Homegoing (The Tall Ships of Saradena Book 1)

by Michelle Markey Butler

  My heart thudded with a sudden, wild thought.

  My maestro was the Pedagno.

  He could invite me to become a scholar of Vere.

  Magistra Bann.

  The idea coursed through me, roaring and swift as a rain-swollen river. I saw myself returning. Taking my place among them. I was as good a scholar. My chin lifted. Maybe better. How many of them could have parsed Old Valenian? Images came, clear as if memory. Any book in the library, even the oldest, rarest volumes, would be open to my hand.

  The vision faded. There was no reason to suppose Pedagno Poll would invite me to become magistra. Indeed, there was every reason to believe otherwise. The Pedagno was Vere’s leader. He should not use his power to promote a former student the rest of the community would not accept. I knew him well enough to know he would not.

  More strangely, I realized slowly, even if Pedagno Poll were to invite me, I could not go.

  The recognition dried my throat like bread too hastily swallowed. Since leaving Vere, despite its hostility, I had believed if I were welcomed as magistra, I would accept. To show them.

  Now...I shook my head, as if shedding the thought required bodily effort. The Roth was a good lord, his wife Elsbeth all I could want in a liege lady—clever, discrete, and subtly influential. I had meaningful work to do for them, both in their library and countering the Saradenian threat.

  Moments passed in silence, which Mistress Baynor did not break, although she watched me with apparent concern, before I turned my attention to the letter once more:

  But I fear I will be a poor one. My instruction in this role was not complete. Few but the elder scholars know this, but after Honre’s predecessor taught him what he needed to know to become Pedagno, he drowned himself. I remain baffled, and saddened. He was my maestro. I have no idea what caused him to despair so thoroughly he preferred to die. But at least he made sure his successor was well prepared.

  In that task Honre and I failed. Honre was the youngest Pedagno in many years. We thought he would have ample time. With the duties of his post, and my own work, we seemed to have few free moments for the training. One of the responsibilities of the Pedagno is to read and preserve a special collection of books, kept within his chambers. The existence of these books is known only to the Pedagno and the successor he is instructing.

  I paused. How great must my maestro’s misery be, that he told me this secret. In writing. A cold mass settled in my stomach.

  But it would not matter if the scholars knew. No one can read them. Not anymore.

  The books are old. Very old, Alumna. I don’t know how old with any certainty. But their antiquity is obvious. They were made so many years ago their very words are not ours. What we speak and write bears only a passing resemblance to what is preserved within these books, like a child might carry the shadow of a forebear in his features. Most are in a form of Valenian. A dozen or so are in what I think is Brusterian, but so different that I hesitate to call it that. A few are in a language I cannot identify at all.

  Blood pounded in my ears. Vere had a secret collection of ancient books, older than the rare, protected volumes in their library. Some—no, most—were written in an ancient version of Valenian. Old Valenian?

  I forced myself to read on:

  Honre had barely begun teaching me to read the Pedagno’s books. I bitterly regret his loss, but I regret my laxness more. I should have...but what good is it to lament what I should have done? My foolishness has caused the knowledge of these books to be lost. I shiver to think what might be in them, too secret to translate but too vital to lose.

  Until me. I have lost it.

  Perhaps something among them might have sped your quest, Alumna. I do not know. If it is there, it is as lost as if I had burned the books. I am sorry.

  The writing grew shakier. My heart contracted at his desolation.

  I send this letter in well-trusted hands. I expect you know to burn it. No help for your troubles will come from Vere. Trouble has come to Vere. Through me. Alas for the city of scholars. Our future will be lesser than our past because we can no longer learn what the past would tell us.

  Your maestro,

  Antoun Poll

  “Ill tidings?” Mistress Baynor asked as I looked up.

  I handed her the letter, and went to fetch a candle while she read it.

  “Those books...they’re Old Valenian?” She handed back the curling parchment.

