Homegoing (The Tall Ships of Saradena Book 1)

by Michelle Markey Butler

  I smiled as encouragingly as I could.

  He relaxed, and walked toward me more quickly. I smiled in earnest. Honestly, the arrogance of the man! To believe I’d go in the blink of an eye from fighting his attentions to welcoming them...I’d stabbed him!

  I watched him for signs that he, too, was feigning, meaning to attack when he’d come close enough. No. He walked with caution but no tension as if readying for a move. I hadn’t really expected this ploy to work. But it was. Years of drowning his brain in wine had obviously not benefited his thought processes.

  I held my indignation and disgust tightly, trying to look approachable while readying my attack. As long as he came at that pace...

  When he took his final step, I reached down. I pulled out my boot knife, swiveling it in my hand as I drew back, and brought the hilt down with all my strength on his head. It connected with a satisfying, solid crack.

  He fell like a dropped stone. I paused long enough to check that he was still breathing. Boot knife in one hand, I scooted under the table to retrieve my belt knife.

  Sheathing both, I ran for the door. Then I stopped, sprinted back to the vitae shelves, and scooped up half a dozen. Even with Domon unconscious, I did not care to be alone with him, but I didn’t want to lose any more time to him. He was not stirring, yet I ran as if he were chasing me, out the door and up the steps to the kitchen.

  Chapter XIV

  “What has happened?” Mistress Baynor was at my elbow before I’d closed the door.

  “Domon came to the library,” I said, pleased my tone was even, almost calm. “Without Hal.” The fear I’d pushed down reemerged, roaring. Stupid, I thought, feeling my shoulders quake. The danger was already past.

  Someone gasped. Ina, the girl Domon had accosted.

  Mistress Baynor squeezed my shoulder. “So Domon’s dead?”

  “No.” I sounded sulky and defensive. I swallowed and tried again. “Knocked out. I hit him with the hilt.”

  Ina began to sob. A broad-shouldered young man left the hearth, brushing past the others, and folded her into his arms. His shirt, light against the heat of the kitchen, was soon patchily damp with her tears.

  “Torrell,” Mistress Baynor said. There was no reprimand, but neither was there encouragement. Managing relationships among staff could be thorny. “When Ina is calm, everyone will return to what they were doing. I expect the king still intends to eat this evening.”

  I waited while she put her domain back in order. After a while, satisfied her underlings had settled to their tasks, she led me to the farthest table. I put down the books I’d brought, too appalled by the rest of the day to be astonished I’d done so. One of her staff brought wine, bread, and a bowl of stew.

  “Thank you, Jock.” She waited to say anything further until he’d stepped away. “So he lives? That is regrettable.”

  “I wanted to kill him,” I said, defensive again. “But Hal had said killing Domon, no matter what the provocation...”

  “He’s right.” She sighed. “Philip would react badly, if only because it gave him a reason.” Her voice slipped lower. “Where’s Hal?”

  Both my hands clutched the closest manuscript. “I don’t know.”

  She pursed her lips. Collecting Torrell, she led him to the door, speaking softly. He nodded and left.

  “Torrell will find him,” she said as she returned. “I hope Domon hasn’t killed him.” She sat again, fingers tapping the table. “My idiot brother,” she said, in a voice pitched low enough to reach only my ears. “Wasting a good servant on Domon.”

  She pushed a bowl toward me. “You should eat.”

  I stifled a smile. Uncook-like as her appearance was, Mistress Baynor held to the core belief of all head cooks that most troubles could be solved with good food. Many could, I supposed. It smelled wonderful, a dish meant for the king’s table, swimming with costly beef, barley, and carrots drowning in the thick broth.

  She saw my appraisal of the stew. “If we run out, he can have salted herring tonight,” she snarled. “Maybe if I start feeding him what he deserves, he’ll see reason about Domon.”

  I picked up a spoon. She curled her lip, clearly still thinking about her brothers. “Have you found anything?”

  “No.” I pulled the spoon through the stew, savoring the scent. “And I’ve almost finished searching. You were right.”

