Armand stared at him. “What are you saying?”
“I cannot elaborate,” Devin replied. “But there are very strong factions within the government that threaten to undermine the Chancellor.”
“So the attempt on your life…”
“Goes far beyond this village, as Marcus implied,” Devin said. “And apparently, you may be in danger, as well, but from other sources.”
“I have been in danger for a long time,” Armand retorted. “A bard walks a fine line, Monsieur Roché. There is an old saying: if you misjudge your audience, you must watch your back. The wrong story told within hearing of a government official can be fatal.”
Devin’s stomach clenched. “So there have been others?”
“In addition to Beau Chère and Reynard?” Armand asked. “There have been two Master Bards who have died under suspicious circumstances in the last two years. I’m surprised you haven’t heard.”
“Perouse’s Master Bard died of natural causes,” Devin protested.
“Do you call murder natural?” Armand retorted. “Phillippe Duvoison was poisoned.”
Devin gasped. “I hadn’t heard that.”
“I have it on the authority of his housekeeper, who watched him sicken and die before her eyes.”
Devin shook his head. “Was she certain? Sometimes a weakness of the heart can cause a sudden death, Armand.”
“The woman was a trained herbalist, Monsieur Roché; she knew enough to recognize the signs but was unable to save him.”
“Then his murderer must have been someone close to him,” Devin speculated.
“One might assume so,” Armand replied. “A young man came to him asking to learn Perouse’s Chronicle. He stayed two weeks and disappeared the same night his master died in agony. Do you wonder that your own request was met with skepticism?”
“Oh God, Armand, I’m sorry,” Devin whispered. “I had no idea.”
“At present, Perouse has a half-trained apprentice serving as its Master Bard,” Armand continued. “And now, with Reynard gone, Arcadia has lost two Master Bards in five years. Even you cannot believe that is coincidence.”
Devin sat silently a moment. “And the other bard?” he asked finally. “Who else died recently?”
“Remi Maigny, Master Bard of Ferrare,” Armand replied. “He died of a broken neck on the road to Tarente last October – a fall from his horse – the official report concluded. Remi didn’t even own a horse, Monsieur Roché. He walked the roads of Ferrare just as I walk the roads of Ombria.”
“Is there anyone to carry on for him?” Devin asked. “Please tell me he had an apprentice.”
“He did,” Armand said quietly. “But the man has been afraid to declare himself. Ferrare’s Bardic Hall lies empty while he hides in secret. There is no doubt among us that, one by one, the Master Bards of Llisé are being silenced.”
Devin took a shaky breath. “Armand, these Chronicles will be lost if something isn’t done.”
Armand stood up. “If you truly wish to become a bard, then perhaps it is fitting that you share some of the burden as well. Come with me, Monsieur Roché.”
They passed Marcus in the hallway. He raised a questioning eyebrow at Devin.
“We’ll be in the performance hall,” Armand told him. “I’d prefer we remain undisturbed until we leave for Chastel’s.”
Marcus merely nodded. He had grown used to their lengthy sessions and simply amused himself elsewhere in the house while they were working.
Adrian and Jeanette had gone to the market, and Gaspard had spent last night at Chastel’s. They had the house to themselves. Armand opened the door to the performance hall, allowing Devin to precede him into the room, and then locked the door behind them.
“Sit down,” he directed as he took the stool by the fireside. He took a great deal of time lighting his pipe, and then turned to Devin.
“When you become a bard, you join a brotherhood. You become part of a tradition that predates your beloved Archives. It transcends written record. It and only it contains the very roots of the people of Llisé. These stories, Llisé’s history, are a sacred trust, passed down from one generation to the next virtually intact. It is only in the last few weeks that I have finally become convinced that you share my belief that the loss of the Chronicles would be incalculable.
“When you first came to me, I was never sure of your intent. You claimed to want to learn and yet you might have been an assassin sent to kill me. I have tried to hold you at arm’s length, Monsieur Roché, but you have earned my trust. It is only because of that trust that I am about to share something with you that no one but a Master Bard knows.
