“Yes, that is a good idea,” he said, his heart lifting at the prospect. “So you think—I should go back? For the work, I mean,” he added hastily as she threw a knowing look his way.
“Ainsworth. This is your project. But more important, this is your life. The way you described these past couple of moon’s turns…It is as though someone has ignited a flame within you. I haven’t seen you like this since— Well, ever!”
He raised his brows, startled at her observation. “Truly, it is the opposite! Life at the inn was so…peaceful. There was no pressure for me to be anyone, to do anything. Actually, it made me…” He struggled for words. “I don’t know. If I was before a roaring flame, burning for success, I am now more akin to…candlelight.”
“Well, candlelight does a marvelous job, does it not?” She smiled, gesturing to the small flames dotted around the room. “What a magnificent way to live, don’t you think?”
As she said it, however, he became aware that the inner peacefulness he had felt during his time at the inn was starting to shift, the candle beginning to burn a little more intensely as he was reminded of his original ambitions, of the success and acclaim of those who surrounded him in Hinslyth. He wished to speak of this to Lyria but could not find the words to articulate the conflict he felt stirring within himself.
Later, as he turned to leave, Lyria grabbed his sleeve. “Ainsworth. This isyourproject. You have started something of note here, followed a thread no other researcher has yet followed. It has given you freedom within this institution that you have not been afforded before. Do not waste it, my boy. And with the Transportation Circle at the Misnich Inn established…” Her eyes seemed to twinkle in the candlelight. “Make sure your next steps are not missteps, all right?Follow your heart on this one, not your head. It has served you well thus far.”
He told himself that the whisky had gotten to her, but as he made his way down the stairs, spiraling into the darker corridors of the library, the dream-dragon’s words returned with a vengeance.
What do you want?
Chapter 26
The late-evening sun lentan orange glow to the air, and Ainsworth cursed under his breath as he fussed with the ribbons on the sleeve of his finest silk tunic. He had not worn the garment—forest green and tailored to his build—in some time, and he struggled to remember how the knot at his cuff was tied. He recalled it being extremely popular before he left, and he was loath to give Enach anything to sneer about.
They would be joined for dinner, a note under his door had informed him, by Jess and Mal. Friends of Enach’s—and Ainsworth’s, he supposed—working in alchemical science and literature, respectively. Dread settled in his stomach at the prospect. Yes, they were friends—the kind of friends he would have to be on edge around all night, lest some mishap of his be the subject of gossip and whispers the next day. He knew not everyone was like that at Skarrow—Jura certainly was not, nor Lyria—but he had, for some reason, overlooked the fact that he was constantly watched by many of his peers, waiting for him to slip up and reveal that actually, no, he did not belong there. Ainsworth reflected that he had been too caught up in proving them wrong to realize that he should not have to prove anything in the first place.
An unpleasant whiff came to him suddenly, and he realized with alarm he had not yet tended to his ankle since his return. He immediately went to his pack to retrieve the poultice-soaked strips. Hefound them swiftly, though he had to remove Beatrice’s diaries to get to them. As he did so, several sheaths of parchment floated out from within the books, drifting to the floor like feathers. He shrieked. Had he damaged them? There were no loose sheets when he read the diaries before!
He did not recognize the pages as he pulled them together, but did realize that fresh ink now numbered the bottom of each page, as if the letterer knew Ainsworth would accidentally send them flying. The first sheet of numbered parchment was written in a slightly different hand.
Dear Ainsworth,
I came across a few more diaries while you adventured with Ashe, and realized the contents of this entry relate to you. I wanted to surprise you with it and read it to you once you were back from the expedition. Instead, I hope they bring you joy in Hinslyth. Wasn’t it a letter from your great-grandfather that started your journey, after all?
Yours,
Honey
Ainsworth’s breath seemed to catch in his throat, and he read the paper over and over again—for no reason other than the fact it was a piece of the inn, a piece of Honey. Then he blinked and turned his attention to the pages. Here he found the slimmer, more cursive hand of Honey’s grandmother.
Shiel’s Moon Turn, second week
Two incidents of note this morning. First and foremost, several bags of flour were found ruined—crawling with little mites! I sent Ryn away to return it. The journey will be long, and it will be no doubt difficult to prove that the flour was infected before our purchase, but I have faith in his excellent ability to wear someone down in any argument in which he is convinced he is right. He is in this case, of course, but he often isn’t.
Secondly, a lone traveler arrived just after Ryn’s departure. A human, no less—not a hint of magic did I detect around his person, nor a weapon to be brandished by any hand. When he asked to pay for a night’s stay, I asked him: “Do you know where you are? Do you know what lies ahead?”
And he grinned from ear to ear and said: “Yes! I’ve come to look at the rocks.”
Rocks. Rocks! Whoever has heard of someone coming to Mount Vengeance to see the rocks? His name is Artan Gladsly, and he is certainly one of the more enigmatic guests I’ve had recently.
“I used to work in a shop,” he told me, “but the keeper died and it went to his son who didn’t want to keep me on. I needed work, so I left my family to travel on to the next town and find some. And then I thought—why stop there? I can travel farther afield, make my way as a trader, a wandering merchant, and send coin back to them—as well as a bundle of stories to bring the world back to my family.” I told him I did not have any work for him here, nor did he seem to have any wares left to sell. “I thought I’d never be this far away from home again, so why not see something special?” he said by way of explanation, although it explains little to me at all. Something “special” to most people, here, is the dragon they seek, or the treasure the mountain holds.
I find myself fascinated by how far Gladsly’s naivete and positive outlook have carried him. Even when bereft of his dagger, his one form of protection (the fool lost it in a tavern wager), he continued on, confident he would not need it. He has also not yet amassed any great fortune, and in my opinion is overly confident in his abilities as a traveling merchant. He has a partner and child at home, and I cannot say I understand the recklessness of him—especially considering he is a short-lived human.
He is armed with one thing, though—parchment, bundled between leather-bound covers, an array of charcoal, and one finewriting instrument. He wrote several letters to his family, giving them to a retreating adventurer to post on their return journey. I warned him that even the lower slopes of the mountain can be dangerous, and that he has not the equipment to attempt to climb any farther, but he merely shrugged and told me he wanted to capture the beauty of the mountain’s rocks. For no reason other than he is interested in them, and it would make him happy. While I worry for him, I do suspect he possesses an uncanny amount of luck, and I cannot deny that such a motivation pleases me very much. I will therefore happily see him off on his travels tomorrow, and perhaps join him for part of the way.
Ainsworth reached the end of the excerpt. He turned the parchment, hoping for more, but alas. His hands shook slightly as he re-read the account of his great-grandfather—a man he had never met—and his seemingly inconsequential reason for tackling Mount Vengeance. Yes, it was Artan’s letter boasting about the inn that set Ainsworth on the path to Mount Vengeance. But, in other ways, they were so very different. While his great-grandfather undertook the journey merely for a sense of personal fulfillment and joy, an add-on to the quest to help his family, Ainsworth—while he still got some personal fulfillment, of course—mostly walked his path initially for prestige, grants, publications, and recognition. To belong to a class of people he had so admired, even as he knew he would have to fight to be admitted to their ranks.
It did raise one question, though. Ainsworth and his family had assumed his great-grandfather met his demise on the mountain. But if he did not tackle Mount Vengeance for the dragon, then why did he never return?
Ainsworth started to read the letter for the third time, hoping for clues, when someone knocked briskly at his door. “Ainsworth? We were supposed to meet in the lobby. What is holding you?”
“Sorry, Enach,” he shouted, scrambling to his feet and gathering up the papers.
