Were they really?
Domon was Vere-trained but worked hard to drown his learning. Hal could read, but how thoroughly had he been taught?
Maybe...
I lifted one as if it were a basket of eggs. The cover was brown, cracked, and in places, flaking. The leather strap resisted, then creaked in startled protest as I loosened it to open the cover.
Mold and water had ravaged. Bugs and mice had bitten deep. The outer leaves were mangled beyond hope. But the inner were more or less intact.
Years had faded the script and darkened the parchment. It was difficult to tell where writing ended and bare page began, particularly in the shadowy light of the stingy candles. Writing unlike anything I’d seen before, miniscule, close together, with little space between the words. There had been illuminations but the gold was almost gone, revealing the ink dots beneath showing the pattern for the painter.
Gradually the unfamiliar script began to uncurl. Tangled ink separated and became letters. Letters grouped and became words. I can read it...
But merely words. My mind clattered as I grazed my fingers along the lines of script. Individual words, here and there, I could read. But I couldn’t understand the meaning. The sense of the language stole away like a fox through the underbrush.
I frowned, trying to remember what Hal had said. I’d thought he said they were too damaged to read but, thinking back, realized otherwise. Domon could not read them. I looked at the book again, and burgeoning thrill crowded out annoyance. These books had been written so long ago the very words of the world had changed. To study them, to learn to read them...it was a challenge worthy of a scholar of Vere. Not just a clerk, the doctore sent to kings to keep what few records they desired, but a magistre, the scholars who spent their lives reading and learning at Vere.
If I could figure out how to read them, what might they contain?
The thought was as breathtaking as the task. How old were they? Hundreds of years? How many hundreds? They were written in an earlier form of the language now known as Valenian, but they might well be older than Valenna itself, their covers browning before Otto forged the northern kingdoms into an empire.
Older than Otto...
I closed my eyes, fighting the need to sit down. These were not just the words of dead men, calling across the years. They were all that remained of a lost world, one in which the name of Otto Tyrannus had never frightened an Elbish child nor emboldened a Valenian lord, when Elbany did not exist because it had not yet been required.
A horrid thought struck. Maybe only this one was not thoroughly destroyed. Maybe the others were damaged beyond all reading.
I returned the manuscript as quickly as care would allow, and with the same rushed caution looked through others. They were the same, cover and first quire rotted or gnawed away, but the inner gatherings remained legible. Indeed, many were in better condition than the first, their ink still dark and crisp.
The book was in my hand. I could take it to the table. Maybe the language would not be difficult to unravel. Maybe Domon’s wine-addled brain couldn’t sort it out but a clear mind could seize hold soon enough. Maybe the information we needed was there. The books must have been written when we still had contact with Saradena.
Temptation bit like strong herb on the tongue, but I did not move.
The age of the books did not guarantee they would contain information about Saradena. It would take time to work out the older language if I could, after which I might well find the ancient books were more vitae of forgotten lords. Or more cookbooks. It would be indulgence, not productive search. Knowing that did not make walking away from them any easier.
I put the book back and turned, fleeing as if they might grab me, and began to pace. I’d start with the travel narratives, then move to the histories. It was the only course that made sense. Tomorrow—
I stopped.
One year. Less than a year. Casting a last glance at the unreadable, ancient books, I went to the travel narratives and took a volume to the table. The Saradenians surely were not waiting until tomorrow.
Chapter VIII
The script seemed to swirl like mist when I opened the cover. But soon enough the strangeness ebbed, letters and then words emerging like rocks when the tide goes out. As I became accustomed to the script, I read more quickly. The book described a minor scion of the Ragoni noble family as he journeyed to Nevel to marry a member of their royal family, probably equally minor. It was a delightful little volume, engrossing, even droll at times, but unlikely to yield information about Saradena. I skimmed faster. When his party encountered Magari, raiding from the northern mountains into Beryn, I slowed my pace. I’d heard of such raids, but this name for the mountain men was unknown to me, and I hoped more new knowledge would be forthcoming.
