following wandering merchants, adventurers, and performing troupes, he felt as though he could breathe again.
A small part of him worried he might not be welcome back at the inn.
He had let Enach walk in and be rude to them all, then had left them behind without a second glance…
and now would be late in returning. They would assume, during his weeks of travel, that he was still at the Skarrow Library, working away at a project that would not exist without them, and not sending anything in the way of correspondence.
He could try to send them a letter via a wildeshifter runner.
But again, expenses. And what would he say?
The events of the past few days, his feelings, were better explained in person.
So it seemed his best course of action was to get there as quickly as possible. Overtaking the merchant and his donkey in front of him, Ainsworth put his head down and began the trek to Mount Vengeance.
It turned out that not wandering desperately from building to building in unfamiliar villages, settlements, and towns seeking an inn every other night saved him quite a bit of time.
Ainsworth reached the village of Dursyth, situated at the edge of the Dunbea region, in just over a week—two days quicker than his first journey.
He knew a quaint tavern resided there, and although he would not waste coin on a bed for the night when sleeping under the stars or within his small tent would suffice, he decided to treat himself to warm bread and fresh vegetables. A good ale would be welcome, too.
When he stepped into Dursyth’s tavern, however, he immediately felt tension in the air—not at all like the sleepy atmosphere of his last visit.
“Once again, I deny your accusations, old man. Now, you wouldn’t refuse a paying patron a drink, would you? I’ll even pay double—a gesture of goodwill, to show there are no hard feelings between us.”
The voice came from a hooded figure standing in front of the bar, and it carried loud and confidently across the room.
Sheepskin rugs lined the creaking, splintered floors, and a large hearth filled the back of the room, surrounded by plush and dusty armchairs.
Uneven tables filled the rest of the space and there was a small, raised platform on which fiddlers could perform.
Only three other patrons sat with drinks.
One, an elven woman who looked like a traveler, had turned to watch the cloaked figure with a hand on her dagger.
The man behind the bar rubbed his hand along the wispy, golden beard that did nothing to conceal his weak chin. “I can refuse to serve anyone I want, and I won’t have a Dragon Pèidse in here! My wife’s family lost everything to one of you lot—”
From behind, Ainsworth saw the figure’s cloak briefly rise and fall, as though he shrugged.
The motion revealed the tip of his scaled tail, brushing the floor behind his legs.
“I told you, those people are myths, and I am certainly not one of them. Many people have horns like mine, and as for the scales, those of us with druid lineage—”
“Leave, or I will call the guard.”
The cloaked figure sighed. “Very well, then.”
He turned to face the room, smirked at everyone looking at him, and walked out.
As he passed Ainsworth, he grinned and gave a wink.
His eyes seemed almost molten silver, shimmering in a human face of verdant scales.
His horns rose from his forehead and curved back toward his cloak.
They were a dull gray in comparison with his magnificent eyes.
“I hope this place is worth it, friend. Better hope your antlers aren’t cause for concern! ”
With that, he left. The tension flooded out of the room as the door closed behind him, and the elven woman finally relaxed her grip on the hilt of her sheathed dagger, returning to the flagon on the table in front of her.
Ainsworth took a hesitant seat on a stool by the bar. Did this barman have a problem with druid-bloods and their earthly connections?
But the barman didn’t seem to care. At first, he didn’t even notice Ainsworth, as his eyes continued to burn into the back of the departing figure. It wasn’t until Ainsworth cleared his throat that he jumped to attention.
The bartender blinked as if dazed. “Oh? Yes, right…what can I get you?”
“Er, I was hoping for whatever stew is going in the kitchens, and some bread, if you don’t mind. An ale, too—whatever you recommend.”
The barman gestured to Ainsworth’s antlers, and for a moment he froze.
“I take it you don’t eat meat? We have a root vegetable stew going if you’d prefer.”
“Oh, that would be splendid, thank you, although I’m fine with either!
