Before Winter

A few hours after midnight, it began to rain, a damp misty drizzle at first and then a downpour, bringing Marcus upright, his blanket over his head. “What in God’s name!” he grumbled.

Devin turned to look at him. “Sorry, I can keep watch but I can’t control the weather.”

Marcus gave a shiver, pulling his sodden blanket around him. “It’s late. Why didn’t you waken me?”

“I could feel the rain coming,” Devin answered. “I thought I’d give you a chance to sleep while it was dry.”

“Not so great for you!” Marcus observed. “Where’s your blanket?”

“I’m sitting on it,” Devin replied. “I thought I’d keep it as dry as I could. I’m worried about the journal.”

“Why don’t you sleep against one of the trunks?” Marcus suggested. “Put the side of your jacket with the Chronicle and the journal against the tree. You can have my blanket, too, if you like.”

“No, thank you,” Devin said, sliding over to hug the nearest oak tree. “It’s already soaked.”

He moved to snuggle against the tree trunk and found the bark ridged and unyielding. He doubled his blanket over his shoulders and closed his eyes but the drip from overhead branches made sleep impossible. After several unsuccessful attempts, he watched a gray dawn touch the eastern horizon with Marcus.

“Can we move on?” he asked.

“If you’re ready,” Marcus answered. “This doesn’t appear to be letting up. We may as well be on our way.”

The rain continued all day, leaving their clothes and boots soaked. Finally, by late afternoon the storm clouds scudded off, leaving the sky brilliantly blue and cloudless.

“It’s going to be cold tonight,” Marcus predicted. “We need to find shelter – somewhere we can dry our clothes and get warm.”

“Do you have any money?” Devin asked.

“I picked the pockets of the men I dropped in the bay,” Marcus admitted. “What are you thinking?”

“Finding an inn, perhaps?” Devin suggested. “If I tie this bandage around my eyes and find a stout stick, I could pretend that I am blind and you are my father. We’d hardly fit the description of the men the soldiers are seeking.”

Marcus shook his head. “That’s risky, Devin. I think we need to stay out of any populated areas.”

“A cave then?” Devin asked hopefully, thinking of the misery of sleeping outside on a cold night in wet clothes.

“We’ll see,” Marcus said without agreeing.

They crossed fields, slithered down into ravines, and clambered over stone walls, all to avoid the main road. As the light began to dim, Marcus spotted what looked like a low shelter for livestock at the corner of a pasture.

“That looks promising,” Marcus remarked cheerfully. “Stay here in the hedgerow while I check it out.”

He was only gone for a few minutes, skirting the field and soundlessly approaching the shelter from the back. For a man on the far side of forty, he moved like a cat, swiftly and silently covering the distance. Devin lost sight of him when he disappeared inside. A moment later he motioned Devin ahead.

“Luck is on our side,” Marcus said with a grin. “This is a shepherd’s hut. There’s dry straw to sleep on and even a lantern filled with oil!”

“Too bad there is no roast mutton hidden away,” Devin said as his stomach rumbled.

“That I don’t have,” Marcus replied. “But there is time enough for me to hunt and you can read your precious journal tonight as long as you keep the lantern shuttered.”

Devin dropped his pack and felt for the pages of the Chronicle in his jacket. They were warm and dry and so was the journal. “We’re lucky indeed,” Devin agreed.

Marcus left his pack on the straw. “I’ll be back in a few minutes with something to eat.”

Removing the journal, Devin took off his jacket and hung it to dry on one of the branches which had escaped the interwoven tangle of limbs which made up the walls of the hut. Though the structure was open on one side, the three remaining walls broke the wind. He propped his back against the corner and opened the journal.

The first page recording the date was written in larger handwriting than the contents of the journal. Devin squinted at the first entry in frustration as the letters and words blurred together. He rubbed his eyes but no matter how he struggled, the words were as indecipherable as though they were written in a foreign language. What if this problem with his eyesight was permanent? He could never return to his work at the Archives. Of what use was an archivist who couldn’t read or copy manuscripts? He put the journal back in his jacket. He’d had little or no sleep last night, he rationalized. Perhaps that was part of the problem, and admittedly the light inside the hut wasn’t good either. He put his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. A short nap might improve things.

