Homegoing (The Tall Ships of Saradena Book 1)

by Michelle Markey Butler

  I wasn’t angry with Pedagno Olwen. I might, later, have thought to spare for anger. Now I had no room for anything but the growing horrified drumbeat of my pulse. When they come, they come against Bruster as well. I had believed myself frightened before, when the threat lay upon my adopted country. Elbany had given me a place and the Roth had given me meaningful work. But my skin had not quivered, not like this, at the thought of Saradenian ships in Rothbury Bay. Bruster...the blood pounded in my ears until I could no longer hear Hal’s music. It took all my will to remain seated, although my fingers twitched with the effort, resisting the impulse to jump up, to demand a ship for Reud immediately. Bruster was threatened, and my father did not know.

  Home, apparently, did not cease to be home because you left with no intention of returning.

  I breathed deeply, trying to clear, or at least begin to calm, my mind. Closing my eyes, I listened for the sound of the harp, and at last heard it, as if from far away. The music had changed. Another lament by the sound, although I did not know the song. The slow ache of the music cooled my flaring anxiety. I knew—I knew—even if my yearning did not, I could not leave straightway for Reud. I was in Vere, and must do what was needful here, for the Pedagno but also towards my assigned purpose. Which was more crucial now.

  Then I would go to Reud, see my father, and make sure he understood the danger. I smoothed the wax and wrote. I will tell the High King.

  He considered me, then nodded. After a short pause, the tablet returned to my hands. But why are you here, Alumna? I spoke truth when I said there was nothing here about Saradena. I appreciate your willingness to help but I do not see what you can possibly do. You have a task. You should go.

  Not yet, I wrote back. Your letter mentioned the Pedagno’s books. I can read them. Or at least some of them. I want to search them for references to Saradena. And I can teach you.

  His incredulous look needed no words.

  I smoothed the wax and continued, realizing suddenly how this slow communication christened each word with greater meaning. In Ragonne I learned to read an old form of Valenian. It was difficult but I worked it out. Eventually. Let me stay. I may be able to help us both.

  The Pedagno sat, his head bowed, the wax tablet in his lap, for several long moments. Finally, he wrote again. I should not agree. Vere is not safe. He has killed one Pedagno and is sickening another. Why would he hesitate at you?

  I took the tablet. I can take care of myself.

  He smiled sadly. Not here, Alumna. Not now.

  I’m not leaving, I wrote. Not without trying. What I need may be in those books. And Ulton...I do not promise I can stop him. But we’ll try.

  The Pedagno smoothed the surface. Mercy of the earth, but I should like to learn to read the Pedagno’s books, even if we can think of nothing to thwart Ulton. And even if the skill dies with me.

  My fingers tightened on the wax tablet. Of course. I’d want the same. I read the rest of his words. We must be very careful. The makeshift story you gave before has merit. I will agree to your request to borrow books to copy. That will give us a few days.

  Hal knows Old Valenian too, I responded. Whichever of us can manage to be in your presence can teach you.

  Very well, he pursed his lips as he wrote. Sooner or later Ulton will abandon his effort to be named my successor, arrange my plausibly natural demise, and seize power. Alumna, I would rather have spent the time before then with you.

  I blinked, surprised by the depth of affection in his eyes. It was, perhaps, merely a man grasping hands outstretched in kindness when others sought to push him under. But perhaps not. Magistre Poll had been the only scholar in Vere who had welcomed me, like a father when my own had cast me adrift.

  The Pedagno smoothed the wax once more. It is late. Vere’s steward will be coming to take you to a room. With that, he cleared the tablet a final time. He tipped his head back, eyes closed, enjoying what was probably, like the food, his first time of safety in months.

  Hal’s music changed. After a moment, startled by hearing it out of context, I recognized it. The “Calling of the Scholars,” Cynan Maccus’ musical evocation of Vere’s purpose, Sabidur gerva eng protege, played every year on the anniversary of the founding of Vere and at the commissioning of a new doctore.

