Homegoing (The Tall Ships of Saradena Book 1)

by Michelle Markey Butler

  I’d not been reading Martin’s vita for ten minutes before a new thought struck with the force of a longship hitting rock. The heels of both hands pressed against my eyes until I saw flashes of light behind the lids. Fool! Kolon! Why had not I asked Orlo in my last letter to question his clerk about books? Martin had been lord of Kolon when he met the beggar child. Perhaps he’d left something written, something that would explain why he’d gone east to create his saradomus.

  It was unlikely. But everything I’d found so far—Oliver’s memories, Carlomond, Martin, Charles Henry—had been unlikely. It was no less probable that a book might have been commissioned by Martin and survived in Kolon.

  What was truly unlikely, I thought as the first zeal of the idea gave way, was that Orlo had not already done so. He knew what we sought.

  But, another part of my mind argued, he did not know I’d found a connection to Kolon. He didn’t know about Martin.

  It wouldn’t hurt to ask.

  I took out parchment and wrote quickly, before I had time to consider whether I thought the possibility really promising or was just grasping at a plausible reason to send him another letter before I left Ragonne.

  ***

  Mistress Baynor arrived as I was sealing the letter. “What has happened?”

  “Let me show you.” I beckoned her into the second room, to where the vitae lay open, and explained what Hal had found.

  She straightened. “What are you going to do?”

  I stared. “Are you not surprised? Disgusted?”

  She sighed. “I’m one of so many royal bastards it’s difficult to keep count. Not all were the result of free relations. No, I am not surprised to learn of other, worse misdeeds in our past.” Acrid shame filled her voice.

  I let the matter go. “Use it,” I said, answering her question.

  She narrowed her eyes. “How?”

  “I’ll tell Philip I will give this information to his lords unless he abandons his plan to sail east.” I raised a hand, like a conjurer revealing an empty palm where the polished stone had been.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  I stepped closer. “We can prevent a war.”

  “You already have a war to stop.”

  “He means to attack whomever he finds. Saradena or not.”

  “I know.” She clenched her hands. “But it won’t work. You’ll simply get yourself killed.”

  “But—”

  “I know Philip. He does not have the right character to be threatened. He’s confident. Arrogant. If he does a thing, it is the right thing. He suspects you already, because of Orlo. You wouldn’t leave his chamber alive.”

  “Should we do nothing?” Irritation roughened my voice. “Hal handed us a weapon. It would be foolish not to use it.”

  “I agree. But how?” Both fists clenched now. “Philip will ignite like last winter’s wood if you try.” Her fists planted on her hips. “And I cannot allow this information to go to the great lords. They might see it as an excuse to move against him.”

  My eyebrows rose. “I meant to bluff only.”

  “Don’t threaten what you’re not willing to do. It’s guaranteed to fail.” One hand, but only one, left her hips. “We have to be careful. If this gets out...the great lords would move, I’m sure of it. Philip has always been a stench in their nostrils, but more so since the Saradenian letter and his wool-headed scheme. Ragonne cannot have internal dissension. Not now.” Her mouth pursed. “They would rally around Orlo.”

  “He doesn’t want the throne.”

  “I know. But they could easily get him killed trying to put him there.” Her other hand left her hip to rub her temple. “Philip will manage that himself.”

  I pushed it away, refusing to think about this bleak assessment. “Very well. What is your counsel?”

  “I doubt we can prevent Philip’s attack, even with this.” She spoke slowly, thinking aloud. “But perhaps I can persuade him...would having Hal with you be useful?”

  “Yes.” I’d meant to figure to out a way to take him with me. Hope returned. We might use Halden to force something from Philip after all. “He’s learned to read Old Valenian. But—”

  Two fingers of one of Mistress Baynor’s hands chafed the palm of the other, as if thought could be warmed by rubbing. “I’ll tell Philip I learned of this by chance...Hal found it before Domon left and doesn’t realize its importance...I want to help Philip keep it secret...by sending Hal away and getting rid of the books.”

  “What?” I shouted.

