Page 40 of Wizards & Weavers (Cozy Questing #1)
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
“I am an elven princess, yes,” Elyssandra said, her head bowed, her eyelashes lowered. “Crown Princess of the Viridian Throne, daughter of King Emeritas Ileli Emeridan. I am sorry for deceiving you all.”
Sat around the same veranda table where the friends had first shared their meal of rooty tooty stew, Braiden, Augustin, and Warren appeared equally unbothered and definitely more intrigued by the revelation. Bones, on the other hand, just shrugged and said nothing.
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Augustin said. “Though now it feels as though we should address you by your royal title or risk a right royal beheading. They’re a bit more relaxed about it in Il-venesse, but you never know with regional customs.”
Elyssandra vigorously shook her hands, reddening in the face. “Absolutely not. Nothing changes. You met me as Elyssandra, and that’s all you’ll ever need to call me. I insist.”
Everyone nodded. Braiden quietly filed away her father’s two adorable and embarrassing nicknames — Starpetal and Pookie — in case he ever needed some extra leverage.
Warren had led them on the long way back to the Underborough, careful to cover their tracks and foil any attempts to follow them.
After a quick, urgent meeting with Grandest Mother Magda, Warren and the others had been ushered out of the great tree and back onto the veranda, where the five waited in cautiously optimistic anticipation.
At least there’s flatbread , Braiden thought.
And some more of that wonderful stew, too.
He felt so spoiled, relishing the rich warmth of the stew in his belly after their journey through the icy depths.
They couldn’t let anything horrible happen to this place, not to its people, not to its culture and history.
He eyed the doors into the great tree warily, then made a greater effort to return his attention to the table.
“My mind is still boggled,” Braiden told Elyssandra, pressing his fingers against his temples for emphasis. “That enchanted weapon of yours. So it’s a dagger that turns into a spear?”
“It goes both ways, yes,” she answered sheepishly, a little embarrassed by all the attention. “My father’s guards use a similar style of weapon, I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
Augustin gestured at her head. “And you carry a full arsenal of enchantments in your hair. Your father’s court must employ immensely talented enchanters.”
“Magical gardeners, if you can believe it. An old elven art. They grow these in a special section of the royal gardens. You should see it, a pocket of golden leaves and flowers hidden among the orchards.” Elyssandra blushed.
“And I wish I could say that I acquired them by honorable means, but I’m sure you’re all acquainted with me and my sticky fingers by now. ”
She patted at the array of gleaming accessories pushed into the golden pincushion of her hair, now on full display. She’d been kind enough to lend Bones her hooded cloak, shucking it once the party had escaped the coldest regions of the dungeon.
It heartened Braiden to think that she had been the most frightened of their new skeletal companion, and here she was freely allowing him to borrow her garment. It was a decent enough disguise for the Underborough, the cowl deep and dark enough for hiding the bleached death’s head of his skull.
His ancient teeth chattered as he nibbled at burrowfolk flatbread, bits of it disappearing into his darkened cowl.
Braiden wasn’t sure where the food was going.
Bones shifted in his seat, and yes, there it was on the bench: a pile of chewed and shredded flatbread.
Perhaps he did it just to fit in, or maybe he truly enjoyed something about the ritual of eating.
Smuggling him out of the dungeon and into Weathervale would pose more of a challenge, but Braiden couldn’t imagine leaving him to fend for himself. He knew nothing of the modern world and had no one else to turn to.
And as excruciating as his performance had been, the bony bard’s horrible song played a crucial part in allowing the party to make its escape. Bones was odd, awkward, and out of place, which meant he belonged perfectly in their motley crew.
“So you’re a princess, eh?” Warren asked.
“Yes,” Elyssandra sighed. “Unfortunately.”
“Don’t see what’s so bad about that. It’s kind of like being the village chief’s most annoying grandson, isn’t it?”
Elyssandra laughed. “It is, in a way.”
And then everyone fell silent, a pall of tense quiet settling over the table. All heads turned toward the great tree. Inside, somewhere within the chamber of the elder council, Grandest Mother Magda was weighing the gravity of the Underborough’s uncertain fate.
The doors swung open as if in answer. Out stepped Mother Magda, a wizened walking stick in hand.
Braiden’s heart knocked against his chest. He had learned how to read the burrowfolk’s feelings too quickly.
He could tell how the meeting had gone by the droop of her ears alone.
