Before Winter
NANCY K. WALLACE

HarperVoyager

an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2017

Copyright © Nancy K. Wallace 2017

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

Nancy K. Wallace asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

Ebook Edition © September 2017 ISBN: 9780008103606

Version: 2017-08-18

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Prologue

CHAPTER 1: If I Should Die

CHAPTER 2: Vestiges of Betrayal

CHAPTER 3: Lavender

CHAPTER 4: Dreams

CHAPTER 5: The Wilderness of Llisé

CHAPTER 6: Spirits

CHAPTER 7: Albion

CHAPTER 8: The Key

CHAPTER 9: Whispers from the Past

CHAPTER 10: Mysteries and Discoveries

CHAPTER 11: Stolen Secrets

CHAPTER 12: Sanctuary

CHAPTER 13: Unexpected Delays

CHAPTER 14: Discoveries

CHAPTER 15: Free Again

CHAPTER 16: The Way of the Wolf

CHAPTER 17: Loss and Remembrance

CHAPTER 18: Amiens

CHAPTER 19: Refuge

CHAPTER 20: Dinner Conversation

CHAPTER 21: Albion Revisited

CHAPTER 22: Old Alliances

CHAPTER 23: Old Habits Die Hard

CHAPTER 24: Honesty

CHAPTER 25: Bardic Wisdom

CHAPTER 26: Remembrance

CHAPTER 27: Farewells

CHAPTER 28: On the Run

CHAPTER 29: Eviction

CHAPTER 30: The Cabin

CHAPTER 31: Then There Were Four

CHAPTER 32: Night Terrors

CHAPTER 33: Doubts and Speculation

CHAPTER 34: The Valley of the Shadow

CHAPTER 35: Wolves in Sheep’s Clothing

CHAPTER 36: Evidence and Speculation

CHAPTER 37: The Company of Strangers

CHAPTER 38: The Hills of Home

CHAPTER 39: High Hopes

CHAPTER 40: Unexpected Complications

CHAPTER 41: A Time of Reckoning

CHAPTER 42: Confrontation

CHAPTER 43: Realignments

CHAPTER 44: Affairs of the Heart

CHAPTER 45: Beginnings and Endings

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Nancy K. Wallace

About the Publisher

Prologue

Jeanette bent over Devin, her brown curls lightly brushing his cheek. When his eyes fluttered open and focused on her face, she smiled.

“Am I dead?” he asked.

She kissed his cheek. “No, my love,” she assured him. “You aren’t dead but you need help.”

He cupped her cheek with his hand, ran his thumb across her lower lip. “My God, I love you,” he murmured. “Where have you been? I’ve been so worried.”

“Not far away,” she answered. “But I have to go now, Devin, I’m sorry.”

He found her hand and held it. “Don’t go,” he protested.

“I can’t help you, Devin,” she explained. “But Marcus is coming back.”

“Marcus tried to kill me,” he said.

She shook her head, her eyes big in her slender face, and rose from her knees. Her dress swirled around her bare feet. “I have to go.”

“Don’t go!” he begged.

She kissed her finger and stooped to touch his mouth. “I must,” she said. “Be still.”

“When will I see you again, Jeanette?” he asked, raising his head. The pain sent him back down into darkness, her name still on his lips.

CHAPTER 1
If I Should Die

Devin’s head pounded in time with his heart as it slowly pumped his life’s blood onto the forest floor. He lay in deep, velvety darkness as rain spattered the leaves of the trees above him and slid in rivulets down his cheeks like tears. Gone was the fragrance of pine, the wind fresh off the ocean. The air stank of burned paper and cloth. The Chronicles were gone … he had tried and failed to save them and now they were lost forever. The entire history of the provinces had been destroyed by ignorance and flame. Ultimately, his trip to the provinces to preserve the Chronicles had led to their destruction and he would forever bear the guilt of it.

He opened his eyes to a dizzying view of tree trunks and rocks spinning in front of him. He swallowed convulsively and tried to shift to his back to see for himself if perhaps some small part of the repository remained. Nausea rolled over him in waves and he stopped moving and lay very still, half on his side, the way he’d wakened. Minutes passed as the sickness that threatened to overwhelm him finally stilled. He lay stiffly, his teeth clenched, one hand digging into the earth.

Finally, he touched his temple gingerly and found the whole side of his face was caked with a sticky mass of blood, pine needles, and dirt. His hand involuntarily rummaged in his pocket searching for a handkerchief and found it completely empty. Even Marcus’ rosary was gone.

Last night seemed decades ago, when he and Marcus had sat and talked on the banks of the stream, weathering a storm together. What had Marcus told him? “Trust me.” And Devin had. He had trusted Marcus with his life and Marcus had shot him. So, where was his bodyguard now? In some tavern toasting René Forneaux’s bid for chancellorship? Did he regret having shot the current chancellor’s son when he had been sworn to protect him? Or did he accept his new position with the same intensity that he accepted his role as Devin’s bodyguard? What kind of man was Marcus Berringer, anyway, to change loyalties like the wind?

Devin let out a deep breath. He was on his own now. He’d need to find his way back to La Paix … to Chastel, Armand, and Gaspard. Together they would plan a way to thwart this new regime and Marcus would be forever marked as an enemy, not an ally.

Devin tried again to move … to catch some small sight of the repository that had housed the Chronicles. Perhaps there was something left … even a few pages that could be salvaged and reassembled. But the forest lay shrouded in mist and smoke and drizzling rain; here and there an evergreen branch appeared momentarily before the mist swallowed it again. Everything seemed muffled and unreal. Even the birds were silent.

A frightening notion wiggled into Devin’s thoughts like a worm. Perhaps, he would die here after all, only a few feet away from the greatest discovery in Llisé’s history. At least, he had seen this arcane library and touched it with his own hands – the collected histories of every province in the empire. For a populace that was forbidden to learn to read and write, they had not only recorded their oral history on paper; they had organized it and filed it alphabetically. If René Forneaux assumed he was fighting ignorant provincials he was going to be in for shock.

Devin hoped he would be there to see it but from the amount of blood that continued to soak the neck and shoulder of his jacket, he was beginning to doubt whether he would. His head ached unbearably and he curled up on his side like a child and waited for morning. Sleep came fitfully, dragging him down into nightmare and releasing him, cold and shivering, into the darkened forest once again.

CHAPTER 2
Vestiges of Betrayal

“Dear God!” said a familiar voice. “Devin?” Hands eased him onto his back. He groaned as the world spun and lingering raindrops fragmented like a hundred prisms of light as the sun’s rays pierced the trees.

Marcus was bending over him, slapping him lightly on the cheek. “Can you hear me?” he asked insistently.

Devin nodded, the motion setting off pain that threatened to make the top of his head explode.

Marcus exhaled loudly and sat back on his heels. “Thank God you’re alive!” he murmured.

Devin forced words between cracked lips. “No thanks to you.”

“I saved your life,” Marcus explained calmly. “They’d have killed us both if I’d tried to resist. I asked you to trust me. Shooting you was the only way I could save you.”

“Have you come to finish me off then?” Devin hissed through gritted teeth.

“I saved your life,” Marcus repeated sharply.

“And your own skin,” Devin murmured.

Marcus’ face flushed an angry red. “Had I meant to kill you, Devin, do you think I’d have missed at ten feet? I had to get those soldiers away from you until I could come back alone. They had to believe you were dead, so I grazed your head with the bullet. There was lots of blood but I spared your life.” He slid a hand behind Devin’s back. “Now let me help you, damn it! I need you to sit up.”

Devin felt completely limp, like all his bones had turned to water. He let Marcus pull him into a sitting position against a tree but he folded up in agony, cradling his head in his hands.

His former bodyguard produced water and bandages. Dabbing lightly at Devin’s temple and the back of his head with a wet rag, he frowned, his craggy face wrinkled and drawn. He wrapped a bandage around Devin’s head and buried the bloody rags under a bush. “We have to get out of here,” he said. “Can you walk?”

“How far?” Devin asked.

Marcus put his hands under Devin’s arms and lifted him to his feet. “Back to La Paix,” he replied, pulling Devin’s arm over his shoulder.

Devin exhaled, “God!”

“I’ll carry you if I have to,” Marcus said.

“Don’t,” Devin protested. He put one unsteady foot forward, his vision still blurry and uncertain. “I can’t see, Marcus.”

“At all?” Marcus asked in alarm.

Devin waved a hand. “Everything is blurry … fragmented.”

“That’s to be expected with a concussion,” Marcus assured him. “You smacked the back of your head on a rock when you fell. It should go away in a few days.”

Devin looked for the shepherd’s hut that had housed the entrance to the repository. He blinked, willing his eyes to focus on what remained. The bank of earth behind it had collapsed; ironically leaving the rickety doorway standing, like a portal to nowhere. Only a mound of dirt was visible and the lingering smell of burning paper. “Do you think there’s anything left?” he asked.

“If there is, we can’t save it now. I need to get you somewhere safe,” Marcus replied. “Come on.”

Devin’s hand fumbled toward the lining of his coat.

“You still have Tirolien’s Chronicle,” Marcus assured him. “They never even looked for anything hidden in your coat.”

“Thank God,” Devin whispered. “Where are Emile and his men?”

“Dead,” Marcus said shortly. He urged him forward. “We have to go. There won’t be any second chances for either of us now. If we’re caught, we’ll be shot on sight.”

Devin moved with him, staggering through the trees to the top of the hill. They followed the edge of the forest, staying deep within its shade as they made their way painfully back toward the road. At the edge of a field of golden flowers bent low by the rain, Devin tripped over a fallen log and fell.

Marcus went down on one knee beside him.

“Give me a minute,” Devin begged.

“A minute,” Marcus reiterated. “We don’t dare stop for any longer.”

Devin closed his eyes, laying his head back against the cool earth. His breath, coming in gasps from the exertion, sounded harsh and jarring under the quiet of the trees.

“Come on,” Marcus said too soon, hoisting him upright.

Devin put a hand to his head as the trees ahead of them blurred and spun. He leaned on Marcus and walked, silently counting his steps one after another. They stopped for water at a clear brook that wound its way through the fields above them on its way to the ocean below. Devin washed his hands and face in the cool water, lingering to splash it across the back of his neck before they went on. Above, the gray clouds hung dark and low.

It seemed like hours before they reached the road. The primitive track made walking easier but increased the chance of detection. Marcus stopped frequently, always listening for sounds of pursuit or horses’ hooves. They went on for at least another hour, Devin staggering more with every step. Without any warning, his legs just crumpled. He slid out of Marcus’ arms and went down, stones tearing through the knees of his trousers. “I can’t do this anymore,” he panted.

