Chapter 22 #2
“First comes the wracking pain,” Ophidia said, “then the failing body, and eventually, death. We lost a few of our number finding out. And my husband is a competent fighter, but we still aren’t scouts or rangers. We’re mainly tinkerers.”
Hence the Heirloom, and hence the secret card in the storage room. All the threads were coming together now.
“I invented the chatterbox,” Newt said proudly, rocking on his feet. “Singular. Only the several hells will know how they learned to self-replicate.”
Over by the fire, the chatterboxes snickered.
Valefour rolled his eyes away from the ring of messengers. “Your grandmother tried her best with what was given to her, but perhaps it was too much to ask. She had yet to even open her shop, barely starting her own family.”
This all led back to before Braiden was even born. He pushed his fingertips into his temples, trying to ground himself in reality, his head spinning from the very breadth of the story.
“But her visit to Yhip Valley and the othergoats — I still don’t understand why she never told me.”
“To protect you,” Augustin said. “She didn’t want you getting involved with the Heirloom.”
Valefour nodded. “Or with us. It was a lot to ask of Bethilda Beadle. She was a seasoned traveler, but not much of an adventurer. No offense meant, of course.”
“None taken,” Braiden said. “I’m only here because of my friends. Well, and because you lured us down here. Come to think of it, why didn’t you just ask us? You could have said something that first day you walked into my shop.”
Elyssandra huffed. “And you certainly didn’t have to orchestrate this whole kidnapping attempt just to bring us to this level. Not to toot our own horn, but all we’ve ever done is try and help people.”
The demons glanced at each other with weary, knowing looks. Ophidia shook her head.
“Look at us. Look at how humanity reacts to our presence. You think us deceptive, amoral, and evil. We only did what was expected of us.”
“Truth, now,” Valefour asked. “Would you have believed me had I told you?”
Braiden stared hard at the ground, his belly cramping with shame. They were right, too. There was no demonic stronghold, no sinister citadel, only this meager encampment. Three tents and a campfire in an underground garden of flames.
It was too difficult to let go of old prejudices, but he was willing to try. More than that, he meant to make amends.
“Whatever it takes to see this to the end,” Braiden said, his words trailing off, unsure of how to finish the journey when he couldn’t even finish his sentence.
He drew the bundled Heirloom out of his backpack, offering it to the demons. They unwrapped it, then gasped at the gleam of flames against its lacquered wood.
Ophidia smiled, then drew a finger along the corner of her eye. “It’s lovelier than I could have imagined.”
Augustin bent closer, peering at the Heirloom intently. “I still can’t make heads nor tails of the thing. I’ve seen many magical implements on my travels, but nothing quite like this. Is it a tool for making material or music?”
“Truthfully, it’s both,” Valefour said. “You see? Lay it flat and it works as a loom. Turn it on its side, and now it’s an instrument. I noticed early on that your grandmother had a certain, ah, fondness for musicians. We thought that designing it this way might entice her.”
And it did, Braiden thought, except that she must have stumbled upon hiccups along the way. It didn’t sound like Granny Bethilda to just leave people hanging like this.
“She died before she could complete her mission,” Braiden muttered. “And before she could pass it on to me.”
Ophidia folded her arms and nodded solemnly. “We forget that human lives don’t burn as long as ours. I am sorry for your loss, weaver. Bethilda did what she could. But we are also very, very tired. Pick up the thread that your grandmother left behind. Send us home.”
A tart swell of tears pinched at his throat, but he held them back. Ours is the way of warmth. To think that Granny Bethilda’s story spanned decades, generations — and so did this demon exile.
Augustin clapped his shoulder, squeezed firmly, and offered a supportive smile. Braiden nodded back.
“I’ll do what I can,” Braiden said. “I’ll do my best.”
“I still don’t quite understand,” Warren said. “A loom needs more than this simple frame to function. We have quite a few of these things back in our village.”
Bones rubbed his chin thoughtfully, making a scraping sound. “And there’s no neck for something that’s supposed to be a string instrument. Unless it’s meant to be more like a harp or a lyre. Is that it?”
Valefour handed the Heirloom back to Braiden. “It’ll sprout the parts it needs when it’s handled by the right user, whether weaver or bard. You’ll see for yourself when its magic manifests.”
“Except that the device is incomplete,” Braiden said. “We still need to finish stringing it to actually make use of its magic.”
He heaved a sigh, already exhausted as he turned to Valefour with a question.
“Have you seen any flaming spiders down here?”