Page 7 of Wizards & Weavers (Cozy Questing #1)

Chapter

Five

Augustin Arcosa, a wizard with a pirate grandmother. Or was he a pirate wizard? A wizard pirate? Was there a difference?

Scratch all that. It didn’t matter! Here Braiden stood in the presence of a man who wanted to take away a potential source of income, and here was the woman who demanded Braiden produce that income in the first place. Gods, he just couldn’t win.

Braiden glowered at the back of Augustin’s head. He’d followed him deep into enemy territory. He’d walked right into a pit of vipers. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to turn tail and escape down the stairs.

But Elder Orora was already craning her neck toward him. Orora Arcosa. That was her full name. It was signed on every bill, but Braiden had blocked out the letters the way he’d blocked out the numbers.

“And is that Braiden Beadle? Hello, Braiden. Your rent is overdue. Though I suppose you remember quite well, seeing as you’ve brought your bill all the way up the Lighthouse.”

Braiden could have thrown himself down the stairs. His notes, his business plan — all written on the back of the council’s bill, and it was still clutched in his bare, sweaty hand. He looked down at the mess of smeared ink and damp parchment. Could this day get any worse?

“Oh,” Augustin said, throwing a sympathetic look over his shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear that your shop isn’t doing so well.”

Braiden’s hand tightened into a fist. The parchment crumpled into a ball, the wax seal crumbling with it.

“It’s not that the shop is — you know what, never mind.”

Elder Orora made a noise with her throat that sounded like both a judgmental scoff and a chuckle. “I see that you’ve already made new friends in town, Augustin.”

The wizard shrugged. “We just met. He followed me all the way here.”

Braiden threw his arms up and huffed, far too tired to argue back.

“What sins have I committed in my long life,” Orora asked, “that the gods would blight me with such a cruel, unloving grandson? You don’t call. You don’t write.”

Even with his face turned away Braiden could tell that Augustin was rolling his eyes.

“Calling spells are expensive, or have you forgotten? And besides, what if someone were to intercept one of my letters? I couldn’t bear an invasion of my — I mean, of your privacy.”

Orora tightened her lips and rolled her eyes. “Excuses, excuses. You didn’t have to use the postal system. Might have sent it on the wings of a spell instead. I taught you how myself, or have you forgotten?”

She waved a languid hand over her stack of documents. A strong gust blew in through the open windows, scattering the papers, but in an orderly and deliberate fashion. Off they went in eight evenly divided directions, sweeping through Weathervale’s districts to find their destinations.

So that was how it worked. No wonder Braiden never received his bill from a letter carrier. Quite a few times his bill had arrived by splatting unceremoniously against the shop window. That was how the horned warrior had found it for him.

More curious, however, was the discovery that Augustin had similarly learned his magic from his grandmother, the way Braiden had studied the weaving arts under Granny Bethilda.

“Well, you see,” Augustin said, scratching the side of his cheek, glancing anywhere but into Orora’s face. “The thing about that is — ”

“Spare me the theatrics,” Orora replied. “It’s been years since I’ve seen you, and you couldn’t be bothered to give your poor decrepit old grandmother a hug?”

Augustin stepped forward stiffly. “The last time this happened, you tried to plunge a dagger in my back.”

“I wanted to see if you were practicing your defensive spells.” Orora shook her head at Braiden and sighed. “Honestly, this one. Always with the dramatics. Here. My hands are empty. My dagger is still in its sheath. No hidden blades this time.”

Braiden held still, unsure of how to react. He was intruding on a family reunion, yes, but it was much too late to throw himself down the staircase now. Perhaps out of one of the windows instead?

Awkwardly, in hesitant jerks and shuffles, Augustin approached again. Orora’s chair scraped against the floor as she stood to embrace her grandson. Augustin’s shoulders relaxed, his body nearly melting against the little woman. Braiden suddenly missed his own grandmother.

“You silly boy.” Orora patted him on the back, her face breaking into a rare smile.

“Sorry, Granny,” Augustin muttered.

They broke apart still smiling, hearts and smiles soft and loose from rediscovered affection.

“Now,” Orora said, reaching up to brush aside a lock of Augustin’s hair. “Tell me why you’ve decided to visit unannounced. Tell Granny Orora about all your lovely adventures.”

Augustin Arcosa stood ramrod straight. His chest puffed out, his head held high, with all the confidence in the world, he repeated his same pronouncement from the questing board.

“Grandmother? I have come to seal the dungeon.”

