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. "Perhaps 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 honey dew 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
