Wanderlust

by Mary Kirchoff

  Singing all the bawdy songs they could remember, they rollicked like children, carefree and uninhibited in nature’s nursery. Dancing, drinking, and romping as they had never done before, they immersed themselves in the satyrs’ world of joy and pleasure, free of remorse, guilt, and conscience. They vanished into the woods behind a curtain of privacy.

  * * * * *

  Tanis was the first to awaken in the stillness of the grove. Ashes smoldered in the firepits, and a sliver of pink sunlight was rising on the eastern horizon. He could not for the life of him remember what he was doing here, but something about the scene felt very, very wrong.

  For one thing, his noggin felt like an overripe tomato. And for another, Tasslehoff was sprawled across his legs. The half-elf gently shook the kender. The kender just blubbered in his sleep, rolled away, and curled his slender frame around a large rock.

  Several feet away, the dwarf lay on his back, snoring loudly, an empty wineskin dangling from his whiskery lips. “Flint!” Tanis hissed.

  Flint snorted into wakefulness and spit out the skin. “Huh? Who’s there?” Wincing, he put a hand to his temples and squeezed his eyes shut again. “Whoever you are, please saw off my head, and be quick about it!”

  “This is serious,” chided Tanis.

  “So who’s joking?” Flint grumbled, opening his eyes at last and sitting up. “What happened? Where are we?”

  Tanis shook his head. “I don’t know.” He squinted in thought and spoke slowly. “From the looks of the sun, it’s morning, though how much time has passed I’m not sure. The last thing I remember was standing by the creek in afternoon. We were looking for Selana and found—”

  “Satyr hoofprints!” groaned Flint. “We were bewitched by the pipes!” He looked around the grove frantically and spotted the kender’s curled form. ‘There’s Tasslehoff, but where’s the princess? Do you suppose they kidnapped her?”

  Both men jumped to their feet and raced around until they found the sea elf princess behind a shrub. She was still breathing; in fact, she was smiling broadly in her sleep, her indigo robe spread out beneath her. Her tunic was twisted around on her body, and her hair was disheveled, with sticks and dried grass poking from it.

  “Thank the gods she’s safe,” sighed Flint.

  Tanis rubbed his face wearily. “I don’t know about you, but I have no memory of what happened.” He looked at the sleeping princess. “We’d better wake her up and get going. The gods alone know how much time we’ve lost.”

  “Time isn’t the only thing we’ve lost,” piped up Tasslehoff, suddenly behind them. “Check your pockets. Selana’s shell light is gone.”

  Tanis and Flint both pulled out their pockets and opened their pouches: empty. “Blast it!” cried the dwarf. He looked at the dagger on Tanis’s hip, and felt the axe strapped to his own and gave a sigh of resignation. “At least they left our weapons.”

  “With those magical pipes, they probably don’t have much need for defense,” said Tanis, finding his bow and quiver of arrows in the low branches of a tree.

  Oddly, it was the kender, his pouches of valuables untouched, whose face burned with fury. He stomped his foot. “They may throw a good party,” he stormed, “but I’m not very impressed with satyrs as a race, I’ll tell you! Imagine the nerve of taking what doesn’t belong to you!”

  “Imagine that.” Flint whistled softly.

  Chapter 10

  The Ultimate Betrayal

  The thing that annoyed Delbridge most about the tiny cell he was in was the damp, putrid smell of rot that even fresh straw could not overcome. He tried inhaling in small gulps through his mouth for a while, which helped, but also gave him a sore throat.

  He hated the boredom, too. The cell was dark, as there was no window, not even a crack around the door, so he had long since lost track of time. For a while he kept busy counting the stone blocks on the floor by feeling them with his fingers, but he also encountered other things—things that disgusted him by the very touch—so he stopped and lost count at thirty-three. He listened to the sound of water dripping in the distance and counted drips, too, but he gave up at nine-hundred-seventy-two when it began to rain and the drips turned into an indistinguishable torrent.

