I am home again, in Ost Guruth, after more than three weeks, which is perhaps the longest I have been away, or nearly so. Frideric tried to be upset with me for taking so long (and for how much I'd spent on the cart), but when he saw sack after sack of oats and barley carried up the stairs and into the tower, he almost grinned. The rest of the tribe was elated, with spontaneous calls of cheer and even snatches of song here and there (apparently, while I've been gone, not only has the tribe had to settle for stale food, but had to institute rationing).
I had hoped to ask Hana for another journal to write my book, without revealing my plans to learn brewing. First, no sense in getting hopes up before I know if anything might even come of it. Second, I don't want Frideric lecturing me about whether my time is mine to spend on this (and having to reassure him I won't let it get in the way of my duties as a scout). And third, the longer no one knows, the longer before I need to worry about Anlaf finding out (and my welcome in the Forsaken Inn growing dimmer).
But I didn't count on the fact that the Eglain helping to unload the cart could not help but notice a half-dozen bottles, and I did not have some excuse ready for what those bottles were for. Not that I would have chosen to lie about it. But I was hoping to stick to the lie of omission for a while longer. So much for that! Now Frideric knows of my plans (and my progress, and my intention), as does Hana, and no doubt half the tribe. The rest will know by sunset, no doubt.
But at least I have another journal (this one with a grey cover). As I rode, I turned over ideas about what I will write. I think I will include that silly song I wrote one night, while my leg was healing. I have a few days before I must go out on my next assignment, and I will spend them writing my book. I hope this fellow in the Scholar's Stair Archives will deem it suitable.
