Chapter 16
Chapter
Sixteen
The spinning wheel clicked and squeaked as Braiden worked on an experimental batch of Mothergoat wool. It was probably time for a good and proper greasing. It was the only noise in the entire shop, a slow and quiet morning at Beadle’s Needles.
Elyssandra rested her head on the counter, snoring softly as she caught a little nap. Craghammer sat polishing his hammer’s great head with a soft cloth, glancing up at intervals to throw disappointed looks at passersby on the street.
That was fine. Braiden knew that business had its crests and troughs, just like the waves at the docks. The customers would come by a little later.
It’d been a slow and quiet morning in all, apart from Augustin’s boisterous elation upon discovering his promised big breakfast, and the loud, smacking kiss he’d pressed against Braiden’s cheek as thanks. Braiden had laughed, rubbing fondly at the spot, but on the inside he felt like a traitor.
Part of it was the guilt, which sat heavy like a stone in his gut even as he prepared creamy cooked oats with a bit of brown sugar, sliced fresh fruit that Augustin had been craving since the start of their journey, juicy sausages cured with just the right amount of herb and spice.
Braiden hadn’t brought up the subject of the cinderlings, but watching Augustin delightfully devour his portion of breakfast, the thoughts from before came rushing back.
Who was Braiden to stop a dragon from spreading his wings? And if that dragon wanted to embark on some foolhardy adventure and go tromping around deep underground, who was Braiden to say he couldn’t?
Because he knew, deep in his heart, that Augustin would once again light up at the closest sign of new adventure, his ears perking, his eyebrows shooting to the top of his head.
He’d seen the look when Elder Orora had suggested an excursion with Elder Bahul, and again when the brass cube had so rudely delivered its ominous invitation.
The thoughts had been so pervasive that Braiden had hardly gotten a wink of sleep, tossing and turning in bed over the notion that staying on the surface was, in some way, keeping Augustin from total happiness.
He looked giddy enough when he was brewing his elixirs, infusing his two whistle stones with just the right amount of magic to fizz the water.
He was doing that right now, in fact, hands steady and eyes piercing as he measured out just the right quantities of flavor to add to each crystalline bottle.
But Augustin looked so different on the battlefield, the sharp, dark expression on his face when he executed a powerful spell, the boundless laughter in his voice when he brought the two of them soaring through the clouds.
A wind wizard was meant to howl like the wind and fly through endless sky, not fill bottles in the corner of a quiet craft shop.
Braiden hissed as the Mothergoat wool singed his fingers again. He brought his hands away, shaking off the pain, glancing woefully at the redness of his fingertips.
This stuff was too hot to handle, much less wear in any garment. Even finding the right way to store it had been a challenge, so afraid Braiden was of accidentally burning down the entire shop.
In the end, he’d settled on his biggest pot, cleaning it thoroughly and keeping it by his bed so he’d have it close by in case he needed to act on an emergency. It turned out to be wonderful for heating his bedroom, better and potentially safer than a fireplace.
He’d heard that phoenix feathers had similar properties, their crafting use more appropriate for battle than comfort. He’d read accounts of innovative sorcerers turning them into elegant hand fans or stitching them into blazing, feathery tiaras, using them to augment their mastery of fire magic.
But this stuff was too precious to sell.
And gifted to him by a Mothergoat, too! He wondered if cinderling silk would be just as challenging to handle.
Perhaps he’d need to knit a new pair of gloves, fingerless ones to preserve his dexterity, but woven through with a moongrass enchantment meant to dull the effects of fire.
And then he realized that he’d considered the possibility of delving the dungeon at all. Braiden wrinkled his nose, sucked on his burned fingers, then went back to the business of spinning.
The shop door suddenly burst open with a clatter, the doorbell ringing in an uncharacteristically aggressive tone. Warren walked in dragging a struggling Bones behind him.
“But I don’t wanna!” Bones cried out.
