Riverdancer seemed truly glad to be back out on the open road. The shaggy white stallion, coat glistening in the typical morning drizzle, strode powerfully under Luthien. Riverdancer wanted to run, but Luthien kept him in check. The terrain here was more broken than back in the northern fields. They were approaching the foothills of the Iron Cross, and even though they would have the better part of a day’s ride to get into Montfort and the rockier mountains, the ground here was strewn with boulders.
“I wish that he had put us closer to the city,” Luthien remarked, anxious to see the place. “Though I think Riverdancer could use the run.” He patted the horse’s muscled flank as he spoke and eased the reins a bit, allowing Riverdancer to spring ahead. Oliver and Threadbare were up beside them again in a moment.
“The wizard, he put us as close as he could,” Oliver replied. He noticed Luthien’s quizzical look, not unexpected since Oliver was beginning to understand just how sheltered the young Bedwyr truly was. Oliver remembered Brind’Amour’s plea to him to watch over Luthien, and he nodded. “Whoever it is that keeps the wizard up in his secret cave is likely in Montfort,” he explained.
Luthien thought about it for a moment. “Morkney,” he reasoned. Brind’Amour had mentioned that Greensparrow’s dukes had been corrupted by demonic powers, as had the king, so the reasoning seemed logical enough.
“Or one of his captains,” Oliver agreed.
“Then I should not complain,” Luthien said. “Brind’Amour proved a fine friend, and I forgive him his lie about the dragon cave in full—he did come to us in our time of need, after all.”
Oliver shrugged in halfhearted agreement. “If he had come sooner, then we might have enjoyed the spoils of a dragon’s treasure,” the halfling said, and he sighed profoundly at that thought.
“We got our gifts,” Luthien replied and patted his saddlebags. He chuckled as he said it, for a cape and folding bow, in truth, did not seem like much of a reward for invading a dragon’s lair. But Oliver did not share the young man’s mirth, and Luthien was surprised when he looked upon the halfling’s cherubic face to see a most serious expression there.
“Do not underestimate that which you have been given,” the halfling said solemnly.
“I have never seen such a bow,” Luthien began.
“Not the bow,” Oliver interjected. “It is valuable enough, do not doubt. But that which I speak of, that which was the greatest gift, was the crimson cape.”
Luthien looked at him doubtfully, then looked at his saddlebags as though he expected the cape to slip out and rise up in defense of itself. Truly it was a beautiful cape, its crimson coloring so rich that it invited the eye into its depths and shimmered in the slightest light as though it was alive.
“You do not know, do you?” Oliver asked, and Luthien’s expression went from doubtful to curious.
“Did you notice anything so very strange about the dragon’s reaction toward you when we were in the treasure cave?” Oliver asked slyly. “And about my own reaction when you met me on the hasty flanking maneuver?”
Hasty flanking maneuver? Luthien pondered for just an instant, but then he realized that to be Oliver’s way of saying “desperate retreat.” Indeed, Luthien had given some thought to the matter of the halfling’s question. In the treasure cave, the dragon had ignored him—even seemed as if it hadn’t noticed that Oliver had a companion.
“A dragon’s eyes, they are finer than an eagle’s,” Oliver remarked.
“He never noticed me,” Luthien said, knowing that to be the answer Oliver was looking for, though Luthien didn’t think as much of that fact as Oliver obviously did.
“Because of the cape,” Oliver explained. Luthien was shaking his head before the expected response even came forth.
“But it is true!” Oliver told him. “I, too, did not see you, and almost ran over you.”
“You were intent on the dragon behind you,” Luthien rationalized. “And Balthazar was intent on you, especially since your pockets were so stuffed with his treasures!”
“But I did not see you even before we found the dragon,” Oliver protested. Now Luthien looked at him with more concern.
“When I first found the staff, I turned about and called down to you,” Oliver went on. “I thought you had left or gone behind one of the piles, and only when you pulled back your hood was I able to see you.”
“A trick of the light,” Luthien replied, but now it was Oliver who was shaking his head.
“The cape is red, but the floor behind you was gray stone and gold co-ins.”
Luthien looked back at the saddlebags once more and rubbed his hand across his stubbly chin.
“I have heard of such items,” Oliver said. “You will find the cape a handy tool in the streets of Montfort.”
“It is the tool of a thief,” Luthien said disdainfully.
“And you are a thief,” Oliver reminded him.
Luthien held his next thoughts silent. Was he a thief? And if not, what exactly was he, and why was he riding along the road into Montfort beside Oliver deBurrows? The young Bedwyr laughed aloud, preferring that reaction to having to face up to his course thus far. Events had taken him, not the other way around; if Oliver deBurrows called him a thief then who was he to argue?
Montfort came into sight around the next bend, nestled among the rocky cliffs and outcroppings of the northern slopes of the Iron Cross. The companions saw many buildings set in straight rows along the slopes of the foothills and spreading down into the valley, but most of all, they saw the Ministry.
It seemed more a part of the majestic mountains than a man-made creation, as though the hand of God had squared and shaped the stone. Two square-topped towers, each rising more than a hundred feet into the air, flanked the front of the building, and a much taller spire was centered on the back. Huge, arching buttresses lined the sides from the peaked roof to the rows of smaller steeples, accepting the tremendous weight of the stone and channeling it to the ground. Stone gargoyles leaned out from every side of these smaller towers to leer at passersby, and great colored windows depicted a myriad of scenes and free-flowing designs.
Even from this distance, Luthien was overwhelmed by it all, but his spirits never lifted from the ground as he recalled Brind’Amour’s lament about the present purpose of the cathedrals. Again the young Bedwyr felt the foundation of his life shifting underneath him, and he almost expected the ground to crack open and drop him into a horrific abyss.
Like most towns near to the wild Iron Cross, Montfort was surrounded by two walls both manned by many grim-faced cyclopians. Two came down to the gate to meet Oliver and Luthien. At first, they seemed suspicious and clutched their weapons tightly, particularly when they glanced upon the outrageous halfling. Luthien expected to be turned away, at the very least, and honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if the crossbowmen atop the wall opened fire.
One of the cyclopians moved toward Riverdancer’s saddlebags, and Luthien held his breath.
“You have no cause!” Oliver protested firmly.
Luthien glanced at the halfling in disbelief. Certainly he and Oliver might find some trouble if the cyclopian found the folded bow, but that trouble could not compare to the potential repercussions of Oliver’s boldness.
The other cyclopian eyed the halfling dangerously and took a step toward him, and was met by Oliver’s hand thrusting forward the wizard-forged passes. The cyclopian opened the parchment and looked at it carefully. (Luthien knew that the brute couldn’t read it, though, particularly since the pass was upside down at the time.) Still, the cyclopian’s expression brightened considerably, and it called its companion to its side.
This cyclopian was smarter, even turned the parchment right-side up after a moment’s thought. But the cyclopian’s expression, like that of its companion, was soon beaming. The brute looked up to the wall and waved the crossbowmen away, and seemed almost thrilled to let the two riders enter Montfort—the two cyclopians even bowed low as Luthien and Oliver rode past them!