Chapter 15
Chapter
Fifteen
By now, Braiden should have become accustomed to his grandmother’s posthumous fame — or was it notoriety? He held back a chuckle, thinking how tickled Granny Bethilda would be to know that so many people still remembered her.
“You knew Granny Bethilda?” Braiden asked.
“Well,” Gregor said, twiddling his fingers and half sputtering, “knew her is one way to put it.”
Even in the dim light of his cabin and through the impressive shrubbery of Gregor’s gray whiskers, Braiden could tell he was reddening. And that was why Braiden reddened too, looking away and past the gravekeeper’s head into his shack.
It was surprisingly cozy in there, not what he might have expected for someone who worked in such a morbid profession. Not too different from the trappings of his own bedroom, or Augustin’s, for that matter.
A low bookshelf filled with what were presumably casual reads, a simple iron stove that doubled as a heating element, a small preparation area for food, a roughshod dining table with four chairs in the center, and a comfortable-looking single bed pushed off into the corner.
“I’ll stand guard outside,” Warren said, seemingly to break the awkward silence. “It’s a nice night out, and you never know with zombies these days.”
Braiden nodded as he ushered Bones inside and shut the door behind them, knowing Warren was only grateful to spend time above ground without needing to hide behind his helmet.
“We don’t see that many zombies here, really,” Gregor said, ushering them toward the dining table. “But of course, that’s partly because I do my job. Sit, sit. Let me make you some tea.”
He plucked tea leaves and dried flowers from a series of jars on the shelves of his tiny kitchen, reminding Braiden of the same ritual he’d performed in his own kitchen the night before.
Wood scraped against wood as Bones and Braiden took their places at the dining table, eagerly accepting their fragrant mugs of tea.
“Your grandmother taught me a recipe for sleepy-time lavender tea once,” Gregor said, immediately reddening again and noisily clearing his throat.
Braiden widened his eyes and looked politely away for Gregor’s sake.
Oh. So it was that kind of relationship they had. Good going, Granny Bethilda. Braiden could tell Gregor was handsome in his youth, which undersold how he’d aged into a perfectly handsome older gentleman, too.
His was a gruff and weathered face, thought not at all unlikeable, a distant kindness just visible behind the hardness of his stare. Above all else, the man was generously whiskered, the few places on his chin that were shaved still growing enough stubble to sand down a rocking chair.
“Absolutely no drinking for you,” Gregor said, wagging his finger. “I’m done mopping the floorboards after you, and I don’t want you soaking the nice coat this nice young man has clearly made just for you.”
A compliment, this soon into their first meeting? Braiden liked the man already.
“It’s a hoodie,” Bones huffed.
He wrapped his hands around the mug and sat perfectly still. As always, though the skeleton was physically incapable of forming facial expressions, Braiden found it easy to guess that he was sulking.
Braiden took a sip of his tea, surprised to find it was sweet, despite Gregor never having added any sugar. Maybe Granny Bethilda had even more special recipes she’d been holding back from him.
“I suppose you’ve come to take a look at this.”
Gregor retrieved a wooden frame from his workbench, carefully placing it on the table.
Even unsanded and unvarnished it was already something to behold, its legs ending in curlicues that resembled Weathervale’s waves and clouds.
One corner of the instrument even held a stylized letter B: for Bethilda, for Braiden, for Beadle.
“It’s beautiful,” Braiden breathed, running his fingers over the notches meant for stringing, grinning up into Gregor’s expectant face. “The craftsmanship — and you worked on it so quickly, too.”
Gregor beamed, scratching the back of his neck. “Well, I do have a lot of spare time here, you know. Slow business in graveyards? It’s paradoxical, but it’s generally good news. Best to fill the empty hours with something enjoyable, perhaps even productive.”
“Now maybe this is a stupid question,” Bones said.
“It probably will be,” the gravekeeper grumbled.
Bones ignored him and carried on. “I’m not so fond of the idea that we have to set this thing up with special strings. Whatever happened to good old steel string and catgut and horsehair?”
The subterranean culture of ancient Hyberidia would have had access to plenty of ore and metal for manufacturing strings for string instruments — another factor for why the burrowfolk didn’t have their own, Braiden noted.
As for catgut, he at least knew that they weren’t actually made from cats, but traditionally from the less savory parts of domesticated animals.
Bones pinched at the air with his fingers, then pulled his hands apart. “We used to yank the cats in half to get their guts out. Makes the best string, you know.”
“Stop lying,” Gregor barked. “You’re scaring the poor boy.”
He wasn’t, but it was nice of Gregor to care. He probably just wanted Bones to quiet down.
“And the entire point is that this thing has to be magical in some way,” Gregor said. “It’s Bethilda Beadle, after all. Weavers don’t tend to do things the regular way.”
Braiden nodded his head as eagerly as a puppy wagging its tail.
“She hid the writing on the card,” Gregor continued, “and you say that the card itself was hidden, too? Has to be a reason for it. Why she was making something magical for music is anyone’s guess.”
“And it says so right here, anyway.” Bones pulled Granny Bethilda’s note card out of his pocket. “See? ‘Consider magical strings,’ question mark.”
Braiden squinted at the card. “That wasn’t there before. How?”
Bones made a rattling shrug. “Warren was keeping it in his pocket. I guess his body warmth revealed a new line.”
“And there you have it,” Gregor said. “Magic string it is. And if Bethilda built it, then it belongs to the Beadles.”
“Thank you for helping us, Gregor,” Braiden said, swallowing a sudden swell of emotion. “It means a lot.”
