Braiden swallowed hard. Not this time. This time, he would send these people home.
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
Braiden sensedthe hum of magic in the air as they drew even closer to the portal. It was something that he’d never experienced before, a different flavor of the arcane than anything Granny Bethilda had previously warned him about.
The air had the quiet sizzle of static, like the air before a thunderstorm, yet the quality of it brought a strangely comforting warmth, as of the heat radiating from a candle on the bedside table or a handheld lantern on a cold evening.
And despite the infernal origins of the portal’s magic, Braiden was careful to remember that it did not necessarily mean it was sinister in nature. High time that he left those prejudices behind, especially now that he’d met people who were native to those realms. Now it was time to send them back.
“Decades ago, we opened this from our end with a sort of ritual,” Newt explained. “It involves tuning the air to a very specific frequency.”
Ophidia smiled as she gazed distantly, as if straight through the portal to the world awaiting beyond. “We had great horns of brass, huge drums, flutes carved out of obsidian trees. It was a joyful ceremony. We had such high hopes for building a bridge from our world to yours. If only we knew.”
“Many of those same instruments were destroyed in the transfer,” Valefour said. “You might think of them as sacrificial offerings for the ceremony. We’ve tried time and again by building instruments with what materials we could find on this side, but it’s never quite worked the same.”
That might have explained the design and construction of the Heirloom in part. Apparently, the demons also had a predilection for music, much like the bards that Granny Bethilda favored.
“That’s where you come in,” said Newt, looking up at Braiden. “That’s why we gave Bethilda Beadle the Heirloom’s schematic. Opening the portal from our end needed demon magic. The theory is that opening it from this side needs magic native to Aidun.”
The little demon shrugged, turning to Bones. “And what the hell — you should add your music to the ritual as well. Who knows? It just might help.”
Bones pushed his hands into his hips, adopting his familiar heroic pose. “You can count on me. Bones, the greatest living Hyberidian bard, will help you break open that portal.”
Braiden smiled at Bones’s pride, careful not to point out that this greatest living Hyberidian bard was also the only one left. His smile hid the anxiety he felt deep within his chest — the familiar fear of failure. He couldn’t let that stand in the way of this last ritual.
If they stumbled, all they could do was try again. Wasn’t that all Braiden had ever done throughout his entire life? With the shop, with their many adventures — to persist, resist, and insist against whatever obstacles life threw at them.
Newt and the others went around distributing sheets of parchment. Braiden was the only one not to receive a copy — demonic sheet music, he could see from looking over Bones’s shoulder. So everyone was expected to add their voice or musicto this resonance that Newt had mentioned, and Braiden’s job was to use the Heirloom.
“But wait,” Braiden said. “How am I supposed to use the Heirloom when Bones is also using it to play music?”
Valefour smiled. “Believe it or not, you can share, and it’ll work exactly the same.”
Puzzled, Braiden laid it on the ground, shifting until he was sitting and occupying exactly one half of the instrument. Bones rattled and creaked as he took his place next to Braiden. They laid their hands on the Heirloom.
To Braiden’s surprise, his half sprouted the loom’s frame while Bones’s half grew a neck.
“Unbelievable,” Braiden breathed. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” He licked his lips, swallowed hard, and stared at the portal. “I think I’m ready, if everyone else is.”
A heavy, reassuring hand clapped Braiden on the shoulder. Augustin knelt by him, draping his arm across his back. “You can do this, weaver. Believe in believing in yourself — and even if you can’t, know that I believe in you, too.”
Elyssandra clasped her hands and gave Braiden an encouraging nod. “Weallbelieve in you,” she said.
Augustin pressed a quick, chaste kiss against Braiden’s cheek, then squeezed his shoulder again. “A kiss for luck, and the best of luck to all of us.”
Braiden chuckled. “Then you’d better get a move on kissing everyone else, too.”
Augustin laughed and chucked him on the cheek. “There’s the weaver I know. That’s the spirit.”
He stepped away, making space for Bones and Braiden to begin their work. The demons brought out the rudimentary instruments they’d crafted from materials in the bloody jungle and the burning meadow. They approached the portal’s columns.
The chatterboxes arranged themselves around the portal, the seventh — their progenitor and leader — hovering above the archway’s topmost point. Braiden watched as the demons pressed their fingers to the great brass columns, inscribing glittering glyphs with their hands, leaving flaming runes wherever they touched.
“This much we’ve been able to manage,” Newt said, stretching high along the great columns to inscribe and trace the demon script. “But the rest of it, we need your assistance with. Think of the portal as its own instrument, one in dire need of tuning.”
“Only then can the barrier between your world and ours be lifted,” Valefour said. “Those of you who can offer voices or music, please pitch in. And Braiden — weaver — the great cloth that you manifest will be as the bridge between Aidun and our hell. May this be our final attempt.”
