Among Wolves. Nancy Wallace K.

placed both hands on his shoulders and pushed him back against the wall. For a moment, he felt as though he were seven again, facing a spanking for breaking his mother’s favorite vase. He stood quietly in his father’s grip. He was a man now, and he’d done nothing wrong.

      “I want no further discussion on this matter,” his father said, his voice held well below the level which might be overheard further down the corridor. “Either you accept my offer of a bodyguard or you do not go at all.”

      “I’m just asking you to see this from my point of view.” Devin begged.

      “And I’m asking you to see it from mine,” his father retorted. “This quest of yours has ruffled some feathers. Your intentions have been misunderstood. Four council members took me aside last night. They fear you are trying to elevate the Chronicles to the same level as the documents in the Archives. There’s some resentment. You are Académie educated, and besides, you are my son. That lends an official tone to your trip whether you intended it or not.”

      “It has nothing to do with you,” Devin protested.

      “It has everything to do with me,” his father continued. “If Marcus goes with you, it extends my sanction to your undertaking. You can’t be censored if I have given you my approval.”

      “Surely, your approval could come without attaching Marcus to it,” Devin grumbled.

      “It’s a fine line, son, perhaps you can’t see it. Marcus’s inclusion implies you will be reporting to me.”

      Devin felt the first shadow of misgiving. “And will I be?”

      His father avoided his eyes. “I think it would be best, Dev. This isn’t a pleasure trip, and you know it.”

      “But I’m not going as your representative,” he objected. “This trip was my idea from the first.”

      “And after you gather the Chronicles, what do you intend to do with them? These stories require retelling to keep them fresh in your memory. You cannot set yourself up as a bard, not in your position.”

      Devin winced at the disapproval in his tone. His prejudice was evident. “I simply want to see them preserved,” he answered. “Can’t you see that oral records have value just as written ones do?”

      His father lowered his voice as a servant passed, a tray of canapés in hand. “The law states that oral records have no validity, Devin. You are in no position to question or change it.”

      “But you are,” Devin pointed out.

      His father shook his head. “Oddly enough, at the moment, I am not, and I ask you to leave it at that. It is my job to uphold the law, and yours to obey it. Even in my position, I cannot save you if you choose to disregard it.”

      Devin sighed. “I know.”

      His father laid a hand on his arm. “Have you considered that, by learning the Chronicles and not passing them on, you will only preserve them for your lifetime? How will that help the situation?”

      Devin’s eyes sought the floor. “Gaspard’s thinking of becoming a folklorist.”

      His father’s astonishment was obvious. “That’s not an Académie-level position! As a folklorist, he’ll be barred from the Archives for life. Is he out of his mind?”

      Devin sighed. “He can’t keep up with his studies. He barely scraped by last term, even with my help. He doesn’t expect to pass his exams.”

      His father shook his head. “What a disappointment for his father. I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

      “I hope this trip will give him another focus.”

      His father grunted as the connection became apparent. “I guess I understand this better now. You’re planning to pass the songs and ballads on to him and he’ll record them. Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

      “Because none of you credit Gaspard with having a brain in his head,” Devin replied.

      “Devin, the music is one thing, if that’s truly what you have in mind. There are already a few existing pamphlets of provincial songs. But you mustn’t ever ask Gaspard to compile any of the Chronicles in written form,” his father said. “They’ve hanged men for less. Be very, very careful what you are doing here. This is dangerous.”

      Devin clenched his hands. “I would never put Gaspard’s life in danger,” he protested.

      “God,” his father murmured, “I’m thinking of your own life, Devin.” His face softened. “I know how obsessed you can become with a project. From the time you were a child you have been fascinated by the bards’ brown cloaks. Where would you wear one, Dev? They’re barred from the Archives!”

      “Why would you care what I do with the cloak?” Devin protested. “If I earn an embroidered symbol for all fifteen provinces, I’ll be the first man to have a complete set!”

      “It’s a formidable task, son,” his father said quietly. “Don’t set yourself up for defeat.”

      “Can’t you understand?” Devin pleaded. “The cloak represents an accomplishment; something no one else has ever done! It would be no different than the trophies you still display from your Académie days!”

      His father’s face sobered. “Perhaps, you’re right. But my trophies didn’t put me in any physical danger.”

      “So, broken bones don’t count, then?” Devin asked. His father still walked with a slight limp from a leg that had been broken during a polo match.

      “Touché,” his father replied, stepping back. The distance between them indicated that he’d allowed Devin to score a point, but he considered the argument had already been won. “Look here, I’m sure dinner is getting cold and your mother is fretting. Let’s finish this, son, and agree not to discuss it again. Either you abide by my wishes or the trip is canceled. Which will it be?”

      “You know which,” Devin replied sulkily. He’d planned too long to allow this dream to end on the night of its inception.

      “Good,” his father said, relief evident in his voice. “You’ve made the right decision. As of tomorrow morning, you’ll be included on the Council’s payroll, under my direct authority. I’ll expect a full report from each province – I’m not interested in the number of tales you’ve gathered, of course – but your reflections on them, and observations of the provinces themselves. Marcus will arrange to have them delivered to me. Besides, your mother will want to know where you are and how you are faring. And as always, my resources are available if you need them, Devin, wherever you are. You have only to ask.”

      “I know that,” Devin replied, allowing his father to direct him toward the dining room.

      “And, don’t be concerned that Marcus will interfere with your plans. I assure you, he will be very discreet. You and Gaspard can feel free to enjoy yourselves. That’s what the Third Year has always been about.”

      Not my Third Year, Devin thought miserably, I’ll be tracked, followed, and reported on, make no mistake about it.

      His father detained him, a hand still on his arm. “And Devin, I appreciate your being reasonable after receiving my message. I expected you to overreact and yet, when I walked in tonight, I found you calmly stating your case to your brothers. It shows maturity.” He smiled. “And courage, too. I’m proud of you and glad we’ve worked this out.”

      Devin’s hand dropped automatically to the message in his pocket. He’d never even read it. “Thank you,” he murmured, inclining his head. He stood for a moment, uncertain what to do. “Could you excuse me, please? I’d like to wash my hands before dinner.”

      “Of course,” his father replied.

      He walked quickly down the hall to the gentlemen’s lavatory. Wall sconces lighted the huge room designed to handle the needs of the Chancellor’s