By evening, the rain had stopped and they were treated to a cloudless sky. The night was cold, clear, and still. Having finished her scouting, Ashe allowed a campfire for a few hours. “It’ll keep as many beasts away as attracts them, and we may as well warm up,” she said as she watched Ainsworth make a start. He initially begana simple ignition spell—one he had quickly mastered on his original four-week journey here—then decided to undertake the challenge of creating a natural spark.
On his third attempt, he managed it. “Nice job,” Ashe remarked. She must have smelled the smoke drifting toward her, for she lay a few feet away on the spongy mat of heather outside the small clearing where she had pitched their canvas tent. “Didn’t think you’d know how to do that.”
“Is that why you offered to help?” Ainsworth asked, earning a chuckle from the wildeshifter. “I used to camp with my father, on hunting and foraging trips.”
“Oh? So you weren’t brought up surrounded by books and fine food and all the other stuff you used to complain about missing?”
He gave a sad smile. “No. I was not.”
Ashe rolled over on her belly, eyes fixed on the flames. There was nothing of note to cook on them. They had brought hard cheese, bread, and dried meat and fruit for their staples, with plans for Ashe to hunt and Ainsworth to forage once these supplies ran out.
However, Ainsworth decided that the ambience was just right to eat one of the few treats they had brought for their trip. Reaching into his pack, he rooted around tentatively for the carefully wrapped package he had placed in one of the internal pouches. The fragrant, spicy scent of the orradan cakes filled him with warmth and a sharp recollection of the first time he had experienced it—only yesterday.
The day before, Ashe and Ainsworth had ransacked the kitchen for any preserved food they could take for the first few days. “That all looks very…bland,” Honey had said, ghosting behind him as he organized their food rations on a table in the tavern room. The wind was roaring outside, and the warm, crackling fire made Ainsworth regret that he would have to temporarily leave these comforts behind, even if for the sake of his research.
“Well, yes,” Ainsworth said, bundling some dried apples together. “But we must be practical. I won’t be lugging my trunk around. I don’t have the capacity to do a levitating spell and set up adetect-magical-interference spell, too. I almost regret not studying and training to be a sorcerer alongside my heritage and history studies.”
Honey snorted. “It doesn’t seem like magic flows easily through you. It sticks and stops, spluttering out like a bad cough.”
“Hey!”
“Sorry,” she said, looking up at him and grinning. “Let me make it up to you?”
She scurried away across the room, weaving among the empty tables (recently polished and shining, thanks to Ruraidh) until she reached the reception desk. By the time Ainsworth walked over, she had retrieved a small parcel wrapped in waxed paper.
“I baked these yesterday,” she said.
“Oh? Alvea let you in the kitchen?”
“Hush. I might not know how to cook fancy fare like you two, but I can still cook. Anyway, I— When we were talking the other night…” she said, looking away briefly. Ainsworth resisted the urge to also look away as he recalled the night they had spent talking into the dawn. “We— You said you missed the little pastries and cakes you got in Hinslyth. Well, I wouldn’t know what those are like, but…” She seemed flustered as she unwrapped the waxed paper. “I do like to make these every so often. Orradan cakes, that is.”
“Orradan?” Ainsworth exclaimed, momentarily forgetting to feel grateful that Honey had made something for him. “Wherever did you get orradan? Surely—surely Alvea would cook with it if she had any!”
Honey smirked. “Well, I’ve had a small tub for a long time; a visiting traveler gave it to me. I’m running a little low, and I don’t know when I’ll be able to get some more, so I am quite stingy with it, but…”
How could she be so blasé about such a precious commodity? The spice was from an elusive southern settlement of the republic, not open to general trade, and any produce that made its way through was from privateers, smugglers, foot soldiers, or travelers who hadkept some of their products untouched throughout the journey. “I have never so much as sniffed orradan,” he said, peering into the bundle. Stout, spongy, muffin-like cakes were piled on top of one another, the savory spice mixing deliciously with the sugary, citrusy flavors that Honey must have mixed into the batter.
And the campfire on a clear night was the perfect place to enjoy such a treat, he decided. Ashe rolled back over and sat next to him to take her share. “Ah! Always good when she cracks the orradan out,” she said over a mouthful.
When Ainsworth didn’t reply, too busy savoring the wonderful taste, she added: “Honey must really like you to go to such lengths to impress you.”
He choked on his last bite. “What? N-nonsense!” he said after his coughing fit, hitting his chest.
Ashe shrugged. “Well, it’s obvious you like her, too.”
“Nothing is ‘obvious’!” Ainsworth stood up and wiped the crumbs from his front. “Besides, I am—I am spoken for. I have someone back home.”
“Ah, yes. Someone you barely speak about. Someone you have not even written to since you arrived.”
“Who told you that?” He shot her a scowl.
She held up her hands. “You don’t have to be a scholar to figure it out. If you needed a letter delivered, you’d have to go through me.”
“I…” He trailed off and looked to the stars. “Just because I haven’t sent him any letters doesn’t mean I haven’t written any.”
“Oh,” Ashe said. An uncomfortable silence descended. His stomach squirming, Ainsworth thought of the letters he had written Enach. At first, they had been full of anxious words begging for Enach’s forgiveness, desperate to smooth things over. He had burned them all, too fearful that sending one would be like poking at a wasps’ nest. Better to let things cool, he decided.
And then…something had shifted. The more recent letters he wrote were not exactly scathing, but they were…angry. A simmering, righteous rage laced his ink as he demanded to know what hehad ever done to deserve such treatment. And declared that he would be treated like that no longer.