  It was only later that I thought to wonder how Hal knew it. I was instantly furious. It was a poor choice to inflict upon the Pedagno. Surely Cynan Maccus’ call would only increase his anxiety, unable as he was to fulfill his role. I glared at Hal but playing with his eyes nearly closed, he took no heed.

  But as I watched, it seemed not to be so. Rather, the Pedagno appeared to gather strength and serenity from the music. His face grew less gray, the lines smoothing as he listened.

  My gaze went back to Hal as I listened, recalling the first time I heard the call as novicia. Then as now, I had been at my maestro’s side, but we had been in the comedor, watching the ceremony before the feast began. As the harper tuned his strings, Magistre Poll told me in a low voice that it was believed among the oldest scholars that Cynan Maccus used to play the call himself for the scholars on—

  My very bones chilled. The portrait of Cynan Maccus in the golden book sat living before me. It was not merely that Hal wore bore our Founder’s face, sat in the same chair and played upon Cynan Maccus’ harp. It was how he graced the seat, how he cradled the harp, how his fingers touched the strings. The illuminator might have stood at my back and sketched.

  A good omen, I decided. Having the descendant of Cynan Maccus with me had brought good luck to our search in Ragonne. Surely he would in Vere as well.

  As the last sounds of the strings faded, there was a knock upon the door. The Pedagno thanked Hal both graciously and sincerely for his playing, and Doctore Orsenius escorted us out.

  ***

  Twenty-eight chambers for the scholars filled the space above the comedor. I had heard they were comfortably but sparsely furnished—given their size, they could hardly be luxurious—but I’d never been in one. Pedagno Olwen had made a condition of my acceptance that I never set foot within the scholars’ dormitory, but I hadn’t needed that prohibition to know it was in my best interest to stay away from the scholars’ bedrooms. I’d been given quarters in the corridor above the cloister garden, in one of the rooms set aside for the rare guests of Vere. I now suspected I’d been given the smallest and darkest one. The room at whose door Doctore Orsenius inclined his head to me with stiff civility was noticeably larger than the one in which I’d spent so much of my time. He directed Hal to the next chamber. Following Doctore Orsenius’ lead, we did not speak, exchanging shallow nods goodnight.

  I thought sleep might prove a shy companion that night, my mind teeming with Vere’s troubles and the new terror of learning that Bruster, too, faced the unknown peril of Saradena. But I’d barely stretched out on the bed, more comfortable than the one I recalled, before my eyes closed, the churning thoughts behind them lurching and sputtering, a veil of seeming quietude settling over the muddle.

  ***

  Doctore Orsenius returned in the morning to escort us to the comedor to breakfast with the scholars and students. I thanked the steward politely enough, but his action was intriguing. I knew my way to the comedor. Nor had I forgotten the schedule of Vere. The steward’s walking us the short distance to the comedor was clearly meant to convey a message: we were not to wander alone. Behind Doctore Orsenius’ back, Hal cocked an eyebrow at me, suggesting the meaning of the steward’s presence had not been lost on him.

  The comedor, vibrant with the hum of conversation when the door opened, fell silent as we stepped inside. I felt my chin lift. I’d had a week to envision, and dread, this moment, standing once more before their gazes. It was no better than I had imagined.

  Hal and I went to the unoccupied end of one of the tables. Once we were settled, backs gradually turned upon us, although long glances—curious, indignant, angry—were stolen over more than one shoulder.

  We talked q
uietly as we ate, but only about our overt reasons for being in Vere: delivering Ragonne’s gift and requesting the loan of books to be copied in Elbany.

  As surreptitiously as our notoriety would allow, I scanned the scholars’ faces for any sign of what they thought about what was taking place in Vere. Anxiety deepened the lines of many foreheads and fear quickened many glances, but I could gather little about their views of the conflict between the Pedagno and his clerk. Magistre Ulton was not present. It would have been interesting to see who was most in his company. Fully a third of the scholars were not there, but that was no different than it had been during my time. Some scholars did not care to breakfast, or preferred not to rise early enough to do so before the morning’s work. It would be unwise to assume that anyone not at breakfast was a proponent of Magistre Ulton.