Even the flowers in her headdress seemed wilted.
Warren’s ears drooped. The five of them stood, meeting Mother Magda at the doorway.
“Well?” Warren asked, disappointment in his voice.
Mother Magda shook her head.
“The council will not be swayed. Not now, and it seems, not ever. The burrowfolk, you’ll find, are very set in our ways.
It’s in the name, after all. We dig deep.
We set down roots. We stay there. And the council has decided.
The Underborough is our home, and home is where the burrowfolk shall stay. ”
Augustin pinched the bridge of his nose, that same uncharacteristic darkness taking over his features. “They don’t understand how very serious this is. There’s no telling how powerful a blast the cube might emit the next time it discharges its energies.”
“They brought up how our people weathered the last one,” Mother Magda said, shaking her head sadly. “And they insist that we shall weather the next.”
Warren rubbed his arms. “Even now the cube’s influence reaches out with its freezing touch. Do you feel it? Is it just me?”
At first Braiden had considered that it might have been a residual chill, something from the deeper passages that clung to the bones. But he looked to the others, finding them nodding in agreement. He cupped his hands and blew into his palms, alarmed to find that he could see his own breath.
“Then we have no choice,” Augustin said. “I will hurry back to Weathervale and convince my grandmother to disable the cube with me. The wind magic runs in our blood. Draining the cube’s power alone would kill me, but perhaps with two of us, it might work.”
Elyssandra folded her arms. “In the meantime, would your people know to keep warm in colder weather? Warren told us that you see no winters here. I fear the worst for the burrowfolk.”
“It is unheard of. The goddess Nibura blessed us with a perpetual summer. We are ill prepared. Even the previous blast’s effects were so fleeting, the cold fading after only a day.”
The chief glanced over her shoulder, off to the workshop and grotto in the back of the great tree.
“I suppose I could instruct my sisters to focus on producing thicker garments. But to craft enough to clothe our entire village? We would be half dead from the cold by then.”
Her eyes fell upon Braiden’s sweater. He stuck his arms out and glanced down at himself, plush, thick sweater sleeves and all. A shiver of excitement ran up his spine.
“The storage room,” he muttered. “All those sweaters. Finally.”
“What?” Augustin asked, pressing the back of his hand against Braiden’s brow. “Are you quite all right? You’re rambling, Braiden.”
“I’ll come with you,” Braiden said, taking Augustin’s hand in his. “To the surface, I mean. I have an entire storage room of sweaters and scarves just sitting there. If we find enough free hands to help us, we can come back in time with warm clothing for the village.”
Mother Magda clasped her hands and smiled. “I knew there was a reason you came to us.”
Braiden reached for her hand. “Dozens upon dozens of them, Mother Magda, and I made them all with my Granny Bethilda. Remember what you said? Stories and spells, from grandmother to grandmother. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”
“I’ll come with you,” Elyssandra said, hands balled into fists. “You’ll need all the spare hands you can get. Maybe we can convince some adventurers to help us, too.”
“I don’t think I’m wanted on the surface.” Bones wrung his bony fingers together, the only part of his body that wasn’t concealed by his borrowed cloak. “Oh, no. I gave myself away! Spare me, oh great and powerful chief! Bones is only bones!”
Mother Magda chuckled. “I live underground, my dear. I’ve met my fair share of the undead. But best to keep you cloaked all the same. Not all the burrowfolk are as welcoming of those from the outside world, as you’ve seen for yourselves.”
Warren steepled his fingers, staring hard at nothing before he spoke. “Perhaps Bones can help us in a different way, Grandmother. He’s proof of what happens to a civilization when the threat of an elemental cube isn’t taken seriously.”
The skeleton thrust his waist out proudly, fists on his hips. “That I am. Dead as dead can be, murdered by a thingamajig.”
“You have a point,” Mother Magda agreed. “I am hesitant to re-enter the council chamber again so soon — I do tire of all the bickering — but you may help sway the fools who sit at the wicker table. With your permission, my undead friend?”
A chance to bask in attention and glory? As if Bones would turn that down. The three disappeared into the great tree, and Braiden knew it was time for him and his own party of three to ascend to the surface.
“I’ve only ever used this spell in times of direst need,” Augustin said, his forehead creasing with concentration as his fingers traced an intricate pattern. “It takes too much out of me. You’ll forgive me for withholding its power, I hope.”