Braiden pursed his lips and wrinkled his nose, already disliking where this was going.
“Cinderlings,” Gregor said. “Spiders that weave fiery cobwebs. That’s the ticket. Harvest some of their silk, find a wayto stabilize it so it doesn’t burn down the instrument, and hey, presto. We’re that much closer to finishing your Heirloom.”
Braiden massaged his temples to stave off a headache, or maybe a sudden wave of irritation. He remembered the brass box that broke the storage room window, how its master had summoned them to the fiery depths. He remembered the horned warrior.
“And naturally,” he said, “cinderlings are found where there’s fire.”
“Lots and lots of fire,” Bones added helpfully. “Miserable, angry little bastards. We even had them back in old Hyberidia. Nothing like tunneling through a new mine shaft to find a whole nest of the damn things.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Braiden said. “I think we can find spiders someplace else.”
“I’m not excited about this, either,” Bones said. “I’m flammable, you know.”
Braiden gave him a tired little smile. “The thing is, we’reallflammable, Bones.”
Gregor blew across the top of his mug, then drained it in one go, pinkie finger in the air.
“All I’m saying is that this is the timeliest step. If you want to see what this contraption does — and I have to admit, I’m extremely curious myself — then cinderling silk is your quickest solution.”
“There’s simply no urgency to any of this,” Braiden said. “And it’s dangerous to go back down there, especially knowing that the deeper levels are literally on fire.”
Not to mention the demon waiting for him down there, too. Valefour. Ugh. Braiden was careful not to mention the demon.
Surely there was a colony of magical silkworms somewhere near Weathervale, the kind Braiden could feed handfuls of tastyleaves. Take a page out of Granny Bethilda’s book, as it were, then leave with enough silk for the instrument.
No muss, no fuss, and certainly no flaming spider bites. And were cinderlings venomous, too? Several hells. A trip to the library it was, then, if only to find out how to deal with the creatures.
It all seemed to be clicking together, like the horrible, jagged pieces of some nightmarish puzzle. The Heirloom requiring cinderling silk, only to be found in the lower levels, exactly where the demon Valefour was lurking, and exactly where Elder Bahul wanted to go.
And didn’t Augustin look so curious every time the subject of going spelunking came up? You could take the wizard out of an adventure, but could you ever take the adventure out of the wizard?
Braiden pushed his face into his hands, more confused than ever as to why everything around him seemed to be conspiring to push him down, deeper down the Weathervale dungeon. He shook his head.
“Fire,” Braiden grumbled. “Why did it have to be fire?”
Chapter
Sixteen
The spinning wheelclicked 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.
