Homegoing (The Tall Ships of Saradena Book 1)

by Michelle Markey Butler

  Mistress Baynor listened, sympathetic but unsurprised. “Philip has always fancied himself a military genius.”

  “Is he?” I asked snidely.

  She looked at me reproachfully. “He has never handled so much as a border skirmish. He’s waited for an opportunity since he came to the throne, but Ragonne’s neighbors are wary and have stepped lightly.”

  “What about Richard? Ragonne did nothing during the Ricardian war. Surely that was excuse enough.”

  She shook her head. “Philip did not want to help in someone else’s battle but to wage, and win, his own.”

  “Lunacy,” I hissed.

  She held up her hands. “I understand his actions. I do not ex-cuse them.” She hesitated. “There’s something else I’ve learned.”

  I motioned for her to continue.

  “I’m not sure I should tell you.”

  “Why?”

  She drew a parchment roll from her belt pouch and passed it to me. It bore the seal of Kolon.

  “He’s sent letters to you twice. You’ve written back. I’d wager he’s twisted his clerk’s arm to teach him to write, not just dictated the letters.”

  I stared open-mouthed. “How did you...?”

  One shoulder lifted. “Orlo is not a man to woo through another.”

  “Woo?”

  “You know his aim. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

  “But—”

  One hand rose. “Don’t.”

  I turned the letter in my hands. “What does...this...have to do with what you’ve learned?”

  “When Philip sends his army east, it will be Orlo who leads them.”

  Chapter XXVII

  I set down the parchment roll rather than let it shake with my hands.

  “If it goes badly, Philip figures he will be rid of a rival.” Mistress Baynor’s voice was harsher than I’d yet heard it. She held up a hand before I could begin. “Peace! I know Orlo does not want the kingship. What matters is that Philip believes he does.”

  I picked up the letter again, one finger touching the seal.

  “There’s nothing you can do for him.” Her hand turned, flattening, palm up, supplication and invitation both. “For yourself, perhaps.”

  “I see.” I felt my jaw tighten stubbornly. She meant to spare me pain, and I was grateful. But she didn’t understand. I did not know Orlo well enough to know if I would like to know him better. But after Francis, the pain of possible loss did not frighten me.

  “Do you?” She lowered her hand.

  I tucked the letter into my belt pouch. “I leave in the morning.”

  “I heard,” she replied, letting the subject shift. “You will find what we need, in Ferrant, or wherever the Roth deems best to send you.”

  I wasn’t sure if it was a command or a statement of confidence.

  She stood. “Greet my nephew for me.”

  “I will,” I said, wondering whether she meant the Roth—or Orlo.

  ***

  I pivoted the roll of parchment between my fingers. Perhaps Mistress Baynor was right. With Philip convinced of Orlo’s ambition, it would be wiser to avoid contact with him, let alone give ear to his enticements.

  I looked at the candle on the bedside table and imagined holding the parchment over the flame, watching it writhe and crumble as it burned.

  It might be the smarter path, but it felt like cowardice.

  I slid my thumb along the edge, breaking the seal.

  The page was full of wobbly letters, painstakingly and awkwardly formed. One line squeezed along the bottom: “I am learning. But I swear it is easier to kill a man than write his name!”

  I laughed, my first full, real laugh since the Saradenian letter had arrived.

  It was madness. Madness to heed him, madness to respond. Madness like drinking metheglin without bread, the spices prickling the inside of your nose while the mead strung a net between your ears. Sweet and savory, too strong but for festivals and feasts.

  I took out parchment, ink, and quill and wrote:

  It is.

  But if you’d been practicing letters as long as you had fighting, a quill would feel as natural in your hand as a sword. Your skill will improve the more you exercise it.

  I thought, then added:

  Well done. I have seen new students at Vere do worse after half a year’s study.

  I blew on the page to dry the ink and began to roll the parchment. Then I flattened the sheet, dipping the quill again:

  Mistress Baynor sends greetings.