  She smiled. “Not destroy. Get rid of. Doctora Bann leaves for Vere. Send them with her. A gift to Vere. The scholars will assume Philip’s trying to get a better clerk. Once among Vere’s vast library, the books will never be read again, certainly not by anyone able to understand their import. Ragonne’s secret is safe. Make a gift of Hal to the Roth and send him with Doctora Bann.”

  I blinked as the torrent stopped. “You think that will work?”

  Her smile broadened. “Be ready to leave in the morning. I’ll get word to Hal.” She turned.

  “Wait.” I held out the parchment roll. “Can you send this to Orlo?”

  Her face fell into sober lines. “Of course.” She hesitated. “You have not asked for my counsel in this matter, but I will give it. Receive it as you will. Orlo is a good man. He has loved you, or fancied he does, for years. It cost him, greatly, to accept Philip’s refusal when he asked leave to present his suit to the High King.” Her eyes flashed anger. “If Philip understood that, he would not question Orlo’s loyalty so lightly.” The fire vanished. “Unless you have grown to savor the taste of pain, do not consent when he offers again.”

  “He might not.” But I knew better, as did she.

  “He will.” She closed her eyes, kept them closed for a long moment. “You know what Philip intends. Orlo will lead the eastern attack. My heart tells me that win or lose, Orlo will not survive. Death attends him like carrion birds follow armed men.”

  My mouth was dry. I had to swallow before I could speak. “Are we not all but one heartbeat from death?”

  She met my gaze, her eyes somewhat narrowed, as if looking for something far off. “Very well.”

  “Send the letter.” I held it out. This time, she took it.

  Book II

  Chapter I

  I sat in the fore of the boat not far behind the bow, which narrowed to a point and rose, curving, nearly my full height above the gunnels. A scroll, like interlacing in a manuscript, topped the bow.

  I glanced back at Hal, where he sat watching the slaves bend their backs to the oars, the late-morning sun glinting dully on the iron rings around their necks. To our right the Margantes stood like sentries in the water. The sea mountains studded the coasts of the Three Lands, thick as hazelnuts in autumn, making sailing difficult and dangerous. Only Brusterians, it was said, were mad enough to willingly take to the sea.

  Odulan, the boat’s captain, sat in the aft, his hand on the steerboard. Some boat masters preferred to leave the steerboard in another’s control while they stood further forward, directing the ship’s activities. Wary of the rocks that slipped and hid among the waves, Odulan permitted no man’s touch on the steerboard but his own. I remembered him from my time in Vere. He was the master of Vere’s ships and the ship slaves, and a useful man to listen to if you were a Brusterian princess wishing to expand her vocabulary.

  My eyes narrowed as I looked out over the water, but it was against the brightness, not from displeasure. Most Brusterians liked sailing, for perversity if nothing else, doing a thing the rest of the Three Lands feared. I was no exception.

  It was a spectacular day to be on the sea. But it’d been a long day before we’d embarked, a long week leading up to our departure, and more than three long months since the arrival of the Saradenian letter. I yawned in the enveloping calm of warmth and waves, and edged along the thwart until I could lean against the gunnel.

  Mistress Baynor’s plan had gone as smooth as wa
rmed butter. She’d spread her snare before Philip, and he’d stepped into it, uncharacteristically expressing gratitude to his sister for bringing both the threat to his attention and the means of defusing it. I’d been summoned and prevailed upon to take the books to Vere. It was a measure of how unnerved Philip was that he was civil to me.

  Mistress Baynor had helped me pack the books, giving me clean, soft cloths to wrap them and a larger bag to carry them. I kept the golden book separate, in my own pack, although I was grateful for the cloths, relieving my spare shift of that duty. She’d also given me a cloak to replace mine, which had unaccountably disappeared during my stay. Warm as it had been, I hadn’t noticed the loss until it was time to leave. Even in August, traveling on the sea could be chilly.

  Not today, though. I pushed the new cloak back from my shoulders.

  Lassitude spread through me, a heady draught of exhaustion and satisfaction. I was shipboard, the scent of the sea filling my nostrils and the breeze touching my hair, and soon I would see Magistre Poll again. Pedagno Poll.