“Just a few more feet,” Marcus coaxed. “The cave where we spent the night is right around that curve. If you can make it that far, you can rest for the night.”

He struggled up with Marcus’ help, half expecting that the promise of rest was only to entice him to keep going, but just around the next curve, Marcus led him down an embankment. Below them was the stream that had swollen to twice its size during the thunderstorm last night. Even with blurry eyes, Devin could see it was still muddy and swirling after all the rain. He sank down gratefully under the layer of overhanging rock and stretched out on the ground. “Thank God,” he murmured, closing his eyes.

Devin woke in the night to the soothing sound of water rushing over stone. He shifted cautiously, attempting to keep nausea and dizziness at bay, and felt a hand on his shoulder.

“How do you feel?” Marcus whispered out of the dark.

“I’m still alive,” Devin answered back.

How strange that they found themselves together in the same place where they had stopped two nights ago. Devin rearranged himself cautiously on the rocky ledge. “Tell me what happened to Emile?” he asked.

Marcus took a deep breath. “He sent two men home on a ship – one of them took my rosary that they stole out of your pocket. They hoped it would serve as proof of your death to your father.”

“He’ll know it’s not mine,” Devin interrupted.

“Exactly,” Marcus said. “I hope that we’ve sent him a message that you are still alive.”

“Do you think he has been deposed?” Devin asked.

Marcus shook his head slowly. “I can’t be certain, Devin. A lot may have happened in the two weeks it took those men to get here. If he is still in power then Forneaux is only biding his time. Your father may have sent those men to find you and bring you home and instead Forneaux paid them to kill you.”

Devin put a hand to his head. “There are too many different conspiracies. How do we sort them all out?”

“We don’t have to,” Marcus said. “We continue with our plan. If we can reach La Paix before the others leave, we can join them when they go to Coreé.”

“I’ll be recognized,” Devin said.

“Not necessarily,” Marcus replied. “You have a good start at a full beard: you’ve lost at least two stone in weight and in those clothes I doubt your father would recognize you.”

“And who will kill Forneaux?” Devin asked, thinking of Angelique’s insistence that she wanted to murder the man herself.

“I believe we will have several contenders standing in line,” Marcus muttered. “Don’t worry about that now. Are you hungry at all?”

Devin shook his head and regretted it.

Marcus handed him a flask. “Drink some water and try to sleep then.”

Devin could just make out his bodyguard’s profile as Marcus kept watch, his pistol in his lap. When they’d camped here before, he’d trusted Marcus, even confided in him. Last night, he’d been shot by his own bodyguard and almost killed, but Marcus didn’t appear to have changed. He had assumed his previous position as though he expected Devin to accept him also. And yet Devin would always see the muzzle of Marcus’ pistol aimed at his head and feel the sharp burn of that bullet, the instant before he passed out.

CHAPTER 3
Lavender

Devin dreamed of troops marching in Independence Square, his father standing on the steps of the Chancellor’s residence to view them, surrounded by his bodyguards. Devin stood beside him, as did his brothers and his mother. The pound of their horses’ hooves hurt Devin’s head as they shook the ground. They never missed a step, one hoof after the other, as though the horses had been trained to march in perfect time, but the soldiers’ rifles were aimed at the Chancellor and his family.

A hand descended over Devin’s mouth, waking him abruptly and yanking him backwards. He struggled, fighting imprisonment and nausea, as rough cloth was pulled over his head and body.

“Be still,” Marcus hissed in his ear.

Devin realized the pounding hooves were not a dream but horses passing on the road above them, at least one squad of soldiers, maybe more. Faint light passed through the coarse fabric of the blanket Marcus had hidden them under. The fabric was a sullen gray like the stone that hid them. It would have concealed them from a casual glance but the men passing above them never halted. The hooves and jingling bridles faded off into the distance, leaving Devin chilled and shaking.

Marcus waited a long time before he spoke. He finally pulled the blanket down and dropped it in a heap beside him. “Those may have been your father’s men, but I have no way of knowing. They could as easily be some secret squad of Forneaux’s sent out to track me down.”

“Why would my father deploy a small army to retrieve me?” Devin asked.

Marcus raised his eyebrows. “Because with the political situation so volatile, I’m sure he wants you safely home.”

“Is Coreé safe?” Devin asked. “It doesn’t seem very secure for my father right now.”

Marcus shrugged. “Perhaps Emile told us what he wanted us to hear. The government may be more stable than you think. Your father has a host of supporters. There is very little that Forneaux could present that would discredit him.”

“And yet Forneaux feels he has an angle. He’d hoped to add Gaspard’s and my deaths to the list of offenses against the provincials but we’ve managed to avoid falling into his traps.”

“Pray it continues,” Marcus said.

“Where is Emile’s body?” Devin asked after a minute.

“At the bottom of the harbor along with his men. I didn’t have time to hide them anywhere else. I needed to get back to make sure you were all right.”

Devin raised his eyebrows. “So you weren’t sure, after all.”

“Sure of what?” Marcus asked brusquely, but the color had begun to rise in his face.

“Sure that I was still alive,” Devin answered.

“I never miss,” Marcus replied. “I’m an expert marksman.”

Devin didn’t doubt it. “Then what was the hurry?” he asked.

“I didn’t want you to bleed to death,” Marcus answered gruffly. He busied himself with rearranging his pack.

“How did you kill them?” Devin asked after a minute.

“Emile and his crew?” Marcus cocked his head, his voice formal but taunting. “That’s not something I’d have expected you to ask, Monsieur Roché.” He looked away, sharpening his knife against a stone. “I drugged their beer in the Wind and Water Tavern and when they staggered out along the dock, I cut their throats one by one and let them drop into the water. I weighted them down with chains so they wouldn’t float to the surface.”

Devin turned his head away. He’d wanted to know, but now that he did, the details only emphasized how brutal Marcus could be when he had to. But then when he thought of the smoldering Chronicles, his fists clenched and he thought that perhaps he could have pushed them into the harbor himself.

Marcus changed the subject. “We’ll stay here for today. They’ve already passed by this area so I think we are safe for the time being. You need a day to rest anyway. How is your head?”

“Better than yesterday,” Devin answered, although any movement still made his head throb.

“Stay quiet for today,” Marcus suggested, pulling cheese and sausage from his pack. “You didn’t happen to bring another one of those little crosses that would grant us access to the tunnels, did you?”

Devin fumbled with his jacket, trying to keep his head still. “Actually, I did!” he said, withdrawing a cross that was still attached to the lining. “I sewed it into the seam because I thought there was some chance we might be separated.”

Marcus beamed. “Excellent! Leave it right where it is. You don’t want to risk losing it. Now all we have to do is find a church.”

“I don’t believe there is even a town close by,” Devin answered. “At least I didn’t see any on our way through here the last time.”

Marcus stretched his legs out in front of him. “I believe you’re right. The closest church is in Calais and we’re not going back there.”

“So, we’ll walk until we find another,” Devin said. “By tomorrow I’ll feel more like myself.” He closed his eyes against the swirling patterns the leaves made and hoped that tomorrow would be better.

“I thought I might try to catch a fish for dinner,” Marcus offered. “Will you be all right alone if I leave for a few minutes? I’ll stay within hearing distance.”

Devin opened one eye. “Go ahead. There is nothing much happening here.”

Marcus threw him the pouch with the bread and sausage. “If you are hungry before I come back, you can eat this then. I think you’d prefer it to raw fish. I’ll find a fish for myself and be back shortly.” He laid a pistol on the rock beside Devin. “Keep that close at hand while I’m gone.”

Devin’s head still throbbed but he hadn’t admitted that to Marcus. There was no way out of the present situation except to walk back to La Paix and he would do it, whether his head hurt or not. The journey would take longer this time, a week or more, with them having to avoid the roads and any small towns or villages. He leaned back against the rock and closed his eyes; the rushing water of the stream below him formed a soothing backdrop. The forest spoke a dozen peaceful languages around him: birdsong, wind through leaves and needled branches, the scurry of small creatures searching for food.

A cascade of stones and dirt sat him upright, the gun in his hand. Before him was an elderly woman. Her head would have barely come to Devin’s chest and he wasn’t tall. She was like a wizened child; ragged grayish-brown clothing clung to her slight frame, making her blend effortlessly into the rocks and earth behind her. She squatted down, blinking uncertainly at Devin.

“Who are you?” she asked in a trembling voice.

“I might ask the same,” Devin replied. “Who are you?”

She cocked her head as though trying to remember. “I am Lavender. Are you the one those soldiers are looking for?”

Devin feigned nonchalance. “Are they looking for someone?”

“They are,” she said with a fearful look at the road above. Her brow furrowed. “They are always looking for someone and then people die.”

“They won’t hurt you here,” Devin replied.

She frowned, giving her brown wrinkled face the look of an oversized walnut. “They don’t want me. There is no one else in the forest except that man fishing. And you’re on edge,” she prodded. “It makes me think they’re hunting for you.”

“I honestly don’t know who they are hunting for,” Devin replied. “And what business is it of yours anyway?”

“It’s my business to know what happens in these woods,” she said defiantly.

“Well, this particular matter doesn’t concern you.” Devin waved the gun in her direction. “You need to be on your way.”

She laughed again, a deep humorless sound that put Devin’s nerves on edge. “You can’t tell me what to do!”

“I can,” Marcus’ voice said suddenly. He had come up silently behind Devin, his gun in his hand.

Lavender was unconcerned. “You won’t shoot me,” she said. “The sound of a gun will bring those soldiers back here.”

“True,” Marcus answered, his voice deadly. “But I can slit your throat and no one will hear a sound.”

Lavender’s body crumpled, like a bunch of rags thrown on the floor, her gnarled hands went to her scrawny throat. “Why would you kill me? I’ve not done you any harm. I’ve done nothing but speak to the gentleman.”

“He told you to be on your way,” Marcus replied. “You need to leave.”

“I will,” she said. “I thought we could help each other.”

“In what way?” Marcus asked, his voice sarcastic.

“I can show you a way into the tunnels,” she whispered.

Devin and Marcus exchanged a look. The tunnel system, which used the natural cave formations of Northern Llisé, would provide them with a safe, protected route to reach Madame Aucoin’s house in Amiens. “And what do you want in return?” Devin asked. He realized his mistake too late when her toothless grin revealed her brown gums.

“So you do need to reach the tunnels?” she cackled.

“Devin, shut up!” Marcus growled. “You’re only making matters worse.”

“I can take you there safely,” said Lavender. “For a price.”

“And what would that be?” Marcus asked.

“What does the boy have hidden in his coat?” Lavender asked.

“You’ll find nothing in my coat but a ripped lining,” Devin replied, involuntarily clutching Tirolien’s Chronicle to his side.

