Among Wolves

Buildings rose three or four stories along narrow streets, the simple architecture adorned by colorful shutters which bracketed windows and doors. Central gardens showed the first leaves of peas and the bright green spikes of garlic poking through dirt still dusted with last night’s snowfall.

“Where are the hotels?” Gaspard asked, looking rumpled and sleepy.

“I would imagine they are toward the central part of the city,” Marcus said, pointing at the businesses around them. “These are only small neighborhood shops: the scissors indicate a seamstress, the cake – a bakery – the horseshoe – a blacksmith.”

“And where would I find a cup of coffee and a croissant?” Gaspard asked hopefully.

Marcus turned him to face a blue shuttered shop with a steaming cup on its sign. “There I would think.”

“Thank God,” he murmured. “Do you mind if we stop?”

Devin laughed. “You could have had breakfast on the ship, if you’d gotten up earlier.”

“You and Marcus are lucky that the storm didn’t make you seasick,” Gaspard protested. “If you’d felt the way I did last night, you wouldn’t have been anxious to get up early for breakfast either.”

“You weren’t alone,” Devin assured him. “Half the ship was sick.”

“Let’s not talk about it anymore,” Gaspard pleaded, one hand held sympathetically to his stomach.

A bell jangled when they opened the door. Four small tables filled the front of the shop. The smell of fresh brewed coffee and cinnamon wafted from behind the counter. Gaspard sighed and crumpled into a chair by the window.

“I’ll have café au lait and two of whatever smells so heavenly.”

Devin threw his knapsack on a chair. He rolled his eyes and made an exaggerated bow. “Yes, monsieur. Right away, monsieur.”

Two of the other tables were occupied and several men had turned to stare at their entrance. Their eyes took in every detail of their luggage and their clothes.

Devin smiled and said, “Good morning.” But only one man echoed his greeting, the rest merely nodded or sat silently watching as he walked to the counter.

He paid for four cinnamon buns and three cups of coffee, ferrying the food back in two trips and setting it on the table. Just before he sat down, he glanced up to see Henri LeBeau talking to Bertrand St. Clair out on the street.

“I see LeBeau has departed the ship,” Marcus commented. “And that he and St. Clair have struck up a friendship.”

“It doesn’t look friendly to me,” Devin observed, as LeBeau gestured rudely at St. Clair. LeBeau’s face was flushed and angry. St. Clair made some final retort and stalked away.

“Apparently, that man can’t get along with anyone,” Gaspard said through a mouthful of cinnamon bun. “These are wonderful, by the way.”

“LeBeau actually apologized to me last night,” Devin said, “and invited me to visit him in Treves.”

Gaspard made a disgusted sound in his throat. “I hope you told him what he could do with his invitation?”

“Devin was actually very polite,” Marcus informed him.

“Then you’re a better man than I am,” Gaspard said.

Devin looked up and grinned. “That has never been in question has it?”

Gaspard threw a piece of bun which hit Devin squarely in the chest – and bounced off – landing in his coffee cup. Coffee sprayed all over the table and the front of Devin’s jacket.

Gaspard leaned back with a satisfied smile. “How clumsy of me! Please accept my apologies.”

“Remind me never to buy you a cinnamon bun again,” Devin said. He fished in his pocket for a handkerchief and pulled out LeBeau’s envelope, as well. He laid it on the table while he mopped at the brown liquid soaking into his jacket.

Marcus tapped the envelope. “Is that LeBeau’s address?” he asked.

Devin crumpled his wet handkerchief on the table. “I assume so.”

He tore open the envelope and extracted the piece of paper inside. It took only a moment to read it and react. With it still in his hand, he stood up and rushed to the door, hoping that somehow LeBeau might still be in sight. Standing on the doorstep, he could see the street had filled with people going to and from the docks. But there was no sign of either LeBeau or St. Clair in either direction.

Marcus had followed him. “What’s the matter?” he asked in alarm, grabbing his shoulder as he came back through the doorway.

“Read it yourself,” Devin snapped, throwing the paper down in front of him on the table.

Marcus unfolded the letter and read out loud: “I know who broke into your cabin. Be careful. Your life is in danger. Please come to see me in Treves.”

“Shit,” Gaspard said, straightening up. “Is there more?’

“Just directions to his house,” Devin replied, slumping down into his chair.

“Why couldn’t he have told you this last night?” Gaspard asked.

Devin shook his head. “I don’t know. He did ask to speak to me alone.”

Marcus was watching him closely. “Was there some reason you didn’t open this until now?”

Devin sighed. “I intended to throw it away without reading it at all. But I forgot it was in my jacket pocket until I pulled it out just now. I wish I’d found it ten minutes ago.”

