Chapter 17
Chapter
Seventeen
“I can’t believe him,” Elyssandra said, pacing up and down the shop floor. “The nerve — the absolute gall to think that he could kidnap me. Me, of all people.”
Craghammer sat on a stool at the counter, arms crossed, eyes closed grimly as he nodded along to everything Elyssandra said. “I would have loved to cave in that smug skull of his. And did you see what he did to the floor?”
Braiden thought it was awfully sweet that Craghammer was so concerned about the condition of the shop. But in reality, they should have been more worried about the condition of their freshly kidnapped friend.
“Gods, I hope that Bones is okay.”
Warren looked up from the floorboards, a rag in hand as he paused from trying to polish the scorch mark out of the varnished wood.
“I would be more concerned for the demon. Frankly, it unsettles my heart to know that Bones must be terrified. He must be screaming his head off with every waking moment, and you know that he never falls asleep.”
Augustin breathed, sudden realization on his face. “That demon warrior must already be regretting his decision.”
Warren tapped his nose and pointed at Augustin. “Then you understand. Give this a few more hours, and our demon friend will be bleeding copiously out of his ears.”
Braiden wrung his hands, hating that it had come to this, that it would almost definitely mean descending again. “What are the chances that Valefour decides kidnapping Bones isn’t worth his time and just returns him to us?”
Augustin shook his head. “About as equivalent to him doing something drastic to the poor thing just to shut him up. I hate to say this, friends, but it appears we have no recourse. We must re-enter the dungeon and mount a rescue.”
Braiden could tell that Augustin wasn’t sorry at all, despite the sternness of his poker face. The glimmer in his eyes and the strain at the corners of his mouth betrayed him. Somewhere deep inside, Augustin was elated to be going on another grand adventure.
“I’m coming with you,” Elyssandra said. “What I wouldn’t give to wring that crimson man’s neck. Oh, but Craghammer — will you be all right managing the store on your own?”
Craghammer sighed and finally opened his eyes, accepting the foregone conclusion.
“I can do that. You shouldn’t worry. I would have loved to come with you as well, if only for the pleasure of punching the demon’s face to custard.
But alas. Mr. Arcosa, you may have to teach me how to manage your elixirs while you’re gone. ”
“To the best of my ability,” Augustin replied. “And I’ve told you before, Craghammer. We’re friends. I’d be thrilled if you’d call me plain old Augustin instead.”
Craghammer smiled with a mouth full of pointed teeth. “Plain old Augustin it is, then.”
They prepared to leave immediately.
Elyssandra sifted through her things, picking out her backup cloaks before she packed up the house, then retrieved her hair comb from the patch of dirt just outside the store. Warren took it upon himself to pay a quick visit to the Noose to secure additional rations for their journey.
“You’d be surprised at how quick I can go,” Warren had said, springing up and down on his feet as if to demonstrate his ability to hop from place to place.
Braiden still had never seen the burrowfolk’s powerful legs leaping in action — which was odd, considering they’d traveled together for so long — but maybe on this trip down the dungeon, he would.
Braiden shoved everything that looked important or useful into his rucksack. Good thing he hadn’t completely unpacked from his trip with Augustin to Yhip Valley. He hoisted the heavy thing over his shoulders and rushed down the stairs, the worry brewing like a storm in his chest.
Every passing moment meant Bones was drawing closer to real danger. And Bones was helpless down there. No weaver string wrapped around his rib cage to turn himself into a musical instrument, and no instrument at all to begin with.
“Gods,” Braiden said, smacking himself in the forehead. “We spent so much on the Heirloom when we should have invested at least a little something in getting Bones an instrument of his own.”
Augustin strode out of his bedroom, affixing the clasp of his cloak and letting it drape elegantly from his shoulders.
“Don’t blame yourself. You had no way of knowing the demon would abduct him, and today, of all days.”
“Sure,” Braiden said, though the guilt still sat heavy in his belly. “I just wish — well, at least this way, we can secure some of that cinderling silk that we’ll need for the Heirloom.”
It all seemed too convenient, though, how everything clicked together. This wasn’t the first time Braiden had considered it: the cinderling silk, the escort that Elder Bahul had requested, the demon wanting to lure Braiden below, and the Heirloom card itself.
Braiden frowned as the horrible puzzle pieces fell into place.
“They knew,” he breathed.
Augustin looked up. “I’m sorry?”
“Valefour and his messenger,” Braiden said, gesturing toward the front of the shop.
“Those are the biggest windows in the building. Why choose to go in through the smaller window in the storage room? Your bedroom? Somehow they knew that the card was in there. Maybe the whole point was to knock it loose from the wall in the first place. I can’t help thinking this is a trap, Augustin. ”
“And it still could be,” Augustin agreed. “But between the four of us, I’m confident there’s nothing we can’t overcome. And remember, everything else aside — cinderling silk, Valefour, the card — the whole point of this quest is to rescue Bones.”
“Right,” Braiden said, ruffling his hair and facing the door, as if to psych himself up for their journey. “We can start small, murder any cinderling spiders along the way. At least that’s something to look forward to. Everything else will follow. And — wait. Is that Gregor?”