  Eventually someone opened the huge wooden door, but Delbridge’s eyes were so unused to light that he could make out no more than a vague, man-shaped outline in the glaring doorway. He tried questioning the person, to crawl after him, but whoever it was only growled and flung something on the floor and slammed the door in Delbridge’s face. On the cold stone blocks he found a piece of stale, fuzzy bread and a water skin whose contents smelled like the inside of the animal the container was made from. Even the corpulent Delbridge was not hungry enough for that.

  Just keeping his mind on the petty things that annoyed him became his chief occupation, because the alternative was thinking about the really big things, like his predicament. His sheer helplessness left him panicky. He had never before been caught in a situation out of which he could not lie, cheat, steal, or wheedle; he simply did not know how to respond to a crisis where he had no apparent options.

  When would someone come so he could explain away this terrible mistake? The day before, he had appeared before Lord Curston and seen a vision of disaster befalling the knight’s only son. This imprisonment had to be related to that, because he had done nothing else since coming to Tantallon.

  Why was he being punished? If Delbridge’s vision had been averted, everyone should be happy; they should be showering him with rewards. And if nothing had happened to threaten Lord Curston’s son, they should be even happier. Surely he was not being treated this way because they thought him a charlatan?

  Suddenly it hit him that there was another possibility. What if something unspeakable had happened to Squire Rostrevor? Delbridge gulped. The possibility had seemed so remote yesterday. Surely, between the knight’s guards and the wizard Balcombe’s spells, the boy was safe from whatever threatened him.

  But what if he wasn’t? Something had certainly gotten him in the vision. Perhaps the vision had come true, and now Delbridge was in prison.

  They thought he was involved somehow! It was the only reasonable explanation. The boy had disappeared and the knight was blaming Delbridge. He sank to the stone floor of his cell with his arms wrapped around his head. Why on Krynn would he want the boy—or anyone else, for that matter? He had enough trouble taking care of himself.

  Even if he didn’t do the deed himself, it certainly looked as if he knew about it beforehand.

  Delbridge tried to think more positively. Maybe his vision was only similar to what happened to Rostrevor. Maybe he could reinforce the notion that he only predicted the disaster, but did not bring it about. The tragedy happened because Curston and his mage were unable to protect the boy adequately. Maybe he could persuade someone, if someone ever came to talk to him. He sighed.

  Delbridge looked toward the door. When would it open again?

  This whole mess was the fault of that damned bracelet! Delbridge dug his hand in his pocket, wrenched the cold metal from its depths, and caught and ripped the pocket lining as he did. “What a miserable piece of rotten luck,” he blurted, flinging the bracelet across the acrid chamber. It clanked against the stone and landed with a dull rustle in the straw. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his gown and paced.

  If Lord Curston didn’t kill him, this waiting would.

  Eventually he found a dry patch of straw and fell asleep. Some time later, light streaming in the open door awakened him.

  “Take your wretched food away,” the prisoner muttered without looking or getting up. “I did not eat the garbage you brought earlier, and I will not eat the garbage you are bringing now, you unwashed, unschooled ape of a turnkey.” Struggling to sit up, Delbridge decided to push his luck. “I demand to see whomever is responsible for my wrongful incarceration, at once!”

  “You are in no position to demand anything,” rumbled a baritone voice. “Perhap
s you don’t realize the serious charges facing you.”

  “That’s just it! I don’t know what the charges are!” whined Delbridge, forgetting his high-brow antics. “Who are you, anyway? I can’t see your face. Could we have a light in here, a torch maybe? Or better yet, why don’t we go somewhere else—”

  “Shala delarz.”

  Delbridge leaped back as flames shot up before his eyes, scorching his brow. When he could focus again, he was horrified to see that the flames engulfed the man’s left hand. Even stranger still, the fellow stood calmly, regarding Delbridge, his flaming hand held upright like a torch. Instinctively, Delbridge reached out to smother the fire. The man stopped him with a wave of his blazing limb.