Marcus entered, wakening him. He laid two skinned rabbits down on the hay. “I thought you’d be devouring that journal!” he said in surprise.

Devin passed a hand over his eyes. “I guess my lack of sleep got the better of me. Perhaps we can read it together after dinner.”

“Read it to me while I cut these rabbits up,” Marcus directed. “I think we might be able to roast them a bit over that lantern.”

Devin slid forward. “I can’t, Marcus.”

“You can’t what?” he asked, busy with his rabbits. “I know you don’t like raw meat. I just said I’m going to try to cook it for you.”

“It’s not that,” Devin answered.

“Then what’s the matter?” Marcus asked, sparing him an annoyed look.

“I can’t read,” Devin blurted out. “My eyes are blurry all the time. I can’t see straight.”

Marcus dropped his knife and turned around. “When you first mentioned this, I assumed it was temporary. You read the date in that journal to me yesterday.”

Devin turned the book so he could see it. “The date and Father Sébastian’s name are written much larger. I was able to make that much out. But in the journal entries …” He turned a page and held the book up for Marcus, “the writing is much smaller. See for yourself.”

“God, Devin, I had no idea! You should have told me,” Marcus replied. “It’s only been five days, maybe it will go away.”

“Maybe,” Devin conceded.

“Have the headaches stopped?”

“Yes, and the dizziness, too. It’s only the blurriness in my eyes that’s remained.”

“What can I do?” Marcus asked.

“Read the journal to me tonight,” Devin said. “We need to know what’s in it. If something should happen – if the book were captured – no one would know the truth about what happened at Albion.”

“Anything,” Marcus promised. “I don’t know what to say, Devin. You know I shot you to save your life.”

Devin nodded. Marcus’ concern seemed palpable. He had no desire to reassure him; he didn’t have the heart. Losing his eyesight would bring all his dreams crashing down and he wasn’t ready to deal with that now.

The lantern proved efficient at cooking bits of rabbit on wet sticks. The edges were crisp and the center tender and juicy. Devin couldn’t remember having enjoyed a meal more. They were both famished after last night’s lack of dinner and this was certainly an improvement over moldy bread!

Marcus disposed of the remains of the rabbits and returned with two full waterskins. He sat down next to Devin against the wall and pulled the lantern to his side. “Let’s have that journal,” he said.

Devin handed it to him, watching as he opened it to the first entry. “I, Father Sébastian Chastain, priest to the people of Albion and Rodez …”

“Rodez?” Devin interrupted. “That’s another very small village. It’s not far from the Arcadia border.”

“I’m not familiar with it but if their priest disappeared, there might be more information at one of the churches close by.” Marcus glanced at Devin. “You know we can’t take the time to look for any more information now?”

“I know that,” said Devin, trying to keep the irritation from his voice. “It simply adds more validity to the journal, especially if there are secondary sources describing the destruction of Albion. Go on.”

“… must record the events that led to the destruction of Albion and all its citizens. On 12 Avril 1406, Gascon Forneaux …”

“Forneaux?” Devin yelped. “Is it possible that this could be René Forneaux’s ancestor?”

“We’ll never know if you keep interrupting me!” Marcus snapped. He took a deep breath and began again. “Gascon Forneaux and some of his men destroyed the dam holding back the waters of Gave d’Oloron, subsequently flooding the town of Albion and drowning all of its inhabitants. I saw the waters coming over a great distance from the hill above the church and rang the bell to alert my parishioners but my efforts came too late. Every man, woman, and child was swept away by the onslaught and I will forever bear the guilt of their deaths. Had I only reached the church bell sooner, I might have saved some of their lives.”

Devin exhaled. “What a burden to bear! He blamed himself and yet he couldn’t have done more than he did.”

“I am leaving this journal in the hope that my sister Lavender or one of my brothers may find it and give it to my father. They are the only ones that I have shown this safe room to. News of my death will bring them here to search for answers.” Marcus dropped the journal on his knee. “Now that is just scary! So, Lavender actually was Sébastian’s sister?”