“Don’t mention it. Your coin means a lot, too. Don’t get paid much to dig graves and hit the occasional zombie on the head with a shovel. The shack desperately needs an extension.”
“Ooh,” Bones said. “I could move in. We could be roommates.”
The intensity of Gregor’s glower should have been enough to kill Bones all over again.
“I have some othergoat wool I could spin into string,” Braiden said, saving Bones from an untimely second death. “Well, into yarn, really. I wonder if that would even work.”
Gregor’s eyes went wide. “Truly? Quite difficult to acquire, that is. Where did you buy it?”
“You won’t believe me when I tell you, but let’s save that story for later.”
The rasp of Bones rubbing his chin nearly made Braiden’s skin crawl.
“Well, it’s not ideal, but I suppose it’s not unheard of.
Wool for stringing a lyre. Hah. My masters at the old college would string me up by my nonexistent nethers.
But the stuff’s magical, so it should take. Might sound strange, though.”
“We’ll play it by ear,” Braiden said, feeling very smug about his little pun. “And since Granny’s sketch calls for thinner string as well, I could spin some moongrass on its own. Magical filament from underground,” he told Gregor. “Long story.”
“Sounds like you owe me several long stories. You’ll need something truly delicate for the thinnest string. The enchanted stuff, too. The works. If you’re stringing this up with everything magical, then may as well go whole hog. Something like — yeah, that stuff that’s coming out of your fingers.”
Braiden didn’t realize he’d been idly twiddling his fingers until Gregor had said something. They were shedding the thinnest threads he could muster with his magic, like a subconscious part of his brain had been grinding away at a solution in the background.
“It’s an impermanent solution,” he said absently. “I’m not sure how much you learned about the weaving way from Granny Bethilda, but our magicked strings don’t last forever.”
His eyes wandered across the room, settling on a dusty cobweb in the corner of the ceiling, up among the rafters. He perked up and sat up straight at the table.
“Spider silk,” he said, snapping his fingers triumphantly.
“Only the kind that’s magical. There are species of spiders that lurk in the darkest corners of Aidun, imbuing their cobwebs and silks with all kinds of bizarre properties.
Maybe I can take another trip outside Weathervale.
We’ll need to pop by the library, see where we should go. Hmm.”
Gregor cocked an eyebrow and tapped his fingernail on the table. “Why bother going far out of Weathervale when you could be going below?”
“Beg pardon?”
“Questing boards,” Gregor answered. “You know, the kind you see outside taverns, or anywhere adventurers congregate? I keep a close eye on requests and jobs in case there’s anything I can fill, but more importantly, to look out for mentions of the undead.
There’s bad news, and then there’s really bad news. ”
Bones sniffed primly to show his offense, but said nothing. Gregor grunted, then carried on.
“And what I’ve been reading lately is that all these new adventurers in town have been pushing deeper down the dungeon.
There’s fire down there, they say. There’s new monsters to fight, and that means new loot for them to cough up when you kill them.
Or collect their leavings. Whatever suits your fancy. ”
Braiden pursed his lips and wrinkled his nose, already disliking where this was going.
“Cinderlings,” Gregor said. “Spiders that weave fiery cobwebs. That’s the ticket. Harvest some of their silk, find a way to stabilize it so it doesn’t burn down the instrument, and hey, presto. We’re that much closer to finishing your Heirloom.”
Braiden massaged his temples to stave off a headache, or maybe a sudden wave of irritation. He remembered the brass box that broke the storage room window, how its master had summoned them to the fiery depths. He remembered the horned warrior.
“And naturally,” he said, “cinderlings are found where there’s fire.”
“Lots and lots of fire,” Bones added helpfully. “Miserable, angry little bastards. We even had them back in old Hyberidia. Nothing like tunneling through a new mine shaft to find a whole nest of the damn things.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Braiden said. “I think we can find spiders someplace else.”
“I’m not excited about this, either,” Bones said. “I’m flammable, you know.”
Braiden gave him a tired little smile. “The thing is, we’re all flammable, Bones.”
Gregor blew across the top of his mug, then drained it in one go, pinkie finger in the air.
“All I’m saying is that this is the timeliest step. If you want to see what this contraption does — and I have to admit, I’m extremely curious myself — then cinderling silk is your quickest solution.”
“There’s simply no urgency to any of this,” Braiden said. “And it’s dangerous to go back down there, especially knowing that the deeper levels are literally on fire.”
Not to mention the demon waiting for him down there, too. Valefour. Ugh. Braiden was careful not to mention the demon.
Surely there was a colony of magical silkworms somewhere near Weathervale, the kind Braiden could feed handfuls of tasty leaves. Take a page out of Granny Bethilda’s book, as it were, then leave with enough silk for the instrument.
No muss, no fuss, and certainly no flaming spider bites. And were cinderlings venomous, too? Several hells. A trip to the library it was, then, if only to find out how to deal with the creatures.
It all seemed to be clicking together, like the horrible, jagged pieces of some nightmarish puzzle. The Heirloom requiring cinderling silk, only to be found in the lower levels, exactly where the demon Valefour was lurking, and exactly where Elder Bahul wanted to go.
And didn’t Augustin look so curious every time the subject of going spelunking came up? You could take the wizard out of an adventure, but could you ever take the adventure out of the wizard?
Braiden pushed his face into his hands, more confused than ever as to why everything around him seemed to be conspiring to push him down, deeper down the Weathervale dungeon. He shook his head.
“Fire,” Braiden grumbled. “Why did it have to be fire?”