Page 26 of Wizards & Weavers (Cozy Questing #1)

Chapter

Eighteen

The Underborough was unlike anything Braiden had ever imagined. The village filled a space even greater than the luminous cavern, big enough to house dozens of burrowfolk homes. Braiden shook his head in amazement. They could have fit an entire Weathervale district in this place, perhaps even more.

Several burrowfolk gathered in a central plaza clustered around a rocky pool. Here the villagers traded fruit, vegetables, and flowers out of baskets, the nearby water perfect for rinsing produce or drinking out of hand-carved mugs, like a smaller, simpler version of Weathervale’s night market.

Huts and cottages built out of unvarnished wood radiated outward from the pool, as if they’d grown that way fully formed.

Some rose half out of the earth, others nestled up in the treetops.

Would the burrowfolk even need stairs or ladders to get up there?

Could they leap just as freely as their smaller rabbit cousins?

And it wasn’t the sun that gave the Underborough its daylight glow, but an array of clear crystals scattered all about the immense cavern.

Some were planted around the village to serve as lampposts, crystals studding the surroundings all the way up to a high rocky ceiling.

There, up above, the crystals clustered like shards of glass around a bright opening in the rock.

“We’re not the first humans here, are we?” asked Augustin.

“Am I the first elf?” asked Elyssandra. “Your village is so beautiful. Oh, what are they cooking over there?”

A burrowfolk woman in an apron selected vegetables out of a large wicker basket, adding them to a bubbling cauldron. Like the rest of the village, she eyed Braiden and his friends with amiable caution, neither very friendly nor hostile.

More telling, however, was how the burrowfolk kept cutting their gazes toward Warren, as if quietly questioning him. Braiden could guess what they were thinking. Why had Warren brought in these round-ears, and the one sharp-ears, too?

“It looks delicious, madam,” Augustin said, sneaking a glance at the cauldron.

The burrowfolk woman gave him a tight smile, but said nothing, only stirring.

“It reminds me of hearty party soup,” he told his friends.

Warren’s ears waved as he scoffed. “Hearty party soup? That sounds silly. She’s making a local delicacy. Rooty tooty stew.”

Elyssandra laughed. “You have to admit, Warren, that’s a strange name for a dish, too.”

“We come from different worlds after all,” he said, shrugging. “Who would’ve guessed? It’s what we have plenty of that goes into the pot. Lots of tubers and root vegetables, hence the rooty. And we grow lentils and beans of all sorts, so — you know.”

Braiden laughed when Warren didn’t finish explaining. It didn’t matter much whether you lived underground or on it, whether your ears were long or round or sharp. The effect of beans on the digestive system was apparently universal.

But again, he couldn’t help noticing how the burrowfolk were looking at them.

The deeper they penetrated into the village, the slightly more scandalized the villagers looked.

Braiden couldn’t help thinking that they didn’t belong, and that they weren’t exactly welcome, even with Warren guiding them through.

“Are you quite sure we’re allowed around the village, Warren?” Braiden whispered. “Only that I’m getting the feeling we shouldn’t be here.”

“Nonsense,” Warren said, waving a dismissive hand. “If anyone has problems with me bringing visitors to the Underborough, they can take it up with the village chief.”

That explained some of the looks , Braiden thought.

“And this village chief would be your father, naturally,” Braiden said out loud without thinking.

“What? No.” Warren cocked an eyebrow, one of his ears bent in a questioning curl. “It’s actually my grandmother.”

Another grandmother in a position of authority?

Feeling sheepish for immediately assuming a man in a position of leadership, Braiden tried not to react too visibly, remembering his encounter with the dread pirate Orora Arcosa.

Augustin was clearly thinking the same, tugging on his collar, but biting his tongue.

Warren led them to the farthest end of the village. Where Weathervale had its Lighthouse, the Underborough had a great tree, equally as imposing, though no less majestic. This tree grew bigger than any Braiden had ever recalled seeing in the world above.

Strange enough that it could grow to such healthy heights in the world below. Even more curious was how its trunk had been hollowed out so that it served as a community building. Its leaves remained lush and green, growing thickly from its great boughs.

“Burrowfolk magic is fascinating,” Elyssandra breathed, no doubt comparing the wondrous sights of the Underborough to the arcane accomplishments of her fellow elves.

