Page 75 of Wizards & Weavers
The skeleton shook his head and shrugged. “No. Not even the first letter. Bones is just bones, I guess, and bones is all that Bones ever will be.”
“That’s not true,” Braiden said. “You’re a formidable ally and a fearsome foe. A bard with, erm, unusual talents. More importantly, you’re a friend.”
Braiden had no way of telling the skeleton’s expression one way or the other, his skull forever frozen in its deathless grin. But he knew that Bones was smiling.
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 anyattempts 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 decentenough 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.
