I found myself nodding and quelled the movement, not wanting to draw Doctore Orsenius’ eyes.
The book’s description of luton agreed with what the Pedagno had told me. I had no reason to doubt him, but like all scholars, I felt better about statements confirmed by a book. If we found nothing else, would the luton passage be enough to move the High King to act? It added weight to the Pedagno’s suspicions about how he was being sickened, possibly how Pedagno Olwen was killed.
But I knew better. The High Kingship was a position of as much precariousness as power. Not only was Vere guaranteed a free hand over its own affairs by the Founder’s agreement with Bruster, Magistre Ulton was a member of the second-most powerful family in Bruster. My father would not intervene without undeniable proof of the Clerk’s duplicity. Which the luton passage was not.
Reluctantly I turned the leaf. I needed to finish the herb book. It was astonishing to have found anything pertinent at all. Surely nothing more remained. Suddenly it seemed as if I’d spent hours rather than minutes reading the luton description and considering what, if any, help it might provide. More of the Pedagno’s books waited. I pressed forward.
Three leaves later, I discovered I was wrong. The little book was not finished yielding surprises:
Bloodweed is a plant of extraordinary properties, more useful than any other in the treatment of wounds. Placed between flesh and dressing, it is more effective in stopping bleeding than merely binding a wound, seeming to encourage the natural tendency of blood to dry, preventing more from leaving the body. Even more important, injuries dressed with bloodweed fester much less often than other wounds. Since putrefaction kills as many warriors as outright battle, bloodweed gave Gwynt a marked advantage in its struggles with Elbs and Garland. It is said the king’s chirgeon, Charles Henry, was the first to discover the properties of bloodweed. Bloodweed grows only in Gwynt and for many years it was the small kingdom’s most guarded secret. Although its uses are now more widely known, the Gwyntish retain considerable benefit by it, able to use the herb themselves or sell portions of the prized plant to others, for unsurprisingly large sums.
I stared at the page, trying to apprehend what I’d read. A reference to Charles Henry. That alone was superb. But bloodweed... the boon it would be to any kingdom was obvious. I’d never heard of it, either in Bruster or Elbany. It seemed unlikely a princess of a people as warlike as mine would not have been taught about the properties of bloodweed if that knowledge remained to us. The passage said the uses of the plant had come to be widely known. Clearly, since that time the knowledge had been lost. Perhaps it was remembered in Gwynt. Perhaps not.
If the knowledge was lost, the plant might not be. It might yet be growing, unremarked, in Gwynt. I steadied my hands against the page. I’d found something. At last I’d found something to help us against Saradena.
If bloodweed still grew in Gwynt. My fear-quickened fancy had little trouble imagining it gone. Its properties were so precious the herb could have been plucked more quickly than it could replenish itself. My hands curled, cupping the passage between them, as if the words themselves might flee. It would be bitter news to bring to the Roth, that a plant had once grown within Elbany that would improve our chances against a Saradenian assault, only to find the herb, too greedily grasped by past hands, no longer grew.
Or, its uses forgotten, it might flourish on every hillside. Or the Gwynts might remember when everyone else had forgotten, and reverted to keeping the plant a provincial secret.
I needed the herb book.
I winced, thinking about trying to persuade the Pedagno to let me take a second of Vere’s Old Valenian manuscripts. But I had to. If no one living knew bloodweed by sight, the herb book was our only chance of finding it. If the Gwynts knew but were concealing it, the Roth could use the evidence of the book to force them to share with the rest of Elbany. Waiting for the Saradenians to convince them would be too late.
“Pedagno...” I said.
He took one look at my face. “No.”
“But—Pedagno.” I handed him the book. “Read. Then you’ll understand.”
“I see,” he said later. “But no. I simply cannot.” He held my gaze. There was no flicker in his eyes, nothing to suggest weakening or reconsidering. I’d pushed his sense of duty as far as it would go, and he would bend no further. “Copy the section. That is as much as I will allow.”
“But Pedagno,” I said. “The words without the sketch are worthless. This image, to be of use, must be rendered precisely, so one cannot tell which is the original and which the copy. You know my skills as an illustrator. I can’t hope to do that.”
“I can,” Doctore Orsenius’ voice sounded, too close to my ear.
Chapter XIV
My head whipped up, almost cracking into his. I had been so absorbed in the passage I’d not heard him come to stand behind me, looking over my shoulder. I caught the Pedagno’s eye. He gave a half shrug. Apparently he’d noticed and decided Doctore Orsenius’ interest was more harmless to let alone than attempt to thwart.
“What does the plant do?” It was a different tone than I’d heard from the steward before.
He could not read Old Valenian. I could tell him anything. But his voice...it was the first time I had heard him speak as a scholar, interested for the sake of the knowledge itself.
“I’ll translate,” I said. Running my finger beneath the lines of script, I did. He leaned closer, listening intently. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek.
“Is it true?” he asked as I finished.
“The rest of the book has been impeccable,” I said.
He straightened, stalked across the room, returned. “Do you understand what this means?”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s why I need a copy of the passage. More importantly, the drawing. We need to find this plant.”
