Page 6 of Wizards & Weavers
He followed the elf and a small crowd of similarly excited patrons to the street outside. Braiden half expected someone descending from the clouds riding the tail of a lightning bolt, a man in a pointy hat with a snowy beard and a starry set of robes.
Instead Braiden was met with a farmer and his horse cart. Humble and common around these parts, the primary mode of transportation for farmers passing through to pick up supplies or sell off their crops.
But this farmer’s cargo was supposed to be a little more special than the average turnip. Braiden watched as someone hopped off the back of the cart, brushing off strands of hay that had stuck to the bottom of his britches.
“Oh,” Braiden muttered. “Is that all?”
A turnip might have been more interesting. This Wizard of Weathervale looked like any other man on the street. Taller than Braiden, certainly, and handsome in his own way, a neat black beard to match his fine head of black hair, his temples limned with patches of silver.
But where was the staff? Where were the scrolls and potions dangling from his enchanted belt? Braiden crossed his arms as he watched, still trying to figure out what made this man so very special.
“I can make magic, too,” Braiden grumbled. “And nobody callsmea wizard.”
“Oh, everyone can do a little magic,” said the elf. “But he’s different.”
Braiden jumped, surprised that she’d answered. His feet had carried him closer to the crowd, well within earshot of the hooded young elf who had produced, out of the folds of her cloak, a leather-bound book. Point taken, yes. Braiden’s affinity with magic didn’t exactly make him special. She didn’t have to rub that in, showing off with her pretty spellbook.
“Sure,” Braiden said. “Fine. Plenty of us know how to use a little magic here and there. But this wizard — I was born and raised in Weathervale. This is the first I’m hearing that we have our very own wizard. And besides, I wasn’t expecting him to be so — ”
“Dashing?” the elf breathed, her hands clasped together. “Handsome?”
“I was going to say ordinary. He’s just a regular man. I mean, I suppose he’s got some very nice boots.”
The elf regarded him as if she was seeing him for the very first time, her green eyes scanning his body from top to bottom, and back again. She was only looking, but Braiden could swear she was investigating every crevice of his soul.
“The only correct use of the word ‘ordinary’ with the wizard is at the end of ‘extraordinary,’” the elf said primly. “Just because you’ve never heard of someone doesn’t mean they aren’t worth hearing about.”
And without so much as a huffy, “Good day to you, sir,” she elbowed and shouldered her way to the front of the crowd, hersmile so sweet and apologies so honeyed that no one seemed to mind her cutting in line. Yes. A line. This wizard man was so famous that the previously very surly-looking patrons of the Dragon’s Flagon were now gasping, gushing, and raving in his face.
The elf reached the front of the line. Braiden couldn’t hear what she was saying, only picking up on her breathless delivery. Something she said made the wizard blush. He scratched the side of his head as she raised her book, opening its covers. Quite brazen to ask someone so openly for a spell, just like that.
The Beadle weaving magic was mostly simple stuff, but Granny Bethilda still guarded her spell catalog like it contained the secrets to the universe itself. It wasn’t very fancy, just a deck of loose recipe cards and spells held together by a clip. Helpful magic for mending clothes or making them smell nice, but not much use in a dungeon.
The Wizard of Weathervale conjured a quill out of thin air and began scribbling in the elf’s book. It was all she could do to hold the book straight, much less hold herself together. The wizard finished his scribble with a flourish. Must have been a short spell.
He clicked his fingers and the quill drifted away on the breeze, transformed into a little bird. The crowd oohed and aahed. Huh. Showoff.
But maybe the elf had a point. Few celebrities ever passed through Weathervale, but just because he’d never heard of someone, it didn’t mean they weren’t important to somebody else.
And just because he’d never tried, it didn’t mean Braiden couldn’t find his fortune in the dungeon. Or perhaps he could start small.
He turned away from the wizard and his adoring public, much more interested in the questing board hanging by thedoors to the Dragon’s Flagon. There was one of these wherever adventurers gathered, filled with requests for specialized aid.
Maybe someone needed a talented rogue to open a chest, something magical and potentially trapped that the local locksmiths refused to touch. Maybe one of the Weathervale herbalists needed a rare ingredient to brew a very important potion.
Braiden scanned the listings, finding the common denominator he’d already expected: most of these jobs involved the new dungeon in some way. One of Weathervale’s most prestigious jewelers was requesting an unusual gemstone reportedly found deep in the dungeon. And look how much they were offering as a reward!
So delving down the dungeon was a profitable endeavor, after all. This was going better than he’d expected, extracting bits and pieces of important information from a questing board, of all places. Braiden held his parchment up to the light, checking on the rest of his to-do list.
“Yes, yes,” said a velvety voice. “I’ll sign your parchment, too.”
“What the — hey!”
Before Braiden knew it, his parchment — his bill, his business plan — had been snatched out of his hands. The Wizard of Weathervale clicked his fingers, conjuring an even more extravagantly feathery quill. He guided it in elegant swoops along the entirety of Braiden’s feverishly-scrawled manifesto, overwriting the black scratches of ink with thick ribbons that shimmered turquoise, then pink, then gold.
Braiden’s hands flew to his head. He thought he might rip his own hair out.
“No! My plan!”