  “Don’t touch me. I have invoked a simple burning spell to illuminate the darkness. I find it less bothersome than carrying a torch.” He turned his hand this way and that, admiring it. “It makes a vivid impression, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, certainly.…” Delbridge stepped back and eyed him warily in the light of the unnatural fire.

  Delbridge saw that this was Balcombe, the wizard he had met the day before, Lord Curston’s adviser. Standing this close, Delbridge realized he had to look up at Balcombe, as the man was taller than average. He wore a long, shiny red cape and hood with a black lining over powerful, broad shoulders. The cape was fastened with a large gem brooch. The wizard’s facial skin seemed almost translucent and paper-thin, blue veins pulsing beneath the unnaturally smooth surface, like the flesh of a ripe honeydew melon. Unlike the day before, he wore a dark red, embroidered silk patch over his right eye.

  Smiling slightly to himself at Delbridge’s discomfort, the man blew out the flames and then, with his hand still smoking, drew forth a slim wand from the depths of his cape. With a whispered command, a dim light grew from within the wand until it cast a soft illumination across the room.

  “That was an interesting tale you told yesterday,” Balcombe said conversationally in his even baritone voice.

  “Thank you. I’m delighted you thought so,” Delbridge said, his voice laced with sarcasm. “Perhaps you would be good enough to tell me why I’ve been imprisoned, then.”

  The mage folded his arms beneath the sleeves of his robe and rocked back on his heels. “All in good time. Your story made a great impression on Lord Curston. How did you come by your information?”

  Sensing an opportunity for salvation and self-promotion, Delbridge’s fear and uncertainty faded, but did not disappear entirely. He straightened to his full if unimposing height of five feet, two inches. “It was an authentic vision of the future. I told you, I am an oracle, a seer. If my ability has earned me a position on the court, I must assert that I do not like the way you deliver the news. In fact, I may have to reconsider my interest in the position—or at the very least revise my salary expectations.” Delbridge waved his arms to indicate the surroundings. “This little charade, obviously meant to test my mettle, is not the least bit amusing.”

  “It is meant neither as a test nor any type of amusement.”

  The mage’s voice had the timbre of heavy iron doors clanging shut. Balcombe began to pace slowly, calmly, the hem of his robe making a gentle “swish-swish” sound against the cold stone floor. He stopped and considered Delbridge over steepled fingertips pressed contemplatively to his lips.

  “Omardicar … I’m not familiar with the name. You aren’t from this area, are you?”

  Delbridge shook his head. “I only came to Castle Tantallon to offer my services to Lord Curston. I’m from—” Delbridge remembered his ignominious departure from Thelgaard Keep—“let’s just say I travel a lot.”

  “A nobleman’s son abducted and imprisoned somehow, spirited away to face an overwhelming evil, his family left in sorrow and bereavement … Such a tragic fate.” Balcombe fished something from one of his pockets and toyed with it in his palm. “Is that everything you know, or did you see something more in that Vision’?”

  Delbridge did not like being reminded of the revelation, and his shoulders slumped again. “No. I told you everything.” He certainly did not like the turn the conversation was taking.

  The prisoner’s eyes narrowed. He decided to try one last time to learn what was going on. “I seem to be answering a lot of questions on the basis of very little information. I don’t even know why I’m here. Why should I tell you anything?”

  The mage fiddled absently with his wand and the other object in his hand, which Delbridge realized was a large blue gem. Then Balcombe turned to face Delbridge directly. “You should tell me what I ask, because I am the person who has been sent to interview you. If you satisfy my legal and professional curiosity, I can arrange your release from this cell. If you do not—if, instead, you create more questions or raise disturbing doubts about your intentions or motives—then you could find yourself staying here for a very, very long time.” Leaning close to Delbridge, he added, “Or, even worse, a very, very short time.”

  The mage straightened, his expression noncommittal. “In either event, I think, perhaps, you do know why you are here. I will tell you anyway, to be sure we are both discussing the same thing.”

  He paced, worrying the blue gem between thumb and forefinger. “This morning, when we opened Squire Rostrevor’s room, it was empty. The squire was gone, vanished without a trace. With the guards and my magical protections in place, nothing I know of could have entered or exited that room undetected. Yet the squire was removed.”