Cerebration rippled his face like a breeze-blown stream. I was taken aback at how different he looked as thought displaced suspicion and anxiety. “Are you certain,” he stepped to my shoulder again to look down at the page, “the passage says what you think it does?”
His tone excused the question. He was not impugning my skills but thinking like a scholar, weighing possibilities.
“I—”
“It does,” the Pedagno interrupted what was going to be, truthfully, an unnecessarily long explanation of why I was convinced of the passage’s meaning.
“Could it be a fabrication?” Doctore Orsenius asked. “Books have been known before now, however regrettably, to contain misinformation and outright lies.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “But I have no reason to think so. From the book’s descriptions of more widely-known plants, I judge it accurate.”
“The bloodweed passage could still be false,” he said. “Or erroneous. The author could have heard an untrue report which he dutifully but misleadingly included.”
“It is possible,” I conceded, struck by the enormity of the change in him. He seemed both younger and, oddly, older; younger in the emergence of his better nature, but older in his bearing, grappling with a problem, unfettered by distrust and misplaced loyalty.
“Doctore Orsenius is right,” the Pedagno said. “This section could be false and yet its author correct in other matters.” He shook his head. “But I do not think so.”
“Why?” Doctore Orsenius asked. “It seems unlikely. Such an important herb, forgotten? I’ve never heard a whisper of anything like it.”
“Neither have I,” I said.
“There is the drawing,” the Pedagno said. “It seems improbable a fabrication would have such a detailed picture. But also...” He paused. “You have never heard of the plant. I think...I may have.” His voice softened, the words coming lingeringly. “I had forgotten...”
He paused again, as if the memory were rising within him, like bubbles in a steaming pot. “My maestro was from Garland. When I was novicio, not long after he agreed to be my maestro, I was reading an account of King Co
el of Eban’s attempt to supplant the High King. We began speaking of methods of warfare in Bruster and how they compare with those of Elbany. He mentioned his grandfather telling him that before Elbany united and Garland used to meet Gwynt regularly in battle, Gwyntl warriors came with linen to bind their wounds, like anyone else, but also a plant, sometimes freshly picked, sometimes dried. He said Gwyntl warriors believed the herb gave them protection in battle and helped heal their injuries afterward. But his grandfather said he’d heard these stories as a boy and did not know if they were true.”
“The healing property correlates with what the book says,” I said. “The warriors’ belief that the plant offered protection seems understandable. Given the herb’s properties in treating wounds, it is a small step to come to believe it might also ward against them.”
“Might it still grow in Gwynt?” Doctore Orsenius said. Even without him knowing about the Saradenian threat, it was clear what a benefit the herb would be. To Elbany. And her allies. Of which Bruster was one. Doctore Orsenius, like most scholars, was Brusterian.
“The Roth could send men to seek it,” I said. “If we had the drawing.”
Doctore Orsenius stepped back to his end of the work table. I heard the scratch of his pen as he sketched. He paused to sharpen his quill, and continued.
“Will this do?” He shook sand over the page to dry it, then gently blew it away.
“That is...astonishing,” I managed.
It was not merely a copy. He had faithfully reproduced the picture, but larger. Rather than a drawing the size of my palm, it filled the page. This image would be more helpful than the original in looking for the plant. I studied the picture, bringing the book to compare. I’d thought I had looked closely but Doctore Orsenius had seen and recorded details I’d missed.
“It is good enough?” he asked, some of his anxiety returning.
“Oh, yes. Thank you,” I said with unfeigned sincerity, tamping down the strangeness of being aided by him, one of Magistre Ulton’s adherents.
“Very well done,” the Pedagno said. “You did not learn that skill at Vere.”
“I did not learn it at all,” Doctore Orsenius said. “I’ve always been able to draw what I see. But at Vere,” he smiled, almost shyly, “I have parchment and ink rather than a stick and dirt.”
A knock sounded. All three of us turned sharply, but Doctore Orsenius nearly jumped. “Enter,” the Pedagno called.
The door opened, and a small head poked around it. “Pedagno?”
I recognized the child. He’d taken our horses to the stables when we arrived.
“Magistre Ulton has sent me to fetch Doctore Orsenius,” the boy said.
The steward twitched. He glanced down at his drawing, confusion wafting across his face before it settled once more into hard lines. I wondered how much of his uneasiness was directed towards Magistre Ulton rather than on his behalf. The Clerk was unlikely to allow a follower to change his mind. Doctore Orsenius scuttled through the door.
The Pedagno sighed. “High among Magistre Ulton’s ill deeds is misusing that young man.”
I said nothing. Doctore Orsenius, perhaps, was being swept along by a river when he’d thought to wade in a stream.
“What else is in the bloodweed passage?” the Pedagno said, moving back to his chair.
I blinked at him, wondering how he had known, and whether Doctore Orsenius also suspected the passage was important for more than the plant.
He smiled. “He was not your maestro. What is there?”