  “You need to return to Elbany.” She slid the loaf closer. “If there’s anything that will help us, it’s not here.”

  “You know why the Roth sent me,” I said, prickled on my lord’s behalf by the undertone of criticism in her voice.

  “I do,” she replied, “but it might have been better to swallow his pride and go to Ferrant at the beginning.”

  “It wasn’t pride that stayed him,” I protested, my voice hot although remaining low.

  She held up a hand. “Peace. It’s done now. Perhaps I’d have agreed to the strategy if I’d been there. Conquered by an ambitious Valenian neighbor would be no better than conquered by...someone else.”

  We sat in silence. I thought about Torrell and what he might find, and suspected Mistress Baynor’s thoughts ran along a similar path. I sipped at a spoonful of the stew. I hadn’t eaten since early that morning, but it was too good to wolf down, and it gave me something to do while we waited.

  The door opened. Torrell entered, and behind him, walking slowly but on his own, was Hal. There was a lump on his head so large I could see it from where I sat.

  Mistress Baynor was there in an instant, grasping his arm despite his protests. “Come. Sit.”

  I started towards them, but she had him halfway to the table before I’d taken half a dozen steps. She waved me back into my seat, steering Hal to the bench opposite. He sank into it shakily. Jock brought a bowl of cool water and a cloth. Mistress Baynor thanked both her servants, and they returned to their work.

  “What did he hit you with this time?” She bathed the mass on his head.

  “Wine bottle.” He grimaced at her touch but did not move. “I’d just come around when Torrell arrived.”

  “Well, he ended up unconscious himself.” She shot me a fiery glance. “I hope you gave him as pretty a lump.” Her fingers probed. “I don’t think the skull’s cracked.”

  I blew out a breath, craning my neck for a better view. As soon as I’d seen the swelling I’d worried about the bone.

  She noticed my scrutiny. “Want to check it yourself?” I stiffened, but the tone was one of professional consultation, not challenge. I stood, coming around to their side of the table.

  “I agree,” I said after examining the damage. It was a relief to know that if Hal was going to be injured regularly at least he had someone competent to care for him. Mistress Baynor, I felt certain, could have stitched up his arm as well as I had.

  I tapped Hal’s shoulder. “You should come to Reud and take service with the High King. It’s safer being a Brusterian warrior.”

  Mistress Baynor snorted appreciatively and snapped her fingers. Jock brought another bowl of the exquisite beef stew. “Eat,” she told Hal, even more firmly than she had me.

  Hal, still very pale, picked up the spoon and sipped broth.

  “This cannot go on,” she said. “I’m going to Philip.”

  He looked up. “It won’t do any good.”

  “What good will it do to let Domon keep at you?” she barked back.

  I watched, intrigued by the display of her wrath. Her hands clenched and unclenched. Finally she strode across the room, not raging aloud as I would have, but crackling with anger fearsome in its control. “Stay here,” she snapped as she shut the door behind her.

  Hal met my eyes, then looked away. His face was almost colorless. I said nothing. What was there to say?

  Mistress Baynor’s rage seemed to quell mine, and I could feel relieved weariness creeping into my body. But there was work to do. No matter what Domon did, Saradena was coming. Scooting down the bench, away from the food, I took the first
book from the top of the pile.

  Despite my best intentions I had difficulty settling to my task. I hadn’t read outside a library since I was a child. Even then, Doctore Mustorn had always conducted our lessons in the same quiet, tidy room, his stern silence reminding us how odd our instruction was. No noble but our father had his children taught to read. We were certainly never allowed to take books from our study room, let alone into the kitchen.

  The bustle of servants provided continual, distracting movement. Hal’s strained face reminded me of the day’s troubles. But gradually, as he ate, he gathered himself, and I got used to the blur of activity. When I turned my attention to the book again, I found myself able to read, the kitchen now seeming warm and companionable. The scrapes and clattering as vegetables and meat were prepared, the smells as the food cooked, and the low talking of the staff created a background noise very like that of a scriptorium. With better smells. Scriptoriums usually tended toward the clean, crisp scents of ink and parchment. But sometimes, if one were seated too near a particularly forgetful scholar, pungent sweat and unwashed body.