“His little sister,” Devin reminded him. “The Lavender that the story made famous was a child when she ran after her pony. What would have brought her to Tirolien, do you think? Even had he shown her that room as a child, she wouldn’t have been able to travel all this way by herself.”

“But maybe as an adult she did,” Marcus said. “Maybe she was drawn here because of her brother’s death.”

“She said she had heard the story from her father,” Devin added. “So her brother must have died before she ran away. Could her brother have written to his father expressing his concerns about Gascon Forneaux and the villagers’ refusal to pay their taxes? Do you suppose he expected retribution?”

Marcus shook his head. “This is all too complicated for me. I feel as though I’ve fallen into a fairytale.”

“Keep reading,” Devin urged.

“It is incomprehensible that the rivalry between two brothers could have cost so many innocent people their lives,” Marcus continued.

“Two brothers?” Devin repeated. “Does he give the other brother’s name? I think there was a Forneaux who was elected as Chancellor several hundred years ago.” He heard the faint sound of voices. “What is that?” he asked, holding up a hand for silence.

“It sounds like people talking,” Marcus said.

Devin stood up. Through the trees he saw the intermittent light of lanterns swinging. “Someone’s coming.”

Marcus was on his feet, too, snuffing the lantern but taking it with them. “Devin, pick up your pack! We need to get out of here!” he hissed.

They stumbled through the dark, tripping over rocks and tree roots, hoping desperately that their hasty escape wouldn’t be heard by the group moving into the pasture behind them. They made their way to the far side of the field and scrambled below the brow of the hill, pausing long enough to glance back. A group of twelve people with several lanterns between them gathered at the shepherd’s hut Marcus and Devin had just left.

“Who are they?” Marcus whispered.

“Druides?” Devin guessed.

Marcus turned to look at him. “Seriously?”

“I don’t know,” Devin whispered. “I don’t have any better idea than you do!”

The group sat down on the ground, putting the lanterns in a circle in the middle. As they had crossed the field, Devin noticed in the wavering light of their lanterns that none of them were dressed alike. They wore no robes that identified them as a group or a cult and most importantly, they carried no visible weapons.

“Stay here,” Marcus directed. “I’m going to do a little reconnaissance. If I’m captured or killed – do your best to get back to La Paix without any further mishaps. I fear leaving you on your own more than anything.” He crossed himself elaborately and winked at Devin. “Don’t do anything rash,” he whispered as he crept forward, soundlessly crossing toward the back of the shepherd’s hut.

Devin waited in silence, his hands sweaty, and his heart thumping until Marcus finally arrived behind the hut. At last, Marcus crouched, still and immovable as the trees that bordered the field. The moments stretched into more than an hour and Devin began to feel the air chill as the wind dropped. He slid his wet coat on and buttoned it. Slipping his pack over his shoulder, he prepared to run should Marcus indicate that it was necessary, but Marcus was as still as stone. What was he doing, anyway? Was he afraid to draw attention to himself by leaving or was he gathering information? It was all Devin could do to keep from scrambling over the hilltop to join him.

And yet the minutes dragged on. The waning moon shone overhead now, having lost only a bit of its fullness. Its light outlined the roof and the slope of Marcus’ shoulders and made the way back toward where Devin hid seem a little less treacherous. Devin flexed his legs and hands to avoid stiffness, but Marcus showed no sign of moving. After several hours, the group that had gathered in the hut finally stood up, retrieved their lanterns, and went back the way they had come, disturbing nothing at all with their passing. Most fortunate of all, they seemed to have no knowledge at all of Marcus’ presence.

CHAPTER 11

Stolen Secrets

Marcus slithered unceremoniously down the slope and landed next to Devin. “Those people were from Rodez. They had actually gathered to learn Tirolien’s Chronicle. One man was a friend of Absolon Colbert, Dariel Moreau’s apprentice. He’d heard Absolon tell the tales from the Chronicle over and over and learned many of them himself. He’s passing them on to the others.”

“So they had already heard of Dariel and Absolon’s murders?” Devin asked.

“News of a murdered Master Bard and his apprentice travels fast,” Marcus said. “Dariel’s murder was more lurid than most. There was no attempt to cover it up as an accident or natural causes. When Absolon was murdered as well, there was no evidence to prove that the murders might have been prompted by robbery. The people of Tirolien are furious!”

