Page 6 of Wizards & Weavers (Cozy Questing #1)

Chapter

Four

Seal the dungeon? What kind of ridiculous idea was that?

Weathervale was thriving because of the dungeon. Well, for everyone else, but that was the whole point. Things were going to change, and Braiden was going to change them, and in swept this hero he’d never heard of threatening to change things back again.

“You can’t do that,” Braiden said, still clutching his piece of parchment, taking off after the wizard as he turned sharply away from the questing board and marched down the street.

“Oh, I can, and have,” Augustin answered. “You might even say that it’s sort of my specialty. Building a barrier at the entrance should be enough to keep the beasties from pouring out.”

And enough to keep would-be treasure seekers like Braiden from pouring in. He protested. He huffed. But his words only fell on deaf ears. The Wizard of Weathervale was too busy greeting his adoring public, beaming and waving.

“But look at all these people,” Braiden said, struggling to keep up. “All your fans. The dungeon’s the only reason they came here. Weathervale is alive like never before.”

He wagged his finger. “And Weathervale will be dead like never before if the dungeon’s denizens decide to come out and play. Tell me, Braiden. Have you ever defended a city against a flight of manticores? Evil things. Much smarter than they look.”

“Of course not,” Braiden said, scoffing.

“It’s better to nip the problem in the bud. It’s why we build dams to hold in rivers. It’s why we make breakwaters to hold back the ocean.”

Augustin did it again, his cheeks rounding in an easy smile, eyes twinkling every time another starstruck adventurer greeted him.

“Yes, hello. Hi. So nice to meet you.”

If Braiden didn’t know any better he would have sworn it was some sort of magic, like fae glamor, how Augustin’s face even seemed to flicker when he wore the hero’s mask.

How tempting it was to call him a phony, except — wasn’t Braiden doing the same thing back at the tavern? Putting on airs, pretending to be someone he wasn’t, rising to the occasion?

“Fake it till you make it,” Granny Bethilda used to say. Plaster on a quick smile and try to sell some yarn, some needles, a new embroidery hoop.

Augustin wasn’t faking it. A very real part of him held the structure of his smiles, straightening his spine and broadening his shoulders with every impromptu performance. He was just tired.

Then why even bother showing everyone a happy face? If he was so tired, why was he embarking on yet another adventure?

Braiden huffed as he followed the wizard. He wasn’t that much taller, but his strides were so long and so confident. Was it those boots? Were they enchanted?

“Hold on,” Braiden gasped, throwing himself in Augustin’s path, arms outstretched.

Augustin’s boots clicked on the cobblestones as he complied. He raised an eyebrow, folding his arms as if to lock them against his body and suppress the urge to cast a spell to blow Braiden out of his path.

“Slow down. Let’s talk about this. I don’t understand. What’s this about sealing the dungeon?”

Augustin sighed. “Tell me, Braiden. What is it that you do for a living?”

Braiden puffed his chest up, an immediate defensive reaction.

He considered saying that he, too, was an adventurer, but the scrutiny of Augustin’s gaze convinced him to tell the truth.

Something about those gray eyes, like mirrors.

Braiden hated the idea that he might see himself in them, what he looked like when he lied.

“I run a craft shop,” Braiden said. “We sell supplies for the arts. Sewing, crocheting, knitting, embroidery, that sort of thing. Hobbyists love us.”

Or they used to, at least. Braiden kept that part to himself.

The wizard’s eyes scanned down, then up Braiden’s body. It didn’t feel as cutting as when the elf had done it. He wasn’t judging, only appraising. Then why was Braiden starting to feel hot behind the ears? He shifted from one foot to the other, wringing his hands.

“And it appears that you have a touch of magic about you. Is that correct?”

The wizard glanced one or two inches above Braiden’s head, tracing the outline of his body, the tips of his fingers.

He was looking past the physical, examining the arcane ripples that flowed around Braiden as naturally as blood flowed through his veins.

Yet again it almost made Braiden blush, the steely intensity of his gaze.