  Strange to think of Vere without Pedagno Olwen. He had been tall and slim with blond hair fading to gray, and his strong hands and quick eyes made you remember he’d learned the sword and spear as a young man. But I’d seen him hold books in those same hands as gently as an egg, the scholar’s intensity in his eyes. He’d accepted me as novicia only with my father’s coercion, but he had never been personally unkind, unlike the other scholars. If Pedagno Olwen’s death had been natural, why had Magistre Poll said nothing of its cause?

  The slaves’ oars slapped the waves. Sea spray misted my cheeks. I looked across the waves towards where Vere lay, not yet in view. Slowly my head returned to the side. My eyes flicked open once, twice, then slid closed and remained so.

  ***

  I woke. It was hours later, I realized from the change in the sun. I stifled a yawn, stretching my shoulders, then glanced down to make sure the bags still lay safely between my feet. The leather was misted but I was not concerned; it was oiled to keep out the damp. Looking up, I saw the tip of Lastland beginning to grow before us while to the right the clustered islands of Bruster were coming into view beyond the shadowy edge of the Margantes.

  The rowing paused as a new shift of slaves came on. I stared towards Solud and Bruster, the only one of the clustered islands visible; from here Eban, Punlan, and Verten were screened by the larger, closer islands. If the boat were to turn towards Bruster, soon the Black Keep of Reud would rise shining from the water. My childhood home. It had been six years since I’d seen it last.

  Most likely I never would again.

  ***

  In late afternoon Odulan gave orders to slacken the rowing. We were approaching Lastland.

  The first scholars had quickly learned that Lastland, although the largest of the islands of Bruster, had not been an unambiguous gift. It was presumed to be, as its name implied, the last land before endless sea. The eastern shores were bare rock cliffs, useless for living and deadly for sailing. Most of the rest was mountains. The only truly habitable part was the northwest.

  We passed the ruins on the northernmost tip of the shore, then turned south and east, following the coast. Vere was not visible, nor would it be from the landing place. The city of scholars lay a mile or so inland, beyond the coastal hills. What they were ruins of, I didn’t know. The scholars had been tight lipped on this subject. I’d once overheard two scholars discussing them and gathered that some believed them to be the remains of an earlier Vere. If there were records to support this claim I did not know of them. The ruins might well be the outpost the High King had maintained before giving Lastland to the scholars.

  The coastline abruptly bent southwest but Odulan had already called the orders. The boat turned to follow.

  Now the landing place was in sight, tucked at the end of the cove. As we drew close, Odulan halted the rowing. The boat drifted in on its residual motion. At his gesture, two slaves vaulted overboard and pulled the bow of the longship up on shore. I climbed out, holding my bags so high that the water lapping at my heels would have had to leap like a stag to douse them. Oiled leather kept out drips, not a soaking.

  The landing place was little changed since I’d been there last. There was a round stone watchtower and beside it, three thatched houses where Odulan and his men lived, and one larger, rougher building for the ship slaves. Smoun, Odulan’s chief retainer, stood waiting, the leads of two horses in his hand. Quick work, to have noticed us as the longboat drifted in and prepared for guests, but Smoun was famous in Vere for his aptness.

  He handed me the reins of a sleek tan mare with pale hooves, and the bay’s reins to Hal. I thanked him, and he helped us secure my bags behind the saddle. I led the mare to the mounting block. She nickered as I settled in the saddle, and I stroked her shoulder.

  “Where now?” Hal asked, patting his own horse.

  I turned the mare’s head. “This way.”

  The road to Vere followed the Munlon river, winding beside it from its mouth near the landing place. Had the river been deeper the longship could have sailed inland, but only a coracle could take the shallow, fen-like Munlon, and not far.

  Hal breathed deep. “Thank you for bringing me. I am grateful to be out of the palace. Those lower levels were like a dungeon.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” I said. “Who knows what we’re heading into.” But I took a slow, full breath as well. It was good to be out.

