Chapter 2
DIVERSIFYING INCOME AND WHY IT’S BETTER NOT TO EAT brEAKFAST
Bradley Donmarin was a brooding, scowling grump with the prickly personality of a recently trampled rattlesnake. But at least he was pretty.
He wasn’t always so (in regards to his personality, that is), and a few times a day, the world saw the shade of his former self.
Sunrise over the desert waste of Ashburnum was such a time when the sorcerer apprentice was absent his less-than-charming demeanor.
The second was sunset, like a falling curtain smothering the end scene of a dismal play, never to be performed again and good riddance, too.
But that was hours away, and he was rather good at living in the moment, so for now, he felt optimistic.
And like everyone knows, optimism can brighten even the most despairing hearts.
Light spilled like orange ink over the dunes and stretched long shadows from the occasional agave stubborn enough to make its home in the sand.
The sun burned away the chill from the night and returned color to the land and, in doing so, renewed the hope in Bradley’s heart that maybe today was finally the day he would break free of his curse.
He sucked in a fortifying breath, let it out slow. Then he finished his coffee, set the mug down on the balcony railing, and leaned out. “Dirk!”
The name left his lips like a bark and echoed across the silent dunes.
Nothing, just the faint tsk-tsk-tsk of a lizard’s belly scales as it scurried for cover.
Strange, his friend could almost always be seen flying about at dawn, riding the thermals and warming his scales.
The sorcerer apprentice checked his spectacles for fog and reseated them on his nose.
He swept the black curls away from his forehead, just in case the breeze wanted to tease them across his vision, and peered out into the eastern sky once more.
Nothing.
Something sour twisted Bradley’s stomach into an elaborate knot similar to that of a pretzel.
It wasn’t his digestion protesting the four cups of coffee without so much as a crumb of breakfast to soak it all up.
It was an emotion he’d never experienced until three months ago, but was now far too familiar with.
Panic.
Yes, that’s what it was. Panic, seasoned with a little irrational fear and spiraling desperation, frothed up like scuzzy foam from boiling bean soup at the change in routine.
Bradley’s time in the tower was limited, precious, and stolen seconds could spell disaster for him.
His friend was crucial to his success here, so if he was missing . . . “Dirk!”
“Oye,” a groggy voice answered in a faraway shout from within the tower. “I’m in here, idiot.”
Bradley rushed for the archway, remembered his mug, backtracked to retrieve it, then dashed into the sorcerer’s workroom.
Occupying the entire top floor of the stone tower, the workroom was wholly cluttered with everything a sorcerer apprentice like him could possibly need in order to study for, and pass, his Master’s exam.
A portable stone hearth, a full potions set, no less than three cardboard boxes full of spare glassware for said potions set, a stuffed easy chair for ruminating or napping, a chalkboard for devising spells and all the necessary chalk needed for such a task, an assortment of crystal balls, and other such necessities.
There was even a detailed star chart inscribed upon the ceiling, though you oftentimes had to make sure it was a star you were looking at and not a fly wrapped in spider silk.
And, of course, since this was Master Excelsior’s former sanctuary, the entire tower was jam-packed with all sorts of knickknacks, bric-à-brac, curios, and the odd collection or two (or twelve).
He’d kept his pack-rattery mostly contained to the various rooms and suites, but a “few” items had found homes in the workroom, including the carving of a granite toad with garnet carbuncles for eyes, a ten-foot-tall mirror framed in abalone shell, and a large golden birdcage that must’ve housed a phoenix at one point because there was a neat pile of ashes on the newspaper-lined floor.
When Bradley Donmarin had arrived at the tower three months ago, everything had been covered in dust, cobwebs, beetle wings, and something gooey that only an oblivatus spell could fully eradicate.
Master Excelsior hadn’t used this retreat in the last fifty years, and so, instead of throwing himself immediately into his studies, the sorcerer apprentice and his obsessive compulsive disorder set to sprucing up the place.
It’d taken an entire day to get the sand out of the water pump and the pipes running clear, and that was with the aid of magic.
There was far more work to be done than time would allow, even with Dirk’s help and luck, so Bradley selected a single bedroom for himself (and let Dirk choose his), then shut the doors on all the others so the atrocious mess wouldn’t nag at his sanity.
