The Dragon's Devotion (Chronicles of Tournai Book 5)

by Antonia Aquilante

  “Dry off and meet me in the parlor,” Bastien said when they got inside, trying to forestall any protests or complaints. “If you see Griffen or Ligeia, bring them too. I need to talk to you all at once.”

  After he stripped off his wet outer garments and handed them to the maid, Bastien jogged up the stairs to his bedchamber at the back of the house. The bedchamber, along with its small sitting room and bathing and dressing rooms, had been his parents’ when Bastien was younger. He hadn’t wanted the rooms and had left them vacant for most of a year before he gave in, redecorating and then moving into them. They looked nothing like they had before, but every time he walked in, he still expected his father to be in his chair by the fire. Then Bastien’s comfortable overstuffed chairs would come into focus, and he’d remember.

  It had been worse since he’d received the letter. He couldn’t stop thinking about his parents now.

  He strode through the sitting room and bedchamber and into his dressing room. He peeled off his damp clothes quickly and left them in the bathing room. Grabbing a towel from the stack, he vigorously rubbed at his wet hair. As thick as it was, it took forever to dry, and he remembered his frustration in the library earlier. What a preposterous rule. What an odd man. Bastien couldn’t understand why Corentin was so insistent on getting to know him…on more than getting to know him. And he couldn’t understand why one relatively innocent touch had made his insides flip.

  But the dilemma Corentin presented would have to wait.

  He grabbed clothing almost at random—no one would see him except his siblings, and while he wanted to hide in his room, delaying, even to deliberate over clothing, wouldn’t help. And it might just give Mathis a chance to become impatient and go back to the library. Then Bastien would only have to gather his siblings all over again. The thought of it wearied him more than having to tell them all to begin with.

  Once he was dressed in a comfortable shirt, breeches, and a tunic that were only fit for wear at home, he left his bedchamber and took the stairs down at a trot. His siblings were already in the parlor, Mathis tucked into a corner with a book and Griffen and Ligeia talking quietly on the couch. Griffen and Ligeia were dressed similarly to Bastien, in clothing that would never see the outside of the house, at least in Jumelle. Ligeia would tramp around their lands in the old dress she wore now without a care in the world.

  They all looked up when he entered the room. Griffen’s brows drew together in a frown, and he looked far more serious than usual. “Bastien? What’s wrong?”

  Bastien positioned himself where he could see them all but stayed standing. He didn’t think he could sit for this, didn’t think he should. “I have something I need to tell you that is, ah, distressing.”

  Griffen’s frown deepened, and Mathis closed his book, but Ligeia was the one who asked, “What happened, Bastien?”

  Bastien couldn’t think of any way to say it delicately, any way to spare them. “I received a note—an anonymous note—suggesting that our parents’ deaths, and the deaths of Their Highnesses, weren’t an accident.”

  They stared at him, and he had no idea what to say to them, couldn’t think of anything that would make it better. He focused on the rain drumming at the windows, reaching for the comfort of the sound.

  “You’re saying that Mother and Father, and Aunt Franca and Uncle Jeton, were murdered,” Griffen said finally.

  “I’m saying that’s what the note said.” His words seemed inadequate.

  “Can I see the note?” Griffen asked.

  “I brought it to the palace today. Philip has people investigating. Which is the rest of what I have to tell you. They’re going to need to talk to all of us, ask us about that day and the days before and after. I know it’s going to be difficult, but we have to.”

  “So Philip thinks it’s true?” Ligeia asked. “That they were…murdered.”

  “He thinks it’s possible. We need to find out for sure,” Bastien said, gentling his voice even more. “We need to know.”

  Ligeia nodded as Mathis spoke up. “Any idea who sent the note?”

  Bastien shook his head. “There was nothing on it that identified the sender. But they’re going to investigate that too, even bring in a sorcerer to see if magic will tell them anything.”

  He could almost see the wheels of Mathis’s mind turning, trying to fit the pieces into what he knew of the world. Mathis sank into himself; they’d hear little from him until he’d made sense of this new revelation.