“You have to,” Warren said, tugging on the skeleton’s coat. “I’ll be damned if I have to keep living with your awful smell.”
Braiden thought it was awfully endearing how the two had started developing a friendship, especially when Warren had been the most suspicious of the skeleton at the time of his resurrection. He knew roughhousing and teasing were part of it, but somehow, this seemed different.
Craghammer and Elyssandra perked up, finally seeing some excitement in the shop. Augustin put down his elixirs, stepping in front of the counter as though to protect the delicate glass from what could potentially become a tussle.
“What’s going on here?” Braiden asked as the shop door shut behind the wrestling pair with a clink.
Warren dropped his arms in frustration. “Elyssandra and I have to spend more time with Bones than anyone else, and it’s becoming very difficult now that his coat is starting to stink.”
“It’s a hoodie!” Bones whined. “And I don’t see how that’s possible. I don’t sweat. I have no sweat glands.”
“And you don’t have nostrils, either,” Warren said, throwing his hands up. “This isn’t about sweat. It’s about all the food and drink you keep spilling on yourself.”
“He has a point, Bones.” Elyssandra wrinkled her nose. “You spilled some milk on yourself at breakfast yesterday. You’ve been smelling a bit sour for a while now.”
Braiden sniffed at the air, wondering how he hadn’t noticed sooner. A quick glance confirmed the hoodie definitely looked grubbier than when he had first gifted it to Bones.
“Listen, Bones,” Braiden said. “I think it’s very sweet that you’re so attached to your hoodie.”
“So sweet,” Bones said. “Super sweet.”
“But we can’t have you wandering around smelling up the place.”
Craghammer crossed his arms and nodded enthusiastically. “Even the sweatiest warriors of my tribe know the value of a good wash. Can’t be noble and majestic when you smell like the wrong end of a wild boar.”
“Fine, fine!” Bones shouted, yanking the hoodie off and dropping it onto the floorboards. “How do you like me now, you perverts? I’m naked again!”
Elyssandra wordlessly unclasped her hooded cloak and draped it around Bones, pulling the cowl over his skull and patting it gently.
“See? Good as new. Remember when I used to lend this to you? You can borrow it until the hoodie is clean.”
From his counter, Augustin sighed and strolled over, collecting the fallen hoodie in one smooth motion. “I’ll take care of it,” he said.
Braiden clasped his hands and smiled after him. “Thank you, Augustin. You’re the best.”
The faintest hint of a smile flickered across Augustin’s face, like the sun peeking out from behind a sky full of gray clouds. He’d shown them this spell a few times now, something he used on the road when he needed a set of clean clothes.
Braiden would have offered his own laundry spell, but Augustin had already taken the initiative. Besides, it was a bit of harmless entertainment for everyone, now that they had downtime in the shop.
Augustin fetched a metal bucket from the back, filled it with water, added a measure of soap, and plunged the hoodie in. With a whisper and gesture, he cast a spell into the mixture, funneling it into a small whirlpool.
“It’s good for getting all the grime out,” he said, as if he hadn’t already explained it before. “And after a few cycles like this — especially once you rinse the soap in clean water — I’ll use another spell to air-dry it.”
Elyssandra clapped her hands. “Ooh! I can help iron it. Braiden showed me how. I’ll go find the flatiron.”
She dashed upstairs. The iron was one of those old-fashioned kinds that worked with boiling water or hot coals. He could already hear her rummaging, but he didn’t mind the mess.
It was nice seeing the once-helpless princess learn all the small, practical things. She’d once been too frightened to even turn on a stove. Time away from the Summerlands had done her good.
She’d come to them a talented thief and a competent spear fighter, and now she could make Granny Bethilda’s Perfectly Plump Pancakes, too? Elyssandra was unstoppable.
So absorbed were they in watching the whirling soap and suds that Braiden almost didn’t look up when the shop bell tinkled again.
