Читать книгу Among Wolves - Nancy Wallace K. - Страница 13

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I told Bridgette at Christmas,” Devin explained.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cheese,” Gaspard remarked suddenly.

Devin turned to look at him. “Cheese?”

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

“You could have asked,” Devin said.

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

“That’s not true!” Devin protested.

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

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

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

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

“What does it mean?” Gaspard asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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