  Delbridge’s eyes were buggy with surprise. His worst fear had been realized: Squire Rostrevor had been abducted, and he was to blame.

  The one-eyed mage stopped before Delbridge. “Only someone who knew about our plan could have executed such a bold infiltration.”

  Delbridge shivered uncontrollably. He’d foreseen tragedy for someone else and was now becoming its victim.

  These melancholy thoughts were interrupted by Balcombe’s smooth baritone. “You, of course, are very badly implicated. If you tell me what has become of the squire and how the crime was carried out, your execution will be merciful.”

  “Execution!” The threat of death wakened Delbridge like a slap in the face. “I had nothing to do with that boy’s disappearance! I didn’t even know Lord Curston had a son until yesterday at my audience. How could I have kidnapped him? Why would I have kidnapped him?”

  “That is precisely what I intend to find out.”

  Even through his panic, Delbridge could see that he was fighting a losing battle. Undoubtedly there was sorcery involved, something much darker than the bracelet. He had seen such witch-hunts before. If this went the way he feared, the less evidence anyone could find against him, the guiltier he would look. At the same time, he dared not say anything that could be interpreted as a confession or an admission of guilt.

  “Your grace, I beg you to consider what you’re accusing me of. If I was involved, why would I have announced my intention to commit the crime beforehand?”

  Balcombe carefully wedged his illuminating wand into a crack in the wall, then grasped the gem between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. He held it up so the light from his wand could refract from it, spilling tiny motes across the cell walls. “A gem in the wild is an odd thing. Have you ever seen one?”

  Delbridge shook his head apathetically, and Balcombe continued. “They look nothing like the finished beauties we value so much. Rough, dark, shapeless. An untrained eye would readily discard a priceless gem as a worthless rock.

  “But the trained eye, the eye that is wise in the ways of gems, sees the innocent-looking rock for what it is, however much it tries to hide its nature.” He dropped the gem to his right palm and snapped his fingers over it. Delbridge vaguely recalled noticing that the man had no thumb on his right hand. “Like an uncut gem, the motives of evil persons are never clear or straightforward.”

  “How could I have spirited away Curston’s son?” squealed Delbridge. “I’m no mage. I could never have overcome your magic.”

&
nbsp; “Come now,” Balcombe replied in his most condescending tone, “we are not fools. Surely you had accomplices in this. If you do not wish to confess yourself, simply give me their names. Your cooperation will be considered when sentence is handed down.”

  “I am innocent!” screamed Delbridge, collapsing against the stone wall. “How can I defend myself? If I admit guilt, then you will believe me and I’m doomed. If I say I’m innocent, you tell me I’m lying. Why are you even here? To torment me? I’ve done nothing wrong!”

  Balcombe stood passively and watched Delbridge as he hugged himself, rocking back and forth against the cold stones.

  “I am here because Lord Curston sent me.”

  Delbridge regarded the mage coldly, but said nothing.

  “I am also here to satisfy my own curiosity. Obviously, magic of some sort was involved. That concerns me.”

  Balcombe stroked his goatee. “Just for a moment, let’s look at the possibility that you had nothing to do with this crime. Even if we presume your innocence, there are unanswered questions. Chief among them is, how did you know what would happen before it happened? Perhaps, if you could answer that question to my satisfaction, your outlook would improve.

  “If, however, you continue to defy me and avoid my questions, I shall leave immediately and proffer my report to my liege. It will be a very negative one.”

  Certainly Delbridge had not intended to forfeit the upper hand in this debate, but he was boxed in. He saw very clearly that this mage had nothing to lose and everything to gain by framing him for the crime, whatever might actually have happened.

  “I have told you what I know,” he sighed. “I have the ability to foretell the future. It’s a miraculous gift, really, something I’ve always strived not to exploit. Instead, I try to help people through dark times, inasmuch as I can. I was trying to help your Lord Curston yesterday.”