R. Salvatore - The Sword of Bedwyr

“Luthien,” Oliver whispered, trying to bring him back to a rational level. “Luthien.”

“Am I to apologize?” Brind’Amour spat suddenly, incredulously, and his unexpected verbal offensive set Luthien back on his heels. “Are you so selfish?”

Now Luthien’s face screwed up with confusion, not having any idea of what the wizard might be talking about.

“And do you believe that I would have allowed the two of you to walk into such danger unless there was a very good reason?” Brind’Amour went on, snapping his fingers in the air in front of Luthien’s face.

“And your ‘very good reason’ justifies the lie and is worth the price of our lives?” Luthien snapped back.

“Yes!” Brind’Amour assured him in no uncertain terms. “There are more important things in the world than your safety, dear boy.”

Luthien started to react with typical anger, but he caught a faraway look in Brind’Amour’s blue eyes that held his response in check.

“Do you not believe that I grieve every day for those men who went in search of my staff before you and did not return?” the wizard asked somberly. A great wash of pity came over Luthien, as if somehow the gravity of the wizard’s words had already touched his sensibilities. He looked at Oliver for support, honestly wondering if he had been caught by some sort of enchantment, but the halfling appeared similarly overwhelmed, similarly caught up in the wizard’s emotions.

“Do you know from where a wizard gains his power?” the man asked, and Brind’Amour suddenly seemed very old to the companions. Old and weary.

“His staff?” Oliver answered, a perfectly reasonable assumption given the task he and Luthien had just completed.

“No, no,” Brind’Amour replied. “A staff is merely a focus for the power, a tool that allows a wizard to concentrate his energies. But those energies,” he went on, rubbing his thumb across his fingertips in front of his face as though he could feel the mysterious powers within his hand. “Do you know where they come from?”

Luthien and Oliver exchanged questioning expressions, neither having any answers.

“From the universe!” Brind’Amour cried abruptly, powerfully, moving both of the friends back a step. “From the fires of the sun and the energy of a thunderstorm. From the heavenly bodies, from the heavens themselves!”

“You sound more like a priest,” Oliver remarked dryly, but his sarcasm was met with unexpected excitement.

“Exactly!” Brind’Amour replied. “Priests. That is what the ancient brotherhood of wizards considered themselves. The word ‘wizard’ means no more than ‘wise man,’ and it is a wise man indeed who can fathom the complete realities of the universe, the physical and the spiritual, for the two are not so far apart. Many priests do not understand the physical. Many of our recent inventors have no sense of the spiritual. But a wizard . . .” His voice trailed away, and his blue eyes sparkled with pride and that faraway look. “A wizard knows both, my boys, and always keeps both in mind. There are spiritual consequences to every physical act, and the physical being has no choice except to follow the course of the soul.

“Who do you think built the great cathedrals?” Brind’Amour asked, referring to the eight massive structures that dotted the islands of Avonsea. Six were in Avon, the largest in Carlisle and a similar one in Princetown. The Isle Baranduine, to the west, had only one, and Eriador had one located in Montfort. Luthien had never been into Montfort, but he had passed by the city along the foothills of the Iron Cross. From that perspective, all the buildings of Montfort (and many were large and impressive), and even the one castle of the city, seemed to be dollhouses of children under the long shadows of the towering spires and huge stone buttresses of the massive cathedral. It was called simply the Ministry, and it was one of the greatest sources of pride for the people of Eriador. Every family, even those of the islands, had an ancestor who had worked on the Ministry, and that heritage inspired Luthien to respond now through gritted teeth:

“The people built them,” he answered grimly, as if daring Brind’Amour to argue.

The wizard nodded eagerly.

“In Gascony, too,” Oliver promptly put in, not wanting his homeland to be left out of any achievement. The halfling had been to Montfort, though, and he knew that the cathedrals of Gascony, though grand, could not approach the splendor of those on the islands. The Ministry had taken the halfling’s breath away, and by all accounts, at least three of the cathedrals south of the Iron Cross were even larger.

Brind’Amour acknowledged the halfling’s claims with a nod, then looked back at Luthien. “But who designed them?” he asked. “And who oversaw the work, supervising the many hardy and selfless people? Surely you do not believe that simple farmers and fishermen, noble though they might be, could have designed the flying buttresses and great windows of the cathedrals!”

Luthien took no offense at the wizard’s words, in full agreement with the logic. “They were an inspiration,” he explained, “from God. Given to his priests—”

“No!” The sharpness of the wizard’s tone stopped the young man abruptly. “They were an inspiration of the spirit, from God,” Brind’Amour conceded. “But it was the brotherhood of wizards who designed them, not the priests who later, with our profound blessings, inhabited them.” The wizard paused and sighed deeply before continuing.

“We were so powerful then,” he went on, his tone clearly a lament. “It was not so long after Bruce MacDonald had led the rout of the cyclopians, you see. Our faith was strong, our course straight. Even when the great army of Gascony invaded, we held that course. It saw us through the occupation and eventually forced the Gascons back to their own land.” Brind’Amour looked straight at Oliver, not judging the halfling but simply explaining. “Your people could not break our faith in ourselves and in God.”

“I was told that we had other business to the south,” Oliver replied, “and could not keep so many soldiers in Avonsea.”

“Your people had no heart to remain in Avonsea,” Brind’Amour said calmly. “There was no point, no gain to Gascony. They could never take Eriador, that much was conceded, and with the disarray in the north . . . Well, let us just agree that your king was having little fun in holding the reins about the spirited Avonsea Islands.”

Oliver nodded his concession to the point.

“It is ironic indeed that the greatest canker began to grow during the peace that ensued after the Gascons departed,” Brind’Amour said, turning his attention back to Luthien. The young Bedwyr got the distinct feeling that this history lesson was almost exclusively for his benefit.

“Perhaps we were bored,” the wizard remarked with a chuckle, “or perhaps the lure of the greater powers prodded us on too far. Wizards had always used minor creatures of the lower planes—bane midges and the lesser demons—as servants, calling on them, with their knowledge of other planes of existence, to find answers to those questions we could not discern from within our earthly mantles. Until that time not so long ago, though, our true powers came from the pure energies: fires and lightning, the cold winds of the northern glaciers and the strength of an ocean swell. But then some in the brotherhood, including our present king, Greensparrow”—he spat the name with obvious disdain—“forged evil pacts with demons of great power. It took many decades for their newfound and ill-gotten powers to come to true fruition, but gradually they drove the goodly wizards, like myself, from their ranks.” He ended with a sigh and looked down, seeming thoroughly defeated.