Homegoing (The Tall Ships of Saradena Book 1)

by Michelle Markey Butler

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “No, I apologize,” she said. “I had not thought about what it must be like, searching for what we need and may not find, all the while watching our year slip past.”

  “It does tend to dominate other concerns,” I whispered, looking down at the pair of open books, one comprehensible, the other still locked against me.

  She leaned closer. “Let it.”

  Chapter XX

  I spent the next four days diligently—and with increasing desperation—studying both versions of Davin’s vita. I made progress. But too little, and too slow.

  Scribes always spelled however they thought best, but they typically did not use more than two or three variants for the same word. Old Valenian employed many forms. Davin’s vita had eight spellings for ‘horse’: esteidu, esteidun, esteida, esteidan, estadio, estadis, esteidand, and esteidant. Nearly every word had as many variations. Did it mean anything more than that the learned forebears of Ragonne had delighted in variety, the way a person enjoys a garden, all flowers, and yet none the same?

  The afternoon of the fifth day I opened Martin’s vita to see how much I’d learned. I found I could identify a rough meaning for just over half the words. But I still couldn’t work out how the words related to one another. There was a sentence with Martin’s name, his brother’s name, one of the versions of ‘horse,’ and a form of ‘hit.’ Did Martin hit his brother, who was sitting on a horse? Had Martin hit his brother’s horse? Or did the brother do the hitting, of either Martin or the horse? I rubbed my temples and stared, but the page remained maddeningly half readable.

  The blazing weather did not dent my concentration, but neither did it improve my mood. Still, Domon was gone. I worked with greater ease, not starting every time the door opened. But after two more days’ work yielded no improvement in my ability to read Martin’s vita, fear began to well up like water from a covered spring.

  Thinking perhaps I was trying too hard, I took a break to compose a response to Orlo. That, however, went even worse. I knew what I needed to tell him, but the words refused to convey to the parchment. After three ruined sheets I felt guilty about wasting parchment and got out my wax tablet, but in spite of the ability to start over without cost, I found no acceptable words.

  Not ready to attack the Old Valenian again, I returned to the book in which Domon had found the song. Perhaps another part contained more information about Saradena.

  At first it was a welcome change. It was a relief to turn pages, comprehending what the words said. Soon, however, understanding was more curse than blessing; the song was by far the most innocuous material the book contained. I read it all, quickly, shuddering at its depravity, but the compilatio provided no other references, however oblique.

  ***

  I wiped sweat from my brow and dried my hand on my skirt. I had gone back to the beginning of Davin’s vita, working line by line, but still could not make the older words into ordered sense without the copy.

  Stymied on that front, I forced myself to sit with parchment and ink until I’d written a few lines to Orlo which would simply have to do:

  To Orlo, Lord of Kolon:

  The effort you have undertaken is admirable but better to do so for your own sake. You know I have a task at which I dare not fail. Pray do not distract me again.

  Doctora Bann

  Barely waiting until the ink dried, I rolled the sheet and sealed it. I could ask Mistress Baynor to arrange a messenger to take it to Kolon.

  That finished, there was nothing more to do than return to Davin’s vita. For all the good I was doing.

  ***

  I carefully moved both versions of Davin’s vita aside. Elbows on the table, I closed my eyes and let my head fall into my hands. I pressed my thumbs against the bridge of my nose, willing thought to arise within, something, something that would make the Old Valenian comprehensible.

  It was a measure of my desperation that for a moment I wished Domon were there. He was a clerk. Maybe if I showed him what I’d learned...I knew Valenian well but perhaps not as well as a native speaker...perhaps there was something I didn’t understand enough to tease meaning from its older form. Even as the thought bloomed, I recoiled from it. The less frantic parts of my mind did not want Domon back for any reason.

  At last I rose. After pacing for a while, I began throwing my knives at the door to the unused room. Hal. My instincts were right, calling to mind Domon, but it wasn’t him I needed. I was stuck. I needed to talk with someone, preferably someone who could read.

