Augustin tugged on the collar of his tunic, his neck already covered in a light sheen of sweat. “Remember how Grandmother played a huge part in helping us down in the dungeon? With the matter of the frozen cube, I mean.”
“Sure. She helped plenty, but I don’t see how that should be cause for you to worry.”
Augustin raised his finger, pointing sternly at the Lighthouse looming in the distance. “That’s because you don’t know her like I do. Oh, she’s going to lord this over me for as long as I live, how she conjured a cloud spell to whisk us away from the dungeon depths, how she’d oh-so-selflessly added her magic to the effort of dissipating the cube’s power.”
“She can gloat all she wants,” Braiden said, glad at least to see that Augustin was keeping pace with him now, loosely allowinghimself to be guided along. “What does that matter? We’ll climb the tower, the two of you will exchange snappy, spicy barbs, and then we go back to the shop.”
Augustin narrowed his eyes. “It’s never that easy with Orora Arcosa, and you know that yourself. I just don’t like the timing of it all. Too much of a coincidence, if you ask me.”
And there it was, circling back to what Braiden had also worried about all along. He tried not to show too much concern in his expression, thinking back to that fine day at the Dragon’s Flagon when he’d chosen to wear a different face, when he’d made the decision to be a bolder, brighter version of the old Braiden Beadle.
He rested a hand on Augustin’s chest, pretending it wasn’t only an excuse to feel at the strong muscle there.
“We don’t know what we’re up against, but it helps to be prepared. Isn’t that how we dealt with the dungeon together? Whatever Orora has in store for us, all we can do is be ready to throw it back at her. Above all else, we can’t let her sense any fear.”
The wizard stomped his booted heel on the stones. “Damn right, you are. That old shark can smell blood in the water. We have to show a united front. Stiff upper lip. Come. Into my arms. I’ll fly us to the top of the Lighthouse. We’ll show the old bat what’s what.”
Braiden let go of Augustin’s hand, laughing nervously at his sudden burst of bravado. “Absolutely not. That’s far too aggressive. She might even blow us off the tower with a spell. We’ll take the stairs, as much as it pains me. And my legs, and my feet. Oh, gods, those stairs are going to kill me again, aren’t they?”
“Climbing stairs is very good for building one’s constitution,” Augustin said, hanging back as Braiden continued down thestreet. “And quite effective for building one’s posterior, too. Not that you need much help in that department.”
Braiden felt himself blushing bright red. He glanced over his shoulder again, but this time did nothing to disguise his annoyance.
“Get moving, will you? And my eyes are up here. Gods, you’re insufferable sometimes, you know that?”
The wizard winked. Braiden thought he might burst into flames.
A warm breeze drifted through the Lighthouse and its eclectic array of slats and open windows. When the wind blew just right, it played the tower like a flute, issuing a soothing song that could be heard down the street.
Braiden thought that today’s weather produced a more discordant sort of song, something akin to the cacophony that Bones called ancient Hyberidian music. He tried not to let it play on his nerves. For all he knew, Elder Orora might have summoned wind at a speed specifically measured to unnerve them both.
When they passed through the lobby, Augustin reverted to his heroic form, dazzling the clerks and the office workers with his easy smile, with languid waves of his hand. From the first time, Braiden remembered chatter on the floor, whispers from the workers who recognized Augustin Arcosa. This time he noted how some of them elbowed each other conspiratorially, several pairs of eyes flitting knowingly between his face and Augustin’s, making connections and drawing conclusions.
His ears burning red, Braiden tripled his pace as he rushed for the stairs, almost tripping in his hurry. Augustin caught him by the waist as he stumbled. A chorus of titters and coos emanated from the office area. Braiden thought he might die from embarrassment on the spot.
Had news really traveled through Weathervale so quickly? Not only the news that the Wizard of Weathervale himself had been key to saving the town from a supernatural winter, assisted by his grandmother from town council, of course, and some mousy boy who ran a local craft shop.
But all those knowing glances in the lobby suggested that rumors of a different sort were making their rounds about town, about as swiftly and splashily as the flyers they’d sent zooming throughout the streets.
Braiden almost stopped mid-step. This summons was about the flyers, wasn’t it? It had to be. He gripped the banister to steady himself. They were too close to the top of the tower for him to falter now. He had to choose confidence. He couldn’t let Augustin down.
And still he hit the top landing soaked in sweat and heaving gulping breaths down to the pit of his stomach. All that time in the dungeon had done nothing to improve his physique, after all. Augustin drifted past him with an easy air, seemingly taller and broader-shouldered than the intimidated version of him down on the street. Good. This was good. Braiden was allowed to be a soggy, panting mess if Augustin was there to present a handsome, unruffled front.
It was cooler up here, at least, the wind softly whistling in and out of the eight great windows, weathered rope and gauzy curtains dancing along the stout wooden pillars holding up the roof, dangling from the rafters. The great table, a repurposed section of an old ship, took up most of the council chamber’s space. As before, Elder Orora sat shuffling through a pile of documents, sipping thoughtfully from a cup.
But this time, she wasn’t alone.
That a man was sitting next to Orora Arcosa at the great table seemed odd in itself, so vivid was Braiden’s memory of seeingher hold court alone. Another elder, perhaps? Certainly at least as old as Elder Orora.
Locks of thick white hair spilled from the bandanna tied tightly around his forehead, as thick and snowy white as the eyebrows and mustache that covered a significant area of the man’s face. Braiden could barely see his eyes and his mouth. How did this man see, eat, or speak?
But even more striking than his enormous mustachios was the assortment of equipment strapped to the man’s shoulders. Backpacks were common enough around Aidun — Braiden owned one himself — but the stranger had what appeared to be an entire wooden chest supported on his shoulder blades, attached to his body by a complex system of leather belts. And was that a pickaxe? And a shovel, too?
The existence of people with unusual quirks and abilities shouldn’t have shocked Braiden as much since the influx of adventurers to Weathervale, but his shoulders still ached just from looking at the stranger. How could any man — much less a man who looked older than Orora herself — carry so much weight on his back?
“Ah,” Elder Orora said, setting down her cup. “Augustin. And Braiden, too. How good of you to come.”
Braiden noted the distinct lack of surprise in Orora Arcosa’s features, a mild shiver running down his spine. Her message had been addressed to Augustin alone, but she must have known that Braiden couldn’t resist tagging along. He kept perfectly still, as if caught in a spider’s web, afraid that the slightest movement would alert the black widow awaiting on its edges.
