Wanderlust

by Mary Kirchoff

  Suddenly a wrinkled old face beneath grizzled hair popped through the gold brocade curtain opposite Delbridge’s position. Delbridge could see by the crest on the man’s shoulder that he wore the livery of a Curston family retainer, though it hung limply on his shrunken frame. Looking past Delbridge, he snapped, his voice old and irascible, “You alone? If you’re here for audience day, come along, come along. They’re waiting for you. Say,” he added, looking over Delbridge’s attire with a frown, “you wouldn’t be that fortune-teller we’ve been hearing about?” Delbridge bowed deeply. “Well, come on then.”

  Unaccustomed to wearing a formal robe, Delbridge dashed through the curtain and followed the bobbing, bent form down a long, polished marble hallway. The ceiling was two stories high here as well, making the hall a gallery of sorts. A very narrow balcony ran the length of the hall on both sides of the second floor, supported by two rows of delicate pillars on the ground floor. Beyond the pillars on each side were three arched doorways, evenly spaced, with exquisite, expensive tapestries hanging between them.

  Several dozen people, presumably those awaiting their audience with the knight, stood in various poses of respect along the walls.

  The stoop-shouldered old man scuttled right past those waiting in the hall and passed through a curtain at the far end of the hallway. He held its gold-corded edge back for Delbridge, tapping his foot with ill-concealed impatience.

  “Well, come along.”

  Delbridge could not contain a haughty smile as he trooped past the assemblage, who stared after him curiously. The robed seer burst into a large, carpeted room, empty except for the three irritable-looking men seated at a long table at the far end, at least sixty feet from where Delbridge stood at the entrance.

  “Your Lordship,” announced the old man, “Omardicar the Omnipotent, the seer from the tavern.”

  Delbridge bent close to the old man and whispered, “Who are the other two?”

  The retainer rolled his eyes at the bother. “Seated behind the table on the velvet corner chair is Lord Curston. Next to him is his son, Squire Rostrevor. The fellow there—” The retainer pointed to a tall human with a bald pate, a red cape over his muscular frame, standing to the right of the Lord’s chair—“he’s Balcombe, Lord Curston’s mage and chief adviser.”

  With this minimal bit of information, Delbridge strode forward confidently to stand before the table. He did not wait for introductions or an invitation to speak.

  “Lord Curston, I have an offer most valuable to a knight of such obvious power and wealth as yourself.” Delbridge heard his words echo in the nearly empty chamber.

  The knight, who was obviously once a fit man now gone soft, wore a silk tunic, a cap upon his graying head, and a look of boredom on his lined and weathered face. His son, an almost pretty, tow-headed lad in his late teens, stood to the left of the seated knight, his hand on his hip in an insolent pose. A thin blond mustache revealed his knightly ambition. He seemed more amused than the others by the sight of the oddly dressed, obese man before them.

  Up close, the most riveting of the three, to Delbridge’s mind, was the wizard. Delbridge had not noticed from the door, but the man had a hideous scar across the side of his face where his right eye should have been. The lid was sealed shut by scar tissue, but Delbridge could tell by its sunken look that no eye remained in the socket. The left one stared with dark intent, devoid of warmth or even interest. His head was not bald, but shaved. Short, colorless stubble cast a gray shadow over the visible blue veins. The only hair of any length was a black mustache and goatee that completely encircled his thick liver-red lips.

  Feeling distinctly uncomfortable under the wizard’s intense gaze, Delbridge shifted his attention back to the knight.

  “We have heard of you, and I must admit I am curious,” said the knight at last, his voice low and aristocratic. “But be quick. I have heard many pleas this audience day and have grown weary.”

  Delbridge waved his arm for effect, fluttering his billowy sleeves. “I possess a gift, my lord, which the stars of my birth saw fit to bestow upon me. It is simply the ability to see the future. I am ready to place this power at your disposal. You would be warned in advance of dangers posed against yourself, your family, and your subjects.”

  The knight frowned. “I already have a mage who fulfills very nearly that role now.”