“Let me see,” Lavender asked, reaching out with sticklike fingers.

Marcus slapped her hand away with the barrel of his gun. “Keep your hands to yourself,” he said.

She snatched her hand away, holding it against her scrawny chest. “If you hurt me I will tell the soldiers where you are.”

“Then I may as will kill you,” Marcus replied calmly. “I doubt anyone will miss you.”

“Lavender is a story,” she protested feebly. “You can kill the bards but you can’t kill stories.”

Devin leaned forward warily. “What do you mean?”

She wrapped her arms around her as though she were cold, her ragged clothes looking more like a burial shroud. “Stories live on if you keep telling them.”

“There need to be bards to tell them,” Devin corrected her gently. “The bards tell the stories so that they won’t be forgotten.”

“You can tell the stories,” she insisted. “You can tell Lavender’s story.”

Devin rubbed at the bandage on his forehead. He wanted to lie down and still the thumping ache in his head.

“Come back tomorrow,” Marcus said. “You can tell your story then.”

“Lavender’s story is part of the Chronicle,” she said.

Devin exhaled. “Dear God, Marcus! She can’t be the Lavender that Armand taught me about?”

“I agree,” Marcus muttered, shifting his gun from one hand to another. “That was centuries ago, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Devin whispered. “Lavender, is your story about your white pony?”

She nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes,” she said, “my beautiful white pony that ran away.”

“Where is your father’s house?” Devin asked. “Surely there must be someone left who wonders what happened to you.”

She shook her head, looking forlorn and afraid. “I can’t find it.”

“You lived in Arcadia,” Devin explained gently. “This is Tirolien. Your story is in Arcadia’s Chronicle. I believe that you lived there.”

She threw her hands out in supplication. “I don’t know where that is.”

“We are going that way,” Devin said.

“Devin!” Marcus warned. “We can’t take anyone with us.”

“But she’s lost,” Devin said. “Surely we can show a little mercy?”

Marcus shook his head unyieldingly. “Not now. Not here.”

Devin looked helplessly at Lavender. “How do you live? Where do you sleep?”

“I sleep under the trees. The roots are my pillows. In winter when it is cold, I live in this cave.”

“This cave?” Devin asked, nodding behind him.

She nodded, curling her feet around her, pulling the scraps of her clothing down to cover her toes. “I eat berries and nuts.”

“This is her cave, Marcus,” Devin protested. “We can’t stay here.”

“I don’t mind,” Lavender offered. “We can all stay here together.”

“We mind,” Marcus replied. “If this is your cave, we’ll move on.”

“Please don’t,” she whispered. “I have no one to talk to but myself. Once I ate at a fine table, with wine and tarts; there was music and laughter and dancing. Now, I am lost and I don’t know where home is.”

Devin closed his eyes, thinking wretchedly of Angelique and all she had lost.

“Lavender, how old are you?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I have forgotten.” She picked at the fabric of her clothing for a moment. “Did you know my pony is missing?”

“I had heard that,” Devin said. “I don’t believe you will find him here though. You need to go back to Arcadia.”

“Is it a long way?” she asked.

Devin looked at her bare feet worn hard and leathery from walking. “I think you could make it,” he said, pointing above them. “You should follow the road.”

She made a sharp keening sound, making herself as small as possible. “Men travel the road. They are cruel, cruel men. They burned my father’s chateau.”

Devin sat forward, making his head throb more. “Your father’s chateau burned?”

“It’s gone,” she said in faint voice. “All my people are gone. There is no one left but me and I have nowhere to go.”

Devin put a hand to his head. “Marcus, surely there is something …”

“No,” Marcus repeated. “We can’t get involved. There is too much at stake, Devin. We need to move on, Madame, and leave you to your cave.”

She nodded, sitting in a forlorn heap.

“Do you have any money?” Devin asked.

She shook her head and spread thin fingers. “I have nothing but my friends,” she said, gesturing behind them into the small cave.

Marcus whirled, pointing his gun behind them but there was nothing there but the rocky cave floor.

“What friends?” Devin asked.

She crawled behind Devin into the shadows. “These friends,” she murmured, collecting small rounded wooden balls from the floor of the cave. She placed one of the balls gently in Devin’s hand. “This is Simon.”

Devin turned the ball in his hand, revealing features cut deeply into the wood with a knife or stone. The wooden ball was a head with recognizable features: plump cheeks, a bulbous nose, and a mouth wide open in laughter. “Who is Simon?” he asked.

“My father’s baker,” Lavender said. “He made all the tarts, cakes, and sweets. He always saved me something special in his apron pocket.”

Devin reached carefully for another ball. “And this one?”

“My father,” Lavender said, her fingers reluctant to release it into Devin’s hand. She turned it so the features were apparent but did not pass it to him. The face was strong, the nose long and thin, the smile betrayed a gentleness that Devin recognized in Lavender’s own face.

Lavender collected it, cradling it in her lap like a child. “I would like to see him again,” she whispered.

Devin looked at her gnarled hands, the skin that hung from her wiry frame and thought that she must have outlived her father by at least fifty years. “I would like to see my father again, too,” he answered gently.

She looked up. “Do you know where your father is?”

“I know where I left him,” Devin replied. “I hope he is still there but nothing is constant. Time changes everything.”

“I went back one time,” Lavender said. “There were horrible men there. They had killed my father’s guards and burned the chateau.”

Marcus returned his gun to his jacket. “When was this?”

Lavender shrugged. “Many winters ago. I saw the men on horseback and the torches and I ran. I didn’t even try to help them,” Lavender murmured, her voice barely audible. “I carved their faces here, so I wouldn’t forget them.” She swung her arm out, encompassing the wooden heads. “I have them all except for the stable boy who didn’t latch my pony’s stall.” She chose one head from the collection and held it up. “This is the Captain of the Guard. His name is Amando. He would have fought to the death to protect them!”

Devin glanced at Marcus. “Had you heard about the destruction of this chateau?”

He shook his head. “No, nothing. Although much of what transpires in these far northern provinces goes no further. I doubt your father knows either.”

Lavender let out a huge sigh and leaned back against the rock as though the conversation had exhausted her.

“Lavender,” Devin asked. “Did you have any brothers or sisters?”

Her little head bobbed up and down as she scrambled forward on her knees. “They are here, too.” She lined four wooden balls up on the rocky shelf above them. “Sébastian, Abelard, Michel, and Charles.”

Devin felt a shiver run down his back at the detail she had worked into the faces. It was almost as though she had collected a host of men’s heads that had been decapitated. He took a deep breath, trying not to show his revulsion. “Is it possible that they might have escaped?”

Lavender began to cry. “I don’t know. I ran away. I didn’t stay to help them fight. I simply saved myself.”

“God!” Marcus commented angrily, his face unreadable in the shadow of the rocks. “This world seems filled with women who have been abused and yet feel responsible for their families’ deaths.” He remained silent for a moment and then put a hand out to grasp one of her scrawny shoulders. “Lavender, we’ll take you back. Surely there is someone who can help you in your own province.”

CHAPTER 4
Dreams

“You told me you knew a way into the tunnels,” Devin said, extending Lavender a piece of bread.

She nodded as she tore at the crust in her hand. “It is down the mossy steps. A whole town used to be there. It’s deserted now. No one has lived there in years.”

Devin wished there had been time to read Tirolien’s Chronicle. Surely, an entire deserted town would have found its way into the Chronicles at some point. He recalled the map they had found in the Bishop’s Book, which outlined the resettlement of people from towns in danger of being wiped out by the government. His nearly perfect recall brought the map to mind with all its details but he remembered no designation for a deserted town in the mountains above Calais.

“What was the town called?” he asked.

“We don’t know,” Lavender replied, fondling one of the wooden heads of her brothers. “It was very, very old.”

“It sounds too good to bypass,” Devin replied.

“We’re not on an archaeological expedition,” Marcus warned him. “We’ll investigate only if it will get us back to Arcadia sooner.”

Devin shifted so the back of his head was against the rock face behind him. The coolness of the stone soothed the dull ache that persisted. “Where do the tunnels go, Lavender?”

She shook her head. “We don’t know. We don’t like the dark.” She seemed to grow smaller when something frightened her; she scuttled backwards, nervously cradling the carved heads of all her brothers in her lap.

Devin tried to imagine what her life had been like, to have lived once as a child, in a household of wealth and affluence, and then spend the remaining decades as a wild thing that lived off the land and hid wherever she could find shelter. The parallels to Angelique’s life were uncanny but while he found Angelique both endearing and repelling at different times, Lavender merely seemed pathetic. How terrifying it must seem to be elderly with no prospect of anyone to care for you. If she died in these woods or even in the shelter of the cave, she would leave little alteration in the landscape: just a small bundle of bones in a few shreds of cloth.

Marcus arrived triumphantly. Surprisingly, in the short time he had been gone, he had caught two fish. He gutted them on a flat stone and fileted the meat, dividing it into three portions.

“Lavender claims to know a way into the tunnels,” Devin said quietly, as Marcus worked.

Marcus looked up, his knife poised in midair. “Can you show us the way?” he asked.

Lavender bit into a piece of fish, mashing its white flesh between her brownish gums. Devin found himself alternately disgusted and then sympathetic to her. “We’ll go down the mossy steps,” she repeated, gesturing somewhere over her shoulder.

“How far away are the mossy steps?” Marcus asked.

“We can reach them by tomorrow night,” she answered, reaching for another piece of fish.

Marcus glanced at Devin. “Is it hard walking?”

Lavender flicked a fly from her bare toe. “We will need to walk carefully. The woods can be cruel.”

The woods had obviously been cruel to Lavender, Devin thought. Life had been cruel to her just as it had been cruel to Angelique. One of them had a chance at redemption; whether it was too late for Lavender remained to be seen. He ran a hand over his eyes, hoping his blurred vision corrected itself soon. It left him feeling unsteady and nauseated. He slipped down and rested his head on his hand, letting Marcus’ questions and Lavender’s staccato answers be drowned out by the wind in the trees and the rush of the stream below them.

Chaotic dreams had the wooden heads speaking to him, one after another, hinting at terror and brutality that existed long before René Forneaux. Their jabber became constant. Each of them interrupted the other, their voices becoming louder and louder until Devin couldn’t separate them. Without Lavender to identify them, they might as well have been an angry mob intent on violence.

Devin tossed and turned, chased by terrifying shadows of the past and a clear image of his enemy in the present. The wooden head of the Captain of the Guard suddenly opened its mouth crying “Danger! Danger!” until it dislodged itself from the others on the rock ledge and rolled off down the ravine, its mouth screaming its alarm until it landed with a plop in the stream below. It bobbed along as the stream carried it and its garbled warning off toward Calais and the sea where it would be lost forever. The other heads watched in horror as it bobbed away on the current.

