Page 83 of Wizards & Weavers
“There’s a sheath of ice covering the ground,” Braiden muttered.
Orora smirked. “See how the Beadle boy has sharper eyes than you? Go on, then, Braiden. You were taught the weaving arts by Bethilda, were you not? Conjure us a sheet of cloth as fine and sturdy as a ship’s sail.”
It would be too slow and dangerous to walk. But reaching the cube meant continuing on a steady descent through the dungeon — a downward slope.
Augustin laughed. “You’re not seriously suggesting that we sail our way over the ice, are you?”
Not minutes later, the three of them were skidding down the dungeon on a plank of wood Orora had commandeered from the village. A powerful gale filled the sail grasped tightly in Braiden and Augustin’s hands, a challenging enough feat when they were already busy clinging onto the plank for dear life.
Defying all logic, Orora’s conjured wind was balmy and warm, keeping the three of them comfortable as they plunged headlong into the icy depths, melting just enough of the ice to keep their sled skittering along. And the whole while, Orora stood on the plank as if on the prow of a ship, blissfully ignoring all of Augustin’s horrified admonitions.
And quick as a flash the three found themselves in the great frozen cavern, right where the party had battled the colossal elemental. Orora leapt spryly off the speeding sled, landing steadily on her feet. Augustin held Braiden tight as he magicked a gust to buoy them upward and cushion them as they fell, leaving the sled to race onward and smash into a burst of splinters against the cavern wall.
Braiden panted as he clutched the side of his head, disoriented by their journey. These wind wizards were out of their minds. Augustin’s cloak billowed behind him as he raced for the frozen chamber. Elder Orora followed at a brisk pace, and Braiden fell in step, every one of his exhalations creating a cloud of fog.
It was so much colder now, perhaps the coldest Braiden had ever been in his short life. Again he congratulated himself for sensibly selecting a sweater for the dungeon. Noting the way Orora shivered as they entered the chamber, he quickly conjured one of his warming scarves.
Either the elder hadn’t taken Augustin’s message so seriously, or she’d been in too much of a hurry to find something warm to wear. Orora nodded in thanks, sighing as she wrapped the scarf around her shoulders.
The three of them entered. Orora glared at the cube as if its existence personally offended her. Augustin approached the frozen construct with even more caution than before. Braiden stared down at his hands, wondering what he could possibly contribute to this meeting of Weathervale’s two greatest wind wizards.
“I heard about that tidal wave you stopped in Whiteport,” Orora said, never taking her eyes off the cube.
Augustin raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And here I thought you weren’t very interested in what I was up to out on the road.”
“You are my grandson, Augustin. My only one. Of course I was interested. Foolish boy.”
It was as sweet as Braiden had ever heard her speak to him. Augustin tried not to show it, but even here, in the face of danger, he was holding back a tiny smile.
“Then you know what needs to be done,” Orora continued. “Remember what I taught you. Containing the cube won’t be enough. We must dampen this accursed object’s elementalforces, siphon them off, then dissipate them before it decides to burst.”
Augustin nodded, mirroring his grandmother’s stance as she extended her arms and curled her fingers toward the cube. No more seals, and no more barriers. This was the real deal. Braiden rubbed the back of his neck, unsure of what to do — and then the cube began to howl.
A blast of icy air ripped through the chamber. Braiden shielded his eyes, his skin turned to gooseflesh, every hair on his body standing on end. The cube shrieked with all the fury of a thunderstorm, pelting them with flecks of frost, with hail that struck as hard as stones.
“It’s fighting back,” Orora shouted over the mounting gale. “Don’t let it win.”
It was exactly as Augustin had said. The elements were neither good nor evil. An earthquake, a hurricane, a tidal wave — none of them bore an inherent sense of right and wrong. This cube was both force of nature and supernatural anomaly. This was its final bid for survival.
Augustin fell to his knees, his beard flecked white with frost. Orora groaned with effort, her arcane will buckling under the weight of so much elemental power.
Frustration choked at Braiden’s chest. He flipped through his mental storehouse of weaving wisdom, seeing every one of Granny Bethilda’s well-worn cards, searching for an answer. Over and over he searched through the deck, shuffling to the back, and then to the front.
And there it was. Card No. 1, the only one among them that held no practical advice, neither an actual spell nor a recipe. He’d always taken its contents for granted. It was only an introduction to the magic of weaving, short and sweet, just like Granny Bethilda.
Braiden had scoffed then, only a boy when she’d first shown him her sheaf of cards. He knew that magic ran in their blood, had always hoped to learn loud, flashy spells, tricks he might use to dazzle and impress those around him.
Granny Bethilda had only smiled, telling him that some day, he would understand.
“Ours is the magic of mending and making,” read the first of the cards. “Ours is the way of warmth.”
And wasn’t that all he’d done on this adventure? Mended wounds and clothing, made scarves for his friends, made great bolts of cloth to protect them from danger? It wasn’t too late. He could keep them from harm. He could still keep them warm.
“May your thread be long,” read Bethilda Beadle’s words, written as a young woman, even from the very first card intended as a gift to her loved ones. “May you make many memories.”
This wasn’t where Braiden’s thread would end. This would not be the last of his memories. He summoned every last drop of willpower left within his slowly freezing body, casting his arms out as he wove his greatest creation.
A thick, enormous sheet of fine fabric erupted from his fingers, every thread enchanted with soothing heat, every strand hugging its neighbor tight, to keep the frost out and keep the warm air in. Every new memory Braiden had made outside the comfort and complacence of his craft shop interlocked with the shimmering material, lending its structure both softness and strength.
