Chapter 14
Chapter
Fourteen
The journey home was blissfully uneventful, apart from how much Augustin complained about not being allowed to send a wind spell at the occasional orchard.
Sleep had been deeply restful for them both, at least, affording Augustin a plentiful store of magical essence to power a flying spell that would carry them all the way back home.
But still the wizard insisted.
“It’s just one apple,” he said, scoffing. “And another for you. And maybe one for Craghammer, and Elyssandra, and Warren, and Bones, because it wouldn’t be very nice of us to come home empty-handed. I mean, no souvenirs from our grand adventure? Really?”
“We were gone for a few days,” Braiden grumbled. “What would the people of Aidun think, knowing that one of the heroes of the realm had stooped to pinching some fruit from an innocent farmer?”
Augustin sniffled. “A few measly apples. Not even a fraction of a bushel. Honestly.”
“You have to set an example,” Braiden said, disbelieving that he had to explain this to Augustin, but also slightly embarrassed that he’d been a little tempted to do the same at the start of their adventure.
“And what if the people of Weathervale hear about this? Imagine how that would impact your budding elixir business.”
Or Beadle’s Needles, for that matter. They did operate out of the same shop, after all.
“But, but,” Augustin sputtered. “Carnelian the Cunning is known for being a great thief, and the Violet Vixen is widely acknowledged as an extremely talented, if also charitable rogue. Steals from the rich, gives to the not-so-rich.”
Braiden wagged a lecturing finger in Augustin’s face, which was somewhat challenging to pull off, twisting his body around in midair.
“You are neither rogue nor thief, or have you forgotten? No stealing. If you absolutely must have a fruity snack, then we’ll buy something from the Weathervale market on the way home.”
The way Augustin grumbled and pouted afterward was very telling. The great Wizard of Weathervale had definitely pocketed some free produce fresh from the tree at least once or twice on his travels.
It was night by the time they arrived in Weathervale. By then, Augustin’s hankering for an organic farm-grown snack seemed to have waned. The wizard almost stumbled as they landed on the road just outside town.
Braiden caught him by the arm, supporting him by the waist as he helped Augustin hobble back into Weathervale. His drooping eyes and his sloped shoulders — gods, Braiden couldn’t imagine working magic as big as Augustin apparently attempted on a regular basis.
“That story about the Whiteport tidal wave makes sense now,” Braiden told him. “It really must have wiped you out for a week — pun intended.”
Augustin chuckled weakly. “Best sleep of my life. This is nothing. I could have flown us all the way to the shop, but, you know. My arms were getting tired.”
“I’m choosing to believe that that wasn’t a comment on my weight and simply sound reasoning for why you need to keep exercising your arms and building your strength.”
Augustin laughed again. “I’ll build my strength, all right, back in bed. I’ll be fine by morning. Might skip dinner. Just be sure to have a large breakfast for me when I wake up. Emphasis on large.”
“Anything for the great Wizard of Weathervale.” Braiden pecked him on the cheek. “I can’t believe you flew us all the way home.”
“And I would have flown us all the way to the shop’s doorstep,” Augustin said, repeating himself, exhausted to the edge of delirium. Braiden shushed him gently, and they walked in silence the rest of the way.
The familiar soft breeze and lapping waves off the docks of Weathervale must have lulled Augustin into a sort of dozing daze along the way. Truly impressive, how the man could fall asleep on his feet.
The lights were still on at Beadle’s Needles, the sign flipped to Closed. Braiden rapped his knuckles on the glass. Craghammer’s voice boomed from inside the shop, something to the tune of, “Come back tomorrow,” but he approached the door anyway.
His gruff annoyance at the mild inconvenience turned into stark surprise when he recognized his late night not-actually-customers. Elyssandra rushed up to greet them as Craghammer threw open the door.
“You’re back already?” she asked. “Oh, no. Is Augustin all right? Is that why you had to cut the trip short?”
Before Braiden could answer, Augustin produced something from out of his pocket, a round, perforated stone that whistled from every tiny opening.
“Mission accomplished, actually,” he slurred, just as he fell forward into Craghammer’s arms.
Craghammer threw the wizard over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “I’ll take him to bed.”
Elyssandra tutted. “He flew you across the countryside, didn’t he? Both ways?”
“Half of the way going there,” Braiden explained, “but yes, all the way home. Elyssandra, it was amazing! We met the othergoats. And you won’t believe who else I met.”
She took him by the hand, making sure to lock the shop door before she pulled him to the counter. “Tell me everything.”
“Tell us, rather,” Warren said, because he was there, too, tucking into dinner with Bones and the others.
It was a large portion of flatbread, baked to a light brown on the edges, slathered in tomato sauce and topped with a generous portion of cheese and a mix of meats and vegetables for toppings. Someone very considerate had sliced the whole thing into a number of triangular wedges.
Braiden helped himself to a slice, recalling that he’d already seen these delicious creations at the night market. He couldn’t quite remember what they were called, but was quickly converted to a fan.
“It’s like a piece of heaven,” he said, unable to contain himself around a mouthful.
“A piece of pie,” Elyssandra said, “but somehow savory.”
“More like a piece of garbage,” Bones said, the toppings dropping through the chute of his ribcage.
“It’s delicious,” Warren said, sighing as he once again went to retrieve the broom. “We need to find a way to restore your taste buds some day. And maybe get you a stomach, too.”