“As well they should be,” Devin agreed. He gave a violent shiver. “Aren’t you cold? I’m about to freeze to death. Is it safe for us to retake our hut?”

“Yes, they’ve all gone home,” Marcus said, scrambling back up the hill. “I’m chilled, too, but I thought you’d be relieved that at least Tirolien’s stories are being retold.”

Devin followed him up, his wet boots rubbing his feet in a dozen nasty places. “I was just afraid you were going to get caught, lurking behind them like a thief,” he said. “I had hoped that some of the bards who knew the stories would retell them and teach them to others; even though that isn’t the way that tradition dictates that the Chronicles be taught. I hope it happens all over Llisé and the stories of their murdered Master Bards spread across this empire like a plague!”

The moon slipped slowly toward the western horizon, leaving the stars to shine bright and glassy in the dark sky. The grass crunched beneath their feet as though a crust of frost had covered it in the still, cold air after midnight. It seemed that fall had already laid its icy fingers on the northern part of Llisé and their mission seemed more urgent than before.

The hut felt warm and still held the smell of lamp oil, wool, and sweaty bodies. Devin dropped down on the hay, shrugging out of his wet jacket and rehanging it on a stray branch.

Marcus began shifting the hay around by the wall, piling it up and spreading it out again, his back to Devin.

“It’s unfortunate when you are warmer without your jacket on than with it,” Devin observed, scooping out a small nest for himself in the hay.

“Don’t!” Marcus said suddenly.

“Don’t what?” Devin asked.

There was a sudden deafening silence. Devin looked up but Marcus’ face was hidden in shadow. His voice when it came sounded ragged. “Don’t move the hay around. I left the journal here when we ran. I think it’s gone, Devin.”

Devin fumbled for the lantern, jamming it into Marcus’ hands. “Light the lantern so we can see!”

Marcus struck a spark and the lantern illuminated the small space. Though they searched for at least an hour, moving every wisp of hay at least twice, there was no sign of the journal in the hut.

Devin fought an irrational urge to yell at Marcus. “You could hear what these people who met here were saying, couldn’t you?” he snapped.

Marcus nodded. “Most of it. I wasn’t close enough to hear everything.”

“Did they mention the journal?” Devin demanded. “Did anyone say anything about it?”

Marcus shook his head. “No.”

Devin paced the small space, his breath misting in the cold air. “Do you think that whoever took it, kept it a secret? Just pocketed it until he could look at it later?”

Marcus threw out his hands. “I don’t know. I’m not even sure where I dropped it. When we heard the voices and saw the lanterns, my only thought was to get you away safely. I realize what I’ve done, Devin, I’m not minimizing it. It was what I warned you about doing and why I told you to put the journal back in your jacket lining when you weren’t using it.”

“You didn’t …?”

Marcus patted his pockets. “No, I’ve already checked.”

Devin sank down on his knees.

“I know how much it meant to you,” Marcus said.

Devin steepled his hands against his mouth. “I felt as though we were on the verge of understanding the beginning of this Shadow Government. Father Sébastian mentioned the Forneaux family and the fact that there were two brothers and some apparent feud between them. It sounded as though the people of Albion might have become innocent victims of that feud. We have to find the journal, Marcus. It would strengthen our case if I had some written evidence to present to Council.”

“We can’t take the time to look for it, Devin,” Marcus said. “I’m sorry. If we are to get back to Coreé before winter, we have to reach La Paix as soon as possible.”

“And yet, Rodez is on the way,” Devin pointed out. “It’s only a few miles north of the route we took when we went to Calais to search for the Provincial Archives. We didn’t pass it then because we stayed on the main road.”

“We don’t have time, Devin,” Marcus repeated.

“We’ll have to stop for food,” Devin rationalized.

“How would you determine which person took it?” Marcus asked. “There were ten men and two women here tonight.”

“Who seems most likely?” Devin asked.

“No one!” Marcus snapped. “No one seemed like the type to take it without telling the others. They were here to remember and repeat their history. They were meeting in secret … afraid for their lives. Something like that journal would only have added to their goal. They would have been happy to discover any information against the government.”

