Wanderlust

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 Curst on 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.'

'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.'

The stout human twisted an ornate ring on his finger nervously. 'What I said yesterday was what I saw. I wasn't certain how to interpret it. It was so vivid and frightening. And I certainly had no notion that the forces at work were beyond even your power to stop.'

Tenaciously, Delbridge plowed forward. 'If only I had full mastery over my power I I'm sure that I could bring tremendous good-'

'That is quite enough,' interrupted Balcombe. His fiery gaze put the lid on anything further Delbridge might have said. Balcombe clasped his hands behind his back and paced across the width of the cell. All the while his gaze fixed Delbridge in place until every bit of confidence that the ersatz mage had built up for himself had eroded.

After ten or twelve traversals of the cell, Balcombe stopped and stood, facing Delbridge directly. The prisoner noted with some alarm that Balcombe was awfully close to the bracelet, where it lay concealed in the moldy straw.

'I believe that some of your story is true,' Balcombe began. 'Not most of it, not even a third of it, but some. For example, I believe you can sense bits of the near future. I also believe that you have difficulty understanding what you experience.

'The rest of your story… no, I don't believe any of that. For example, I don't believe it is a natural ability you've always had. If that were true, you should be good at it by now. I also don't believe you have ever used it to benefit anyone but yourself.

'So let's try again and see if we can get a little closer to the truth. Tell me exactly what you 'saw' in this vision you had. In particular, do you have any notion who was behind the squire's disappearance?'

This line of questioning was much more to Delbridge's liking. He considered, for the first time in his life, that perhaps telling the truth was the best thing he could do. Unfortunately, he was afraid the answers would disappoint Balcombe.

'The first time I knew anything about this was when I was standing before you yesterday.' Delbridge's voice wavered, unaccustomed to speaking the truth. 'I stood there, completely blank. I had nothing prepared to say. I was counting on the moment, hoping I would be inspired. I just wasn't ready for what came.'

Balcombe had paid close attention throughout Delbridge's account. Now he stepped back, as if affronted. 'That's it? There is nothing more: no names, no faces, no motives?'

'No, sir,' Delbridge apologized.

'That's not much.'

Balcombe stood near the doorway, pondering Delbridge's story. The light from the wand made his pale flesh look gray and unearthly. For a moment, Delbridge felt as if he were in the presence of death. He quickly shook off the notion, reminding himself that this man was his only hope, though an incredibly thin hope, for redemption.

At last Balcombe spoke, the gaze of his one eye, cold and unblinking, fixed on the mage. 'If I take this story to Lord Curston, he will not be convinced. While it has some feel of truth, there is nothing to back it up. It is far easier for a man of Curston's disposition to believe you were privy to an evil conspiracy than that some benevolent magical force visited you for no particular reason.'

The mage's tone shifted slightly during this speech. He was no longer the inquisitor or prosecutor. Instead he began sounding like a confidant, a counselor. He resumed his pacing. 'Lord Curston is a Knight of Solamnia. His faith is in the power of his sword. He understands and believes in things he can touch, things he can defeat with his sword. Things he cannot touch, like the ability to foresee the future, he will not trust for long. He may not believe such a story at all.

'If there is any more to your ability, I recommend that you tell me now, because if I tell Lord Curston what you have told me and he does not believe it, he will pass sentence immediately.'

Balcombe turned so that he faced the cell door, his back to Delbridge. 'I'm sure the sentence will be hanging.'

Delbridge considered his options. He vaguely remembered once hearing an old soldier in a tavern telling everyone gathered round that the threat of imminent death sharpened his wits remarkably-that was how he'd managed to survive so long. Delbridge himself had experienced that on occasion. Now his head was a muddled mess. He shook it violently, hoping to clear away the fog. Still he had trouble concentrating.

Sweat beaded on his forehead. It trickled into his eyes and stung, making him blink. His thoughts wandered, then settled on the bracelet. It was the source of his trouble. If he got rid of it, would his problems go away, too?