Homegoing (The Tall Ships of Saradena Book 1)

by Michelle Markey Butler

  I turned and stalked the length of the room again. For me to have seen his name in the Ragoni books, he would have been noble. But the poem called Martin ‘the Founder’. If he were founder of something, wouldn’t he be important enough to have a vita? I had not seen or read a vita for Martin de Kolone.

  The vitae...of course.

  I stopped, rocking slightly with the force of arrested movement. The vitae. The memory clicked into place. That was where I’d seen his name. I saw the book, clear as if it were in my hands. Martin de Kolone had been named in passing as the disinherited younger brother of the man who was the subject of the biography.

  I ran to the door, and, unbolting it, burst through and back to the library.

  Chapter XVII

  I stood before the vitae shelves, glaring as if the book could be intimidated into showing itself.

  The memory was fleshing out. The manuscript I sought was about two fingers thick, written in the same tidy script as many of the vitae. Indeed, so many were in that hand it seemed indicative of something. But what? Had the commissioning of vitae been a fashion for a time? Had vitae been recopied for unknown reasons?

  After long minutes staring, it was clear I was not going to recall anything more about the book. I couldn’t remember the name of the person whose vita it was, nor how long ago I’d read it. A systematic search would be necessary. Not wanting to waste time carrying books to and from the table, I sat on the floor and began with the ones I’d finished most recently. Book by book, row by row.

  Well into the second shelf, I found it. My shout echoed through the library. It was the vita of one Davin de Oris:

  In addition to his estates in Oris, which came to him by right as the eldest son, Lord Davin also unexpectedly inherited holdings near Kolone after the lengthy disappearance, strange return, and ultimate disinheritance of his brother Martin, called ‘de Kolone’ from his anticipated demesne, whose shameful behavior and final disgrace are set forth in his own vita. At the death of Lord Davin, the estates of Oris passed to his eldest son, Daren, with Kolone going to the younger, Irgon...

  I read the passage again, frowning. The song spoke of Martin de Kolone as ‘the Founder’—a reverential title, as Cynan Maccus was honored as the Founder of Vere. But Davin’s vita spoke of Martin disapprovingly. Shameful behavior and final disgrace. Was it the same man? Or two different men with coincidental names? I leaned back, no longer looking at the book, puzzling.

  Shaking my head, I read the passage again. This time something else caught my eye. Whose shameful behavior and final disgrace are set forth in his own vita.

  What vita?

  I hadn’t read a vita for Martin de Kolone. If Hal had, he would have mentioned it when we found his name in Domon’s song.

  I scooted over to the shelf containing the few remaining unread vitae, and began searching, scanning initial leaves until I found the name of the subject, then moving on. It didn’t take long.

  Martin’s vita was not there.

  ***

  I must have missed it. I was tired. Careful as I’d been, it would have been easy not to recognize it. Or so I told myself and tried to believe it. I searched again, more slowly. But there was still no vita for Martin de Kolone.

  Unwilling to allow the first thread I’d found to lead to nothing, I checked a third time.

  Finally I stood, a bit clumsily, numb from the awkward position and the damp hardness of the floor. Quashed hope, like a palpable lump, stuck in my throat. There was nothing to do but go to bed.

  Martin’s vita had not survived.

  ***

  I went to the library much later than usual the next morning, unable to force myself to come early after so bitter a disappointment.

  At length I coerced myself back to the remaining vitae, my determined concentration so intense it was nearly evening before I realized Domon and Hal had never come. I worked late, ready to finish the Ragoni books and go back to Elbany. Come what may.

  ***

  When I finally returned to my room, I slept instantly and soundly. I was surprised, then, to jerk awake only an hour or two later, heart pounding.

  I rolled over, knife in hand, listening, thinking immediately of Domon. If he tried again, I would kill him, Philip’s displeasure be damned.

  It was quiet, the same deep quiet as every night, the stillness of stone deep in the ground.