  ***

  Two of Philip’s men were waiting for me just after dawn. I stroked the nose of the mare, making her acquaintance. I thought of Oliver, who as Horsemaster had probably chosen her for me. I hoped he would survive what was coming.

  The mare nuzzled carrots from my palm. I’d brought them from the kitchen when I’d gone down to ask Mistress Baynor to send the letter. She’d sighed, but said nothing as she’d taken it. When the carrots were gone, I rubbed my hand on my skirt and slung my bag across the back of the saddle.

  We hadn’t gone far beyond the palais’ gates when we heard another group of riders approaching.

  Philip’s men reined their horses grudgingly to the right, allowing the other horsemen space to pass. My mare followed. The incoming group, however, was larger than ours, and all three of us were forced aside as the riders reached us. I squinted at the sky, trying to ignore the jostling. The morning was warm, not miserable yet, but the sky was cloudy. I hoped we would not have to ride in rain.

  “Doctora Bann!”

  I looked around, surprised, and spotted Hal among the arrivals, waving and turning his horse. I reined in. Exchanging annoyed looks, my escorts did likewise.

  “You are leaving?”

  “I’ve finished here.” I nudged my horse closer. “There’s nothing more for me to find. I’ve read every book I can.” I sounded surly, and I felt odd, as if I’d been caught trying to sneak away. In fact, I realized guiltily, I hadn’t thought about him in days, unconcerned I was departing without taking leave of him in any civil manner.

  His eyes glittered. “There’s still one book to consider.”

  I sighed, but before I could reply Hal leaned forward and took hold of my horse’s bridle, pushing both animals further to the side.

  “Hal!” I hissed.

  He opened a parcel tied carefully to the saddle before him.

  “Look!”

  Surprise and annoyance vanished. I took the book as if cupping a butterfly. Perhaps there had been manuscripts like this in Vere. If so, I hadn’t been allowed to see them, let alone touch them.

  The cover was sumptuous. In the center the device of Vere was inlaid in white, of what substance I could not guess. The rest of the leather-covered wood was embossed with gold, a blue gem as large as my thumbnail at each corner. I stared, long after my escorts lost their initial interest in the gold object and began chatting in low voices.

  “Where did this come from?” I asked.

  “Lady Berlain sent it.”

  “To Philip?” My alarm was so great I spoke of Philip by his name, as I thought of him, rather than as I ought when speaking aloud and in public. Both soldiers looked round at me. “To the King?” I amended. But in my mind all I saw was this book in the palace’s basement.

  “No.” A broad smile creased his face. “It’s a gift for her nephew the Roth’s library. I deliver it to you as his clerk.”

  “Oh,” I breathed. My fingers stroked the cover. “We will cherish it.”

  My thoughts danced, moving beyond the book’s beauty to wonder about its purpose. Why did it carry Vere’s sign? Why was it so highly decorated? What was it about? It would be torture, carrying it to Elbany before reading it, but horseback was no place to examine a book. “Thank you.”

  “You have Domon to thank for it.”

  My head jerked up.

  “It’s true. He found it hidden in their castle, two days after we arrived.” He shook his head. “He must be able
to smell books.”

  He waved a hand, catching my gaze from where it’d strayed back to the book. “And it was Domon who suggested giving the manuscript to the Roth. I think,” he paused, “even he did not want such a book moldering here. Lady Berlain grudges becoming Domon’s keeper. It was not difficult for him to persuade her to send it to the Roth rather than King Philip.”

  I frowned. “I’m grateful to have it, of course, and I know the Roth will be as well. But why send it to anyone?” My fingers tightened on the gold cover. “If I’d found this, nothing would have induced me to let it out of my hands.”

  “Open it,” he said.

  “Hal...”

  “You need to see.”

  The codex had no clasp to unbind. I settled the book securely on my legs and lifted the cover.

