“I have to,” Braiden said. “I just have this nagging feeling that I’msupposedto. 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 elderrolled onto his side and turned his head, black, beady eyes twinkling in the firelight.
“It’s about time you showed up.”
Chapter
Eighteen
Augustin and Braidenmade the introductions, Elder Bahul responding to both Warren and Elyssandra with polite grunts, as polite as grunts could be.
“My grandmother proposed that we escort Elder Bahul down the dungeon,” Augustin said. “That way, he can assess it for potential installation of further conveniences: elevators, more drinking fountains, resting stops, and such.”
Elyssandra clapped politely. Warren murmured in approval, seemingly comfortable with the fact that the elder didn’t make a big fuss of seeing a burrowfolk man up close.
Braiden noted how Augustin had ended his introduction with unquestionable finality, completely skating over the messier details involving penalties for littering, food and beverage licenses, and other such necessary evils.
“And here we are,” Elder Bahul said. His mustachios quivered, but Braiden still couldn’t find his mouth, for the life of him.
“And here we are,” Braiden said nervously, his smile tight.
“Then shall we proceed?” Augustin suggested.
The five fell into lockstep, Elder Bahul naturally falling behind them, Warren and Elyssandra walking side by side.Braiden quickened his pace to match Augustin’s, hoping for as much privacy as a tight squeeze in a dungeon tunnel could offer.
This was about as awkward as being forced to hang out with all your friends, but also that one distant uncle you never got to know very well. And not one of the talkative ones, either, the one that just sat off to the side of every family gathering nursing one drink and staring into space.
The gangly, clumsy teenager that Braiden thought he’d left long behind him took over his body, the air thickened with the silence of never really knowing what to say around everyone but his tightest circle of friends. And even that was something he was still getting used to.
Elyssandra cleared her throat. Augustin coughed into his fist. Awkward, indeed.
“If I may be so bold,” Warren said from somewhere behind them. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I just have to ask. Do you carry your entire inventory in your backpack?”
“Chest,” Bahul replied.