Devin wakened with a start. Lavender lay curled like a pile of rags, her father’s head in her hands. Marcus stared out at the woods below them, starlight tracing glistening ribbons in the water. “Don’t you ever sleep?” Devin hissed.

Marcus glanced at him. “I sleep better than you, apparently. What was all the excitement about?”

Devin shook his head. “Strange dreams. I wonder whether I’ll ever be rid of them.”

“Forneaux?” Marcus asked.

“And his ilk,” Devin said quietly. “If Lavender’s home was burned and this town she’s taking us to was destroyed, obviously, there have been evil men at work in these mountains who lived long before René Forneaux.”

Marcus stretched out his right leg, the barrel of his pistol glinting for a moment before he came to rest. “There have always been evil men, Devin.”

“There’s something else, though,” Devin said. “Don’t you feel it? Lavender must have lost her home fifty years ago, at least. Forneaux couldn’t have had anything to do with that.”

“I’m not certain you can believe anything she says,” Marcus replied. “She thinks she is the Lavender from the Chronicles and that she had a white pony.”

“Perhaps she did have a white pony,” Devin countered. “She may also have been named for the legendary Lavender and now she confuses the two in her head.”

“Those damn heads give me the creeps!” Marcus said with a shudder. “And she’d better not expect me to carry them for her. There must at least forty of them!”

Devin suppressed a laugh. “If my dreams have any element of truth, there are now thirty-nine. The Captain of the Guard is no longer with us.”

“What?” Marcus asked, giving him a strange look. “Go back to sleep. You’re as crazy as she is.”

“I’ll explain in the morning,” Devin assured him.

CHAPTER 5
The Wilderness of Llisé

Devin wakened to the sound of sobbing. He rubbed blurry eyes with one hand to see Lavender scouring the ledge above them, her muddy hands feverishly patting the rock. Some of the wooden heads cradled in the remnants of her skirt had fallen to lie in the dirt at her feet. Devin prevented two of them from falling with the toe of his boot as they rolled precariously close to the edge of the ravine.

“He’s gone! He’s gone!” Lavender sobbed. “We can’t go on without him to protect us!”

“The Captain of the Guard?” Devin asked resignedly.

Lavender turned to fix him with a suspicious eye. “How did you know?”

Devin sat up. “I didn’t actually know for sure. But I dreamed about him last night. He kept shouting, ‘Danger! Danger!’ and then he rolled off the ledge and down the ravine. I watched him float down the stream toward Calais.”

Lavender rose to her diminutive size, her hands on her hips. “You didn’t even try to stop him? To save him?”

“I was asleep!” Devin protested. “I saw this in a dream. Have you asked Marcus if he heard anything?”

Marcus shook his head. “I certainly didn’t hear him roll down into the stream, Lavender.” He gestured at the wooden heads scattered around her feet. “Are you certain he isn’t there?”

She flopped onto the dirt, sorting balls into groups around her, murmuring each name lovingly to herself. Devin watched her, wondering how much of reality she had any true hold on. She looked so pathetic, tears drying in dirty streaks down her cheeks, her fingers shaking as she tallied up the only remnants of her family and friends that she had left.

“What have we done to our people,” Devin whispered to Marcus, “that they have been left so fragile and pitiful? Angelique’s story shocked me when I realized how much she had to bear and then there was Elsbeth, Dariel Moreau’s wife. She went to the market and came home to find her husband tortured and murdered on the floor of Tirolien’s Bardic Hall. Who knows what unhinged Lavender’s mind or how many more there are like her? How many children have watched their parents die and have been left orphaned to …”

“Just stop!” Marcus demanded. “Why are you so maudlin this morning? It won’t help anything to dwell on this. You’ll end up spouting gibberish yourself, if you haven’t already.”

“He’s not here,” Lavender wailed suddenly. She glared at Devin. “I can’t believe you wouldn’t help him! He would still be here if you had caught him when he fell.”

Devin sighed in exasperation. “Well obviously, I didn’t. I wasn’t even awake, Lavender. I thought I dreamt the entire thing.”

“He took the time to warn you!” she pointed out with an accusing finger. “And it cost him his life.”

Devin resisted the urge to point out that a wooden ball was not alive. “He may have warned me,” he said quietly. “But he didn’t tell me what he was warning me about.”

“We can’t stay here,” Lavender stated, gathering the wooden heads in her tattered skirt. “We need to move on, now. Surely you can understand that!”

“Perhaps he was warning us about the deserted town down the mossy steps,” Devin said. “There is more than one place here where we may encounter danger.”

“Well, I’m leaving,” Lavender said with a huff. “I don’t need to be told twice that my life is in danger. If the Captain of the Guard gave his life to save me, I would be foolish to disregard his advice and so would you!”

Marcus dropped his head in his hands. “God! This is insane!”

“Call it what you will,” Lavender replied sulkily. “But remember that I warned you.”

Marcus clapped a hand on Devin’s shoulder. “Let’s go! There’s no use arguing with her and call me a bleeding-heart moron, but I won’t let her go on alone.”

Devin smiled and stood up, one hand on the rocks behind him, hoping to hide his persistent dizziness from Marcus. His bodyguard didn’t need another thing to worry about.

They slithered down the slope to the stream bed. Marcus persuaded Lavender to let him carry the wooden heads in the food sack after two escaped her skirt on the way down the incline. The smell of earth and pine reminded Devin sharply of his bodyguard’s gun pointing at him in another part of Tirolien but he pushed the memory away and concentrated instead on Marcus’ broad back ahead of him. Lavender led them deeper into the woods, where the ferns grew so large they towered over her. They followed the stream as it meandered to the northeast. The air was chilly this morning and wood smoke wafted through the trees.

Marcus put a hand out in front of Devin. “That smoke is from a cooking fire. Those soldiers may have stopped for the night. Walk quietly and be ready to hide should we come across them.”

“The smoke is from Martigues,” Lavender volunteered. “It is off the road, a mile or so to the north. There are only a handful of houses there. Hunters and trappers, mostly. They sell their meat and furs in Calais until the winter snows make the roads impassable. They are rough men. I stay away from Martigues.”

Devin glanced at Marcus and saw a shadow of worry cross his face before they started off again. The smell of wood smoke faded as they moved farther away from the road. Devin didn’t believe he had ever traveled so far into the wilderness before. The pines here were as tall as cathedral spires and even in August there were telltale glimpses of autumn color among the maples and aspens. In a heartbeat autumn would be over and winter would be upon them. They had to reach Coreé before roads were impassable and the icy storms on the Dantzig had effectively halted travel for the season. He hoped that Lavender’s promise of a way into the tunnels was a legitimate one and not a figment of her irrational mind.

By late afternoon, they reached the deepest part of the ravine. On either side crumbled stone foundations rose up, still attached to the cliff walls. In the center, the stream threaded its way through part of a broken wall in a series of small waterfalls. The streambed below lay scattered with huge stones, as though giants had tossed them in some mythical battle.

Marcus turned to look behind them. “That valley behind us must have been carved out by the lake and these stones are what remain of a dam. There must have been a very powerful storm that overfilled it and then burst through and flooded the land below.”

“The dam was burst intentionally,” Lavender said. “My father told me. He said the people of the town refused to pay their taxes and the government sent soldiers who sabotaged the dam. They drowned every man, woman and child in the village.”

“My God,” Devin muttered. “When was this?”

Lavender shrugged. “I don’t know. The area has been deserted for many, many years. No one else wanted to rebuild in such a vulnerable spot. Legend says that this was the oldest town in Llisé.”

“Really?” Devin asked, yearning to pull Tirolien’s Chronicle from his jacket and read it but he dared not risk letting Lavender know that he had it.

“It’s said to be haunted,” Lavender continued darkly. “But I’m not afraid of a few ghosts.” She turned to look at Devin, her eyes glinting. “Are you?”

Devin thought she looked like a wraith herself as she wound through the heavy undergrowth, always keeping the stream to her right. He lost his footing more than once on the rocky edges of the streambed, his vision still taunting him with blurred images of where he needed to put his foot next. One misstep filled his left boot with icy water and he had to stop, hopping on one foot to empty it.

They were so deep in the ravine that the sun had already effectively set for them when they reached the site of the ruined village. Their footing, which had been unsure before, now became precarious. The deep shadows did lend a ghostly quality to the scene before them and mist rose from the water as a chill drifted down the ravine behind them. Tumbled stone lay everywhere; a few buildings were marked by what remained of their foundations. Although, on the left side of the stream what must have been a church nestled into the hillside. Its nave had been ripped apart by the flood waters but its ragged steeple remained. There was something incredibly forlorn about it and Devin found his eyes drawn to it again and again. Moss and ivy softened the harsh lines of the ruins but there was a tremendous sensation of loss that permeated the scene.

“That’s it,” Marcus said as he called a halt to further exploration for the night. “We’ll have no broken ankles or legs to complicate matters.” He slung the sack of wooden heads down with a smack which made Lavender jump and murmur something uncomplimentary under her breath. “There’s an L-shaped wall over there which will offer some protection for the night.”

Devin was grateful to stop. His headache had returned by mid-afternoon and he was tired of straining his eyes to see what lay ahead of them. He slid down the wall that Marcus indicated and rested his shoulders against the stone.

“If you would gather some sticks, Lavender,” Marcus said, “I think we could chance having a fire.”

Lavender gave Marcus’ sack a loving pat and hobbled off to collect wood. Devin glanced at Marcus. “She promised us a way into the tunnels. It seems the church is the only possibility.”

“I agree,” Marcus responded, watching her slow progress at gathering kindling.

“But where are the ‘mossy steps’?” Devin asked.

Marcus pointed up the hill. “Maybe they come down toward the church from the other side, which is odd because she claimed the entrance was ‘down the mossy steps.’”

“She must have discovered them from above then,” Devin speculated.

“Perhaps,” Marcus said.

“You don’t trust her?”

Marcus pursed his lips. “I don’t trust anyone but the Chancellor and you, Devin.”

“Which Chancellor?” Devin asked.

Marcus stopped, a wounded expression on his face. “Do you really need to ask?”

“Yes,” Devin replied. “I do. Because I am determined to do everything I can to keep my father in power. I just want to make certain that you feel the same way, too.”

“You have my word,” Marcus replied, holding out his hand.

Devin avoided his eyes because there was still a part of him that didn’t trust Marcus. He wondered if the mistrust would ever be gone, but they seemed to be bound whether he wanted it so or not. He didn’t shake Marcus’ hand and Marcus was quick to withdraw it when it wasn’t accepted.