  The disturbance had come from within, I realized, grimacing as I sheathed my knife. I had been dreaming. Of what? I lay back, trying to remember. The images were fractured and fading. There were books. Stacks of books...

  I smiled humorlessly in the dark. That seemed understandable. I’d spent enough time searching and reading these past weeks. But that did not seem right. In the dream, it seemed to me, I hadn’t been doing either. I tried to recall more but the fragments slipped away.

  ***

  I woke again with a start. At first it seemed only a few moments had passed but my body told me it was actually several hours later, just before dawn. I’d been dreaming again. This time, more of the images passed into my waking mind. There were books, piles of them, but I wasn’t searching them. I wasn’t even present. There was a scribe, copying book after book, quickly as he could. His haste quickened my pulse.

  I fumbled in my belt-pouch for flint and steel. Striking a spark, I lit the candle at my bedside, then rose and dressed. Pondering the dream, I didn’t go to the library. I stayed in my room, throwing my knives at the door, enjoying both the satisfying thunk as they struck and the childish thrill of damaging Philip’s palace. I hadn’t practiced recently, and my aim was, to my mind, sloppy. I worked for more than an hour until my control was honed again.

  I cleaned and put away my knives. It was time to return to the library. I was much later than normal. Domon and Hal might even get there first. My eyes narrowed at the thought. But soon, I’d never be going there again.

  I halted, my hand on the door. A sudden burst of insight, the strike of inspiration scholars cherished but could not explain, flared into being behind my eyes.

  The scribe in my dream. My sleeping mind had been working out what I’d seen but not understood. I had noticed many vitae written in the same careful script, and wondered what it meant. What I had not realized was how old they must be. Very old. They described the lives of people who lived so long ago it was nearly impossible to find direct lineage connections between them and living Ragoni nobles.

  My breath caught as comprehension pressed on. The people described in those vitae must have lived and died hundreds of years ago. But the books themselves could not be so old. The script, although archaic, was readable, as was the language. Unlike the ancient books Domon had found. These must be copies of earlier books. A later but still long-ago Ragoni lord or more likely his clerk must have realized the older materials had become difficult to use and had the books copied.

  Or—perhaps not all. Perhaps only those deemed worth keeping.

  I tapped the door with my fingertips, thinking too hard even to pace. It was a guess. But…

  It would explain why the vita of Martin, the disinherited and disgraced, was not preserved in a readable copy, while his brother’s, carefully transcribed, survived, complete with its reference to Martin’s now-lost vita. My hand flattened on the door, palm pricked by fresh splinters my knives had raised. Was it lost?

  Maybe. But I doubted it. Martin de Kolone might have been disgraced and perhaps his family preferred to forget him. I could not help a surge of sympathy. But a good librarian would never throw away a book—and whoever organized this massive archival copying project was an excellent librarian. The shelf of unreadable books. The originals of the vitae had to be there. Martin’s might be among them.

  It was possible. It was tenuous. If the Martin of the song, and this Martin were the same. If there were a connection between Martin and Saradena. If his vita had anything to say about it. If all that proved true, Martin’s vita might be worth pursuing.

  I had no other
prospects. But it would take time. If I continued with the vitae, I could finish in a few days. This would take longer. There was no way to know until after I’d done it whether the time had been worth it.

  I had to. It was the only trace I had.

  I rested my forehead against the door. Could I trust my judgment? I had itched to dig into the unreadable books as soon as I’d seen them. The new work would mean more weeks before I returned to Elbany, to be sent to Ferrant. I could not imagine returning to Elbany and explaining the waste of several weeks.

  But neither could I imagine telling the Roth and Lady Elsbeth this chance had presented itself but I’d not followed the thread.

  ***

  I returned to the vitae shelves and sorted out those in the tidy recurring script. If they showed signs of being copies, my guess was probably right. It took all morning. But at last I leaned back in my chair, manuscripts lying in an arc around me.