  Purple. The leaves were purple.

  Astonishment, then envy, shot through me. How had the makers of this book dyed the parchment purple? I wasn’t as well trained a book maker as some, but even Vere’s best hands could not have produced this book.

  I held my breath as I looked more closely at the writing itself. The first leaf held two neat columns of script, written in a fine, true black ink, the initial letter illuminated in gold...and it was Brusterian. I drank in my birth language.

  Then I gasped, and read the words again. “This...” I glanced back down, not quite believing what I’d seen. I read it again. “This is the vita of Cynan Maccus.”

  Wherever he’d been trained, he knew enough about Vere to give a low whistle.

  “There’s a vita for him at Vere—a very old one, and its copies. Some continue the history of Vere, after its founding by Cynan Maccus. This one...” my eyes flicked down again, “must be as old. If not older. And I have not heard Vere’s is so rich.” I hadn’t seen it, of course. I breathed in slowly. “The device on the cover...this must have been made at Vere, long ago. The techniques are lost now.” I smiled. “If they knew, they would certainly want it back.”

  I read the first lines again, reveling in the touch of the parchment, the richness of its color, and my own language.

  I started and looked again. Above each line were Valenian words—small, lightly written, almost imperceptible. At some point the book had been translated into Valenian, interlineated with the original Brusterian.

  My stomach turned over, and I swore in soft, almost reverent Brusterian. Not Valenian. I recognized many of the words, but could not read them. It was Old Valenian.

  I sat unmoving, eyes fixed upon the page, too stunned now to even swear. My mind flew. If I studied Old Valenian in comparison to Brusterian, the language of my thought, might I get sense from it?

  Hal’s horse sidestepped nervously as a cart brushed past. He leaned forward, patting its withers.

  I was ready to return to Elbany. I could pack the book up and take it with me. But what if I studied the book in Elbany and found that with its help, I could read Old Valenian? Even if Philip, and the Roth, allowed me to return—which was doubtful—more than a week of our year would have been lost.

  My escorts waited with less patience than Hal. They glanced at me, growing more openly annoyed.

  Should I stay—and spend more precious time on Old Valenian? My knowledge of Valenian was thorough, but it was a learned tongue. Working from Brusterian might change my capability to puzzle it out.

  “There was discussion about the ornamentation,” Hal said. “Several of Lady Berlain’s people were in favor of removing the cover. Domon—” He looked squarely into my eyes. “He has his faults, but that book is in your hands and in one piece because he demanded it. Think better of him, if you can.”

  I was too preoccupied at that moment to spare thought, or thanks, for Domon. We were horseback, sitting in the street in Peran. I had to choose. Now. Return to Elbany, or ride back to the palace.

  I glanced back the way we had come.

  “Are you still leaving?” Hal asked.

  “Not yet.”

  ***

  My escorts grumbled, but when I turned my gaze full upon them they quelled, and made no further complaint when I returned my horse to their care in the palace’s courtyard.

  Hal dismounted as well, dusting himself after his long journey. His first step, naturally, was to present himself to the king and report upon his errand. He promised to inform Philip of my postponed departure and why. I was shamefully relieved to avoid that task.

  “You’ll have to tell him about the book,” I conceded. “Say I must stay a few days longer to compare it to a volume in his collection. But stress it is a gift for the Roth. And do not mention the ornamentation.”

  He dipped his head. It was unnecessary to say that Philip would have not scrupled to appropriate the richly decorated cover if he knew of it, no matter what Berlain had intended.

  “With Domon gone you’ll be removed from service in the library,” I added. “The king has probably already decided where to use you instead. He may well give you your new post now.”

  “I expected as much.” He untied his pack from the saddle. “But I will come to the library after my regular duties.”

  I was taken aback. There was no obligation for him to continue, and doing so would mean extra work for him. “Hal—”

  “Unless you wish to be rid of me,” he added, his tone light but the full meaning of his words intact.