“Yes.” Braiden enunciated the word with hardened confidence, not the flimsy uncertainty of a schoolboy unused to being the center of attention. “My grandmother — I learned a few things from her. Before she passed.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” Augustin said. “But surely someone familiar with the fundamentals of magic would understand why having a dungeon so close to a town is a terrible idea.”

“Not really,” Braiden answered. “It’s not like this is something new.

Entire towns have sprung up around newly discovered dungeons.

Adventurers arrive, lured by the promise of prestige and treasure, and eventually a settlement pops up, and businesses open, and there you have it.

A gold rush, only you’re never quite sure what’s really in the rushing. ”

Augustin snapped his fingers. “And there you have it. Without delving deep, without spending extensive time and resources to study a dungeon’s nature, how can we be so sure that it won’t begin issuing a stream of nastiness in the days to come?

Maybe the dungeon burrows down to an ancient necropolis filled with the hungry undead.

Maybe it’s filled with demons, linked to a portal to one of the many hells. ”

Braiden threw his hands up in exasperation. “For all we know, it could be filled with fluffy bunny rabbits.”

“Maybe. Or maybe it’s filled with bloodthirsty machines, vicious automatons from a long-forgotten civilization.”

“That’s all just speculation! How could anyone possibly know that?”

“How indeed? And if you are, in fact, the shopkeeper at a fine establishment dealing in threads and thimbles, why are you so worried about some filthy hole in the ground? Don’t tell me you were planning to enter the dungeon yourself.”

Braiden gawped like a fish, looking as stupid as he felt.

“I, well, that is to say — I have a plan.”

Augustin chuckled. “I’m sure you do.”

Braiden’s fists tightened. And smoothly, so light on his feet, Augustin sidestepped him, his boot soles clicking on the cobblestones, his cloak billowing behind him.

Braiden thought he felt a gust of wind as the wizard passed.

And did his body seem to blur for a moment, too?

Must have been a trick of the light. Or maybe Dudley’s lightest beers were stronger than he thought.

Still Braiden followed the wizard, determined to get in the way of his horrible plan, which was to get in the way of Braiden’s marginally less horrible plan. If nothing else, Braiden could use his body. No, not like that! To obstruct the wizard, maybe, stop him from his goal.

“Where are we headed, anyway? We’ve been walking forever.”

Augustin wagged his finger and tutted. “Don’t be silly. It’s hardly been five minutes.”

At least Braiden was learning that he was dreadfully out of shape. Maybe he needed to get in some more exercise before he attempted the dungeon. Provided Augustin didn’t get everything shut down in the first place, which, how would he even have that kind of power?

And then Braiden understood. He froze in place.

Four roads ran nearly the entire length of Weathervale, intersecting in the middle and dividing it neatly, like eight pieces of a large pie. Or the eight spokes of a ship’s wheel — very thematic, Braiden always thought.

Weathervale was essentially sorted into eight convenient districts. Both Beadle’s Needles and the Dragon’s Flagon, for example, were part of the merchant district. And at the hub of the wheel — its beating heart — was the Lighthouse.

Braiden gritted his teeth, staring accusingly at the back of Augustin’s head. He’d brought him here. He’d made a direct line for town council, and Braiden had followed him the entire way like an adoring puppy.

Augustin stopped, then turned over his shoulder. “Well? Aren’t you coming to harass me to the very end? You’re giving up far too easily for someone who intended to explore the dungeon.”

Braiden could feel his hackles rising. Augustin had no way of knowing about his financial woes, and yet here they were, the last place in Weathervale Braiden wanted to be.

“Why are you heading to town council?” Braiden asked.

Augustin shrugged. “I have to make this official before I do anything drastic. I still have to follow the letter of the law.”

Before Braiden could respond, the wizard spun on his heel and continued onward.

The Lighthouse, they called it, the towering council building in the heart of town, a beacon of guidance for all of Weathervale. Or so the council liked to think.

It wasn’t nearly as tall nor as bright as Weathervale’s actual lighthouse. Still, by night, when the offices were closed, when the bureaucrats slept soundly after long days of cruelly extorting poor, innocent shopkeepers, the Lighthouse could be very pretty indeed.