No luck. The narrative ended not long after. The young lord reached Nevel, married his intended, and presumably lived happily ever after. Or not. I knew—who better?—the perils of arranged marriages.
I put the manuscript back, pausing to stretch before taking up another. Flexing my shoulders, I studied the shelves, indulging a surge of mingled disbelief and envy. So many books, so many books, and they had been casually collected by a drunkard to keep him out of bigger trouble on the order of a king who valued dung more highly.
At least his assistant seemed to grasp their value—
Wait—shouldn’t Hal be back by now? I turned towards the door, as if looking could make him appear. I’d explored the library and read an entire manuscript. More than enough time, surely, to get Domon settled for the night. So where was he? Hunger returned in a gnawing rush, and in its wake, irritation. Had I been abandoned, Philip’s disdain encouraging his servants to treat me likewise?
But Hal hadn’t seemed the sort to snub a guest, despite his lord’s implicit consent to do so. A wisp of concern curled through my hunger-stoked annoyance.
As I stood, considering, the shelves inevitably drew my attention. I could eat later. When would I be alone with so many books again? I reached for another volume.
The outer door opened and hurried footfalls approached.
“My profound apologies for leaving you here so long, lady,” Hal panted. He looked flustered. His bark-brown hair was as mussed as the short Valenian fashion would allow, his eyes blazed embarrassment, and creases crisscrossed his tunic as if he’d been sleeping in his clothes.
“Something’s happened.” I was glad of my fragment of worry, lessening the guilt of my irritation and suspicion.
“Yes,” he said, more calmly. “But it’s better now. I’ll tell you about it over supper, lady.”
I set the book back in its place. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” He drew a shuddering breath that belied the claim. “Thank you for asking. And thank you for your patience.”
I didn’t manage to suppress a snort as I followed him back to the stairs.
“Did I say something amiss?”
“I am not generally known for my patience.”
“I’ve heard that.” He smiled. “I suspected leaving a scholar among so many books would be a light hardship, no matter how hungry you were, but I didn’t intend to be gone so long.”
Always alert for slights, I eyed him, wondering if he meant what he said. Vere-trained I was, true, but the scholars did not consider me one of them. “I kept busy.”
***
I could have found my way with my eyes shut. The smell of fresh bread had filled the air since we reached the stairs, but as we stepped into the kitchen, I caught other aromas: roast pork, lentil stew, carrots-and-cabbage, apple pie. Two tables were laden and occupied. The royal household had finished their supper, and now the kitchen staff could eat. They glanced up, growing quiet, but one woman was already halfway across the room to meet us.
I stared. Head cooks tended to be short, plump matrons, all red cheeks and floury skirts. The woman whose cool gaze met mine was slender and tall, her dark hair streaked with white. She had the same black-brown eyes as Phili
p and Domon. Had I seen her elsewhere in the palace I would have taken her for one of the royal family.
Which, of course, made perfect sense.
However much she did not look the part, she clearly was the head cook. Her authority showed in the others’ behavior as well as her own.
“Doctora Bann.” She inclined her head. I was surprised, but realized a heartbeat later that my presence must be common knowledge through the palace. “Hal.”
“Mistress Baynor.” He bowed. “Can you provide our guest supper, lady? Doctora Bann has traveled far and not eaten since she arrived.”
“I am no one’s lady,” she said. From her tone, this was a long-running point of mock-dispute between them. She eyed him shrewdly. “When was the last meal you had, busy as you are with my worthless brother?”
He lifted one shoulder. “I wouldn’t say no. Lady.”
She inclined her head again, as if conceding this bout, and led us to a table.
Her staff finished their meal and moved to their next tasks, cleaning the kitchen and preparing for the morning. She joined us as we sat, although a portion of her attention always remained on her workers. The servants’ faces suggested they believed she saw all that occurred. I saw no undue fear in them, just the careful attention of those who knew their work was held to a high standard and the pride that accompanied meeting it. They surreptitiously watched to see if the outsider apprehended how well their kitchen ran. I wondered about the ethics of advising the Roth to hire away his cousin’s cook.