  But Griffen was staring at him, his eyes, twins of Bastien’s own, shuttered. Griffen’s face, usually so expressive, was blank.

  Concern flashed through Bastien. “Griffen? Are you all right?”

  Griffen blinked—once, then again—but the look in his eyes never changed. “Fine. I’m fine. Bastien, when did you receive the note?”

  “Not long before Ligeia and I came to Jumelle.”

  “I thought you seemed upset about something,” Ligeia said. “Was that it?”

  “I didn’t mean for you to notice that I was worried.” He still was, but he’d rather they didn’t see that either.

  She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be silly.”

  “It’s not silly.”

  “And you didn’t tell us until now? You didn’t tell Philip until now? It’s our parents and his. And his were the crown prince and princess of Tournai. Why would you wait so long?” Griffen didn’t raise his voice, but his words were still accusatory.

  Bastien bristled, even as guilt wormed its way into his gut. “I didn’t know anything to tell you. I didn’t know if it was true, and I wanted to find out more. If it wasn’t true, there would be no need to upset you with it.”

  Griffen’s eyes narrowed, but Bastien thought he saw a flash of hurt in their depths. “We’re not children, Bastien. We can be trusted to handle distressing information. We’re handling it now.”

  “But you wouldn’t have had to. Wouldn’t have had to think about these allegations if I could have proven they weren’t true. None of you would have.” And why should they have to face such grief? “I didn’t see any reason to have Mother and Father’s deaths dredged up if there was nothing to it.”

  “It wasn’t a decision you should have made for us,” Griffen insisted. “True or not, that someone is saying such things is something we need to know. It’s certainly something Philip should have known immediately.”

  “I’m aware I should have told Philip sooner.”

  “Only Philip? Not us?” There was more of a snap to Griffen’s voice.

  “There was no need for you to worry over it. I was handling it myself.”

  “You didn’t have to. You shouldn’t have. Did you not trust me to help you with this?”

  Ligeia put a hand on Griffen’s arm, halting the flow of words. “It’s done. He’s told us now.”

  “He told us because they need to talk to us,” Griffen said, his voice lower, steadier. “Philip probably told him he had to.”

  Bastien did his best not to let the truth of that show. It was his responsibility to handle these situations for his family. Too many of Griffen’s barbs were finding their mark, but Bastien reminded himself that Griffen had just had an awful shock.

  “I told you. Now you know, and yes, they’ll need to talk to you. I need you to cooperate with them.”

  “I have no idea why you’d think I wouldn’t.” Griffen stood. “I need some time to think about this.”

  “We’re keeping this to us—only the people who were there that day. It’s best if no one else knows.”

  If possible Griffen stiffened further. “I hope you don’t think I really needed that warning. I work in diplomacy. I know how to keep a secret.”

  Bastien closed his eyes as Griffen turned to leave the room. Why couldn’t he see what was on Bastien’s shoulders?

  “Give him time. It’s a lot to take in,” Ligeia said once Griffen was gone, the parlor doors closing with a decisive click behind him.

  “I know it is.” Bu
t Griffen’s volatility was one of the reasons Bastien worried about him. “Are you all right?”

  “I don’t think it’s sunk in properly yet, but I’ll be all right. And I’ll speak to whomever I need to.” She looked up at him, the set of her jaw radiating determination. “If Mother and Father and Uncle Jeton and Aunt Franca were murdered, we need to know. Whoever did it has to be caught and held accountable.”

  “I know they do.” Bastien finally sat, taking the chair positioned next to the couch. “Philip has good people working on it. If anyone can find out what happened after so many years, they can.”

  “And you? Are you going to leave it to them, or are you going to look into it yourself?” Ligeia watched him, far more perceptive than he would like her to be.

  “I tried looking into it myself and got nowhere. I’m sure Captain Loriot and Lord Marcus are experienced and very good at what they do. Philip trusts them to handle the matter.”