  But Hal wasn’t here.

  I sheathed my knives and headed for the kitchen.

  ***

  The kitchen, always abuzz, was louder and busier than I’d ever seen it.

  “What’s going on?” I asked as Mistress Baynor came towards me.

  “Betrothal dinner.” She spoke loudly to be heard over the din. “Our household will show its excellence.” She lowered her voice. “Particularly after our embarrassment.” She glanced around at her bustling staff. “It’s a small price to pay to be rid of Domon.” Her head jerked towards the servants. “The flurry is as much excitement as effort.”

  I looked again. The women were nearly dancing as they worked. The men held their shoulders more loosely. They smiled at each other as they passed. Cups stood upon the tables.

  Mistress Baynor laughed. “They opened a barrel of Philip’s brownest. No, he doesn’t know. Yes, I let them do it.” She lowered her voice again. “These women were Domon’s favorite targets, close to his territory and often alone. Several of the men caught bruises when they intervened. They’re not all as big as Torrell.”

  “It’s been days since Domon left!”

  “I know. I expect it will run its course in a few days more. I won’t stop it as long as it doesn’t get in the way of giving Micela an exquisite betrothal. She deserves it.” Her lips thinned. “I’m sure you can appreciate how difficult it would have been to make another match.”

  “Yes.” That Marlon had not broken the engagement was telling. The kingdom was large, wealthy, and had been powerful before its previous king set out to restore Otto’s empire. Which meant attacking and attempting to conquer his neighbors, many of whom did fall to him before he was finally defeated. The new king of Marlon was trying to ease his country back to respectability.

  Philip’s daughter would marry the nephew of the man who killed her cousin, and both sides deem it a good match. Politics.

  “Come, sit.” Mistress Baynor touched my shoulder. “Philip feasts tonight in honor of his guests, so the evening meal is later than usual. We have not begun serving yet, and when we do, it will be prolonged. There will be entertainment between the courses. As you would know.”

  Yes. I had endured many such spectacles. They had been merely annoying in Bruster. The food was superb, the verse and music beautiful, but the company an arrow storm. In Bruster you weighed each word as if handing gold—or steel—to the person you spoke with. In Ferrant, feast days had been agonizing. Every eye I passed flicked to my belly. At first the looks were jovial and indulgent, enjoying their imagined notion of their king’s newly-wedded delights and anticipated heir. After a year, the gazes held concern. After two, anger. After three, betrayal, as if I had chosen to deny Francis a legitimate son. After four, the glances became surreptitious but the lines between their eyebrows more pronounced. One of the few benefits of my reduced status was no longer having to attend feasts. A library, even with a thorny problem, was preferable to dining room diplomacy.

  The servants’ happiness seemed to enhance their efficiency rather than detract from it. Mistress Baynor supervised their efforts, but her direction was rarely needed. Presently the first course, a dizzying array of fish dishes, was steaming and ready for the hall.

  “When do you expect Hal?” I asked in the quiet after the kitchen staff had carried the dishes to the adjoining room, where the hall staff—and, for the highest lords, their own retainers—waited to take the food to
the hall.

  She pursed her lips. “I’m not sure. Why?” Before I could respond, she added, “He won’t be returning to the library.”

  I hadn’t realized until that moment that I’d been assuming he would. “You advised me to have him help search.” It sounded like a complaint and an accusation.

  “I know,” she said. “But Philip will not assign him merely to books, now Domon is gone.”

  “But—”

  “I already asked Philip.” Her gaze sharpened but the return of her staff interrupted her. She left to oversee the final preparation of the second course.

  I began to feel awkward that I was the only one idle. When Mistress Baynor returned, I asked if there was something simple I could do. Perhaps working with my hands would help calm the waves in my mind. She looked sharply at me again but gave me a bowl of nuts to crack.

  “What is the entertainment?” I asked after Mistress Baynor sent up the second course.