  “Maybe.” I held the letter over the flame. The parchment burned with a stench that remembered the sheep whence it had come. “Probably. At least some.”

  “You mean to go to Vere.”

  “Yes.”

  “When?” She took the candle.

  “Now. I have a better idea what to look for. Not just Saradena. Carlomond. Martin. Charles Henry.” I began to pace, unable to keep still, thoughts churning like the wind-stirred sea. “The Pedagno’s secret books. Too secret to translate but too vital to lose. It is not unreasonable to think information about the forgotten east could be among them.” And—I might be able to help the Pedagno. Magistre Poll. My maestro, who had taught me when no other scholar would.

  “I concur.” She moved to the cupboard and took out half an apple pie. “You should go to Vere.” Bringing two plates, she motioned for me to join her at the table. “But that’s not why you’re going, now, quickly, without returning to the Roth first. You’re worried about him. The Pedagno.” She held up a hand before I got a sound out. “There are no secrets with your face.”

  I paused in my stalking, then reluctantly sat on the bench across from her. “I am concerned.”

  She cut a slice for each of us. “Because of his unhappiness at not being prepared for his new role? You can help him, at least with the books in Old Valenian.”

  “In part.” I picked up my spoon but twirled it through my fingers rather than using it, although the pie smelled delicious.

  She dipped out a small bite as if to encourage me. “What more?”

  “I’m Brusterian. When a powerful man dies before his time and not on a battlefield, we wonder.”

  She fixed me with a steady gaze until I lowered the spoon to the pie. “Better.” She waited until I took a bite.

  I barely held back a shameful moan. The pastry was exquisite. Thin slices of apple crowded beneath the buttery crust like men at a dice game. But it wasn’t solely apple. There were bits of dried cherries as well, fragments of tart mingling with the apple-sweet in cookery perfection. I had to leave, but how would I eat again, away from Ragoni kitchen art?

  “Better?” She said again, but as a question this time.

  “Better.” I took another bite. “But I’m still worried. Even if Pedagno Olwen’s death was natural, Pedagno Poll could be in trouble.”

  “‘When a crown passes, another hand often tries to seize it’,” she said. We had a similar saying in Bruster. “What of Elbany? Will you forget Saradena to save your maestro?”

  “No. I’m going to Vere to save both.”

  “But once you’re there...”

  “No.” I let the spoon dangle.

  “Very well.”

  Silence held sway for a dozen heartbeats as we finished the pie. I felt calmer, as she’d intended, but my worry for the Pedagno had not abated, nor had the niggling concern she’d touched. What would I do, after I got to Vere, if helping the Pedagno and searching for Saradena were no longer aims I could pursue together?

  “I should go,” I said.

  “Wait.” She touched my arm. “I also have news.” I braced, but a thin smile parted her lips. “Good news.”

  I let my breath out.

  “Philip’s war plans have met with difficulty.”

  I felt an answering smile, although my face felt stiff unto cracking, letting it out. “That is good news. What happened?”

  “Boats.” Satisfaction filled her voice. “The High King of Bruster refused to sell him any.”

  “Ah!” It burst out, propelled by the irritation of
sudden and seemingly obvious insight. I’d been too infuriated by the stupidity of Philip’s plan, as well as distracted by my search, to give thought to how he was planning to sail east. Else I’d have realized he must have assumed he could simply buy boats from Bruster. But he wouldn’t have told the High King why he wanted them.

  Brusterian politics engendered deep suspicion in its survivors. We guarded our vessels jealously, from, among other reasons, a pragmatic desire not to provide boats to those who might invade us. Even if Philip told the truth, the High King likely wouldn’t have believed him. After all, no one, not even Philip, could be foolhardy enough to attempt the open sea an unknown distance in Brusterian coastal boats. “Well done, Father,” I murmured.

  “Yes.” Her fingertips rapped the table. “This will slow Philip down. But only slow him down. He’s determined. He’ll get boats eventually, somehow.”

  Ice bloomed in my chest. “Would Philip try to take them by force?”