Had LeBeau been lingering outside to speak to him just now? And what had St. Clair said to him that had made him so angry?

Marcus folded the letter carefully and returned it to the envelope, then shoved it across the table to Devin.

“You won’t be in Treves for another two months. That gives you a long time to decide what you want to do. You can either ignore it or take LeBeau up on his invitation. Besides, there’s some possibility that you may run in to him along the way and you can ask him what he meant. I wouldn’t worry about it now.”

While the others finished their breakfast, Devin sat hunched over his coffee cup, toying with his food. He methodically dismantled his cinnamon bun but didn’t eat any of it.

Gaspard gestured with his coffee cup. “I would have eaten that if I’d known you were going to destroy it.”

“Be my guest,” Devon replied, pushing his plate in front of his friend.

Outside the sky had darkened and snow was falling heavily.

CHAPTER 8

The Stones of Ombria

Devin’s itinerary called for them to leave the harbor and walk the twenty miles to Briseé to spend the night but Marcus immediately vetoed that because of the weather.

“This isn’t Viénne,” he told Devin, as they left the cafe. “These spring snowstorms can be deadly. I’m not running the chance of being caught far from shelter and having to spend the night out in the open. We’ll stay tonight in Pireé. If the weather has improved by morning, we can go on.”

“But if we stay here tonight,” Devin protested, “we’ll be behind schedule already and we’re only three days into our trip!”

“Then I would say the man who planned our itinerary was a fool not to take bad weather into account.” Marcus responded harshly. “Use your head, Devin!”

Devin had, in fact, taken bad weather into account. He just hadn’t anticipated it being a problem so early in their journey. It was later, as they made their way through the most Northern Provinces, that he had built extra time into their schedule. Apparently, Ombria was having a late spring; he’d had no way of knowing until they’d arrived here this morning. He threw his knapsack over his shoulder and followed Marcus, tight-lipped and furious. Snow blew into his face and melted down the neck of his jacket. A few steps ahead of him, Gaspard’s dark hair was already powdered with white, and snowflakes plastered Marcus’s hat and shoulders.

“This is nasty,” Gaspard said, stopping to let Devin catch up. “You don’t want to walk all day in a snowstorm. We’ll rent a room at one of the hotels and get a hot bath and a good meal. Besides, it’s a shame not to see the capital of Ombria while we’re here.”

Devin stalked straight ahead without commenting while Gaspard kept pace beside him.

“We could walk around the city this afternoon and then go to the theater tonight. The plays are all unscripted, did you know? Most of the dialogue is improvisation. The director gives the actors a specific plot and they act it out. They claim it’s never the same twice.”

Receiving no response, Gaspard stopped in front of Devin, placing a hand on each of his shoulders. “You can’t control the weather, Dev. You’ve waited two years for this trip. Lighten up and enjoy it!”

Devin shook off his hold. “It’s just that one thing after another has gone wrong. I feel as though the entire project is unraveling and there isn’t a blessed thing I can do to stop it!”

“But surely losing one day won’t make that much difference,” Gaspard insisted.

“It’s not the delay,” Devin answered. “I’m beginning to have second thoughts about the whole thing.”

Marcus turned to face them, sheltering his eyes from the snow with one hand. “Are you two coming or not? I don’t intend to stand out here and freeze, while you whine about a change in plans!”

Gaspard grimaced. “God! What’s gotten into him?”

“I don’t know,” Devin answered. “Come on. We can talk later.”

They found a large hotel that fronted onto the square. The staff was solicitous and efficient, and except for the strange pictorial signs, they could have been in Coreé. After they took their bags to their room, Devin considered canvassing the other hotels in the area to see if he could find Henri LeBeau. But the heavy snowfall kept them inside the rest of the day. When they went down to dinner, Devin glanced around the large dining room, but he saw no familiar faces.

The theater faced the hotel on the other side of the square. They walked quickly on slush-filled sidewalks, their collars turned up against the huge snowflakes which had begun to mix with rain. Ice coated the street lamps and glittered on the cobblestones and the ironwork that ornamented the front of the theater.

The play was well done and expertly costumed. Devin was fascinated by how the same oral tradition that had produced the Chronicles had also spawned this alternative form of drama. The director proved to be a local storyteller who had turned to theater production. And best of all, the evening’s play was based on one of the lesser known tales from Ombria’s Chronicle.

“There,” Marcus pointed out later as they sipped brandy in the hotel dining room before going up to bed. “You see, the day wasn’t a total waste, after all. And I can guarantee that you will sleep better here under an eiderdown quilt than in some snowy hollow along the road to Briseé.”

Devin allowed his brandy to slip slowly down his throat, enjoying the fiery sensation that drove away the chill of clammy boots and damp clothes.

