Chapter 28
Fortune favored him for the rest of the journey—though he thought it was about time he had some luck.
The weather held for the most part, meaning his progress through the forest and the first of the hills was a breeze.
A traveling party following the road going the other way told him of a game trail that would provide the quickest route over three of the adjoining hills to come, and at the end there was a small settlement that would gladly help him with any supplies should he be good for the coin.
He was indeed, and he spent one companionable night in a small cabin with an older gentleman who reinforced Ainsworth’s boots with a spell that would repel water for a time.
He even helped Ainsworth with a shielding spell he’d been trying to master on the road.
“You don’t have much magic in you—surprising, given your antlers—but you can multiply the power of spells with certain objects,” the man had told him.
After much trial and error, Ainsworth had found his spells worked best with a small sprig of holly clutched in his hands.
He left with a garland to wear upon his head when he needed his magic most.
Before he left, he spotted a small graveyard similar to the one that held his parents, with cairns and not headstones scattered almost erratically across the small field—hard to identify as a graveyard if you didn’t know what you were looking at.
He left a handful of wildflowers on one of the graves closest to him, paying his respects quickly.
He thought of his own parents’ graves, unvisited for so long.
They had been so keen for him to leave, to carve a better life for himself, and he had chased that goal without question, never once looking back.
Then all too quickly, it had been too late and they were gone.
He could not shake the slither of regret he felt. He hoped they would approve of the path he was taking now.
Perhaps Ainsworth’s most fortunate encounter came in the town of Willowtrick.
He was a week away from Wenslykirk, which was of course yet another week away from the Misnich Inn.
He had arrived by chance on a market day and was prepared to spend a few coins on some fresh fruit for the road, and perhaps some trinkets for those at the inn.
He was lingering by the baker’s stall, debating over whether or not to indulge in some cinnamon rolls, when he received a hearty slap on the back.
“Well, look who it is!”
“Fern!” cried Ainsworth, delighted at the sight of the former adventurer. And where was—?
“Who’ve you got there, Fern?” Fig came striding through the crowd, an arm full of wildflowers. “Not Gladsly, surely?”
“Yes! But what are you doing here?” Fern asked, clearly unable to keep the disbelief from her voice.
Ainsworth gave a nervous laugh. “Let’s go somewhere we can sit, shall we?”
Over lunch at a pleasant tearoom, Ainsworth recounted what had happened since he had first met them at the inn. Glossing over some of the unpleasantness, of course—or so he thought.
“Hmph. Sounds like the person you were saving yourself for wasn’t worth missing out on a night with me,” Fern purred, causing Ainsworth to choke on his tea and Fig to look away, embarrassed and exasperated at his sister’s antics.
“Well, perhaps you’re right. But enough about me. What are you two doing here?”
They explained how, on their return from the inn, they had stopped here to enjoy a few days’ rest and spend some time deciding where to head next. But trouble was brewing—something about a local gang hassling businesses for rates and “special protection.”
“So we dealt with them,” said Fig, as though it were the simplest thing in the world.
“The local Order of Linn guard were, as usual, useless. We took matters into our own hands. And we found quite the community here! Plus, our mother was also named Willow. It felt like fate. We’ve been helping a few businesses build themselves back up after they were hassled, and have enjoyed the simple days earning our keep. ”
“Simple?” Ainsworth laughed. “It sounds like you chased out some mild organized crime. Aren’t you perhaps wary that they might come back?”
Fig gave him a knowing look. “Oh, they won’t come back.”
Ainsworth almost shuddered; the two of them were somehow at once ridiculous, charming, and extremely formidable.
And generous. Fig offered him his horse, and Fern offered to ride alongside him all the way to Wenslykirk. “It’s much quicker on horseback. Fig is doing some building work so he can’t leave, but I’m freed up and it’s been an age since I’ve stretched my legs!”
He was astonished at the generosity—not only with their resources, but also with their time. “I couldn’t possibly—”
“You could,” Fern insisted. “And you will.”
And that was that.
They set off that very afternoon. The horse—Fig’s Apricot—Ainsworth briefly remembered from those early days at the inn. He recalled the disbelief he felt when Fig and Fern left that morning, and how frustrated he’d been—how rude he’d been to them all. To Honey.