“What I am about to tell you must never leave this room. Should you repeat it to anyone, even your father, it would jeopardize the existence of the Chronicles forever. I would hunt you down myself. Is that understood?”
Devin swallowed, trying to quell the sinking feeling in his stomach.
“Perfectly,” he said.
CHAPTER 42
The Last Supper
“You’re unusually quiet,” Marcus observed. And yet, the creak of the coach and the clatter of the horses’ hooves left little room for conversation. “What was so damned important that Armand needed to lock the door to the performance hall this afternoon?”
Devin glanced at Jeanette sitting beside him. The ribbons on her bonnet were fluttering in the breeze from the open window. She turned her head away from them, as though pretending not to hear their discussion. The evening shadows heightened the curve of her cheek and the gentle slope of her neck.
“I didn’t realize you had noticed the door was locked,” Devin replied. “Armand asked that no one disturb us. He was simply making sure of it.”
“Well, I’ll tell him myself if you won’t,” Marcus said, his jaw set. “No one locks you in a room without my permission. See that Armand understands that.”
Devin inclined his head. “He meant no harm by it. He taught me the final story in the Chronicle today. It was important to him that I get it right.” Even to his ears the explanation sounded hollow. And here he was, offering it to Marcus who was trained to detect deception. Jeanette stole a questioning glance his way.
“You’ve never had a problem ‘getting it right’ before,” Marcus muttered. “Memorization comes to you as easily as spreading butter on warm bread.”
Devin’s eyes narrowed. After what Armand had told him this afternoon, he was in no mood to deal with Marcus’s disapproval.
“Is that how it appears to you?” he asked irritably.
Marcus shrugged. “It’s not like you have to work to learn any of it. I’ve seen your brothers bent over their books all night before an exam. You always sailed right through.”
Devin settled his head back against the coach seat, his eyes on Jeanette, and ignored the passing countryside.
“Oh, I have to work for it, too, Marcus. You just don’t see the effort that goes into it.”
An uneasy silence descended.
“You’re like your father,” Marcus said after a minute. “That man’s mind amazes me. At least, one of his sons inherited it.”
The compliment was meant to smooth over the disagreement, but Devin refused to be soothed. He turned instead to Jeanette.
“I’m sorry Armand was too upset to come tonight.”
“He knew Lucien well,” she answered. “To him, it seemed disrespectful to celebrate when one of his comrades died so violently. I offered to stay behind but it was kind of Adrian to spend the evening with him.”
Devin was glad that Adrian had stayed behind, too, but it would have been rude to say so. Armand had seemed very depressed when they had left. Perhaps it would have been kinder if they had all stayed to cheer him up.
His eyes strayed again to Jeanette. It was so rare that she wore anything but a simple smock and apron. The sleeves of her rose-colored dress accentuated her slender arms and wrists. The soft fabric matched the natural blush across her cheekbones exactly.
Devin had seen nothing in the past few days that indicated Jeanette’s attitude toward Adrian had softened. Just this afternoon, she had snubbed her suitor’s gentle offer of help carrying the laundry downstairs. Devin had no way of knowing what passed between Jeanette and her father when they were alone but he suspected she would not go willingly into this marriage of convenience.
He closed his eyes, his head swimming with the information Armand had told him this afternoon. He had known that, because of Richard Chastel, Armand had been taught to read and write. But he hadn’t guessed what had occupied Armand and Adrian in their private sessions. Devin had failed to register the significance of those hastily hidden pages, secreted into the harp case, when he had accidentally walked in on them. Armand had been teaching Adrian to read and write, too.