  “And I mean no slight or disrespect to him,” cut in Delbridge quickly, “but even the greatest wizard’s spells are limited in their ability to divine what will be and are restricted to a certain number per day. My power is not subject to the normal limitations of magic. It functions continuously, whenever I choose to exercise it.”

  “Do not disregard this out of hand, Father,” advised the youth with a brief glance at the mage. “His words bear consideration.” He turned his blue eyes on Delbridge. “Perhaps a little demonstration is in order, Mister—?”

  “Omardicar the Omnipotent, young sir,” Delbridge supplied quickly, boldly adding, “Ommi to clients and friends.”

  “I should like a demonstration as well,” said Balcombe in a low, detached tone, his gaze unwavering.

  “I would be happy to oblige,” said Delbridge. “However, you must understand that my gift does have its peculiarities. I must concentrate on a particular event or person, and if anything unusual or of interest lies in its future, I experience a vision detailing it. If there is nothing of interest—” He shrugged.

  “How conveniently simple,” said Balcombe. “Do you expect His Lordship to simply accept what you say and put you on the payroll?”

  “He said he would try to demonstrate,” said Rostrevor tersely.

  Balcombe bowed his head slightly.

  Frowning again, Lord Curston looked from Rostrevor to Balcombe. “I wish, as always, that my beloved son and my most trusted adviser were not perpetually at odds,” he sighed.

  “We are not at odds, my lord,” said the mage. “We both desire a demonstration of this man’s supposed power. We disagree only in how rigorous such a test ought to be.”

  The room fell uncomfortably silent. Sensing that this tension did not bode well for his prospects, Delbridge said, “With your permission, I will demonstrate as much as I am able right now, and you can then decide whether any additional trial is warranted.”

  Closing his eyes, absently brushing the bracelet with the fingers of his left hand, Delbridge concentrated on the people before him one at a time. First, he pictured the knight. Suddenly his stomach churned, and his head throbbed. He felt as though he were plunging through incredibly thick fog, then as if the fog were whipped away. This sensation was replaced by a vision of the elderly knight on his knees in a chamber of the castle. Somber draperies covered the walls. The once stoic man wailed and sobbed in unspeakable despair at what appeared to be a funeral, yet there was neither bier nor body. The tragic image was such a shock to Delbridge that a small cry escaped his lips, and his eyes flew open. The vision abruptly ended.

  “What was it?” asked the knight, leaning forward. He was startled by the look of uncertainty and pity in Delbridge’s eyes. “What did you see?”

  “I—nothing,” said Delbridge quickly, flustered. He could not tell a ruling Knight of Solamnia that he had seen him bawling like a baby! “I saw nothing.”

  He changed the subject quickly. “I will focus on the young squire next.”

  Delbridge thought of Rostrevor’s boyish face, dotted with freckles and pale yellow hair. Again the fog enfolded him and rushed past. Bile rose in his throat, and he fought back the feeling that he was about to be sick as the fog evaporated.

  What he saw made him stumble backward. Again, instead of the audience hall he had closed his eyes on, he saw a candle-lit room somewhere in the castle. The knight’s son, Rostrevor, lay in his bed. But suddenly, a red light burst over him, spinning and growing until it enveloped the young man. Then he was falling, drawn into the source of the light, screaming and frightened and hurt. Finally, the squire cowered ag
ainst a pulsing red wall, shrinking away from something Delbridge could not see but whose scorching evil he felt.

  Delbridge’s eyes flew open, and he gasped for air. Immediately the vision disappeared, but his heart still pounded wildly and sweat stung his eyes. He tried unsuccessfully to flex his shaking fingers, only to realize that the bracelet was unbearably hot. In anger and awe he slapped the burning hand against his thigh. Needles of pain tore up his arm and forced a wail from his lips.

  Quickly he became aware of Rostrevor standing in front of him, grasping his shoulders and shaking him slightly. “Are you quite all right? Stand up to it now, and get a grip.”

  Delbridge wiped his face on the sleeve of his gown, took several deep breaths, and began massaging his hand. The squire had returned to his position behind his father, who regarded Delbridge curiously. Balcombe, on the other hand, seemed unmoved as usual.

