Chapter 30
Only one candle had been placed in a holder on the desk in his new room, but Ainsworth could not face the awkwardness of seeking more.
Instead he made do, preparing his pack and supplies for the morning by the light of the single, small flame.
Alvea had visited him—his heart had leapt at the knock on his door—and informed Ainsworth of what supplies she could offer for the journey. He swiftly made space in his pack.
Finally, there was nothing to do but sleep.
His stomach was in knots at the prospect of what he was going to do—foolish, foolish, foolish!
Perhaps Honey had it right. But he knew he had to give this part of the project one last shot, and besides—the curse was a mystery he could not simply let go.
He might find the answers he sought farther up the mountain, or perhaps be afflicted by it himself.
And a small part of him knew he wanted to prove to himself he could do this thing, see this project through to the end with his own hands and do something rather marvelous to achieve it.
Additionally, his stomach protested at how he had left things with Honey.
Unsaid and unpleasant.
He shook his head. His only hope was that, tomorrow, they would share kind words before his departure.
But her eyes came back to him again and again. Perhaps she had good reason for not wishing him to traverse the mountain.
It was a testament to how exhausted the last few days had made him that he fell asleep the instant his head touched the pillow.
The dream Ainsworth eventually sank into was somehow a familiar one, despite never having had it before.
The sun outside the inn was welcoming to his weary bones, and a woven picnic blanket had been set just a few feet away.
He edged closer to find that the basket was stuffed with apples and auldfruit.
A dusty bottle of wine—one of those Bren kept from prying eyes at the back of his shelves—lay snugly in the blanket’s folds.
He knew instinctively that this was laid out for him, and that he’d be joined by someone.
Honey.
Yes, wouldn’t that be a nice thing to enjoy tomorrow?
A voice, gentle and welcoming, reverberated through his very soul. It did not seem unusual to him that he could not see the speaker; instead, they seemed to be within his head.
“Yes, it would be wonderful!” Ainsworth heard himself saying. “But…I think I have something to do tomorrow.” Though he could not, for the life of him, recall what it was. Had he agreed to mend something with Ruraidh? Were there documents in the attic to review?
You do not “have” to do anything. This is all that is required of you. Good food and good company.
Ainsworth smiled. “That does sound swell indeed.”
Doesn’t it?
His smile faltered at a niggling thought, pestering him just beyond his grasp. “But…I think there’s something…something else. Something that I…need?”
Well, what else do you need?
And suddenly Ainsworth knew.
He yelped, leaping to his feet, and looked to the sky, scanning for the blue dragon that had pursued him relentlessly in his dreams the night before he left the inn. He knew it from the inflection of that question.
“What do you want from me?” Ainsworth called to the skies. “Why have you sought me out again?”
The voice was silent, and so was the day around him. He turned and tried to enter the inn, but the door was locked, and pounding on it did nothing to rouse anyone inside.
There was a blast of air, then a heavy presence landed behind him. He froze, facing the inn, feeling the shade from the huge being fall over him, cutting him off him from the heat of the sun.
He shivered.
This…. was a dream, wasn’t it?
Ainsworth turned to face what he knew was there: the dragon he had not yet looked in the eye. And he did not get a chance to do so, for the moment his eyes landed on its great, barbed tail, reality shifted and lurched around him.
He cried out as he became suspended in midair, floating in a great expanse of space as though he were heading through a Transportation Circle.
The dragon’s huge body swirled and seemed to swim through the air around Ainsworth—if it was indeed air—close enough that the force of it buffeted him slightly.
He could never see more than one part of its enormous body at a time.
Instead he saw glimpses: of a thigh, a belly, the ridged scales of its back, or the skin stretched taut over a wing.
“W-we’ve met before, dragon!” he managed to stammer after some time had passed. He dared not look down.
Ainsworth Gladsly, I know you are not a fool.
The dragon was flying in circles around him, but Ainsworth could not rotate himself fast enough to catch a glimpse of its face.
Beyond the dragon, light flashed in a riot of colors and scenes; he swore he caught a flash of Hinslyth at one point, as though his memories were playing out around him.
You are a wonderful person, you know.
He dared a laugh. “Oh, I doubt that.”
But I do know. You have nothing to prove to anyone.
Ainsworth frowned. Could that be true?
It is true. You are brilliant. Impressive. Kind.
And in that moment, in the dragon’s regard, he believed it.
No, he not only believed it, he was entirely certain of it.
All the self-doubt he’d had, not only built up over the past few weeks but for all the years since he had left his family, melted away.
Just like that! And he knew that he had nothing to prove to anyone. Not even himself.
Yes, you are good enough.
“I am good enough,” Ainsworth repeated, closing his eyes and savoring that feeling of contentment—a feeling that was restful and yet very present in the moment.
A feeling that let him understand, suddenly, all he had achieved and how he had grown.
To understand that where he was now was somewhere he had once only dreamed of being.
Why was he constantly chasing more? Even without his scholarly career, his achievements, his accolades, he was a good person.
A good friend. He had been snobby and snooty to the inn staff, yes, but he had made amends.