The greater revelation was that every Master Bard taught his apprentice the same skills. The Master Bards of Llisé had been outwitting the government in Viénne for centuries. The Chronicles already existed in written form. What Devin had committed his Third Year to accomplish was a reality. And yet, he could tell no one, not his father or Marcus or even Gaspard who had pledged to help him fulfill his mission. Whoever was carrying out the extinction of Llisé’s Master Bards had no knowledge of the arcane library that guarded their ancient legacy. And Devin was barred both by his position at the Académie and his pledge to Armand to ever reveal its secrets. If Llisé’s Chronicles were ever to be evaluated against the Académie’s Archives it would only be through Devin’s awkwardly conceived plan to memorize them. He was the only one in the unique position to do so. The deaths of Llisé’s Master Bards made it even more imperative that he succeed.
The jolt of the coach halting broke his revelry. He allowed Marcus to descend and then helped Jeanette from the coach. Her hand lingered in his longer than necessary. It was he who finally broke the contact as he allowed her to precede him into the house.
As always, Chastel’s Château enveloped Devin in its opulence. Here, he could so easily fall back into the patterns that had been so deeply ingrained in Coreé; never questioning the effort that brought such luxury to the wealthy few and left the majority to struggle for a meager existence. Around him, servants moved on silent feet, attending to their master’s every need. Devin wondered if he might have glimpsed Robert Foulard when he stayed here before. And yet, he had never even taken notice of the man’s face or bothered to learn his name.
“Monsieur Roché!” Chastel greeted him warmly, taking Devin’s right hand in both of his. “You seem much too pensive for a celebratory occasion! Come have some wine to lighten your mood!” His sweeping glance took in his other guests, as well. “Jeanette, Marcus, welcome to my home. Come this way.”
Chastel began to lead them toward the dining room, and then turned.
“Where is our Master Bard? I’d hoped he and Adrian would attend. Surely Armand isn’t boycotting my dinner party.”
“My father sends his regrets,” Jeanette responded. “A friend of his, Lucien Reynard, Arcadia’s Master Bard, died very suddenly. My father thought his grief might spoil the evening.”
Chastel bowed. “I am very sorry to hear that. Arcadia’s Master Bards seem not to be a hearty lot. I believe something similar happened about five years ago.”
“Lucien was murdered,” Devin said brusquely.
Marcus seized Devin’s shoulder. “Speaking of ruining the evening,” he hissed. “Are you certain of that?”
“Quite certain,” Devin replied. “My father told me in the letter you gave me today. Reynard was shot in his own performance hall.”
Chastel blanched. “And the killer?” he asked.
“Apparently unknown and still at large,” Devin answered.
“So there is good reason for your sober appearance,” Chastel replied. “Forgive me. I assumed you had simply been working too hard.”
The double doors of the dining room stood open. Gaspard was at the sideboard refilling his empty glass.
“Dev!” he called, his words already slurred. He gestured with the bottle, dribbling wine on Chastel’s fine Andalusian carpet. “Come, have some of your father’s excellent wine.”
Devin stepped forward and carefully righted the bottle. Taking it from his friend’s hand, he replaced it on the sideboard. “Perhaps you need to show some restraint,” he suggested quietly. “The evening’s just begun.”
Gaspard threw a companionable arm around Devin’s shoulders. “Loosen up, Dev. This is your last party in Ombria.”
“Our last party,” Devin corrected him.
Gaspard drew him closer, swaying unsteadily. “Perhaps not, mon ami. Chastel has invited me to stay.”
Devin recoiled, as though he’d been stung. “Gaspard!” he protested. “I need your help! You have to record the musical part of the Chronicles after I memorize them.”
Gaspard shrugged. “This trip has turned dangerous, Dev. I agreed to tour the provinces with you, but I don’t want to die doing it.” He patted Devin’s shoulder in an effort to placate him. “You’ve got Marcus for company. I think his skills may prove more useful than my feeble wit, anyway.”
Devin pushed his friend’s hand away, his face flushed. He felt betrayed – not only by Gaspard – but by Chastel, as well. His eyes sought Marcus’s in mute appeal, but his bodyguard only shrugged.
Chastel snagged Devin’s arm with the desperate air of a host whose party has gone awry.
“Here now, nothing definite has been decided yet. I merely made the offer because Gaspard’s situation with his father is so strained. At my château, he is only a week away from home should the situation change.”
