Anest did so.
"The staff in your hands," said Belloc, "was made for you by one of our Order who lives far away in a distant land. In accepting this staff, you become one of our Order. We are scattered, now, we few wizards that remain, and at a later time I will pass on to you all knowledge of who the others are, where they dwell, and the nature of their chosen works.
"But to the matter at hand!
"Take up your staff and consider it closely. Can you wield it, do you think?"
Perplexed, Anest replied, "I do not know! It is unfamiliar to me, and feels strange and unwieldy in my hands. I feel no power within it. In fact, it feels to me like nothing at all, save a well-carved piece of wood!"
"Truly spoken!" the old wizard said approvingly. "Your staff, indeed, contains nothing. It is empty." Belloc smiled, then. "And here I shall tell you one of the great secrets of wizards. There is no magic in the staff. The magic is in you."
Anest frowned. "But . . . then what need have I of the staff?"
"Your magic," the wizard told him, "is like all magic. It is an unfocused, generalised thing. A wizard's staff in an agent through which a wizard learns to channel and focus his energies. It is an instrument, a means of articulation.