But before I could say anything he made a sharp, sudden gesture, cocking an ear towards the hearth like a bird considering a grasshopper. I heard the soft shuffling, like robes slipping as someone settled into a chair. Doctore Orsenius—or someone—had returned, but not to the Pedagno’s chambers.
“I do not require your help with this matter, Doctora Bann,” the Pedagno said. He returned to the table, holding out a wax tablet.
I joined him and wrote quickly. The name in the bloodweed passage. What I’d learned about Charles Henry before, and why I thought him connected to the Saradenian letter.
“I appreciate your thoughts about the problem I showed you yesterday, but do not assume I therefore desire your suggestions in all areas.” His voice had gone frigid.
“I apologize, Pedagno,” I said.
“You are welcome until your companion finishes his study of the charters,” he went on. “So long as you keep your impertinence in check. Vere has managed its books for hundreds of years. We do not require your suggestions to continue to do so.”
“Of course, Pedagno.” I held out the tablet to him.
“I expect Master Carlson is wasting his time,” he continued, his eyes on the wax. “I would be very surprised if Philip of Ragonne will ever require the service for which he is so diligently preparing. But he is young, and I hate to discourage a man intent on serving his lord as well as he can. Reading the charters will do him no harm.”
He nodded and smoothed the wax, then applied the stylus to it. Your thinking seems logical to me, I read as he passed it back. But I can add nothing. I’ve never seen that name before, except its variants in the Saradenian letter, of which you already know.
I scraped the words away.
“He will finish soon, and you’ll be able to continue your journey,” the Pedagno said.
I bowed my head, needing a moment to silently rage against the truth he spoke. When I looked at him again, his head was bent over his book, fingers sliding beneath the line of Old Valenian as he worked through the words. That, at least, was well done. For as much time as remained, the secret books were open to him.
I could not stay much longer. I knew that. But how could I leave, abandoning him to Magistre Ulton? I touched the herb book, still open to the drawing of bloodweed. Even so splendid an herb was of no use against what ailed the Pedagno. His danger lay in the hidden snares of ambition and arrogance. Not his own, but he was nonetheless wounded by them. Nor would he be the first to drown in those dark waters. Hard, proud men pushed aside those in their path, and held what they grasped with both hands, for as long as strength remained to them.
I pulled a deep breath, inescapable knowledge bitter on my tongue.
Once I left, I would never see the Pedagno living again.
***
I did not see Hal in the comedor that evening. Doctore Orsenius stopped by my table long enough to tell me Hal had chosen to skip the evening meal to continue his work. The supper was excellent, as all Vere’s meals had been during our visit. The finest tableware was now in general use, and the food itself was exquisite. For the third time since our arrival, beef was served. When I was novicia, beef had graced Vere’s table twice a year.
As soon as I’d eaten, I retired to my room. Despite the excitement of bloodweed and Charles Henry, I’d not forgotten Orlo’s letter. It lay in my belt pouch, warm as a living thing, heavy as a burden. But I no longer felt a fool for wanting to read it, fear chilling my fingers like a December wind. I had come to Vere both in pursuit of Saradena and hoping to give my maestro aid, but the Pedagno had helped me more than I had him.
Chapter XV
I broke the seal and unrolled the parchment.
Maudlin—
I have determined to see the favor of a second letter, despite its practical nature, before I had responded to the first as a sign of enough favor to use your name. Forgive me. Think of Ragoni poems and hold me excused. From them we learn that hopeful lovers live upon such faint encouragement.
I smiled. I knew the sort of poem he meant, of course. I’d read enough of them during my time in Ragonne. But I was far from certain they were meant to be taken seriously. Neither was he, from his tone.
Another constraint of the hopeful lover is that he perform tasks set by his lady. In such manner, I have undertaken what you asked. I consulted with my clerk and am sorry to report we have no books in our possession on the subject you inquired about.
Parsing his discretion,
what he meant was Kolon had no books with more information about Martin. Ah well. It had been worth asking but I had not really expected him to find anything.
To the other matter...
Perhaps I should affect being hurt that you do not remember the gape-faced Ragoni boy at your stirrup the day a certain Brusterian princess was ordered by her brothers to stay home while they rode into the mountains for an adventure, but she disobeyed and followed them—and ended up thwarting an attempt on their lives?
I looked up, seeing the past rather than the room. It was the attack I’d recalled in Ragonne when Hal found that Philip’s ancestor had killed his nephew to seize the throne. Orlo knew of it? He had been there?
My brothers had decided to go hunting alone in the mountains, boasting they’d show their princely mettle and bring down a leoyong, the four of them unaided. Their sister, of course, was not welcome. I’d argued as much as I thought necessary to allay their suspicion. Once they had gone, I saddled my horse and went after them.
It was a well-planned attack. Someone in our household had been paid to provide details of my brothers’ trip. Our father found him, later. The body hung from the walls of the Black Keep, until whatever flesh remained after the birds ate their fill rotted and fell away in chunks. I was the unknown, unplanned-for element, and I was enough. Barely. If they’d sent a dozen men rather than half a dozen, all the High King’s heirs would have died that day beneath the hush of a glowering sky, brooding a storm that did not burst until the next morning.
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