“What makes you think the situation will change?” Devin demanded. “Gaspard doesn’t want to go home!”
Chastel looked faintly embarrassed. “I have intervened on his behalf.”
“What?” Devin asked in disbelief. He turned to look at Gaspard swaying unsteadily on the carpet. “Did you ask him to do that? Is that what you want?”
His friend shrugged. “I have no income of my own. Unlike you, my father hasn’t left his empire at my disposal. I have no skills. How do you expect me to survive in the provinces?”
“You would have been with me!” Devin protested. “I have taken care of all your expenses so far.”
“And the first time I asked for extra money, you bit my head off,” Gaspard reminded him bluntly. “I need to go home, Dev. I’ll make my peace with my father, and go back to school. I can defy him all I want but I will never win.”
Devin was still trying to process the information. “But we were to leave Ombria in two days’ time. When were you planning to tell me?”
“After dinner,” Chastel said, intervening, “and not so abruptly. I apologize, Monsieur Roché, I never meant for you to find out like this.” He took a deep breath and poured a glass of wine, proffering it to Devin. “Please, don’t let this spoil the evening.”
Devin refused to be placated. Propriety demanded that he accept the wine but he felt like throwing it in Gaspard’s face like an angry child! Instead he fell into sullen silence, his well-thought out plans in disarray.
“I had no idea that Gaspard was essential to your mission or I would never have suggested this,” Chastel said quietly.
“And apparently, Gaspard didn’t volunteer the information,” Devin retorted.
“He seemed at loose ends while you studied,” Chastel continued. “I was only offering an alternative.”
“So you’ve made up your mind?” Devin demanded of Gaspard. “Is there nothing I can say to change it?”
Gaspard downed another glass of wine before answering. He avoided meeting Devin’s eyes. “I don’t think I have an alternative. I’m sorry if it ruins your plans, but I have to think of my own future for a change.”
Devin swallowed. He was going to ruin the evening, personally, if he didn’t put some distance between himself and Gaspard. He took a gulp of wine. The rich flavors of his father’s province did nothing to ease
the tension in his chest.
“Would you excuse me, please?” he said, turning away.
Jeanette radiated concern. Her fingers grazed his as he passed her, but he continued down the hall. A servant bowed, sweeping the front door open in front of him.
The shame of his retreat only added to the anger boiling inside him. He stopped at the portico, fixing his eyes on the smooth gray waters of the lake, willing that same calm to ease his own troubled thoughts.
The door closed quietly behind him. For an instant, he hoped desperately that Gaspard had changed his mind and had come to tell him so. But when he turned it was Marcus who stood leaning against the door.
“That was smooth,” his bodyguard commented, his tone faintly amused.
“I’m not interested in a critique of my behavior,” Devin replied.
“I didn’t expect that you would be,” Marcus said. “But, you are my responsibility. I can’t have you wandering off on your own.”
Devin drew both hands through his hair, leaving it tousled and on end.
“Gaspard blindsided me,” he explained tartly. “He should have told me when we were alone, not in a room full of people.”
Marcus shrugged. “And yet, you have encouraged him to go home at least twice. Why are you so upset that he chose to do the sensible thing, now?”
“Is it the sensible thing?” Devin asked, his gaze searching Marcus’s face. “Have you ever known René Forneaux to be a forgiving man?”
Marcus’s face remained impassive. “Forneaux told Gaspard that he had until the end of the summer to come home. It would be best if he didn’t push that deadline.”
Devin turned his back to Marcus. Perhaps Marcus was right, but he felt an uneasiness that had nothing to do with his personal disappointment.
“René Forneaux is a ruthless man,” he pointed out.
Marcus corrected him. “He is a powerful man. Powerful men are ruthless.”
“Not always,” Devin retorted.
Marcus interrupted. “Your father is the Chancellor Elite of Llisé. He didn’t reach that position without compromising some of his ideals. Don’t insist I disillusion you by making comparisons to Forneaux.”
Among Wolves Page 26
