The Sword of Bedwyr

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.

“Patience, my boy!” the robed man replied lightheartedly, seeming not at all offended by the halfling’s attempted theft. He stared at the vial for a moment, then offered a smirk at the halfling.

Oliver sighed and shrugged again, then took a similar vial out of his pocket and tossed it to the wizard.

“I always keep spares,” the halfling explained to a confused Luthien.

“Several, it would seem,” the wizard said, somewhat sharply, holding his hand out once more.

A third sigh came from Oliver, and this time the proper vial was flipped across the room. With a quick glance, the wizard replaced it on the desk and pocketed Oliver’s other vials.

“Now,” he said, rubbing his hands together and approaching the pair, “I have a proposition for you.”

“In Gascony, we do not take well to wizard-types,” Oliver remarked.

The wizard stopped and considered the words. “Well,” he replied, “I did save your life.”

Luthien started to agree, but Oliver cut him off short.

“Bah!” the halfling snorted. “They were only one-eyes. Those we could not outrun would have felt the very wicked sting of my rapier blade!”

The wizard gave Luthien a skeptical look; the young man had no reply.

“Very well,” said the wizard. He motioned to the wall and the swirling blue light began anew. “On your mounts, then. It has only been a minute or two. The cyclopians will likely still be about.”

Luthien scowled at Oliver, and when the halfling shrugged in defeat, the wizard smiled and dispelled the magical portal.

“I was only bargaining for the best price,” the halfling explained in a whisper.

“Price?” balked the wizard. “I just plucked you from certain doom!” He shook his head and sighed. “Very well, then,” he said after a moment of thought. “If that is not enough for your service, I will give to you passes into Montfort and information that might keep you alive once you get there. Also, I think that I might be able to convince this merchant you robbed that his continued pursuit of you would not be worth the trouble. And the favor I ask, though undoubtedly dangerous, will not take so long.”

“Explain it,” Luthien said firmly.

“Over dinner, of course,” the wizard replied, motioning to the wooden door.

Oliver rubbed his hands—now the man was talking in terms that he could agree to—and turned for the door, but Luthien stood resolute, arms crossed over his chest and jaw firm.

“I’ll not dine with one who will not give his name,” the young Bedwyr insisted.

“More for me,” Oliver remarked.

“It is not important,” the wizard said again.

Luthien didn’t blink.

The wizard moved to stand right before him, staring him in the eyes, neither man blinking. “Brind’Amour,” the robed man said, and the gravity of his tone made Luthien wonder if he should know that name.

“And I am Luthien Bedwyr,” the young man replied evenly, his eyes staring intently as if daring the wizard to interrupt.

Brind’Amour did not, though, allowing the young man the honor of a proper introduction.

The table in the adjoining room was simply spectacular, set for three, including one place with a higher chair.

“We were expected,” Oliver remarked dryly, but as he aproached the table and saw the display set out, he had no further demeaning comments. Fine silverware and crystal goblets, cloth napkins, and plates fine and smooth were set and ready for the meal. Oliver was, too, judging from the way he hustled over and hopped up into the high seat.

Brind’Amour moved to the side of the room, an artificial chamber with bricked walls, very different from the one they had left behind. He opened several secret cupboards, their doors blending perfectly with the bricks, and brought out the courses—roasted duck and several exotic vegetables, fine wine, and clear, cold water.

“Surely a wizard could have conjured a servant,” Luthien remarked after he had taken his seat, “or clapped his hands and let the plates float across to the table.”

Brind’Amour chuckled at the notion. “I may have need of my powers later this day,” he explained. “The use of magical energy is taxing, I assure you, and it would be a pity indeed if our quest failed because I was too lazy to walk over and bring out the food!”

Luthien let the explanation go at that. He was hungry, and besides, he realized that any important conversation he might now hold with Brind’Amour would only have to be repeated for Oliver’s sake. The halfling was practically buried in a bowl of turnips at the moment.

By the time he lifted his glass of wine for a final sip, Luthien had to admit that Brind’Amour had set the finest table he had ever known.

“Perhaps we in Gascony should give another look to our wizard-types,” Oliver remarked, patting his fattened belly in whole-hearted agreement with Luthien’s thoughts.

“Yes, you could appoint them chefs in every town,” Brind’Amour replied with good-hearted sarcasm. “What else would a wizard have to do?” he asked of Luthien, trying to draw the young Bedwyr into the casual conversation.

Luthien nodded but remained distant from the banter as Oliver and Brind’Amour went back and forth, with Oliver recounting the tale of an adventure he had experienced in a wizard’s tower, and Brind’Amour adding some detail to Oliver’s descriptions and generally nodding and gasping at the appropriately polite places. Now that the meal was done and the formal introductions were at their end, Luthien was anxious to focus on the task at hand. Brind’Amour had saved them from the cyclopians, and passes to Montfort (the last chance he figured he might have of ever catching up with Ethan), as well as getting that merchant off their backs, was a reward the young man could not ignore.

“You mentioned a task,” Luthien was finally able to interject. The ease of the conversation disappeared in the blink of a halfling’s eye. “Over dinner, I believe you said, but now dinner is over.”

“I did not think that I could get my words in above the clamor of an eager halfling guest,” Brind’Amour said with a strained smile.

“Oliver is done,” the stern and determined Luthien remarked.

Brind’Amour sat back in his chair. He clapped his hands and a long-stemmed pipe floated out of a cubby, lighting as it approached the man, then settling gently into his waiting hand. Luthien understood that the magical display was for his benefit, a subtle reminder that Brind’Amour was in control here.

“I have lost something,” the wizard said after several long draws on the pipe. “Something very valuable to me.”

“I do not have it,” Oliver remarked, clapping his hands.

