“That one cloud looks like a bunny,” Augustin said. “See the two ears, and the muzzle? Reminds me of Warren. Oh no. Is that offensive?”
Braiden chuckled. “Maybe you can ask him yourself. Theyarerabbit people after all. I’m sure he doesn’t really mind.”
“It’s a good thing the weather’s so clear today,” Augustin said, suddenly sitting up. “Makes it easier to scout for threats. Here. Use this, and stand guard while I take a much needed nap.”
“Another one?” Braiden protested.
Augustin had already rolled over onto the grass by the time Braiden examined the warm metal tube he’d pushed into hishands. It was a spyglass, a finely crafted, fluted piece of brass with carefully fitted lenses on either end.
He held it up to his eyes, marveling at the clarity of the zoomed-in image on the other end. He pulled it away from his face again, feeling a series of grooves around the thinnest end of the device. Some kind of engraving?
For all the sights you’ll see, the graven words said.Love, Grandmother.
Braiden smiled. The spyglass was cared for, but clearly worn, a gift from years long past. Witnessing what he had in the dungeon, when Orora Arcosa had shown a glimmer of her affection for her grandson, Braiden had begun to associate other emotions with the elder apart from the usual apprehension and fear.
He lifted the spyglass again, scanning the countryside, a coldness trickling down his back when he glimpsed the gray lands near Barrowdeep, annoyance puckering his lips when he studied the road to Whiteport. What a marvelous invention.
Nowthiswas an heirloom, something so simple yet so worth passing down from generation to generation. No offense to Granny Bethilda, of course, especially when none of them actually knew what the contraption was for.
But Braiden did remember the strings. Varying thicknesses, the sketch’s labels had said, from thinnest to thickest, as if for a musical instrument. Braiden still had his doubts, but Bones had the best guess at it.
Warren kept mentioning that the device looked familiar to him, but from where? The people of the Underborough limited themselves to simple tools and technology, no real need for inventions from above that only served to complicate life.
He hadn’t noticed any string instruments on his trips to visit the village underground. Drums, certainly, their barrel bodies formed out of the same basketry that the burrowfolk loved somuch. Music it was, then, an instrument unfamiliar to people who had little need for lutes, guitars, or lyres.
“The moongrass might work,” Braiden muttered to himself as he continued to watch the landscape.
It made a thread of middling weight, perhaps good enough to serve as the center string of the instrument. The thinner string, he’d have to consider later.
As for the thicker string — would properly spun othergoat wool do the trick? And did any of these fibers have the right consistency for making music? Why wouldn’t the sketch specify if such strings were necessary for the strange object’s operation?
Braiden shrugged, bringing the spyglass down to his lap when his arms grew tired. He rifled through his things for the copy of the map instead, wondering how well he might fare at actually spotting their location. A necessary skill for any adventurer, surely?
He smiled at Elyssandra’s stick figures, chuckling again over the little drawing of a lightning-struck Augustin’s hair standing on end. He perused the map, taking another swig from his flask, then paused so long, flask still held to his lips, that he hardly noticed until the water dribbled from the corner of his mouth.
“Wait,” he muttered. “Did we overshoot our flight? Are we really that close to Yhip Valley already?”
A thunderous crack split the air, a bang from north of their hilltop. Braiden jumped, his stomach doing a somersault. Augustin sat bolt upright, wide awake.
“We’re under attack!” Augustin shouted.
“No,” Braiden said, hands shaking as he consulted the map. He peered through the spyglass. “That’s not it at all. That sound, it’s coming from farther away.”
But where, exactly? And why couldn’t he spot its source? Another explosion, followed by the sound of terrified bleating. Braiden sprang to his feet.
It couldn’t be. The othergoats were nearby — and they were in danger.
Chapter
Ten
A myriad possibilitiesraced through Braiden’s mind. These explosions did not approach the volume and violence of the great, powerful kaboom that blasted open the entrance into the Weathervale dungeon.
Maybe it was a team of engineer dwarves. They were always up to their necks in mining work, weren’t they? Blasting new passages in the rock here and there, using their complicated machinery and potent explosives, strong enough to bore into any mountainside.
Perhaps it was alchemists taking advantage of the valley’s remoteness, testing a new batch of dangerous exploding potions? Braiden had heard of those, quite useful for adventurers who craved all the power of a fireball without needing to know how to actually cast one.
His tongue swept between his lips, his mouth dry all over again. Why deny the most likely possibility? He turned the details over in his mind. The valley’s conditions were ideal for othergoat accommodation: a cool and constant wind, plentiful vegetation.