“I actually wouldn’t mind seeing another production sometime,” he admitted. “I didn’t realize that the theater would be so closely tied to the Chronicle here.”

“I heard the man behind us say that some directors are actually bards,” Gaspard said. “Apparently, it’s important that the plot always remain accurate even though the actors have the flexibility to modify the individual scenes.”

The stringed quartet that had played for the evening in the hotel dining room began to pack up their instruments. Across the room, a waiter extinguished candles on the empty tables. Only one other table remained occupied, where a young couple sat talking quietly. Devin stood up.

“We’d better go and let them close for the night.”

Marcus pushed in his chair. “Remember, you need to leave the letters to be sent to your father at the Hall of Records in the morning. Is there anyone else you need to write to? I assume your fiancée knows about your trip?”

“I told Bridgette at Christmas,” Devin explained.

Gaspard snorted. “Whoa, that’s cold, Devin. Haven’t you seen her since then?”

Devin avoided their eyes. “No, there hasn’t been time. I’ve been too busy with my studies.”

From the time he was seven, Devin had been engaged to Bridgette Delacey, the daughter of a prominent Councilman. They had exchanged tokens, carefully chosen by their mothers, at birthdays and Christmas. For the past few years, they had been paired for dancing at summer soirées and winter galas. There had never been anything remotely romantic between them, at least, not on Devin’s part.

Devin turned to leave, hoping to avoid further discussion. Marcus sighed behind him.

“Well, I also need to register our route with the local authorities in the morning.”

Devin wheeled to look at him, afraid of another setback. “I want to get an early start tomorrow,” he reminded him.

Marcus pointed a finger. “Our departure still depends on the weather, Devin. An ice storm is far worse to deal with than a snowstorm.”

“We can’t afford any more delays…” Devin began.

Gaspard finished off the last of Devin’s brandy and laid a hand on his shoulder, the glass still dangling from his finger.

“Don’t worry,” he predicted, his words slightly slurred, “tomorrow will be beautiful.”

Devin wakened to the sound of water dripping off the eaves outside his window. The sky was cloudless and the slushy accumulation of snow had melted overnight. He was surprised to find Marcus already dressed.

“The snow is all but gone and the cold weather seems to have cleared off to the east,” Marcus said. “I’ll go now and deliver your letters and register our itinerary at the same time. You and Gaspard can have breakfast. Be ready to leave when I get back.”

“You’re leaving me alone?” Devin asked in surprise.

“I’m leaving you with Gaspard,” Marcus clarified. “See that you don’t get into trouble while I’m gone.” He held out his hand. “Where are your letters?”

Devin rummaged through his knapsack and pulled out two envelopes. One was still unsealed. He’d been reluctant to include everything that had occurred since he left but there was every possibility that Marcus was filing his own report. Late last night, he’d included the details of LeBeau’s note. This morning, he regretted adding it to his father’s worries.

He glanced up at Marcus. “Have you written to him as well?”

Marcus raised his eyebrows. “Do I need to?”

Devin shook his head and sealed the envelope. “No, I just hate to worry him.”

Marcus slipped on his jacket. “You’ll worry him more if you don’t report all the information available to you. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Devin and Gaspard had a leisurely breakfast and packed their few belongings, but it was nearly noon before Marcus returned.

“The wheels of our government grind very slowly here,” he said, in answer to their questions. “We’ll be lucky to reach Briseé by nightfall. Let’s get going.”

The air had warmed considerably by midday and the sun was welcome on their backs as they left the city. Soon, cobbled streets gave way to unpaved country roads. Wooded areas still sheltered remnants of snow, and deep hollows and valleys harbored pockets of air so cold they could see their breath. Before long, the dirt roads deteriorated into little more than beaten paths threading their way between cow pastures.

They stopped to rest on a high knoll, surveying miles of dry stone walls snaking off into the distance. Clouds raced across the sky casting constantly changing shadows that chased each other across the fields. Grass along the stream beds was already vibrantly green as spring stubbornly advanced, despite yesterday’s weather. Coffee-colored cows dotted the landscape.

“Cheese,” Gaspard remarked suddenly.

Devin turned to look at him. “Cheese?”

“That’s what Ombria is famous for,” Gaspard explained. “I was trying to remember last night after I went to bed. Every province has its own food specialty; I just couldn’t remember Ombria’s.”

“You could have asked,” Devin said.

“I’d rather have figured it out for myself,” Gaspard replied. “When I admit my stupidity, it only makes you look smug.”

“That’s not true!” Devin protested.

Gaspard grinned. “I’m not holding it against you. I’m just trying not to give you any more opportunities to prove your superior intellect.”

