Crimson Shadow, The - R. A. Salvatore Page 0,53

It almost appeared to Oliver that Luthien would strike out at Brind’Amour. “Your tale of a cyclopian king was a lie.”

Brind’Amour gave a strained smile. “Dear young Luthien Bedwyr,” he began solemnly, “if I had told you that a dragon awaited you at the other end of the magical tunnel, would you have gone through?”

“Very good point,” Oliver conceded. He looked up at Luthien, hoping that his friend would just let the whole thing go at that.

“We could have been killed,” Luthien said evenly. “And you sent us in there, expecting us to die.”

Brind’Amour shrugged, seeming unimpressed by that statement. The wizard’s casual attitude only spurred Luthien on. A barely perceptible growl escaped the young Bedwyr’s lips; his fists were clenched tightly at his sides.

“Luthien,” Oliver whispered, trying to bring him back to a rational level. “Luthien.”

“Am I to apologize?” Brind’Amour spat suddenly, incredulously, and his unexpected verbal offensive set Luthien back on his heels. “Are you so selfish?”

Now Luthien’s face screwed up with confusion, not having any idea of what the wizard might be talking about.

“And do you believe that I would have allowed the two of you to walk into such danger unless there was a very good reason?” Brind’Amour went on, snapping his fingers in the air in front of Luthien’s face.

“And your ‘very good reason’ justifies the lie and is worth the price of our lives?” Luthien snapped back.

“Yes!” Brind’Amour assured him in no uncertain terms. “There are more important things in the world than your safety, dear boy.”

Luthien started to react with typical anger, but he caught a faraway look in Brind’Amour’s blue eyes that held his response in check.

“Do you not believe that I grieve every day for those men who went in search of my staff before you and did not return?” the wizard asked somberly. A great wash of pity came over Luthien, as if somehow the gravity of the wizard’s words had already touched his sensibilities. He looked at Oliver for support, honestly wondering if he had been caught by some sort of enchantment, but the halfling appeared similarly overwhelmed, similarly caught up in the wizard’s emotions.

“Do you know from where a wizard gains his power?” the man asked, and Brind’Amour suddenly seemed very old to the companions. Old and weary.

“His staff?” Oliver answered, a perfectly reasonable assumption given the task he and Luthien had just completed.

“No, no,” Brind’Amour replied. “A staff is merely a focus for the power, a tool that allows a wizard to concentrate his energies. But those energies,” he went on, rubbing his thumb across his fingertips in front of his face as though he could feel the mysterious powers within his hand. “Do you know where they come from?”

Luthien and Oliver exchanged questioning expressions, neither having any answers.

“From the universe!” Brind’Amour cried abruptly, powerfully, moving both of the friends back a step. “From the fires of the sun and the energy of a thunderstorm. From the heavenly bodies, from the heavens themselves!”

“You sound more like a priest,” Oliver remarked dryly, but his sarcasm was met with unexpected excitement.

“Exactly!” Brind’Amour replied. “Priests. That is what the ancient brotherhood of wizards considered themselves. The word ‘wizard’ means no more than ‘wise man,’ and it is a wise man indeed who can fathom the complete realities of the universe, the physical and the spiritual, for the two are not so far apart. Many priests do not understand the physical. Many of our recent inventors have no sense of the spiritual. But a wizard . . .” His voice trailed away, and his blue eyes sparkled with pride and that faraway look. “A wizard knows both, my boys, and always keeps both in mind. There are spiritual consequences to every physical act, and the physical being has no choice except to follow the course of the soul.

“Who do you think built the great cathedrals?” Brind’Amour asked, referring to the eight massive structures that dotted the islands of Avonsea. Six were in Avon, the largest in Carlisle and a similar one in Princetown. The Isle Baranduine, to the west, had only one, and Eriador had one located in Montfort. Luthien had never been into Montfort, but he had passed by the city along the foothills of the Iron Cross. From that perspective, all the buildings of Montfort (and many were large and impressive), and even the one castle of the city, seemed to be dollhouses of children under the long shadows of the towering spires and huge stone buttresses of the