CHAPTER 6
Spirits

The snap and crackle of flame created a small haven of warmth and safety as the rosy glow of the fire dappled the stone walls that sheltered them. For the first time Devin realized just how silent this valley was. Except for the constant flow of water over stone, there were no calls from night birds or the scramble of small animals searching for food. But most disturbing, there were no wolves here, at all.

An autumnal chill settled into the ravine long before dark and Devin was grateful for the blankets that Marcus had brought with him. Unfortunately, there were only two and Devin found himself sharing one with Lavender who cooed and patted it as though she had never seen a blanket before in her life. Her skin was covered with months of filth, her clothes so dirty that their original color had vanished forever and yet sitting in such close proximity to her, Devin was aware only of a pleasantly earthy, woodsy smell. It was as though Lavender herself had become part of her environment.

After they had roasted and eaten the two small rabbits Marcus had caught for dinner, she excused herself from the group and wandered off into the ruins of the town. Devin watched her until she blended into the earth and shadow around them. When she returned half an hour later she brought a square chunk of wood that had been cut from a larger piece. She laid the piece down, slid her legs and knees under the blanket with Devin and propped herself against the wall. From a little bag of fabric around her waist she withdrew a stone with a sharp edge and began removing the bark, humming a little song as she worked. The sweet, sticky smell of pine filled the campsite.

“Are you carving the Captain of the Guard?” Devin asked, referring to the head that had been lost.

Lavender looked up at him in surprise, her dark eyes fathomless in the dim light. “Amando died to save us,” she reminded him primly. “He has gone on to the ocean. I think he would have liked to be buried at sea. I just would have liked to see him off.”

Marcus laid another log on the fire, sending a shower of sparks into the air, his eyes on the two of them. “Then what are you carving?” he asked.

She didn’t look up, the stone still at work in her hand. Her voice was hushed. “I’m carving you, Marcus, so I won’t forget you.”

A slow smile spread across Marcus’ face as he sat back. “Thank you, Lavender.”

Lavender’s cheeks looked flushed in the firelight. “You said you would take me home. No one has ever promised to do that before.”

Devin felt a lump in his throat. He wondered what Lavender’s home was like now. Had it been destroyed or was it held by some rival family? Would there be anyone left there who remembered the little girl who had run off to hunt for her pony? She was wiry and flexible as a child but her skin was as wrinkled as a great-grandmother’s. Surely she had outlived all her family.

Devin volunteered to keep watch while Marcus slept. He gave Lavender the blanket, fearing the extra warmth might make him sleepy, and slid away from the wall. Putting the fire at his back, he looked out at the landscape clothed in night. The ruined buildings seemed to have weight and form even in the darkness and he thought he could chart their positions correctly although there was no moon. Lavender had hinted that this place was haunted and he could almost feel the panic of the villagers, as a wall of water and stone tore through their homes. There would have been no warning; those who sought shelter in buildings would have drowned as surely as those who had run. He imagined fathers carrying children on their shoulders being catapulted into the waves of water as their feet were swept out from under them, mothers with babes at their breasts drowning with their infants still clasped in their arms.

His eyes went involuntarily to the hill where the steeple still stood. It was possible that a man standing at that level might have survived, that the priest might have found safety in the height of that steeple even as the nave was ripped away below him and scattered by the flood waters. Obviously, someone had lived to tell the story. Lavender knew the tale as one that had been repeated even in her father’s hall, another province away. Was there a cemetery above the ruins of the town or had it too been swept away by the raging waters of the burst dam, leaving the remains of the ancient dead to mingle with the recently drowned? If a cemetery did still exist, did it contain the ancestors of the villagers or the victims of the flood? Tomorrow he would climb the slope and if he found a mass grave or a number of graves from the same day, he would try to find evidence of who might have buried the people who died in an instant during that disaster.

The fire had died down to just a bed of glowing coals, when Marcus woke to relieve him of guard duty. Devin felt strangely awake as though the village around him had so much left to tell him. He wondered if he would have felt the same way had Marcus stayed wakeful all evening to discuss it. Now, with Marcus beside him, he found he didn’t want to talk about it. It was difficult to explain the strange attraction this valley had suddenly acquired for him. He accepted Marcus’ blanket without comment and went to lie down beside Lavender, afraid of breaking the spell by speaking.

Devin barely closed his eyes as the village seemed to spring to life around him. There was the millhouse, the smithy, the bakery, and several dozen houses clustered along the stream. Women laughed and talked as they washed clothes in the flowing water and spread them on the rocks to dry. Men gathered at the smithy, where a stone marker proudly displayed the town’s name, discussing planting crops, last frosts, and spring rain. The air was warm and a few flowers poked out between the roots of some ancient oaks on the hillside. Three boys took turns swinging from a rope over the stream, ignoring their mothers’ admonitions to not fall in – the water was too cold. A baby sat by her mother’s side playing with her own bare toes, while a gray cat rubbed against her tiny back.

And high above them, he saw the priest running toward the steeple of the stone church. The clanging of the bell brought silence to the people below, then parents grabbed their children and began to flee up the slope. Rushing water and crashing stone drowned out the sound of the church bell clanging out its alarm. Water roared into the valley, sweeping everything and everyone from its path. And above the chaos of screams and death, the priest fell to his knees, the bell rope still in his hand. The insidious water filled the valley, tearing away the nave of the church and leaving no one alive in its wake but him.

Devin scrambled from his blanket. Stumbling partway down the stream, he ignored Marcus’ admonitions from behind him, till he found the spot he was looking for. Excavating centuries of leaves and dirt, he dug at the earth with his hands like a dog. At last, he uncovered an engraved stone near where the smithy used to stand. Carrying it back to the feeble light of the fire, he brushed at the clinging earth to uncover the letters on it with dirt-encrusted hands.

“This was the village of Albion,” Devin said reverently, sitting back on his heels. “May its villagers rest in peace.” He looked up to see tears streaming down Lavender’s face and realized his own eyes were wet, too.

CHAPTER 7
Albion

Marcus directed him back to the fire as he stood shivering, the stone clutched in his hands. “How did you know where to find it?” he asked, throwing more wood on the fire and placing his own blanket over Devin’s shoulders.

Devin sat, looking at him stupidly, as though he had found Marcus and Lavender existing in the wrong century. “I dreamed it … just now … right after I fell asleep.”

“You’ve been asleep for hours,” Marcus said, sitting back on his heels.

Devin saw it was true: the first rosy light of dawn lit the eastern horizon, touching the fog rising from the streambed. Lavender sat, clenching her blanket to her chest. “I didn’t mean to startle either of you,” he said. “I dreamed about Albion and the villagers. It was as though I was there among them. When I woke, I felt that finding the stone was the only way to substantiate what I’d seen.”

Marcus eased the stone from his hands and cleaned it off with a handful of leaves. The letters had been cut by an expert stone mason, not even water and centuries of burial in mud had diminished the precise word chiseled into the rock. Marcus sat back against a tree trunk. “I haven’t ever heard of Albion, have you?”

Devin shook his head. “I don’t remember the name from the Archives. I don’t even have a clue as to how long ago these people perished or why. If my dream actually holds some truth, then the priest was the only one who survived. He ran to ring the church bell to warn them but it was already too late. People were washed away in seconds.”

Lavender sat listening, her eyes as large and round as a child’s. “Do you know the name of the man who ordered this?” she asked softly.

“I don’t,” Devin said. “I’m sorry. It was as though for a moment I glimpsed the everyday life of this village and then in an instant it was gone, washed downstream in a swirling chaotic flood of adults, children, homes, and animals. Dear God, rest their souls. What a way to die!” He rubbed a hand over his eyes, realizing that in his dream everything had seemed crystal clear; now that he was awake his eyes were blurry again. “I want to explore what’s left of the church. Can we go now?”

Marcus’ movements were slow and studied as he heated water in a small pan. “Let’s eat first. We never know when we may have to hide suddenly. The fire is an advantage we aren’t often blessed with and we should use it.”

Devin stood up restlessly, glancing at Lavender who was whispering to the head of one of her brothers. God, he thought, they were all going mad! Marcus was the only sane one among them. He walked along the streambed to escape Lavender’s insane mutterings, pacing off the buildings he remembered from his dream. There had been a small bridge across from the baker’s, spanning the flow of the stream below the dam. There was no sign of it now, though he searched for stone pilings on both sides of the water, soaking his boots in the process.

A few foundations remained, many of them filled with water from recent rainfall. These small stone squares that had supported homes and shops were most apt to contain small artifacts that chronicled the inhabitants’ lives. He sifted through dirt with his hands at the millhouse, where the millstone still stood, tilted on its side, resting on a random stone that had been flung from the center of the dam. He found a knife, its blade nearly rusted away, and the remains of the rotted rim of a wooden bowl. There was nothing personal here, nothing that spoke of the hopes and fears of the people who had lived out their lives under the shadow of the dam. They had, apparently, never feared death by drowning. How long had the dam stood before it was sabotaged?

“Devin!” Marcus called.

Devin looked back and saw that Lavender was already consuming something out of a cup. No doubt they would have to share. There seemed no need to rush when she was already occupied with breakfast. He made his way back slowly, mentally placing each building where it had stood in his dream. He joined Marcus just as Lavender finished.

“Will there be more?” she asked, patting the heads she had gathered in her skirt. “We are still hungry.”

“There is only enough for each of us to have a cup,” Marcus replied.

“What is it?” Devin asked, looking suspiciously at the pan.

“Stew,” Marcus answered, “from one very small fish.”

“She can have mine,” Devin offered.

Marcus quelled Lavender’s eager smile with one word. “No! We have a long way to go and we all need to eat if we are going to make it home.”

“Home?” Devin asked. It was a strange choice of words for Marcus. Devin would be happy to reach La Paix but Marcus obviously had greater expectations.

Marcus scooped up a cup of the foamy stew and handed it to him. “Winter will be upon us before you know it, Devin; autumn is short in the mountains. We can’t go by ship back to Coreé. We have to cross the mountains into Vienne and it has to be done soon. We must reach Coreé before winter.”

“Or it will be too late?” Devin added. The words were implicit. Not only did winter’s snow and ice hang over them ominously, but his father’s life depended on them arriving in Coreé quickly. René Forneaux’s power was growing among Council members. Already, he was recruiting men from Vincent Roché’s personal guard and it was evident that he was planning a takeover soon.

Marcus didn’t answer. His eyes were lined, his face pinched with worry. His allegiance lay first with Chancellor Roché, with his son second. Devin could only imagine the conflicted emotions he must be feeling right now.

