Luthien looked over at Oliver—and nearly laughed aloud, seeing an arrow sticking through the halfling’s great hat.
“Farewell!” the young Bedwyr cried, to which Oliver only smiled.
But both of them gawked when they looked ahead once again, for a translucent field of shimmering blue light had appeared on the road before them. Both the halfling and Luthien cried out in surprise and terror, thinking this some sort of devilish cyclopian magic, and tried to turn their mounts aside. Oliver plucked his great hat from his head and held it over his face.
They were too close, their momentum too great, and Riverdancer, and then Threadbare, plunged into the light.
All the world changed.
They were in a corridor of light now, everything appearing dreamlike to Luthien, as though he and Oliver were moving in slow motion. But when the young man looked at the world around or the ground below, he saw that he was moving at tremendous speed—every one of Riverdancer’s slow-moving strides took him across great distances.
The corridor of light veered off the road, turning south across the wheat fields, though the passing of the two mounts did not disturb the grain. It was as if they were running in the air, or on a cushion of light, not touching the ground at all, and their mounts’ hooves made not a sound. They came upon a wide river and moved across it, above it, without a splash. In a few seconds, the mountains loomed much closer, and then they were speeding up the slopes, crossing ravines as though the great valleys were but cracks in a stone.
A sheer cliff loomed ahead of them suddenly, and Luthien cried out again, though his words were lost behind him as they left his mouth. Straight up the cliff Riverdancer and Threadbare ran, cresting its top a thousand feet up and running across the broken boulder-strewn ground, through a copse of small trees too tightly packed for any horse to pass. Yet they did pass—without shaking a twig or leaf.
Soon Luthien saw another cliff face looming before them, and the light tunnel seemed to end there, with swirling patterns of blue and green dancing on the cliff wall. Before Luthien could even react, Riverdancer crossed into the stone.
Luthien felt the pressure building all about him: an uncomfortable, suffocating feeling. He could not cry out, could not even draw breath in that supremely enclosed place, and he thought he would surely perish.
But then, suddenly and without warning, Riverdancer came through the other side of the rock wall, stepping lightly into a torchlit cave, the horse’s hooves clacking loudly on the hard stone.
Threadbare came out right behind, slowed and stopped beside the white horse, and Oliver, after a moment, dared to lower his great hat from his face and look around. He looked behind, too, staring incredulously at the stone wall as the swirling glow dissipated. The halfling turned to Luthien, who seemed as if he was about to speak.
“I do not even want to know,” Oliver assured the young man.
9
Brind’Amour
It appeared to be a natural cave, somewhat circular and perhaps thirty feet in diameter. The walls were rough and uneven, and the ceiling dipped and rose to varying heights, but the floor was smooth and fairly level. There was one door, wooden and unremarkable, across the way and to the left of the companions. Next to that stood a wooden table with many parchments, some in silvery tubes, some loose but rolled, and others held flat by strangely sculpted paperweights that resembled little gargoyles. Further to the left stood a singular pedestal with a perfect ball of pure and clear crystal resting atop it.
A chair rested against the wall to the companions’ right in front of an immense desk with many shelves and cubbies rising above it. Like the table, it was covered with parchments. A human skull, a twisting treelike candelabra, a chain strung of what looked like preserved cyclopian eyes, and dozens of inkwells, vials, and long, feathery quills completed the image and told both friends beyond any doubt that they had come into a wizard’s private chambers.
Both dismounted, and Oliver followed Luthien to have a look at Riverdancer’s rump. The young Bedwyr breathed a sincere sigh of relief to learn that the arrow had only grazed his valued horse and had not caused any serious wound.
He nodded to Oliver that the horse was all right, then started off toward the intriguing crystal ball while his halfling companion scampered for the desk. “No mischief,” Luthien warned, for he had heard many tales of dangerous wizards in his youth and figured that any magician powerful enough to create the light tunnel that brought them here would not be a wise choice for an enemy.
Luthien’s wonderment at the strange turn of events only heightened when he looked into the crystal ball. There he was! And Oliver, too, moving about the cave. He saw Threadbare and Riverdancer standing easily, resting from their long run. At first, Luthien thought it was merely a reflection, but he realized that the perspective was all wrong. He seemed to be looking down upon himself from the ceiling.
Over at the desk, Oliver slipped a vial into his pocket.
“Put it back!” Luthien scolded, seeing the halfling’s every move within the crystal ball.
Oliver regarded him curiously—how could he know?
“Put it back,” Luthien said again when the halfling made no move. He glared over his shoulder.
“Are you so quick to give up such treasures?” Oliver asked, reluctantly taking the small vial from his pocket and holding it up before his eyes. “The ingredients could be most exotic, you know. This is a wizard’s house, after all.”
“A wizard who saved us,” Luthien reminded the thief.
With a deep sigh, Oliver placed the vial back in its place atop the desk.
“Your gratitude is appreciated,” came a voice from right beside Luthien. He stared at the empty spot in amazement, then fell back a step as a pattern of the wall seemed to shift. Out from the stones stepped the wizard, his color at first the exact hue of the stone, but gradually reverting to pale flesh tones.
He was old, as old as Luthien’s father at least, but held himself straight and with a grace that impressed the young Bedwyr. His thick and flowing robes were rich blue in color, and his hair and beard were white—snowy white, like Riverdancer’s silken coat—and flowing all about his shoulders. His eyes, too, were blue, as deep and rich as the robe, and sparkling with life and wisdom. Crow’s feet angled out from their corners—from endless hours of poring over parchments, Luthien figured.
When he finally managed to tear his gaze from the robed man, Luthien looked back to see that Oliver was similarly impressed.
“Who are you?” the halfling asked.
“It is not important.”
Oliver plucked his hat from his head, beginning a graceful bow. “I am—”
“Oliver Burrows, who calls himself Oliver deBurrows,” the wizard interrupted. “Yes, yes, of course you are, but that, too, is not important.” He looked at Luthien, as if expecting the young man to introduce himself, but Luthien just crossed his arms resolutely, even defiantly.
“Your father misses you dearly,” the wizard remarked, breaking down Luthien’s fabricated defenses with a simple statement.
Oliver skipped up beside Luthien, lending support and needing it as well.
“I have been watching the two of you for some time,” the wizard explained, slowly moving past them toward the desk. “You have proven yourselves both resourceful and courageous, just the two characteristics I require.”
“For what?” Oliver managed to ask. The wizard turned toward him, hand outstretched, and with a shrug to Luthien, the halfling tossed the repocketed vial to him.
“For what?” Luthien asked immediately, impatiently, not wanting to get sidetracked and wanting to keep the dangerous wizard’s mind off of Oliver’s trickery.