  “Verse about the heroes of Valenna during the Ottonian war. Between later courses will be poems about Valenna’s role in the Ricardian war.” She snorted. “What nonsense that will be I can scarcely imagine. Ragonne had no part in opposing Richard.” She paused. “No official part, anyway. Orlo and Oliver—” she broke off. “I take it the search isn’t going well? I thought you had found something.”

  I stifled the desire to ask what she’d meant to say. None of my business. None. “I thought I’d be able to figure out how to read it. I haven’t.” I paused. “I’m not sure I can.”

  Her mouth twisted sympathetically. “Is there no one else who would know? At Vere?”

  “No. We have old books at Vere, but they’re in Brusterian, not Valenian, and they can still be read without much difficulty.” But not by me. No one but the magistres were allowed to touch the frail oldest manuscripts, although the students and doctores were permitted to read copies. “Either Brusterian has changed less than Valenian, or Vere’s oldest books are not as ancient as these.”

  “There’s nothing else here that might help?”

  I cracked nuts with frustrated vigor. “Not that I can find.”

  “What will you do next?”

  “I don’t know.” I turned my attention to the bowl, picking nutmeat from the shells with more force than was effective.

  As the dinner dragged on, Mistress Baynor’s staff became tired and the work of the kitchen occupied the cook’s attention. I was guiltily relieved. I’d come there hoping talking might help me sort the chaff and wheat of my flailing thoughts.

  It had. I just didn’t like the answer.

  If I could not work out Old Valenian, all that remained in Ragonne was to finish the few remaining vitae, and leave.

  If I could not work out Old Valenian...this point was the sorest. I did not like to give up, and I did not like to fail. But I couldn’t afford to waste time on a fool’s errand.

  At last the weary kitchen workers sat down to their own meal. When her staff was settled, Mistress Baynor returned with a tray.

  “Before you leave, talk to Oliver.”

  “Who?” I floundered, trying to bring to mind anyone in Ragonne I’d met by that name. It didn’t sound Ragoni. But the name tickled. I hadn’t met him. I’d heard it. Where? Why? And why should I talk to him?

  “He washed up on our eastern shore...oh, more than twenty years ago. He was about four, we think.”

  Of course! The Roth and Lady Elsbeth had mentioned him, as had Orlo. And Mistress Baynor herself, not two hours before. The millstones of my wits were turning slowly.

  “He’s not Ragoni. Maybe...” She tapped her spoon on her plate. “Maybe he’s from…elsewhere.”

  I froze, mortification spreading like spilled water. I should have remembered him, have thought of talking to him myself. “What does he recall about where he came from?”

  “I have always heard he remembers nothing but his name. But—” she went on over my annoyed exhalation, “he may remember more. If we ask him...differently.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t want to explain here.” Her eyes flicked towards her staff. “Are you willing?”

  I hesitated.

  “Talking to him is no more desperate or unlikely than anything else.”

  I bit my lip, telling myself not to compound my stupidity by refusing. But I knew better than to open my mouth. Mistress Baynor did not deserve my vitriol. But it was a struggle. Fool! my mind howled, Brusterian equivalents following. Trained by the scholars of Vere so thoroughly you forgot what a Brusterian princess should know from birth? Books can tell tales. But so can people.

  Mistress Baynor seemed content to attend to our meal in silence. After a while, I had my self-directed fury in hand enough to eat, and later, speak.

  “Yes.”

  She broke the loaf and handed me half. “I’ll arrange it.”

  Chapter XXI

  I arrived in the library as usual the next morning before sunrise. Mistress Baynor would contact me when she had our meeting arranged with Oliver. The night had brought little coolness. It was already hot, the air heavy with moisture. I wriggled my shoulders, feeling my smock stick to my skin.

  After two hours, I was having no more success than before. Grasping at straws, I began speaking Old Valenian aloud, as scholars did when they read or copied difficult passages. Reading silently, I’d focused on the elements most similar to modern Valenian, but hearing the words drew my attention to the parts unmistakably different. The older language used more g’s, but fewer s’s, and almost no f’s. Vowels often appeared at the end of words. Old Valenian would have sounded very different from its descendent. Interesting. But it did not help me understand it better. I stretched, splaying my fingers.