  They were undoubtedly copies.

  This scribe was more careful than most but even he made occasional errors. Errors of the sort one was prone to when copying an existing work. Repetition of words. Sometimes an entire repeated line. With the books lying before me I could see their bindings were identical. Browned with age and cracked by mistreatment, it had once have been supple leather. Sitting as a group, the books let me see beyond their current appearance to how they would have been: a uniform collection, copied because the Valenian language was changing.

  I leaned further back, tipping the chair, rocking as I considered.

  The unreadable books were the next step. I needed to confirm that originals of the copied vitae were among them. If so—

  The outer door opened. I leaned to peer through the doorway. Domon would never sneak up on me again. It was not Hal and Domon. It was Torrell. Seeing me, he bowed before placing a basket on the table, and left. Hungry, and not minding a respite before tackling the unreadable books, I went out. I ate at the outer room’s table, expecting them to arrive any moment, my presence in his place certain to nettle Domon.

  The door opened again. I turned, expecting Hal and Domon, but it was Torrell again. He blinked at my unexpected nearness, then bowed.

  “Pardon my intrusion, lady. This...” he held out a rolled parchment in his fingertips, as if it might do something untoward, “came for you.”

  Chapter XVIII

  I took the scroll with shaking hands. Saradena? Again? And to me personally?

  My first shocked, frightened thoughts, which the next instant I dismissed as foolishness. The Roth, perhaps. Or, more likely, Magistre Poll. Perhaps he had found something in Vere’s library.

  But the seal was not Elbany’s or Vere’s. Nor Saradena’s, for that matter. I’d never seen it before. I ran my fingers over the wax. What...? I broke it and unrolled the parchment. It was not a long missive:

  To Doctora Bann—Maudlin, Princess of Bruster; Tedora, Queen of Ferrant; and clerk to Douglas, Roth of Elbany—

  Greetings.

  You thought I was not in earnest when I told you I had wished to offer for your hand when your father began your marriage negotiations. I was.

  I am.

  To show the strength of my purpose I have prevailed upon my clerk to teach me to read and write. For this letter I had him write my words. Next time, I will have learned enough to write without his help. I will speak more fully then.

  Your servant,

  Orlo, Lord of Kolon

  Mercy. What was he thinking? Surely he had ears listening on his behalf in Peran. They must have heard Domon’s suspicions. He had written to me anyway? This wouldn’t calm those rumors.

  But—what a letter. Only a rock would be unmoved. Learning letters to woo a lady. Had it ever happened in the history of the Three Lands? Or any of our stories?

  But—what terrible timing. In the face of the Saradenian threat and all it would entail, I had no part of my mind left to fret about this, about him, about what he was asking and what I might think about it.

  But—I would have to write back. It was rude to leave a letter unanswered.

  But not yet. I had no idea what to say. And I had work to do. Rolling the parchment as tightly as I could, I tucked it into my belt pouch.

  The unreadable books were waiting.

  Hurrying as quickly as I dared without risking damage to the books, I returned the vitae to their shelves. When the table was clear I ran my hand over its surface, brushing away dust, readying myself along with my workspace for the next step. I’d never studied books this old.

  Inhaling, I gingerly lifted the first from the shelf. Despite my care, bits of the binding flaked away.

  I squeaked, and was instantly flooded with shame at the sound, grateful no one was present to have heard it. Except Liath, who had apparently followed Torrell in during his second visit, and chose that moment to sidle up. I lowered the book to the table.

  “Shoo.” I waved a hand at her as she padded over to inspect the scattered pieces. Putting her nose in the air as if to say she hadn’t wanted to see them anyway, she jumped up onto the table and sprawled. She was not touching the manuscript, so I let her be.

  As I picked up the fragments, I saw writing on the reverse side. Brown-black ink-etched letters, strangely shaped but recognizable. The pieces were too small to tell if the language was readable. The binding had been made from an even older manuscript. Indignation flared, wrath evenly divided among those who would cut up a manuscript to use as another book’s binding and generations of flagrant idiots who allowed these books to rot.