  Scholars began to drift away from the tables, singly or in small clusters, back to their rooms to seize a few more minutes’ sleep before the morning meeting or to other small tasks in the intervening time. After the gathering the scholars would go to the library or scriptorium. Both always buzzed with soft whispers as the scholars read or copied; they tended to talk quietly to themselves during such tasks. If a scholar were assigned to the education of a novicio, student and scholar would meet for part of a morning session twice a week.

  After the noon meal, the scholars would rest or walk in the cloister gardens before returning to work. Some days, a scholar might forego the afternoon session in favor of riding out through Vere’s holdings. Nearly all the students and scholars were noble born so they were competent horsemen. Pedagno Olwen had encouraged this activity both for the scholars’ exercise and because riding through their lands reminded Vere’s tenant farmers of their landlord’s interest in their husbandry. I had often ridden. The solitary time on horseback was when I carded the tangled wool of my never-abundant patience and spun perseverance enough to return to Vere.

  The scheduled life of Vere, each day alike and predictable as the tides, pulled to me more than I’d remembered or expected. It seemed an unbelievable blessing to know what successive days would bring. But I knew better. At this moment Vere’s regulated harmony was illusory.

  The comedor was becoming decidedly empty. “Did I misunderstand?” Hal asked. “I supposed Doctore Orsenius preferred to escort us through the keep, and would return.”

  I looked sidelong at him. “That was my understanding as well. I—”

  The door opened before I could say I suspected we were being kept waiting to demonstrate we could be. Doctore Orsenius gestured for us to follow him. “The Pedagno can give you a short audience this morning.” Disapproval was evident in his tone.

  Once more we followed the steward through passages I knew so well I could have walked them in full darkness without bumping an elbow. What was Magistre Ulton so anxious that we not see? Or was there someone he was determined we not speak to? How could we help the Pedagno if we were always under guard?

  Chapter VII

  Pedagno Poll was in his front room, sitting before the tapestry of Vere as he had the previous night. At his wave, Doctore Orsenius stopped, waiting just inside the door; it would clearly be a brief audience, one meant for the steward’s eyes.

  I bowed. Beside me, Hal did the same. The Pedagno did not invite us to sit.

  “I have considered your request,” he said, cool detachment in his voice. “It is unprecedented. Our manuscripts, collected and copied with such labor, do not leave Vere.”

  “But—” I objected, as I would, hoping my skills at feigning had improved.

  “But—” the Pedagno echoed, raising a hand. “I remember Vere is a fiefdom of Bruster. If I deny your request the High King your father might be displeased.”

  I heard a grunt from Doctore Orsenius. Because the Pedagno seemed amenable to my ‘request’ or the reminder of Vere’s client status? Or, perhaps, that my estranged father would take offense if I were refused? If he questioned that, he did not know the High King. My father might have no affection remaining for me, but an insult to me within his demesne was an insult to him, and my father would defend his rights.

  “Nor have I forgotten your new lord,” the Pedagno went on. “Elbany has been an ally of Bruster for many years. Moreover the current Roth has shown favor to Vere.” He let his gaze linger on me, reminding everyone present of the Roth’s most pressing aid—giving Vere an honorable way to be rid of me. “We are in his debt. I will allow you to choose six books to take to Elbany to be copied.”

  “Pedagno—” Doctore Orsenius ventured.

  “Steward?” His tone would have chilled ice.

  “It this...wise?”

  “In my judgment, yes. And my judgment is what matters.” His hands folded in his lap. “Vere will lend you these books. With this condition: you swear personal responsibility for them. You carry them in your own pack, you see to their care and safety, you yourself return them to us. No more than three years from now.”

  “I understand the value of books,” I said. “As well as the generosity of this gift. Thank you, Pedagno.”

  He acknowledged my thanks with a shallow nod. “While you choose which volumes to borrow, your companion may visit with me.”