Braiden wondered whether he might ever have the privilege of seeing true elven architecture for himself one day. Maybe that was being too greedy. This was plenty enough on its own.

Knowing that Warren was related to the village’s leader painted things in a different light. Was he the Underborough’s version of the Wizard of Weathervale, albeit an antithetical one? A dark mirror, or a dark horse. Braiden couldn’t shake his growing sensation of unease.

But when Warren pushed open a pair of great doors, taking them straight to the heart of the great tree, Braiden felt the tension leave his body, the way that the winter cold melted away when he huddled by a crackling wood fire.

It was so warm in this central chamber, a place that Braiden recognized from its features alone was the Underborough equivalent to an office of great import. Colorful tapestries hung from the walls, the patterns portraying geometric shapes evocative of trees, of vegetables, of the seasons.

The chamber even had its own huge table — wicker, once again, surrounded by a dozen matching wicker chairs.

A number of older burrowfolk sat in attendance — no more than four, a small gathering of the village’s leadership, perhaps — but it was clear from a quick glance alone which of these very important individuals ruled above them all.

And it was extremely comforting to Braiden to see that she was smiling.

He’d barely known of the burrowfolk for two hours, but it wasn’t difficult to interpret their body language, their facial expressions so analogous to the human races, the rigidity or relaxation of their long ears lending helpful clues to their emotional state.

It was easy to tell from her attentive ears alone that the village chief was happy to see her grandson, how they stuck up and out of her elaborate headdress of flowers, feathers, and ribbon. All built into an ornate tiara, crafted once again from woven wicker.

The chief made an attempt to disguise her amusement with a quirk of her mouth. The other burrowfolk elders did not seem as thrilled, but made a good effort of looking polite all the same.

“Back from your week of scouting and stalking already?” said the burrowfolk chief. “And I see that you’ve brought guests.”

She beckoned for the four of them to step forward.

Braiden hung back, allowing Warren to take the lead, trying not to seem too eager.

The chief’s fur was a silvery gray, her frame markedly distinct from her grandson.

The oldest and youngest among the burrowfolk more closely resembled the rabbits that Braiden had seen up above, smaller in stature, rounder and softer, though still standing on two legs.

There was a different quality to the chief’s authority, a comfortable, quiet strength in how she sat at the head of the table. This wasn’t Orora Arcosa, which wasn’t to speak ill of Orora Arcosa at all. Braiden would never. He was absolutely terrified of the woman.

“It was only a few days, Grandmother,” Warren said, with such a weariness that Braiden could detect him rolling his eyes without having to see his face. “And yes, I’ve brought guests. With good reason, this time.”

Braiden cocked an eyebrow, looking to his left and right to find that Elyssandra and Augustin were wearing matching expressions of confusion. This time?

The chief laughed, leaning off to her side to address the three.

“You should be most thankful, friends. The last time this happened, he brought a human bound and gagged straight to these very chambers. Our people breed by the dozens. I have very many children, and even more grandchildren. Warren is the very worst of them all.”

There was a fondness in both her gaze and her voice when she said that, the quiet, knowing words of a grandmother teasing her favorite grandchild. Warren sniffed, smoothing back his ears the way someone else might smooth back their hair.

“If by worst, you mean best,” Warren said, addressing his prisoners.

Braiden mentally corrected himself. No, we’re his new friends. Uh, maybe.

The burrowfolk chief laughed throatily. “My grandson does tell the funniest jokes. But I rarely find reason to mistrust his judgement. If he has brought you here unrestrained, then we can only assume that you mean our people no harm. Which is just as well. The Underborough is home to peaceful folk — peaceful, that is, unless we are provoked.”

“Your hospitality is most appreciated, benevolent one,” Elyssandra said, her tone suddenly so refined and smooth, her behavior even silkier.

The burrowfolk chief laughed again. “That sort of thing is hardly necessary. There are no royals or nobles here, only those who govern and lead. I am the Grandest Mother Magda. The title has always felt so cumbersome. You may call me Mother Magda, like everyone else in the village does.”

“Gladly,” Elyssandra said, dropping her mantle of etiquette and reverting to her usual self. “My name is Elyssandra. I’ve come a long way from the elven lands.”

“Braiden Beadle, ma’am,” Braiden said. “I mean, Your Motherness. I mean — anyway, I’m from upstairs. I mean above. The closest town. Weathervale.”