  “Lady?” Hal whispered presently.

  “Hmm?” I did not look up immediately, snarled in a dicey passage of scribal obfuscation.

  “Why are you here? In the kitchen?”

  “Oh!” I blinked, realizing he did not know what had happened. In an equally low voice, I told him. When I finished, we sat in silence again. My fingers rapped the book but I did not return my attention to it, riveted by his slight smile. Was he amused? Pleased at having his prediction proved right? How dare he!

  “What is it?” I spat.

  “Lady?”

  “You find it funny anyone would try to accost me?” I hissed. Domon’s taunts still rang in my ears. “Or are you gloating? You were right. He wanted revenge.”

  He stiffened. “Neither, lady. But I confess I rather like the thought of him nursing a headache as good as he gave me. Yet he lives, so the king’s anger will not be dangerous. It was well done.”

  Shame scorched like hot water down my back. My fingers curled, anger not lessening but changing its target. “Perhaps I should have killed him. He’s a menace.”

  “You know King Philip—”

  “I remembered,” I said curtly. “Mistress Baynor agrees with you.” I glanced towards the door, wondering how her discussion with Philip was going.

  He shook his head. “She won’t get anywhere.” He sopped up the last of the broth with bread. “When Domon wakes, he’ll go first thing to complain to his brother. About both of us, if I guess rightly. I may as well stay here. It will be a little while longer before he is looking for me.” He moved down the bench, wiping his hands on his shirt. “Hand me a book, please, lady?”

  I passed one across and went back to my own. We had not read long before Mistress Baynor returned, unsated fury crackling as she stalked in.

  “Domon was there,” she hissed between her teeth.

  I exchanged looks with Hal.

  “You,” her flashing eyes caught Hal, “are unruly and uncooperative, and Domon has been far too lenient with you already.”

  This time, I felt certain, the glow in his eyes was amusement, albeit grim amusement, at hearing himself so characterized. “I expect I am to report to my lord Philip?”

  “Immediately.”

  He rose, suppressing a weary sigh. “Very well. Thank you for the stew, Mistress Baynor.”

  “Hal—” she stopped.

  I understood. She had to be tired of apologizing for her brothers. As a natural member of the Ragoni nobility, she felt responsible for their actions even when she could not influence them. Frustrating beyond endurance.

  “You.” Her gaze snapped to me. “It doesn’t matter what you claim happened. Philip could not possibly believe a word you say. ‘Everyone knows the dry-wombed are mad.’ She raised a shoulder in apology, but it was no surprise Domon had called upon that adage. “And probably in league with Orlo. What was that about?”

  I swore viciously in Brusterian. Domon’s slander had come to Philip’s ears despite my efforts. I told her what I’d learned from Hal.

  She sat. “It makes a certain amount of sense, I suppose.” One hand cupped her chin, considering. “I would not have thought Domon capable of such complex reasoning, not with the amount of drink he downs, and has done for so long. I’ll have to keep closer watch on him.”

  I made a noncommittal noise. It might be better for Mistress Baynor’s own well-being to stop arguing with her brother about Domon, since Philip was resolved not to hear her.

  “He knows Domon is lying.” She stopped her hands before they slammed down on the table. “But he pretends to believe him and says he will do nothing. What will Domon have to do before Philip sees sense?”

  I remained silent, hearing again the drums that had beat in my blood, demanding to drain Domon’s life like a cup. I understood why it had been better to spare him, but it rankled to eat the insult and leave him alive to tell false tales.

  “Ah, well. Nothing more I can do. Domon will fix himself soon enough. He’s careening towards disaster.” Mistress Baynor grimaced. “Soon, I hope.”

  Slowly her eyes refocused on our surroundings, and began darting around the kitchen, taking in what her staff was doing. She must not have liked what she saw. She rose, her tongue clicking. She started away, then turned back, tapping the table by my hand. “You will stay, for the rest of the day, won’t you?”