“Watch her, she’s got an attitude,” Fern warned.
Apricot huffed loudly before inhaling some oats from a bucket Ainsworth held. “Oh, I’m sure we’ll get along fine, then.”
Fern said she could get them to Wenslykirk in five days, if Ainsworth could keep up with her, and although Ainsworth was not great with horses or at riding, he managed to keep pace. Fern seemed unreasonably pleased, and Ainsworth felt as though he had proved himself in her eyes.
The weather held wonderfully, and Ainsworth thoroughly enjoyed the journey he had been too sullen to enjoy previously.
The sting of the wind on his cheeks, the freshness in his lungs, the sheer unending openness around him.
The high spirits of the other people they occasionally passed by were a wondrous reminder of the good in the world—travelers passing stories and news and, once, throwing Fig and Ainsworth both some extra fruit they had.
“Everyone is so friendly around here. I was worried when I heard you made such a journey yourself, but there aren’t many thieves wandering this far out from Willowtrick,” said Fern one afternoon.
“Indeed. But I have my bow this time, if need be.”
“I was wondering when you’d bring that up!” Fern laughed. “All right, show me what you can do, and I’ll show you how to do it better.”
And she did. By their final night, he felt achy from the constant riding and practicing, but he could now shoot a target from a moving horse, which was something he had never done before, not even as a boy.
They had set up their final camp near a gentle brook, their fire crackling with the fat dripping from the wild game bird Ainsworth had shot down earlier, which Fern had offered to pluck and prepare. “My favorite!” Fern said, twitching her ears and laughing at his expression.
“I’d consider that a stereotype,” Ainsworth said.
“In this case, it’s true!”
After they’d finished eating, Fern lay back on her pack and said: “You know, when I met you at the inn, you were such…a prim, proper gentleman. And you still are, a bit. But I mean—I watched you shoot a rabbit through the eye, skin it, and strip it right to the bone the other night.”
“Well, a gentleman has to eat, surely?” Ainsworth said, rubbing his stomach and grinning.
She snorted. “You know what I mean. You are that prim and proper person, but you’re also…this. I’m happy you’ve found a balance.”
“A balance?”
“Yes. A life where you get to be both.”
He pondered on that all night. Would he get to be both forever?
Who he was at this moment, staring at the stars and ignoring uneven lumps of earth beneath his back—that was who he had been before Hinslyth.
He had thought that wasn’t who he was for the longest time.
He loved books, fine food, and culture. And the comfort his new position and life had brought him—as well as financial security.
He had thought, finally, he could live life, and not just survive.
But there was living in surviving, too—though it was only something you could see once you were well and truly past it.
A city-dweller might have had a romanticized view of the rural life he enjoyed as a child: an abundance of fresh air, a childhood running through forests and still, silent nights.
But there were also the harsh winters, the tense nights when no food was to be found on a plate.
Still, silent nights that were interrupted by the calls of a prowling dark beast that had strayed too far from its territory.
Regardless, he had lived a life before he went to Hinslyth—a life he pushed away upon his arrival, not realizing he also pushed away all that was good about it.
He had built up resilience and resourcefulness back then, but it had taken a long time to see them within himself.
He had mustered them during these past few weeks, too.
When they were in sight of Wenslykirk, he bid a fond farewell to Fern, and a slightly less fond farewell to the temperamental Apricot.
“It’ll do her good, these weeks on the road, after all that idleness,” Fern had laughed before they hugged goodbye.
He was grateful for Fern’s guidance, and her timekeeping.
They had both turned to walk their separate ways when Fern suddenly cried: “Wait!”
Ainsworth looked back at her. She took her quiver from her back. “From what you’ve said about going back…Ainsworth, you’re going to journey across the mountain, aren’t you?”
Ainsworth stood straighter. “Yes, I am.”
Fern shook her head. “Look, no offense, but—”
He held up his hand. “I won’t hear of it, Fern. This is something I have to do for my research.”
“But why? Why do you have to do that?”
“I—” Ainsworth opened his mouth to explain, and he once again experienced what he had in Lyria’s office. When he spent time with his friends at the Misnich Inn, everything he was working toward in Hinslyth concerning his status and prestige as an academic felt almost…meaningless.