Ybura preserve me, he thought, a bead of sweat rolling down his brow. He gathered blazing piles of wool into his rucksack, careful to protect his hands with his enchanted mitts. A dream achieved, and a dream surpassed.
“And take this as well,” the Mothergoat said.
She bleated once, decisive and loud, and one of the othergoats — their friend with the white patch — stepped forward, something black and shiny clenched between his teeth.
He dropped it in the grass at Augustin’s feet, pausing long enough for a head pat and a back rub. Augustin smilingly obliged before retrieving the second present.
“It’s an old horn,” he said, showing it to Braiden.
An othergoat horn, in fact, polished and carefully crafted to serve as an actual horn, a reed affixed to the narrow end.
“To you I gift a fragment of one of our oldest mothers,” the Mothergoat said, “though how fitting that an othergoat gift for humans should come with a transactional price.”
Braiden pursed his lips and nodded. Fair was fair.
“Keep this someplace you can see it, hear it. Should a windwalker arrive out of season, this is a way for my herd to quickly reach you. The horn will sound as if blown by the wind itself. But it works both ways. Should you need our assistance, for some reason or another, blow into its tip.”
This new knowledge gave Augustin a sudden reverence for the horn. He stared at it wide-eyed, holding it in the palms of both extended hands as a knight might hold a sacred blade.
“We don’t mean to inconvenience you,” Augustin said. “But how would you know where to find us?”
Braiden completed the line of unspoken questioning in his mind. More to the point, how would the othergoats even reach them?
“We have our ways,” the Mothergoat said, a smile threaded through the cryptic tone of her answer.
They said their goodbyes, Braiden and Augustin being mindful to bestow their friend with several more pats and rubs, handing out even more to the other othergoats who lined up for a rare spot of human affection.
The Mothergoat stood at the back of the herd, watching wordlessly as they departed. Braiden took one last longing look back at the othergoats. He waved. The Mothergoat said nothing, but nodded back. Braiden blinked and, her golden eye was shut.
Chapter
Fourteen
The journey homewas 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 oftheir 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.
