“Their ships left too quickly. We had, and have, no way to tell them,” Lord Orlo said.
“We might remember them...somewhere.” The Roth waved a hand at the letters, which Lord Orlo had collected after they’d scattered when he stood. “Something must have been written down. Doctora Bann is no ordinary clerk. If anything survives, she will find it.”
“Vere,” Lord Orlo said. “You’re sending her back to Vere.”
“Yes,” Roth Douglas said.
Go back to Vere? That was as unwelcome as returning to Ferrant. Or Bruster. I hoped my face did not show my dread, or at least not the depth of it.
“I gather you haven’t heard of Saradena before, even at Vere?” Lord Orlo shifted in his seat so that he might look at me full-faced.
“No. But I wasn’t looking for it.” I would not flinch beneath that crackling gaze. I would not.
He tapped his chin, thinking. “My lord...may I propose a change?”
The Roth gestured that he should continue. Lord Orlo’s eyes snapped back to me. “Do you trust anyone at Vere?”
An odd question. He must know, or could guess, the scholars had not welcomed their enforced female student. If I loathed them less than Francis of Ferrant—or my father—it was because there were more to divide my attention among. All but one. “Yes. But—”
“Good.” He swiveled back to the Roth. “They’ve only given us a year. Let Doctora Bann ask a scholar she trusts to search Vere so she can look elsewhere.”
“Where?” Lady Elsbeth leaned back. “The only books are at Vere.”
“As everyone knows. Or at least everyone in the south.” He flung a hand at me. He sat across the brazier, well beyond arm’s reach, but I jerked back. “Everyone is wrong. As you know.”
The Roth looked but did not speak his question. Lady Elsbeth followed his lead but appeared to be chewing her tongue to do so. I felt my face burn. “Yes.” I fought the impulse to rise. Standing would seem as if I were guilty of something. “Ferrant.” I indulged a furious sidelong glance at the Ragoni lord. “It’s not widely known, but Ferrant holds a number of books in the king’s palace.” And that bastard Francis would not let me read any of them. How had Lord Orlo known? Even in Ferrant only a handful of people did.
“I would have thought,” the Roth said coldly, “you would mention something that might help us.”
“Ferrant’s books might—or might not. I have no idea what they contain. I was never—allowed—” I spat the word out like a gristly bite I’d almost choked on, “to read them.” It had been the most infuriating of the affronts, large and small, Francis had amused himself by inflicting. He’d taken me to see the three chests, each full of books so old their white leather bindings had gone brown, relocked the chests, and ordered me never to read them, never even to enter the room. I knew better than to try; that was, of course, what he wanted. I should have anyway. But it was a long while before I learned I had no means of pleasing Francis, longer yet before I stopped trying.
And that had been the man my father had given me to, and been shamed by when he cast me off.
The Roth was stroking his beard again. I’d been in Elbany long enough to recognize the gesture. He believed himself less clever than his lords and the movement gave him something to do while he deliberated. “No,” he said at last. “Since we do not know if Ferrant’s books would help, I am not willing to reveal our danger to an old enemy to study them.”
“Neither is Ragonne,” Lord Orlo said. “Later, if we find nothing...” He shrugged. “We may decide we have no choice—”
“If we find nothing, Elbany might as well risk Ferrant as wait for Saradena,” Lady Elsbeth said.
“I had a different suggestion,” he went on, eyes sparking like a shoot of fresh flame from seemingly burnt-out coals. “My lord Philip has begun a library for Ragonne.”
“Why?” I got the word out half a heartbeat before Lady Elsbeth. “Most nobles disdain reading, but King Philip has said openly that books are good only for kindling.”
Roth Douglas raised his eyebrows at the bluntness but did not contradict me.
“Because you are,” Lord Orlo said. “My lord king does not wish to be outdone by his backward Elbish relations even in something he scorns.” He gave the Roth a small bow. “Pardon the slight, lord. I speak my king’s thoughts, perhaps more candidly than I should.”
“We were aware before now of Ragonne’s opinion,” the Roth said. “My mother was allowed to marry an Elbish lord only because no Valenian nobleman would have her.”
