Chapter 28 #2
But damn it if he didn’t still have a bit of drive to see the project through.
To give one last go at turning in the manuscript the funding council expected of him; to produce the seminal work on Mount Vengeance.
Perhaps the answer to the “curse” was farther up the mountain, too—he could not let the opportunity to finally solve the mystery of the inn pass by.
“Fern, my mind is made up. I do not need a lecture,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “Well, I didn’t need a lecture on the diseases typically found in the quikrols I like to snack on, but you still went ahead and delivered it anyway. If I cannot change your mind, I can at least give you this.”
She held out a slivang arrow, and Ainsworth balked.
“Fern, I am not—I do not plan to take on the dragon. If I did come across it, I…” He thought of Ruraidh’s encounter.
The fact that Honey might harbor a close connection with it, and that it had left the inn and surrounding areas well enough alone.
He echoed Honey’s words. “I do not think it an unreasonable beast. Perhaps I could simply talk—”
Fern placed it into his hands. “Take it, Ainsworth. I do not— If you were hurt, and I had done nothing…Please, Ainsworth.”
“Fine,” he said, taking it from her. It was heavier than he’d expected, and chilled as though someone had left it out through a long, frostbitten night.
It was, he realized now that he had it in his hand, an immense and deadly tool.
He felt a little foolish for how flippant and excited he had been about Fig and Fern having such a weapon all those weeks ago.
Fern put a hand on his shoulder. “If you shoot dragons as well as you shoot rabbits, you’ll be fine.”
Ainsworth felt his stomach twist in uncomfortable anticipation. He tried to laugh the nerves away. “I’m sure I can—it’s probably easier. Dragons are a much bigger target, after all.”
His throat closed up somewhat as he entered Wenslykirk.
It felt tainted with Enach’s presence, his betrayal.
It was with an edge of bitterness that he walked past the Post Server’s office that held the Transportation Circle he could no longer access and recklessly decided to press on, only stopping to briefly restock at a local fletcher instead of bothering with food.
It was too much to know that if it weren’t for Enach, he could be at the Misnich Inn within minutes. Instead, he was days away.
Ainsworth could not help but compare each stretch of this final part of the journey with the first time he had come this way.
He recalled how miserable he had been when he left Hinslyth that first time.
The only thing that had kept him going was romanticizing his purpose—the way he would stride into the Misnich Inn, an esteemed scholar, ready to put them on the map.
Well, he still wished to put them “on the map”—they certainly deserved it.
They deserved to tell their stories, and the history of the inn deserved to be documented.
There was still fear and apprehension, of course, but it was different this time around.
He loathed to think how he had scurried away from the inn, tail between legs, alongside Enach.
Not sticking up for the fine folk who had become his friends when Enach delivered his usual stinging, scathing comments.
And there was the fact he would now face the mountain itself; see what treasures there were to be discovered, what beasts to evade; and perhaps stumble across the dragon, too.
He would be gone for weeks, parted from the inn and its denizens again.
But there was something practical in his desire to make this journey, to see it through.
His mother whispering from beyond her grave: Take things into your own hands.
It was his project, so he would not rely on others anymore—not when he was perfectly capable of observing what he needed for himself.
The weather soon turned foul, but he expected it this time; he had lived long enough under the whims of the erratic, wild weather here to understand it.
He no longer huddled in his tent, sniffing and complaining, when he woke each morning.
Instead, he embraced the whip of the wind, the lash of the rain soaking into his clothes and encouraging the ground to try to steal his boots.
This time, Ainsworth was able to ignore it, for he felt like his heart was answering a call—though whether it was the mountain itself, the wilderness he had so long denied entry to his heart, or the people waiting for him at the inn, he could not tell.
Perhaps it was all of it. He just knew that with every step his heart lightened a little.
Plus, it did not hurt that the spell the old gentleman had placed on his boots a week or so back was still holding nicely.
When he knew he was getting close, with only one more night and a day of traveling to go, he heard the cry of a kestrel.
It seemed to circle far above him for some time, buffeted by the wind and rain, and only left when Ainsworth set up his tent for the evening.
He couldn’t be sure, but the gray of its feathers reminded him of Ashe’s hair.
But if she had spotted him, why had she not come to greet him?
Oh Matron, perhaps they did not want him back after all.
He spent that final night shivering and enduring the tight ball of anxiety in his chest, cold inside and out.
But it was too late to turn back now.
The next day, he skipped breakfast, as he was low on supplies and too anxious to hunt, and instead hurried on his way. He slipped a few times, almost turning his ankle, and cursed at his foolishness. Imagine if he came all this way only for something like that to happen and stop him!
As his destination loomed ever nearer, he could not imagine the moment he would finally spot the inn.
It was too unbearable to get his hopes up for a positive reception, and too depressing to assume his reception would be otherwise.
But the latter kept winning. He pictured standing atop the hill by Enach’s Transportation Circle, the wind whipping his face and hair, a cold and frosty reception ahead of him.
Thankfully, unlike most of Ainsworth’s theories, this one did not pan out.
As he reached the edge of the forest, following the path that would lead him to the crest of the hill overlooking the inn, he began to tremble.
This was heightened when he heard the snap of a branch somewhere in front of him, and the panting that suggested someone had been making the climb.
A retreating traveler perhaps, having decided against pursing the mountain?
He braced himself for awkward pleasantries he was in no mood to make when Honey appeared, scrambling to the top of the hill.
She stood, breathless, looking at him. The fierce wind had her hair and skirts billowing around her, and her eyes were wide as she took him in. He froze, unable to move, as though he were caught in the wake of a bright, all-encompassing light.
Take things into your own hands.
He gave himself an inward shake and took a step forward, his arms reaching out. “Honey. I’ve come home!”
He did not know he was going to say that, and for a moment he was shocked at how right those words felt. But he had little time to dwell on it.
“Ainsworth!” she cried, her eyes shining and overflowing with tears. She threw herself at him—the force of her embrace so thorough that they almost tumbled over.
But Ainsworth caught her and held her, and they both began to shake—with laughter and tears they could not seem to stop.
Above them, the triumphant cry of a kestrel echoed.