The wind blew. The Lighthouse whistled. Braiden had never seen someone’s face go from sweet to sour so quickly. When Orora glowered, a chill wind blew through the room.

“By whose authority?” she asked icily. “The dungeon’s location still puts it under this council’s jurisdiction. Absolutely not. This town is thriving. Your hometown , I might add.”

Augustin scowled as he stalked forward. Braiden flinched. Did the sky around the tower darken just then?

“You know that Weathervale sleeps at risk of imminent danger. I see the gold coins dancing in your eyes, Grandmother. Your days of booty and plunder are long gone. This is for the safety of Weathervale.”

So the rumors were true. It explained so much. Braiden studied the outline of Orora’s body, imagining her standing on a ship’s prow, a cutlass in one hand, a spyglass in the other. He always thought she would look great with a parrot on her shoulder.

“Those were the days,” Orora sighed. “The glimmer on the waves, the churn in my stomach from the roiling sea, the rollicking excitement of boarding a merchant vessel. I was queen of the ocean, then, leading my crew from the bow, the sun hot on my skin, my bare breasts flapping in the wind.”

“Grandmother. Please!” Augustin whipped his head toward Braiden. The redness of their faces must have matched perfectly. “We have company.”

“Excellent. Then he can give me an opinion. You! The Beadle boy. Do you think my cruel, neglectful, egotistical grandson should seal the dungeon when it’s attracted so many jingling purses — I mean fine adventurers from far and wide?”

Braiden didn’t especially appreciate being called ‘the Beadle boy,’ but Orora was on the side of keeping the dungeon open. Also, there was something about her long-suffering grandmother act that appealed to Braiden.

And couldn’t this be a chance to forge friendlier relations with the Lighthouse? Relations that might, hypothetically, allow Braiden to negotiate the craft shop’s rent to a lower, more manageable number?

He stared straight past Augustin’s head and nodded as hard as he could. Out of the corner of his eye, Braiden could see the hurt of betrayal on the wizard’s face. The nerve of him! He shouldn’t have expected loyalty after all this talk of sealing dungeons.

“More people in Weathervale is hardly a bad thing. They may be wizards and warriors, but they’re respectful and considerate of the locals, for the most part.

” Braiden thought of the horned warrior again.

Not a rude bone in his heavily armored body.

“And it’s Braiden, by the way. Beadle is my family name.

It’s in the name of our shop. Beadle’s Needles. ”

A sly grin split Elder Orora’s face. She was a shrewd woman, of course, and knew exactly what Braiden was angling for. “And tell me, Braiden Beadle. How has this new rush of warm bodies in Weathervale impacted the craft business? Skeins of yarn flying off the shelves, I imagine?”

“Actually, things haven’t been going so well.

You can’t fight with knitting needles and crochet hooks.

A cardigan won’t protect you in battle. Adventurers have no need of my wares.

But that’s why I want to see the dungeon for myself.

I just know I’ll find something to help put Beadle’s Needles back in the black. I just know it.”

Elder Orora threw her arms out like she wanted to pinch his cheeks from across the great table.

“There, you see, Augustin? This brave young man wants to seek his fortune in the dungeon and harvest its bountiful treasures to save his struggling craft shop. Why do you want to kill his dream, Augustin? Why do you hold a grudge against Weathervale’s hardworking, handsome young men?”

“I never said that.” Augustin reddened, gesturing vaguely at Braiden. “I don’t believe — you know, all those things she just said.”

“Perhaps,” Orora said. “But it sounds to me as though you hate small businesses. And this one left to Braiden by his dear grandmother, too. A good woman, she was, Bethilda Beadle. Is that why you’re doing this, Augustin? Is it because you hate grandmothers?”

“There you go putting words in my mouth again. Years I spent out on the road in Aidun, and you’re still the same old slippery eel.”

Orora moaned melodramatically as she fell into her chair, a hand against her forehead. “You see how my grandson treats me?”

Braiden blinked. The impatient tapping of Augustin’s boot filled the chamber. He looked thoroughly unimpressed.

“If you’re quite finished with the performance, Grandmother? A compromise. Let me descend. I’ve been through many dungeons before. At least let me assess its threats, determine what sort of place this actually is. Then we’ll know how to proceed.”

The problem here was that Augustin was attempting to bargain with a pirate, the shrewdest elder of the council at the Lighthouse. Compromise wasn’t part of her vocabulary. Orora Arcosa was all about gaining the upper hand.