Weathervale’s town crest hung from the building, banners as blue as the sea and sky rippling in the breeze, a golden circle at once represented a ship’s wheel and a radiant sun.

Crowning the Lighthouse’s peak was the jewel that gave the tower its name: a crystal that sparkled in the sunlight and twinkled softly in the glow of the moon.

But the most remarkable aspect of the Lighthouse was its array of open windows, how the wind whistled faintly as it passed through the gaps and slats, the ocean breeze playing the tower like a flute. Yet it never seemed too cold inside the tower, the lobby as balmy as the sunny outdoors.

The clerks and office grunts on the ground floor didn’t give Braiden a second glance, but one look at the wizard was all it took to start a round of excited whispers and murmurs.

“That’s him,” they said. “That’s Augustin Arcosa.”

They passed a young woman on the way up the tower. She squeaked at the sight of Augustin, nearly dropping the stack of documents cradled in her arms. She bowed her head and scampered quickly down the stairs.

Seriously, was Braiden the only person in Weathervale who’d never heard of him?

His legs were hurting now. This was a humbling lesson in exercise, indeed.

Augustin climbed the steps effortlessly, sometimes clearing them two at a time.

The wizard looked over his shoulder every now and then, grinning, as if to check that he was still there.

Braiden glowered back. This was all a game to him.

Braiden didn’t yet know what part he played in it, but he meant to see it through.

He didn’t come all this way for nothing.

His shirt was soaked in sweat by the time he hit the top landing.

Gods, he’d ascended the Lighthouse. Never in his life did Braiden think he’d have reason to come up so far in the tower, and yet there he was standing in the council chamber.

There was no door separating it from the staircase, and no windows to separate it from the world outside.

Thick pillars of sturdy but weathered wood held up the roof, coils of rope winding through the rafters, sheer white curtains billowing like sails.

They weren’t very high up, but here the wind sang sweetest of all.

Braiden tugged on his shirt, savoring the cooling touch of the breeze on his skin.

Augustin Arcosa, meanwhile, had not a single hair out of place.

Braiden leaned his hand against the nearest post as Augustin approached the great wooden table. Gods only knew how they’d carried that thing up here, a repurposed section of a ship’s hull, large enough to accommodate all eight members of Weathervale’s council.

But only one of them was sitting at the grand table today. Rumor said that she was the wisest of the eight. Experience had shown Braiden that she was also the most cunning of them all.

Elder Orora was a wizened old woman at first glance, someone who had clearly spent many of her younger years under the sun and out at sea, her skinned tanned and seasoned to something that reminded Braiden of old wood and worn leather.

It wasn’t unusual for merchants and traders to step off their vessels and onto Weathervale sands when they retired. It was a wonderful place for it: right next to the ocean, and so close to the farmlands, perfect for all the light exercise and balanced diets anyone could ask for.

But Elder Orora was no merchant, or so the local legends said. It took a closer look to find the dagger at her hip. The sheath blended in too well with the leather belts and pouches she liked to wear.

Genuine gold coins jingled in those pouches when she walked, the rumors said. According to others, the pouches instead held the severed fingers of those who wronged her — like innocent shopkeepers who were behind on rent.

Elder Orora, or so the stories told, used to be a pirate.

It explained why she was so good at extracting payments from Weathervale’s businesses.

That bill they sent Braiden might have carried the council’s wax seal, but it was her signature that appeared next to it.

It was criminal, frankly. Actually, no — it was legal, but paying it out at the end of each month still felt like extortion.

The elder gazed out into Weathervale from her perch at the great table, a cup in one hand, a feather quill in the other.

A stack of documents sat in front of her — more bills, no doubt, to send out into the streets.

She hadn’t noticed Braiden’s presence just yet — small mercies — but it was hard to ignore the solid and admittedly satisfying tap of Augustin’s boots.

She turned away from the window. Her eyes widened in recognition.

“Augustin Arcosa,” said Elder Orora. “As I live and breathe.”

By this point Braiden was no longer surprised that everyone and their mother knew who the wizard was.

But Augustin’s answer definitely knocked the wind out of him.

“It’s good to see you again, Grandmother.”