A young woman, the same one who had guided me to the library, brought bowls of lentil stew and a loaf of bread.
“Philip should have sent Domon away years ago.” Mistress Baynor’s gaze flicked to the servant as she set down the bowls. “He trapped Ina in the stairway not two weeks ago. Thoroughly pawed her and tore her dress. Fortunately Torrell happened along.” Another quick glance pointed him out, a bulky-shouldered young man by the hearths. Anger blazed in her voice. I suspected the cook’s temper might kindle less quickly than mine but once roused would burn as hot.
Hal looked aghast. “I’m sorry.”
She waved a hand. “I don’t blame you. No one could keep Domon from trouble all the time. He’s too eager to find it. I spoke to Philip.” Her lips thinned. “He won’t listen. I don’t know what Domon will have to do before Philip will see reason. But I bet sooner or later we will find out.” She glanced at Hal. “By all means, do your best. But he will too.”
“KingPhilip hopes his brother will improve.”
Her mouth twisted. “We’ve discussed this before, Hal. Nothing has changed. You know, I know, everyone but Philip knows, Domon is getting worse, not better. He has gone from being a nuisance to an open threat.” Frustration steeped her words. “The best I can do is to keep him out of the kitchen.” Ferocity radiated from her like the heat from the fires. “He doesn’t try to come here anymore.”
I very much wanted to know how she accomplished that but squelched my desire to ask.
Hal raked a hand through his hair, which did nothing to improve its order. “I must do as my king commands.”
Mistress Baynor smoothed the strands above her ear, as if attending to Hal’s dishevelment by proxy. “And what brings the famous Doctora Bann to Ragonne?”
My temper flared but in the next heartbeat I pushed it down. Her tone had been curious not unkind. “Lord Orlo was in Rothbury and mentioned King Philip’s library.” So far, the truth. But truth would only work so far. “He suggested, and the Roth agreed, that I should look through King Philip’s books to see if we would like to copy any for our library.”
She was quiet for a moment. “I heard Orlo had been sent to Elbany. The king’s nephew. Not a common messenger. Yes, I very much wondered about that. Then he returned with you, too quickly for anything but desperate riding.” She folded her hands. “You’ve come to examine Philip’s moldy books? I doubt it.”
“It’s true.”
Her glare was relentless and, ultimately, irresistible.
“Mostly,” I raised my hands, part concession, part entreaty. “You are royal enough to know secrecy is often necessary.”
“And royal enough to know it rarely bodes well.” She gestured, urging us to return to the food we had barely touched. “I wish you luck with whatever your real purpose is. Despite what my brother thinks, Ragonne’s alliance with Elbany has benefited Ragonne as much as Elbany. We need to keep our friends.”
I spread a thin smear of butter on a piece of bread. “Is Ragonne acquiring new enemies?”
“Not that I know of.” She rapped her fingertips on the table. “But there are rumors. As always. No one knows what Tomas of Marlon intends. He claims to be content with his throne. But he is Richard’s brother, and no one has forgotten.” A mournful note shivered in her voice. Thinking through the family relations, I realized Edwy of Elbany had been her nephew. The Roth’s brother had been the last death of the Ricardian war. “Philip’s lords won’t admit it but Edwy’s plans are what kept Marlon out of Ragonne so long.”
“I didn’t know him. I wish I had. I was at Vere then.”
“Vere.” Her gaze curled inward like a cat. “Would they had sent me instead of Domon.” The light of the outward world returned to her. “What was it like?”
I hesitated, surprised to have found another woman who wanted to go to Vere. Reluctant gratitude trickled through me. My father, unlike Mistress Baynor’s, had been willing and able to demand my admittance. But he had owed me that much and more. “I am grateful to have learned from the scholars.” I kept my voice as even as I could. “But they did not teach me gladly.”
