Page 28 of Wizards & Weavers (Cozy Questing #1)

Chapter

Nineteen

The elderly burrowfolk women sat around the room, weaving all sorts of objects from long, slender bits of reed. It was all so calming, seeing these masters of the weaving arts lost in their own little worlds.

This was the same craftsmanship that produced so much of the wickerwork Braiden had spotted around the Underborough: baskets for produce, the chairs in the elder chamber, but most notably, the village council’s enormous table.

Some of the women worked with fibers and fabric instead. A few of them clattered and puttered away at wooden machinery stationed at the far end of the room, their practiced paws working to create wonders that Braiden found all too familiar.

And comforting, too. One woman concentrated on a tapestry of a moonlit landscape, her wooden loom emitting a satisfying, rhythmic clack. There, another sat at a spinning wheel, producing a continuous length of thread as she spun.

All heads turned toward the threshold, several pairs of dark brown eyes growing lustrous at the sight of a new face.

The burrowfolk women abandoned their stations, cooing and twittering as they approached the human stranger.

A friend not yet made, surely, for why else would the village chief, the Grandest Mother bring him into the Underborough’s beating, click-clacking heart?

The bevy of burrowfolk grandmothers descended on Braiden, a huddle of warm fuzz and fur closing in around him. Old, experienced paws reached out to examine his lovingly woven sweater, others pausing to stroke the rarely encountered hairless human cheek.

Part of him wondered whether he should consider this all somewhat inappropriate, but the part of him that missed Granny Bethilda leaned into the press.

“Sisters,” Mother Magda called out. “Please. Let’s not overwhelm our human guest before he’s had a chance to look around our workshop.”

Braiden felt the slightest pang of loss as the wall of grandmotherly fur retreated, but he caught muttered words and snatches of sentences that made him smile all the same.

“Such craftsmanship,” one woman said, referring to his sweater.

“Very handsome, for a round-ears,” said another.

“This one didn’t scream,” said a third.

“Braiden Beadle is a visitor from the surface world,” Mother Magda continued. “As I’m sure you’ve observed, he is a practitioner of the weaving arts. I have a feeling that his short time in the Underborough may yet prove mutually beneficial.”

Murmurs of approval went up from around the room as the burrowfolk returned to their work.

Mother Magda swept her paw forward, indicating that Braiden was free to walk about as he pleased.

He marveled at the speed and grace of the burrowfolk as they interlaced the reeds and switches, weaving baskets and stools and cradles as naturally as breathing.

“I hope you’ll forgive my sisters for fussing so much over you. It isn’t often that we receive human guests.” After a moment’s thought, she continued. “Ones that aren’t too bound and gagged or frightened to mingle, that is.”

“It’s really no bother at all,” Braiden said, and meant it. He rubbed his face, filing the sensation of a velvety paw on his cheek next to all the memories of Granny Bethilda doing much the same thing.

“Your baskets, even your spindles and your looms,” he continued. “They all look so much like the tools we use up above.”

Perhaps all cultures arrived at the same conclusion given enough time. Or maybe it was a less esoteric matter of trade routes and intermingling civilizations, a question of technologies passing from one people to another.

“Flatbread,” Granny Bethilda had told him once. “It all comes down to flatbread. The Gwerenese wrap up their meats and grains and vegetables in one convenient roll and eat it all up that way. In Il-venesse, they scoop up delicious dips and dishes.”

Braiden found it more satisfying — and maybe a little romantic — to believe that everyone was connected. The people of Aidun had all somehow tapped into the same well of knowledge that birthed the world’s greatest innovations. The wheel. The knife. The hammer.

And flatbread. Always flatbread.

Mother Magda led him past the click-clack of the burrowfolk women at work, chuckling softly as he marveled at the machinery.

“We have so much more in common than you think, Braiden Beadle. And there is plenty more that I wish to show you.”

She gestured toward the back of the room. In his short time in the village Braiden had already become accustomed to the sight of so many tapestries and wall hangings, thinking nothing of yet another pair of them on the far wall.

He should have noticed the way they faintly fluttered. As they approached, he felt the whisper of a warm breeze on his face and caught the scent of fresh air. Mother Magda parted the curtains with one fuzzy paw, beckoning for Braiden to step out with her.

They emerged in a spacious garden, much of it untended, the vegetation left to sprawl. A pool of water at its edge stretched off beyond the grounds of the great tree. This pool did not bubble, but it did give off a faint, silvery glow.

That same silver radiated from the reeds that grew on the pool’s edge. Something about the radiance made the little hairs on Braiden’s body bristle. His nape prickled with gooseflesh. The reeds, the water — this strange garden quietly pulsed with magic.

“This is only one of the groves and grottoes we use for growing what we need,” Mother Magda explained. “There are more scattered throughout the Underborough. But can you guess why I’ve brought you to this one, Braiden Beadle?”

He pointed at the reeds, still softly emanating their ghostly glow as they wavered in the underground breeze. “Because of those plants? I’m guessing these are the same reeds you use for basketry and wickerwork.”

“Very astute. And is it correct to assume that you have some talent for magic as well, Braiden Beadle? Surely you can sense something special about these reeds.”

They grew everywhere along the bank, a plentiful supply within easy reach. “There’s something magical about them, all right. And how convenient that they’re just a hop and a skip away from the workshop and the weavers.”

