“Like if you reached out to touch them, your fingers would come away dipped with molten metal, or burned as if by flames?”
“Yes, exactly! You’ve come across one of these folk, then?”
“I…” Ainsworth’s mind was racing.
The dragon’s curse—was this how it manifested within Honey? Was she a servant of the dragon who lived on Mount Vengeance?
He recalled Honey’s eyes when Enach had made his barbs and gibes, the otherworldly strangeness that seemed to come over her.
“Er…No. I don’t think so. But I don’t understand why I have not heard of these folk before. I’m not a dragon expert, but I am a scholar.”
The barman shrugged. “I come from a mountain town in Cairndui, and my wife from the mountains themselves. We always knew of the Dragon Pèidsean because our homes lay close to a dragon—Geliar—and his hoard.”
Now, thatwasa dragon he had heard of. Songs, and scholarship from Token, spoke of the fearsome beast, thought to be the oldest of the known dragons residing in Saltquart. Like the others, he seemed content to be left alone unless challenged for his hoard. Was there actual credibility to this man’s tale, then?
And was that why he had not heard of such a being before? If they were confined to local rumors, perhaps the name of them changed depending on where people resided. It struck Ainsworth that the barman had used the term “pèidse” instead ofservant,coming from Cairndui where their Common dialect was populated with more Sàlais loanwords than in eastern regions. What a time to have left the Skarrow Library and its resources behind; he just had to know more about this claim! But there was no way he would return to investigate, not with Enach there, and not when it would further delay his arrival at the inn.
His return to Honey.
“Dragon Pèidse” or no, he missed her greatly.
Chapter 28
Fortune favored himfor the rest of the journey—though he thought it was about time he had some luck.
The weather held for the most part, meaning his progress through the forest and the first of the hills was a breeze. A traveling party following the road going the other way told him of a game trail that would provide the quickest route over three of the adjoining hills to come, and at the end there was a small settlement that would gladly help him with any supplies should he be good for the coin. He was indeed, and he spent one companionable night in a small cabin with an older gentleman who reinforced Ainsworth’s boots with a spell that would repel water for a time. He even helped Ainsworth with a shielding spell he’d been trying to master on the road.
“You don’t have much magic in you—surprising, given your antlers—but you can multiply the power of spells with certain objects,” the man had told him. After much trial and error, Ainsworth had found his spells worked best with a small sprig of holly clutched in his hands. He left with a garland to wear upon his head when he needed his magic most.
Before he left, he spotted a small graveyard similar to the one that held his parents, with cairns and not headstones scattered almost erratically across the small field—hard to identify as a graveyard if you didn’t know what you were looking at. He left a handful of wildflowers on one of the graves closest to him, paying his respectsquickly. He thought of his own parents’ graves, unvisited for so long. They had been so keen for him to leave, to carve a better life for himself, and he had chased that goal without question, never once looking back. Then all too quickly, it had been too late and they were gone.
He could not shake the slither of regret he felt. He hoped they would approve of the path he was taking now.
Perhaps Ainsworth’s most fortunate encounter came in the town of Willowtrick. He was a week away from Wenslykirk, which was of course yet another week away from the Misnich Inn. He had arrived by chance on a market day and was prepared to spend a few coins on some fresh fruit for the road, and perhaps some trinkets for those at the inn. He was lingering by the baker’s stall, debating over whether or not to indulge in some cinnamon rolls, when he received a hearty slap on the back.
“Well, look who it is!”
“Fern!” cried Ainsworth, delighted at the sight of the former adventurer. And where was—?
“Who’ve you got there, Fern?” Fig came striding through the crowd, an arm full of wildflowers. “Not Gladsly, surely?”
“Yes! But what are you doing here?” Fern asked, clearly unable to keep the disbelief from her voice.
Ainsworth gave a nervous laugh. “Let’s go somewhere we can sit, shall we?”
Over lunch at a pleasant tearoom, Ainsworth recounted what had happened since he had first met them at the inn. Glossing over some of the unpleasantness, of course—or so he thought.
“Hmph. Sounds like the person you were saving yourself for wasn’t worth missing out on a night with me,” Fern purred, causing Ainsworth to choke on his tea and Fig to look away, embarrassed and exasperated at his sister’s antics.
“Well, perhaps you’re right. But enough about me. What are you two doing here?”
They explained how, on their return from the inn, they had stopped here to enjoy a few days’ rest and spend some time deciding where to head next. But trouble was brewing—something about a local gang hassling businesses for rates and “special protection.”
“So we dealt with them,” said Fig, as though it were the simplest thing in the world. “The local Order of Linn guard were, as usual, useless. We took matters into our own hands. And we found quite the community here! Plus, our mother was also named Willow. It felt like fate. We’ve been helping a few businesses build themselves back up after they were hassled, and have enjoyed the simple days earning our keep.”
“Simple?” Ainsworth laughed. “It sounds like you chased out some mild organized crime. Aren’t you perhaps wary that they might come back?”
Fig gave him a knowing look. “Oh, they won’t come back.”