Sure enough, the grave keeper was coming down the path. But the sun was shining. That alone was unusual. Something tucked under his arm gleamed.
As Gregor drew closer, Braiden saw the deepened circles under his eyes, the exhausted slump of his shoulders. And the object in his arms: a polished, varnished wooden frame.
The Heirloom.
Braiden rushed out the shop door. Gregor thrust it into Braiden’s hands.
“Take it,” he said, “and let me be done with this beastly thing. Took me all night. Something took hold of me. I couldn’t stop working until it was finished. A muse, or madness? Don’t ask me which.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Braiden murmured. “It’s even more beautiful than when I first saw it.”
“As long as the payments keep coming, you’ll hear no complaints from me,” Gregor said. He saluted weakly and turned right back around. “And now I’m off to the Deadlight. Need to catch some sleep before nightfall. Enjoy that thing, whatever it is.”
Braiden waved at his back, not feeling any more reassured about all these convenient coincidences. But now the Heirloom was finished and prepared to receive its string.
He stepped back into the shop, knowing that this one thing needed to be done before they embarked on their quest. He collected the strand of Mothergoat wool he’d spun, then reached for a length of moongrass filament.
“Is that really it?” Augustin asked. “Gods, it looks splendid. Have you come any closer to understanding what it is?”
Braiden breathed slowly.
“Yes,” he said. “My grandmother’s greatest mystery.”
And he prepared to string the Heirloom.
Soon into the morning, they’d all completed their preparations. Warren took over the task of evenly dividing the rations along the counter, secreting enough food for five days into each of their rucksacks.
“Just in case,” he said, “but we can always stop by the Underborough to restock if necessary.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Augustin said. “I believe I’m sufficiently rested and should be able to spare a fleetfoot spell to expedite our travels.”
Elyssandra carefully arranged the rations at the bottom of her satchel, then stuffed in a wad of her backup cloaks, essentially all the same garment, just in varying shades of green.
“Honestly,” she muttered under her breath. “There have to be demons out there who aren’t quite as rude. Imagine taking an entire person down there with you. Imagine stealing a person away”
Braiden stared at the Heirloom still sitting on the counter. And imagine taking this entire whatever-it-is down into the dungeon with me, he thought. He searched the shop floor for the plushest throw to use as a protective wrapping, covering the Heirloom in a bundle.
Craghammer raised his eyebrows. “You’re taking that thing with you?”
“I have to,” Braiden said. “I just have this nagging feeling that I’m supposed to. If nothing else, this can be the instrument Bones should have been using all along. I just can’t believe we went this long without finding our bard a musical instrument.”
Maybe that had been the point all along — the Heirloom, the secret note card.
Perhaps, in some strange, convoluted way, Bethilda Beadle had predicted the possibility that Braiden would become an adventurer someday, would run into wizards and warriors, and would eventually end up traveling with a bard in tow.
One who was undead and kind of annoying, but all right, also kind of endearing.
Didn’t Granny Bethilda have a thing for bards, anyway? All her dalliances, as detailed in ribald writings on the backs of her various recipe cards. Gods, the Gwerenese Omelette alone. Braiden blushed to think of it. Maybe this had been intended as a gift to a long-lost bardic lover.
Braiden tucked the wrapped bundle carefully among the rest of his things, eyes widening as he watched the contraption stretch the leather of his rucksack nearly to its limit.
“It’ll be fine,” Braiden said, the reassurance meant more for himself than anyone else. “I think it should be fine.”
They waved their goodbyes to Craghammer, then carried on down the short road to the Weathervale dungeon. Again, Braiden breathed in the sweetness of the air above ground, trying to memorize the song of twittering birds.
They wouldn’t be away for long, but Braiden’s heart belonged in Weathervale. He snuck a glance at Augustin’s face, finding the wizard’s eyes burning with determination, the corners of his mouth nearly curving with excitement.
As Braiden’s heart belonged in Weathervale, it seemed that Augustin’s belonged on the open road, in underground dungeons, in far-flung kingdoms. The wizard had to obey his wanderlust.
The first thing Braiden noticed at the dungeon’s entrance was how the signage had been upgraded. The shoddy bit of wood had been replaced with a lovelier sign, engraved in polished wood, approaching the craftsmanship of Gregor’s work.
Additionally, some talented stone carver had shaped the roof of the entrance into a series of menacing fangs. Was this all Gregor’s work, perhaps? Unfortunately, the word on the sign had still been grievously butchered.
“DUNJEON,” Braiden read aloud, lips pursed sarcastically. “I suppose it’s an improvement, at least. Baby steps.”
But the changes and upgrades to the dungeon were evident even as they plunged onward to its haven. There were more torches this time, sturdier support beams built into the walls of the tunnel.
It was what they found in the haven that surprised Braiden most of all — or should it have surprised him in the first place? Dozing by the campfire, using his enormous treasure chest as a makeshift cot, was Elder Bahul.
His whiskers twitched as the party entered the haven, as if he’d sniffed out the arrival of something familiar. The elder rolled onto his side and turned his head, black, beady eyes twinkling in the firelight.
“It’s about time you showed up.”