“I’ve heard that.” The Ragoni lord’s gaze flicked towards me, then downward, surprisingly long lashes veiling his eyes. “Not all of us would disdain an indomitable woman.”
“Two months ago,” he went on before my irritation at his continued teasing had time to flare up again, “my lord king directed his clerk to search his holdings, and inquire discretely among the nobility, to find whatever books were to be found. Domon has been more successful than anyone would have supposed.” His gaze stayed pointedly away from me. “He has found forty already.”
Forty?
I would not live to see forty books grace Elbany’s library, and Philip’s clerk had found them scattered around Ragonne like wild turnips. Hope whipped through me. If I began poking through the recesses of Rothbury castle, sent messengers to the lords of Elbany, might there be books to seed our library?
I knew the next moment it was false hope. Books were the products, and now the relics, of calmer, wealthier times. Ragonne had always had more of both. It was no surprise Ragonne had had books; only, perhaps, that so many survived. Elbany had never had the peace or prosperity that would reap a crop of manuscripts. Moreover, the Roth’s embryonic library had been gossiped about for a year. If any of the lords had found a book, they would have presented it to him to curry favor.
Lady Elsbeth raised a hand, palm upward. “Philip’s clerk found the books. Why can’t he search them?” The question, Why should Elbany’s clerk do the work of Ragonne’s?, was implicit, but since they were allies, left so.
“By rights he should,” Lord Orlo said. “But it wouldn’t be wise.”
I remembered what he’d said earlier about Domon being well into his daily bottle when he’d given him the letter. She seemed to recall his words as well. “I see.”
“Yes.” His voice fell. “I would prefer someone whose brain was not floating in wine.”
Or inattentive in any way. He was right. This search would brook no woolgathering. Even the dullest scholar would recognize a book about Saradena. But we were unlikely to find one. A picture of our enemy would have to be pieced together from marginal comments, occasional offhand references, casual comparisons. Just the things an unfocused mind would miss.
“They must be old books,” I said.
His eyes glinted with bright, soft fire, the kind that coaxed you to stick your hand in amongst the flames. “Yes.”
He understood the temptation he spread before me. He must. This, too, was amusement for him. But his enjoyment at laying the bait did not mean I could ignore it. Books spoke, if you knew how to hear them; carefully kept, they could be read long after their makers had lived, died, and crumbled in their graves. Those voices called to me, made me push my way into Vere despite difficulty and good sense, to hold in my hands the thoughts of dead men. Ragonne’s books would not have told their secrets to anyone in living memory. Assent to the Ragoni’s plan and I could read them.
A smile prowled his lips as he watched me squirm with longing for something so ridiculous, to a nobleman’s mind, as dried sheepskin stained with dyed water.
I took a slow breath. “What say you, lord?”
Roth Douglas stroked his beard. “Is there someone you trust at Vere?”
“Yes.”
“Send a messenger to him.”
I hesitated. “May I write to him instead? A messenger, trusted as he must be, is someone else who would know about the letter, and Saradena.”
�
�Of course.” Both his voice and the wave of his hand were brusque, but his impatience was directed at himself. I supposed he found it hard, despite his commitment to his library, to think of sharing information in the unfamiliar method of writing.
“Lord,” Lord Orlo said suddenly, “what of Bruster?”
My gaze swiveled to the Ragoni lord.
“What do you mean?” the Roth said.
“Did Bruster receive a letter?”
“We’ve heard nothing from Bruster,” Lady Elsbeth said.
“Strange.” Lord Orlo tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Why the three of us, but not our fourth ally?”
I was surprised by the fear, then relief, that sluiced through me. I hated my father. I was never going back. But I was glad, it seemed, that Saradena’s threat had overlooked my homeland.
“Maybe we’ll understand when we know more about Saradena.” Lady Elsbeth looked at me. “We don’t know what they want. We could hardly expect to understand why they demand it of Elbany, Ragonne, and Logan, but not Bruster.”
Lord Orlo turned his gaze to me as well. “We’ll leave at daybreak.”
