And Enach had left Hinslyth. Pursuingtheirproject. When would Ainsworth see him again? When—
“Look,” Ruraidh said, cutting into his downward spiral.
“What?”
Ruraidh gave the window frame a light tap. “It’s all sorted. No more damp. Now I need to cut and sand a few more planks for the bookshelves. It’ll take the rest of the afternoon, maybe even some of tomorrow. Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be,” Ainsworth said, suddenly desperate to be doing something productive, something quick. Something with immediate results. “Can you show me?”
“I— What, sir?”
“You do not need to call me that,” Ainsworth said. “I mean, can you show me? How to prepare the wood and fix the shelf? I want to learn. I want to help do it.”
“Ah, right!” Ruraidh said, a deep flush to his face. Nevertheless, he looked pleased. “You aren’t at all what Honey said you were like. I’ve got a work shed around the back of Spin’s garden. Come with me.”
Chapter 9
The mountain range that harbors Mount Vengeance—known as the Dubhrach Mountains to those of us from the Kingdom of Saltquart, and the Cragaxe Fells to those residing within the republic—makes for a formidable division between the two nations. With both the kingdom and republic signatories of the Statute of Drea, such a location, which is home to a number of dark creatures and a dragon, cannot be in any way officially claimed or utilized by a ruling nation. Instead, it must be left in peace. While such beings remain a threat to civilization—as the scarce accounts that remain of the Great Sweep, when these creatures rose up and swept through the land to claim more territory, can attest—organized, national movement against them would disturb the delicate balance we find ourselves in, by perhaps triggering a wide-scale retribution. The handful of dragons that remain may be troublesome to the local territories, the odd beast of dark magic may roam farther than expected in search of mates or prey, but otherwise we remain largely at peace with the beings of dark, destructive magics.
In part, such a balance is due to adventuring party culture in the Kingdom of Saltquart. These parties and the threats they pursue seem to have a symbiotic relationship, one gaining glory, one gaining sport and the thrill of the chase when faced with sword, bow, or combat magic. Passage and exploration through theDubhrach Mountains is therefore allowed by any individual and by independent adventuring parties, but no officially sanctioned or organized movements, military exercises, or settlement attempts can be made by a ruling government or monarch. While soldiers protect much of the settlements by the northern border trading route from any roaming creatures, there are no towns or large villages less than seven days’ walk from the Dubhrach Mountains. There are some small dwellings and exceptions to this rule, such as the Misnich Inn.
A week laterAinsworth sat, cup of tea in hand and shivering slightly in the chill of the dawn, in Spin’s garden. It shamed him that he hadn’t made an effort to visit Spin and her garden until she invited him.
“Are you sure I cannot help?” he asked again, a twinge of guilt in his voice.
Spin smiled and continued to slowly pick verdant green leaves to place in her basket. “No, thank you, Ainsworth. My garden is the one place where there is no need to hurry, no need to rush. I would not want my efforts disturbed by your haste. You are a rather fluttery fellow, you know.”
“Oh. I, er, didn’t.”
“But you could collect the eggs from the chicken coop, if you don’t mind?”
Ainsworth drained his tea and nodded, casting his eyes quickly over the top windows at the back of the inn. No movement, no early-morning lanterns lit.
The latest party had not yet departed.
He had not thought to grab a basket or ask Spin for whatever she collected the eggs in. Instead, as he crouched down and opened the small chicken-coop hatch with one hand (oh Matron, the smell!), he grabbed the bottom of his shirt with the other. Eight chickens gave sleepy chirrups in objection to his intrusion, but he made quick work of his collection. He then rushed into the kitchen to findAlvea kneading dough. She gave a snort as she saw his bundle of eggs. “Put them in the basket by the sink. Quiddle will be boiling them today for breakfast. Although there won’t be enough to go around, I suppose. It’s not often we get a party of five.”
“Yes, well,” Ainsworth said, brushing down his shirt. He gingerly plucked a feather from the bottom button. “They’ll need a hearty breakfast for where they’re going, won’t they?”
Alvea did not reply. Fine, then; conversation over. Alvea had outright refused to answer any more of Ainsworth’s questions about her past, nor did she seem to enjoy talking with him in general, which left a sour taste in his mouth. It was all most unusual where Alvea was concerned—she had been known to be quite gregarious with the regular patrons of Staran—but nevertheless…
Ainsworth returned to the garden and perched on a crumbling stone wall. He wondered if River, the leader of the Saltfire Squadron currently snoozing in one of the larger rooms on the second floor, had any idea that they had dined on food created by one of the kingdom’s most renowned chefs last night.
The blue sky was flushed with an early-dawn blush, the gentle pink and tawny streaks suggesting nothing but peace. The stirring chickens and the slight rustling from Spin as she harvested greens from the raised plant beds were the only sounds. “The Saltfire Squadron could not ask for a better day to depart,” he said.
Spin nodded and continued with her work, gathering small, dark berries from a cluster of leaves. The raised plant beds, she had told him, were built upon old forest debris and dead logs, all covered and packed to make for optimal growing conditions. Ainsworth had spent most of his evenings chatting with her by the fire each night this past week, listening to her sage advice on coaxing the best from the land under the harsh conditions they faced. Ruraidh had often joined them, legs crossed on the stone floor, gentle flickers of wood shavings falling to the ground as he worked on carving a botanical pattern into a wooden bowl.
The kitchen door opened, and out strolled a yawning Quiddle. “Mornin’. Since you’re up, what do you both want for breakfast?”
Spin raised her basket. “I’ll be breaking my fast on this bounty, but thanks, lad.”
“Great. Less work for me,” said Quiddle.
Ainsworth scoffed. “Boy, you are an apprentice to one of the greatest chefs the kingdom has ever seen, and you wantlesswork under her tutelage? Do you have any idea what it would take to work in such a kitchen in Hinslyth? You’d be fending off scores of budding cooks!”
Quiddle merely shrugged. “I’m not an apprentice to anyone. I help out Bren and Alvea with the food, drink, and serving. That’s it.”
Ainsworth sighed. Bren’s “work” seemed to be no more than snoozing against the bar, every so often polishing a spot that never got dusty and drinking his own wares. “Well then. It’s not my business, I suppose.” Spin gave a small chuckle at that. “I’ll be fine with just porridge this morning, Quiddle. Leave the eggs and whatever meat is available for the brave travelers today!”