Within reason, everything needed to have its proper place. And stay there.
So when you only considered the menfolk’s suites, the kitchen, and the spring at the bottom of the tower, everything was spick and span now.
Precise. Tidy. Organized chaos reigned in the sorcerer’s workroom, but that was to be expected, for that just was the way of sorcerers and the apprentices who hoped to one day pass their Master’s exams, earn their sorcerer staffs, and join their ranks.
Though, it had been Bradley’s idea to press everything up against the walls to leave the center of the room clear so he could practice his incantations without risk of tripping (as more elaborate spells often required the flourish of an arm or a skip of the legs to add some extra oomph), and he was very proud for having come up with that bit of cleverness.
Tiny passageways threaded through the stacks of clutter like a warren, allowing access to the vast bookshelves and each of the four balconies that jutted out over the desert at the cardinal directions.
Sometimes a spell could be enhanced by the soft light of an eastern sun versus the intensity of a southern one, or the power of the North Star as opposed to Vega, who dominated the western night sky.
Presently, Bradley darted across the workroom, the floorboards worn smooth from the darting of many such feet over the centuries.
He’d left the trapdoor open—normally a very foolish thing to do—but since he was the only human in the tower, he could risk it now and then.
But never when he incanted. Never then. Only the workroom had the necessary anti-incendiary, anti-exploding, and hydrophobic spells in place to protect the integrity of the tower.
One stray fireball zipping down the stairwell and Bradley Donmarin could kiss his private retreat privileges goodbye.
The sorcerer apprentice slipped through the opening, his feet immediately adjusting to the uneven stone steps.
He took them three at a time, bounding down the tower like a jackrabbit with his apprentice robe flapping about his knees.
The hermit crabs who made the tower their permanent home scuttled out his way, antennae and shells flashing with bioluminescent light.
Around and around Bradley spiraled, the glow of the crystals embedded in walls cutting through the darkness when the shafts of sunlight from the little porthole windows and arrow loops could not.
His free hand stretched out to catch the guide rope hooked into the wall should he ever lose his balance. The tower center was an open drop to the glowing spring below, hundreds of feet. A simple levitas spell could save him if he slipped.
Well, it could have saved him once, but not now. Not since that pernicious pimple of a man Franklin Gladstone had cursed him.
Shoving the thought away, Bradley stopped in front of a partially open door, the only one in the entire tower that had a hole where a doorknob had once been and a D carved in the wood via three deep gouges.
Bradley knocked and entered at the same time, holding his breath so he wouldn’t suck in any of the dust that clung to every surface like the most vigorous mold.
The room’s former occupant had been a dwarf or a halfling—everything from the chest of drawers to the shoe rack to the bed was pint-sized.
And utterly unused, though tidy, as Dirk preferred to sleep in the adjoining bathroom.
And there he was, coiled in the claw-foot tub. Beneath shiny red scales, copper coins and cloudy, low-grade gemstones filled the tub a quarter full.
“Dirk.”
One golden eye opened, the pupil sickling. “Morning already?” Dirk yawned and stretched to his full length, about six feet. “I don’t suppose you made extra coffee?”
Bradley lifted his hands to sign, but the dragon chided, “Eh! You know the rules. Words first.”
With a huff, the sorcerer apprentice shoved his hands into his pockets. “Wh-wh-where w-w-were you?” He swallowed, fighting for patience, and prepared to sign his question if Dirk had found him incomprehensible.
“Stayed up late for a little arson.”
Bradley rolled his eyes.
“What? You don’t pay me for my friendship and this treasure hoard ain’t gonna grow itself.” The baby dragon patted the coins beneath him. “Even Raegon the Rabid had to start somewhere.”
The sorcerer apprentice crossed his arms over his chest. It was a discussion they’d had many times before: Dirk wasn’t the kind of dragon that needed a hoard, but he’d taken up the unsavory habit anyway partly from his idolization of the Great Reds (he was the president of their official fan club, College chapter) and partly out of boredom—what was there to do in the desert waste of Ashburnum except study old spell books and soar the thermals?
Yet with that habit came certain risks, ones Bradley wasn’t confident he could mitigate in his current state if Dirk suddenly found himself in a sticky situation.