  “How? You need boats to get to Bruster.” But her eyes misted as she considered. “Hire two or three boats, leaving from different Ragoni cities, filled with as many men as they can hold...a pretext to explain the presence of so many men in Bruster at once...or steal the first boats outright, if it could be managed without word getting to Bruster...or, better yet,” her voice quickened, “hire boats in another kingdom—Marlon perhaps, that would be a good bit of misdirection—and have the men dressed in the garb of a different kingdom—Ferrant would be a good choice, Marlon and Ferrant fervently distrust one another, which would both add to the confusion and make it less likely anyone would work out where the raiders really came from.”

  Her unseeing gaze sought the ceiling. “Once there, by whatever means, seize the boats and row away, east and north, well around the Margantes...sail separately into Ragonne to avoid notice...that would be the most difficult part...It could be made to work.”

  I watched in mixed alarm and admiration the speed and ease with which she devised a feasible plan of invading my homeland. Particularly unnerving was her assessment that the ‘most difficult part’ would be sailing the stolen boats back to Ragonne unnoticed. She was probably right. The rest would be frighteningly likely to succeed.

  “But you asked a different question,” she went on. “Whether Philip would do this thing, if it occurred to him it was possible.” She paused. “I suspect so.”

  My mouth went dry. “Surely you would not—”

  She scowled. “Of course not. Philip’s plan is foolhardy. I’ll not aid him in pursuing it. Nor do I think it wise to begin a war with an ally. Especially not now. The High King would have little difficulty working out who stole his ships, so soon after he declined to sell them.”

  She flashed a smile. “Philip’s plans are scuttled for a time. He’ll stew, then make a higher offer to the High King. It will be tempting. Philip’s original bid was staggering. You would know better than I how high it will have to go before the High King might reconsider.”

  “I haven’t seen my father for six years.” I wondered if the sting I felt showed on my face. Probably.

  “Ah.” Her shoulders rose. “In any case, if Philip is refused again, my guess is he will then begin to consider...other options.”

  I felt my teeth set. “Let’s hope by then we’ll know enough about Saradena to convince him of his foolishness.”

  “That would take volumes.” She sighed. “But we can hope.”

  Chapter XXXIV

  Hal was in the second room when I returned, but rose as soon as I opened the door. “I’ve found something.”

  I hurried to him. “Saradena?”

  “No. But important.”

  There were four volumes open on the worktable, three Old Valenian vitae and one modern. “This,” he said, tapping a codex with his forefinger, “is the vita I mentioned.” He looked sideways at me. “King Grindor. You remember?”

  “Yes,” I said slowly, tracking the memory. “Yes,” I said again, more firmly. “We wondered why a king’s vita had gone uncopied.”

  “I think we don’t have to wonder any longer,” he said grimly. “I began another Old Valenian vita while you were gone. Guess whose it turned out to be?”

  I shrugged, but he continued too quickly to have expected an answer.

  “Grindor’s father’s. Haldor.” He touched another of the Old Valenian manuscripts. “Also uncopied. So I looked around and found his grandfather’s.”

  “Uncopied.” I said.

  “Yes.” His finger moved to the third Old Valenian book. “See his name?”

  I leaned closer. “Halden. That was in Grindor’s vita. I remem-ber. ‘Grindor, son of Haldor, son of Halden, first king of their line.’ It’s the same name as the nephew given Kolon after Martin’s disinheritance. We wondered whether they were the same man, and if so, how he went from lord to king.”

  “They are.”

  I heard sorrow like a rising tide in his voice. “What is it?”

  “Halden’s route to the throne.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Two years after King Davin named Halden lord of Kolon, the king and his four oldest sons died within two weeks of one another, in a wasting sickness that swept Ragonne that summer. The surviving princes were only five and seven years old. Halden became their regent.”

  “Why?” I craned my neck to look at the vita more closely, as if the answer might leap at me from the page. “Halden was their mother’s nephew, not Davin’s. He’s not royal. His aunt just married well.”

