Page 5 of Wizards & Weavers (Cozy Questing #1)
Chapter
Three
The Wizard of Weathervale? Nobody told Braiden they had a wizard.
He followed the elf and a small crowd of similarly excited patrons to the street outside. Braiden half expected someone descending from the clouds riding the tail of a lightning bolt, a man in a pointy hat with a snowy beard and a starry set of robes.
Instead Braiden was met with a farmer and his horse cart. Humble and common around these parts, the primary mode of transportation for farmers passing through to pick up supplies or sell off their crops.
But this farmer’s cargo was supposed to be a little more special than the average turnip. Braiden watched as someone hopped off the back of the cart, brushing off strands of hay that had stuck to the bottom of his britches.
“Oh,” Braiden muttered. “Is that all?”
A turnip might have been more interesting. This Wizard of Weathervale looked like any other man on the street. Taller than Braiden, certainly, and handsome in his own way, a neat black beard to match his fine head of black hair, his temples limned with patches of silver.
But where was the staff? Where were the scrolls and potions dangling from his enchanted belt? Braiden crossed his arms as he watched, still trying to figure out what made this man so very special.
“I can make magic, too,” Braiden grumbled. “And nobody calls me a wizard.”
“Oh, everyone can do a little magic,” said the elf. “But he’s different.”
Braiden jumped, surprised that she’d answered.
His feet had carried him closer to the crowd, well within earshot of the hooded young elf who had produced, out of the folds of her cloak, a leather-bound book.
Point taken, yes. Braiden’s affinity with magic didn’t exactly make him special.
She didn’t have to rub that in, showing off with her pretty spellbook.
“Sure,” Braiden said. “Fine. Plenty of us know how to use a little magic here and there. But this wizard — I was born and raised in Weathervale. This is the first I’m hearing that we have our very own wizard. And besides, I wasn’t expecting him to be so — ”
“Dashing?” the elf breathed, her hands clasped together. “Handsome?”
“I was going to say ordinary. He’s just a regular man. I mean, I suppose he’s got some very nice boots.”
The elf regarded him as if she was seeing him for the very first time, her green eyes scanning his body from top to bottom, and back again. She was only looking, but Braiden could swear she was investigating every crevice of his soul.
“The only correct use of the word ‘ordinary’ with the wizard is at the end of ‘extraordinary,’” the elf said primly. “Just because you’ve never heard of someone doesn’t mean they aren’t worth hearing about.”
And without so much as a huffy, “Good day to you, sir,” she elbowed and shouldered her way to the front of the crowd, her smile so sweet and apologies so honeyed that no one seemed to mind her cutting in line.
Yes. A line. This wizard man was so famous that the previously very surly-looking patrons of the Dragon’s Flagon were now gasping, gushing, and raving in his face.
The elf reached the front of the line. Braiden couldn’t hear what she was saying, only picking up on her breathless delivery.
Something she said made the wizard blush.
He scratched the side of his head as she raised her book, opening its covers.
Quite brazen to ask someone so openly for a spell, just like that.
The Beadle weaving magic was mostly simple stuff, but Granny Bethilda still guarded her spell catalog like it contained the secrets to the universe itself.
It wasn’t very fancy, just a deck of loose recipe cards and spells held together by a clip.
Helpful magic for mending clothes or making them smell nice, but not much use in a dungeon.
The Wizard of Weathervale conjured a quill out of thin air and began scribbling in the elf’s book. It was all she could do to hold the book straight, much less hold herself together. The wizard finished his scribble with a flourish. Must have been a short spell.
He clicked his fingers and the quill drifted away on the breeze, transformed into a little bird. The crowd oohed and aahed. Huh. Showoff.
But maybe the elf had a point. Few celebrities ever passed through Weathervale, but just because he’d never heard of someone, it didn’t mean they weren’t important to somebody else.
And just because he’d never tried, it didn’t mean Braiden couldn’t find his fortune in the dungeon. Or perhaps he could start small.
He turned away from the wizard and his adoring public, much more interested in the questing board hanging by the doors to the Dragon’s Flagon. There was one of these wherever adventurers gathered, filled with requests for specialized aid.
Maybe someone needed a talented rogue to open a chest, something magical and potentially trapped that the local locksmiths refused to touch. Maybe one of the Weathervale herbalists needed a rare ingredient to brew a very important potion.
Braiden scanned the listings, finding the common denominator he’d already expected: most of these jobs involved the new dungeon in some way.
One of Weathervale’s most prestigious jewelers was requesting an unusual gemstone reportedly found deep in the dungeon.
And look how much they were offering as a reward!
So delving down the dungeon was a profitable endeavor, after all. This was going better than he’d expected, extracting bits and pieces of important information from a questing board, of all places. Braiden held his parchment up to the light, checking on the rest of his to-do list.
“Yes, yes,” said a velvety voice. “I’ll sign your parchment, too.”
“What the — hey!”
Before Braiden knew it, his parchment — his bill, his business plan — had been snatched out of his hands.
The Wizard of Weathervale clicked his fingers, conjuring an even more extravagantly feathery quill.
He guided it in elegant swoops along the entirety of Braiden’s feverishly-scrawled manifesto, overwriting the black scratches of ink with thick ribbons that shimmered turquoise, then pink, then gold.
Braiden’s hands flew to his head. He thought he might rip his own hair out.
“No! My plan!”
The wizard laughed grandly. “Yes, yes, your most devious plan to hover on the fringes of the crowd and wait out the worst of it. And it worked! You still got your signature in the end.”
He handed Braiden the desecrated piece of parchment. Braiden stared in horror at the heartbreakingly beautiful penmanship that had effectively erased half of his afternoon’s work.