  Lord Curston leaned forward slightly in his seat. “You cannot tell me that you saw nothing that time. If you saw something concerning my son, I’ll know what it is. Speak!”

  How could he tell them what he saw?

  Delbridge swallowed hard. “My lord, well do I realize that you already half think me a charlatan, but what I have just seen I can barely begin to describe. It was unlike anything I have ever experienced. Other visions have been brief and distinct, showing me what actually is to happen. But this was almost like … a nightmare. As if I was seeing hints or symbols of what might happen but not the events themselves. I beg you to believe that this is not just an act intended to frighten you. Squire Rostrevor is in great danger.

  Delbridge quickly relayed what he had seen, including the earlier vision of the grief-stricken knight. “I cannot explain it further or better, but I know it to be true,” he concluded.

  To Delbridge’s surprise, Rostrevor was the only one to scoff. “Father, this is nonsense. Abducted by a red light! I am far too strong—you’ve trained me yourself—to allow such a thing to happen. Besides, our family, and you in particular, are much beloved by your subjects. Who would do such a thing?”

  The elder knight’s face showed his concern. “There are always malcontents who might seek to hurt me through you. I have lived a long life and made more than enough enemies to disturb my rest.”

  Scowling, the young knight stepped around the table and took Delbridge firmly by the arm. “I think you’ve wasted enough of my father’s time. Be off!”

  “Wait,” interjected Balcombe, raising a restraining hand. “What has this fellow to gain by making a fraudulent prediction of such a serious nature? I admit I have reservations, but if he’s fabricated this tale, time will quickly reveal the truth.” The red-robed mage turned his one eye on Delbridge. “Is this danger imminent?”

  “I believe so, yes,” blurted Delbridge. “That’s how my power works.” Feeling a bit awkward, like a bug under glass, Delbridge scratched his jowls.

  “Then, my lord, I suggest we err on the side of caution,” said Balcombe in his baritone, “by securing Rostrevor in his chambers and out of harm’s way, for this evening at least. Station guards outside his door and windows. I will provide additional security by placing magical seals and protective wards on the doors and windows. No one will be able to enter his room, physically or otherwise, without triggering my spells, nor could Rostrevor be removed by any means. If any attempt is made, we will know immediately. In fact, if we act prudently, no one but the four of us in this room will know or suspect that my magical seals exist.”

  The elder knight seized on it. “An excellent idea! That will certainly thwart any kidnapping attempts, physical or magical.”

  “But, Father—” protested Rostrevor.

  Lord Curston waved away his son’s protests. “You will indulge an old man who loves his only son too well.”

  The young knight glowered. “But if we cut off even the possibility of an attempt, how will we know if anyone had ever even planned such a thing?”

  “We will keep Omardicar here, as a guest. If nothing happens concerning this matter, he may try again to prove his claims. In the meantime, we will take no chances. Rostrevor, you are confined to your chambers until dawn tomorrow. We will go immediately with Balcombe and see you safely secured.” His expression firm, the knight stood, wincing as gout sent waves of pain shooting through his legs.

  “Froeder!” he shouted through gritted teeth. The wizened old retainer hastened through the curtain at the far end of the room. “Our audiences for today are at an end. Please extend my apologies to those who wait outside and tell them they will have another opportunity, then see that this man is accommodated within the keep. With your pardon, Omardicar, until we know fully what is happening, I wish you to remain in your rooms as well. Froeder, see that it is so.” With that, leaning heavily on his resigned son, the knight was helped from the room. Balcombe, with his hands tucked into the full cuffs of his robe and his expression as unreadable as ever, followed at a proper distance.

  Left behind with Froeder, Delbridge shook his head in bewilderment. This was turning out well enough, but certainly different than he had planned. Still, who could argue with a sumptuous dinner served by a fireplace lit only for his comfort, followed by a sound sleep in a clean feather bed?

  A slight tingling at Delbridge’s wrist grabbed his attention. He clapped a hand over the copper bracelet. The metal was quite warm. Delbridge was not in the mood for any more visions that day, especially not in front of Froeder. He tried slipping the bracelet off, but the fit was too tight. After much tugging and prying that left the flesh and bones of his hand bruised, he finally wrenched it from his thick wrist and dropped it into his pouch. Feeling quite good about himself, he followed the impatient retainer from the audience hall and into the luxurious keep, anticipating the fruits of his labors.

