R. Salvatore - The Sword of Bedwyr

Luthien stared long and hard at Brind’Amour, his thoughts whirling down many newly opened avenues. Nothing Brind’Amour had said to him, up until the last couple of sentences, had gone against the precepts he had been taught as a child, the basis for his entire perception of the world. The news that wizards, not priests, had inspired the great cathedrals was only a minor point. But what Brind’Amour had just said rocked the young man profoundly. Brind’Amour had just accused Luthien’s king, the man to whom his father owed fealty, of severe crimes—terrible crimes!

Luthien wanted to lash out at the wizard, punch the lying old man in the face. But he held steady and quiet. He felt Oliver’s stare upon him and guessed that the halfling understood his turmoil, but be did not return the look. He could not, at that moment.

“My greatest lament,” Brind’Amour said softly—and truly, he seemed sincere—“is that the magnificent cathedrals of Avonsea, the dominant structures of every large city in the land, have become so perverted, have become the houses of Greensparrow’s eight dukes, the newest generation of perverted wizards. Even the Ministry, which I, Brind’Amour, as a young man, helped to design.”

“How old are you?” Oliver asked, but the wizard seemed not to hear.

“Once they stood as a tribute to man’s spirituality and faith, a place of holy celebration,” the wizard went on, still eyeing Luthien directly. The weight of his tone dissipated the budding rage in Luthien, forced him to hear the man out. “Now they are no more than gathering places where the tax rolls might be called.”

The last statement stung, for it rang of truth. Luthien’s father had been called to Montfort on several occasions, and he had spoken of walking into the Ministry not to pray or celebrate God but to explain a discrepancy in the tithe sent to Duke Morkney from Bedwydrin.

“But let that not be your concern,” Brind’Amour said, his cheery tone obviously forced, “neither of you!”

The way Brind’Amour made the assertion made Luthien wince. The proud young man had a strange feeling that what Brind’Amour had just told him would make a profound difference in his life, would change the very way he looked at the world. What scared Luthien was that he wasn’t yet sure what that meant.

“And you both have earned your freedom from my . . . interference and have earned my friendship, whatever that may be worth.” The cloud of pained memories had flown clear of the wizard’s face. A wistful look came into his eye as he took a moment to fully regard Luthien.

“That cape fits you well,” the wizard remarked.

“I found it in the dragon cave,” Luthien started to explain, but he stopped, catching the mischievous twinkle in the wizard’s blue eyes and remembering the circumstances under which he had come upon the leather sack. “You put it there,” he accused.

“I meant to give it to you after you returned with my staff,” Brind’Amour admitted. “I would have hated to lose those items—the cape and the folding bow—to Balthazar, as well! But you see, I held faith in you, in both of you, and I thought you might be able to make use of them where you were.”

Oliver cleared his throat loudly, interrupting the conversation and drawing looks from both men. “If you could drop us such toys, then why did you not just get us out of there?” the halfling demanded of Brind’Amour. “I had your staff already—it would have been so much easier.”

The wizard looked at Luthien but didn’t find much support there, for Oliver’s line of reasoning had obviously set off some doubts in the young man’s mind. “The enchantment was not potent enough,” Brind’Amour stammered, trying to figure out how he might begin to explain. “And I didn’t know where you were, exactly, and what you might soon be facing.”

“Shooting blind?” Oliver asked both incredulously and suspiciously. “Then your aim, it was not so bad.”

Brind’Amour began waving his hands, as if to indicate that the companions simply did not understand. “Of course I was able to locate you with a simple spell, though I didn’t know where that was, if you understand what I mean. And then to get the items to you was another spell, a fairly simple transference, but certainly no open gate like the one that got you to the lair and got you back from the lair. No, no.”

Oliver and Luthien looked at each other, and after a moment, Oliver gave a shrug. Brind’Amour’s explanation was acceptable.

“And what of that strange arrow?” Luthien asked, getting back to the original conversation.

“Harmless, really,” Brind’Amour said with a chuckle. “I didn’t even intend to put it there—it was merely lying beside the belt quiver and just got caught up in the spell! Those types of arrows are called ‘fireworks’ and were used for celebrations in the happier days before Greensparrow. I must say, you were very resourceful in putting it to such valuable use.”

“I was lucky,” Luthien corrected. “I had no idea of what the arrow might do.”

“Never underestimate the value of luck,” Brind’Amour replied. “Was it anything more than luck that brought you to Oliver in his time of need? If not for that chance happening, would the halfling be alive?”

“I had my rapier blade,” Oliver protested, drawing out the weapon and holding it directly in front of his face, its side against his wide nose.

Brind’Amour looked at him skeptically and began to chuckle.

“Oh, you have so wounded me!” Oliver cried.

“No, but the merchant’s cyclopians surely would have!” the wizard replied with a hearty laugh, and Oliver, after a moment’s thought, nodded and replaced his weapon in its sheath, trying futilely to hide his own chuckles.

Brind’Amour’s demeanor changed again, suddenly, as he looked at Luthien. “Do not openly wear that cape,” he said seriously.

Luthien looked at the shimmering, crimson material cascading down from his broad shoulders. What was the man talking about? he wondered. He wondered, too, what use a cape would be if it could not be worn.

“It belonged to a thief of some renown,” Brind’Amour explained. “The bow, too, was his, and those folding bows are outlawed in Avon, since they are the weapons of underground bands, threats to the throne.”

Luthien looked at the cape and the bow and continued to ponder the value of such items. Were these gifts Brind’Amour had given to him, or burdens?

“Just keep them away and keep them safe,” Brind’Amour said, as if reading Luthien’s thoughts. “You might find a use for them, and then again, you might not. Consider them, then, trinkets to spur your memories of your encounter with a dragon. Few in all the world can claim to have seen such a beast, for those that have are likely dead. And that encounter, too, must remain a secret,” Brind’Amour said almost as an afterthought, though he seemed deadly serious.

Luthien nearly choked on the request and turned his continuing incredulous look upon Oliver. The halfling put a finger over his pursed lips, though, and shot Luthien a sly wink. The young Bedwyr got the message that worldly Oliver understood this better than he and would explain it to him later.

They said nothing more about the dragon, the gifts, or even about Brind’Amour’s history lesson for the rest of that evening. Again, the wizard set a fabulous table before the companions and offered them another comfortable night on the soft beds, which they eagerly accepted.

Brind’Amour came to Oliver later that night, woke him and motioned for him to exit the room. “Watch over him,” the wizard explained to the sleepy-eyed halfling.

“You expect great things from Luthien Bedwyr,” Oliver reasoned.