"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?
"Would Lord Curston believe my story if he could see some proof? Touch something tangible? I have proof. You could show it to him."
Balcombe turned to face Delbridge again, his eyebrow arched. "What sort of proof?"
"A magical device," blurted Delbridge, "a copper bracelet. I don't know where it came from. I got it from a tinker only two days ago ... or was it
