Page 45 of Wizards & Weavers (Cozy Questing #1)

“Then you know what needs to be done,” Orora continued. “Remember what I taught you. Containing the cube won’t be enough. We must dampen this accursed object’s elemental forces, siphon them off, then dissipate them before it decides to burst.”

Augustin nodded, mirroring his grandmother’s stance as she extended her arms and curled her fingers toward the cube. No more seals, and no more barriers. This was the real deal. Braiden rubbed the back of his neck, unsure of what to do — and then the cube began to howl.

A blast of icy air ripped through the chamber. Braiden shielded his eyes, his skin turned to gooseflesh, every hair on his body standing on end. The cube shrieked with all the fury of a thunderstorm, pelting them with flecks of frost, with hail that struck as hard as stones.

“It’s fighting back,” Orora shouted over the mounting gale. “Don’t let it win.”

It was exactly as Augustin had said. The elements were neither good nor evil. An earthquake, a hurricane, a tidal wave — none of them bore an inherent sense of right and wrong. This cube was both force of nature and supernatural anomaly. This was its final bid for survival.

Augustin fell to his knees, his beard flecked white with frost. Orora groaned with effort, her arcane will buckling under the weight of so much elemental power.

Frustration choked at Braiden’s chest. He flipped through his mental storehouse of weaving wisdom, seeing every one of Granny Bethilda’s well-worn cards, searching for an answer. Over and over he searched through the deck, shuffling to the back, and then to the front.

And there it was. Card No. 1, the only one among them that held no practical advice, neither an actual spell nor a recipe. He’d always taken its contents for granted. It was only an introduction to the magic of weaving, short and sweet, just like Granny Bethilda.

Braiden had scoffed then, only a boy when she’d first shown him her sheaf of cards. He knew that magic ran in their blood, had always hoped to learn loud, flashy spells, tricks he might use to dazzle and impress those around him.

Granny Bethilda had only smiled, telling him that some day, he would understand.

“Ours is the magic of mending and making,” read the first of the cards. “Ours is the way of warmth.”

And wasn’t that all he’d done on this adventure? Mended wounds and clothing, made scarves for his friends, made great bolts of cloth to protect them from danger? It wasn’t too late. He could keep them from harm. He could still keep them warm.

“May your thread be long,” read Bethilda Beadle’s words, written as a young woman, even from the very first card intended as a gift to her loved ones. “May you make many memories.”

This wasn’t where Braiden’s thread would end. This would not be the last of his memories. He summoned every last drop of willpower left within his slowly freezing body, casting his arms out as he wove his greatest creation.

A thick, enormous sheet of fine fabric erupted from his fingers, every thread enchanted with soothing heat, every strand hugging its neighbor tight, to keep the frost out and keep the warm air in.

Every new memory Braiden had made outside the comfort and complacence of his craft shop interlocked with the shimmering material, lending its structure both softness and strength.

Dudley, Elyssandra, Warren, Bones, Mother Magda, hells, even Elder Orora. And Augustin, especially. Always Augustin. Braiden would see that they survived this. No one was going to freeze to death because of some silly cube. Not under his watch.

Orora’s eyes widened as the cloth swaddled her shoulders, curling inward to shield her body like the wing of some great mythical bird. Augustin shook the snow out of his hair as he climbed to his feet, emboldened and energized by the radiant warmth of Braiden’s magnum opus.

Revivified by heat, wrapped in the folds and creases of a weaver’s memories, the two wizards pushed forward against the cube’s fury. The wind was abating, the shriek of the object less frightening, more despondent.

And finally, a crack. The cube split in two, then crashed to the ground, breaking into dozens of icy fragments. Impossibly, its pieces were already melting.

“It is done,” Elder Orora breathed.

Braiden held his spell for a few more moments, keeping the wizards warm for as long as possible. The threads finally broke from his fingers, the great swath of ethereal fabric fading back into the universe.

“Gods,” Braiden said, heaving an exhausted sigh. “It’s finally over.”

“I’m very, very tired,” Augustin said, right before he swayed off balance. Braiden wished he was quick or strong enough to catch the wizard, but he wasn’t. The two of them fell in a heap.

“Ouch,” Braiden breathed, the full weight of an entire wizard on top of him. Very compromising, especially in front of said wizard’s grandmother.

Elder Orora shook her head and clucked her tongue. “This won’t do at all. I suspect you won’t be able to carry him on your back, either. Very well, then. I only cast this spell in times of direst need.”

Braiden almost said something when he recognized the echo of Augustin’s words, but all that came out was a surprised yelp when he felt something pushing up on his buttocks. He glanced down, amazed to find he was sitting on a cloud, wisps of it still emanating from Elder Orora’s lips.

She blew out the last of her spell, crafting a soft white cloud large enough to carry all three of them. She hopped on as easily as anyone would hop onto a turnip cart, then nudged the wisps of cloud with one finger.

“What are you waiting for? Fly.”

The cloud jerked to a start, but its passage grew smoother as it built steadily in speed. This was much more comfortable than riding down the dungeon on a makeshift sled. Much safer, too.

Augustin’s lashes fluttered. He shifted in Braiden’s arms, eyes searching the ceiling, then spotting the cloud beneath him.

“You never taught me this spell,” he groaned.

“Hush now,” Orora said, covering his eyes with one hand, covering his mouth with the other. “Shut up. There’s a good lad.”

Braiden chuckled to himself, hearing the affection behind the sharpness of the elder’s words. No way could she hide her softness now. She removed her hands from his face, watching as he fell into peaceful sleep.

“Another spell of yours?” Braiden asked in a whisper.

“Yes,” Orora answered. “It tricks the body into taking the rhythm of breath in sleep. Works like a charm.”

Augustin’s head lolled back as he snored loudly at the ceiling, proof as good as any that he was going to be all right.

“You saved me,” the elder said. “You saved my grandson. Quite a few times over, I imagine. Oh, don’t pretend. I know he can be cocksure and foolhardy.”

Braiden shrugged. “I did what I could, if that’s a fair way to put it.”

“Aye. That it is.”

Elder Orora stroked Augustin’s hair. She turned her head away from Braiden, wiping her arm across her eyes.

“Two months,” Orora said with a quite sniffle. “The Lighthouse will forgive your rent for two months.”

Braiden’s breath hitched. The elder held her hand up before he could say anything else.

“That’s enough mush for one night.” She gripped two wisps of vapor like they were a horse’s reins, bending low over the cloud. “Now, hold on tight. Let’s see if the Underborough gives us a hero’s welcome.”

Elder Orora dug her heels in, as if spurring a steed onward. The cloud doubled its pace, speeding through the dungeon. Braiden squeezed Augustin’s hand to brace himself, a natural reflex.

Even in sleep, Augustin’s hand squeezed back.