  She frowned. “And you didn’t answer my questions at all. Do you trust them enough to put this all in their hands? Or are you going to keep pushing yourself as soon as you hear something new?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Ligeia.” He couldn’t let her be troubled by it, not more than absolutely necessary; he was supposed to protect her. “The investigation is in the right hands. Just tell them what you remember, and if you’d like me to be with you while you talk with them, I can be.” He’d prefer to be; Philip might trust Loriot and Marcus, probably for good reason, but Bastien didn’t want her to be alone with them when they were asking her questions about such a difficult time. He didn’t know why he’d given her an option, to be honest.

  “I’ll let you know.” Her frown didn’t change even as her eyes narrowed. “Don’t think that I don’t see you avoiding my questions. I’ll leave it for now, but be careful, Bastien. Either someone killed our parents and you’re going out to look for them, which they won’t like, or someone is trying to cause trouble for some reason. Either way, you could be in danger if you keep pushing, and I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  Chapter Six

  EVEN THOUGH SAVARIN taught at the university, taking on individual students as well as lecturing, he did not keep an office there. Corentin didn’t know why this was so, but ultimately, it didn’t matter. He still had to find him and talk to him.

  Corentin sent a note to Savarin’s home, where it turned out he did his work. He wasn’t certain he could see the wisdom in doing magic, some of which had to be dangerous, where he lived, but that was Savarin’s concern not Corentin’s.

  Savarin’s reply arrived faster than he’d anticipated, perhaps faster than he truly wanted, but he’d told himself he needed to settle the situation, and delay wouldn’t help. Disappointingly, the note he’d sent Bastien at the same time hadn’t garnered a reply yet. However, perhaps it would be best to meet with Savarin first. If Corentin was about to leave Tournai, then going further with Bastien would be foolish.

  But he didn’t stop wishing that the reply had come from Bastien, not Savarin.

  Corentin went on foot from his lodgings in the university quarter to Savarin’s house. It wasn’t far, and he’d taken to walking Jumelle as soon as he’d arrived in the city instead of hiring carriages. He preferred to know his way around wherever he was, to know the city inside and out. The knowledge was often useful. He found the address with little trouble. Even in the wealthy district, Savarin’s house surprised him. He stood on the street for a moment looking up at the large building with its ornate carved marble details and large windows. Savarin apparently preferred to display his wealth.

  After a moment of staring, he shook his head and continued on to the large front door where he made use of the heavy knocker. The sound echoed, and he was contemplating using it once more—how far could sound travel in that house?—when the door opened under his hand. A maid in a dark dress and pristine white apron stood in the opening; she admitted him when he gave his name.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “May I take your coat?”

  He gave it to her with a “Thank you.”

  She then led him through the spacious, marble-floored entrance hall and up some stairs. Each step into the house showed him that the inside of the house matched the outside in sheer magnificence. The walls were hung with eclectic art. The furniture was well-crafted and polished to a gleam. And what looked like a small toy horse was leaning upside down against the leg of an ornate little table. A delicate glass sculpture rested on the tabletop. The table and the glass art made sense with everything he’d seen; the toy did not.

  He frowned, but before he could begin to make sense of the oddity, the maid stopped and rapped on a closed door. A muffled call came from within, and she opened the door. “Master Corentin is here, sir.”

  Almost before the words were out of her mouth, she stepped back and allowed him to pass. She closed the door firmly behind him as soon as he was in the room, the action almost abrupt in its speed. He shook away his surprise and glanced around the room—a book-lined study with a fire crackling in the hearth—which despite its handsome furnishings actually looked lived in.

  Savarin sat behind an enormous desk, its glossy wood carved in a pattern of leaves, its surface covered in books and papers. A small boy was kneeling on a chair and leaning over it with a toy horse in his hand. Corentin’s surprise was more difficult to hide this time. He’d never imagined Savarin with a child, let alone a bright-eyed little boy he allowed to play at his desk while he worked, but he didn’t really know anything about the man beyond his work as a sorcerer. Silly of Corentin to assume anything, especially when the assumption was that there was nothing beyond his Talent.