” Ainsworth said, heart returning to its normal pace.
But still, he could not take his mind off the confrontation, so when his food arrived and he brightened the barman’s day with a generous tip, he asked: “What was the hassle with that fellow who came before me? A…troublesome sort?”
The barman scoffed, wiping the same goblet over and over with a rather dirty cloth. “You could say so.”
The elven woman with the dagger abruptly turned to them. “It was nothing but an old man being discriminatory based on myths, that’s what! I was worried you were going to provoke that fellow, start something you wouldn’t be able to finish.”
“It was no such thing! The Dragon Pèidsean are not well-known, but they certainly exist.”
“And what…exactly is a Dragon Pèidse?” Ainsworth asked.
“Traitors to civilization, that’s what,” the barman spat. “They bind themselves to the servitude of a dragon and do the dragon’s dirty work—stealing riches, robbing folk, all to increase the dragon’s hoard, wherever they store it. And they become touched by dragons, too!”
“Many people have reptilian and dragon-like features, you idiot!” the elven woman snarled. “And I find the whole myth to be preposterous. Why would a dragon need a servant, when they could take what they want by force, razing towns and cities to the ground like they used to?”
The bartender rolled his eyes. “They don’t all have eyes of a dragon, though!
That’s how you can tell. And that’s just it—the dragons have been on a steady decline since the days of their reign during the Great Sweep.
There’s nothing left in them, so they resort to their other strengths—trickery, deviousness, and ensnaring servants to do their dirty work. ”
It took everything Ainsworth had to keep quiet, to not interject with: Well, actually, scholarship and accounts from adventurers suggest existing dragons are just as powerful as before, but there are considerably fewer of them and more adventuring parties willing to tackle them should they step out of line!
“You speak nonsense, barkeep.”
“Well, if you don’t like how I run things here, dear, you can leave.”
“Whatever, old man. I won’t be back here.” The traveler finished her drink in one huge gulp, then stormed out the door.
The barman shook his head again. Ainsworth was reluctant to be seen as an ally to such a man, and yet something he had said intrigued him. “Eyes of a dragon?” prompted Ainsworth.
The barman nodded sagely. “Almost liquid, luminous. Sure, other folk have eyes like that—the dunelfen, certain elves—but this is different. More…”
“Like if you reached out to touch them, your fingers would come away dipped with molten metal, or burned as if by flames?”
“Yes, exactly! You’ve come across one of these folk, then?”
“I…” Ainsworth’s mind was racing.
The dragon’s curse—was this how it manifested within Honey? Was she a servant of the dragon who lived on Mount Vengeance?
He recalled Honey’s eyes when Enach had made his barbs and gibes, the otherworldly strangeness that seemed to come over her.
“Er…No. I don’t think so. But I don’t understand why I have not heard of these folk before. I’m not a dragon expert, but I am a scholar.”
The barman shrugged. “I come from a mountain town in Cairndui, and my wife from the mountains themselves. We always knew of the Dragon Pèidsean because our homes lay close to a dragon—Geliar—and his hoard.”
Now, that was a dragon he had heard of. Songs, and scholarship from Token, spoke of the fearsome beast, thought to be the oldest of the known dragons residing in Saltquart.
Like the others, he seemed content to be left alone unless challenged for his hoard.
Was there actual credibility to this man’s tale, then?
And was that why he had not heard of such a being before?
If they were confined to local rumors, perhaps the name of them changed depending on where people resided.
It struck Ainsworth that the barman had used the term “pèidse” instead of servant, coming from Cairndui where their Common dialect was populated with more Sàlais loanwords than in eastern regions.
What a time to have left the Skarrow Library and its resources behind; he just had to know more about this claim!
But there was no way he would return to investigate, not with Enach there, and not when it would further delay his arrival at the inn.
His return to Honey.
“Dragon Pèidse” or no, he missed her greatly.