Page 12 of Wizards & Weavers
“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 grandsonshould 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.
