While the market had grown and changed, the vendor was still the same—although a little more grizzled, perhaps. The hauflin man frowned as he looked up at Ainsworth, the steam from the hot tray of aiknuts in front of him almost blending in with the whiteness of his hair. Then his face split in a grin. “Why, if it isn’t little Ainsworth! You aren’t half as scrawny as you used to be. I almost didn’t recognize you!”
Ainsworth laughed as he pulled his scarf away from his mouth, his restlessness from the day finally dispersing. “It has been a long time, Wickon. I didn’t— I wasn’t sure you’d remember me.”
“I never forget a face. Or a pair of antlers. So, what have you been up to?” Wickon began scooping a large lump of aiknuts from the tray, sizzling and popping, then slid them into an adjacent container holding the spice and sugar mix that had Ainsworth’s mouth watering.
Ainsworth took the bag he was offered, the warmth of it seeping into his hands. “Oh, not much really. What about you?”
Calmness radiated from every nook of Heritage Master Lyria’s office, which was perched in the south tower of the Skarrow Library. Ainsworth always had to avoid the window lest the magnificent view tempt him with a daydream and make him lose his train of thought.
The many trinkets that adorned the walls, along with the shelves of scrolls and manuscripts, were the same as always. Swirling shells, sea glass, and strange dried corals adorned one shelf, while the one below it held little clay pots painted in warm tones—one of them, he noted with a swell of pride, still contained the dried wildflowers he had gifted her in the spring. Precariously placed candles dripped wax slowly and silently onto the desk and the shelves they were placed upon. He had never understood her aversion to candleholders or sconces in the walls.
The door opened rather suddenly, causing Ainsworth to jolt in his seat as Lyria walked in, and it seemed to Ainsworth she was trying to compose herself after the abrupt entrance. Indeed, one of her usually slick black feathers was somewhat rumpled atop her head.
“Ainsworth!” she said, beaming with delight, and something within him lit up at her tone. Then, abruptly, he felt the overwhelming urge to cry.
“Oh, Ainsworth! Whatever is the matter?” she crooned as a tear made good its threat, spilling down his cheek. She rushed over, her feathered arm reaching to pat his back. The talons of her hand briefly snagged on the collar of his shirt.
“Apologies, Lyria. It is just—”
He wanted to saygood to be back,but he could not bring himself to do so. Instead he settled on: “I have been gone for so long, and…”
“I know, I know,” she said, settling down on her side of the desk. She reached out to take his hands in hers and gave them a squeeze.Her grip was rather painful against his human skin, but he appreciated the gesture all the same. As one of the preachan-mhith, Lyria always underestimated her own strength.
“It is not my place to pry into your personal life, Ainsworth. But considering the way we parted before your trip, and considering I overheard Sorcerer Morrowsil discussing your return together in the Reading Room entranceway just now…I was pleased to get your message and knew you were back, but…”
She trailed off, and something twisted in him that she had been in such a hurry to see him, concerned for his welfare, after…everything. He cleared his throat. “Enach administered the Transportation Circle link to Wenslykirk and the Misnich Inn I requested.”
“Ah. I heard about that. And are you…?”
“Everything is fine,” he said, regretting his clipped tone immediately.
But she did not seem to care. She still regarded him with warmth as she said: “All right, if you insist. I am glad to hear it. But you know I am always available to talk, and to support you, Ainsworth.”
“I know. Thank you.”
“Right, then. Report, please, before I tell you about the excitement you’ve generated here!”
“Ah, right. Well, about that…”
And so he launched into a thorough account of the highs and lows of his research project. His last communication had been filled with optimism for the adventurers who were yet to come, and he had assumed he would have the kinds of contacts he’d need by now. He had predicted he would have perhaps even spoken to a participant by now, too—someone who had long since finished their quest. He announced that, while he had failed in these expectations and the book would most likely follow a different path than they both originally thought, there were other outcomes to show for his time away. He spoke of the attic archive, Honey’s family diaries, and how he had enough material to produce a heritage-work of the MisnichInn and some of its surroundings. That he could produce a written account of the legend of the mountain and the dragon who resided there—and its potential curse.
“But I do not think I will hear from any adventurers,” Ainsworth said after he had finished. “Nor will the book feature an actual account of the mountain above the lower slopes I have already explored.”
“How curious!” Lyria chirped. “Oh, Ainsworth, this is shaping into something interesting, don’t you think? Although I am sorry you haven’t gotten any answers about your great-grandfather yet.”
He frowned. “But…the funding council wanted an account of the journey, of the—”
She leaned toward him over the desk in her enthusiasm. “It’s also the Misnich Inn that has seized their interest. Yes, it’s a shame that we may not get an account of an actual, heroic journey to inspire the bards. But—a small site that’s all but forgotten and yet is steeped in legend and folklore, and now you say there is a strange affliction that seems to be keeping adventurers away from the very mountain at the bottom of which it sits?”
“Lyria,” he said, smiling, “you make it sound more like the topic of a—a gossip rag or whispers, not an academic project. A history to be explored.”
She laughed before leaning back in her chair. “I suppose, but the work is not yet complete, Ainsworth! Can you write up what you have here, and then—?”
“I actually have a draft of what was to be the first half of the book, in which I discuss the fringes of the Allfhraoch region where the inn resides, describe the lower slopes of the mountain, and give a partial account of the inn’s history—though I am still unraveling that. I have a copy here, as a matter of fact.”
“Oh, you are an excellent scholar, Ainsworth. I still don’t know how you weren’t snapped up by some of my peers before I got to you, you know that?”
He gave a modest laugh, and when Lyria offered a dram of whiskyto celebrate, he did not refuse. “I can apply for further funding if needs be, Ainsworth, we just need to think of new angles to approach this. Perhaps you could travel to some of the areas surrounding the Misnich Inn and collect formal testament from villagers and—”