Devin ignored him, sliding from his perch on the top of the stone wall to the pasture on the other side. He walked a few feet forward and bent to unearth a rectangular stone pillar covered by grass and ivy.

“Do you think this could be a monolith, Gaspard?”

Gaspard dropped down beside him. Together they pulled away the vegetation, revealing a cut stone, about eighteen inches square and nearly nine feet in length. Inscribed halfway up on the two visible sides was a solid circle surrounded by four consecutively larger rings.

“What does it mean?” Gaspard asked.

Devin shrugged “I don’t think anyone knows for certain. I’ve read about these. There are supposed to be hundreds of them from Ombria clear to the western coast of Perouse. In the southern part of Arcadia, dozens are still standing, two by two, in perfect alignment, from east to west.”

Gaspard traced the circular symbol with his finger. “Surely, there must be some legend or folktale that explains their origins?”

“I hope the Chronicles will shed some light on them,” Devin replied. “Viénne’s archeologists have traditionally ignored any contribution they might add to their historic data.”

Marcus scowled down on them from the wall. “If you two are done excavating, we need to move on. By my calculations, we’re only halfway to Briseé.”

Devin stood up and dusted his hands off on his trousers. “Give me a minute. I just want to take a rubbing of this design.” He scrambled back over the wall and retrieved paper and a piece of charcoal from his knapsack.

Marcus glowered. “Just be quick about it. Do I need to remind you that the symbol of Ombria is a wolf? Unless you relish being eaten tonight, we need to be on our way!”

It was dusk by the time they sighted the first lights of Briseé. The town was built around a community garden with common grazing land around it. Cottages, constructed of the same limestone as the familiar stone walls, stood snug and cozy in the fading light. Some windows were already shuttered against the night but the tavern windows were still bright. Devin didn’t miss the furtive look Marcus threw back along the road as he shepherded them inside.

It was there in the public room that Devin saw the first storyteller’s cloak. It had been thrown carelessly across the back of a bench and its owner had gathered his audience close by the hearth. He stood with his arms flung wide, his face reddened by the light from the flames. But it was the light in his eyes and the pitch of his voice that attracted Devin. He was inexorably drawn to him, though the story was already in progress. Discarding his knapsack and his jacket on the nearest chair, he fell in with the group gathered in spellbound silence at the storyteller’s feet.

CHAPTER 9

Night in Briseé

Devin listened as the mesmerizing voice continued:

“And so, Gaêtan stood alone in the village square. All around him the windows of the cottages were dark and shuttered. The chimneys stood stark against the forest, not a puff of smoke emerged from their tops. He realized then that the people of Rameau were gone. Not one man, woman, or child remained to welcome him home. He fell to his knees in the overgrown gardens and wept.”

For a moment no one spoke and then appreciative whispers rippled through the crowd. Devin joined in the enthusiastic clapping that followed. Unfortunately, he had arrived at the end of the recitation. The storyteller smiled and bowed, accepting both congratulations and monetary tributes, and made his way to the bar. Devin ducked in and out of the crowd to reach him. He saw Gaspard and Marcus seated farther down the battered wooden counter finishing their first drink of the evening.

Devin secured a stool next to the storyteller.

“I’m sorry I missed the beginning of that tale. What happened to the people of Rameau?”

The man turned to face him. Dark curly hair framed a face that was young and unlined.

“No one knows,” he answered. “An entire village of people disappeared and the only one left to tell the story was Gaêtan.”

Devin felt a thrill of excitement shoot through him. “Really?” he asked. “And no one has ever solved the mystery?”

The storyteller inclined his head. “If they have, monsieur, it has never been added to the Chronicle of Ombria. Do I know you?”

“I’m sorry,” Devin apologized, extending his hand. “I’m Devin Roché.”

“Adrian Devereux,” he replied. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“We arrived in Pireé yesterday,” he explained. “I had expected to spend last night in Briseé but we were delayed by a snowstorm.”

Adrian nodded sympathetically. “Spring has been late in coming this year. Our cows were calving in deep snow. We lost a lot of little ones.”

“You live close by?” Devin asked.

Adrian smiled. “Does a bard ever really have a place to call home? My parents are from Briseé but I spend most of my time traveling. I’m back in town for a family wedding. It seems I’m always expected to put in a few local performances while I’m here.”

Marcus interrupted their conversation, placing a heavy hand on Devin’s shoulder.

“There are no rooms available here,” he growled. “Perhaps, if you invoke your father’s name…”

Devin gave a quick shake of his head. The last thing he wished to do was drag his father’s position into this situation. Any progress he’d made toward ingratiating himself with the village residents would be lost in a veil of suspicion and contempt.

“I’ll take care of it,” he murmured, dismissing Marcus with a handful of coins. “Go order something to eat for yourself and Gaspard.”

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