“He’s fast asleep,” Craghammer said, gently shutting the door behind him. “Hey, save me some. I want a piece of that, too.”
“Plenty for everyone,” Braiden said, satisfied with a single slice, or more realistically, too excited to tell everyone about his adventure with Augustin.
And so he did, breathless by the end, showing off a tuft of Mothergoat wool, tossing it from hand to hand like he was handling a hot potato.
“Phenomenal,” Elyssandra said, hands clasped, exhaling like she’d been holding her breath throughout his entire story. “And it’s warmer than even regular othergoat wool?”
“Hotter, actually. If only I could figure out how to spin this without burning my fingerprints away. Maybe with some mitts? Very awkward to pull off. It might make decent string for the Heirloom. Speaking of which — any progress on that?”
Bones and Warren grinned at each other.
“It’s finished, if you can believe it,” Warren said.
Braiden flinched, accidentally batting the Mothergoat tuft clear across the counter. Craghammer caught it, then yelped as he juggled it from one hand to the other.
“It’s already finished?” Braiden breathed. “That fast?”
“He’s a professional, I told you,” Bones said, folding his hands behind his head. “A craftsman. An artist. A nocturnal genius. You know, he’s definitely awake right now.”
Bones rose from the table, shredded flatbread and bits of bell pepper and mushroom falling into a pile on the floor.
“Wanna go see him at the graveyard?”
Braiden all but vaulted from the counter, cramming the last of his food into his mouth as he scrambled for the yarn displays. If the Heirloom truly was finished, then they could test different weights of thread on its frame.
Maybe Gregor had something interesting to offer about the subject, too. Didn’t Bones say that he was skilled enough to make musical instruments? Certainly skilled enough to craft and carve a strange device in, what was it, two, three days flat?
He slipped into Augustin’s room, pressing a quick kiss against the snoring wizard’s forehead. He deserved all the sleep he could get. Augustin snorted and flinched, then settled into a dopey, drooling smile as he slept. Braiden smiled back as he quietly shut the door.
Braiden was wide awake now, all the tiredness from his travels ejected from his body. But was there much of it to begin with given that Augustin had done all the traveling for them both?
Big breakfast. A very good breakfast, that’s what Braiden would make for him in the morning. As many fried eggs and sausages as Augustin could stuff in his mouth.
Craghammer and Elyssandra stayed behind to finish dinner and clean up at the counter. Bones and Braiden stepped back out into the cold night with their matching hoodie and sweater, Warren taking up the rear with his quarterstaff in hand.
“Just to be safe,” he explained, tapping its butt against the cobblestones. “Weathervale seems a fine place to live, but you never know.”
Braiden nodded enthusiastically and didn’t argue. Invisible air elementals, talking othergoats? At this point, he knew it was wisest not to discount anything in Aidun.
The great crystal atop the Lighthouse lit up the streets in the center of town, its greatest landmark, even lovelier to look at by night. A chilly breeze blew a gentle tune through its slats and windows, a lullaby for Weathervale.
But the Lighthouse’s whistle song seemed to grow more somber, even grim as they headed for the Deadlight. Perhaps it was just the understandable simmer of dread that came with going to a graveyard after nightfall.
Braiden had never been, always planning his visits to Granny Bethilda by daylight.
He’d heard the stories, of course, but always dismissed them as superstition and rumors.
He thought of the stories about Barrowdeep, its infestation of undead that feasted on human flesh.
Fear like ice water trickled down his spine.
And all these frightful fantasies spun through his overactive mind, he realized, even as he walked in the company of a rabbit man and a reanimated skeleton. Braiden almost chuckled, but immediately felt better.
The cemetery was predictably dark, of course, apart from the glow of the moon and the distant radiance of the Lighthouse. The gravekeeper’s shack twinkled amber and orange, candle and lamplight pouring from its windows, a beacon in the oppressive darkness.
“He’s here,” Bones said excitedly, quickening his pace.
Braiden almost reached out to tug on the back of his hoodie when the skeleton tripped over a rock, but his clumsiness had an awkward undead grace to it, a sort of built-in self preservation that somehow righted his joints and bones as he trundled over grass and uneven ground.
Braiden wondered what would happen if Bones took a spill hard enough to send his component parts scattering. Would the old necromancy of the long-dead Hyberidian sorcerers take effect and stitch his skeleton back together? Braiden thought it best if they didn’t have to find out, just in case.
“Wait up,” Warren said, picking his way between the headstones. “Slow down, Bones.”
But Bones was too excited to greet his only friend — never mind that he had two more right with him, and several others at the craft shop. He rapped his knuckles against the shack door.
A muffled grumble emanated from somewhere inside the shack, a sound that reminded Braiden of something that might come out of a surly uncle, or a wizened gray dog with great, huge whiskers. The door creaked open. To Braiden’s surprise, the man looked like a combination of both.
“Hi, bestie,” Bones said, giving Gregor an excited wave of his hand. “It’s me, your good buddy. Bones.”
As if he was worried the gravekeeper had forgotten. It was kind of cute, seeing Bones be so invested in friendship like this, navigating the murky waters of interpersonal relationships with his own brand of guileless charm.
“Eh,” Gregor grunted, one eye twitching as he glared at Bones, or seemingly past his skull.
Then he turned his head when he noticed Bones wasn’t alone, offering Warren a subtle but more congenial nod. It wasn’t until he met Braiden’s gaze that his own eyes went wide with what looked like recognition.
“It’s you. Bethilda’s grandson.”