  “Master Corentin, come in. Sit,” Savarin said. “This is Alain. Alain, can you say good afternoon to Master Corentin?”

  “Good afternoon, Master Corentin,” Alain repeated obediently, with a shy duck of his head.

  “Good afternoon, Master Alain.” Corentin couldn’t help but smile, even if he wasn’t entirely sure what was happening any longer.

  “Give me one moment,” Savarin said.

  “Of course.” Corentin seated himself in the other chair across from the desk, forcing himself to relax into the soft velvet cushions.

  Savarin turned to the boy. “Alain, I have to talk to Master Corentin now. Can you go play in your bedchamber for a little while, please?”

  “Yes, Papa Savarin.” Corentin blinked a bit to hear the boy address Savarin that way in his piping voice. “May I please come back later?”

  “You may.” Savarin stood and lifted the child down from the chair. “But later.”

  “All right.” He took a few steps but then looked back. “I still can’t find my black horse.”

  “We’ll look for it later. Play with the others or your blocks for now.”

  “Oh, I may be able to help with that,” Corentin said and received a startled look from Savarin. “I believe I saw a little black horse hiding behind a table leg out in the corridor.”

  “Perhaps you’d better see if you can find him then, Alain,” Savarin said.

  Alain grinned brightly. “I’ll go look now! Thank you, Master Corentin.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  The little boy skipped from the room, letting the door close once more behind him. Even through the thick wood, his laugh was clearly audible and absolutely delighted. Savarin’s smile could only be described as fond and indulgent. And utterly unlike anything Corentin had ever imagined to grace Savarin’s face. He knew little of the sorcerer, but he’d never heard anything at all to hint at this type of relationship in his life, or that he was capable of such an expression.

  “We’re going to have another talk about keeping track of his things with him,” Savarin muttered, and Corentin wasn’t sure if he was meant to hear the statement or not. Savarin turned his gray gaze on Corentin. “Thank you for pointing it out. He would have been asking us to look for it all day otherwise.”

  “Not at all. I noticed it
as I was walking up.” Noticed it as odd and out of place, but he hadn’t realized a child was in the house. Savarin’s son? Alain looked nothing liked him. A stepson? Was Savarin married?

  It didn’t matter. None of it did. He had to pull his thoughts back together from the scatter they’d become upon his arrival at Savarin’s house.

  “Now, Master Corentin, what can I do for you today?” Savarin fixed him with a stare that Corentin met with one of his own, refusing to be intimidated. “Or perhaps you’ve come to continue our conversation?”

  Corentin nearly growled at the unmitigated gall, but he fought for calm. “I’m not sure how you could ever expect me to tell you anything after what you did.”

  “I acted rashly and poorly,” Savarin said, his words careful and slow. “But you have to understand—the security of Tournai is at stake.”

  That admission left Corentin dumbfounded, but he pressed on. “I’ve heard plenty about your reputation, Master Savarin. While I don’t dispute your devotion to Tournai, I believe it’s your curiosity that drives your interest in what Talents I might possess.”

  “I won’t deny my curiosity, Master Corentin. You wouldn’t believe me if I did, and there’s nothing wrong with curiosity, with the pursuit of knowledge. I would think as a scholar yourself you would understand that.”

  Corentin nodded slowly, wary of conceding too much. “I do understand the value of knowledge. But can you understand that some knowledge is best not shared? That to share may be to put many in danger?”

  “I can.” Savarin seemed sincere. “The knowledge of your Talent, of what you are, is not something I will share with anyone, Master Corentin, unless I have to. I’m of two minds as to whether Prince Philip and Prince Amory should know.”

  Corentin bit back a sharp retort and considered how to respond. “Let me tell you a story.”

  “All right.” Savarin settled back into his chair, showing himself ready to listen.