He had realized that was not who he was.
Granted, he was still unfurling his old self—his true self—and it would take time, but he would get there.
And he would be that person whether or not he finished his book.
Whether or not he climbed Mount Vengeance and made it back to tell the tale.
Yes! The dragon was eager now, picking up its pace. You get it now, scholar. I am happy for you, truly.
Ainsworth smiled—a lazy, almost drunken smile that he thought said everything he was feeling.
But some part of himself stirred. For he was his true self, and his true self was inquisitive by nature.
There is no need for hardship tomorrow, friend! the dragon purred.
Tomorrow?
Ah yes. His planned trip.
Suddenly, his mind was forcefully filled with terrible sights.
Of snarling beasts with gnashing teeth, and a glimpse of the dragon flying through plumes of black smoke from a smoldering landscape.
And then his body erupted in pain. His legs ached from his heels to his knees, and a huge slash appeared on his arm, dripping with the dark ichor of the madadh-dubh.
His belly was ravenous and raging with hunger, which set him doubling over.
This is what the mountain holds. What will any of this achieve, friend? What will enduring this prove to anyone?
“That I am capable of great things?” he wheezed, desperate for it to stop. But a part of his mind knew it was not real, and that he could distance himself from it. The pain came and went gradually, easing on and off like a flame slowly coming to life or burning down to embers.
Have you not already proven that through the hardships you faced in your life? You do not need to endure anything else. Imagine what tomorrow could be instead!
Ainsworth thought about what tomorrow could bring. Honey would be delighted if he did not leave. They could spend the day together, and he could talk to her about what had happened these past few weeks—and his feelings for her.
The dragon seemed to falter somewhat in its flight, as though it had jumped with fright and disrupted the rhythm of its wings.
But it composed itself swiftly and continued its lazy circling.
Was it about to land? How thrilling! Despite the bizarre situation he found himself in, Ainsworth couldn’t help but feel excited at the prospect.
He suspected it would be taller than the Misnich Inn.
Beyond the dragon, Mount Vengeance loomed, and it seemed so impossibly far away—much farther away than usual, actually, a speck of inconsequential matter in the distance.
And the inquisitive part of him snapped to attention.
Mount Vengeance. The travelers. Each day, waking up, deciding not to leave.
Do not dwell on it. It is not important.
And once again, Ainsworth found his mind being pulled, firmly but gently, into thoughts of more pleasant things—a picnic with Honey, the sun on his back, a nice glass of wine at the end of the day, all backed up with that resounding knowledge that he was enough, that he did not have to do this.
He did not want to climb Mount Vengeance.
Honey had not wanted him to climb Mount Vengeance, either.
“No!” Ainsworth cried, clutching at his head.
He tried to wrench his mind from the dragon’s grasp. “Why do you seek to discourage people from traveling, dragon?” he cried to the sky, as his eyes dizzily followed the endless circling of the beast. “I do not seek to steal your hoard, if that is what you worry about!”
In an instant, Ainsworth was back in front of the inn.
The dragon, now above him, roared—through its mouth and into the surroundings, not into his mind, thankfully—and finally thundered to the ground, sending earth flying and making Ainsworth’s teeth rattle through his skull.
The dragon had landed atop the hill where the Transportation Circle lay and peered down at Ainsworth.
Its eyes were molten, golden, and alight.
The blue of its scales was more of a teal than he had initially realized, and they glinted in the sun in a way that, bizarrely, reminded Ainsworth of the jelly atop an auldfruit tart.
Huge, twisting horns emerged from its forehead and twirled impossibly far behind its twitching, pointed ears.
Why do you resist what I offer you?
Ainsworth gaped. “And what do you offer but a further delay? Why do you wish to stop me proceeding up the mountain? I have already assured you, I do not seek your hoard!”
You stupid scholar! Accept what I offer! When you wake at dawn, you will—
“Honey?”
He did not know how the dragon heard him—he spoke Honey’s name in barely a whisper, so certain was he that his fleeting, impossible theory was utterly ridiculous.
But the dragon stopped in its tracks—and from the tightness and crackling energy of the air, Ainsworth suspected he would have been on the receiving end of powerful magic indeed if he had not spoken.
Instead, Ainsworth stood, his mouth slightly open, with the dragon staring back at him wearing a dumbfounded expression to match his own.
It was then Ainsworth noticed that the color of its scales and the white, curling horns were so like her.
More important, the eyes were the same eyes he had glimpsed when Enach had paid his visit, when Honey erupted at him for wanting to leave for Mount Vengeance.
The dragon seemed to puff up its chest. What nonsense do you spout? That is not my name.
“Yes, it is!” Ainsworth shouted, clutching his chest. The dragon was somehow, impossibly, Honey. He knew he was speaking to her—through the dragon. Or was she—
But that was impossible. Honey could not be a dragon.
The dragon rose to the sky, and suddenly Ainsworth slammed into his own body again. He was awake, in his room, in his bed. Sweat plastered his hair to his head, and he lay there, stunned, as the dragon’s enchantment receded.