  Perhaps he had at last reached his true station in life.

  * * * * *

  Delbridge awoke when a rough hand shook his shoulder until his teeth rattled in his head.

  “Omardicar the Omnipotent?”

  “Who? Oh, yes,” he mumbled, momentarily confused. Blinking against the lamplight, it took Delbridge a moment to remember where he was. He sat up slowly, and an empty wine bottle from the night before rolled off his chest and shattered on the stone floor. “Who are you, and what is it you want?”

  Standing above him, a burly man in chain mail laughed, his thick red beard and mustache dancing in the wavering light. “I’ll answer no scoundrel’s questions. You’re under arrest.” A second soldier wrenched back the curtains from across the room’s window, adding thin dawn light to the scene. The red-bearded man grabbed Delbridge by the upper arm and yanked him from under the feather tick and out of bed.

  “What are you talking about?” Delbridge squealed, trying to slip from the man’s strong fingers. “I’m a guest of Lord Curston’s! He’ll be most displeased by your rude treatment of me. I demand to see him at once!”

  The sergeant maintained his hold but said nothing.

  Delbridge knew he’d had too much to drink the night before, but he’d been in his room the whole time and could not possibly have caused any trouble.

  “Perhaps you need a little incentive,” hinted Delbridge, reaching toward the table for a small stack of coins, but the guard jerked Delbridge’s arm behind his back.

  “Don’t try any of yer magic on me, cur.” The armored guard dragged Delbridge from his sleeping chamber on the second floor, down a narrow flight of stairs, and out the east entrance to the keep. Two more guards holding pikes joined them as they crossed the bailey, headed for an archway bearing the sign, “Gaol.”

  Delbridge laughed a bit hysterically. “Can’t you see? You’ve confused me with someone else, an easy mistake with all of the strangers about for audience day.” He tried slipping his arms from the hands of his captors. “If you’ll just let me go now, I’ll forget about this indignity.”

  Instead, the hands tightened. Delbridge instinctively dragged his heels as they crossed the thres
hold and entered the dark, chilly, foul-smelling recesses of the jail. Tugging the ring latch of a heavy wooden door, the red-haired guard swung it open, its hinges creaking. Sobbing his innocence to an unknown crime, Delbridge was thrust through the door and thrown to his knees in a dank, lightless cell; the door clanged shut behind the departing guards.

  Rusty iron hinges echoed in the darkness.

  Chapter 9

  Dancing in the Woods

  The young woman’s slight frame was draped in a dark blue cloak of the finest weave. A silk scarf the color of cornflowers completely surrounded her face, crossed under her chin, and flowed over her shoulders to her waist. Her features were nearly perfect, her full lips unusually red against the pale, angular planes of her face.

  “If I didn’t know better, Master Fireforge,” she said in her deep, even voice, “I might think you were trying to avoid me.” Her sea-green eyes, as wide as two steel pieces, took in his downcast ones.

  Flint dragged his eyes up, his cheeks blushing crimson. “Certainly not … Oh, Great Reorx,” he swore, “I can’t lie to save my soul. I was avoiding you, but not for the reasons you think.”

  Tanis noticed that pedestrians on the bridgewalk were stopping to stare at the exotic-looking woman and the flustered dwarf. “Let’s talk in here,” he said quickly, pushing Flint and Tasslehoff ahead of him through the door to his home. The woman followed, her carriage regal. Tanis’s breath caught in his throat at her beauty; she reminded him of waves lapping at the shore.

  Inside Tanis’s house in the trees, Flint collapsed dejectedly into the bent-willow rocker Tanis had placed near the cold hearth just for him. He held his shaggy head in his hands. “I don’t know where to begin …”

  “You could start by introducing us,” Tasslehoff sang. Without waiting, he propped his hoopak up in a corner and thrust his delicate hand forward. “Tasslehoff Burrfoot, at your service.” The woman looked at his hand as if unsure what to do, then clasped it awkwardly.