A deep shadow of understanding pooled in her eyes. “I can read a bit. I bullied Domon into teaching me when he returned.”
“Well done.” I wished I could tell her the Roth’s wider plan for his library. He wanted more of his people literate, and not just men. But there was something I could offer. “Has Hal mentioned that at least two of the books contain recipes?”
“Recipes?” She leaned back, her apparent disbelief equaling what I’d felt when I found them. “In a book?”
Hal wiped up the last drops of his stew with a bit of bread. “It’s true. I’m sorry I did not tell you about them before.”
“If you have a free moment, come to the library,” I said. “We’ll show them to you.”
“I’ll do that.” Her eyes unfocused as she considered the prospect, then narrowed as her attention returned to her staff. “If you would excuse me?” Following her now-riveted look, I saw a washing boy set aside a still-dirty but supposedly clean pot.
“Of course, lady,” Hal said. “Thank you for supper.”
She stood, turning her attention from her imminent victim long enough to mock-glare at Hal. “Don’t let Domon get to you. I hazard the earlier uproar was related to him?”
“He asked me to get him a cup of water, then slipped away while I fetched it. It was quite a search before I found him again.”
She snorted, her gaze on her underling once more. “You should have known he was up to something when he asked for water. Domon hasn’t drunk water in years.”
“As you say, lady.”
Her gaze flicked to me. “How long will you be in Peran?”
“As long as needs be.”
“Of course. I will come to the library as soon as I can. Good evening, both of you.”
***
I blinked awake, wondering at the scent of apples. Then I remembered. I was in Peran, sleeping in an erstwhile storeroom, working in a rotting library, and trying to avoid killing a royal drunk.
I sat up, yawning. After supper I’d returned to the library and continued with the travel narratives. It seemed prudent, with Domon safely away, to work as long as I could.
Or maybe I simply couldn’t resist the pleasure of being alone with so many books.
I’d searched three more manuscripts but found nothing relevant to Saradena. In my mind I heard wind whistling past like our time before
their promised attack.
All the more reason to begin early today.
Chapter IX
I was on my second book before Hal and Domon arrived. Its script was a wretched, wandering hand that formed ‘h’ and ‘b’ indistinguishably. I could make sense of it but only with determined attention. I heard Domon settle at his table and nodded a greeting to Hal without looking up when he came to collect the loose parchment sheets from the cupboard. Once he rejoined Domon in the outer room, I promptly forgot them both in the intensity of my task. It seemed no time at all before Hal slipped back into the room at mid-day to ask if I’d like dinner.
The offer was welcome. I hadn’t had breakfast. I thanked him and put the manuscript aside. Strange little book. I was nearly halfway through. It was a description of a fosterling’s travels with his lord, the writing undertaken, as he explained, at his tutor’s instruction, for practice while he was away. Given the state of his script, he certainly needed it. Fascinating, but nothing to do with Saradena.
When I stepped into the outer room I found Mistress Baynor herself had brought our meal. Hal lifted the cloth covering the basket. “Rye bread, green cheese, and apples. Oh, and fresh butter. Thank you.”
She caught my puzzled look. “The books you mentioned. I wanted to see them so I brought the basket myself.” Steeped in my reading, I’d forgotten the recipe books. I’d wondered why the head cook had come on such a small errand. She waited while we ate, sitting as far away from her half-brother as the small room allowed, and was on her feet as soon as we brushed the last crumbs from our fingers.
We settled ourselves in the second room. Hal presented Mistress Baynor the recipe books with a flourish, then stood beside her as she sat in the room’s only other chair. I fought the urge to put my hands over my ears as she slowly read aloud, one fingertip following the words on the page. It would be discourteous. But the distraction was maddening.
Finally she looked up. “Astonishing. Truly astonishing.”
“I knew they were here,” Hal said, chagrined. “I should have told you.”
Homegoing (The Tall Ships of Saradena Book 1) Page 6