“It’s finished, if you can believe it,” Warren said.
Braiden flinched, accidentally batting the Mothergoat tuft clear across the counter. Craghammer caught it, then yelped as he juggled it from one hand to the other.
“It’s already finished?” Braiden breathed. “That fast?”
“He’s a professional, I told you,” Bones said, folding his hands behind his head. “A craftsman. An artist. A nocturnal genius. You know, he’s definitely awake right now.”
Bones rose from the table, shredded flatbread and bits of bell pepper and mushroom falling into a pile on the floor.
“Wanna go see him at the graveyard?”
Braiden all but vaulted from the counter, cramming the last of his food into his mouth as he scrambled for the yarn displays. If the Heirloom truly was finished, then they could test different weights of thread on its frame.
Maybe Gregor had something interesting to offer about the subject, too. Didn’t Bones say that he was skilled enough to make musical instruments? Certainly skilled enough to craft and carve a strange device in, what was it, two, three days flat?
He slipped into Augustin’s room, pressing a quick kiss against the snoring wizard’s forehead. He deserved all the sleep he could get. Augustin snorted and flinched, then settled into a dopey, drooling smile as he slept. Braiden smiled back as he quietly shut the door.
Braiden was wide awake now, all the tiredness from his travels ejected from his body. But was there much of it to begin with given that Augustin had done all the traveling for them both?
Big breakfast. A very good breakfast, that’s what Braiden would make for him in the morning. As many fried eggs and sausages as Augustin could stuff in his mouth.
Craghammer and Elyssandra stayed behind to finish dinner and clean up at the counter. Bones and Braiden stepped back out into the cold night with their matching hoodie and sweater, Warren taking up the rear with his quarterstaff in hand.
“Just to be safe,” he explained, tapping its butt against the cobblestones. “Weathervale seems a fine place to live, but you never know.”
Braiden nodded enthusiastically and didn’t argue. Invisible air elementals, talking othergoats? At this point, he knew it was wisest not to discount anything in Aidun.
The great crystal atop the Lighthouse lit up the streets in the center of town, its greatest landmark, even lovelier to look at by night. A chilly breeze blew a gentle tune through its slats and windows, a lullaby for Weathervale.
But the Lighthouse’s whistle song seemed to grow more somber, even grim as they headed for the Deadlight. Perhapsit was just the understandable simmer of dread that came with going to a graveyard after nightfall.
Braiden had never been, always planning his visits to Granny Bethilda by daylight. He’d heard the stories, of course, but always dismissed them as superstition and rumors. He thought of the stories about Barrowdeep, its infestation of undead that feasted on human flesh. Fear like ice water trickled down his spine.
And all these frightful fantasies spun through his overactive mind, he realized, even as he walked in the company of a rabbit man and a reanimated skeleton. Braiden almost chuckled, but immediately felt better.
The cemetery was predictably dark, of course, apart from the glow of the moon and the distant radiance of the Lighthouse. The gravekeeper’s shack twinkled amber and orange, candle and lamplight pouring from its windows, a beacon in the oppressive darkness.
“He’s here,” Bones said excitedly, quickening his pace.
Braiden almost reached out to tug on the back of his hoodie when the skeleton tripped over a rock, but his clumsiness had an awkward undead grace to it, a sort of built-in self preservation that somehow righted his joints and bones as he trundled over grass and uneven ground.
Braiden wondered what would happen if Bones took a spill hard enough to send his component parts scattering. Would the old necromancy of the long-dead Hyberidian sorcerers take effect and stitch his skeleton back together? Braiden thought it best if they didn’t have to find out, just in case.
“Wait up,” Warren said, picking his way between the headstones. “Slow down, Bones.”
But Bones was too excited to greet his only friend — never mind that he had two more right with him, and several others at the craft shop. He rapped his knuckles against the shack door.
A muffled grumble emanated from somewhere inside the shack, a sound that reminded Braiden of something that might come out of a surly uncle, or a wizened gray dog with great, huge whiskers. The door creaked open. To Braiden’s surprise, the man looked like a combination of both.
“Hi, bestie,” Bones said, giving Gregor an excited wave of his hand. “It’s me, your good buddy. Bones.”
As if he was worried the gravekeeper had forgotten. It was kind of cute, seeing Bones be so invested in friendship like this, navigating the murky waters of interpersonal relationships with his own brand of guileless charm.
“Eh,” Gregor grunted, one eye twitching as he glared at Bones, or seemingly past his skull.
Then he turned his head when he noticed Bones wasn’t alone, offering Warren a subtle but more congenial nod. It wasn’t until he met Braiden’s gaze that his own eyes went wide with what looked like recognition.
“It’s you. Bethilda’s grandson.”