  Doctore Orsenius gave a strangled cry.

  “Steward? You have some concern?”

  “You’re not well, Pedagno. Should you task your strength, entertaining a visitor?”

  “Ah.” He smiled. “You force me to show my discourtesy openly. I rather hoped Hal would entertain me.” His gaze went to him. “You played the harp so beautifully last evening.” He raised one shoulder as if in apology. “I hoped you might again.”

  Hal bowed. “I would be honored, Pedagno.”

  Doctore Orsenius gave another unhappy grunt but held his peace.

  “May I begin today?” I asked.

  “The sooner you finish, the sooner you can resume your travel,” the Pedagno said. Doctore Orsenius made another low noise but this time it sounded like approval.

  “Thank you, Pedagno.” I bowed.

  “Doctore Orsenius, would you take Doctora Bann to the library?” The Pedagno gestured for Hal to come forward. “Now, young man, before you begin, I want to ask you about one of the songs you played last night...”

  Doctore Orsenius scowled as he closed the door, leaving Hal with the Pedagno.

  One small victory.

  ***

  I sat in the library, surrounded by manuscripts, pretending to search for books to borrow although I’d already made my choices. In reality I was dredging my brain for a way to put caltrops in Magistre Ulton’s path. Or to get myself back into the Pedagno’s chambers to search the secret books.

  Our ruse would keep me in Vere a few days. The Pedagno had been brilliant, arranging for Hal to be in his company. I was the Pedagno’s former student. Magistre Ulton would assume I meant to help him if I could. Hal had no past here. Even if Magistre Ulton joined them, and I had to assume he would, I was confident that between the two of them, they could devise a way for Hal to search the secret books and teach the Pedagno Old Valenian despite the Clerk’s presence.

  Which was, largely, what we’d come for. But my fingers twitched as I fought the urge to tug my braid until it hurt, from the frustration of being here and not there. I wanted those books in my hands. I wanted to be the one reading them, scanning for Saradena’s name, for Carlomond, for Charles Henry. Hal knew to look for all this, and he knew Old Valenian as well as I did. But it itched like a half-healed wound, trusting my work to someone else’s hands.

  ***

  Doctore Orsenius returned at noon to escort me to the comedor, and again at supper time. I didn’t see Hal during the midday meal, and wondered if he was eating with the Pedagno. It was early yet; only half a dozen scholars were there. Nonetheless I went to the end of a far table. Old habits died hard. Particularly when they were still useful.

  I had not been seated long when Doctore Orsenius returned with Hal. More scholars trickled in. The comedor w
as now halfway full. Bustling sounds behind the serving door suggested the kitchen servants would begin bringing the dishes shortly.

  “Evening, lady.” Hal settled onto the bench beside me. “Did your work in the library go well?”

  “A good start.” I let a quick glance around the room warn him of the listening ears around us, a warning he certainly did not need. “You?”

  “I was honored to spend the day with the Pedagno and his Clerk.”

  “Ah. You were indeed fortunate to have such exalted company,” I said drily.

  The serving door opened, ushering in the scents of beef and white bread. More feast-day food.

  “Nonetheless, a productive day.” Hal pitched his voice low, to go unheard beneath the servants’ clatter. “Not revelatory, but productive.”

  If I translated this veiled report correctly, he had managed despite the presence of Magistre Ulton to begin reading the secret books and teach Old Valenian to the Pedagno, but had not found anything about Saradena. I quashed resurging frustration. There was no reason to believe I’d have done any better.

  The comedor became crowded, the unique scents of Vere mingling with the aroma of the meal. The parchment and dust scent of books, the acrid twangs of ink and sweaty scholar. I caught an undercurrent of leather and horse. Someone had gone riding during the afternoon session.

  Hal cut a generous slice from a loaf and spooned up tender beef, cooked with leeks and parsnips. “Wheat bread and beef,” he echoed my thoughts. “It seems I’ve been misled about housekeeping in Vere.”

  “New since my time,” I whispered.

  “’S very good,” he said around a mouthful.