  It was, of course, time.

  Time to abandon the attempt to read Old Valenian. It had never been likely to succeed. All I had accomplished was wasting too many precious days of the year Saradena had allowed us. I had tried. Now I needed to finish the remainder of Ragonne’s books, meet with Oliver—and go back to Elbany.

  I returned the Old Valenian books to their shelf.

  The temptation to bring them back to the table hit immediately. If I worked harder...

  I shook my head. The books would remain unread.

  No. I couldn’t bear that bleak assessment. Not unread, ever. Just not now. After Saradena, if there was an Elbany to leave or a Ragonne to come to, I could return.

  A more honest corner of my mind doubted Philip would permit it. But it was less painful than leaving them, damp and dying, and bluntly knowing no eyes would look upon them again before they rotted away.

  I realized I’d been hearing, and could not say for how long, a Brusterian dirge in my thoughts. A wry smile quirked. Slowly I turned away.

  Sudden anger flooded me. Brusterian curses, equally vile and fantastical, sprang through my mind, all directed towards Saradena. To give a year’s warning, the hope of preventing the storm if certain demands were met—but demands no one could understand, let alone fulfill...

  A new thought surfaced, icy and dreadful. We—me, the Roth, Lady Elsbeth, Orlo, all of us—assumed the Saradenians did not know the Three Lands had forgotten them. The coldness slid into my stomach, chilling me to shivers despite the summer heat. Perhaps there had been no offense. Maybe Saradena knew of our ignorance and had feigned their complaint. Perhaps the letter was part of their attack, meant to unnerve and distract, taunting, holding out false hope.

  I pulled my belt knife and threw it into the door of the third room before I knew my hand was on the hilt. Maybe I’d found nothing because there was nothing to find.

  I strode across the room, and, wrenching my knife free, stood leaning against the doorway, breathing hard.

  It was not a waste of time, and it was not hopeless. It could not be.

  Saradena might know we’d forgotten them. But even if their grievance was a pretense, it didn’t mean there was nothing to find. Saradena and the Three Lands had con
tact before. Knowledge of and from that relationship must be preserved somewhere.

  ***

  I finished the remaining vitae late that evening. But I went to the library early the next morning anyway. What else was there to do?

  It was foolish, perhaps. With Domon gone, when I left the door would close on Ragonne’s library and who knew when it might open again, but I wanted to leave the space tidy. I cleared the table of the vitae I’d left there when I’d finally come to the end of the last one and stumbled to bed, then dusted the table top with my sleeve. I walked through the library, straightening books, clucking my tongue over pages warping further as the summer air thickened, leaves and covers straining against the clasp like the belt of a well-to-do merchant.

  I hardly dared look at the shelf of unreadable books as I passed. I was glad I’d be leaving soon. It would be terrible, having touched those books and almost read them, to sit beside them day after day, and never open them again.

  I turned and found myself facing the shelves of lewd books.

  Oh, no.

  The only snippet of information I’d found about Saradena had been among them. The path had dead-ended in the unreadable books, true, but a clue had been found...here.

  I had to read them.

  Cowardice masquerading as caution spoke up. Did I really? It was unlikely I’d find anything and the search would be unpleasant.

  I imagined trying to explain that to Lady Elsbeth. I picked up the first manuscript and carried it to the table.

  ***

  The best that could be said was that they skimmed easily.

  Most of them contained only one narrow column of writing per leaf, with the ruled lines for the script spaced widely. Was this because their scribes were also their authors, and were too debauched to write smaller? Or were the wide lines and margins to leave room for illustrations? There certainly were many.

  The foulness of the pictures, somehow more shocking than the equally vile text, made my lip curl. They were impossible to ignore, whereas I could skim the words without having to entirely comprehend their meaning. But I was grateful for the copious illuminations. They made the reading faster.