In strode the horned warrior, this time without his helm. Just like they did on that first fateful day, one of Valefour’s horns brushed against the doorbell, eliciting a faint tinkle. This time, he didn’t apologize.
Braiden should have suspected something then, the stark black silhouette he’d cast against the floorboards, the way the midnight sword in his scabbard gave his shadow something that resembled a devil’s tail.
Warren reached for a mop, wielding it as expertly as a quarterstaff. Craghammer dangled one arm behind the counter, ready to grab his war hammer at a moment’s notice. Augustin pulled up his sleeves, exposing his deadliest weapons, the nimble fingers that did half of his spellcasting.
And Valefour had hardly walked two paces into the shop when Bones uttered a frightened shriek, throwing himself into a shivering, cloak-covered pile behind the counter.
“I do tend to have that effect on people,” Valefour said with a cocky grin.
He’d be so handsome if he wasn’t also so very punchable, especially now that Braiden knew he had dark designs for him and his friends.
“You owe me a window,” Braiden said. “And an explanation.”
Valefour spread both hands apart and shrugged.
“I keep telling you to come deep into the dungeon. A single haul of the treasures you’ll find there will buy you all the windows you want.
” He cocked his head at the nearest wall.
“Knock this down, build a floor-to-ceiling window if you like. I hear it’s all the rage over in Whiteport. ”
Braiden squeezed his fists and glowered. He just had to go and bring up Whiteport. The man really was a demon.
“Sorry,” Augustin said, cracking his knuckles. “But we aren’t taking renovating advice from someone who can’t be bothered to go in through the front door.”
Valefour’s brow furrowed. He thumbed over his shoulder. “But I just did. Go in through the front door, that is.”
“I meant the thing with the storage room window!” Augustin said, clearly more aggravated by his own stumble. “Your infernal servant would have burned the whole place down if Elyssandra hadn’t trapped it with her quick thinking.”
And her ample bottom, Braiden thought, knowing better than to voice something that wasn’t going to help their cause.
“Ah, yes,” Valefour said. “Princess Elyssandra Ileli Emeridan, was it not? Clearly a very valuable member of your little crew. Very valuable, indeed.”
Braiden didn’t like how much emphasis the demon was putting on the word “value.”
“Let’s get this over with. Tell us why it’s so important for you that we come down the dungeon.”
“Counterpoint,” Valefour said, wagging his finger. “Come down the dungeon, and we’ll tell you why it’s so important.”
We? Did Valefour mean himself and his sentient brass box, or were there other demons waiting to ambush them deep below?
“You know that isn’t going to happen,” Braiden said. “It looks like we’re at a standstill. I suggest you leave before things get ugly.”
“Yes. I should leave. But not without taking a quick souvenir.”
The demon vanished in a puff of smoke, reappearing behind the counter. He scooped up the shivering bundle of bones in one arm, then disappeared again, teleporting a few feet away from the front door. Braiden barely had time to blink, much less consider casting a single spell.
“No, please!” Bones squealed, the terror pinching his voice into something high pitched, almost girlish.
“How’s this for motivation?” the demon said through a wicked grin. “If you wish to save your princess, you must come to the dungeon depths after all. See you there, weaver.”
Without warning, Craghammer launched himself from the counter, war hammer in hand as he roared a ferocious battle cry.
But the horned warrior never turned to look at his attacker. Valefour and his “princess” vanished in a pillar of smoke and fire, leaving a scorch mark on the floorboards.
Craghammer seethed as he stared at the burn, chest rising and falling with every angry breath. “Now I hate him even more.”
Elyssandra came trotting down the stairs, flatiron in hand, a bemused smile playing on her lips.
“You know, come to think of it, it’ll be a while before the hoodie dries completely. And Braiden, what’s it actually made of? Do you think the heat will be good for the fibers?”
She looked around the room and blinked.
“Hang on. Where did Bones go? What did I miss?”