Devin finished the tasteless stew and handed the cup to Marcus who rinsed it in the stream before filling it with the dregs from the pot for his own meal. “I’m going up to look at the ruins of the church,” Devin said, standing.

“Sit,” Marcus said quietly. “Let me finish my breakfast. We’ll all go together.”

“We’re wasting time,” Devin protested.

“Sit,” Marcus repeated. “There is nothing there that hasn’t been waiting for centuries. Ten minutes more will make no difference.”

Devin flopped down beside the fire, watching Lavender endlessly sort her collection of heads. He swore if they reached La Paix, he would have one of the seamstresses design an apron with a pocket for each one. Maybe if Lavender knew each head was safe and securely tucked away in its own little compartment she would cease counting and playing with them. He knew he shouldn’t let her behavior bother him but it did. This valley seemed laden with the hundred ghosts of its past residents; he didn’t need Lavender’s creepy heads reminding him of all the ghosts that seemed to travel in her wake, too.

Marcus took his time eating, washed his cup and the small pot he’d used to cook their stew in, and finally began to pack their things.

“We’re not coming back?” Devin asked, his mind still on his exploration of the ruined church.

“I see no reason to,” Marcus replied. “Should the tunnels beneath the church look promising, we won’t have any reason to return. If not, we’ll continue up and over the hill. This valley has turned south and we need to go east to La Paix.”

Devin squatted down and drew a quick diagram on the wet earth near the stream. “The tunnels under the church don’t connect to the ones on the map,” he said after a moment. “I should have realized that before.”

Marcus looked at him sharply. “How do you know that?”

Devin gestured at his drawing. “I memorized the map.”

Marcus took a step closer. “The one in the Bishop’s Book?”

Devin nodded.

“How long did that take you?” Marcus asked.

“Not long,” Devin replied. “I only have to see a page for a moment or so and I remember all of it.”

Marcus raised his eyebrows. “No wonder school was so easy for you. It seems you have an unfair advantage.”

“Unfair, perhaps,” Devin replied, “but quite useful in this instance, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps,” Marcus agreed. “But then there is no reason for us to pursue these tunnels below the church.”

Devin jumped to his feet, his hands shaking. “Please, allow me to take just a few minutes.”

Marcus’ gaze was wary. “You seem to be unusually agitated about this.”

Devin attempted to still his hands. “I know and I can’t explain it. It feels strangely important. It’s almost as though I lived through this massacre last night.” He glanced across the valley, tendrils of mist rising from the water and weaving through the tree branches above. “Can’t you feel it? It’s as though this valley is haunted by all the souls of those who lost their lives.”

Marcus was slow in answering. “I’ll admit I feel something but it makes me want to leave as soon as possible. Whatever happened here has nothing to do with us.”

“But don’t you see, it might?” Devin said. “I feel as though all of this is connected in some huge web of treachery that we have only just begun to untangle. We cannot fight it unless we have all the information we need.”

“And you expect to find it here?” Marcus pressed him.

“Perhaps,” Devin said desperately. “Perhaps not, but I need to look.”

Marcus exhaled. “Go on then.”

Devin scrambled up the incline toward the ruins of the stone church, finding handholds in the twisted roots of the ancient oaks. Behind him, he heard voices, muted and strange and then all of a sudden around him he heard the cries of people being yanked from their precarious holds by water blasting through their peaceful little valley. He dropped to his knees, his hands over his ears, trying to shut out the sound of women and children screaming for help and the anguished cries of men, unable to aid their families, as they were swept away themselves.

Marcus latched onto Devin’s shoulders and shook him. Devin focused on Marcus’ face and the undisturbed forest around them. The voices were gone, hushed as absolutely as though they had … died.

“Devin!” Marcus blustered. “You’re scaring me! What on earth is the matter?”

Devin wiped his dirty hands on his trousers. He bit his lip, his breaths coming in uneasy wheezes. “You didn’t hear it?”

“Hear what?” Marcus asked. “All I heard was you taking off up this hill as though the devil himself were after you.”

Devin shook his head. “I heard their voices again,” he said, looking at the earth in front of him. “I heard them dying, Marcus. It was as though if I didn’t climb the hill in time, I’d drown, too.”

Marcus, who didn’t quail at facing a dozen armed men, crumpled. He turned Devin’s head toward him, one hand reaching to lift the bandage over his temple. “Did I do this?” he asked, examining the injury. “Is this some side effect from the gunshot wound?”

“I don’t think so,” Devin replied. “It’s something about this place. It’s as though I’m having a waking dream. It’s not your fault, Marcus. None of this is.”

“We need to get out of here, Devin,” Marcus said, pulling him upright. “Something’s not right and I’m not going to risk your life by staying here a minute longer than necessary.”

“But it is necessary,” Devin told him. “There is something here that we need to know, something important. Those voices simply drove me upward. The answer is in that church or below it and we need to find it before we leave.” He pulled away, leaving Marcus and Lavender to climb the slope after him through the mist and shafts of sunlight.

CHAPTER 8
The Key

Devin halted at a chasm that yawned open where the nave of the church had been. Near the altar, which hung suspended above the abyss, a spiral of mossy stone steps wound downward, disappearing into the darkness below.

Lavender came to stand beside him, humming some tuneless lullaby as she rocked one of her brothers’ heads in her arms. “The mossy steps,” she pointed out proudly, as though she had created them herself.

“What’s down there?” Marcus asked her.

She jerked one shoulder nervously and avoided his eyes. “The tunnels,” she said. “But I don’t go there.”

Marcus huffed in exasperation. “Then how do you know what is there?”

She rubbed one of her brothers’ heads against her cheek, like a child with a comforting toy. “I went there once with my brother when the church was still here. There was a room in the cellar but the door that led into it was locked.”

Devin glanced at Marcus. The key in his jacket was a token of passage, not made to open a lock. “Perhaps we can open it. If the door is wooden, it’s bound to be rotted by now. We could force it.”

“You need the key,” Lavender said.

“Do you have it?” Devin asked.

Lavender shook her head. “You have a key. I know you do,” she insisted.

“I don’t have the key to this door,” Devin replied irritably.

“You need the key to reach the tunnels,” Lavender insisted. “He told me that you need it!”

Marcus grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. “Who told you that?”

Lavender shook in his grip, her face as white as a sheet. “Sébastian,” she whispered. “Sébastian told me.”

“Who is Sébastian?” Marcus shouted.

Devin stepped between them, breaking Marcus’ hold with his shoulder. “Her brother,” he said. “She says her brother Sébastian told her.”

Marcus put a hand to his head. “Holy Mary Mother of God!” he muttered. “I swear I’m the one who’s having nightmares. I just pray I’ll wake up soon. What possessed me to allow you to come with us, Lavender? This has been nothing but an ill-fated, insane undertaking from the start!”

“Can I go down?” Devin asked.

“We have no light and apparently we have no key to open the door at the bottom.” Marcus threw up his hands in disgust. “I can’t even see the bottom of the steps, Devin, let alone inside these tunnels she’s babbling about. Leave this, would you? We need to be on our way!”

Lavender sank down on a rock, a stray tear rolled down one cheek before she swiped at it with her ragged sleeve. She began rocking back and forth and humming, her arms clasped tightly around her. Devin felt she had never seemed so pathetic.

“Surely, we can make a torch from pitch,” Devin suggested. “This pine will burn.”

“Of course it will,” Marcus answered roughly. He glanced at the sun climbing the eastern sky. “I will give you until noon, Devin, and then we leave whether or not we have found whatever you think is waiting to be discovered here.” Devin started to object but Marcus interrupted him. “That’s the deal. Take it or leave it!”

“I’ll take it,” Devin said. He cut a sturdy branch from a spruce tree and dipped the tip in the excess sap that seeped out of the trunk. He held out a hand to Marcus who reluctantly put his flint in it.

“That’s the only flint I have,” Marcus warned him. “Don’t lose it!”

“I won’t,” Devin assured him. He glanced back at Lavender, wanting to say or do something to counteract Marcus’ harsh words. He held out his hand. “Will you come with us, Lavender?”

She shook her head, her eyes brimming with tears. “I don’t want to,” she whispered.

Devin touched her shoulder gently, afraid of upsetting her more. “Call down if you need us.”

She glanced up, her face softening for a moment. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

Devin turned toward the ruined church, feeling Lavender’s desolation and Marcus’s irritation following him like a malevolent cloud. The steps were remarkably easy to descend although Lavender stayed behind, sitting dejectedly on her rock. Whether she was hurt or angry at Marcus or simply afraid of the tunnels, she seemed anxious to keep her distance from both of them. The moss provided a cushiony if slightly slippery layer to the stone as they made their way down. The smell of dampness, earth, and rot was overpowering. Ferns had rooted here, too, pushing up feathery foliage from fallen tree trunks long since decayed, surrounded by clusters of red mushrooms with yellow spots.

Devin thought of supper. “Those are beautiful. Are they …”

“No!” Marcus snapped. “They’re not. They’re Amanita muscaria and they are poisonous!”

Devin raised his eyebrows. “That’s good to know.”

The steps ended, lost in the deep shadow from the walls above. In places part of a floor remained, cut from massive squares of stone and fitted together almost seamlessly. In the corner, there was a door, arched at the top as the original church door might well have been, too. There was no ornate locking mechanism, just a simple keyhole. Marcus gave it a hefty yank but it didn’t budge. Devin slipped out the tip of his knife and fitted it into the lock, feeling it jam after half the length of the blade had entered.

“It’s locked from the inside,” he said. “I can feel the key.”

Marcus looked askance. “I had no idea you’d trained as a locksmith.”

Devin laughed. “Oh, never a locksmith, Marcus, but I didn’t get through the université without learning how to pick a lock.”

Marcus went down on a knee and ran his finger under the door. He turned to see if Lavender was watching. “Can you give me a piece of parchment from your jacket?”

“The only parchment I have is Tirolien’s Chronicle,” Devin hissed.

“Don’t you think I know that?” Marcus whispered. “If I slide it under the door do you think you can loosen the key enough that it will fall onto the parchment? We can slide it out under the door.”

It was easier said than done. Devin tried manipulating the knife but the blade wasn’t long enough. The blades on two of Marcus’ knives were too thick to enter the keyhole but the third one, that he withdrew from his boot, looked long, slender, and deadly.

“What’s that one for?” Devin asked.

“If you have you to ask, you’re not as smart as I thought you were,” Marcus remarked lightly. He stood up stiffly. “Here, you get down on your knees with the damn parchment! You’re less than half my age.”

Marcus fit the narrow knife into the keyhole, jiggled it several times and gave it a practiced twist. The key dropped but when Devin started to withdraw the paper, he could hear it bump the door.

