The hauflin cleared his throat. “ ‘My dearest Irina. My sincerest apologies for the delay between my last letter and this one—’ ”
“You can read it to yourself, you know,” said Ainsworth, taking a sip of his drink. The letter was rather lengthy, and the boy’s voice was alarmingly loud. Fortunately, he obliged, and Ainsworth ruminated on the letter’s contents in the blissful silence.
His great-grandfather Artan seemed to have left their village—and his wife and children—and set out for adventures unknown for several years. The letter recounted Artan’s plans to visit Mount Vengeance and his excitement at hearing from locals of a route that was said to offer a swifter passage up the mountain—the “tourist” route, a shop owner had joked to Ainsworth when he inquired about it during his journey here. The route in question was said to be less populated by fearsome fauna and a good starting point for those who wished to seek the dragon’s hoard, should anyone be brave enough to slay it. A route that started just behind the very inn Ainsworth found himself sittingin.
The boy finished the letter and looked at Ainsworth expectantly. “Is there another page or something? It cuts off in the middle.”
“I am aware. Unfortunately, the rest of the contents have been lost. But as you have read, my great-grandfather stayed in this inn some fifty years ago. As far as my father knew, Artan never made it home. My grandparents never spoke of him, apparently, and he never returned to our village. I’m intrigued. Perhaps the mountain claimed him.”
“So you’re here to find his remains, then?”
Ainsworth choked on his ale. “No!I’m a scholar from the Skarrow Library, and Artan’s mention of the Misnich Inn caught my eye. Such an inn should be central to many songs about brave adventurers who took on Mount Vengeance. Yet when I did some digging, I found there is no written document in the Skarrow Library of any adventurers going to Mount Vengeance at all, never mind those that mention the inn—and there are no official songs or poems from established bards recorded in our hall of songs, either. And we are the biggest library and educational institution in the kingdom! I even made inquiries at an institution in the Republic of Sylethus. But alas, nothing turned up.”
The boy scratched his nose. “Maybe the dragon and the beasts killed all the adventurers, then?”
His tone was far too light for Ainsworth’s liking. “Um, well, a moreoptimistictheory is that there has merely been a shortfall of prominent bards to recall the tale of the adventurers, along with little prior interest from scholars or historians, and as a result this mountain’s stories simply remain untold as of yet. When I shared this letter and my findings with a few of my colleagues, they said that I had identified an area ripe for study—one that would lead to an original contribution to knowledge of adventuring party culture.”
In truth, when he had passed the letter to the department head some moon’s turns ago, he had expected a pat on the back, the kind of gratitude that would result in a future favor and his name mentioned in the acknowledgments of whatever poor sod ended up conducting the research. Ainsworth had suggested it would be the perfect subject for a research assistant to first feel out and report on—perhaps even a final-year heritage student. He had been in the middle of putting together a substantial research proposal and grant application for a project of his own making. One that would have kept him firmly within the range of the high society, culture, and comfort that he very much enjoyed, and one that would be his first major project with Enach. But once his supervisor, Lyria, got wind of the Mount Vengeance project, she insisted he take the lead on it, practically pushing Ainsworth out the door and claiming this would be the project to promote him to senior research fellow. “I don’t see why it must be me just because of my familial tie to the research lead!” Ainsworth had complained.
Lyria would not hear of it. “At the very least, don’t you want to find out what happened to Artan?”
Now that he was here at the Misnich Inn, Ainsworth had to admit that answering this question could be an upside of all this. His grandparents had never alluded to an adventurer in the family, and the question of just what happened to Artan remained, as there was now no one left in his family to ask. Ainsworth had only himself andhis impeccable instincts as a researcher to uncover this particular family mystery.
“I have also been tasked with documenting the history of the Misnich Inn alongside my written account of what adventurers discover and face on the mountain. Establishments such as these are important aspects of adventuring culture and should be recorded in history as such.” Lyria had reminded him of this when convincing him of the project’s potential scope and value should he find the Misnich Inn. It wasn’t that Ainsworth disagreed; he merely objected to the project’s location and duration, which practically exiled him.
The boy’s eyes seemed unfocused, and he fiddled with the curling edge of the letter. Had he even heard a word of what was said? “The ‘Sparrow Library’ sounds nice. Where’s that, then?”
Ainsworth felt his brows twitch, and he fought tremendously hard not to snap at the lad. This day was truly just one thing after another. “SkarrowLibrary. In Hinslyth. Come now, you must have heard of it. All the greatest minds of the kingdom reside there!”
The boy shook his head. “Never heard of it.”
“What?You haven’t—”
“Quiddle! What do you think you’re doing, bothering the gentleman? Or wait,areyou a human—?” Honey had strutted over but now paused, flustered at the potential misstep.
Ainsworth waved away her awkwardness. “ ‘Gentleman’ is fine. These”—he pointed to his antlers and ears—“are the legacy of my grandmother, a druid-blood of the binneach. My own parents are—mostly—human. But some of her druid heritage seemed to have been bestowed upon me.”
“Quiddle, prepare the vegetables for dinner, please.” Honey shooed the boy away before sliding into his vacant seat. “I do apologize. Now, here are your remaining coins.” She placed the bag into his hand. It was much heavier than he expected.
“Really, I must insist you charge more. I have requested such a long stay—”
“No, I did my calculations. I’m not one to overcharge my guests!”
Ainsworth tried his best to smile, but he couldn’t hide the pained note in his voice. “Ah yes. About that. Are you— Are any guests expected?” His lonely trip from the closest town—if you could even call it a town—a week’s journey away on foot, suggested that any other travelers would be a day behind him at the very least. The Transportation Circle network was yet to emerge in this region of the kingdom, meaning there’d be no one arriving by magical means, either.
Honey shook her head. “We don’t often get advance notice. Ashe sometimes shifts into a bird and flies to and from Wenslykirk with messages when I need to place an order for provisions ahead of time, and sometimes the Post Server in town will pass on a missive from adventurers who wish to forewarn us about their stay. But half the time they don’t show up even when they do send word!” She tucked a stray hair from her fringe up and behind a curling horn.
His heart sank twice over, even when he realized he had just met a wildeshifter. He could not help the burst of questions that erupted in his mind:What does it feel like to transform into an animal, to fly, what are the limitations, can you converse with beasts should you take their form?But ofcourseit had been the foul-tempered guard, and he sensed that companionship was…unlikely.
So there was no indication of any imminent quest-driven guests to get the most pressing part of his research started. He had to establish contacts and establish them quickly. The sooner he did, the sooner he could get back to his beloved Skarrow Library.
Ainsworth sighed. “There’s nothing to be done about that, I suppose—though I can get started on interviewing you and your staff and documenting this place’s heritage instead. I’ll need a look at any old letters, guest books, and missives from past guests. Are such things readily available?”
Honey frowned. “I may not be well-versed in the way of scholarship, Mr. Gladsly, but don’t you need my permission before doing any of that?”
“I— Well, for some of it, yes. I do have a consent form for you to sign so I can access any documentation you may have.” Hestraightened in his seat. “But I do not need your permission to speak to your staff, or to any guests that may arrive.”
She scowled. “Indeed. But I suppose it would be more difficult to talk to them if I refused your stay here and you had to try and catch them on the road as they arrived.”
