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?”
Chapter
Twenty-Three
The little demonNewt began to speak at an alarming rate, spouting excitedly about all he knew of cinderling spiders. It now made sense that a chatterbox like Newt would have invented the chatterboxes.
Ophidia and Valefour raised their hands and backed away, as if signaling that they were very much accustomed to the imp’s ramblings. By the look on both demons’ faces, Braiden could also tell that neither of them would be eager to accompany the party on this small expedition.
“There’s actually a cave just to the east of the obsidian forest,” Newt was saying, pointing somewhere beyond the charcoal-blackened trees. “What you really need to know about these things is that they have incredibly nasty bites. Watch out for those fangs.”
Braiden rubbed at his bare arms. Not once before had he considered the value of a suit of armor. He glanced at Valefour’s midnight armor with mild jealousy, then reminded himself it would only weigh him down anyway. Was Braiden even strong enough to carry the weight of a full suit on his body?
“Fortunately, I’m more or less impervious.” Newt rapped his knuckles against his skull, producing a metallic bonging sound. “Mother raised me right.”
The ring of messengers surrounding the campfire snickered again. One of them began to say something, but another one shushed it.
“So you can take us there,” Braiden said. “You’d be willing to escort us?”
“Of course,” Newt replied. “But you can’t count on those two. We’ve had our run-ins with cinderlings in the past. I don’t know if the word ‘traumatized’ quite covers how they feel about it.”
Ophidia crossed her arms and shuddered. Valefour looked up into the obsidian forest’s canopy, whistling innocently to himself.
“The second thing you need to know about cinderlings,” Newt continued, “is that they bleed fire.”
Braiden threw his hands up. “Great. Just great. So then how are we supposed to fight the damn things?”
“We will have to count on our wits and our abilities,” Augustin said. “You’ve shown your aptitude with restraining and disabling our enemies. Surely you can do the same for the spiders. Fight fire with fire, as it were — except it’s a matter of, er, string against string.”
The little demon chuckled. “So that’s what you can do, weaver. I suppose at this point it’s a question of who fires first.”
Elyssandra shook her head. “I’d love to accompany you,” she said, holding up her golden thorn, “but it appears that I’ll only be a liability if I spill any cinderling blood. That might be the end of it for us.”
