“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.
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.