"It certainly would, Tas," agreed Tanis, stretching his limbs. "You're quite the adventuress, Princess."
Though it was hard to tell in the flickering firelight, and all the harder because of Selana's fair complexion, Tanis thought he saw the sea elf princess blush. "Life beneath the sea is beautiful and majestic, but often harsh as well."
There was a brief, almost awkward silence, then Tanis volunteered, "I'll keep first watch." The night was warm, but a gentle spring breeze, blowing from the still snow-covered mountains to the east, gave a slight chill to the air. Tas climbed into the low limbs of an aspen tree and fell fast asleep inside his furry vest, hugging his hoopak. Flint curled up before the fire, his shaggy head on a mossy rock, cap pulled over his eyes. Selana turned her back to everyone, drew her cape about her, and slept in a protective cross-legged position that looked downright
uncomfortable. Tanis pulled his blankets around his shoulders and settled in for the watch.
The moon was nearly overhead two hours later when Tanis tossed a handful of pebbles up into the tree to wake the kender. Tas sputtered awake and slipped good-naturedly from the tree to take his turn standing watch over the group.
Two hours after that, Flint awoke less cheerfully, and the remainder of the night passed uneventfully.
Little was said during the morning march. It seemed to Tanis that Selana was even more withdrawn than before. He had hoped that telling her tale last night would make her feel more a part of the group, but she seemed less inclined to share anything, as if she were embarrassed by her self-revelation. While he knew the endless walking was very tiring for her, the half-elf found her snooty attitude annoying.
When they paused for lunch, Selana settled herself wordlessly several yards from the group.
"Excuse me, Princess," Tanis called stiffly, "but do you think you could rouse yourself and fetch some water for our lunch?"
"If there's one thing I know, it's water," she retorted. Glowering, she snatched the small pan from his hand and half stomped, half limped toward the sound of rushing water.
Flint put a hand on the half-elf's forearm. Gray eyes probed the young elf's troubled face. "What's gotten into you, Tanis? You don't usually have such trouble getting along with people. You've been downright rude to the princess on several occasions."
Tanis shook his head. "I know, Flint, but sometimes she reminds me so much of Laurana and her stuck-up, royal ways." Laurana, Flint knew, was the daughter of Tanis's guardian, Solostaran. Her selfish love for Tanis had caused the trouble that made him leave his native Qualinost. "After so many years, I'm surprised that type of woman can still make me angry." He rubbed his face wearily.
"Someday you'll resolve your differences with Laurana," predicted Flint. "Selana and Laurana do have a great deal in common, not the least of which is an aristocratic elven upbringing," he agreed. "But don't punish one for the other's mistakes."
Lunch was assembled and waiting twenty minutes later, but Selana had not returned. After another twenty minutes, Tanis was irritated, but the elder dwarf was growing concerned.
"I'm sure she's fine, Flint," said Tanis. "She'd give a blast on the conch shell if she weren't."
Working on his maps in the warmth of the sun, Tasslehoff's head snapped up. "Uh, she probably would if she had it. I meant to give it back last night, really I did, but then we all fell asleep and it slipped my mind. I'll give it back first thing when I see her."
"If any of us ever sees her again," muttered Flint, frantically scouring the landscape with his eyes. "It doesn't take this long to get water. Come on, we've got to look for her."
"She probably got near the stream and just couldn't resist taking a swim," Tanis suggested reasonably, trying to quell his own growing concern. He trotted over the uneven, hilly turf next to Flint and Tasslehoff as they followed the sound of running water. "Haven't you noticed the way she's been splashing her face with water from her wineskin?
They pressed through some prickly shrubs and burst upon the stream bank. Selana was nowhere to be seen.
"Maybe she came upon the creek at a different point," suggested Flint. Without being asked, Tasslehoff ran some distance down the stream to the right, Tanis to the left. They rejoined Flint but could report nothing.
The dwarf was on one knee, examining the marshy ground near the stream. "Look at these," he said, pointing. "Here are footprints the size of Selana's."
"What are those?" Tas asked, directing their gaze to a confusion of animal prints surrounding hers. "They look cloven hoofed." He glanced up, puzzled. "Goats? Selana ran off with a herd of goats?"
Flint and Tanis's glances met and locked knowingly. "Not goats. Satyrs. They like elves and women and, especially, elven women."
Instantly, off in the near distance could be heard the melancholy wailing of reed pipes. Tanis tried to issue a warning, to clap his hands over his own ears, but the gesture came too late. He had heard the tune of a satyr pipe and was instantly charmed.
"What's that exquisite melody, and where is it coming from?" asked the bewitched half-elf, his eyes glazed over.
Smiling serenely, his keen dwarven ears cocked, Flint pointed his thick finger to a grove of aspen trees downstream along the river's edge. "I believe the music is coming from over there."
"Let's go!" hollered Tasslehoff happily, leading the way as the three companions skipped like children over the awakening landscape toward the plaintive sound of the pipes. Shrieking with delight, Tasslehoff plucked a milkweed pod and blew the silky down into Flint's face. Giggling, the red-faced dwarf gave Tas a playful shove that sent him tumbling in a merry ball down the slope. Head thrown back in laughter, Tanis scooped up the hapless kender and tossed him onto his broad shoulders.
They all pressed on toward the grove.
Stumbling through the ring of trees, they spotted Selana, her robe thrown open, revealing a tight tunic that came past her knees. Head thrown back joyously, she was dancing a jig in the center of a circle of six goat-men.
One of them poured a mixture of white and red wine into her open mouth, which she gulped happily.
Spotting the companions, the wild and frolicking half-man, half-goats waved them forward with their human arms, kicking up their hooves. In moments, the three travelers joined in the revelry, linking arms with their hosts and capering through the woods.
"Tasslehoff, Flint, Tanis, my good friends!" cried Selana, drawing them all up in a heartening embrace. She waved her hand to include the satyrs. "Meet my new friends, Enfield, Bomaris, Gillam, Pendenis, Kel, and Monaghan! Isn't their music enchanting?" she asked, her expression dreamy. "Play that little welcoming ditty again," she pleaded.
"Anything for you, dear Princess," rumbled the satyr named Enfield, his voice a beautiful bass. As one, the gathering of six goat-men tilted their short-horned heads and pressed wooden pipes to their lips. A lilting jig issued forth.
Happily entranced, Flint snatched a proffered jug of wine and raised it on his arm, smacking his stained lips as the rosy liquid dribbled through his beard. He passed the jug to Tanis, who sent it along to Tas.
Pendenis clapped the kender's small shoulder. "Life is too short to be serious, eh, little friend? Come, climb upon my back, and I will show you the merriment that awaits us in the heart of the woods."
"Let's all go!" cried Flint, swinging himself onto Kel's back. Although he was usually suspicious of riding any beast, at that moment the dwarf could not imagine a more lively mode of travel. Ducking, Gillam charged Tanis playfully from behind and tossed the laughing half-elf onto his goat posterior. Selana, astride Enfield, led the way.
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. "l 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. "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, regardin
g 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."
[Meetings 02] - Wanderlust Page 14