Crimson Shadow, The - R. A. Salvatore Page 0,146

wanted to fight against Greensparrow with his weapons, not his edicts.

“Which would be the better for the cause of Eriador?” the man replied.

Oliver snorted. There was no doubt in the halfling’s mind. He had seen Luthien lead the warriors, had watched the young man systematically free Montfort until it became Caer MacDonald. And Oliver had observed the faces of those who fought beside Luthien, those who watched in awe his movements as he led them into battle.

There came a knock on the door, and Siobhan entered. She took one look at the pair, recognizing the weight of their discussion, then excused herself from those who had come with her, waving them back out into the street and closing the apartment door. She moved quietly to the table and remained silent, deferring to the apparently more important discussion. This was not an unusual thing, Siobhan had a way of getting in on most of Oliver and Luthien’s conversations.

“I do not think the Crimson Shadow would be such a legend if he was the mayor of a town,” the halfling answered Luthien.

“Who then?” Luthien wanted to know.

The answer didn’t come from Oliver, but, unexpectedly, from the half-elf, who had already surmised the problem. “Brind’Amour,” she said evenly.

As soon as the weight of that name registered, both the friends nearly fell over with surprise—Luthien would have had he not been sitting already.

“How do you know that name?” Oliver, finding his voice first, wanted to know.

Siobhan put on a wry smile.

Oliver looked at Luthien, but the young Bedwyr shrugged, for he had not mentioned the old wizard to anybody in the city.

“You know of Brind’Amour?” Luthien asked her. “You know who he is and where he is?”

“I know of a wizard who lives still, somewhere in the north,” Siobhan answered. “I know that it was he who gave to you the crimson cape, and the bow.”

“How do you know?” Oliver asked.

“It was he who gave to me the arrow that you used to slay Viscount Aubrey,” Siobhan went on, and that was explanation enough.

“Then you have spoken to him?” Luthien prompted.

The half-elf shook her head. “He has . . .” She paused, trying to find the right way to put it. “He has looked at me,” she explained. “And through my eyes.” She noted the surprise—hopeful surprise—on both her companions’ faces. “Yes, Brind’Amour understands what has happened in Montfort.”

“Caer MacDonald,” Luthien corrected.

“In Caer MacDonald,” Siobhan agreed.

“But will he come?” Oliver wanted to know, for the suggestion seemed perfect to the halfling. Who better than an old wizard to see to the day-to-day needs of a city?

Siobhan honestly did not know. She had felt the presence of the wizard beside her and had feared that presence, thinking that Greensparrow was watching the movements of the rebels. Then Brind’Amour had come to her in a dream and had explained who he was. But that was the only contact she had made with the old wizard, and even it was foggy, perhaps no more than a dream.

Although, considering the arrow she had found in her quiver, and Luthien and Oliver’s confirmation of the existence of such a man, she now knew, of course, that it had been much more than a dream.

“Do you know where he is?” Luthien asked her.

“No.”

“Do you know how to speak with him?”

“No.”

At a loss, Luthien looked to Oliver.

“He is a fine choice,” the halfling said, the exact words Luthien wanted to hear.

Luthien knew that the wizard’s cave was somewhere within the northernmost spurs of the Iron Cross, to the north and east of Caer MacDonald, on the southern side of a wide gap called Bruce MacDonald’s Swath. The young Bedwyr had been there only once, along with Oliver, but unfortunately on that occasion neither of them had found the chance to spy out the locale. A magical tunnel had brought them into the cave, whisking them off the road right in the midst of cyclopian pursuit. The pair had left via a magical tunnel, as well, Brind’Amour setting them down on the road to Montfort. Judging from where they were taken by the wizard, and where he had dropped them off, Luthien could approximate the location, and he knew that Brind’Amour’s sight was not limited by stone walls.

Within the hour, the eager young man selected messengers, a dozen men he sent out from the city with instructions to ride to the northern tips of the Iron Cross, separate, and find high, conspicuous perches, and then read loudly from parchments Luthien gave to