  I thought of working alone in the library. The quiet, the thrill of being by myself with so many, and such ancient, books. It was true I hadn’t particularly mourned his absence. I’d been more than willing to do without his help if that meant being rid of Domon. But I remembered as well the days we had worked side by side, the companionable silence different from being alone, but still pleasant.

  If I were successful in unraveling Old Valenian, I could teach him. My imagination leapt. If we worked quickly, we might be able to read them all. Not just Martin’s vita. All the Old Valenian books. Who knew what might be among them?

  “I would welcome that.” I said. “Thank you.”

  Chapter XXVIII

  It felt longer than the scant hours that had passed since I’d closed the door to the library. But the room was, of course, unchanged. Removing the wrappings I laid the manuscript gently on the table. Even in the gloom that hung perpetually in the dingy library, the book was magnificent. Gold glittered in the flickering candlelight, gems sparkling blue, seemingly brighter than the light itself. I could scarcely believe it was mine to touch, to open, to read.

  Although I was expecting it this time, the purple still astounded. It was deeper than I remembered, the gold initial letter shining in a dark sea. Black script followed, like shadows burned on the dyed parchment. I had seen the highest finery of Ferrant, ladies lambent in jewels and silk, but nothing so beautiful as this book.

  No one now living had the skills to have made it. Not in the Three Lands, at least. Who could say what the Saradenians might be capable of? But we had once. The book itself was proof of it. What had been known could perhaps be rediscovered. I ached to live long enough, and learn, that this glorious book would not be the only such in the Roth’s library.

  After long moments admiring and coveting the skill of the work, I was able to shift my gaze to the words. The thrill of my birth language returned in full measure. The Brusterian was old fashioned. Some words were now rare; others had a somewhat different meaning. But overall the text was accessible.

  I read.

  The heat and stifling air slipped away, the ever-present stench of mold fled, the room itself blurred into the background, as I drank words.

  Where Cynan Maccus had been born, no one knew. He had been known as Cynan then, having adopted a second name later, according to and indeed most likely establishing the tradition of Vere’s scholars choosing a new name when they became doctore.

  Nor was anything known of his upbringing. He first came to public notice when he approached the High King of Bruster and begged leave to create a city to preserve books. The High King was hesitan
t but at length Cynan Maccus persuaded him.

  I read the passage again:

  The High King finally agreed, and in the 23rd year of his reign, 503 years after the fall of Bruster, he granted the island of Lastland to the petitioner. Cynan Maccus gathered a small group of willing men and came to Lastland, exploring the island for many weeks until deciding upon the best place to build their city...

  503 years after the fall of Bruster...that wasn’t in Vere’s version. The wisest scholars in Vere believed the city was so ancient no one could know how old it was.

  This book knew. Or its author believed he did. But what did 503 years after the fall of Bruster mean? Bruster had never fallen, not to an outside power. Our conquests came from within.

  Ator? Could it mean Ator, the High King said to have brought all of the Three Lands under his control? No written record of him survived but most Brusterians believed him to have been real. Most in Elbany and Valenna held otherwise, deeming Ator a legend, the dream vengeance of a smaller country towards those who scorned it.

  I frowned. That couldn’t be what the book meant. Ator had conquered other countries. The book referred to a time Bruster had fallen.

  A few months before, perhaps, I would have dismissed the passage as fabrication or error. Surely if Bruster had suffered the indignity of a conquest, it would have been remembered. But I’d seen too much evidence that those who had come before had known more than we did now. It seemed wisest to assume that here too, their knowledge was deeper.

  So Bruster had once been conquered. By whom? When? And why had my forebears chosen to memorialize our humiliation? Strange—

  No. It was brilliant. Our records were dated, if at all, by regnal year. As in the passage: in the 23rd year of his reign. Dates started over with each new king. But the book’s additional marker, 503 years after the fall of Bruster, provided a measure of time beyond kings.