  It was warmer than usual for August in Vere. Like the rest of Bruster, the elevation and the winds off the mountains kept the weather cooler than in Valenna. But compared to Ragonne, the heat was easily endurable, although I was glad I’d tucked away my new cloak before setting out.

  As we rode inland, the saltiness faded from the air, replaced by the scents of forest and water. Closer to Vere, we caught the scent of crops beginning to ripen as the fields of Vere’s tenant farmers came into view. Oats, barley...I looked again, puzzled. Wheat? Since when did Vere grow so much wheat? High effort and low yield, wheat required a costly investment of land and labor, and returned less than any other grain. It was, in consequence, a luxury, and Cynan Maccus forbade luxury foods except for festival days.

  I glanced at Hal. He was looking to the other side, at the trees growing thickly there. I was relieved he was content to ride silently. I could not tell him why we had come, at least not until after I’d seen the Pedagno, and I doubted my ability to construct sensible but harmless conversation about something else. And it was pleasant to ride quietly, hearing the leaves rustle as a light breeze caught them, the wisp and call of birds in the branches.

  The road began to climb. As the slope sharpened, the river fell away into a ravine, deep enough that the water could not be seen. I could hear it, though, prattling like an old gossip.

  The river curved right, and with it, the path. When both straightened, I saw the highest towers of Vere peeking between the trees, and beyond, the distant tips of the Reuth mountains like a ridge of clouds. Almost there. I tried to keep my breathing even but found myself holding it instead.

  The road twisted again, following the winding course of the river, and the city was hidden once more amongst the trees. I let out my air. Perhaps it had been a mistake, coming back unbidden. I saw Hal watching, curious and concerned, and did not meet his eyes.

  Suddenly the woods gave way.

  Vere.

  White stone walls flamed orange and red in the westering sun, the tower of the scriptorium gleaming like a beacon. I did not realize I had drawn rein to look in stillness upon the keep until the mare shook her head questioningly.

  We started forward, moving with the path as it dodged left, ending in a bridge over the Munlon. The horses’ hooves rang on the stones of the bridge, the same white rock as the castle. I’d been told once, but could not remember by whom, that the stones had been quarried from somewhere within the Reuth mountains. I glanced up, but the mountains were hidden now behind the castle.

  The br
idge ended in a courtyard, paved with the same gleaming white stone. At the far end stood the gates of Vere. Beyond them, the keep rose, beautiful and imposing as the mountains from which it had been formed.

  I reined in. Hal let his horse advance a few steps until he was beside me. “Magnificent.”

  “Yes.” I remembered waiting at these gates, my father beside me, his retainers at our backs. We had not waited long. But it had been enough. He was furious by the time they opened.

  Heavy wood, like the gates of a true castle, but painted dark green, the same color as the robes of the magistres. The device of Vere was carved at the top. A hawk, his wings outstretched, a quill in his beak, showing the perseverance and pursuit necessary for the making of books. It was painted dark blue, the color of wisdom, the child of knowledge and reflection. The same color as the Pedagno’s robes.

  I had wanted to become a scholar long before I bowed to my birth and wed Francis. I had, finally, gone through these doors, but had not found Vere what I’d hoped it would be. Even so, the same thrill pulsed down my back that had run through me when I’d first looked upon them, coveting learning like a pinchthrift did silver.

  I turned to Hal. “Welcome to the City of Scholars.”

  We waited. The gates did not open.

  Chapter II

  I pushed down anxiety that I had been recognized and deemed unwelcome. If the porter were still Doctore Unwin, the neglect was perhaps unsurprising. He tended not to notice visitors because he was in the porter’s nook reading copies he’d been allowed to make for that purpose since Vere’s books could not leave the library. Few visitors came to Vere, so his reading was seldom interrupted.

  I rode forward and rapped the wicket gate without dismounting.

  At last it opened. Doctore Unwin’s shaggy gray head emerged, blue eyes bright amongst hair and beard like a jay in a thicket.

  I braced. I’d had little contact with him during my time at Vere, and had never been sure if he disliked my presence as thoroughly as the other scholars, but he was a fresh reminder I’d soon enough be among those who had unambiguously despised it.