“I never asked for a signature. I thought you were writing out spells.”
He laughed again. “Spells? You’re a cheeky one, aren’t you?
Augustin Arcosa doesn’t just share his arcane secrets willy-nilly.
” He tilted forward, a little too close for comfort, his grin so broad and so bright Braiden nearly shielded his eyes from the glare.
“You want the good stuff? You’ll have to pay. ”
The gall. The nerve of him. Braiden fought the blush threatening to color his cheeks. He flung his hands up in frustration.
“Just who in the several hells is Augustin Arcosa?”
As one, the crowd of admirers gasped. The wizard froze, an uncharacteristic chill in his features, in the tight, horizontal line of his too-pressed lips. Aha. Not so fabulous and flawless, after all.
Rosy-cheeked and breathless, the elf reappeared from the thick of the crowd, still clutching her precious book to her chest.
“Augustin Arcosa has performed acts of immense bravery all over Aidun. He awakened the sweet royal daughter of Il-venesse from accursed slumber. He single-handedly held off a tidal wave in Whiteport! And now he’s come home to Weathervale to — well, I suppose we’re about to find out.”
Braiden clenched his jaw, doing his damnedest not to look at all impressed. He refused to give the wizard the satisfaction. Huh. But Arcosa? Arcosa. Now why was that name so familiar?
“You’re very kind, young miss,” the wizard said. “But please, there is no cause for alarm. Don’t blame this man for his no doubt unintentional ignorance. Not everyone has had the great fortune to hear of my deeds.”
Gods, but Braiden was hating this man more and more with every passing minute. The wizard waved his arms at his admirers, calling out jovially as he dispersed his mob. At least he did his own crowd control.
Taking a deep breath, Braiden cautiously ignored the wizard and turned his attention back to the questing board. There was no point arguing how he’d ruined Braiden’s business plan. If he truly was so famous, perhaps Braiden could sell his strange shimmering signature to one of his admirers.
Braiden perused the questing board, curious about other clues it might yield to the nature of the dungeon. The Wizard of Weathervale was still standing beside him. Braiden waited for the inevitable boasting about his many amazing accomplishments, but nothing came.
He couldn’t help himself. He turned his head ever so slightly to the side, catching a glimpse of the wizard’s face.
Gone was the confident, gleaming godling who’d been greeted with a hero’s welcome the very moment he’d stepped off the farmer’s cart.
No more of the big, brilliant grin and shining eyes, not even the broadness of the shoulders, the inflated chest.
Without his crowd of admirers, Augustin Arcosa was just a man standing in front of a tavern. A man with a nice pair of boots, granted. Perhaps slightly tired from the journey, too, his shoulders sloping. He studied the questing board intently, interested in what it had to offer.
Was he here to take on some of these quests? Preposterous. Why would someone with such incredible achievements stoop to running small-town errands? Braiden couldn’t contain his curiosity.
“Is it true, then? All that business about an Il-venessi princess and the tidal wave in Whiteport?”
The wizard chuckled, never taking his eyes off the questing board. Braiden couldn’t decide if that gave him relief or annoyed him just that little bit more.
“The princess was but a small child. The Il-venessi court mages are wise and powerful, but not very practical. They never suspected that she was only pretending. She’d learned a very small sleeping charm that convinced everyone it was a curse. Everyone but me, apparently.”
Braiden chuckled back in spite of himself. He cleared his throat, thinking he’d caught himself in time, but too late.
“The tidal wave, though? Yes. Don’t tell anyone, but it took a lot out of me. I must have slept for a week. Making that much magic is exhausting.”
He turned to look at the docks, out to sea, a nervous twitch in the corner of his eye.
His voice was softer and calmer, not booming with bravado the way he’d spoken to his loving horde.
Braiden wondered if he might have liked him better meeting him like this, none of the pomposity and preening, just a regular man who had allegedly accomplished incredible magical feats.
“So why have you come here, then?” Braiden continued, this time much more politely. The Wizard of Weathervale didn’t seem so awful when he was unencumbered by fame, unadorned by a flock of adoring fans.
He cocked an eyebrow, a wry smile on his lips. “I don’t understand the question. Haven’t you heard? I’m the Wizard of Weathervale. I’ve come home to visit.”
Braiden shook his head. “You hopped off your turnip cart and walked straight to this questing board. Don’t you have an evil army to rout in some wealthy faraway kingdom? No dragons to slay?”
The wizard smiled, and a measure of the man from before came flashing from the sparkle of his teeth. “You flatter me, er — I didn’t catch your name.”
“Braiden,” Braiden said, catching himself before he explained that his friends called him Braid. “Braiden Beadle.”
“Well, Braiden, it’s quite simple.” The wizard waved his hand along the length of the questing board. “News of my exploits might not have spread so freely throughout Weathervale, but news of this new dungeon has certainly reached ears all over Aidun.”
Braiden gestured at the tavern, at the adventurers strolling by. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“As you wish. In my line of work, Braiden Beadle, I prioritize the safety of the people above all else. I strive to ensure that peaceful populations can sleep soundly, never needing to worry about monsters, or bad magic, or bad men. The board has given me a quick glance at the dungeon’s dangers.
Those threats can come from anywhere. Uncharted forests. The open sky.”
His finger swiveled down to point at the street. Braiden’s stomach churned.
“Those threats could come from deep underground.”
Braiden’s mouth fell open. “No. You can’t.”
Augustin Arcosa stood as tall and straight as a mast, his hair fluttering in the breeze.
“That’s right. I’ve come to seal the dungeon.”