Mother Magda nodded. “Each of my sisters has a touch of magic running through their blood. Perhaps it was always there, passed down from the first mothers. Perhaps it was a gift from the goddess. In any case, something about the reeds permits the right kind of weaver to place the smallest spells in their handiwork. Warp and weft, layer upon layer, every new weave helps to lock in the magic.”

Something like excitement tingled at the base of Braiden’s spine.

“Moongrass, we call it. The crystal passages high above allow the sunlight to tumble down to us deep below, but it is the light of the moon that imbues the reeds with their magic. You’ve seen it everywhere, in everything from humble basketwork to the traps that my gregarious grandson weaves himself. ”

Warren’s weaponry. The Pulverizer, that giant swinging ball trap. Of course. The wicker sphere at its core had clearly been woven by hand.

“So with the right incantations and the right intent, the right kind of weaver makes quiet, subtle magic with their work. The workshop weaves cradles to help our younglings sleep more soundly. My wicker chair from the council chamber makes me seem tall and important.”

Mother Magda chortled when Braiden gave her a surprised look.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked. That chair has been there for ages.

It helps the Grandest Mother exert an extra bit of authority.

Hah. The burrowfolk and our baskets. Some of the older fables like to romanticize it, how our ancestors noticed the pattern of a spider’s cobweb and used that as a base for basketry.

I think it’s far more simple than that. Some hungry young burrowfolk saw the moongrass and thought, ‘Can I eat that?’”

She reached for the nearest reed, snapping it between her paws. A puff of glittery silver rose from the break.

“The answer, unfortunately, is no. Moongrass is inedible. But this is where you come in. See the fibers encased within the reed?”

Mother Magda pulled the broken pieces of reed apart. Strands of something stringy clung stubbornly from within, holding the pieces together and hanging on for dear life. That was when it clicked. The tingle in Braiden’s back turned into a crackling thunderstorm.

“You can spin it into string,” Braiden muttered.

Mother Magda sniffled, casting the broken reed into the water where it made a sad, small splash.

“In theory, yes. Not that our people have ever taken that very far. Basketry and wickerwork for the burrowfolk, but breathing magic into threads and tapestry? That is a task for a different kind of weaver.” Her eyes twinkled as she turned to look Braiden straight in the eye. “The right kind of weaver.”

“And you think that’s me? That I’m the right person to make the moongrass work?”

“Come now, Braiden. It is no ordinary human that makes it down here without some way to defend himself. I could smell the magic on your skin, sense it the very minute you walked into the council chamber. My sisters felt it, too. You knitted this lovely hide that you wear on your torso. Here, what was it called again?”

“A sweater.”

“Yes. That. Imagine if you could spin magic into this sweater of yours. Your sweater keeps you warm, but what if it kept you cool on the sunniest days, too? And if your weaving can weather the harsh glare of the sun or the cruel bite of winter, then it isn’t too far a leap to learn how to turn away blades and protect from evil.

Imagine all the things you could make, all the lives you could improve in little ways, if only you could breathe the tiniest magic into the thread. ”

As if Braiden could get any more excited. The thunderstorm was raging. Permanent magical weaving. The filament could be the answer. But he couldn’t help himself.

“Mutually beneficial, you said. That’s what you told your sisters. But you would be giving me so much.”

She cocked her eyebrow. “Oh? Is it ‘so much’ for us to work together and unlock more of the mysteries of moongrass? Spin the fibers into thread, see where it takes you. Learn what magic you can from the reeds. Then show us what you’ve learned.

Teach us the spells you’ve whispered in the weaving.

Wouldn’t that be grand, Braiden Beadle? Someone else must have taught you how to weave, once. Who was your teacher?”

The tears came so suddenly, but Braiden caught them in his throat, long before they could threaten to break. “My grandmother did. She’s — she’s not with us anymore, but she taught me everything I know.”

Mother Magda clasped her paws. “What a tale that makes, Braiden Beadle. What a yarn to spin. Humans and burrowfolk sharing stories and spells, from grandmother to grandmother.”

Braiden bit his lip. Granny Bethilda would have loved to play with this moongrass, to take the art of weaving to brave new heights.

“Of course, this all hinges on whether you successfully complete your scouting mission with my grandson. I would prefer for everyone in your party to return unharmed. Warren, especially. Naturally.”

“Naturally,” Braiden breathed.

“Find the source of the danger. Bring my grandson home safe and sound. Then you may harvest as much of the moongrass fiber as you can carry. Oh, and be sure to have some rooty tooty stew before you go. Best thing you’ll taste underground. I guarantee it.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Braiden said, grinning at the promise of a hot meal and a well-earned reward.

Visions of gold coins and gemstones and treasure chests fell away from his eyes. Moongrass filament. None of the treasures promised at the questing board could possibly compare to this.

A new kind of magic to bring into his weaving work, a way to put spells into clothing? He’d make a killing with the adventuring crowd, designing enchanted and empowered garments fit for exploring the dungeon.

This was it. At last, a way to save Beadle’s Needles and keep the family business afloat. How fitting that the legacy of his grandmother would be rescued by the warmth of another.

This was it: his real adventure, his true quest. Find the source of the dungeon’s dangers with Warren’s help, then report back to the burrowfolk. Then he would have his prize.

As long as he could stop Augustin Arcosa from sealing the dungeon.