Page 52 of Wizards & Weavers
Visions of gold coins and gemstones and treasure chests fell away from his eyes. Moongrass filament. None of the treasures promised at the questing board could possibly compare to this.
A new kind of magic to bring into his weaving work, a way to put spells into clothing? He’d make a killing with the adventuring crowd, designing enchanted and empowered garments fit for exploring the dungeon.
This was it. At last, a way to save Beadle’s Needles and keep the family business afloat. How fitting that the legacy of his grandmother would be rescued by the warmth of another.
This was it: his real adventure, his true quest. Find the source of the dungeon’s dangers with Warren’s help, then report back to the burrowfolk. Then he would have his prize.
As long as he could stop Augustin Arcosa from sealing the dungeon.
Chapter
Twenty
Rooty tooty stewwas worth the wait, surpassing Braiden’s every expectation, a salty, faintly sweet, and mildly spicy concoction in an inexplicably creamy sauce. Halfway through his meal he’d already discovered tender chunks of potato, at least three kind of beans, a multitude of mushrooms, and sweetish rounds of turnip and carrot. Heaven in a bowl.
It was lunch time in the Underborough, and the village’s newest visitors were being treated to a hearty meal at one of the verandas outside the great tree. Mother Magda had only grazed for a bit before leaving to attend to her duties, but Warren made for a lovely host.
Especially lovely, now that he had his grandmother’s every blessing to depart. It would be a grand adventure for the young burrowfolk, even if only for the span of a descent into the dungeon.
But Braiden still found himself distracted, his mind kept busy by the promise of moongrass filament. How serendipitous that his most precious find in the dungeon was not a pile of gems, but a humble plant! Easy to transport and perfectly useable in his craft work.
He should have paid more attention to how much weaving they’d passed on their short walk through the Underborough. He couldn’t have missed how integral basketry was to the burrowfolk if he’d tried.
Even the placemats were woven out of slender wicker. The same went for the bread baskets, the coasters, and the sleeves for drinking cups designed to keep beverages cool. They reminded Braiden of the beer cozies he often conjured at the Dragon’s Flagon.
And to think that the burrowfolk had learned to weave small magic into their very wares. His mind whirled with the possibilities, all the enchantments he could embed into articles of clothing at Beadle’s Needles.
What adventurer would turn down a cloak that could protect them from dragonfire, or a knitted hat that enhanced the power of the mind? Given enough time and practice, Beadle’s Needles would be known far and wide for its innovations in enchanted knitwear. Every adventurer would long to possess a scarf of slaying, or a beautiful camouflaging cardigan — available in custom colors, too, naturally.
But he shouldn’t get ahead of himself. One step at a time, Braiden knew, even if he was juggling two things at the table. He knew he needed to keep his strength up, dunking a crusty hunk of bread into his delicious stew, but his other hand was busy riffling through Granny Bethilda’s sheaf of cards.
Did she really never mention anything about spinning or weaving permanent magic? It seemed so unlikely, but he’d been through the cards back and forth so many times since he’d inherited them.
“What’s this, now?” Augustin inquired, inspecting the cards over Braiden’s shoulder, chewing on a mouthful of stew. “Is this your spellbook?”
“In a way,” Braiden muttered distractedly, so absorbed in searching the cards for an answer that he’d forgotten his table manners entirely. By the way Augustin was chewing, though, it could be argued that he’d forgotten abouthismanners, too. “I inherited it from my grandmother. It’s everything I know.”
The wizard had chosen to sit next to Braiden, for whatever reason, and across the table, Elyssandra and Warren sat side by side. Warren was still busy with lunch, tearing up chunks of bread to soak up his stew. Elyssandra had already demolished two bowls of the stuff and appeared to be quite busy with her journal of heroes, the one she collected signatures in.
“Grandmother never gave me her book of spells to study, you know,” Augustin continued. “I don’t think she even has one. Come to think of it, it’s quite appropriate for wind wizards to only pass down their knowledge orally. There’s something poetic about it, don’t you think? To teach your magic with breath instead of ink.”
Still nothing, after flipping through so many cards. “It’s because you’re all full of hot air,” Braiden said absently.
Augustin sniffled. “That’s very rude. I mean, it’s technically true, but still.”
Elyssandra clucked her tongue and shook her head. “They’re like this all the time,” she told Warren.
The burrowfolk only chuckled.
Elyssandra kept glancing up at Braiden’s side of the table, one hand working a quill against the page with expert, practiced strokes. Augustin didn’t seem to mind the attention, even pausing every so often to strike a pose. Braiden stuffed his deck of cards back in his rucksack, sighing in defeat.
“You’re still drawing him?” Braiden asked. “Didn’t you already have an illustration of Augustin in your journal?”
“I don’t blame her,” Augustin said, grinning broadly as he helped himself to more stew. “I’m a very good subject.”
“Just making sure I get the details right,” Elyssandra said.
Braiden leaned over the table, trying to get a better look, but she quickly snatched up her journal, pressing the pages to her chest.