  He nodded. “Martin’s vita said so, yes. Not Halden’s. But Martin was gone, and Davin’s only remaining brother also died from the sickness.”

  Dread began to tighten like a sea-soaked knot in my stomach. “What happened to the children, that Halden became king?”

  “Halden sent them to his holdings in the country, claiming it would be safe, and more pleasant for them.” He pressed the palm of his hand against his forehead for a moment. “They never arrived. No one saw them again. Halden ruled in their name for five years and then had himself crowned in his own right.”

  “Convenient. Where does it say this?”

  “All three vitae mention the princes’ disappearance.”

  Silence fell as I read the passages. Then I took a shaky breath. “Even in Bruster, seizing the throne over the bodies of children is held vile. Not that it hasn’t been tried.”

  Memory twitched, a pebble of thought wriggling loose to reveal a bare spot beneath. My brothers and I had nearly been the victims of such an attack ourselves. Odd. I hadn’t thought about that incident for years. One would think that foiling an assassination is the kind of memory that would remain foremost, but much had happened in the years since. Francis. Vere. Elbany. Nor was usurpation a rare sport in Bruster. “The kingdoms of Valenna do not have anything like Bruster’s stomach for politics. I cannot imagine how shocking such an atrocity would be here.”

  “How can we be certain?” There was a note of desperate hope in his voice, painful to hear.

  I glanced towards the shelves of modern vitae. “What’s not here speaks as loudly as what is.”

  “They weren’t copied,” he sighed.

  “Halden killed two children to seize the throne. His son and grandson knew.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Whoever was king when the copying was done made sure no one learned of it. Monstrous.”

  “Horrible,” he said.

  “To let everything in the three vitae be lost to suppress knowledge of the crime—”

  His face went white.

  “I’m not saying that’s worse than murder and usurpation,” I said. Just almost as bad. But I did not say it.

  “Not merely suppression,” he said. “Worse.”

  “Worse?” The knot of dread twisted again.

  He touched the modern vita. “This is for a later king Halden. A descendent. Here,” he turned the book so I could see more easily.

  King Halden was named for his most famous forefather, the first king of their line, who came to the t
hrone after the untimely deaths of King Davin and his heirs. The first king Halden guided Ragonne through a time of great danger and turmoil—the reign of Otto Valennus. He was a great warrior, preserver of Ragonne during that difficult time. The current line of kings is proud to claim as its forebear...

  “They made a usurping murderer into a hero.” I didn’t try to keep the loathing from my voice.

  “And still revere him.” He made no effort to keep scorn and revulsion from his voice either.

  I felt a question form but knew the answer before I put it into words. I closed my eyes, seeing the tapestry in Philip’s study, hearing again his preening description. Halden, first king of our line.

  ***

  At dawn, I went to the kitchen.

  The night before, I’d sat at the worktable long after Hal left, going over his discovery. It was certain Halden had removed his nephews to make room for himself on the throne. I was at first appalled, but then intrigued. Information could be a tool, as much as a spade or a hammer. Or a weapon. We had this knowledge. What might we do with it?

  Then I knew. But I needed Mistress Baynor’s help.

  I was not as fortunate as I had been the evening before. Servants filled the space, moving in smooth efficiency, some about the household’s breakfast, others in preparation for noon-tide. Ina, who was inclined to gossip, was kneading bread not six feet from the door.

  Mistress Baynor approached, flicking me a warning glance towards Ina. “Doctora Bann. I know you don’t normally take breakfast but since you’re here am I to assume you’d like some this morning?”

  “Yes, please,” I said, grateful for her subterfuge.

  “We’re busy now. If you can wait a bit, I’ll bring it myself once the palais has been fed.”

  “You’re very kind. Thank you.”

  ***

  After half an hour I tired of pacing and switched to knife throwing. When my arm ached, I went back to the Old Valenian vitae.