  I cradled the pieces in one hand, the other hovering over them without quite touching. These broken bits were almost certainly the oldest writing I had ever held. I breathed deep, tamping down my appalled irritation. Everything indicated the competence of the ancient Ragoni clerks. Surely they had good reason to use the manuscript for binding. Perhaps the book had been damaged beyond repair.

  But there was no excuse for the Ragoni lords’ neglect.

  That was not quite true. There was none I would accept.

  I understood why they abandoned their books to the whims of time and damp. They could not read, and did not think their clerks would learn anything worth knowing from them. Forgotten, these books had not been thrown away, or reused piecemeal in the jakes or the kitchen. Neglect may have ensured their survival. As I stood with the parchment bits in my hand like the bones of the dead, knowing this did little to make me feel less murderous towards the lords, who held the precious gift of literacy of less worth than the slaves who dug their latrines.

  I crossed to Hal’s cupboard and put the pieces inside, in a small pile on one of the shelves. Returning to the table, I settled into my chair. I raised the front cover, wincing as the binding crackled. I didn’t let the cover fall flat but held it up, not opening the book fully, trying to avoid further damage. Touching the book was a wonder, a heady rush greater than well-kept wine. My fingers reveled in the feel of the parchment, damaged as it was. If I could coax comprehension from the old words...unimaginable.

  The first leaves were too warped and rotted to discern words, but by the seventh, I could identify groups of letters, some of which I recognized.

  And—success!

  As I’d hoped, I could, albeit slowly, locate names although I wasn’t able—yet—to read the work. In this volume the name ‘Arlon de Calin’ repeated frequently. I couldn’t be certain it was his vita, but it seemed probable. Which bolstered my theory that the unreadable books were the originals of copied vitae, but didn’t prove it. To prove it, I needed to find an unreadable book with the same repeating name as a vita.

  Proceed? Or stop, return to reading the remaining books, and go back to Elbany in a few days?

  The internal debate was brief. So far, the evidence suggested I was right. And having gotten my hands on the ancient books, I wasn’t leaving them. Not until I followed this strand of reasoning or came to its raveled end.

  ***

  Liath stretched and rolled to her other side. I
obligingly scratched her stomach before taking the unreadable book back to the shelf and returning with a second.

  I wasn’t so lucky this time. The book was heavily damaged. No matter how long I stared I could not distinguish one word from the next. The ink was too far faded. Here, indeed, I was forced to admit, was a candidate for reuse. I put it back, making sure it was well away from the others to keep its virulent rot from spreading.

  The next didn’t look much better. Pieces of its binding curled like tumblers at a fair. The leaves were so warped the strap could no longer be pulled closed. But its appearance was misleading. After the first quire, the damage became minimal. The script was small and a bit odd in the blockiness of its letters, but the ink remained a deep black. I found I could identify names easily. This scribe placed a small dot above each personal name. It was not, I concluded, a vita. No name repeated enough. What was it then? I wished I could read it and know what it said.

  I worked steadily, although my frustration at being unable to read the old books grew with each manuscript.

  “You! Got you!”

  Liath jumped up, startled by my shout, then sat down to lick her tail and pretend she hadn’t been.

  Osric of Boltar. That name appeared again and again in the ancient book I held, which meant it was the original of his vita. I’d read his vita. I remembered. Another half-mad noble. Con-vinced dragons slept beneath the largest sea-mountain off Boltar.

  I had a match.

  From the pair, I should be able to learn to read the old form of Valenian.

  ***

  One hand on each manuscript, I moved my fingers slowly from line to line as I mouthed words in a soundless whisper.

  I had supposed correctly; the newer book was definitely a copy of the older. But the ancient language was very different, much more than it had seemed in my earlier, cursory glances. With effort and time, I could work it out. But how much effort? And how much time?