“But none of them could read!!” Devin exclaimed suddenly. “They would have taken it to someone who could, probably the closest priest! I wonder if there is still a church in Rodez?”

“Was there a church there on the map?”

Devin nodded. “Yes, but that map was old. There was no indication when it was drawn up or by whom. It’s worth taking a chance though, isn’t it, Marcus? It would only mean a few hours out of our time and it might provide valuable information.”

Marcus sighed. “Get some sleep. It’ll be dawn before you know it.”

“Marcus, we can’t allow this journal to disappear,” Devin begged.

Marcus held up a hand. “Don’t push me. If you do, the answer will be ‘no.’ Let me think about it. In the meantime, shut up and get some rest.”

Initially sleep seemed impossible, but Devin did finally nod off. His dreams were filled with soldiers, floods, and last of all, just before he wakened, Lavender appeared. She held the journal in her hands. “We gave this to you,” she said. “If you lose it, there isn’t another one. We’re depending on you.” He woke with a startled exclamation and the determination to find the journal whether Marcus agreed or not.

“What’s the matter?” Marcus asked.

“I’m going to go to Rodez,” Devin said, “with or without you. I can’t let you dictate whether this journal is significant or not, Marcus. I need it to present to Council and I intend to find it before we go back.”

Marcus raised his eyebrows and bowed his head, with a grand sweep of his arm. “Then I guess I’ll have to go with you, Monsieur Roché,” he acquiesced, his jaw clenched.

Rodez was only two miles from the main road, which Devin and Marcus were closer to than they realized. The rural community consisted of a scattering of houses, a small bakery, a store, and a stone church, much like the one at Albion. They heard the bell in the tower as they topped the small rise leading into town.

“Is it Sunday?” Devin asked.

“I have no idea,” Marcus responded. “If it is, I don’t think it’s wise to join the congregation. It makes it much more obvious that we are strangers and a lot more people would be able to attest to our whereabouts.”

Devin went off the road into a tangled shrubby area with a good view of the front of the church and sat down. “Then we’ll wait.”

They didn’t have to wait long. Mass must have begun before they arrived and the parishioners trooped down the steps in a little over an hour, saying their farewells to the large priest who greeted them at the door.

“Do you recognize anyone?” Devin whispered.

“That man,” Marcus pointed out, “is Absolon’s friend. He seemed to be the leader of the group. If I had to guess, I might think he had taken the journal.”

Devin watched as the tall, lanky young man bent to speak privately with the priest. “He could be making arrangements to meet him later or confiding that his wife is expecting another baby. It’s impossible to know.”

Marcus grabbed his arm. “That woman was there, too. I remember the unusual white streak in her hair.”

The woman shook the priest’s hand and descended the steps, holding a small boy by the hand. Several people followed in quick succession; none was anyone that Marcus recognized until a very large man gripped the priest in a bear hug.

“He was there,” Marcus added. “It makes you wonder if he might be the priest’s brother. They are surely built the same.”

Devin sighed. “Anyone else?” It was well past noon and his stomach was rumbling. How nice it would be to go to the baker’s and buy some fresh bread. But in a village this size, strangers would be noticed right away, and possibly reported to the nearest authorities. The people of Northern Llisé were afraid for their lives. Their bards had been brutally murdered and their heritage was in jeopardy. Any stranger had become a potential enemy.

Marcus shook his head. “There is no one else that I recognize. It was dark and I was peering through the branches on the wall of the hut. I think I was lucky to have remembered three of them. Wait a few minutes and we’ll go in and speak to the priest.”

“I pray he doesn’t have another service to perform at a nearby church, the way Father Sébastian did,” Devin commented.

“It’s entirely possible. I doubt that a village this size could support a priest,” Marcus said.

The area around the church had cleared and Devin and Marcus stood up. Devin pulled the bandage from his head, scrunched it, and placed it in his pocket. He combed his hair down over his wound with his fingers as they moved out from their hiding place.

The priest was just swinging the one door closed as they reached the church. “Good afternoon,” he said, shading his hand against the sun. “Do I know you?”

“No, Father,” Devin said. “May we speak to you?”

“Of course,” he said. “I’m Father Mark. Would you like to come inside?”