Brind’Amour gave him a friendly gaze. “I know where it is,” he explained.

“Then it is not lost.” This time, the halfling’s humor did not evoke any appreciative response from Brind’Amour or from Luthien. The young Bedwyr could see the pain on the old man’s wizened face.

“It is in a great sealed cave complex not so far from here,” he said.

“Sealed?” Luthien asked.

“By myself and several companions,” Brind’Amour answered, “four hundred years ago, before the Gascons came to the Avonsea Islands, when the name of Bruce MacDonald was still prominent on every tongue in Eriador.”

Luthien started to respond, then stopped, stunned by the implications of what he had just heard.

“You should be dead,” Oliver remarked, and Luthien scowled fiercely at him.

Brind’Amour took no offense, though. He even nodded his agreement with the halfling. “All of my companions are long buried,” he explained. “I live only because I have spent many years in magical stasis.” He waved his hands suddenly, wildly, indicating that he needed a change of subject, that they had gotten off the issue at hand.

Luthien could see that the man was plainly uncomfortable.

“The world might be a simpler place if I was dead, Oliver Burrows,” Brind’Amour went on. “Of course, then you two would also be dead,” he pointedly reminded them, drawing a tip of the hat from Oliver.

“My task for you is simple,” the wizard explained. “I have lost something—you are to go to the caves and retrieve it.”

“It?” both friends asked together.

The wizard hesitated.

“We must know what we are looking for,” Luthien reasoned.

“A staff,” Brind’Amour admitted. “My staff. As precious as anything I own.”

“Then how did you come to leave it in this cave?” Oliver wondered.

“And why did you seal the cave?” Luthien added.

“I did not leave it in the cave,” Brind’Amour replied rather sharply. “It was stolen from me and placed there not so long ago. But that is another story, and one that does not concern you in the least.”

“But . . .” Oliver began, but he quieted as soon as Brind’Amour’s dangerous scowl settled on him.

“As for the cave, it was sealed to keep its inhabitants from roaming Eriador,” the wizard said to Luthien.

“And what were they?” Luthien pressed.

“The king of the cyclopians and his mightiest warriors,” Brind’Amour replied evenly. “We feared that he would ally with the Gascons, since we knew that they would soon be on our shores.”

Luthien stared hard at the old man, not sure he believed the explanation. Oliver was even more doubtful. Gascons hated cyclopians more than did Eriadorans, if that was possible, and any potential alliance between the people of the southern kingdom and the one-eyes seemed unlikely at best.

Also, Luthien could not begin to fathom why such extreme measures would have been taken against a race that had been savaged not so long before that. Bruce MacDonald’s victory had been complete, bordering on genocide, and as far as the young Bedwyr knew, the cyclopian race hadn’t fully recovered to this day.

“Now, with any luck, the cave is uninhabited,” Brind’Amour said hopefully, obviously trying to press on past that last point.

“Then why do you not go there and retrieve your so precious staff?” Oliver asked.

“I am old,” Brind’Amour replied, “and weak. I cannot hold open the portal from here, my source of power, if I go through the tunnel to that other cave. And so I need your help—help for which you have already been, and will yet be, well paid.”

Luthien continued to study the wizard for some time, sensing that what the man had said was not true, or not the whole truth. Still, he had no more specific questions to ask, and Oliver simply sat back in his chair and patted his tummy. They had ridden far that day, fought on the road, and eaten well.

“I offer you now the comfort of warm and soft beds,” Brind’Amour promised, sensing the mood. “Rest well. Our business can wait until the morn.”

The companions readily accepted, and after a quick check on Threadbare and Riverdancer, who had been put in an empty chamber to the side of the library, they were soon nestled comfortably in featherbeds, and Brind’Amour left them alone.

“Four hundred years old?” Oliver asked Luthien.

“I do not question the words and ways of wizards,” Luthien replied.

“But does not this magical stasis intrigue you?”

“No.” It was a simple and honest answer. Luthien had been raised among pragmatic and solid fisherfolk and farmers. The only magic prominent at all on Bedwydrin were the herbs of healing women and premonitions of weather conditions offered to the captains of fishing boats by the dock seers. Even those two rather benign magic-using groups made Luthien uncomfortable—a man like Brind’Amour put the young man totally out of his element.

“And I do not understand why a cave holding nothing more than a cyclopian—”

Luthien cut Oliver off with a wave of his hand.

“And who would steal a wizard’s staff?” Oliver put in quickly, before Luthien waved his words away once more.

“Let us just be done with this task and be on with our—” Luthien began, and then he paused at an obvious impasse.

“With our what?” Oliver prompted, and wondered, and young Luthien wondered, too.

What would he and Oliver Burrows, who called himself Oliver deBurrows, get on with? Their quest? Their lives? The road to continued thievery and, perhaps, worse?

The young Bedwyr had no answers—either for what would come, or for what had just passed. Ever since the arrival of Viscount Aubrey and his entourage in Dun Varna, Luthien’s world had been turned upside down. He had left Dun Varna in search of his brother, but now he was beginning to get a feel of just how big the world truly was. Over the last couple of days, Oliver had explained to him that ships left the Avonsea Islands for Gascony by a dozen different ports, from Carlisle on the Stratton River to Montfort. And Gascony was a bigger place than Avon, Oliver assured his unworldly companion, with hundreds of cities larger than Dun Varna and scores larger even than Carlisle. And Duree, the land of the war Ethan was supposedly going off to fight, was over a thousand miles south of Gascony’s northern coast.

A thousand miles!

How could Luthien hope to catch up to Ethan when he didn’t know what course his brother might take?

Luthien never answered Oliver’s question, and the halfling, soon snoring contentedly, didn’t seem anxious to know.