“Don’t! Don’t! Don’t!” Marcus cautioned, extending a hand. “Let’s see if we can dig out under the paper a bit and give it more room. It’s probably a thick key.”

They cautiously brushed dirt away from the threshold as the sun rose higher in the sky. Not once did Marcus comment on the time of day or urge their departure. He lay with his eye on ground level, carefully shifting the parchment back and forth. Finally, he maneuvered the parchment forward, bringing a heavy iron key with it.

“Got it!” crowed Marcus, swooping to grasp the key from the parchment. Holding it aloft, he squinted over his shoulder at Devin. “Would you like to do this or shall I?”

Devin bent to retrieve the parchment, brushing it off before returning it to his jacket. He took a step back and motioned to Marcus. “You can open it.”

CHAPTER 9
Whispers from the Past

As Marcus turned it, the key rasped in the lock, metal scraping metal. Devin heard something rattle and shift, sending a chill up his spine, and the door cracked open. A dry draft of air billowed outward as though it had been trapped there for centuries, and both of them seemed frozen in time for an instant: Marcus, so strong and confident, gripping the key in one hand and the knob in the other, and Devin, tense with a strange suspicion of what they would find inside. He stooped quickly as the door fell open, cradling the skeleton in his arms, lest it crumble on the stone floor.

“God!” Marcus whispered. “The priest! Did you know he was in here?”

“I had a feeling,” Devin answered, afraid to move for fear part of this man of God might shatter in his arms.

“You might have warned me,” Marcus grumbled, bending over. “Let me help you.”

Only scraps of his clerical robes held the bones in place. The priest’s skull seemed to drop naturally into the crook of Devin’s shoulder. Devin doubted if he lived to be a hundred that he would ever forget the feeling.

Marcus seemed to be at a loss. “Where shall we put him?”

Devin nodded toward the open door. “Back inside? He died there. It seems we have disturbed his tomb. Perhaps we should restore things to the way they were.”

“He must have died leaning on the door,” Marcus observed. “Let’s prop him against the wall instead.”

He slid a hand carefully under the skeleton’s lower half while Devin supported the top, feeling bones loosen and shift as fabric and leathery strips of skin fell away. They moved him into the dark interior of the tunnel, arranging the remains as reverently as possible against the far wall.

Devin stood up, tried to restrain a violent shudder and failed.

Marcus retrieved the spruce branch. “My flint?” he asked, holding out his hand.

Devin tried to pull it out of his pocket but was unsuccessful; his hands were shaking so badly. Marcus reclaimed it himself and struck a spark to their spruce branch, the torch throwing its flickering light into the darkness.

The “tunnel” consisted of one austere room: a shelf held empty bottles of communion wine. The floor held only the tatters of a decayed blanket, a Bible and a small leather-bound book. Devin bent to pick the book up, disturbing a quill that rolled off across the floor. An empty ink well rocked back and forth on its side.

Devin opened the cover, his eyes squinting to keep the words from blurring: Father Sébastian Chastain, 12 Avril 1406. “God,” he breathed. “Can you believe this? It’s a journal, Marcus!”

“And this is nothing more than a safe house, Devin,” Marcus replied, gesturing with the torch. “You were right. It doesn’t connect to the other tunnels but it must have served as a secure place to hide someone who might have been running for his life.”

Devin barely listened; he turned the pages reverently, tracing the writing that grew more spidery and shaky toward the end. Not only did the writing itself change but so did the ink. Devin swallowed, hardly wanting to put his observations into words. He’d seen two other manuscripts like this once before in the Archives. He cleared his throat but it didn’t stop his voice from shaking. “He finished this by writing with his own blood, Marcus. Imagine having something so important to say that you …” He couldn’t finish.

“I think we need to leave,” Marcus said firmly. “Take the journal with you. Hide it in the lining of your jacket with Tirolien’s Chronicle. If Father Sébastian died recording all of this, then it needs to be preserved and remembered.”

“He voluntarily starved to death to preserve this account of what happened, Marcus,” Devin whispered. “He died for Albion and its people and we would never have known if Lavender hadn’t led us here.”

“We need to leave now!” Marcus instructed as Devin still stood mesmerized, fingering the journal in his hands.

Devin slipped it through the ripped seam in the lining under his left arm, feeling its weight drop toward the hem below. What did he carry with him from this place and what providence led them to find it?

Marcus shoved Devin outside, taking one final moment to place the Bible gently in Father Sébastian’s lap before closing the door. He gave the key a turn in the lock and slipped it into his pocket. “When we reach La Paix,” he said, “I will drop this key from the top of the waterfall. Father Sébastian deserves to rest in peace now that he has passed on his legacy.”

“Sébastian.” Devin repeated the name suddenly. “That’s what Lavender told us. She said Sébastian had told her we needed the key. Maybe it wasn’t her brother she was talking about.”

Devin turned away from Marcus, anxious to test his theory. He took off up the winding steps, each step firm and secure, as he dodged fallen branches, trees, and rocks.

“Devin, stop!” Marcus called behind him. “You’ll break your neck!”

But Devin climbed higher and higher into the sudden brilliant gold of that late-August afternoon, the reassuring weight of Father Sébastian’s journal in his pocket.

He stopped at the top, blinking in the strong shafts of sunlight that enshrouded the church. Lavender was gone. He knew she would be. He circled the empty crater where the church once stood but there was no sign of her dirty gown or brown, wrinkled face. In the valley below nothing moved but the water of the stream flowing endlessly to the south. A gentle wind tossed the branches above his head and he realized that up here the air was much warmer. He was glad Marcus had packed their things this morning, because he didn’t want to go back down to spend another night among the valley’s shifting mist and ghostly whispers.

Marcus reached the top of the steps. “Damn it, Devin!” he gasped, bending over to catch his breath. “What’s the hurry?”

“Lavender’s gone,” Devin said, reaching to retrieve the freshly carved head she had left for Marcus on the rock where she had been sitting. He held it out to him.

Marcus made no move to take it. “What are you trying to say?” he asked.

Devin shook his head and gently placed the wooden image of Marcus into his bodyguard’s hand. “I’m not trying to say anything, Marcus. I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.”

CHAPTER 10
Mysteries and Discoveries

Marcus insisted that they look for Lavender, and they did, but if she still existed, she had blended back into the landscape like a native flower or shrub. Nothing remained but the little carved head of Marcus and their memories of her.

“I made her cry,” Marcus said gruffly, stuffing the carved head in his pocket.

Devin sighed. “Perhaps it wasn’t you as much as the situation. It’s been hard on everyone.”

“Do you think she was …” Marcus hesitated.

“A ghost?” Devin asked. “Perhaps. But we touched her, smelled her, she ate our food.”

“The food sack,” Marcus said suddenly and set it down to rummage through it.

Devin knew what Marcus would find before he announced it. “The heads are all gone. Every last one of them.”

“Except the one she carved for you,” Devin pointed out.

Marcus withdrew it from his pocket, held it humbly in his hands for a few moments. “Did I ever thank her?”

“I’m sure you did,” Devin replied.

Marcus slipped the token back in his pocket.

Devin’s eyes still searched the rocks and bushes around them, hoping that he might catch sight of a scrap of tattered brown fabric or a tiny footprint to convince them that Lavender had traveled with them and touched their lives for several days.

Marcus grabbed his sleeve. “Come on, then,” he said finally. “Night falls earlier now. We need to go.”

They left the ruins of Albion’s church behind. Above the deep ravine, the terrain flattened out. Statuesque spruce trees circled a small clearing knee deep in long grass and scattered wildflowers. Here hawks soared, and rabbits and deer grazed in the late-afternoon shadows. It was like another world compared to the valley behind them. Light, fragrant, and warm.

Devin tripped on a raised stone. He dropped his pack, hoping it might be a headstone, and knelt to pull the weeds away.

“The Town of Albion, Destroyed by Flood, 12 Avril 1406,” he read as Marcus bent to look. “It’s the same day Father Sébastian’s journal begins.”

Devin walked in a wide circle from the stone, swinging his foot to crush the tall grass. “I’d hoped there might be some gravestones,” he said in disappointment.

“The bodies would have washed downstream and Father Sébastian couldn’t have dragged bodies up that slope anyway, Devin!” Marcus said. “Not only that, whoever destroyed the dam, would have searched for survivors. Had even a few of the bodies been buried, it would have been obvious that someone survived. Anyone who knew the truth about what happened would have been killed.”

“And yet, Lavender knew the story.”

“The person who created the story may have made an assumption as to who destroyed the dam.”

“But the Chronicles are very precise,” Devin objected. “The story of Albion’s destruction would never have been included in Tirolien’s Chronicle if there was some doubt about its veracity.”

“Lavender never said the story came from the Chronicles, Devin,” Marcus pointed out. “She said that her father told her about it.”

Devin inclined his head. “That’s true.” His eyes drifted over the clearing, watching as the tall grass bent like waves in the wind. “But if this really was one of the first settlements in Llisé, it existed for hundreds of years before its destruction. There would have had to be a cemetery for the church. All of those graves would predate the flood.”

“I’m sure you’re right but we don’t have time to look for a cemetery, Devin. We need to get back to La Paix as quickly and safely as possible. I’m sorry.”

Devin exhaled. “I understand.”

Marcus skirted the clearing, startling the deer, their white tails flashing as they dashed into the forest beyond. “Perhaps the journal will answer some of your questions.”

“I hope,” Devin said. It was as though the book was physically hot, burning a hole in his jacket lining. He wanted desperately to take it out and read it, to sit down right in this field and discover the secrets it contained. Had it been possible, he would have read it as he walked.

“Perhaps Father Sébastian wrote a list of the dead in his journal,” Marcus suggested.

Devin nodded. “I saw a list of names when I was flipping through the pages.” If Father Sébastian left a journal chronicling the fate of his parishioners, Devin felt certain it was meticulous. How strange that it had lain there waiting several hundred years to be found and read!

“We’ll look at it tonight,” Marcus promised. “We need to find a protected place to sleep. Despite what we left behind us, that valley sheltered us well and kept us safe.”

They continued around the clearing, but much to Devin’s disappointment they discovered no gravestones along the way. He wanted to stay and search, to learn all the secrets this valley had to offer but he knew it was impossible now. In the few minutes he had spent with the villagers in his dreams, he had felt a connection to them in a raw, emotional sense. He’d shared their laughter and their terror and they were bound to him in a way he couldn’t explain to Marcus or anyone else, except maybe Jeanette.

Perhaps in the future he and Jeanette could return together just as he hoped they could go back to the ruined Archives and discover whether anything remained there. The more he saw of the provinces, the more he loved them. Each one held riches that the residents of Coreé never could dream of in their insular little worlds. Perhaps there was a way of combining his love of the Archives with his desire to add the wealth of history the provinces also offered.