I realized, too late, that riding to Ragonne with him would necessitate days in his company.
The books had better be worth it.
Chapter V
Traveling overland to Ragonne usually took a week. We rode into Peran late in the afternoon of the fourth day. Lord Orlo set a brisk pace as we left Rothbury and only quickened it as we went. I was glad. It kept him quiet.
At first, during the necessary slower intervals, he tried to talk to me. I stared over his shoulder, pretending I hadn’t heard. It was rude but better than the alternative. For Elbany’s sake I could not afford to let him provoke me into saying something unwise and unforgivable.
Avoiding his gaze, turning away when he tried to speak and affect not having noticed, required effort and vigilance. I was glad when we reached the city. Once through the gates, we rode at a walk, but the narrow streets enforced single-file progress. For a time, twisting my head like an owl as I tried to look everywhere at once, I almost forgot about him. I’d never been to Peran and there was plenty to see—and look forward to. King Philip’s palais was famous. Notorious, to some minds.
No other nobility, let alone a sitting king, made his primary residence in anything but a castle. The palais had been planned by Philip’s father but left unfinished at his death. Even his detractors acknowledged Philip’s loyalty and perseverance in finishing his father’s work and living in it. But the warriors of Bruster snorted with laughter whenever they spoke of the palais, proof of the madness of Valenians in general, the Ragoni in particular, and Philip above all. I smiled, remembering Anhud’s scandalized hiss (“The Ragoni king lives in a house within the city, like a common merchant!”), and examined it as soon as it came into view.
It was certainly one of the most beautiful buildings I had ever seen. Philip’s palace would not have been shamed by comparison with the Ferranti castle. Three stories high, of pearl-gray stone that glinted rather than shone in the sunlight. Every protruding surface was carved, as if the building were a sculpture or a banquet subtlety. The corners, the stones between each story, the lintels of the windows and doors, the parapet running along the top were covered in a profusion of curves and spirals. Smiling faces and dancing bodies peeked out among the burgeoning vines of stone.
A second look revealed what the first missed, distracted by the lush decoration. The graven walls were thick and strong. The windows’ ornate casings made their small size seem an aesthetic choice. The palace was set back far from the street, a high, guarded wall surrounding its grounds. Despite his neighbors’ snickers, the King of Ragonne’s home was not defenseless.
As we rode closer, I saw signs of heightened vigilance. More men watched from the wall than would be typical. At least two canvassed the grounds on foot. The main gates were closed. The wicket door in them was opened, but guarded by an armed man on either side. An air of tension hung over all, as if the warriors were waiting for something but weren’t sure what or how to recognize it if it came. In the surrounding streets people continued their normal lives; Philip had been successful so far in keeping the letter secret. Ultimately this would be impossible, for Elbany and Logan as well as Ragonne. Rumors would already be brewing. People had seen the ships; they would feel the worry. But the longer the secret held, the better.
The guards recognized Lord Orlo and hastened to open the gates. I found myself holding my breath as we rode through. The jittery atmosphere was contagious. And not surprisingly: anxiety bred more of itself. I scolded myself when I realized, exhaling slowly and deliberately. Doctore Mustorn’s voice rang between my ears. ‘You cannot govern others until you can govern yourself.’ My father had prevailed upon his clerk to teach himself and his children to read, write, and figure. The clerk had been reluctant, but my father gave him to understand that it was not a request to be granted but a command to be fulfilled, and furthermore, he was Reud-born before all else. Once he’d grappled with his conflicting loyalties, he became a faithful teacher, instructing us not just in letters and numbers, but in what he could remember from Vere’s books, while my father discretely acquired a few volumes of our own. In the end, my father had been so pleased with Doctore Mustorn’s work that when the clerk died he was honored with a high noble’s burial. I was glad he had not lived to see my forced, failed marriage and shameful homecoming.
Lord Orlo touched my mare’s neck. I hadn’t seen him dismount, and I twitched back involuntarily, trying to ignore his distracting honeyed-clove scent. “Wait here. Let me see my lord Philip alone first.”