Braiden Beadle never was very good at bargaining. His hopes of negotiating his rent crumbled like sand castles in the waves.

Elder Orora sucked on her teeth, making a show of giving Augustin’s idea a moment’s consideration. Then she answered the way Braiden knew she would.

“You’re delusional if you think I’m letting you anywhere near that place. You’d generate a magical barrier before anyone was the wiser. No, Augustin. You are never setting foot in that dungeon. Ever.”

“You never listen to me,” Augustin said, his fists balled up in boyish defiance. “This isn’t over.”

Augustin Arcosa faced the nearest window, took a running start, and leapt off the tower.

Braiden yelped, running to the edge of the chamber, batting the curtains out of his face for a better look. Oh, gods, not that he wanted to see him splattered on the stones below, but who could survive a fall from the Lighthouse?

Meanwhile, Orora Arcosa sipped from her cup as she riffled through another stack of documents. These people were out of their minds.

“Your grandson!” Braiden shouted. “He’s — ”

“Perfectly fine,” she said, never once turning her head. “You’re looking at the ground when you should be searching the sky.”

Braiden looked up, his jaw dropping when he found the now-familiar cloak rippling through the clouds. Augustin was flying! This was difficult, powerful magic. The Wizard of Weathervale had definitely earned his title.

“He does this when he needs to cool off,” Orora said. “He does have a flair for the dramatic. Should have waited till he was older to teach him how to fly. I never could ground him.”

Braiden felt compelled to suggest that the dramatics ran in the family, but he bit his tongue. He watched as Augustin’s ever-shrinking figure faded into the distance.

“The wind magic runs in your family, then,” Braiden said. “The way that weaving runs in mine.”

“Aye, it’s in the blood,” Orora answered. “But it still needs to be taught. Your granny taught you, did she not? I’m a better wizard than I am a teacher, though. I could have been kinder to the boy. More patient, maybe.”

Her eyes took on a wistful glaze as she looked off into the distance.

“But that was then, and this is now. By my understanding, we appear to be on the same page regarding the matter of the dungeon.”

Braiden nodded emphatically. “I can’t lose the shop. I just can’t.” He choked back a sudden sputter. “This is all I have left of my family. This is Granny Bethilda’s legacy. I can’t — and I won’t — let the shop go under.”

A rare glimmer of something like kindness passed over Elder Orora’s face. Within seconds, the sharpness of cunning returned. When she smiled, her lips held the curve of a pirate’s cutlass.

“Bethilda was a good woman. You do this one thing for me, and I will consider absolving you from payment for the month.”

Braiden’s jaw fell. “All of it?”

“All of it, under one condition. There is nothing I can do to stop my grandson from charging into that dungeon headlong. There’s a reason the common folk have given him the title he now bears. Tell a man he’s a hero, and he might just become one in earnest.”

“The Wizard of Weathervale,” Braiden said.

“A bit on the nose, but catchy, too. And not undeserved. I feign ignorance to keep him humble, but I’ve heard of his heroics. The wind brings me stories. It whispers secrets.”

Braiden fixed her with a studious gaze. The wind whispered to her, did it? What else did Elder Orora know?

She slammed her hands onto the great table. A gust of wind rushed through the lighthouse. Braiden jumped, backing away from the windows.

“If — no, when — Augustin enters the dungeon, you must accompany him. Use any excuse you wish. Only ensure that he does not seal the dungeon. You and I both know it would deal a crippling blow to the boost in Weathervale’s business. Blocking off the dungeon serves no one.”

Braiden’s first foray into a dungeon and he was already juggling multiple roles. A small part of him felt proud that Elder Orora thought he could manage this on his own.

“Very well,” Braiden said, offering his hand. “A deal is a deal.”

“A deal’s a deal,” she echoed, shaking firmly.

Braiden pulled his hand away, surprised to discover that she’d palmed him a small quantity of gold coins. He didn’t recognize the currency.

“What’s this? Are you actually paying me to babysit him?”

“Ancient Il-venessi dragons,” she said. “Part of my hoard from my seafaring days. Very rare. You can swap those for new gold. Plenty enough to help you prepare for your expedition.”

“I can’t accept these.” There was a catch here somewhere, a snag in the bargain. “I don’t need them,” Braiden lied, trying to hand the coins back, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“Oh, I insist. Consider it a small loan.” The dread pirate Orora Arcosa clasped her hands and showed him her razor grin. “With interest. Run along, now.”

And there it was.