Page 7 of Wizards & Weavers
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.”