I nodded and he left. I patted the mare’s neck. If Lord Orlo managed to persuade Philip, it’d be useless if I couldn’t settle to work.
‘You cannot govern others until you can govern yourself,’ This time it was Utor’s voice I heard reciting the lesson. Utor. After our mother’s death, my oldest brother cared for me. He made sure I washed, dressed in clean clothes, ate properly. He braided my hair, and later, taught me how to do our family braid myself. He showed me how to ride, and practiced knife fighting and throwing with me until by the time of my marriage only he could best me in a bout, although often not by much. When I went to Ferrant for the triumphant—for Bruster—match our father had arranged, it was Utor I missed most profoundly—and after my humiliating return, him I faced most reluctantly. “There will always be a place for you in Reud,” he had said. But they had in no way wanted me there, cause and reminder of the mortification of Bruster’s pride.
What was taking Lord Orlo so long?
I leaned back in my saddle, stretching. My legs and back were tattling that my library work left less time for riding than when I’d lived as a Brusterian princess. I suspected I wasn’t feeling it in my rump yet only because it was numb. I tipped my head, trying to ease my stiffening shoulders, but straightened when I saw Lord Orlo across the courtyard.
No matter what Philip decided, I’d be away from Lord Orlo soon. Good. He was undeniably a comely man, almost as handsome as Francis. It was a pity his manners were nearly as bad. Francis. Dangerous waters, and pointless to venture into. If I closed my eyes, the warm May breeze on the back of my neck could almost have been his breath.
I did not close my eyes. I hardly dared blink until the moment passed.
“My king is not enthusiastic.” He put a hand under my mare’s nose and she crunched a carrot he’d acquired during his time in the palais. “But he will allow it. He will not halt his other preparations.”
“But—”
“I know.” His voice became even quieter. “It’s enough for now. I’ll return to that problem later. I must get back to Kolon. It’s not good to be away so long.” He took the reins of his horse from his retainer.
“I hope we meet again.” He bowed his head. “My best wishes for your stay in Ragonne.” He clicked to his horse and moved away, his men following.
***
“Ah. Th
e Doctora.” Philip did not rise.
“Lord.” I bowed, linking my fingers tight behind my back. Without a doubt Philip of Ragonne was going to harrow my patience.
It had already been chafed. I had been hustled into the king’s presence without time to wash, without refreshment, without hospitality of any sort. The palais’ front doors opened onto wide stairs leading to the upper floors. I had tried not to stare. To my knowledge, nothing like it existed anywhere else in the Three Lands. As broad as I was tall, the stairs occupied a staggering amount of space, angling up to the next floor rather than spiraling compactly. Here, the builder had allowed style to override sense. You would need twenty men to defend those stairs!
My astonishment had turned into irritation as I was led past them to a much smaller set of stairs at the rear of the palace. The servants’ stairs, I realized as we climbed.
This room was Philip’s working space. Another snub. The palais had a lovely reception hall. I had walked through it on the way to the back stairs. Was the insult meant for me personally, or for the Roth? I inhaled, reaching for control if not real calm. Maybe he was hoping I would react badly and give him an excuse to send me back to Elbany, shaming both myself and the Roth, and denying me the chance to see his books. I thought of those manuscripts and shut my teeth.
He sat silent, apparently watching for signs I had taken offense. Knowing that made my annoyance easier to suppress. At last my fingers relaxed.
A full minute passed before he spoke. Much as I would have liked to examine the room more closely, I did not dare look away from him; it would have given graver insult than anything he had offered me, perhaps enough to demand my departure. But his chair alone provided ample distraction. It was rich, even gaudy: high-backed, its arms formed like stalking panthers, with Ragonne’s device carved into its back above his head, brightly painted in green and red. It was not his throne; I had seen that in the formal reception hall. But this humbler seat was grander than any the Roth owned.
“Lord Orlo requested that I allow you to search the books Domon found for information about our new adversary.” He was cannier than I’d expected, not saying ‘Saradena’ unnecessarily although no ears but ours were present.
Homegoing (The Tall Ships of Saradena Book 1) Page 3