  I considered. It was probably safe to go back to the library. But I had vitae to read, the day was already far gone, and I was settled in comfortably. Nor did I mind people around, just now. I nodded.

  She returned the nod briskly and went back to her work. I turned my attention back to mine as well. Later someone brought me a pot of dark mead. Mistress Baynor came back to say I could work as long as I liked, even after the kitchen servants had gone to bed, but I left when she and her staff did, feeling more exhausted than since arriving in Peran.

  Chapter XV

  I worked steadily but anxiously the next morning, waiting for Domon and Hal’s arrival, wondering what would happen.

  To my surprise, nothing did. At least nothing aloud. Assured of his brother’s support, Domon returned to the dirty books with a smug smile. Moving so stiffly I knew Domon had taken his fists to him, if not more, Hal came into the second room only long enough to fetch a chair and a book. Apparently his punishment included Domon’s constant, immediate presence. I bit down on a surge of white-hot anger but said nothing to either of them. There was nothing to say. Three days passed, long days of mingled tedium and frenzy as I continued the vitae. More long-winded accounts of more insipid Ragoni nobles. It was astounding the Roth was a competent ruler, given this was his mother’s bloodline.

  The next morning, Domon must have decided he’d shown his absolute authority over Hal long enough. He preferred to be alone with his reading, and allowed Hal to return to the second room while they were in the library.

  I was glad to have his calming presence at my elbow again. I was reminded of sitting with Cedrick and Birnan, my two younger brothers, learning to read under Doctore Mustorn’s watchful attention. Surprisingly for such an old man, he had sight and hearing like a hawk and about as much interest in humor. So it was no wonder that on the rare occasions our teacher stepped from the room, Cedrick prodded Birnan’s ribs with a finger while Birnan elaborately ignored him, keeping his eyes riveted to his book. But most times, we sat quietly, studying in companionable silence. I sneaked a sidelong glance at Hal. He was probably Birnan’s age, or near enough. I wondered if Hal had older brothers he tried to live up to, like Birnan had, always worrying he would never be as good.

  Liath seemed cheered by Hal’s return as well, spending most of the first day he was back stretched out beside him, her paw on his left hand.

  We read until our eyes ached, but found nothing.

  Nothing really about Saradena, that is. The morning of July 6th, I came across the name Sari de N
anin. I looked up, excitement tingling. It was close, the sort of variation well within the bounds of possibility. Could it be, finally...? Breath catching, I read the passage again. Hal caught my gaze, eyebrows arching. Find something? I half shrugged. Maybe.

  I returned to the top of the leaf, going over it again slowly. Bitter disappointment pooled.

  It was a name, but not a country’s name. Merely a noblewoman from Verdun who married the brother of the lord whose vita it was, and a coincidental similarity to what I sought.

  I shook my head at Hal and continued reading.

  ***

  By the end of the week, we began the last shelf of vitae.

  Domon’s interests did not change, but his methods did. Either the manuscripts had begun to contain lurid lyrics, or the books had always included songs but he only recently decided to sing them. We often heard him caterwauling now, always to the same tune, humming when he couldn’t read the words or make them fit his music. Some were so risqué I found myself blushing, despite my age and years of marriage. Some were apparently worse; they contained Valenian words whose meaning I did not know. Hal must have; in the midst of one such rendition he went absolutely crimson and kept his eyes riveted to his book, looking so uncomfortable I decided not to needle him about his misspent youth.

  I had just started my current vita’s description of the birth of its subject’s first son when Domon once more burst into song. I’d become adept at shutting out the noise, after the first surprise when a song began. But this one was lengthy, and as it continued, I found it harder and harder to ignore. It was so long it must be written in the text itself, not scribbled in the margins.

  His volume increased as he went on. I put my hands over my ears, but I could still hear him. I hunched over the book, trying to focus, but found myself staring at the page, seeing not the words but a vision of myself standing behind Domon, ready to knock him senseless—and blessedly silent—again. I pressed my ankles against the legs of my chair, forcing myself to stay seated.