Their route dipped into one valley after another and by twilight their legs were tired from climbing. “I see now why the road was built where it was,” Devin observed, as he dropped down onto a grassy knoll where oak trees’ massive trunks formed a kind of fortress.

“It’s too dark to walk any further,” Marcus said. “This will do as well as any other for a place to spend the night.”

Devin let his pack slide from his shoulders, his hand immediately working the journal up through the tear in the lining and slipping it out. He stretched out for a moment, the journal open in his hands. “It’s too dark to read,” he said in disappointment. “I don’t suppose you’ll allow us a fire?”

“No,” Marcus said. “I’ve no idea how far we’ve come and what villages might be nearby. It’s best to be safe. And put that book away if you can’t read it. We’re not at an inn. You have no idea when we might have to leave suddenly.”

Reluctantly, Devin slid the journal back in its hiding place. It was only after they had decided to stay for the night that the ground seemed overrun with exposed roots. Under the trees, there was little grass and the ground was hard as rock. Marcus produced a bit of moldy bread for dinner; it was too late to hunt. They drank their fill of the water from the skins Marcus had replenished earlier and resigned themselves to empty bellies until morning brought another chance for a meal.

Devin’s mind was busy with the details of the safe room they had found. “Father Sébastian locked the door from the inside,” Devin observed. “He must have been afraid for his own life.”

“I’m sure he wanted it to appear to whoever blew up the dam that everyone in Albion was killed,” Marcus said. “If Father Sébastian was seen, he would have been hunted down.”

“And yet Lavender claimed he told her that we needed the key to unlock the door,” Devin reminded him.

Marcus unrolled his blanket. He raised his eyebrows at Devin. “I don’t believe Father Sébastian appeared in person.”

“She did have a brother named Sébastian. You don’t think they could be one and the same?”

“Only if she were a ghost, Devin, and I’m not ready to accept that explanation yet,” Marcus replied. “I think she was a very sad old lady who somehow lost her family and her way. I’m not sure anything she told us was accurate.”

“But those carved heads were so meticulous. May I see yours?” Devin held out a hand.

Marcus handed it over with reluctance, placing it on Devin’s palm.

Devin traced the carving with his fingers; the frowning forehead and spray of wrinkles around Marcus’ eyes were typical. Only the mouth was unusual. “She made you smiling!” he said in surprise.

“Well, I do smile occasionally,” Marcus blustered. “Give that back!”

Devin chuckled and handed it over. “If Lavender was a spirit, she could actually have been the little girl who lost her pony in Arcadia’s Chronicle.”

“Then why didn’t she appear to us as a little girl?” Marcus asked.

Devin shrugged. “Because she may have lived a long time, searching these mountains for the pony she loved. We have no idea how old she was when she died.”

“I’m not sure we will ever discover exactly who or what Lavender was. There is really no sense speculating about it when there is no way to prove whether one theory or another is correct!”

“That’s true,” Devin agreed. “But I would rather think she was a spirit than a very old woman wandering alone out here in the night. I do wonder about her brother named Sébastian.”

“Do you know the last name of the Lavender who appeared in Arcadia’s Chronicle?” Marcus asked.

Devin shook his head. “I don’t believe Armand ever told me. So many of those stories aren’t dated either; we can only assume they took place at a certain time from hints in the story. Even if the Chronicle doesn’t specify her last name, Armand might still know.”

“You’ll have to wait to ask him then,” Marcus said, stifling a yawn.

Devin pulled his knees up and crossed his arms on them. “Do you want me to take the first watch?”

“If you like,” Marcus answered. “How do you feel? No more voices in your head?”

“None,” Devin answered. “I believe those voices were only meant to lead us to Father Sébastian and this journal. I don’t think I will hear them again.”

“Still,” Marcus said, wrapping his blanket around his shoulders and curling into a ball at the foot of an oak. “Wake me if you do.”

Devin smiled. “You’ll be the first to know.” He looked west, toward Calais and the sea and saw the full orange globe of the moon rising. The wind increased, rattling the branches in the grove of oaks and the air smelled of rain. Overhead, an owl asked questions of the night as small animals scurried through the grass. In the distance, a wolf howled and was answered by another.

It was a relief to hear normal night noises and not the unearthly quiet of the valley where Albion had stood. If ever a place was haunted – that one was. He thought of Comte Aucoin’s chateau and the ghosts that seemed to chasten Angelique. If spirits linger simply to correct a wrong, why had Angelique’s family tormented her dreams, turning them into nightmares? Or were nightmares something else altogether?

For the past few days, he’d felt as though his dreams had become muddled with his daily life and it was hard to separate one from the other. He’d always had a problem with “waking dreams.” It had started when he was a child and seemed to happen when he was just at the point of waking up. Something or someone in his room would appear to be something else – usually something frightening. The malady had followed him into his adult years and had proved a great source of amusement to his roommate and best friend, Gaspard, when he was at the université. After Dr. Verstegan, a friend of one of his older brothers, had prescribed valerian before he went to bed, the dreams had stopped, only to return on this trip. Lavender had brought back the uncertainty of what was real and what was not. Thankfully, Marcus had seen her and spoken with her, too, or he might have doubted his own sanity.

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?”

“Please,” Devin said, as Marcus surveyed the empty street for observers. The priest held the door for them and they entered the darkened nave; sparse sunlight pierced the only two windows.

“How can I help?” Father Mark asked. “Are you in need of food or lodging?”

Devin’s stomach took that inappropriate moment to growl loudly.

The priest threw his head back and laughed. “I see what the trouble is. I have some food in the back. Let me get it.”

Devin restrained him, his hand light but insistent on his arm. “We don’t need food, Father, but information. I hope you can help us.”

Father Mark sobered. “I believe your stomach would differ with your words, young man, but tell me what you are looking for.”

“Last night a journal was taken from the place where we camped. The contents are valuable. We believe the person who took it lives in Rodez and might have brought it to you. It is vitally important that we have it back,” Devin said.

Father Mark nodded slowly. “If I were in possession of such a thing, would the person who took it be subject to charges of theft?”

“No,” Devin replied. “We simply need it back.”

“I’ve looked at the journal. The book seems to have value to the parish of Rodez also,” Father Mark declared. “It fills blanks in the history of our church and the men who have served it.”

“It does,” Devin replied. “But it also provides background for some of the current political turmoil. There is not only unrest here, in the provinces, over taxes and education, but a man is vying for Chancellor Roché’s position in Coreé, as well. I ask you to trust me in this. If you allow us to take the journal with us now, I will see that a copy of it is returned to you.”

There was a sudden flurry of activity outside, the sound of horses’ hooves and men shouting. “Soldiers,” Marcus hissed. “Is there somewhere we can hide?”

Devin rummaged in his jacket, coming up with the tiny key they had taken from the Bishop’s Book, which supposedly granted them access to the underground tunnels. He held it flat on his palm and extended it to Father Mark.

Father Mark hesitated only a moment then motioned with his hand. “Come with me.”

They ran the length of the nave and crouched behind the altar. Father Mark, who was a bear of man, hoisted a stone from the floor himself, handed them an unlighted candle and sent them down a ladder just as the doors to the sanctuary were thrown back against the walls of the church. The stone locked down smoothly in place, leaving Marcus and Devin in total darkness.

Devin felt carefully for each step until he reached the bottom rung. He held out a hand to guide Marcus down, then with arms extended, he felt his way toward the foundation wall of the back of the church. The wall ran straight until it reached the corner and there he and Marcus sat down in complete darkness and waited.

CHAPTER 12
Sanctuary

Devin and Marcus could hear nothing except for the sound of boots on the stone floor above them. Never in the history of Llisé had any group dared to question or harass the church or its priests and yet Devin feared they had left Father Mark in an untenable position. If someone had seen them enter the church then the priest would be expected to reveal their location. He hadn’t known Devin and Marcus. He had no reason to trust them, apart from the key they had given him, which guaranteed any bearer asylum in any church in Llisé. But if their presence here jeopardized the safety of Father Mark’s town and parishioners, he was well within his rights both ethically and morally to reveal their hiding place. And yet, he didn’t.

They spent at least an hour in silence, afraid to speak or move and risk being heard in the sanctuary above. At one point, at least some of the soldiers left the church. Finally, Marcus dared light the candle, illuminating their small corner which was far away from the ladder and the stone hatch that granted entrance to their hiding place. Devin scanned their self-made prison. The room was no bigger than the safe room at Albion.

It was then that he saw the journal, lying on an old table against the wall. He jumped to his feet but Marcus tugged on his jacket, putting a finger to his lips. Devin pointed at the journal and Marcus motioned for him to sit down. Marcus removed his boots and padded across the stone floor as silently as a mouse and returned with the journal in his hands. He bowed when he handed it to Devin.

Devin smothered a grin. Marcus was apparently still angry about his insistence on finding the journal. And perhaps, Marcus was right. Devin turned the pages, frustrated by the lack of light and his own faulty vision. At least they had it back, although he felt some regret for just taking it without Father Mark’s permission.

He feared they had exposed Father Mark to terrible danger. If the priest had been hauled away for questioning, the church was probably under guard, and there was no hope of Devin or Marcus escaping by the only door, even if they could raise the stone themselves to get out. The worst that could happen was that their hiding place would be discovered and the entire system for protecting the provincial people from the tyrannical rule of its government would be exposed. It seemed that, as usual, Devin had made a situation worse by insisting on his own way. Had they simply continued on to La Paix, they wouldn’t be in this predicament.

Devin closed his eyes, recalling in detail the map they’d found in the Bishop’s Book. It had designated all of the churches and the tunnels and caves that connected them. The church at Rodez had been included, which meant somewhere in this room there was a hidden passage which joined the underground warren that crisscrossed the northern part of Llisé like a maze. He took a small knife from his pocket, gestured to Marcus to gain his attention and drew a map on the earthen floor. There was salvation here if they could only find it.

Marcus went to examine the wall, running his hands across the stones until behind a shelf he discovered a wooden door, ingeniously covered with slabs of stone. Quietly, he put the wine bottles on the table and removed the shelf, laying it against the wall like an extra piece of lumber. He opened the door carefully, revealing a dark passageway, and beckoned to Devin.

They had only one candle and the lantern they had taken with them this morning but as Devin pulled his own boots off, Marcus returned with another lantern from inside the passage. There was no question that they should leave as quickly as possible and yet Devin felt an obligation to the priest who had endangered his own life by saving them. The soldiers must have been looking for Marcus but they hadn’t found him. Hopefully, they would leave Rodez and its priest and people and go on their way.

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